by Georgette Heyer
ages: adult
First sentence: “The butler, recognizing her ladyship’s only surviving brother at a glance, as he afterwards informed his less percipient subordinates, favoured Sir Horace with a low bow, and took it upon himself to say that my lady, although not at home to see less nearly-connected persons, would be happy to see him.”
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Ah, Georgette Heyer. (Which I just learned is pronounced “hair”. Now I know.) I think the best way to sum her up is this: when she’s good, she’s really, really good. (And when she’s bad she’s horrid?)

And this one was good.

Twenty-year-old Sophy has spent her life following her father all around Europe. Because her mother died early on, Sophy has become accustomed to being the lady of the house, performing tasks for her father that most women wouldn’t dream of doing. As a result, she’s unpredictable, independent, and, to the fashionable London society, completely shocking. So, when her father dumps her on some little-known relatives (his sister, Lady Ombersley) so he can pop off to Brazil (with the side hope that they’ll somehow manage to marry Sophy off, since she’s — shock — heading towards being an old maid!), little do they know the chaos that Sophy will cause.

Like so many other of Heyer’s books, the point is not the plot. There will be a slight romance, two people will fall in love and get married. It’s the getting there that’s so much fun. And this one is classic Heyer: wonderfully amusing. Initially I wrote “hilarious”, but I think that’s misleading. While the book is funny, it’s not the snort-milk-through-your-nose funny. But it did make me smile and chuckle.

Like (and the characters and situations don’t really matter):

“No, of course I do not!” responded Cecilia. ” But Eugenia never wears modish gowns. She says there are more important things to think of than one’s dresses.”

“What a stupid thing to say!” remarked Sophy. “Naturally there are, but not, I hold, when one is dressing for dinner.”

From the sparing way in which Miss Wraxton partook of a few of the delicacies it was not dificult to see that she considered such lavish hospitality vulgar; but Huber, making a hearty meal, began to think the Marquesa a very good sort of woman after all. When he saw how many coffee creams, Italian rusks, and brandy-cherries she herself consumed, in the most negligent fashion, his manner towards her because tinged with respect bordering on awe.

There are more. Truly.

I think one of the reasons I like Heyer so much is the same reason I like Jane Austen: she pokes fun at socieity, the primness and properness, while endearing us to all these silly, stuffy, stupid characters. She invites us to laugh at them and (in Heyer’s case, at least) their outdated ideas, while, especially in this book, introducing a thoroughly modern character to challenge the others’ ways. It makes for a wonderfully entertaining romp.