Oddity of the Ton, by Emily Royal

As I was scrolling NetGalley, the title and cover combination caught my eye, and the blurb sealed the deal.

Beware: fatphobia; abusive mothers; period misogyny dialed up; threat of involuntary commitment; explicit sex on page; anachronistic language; unavoidable spoilage.

Oddity of the Ton, by Emily Royal

This is the fourth book/fifth story in the author’s Misfits of London series, about a group of women in London’s high society’s “marriage mart” who are, to put it mildly, not part of any popular tonnish set; it is also my introduction to the author’s work.

The oldest daughter of a successful silk merchant who has, through hard work and shrewd business sense, earned himself a knighthood, Eleanor is suffering through her third Season. And “suffering” is the precise word here. She would rather stay home to draw and paint whatever catches her eye, from tree stumps to horses, speaking to as few other humans as possible, but her ambitious mama has other ideas.

And so Eleanor is dragged to every social event the family–father, mother, and exquisitely beautiful younger sister–is invited; whereupon she’s prodded, poked, berated, ignored, admonished, scolded, and humiliated by turns by said mother and sister, and most every other member of the ton present. Not all has been unrelenting misery, however; over the past three years, Eleanor made the acquaintance of a few other debutantes who preferred to remain at the edges of the social scene, among them Lavinia, newly Lady Marlow. At home, Eleanor is assured the love and protection of her papa–though the latter is reserved only for the most extreme of her mother’s demands–and the wholehearted devotion and subversive help of her ladies maid, Harriet.

The hero, by contrast, is not only very much at his ease in high Society, he’s also at the pinnacle of same: he’s a wealthy, unencumbered, still-single Duke in his prime, and equipped with an incredibly cynical view of Society in general, and women in particular.

Here’s how the publisher’s blurb sets their relationship up:

An unlikely pairing becomes the perfect match.

Eleanor Howard has never fitted in. To her, Society is an unfathomable world where success is measured by the number of suitors’ names on her dance card. And her card is always empty. Constantly outshone by her younger sister, and continually criticized by her ambitious mother, Eleanor yearns to be loved for herself, not what others expect her to be. Her secret infatuation with the Duke of Whitcombe–who’d never deign to notice, much less court her—would, if revealed, make her the laughingstock of the ton.

Until he strides across a crowded ballroom and offers his hand.

Montague FitzRoy, fifth Duke of Whitcombe, is unwilling to surrender the pleasures of bachelorhood. When his mother, insistent on finding him a duchess of the right pedigree, forces his hand, he decides on impulse to punish her by kneeling before the least desirable woman in the room.

Only Miss Howard believes his proposal to be genuine.

The solution? A false betrothal that keeps Monty’s mother in check, and lifts Miss Howard’s prospects. Monty can weather a few weeks’ ridicule over an engagement to a woman whose eccentricities are gossiped about. And a betrothal—even short-lived—to a duke will ensure that Miss Howard’s dance card is never empty again.

But beneath Eleanor’s awkward exterior lies a passionate, intelligent woman, misunderstood and unappreciated, who challenges Monty’s notions of duty, life, and love—and with whom he’s falling in love himself.

As the end of the Season, and their inevitable parting, approaches, Monty is faced with a choice—surrender to duty, or follow his heart.

Oddity of the Ton is an own voices romance with an autistic heroine.

Please keep in mind, as you read my review, that I am not autistic.

The British high society the author sets before the reader is pretty much my idea of hell. It’s not just the usual genre romance wallpaper-Regency, with all its artificial social constraints–dancing twice with a man at the same ball is scandalous, using the wrong form of address is a social insult, and so on. Oh, no. In this Regency Britain, all Society women are grasping harpies, all married Society women are bitter grasping harpies, all married Society men suffer their wives’ existence while indulging in affairs, more or less in the open, and active misogyny is how men relate to each other.

Eleanor, who is written as an autistic savant (drawing and painting being her particular skills), has no illusions about her place in the ton:

“No husband wanted a wife unable to conform. Men wanted wives to provide them with cash the day they married, give them an heir within a year of uttering the vows, then associate themselves with the other matriarchs of Society to indulge in idle gossip, embroidery, and tea parties, while they sought pleasure in the arms of another.” (Eleanor’s point of view, chapter 1)

Lest you think Eleanor’s jaundiced view of the ton is an aberration, Montague endures constant henpecking from his mother, another once-beautiful, now-bitter woman, whose only aim is to see her son married to an “appropriate” wife: beautiful and of good breeding, someone who will give him an heir, then accept his inevitable cheating with decorum. He himself is no better:

“She must have been captivating in her youth–no wonder Sir Leonard had been ensnared. But, like all elegant females, age had faded her brilliance to reveal something of her true nature. She couldn’t completely disguise the sharp-nosed sourness, no matter how dazzlingly she smiled.” (Montague about Eleanor’s mother, chapter 1)

Montague is a libertine who has decided that when he finally marries, he’ll be faithful; ergo, he’ll put that unhappy future off for as long as he possibly can. After all, he’s just over thirty, his own father waited much longer. But as his mother constantly manouvers to set him up, almost beyond the bounds of propriety, he decides to “put her in her place” by causing a scene: he publicly proposes to the most unlikely, unsuitable, inappropriate woman present at a grand society ball.

And who can be more the opposite of his mother’s requirements for his Duchess, than the eldest daughter of a newly-knighted tradesman; a young woman who hides in corners and is rumored to be “soft in the head”?

Apparently–it’s not written clearly–he expects Eleanor to make an even bigger scene by rejecting him on the spot; after all, they haven’t even been introduced. When instead she accepts his proposal–which is clearly witnessed by everyone in earshot–he’s nonplussed: he’ll simply pay her a call in the morning, explain the ‘joke’, and move on.

It is worth noting here that the “hero” of the story gives zero thought to both Eleanor’s feelings and the social consequences–for her–of this.

When he shows up at the Howard’s townhouse, however, Montague has a change of heart after he overhears Eleanor’s younger sister abusing her and Eleanor “retreats into herself” (from the writing, an autistic shutdown in response to adverse stimuli). By being engaged to him for the rest of the social season, his reasoning goes, she will be seen as someone desirable as a wife, so that when he publicly ‘strays’, she can end the engagement without damaging her reputation, and even retain that social desirability. And, for the duration at least, neither her sister nor her mother will have cause to berate her.

Of course, Montague himself benefits most, as he’ll be safe from grasping debutantes and their ambitious mamas, and his own mother can’t hound him to pursue someone else while he’s already engaged.

“He would have laughed at the astonishment in her voice had he not recognized the tragedy. The poor creature clearly couldn’t comprehend the notion of anyone wanting to spend time in her company.” (Montague’s point of view, about Elanor, chapter 14)

After a rather contrived scene that involves her lady’s maid, Eleanor agrees to the temporary engagement, on the condition that Montague teach her how to move about in society, make small talk, and so forth.

Aside: please note that I refuse to keep calling it “a fake engagement”: Montague makes a production of giving Eleanor a ring, and even talks with her father about all the usual engagement things (financial settlements, etc); so while it has an expiration date, it is very much an official engagement.

So far, this is relatively standard genre-romance historical romance fare; the heroine’s autism is really the only major difference from other books with very similar setups (including Julia Quinn’s The Duke and I). I have enjoyed stories like this before; contrivance is often a requirement of fiction, after all. However, it’s the job of the author to make them plausible, and while reality often doesn’t make sense, fiction is; plot threads are expected to be resolved, no left dangling, never to be addressed again.

Neither of these are the case here.

Harriet the lady’s maid is one of those oh-so-loyal servants so prevalent in historical genre romance; she’s so devoted to Eleanor that she constantly risks her position by going against Lady Howard’s express orders. In that scene with the hero mentioned above, the maid scolds the Duke, without compunction and without even a second’s hesitation to consider that, should he complain to the mistress of the house, she would be sacked on the spot.

Montague’s turn from cynical libertine to Eleanor’s champion takes place over two encounters–including that first visit to her family’s home. His falling “desperately in love” with her is equally sudden, and just as equally unbelievable; especially because his misogyny is never addressed.

One of Eleanor’s difficulties with the ton, is that for her language is very literal, with one notable exception (more on that below); when she can’t avoid others in social situations, she rarely listens to them. As a result, expressions such as “natural child” or “lifted her skirts” have no meaning beyond the literal for her, which leads to any number of social faux pas, which in turn have earned her a reputation as someone “without understanding”.

However, all it takes is a half hour carriage ride with Montague for Eleanor to master the art of verbal sparring with her most usual tormentors–except her mother and sister, who are perfectly horrid. Juliette hates Eleanor, no reason given, and endeavors to ruin Eleanor’s reputation out of spite. Their mother wanted to send Eleanor to an asylum, and was only stopped from doing so when their father put his foot down–which was also the only time he had ever interfered on her behalf until near the end of the novel.

Because we are told that Sir Leonard “loves” Eleanor, yet he let her mother and sister abuse her constantly, literally all her life because…reasons.

Which are never addressed–we don’t even learn that Lady Howard was herself the daughter of an Earl until very late in the story.

In our reality, the percentage of autistic people with savant syndrome is quite small; yet on her very first venture beyond the confines of her family, Eleanor encounters a clearly autistic boy who shares her savant skill, whose family accepts him without question, and he’s conveniently a pupil at the tenants’ school Montague established in his estate–which he did so that his own half-sister, the bastard who makes his mother see red, can teach there.

During Eleanor’s visit to Rosecombe, Montague’s estate, her very presence and lack of sophistication/subterfuge transform everyone from the butler to the Duchess; both may be well aware that Eleanor is unsuitable as the wife of a peer, but they like her nonetheless because…well, because it serves the plot.

And of course, Montague comes to realize that he loves her before their first day at Rosecombe is done–which means that there’s absolutely no reason for them to end their engagement. Especially after he beds her on her last night there–the risk of pregnancy alone should have made him reassess his decision.

That scene, by the way, was where I almost DNFed the book; both the language and the sensibilities are entirely too modern–I very much doubt that an aristocrat in1815, especially a man who sees women the way Montague does, would use “lovemaking” to refer to sexual intercourse; at the time, the term was used to mean flirtation generally. (In fact, there were so many anachronisms, the author lost me well before that–see footnote ¹)

Similarly, I really didn’t care for Eleanor suddenly using “loving” for both the emotional and physical meanings; it doesn’t track with how we have been told that she processes language. I believe that she’s articulate when discussing her areas of interest–drawing, painting, the oeuvre of George Stubbs (see footnote ²)–but I could not suspend my disbelief that she could share her innermost feelings and desires with Montague that easily, particularly on such short acquaintance, when she’s not able to do so with, say, her friend Lavinia, or even the loyal Harriet.

At any rate, the third act breakup and separation really make no sense; Juliette’s fate is never addressed and neither is her hatred of Eleanor; Sir Leonard’s health condition is alluded to near then end, then never addressed again; there’s a secondary character, introduced late in the story simply to be Montague’s foil, who then exits stage left, never to be mentioned again.

In sum, the characterizations were inconsistent, the plot threadbare, the anachronisms plenty, and the “magical autistic person” trope too blatantly deployed.

I am saddened, because I wanted to like this novel; it would have meant four more already published stories about exceptional women and a new historical author to follow. Alas, it was not to be.

Oddity of the Ton gets a 6.00 out of 10

* * * *

¹ Most of my favorite historical authors go to great lengths to ensure they don’t slip anachronisms in their stories, resisting fudging even as little as a year (K.J. Charles has a recent blog post on this here–the word to watch there is “silhouette”), but even authors without a solid historical knowledge should be very familiar with the Regency usage of the term “lovemaking”; Jane Austen, the acknowledged mother of Regence genre romance, used it in her works (see this Quora answer for general timeline of usage). There’s no excuse for this blunder.

Another anachronism: a *Duke* would not tell his mother, in 1815, that *she* is a snob; at the time, “snob” referred members of the lower classes; the current meaning wouldn’t be in use for a good hundred years more. (Merriam-Webster’s entry here)

Montague’s only oath is “Devil’s toes”, which he says to himself almost once in every page spent in his point of view.

I was further jolted out of the story when Eleanor’s father “placed a chaste kiss on her forehead”–what other kind of kiss *would* a father give his daughter in a non-creepy/kinky/fucked-up genre romance, I ask you?

² Historical figure; George Stubbs was an 18th Century painter who, among other things, studied horse anatomy through dissection; paintings of horses, dogs, and other animals are among his best known work. (Wikipedia article here)