My mother and I used to read a lot of Eva Ibbotson romances.
And by “a lot,” I mean “all of them.” It was my mother who started giving me straight-up romances, instead of my usual fantasy or mystery novels with romantic subplots. She tried this several times—I don’t know if it’s because she liked romances, or because she thought I seemed to get the most out of those romantic subplots. I suppose we’ll never know, since I never thought to ask.
Whatever her motive, she tried several times—and most times, those attempts failed miserably. She first introduced me to romance novels when I was about eleven or twelve. These were novels like teen romance movies from the ’80s, revolving around high school and cliques and peer pressure, and that one perfect boy who comes and turns the main character’s life upside down.
I wasn’t yet at the point where I could form the opinion of “disliking” a book. I don’t remember having any particular negative feelings. I merely didn’t feel like reading more things like that. I do remember not understanding why there were weird initiation rituals to cliques, and wondering why in the world anyone would bother.
I was fifteen or sixteen when my mother finally found my sweet spot: that sweet spot was Eva Ibbotson.
I’d already read and loved Journey to the River Sea, Which Witch, The Secret of Platform 13, and other such stories. One day, my mother handed me The Countess Below Stairs. I took one look at the author name and started reading.
I was hooked. I was weirdly into Russia at the time, and the historical fiction with an aggressively tame, G-rated romance was right up my alley. The countess-turned-servant angle was also pretty fun. Somehow, that book managed to push all my buttons: it gave me angst without getting dark; deep, world-rocking emotion without getting wordy or descriptive about it; and a main character whose misfortune didn’t bring her down, who seemed to go around making other people’s lives just a little bit brighter.
I have to say, I think that part of the appeal of Eva Ibbotson romances are that they aren’t merely romances. The two main characters overcoming the obstacles that keep them from being together when they first meet—that’s just the frosting on the cake that is these stories. The cake is the sheer richness of story, full of side characters with little stories in their everyday lives.
In the case of The Countess Below Stairs, it’s in the neighbors, the staff, and both families. These books are populated with characters with joys and sorrows and dreams and hopes and fears, and Ibbotson weaves them all together into a stunning tapestry that always leaves me looking at the world around me and feeling it a little brighter.
I bring this up because recently, I’ve been thinking of A Company of Swans. This is the story of Harriet, the abused daughter of a misogynistic professor, who runs away from home (and, indeed, England) to be a dancer with a ballet company that goes to Brazil. Here she meets Rom, the second son of an English noble who left home in a rage after the love of his life, Isobel, was offered a choice between Rom with his love or Rom’s brother with his title and money—and Isobel chose the latter.
My mother and I used to talk about this book, once upon a time. I was young, and the uncaring, status-obsessed Isobel didn’t seem worth much thought. She was a villain, for the purposes of the story. Obviously Rom had been mistaken in her character, I thought.
My mother disagreed. She reflected that the choice Isobel made—choosing status over love—must have changed her, because she would have had to live with that choice afterwards.
Years later, upon rereading the book, I was surprised that I’d ever thought of Isobel as a villain. She’s uncaring towards her son and clearly pursuing Rom at Harriet’s expense. Yet Rom himself points out in the text—he can only pity her. I find that I pity her, too.
Of course, there’s no way to know how Eva Ibbotson intended Isobel to be read, but as a believer of the school of thought known as Death of the Author, I don’t really think it matters. I like my mother’s interpretation, because I believe that that is a true phenomenon. We make choices that we tell ourselves are practical, because they offer us what we think is supposed to make life happier, or easier; but in reality, we’re giving up something else that we’d never have given up, had we known how much of ourselves we would lose in the process.
It’s easy to look down on Isobel, I think, because we’re indoctrinated on Hollywood and Disney movies telling us to Follow Your Heart, and that True Love is the answer. It may be easy to see why giving up your true love for his brother’s status and money would cut this woman to the soul and change her fundamentally, for the worse. But despite—or maybe because of—that, I think Isobel is a beautiful lesson hidden in plain sight.
I think of Isobel a lot, these days. I say I pity her, but I don’t mean it in a condescending way, if that’s at all believable.
I have a low-paying part-time job, and have been accepted for a second part-time job starting next year. But I’m already experiencing weeks when my body simply can’t keep up with the one job plus research, plus all the other random things I decide I want to do (reading, volunteering, going out with friends, writing).
So I applied for a scholarship through my university, and they recommended me for one, which I then proceeded to fill out and complete the application.
It weighs on my mind, now. This scholarship would be from a tobacco company. The money would be good—enough to live on 2/3 and have 1/3 left over for fun, or savings. When I completed the application, I was in the mindset of, “Well, a scholarship is a scholarship.”
I spent half of this month living on meager paycheck to meager paycheck, and it was rough. So I saw the opportunity for an end to this, and I leapt at the thought.
But ever since, I’ve felt the weight of it on my mind, darkening me. I’ve found myself thinking of Isobel.
It’s practical. But if I get accepted (because I haven’t been yet, thank goodness), and I take it, what is the true cost going to be? In a physical sense, it would make life easier; but for my mind? I feel like it would cloud me up again. All the junk in my mind I’ve cleared away, the little bit of clarity I feel like I’ve finally been arriving at in this last year, or half a year—what was all that for, if I’m just going to take a scholarship from a company that I know I don’t like? Who’s actively pushing tobacco into international markets?
After all this time, sorting through all the little things that have clouded my mind and made me more a product of my environment than anything truly me—what kind of idiot am I that I think that I can accept something like this in the name of ease and time and think it won’t affect me in any bigger ways? That it can just be a paycheck and an occasional gala-type event that I have to attend? When has that type of logic ever truly worked for me? (Never. I can’t remember a single instance where it didn’t come back to haunt me.)
Practicality is only one part of the puzzle—a big part, yes, but I think I’d rather deal with the impractical solution that leaves me without such a weight on my conscience.
EDIT: I don’t think that Isobel necessarily would have been happier had she married Rom. Clearly, a penniless suitor wasn’t something that appealed to her, regardless of how much love there was between them. I do think that even if she had made that choice, they would most likely have grown apart in time and become unhappy—maybe Rom would have gone on to meet Harriet, fall for her and have an affair with her anyway, and she really would have become his mistress, just as she was convinced that was the most she could ever hope for in the story itself.
I don’t think Isobel’s mistake was not marrying Rom. I think her mistake was marrying Rom’s brother. And those are not the same thing, to me. But I also recognize that in reality, that’s probably the hardest choice to make of all. Stuck between the choice your heart yearns for and the choice your mind yearns for, saying “I pick neither” is probably the hardest thing in the world, and itself carries the risk that then you’re searching for some impossibly perfect thing to justify what you gave up for some reason you probably can’t even articulate.
Just so we’re clear.