This novel gives a few twists to the standard fairy-tale of the girl of limited means catching the rich nobleman with the sheer force not only of her beauty, but her integrity (‘the truth in her eyes ever dawning’, as the song puts it*). In Hodgson Burnett’s novel, the ‘pairing off’ is flagged in the book’s title, it happens halfway through what is now generally published as the full novel (originally it was in two parts), and Emily Fox-Seton’s elevation to the position of marchioness (i.e. wife of a marquess, a class of an English noble, like that boxing-rules originator the Marquess of Queensberry) is a mixed blessing. This author, who is most celebrated for her children’s books, never had much time for the aristocracy. The Shuttle, published some years later (1907), is a grim account of an innocent and sweet American heiress who marries an abusive English lord. Lord Walderhurst, the marquess who marries Emily in The Making of a Marchioness, is not abusive by any means, but he is charmless, past his first youth, and not particularly good-looking either.
When the book opens, Emily Fox-Seton, in her early 30s but with the anxious innocence of a much younger woman, is making her way home on a hot summer’s day to her small but cheerfully-furnished bed-sittingroom in London. Although of ‘good family’ (a strange phrase that seems to mean, with a title or at the very least, a double-barrelled name)she is quite alone in the world, her parents dead and her other relatives uninterested in her. One rung lower on the social ladder, and she could have trained as a teacher or a nurse or a female clerk, because jobs like this were opening up at a great rate for women in the early years of the twentieth century. In the ‘gentry’, however, daughters – unless they were unusually strong-minded – were expected to ‘stay at home’, and this custom continued until the Second World War shattered it forever. Bound by this convention, Emily struggles to survive on a small legacy left her by a lady for whom she worked as a live-in ‘companion’, and on pittances from rich, idle women who get her to do shopping, post letters and help them with various little jobs. She earns far less than a nurse or a teacher or a clerk, or even a shop-worker, but she is so thankful to all her ’employers’ that her default state is one of obligation. ‘People are so kind!’ is her constant refrain, and she means it. Her speech is rendered in italics and exclamation marks.
Her gratitude goes into overdrive when one of the ladies, Lady Maria Bayne, invites Emily to her country house, Mallowe, partly for a holiday (she will be a guest like everybody else), and partly to get work out of her, organising the summer fete Bayne puts on every year. Emily’s only problem is what to wear – but she is a skilled needlewoman and the Cupps, the mother and daughter who own the house where she rents a room, delight in helping her contrive this costume and that. (There is good detail here for the fashion historian). The Cupps both love and admire her, considering her the equal of any ‘lady’ in the illustrated papers, because she is tall, with a good figure and a good complexion – but height, as any tall woman can tell you, is not necessarily attractive to the average male.
(What follows, here, is full of spoilers, but somehow that doesn’t matter; it is the unfolding of the story that makes it worth reading.)
At Mallowe, Emily revels in the fresh air and comfort, and the company,too. One of the guests, the middle-aged Lord Walderhurst, who has buried one wife, is quite openly on the lookout for another – he is rumoured to have brought with him the family heirloom ruby engagement ring. (It says a lot for the status of the incoming intended that this ring has been taken from the jewellery-box, or finger, of a dead woman. Wives come and go but family jewels lasts forever.) The two women in the running for the ring are a pretty young American heiress, Cora, whose mother would love her to have a title, and a Lady Agatha (I hope I have the names right, I’m going on memory here) who has a houseful of unmarried sisters at home and is therefore under great pressure to catch him if she can. Emily, the kind of unthreatening female who invites confidences, knows that neither ‘girl’ (they are both quite young)is particularly taken with the middle-aged marquess, who plays one off against the other with all the unthinking arrogance of his class and gender.
Emily goes all out for the summer fete, organizing races and stalls and lucky-dips, and getting up treats for the children. But the next day she gets a letter from the Cupps telling her that their son/brother has come into some money and wants to make a home for them in the north of England, so they are selling up, and she will have to look for another place to live. Her despair at the thought of finding another place as cheap or as pleasant to rent is accentuated by an incident at Mallowe (too complicated to go into) which reminds her of her dangerously dependent status. Lord Walderhurst’s proposal is a life-saver. But it isn’t gallantry on his part; he needs a wife and an heir, and has observed that she is a good person, hard-working and handsome too. He doesn’t really love her, but he appreciates her. And her fervent love for him is the undying gratitude of a dog rescued from the pound. I repeat, this is not a romantic novel.
The elevation of an awkward, overgrown girl into that desirable social commodity, the intended wife of a marquess, gives rise to some delightful incidents. When the newly-engaged Emily meets one of her former ‘ladies’, who tries to humiliate her by reminding her that the last time they met, Emily was buying stockings for her, Emily, without a shred of malice, responds happily (in front of a large company) that this lady had insisted on the cheapest pair that could be found and that Emily had managed to get her some that were even cheaper. Emily’s long-lost relations emerge, wanting to give her away, and are repulsed not by Emily, but by Bayne, from whose house Emily will marry. (Are we meant to like Bayne? I don’t, and can only marvel at Hodgson Burnett’s genius in creating such a morally ambiguous character.)
The second part of the novel (originally a separate novel) is about what happens after the marriage. By marrying Walderhurst, and becoming pregnant, Emily has painted a target on her own back. Some of Walderhurst’s relations, who had hoped to inherit his wealth and title, conspire against Emily to try to cause her injury or even death.This second part is exciting, but strangely incongrous, as if the author had decided to tack on a suspense novel. But the first half of the novel isn’t your standard romance either, so why shouldn’t she? A sub-plot of the second part of the novel is Walderhurst’s deepening love for Emily. The marriage changes her circumstances, but not her personality, she remains girlishly enthusiastic and eternally grateful, and almost fatally innocent. But Walderhurst transforms from a selfish and unimaginative upper-class oaf into a normal human being. The book should really be called The Making of a Man.
Be warned; there is some uncomfortable racial stereotyping in the second half, not as glaring or as bad as in many other novels of the period, and the Indian character is by no means the worst, and even has a kind of enviable, mysterious power. If you can take this in your stride, The Making of A Marchioness is a book that keeps giving and giving, striking you in different ways every time you read it.
- ‘O no ’twas the truth in her eyes ever dawning/That made me love Mary, the Rose of Tralee’ is taken from the popular nineteenth-century ballad, ‘The Rose of Tralee’ by W.Mulchinock.
My copy of this book is a small (but perfectly readable) red Everyman hardback, dating from 1931 I think: I can’t find it in the house, I must have lent it. ( Google tells me that Everyman never brought out an edition of this book: I beg to differ.) I read it every few years, for the social history, and for the satisfaction of the ‘Pretty Woman’ moments – I prefer the first half to the second. Persephone brought out an edition in 2001, with an afterword by Hodgson Burnett’s biographer, Gretchen Gerzina, and lovely yellow-tulip design endpapers – the kind of fabric Emily would see in a shop window and buy a yard of, for curtaining off her clothes rack or the orange-box she uses for a bedside locker.
Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Making of A Marchioness (New York: Frederick Stokes 1901 – London: Everyman c.1931; London: Persephone 2001). Persephone also republished The Shuttle (London: Heinemann 1907) in 2007.
Hodgson Burnett’s children’s books include the perennially popular The Secret Garden (1911), and A Little Princess (1905). Some years earlier, however, she wrote a book that gave rise to the appalling fashion crime of a velvet knickerbocker suit for boys (who must have cursed the author bitterly), Little Lord Fauntleroy (1885). Some misfortunate lads were still being forced into this garb in the early twentieth century.
Gretchen Gerzina, Frances Hodgson Burnett: the unpredictable life of the author of The Secret Garden (London: Chatto & Windus 2004).
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