Book Review: Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

What could possibly make Jane Austen's novels better than they already are? The answer: blood. The series of Jane Austen mysteries by Stephanie Barron mixes regency England with modern crime dramas all while teaching the readers fascinating tidbits about Jane's life, her family, and her social milieu. The books may be fictional but Barron has done actual research and throws in several historical truths, usually in her footnotes.

Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House is the sixth book in the series. I admit I could not read the fifth (Jane and the Stillroom Maid) because it involved the Illuminati, and all such plots seem over-the-top to me. This, book, however, reminded me of everything I like about the series. We got to see Jane's relationship with her brother Frank, a naval officer; meet a mysterious and dashingly handsome Frenchman; and get put in the thick of espionage and betrayal during the Napoleonic War.

This mystery, and all the others, of course, never happened, even though Barron pretends that she is merely editing old journals of Jane's. It is not just my own knowledge of Jane's real history, however, that reveals the fictional nature of the stories. Barron, while a good entertainer, does have certain stylistic flaws. Among these flaws is her tendency to refer to "the reader," clearly forgetting that she claimed these are supposed to be Jane's private journals, and thus, that authoress would never have intended for them to have been read. Barron also has the unfortunate habit of inserting lines straight from A&E's Pride and Prejudice. As good as that fine rendition of the novel was, it seems to show a lack of self-confidence to simply copy and paste dialogue. The truly irksome part is that Barron can write good dialogue of her own in a passably good imitation of Austen herself, so there's no need to resort to such lazy tactics.

Other than these quirks, Barron does tell a good story. I'm not the world's best puzzle-solver, but I have yet to guess the complete answer to one of her mysteries. Sometimes I admit that I still don't completely understand them at the end, but I'm not sure whether this can be blamed on Barron's writing or my unwillingness to put in too much mental effort. All the same, Barron will certainly never be another Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. But that's not really the best part of these novels. What I truly enjoy is the historical fiction and the development of Jane as a living and breathing character with problems to which the modern reader can relate. It is something for an Austen fan girl to see even an imaginary version of her idol. No longer is this woman shrouded in the shadows of a mundane life that had few records and only one portrait drawn by her own sister. To meet Austen has always been a dream of mine. But to see how she might have lived (even if it is mixed with some adventurous though highly unlikely events) seems to be the next best thing.