Lucinda Elliot

That Scoundrel Emile Dubois is something of a genre-bender. It is set during the Regency era (in terms of its atmosphere and background, rather than in a strictly chronological sense), and evokes a social milieu that will be familiar to readers of Jane Austen. The heroine, Sophie, is also a character that Austen might have recognised: a plucky poor relation who has to transcend social boundaries in order to find love (in this case with her distant but much more noble relative, the titular Emile Dubois). Dubois and his valet Georges are the kind of scoundrels who find a natural home in gothic romance. After escaping from Revolutionary France (where he suffered horrific personal tragedies), Emile becomes a ‘Gentleman of the Road’ – the kind of mannerly, dashing highwayman who wouldn’t be out of place in a Barbara Cartland novel. What follows, however, owes less to Mills and Boon than to the Hammer House of Horror, just as it owes less to Austen than to the sensational gothic novels of Ann Radcliffe.

This is a vampire novel, and a genuinely creepy one on occasion. Every blast of wind and flurry of snow seems to herald some stealthily-approaching menace. Dark deeds are carried out in isolated country houses, and mysterious creatures flit outside the windows; some places are so cursed, so abhorrent to nature that even the birds refuse to sing there. It is also, in part, speculative fiction, with time travel forming a significant strand of the story. Arguably, it might fall under the admittedly vague heading of ‘steampunk’, though in general steampunk is inspired by the mid- to late-Victorian period. ‘Regencypunk’, perhaps?

Sophie, at the outset, is meek, unassuming, and altogether rather unassertive (and not, therefore, the kind of feisty heroine we tend to admire these days). Gradually, however, as she finds herself fighting for both her own soul and that of Emile, she begins to draw upon inner reserves of strength; ‘I must be braver and fight harder,’ she tells her tough, sensible maid Agnes. Sophie, a good Christian girl, sees vampirism as an aberration from God’s ordained plan, a monstrosity; but to other, less devout characters it holds a distinct attraction: ‘Is it so bad a fate, mon ami, to lose the threat of the worm and the grave?’

I was impressed by the way Elliot not only reproduces the style and tone of the late eighteenth century, but maintains it throughout the novel. Admittedly, I’m by no means an expert on the period, but I couldn’t detect a single lapse or false note. The novel is also notably well-researched, to the extent that Elliot includes a glossary of terms at the end.

There is also a lovely vein of humour that runs through the novel. A few examples:

‘Mademoiselle Sophie has seen something unpleasant – do not glare at me so, it was no part of me.’

Just prior to a marriage proposal: ‘Alors, you deserve to be asked with all due punctilio, though I think I see some splinters on the floor, which I will avoid, as my springing up with a yell would detract from the gravity of the occasion.’

‘I never thought things like this would happen here in our village … Now, if it had happened down in Swansea, where folks are about All Sorts of Mischief, I would be less surprised.’

It’s difficult to point to any particular weaknesses in the novel. The only one I could honestly complain of was the ‘clunkiness’ of one or two sentence constructions: ‘Forgive my roughness, I must be careful, which also applies to what Ma Tante terms these Mischievous Experiments as much as my strength, chérie, given you have poor taste enough to fear the loss of your wicked brigand.’ I would have split that sentence up a bit, to make it read a bit more smoothly; as it is, it jolted me out of the story for a moment while I tried to understand exactly what was being said. However, this only occurs once or twice in the course of the novel, and didn’t spoil my overall enjoyment of it. If you like gothic romance, vampire fiction, humour, or indeed all three, this would be an excellent choice of reading.

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"If you Ghouls have visualised violence and suffering for what you see as your creations, for the sake of drama you must press on and depict it. Truly, you act as gods."

Treading similar ground to Asimov’s short story
Author! Author!, Aleks Sager’s Daemon is constructed around a premise that will probably strike many writers as being wonderful, terrifying, or both: what if one of your characters were able to step out of the pages of your work, and into your everyday world? What if the being who had hitherto existed solely in your mind suddenly began to exist in actual fact? Would you welcome the chance to meet your creature, and – more importantly, perhaps – would your creature welcome the chance to meet you? Would your character thank you for creating him or her, or hate you for it?

This is the problem that faces successful author Aleks Sager when his protagonist, Ivan Ostrowski – whom he has tormented mercilessly, if fictionally – steps out of the pages of his novel, and straight into Sager’s glamorous world of agents and publishers, models and actors, and socialites and social climbers. Ostrowski, enraged and embittered by Sager’s treatment of him, is intent on revenge – and what better form of revenge than to set himself up as Sager’s rival in love? The object of both men’s affections is Natalie, a beautiful but rather vacant model who, by her own admission, hardly ever reads books, and is therefore, at first sight at least, an unlikely choice of paramour for a writer.

Natalie, however, forms one of the many haunting parallels that exist between Sager’s life and that of his literary hero, Aleksandr Pushkin (the fictional Ivan Ostrowski is a relative of Pushkin’s hero, Eugene Onegin). Sager’s passion for Natalie echoes that of Pushkin for Natalya Nicholaevna Goncharova, a sixteen-year-old society beauty who would later become his wife. Just as in the case of Sager and Natalie, the match raised both eyebrows and questions: was Goncharova Pushkin’s redeemer, or his downfall? Was she a good wife in the traditional sense, or not? (Readers new to Pushkin need not worry about these parallels: the Pushkin connection is never laboured or heavy-handed, and Elliott provides explanatory notes at the end, including a short biography of Pushkin.)

Indeed, for a novel that owes much of its inspiration to the life of "the Russian Shakespeare", Aleks Sager’s Daemon is remarkably un-laboured. The first few pages alone are indicative of this, describing a sexual encounter with hilarious (if occasionally painful) honesty, and an absolute lack of romantic idealism:

"‘There? How about There? Is That it?’ He doesn’t see the humour in the situation. His tone of irritation held just in check guarantees that it isn’t There or There or Anywhere."

I imagine that many a female reader will be nodding and smiling at this point.

Sager himself is cheeky, complex, arrogant, charming, and occasionally cruel. He wins the reader over just as he gradually wins over an initially unimpressed Natalie. Natalie herself becomes a deeper and more sympathetic character as her life is altered irrevocably by Sager’s love and Ostrowski’s terrifying intrusion into her world. By the time their story reaches its terrible climax (those parallels with Pushkin, remember) we’re rooting for them – and we’re saddened by what happens to them.

Aleks Sager’s Daemon is a rich, clever, satisfying exploration of the relationship between the creature and the creator, of the interdependent nature of literary texts, and of the multi-layered nature of reality. If you’re a reader, you’ll probably appreciate it on that basis alone. If you’re a writer, you may find that it raises a few interesting questions about the misery you occasionally inflict upon your characters. You don’t need to worry, of course: your characters only exist in your own mind, and don’t really suffer – or do they?
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Having read Lucinda Elliot’s previous novel, That Scoundrel Emile DuBois, I had a fairly good idea of what to expect from Ravensdale: a witty spoof of the gothic romance genre that nevertheless allows you to feel for and care about the characters.

The story follows disgraced nobleman Reynaud Ravensdale who, having endured a scandal and been deprived of his birthright as a result, now lives as a highwayman – a highwayman, that is, of the kind that Barbara Cartland might have written about. He justifies his criminal activities by reference to the corruption and greed of his society, targets the wealthy, and takes care never to endanger or insult women.

This is all well and good until Ravensdale and his followers encounter the heroine, Isabella Murray. Her response to her coach being held up is to punch one of Ravensdale’s followers, and then to give the others a lecture on the virtues of generosity and social responsibility. Isabella is about as far from the simpering weaklings that were presented as the ideals of femininity in the day, and is irresistible: you genuinely want her to find love with Ravensdale, though she herself is by no means so enthusiastic at first.

However, before Isabella can do anything at all she has to first escape from her overbearing parents, who want her to make a respectable marriage, and who have high hopes that she’ll form an alliance with Reynaud’s conniving cousin. If you’ve read any historical romance, all of this may sound familiar, but the familiarity of the plot is actually not a weakness here. Elliot’s arch, knowing style, and the many winks she exchanges with her readers, actually breathe life into these tired old tropes, and make them seem fresh and vital.

If you enjoy Georgette Heyer-style period romances, you’ll probably enjoy Ravensdale. However – and this is what is so clever about this novel – if you don’t, then there’s a good chance that you’ll enjoy Ravensdale anyway. It provides you with both characters that you can genuinely like and care about, an interesting story, and a parody that is at times hilarious. So whether you’re usually a fan of gothic, historical romance or not, you might well find something to entertain you here.
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This book became quite the delightful addiction for me, causing me to neglect almost everything else! I loved how the author fleshed out every character. I came to feel I knew them all quite well, and they all had their own unique personalities. The story is one of the wittiest I’ve ever read, and flows quickly from one event to the next. There is no tedium here. The dialogue, especially, is crisp and natural and often made me laugh out loud. Beneath the fun and laughter, though, there is a darker element: a mysterious premonition that bodes ill for our heroes & heroines. I was moved, for instance, by Sophie’s distress as her beloved husband falls further and further away from being human into being a monster, and begins to want her in ways that terrify and disgust her. Yet her love never fails, no matter how cruel he becomes.

Even Kenrick, the bad guy, becomes more sympathetic through his unquenchable need to be reunited with the one he loves. One can understand such obsessions if one has ever loved and lost.

I would personally label “That Scoundrel Émile Dubois” as SATIRE, not a mere vampire or time travel story. It's far too witty, cunning, and subtle to be an ordinary "adventure story."

One thing I will complain about: if a man did that much "Chin Chucking" to me I would divorce him. I quite felt for Sophie in this regard, and was envious of her patience.

I would recommend this book for anyone who likes vampire stories, the kind which seems, somehow, to combine the sexy vampire (à la Twilight) with the evil vampire (à la Dracula). And time traveling. And high adventure, and rascally scoundrels, and Victorian literature, and Welsh scenery. I do look forward to More Work by this Talented Author!… (más)