Bridgerton Binge
Unlike the addictive serial reads from the KU romance universe, the limits of whose cosmos no one knows (probably not even the authors), the dimensions of the Bridgerton series are clear. Eight siblings; eight books. Stand them in a square and you can see Julia Quinn has built an impressive but discrete Regency estate. Of course each book can stand alone. Knock off the roof and you still have some nice pillars. But you would be missing the lovely ceiling murals that gaze back down at readers like so many happy cherubim book after book.
As I can attest after reading the whole series this month: Quinn’s design motif is entirely domestic. The scenes are playful or cross, comforting or confrontational, but they are always cosy. Yes, we have the requisite Regency ballrooms and walks in the park, but the emotional centre of the books are always the family homes. Usually contained in feminine parlours and masculine home offices – the most expansive setting is a croquet green – these tableaus of family life are supported by abundant humour and an insane amount of tea.
I’m delighted that Shonda Rhimes’ Bridgerton adaption pays tribute to the frivolous food – they never seem to eat ordinary meals, do they? – that focuses each family exchange. But those same close-ups of staggering cake towers and quivering piles of eclairs, also makes it clear that teatime has gone primetime. Just like Queen Charlotte’s wonderful wigs, the Brigertons have gone up in the world. And romance readers suddenly share their tea-and-scone intimacy with a much larger audience.
The Bridgerton source material – published between 2000-2006 – is both one of the more remarkable achievements in modern romance writing and ‘of its time’. Things move quickly in Romancelandia and there’s nothing that makes us Romance readers and writers more irritated than someone outside the tribe plucking up a twenty-year-old novel and making sweeping statements about the genre. Dammit we don’t describe a penis as a ‘manhood’ anymore! Because we get that genitals and gender don’t always overlap. Also, it’s cheesy.
Similarly, yes the Bridgerton universe is totally white but the more racially diverse reimagining of the ballroom drama that Rhimes brings to her screen adaption is also happening on the page. Courtney Milan is a wizard for creating plausible alternate 19th century histories – my favourite is when a heroine discovers the chromosome forty years early – and her latest series uses British commercial exploitation in China to launch an Asian dynasty of Victorian nobility.
But we can’t absolve ourselves entirely from the problematic parts of these books. The Bridgertons clearly did what Romance readers wanted back in the early oughts. So what was that? The easiest explanation is that readers were eager for a new crop of boyishly charming heroes. What with a new GOP ascendancy in the United States and a new war starting every five minutes, we wanted heroes who teased their siblings and loved their mother. A Bridgerton Brother was, on paper at least, a Cinnamon Roll. Unlike the Alpha who traditionally discovers he’s in love only after his life’s in ruins (and the book’s about to end), the Cinnamon Roll knows that men do have feelings. He might even know his own!
So just how squishy is the centre of these Bridgerton Brothers two decades on? Frankly, in this most recent read-through, I frequently found an unpleasant crunch as I bit down. Teasing and playful when in the company of their own family, the dutiful sons frequently morph into angry asses once they experience FEELINGS for the heroine. Benedict, shown inBridgerton having lovely convos with Eloise over a sneaky smoke, left the worst taste in my mouth. Romance readers have long been trained to equate anger with passion, and passion with love. But Benedict’s palpable care for his family makes his furious attitude towards his love interest almost borderline.
Thankfully, I just picked up the next scone in the series and took a bite. Thankfully because Quinn ultimately gives us redemption with a capitol ‘R’ for the Band of Bridgerton Brothers. Gregory, the youngest, is the apotheosis of the Bridgerton family credo. Raised in this land of unlimited afternoon tea and love, he believes in the stuff with an almost messianic fervour. In the eighth and final Bridgerton book, the words ‘I love you’ are spoken approximately 10,000 times. And Gregory is responsible for about 9,993 reiterations. There’s a moment halfway through where he starts bad-temperedly fussing about the heroine’s safety. Ug, here we go again, I thought. Oh ye of little faith…
When Gregory is truly tested by his heroine’s inexplicable rejection – of course there is a very, very good reason – he reacts not with anger but with total trust. Total faith. And not once. Not twice. But three times. And it’s just a beautiful thing to see because, to me, it’s more than just one young man’s character arc from petulant child to other-focused adult. It feels like the sum of all the love the Bridgertons have modelled, book after book. Especially his mother, Violet.
Romance series, especially the family sagas, often make us champion a character before they get a romance of their own. But I can’t think of another series where characters are so invested in romances that are not their own. It makes the emotional whole so much greater than the sum of its parts. Still, it was only with the last bite that I understood that, far from an indulgent biscuit box, the Bridgertons are satisfying soul food.
Now that’s a light touch worthy of a patisserie pro. Hat’s off, Julia Quinn.
