Oh glorious mid-century British prose that lures you in with lush reports detailing everything about a particular family in 1937, capturing the thoughts and fears and mistakes and calamities of the family and their various servants. It’s a book that you get lost in, the clock becomes meaningless, and the entire day is given over to raptures of reading. Why on earth is this not more well known or considered a classic?
When I first opened it, I was slightly annoyed by the family tree and list of characters, but as I plowed ahead, completely smitten, I found myself paging back to figure out who each was, how they were related, which cousins were children of which of the Cazalet brothers (Hugh, Edward, Rupert), which elegant women were those brothers wives (Sybil, Villy, Zoe). The Cazalet sister, Rachel, is a spinster and early on we figure out that she’s carrying on a clandestine relationship with Sid, a woman musician/teacher whom no one suspects of anything untoward. Delightfully full of small and large drama, all set on the background of the coming war.
I have the remaining 4 books ready to catapult into my brain, and then I’ll treat myself to this Hilary Mantel recollection of Howard.