A Guilty Pleasure

It's been a bit dreary here, weatherwise, for the past few days. The sound of the wind and rain made me long for a mashed potato book, a book that would comfort my soul and whisk me away.

And so I started in on Friday's Child, a book by Georgette Heyer. I've written about her before, here. 

This was a doubly guilty pleasure because 1) the book is a frilly romance and 2) I was rereading it. Personally, I consider Georgette's books much more than frilly romance, since she had a complete grasp of the Napoleonic wars, 19th century farming, London society, smuggling, and Georgian fashion.

Be that as it may, I was tucked up in bed, giggling away at Hero Wantage and her escapades with Sherry, Gil, and Ferdy. After a particularly loud snort, my husband wandered in. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

"Reading," I replied.

"You already read that book," he pointed out.

"Rereading," I amended.

He shook his head. "I don't get how you can do that."

He's always on me about reading books more than once. We were at the beach, and he asked me, "Are you really reading that Janet Eerie again?" (Reader, it was Jane Eyre.)

Honestly, each time I've read Jane, I find something new. I loved this passage, which I had somehow missed before:

My favorite onscreen adaption.

"I saw that in another moment, and with one impetus of frenzy more, I should be able to do nothing with him. The present--the passing second of time--was all I had in which to control and restrain him: a movement of repulsion, flight, fear, would have sealed my doom,-- and his. But I was not afraid: not in the least. I felt an inward power; a sense of influence, which supported me. The crisis was perilous; but not without its charm: such as the Indian, perhaps, feels when he slips over the rapid in his canoe."

Now, Friday's Child is no Jane Eyre, but the novel was perfect for my mood. So I indulged in that guilty pleasure, a total time waste, a moment of zen, when I slipped away from the world of 2012, hand in hand with some every old companions.