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The futuristic utopia depicted in The Fixed Period (1882) is a radical and unexpected departure for Anthony Trollope. Imagine Thomas Pynchon writing a chick lit novel, or Maeve Binchy turning her hand to slash fiction. It’s a radical departure for me, too, as essentially I’ve been tricked into reading science fiction. The story is set in 1980 in the fictional republic of Britannula, created when a group of ex-pats occupy the South Island of New Zealand and claim independence from Great Britain. The 25,000-strong community is led by President John Neverbend, who almost bursts with his own self-importance and civic pride. ...

Ayala’s Angel (1881) is a rather incongruous title for a Trollope novel. However, the story deals very much with his familiar territory of marriage, inheritance, and the position of women. After the death of their imprudent artist father, penniless sisters Ayala and Lucy Dormer are separated and sent to live with different branches of the family. Lucy is taken in by her well-meaning Uncle Reginald, an Admirality clerk struggling to manage on a limited income; Ayala, meanwhile, embarks upon a more comfortable lifestyle with her wealthy aunt, Lady Tringle. Unfortunately, her two unattractive female cousins become jealous of Ayala’s beauty, and their brother Tom falls hopelessly in love with her, and refuses to take no for an answer. ...

‘Wild romance’ is something of a misnomer when applied to the Yelverton case, an 1861 bigamy scandal that transfixed mid-Victorian society. The decidedly unromantic Captain William Yelverton stood trial after having allegedly contracted two ‘irregular’ marriages with Theresa Longworth and then gone on to marry another woman. Although estranged and rebuffed for most of their six-year relationship, Theresa was determined to claim her status as a married woman, initiating trials in England, Ireland and Scotland. Yelverton was equally determined to rid himself of the woman he ‘married’ purely in the interests of consummating their affair. In court it became clear that Yelverton’s motives had been entirely sexual: once he had conquered Theresa, he was no longer interested. When she became pregnant, he encouraged her to get an abortion – a very risky business in the mid-nineteenth century. Initially successful in her legal bid, Theresa lost her case on appeal. She was cast off and notorious, having been through a very public ordeal. Undeterred, she travelled the world, speaking up for wronged women and supporting herself through journalism. Yelverton, meanwhile, was able to return to his new wife and family, later becoming Viscount of Avonmore. ...

WARNING: Contains plot spoilers. Although it saves you the trouble of reading this terrible novel. Do yourself a favour and read Armadale instead. Wilkie Collins, looking decently ashamed of himself The Fallen Leaves (1879) is generally considered to be Wilkie Collins’ worst novel, and for once I am inclined to agree with the majority view. It’s hard to credit that the masterful creator of The Woman in White and Armadale could also be responsible for such a turgid story. The ‘Fallen Leaves’ of the title are introduced as “The people who have drawn blanks in the lottery of life … the friendless and the lonely, the wounded and the lost,” which alerts the reader to the excessive moralising that ensues. The novel actually starts rather well, with dastardly fortune hunter John Farnaby impregnating his girlfriend, Emma Ronald, thereby forcing her parents to approve their ill-advised marriage. Once he’s got his feet under the table, he arranges for the baby to be kidnapped, thereby escaping the stigma and inconvenience of a child conceived out of wedlock. The girl’s whereabouts remain unknown until the arrival of a Christian Socialist with the unlikely name of Amelius Goldenheart. ...

The plot of The Evil Genius (1886) focuses on a seemingly respectable middle-class marriage which falters when the husband, Herbert Linley, becomes infatuated with his daughter’s governess, the orphaned Sydney Westerfield. His wife, Catherine, is made aware of the situation following the interference of her stickybeak mother, the eponymous Evil Genius. Although initially reasonable and rational, Catherine becomes furious when Herbert proposes setting up home with his mistress and taking their daughter Kitty to live with them. She whisks Kitty away to live in Scotland where the marriage laws are more relaxed, and manages to obtain a divorce, thereby retaining custody of her own daughter. Like Laura Fairlie in The Woman in White, she must fight hard to resist the immense power the law has invested in her husband. ...

Last year I reviewed Lady Colin Campbell: Victorian Sex Goddess. My only criticism was that the book focused very much on the court case, and there was little to satisfy the curious mind as to Gertrude Campbell’s subsequent career. Fortunately, Anne Jordan has just published Love Well the Hour: The Life of Lady Colin Campbell, thereby giving this redoubtable woman more sustained consideration. ...

Mona Caird is best known for her 1888 article “Marriage”, in which she argued that the venerable institution was a “vexatious failure”. A reactionary retaliation in the Daily Telegraph prompted 27,000 letters, with many of the correspondents agreeing with Caird’s gloomy assessment. The ensuing debate, “Is Marriage a Failure?”, captured the imagination of the public, spawning a book, an automaton, and a card game. The Wing of Azrael (1889) was published in the following year, and the novel was judged very much in terms of the author’s polemical writings. With this in mind, Caird included a preface in which she attempted to establish a clear demarcation between the two, writing: “however much this book may be thought to deal with the question so much discussed, there is no intention on the writer’s part to make it serve a polemical ‘purpose’ or to advocate a cause. Its object is not to contest or argue, but to represent.” Notwithstanding Caird’s intention, The Wing of Azrael is incontrovertibly a novel with a purpose, but it is, nonetheless, a fine example of the form. ...

Phineas Redux (1874) is possibly the darkest of the Palliser novels. In Phineas Finn (number two in the series), we saw the eponymous hero begin his ascent of the greasy pole, and he looked to have a bright future in British politics. In this sequel, the untimely death of his wife releases him from a disadvantageous marriage and exile in Ireland, and he once again bursts onto the London scene. Lacking wealth, however, he is placed in the position of a Trollope heroine: he must marry for money and resign himself to dependency. His choice of wife, therefore, must be entirely pragmatic. ...

Wilkie Collins, pondering his next plot I seem to have embarked upon a Wilkie Collins season and can’t get enough of him at the moment. Although Jezebel’s Daughter (1880) was one of his least popular novels, it certainly doesn’t lack interest or incident. The plot centres around the firm of Wagner, Keller and Engelman, which has offices in London and Frankurt. After the death of her husband, Mrs Wagner becomes senior partner and is determined not to take a back seat. Eager to continue her late husband’s philanthropic activities, she befriends Jack Straw, an inmate of Bedlam, and takes him to live with her in order to prove that ‘lunatics’ are not beyond redemption. ...

I hadn’t given much thought to anaesthesia until I read a biography of the writer Fanny Burney, who in 1811 underwent a mastectomy while fully conscious. Extraordinarily she survived, living until the ripe old age of 87. Burney’s is one of the many stories told by Stephanie Snow in Blessed Days of Anaesthesia: How Anaesthetics Changed the World, in which she charts the discovery and development of anaesthesia. ...