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“Never was a spectacle so much enjoyed,” wrote Letitia Landon of the fire that destroyed the old Palace of Westminster on 16th October 1834. Hundreds of thousands of people gathered to watch open-mouthed, as eight centuries of tradition went up in smoke. There was no need to inform King William IV of this terrible event – the flames were clearly visible from Windsor Castle, some twenty miles away. Queen Adelaide allegedly deemed the fire “divine retribution” for the great Reform Act of 1832, which had egregiously extended the franchise, bringing the country perilously close to democracy. Others saw it differently: an elderly man was arrested for cheering in delight, “This is what we wanted – this ought to have happened years ago.” But there was no agency involved; incompetence had succeeded where Guy Fawkes had failed. ...

One of my less onerous resolutions for 2010 was to read all the Palliser novels, and my work is now done. In contrast with the inherent conservatism of its predecessor, The Duke’s Children (1880) is all about the necessity of change. The novel opens with the death of the Duchess of Omnium (formerly Lady Glencora Palliser), thereby signalling that nothing will ever be the same again. The Duke’s grief is compounded by the behaviour of his children, who all privilege inclination over duty, seeking happiness rather than strategic advantage. His daughter, Lady Mary, becomes engaged to a penniless aspiring MP; son and heir, Lord Silverbridge, is sent down from Oxford for painting the Dean’s house red and then falls in love with the American granddaughter of a dock-worker; and younger son Gerald makes a dent in the considerable family fortune through his fondness for cards and horses. ...

Even Punch, a magazine frequently hostile to the emancipated woman, felt grudging admiration for Elizabeth Blackwell (1821-1910), the first woman doctor to be registered in Britain. From a 21st-century perspective, with women doctors now in the majority, it’s difficult to appreciate just how hard it was for these indefatigable pioneers, who encountered considerable hostility and even violence when pursuing their vocation. Blackwell’s early years were less combative, growing up part of a loving family in Bristol. Her father’s sugar refining business provided a good standard of living, although its reliance on slavery proved difficult to reconcile with his liberal politics. The liveliness of the household was tempered somewhat by the Blackwell grandparents, who are described as a “gloomy presence”. Blackwell Snr once nailed up all the cupboards, condemning them as “slut holes”, and his domineering behaviour was an early lesson in gender politics for Elizabeth and her sisters. ...

Jerome K. Jerome is famous, of course, for writing one of the funniest books in the English language: Three Men in a Boat. What is less well known is that he desperately tried to reinvent himself as a serious author. Weeds: A Story in Seven Chapters was published anonymously in 1892, Jerome hoping that the novella would be judged on its own merits, rather than compared unfavourably with his comic tales of irascible terriers and tinned pineapple. Unfortunately for him, his publisher Arrowsmith was nervous about the story’s frank portrayal of adultery and it was never made available for general sale during the author’s lifetime. ...

I must confess to never having given much thought to the man behind Three Men in a Boat, one of the funniest books in the English language. When the manuscript for a biography of Jerome K. Jerome arrived on my desk, I expected to read about a lively and carefree man who never took life very seriously. Instead, I discovered a complex, often dark, figure who was frustrating, comic and challenging in equal measure. ...

As I’m forever complaining about Trollope’s obsession with pure heroines, it’s only fair to commend him for using John Caldigate (1879) to question a man’s right to a sexual past. Caldigate is the archetypal Victorian ne’er do well. Graduating from Cambridge with eye-watering debts, he is obliged to try his luck in the Australian goldfields. On the long voyage to the Antipodes he amuses himself with Euphemia Smith, a feisty widow who is no better than she ought to be. She explains her attraction to him thus: ...

History has not been kind to Effie Gray. Her first husband, John Ruskin, was supposedly terrified by her lower portions on their wedding night, while exasperated historians have blamed her for ruining the career of her second husband, John Millais. In this moving biography, Suzanne Fagence Cooper puts Effie centre stage, and we see her for the first time as an individual, as well as within the context of her two famous marriages. ...

Banking scandals, corporate greed, and social irresponsibility – who says Trollope isn’t relevant? The Way We Live Now (1875) is perhaps his darkest novel and is markedly different from the rest of his oeuvre. This probably explains why it is often sidelined and not given the attention it deserves. I’ve written many times before that readers tended to punish Trollope for experimenting with different styles, but his willingness to try new ideas is what makes him so interesting as a writer. Often referred to as the most “Dickensian” of Trollope’s novels, The Way We Live Now is a scathing attack on the dwindling morality of the mid-Victorian period and the “commercial profligacy of the age”. The glittering cast of characters is headed by Augustus Melmotte, an entrepreneur of dubious provenance who seeks social advantage through his immense wealth. There are marked similarities with Ferdinand Lopez, anti-hero of The Prime Minister. Melmotte angles to pair his timorous daughter Marie with an aristocrat who can confer respectability and lineage upon his house. ...

There is something pleasingly understated about a book called Mr Briggs’ Hat. This seemingly ordinary item of apparel became key to one of the most famous murder cases of the nineteenth century, inspiring terror among the commuters of the heaving metropolis. On the evening of 9 July 1864, Thomas Briggs, a 69-year-old bank clerk, boarded a train at Fenchurch Street. It should have taken him to his home in Hackney, as it had done hundreds of times before. However, the train arrived without Mr Briggs, and all that remained of him in his blood-soaked compartment was his bag and stick, along with a crushed hat that wasn’t even his. Although the blood actually sloshed through to the next compartment, there were no witnesses to the crime – this was a classic locked-room murder. It only became apparent what had happened when Briggs’ battered body was found by the railway tracks, and without his gold watch or hat. ...

Ford Madox Brown (1821-1893) is perhaps most famous for being on the margins of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, but was overshadowed by more dominant figures, such as Dante Gabriel Rossetti and William Holman Hunt. Whereas works like ‘The Last of England’ form a legacy of his brilliance, the man behind the easel has remained elusive. Angela Thirlwell’s Into the Frame is a joint portrait of the four women who influenced Madox Brown: his two wives, Elisabeth and Emma, and the two women with whom he had very intense (but not necessarily sexual) relationships, Marie Spartali and Mathilde Blind. ...