Some readers love this type of meringue; and I’ve heard Heyer does meringue, especially Regency-era meringue, incomparably well. All I can say is, I don’t see it in this sample. A meringue also needs structure or it falls flat. Here, even the language - the syntax, the slang - is repetitive. By the last page, if I read “bad ton” one more time I felt like shrieking. It’s a pet peeve of mine when every character in a book or film uses the same slang "pet phrases." Heyer is especially egregious with this indulgence. It seems sloppy form for an author who had a reputation for impeccable historical research. I’d prefer impeccable dialogue standards. It’s amusing that she often made up her own slang, but perhaps she was so thrilled with her creations she overused them. In my experience people do not all speak with the same exact pet phrases daily. Their speech does not all have the same cadence; in this novel they do. I wish I could have told one character apart from the other. All the men and women sounded the same, to me. The men spoke in overwrought ways and tended to use tame "curses" and then correct themselves. The women were mostly blushing and timid. It did occur to me that Heyer was overemphasizing at times as a type of parody. But even on that level, I didn’t find it entertaining - just self congratulatory.
Heyer’s volume of work is to be commended; she certainly has her fan base; there is even a critical retrospective of her work in print. Her books are "family friendly" even if there is an occasional "damme" (she spells it that way) and a chapter where an unwed mother shows up, babe in arms. That character, and a reticent world weary friend of “Sherry’s” were the only two I had a passing interest in. At least they had experienced something coming close to recognisable human emotion.
However, their appearance in the book was only passing as well. The unfortunate mother and child are a mere plot device and quickly disappear, and the older friend of Sherry’s is relegated to the sidelines. It’s the self obsessed, self indulgent fops and beauties which people the pages of this novel instead, to its detriment, I think. It’s almost as if People magazine were reshaped in the form of a 423 page Regency novel. There’s nothing wrong with meringue, or with People magazine for that matter. But it’s good to know what one’s getting. And either of those lightweight diversions become sickening in large amounts. Who wants to read in glossy print for over 400 continuous pages, or eat a bucket full of egg whites? Perhaps others of Heyer's books bear evidence of her popularity. I can't think this novel is a good witness. For me, Friday’s Child was neither loving nor giving, unless you count how much I loved finally putting the book down, and the headache it gave me while reading it.
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