Title: Stormfire Author: Christine Monson
Published: June 1, 1984
Genre(s): Romance: Historical
Page Count: 568
Rating:
Summary from Goodreads:Abducted on her way to boarding school, a terrified Catherine Enderly was brought from England to the coast of Ireland, the prisoner of the angry and powerful young Sean Culhane—a man sworn to vengeance against her family.
Frightened but defiant, the young countess met her captor with a strength that belied her fragile loveliness. But even as Sean vowed to have his revenge on Catherine, with each encounter he became more attracted to her. Her fiery innocence was a seduction that lured the passions of long smoldering hostility into a blazing inferno of desire.
Locked in a love-hate duel, he did not suspect that the captivating beauty who fought him with such tenacity was struggling desperately against her own awakened desires, and that his touch had become the burning reminder that the fierce hatred she felt for him had become an all-consuming love.
For many readers who’ve invested time into the romance genre, Christine Monson’s Stormfire needs no introduction. It is the quintessential Bodice Ripper, dating from back when the genre was darker, more violent, and, well…a lot more problematic. Books like this are what give romance novels their bad name, though it’s worth pointing out that Stormfire is, at this point, more that 30 years past its initial publication. Progress has been made, and it’s unfair to judge something based on where it used to be.
Besides, I think anyone reading Stormfire expecting a vile puddle of anti-feminist, patriarchal piss will be somewhat pleasantly surprised. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Definitely, the first thing to do with this book is accept that it’s problematic and just move on. Christine Monson was clearly not out to win any Feminist of the Year awards, even in 1984. Stormfire is a romance where the hero kidnaps, imprisons, tortures, and rapes the heroine. It is what it is. We could bemoan how damaging this novel’s portrayal of “love” is at length, or we could simply proceed with the understanding that the story is seriously fucked up.
As fellow reviewer Ridley points out, “The way to enjoy [Stormfire], I think, is to remember it’s fiction. No English virgins were harmed in the making of this book.” This is the attitude I adopted, and it worked well enough to muscle through.
For me, the really surprising thing about Stormfire is how nonchalant Monson was in her treatment of the hero’s behavior. The worst scenes were delivered in a very bland and casual manner, without the emphasis one would expect when reading about gang rapes or castrations or what have you. Perhaps this is just how books like this work—the grotesque violence is taken for granted to such an extent that it’s not worth emphasizing. Oh look, he’s spanking her bloody; oh look, he’s raping her for the umpteenth time; oh look, he’s locking her in the cellar and starving her. What’s the big deal, right? Stormfire is litany of misfortune delivered in the blasé tone of a grocery list.
Another surprising thing was that the heroine, Catherine, wasn’t quite the wilting flower I expected. She fought back, and she fought back hard. Sure, she falls in love with her rapist and then keeps forgiving him after he repeatedly betrays her in various dastardly ways, but she had a hell of a spine. And at least Monson doesn’t try to pretend consent was given when it clearly wasn’t; in Stormfire, rape is rape, and Catherine knows that it isn’t okay, even as she’s falling in “love” with her abuser (please note scare quotes).
But beyond that, this book is such a freaking mess. It’s pretty much tragedy porn. How many calamities can befall one couple, you ask? Well, Monson is going to surprise you. Aside from the obvious kidnap-rape scenario that takes up the first 200 pages (which was actually the part of the book I enjoyed the most; we’re talking 4-star material), there’s just one bizarre disaster after another that intervenes to keep the hero and heroine apart. Seems like they’re getting cozy? Hah, insert surprise revelation that they’re actually brother and sister. Add a dash of incestuous pregnancy. Have Napoleon get super horny at the sight of the heroine’s bewitching eyes. Sprinkle liberally with duels, spies, and jealous husbands. Don’t forget a strange Indo-Chinese nun-turned-whore!
It’s just a mess, really.
So, if you’re looking for your Everything Plus the Kitchen Sink, guaranteed fresh 1980s bodice ripper, Stormfire fits the bill. Kidnapping, torture, rape, infidelity, incest, vengeful ex-mistresses, castration, Irish rebels, missing wills, disastrous pregnancies, fluffy kittens bringing women out of comatose fugue states. You’ve name it, this book probably has it.
All this being said, I think it’s important to note that rape fantasies are extremely prevalent among women of all ages—Fifty Shades of Grey wasn’t as groundbreaking as we like to think, and books of this sort have a long and celebrated tradition. As has already been stated, this book is fiction, an expression of a fantasy life shared with an audience. Fantasies are, by and large, healthy. Plus, even though there’s rape in Stormfire, Monson never once suggests that it’s acceptable. It’s also worth noting that while the vast majority of today’s romance novels (as opposed to erotica novels; two fairly separate genres) are very different from this book, there is much that is the same in terms of genre conventions and tropes.
Any way you look at it, Stormfire is an important novel, if only for its massive reputation among the community of romance readers and its continued legacy and influence.
Bottom line? Was this monstrosity worth the outrageous price I paid to get my hands on a copy? Er…maybe? I don’t like it and I would never run around telling my friends to read it, but damn was Stormfire a nightmarish thrill ride from start to finish. However, from the perspective of a “scholar” of genre romance (if that’s what we can call me—probably not), I am glad I read it.
