One Wicked Winter Night

by Mary Jo Putney

This review was very, very difficult for me to write. I’ve spent most of the past day wondering if I overreacted or was being too sensitive. Hours later, I’ve come to three conclusions:

1. My feelings are 100% valid.
2. The content is harmful enough that I feel obligated to rant and warn readers about it.
3. One Wicked Winter Night contains racist drivel that should’ve never been cleared for publication.

The premise is… you know what, the premise doesn’t really matter. Diana has lived in India for years and returns to England for Christmas at the behest of her beloved pregnant niece. She encounters her former love, they rekindle their relationship, and they live happily ever after. That’s it. It’s thoroughly unimportant to what I’m going to talk about.

The novella starts in India when Diana receives a letter of invitation from her niece Rory. I was thoroughly relieved when the setting shifted to England in the next chapter; I was not enthusiastic about the colonial Indian setting and hoped fervently that Diana’s past in India would be utterly irrelevant in the future.

I was wrong. Oh, I was wrong. In hindsight, my naivety is cringe-worthy and depressing.

When Diana reunites with Rory, they laugh and reminisce about cherished memories.

“I’d like to be snowed in with you so we could practice our Hindu dancing. I missed that when you and Constance left. I wonder how much I remember?” Diana rose and began humming Indian dance music to accompany herself as she cupped her hands in front of her and bent her knees, sinking into the first steps. Rory rose to her feet and began mirroring Diana’s movements. “I’ve missed the dancing, too. It’s easier when wearing Hindu clothing rather than European, though.”

“Luckily we both had salwar kameezes made,” Diana said, referring to the loose trouser-like garments and tunics that made movement easy. She increased the tempo of her humming and tried to remember the intricate footwork. “Next time we can wear them.” They fell into a simple routine as they moved across the drawing room, remembering the sensual rhythms. After they’d crossed and recrossed the room several times, Diana said rather breathlessly, “I doubt our dance would be approved by many Indians, but it’s such fun! Remember the time when we were performing in front of the British Resident and I tripped over the Panda?” (NB: The Panda is Diana’s cat.)

“The Panda does like getting underfoot.” Rory laughed. “And the Resident didn’t mind your ending up in his lap!”

Her laughter was contagious and Diana joined in, bending sideways from the waist as her raised hands stroked the air like delicate birds. Rory did the same and added a slow, provocative swing of the hips.

This isn’t great, but it’s not the worst thing I’ve read either (I’ve read a lot of really terrible things). I really disliked seeing two wealthy White women move “provocatively” while performing “sensual Hindu dancing,” but I cringed and soldiered on, hoping this would be the end of it. It is not, as you might have guessed, the end of it.

Pages later, Rory has a suggestion about how to reintroduce Diana to society.

“We’ll figure something out,” Rory said. “Perhaps a tricorn hat and an eye patch like a pirate? I do like the idea of wearing Indian clothing and dancing with my aunt. It will be a way to introduce you to society again, Diana.”

Diana thought of the man she didn’t want to meet, but he preferred the country, so it wasn’t likely their paths would cross any time soon. Still . . . “I’d prefer to quietly sneak back so no one will notice,” Diana said. “The advantage of being veiled.”

No. Just fuck no. I was relieved when Diana shut that idea down. The idea of Diana and Rory appropriating Indian culture and dancing in front of the ton was abhorrent to me. “Thank goodness,” I thought, “that monstrosity won’t happen. Diana said no to dancing at the upcoming masquerade! Let’s stop talking about India forever and move on with the story.”

In retrospect, more cynicism on my part wouldn’t have gone amiss.

I’m going to quote extensively from the book because 1) the text speaks for itself and 2) no description I come up with will fully grasp the horror.

Diana had brought her champagne glass upstairs with her, and she emptied it as she and Rory entered Diana’s bedroom. “Given the amount of champagne your guests are consuming, our dancing is bound to be well received!”

“This far from India, no one will know if we’re any good or not,” Rory said cheerfully as she removed her voluminous green domino, then her mask. Underneath she wore her dance costume. The gold and-burgundy-patterned salwar were like very full trousers but narrow at the ankles. The kameez tunic was burgundy with gold-embroidered inserts and sleeves that ended midway between shoulder and elbow.

Diana’s costume was the same, and they both wore golden slippers. With her mask gone, Diana wrapped a long gold-patterned shawl called a dopatta around her head, face, and shoulders so only her eyes were visible. Then she donned her dark blue domino again to cover her costume. “Are you ready to dazzle or at least surprise those members of the beau monde who are still in London?”

“Indeed I am, though I so wish Constance was here! The opening movements are best with three dancers.”

“We’ll still dazzle them,” Diana promised. “This is not English country dancing!”

“And if we do badly, we disappear back upstairs and change our clothing so no one will know who the incompetent exotic dancers were,” Rory said mischievously.

Diana laughed. “It’s always good to have a line of retreat!”

Dominos billowing around them, they descended the back stairs to the ballroom, took their places, and waited for the music.

Midnight was nearing when Captain Vance signaled for the musicians to stop playing, then stepped in front of the curtained area beneath the small gallery. In a voice that could carry across a deck in an Atlantic hurricane, he announced, “We have something special for you tonight. A pair of dancers such as few of you have ever seen. Draw around and prepare to be enthralled!”

Curious, the guests gathered in a semicircle around the curtained area, shorter guests in front, taller ones behind. Anthony stood in back opposite the middle of the impromptu stage. Delicate flute music that sounded strange to the British ear rose from the gallery, soft at first but growing louder. A small drum began to beat, soon joined by a larger drum with a deeper tone.

The curtain drew apart to reveal a low stage with a motionless figure standing in the center. Good God, it was a colorfully garbed female with four arms! Two hands were pressed together in front of the female’s heart and the other pair of arms were lifted high, the fingertips touching over her head.

This was the image of a Hindu goddess, Anthony realized. He’d seen figurines of such entities, usually with six arms if he recalled correctly.

For long moments while the music intensified, the figure was motionless. Then the audience gasped as the pairs of arms began to move with stylized precision. The tempo of the music sped up and the figure separated into two identical females. They’d been lined up so perfectly that only when they moved apart that it was clear the goddess’s image had been formed from two women.

The dancers wore numerous gold and silver bangles on their wrists and the chiming of the bracelets joined flute and drum to invoke a sense of distant, fascinating lands. The dance that followed was enchanting as the veiled dancers spun and dipped and performed slow, erotic hip movements seldom seen in this part of the world.

Sometimes the dancers took identical steps, other times they mirrored each other in perfect harmony as the flowing fabric of their full trousers emphasized each movement. They were lithe, mesmerizing, and deeply sensual.

Anthony loved dancing himself and felt it was the only good reason to attend balls and assemblies. He also loved watching talented dancers, and these two women were creating magic.

After several enchanting minutes, the music slowed and the dancers moved back into their original positions, the woman in front casting her eyes downward as she pressed her palms together in front of her breasts, the woman behind visible only as a pair of arms raised heavenward with palms pressed together over her head.

The music faded to nothing and the dance was done. There was a long, awed silence before the audience broke into enthusiastic applause. Laughing, the dancers separated and bowed together, their hands clasped. Anthony was wondering where the devil Vance had found these wonderful creatures when the musicians in the gallery struck up a waltz, the latest fashion in wicked dances.

Grinning, Vance moved forward and reached out to the lefthand dancer to help her down from the low stage. When she was on the dance floor, he tugged down her veil to reveal the laughing face of Lady Aurora Vance. “Wonderful, my lady bright!” He brushed a kiss on his wife’s hair before they swung into the waltz with hands clasped as they gazed into each other’s eyes. But there was still a woman unclaimed. Anthony cut through the crowd toward the low stage, hoping the dancer was as magical as her dance.

I don’t know what my first reaction to this scene was. I can’t even remember it. Numbness, maybe. Or maybe that’s what rage feels like? I read it once slowly, as though the words didn’t make any sense and were strung into nonsensical phrases. When the dance ended, it felt rather like I had dreamed up the past two minutes. So I turned the pages back and read the scene again.

This time, what I felt was definitely rage. I wasn’t mentally prepared to break down the scene and describe all the ways it was wrong, so I continued reading the book in a haze. And when I finished reading the novella, I turned back to the beginning and read the whole thing over again. I was so thoroughly angry and disgusted by the entire thing, and I wanted to make sure I felt that way even if I read it a second time. To my surprise, I was even more angry the second time.

I honestly shouldn’t have to explain why this scene is so problematic, but I’m going to do it anyway. I probably missed something, but here are some obvious reasons:

• You might be wondering, “Why is Aarya so offended and angry? The dancing seems positive. Everyone is appreciative of the Indian culture and they’re not making derogatory remarks. What’s the big deal?” The big deal is the otherization of Indian culture. Go back and reread the scene. What is the purpose of the dancing? Who does it center? Who does it serve?

It centers two White aristocratic women who have decided to appropriate a dance from a culture that doesn’t belong to them. It doesn’t center two Indian women who have practiced the dance for years and are experts. Diana and Rory are amateurs; they joked earlier that they were terrible at it (“I doubt our dance would be approved by many Indians, but it’s such fun!”). I doubt they performed the dance the way it was intended. According to their own comments, they don’t even have the correct number of people for the dance. The visual illusion of the goddess having six arms requires three different dancers, and they went ahead and performed the dance incorrectly anyway.

• So we know who the scene centers. What is the point of the centering? Why even include the scene?

As far as I can tell, the only reason this scene exists is to make the heroine seem attractive, sexy, and “exotic” to the hero (he later refers to her as “my exotic lady”). It demonstrates her sex appeal, and he instantly falls in lust with her. I know this because the dancing is consistently described as “sensual,” “provocative,” and “erotic.” The dancers’ hips are mentioned constantly. And when the dancing is done, the hero is determined to introduce himself to the mysterious woman.

It’s unsurprising that those particular adjectives hit sensitive spots for me. European historicals have a long history of referencing the Kama Sutra and painting Indian culture as sensual and erotic. Sometimes in the distant past, sometimes in the not-so-distant past. It reduces an entire culture to sex positions, and I hate it. I wish I could set this stupid trope on fire. The Kama Sutra isn’t mentioned here, but the dance creates the exact same effect. Indian culture is erotic and mysterious. It’s not like demure, polite, and restrained British society. It’s foreign. It’s to be lusted after at any cost. It’s The Other.

• Oh, there’s one more thing that the dance is good for. Here’s what one spectator says after the scene.

“You and Rory were marvelous! I am beginning to see the value of travel to distant places.”

Diana laughed as she seated herself by Sylvia. “Advantages and discomforts twined together. The dance would have been even better if our niece Constance was here. Then we’d have had all six arms for our goddess.”

Travel: only good for learning sexy dance moves! Ah, if only there were other reasons to do it. If only.

As if the dance wasn’t bad enough, I was furious at the goddess imagery as it added an element of sacrilegiousness. The “multiple arms” dance symbolically represents the divine. And perhaps this is confounding, but I was angry at the genericness of the whole debacle. We know it features a six-armed goddess. But which one? It’s perhaps Kali, who is sometimes (but not usually) depicted with six arms. It can’t be Durga, who has far more than six arms. I doubt it’s Lakshmi or Saraswati, who have four hands each. Or perhaps the dance isn’t meant to refer to a specific goddess, and the six hands are simply a hint at the divine. I really don’t know because the text doesn’t bother to educate the reader.

That’s not the only generic thing. We know the dance is Indian. But what kind? Is it Bharatanatyam? Do you know how many different types of classical Indian dance forms there are? “Indian dance” is a meaningless phrase if you consider the cultural diversity within India. What the hell is it?

The scene is from the hero’s point-of-view and he only recognizes the dance as Indian because he remembers a figurine. But at no point during the dance do they inform the audience of what they are watching. Someone who doesn’t have Anthony’s knowledge might think that it’s generically “Eastern.” The culture doesn’t get explicit credit. What only matters is that it’s “exotic” and from a faraway land. The specifics don’t really matter. I know this because none of this information is available for the reader to learn. The religious and cultural context of the dance is utterly irrelevant; its sole purpose is to make the heroine attractive to the hero.

Perhaps this is understood unsaid, but I’m going to say it anyway: it’s freaking unacceptable that this scene exists when the English colonized India for centuries. I really don’t care about “historical accuracy” or if this might have happened in Regency England. I don’t need to read about Regency England fetishizing and otherizing a culture that they colonized. Historical romance isn’t written in a vacuum, and I expect 21st century authors to have some self-awareness when describing colonial cultures. I don’t expect a thorough accounting of all the misdeeds committed by the British Empire, but not fetishizing a culture is the bare minimum. That’s all I ask for.

As icing on the cake, it is later revealed that Diana is in the import business and wants to find English markets for Indian textiles, jewelry, and carvings. At this point, I was rather speechless but continued on in what can only be considered a hate-read.

Honestly, even if the novella had omitted this dancing scene, I would have hated the story anyway. The relationship development is confusing and uninspiring. I never emotionally connected to either character. Anthony, in his infinite wisdom, decides to kidnap Diana’s cat Panda (I have no fucks left to explain this bewildering name) and ransoms the cat so she’ll come to him. It’s ridiculous and terrible. I can’t think of one good thing to say about it. And yeah, maybe that’s because I’m biased and furious about the earlier scene, but it is what it is.

The novella magically becomes even worse at the very end.

Is there anything I liked in this novella? Nope. I can’t think of one damn thing. Writing this review took a lot out of me mentally, so I’ll just end with what I said in the beginning: One Wicked Winter Night contains racist drivel that should’ve never been cleared for publication. That’s all you need to take away from this review.

– Aarya

This winter, steal away with the reigning queens of Regency Romance… plus one or two dukes, one heiress, and one headstrong beauty—to a surprise snow storm, the comfort of a blazing fire, and the heat of a lover’s kisses…

ONE WICKED WINTER’S NIGHT by Mary Jo Putney
Dressed as a veiled princess, Lady Diana Lawrence is shocked to discover that the mysterious corsair who tempts her away from the costume ball is the duke she once loved and lost. Now ensconced with Castleton at a remote lodge, will she surrender to the passion still burning hotly between them?

Historical: European, Novella, Romance