Denounced: A Romance — Reading Companion

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Bloundelle-Burton, John, 1850-1917 Project Gutenberg 2016 Not confirmed
Jacobite Rebellion, 1745-1746 -- Fiction; France -- History -- Louis XV, 1715-1774 -- Fiction Readers of public-domain and historical texts
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Words 106,681
Reading time 464 min
Text sections 11

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John Bloundelle-Burton's 1896 romance follows Bertie, Kate, and Archibald amid the Jacobite aftermath, shifting from stormy sea voyages to Parisian intrigues. The narrative voice alternates between brisk action and reflective pauses, with recurring motifs of hidden jewels and unresolved murder.
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It was a wild and stormy sea through which the bluff-bowed Galliot laboured, as, tossed first from one wave to another, she, with the best part of her gear stowed away and no sail on her but a close-reefed main-topsail and a spanker, endeavoured to make her way towards the Suffolk coast. On the poop, the captain--a young man of not more than thirty--hurled orders and oaths indiscriminately at his crew, every man of which was a good deal older than himself, while the crew themselves worked hard at hauling up the brails, going out on the gaff to pass the gaskets, and stowing the mainsail-yard. But still she laboured and rolled and yawed, her forefoot pointing at one moment almost to the Dutch coast and at another to the English--she had left Calais thirty hours before, intending to fetch Dover, and had been blown thus far out of her course--and it seemed as though she would never get any nearer to the land she wished to reach. And, to make matters worse, lying some distance off on her starboard beam--though too far to be distinguished through the haze in the air and the spume of the waves--was a large vessel about which those on board could not decide as to whether she was one of King George's sloops or--a privateer. The young captain trusted it was the first, since he had no quarrel with either his Majesty or his navy, and had no men who could be pressed, while the passengers in the cabin--but this you shall read.

In that cabin there sat four persons, three men and a woman--the last of whom shall be first described. A woman young--of not more than twenty-four years of age--fair and well-favoured, her wheat-coloured hair brought back in a knot behind her head, above which, as was still the custom of the time for ladies when travelling, she wore a three-cornered hat. Wrapped in a long, collarless coat, square cut and possessing no pockets--also the custom of the time--it was still easy to perceive that, underneath, was a supple, graceful figure, and, when--as was occasionally the case--this long coat was thrown open so that the wearer might get a little relief from the stuffiness of the cabin, the beauty of that figure might plainly be perceived beneath the full scarlet waistcoat embroidered with gold lace, which, by its plenitude of pockets, atoned for the absence of any in the coat. Her face was, as has been said, a well-favoured one, oval, and possessing large blue eyes and delicate, thin lips, and with upon it even here, on this tossing sea, a fair rose and milk complexion, while in those large eyes the observer might have well imagined he saw a look of unhappiness. Also, too, a look of contempt whenever they rested on the man who, as she leant an elbow on one side of the table between them, leant one of his on the other.

They rested on him now with much that look as, pushing over to her a glass of burnt wine which the cabin-boy has just brought in at his orders, as well as some ratafia biscuits, he said:

"I would counsel you, my lady, to partake of a little more refreshment. I have spoken with the master outside who says that by no chance can we make Harwich ere nightfall. Your ladyship, excellent sailor as you are, must have a care to your health."

"My health," she replied, "needs no care, either from myself or you. And when I am athirst I will drink, as when I am hungry I will eat. You had best offer your refreshments to our fellow-passengers."

The man to whom she spake was but two or three years older than herself--and was her husband, Simeon Larpent, Viscount Fordingbridge. He, too, was well dressed in the travelling costume of the day, wearing a black frock with a gold button, a black waistcoat trimmed with gold, black velvet breeches, and a gold-laced three-cornered hat, while on the table lay a silver-hilted hanger that slid about with every motion of the vessel. In looks he was her equal, being, however, as dark as she was fair, but of well-cut, even features and of a clear complexion. He wore, too, his natural hair, cropped somewhat short as though a wig might in other circumstances be easily assumed, but the absence of this article of dress in no way detracted from his appearance.

The novel opens with a galliot labouring through a storm off the Suffolk coast, the captain hurling 'orders and oaths indiscriminately' at an older crew. This immediate plunge into physical danger sets a pattern: Bloundelle-Burton often uses weather and travel to mark transitions. The voice is brisk, almost reportorial, yet laced with period-specific oaths and nautical jargon. Later, the pace slows in interior scenes—such as the Amiens lodging where characters discuss Douglas's murder—allowing for quieter, more introspective exchanges. The contrast between these modes gives the narrative a distinctive rhythm, one that shifts from external action to internal reflection without losing momentum.

Storm and Silence: The Rhythm of Action

The opening chapter's storm is not merely atmospheric; it establishes a narrative habit of using physical upheaval to punctuate plot. The galliot's struggle—'tossed first from one wave to another'—mirrors the characters' later predicaments. Bloundelle-Burton repeats this technique: journeys by sea or horse often precede revelations or reversals. Yet he counterpoints these scenes with static, dialogue-heavy passages. In Chapter XVIII, the group sits in a hired lodging, voices low, as Bertie laments, 'Why, why should any creature have taken his life?' The pacing here is deliberate, almost theatrical, allowing grief and suspicion to settle. The author does not rush; he lets the silence after action speak.

Voice and Register: Oaths, Endearments, and Formality

The narrative voice shifts register with characters and situations. The captain's 'oaths and orders' give way to the Procureur's legalistic tone: 'Your charges have all fallen to the ground.' D'Aunay's speech is peppered with French exclamations—'peste!'—and a wry moralism: 'observe always the advantage of truth.' This variety prevents monotony. Archibald, after his brother's death, becomes terse and obsessive; his voice contracts. Kate's dialogue, though less prominent in the excerpts, suggests a quieter register. The author also uses free indirect discourse to blend character thought with narration, as when D'Aunay 'edified the good people of Amiens by the tenderness and care' he showed—a sly, ironic aside that colours the scene.

Recurring Details: Jewels, Letters, and the Unresolved

Certain objects recur with symbolic weight. The 'cursed ruby' that falls from the plunder during examination becomes a clue—and a liability. D'Aunay's remark, 'Had I not mentioned our visit to the cathedral … that cursed ruby would almost have sunk us,' ties the gem to both chance and truth-telling. Letters also appear: a woman's letter in the contents list, and later the characters' reliance on written communication. Most striking is the unresolved murder of Douglas. The narrative circles this event, returning to it in dialogue and interior monologue. Archibald's 'idea … of so strange, so extraordinary a nature' remains unspecified, creating a thread of suspense that the excerpts do not resolve.

Readers attuned to shifts in tempo will find Bloundelle-Burton's handling of pace instructive. The novel rewards attention to its quieter interludes—the moments when characters pause to reflect or converse—as much as its storm-tossed openings. The author's voice, never uniform, adapts to scene and speaker, lending each chapter a distinct texture. Approach the text as a series of modulations rather than a single current; the changes in pace are themselves part of the story.

Bloundelle-Burton’s restless jewels and storm-wracked voyages always make me think of the patient, quiet craft in The Mentor: American Pioneer Prose Writers, Vol. 4, Num. 6, Serial No. 106, May 1, 1916 — Context and Discussion. Both understand how secrets settle—one in Parisian shadow, one in frontier plainness—and how a murder’s echo or a found voice lingers long after the page grows still.

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