The Author’s Note that completes the work explains its inspiration: “This book is partly fashioned on the life of my great-grandmother, Louisa Whitley, born in Bradford in 1854 – the last legitimate birth on my maternal line. No family stories of photographs of Louisa survived, leaving this tale to be drawn from research. Interpretation of these events, how Louisa felt or what she thought about them, and characterisations of those involved, is all written from my imagination – including, perhaps, a sprinkling of what Louisa told me in my dreams.”

Louisa visited me in my dreams, too; this was due to the power of the novel. Gwen has proved, over more than a decade of blogging, the thoroughness of her research.

We learn of the experience of a spirited young woman questioning the role of one of her sex from late Victorian times, who, determined to escape from her destiny, travelled alone to the far side of the world seeking a more promising life. The book is both her tale and an examination of the Woman’s place in society.

The author’s engaging poetic prose flows at a considerable pace. Contributing to this is her command of conversation, including non-verbal aspects, such as “The woman looked at me with mournful eyes that seemed too large for her face and then dropped her head again as if she had been caught staring.”; her sentence lengths, including some one line paragraphs, encouraging us to continue to the next section or chapter, for instance “Then I heard a loud banging on the door.”; and the smooth flow of description, as in “And there it stood before me. The stunning harbour, dotted with bays, its water smooth and glittering under a blue, blue sky, and surrounded on every side by sloping hills of ochre-coloured rocks covered in greenery that cascaded all the way to the water’s edge, ending in sandy beach coves.”

It is the author’s undoubted deep insight into human nature in all its manifestations that informs her characterisation of her protagonists, conveyed by thoughts, feelings, and conversation; sometimes through the device of occasional handwritten letters and notes.

She engages all the senses as in “the horses’ bridles clinking as they pulled in unison, plodding through soot-blackened slush.”; “The material of her widow’s weeds rustled…” which also displays her skilful alliteration that is not confined to chapter headings. “The stench! ….It was as if all the cargoes of the world – the wool, tobacco, sugar, rum, port, guano – had spilled into the air and gone rotten.” “The swell of voices reached me as I neared the end of that hallway. I could hear cutlery clattering on dishes and chairs scraping on the tiled floor.”

Wilson uses the meeting of the Indian and Southern Oceans as a metaphor for moving into a new life. There are many other examples of metaphor and simile in the prose: “They looked like flock of crows in their dark calico dresses.”; “I was like on a rat on a treadmill, going around and around, pushing forward, getting nowhere.”; “Like ice dripping on the eaves of my childhood home, my resolve melted away the moment I stepped off the tram…”; “Ignoring the butterflies fluttering in my stomach…”

Throughout the book there are rising tensions eventually surfacing. So visceral are some of her action descriptions that I doubt there will be many readers whose blood does not boil at some of the ill treatment Louisa endures; nor sap fail to rise in the one explicit sexual passage.

Gwen makes numerous references to classic English authors, notably Lord Byron, yet “I saw the glint of her first tears” suggests she is also familiar with Chekhov who would have approved of her not simply saying ‘she was crying’.

This is a most moving story intensely engaging.”

– courtesy, Derrick J Knight in his blog posting

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