From A Vindication of the Rights of Woman to Frankenstein, a tale of two literary legends–a mother and daughter–discovering each other and finding themselves along the way, from USA Today bestselling author Stephanie Marie Thornton.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Stephanie Marie Thornton’s Her Lost Words, which is out March 28th.
1792. As a child, Mary Wollstonecraft longed to disappear during her father’s violent rages. Instead, she transforms herself into the radical author of the landmark volume A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, in which she dares to propose that women are equal to men. From conservative England to the blood-drenched streets of revolutionary France, Mary refuses to bow to society’s conventions and instead supports herself with her pen until an illicit love affair challenges her every belief about romance and marriage. When she gives birth to a daughter and is stricken with childbed fever, Mary fears it will be her many critics who recount her life’s extraordinary odyssey…
1818. The daughter of infamous political philosopher Mary Wollstonecraft, passionate Mary Shelley learned to read by tracing the letters of her mother’s tombstone. As a young woman, she desperately misses her mother’s guidance, especially following her scandalous elopement with dashing poet Percy Bysshe Shelley. Mary struggles to balance an ever-complicated marriage with motherhood while nursing twin hopes that she might write something of her own one day and also discover the truth of her mother’s unconventional life. Mary’s journey will unlock her mother’s secrets, all while leading to her own destiny as the groundbreaking author of Frankenstein.
A riveting and inspiring novel about a firebrand feminist, her visionary daughter, and the many ways their words transformed our world.
William Godwin weighed his words so long she feared he wouldn’t answer. “To beat out the dissenters who sought to discredit her radical ideas,” he finally said. “And the opportunists who aimed to popularize on their fragile acquaintances with her. Your mother was famous, or infamous, depending on whom you talked to. I thought people would appreciate her if they understood what she’d overcome. Instead, I made things worse.”
Mary did know, she’d learned from Claire—who had heard it from her mother—that Mary Wollstonecraft’s life had scandalized society to the point where the entry for prostitution in the conservative publication The Anti-Jacobin Review read “see: Mary Wollstonecraft.” As a child, Mary herself had suffered the aftereffects when parents refused to let their daughters play scotch hopper with her, one mother even going so far as to lecture young Mary, insisting that she had Mary Wollstonecraft’s foul blood running in her veins. Surely this would incline the neighborhood’s children toward licentiousness, just if they played with her.
And yet, Mary had never read her father’s memoir. Godwin had kept this lone copy locked away, and Mary never had the pocket money to procure her own. She couldn’t have found a copy anyway, given that it had been published so sparingly following the public outcry upon its release. That, and although she’d learned to talk politics from her father—a subject typically forbidden to women—he generally refused to speak of her mother.
However, she was a young woman of the world, no longer a child. Surely he would allow her to read it now.
Mary would have broached the subject then, except Godwin replaced the rare volume in the case and glanced with shining eyes about their cramped little bookshop. “God, but your mother would have loved this place,” he murmured under his breath. “Did you know that we used to walk to the village of Sadler’s Wells to visit the bookshop there before you were born? I always suspected you soaked up your love of books while still in the womb.” He rubbed the purple crescents beneath his eyes, seeming far older than his fifty-eight years. “I always feel closest to her when I’m knee-deep in books.”
Mary held her breath, hoping that he’d dole out more of these precious diamonds of memory. Her father so rarely talked about her mother and never in Jane’s presence. Instead, Godwin only glanced around the shop and gave a groan worthy of the condemned. “And now I’m about to lose even this place.”
Mary rested her hand on his forearm. Her heart contorted into painful knots seeing him so despondent. “You believe this Shelley fellow is the answer to all of your problems?”
Godwin straightened and the moment of vulnerability evaporated. “Percy Shelley is a spoiled charmer. However, there’s more than cotton between his ears—he read my book Political Justice and called on me before traveling to Ireland. He wrote to me about the protests he organized against British rule there.” Mary leaned against the shop’s battered wooden stool. “Well,
Father, you are a bit of a luminary.”
“Only among foolish young men who seek to emulate bentbacked revolutionary philosophers.” Still, Mary could tell her praise lightened his mood, if only slightly. “Shelley promised to help my finances if I gave him advice, which I did. He even bottled my words as incendiary messages and cast them into the sea in Ireland to further fan the flames of actual rebellion.”
So Percy Shelley was a rebel. And a dreamer, if messages in bottles were any indication.
Just like her father. Except dreamers needed to be tethered to this earth.
Mary brushed the shoulders of her father’s jewel-toned jacket with two authoritative swipes, then straightened the lapels of the waistcoat. “Then it’s his turn to hold up your gentleman’s agreement.”
Godwin turned a critical eye on her. “Indeed. I believe Shelley will enjoy conversing with the daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft. He mentioned during our last visit that he read my thoughts on marriage in Political Justice and your mother’s condemnation of
the institution in A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. Our views apparently informed his stance against marriage.”
Mary arched an eyebrow. “But isn’t he married?”
Godwin shrugged. “He seems to have been swept away by his bride, Harriet. Love can do that, you know, catch the most skeptical of us unawares.”
Her father’s faraway look made Mary suspect his mind had unspooled an even greater distance. “Never fear, Father. We’ll make sure this Shelley fellow can’t squirm out of his promise to you. You won’t lose the bookshop,” she promised.
Or be taken to a workhouse.
Godwin gave her shoulder a distracted pat before his hand fell. That thimbleful of affection would have to be enough. “I can always count on you, corculum.”
Mary watched her father’s red-slippered retreat, noting the new stiffness of his walk. It was good to be home again, if only to help her father, although it wouldn’t be long before her feet itched to stroll the moors or whisk her away somewhere new. But as an unmarried young woman— a poor unmarried woman—that simply wasn’t done. No, she’d have no escape.
Which made her ever more thankful for books.
Mary ran her fingers over them, wondering which she’d take to bed with her that night. She loved the comfortable scent of aged paper and the creak of old bindings, the heft of a beloved volume in one’s lap while immersed in words richer than the finest velvet.
Even more tempting than that daydream was the sudden discovery that her father had forgotten to lock the glass cabinet behind the counter.
The forbidden memoir about Mary’s mother beckoned even as her father’s prohibition circled like a storm of crows. This was the first time the rare and scandalous volume had ever been within Mary’s reach. Who knew when the opportunity would present itself again?
You must live for her now too.
Mary recalled her father’s constant admonition at her mother’s grave. But how could Mary live for her mother if she didn’t know her?
Moments later, the glass case’s other volumes had been pushed together and the incriminating dust marks indicating the now-missing book had been blown away. Her shoulders hunched over a tartan-wrapped package, Mary hurried upstairs with her treasure of ink and paper.
First, dinner, where she might save her father from ruin.
Then she would read about her mother. And learn who she really was.
Excerpted from HER LOST WORDS by Stephanie Marie Thornton, published by Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. Copyright © 2023
