I was reading a period romance recently, one of dozens by the author set in 19th century Britain, and the main story structure crisis just fell apart in my disbelieving hands.

The author is a pro, and I have many of her books. They tend to long series where each series entry is one of a collection of heroines held together by an overall series concept. If you read historical Romance, you’re familiar with the type of thing.

I read these sorts of series somewhat the way that I used to read young adult books set in Britain as a child — I’m familiar with the lifestyles, the social ranks and customs, and the typical ins and outs of the storylines. The actual story in each is a bit of charm, mild drama, and otherwise harmless amusement. They’re not meant for serious sturm-und-drang. When the happy ending occurs, you smile and go on to the next book.

But this one bothered me in a way that mattered, and this article is an explanation of why.

There is a broad operative convention I encounter for one class of these stories. The lead characters are moral people, whatever their backgrounds are. That’s part of what reminds me of young adult books – the expectation that only villains are immoral — sympathetic characters who make a misstep are expected to repent and fix things.

This book almost fit the mold, but it surprised me by breaking it in a way I found more detrimental than I expected — in a way that mattered to me, that illuminated my less examined expectations, and not to my approval.

The overall series concept in this case is one of an unknown benefactor who sets up scenarios where obscure relatives are thrust upon more important family situations, with the goal of improving the outcomes of all and perhaps fixing injustices of the past. The obscure instigator behind the scenes is playing god, presumably for the benefit of all. (Unknown relations, and all that). (Conventionally, by the end of the series, we will be made to understand his/her motivations, etc., etc., as all is revealed.) This structure forces a double story in each entry — the story of the individual courtship in the series entry, and the progressive story of the overall series to its final impulse/outcome/explanation. The reader balances what she thinks about the individual story characters with what she can make out of the story instigator’s hidden setups and motivations.

Structurally, both of those stories must pass the reader’s sniff test and approval. The individual characters must behave honorably (at least eventually), and the instigator must be shown to have played fair and had an honorable intent (or, if not, that he/she’s sorry he bungled it).

This is a delicate balance, and not the easiest thing to maintain. The series entry I read today failed, and it failed for simple reasons. The importance of the overall series story (the way the author wanted to steer it for an overall series message) overrode the individual series entry, by forcing the characters in the current series entry to behave impossibly (in my view). The overall series will necessarily end with a flourish that ties together all the puzzling and seemingly impossible activities of the individual stories so that the reader can lean back and admire the hidden series structure and appreciate all of its contributing sub-stories. But you mustn’t do that by making the individual entry characters behave uncharacteristically.

My example? This series entry took the bog-standard strong-minded independent older widow (with titled relatives) who decides she wants to consort with and then marry a working man (gardener) and finally define her own life. When she takes this large and public step (to the chagrin of her children) and persists against all remonstrances and threats of public shame (forced publicly primarily by her own family), her eldest son (whom she cares for greatly) causes her to be abducted and incarcerated in an asylum, without warning, to prevent her. After several days, within just a few pages of the ending, she is rescued, everyone is sorry, no permanent damage is done to her familial relationships, and all is forgiven. The reader looks on appalled. What the author seems to have wanted to do was create some clues for use later on in the series so that all the series stories can converge upon an overall explanation (damage along the way be damned).

The unknown benefactor in the story series foundation is trying to make some overall mysterious plan work which will no doubt be the big reveal in the final entry, but along the way we have made this particular marriage sordid to the entire public neighborhood, and horrified a woman with her son’s betrayal and removal of her freedom in an asylum, all in service to providing clues to a series mystery. (And I, for one, am horrified at the “all is forgiven” compelled result). Why would the reader want to see the next character abused in this fashion? I know I won’t be going there.

You have to entertain in the moment, not just overall. Your character’s well-being should be important to you, and injuries done there should be treated like injuries — painful when they occur, not easily (if ever) forgiven. If, instead, they seem entirely instrumental to a final goal, why would anyone want to follow them there? Will the final series entry plot depend upon a scene like “Oh, I’m sorry you took your trials like that — I was just doing it for your own good.” ?

Maybe I’m being harsh about what may just be a casual plot mechanism misinterpreted, but it has consequences for my purchases, anyway. What sort of moral judgements have impacted your satisfaction in some storytellers?