The Confessions of Frannie Langton by Sara Collins is as thematically complex as its titular main character. Part mystery-thriller, historical pseudo-memoir and literary fiction, Confessions is a gothic-soaked exploration of one woman’s life in love and adversary in the wake of being charged for the murder of Marguerite (a.k.a. Meg), the woman she loves. A woman who also happens to be the wife of the man who holds her indenture. 

Tasked with giving evidence that might save her from the noose, Confessions takes the structure of a chronological account of Frances’ life up until the murders. This might sound a simple enough skeleton for a book, but Collins milks every drop of functionality that she can from her structure using both first and second person perspectives. Frances varies between referring to her lawyer (who provides the original pretext for her memoir) by name or simply as ‘you’. These brief moments of second person narration ensnare the reader, forcing us to take an active role as both participant and judge in Frannie’s supposed crimes. This is not a novel that you can enjoy with a cup of tea and a biscuit. It goes deep inside your head and soul, asking questions about not only Frances’ morality but also our own. Frannie is no hero; indeed, much of the novel explores her guilt for taking part in the eugenics experiments conducted by her master, Langton. But she is by no means a villain. How can she be when her whole life consists of a pendulum swing of survival? Through the character of Frances, Collins gives us a brutally honest insight into one of the most insidious but effective tools of colonisation: forced complicity. When someone grows up being taught that they are more product than person, choice is not just an illusion but something that is fundamentally unknown. For a long time, Frances believes she does not deserve redemption for what she enabled Langton to do. It took Langton's abandonment of her to realise that, for all her education, ‘no’ was never a word in her vocabulary, only survival and a ‘better this than that’ mentality. 

The gray ethical space of Frannie’s character has a distinctly gothic tint to it, and an argument could definitely be made of her being an anti-hero. But, at the end of the day, it does not matter whether she is good or bad. How can one measure justice in an inherently unjust society like London in the 1820s for a Black woman who loves other women? For those who seek to own her and those judging over her trial, Frances is everything they fear. A highly educated Black woman who, after a long and hard fight, has come to acknowledge her own worth. A worth she won’t stand to be refused, no matter the consequences. In completing her confessions, Frances is not complying with the lawyer who sees her only through the lens of pity, nor is she giving the court what it wants by confessing to what she did not do. Instead she is building the case of her own life, carving out a legacy that she knows will be twisted and defiled by those with different agendas. But maybe not forever. Her words just need to last long enough to be read by someone who sees past the ignominy surrounding her (the accusations, bigotry, and outcry), to reveal Frances the scientist, scholar, story-teller, and lover. In this way, Collins perfectly demonstrates an intrinsic understanding of the power of the gothic novel: darkness is only ever as absolute as our acceptance of it. Sometimes the most revolutionary thing we can do is make our own light, regardless if we know it is going to be put out.

In the case of Frances, this light comes in the form of her love for Meg. A love that is made refreshingly clear, despite the time in which the book is set. In Confessions, queerness is a topic of taboo but not ignorance, something that I found particularly refreshing. Whilst Meg and Frances do not use modern labels, they are fully intentional in their relationship with each other. Indeed, the yearning demonstrated in this book by both parties is another reason why Confessions excels itself as a gothic masterpiece. Ultimately both women know their coupling cannot sustain. For Meg, the white wife of a scholar and socialite, this might range to embarrassment or voluntary exile. For Frances though, who does not have the same privileges, the danger she places herself in by choosing to still love Meg becomes her own form of rebellion. After being told for so long that she does not possess the capacity for wanting, her desire for her mistress is a reclamation of the self. And yet, as with any good gothic romp, there are fractures in the surface of their love for each other. One of the most telling ways Collins conveys this is that Frances only ever refers to Meg as Madame. A reminder that, despite dreaming of a life together, Frannie internally knows that their dynamic is fundamentally unequal. But she chooses it anyway, because that’s what this story is about. 

“This is a story about love, not just murder, though I know that’s not the kind of story you’re expecting…no one expects any kind of story from a woman like me”¹

 

These are the defiant words of a woman who commits that most dastardly of offences (perhaps even to the modern mind) of knowing what she deserves and unapologetically advocating for it. Both in spite of and because of her painful history. In this way, Collins holds her readers accountable for our interest in Frances’ life. This is not a confession, or at least not just. It is both reclamation and reckoning, tied up with a gleeful bow by someone who knows that history will never stop trying to erase her. Fictional though it may be, Confessions is a powerful wake up call, a reminder that the only person who gets to tell our story is us.

This is not a book that everyone will enjoy reading. It is heavy and brutally unflinching in its portrayal of enslavement, medical misogyny and addiction as a recourse from pain rather than a moral failing. But, along with the beautiful prose and outstanding world building, Confessions is a vital letter to the future, urging us not to accept prejudices tied up as convenient truths. Frances believes things will get better, because she has to. In another future she and Meg will hold hands in the sunlight. Together and unafraid. 

 

“There, soon, we will have days together. And time.”²