Outside, the sky is a lowering grey– grey with an “e” is always witchier than gray with an “a”–while inside the lamplight throws queer shadows across the walls. Any moment now, the storm might break. Rain will spatter against the windows; tree branches will sway and moan; and somewhere a heroine will topple off a cliff. At least, a heroine ought to be tumbling off a cliff. I don’t know whether it’s all those cordons on clifftops or the Heroines’ Union refusing to undertake that sort of activity without hazard pay and a guaranteed six month vacation in a swashbuckler in the Caribbean (pirates optional), but there is a decided dearth of Gothics out there these days.

Does anyone else remember those wonderful books that were so popular two decades back? The covers generally featured a wild-eyed female in a dark cloak fleeing from an even darker mansion in the background. The heroine’s head twisted at an improbable angle to stare back at the castle behind her, begging the questions a) whose neck moves that way? b) what made her think that much blue eyeshadow was a good idea?, and, c) how can she run if she’s staring backwards? I guess that explains why so many of them tended to tumble off cliffs.

The books sported titles like “The Castle of Dark Shadows,” “The Shadows of the Dark Castle,” or “The Dark of Castle Shadow”. This last is not to be confused with “The Dirk of Castle Shadow”, a Gothic-Highland hybrid, featuring a brooding laird, a claymore-wielding ghost, and blood-curdling descriptions of Scottish cuisine. “Ye dinna want ta climb the dark tower, ye ken?” snarls the requisite family retainer. “‘Tis the curse…. The curse of the Camerons!” No hooded heroine can ignore that sort of invitation. Notwithstanding the fact that she has just traveled forty-eight hours by coach, been visited by various spirits (Wife Past, Wife Present, and Wife Future), and been kissed by and vigorously slapped the hero (delivering a stinging set down along the lines of, “Sir, you forget yourself!” or another heroine favorite, the incredibly expressive, “Oh!”), our heroine gamely gathers up her filmy skirts, plunks that hood right back down over her head, and treks up the crumbling stairs of the Dark Tower, where she finds…. The laird, ominously sharpening his claymore? A grisly phantom, howling imprecations? (”Leave this cursed house! Leave! Leeeeeeeeave!”). Or the family haggis recipe?

As you can tell, I spent a lot of time with these books. My childhood bookshelves are crammed with Black Winds (”Sure, and the Black Wind of Melrose Island brings naught but doom, child. Dooooom. Turn back before it’s Too Late!”), Dark Towers, enough “Mistresses of” to stock a brothel, and a whole battalion of overly made up governesses jogging backwards. Nothing beats a black wind and a brooding hero on a rainy day. Throw in a sinister housekeeper, a family curse, and a sealed wing of the house, and what girl could ask for more? Ghosts optional; fops, pinks of the ton, and other upbeat types need not apply.

Which brings me back to my initial question: where did they all go? We have fops and fribbles in abundance, but it’s getting harder these days to find a brooding hero in a clifftop manor than it is to find a bargain in Barney’s.

I’ve heard arguments that the paranormal craze– especially the penchant for vampires– is the Gothic emerging in a new form. I have my doubts about that. No matter how the supernatural element skirted the edges of the Gothic, it was never the heart of it. More often than not, the revelations turned out to be quite mundane– disgruntled heirs not wanting to be bumped from the order of succession, jealous ex-lovers, insane wives in the attic– plain cloth tricked out with a frill of suggestion, like the lace edging the hem of the heroine’s gown.

In certain circles, the demise of the Gothic has been hailed as a triumph. After all, they represented an unequal and unregenerate mode of gender relations: the brutal employer, the downtrodden governess, the trope of blind acceptance (”I don’t care what you’ve done! I don’t care who you’ve murdered/locked in an attic/shoved off a cliff! I love you! I love you AND your fifty room mansion!”). The critics have had a field day with “Rebecca” and “Jane Eyre.”

On the other hand, our downtrodden governess could be pretty feisty. Our Gothic heroine is far more of a career woman than her Regency counterpart; she is forced to support herself, to go out into the world and make her own way. Unlike the bizarre tendency of Regency heroines to set up as courtesans the minute the family fortunes go downhill (”Everything? At cards? Oh, Papa, how could you! I shall just have to… become a mistress!”), our Gothic heroine chooses the steep and stony path of respectability, hiring out her brains rather than her body (which may explain why she has so few of the former left when it comes to the crucial clifftop scene).

Nor does she lack sheer guts. I don’t know about you, but I’d have to think twice before chasing a clanking spectre up a dark tower. That’s about when the bedclothes would come up over my head. Our Gothic heroine quails not. She delivers lectures to the hero, whips his children into shape, and even addresses home truths to the family ghost. (”Your haunting me at this hour is most improper! Please be so kind as to turn your back while I don my robe!” The family ghost, unaccustomed to being chided in such tones, instantly complies and begs pardon.)

My hat is off to the Gothic heroine. She may not be able to resist a cliff, but she has a stronger will than most modern chick lit heroines. She trips over family skeletons; they stumble over their own stiletto heels.

What were your favorite Gothics? (I have to put in votes for “The Master of Blacktower,” “Sons of the Wolf,” and “Nine Coaches Waiting”). And will they ever come back?