The 1790s were a bleak time to be a woman, regardless of your bank account. In The Repentants, Kate Foster takes us from the salt pans of Scotland to the desolate, volcanic landscape of Iceland, following Florrie, a wealthy housewife, and Eliza, a salt serf. Both are publicly shamed for their "sins"; one for adultery, the other for breaking the Sabbath. Their forced repentance creates an uneasy alliance that is tested when Florrie’s husband decides to dump her in Iceland as a permanent, cold-blooded punishment. It is a story about the fragility of female agency in a world where men owned the land, the salt, and the people.
Foster avoids the typical historical romance traps, instead focusing on the transactional nature of survival. Florrie is interesting because she is both a victim of her husband’s cruelty and a product of her class; she views Eliza as an escape route while remaining somewhat blind to the disparity between them. The growth here isn’t about a sudden awakening to equality, but a slow, gritty realization that they are both playing a game where the rules were written by someone else. The supporting characters, specifically the husband Jonny, serve as effective reminders that power rarely concedes anything without a fight.
In Iceland, the social rules feel as tough as the black rock under your feet. Foster throws us into this world through Florrie’s run-ins with the locals, especially Hallgerd. Hallgerd is basically a living reflection of how out of place Florrie feels. But she’s not just another outsider. She’s tough in a way the land demands, surviving in a place where nature itself is the real enemy. She makes it clear how lonely and exposed this place is. Home isn’t cozy here; it’s just another way to stay alive.
Foster draws the men with sharp edges. They carry the weight of their time, when women were treated more like property than partners. Every relationship is a negotiation, and nobody gives away kindness for nothing.
The atmosphere is thick and damp, ranging from the industrial grind of Scotland's salt industry to the oppressive seclusion of the North. Foster writes about the 18th century with a keen eye for the physical realities of the time, such as the odor of salt pans and the bodily toll of labor. She depicts the suppressed yearning and "lust" that society attempted to pray away, demonstrating how religion was utilized as a weapon for social control. It's an observational style that prioritizes precision over flowery descriptions, so the eventual betrayal feels more like a natural conclusion than a dramatic twist.
The remark on human avarice and environmental exploitation is particularly noteworthy. The book defines a line between how we use up resources and how people, especially women, are treated as less than human. It’s a sharp reminder that, even now, people in power still have a habit of brushing aside anyone who doesn’t fit their agenda. Times change, but that tendency stays.
If you have ever felt like an outsider in your own life or realized that your safety was tied to someone else's whim, this will resonate. It’s a quiet, intellectual look at how we survive when the world decides we’ve sinned. Foster shows us that repentance is usually just a performance for the benefit of those holding the keys.