Ah. I'm not sure you have entirely appreciated that my current prediliction is for novels in which nothing much happens, really. I like legthy descriptions of the exact colour of the sea, a lot of wistful peering out of rain-spattered windows and the unspoken hint of a stolen kiss.
I remember reading on the blurb that our hero had returned from the Peninsular 'carrying with him a terrible secret'; I am afraid I took this rather literally and spent ages trying to work out which of the items unpacked from his rucksack by Nell contained the 'terrible secret'. For much of the book i was therefore expecting the small shrivelled potato to reappear and reveal its secret within.
I've got a new one for you: 'The Glass Woman' by Caroline Lea. 17th century Iceland. Precisely nothing happens.