As the future Queen of England, Princess Victoria was the most eligible bride in Europe. She saw marriage as “the most important business transaction of her life.” Her cousin Prince Albert was raised to make a good marriage, and there was no better marriage prospect than Victoria. Romantic love had little to do with it. Still, somehow these two did make a happy marriage. Gillian Gill brings a fresh perspective on the well-told story of Albert and Victoria in We Two. By looking at them as not only husband and wife, but also co-rulers and often rivals for power, she portrays the pair, often seen as old-fashioned, more like a modern power couple.

This pair who put a name and image to their age didn’t always fit the stereotype. Albert was ambitious and believed he would be king in actuality if not in name. With Victoria’s first pregnancy, his dream seemed to be coming true. He took over the reins of the government, but had to be cautious because the English people did not want a foreign-born ruler. They were loyal to Victoria; they tolerated Albert. By the time of Albert’s death, Gill shows that there were serious power struggles going on within the marriage. The childbearing years were (finally) over for Victoria; she now had the energy to renew her interest in affairs of state. Furthermore, that interest had been whetted as she took on the role of wartime queen during the Crimean War. Letters show that she was beginning to assert herself more in family affairs as well.

Who knows what story we would tell if Albert had shared the other 40 years of Victoria’s reign? Albert’s early death solidified the myth of their perfect marriage and that myth would domesticate Albert’s reputation. He had wanted to be “the Eminent Victorian” and certainly had the brains, drive and administrative skill to make a mark on history. But after his death, Victoria stole the spotlight from her husband as she excessively mourned him, sealing his fate. This is one of the sad ironies of the prince’s life: that a man who hoped to put his stamp on history is mostly known for his marriage.

Faye Jones is dean of learning services at Nashville State Technical College.

Bonnie Parker, gun-toting girlfriend of trigger-happy Clyde Barrow, didn’t smoke cigars; she wrote poetry. The title of investigative journalist Jeff Guinn’s latest book, Go Down Together, is taken from one of Parker’s poems, the haunting “The End of the Line,” in which she predicts death at the hands of “the laws.” Guinn, who has previously written fictional musings about Santa and Mrs. Claus, now takes on a more nitty-gritty topic: the desperate, violent and short lives of Bonnie and Clyde.

This meticulously researched and cleanly written narrative, which draws upon family memoirs, letters, diaries, historical documents, interviews and the most definitive books done by Barrow historians to date, effectively strips away the romantic fancies fed to the American public about Bonnie and Clyde over the last 75 years, especially those in the 1967 movie starring Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway. Guinn’s superior investigation of his subject, focused through an objective lens, blends almost seamlessly with skillful pacing and appropriately placed tension–storytelling at its best.

Clyde and Bonnie were both from the wrong side of the tracks in Dallas: poor, uneducated and trying to survive, along with their extended families, the devastation of the Depression years. Before they met at a party on January 5, 1930, Bonnie was unemployed and hoping for fame and glory as a poet, or as a Broadway starlet. Then she met Clyde, well-dressed but not tall or particularly handsome, someone who “liked making all the decisions.” Petite, feisty Bonnie fell immediately in love and the attraction was mutual. Clyde, who barely had a high school education, started out with odd jobs, supplemented his meager income with stealing chickens, then, influenced by his big brother, Buck, graduated into car theft (the Ford V-8 was his favorite, and he even sent Henry Ford a complimentary letter extolling the virtues of the car).

From 1930 to 1934, Bonnie and Clyde, with the help of other ne’er-do-wells who comprised the ever-shifting Barrow gang, inexpertly robbed small businesses, banks and eluded the law, shooting their way (although Bonnie never fired a shot) to the open road and yet another heist. They zigzagged around the South, always returning to their families in Texas, and lived mostly in the cars they stole, camping in the countryside or staying at motor courts. Their lives were harried, cramped and tense. The media loved them and the public–with many people seeing the couple as latter-day Robin Hoods who were getting the jump on rich, corrupt bankers–did too.

Guinn clearly explicates Bonnie and Clyde’s journey into crime and mayhem. Included is an excellent overview of Depression-era America and an interesting look at the U.S. law enforcement system in the 1930s–especially illustrated by how the posse that brought the lovers down was formed. Guinn takes us through the bad decisions, robberies, car chases and ill-judged shooting sprees to the inevitable end of these outlaw lovers, who died in a brutal barrage of bullets on a lonely Louisiana dirt road on May 23, 1934. It was as poet Bonnie had predicted: “Some day they’ll go down together .  .  . to a few it’ll be grief–to the law a relief–but it’s death for Bonnie and Clyde.”

Alison Hood writes from Marin County, California.