If you go to Derbyshire...

If you go to Derbyshire and have time to spare, there is so much to see!
There are the well-known treasures of course – Chatsworth in all its glory, the wonders of the Peak, Dovedale and its romantic associations. But there are also little hidden corners I never knew much about until June this year, when I came across this delightful book, ‘Romantic Haunts of Derbyshire’  by Jill Armitage (still available at Amazon apparently).

This is where I first heard of the ‘Gretna of the Peak’, a little chapel in the Derbyshire White Peak, that came to be beyond the jurisdiction of English bishops and thus became a beacon to couples eager to be married without waiting for the banns to be read (you can read more about it here). Sadly, the original chapel is no longer there. It was demolished in 1876 and replaced with the present church.

The book is full of stories of thwarted love, wedding customs, jousting for a lady’s hand, crimes of passion and elopements. Some of the latter are quite famous, such as that of Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall and John Manners, the younger son of the Earl of Rutland. While a fairly good match in terms of wealth and status, the young lovers were kept apart by religious conflict. John Manners, from a Protestant family richly rewarded with monastic land for their part in the dissolution of abbeys and monasteries, was considered wholly unsuitable for the daughter of a staunch Catholic. Yet they eloped (Dorothy allegedly escaped through the back entrance and down the steps still named after her), got married and in true fairytale style, lived happily ever after.

Others were not so lucky. In a reversal of the traditional plot of Regency romances with couples eloping to Gretna Green, there is the story of Alan and Clara who, in April 1758, decided to elope from their native Scotland to the ‘Gretna of the Peak’ because her well-off father would not countenance Clara marrying a penniless labourer. They undertook the perilous journey, only to come to a grisly end in Winnats Pass, a limestone gorge outside of Castleton. Clara’s attire was sufficient proof of her wealth to attract notice at the last inn where they stopped to ask for directions, and they were set upon and murdered as they tried to make their way through the gorge.

There are places known as the ‘Lovers Leap’ in many parts of Derbyshire. There is a famous one in Dovedale and lesser known ones in the village of Stoney Middleton and in the charming market town of Winster. Exquisitely unspoilt, Winster has not lost any of its Georgian beauty. One of its most attractive buildings is Winster Hall, a period property of understated elegance, halfway down the main street. We can still admire its fine lines and graceful features, but few know of the tragic lovers’ leap connected to it. Apparently one of the daughters of the house had formed a very unsuitable attachment to none other than the family coachman. The parents would not condone it, needless to say, and she was compelled to engage herself to a man more suited to her position. But it is said that on the night before her wedding the star-crossed lovers climbed to the top of the house and jumped over the balustrade together. And life often surpasses fiction.

But enough of grim stories of unhappy lovers. The ‘Romantic Haunts of Derbyshire’ tells of fortunate lovers’ leaps too, such as the tale of another couple heading to the ‘Gretna of the Peak’ in defiance of their parents who would not let them marry. Just as their angry pursuers were gaining on them, after a dramatic chase where the lady’s horse lost a shoe, she and her groom-to-be rode hell for leather together on his mount and, as they reached the spot where a wide gap stretched before them, they leapt and landed safely on the other side, while the pursuers did not have the nerve to follow. Again, stranger than fiction. If we read that in a novel or saw that in a film, we might think it was far-fetched.

I’m looking forward to going to Derbyshire again (to be honest, any excuse would do!). If you visit, I hope you’ll make many romantic discoveries of your own. I hope you enjoyed the post (despite the couple of grim tales in the middle). I certainly enjoyed researching for it and writing it.

It will be my last post at Historical and Regency Romance UK for a while, I have reached a point where unfortunately I’ll have to take a break from contributing, but I am extremely grateful for the warm welcome from the wonderful people here (much, much appreciated!) and also extremely grateful to all of you who have stopped by to read my posts. Many thanks, everyone, and I hope we’ll meet again online or who knows in what weird and wonderful places. All the best and wishing you happy trails!

What Are Young Men to Rocks and Mountains?

I fell in love with the Lake District a long time ago, and the fact that it's mentioned in 'Pride and Prejudice' my favourite story of all times, might have had something to do with it, even though, thank goodness, Elizabeth never made it to the Lakes and stopped in Derbyshire instead.



'What are men to rocks and mountains?' she rhetorically asks her aunt in a moment of frustration with Mr Bingley, Mr Collins, with Mr Wickham a little (she hadn't heard the truth about him at that point) and great deal with Mr Darcy (ditto).

Elizabeth's frustrations aside, she might have had a point. The sights are astounding!

Just a few hundred yards from where the above picture was taken, there is an old inn. 

Apparently, there has always been an inn here from 1496 onwards, so when Mr and Mrs Darcy went to the Lake District at some point or other after their marriage – as they must have done, to make up for the trip that never happened – they might have stopped here, at Kirkstone Pass Inn. 

Or maybe they stopped here, even though it’s not on the beaten track, and it’s unlikely that they would have gone mountaineering on the nearby Crinkle Crags, no matter how much Elizabeth might have loved the wide open spaces! Still, it’s a lovely place, some 300 years old and converted from a dairy, the proprietor said.

The 'Rules of the Inn' are worth a read as well. There are fourteen altogether, but here are a few:

No. 4: Only coins of the realm may be tendered for the purchase of liquor. Cheques or notes of hand will not be accepted from those below the rank of Royal Duke. (So even Darcy would have had to pay hard cash!)

No 8: The following penalties may be invoked for swearing: an oath 1d, a curse 3d, a blasphemy 6d, it being for none but the proprietor to categorise.

No. 10: There may be no dicing, whether the die be fair or loaded.

No. 13: No spirituous liquors shall be served for the consumption by dogs, except before fights.

And lastly, No. 14: Seamen and travellers are invited to be moderate in the telling of tall stories, lest the credulity of the company be strained, and the King’s peace threatened.

So I suppose that with all the travellers, the dog-fighting, gambling and brawling, this might have been a bit below par for the Darcys – but wherever they might have stopped, I hope they enjoyed their trip, and were delighted with the scenery, as well as with each other!

I only wish I could follow them to Pemberley!

Playing quoits with 'Miss Darcy's Companion'

In this day and age of entertainment available at the touch of a button, it is hard to imagine a time when teenagers or even adults would amuse themselves with games that modern-day eight-year olds might find too childish for their taste. Yet we have romps, forfeits and blind-man’s buff in Charles Dickens’ ‘Christmas Carol’, alphabet games in ‘Emma’ and a game of quoits in the 1995 adaptation of ‘Pride and Prejudice’, played with gusto by Kitty and Lydia Bennet.

And their real-life counterparts might well have played it. They might have played sticks-and-quoits too, or ‘ringtoss’, if this 1817 engraving is any indication. 

Opportunities to flirt? Perhaps. Rosy-cheeked young ladies scampering about chasing the circle and dissolving into fits of giggles – definitely! Childish? Yes, that too, but still great fun 200 years on, when some of us go to beautiful Bath to play dress-up and go back in time.

Which is one of the reasons why I have included the game in the opening chapter of my latest ‘Pride and Prejudice’ variation, ‘Miss Darcy’s Companion’. It is another ‘what if?’ story. What if Miss Elizabeth Bennet got to know Mr Darcy not as he would present himself to strangers in some remote corner of Hertfordshire, but as his nearest and dearest know him? What if their first encounter was not at the Meryton assembly, but in the garden of a fashionable London house, where several young ladies were amusing themselves with a game of sticks-and-quoits?

* * * *

Miss Darcy's Companion

(Excerpt from Chapter 1)

The peal of laughter that came to greet Darcy’s words was not his cousin’s – too light and sparkling, and the wrong pitch as well. In the same instant, both gentlemen turned to its apparent source, somewhere beyond the open windows. Glass in hand, they wandered closer to cast a glance outside.

The sight that caught their eye was at the very least surprising, for neither could remember the last time they had seen young ladies playing sticks-and-quoits on the lawn of Malvern House. One of them, Darcy noted with a surge of pleasure, was Georgiana. She had just caught the beribboned circle and flicked it with uncommon skill towards Lady Amelia, who caught it in her turn and made it fly sideways to her eldest niece. Margaret caught it too and squealed delightedly, making Darcy wonder if she had been the one whose peal of laughter had first caught their notice. But it mattered not, and he sipped his drink, a smile warming his countenance as his glance drifted back to his sister.

How many years were there since he had seen her thus? Cheerful and carefree, thrilled by a childish game, rather than burdened by their parents’ loss, by loneliness and the proverbial Darcy shyness. Georgiana was in dire need of companionship her own age, yet in all her years at school she had formed no special friendship with any of the other young girls entrusted to Mrs Rossiter’s care. Which was one of the two reasons he had suggested she remain with Lady Malvern while he visited in Kent.

The first was of course Lady Catherine. No one in his right mind would think her suited to drawing a shy child from her shell and putting her at ease. The other was Amelia, Lady Malvern’s youngest daughter. She was of Georgiana’s age and of Fitzwilliam’s open disposition, and Darcy had long thought that fostering a greater closeness between her and his sister would be to the dear child’s advantage. Yet the scene before him was even better than he had allowed himself to hope. Perhaps, to some extent, he had wronged Lady Stretton. It was plain to see that Georgiana took great pleasure in spending time with her two daughters.

Darcy smiled again as the youngest, Hetty, tottered into view, balancing the circle on the crossed tips of her well-polished sticks. She cast a quick, uncertain glance to her companion, the governess perhaps or another minder of some sort, judging by the dark, utilitarian attire.

“Just so?” the child asked and her minder promptly crouched beside her.

“Yes, Hetty,” the assurance came in kindly tones. “Keep pointing the sticks up, then spread your arms wide as fast as you can.”

The little hands shot sideways, but the quoit had already fallen into the grass at Hetty’s feet. She gave a cry of disappointment and her lip curled, but her distress was instantly forgotten as soon as her companion reached for the circle and, covering the tiny hands with hers, she guided them into sending it high up into the sky, the white and purple ribbons fluttering behind it.

“It flew, Miss Bennet!” Hetty cried excitedly. “Did you see? It flew!”

 * * * *

Why would Miss Bennet engage herself as a governess to Colonel Fitzwilliam’s nieces?
And where does the story go from here?

The synopsis at Amazon might give a hint or two.

'Miss Darcy's Companion' on Amazon UK

'Miss Darcy's Companion' on Amazon.com

And if you would like to see more snippets of places and details that have inspired my stories, do check out ‘AllRoads Lead to Pemberley’ on Facebook, and I hope you’ll like what you see. Because, no matter what obstacles are set in her path, Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s journeys should always finish at Pemberley!

Threads in the Tapestry

Having just come back from beautiful Derbyshire with my head full of my favourite places, here I am blogging about them a little more.

Deep into the heart of Derbyshire countryside, there is a delightful house with over 300 years of history: Sudbury Hall, now in the custody of the National Trust. As the guidebook informs the avid visitor, it is “largely the creation of George Vernon (1635/6 – 1702), ‘a prudent young man, sober and active’, as he was described by a contemporary [and very handsome too, as described by me :) ]. He succeeded to the estate in 1660 and almost immediately began to rebuild the old manor house of his ancestors, probably to his own designs.”

Hundreds of years down the line, it still boasts exquisite Louis Laguerre murals and painted ceilings, Grinling Gibbons carvings and the sparkling and flowery work of plasterers such as Bradbury and Pettifer. 

Sudbury Hall, Derbyshire
Photos Joana Starnes

Along with the hall, the surrounding village was remodelled and it has survived the passage of time, complete with a coaching inn, a school and even the village stocks.

Village of Sudbury, Derbyshire
Photos Joana Starnes

Lyme Park, Cheshire
Photo Joana Starnes

Sudbury’s real history is enthralling, but I must confess that I often dwell on its imaginary one. Because, along with another certain house in nearby Cheshire with its own 600 years of history, to me Sudbury Hall is Pemberley.

At every visit – and there were many, and hopefully many more – all sorts of details catch my eye and I squirrel them away, to be woven into the tapestry at some later point in time. The artistry of the carvings in the drawing room. The table set for a delightfully intimate dinner in the small dining room. The beautiful crayon sketch in the narrow hallway between the Queen’s Bedroom and the Porch Room, that could so easily be a lovingly-drawn likeness of a suitor or a brother. I know this is not the case, but one can dream.

Sudbury Hall, Saloon
Pemberley, Music room
Photo Joana Starnes

So I still dream as I look at the portraits displayed in the house and imagine them to be the ancestors of Pemberley’s master (who incidentally can also be described as a prudent young man, sober and active, who had succeeded to his estate at an early age and gave it his best).

The portrait of a stern-looking gentleman with proud patrician features could easily be Mr Darcy’s grandfather, who had married for love in his early youth, hoping for a ‘lifetime of felicity, in all human calculation’. The beautiful young woman in a dark velvet dress, smiling from underneath a hat bedecked with feathers, could be his first wife. The pretty but placidly resigned lady in a different portrait (much smaller than the other one) could be the woman he married for duty to his lineage and estate, when the love of his life was taken from him. And as she strolls with her husband and new sister and learns from them about the life stories behind the portraits, Elizabeth Darcy might muse whether the grandfather’s solemn features would still have been devoid of warmth and feeling in his fiftieth year, had his first wife lived...

And, months down the line, the parallel might become unbearably striking when times of anguish and peril revisit the Darcys. Or at least that was the inspiration for this fragment from Chapter 18 of my first novel, 'From This Day Forward – The Darcys of Pemberley’.

* * * *

The curtain twitched under a heavy hand and moved back to reveal the dreadful scene outside Pemberley House…

The dark hearse…

The coffin…

Fitzwilliam’s stony countenance, without life, without tears…

The long mournful procession going through the gates…

It is done…

It is over…

And there is nothing left…

Nothing at all…

Sobs, pitiful, broken sobs got through to her, and Georgiana awoke – drenched in cold sweats and in a flood of tears – to find they were her own.

“A nightmare,” she said aloud, to reassure – to persuade herself, and then again: “A nightmare!”

She sat up, still shaking, and got out of bed.

She had to see.

She had to be certain.

She donned her robe and tied the sash with trembling hands.

She did not light a candle – the moonlight would suffice.

She walked down the corridor and turned sharply at the end, towards Elizabeth’s bedchamber. She pushed the door open slowly, noiselessly, and only by a fraction.

And what she saw within tore at her heart.

Fitzwilliam was sitting in a chair by the bedside, his countenance as haggard and ashen as in her dreadful dream. He was holding Elizabeth’s hand, cradling it, without words, without tears.

And the mute despair in his eyes was devastating.

She turned to look towards the bed and waited, until the barely perceptible rise and fall of Elizabeth’s chest, with every breath, gave her the desperately needed answer. She withdrew and returned to her room, slowly, and very quietly. And bent to her knees, and prayed.

Again.

Fervently.

She prayed for her sister to survive.

For if Elizabeth did not, she knew not how her brother would.

* * * *

Quiet footsteps, eerily quiet, drew him from his trance.

He looked up – and followed.

The ghostly sound faded as he reached the eastern staircase and he took the steps two at a time, down to the bottom, where he had found her. A madman’s quest for he knew not what pushed him to the gallery. In the light of the moon, from her portrait, his grandfather’s first wife looked down upon him with the deepest compassion.

He dug his fingers in his hair.

A long, dry sob racked his chest as he pounded the frame of the unfortunate woman’s likeness, and broken gilt plaster fell to the floor.

He covered his mouth with his fist, stifling the groan.

And ran out of the deathly silent room, chased by his demons.

* * * *

If you think this was not exactly the lightest of blog-posts for a bright Sunday morning – or worse still, for a wet one ;) – and because I personally can’t bear angst unless I know the tale ends well, I have to assure you this one does too. I think all love stories deserve happy endings. Especially those involving Elizabeth and Mr Darcy who, to me, are the most romantic couple of them all.

Thanks for coming to Derbyshire with me. If you would like to see what else I might have dreamed up about the master and mistress of Pemberley, please follow the links.

Amazon links:   Books by Joana Starnes on Amazon.com

                           Books by Joana Starnes on Amazon.co.uk

Website:             http://www.joanastarnes.co.uk/

Facebook:         http://www.facebook.com/joana.a.starnes

Twitter:              http://www.twitter.com/Joana_Starnes

Cornwall and ‘The Falmouth Connection’

I have yet to find a more romantic place than Cornwall. Romance hangs in the air on secluded beaches that make you think of smugglers and dark deeds, or on deserted woodland paths where ivy trails from the surrounding trees fashioning ghostly shapes in the witching hour. There is exquisite romance in the overgrown garden of old country houses, with their granite walls glistening in the damp and salty air. Which is why I had chosen Cornwall for the setting of one of my Pride and Prejudice alternate stories, ‘The Falmouth Connection’.

I love writing Pride and Prejudice what-ifs and designing various scenarios for our favourite couple. And why is it that so many of us simply cannot leave Elizabeth and Mr Darcy well alone? Because they are the perfect couple, little as they know it to begin with, and we want – we need – so much more of them. Because it’s reassuring to believe that there is such a thing as destiny; that there is a red thread guiding us through trails and tribulations towards the happily ever after. Because it’s wonderful to think that no matter what heartless obstacles are set before them, Elizabeth and Mr Darcy would still be together, and everything is well in the world.

Let me take you today to beautiful Cornwall, to the secluded gardens of Cotehele, my inspiration for Landennis Manor in ‘The Falmouth Connection’. This is a variation that begins at Hunsford around the time when Mr. Darcy decides to go ahead and make his disastrous first proposal. He does not get the opportunity – and we all know that it’s for the best. But he has no inkling and is severely disappointed when Elizabeth is suddenly summoned to Falmouth to meet a great-aunt she never knew she had. Little does Mr. Darcy know that as a result they would both become embroiled in a tale of deceit and peril. There would be smugglers involved, of course – it is 18th century Cornwall after all. But smugglers are the least of Mr. Darcy’s worries as he finds himself forced to question other people’s motives and especially Lord Trevellyan’s, a landowner of great consequence whom he suspects to be a dangerous man and, worse still, a rival. And then there is a troublesome French connection and all manner of secrets and lies, in a land that feels alien to Mr. Darcy. A land where few – if any – are what they seem to be…

So much for the ‘cloak and dagger’. 

And the romance?
Do read on and see. 

The scene is set in a garden very much like this one:

But you will have to imagine it in the middle of the night. It’s very late and there is no moon, not anymore. It’s very dark, much darker than in this nighttime picture. Too dark, in fact, to see what is before your very eyes. A few hours earlier, Elizabeth had been obliged to venture out – and she had found more than she had bargained for in the woods surrounding her great-aunt’s gardens. And now she is returning to the house after a series of troublesome encounters, only to discover that the eventful night is not over yet!

********

Breathless with the swift trek uphill and with the terrors of the night, Elizabeth hurried to the house. The garden door would not be open, surely. Would they hear her if she knocked? Perhaps not. Perhaps she should walk around to the main entrance.

She rushed forth noiselessly over the damp grass – and stumbled into something or someone in the darkness, only to find herself caught and held tightly in strong arms that would not let her fall, yet at the same time prevented all escape!

Before the cry of utter horror could leave her lips, a deep voice, warm and earnest, stilled her struggles and set her thoroughly at ease – for she would have recognised that voice anywhere.

“Sshh. You are safe. You are safe. You need not fear me. Forgive me for startling you thus! You have nothing to fear. Thank goodness, you are safe!”

The words did not sink in. Not yet. Not quite. But their fervent cadence reached her, along with the overwhelming certainty that this was not some unknown aggressor. It was Mr. Darcy – and she clung to the folds of his cloak with all her might, shaking like a leaf. Not for fear, though. The fear vanished as though it never was, to be replaced by the strangest weakness. Had he not held her, she might have collapsed, for her knees felt useless, about to give way, and her head was swimming.

‘It must be the shock,’ some wispy threads of reason sensibly claimed, but at this point she could barely heed them.

Still shaking, and still gripping the folds of his cloak with trembling fingers, she could not think straight. She could only feel. And the only feeling she could readily identify, from the tumult and confusion that seemed to reign inside her, was unspeakable relief that at long last this was someone she could fully trust. Someone who came from her own safe, sane world, and not from this terrifying other, where one could not tell one’s friends from one’s foes!

She was not cold – at least she did not think she was – and yet she felt herself shaking from head to foot with a violent shiver. Or was it a sob? Or both? Most certainly a sob this time, and then another, deep and wracking. She could not control them, which was terrifying in itself. She struggled for breath – and yet did not withdraw from the tight clasp of those arms, but unconsciously drew nearer.

Support and succour and safe haven. How strange that she had never felt as safe before. It was the oddest certainty that nothing could harm her now, and the relief made her positively dizzy, after the events of this long night, without a doubt the most frightful she had experienced in her entire tame existence.

The sobs subsided, tempered by the novel thought, and no less by the equally novel, barely perceptible sensations. A light touch of warm lips on her brow, sliding to her temple. Cold fingertips brushing against her cheek – and yet the trail of their caress was not cold at all. It was hot. And tingling. Another touch of a cold fingertip on her lower lip, in a light stroke, so light that she could barely feel it.

Her senses, previously dulled by the dizzying weakness, came suddenly alive, like hissing candles lit in very quick succession. She felt his breath upon her cheek, warm, rapid and uneven, and her own breath turned fast and shallow, as though to match the pace of his – then grew faster still when the narrow gap was closed, and his lips touched her cheekbone. They lingered there, dropping light, feathery kisses, and the cold fingertips were on her chin now, tilting her face upwards – or perhaps she had already done so of her own accord; she truly could not tell.

“Elizabeth…” she heard him whisper, his lips still trailing a soft line on her cheek, and then the whisper gave way to a harsh intake of breath – and his lips were on hers. No longer soft and tentative, but searching. Deepening the kiss, over a length of time that seemed to be measured in thundering heartbeats. Her eyes flew open, yet she could barely see his face. The moon had long since hidden behind clouds and they were in the deepest shadows. She reached up, her hands seeking blindly until her fingertips encountered the hard jaw, the cheeks, ever so slightly rough, not perfectly clean-shaven any longer, and she explored their shape, strangely glad of the darkness as she stroked their contours, never before touched, yet ever so familiar just the same.

Under her touch, the jaw tensed, and she could hear his breath becoming ragged as the kiss deepened even further into something her thoughts could not encompass. In truth, there was no room for thoughts, not anymore – otherwise she might as well begin to wonder what on earth was she doing in the gardens of Landennis in the middle of the night, kissed breathless by none other than Mr. Darcy, whose offer of marriage she had refused a few hours ago!

There was no sense, no reason, just the exquisite kiss and the night that suddenly felt warm and gloriously perfect, after the reign of fear and of doubt. Come to think of doubt though, she might as well begin to doubt her sanity for allowing this to happen – but as his hands roamed across her back, clasping her so fiercely that she could barely breathe, she closed her eyes again, relishing the madness and the bewildering sensation of homecoming, into strong arms that would keep her safe.

********

If this sufficiently romantic ;) ? If so, I hope you'd like the rest. Thanks for visiting and I would love to hear from you.

Amazon links:   Books by Joana Starnes on Amazon.com

                           Books by Joana Starnes on Amazon.co.uk

Website:             http://www.joanastarnes.co.uk/

Facebook:         http://www.facebook.com/joana.a.starnes

Twitter:              http://www.twitter.com/Joana_Starnes

Sir Francis Dashwood and the Hellfire Club

West Wycombe Park, Buckinghamshire

If you find yourself in Buckinghamshire, you might enjoy stopping in the little village of West Wycombe.

It is very nearly as pretty as dear old Lacock, although the road to Oxford goes right through it and the odd oversized lorry rather spoils the effect of the several Tudor cottages and coaching inns.

West Wycombe Park is open in the summer months and you can admire this gorgeous residence, exquisite inside and out, set to advantage by the side of the lake.

Dashwood Mausoleum and St Lawrence Church

You will not fail to notice that, high up on the opposite hill, there is a rather grandiose structure that dominates the landscape.

It is the Dashwood Mausoleum, crowned by the tower of St Lawrence’s Church.

They were both commissioned in the late 1740s by the then owner of West Wycombe Park, Sir Francis Dashwood.

Sir Francis Dashwood

By everybody’s standards, Sir Francis was not a religious man and even the building of this church was dismissed by his contemporaries as for show rather than prayer. Indeed, why else build a church at the top of a hill, when the entire congregation lives at the bottom?

As the story goes, during his visits to Italy on his Grand Tours, Sir Francis had developed a profound antipathy for the Roman Catholic Church. This was later shown in a variety of ways, not least in having himself painted as a Franciscan monk in irreverent parodies of Renaissance art. 

In one of those paintings, the deity ‘San Francisco di Wycombo’ worships is Venus, and the book he reverently peruses is not the Bible, but a copy of an erotic novel, while the profile of Dashwood’s friend and partner in mischief, Lord Sandwich, peers from the halo.

Sir Francis Dashwood and the Earl of Sandwich were members of the notorious club that began by meeting at the George and Dragon inn as the Order of the Knights of St Francis, then at Medmenham Abbey where they became the Friars of Medmenham, and lastly in the caves dug under the hill crowned by the Dashwood Mausoleum, known to this day as the Hellfire Caves.

The Hellfire Caves are a network of man-made caverns excavated by the local villagers who were employed to mine chalk and flint. The chalk was used to build the road between West Wycombe and High Wycombe, and also the church, the Mausoleum and some of the houses in the village.

Hellfire Caves Entrance

The caves were used as a meeting place for Sir Francis Dashwood’s gathering of ‘friars’, by then renamed the Hellfire Club. Its members included various important XVIII century figures such as William Hogarth, John Wilkes, Thomas Potter and John Montagu, 4th Earl of Sandwich. Though not believed to have been a member, Benjamin Franklin was a close friend of Dashwood’s who visited the caves on more than one occasion.

Two of those notable personages are immortalised in the names chosen for some of the chambers. The route through the caves progresses from the Entrance Hall to the Steward’s Chamber and Whitehead’s Cave, then passes through Lord Sandwich’s Circle, Franklin’s Cave , the Banqueting Hall, the Triangle, the Miner’s Cave and finally, across a subterranean river named the Styx, into the Inner Temple, where the meetings of the Hellfire Club were held.

According to Horace Walpole, the members’ practice was “rigorously pagan. Bacchus and Venus were the deities to whom they almost publicly sacrificed; and the nymphs and the hogsheads that were laid in against the festivals of this new church sufficiently informed the neighbourhood of the complexion of those hermits.”

Meetings occurred twice a month, with a gathering of all members for a fortnight or so in June or September, and rumours of black magic, satanic rituals and orgies circulated in the area and beyond. Nevertheless, it would appear that the majority of the participants were merely interested in drinking, singing bawdy songs and meeting in privacy with their mistresses, while a handful of others, which included Sir Francis himself, were genuinely interested in the revival of some ancient ‘pagan’ cults.

A satirical engraving of John Wilkes

There is a very entertaining story about a practical joke played on Lord Sandwich at one of the meetings of the club. John Wilkes, the notorious radical, contrived to bring a baboon to the proceedings, dressed the animal in ‘phantastic garb’, kept him secreted away, and eventually released him at a chosen moment without being noticed, by means of an elaborate contraption. Finally freed from his place of confinement, the baboon leapt on Lord Sandwich’s shoulders. Shocked by the sudden appearance of the shrieking creature, his lordship was gripped by the fear that it was the very Devil whom they had been invoking, come to carry him away. The harder he tried to shake the baboon off, the tighter it clung, while Sandwich cried: “Spare me gracious Devil! Spare a wretch who never was sincerely your servant. I sinned only from vanity of being in the fashion. Thou knowest I never have been half so wicked as I pretended, never have been able to commit the thousandth part of the vices which I have boasted of. Leave me therefore and go to those who are more truly devoted to your service. I am but half a sinner!”

Whether half- or full-measure sinners, and whatever the Hellfire Club had been up to in the bowels of the earth, by the late 1760s the party was over. The club was disbanded in 1766 and the caves, disused after Sir Francis Dashwood’s death in 1781, fell into disrepair. However, after the Second World War, they were renovated and turned into a visitors’ attraction by another Sir Francis Dashwood, a descendant of the notorious sybarite, and the profits used to refurbish the dilapidated family home.

If you find yourself in the area, do visit the caves for a remarkable experience.

So far I have heard no tales of naughty spectres haunting the caverns, but maybe this is just a story waiting to be written. So here’s to the Ghost of the Banqueting Hall :)

(Art and history sources: www.hellfirecaves.co.uk;  www.mysteriousbritain.co.uk and Wikipedia. Contemporary photos J. Starnes).

Three Days at Windsor Castle

Windsor Castle - The Quadrangle

I have been to Windsor many times before, but somehow visiting the castle was something that was always left for another day. Not enough time, too late in the day or the children were too small and they would have had no patience for a lengthy visit. So it was something jotted on my ever-growing ‘bucket list’. But earlier in November I had the great pleasure of not only visiting, but also spending the day there in excellent company. Thanks to Catherine Curzon from ‘A Covent Garden Gilflurt’s Guide to Life’ and to Mr Arturo Ramirez, who is one of the fortunate people who have Windsor Castle entrusted to their care, the tour was very much like a ride on the magic carpet, as we were guided by Mr Ramirez and had the privilege of hearing countless precious snippets from the castle’s long history.

I was so taken with the wonderful experience that a few days later I visited again. I must admit that I would happily loiter for hours in a historic place examining artefacts or waiting for that elusive people-free photo. This time I did not have to wait too long. It was a weekday and at times it felt like I had the place all to myself. 

Sensibly, indoor photography is not permitted, but countless images are available for research and personal use on the Royal Collection Trust website. So thankfully I will not have to rely just on my memory to catalogue all the gems I have seen. Such as the burnous currently displayed in the Grand Vestibule. It was taken from Napoleon’s fleeing coach, after the battle of Waterloo – a flamboyant garment, bright-red with golden trimmings, that amongst other things served to dispel the myth of Napoleon’s stature and prove that the cartoons of the time were largely propaganda, and he was in fact around 5’6” in height.

A great many artefacts were displayed elsewhere, in the Drawings Gallery, as part of the ‘Waterloo at Windsor’ exhibition. Watercolours showing the personages of the day; the site of battles; the crowds gathered in 1816 at the Bullocks Museum in London, where Napoleon’s captured carriage was exhibited for a while. More fascinating still, the original letter of surrender that he had sent the Prince Regent from Rochefort on the 13^th of July 1815. In that brief note, Napoleon declared that he had terminated his political career and had determined to throw himself on the hospitality of the British people and claim the protection of their laws, from ‘the most powerful, most constant and the most generous’ of his enemies.

As we know, the flattery did not serve him well. By the time the letter was delivered, Napoleon was already on his way to St. Helena. Perhaps the Prince might have responded differently had the letter reached him sooner. Or perhaps not. In the decade of ‘Peterloo’ there was more than enough tension in Britain without the added powder keg of having the former emperor settled in some English country-house.

We are never to know if the letter of surrender conveyed mere flattery or genuine thought, but I still chuckle at the anecdote showing that it was not Napoleon whom the Prince Regent regarded as his very worst enemy. The story has it that, when the then King George IV was told that his worst enemy was dead at last, he had exclaimed ‘Is she, by God!’ – he was referring to his estranged wife.

I am one of those people who would find more familiar faces in the large canvas depicting Queen Caroline’s trial than in any images of modern-day parliamentary proceedings, so it was no surprise that of all the treasures displayed at Windsor Castle it was those with links to the Georgian period that had my full attention. Such as the small but deeply moving exhibit in one of the display cabinets in the Grand Vestibule: a small silver locket containing the very bullet that killed Admiral Lord Nelson and which, Mr Ramirez told us, still has remnants of golden braiding from Lord Nelson’s epaulette embedded in its surface.

Then there was the story of the Waterloo elm, a towering tree that Lord Wellington’s command post was set beneath. After the battle, the spot had become one of pilgrimage, and the tree a target for souvenir hunters, so much so that the owner of the field, heartily sick of having his crops trampled over, had decided to cut it down. As serendipity would have it, at the time the site was visited by Mr John Children, an antiquarian from the British Library, who was travelling with his daughter Anna. He persuaded the farmer to allow Anna to sketch the tree in situ, then bought the timber and brought it to Britain to entrust it to the skill of Mr Thomas Chippendale the Younger, who fashioned the Waterloo Chair. It is currently on display in the King’s Drawing Room – an exquisite piece ornamented with allegoric carvings and an inscription devised by the Earl of Mornington, the Duke of Wellington’s elder brother, whereby the Waterloo Chair was dedicated to King George IV, ‘liberator of Europe’.

So much to see, so many treasures! The Sèvres ‘Table of the Great Commanders’ (La Table des Grands Capitains) commissioned by Napoleon. His writing desk. The exquisite Rockingham Service, ‘probably the most ambitious porcelain service ever made by a British factory’ (Windsor Castle Guide p.36) commissioned by King William IV but only finished in time for Queen Victoria’s coronation. King George IV’s statue, its design largely chosen by the sitter due to a flattering well-turned calf. And in the semi-state apartments the bright and colourful Crimson Drawing Room, fully restored to its Georgian splendour. We see it now, we are told, just as King George IV would have seen it, not faded with the passage of time but in all its new and glittering brilliance – the colours vibrant and fresh, the gold leaf decorations glowing – its restoration to its original glory one of the fortunate outcomes of the devastating fire of 1992.

Windsor at Christmas

I could not resist the temptation of going back to Windsor for the third time in as many weeks, to see the Castle decorated for the festive season. There is a gorgeous Christmas tree in the Crimson Drawing Room now, a towering giant in St George’s Hall – very nearly as tall as the hall itself – and in the Octagon Dining Room there is a delightful homage to Queen Charlotte, King George III’s queen, who had introduced the Christmas traditions of her native country at the royal court of England. It is sometimes mistakenly believed that we owe the Christmas tree to Prince Albert, Queen Victoria’s consort. The novel custom did indeed take root throughout the land during Queen Victoria’s reign, as everyone was keen to follow in the footsteps of a dearly loved royal couple, but it was Queen Charlotte who first introduced it, by having a yew tree placed in a tub in her drawing room, which she decorated with sweetmeats flavoured with cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg. Two hundred years later, there is a large branch set in a tub in the Octagon Drawing Room, its decorations reminiscent of Queen Charlotte’s: beautiful little ornaments cleverly crafted from cinnamon sticks and dried oranges and limes.

In the nearby State Dining Room, originally intended as George IV’s private one, we are treated to an exquisite display of Regency dining splendour, of glittering epergnes and elaborate pyramids of glazed fruits and berries, looking delightfully real to the unsuspecting eye, and from a display board we learn of the plum broth served to the Royal Household for Christmas 1815, made of 90 lbs of beef, 38 lbs of veal, 78 lbs currants and as many lbs of raisins, to which spices, “cochinile”, prunes, Lisbon sugar, butter and no less than 50 eggs were added.

I am very tempted to scale down the recipe and try it out, but since the maths might be a challenge I should have a fallback option for Christmas dinner :)

Have a wonderful Christmas, however adventurous your cooking, and do visit Windsor Castle decked in its seasonal splendour if you get the chance!

(https://www.royalcollection.org.uk/event/a-regency-christmas-at-windsor-castle)

Shaw House

On the outskirts of Newbury, not far from the Great Bath Road (or the A4, now that we are no longer travelling in horse-drawn carriages) there is a very old house with a chequered history – Shaw House.

It was built towards the end of the 16^th century by Thomas Dolman, whose father and grandfather had made a fortune in the cloth industry.

The Dolmans were going up in the world. Eleven years after their grand new house was finished, they were hosting Queen Elizabeth I. She was the first but by no means the last monarch to visit. Over the years, the house was to welcome James I, William of Orange on his way to London to be crowned as William III, and later on Queen Anne. For many years it was also said that Charles I had used the house as his headquarters during the Civil War. To this day, on the embrasure of a first floor window, there is a plaque that marks the spot where a musket ball fired by a Parliamentarian soldier was allegedly embedded, having narrowly missed the king. Historians now think that in fact Charles I did not stay at Shaw House during the conflict. Nevertheless, the plaque is still there and the legend is still told.

When I first visited, it was not the plaque that caught my eye, but some casual reference that in 1728 the house became the property of James Brydges, 1^st Duke of Chandos. And why should that put a smile on my face? Because the Duke’s sister Mary was Jane Austen’s great-grandmother.

The Duke spent most of his time at his townhouse in Albemarle Street and in the vast mansion at Cannons (now the site of Canons Park, Harrow). At both these houses he entertained his political and business acquaintances with lavish hospitality.

Shaw House was not purchased for the same purpose, but as a quiet retreat from the bustle of London and also as a convenient stopping place, on his frequent trips to Bath.

By the time he acquired Shaw House, the Duke was twice married. His first marriage was an arranged one. His second seems to have been a matter of choice.
And he chose Cassandra Willoughby, his first cousin (whom, incidentally, Jane Austen’s mother and sister were named after). 

The marriage was a happy one. They shared an interest in art and music (the Duke of Chandos was George Frideric Handel’s major patron), she was a perfect hostess and a great support in his political career. Sadly, they had no children (the Duke’s only surviving children were two sons from his previous marriage). When he lost Cassandra, twenty years later, the Duke wrote to his nephew Henry Perrot:

‘Somewhere I must go into the country for the air, and Cannons and Shaw I hate the thought and dread the sight of. Adieu, dear Sir, may you enjoy all the happiness this world can give, which is now taken away from me.’

Nevertheless, the Duke remarried for the third time. On his death, his widow retired to Shaw House and later sold it to Joseph Andrews, a strong supporter of the Speenhamland System (whereby the relief received by the poor of the parish was in direct proportion to the cost of bread). In fact, the Speenhamland System was instituted at a special meeting of the Berkshire Court of Quarter Sessions held at the nearby Pelican Inn – the famous and notoriously expensive Pelican that features in so many Regency romances and is lampooned in the well-known verse:

'The famous inn at Speenhamland

That stands below the hill

May well be called the Pelican

From its enormous bill.'

From Joseph Andrews, Shaw House passed to distant relatives and was eventually sold in 1905. It was even a school for a while – not a private school but the ‘local comprehensive’. The local council school was damaged in WWII and as a temporary measure the students were relocated to Shaw House. The temporary measure lasted 40 years and the local children were taught in Thomas Dolman’s house until 1983, when the school was moved to modern premises. After a long and expensive process, the house  was restored to something approaching its Elizabethan splendour. 

Unlike many similar properties, it remained unfurnished, but some would argue that as a result the visitors can better appreciate the structure of the house, the elaborately carved panelling or the delicate wallpaper in the ‘Chinese’ Dining Room, closely resembling the original decorations completed in the 1730s for the Duke of Chandos and his second wife.

This is not a grand dining room of stately proportions. The grandeur must have been saved for Cannons. This suggests quiet elegance and comfort, a cosy place where his grace might have enjoyed a good dinner before retiring to listen to his wife playing the harpsichord. A nearby information board lists some of the delicacies that would have been found at his table: ‘Pigeons in Scallop Shells; Stew’d Soles; Lobster Pye; Larks roasted; Collared pig and Truffles’. 

Sadly I can hear no harpsichord, there is no fire in the grate and no ‘lobster pye’ for dinner. 

But there’s tea and scones in the café – and I can’t say fairer than that!

Getting to Know You – Joana Starnes

Hi, I am Joana, and I would like to start with a big ‘Thank You’ to Jane Odiwe and Amanda Grange for inviting me to contribute to Historical and Regency Romance UK. I am delighted and honoured to be here. 

Since this is my first post, I thought that saying a little about myself would be a good way to start.

I have been fascinated with history and the classics for as long as I can remember, even though for many years I thought this fascination, as well as writing fiction, would be nothing but a sweet indulgence as I went on with the sensible business of day to day life.

For many years, day to day life meant medical school, then lecturing in Physiology followed by a career in medical research – not quite the norm for a history fanatic and an Austen devotee.

Fast-forward a decade and a half and, although nearly everything has changed, my fascination with history and Jane Austen has not. As many before me, I discovered her novels in my teens, but real, full appreciation came much later, when I could begin to understand and delight in the social commentary, the playful narrative, the exquisite sense of humour, rather than merely follow a compelling story line.

Needless to say, the 1995 Pride and Prejudice adaptation was a turning point, though not because of the famous wet shirt. If anything, for a very long time I felt that, for all the exquisite suspense accentuated by the background music rising in skilful crescendo, the wet shirt scene rather distracted the viewer from the original message. Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s encounter with Mr Darcy in the grounds of Pemberley would have been fraught regardless of the aforementioned garment, wet or otherwise. She would have been mortified even if the gentleman had not been discovered in some state of deshabille, merely because she must have been painfully aware that she had no business to be found wandering through his grounds, after rejecting his proposal in so harsh a manner, and for reasons that had been proven at least partially wrong. Likewise, his own discomfort at coming face to face with her without any warning would have been sufficiently severe even without pond water seeping into his riding boots.

Such reflections aside, the scene is delightfully romantic, as is the other famed one, later in the music room. But that was not the only reason why I found this adaptation to be a turning point for me. The greatest attraction lay in learning all the fine details of its production. The painstaking efforts to research the location, the costumes, the hairstyles, the music the characters danced to, the games they played or the food they ate. All of a sudden, I wanted to learn more about the era. Details of daily life, mealtimes, travel, the plays they would have seen in town, what London must have looked like, what books they read, what artists were in fashion. What prominent figures dominated public life? What was the sequence of real-life events that influenced their present and their future?

And so it came to pass that soon afterwards I became a fixture at my local library and all the second-hand bookshops and National Trust properties within driving distance, and some a great deal further than that. Everything was fascinating. Diaries, letters, portraits, antique prints. And of course the Internet, an inexhaustible source of information, and I squirreled away everything that I could find. It was only a matter of time before I discovered that I was not alone in this growing interest – or perhaps I should say obsession – and that an entire industry, as well as countless websites, were devoted to Jane Austen and Austen-related fiction.

So it was also just a matter of time until my fascination with history and Jane Austen was channelled into writing works of fiction of my own.

I have so far published five Austen-inspired novels and, to my great pleasure and no less surprise, they were very well received. They include a Pride and Prejudice sequel, two variations involving characters from Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility and Persuasion, another that brings the protagonists of Pride and Prejudice into Poldark territory, to the far reaches of Cornwall, ‘into a world of deceit and peril, where few – if any – are what they seem to be’ and lastly my most recent novel released a few weeks ago, a Pride and Prejudice variation exploring a most unsettling love triangle.

More details about The Unthinkable Triangle and my four other novels can be found on my website (www.joanastarnes.co.uk), and also on Facebook (www.facebook.com/joana.a.starnes ) and Twitter (www.twitter.co/Joana_Starnes ). I hope you will visit and will like what you see.