Can short be satisfying?

For some reason, I'm thinking about short stories this month, perhaps because of the RNA's Elizabeth Goudge trophy, awarded at the Conference in July. This year, because it's the RNA's 50th anniversary year, the theme is to be Anniversary so I'm trying to get my mind into gear for an anniversary short story. The major difficulty, for me, is the length. Maximum of 1400 words. Quite a challenge for a writer who's used to producing 80,000 or so. Can short be satisfying too? [Sorry, couldn't resist. Possibly best not to answer that one...]

However, thinking about the Elizabeth Goudge reminded me that I did write a short story about Jack, the hero of His Forbidden Liaison. It was published as a hero spotlight on the eHarlequin website, but I don't think many readers found it, since it wasn't very well signposted. There is so much material on eHarlequin that it can be a nightmare to navigate. I had difficulty finding my story myself!

So for existing fans of Jack, and readers who may become fans in the future, here he is, back in London after his adventures in France, and still a spy...

London— May, 1815

What man in his right mind would be a spy?

It was long after midnight. It should have been pitch black, for there was no moon. But fleeting patches of light from flambeaux or link-boys drew the eye, throwing the shadows into even deeper relief. The last carriage clattered across the cobbles, its flickering lamps soon swallowed up by the gloom. From the lurking darkness, low voices murmured, occasionally broken by a husky laugh and, once, a woman’s scream, quickly stifled.

The very walls were menacing. Covent Garden at this hour was no place for a lone man to linger.

Jack felt a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Would his contact arrive at all? He had no way of knowing. He leaned back against the cold stone and drove his hands deep into his pockets, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Such was the lot of a spy. Simply to wait.

That scream again.

Jack recognised real fear in the woman’s voice this time. Whoever she was, he could not ignore her plight. He sprinted lightly towards the sound, his fists clenched, all his senses alert.

In a narrow alley of overhanging buildings, a man held a woman pinned up against the wall, his hands around her neck. Her skirts had been pushed up above her waist. She was struggling valiantly, trying to knee him in the groin, but he was choking the life out of her. In a moment, she would be unconscious.

Jack grabbed the man by the shoulder and spun him round. The ruffian’s filthy face registered shock, followed by exploding fury, just as Jack felled him with a straight right to the chin. The man hit the stone wall and slithered down into an untidy heap on the ground.

Rubbing his knuckles, Jack rapidly assessed his options. The man should be taken in charge, but Jack dare not quit his post. A lone woman could not do it, especially not a woman of this class. The blackguard would have to remain where he lay, with only a damaged jaw as punishment for his crime.

Beside him, the woman was automatically trying to smooth down her skirts. Only when that was done to her satisfaction did she straighten and raise her hands to her injured neck.

He knew her! That beautiful stretching body was unmistakable.

‘Why, it’s Hetty, isn’t it? Good evening, ma’am.’ Jack had no hat to doff, but he bowed to the lightskirt as if to a countess. Hetty was no common harlot. Only gentlemen frequented the house where she worked.

She had been smiling her thanks, but now her eyes widened in recognition and she laughed, though the sound was hoarse in her bruised throat. ‘Get along with you, Lord Jack.’ She let her gaze drift over his immaculately tailored evening clothes, his pristine white shirt and the silk-lined cloak hanging carelessly from his shoulders. The large ruby pin nestling in the folds of his cravat made her eyes goggle. ‘Taking a bit of a risk wearing that here, ain’t yer?’

‘Aren’t you taking a risk by walking here alone?’ he flashed back. At least he was armed; she was defenceless.

Hetty shrugged in response, seeming to accept that he was right.

Jack said nothing. He knew better than to probe further, for she would simply tell him—with a chuckle—to mind his business. He had rescued her from her folly. She was too sensible to repeat it.

Hetty glanced down at her assailant. ‘I hope you broke his jaw,’ she said, with venom, letting Jack take her elbow and usher her out of the lane. ‘Where you been these last months?’ She narrowed her eyes assessingly, now that his face was no longer in shadow. ‘You look different. Still a handsome devil, but different. Older.’ She dropped him a curtsy. She had never done that before.

‘Dare I hope that you think I look wiser, too, Hetty?’

‘What, you? The maddest gambler and scapegrace in London? It’d take more than a couple of years in your dish to change your wild ways.’ She let her gaze soften. ‘Want to come back for a nightcap?’ Her voice had sunk to a seductive murmur.

He shook his head. ‘Prior engagement, I fear.’

‘Another night then?’ Hetty smiled her most inviting smile.

Jack realised he should have expected this. He had always tipped well. All the muslin company knew that.

He hesitated, unwilling to give her a straight answer. There were some things—private, deeply-cherished things—that a man did not share. ‘My evenings are …er… devoted to other pursuits, these days. Will you get home safe? I’m afraid I am not free to escort you.’

Hetty grinned. ‘Lord love yer, I’m a working girl. Don’t you worry none about me. I’ll hurry. And I promise I’ll keep away from the shadows.’

Relieved, Jack put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her lightly on the cheek. Then, remembering his duty, he bowed to her once more and turned away, strolling lazily across the square to resume his vigil. He had long ago concluded that a spy’s lot consisted of long periods of boredom, punctuated by rare bursts of frenzied action. He found himself grinning into the challenging gloom. He had probably had his full quota of excitement for tonight.

Hetty stared after his retreating back. Not the same man at all, she decided. No longer a playboy. And no longer a boy, either. Some woman—some very lucky woman—had caught Lord Jack Aikenhead and shown him the value of life and love, values that only a grown man could appreciate. Who was she? And how on earth had she worked such a miracle?

Hetty shook her head. Chances were that she would never know.


But if you would like to learn about the woman who tamed London’s most outrageous playboy, you can read their adventures in His Forbidden Liaison.

Joanna
http://www.joannamaitland.com

A Betting Chance

I have a new release this month! Since I'm off to the Romantic Times Convention in the morning, very early, I'm going to have to give you an excerpt and run. If you're coming to RT, I'm at both booksignings, teaching at the precon and I'm on a panel on the Wednesday with Linnea Sinclair, Cat Adams, Donna McMeans and Karen Miller. I'm also taking part in the Cougar Growl on Thursday, and hanging out with cover model Jimmy Thomas at some point. See you there!
So without further ado, here are the details and an excerpt from  A Betting Chance.

 Sapphira Vardon needs five thousand pounds to avoid a cruel marriage and a grim future, and there’s only one path for her. Don a mask and an assumed name, and risk everything to win at the gaming tables. First, though, she has to get through the door. Luckily she knows just whose name to drop.

Corin, Lord Elston, is curious to find out who used his name to gain entrance to Mother Brown’s whorehouse and gaming hell. The enigmatic woman who calls herself Lydia isn’t the sort of female usually found here. Behind her mask and heavy makeup, she’s obviously a respectable woman—who plays a devilish hand of cards.

Sapphira is desperate to keep her identity a secret, but Lord Elston’s devastating kisses and touches demand complete surrender. And once he learns the truth, there’s more at stake than guineas. Corin finds himself falling hard for a woman who’s poised to run. A woman who’s about to learn that he only plays to win…

“I wish you’d trust me with your secret. I might be able to help,” Lord Elston said.
“I don’t know you.” Not in any recognized meaning of the word. The connection Sapphira felt to him had to be her imagination. He couldn’t feel it, not this wild needing.
“I think we should get to know each other better. I want you to trust me.” He touched her chin, his forefinger stroking her skin. She wanted to purr like a cat, but instead she moved back. Before she could retreat out of his reach he tilted her chin up so she had to meet his direct gaze. His eyes bored into her soul. “There’s something about you—I don’t know.” He bit his lip. It was the first time she’d seen any vulnerability about him and she found it meltingly seductive.
She couldn’t risk weakening. She put her guard back up and kept it firmly in place, reminding herself that he was a stranger, that she didn’t know him. “I told you, I can’t do that. I’m here to play cards, no more.”
“I love a challenge,” he murmured, and lowered his head.
The first touch of his lips against hers paralyzed her. Recognition—of what she still didn’t know—shot between them and she opened her mouth to protest, but he used it to his advantage and licked her lips before he slid his tongue into her mouth.
Now shock held her rigid. Nobody had ever kissed her like this. She hadn’t imagined it possible. She’d seen the caricatures in the shops with their sometimes explicit content, watched a man fondling a whore, seen mercenary transactions take place in the street—she’d thought herself reasonably au fait with sexual matters, for a virgin.
She’d been wrong. She knew that watching and experiencing were two different things but had never known it could be so devastatingly different. The intimacy floored her, and she could do nothing other than reach out for something to steady herself.
The memory of that other kiss—that disgusting, slobbering kiss George Barber had forced on her—returned in full measure. This didn’t compare, couldn’t. She wanted to press closer to Elston, not jerk away, put as much distance between them as she could. Nothing like that. If anything had told her that she couldn’t go ahead with marriage to George Barber, this did.
Corin cupped the back of her head as her hand made contact with his velvet-clad arm. She clutched it, praying for control as he took his time exploring her mouth, caressing her with soft strokes that made her heat up right down to the forbidden area between her thighs. He held her safe, didn’t move his hands or try to unfasten her clothing. One arm curved around her waist, the other over her wig. She wanted his hands under it, in her hair, cupping her head intimately. One of the strings of her mask loosened.
She jerked back, her hand going to her only protection against discovery. “No, don’t!” Her voice was breathless, whispery, but at least it still worked. As did her common sense.
“I want to see you.” He sounded as out of breath as she did.
“No, you can’t.” She reached up and retied the one string he’d managed to undo. Luckily the other one still held firm. He’d dislodged her wig, and she pulled it back into place, but he must have seen that she was a brunette.
“Why not? Will I know you?”
Having regained her composure, enough to confront him anyway, she shook her head. “It’s highly doubtful. But you might see me somewhere else.”
“And you’ve lost that accent. I knew you’d assumed it, but there’s still a tinge left. Are you a Londoner?”
Born and bred. “I’ve visited London a lot,” she said, hoping desperately to put him off the scent. She had to get out of here before he guessed more. Before he had her out of her clothes and spread out on the bed for his pleasure. How could she have been so stupid?
But she had to pass him to get to the door, and he caught her skirts. “A challenge, sweet Lucia. Just between us.”
“Why?”
“Because of the danger. Because you want a bit of excitement in your life.” If only he knew she’d have more excitement than she’d ever wanted soon. But she appreciated that he didn’t threaten her. He could have her barred from this house with very little trouble, but he hadn’t done it.
She turned around, willing at least to listen, but keeping some distance between them, as much as this small room would allow. He sat there in his splendid clothes looking every inch a prince. A wicked prince. He released his clutch on her skirt, and she resisted the urge to put her hand where his had just been, to touch the residual warmth. “Well?”
“Let me get to know you better. You intrigue me. Can you meet me, talk to me, with your mask and maquillage off? Can you look me in the face without your protection?”
“No.” She couldn’t do it. With no mask or makeup he’d see every expression on her face, and he’d know she was his for the taking, however hard she fought against it.
He leaned back, smiling. “A challenge, then. A bet, just between us, with no money at stake. If I recognize you and challenge you in public without your disguise, you promise to meet me at a place of my choice.”
“Why?”
He smiled. “I want you, sweet Lucia. I want to see your face while I’m making love to you.”
Before she could repress it an image flashed into her mind. Him, naked, admiring her naked body, kissing it, touching it. Oh she wanted it so much, but she couldn’t. Mustn’t. She held back her shock. Barely. “And what’s in it for me?”
His rich laugh filled the small space with joy. “I hope to give you pleasure as I’m taking it.”
She pulled out of his grasp, put her hand on the door latch. “I can’t.” Then she was gone, hurrying toward her servant, Frankie, as fast as she could without colliding with anyone or losing her foothold.

A Betting Chance
In this game of hearts, winner takes all!
ISBN: 978-1-60504-973-1
From Samhain Publishing
http://www.mybookstoreandmore.com/betting-chance-p-5238.html

The Inspiration for the Royal Pavilion?

Last weekend I was out walking in the Cotswolds and almost literally stumbled across Sezincote house and gardens. I had no idea that a house like this existed in the Gloucestershire countryside and thought at first that I was seeing things.

Colonel John Cockerell, a grandson of the nephew of Samuel Pepys, bought the Sezincote estate in 1795 when he returned from Bengal. He had been in the service of the East India Company and on his death in 1798 left the estate to his brother Charles. Charles Cockerell, created a baronet in 1809 and MP for Evesham, employed another brother, the magnificently named Samuel Pepys Cockerell to design him a house on the estate in the Indian manner. SP Cockerell was an architect of some standing, Surveyor to the East India Company and he worked on the design for Sezincote with the artist Thomas Daniell, who had spent ten years in India making aquatints, watercolours and oils of Indian buildings and landscapes. Daniell had an unparallelled knowledge of Indian architecture and at Sezincote he and Cockerell designed a house that on the outside at least was a mixture of Hindu and Islamic detail. The style was reminiscent of the reign of Akbar, the Mogul Emperor who ruled from 1556 to 1605. Akbar deliberately mixed the Hindu and Islamic elements in architecture in an effort at cultural integration. Thus the pillars, the horizontal beams and the many depctions of the Lotus at Sezincote are inspired by Hindu design whilst the chattris (small minarets) and other elements are Islamic. The dome, a characteristic of Muslim architecture representing heart and heaven and a symbol of peace and tranquility, shows strong Persian influence.

Sezincote's charming and interesting architectural fusion is apparently not reflected inside the house, which is classical, or in the garden, which is decidely English. Although the house was designed and built for an eighteenth century generation who loved and respected Indian culture, by the time that it was completed in 1812, British attitudes towards India were changing. Nabobs such as the Cockerells were often looked down upon and were suspected of decadence. Some nineteenth century visitors to Sezincote described it as "grotesque."

Sezincote is, however, claimed to be the inspiration for the Prince Regent's Royal Pavilion at Brighton, though when I was reading about the house I could not find any information on how this happened. It is said that the Prince Regent chose an Indian style for its picturesque qualities and The Royal Pavilion is decorated in the chinoiserie style inside, of course, which is very different from both the Indian inspiration and the classical interior of Sezincote.

Sezincote opens to visitors in May and I shall definitely go back for a wander around the house and gardens and to marvel at this architectural jewel sitting in the Gloucestershire countryside!

The Joys of Spring-Cleaning

Funny the things you find when you start spring cleaning. When I was "tidying" my Sarah Mallory website to add my latest Mills & Boon Historical, Wicked Captain, Wayward Wife, I discovered a short story! It was one I wrote and added to the website some time ago but life has been so busy recently that I had forgotten all about it!

One of the lovely villages I discovered when researching for my very first Mills & Boon Historical, More Than A Governess, was called Rushton Spencer. I was determined to use it in my book, so I put my characters into a local inn (using the real-life Royal Oak as my model). However, while we were wandering around the village – in high summer – I had the idea for something quite different, a winter story.

The small church of St Lawrence is built on a small hill some way from the village and can be seen from the road. I did take a picture of the church but you will have to trust me on this, it is nestling amongst the trees and if you look carefully you can just make out the graveyard!

There is a footpath from the village leading to the church, and a very pretty walk it is, in summer. In my imagination I could see the church standing stark against the sky on a cold moonlit night with a blanket of snow covering the ground. There would be travellers at the inn, and perhaps a child lost in the snow……

This Christmas Story is still on my website, so if you want a coffee-time read, feel free to visit http://www.sarahmallory.co.uk/. you will fin ditlisted in the index onthe left hand side of the home page. I'd love to know what you think!

Melinda Hammond/Sarah Mallory Wicked Captain, Wayward Wife by Sarah Mallory Paperback published in the UK April 2010

20 Romances, 11 Funerals, 19 Births and so much more

An historical romance is so much more than two people falling in love and living happily ever after. We have dramatic historical settings and events to colour the world of our characters creating, conflict, adversity and adventure.





When I started plotting the latest in the Loveday series, which will be book 12, I needed to ensure there would be no repetitions of plot to keep the series fresh and original. It meant analysing what had been covered in the previous novels involving this dashing, diverse extended family.

The novels have so far covered 19 yrs from 1787 to 1806 starting with two generations of Edward Loveday (a shipbuilder); his two sisters (one married to a London banker and the other a formidable spinster); also his two brothers (a reformed rakehell now a parson and the other a naval captain). Between them they have eight children (a wastrel, a naval officer and government agent, a loveable rogue, a farmer's wife, a pious lay preacher, an illegitimate daughter, and a banker who would be a playwright. This gave me a main character list of 20 family members and there are also their spouses family and backgrounds and most importantly several vengeful protagonists.

This was a broad canvas for the romances, rivalries, conflicts and adventures in the first books, but as the series gained in popularity new themes and escapades were needed to keep the readers captivated. Over the so far published 11 novels there have been 20 romances, 11 weddings, 6 funerals, 2 criminal trials (for a framed murder and highway robbery), 19 births, at least 5 mysterious deaths, 6 infidelities, 2 unrequited loves, 2 bankruptcies, 2 abductions, 4 duels, 4 sea battles, suicide, seduction, attempted bigamy, incest, a wife committed to bedlam, an occasional murder, several scandals and satisfactory reprisals, dark secrets and revelations and these are only some of the dramas...





The exciting world history happening at the time the series is set has been a marvellous backdrop for intrigue and adventures. The main storyline may be set in Cornwall, London, France with their Revolution and war with England, but the plots have also taken the characters to Bath, Virginia, and three of the novels included scenes of transportation and survival to the early penal settlement in New South Wales.

As you can gather the Lovedays wild-blood, both in the women and the men, lead them into dramatic situations, and although the novels chronologically follows the lives of the family with main characters stories interwoven throughout, each book also has to stand on its own. With so many strong characters I have been able to vary the dynamics with different members of the family taking the major role in a particular novel whilst keeping abreast of family fortunes and vendettas.

Working out the psychology and motivation of the lovers, family and adversaries has been an absorbing challenge and in book 9 The Loveday Secrets I introduced a new cousin who the others believed dead. His life had been very different from the privileged wealth and position of his cousins. A former guttersnipe he is bent on destroying his cousins but his triumphs are short lived and to save their own reputations the Lovedays must unite and put aside old rivalries. This stirs up a marvellous hornet's nest of passions and repercussions and a battle of wills which is brought to a head in The Loveday Conspiracy.

But with readers beseeching me to continue the family drama, it was time for the next generation to come of age with their lives bringing new conflicts which again place the family in danger in the forthing The Loveday Vendetta published this year. And so the drama continues with the original cousins far from sedate and settled and new revelations to throw the family into discord and crisis. I can't wait to write the new romances and adventures and opening up a fresh world of research into the continuing war with France and excitement of Regency England.

All the Loveday novels are available and this month The Loveday Trials, The Loveday Scandals and The Loveday Honour have been reprinted to ensure there is no break in continuity for new readers discovering the series.

For more news of the novels and the Loveday family click on my website at the side of the blog page ,where you can also access extracts from all the novels and also the The Loveday Books blog.

Happy Easter to our readers.

Kate Tremayne

More romance, please, we're British!

We have the wonderful authors here and many more, so what a shame there's so little romance, especially historical romance, on the shelves in the UK. Often bookstores don't have a romance section at all. Even if they have mystery and SF, no romance.

To me, it's a slap in the face for our genre and all who read and write romance novels.

I was pointed to today's Daily Mirror, where a piece says that younger readers are grabbing contemporary romance, especially the sexier ones, for the Sony e-reader because they feel a bit ashamed to be reading Mills & Boon because they see them as "mum's books." But they're loving to read them.

It's good news for the genre as a whole, because readers are reading the books, but what struck me was two posts in response that were, more or less, supportive of the genre. Good, but unfortunately the tone suggested kindness to some poor, perhaps socially handicapped and unfortunately pimply, member of the community, not a reference to a highly popular, successful form of literature.
eg
"I actually did read one once somebody brought me one to read when I was not feeling well and I quite enjoyed it where's the harm?"

Where's the harm? It reminds me of an early review of one of my books in which the reviewer kindly said romance "is probably less harmful that Valium."

That poor reader, remembering her guilty pleasure but having never dared to venture into such risky waters again.
You can read the whole piece here. And comment if inspired.

Let's all be bold and outspoken about the wonders of romance novels because that woman next to you could well love the books, too, but be afraid to admit it.

It's even a public service. Books are known to influence out emotional health, so the plethora of grim ones that get official approval could explain a lot! Ones like romance novels, where good people are rewarded with the promise of a golden future are just what we all need.

You can find two of mine published in the UK by Everlyn books -- Lady Notorious and Tempting Fortune (complete with public sex in a brothel, except that the gallant hero saves Portia, and even strips off most of his clothes so she doesn't have to. That's what hero means!)

I have my classic Regencies being republished in the States -- remember, they're better than Valium -- and next week, a new Georgian adventure will be out. Should I update the comment and say "better than ecstasy? LOL! My New York published books are available here through Amazon and The Book Depository.
Check out all my other books in print.

You can read more about The Secret Duke here.

Remember the great truth -- it's easier to write angst and misery than fun and humour. Let's celebrate it.

Are you at all embarrassed by your fondness for romance novels? Are there places you'd not want to be seen reading one? Do others ever make derogatory remarks about your choice of reading? Do you have difficulty finding enough books of the type you want to read? I'd love to know.

Jo

Regency Letters Four

Regency Letters Four
20th February. From Captain Robert Jenson to his sister Lady Horatia Melton
Dearest One
I write to tell you that within the month I am to be given home leave. I intend to visit you and my sister and mother. I am always delighted to hear your news, whether it be a cry of pleasure or a cry from your heart, Horatia. It will be of great delight to me to see you again and I hope to find both you and my sister and mother well.
Your brother has been awarded another honour. I am to be presented at court by the Regent himself and I very much hope you shall be present at the reception afterwards. I am not certain whether you will be residing in London or at Melton's seat, but if you are there you must certainly come up to town for a few days at least. Melton will surely let you go for such an event and I rely on you to take me about with you and introduce me to all your friends.
I long to see you, dear one, and shall be with you very soon.

6th March 1816. From Lady Horatia Melton to her brother Captain Robert Jensen
Dear Robert
I think our letters must have crossed. You may since have received mine telling you of our sister's loss, in which case you will know that I am now in Bath. As our sister is in too much distress for me to leave her, I suggest that you post down to visit us if you have sufficient leave. I am distraught that your visit should come at such a time for I should have loved to show you off to all my friends. However, we have good friends here in Bath and I know they will appreciate an extra gentleman at dinner. One can never have too many dearest, and a single gentleman as handsome as you undoubtedly are, dearest, is always welcome.
I am making this note very short so that you will receive it and lose no time in coming to see us – me! I need to talk to you, Robert. There is something I would say that I cannot, absolutely cannot, commit to paper. Please, please do come. I wish that you were stationed nearer and can only be glad that you are no longer in India.
I cannot say more at this time for I am in a flutter of anticipation. I expect a visitor at any moment.
I send my undying love and congratulations. You are always deserving of honour in my estimation.
Your lovin

William Henry Pyne (1770-1843)

Last year, at an auction, I picked up a small watercolour seascape by W H Pyne. It is a calm and unimposing picture of two men walking across dunes with two Beagle-like dogs. I was excited to buy it, not only because it was going for a tiny sum of money, but to have the pleasure of owning an original piece of work by an, albeit mostly forgotten now, Regency character.

William Henry Pyne was the son of a leather seller and became best known as an illustrator and the author of The Costumes of Great Britian, published 1808, which showed the costumes of ordinary people, and The History of Royal Residences, published 1816-19, which showed the interiors of the many royal palaces and was issued with the approval of the royal family. He attracted the patronage of the successful publisher Rudolf Ackermann but unfortunately, publishing caused Pyne significant financial problems and he ended up spending time in debtors prison and sadly died in poverty. His last book was entitled The Twenty-Ninth of May, a novel, and he died on 29th May 1843, following a long illness. Many of his watercolours, drawings, and books are held by the British
Museum and Victoria and Albert Museum, London.

(Illustration from The Costumes of Great Britain)
(Info from The Dictionary of National Biography)

Kate Allan

The Ladies' Pocket Magazine (1825-39)

My 1831 copy of this must-have book for the fashionable lady is conveniently pocket-sized and comprises 244 pages of short stories, poems, articles on famous women, dozens of ‘preceptive distichs’, fashion advice and twenty-seven illustrations, including some ravishing hand-coloured fashion plates.

The fashion advice discusses the fashion plates; for example, in the picture shown, we learn that the dress is ‘etherial (sic) blue tulle over satin’ and the boa is swansdown. It’s also obvious, from the model’s elaborate hair style, that a lady’s maid is a must.

The fashion section continues with news on what’s in and what’s out – Dunstable straw bonnets are in and this Season’s colours are emerald green, azure blue, lilac, rose and canary-yellow. In Paris, blond lace is very popular and, for jewellery, it’s gold and emeralds.

The ‘preceptive distichs’ are moral maxims, e.g:

Avoid voluptuous pleasure in your prime –
Your days will last and you enjoy their time.

Hm.

Some of the comments on famous women are, frankly, bizarre. Take this one on Anne Boleyn: ‘We think she remained a girl after she was a wife – a pretty, tittering partner in a dance, but devoid of the mind and steadiness suited to the conjugal state.’

Not a view of the forceful, intelligent and sophisticated Anne we hold today!

The short story, ‘Flirtation – a Tale of Modern Times’ has interesting echoes of Lydia Bennet. When the regiment comes to town, the lovely Emily’s attention wanders from the eligible Charles, who adores her, to the fascinating Colonel Darlington … Will Emily come to her senses before Charles runs out of patience? Or will Charles turn to her sensible older sister, Lucy?

Alas, poor Lucy doesn’t even get a look in; at twenty-seven, she’s far too old.

‘The Ladies’ Pocket Magazine’ tells us a lot about the period: what ladies wore, what they read and how they thought. Though, if I were editor, I’d demand that Charles dumps the tiresome Emily and goes for sensible Lucy instead.

Elizabeth Hawksley

Regencies

What makes a Regency novel? Is it the year in which it is set, or is it the style of the book? I've never really thought about this, but a few days ago I read an absolutely fabulous book, which for some reason I'd never come across before, Miss Pettigrew Lives For A Day.

It's brilliant - funny, endearing, exactly the sort of book I adore. It isn't a Regency in terms of its setting, the book is set in the 1930s, but in every other way it's like a Regency novel. In fact, it reminds me of Georgette Heyer and Jane Austen.



Here is the plot: Miss Pettigrew, a poverty stricken spinster, is forced to seek employment as a governess. She turns up unknowingly at the wrong address, and is confronted with Miss Delysia LaFosse, an alluring nightclub singer.

Miss Pettigrew has been warned all her life against everything Miss LaFosse represents: glamour, allure, lipstick, lovers, romantic entanglements. But Miss Pettigrew can't afford to be fussy and so she stays.


What happens next is a glorious comedy in which Miss Pettigrew finds friendship and fun. She also finds hidden depths. Like a female Jeeves - though her triumphs are usually the result of happy accidents rather than great brain - she manages to untangle the life of her new employer.

She is a kind of Miss Bates turns Grand Sophy and the results are heartwarming and hilarious. So although it's set in the 1930s, to me, in a funny kind of way, it's a Regency.

I never thought, when I picked it up in a bookshop last week, that I was holding in my hands one of my yet-to-be-discovered favourite novels. What a treat!

Amanda Grange

Mr Gurney's Waistcoat

Last month I treated myself to this delicious 18thc embroidered waistcoat in a North Norfolk auction.

I wanted it for itself and I had no idea I might discover anything about the owner until I showed it to my very knowledgeable local picture framer who took one look at the name written in ink in the lining and said "That must be one of the local Gurney family - the bankers." Gurney's bank, I discovered, eventually became Barclays.

And certainly, the group of expensive gentleman's clothing - all with Gurney names inside -that the waistcoat had been part of, did look like the wardrobe of a well to do country banker.

I started to research the Gurneys, looking for a "J H" who might have been the owner of the waistcoat. and found John Gurney, one of the banking cousins, 1750-1809. Is it his? The dates are right for the style, but it will take a lot more research before I can be more positive.

If it is John b.1750 then there is the added excitement that he was the father of the prison reformer, Elizabeth Fry.

Meanwhile I'm just admiring the exquisite embroidery and trying to work out how to get an 18thc waistcoat into a book set in India in 1805 which is what I'm writing now!

Louise Allen

RNA Luncheon

Yesterday I attended the RNA luncheon. It was in celebration of fifty years of the romantic fiction association and was one of the best attended. As usual it was impossible to hear what people were saying in the pre dinner period but there was certainly a buzz. Little gold motifs and hearts were strewn amongst chocolate buttons everywhere, both in the lounge area and on the table, and the meal at the Royal Gardens Hotel is always good. Pink champagne was on offer to all the guests in the pre dinner period. Most of the main publishers had a table where drinks were available to authors and as always it gives a chance for authors to meet their editiors and publishers.

The speaker was Barry Norman, who made a witty speech but thankfully short because of all the presentations, of which there were many more this year. Besides the main award and the award for the best love story - for which Louise Allen was nominated but sadly not picked - there were the People's Choice, the Romantic Comedy, and the Romantic Film award. Also a couple of lifetime awards. If you want to see all the winners you should visit the RNA website. I can tell you that Lost Dogs and Lonely Hearts By Santa Montefiore won the main prize and Animal Instincts by Nell Dixon won the Love Story of the year.

All in all it was well done and long may the RNA continue to find supporters and be successful.

Anne Herries

Georgian Blackpool

Jo Beverley here.

There's not much to Georgian Blackpool, I'm afraid. The roots of the town are very much Victorian sea-side resort, as with my home town, Morecambe. But Blackpool is where I went to secondary school -- to Layton Hill Convent, which is now St. Mary's College, and where I wrote my first book. It was handwritten in a school exercise book, and I don't think it had a beginning, middle, and end, but it was a start.

Blackpool is where I'll be on Friday the 19th, in Morrisons, from 11am to 1pm, signing the second book of my Georgian historicals, Tempting Fortune, which Publishers Weekly declared, "Romance at its best!"

We sold out of the first book, Lady Notorious, when I was there in November (in picture), and I must say the Blackpool people were very friendly and interested in a fun, sexy, adventurous read. We're hoping for more of the same. If you're in the area, I'd love to meet you.

Tempting Fortune picks up a thread from Lady Notorious, sending Lord Arcenbryght Malloren (strange names courtesy of a father fascinated by Anglo-Saxon times) to Maidenhead to retrieve a document. There, he meets a challenge, and Portia St. Claire meets her fate.

Chapter 1 Moonlight shafted into the chilly hall, making mysteries of quite ordinary things. Surely it was that moonlight, thought Portia St. Claire, that made the intruder look like the Prince of Darkness. White, blade-fine features of eerie beauty; dark leathery wings trailing behind.... She jerked her heavy pistol to point at its heart. "Stop!" The figure stopped. Hands appeared. Long-fingered and elegant, they rose slightly in a pacifying gesture, and the movement showed that the black wings were merely a long dark cloak. Portia sucked in a shuddering breath. That meant the ghostly features must be flesh and blood. It was a common housebreaker, that was all. Of course, that meant her impulsive action had brought her face to face with a criminal. A wiser woman hearing breaking glass would have hidden under the bed. Portia had grabbed her brother's pistol, checked that it was loaded, and crept downstairs to see what was going on. Her motto was, "A fear faced is a fear defeated," but now she wondered if that always held true. This dark intruder did not appear particularly defeated, and having stopped him, she had no idea what to do next. Beneath his cloak the intruder's clothes must be dark too, for the only places touched by moonlight were his watchful face, his fine hands, and the froth of white lace around them. Expensive lace. He wore a ring on his left hand. The large stone was dark, but something in the way it caught the weak moonlight told her it was a precious jewel. A glint beside his face suggested another expensive ornament, a jeweled earring. Not a common housebreaker after all. "I have, if you will notice, stopped." The tone was courteous and his accent spoke of wealth and breeding. His voice carried the drawl of a man of fashion, but was unfashionably deep, and used softly in a way that did not calm her agitated nerves. "You have stopped," Portia said sharply. "Now you will turn and leave." "Or?" "Or I will summon the Watch, sirrah! I heard breaking glass. You are quite patently a housebreaker." She saw the flicker of movement that was a smile. "I suppose I am. But how do you intend to summon the Watch while guarding me, mignonne?" Portia clenched her teeth. "Leave. Now!" "Or?" he asked again. "Or I will shoot you." "Much better," he approved. "That you could do.""

You can read the rest of the first scene here.

Portia and Bryght have nothing in common and yet fate keeps bringing them together until the event that changes everything -- when she is being auctioned to pay her brother's gaming debts and Bryght must buy her to save her. That's the scene depicted on the cover of the UK edition.

Talking about Morecambe, in February my regency romance The Stanforth Secrets was reissued, and it's set in my home area. As Morecambe, like Blackpool, didn't really exist back then, I placed it in the very old town of Heysham. Despite the cover, this is a "sweet" romance. Tempting Fortune, as you'll have guessed, is much more spicy.

Tempting Fortune involves a significant real character, the Duke of Bridgwater, and initially I assumed everyone knew about his work with canals. Of course that isn't true, especially in America and that created a problem.

One day I found I'd written a long passage in which Bryght and Bridgwater explain the whole subject. Not only was it dry, it was bad writing, because they would never have done that. It might as well have begun, "As you know..." which is always a big warning flag.

Thus began my practice of including an author's note in the back of every book, which gives me an opportunity to explaining historical background that doesn't fit in the story. I find many readers enjoy them in their own right. From that, I moved to my Minepast blog, which is an outlet for the fascinating things I stumble across while researching.

I recently posted a link to some ships' accounts, and to an eighteenth century account book. Not, alas, the book itself but a paper written about it back in the '50s. Where is it now, I want to know.

All best wishes,

Jo

Fancy a game of loo?

I fell in love with the Georgian era when I was nine and saw an engraving of a coffee house. Love at first sight.
The coffee houses were situated close to the City, and very often they shared streets with the more insalubrious gaming house. In “A Betting Chance,” which is out next month, the heroine, Sapphira, goes to a gaming house to try to win enough money to run away from home. So my research for this book had a lot of the shadier side of Georgian London. And what fascinating research it turned out to be!
“A Betting Chance” is set in 1756, the time when Covent Garden held sway as the center of London’s nightlife. With the two London theatres close, it could draw on the men out for a night’s carousal, after the balls and the theatre were done. Mother Brown’s was one of the most notorious of these houses, and I borrowed the name for the madam of the whorehouse in my book. Covent Garden is a central covered market with an outer layer of shops that face the piazza it’s set in. Around that are tall, redbrick buildings and while the original Mother Brown’s was in one of the less salubrious and shack-like centre buildings, for the purposes of my story, I moved her out to the redbricks.
In this period, the notorious Harris’s List which was updated frequently, told the pleasure-seeker where he could find the best whores, and what they were known for. Even when “conversation” is an obvious metaphor for sex (a term that is anachronistic to the Georgian period in the sense of “having sex”) the whores are described as individuals. One has “Fine, black eyes,” and another has “a delicate way of disposing her hands.” A version of Harris’s List is still available today, and is eye-opening reading!
In an age when people didn’t hold back, Covent Garden held the most colourful and the most notorious of the ladies of the night. Depicted by Hogarth, most notably in “The Rake’s Progress,” whores came in all shapes and sizes and of various refinements. A courtesan was expected to do more than service her male customers in the bedroom. She had to be inventive, elegant and she might hold salons that rivalled those of the most exacting society hostess. A society mirrored.
Respectable women never ventured into these establishments, at least not if they weren’t in disguise. They faced extortion and disgrace if they were discovered so a respectable woman had to be really desperate to go forth into the mire of the Garden after dark. During the day, though, it was a market in the early morning, where much of the produce of the market gardens that surrounded London was sold and a site for several shops and coffeehouses. While coffeehouses were male-only concerns, a respectable woman could shop at the market (very early, though) or visit the shops without approbriation, and she could ogle the shuttered houses that held the ladies of the night, their shadowy counterparts.
More about the book next month, but check here on the Samhain website if you want to see the blurb, extract and the gorgeous cover art.

Miss Bennet & Mr Bingley

‘Darcy, what do you think of my new home?’ Mr Bingley enquired anxiously as he ushered his guests into the entrance hall where the staff were lined up for inspection.
His friend looked around, and nodded. ‘It will do, Bingley. It is exactly as you described it. The situation is ideal, not too far from town, and what I have seen of the grounds they have been well maintained. This entrance hall is spacious, no doubt the other rooms equally so.’
His sister, Caroline, immediately fluttered to Darcy’s side. ‘Mr Darcy, how right you are to say so. It is nothing compared to Pemberley of course, there is nothing so beautiful as your estate in Derbyshire. Hertfordshire is nothing compared to that. However, I am sure we shall all be very comfortable here, Charles. As long as we have each other we shall not be starved of acceptable company.’
The housekeeper stepped forward and curtsied politely. ‘Shall I show your guests to their rooms, sir? There will be a cold collation served in the small dining room at noon. Cook thought you might wish for something after your journey.’
He nodded and smiled amiably. ‘Thank you, Nicholls, I am sure you have everything as it should be. Caroline, Louisa, if you care to view your apartments, Darcy, Hurst and I shall stroll around the grounds until you return.’
‘Bingley, I am a trifle fatigued after the journey, I think I shall find somewhere to put my feet up for a while.’
‘Hurst you are a lazy devil. Come, Darcy, surely you are not tired? Nothing so trifling as a carriage ride from town will put you out, I am sure.’
Darcy laughed. ‘Show me the interior first, my friend, if the ladies are to return in half an hour that shall not be time enough to view the grounds.’
Bingley led him through the drawing-room, the smaller parlour, the breakfast room, the dining room before arriving at the billiard room. ‘Shall we play a frame or two whilst we wait, Darcy?’
‘It would be better to leave it until after we have eaten, we would scarce have got into the game before we would have to leave it.’ He strolled across to the long windows that opened on to the terrace. ‘I cannot tell you, Bingley, what a relief it is to be out of town. Although it is empty of society I still feel myself pursued every time I appear in public. Do you not find every matchmaking matron on your tail hoping to entice you to offer for their daughter?’
‘I do agree. It is what I most dislike about being there. Here in the country people are more natural, are prepared to walk from place to place regardless of the weather.’ He joined his friend to gaze out on to the well manicured park. ‘The deer and sheep that keep the grass looking so smart are leased to me, along with the house. I have already made myself known to the principal families in the neighbourhood, I shall introduce you at the ball tomorrow.’
Mr Darcy yawned. ‘No doubt we shall both be fawned upon; I am certain that news of our circumstances will have been much discussed. Sometimes I am tempted to offer for the first eligible young woman and be done with it. Pemberley needs a hostess and Georgiana would benefit from a sensible female in her life.’
‘Is your sister still at Pemberley with her companion?’
Mr Darcy nodded. ‘She is almost an adult and I believe I must make different arrangements for her soon.’
‘Bring her here for a visit some time. My sisters dote on her.’ He frowned as he considered Darcy’s last remark about marrying for convenience. ‘I shall not marry for practical reasons, I intend to marry for love.’
The sound of the ladies in the distance cut short their conversation. ‘I am intending to enjoy myself here, and I know that both my sisters are looking forward to dressing in their finest and impressing the locals. Come, Darcy, let us join Caroline and Louisa. This afternoon we shall ride around the park and you must give me your opinion of the farms. I might consider purchasing Netherfield if you think it suitable.’


I'm delighted to tell you all that my 'Miss Bennet & Mr Bingley' story is now up on www.regencyreads.com . I love the cover done for me by Jane Odiwe - and I know this has prompted several readers to buy the book.

I will be appearing with Maureen Lee, Jean Fullerton, Fay Cunningham and Sheila Norton at the Essex Book Festival on March 17th, at 2.pm, at Halstead Library. There are still tickets, so do please come along if you live in the area. We are the Essex Writers' panel and will be talking briefly about our work and ourselves and then answering questions from the floor. We will then be signing books for anyone who wishes to buy a copy.
Fenella Miller
www.fenellajmiller.co.uk

The London Beer Flood of 1814

I am now at the point in my current manuscript where me hero and heroine have been marooned alone together, trapped in a cellar as a result of the Great London Beer Flood. When I first read about the 1814 beer flood I thought it was a joke. I'd seen a snippet about it in a newspaper but I had never come across it in any reference books or other fictional books set at the time. Once I started to investigate, though, I discovered that it had been a real event and of course I felt it was too good an idea not to put in a book!

The London Beer Flood occurred on Monday 17th October 1814. Meux's Brewery Co Ltd, established in 1764, was a London brewery owned by Sir Henry Meux. Meux, like many modern brewers, bought out smaller breweries - one such being the Horse Shoe Brewery (founded by a Mr Blackburn, and famous for its 'black beer'), located on the junction of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street. On the roof of the Horse Shoe stood several large vats of beer. The largest was the vat of porter - a 22-foot-high monstrosity that held 511,920 litres of beer, in turn held together by a total of 29 large iron hoops. For some idea of its vast size, The Times report of 1 April, 1785 read:

"There is a cask now building at Messrs. Meux & Co.'s brewery...the size of which exceeds all credibility, being designed to hold 20,000 barrels of porter; the whole expense attending the same will be upwards of £10,000."

By October 1814 one particular batch of beer had been fermenting for months and the metal and wood of the huge vat was beginning to show the strain of holding back the thousands of litres. Suddenly, at about 6.00pm, one of the heavy metal hoops snapped and the contents of the porter vat exploded, causing a chain reaction with the surrounding vats. The resulting noise was apparently heard as far away as five miles.

A total of 1,224,000 litres of beer under pressure smashed through the twenty-five foot high brick wall of the building, and gushed out into the surrounding area - the slum of St Giles. Many people lived in crowded conditions there and some were caught completely unaware by a tsunami of beer. The torrent flooded through houses, demolishing two in its wake. At the Tavistock Arms pub in Great Russell Street the 14-year-old barmaid Eleanor Cooper was buried under the rubble. The Times reported on 19 October of the flood:

"The bursting of the brew-house walls, and the fall of heavy timber, materially contributed to aggravate the mischief, by forcing the roofs and walls of the adjoining houses."

Fearful that all the beer should go to waste, hundreds of people ran outside carrying pots, pans, and kettles to scoop it up. Some apparently simply knelt down to lap at the liquid washing through the streets. Meanwhile back at the brewery, one man managed to save his brother from going under the vast wave, but as the tide receded the true damage was revealed. The beer flood left nine people dead. Some had drowned (like Mary Mulvey and her 3-year-old son Thomas), others were swept away in the flood and died of the injuries they sustained (two young children: Hannah Banfield, 4, and Sarah Bates, 3), and the final victim succumbed some days later to alcohol poisoning. He had heroically attempted to stem the tide by drinking as much beer as he humanly could.

Some relatives of the drowned took to exhibiting their families' corpses in their homes and charging a fee for viewing. In one house too many people crowded in and the floor gave out, plunging them all into a cellar that was still half full of beer. This morbid exhibition moved locations, attracting more custom, and eventually the police closed it down. The stench of the beer apparently lasted for months and after the initial excitement many found both their homes and livelihoods swept away with the flood. The Meux Brewery Company was taken to court over the accident, but the judge ruled that although devastating, the flood was an 'Act of God' and the deaths were simply by 'casualty'.

An extraordinary true story, and one I simply could not resist!

A Chance to Love for Georgiana Darcy: The Darcy Cousins

You’re not supposed to have favourites as a writer, but I have to admit I’m partial to my just-released novel, The Darcy Cousins. Perhaps it’s because it’s a coming-of-age story for Georgiana Darcy and I enjoyed the way she develops and learns to trust herself as well as trust in love again after her disastrous experience with Wickham. Or perhaps because I was able to laugh as I wrote it, because it really did go in unexpected directions for me. And I love the hero, Mr Gatley, who is the quintessential, properly attired Regency hero who thinks himself morally superior and has to be taken down a peg or two. He puts me in mind of those arrogant cats who always pretend to groom themselves when you call them or try to get their attention.

(Mr Gatley Silhouette a-la-Jane Austen)

And, then, of course, though in a different way entirely, I really loved revisiting Lady Catherine, who to me is such a deliciously memorable villain. She’s certainly in good form in The Darcy Cousins.

Description
A young lady in disgrace should at least strive to behave with decorum...

Dispatched from America to England under a cloud of scandal, Mr. Darcy's incorrigible American cousin, Clarissa Darcy, manages to provoke Lady Catherine de Bourgh, Mr. Collins, and the parishioners of Hunsford all in one morning!

And there are more surprises in store for that bastion of tradition, Rosings Park, when the family gathers for their annual Easter visit. Georgiana Darcy, generally a shy model of propriety, decides to take a few lessons from her unconventional cousin, to the delight of a neighbouring gentleman. Anne de Bourgh, encouraged to escape her "keeper" Mrs. Jenkinson, simply...vanishes.

But the trouble really starts when Clarissa and Georgiana both set out to win the heart of the same young man...

Monica Fairview

Letters from a Regency Lady

Regency Letters Three

To Captain Robert Jenson, from his sister Lady Horatia Melton. 22nd February 1816


My very dear Robert

It is with the greatest sadness that I write to tell you of our sister's loss. Words cannot express what I feel for her and I know that you too will feel as I. She is prostrate with grief and cannot be comforted. Mama has begged me to go to them and so I shall. Melton is not pleased but for the moment his feelings shall not weigh with me.

It is confirmed that Melton is unfaithful again. The lady in question was at pains to make the situation clear and if I am to believe her she is already carrying the child of their union. Perhaps I should have confronted him and demanded the truth but I find that I mind less than I once did. I shall go to my sister and stay for as long as she needs me. Melton may fetch me when he is ready to be a husband again. You will be shocked, dearest, when I tell you that your sister has contemplated divorce. If it were not that I know Melton would never agree, I should have spoken to him. No, do not frown and lecture me, Robert. It is only in my letters to you that I would discuss such a shocking step.

You will think your sister only writes to you of bad news so I shall tell you that I have made a new friend. We met first at the Regent's ball and again a few days later. However, our friendship did not truly begin until we both visited the new art gallery in Bond Street. It seems we have the same taste in pictures for we both stood staring at one particular picture of a child with a dog. I said that I should like to purchase it but must wait for my allowance next month. He offered to make me a gift of the picture. Naturally I refused. We walked together in the park and parted on the easiest of terms. This morning the picture was delivered to me. There was no message of any kind. However, I need none for I am certain that my new friend bought it for me.

I ought to return the gift for it would be most improper of me to keep it, but do you know, I think I shall. Now you will think your sister entirely lost to impropriety and perhaps I am. I shall not tell you the name of my new friend for if you think hard you will know.

I shall write again soon, most probably from Bath for it is there that Lady Bathurst intends to take the water.

Your loving sister Horatia


I hope you are enjoying the letters. Love to all, Anne Herries

Inspired by the Sir John Soane's Museum

How to describe the Sir John Soane’s Museum in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, London? Aladdin’s cave? A Time Travel experience? A Gothic extravaganza? It is all of these and more – and an absolute treasure trove for a 19th century historical novelist.

When Soane, one of our finest architects, died in 1837, he left his house and collection to the nation on condition that they remained as he left them. As the house was both office and home, we have a sort of time warp of how Soane actually lived.

His home is quirky in the extreme, from the vibrant Pompeian red walls of the library with its hanging arches placed in front of mirrors just underneath the ceiling to trick the eye into thinking there’s space behind, to the sophisticated sulphur-yellow drawing-room and the eerie Monk’s parlour. One of the most fascinating things about the rooms is how they’re lit. Almost every wall is covered from floor to ceiling with either paintings or architectural features from his collection, which leaves little room for windows. Soane’s ingenious solutions include high windows immediately under the ceiling, or even in the ceiling itself. The breakfast room, for example, has a saucer dome ceiling with a lantern window in the centre.

The basement is a hotch-potch of sculpture, ranging from an Egyptian sarcophagus to statues, sections of cornice, rosettes, bas reliefs; anything interesting that took his fancy. There is a picture gallery at each end, one of which contains his superb collection of Hogarths. Heaven knows what Mrs Soane made of it all. It must have been like living inside a Gothic novel.

I particularly love Soane’s tiny study with his specially made desk with a top which slides out, and his dressing-room beyond with the original wash basin, together with a mahogany-cased pump with a handle to bring the water up from the well.

In the museum shop, I pounced on a copiously illustrated book The Soanes at Home by the museum archivist, Susan Palmer, which examines the Soanes’ domestic life in fascinating detail: where the servants slept and what they did, the household bills, what the washing arrangements were and so on.

This house is guaranteed to inspire you! And it’s free, too. www.soane.org.uk

Elizabeth Hawksley

Henry Tilney's Diary

Little did I think, when I started writing Henry Tilney's Diary, that other projects would overtake me and I would end up writing Mr Darcy, Vampyre and stories for Loves Me Loves Me Not, The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance and A Darcy Christmas before I finished it. But I'm glad those projects overtook me, firstly because I loved them and secondly because it gave my ideas about Henry more time to mature.

It's been the most demanding diary to write, firstly because of the Gothic element and secondly because Henry is Austen's funniest hero. But it's also been great fun to write because of those extra elements.

I'm now on the final part of the diary. In Northanger Abbey, the story is wrapped up very quickly. Henry and Catherine are unoficially engaged but Henry's father won't give his consent to the marriage. Jane Austen ties it up neatly with a deus ex machina ending, which is the perfect way to end a Gothic novel, saying:


What probable circumstance could work upon a temper like the general’s? The circumstance which chiefly availed was the marriage of his daughter with a man of fortune and consequence, which took place in the course of the summer — an accession of dignity that threw him into a fit of good humour, from which he did not recover till after Eleanor had obtained his forgiveness of Henry, and his permission for him “to be a fool if he liked it!”
The marriage of Eleanor Tilney, her removal from all the evils of such a home as Northanger had been made by Henry’s banishment, to the home of her choice and the man of her choice, is an event which I expect to give general satisfaction among all her acquaintance. My own joy on the occasion is very sincere. I know no one more entitled, by unpretending merit, or better prepared by habitual suffering, to receive and enjoy felicity. Her partiality for this gentleman was not of recent origin; and he had been long withheld only by inferiority of situation from addressing her. His unexpected accession to title and fortune had removed all his difficulties; and never had the general loved his daughter so well in all her hours of companionship, utility, and patient endurance as when he first hailed her “Your Ladyship!” Her husband was really deserving of her; independent of his peerage, his wealth, and his attachment, being to a precision the most charming young man in the world. Any further definition of his merits must be unnecessary; the most charming young man in the world is instantly before the imagination of us all. Concerning the one in question, therefore, I have only to add — aware that the rules of composition forbid the introduction of a character not connected with my fable — that this was the very gentleman whose negligent servant left behind him that collection of washing–bills, resulting from a long visit at Northanger, by which my heroine was involved in one of her most alarming adventures.
The influence of the viscount and viscountess in their brother’s behalf was assisted by that right understanding of Mr. Morland’s circumstances which, as soon as the general would allow himself to be informed, they were qualified to give.

I'm now fleshing this out and thinking of the possible ways in which Eleanor and her beau (as Mrs Jennings would undoubtedly call him) meet again, then I have all the fun of their wedding to look forward to, and their help with Henry and Catherine's affair. I see house parties ahead, with Catherine and Henry getting to know each other further at Eleanor's new home, and I see an important conversation between Catherine and Frederick. She thinks very ill of him at the end of Northanger Abbey but I think she will come to like him, and I see their reconciliation starting like this:

'I think we have more in common than you might suppose,' said Frederick.
Catherine tried to excuse herself, but he would not let her go.
'You are still angry with me for having come between your brother and his betrothed,' said Frederick.
Catherine did not deny it.
'You liked Isabella.'
'I certainly did not,' said Catherine indignantly. 'I never was more deceived in anyone in my life.'
'But you thought she was good enough for your brother.'
'No.'
'Then it is as I say, we have more in common than you suppose, for I did not think she was good enough for him, either.'
It took Catherine some moments to digest this, and then she said, 'You mean you came between them deliberately?'
'Let us just say, I gave Isabella an opportunity to show her true colours and she availed herself of it,' he said.


I also have plans for a happy ending for Frederick. I see him as a cynic with the heart of a romantic, and I can't bear to see his romantic potential - oh, all right, his house and his fortune! - go to waste. But who will ever be good enough for him?

Amanda Grange

Copious Particulars of Her Majesty's Drawing-Room

On May 2nd 1816 Princess Charlotte, the only child of the Prince Regent and second in line to the throne, married Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg. The marriage was to end the next year with the tragic death of the princess in childbirth, but, happily without the benefit of a crystal ball, the marriage was greeted with great acclaim.

Her grandmother the Queen held a Drawing Room especially to receive congratulations upon this significant occasion and the magazine La Belle Assemblée provided “copious particulars” of the event.

The Drawing Room was to commence at two o’clock at Buckingham House (known as the Queen’s House and later, of course, as Buckingham Palace after George IV had it remodelled) but the company began to arrive at twelve and continued coming until “past four at all the different entrances.”

“The distinguished characters who came to Court were kept in their carriages an uncommon time in the regular ranks; the carriages frequently reached to Oxford-street, and some who resided in St James’s-square had to go as far as Oxford-street before they could get into the rank.”

“The grand object of attraction, the Princess Charlotte and the Prince of Saxe-Coburg arrived at a quarter before two in state; their carriage being preceded by three others, in which were their full suites…escorted by a company of the Life Guards. The Prince Regent, the Duke and Duchess of York, the Duke of Gloucester, accompanied by his Royal Sister, came in state…”
“A few minutes after two o’clock her Majesty, with her usual punctuality, entered the Drawing Room with her numerous and illustrious family, all looking in extreme good health.”

Those who had come to pay their respects could not leave because of the great throng of carriages. “The windows of the Palace were in consequence, filled with elegantes, others promenaded the Palace courtyard and the grass-plat: and such an assemblage, in such splendid dresses, parading in the open air, must rarely have been seen in England upon any occasion.”
As well as the fashionable there was a full turn out of judges in their robes, King’s Counsel in their wigs, naval and army officers and the court servants in full state livery.

Not surprisingly there was a huge crowd to watch this spectacle – “...the top of the Queen’s guard-house covered with respectable persons, several trees filled with persons [presumably not so respectable], and the whole Park filled with people and carriages.”

La Belle Assemblée was unable to list all those presented because of the number, but the reasons for their receiving this honour were many and various – “Mrs Territt, on her arrival from abroad…Viscount Kinnaird, on his coming to his title… Capt. Toser on his promotion...Sir Simon Smart on his marriage…Colonel Thomas, of the Bengal army, by the Marquis of Wellesley…” Numerous young ladies were presented by their mothers.

There were twelve dukes present, including de Bourbon and Orleans, five duchesses, fifteen marquesses with their wives, forty seven earls and their spouses and column after column of lesser aristocracy, officers, ambassadors, bishops, right down to a list of plain misters and misses.

The magazine devoted seven pages, double column, to descriptions of the outfits worn by every female guest – in strict order of precedence.
Ladies would still be wearing hoops – ludicrous with the fashionable high waist - and ostrich plumes, and the men would be wearing dress swords and carrying chapeau bras, so the crowding must have been made infinitely worse by the clothes. Hoops were abolished by George VI and the print of Lady Worsley Holmes (above) at his first Drawing Room in 1820 shows this more rational style.

The Duchess of Buccleugh, to take one duchess at random, was wearing a white satin petticoat, decorated with rich white and gold stripes and a purple satin train. She seems to have been somewhat outdone in the bling stakes by the Marchioness of Blandford in “white satin petticoat, with magnificent gold lama draperies, elegantly ornamented with gold cord and tassels; train of purple satin, trimmed with a full lama border: headdress - feathers and jewels.”

The heat must have been incredible – and the smell of all those tight-packed bodies would hardly have been masked by perfume. And how on earth did they manage for loos – especially in those outfits? The modern mind boggles.

Louise Allen

Food - for thought.

Bread: a staple of our diet that comes in so many shapes, sizes and flavours that we are spoiled for choice.

But in the C18th the poor had no yeast. Instead, when making bread the housewife would set aside a lump of kneaded dough on a saucer and keep moistening it with water. After a few days, and by the time she was ready to bake her next batch of bread, this dough would have grown a fur coat of mildew. As for the smell - let's not go there. But it was still added to the new dough mix because there was nothing else.

In Cornwall, bread baked on an open hearth was either a “kettle” loaf, baked on a circular iron plate covered by another iron dome called a “kettle,” ( the one hung from the cross bar in the chimney for boiling water was always known as the "tay kettle") The other kind of loaf was a "manshun" (the Cornish version of the French manchet) This led to a wonderful misunderstanding by the famous miner evangelist, Billy Bray, who had chosen for his text the verse beginning; “In my Father’s house are many mansions.”
“Just think of that, my friends,” the preacher cried fervently. “No more barley bread up there, no more sky-blue and sinker*, but pure wheaten manshuns for one and all, once we get up to Father’s house.”
We smile, but for the people to whom he was preaching, most of whom were desperately poor, the thought of plenty of fresh wholesome wheat bread – in contrast to the coarse dark barley bread that made up their staple diet – sounded like heaven indeed.

*Sky-blue and sinker: a breakfast dish. While a crock full of water was coming to the boil, a handful of barley flour was mixed in a basin with some “scald” milk (from which the cream had skimmed after scalding.) This mixture was added to the crock and simmered for a few minutes, then poured into basins on top of crumbled barley bread. As the bread remained sunk on the bottom, all that could be seen was the pale blue liquid – hence its name.

A true story from 1928: Three children arrived at school one morning looking so pale and cold the schoolmaster asked them if they had had any breakfast. They said yes. He asked what they had eaten. “Egg broth.” “Whatever is that?” he asked. “Please sir, bits of bread soaked in the water that father’s egg was boiled in.”

Jane Jackson.

Before I sign off: I've posted a competition on my website - the prize is an unabridged audiobook of my Cornish historical romance Bonded Heart. Why not have a go? www.janejackson.net