Colonel Brandon's Diary - UK paperback

I'm absolutely thrilled that the UK paperback of Colonel Brandon's Diary is finally here. Its publication date was chosen to coincide with the bicentennial of Sense and Sensibility and it's a beautiful edition, I just love the cover. It's taken from the same portrait as the hardback cover, but it shows more of it, so that we see "Brandon" is holding "little Eliza" by the hand.

When I set out to write my retelling of Sense and Sensibility, I was intending to write Edward's diary, but as soon as I came across the short passage in which Brandon recounts his tragic past, I knew that his was the diary I had to write. From optimistic youth to devastated young man to bereaved adult - and then, miraculously to a man of hope and love again, courtesy of Marianne Dashwood - I loved every minute of writing his diary, and I hope you love reading it, too.

Here's a taster from the middle of the book, when Brandon challenges Willoughby to a duel.

The carriage pulled away. The horses’ hooves sounding strangely muted and the turning of the wheels was no more than a grating whisper as the carriage bumped over the cobbles.
‘This damnable fog,’ said Green, peering out of the window. ‘I hope it clears by the time we reach the heath or you will not be able to see each other, let alone fire.’
We were in luck. When we stepped out onto the heath we could see for twenty paces, enough for our business.

There was no sign of Willoughby’s carriage.
Ten minutes later Willoughby arrived, attended by two men who looked nervous, as well they might. They were dandies, not soldiers, and had probably never been seconds in their lives.
‘I will give him another chance to change his mind,’ said Green.
He went over to Willoughby, they had words, and Green returned, saying, ‘The duel is to go ahead. It is for you to choose the distance, Brandon.’
That done, the seconds met in the middle and loaded the pistols in each other’s presence to ensure fair play, then Green and Wareham returned to hand me my weapon.

‘Willoughby’s man is to count the paces. After the count of ten, you may turn and fire at will. Is this agreeable to you?’
‘It is.’
‘Then let us get it over with.’
I removed my coat. Across the heath, Willoughby removed his. The fog was lifting minute by minute, and I could see him clearly. We came together and stood back to back. His man counted the paces. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . I thought of Eliza abandoned and left all alone . . .six . . . seven . . . eight . . . nine . . .
‘Ten!’
I turned.

He turned, too, his arm already raised. He rushed his shot, firing without taking proper aim, and the bullet went wide, so wide I did not even feel it pass. He blanched, and dropped his arm. I saw his knees begin to buckle. I lifted my arm. And then he turned and I thought that he would run. But the horrified look on the faces on his seconds curtailed his cowardice and he turned back towards me, white faced and trembling, turned sideways on to present as small a target as possible.
For Eliza, I thought.
I took aim.

But as I did so, I saw not Willoughby and not Eliza, but Marianne. I imagined her face as she heard that Willoughby was dead; I imagined her grief, and I was horrified, for, if she was still enamoured of him, she would not grieve easily or quietly, but would suffer with all the depth of her being. If I killed him, I would cause her great pain, and with her nature, it was a pain she would not be certain of overcoming. And so I raised my arm and fired into the air.
Willoughby fell to his knees, and had to be assisted to his feet by his seconds.
I walked over to him and looked at him in disgust.
‘You are not worth shooting,’ I said.

Then Green brought me my coat and we climbed into the carriage. It pulled away, jolting over the heath before turning on to the road.
We went back to Green and Wareham’s lodgings. By the time we reached them, a wind had sprung up and it had driven most of the fog away, revealing a cold, clean light as a pale sun broke through the clouds.
‘You deloped,’ said Wareham, as we went inside. ‘Why?’
‘Because there is another young woman caught in Willoughby’s toils,’ I said, as I took off my outdoor clothes and threw myself into a chair, ‘and I feared that, if I killed him, she would love him for ever.’


Colonel Brandon's Diary is in UK bookshops now, or you can order from The Book Depository which offers free worldwide postage and packing, as well as Amazon and other sellers.

Amanda Grange

Dangerous To Know

Dangerous To Know/ Linda Sole
Now published in kindle and at ARE

This is for the readers who wanted Northaven's Story!

Enjoy

The Marquis of Mooraven yawned behind his hand, and, having gathered up his winnings, rose from the table more than two thousand guineas richer than he’d been when he sat down. He felt no elation, though there was a time when he’d needed every penny he won from his gambling, but that was before his Uncle Tomas obligingly left him his title, estate and fortune. He had several titles to his name, amongst them earl, marquis, twice over, baron and count, but was using his uncle’s for reasons of his own. In time, he might end as a duke by way of his mother’s family being in danger of losing every male heir in the line. The dowager duchess had summoned him only two days before he left for Paris.




‘My husband’s father had the deed of title altered so that if his male heirs failed his daughters might inherit the dukedom as well as the estate. As you know, my only surviving daughter died last year and her infant son is sickly. My three sons have died. That leaves you, Mooraven – my sister-in-law’s grandson. Sorry as I am to say it, if the child dies you will become Duke of Rothmere.’



‘How tiresome for you,’ Mooraven drawled. He had crossed swords with the dowager before, and though he did not dislike her, knew that she disapproved of him with every bone of her body. ‘You must guard him well, ma’am. I advise you to employ the best nannies – and have him seen regularly by a doctor of good repute.’



‘You almost sound sincere.’ The elderly lady fixed him with a hawkish stare. ‘Did I not know you for a rogue and a scoundrel I might believe you had no interest in the Rothmere fortune.’



‘If that is your only concern, you may sleep easily in your bed,’ Mooraven replied, a faint smile on his sensual lips. ‘I may run through my fortune once more if I suffer heavy losses at the table, but I have more sense than to gamble away my entire inheritance. I assure you I wish young William nothing but good fortune.’



‘I am an old woman,’ the dowager said. ‘I may not have long to live. Rothmere has no male relatives to care for him – except you, though you are in truth too far removed. I dare not hope that you would take an interest in his welfare?’



‘Should I hear of your unfortunate demise, which I hope may be some years distant, I would offer my help – such as it is. I should not have thought you would care to have your precious heir subjected to my influence?’



‘Needs must when the devil drives.’ She arched her brows at him. ‘Are all the stories true, Mooraven? I hear that you have ruined virgins, fleeced green youths at the card table and only God knows what else. A little wildness in youth is acceptable, but surely you have sown your oats by now? Where is your pride? You have good blood in your veins. Show a little decency. Marry and settle down before it is too late. If you continue this way no decent woman will have you.’



‘What makes you think it is not already too late?’ A faintly mocking smile played over his lips. ‘Do you not know that they say I have sold my soul to Lucifer?’



‘Do not be ridiculous! I should not believe such tales – but I do believe that you have ruined young women for I knew one of them. Miss Hazelton’s mother was once a friend of my daughter…’



‘Since you know me for the rogue I am, why should I deny it? All you need to concern yourself with, duchess, is that your heir is safe from me – and if need be, I shall be his guardian, if not his mentor.’



‘I thought the girl sly,’ the duchess said, surprising him. ‘I should not be surprised if she lied. Very well, I shall not ask for your confidence. You have given your word and I may rest easy in my mind.’



‘I trust you are not ill, ma’am?’



‘At the moment I am perfectly hale, sir.’



‘Then I may go to Paris with a clear conscience.’



Mooraven had kissed her hand and taken his leave. He sincerely hoped that it would be many years before he was called upon to keep his promise. His work was not yet done. He had an enemy to track down and bring to justice – justice for men foully betrayed. His brow darkened with anger as he thought of the years that he had borne the scorn of men who had once been his friends. They believed him a traitor or at the very least a drunken fool. Though provoked to bitterness and humiliated almost beyond bearing, he had never given them or anyone else a hint of the true story. Until he had found and punished the true traitor he must keep his silence.



Lost in his thoughts, Mooraven did not notice the woman until she knocked into him as she passed. The scent of her perfume alerted his senses and he turned his head to watch her leave the room. She was dressed in black, the most beautiful woman he had seen in an age – a woman who turned all heads.



He’d noticed her briefly earlier in the evening. She had been losing steadily at the tables all night and the glitter in her eyes had prompted him to ask his neighbour who she was.



‘She is the Countess Madeline Dupree,’ the man answered. ‘She was wed to a vile depraved brute who died of some unspeakable illness a few months ago. Until his death she was never seen in company. Now she comes regularly to parties where she can gamble. I lost a thousand francs to her one night. Couldn’t concentrate on my cards when she has such perfect flesh and that gown reveals more of her charms than a man can stand without ravishing her…’



Mooraven had smiled, because the gown dipped daringly to reveal a glimpse of her silken skin and breasts so full and perfect that they must have most of the men in the room lusting after her. A deliberate ploy to make them careless with their cards perhaps – though she seemed to be losing that night.



Why had she knocked into him so heavily? It was almost intentional…a sudden thought made him thrust his hand into his pocket to search for the purse of gold he’d carelessly thrust there when he rose from the tables. His searching fingers found nothing but his kerchief. The gold had gone. She had taken it! For a moment his senses reeled: the countess a thief? Impossible one would think and yet she had lost heavily at the tables.



His gaze narrowed as he went outside, looking for the woman in black. Ahead of him in the dimly lit Paris boulevard he could see her walking swiftly. A burly servant accompanied her but Mooraven’s instincts were alerted. Why had she no carriage? A woman of her breeding and wealth walking the streets with only one servant? He was a tall heavily built man and carried a stout cudgel – but she was still taking a huge risk. The jewels she’d been wearing about her neck had been worth a small fortune – if the diamonds in that collar were genuine, of course. The stones had sparkled enough in the candlelight, which gave him no cause to doubt their worth.



Why would a woman like that leave a card party in the house of a prestigious member of the French aristocracy, to walk home through the streets on foot? It didn’t make sense. He was certain she’d taken his purse and now his hunting instincts were aroused.



He wanted to know more about the mysterious lady in black.



Keeping to the shadows, Mooraven followed the woman and her bodyguard. It seemed that she had not far to go for after walking the length of three streets, the pair stopped outside a large and impressive house. The woman turned to her companion, clearly thanking him for his services. From their gestures, Mooraven thought she was telling him to leave her, but he was hesitating, arguing. After a moment or two he gave in and walked off. The door of the house opened and the woman went in.



Mooraven waited in the shadows until the giant had disappeared. He was about to approach the front door when it opened again and a figure came out. This time it was a youth, who walked swiftly in the same direction the countess’s servant had taken a few minutes earlier.



Mooraven drew back into the shadows, not wanting to be seen by the youth. Once he had disappeared, he approached the house and knocked at the front door. Countess Dupree had some questions to answer.



The knocker sounded eerily, as if the house were empty and now that he looked up at the windows above, he could see there were no lights. It was odd for a house like this would normally be filled with people and the windows would shed light into the street until they were shuttered for the night. He frowned and looked for a side entrance, but tall iron railings prevented entrance to the back of the house. Glancing about him to see if anyone was around, Mooraven then scaled the railings and jumped down into the dark passage at the side of the building. No light was coming from the windows of the house as he felt his way around to the back. A bank of clouds hid the moon and here the little light that came from lamps outside a few of the neighbouring houses was not sufficient to show him where he was going.



For a few minutes he could only feel his way but gradually his eyes became accustomed to the dim light and he could make out shapes sufficiently to find himself at a back entrance to the house, through what was obviously a conservatory.



There was not a single light in the house. Had the countess retired immediately? It was unusual not to leave at least one lantern burning somewhere. By morning the candle might have burned down, but at night there ought to be a few lights throughout the house. What kind of a house was this? Where were all the servants?



Mooraven’s instincts told him that he had stumbled on a mystery. Suddenly, a thought struck him. The youth he’d seen leaving the house – could that possibly have been the countess in disguise?



If she had courage enough to walk through the streets of Paris at night dressed in her finery with only one servant, she might dare to risk walking alone as a youth. While most would think the countess worthy of attention, a slight youth might pass unnoticed.



Why was she leading a double life? Why had she stolen his purse – and where was she going?



Mooraven was thoughtful as he stared up at the house. His business in Paris was already dangerous enough. He was using an assumed name. No one knew who he truly was or what he did and it must stay that way. He ought not to let himself be distracted from the business in hand, but his curiosity was aroused.



He knew he could not just walk away from this situation. He wanted to know more about the countess and what she was doing…

The Chesterfield Lecture

I’ve just given the Annual Chesterfield Lecture to the Friends of The Ranger’s House, Blackheath, London. It’s the first time I’ve been asked to talk to such a knowledgeable group in such a classy venue – a superb early 18th century red brick mansion, once the home of Lord Chesterfield, statesman, wit and letter-writer. In 1728, he became British Ambassador in The Hague. Whilst there, he acquired a superb collection of Dutch paintings, and then had to add a wing onto the house in order to show them off them.

First we had a delicious buffet dinner, provided by the Friends, in the basement of the house and then we trooped upstairs to the crimson gallery – not forgetting to put on our coats – there is no central heating. Well, the Friends put on their coats and, in some cases, their scarves, but I felt that, as lecturer, I couldn’t go that far. I hoped that the adrenalin would keep me warm.

The crimson silk gallery, where I was speaking, was magnificent with its fabulous paintings, glittering chandeliers, superb plasterwork, and a couple of classical nude marble statues flanking me on either side.

The talk I was giving was one I’d given before – how I became an historical novelist and it included snippets from my juvenilia – the six novels I wrote between the ages of ten and sixteen. I knew that Lord Chesterfield had also written: his famous letters to his illegitimate son are a mixture of worldly-wise pieces of advice and cynical and witty observations on the world. Surely they could provide me with a quotation to act as an introduction to my talk. After all, I was giving the Annual Chesterfield lecture, I felt I owed him a compliment or two.

What did he have to say on women, I wondered.

This is what I found: Women, then, are only children of a larger growth: they have an entertaining tattle, and sometimes wit; but for solid reasoning good sense, I never knew in all my life one that had it, or who reasoned or acted consequentially for four and twenty hours together.

He goes on to advise his son: A man of sense only trifles with them, plays with them, humours and flatters them … but he neither consults them about, nor trusts them with, serious matters.

Hm. No, I decided, I would not be paying Lord Chesterfield a graceful compliment. I would give him a courteous but neutral mention and hope that his portrait in the next room didn’t crash to the ground in the middle of my talk in horror at hearing a mere female giving a lecture in his name.

Fortunately, the talk went very well and there were no untoward intimations of
spectral disapproval.

Elizabeth Hawksley

Top: The Ranger’s House, the front entrance: courtesy, The Ranger’s House, http://www.friendsofrangershouse.org.uk/

Centre: dinner: photograph by Elizabeth Hawksley


Bottom: The Gallery, the Ranger’s House: courtesy, The Ranger’s House, www.friendsofrangershouse.org.uk

Practical Hints to Young Females

When looking for dispacement activity to avoid doing the housework I like to thumb through Practical Hints to Young Females on the Duties of a Wife, A Mother And a Mistress of a Family by Mrs Taylor of Ongar. My edition is the 5th, dated 1815, so she appears to have had good sales.

The tone is set by the frontispiece showing an elegantly, but modestly, dressed mother at work on her sewing and encouraging her small child to read a book.

Mrs Taylor considers education to be a good thing for females but warns Many a female, because she has been educated at a bording-school, returns home, not to assist her mother, but to support her pretensions to gentility by idleness, dress, and dissipation.

  

Once a young lady has been fortunate enough to find herself a good husband she is reminded that When he vowed to take you for better or worse, he staked the happiness of his future life; a treasure for which the most ample portion is insufficient to compensate.    

                                    

 The young wife is warned that she may well have married expecting "uninterrupted felicity" but by degrees the discovery will be made that you have maried a mortal, and that the object of your affections is not entirely free from the infirmities of human nature.                                                                                               

The solution to any marital disharmony is to search one's own character and to realise one's own faults, thus learning to forgive your husband's. If he should be morose, fretful, or capricious, liable to sudden sallies, or the prey to constant irritability, the cure [is effected by] sweetness and the coolness of a reasonable mind. A wife must always contemplate her husband's virtues rather than his failings.

Of course, the main cause of maritial disharmony is money, so you must study to keep strictly within the household budget and note that much loss is sustained by purchasing articles of housekeeping in small quantities....Weekly payments are forcibly recommended in order to keep a close check on tradesmen's accounts.                                  Servants are a major cause of concern to any housewife and she must take note that A good servant can always find a good situation...nor ought those who have adopted the mistaken economy of giving low wages...expect good service.                                                                    In every kitchen there ought to be a library...and nothing beyond the comprehension of kitchen readers be admitted.  The advice on managing servants appears quite enlightened with an emphasis on plenty of praise where it is due as well as a fair wage for the job. It is poor encouragement to a servant if she is invariably blamed for what is wrong and never praised for what is right. The old retainer must also be looked after and the inexperienced, young mistress of the household would do well to watch and learn from good domestic staff.

There is an entire chapter on the dangers of becoming a step-mother with a warning to decide, well before committing oneself to a widower and a father, whether one can love his children!

The final chapter is given over to advice to The Husband and he is told that it will serve his comfort best if his wife is allowed to run the home and has sufficient housekeeping allowance to do so - and he is reminded that it is important to regularly express affection and regard for his wife.

Now - I'm off to give the scullery maid a rise in pay and to admire my tall, handsome footmen.

Louise Allen

Reminiscing

 
 I've been spending every morning with my 96-year-old father recently. I'm his carer now, and while I get him washed and dressed – something he hates no longer being able to do for himself – I've discovered a way to divert his attention.  We reminisce.  His recent memory is very poor. But his recall of events of fifty years ago is crystal clear. 
A few days ago we were talking about the St Mylor Players, our village's local drama group.  From the 1950s into the late 1970's the Players put on dramas, comedies, pantomimes and variety shows.  
In the late 1950s - when men were the wage-earners, women remained at home raising the family, and Women's Lib hadn't been invented yet - a particular 'turn' in one variety show nearly brought the house down. It was Dance of the Flower Fairies.  
The 'fairies' wore white tutus, white socks, and headdresses of white crepe-paper roses. Each carried a white lily made out of crepe-paper.   So far so unremarkable.  What stunned the audience was that the 'fairies' were my father, District Surveyor on Cornwall County Council (top right); John Garvin, a stocky Scot who managed to keep the Church hall's ancient and unpredictable electrics operational without catching fire or causing a power cut (well, only once);  Frank Roscora, a telephone engineer as round as he was tall; and Rodney Prout, plaster technician at Falmouth hospital and the Society's producer.  
The music was played on a gramophone in the wings, and my mother – a dancer in her youth – had worked out the choreography.  The introductory music started, the curtain rose to reveal the 'fairies’ – two with moustaches they had refused to shave off - in graceful pose.  There were several moments of shocked silence then the dance began.  
Mum had threatened the ‘fairies’ with dire consequences if they hammed it up.  They played it absolutely straight and it worked brilliantly.  Within twenty seconds the audience were crying with laughter and stuffing hankies in their mouths so as not to miss a moment.  
When the dance finished there was uproar as people clapped, stamped and hooted.  The 'fairies,' who had all been extremely nervous beforehand and boosted their courage with a strong whisky each, swept into deep if ungainly curtseys, gave the audience dazzling grins, then lumbered off the stage streaming with sweat and greasepaint. 
The photograph above was on the front page of all the local papers.   All except Dad are dead now but remembered with fondness and admiration.  I treasure these morning chats as Dad is happier and I am reminded of things I had totally forgotten.

Jane Jackson.

Taken To Heart  pub. Robert Hale, October 2011  £18.99

 

Waterloo -- making the point

Last weekend I was in Windsor for the first time. (It was a family engagement, arranged more than a year ago, so sadly it had to take precedence over the RNA Regency Day in London. The Regency Day was fantastic, so I hear. But so was Windsor.)

I hadn't visited the castle before and I was totally bowled over by the Queen's picture collection. As I made my way through the state and semi-state apartments, I kept coming up against huge portraits that I'd only seen in books, or on TV programmes. Like that famous portrait of Queen Elizabeth I as a thirteen-year-old girl, dressed in a stunning red gown. At the other end of that same wall was her father, looking cold and menacing.

For me, the highlight was the Waterloo Chamber. It was created by George IV in order to make a statement about the allied victory over Napoleon. George IV commissioned Sir Thomas Lawrence to paint portraits of all the key people who had combined to defeat Napoleon. (He included himself, naturally!)

The room is huge, and dominated by a portrait of a triumphant Wellington at one end, brandishing the Sword of State. You can see the portrait here and read something about it here.

Around the walls are Lawrence's portraits of the generals, like Bluecher; the rulers, including the famous portraits of Alexander I of Russia, Frederick William III of Prussia, and Francis of Austria. The diplomats who organised the redistribution of Europe at the Congress of Vienna are also there: Castlereagh, Metternich, Hardenberg, Nesselrode, though, as far as I could see, Talleyrand, being French, was not included, even though he played an important part at the Congress.

The portraits can all be seen on the Lawrence pages of the official site for the Royal Collection. The finest of them is supposed to be the portrait of Pope Pius VII, for which Lawrence had to travel to Rome in 1819 for 9 sittings with the Pope.

My only complaint was that visitors were allowed into the ends of the Waterloo Chamber but not the middle, so I couldn't get a really good look at some of the amazing portraits. Next time, I shall take binoculars.

I haven't included jpegs of the pictures. I have a feeling I might be hauled off to the Tower if I did! But if you follow the links, you can see them for yourself.

One interesting tale you might enjoy. When the Queen was entertaining the French President at Windsor, he was treated to a performance of Les Miserables in -- guess where? -- the Waterloo Chamber. And no, they didn't take down the portraits, or change the name of the room. He had to live with it. (Was that also the time that he had to arrive at Waterloo Station? I think it might have been. What a nasty sense of humour the British do have...)

Joanna

A Visit to Buscot Park

Last week I had the pleasure of visiting Buscot Park, a late Georgian mansion near Faringdon in Oxfordshire. I am planning to use Buscot as the inspiration for the country house in my next book and I was particularly interested in the internal layout and also in the furniture. Lord Faringdon, who still lives at Buscot, has a very fine collection of art, ceramics and Regency furniture on display in the house and it was fun to stroll through the rooms and see them as they would have been at the turn of the 19th century.

The original mansion and park at Buscot were built between 1780 and 1783 for Edward Loveden Loveden at a cost of of over twenty thousand pounds (about seven hundred and eighty thousand pounds in today's terms). The house was built by local crasftsmen using local materials but also incorporated some recycling of slate and stone from other nearby mansions that were being pulled down at the time. The result was a grand house with nine bays, a double flight of stone steps and an impressive Orangery, all surrounded by a deer park and pleasure gardens with two lakes.

The Entrance Hall, with its stone flagged floor and porphyry scagliola pillars dates from 1780 and most of the furnishings are from the Regency period. It certainly creates an impression as you walk through the main door! A suite of a long couch and two armchairs in the Egyptian style that became fashionable after the Battle of the Nile was, to my eyes, completely over the top, made of ebony, painted with gilt and featuring large carved black lions! The suite was made by Thomas Hope, pioneer of regency furniture design, and the pieces are illustrated in his 1807 book Household furniture and interior decoration. A matching clock on an ebony stand towers four foot high. The hall also boasts an astonishing ornate gilt metal chandelier in the French fashion dating from about 1806 which is similar in design to those at St James's Palace.

The Dutch Room, one of the drawing rooms, contained an interesting piece of furniture in the shape of a small cabinet. Under the lid is a notice that reads: "Newly invented musical game dedicated to Princess Charlotte of Wales." Unfortunately we weren't allowed to play it! Strolling through Buscot's reception rooms, I could see how influential had been the taste of the Prince Regent in the different fashions in furniture throughout the period. There were the French fashions, the Egyptian fashion and furniture in the "antiquarian" style which the Regent also enjoyed. In the Drawing Room was a "Carlton House desk," named, according to Ackerman's Repository of Arts of 1809 - 28 "from having been first made for the August personage whose correct taste has so classically embellished that beautiful place."

One of the interesting things about Buscot House was that despite the size and the grand interiors it actually felt quite cosy. The bedrooms were comparatively small, which must have helped in terms of keeping them warm in winter. As I wandered through the interconnecting rooms downstairs I realised that in the Regency period even a large country house could be made to feel like a home.

Something Old, Something New...

I think October is going to be a month os contradictions.  It has started with a wonderfu Indian summer - the weather here up on the hill has been hotter than anything we had during the summer months - and yet we are prepared for frosts, if not snow, by the end of the month.

And at the same time I received my advance copies of The Dangerous Lord Darrington in hardback, I am also gearing up for the launch of an e-book for Carina Press - Casting Samson. So I have in my hands the "old technology" of a printed book, and a hardback, at that, and on 17th October I will see a new book published using the very latest technology.  And who knows where this publishing revolution will end?

Casting Samson is my first Melinda Hammond novel for a long time, and it is in itself a contradiction. It is the story of a present day English village (think thatched cottages,a stream running by, old church and quaint characters) and its links to the past, to the Crusades and the Templars, in fact! I describe it as The Vicar of Dibley meets Ivanhoe, because it is part comedy, part serious but most definitely three love stories all intertwined.  I have added a short extract on my website, (www.melindahammond.com) so do take a look and let me know what you think of it.

By contrast, The Dangerous Lord Darrington (which was published in North America last month) is another Sarah Mallory Regency romantic adventure  with a mysterious old house, a handsome hero, a beautiful heroine, secrets and scandal.

So, which one do I prefer?  An impossible question, the two stories are so different and I love them both, but as the saying goes - variety is the spice of life!







Casting Samson - Melinda Hammond, pub. Carina Press October 2011
The Dangerous Lord Darrington - Sarah Mallory, pub Harlequin Mills & Boon (NA Sep 2011, UK Nov 2011)

Dick Turpin ... as legend has it

.
Last month I went to see a new play exploring the truth and legend behind Dick Turpin. The play is a fast-paced musical called Dick Turpin’s Last Ride. It was on at the Theatre Royal in Bury St Edmunds and is now on tour around the UK (do see it if you can).

It was a fabulous play - I reviewed it here - and it really brought it home to me how ‘History’ is in the hands of the best narrator - and how we as historical novelists should be very careful with our research.

18th century illustration, Newgate Calendar

The real Dick Turpin, for instance, was a thug, a bully, a thief, a murderer and a rapist. He was reported as such after he swung from the gallows in 1739 and his name lay disgraced in the lists of criminals.

illustration from Rookwood, 1849

Yet the Victorian novelist William Harrison Ainsworth - in need of a plot device - borrowed that name, borrowed someone else’s epic ride, stitched them together... and by investing him with a more likeable character and livelier writing than anything else in his largely forgotten Gothic novel Rookwood, turned ‘Dick Turpin’ into a legend which others have themselves borrowed and embellished through the years.

romanticised highway robbery by Frith

An awful warning, I think, of the dangers in using real historical figures in fiction but not bothering to find out how those people would actually have acted or reacted.

Jan Jones

A Shocking Scandal/Anne Ireland

My new Anne Ireland Regency is published in Kindle.

Glancing round the glittering ballroom at the throng of laughing, chattering guests, Jo Hampden stifled a sigh of disappointment. She had expected that this visit would all be so much more exciting! They had been here in Paris a week and as yet she had not seen one gentleman who had made her heart miss a beat. She had been so sure that in this most magical of cities she would be certain to find her prince. Not a real prince of course, but the handsome hero of her dreams, who would sweep her off her feet and carry her away to his castle in the mountains, where they would live amongst the eagles and be almost able to touch the clouds.


Her trouble was undoubtedly that she had a vivid imagination. As a child Jo had often been lost in daydreams, but as she grew up her life became too busy for dreams of any kind, especially after both her elder sisters had married gentlemen of fortune. That meant Mama had relied on Jo more and more, keeping her at home by her side, until she had become suddenly and fatally ill; she’d died only a few days after she caught that awful chill. Jo had been just sixteen and the devastating grief that swept through her had broken her heart. She had wept uncontrollably until Bianca told her to stop feeling sorry for herself and think of Eliza, their youngest sister, who was so often ill.

Jo had felt as if her elder sister had poured cold water over her, but it was the best thing that could have happened, for it had brought Jo to her senses. She had devoted herself to making her youngest sister smile again, and in time they had both benefited from the strong attachment that had formed between them.

Her sisters Bianca and Sarah had put their heads together for it was obvious that the girls could not stay on in their old home alone, even though Jo would have done her best to manage. Since the younger girls did not wish to be separated, it was decided that both would spend a few months with their grandfather, Sir Gerald Hampden, who had taken the shock of his daughter’s death badly. After that they could decide where they wished to make a permanent home, either with Bianca or Sarah.

However, it had not happened quite as expected, for Sarah had given birth to her first child and was delicate for a few months. She had written, asking if Jo would stay with her until she was feeling better, and Eliza had been left to stay with their grandfather. Since Eliza was fond of the elderly gentleman, she had not made a fuss and Jo spent the next year as a companion to her eldest sister. Sarah had soon recovered her health and begun to entertain again, which meant that Jo had been introduced to many of her sister’s friends. She had met quite a few eligible gentlemen but as yet none had touched her heart.

Jo knew that her trouble was that she was an incurable romantic. She was passionately fond of beautiful and wild scenery, and spent hours with her nose in a book, caught up in the fables of the courtly heroes of a time long past. She longed to be caught up in some adventure, rescued from dragons or awakened from her sleep by a kiss from a handsome price.

'What was that sigh for, my love?'

Jo turned to her companion and gave a slight shake of her head, conscious that she was being ungrateful. Mrs Buckley, a woman in her middle years, and a great friend of Sarah’s, had put herself to considerable trouble to bring Jo on this trip, and the least she could do was to appear to enjoy it.

'It was nothing, ma’am. Merely that I do not see many of our acquaintance here this evening.'

'There you are wrong, Jo. For I have just seen Chalmont and he is coming this way. I dare say he means to ask you to dance.'

Jo saw the gentleman her companion had mentioned almost at the same moment, but her spirits were not greatly uplifted by his approach. He was held to be attractive by society and his manner was undoubtedly charming, but somehow Jo did not particularly care for the gentleman.

'May I say how lovely you look this evening, Mademoiselle Hampden?' The Comte bowed to her punctiliously. 'Would you do me the honour of standing up for this next dance with me?'

'You are very kind, sir.'

Jo could not very well refuse without appearing rude. Besides, her card was far from full and she did not wish to sit down all evening. So she gave him her hand, allowing him to lead her on to the dance floor.

She was at least able to enjoy the dancing, for the Comte was good mannered and held her at just the right distance without pressing her too intimately, and he was besides an excellent dancer. When he returned her to her companion's side at the end of their dance, lingering only long enough to secure another dance with her later, Jo was pleased to discover that her friend, Anne Arlington, had arrived with her Mama.

'Oh, I am so glad you have come,' Jo said and kissed her cheek, whispering in her ear, 'Most of the guests seem so much older than us this evening. I was beginning to think there was no one I could talk to sensibly; they all look to be in danger of falling asleep on their feet!'

'How naughty you are,' Anne replied tapping her with a delicate fan. 'But I must admit I have felt the same at times. I can't wait for my brother to join us in Paris. He and his friend Lord Finchley are arriving in a day or so.'

'You will be pleased to see your brother no doubt.'

Jo wondered at little at her friend's blush but at that moment two young and undeniably attractive gentlemen approached and within seconds the girls were dancing with new partners.

After that Jo found that she was seldom left to sit alone and she did not have time to let her thoughts wander. It was true that most of the gentlemen present at the prestigious ball were older than the two girls, but since they were all unfailingly charming and considerate Jo was soon laughing, her foolish dreams of romance forgotten for the moment.

It was not until quite late in the evening that Jo noticed a little stir as a newcomer entered the ballroom. A small group of ladies and gentlemen immediately gathered to greet him. She could not see much of him because of the crowd around him, but he seemed important for it was obvious that his arrival had caused some excitement. Able only to catch a glimpse of his profile as he paused a few minutes before moving on, Jo thought he looked rather cold and proud. Then for one second as he turned his head, his eyes seemed to stare in her direction, but they did not see her for he appeared to look beyond her, as if he were bored by his surroundings and wished himself elsewhere.

He was clearly uninterested in the dancing and soon moved away into the next room, where several card tables had been set up to amuse those gentlemen who did not care to dance.

'Who was that gentleman?' Jo asked her companion.'

'What gentleman, Jo?'

'The one who seemed to cause something of a stir just now.'

'I really have no idea,' Mrs Buckley said. 'I cannot say I noticed anything in particular.'

'I did,' Anne Arlington said. 'He was rather handsome, with a slightly foreign look. He was certainly not English. I think perhaps Italian or Spanish, European certainly.'

'A foreign prince or something of the sort so I heard,' the dowager Marchioness of Arlington supplied the answer. 'You know the French always make a fuss of these petty princelings. I do not suppose he was of any real consequence at all. At least he would not be thought so in the best circles at home.'

Jo found Lady Arlington's manner a little overbearing. It was a trifle unkind of her to slight the young man and she was glad he had not heard. Her brief glimpse of his proud rather noble face had made her heart miss a beat, though she was not sure why. He had not even been looking at her.

Jo smothered her sigh. She must be grateful for this chance to mix in Parisian society and enjoy it and not let her head be turned by a man who had not even noticed her.

* * * *



One thing that Paris could not be faulted for was the shopping, Jo thought as she and her companion were driven back to their hotel the next morning. She had indulged herself shamelessly with the purchase of all manner of pretty trifles, urged on by Mrs Buckley who assured her that it was in order for her to spend as much as she had.

'Your grandfather told me that I was not to penny pinch in the matter of your wardrobe, my love. He wants you to have everything that a young lady of fashion needs for your coming season in London.'

'Grandfather is very kind,' Jo replied. 'But I am not sure that I ought to spend too much.'

'You are a long way from doing that,' her companion said with an indulgent look. 'You are very pretty, Jo, and if you are fortunate you may make an excellent match. I am sure your husband will want to indulge your whims.'

'Oh, no ...' Jo began but forgot what she meant to say as they entered the hotel. A man was standing at the desk talking to the clerk, and although she was able to see only his profile, she believed it was the man who had caused a slight stir the previous evening.

He turned towards them and she saw that his skin had a slightly dusky look, which was a little deeper than most Europeans’ and, with his noble features and dark, hawk-like eyes, gave him an exotic appearance. He was smiling and his teeth were exceptionally white against that sunburned complexion, his build and vitality that of a man honed to a rare perfection seldom seen amongst the gentlemen Jo had been accustomed to meeting in France.

She thought that she had never seen such a handsome man and her heart beat very fast for a few moments, as their eyes seemed to lock. She found herself drawn to him, lingering as if willing him to speak to her, but instead it was her companion who spoke, breaking the spell.

'Come along, Jo – what are you waiting for?'

The older woman turned to look at what had caught her companion's eye and frowned slightly. It was obvious that she thought the stranger was showing his admiration for her pretty charge a little too openly, and she took hold of Jo’s arm, giving her a push towards the hotel's grand staircase.

'There's no need to poke me,' Jo said, a slightly petulant look in her eyes. 'Why are you in such a hurry all at once?'

'You must rest or you will be too tired to enjoy yourself this evening.'

Jo controlled the urge to look back as she began to climb the stairs, but the tingling in her spine made her believe that the stranger was still watching her. He had been as interested in her as she was in him – or was she merely flattering herself?

From his dress and his air of assurance he was clearly a gentleman, and a wealthy one she would imagine. He had been wearing a coat of blue superfine, which had been fashioned by the finest tailors and fitted his body like a second skin, and on the little finger of his left hand she had noticed an exceptionally fine diamond ring.

'Why did you rush me away just now?' Jo asked her companion as they entered their own suite and she paused to glance at her reflection in one of the huge gilt mirrors that adorned the walls. She fussed with her bonnet before removing it. ‘I was intrigued by the gentleman we saw at the reception.’

'He was staring at you and you were staring back,' Mrs Buckley said with a reproving frown. 'We have not been introduced to the gentleman – whoever he is - and therefore you should have pretended not to notice him looking at you.'

If you enjoyed this book it is available at Kindle and will soon be available from ARE. It is also available from me.  Mail me through the website.
 
Bought For the Harem is my latest Anne Herries book in Uk - and the next paperback is the hostage, available December.  Until then there's A Shocking Scandal for you to enjoy.
 
Best wishes  Linda Sole/Anne Herries/Anne Ireland

Writer in Residence

In August, I was writer in Residence for a week at the Dillington House Summer School (I was also tutor on the Creative Writing - the novel course.) Dillington is Somerset's residential centre for adult education - and it's seriously classy. There were sixty-six students and a dozen courses on offer, ranging from The Joy of Spanish and The Arts and Crafts Movement to my Creative Writing - the novel.

I was the first Writer in Residence they'd had and I wanted to make my mark. I saw myself sitting in the library under the splendid chandelier topped by a pineapple, quill pen in hand, ready to help anyone with sonnet or prose. But I swiftly realized that I had to be more proactive.

I decided to write an article entitled 'A Week at Dillington' and put word round that I'd welcome contributions. There's plenty to inspire: the Jacobean house had a Gothic makeover in the 1830s and the family portraits are still there. The park has magnificent trees and the grounds are beautifully kept.

My course was in the afternoon so, in the morning, I hitched a lift with the minibuses going on The Artisan Trail, The Arts and Crafts Movement and the Exploring Somerset Villages. I wanted to meet as many students as possible and persuade them to write something. I also took photographs.

One visit particularly interested me, to Mark Broadbent, carriage maker. He renovates old carriages, builds them from scratch using traditional methods, and drives them, too. A number of carriages, once owned by Lord Spencer, were waiting to be restored to their former glory. Handsome carriage horses poked their heads out of loose boxes. (But that is for a future blog)

Word spread and some interesting pieces came in. When I got home, I sent the organizer, Roger Priest, my article incorporating the pieces I'd received, plus photographs. I added some thoughts on how the Writer in Residence position might be enhanced, together with a suggestion for a Creative Writing for Pleasure course which I felt would suit the Summer School better.

Last week, I heard from him. 'A Week at Dillington' would be sent to all prospective 2012 students and would I like to come back next year?

Elizabeth Hawksley

Photos by Elizabeth Hawksley. Top: Dillington House; centre: the library; bottom: One of Mark Broadbent’s carriage horses



The Anatomists and the Body Snatchers

On Christmas Day 1818 William Hurst, one of a family of numerous siblings from whom both my maternal grandparents decended, sat down to eat the cake his wife Sarah had just prepared.

By all accounts it was not a happy marriage and my suspicion, although I have no direct evidence, is that William was an abusive husband. Certainly the neighbours recalled a violent argument going on in the Hursts' dwelling after their return from church that morning - and they did not find this an unusual circumstance.

Their suspicions were not aroused, even when Sarah came round to borrow some rat poison - quite openly asking for it. Nor can William have had any idea what she did with it - for he ate enough of the cake in which she had put it to kill him.

Fifty year old Sarah was arrested on December 28th "on a violent suspicion with having at the Parish of Little Horwood in the County of Bucks, administered poison to her husband Wm.Hurst, in consequence of which he the said Wm.Hurst died."

Sarah was committed to prison in the county town of Aylesbury and, at her trial found guilty. The sentence is given as:
Death - to be Hanged on 12th March, and her Body to be Dissected and Anatomised pursuant to the Statute.

The statute was the Act that permitted the bodies of hanged criminals to be given to surgeons and anatomists for dissection and research if the judge at their trial so directed. It was considered a paticularly heavy sentence for, after the dissection, the unwanted remains would not be permitted burial in consecrated grounds. Sarah had killed her husband - considered almost a form of treason - hence this additional penalty.

But because this severe sentence was relatively rare there was a corresponding scarcity of bodies for the doctors, surgeons and scientists who were finding their researches severely hampered. Soon desperate surgeons and adaptable criminals started to come together to fill this gap in the market. Grave robbers opened fresh graves and stole the corpses and surgeons made little secret of the fact that they would pay good money for such corpses.

The Edinburgh surgeons are perhaps the most famous for this - due largely to the notorious Burke and Hare who moved from grave robbing to murder to keep the anatomists happy. But it happened all over the country, aided by the fact that to steal a corpse was not a felony, but a misdemeanor. Provided the robbers were careful not to remove any item of grave goods with the body the worst that could happen to them was a fine or short prison term.

Sir Astley Cooper, surgeon to George IV, William IV and Queen Victoria was quite open about his use of corpses obtained from body snatchers and the practice helped him develop such life-saving procedures as the first tying of an abdominal aorta to cure aneurysm. Astley Cooper boasted There is no person, whatever his position in life might be, whose body after death [I] could not obtain. The law only enhances the price and does not prevent the exhumation.

Last week I visited Great Yarmouth and discovered that in 1827 Thomas Vaughan managed to steal ten corpses from the churchyard of St Nicholas (shown below in a late 18thc view from the market place) over a period of nineteen days, including the body of an infant, a small child, a young woman and a 67 year old man. The corpses were packed in sawdust in crates labelled "Glass - handle with care" and taken by wagon to London where they were exhibited in an upstairs room of an inn outside the gates of St Bartholemew's Hospital. Surgeons would call in and select the body of their choice, paying between 10 and 12 guineas for each one.

Vaughan was arrested and eventually sentenced to six months in prison - his grateful clients paid his legal fees and an allowance to his wife while he was in jail.

The general populace, of course, regarded this practice with fear and horror and all kinds of measures were tried to foil the robbers - watchmen in graveyards, metal cages over graves, iron coffins - but still the grisly trade continued. Eventually, largely due to the outcry over Burke and Hare, the Anatomy Act of 1832 was passed, allowing the use by anatomnists of any unclaimed corpse and the worst of the body snatching ceased.

There are so many points of view in this gruesome history - the terrified condemned woman on the scaffold, the surgeons desperate to save lives by the advancement of knowledge, the horrified and grieving relatives and the hardened robbers themselves. What would they have made of modern science and a society where many people, as a matter of course, leave provision in their wills for their organs to be used for transplants and research?

Louise Allen

Thunder and Lightning

No, not stormy weather. Thunder and lightning is what the Cornish call a slice of bread spread with treacle then topped with clotted cream.  And delicious it is too.  Though it was usually farmer’s wives who made butter, the money they made from sales being one of their perks, almost every Cornish housewife made her own clotted cream.  The method hasn’t changed in centuries. I remember as a child watching our next-door neighbour make pasties while the cream ‘scalded’ on the slab of her old black range. 

After the milk girl had been – she carried two large silver milk churns in the back of a small grey van and every day we took out a jug for her to fill with either a pint or half-pint dipper - the milk to be used for cream (and it was always whole milk then) would be poured into a shallow dish and set aside for a few hours to allow the cream to rise to the surface.  When this had happened, the dish was placed in a pan of simmering water over a low fire for several hours – sometimes overnight - to “scald.”  By morning a thick yellow crust would have formed.  Skimmed off into a glass dish this would keep for 24 hours (no one had a fridge then) or a day longer if a little sugar had been added to the pan before scalding began.

Though delicious on fresh fruit or fruit pies and puddings, some old recipes used it differently.

Chocolate cream: the thick cream was whipped together with eggs and melted chocolate until light and frothy.  Chilled this makes a wonderful chocolate mousse.

Almond blancmange: the cream was heated with lemon rind, sugar and ground almonds, then left to set in an oiled mould.

Another recipe called for cream boiled with egg yolks, sugar and rosewater to be poured over breadcrumbs, sprinkled with sugar, then left to set.

Though we ate cream, butter and whole milk when we were children, we did so much running about, climbing trees, hiking through the woods, and walking a mile along the creek side to the shingle beach beyond the harbour where we built a fire and cooked ‘dampers’ (a flour and water dough wound around a stick and toasted until brown then filled with jam) we were all as slim as greyhounds. 

Jane Jackson.

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Lose Yourself in the World of the Regency - and win a Kindle!

There is still time to get a ticket for the amazing Regency Celebration Day in London on October 8th.

The Romantic Novelists' Association is hosting the Day at the Royal Overseas League in the heart of historic St James's and hightlights include a talk by Jennifer Kloester on her long-awaited biography of Georgette Heyer (published October 6th).

There will be authors to meet; a bookstall; a quiz; a raffle with wonderful prizes including a Kindle loaded with Regency novels, an original Regency print and luxury chocs and a chance to go on a guided walk around Regency St James's.

Learn how to lace your corset, play Georgian parlour games and perform Regency dances! Talks will include Sex and the Georgians and Regency Scents and Smells (with samples to try) and there will even be uniformed soldiers to flirt with.

There is more inflormation, and how to book, at www.romanticnovelistsassociation.org.uk.

See you there!

Louise Allen

Should we care about anachronisms?

There has been quite a lot of controversy about accuracy in historical romances, and it’s been an interesting discussion.

Recently, many of the historical romances set in the Regency by have been light on the history. While there is no real problem with that, the historical content has become progressively less and less in some books, so that the books are little more than stories about modern people in pretty clothes.

There have been versions of TV dating games in “Regency” set books, for instance, stories about notorious courtesans becoming duchesses and leading society, and other such plots which could never have happened in the historical period.

Sometimes it’s become difficult to tell what period the book is supposed to depict, the descriptions are so vague.

There have always been books like that in the past, but there were always more rigorously accurate books to balance them, so that the reader looking for a good historical romance set in a recognisable and reasonably accurate period could find them. But that has become more difficult recently, with the death of the “traditional” Regency lines.

And it seems a section of the historical romance reading public is growing increasingly unhappy with the selection. There is no one place to go where the accuracy of the historical is guaranteed.

I want to emphasise that there is nothing wrong with the “frothy” Regency and no reason why it shouldn’t be published and sold to readers who want that. The market is limited to the USA, though. Several efforts have been made to sell that kind of book elsewhere, but it hasn’t worked. It’s not that the British public is highly keyed-up and knows its history, it’s that the books don’t “feel” right. They are highly American in tone.

A few days ago I asked an editor at a big publishing house about the accuracy in the historicals. “It’s entirely up to the author,” she said. It’s just as well that other matters like grammar and spelling aren’t!

A mega-thread at “Dear Author” had most of the participants asking for a distinction between the lines, so they knew if the book they were buying was a “history-lite” or “wallpaper” book or one where the author has worked hard and diligently to re-create a time and place in history. That seems good, as long as neither of the terms are perjorative. So that those who truly love them can have their Regency spies and dukes who choose their successors, and others can have the Battle of Waterloo and the dilemma of the lack of male heirs.
While the discussion can be more complex than this, that’s what it boils down to – giving people what they want and fulfilling expectations.

Me? I think anyone who writes historical romance has a duty of care to get as much as she can right. But that’s just me.

Lynne Connolly

The Battle of Borodino

Today is the anniversary of the Battle of Borodino. On 7th September 1812 (or 26th August if one went by the Russian calendar then in use) Napoleon's advance through Russia with his Grand Army was halted at Borodino, a village 60 miles to the west of Moscow. The battle was immense - 122 000 men on the Russian side against 124 000 French troops. It lasted for hours and there were heavy casualties. Although the Russians were beaten they were not completely defeated and Napoleon later said of the encounter: "The French showed themselves to be worthy victors and the Russians can rightly call themselves invincible."

Napoleon marched on Moscow but the city refused to surrender. By now the French troops were far from their supply lines, starving and exhausted, with deteriorating morale. In October the French began a retreat from Moscow that was to prove a humiliating disaster. Seventy years later Tchaikovsky commemorated the French defeat in his 1812 Overture that celebrated this famous Russian victory.

My first introduction to this period of Russian history happened when, in my teens, I read the "Russian Regencies" of Dinah Dean. Both Flight from the Eagle and The Eagle's Fate were set against the French invasion of Russia and they enthralled me. I sought out all Dinah Dean's other books and was very upset when later I lost some of them in a house move. The remaining ones are on my keeper shelf. Did you read and enjoy Dinah Dean's Russian series? If so, which book was your favourite?

SEATON DELAVAL - A BAROQUE BEAUTY

 A couple of weeks ago I was in Northumberland, and went to visit one of the National Trust's latest acquisitions, Seaton Delaval Hall.  It is a beautiful 18th century baroque mansion by Vanbrugh, and staggeringly beauiful on the outside. 

 Unfortunately, the central hall is now merely a shell, after fire ripped through the building in 1822. An entire wing was destroyed and never rebuilt (although as the wing had upset the symmetry of the building, this may not have been such a disaster!). It is thought that Vanbrugh's deisgn helped to spread the fire, the stairwells in the corners of the building acted as a chimney, turning the blaze into a furnace that buckled the metal balustrades and caused the lead to melt from the roof.  The centre of the building was eventually re-roofed but never re-occupied.  In 1841 the architect who designed Newcastle's Central Railway Station, John Dobson, was brought in to carry out a few renovations, but then the building was left until the 1950s, when the next round of renovation began. These preserved the building, but it was never restored, and now the National Trust have embarked upon a major conservation project, designed to preserve the building as it is, rather than restore it to some by-gone glory. 

We visited on the day of a dog show, so there were hundreds of  visitors and their furry pets in the grounds, but inside the house itself we were in for a treat. The magnificent central hall, seen here before the restoration project began, is now filled with scaffolding and the National Trust is allowing small groups of visitors to climb the scaffodling to get up close and personal with the fabric of the building.  Wearing a hard hat and clinging tightly to the scaffolding, I followed the guide up the metal steps. We passed the remains of plaster statues inset in the wall arches and eventually stood at the upper floor level, where the small fireplaces from the servants rooms could be seen, and looking closely between the damaged stones it was still possible to see little rivulets of lead that had melted in the intense heat of the fire. I have only added one picture of the scaffolding - its not very exciting, but it give syou some idea - just think of me, hard had on and suffering from vertigo!

It was a chastening experience, to see such a lovely building in such a sad state of repair, but thanks to the NT and the fund-raising efforts of rthe local people the house has been saved for everyone to enjoy. I haven't yet included a serious house fire in one of my books, but after visiting Seaton Delaval, I think it is only a matter of time!  

Sarah Mallory.
Dangerous Lord Darrington (USA Sept 2011)
To Catch a Husband (UK 2011)

Happy Birthday, William Wilkins!

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Yesterday I was at the birthday party of William Wilkins who was born on 31st July 1778. The party was held at the Theatre Royal in Bury St Edmunds, which he himself designed for the town. It opened its doors in October 1819, making it the only Regency-built theatre still in regular use today. It is a gem of a theatre and William Wilkins was very proud of it, but it didn’t at first get the reception from the townsfolk that he expected.

Wilkins - and his father before him - ran the Norwich Company which toured seven East Anglian venues. Bury St Edmunds was the most profitable of these, despite playing in a very cramped space on the upper floor of the Market Cross, so William decided to reward the town with a lovely new theatre.

He was very keen on classical architecture and was addicted to the idea of pure air circulating around his building. He was also concerned that his best patrons should be spared the indignity of mixing with the more disreputable members of the audience at any point during the proceedings.

To facilitate this,  the four separate areas of the theatre had their own entrances, the Dress Circle box patrons wafted straight through the spacious, arcaded foyer into their semi-enclosed boxes, the Upper Circle boxes were up one flight of stairs from the foyer, the Pit customers jostled downwards and around from an outside entrance, and for the cheap seats in the Gallery - 120 of them! - people would have to squeeze through a narrow side door and up two flights of stairs.

With this vision in mind, Wilkins cannily made use of the local topography and built his New Theatre where the south side of town slopes downwards, so the best seats were at street level and he could reduce construction costs in not having to dig out the Pit. He elegantly fitted out his lovely theatre, organised the very popular John Bull as the opening play and threw open the doors in welcome.

The townsfolk, though, weren’t at all grateful. As far as they were concerned, the New Theatre was on the very edge of the unfashionable side of town and far more inconvenient to get to than the old Market Cross right in the centre. So - for the first week at least - they voted with their feet, leaving the Norwich Company to play to empty houses. Audiences did pick up in the subsequent weeks, but it must have given William Wilkins a very nasty turn, thinking of his huge investment that he might not get back!

Now, of course, Bury St Edmunds has expanded and the Theatre Royal is seen as being in the historic centre. Which brings us back to the party - the question we were asking was what do you give a man who is 233 years old? We came to the conclusion that posterity isn’t a bad gift.


Jan Jones
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