I love the information you can find online. Regency era women’s fashion, anyone?
Author: judeknight
Random bits of knowledge on WIP Wednesday
One of the things I love about writing historical romances is the research. Not just the big important stuff, but the odd bits of knowledge that I come across or look up for a particular story. Do you have an example in one of your books? I’d love you to share in the comments. Mine is the opening to my next story for newsletter subscribers. My newsletter is going out next week, and the story is called The Easter Bonnet.
“Come on, Millie. Put that away and join us,” Sadie tempted.
Millie shook her head. “I can’t,” she said. “I have to finish this.” She held up the bonnet she was trimming.
“You can do it in the morning,” Sadie insisted. “We’re going to drop into the pub for a tot of gin and a bit of a chin wag.”
“I have to deliver it on my way home,” Millie countered. “Madam said the lady is leaving for the country in the morning, and wants to take it with her.”
“Madam should do it herself then.”
Madam was with child, but Millie had been told that in confidence. “I don’t mind,” she told Sarah. “It is going to be very pretty when it is finished.”
Sadie stared at her for a moment then shrugged. “Another time, then.” She whirled around and in moments the door shut behind her and Millie was alone.
She finished attaching the edging. The bonnet was formed in twisted straw, edged in a ribbon that apparently matched Lady Paula Temple’s favourite walking dress. Lady Paula planned to wear them both to Easter services in her home village, for the delight—to hear the lady tell the tale—of the entire community.
Millie picked out another length of ribbon of the same colour but much wider, and began to pleat and pin it around the base of the bonnet, so that the straw would not catch in the lady’s coiffure. Coiffure. Millie said the word out loud, shaping it with lips and tongue. Coiffure was what the upper classes called their hair dos. It must be nice to be a wealthy beauty with an indulgent father and a whole battalion of suitors.
A further length of ribbon, this one in a slightly darker shade. It would go over the join between brim and bonnet, then be gathered into a rosette on each side where it met the base. Two more lengths from the same roll would form the ties to hold the bonnet on.
Quick but careful stitches soon had those in place.
Millie had made herself a bonnet in a similar design, though of much cheaper materials and in different colours. Madam would not object to Millie copying the design, as long as there was no chance of a customer recognising the copy.
Millie snorted. Fat chance of that. The customers who could afford Madam’s creations did not see such lowly beings as a milliner’s assistant.
The silk flowers came next. Pink moss roses, symbolizing perfect happiness and also the confession of love. Daisies for innocence. Blue cornflowers for hope. Myrtle for good luck. Lady Paula had specified these particular flowers. Millie wondered what message she was trying to send and to whom. But perhaps Lady Paula just liked the colours.
Millie secured a single rose, three daisies, and two cornflowers inside the brim, where they would draw attention to Lady Paula’s eyes. The rest would form—soon did form, thanks to Millie’s clever needle—a cascade over the other side, covering the join between brim and crown.
There. Done. Millie set the bonnet back on the hat block and stood back. She walked all the way around where it sat on the table. Yes. It would do.
Her own version of the hat was trimmed with violets. Innocence, modesty, remembrance. The violets were the least damaged of all the silk flowers being sold at half-price, because they had been damaged by an accident with a bucket of water. She had parted with a hard-earned a sprig of myrtle at full price, because good luck was worth it.
Tea with the Duke of Bourne
The Duke of Bourne had the usual arrogance of his rank—bred in the bone and trained from the cradle, but he also had excellent manners. When they chanced upon one another in Miss Clemens bookstore, Eleanor invited him to take tea with her so that she could ask after his aunt and his sister. He agreed immediately and without any visible signs of racking his brains to think of an urgent engagement elsewhere.
He was also very happy to talk about his women folk. “Lady Philidia is well, Your Grace. She is staying with friends in the country at the moment. We both miss Clarissa while she is away at school in Yorkshire, but my aunt most of all, perhaps. They are very close.”
“My regards to her when you next speak, Bourne. And how is Lady Clarissa?”
“My sister seems to be enjoying her school, at least as far as I can tell from her letters. I plan to open our estate up there for Christmastide, so we can enjoy the holiday together. I shall tell her you ask after her.”
“Do that, Bourne. And let her know that Frances is still talking about the fortnight they spent together at the Chirburys in the summer.” Eleanor chuckled. “Seven girls, all on the verge of putting away their childhood and beginning to explore stepping into their future role as young ladies! I quite understand my niece’s motivations in suggesting the house party, for they will already have friends when they face their first season, but I imagine keeping their feet on the ground and their high spirits under control was quite a challenge.”
“Clarissa will have friends from school, too,” Bourne agreed. “Not that I wish to think of her on the marriage mart, ma’am. To me, she is still my sweet little sister.”
“And so she always will be,” Eleanor told him. Her eyes twinkled. “Perhaps you should think of marrying, Bourne. A wife would be a huge boon when it comes to your sister’s debut. You would be able to leave her and Lady Philidia to be her guard dogs while you retire to the card room with the rest of the gentlemen.”
Bourne actually paled. “An interesting idea, Your Grace,” he managed to say. Which, interpreted, meant, “Over my dead body, you interfering old biddy.”
Eleanor smiled and offered him another cup of tea.
The Duke of Bourne is the hero of Meara Platt’s “A Duke for Josefina”, a story in Desperate Daughters. On preorder now. Only 99c until publication.
Spotlight on “Concerto” in Desperate Daughters
Concerto: By Mary Lancaster
At the age of seven and twenty, Lady Barbara has long accepted her position on the shelf. She is thrilled to put aside her music-teaching in order to help her beautiful young sisters find eligible husbands.
But then, a chance encounter with an unconventional and mysterious young piano tuner has her heart in a spin. When she encounters him again at a York assembly, playing the violin, it seems he has too many names. Can she trust such a man with the family secrets, let alone with her heart? And can she save him from the lethal threat hanging over him?
And 8 other great stories.
Excerpt
Oddly, Barbara was conscious of a desire not to return to York. To let her sisters go on without her, just for a few days. But even if Jack wished it, she could not stay here.
So, after tea they said goodbye to Mrs. Weeks. Jack even hugged the housekeeper, which made her cry, and then they walked around to the stables.
“What did you think?” Jack asked casually on the way.
“I think it is a beautiful house which you can make your own. I think you can make it ring with music and fun, and compose to your heart’s content. In between seeing to the land and your tenants. You could have the music and Allbury Court.”
“That is what I have begun to think.” He paused, catching her arm and turning her to face him in the shade of a spreading chestnut tree. A smile played on his lips. With his free hand he tucked a stray strand of hair beneath her bonnet, and brushed his knuckles against her cheek. “Thank you.”
“For what? Telling you what you already know?”
“For making me see what I already know,” he corrected. “Barbara?”
“Yes?”
The smile flared and died again. “Nothing. Just this.”
He bent his head and her heart seemed to lurch downward into her suddenly tingling stomach. She could have avoided it, but the truth was, in that moment, she wanted his kiss more than anything in the world.
His lips paused above hers, giving her time to object, perhaps, or maybe just drawing out the anticipation. She parted her lips, raising them to his, and he smiled as he kissed her. A firm, yet tender kiss, slow, exploratory, tasting.
He raised his head, searching her face. “Again?” he whispered.
For answer, she cupped his cheek and took back his mouth and with this longer, deeper kiss, she was lost.
See the project page at the Bluestocking Belles’ website for more information.
Desperate Daughters is on preorder for publication on 17 May. Order now to get the preorder price of 99c
An Animated History of Ukraine
I offer this for what it is worth. It has to be a simplification, being a short overview of more than two thousand years, but the key points seem consistent with what else I know.
Journeys on WIP Wednesday
Barge haulers on the Volga River
I seem to get a lot of travel into my books, one way and another. My hero in the book I’m writing at the moment has been overseas since his twenty-first birthday. He is now a week shy of his thirty-seventh. My excerpt is part of his journey home (They departed from Ceylon — today’s Sri Lanka — by ship to what we today call Pakistan, then went up through Kashmire to Afghanistan and from there to Kazakhstan. I had to work out the timings, allowing for the monsoons and the northern winter. I think I’ve got it. If you have a journey in a book of yours, please share in the comments.
Nowhere smelled like England. It was raining, but Ash rode anyway, the better to enjoy the sights, smells, and sounds of his homeland. His childhood memories were created in the tame and gentle lands of South East England, the lands their little line of carriages and horsemen were currently traversing on their way from Dover to London.
Artie had put his riding horse on a lead rope when the rain first began, retiring to the family carriage where Rithya, Caroline, and little Gareth travelled in as much comfort as Artie could procure at short notice.
Caroline had been born in March of 1817. Artie had taken a house in a small village in Kazakhstan when Rithya adamantly refused to travel any further while she was, as she complained, larger than an elephant and far less useful. Besotted with his baby daughter, Artie had quelled his restlessness until Rithya pronounced herself well enough to travel. They set off again, with a wet nurse, he is a train of pack animals and a small army of local guards.
After that, Artie travelled as if possessed. No more stopping for weeks or even months at a time, to see the sights and get to know the locals. “I want to leave St Petersburg before the Baltic ices over,” he explained.
In Turkmenistan, they heard about an Englishman who ran shipping on the Caspian Sea, paradoxically known as the King of the Mountains. The man they found in a small port on the eastern shores proved to be the son of the rumoured king, though from his looks, his mother had been a local. He was able to supply space for their party on a ship sailing for the mouth of the Volga River, and also advice on dealing with Russian officials as they travelled up through the waterways of that enormous empire.
The river travel took longer than expected, and they spent Christmas at the Winter Palace of the Tsar in St Petersburg.
Tsar Alexander was delighted with his visitors, whom he proclaimed he knew well, for he had read all of their books. Artie, in particular, was a favourite, his birth making him, in the Tsar’s eyes,’his British cousin’.
The nearby port was frozen over. Indeed, the ice blocked much of the sea for hundreds of miles. The Tsar assured them they could stay as long as they wished, but Artie insisted on taking an overland route, by troika, to Klaipeda, which was ice free. Somehow, he managed to charm the vehicles and their teams, an escort, and a ship out of the Tsar.
Perhaps it was because Rithya was with child again, and the childless Tsar and Tsarina were enchanted with Caroline, and anxious to do all they could to make sure Artie was back in England “for the birth of your heir, my cousin.”
So, at last, in the middle of February, after being storm-diverted to Calais where Rithya gave birth to Gareth, they arrived in Dover.
Travelling by gentle stages, they spent two nights on the road and were now approaching London. Their sixteen-year journey was all but over.
Tea with Lord Cranfield
Richard’s cravat was too tight. It had been perfectly fine when his valet tied it, but somewhere between his townhouse and this encounter with the Duchess of Haverford, it had shrunk. To be precise, it had shrunk at that moment Her Grace caught sight of him and beckoned him to her side.
“Go and take a stroll around the room, dear,” she said to her companion. “I have been hoping for a private word with you, Lord Cranfield. Please sit.”
Richard obeyed. One did not refuse the Duchess. Besides, he rather liked the old lady, at least in part because his mother and father could not stand her.
“Will you have tea?” she asked. In this vast room, all the refreshments were being served buffet style at one end of the room and most of the guests clustered at that end. Her Grace of Haverford sat at the other end and had somehow secured a table with a pot of tea, a plate of savouries, and another of sweet cakes.
“Yes, please,” Richard said, thinking it would be good to have something to do with his hands.
She asked how he preferred it, made it for him, and served it, also passing him a plate and inviting him to help himself.
He was taking his first sip when she said, “I have been told, Cranfield, that your parents are sending you to York to find a husband for your sister and a wife for yourself.”
Richard managed not to spray tea all over his lap, but it was a near thing. “How did you…? Never mind.”
“Never mind, indeed.” Her smile was kindly. “Good luck with your quest, my dear. I just wanted to give you a piece of advice, based on my experience. Your sister is a wise woman. She has refused to marry for a title and wealth, as your parents wanted. She is waiting for someone she can respect; someone who respects her.”
“She is waiting for love,” Richard corrected, wondering how the duchess came by her information.
She nodded at his remark. “I know you are a loving brother, and I trust you to honour her choices. I just wanted to tell you that she is right to be careful, Cranfield. Marriage is for a lifetime. I know you think I am an interfering old woman, and perhaps you are right. But I have observed many marriages over my lifetime.” She leaned forward to emphasise her point. “People think that women have the most to lose when a marriage turns sour, and they are right. But men lose, too. Choose wisely, my dear. Choose someone who can be your partner in life’s adventures, your friend and companion.”
She sat back. “There. That is my lecture done for the day. Finish your tea, dear boy. Or don’t, if you are anxious to escape. I will not be offended.”
Richard, relieved of the threat of more advice, relaxed. “Your son Haverford seems happy in his marriage,” he observed. Now that his cravat had loosened, perhaps he would have a savoury.
Richard, Viscount Cranfield is the hero of Sherry Ewing’s “A Countess to Remember”, a story in Desperate Daughters. On preorder now. Only 99c until publication.
Spotlight on “Lady Dorothea’s Curate” in Desperate Daughters
Lady Dorothea’s Curate: by Caroline Warfield
There was a mystery about Doro Bigglesworth; the truth would shock him.
Doro Bigglesworth works at a hotel, and she’s proud of what she does. Besides, her family—the ten unmarried daughters of the late earl of Seahaven—needs her income. She has no use for her title and less for the scorn and pity of society.
Scarred by the death of a boy, Ben Clarke dedicated his life to helping others. Delighted with Doro’s help at his mission, he doesn’t bother with the courtesy title due the son of a viscount.
Separated before either could mention titles to the other, they are stunned when they are formally introduced in a ballroom in York. Explanations are needed. Quickly.
And 8 other great stories.
Excerpt
Hired assembly rooms have no garden but they do, apparently, have a terrace overlooking the square below. Or so Doro—Lady Dorothea—told him when he demanded to know. She seemed to know the place well. Can this night get any stranger? Ben doubted it.
Halfway across the room, she let go of his arm, and he had to skip to catch up with her as she reached the door. He grabbed her hand, half fearing she meant to bolt.
The terrace wasn’t large, but neither was it crowded. A few people mingled near the railing. A couple engaged in intimate familiarity in the corner to the far left of the glass doors, shadowed rather less than they obviously hoped by the gloom.
When Doro stopped in the middle, Ben, who still had her by the hand, dragged her to the similarly darkened corner to the right. It provided inadequate privacy, but it would have to do.
One hard yank on her arm swung Doro into the corner, around his front, to a hard stop against his chest. His other arm anchored her fast against his body and his mouth came down on hers. No tender salute this. Passion driven by anger and frustrated desire drove him. He plundered. He invaded. He…
He felt like a cad, but he didn’t care. Besides, she kissed him back, clinging to his shoulders like she might drown if she let go. When the need to breathe forced him to pull back a fraction of an inch, Doro closed the distance and kissed him again. That’s when he realized she was crying.
“Enough.” He held both her arms and set her a bit away. Not so far that she could run off. Just enough to reassemble his scattered wits. “Do you want to explain to me what happened here?”
“You kissed me. Rather thoroughly.”
Shame over her tears warred with delight at her passionate response. “Not that! Who are you, and what game are you playing?” he demanded gently wiping the tears from her cheeks.
“Lower your voice.” She hissed at him in the gloom. “I’ll answer your questions, but keep your voice down.” Apparently satisfied that he wasn’t going to shout her deception to the rooftops, she went on. “I am Doro Bigglesworth, Lady Dorothea Bigglesworth. In Harrogate the title didn’t seem to matter.”
“This isn’t Harrogate; it is York. Why the deception?”
She snorted. No ladylike cringing for his Doro. “You know what society thinks of those of us who are forced to work for a living. I didn’t lie to you about our situation. We needed my wages at the Hampton. My father was indeed the Earl of Seahaven, but when he died, we were left with nothing; Patience struggles to support the children. All of us had to scramble to help. If word got out here, it would ruin everything, destroy my sisters’ chances.”
“So, you’re deceiving all of York instead, so the Seahaven Diamonds can latch on to some wealthy fool and enrich all of you.
See the project page at the Bluestocking Belles’ website for more information.
Desperate Daughters is on preorder for publication on 17 May. Order now to get the preorder price of 99c
Tripped up by things we know
I’m serious about my research. I prefer well researched historical romance myself, and I try to research the details in my own romances to make sure I get them right. The problem is, I often don’t know what I don’t know. If I’m fortunate, I’ll find out before I finish the book, and can edit accordingly. Or rewrite, even, as when I discovered that my receivers of smuggled goods would almost certainly not be arrested if they simply paid the duty, with perhaps a thank you bonus to the customs officials.
I hate it when I don’t notice until I’ve published the book and found a reader who winces. No, my hero could not buy flowers from a shop in the early 1800s in Bath. Flowers at that time were sold from barrows. Actual shops devoted to selling flowers had not yet made an appearance even in Paris, where they apparently started.
I took flower shops for granted and didn’t trouble to look them up.
On the other hand, several times, I’ve had readers with a little knowledge who have lambasted me for getting wrong something I have exactly right. Anglican clerics with parishes did directly receive the tithes paid by their parishioners. Cleanliness in surgery and in sick rooms was a natural part of Arabic medicine, and also commonly practiced in the British navy and by doctors trained in Scotland. While upper class women were expected not to engage in work for income, the crafter families of England taught their crafts to their daughters, who continued to work alongside their husbands if they married someone in the same craft.
So when I bump into a small fact in other people’s writing that I know to be wrong, such as the Regency lady in a recent novel I read who offered a visitor a choice between Chinese or Indian tea, I note the historical discrepancy and move on. In this particular case, I’m certain of my facts. The British stole tea from China in the early 1820s. The early experimental plantings didn’t translate into commercial production until the 1850s. But often, I’ve checked a fact that appears wrong to me and discovered that I am the one who is wrong. Lesson learned, and thank you, author.
And even if I’m right, I’m not going to scoff at the author in a review. How rude! And what an invitation for the powers of balance to strike me next time I include a detail that I didn’t know I didn’t know.
Being compromised on WIP Wednesday
The compromise is a stock scene in regency romance. Maybe when two people in love are caught unawares. Perhaps an accidental encounter that is seen and misinterpreted. Or, as in the scene I’ve shared below, an evil plot by a fortune hunter and a female snake, aided and abetted by my heroine’s own mother.
Perhaps you have one you’d like to share in the comments.
Regina put up her parasol and strolled down through the garden, nodding to acquaintances. She crossed the lawn at the bottom, and strolled back up the path on the other side. She was approaching the house when a footman hurried up to her. “Miss Kingsley?”
“Yes, that is I,” she said.
“A note for you, miss.” He handed over a folded piece of paper, and hurried away before she could question him.
It was from Cordelia, her friend’s usual neat copperplate an untidy scrawl that hinted at a perturbed mind.
Regina, I don’t know what to do! It is dreadful. I need your advice, dear friend. I am waiting in a little parlour by the front door—I cannot bear for all those horrid gossipers to see me. Please do not fail me. Cordelia.
Regina didn’t hesitate. She hurried through the house, too anxious to find her mother and let her know where she was going. To the left of the front entrance, a door stood a little ajar. Regina could see a couple of chairs and low table through the gap. This must be it.
She pushed the door wider and was three steps into the room before she realised that Cordelia was not there.
Behind her, the door slammed shut. Regina spun around.
Mr David Deffew stood there, grinning. “Hello, Miss Kingsley. How good of you to join me.”
“Please get out of my way,” Regina demanded. “I am looking for my friend.”
“I would like to be your friend,” Mr Deffew crooned. “But if you mean Miss Miller, she has, or so I understand, left town.”
“It was a trick,” Regina realised.
Mr Deffew’s smirk confirmed her suspicion.
“Get out of my way, Mr Deffew. Whatever you think you are up to, I am not interested.”
“Such fire,” Mr Deffew crooned.
At that moment, someone spoke on the other side of the door. Suddenly, Mr Deffew leapt on Regina, crushed her in his arms, tore at her dress, and pressed sloppy kisses to whatever part of her face he could reach as she struggled.
The door burst open, and people crowded into the room. Miss Wharton, exchanging triumphant glances with Mr Deffew. Regina’s mother, looking smug. Lady Beddlesnirt, one of the most notable gossips of the ton. Others, too, all expressing gleeful horror.
Regina broke free of Mr Deffew and ran to her mother. “It is not what it looks, Mama. Mr Deffew tricked me. I got this note!” She held it up and Miss Wharton snatched it out of her hand and threw it in the fire.
Mama turned to Mr Deffew. “Shame on you, sir.”
Mr Deffew bowed. “I was overcome by love, Lady Kingsley. I will make it right, of course.”
“A betrothal,” Mama announced to the room.