This is great! A few historical inaccuracies, but superb for seeing the lay of the land. We watched the full movie, also available on YouTube (Link below). I was particularly struck by the scene in which the imperial guard attack the British squares. I’ve read about it, and seen diagrams, but watching it play out in front of me was a much more visceral thing. And the two leads were amazing.
I’ve just received Snowy and the Seven Doves back from the developmental editors. One of the questions she asks is about my hero’s tattoo. Wasn’t it only sailors and criminals who had them back in the Regency era? And weren’t they very crude before modern equipment.
It’s true that this is a common perception. Indeed, when I researched body art, I found little specifically about the Regency era, and it is, of course, too early for photos.
However, artistic and complex tattoos have been part of the European story for thousands of years. The Romans, who thought used tattoos to mark criminals and who therefore saw them as a sign of shame, were amazed by the men and women of England, who had themselves covered in images. As with many cultures, a tattoo was a sign of honour, showing that a person had courage and fortitude. People marked significant events by marking them permanently on their bodies.
Vikings, too, had a tattoo tradition, and some researchers think the Germanic tribes did, also.
In the Middle Ages, those going to the Holy Land would have crosses and other symbols tattooed to show their piety. And probably for the practical reason of body identification if something happened to them along the way.
Essentially designs were carved into wooded blocks, and then printed onto the skin by dipping the block into ink. Then tattooists would use a single needle and puncture by hand with blank ink into the skin.
Certainly, in the Georgian and Regency era, soldiers and sailors—both rank and file—marked their bodies to help their comrades recover them if they were killed in a way that rendered them unrecognisable.
Since the technology existed to make those tattoos both meaningful and beautiful, it is not too much of a jump to suggest that wealthy young men would hire an artist at his or her craft to create a personal mark that was a work of art. In my imagined back story, my hero and his friends very likely submitted to the needle of such an artist as a bit of teenage bravado—and my hero chose the phoenix because of his scorched earth beginnings.
Certainly, tattooing was very sophisticated in the 1860s, when several members of the British Royal family are known to have been tattooed, starting a fashion trend that lasted for a hundred years.
Here’s the passage with my hero’s tattoo for your reading delight.
“We can stop at any time,” he said. “If I do anything you do not like, or if you decide you have had enough, just tell me.”
She nodded, and then her mouth went dry as he removed the banyan he was wearing, for he wore nothing underneath. He was naked. And magnificent. He knelt on the side of the bed, looking down at her splayed on her pillows.
“You have a tattoo!” she exclaimed. It was a bird. A magnificent fantasy of a bird in red, orange, and yellow, its wings outspread across his chest, its talons outstretched toward his left nipple, its long tail sweeping down the center of his torso and across to the right, reaching almost to his waist.
“A phoenix,” she decided, touching the crown. He shuddered but stood still. She traced it, feeling him quiver as her finger glided over his skin. “It is beautiful, Hal.” She smiled into his eyes. “You are beautiful.”
“May I…” his voice was hoarse. He coughed, and started again, in a low growl that she felt to her bones. “May I remove your night rail?”
I am a bit obsessed with how different travel was before the railways. However, one need hasn’t changed, though the job that arises from it is now completely different.
Imagine, if you will, a world in which all motor mechanics and all their knowledge vanish overnight. How long would it be before we had major problems getting to where we needed to be, growing the crops we needed, and buying the goods we wanted? Even maintaining the roads would soon be beyond us as the motor-driven bulldozers and ditchdiggers ground to a halt.
Once, most of those needs were met by horse power. In Regency times, when the railway engine was just a local device, still unproven for more than moving materials from mine to barge, and cars and tractors had not been imagined, the invention of mechanical engines to provide power for travel, travel on the roads depended on horses, maintenance of the roads depended on horses, planting and harvesting depended on horses. (By the 18th century, horses had almost entirely replaced oxen in English agriculture.)
In the past, the importance and education of farriers has been seen through the lens of the vetinary specialists who replaced them in treating animal injuries and illnesses. I’ve been reading a thesis that revisits that story, and suggests that farriers were much more important and better educated than previously thought.
The good health of horses, particularly foot health, depended on farriers. When you think that a typical large inn on the Great North Road might own 2,000 horses for hire and that estimates of horse number in England at the turn of the century in 1800 sit somewhere around 1.5 million, you begin to get an idea of how much the farrier’s skill mattered. England would have ground to a halt if they were as useless as has sometimes been suggested. Farriers “cared for the most important animal in English society, attending to its shoeing and caring for its fractures, illnesses and lesions.” [McKay, 2009]
The following excerpt gives some insight into the work of country farriers, such as the one in my new novella for the next Bluestocking Belles collection. McKay looks at the records for an estate regarding the bills paid by the Earl of Egremont to a farrier by the name of Peter Hay, and also at Hay’s accounts to work out what Hay actually did in Egremont’s extensive stables between the 1740s and the 1780s. Over that 40 year period, he visited the Egremont stables on average, 80 times a year.
First, Hay would simply shoe Egremont’s horses, which involved removing and then nailing the shoes onto the horse’s feet. Second, after shoeing the horses, he would obtain and apply ointments and waxes to the horse’s legs and hoofs. Third, he gave basic medical care to the horses. Aside from one visit, in which Hay sharpened a pitchfork, his visits fell into these three categories. [McKay, 2009]
An important part of Hay’s practice was making the medicines, ointments, and waxes he used in treating the horses.
The thesis also mentioned another farrier, Edward Snape, who was farrier to the King and also to the Horse Guard. He was known as Dr Snape, did his best (twice) to establish a college of equine medicine, and wrote a textbook called A Practical Treatise on Farriery. Not an uneducated man.
By the middle of the nineteenth century, however, the role of the farrier had been reduced to shoeing horses, and the vetinary surgeon did everything else.
A Review of the London Volunteer Cavalry and Flying Artillery in Hyde Park in 1804, unknown artist.
When including a soldier or a military unit in a Regency romance, an author has to ask who was in the area at the time, and what sort of military unit was it. At the time, the regular army was heavily committed overseas, in Portugal and Spain, in India, in the Americas–though, depending on the year, there were regiments who were not on active duty, or who were on home defense duty. The two other options were the militia and the volunteers. Think of the militia as a sort of army reserve, and the volunteers as the home guard. Not quite, but sort of.
The regular army and the milita had long been a feature of Britain. The army was relatively small before the Napoleonic threat–just 45,000 men, two thirds of whom were stationed abroad. They had recruiting issues, and the rank and file were notoriously those who had few other choices–the poor, the unskilled, those who didn’t fit in.
Militia on parade
The militia in Georgian Britain, by contrast, were part-time soldiers serving one month a year in peacetime. There had been a militia since 871, so they were an older establishment than the army itself. By the mid 18th century, every county had to supply, and pay for, a certain number of militia. They were chosen by ballot, though they had the option to pay someone else to serve in their place. They had to serve for four years and did one week’s training four times a year. They served in their home county, and could be called out to deal with an emergency.
With the rising threat from France, the government first passed a law to increase the militia by a further 60,000 men. The innovators didn’t provide any money, so the spaces were filled by those who could afford to pay for their own uniforms and weapons. In other words, the upper and middle classes. Then, after a major military defeat in 1797, the government called for each county to find out how many men were within their borders, and how many would volunteer to defend Britain.
They were stunned by the response. By 1803, 380,000 men had volunteered. The officers tended to be from the upper classes, and the ranks from the lower middle class. Volunteers were exempt from military service and from taxes. They committed themselves to local defense in case of invasion or insurrection, but otherwise remained civilians.
The volunteer forces proved to be a problem. The State couldn’t afford to outfit and train them, and the small local volunteer forces operated outside of military rule, and often refused to serve outside of their own area. There were also manpower problems in the other military units, since men would rather be volunteers than militia, and militia than regular army.
The government went down the compulsory service line, and between 1806 and 1815, volunteer units were disbanded. In many cases their members were taken into militia units. However, this was not the last time Britain raised volunteer forces to its defence.
My March release, Flavour of Our Deeds, is partially set in Northumbria.
I wanted my hero and heroine far away from their natural allies, faced on all sides by enemies and uncertain who to trust. Learning a bit about Northumbria introduced all sorts of new plot elements.
For example, did you know that the Coquetdale area of Northumbria was a whisky distilling area (whisky is the Irish, Scots and, as it happens, English borderlands spelling of what the US call whiskey). Coquetdale, in what as now the Northumberland National Park, was full of illegal stills that exported their product not just south into the rest of Northumbria, west into Cumbria, and further afield in the United Kingdom, but also by ship to the Lowlands. The distillers were supported and protected by the locals.
The smugglers carried whisky and wool overseas and brought back genever (Dutch gin) and luxury goods from the continent. They had havens in fishing villages like Boulmer, on which I have based my own fictional village, close to the shore. I’ve removed a few aristocratic families–in my story, the Earls of Grey and their home, Howick Hall, is not mentioned, and nor is Alnwick, Alnwick Castle, or the Duke of Northumberland whose residence the castle was. The sea caves are real, and were used by the smugglers. The excise men did, indeed, have a base at Berwick Upon Tweed, and another at Newcastle, and were too few in number to make much of a dent in the trade.
I would have loved to set the story closer to the Roman wall, but I needed limestone for a good caving system that could be improved by enthusiastic tunnelers. A vast maze of caves was once discovered under Alnwick Moor, and has now been lost again, but caving experts believe there may be many more tunnels and caves than those shallow hollows known to our modern cavers. I’ve invented some, putting it in limestone country to make it plausible.
I’d also have loved to include the Holy Island of Lindisfarne. Maybe another time.
Masked balls and masquerades were a popular part of Georgian culture that continued on throughout the Regency.
People attended wearing a mask, and possibly a costume, and the event often included a time for a general unmasking. First, there were the public balls, such as those at some theatres or at Ranalagh and later Vauxhall Gardens. Those could be attended by anyone with the price of a ticket. All the rules we’ve learned about in reading novels set in the Regency were ignored or turned on their head during the masked part of the evening–and were expected to be. Indeed, only the most careless of guardians would allow a lady under their care to attend.
As for private balls, they could be just as bad, though it depended on the host and the guest list. In the Bluestocking Belles collection Holly and Hopeful Hearts, the high sticklers are shocked that the Duchess of Haverford would include a masked ball at her house party, but she is confident that, with the guest list controlled and her and her committee of ladies on the watch, all propriety will be observed. Even so, a naughty maiden in one story is only saved by the good sense of the rakes who outrage her, and in another story, a lowly-born chef borrows a costume to steal a dance–and a kiss in the garden–with a lady.
In less controlled environments, the behaviour was–and was expected to be–much more lively. Propriety, sobriety, and even chastity were ignored once people put their masks and costumes on. In fact, possibly a private affair, where a person might expect to meet only people from their own class, the guests might be encouraged to be even less careful!
In Lady Beast’s Bridegroom, my heroine Arial wears a half-face mask for a different reason… Because one side of her face is horribly scared. She is delighted in the next novel in the series, One Perfect Dance, when her friend Regina holds a masquerade ball, so that Arial will not stand out from the crowd.
One of the subjects I researched for February’s release, Lady Beast’s Bridegroom, was Regency attitudes to beauty. Remember all those sayings of our mothers and our mothers mothers? You can’t judge a book by its cover. Handsome is as handsome does. Beauty is only skin deep. True beauty is in the soul.
The thing is, most people believed the opposite in the Regency whatever they said. And I don’t know if things are any better today.
Here’s part of the Author’s note I wrote for the book.
Even in today’s more diverse culture, physical appearance makes a huge difference in people’s lives. Being heavily overweight, disfigured (especially in the face), or otherwise not fitting social norms for appearance can count against a person in the job market, in romance, and in dozens of other ways.
The Regency era held that attractive people were more trustworthy, more capable, better adjusted and more worthy in every way. Recent research suggests that things haven’t changed. Across cultures, including our own, people judge others on the basis of their attractiveness, and the idea that ‘beautiful is good’ seems to require a ‘disfigured is bad’ corollary.
Then, as now, assistive technology focused on improving aesthetics as well as function. A wooden hand that mimicked a real one, for example. The disfigurement needed to be disguised or hidden in order not to provoke horror.
Could I write a heroine who evokes the typical horrified reaction to disfigurement that has been recorded through time, and who is, nonetheless, a sympathetic character that we want the hero to love? You be the judge.
I came across this video and thought of you.
When I was a child, we used to go every December to Wellington to see the windows at Kircaldy and Stains, the big department store, where each window contained a different animated scene, which we had to follow in order, as they told a story. It was a different story each year, and to me as a child, they were beautiful, exciting, and an important part of Christmas. More recently, I took my grandchildren to see the same windows in the same shop. (My children did not grow up in Wellingon.)
The department store closed in 2016 after 152 years, but some of the automata live on at the Wellington Museum.
I’ve had simpler automata as toys. A monkey that played a drum when wound up. A ballerina that danced when a jewelery case was opened. Automata have always fascinated me.
Perhaps that’s why I have made the hero of the book I’ve just sent to beta the creator of clockwork automata. They were a sensation when they first appeared in the 17th century, and remained popular with wealthy collected and intrigued patrons throughout the 17th, 18th and 19th centuries. And, as I’ve just indicated, into the 20th, though from the Victorian age on, they tended to be powered rather than clockwork.
The history of mechanical figures goes back into legend and through various accounts of the last 2,500 years. Stories of moving statues, mechanical men, and automated birds who sang pop up in accounts from Ancient Greece and Biblical Judea, Persian and China, the Ottoman Empire, and other places. But we are concerned with Europe in the 18th and 19th century, where they were a sensation with wealthy collectors and influential patrons. Many even went on tour. The History of the Automaton Mechanical Miracles describes three by Pierre Jaquet-Drois, built between 1768 and 1774:
Each figure is 28 inches tall and performs a range of realistic actions. The draughtsman draws four different pictures, including a portrait of Vaucanson’s royal patron, Louis XV. The musician plays upon an organ, while the writer — made of more than 6,000 separate components — can be programmed to pen any message of 40 characters or fewer, making him in the eyes of many the true progenitor of the modern computerised android.
The three automata toured Europe for many decades, advertising the firm that built them, which prospered.
France remained a centre for automata building, moving to powered automata in the second half of the 19th century. Germany and Switzerland also had their great makers.
Clocktower automata like the one in my book are also know as glockenspiel, though the name refers to the instrument that makes the sound rather that the figures. As my hero says, it is made of bells or small pieces of metal struck be hammers. Not the one in Stratford in New Zealand, which is a town not far from where I’m writing this blog post. The town website says:
Since 1999, the clock tower has been entertaining passersby with a short Shakespearean performance four times a day.
Following the striking of the tower bells at 10 a.m., 1 p.m., 3 p.m. and 7 p.m., carved figures of Romeo and Juliet emerge from doors within the tower. As they do so, a recording begins of some of the most famous lines from the Balcony Scene, backed by some suitably Elizabethan music. Six different figures emerge in total (three of Romeo and three of Juliet) during the five-minute mechanized performance, with the last set standing hand in hand. The music plays throughout, with various lines from the play.
The music, along with the lines from the play, is piped out from a modern(ish) sound system. It is not played using a traditional carillon system of bells as found in more authentic towers of this type.
Dance historian demonstrates original 1816 waltz. Clip from BBC history documentary: Elegance & Decadence: The Age of the Regency (Episode 2: Developing the Regency Brand)
