When researching old skills, modern practitioners are great to watch. My heroine in the Under the Harvest Moon is a farrier, and here is how a farrier shoes a horse (then, and now, bar the forge and the portable sander).
Georgian era research
Property developers Georgian and Regency style
Most British cities, and particularly London, grew significantly in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Not only did agriculture changed forcing rural workers to move to cities to seek work. The population of Britain nearly doubled in the eighteenth century and quadrupeled in the nineteenth.
Wealthy families who owned land in and around large cities, especially London, were the Georgian era’s property developers. Great landowners developed well planned streets and squares on the western side of London, obtaining local acts of Parliament to allow them to levy rates so they could finance paving, lighting, cleaning, and watchmen.
The standard of construction was generally high, and many—from grand aristocratic residences to more modest workers terraced houses—still remain today, giving many cities and towns their character.
Lesser developers built with cheap materials and little planning, and left slums and neglect These dwellings are almost all gone.
Most buildings were designed by owners and builders together—until the middle of the eighteenth century an architect was anyone who cared to call themselves one.
Regency flip or flopper
The regency house flipper who is the hero of Grasp the Thorn is an invention of my own. But why not? In a world where fortunes were being made and lost, renovating houses for the upwardly mobile seems like a good thing to do. If people like Bear didn’t exist, it was necessary to create one. So I did.
Civilians and the army
To our modern minds, it seems strange to think of civilians, including women and children, travelling into combat zones. Yet until the second half of the nineteenth century, civilians were an essential part of how armies worked. Collectively, anyone who followed the army that was not a soldier was called a camp follower. And every army had all kinds of followers.
All non-military supplies came from the commissariat, a civilian service, funded by Treasury. They searched for supplies, found a depot in which to store them, and staffed the depot and those who drove the mule carts that brought supplies in and out. Each local group of soldiers probably had a sutler, either semi-official or unsanctioned.
Sutlers negotiated with locals and sold goods that were not supplied by the commissariat: tobacco, coffee, sugar, and other supplies. A sutler was usually authorised at brigade level, and the role in each brigade often went to the wife of one of the soldiers.
Saddlers, tailors, shoemakers, and farriers might be soldiers (if someone with the right skills could be found) or civilians, but they were all essential to the operation of the army.
So were medical staff. The Army Medical Department employed around one surgeon for every 250 soldiers. Military surgeons were not commissioned into the army, so were technically civilians, but they were on the payroll. They were assisted by soldiers with more or less medical training, gained on the job, and by camp followers, usually wives of soldiers.
Wives and families formed the largest group of camp followers. In England, soldiers’ families lived around the barracks, as military families do today. When the regiment travelled overseas, regulations stated how many wives they’d take with them (one for every six soldiers was common). To be in the ballot, a woman had to be a wife of good reputation. Mostly, women with children were excluded. On long overseas postings, babies arrived anyway, often on the march or even during battles.
Those not selected could seldom afford to follow their menfolk. They stayed in England and survived the best they could, often in a garrison city far from family, lacking work opportunities and not recognised as part of the local parish for poor relief.
Those selected faced hard work and unknown risks, but—though they might not be an official part of the army—they were on the books. Yes, they had to have an officer’s approval to follow the army and they were subject to military discipline, but they received rations (a half ration for a wife and a quarter ration for a child) and they were paid for the work they did.
Wives were not only sutlers and nurses. They were also responsible for many other important jobs that kept the army operating: laundering clothes, cooking food, sewing and mending, watching the baggage, looking after sheep and cattle (food on the hoof), and acting as servants to officers and their families.
And, of course, they provided sexual services to their husbands. The rest of the soldiers in the unit would have to make other arrangements or go without. Wives who followed the army were, as I said before, women of good reputation.
Local women filled the gap, either on a temporary basis, as prostitutes, or longer term as mistresses or even wives. Locally acquired wives and families provided the same wide range of services as those brought overseas with the regiment, but the army didn’t hold itself accountable for paying them or for transporting women and their children to England when the war was over, or when the soldier died, unless the woman could produce proof of a legal marriage, recognised by the Church of England.
As to the marriage of officers, the army discouraged young officers from taking a wife. Not only was it likely to ruin them financially, given the cost of being an officer—commission, uniforms, equipment, subscription, and the officers’ mess. Marriage was thought to disturb the camaraderie of the mess, as it took the officer out of the all-male brotherhood of warriors.
A young officer who married without permission risked ruining his chances of promotion.
That changed as he went up through the ranks. An old rhyme said:
“A Subaltern may not marry,
captains might marry,
majors should marry,
and lieutenant-colonels must marry.”
Romance over the chess board
In my novella The Husband Gamble, Hythe and Rilla get to know one another while playing chess. What could be less romantic? Chess, after all, is a game of war, a game of logic. Yet, both chess and love are filled with passion and excitement. Both chess and love require the players to focus on one another, tensely wondering what the next move might be, and watching for clues.
In long centuries when society frowned on such a close focus between a man and woman, dancing and chess has allowed interested couples to meet. Chess allowed them to spend hours in one another’s company, talking and getting to know one another better.
In the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, chess was used both to facilitate courtship and as an allegory of courtship, as can be seen in paintings, carvings, and tapestries of the time. Likewise with literature of the time, where the language of chess and the language of seduction merge.
The queen was not in the original Persian and Indian game. She replaced the vizier, whose moves were limited. Our modern day queen, with her expansive sweeps, may have arisen in medieval Spain at the time of the powerful Queen Isabella. Certainly, the new movements were first described in a Catalan poem called “Love Chess”, although the vizier lingered on in some places until the early 18th century.
The connection between love and chess continued. In 1801, in her book Belinda, the novelist Maria Edgeworth wrote:
O, you novice at Cupid’s chess-board! Do you not see the next move? Check with your new knight, and the game is your own.
Chess even made it into Victorian valentines:
‘My little love do you remember,
Ere we grew so sadly wise,
When you and I played chess together,
Checkmated by each others eyes?’
News and journalism in Regency England
Researching for one of my works in progress, I came across an article by journalist, author, and academic Brian Cathcart about the arrival of the official despatches from Waterloo.
He points out that no one in London on 18th June 1815 knew that the great battle had taken place, let alone who had won. The news was slow to arrive, too. The battle was on a Sunday, and it wasn’t until late on Wednesday that Wellington’s messenger, Major Henry Percy, arrived in London, with a French eagle sticking out of each window of his yellow post chaise. Escorted by a delirious crowd, he brought the report to Cabinet, who were dining in Grosvenor Square. After they’d read it and made an announcement to the crowd, Percy continued on, with an even larger crowd and followed by most of the Cabinet, to the house of the banking family where the Prince Regent was dining that night. In the words of the hostess, Mrs Boehm:
The first quadrille was in the act cf forming and the Prince was walking up to the dais on which his seat was placed, when I saw every one without the slightest sense of decorum rushing to the windows, which had been left wide open because of the excessive sultriness of the weather. The music ceased and the dance was stopped; for we heard nothing but the vociferous shouts of an enormous mob, who had just entered the Square and were running by the side of a post-chaise and four, out of whose windows were hanging three nasty French eagles. In a second the door of the carriage was flung open and, without waiting for the steps to be let down, out sprang Henry Percy – such a dusty figure! – with a flag in each hand, pushing aside everyone who happened to be in his way, darting up stairs, into the ball-room, stepping hastily up to the Regent, dropping on one knee, laying the flags at his feet, and pronouncing the words ‘Victory, Sir! Victory!’
In another article, Cathcart makes the point that not a single war correspondent was in Brussels to cover the battle, and explains why. Journalism as we know it had not yet been born, though London had many many papers. Indeed, the news they printed came from reports from ordinary civilians who happened to know something, official reports printed verbatim, or articles lifted from other papers.
Waterloo, with Christopher Plummer as Wellington
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.
Militia, volunteers, and regular army in Regency Britain
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.
Regency fashion
I came across this video and thought of you.
The dangerous years
Once again, I’ve found myself researching a common childhood killer that, in our Western world, has had its fangs drawn by the twin powers of vaccination and antibiotics.
Diptheria, previously known as the Boulogne sore throat, malignant croup, was described by the Greeks 2500 years ago. In the year I’m writing about, 1825, it has just acquired the name by which we know it today, but effective prevention and treatment were still a century or more away. All my characters could do was keep their patient calm and hope that the ghastly false membrane growing from one tonsil to her uvula would not close the throat entirely, and that the child’s heart and kidneys did not become affected by the toxins the bacteria produces.
Sitting with my hero and heroine as they watched and worried, I once again gave thanks for the era and the country in which I raised my children. Some forty years ago, one of my daughters had scarlet fever as a complication of mumps. When I told our doctor her temperature and that she was rambling in and out of consciousness, he put snow chains on his car and drove up the hill to give her an introvenous shot of antibiotic. Within half an hour, she was sitting up complaining that she wasn’t allowed to play with her brothers and sisters out in the snow. It’s an experience I have never forgotten.
We live in a time and a country of miracles. In Regency England slums, overcrowding and poor nutrition meant that diptheria, scarlet fever, influenza, mumps, small pox, and other epidemic illnesses spread easily and killed frequently, but a wealthy home was no protection. Children died in numbers that we, who expect to raise our children to adulthood, find it hard to comprehend. One third of children born in the early 1800s did not reach their fifth birthday.
On the whole, I sanitise this world for my readers. My sick child survives, unharmed. I don’t make a habit of marching through my characters’ nurseries with a scythe. I am
Not just Bow Street — the other police offices
There’s a bit of a fashion for Bow Street runners in Regency romance. I thought I’d have one myself, come to arrest my hero on a false charge of murder. Except when I looked into it, I found out they weren’t necessarily from Bow Street, and they weren’t called runners.
Bow Street Magistrate’s Court was the prototype, of course. Henry Fielding and his brother established the Runners. (They preferred to be called Principal Officers, since they thought ‘runners’ made them sound like servants.)
The model was successful, and in 1792, more than forty years after Fielding started his experiment, the government passed the Middlesex Justices Act. This established seven more police offices. Each had three paid magistrates and up to six paid officers or constables.
So in Westminster, there were Bow Street, Great Marlborough Street, and Queen’s Square. I picked Great Marlborough Street, which was closest to the townhouse where my hero was staying. Police offices in the rest of London were Worship Street in Shorditch, Lambeth Street in Whitchapel, Union Hall in Southwark, and also Shadwell and Hatton Garden. In 1798, the Thames Police Office (the river police) was opened in Wapping. There had been a couple of changes by the time of my story, in 1813, but good to know!
My hero’s powerful friends payed for him to have a private room instead of being in the police cells, where he countered two attempts to murder him. Corruption was a significant issue with some police offices, so a bribe to look the other way was not unlikely. He appeared before the three magistrates in a preliminary hearing a few days after he was arrested, and the case was dismissed when the person he was meant to have murdered stood up in court, alive and well. Other cases heard that day might have received an immediate judgement and penalty for a minor crime, or been bound over to appear at a full court hearing before a judge and possibly a jury.
They were different times, but already shifting in a direction that is more familiar to us today.
Note: when the Great Marlborough police office closed in 1839, as the Metropolitan Police took over all policing duties, the building continued in service as a Magistrate’s Court. A case against John Lennon for exhibiting sexually explicit material was heard in this court in the 1970s. It is now a boutique hotel, and the courtroom itself is an Asian Fusion restaurant.
