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The man who could have saved millions

Look up maternal mortality figures for Britain and the United States in the eighteen and nineteenth centuries and through to the 1930s, and you’ll see why childbirth was so feared. Every year, between four and eight women would die for every 1000 total births, during the birth or within the following 42 days. Factor in that few couples practiced ways of limiting conception, and women faced this risk time after time. Breastfeeding was a time-honoured way of spacing babies, since conception is suppressed in many women while fully breastfeeding, but by the nineteenth century, wet nurses were fashionable for the upper classes, so men commonly had nine or ten children, often with two or more wives in succession.

Puerperal fever, the killer in many cases, was no respecter of persons. Indeed, physicians were more likely to carry the disease than midwives, since they went from attending to autopsies and infectious diseases straight to assisting at a birth. Mary Wollstonecroft died in 1797, after a doctor was called to help remove the placenta when she gave birth to the baby named for her, who would later become well known as Mary Shelley.

The father of hand-washing

Use the internet to look up who first discovered that hand-washing saved lives, and the name Ignaz Semmelweiz will populate your search screen. He was a Hungarian doctor who, in the 1840s, began collecting mortality statistics in two maternity wards. In one, staffed by doctors and their students, mortality rates were five times as high as the other, staffed by midwives. He made several changes to align the routine between one ward and the other, but to no effect. Then one of the pathologists died. He’d pricked his finger during the autopsy of a woman who died of puerperal fever, got very sick, and died. Apparently, such deaths among pathologists were not uncommon, but Semmelweiz noticed that the man had shown all the symptoms of puerperal fever.

Semmelweiz realised that puerperal fever wasn’t uniquely a post-natal disease of mothers. He then theorized that doctors were getting little pieces of corpse on their hands when they dissected bodies, and those caused the fever. He made his doctors and students wash their hands and instruments in a chlorine solution, and maternal deaths in the doctors’ ward dropped dramatically.

Problem solved.

Hold on. Not so fast.

While all the facts about Semmelweiz are true, the appellation ‘father of hand-washing’ is wrong for two reasons.

First, he wasn’t the first

He wasn’t  the first to notice the correlation. In the 1790s, Alexander Graham, a naval doctor who had retired from the sea to work in a hospital in Aberdeen faced an epidemic of puerperal fever, and recorded his conclusions about the 77 cases in his care.

‘… it is a disagreeable fact that I, myself, was the means of carrying the infection to a great number of women.’

He recommended burning the women’s bedclothes and told doctors to carefully wash themselves and to change their clothes between patients.

In the United States, a few years before Semmelweis, physician and poet Oliver Wendell-Holmes drew the same inferences.

‘… the disease known as puerperal fever is so far contagious as to be frequently carried from patient to patient, by physicians and nurses.’

They weren’t the only ones.

In France, there was Antoinne Germain Labarraque. In Ireland, Robert Collins, In Britain, Thomas Watson. All of them advocated hand-washing to save lives.

Second, no one wanted to know

Medical science laughed at the notion that doctors might be inadvertently killing patients.

Gordon was hounded out of Aberdeen, and had to return to the navy, where his knowledge of handwashing informed his surgical practice and undoubtedly saved many sailors. But not medical practice. Labarraque, Collins, and Watson fared better, being honoured for their medical achievements, but scoffed at for their theories of hygiene, their recommendations disregarded.

Semmelweiz, perhaps because of his aggressive attitude, was the worst treated of all. He publicly berated those who didn’t agree with him, in increasingly abusive terms. In one letter, he said:

I declare before God that you are a murderer and [history] would not be too unfair if it remembers you as a medical Nero.

In 1865, aged only 47, he was committed to an asylum, probably beaten, and died of sepsis — ironically, the same infection of the blood stream that was still killing all those women he tried to save.

There’s good news, and there’s bad news

Even after Lister proved the connection between germs and disease, hand-washing took a long time to catch on. In the Scandinavian countries, midwives adopted hand-washing early, and had the earliest drop in maternal deaths. Other countries reluctantly followed, the United States as late as 1930. All the evidence in the world is not enough to change minds that are set on what they want to believe.

Even today, close to one third of maternal deaths in Africa and other developing parts of the world are from puerperal fever. They could be prevented by washing hands in an antiseptic solution and wearing clean clothes (if such supplies plus the knowledge we take for granted were available to birth attendants).

 

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Black moments on WIP Wednesday

Each story reaches a moment when things go wrong. In the most gripping stories, at some point, things go so wrong that the hero or the heroine or both can see no way out. Prue has been killed when the building exploded. Rede is in the hands of his enemies, bound and helpless. Even in a romantic comedy, the black moment (though it might be more of a grey moment) brings despair to the characters we’ve come to love. Cecilia and Marcel have a magical kiss, and then must part. They are from different worlds. It’s over.

It isn’t, of course, at least not in my stories. I choose for my protagonists to find love and for their love to be returned. The happy ever after is just within reach.

But, still, the barriers must seem, at least to them and preferably to the reader, impossible to overcome.

This week, I’m inviting you to give me a clip from your work-in-progress showing part of your protagonists’ black moment. Mine is from Unkept Promises. My hero is tied to a tree, bound and gagged. And my heroine is trying to rescue his son against overwhelming odds when this happens.

“Quick, Mrs Redepenning.” Luke was urging her down, his hands firm on her calves as he knelt. She leapt from his shoulders. “Quick,” he said again. He led the way slightly around the tower to put it between them and the carriage they could now hear approaching.

This side of the hill was less even, full of bumps and hollows. Mia followed Luke as quickly as she could. He had just entered the trees, and she was less than a dozen paces behind him, when she caught her foot and came down flat on the hillside.

For a moment she could only lie there, winded. Voices from the other side of the tower had her pulling her knees under her to get up, but she froze again as they grew closer.

“I’m telling you, Captain, we didn’t hear anything.”

She recognised Hackett’s voice. “And I tell you to find him. You!” His voice retreated. “Get the boy. I’m not waiting to be ambushed.”

“Hey!” The man closest to her shouted after Hackett. “Not so fast. We haven’t been paid.”

“I don’t have time for this. Follow me, and you’ll get your money.”

Now. While they were arguing. Mia crept towards the tree line, keeping low.

She might have made it, but for the riders who appeared at that moment, coming up the hill through the trees on a path that approach the tower from the side. One of them turned his horse and in a few quick strides was in front of her. The moonlight glinted off the barrel of the gun he had pointed at her.

“Stand up very slowly,” said a cultured English voice; a woman’s voice, and one she had heard before, though she could not, for the moment, place it. The other riders had joined the first.

Hackett and his men came down the hill towards them. Any thought that the two parties were aligned faded in the light of the weaponry each pointed at the other. Perhaps Mia could use this to her advantage.

“Madam,” she said, “please, I beg you, help me. Those men have kidnapped my son.”

The woman nudged tell course closer and bent to look into Mia’s face. It was Lady Carrington! What was that wicked woman doing here? She had fled England long ago; indeed, most of the Redepenning family thought she must be dead. The lady raised both eyebrows.

“Euronyme Redepenning. How interesting. Fancy running into you, here of all places.” She looked up the hill at the approaching ruffians. “Do come closer,” she invited. “I may have captured someone of interest to you, and I am willing to trade.”

 

 

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Tea with the ladies, again

Lady Fortingham had been in Bath for the past month, and was keen to put the worst possible construction on every social interaction she had observed. Mrs Westinghouse and Lady Ramsunn, with many sideways glances at their hostess, offered alternative interpretations without much enthusiasm. If they were not trying to curry favour with Eleanor, they would be joining their bosom bow in tearing reputations apart without concern for mercy, justice, or truth.

For what seemed like the thousandth time, Eleanor considered not being ‘at home’ when these old acquaintances called, and yet again rejected the notion. Knowing what Society’s worse gossips were saying helped her mitigate the damage they could cause.

At least Lady Fortingham seemed to have no inkling of the twin scandals that threatened the House of Haverford, and Eleanor found some respite from her own worries in considering the interests of others. She had always believed that her position as one of the premier ladies in the land required her to set an example to Society, and she had carried out that duty as well as she could.

“He compromised her, of course. Ran off with her in a carriage borrowed from her mother’s lover, if you can believe it. I don’t know what pressure was brought to make the man marry her, but—”

“Nonsense,” Eleanor said, firmly. “Lady Emilia Lloyd-Marshall has always been a woman who knows her own mind, and the Chevalier is besotted with her, by all accounts.”

“She must have had her parents’ blessing,” ventured Mrs Westinghouse. “They seem very pleased with the match, and the Chevalier…”

“Bah. He is nothing but an imposter! An actor! It is an outrage—”

Eleanor interrupted again. “You are mistaken, Lady Fortingham. Lord Somerton vouches for the Chevalier. Yes, he made his living as an actor — a very fine one, as I well remember — but many French aristocrats were reduced to such measures when they reached our shores. He is a distant connection of the Somertons, and I trust that you will remember that fact.”

Lady Taffy, as Society insisted on calling the poor girl, had found a man who treasured her just as she was. Intelligent, capable women whose beauty did not fit the fashionable mold had a hard time of it, and Eleanor was delighted she had made the match she wanted, whatever Sebastian’s origins.

The silly harridan was silenced for a moment, giving Mrs Westinghouse the opportunity to say, “Lord and Lady de Courtenay are reconciled, I’ve heard. Were they at the Valentine’s Day Ball, Lady Fortingham?”

“They were.” Lady Fishingham puffed out her chest. “And so was Mrs Bouchard! I saw Lady de Courtenay speak with the widow. Saw it with my own eyes! I could not hear what they said, but I saw how upset that poor little girl was. That is what comes of trapping a rake into marriage. He is back with his mistress again; you mark my words.”

“That is not what I have been told,” Mrs Westinghouse argued. “Lord and Lady de Courtenay seemed very pleased with one another, I have been told, and he has brought her here to London with him. Furthermore, Mrs Bouchard has not returned to London. I am told she has gone to the Continent!”

Excellent. Eleanor had been concerned about dear Celia — and Adrian, that naughty boy, who loved his young wife far more than he had been prepared to admit. She would invite them to her next ball, so that the whole of Society could see for themselves how the pair were together. Better invite them to tea here, first.

“The Beast has also wed,” Lady Ramsunn observed.

“If, by the ‘Beast’, you mean the Earl of Wayford,” Eleanor said, coldly, “I understand he had married his childhood sweetheart.”

“Charis Fishingham is a nobody,” Lady Ramsunn snorted, “and her mother is an encroaching mushroom.”

“Charis, the Countess of Wayford, is the wife of an earl,” Eleanor responded, “and I understand her younger sisters are delightful.” Another note to herself. She would invite, not just the Wayfords, but also the Fishingham sisters, to her ball. Two of them were out, she had heard, and the youngest was of an age to visit with her own schoolroom daughters.

“Surely Your Grace does not countenance what Wayford did to his own mother?” Lady Fortingham inquired, sounding shocked.

If Lady Fortingham knew all, she already knew what the dowager had attempted. The woman was clearly either mad or bad, and probably both. “Do you countenance what the dowager Lady Wayford tried to do to her son? And to her son’s intended?”

Lady Fortingham flushed and changed the subject.

“What of this match of Dr Hartford’s? The girl will drive him mad inside of a week. Lady Ross is all cock-a-hoop about it, claiming all credit for her Umbrella. Ridiculous. Just because a few matches have occured when Lady Ross was around! This one will prove that the magic is all in Lady Ross’s head, for two more different people, you could not hope to meet.”

“I think Emma Fortingham is a delightful young woman, and just the person to complement Dr Hartford’s nature. You are right that they are very different, Lady Fortingham, but those very differences are what they need. He will provide stability and the voice of reason. She will give his life a lightness and joy he lacks.”

Another couple for her ball. Yes, and she would invite the d’Aubbusons (more properly the Virtues, but she would not share that particular secret), too.

She would love to invite a fifth couple who had found happiness in Bath this past month, but they would not thank her. It had once been Esther’s milieu, but a certain Viscount had destroyed that for her, the cad. Now, the dear girl had found happiness, but not in her own class. Just as well. She would face all kinds of censure if she appeared where these harpies could tear her to pieces.

How could she help the kind sergeant who had saved Esther and her baby? Ah, yes. She had it. She would instruct all of her housekeepers, in every Haverford residence, to order their candles from March Candle Works.

Such an order would only hold until Aldridge took a bride, which he showed no sign of doing, even though dukedom was about to descend on his shoulders. He had spent more than two years in pursuit of a woman who repeatedly rejected him, and who had now disgraced herself with another man. Aldridge was refusing to believe it, and Eleanor herself had doubts.

Not that the Haverfords couldn’t face down such scandal. After all, they had much practice. But the ensuing furore would tear the new marriage apart unless they were deeply committed to one another. Given Lola had refused Aldridge and Aldridge had responded by diving deep into dissipation, Eleanor could not be confident that theirs was a love to grow deeper in the face of opposition.

That prompted another thought. What would Aldridge do if she told him that she was adamantly against the match? And what of Lola? What was it she really wanted? Opposition might be just what these two needed.

She set the thought aside to ponder until she got rid of these guests, but it cheered her mightily. Yes. At least one of the scandals on their doorstep might yet work to give her beloved son the happiness that had so long eluded him.

The gossip was all about the heroines from Valentines from Bath. See the Bluestocking Belles’ website for more details and buy links.

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What could possibly go wrong? on WIP Wednesday

This, my friends, is a jack knife — a useful sailor’s tool.

 

My favourite question when writing is ‘what could possibly go wrong’? And then I make it happen. This week, I’m talking about those defining points where the story takes a twist to make things worse. Share me yours in the comments. Mine comes from a scene I wrote this morning in Unkept Promises. Lady Carrington, who you may remember as the villainess if you’ve read Farewell to Kindness, has a position with the French spy agencies. She has persuaded Murat, her spymaster, to let her return to England to fetch the fortune she was forced to abandon when her husband decided to get rid of her at the end of Farewell to Kindness. To help her get to her hiding place safely, she takes Jules Redepenning, my hero, who is a prisoner of war after being pushed off his ship by someone in the pay of the man who wants to abduct his son. (It makes sense in the book, I promise. And, after all, what could possibly go wrong? Right?

Though the sky was clear and the moon full, still, everything was grey on grey, and in the shadows, it was black as Lady Carrington’s heart.

“We will need transport,” Jules pointed out.

Lydia smirked. A moment later, a man leading a horse turned a corner further along the lane and began walking towards them. Four more horses followed behind, all strung together.

“Tha be the ’uns for these ’ere ’orses?” he asked, his eyes a suspicious squint as he looked from one man to another, ignoring Lydia, until she stepped towards him and held out a pouch.

“Your next payment,” she told him. “As promised, the third will be ready for you tomorrow night, when we return the horses. We will leave on the high tide, whether you are here or not.”

The man touched his cap; a response to her cultured tones. “I be here,” he said, his sourness not abated by the purse he weighed thoughtfully in one hand. “See that tha be.”

He disappeared back into the gloom, and Lydia ordered the disposition of the horses. Jules was ordered to take position between the two French officers, his horse on leading reins. Lydia led the fifth horse, which had been supplied with a pack saddle and paniers.

“If you lead us into a trap, Julius,” the Baroness said, “Pierre will shoot you without blinking.”

“You have my word,” Jules told her indignantly. After all, she was not privy to his inner justifications for abandoning her. “However, I cannot lead you tell you tell me where we are going.”

“Iron Acton will do for a start,” Lydia said. Iron Acton was five miles from Chipping Niddwick. Further confirmation that Lydia’s stash was hidden at the Carrington Castle, or nearby.

“I take it you want to avoid villages and farm dwellings. Very well. If we head south on this lane,” he pointed the direction he meant, “we will come to a turn inland in about seventy-five yards.”

Lydia nodded at his two escorts, and they wheeled their horses to follow his directions. There had never been any doubt about who was in charge.

He kept them to lanes that avoided the villages and towns. Little used except for stock movements and farm carts, they were mostly in poor repair, and recent rain had frozen in every rut and hollow, so that their way was marked by the crackle of breaking ice. Going was slow. From Iron Acton, the Baroness directed them toward Highwayman’s Hollow, a place just off the Yate to Chipping Niddwick road where, or so local legend had it, highwaymen used to lurk, waiting for a rich prize.

“We shall take a rest,” the Baroness announced, dismounting. Jules and the two silent Frenchmen followed her example. She beckoned the three of them. “Come closer so we can talk without me shouting.”

Sound did carry in the night air. Still, Jules thought she was being too cautious. Unless things had changed since he was last here, there wasn’t a dwelling anywhere within ten minutes’ walk.

Nevertheless, he joined the group, ready to hear their next destination. He wasn’t ready to be seized by Pierre and Victor, one on each side. He struggled, but he was soon bound to a tree and gagged for good measure.

“I know the way from here,” the Baroness told him. She caressed his cheek, a parody of affection. “I cannot trust you near people who might help you. We will be back, Julius, and you shall see us to the coast as you promised, and then I shall release you as I promised.”

Unable to comment, Jules merely glared. The Baroness laughed, and leaned towards him her lips puckered. He twisted his face, so that the kiss fell on his ear rather than his lips. She laughed again, and groped at his fall. “He is hardly a man at all,” she told her French lovers. “Such a disappointment. One expected better of a Redepenning.”

Jules raised a sardonic eyebrow. Lydia tipped her nose in the air and walked away to remount her horse. Pierre followed, and then Victor but only after a vicious punch to Jules’s stomach. “That is for disrespecting madame,” he hissed.

Jules had no choice but to keep his response to himself. He gave the Baroness precisely the respect she deserved. Probably as well he couldn’t speak. Another couple of blows like that, and he’d be in real trouble.

He watched them ride away before testing his bonds. Good. They’d left enough play for him to work with, and the jack knife he’d stolen on the ship was still concealed in his sleeve. He sneered after them. No sailor would have made such a mistake.

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Tea with the ladies

 

Usually, Eleanor tried to hold herself above gossip, but today, in the early days of 1815, scandal and potential disaster hovered over the Haverford family like a wave that would wash away their safety and happiness when it fell. Listening to these acquaintances talk about the peccadilloes and peculiarities of other people was something of a relief.

“The Chevalier is so elegant, so aristocratic,” Lady Ramsunn enthused. “If I were younger, I would go to Bath myself! Lady Fortingham, your daughter Elizabeth might be just what he needs!”

“Who is the Chevalier?” Mrs Westinghouse inquired, and the other three ladies gave an enthusiastic description of his silver eyes and his perfect form. The Chevalier d’Aubusson had burst onto the London scene, and made a hit wherever he went, but now he had gone to Bath. To find a wife, rumour said. To avoid the theatre crowd, Eleanor rather thought. Those who attended to see and be seen by the fashionable crowd might not remember a certain actor who had held London in the palm of his hand before leaving to fight Napoleon. But they might. Eleanor did.

Eleanor said nothing. He would, or he would not, prove to be a bounder, but she had no profound objection to people trying to better themselves. Besides, he might have been an actor and still be entitled to an aged and defunct French title.

The conversation had moved on to the parlous state of the de Courtenay marriage. Everyone knew that Lady de Courtenay was in the country, while the earl moped around London drowning his sorrows. A forced marriage, the ladies agreed. Lady Celia, as she was then, had trapped Lord de Courtenay all unaware.

“Ridiculous,” Eleanor proclaimed. “Have you met Lady de Courtenay? Anyone less like a jade would be impossible to find. The earl is sulking, and someone should box his ears.”

That finished that conversation, but the next was even more fruitful: the dowager Countess of Wayford, and the new earl, recently returned from Italy. The poor boy was horribly scarred, and the stories about how he received his wounds only grew in the telling. Lady Wayford was not saying, but she made it clear that the new earl was a very unworthy claimant to the title formerly held by her beloved eldest son, Ulric.

“Not that anyone believes her,” Lady Fortingham declared. “He is beautifully spoken, and if his face is marred, his figure is excellent. Sad that ‘my darling Ulric’ left the estate in such disarray. Even an earl might find it hard to marry money with that face.”

Surprisingly, the reclusive mathematician Dr Hartwell was the next target of the ladies’ tongues. “Lady Ross declares he will speak at her house party,” Lady Ramsunn scoffed. “I will believe it when I see it. The man never leaves Oxford.”

Eleanor had seen some odd things happen in the vicinity of Lady Ross, but she thought even the power of the umbrella might not be sufficient to form a match for a man determined on the life of a celibate scholar. If Lady Ross found Dr Hartwell a wife, perhaps Eleanor would enlist her help with Aldridge! Certainly, he was not managing at all well on his own.

At long last, the four ladies left. The room seemed suddenly larger and lonelier. Silly though they were, they had taken her mind away from her troubles. She rang for the tea tray to be removed, and the butler entered, only to hold out a tray with a card.

Her heart lightened when she saw the name. “Show him up,” she instructed, “and bring a fresh tray.”

Chadbourn! He was her partner in a charitable venture to find places for those left broken and out-of-work by the recent war. Indeed, she hoped he had news of her latest proteges, who had been sent to Bath to work for a candle maker, a retired sergeant more lucky than most, as he’d inherited a candle works. She soon had the dear boy seated, and talking of his family, but it didn’t take him long to turn the conversation to the men she had hoped to save. “I hear good things from ‎Sergeant Marsh,” he told her, “but I intend to see him for myself in the next few days. I have been commissioned by my sisters to escort them to Bath. I will report on my return.”

She was sorry to see the young earl leave; if only she, too, could go to Bath. Meeting Sergeant Marsh, perhaps visiting Lady Ross, observing the Chevalier — that would be much more to her liking than what awaited her at Haverford Castle. Duty, however, must always come first.
The gossip was all about the heroes from Valentines from Bath. See the Bluestocking Belles’ website for more details and buy links.

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Valentines from Bath in Spotlight on Sunday

It’s here. Valentines from Bath is published, and I love it.

In five original stories, Jessica Cale, Sherry Ewing, Jude Knight, Amy Quinton, and Caroline Warfield bring you Valentines From Bath

The Master of Ceremonies announces a great ball to be held on Valentine’s Day in the Upper Assembly Rooms of Bath.

Ladies of the highest rank—and some who wish they were—scheme, prepare, and compete to make best use of the opportunity.

Dukes, earls, tradesmen, and the occasional charlatan are alert to the possibilities as the event draws nigh.

But anything can happen in the magic of music and candlelight as couples dance, flirt, and open themselves to romantic possibilities. Problems and conflict may just fade away at a Valentine’s Day Ball.

Find buy links on the Belles’ project page on their website.

Here are my brief thoughts about each story.

Beauty and the Bounder, by Jessica Cale

He’s a liar and a fortune-hunter… and exactly what she needs.

As usual, Jess gives us a completely different slant on balls, dresses, and bounders. Her heroine is too smart, too wary, and too invested in the idea of true love to have fallen for any of the suitors who were prepared to overlook her sharp tongue and her Welshness in favour of her dowry. But this fortune hunter might just have something more to offer. I adored this story. Lady Emilia was the right mix of wryly aware and self-deprecating, and Seb was a hero to die for.

The Earl Takes a Wife, by Sherry Ewing

It began with a memory, etched in the heart.

Sherry has returned to the de Courtney family, who featured in her Holly and Hopeful Hearts story a couple of years ago. In that novella, the hero’s niece, barely out of the schoolroom, asked the heroine’s brother to wait for her to grow up. The Earl Takes a Wife follows Celia and Adrian as they try to forget one another, until Adrian’s other sister Miranda plots to bring them together and almost destroys them. Celia’s innocence and sincerity don’t make her a pushover. I loved her determination to win the love match she wants, despite everything. Adrian acted like a prat for much of the story, but he had reason. He figured it out in the end, for a signature Ewing happy ending.

The Beast Next Door, by Jude Knight

In all the assemblies and parties of Bath, no-one Charis met could ever match the beast next door. 

Obviously, I’m not going to review this one. Here are my characters.

The Umbrella Chronicles: John and Emma’s Story, by Amy Quinton

A serious-minded, scientific man of learning seeks a complex and chaotic practitioner of all things superstitious who will upend his well-ordered life.

Another fine addition to the Umbrella Chronicles. John is endearingly bumbling in matters of emotion, which he avoids like the plague. Emma is refreshingly honest. She wants him, but she wants him to her as she is; his complete opposite in almost all things. Can too such different characters find love? Let Amy show you how.

Candles in the Dark, by Caroline Warfield

Doug Marsh and his candles bring light to many, none more than Esther. They may light the Assembly Rooms even as his love lights her life.

My favourite in the set, and the only one that doesn’t involve people who are part of the Bath social set. Esther works in the Assembly Room. Doug owns the candle manufactory. These are two lovely people from different worlds brought together by her urgent need and his kind heart. With her usual light touch, Caroline gives us real world problems with serious potential consequences, and then practical solutions that lead to a happy ever after and a deep satisfied sigh from this reader. Love will find a way.

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Will You Be My Valentine?

When the Bluestocking Belles first began working on a box set based around a Valentine’s Day Ball in Regency Bath, I had a few question. Was Valentine’s Day celebrated back then? How?

I knew the Victorians had hand written cards, and the Americans in the late 19th century brought in printed cards. And I knew Valentine was a Roman, killed for his faith and remembered for kindness to lovers. I didn’t know much else, but a bit of research soon put that right.

Wild Lupercalia

Long before the fifth century, when the three possible claimants for the story of St Valentine were around, the Romans had a feast in the middle of February that celebrated fertility. It included a ritual in which men killed animals and then used their hides to whip the women who lined up for the opportunity. The proceedings also including a jar full of names to pair men and women up for the duration of the festival – or longer, if they found they liked one another.

Valentine – but which Valentine?

When Christianity became the preferred religion, or so the theory goes, the bishops looked around for a replacement festival; one that wouldn’t involve quite so much blood and sex, but still let people have a good time.

They had a handy day already: 14 February was the feast day of three martyrs, both called Valentine. One was a fellow who refused to convert to paganism and was executed. According to legend, before he died he performed a miracle to heal the daughter of his jailor, and sent her a letter signed ‘from your Valentine’. Not much is known about the third, except that he died in Africa.

The other was a Roman priest who performed weddings for soldiers forbidden to marry, which in time led to the connection between St Valentine and lovers.

Beloved friends

At first, St Valentine’s Day was for celebrating any kind of love by showing affection. However, by the late fourteenth century, the idea of courtly love was in full swing, and the medieval author wrote a poem in which he firmly associated St Valentine and his day with romance.

As the years passed, the tradition developed. Lovers exchanged gifts, poems, letters, and handmade cards to celebrate the feast. Lovelorn suitors might give a Valentine’s Day token to impress the beloved. By the eighteenth century, the association of the saint between the saint and a wider definition of love had disappeared from England. But the association of the day and lovers was going strong, and it was only going to increase in the nineteenth century. In 1815, the year of our Valentine’s Day ball, such an event was entirely possible, and we can certainly expect our characters to keep up the tradition of giving hand-made tokens of affection to the object of their love.

It would be another thirty-five years before a entrepreneurial American woman would create the first print run of Valentine’s Day cards, but our story was feasible, and we were off.

~*~

Valentine’s from Bath releases on Saturday. Only 99 cents for more than 450 pages of stories. See the Belles’ project page for details. The blurb below is from my novella, one of five in the collection.

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Honest work on WIP Wednesday

One of the things I need to consider when forming my plots is ‘how does the character’s everyday job affect their time and their location?’ In the Regency era, peers of the realm worked: they’re sort of like the ceo of a company, in charge of the direction, making the tricky decisions, approving the strategy and the budgets. They were also eligible to sit in the House of Lords, and many had vigorous political careers. Ladies might be expected to be decorative, but that could be work, too. Wives, sisters, and daughters managed households, which could be massive and have huge numbers of staff. They were also expected to be responsible for dispensing welfare to the less fortunate.

Younger sons of the very wealthy might be the equivalent of today’s idle rich, depending on someone else’s money for their affluent lifestyle, but everyone else needed to have some way to keep fed, housed and clothed.  I love putting snippets of this into my writing, and I’ve written whole books starring characters with what we’d recognise as a job. I have a maker of invalid chairs, a chef, a house flipper, a horse breeder and others.

I’m currently thinking and imagining a couple of books ahead, and discovering some main characters who are not peers or their families. One, Lucas Mog, appeared in Farewell to Kindness, has a part to play in the current Work in Progress, Unkept Promises, and will be the hero of the next Redepenning book, Flavour of Their Deeds. He is a gamekeeper — but who is he really? One makes a living in a morally objectional fashion. He was an assassin for the British during the Napoleonic Wars, and now kills for a price and to order. He’ll be the hero of an as yet unnamed book for the Common Elements Project. One was tutor and minder to a lonely English boy in far off Naples while the boy had surgery. Now the lad is grown up, an earl, and married, Peter needs a new job. (Yes, this hero has a part in The Beast Next Door, my novella in Valentine’s From Bath.)

This week, give me an excerpt of a character at work — or at least of one who works. Mine is from Unkept Promises. My hero is a naval captain who has been lost from his ship, thank to the machinations of my villain.

Bruised and battered, every muscle aching, sick to the stomach from the sea water he had unwillingly ingested, Jules wanted nothing more than to lie on the sand just above the reach of the waves. But he was wet to the skin and cold to the bone. He needed to move before he froze, and he also needed to find cover before sunrise, because this was almost certainly a beach in enemy France.

He forced himself to his feet. In the dark, all he could do was set his back to the waves and start walking, feeling for each step, his hands before him to fend off any obstacle before it connected with his face. The rain had started again, which at least let him suck in a few drops of fresh water to ease his thirst.

He found a low bank by stumbling over it, stepping up from the sand onto a stiff grass that crunched under his feet. A few yards further on, his hands met leaves. Bushes, and when he pushed between them, they seemed to extend for some distance. He found a hollow in the ground surrounded by the foliage, hoping it would be enough to hide him until he could see well enough to find better concealment and make a plan.

It was a miserable wait for dawn, but at last the landscape emerged from the darkness. He would stick to the coast, he decided, in the hopes of finding a sail boat he could steal. England wasn’t above thirty miles away, though hidden in the persistent drizzle. He would probably not need to sail all the way; the channel was constantly patrolled by British ships.

He kept to the cover of bushes as much as he could, running across any open areas while scanning for other people. In the rain, they could have been almost upon him before he saw them, but all the more reason he would himself stay unobserved.

He also kept an eye out for better shelter; with luck, somewhere he could find dry clothing, or even something to wrap himself in while his own clothing dried. This must be the most deserted, Godforsaken piece of coast in all of France.

Then all of a sudden it wasn’t. Out of the mist came a column of marching soldiers, and Jules was surrounded before he could convince his tired bones of the emergency.

Someone shouted at him: a command by the tone. If it was a question, it was peremptory. I should have paid attention in French lessons, Jules thought. “My regrets, sir,” he said. “I do not understand.”

A rifle butt descended, and he sank into blackness.

by

Tea with Aldridge

 

Aldridge paced the room, not able to keep still for a moment, his body expressing the agitation his face refused to display. “He is getting worse, Mama. Whether it would have happened anyway, or whether the arrival of Sutton lit the flame, he lives on the point of explosion.”

“I know, my dear.” She knew better than Aldridge, in fact. Despite the long estrangement between her and her husband, they nonetheless lived in the same house, attended some of the same social gatherings, worked side-by-side for the same political causes. Aldridge kept largely to his own wing when he was under the same roof as his parents, which was increasingly rare. He managed all the vast business of the duchy, but Haverford had long since let go those reins to the extent that his only association with Aldridge tended to be through the bills and notes of hand that arrived regularly to be paid.

Aldridge thumped the mantlepiece. “This latest start… if word gets out that Haverford was behind the attack on Sutton and his family, it will be a disaster. Sutton would be well within his rights to demand Haverford’s trial for attempted murder. This family is no stranger to scandal, Mama, and there’s no doubt in my mind His Grace deserves to be hanged, silken noose or not, but…”

Eleanor’s distress was such she found herself chewing her lip. “Thank God no one was seriously hurt.”

“Thank Sutton and his sons for their warrior-craft, and me for finding out in time to send a rescue.” Aldridge heaved a deep sigh and took another fast turn around the carpet. “He intended murder, Mama, and when I confronted him with it, he laughed and said he did it for England. He has gone too far, Mama. If he is found out, he puts us all at risk. What if the Regent decides to regard a murder attempt on another peer as treason?”

Eleanor had not considered that possibility. The title could be attained, the lineage considered corrupt. Aldridge had worked for years to rebuild the wealth of the duchy after his father’s mismanagement. He could lose it all, including the title, and the Prince would be delighted to benefit.

Haverford had become more and more erratic as the year progressed. He insulted and alarmed other people at every event he attended, completely ignoring social conventions and saying whatever he thought, often using the foulest of language. Thankfully, he was showing less and less inclination to go into Polite Society. Even so, the duchess frequently needed to use all her considerable tact and diplomacy to soothe ruffled feathers and quiet the gossip that claimed the duke was going mad.

“He is going mad,” she acknowledged to her son, the one person in the world who could be trusted with the knowledge. “It is the French Disease, I am sure. It is rotting his brain.”

“We cannot bring in doctors to examine him, Mama. Who knows what would come of that; what he would say and who they would tell? He cannot be allowed to continue, however.”

Eleanor frowned. It was a conundrum. Who could prevent a duke from doing whatever he pleased?

Aldridge, apparently. “I have made arrangements. He has been persuaded to travel to Haverford Castle. When he arrives, trusted servants know to keep him there. He will be comfortable, Mama. I have arranged for him to be entertained, and have nurses on hand in case he needs them. The disease will kill him in the next year or two, probably, and he is likely to be bedridden long before the end.”

He was brave, her son. He was breaking the laws of God and man in showing such disobedience to his father and a peer of the realm. She was sure God would understand, but the Courts might not. She would not ask about the entertainment Aldridge had provided. Knowing Haverford as she did, she did not want to know details. “He must never be set free,” she concluded. Should anyone find out he was insane, the scandal would be enormous. Worse still for Aldridge.

“Never,” Aldridge agreed. “My instructions are to keep him from understanding he is imprisoned for as long as possible. With luck, the confusion in his mind will prevent him from ever working it out. I needed you to know, Mama, for two reasons. First, we need a story for the ton. Second, if anything happens to me, it will be for you to keep him confined until Jon returns to be heir in my place.”

“I hope dear Jonathan comes home soon, Aldridge. I miss my son. But do not speak of your demise, my dear. I could not bear it.”

Aldridge stopped beside her and bent to kiss her forehead. “You are the strongest woman I know, dearest. Fret not. I am careful, and I intend to live to grow old.”

Eleanor hoped so. She certainly hoped so.

 

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Historical? Romance? Or Thriller? If the genre fits, wear it!

I’ve always had trouble categorising my fiction, which in one sense isn’t a problem. After all, genre is a device for shelving books.

In another sense, it doesn’t help. Booksellers — including Amazon — use genre for sorting books and showing them to readers. If I’m not clear what I’m writing, my books are likely to go to readers who don’t want them!

My weekend at the first New Zealand crime and thrillers convention, RotoruaNoir, has helped me clarify my thinking. Especially my preparation for the panel discussion on Genre Blending. I represented historical romance on the panel. Other members represented horror, young adult, and contemporary romance.

So here’s where I’ve got to. So far, what I’ve written represents any two and up to all three of historical fiction, romance, and crime/mystery.

I write historical fiction

Historical fiction is fiction that is is set in the past and pays attention to the manners, social conditions and other details of the story’s setting in time and place. Such stories may focus on major historical events and characters, but even if they don’t, they should at least recognise such events when they’ve recently happened, or are happening, during the time period of the story.

All but three of my stories (so far) are set in the past, most in the Regency era. I love historical detail, and do a lot of research to get it right. I try to create characters that could only have existed in that time and place, and the events and activities that are natural for people like that in a time like that. Some readers find my women too stroppy and independent for their times. I disagree. History is full of women who defied the current norms to forge their own path. Also, many people judge the whole of society by the pampered debutantes in their gilded cages. To take one example, people have commented on my character Minerva Bradford, who ran a workshop that made invalid chairs. She would not have been unusual for her time. Women of crafter families had always been crafters themselves. Indeed, part of the story is that Minerva’s family is upwardly mobile, and her father wants Minerva to give up the work and become a social ornament, like her betters.

(Not all historical romances are also historical fiction. Some are stories that could happen anywhere or anytime, but the gowns and cravats are a nice added touch. I don’t write those, but I’ve enjoyed quite a few.)

I write romance

Romance is fiction about two people (except at the menage edges of the genre) who fall in love, face challenges, and finish the story with a strong possibility of happiness together. Romance is a subset of the love story category. What sets it apart is the happy ending. I’ve always taken ‘happy ever after’ as meaning ‘having resolved conflicts in a way that gives us hope they will resolve the conflicts that are yet to come as they live their lives together’. Romance is a broad category that includes historical, contemporary, paranormal, science fiction, and suspense. It can also be categorised by the gender, species, and number of the participants, and by the ‘heat’ level — that is, by the emphasis on and level of specific detail in the sex scenes.

I believe in happy endings. I’m living one myself, and so have all my siblings and my husband’s siblings. True love isn’t magic and it isn’t easy, but it is possible and worthwhile. The ending of the written story is the beginning of a life together, which will have its ups and downs, but empathy and commitment will see the couple through. Those are my kind of romances. I’m not one to add a sex scene for the sake of it, but I don’t shy away from leaving the door open in the plot or character development require. Heat level is anything from ‘sweet’ to ‘moderate’.

I’ve written across a number of romance subgenres. Contemporary suspense. Historical suspense. Paranormal suspense. Straight historical. At the heart of it are two people in the crucible of initial attraction, learning about one another and growing to be more than they could have been alone.

I write suspense

The last category I write in is crime/mystery. This is another huge genre with blurred edges. People seem to use the term mystery for stories about solving a crime. Crime is a bit broader, including the effects of the crime. RotoruaNoir had writers from across the spectrum of the genre (most of the following can be contemporary, historical, paranormal, or sf): cosy/traditional, noir (gritty and pessimistic), hard-boiled private investigator, police procedural, spy/espionage, suspense, and thriller.

I’m struggling to fit mine in there. They’re not cosy, since they don’t shy away from gritty detail, but they’re certainly not pessimistic. I do have a private investigator, but he isn’t hard-boiled. Not police procedural. Espionage can be an element. Thriller is about high stakes and swift actions, which might be close to some of my plots. Suspense is probably closest — characters confronting evil and overcoming danger.

I knew I had romance in all my suspense stories. But I went through my titles and listed all the plot lines. With rare exceptions, they all involve solving crimes, from fraud and intimidation to blackmail, people trafficking, and murder. Turns out I have suspense in almost all of my romance stories. Certainly, all three of my contemporary romances are also suspense.

 

So this leaves me needed a new strapline

Okay. So far so good. The first step to fixing a marketing problem is to diagnose the problem. If I didn’t know what I did myself, I can hardly expect to attract readers who like it.

I’m okay with Jude Knight Storyteller as an overall brand. It covers the fact that I don’t stick to one genre but write in the overlap between them. I tell stories. But the visual imagery and the strapline (Stories to thrill, intrigue and delight) could do with some work. Watch this space.