I woke this morning to an email from the talented and charming Britt Leveridge with the chair she has drawn for my cover. I asked for a small change, and she came back within half an hour. Hasn’t she done a marvelous job?
The house is ‘A view of King’s Weston House, in the snow’, photographed by Stephen Burns and released into the public domain by the copyright holder on 5 February 2009.
On 20th December (or 21st if you’re my side of the date line) I’m joining 24 other authors to invite you to join us and our characters on a Christmas party in the blogosphere.
More news, and the list of places to party, will follow, but I just wanted to ask you whether you’d rather:
(Or both. I have trouble with making choices, so often choose both.)
Thank you to the lovely Helen Hollick, author of the Sea Witch Chronicles, for organising the blog hop and inviting me to join.
Here’s the rest of chapter five. Six more excerpts to go. Meanwhile, the artist showed me her rendition of the invalid’s chair for the cover, and I love it. And three of my four beta readers have given me the nod. I’m making some minor tweaks, and I still have to do a really intensive copy edit to do, but I’m on track to deliver on the 20th or 21st.
Candle’s Christmas Chair excerpt 1
Candle’s Christmas Chair excerpt 8
“So, Lord Avery,” Mr Bradshaw began, as soon as the door shut behind the two women. “You want permission to court my daughter.”
Candle hadn’t thought to have this conversation in front of witnesses, but if that was the way Mr Bradshaw wanted it, so be it.
Mr Bradshaw correctly interpreted his glance at Whitlow. “Daniel is Minerva’s cousin and my heir. If anything happens to me, you’ll be dealing with him.”
Candle nodded in acknowledgement. “Yes, Sir. I want permission to court your daughter.”
“Rumour has it that you’re a warm man, thanks to your uncle. Think you can keep it?”
“Yes, Sir. I think I can. I’m not a man of profligate habits, and I’m working hard to learn the estate my father left me and the business my uncle left me. I mean to make a success of them both.”
It was Mr Bradshaw’s turn to nod. “So I’m told.” To Candle’s surprised look, he said, “I asked questions, lad. She’s my one ewe lamb. Of course I asked questions.”
“I understand.” Little though Candle liked the idea of someone poking around and asking about him, he did understand Mr Bradshaw’s need to protect his daughter. “And were you content with the answers, Sir?”
Mr Bradshaw didn’t answer him directly. “She says she won’t have you. She says that the middle sort and the peerage don’t mix, and that a marriage between you won’t work. What do you say to that?”
“I hope to change her mind,” Candle said. “I think we can make it work. Yes, the Society cats will have their claws out, but we don’t need to live in Society. And my mother and I will love her just as she is.”
“Love, is it? You said so in your flowers. Do you say it straight, lad? To me, and to Daniel here?”
Candle met his eyes and said, firmly, “I love her. I love your daughter, Sir.”
“Well, Daniel?” Mr Bradshaw asked.
“I’d say give him your blessing, Uncle, and wish him luck. She’s stubborn, my cousin. You’ll find you need all the luck you can get.”
“My blessing? No. No offense, lad, but I’ll save my blessing for my lass if she decides to accept you. She’ll need it, and a powerful load of luck. Mixing your sort and mine; I’ve seen a lot of sorrow come that way. But I won’t deny my Minerv if you’re the one she wants. You can court her, Lord Avery. But as to where the luck lies…”
Mr Bradford shook his head and poured them all another glass of port.
Candle exerted himself to be agreeable, and by the time they joined the ladies, Candle and Daniel Whitlow were on first-name terms.
Miss Bradshaw was at a desk in the corner, and Mrs Bradshaw sat sewing by the fire. Her tambour was half filled with colourful flowers, bursting joyously across the canvas.
Candle stopped to admire the embroidery, then looked over Miss Bradshaw’s shoulder. Engineering designs. He might have known.
“It’s gearing of some kind,” he said.
She went to put her work away. “No, don’t let me stop you working,” he said. “But would you explain it to me?”
An hour later when he took his leave, he was much more knowledgeable about the benefits of differential gearing. He’d found it strangely compelling–Miss Bradshaw was experimenting with progressive changes in size so that less strength was needed to work the mechanism, while still keeping the mechanism light enough and small enough not to weigh down the chair.
They’d agreed he would come to the works in the morning. Candle was keen to get home to Avery Hall with the news of the battle, and he’d leave the White Hart as soon as the morning mail coach arrived with the newspapers from London.
“I’ll bring copies for you, Sir,” he told Mr Bradshaw.
Crossing the foyer of the hotel, he was hailed by a peremptory, “Lord Avery!”
He turned to see a dumpling of a woman whose generous figure was amplified by a plethora of floating scarves, fringes and ruffles in shades of purple. Lady Cresthover. She was bearing down on him, her daughter and Lady Norton in her wake. For a fleeting moment he contemplated pretending not to hear and bolting for the stairs. He resisted the temptation. The old besom was his mother’s friend. Sort of.
He pasted on his best social smile, and gave each lady a small bow. “Lady Cresthover. Miss Cresthover. Lady Norton.”
“Lord Avery, what brings you to Bath? How is your dear mother? And what do you think of this terrible news about Nelson? Do you think Napoleon is finished, as they are saying? How long are you in Bath?”
The questions came in quick succession, while Lady Cresthover took him by the arm and herded him into a private parlour.
“The girls and I were just about to have supper. You will join us, Lord Avery.” This was a royal command, not a question. When Candle protested that he had already eaten, he was bidden to sit and have a glass of wine, and to answer Lady Cresthover’s questions.
An experienced officer of His Majesty’s Coldstream Guard should show courage under fire. Besides, he was considerably taller than he’d been twelve years ago, last time Lady Cresthover had rapped him on the head with her formidable thimble. She would have trouble reaching his head now.
“Certainly, my Lady,” he said. “Could you repeat them one at a time, please?”
It was an hour before he was finally able to make his excuses, citing the trip he needed to take the following morning. By then, he’d drawn several conclusions.
Lady Cresthover’s incessant gossip, though often ill-informed, was not ill-intended, but Lady Norton was a cat of quite a different colour. Lady Norton had her knife out for Miss Bradshaw–she had made several derogatory comments, which Candle judged it best to ignore or deflect, since any defence would just encourage the lady to make trouble.
Lady Cresthover, on the other hand, proclaimed Miss Bradford, “a sweet girl, quite the lady, and a very good friend to poor Nelly Maybury, when her husband died.”
And Miss Cresthover also came to Miss Bradshaw’s defence, insisting that Miss Bradshaw was far more of a lady ‘than some who lay claim to the term’.
Lady Cresthover and her daughter might be allies if the new Viscountess Avery wanted to go into Society.
Oh yes, and he’d learned one more thing. Lady Norton’s schoolgirl nickname of Kitty Cat was an insult to felines everywhere.
#*#
Lord Avery collected the chair and was gone from Bath by 11 o’clock in the morning. Min found the rest of the day sadly flat. He hadn’t said anything lover-like as the chair was tied to the back of his carriage, but the warmth in his eyes had set her tingling.
Perhaps she only imagined it. Perhaps, too, she imagined the press of his fingers when he said, as he took his farewell, “I very much look forward to seeing you and your mother in three weeks, Miss Bradshaw.”
That morning’s floral tribute spoke of anxiety. If he felt anxiety, he didn’t show it. She was the one who was anxious, her heartbeat speeding up when she thought of him, the warmth uncurling in her belly at the mere thought of the warmth in his eyes.
She was the one who couldn’t keep her mind on her work, who had lost interest in food, who lay awake at night remembering every gesture, every word, every look.
She would not fall in love with a peer. She could not. She was not so foolish. Was she?
A first communion photo showing a row of gorgeous young ladies in white
Yesterday (Sunday New Zealand time), eight young members of my parish made their first communion. They all wore white; of the five girls, two wore veils and three had coronets of white flowers.
Bride in medieval finery
I’ve been asked why our first communicants dress as brides. A better question would be why brides dress as first communicants.
By at least 1700, Catholic and Anglican girls approached the altar for their first communion wearing a white garment.These echoed the white robe worn by priests, which in turn symbolises the white linen garment that the priests of ancient Israel wore. And veils were shawls in a light material, worn by many women as part of their daily wear. For the special occasion of their first communion, girls then, as today, might wear a veil that had been worn by a mother and maybe a grandmother, folded away and kept since the last first communicant proudly wore it.
1880s wedding dress
In the 18th and early 19th century, brides wore their best dress and bonnet on their wedding day. The dress might be new for the occasion – if the family was wealthy enough, it probably would. But only the very wealthiest could afford a one-time dress. All other brides expected their bridal gown to do service for many Sundays to come. Most also wore a bonnet rather than a veil (or a bonnet with a veil attached, which was common enough in everyday wear).
The dress could be in any colour. The poorer the bride, the more likely they would choose a darker colour, since it required less care. Wealthier brides might wear white, silver, or blue.
In 1840, Queen Victoria wore white to match some lace she wanted to use. Several others at the wedding also wore white:
Queen Victoria’s dress was of rich white satin, trimmed with orange flower blossoms. The headdress was a wreath of orange flower blossoms, and over this a beautiful veil of Honiton lace, worn down. The bridesmaids or train-bearers were also attired in white. The cost of the lace alone on the dress was £1,000. The satin, which was of a pure white, was manufactured in Spitalfields. Queen Victoria wore an armlet having the motto of the Order of the Garter: “Honi soit qui mal y pense,” inscribed. She also wore the star of the Order.
Queen Victoria marries Prince Albert
The lace of Queen Victoria’s bridal dress, though popularly called Honiton lace, was really worked at the village of Beer, which is situated near the sea coast, about ten miles from Honiton. It was executed under the direction of Miss Bidney, a native of the village, who went from London, at the command of her Majesty, for the express purpose of superintending the work. More than two hundred persons were employed upon it from March to November, during the past year.
The lace which formed the flounce of the dress, measured four yards, and was three quarters of a yard in depth. The pattern was a rich and exquisitely tasteful design, drawn expressly for the purpose, and surpasses anything that has ever been executed either in England or in Brussels. So anxious was the manufacturer that Queen Victoria should have a dress perfectly unique, that she has since the completion of the lace destroyed all the designs. The veil, which was of the same material, and was made to correspond, afforded employment to the poor lace workers for more than six weeks. It was a yard and a half square.
The Queen Dowager’s dress was of English lace with a rich deep flounce over white satin; the body and sleeves trimmed with the same material. The train was of rich violet velvet lined with white satin and trimmed with ermine. The whole of this dress was entirely composed of articles of British manufacture. Queen Adelaide wore a diamond necklace and earrings, a head dress, feathers, and diamonds.
The dress worn by her Royal Highness, the Duchess of Kent, was of white satin splendidly brocaded with silver and trimmed with three flounces of blonde. It was trimmed with net and silver. The train was of sky-blue velvet lined with white satin and trimmed with ermine. The body and sleeves were tastefully ornamented with ermine and silver with blonde ruffles. The head dress was of diamonds and feathers with a necklace and earrings en suite. The articles in the dress were wholly of British manufacture.
H.R.H. Princess Augusta wore a corsage and train of rich blue velvet trimmed with Brussels point lace and tastefully ornamented with aigrettes of diamonds. There was a rich white satin petticoat with volants and heading of Brussels point lace. The head dress was of Brussels point lace with superb lappets to correspond and a magnificent spray of diamonds.
The Duchess of Sutherland wore a dress of white satin trimmed with barbs of Spanish point lace and white roses. Included was a stomacher of brilliants, point ruffles and berthé; plus a train of white moiré magnificently embroidered in coral and gold. The head dress was of feathers and point lappets with splendid diamonds.
The Countess of Carlisle had a dress of sapphire blue velvet with a Brussels point tucker and ruffles. Her head dress was a toque of velvet and Brussels point lappets.
And brides who could afford to do so emulated her for the next 150 years. Even today, we think white is the ‘proper’ colour for a bridal gown.
Another medieval bride
The dress worn by Queen Charlotte when she married George III
I now have feedback from two of my five beta readers for Candle’s Christmas Chair, and am feeling very energised by their comments. Thanks, ladies. This first half of chapter five has a tiny tweak at the end to implement one of Carol’s suggestions.
Begin at the beginning: Candle’s Christmas Chair excerpt 1
Or go back to the previous episode: Candle’s Christmas Chair excerpt 7
The HMS Pickle racing home with news of Trafalgar and the death of Nelson
Candle arrived in Bath on the evening of the 6th, and had to fight the urge to go immediately in search of Miss Bradshaw. He wandered down to the florist shop. Mrs Brown, the florist, greeted him with enthusiasm
“Have the deliveries gone as planned?” he asked, and was reassured that flowers had been delivered every morning. He and Mrs Brown had spent nearly two hours planning the flowers to send and the order to send them.
“My delivery boy tells me that the whole household waits each morning to see what’s next,” Mrs Brown said. “It’s the Christmas Roses for tomorrow, sir?”
Candle nodded. ‘I am all anxiety until I see you,’ they meant. The large pot of honey from the estate’s hives should have been delivered this morning. He had sent a note presenting his compliments to Mr Bradshaw, and asking leave to call on him tomorrow afternoon. Half his anxiety was for what Mr Bradshaw might say, and the rest for his beloved. Had his persistent assault by flower and food softened her towards him? He could only hope so.
He made his way back to the White Hart Inn, surprised at the number of people on the streets. His friend Michaels was in the crowd in front of the inn.
“There’s been a great battle,” he told Candle, not bothering with greetings. “Someone who’s come in on the coach is going to read the Gazette. They’re just setting him up in a window so everyone can hear.”
“Where? A battle where?” Candle was torn between staying to listen and rushing across the river to assure himself of Miss Bradshaw’s safety.
“A sea battle. A victory, they say, but Nelson is dead.”
The great Nelson, dead. It was hard to believe.
“Is it true?” Candle turned at the new voice. Miss Bradshaw’s cousin, with a much older man. “Is Nelson dead?”
“So I’m told, Mr Whitlow.” Candle introduced Whitlow and Michaels, and was in turn introduced to the older man, Mr Bradshaw. He was built on the same powerful lines as his nephew, but had eyes as grey as his daughter’s.
“So you’re Lord Avery,” he said.
“Quiet,” Michaels interrupted. “He’s starting.”
From an open window on the second floor of the inn, a stout man in a florid waistcoat began, “Dispatches, of which the following are Copies, were received at the Admiralty this day, at one o’clock a.m., from Vice-Admiral Collingwood, Commander in Chief of his Majesty’s ships and vessels of Cadiz: -”
At the words ‘Commander in Chief’, a murmur ran through the crowd, followed by whispered commands to hush.
“Euryalus, off Cape Trafalgar. October 22nd, 1805,” the reader continued.
He paused, and looked out at the people, silent below him.
“Sir,– The ever-to-be-lamented death of Vice-Admiral, Lord Viscount Nelson, who in the late conflict with the enemy fell in the hour of victory, leaves to me the duty…”
The crowd listened for the most part in hushed silence, though they cheered when the reader reported, “…it pleased the Almighty Disposer of all events to grant His Majesty’s arms a complete and glorious victory” and groaned at, “His Lordship received a musket ball in his left breast…and soon after expired.”
It took nearly 40 minutes to read the two closely printed sides of the newsheet. Afterwards, the crowd dispersed in small clumps, all discussing the news.
“I don’t know whether to cheer or weep,” Candle said.
“I know, lad,” Mr Bradshaw agreed. “Napoleon has suffered a heavy loss, that’s certain. But Nelson is a heavy loss to our dear England.”
Michaels muttered something about an appointment and left. Candle didn’t fancy going into the inn. The noisy public bar or a lonely private room–neither appealed. For want of a better option, he walked with Mr Bradshaw and Whitlow around the Roman Baths and past the Abbey towards the bridge.
“So you’re the young lord who has turned my house into a flower shop and who wants to come and see me tomorrow,” Mr Bradshaw said.
No time like the present. “Yes, Sir. I wish to ask your permission to court your daughter, Sir.”
“You’re already courting my daughter, seemingly. Unless you are carrying on a clandestine affair with my dear wife.” Mr Bradshaw looked stern, but one of Candle’s colonels had displayed just such a twinkle when apparently chewing out a subordinate he was pleased with.
“After all, Uncle, he has sent Aunt Gavrielle all those flowers and most of the notes,” Whitlow offered, finding his own remark enormously amusing.
“You’d better come to dinner, then,” Mr Bradshaw said, and led the way onto the bridge. “Do you think this victory will stop the Corsican?”
“It will at least stop him from invading England until he has built some more ships,” Candle said.
“Yes,” Whitlow agreed. “We don’t know the details yet, but the losses of our own ships will be made up by the ships we’ve captured from the French and the Spanish.”
“Nothing will make up for the loss of Nelson,” Mr Bradshaw said.
Candle nodded, but was still thinking about stopping Napoleon. “We can hold Napoleon off by sea, but we’ll need to meet him on land to end his ambitions.”
They continued discussing the battle and its implications for the rest of the walk, until Mr Bradshaw opened his front door and ushered Candle inside.
Miss Bradshaw and a much older woman, clearly related, were just descending the stairs.
“My love,” Mr Bradshaw told her, “I have brought Lord Avery for dinner, and we have sad but glorious news.”
#*#
It was Lord Avery. Here. In her house. She had been steeling herself to be indifferent to him tomorrow, when he came for the chair. Now was too early. She wasn’t ready.
He smiled at her, and her knees turned to jelly. Yesterday he’d sent asters (‘I love you’), a watercolour of a country house, and a note that said his mother had asked him to send her mother a painting she’d made of their home, Avery Hall.
This morning, it had been damask roses and stephanotis, plus a large pot of honey. The flowers, Mama said, meant ‘I send these flowers as an ambassador of my love, and I look to be happy in marriage’. The note that asked for an interview with Papa needed no interpreter.
And now he was here. In her house. Almost a whole day early.
Something they were saying caught her ear; something about Nelson?
“Dead?” Mama was asking.
“Just a moment,” Papa said. He turned to the butler. “Heath, assemble the staff in the drawing room. They’ll want to hear this.”
Min took a seat with Mama in the drawing room, and–once the house’s staff were gathered–listened to the report of the battle, the great victory, and the great loss.
Lord Avery stayed with the two women after the staff had dispersed and Papa and Daniel had gone upstairs to change for dinner.
“Will this loss of all his navy stop Napoleon, do you think?” Mama asked.
“It will stop him invading us, Ma’am,” Candle answered, “at least for the moment. It won’t stop him rampaging all over the continent.”
Mama had more questions, and Min was content to sit and watch Mama and Lord Avery talk. The other two joined them and they all went in to a much delayed dinner.
Napoleon and Nelson continued to dominate the conversation. Lord Avery was knowledgeable and ready to defend his own opinion, but also willing to change his mind if someone else offered a persuasive argument. And he showed no signs of distinguishing between the arguments of the women and those of the men; none of the condescension Min was used to from every man she knew. Even Papa and Daniel were not quite exceptions, since she was sure that they’d just learned to keep their condescension veiled from her and Mama.
By the second setting, Min had forgotten her wariness. Lord Avery behaved as if he came to dinner every day, and the family all treated him as if he belonged.
“Cook used your honey in this, lad,” Papa told him, taking a spoonful of the syllabub.
“It is good, isn’t it,” Lord Avery replied. “My beekeeper tells me that this year’s honey is particularly strong in orchard flavours. The fruit trees blossomed well, I’m told.”
Mama’s eyes crinkled at the corners, as she smiled at Lord Avery. “I have not thanked you, yet, for all the lovely flowers you sent me. Such charming messages.”
He took her teasing in his stride. “A fitting tribute to your beauty, Mrs Bradshaw.”
After dinner, Min reluctantly left the dining room with Mama. What would Papa and Daniel say to Lord Avery with the women out of the room? What would he say to them?
“I like your Lord Avery, child,” Mama said, breaking into her thoughts. “But he is still an aristocrat, however nice he may be.”
“He is not mine, Mama. I am not foolish enough to think I could marry a peer.”
“I worry, my love. I do not want to see you hurt. And he is not our sort.”
After writing about women who never marry, I’m now turning to the topic of people who are still happily married many years after the wedding.
Some people object to romances and their HEA endings because they imply that women can only be happy and complete if they are married (or in some other form of long-term committed romantic relationship). As I’ve said in discussions on the last happy ever after post, I think this is a serious objection and one worth listening to. While the nature of a romance novel requires the main protagonists to end up together, I can see no reason why important secondary characters couldn’t be thoroughly happy in single blessedness.
On the other hand, some people object to the HEA endings because they’re unrealistic. Such people point to the divorce rate, and to historic records of unhappy marriages.
So let’s examine those assumptions. In the West, we currently have a divorce rate of around 30% to 35%. So couples have around two chances in three of being together until one of them dies. We can assume that some unhappy couples will never divorce, but – given the ease of divorce in the West – I’d suggest we’d be erring on the generous side if we said that accounted for another 15% to 20% of couples. Even if we take that unlikely percentage, though, that still means 50% of marriages are happy; 50% of married couples get their happy ever after. I’d buy a raffle ticket with those odds.
Ah, you might say, but historically a lot of marriages were arranged. And arranged marriages are less likely to be happy. Not so, apparently. Happiness seems to be more about the attitude of the couple than the degree of choice over partner.
I’ll admit to a bias. I’ve been married for 43 years, and I love my personal romantic hero more each day. My sister and my brothers, and my husband’s sister and brother are all still with the first person they married. Two of my three married daughters are still married to their first-choice partner, and the third has recently remarried.
My PRH and I once coached engaged couples. One of things we learnt in our training is that couples that stay together often report that they started marriage with an image in their minds of what their old age together would be like. Forty-five years ago, almost to the day, my PRH and I went carol singing around the pensioner flats in the town where we lived. One elderly couple invited us in to sing to them, and we were much struck by how tender they were with one another. As we left, I said to PRH and he to me: that’s what I want – that kind of love when we are old.
I still love to see happy couples celebrating their love for one another in their old age. I still want that for my PRH and me. And I want to write books where the reader believes the protagonists have that kind of future, and where they have older couples they can admire whose marriages are still strong and passionate after decades of loving. I’m taking my theme from the first three lines of Robert Browning’s poem:
Grow old along with me!The best is yet to be,The last of life, for which the first was made:
The rest of chapter four, which brings us halfway through the novella. I’ve now finished the edit and sent the novella to beta readers, so I’m on target for publication before Christmas. Very exciting. And my young artist friend reckons she can trace paint Candle’s chair, so that just may be the cover sorted.
Begin at the beginning: Candle’s Christmas Chair excerpt 1
Or go back to the previous episode: Candle’s Christmas Chair excerpt 6
Now that she had opened the way, Candle found himself talking to his mother about Miss Bradshaw. He’d never told anyone about the ill-fated house party, but he could make a story of it without bitterness now that he knew that he and his beloved had been the victims of malicious scheming.
“Why would they do it, Mother?” he wondered.
“I can think of a number of reasons, Randall. Some people like to break anything pretty or pleasing. They cannot stand for other people to be happy. From what you say, the brother thought of you as his natural victim. And the sister probably felt the same about Miss Bradshaw. I daresay the pair of you ignored them, and they would hate that.”
Candle nodded. “I wouldn’t even remember them being there if Miss Kitteridge had not been the one to tell me Miss Bradshaw was gone.”
“Another possibility is that Miss Kitteridge had hopes of her own. It was about that time my brother retired to England, and she may have thought you would inherit–which you did, of course, though not until this year.”
“I don’t think so, she wasn’t even nice to me… although…” Candle stared into the past for a moment. “Actually, around six months later she tried to… warm the acquaintance, I suppose. All of a sudden, she seemed to be at all the events I went to, and she stopped making cutting remarks and–I got the impression she wanted me as part of her court.”
“I expect she hadn’t been in town till then.”
Candle agreed. Kitteridge and his sister had come up to London for the Season.
“So what did you do,” Mother asked.
Candle flushed a little. “Seeing her reminded me of losing Miss Bradshaw. So I stopped going into Society until she left London again.”
“And then look what she did next.”
“I don’t know what she did next.”
“She married Baron Norton, Randall dear. And gave birth to a very premature baby five months after the wedding. A son, after Lord Norton’s previous four wives had failed to have any children at all.”
“Good Heavens, Mother. Are you suggesting what I think you are suggesting?”
“I think you were Miss Kitteridge’s first choice to father her cuckoo. On the whole, she did not do too badly in choosing Lord Norton.”
“You shock me, Mother. You think him a preferable husband to me?”
“I think she would have found you far less malleable than she expected. And Lord Norton suffered a seizure at the christening party after over imbibing in celebratory punch. He was dead before his heir was six months old. Yes, she didn’t do too badly at all. Of course, the money is in trust for the little heir, and she is not a trustee. Or the boy’s guardian. But Lord Norton left her a moderate income and a house in Bath as her widow’s portion.”
“How on earth do you know all this, Mother.”
Mother smiled, gently. “I told you Lady Cresthover has her uses.”
#*#
Sunday morning brought carnations, a mixed bunch of red and white. “‘You are sweet and lovely, and my heart aches for you’,” Mama translated.
After the Sunday service, Daniel found Min in the conservatory, sketching an improvement to the gearing that moved the wheels on a merlin chair.
“What’s that you’ve got? Something for one of your chairs?” he asked.
“A gearing,” she said, shortly, but he didn’t take the hint.
“I’m glad I found you alone. Are Uncle George and Aunt Gavriella…” he looked around as if he was expecting them to leap out from behind one of the potted ferns.
“Papa is resting, and Mama is sitting with him.”
Daniel looked alarmed, and Min hastened to reassure him. “He is just tired. You have been working long hours, and he is not a young man.”
“Yes. It has been hard on him, but you know how he is. He needs to watch over everything.” Daniel shook his head. “I’ve told him he needs to slow down. But he won’t.”
“He will soon. He says he plans to retire once this contract is signed. When do you expect that?”
“We’ll have the order done tomorrow, so that will be the worst of it. We won’t be able to relax till the client has finished inspections, but by the end of the week we’ll know for certain whether the contract is going ahead.” Daniel grimaced. “I don’t know, though. He has talked about retirement before, but it has never happened.”
“Mama has never been in favour before,” Min told him. “This time, she is saying it is time to let go. She knows you can handle it. I know you can handle it. Even Papa knows. You are an excellent manager, and of course it will all be yours one day.”
She had resented that, when she was younger; being overlooked as an heir to the carriage works just because she was female. But building the chair business had taught her her father’s decision to choose Daniel to inherit was a practical one. The buyers wanted to deal with a man. The suppliers wanted to deal with a man. The workers wanted to deal with a man. At every turn, she had to prove herself, struggle against their preconceptions, and–even then–often call her father or her cousin to back her up.
She was slowly building a reputation and a set of relationships that made those help calls less necessary, but her father’s support meant she had remained in business while she did so.
“Thank you, Minnie. That means a lot to me, to have you say that.”
“So what did you want to say to me, Daniel?”
Uncharacteristically, Daniel looked at his feet. “Minnie, I was wondering, are you going to accept Lord Avery?”
No, she wasn’t, but she choked on saying so. “He has not asked me, Daniel.”
“Aunt Gavriella says he will. She is generally right, you know.”
“It would not work, Daniel, you know that. They can put up with us if we stay in our place, the upper classes. But if we dare to think we are as good as they are…” She trailed off. Daniel had been to a school for gentlemen. He knew how the gentry treated their sort.
“Perhaps. Well, what about Billingham?”
“Are you trying to marry me off, Daniel?”
“Minnie, you have to see. If your father retires and moves away, you can’t stay here. You can’t go on working in the yard, and you can’t go on living in the same house as me. There. That’s what I came to say.”
His back was stiff with embarrassment as he left.
Min sat by herself for a long time. Of course she couldn’t stay. Cousins though they were, and raised as brother and sister, they could not live under the one roof without Mama and Papa in the house.
As soon as Daniel said so, she realised it. Mama and Papa planned to retire to a country village where Mama could have a garden and, Papa said, where Daniel wouldn’t feel Papa breathing down his neck.
But she hadn’t considered how that might affect her. How foolish.
#*#
When the last of the order was filled the next day, Papa took the rest of the afternoon off.
“Papa, may I walk with you?” Min asked.
“Leaving early, daughter?” Papa said. “Yes, walk with me.” He offered her his arm, and they set off down the road together. “I want to ask you about Lord Avery,” Papa said. “Roses, this morning, was it? What does Mama say about that?”
“Buds of moss roses with lily of the valley. ‘Confessions of love to one who is sweet’, Mama said.” She mightn’t want Lord Avery’s pursuit, but she couldn’t help be touched.
“Do you like him, daughter?”
“It does not matter, Papa. He is a viscount, and I am a carriage-maker’s daughter. It would not work.”
“Is he a good man, Little Owl?” Papa hadn’t called her ‘Little Owl’ in years. It was his pet name for her, a reference to the familiar of the goddess she was named for.
“I think he is, Papa. But he is still a viscount. Papa, have you thought about where you and Mama will go when you retire?”
“I have promised Mama a garden. I have promised Daniel that I won’t look over his shoulder. And I’ve promised myself I will be close enough to Bath to come back if Daniel needs me.” Papa laughed at his own reluctance to let go.
“Anywhere in particular, Papa?”
Papa shook his head. “We haven’t started looking, yet. After Christmas. After Christmas we will decide a place and a date. Do you have a place you would like, daughter?”
“I do not mind, Papa. As long as it has a workshop big enough for me to make my chairs.”
“You should be making babies, not chairs,” Papa grumbled. “Marry your viscount or choose another man, and give me and Mama grand-babies.”
“I would marry a man who would let me make chairs,” Min said.
“Ah Min. Your Mama was right. She told me that if I encouraged you I would end up breaking your heart. Min. Little Owl. Face facts. Women aren’t meant to make carriages, even your little ones. I’ve let you make your chairs and sell them, and a very good job you have done of it too. I’ve been very proud of you. But a man doesn’t want his wife to go out to work.”
“You let Mama work in the harness shop,” Min protested.
“Remember that, do you? I had no choice, Min. We didn’t have the money, when we started out, to hire a good harness maker. Mama was the best. But as soon as I could, I replaced her so that she could stay home. A man doesn’t want his wife to go out to work. Looking after the home, visiting her friends. That’s enough.”
“Not for me,” Min wanted to say, but Papa kept talking.
“No, Min, give up this notion and look around for a husband. I don’t blame you for not wanting Billingham. How a bright man like his father has such a foolish son is beyond me. But come out of your workshop sometimes. Go to a few dinners and parties. Meet people. Look around. What do you say, Min? It’ll be fun.”
My FB friend author Mari Christie and I have been discussing the HEA ending. In romance novels, the convention suggests the happy ever after involves a couple (or, in some interpretations of the genre, a rather larger group) riding happily off into the sunset.
I’ve posted elsewhere about happy endings being new beginnings, and happy ever after involving an upward trajectory that the reader can believe in. In the romance genre, and particularly in the historical romance genre, happy ever after means a marriage that the reader thinks will work.
But for a huge number of people in my chosen time period, the early 19th century, marriage was not on the cards.
For a start, out of a population of 16 million, more than 300,000 British men died in the Napoleonic wars between 1804 and 1815. That’s a huge number of men of marriageable age – probably close to 1 in 12. Men were also more likely to indulge in risk-taking behaviour in their leisure, and to belong to risky occupations, further increasing the gender imbalance.
And men were not subject to social stigma if they did not marry, and had easy access to many of the benefits of marriage (with one in five women in London, according to some researchers, earning their living from the sale of sex).
So even if our late Georgian miss wanted to marry, she may not have had the opportunity. Jane Austen wrote to her sister, Cassandra:
‘There is a great scarcity of Men in general, & a still greater scarcity of any that were good for much.’
Beyond that, though, our Miss may not have wished to marry. Married women had few rights.
Yet what is remarkable, unmarried women were more legally independent than the married ones. Single women could own property, pay taxes to the state, and vote in the local parish, none of which married women were allowed to do. [Women in the middle class in the 19th Century]
And the health risks of pregnancy concerned many women. With a maternal death rate of one in 1000 live births, and an average of five children per mother, women had a two or three percent chance of dying in or shortly after childbirth.
It’s hard to tell how many women were single. Marital status was not systematically collected in statistics until the middle of the century. But at that time, one in three women were not married. Florence Nightingale commented on the general belief that women had no more important role than to marry and have children.
Women are never supposed to have any occupation of sufficient importance not to be interrupted, except “suckling their fools”; and women themselves have accepted this, have written books to support it, and have trained themselves so as to consider whatever they do as not of such value to the world as others, but that they can throw it up at the first “claim of social life”. They have accustomed themselves to consider intellectual occupation as a merely selfish amusement, which it is their “duty” to give up for every trifler more selfish than themselves.
Women never have an half-hour in all their lives (except before and after anybody is up in the house) that they can call their own, without fear of offending or of hurting someone. Why do people sit up late, or, more rarely, get up so early? Not because the day is not long enough, but because they have “no time in the day to themselves”.
The family? It is too narrow a field for the development of an immortal spirit, be that spirit male or female. The family uses people, not for what they are, not for what they are intended to be, but for what it wants for – its own uses. It thinks of them not as what God has made them, but as the something which it has arranged that they shall be. This system dooms some minds to incurable infancy, others to silent misery.
So, to be true to life, historical novels, even historical romances, need to consider the presence in Society and society of a great army of women who never married, many of whom may not have wished to do so. Rather than the common trope of a war between women for the hands of the few suitable men, perhaps we need more books about groups of female friends who support one another in their decision not to be pressured into a choice that is wrong for them.
Here’s the first half of chapter four in Candle’s Christmas Chair. It’s now finished, and I’ve begun editing. I’m sending it to beta readers shortly, and I’m working on the cover. But first, if you haven’t been following, here’s what has gone before:
Candle’s Christmas Chair excerpt 1
Candle’s Christmas Chair excerpt 2
Candle’s Christmas Chair excerpt 3
Candle’s Christmas Chair excerpt 4
Candle’s Christmas Chair excerpt 5
It was a long fortnight. Candle was busy, but he still found time for dreaming between his business interests, the estate, and choosing presents to send to Miss Bradshaw. He wanted her and her family to be in no doubt about his intentions. That meant he couldn’t send her anything that would be inappropriate between a gentleman and an unmarried lady, even if everything was addressed to her mother or her father. Clearly, the cousin was ready to believe that Candle was up to no good. If he sent Miss Bradshaw anything too personal, the cousin would be after him with one of those wheelwright’s mallets Candle had seen at the workshop.
But flowers were very ordinary. He rather thought he was doing better than that.
Meanwhile, the news from Europe was bad. Napoleon had won a major battle, devastating the armies of the third coalition. From the report in the newspaper, the allies had suffered devastating losses at a place called Ulm. Candle looked it up on the map in his study.
“Randall, dear.” His mother’s voice made him jump. Her new chair let her glide around the ground floor on her own. She loved the freedom it gave her, but he still wasn’t used to her sudden appearances. Perhaps he should ask Miss Bradshaw if there was a way to make the wheels squeak.
“Mother,” he said. He bent to kiss her check and examined her face as he did. She was too thin, too pale, and the pain lines around her eyes highlighted the dark shadows from too many nights without sleep. “How are you, my dear?”
“I am well, thank you, Randall,” she said, as she always did.
“You haven’t been sleeping. Won’t you take the medicine the doctor gave you? Just for one night?”
“It gives me bad dreams, Randall, and makes my head feel as if it is stuffed with cotton wool. Now do not fuss, dear one. It is a mother’s job to fret over her child, not the other way around. I came to ask if you would run some messages for me when you go into Bath.”
“Willingly, of course. What do you need?”
“I have a list.”
It came as no surprise that most of what Mother wanted was for her garden. She was so looking forward to the new outdoor chair so that she could supervise the plantings of the new bulbs she wanted him to buy. Her favourite nursery company had sent her a catalogue with hand-tinted tulips and crocuses. “They will be so pretty next year, Randall.”
“You’ll be careful, won’t you? You will stay indoors if the weather is unkind? You will wrap up warm?”
“You are fussing again, my son,” she scolded.
“You’re very precious to me, Mother. May I not look after you?”
“You need a wife of your own to fuss over, I think. What of this Miss Bradshaw who made the chairs?”
“Miss Bradshaw?” Sometimes, Candle thought, his mother lifted thoughts right out of people’s heads. How else would she know to ask that question? Confined to a bed and now a chair, she didn’t see him around the estate organising deliveries to Bath, and she didn’t have access to his correspondence.
“Don’t look surprised, dearest. I am your mother. I know you better than anyone on earth. Your eyes go soft and misty when you mention her, and you have mentioned her several times every day since you came home.”
She frowned a little. “I do hope you have resolved whatever came between you last time.”
“Last time.” What did she know about last time?
“Lady Cresthover wrote to me when you began to show an interest in Miss Bradshaw at Lady Cresthover’s house party. A charity case of her daughter’s, she said, and perhaps not suitable for a peer’s son. But Lady Cresthover is a silly woman, so I discounted that. And then she wrote again to say that you had broken the poor girl’s heart by courting her for her money. Which is patently ridiculous, Randall, because you would never do such a thing.”
“I hope you told her so, Mother.”
“Oh no, Randall dearest. Such gossips are so useful when one does not go out in Society much. As long as one keeps in mind that 90% of what they say is exaggerated and the rest is invented. I would not discourage Lady Cresthover’s letters for the world. So have you resolved your difficulties with Miss Bradshaw?”
“I am working on it, Mother. You wouldn’t mind?”
“Mind you marrying into a trade family? Darling boy, I am from a trade family. Except your father married me for my money, whereas you are in love, are you not?”
“I think so,” Candle said. “I think I have loved her since I first met her.”
~*~
Lord Avery must have left an order at the shop, because more flowers arrived the day after he left, and more the day after that. Then the first package arrived: an edition of Mother Goose Tales, Robert Sanders’ translation of Charles Perrault’s fairy tales. The story of the Little Glass Slipper was among them. It had clearly been much read.
“Who is it from,” Mama asked.
“There is no note,” Min told her, but she had no doubt who had sent the package.
The flowers kept arriving, different each day. The miscellaneous baskets of the first day gave way to blue salvia and tea roses the second, wrapped in ivy and ferns. The ivy and ferns reappeared on the third day with zinnia flowers, and on the fourth–the day the book arrived–irises.
The bouquet of white roses and daisies on the fifth day had the usual ivy and ferns, but sprigs of myrtle and rosemary had been added, and after that, the flowers changed each day but they always came with ivy, ferns, myrtle, and rosemary.
On the sixth day, two brace of pheasants, a basket of apples, and a large bag of walnuts were delivered to the kitchen, this time with a note to Min’s mother. “Lord Avery begs that Mrs Bradshaw will accept this small offering from his estate.”
Mama raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. That day, the flowers were delicate orchids, and the following brought anenomes.
On the next day, she was hovering in the hall when the yellow roses arrived.
“More flowers from your young man, Minerva?” It was Mama, watching her from the stairs.
Minerva, sure that her smile was beyond fatuous, pretended to sniff the roses until she could school her face to calm again.
“He is not mine, Mama. He is just amusing himself, as the aristocracy do.”
She hurried away before Mama could say more. The skins had arrived at the workshop the previous evening, and she had a chair to cover.
The ninth day brought hollyhocks and a jug of cider addressed to Papa, prompting Papa to ask what “young Avery is after, trying to turn me up sweet.”
“Minnie, Uncle George,” Daniel explained. “Lord Avery is after Minnie.”
“I can see that,” Papa growled, “but what does he mean by it, that’s what I want to know.”
“He means to court her, George.” Mama said. “That’s what the myrtle means. Myrtle for marriage, ivy for faithfulness, ferns for sincerity, and rosemary for remembrance.”
Min had taken four days to realise that Lord Avery’s choices were deliberate, and had been able to decipher only some of the messages. Mama might have said she knew what they meant!
“He sent blue salvia and tea roses first; that’s ‘you occupy my thoughts, always’. Then zinnias for absent friends; ‘I miss you.’ The day after that, he sent irises; ‘your friendship means so much to me’. He sent white roses and daisies on the day he added the myrtle and rosemary. White roses and daisies are both for innocence. ‘I remember you are an innocent, and I intend marriage.’ He followed those with anenomes, which mean fragile or forsaken. When you take that with the myrtle and the rest, he means, ‘My heart is fragile; do not forsake me.’ Orchids for beauty the next day; ‘I find you beautiful’. Then yellow roses for friendship and caring; ‘I care for you and wish to have your friendship.’ Today’s blossom is hollyhock. That means ambition; ‘I strive to win you’.”
Daniel and Papa stared at Mama, and then turned to contemplate Min.
“I had better put these in water,” Min said, wanting time on her own to think about what Mama had said. Did Lord Avery really mean all of that?
But even if he did, he was still a peer, and the gap between them was still too large.
How’s this? Still waiting to hear about the bath chair – I’ve tossed Film Medical a curve ball, apparently. But this background works, I think.
