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Cravats, Kerchiefs, and Neck Ties

One of the great benefits of leaving his last office job, according to my personal romantic hero, was that he could get rid of most of his neckties. Ghastly things, he reckons, with no practical purpose. He kept a couple for formal occasions, and the rest went to the charity shop, to torture some other poor fellow.

I was thinking about that the other day, as a friend and I looked at a period inappropriate book cover. According to the artist, the male model was Victorian, but that’s a period of more than six decades. Men’s neckwear changed in that time, so I went looking to find out how and when.

First, let me take you back to the beginning. Neck scarves of some kind were worn in ancient times. We can see them in the Terracotta Warriors, in Roman soldiers on Trajan’s Column,  and in pictures of medieval knights and Mongol warriors. A likely purpose was as a practical garment to tuck round the edge of armour to stop chafing, or to perhaps to stop sweat from rolling down the neck and setting up an itch, or to keep the neck warm, or even for multiple purposes, not the least of which might be battlefield medicine.

Their evolution from a practical garment to sartorial elegance dates back to the Thirty Years War. This was a conflict fought in Europe in the first half of the seventeenth century, as part of the struggle for dominance between the Austro-Spanish Hapsburgs and the French Bourbons. The French hired mercenaries from Croatia, and they wore a neck scarf to tie the top of their tunics shut. The look caught on among the French and spread from there. Of course, the aristocrats who adopted the fashion wore lace cravats (La Cravatte was the name given to the neckwear by Louis XIII; a nod to the Croatians).

The lace got steadily more extravagant through the early part of the eighteenth century, and matched with lace cuffs made a spectacular show.

Then came the French Revolution, which affected fashion as well as politics. The revolutionaries affected a less ostentatious style of dress, and — in fashion — where the French led, the rest of Europe followed. The cravat we know from Regency movies and books was born. The cravat covered all but the collar of the shirt, and often that, as well — a shirt being regarded as underclothes at the time. A long rectangle of fabric was folded and intricately knotted to the specifications of the wearer (or his valet, but a gentleman with pretensions to elegance would not trust such an important detail to his valet).

At the turn of the century, Beau Brummell dictated that the cravat should be a crisp white as should the stockings, the breeches and coat black, and only the waistcoat in colour. Of course, not everyone agreed, and cravats of all colours can be seen in paintings of the time.

The simplest and most casual way of tying a cravat was to wrap it around the neck several times and tie a bow, and this became highly fashionable as the nineteenth century wore on. By the 1850s, gentlemen were wearing a black cravat or bow tie, simply folded and pinned so that the shirt showed between the bottom of the tie and the top of the waistcoat. A thinner piece of material became the Ascot tie, so called because it was casual wear for events such as race meetings–recognisably a necktie like those still worn today, but much wider, and pinned to the shirt.

The next evolution was the club tie, purportedly created in the 1880s, when the rowing team of Exeter College, Oxford, took the striped bands off their hats and tied them around their necks.

The modern necktie was invented by an American in the 1920s — three pieces of material cut on the bias, thus eliminating wrinkles. My husband’s least favourite item of men’s clothing had arrived.

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Loyal servants or friends on WIP Wednesday

We come to know our characters by the way they behave with those around them. Here’s my hero Val with his valet/butler and his senior tenant. Please feel free to share a work-in-progress excerpt of your own in the comments.

Val heard Crick before he saw him. “My lord, my lord,” the man was shouting, his voice high with barely suppressed panic. Val excused himself from a discussion about clearing a blockage in a stream that was threatening to flood the young barley, and took a few paces to meet Crick as the butler came hurtling across the field, careless of the new shoots.

“My lord, we’re under attack. They’ve captured the house, my lord.”

Val took the man’s arm and led him to the side of the field. “Take a deep breath, Crick,” he soothed. “All is well. We are in England. For us, the war is over.”

Crick pulled his arm free and so far forgot himself as to seize Val’s shoulders. “No, sir, you don’t understand. Soldiers on horseback. A lady with a sword. Another lady in the carriage. I tried to stop them, sir, but they forced their way into the house. They made Mrs Minnich take them to the family wing. We have to marshal the tenants, my lord, and rescue the servants.”

Being addressed as ‘my lord’ gave Val pause. Usually, when Crick had one of his episodes, he reverted to Val’s former rank. Always, in fact. When Crick called Val ‘major’, the whole household knew to hide anything that could be used as a weapon.

Barrow and his gangly young son had followed and were listening. Val met Barrow’s concerned eyes. “A carriage and some horsemen went down the lane a while back,” Barrow disclosed. The lane was out of sight from here, but Barrow explained his knowledge by fetching his son a clip across the ear. “The boy here saw them when he went to fetch the axe, but didn’t say nothin’”

Young Barrow’s observation suggested some truth to Crick’s fantasy, but it couldn’t possibly be the invasion Crick imagined. What would be the point? “I’ll investigate,” Val decided.

Crick and Barrow protested him going alone. “Five men, my lord,” Crick insisted. “Foreigners, they were, and the lady, too.”

Val’s troops were a half-mad butler, plus a burly tenant farmer, and his fifteen-year-old son. Val would do better alone. “You shall be my back-up,” he told them. “Stay at the edge of the woods where you can see the house. If I don’t come out within thirty minutes and signal that everything is safe, ride to the village for help.”

Crick argued, but Val was adamant. Still, as he crossed the open ground to the house, his skin prickled with the old familiar sense of walking into enemy territory.

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Gingerbread Bride on Spotlight on Sunday

 

After sailing the seven seas with the King’s navy for most of her life, admiral’s daughter Mary finds London hard to take, and her grasping aunt and nasty cousin even worse. A trip to find other relatives to live with brings dangers aplenty, but also Rick the Rogue, once a midshipman on her father’s ship, riding once more to her rescue.

The plot includes brides made out of gingerbread, runaway carriages, a pair of wicked cousins who almost deserve one another, a chaotic household in the midst of Christmas preparations, and one of the sweetest proposals I’ve ever written. It is the first story (chronologically) in the Golden Redepennings saga.

Gingerbread Bride is the third novella in Holiday Escapes, a collection of stories republished from the Bluestocking Belles 2015 box set, which has long been out of publication.

Read more about the box set and preorder from one of the buy links here.

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The farmhouse that grew

Once upon a time there was a prince who liked to go to the seaside. One of his favourite uncles lived in Brighton, and George found the seaside resort very much to his taste. He rented a rather pleasant farmhouse, Brighton House, from a member of his staff, and later entered into a lease that let him make the changes he wanted.

The architect he chose, Henry Holland, built a rotunda over the grand dining room, and added a new wing. Brighton House became Marine Pavilion.

But it didn’t stop there. Next came extensive stables, with room for 60 horses. The stables were even bigger than the house.

But soon, that wasn’t enough. I guess the prince was having fun. The interiors were originally neoclassical, but the prince was soon having them all converted to the new oriental style, and then he had some even grander ideas. The original architect built on again, adding more rooms, but that still wasn’t enough. By 1815, a new architect, John Nash, was working on the building we have today–little is left of the first two incarnations of the building, apart from the room under one of the new domes, once the dining room, then the grand saloon.

The building was finally finished in 1823, and by then our prince was king, and too busy for more than two more visits to the farmhouse that grew.

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I was looking into this because I had my heroine in my latest book visit the Royal Pavilion, and I suddenly thought to check whether it had been built yet. It hadn’t. It was still the Marine Pavilion.

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Again with the first meetings on WIP Wednesday

 

I gave you Nate’s impressions of his love eight years after he last saw her, so I thought I’d give you the next scene. By all means, feel free to share one of your meetings in the comments.

It was Nate. Sadie kept assuring herself that she must be wrong. He had changed so much from the slim boy she had once loved. She smiled and nodded, allowed Lord Hythe to escort her around the room, made cheerful nonconsequential comments. And all the time, she was conscious of the man, watching him out of the corner of her eye, wondering what it was about him that screamed his identity.

He was a lot taller and broader; that was to be expected. He had been shooting up like a weed when she knew him, but had not yet reached his adult size. His face had squared off. Once, he had been a beautiful youth—a dark-haired Ganymede, her brother called him, with a smirk she didn’t understand until her Aunt Georgie explained that the Trojan prince had been stolen by Zeus who desired him because of his beauty.

Poseidon would fit him better than Ganymede, now. Strength, barely-leashed power, serious and forbidding, except when he smiled at the woman with him. Who was she? His wife? They knew one another well, staying within reach of one another as they moved around the room.

He was breathtaking when stern. The smile transformed him. Even the scar that crossed one cheek in a ragged line added to his beauty; a contrast to perfection.

The eyes were the same, she decided. The same colour and shape, at least, though the cynicism with which he regarded the company was new.

Before they had reached the group that included Sadie, Hamner’s butler called dinner, and Lady Hamner began pairing people off to go to the dining table. Nate, Sadie noticed, was paired with another lady, and the one he had arrived with happily accepted the escort of one of the lords Sadie had on her list.

Lola guided her own dinner partner over to Sadie, and asked, out of the corner of her mouth, “What is the matter?” Her twin might not know what was wrong, but she always knew how Sadie felt.

“No time. Can we go straight home after dinner?” Sadie whispered back. The line passed through the doorway, and the sisters had to peel off in different directions, but Lola would make their excuses when the time came. Sadie couldn’t face Nate until she had time to absorb the fact of his return.

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Tea with the proud parents

 

Her Grace of Haverford had decided to wait for the final decision at Chirbury House, to keep her goddaughter company and also, incidentally, to spend time cuddling the little boys whose fates were being decided today by the Committee of Privileges.

Stephen, currently Viscount Longford and Stocke, as eldest by thirty minutes and therefore heir to both his mother and his father, had recently learned to push himself up on his knees and then, tenuously, his hands. He rocked back and forth, looking tremendously pleased with himself, until he rocked too far and fell on his chin. While his mother and Eleanor were cooing over him, his brother John had been exercising his talent for exploration, having learned that he could roll to almost every corner of the room, and let out a wail when he trapped himself in the corner between a chest and the wall.

Once both were rescued, comforted, and returned to the rug, the two ladies continued their interrupted conversation. “As I was saying, I want them to have as normal a childhood as possible. I will always be grateful that Daisy had such a long time with no Society expectations on her, and I want that for the boys.” Anne was Countess of Chirbury by virtue of her marriage to Eleanor’s nephew and Countess of Selby in her own right, but had spent nearly a decade in hiding from her usurping uncle, pretending to be a humble widow and living on a shoestring with her sisters and little Daisy.

“They also need to grow up knowing their responsibilities,” Eleanor warned.

“And that is why I hope they can both carry equal honours,” Anne insisted. “If our petition is agreed, then they shall be equals, requiring the same education and training, both heirs to an earldom.”

Eleanor quite agreed. While younger brothers did not inherit in the world of the aristocracy, at least without some tragedy befalling the elder, she had seen much resentment even between those born years apart. The elder wanted the freedom of the younger; the younger the status of the elder. How much more when the twain were from a single birth, only an accident of position putting one before the other? Still, “Good parenting will help, my dear. You will not allow such jealousies in your nursery, and you will love them both equally.”

Anne smiled her thanks and agreement. “We will also help all our children, whatever their birth order and whether they are boys or girls, to find a purpose in life; something they are passionate about and good at doing.”

The nursery door opened and let in Rede, the Earl of Chirbury. “Anne, they have decided. The recommendation is going to the King. John is to be your heir, my love, just as we wanted.”

Anne flew to his arms, and Rede returned her hug as he smiled over her head at Eleanor. “It is a good day, Aunt Eleanor. You will thank His Grace for his support?”

Eleanor nodded. Haverford, like most of the peers involved,  had supported the petition to prevent too much power accumulating in the hands of one earl, even one related to him by marriage. Indeed, Rede had suggested the idea himself, appealing to their self interest. And it had worked!

Rede released his wife and strode to the baby boys, who were grinning and burbling to their father. In moments, they were tossed up, one onto each strong shoulder, to be spun around the room until all three were laughing helplessly. “Hannah!” the earl called to the beloved woman who ruled the nursery, “Meet Lord Longford and his brother, Lord Stocke!”

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Rede and Anne have their story told in Farewell to Kindness. The twins appear in family scenes in later stories of the Golden Redepenning saga.

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Under the Mistletoe on Spotlight on Sunday

 

Margaret’s father means to ensure her safety by finding her a widower with two small children who needs a wife. Not that he’s forcing the match, but he agrees to Margaret acting as the man’s hostess so she has a chance to know him better. But Captain Morledge’s possessiveness gives her pause, and there’s something about him she just can’t like. It’s another guest, a friend from her childhood, that makes her heart pound. But, of course, Freddy is now Lord Beacham and she a lowly vicar’s daughter. A match between them would be impossible.

The more Freddy finds out about Captain Morledge, the more he worries for Margaret’s future. And it isn’t just that he wants her for his own.

Under the Mistletoe is the second novel in Holiday Escapes, a collection of stories republished from the Bluestocking Belles 2015 box set, which has long been out of publication.

Read more about the box set and preorder from one of the buy links here.

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The long shadow of war

The battle of Waterloo was touch and go; one of those victories where so many people die, that even the side that wins still loses. The casualty rate (dead, wounded and missing) was around 45% (of a total 185,000), and this was only the culminating battle in a long war with the French that lasted, with only small breaks, from 1789 until that great battle in 1815.

One of the most moving museum exhibitions I’ve ever been to was the Maori Battalion exhibition at the Rotorua Museum. The exhibits included diary notes and letters from military personnel, and video clips of interviews with them. In World War 1, over a third of those who served in the Battalion were killed or injured. In World War II, of 16,000 men who enlisted, 3,600 joined the Maori Battlion. Close to two-thirds were killed, wounded, taken prisoner or reported missing. The impact of the loss of two generations of young leaders (to death or to the after-effects of war) has been argued about for most of my lifetime. I remember one clip where the soldier interviewed talked about how, in the heat of war, he didn’t think about the number of his brothers-in-arms left behind buried in enemy soil. Then he came home, and saw the gaps in his community; saw the memorials in his wharenui (meeting house).

Deaths attributed to that long war involving France, the British and the rest of Europe are somewhere in the region of three plus million (military and civilian). What did that do to Europe, an area that, in 1800, had an estimated population of 150 million? Great Britain wasn’t fought of over, but it lost a staggering number of military personnel. It started the nineteenth century with not quite nine million people, and lost more than 300,000 soldiers and sailors in the next fifteen years. Think of it like this. Out of every 15 men, one died. That number doesn’t include the ones that keep turning up in my books–maimed, scarred, afflicted with nightmares.

My own generation was raised by people who went through the second world war, and theirs by the survivors of the first. On 11 November, when the military were left fighting right up to the time appointed for the armistice–even though peace had been more or less agreed for three days and signed for six hours–we do well to remember that the long shadow of war continues after the war ends.

 

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Best friends on WIP Wednesday

Best friends are a great help to a writer. They give the hero or heroine someone to talk to, someone to support them, even someone to act on their behalf. In this week’s WIP Wednesday, I’m inviting authors to show us all an excerpt from your WIP with a best friend in it.

In mine, my heroine’s twin is meeting with the man who deserted her sister seven years ago, and who has suddenly reappeared in their lives.

The butler unbent enough to say, “Lady Sarah left for the country this morning, my lord.”

Nate knew it was no use, but he asked anyway, where she had gone and how long should be away.

As expected, the butler refuse to answer. “It is not my place to say, sir.”

Nate was turning away when he had another thought. The butler had said Lady Sarah had left. “Perhaps you could take my card up to Lady Charlotte? Tell her I would be grateful if she could spare me a moment of her time.”

He more than half expected the butler to explain that Lady Charlotte was also out of town. However, the man merely bowed, and asked him to wait. He ushered Nate into a small parlour, and carried off the card.

Nate tried to remember what Lady Charlotte was like. He had barely noticed her yesterday evening, his attention all on not embarrassing Lady Sarah or, for that matter, Libby, by staring at his long-lost love like a gawky youth. He had a vague impression that she was much of a size with her sister, but brown haired where Sarah was fair. In that golden summer when he and Sarah had become friends and then lovers, Charlotte had been ill with some embarrassing childhood illness; mumps, he thought. Sarah—at a loose end without her twin—had wandered the estate and come across the vicar’s son in the woods, rescuing a rabbit from a trap.

Nate had met Charlotte once before the day he was plucked from everything he knew, but he remembered little. Thoughts of Sarah had filled his every waking moment and fueled his dreams, and when he was with her, he was blind to everything else. No wonder Elfingham, the twins’ brother, had guessed what they were about.

He knew her most through Sarah’s descriptions. Loving, loyal, the best friend a sister could have. If she would talk to him, he could, perhaps, find out what he most needed to know.

“Lord Bencham. Have we met, sir?”

Nate spun round to face the lady who had just entered the room. A maid crept in behind her and took station in the corner, but Nate’s full attention was for Lady Charlotte. She was similar in size and build to Sarah, but on the surface, little else was the same. Except that, as she tilted her head to the side to examine him as he was examining her, the gesture and her thoughtful expression brought powerful memories rushing back.

“She used to look at me like that when she was irritated with me,” he blurted.

Some of the tension went out of Lady Charlotte’s shoulders, and one corner of her mouth twitched as if she suppressed a smile. “She, so our old governess used to say, is the cat’s mother.”

Nate felt his cheeks heat. “Lady Sarah, I mean. I beg your pardon. And yes, we have met, though it was many years ago.”

Lady Charlotte considered him for a moment longer, then waved to the chairs set around a low table. “Sit down, Lord Bencham. Tell me what brings you here.”

The answer was the same two words. “Lady Sarah.” Nate had so many questions he wanted to ask that he couldn’t think what to say first.

Lady Charlotte spoke before he could. “My sister is in the country. She is seeking a husband this Season, and hopes to narrow her short-list.”

A short-list of potential husbands? The room spun for a moment and Nate spoke before his brain connected with his tongue. “Me! I should be on her short-list.” Lady Charlotte raised her brows at him, and he realized he was shouting. He lowered his voice, but he couldn’t retract anything he had said. “Just me.”

 

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Tea with Theo

Her Grace of Haverford paused in her journey at a property just outside of Oxford. Rambling and comfortable, and small by the standards of the houses where she was lady and chatelaine, it was a place she stopped at as often as possible. Dr and Mrs Wren always made her welcome. Dr Wren had been Jonathan’s tutor during that boy’s naughty career at Oxford, and Eleanor had taken to him and his wife from the moment she met them.

As always, Theodora Wren made her welcome, ushering her into the informal drawing room and sending a little maid for tea, refreshments, and her husband. “Theo, I must apologise for arriving unannounced,” Eleanor said. “I must be back on the road in half an hour, but I could not pass by your door without calling in.”

“I should think not indeed!” Theo replied. “You are looking well, Eleanor, if a little tired. How are your sons? And the dear little girls?”

They exchanged family news, and Eleanor was mightily entertained to hear of the romance of Theo’s niece Mary, who had come to escape one suitor, and finished marrying another. “Rick Redepenning,” Eleanor exclaimed. “I had not heard, Theo, and he is the son of my dear friend Lord Henry Redepenning, and cousin to my sister’s son, the Earl of Chirbury!”

Both women chuckled as Theo elaborated on the romance, including a rescue from a bird loft and the interesting incident involving a bride shape cut from gingerbread and a hungry horse.

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You can meet Dr and Mrs Wren in Gingerbread Bride, a story in the collection Holiday Escapes, coming soon and currently on pre-order.