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The history of bunting and how to make it.

I’ve been writing about the use of bunting in patriotic colours to decorate a fundraising event at Haverford House, home of my Duchess of Haverford. Just to make sure I wasn’t handing my readers an anachronism, I did a bit of research.

Sure enough, bunting — in the sense of long lines of flags put up to celebrate an event — goes back to at least the early seventeenth century. The term seems to have started as the name of the material used to make the flags. Buntine was a lightweight wool fabric used for flags on naval ships. Rows of small flags are, even today, used to signal from ship to ship. One source I found said the sailor whose job it is to raise the flags is still referred to as a bunt, but I can’t find any verification of that.

Bunting has traditionally been used for street parties, patriotic processions, and the like. No reason why I can’t have it in my ballroom for an event to raise money for the widows and children of soldiers and sailors.

Just for something different, here’s how to make it, with the occasional snippet of knowledge about how the Victorians used it.

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Combat on WIP Wednesday

In today’s WIP Wednesday, I’m looking at fights and other physical action of that nature. Please post your excerpt in the comments. Mine is from my latest work-in-progress. Driscoll has lured the sister of the lady that Hamner wishes to court away from the group with whom she is skating so he can accost her. Hamner arrives in time.

“Leave Miss Grenford alone, or I’ll rearrange your face for you, and then leave you to Lord Aldridge’s mercies,” Hamner warned Driscoll.

“What business is it of yours” Driscoll snarled. “The bitch was just playing coy, but she wanted me. Why else would she come to meet me?”

Hamner glared. “Good question. How did you inveigle her? She was not welcoming your attentions, that is certain.” He had seen blind panic on Miss Jessica’s face at the moment she realised Driscoll was not taking ‘no’ for an answer.

“She wanted it,” Driscoll insisted, but his eyes shifted away from Hamner’s. “She was pretending to protest. Women do that.”

“Leave her alone,” Hamner repeated.

“Come on!” Driscoll pasted on a smile. “All this fuss over a woman like her?” The smile slipped to a leer. “This is what they’re born to, Hamner, and every one knows it. Even the duchess will have to face facts in time. Aldridge is a man of the world. He indulges his mother, but he certainly doesn’t expect men to leave two such honey-pots alone.”

“You are mistaken, Driscoll. He expects it, and so do I.” Hamner grabbed the stupid man by the capes that adorned the shoulders of his heavy overcoat and pulled him closer, so he could hiss his final warning straight into the man’s face. “Leave. The. Grenford. Ladies. Alone.”

Driscoll struggled ineffectually, his face reddening in his anger. Still, he continued to sneer. “Want both of them, do you? What’s it like, tupping the Ice Princess? Does she freeze your d—”

Hamner dropped the man’s coat and stopped his foul mouth with a punch that sent him reeling backwards. Driscoll landed splayed in a snow bank, flecks of blood spattering the white beside his head. He opened his eyes and glared at Hamner, but made no effort to more.

Itching to haul the villain to his feet and repeat the blow, Hamner forced himself to remember the Grenford sisters. He should make sure they were unharmed. He should escort them home. “Remember what I said,” he ordered, and turned away, allowing himself a wince and a certain satisfaction. The bruising his gloved hand had suffered was a rather nice indication of the damage to Driscoll’s face.

When he looked back before rounding the corner of the path, Driscoll was gone.

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Tea with the charitable Society

My excerpt post today is from a story tentatively entitled The Granite Earl and the Ice Princess, which I’m writing for the Bluestocking Belles’ anthology Fire and Frost.

Jessie rose to her feet. “We had best change for the meeting, Tilda. The Society for Brats is coming.”

Oh, yes. One of the duchess’s charities was meeting here today, rather than in the Oxford Street bookshop and tearooms that was their usual meeting place. The Ladies’ Society for the Care of the Widows and Orphans of Fallen Heroes and the Children of Wounded Veterans intended to hold a fundraising event in a few weeks, when most of the ton had arrived in London. Even the dreadful fog could not be allowed to interfere with deciding what that event was to be.

The maid they shared brought them warm water to wash, and they helped one another into afternoon gowns suitable for receiving company.

“This is my third change today,” Jessica commented. “Yours too, I take it.”

Matilda knew what was coming. She and Jess had been deputed to the duchess’s causes since they were old enough to help, but for some reason this one had got right under Jess’s skin, and just last week, she had all but accused their benefactor of hypocrisy.

Jess ignored her silence, repeating the essence of what she had said to the duchess. “The cost of the gowns we have already worn today alone would have provided a year’s care for one of the indigent families for whom we were fundraising.”

Matilda gave her the answer that Her Grace had given last week. “If we both dressed in sackcloth, Jess, it would still be not enough. Aunt Eleanor says that we need to draw money out of those who would not otherwise give. To do that, we need to be seen as part of the ton, and that means we need to dress the part.”

Jess was not convinced. “If Aldridge would give me my dress allowance, instead of paying my bills, I could get by with half the clothes I have. I know I could.”

They dropped the conversation as they entered one of the less formal parlours, where the duchess waited for them, her current companion at her side, and Cedrica Fournier, her previous companion, already seated before a table, pen and paper ready to take notes.

Madame Fournier no longer served as Her Grace’s secretary, but she had volunteered to be secretary for this committee. Jess and Matilda took turns in greeting her with a kiss in the vicinity of her cheek, and as they did, the other ladies began to arrive.

The first part of the meeting was given over to reports. The work of the Society was organized by small groups, sometimes as few or two or three ladies. Lady Felicity Belvoir, through her connections to half the families of the ton, kept them aware of social events at which they could canvas for votes in Parliament. Lady Georgiana Hayden was in charge of writing pamphlets to sway opinion, and Lady Constance Whittles marshalled a miniature army of letter writers for the same purpose.

Many of the Society’s members also volunteered at hospitals where injured veterans were nursed and orphanages that cared for veterans’ children.  They visited widows where they lived, some in very insalubrious areas. The duchess agreed with the necessity: how else were they to meet real needs if they did not first talk to those who were suffering? She insisted on the volunteers and visitors travelling in groups and being escorted by stout footmen.

Once all the groups had reported back, they discussed their next fundraising event. The ladies offered one idea after another. The duchess would hold a charity ball, of course, as she did every year, but none of them felt that would be enough to really draw attention to the cause. Something special was called for. Something unusual.

Matilda was not sure who suggested a Venetian Breakfast, but the star suggestion of the day came from a shy girl who was new to the Society. Lady Clermont rose to her feet and waited for Mrs Berrisford, the meeting’s chair, to notice her.

“I wondered if we might hold a picnic basket auction,” she said, flushing pink at being the center of attention. We have done them at home as fundraisers for the church, and they are very popular.”

Two of the ladies objected that midwinter was hardly time for a picnic, but Mrs Berrisford called for silence. “Go on, Lady Clermont,” she encouraged. “How does it work?”

“The ladies provide a basket of food,” Lady Clermont explained, “and the gentlemen bid for the right to share the basket with the provider. It is usually the single ladies, of course.” Her voice faded almost to nothing as her blush deepened to scarlet.

Mrs Berrisford called for order again, as the Society’s members all tried to express an opinion at once.

The duchess rose, and those who had not already stopped talking fell silent to see what she thought. “If we can ensure propriety, ladies, such an auction would be just the thing to bring in donations from the younger gentlemen, who are far more likely to spend their funds on less helpful activities.”

That settled it, of course. Discussion turned to ways and means, and before the meeting was over, several more groups had been established, to cover the various aspects of three events: Venetian Breakfast, auction, and ball, all on the same day.

“We will need to enlist the ladies of the ton,” Mrs Berrisford said. “I suggest each of us talks to as many as possible; older ladies to the mothers, younger to the girls. The men, too, of course; but ladies first.”

“We can start at Lady Parkinson’s in two days’ time,” one of the other ladies proposed.

That seemed to be the end of the decision making, though many of the members lingered for another cup of tea and one of the delicious little cakes Monsieur Fornier supplied to the duchess for her meetings.

Matilda and Jessica, in their role as daughters of the house, moved from group to excited group, knowing Her Grace would wish to know what was being said in these more casual conversations.

Everyone was excited by the plans, and more than one person was hoping that the fog would lift so that Lady Parkinson’s soiree would proceed and they could begin their campaign.

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Where viscounts came from

John Lord Beaumont, the first English viscount.

If you’ve been following this series, you’ll have realised that land is the fundamental building block of European nobility: particularly the province or county. The pivot point for understanding titles is what England calls an earl, whether they’re called some variation of ‘count’ or ‘jarl’ or ‘graf’ or some other term. Counts (or earls) ruled counties on behalf of the monarch. Marcher lords or marquises or margrafs ruled counties on the kingdom’s borders. Dukes ruled several counties.

When we get to viscount, we’re going the other way. The key part of the word is ‘vis’, from late Latin ‘vice’ meaning a deputy or substitute. Vicar comes from the same root word. In Carolingian times (in the empire of Charlemagne and his descendants), the vicecomites were officials appointed to exercise the powers of the comites (counts) who had delegated them to act. The man was a official who worked for the count (or higher official), just as the count was an official who worked for the king.

Vicecomes wasn’t, initially, a hereditary title, just a job title, as — for that matter — were the higher titles. Just as count became a hereditary title, in time, so did viscount.

France had hereditary viscounts  when it first began to differentiate itself from the Holy Roman Empire. The duchy of Normandy was divided into vicecomtes, ruled by vicecomes as deputies to the duke.

In England, the term vicecomes was applied to those who held the role of sherif, but the first hereditary title wasn’t applied until 1440, when John Lord Beaumont was created the first English viscount.

Other European countries retain equivalent titles. In Portugal and Spain, the rank is visconde, in France, vicomte, in Germany, the rank is burggraf.

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Attraction on Work-in-progress Wednesday

Every romance writer needs to build in enough emotion that readers will believe in the attraction between the main characters. This week, I’m asking you to post excerpts in which that attraction is just beginning. Mine is from the next Bluestocking Belles’ box set, and neither party want to acknowledge it.

Hamner escorted his mother through the rooms until they found her friends.

“Now run along, dear, and find someone to dance with.”

Did he ever used to enjoy this kind of event? It wasn’t fashionable for men to admit to any kind of pleasure in a ballroom, but two years ago, an event like this would have been a treat. He would not have sat out a dance, though nor would he have danced twice with the same female.

He loved the company of women, from the innocent pleasures of dancing and conversation with Society’s maidens to the more robust and earthy delights to be enjoyed savored with discreet widows.

A wealthy earl needed to be cautious. But if he went nowhere alone, and paid attention to them all and none to anyone in particular, he raised no expectations and could simply enjoy himself. He had. Until he had set his sights on Lady Felicity.

There she was now, in conversation with the duchess’s two wards. For the last two seasons, Miss Grenford, Miss Jessica, and Lady Felicity had been close friends. Before last season, her older sister had married and almost immediately gone into mourning for a relative of her husband’s. Rather than miss the Season, Lady Felicity had been taken under the wing of the duchess; the three young ladies clearly intended to spend this Season together, as they had the last.

It was intolerable that he wanted to yearn after Lady Felicity, who would have made him a perfectly unobjectionable wife: an ornament to the Hamner name. Instead, he could barely look at her. Not when she stood next to Miss Grenford.

As he continued around the room, he fought to control his reaction to the pernicious female’s presence.

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Tea with Lady Overton and Mrs Wakefield

 

The Duchess of Haverford was entertaining two younger women to afternoon tea, and so far, the afternoon was going as she planned. The children, who were having their own tea party at a small table further along the terrace, were getting on well. Frances and Antonia, both thirteen,  fussed happily over little Belle, treating her as an animated version of the dolls they had outgrown.

“Your other children would have been very welcome,” she said to the two mothers.

Becky Overton smiled. “The older girls are looking forward to having Overton to themselves, Aunt Eleanor. They love Belle, but she does rather demand the entire family’s adoring attention. Besides, I thought you might enjoy having her …” she trailed off, darting a glance at Prue Wakefield and then another at Antonia, Mrs Wakefield’s daughter.

Ah. She had noticed the girl’s eyes and her colouring. Eleanor had assumed that she would. No such biological markers identified Belle, though — under the circumstances — it was as well she favoured her mother. In this situation, though, it made things difficult. Eleanor wanted to accomplish her purpose for bringing the mothers and daughters together without breaching the confidence of either of them, but she could not immediately see how to do it.

“I have left the rest of my brood with my husband, too, Lady Overton.” Prue addressed her remark to Becky, “and I suspect my reasons were similar to your own.”

Becky’s slight flush indicated that she’d heard the last part of the sentence, but she addressed the first. “How many children do you have, Mrs Wakefield?”

For a few minutes, they traded the names and ages of children. Becky had three older daughters, and Prue a son and two daughters all younger than Antonia. Their eyes kept drifting to the tea party, and eventually, Becky asked, “Did you invite us both here for the same reason, Aunt Eleanor?”

The duchess hinted at the truth. “I think it important for Belle and Antonia to know one another, my dears.” She thought for a moment and added, “More than that, I cannot say.”

With two such intelligent women, it was enough.

Prue went first. She had always been a woman of great courage. “Antonia is my David’s daughter, Lady Overton, but she and I met him for the first time some seven years ago.”

Becky nodded acknowledgement. “Belle was born after my marriage and is my Hugh’s little treasure, Mrs Wakefield.” She took a deep breath and continued. She had never lacked for courage, either. “Her Grace is one of the few people who know that Hugh was not present for her conception.”

They turned to Eleanor, and Prue put their question into words. “They are half-sisters?” She read the answer in the duchess’s eyes. “Yes. You are correct. They should know one another.”

“May I ask, Your Grace,” Becky ventured, “is Frances also a sister?”

Eleanor shook her head. “An aunt, rather, as are my older wards.”

The relationships would not be mentioned again. Eleanor knew she did not have to discuss the necessity or even the decision; these ladies had been keeping secrets for many years, and would not risk any harm to their families. But as she watched them talk, joining in from time to time; as she enjoyed the chatter of the children at play; she gave thanks that, even if she could never recognise her granddaughters, she was at least blessed to know them and to love them.

 

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Finalist in Spotlight on Sunday

Great excitement in our household when this news came out. I have two books in the Koru Awards, and both are finalists in their section: House of Thorns in Short Novel, and The Realm of Silence in Long Novel. The placegetters and winners will be announced at the Romance Writers of New Zealand Conference, at the Awards Dinner on 24 August.

Congratulations to all the other finalists; indeed, to all the entrants, who believed in their book enough to put it out there. And many thanks to the Contest Co-ordinator, Contest Manager, and all the judges. I know how much work goes on behind the scenes to make contests happen, and I’m grateful to you all.

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Stormy seas in a tall ship

What was it like, on a sailing ship that relied on human strength and skill to face the stormy oceans? No safety harnesses. No labour saving devices. In this video, sailors from an historic ship that sailed from England to Australia as late as the early 20th century look back 40 years to comment on the experience.

https://youtu.be/sUhKBZb7A7c

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Animal friends on WIP Wednesday

 

Animal companions can be useful in a book. They show our character’s empathy and kindness (or lack thereof). They can be comic relief. They might, if the character doesn’t have anyone else to talk to, be an ideal recipient of the kind of information we want the reader to know and need the character to talk about.

So give me an excerpt with an animal. Mine is from To Wed a Proper Lady, the rewrite of The Bluestocking and the Barbarian. My hero is gate crashing a house party with the help of his horse.

Limp,” James said to Seistan. “Limp, my lovely, my treasure, my Jewel of the Mountains.”

The horse obeyed his master’s hand signals and limped heavily as they turned through the gates of the manor, beginning the long trek along the dyke that led between extensive water gardens to where Lady Sophia Belvoir was attending a house party.

In his mind, James was measuring his reasons for being here against his reasons for staying away.

His grandfather faded fast, and the end of the year – and his reprieve – was fast approaching. Lady Sophia was the other half of his soul, and only she could fill the place in his heart and at his side. Every meeting since the first had merely confirmed the connection in his mind. Was it only his imagination that had him believing she felt it too?

Surely her eyes spoke for her, finding him as soon as he entered a room and following him until he left, blue-gray eyes that veiled themselves when he caught them watching, in the longest soft brown lashes he had ever seen. She was not, as these English measured things, a beauty: her arched nose and firm chin too definite for their pale standards, her frame too long and too robust. They preferred dolls, like her sister, and Sophia was no doll.

On the other hand, there was Hythe’s threat and Lady Sophia’s rejection to consider. Beyond that, his father’s greatest enemy owned the house he approached. The party would be full of aristocrats and their hangers on, ignoring him until they found out whether he was a future duke or merely the half-breed bastard of one.

The family needed him to marry a strong woman, one with family ties to half the peerage of this land to which they somehow belonged, though he had only first seen it eight months ago. His foreign blood and upbringing meant he needed a wife who was English beyond question, and English nobility to her fingertips.

James needed to marry Sophia; had needed to since he first saw her in a village street. And then he found she had all the connections his family could desire. Surely their love was fated?

The house came into view—a great brick edifice rising four stories above the gardens and glittering with windows. Nothing could be less like the mountain eerie in which he had been raised, but he squared his shoulders and kept walking, soothing Seistan who reacted to his master’s nerves with a nervous sideways shuffle.

“Hush, my Wind from the North. We belong here, now. What can they do, after all?”

Beat him and cast him out, but from what he knew of the Duchess of Haverford, that was unlikely to happen.

“It is, after all,” he reminded his horse with a brief laugh, “the season of goodwill.”

The stables were off to one side, on a separate island to the main house. At the fork in the carriageway, James hesitated, tempted to take Seistan and see him cared for before chancing his luck at the house. If they invited him in, he would need to hand his horse over to grooms who were strangers while he consolidated his position.

But if they turned him away, he might need to remove himself at speed, Seistan’s convenient limp disappearing as fast as it appeared. Besides, in the mountains between Turkmenistan and Persia, as in England, one did not treat a private home as a caravanserai. He must be sure of his welcome before he took advantage of their stables.

The carriageway crossed the moat surrounding the house and ended in a generous forecourt. James left Seistan at the foot of the long flight of steps leading up to the front door, giving him the command to stay. Seistan stood, weight on three legs and ears pricked with interest as he watched his master climb the steps. Nothing short of outright panic would move the horse from his silent watch before James gave the counter command.