Diversity in historical England

 

I write historicals set in and around Regency England, which I try to ground in research. As a English-descended New Zealander, a Catholic convert from Anglicanism, and a middle-class straight married woman, I need to always remember that the society I write about was considerably more diverse than most people realise. Given my own family history, I always include people with disabilities. I don’t even have to think about that. I do have to remember the rest.

Right through recorded history, England has had people of different ethnicities, races, religions, abilities, and genders (in the modern sense). English society has always been diverse — not always tolerant, but always diverse. Lack of religious tolerance has been a strong force behind many civil disruptions and wars. Lack of tolerance for same sex attraction and other non-cis gender behaviours led to some very nasty laws (but only when the ‘offenders’ were male). But lack of tolerance for ethnic and colour differences seems to have been a Regency and Victorian invention, perhaps prompted by the desire to justify the slave trade and the exploitations of the Raj. Just look at the image above, or think of Shakespeare, who was horrid about Jews but made a hero of Othello.

Standard historical romances tend to be about white Anglican (often only nominally Anglican) protagonists, unless the author is themselves a person of colour. Disability is rare in such romances, and even then, usually limited to PTSD or a scar. Except in LGBT romances, those who are not heterosexual are usually either villains or victims, there for the main protagonists to overcome or to rescue. Of course, a deep treasure trove of historical romances are not standard at all. But this blog is not about them.

History doesn’t support this the standard view. Even in the ton, the top level of English society, the story wasn’t nearly as monochromatic — or as dull.

As regards race, England even had two queens who, today, we would call black (although contemporary accounts confirm that they were, in fact, brown-skinned). Queen Philippa, the wife of Edward III, was the first, way back in medieval times. some historians believe her son, the Black Prince, was so called because he looked like his mother. Queen Charlotte, wife of George III, was the maternal ancestress of today’s British royalty and, through her granddaughter Queen Victoria, most of the royalty of Europe. The colonial and expansionist ambitions of England contributed, too, as just one example shows.

In the more loving relationships of this period, Indian wives often retired with their husbands to England. The Mughal travel writer, Mirza Abu Taleb Khan, who published in Persian an account of his journey to Europe in 1810, described meeting in London several completely Anglicised Indian women who had accompanied their husbands and children to Britain. One of them in particular, Mrs Ducarroll, surprised him every bit as much as Kirkpatrick tended to surprise his English visitors: “She is very fair,” wrote Khan, “and so accomplished in all the English manners and language, that I was some time in her company before I could be convinced that she was a native of India.” He added: “The lady introduced me to two or three of her children, from 16 to 19 years of age, who had every appearance of Europeans.” A great many such mixed-blood children must have been quietly and successfully absorbed into the British establishment, some even attaining high office: Lord Liverpool, the early-19th-century prime minister, was of Anglo-Indian descent. [https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2002/dec/09/britishidentity.india]

We have clear evidence in the court records, even if you ignore all the gossip, that same sex attraction was no less common then than now.

As for religion, anyone who wanted to join the army or hold a public office had to at least pretend to be an Anglican, but at least five of the great families were Catholic anyway, and other religions flourished, though if aristocrats were not Anglican they mostly kept quiet about it.

In broader society, we know that different races were present, and that they mixed (despite efforts to the contrary). Many people who consider themselves white might be very surprised if they could see back to the multi-cultural marriage in their ancestry. The same with faith. England had large numbers of Jews from medieval times, and large numbers of Muslims from at least the 18th century.

And disability, of course, can happen to anyone.

The challenge for me is to write about a diverse culture that is true to the times and respectful of people who are not me. I constantly fear I’ll get it wrong. I fully expect to be accused of tokenism. I do my research, I talk to people who would, two hundred years ago, have been in the communities I write about. I keep trying.

 

First impressions on WIP Wednesday

 

We try to make an emotional connection between our protagonists and our readers as soon as we can in the story. We also need to show the character flaws that make our protagonists interesting. Balancing these two, especially when the characters have personality aspects or life histories that are going to upset some readers, is crucial. So we try to show them doing something nice early on. I’ve just been reading a book where the hero is a drunken cad when he is 20, and frightens heroine, who is only 15. He goes on to turn his life around, and comes back to court her. Ella Quinn manages the empathy by starting the story before he got drunk, making the reasons for his state of mind clear. You could say the story has two sets of first impressions — those the protagonists make on the reader, and those they make on one another.

How about you? What first impression do your characters make? Pick an excerpt that shows the first appearance of the hero or heroine, or what one of them thinks about the other on first meeting.

Mine this week is a newly written passage from To Wed a Proper Lady, which comes immediately after the rescue of the little boy that has already been published as part of The Bluestocking and the Barbarian (you can read it here).

“Oh my,” Felicity said. Sophia had not even noticed her until she spoke. All of Sophia’s attention was on the rider. Oh my, indeed.

“So that is what all the gossip is about,” her sister added. “No wonder he has ruffled the feathers of the biddies and the sticklers. He looks very exotic, does he not? And yet, he speaks like one of us and has the most elegant manners.”

“We must be glad he was there, and in time to help,” Sophia said, struggling to keep her voice calm when the thud of her heart must be audible throughout the village. “Tommy might have been badly hurt.” She managed to drag her eyes away from the retreating horsemen. Undoubtedly, Lord Elfingham had forgotten her already. He did not look back.

She turned towards the Children’s Sanctuary. Felicity fell into step beside her, still talking.

“I must say, he was not at all what I expected. To hear Hythe, one would think him a wild barbarian, uncouth and fierce, without manners or education.”

Sophia repressed a snort with some difficulty. “Hythe has been listening to the wrong Haverford. Our Godmama knew Lord Sutton, his father, when he was only a third son, before he left England to seek his fortune. Aunt Eleanor says that Lord Sutton was married to a Persian princess, and his children were raised as royalty, as well as English ladies and gentlemen. They were, Aunt Eleanor says, given the finest education.”

“His Grace of Haverford has forbidden Her Grace and Lord Aldridge to attend any event at which they might meet Lord Sutton or any of his children. Is that because she and Lord Sutton were once acquainted?”

Sophia knew that look on Felicity’s face. With the least encouragement, she would be interrogating the dowagers and the old maiden aunts, and increasing the storm of scandal around Lord Sutton and his family even further.

“Hythe says that the Duke is incensed at the dilution of another duke’s blue blood.” Felicity gave a little skip at the horror of it all. Hythe did say that, but Sophia was sure Haverford’s virulent enmity was more personal than a distaste for miscegenation.

“Apparently, Haverford believes that English dukes should marry only English ladies of an appropriate rank,” Sophia replied. “Foreign princesses need not apply.”

“If, in fact, Sutton did marry the foreign princess.” The scandalous nature of the conversation was delighting Felicity.

Sophia looked back over her shoulder. The horsemen were visible in the distance, just cresting the hill beyond the village. One of them had stopped — his horse gleaming golden in the sun. It was foolish to think she could feel his intense gaze from this distance. She couldn’t even see his features. But she did see one hand raised in salute before he wheeled the horse to follow his companions.

Tea with memories of Eleanor

 

Now for something different — the scene is about the Duchess of Haverford, but she only makes a brief appearance. This is an excerpt from the rewrite of what used to be The Bluestocking and the Barbarian. In To Wed a Proper Lady, the Earl of Sutton meets the woman he once loved at a ball, and afterwards thinks about the days of their youth.

The muttering of the assembled guests swelled and then stopped abruptly when the Duke of Haverford crossed the floor, and stopped in front of the Earl of Sutton.

Sutton inclined his head, his face impassive.

Haverford sneered and turned on his heel. Sighting his wife at one side of the room, talking to their hostess, he marched twelve paces and spat out, “Lady Finch, that man is an imposter. The duchess and I will not visit any home where he and his devil-spawn are welcome. Duchess!” He beckoned to Aunt Eleanor, as Sophia called her godmother, and stalked off up the stairs.

The duchess followed, hesitating for a moment as she passed Sutton. Their eyes met. Sophia could have sworn that his had a question. If so, the duchess didn’t answer. She hurried up the stairs after her husband. Most of the room watched the earl’s party crossing to Lord and Lady Finch, but Sophia continued to watch the duchess, and may have been the only person who saw her stop at the top of the stairs, to look after the earl.

***

“It went well,” Georgie proclaimed, once Drew and the girls had retired and only the older members of the household remained to consider the evening. “Haverford was a horse’s rear end, but that was to be expected.”

Yousef, the head of Sutton’s household staff, had been leaning against the back of his wife’s chair, but he came alert like the old campaigner he was. “What happened?” They had all agreed only the family would attend the ball, the first social outing from the house of Winshire since Sutton and his children arrived in England. Sutton’s closest friend and advisor had clearly been fretting the entire evening.

Sutton answered before his sister or one of the other ladies could. “Nothing much, Yousef. He left when we arrived, after announcing that the Haverfords and Winshires were at odds.” He took a sip of his drink. “I agree the evening was a success, Georgie.”

“Our girls made an impression,” Grace commented. Her smug smile at Lettie hinted at the hours the two women had spent concocting the scene that began the evening: the four Winderfield cousins at the top of the stairs, each beautifully coiffed and dressed in vibrant colours that contrasted and complimented each other.

“Keeping young Jamie in reserve was a good idea, Patience.” Georgie raised her glass to Yousef’s wife, who made a return salute with her teacup. “It worked just as you suggested,” Georgie continued. “They are intrigued. If I had one person ask me if the heir was as good looking as Drew, I had twenty. And I told the biggest gossips in the ton how glad I was that you were so wealthy!” She grinned at her brother. “When Jamie arrives back from the errand you sent him on, make sure he knows not to be alone with any marriageable female, anywhere, at any time.”

The others continued to dissect the evening, prompted by questions from Yousef and Patience. Haverford’s claim that Sutton was an imposter could be ignored, they all agreed. If recognition by his father and sister was not enough, at least a dozen people at the ball last night had known him as a young man. Sutton did his best to pay attention, but his mind kept drifting back to the encounter with Haverford and the glimpse he’d had of Haverford’s duchess.

The old man, he’d called him when he was twenty-four and a fool. “You can’t marry her to that old man,” he’d screamed at Eleanor’s father when his own suit had been rejected because she was already promised. Haverford was thirteen years his senior, and that seemed old to him then, especially compared to Eleanor’s seventeen. The man would be in his seventies now—an old man in truth, gnarled and bent as an old tree, the once handsome face withered and twisted into a peevish mask.

Eleanor, though… Sutton would have known Eleanor anywhere, as soon as her lovely eyes met his. Through a long and happy marriage to the mother of his children, the bittersweet memory of the young Eleanor had lingered in a corner of Sutton’s heart, and seeing her had brought all those memories flooding back.

She was older, of course, though if he’d not known she was approaching her fifty-second birthday he’d have guessed her no more than forty. Time had delivered on the promise of great beauty and grace.

From what his sister-in-law said of her—they were dear friends, it seemed—time had also honed the strength under the softness that made her submit to her father rather than run away with Sutton. His Eleanor had become the Duchess of Haverford, a grande dame known for her works of charity, her kindness to those who fell afoul of Society’s censure through no fault of their own, and her generosity to her husband’s poor relations and a whole tribe of godchildren.

Such a pity that the feud with Haverford would mean they could not meet. He would have liked to know the woman his Eleanor had become.

Spotlight on Her Cadillac Cowboy

 

Congratulations to my friend Rue Allyn on the release of Her Cadillac Cowboy.

A rich cowboy with a classic Cadillac—sounds like the stuff of dreams for a small-town Texas girl, right?  Wrong!  Josh McKinley and his classic car have been Sara Carson’s nightmare since Josh left ten years ago.  Now the cowboy and his Caddy are back.  Sara must choose between loyalty to her family and love for the one man she shouldn’t want. 

Is the key to Sara Carson’s heart the Cadillac that their families have been feuding over for ten years?  Or will Josh McKinley have to give up the car he treasures in order to win the woman he loves?

A rich cowboy with a classic Cadillac—sounds like the stuff of dreams for a small-town Texas girl, right?  Wrong!  Josh McKinley and his classic car have been Sara Carson’s nightmare since Josh left ten years ago.  Now the cowboy and his Caddy are back.  Sara must choose between loyalty to her family and love for the one man she shouldn’t want.

Is the key to Sara Carson’s heart the Cadillac that their families have been feuding over for ten years?  Or will Josh McKinley have to give up the car he treasures in order to win the woman he loves?

Buy Link~exclusively at Amazon until mid-June

Amazon:  https://www.amazon.in/Her-Cadillac-Cowboy-Rue-Allyn-ebook/dp/B07MQ25ZLQ/

Excerpt

Sara wandered down the hall, turned the corner at the end of the corridor, and ran smack into a bare, sweaty, male chest. The impact was brief. Hard hands closed over her shoulders and steadied her before setting her away. Sara looked up. Her mouth opened and closed, then opened again.

“You!” echoed through the emptiness.

Sara jumped back farther. More memories squeezed her heart. Of all the voices that she might hear, she never expected to hear Josh McKinley’s deep baritone.

“So, you’re back.” His mouth twisted on the statement. His graveled voice and daredevil blue eyes challenged her.

She wasn’t ready for this. “What are you doing here? Gloating because my father’s bedridden and can’t throw you out?”

“Not gloating, working.”

What a surprising idea. “That’s ridiculous. It’s Sunday and Carson’s Cars is closed.”

“Always was, as I recall. Guess even an old devil like your daddy needs a day of rest.”

Her eyes widened. How dare Josh try to provoke her. He’d betrayed her, run off like a coward. Never mind that she’d done her own running a few years later. “My father would never hire a McKinley, and no McKinley would want to do an honest day’s work when he could shyster widows and orphans instead.”

Josh hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans and leaned against the wall, his narrow hips cocked at an aggressive angle. “I don’t work for your father.”

He had no right to prop his broad shoulders against that wall. “Then you’re not working here, so get off Carson’s property.”

Damn him with his dark hair and bright eyes. He didn’t move. He gave a slow smile and looked her over, head to toe and back. “You’ve changed, Sara.”

Déjà vu skittered bumps over her skin. Time was when she would have danced naked in a cactus patch for that smile. No more. “Maybe it’s time you found out just how much I have changed.”

Meet Rue Allyn

Hi, I’m Rue Allyn, I write heart melting romance novels. Books about characters and adventures in which love triumphs at the darkest moment. The kind of hopeful, steal-your-breath romance that melts a reader’s heart. The type of book I like to read. Hope you will too.

Rue’s Website: https://RueAllyn.com

BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/profile/rue-allyn

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/RueAllynFriends

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Dressing a gentleman

In many ways, men’s evening dress in the Regency was a throw-back to day and evening wear a generation earlier, with 18th century evening clothes more ornate than those worn during the day, but similar in terms of the actual items of apparel. So as you watch the following video, think of your favourite Regency hero or villain getting ready for a formal ball or an evening at Almacks.

The following is about dressing a regency cavalry officer. Thank you, priorattire. You’ll need to click through to YouTube to view it.

https://youtu.be/pSksa0RZdio

Blurbs on WIP Wednesday

Who loves writing blurbs? Not me. Encapsulate the essence of an 80,000 word story in ten lines? It’s hard, isn’t it.

Today, I’m asking you share a blurb for a work-in-progress or one that you’re rewriting. Let’s help one another to refine our pieces.

Mine is from Unkept Promises, which is nearly on its way to beta readers.

When Mia Redepenning sails to Cape Town to nurse her husband’s dying mistress and adopt his children, she hopes to negotiate a comfortable marriage at the same time. Falling in love with the man is not on her to-do list.

Jules Redepenning has been a naval officer at war for twenty years, and away from England for most of that. He rarely thinks of the child bride he left after their wedding seven long years ago—after all, he married her merely to protect her. He certainly doesn’t expect to find his wife in his Cape Town home, a woman grown and a lovely one, too.

They must part ways, each with their own duties, before they can do more than glimpse a possible future together. At home in England, Mia must fight an enemy for the safety of Jules’s children. Imprisoned in France, Jules must battle for his self-respect and his life.

Will they win their way back to one another and their dreams?

Tea with Cedrica and Sophia

Sophia followed the liveried footman through the ornate splendour of Haverford House paying little attention to the treasures around her. What could Her Grace mean by the cryptic comment in her note of invitation?

I have some one for you to meet and a job that I think you will enjoy.

The thought crossed her mind that her godmother might be match-making, but she dismissed it. Aunt Eleanor would never be so obvious. Still, when she was ushered into the duchess’s private sitting room, she was relieved to see that the room held only Aunt Eleanor and a younger woman – a soberly-dressed girl perhaps a year or two older than Felicity.

Something about the face, particularly the hazel eyes behind the heavy-framed spectacles, identified her as a Haverford connection. Another of the duke’s poor relations, then. Aunt Eleanor had made a calling of finding them, employing them, discovering their yearnings and talents, and settling them in a more fulfilling life.

“Sophia, my dear,” the duchess said, holding out both hands in welcome. Sophia curtseyed and then clasped her godmother’s hands and leaned forward to kiss her cheek.

Her Grace immediately introduced the poor relation. “Sophia, allow me to make known to you my cousin Cedrica Grenford. Cedrica is staying with me for a while, and has been kind enough to help me with my correspondence and note taking.” The undoubtedly very distant cousin was the duchess’s secretary, in other words.

Cedrica served the tea, enquiring timidly about her preferences. She seemed overwhelmed by her surroundings. She addressed Sophia as ‘my lady’ in every other sentence, and had clearly been instructed to call the duchess Aunt Eleanor, for she tripped over every attempt to address her directly and ended up calling her nothing at all.

“Please,” Sophia told her, “call me Sophia as my friends do. Aunt Eleanor’s note suggests we shall be working together on whatever project she has in mind, and we will both be more comfortable if we are on first name terms.”

The duchess leaned forward and touched Cedrica’s hand. “May I tell Sophia some of your circumstances, my dear? It is pertinent to the idea I have.”

Cedrica nodded, and Her Grace explained, “Cedrica is the daughter of a country parson who has had little opportunity to set money aside for his old age. When he fell into infirmity, Cedrica wrote to ask for her cousin’s help, as was right and proper, and I was only too happy to have her here to be my companion, and to arrange for her dear father to be comfortably homed on one of our estates.”

Very much the short version of the story, Sophia suspected. Cedrica was blinking back tears.

The duchess continued, “As it turned out, Cedrica has a positive gift for organisation, and is extremely well read. She is proving to be an absolute genius at my secretarial work; so much so that Aldridge has threated to hire her from under my nose to assist with the work of the duchy.”

Cedrica protested, “He was only joking, Your Gr… Aunt… um. Who has heard of such a thing!”

“That brings me to my point, dear,” Aunt Eleanor said. “Cedrica is entirely self-educated, except for a few lessons at her mother’s knee before that dear lady passed beyond. Why, I ask you? Are women less capable of great learning than men? Cedrica is by no means an exception. You and I, Sophia, know a hundred women of our class, more, who study the arts and the sciences in private.”

Sophia nodded. She quite agreed. Part of Felicity’s restless discontent came from having little acceptable outlet for her considerable intelligence.

“I have done what I can in a small way to help my relatives,” the duchess went on. “Now, I want to do more. Sophia, Cedrica, I have in mind a fund to support schemes for the education of girls. Not just girls of our class, but any who have talents and interests beyond those assigned to them because of their sex and their place in life. Will you help me?”

In the discussion that followed, Cedrica forgot her awe at her exalted relation and that lady’s guest, and gave Sophia the opportunity to see the very gifts Aunt Eleanor spoke of. In a remarkably short time, the young woman had pages of lists — ideas for the types of project that might be sponsored; money raising ideas; names of people of who might support the fund; next steps.

“We are agreed, then,” the secretary said, at last, losing all self-consciousness in her enthusiasm. “The duchess will launch the fund at a Christmas house party and New Year Charity Ball to be held at one of her estates.” She glanced back at her notes. “Our first step will be to hold a meeting at a place to be decided, and invite the ladies whose names I’ve marked with a tick. The purpose of the meeting will be to form a committee to organise the event.”

She sat back with a beaming smile, clutching her papers to her chest.

“An excellent summation,” the duchess agreed. “My dears, we have work to do, but we have made a start; a very good start.”

This is a new scene I’ve written for To Wed a Proper Lady, the novel form of The Bluestocking and the Barbarian, which appeared in Holly and Hopeful Hearts. Holly and Hopeful Hearts was the story of the duchess’s house party. Buy it and the eight great stories it contains at most online retailers.

Weeping for those we have lost

Today, my country is in mourning. I was going to just post the wonderful cartoon by New Zealand cartoonist Shaun Yeo, but then I listened to this wonderful video version of our national anthem and decided to add that, too.

The first verse is sung twice, in Maori and then in English. Watch for the words “Men of every creed and race gather here”. [Yes, I know, but it was written in the 19th century]

I remembered writing about our anthem years ago on another blog, so I went to look up the post, and here it is. Still relevant today, I think. Guard us from envy and hate. Good words.

I’ve often thought how peaceable our national anthem is – so many other anthems are military in origin and martial in flavour. But yesterday for the first time these words struck me: ‘from dissension, envy, hate and corruption guard our state’. How many other countries pray for freedom from corruption every time they sing their national anthem?

I looked it up this evening – there are websites that have collected over 400 national anthems from all over the world. It was intriguing.

Only a small percentage are prayers/hymns; most of those ask God to save or bless the country/the monarch, many ask Him for victory over enemies… “Send her victorious,” “God who made thee mighty, make thee mightier yet.” The national anthem of the Isle of Man celebrates the gifts of God, and in particular the seas that keep the Isle of Man safe.

The Japanese national anthem is a tanka: a five line, 31 syllable poem: “May the reign of the Emperor continue for a thousand, nay, eight thousand generations and for the eternity that it takes for small pebbles to grow into a great rock and become covered with moss.”

Some of the words of national anthems have been left behind by time. Perhaps the US Americans don’t sing anymore the verse that includes the words: “Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps’ pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave, From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave.” Australia has officially dropped the verses that refer to Mother Britain. Stirring though the music is – the words of Flower of Scotland don’t seem to me particularly encouraging: “when will we see your like again?” Ireland’s national anthem also recalls past battles: “In Erin’s cause, come woe or weal, ‘Mid cannons’ roar and rifles peal.”

As far as my researches reveal, a prayer for protection from corruption is unique among national anthems. Not a bad thing among nations, though! (Posted as Joyful Papist, April 2010)

Cholera would have been a neat plot device

Some years ago, I read The Ghost Map, the story of John Snow’s careful plotting of the Cholera Outbreak of 1854, which led to the discovery that cholera is a waterbourne disease. The book I’ve just started was going to use cholera as a plot device. My hero is a recluse. My heroine is asked to bring his female dependents to him to escape a cholera epidemic at their school, but by the time she arrives at the house she realises that they’ve bought the disease with them. Sadly, the book is set in 1812, and a bit of research showed that the first outbreak in England didn’t start until 1831. In the video clip below, they talk about the 1832 outbreak, in which 55,000 people died, most of them poor and hungry.

 

I guess I’ll have to save cholera for another time. Meanwhile, there’s always typhus or smallpox. Or measles, come to that. Measles might work well!

First seven sentences in WIP Wednesday

The journey begins with the first step.

I’ve typed THE END in Unkept Promises. I’ve also written the first paragaphs in To Mend the Broken Recluse, so I’m thinking about ends and beginnings. This week, how about putting seven sentences in the comments. You choose what they begin: the book, a chapter, a new scene.

Here’s mine.

The crows rose in a flock over the tower on the borders of Ashbury land, a cacophany on wings. Val straightened and peered in that direction, shading his eyes to see if he could tell what had spooked them. It was unlikely to be a traveller on the lane that branched towards the manor from  the road that passed the tower. After three years of repulsing visitors, the only people he ever saw were his tenant farmers and the few servants he had retained to keep the crumbling monstrosity he lived in marginally fit for human habitation.

He bent back to the plough, but called the team to a halt again when a bird shot up from almost under their hooves. Sure enough, a lapwing nest lay right in the path of the plough. Val carefully steered around it. He knew his concern for the pretty things set his tenants laughing behind his back, but they didn’t take up much room, and they’d soon hatch their chicks and be off to better cover

Okay. That’s eight sentences, but I won’t count if you don’t.