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Tea with a bereaved aunt

When Mrs Watterson had asked for this meeting, she had seemed so nervous that the Duchess of Haverford had offered to meet her in the housekeeper’s sitting room, thinking the woman might be more at ease on her own ground. It had made no appreciable difference. The housekeeper sat bolt upright, not sipping from her cup, her knuckles white with tension, her voice strained as she tried to make conversation.

Mrs Watterson praised the baby, little Miss Matilda, reminding Eleanor that she would far rather be upstairs in the nursery than down here in the cluttered little room, where the furniture was overstuffed and the fire too hot.

Eleanor was discovering the joys of mothering a baby, and would have spent the whole day in the nursery with her little ward, had her duties allowed. The duchess was a mother twice over, but both the ducal heir and the spare had been taken from her at birth, handed over to a retinue of servants, and thereafter presented for a ceremonious inspection for a few minutes a day whenever she and they happened to be in the same residence.

When Aldridge was born, she had been so oppressed by her marriage and the expectations that crushed her, she had accepted the duke’s dictate: that aristocratic women had little to do with the children they produced for the well being of the title. By the time Jonathan arrived, she had recovered some of her confidence, but the pregnancy and birth, coming after years of miscarriages, left her frail both emotionally and physically, and her little boy had been nine months old when she wrested control of the nursery from the despot who had ruled there since Haverford appointed her in the early days of their marriage.

The woman had been gone for more than five years, and sweet little Matilda was in the care of her replacement: a woman chosen by Eleanor, with testimonials from people Eleanor trusted, and completely devoid of the physical attributes that were the only qualifications of interest to the duke when he interviewed a female for any position.

An apology dragged Eleanor’s attention back to the conversation. Mrs Watterson had finally begun to approach the matter that had her so anxious. “Forgive my impertinence, Your Grace,” she said, “but is it true that Miss Matilda… that her mother…?”

Seeing Eleanor’s raised brows, she rushed on. “I don’t ask out of idle curiosity, ma’am. It is just that…”

All suddenly became clear. Eleanor sighed. “One of the  maids? Or a villager’s child?”

Much of the tension rushed out of Mrs Watterson, expelled in a huff of air. “My niece, Your Grace. I would not have said anything, but…” Tears began to roll down the pale cheeks.

Eleanor patted her hand. “I shall help, of course. A pension. A place to live in a village where she isn’t known.”

Mrs Watterson shook her head, the tears increasing in volume. Eleanor suppressed a sigh for her lost afternoon with Matilda, and devoted her energies to soothing the housekeeper and eliciting the rest of the story.

It was a sad one, but one she had heard before during nearly fifteen years of marriage to the Duke of Haverford. Jessie, the orphaned daughter of Mrs Waterson’s only sister, worked for a neighbouring household. “I would not have her in this house, Your Grace, saving your pardon,” the housekeeper said. It did not save the girl. She was returning from an errand to the village when a gentleman (Mrs Watterson began ‘His Gr…’ then changed the word) overtook her on the road. He saw that she was young and pretty, and led her off into the woods on the side of the road. Having exercised what he regarded as his rights, he rode on his way.

Jessie told no one until six months later, when one of the maids with whom she shared a room noticed the swelling she had managed, until then, to conceal. Of course, she was dismissed, but her aunt found her lodgings in the village, and paid for her keep and the services of the midwife. “It was a hard birth, Your Grace,” Mrs Watterson explained. “Little Jessica survived, but my niece did not. I’m the only kin she has, poor little baby, and what is to become of her?”

Haverford had only just noticed Matilda, and had not been pleased. Eleanor had managed to threaten him in a way that did not cause his unstable temper to explode. Another of his by-blows in his nursery might be a straw too far, and when Haverford was angry, he cared nothing for consequences.

On the other hand, Matilda would benefit from growing up with another little girl of much the same age. The seven year age gap between Aldridge and Jonathan meant they both lacked companionship, except for that of their servants.

Eleanor temporised. “Where is the baby now, Mrs Watterson?”

“The midwife knew a woman who could feed her, Your Grace, having recently lost her own youngest. Mrs Fuller. It was the best I could do, ma’am, but I don’t want to leave her there.”

Eleanor didn’t blame her. Cold, neglect, and disease carried off Mrs Fuller’s children with alarming frequency. She was one of those woman that every village seems to produce — almost certainly not entitled to the honourable honorific, making a living for herself and her surviving offspring by serving drinks and food in the local tavern, and other more intimate services wherever a man with a coin might care to take her. Eleanor had tried to help the female into an honourable job, but whether she was too beaten down by life or just preferred earning her living on her back, the experiment had not worked out.

Eleanor stood. “Very well, Mrs Watterson. We shall visit Mrs Fuller and meet little Jessica. Then we shall see.”

She had, of course, already made up her mind. No need to tell His Grace this was another of his unwanted children. This time, she would not even wait until he noticed. She would simply announce that she had taken in another orphan to keep Matilda company. She would not discuss the child’s origins. As long as he did not feel she was censuring his behaviour, he probably wouldn’t care.

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Where marquesses came from

A castle on the Welsh marches.

The title ‘marquess’ (or sometimes ‘marquis’) reaches all the way back to the Carolingian monarchs, who appointed royal officials as military governors for their border provinces. (The Carolingians were the dynasty founded by Charles Martel that ruled much of medieval Europe. Charlemange, was one, as were the Kings of France and of the Holy Roman Empire when those two territories survived Charlemange’s Empire.)

These border provinces were called ‘mark lands’ or ‘marches’. The word was Germanic, from a Proto-Indo-European root meaning ‘edge’ or ‘boundary’.

The original Carolingian title for this military governor was markgraf, graf being the word for count. Because keeping the borders safe was a huge part of keeping the kingdom safe, the markgrafs were the most competent lords available, ranked higher than other grafs, and only a little lower than dukes.

The title came down to all the countries that the Carolingians once ruled, or that were influenced by Carolingian rulers. To this day, some provinces in Europe carry evidence of once being borderlands, including La Marche in France, Ostmark in Austria, and the entire country of Denmark (the borderland of the Danes).

As you can see from the table below, the title pops up in some form or other all over Europe.

It was imported to England in the 14th century. Up until then, the crown had appointed marcher lords. These were earls who governed land on the border with Wales (the Welsh marches) and Scotland (the Scottish marches — the monarchs of both Scotland and England relied on their marcher lords to keep the borders safe). Just as the margraves of the continent were more powerful than other counts, the marcher lords were more powerful than most earls, and governed more than one county.

The term marchis (as it was then) was introduced from France in the late 14th century. Shades of the old marcher lords survive in the English name for a female holder of the title or wife to the holder of the title: marchioness.

The French spelling became marquis, and that was the form most used in Scotland, but the usual English spelling is marquess, and that is now used today for marquesses of the peerage of Scotland and Ireland, as well as England.

Some sources say that marquess was the usual spelling in England by the 16th century, but many English marquises were spelling their title the old way all the way through to the end of the 18th century. I’ve heard quite a bit of discussion about which is correct for English lords of the regency period. In 1802, Debrett’s and other peerage books used marquis. By 1828, they’d changed to marquess. I’ve found both spellings in newspapers of that transition period.

That being the case, I’ve kept my Aldridge as Marquis of Aldridge, since he was born in 1780 and was a marquis from his cradle. His son Jonny will need to become a marquess, I think, in line with the change that had taken place by 1828, not long after his birth.

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Inspiration on WIP Wednesday

Writers are commonly asked, “Where do you get your ideas?” I might be asked that more often than many, since my brain teams with characters and plots. So this week, I want you to share your inspiration for a character, a plot, a scene, or something else for your story, and an excerpt from the story.

The scene below is near the end of my next newsletter subscriber story, Look Into My Eyes. Every two months, I give away a story with my newsletter. The subscriber only page now has links to eleven stories, and this one will make twelve. To subscribe, please fill in the form on the newsletter tab or in the right menu bar.

My inspiration was the song by Peter Sarstead, Where do you go to (my lovely), released 1969. My version is around 3,500 words long, and is set against the glittering world of the English ton just after the end of the Napoleonic war.

The end-of-season ball thrown by the Duchess of Fambrough — the current duchess, though one does not doubt the dowager assisted — will be the talk of Society long after the Season ends. Not for its appointments, or the excellence of the supper or the musicians, though these were fine, indeed. Not for the quality of the assembly, though the invitations had gone out to everyone of significance, and many who merely hoped they were.

No, the defining moments of the Fambrough ball came shortly before the supper waltz, when Lord Charming, arriving late but impeccably dressed with his usual elegant flair, strolled down the stairs into the ballroom, his arms full of roses, and marched straight across the floor, his eyes fixed on the Paragon herself.

Some say he had hailed the duke when that gentleman was riding in Hyde Park that morning, and that the two of them had spoken earnestly for close to half an hour, their horses pacing side by side. Others report he visited during the time for calls, carrying even more roses and attended by two footmen similarly burdened. The ducal house was not receiving, being consumed with preparations for the ball, but he left the roses behind when he departed.

So tonight was Lord Charming’s third encounter with the ducal household, and the assembled onlookers held their collective breath in order not to miss a moment of the drama that played out before them. The duke was between the viscount and his stepmother. His Grace moved to one side as she stood. The scandalous gentleman approached close enough to touch, and those close enough heard him say, “I promised you roses, Marie.”

Those who murmured at his familiar address were shushed by those around them. His lordship ignored them all as he handed her his roses. “These are from the rose garden at Welling. The plums are ripening on the trees. I had hoped to bring you cherries, but my gardener says they will be next week.”

These were not the loverlike words we expect from Lord Charming, and his expression was unexpectedly open. Serious, too, as was the lady’s.

“What of the conservatory, Rick?” she asked. Another murmur at the intimacy of first names, again subdued by ferocious gestures.

“We are owed clement weather, are we not? But it stands ready, Your Grace, to protect us through storms.”

The duchess looked up from her roses and their eyes met. Lord Charming moved to take Her Grace in his arms. “Will you honour me with a waltz, Marie?”

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Tea with Angel Kelly

Tolly advised against the meeting. He would deal with Miss Kelly’s problem. He quite agreed with Her Grace that Haverford ought to do something to assist the opera dancer, given he was the immediate cause of the  young female losing her job and needing to spend all her savings. Haverford would not, so it was for Tolly and Her Grace to intervene, as they had before. Her Grace should not speak to such persons herself, however. Tolly was quite firm on the subject, which Eleanor found sad, since his mother had been another such person.

Eleanor had insisted, so here was Miss Kelly, sitting in one of the smaller parlours at Haverford House, a delicate tea cup cradled in both hands.

She was exceptionally pretty; slender, with a heart-shaped face framed by dark curly hair, and blue eyes that were currently wide with wonder as she looked around the parlour.

The duchess allowed her a few minutes, until she overcame her curiosity and remembered her manners. “I beg yer pardon, Your Grace. It’s rude, it is, to be staring at yer things like this. I can’t be telling ye how grateful I am that ye agreed to see me.”

“I must also admit to curiosity, Miss Kelly,” Eleanor replied. “The gentleman who brought you here advised against my seeing you, but I ignored him.”

The question, ‘and why was that?’ sparked in Miss Kelly’s expressive eyes, but she simply repeated, “I am grateful.”

Eleanor leaned forward to examine the unfortunate consequence of Miss Kelly’s association with the Duke of Haverford, currently asleep in a basket at Miss Kelly’s feet. The little girl was well wrapped against the cold, but the tiny face was adorable. Dark wisps of curl had escaped from the knitted bonnet, and a tiny hand clutched the blanket, pink dimples at the base of each chubby finger.

“My friend tells me that you seek a home for the baby,” Eleanor commented.

Miss Kelly heard the question. “I cannot be taking her home, you see. I have a chance… There’s a man. He wanted to wed me when my Ma and Pa died, but I had my head full o’ dreams. He went home without me, but he’ll take me yet. He knows how it is for girls like me. He’ll not blame me for not being a maid, but — Patrick is a proud man, Your Grace. He’ll not raise another man’s babe. Or if he does, he’ll make it no life for her, and we’d finish up hating one another and the poor wee girleen.”

Eleanor could see the point. “So you will leave her behind.”

Miss Kelly must have assumed a criticism in that. “I’d keep her if I could, Your Grace, but here in London? How can a girl like me earn enough to support her and keep her with me? I want a good home for her; somewhere safe where she can grow up to better than her Ma. Then what happens to me don’t matter, so I might as well take Patrick as not. Better than another protector. Leastwise, if I get another baby in my belly, I’ll have a man to stand by me.”

As Haverford had not. He had turned his pregnant mistress out of the house in which he’d installed her, with a few pounds to ‘get rid of the brat’. Miss Kelly did not have to tell Eleanor that part of the story. She knew it well enough from past liaisons. Tolly proposed to find a childless couple who wanted a daughter to love.

At that moment, the baby opened her eyes, looked around with apparent interest, then fixed her gaze on Eleanor, or — more probably — on the diamonds sparkling in Eleanor’s ear bobs. The little treasure smiled, and reached up her arms, babbling an incomprehensible phrase.

Eleanor was on her knees beside the basket, reaching for the dear child before she thought to look up and ask permission. “May I?”

When she called for her secretary, thirty minutes later, little Matilda was still in Eleanor’s arms. “Ah. Clara. This is Miss Kelly. She will be staying in the nursery for the next few days. I need you to hire me a wet nurse and a nanny to look after Matilda after Miss Kelly leaves. I also want to purchase a smallholding in — Kinvara, was it not? It shall be your dowry, Miss Kelly.”

It was nearly five months before the Duke of Haverford discovered that the nursery, recently vacated by his younger son Jonathan, was once again occupied. He was moved to challenge his wife on her presumption, but her only response was tell him the child’s full name — Matilda Angelica Kelly Grenford — and to add that the scandal of her presence was long past, but the scandal of her removal would be ongoing. As his duchess and a leading figure in Society, the woman had the power to make the outrageous threat stick. He dealt with the impertinence in his usual fashion. He left, and never mentioned the little girl’s existence again.

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Honour, selfishness, and social groups

 

On one of my author discussion groups, someone has asked whether honour is a lost virtue for today’s readers. Her general thesis was something to the effect: In today’s society, every one is out for themselves, without thinking of the impact on others. This makes for selfish heroes in romance, who pursue their own wants and needs without thinking of others.

Honour doesn’t have quite the same ring to it for me. It all depends what it drives people to do. Do we agree with Richard Lovelace, poet of the English Civil War, who wrote, in To Lucasta, Going to the Wars, “I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not honour more”? To our ears, formed by the culture of our times, it sounds like he’s using honour as a convenient excuse to do what he wanted to do.

What about the touchy aristocrats of the eighteenth century, duelling — even killing — because of a perceived insult?

Or, in our own times, look at honour killings. A loved sister or daughter, murdered to restore the reputation of the family.

I’ve been thinking about this in the light of the hero I spent the last couple of days creating for a newsletter subscriber short story. I wanted someone almost ethereally beautiful and brimming over with charm and seeming confidence. He lives a life of hedonism, and appears to care for nothing and no-one, himself included. That isn’t the whole story, of course — he is a Jude Knight hero, and a fundamental decency is a given. But it got me thinking. He is not so much selfish as self-centred — an issue that afflicts some of my other heroes, and that they need to overcome for their lives to take a turn for the better.

I’ve long seen human behaviour in terms of care circles. People behave differently to those they regard as human (and for human, read ‘like them’). People will make tremendous sacrifices and do incredible tasks for those within their closest care circle. For most people, this is their partner, parents, and children. For others, it might be comrades-at-arms, or best friends. In the next circle out might be casual friends, and then (perhaps) work colleagues, or neighbours. Beyond that, depending on the person, are those of the same ethnicity, or belief system, or gender, or some other classification. Or, it might be, animals, or the amorphous network of life people most commonly mean when they say ‘the planet’. (The actual planet is not at risk from human activity, short of some as yet unknown technology for blowing it to smithereens — otherwise it will survive, even as a vaguely spherical inanimate object, with a crust of lichen covered rock and dead seas.)

Some poor unfortunates have a single care circle, and it comprises one person: them. But even those with an every increasing number of circles encompassing the universe still rank some circles closer than others.

In many historical novels, we leave the poor, people of colour, those with a different religion, even servants, outside of the care circles of our hero and heroine. Or, we include a single representative of those groups, or political action on behalf of those groups, as signs that the protagonist is morally responsible.

My protagonists do their best for others, but only because I have to make them that way. I don’t see it as a virtue, but as a part of being human ourselves. Virtue is stepping outside our care circles to look after those we don’t love. Those who ignore the problems of others just because they are not me or mine are a step closer to the other end of a continuum that leads to terrorism and genocide.

Thinking about honour has led to me to envisage another circle entirely. The brother who kills a sister for action that brings the family into dishonour (or the Regency father who claims to have thrown his daughter into the street for the same purpose) believes they are doing it out of care — care for other members of the family that overrides care for the ousted sister. Lovelace and the motor cycle gangs give me a different perspective. When we talk about honour, whether in the current day or the stories we love to read (and write), we see an ethic that transcends the care group.

I call it an ethic, but I’m not entirely sure it is ethical. At its base, honour is about being true to one’s sense of self — “I am the sort of person who…” the hero or heroine says, when they are impelled take a certain action, even if it hurts those close to them. Their honour circle includes those who agree with the value of being that sort of person, and who therefore support the actions.

So no, I don’t think honour is a lost virtue, because whether or not it is a virtue depends entirely on what it causes us to do.

What do you think?

 

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Courtship woes on WIP Wednesday

Cicely and Gwendoline put their would-be suitors through their paces in The Importance of Being Earnest, by Oscar Wilde.

They met, they fell in love, they wed, they lived happily ever after. Where’s the story in that? We need conflict. We need challenges. In romance, we need courtships to go wrong.

So that’s the theme of this week’s invitation. Share an excerpt from your romance where a courtship is failing to take off, or is taking a wrong turn. Mine is from To Wed a Proper Lady.

When the other guests went up to change for dinner, James met Lady Sophia by the stables. He drove her over to the far corner of the estate, nearly a mile by the lanes, happily filling in the time by telling her the history of the Turkmen horse breed.

She asked interested and intelligent questions, which pleased him enormously. He’d love for his own passion for horse breeding to be something they could share. From his observation, couples who had at least some interests in common had better marriages and happier lives.

Should he hint at his desire to make her his wife? She must suspect by now, surely. He’d been careful to stay within the boundaries of an English courtship, as explained to him by his aunt: no more than one dance an evening, no steering straight to her side as soon as he saw her at any event they both attended, no singling her out without including her sister to give the appearance of propriety, no gifts beyond a polite note or a bunch of flowers. But within those constraints, he had been faithfully attentive for months.

And he’d sought her out in Cheltenham and organised this journey to spend time with her. Did that not tell her his intentions? Although she believed he was on his aunt’s errand.

In Para Daisa, his mother or another female relative would already have met with a female relative of hers. In England, he should, according to the courtship rituals Aunt Grace had described, call on the Earl of Hythe, the male head of the lady’s family.

Given Hythe’s attitude, such a meeting was unlikely to produce the results James needed.

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Tea with a black widow

The widow was not one of Her Grace’s usual circle. She was too young to be one of the grand ladies with whom the duchess had ruled Society for more than thirty years, and too old to be one of their daughters.

That was not the real reason Eleanor barely knew her, of course, as Eleanor admitted to herself. The real reason was that Eleanor liked cats only when they had whiskers and four paws. Lady Ashurst was a cat of the human kind; one for whom the less influential members of Society were mice to hunt and torment.

If an innocent action could be given a vicious interpretation, Lady Ashurst would find it and the sycophants who clustered around her would spread it. And woe betide the person, lady or gentleman, who made a misstep in negotiating the silly rules that governed the lives of the ton. It would be magnified a thousand fold if Eleanor and her own allies were not in time to mitigate the damage.

She sat in Eleanor’s formal drawing room, a striking beauty still, though she was in her mid-thirties. She should look colourless in her light blue walking dress and white spencer, with white-blonde hair drawn into fashionable ringlets that did not dare to do anything so indecorous as bounce, delicately darkened brows arching over ice-blue eyes. Instead, in the sumptuous splendour of the room, she drew the eye, like a diamond centre-piece of a barbaric collar of gold and gems.

“How kind of you to invite me, Your Grace,” she purred. “I have long wished to be better acquainted. I admire you so much, and feel for you in your current circumstances. My husband, too…”  She trailed off.

Eleanor smiled, a baring of teeth containing little amusement. If this upstart thought the Duchess of Haverford was going to be manipulated to play her game of insinuation and scandal, she could think again.

“You were invited for one reason only, Lady Ashurst. I understand you are taking some interest in Lady Ruth Winderfield, the daughter of the Duke of Winshire.”

Lady Ashurst dropped her lashes to veil her eyes. “You take an interest in the matter, of course. The feud between Winshire and Haverford is well known to me, Your Grace.”

Eleanor allowed none of her disgust to show. “Your interest, of course, is your brother-in-law, whose name you have chosen to couple with that of Lady Ruth.”

The woman looked up, a flash of spite in her eyes. “They connected their own names, Your Grace, when she stayed with him, unchaperoned.”

Eleanor could argue that Ruth had her companion with her, as well as a bevy of armed retainers, a maid, and six children; that she was taking refuge during a typhus epidemic; that she was providing medical care for several of her party. But Lady Ashurst was not interested in facts, but in fixing her claws into the weak. This time, she had chosen the wrong targets.

Eleanor showed her own claws. “I would take it amiss, Lady Ashurst, if these rumours continue to circulate. Very amiss.”

An expression at last. Alarm, quickly concealed. Lady Ashurst’s tinkling laugh was unamused. “You jest, duchess. Haverford hates the chit’s father.”

Eleanor raised a brow. “I have not invited you to address me as an intimate, young woman. Nor will I.”

Colour flooded Lady Ashurst’s face. “Your Grace. My apologies, Your Grace.”

“You have miscalculated, Lady Ashurst. His Grace of Haverford cannot abide scandal-mongering women. In addition, I am dearest friends with Lady Ruth’s aunt. I must thank you, however, for drawing my attention to the Earl of Ashurst. I had not noticed his absence from society since his brother’s death. I intend to amend that oversight. Your brother-in-law shall be presented to the Regent under my sponsorship and that of His Grace, the Duke of Haverford. I suggest you make yourself least in sight for the remainder of the little season. A sojourn in the country might be good for your health, Lady Ashurst.”

Lady Ashurst sat, as pale as her spencer, her mouth open.

Her Grace stood and pulled the bell chain. “My footman shall show you out,” she said.

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Recreating the 1814 Frost Fair

Here’s something to watch for — photographs of the 1814 Frost Fair by Julia Fullerton-Batten, taken as part of her Old Father Thames historical reconstruction project.

Here’s what Fullerton-Batten says about the Frost Fair part of the project.

Frost Fairs had taken place several times before on the Thames but the one in 1814  was the last to take place before a new London Bridge was built, improving the flow of the water and stopping the freezing.  In 1814 the Thames froze between the  first London Bridge and Blackfriars Bridge. Thick ice formed from early February lasting for four days and an impromptu festival took place. Londoners stood on the frozen Thames eating ginger bread and drinking gin. Oxen were roasted over roaring fires. There was entertainment – hoopla, skittles, fire-eaters, wrestling. Temporary pubs did a roaring trade and drink encouraged people to dance. The ice was even thick enough to support printing presses churning out souvenirs and an elephant walking across it.  ‘The 1814 Frost Fair’ will be an epic story and will complete the first phase of my long-term Thames project. It will also be my most ambitious story-telling to-date.

Read more at:

Julia Fullerton-Batten. Old Father Thames


https://phmuseum.com/news/recreating-historical-stories-of-the-river-thames
https://www.hasselblad.com/stories/the-tales-of-old-father-thames-julia-fullerton-batten/