Cara/Andrea here, musing today about historical heroines, and how it’s a challenge to give them ways to flex their intellectual muscle while still staying true to the temper of their times. The Regency era is easier, as it was a time of great change in all aspects of society. Still, giving a highborn lady a “job” tests an author’s imagination.
But that’s part of the fun of crafting the concept for a book! And actually, in my latest series I had one of those “ah-ha!” moments that had me off and running. In my “Hellions of High Street” trilogy, the three sisters all have a secret passion for writing. Sinfully Yours, which releases tomorrow, features 
Anna’s story. She’s the one who writes wildly adventurous—and racy—romance novels under a nom de plume, and as you can imagine, I had great fun with that! And that there was a real life role model for her added extra enjoyment to shaping her character.
There were, of course, very few professions in 18th and early 19th century Britain in which women could compete on an equal footing with men. The creative arts offered the best opportunities—including writing. In fact, women authors were hugely influential in shaping the course of the novel, especially Ann Radcliffe.
Radcliffe is acknowledged to have transformed the genre of romantic fiction. Taking the Gothic novel, with its traditional elements mystery, suspense and the supernatural, she added the sensibility of the new Romanticism of her era, creating a whole new—and wildly popular—form. As Sir Walter Scott wrote in 1826, “
Mrs. Radcliffe has a title to be considered as the first poetess of romantic fiction” and added that she had
“ . . . the most decided claim to take her place among the favoured few, who have been distinguished as the founders of a class, or school.”
One of her key innovations was to take the old trope of creating a sense of terror and suspense through the use of the supernatural happenings to, then to explain reveal those supernatural happenings to have rational explanations. It was a very clever melding of emotion and reason that proved immensely appealing. Readers had the double satisfaction of an HEA as well as the cerebral treat of having the mysterious happenings explained.
Strangely enough for a person who was a celebrity in her day, little is know of Radcliffe’s life other than a few basic facts. She was very private and shunned the public eye, preferring to keep to herself. In fact, the poet Christina Rosetti, who wanted to write a biography about her, finally gave up for lack of material.
What we do know is that Ann was born in 1764 in Holborn, England to William Ward and his wife. Ward, a haberdasher, later moved to Bath to run a shop selling china. In 1787, she married William
Radcliffe, an Oxford graduate and journalist who served as editor of a literary magazine. It’s said Anne started writing to amuse herself during the long hours her husband was at his office, and when he came home late, she would read her stories to him. Apparently, he encouraged her to develop her talents and the rest, as they say, is history. They had no children, so she devoted her time to her novels.
One of the facts I found fascinating was that she loved the paintings of Claude Lorrain, the French landscape painter. She wrote of him “ . . .You saw the real light of the sun, you breathed the air of the country, you felt all the circumstances of a luxurious climate on the most serene and beautiful landscape; and the mind thus softened, you almost fancied you hear Italian music in the air.” Though she didn’t travel until later in her life, her writing is richly descriptive, and full of exotic imagery. And when you look at Lorrain’s painting, you can see the Romantic influence he had on her writing.
Radcliffe was not only the most popular author of her era, but was also the highest paid! The average payment to a novelist for a manuscript in the 1790s was around 10 pounds. For
The Mysteries of Udolpho, Radcliffe received 500 pounds—and for
The Italian, she was paid the princely sum of 800 pounds!
Because of her reclusive lifestyle, her death in 1823 sparked all sorts of rumors that would have been right at home in her novels. Some said she had become insane and her husband had kept her imprisoned to hide the fact. But no grain of evidence supports any of the wild conjectures. She did give up writing some years before her death, but she said it was because she didn’t like the direction in which Gothic novels were headed. (She particularly disliked Matthew Gregory Lewis’s The Monk, which she felt veered to “horror” rather than terror, a distinction that was very important to her.)
So, my heroine Anna is, in part, an homage to Ann Radcliffe. Here’s a short excerpt from the scene where the hero, Lord Davenport, discovers her secret:
“Why not simply add a pack of wolves?” said Devlin. “After all, you are writing fiction, not fact.” He gave a little wave of the manuscript. “Readers will allow you a little leeway with the truth if it adds to the story.” Anna’s mouth went through a series of tiny contortions, ending in a perfect “O” of outrage. Seeing as she had not yet mustered the powers of speech, Devlin pressed on with his advantage. “Speaking of stories, what an interesting plot twist we have here. Who would have guessed that the angelically prim and proper Miss Anna Sloane is really the wildly adventurous—and aggressively erotic—Sir Sharpe Quill?” She had the grace to blush. Or perhaps it was fury that was bringing the beguiling shade of pink to her cheeks. “Not me, I confess,” he went on. “Even though I am considered to have a very evil mind.” A shiver of silence hung between them as Anna slowly drew in a measured breath. “You are not only evil,” she rasped. “You are wicked.” “Talk about wicked.” He waved the pages again, setting off a crackling of paper. “Tsk, tsk.” Teasing her was irresistible. It was delightfully delicious to watch the play of emotions animate her lovely face. Normally, she kept her feelings hidden beneath a mask of polite good cheer, but at the moment, her features were far more expressive. If those alluring green eyes were daggers, he would be flayed alive. “You have had your fun, sir. Now hand back my pages,” snapped Anna. “At once.” He pulled them back out of her reach. “Do not trifle with me, Lord Davenport,” she warned. “Or what, Miss Sloane? You’ll shoot me with one of Manton’s pretty little pocket pistols?” Sparks flashed on the tips of her golden lashes. “I have a deadline to meet. So yes, I’m prepared to cut out your liver with my book knife if need be.” 
I love the fact that women throughout history have been important in shaping the course of the novel—even when they had to do it under pen names. How about you? To celebrate this tradition, let’s share some of our favorite women novelists. Austen, Bronte, George Eliot, Virginia Woolf, J.K. Rowling—who else is on your list? I’ll be giving away a copy of Sinfully Yours (your choice of e-book or paper) to one lucky winner chosen at random from those leaving a comment here.
