Hi, Jo here, and as it's December now I thought I'd blog about cold weather in fiction.There's a picture of me looking surprisingly cheerful when I'm ready to venture out into freezing temperatures.
As an aside, the Met Office here now breaks the seasons by months, not by the sun, so winter begins on the first of December. I'm not keen on this. I like tradition and also accuracy. The sun's solstices are a fact of nature; the division of the year into 12 month is merely a human device that we could change tomorrow if we wanted to. I'm sure some people are itching to get rid of February at least.
I also don't like winter starting weeks before it should, but I console myself with the knowledge that spring will come early next year.
Do you like winter? By that I mean the cold, frosty, possibly snowy, short-day time of year? I don't. I used to see some of the romance of frost feathers on the windows and a landscape dusted with white. That was before we emigrated to Halifax, Nova Scotia, where the snow started falling as winter began, in late December, and pretty well stayed until way past the beginning of spring. But it could be fun, I admit, especially for the children.
Then we moved to Montreal and then Ottawa, where the depth of snowfall tended to be less, but that was because it was colder. Much, much colder. The average low January temp in Ottawa is given as -14 C, or 6F, but that's an average. -20 or more wasn't unusual.
The end result is that I don't like winter, and that affects my writing.
If I were sensible I'd set all my books in spring, summer, and autumn, but the sequencing tends to push me into winter now and then, plus there's the allure of Christmas stories. They're fun and I like them, because I like Christmas a lot.
Even though I know it's unlikely, my stately homes are very well heated in winter, because I don't want anyone with goose-bumps. In the upcoming The Viscount Needs a Wife, I even installed a very large Dutch stove in Beauchamp Abbey to help things along. It isn't as elaborate as this one from St. Petersburg, but you get the idea. It's an enormous radiator.
I don't know why they weren't more popular in Britain, for they're safer than an open flam and much more efficient. A lot of the heat from a traditional fire goes up the chimney. Travelers must have experienced them on the Continent. Perhaps they really did think a bracing cold good for body, mind, and soul.
I set Winter Fire at Rothgar Abbey at Christmas, which was fine because the Marquess of Rothgar would certainly make sure all his guests were comfortable. One can hardly imagine him scuttling from warm room to warm room wearing woolen mittens! Even so, Genova's must have goosebumps, lounging around in a large space like that. That image is from the step-back. All that snow outside, and one small fire. Brrrrrrrr!
It's layers weather, Genova, -- flannel petticoats and shawls, and especially underwear -- even in Rothgar Abbey!
But then the sequel, A Most Unsuitable Man, carried some of the characters off to the rather decrepit house of the Marquess of Ashart, and I was dealing with real cold.
My muse realized that I was dodging the issue and broke our central heating system. It was winter in Victoria, British Columbia, which is a balmy paradise compared to Ontario, but of course it happened on a weekend and we couldn't get it fixed for a few days. Victoria's climate is much like Englands, and it brought back all the memories of growing up without central heating.
Here are a few snippets, to give you a feel.
"When it came to cold, being inside Cheynings was hardly better than being outside. Four single candles stood waiting for use, but as only one was lit, they did little for the gloom and nothing for the temperature. The great marble hearth held no fire, and the black-and-white marble tiled floor only increased the chill. Here, so greenery or berries celebrated the season, and a smell of damp decay permeated the place."
"Damaris drifted up from a dream of difficult travel. She opened her eyes to musty darkness, but the dark was from closed bedcurtains. She felt as if it was morning, but even in the tent of the bed, the air was icy against her nose. Ah, Cheynings. She remembered it well.
Her skin puckered at the thought of being exposed to the icy air, but she was no delicate blossom. She'd never had a fire in her bedroom at Birch House unless she'd been ill.
She saw her brown woolen robe hung over a rack in front of the dead fireplace. An expanse of uncarpeted floor stretched between it and the bed. She braced herself, slid her feet out of bed and into her slippers, and dashed across room and into her robe.
It was new and of thick wool, but even wrapped in it, she shivered. She hurried to the washstand, but found only a thin layer of ice. When she raised the festoon curtains and pulled open the warped shutters, she faced window panes obscured by a layer of ice so thick her fingernail made no impression. It must be as cold in here as outdoors!
Ah-ha! She flung open the armoire and laughed with giddy relief at the sight of her blue cloak. In moments she was huddled in its furry warmth, hood up. She tucked her hands into the muff, rubbing them together, and feeling much better.
Cheynings would not defeat her."
So, how do you feel about winter cold, in life and in literature?
Leaving aside Christmas books, do you enjoy historical romances set in winter? Do you have a favourite?
A large country house had to be cold in winter before central heating. There was a reason the wealthy who visited their estates for Christmas scarpered off to Town in early January. A terraced London house was much easier to keep warm. So, do you think authors convey that? Do you want them to? Of course, sharing a fur-lined cloak, cuddling together for warmth and, in extremis, sharing a bed for survival can all be excellent opportunities!
Any and all comments welcome, and there's a copy of Winter Fire for one randomly selected commenters. Alas, I don't have any spare copies of A Most Unsuitable Man.
Giving thanks for central heating and a gas fire if I need a little more,
Jo :)