by Mary Jo
As usual, we're reading quite a range of books!
From Joanna Bourne:
I’m always happy to read Mary Balogh. This one is Only a Kiss. Very fine. The slow development of the relationship delights me. As always, the romance comes to us in growing trust and understanding between the two protagonists. This one is about letting go of past pain and guilt and finding new love. It’s a gently joyful book for all that as these two find each other.
Jo Bev here, doing a quick blog on a funky set-up -- our household computer system was attacked!
Here in the UK, we’re embroiled in a referendum as to whether we should leave the EU – the European Union. I won’t go into it, but it’s got me thinking about borders and boundaries in history.
Nicola here. Today it is my very great pleasure to welcome bestselling author Sally Mackenzie to the Word Wench blog to talk about her new book, How to Manage a Marquess, which is released tomorrow! I first came across Sally's writing in her wonderful Naked Nobility series and I love the way that the humour in her books combines with poignancy and emotional depth. I enjoyed How to Manage a Marquess so much I went straight out and bought the rest of the Spinster House series and glommed on it. Sally, welcome to the Word Wenches! Please tell us a little about How to Manage a Marquess.
How to Manage a Marquess is the second full-length novel in my Spinster House series, preceded by a novella, In the Spinster’s Bed (which was first released as an e-book, but will be included in the print edition of Marquess) and the first novel, What to Do with a Duke.
The series is built on events that happened in the village of Loves Bridge two hundred years earlier. The then Duke of Hart got spinster Isabelle Dorring pregnant and almost immediately married another woman. Legend says that Isabelle, understandably distraught, cursed the duke’s line and then drowned herself and her unborn baby in Loves Water. Before ending her life, however, she left instructions that her house could be occupied only by a spinster, and that whenever there was a vacancy, the Duke of Hart had to come himself to choose the next tenant.
Whether the curse is real or not, the fact is that for two hundred years, no Duke of Hart has lived to see his heir born.
by Mary Jo
Anne Gracie has already posted an excellent overview blog of the Romantic Times convention in Las Vegas. So now I'll poke around in some of the corners of the experience shared by Anne, Pat, me, and about 3,000 other people.
One of the great ceremonies of Regency life, one that defined gentility, was the taking of tea.
The Regency is sorta midway in the story of tea in England. We’re past the Seventeenth and early Eighteenth Century with its careful, stingy measuring of tea by the mistress of the household, the leaves locked up safe in a decorative caddy. We haven’t reached the Victorian era where tea was the daily drink of every working man and city housewife.
John MacDonald, a footman in the last half of the Eighteenth Century, would negotiate a salary that included an allowance for tea and sugar. But when he writes:
“My master had always plenty of fine tea, of which I drank some in the afternoon, and with which I treated the maid, and the maid also at the next house.”
I’m pretty sure he’s helping himself to the household store. At this time, tea is still a particular treat belowstairs.
When we come to early Victorian times ... Henry Mayhew, in London Labour and the London Poor, speaking of the 1840s, describes the street sellers.
“There are, moreover, peculiar kinds of stalls — such as the hot eels and hot peas-soup stalls, having tin oval pots, with a small chafing-dish containing a charcoal fire underneath each, to keep the eels or soup hot. The early breakfast stall has two capacious tin cans filled with tea or coffee, kept hot by the means before described.”
In 1840, tea had ceased to be a servants’ perquisite, reluctantly granted by the employer and pilfered by the staff. Now it’s on the street. It’s Everyman’s drink.
But back to the parlor ...
The taking of tea in the parlor meant slow, stylized ritual and unnecessary elaboration. It’s the opposite end of the spectrum from the hurried dipping tea out of a capacious tin can.
Consider this spread of tea complication.
Going along from the left:
Teapot with its lid. Behind it, the tea caddy where the tea leaves live. In front of the tea pot, a cup, saucer, and silver spoon. The center spot on this tray is a shallow plate with orange slices. It might just as easily hold scones or muffins.
Working our way in from the right:
We have the slops bowl in back. That is a lovely useful thing to have, isn’t it? I kinda wish we had slops bowls for our lives where we could clear all the mess neatly away and go on with the tea party.
What else? There’s the bowl of sugar cubes. These cubes were not neatly square. They were nipped off the two-foot-high cone of sugar kept in the kitchen and came out irregular and all nobbly shaped. Over the sugar bowl are the sugar tongs. And here at the front of the sugar bowl is the milk jug.
Missing from this set is the strainer. About all the paintings I find of folks drinking tea,
the tea strainer is nowhere in evidence. Yet they had them. They’re in museums. One would certainly have strained the tea leaves out of the drink at some point. Maybe they were considered too messy to put in the picture.
Also missing from this array is the kettle of hot water that sat over on the hearth
keeping warm. The water would be used to warm up and dilute the tea in the teapot. You couldn’t hoist the teabags out of the water and put an end to the brewing, there not being any teabags yet. However long the tea party lasted, that was how long the tea steeped.
Here we have folks taking tea and the kettle is right there in evidence. One could also have a tea urn or samovar with coals under it, keeping warm, right there on the table.
This here is a silver tea kettle that would have had pride of place. The comment on this piece at the Victoria and Albert:
“The tea kettle and stand would have been the most expensive part of the tea service. For example, Mrs. Coke paid the goldsmith ... £25 13s 1d for her kettle and lamp. Her teapot cost just £10 1s 8d.”
That comparative value is not set in stone. The best porcelain would cost more than uninspired silver, but all things being equal, a silver tea service was the conspicuous consumption of the time. When the aged retainer staggers in with a tea tray full of silver teapots and silver slop bowls and what have you, it’s not just heavy. It’s (staggeringly) expensive.
But by the Regency, not all tea was drunk in the parlor with such magnificent display.
We also have a cozier, more informal tea taking. One little pot of tea, prepared in the kitchen and brought up with a cup or two at the side. That was the tea laid down at the hero’s elbow while he worked on his accounts or the tea brought to the heroine and her sister as they put their heads together and plotted.
This is my tea service there on the left. Rough and ready. But see that tea pot? It is of an ancient design. See it there in the painting by Chardin? And the little tea bowl is handmade by an artist in such things. I’m happy using this set. It makes me feel good, every time.
Do you have a tea set or a coffee service that is a joy to hold in your hands? Maybe something you inherited or bought at a special time of your life. Maybe a present.
"That's torn it!" said Lord Peter Wimsey.
Susan here, and that's a great start for a great book, featuring a character dear to many of us -- and it may be clear to many that this is a Dorothy Sayers mystery, but which one? The Nine Tailors.
Last week I wrote the closing line of the current manuscript, which grew out of the book organically—and went through changes until it seemed a perfect closure. The last line or two is usually easier than the first lines, and now that I’m thinking ahead to the next book, I’m thinking about that opening line. Sometimes I just know it early on and it sticks—the words pop into my head even as the ideas are just beginning. And sometimes it changes as I search for the way into the story, whether it’s a descriptive line for tone or mood, a narrative line to enter an action situation or a setting, or a little dialogue to evoke a character quickly. I’m not just looking for the intriguing teaser line to pull the reader in—I want that first line to have some immediacy and set up some curiosity to open that door and give the reader a glimpse of what’s inside. One line does not always complete the opening hook --it might be a few as long as it rolls along and takes the reader with it.
That proverbial hook—the line or few lines that pull you into another world, catch your attention, tap your emotion or stir your curiosity ...and invites you to read on to find out more is all-important to the writer and the reader. If it doesn't quite hit the mark, the reader may bow out quickly. I used to slog through a book if I had opened it, but I haven’t done that in a long while. If I'm not caught by a book quickly, I'm out and on to the next book. But often I will go back later and give it another try, even years later, and discover that if I just push on, there’s a great read there. Sometimes the hook is a subtle thing. It doesn’t always grab immediately, yet there is a quality there that makes the reader curious to continue.
It was a dark and stormy night. -- A Wrinkle in Time, Madeline L'Engle
Anne here, reporting in on my first-ever Romantic Times Readers Convention, which was in Las Vegas. I went with wenches Pat and Mary Jo -- and here we are just after our hero panel. For more about that, read on. . .
It was a huge conference —over 3,100 delegates — which is much bigger and busier than anything I've ever been to. People had come from so far away -- there was even a small group of French readers who'd come from Paris, bringing French editions of books by me, Mary Jo and others. Merci, Karen, Elodie and friends.
The hotel was also huge and spread out and just to get from our rooms to the convention area involved a lot of walking — in fact my friend Keri wears a fit-bit and she averaged 15,000 steps per day just going back and forth at the convention. The hotel even had two little indoor 8 seater shuttle buses that ferried people back and forth and they were in constant use by people who were not enjoying (or coping with) all the walking.
Andrea/Cara here, I’m in the middle of a new WIP which involves criminal activities (no spoilers!) and found myself throwing the term “Old Bailey”—the famous court building in London—when several of the characters were talking about a possible trial. Now, that name, like Newgate Prison, is an iconic one when speaking of Regency justice. However I realized I was pretty fuzzy on its actual details, so decided I had better do some quick research in order to get everything right.
As our readers know, the Wenches all enjoy doing research, and I’m no exception (yes, yes, we are all history nerds!) So I rolled up my cyber sleeves and dove right in. To my surprise the Old Bailey actually has its own website, with a very extensive and delightful history—which I will now share with you.
Continue reading "Old Bailey—the "supreme court" of London" »
Hi, Jo Beverley here, pulling together an AAW. If you dont know, AAW is Ask A Wench, and the question this time is:
How do you come up with names for characters and places that feel
right for the place and period? What about titles, familiar names, and nicknames?
My answers would be similar to the other Wenches, but I'll add a bit at the end.
Anne I don't have any single way to choose names or titles. Sometimes they just come to me, sometimes I note a good name down in a little notebook when I come across it. For instance, Hewitt Featherby, the butler in my current series, was the name of an ancestor of a friend of mine. I heard it years ago, thought it was a great name, and then when my butler character popped up, I knew it was his name.
Pat here:
As those of you who follow my Magic series know, I like to take my scientific heroes and confront them with my more metaphysically-oriented heroines. Just confronting Ives logic with Malcolm illogical faith creates such fun that I probably shouldn’t be paid for enjoying myself so much.
But I do like to ground the fun in reality and history. I usually don’t have such excellent belief-conflict as I did with MAGIC IN THE STARS. In this first book of the Unexpected Magic series, Lord Theo, my astronomer hero, not only has to deal with my astrologer Lady Aster’s impossible beliefs in the zodiac, but must accept that her charts provide highly accurate predictions. I don’t make it any easier on my heroine, who receives her own comeuppance from my hero’s greater knowledge—because by 1830, astronomers knew a great deal more about the stars than astrologers.
By 1830, astronomy was just coming into its own. For centuries, there really wasn’t “astronomy” as we knew it. The study of the stars was actually left to astrologers like Aster, who could do all the mathematical calculations for the changing positions of the stars. As far back as 3000 BC men were studying the heavens to predict seasons, create calendars, and of course, determine divine meanings. By the 1700s, astrologers had a pretty good record of all the planets through Jupiter and their mathematical calculations could predict with accuracy the placement of the planets in the sky at any given date. So Aster’s math and knowledge is quite equal to Lord Theo’s—except much to Ives dismay, she uses the firmament to predict the future of her family members.
Susan here, and in honor of National Tartan Day this week (April 6), here’s a look at the bonny kilt, tartan and plaid worn by many a brawny bonny Scots hero, some in novels and many throughout history -- I've refreshed a blog of a couple of years ago and added new info, and we'll even weave our own tartans by blog's end! (At left, here's me with a marvelous piper who was playing along the side of a Highland road during one of my visits to Scotland.)
What's the difference between a tartan and a plaid?
Tartan is the pattern, and plaid is the cloth, usually referring to the length of cloth that creates the wrapped plaid or, today, the pleated kilt. The two terms are sometimes used interchangeably. Plaid comes from plaide or blanket, and the origin of "tartan" varies in theory; many claim it comes from the French, but there is an older Gaelic word, tarsuinn, meaning across or crossing. The various patterns are called "setts" -- a clan's particular tartan sett might be a unique pattern of red, green, brown and blue, for example, or the blue, black and green of the famous Black Watch tartan, and the patterns emerge in the crisscrossing on a loom of solid colored yarns thrown back and forth, warp and weft, as the weaver works the loom.
Early Highland looms were probably similar to a Viking type of upright loom, where yarns were knotted around stones and tossed rhythmically back and forth. The horizontal looms that are more typical came into Scotland from England fairly late, sometime in the 18th century. Early on, vegetable dyes were used to color the woolen yarns, and plaids worn by clan members came to be identified by the tartan patterns favored by local weavers as well as the plant dyes available locally. Some tartans were suited to hunting (muted colors for camouflage) and others featured brighter patterns for ceremonial use, and there were tartan patterns particularly worn by women, usually with a white or pale background crisscrossed with colored yarns; this long cape-like garment worn over a gown was called an arisaid rather than a plaide, the wrapped cloth worn by men and draped over the shoulder, which evolved into the kilt.
The earliest bit of tartan weaving found so far dates back to the Roman era and was found near the Antonine Wall (the Romans didn't come up very far into Scotland--Roman troops, after decades of taking on the Picts and Scots, finally gave up and built a wall--to keep the Scots away, apparently. This tiny bit of tartan weaving of dark and light woolen threads is called the Falkirk Tartan, and was found tucked in a pot of Roman coins. It's now in the National Museum of Scotland.
Far and away the best known garment for a self-respecting Highland man was the wrapped or belted plaid, in the Gaelic breacan-an-fheilidh or feileadh-bhreacain (a wrapped tartan) or the feileadh-mor (great wrap). This was a considerable length of tartan fabric, wool woven of many colors and then folded, wrapped, belted at the waist with the long end piece tossed over the shoulder and pinned, all in a particular method. It was handy for bedding, for rain gear, camouflage, etc. Here's a gorgeous charcoal sketch by David Wilkie of a Highlander.
In later centuries, Lowland and Highland men both sometimes wore trews of plaid cloth, cut snug to the leg and loose in the crotch (you could dance hip-hop in a pair of these trews today). A rather fancy pair of Highland tartan trews with matching jacket and cape, worn by an 18th c. gentleman, can be seen in the National Museum of Scotland, and in this painting of Sir John Sinclair by Henry Raeburn.
The wrapped plaid was typically worn without anything beneath–- although Highlanders sometimes wrapped the long tails of their linen shirts (leine in Gaelic) and tucked the cloth inside the belt, diaper-like, so contrary to myth, they did actually wear underwear sometimes.
It's unknown when Highland Scots began wearing the wrapped plaid. Some maintain that it was not worn until the 16th century because there is no specific description of a belted plaid until then –- but that may simply be the first extant reference to a garment that had been around for a long time. I believe that it evolved much earlier -- those same Romans that built a wall between them and the Highlanders referred to wrapped garments of many colors worn by Scots: “They all wrap themselves in a cloak that is fastened with a clasp,” says one, while another Roman writes “though they are fair of face and of comely bearing, they are much disfigured by their peculiar dress.” Odds are these early Scottish garments were precursors of the wrapped plaid. Had the Romans seen Scots in tunics or even short kilts, they might have found that more familiar and less remarkable.
The kilt, or the lower skirted part of the wrapped plaid, was an 18th century development that came about when tailors created a more streamlined version of the traditional feilaidh-mor for clan chiefs and others who had no need for the multi-purpose yardage of the older style breacan, yet they wanted to wear the great plaid of their ancestors.
After Culloden, tartans were proscribed and forbidden, but once the restrictions were lifted, the walking kilt ("kilt" originates from a Norse word, kjalta or pleated garment) came into greater use. City tailors cut tartan cloth, pleating it neatly into belted knee-length skirts with detachable tartan sashes.
Thus began the ceremonial dress kilt for special occasions, as well as the evolution of the walking or everyday kilt for hunting on Scottish estates, as the kilt was practical and comfortable. It has become quintessentially Scottish -- and is still worn by Scots today for both formal occasions and on the streets of Scottish towns and cities just to hop a bus, go to work or attend class. Historically the kilt overtook the wrapped plaid in the 19th century, although some native Highlanders in remote areas continued to wear the traditional wrapped style throughout the Clearances.
As for the bonny, sexy kilted Highland hero -- he's always been part of Scotland, and he's definitely available on
historical romance covers. Cover art plaids and kilts may not be the most accurate, but who cares! Here are a couple of my favorites among my books - Laird of the Wind and Heather Moon in the original NAL print covers. What's not to like!
Now for some fun -- have you tried interactive tartan weaving?
House of Tartan (house-of-tartan.scotland.net) provides an interactive virtual loom - click here - then choose your colors, decide on the sett pattern, and weave your tartan! It gives a sense of the weaving pattern.
I tried a few examples. Here's three that I did fairly quickly. You can play with the number of stitches and really play with it - you can save the sett, and even order items in your own design.
What is it about a guy in a skirt? Do you prefer the wrapped plaid of centuries ago - or the neat pleats of the modern kilt and ceremonial stockings worn with tux shirt and formal jacket, or with a denim jacket and boots? Or maybe you're one who isn't so wild about the kiltie man - even so, enjoy weaving as many tartans as you like, and let us know how it goes!
Susan
Nicola here. Today I’m talking about wardrobes. This seems to fit rather nicely with Anne’s piece a couple of days ago about those unpleasant bugs that can hide in cupboards and drawers and eat your favourite clothes, and also with our recent AAR on lost treasures.
Why wardrobes? Well, recently I was talking to an author and publisher about re-discovering the romance books of my youth. By youth I’m talking about the very first books I read that could be described as being romantic, before I devoured Georgette Heyer or Jilly Cooper. I was about twelve years old. They included family sagas, romantic suspense – I remember Spindrift by Phyllis Whitney - and The Property of a Gentleman by Catherine Gaskin. I loved discovering the Gothic suspense of Victoria Holt, and packed amongst the historicals were some of the raunchy 1970s contemporary novels. What an education they were.
Anne here, and today I'm talking about creepy crawlies — no, not the nasty villains found in our novels, but the bugs and beetles that can sometimes invade our houses. Moths, silverfish — that kind of thing.
It started when a friend of mine's visiting grandmother spotted what she claimed was a silverfish fluttering in a dark corner! Naturally War was declared. The war, as wars are wont to do, inevitably spread — all members of the household (willing or not) were rallied to The Cause.
My friend refused to allow the use of poisons or other dangerous chemicals, so Grandma supervised operations the old-fashioned way — every cupboard and drawer was emptied, vacuumed, thoroughly washed out, the contents inspected minutely for holes or other signs of Evil, and everything washed, hung in the sun to dry, ironed, and repacked in plastic.
Continue reading "Dealing with bugs the old fashioned way" »
Susan here on a blustery first day of April in the D.C. area where the air is thick with cherry blossoms—and today, pranks. The origins of the April Fools Day customs of jokes, pranks and hoaxes date far back and are fairly obscure. This informal holiday has been around since the Middle Ages if not longer and was often called All Fools Day. Way back, the Romans celebrated “Hilaria,” a festival of merriment on March 25, the feast day of Cybele, considered the mother of the gods, around the time of the vernal equinox.
Later, Catholicism soberly marked March 25 as the Feast of the Annunciation, and since religious feast days were often celebrated in octaves, or over eight days, that stretched out to the Kalends of April, or April 1, which was also, like Hilaria, celebrated with happy festivals. A mix of metaphors—springtime and religious and pagan holidays—and the calendar change in the 16th century put the focus of April 1st squarely on jokes and pranks. Today it’s often the more the merrier where pranks are concerned with the added tradition of calling out “April Fool’s!” when the ruse is revealed.
The first of April, some do say,
Is set apart for All Fools Day;
But why the people call it so,
Nor I nor they themselves do know
But on this day are people sent
On purpose for pure merriment.
-- Poor Robin’s Almanack, 1760
In earlier cultures and with the earlier Julian calendar, the new year was most often celebrated around the arrival of spring and the vernal equinox—anywhere from February to late March, depending on the culture (and the climate!). This placed the first of April very near the turn of the year. When the Gregorian calendar was devised in the late 16th century, the date shift placed New Year’s Day on January 1st. One feast day celebrated generally in January, the Feast of Fools, included merriment, pranks, mocking and burlesquing bishops and popes may have morphed into April Fool’s Day with the change of the new year. Another theory championed by early historians claims that when the calendar months shifted, those who still celebrated the new year between March 25 and April 1st (remember that octave of observance days) were called fools for being late for the NEW new year. That strains belief a little, but it’s a good thought.
Some 18th and 19th century scholars gave April Fool’s Day a grim origin in the Passion of Christ, who was mocked and tormented and sent back and forth between judging authorities—Caiaphas, Pilate, Herod, Pilate again and so on. By the 17th century there are references to an already established tradition of sending unsuspecting prank victims on seemingly important but actually pointless errands—“sleeveless errands” they were called, with as much point to them as a shirt without sleeves in those days. The “Passion” theory, claimed some scholars in the rather blithe and convoluted style of Georgian and later historians, was related to “poisson,” or “fish” in French, fish being a Christ symbol. Indeed in France, April Fool’s is known as “Poisson d’Avril” or April Fish. If you happen to be in France on April 1st -– or if you are around French people or in a French class! – you could end up with a paper fish stuck to your back as someone’s chosen “poisson d’avril,” lucky you! It’s a silly little game that may in turn refer to the
relative ease of catching mackerel in April—another springtime reference. Or it could go back, as those vintage historians suggested, to the Passion of Christ and even to the celebration around March 25 and the Feast of the Annunciation.
However it began, April Fool’s Day has been around a very long time and has become a fun casual holiday. I’ve been on both sides of some funny pranks and I’m sure you all have as well! When our three boys were little, we would do things like switch the contents of cereal boxes—Cheerios poured out bran flakes, Rice Krispies poured out dry oatmeal. A tame little start for the wee guys--who grew up to pull off some great stunts of their own. Other classic April Fools pranks among family and friends include wrapping someone’s office in aluminum foil from desk, chair and computer down to each pen and pencil (this takes a team and some time!) or, as happened to one of my kids in medical school, covering the floor of an office with hundreds of paper cups filled with yellow water. Another friend opened a door to find his office completely filled with balloons.
Some of the best April Fools jokes of all time are listed here, including such great pranks as the Swiss spaghetti farm—when the BBC on April 1, 1957 reported on the harvesting of spaghetti from trees in Switzerland. People called the station to find out how to get spaghetti plants for their own gardens. They clearly forgot what day it was!
In 2014 a great prank was arranged by King’s College Choir when they announced a change—the use of helium to prolong the beauty of boys’ voices. Watch the YouTube video here.
What are some of the best April Fools pranks you’ve experienced—or that you’ve oh so cleverly set up for others? We’d love to know! Have a great April Fools Day!
Susan
P.S. No April Fool's joke -- my Lady Macbeth is available right now for $1.99 in ebook! This is for a short time only, so grab it soon! The book has hit #1 on a lot of lists lately, which is no prank either. :)
P.S.S. Thanks to graphicsfairy.com,wikipedia and youtube for images!
Word Wenches is a blog featuring seven authors, plotting in the present, writing about the past. . . and improvising the rest. Authors include Mary Jo Putney, Patricia Rice, Anne Gracie, Susan King aka Susan Fraser King, Nicola Cornick, Andrea Penrose, & Christina Courtenay.
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