Boys in Dresses

Don't let the pink dress and frilly collar distract you from the important detail here: this child is wielding a whip.

Take a look at the picture on the right. It's a lovely painting of a child in a dress. A pink dress. And it's a painting of a boy.

How do we know it's a boy? Well, first of all, pink wasn't always considered a "feminine" color. Until the twentieth century, it was considered appropriate for boy babies to wear pink and girls to wear blue, though the convention was far from a hard and fast rule. But more than that, we can tell the child in the painting is a boy because he's holding that most masculine and authoritative of props, a whip.

Buy why paint him in a dress at all?

Until the custom died out in the 1920s, it was common to clothe all young children, both male and female, in dresses--though in the case of boys, the frocks were euphemistically referred to as "shortcoats." They were called shortcoats because newborns started out wearing very long dresses that extended past their feet. (Even today, traditional christening gowns often retain the style.) Once a baby was old enough to begin crawling and learning to walk, the extra-long gowns were shortened to a more manageable length. Putting babies in dresses made it easier to change them, especially at a time before snaps and velcro were in use. Dresses were also easier to sew and easier to alter as a child grew.

Despite the impressive balloon sleeves and white pantalettes, this is a boy, as his hobbyhorse and whip reveal.

Both boys and girls were dressed alike until the boys were old enough to be "breeched"--that is, graduated from shortcoats into actual breeches. It was an important rite of passage, reflected in historical phrases like "since before I was breeched" and "since I was in shortcoats" to mean a very early point in the speaker's life. It was up to a boy's mother to decide when he was breeched, and most did it when their sons grew out of the toddler stage, at around 3 to 5 years of age. Some mothers found it difficult to let go of their boys' babyhood, however, and it wasn't unheard of for boys to remain in dresses until age 7 or 8. (I suspect those boys would have had a difficult time on the playground.)

But even though boy babies and girl babies wore similar dresses, portraits are usually careful to provide hints as to the sitter's gender.

The doll this child is holding tells us she's a girl.

The whip in the portrait at top right is a good example. Perhaps because the boy in the painting above left is wearing a more elaborate dress with romantic sleeves, his painter has even given him a hobbyhorse to go with his whip. Other props considered masculine included ships, toy guns, and toy swords.

Sometimes young girls were painted with longer hair, but that's by no means a reliable clue, since boys often wore long curls, and very young girls might have their hair cropped short for easier maintenance. Once again, props came to the portrait painter's rescue. We know the child in the portrait above right is a girl because she's holding a toy meant to nurture her domesticity and maternal instincts, namely a doll. 

The Basket of Cherries by E. W. Gill (1828) Skeleton suits were an alternative to shortcoats for boys. Hats are also a good indicator of a child's gender--the boy on the left has what looks like a top hat behind him, while the girl with the cherries has a straw bonnet.

There was one exception to the boys-in-dresses custom, and that was the skeleton suit. During the regency period--or more accurately, from about 1790 to 1830--it was common to dress young boys in a tight-fitting suit that consisted of a jacket buttoned to high-waisted trousers. In the painting to the left, it's easy to tell which children are boys and which is the girl. The boys are not only wearing skeleton suits, but have matching action-oriented toys, a hoop and stick for trundling. The boy in back even has a very masculine-looking hat upturned behind him. The child with the cherries is a girl. We know that not just because she isn't wearing a matching skeleton suit--she could be in shortcoats, after all--but because she has a lovely bonnet lying beside her, one that matches her sash and necklace. No wonder she's smiling.

Alyssa Everett's newest regency romance, Lord of Secrets,was released March 25 and is available now. If you like angst and "tortured" heroes, you should give it a look. It joins her debut regency, Ruined by Rumor, while her third, A Tryst With Trouble, will be released in September. She hopes you'll visit her website and follow her on Twitter and Facebook, where she promises not to spam you relentlessly.

They Would Rather Die

If you’re anything like me, a story has to hook me from the first.  It doesn’t matter if it’s a book, short story, stage performance, or screenplay.  If you get me emotionally invested within the first five minutes, I’ll endure anything.  As proof, I offer the fact that I watched the entire season of The Following based on the first two episodes, even though the story became somewhat cliché after. How many times can a crack FBI agent get hit in the back of the head? Apparently, many.

But I digress.  When I wrote Surrender to the Roman, I well understood the need for that emotional hook.  I have a hard time with openings, like many writers. I will spew back story and then cut away all the unnecessary drivel to find the place where the story actually starts.  My start for this novel wasn’t bad, per se, “But it could be better!” said my fantastic editor. I needed to make clear who was the hero and who was the villain. I needed readers to identify their conflict right off the bat…and thereby, buy in.

So I did a little more research. The story opens in 106 AD, during Trajan’s relentless pursuit of Dacia (and it’s mines of precious metals). Dacia had long been a thorn in the side of Rome, so when the final push came, something unusual happened. Mass suicide. Rather than give themselves over to punishment, the people would rather have died. While this didn’t lend itself to a big, adventurous opening, it did make for some high emotions and set the scene for conflict between one of Rome’s greatest (fictional) generals, and the man who coveted his place beside the emperor.

Here’s a bit of the scene:

The fog cleared as they thundered through the gap in defences. No warriors met them. Marcus jerked his reins, and his horse came to a skidding halt. Dirt flew into the air as those behind him did the same, shouts of consternation echoing in the distance.

He couldn’t believe his eyes. No bloodthirsty cries from men with weapons charged at them. Instead, hundreds of motionless bodies lay strewn across the ground like discarded refuse.

Marcus turned in a full circle. What in Hades had happened here? Tertullian arrived at his side, his face full of the same questions. “Halt the advance. Post the sentries forward.”

Marcus held up his hand. “There is no resistance here. Send the first centuria to sort the bodies.”

Tertullian turned to disseminate the orders while Marcus fought against the sights and smells of the field. Not far from every stiffened grasp, an empty cup or bowl. They had poisoned themselves rather than face their enemy or be enslaved. He spit bile onto the ground and refocused his mind.

Of all possibilities, he had not expected this. Everywhere he looked, women and children lay as they fell, doubled in pain, often wound together. Their glazed eyes turned to the heavens.

Where were the men? His gaze snapped forward, to the fortified residence of the royal family.

Cheers from the troops ripped his attention away. Near the fence, a knot of his men had gathered. He rode forward to investigate, picking his way through the carnage, trying not to look at the faces of the dead.

The soldiers fell away as he neared, clearing the way for him to view Tertullian disrobing a fallen woman with the point of his sword. His second’s face contorted with disgust as he proceeded, unaware that Marcus stood by, sickened in his own right.

“Put down your sword.” Marcus enunciated each syllable with great clarity.

Tertullian locked eyes with him and smiled. “As you wish.”

Happy Mother's Day

Happy Mother's Day to all our wonderful readers. In celebration of Mother's Day, I offer you some vintage images of mothers from advertising days gone by. Prepare to be amused, and horrified. 

They grew up so fast in the past.







In the days before drinking Pabst was ironic.

Of Wimseys and Wellesleys: Lords (but not Dukes)

My apologies for being a day late with this post--my only excuse is that we've had sort of a mini heat wave here in Seattle. Yesterday our high was 87, tied with Phoenix for the hottest city in the country, and our house only has one room with air conditioning. That room isn't my office...so I didn't go near my computer and therefore didn't see the reminder I was supposed to be blogging today.

Here's another post from my Of Wimseys and Wellesleys series on titles and forms of address in the British aristocracy, though for the next few months I'll take a break from the topic to talk about my upcoming release, A Dream Defiant.


Today we tackle how to address all lords--i.e. all peerages below the rank of duke.

My real life example for this series, Arthur Wellesley, was granted a viscountcy in 1809 after his victory at the Battle of Talavera. I don't know why he became a viscount rather than a baron (plenty of men were granted baronies for military and naval achievements during the era), but my guess it was some combination of the fact he was born to the aristocracy rather than the gentry, his family's good political connections, and that it was becoming evident by that point that he was a damn good general. :-) (I'm pretty sure I would've wanted to strangle Wellington on a regular basis if I'd known him for his political views and elitism, but AFAIC he was second to none on a battlefield.)

At the lower ranks of the peerage, a lord's title is often the same as his last name. John Smith becomes Baron Smith, addressed as Lord Smith. E.g. the other major British hero of the Napoleonic era was ennobled as Viscount Nelson. This wasn't an option in Wellesley's case because his oldest brother was Marquess Wellesley (we'll see more of him later when I get around to who can and can't inherit and how titles become extinct). Since Wellesley himself wasn't available to be consulted, being occupied fighting the French, the College of Heralds (who keep track of such things) consulted his brother William, who pulled out the map and found a town in Somerset called "Wellington," near where their ancestors came from before going to Ireland. At that point our hero became Viscount Wellington of Talavera and Wellington, and William wrote to say, "I trust that you will not think that there is anything unpleasant or trifling in the name of Wellington." To which the new Lord Wellington replied that he thought William had chosen most fortunately. His wife was less pleased, mentioning in her diary that "Wellington I do not like for it recalls nothing."

I describe the name selection process at such length because it'd feel so odd, to me at least, to have your name changed for you, as an adult, and to just have to live with it whether you liked it or not. William could've saddled his brother the goofiest name on the map, and there wouldn't have been much Wellington (or, in this version of things, Lord Catbrain or Lord Netherwallop or or Lord Hoo) could've done about it. OK, those probably wouldn't have flown with the College of Heralds, but STILL.

Anyway. I digress. Up until 1814, Wellington kept getting regular promotions, as it were, becoming the Earl of Wellington, the Marquess of Wellington, and finally the Duke of Wellington. Until he became a duke, the proper address for him didn't change. He was Lord Wellington, addressed as "Wellington" or "sir" by those who were more or less his social equals and as "my lord" by inferiors. He signed his letters "Wellington." His wife was Lady Wellington, and she signed herself "Catherine Wellington." "Wellesley" almost disappears as far as they're concerned. (Their children are a different story, and a post for another time.)

Incidentally, when a peer holds a military rank in addition to his title, you call them Rank Lord Title--i.e. General Lord Wellington, Admiral Lord Nelson.

A Classless Society?

In these so-called enlightened times, do we life in a classless society? I don't think so. Even today when everything is so much more relaxed, there’s still very much a class system, especially in England. When Lord Lucan (allegedly) murdered his children’s nanny back in the seventies in mistake for his wife, he disappeared off the face of the earth, expounding endless conspiracy theories in the process. He couldn’t have done that alone, unless he did the honourable thing and topped himself. It’s widely believed that some members of his exclusive club banded together to help him because, yep, he was one of them. 

In Regency times the class system was most definitely alive and kicking. It didn’t matter if you didn’t have two farthings to rub together, just so long as you were born into the right family. Talk about the luck of the draw!

In my novel Forgotten Heiress I deal with this issue. Seventeen-year-old Eloise is attractive, intelligent, witty and has a massive dowry, so she'll be the darling of society, right?

Wrong. 

Unfortunately Eloise just happens to be the daughter of a banker. Yep, they weren't considered socially acceptable even back then. Perhaps they knew something we didn't. Anyway, to make matters worse, Eloise is the banker's illegitimate daughter, which made her chances of being accepted by society zilch.

Eloise doesn’t care. She's quite content to remain in the country and look after her dad, ride her horse and play the piano. Then along comes the handsome heir to a dukedom, who lavishes attention on Eloise for no apparent reason. Neighbour Harry Benson-Smythe’s suspicions are aroused and he wonders what the devil the rogue thinks he’s playing at. When Eloise’s life is endangered at the hands of her aristocratic admirer, Harry rides to rescue the woman he’s fallen for. But he’s already engaged to someone else—someone socially acceptable in the eyes of his family—so even if he can save Eloise there can be no future for her and Harry, can there…

Forgotten Heiress http://amzn.to/YdOYXS

Let's hear it for this most unlikely of heroines.

Wendy

University Classes, Regency Style

I spent this past weekend traveling with my daughter, a high school senior, to visit one of the oldest colleges in the U.S. It got me thinking about university life during the regency.

A university education was one of the major advantages that set the regency gentleman apart from his social inferiors, and, like everything else in Britain in the early 1800s, the road to a degree was marked by sharp class distinctions. At Oxford, one of England’s two major universities during the regency,

This Nobleman Commoner wears a silk robe trimmed in gold, and the mortarboard he holds bears a golden tassel.

the first major distinction was between dependent members (those at the university who were "on the foundation," meaning they received money for studying and/or working there) and independent members (those who paid their own way).

Independent members came from the country’s prosperous families, the nobility and gentry, and could be divided into four tiers. At the top were Noblemen Commoners, a group made up of peers and sons of peers. Noblemen Commoners were allowed to wear a gold tassel or “tuft” on their cap, giving rise to the term “tufthunter” to describe a social climber. The amateur poet and artist Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe (BA 1802, MA 1806) satirized one such Oxonian:

A gay golden tuft on his cap he displays,
Which dazzles all eyes with its ravishing rays—
True badge of nobility, awful and grand,
Confin’d to the essence and cream of the land.

The wealthy Gentleman Commoner could be distinguished by his silk gown trimmed lavishly in rows of black pompoms.

The second tier of independent members consisted of Gentlemen Commoners. They weren’t noble, but they came from wealth, and paid higher fees accordingly. Both Noblemen Commoners and Gentlemen Commoners received special privileges, for example being allowed to sit at the high table for meals. The third tier of independent members, by far the largest group, consisted of Commoners. Commoners likewise paid their own way, but they came from genteel families of more typical circumstances and were charged standard fees. Below them came the batlers, sometimes spelled battelers or battlers, also called semi-commoners. The batler had a buttery account, as opposed to eating with those who received the “commons” from the kitchen (the buttery was more or less a storeroom that supplied bread, butter, cheese, milk, sugar, and ale; the kitchen served soups, meats, fish, pies, preserves and sweets). In other words, he was on a budget plan. Batlers could afford to attend Oxford at their expense, but just barely, and so they occupied the lowest rank of independent members, existing in a sort of quasi-gentlemanly limbo.

The majority of undergraduates were Commoners, like this young man, recognizable from his sleeveless gown of black stuff. ("Stuff" was essentially anything that wasn't silk, usually wool.)

In contrast to the independent members, dependent members gained admittance through sheer brains and hard work. Though by mid-century such scholars would be viewed with respect for their academic merit, during the more class-conscious regency they were still seen as social inferiors—"charity boys"—rather than real gentlemen. Dependent members consisted of three tiers. At the top were Foundationers, those on scholarships from the university foundation itself. They were usually referred to as Scholars, though Magdelene College called them Demies and at Merton they were known as Postmasters. The second tier of dependent members was made up of Exhibitioners. They had less prestigious scholarships, provided by one of the individual colleges or by outside entities like preparatory schools or private organizations. At the bottom of the pecking order, far below the Scholars and Exhibitioners, came Servitors—even their name sounds lowly—who hailed from humble families and did not have grants.

The lowly servitor worked his way through university, performing servants' duties such as waiting at table. (And notice how the humbler the undergraduate is, the less likely he is to stare out of his portrait.)

Servitors received free lodging and some free meals, and were excused from paying fees for lectures. In return, they were required to perform menial duties for the Fellows, essentially working their way through university as servants. (At Cambridge, those of equivalent rank were called sizars or subsizars.) One famous Servitor was Dr. Johnson of Dictionary fame, who said, “the difference between us Servitors and Gentlemen commoners, is this, that we are men of wit and no fortune and they are men of fortune and no wit.”

Anyone at Oxford could tell at a glance exactly who was of high rank and who wasn’t, since caps and gowns were required (and still are, in many instances). In addition to the gold tuft on his cap, the Nobleman Commoner wore a gown of colored silk—the color was up to him—decorated on the sleeves, yoke and hem with gold lace. The Gentleman Commoner was not quite such a peacock but looked almost as grand, bearing a black tuft on his cap and a silk gown decorated with rows of black pompoms on the sleeves and hem. The Commoners wore a sleeveless gown made of black stuff, with streamers decorated in braid dangling from the yoke in back. Servitors wore a similar sleeveless gown, but without the braided streamers. Until 1770, instead of wearing the familiar mortarboard cap the Servitor had to wear a round hat, sometimes referred to as a cow-pat, but eventually this mark of shame was eliminated and he was allowed to wear a square cap without a tassel.

Over the first half of the 1800s, the term servitor fell out of favor, as did the requirement that such students act as servants for the Fellows. Instead they were first called clerks (sometimes bible-clerks, since they were paid a stipend for saying grace, keeping track of chapel attendance and reading the bible lessons aloud), and then absorbed into the Exhibitioners. The terms Nobleman Commoner and Gentleman Commoner likewise fell by the wayside. Acts like the Christ Church Ordinances Bill of 1867 eliminated such distinctions, ensuring that any undergraduates who were not on the foundation became known simply as Commoners.

Alyssa Everett's newest regency romance, Lord of Secrets,was released March 25 and is available now. If you like angst and "tortured" heroes, you should give it a look. It joins her debut regency, Ruined by Rumor, while her third, A Tryst With Trouble, will be released in September. She hopes you'll visit her website and follow her on Twitter and Facebook, where she promises not to spam you relentlessly.

The Gates of Hell

I’ve always been fascinated by the way the ancient world worked.  The juxtaposition of  the innovations of the Greeks and Romans when laid against the sometimes very backward ritualistic beliefs that relied solely on the divine is at least ironic.  So when Discovery News reported last week that the “Gates of Hell” had been discovered, I dove right in.

Also known as Pluto’s Gate, the discovery was made by Francesco D’Andria, professor of archaeology at the University of Salento, in Lecce, Italy.  Using ancient myths and history as a guide, the location in Turkey matches ancient accounts that describe the city of Ploutonion/Plutonium.

Back in the day, a small Temple of Pluto stood next to a wall, with steps leading downward, to a cave filled with deadly noxious fumes. Greek geographer Strabo described it thusly: “This space is full of vapor and so misty and dense that one can barely see the ground.  Any animal that passes inside meets instant death. I threw in sparrows and they immediately breathed their last and fell.”

Nothing much has changed over the years, as reports that birds have fallen dead as they near the opening at the excavation site proliferate.  So what used to happen there, in ancient times?

According to D'Andria, "People could watch the sacred rites from these steps,l but they could not get to the area near the opening.  Only the priests could stand in front of the portal."  Pilgrims journeyed to the site and were given small birds to test the deadly fumes produced by the cave.  Nearby, priests sacrificed bulls to Pluto, all the while hallucinating from the toxic fumes.  It's easy to imagine the frenzied activities surrounding a site like this, and the lure that would pull superstitious people on a journey of what they hoped would be discovery.

And the wheels of my imagination turn on and on...

Get Ready to Delve Into Research.

I am a non-fiction history fanatic and I have been since junior high. I’m not saying I didn’t read my share of Sweet Valley High or Flowers in the Attic, but I was probably the only one in my class devouring tomes on Tudor England or ancient Egypt. I’m so familiar with the historical section of the library that, depending on what I’m working on, I know instantly whether to head for the 930s or the 940s. For my ancient Rome novella, Mask of the Gladiator, I headed straight to the 930s and delved into the tense days surrounding the assassination of Emperor Caligula.

Not everyone is as big a history buff as I am or as eager to crack open a history book. However, if you’ve ever visited an old home or heard a great snippet of local lore and thought “That would make a great story,” get ready to delve into some non-fiction. To help you take the plunge, I’ve compiled a few tips to get you started.

So, let’s begin.

First, learn about the era. Choose some overview books and delve in to the politics, people and feel of a time period. For instance, if you know you want to write a book set in France, you’ll find a very different country under Louis XIV than Louis XVI. Also, understanding the bigger picture can help you craft your story. Your characters will have a very different experience in Versailles France than they will in Revolutionary France.

Now that you know about an era, pinpoint the date the story takes place then narrow down your research. Discover who was and wasn’t alive at the time and what did and didn’t exist. Learn about the politics and current events and the thoughts and ideas influencing people’s lives. Study the art and architecture, get a real sense of what it was like to live during that exact moment in time.

Once you know your date, learn about the details of daily life. Everything from the food and clothes to the language and daily rituals will help you craft your story and make the characters more believable. Also, when your plot hits a sticking point, a little research can go a long way to helping get your story back on track.

Speaking of tracking, don’t forget to keep track of your research. Take detailed notes along with the book title and page number and make sure to keep it organized. Collect it in a binder or post it to a note taking website. You never know when an editor will ask a question and you’ll have to back up your answer with your research.

I hope you enjoyed this brief primer on research and that it helps you get started. Please feel free to leave a comment with your thoughts and ideas. I always enjoy hearing about and learning from other people’s methods.

A Weekend In Washington D.C.

This past weekend my husband and I spent two days in Washington D.C. We took the train from Newark, N.J. and stayed at the Willard Hotel, an old world hotel filled with history that's next door to the White House.

Built in 1846, it has hosted every president since Franklin Pierce. Some of the historic incidents include:

• February 4 - 27, 1861 Peace Congress - a lost attempt by delegates from 21 of the 34 states to avert the Civil War.
• February 23, 1861 following many assassinations threats, detective Allan Pinkerton smuggled Abraham Lincoln into the hotel where he lived for a week prior to his inauguration. 
• Also in 1861, after hearing a regiment singing John Brown's Body, Julia Ward Howe wrote the Battle Hymn of the Republic.
• President Ulysses Grant's wife forbade him to smoke his cigars in the White House. In desperation he went to the Willard Hotel for his cigar and whiskey. Folklore contends that it was in the hotel lobby that many approached him for favors and it was President Grant who labeled them lobbyists.
• The hotel lobby also saw meetings with Woodrow Wilson and the League to Enforce Peace which was the precursor to the League of Nations.
• In 1963, the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr drafted his speech, I Got a Dream, in his room at the hotel.
• Other famous people who stayed at the hotel include: Bob Fosse, John Philip Sousa, P.T. Barnum, Mark Twain, Walt Whitman, to name just a few.
• In 2001, Steven Spielberg, Tom Cruise, and Max Von Sydow filmed portions of The Minority Report in the Willard Hotel.  

Amid the history, we had a great time. While the cherry blossoms were a week late this year the weather was wonderful during the day. We walked through several museums and saw works of some our favorite artists.

Saturday night we had dinner with Eliza Knight and her husband. It was great spending some time together and catching up on family, mutual friends, books, and writing. It was a wonderful weekend.

Of Wimseys and Wellesleys: Name Changes

Sorry to be a bit late in putting this post up--my daughter's 9th birthday is today, and she had her two best friends over for a sleepover last night. Suffice it to say I'm exhausted and wishing I'd taken Monday off from my day job for recovery in addition to half of Friday for cleaning/setup!

In any case, continuing on with my series on titles and forms of address of the British nobility for your historical romance...

Today's post is a bit of a sideline about how malleable surnames were in Britain 200 years ago.

I mentioned in a previous post that Wellington's last name up into his 20's wasn't Wellesley, but Wesley. And his paternal grandfather wasn't born a Wesley, but a Colley. (Or a Cowley. The further back in time you go, the less consistent people were about spelling even their own names.)

So, how did a Colley become a Wesley? It was a matter of inheritance. When Richard Colley inherited an estate from a Wesley cousin on his mother's side, he changed his name accordingly. Note that he inherited property, NOT a title. With very rare exceptions, titles can't pass through the maternal line, but as long as property isn't entailed (a subject for a different post), one could leave it to pretty much whomever one liked. There wasn't a requirement to change one's name upon inheriting from a differently-surnamed relative, but it was commonly done. You can see something similar in Jane Austen's Emma, in which Frank Weston is adopted by his wealthy maternal grandparents and becomes known as Frank Churchill.

Two generations later, how did the Wesleys become Wellesleys? Basically, Wellington's oldest brother Richard decided he liked Wellesley better, and the rest of the family followed suit. Wellesley was indeed the original form of the name, if one went up the family tree a few generations.

Name changes of this kind were perfectly legal and didn't require the formal bureaucratic process a similar change would entail now. As long as you weren't doing it with intent to defraud someone, the powers that be didn't care.

Another form of name change you see a good bit in the 18th and 19th centuries is hyphenation, upon informal adoption, inheritance, or marriage. The second of the Wellesley brothers, William, inherited estates from a cousin by the name of Pole and is known to history as William Wellesley-Pole. He had a son, also named William, who married an heiress named Catherine Tylney-Long. When a woman brought a lot of money and/or family prestige to a marriage, sometimes her husband added his name to hers...which in this case led to the exceptionally unwieldy moniker of William Pole-Tylney-Long-Wellesley. For reals.

Next time, we'll go back to titles proper.

"A Rotten Orange"

It’s sometimes hard, as a twenty-first century reader and writer, to put myself in the heads of early nineteenth century characters. We think quite differently today about matters like duty, social equality, gender roles, and sexual morality. Views on that last issue, especially, have changed dramatically with the emergence of reliable birth control, women’s rights and even DNA testing.

"Past and Present I" by Victorian artist Augustus Leopold Egg illustrates a scene in the life of a fallen woman: a stricken husband discovers his wife’s infidelity through a letter from her lover, and the errant wife throws herself at his feet in unbearable shame and guilt.

At a time when women had little protection against pregnancy and men had no definitive way to prove or disprove the paternity of a child, female chastity was valued and stressed in a way that’s often difficult to understand today.

The prevailing nineteenth-century attitude—and keep in mind that this was a view that women as well as men bought into—was that any woman willing to sleep with a man before marriage was also likely to sleep with pretty much any man after marriage. Here’s how Lord Byron put it in 1820:

Where is honour,
Innate and precept-strengthen'd, 'tis the rock
Of faith connubial: where it is not - where
Light thoughts are lurking, or the vanities
Of worldly pleasure rankle in the heart,
Or sensual throbs convulse it, well I know
'Twere hopeless for humanity to dream
Of honesty in such infected blood,
Although 'twere wed to him it covets most...

In other words, a woman was either “honest” (virginal until marriage and therefore virtuous) or “dishonest” (willing to cast sexual morality to the winds), no matter what the circumstances:

The once fall'n woman must forever fall;
For vice must have variety, while virtue
Stands like the sun and all which rolls around
Drinks life, and light, and glory from her aspect.

Though Victorians were especially fond of this view, it was already old by the time Shakespeare wrote Much Ado About Nothing, in which Claudio refuses his bride-to-be at the altar because he believes she is no

Oh, the horror! Marcus Stone’s "Claudio, Deceived by Don John, Accuses Hero" (1861) shows a pivotal scene from Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing, in which poor Hero faints dead away at the altar upon being accused of no longer being a virgin.

longer a virgin, calling her a “rotten orange” and vowing “Not to knit my soul to an approved wanton.”

Social inequality and male insecurities about paternity meant the expectation was very much a double standard; though young women were expected to remain virginal until marriage, young men were expected, if not encouraged, to sow their wild oats. In other words, while there was a great deal of judgment aimed at the fallen woman, no one much cared about fallen men.

Alyssa Everett's debut regency romance, Ruined by Rumor, is currently available from Carina Press.  Her second regency, Lord of Secrets, will be out March 25 and is available now for pre-order, while her third, A Tryst With Trouble, will be released in September. She hopes you'll visit her website and follow her on Twitter and Facebook, where she promises not to spam you relentlessly.

Seeing History

As an avowed History Geek, I could not pass up the opportunity to visit the Tennessee State Museum last Monday to view the original Emancipation Proclamation.  Free to the public, they encouraged appointments so the line would go faster, as the document can only be viewed for 72 total hours because of the degradation light causes.  The venue is actually always free, and the Proclamation viewing kicked off a new exhibit titled “Discovering the Civil War,” which includes interactive displays, encourages use of social media, and includes the official copy of the 13^th Amendment.

I waited in line for about an hour, and I felt much as I always do when I wait in line to vote: that this is important.  That people died for this. That I should appreciate the freedoms and opportunities this affords me today. I dare say that was the general feeling as people waited and then viewed the exhibit.  I was thrilled to see many young children and teens present, as well as many families of all racial groups and economic backgrounds. I was also not the only one flying solo.

The Emancipation Proclamation was, indeed, the original, however facsimiles were used for part of the display since the original is written on both the front and back of the page.  The paper is very thin and the writing faded and difficult—but not impossible—to read.  It was ‘guarded’ by two Civil War re-enactors, who could answer any questions you might have.  They did not allow photographs.  Just beyond this was the display of the 13^th Amendment, also signed by Lincoln (see photo).  It’s always been interesting to me, being a Yankee in a Southern state, how the topic of slavery is handled, and I would say that this exhibit pulls no punches, but is brutally honest in its portrayal of slavery and the era in general, addressing the inhumanity of the practice, the legitimate efforts on the part of Abolitionists to end it, and what life was like for the freed population once the war had ended.

While the Emancipation Proclamation has left thebuilding, the exhibit is open through September 1, 2013, and is free to the public.

All Reading Leads to Rome

               I am a avid reader of non-fiction history and it is usually while I’m reading that some sentence or fact will make me sit up and say “What a great idea for a story.” The idea for Mask of the Gladiator first came to me while I was reading a book on the lives of the Roman emperors. Something about Caligula’s demise, the real PG version, not the XXX version that has also survived the ages, caught my attention. The story wouldn’t let go until I’d crafted it into a tale in which regular people get caught up in the life and death events of their era with a great romance and sex thrown in because hey, after all, this is Rome.

Having read many books on ancient Rome, I knew a great deal about the era but needed more details on the nitty-gritty of daily life under Caligula. Thankfully, researching ancient Rome was, in many ways, easy. The Romans, thanks to the length of their empire, left a lot of material, both written and physical about their lives, and these artifacts are scattered everywhere from Britain to Germany. I remember during my first trip to England marveling as I stood on a medieval wall looking down on the ruins of a Roman amphitheatre. You don’t find that kind of history where I live in California. Here, most people think Mid-Century Modern is an era of antiquity.

The wealth of information on the ancient Romans made research both interesting and easier. Thanks to surviving statues of Caligula, I was able to base my descriptions of the emperor on his busts instead of having to extract details from ancient sources, most of which were not flattering. For details on Caligula’s assassination, I turned to Justinian and Suetonius. Their accounts, though not exactly first hand, are well fleshed out, if not blatantly exaggerated in a few spots. I incorporated details from their stories into my story while adding a few of my own in order to better weave the main characters, Livia and Titus, into the historical events. In regards to the daily life of the nobility, there were endless resources available from the excavation at Pompeii to modern research books detailing the archeological evidence. 

While this wealth of historical information is great, it can also be overwhelming and at times distracting. Sometimes, especially if you’ve ever read any books in the History of Private Life series, more details exist than you actually want to know about. It is a challenge deciding what to include or leave out and how true to the time period to stay without forcing the readers to keep Googling archaic terms. In the end, I think I struck a good balance between fact and fiction and created a compelling story that is both true to history and romance. I hope readers think so too.  

10 Classics You Read in High School That You Should Read ~ Again

I was perusing the blogs I read and came across this article in Publisher's Weekly. Kevin Smokler's book, Practical Classics: 50 Reasons to Reread 50 Books You Haven't Touched Since High School, reflects on high school English Lit classes and the books we were forced assigned to read. In the Publisher's Weekly article he lists his top 10 required readings and the things he missed the first time. I've tried to synthesize his comments about these great books and at times resorted to quoting him:

1. The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald - A story about acceptance and longing, as well as the pain of forbidden desire and American dreams.
2. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain - A story about blood feuds, human bondage and adventures with best friends.
3. The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton - "A smothering culture is the barrier to love, Wharton says, but circumstances beyond our control. And how, despite that, we can still show initiative in our own lives."
4. To Kill a Mockingbird by Lee Harper -  The story addresses issues of class, courage, compassion, and gender roles in the American deep south. Atticus Finch has become an moral hero and model of legal integrity.
5. Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury - Our hero comes to hate what he does, burning books, and the himself as well.
6. The Stranger - by Albert Camus - Perhaps the answer to this masterpiece’s chaos and mystery is a kind of level head, a respect for calm and rationality that his narrator couldn't handle.
7. Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka - "Family is the entire area in which Kafka’s great tale happens, asking us “ Isn't it just as weird to wake up a member of a group you didn't sign up for as it is a cockroach?"
8. The Poems of Emily Dickinson - "Read her poems again (and some pretty good recent biographies) and you’ll witness an artist of great ferocity. Dickinson wrote with fire (a poem a day in her best years), knew the work of her poetic heroes cold, and sought out mentors and constructive criticism."
9. The Crying of Lot 49 by Thomas Pynchon - “Life is loony but it's better to experience it in all its lunacy than get off the road. Wanna ride with me?”
10. Animal Farm by George Orwell - "Orwell reminds us we are all the same flawed creatures yesterday as today.Animal Farm is a lesson in how we all are tragically human."

What required reading, high school or college, would you want to re-read?

Of Wimseys and Wellesleys: Knights (and Baronets)

For previous entries in this series, follow the tags at the end of the post.

Say the word "knight," and it conjures an image of a man in plate armor, ready to joust for the honor of his lady fair. But there were still knights in the 18th and 19th century (and to this day). Just minus the armor.

A knighthood is an honor given to untitled men (but in the 18th and 19th centuries generally of at least genteel birth) as a reward for service to the Crown. I haven't done a detailed study, but my impression is that most reasonably successful British generals and admirals of the Napoleonic era were at least made knights. Wellington's first major honor was being knighted in 1804 in recognition of his early successes as a major-general in India. So from that point until he was granted a peerage in 1809, he was addressed as Sir Arthur Wellesley. As with the younger son's courtesy titles we've discussed in the past two posts, the "Sir" goes with the first name. He's Sir Arthur, not Sir Wellesley.

Wives of knights, however, don't follow the same pattern. In 1806, Wellesley married Catherine Pakenham, whom he'd courted as a young man before leaving for India. In the intervening time they'd grown into different people, extremely mismatched different people who had a thoroughly unhappy marriage. But that's neither here nor there. We're just here to learn what to call them. And in this case the right answer is Lady Wellesley. Not Lady Catherine, not Lady Arthur. Lady Wellesley.

Incidentally, at this point there were two Lady Wellesleys. (Ladies Wellesley?) The other, Hyacinthe, was married to the oldest Wellesley brother, Richard, who'd been granted the title of Marquess Wellesley for his service as Governor-General of India, superseding his former title of Earl of Mornington (inherited from his father). This situation wasn't as confusing as you might think, for two reasons. The first is Hyacinthe's background: she was a French actress who was Richard's mistress for years and years before he actually married her. As such, despite her status as marchioness she wasn't accepted in good society or even within the extended family the same way that the well-bred and well-behaved Catherine was. The second is common sense--just like you might have two friends named Bob Smith, and avoid any confusion by talking about Work Bob and Bob from High School, English society of 200 years ago was perfectly capable of saying "Lady Wellesley, the marchioness," or "Lady Wellesley, Kitty Pakenham that was," or whatever to make their meaning clear.

Note that knighthoods are not inherited honors. If Wellesley had been killed while he was still a knight, his firstborn son would NOT have become Sir Arthur in his turn.

A side note about baronets: While I don't have any Wimsey or Wellesley examples of them, you'll see them a good bit in 18th and 19th century fiction. In Jane Austen's work alone, Sir Thomas Bertram in Mansfield Park and Sir Walter Elliott in Persuasion are both baronets. Baronets follow the exact same form of address as knights--the key difference between them is that the eldest son of a baronet DOES inherit the honor.

Regency Justice

I’ve just completed the edits for Beguiling the Barrister, the second in my  Forsters series. The hero is a barrister struggling to make a living by defending common people, who often couldn’t pay him, against the draconian laws of the day. I’m learning quite a lot about the British legal system during the Regency period and about that grand old institution, The Old Bailey, in particular.

The Old Bailey, also known as Justice Hall, the sessions House and the Central Criminal Court is located just off Newgate Street and next to Newgate Prison in the City of London. The Bailey was rebuilt several times from 1674 onwards but the basic design of the courtrooms remained the same. They were arranged so as to emphasise the contest between the accused and the rest of the court. The accused stood at the bar, or in the dock, directly facing the witness box, with the judges seated on the other side of the room. Before the introduction of gas lighting a mirrored reflector was placed above the bar, reflecting light from the windows onto the faces of the accused. This allowed the court to examine their facial expressions and assess the validity of their testimony. A sounding board was also placed over their heads to amplify their voices.

The jurors sat on the sides of the courtroom to both left and right of the accused but from 1737 were brought together in stalls on the defendant’s right, close enough to be able to consult each other and arrive at verdicts without leaving the room. Seated at a table below where the judges sat were clerks, lawyers and the writers who took the shorthand notes which formed the basis of the proceedings.

When the courtroom was remodelled and enclosed in 1737, the danger of infection increased and at one session an outbreak of gaol fever (typhus) led to the deaths of sixty people, including the Lord Mayor and two judges. Subsequently the judges spread nosegays and aromatic herbs to keep down the stench and prevent infection.

A further reconstruction of the Bailey in 1774 saw the area surrounded by a semi-circular wall to provide better security for prisoners and prevent communication between them and the public. The passage between Newgate Prison and the Bailey was also enclosed with brick walls.

The new building provided a separate room for witnesses so that they were no longer obliged to wait their turn in a nearby pub. I bet they still did, though!

Wendy