Dear guests, I bring you now — for the first time anywhere — the cover of How To Be a Proper Lady, coming June 26.

 

 

This glorious cover — so completely perfect for Jin and Viola — inspires me today to wax eloquent on The History of Man Chest Art.

Man Chest Art goes back to “the dawn of time.” (That quote is from my history class undergraduates, by the way, for which I give them very poor grades.) Take this cave painting discovered in Altamira, Spain, for instance:

Just look at those fantastic four packs! (Back in the Ice Age they didn’t have those little plastic six-pack holders, because, well, plastic. Anyway, a man could only reasonably carry two cans of beer in each hand at a time. Thus, four-pack abs instead of six-pack abs.)

[Note: I am a Professional Historian. I know these things.]

Then there were the Greeks, of course (because the Greeks always come into every conversation if you chat for long enough. Go ahead. Try it some time. Start with some really innocuous topic — like breakfast cereal. Mark my words, within an hour someone will mention the Greeks. Or is that Kevin Bacon?) And speaking of meat, the ancient Greeks adored Man Chest Art.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Greeks made lots and lots and lots of Man Chest Art that the Romans then copied because there was only one thing Romans loved more than Man Chest Art: the Greeks. (See? Back to the Greeks. I told you.)

Actually, I made that up. The Romans were insanely jealous of the Greeks so they conquered them then copied all their best art and pantheon and empire and Other Important Things Like That.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Incidentally, like the Greeks, the Romans also liked heaving bosom art. But really incidentally, because this post isn’t about heaving bosoms [which is why this bit is in parentheses, obviously]. So refocus, kay? Here’s some inspiration to help with that.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

More recently (roughly five hundred years ago, so not exactly recent, though in geological terms it was just this morning), Michelangelo Buonarroti simply adored creating Man Chest Art.

Here’s another Michelangelo, this one from 1505, shifting us from stone to a softer medium, though I will venture to note the obvious: THERE IS NOTHING SOFT ABOUT THIS MAN.

 

Finally, just a bit later (the aforementioned five hundred years-or-so-ish), romance novel publishers started producing Man Chest Art with vim and vigor. And what vim! What vigor! A few cases in point, beginning with our lovely Sarah’s St. John.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And since men with ink are my secret weakness (though I suppose it’s not so secret anymore… now… er…), I bring you Maya Rodale’s Sebastian, the Duke of Wycliff.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lest we ignore the flip side — literally — I invite you to feast your eyes on my favorite Man Back cover of all time, featuring Miranda’s delectable Cain.

 

 

 

 

 

 

So there you have it. Man Chests are an old and venerable artistic tradition. I hope your Saturday is now as inspired as mine.

And speaking of man chests, the first chapters of How To Be a Proper Lady are now posted on my website. There’s nothing like a gorgeously ripped sailor… in the rain… tied up… to inspire a lady to undress him. Enjoy!

What is your favorite example of Man Chest Art — from any century?

Welcome one and all to my ballroom.  Recently, I received a tweet from a Miss @sonomalass. I don’t believe I am related to any @sonomalasses. Must be Scottish. Anyway this tweet, which for the uninformed is a very brief communication delivered by carrier pigeon, informs me that the Festival of Minerva runs from the 19th to the 23rd of March. Funny, I though it was this week. Wait, she adds that it’s a pagan Roman feast. (I’m not sure my cousin the Archbishop of Canterbury would approve. On the other hand who cares what he thinks? He has meager calves.) Anyway, this week is the Festival of Minerva at My Ballroom because both Miss Dare and Miss Neville are introducing their new heroines who are both, confusingly, named Minerva. Ah! Here they are.

Tessa and Miranda enter, accompanied by unfamiliar young ladies.  Both of these new acquaintances are dressed in glowing white with teal and fuschia trim.

Lady B: One dark, one fair.   Thanks goodness they don’t look entirely the same.

Miranda: Lady B. Allow me to introduce Miss Minerva Montrose who is making her debut in London this month.

Minerva M: [curtsies] How do you do Lady B. Thank you for inviting me today. Is the Prime Minister here?

Lady B: Dear me. He doesn’t seem a suitable companion for a young gel.

Miranda: Minerva wants his job.

Lady B: That’s very forward of her.

Miranda: I’m afraid Minerva does possess a certain impetuous ruthlessness when in pursuit of her ambitions.

Minerva M: I know I can’t be Prime Minister thanks to the antiquated political system.

Miranda (aside): I haven’t told Minerva about Margaret Thatcher in case she cuts her hair and invades the Falkland Islands.

From behind her book, dark-haired Minerva Highwood grumbles: Men keep all the interesting professions for themselves.

Minerva M: But I can marry a man and help him to be Prime Minister.

Lady B: That seems unwise. Men dislike being made to do things. I don’t attempt it with Lord B, which is why he never attends my balls. Of course if I really want something I have methods of persuasion you’d be well advised to adopt.

Minerva H:  Such as bribery?

Lady B:  Bribery?  Why, Miss Highwood.  I’m shocked.

Minerva H: I may have no plans of marrying a man with political ambitions, but there is a certain feckless aristocrat I’m hoping will escort me to a scientific symposium in Edinburgh.  He’s low on funds at the moment, so I plan to bribe him.

Lady B:  Isn’t that a bit immoral?

Minerva H:  Believe me, morals hold no sway with this particular gentleman–and I use that term loosely. For myself, I see the plan as imminently logical.

Tessa, aside:  My Minerva is a scientist, you see.  

Lady B:  My dear Minervas. What on earth would make you think of plying powerful men with coercion and bribery, when you have so many other persuasive charms?

The two Minervas turn and stare, nonplussed, at one another.

Minerva H:  Charms?

Lady B tsks and waves them toward the ratafia with her fan.  Run along now, gels. I’m sure you can find lots of things in common. I need a word with your creators.

Lady B: Dear me, Miss Dare.  I don’t know what to say about your Minerva and her ‘imminently logical’ schemes.

I know, I know, I’m running late….  I was meant to be in the ballroom before midnight, when Lady B closes the doors to anyone not wearing knee breeches.  Or does that only pertain to guys?  I mean, gentlemen?

As you can see, I’m a bit muddled right now.  I’ve been running hither and yon to celebrate the release of my new book, The Garden Intrigue (and there may also have been a little bit of wedding planning going on in the margins).  At any event, I’d told Emma and Augustus, the hero and heroine of Garden Intrigue, that I’d meet them here in the ballroom, for my very first official ball, but I wound up on a very slow train back from the Virginia Book Festival—or ought that to be a very slow post chaise?—so here I am, late and frazzled and rather hoping that my characters haven’t got here before me, because they’re a bit… eccentric.

Oh no.  I’m too late.  As I approach the entrance, I can see there’s a bit of a fracas going on just inside.  There’s a parrot squawking, a bright yellow turban (why does it look so much like a hard hat?) bobbing indignantly, and a high, clear, American voice saying, “You haven’t seen a poet have you?”

Lady B (in tones of outrage):  A poet?

Emma:  Yes, you know, puffy shirt, flowy sleeves, look of other-worldy absorption, all that sort of thing.  He’s not nearly so silly as he seems—but don’t let him recite anything.  It can go on for quite some time.

Lady B (forbiddingly):  You appear to have the wrong salon, Miss—

Emma:  Mrs.  Mrs. Delagardie.

Lady B:  Hmph.  Whoever—and whatever—you may be, you appear to be vastly mistaken as to the nature of the entertainment.  This is a ballroom, not a breeding ground for perpetrators of poetical excess.  We have no truck with… poets.

Albert (pecking Lady B’s shoulder slyly):  Poets!  <<squawk>> Poets!

Lady B:  Shhh!  We don’t talk about that time in my life.  Now if you’ll be on your way, Miss—er, Mrs—

Lauren:  Lady B!  I’m so sorry I’m late.  I was on a—well, let’s just call it a mechanized carriage.  We got stuck in the southerly former colonies, which was why I was a bit late getting over here.  Hi, Emma!

Lady B:  You know this person?

Lauren:  Know her?  I wrote her!  Lady B, may I present Emma Morris Delagardie?  She originally hails from New York, but she’s spent the last few years in Paris.

Emma:  Since I was fifteen, in fact.  I came over with my uncle, James Monroe, in ’94, when he was American envoy to France—

Lady B:  Enough!  I had no idea I was harboring a nest of colonials in my salon.

Lauren:  Not just colonials, New Yorkers.  There are a whole bunch of us here.  (Waves to Sarah MacLean.)

Lady B:  Good gad, it’s an invasion!

Albert:  The New Yorkers are coming! <<squawk>> The New Yorkers are coming!

Lauren:  Consider it more a benign occupation?  (Rustling in paper bag.)  Bagel?  Oh, dear, don’t dunk it in the ratafia.  I don’t think they’ll go.

Emma: (brightly) I think I’ll go!  Don’t mind me, I’ll just go look for Augustus.  He’s probably off reciting somewhere.

Lady B:  Reciting?  Does she refer to a… poet?

Emma whisks away, leaving me alone with a rather irate Lady B holding a ratafia-sodden bagel.  I look around for help, but both Sabrina and Kate appear to be hiding behind potted palms.  (Note to self: we really need more foliage in the ballroom.  Either that, or some particularly sturdy columns.)

My first ball really isn’t off to an auspicious start.

Lauren (tries distraction): I hear there are a number of people named Minerva in the ballroom this week!  And did you hear that there might be a pickpocket on the loose?

For a moment, Lady B looks diverted.  Not excessively diverted, but diverted enough.  Until someone (and by someone, I mean a man in a puffy shirt with flowy sleeves and long dark locks of the sort that might be called “Byronic” if Byron were around yet) climbs up on a settee and begins to declaim.

Augustus:  For, lo! In Cytherea’s perfumed sleep/ Did she dream of the denizens of the dithery deep….

Oh no.  Not the Perils of the Pulchritudinous Princess of the Azure Toes.  There are thirty cantos.  Or maybe forty.  I’ve lost track.  Lady B is never ever going to let me back in the ballroom again.  Why hadn’t I invited the characters from one of my earlier books?  Henrietta—she gets along with everyone.  Or maybe Lord Vaughn; his sinister and sardonic manner might have appealed to Lady B.  But no, I had to go and invite Augustus and Emma.  If there were a desk handy, I’d bang my head against it.  As it is, I have to content myself with hiding behind my fan, which, being lacy, doesn’t provide much of a barrier.

Lady B:  Who is that?

Lauren:  Er… that’s Augustus Whittlebsy.  He’s a…

Albert:  Poet!  <<squawk>> Poet!

Lauren (rather desperately):  Spy!  He’s a dashing spy!  And, hey, at least he’s not a New Yorker.  Did I mention that he’s English?  And a spy?  And dashing?

I’d rather like to dash at this point, but Lady B is standing on the flounce of my gown.

Lady B (examining Augustus through her lorgnette): His verse is vile but his calves are comely.  Tell him he may recite for me later—privately.

Lauren:  What’s that about your past with poets again?

But Lady B has already walked away.  Which is probably a good thing.  I’m not sure Lord B would approve.  Unless Lord B secretly is a poet?  And he did not know it?

Who’s your favorite poet? (Regency or otherwise!)

p.s.  I’m having a birthday bash on my website this Wednesday.  I can’t give away cupcakes (they’d probably squash in the mail), but I will be giving away books.  I’d like to extend an invitation to everyone to stop by and celebrate with me! 

Who knows, maybe Lady B will put in an appearance….

It never used to be this way. I used to be able to go to the theater and stay quiet and focused when the audience lights dimmed and the stage lights came up. I used to be able to lose myself in plays. In characters. In stories.

It’s not like that anymore.

Now, I have to be prepared. I have to have pen and paper at hand, and its best (my husband will tell you) if I’m in an aisle seat. Because now, when the lights go down and come up (in that order), that’s when the ideas come. It happens at strange times: an hour into Richard III. Thirty minutes into Alan Rickman’s John Gabriel Borkman performance (we left at intermission at that one — Eric hated the play and I hated scribbling in the dark). I almost made it through Diary of a Madman; the itch didn’t start until fifteen minutes or so from the end of the second act. But then it started. And once the idea comes…you have to write it down, for fear of losing it.

So, suffice to say, the theater and I have a strange, love-hate relationship these days. I love what it does to the creative side of my brain, but I hate the fact that I never seem to be able to sit through an entire performance.

But then we went to see Sleep No More. And I was so fascinated that I didn’t write one thing down during the entire three and a half hour performance. This theatrical experience is virtually impossible to explain, but I’m going to give it a try: A British dance/performance theater troupe called Punchdrunk rented an old building on Manhattan’s westside and turned six floors of what was once a real hotel into a fake one called “The McKittrick.”

The audience “checks-in” at an appointed time sometime between 7 and 8pm, is handed a creepy carnival mask, and set loose on six floors of sets–more than 100 different rooms. You explore the space at your own pace, wandering from room to room as a play happens around you in real time, actors coming in and out of your reality. You can follow them…or not. You can rifle through drawers, eat candy, pet taxidermed animals, lie in a hospital bed. If you wait long enough and you’re very lucky, they’ll invite you into a secret room or two. Oh, and it should be mentioned that you can see them do a fair amount of killing. Because the play they’re in…the play you’re in…is Macbeth.

What’s amazing is this–every person who attends Sleep No More has a different experience. You are deliberately separated from your friends; the masks are designed to make you anonymous, and if you’re not in the right room, you’ll miss part of the action. Not that you’ll feel you missed it. For example, While Eric watched Macbeth kill Duncan in one room, I was rifling through a dresser in a different room, unaware…until the bloody Scot marched right past me and took a bath, washing the blood from him.

It’s like no experience I’ve ever had before…and it was so compelling and utterly engrossing that we came home and immediately bought tickets to go again. There was too much we hadn’t seen. We’re not alone. My friend (the fabulous Erin Morgenstern) has been nine times!)

And the best thing about it? I didn’t stop once to write. And that’s saying something. But now, of course, I have a different problem. In that, I want every theatrical experience to be this all-consuming. And there are only so many old buildings to be converted.

I think I did a terrible job of describing…check out this slideshow with audio from the New York Times on the show. Look at these amazing sets!!

–

Have you ever been to a theatrical performance (or a movie) that completely transported you? Tell us about it! 

 

Oh no.  Oh no, oh no, oh no.  It is my first night in the Ballroom, and already I am hiding at the edge of the room, trying to duck behind the second potted palm I find (the first was already occupied by Miss Darby, who seems to be of a similar mind).  And why am I hiding?  Because in the middle of the ballroom are beautiful people, dancing in beautifully precise lines.

Now, I enjoy a good party.  I wouldn’t be in the Ballroom if I didn’t.  But my pleasures are found in the card room or in good conversation.  I don’t dance.  In fact, I loathe it.  Fear it, would run from it if it were at all polite.  And for some reason, today in the Ballroom, there is an uncommon number of gentlemen, and they all seek dance partners.

It’s times like these, I wish I could be mistaken for a palm frond.

Lady B: Miss Noble, there you are!

I jump out of my reverie, and am nearly slapped across the face with peacock feather.

Kate:  Lady B, you scared me!  What a, er, lovely hat.  Are those real peacock feathers?

Albert: <<squawk>> Avianicide!

Lady B:  Thank you my dear, but these are painted goose feathers. In deference to my darling Albert, my hats would never feature *real* peacock feathers.  He is part peacock, you know, on his father’s side.

Kate: I… did not know that.

Lady B:  Well, if you are to partake in the ballroom, Miss Noble, I suggest you come join the party.  You cannot hide back here when there are so many people who wish to meet you. Besides, you simply do not blend into the wall, my dear… not with that hair.

This is a sad fact of my life.  I have this long blonde curly hair.  And admittedly, it’s very pretty.  I love it, but I also cannot escape it.  I’m easily spotted because of it, be on the street or, apparently, in the ballroom.

Kate: I’ll never be mistaken for a palm frond.

Lady B:  What on earth are you talking about?

Kate: Nothing, Lady B.  It’s simply that, sometimes, I wish I were not so associated with one single trait.  For instance, I will never be able to commit a crime, or have a secret identity, as long as I have this hair.

Lady B:  I’m a bit worried that you wish to embark upon a life of crime – but you are not the only one with identifiable features. Why, who would I be without my hats or Albert?  He’s been my constant companion since Lord B gifted him to me.

Albert: <<squawk>> Trademarked!

Lady B: And what about that young lady?  Who would she be without always dressing in gold?

I look to where Lady B is pointing, and in the throng of dancers, catching the eye of every man in attendance is a vision in a gold dress, gold gloves and slippers, golden hair done up with gold pins.

And suddenly, I know why there are so many gentlemen in attendance this evening.

Kate: Lady B, how is it that you know the Golden Lady?

Lady B:  Who, my dear?

Kate: Miss Sarah Forrester.  The one dressed in gold.  Everyone calls her the Golden Lady.  It’s made her the most sought after woman of the ton… but I know her secret.

Lady B: (leans in conspiratorially) What is her secret?  And how do you know it?

Kate: She is the heroine of my latest novel, If I Fall.  Thus I know all of her secrets.  And last season, her heart was most cruelly broken by a Duke when he ended their engagement.  Everyone was looking at her with such pity, that she couldn’t stand it.  Thus, to survive socially, she became the Golden Lady so no one would think of her as anything other than shining and happy again.  She didn’t want her identifiable feature to be her sad past, therefore, she changed it to the color gold.

Lady B: Well, it seems to have worked.  Never have I seen a lady so surrounded by gentlemen!  Not even myself before I spotted Lord B’s perfectly proportioned calves.  She’ll find a new love before long.

Kate: I’m not so certain of that.  It would have to be someone who can see beyond the Golden Lady to the true Sarah Forrester underneath.  Just as I would hope that someone could see past my hair, and I am sure Lord B saw past your hats and Albert to fall for the true, complex creature that you are, Lady B.

Lady B: Hmph.  Well, I see your point, Miss Noble.  Although, I will say that Lord B has the same talent for spotting well-made hats, as I have for spotting well-formed limbs.

Kate: I… have no response to this, Lady B.

Lady B: If you are not one for conversation, Miss Noble, then perhaps you should partake in the Ballroom by dancing.  In either case, it is time to step away from the potted palm.

Sigh.  I suppose some things just cannot be avoided.

According to Lady B, we all have identifiable features – so tell me, what are yours, and how do they affect your life?  We will chose one lucky commenter to win a copy of If I Fall! 

Personally, I really regret not being able to embark upon that life of crime.

As I enter the Ballroom today, it’s clear that something is going on.  Something big.

Something loud.

Thump.  Thump.  BANG.  Squawk.

“Lady B?”  I  cautiously advance to the center of the ballroom and have a look around.  No signs of our hostess.  ”Lady B?  Albert?  What’s that strange creaking sound?”

Crash.

I dive to the parquet floor, scrambling to seek shelter amongst the potted palms as an entire section of the ballroom’s south wall crumbles.  My new emerald green gown is instantly coated in a fine plaster dust.

“Lady B?” I call, truly panicked now.  ”What’s happening?”

Surely this can’t be the end, I think.  Not now, when we’re having so much fun.

Then from far away, a familiar voice…. “Miss Dare, is that you?  Have you been indulging in too much ratafia again?”

“Lady B, what is it?  Is it the French?  Are we being invaded?”

“No, no, Miss Dare. Not at all.”  Lady B emerges from the rubble, dressed in a peacock-printed muslin work smock.  She claps the dust from her hands.  ”I’m merely expanding.”

Albert swoops in and out through the new hole in the wall, delightedly squawking, More room!  More room!

“Expanding?” I ask.  ”What do you mean?  You look the same size as always.”

“No, no.  We’re enlarging the Ballroom, of course.  To make room for the new authoresses.”

“New authoresses?”

I know I was sick for much of the past few weeks, but I seem to have missed more than I suspected.

“We’re increasing our number, Miss Dare.  Didn’t you hear?  The more, the merrier, I always say.  I sent invitations last week, and I’m delighted to say I’ve just received two charming replies.”  Lady B removes a few papers from her pocket and unfolds them.  ”You may read the good news for yourself.”

As always, I do as Lady B suggests and read with great excitement.

Dear Lady Beaufetheringstone –

            It is with great delight that I accept your lovely invitation to join you and the other authoresses of the Ballroom.  I look forward to many charming and involved discussions of these marvelous lives and times.

Yours, etc.

Miss Kate Noble

P.S.  This may seem an odd question, since of course, it is a Ballroom, but… is there dancing?  And if so, is it necessary to participate?

And:

Dear Lady Beaufetheringstone –

Please accept this bouquet of carnations (pink) in earnest gratitude for your kind invitation.  I would be delighted to join your band of merry novelists.  

I must, however, warn you that I seem to be having a bit of a spot of bother with, er, well, spies.  They do tend to get into everything– especially ratafia.  Being French, though, they generally can be routed rather rapidly, leaving plenty of time for port and cheer for all.  I trust they shan’t be too much bother….

With the warmest and most effusive expressions of esteem,

Miss Lauren Willig

“Oh, my dear Lady B!  This is such delightful news. We all adore both Miss Noble and Miss Willig, and their wonderful books.  I can’t wait to welcome them both.”

“You won’t have to wait long, Miss Dare.” Lady B waves to a pair of workmen with stunningly well-defined calves. “Miss Noble will be joining us on Thursday, and Miss Willig will make her first personal appearance on Monday next.  So if you’ll excuse me, I have a great deal to do to make ready.”

“Of course, of course.  So must we all.”  I smile to myself.  ”I do hope they like their ratafia strong.”

While Lady B is playing Extreme Makeover: Regency Edition and I’m working up a new punch recipe, how about the rest of you?  What can we all do to make our new authoresses welcome?

And isn’t this exciting?

It’s St. Patrick’s Day today, and aside from the whole, wear green or be pinched phenomenon, (decided to put on Lady D’s dress from Monday’s Regency Project Runway since it has a lovely green element) I’ve never really done much St. Patrick’s Day reveling. From the extremely shallow research I did the last few days, I found that our English Regency friends didn’t do much holiday specific carousing either.

Our Irish 19th century friends however, celebrated the day as a religious holiday. But still, I found no sign of the Regency equivalent of green beer. In fact, because St. Patrick’s Day falls during Lent, much of the food I associate with the holiday isn’t even served today. (I’m not certain if the lifting of Lenten restrictions is more recent. I’m certain someone else here will likely know!)

At least…on that side of the pond. In the US, it’s all about the corned beef. Apparently the first St. Patrick’s Day parade took place in America in 1762. And in America, where it became a way to reconnect to Irish roots, there developed some creative forms of expressing that heritage…such as dying a river or a fountain green.

So today, after I step out of the Ballroom and the Lady D inspired dress, I will likely wear my favorite green shirt (the one I “borrowed” from my sister that says Mrs. Darcy on it). But what about the rest of you? Any St. Patrick’s Day traditions and how will you be celebrating today?

It’s morning. Prime writing time, and I’ve settled myself in Lady B’s library because, well because it is much more fabulous than mine! (And the maids always bring me a cup of chocolate. Really, complete and total heaven!)

Lady B: What is that you have there? Is that a French novel?

Sabrina: It’s not.

Lady B: (reading) The Regency Guide to Baby Names.  My dear Miss Darby, are you with child? I’m shocked, you aren’t even married.

Sabrina: Oh no! I’m not, but I am actually married. The “Miss” thing, it’s just here in the ballroom. I’m certain we’ve addressed this once in the comments before. You know, space/time/alternate universe?

Lady B: I know no such thing. However, if you are not expecting, why are you reading that book. In fact, I’ve never heard of that book before.

She plucks the leather bound volume out of my hands.

Lady B: (reading) Jane, Elizabeth, Mary, Caroline, Lydia, Georgiana. (She hands the book back to me.) Those are all fine names.

Sabrina: Fine, yes, but every one of them is to be found in an Austen novel. Look, later on the page we have Emma.

Lady B: I presume that Miss Austen—Oh! Miss Austen. Please do not tell me that she, too, is secretly married.

Sabrina: As far as I know, Lady B, she was, ahem, is as single as they come.

Lady B: I am relieved. Perhaps I should invite her to the Ballroom. There are always handsome young gentlemen milling about here. In any event, Miss Austen most certainly chose such names because they are fine English names. Many of our Queens and Princesses have borne those names.

Sabrina: I agree, and I confess, many of my heroines have similar names, but last month I had the most unfortunate situation of a hero telling me he refused to go by the name I was calling him. And I was thinking perhaps I should start going with more celebrity style names.

Lady B: Celebrity style?

Sabrina: Oh right, well, it’s very common in my hometown for actors and musicians, or anyone well known, to name their new babies after objects or colors. Or metaphysical ideas.

Lady B: Hmm. I do suppose that is not dissimilar to the recent trend of naming children after classical mythological figures or after characters from Shakespeare. I myself am named after a flower.

Sabrina: Yes, flowers are quite common, like Lily or Violet or Hyacinth…. Not that Heliotrope is common at all.  My own name, Sabrina, is derived from the river Severn.

Lady B: The Severn is in Wales. But I suppose Milton made it quite an English name.

Sabrina: Yes. I also love the name Kate for a heroine. Lauren is an excellent one as well, although not typical for Regency. For the heroes, in Regency romance, we frequently have Robert, Henry, Harry, John, George, Edward. Then there are the secondary names, a bit more romantic but still popular: Sebastian, Colin, Benedict, Spencer, Julian, Alexander.

Lady B:  No, no, we had a Leam here the other day. And I am positive Miss Foley had a hero with a more unusual name.

Sabrina: True. In any case, I’m not certain whether it is those March doldrums Miranda mentioned earlier this week, or something else, but I think it high time for me to choose some more outrageous names for my heroes and heroines.

So imagine an adventurous celebrity was naming their baby in the Regency era, what would it be? And what is the most outlandish name you’ve read in Regency fiction?

 

 

 

I’m in a hurry because Lord B is taking me to the opera. No, I will not tell you which box we’ll be in. I don’t wish the vulgarly curious to be staring at us during a performance of Mr. Beethoven’s Don Giovanni. What’s that? Miranda says Don Giovanni is by Mr. Mozart. Really, who cares? Isn’t not as though one goes to the opera for the music.

I’m here to announce the finalists of the Project Runway parlor game.

Two ladies garnered the most praise, by a very long way. Lady J and Lady F. I agree that both ensembles are attractive and tasteful yet have that certain je ne sais quoi that would please Lord Manly. Miranda thinks Lady J, though elegant, might be more comfortable wearing a brazier. I cannot imagine why a lady would wish to wear an iron basket of burning coals so I shall ignore her. I often find ignoring Miss Neville is the wiser course.

Since we need a “top 3″ Lady D joins the other ladies…

<squawk> my feathers <squawk>

Yes, Albert darling. But don’t worry. Lady D can leave the runway. She isn’t the winner

Now, for the bottom three. This was difficult. Four ladies received equal votes so I had to make the determination, as is my right as Supreme Empress of The Ballroom.

Lady K: An ensemble suitable for the late French Queen Marie Antoinette if she had no taste and retained her head.

Lady G: While I appreciate the splash – no the deluge – of color, ladders should be outdoors and made of wood. The sapphires are wasted. Also I prefer my coal scuttles made of metal and not on my head.

Lady H: Take a double dose of laudanum, my dear. You’ll feel much better and so will we.

After taking advice from the divine Mrs. Timothea Gunne, who now has a permanent invitation to all my balls, I pronounce Lady J the winner. off you go with Lord Manly, my dear, and try to keep that gown on until you are married.

I don’t enjoy this bit at all. It is my sad duty to send one of the ladies home without supper.

<squawk> not me <squawk>

Lady K, please leave The Ballroom. Au revoir. I hope to see you one day milking cows in Green Park.

I enter The Ballroom this evening and immediately I scent trouble. Lady B is looking bored. Lady B bored is not a pretty thing. She doesn’t react to tedium like a normal person. She doesn’t settle on the sofa with a good romance novel. Neither does she order champagne and oysters. Does she go shoe shopping? Nothing so sane and normal. I wish she’d pick a fight with Lord B so they could have make-up–

Lady B. I can hear you, Miss Neville!

Miranda: –make-up handshake, Lady B. [Aside] I wonder if Lord B is suffering a twinge of the gout and that’s why she’s down in the dumps.

Lady B: Harrumph. There isn’t the least need for vulgar speculation as to the cause of my mood. It’s quite simple. In a word: March.

Miranda: Not my favorite time of year, either, though it was quite nice in Florida last week.

Lady B: Where? Never mind. The point is the weather is foul, the Season hasn’t started, that nice Leam and wicked Bourne have been swept off to be married and the two Minervas won’t arrive until the end of the month.

Miranda: Also Colin and Blake.

Lady B: You’re not helping. Amuse me.

Minerva: It’s only a week or two before the new authoresses arrive.

 

Lady B: Miss Neville! Do you have no idea how to keep a secret?

Minerva: Oops. Sorry. I have something planned for tonight. Do you remember Regency Project Runway?

Lady B: The fashion parlor game! I enjoyed that.

Miranda: This time we have set a particular challenge. Ladies: you may come in now.

Twelve young ladies enter the room. Each one is dressed to kill. Or something.

Lady B: Good gracious.

Miranda: Welcome models. Having no notion how to make the best of your looks, you languish among the wallflowers until one night Lord Dick Manly, the most devastating man in London, invites you to waltz. You have long admired his flashing dark eyes, hair a little too long for fashion, perfect tailoring worn with an insouciance that fails to disguise his broad shoulders and narrow hips. He whirls you around the room, holding you just a little bit too close so you can tell he is interested.

Lady B: How?

Miranda: By his delicious smile. What else? Later you follow him onto the terrace, hoping to experience your first kiss with a master of the art. Alas, you discover him locked in the embrace of the Duchess of Lethbridge who is displaying bits of flesh that have no business showing in a ball gown.

 Lady B: How fascinating. I know the Duchess, of course. She causes a scandal everywhere she goes. I always invite her to my balls.

Miranda: Her behavior at the Vanderlin House ball is responsible for a certain ARRANGED MARRIAGE you will hear about soon.

Lady B: What happens next?

Miranda: Determined to show Lord Dick Manly what he is missing, you undertake an extreme makeover. The challenge for our models tonight was to create an ensemble that will bring a notorious rake to his knees. Twelve young ladies, with the assistance only of their abigails, have been given twenty-four hours to come up with a look. We  provided a mentor, Mrs. Timothea Gunne, who offered pointers in how to achieve the “wow factor” that will guarantee them a lifetime of kisses. And more.

So, commenters. All twelve ensembles are available on a single page here. Tell us what you think. Does the look meet the challenge? Is it spoiled by poor styling? We are looking for a top three and a bottom three and as much snark as you can bring to the party. Don’t hold back!  On Wednesday we will present the finalists. And Lady B (aka Lady Nina Klum-Kors) will send someone home and announce the engagement of the winner.

 

[Huge thanks to Candice Hern for once again combing her collection of original Regency prints for fabulous outfits. To learn more about Candice and her terrific books please visit her website]