If you’ve read more than about one Regency-era romance, chances are you’ve come across a special license. You see there was this pesky law by which marriages couldn’t take place in England without the banns being published in the resident parishes of both bride and bridegroom three Sundays in a row. In addition, marriages had to take place in church and before noon. This is damnably inconvenient for the writer who wants her couple wed quickly and who doesn’t want the trouble of sending them all the way to Scotland where the laws were less restrictive

Doctors Commons in the early 19th century

Luckily for our desperate heroes (isn’t it always the hero who’s in a hurry?), there was a way out. You could apply to the Archbishop of Canterbury, the head cleric of the Church of England, for a Special License which allowed a marriage to take place anywhere and at any hour without a waiting period. This useful document was obtained from the Archbishop’s London offices at Doctors Commons in the City of London.

A few years ago I became frustrated by the fact that I didn’t know what a special license looked like. I couldn’t find a picture on line, or even the text. So during a trip to London I went to the source. Doctors Commons was demolished during the 19th century but the Archbishop has a nice little London pad at Lambeth Palace, just across the River Thames from Westminster.

I imagined a printed form in which the names were inserted, but I was wrong about that. The Lambeth Palace Library possessed no “blank” licenses, only a few dozen completed ones for marriages that had been performed in the Palace chapel.

Lambeth Palace

A license was handwritten on parchment approximately 18 inches wide by 12 inches high, quite an impressive document. All the couple of dozen I saw (dated between 1754 and 1806) looked much the same. In a couple of instances the names of the parties were written in different handwriting from the text (which was boilerplate, scarcely varying by a word) as though a clerk had prepared a blank license when he had nothing better to do. More often the document had been written all at once, not something that could be dashed off in ten minutes.

A license was signed by the “Register” and finished with the Archbishop’s seal, hanging from a ribbon or string  looped through holes in the parchment.

The men are described as either widower or bachelor, the women as widow or spinster. In the case of a spinster, the name of her father is given, for a widow, her late husband’s. For the man the father is recorded if he’s a peer or someone else notable. As you can see by the list of titles for the bridegroom in the following license, they seemed to like to make the whole business seem important.

Here is the text of a typical license, that for the 1806 marriage of Prince Bariatinsky to Lord Sherborne’s daughter. There is absolutely no punctuation and, yes, the word “Honorable” is spelled in what we would call the American way.

Charles by Divine Providence Archbishop of Canterbury Primate of all England and Metropolitan by Authority of Parliament lawfully empowered for the purposes herein written To our beloved in Christ John Prince Bariatinsky of Russia privy counselor to the Emperor of Russia Chamberlain and Knight of the Military Order of St. George and also Knight of Malta now of Sackville Street London a Bachelor and the Honorable [sic] Frances Mary Dutton of Sherborne in the County of Gloucester a Spinster daughter of the Right Honorable James Dutton Baron Sherborne Wheareas As it is alleged ye have proposed to proceed to the solemnization of a true pure and lawful Marriage Earnestly desiring the same to be solemnized with all the speed that may be that since your reasonable desires may the more readily take due effect We for certain causes as thereunto especially moving do so far as in us lies and the Laws of this Nation allow by these presents Graciously give and grant our License and Faculty as well to you the parties contracting as to all Christian People willing to be present at the solemnization of the said Marriage to Celebrate and Solemnize such Marriage between you the said contracting parties at any time and in any church or chapel or other meet and convenient place by any Bishop of this Realm or by the Rector Vicar Curate or Chaplain of such Church or Chapel or by any other Minister in Holy Orders of the Church of England Provided there be no lawful Let or Impediment to hinder the said Marriage Given under the seal of our office of Faculties at Doctors Commons this twenty first day of April in the year of Our Lord One Thousand eight hundred and six and in the second year of Our Translation.

I wish I had a picture, but I had no smart phone back then. Also, the library was very strict with scary Anglican librarians who were polite but firm.  They only let me look at one document at a time and I was too intimidated to ask for a photocopy.

 Since a special license allowed a marriage to take place at any time or in any place, where would you like to see our Regency couple tie the knot?

“It isn’t Saturday, you know, Miss MacLean.”

I know this, of course, because I have about thirty different ways of looking at a calendar, but I know better than to say that to Lady B. “I thought it might be fun to show some of my inspiration for my books today, Lady B. I know it’s an unexpected thing for a Thursday, but who needs a Saturday Salon for a slideshow?”

“A what now?”

“A slide show. It’s a…” I hesitate. “Nevermind. Have a look at this.”

“Oh, my.”

“I know.”

“He’s quite handsome.”

“He is. And he’s the inspiration for Temple.”

“You mean the Killer Duke?”

“Precisely.”

“The fighter.”

“The very same.”

“My goodness, Miss MacLean, you do always bring the scandal to the ballroom.”

“I do what I can, my lady.”

“I’m afraid I can’t have the Killer Duke in the house. Lord B would have a difficult time with it.”

“I assure you, Lady B, Temple wouldn’t dream of coming here.”

Lady B’s gaze narrows. “And why is that? He can’t possibly think he’s too good for us.”

“Oh, no, he doesn’t,” I rush to assure her. “He just knows…well…his place.”

“And that is?”

“The boxing ring of The Fallen Angel.”

Her voice goes quiet and fills with scandal. “The casino.”

“The very same.”

“You’re familiar with it?”

“I am…it’s very…memorable.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, the art for one.”

Lady B looks skeptical. She hadn’t been looking for that answer, clearly. “The art.” She’d been looking for something more scandalous.

Henry Fuseli’s The Nightmare

“Absolutely. Take this painting, on the wall of Cross’s office.”

“Good heavens! The Earl could use something slightly less…macabre now that his wife is increasing, don’t you think?”

I smile. “Well, the Countess of Harlow doesn’t exactly mind it.”

“No,” Lady B says, “She’s an odd enough girl that she would like it.”

I’m pointing to another picture. “This one is in a room off the Duke’s chamber.”

Her brow rises. “And why would you know anything about the Duke’s chamber?”

I blush. “Suffice to say, I’ve spent some time in there.”

“With a killer?”

“He’s a very nice killer.”

She does not look like she believes me. “Nice.”

“Well, to me.”

“I hear he likes ladies of a…certain ilk.”

I’m fairly certain I’ve been insulted, because Temple is a halfway decent guy and doesn’t mistreat the prostitutes as the club, but I decide not to get into it with Lady B. “The point is, Lady B…I’m writing, and I need stuff like this to help move me forward. In fact, I keep them all in one dedicated location.”

“Oh, yes. I’ve heard you all speaking of that. Thanks to your Inner Netting. And your Parasols.”

I am used to Lady B discussing the Internet, but the rest…I blink. “Our parasols?”

She waves a hand. “Or your petticoats. Or pincushions. Something like that.”

My brow furrows. And you didn’t think that sounded off?

She cuts me a look. “It’s not as though you authoresses haven’t sounded off before, Miss MacLean.”

It’s a fair point. “I think you mean Pinterest.”

“Oh, and that doesn’t sound off?”

**

Do you guys use Pinterest? I’m obsessed with it. If so, what do you use it for? If not, what social media stuff do you use? (Besides hanging out here, of course!)

Among the (many) challenges of writing historicals, is the lack of photographs. What did people really look like? Our best sources are portraits and, let’s face it, they can look strange and unattractive to modern eyes.

The painter’s art can also come into a story, evoking emotions or providing a plot point: a miniature of an absent loved one or a portrait of a parent, perhaps. Remember when Elizabeth visits Pemberley in Pride and Prejudice?

Darcy’s portrait is a definite “moment,” a turning point in her view of him.

Elizabeth walked in quest of the only face whose features would be known to her. At last it arrested her–and she beheld a striking resemblance to Mr. Darcy, with such a smile over the face as she remembered to have sometimes seen when he looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture, in earnest contemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the gallery.

I’ve been thinking about another book. Not, mind you, the book I’m actually writing. Heaven forbid! I’m chasing plot bunnies for a book to be named (and hopefully written) later. I have this idea about a man falling in love with the portrait of an unknown lady and I’ve been looking for inspiration. Here are some of the candidates I’ve found.

Fragonard

Boucher

Reynolds

Romney – this is the famous portrait of Emma Hart who became notorious as Nelson’s lover Lady Hamilton

Which lady do you like? Can you imagine one of them inspiring a grand passion?

Don’t tell Lady B, but I’ve been cheating on the Ballroom with other time periods.

I zoomed way ahead of our timeline to spend some time in World War I England and 1920s Kenya for The Ashford Affair (coming out April 9th!) before coming back to 1805 for a bit for my latest Pink book.

Right now, I’m hanging out smack in the middle of those, in 1849 London, dipping into both high culture and low, looking into how people entertained themselves in London in the mid-19th century. You can tell a lot about a society by its leisure activities.

The book I’m currently writing (working title: The Victorian Book) revolves around the early days of the Preraphaelite movement so my first stop, on the high culture junket, was the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition of 1849, where the Preraphaelites launched their revolutionary new style. John Everett Millais exhibited his Lorenzo and Isabella (above) and William Holman Hunt showed his epic painting Rienzi, about the Roman folk hero.

(Dante Gabriel Rossetti was not represented there. He had infuriated his Preraph buddies by breaking ranks and showing his Girlhood of Mary Virgin, shown below, at the Free Exhibition in Hyde Park instead.)

What really fascinated me, though, was just how madly popular this exhibition was. The Queen got first crack, on the Thursday, followed by the Private View on the Friday, attended by anyone who was anyone in London Society– one of “the” events of the Season. Once the private showings were done, the exhibition officially opened the first Monday in May.

To give you an idea of the popularity of this show, you’d have to compare it to opening day of Skyfall or a new Harry Potter movie: in 1849, over a six week span, over 100,000 people attended the exhibition, paying their admission fee, and, if they had the tin, another shilling for the exhibition catalog, which listed all the paintings, their hanging spots, and, in many cases, explanations and snippets of poetry.

I was lucky enough to get my hands on a copy of the 1849 exhibition catalog, the exact same one my heroine would have held in her (gloved) hands. Here’s what it looked like:

Just to give you an idea of how crowded the Exhbition would be, here’s a picture of the 1883 Private View, below. Just picture the ladies in there wearing the far wider skirts of 1849, and you’ll have an idea of how jammed– and warm!– it would have been in there in 1849!

Although I’m looking at a later period, Lady B would also have been acquainted with the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition. It began in the 1760s, and, as the Royal Academy literature puts it: “At that time an art show was still a novelty in England and this densely packed, higgledy-piggledy parade was among the great spectacles of Georgian and Regency London.” Over 60,000 attended the first exhibition in 1769 and the numbers went up from there, with record crowds in the early 1820s. The odds are high that Lady B and her lorgnette would have paid a call to the Exhibition at its then home, Somerset House.

The exhibition did some moving around. My early Victorian heroine would have seen the show in its later location in a wing of the National Gallery; the show settled in its current home at Burlington House in 1867.

But I also promised you some low culture, didn’t I?

Just a few streets away from the Royal Academy exhibition, you could find a form of entertainment called a “penny gaff”– a cheap, theatrical performance in the back room of a pub, aimed at servants and errand boys. According to contemporary accounts, there was generally little more than a platform and a piano, with a pit for the cheap seats and a rough gallery of benches above, where, interestingly, the men and the women were segregated by sex, women on one side and men on the other– a surprising delicacy for an entertainment that was reputed to be vulgar in the extreme, with bawdy jokes, dance routines, and short, theatrical sketches focusing on topics like “Highwaymen We Have Known and Loved” (okay, I made up that title, but, yes, famous highwaymen were a popular topic) and particularly sensational murders.

The heyday of the penny gaff was from the 1830s to 70s, but you find some interesting echoes of earlier time periods. While the murderers might be more current, the highwaymen tended to be eighteenth century figures, like the notorious Jack Sheppard. Then there’s my personal favorite: in an account of a gaff from 1851, the viewer reports that the highlight of the program was a sketch featuring the routing of Napoleon!

As you can imagine, the critics took a dim view of these entertainments, calling them sodden gin dens and an incitement to crime and loose morals with their glamorization of villainy.

One of the things I found most fascinating about these penny gaffs? The primary viewership reputedly consisted of (lower class) women under the age of twenty. And this at an era where, among the middle class, the whole idea of women as sheltered little flowers was really getting going….

It provides an intriguing contrast, doesn’t it?

Of the two events, which would you rather attend: the Royal Academy Exhibition or the penny gaff?

While dear Monty has held our attention for many weeks, an important milestone went slightly overlooked in the Ballroom.  (Well, it had to be.  We couldn’t leave Monty in the middle of that Argentinian dance floor, after all.)  This past Monday, Jan. 28^th 2013 was the 200^th anniversary of the first publishing of the book that launched a thousand ‘ships, Pride and Prejudice.

Jane Austen, as drawn by her sister Cassandra

I can imagine dear Aunt Jane, in a cottage in Chawton, clutching a newly bound copy of the 3 volumes of her second novel and squeeing.  Or, whatever the 1813 version of squeeing was.   Did she think the story of Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy would capture the imagination for over two centuries?  Did she know that she put indelible characters to the page, and would enrapture millions (and spur a costume-theater industry that gave birth to the Great Wet Shirt Scene of 1995?)

We all know it.  We’ve all read it.  We’ve all watched it.  (Some of us even work on adaptations of it.)  But for each of us, the story is personal.  I asked my fellow authoresses what Pride and Prejudice means to them.

Katharine Ashe:

Pride and Prejudice was the third adult romance I ever read, after M.M. Kaye’s The Far Pavilions and Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, and I adored Lizzy. Her intelligence, wit and rejection of society’s most noxious values helped forge my ideal of a great heroine. And Jane Austen’s writing is, of course, delicious. Whenever I am especially starved for wonderful, clever prose, I reread P&P and am nourished again.

Delicious prose certainly helps inspire us authors (and Katharine knows from delicious prose).  Meanwhile, both Sarah and Sabrina seem to be obsessed with a certain scene (that isn’t actually in the book.  At least, not so explicitly dishabilled).

Sarah MacLean:

Aside from allowing me my first taste of wet Colin Firth, Pride & Prejudice is one of the books that made me believe that romance was something worth celebrating. The first proposal remains one of the greatest moments in romance for sheer heroic stupidity, and the second for glorious, wonderful, reconciliation and finally finally getting happily ever after. I would be lying if I said I didn’t pay homage to both those scenes in my books (with stupid heroes and happily ever afters). Thank you, Aunt Jane, for the powerful lesson in love–and how to write it.

Sabrina Darby:

From Laurence Olivier and Greer Garson trading barbs over archery, to Colin Firth emerging wet from a pond, to a improv show in the middle of Hollywood, to the worst play adaptation I’ve ever seen, Pride & Prejudice‘s ability to entertain no matter how adulterated is a testament to Jane Austen’s storytelling abilities.

WET DARCY *fans self*

Somehow I missed the play adaptation!  Even if it’s horrible, I think I need to see it.  For reference. However, Miranda Neville and Lauren Willig started early in her Austen-obsession.

Miranda Neville:

I came to P&P sideways. I can’t remember how old I was – maybe 12? – when I found a ratty paperback of a dramatization in my grandmother’s attic. There were only three sisters (like the Lizzie Bennet Diaries!) but the story was all there. I was instantly hooked so Granny gave me the book. Surprise! Five sisters. After glomming the other five books I wept at the paucity of her output. I wrote an essay for university entrance on why I’d rather discover a new Jane Austen novel than her diary (arguing the opposite way for Shakespeare).

I don’t know how many times I’ve read P&P since then. (I may approach the 200 claimed by Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail.) I always seem to find something new. And boy, could Jane Austen write dialogue! She’s an inspiration to me in so many ways, but above all in the way she makes conversation carry the story. Time for a re-read

Lauren Willig:

It’s hard to remember a time when Jane Austen hasn’t been with me.  But I do have a very vivid recollection, somewhere around fifth grade, of reading Pride and Prejudice for the first time.  My father, seeing me with the book, asked me what I thought the setting was. “England,” I said.  I was eleven.  The “duh!” was implied. He started talking about class and hierarchy and the low gentry versus the high gentry and blah, blah, blah.  I went back to Elizabeth and Darcy. Silly parents, couldn’t they see that it was a love story?  In my righteous adolescent scorn, it took me a few years to realize that my father had been right, too: that there was brilliant social criticism woven into the fabric of Lizzy and Darcy’s love story.  The story works on so many different levels, all of them seamlessly stitched together.  Let’s raise a glass to Jane Austen, who showed us all just what romance literature can be.

While we find this story very close to our hearts, the hands down winner for Austen-phile is Tessa Dare.  Here’s why:

Tessa Dare:

The hows and whys are a long and complicated story, and I won’t bore you with all the details, but the conclusion is simple:  P&P is the entire reason I am a historical romance author today.  What do I not owe that book?

In my high-school yearbook, I listed “Elizabeth Bennet” as the person I admired most.  Yes, I was that *that* girl.  It took Colin Firth to make me a true Darcy fan.  But boy, did he ever.  My son’s middle name is Austen.  I have the Jane Austen action figure in my bathroom!  (Do I win yet? Haha.)

Yes, Tessa.  You win.  As for me, I wasn’t quite as early to the Austen pond.  I was 15 when I first read the book – it was assigned for English.  Even though it’s language was heavy and seemingly ancient, I couldn’t stop reading.  There was something about her voice.  Then, when I was 16, I saw the 1995 Colin Firth version.  I stayed up all night, watching all 6 hours.  Then, I kept watching it, over and over and over (I had the box set) and over.  It’s the story that made me dream of my own Mr. Darcy – and let me tell you, when I passed one-and-twenty and he hadn’t shown up yet, I was displeased.  But most of all, it is a story that makes me aspire.  Aspire to be a better writer, a more astute observer of life, and more willing to see my own flaws.

So we all raise a glass to you, Aunt Jane, and say congratulations –and happy 200^th!

Like I said, we all know the story – so what does Pride and Prejudice mean to you?

I am hurrying toward a book deadline (Monday! Oh dear!), and so my visit to the ballroom today must necessarily be brief. On this, the penultimate + 1 day of 2012, I haven’t the courage to offer retrospective commentary on the past year or the presence of mind to even peek into the next. Instead I will offer today a taste of what I’ve been busy with during the past many months.

Castles and tiaras.

I am writing a series, you see, about a trio of beloved sisters searching for a prince. And since princes need castles and princesses need tiaras (really, don’t they?), I have been indulging. A lot.

So today I share with you lovelies one of each, my favorites from the positively arduous research I did this year visiting castles and trying on tiaras. (Work work work!)

Chenonceau Castle

Chenonceau graces not one but two banks of the gentle and beauteous River Cher. The Cher is south of the Loire River, which stretches across northern France and created a region that is home to many, many castles. I adore Chenonceau. To me it simply shouts fairytale! I love it so much I’ve set part of the book I’m writing in a fictional castle modeled after Chenonceau. How couldn’t I? Just look at it… graceful arches that dip into their mirror reflections, elegant lines, charming turrets, a gorgeous formal park that recedes into evergreen woods… Fairytale!

And in case good looks don’t suffice, Chenonceau has a scandalous history too. King Henri II gave it to his lover Diane de Poitiers, twenty years his senior and vibrantly beautiful and with a brain to make excellent use of that beauty. Years later when Henri died, his widow, Catherine de Medici, threw Diane out of the castle and proceeded to have fabulous parties there (can you blame her?), including balls and a faux naval battle staged on the river.

But royals weren’t the only denizens of Chenonceau. At one time the attic was converted into a convent for Capucin nuns, with a drawbridge between the floors to discourage nocturnal interminglings of holy ladies and immoral lords. Oo la! (Probably a good thing, too, considering at least one of the lords that visits my fictional Chenonceau.)

Now for the tiara…

Antique tiara (ca. 1880), via Christie’s

I’m very fond of simple jewelry, and while a tiara can’t very well be considered that, precisely, I do like the modesty of this one. The description from the Christie’s site (where it’s up for a cool L25,000-L35,000, in case you were wondering what to get me for my next birthday) notes the ”stylised fleur-de-lys” design, which I particularly like as the hero of my book is half-French.

You may recall that hero, Lucien Andrew Rallis Westfall, the duke of Lycombe. You helped me invent him!

By the way, my new series is called The Prince Catchers. Luc’s book will be coming in September… probably… if I finish it this weekend!

If you could throw a New Year’s Eve party at a castle like Chenonceau, and could invite anyone, who would be on your invitation list?

In this Yule Log and Egg Nog season, I thought it would be nice to explore of history of Christmas.  By that, I don’t mean the story of Christmas itself – oh no, that FAR pre-dates Lady B’s Ballroom.  But rather the history of how we do Christmas – the tree, the presents, the sweaters with embroidered reindeer on them.  And not surprisingly, a lot of the traditional ways to celebrate the holiday dates to the 19^th Century.

The Queen’s Christmas Tree, published in Godey’s Lady’s Book in 1850.

 The Tree

Although the Christmas tree’s origins could be found in the Renaissance era, if we are to blame someone for its popularity, let’s blame Queen Victoria.  What once was a German tradition that spread through European nobility rapidly at the end of 18^th Century, decorating and lighting a tree with candles was cost-prohibitive for the masses.  Thus, it didn’t really catch on until Victoria married her German Prince Albert, and then, simply everyone had to have one.  (I suppose the rise of the middle class during the Victorian era helped a little too.)

The Christmas Card

Christmas Cards as we know them today are almost wholly an invention of the Victorian Era, and the mass-printing and publishing industry that thrived during that time.  The first Christmas cards didn’t feature winter or holiday themes – instead favoring pictures of families and flowers.  Later of course, this changed to the trees and snow and tinsel we know today.  (We can only hope those first cards didn’t have those page-long entries detailing “what happened this year.” As if everyone doesn’t already know via Facebook.)

(side note: are Facebook and email killing the Christmas card?  For the first time, I am considering sending out a Christmas email instead of cards.  Discuss.)

The very first Christmas card, designed by John Calcott Horsley in 1843

The Carols

As much as Sabrina loves her Good King Wenceslas, his 10^th century reign wasn’t immortalized in carol-form until 1853, when the lyrics were set to a 13^th century tune.   In fact, a number of the Christmas songs we sing today are a product of fiddling and refining during the 19^th century.

• Silent Night was composed in 1818 in Austria by Franz Gruber – not to be confused with Hans Gruber, who tried to take over Nakatomi Tower in that seminal Christmas classic, Die Hard.  (Although, they could be distantly related.  You never know.)  The English translation was published in 1859.

•  Hark! The Herald Angels Sing! was written and composed by Charles Wesley in 1739, but it was really slow and solemn (aka, boring).  Thus, the music was changed to the more upbeat, joyous Mendelssohn version we all know in 1855.

•  Joy to the World was first published in 1719, but the music was rearranged to a Handel-like melody in 1839, thus making it the Joy to the World we know today.  (Coincidentally, this is also the Christmas carol that is the easiest to play.  I know this from my tortured youth as a piano student.  It’s just a descending scale!  Marvelous!)

So, in conclusion, I hope you are spending this season wrapped up in a blanket, staring at a fire (or a fire on a TV screen), egg nog in hand, enjoying the lights on your tree, and the carols on your stereo.  And as you do, I hope you remember to blame Queen Victoria for all of it.  Because she deserves it.

What other holiday traditions can we blame Queen Victoria for?  And how are you celebrating?  Post a picture of your tree, your house lights, your favorite ornament, your least-favorite fruitcake!  Anything that says “the Holidays are here”!

Happy weekend, everyone! Well, if you find yourself with some time to relax, fix a cuppa your favorite brew and enjoy this virtual stroll through a Cotswold Village. If it does not induce wild cravings to go read Regency novels and/or Jane Austen, then nothing will. It looks like the setting for my next book, and when I came across it, I knew you’d enjoy it as much as I did, so I just had to share.

This is a lovely clip from a longer DVD by Vita Digital Productions. (They have many more that they make freely available on their website, follow link. In fact, I think I’ll be taking a stroll thru an Italian village next..!) ~ Enjoy!   (PS–Don’t go away, more below…)

Also, before you go, let’s extend our recent November 11 Veteran’s Day salute to our stalwart British allies, who have been fighting alongside our guys and girls in the military throughout the current wars. Thank you to all the veterans and military families from all the allied countries for their sacrifice. May the upcoming holiday season be a time of peace for us all.

This video is from last year’s Festival of Remembrance held at Royal Albert Hall, an event to honor British veterans, sponsored annually by the Royal British Legion (which is England’s foremost charity for military veterans and familes.) For those unfamiliar with the song, it’s a classic WWI-era, British patriotic hymn called “I Vow To Thee, My Country.” Gives me chills every time…

So, what is everybody up to this weekend? I’m celebrating my birthday, (Nov. 16). Don’t bother asking how old. The answer remains the same: 29. That’s my story and I’m sticking with it–indefinitely, haha. Fortunately, you already know that I write fiction…

The blogger Limecello does an annual fundraiser for a good cause. She researches charities and finds the ones that really do succeed and don’t waste money on fundraising and whatnot. This year she’s raising money for charity:water, an organization dedicated to bringing sufficient and clean water to people all over the world. Water isn’t just about being clean. It’s a matter of life and death. I urge you to go over to her blog and read about the importance of clean water. You don’t even have to donate (though it would be nice if you did!) Various people have pledged donations if comments reach a certain number. I pledge $100 if I can drive at least 25 comments to the blog via The Ballroom. So please, go on over and comment and mention that Lady B sent you! The goal is 1000 comments by the end of November so get over there. There are also prizes. [I'm told some people don't recognize the link to Limecello's blog. Click here!]

Portrait of Charles Crowle by Pompeo Batoni. This man took his dog on the Grand Tour!

Now back to our regularly scheduled programming.
In the eighteenth century the English upper classes collected antiquities, pictures and sculpture with an avidity that filled the country houses, and later the museums, of Britain with extraordinary riches. Until the French Revolution spoiled the party, a Grand Tour of Europe, complete with art shopping, was as essential part of a gentleman’s education.

Art shopping often included a portrait, perhaps by Pompeo Batoni, who painted dozens of Grand Tourists, surrounding them with symbols of classical culture.Then they went home and became English country gentlemen with a passion for horses and dogs. George Stubbs was perhaps the most famous portraitist of the British animal, but he had lots of company. Men, women and children were all painted in company with their pets.

A Gentleman and his Dog in a Landscape by Francis Wheatley. Lady B would approve of his legs. In fact she probably has.

‪Big horse, tiny dog: The Countess of Coningsby in the Costume of the Charlton Hunt‬ by George Stubbs.

‪Miss Anna Ward with Her Dog Kimbell‬ by Sir Joshua Reynolds

‪Lord Northwick’s Picture Gallery at Thirlestaine House‬ by Robert Huskisson. No art gallery is complete without a dog.

Finally, no discussion of canine art is complete without Dogs Playing Poker

The Wild Quartet, my new series that debuts later this month, is based around a group of young men with a passion for art. Caro, the heroine of The Importance of Being Wicked, is the widow of one of the art collectors. Thomas, Duke of Castleton is a horse and dog man. Can you say major conflict? What’s worse, Caro owns a cat.

I love pets in books. What do you think? And what are some of your favorites? Also, feel free to share your favorite dog pictures!

“Miss MacLean!”

I turn and to see Lady B bearing down on me from across the ballroom. Oh, dear. What did I do now?  I paste a bright smile on my face. “Yes, Lady B?”

“You know it is At-Home Month, Miss MacLean.”

“I do.”

“And, as such, I expect all you authoresses to invite interesting other authoresses to join me for the month. Here. At Beaufetheringstone House.”

“Are you suggesting that we are not interesting in our own octet?”

She cuts a look at Sabrina, chatting with a nearby potted fern. “I would not say uninteresting.”

I point to Katharine, chatting to a ghost (leftover from Halloween?) in the corner. “No. We bring the interest.”

Lady B raises a brow. It occurs to me that she doesn’t always understand me. “Yes. Well, in any event, it is November, and I was promised interesting authoresses.”

“And I have delivered,” I say with pride, as Anna Campbell bursts through the bunting and into the ballroom. She waves madly at us and calls out, “Hello!”

Lady B looks to me. “She sounds . . . foreign.”

I ignore the words as Anna arrives. “Miss Anna Campbell, may I present Lady Beaufetheringstone?”

Anna snickers.

I nudge her with an elbow. “It’s not spelled like it sounds.”

“I would hope not!” She whispers before turning back to our hostess. “Lady B! Thank you for having me here to drink tea and dish the dirt today!”

“Dish the what?” Lady B looks to me.

“It’s an expression! An interesting one, don’t you think?”

Lady B lifts her lorgnettes. “Hmmm. You are an authoress?”

“I am!” Anna exclaims, “I’ve been dying to come here and make my curtsy! Cue creaking knees! I’ve waited so long, I’m not the spry young debutante I was when I first launched my assault upon society!”

Lady B’s eyes go wide. “Did you say you were called Campbell?”

“I did!”

“Anna Campbell of the soprano solo at last week’s Puckleton-Puckley musicale?”

“I see my reputation precedes me.”

“I hear it was indeed an assault on society.”

I step in. “Lady B!” This is not a good beginning to At Home Month.

Anna can take care of herself, however, “Goodness me, people can be cruel! I almost got that high C – at least the cracked chandeliers indicated that was the case!”

“Lady B, Anna is the author of the recently released Seven Nights in A Rogue’s Bed.”

Lady B cracks a smile. “Only seven? Too bad.”

Anna chortles. “Oh, I knew that we would be friends, my lady.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself Miss Campbell. Now. I’m trying to place that accent . . . Wales?”

Anna shakes her head.

“Not Ireland.”

“No, my lady.”

“Or that dreadful American South?”

“No, my lady.”

“Well, don’t keep me guessing, gel!”

“Australia.”

There is a pause. “Dear me. With the criminals?”

“Lady B!” I exclaim. After all, Anna is very nice. Not at all a criminal. I don’t think.

“Precisely!” Anna interjects. “I thought all you high falutin’ ton types might be interested to know more about the up and coming colony out in the South Seas.”

“High Fal-whating?”

“Falutin’!” Anna crows.

Lady B looks confused. I turn to Tessa, who is thankfully nearby. She passes me a glass of ratafia, which I down. She refills. Bless her.

 “You see, Australia is in many ways a creation of the Regency!” Anna continues on her historical lesson. “Captain Cook—”

“Lovely legs, him.”

A light flares in Anna’s eyes. “Reaaally?”

Lady B nods once. “Very nice. Go on.”

Anna does. “Well, Ol’ Lovely Legs discovered the East Coast of Australia and claimed it for Great Britain in 1770 and it was settled as a penal colony in 1788, but it took a few years to find its feet.”

“Not many women there, were there?”

“No, indeed.” Anna leans in, “The odds were pretty good you’d find a handsome young man if you went looking.”

It’s Lady B’s turn to look pensive. “Reaaaally.”

I need more Ratafia.

“We were lucky that an architect of genius Francis Greenway decided to forge a check in 1812 and hit our shores in 1814. We were doubly fortunate that Greenway arrived when the man called the Father of Australia, Lachlan Macquarie, a Scottish general whose career took place mostly in India, was governor.”

“Did he have nice legs?”

“Very.” Anna doesn’t miss a beat.

“Wait a second,” I interject, pointing to a painting nearby. “That man does not look like he has nice legs.”

“Where did that painting come from?” Lady B looks surprised. It occurs to me that the changeable nature of the ballroom is still weird to her.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I will most certainly worry about it. Some criminal snuck in and installed a painting!”

“Are they still criminals if they bring something?” Anna asks.

We’re all flummoxed.

“Nice legs, you say?” Lady B asks.

“Very,” Anna repeats. I ignore the fact that he couldn’t have possibly had nice legs. “Macquarie was the first person to look at the shambles of Sydney Town and recognize that a future nation lurked under this mixture of drunken soldiers, convicts and ex-convicts. He felt that a great city deserved great architecture and he commissioned Greenway (Greenway’s the other picture!) to design a number of buildings that still adorn Sydney, including a beautiful church, an impressive convict barracks and a charming gothic folly of a stables for Government House that for many years functioned as the NSW Conservatorium of Music. I’ve got photos I took many years ago of the Hyde Park Barracks and St. James’s Church. As you can see, they date from my little-known “one leg shorter than the other so everything slopes” period.”

“What’s a photo?” Lady B asks.

“Don’t worry about it,” Anna and I say.

“Sadly,” Anna continues, “the powers that be in London didn’t share Macquarie’s vision for the future of Australia. They howled with horror at how much money he was spending adorning a place they judged merely as a remote location for dumping people too wicked for Britain’s pristine airs.”

“There’s always room for wickedness, I say,” Lady B says.

Anna smiles. “I thought you’d feel that way, my lady. Nevertheless, Macquarie was recalled in disgrace in 1821 and his protégé Greenway fell from favor with him.”

“How tragic.”

“Indeed! Macquarie was a broken man after his return to the U.K. and passed away in 1824. He’s buried on the Isle of Mull on a plot of land that belongs to the Australian Government, a fact which I find very moving.  Both men are regarded with great admiration and affection in Australia. I lived in inner Sydney for eleven years and I loved that their Regency legacy was all around me.”

“That’s a lovely story, Miss Campbell, but I’m afraid you’re mistaken. Macquarie is quite alive! It’s only Eighteen hundred and–”

Uh-oh. That pesky time-space continuum strikes again.

“Lady B!” I jump in. “Tell us more about Captain Cook’s legs…”

—

As you can probably gather, Anna is a bit of a Macquarie groupie. Do you have a historical figure you admire? Do you have a historical figure you despise? And do you think my singing really WAS that bad at the musicale? The cats liked it. I distinctly remember them joining in. And the dogs. And the horses!

One lucky commenter will win a signed copy of SEVEN NIGHTS IN A ROGUE’S BED from Anna!