Considering all we authoresses are products of the 21^st century, certain things about early 19^th century life seem a little… well, odd to us.  Disregarding the lack of toothpaste, tampons and the right to vote, there are many subtle differences.  One of the odder things, at least in my estimation, is the notion of a Patroness, in and of itself.

Nowadays, yes of course there are patrons of the arts.  Lovely, usually rich people who donate time and money to organizations for the curation of old work and the development of new.  But in the 19^th century and before, artists, authors, musicians, didn’t fill out a bunch of paperwork for a grant to practice their craft — instead, they relied on the far less formalized kindness of socialites who took a liking to them and their work.

Often times, the artists would live in residence at the patron/patroness’s estate.  (FYI, we do have rooms at Lady B’s for when we visit from the current century, each designed to fit our individual taste.  Mine has a large blue police call box in it, which disappears randomly at times, but I digress.)  There have been women like Lady B throughout history.  Hester Thrale, a gently-born lady who married a moneyed brewer (and then later an Italian music master, because awesome), was one such a patron and writer herself, who was a close friend of Dr. Samuel Johnson – he had his own room at her house Streatham Park, where he often worked.  And Germaine de Staël was an author who hosted one of the most famous salons during the French revolution, defying Napoleon and influencing thought and taste for over 25 years at the Chateau du Coppet in Switzerland.  But my absolute favorite real life Lady B is Isabella Stewart Gardner.

Now, she may have been from the later 1800s (*gasp*) and she may have been American (*GASP*) but Mrs. Gardner for me personified the free spirit and intense passion for the arts and culture that I know Lady B has.

A member of the Boston elite during the Gilded Age, Mrs. Gardner was born into wealth and married into wealth.  But her life was not without tragedy.  Her only son died before the age of three, and when that happened, she and her husband took to travelling and collecting for solace.  (Note: much like Lady B, she had nephews that she adopted as her heirs.)  But Mrs. Gardner likes collecting artists as much as she did their art.  Her home in Back Bay was often filled with up and coming painters of the day, like John Singer Sargent and James MacNeill Whistler.  Not to mention authors like Henry James.  She would even take artists with her on trips to Europe, Venice being her favorite place.  (Remind me to ask Lady B to take me to Venice.)

Eventually, her collection of art grew so big, she built a museum to house and display it all.  The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston is a gorgeous three-storied covered garden courtyard structure that has a massive collection of European art, and works from her era from her friends.  If you’re in the area, I highly recommend a visit.  (also, fun fact: it was the scene of a pretty massive art heist in 1990.  Yes, art heist.  Those things are real. Therefore, The Thomas Crown Affair could plausibly happen. I don’t know how to parlay this into me meeting Pierce Brosnan but it will happen.)

In any case, if you ever wondered about the provenance of Lady B’s general awesomeness, know this: we didn’t just make it up.  It’s written in history.

The Isabella Stewart Gardner Musuem is worth seeking out — but what’s your favorite little known museum?

 

 

Since the entire Ballroom Team is right now holed up in a magic TARDIS-like carriage complete with disco ball, hot tub, Monty and a smuggled case of Ratafia (thanks, Tessa!), I thought this Saturday Salon would be a good time to think about carriages.

I mean, who doesn’t love carriages? The stuff of Cinderella and newly minted Princesses and period films. They’re all magic in fiction of course…and I’m not just talking about the pumpkin. They’re infinitely larger inside than out–built, in romance at least, to house a very tall, wicked hero, a heroine with skirts that rise marvelously well, and activities that tend to take more space and–well–comfort than any historically accurate 19th Century conveyance really could.

But I write fiction, and so historical accuracy on the inside isn’t really necessary.

On the outside, however, I do love the real deal.

I’m very lucky to not only live in New York city, a mere 30 minutes from the Long Island Carriage Museum…which Eric assures me is the nerdiest museum on the Eastern seaboard. The Carriage Museum is awesome. It’s filled with coaches and landaus and curricles…and enough space that you can actually stand next to them and if you’re, say, 6 feet tall, realize that there is no way that you would ever have fit inside one of these things.

Thanks, facts, for getting in the way of fantasy.

It doesn’t change the fact that I still love the things. I love writing carriage scenes — in fact, in my very first book, The Season (an historical romance for teens), the scene that made me the very happiest to write was a carriage scene in which the hero takes the heroine for a ride in his new curricle, and she begs him to let her drive. He doesn’t allow it, of course (because this is pre-romance when he’s still more like an annoying older brother than a heart-stopping love), but I grinned the entire time I was writing it.

Do you have a favorite carriage scene from a novel?

I visit museums every chance I get and never fail to come away with ideas. During my California RWA trip I made it to both Getty Museums–the Villa at Malibu devoted to classical antiquities and the Getty Center, which contains mostly European fine and decorative arts. Wow. I can’t imagine a more spectacular pair of locations. The latter in particular is the most amazing museum building (or rather complex of buildings) I’ve ever seen.

I took a ton of notes and photos but the single item that struck me the most on this trip is this Turkish style bed–Lit à la Turque– dating from the 1750s. It’s like a huge over-stuffed armchair, suitable for the world’s biggest Papa Bear. Here’s the curator’s description:

“Jean-Baptiste Tilliard made this unusually large bed for a bedroom in a grand private residence. The bed would have been placed sideways against a wall, with a draped baldachin, now missing, above. The large wheels allowed servants to pull out the body of the bed easily, leaving the tall back attached to the wall while they made it up. It was probably set into an alcove or niche in the bedroom wall.”

Mattress on wheels! Love it. You’ll see this in a book one of these days.

So I got to thinking about beds, an item of furniture much used in romances (ahem.) Back in the dawn of history, people crashed on piles of rushes or animal skins. They soon discovered that it was warmer and drier to sleep raised from the floor, thus the bed was invented.

Not until the Renaissance did beds become truly magnificent. And even then I suspect the mattresses weren’t as comfortable as we would wish. No Posturepedics for our couples. But boy did those beds look good. I took a little jaunt through the Victoria and Albert Museum website in search of beds worth of a ducal hero.

The Great Bed of Ware is ten feet wide (Super King size? Emperor size?) and built around 1590 for an inn in Ware, Hertfordshire. It made an appearance in one of Loretta Chase’s books.

This one dates from about 1700, made for the Earl of Melville for the state apartments at Melville House in Fife, Scotland. It has the original hangings of Genoa velvet backed with ivory Chinese silk damask linings embroidered with crimson silk trimmings.

Such “state” beds were often made for the visit of a monarch. Visiting Castle Howard in Yorkshire (which has the giant bed which Laurence Olivier occupied in Brideshead Revisited), the guide told of a young family member who was allowed to sleep in the state bed and left his sneakers behind. The visitors next day found the shoes more entertaining than anything on the tour.

My last V and A illustration is a 17th century Chinese bed. It looks awfully spindly. Even if it had a mattress and hangings I’d be afraid to set an energetic love scene in this. Better the giant puffy armchair.

What’s your ideal setting for a love scene? Does it have to be a bed? If so, what kind?

Dear Ballroom Guests, Shhhh…..

If you’re wondering why I’m whispering this afternoon, it’s because our fair hostess, Lady B., has dozed off in the shade, decorous snores arising from under the brim of her fetching straw bonnet, chilled lemonade nearby, painted fan in hand, and one of the authoresses’ romantic novels sprawled across her chest. I hope it wasn’t mine that put her to sleep, but the heat these days could undo any lady of her delicate constitution.

 Ah, Constitutions… that brings to mind my topic of today.

While our aristocratic English lady dozes to prepare herself for the night’s festivities, I have a rebellious message to give you from the erstwhile Colonies. 

As you may know, the summer of 2012 marks the 200 Year Anniversary of the War of 1812 – the “second war of independence,” right in the heart of our dear Regency period – a moment in history when America nearly lost her freedom.

 

 

 

This fact was driven home to me when I went up to Lake Erie to tour the beautiful brig, Niagara, a surviving American battle ship from the War of 1812. That ship bears the scars of that war. The docent (and current captain) of this historical sailing vessel tells of how her decks ran ankle deep with blood.  The whole story of how a small American fleet was hastily built on the shores of Lake Erie – at the time, a raw frontier – was awe-inspiring to me. Northwestern Pennsylvania had always had lots of good timber, but in 1812, there was no one for miles around who knew how to build a ship.

But the country was under attack. An invasion force was on its way, hitting the East Coast, with another battalion coming down into the Heartland by way of Canada. It was a national emergency, and experienced shipbuilders had to be rushed into all the way over from the coast of New England (especially Rhode Island). If not for their ingenuity and skill, we may well have lost our country. 

Indeed, when I visited the Niagara with my dearest “E” (Eric) that day, I was struck by the thought that if things had gone differently in 1812, this little known and supposedly minor war could have changed the entire course of human events on planet earth.

Why?

Because there would have been no America. The grand experiment of the Founding Fathers would have died about the same time that Napoleon’s empire did on the other side of the ocean, at British hands. (One wonders, if the War of 1812 had dragged on a few more years, might the Crown have sicced the Iron Duke on us once he finished off Napoleon? Shudder!)

By 1812, the Founding Fathers who still survived were old men, and the birthright of freedom they had procured at such a dear cost had been passed on to their now grown children and the first crop of grandkids, who would have been in their late teens and early 20’s. It was “Liberty: The Next Generation” and the Empire was about to Strike Back.

Things had been quiet for a good twenty-three years. The fresh trouble started when the British Navy instated a policy of impressing American sailors into service. You see, America was technically neutral in the war between England and Napoleon, that  staple of Regency romance and endless supply of tortured romance heroes. But the British did not entirely buy America’s neutrality. Nor did they like the fact that American merchants continued to do with Napoleon’s France despite England trying to outlaw this. Therefore, the British instated a policy of stopping and searching American ships they came across. Unfortunately, they did not stop there.

Suspicious that their former colonists were possibly colluding with Boney, they treated American sailors more like rebel Englishmen or criminals, and pressed them into service on British ships. Presumably the Brits were desperate for more hands on deck, given that they were in the fight of their lives against the quasi-Hitler of the 19^th century, Napoleon. It didn’t matter.

Making a slave of an American is just about the worst thing you can do to us. President James Madison left off fighting the bankers who wanted to establish the Fed, and convened his Cabinet. After a huddle, the U.S. government declared that these seizures of American men by British Navy captains was an act of war.

And so, the fight was on. Would the new generation of Americans have what it takes to remain independent, or would they buckle and fold under pressure like a cheap suit? 

Because freedom, as we say each year on the 4^th of July, isn’t free.

(I can’t do justice in this blog post to the complexities of the War of 1812 or the heroism of the generation of Americans who won it, but if you want to learn more, check out http://www.visit1812.com/history/ or http://starspangled200.org/Pages/Home.aspx or read Chapter 5 of A Patriot’s History of the United States by Professors Larry Schweikart and Michael Allen, entitled “Small Republic, Big Shoulders, 1789-1815” for an overview.)

The threat from England was very real. If anything, the Brits were more motivated than ever to get America back under their control. With a twenty-year war underway in Europe, they needed the money, man-power, and natural resources that America is blessed with. The War of 1812 is a fascinating subject, but since July is America’s birthday month, I thought it might be interesting to look at what might have happened and how our lives might be different if things had gone the other way—if England had indeed won the War of 1812 and regained control of the United States.

I am not a history expert, and I don’t play one on TV, but extrapolating fictional ideas out of historical facts is the job I do every day and have done for 15 years. I thought while Lady B. is napping, it might be very interesting to talk a stroll down Alternative History lane. So here we go. 

Putting on my historical writer’s hat, here is what I propose might have happened if the British had won the War of 1812 – good and bad:

1. In an age of “honor” and saving face, the first order of business might well have been payback time. The elderly Founding Fathers who still survived would’ve been hunted down, arrested, and hanged as traitors to the Crown.

2. Slavery never would’ve taken hold in the United States the way it did, because England had already outlawed slavery in 1806. There would have been no need for a Civil War.

3. The Native Americans would also have been treated very differently. King George was fascinated by the American Indians and had decreed that the Colonists were not to set foot over the Alleghenies. Lands beyond these mountains were to have remained Indian territory. In the War of 1812, the Shawnee chief Tecumsah forged a confederation of tribes to fight on the side of the British. Who knows how long the Crown’s good intentions toward the Indians would have lasted? But at least there was initially a kindness there, despite the Founding Fathers regarding King George strictly as a tyrant.

4. If England had won the War of 1812, America probably would’ve been consolidated and combined with Canada, and with these massive natural resources–on top of England’s dominance of the sea AND being the leader in technology at the time (early Industrial Revolution)–I cannot help but think England would’ve become a Mega-Superpower even decades before the height of the British Empire under Queen Victoria. However, if that had happened in 1812, that would’ve set off the 19^th century diplomats’ sense of the all-important “Balance of Power,” and therefore…

5. It would have changed the whole fate of Europe, as well. The other nations in Europe would have seen a Mega-Superpower England as a dire threat and might well have rallied around Napoleon whether they liked him or not, to provide a suitable counterbalance. My bet would be on the flip-flopper Czar Alexander of Russia changing sides again, to stand with Napoleon against this gigantic rival. 

So there’s my “World-Building” (as we say in fiction craft) – whew! – the big picture of how world history might have been different, but what about life in these United States? How would it be different today if England had won the War of 1812?

1. Americans would have better manners *grin* (just kidding!!) and would probably prefer tea instead of coffee.

2. Hilltops throughout the United States would likely be dominated by lavish stately homes, where aristocrats with their own special set of laws would look down on the rest of us. (In Regency times, you went to jail if you were a common man who punched an aristocrat.) Since they were the landowners—and note that English aristocrats had already purchased or been granted extensive American land holdings, especially in the South–it is likely that most of us today would rent rather than own our homes. Just make your rent check out to the Duke of Devonshire, or whomever. 

3. They’re great in fiction, but in real life, the presence of aristocrats among us would have resulted in a class-based society. In America we have different socioeconomic levels, but these are fluid. A person can change from one socioeconomic level from another depending on how much money they happen to be making in any particular time. Class is permanent.

Even today, here’s an example that drives me nuts. Every time some snooty British magazine writer interviews one of my favorite actors, Sean Bean, the writer makes sure to snidely point out that the actor’s father was a welder. What does that have to do with his movie roles or his training as an actor? Absolutely nothing.
          But they make sure to bring up this fairly irrelevant detail just so you’ll know exactly where on the social totem pole this man should be viewed, no matter how many blockbuster movies he’s in or how much money he makes from them. No matter how accomplished an actor he might be, he will always be viewed a certain way in the eyes of those who see everything through class.
          Needless to say, to Americans, that attitude is demeaning. We judge people based on what they themselves say and do, not on who their parents were, and for everyone, no matter their birth, the sky’s the limit. 

4. If England had won the War of 1812, there would’ve been no Elvis, no Willie Nelson, no Lynard Skynard, no Aerosmith, and probably no Louis Armstrong, no Ella Fitzgerald, no Mo-Town, and no jazz. These forms are unique utterances of the American spirit. JMO.

 ROCKIN’ LIKE IT’S 1976…

5. There would have been no “melting pot of the world” for all of those immigrants who came to America for freedom of religion. England was certainly tolerant of other religions in Prinny’s day, but those believers did not have the same rights as members in good standing of the official Church of England.

In closing, if England had won the War of 1812, I believe the biggest difference would have been in the American character. Being born into 19^th century England meant being told your place and accepting it. This is anathema to the American spirit.

Freedom of the sort our Founding Fathers envisioned and passed down to us meant at its core (at least to me) that YOU decide for yourself what you’re going to be.

With the Constitution, the Founders set up conditions originally intended to get government out of  the people way’s, freeing them to create whatever they wanted to create and to become whatever they wanted to become. 

Lady B (stirring from her slumber): Gracious I can’t believe I nodded off. What is going on here? What are you whispering about?

          Gaelen: Why, good afternoon, my lady. I was just making conversation with our friends here. Today I’m asking – What is your favorite period in American history? What bygone age in America’s past captures your imagination? Pioneers, Victorian Boston bluebloods, Jazz Age flappers, Greatest Generation, hippies…?

Lady B: Miss MacLean! What are all these people doing in my ballroom? And what on *earth* happened to your face?

Sarah: Oh, Lady B! I’m so happy you joined us! We are –

Lady B: It’s rather difficult *not* to join you, gel; you’ve commandeered my ballroom. And it’s not even a day when you are usually *here.*

Sarah: Right. About that.

Lady B: And don’t think I didn’t notice that you entirely missed the ball yesterday. There were guests looking for you.

Sarah: I know. And I’m so so sorry about that. I do have a –

Lady B: I hope you have a very good reason for it. And for the abomination that is your maquillage this morning.

Sarah: I do! In fact, it’s the same reason! It’s the Jubilee!

Lady B (blinks): I beg your pardon?

Sarah: The Queen’s Diamond Jubilee!

Lady B: Which Queen?

Sarah (blinks): Queen Elizabeth!

Lady B: Miss MacLean, are you quite well? I believe the paint on your face…it’s possible it’s turned you quite addlepated. Queen Elizabeth has been dead for several centuries.

Sarah: Not that Queen Elizabeth, Lady B…the next one. Queen Elizabeth the second.

Lady B: Miss MacLean, I understand that you Americans think you know everything, but I assure you, I am a loyal subject of King George…who, despite sharing in your affliction now and then, remains our sovereign.

Sarah (pauses, considers her next words): Totally. But eventually, there will be a Queen (who’s a pretty nice girl). Two of them, actually, and some kings in the middle. One of whom will abdicate.

Lady B (eyes wide): Surely not.

Sarah: Oh, he will. And it will be a thing. In fact, it will be for an American divorcee.

Lady B: Now I *know* you’re mentally ill.

Sarah: It’s quite a story, actually…ends with a war and a stutterer. And there’s a fabulous movie starring Mr. Darcy.

Lady B: From the novel?

Sarah: Sort of. Yes. (Realizes the train is off the rails) But never mind, my lady, all this will happen a while from now. And the long and the short of it is…there will be a Queen who wears awesome hats. And carries a purse that contains who knows what. And who ultimately has a Diamond Jubilee. And actually has fun at it.

Lady B: My goodness!

Sarah: I know!

Lady B: You expect me to believe that a Queen will carry her own handbag?

Sarah (nodding): It’s a mystery to us, too. Anyway, there will be a week of celebrations, and I’ll get distracted by all the flags and royals and pomp and circumstance and miss a Thursday Ball. And then…well…then we have this conversation.

Lady B: And you arrive painted in the colors of the British flag?

Sarah (smiles): I do. But check out the others! There’s Gaelen in go-go boots, and Lauren in her faux crown, and did you see Sabrina’s shoes? And Tessa’s lips? And Kate’s incredible coat?

Lady B (considering the group): Dear me. That coat is falling apart.

Sarah: I think it will be ok. It worked for David Bowie.

Lady B: For David who?

Sarah: It’s not important. What’s important is that we have Jubilee fever!

Lady B (looking down her nose): I’m going to guarantee it’s *some kind* of fever.

Sarah: You really don’t believe me!

Lady B: I’m afraid I do not. The most I believe at this point is that you require a rest.

Sarah: Well…considering the jubilee is over and I’ve been furiously following it for more than a week, you’re probably right.

Lady B: Miss MacLean…I’m always right. You may use one of the rooms abovestairs. But do wash your face before placing it upon my linens, will you?

***

Do you have a favorite photo/video/moment/outfit/souvenir from last week’s Jubilee celebration? Share it in comments (photos welcome)!

 

As I enter the ballroom today, Lady B approaches me at one. She’s walking with purpose, and a curious gleam shines in her eye.

Miss Dare, I hear that this is another of those Colonial holidays.

Yes, indeed, Lady B.  It’s Presidents’ Day.

Presidents. Hm. The American form of government may be more democratic, but it strikes me as decidedly less romantic.  No princes. No dukes.  No knights.  Somehow, I doubt that young ladies lay their heads to their pillows each night and dream of one day marrying a senator.

You may be right, Lady B.  And that’s no doubt one reason why we Americans make such liberal use of England as a setting in our romance novels.  But American history has found room for a love story or two.  Thus far, only one president has been married in the White House, but the story was like something straight out of a Regency romance.

Indeed?  Details, Miss Dare.  Pictures, or it didn’t happen.

Here’s a picture!

Grover Cleveland was in his late 40s when he became president, and he was, as they say, a confirmed bachelor.  Actually, you could even say he was a bit of a rake–he’d admitted to fathering a child out of wedlock. After he was elected, he lived in the White House with his bluestocking sister, a scholar who wrote books on George Eliot and St. Augustine and chafed under the social restrictions of the day.

This sister sounds like she’d make an interesting heroine in her own right.  Did Mr. Cleveland marry one of her bluestocking friends?

No, President Cleveland fell in love with his ward, Frances Folsom, a woman 27 years his junior.

Twenty-seven years old?

No, twenty-seven years youngerthan he.  She was only 21 when they married, and he’d known her since her infancy. Her father and Grover Cleveland were business partners, and Mr. Cleveland became executor of Mr. Folsom’s will when he died. Though he was never Frances’ legal guardian, he was very involved in supervising her upbringing and education (which included stints at charming-sounding institutions such as “Madame Brecker’s French Kindergarten” and “Miss Bissell’s School for Young Ladies”). But it wasn’t until Frances reached her late teens that Mr. Cleveland’s regard transformed from beneficent guardianship to courtly love. He proposed marriage in 1885, shortly after Frances had finished her studies at Wells College.

My goodness. A proposal of marriage from the President of the United States. That must have come as a shock.

To her mother, it certainly did–or at least, that’s what was rumored. Gossip was that Mrs. Emma Folsom was thinking the President might propose marriage to her.

Scandal!

Scandal was precisely what President Cleveland feared. To delay speculation, he sent his fiance on a tour of Europe for most of the following year–for finishing, cultural exposure, and–of course–shopping. When they married in 1886, he announced the White House wedding less than a week in advance, to avoid press attention as much as possible.

Albert: <SQUAWK>Paparazzi!<SQUAWK>

Exactly, Albert. He knew the reporters would hound them, and he was right. When they left on a train for their mountain honeymoon, a second train full of reporters followed and set up camp. They cataloged the newlyweds’ every move for the public.

But contrary to President Cleveland’s concerns, the public wasn’t scandalized. Rather, the older bachelor’s obvious affection for his young, charming, vivacious bride endeared him to the American public. The first couple became an object of much fascination. Frances was a large part of his reelection campaign, due to her popularity. They appeared everywhere, on everything. Here they are, in a sewing machine ad.

What a remarkable story, Miss Dare.

Isn’t it? Not just a remarkable story, but one with a remarkable heroine. I’m just stunned, trying to imagine what it must be like to be twenty-one years old, preparing not only to marry a man nearly three decades your senior, but the President of the United States! What an enormous amount of pressure Frances must have felt. And yet she thrived in the role of First Lady and remained devoted to her husband until his death. She must have been a very remarkable woman indeed.

What do you think of May/December romances, in fiction? Any favorites to mention in the comments?
Do you have a favorite First Lady?

So you think you’re losing your head over your sweetheart?  Well, I’ll see your smarmy Vermont Teddy Bear and raise you a beheading. SAY WHAT??  Oh, Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone (a  little early).

Since the Great Holiday of Romance is nearly upon us, I found myself curious ~ proud History Dork that I am ~ about the historical truth behind St. Valentine’s Day and how all this got chocolatey-rosey goodness got started. Who was this Valentine fellow, when did he live, and how did he come to be the patron saint of this day of love? And did he really wear a diaper and go around shooting people with a bow and arrow?

Needing to know, naturally, I put it into The Google and could barely wait to come tumbling headlong into the Ballroom to tell you all what I’ve unearthed.

<Squawk! Beheadings Aren’t Romantic! Squawk!>

No, indeed, Albert, I quite agree. A stupid $100 Teddy Bear (and I’ve sworn to garotte my husband if he ever gets me one of these bits of clutter–CHOCOLATE, MAN, IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU)…as I was saying…the teddy bear is a far cry from the sentiments that motivated our Saint Valentine, who laid down his life for what he believed in.

Lady B: Ms. Foley, whatever are you on about today? Have you had too much of that horrid Colonial coffee you are always swigging?

Afraid so, dear hostess. I’m positively bouncing off the walls with it. But I can’t help it! I am eager to share with my fellow history lovers a glimpse into the world of Ancient Rome in the 3rd Century A.D. …

Lady B: Ahh, Italy! Now that Boney is quite thrashed, I plead every day with my Lord B. to convey me thither. How I long to feel the Tuscan sun warm my cheeks…

Egads, Lady B., you are waxing poetical.

Lady B: Isn’t that what Italy’s all about? Byron and Shelley are there…  

Yes, in our Regency day, certes, but in the 3rd century, you had to be careful to keep your head about you.

Lady B: You’re going to fill my Ballroom with tingling Gothic horror, I presume? Go on then, if you must…

It was a dark and stormy night — no wait, scratch that.

 It was a secretive yet joyous occasion as the Roman priest, Valentinus, stood before a small, hidden gathering of believers to marry a young couple in the early Christian church. WHEN SUDDENLY – Roman soldiers burst in and began wreaking havoc on them. The wedding guests scattered; the groom was injured in the fracas, the bride barely escaped ravishment, but the priest, ah, the poor, brave priest, Valentinus, was arrested. The year was 269 AD, and to be a Christian was a capital offence. (“DRAMATIZATION”)

Valentinus was a priest of the early Church who was helping Christians survive during the persecution under the Roman Emperor Claudius II.

Claudius, the villain in our story, was born 213 A.D. His parentage is not recorded. He served all his life in the Roman armies, fighting against the Goths, working his way up to become the commander of an elite cavalry force. Thanks to his troops’ devotion, he came to power during the chaotic rule of Gallienus. He was said to be one tough mo-fo, knocking the teeth out of a horse with one punch. (I suppose it tried to bite him?) It seemed he ruled his troops with an iron fist, and he brought this same sensibility to his rule when he became Emperor at age 55. His street name was Claudius the Goth.

His rule only lasted two years. He died of smallpox while arranging a campaign against the Vandals, and his younger brother, Quintillus, briefly seized power before also being replaced by the Aurelian, “Restorer of the World.”  Claudius II was a middle-of-the-road persecutor of Christians, according to Church history. Aurelian, by contrast, led one of the ten great persecutions of the early Church. 

Gallenius, his predecessor, by contrast, had had a tolerant view of the Christians, but the Roman Senate had grumbled that Gallenius had not been devout enough to the Roman gods. Thus, to gain approval, Claudius wanted to show himself as more attentive to the old ways, and always consulted the Sybilline Books before a battle. [Sybil as in the Delphic Oracle, those prophetesses of Apollo, also devoted to the 'great mother,' Cybele, and Ceres, goddess of the harvest.]

When Christians refused to give honor to Apollo & company, it seemed to the leaders that they were undermining social unity (Roman policy was generally tolerant/inclusive of the gods of the many, many cultures they conquered–to be otherwise would have been too difficult). They simply added more gods into their total population of deities as they conquered new lands, but the Christians would not go along with this.

True, the Jews didn’t believe in multiple gods, either, but they didn’t go around trying to spread their faith. The Christians did, and so the Roman authorities saw them as a bad influence. Even the ordinary folk were frightened that these nonbelievers insulted the gods like Apollo, Mars and Jupiter, and would bring down punishment on everybody if they were not rebuked. So, the Christians had to be made an example of.

 

Lions, tigers and bears, oh my–though the punishment they received under Claudius the Goth wasn’t anywhere near the viciousness of the grand-baddy of them all, Nero. To get the flavor of what had already been done to Christians under Nero, listen to  the Roman historian Tacitus:

“Besides being put to death they [the Christians] were made to serve as objects of amusement; they were clad in the hides of beast and torn to death by dogs; others were crucified, others set on fire to serve to illuminate the night when daylight failed. Nero had thrown open his grounds for the display, and was putting on a show in the circus, where he mingled with the people in the dress of a charioteer or drove about in his chariot. All this gave rise to a feeling of pity, even toward men whose guilt merited the most exemplary punishment; for it was felt that they were being destroyed not for the public good but to satisfy the cruelty of an individual.” (Nero, pictured left)

Still, while Claudius II was a sweetheart compared to Nero, it was still a capital crime to be a Christian. The government could confiscate your property and threw your in jail, and then things got nastier from there if your still refused to give honor to their gods.

Into this alarming situation comes Valentinus, a priest who lives in Rome and finds a new round of persecution percolating when Claudius II seizes power. Legend has it he was caught marrying Christian couples, but one way or another, he was arrested in 269 A.D. and eventually brought before Claudius.

Claudius supposedly took a liking to him, but Valentinus went too far and tried to convert him. Claudius sentenced him to death. While in jail, according to legend, Valentinus healed the eyes of his jailer’s blind daughter. On the night before his execution, he wrote her a note along with this gift of healing, signed, “From your Valentine.”

Then the day came and it was time for his sentence to be carried out. But when beating with clubs was not enough to kill him, he was beheaded near the Flaminian Gate and is buried on the Via Flaminia, north of Rome.

Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales Guy, but you already knew that

Lady B: What a tragical history…! 

The lives of saints are steeped in legend and obscured by the centuries, but how their stories evolve is interesting, in itself. For example, some say the great English poet Geoffrey Chaucer and his circle (mid 1300′s) had a hand in crafting the story of Saint Valentine as it has come down to us today.  

How ever much of all this you do or don’t believe, archaeologists found a Roman catacomb and an ancient church dedicated to Saint Valentine, and in 496 AD Pope Gelasius marked February 14th as a celebration in honor of his martyrdom. 

Today, Saint Valentine is the Patron Saint of engaged couples, happy marriages, love, lovers, and young people. He is represented in pictures with birds and roses. (Thanks to Wikipedia, www.Catholic.org, which has a full battery of saint bios, and www.EarlyChurch.org.uk for info in this article.)

So the next time you hear some cynic scoffing about how Valentine’s Day is a made-up holiday invented by the Hallmark Greeting Industrial Complex, remind them that LOVE is and always has been worth celebrating, whether it’s the One True Love of some ordinary person’s lifetime or the love that inspires a saint to lay down his life. Indeed, if LOVE is not worth celebrating with a special day all it’s own, I don’t know what is.

So, what are you giving the one you love for Valentine’s Day this year? Even if it’s not a spouse/lover, it’s a chance to let our dearest friends/family know we love them. Have you got anything special planned? If you do, please share. I have no idea what to get my husband…I don’t want to have to resort to a Teddy Bear… (aw, lol, they’re not that bad, I guess, but I can’t see paying $100 for the dang thing…)

Once upon a time in the far distant past, I announced to my colleagues at work that I was leaving the job to pursue a PhD in history. Most of them stared blankly. But one of them grasped my hands and, eyes lit with excitement, wished me all the joy that could be had in my new endeavor.

I needn’t explain to you lovelies her reaction. It was my other colleagues, the Blank Stare colleagues, for whom I felt a little sad.

So I asked one of them what he thought of history. His reply: an endless series of dates to be memorized. To him, for example, the year 910 did not mean the conquest of a patch of coastland by a potent Viking warlord who then (wisely) made his bows to a Frankish king, setting on its eventual path a contest between Continent and Island that would last hundreds of years and shape the world that you and I read and write about every day. To my colleague the year 910 only meant ten extra minutes of cramming for the exam that he could’ve otherwise spent drinking with his buddies.

I didn’t blame him. Dates mean nothing in the absence of the stories that give them life.

My motto: History always in service to the story.

That said, keeping track of time is obviously crucial to a historian and writer of historical fiction. But it can be tricky, especially when the chronology includes multiple players and storylines. This past year while writing my new Falcon Club series I learned how tricky it is indeed. You see, when I wrote Captured by a Rogue Lord, several minor characters from that book each told me they expected me to write their stories too. And I was to make those stories part of my next series. Naturally I replied, “Of course! You’re the bosses!”

New Life Maxim: Never blithely promise my characters anything. Except HEA’s, of course. And lots of steamy sex.

But I had promised, and secretly I couldn’t wait to write those stories. So, because my Falcon Club and Rogues of the Sea series take place simultaneously, I broke out the time-keeping devices.

Chronologies come first. Like all historians and authors of historical fiction, I have shelves and shelves of Books O’ History. From these I’ve devised a spreadsheet of all the Important Dates and Other Stuff relevant to my stories. Woven into this timeline are the major life events of all my heroes and heroines. It is a mammoth document, and wicked cool. (Sometimes I just sit and stare at it, smiling kind of dopey-like.)

Calendars come next. I believe I once before mentioned my abiding appreciation [Ed. note: "appreciation" is a gigantically understated euphemism] for Men of the Sea, as well as my tendency to wallpaper my office with historical ship calendars. Not long ago I was trying to work out an overlapping chronology having to do with a sea journey in How To Be a Proper Lady. When I finally managed to figure it out — by scribbling notes all over one of my old ship calendars — I cheered like a castaway who’s just spotted a sail on the horizon.

Then there are other historical resources that are less time keeping devices and more story-enhancing devices — resources that allow an author to spend far too much of her own time online in the wee hours. For instance, when I wished to entwine the hero and heroine of When a Scot Loves a Lady in an embrace in a garden a few nights after Christmas 1816, I went to NASA’s 6000-year-long listing of the phases of the moon to discover that yes indeed the inconstant moon would have been bright enough to cast my Scot’s sculpted profile in a silvery light.

But however addictive these sorts of resources are for a historian who happens to love dates and other details like that, in the end it’s all about the story. The adventure of humanity defies the Blank Stare, and it’s a heck of a lot more fun.

Have you ever read Umberto Eco’s brilliant mystery novel, Foucault’s Pendulum? It’s about modern publishing and medieval Templars and creativity and arrogance and addiction and insanity. Mostly it’s about time, that pendulum swinging eternally without concern for the Earth rotating beneath it, and the wild, unfettered storytelling that emerges from history but cannot be corralled or bridled, and certainly not tamed. I teach a course on medieval Christianity in modern film and fiction, and I always assign this book, because it is at once inspiring and humbling. Time is not ours to control or confine. For when we attempt to do so, therein lies madness. And I think, perhaps, that is a good thing to remember on New Year’s Eve.

After this year spent wrestling with timelines and chronologies (happily, given all the steamy sex and HEA’s), I’m going to read Foucault’s Pendulum again starting tomorrow. How about you? What book will you begin the New Year with? An old favorite or a new book you’ve been dying to read? Or if you’re in a frisky New Year’s Eve kind of mood, can you suggest a suggestive caption for the Foucault Pendulum image above?

Tis the day after Christmas and all through the ballroom,
Not an author is stirring…books and packages loom.
Empty boxes are strewn round the gilt and the glitter, 
And no one seems interested in being more than a sitter.

Miranda and Sarah enter with care,
Trying not to make noise – last night was a bear.
Turkey and roast beef, puddings and pie,
Hot toddies and wine…here’s mud in yer eye! 

Katharine curled up on a chaise, eating cookies,
With Sabrina and Tessa—all three reading bookies.
Gaelen is brainstorming, stroking pretty green feathers,
The entire scene reads like an outtake from Heathers. 

The newcomers head for a nearby chair,
Ready to call for two cups of dog’s hair,
When Lady B enters, chipper and clean,
Rosy cheeked and outfitted in hunting cloak green.

Lady B: Authoresses! Do you plan to laze about all day?

There is a collective groan from the six.

Lady B raises that eyebrow of hers: I beg your pardon?

Sarah: There isn’t seriously going to be a ball today, is there? I don’t think I can face it.

Miranda: Can’t be. It’s a bank holiday.

Lady B: A what?

Sabrina: They probably don’t have those yet, either.

Sarah: Very likely not…remember…what’s his name from Dickens? He had to work on Christmas. Day after, too. Jacob Marley?

Tessa: That was the ghost.

Sarah: Right. Well whoever. The peg-leg kid’s dad.

Gaelen: Tiny Tim.

Sarah: Right. Him.

Katharine: I don’t think he had a peg leg.

Sarah: Really? What was it?

Katharine: I think he was just small.

Tessa: Either way, I think you mean Bob Cratchit.

Miranda: Unfortunate name, that.

Sarah: Totally. Not a good hero name at all.

Gaelen: I like Jacob Marley, though. That’s a good one.

There is a murmur of agreement from the authoresses.

Sabrina: Was Scrooge a banker?

Sarah: Something like that.

Sabrina: Huh.

Miranda: Well, take that with a grain of salt. She also thought Tiny Tim had a peg leg.

Sarah: Are you absolutely sure he doesn’t?

Katharine: Yes.

Sarah: Well, you’re the pirate expert.

Katharine: Exactly.

Gaelen: I think it’s just a crutch.

Sarah: Oh…hmmm. I guess that would make sense.

Lady B: What are you six talking about?

In fairness, we had gone off on a rather long and bizarre tangent…particularly bizarre if you were living in 18wheneverLadyBlives and you hadn’t even heard of Ebeneezer Scrooge.

<squawk!> Bah Humbug! <squawk!>

Sabrina, narrowing her gaze on Albert: That bird knows more about the future than he lets on.

Lady B’s voice rises: Authoresses! I must insist you cease this prattle!

Miranda, hand to temple: Not so loud, please, Lady B.

Lady B’s eyebrow goes again: Are you overhung, Miss Neville?

Miranda: Not at all.

Lady B looks to the others: And the rest of you? Are you feeling in some way incapacitated this morning? I cannot imagine it being the case, as you are all here, collapsed about my ballroom like Christmas wrapping.

Sarah: That is an excellent simile, my lady.

Lady B’s tone turns cool: You are not the only clever ones in the room, Miss MacLean.

Sarah: Of course not! I never meant…

Lady B: Never mind. You’re all coming out with me.

They return their attention to their estimable hostess.

Katharine, cookie halfway to her mouth: I beg your pardon?

Lady B: What you need…

Miranda: Oh, no.

Lady B: …is some fresh air.

Sarah closes her eyes for a moment, then looks to Miranda: What is happening right now?

Miranda: It’s Boxing Day.

Sarah: Right. The day after Christmas. A bank holiday for everyone but what’s his name.

Katharine: Bob Cratchitt.

Lady B: What a hideous name.

<squawk> Once more, with feeling! <squawk!>

Sarah: Isn’t it a day to recover from…festivities? You know, sit around and…eat  more? And read the books one received as presents? And catalog the rest of your loot?

Miranda: Unless you have a Horribly Bracing British Mother.

Sarah: I have a British Mother.

Miranda: Be thankful she’s not Horribly Bracing.

Lady B: Do pay attention! What you need is some fresh air. Foxhunting, pheasant shooting, or just a nice long walk through the mud.

Miranda, gives Sarah a knowing look.

Sarah: Ah. I see.

Miranda: Now, it’s true that a few hours away from one’s loved ones can be an excellent thing. One year we had a chimney fire on Boxing Day and apologized abjectly to the firemen for taking them away from their families during the holiday. They cheerfully told us they appreciated a Boxing Day call because it got them out of the house. December 26th is also the Feast of Stephen.

Sarah: That I knew. SHAMELESS PLUG: St. Stephen’s plays a rather important role in my February book, A Rogue By Any Other Name. There is caroling.

Miranda: Good King Wenceslas Looked Out?

Sarah: Precisely.

Miranda: I love that carol because you get to sing in a squeaky voice for the page and down in your boots for the king.

Sarah: I love the scene in Love Actually when the Prime Minister’s security guard belts it out and shocks everyone.

Miranda: Less cheerfully, it’s the day St. Stephen was stoned to death for reasons I cannot now recall.

Sarah: Downer.

Miranda: Agreed. But it’s also the day for the distribution of Christmas Boxes.

Sarah: Fun! But isn’t some Odiously Perky Random Research Geek going to point out in comments that Boxing Day isn’t Regency?

Katharine: The Oxford English Dictionary gives 1833 as the first use.

Miranda (holding on to her aching head): Lookee here, OPRRG. I cede to no one, not even Katharine, in my love for the OED (see her post on the subject) but those guys had to actually read all the books, so it’s not surprising they missed things. They didn’t have the awesome search capacity of Google Books which confirms that Boxing Day goes way back into the eighteenth century. It may go even further back and be named for when the poor boxes in churches were opened and the donations distributed to the poor.  Christmas Boxes, however, were mostly given to tradesmen with whom you did business and consisted of sums of money, not necessarily in a box.

Sarah: You mean shopkeepers? Like giving a gift to the guy in the cheese shop? There was this brie last night…

Miranda: Yes. The cheesemonger and the grocer and the coal merchant. Also service providers such as the livery stable, the dressmaker, the chimney sweep, the crossing sweeper.

Sarah: Like tipping the mailman or the New York Times guy. Damn. Which I forgot to do.

Lady B: Miss MacLean, language, please.

Sarah: Now, that’s more like my mother.

Miranda: A writer in 1731 complained that an unending line of people showed up at his house on Boxing Day, expecting a handout. They all went down to the tavern for the evening and got drunk and kvetched about cheapskates who only gave them sixpence. Mind you, the writer seems to have been a bit of a Grinch so I take his account with a pinch of salt.

Lady B: You’re forgetting servants. We always take care of the servants on Boxing Day. In fact, I was up early to do it.

Miranda: You are generous beyond measure, Lady B. That tradition seems to vary from house to house.

Lady B: The best ones keep to it.

Sarah: Of course they do.

Lady B: Are you trying to get out of taking a walk, Miss MacLean?

Sarah: Is it working?

Lady B: No. It shall do you all good.

Sarah: So, Lady B, which servants do you treat?

Lady B: Lord B attends to the servants and tradesmen. I make gifts of money to my personal maid, my modiste, and my coiffeur.

Miranda: Absolutely. My hairdresser always gets a gift for her sterling work in keeping the gray at bay.

Lady B: Speak for yourself, Miranda. I assure you my color is quite natural.

<squawk> salt and pepper <squawk>

Lady B: Hush, Albert.

—

Today, the authoresses of the Ballroom would like to share a Christmas Box with you! Comment below with a post-Holiday (any holiday…not just Christmas!) tradition from your home…and SIX commenters will receive a surprise Christmas Box…one from each of our Authoresses…and Lady B, of course!

Sorry to our international readers, but this contest is US Only. 

It is the first of December, and the authoresses have gathered in their finest holiday frocks to celebrate the official beginning of this festive month. Gaelen & Miranda are chatting with a clutch of young women fluttering fans, Sabrina is deep in conversation with her cousin Mary, Katharine is feeding Albert a lobster patty, and Tessa…well she’s hovering over the Ratafia, so one can only hope she’s spiking it.

Lady B: “There are only five of you.”

The authoresses count. Lady B does not wait for someone to speak.

Lady B: ”Where is Miss MacLean?”

Sabrina: Oh, I’m sure she’ll be here.

Gaelen: She said she would be here. She was stopping on the way for something, but…

Lady B (sniffs): ”Well, she is late. Punctuality is a mark of good breeding.”

Miranda: Well, I’m not sure Sarah cares much for–

The doors to the ballroom fly open and Sarah enters with a too-loud cry and a large metal contraption in hand: I’m here!

Miranda: -good breeding.

Lady B raises a brow: “Yes. I’m beginning to see that.”

Sabrina: To be fair, no one likes a goody goody.

Lady B: “I would stay out of this particular conversation if I were you, Miss Darby.”

Tessa: Ratafia, Sabrina?

Sabrina: Don’t mind if I do!

Sarah, waving behind her at two footmen hovering on the other side of the ballroom doors: Come on! She turns to Lady B. I promise, you’re going to forgive me for being late when you see what I–

Lady B: “Miss MacLean! Is that a…fir tree? In my ballroom?”

Sarah, with a wide smile: It is! Happy Christmas!

Lady B, flustered: “Is it customary to murder flora as a gift in…where was it you were from?”

Sarah: Rhode Island, my lady.

Lady B: “Right. One of the earlier colonies, wasn’t it?”

Sarah: Yes, my lady.

Lady B raises a brow: “One of the troublesome ones.”

Sarah grins: Yes, my lady.

Lady B: “At any rate. What are you doing commandeering my footmen to interrupt my ball with this…this…”

Sarah: Christmas tree!

Lady B blinks. 

Miranda steps in: Sarah…they don’t have them here. Not yet.

Sarah: Oh sh–

Katharine coughs loudly to cover the end of the sentence.

Lady B turns to her: “Are you quite well, Miss Ashe?”

Katharine: Oh, yes, my lady. Thank you. I just…er…that is…the Ratafia…

Tessa, proudly: It’s strong.

Lady B nods: As it should be. Turning back to Sarah. “Now, what did you call this…item?”

Sarah (to Sabrina): It really is a problem this whole time/space continuum thing.

Sabrina: I’ve been saying that.

Sarah: What year is it anyway? Is Charlotte still alive?

The authoresses look from one to the other.

Miranda: I’m guessing yes.

Lady B gasps: “You’re guessing? Of course Queen Charlotte is alive! You should be ashamed of suggesting otherwise, Miss MacLean!”

Sarah: My apologies, my lady. Sometimes I get confused. A beat. Being American and all.

Lady B cocks an eyebrow.

Sarah hurries to move on, waving the footmen to the edge of the ballroom where a collection of heroes and heroines move out of the way. As she speaks, she crouches low and helps plant the tree inside the metal vise. Lady B watches, skeptically.

Sarah: At any rate…take my word for it, Lady B…the Christmas Tree is soon to be all the rage! They’re very popular in Germany. And in Austria!

Lady B does not seem convinced. Sarah looks for support from the troops. “A little backup, team?”

Gaelen: Huge in the Rhineland.

Lady B: The Rhineland?

Gaelen holds out her empty Ratafia cup. Tessa fills it.

Tessa: Yes. The Rhineland.

Miranda snickers.

Sarah: And I promise you, the Royal family absolutely has Christmas tree. Queen Charlotte loves them.

Lady B: “How is it you know this, Miss MacLean?”

Sarah (aside to Sabrina): I suppose Queen Victoria’s diaries aren’t the right answer?

Sabrina shakes her head. You might as well reference aliens.

Sarah, inspired: A lady never divulges her sources, Lady B.

Lady B seems to understand this adage: ”Quite. So, the tree simply stands there?”

Sarah, standing and stepping back to admire her handiwork: Well, traditionally, one decorates it.With candles…ribbon…spun sugar ornaments…

Lady B raises her brows: “From the Rhineland?”

Gaelen interjects: Absolutely.

Lady B: “How…odd. I should not be surprised, though, if it comes from Germany.” She returns her attention to Sarah. ”And for how long does it remain in the ballroom?”

Sarah: At least through Christmas day. But you’ll see, once it’s decorated, you’ll love it and want to keep it around.

Lady B raises a brow: “We shall see if I ‘love it,’ Miss MacLean.”

Sarah: Of course.

Albert flies to perch himself at the very top of the tree. 

Sarah: In my house, we put an angel at the top of the tree, you know.

<squawk!> Tis the Season!! <squawk!>