“It’s for RESEARCH.”

That’s what I told my husband anyway, as he looked over my shoulder as we sat next to each other on the couch.   I had my computer open, as I always do, and paying very little attention to this latest episode of Doctor Who (I’ve seen it already, but the hubs hasn’t.  He has acquiesced to my demand that he watch the series.  Hey, I watched Lost for him.)

“That’s not research,” he says.  “That’s porn.”

“It is not!” I cry.

“It is.  It’s house porn.”

Yes, dear reader, open on my computer was a Google image search for “19^th century English country manor.”  But these aren’t manors.  These are mansions.  Dream residences.  Castles at a time when they didn’t build castles anymore.  (My theory: too drafty.)  Some background might be in order: We have recently begun day dreaming about a house, and therefore many of our computer searches of late have been floor plans and neighborhoods.  But these manor houses are a bit out of our reach.  (To be fair, I’m pretty sure they are a bit out of the average billionaire’s reach too.) Thus, I wouldn’t day dream about living there.  Of course not.  Except when I do.

“I am writing about a house party, and it is at a very specific kind of house.”  I tell him importantly.  “I was simply using visual aids.”

“You were cheating.”

“It’s not cheating, and it’s not porn.” I reply firmly.  Then, under my breath.  “Everyone does it.”

“Fine,” he says. “What does your house have too look like.  In your book,” he clarifies.

Oh.  Right.  My book.  I told him it was a very specific house, after all.

“Well it has to be ostentatious.”  I reply.  “A bit over the top.”

“You have chosen your category well then.  What about this one?”

The Manor House at Castle Combe

“That one might do,” I muse.  “I like the vines.  It has a bell tower, even – a little one.  But I think it needs to be bigger.  Plus I need some turrets.  I like turrets.

“Riiiiight,” the husband answers.  “For your fictional characters.  You could make it fictionally bigger, you know.”  He scrolls down a bit, and points to another one.  “What about this one.  Turrets abound.”

The Hunting Tower at Chatsworth House

“Turrets abound, yes.  In fact, I think it’s made up entirely of turrets.”  A shoot him a look.  He knows this look.  “And what about bigger? I don’t even think that’s a full-fledged house.”

“What about that one?  It’s perfect – grand, ostentatious, I think those things on the corner count as turrets, and it even looks familiar.  I could see you – er, I mean, your characters – living there.”

Highclere Castle

“Of course it’s familiar.  It’s Highclere Castle.”  Off his blank look, “It’s Downton Abbey.”

Downton Abbey, it has to be said, he watched voluntarily.  I think he has a thing for Mrs. Patmore, the cook.

What about you dear reader?  Have you ever been caught daydreaming – er, I mean researching – about certain houses?  Which ones?  Post pics below!

I enter the ballroom with my usual sense of trepidation.  Lady B does not summon one to her side without a reason, usually associated with scolding.  And I have done plenty of late worthy of being scolded.  A canal in my rooms, throwing a Carnival ball behind her back, insinuating in writing that Lady B turned Albert into a hat…  Albert had to fly home immediately from his holiday in Majorica to put things to right.  Neither he nor Lady B would speak to me for a week after that.

So, yes, trepidation.  But when I emerge into the ballroom, Lady B greets me with a relieved, “Thank goodness!” and pulls me across the room to where I see two of the footmen in the practice of hanging one of her usual celebratory banners.

“Happy Robinson Crusoe Day?”

“I need someone who can look at this banner and tell me if it’s hung properly.  Miss MacLean is proving difficult.”  Lady B indicates where poor Sarah is standing, judiciously hiding behind a book.  I do wonder how she got roped into this.  I know she’s on deadline.

“I was caught up in a bit of writing and didn’t move fast enough,” she shrugs, by way of explanation.

Robinson Crusoe has the best subtitle: The Life and Strange Surprizing Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, of York, Mariner: Who lived Eight and Twenty Years, all alone in an un-inhabited Island on the Coast of America, near the Mouth of the Great River of Oroonoque; Having been cast on Shore by Shipwreck, wherein all the Men perished but himself. With An Account how he was at last as strangely deliver’d by Pirates

“But why are we celebrating Robinson Crusoe?” I ask Lady B.

“Because this is the day that glorious tome was published!” Lady B’s eyes gleam with pride up at the (slightly crooked) banner.

I shoot a look to Sarah.  “Yes,” I venture, “but why?”

“Because she couldn’t think of anything else.” Sarah replies drolly.

I nod sagely.  I know the feeling.

“A tart tongue does not become a lady, Miss MacLean.  Even a lady author.”  Lady B sticks her nose up in the air.  “And as every good party needs a theme, why not Robinson Crusoe?  Why it is an elegant tale of… er, a romance?  Yes a romance.  Between a Mr. Crusoe and –”

“The island he is shipwrecked upon for twenty-eight years?”  I venture.  The look on Lady B’s face tells me she hadn’t read it.

“Really?” she asks sadly.

“There are cannibals.” Sarah offers dolefully.

“But also a parrot!  I think.”  At least Albert preens a little at that.  I may be forgiven for my previous slight before the year is up.

“Well, does he at least meet a young woman with whom to fall in love?  Who doesn’t try to eat him, that is.”  Lady B asks.

Sarah and I look at each other.  How to tell Lady B that poor Mr. Crusoe is cast-away, and the only romances he would have engaged in were of the self variety?

Luckily we do not have to.  Lady B simply sighs, and puts her hands on her hips.  “Well then, Miss MacLean, this was your idea… what are our alternatives?”

“It was your idea?”  I whisper to Sarah, crossing the room to join her.

“Idea? No.” Sarah answers.  “Fault.  Yes.”

Then, she shows me her book.  Or rather, I should say, her iPad, hidden in the folds of a book.  All the better to not confuse poor 19^th century Lady B with.  “She needed an idea for a party theme.  She was about to accost poor Monty, but he’s been ducking her ever since she started talking about the family genealogy and his prospects for a proper bride, so I…”

“You found out something that happened today on the internet as a possible theme,” I conclude.  “Well, let’s see what else we can find…”

I begin flipping through web pages.

“What about Shakespeare?  It was his birthday – and anniversary of his death – on Tuesday.  Now, Shakespeare could create some romance!  Although it usually ended in death or cross-dressing,” I try.

“Hmm, a possibility… What else happened this week in history?” Lady B crosses over to us, but Sarah and I keep the iPad out of her line of sight.

I quickly scroll down some more websites. “Er… something about King Brian of Ireland being murdered?  Not exactly conductive to an amorous atmosphere. The Tea Act was introduced in Parliament!  Although that did not end well for the British side of things.  Something more fun…Oh, Studio 54 opened?  No, no — far too late an event…”

“Studio 54?” Lady B’s ears perked up.  “Is that some kind of artists’ garret?  A place for those struck by a muse to explore their creativity?”

“Er… sort of.”

“Well, then.  That’s a wealth of choices.  Which one do you think it should be Miss Noble?”

Indeed, which historical event should be the theme of Lady B’s ball tonight?  Shakespeare’s Life?  Studio 54?  Or should we just stick with Robinson Crusoe?  After all, the banner’s already hanging, if a little lopsided. 

Hi all — the winner of the copy of Let It Be Me is –

BETTY HAMILTON!

Betty, please contact me at kate@katenoble.com to retrieve your prize. 

Some of us authors enjoy writing in open spaces.  Miss MacLean likes to compose her odes al fresco on the terrace, as valets with well-sculpted legs bring her refreshments.  Miss Neville prefers the library, where it is possible to be interrupted at any given time by those seeking a novel, or a perhaps a secluded darkened corner for some canoodling (er, I’m assuming that two people are involved in that last one.)

Me?  I happen to prefer my room.  As Virginia Woolf said, a woman must have a room of her own if she is to write.  (Also, money.  But since Lady B is Regency-wealthy, I can live off of her without qualm.)  My room at Lady B’s faces over the street, and on to the park square.  There’s a lovely tree, and I can people watch to my –

“MISS NOBLE!” the screech comes from the doorway.

“L…Lady B!”  I jump to my feet, knocking over an inkpot all over my current manuscript as I do so. (I would have brought my laptop to the 19^th century, but Lady B doesn’t have any outlets, so it wouldn’t have lasted long.)  “No one is supposed to come up here!  I left word with the maids!”

“Yes, and they have some words to say to you about the state of your linens.  But I am hosting a ball tonight –”

“You host a ball every night.”

“ – and I need all my authoresses there.  Thus I came up here…”

“So I see…”

“But none of this is relevant to the question at hand.”

“Which is…” I ask hesitantly.  But I know what it is, of course.  There’s literally no way around it.

“Which is… WHY IS THERE A TRENCH DUG IN THE MIDDLE OF YOUR ROOM?”

Oh.  That.  Yes, there happened to be a long, sinuous body of water dug into the lovely hardwood planks of my second floor room, it’s contents gently lapping at the Aubusson carpet  How, I don’t know.  I find it best to not question these things.

“Well, first of all, it’s not a trench, it’s a canal.”

“Thank you for the clarification,” Lady B drawls.  “However, its existence is, as usual with you, alarming.”

Ahhh, Venice.

“I wouldn’t worry – it’s simply a leftover.”

“A leftover?”

“Yes – well, you see, Let It Be Me is set in Venice, Italy.  And it’s a city with many canals.”

Lady B shoots me a disparaging look usually served up by Albert.

“And… as I was writing Let It Be Me, this canal sort of… popped up.”  I say.

“Ah.  I see.”  Lady B says.  “But why on earth would you set a story in Venice?  It’s horribly dirty, and Italian…”

“And wistful, and beautiful, and seductive.”  I counter.  “Only look at what my heroine, Bridget Forrester, gets up to on her first day there!”

             “All right, miss, it’s that one,” Molly said, pointing to a crumbling redbrick structure as she rejoined Bridget on the path that ran alongside the buildings on the north side of the Rio di San Salvador. They could not walk on the rio itself, as the buildings abutted right up against the water, but there were footpaths and alleyways on the back side of the houses.

“Are you certain, Molly?” Bridget asked nervously. The house looked very plain from this side. Very nondescript.

“Well, frankly, no, miss, I’m not. But I went over to that chap and said, ‘Signor Merrick?’ and he said a string of Italian I didn’t understand and then he pointed to this house. And then he tried to pinch my bum,” Molly finished darkly. “I still canna believe your mother let you to go off on your own like this and find the letter-writing gent.”

“She was busy with the hotel proprietor and said I should take a walk,” Bridget lied smoothly.

It had not taken long to get here. With the help of Amanda’s guidebook, she and Molly had made their way from the hotel to the Rio di San Salvador. They could have taken a gondola, but neither Bridget nor Molly had much money, and none of the local currency at any rate. So they walked. Molly had expected to get lost, but Bridget had always been able to read a map. Music, maths, and maps were all things at which she excelled, and all were connected in her mind somehow. After all, finding where you were going in music was akin to finding where you were going on the streets, wasn’t it?

However, one minor flaw in the plan was that she hadn’t known which particular house was Mr. Merrick’s, and thus they had spent a considerable length of time walking the footpaths on the other side of the canal, crossing back and forth when there was a bridge, asking people in the crudest of Italian if they spoke English and consequently if they knew which home was Signor Merrick’s, and getting Molly’s bum pinched.

But, Bridget thought, she was finally here. A thrill of anticipation went through her. It was better that she came here herself, not sending a note and waiting days to hear a reply. And it was better that she came alone. Her mother, Amanda, they did not understand. None of her family really understood how she felt about music.

She must play again—because without the music, what was she? The melodies in her head would dry up and the silence would be intolerable.

And she must play better, too—because she knew she could. Knew it in her bones that she had it in her.

And Carpenini had seen it. Five years ago, before her nerves overcame her, before the tortures of the London season, he had heard her play one song and seen that she had it in her.

And with that surety giving her strength, she squared her shoulders and went to knock on the little door on the side of the brick house.

“But who are all these other people?  Signor Merrick?  Vincenzo Carpenini?  Isn’t he a composer of some kind?  And why is Miss Bridget so intent on playing music?  I am afraid that girl needs to spend more time out of doors.” Lady B sniffs.

“Oh, you’ll meet them all later – I’ll be bringing them by the Ballroom when the book comes out on April 2^nd.”

“And will the trench –er, canal be spreading to the Ballroom by then as well?” Lady B asks, eyeing the linear moat separating me from the door – and consequently from Lady B’s wrath.

“I’m sure the waters will recede.  Eventually.  But for now –” I say, skipping over the small bridge that spanned the implausible canal, “let’s go down to the ball, shall we?”

You can bet I hurried Lady B out of there before she could object further, but really, who could object to Venice? It’s a completely romantic city.  What’s the most romantic place you’ve ever been?

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?

When we last left our intrepid travelers, Monty’s vision of a woman begging for his assistance and Harold’s precipitous discovery of a bag of California gold nuggets had begun them on their newest leg of their quest.

Bodhi’s spare surfboard under him, Monty paddled his way out to the trading vessel that sat on the horizon.  A sack of gold nuggets later, he was comfortably ensconced in a berth as they made their way to their destination.  And promptly fell asleep.

Paddling was strenuous work.

That night he dreamed of the woman again.

“Help me, Montague Moylan-Hazwell, you’re my only hope.”

Monty awoke with a start.  “My dream,” he mused.  “It was so odd.  And the beautiful woman… had such a strange hairstyle…”

But Harold was all in a flutter in his cage.  It only took Monty twenty or so minutes to figure out why.  The ship had stopped moving.

quite the view

“Where are we?”  Monty cried, coming up on deck.

“Our destination,” a deck hand informed him, as he was loading crates of apples onto the dock.  Or at least, Monty assumed they were apples, given the apple painted on the side.

“We cannot be in Madrid already!” Monty cried, taking in the lush landscape, the tall buildings, the… bright orange bridge in the distance.

These look like tasty apples

“Not Madrid,” the deck hand wheezed at him.  “Marin.  County,” the deckhand clarified, before yelling to his coworker –  “This lot goes to Cupertino!”

“Cappucino?” Monty asked Harold, who was still trying to figure out how to shrug his non-existent Toucan shoulders.  “If we are not in Spain, we are definitely not in Italy.  Come on Harold,” he said as he walked down the dock. “We need to find a new ship.”

They walked and walked, a distance immeasurable, until appearing like an oasis in the proverbial desert, they came across a sign:

“Skywalker Ranch,” Monty mused.  “Well, I have no idea what a ‘ranch’ might be, but I have hopes that ‘skywalker’ refers to a travel service of some kind.”  He flagged down the first person he could find, a bearded gentleman, his shirt plaid.  Perhaps he was Scottish.

“Hi,” said the bearded one.  “Can I help you?”

Vulnerable and tough. And wearing pastries on her head.

“Indeed!” cried Monty.  “I have been visited by an apparition, of a woman with a hair bundled about her ears asking for my help.  One can only assume she requires either rescuing, or assistance arranging her hair into a more manageable style.”

“Sounds familiar…” the bearded man mused.

“It does?” Monty exclaimed happily.  “Then perhaps you can help me find her.   As a man of honor I must rescue this poor woman –”

“Actually, she’s a princess.”

“ – this poor princess from her trials.  Or hairstyle.”

“Well, if I recall correctly,” the bearded man rubbed his jaw, “We shot the rescue scenes in England.”

“England!  What ho, Harold, we shall be home before we know it – and rescue a princess on our way!”

“Halfway around the world!” Harold squawked, adding a well-practiced shoulder shrug.

“Good point, Harold.” Monty nodded.  “Sir, do you know of a way we could get to England with good speed?”

“Well, I could take you,” the bearded man replied.  “I do have this.”

With a flourish he whipped the dust cloth off the large structure that had suddenly appeared behind him.

“That?”  Monty asked.  “What is that?  Is it… er, new?”

“Actually, it’s from a long time ago…”

“It looks like a death trap.”

“Hey – she made the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs!” the bearded man replied, affronted.  “She’ll get you where you need to go.  Nothing can stand in our way!”

“Alright…” Monty hedged.  “But alas, we have nothing to pay you with.  I gave my only bag of California gold nuggets to a feckless ship captain who told me we were going to Madrid.”

“No he didn’t,” seemed to be what came out of Harold’s beak on a cough.

“No worries,” the bearded man replied.  “The adventure will be payment enough.  Well, that and the merchandising rights.  Climb aboard!”

Monty and Harold climbed in and took their seats – and if the ship didn’t have sails or a rudder, no one saw fit to comment.  Before they knew it, the vessel was shuddering, and then sprinting, and then lurching to a stop!

“What ho!” Monty cried. “Are we there already?”

“Sorry guys,” the bearded man’s voice floated through the air, projected by some kind of voice amplification device, “This ship is wanted in several galaxies, but I thought we were safe on own planet.  Alas, there’s trouble up ahead.  I’ll have to drop you here.”

“Drop us where?”

Okay, the space-time continuum is a little bendy, so it should come as no surprise that Monty quasi-ended up in a space opera.  What’s your favorite space/sci-fi movie?  And what makes it so awesome?

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.

portrait of Madame de Stael by Margerite Gerard

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.

Hester Thrale by Joshua Reynolds

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.

Mrs Gardner, by Anders Zorn — another of her artists.

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?

Well, Christmas has come and gone.  The Egg Nog has been drunk, the decorations are looking a little dusty, and the presents have all been opened, played with and sitting in their boxes on the table, taking up space until we figure out where to put them.  Lady B is of course ecstatically showing off the gifts we got her to a few morning callers – I like to think that she particularly favors the watch I gave her because, come on, obviously it was the best – when she calls me to join her.

“Ah, and here is Miss Noble,” she declares as I enter the room, “who gave me simply the loveliest watch… good heavens Miss Noble, what has happened to you?

It should be mentioned at this time that my hands are practically covered in ink.

“I, er… well, I was writing.”  I am a writer after all.

“What were you writing, a thousand page manifesto?”  Lady B demands.

A New Year’s Resolution postcard (yes, they used to make resolution cards!) from 1909. A little after our time, but I do enjoy a limerick. And a jester.

“Dear me,” pipes up one of her guests, who by the ermine trimmed and diamond encrusted muslin day dress I can only surmise is Lady B’s rival, the Duchess of Dovedale, “did your quill explode?  I know the best quill maker in London my dear, don’t let Hortense here direct you to her shoddy penmakers.”

Lady B shoots her a withering look. Then, to me she says “Did your pen explode, my dear?”

By the look Lady B was giving me, I knew that by no means was I to answer in the affirmative.  Doing so would cost her socially and me in ways I do not even want to contemplate.  Lady B can be dastardly that way.  (Although, it should be noted that quills are REALLY difficult to use.  What I wouldn’t give for a ballpoint pen.  Or a laptop.)

“Er, no ma’am.”  I try, hiding my hands behind my back.  “I was simply wrestling with my resolutions.  I’ve gone through quite a bit of paper trying to decide what they should be.”

“Resolutions?” the Duchess of Dovedale asks.  “Isn’t it a little early to engage in such trivialities?”

“Is it trivial, Carpathia,” Lady B intones, “to attempt self improvement?  To be of the mind that a New Year can bring about fresh perspective, and become a more civic minded individual?  After all, even you are not wholly perfect.”

“Well, I…” the Duchess attempts, but Lady B cuts her off.

“No!  I applaud Miss Noble for resolving to better herself and society in the New Year!  We could all take an example of her!”

“Er…” I say, a little uncomfortable.  “Thank you?”

“Now, Miss Noble,” Lady B says kindly, but with her steel, “tell Her Grace what your resolutions will be.”

“Well,” I hedge, “I want to write another book this year.”

“That is not a resolution, that is your profession,” she admonishes.

“Well, I intend to write more.  Increase my output with work, that is.”

“As evidenced by your working so hard you exploded your quill,” the Duchess infers, slyly.

I debate for a moment whether I should fess up to having been doodling on half those pages while contemplating my life choices, but I decide against it.

“Sure,” I say instead.

“What else, what else?”  Lady B demands.  “What kind of good do you plan to do?”

“Um.  Is it considered good to want to lose ten pounds?”

Both ladies blink at me.  “Lose ten pounds?”  The Duchess of Dovedale asks, perplexed.  “Do you intend to repay a gambling debt?”

“Yes, of course, all my authoresses pay their debts promptly,” Lady B hastens to assure.  “Although I think giving up gambling altogether may be a better resolution, Miss Noble.  What else have you planned?”

“Actually, that was all I had so far,” I admit sheepishly.

“That’s it?”  she cries, shaking her head.  “What a waste of good ink and paper!”

“Now, now,” the Duchess of Dovedale smirks, “self improvement is a difficult thing to master.  Do you think you could do any better with your New Year’s Resolutions?”

“By God I do!”  Lady B says confidently.  “I can think of a dozen better New Year’s Resolutions!”

“Well,” the Duchess challenges, “what are they?”

What *are* Lady B’s New Year’s resolutions?  And what are yours?  And can anyone think of a more creative resolution for me than to write more and lose weight?  I’m running low on ink!

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”!

In our continuing quest to host our favorite authors here for our At-Home Month, I am so very pleased to welcome Miss Shana Galen to the Ballroom!  Miss Galen is the author of fast-paced, romantic adventures, and we shared many a glass of ratafia at this past year’s RWA conference in Anaheim.  It’s all a little blurry, but I know we had fun.  Although, I don’t think I realized that Miss Galen was so… excitable.  Or that she had so many… interesting friends.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Miss Shana Galen!

Shana make look wholesome…
but she can kick back the ratafia.

Miss Galen: I’m here! I’m really here. Dear reader, you have no idea how long I have waited to visit these hallowed halls. Look! There’s Gaelen Foley and Lauren Willig. Oh! It’s Tessa Dare and Sabrina Darby. And I see my good friends Katharine Ashe, Sarah Maclean, and Miranda Neville. Thank you, Miss Noble, for vouching for my reputation and gaining me entrance. I will not disappoint. When do I meet Lady B?

Miss Noble: Are you certain you are ready for an introduction?

Miss Galen: (taking a deep breath) As ready as I shall ever be. Are there any topics of conversation I should avoid?

Miss Noble: You might not want to mention the courtesans from your Jewels of the Ton series. I believe Lady B once had a bad experience with a courtesan.

Miss Galen: Oh, dear. That is no problem whatsoever. The Three Diamonds are off on their own adventures. Lady B is known as a formidable patroness. Even notorious courtesans like Juliette, Fallon, and Lily would not brave her displeasure by attending uninvited.

Miss Noble: Then follow me.

Miss Galen: There she is! It’s Lady Beaufetheringstone and Albert! And there…oh no!

Miss Noble: Lady Beaufetheringstone, may I present you authoress Shana Galen?

Miss Galen: (attempting a curtsey but stumbling because she is staring fearfully behind Lady B). I’m please to meet you Lady B. And now I must go.

Lady B.: Wait just a moment, gel. I have not even had a moment to take a look at you. (raising her quizzing glass). Come forward.

Miss Galen: Here I am then. Now I must be off!

Lady B.: Do not dare move. Miss Noble says you are an authoress. What sort of books do you write?

Miss Galen: Um…why don’t I run to the carriage and fetch one for you? Then you might see for yourself.

Lady B.: My gel, I simply asked what sort of books you write. I did not mean that I intended to actually read any of them. And why do you keep looking over my shoulder? What is behind—?

Miss Galen: No! Don’t turn around! I mean, I write fast-paced adventurous books. My heroes are spies and pirates and my heroines are spunky and brave.

Lady B.: Tell me more about these heroines. Are they reputable women?

Miss Galen: Ahh…in my latest series they are all titled.

Lady B.: Really? Miss Galen! Why are you shaking your head? With whom are you communicating?

Miss Noble: Oh, no.

Miss Galen: No one. I really must be off.

Lady B.: Who is that gel over there? Is that one of your heroines, Miss Galen?

Miss Galen: That lovely woman with the pale blond hair, blue eyes, wearing a gold gown? No, I have never seen her before.

Lady B.: (frowning) Then why is she waving at you?

Miss Galen: No idea.

Lady B.: Miss Noble, do fetch that young woman and introduce her to me.

Miss Noble: (returning) Lady B., may I present Juliette, the Duchess of Dalliance?

Lady B.: Duchess of Dalliance! What sort of title is that?

Juliette: You should ask Shana. She gave it to me.

Miss Galen: No, I didn’t. The Prince Regent named you and the other Diamonds.

Lady B.: There are more of you?

Juliette: Yes, there’s Fallon, the Marchioness of Mystery and Lily, the Countess of Charm.

Lady B.: I am loathe to say it, but our dear regent has, at times, show poor judgment in his affairs with members of the fairer sex. I do hope he has not tarnished your reputation, my dear.

Juliette: Oh, no! He quite made my reputation. You see, I’m one of The Three Diamonds.

Miss Galen: Why look at the time! We must be going, Juliette.

Lady B.: Who are these Diamonds you speak of?

Miss Galen: Nothing! No one!

Juliette: We’re courtesans, my lady.

Albert: <Squawk!> Courtesans in the ballroom! <Squawk!> My feathers are ruffled!

Lady B.: Oh, dear heavens! Where are my smelling salts? I feel quite faint.

Miss Noble: I think you had better make your escape now, Shana.

Miss Galen: Good idea! Let’s go, Juliette.

Juliette: But I was having fun.

Miss Galen: Let’s go. Kate, is there any way I can repair the damage I’ve done? What if I offered a small token of my appreciation? A copy of When You Give a Duke a Diamond? Signed, perhaps? I’ll give it to one person from the former colonies or Canada who comments.

Miss Noble: You must give them a topic to comment upon.

Juliette: How about your last big mistake? I can tell you mine was meeting the Duke of Pelham. The man is insufferable!

WHEN YOU GIVE A DUKE A DIAMOND BY SHANA GALEN

He had a perfectly orderly life…

William, the sixth Duke of Pelham, enjoys his punctual. securely structured life. Orderly and predictable—that’s the way he likes it. But he’s in the public eye, and the scandal sheets will make up anything to sell papers. When the gossips link him to Juliette, one of the most beautiful and celebrated courtesans in London, chaos doesn’t begin to describe what happens next…

Until She Came Along

Juliette is nicknamed the Duchess of Dalliance, and has the cream of the nobility at her beck and call. It’s seriously disruptive to have the duke who’s the biggest catch on the Marriage Mart scaring her other suitors away. Then she discovers William’s darkest secret and decides what he needs in his life is the kind of excitement only she can provide…

 More about Shana:

Shana Galen is the bestselling author of fast-paced adventurous Regency historicals, including the RT Reviewers’ Choice The Making of a Gentleman. Her books are published all over the world and have been featured in the Rhapsody and Doubleday Book Clubs. She taught English at the middle and high school level off and on for eleven years. Most of those years were spent working in Houston’s inner city. Now she writes full time. She’s happily married and has a daughter who is most definitely a romance heroine in the making. Shana loves to hear from readers: visit her website at www.shanagalen.com or see what she’s up to daily on Facebook and Twitter.