Cover of Audio Book for Lord Ruin
Woot! My first audio book is all done! It’s narrated by the wonderful actress Kate McDermott. If you’d like a free copy for review, leave a comment and I will send you the information you need to get the book.
Here’s a link to some hilarious outtakes from the book: (NSFW).
My current project involves a scene in which my hero (a duke!) is at his hunting box in December. As I was writing this scene, several questions arose.
1. The term “hunting box.” I have seen the term in historical romances, but is it period? The answer is yes. A hunting box implies something small, but in looking at images and floor plans, these structures were not small. This makes sense if you think about the need to accommodate staff, guests, and their servants AND the equipment, horses and dogs.
2. Who was allowed to hunt and why is, for England, a question of class and rank that comes down to this: if you needed to hunt to put food in your belly, chances are you were legally prohibited from doing so. In order to demarcate who was of sufficient rank to be allowed to hunt, there were any number of thresholds; your family, property you owned, a legal entitlement you might possess, your yearly income, the value of your estate. It’s exactly as complicated as you’d imagine when the real requirement is that you be of sufficient rank–in a culture where rank was derived from ownership of land. Down there at the border between “commoner” and “has enough money and does not need a job” there were ambiguities.
3. If you were a gentleman with the right to hunt—likely on your own property, you also had servants, and those servants, by law, were not permitted to hunt. Laymen could not legally be in possession of the implements of hunting; breeds of hunting dogs, guns, snares, nets, and the like. Nor could they be in possession of game. The penalties could be severe: significant fines, months to years in jail, and, even, transportation. What, then, was the gentleman to do when his servants were prevented from assisting in his hunting? We’ve all seen pictures of servants holding hunting equipment. The answer is a certificate; a document that granted a legal exemption from the laws.
This certificate was a legal document obtained yearly from a local clerk appointed specifically to issue the certificate. If there was no appointed clerk, the local land surveyor would issue the certificate. The certificate cost 3 pounds 1 shilling. The servant or other layman was required to produce the certificate on demand.
Think, then, what this would mean for a household with sporting gentlemen. Legally, only servants who had been issued certificates could accompany their employers on hunts where they would be required to hold or handle dogs, dead or living game, or other hunting paraphernalia.
4. The Gamekeeper was another position entirely, and there were, again, specific legal requirements to be met in order to exempt a layman from the usual restrictions against hunting, and to prevent a land owner from appointing more than one. A Gamekeeper had what amounted to limited police powers. He could seize game and equipment from others, and he could detain them and search property. A lord or lady of a manor could appoint one and only one gamekeeper per property. The position would naturally be one of power, as you would expect, both among and over the local commoners and among other servants. In historical novels in our period, we should be mindful of the importance of the position and of the legal and extra-legal powers that came with it.
There were also, as you would expect, hunting seasons. Humans the world over have understood that if you do not allow future generations of animals to procreate and raise their young, you will not have future animals. It should be no surprise that the hunting that the proscribed periods coincide with the breeding and raising of young, and that, for birds, that included leaving the nests and eggs alone.
Here is a list I put together from the 1809 Game laws. Obviously, it’s possible the dates were different in different years, but likely not by much, if at all. I did my best to decode the day of certain holidays. For some there were inconsistent results. I also added the NO and YES months for hunting as after a bit my brain hurt.
But, at last, a handy chart to refer to! Would they REALLY have been hunting grouse in June?
| 1-June to 1-Oct | Moulting season for water fowl. NO: June July Aug, Sep YES: Oct, Nov, Dec, Jan, Feb, Mar, Apr May |
| 1-Feb to 1-Sep | Partridge NO: Feb, March, Apr, May June July Aug YES: Sep Oct, Nov, Dec, Jan |
| 1-Feb to 1-Oct | Pheasant – unless kept in a mew or breeding place NO: Feb, March, Apr, May June July Aug Sep YES: Oct, Nov, Dec, Jan |
| 10-Dec to 20-Aug | Black game (birds except grouse) aka heath fowl NO: Dec-10 Jane Feb March Apr May June July Aug-20 YES: Aug 21, Sep. Oct Nov Dec 9 |
| 10-Dec to 12-Aug | red game (grouse) NO: Dec-10 Jane Feb March Apr May June July Aug-12 YES: Aug 13, Sep. Oct Nov Dec 9 |
| 1-Mar to 1-Sep | bustard NO: March, Apr, May June July Aug YES: Sep Oct, Nov, Dec, Jan Feb |
| 10-Dec to 1-Sep | Heath fowl in New Forest Co of Southampton (black game) NO: Dec-10 Jane Feb March Apr May June July Aug YES: Sep 2. Oct Nov Dec 9 |
| 2-Feb to 24-June | No burning of gaig, link, heath, furze, goss or fern for preservation of black game and grouse on nay mountains, hills, heaths, moors, forests, chases or other wastes |
| 1-Mar to 30-June | No taking eggs of wild birds |
Pedestrian animals: hart, hind, buck, doe, boar, fox, and hare
| 24-Jun to 14-Sep | Hart and buck from St. John the Baptist day til Holyrood-day |
| 14-Sep to 2-Feb | Hind and doe: Holyrood to Candlemas |
| 25-Dec to 2-Feb | Boar: Christmas to Candlemas |
| 25-Dec to 25-Mar | Fox: Christmas to Lady-day. Lady day is either Jan 1 (which does not make sense, or March 25-ish, which makes more sense) |
| 29-Sep to 2-Feb | Hare: Michaelmas til Candlemas |
No hunting at night. No hunting on Sunday or Christmas. Morning is either 6 AM, 4 AM, or 8 AM depending on the bird and time of year.
No tracing and killing hares in the snow.
No lord or lady of any manor shall appoint more than one gamekeeper within one manor, with power to kill game. Gamekeeper must be registered with the clerk of the peace in the county in which said manor lies.
Persons are forbidden to bear any hawk of the breed of England called nyesse, goshawk, passel, laner, loneret or falcon or disturb or slay them. Same for eggs.
No unauthorized fishing between 6:00AM and 6:00PM.
There you have it.
By now you’ve probably realized that I’m an utter geek when it comes to nineteenth-century magazines and newspapers and that I love putting all kinds of (mostly obscure) references into my stories just for the fun of it. And so, when I was writing A Tangled Web, the latest installment in my series about the fictional magazine Allan’s Miscellany, I just couldn’t resist including a reference to an advice column I had first heard about at a conference* a few years before: “Cupid’s Letter Bag” from The Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine.
Launched in 1852 by Samuel Beeton, The Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine was the first British magazine targeted at middle-class women (earlier women’s magazines were meant for an upper-class audience). From 1856 onwards, Beeton’s wife Isabella acted as “Editress” (and yes, that would be Mrs. Beeton from Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management). Apart from poetry, serialized fiction, articles about famous people and fashion plates, the magazine included embroidery patterns, sewing patterns, and much practical advice concerning household matters (including recipes).
And then there was “Cupid’s Letter Bag.”
If you consider the historical and social context, “Cupid’s Letter Bag” was a rather strange advice column, for rather than praising female passivity that was so much part of the Victorian ideal of femininity, it encouraged women to be more active and more intellectual.
In the November issue of 1853 one of the letters to the magazine (well, many of those worry letters were actually written by Beeton himself…) (fake worry letters!!!) started with,
“Would it be very improper for me to send a few forget-me-not flowers to a young gentleman with whom I have lately become acquainted? […] He has given me bouquets many times; and when he left, he asked me to send him a few flowers of the forget-me-not, to let him see I had not forgotten him, which I did not exactly promise to do, although I fear by my manner I led him to expect it.”
The rather blunt answer was:
“We think the vanity betrayed in the request of the gentleman is well left unsatisfied. He asked for the forget-me-nots, it appears, to let him see that ‘you had not forgotten him,’ not to remind him of you.”
This letter somehow struck my fancy, and I just had to include it in Allan’s, despite it being a bit too girly and fanciful for Allan’s. But hey, it’s my fictional magazine, so I can include whatever I want! 🙂
Now, without further ado, here’s the relevant snippet from A Tangled Web. At the beginning of the story Pel, the hero, arrives at the editorial office in a moment of crisis: the contributions of a new writer have turned out to be utter crap, and the editor (grumpy MacNeil) and his right-hand man (Robbie Beaton) are now discussing what can be used instead:
“What else have we got?” MacNeil shuffled his papers around. “A review of Gervase Carlton’s latest literary offering. A nice one, that.—An article from Our Man Abroad. More about the diggings in the Near East.” He glanced at Beaton. “We already have an Assyrian lion for that one, haven’t we, Robbie?”
In lieu of an answer, Beaton pointed at one of the woodblocks lying on the table.
“Right. Another worry letter for Cupid’s Letter Box?”
“I’ll write that one,” Beaton said hastily. “You’re such a cynic when it comes to love, Mac. Nobody wants to hear what you think about the plight of a young girl who…hm….is wondering about whether or not to send a posy of forget-me-nots to a gentleman of her acquaintance—”
MacNeil groaned. “And thus we all die from an overflow of sentimentalism…”
Unperturbed by the criticism, Beaton just grinned and shrugged. “Flo quite likes the overflow of sentimentalism. Says it gives the magazine a heart.”
The editor threw him a sour look. “Your wife’s taste is not always sound, Robbie. Just look at whom she has married!”
Whistling, Beaton gazed at the ceiling. “Which, if I’m not mistaken, was the making of our magazine.”
“Yes, yes. The search for the Mystery Maiden—all very romantic.” MacNeil made a dismissive gesture. “My brains must have been addled at the time.”
_____
* The conference in question was the 2010 annual conference of the Research Society for Victorian Periodicals, and the paper was Jennifer Phegley’s “Dear Mr. Editor: Courtship and Marriage Advice in The Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine.“
To continue with the Waterloo theme of Diane’s posting on Monday, let’s turn to the hero of Waterloo himself, Arthur Wellesley, and the large equestrian statue of the man and his horse Copenhagen. The erecting of the statue in 1846 and the whole controversy that surrounded the event form the backdrop to my upcoming novella A Tangled Web, which will be released next week. (Just a few days ago, I updated the cover – how do you like the new version?)
His many successes during the Napoleonic Wars earned Arthur Wellesley not only the title of Duke of Wellington, but also the adoration of the nation. For many years after the wars he remained a prominent political figure, and as he neared the end of his political career, it was felt that something needed to be done to honor the Iron Duke’s many achievements.
And what could be more natural and more proper than to erect an equestrian statue of the great man (and his horse)? And not just any equestrian statue! The LARGEST equestrian statue in the whole of Britain!!!
A committee was formed, funds were raised, a sculptor appointed (Matthew Cotes Wyatt), and then the job was under way. French cannons captured at Waterloo were melted down to provide the bronze for the statue. The Duke sat for the artist, as did a horse (the faithful Copenhagen had died a few years before, so a substitute was used).
In 1846, after many years of labor, the statue neared its completion, and the Duke and members of the press were invited to preview it. One London paper considered it “premature to hazard an opinion as to the general effect of this statue when elevated in the position to which it is destined, but our impression is a favourable one, and we shall look forward to its public appearance with interest” (reprinted in The Bristol Mercury, 6 June 1846).
Most others did not. The Critic called it a “monster statue” (19 Sept. 1846), and the Daily News regarded the statue as an “atrocious violation of all artistic principle”: “Never since the time of the Trojan horse, such an equestrian monster paraded the streets of the capital. […] Without any desire to detract from the glories of his Grace F.M. the Duke of Wellington […] we wish to know why respect to the Duke must express itself by outrage to taste? Because his Grace’s merits outrun all measure of praise, must his statue violate all laws of proportion?” (16 Sept. 1846)
But it was not only the sheer size of the duke’s monument that garnered scorn and ridicule, but also the place where it was to be erected: on top of the Wellington Arch: “When placed upon the arch, the statue will have the face towards Piccadilly; the consequence will be that his grace will have his look fixed intently on the windows of Apsley house [i.e., the Duke of Wellington’s home], while the extended arm points at Buckingham Palace. ‘The Iron Duke’ can thus never approach his windows without having his gaze retuned by his brazen counterpart outside” (Morning Chronicle, 30 Sept. 1856).
Besides, would the arch be able to bear the weight of Wyatt’s colossal monster? Punch speculated “that the whole concern will come down with a tremendous crash, and that the Duke’s horse will be found kicking and plunging about in the fearful gap his own weight will have occasioned.” Indeed, Wyatt’s creation, Punch surmised, would not only reach the skies – the statue was typically depicted with the Duke’s head either disappearing in clouds or attracting a flock of birds – but it would also tear the world asunder when it fell of the arch. (Given that you know how much I love Mr. Punch, it won’t surprise you that the writers and artists of my own Victorian magazine, Allan’s Miscellany, share those sentiments.)
On 29 September, the statue was dragged with great pomp and circumstance from the artist’s workshop to the triumphal arch. People lined the streets to watch two military bands, a trumpeter, and more than 400 members of the Life Guards and Grenadier Guards accompany the bronze duke. Thanks to the size and weight of the statue, its progress was troublesome. Therefore, the procession took far longer than planned (and probably scared a few people witless, Punch thought 🙂 ).
Get your mind out of the gutter now.
I am acting as valet today. My husband is going on the Grand Tour–to Italy, at any rate–and I am helping him put a huge amount of t-shirts etc into a suitcase and urging him to do all the things you have to do before a trip. We leave the house in less than two hours when I will assume the roles of coachman and porter.
Eek.
So I think I can safely offer my services as a gentleman’s uh gentleman. I haven’t used an iron in years, can’t get out stains or tie a cravat, and wouldn’t know a clothesbrush if it hit me around the head, but I can sure stuff things into a suitcase.
And this is where he’s going:
Other than continual recorder playing it sounds fab (well, that’s why he’s going and why I’m not). And he’s the only person I know who’s going to Tuscany to eat vegan food.
Have you been on vacation this summer? Tell us about it.
And PS, in really important news, Dedication is now available as a paperback, first time in print (this edition)!