Thursday, October 23, 2014

Fabulous #Giveaways! #Handsome Cowboys! Victoria Vane has a #New Release: Slow hand

Slow Hand
By Victoria Vane
Sourcebooks Casablanca
November 4, 2014
$7.99/£5.99

Summary:
In rural Montana…
Wade Knowlton is a hardworking lawyer who’s torn between his small-town Montana law practice and a struggling family ranch. He’s on the brink of exhaustion from trying to save everybody and everything, when gorgeous Nicole Powell walks into his office. She’s a damsel in distress and the breath of fresh air he needs.

Even the lawyers wear boots…
Nicole Powell is a sassy Southern girl who has officially sworn off cowboys after a spate of bad seeds—until her father’s death sends her to Montana and into the arms of a man who seems too good to be true. Her instincts tell her to high tail it out of Montana, but she can't resist a cowboy with a slow hand…

About the Author:
Victoria Vane is a multiple award-winning romance novelist and history junkie whose collective works of fiction range from wildly comedic romps to emotionally compelling erotic romance. Victoria also writes historical fiction as Emery Lee and is the founder of Goodreads Romantic Historical Fiction Lovers and the Romantic Historical Lovers book review blog.
Social Media:
Website | Facebook | @AuthorVictoriaV | Goodreads | Pinterest

Buy Links:


Giveaway 1 – Two copies of Slow Hand (two winners, ends 11/7)
http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/54ca7af713/" rel="nofollow">a Rafflecopter giveaway

Giveaway 2 – Victoria Vane’s Cowboy Seduction Kit

Excerpt:
He went to work on his shirt buttons. His collar was soon wide open revealing a generous show of muscular chest that make her hands itch to rip it off him. She diverted her gaze and curled her itchy hands by her sides.
“Have no fear, cowboy,” Nikki replied in a tone meant to disguise the warm flush that had come over her. “I corralled all my wild impulses long ago.”
“Did you, now?” He still stood in doorway, head cocked. “Somehow, I think you may have missed a few strays.”
“Maybe I need to make myself clearer. I have an aversion to cocky cowboys.”
Just keep telling yourself that, Nikki. Maybe if you repeat it often enough it’ll become true.
“Is that so?” His brows flew upward. “I can’t say I ever met a woman with an actual aversion to me.”
“Don’t take it personally. It’s nothing against you in particular, but to your type.”
“And what do you think you know about my type?”
“Since I don’t have a pole handy, enough to keep you at arms-length. Besides that, this whole line of conversation is entirely inappropriate in light of professional ethics, don’t you think? You are my attorney, after all.”
“Well, darlin’,” he scratched his unshaven jaw, “there’s a little hitch to that.”
“What do you mean? You said you’d help me.”
“And I will, but you can’t engage my professional services until I know who you are.”
“I’ve told you who I am!” she insisted.
“Sweetheart, I’m a lawyer, and according to the law, your claim don’t weigh without authentication.”
“Authentication?”
“Proof.”
“So what are you saying? That you don’t believe me?”
“I’m not saying that at all. Only that our professional relationship will commence once you get your I.D. In the interim,” His gaze slid over her in a way that threatened to melt her insides, “you’d best find yourself a nice, long, sturdy pole.”


Thursday, October 16, 2014

New Release: His Christmas Nymph by Marly Mathews


 Amazon Buy Link: $0.92
Miss Caroline Griffiths is absolutely miserable. She wants a Christmas like the ones she enjoyed as a child. Except she's twenty-four years old and the life she enjoyed as a child no longer exists for her. Her mother has died and her two brothers were killed in the wars against Napoleon. 

Her father has married a shrew who only wants to see her married to a man who smells like a pig, and her best friend is set to marry a Naval Officer in the the spring and she fears she will never see her again. 

Her father spends his days holed up in his office and rarely comes out because he can't even stand the woman he's married. And then one day, everything changes. 

She goes to her favourite reading spot on the sprawling estate of Whitney Park and sits on the bench in the Greek Temple Folly. While there, Edward Rochester, The Duke of Whitney spies her and believes that he has seen his very own Christmas Nymph. 

He goes out to introduce himself to her and before he knows it he's proposing to her--knowing only one thing--his Christmas will not be happy unless he's married the woman who has besotted him--Caroline, his Christmas Nymph. 


"Feel the Magic."


Excerpt:


Edward Henry Rochester, the 4th Duke of Whitney looked out at the vast lands of the ancestral seat of The Rochester’s. They’d been landlords over this area stretching back to the Doomsday Book.
Servants scurried around him as they prepared to reopen the House. His mother had had a fit of the nerves and had adamantly refused to return to the Country so close to the beginning of the Season, a time during which she could not be absent.
She insisted that London simply wouldn’t survive without her during that period. There were many young ladies to launch onto the Marriage Mart during her balls that no other Lady could possibly compete with, and while she hosted personal balls—of which her masquerades were notorious at Whitney House in London, she was also a Patroness of Almacks.
This was why he had to return to Whitney Park. He couldn’t abide the brainless twit like women who were clamoring to marry him. They were fortune hunters of the worst sort, as he was a rare breed among the haut ton these days, he had title and fortune.
The latest simpering young girl was the daughter of a bosom chum of his mother’s. His mother insisted he marry Lady Myrtle so they could unite their families. He’d rather fight Napoleon again.
He needed some fresh air. Walking out of the house, he made his way toward the Gardens, dragging in lungful’s of the crisp cold air. It had been his father’s favourite spot and he knew why. It boasted one of the best views of the grand house and was also close to the river.
Hugh Rochester loved going and sitting by the river in the Folly his father had built.
As he neared the folly, a woman with vibrant red hair caught his attention. She wore an emerald green cloak and ringlets of hair peeked out from the green hood which she wore over her head. Sitting on the stone bench under the enclosure of the Folly, she looked like a Christmas Nymph.
He stopped, suddenly mesmerized. With his hands crossed behind his back, he simply admired the beguiling sight. It warmed the cockles of his heart and made him feel something quite foreign for him. It was a breathtaking sight, he would gladly get his brushes and paint out for. What a charming portrait it would make. He was quite smitten.
He didn’t recognize her and wondered why she was sitting there out in the crisp cold. It was far too chilly for a woman of her delicate build.
Still, she had to have an independent personality to have the gall to wander onto his Estate and sit there like she owned everything in sight. He wanted to stand and stare at her forever. She had the kind of beauty he’d always been attracted to. Simple and yet it had a bit of the ethereal to it—almost as if she was a fairy from another land.
She wore spectacles and held a book. That explained it. She was a bluestocking. Most men were scared off by such liberal-minded creatures, believing that a woman who could think deeply was a threat to their way of being.
As if she could feel his gaze burning into her skin, she glanced up from her book, and her eyes widened perceptively. Her already reddened cheeks from the cold, turned an even brighter scarlet, and her mouth opened in a gasp he could not hear as he was still too far away.
She hastened to put her book in the basket that sat beside her, grabbed her reticule and stood up. He couldn’t allow her to get away without first finding out who she was.
He whistled for his Great Danes and smiled as they barked and started to run toward them. Seeing the lovely young lady, they did what he knew they would do—they headed straight for her. They were quite fond of the fairer sex, much like he was fond of the ladies.
If she were terrified of dogs, he’d just made a colossal blunder. He could only hope she was a woman fond of dogs because he could not bear a lady that despised dogs. That was one of the reasons why he had to stay away from Lady Myrtle at all costs. She called dogs ghastly beasts and preferred the company of her cats.
She stopped as her feet left the folly. Turning back toward him, she looked in astonishment at the large dogs that happily ran toward her.
He held his breath as he dashed toward her, fearing that she would shriek out in fear and run like the very hounds of Hades were after her. Instead, she held her ground and laughed happily as Zeus and Apollo ran up to her and demanded a head rub.
Zeus was attempting to stick his head into her basket, which meant she had food in her basket.
“Hello,” he called out.
She stopped petting Zeus and Apollo and settled her amber coloured eyes on him.
Her hands started to shake with nervousness, and that was all that Zeus needed. He’d wrestled the basket away from her, and it fell to the damp ground. He raided the basket and only stopped when Edward called out to him.
“Zeus, stop that! You leave that nice lady’s basket alone!” Ever obedient, Zeus stopped. “Come here you two,” he ordered, as the dogs ran to his side and flanked him.
He glanced back at her. She still looked inclined to flee.
“I didn’t realize that anyone was in residence at Whitney Park,” she said, her voice small and shaking.
He now stood quite close to her and had the time to inspect her from head to toe. She wore clothing that had seen better days. Her boots looked as if they would leak if it started to rain. Her green velvet cloak was in better repair and the green dress she wore underneath looked as if it had seen better days. Still, she was too delicate of a build and constitution to be out sitting in the cold. She required the comfort of a roaring fire, and he fought the strong urge to put his arms around her and draw her close to his warm body.  
“My name is Edward Rochester,” he said, bowing gallantly to her.
At this proclamation, fear truly took hold of her, and she pivoted on her heel to dash away. Reaching out, he grabbed her glove hand, and started at the thrilling bolt of energy that traveled up his arm.
“Please, don’t go,” he said, causing her body to go rigid. She turned back slowly to look at him. Reluctantly, he released her hand.
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” she said breathlessly, awkwardly curtsying to him. “I wasn’t aware that you and the duchess had returned from Town.”
“I am alone. I decided to reopen Whitney Park without my darling mother. Besides, she prefers the hustle and bustle of London, and I tired of it. I yearned for the simplicity of life here at Whitney Park.”
“It’s a beautiful place,” she murmured, looking adoringly over at the Grand House. 
“I know,” he whispered.
She looked ill at ease. “I’ve been coming here since my brothers went off to war. The Old Duke never seemed to mind. I am sorry if I overstepped my bounds.”
He laughed. “I welcome you coming here whenever you like. You were quite the vision sitting out in the Folly. You looked quite enchanting.”
“Thank you,” she looked furtive.
He doubted she would return, she would most likely think it improper to be so close him when his mother was not in residence. Anyway, she looked like a scared little bird. No, he’d have to figure out another way to see her in the future.
“I should be going, sir. My father will wonder where I am.”
“And who is your darling Papa?” he asked.
She let out a nervous laugh. “I…that is…My name is Caroline Griffiths.”
“Ah,” he said. “So you are Lady Margaret’s daughter.”

Sunday, September 21, 2014

LOVE IS BLIND ~ BRIDELOPE ~ The earliest word for a marriage custom by Maggi Andersen



BRIDELOPE dates back to A.D. 950 when it was called brydlopa. Part of this custom, called the ‘run for the bride-door,’ was an ancient tradition in which the bride was both symbolically and physically swept off on horseback to her husband’s home by him and sometimes a helper who was later known as the ‘best man’.
The Anglo-Saxon root word wedd (‘to gamble, wager’) first referred to livestock or other payment by the groom to the bride’s father, as a more civilized alternative to abduction.


In the 17th Century, before it became associated with romantic images, elopement was a legal term for the act of a woman who leaves her husband and ‘dwells with the adulterer, by which she shall lose her dower’. (Thomas Blount Glossographia 1656.)
As a symbol of resistance, the well-prepared Saxon bride’s wedding attire often included knives, which she ‘gracefully hung from her girdle’.
John Heywood listed other bridal equipment in his 1545 work The Four Ps:
Silke swathbonds, ribbands, and sleeve-laces,
Girdles, knives, purses and pin-cases,
Fortune dothe give these knives to you,
To cut the thred of love if’t be not true.

Bridesmaids were originally a maid’s closest friends who might attempt to defend her from an unwanted groom and make sure she didn’t panic and run off, especially in arranged marriages. In a custom known as ‘charming the path,’ the bride was hidden or disguised when the groom’s party came for her.
‘This was a common practice at old-fashioned weddings in Wales, among other places. The bride is generally expected to make a great show of resistance to her departure, and to lament loudly.’
(Burne, Charlotte S. The Handbook of Folklore. London 1883)

As late as the 18th Century, a custom that often accompanied weddings in Wales was a race by the male members of the wedding party to the couple’s future residence, with food or a silk scarf (originally the bride’s garter, a potent love charm) typically awarded to the winner.



At Scottish country weddings, a related custom, to ‘ride the brose,’ with the first to arrive receiving a ‘cog of brose,’ or ‘good fat broth made for the occasion.’ (John Jamieson. An Etymological Dictionary of the Scottish Language 1808)
 ‘The boast of the winner was how far on with the brose he was before the rest of the company arrived.’


Amazon:

The Folly at Falconbridge Hall is a Victorian marriage of convenience story.
Nominated for the Rone Award, it is an Amazon bestseller. 

Vanessa Ashley felt herself qualified for a position as governess, until offered the position at Falconbridge Hall. Left penniless after the deaths of her artist father and suffragette mother, Vanessa Ashley draws on her knowledge of art, politics and history to gain employment as a governess. She discovers that Julian, Lord Falconbridge, requires a governess for his ten-year-old daughter Blyth at Falconbridge Hall, a huge rambling mansion in the countryside outside London. Lord Falconbridge is a scientist and dedicated lepidopterist who is about to embark on an extended expedition to the Amazon in search of exotic butterflies. An enigmatic man, he takes a keen interest in his daughter's education, but Vanessa feels that he may disapprove of her modern methods. As she prepares her young charge to enter into the modern world, Vanessa finds the girl detached and aloof. As Vanessa learns more about Falconbridge Hall, more questions arise. Why doesn't Blythe feel safe in her own home? Why is the death of her mother, once famed society beauty Clara, never spoken of? And why did the former governess leave so suddenly without giving notice?

Excerpt:

1894 Clapham, England
Chapter One
Vanessa Ashley planned to arrive at her destination cool and composed, but she felt like a wilting lily. She dabbed her handkerchief at the sweat trickling into her collar as heat gathered
beneath her chip-straw bonnet. Clapham High Street Railway Station was a noisy and smelly hub of activity, luckily the residence that was to be her new home lay in the countryside.
A short, bearded man approached her and politely touched his hat. “For Falconbridge Hall, miss?”
“Yes, I’m Miss Ashley. Thank you . . . Mr.?”
“They just call me Capstick, Miss Ashley. This way.” He led her to a trap. After he’d loaded her trunk and her bicycle on board, they seated themselves. He slapped the reins and told the horse to walk on. “You’re the new governess?”
She smiled. “Yes.”
“Another one,” he muttered and shook his head.
Startled, Vanessa stared at him. “How many have there been?”
“A few. They don’t stay long.”
“But why?”
Capstick declined to comment. He just grunted and shook his head.
“Well, I intend to.” Vanessa straightened her shoulders. It was true she had never wished to be a governess. Even though she was still quite young, her wish for children of her own now seemed unlikely, and if this was to be her fate, she intended to make the best of it. A person without funds, indifferent looks, and a lack of grace had no other course open to them.
“Good luck to yer, then.” Capstick grinned at her, revealing a large gap in his front teeth.
With reassuring skill, he negotiated around a horse-drawn tram as they passed the bandstand on the common and then drove down tree-lined avenues. Villas were soon replaced by streets of gracious homes set amid beautiful gardens. A sign, reading Clapham Park Estate, appeared, followed by larger country houses on acreages.
They passed the last of the houses and were out in the countryside now. Green fields crisscrossed by hedgerows stretched away to a line of forest in the distance. The trap followed
the road beside a high brick wall for about a mile until they came to a pair of impressive wrought iron gates with Falconbridge Hall emblazoned on them in gold lettering. Capstick drove through,
and a house appeared above the trees. Many chimneys rose from the massive slate roof.
Ahead of them, a stocky dark-haired man rode a magnificent bay horse across the lawn and vaulted a hedge. Vanessa had a glimpse of dark, gypsy eyes and a white smile beneath a black moustache. Before they drew level, he turned the animal and rode towards the woods.
“Who was that?” she couldn’t help asking, watching him disappear into the trees.
“That’s the groom, Lovel, exercising the master’s horse.” Capstick shook his head. “The gardeners will not be pleased.”
The gravel drive bordered by lime trees curved around through formal gardens to the front of the house where he left her, disappearing with her trunk and bicycle toward the rear
entrance and, she presumed, the coach house and stables.
The sprawling red brick house had sandstone trim around the windows and a tower at one end, ivy covered its walls. It was older and far bigger than those they’d passed on their way from
the station. The house had settled into its surroundings, and she had the feeling it had been here for a very long time while the urban sprawl of Clapham edged ever closer.
Conscious that she looked rumpled and untidy, Vanessa smoothed the skirt of her olive green linen dress and straightened the limp white collar with travel-stained cotton gloves. She picked up her bag and stepped up to the paneled door flanked by stout white columns.
Before she could knock, a maid wearing a mobcap and a white apron over her grey floral dress opened the door. “Miss Ashley? Please come in.”
Surprised not to be met by a butler in such an establishment, Vanessa stepped into the wide entrance hall. One of those new inventions, the telephone sat on a table. A fine Persian carpet ran the length of the parquet floor, pale green satin papered the walls, and fringed and tasseled emerald velvet drapes hung from the windows. Potted ferns clustered in corners, and a gracious staircase led upward. Despite fractured light filtering down from a stained-glass window above the stair, the house was so gloomy inside dusk might have fallen.
“The master’s in his study, miss. Please wait here while I announce you."
Vanessa sank gratefully onto the edge of a straight-backed chair. It had been hours since she’d had a drink, and her mouth was horribly parched. Now her knees had developed a worrying tendency to tremble. To distract herself, she studied the remarkable flesh tones on the naked woman’s torso of the oil painting hanging on the opposite wall. A Fran├žois Boucher if she was not mistaken. More flesh than was decent, surely.
Her father had preferred the sea and boats as his subjects. He considered the naked body
to be soft pornography and not fine art but altered his opinion after nudes became an important asset to any wealthy man’s collection and began to fetch high prices. More than once, Vanessa
had come across nude models posing in his studio, barely covered by drapery and, sometimes, wearing nothing at all.
At the thought of her father and their home in Cornwall, a wave of homesickness passed over her; she had never envisaged such a drastic change in fortune. She swallowed and focused her mind on the letter and the offer that had brought her here.
In his fine script, the viscount had been brief and to the point. He was a widower with a young daughter in need of tutoring. An associate of her uncle’s had approached him on her behalf. She’d read his words with disquiet. He sounded so business-like and … unsympathetic.
He had been informed that her mother and father died from the influenza, but his few words of condolence failed to make her more confident of what lay ahead.
The maid’s head appeared over the banister rail. “The master will see you now.”
Vanessa walked up the wide oak stair to where the maid awaited outside a door. A deep voice answered her knock. Vanessa turned the knob thinking how she would have liked to wash before meeting her new employer; it was difficult to appear cool and in control when so hot.
The room she entered was also gloomy. A gas lamp glowed where a man sat in shirtsleeves and braces, his dark head bent over a desk. She took two uncertain steps and paused
in the middle of a crimson Persian rug. Vanessa clasped her hands together and inspected the room. Shelves of leather-bound books lined one wall. Heavy bronze velvet drapes, pulled halfway across the small-paned windows, framed a narrow but magnificent view of parkland
where broad graveled walks trailed away through well-grown trees. She suffered a sudden urge to walk across, pull the curtains back and throw open a window.
Lord Falconbridge put down the butterfly under-glass he had been examining and pushed back his leather chair, rising to his feet. As she edged closer, he donned his coat and came to shake her hand. “Miss Ashley.”
“How do you do, my lord?”
He motioned her to sit then sat himself.
He would be in his mid-thirties, she guessed. His good looks made her feel even more untidy. His dark hair swept off a widow’s peak, and he had a deep cleft in his chin. He removed his glasses, and his eyes were a similar bright blue to the butterfly. Dark brows met in an absentminded frown as if she was an unwelcome distraction. “Welcome to Falconbridge Hall. I hope you had a good journey?”
“Yes, thank you, my lord.”
“You’ve come quite a long way. You must be tired.”
“I broke my journey with an aunt in Taunton, my lord.” Her aunt was quite elderly, and Vanessa had slept on the sofa, but she didn’t feel at all tired. She expected fatigue would strike once the initial rush of excitement had faded.
“My sympathies for your loss, Miss Ashley.”
“Thank you.”
“You have had no experience as a governess, I believe.”
“No.”
“Do you like children?”
“Very much, my lord.”
“Then you have had some involvement with them.”
“Yes, I was very fond of my neighbors’ children. I minded them quite often as their parents were both in business.”
“You had no opportunity to marry in Cornwall?”
“I had one offer, my lord.” The widowed vicar, Harold Ponsonby, had offered, in an attempt to rescue her from the heathenish den of iniquity in which he found her.
He eyed her. “And you refused him?”
Might he think her imprudent? “Yes.”
“Do you have a particular skill, Miss Ashley, which you can impart to my daughter?”
“No, my lord.” She drew in a breath. She had not expected such a question. “Sadly, I did not inherit my father’s artistic talent, but I have my mother’s enquiring mind and her interest in history and politics.”
“Politics?” He stared at her rather long, and she wished again that she’d had time to tidy herself. “We shall see how you get on. The rest of the day is your own. We will discuss your duties in the library tomorrow at ten. Mrs. Royce, my housekeeper, will show you to your room.”
With an abstracted glance at his desk, he rose and went to pull the bell.
The mahogany desktop was completely covered with pens and papers, a microscope, a probe of some kind, a set of long-handled tweezers, a large magnifying glass and a small handheld
one, tomes stacked one on top of the other in danger of toppling, and the butterfly in its glass prison, its beautiful wings pinned down, never to soar again. Caught by its beauty and premature death, Keats’s poem Ode to a Grecian Urn, rushed into her head. 

“Thou, silent form,
dost tease us out of thought…As doth eternity.”
The viscount swiveled, and his eyebrows shot up. “Pardon?”
Vanessa jumped to her feet as heat flooded her cheeks. She'd said the words aloud. She must have had too much sun. “Keats, my lord.”
“Are you a devotee of the Romantics?”
“Not especially.” Annoyed with herself and, irrationally, with him for pursuing it, she said, “Forgive me, it was a random thought.”
He folded his arms and studied her. “You are given to spouting random philosophical thoughts?”
She tugged at her damp collar. “Not usually. I’m a little tired, and it’s been so hot.”
Hastening to change the subject, she stepped over to the wall covered in framed butterflies of all sizes and colors. One particular specimen caught her eye. “Exquisite.”
She felt his presence disturbingly close behind her. “Which?”
She pointed. “This one, with patches of crimson and deep blue on its wings.”
“You have a good eye. That’s a Nymphalidae from Peru. Do you know much about butterflies?” She looked at him, finding his blue eyes had brightened.
“Very little, I’m afraid,” she said, aware her contribution to this discussion would prove disappointing. “We get many orange ones with black spots in Cornwall.”
“Dark green Fritillary.” The interested light in his eyes faded.
“That can’t be. They’re orange,” she said.
“That is their name, dark green Fritillary.”
“Why would they call it dark green when …?” Her voice died away at the impatience in his face.
“That species is common and of little interest.” He studied her. “Unless you took notice of some interesting aspect of their habitats?”
“No, not precisely, my lord … uh, they seemed to gather in trees and grasses ….” She nipped at her lip with her teeth, as he nodded and turned away. Would a governess be required to know much about butterflies or botany? Beyond Cornwall, her knowledge of flora and fauna was barely worthy of comment.
A woman entered the room, her neat figure garbed in black bombazine, with a lacy cap over her brown hair and a watch pinned to her breast. A large bunch of keys jangled at her waist.
Vanessa thought her to be in her early-forties. She had a pointed nose and sharp eyes that looked
like they would miss little.
“Ah. Mrs. Royce, this is the new governess, Miss Ashley. Please give her a tour of the
day nursery and school room and introduce my daughter to her before you take her to her quarters.”
“Yes, milord.”
“Miss Ashley.” His lordship nodded. “I shall see you here again at ten o’clock tomorrow.
We’ll discuss your plans for teaching my daughter. I’m extremely keen that she becomes proficient in mathematics, the French language, and botany.”
“Botany, my lord?” Vanessa’s fears were realized. Completely unprepared, she looked around wildly at the books lining his shelves. Might she have time to bone up on it? She read
some knowledge of her discomfort in his eyes and lifted her chin. “Surely English and history are equally as important?”
“That goes without saying.” He turned back to his desk. “Tomorrow at ten.”
Summarily dismissed, Vanessa followed the housekeeper along the corridor. Did she catch a satisfied gleam in his eye before he turned away? Her mind filled with questions. Was it going to be difficult to work for him? Might it be why governesses did not stay long here?

Source: Forgotten English Jeffrey Kacirk, Quill William Morrow NY.S
Further reading:
Thomas Blount recognized that many of the new words entering the English language were those spoken in the street. He saw that tradesmen and merchants were collecting words as well as wares on their journeys overseas. And therefore many of these new words, such as coffee, chocolate, drapery, boot, omelette or balcony, were those used in shops or other public places - drinking houses, tailors, shoemakers or barbers.
Charlotte Burne (1850–1923) served the Folklore Society (FLS) for forty years. She was editor of the massive Shropshire Folklore (1883–6), and the second revised edition of the FLS's only official guide, The Handbook of Folklore (1914). She authored over seventy folklore papers, notes and reviews in Folklore and its predecessors, as well as several articles in newspapers and magazines; she was the first woman editor of this journal (1900–08) and the first woman President of the FLS (1909–10). This appreciation is the first part of a two-part study of her life and works. The second part will be a provisional bibliography of her published works.
John Jamieson FRSE (3 May 1759 – 12 July 1838) was a Scottish minister of religion, lexicographer, philologist and antiquary.
 Reblogged.

Monday, September 15, 2014

Finding Research for a Historical Novel.

Researching Bath
By Maggi Andersen

Bath_Circus_3

Letters and historical novels can give us a great idea of how life was lived in another era.
Jane Austen lived in Bath for five years and before that was a frequent visitor to the city. Two of her novels are set there: Northanger Abbey and Persuasion. Separated by fifteen years, Jane’s experiences of a changing Bath color her novels. She wrote Northanger Abbey in the 1790s after a pleasant short stay.
Although Catherine leaves Bath without regret when she, and the narrative, move on to Northanger Abbey, she has experienced no sense of confinement during her sojourn in the city, and has shown no longing for the country. There is a fresh and simple enjoyment of the pleasure of Bath in this novel, expressed by Catherine when Henry warns her that it is de rigeur to become tired of Bath after six weeks:
“Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go to London may think nothing of Bath. But I, who lives in a small retired village in the country, can never find greater sameness in such a place as this, than in my own home; for there are a variety of amusements, a variety of things to be seen and done all day long…I really believe I shall always be talking of Bath, when I am at home again – I do like it so very much…Oh! Who can ever be tired of Bath?”

In November 1800  Mr. and Mrs. Austen retired to Bath,and a great wrench for Jane, at twenty-five to leave Steventon. Books, pictures, piano – everything had to be disposed of, everything she had grown up with. But it was place, rather than property, which was so hard to leave.

In the new century, the Bath of perpetual confinement was Jane’s own reality when she wrote Persuasion. A thousand houses had been built in Bath in the 1790s alone, although the surrounding country remained unspoiled. As Fanny Burney wrote, “There is always the town at command and always the country for prospect, exercise and delight.”

Bath had played a significant role in the establishment of pleasurable 18th century pursuits of pleasure, polished manners, social contacts and correct taste. People of a certain education, with leisure and enough money to spend, mingled and enjoyed civilized pleasures. As Smollett wrote: “Even the wives and daughters of low tradesmen…insist upon being conveyed to Bath were they hobbled the country dances and cotillions among lordlings, squires and the clergy.”

But no longer content to ‘hobble’ with anyone who could afford the subscription to the assemblies, the gentry developed a desire for greater privacy and exclusivity and began to prefer private parties. “The showy, tonish people who are only to be seen by going to the Rooms, which we never do,” as Fanny

Burney wrote in 1780.
Beneath this fastidious layer, which included such snobs as Sir Walter Elliot and Lady Dalrymple, came the ‘clergymen may be’, or lawyers from town, or half pay officers, or widows on a jointure.
But as the lower classes were more numerous than the aristocracy who had first patronized Bath, the city was more popular than ever, and the demand for houses steadily grew.
Jane Austen describes accurately the city she knew so well. The heart of the city has always been the abbey churchyard, called the pump-yard in Northanger Abbey. The spacious area where the sedan-chairs and their blue-coated attendants waited for customers. The churchyard is enclosed by the west front of the abbey; The Pump Room, with its inscription ‘Water is Best’ in Greek; the Colonnade on the west; and a row of shops on the north, between two of which is the archway which Catherine Morland and Isabella Thorpe passed through to Cheap Street. Bath_Abbey_Exterior,_Somerset,_UK_-_Diliff

Bath has many public parks, where the pursuits of seeing and being seen could take place. Chief among these were the lawns in front of the Royal Crescent, where it was fashionable to walk on a Sunday; Jane Austen, and her characters in Northanger Abbey, all did so.Bath city

My latest novels are Regency romances. New Release, WHAT A RAKE WANTS – The Spies of Mayfair, is available in print and e-book. WARW2
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(Reblogged from Embracing Romance)
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