I don’t know much about the Battle of Waterloo (every Regency I’ve written has been set earlier, so I’ve never bothered to study it much). So as my part of the Risky Regencies Waterloo week, my post today will talk about the evolution of my cavalry hero in MY LADY GAMESTER — what choices I faced in creating him, and how I worked to weave my research into the story.

I decided early in the planning of this novel that my hero (Lord Stoke, once known as Captain Stanton) was to be an ex-military man. And yes, this concept is quite common in Regency romances — the hero a younger son, career military, who never expected to inherit the title — but this concept is used a lot because it works so well. Talk about conflict! You have a man who is not what he appears to be; you have a fish out of water; you have a man with different priorities, values and tastes than many of the folks now around him.

After deciding Lord Stoke had been an army man (as navy didn’t fit his backstory), I quickly decided he had to be cavalry, as horses would be one of the things that drew him and the heroine together (and also created major problems.)

So then it was: what kind of cavalry? I read a bunch of Haythornthwaite books (some pictured here) and talked to my Trusty Todd (patent pending), and concluded that light cavalry seemed to do more fun things and have a better reputation for usefulness at this point than heavy cavalry, and heavy horses wouldn’t work anyway — so light cavalry it was.

Next decision: the year, and the hero’s military past.

I needed the Napoleonic Wars to still be going on (poor Stoke, away from the fighting and feeling useless!), but I also needed for a cavalryman who had sold out a year before to have been in the field for several years, and taken part in a few major battles in which light cavalry were involved, and in which there had been a fair number of casualties.

I concluded that Talavera (July 1809, which used two light cavalry brigades) would work for the major battle in which Stoke’s best friend, the redheaded scamp Basty, was wounded…and Albuera (May 1811, one light cavalry battalion) would be suitable for the battle in which poor Basty finally died. So the year of my novel became 1812.

I then studied up on Talavera and Albuera, and also lots of general cavalry and army stuff (their weapons, their tactics, how they trained their men and horses — that sort of thing.)

And of course, all along, Trusty Todd was at hand to help clarify the differences between a musket, a carbine, and a pistol, to explain what exactly happened when a firearm “misfired” (and to remind me frequently that the Armies of Wellington were kept up the Sleevies of Wellington…)

The final hurdle, of course, was writing the scenes in which Stoke explained the battles and their personal significance to my heroine…trying to be clear and correct without boring the reader in the least. Ah, yes, the simple joys of authorhood.

And the end result? See what you think: here’s part of the section in which Stoke tells Atalanta what happened at Talavera:

The memories were perfectly clear. “We were in the middle of a charge, but something had gone wrong. I think the scouts had been misled as to the enemy’s strength. Hard to tell.”

He paused, seeing the smoke and mud all about. “Their artillery had taken a hard toll on us–we didn’t realize how much until after it was all over. But it was obvious that we were disorganized. Sebastian was to my right, on Minerva. We hit the French cavalry hard.”

He shook his head. “It’s impossible to describe what it’s like, being in the middle of a battle. You can rarely see more than what’s right in front of you. You have a saber slashing down at you, and if you’re lucky, you get there first, or deflect it. Then you strike back, fast. If you succeed, there’s already another horse upon you, another saber, or occasionally a pistol pointed at your chest.”

He stared up into the peaceful trees. “All you can hear is the shouting at a charge, the guns, the artillery. The screaming. And there’s smoke all over. It gets in your nose, in your eyes. Dirt, mud. Blood. Horses falling all around.”

But this wasn’t what he’d meant to say. “On top of everything, it was foggy that day. It looked like the plains of hell. Out of nowhere came a French dragoon, his sword covered with blood. He slashed Sebastian before I could shout a warning.”

She gave a distressed cry. “Was he all right?”

He rubbed at the tension in his forehead. “A saber in the face is never a pretty sight. God knows, we disfigured plenty of French, so it was no surprise. But he was all right, yes. Thanks to his mount.”

And…that’s my story!

So…what Regencies have you read where you thought the military stuff was done particularly well?

All answers welcome!

Cara
Cara King, author of MY LADY GAMESTER, a more poetic title than MY LORD DRAGOON

When the Riskies asked me to guest blog during their Waterloo Week, I was excited. There were so many things I could write about.

I could write about the events of the battle, and its impact on world history.

I could write about the nature of Napoleonic combat–the three arms of infantry, cavalry, and artillery, and the weapons they used; how those weapons affected the tactics of the battle; how Marshal Ney’s attacks illustrated the imperviousness of infantry squares to cavalry, and how the defeat of the Imperial Guard demonstrated the superiority of line over column.

I could write about the decisions that were made, how Napoleon might have won the battle, and what the likely consequences would have been.

But then a sobering thought occurred. In a rare moment of self-reflection, I suddenly wondered: “Why do I know about this stuff?!”

I mean, I’m a peaceable guy. I’ve never served in the military. I’ve never used a weapon in anger. I’m not a historian, or a historical novelist. Heck, I don’t even play one on TV. And yet I’ve done many, many hours of research, read countless books, visited innumerable museums. Why? Just for fun? Am I a mutant, or what?

No, I’m not a mutant. The truth is much worse than that: I’m a guy. And what’s more, I’m not alone in this. The world is filled with guys. And we guys, insofar as we like to read at all, like to read about war, weapons, and general mayhem.

That explains those men who spend a fortune on period costumes and weapons and drive hundreds of miles to line up in the hot sun and recreate important battles of history.

It explains the wargamers who argue for hours about the relative merits of chain mail versus plate armor, and whether or not a halberd is a purely offensive weapon.

It explains why a quick glance at my bookshelves turned up 102 books on military history, books on dueling, drill manuals and period fencing books. And it explains why I have precise knowledge of how to load and fire a flintlock musket, of the differences between smallswords and spadroons, and of the different kinds of shot used in a man-of-war, but only the vaguest idea of how to change the oil in my car.

Why this fascination? Is it in our genes, inherited from our primitive, warlike ancestors, who fought for recognition, territory, and to pick up chicks (perhaps literally)?

Is it the appeal of military virtues like courage, discipline, duty, camaraderie, and honor?

Is it the fancy uniforms, the deadly weapons, the glittering array, and the idea that somehow these will help us to pick up chicks?

Or is it the very horror of the battlefield–the closest thing mankind (and I do mean mankind) has devised to hell on earth? Sometimes a thing is so terrible that it is hard to look away even at hundreds of years’ remove.

The truth is, I don’t know why I’m fascinated, but I am. I don’t watch football. I don’t drink beer. I don’t do stupidly risky things to impress girls (at least, not anymore). I like fluffy kittens, and Notting Hill is one of my favorite movies. Be that as it may, I’m still a guy. I quote from Sun Tzu’s Art of War, and I flip to The History Channel to look for reruns of Conquest and Mail Call (which could equally be called Male Call). And the story of Waterloo grips me: the bravery, the excitement, the terror, the discipline, the suffering, and the death. It brought in a new era then lasted nearly a hundred years, finally ending on another battlefield in Belgium. It’s war; and, like it or not, it’s part of who we are.

Todd-who-also-knows-how-to-row-a-trireme-and-couch-a-lance

“The battle of Waterloo was won on the playing-fields of Eton” –Duke of Wellington

“Probably the battle of Waterloo was won on the playing-fields of Eton, but the opening battles of all subsequent wars have been lost there” –George Orwell

Today here at Risky Regencies we’re kicking off Waterloo Week! Be sure and visit every day for historical information on the battle itself, life in the Regency-era military, and weaving all that research into characters and plots.

My topic today is the Duchess of Richmond’s famous ball, held on the night of June 15, 1815 (193 years ago tomorrow) in a huge old carriage-house on the property of the Richmonds’ Brussels house in the Rue de la Blanchisserie. (The Duke of Richmond was in command of a reserve force in Brussels, charged with protecting the city in case Napoleon invaded). But lest you think everyone was partying in rustic decor, with carriage wheels and horses everywhere, the space was done up in grand style indeed. There were flowers and greenery wreathing all the pillars, and hangings of red, gold, and black draped on the walls. Thackeray, who later used the ball in a pivotal scene in Vanity Fair, declared it “perfectly delightful…with few nobodies present.” Caroline Lamb wrote, “There was never such a ball–so fine and so sad.”

The people who were “not nobodies” in attendance included the Prince of Orange (later King William II of Holland), the Duke of Brunswick (who died the next day at Quatre Bras), the Prince of Nassau, several earls including Conyngham, Uxbridge (commander of the British cavalry, who famously lost his leg), Portalington, and March. There were 22 colonels, sixteen comtes and comtesses, and many English peers. There were 224 invitees in all, though only 55 were women, so I doubt there were any wallflowers that night! (For a list of all invitations, you can go here).

It was at this ball that Wellington learned Napoleon had crossed the border and was on the march. He had assumed Napoleon would advance on Brussels via Mons rather than the more direct Charleroi route, and received word that he was wrong about this during supper. The Richmonds’ daughter, Lady Georgiana Lennox (later Lady De Ros) recalled that “The news was circulated directly, and while some of the officers hurried away, others remained at the ball, and actually had no time to change, but fought in evening costume.” 72 hours later, more than 4 in 10 of those officers were wounded or dead.

Lady De Ros later wrote a great deal about this ball and the events that followed. She said, “My mother’s now famous ball took place in a large room on the left of the entrance, connected with the rest of the house by an ante-room. When the Duke of Wellington arrived, rather late, I was dancing, but at once went up to him to ask about the rumours. He said very gravely, ‘Yes, they are true; we are off tomorrow.’ It was a dreadful evening, taking leave of friends and acquaintances, many never to be seen again. I remember being quite provoked with poor Lord Hay, a dashing merry youth, full of military ardor, whom I knew very well for his delight at the idea of going into action, and of all the honors he was to gain; and the first news we had on the 16th was that he and the Duke of Brunswick were killed.”

(Perhaps young Lady Georgiana wore a gown like this one, said to have been made for the Richmond ball! See a page about its restoration here).

I’ve always thought that this ball (and the subsequent events) would make a terrific centerpiece for a story. It’s a romantic, tragic setting, full of desperate merriment and the terrible sense of time growing short. Even as the champagne flows and everyone dances, there’s an edge of deep, deep sadness.

For more information, I love the books The Duchess of Richmond’s Ball by David Miller, and Dancing Into Battle: A Social History of the Battle of Waterloo by Nick Foulkes. (And then there’s always Sharpe’s Waterloo…)

I also love the first stanza of Byron’s poem The Eve of Waterloo:

Hi, Eva!

We have not forgotten you and we still want to get you your copy of La Petite Four by Regina Scott. Unfortunately, your emails have still not made it through.

We did notice that there was an Eva from Finland who won from us once before. If you are the same Eva and haven’t moved, please let us know and we’ll just use the same address.

If not, we have several suggestions:

1) If you feel comfortable doing so, just put your address in a comment to this post.

2) If not, you could try sending it to any or all of these addresses:

riskies@yahoo.com
ammcabe7551@yahoo.com
caraking1@yahoo.com
egreene@stny.rr.com

Also, we are not techies here, but we suspect that maybe something along the way thinks your emails are spam. Try putting “La Petite Four” in the subject header and avoiding any words like “contest” or “winner” since those words are sometimes associated with spam. If these things don’t work, you may wish to check with your service provider.

We are sorry this is taking so long and sincerely hope this works!

Elena and the Riskies

I’ve been thinking about clothes this week. Okay, I know I always think about clothes! I subscribe to far too many fashion magazines, and shop more than I should. But this week even more than usual. There were wedding clothes (for my brother’s wedding, see pics here, plus one I’m attending this afternoon). There was the Horrifying Revelation that a gown Sarah Jessica Parker wore to one of the 450 Sex and the City premiers had (gasp!!!) been worn before. And I was sick for a few days, and laid on the couch watching recordings of Gossip Girl reruns.

Gossip Girl was my newest TV obsession last season. Twisted storylines, snappy writing, sex and drugs (in limos!), revenge through dinner reservations. Despite the disappointingly weak season finale, this is television gold! And what I like best is the fashion, and how it’s used to help define characters. With glamorous events like cotillion balls, masquerades, and, y’know, going to school, every week is a couture wonderland. Balenciaga, Dolce & Gabbana, Chanel! Chuck Bass and his dumb “signature scarf”! Headbands galore! What could be better??

June 7 also marks a milestone for 2 historical figures who knew the power of fashion, and how to use it to get their point across.

Beau Brummell was born on June 7, 1778, and for a time during the Regency his opinion on style and wit held highest sway in Society–until gambling and extravagance, along with quarrels with former BFF the Prince Regent, led to his downfall. He ended up bankrupt and syphilitic, and what’s worse dirty and slovenly, wandering around France. But his style holds sway in menswear to this day. As Byron purportedly said, there was nothing much remarkable about his fashion except “a certain exquisite propriety.”

He established a mode of understated, dark-colored, perfectly fitted and cut clothes, along with an impeccable crisp white cravat. He also emphasized daily bathing, shaving, and tooth-cleaning. It was said he took 5 hours to dress. Would he approve of Chuck Bass’s style of modern dandyism, with seersucker suits, bow ties, and the aforementioned scarf?

For more information, I recommend Ian Kelly’s book Beau Brummell: Ultimate Man of Style. On an unrelated note, I also recommend the show Blackadder the Third, where Blackadder is a servant to Hugh Laurie’s hysterical Prinny. One day Blackadder is reading the paper, with such headlines as “Beau Brummell in purple pants probe” and “King talks to tree–Phew! What a loony.”

June 7 was also the day George Sand died in 1876at age 72. Her refusal to reform to gender conventions of the day led to her use of men’s clothes (she said they were sturdier and cheaper, but they also enabled her to move more freely about Paris and gave her access to mostly-male venues, like restricted libraries and museums and the stalls of the theater). She also (gasp again!!) smoked in public. And had many, many lovers. And wrote 20 pages a night.

Margaret Fuller wrote, “George Sand smokes, wears male attire, wishes to be addressed as Mon frere; perhaps, if she found those who were as brothers indeed, she would not care whether she were a brother or a sister.”

Of course, sometimes no clothes at all is even better…

What have you been wearing (or watching, or thinking about) this week?