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Tag Archives: Improper Relations

Today I’m talking about one of the favorite occupations (no, not that one) of the Regency gentleman. Now, I’m always flummoxed by what the wealthy and idle did all day, other than change clothes, particularly those gentlemen who seem to have time on their hands in a testosterone-rich, nationalistic era.

Boxing, or beating the crap out of each other with bare fists, was a favorite occupation, whether as spectator or participant (although the lines were somewhat blurred). Today is the anniversary of the 1810 match between Tom Molineaux, a former slave from Virginia, and Tom Cribb, the English champion. Cribb won, just. Molineaux’s finger was broken in a fracas with Cribb’s supporters after nineteen rounds. In the twenty-eighth round, Molineaux knocked Cribb out but was accused of hiding lead bullets in his fists, and during the argument Cribb revived and the fight continued. Molineaux slipped and hit his head on one of the ring posts, and fought on, but was beaten in the thirty ninth, or fortieth round. More here.

All good clean fun, according to the official rules of boxing at the time (pre-Queensberry, remember) which were as follows:

  • Fights are with bare fists.
  • No kicking, biting, gouging, or elbowing.
  • Grappling and throws are allowed above the waist.
  • A round ends when one fighter is knocked down. Fighters are given 30 seconds to rest, and the next round begins.
  • There are no judges to score the bout.

Yet boxing was regarded as a science, hence Pierce Egan’s definition, the sweet science of bruising, in his work Boxiana. Another English boxing champion, Daniel Mendoza of Portugese-Jewish descent, wrote a Treatize on Boxing. Mendoza was famous for revolutionizing the style of boxing; although he weighed only 160 lbs and stood 5′ 7″ tall, he was the first fighter to actually float like a butterfly and sting like a bee. Eighteenth century style demanded that opponents stood facing each other and just hit each other. Some spectators thought Mendoza’s style ungentlemanly.

And isn’t it interesting that an openly Jewish boxer and a black boxer found fame in England?

Here’s an excerpt from Improper Relations (February 2010, still 53% off with free shipping, hint, hint) regarding boxing:

Much to my relief, I am not to be the principal in a family drama. My brother George has appropriated that role, stretched upon the couch (his muddy boots still on his feet, something only he and Henry would be allowed to do), while my mama laments and groans, a basin in her hand.

“Why, George, what’s the matter?” I ask.

He sits up. “Capital fellow, Shad!” I see now he has a dreadful black eye, and his appearance is not improved by a beefsteak dribbling blood onto his neckcloth. “Did a few rounds with me at Jackson’s, and you should see his right hook! Tremendous fellow, excellent sportsman, damned fast on his feet—”

My mother makes a tremulous whimpering sound at his strong language.

“Beg your pardon, ma’am,” he continues. “I wasn’t too keen on the idea of you marrying him, Lottie—he’s a trifle high in the instep I thought, for a fellow who’s got an estate in a pretty bad way, won’t enclose, you see, so he’s squandering money on his tenants, bad money after good. Or do I mean good after bad? So—”

“You mean Shad did that to you?” I’m horrified.

“Yes, and he got a few blows in on my ribs. Thought he’d broken one, but it’s not so bad now—”

“Pray, lie down, Dearest Boy,” my mother intones.

She places her basin on a small table to reach for her decanter of cordial.

“Are you completely mad, George?”

He shrugs, the same stupid proud grin on his face. “Damned gentlemanly of him to invite me to a round, that’s all I can say. I’ll be proud to shake his hand and call him brother.”

“But you wanted to kill him last night.”

“Oh, that…” he waves a hand. “We’re the best of friends, now.”

I’m not going to ask you if you’ve hit anyone recently, but what Regency pastimes do you find mindbogglingly idiotic? And which do you think you’d have enjoyed?

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I know I should be writing something erudite about the latest Harlequin-RWA debacle but I’m also reading Terry Pratchett and I think it’s coloring my perception. Truly, this is something that belongs in Discworld. I am also in the thick of deadline hell and am about to behead Jane Austen so you can see I’m rather distracted.

So I’ll tell you instead what I did last weekend, which was to attend the Ladies Day at the federal-era Riversdale House Museum, a wonderful day of activities centered around Rosalie Stier Calvert‘s love of gardening and typical flower-related activities. Here are all the ladies in costume (once again my maid neglected to clean and iron my gown in time), with a rather beautiful golden glow that looks like candlelight but is in fact a result of the failing battery in the camera.

We made perfume using essential oils and yes, vodka, and mine has a bergamot base because I like the name rather than the smell, but I hope it improves over the next couple of weeks.

One very exciting part of the day was a lecture by Stacey Hampton, an expert on nineteenth-century hairstyles and hair ornaments. She gave us a terrific list of resources, including the website Timely Tresses.

She brought in a selection of Regency hair ornaments from her collection which we were allowed to touch, and she also gave a demonstration, on fake heads, of how to build a Regency hair style.

Also on display where these three beautiful bonnets decorated with flowers, constructed by Riversdale’s historian Dr. Ann Wass. You can see in the background the original front doors of the house, a source of great pride for Rosalie Calvert, who boasted that not even Tommy Jeff in the White House had real solid mahogany doors.

In the afternoon we had afternoon tea with scones, neither of which are period, but are just plain good; we made the scones and we also attempted to sugar petals as decorations for the cupcakes, for which we made very runny icing (those egg whites would not stiffen. I spent a long time outside in the cool air with a bowl and a whisk). Sorry about the pic blurred with greed. We had spiced pear compote made with Riversdale’s own pears and an interesting Swedish carrot marmalade for the scones.

So that’s what I’ve been up to. What are you up to? And, aargh, it’s Thanksgiving next week. Are you ready? I’m off the hook since I don’t have a working oven…

Another bit of news. You can buy my next Regency chicklit book IMPROPER RELATIONS in advance at 55% off at bookdepository.com! Still no final cover but I know it will be pretty. The release date is February, 2010.

Thank you for calling the Regencyland Hotline. Please listen carefully as our options have changed.

If you are a debutante about to embark upon your first London season, please press 1 for a hot seduction in the conservatory at your first ball, 2 for an embarrassing episode at Almacks, 3 for the invasion of your bedchamber by a stranger whose identity you cannot discover, 4 for a secret baby.

If you are a gentleman spy, please press 1 for your next assignment, 2 to report on your last, 3 for an application to the Spies’ Club of your choice, or 4 for a secret baby. You will be required to enter your ID and password. If you have forgotten your password, you will be asked to enter your ID and the answer to your secret question. If you have forgotten your ID, you will be asked to enter your ID and the answer to yet another secret question. If you have forgotten both your ID and your password you’re screwed and you might as well give yourself up to the Frenchies immediately, because frankly all that sex has ruined your memory and we’re not particularly bothered about you giving away any state secrets.

If you are an experienced woman of a certain age, please press 1 for the availability of any Dukes looking for a mistress (please be patient; there are more than enough Dukes for everyone), 2 for any naive young men of the ton seeking sexual initiation, 3 for any of your younger siblings whom you selflessly and tirelessly support, 4 for a secret baby.

If you are a Duke, please press 1 for the availability of a suitable mistress, 2 for spy opportunities (you will be asked to create an ID and password. Even though you are horribly inbred and not the sharpest knife in the ducal drawer you must try and remember them and do not use something easily remembered like the name of your dog) 3 for any recent challenges to your title, 4 for a secret baby.

If you are a commoner and male, please press 1 for a current list of dukedoms inherited under mysterious circumstances that may be open for dispute, 2 for current opportunities as minor characters with the possibility of advancement to your own book later in the series, 3 for opportunities for emotional damage and/or interesting scars if you have already filed your minor character application, 4 for opportunities to beget secret babies.

If you are a … OK, it’s your turn.

Janet, who has spent most of the morning on the phone but is pleased to announce that A MOST LAMENTABLE COMEDY has gone into a second printing and that you can see the very pretty cover of her next book IMPROPER RELATIONS (with incorrect tag line) here.

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Two things are real today. One is that summer is quite definitely over and instead of toughing it out until November 1 (I made the rule and by golly I can break it) I turned on the heating and am wearing strange layers of clothes, necessitated by what’s clean or what can pass for clean.

The other reality is my next book from Little Black Dress. It’s real because I have revisions and a release date–February 2010–and, huzzah, the title I chose, Improper Relations.

I wrote this scene, where the heroine and her sister-in-law visit their aunt Lady Hortense Renbourn, one night when I had insomnia and decided to write at 2 a.m. I think I was more asleep than I realized, because this is what I came up with, and quite a surprise when I read it later. Although the character had appeared earlier in the book I wasn’t quite sure why she was there. I still wasn’t quite sure after this scene either, although she turned out to be very important to the plot. It was the invention of Lady Renbourn that confirmed my belief that (sometimes) I know what I’m doing even when I think I’m not (as far as writing goes, anyway).

Lady Renbourn’s drawing room is infested with cats and a handful of decorative young men, all dewy eyes and careful curls. She is apparently fashionable in a strange sort of way—the young men hang upon her every word and seem grateful when picked out for any particular insult.
A cat climbs into my lap and proceeds to shed, purring with delight.
“I see Cleopatra likes you,” Aunt Renbourn says. “Tom, show the lady what Cleopatra did to you.”
Obligingly the young man turns back his velvet cuff to display a collection of livid scratches.
“Love tokens!” screeches Aunt Renbourn. “We’ll have claret, now. Johnny—damn the boy, where is he?—you’ll pour. I won’t have the footmen bothered; they’re cleaning the silver. So, miss, give us the news. I hear you and Shad spurn the town to bill and coo at home. Most unfashionable, you’ll regret it.”
“I trust your ladyship is in good health,” Marianne comments. She wipes cat hair from her glass.
“I’m at death’s door, you hussy.” Aunt Renbourn, immune to polite conversation, takes a swallow of claret and belches. “Those onions will be the death of me. Francis will play the spinet for us now. None of this newfangled stuff by foreigners, Francis—give us some Playford tunes.”
One of the young men shoos a couple of cats from the instruments and wipes the keys with a handkerchief. The spinet is ancient, like its owner, and sadly out of tune and missing a few notes. Aunt Renbourn listens with avid delight, thumping her ebony cane in time (mostly) to the music and occasionally humming along.
“Has Shad found himself a mistress yet?” she shouts across the room, apropos of nothing.
“I believe not, ma’am,” I bellow back.
“He will. And what think you of the Bastards?”
“They are charming children,” I respond.
She stands, scattering a cat or two from her lap, and hobbles behind a screen set in a corner of the room, where I suspect a chamber pot resides.
One of the decorative young men rouses himself to make a comment on the weather. Johnny pours everyone more claret, Francis and the spinet continue to abuse Playford, and Tom extricates himself from fashionable lethargy to tell me he admires my hairstyle.
Aunt Renbourn emerges from behind the screen. She proceeds to entertain us for a good half hour with an extraordinary narration of vice, dissipation, and depravity involving virtually every wellborn family in England. Even Marianne looks taken aback at the revelation of young Lord L—’s indiscretion with his valet, the valet’s sister, two military officers and a luckless goat.
“And they had to completely replace the wallpaper!” Aunt Renbourn concludes.

Question of the day: What have you learned about trusting your instincts?

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This is what a finished book looks like.
Last night I finished Improper Relations, my next Little Black Dress book, and this is the entire manuscript dropped on the floor as I went through it page by page after a hard copy edit.

Whew! I’m still catching up from Nationals and then a Mullany expedition to the beach last week where I thought I’d have internet but didn’t. Here’s a pic of my mother in law Rosie Mullany to whom I dedicated A Most Lamentable Comedy.

But today is the birthday of Emily Bronte (1818-1848) so I thought we should talk about Wuthering Heights. I consider it an odd, difficult novel, full of shifts in time and narration. Where Jane Eyre (by sister Charlotte) has a clear legacy in popular fiction (plain, poor, virtuous heroine–check; brooding dark hero–check; brooding dark house–check; unspeakable secrets–check), what influence has Wuthering Heights had?

It’s almost as though Wuthering Heights stands alone, the odd cousin who smells of elderberries and talks to herself in a corner at the family gathering. We know she’s there, we know she’s part of the family, but she doesn’t quite fit in. Somehow she takes things to extremes–Heathcliffe is dark and brooding yet psychopathic; the heroine dies; the bleak landscape is the star of the show.

And what about the movie versions? Do you think any of them crack the Wuthering Heights code? There’s the 1939 classic with Laurence Olivier and Merle Oberon (left); the 1992 version with Juliette Binoche (whom I love, but why??) and Ralph Fiennes with bad hair.

The most recent is the 2009 PBS adaptation with Charlotte Riley and Tom Hardy (both of whom look far too clean in this pic and yet another bad Heathcliffe wig). And according to this article Keira Knightley and Lindsay Lohan are battling it out for the role of Cathy in yet another remake.

But to me, the most brilliant adaptation is this one by Monty Python (it starts about a minute in after some silly stuff with a policeman but this was the only one I could find without Spanish subtitles):

What do you think? Is there a movie version you like? A book you feel that is particularly influenced by Wuthering Heights?

My blog tour continues tomorrow with a visit to the Word Wenches and more next week–visit my website for the whole schedule (and enter the contest, which is ending soon, while you’re there).

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