Regency – The Night Mail

History- Love It, Hate It

French troops at Talavera by Hippolyte Belange

I’ve always wanted to be an author but I never dreamed of writing historical fiction. High school and college history teachers focused on memorizing dates. Having a good memory, I aced the tests and promptly forgot all the meaningless data. Then I discovered Regency romance and mystery and social history. I was hooked. Seeing how people lived and why things happened tickled my brain like amorphous dates and events never did.

The excerpt from my wip, Mayhem and Mudlarks, is an example of how I used a story about a general’s hat from the Peninsular Wars.

“Lord Major Kenyon Randall Jamieson ushered Sherry into his small office at Whitehall, pointing out a chair in front a well-worn desk of indeterminate wood, before seating himself.

“I thought you had no friends alive here?” Sherry pulled his chair closer to the lamp on the desk and sat.

“I did not, until John Beckett, the undersecretary, read a recounting of my exploits in Talavera with the 29^th Regiment.” Major pulled a bottle and two glasses out of a drawer.

Sherry nodded a yes. “The battle that solidified your role and started mine as an exploring officer’”

Major poured a substantial quaff of amber liquid in each glass and handed one to Sherry. “Or made my superiors afraid of ever sending me into battle again, especially after I told the story of the two officers who had their hats blown away by a cannon ball flying overhead.”

“Lieutenant Duguid wasn’t too happy to return the only hat recovered to its rightful owner.”

“I’m not sure that hat belonged to General Stewart. But rank has its privileges.” Major raised his glass in salute. “Now he war is over but the fears of rebellion on the home front have all the politicians and career civil servants yanking out their hair. They have no knowledge of real intrigue. Hence men such as ourselves have increased in value.”

“But I refuse to spy on my fellow Englishmen.” Sherry sipped on his whiskey to drown the sour taste in his mouth. He had been approached to do so on his return to London after Napoleon was safely ensconced at Elba…

check out britishbattles.com

Old Clothes for Sale

When researching or collecting clothing from by-gone days, it is easier to find apparel of the upper classes. This is simply because the poor and working class wore their garments out, seldom leaving more than rags behind.

Cities in Europe had markets for second hand clothing from at least the 16th century on. London had markets in Petticoat and Rosemary Lanes that carried gently used items, especially frock coats and great coats, as well as extremely worn clothing. Houndsditch market specialized in threadbare attire for the poor. These markets were characterized by writers of the time as boisterous at best and crime ridden at worst. Some claimed most of the clothing for sale was stolen.

By mid-century, the journalist and reformer, Henry Mayhew described London street markets:

Some of the wares are spread on the ground, on wrappers, or pieces of matting or carpet; and some, as the pots, are occasionally placed on straw. The cotton prints are often heaped on the ground, where are also ranges or heaps of boots and shoes, and piles of old clothes, or hats or umbrellas. Other trades place their goods on stalls or barrows, or over an old chair or clothes-horse. And amidst all this motley display the buyers and sellers smoke, and shout, and doze, and bargain, and wrangle, and eat, and drink tea and coffee, and sometimes beer”.

The featured drawing is by Rowlandson of the Rag Fair at Rosemary Lane.

Mudlarking

Clay Pipes

Modern day mudlarks who shift through the mucky shores of the Thames recover a lot of pieces of clay pipes. When tobacco smoking first came to London it was a costly endeavor. Consumers loved the stuff but used it in small amounts in the tiny bowls of clay pipes. These pipes had long stems to cool the smoke before it reached the mouth. They were easy to lose and dispose of and extremely breakable. The tide of the Thames was rough on the objects in it’s grasp but it’s mud acted as an anaerobic preservative. The pipes might break but they stuck around for centuries.

Photo- Nicola White

I Love Maps

The internet has changed the way we find things in remarkable ways. I’m still a little leery of following Google’s directions without looking at the full map myself before I get into my car, but if I need to find places that existed 200 or more years ago good tools are available. Two of my favorite interactive maps are clear to read zoomed in and easy to find specific places.

Agas map 1561 (above) not only has clear close-ups but finds places by category and gives you a list of related sites to further your research. https://mapoflondon.uvic.ca/agas.htm

Darton’s 1814 Stranger’s guide lets you zoom into sections to show specific streets, squares and landmarks https://mapco.net/darton1814/darton.htm

CHANGES

TheNightMail is changing!! You may have noticed the new WordPress theme. But wait, there’s more!

TheNightMail was originally created as a show place for Becky and Robin’s short fiction related to their screenwriting project, FREAKTOWN. It soon morphed into a straight out site for Flash Fiction accompanied by carefully curated images. It was not long before poetry, particularly haiku, made an appearance. More recently, there have been guest author contributions as well. Yes, evolution happens.

Now TheNightMail is changing again. Robin and Becky have returned to decades old writing habits and are producing novels and novellas under TheNightMail imprint. These farcical romance and mystery stories have historical settings, so you will find new sections on the blog devoted to “Regency”, “Flash Facts” and “Publications”. We will still endeavor to punch out flash fiction pieces for your consideration but hope you’ll click around the site and see what else is available in longer form.

Thanks for reading.

Image from flickr commons

Female Trouble

She was leaking. Again. It seemed only to happen in public. At home it was never a problem. She could sit for hours reading or working out mathematical equations. Even when staring at the clouds or stars and theorizing, there was no seepage.

But out shopping, at tea, in a ballroom and especially at the subscription library, she had only to open her mouth and the trickle, then torrent, of her words, opinions and knowledge flooded the air.

Her intelligence on hideous display and before she could ratchet her jaw shut, the whispers began all round.

“Bluestocking.”

Image: Portrait of MME De Graffigny by Pierre Mignard via flickr commons

1816

It would be the fight of his life. A duel but not over a woman or an accusation of cheating at cards or even because some Pink of the Ton had cast aspersions upon the arrangement of his cravat. No, it was far more serious. The control of his fortune, his title, his estate, his very future was at stake. And he had no choice of weapons, was unarmed, unmanned, with only his twelve year old brother as his second. But he must face the challenge.

Bile rose in his throat as he turned to confront his opponent.

“Hello, Mother.”

Image: Portrait of a Young Gentleman via flickr commons