Have you ever heard of the Hellfire Club? The Lot of Women in Georgian England-reblog

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Barry Lyndon, Christy Birmingham, Frances Wright, Georgian England, Lady Mary Bowes, Marraige in Georgian England, New book, Poetic parfait, poetry, Shehanne Moore, The Writer and the Rake, time travellers, Women

 

Have You Heard of the Hellfire Club? The Lot of Women in Georgian England (Guest Post) Shehanne Moore

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Here with me today is historical romance author Shehanne Moore. We go back a ways, Shey and I, so when I heard about her new book The Writer and the Rake, I asked her to come visit the blog. She kindly agreed to write a guest post, and, wow, she has provided quite a read about Georgian England, women, and the writing process. Now, let’s give Shehanne Moore the stage.

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Let’s be clear here, this is not a paean of praise to Francis Dashwood’s exclusive club for high society rakes.  When meetings often included mock rituals, items of a pornographic nature, much drinking, wenching and banqueting, what kind of a person do you think I am? And while the hero of my latest book has every selfish reason to appear enlightened about women, he has a point. Women were not able to walk into a tavern and drink in these days, the way they do now. In fact, a woman’s lot in 1765 was one to die for and not as we have come to know that term either.

Firstly, let me thank this very special woman, Christy Birmingham, for asking me, a romance author, to her blog today.  It’s a great pleasure to be here and to know Christy, one of the most supportive women I know, a tremendous poet and an intelligent advocate for us ladies.  My home town, Dundee, gave the U.S. Fanny Wright, lecturer, writer, freethinker, feminist, abolitionist, and social reformer, born here in 1795.

Where the lot of Georgian women was concerned it’s a pity she hadn’t been born a bit earlier and hadn’t been lost to across the pond.

My idea in writing this book was to take Brittany, a young woman from today’s world and have her flit between Georgian England and the present day. You know ,I even thought how nice, gracious  and sedate that Jane Austenish world would be, that within hours of arriving, she’d be so calmed by the green-fielded pleasantry and ladies in rustic bonnets everywhere,  she’d fall totally in love with this charming world. DUH.  What is it they say about the best laid plans? The more I looked into this alien galaxy and the lot of women, the clashier, not classier, this became. And not just between my hero and heroine either. What was interesting was the things I had to go to bat for re this book.

The hero is a rake but before anyone thinks too badly of him, a lot of upper crust men from that era were because most society marriages were arranged. Sometimes affection grew but not for my hero, whose shy, awkward, naïve, young wife, he was railroaded into marrying at sixteen,  hated him on sight, so he joined the ranks of men who went elsewhere. At least he didn’t force the issue which he would have been perfectly within his rights to do.

If, as a woman, you think you would have been free to say no, or choose your spouse, think again. You and your belongings, all these nice shoes, bags, books, everything in fact you thought were yours, were, in fact,  your hubby’s. Take the case of rich heiress, Lady Mary Bowes, an ancestor of Queen Elizabeth 2nd, and the subject of The Luck of Barry Lyndon, by Thackeray. Her second husband kidnapped her, beat, gagged and carried her around the countryside  on horseback, in winter, all to stop her divorcing him and keep his hands on her fortune.

And to think my editor initially complained after my hero, at the end of his tether and really not understanding  why my heroine wouldn’t do what he asked regarding the servants, stuck her under a water pump.

Talking servants, Mary Bowes escaped only with the help of loyal ones.  The initially sympathetic public were affronted to learn of her affair with her lawyer’s brother and felt she was quite wrong not to hand her money over to her abusive, swindling, husband.

Interestingly, that was another editorial clash where no questions were raised over my hero but some shock was expressed that my heroine had  a history of getting drunk in the present day and went with random men.

So, that’s marriage. Next up? Childbirth. In Georgian England, public opinion was against contraception within marriage.  Romance writers Google all sorts –ahem—let’s face it, these things have to be looked after.

And, I understand sheep’s intestines were all the rage for prevention. Soaked in water, of course, for an hour beforehand and torture to get on. Small wonder my hero quite welcomed the contents of my heroine’s bag. Childbirth was one of the most dangerous threats to a woman’s health and life. Up to 20% of women died during or after childbirth. Small wonder too my heroine wants back to her time.

Childbirth wasn’t the only killer. Noblewomen—and we are talking noblewomen here, although the lot of a poor woman was as bad in different ways— noblewomen caught diseases passed on from their husband’s prostitutes. They suffered barbaric ‘bleedings’ during pregnancies, developed lead poisoning from their make up, indeed as my heroine  Brittany thinks–

The Lot of Georgian Women. Quote by Shehanne Moore.

And before anyone thinks their lives were frivolous in their smelly gowns—wash day once a month, baths very seldom—their powdered wigs it took hours to arrange, the lady of the house was tasked with running that same house, of getting up early to instruct the servants on their daily duties and supervise the kitchen, because the servants were mostly illiterate and couldn’t write things down, meal choices, polishing,  etc. before sitting down to breakfast at eleven. My heroine thinks the eleven bit is quite civilized but that’s it.

So I think we get the picture that a Georgian lady’s lot was anything but happy.  Live in that time? Thank you. No. As for whether Brittany finds anything to recommend it, you’d have to ask her.

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Extract from The Writer and The Rake

“While it might not pay to underestimate this man, what if this morning was an aberration? Now that he saw how domestic she was, he’d go away again and drop this nonsense about instructing the servants. In what way? If she wrote Regency romance, she might know but she didn’t and frankly she’d other things to consider. Besides she couldn’t. If she was successful he wouldn’t need her.She slipped her gaze back, bestowed her kindest smile on the young man opposite. Mitchell Killgower took another sip of brandy.

“God-fearing, you say?”

“It is what one of us, I can’t remember if it was you, or me, or even Fleming here, told Christian. Or maybe, she told us. But, obviously it is a condition that prevents me from giving too many orders. And frankly I feel it solves everything.”

“Do you?”

“Do I what? Darling, I’m sorry I don’t know what you’re on about.”

“The fact that this condition solves everything.”

She kept her gaze firmly on the wool. Her hands winding it too. Mitchell Killgower sounded quite happy for him. Satisfied as he nursed his drink.

“Yes.”

“So as conditions go, it does not prevent you from sitting on your backside?”

“You know, I almost think you’re taken with my backside, the amount of times you mention it.”

“Sometimes your thoughts fail to come remotely close to what I’m really thinking. To do that you’d have to fully think.”

She smothered a grimace. “Oh, I think all right.”

He set the glass down as if he’d made up his mind. She hoped it was to let her win this battle.

“Good, then you’ll have no trouble coming with me, seeing as you’re so God-fearing, Brittany. After all, a God-fearing wife obeys her husband.”

“Well, they must be several sandwiches short of the proverbial picnic. Anyway.” She stopped winding the ball of wool, tilted her chin. “I didn’t think God-fearing wives were your cup of tea, or that you expected a woman to obey you? Except in certain places.”

The Writer and the Rake Book Blurb

Is having it all enough when it’s all you’ll ever have?

When it comes to doing it all, hard coated ‘wild child’ writer, Brittany Carter ticks every box. Having it all is a different thing though, what with her need to thwart an ex fiancé, and herself transported from the present to Georgian times. But then, so long as she can find her way back to her world of fame, and promised fortune, what’s there to worry about?

He saw her coming. If he’d known her effect he’d have walked away.

Georgian bad boy Mitchell Killgower is at the center of an inheritance dispute and he needs Brittany as his obedient, country mouse wife. Or rather he needs her like a hole in the head. In and out of his bed he’s never known a woman like her. A woman who can disappear and reappear like her either.

And when his coolly contained anarchist, who is anything but, learns how to return to her world and stay there, will having it all be enough, or does she underestimate him…and herself?

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Thanks for being here today, Shehanne! I have my copy of The Writer and the Rake and hope you pick up a copy too. Get The Writer and the Rake at Amazon US | Amazon Canada | Amazon UK

You can also find Shehanne Moore on social media at Facebook, Pinterest, and Twitter.

Find out more at her self-titled Weebly site and follow her Smexy Historical Romance blog too!

Now back to reading and writing here,

♥ Christy

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The Ba Bridge Monster and the Interview with the Rake…..

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Contemporary Romance, regency Romance, Shehaanne Moore, The Hell Fire Club, The Writer and the Rake, TIme Mutants, Time travel books, time travellers

 

 

 

 

 

Mitchell Killgower.  Vie? I’m sorry? Oh right. I have no idea. But if I was to hazard a guess, it’s probably because Brittany, my worst half, has told all kinds of lies about me.

Mitchell. Indeed I could. But as I said to Brittany, when she asked me if the tedious old bastard who runs it, beguiled women, ‘No, he beguiles something far worse. Ideas.’ I don’t know if Shey would be too pleased if you got any.  

Mitchell. I know. But as you’ve so often said yourselves, it’s not raining either.

Mitchell. The one who kept Shey’s latest heroine offering in about. Next?

Mitchell. I wouldn’t know.  You’d have to ask her but she’s dead. Unless you’re planning on joining her? Whatever way I seem to have with women does not extend to wives, or pretend ones. But she squirmed whenever I went near her.  So I didn’t because I’m not all bad.

Mitchell. A friend.

Mitchell. Frankly? If you gentlemen helped me secure my inheritance, you could stay where you damn well wanted. In fact, if I’d known you gentlemen and ladies were so helpful I’d have paid you, not Brittany, to sort out my ex sister-in-law, Christian  and her husband, (who is also my uncle) Clarence, and ruin my son, Fleming. How does that sound?   

Mitchell. The question is, does she want to marry you?

Mitchell. I think you’ll find the word is ‘thought ‘and I also thought, I’d be –

 making the mistake of his life to let her back in.

 

Mitchell. So please don’t label me a romantic. I’m not.

 

Mitchell. Fine. Have it your own way.  Anyway, dudes it has been nice meeting you all.

Mitchell. Not what Brittany found out. Well… not as you seem to think.

Mitchell. In fact I’m very open and honest.

 

 

 

 

 

Non interview with the rake.

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Character facts, Romance, Shehanne Moore, The Writer and the Rake, time travellers, writing

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Excuse me? My footman lover?”

“Your. After all, it’s not as if I didn’t offer to pay you for your help, Miss Carter. Now, if you don’t mind.” He picked up the brush. “You’re blocking my light.”

“But I’m not even in your bloody light.”

“Maybe not my bloody light.” He peered at the canvas. Another blob needed fixing. He reached for the royal blue. “Certainly my ordinary one.”

What the hell was that flying past his nose? A splattering pot of water? The jug of hyacinths? Whatever it was she’d minced right up to his masterpiece, grabbed something from the side table. Water spattered into his eye. Dribbles ran like ants down the canvas.

“There. Now, it doesn’t matter a bloody damn about the light.”

So? The ice had fire, the tiger showed its claws. He’d wondered when that was going to be. Actually, now he flicked the water from his eye, the painting was a slight improvement. She was waiting for a reaction. It was time the wind rattled her bones.

“You know, you might be right if I can make some money with this.”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous, that kind of shit never makes any money.”

“And you’d know this, would you?”

“Me?”

He was sorry he couldn’t help it but he couldn’t. “‘You will scream your pleasure and pain and worship me every day of your wretched life, oh wretched maiden,’ Roof,’ please do tell me how to pronounce that by the way, I wasn’t entirely sure and Ruaf sounded like a dog would. ‘Roof glared into the face of the woman who had given him this trouble—’”

Her eyes stood out like sparkling granite. “Where did you get that?”

“Where you keep these things you busy yourself on and what I see of them in passing is not important.” He pushed the chair back, crossed to the empty hearth. “I’m done with this.”

“Why are you grasping the bell pull?”

“Why do you think?”

“You’ve often told me I don’t.”

“Then let me put you out of your misery.” The tug he gave was satisfying. “To summon your lover, Miss Carter, since you seem incapable of leaving of your own accord.”

“I’d sooner you didn’t.”

“And why is that? Because he doesn’t know what you’re up to?”

 

 

 

 

All noisy on the writing front

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new books, Romance, Soul Mate Publishing, The Viking and The Courtesan, The Writer and the Rake, time travellers, writing

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here we believe in the power of true love. Chapter one The Viking and the Courtesan

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Felicity Kates, New book, regency Romance, Romance, Shehanne Moore, Soul Mate Publishing, The Viking and The Courtesan, time travellers, Viking Romance

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Chapter One

Somewhere near Regent Street. London 1819.  

If she could not have a man, she would have shoes. Silver shoes with pearl encrusted buckles, delicate kidskin slippers with beribboned points, blue shoes, cream shoes, high throated pumps with clasps and buckles. While Malice Mallender hated to think she had grown a shade cynical about such things, shoes were a concept she knew many women would love and understand.

Upstairs, cracks ran like spider webs across the bedroom window and the landing roof leaked like a sieve. Spend a halfpenny on repairing the roof? On things that would make this place nice? She’d sooner swallow a crocodile. Whole. The humiliations she suffered could hardly be assuaged by possessing gleaming panes of glass the rain could run down unchecked, or a new Turkish rug to replace the one Agnes burnt with the fire tongs yesterday.

Shoes came from another world entirely. It was this or starve. There was a shortage of crocodiles in Regent’s Park.

Malice might as well throw off any bleak self-reflection about those things. A hundred guineas to ruin a marriage was nothing. A hundred guineas was a snip when she thought of the unsatisfactory state of her own life, never mind all the shoes for sale in Madam Faro’s shop window.

So there was no need to ask why the elegantly dressed woman with her tumble of red hair, seated opposite, candlelight playing about her features, had chosen to come to this discreet, carefully furnished salon, the only room in the house that was decent.

Lady Grace, the spidery scrawl on the visiting card, read. The scallop-edged vellum one that lay on her desk blotter. Lady Grace Newell.

From the looks of Lady Grace, the high heeled points with the dusting of diamantes were going to belong to Malice sooner than she could say the word divorce. The silver kidskin boots too and the kidskin boots were beautiful. So she might as well stop procrastinating and do everything in her power to ensure this went smoothly.

After all, it was not unknown for clients to bolt at this stage. She insisted on dealing with the female half of the partnership only and, as many of those were red-faced virgins, who had spent the greater part of an afternoon walking up and down the street trying to pluck up the courage to enter her salon, Malice risked them losing it all together.

Baiting the hook was never easy. Would she be wearing such awful undergarments and this drab brown dress with no ornamentation whatsoever bar a solitary black lace ruffle, if it was? Although Lady Grace exhibited not the least trace of nerves as she held to her parasol handle. Shame neither. Tall as a church candlestick, she’d swept in here as if the entire business was second nature to her. Or perhaps that was simply the impression she gave to mask her nerves?

“I am led to believe you have a little business here?”

Malice fixed what she hoped was her most serene smile to her lips. Once upon a time she might have thought words such as little and business an insult when the law was such an ass and she provided a vital service. Now sadly, she simply took the money.

“Yes. Indeed, I do. Please be assured the service is as discreet as the person who must have given you my name.”

“You don’t know how glad I am about that.” Lady Grace’s dimples deepened. She leaned across the desk in a rustle of lilac scented silk. “Because it’s like this… I have a man needing ruining.”

Relief slicked Malice’s palms. For a horrible moment there as the woman leaned forward, she’d wondered if Lady Grace had come to offer her services. But, no.

Lady Grace and her rake were very much in love. Rakes and ladies always were. Either that, or desperate. A hundred guineas? Shockingly cheap at twice the price. Was it any wonder as Lady Grace babbled on, Malice dipped the quill into the inkwell and drew a daisy on the blotter?

“But of course.”

“The problem is his wife.”

Obviously it went without saying that the problem was his wife–whoever she was.

Once Malice would have stopped, have thought badly of herself. That was before, before she hadn’t seen Cyril for dust. Before she had tried to help fallen women. Before she’d been reduced to touting embroidered tea cosies around Spitalfields Market at tuppence a time, earning enough to keep herself in candles for an entire afternoon. Now she doodled a few wives’ names to accompany the flower. Then she doodled a pair of shoes. High heeled ones.

Strictly Business dealt with such menaces as wives. This quiet room, with its drawn shades, the wardrobes stuffed with shoes, this sturdy oak desk, even the spindle chair she sat in, were testament to that fact. Her services weren’t just as discreet as the lavender scented candles burning in the Wedgewood candlesticks on the mantelshelf, they were necessary when the law was such an ass as to bind together couples who didn’t want to be bound, who had no further use for one another.

“A hundred guineas you say?” Lady Grace snapped her beaded reticule open. While she may have narrowed her sparkling green eyes, her excitement was so palpable, Malice could have reached out and touched it.

She gave a grunt of satisfaction. “A hundred guineas. In advance.”

“Well… it seems a lot, but…”

“Trouble yourself not, Lady Newell. Here at Strictly we believe in the power of true love. We believe in making such problems go away.”

Go away? For the wad of notes Lady Grace produced from the depths of her bulging reticule and set in a line along the oak surface of the desk Malice would have ruined Christ Almighty.

One hundred and twenty five pounds. Was she seeing this properly? Had she really thought only two pairs of shoes? The woman needing ruin must be a termagant. Nothing Malice had not done before. Nothing she could not do now.

Still, to seem too eager would not speak well of her business-like detachment. It would say that this was something she did for money and not for true love. For all she ran things like a well-oiled machine, she slackened her grip on the quill, pretending to consider it.

“I take it he’s tried asking?”

“Asking?” Lady Grace drew auburn brows together. “A hundred times a week. Twice on bended knee. He has tried everything and she refuses point blank to entertain him. You have no idea of the spite of this creature.”

“I can imagine.”

“For the last…oh let me think, three years… she’s been a wife in name only. I hardly need tell you that at twenty seven, the age I am now, time is not on my side. In another few years I shall be thirty. How perfectly awful will that be for an unmarried woman of my standing?”

Exactly what Malice wanted to hear. Enough to knock any little qualm of conscience on the head when she wanted these shoes so badly. When she herself had tried in her own miserable, inexperienced way to be more than that and been horribly refuted, why be troubled by the thought of a woman who wanted her rights while refusing to bow to her husband’s? So now they came to the sticky part of the transaction, the actual infidelity, although it never ceased to amaze her just how many were desperate to grasp that notion of future happiness, if not wreak revenge on a tiresome spouse. Would the women who sought her services do that, unless they were desperate? Would they walk through her door to back out? Annulment bastardised children and meant no-one ever spoke to the guilty parties again, but Canon law allowed for separation, if a husband was unfaithful. That was why she’d no compunction now about reaching for the leather folder that lay on the far side of her desk. About taking a sheet of paper from it either.

All that was needed was a name, then she would discreetly arrange the rest.

“Well, never fear. It is certainly my experience that most wives, when shown Strictly’s written testimonies, can’t agree to be divorced fast enough.”

Lady Grace’s peal of laughter echoed around the mulberry walls. “Thank goodness for that. For a moment there I thought you were going to tell me they still want to keep them.”

“Seldom. Once a discreet time has passed you will both be free to marry. He needn’t pay a penny towards his former wife’s keep either.”

“That is such a relief. I must say the service you provide is exceptional.”

“Oh, I won’t be providing it.”

Lord, no. What did Lady Grace think? That she slept with hundreds of men? She employed women to do that.

“Now we’ve discussed the nature of the transaction, I only need a few details. This man, the one you want us to ruin…what is his name?”

Lady Grace leaned closer as if the salon and all its contents had ears and it would damage them to hear. “Lord Hepworth. Lord Cyril Hepworth. Do you know of him at all? He is quite a dandy. But very dashing. And we are so in love.”

Know of him?

Malice’s gaze widened before she could stop it. For a second she felt as if rug, desk and chair had been yanked from beneath her and she sat in mid-air with nowhere to go except the floor.

Know of him?

Lady Grace had just asked her to ruin herself.

 

 

 

 

Back to the past…Time Travel in books and movies

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About Time, Back to the Future, Bill and Ted's excellent adventure, Lost, Lost In Austen, Outlander, Regency, Romance, Shehanne Moore, Soul Mate Publishing, The Time Machine, The Viking and The Courtesan, time travellers, Time-slip, Time-travel, Vikings

 

So little dudes, are we set to give this blog on time travelling.

Well done Tink, indeed there is.

No. Not quite. But….

When it comes to time travel….

There’s three types.

1 Time machine travel.

2 Time slip travel

3 Being a time traveller.

Time machine travel involves having some kind of machine that can transport us back to a particular time. It’s a device that needs little explanation so it’s a popular method when it comes to whizzing characters back and forth.

Now do we know of any famous examples of books or films?

Isn’t’ that good?

Not exactly. But yes. I think we could cite

Back To The Future, Doctor Who, Timecop, the hysterical

…love 12 Monkeys…

and HG Wells, classic The Time Machine as examples of time machine travel.

Indeed I think we can credit H G Well with popularizing the concept of time travelling. That simple title penned by him is now used to refer to such vehicle, thus paving the way for all the books, movies and TV programs that followed. He convinced such a thing could be made AND it could work too. In case it doesn’t, films like Timecop, Terminator—another love —

and 12 Monkeys are set in the future where we accept things will be very different given technological advances.

So well done dudes.

Now can we move to time slip travel?

What do we know about time slip travel?

Exactly. It is a paranormal phenomenon in which a person, or group of people, seem to either travel through time via unknown means.

So Tink there could well be out of here. But then she could come back.

Often in timeslip travel there’s some kind of portal the characters pass through. Whether they can find it again or not on the other side is up to the author!

Now do we know of any famous timeslip films, books TV series?

Well then?

Dudes????!!!!! You are doing me proud today. Well done. I knew you would.

Timeslip IS  a very good example of a film of that kind.

Then we have books like Outlander and Tv series like

which I adored.

I suppose

which I also adored could count as  a time slip, the interesting thing being that there wasn’t a portal as such, there was an island which could be moved..as islands can be…and it led to characters being flashed everywhere.

However, this medium is also popular for writers as it takes care of the business of transportation.

This brings us to the third type of time travel, that is where the character is a time traveller. We know Doctor Who is a time lord and traveller but he does have a machine. A real time traveller has no machine and there is no portal.

Absolutely, think

think having some kind of disorder, perhaps genetic, or perhaps a curse, whatever, but because of that disorder you have no control  of  the time flashes.

There’s not a lot of fiction, films, or series with actual time travellers. This one I liked because it keeps the notion small scale in that you can only go back within your own lifetime to your own life.

My new heroine is a time traveller and it was actually very difficult to get her past my  editor without some kind of portal because the suspension of belief required is the biggest out of the three…which I am only starting to realize now I start googling time travellers.

I know. But I did get her past after some rigorous editing. But I did have a lot of fun writing her discovering she is actually a time traveller and leaving her clueless in a strange land for a while about how she can control her ability. Oh, and find the one thing that will control it. Love. It’s all we need.

In 898 AD she wasn’t just from another land.

Wrecking a marriage is generally no problem for the divorce obtaining, Lady Malice Mallender. But she faces a dilemma when she’s asked to ruin her own. Just how businesslike should she remain when the marriage was never consummated and kissing her husband leads to Sin–a handsome Viking who wants her for a bed slave in name only?

She came from another time.

Viking raider Sin Gudrunsson wants one thing. To marry his childhood sweetheart. Only she’s left him before, so he needs to keep her on her toes, and a bed slave, in name only, seems just the thing. Until he meets Malice.

One kiss is all it takes to flash between two worlds

But when one kiss is no longer enough, which will it be? Regency London? Or Viking Norway? Will Malice learn what governs the flashes? Can Sin?

Where worlds collide can love melt the iciest heart?

Coming July 29th.