by Jo Beverley
When I plunged into the research, I discovered I was wrong. No problem. I love to learn something new.
I discovered that a widow or widower was free to marry whomever they wished, even if less than twenty-one. I assume the rationale was that their father surrendered authority at the first marriage and couldn’t get it back. A widow also had possession of her jointure no matter how young she was.
Thus Georgia could have lived independently, but it makes perfect sense to me that she doesn’t. She is shocked by bereavement and unjust scandal, and gladly accepts her family’s support, even though it comes with control. Even as she recovers and begins to resent restrictions, she’s still not ready to set up house for herself. She doesn’t want to be independent and alone. She wants to win back all she has lost in position and possessions.
Scandal was another new story element for me, and it was interesting to see how a powerful family and a strong heroine would deal with it.
The third new element was the seriously scarred hero. I didn’t know how that would work out, but, as I wrote, I liked the fact that Dracy takes his disfigurement without bitterness. I only discovered slowly that he’d been extremely good-looking, but it adds to the novel in many ways. It gives him an interesting sexual history and plays against Georgia’s dependence on her beauty.
Writing a young widow was an adventure in another way. I experience the developments with my characters as they happen, so I was with Georgia as she discovers that overnight she’s gone from being a wife—with wealth, a high position in society, and complex homes to run—to having nothing but the dowry she started with, returned almost to the schoolroom.
Such a situation would have been rare. Even back then, not many young ladies married at sixteen, and hardly any were then widowed at twenty. To be widowed and childless was probably close to unique. If Georgia had had a son, she would have remained in her homes as he grew up, but, as it is, she is in effect evicted.
Have you wondered about marriage settlements, dowries, and jointures? It can seem quite complicated, but I’ll try to explain.
When a bride brought a dowry to the match it was usual for her parents or guardians to negotiate legal settlements, mainly to protect her interests.
The first point to be hammered out was the income the bride would have during the marriage—what was called “pin money.” Also, if the groom was a minor, the settlements would specify what income his family would provide so he could support his wife until he came into possession of his property at twenty-one.
The second point was the amount to be set aside for any daughters and younger sons to be born of the marriage. The oldest son would in time inherit the estate, so he wasn’t covered by the settlements. However, a lump sum was usually put in trust to provide for any other children. As they came into their teens and found professions or husbands, they received their share, which is why each person’s part was called a “portion.” As you can see, a large family could result in small portions and an only child could have a large one.
The third negotiation point was the income for the bride if she became a widow, which was called her “jointure.” This was an amount per annum, and usually about ten to twenty percent of the amount she brought to the match. So a dowry of two thousand pounds would lead to an annual income as a widow of two hundred to four hundred pounds to be paid from her deceased husband’s estate by his heir. Sometimes this was to cease if she remarried, but that was negotiable.
Georgia’s large dowry provided for a large jointure, which certainly would have been a burden on the Maybury estate if she never remarried and lived a long life. The scandal that surrounded Georgia could easily have made it hard for her to remarry, so it’s not surprising that the new Earl of Maybury thought it a better gamble to return the dowry and be done with it.
That leaves my heroine, Georgia, a rich woman, but, looked at another way, it emphasizes the fact that she’s been returned to her life of age sixteen, almost as if her marriage had never happened. I found her situation, and the way she deals with it, rewarding to write.
I’d like to share a bit more about research.
When I’m writing a book there are always new things to learn, large and small. Nicotiana and London’s water supply are each almost incidental to the plot, but digging around the subjects was fun.
Many thanks to Margaret Evans Porter, who has a particular interest in the history of gardening, for sharing knowledge about flowering tobacco in the eighteenth century.
As I said in the book, the perfumed tobacco was rare in the 1760s, but I liked the word play about tobacco, and many people were importing exotic plants at the time.
I’ve enjoyed nicotiana for years. The plants are rather plain and ungainly, but the perfume is heavenly as evening settles into darkness. If you want to try it in your own garden, you’ll probably have to grow it from seeds, because the bedding plants in garden centers are usually the small, colored varieties, which don’t have much perfume. Look online for seeds for the large, white variety. Some sorts can grow to four feet or more, and the big plants seem to have the strongest scent. It’s quite easy to grow.
When Danae House needed help, I considered a range of problems and chose the water supply. My general reading had taught me about London’s problems with water. A little more research gave me the details, and also the nice touch of a fish blocking the pipes. Yes, it really did happen, because the water was pumped up from the river. No wonder people didn’t drink water—it wasn’t safe unless you were rich enough to have it brought from pure wells or springs.
The usual drink in Georgian England was small beer, a quickly brewed, low-alcohol beverage. They didn’t understand why it was safer than water, but the secret lay in the liquid being boiled as part of the process. As tea became cheaper, it would replace beer as the common drink, and again the process involved boiling water.
The Malloren family played only a small part in this novel, but you can see that it’s still set in the Malloren world, with aspects from other books coming into play. If you’re new to the Mallorens, please visit my Web site to check out all the books in the series. You can also find out about all my other books, most of which are available new in print and e-book. You’ll also find a sign-up box on most pages for my occasional e-newsletter, and you can contact me by e-mail at [email protected].
Happy reading always,
Jo
Please read on for an excerpt from
another historical romance by Jo Beverley
set in her exciting Malloren world,
An Unlikely Countess
Available now from Signet
Northallerton, Yorkshire
March 1765
He was drunk, but could still see well enough in the dimly lit street. Well enough to detect ruffians at work. And that the victim was a woman.
Catesby Burgoyne grinned, drew his sword, and charged. At his battle cry the ruffians whirled toward him, eyes white rimmed, mouths agape. And then they fled.
Cate staggered to a halt, flailing his sword. “Come back!” he roared. “Come back, you scum, and meet my blade!”
Only their fleeing footsteps answered.
“Damn your blasted eyes,” he muttered. “A bit of slaughter’s just what I need.”
A breathy sound made him turn, sword rising again, but it was only the woman, leaning against a house wall, staring at him.
The narrow street was lit only by two feeble householder lamps, so all he could see was pallor and shadows. Pale face surrounded by loose, pale hair. A dark gown that covered her neck to toe. Gown was respectable. Hair wasn’t. Couldn’t be respectable, could she, out alone at night?
He shoved his sword back into its scabbard. “You must be new to the trade, sweetheart, to dress so dully.” Damnation, where were his manners? No need to be crass because she was a whore and he was at odds with the world.
He bowed. “Catesby Burgoyne, ma’am, at your service. May I escort you to your destination?”
She s
hook her head, mute.
He walked closer to see her better. She tried to shrink back, but the wall was relentless.
“Please…” she whispered. A thin hand clutched a shawl at her chest as if it could be a breastplate.
Cate was trying to come up with reassurance when a door opened nearby and a flat Yorkshire voice asked, “Wot’s going on ’ere, then?”
The stocky man carried a candle that illuminated his face and straggling hair more than them. Even so, the woman turned away as if to hide her face.
She had a reputation to lose?
“The lady was attacked, sir,” Cate said, striving to hide all trace of gin from his voice. “The villains have fled and I’ll see her safely home.”
The man peered, but like all sane people, he didn’t go looking for trouble. Probably Cate’s aristocratic tone helped him along that path. “Good night to ye, then,” he said, and shut his door.
Cate turned back to the woman. She still stared at him, but the intervention of someone from the ordinary world seemed to have restored her voice.
“I must thank you, Mr. Burgoyne,” she said on uneven breaths. “But, please, there’s no need to delay you longer.”
A well-bred voice. Her left hand bore no ring. Where was her father or brother to permit this?
“I may not be the most perfect of gentlemen, ma’am, but I cannot leave a lady to walk the night streets alone.”
“I live very close by.…”
“Then this will delay me little.”
He gestured her onward. He’d commanded men in battle. Surely he could command one ordinary woman. She did move forward, stiff with wariness.
Or anger?
Now, that was interesting. He assessed her as best he could in the gloom. Hard to judge her looks, but her features seemed set in… resentment. Yes, that was it. Resentment. She might have reason to be wary of him, but why in Hades should she resent him? She was also dawdling, but he would not be put off.
“Your direction, ma’am?”
She quickened her steps as if she might outpace him—a thin, sour thing, all sharp angles and antipathy.
He kept up without effort. “Unwise to venture out alone so late, ma’am.”
“I merely wished to walk.”
“I have no pressing engagements. If you desire a stroll, I could escort you for miles.”
Her angles became harder, which vaguely amused him. A blessing that, on such a dismal day.
They’d arrived at the main street of the town. He saw no one else on foot, but this was also the Great North Road, lined with inns, all still open, hoping for late trade. A coach rattled by and turned through the arch to the Golden Lion, the best inn in town.
To the left lay the Queen’s Head, a mangy, ill-run place where he’d failed to drown his sorrows. He’d escaped into fresh air, but fresh March air was cold up here in Yorkshire, and the next London coach didn’t pass by until early morning. He’d need a bed for the night somewhere, but could only afford to share a room with others.
The woman was simply standing there.
“Forgotten where you live, ma’am?” he drawled.
She turned sharply to face him. “Why are you walking the streets at night?”
“A man is allowed to, ma’am. Especially one with a sword, who knows how to use it.”
“Men are allowed anything, whilst we poor women have no rights at all.”
Ah. “What man in particular has offended you? I have a sword and know how to use it.”
She gave a short laugh. “You’ll not call out my brother.”
“He wouldn’t fight?”
“Only in court. He’s a lawyer.”
“The lowest form of scum.”
He meant it as the general, common gibe, but she said, “He is indeed.”
What had the fraternal scum done to her? Something he could avenge? He was done with war, but at this moment bloody violence would be immensely satisfying.
“His name and location?” he demanded.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Perhaps he has an excuse for scumminess if you flail him with such a razor tongue.”
“You’d be sharp if… Oh!” It was pure exasperation. “I suppose, being a man, you’ll insist on having your way. Very well.”
She marched across the street and into a lane lined by rows of small cottages, where she stopped by the fourth door. “Good night, sir.”
The breathy hiss was angry, but cautious. So, she didn’t want to alert the neighbors to her improper behavior. The only light here escaped from a couple of shuttered windows, but Cate could tell her small house probably had only two rooms on each floor. From her bearing and speech, she’d come down in the world.
“Is your brother inside?” he asked quietly.
“No, thank God.”
“Will he be back soon?”
“Live here? Aaron?” She laughed, but quickly covered her mouth with her hand.
Something was wrong here, and he found lame ducks so hard to ignore. It was the bane of his life.
“If you were to invite me in, ma’am, perhaps I could advise you.”
“Invite you in?” She looked around frantically, seeking listeners. “Go away.”
“I’m not planning a rape. You need help, but we can’t discuss your situation here.”
“We can’t discuss it anywhere. Go away or I’ll scream.”
“Truly?”
She hissed in a breath. “You wretched, drunken—”
A door opened nearby. “Whosur? Woyeruptuh?”
The old man’s accent was so thick Cate could hardly understand the words, and he was Yorkshire born and bred. The meaning was clear enough, however.
He pressed down the latch and pushed her inside. He followed, having to duck to save his head, and shut the door. They both froze in place, listening, and Cate was aware of her bony angles conflicting with a sweet smell. She took the trouble to store her clothes with herbs.
A dog whined.
Cate turned to face new danger, but the small dog looked to be a spaniel, a gentle breed. Hard to tell its mood when it stood in front of the candlelit back room, but dogs didn’t whine a threat.
The woman pushed past Cate and hurried to the dog. “It’s all right, Toby.” She fondled its floppy ears and the tail wagged.
Woman and dog went into the kitchen and so Cate followed, instinctively hunching, even though the beams cleared his head—just. The floor was beaten earth, the air damp, and the front room held only one dip-seated chair.
Had all the rest been sold off so she could survive?
What was the story here?
He ducked into the kitchen—to face a knife, held firmly in a bony hand. It was only a short kitchen knife, but probably sharp enough to do some damage.
The dog only whined again, the cowardly cur, but she, with her weapon and her fierce, determined eyes, pale hair glowing in the candlelight—she was magnificent.
Cate raised both hands. “I intend no harm, ma’am. My word on it.”
“And why should I trust your word? Leave. Now.”
“Why?” he asked, taking evidence from the room.
The tallow candle gave too little light and too much odor, but it illuminated poverty well enough. The tiny kitchen, like the whole house, was cold. If there’d been a cooking fire in the hearth it had long since burned to ashes. He saw no sign of food.
The only furniture here was a deal table with two chairs at it, and a rough sort of sideboard holding cheap pottery. Alongside pots, however, sat a few pieces of pretty china and glass. Remnants of the better life that showed in her well-bred accent and proud demeanor?
Why was this goddess alone and in such desperate straits? Why was she bedraggled and dressed so poorly? Her encompassing gown was a particularly dismal shade of black, her knitted shawl an ugly brown.
Had she truly been out on the streets attempting to earn some pennies in the only way available?
Her thinness told of hu
nger, but it etched strength into a face worthy of a Roman empress—high brow, long straight nose, perfectly curved lips, and a square chin. Not a face to conquer the fashionable world, but, by God, it was in danger of conquering him.
“Go!” she commanded again, but without confidence. The cowardly cur whined again, somewhere amid her skirts.
He realized his height was frightening her and sat, placing his hands on the table. Holding her eyes, he said, “I admire your courage, ma’am, but you won’t scare me away, and if it comes to a fight, you’ll give me no more than a scratch. Simpler by far to sit down and tell me your story.”
