Top Five Ways Historical Authors Go Wrong

A couple of weeks ago I met fellow author and blogger Kelly Abell when we were both guests on Marsha Casper Cook's radio show. We talked there about the errors that historical authors most commonly make, and that led to Kelly inviting me to guest blog for her. You can read my post on the Top Five Ways Historical Authors Go Wrong here. Enjoy!

Axminstering and Other Temptations

Whenever I finish writing a book, there are a couple of items which automatically go on my to-do list. 

The first is to clean up my office, because by the time the project is done, my desk looks like a tornado hit it. (And no, I’m not posting a photo of the mess. Things last forever on the Internet.)

The other is to look back at the job and assess what went well and what could have been improved. In this case, a novella which should have taken maybe three weeks to finish – especially because I’d written a good chunk of it months ago – took twice as long. One of those weeks was lost to a nasty case of flu, but another week or so disappeared because I was Axminstering instead of writing.

What’s “Axminstering”? I’m glad you asked.

In my novella, which is set in an English manor house in 1816, I wrote that my hero felt like the Axminster carpet in the drawing room had turned into quicksand and was pulling him down. Then I paused to wonder – were there Axminster carpets in 1816, or were they more of a Victorian than a Regency phenomenon? 

It’s a question historical authors have to ask themselves with practically every sentence. (Did French doors exist in the Regency – and were they called that, or something else? Did people say “bamboozle” or was that later? What really is the difference between a morning dress and a walking dress? Would the hero be wearing top boots or Hessians?)

But though we really do have to ask the questions and look up the answers, it’s not often that we need that bit of information right at that very moment. My hero could still have been thinking about quicksand if he was standing on a Persian carpet or a marble floor or just a plain old rug – and I could have looked up Axminster carpets at another time.

Instead, I went zooming over to Google where I discovered that the first Axminster carpet was made in 1755, in plenty of time for my drawing room to be decorated with one.

That much research wasn’t a problem. But then I followed the trail. What exactly would that carpet have looked like? What was the most likely combination of colors? What would it have been made of? How big might it have been? And since Wikipedia kindly offered a list of heritage properties where Axminster carpets can be seen, I wandered through those pages searching for pictures. And when I didn't see carpets there, I kept looking till I found images. (Here’s a new carpet, to give you the idea: AXMINSTER)

How much of that knowledge made it into the story? Zero. Zip. Nada. The line’s exactly as I first wrote it.

When I shared this story with my students at Gotham Writers’ Workshop, one of them said in glee, “From now on, I’m not going to call it procrastinating – I’m Axminstering!” (Thanks, Michelle!)

Do you Axminster? What are the temptations you face as you write?

Primping in the Regency

A fellow writer of historical romances asked this week: “What amenities did London hotels have in the 19^th century for the proper lady to refresh herself in relative privacy in front of a mirror?”

Now that’s an interesting question – and it’s one I don’t have a definite answer for.

The best sources for information about what happened in particular historical periods are diaries, personal letters, and artifacts – surviving locations and/or possessions. For instance, we know what sort of undies people wore during various historical periods because examples have survived. And we know the basics about how and where people relieved themselves, because a few of those places and pieces of equipment still exist. But figuring out whatever the 19^th century equivalent of a power room would have been – that requires figuring out context.

Personal hygiene isn’t something that people talk about, even today – at least not unless it’s something unusual. (I’m pretty sure that the first time I encountered a ladies’ room attendant in a posh restaurant, I mentioned it to my friends.) But powdering our noses is such a commonplace thing that we don’t give it a second thought – aside from the occasional complaint about inadequate facilities, I suppose. Our sisters in the 19^th century didn’t write about it in letters either, or note it in their diaries.

So I’m speculating here, trying to figure out context – based on hygiene, comfort, convenience, and taxes – of how a 19^th century lady would have powdered her nose.

The first question, of course, is what part of the 19^th century we’re talking about.

In the Regency period, personal hygiene most often involved an outdoor privy, or a chamber pot (or the equivalent) inside. This crucial piece of equipment was also called a close stool or necessary stool or toilet chair – here’s a picture of one: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Close_stool

In the Regency era, there wasn't much incentive for designing or building special facilities for personal hygiene. Running water was rare, early designs for flush toilets often let sewer gases creep back into the room, and servants (to dump and clean those chamber pots) were inexpensive.  However, the resulting odors and lack of cleanliness meant that a lady probably wouldn't primp near her chamber pot.  Her dressing table would likely be across the room from the sanitary facilities, and it might or might not boast a mirror on the wall – because glass was expensive and hard to produce in large sheets, and it was taxed like the luxury item it was.

Because of the mirror tax, public hotels probably didn’t have many mirrors either. In their best bedrooms, possibly – which is why I think the lady who wanted to primp while traveling would most probably ask to be shown to a bedchamber.

It’s also likely that our proper lady would travel with her own hand mirror. Remember those sets that our grandmothers – or maybe we should say great-grandmothers, by now – kept for pretty on their dressers? A hand mirror, a brush, and a comb, all in the same pattern – those sets were treasured and handed down from mother to daughter. If she was carrying her dressing set, our lady could have primped just about anywhere that no one was looking.

By the mid to late Victorian era, flush toilets were more common, bathrooms were being included in houses and water closets built in public areas, and the mirror tax was defunct or nearly so.  So a Victorian lady could most likely have primped in front of a mirror in a semi-public area of a hotel – though I’m still not sure what that room would have been called. A ladies’ retiring room, perhaps?

If anyone has sources or speculations to add, I welcome your insights!

Welcome to Greystone Manor!

Welcome!


Above is the view which greets the visitor just inside the front door of Greystone Manor. That's the back door you can see; the front door would be behind you. Off to the right through the french doors is the living room. Yes, those are two tiny sets of armor perched along the stair railing -- and if you look closely, you'll see that the center of each wooden tread is worn from the traffic of the family running up and down. The intricate molding on the stairs was created with one tiny toothpick-sized piece of wood at a time, by my husband the master builder. (That's his thumb below, showing the scale of the wood, before the walnut stain and finish were applied.)  The rug is counted cross stitch on aida cloth. 

Viscounts and Viscountesses

The rank in the peerage below earls and above barons is that of a viscount -- and though it's tempting to pronouce the S, it's actually silent.

A viscount is often be the oldest son of an earl or a marquess, holding his title as a courtesy based on his father's rank. Or he can be the holder of the title in his own right, if it's the most exalted title in the family. A viscount's wife is a viscountess.

His children don't hold titles, other than being formally addressed as The Honorable Firstname Lastname, and the oldest son of a viscount -- unlike the heir of a higher-ranking peer --is treated no differently from his younger brothers.

Today a viscount's daughters are simply called Miss Lastname, regardless of their order of birth. In the more-formal days of the Regency and Victorian eras, the oldest daughter was given a bit more status by being called Miss Lastname, while her younger sisters were known as Miss Firstname Lastname.