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Wallis – Rebecca Dean

22 May

As regular readers of this blog will perhaps recall I absolutely loved Rebecca Dean’s book The Golden Prince but was rather less keen on Palace Circle, despite really wanting to love it. I’m pleased to say though that her latest novel Wallis, which is a sort of follow up to The Golden Prince is a smasher and I pretty much gobbled it up.

Rebecca Dean was onto a winner though from the outset as Wallis, unsurprisingly as the clue is in the title, tells the story of the early life of Bessie Wallis Warfield and follows her through her really quite painfully unstable upbringing with her ‘flighty’ and impecunious mother; her subsequent abusive and really horrible first marriage to the handsome but really dreadful Win Spencer and then rather un-thrilling second one to nice but slightly dull Ernest Simpson. Now whatever people think about Wallis Simpson, and let’s face it she does tend to polarise opinion somewhat, one thing is for sure – she remains perennially fascinating and this novel brings her to life superbly.

As I’ve mentioned here before, I’m never sure what I think of Wallis but became much more sympathetic to her after reading Anne Sebba’s book That Woman, although I didn’t agree with some of the medical and psychological assessments that were made within its pages. I am very pleased therefore that Rebecca Dean’s novel also portrays a very sympathetic and likeable Wallis that I think is fairly true to life. She’s not perfect by any means but definitely not the ruthless, hard hearted socialite of popular imagining. What comes across is a courageous, fun loving, warm hearted, vibrant but also desperately insecure and rather snobbish young woman who hides her battered heart beneath a brittle veneer of chatter and bold faced bravado. I rather loved her.

The main crux of the book is an imagined friendship between Wallis and a fictional Duke’s daughter, Pamela who for some unknown reason is living in Baltimore. The girls remain best friends through childhood and adolescence before going their separate ways and it is their friendship and the betrayal that temporarily brings it to an end that is the main catalyst of everything that happens within the novel. I found this a bit disconcerting as the fascinating Pamela is a fictional character but it works really well and I’m guessing she is based on a composite of real people. If you like your historical fiction to strictly adhere to the facts then you may find Pamela and her husband highly annoying distractions. I liked them though and hope they get their own novel or that they feature in a follow up to Wallis, which I hope is forthcoming as it ended all too soon for me.

I also really liked that the fabulous Houghton sisters who were the stars of The Golden Prince featured in this book so I could catch up with them all again. I do love it when writers do this – it’s always a thrill when Heyer’s characters pop up in her other books, although I lament that her allegedly planned Lord Wrotham novel never happened.

Anyway, yes, if you are fascinated even slightly by Wallis Simpson or have a thing for the glitz and glamour of the early 19th century then I’d definitely recommend Wallis. I’ve now moved on to Kate Williams’ new biography Young Elizabeth: The Making of our Queen, which will no doubt talk about Wallis from an entirely different perspective and probably make me cross with her all over again…

Further reading:

Wallis

The Golden Prince

Palace Circle

That Woman: The Life of Wallis Simpson, Duchess of Windsor

Young Elizabeth: The Making of our Queen

The Gin Lane Gazette

21 May

Unbound is a really intriguing concept whereby writers can pitch projects to the public and amass paying supporters to fund it. This is a really great throwback to the days when wealthy subscribers would fund books, although nowadays you don’t have to be wealthy as Unbound support starts at £10 and goes up to £1,000, with the supporters getting increased amounts of benefits in return for their cash.

I’m really excited that one of the current Unbound projects is Ade Teal’s raucous, colourful and florid GIN LANE GAZETTE, about which he says: ‘Many of us think of the ill-behaved celebrity and the tabloid splash as inventions of the modern world, but the antics of Premiership footballers and C-list soap stars are as nothing when set alongside the peccadilloes and hell-raising of 18th-century celebs.

The first flowering of the great age of newspapers and caricature gave us boozy Prime Ministers and party leaders who settled their political differences with duels in Hyde Park (when they weren’t gambling, or writing essays about farting); peers of the realm who sat the unburied corpses of their cherished mistresses at their dinner tables; entertainers who rode horses standing upright in the saddle, while wearing a mask of bees; and celebrity courtesans who ate 1,000-guinea banknotes stuffed into sandwiches, simply to make a point. Before it was dashed from their lips by the Victorian party-poopers, our Georgian forebears drank deep from the cup of life.

The GIN LANE GAZETTE will be a compendium of illustrated ‘best bits’ from a fictional newspaper of the latter 1700s. It will contain some of the most sensational headlines and true stories of the period. The presses will be presided over by inky-fingered hack Mr. Nathaniel Crowquill, the editor and proprietor, whose premises are located in Hogarth’s chaotic Gin Lane, and who has devoted fifty years to sniffing out scandal and intrigue. His drunken acolyte, Mr. Jakes, supplies merciless caricatures and engravings for every page. Sports reports, obituaries, fashion news, courtesans of the month, book reviews, and advertisements for bizarre – and often alarming – goods, services and entertainments will also feature in a riotous mélange of metropolitan mayhem.‘

Sounds brilliant, doesn’t it?

I was lucky enough to be given the opportunity to interview the very charming Mr Teal about his work, inspiring Georgians, tattooed buttocks, The Baboon Incident and snogging Kitty Fisher for this here blog…

1. What first sparked your interest in the 18th century?

I saw one of the many Hollywood versions of the mutiny on the Bounty story in the early 1990s, and became vaguely curious about how much the historical reality differed from the cinematic myth-making. I became hooked on the Bounty very quickly, and was increasingly frustrated by the lack of a contemporary portrait of the chief mutineer, Fletcher Christian, so I spent three years researching family resemblance in portraits of his closest relations, finding physical descriptions of the chap, and studying hairstyles and unifoms of the period. I hired an anatomically-trained portraitist to paint a likeness based on all this, and it ended up in a biography by Fletcher’s direct descendant, Glynn Christian. You’ll see it crop up in articles and documentaries now and again. This was my slightly odd route into the 1700s.

2. Are you planning any more books similar to GIN LANE in the future?

Yes. Kind of. There is talk of a collaboration, with an eminent historian of the more depraved aspects of the Georgian period, about which I can say NOTHING.

3. That sounds intriguing but I won’t pester for more information! Who is your favourite Georgian?

Charles James Fox. He is the 18th century made flesh. He drank, gambled away an absolute fortune, womanised, shared mistresses with the Prince of Wales, married a courtesan in secret for love, and fought a duel with a political opponent. Ed Miliband – take note.

4. Ah, I love Charles James Fox too. If you could actually go back to Georgian times – would you?

If it were for a limited period – six months, say – then yes. If I found myself requiring any sort of medical assistance, I think I’d be looking for the escape button next to the time-portal pretty damned quickly.

5. Kitty Fisher, Georgiana of Devonshire and Perdita Robinson – which one would you snog/marry/avoid?

Snog Kitty Fisher, because she was a good laugh, by all accounts. Marry Perdita, because she was beautiful beyond words, intelligent, bookish, and her heart was in the right place, I think. Avoid Georgiana – she’s trouble, that one. I enjoyed Foreman’s biography, but I didn’t warm to her as a character one iota. A spoilt madam.

6. Oh, Kitty Fisher! Who WOULDN’T?! Anyway, who would win in a fight between the cast of The Only Way Is Essex and the members of the Hellfire Club?

Probably the TOWIE folk. Dashwood’s boys would make a good fist of it, but they’d be let down by the Earl of Sandwich. He was a big girl’s blouse. He’s involved in a baboon incident in the Gin Lane Gazette, which is very revealing.

7. There’s a wonderfully Rowlandson like quality to your work – a kind of florid raucousness and irreverence. Has he always been an inspiration to your drawing?

My main inspiration is Gillray. He was outstanding. He invented the modern political caricature almost single-handedly, and we haven’t really moved on as cartoonists since. He was merciless and hated everybody. Someone once described him as ‘a caterpillar on the leaf of reputation’.

8. If you could go back in time, not just to the 18th century, and draw anyone at all – who would you pick and why?

Fletcher Christian (see above). I’d want to see how close we got to a true likeness. He had tattooed buttocks, incidentally. I wouldn’t be too fussed about sketching those, though, to be honest.

9. What is your absolute favourite tale of scandal, woe and posh doom from the Georgian period?

The one I always tell when I’m explaining the book is about Juliana Popjoy, mistress to Master of Ceremonies at Bath, Beau Nash, who was so distraught when he died that she lived for the rest of her days in a hollowed-out tree. Everything in the 1700s was done with commitment and panache. We always see headlines on the cover of glossies where a C-list celeb ‘Tells Of Her Pain’. However much pain they claim to be in, they don’t go and live in a tree. Juliana was known in Bath as ‘Betty Besom’, because she used to gallop about on a horse which she propelled with a many-thonged, besom-like whip.

10. Crikey. Can you imagine the Daily Mail if Jennifer Aniston had gone to live in a tree after being ditched by Brad Pitt? Lawks! Anyway, are you going to dress up for the launch party?

Yes. No. Maybe. We might make it ‘fancy dress optional’. I’m hoping two lady Twitter chums, starting a 1700s-themed business, are going to turn up in all their Georgian finery. Watch this space.

Thanks so much Ade for your entertaining answers! I honestly CANNOT WAIT to find out what happened with the Earl of Sandwich and the baboon.

You can find out more about the GIN LANE project and also lend your support here. It starts from £10, which will get your name in the back of the book, access to the virtual ‘author’s shed’ and an e-book edition of the completed work. A £20 pledge will get you all this and a hardcover copy and so on. I’m SERIOUSLY MIFFED that I can’t afford the £250 pledge, which entails a GEORGIAN PUB CRAWL, tickets to the launch party where Ade Teal may or may not be dressed up in Georgian finery and a caricature of myself as a Georgian aristocrat. A GEORGIAN PUB CRAWL. Wow.

Thanks again to Ade and GOOD LUCK with the book!

The fear of rejection and why it’s (probably) okay

30 Apr

A photo of me, looking rejected.

As I approach my 10,000th book sale, which is apparently going to happen at some point in the next couple of weeks, I’ve been thinking a lot about writing, what it means to me and what my ultimate goal is. I mean, what do I want to get out of this? What is my long term plan and do I even need to have one?

The one thing that keeps popping up in my mind though is my epic fear of rejection and I’ll be honest, it paralyses me. I wouldn’t say that is the main reason that I decided to self publish, but it’s pretty high up on the list. People like to carp on rather a lot about self published authors having ‘run out of agents to submit to’ but that isn’t the case for me as I’ve only submitted work on a couple of occasions and then very unwillingly.

I don’t think my writing is terrible (if I did then I wouldn’t self publish and I probably wouldn’t write this blog either) but I anticipate rejection nonetheless because that’s what writers are conditioned to do. We all know that even the greatest books of all time were probably rejected several times before they attracted an agent or publisher and most of us take heart from that because how can you take it personally when it happens to everyone regardless of the quality of their writing? I still feel that stultifying terrible fear though. I mean, rejection is still REJECTION no matter how much you pretty it up, rationalise it or explain it away. It still means that someone didn’t want you.

I suppose I could analyse myself a bit and determine that my fear of rejection stems from my unhappy childhood but I don’t think we need to go down that unfortunate path. I will, however, tell you a little story about something that recently happened to me. Or didn’t happen, depending on how you look at it. I think there’s a moral to this – there certainly seemed to be when I was turning it over in my mind in the bath just now but it might get lost in all the mimsy and nonsense. We’ll see.

A photo of me almost exactly ten years ago on the VERY NIGHT THAT THIS STORY BEGINS. I met the other two people in this photo for the first time on that night and they are both on speaking terms with me – in fact both were at my wedding several years later so there you go. I don’t know who the man? in the red top is though. He definitely wasn’t at my wedding though.

Once upon a time, many years ago, in fact ten years ago exactly, I met a young man that I am going to refer to as M at a goth festival in a certain town in the north of England. It was probably quite romantic – I don’t really remember much about what happened but he was very nice and kissed me for the first time as we watched the waves crash against Whitby beach in the dead of night and all that sort of thing. We then retreated to the sofa of the cottage I was staying in and had to pretend to be asleep when someone burst in and tried to murder one of my friends. Like I say, it was probably quite romantic.

Anyway, I really liked M and I thought he quite liked me. He used to ring me up drunkenly from pubs and even came up to Nottingham one weekend to visit me, which was probably quite nice although I can only vaguely remember what happened due to copious amounts of GIN. Anyway, I really liked him and hoped we could maybe, you know, go out with each other or something because that’s what people who like each other do.

However. At the time all this gin drinking, snuggling up in pubs and hopeless longing was going on, I’d just had a major relationship breakup and was temping and sleeping on a friend’s sofa while trying to save up to get a place of my own and M wasn’t really in a much better situation a few hundred miles away. The owner of my residential sofa had known me since my very first day at university so was allowed to tell me Home Truths and after meeting M, whom he incidentally liked very much, he delivered unto me a very long lecture about how unsuitable it would be for me to have a relationship with anyone until I’d sorted myself out.

I therefore broke things off with M while we lay on a bed together at a party somewhere in Hertfordshire, which was very, very hard but I believed I was being grown up. I regretted it terribly though. Worse was to come when in a moment of drunken sincerity, I confided something about M that I ought not to have done to someone that I thought I could trust but actually couldn’t. By the time I’d realised that I’d made a mistake though it was too late and M was seeing someone else and by one of those weird quirks of weirdness, I started seeing M’s new amorata’s ex boyfriend and, at the time, arch enemy shortly afterwards which made things more than a little awkward between us.

The years pass. I briefly got engaged to said boyfriend and he ditched me two weeks before our wedding day (I honestly don’t mind any more but I do love to trot that one out as it generally makes people gasp and clutch their pearls a bit) and then got together with Monsieur Guillotine, whom I had also met at the very same goth festival as I’d met M at, only an exact year later. M and I stopped talking at some point in 2005.

Maybe we could all take a leaf out of Bernard Black’s book about how to deal with rejection…

BUT WHAT DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH REJECTION? I hear you all cry. IS THIS LIKE THE SOFA SCENES AT THE START OF HOW I MET YOUR MOTHER OR SOMETHING? ARE YOU EVER GOING TO GET TO THE POINT OF ALL THIS TIRESOME REMINISCING ABOUT LONG DEAD ANGST AND INIQUITY?

Just let me get to it and all will be revealed! Or possibly not, anyway, let’s get on.

Ten years have now passed since Whitby Beach and I’ll be honest, I haven’t really thought about M all that much in that time. I’ve been busy for one thing and for another, as soon as he started seeing someone else, I didn’t really think of him in a romantic way at all any more. I mean, I’m no angel, but I have some vague principles or something. However, just recently, I’ve found myself wondering ‘I wonder how M is?’ and, more pertinently, ‘I wonder if we could ever be friends? I mean, I really liked him before and he’s always made me laugh. Could we be friends? Or has it been too long?’ Oh and also ‘Why can’t I be like other grown ups and actually be friends with at least ONE of my ex boyfriends or ex not quite boyfriends?’

And then that word appeared. Yes, THAT word. REJECTION.

‘Pah,’ I said to myself but not aloud because that would actually be MADNESS. ‘I can handle rejection.’

We know this isn’t true but let’s ignore that as in full knowledge of this incontrovertible and unpalatable fact, I sent M a message on Facebook of all places to say hello. After several hours he replied in a not entirely unfriendly but certainly rather confused way. ‘Hurray,’ thought I. ‘This isn’t bad at all.’

However, it then became clear from his general lack of replies that he didn’t really want to talk to me at all (I’m one of those people who kind of likes to niggle, I’m afraid, so if someone doesn’t want to talk to me, that just makes me want to talk to them EVEN MORE so you can probably imagine just how this wincingly awkwardly awful one sided conversation went) and a friend request that I blithely sent was pointedly ignored (I was quite pleased about the ignoring to be honest – in the manner of bored Regency gentlemen, my husband and I like to make bets about pretty much everything and I have money riding on M not accepting my friend request) although he did ‘maybe’ an invitation to come to the pub with me next month so who knows what’s going on.

It’s clear though that I have been REJECTED in epic HE JUST ISN’T THAT INTO YOU AT ALL AND IN ANY WAY NO NOT EVEN AS A FRIEND (any more) style. I knew I would be, which is why I did it. Oh no, I’m not some sort of heinous emotional masochist or anything like that. It’s just that like a lot of people I have scabs that I like to pick and feelings that I like to probe and niggle like sore teeth or an aching joint. There’s also the fact that I was raised as a Catholic and, well, I may have lapsed but I still can’t resist a spot of penance or, as this post most excellently demonstrates, the lure of the confessional.

Rejection though. Crikey. You know, like rather too many unpleasant things, it’s every bit as bad as you think it’s going to be no matter how much you brace yourself or tell yourself that it’s all okay and won’t be all that bad. Oh, you poor naive fool. Of course it’s all that bad. It’s like a gigantic bucket of ice cold water right in the face, delivered with a harsh reminder of your own littleness in the general scheme of things and stinging slap that makes you teeter on your suddenly clownishly oversized shoes in front of a po faced audience of everyone you have ever wanted to impress. All of which leaves you raw, red faced and gasping from the sheer awful humiliation and indignity of it all.

Me after I have come to terms with my fear of rejection and poked an IRON FIST into its eye while laughing disdainfully IN ITS FACE. This was actually going to be one of the two photographs I have of M and I being drunk, with M’s face photoshopped out and replaced with something comedic but I then decided that like most things I think up at 2am when I’m suffering from insomnia, this wouldn’t be a very good idea. Also I couldn’t think of anything suitably comedic and yet also unlikely to cause offence to photoshop over his face.

The thing is though that humiliating, awful and heinous though it undoubtedly is to be rejected when you put yourself forward, pop your head above the metaphorical parapet or offer up your hand in friendship, the fact remains that IT DOESN’T ACTUALLY KILL YOU. Unless you have a weak heart and it actually IS teamed with a bucket of ice cold water to the face. Generally though, in these days of soul deadening electronic communication, it won’t be.

I feel pretty dumb right now and also extremely stupid but I can also recognise that it’s OKAY because no one died, because just because one person didn’t want to be friends with me doesn’t mean that no one else does either and because this doesn’t actually say anything at all about my worth as a person.

Maybe it all comes down to numbers in the end – I’d feel a lot happier submitting to an agent now because I’ve got a respectable amount of sales and good reviews under my belt and so when they pass, I can tell myself that it’s all okay and just because they don’t want me doesn’t mean no one else does either and this doesn’t say anything about my worth as a writer or a person. Likewise, I feel pretty fine about offering the hand of inept friendship to people who cross themselves in horror at the mere memory of me because as well as my husband who for some reason has appeared to adore me for almost nine years, I actually have dozens of friends who either don’t think I am awful or accept my awfulness and like me anyway. If there’s one good thing about the misery of rejection, it is that it highlights all the ways that you have NOT been rejected and makes you doubly appreciative of them.

Also, I almost certainly owe M a rejection, don’t I? He’s not exactly talkative so I had no idea at all back then what he thought of me at any point from the time I met him to the point that we stopped talking. I have even less idea now. I made the mistake of assuming that because he never and not once mentioned his feelings to me about any of it then he must obviously just not care. Maybe he didn’t but if he did then clearly a proper apology, which I have now made, was overdue.

Is there a moral to all this? I think there are three: firstly that REJECTION IS HORRIBLE BUT IT’S A FACT OF LIFE and especially so if you want to be a writer, secondly WHAT DOESN’T KILL YOU MAKES YOU STRONGER but only if you let it and thirdly that IT’S BETTER TO PUT YOURSELF OUT THERE, to have an open heart, to give things a whirl than never let yourself risk the fear of rejection and so miss out.

Oh and fourthly: don’t ever contact ex not quite boyfriends.

Top tips for history bloggers

21 Apr

A group of history bloggers down the pub yesterday, discussing their stats and how to maximise SEO.

It a source of absolute delight to me that history blogs seem to be springing up like mushrooms at the moment. Okay, we may never be able to take the Mummy Blogger lot on in anything that comes to sheer numbers but I reckon we’d more than hold our own against them in a pub quiz type scenario. And, sadly, PR types aren’t as interested in us so parcels of chocolate and other such goodies are rather thin on the ground but do we care? No, because like them we are doing something that we adore and, hopefully, making others happy in the process.

That’s not to say either that we don’t build up our own contacts and get to do fun things! I personally have built a really nice relationship with the Royal Collections (it helps that the current Surveyor of the Queen’s Pictures used to be my tutor at university and is a very very lovely, encouraging and helpful man), the Royal Palaces (who are super lovely and let me go to their press days to wander about in open mouthed awe and take photographs!), Bath Fashion Museum, Denis Severs’ House and so on. You’d be surprised how many places don’t want to engage though – the Victoria and Albert Museum for one, which is why I never feature them any more.

You can still have a lot of fun though – I’m constantly thinking of new and interesting things to do for my blog and I keep a record of them in the ‘Lists’ function on my iPad and iPhone so I always have SOMETHING to write about. I have a list of stately homes that I’d like to feature (although they generally get crossed off when I discover they don’t allow photography!) and I’m also keen to visit some re-enactment groups this summer so I can do a series of posts about them! Any invitations?

There’s a particular joy, for me at least, in the act of writing a history blog as it means connecting with like minded people who have the same interests as myself. I don’t know how school was for you, but for me it was tortuous and I was constantly mocked for being obsessed with history, for being more interested in what happened back in 1789 than whatever rubbish was in the charts and for finding the fashions of the 17th century far more becoming than whatever horrors were currently being sold in Miss Selfridges.

It’s an absolute PLEASURE therefore to feel myself amongst friends now, to know that if I post about fancying Thomas Cromwell or confessing to a love of the alleyways of Whitechapel, someone out there will reply with a resounding ‘me too!’.

A history blogger let loose in Whitechapel.

When I first started this blog back in July 2009, there weren’t all that many history blogs out there but now it seems as if there are new ones springing up all the time, which is just amazing. My personal taste tends towards blogs that focus on women’s history with a bit of flounce and a modern touch but there’s something for absolutely everything, whether you are into the Saxons, Wars of the Roses, Romans, Edwardians and everything in between. We’re spoiled for choice.

I’m often asked for advice about starting a history blog but thought it would be more fun to ask some really fabulous history blogging chums of mine to chime in with their thoughts.

Heather, who writes the superb The Duchess of Devonshire’s Gossip Guide and @Georgianagossip on Twitter says:

‘I think one of the most important history-blogger lessons I could pass on is remember your blogger etiquette when promoting yourself. The historical blog community is a lovely one to be a part of, with some of the nicest people making up both readers and writers. Do not make a bad impression by shamelessly promoting your blog in another’s comments. And whatever you do DO NOT ask for link exchanges! There’s nothing that turns off a blogger more! If a blogger likes your blog they will link to it. To get your name out there, become part of the community by commenting, tweeting, and generally enjoying getting a conversation with like-minded people going. Like the field of dreams, write what you love and they will come!’

Lauren, who writes the always entertaining Marie Antoinette’s Gossip Guide and @mariegossip on Twitter says:

‘A word of advice for new history bloggers is to create a twitter account to compliment the blog. It is an easy way to get posts out there, and meet new like-minded people. In a way you would be expanding your network, and learning what other history/related blogs are active. You can also get creative with fun promotional bits on twitter like blog giveaways or polls. Take advantage of web 2.0 and use it to engage your readers and keep them coming back for more!

What else…. Have your email open for readers to get in touch. I get some amazing reference/research questions from readers, as well as tips and leads on upcoming exhibitions around the world. It is great.

What does bother me is when I take the time to help someone out and they can’t be bothered to say ‘thanks.’ Blogging is a time consuming (yet rewarding) job, like any other job and most of us, dare I say almost all of us, do not get paid for it. A little thank you is always appreciated, because we love helping out!’

Susan from the whimsical and lovely Life Takes Lemons and @LifeTakesLemons on Twitter has this to say:

‘Find your own voice within history blogging because on the surface the topic feels infinite and narrowing in on resources is like walking into a dense forest and picking one christmas tree to chop down. There are just so many!

I like stories about saucy and often disastrous women, l’amour fou, and fashion that bleeds into politics and culture. The 18th century is teeming with these types of tales and is glamour personified. Hello, Marie Antoinette!

The process is also circular for me, making posts purposeful and fun (which is incidentally tip #2) Research for my novel writing naturally feeds the blog and keeps me posting when my schedule gets crazy busy.

So, in short, be yourself, define your primary interests, and have fun! It’s insanely rewarding unearthing history fans and sharing interests. Readers inform me just as much as I inform them, and that’s easily the best part of the experience.’

Evangeline from the excellent Edwardian Promenade and @edwardian_era on Twitter says:

‘The number one advice I’d give is to absolutely love your topic. If you aren’t absolutely enthralled with what you plan to blog about, you’re likely to grow bored and abandon it. Also, in this crowded blogosphere, you will stand out by finding an angle from which to write your history blog rather than writing a general one. The finest example so far is Downton Abbey Cooks (http://downtonabbeycooks.com/), which is run by a chef who combines her love of cooking with her obsession with Downton Abbey.

2) Build your reference library immediately! After the first rush of enthusiasm runs its course, you’re going to wish you had a bunch of books from which to obtain inspiration for future blog posts (and on that note, don’t buy books unless you’ve read them. Chasing down OOP books can become a very expensive habit, and your mind and wallet will thank you when you borrow a dud from the library).

3) Read, read, read. When I began my history blog, I took everything I read in my research books at face value. After years of reading hundreds of books on the Edwardian era, I now can recognize biases and omissions (particularly in primary resources like diaries and memoirs). Plus, with all of this reading, you begin to understand the people and the hows, whats, and whys of the time period and move beyond mere recitation of facts and figures.

4) Humility! Thankfully, my emails correcting or complaining about my posts have been minimal, but it still stings a bit when I open an email to find someone wagging their finger at me. *g* However, you’ve got to brush off criticism, because that pang is just someone pricking your pride, and once you think you know everything you stop your capacity to wonder and learn.

5) Patience and shrewdness. Don’t pay attention to the number of your stats and comments, but do pay attention to which types of posts are most popular and what search phrases bring people to your blog.

As for what I like best about my history blog? The community! I’ve connected with so many amazing people through my blog and they keep me inspired and motivated. I also love blogging because it can be relaxing, and I don’t feel guilty for spending hours online or with my nose in a book.’

Samantha Morris from the new and really fascinating Loyalty Binds Me blog and @LadyHertford on Twitter has this to say:

‘My one bit of advice on history blogging is to love your subject, and research research research – if you’re going to be posting something publically for everyone to see then make sure you know your subject, but don’t write too much so people get bored. Make it interesting, make it snappy and include pictures of who it is you’re writing about.

And what I love most about history blogging? Sharing my love of certain historical eras (Stuarts *cough*) and knowing that others who share my enthusiasm can find it and hopefully learn a bit more through my over enthusiastic love of historical dead dudes.’

Finally, Dainty Ballerina who writes the really excellent and informative Shakespeare’s England blog and is @DaintyBallerina on Twitter has this to add:

‘Working in academia means that a lot of the time I’m reading very interesting historical sources which are not always easily accessible to members of the general public. Blogging about them on Shakespeare’e England is a way of sharing some of the more interesting aspects of seventeenth century life with lovers of history. Also my work requires me to take history very seriously, but on the blog I can have a bit more fun and enjoy some of the sillier aspects of history, such as learning how to swim and cut your toenails at the same time.

My advice to new history bloggers would be blog on what interests you, not what you think other people will be interested in. Use lots of illustrations to support your blog posts, and try and keep posts to a reading time of under three or four minutes, since most people don’t have time to read anything much longer. And enjoy it. It should be fun and definitely not a chore!’

I don’t have anything much to add to this to be honest (and in fact feel newly inspired myself) but I think it’s clear what shines through here – that enthusiasm, curiosity, a willingness to engage with readers and a genuine passion for your subject are the key parts of being a history blogger. Also don’t be put off by your amateur status – you have just as much to say as any professional historian – we all bring our unique perspectives to history and that’s one of the things that makes it such an endlessly fascinating subject.

Thanks so much Heather, Lauren, Susan, Evangeline, Dainty and Samantha for all the excellent advice!

Before the Storm is FREE AS A BIRD

12 Apr

Because I am feeling generous, my most recent and favourite of my books, Before the Storm is going to be FREE AS A BIRD for the next few days so if you have a Kindle or Kindle app on your phone etc then this is your chance to download it without paying a PENNY.

‘Unable to attract suitably aristocratic suitors in London, a group of beautiful, wealthy and extremely ambitious English heiresses decide to try their luck in Paris instead. Although they initially take the city of light by storm, they soon discover that the glittering facade of social success hides a multitude of sins and iniquities while their own dark secrets and an implacable enemy could well destroy everything that they have worked so hard to achieve…

Based on The Buccaneers by Edith Wharton, Before the Storm is a tale of passion, betrayal, posh doom and true love set against the backdrop of the opulent and often treacherous worlds of Georgian London, Marie Antoinette’s Versailles and the bloodshed and terror of Revolutionary Paris.

‘It was a blissfully warm day. The worst of the heat wave was now over and a light flower scented breeze blew leaves into the pavilion where the party drowsily lazed against cushions, idling listening as Eugène d’Aigueville played his guitar, his eyes fixed on Venetia, who smiled lazily back at him.

Comte Edmond reclined in between Phoebe and Eliza, none of them spoke but the air around them shimmered with tension as both girls subtly did their best to claim his attention for themselves. Phoebe had long since realised that she was fighting a losing battle though and that although he very much enjoyed flirting with her, it was Eliza that he looked for first whenever he walked into a room.

Eliza did not share this view though and kept thinking about Venetia’s wedding day when Phoebe, radiant with sexual confidence had told her that she wouldn’t let her chastity stand in the way of making a good match for herself. She curled her hands into fists every time Comte Edmond and her friend left the room together and tried not to think about what they might be doing. He’d tried to kiss her once, but she’d shoved him away. Perhaps that was a mistake? She looked across at him now as he gazed up at Phoebe and her heart sank.

‘Who is that woman?’ Phoebe said suddenly, shielding her blue eyes as she looked back towards the house.

Venetia followed her gaze and gave a nervous laugh. ‘It’s your landlady, Eliza,’ she said, with a quick look at Edmond, who immediately sat up and automatically began to retie his loosened cravat. ‘Madame de Saint-Georges.’

They all stood up and instinctively, Eliza, Phoebe and Venetia stood close together as Corisande de Saint-Georges hurried across the lawn towards them. She had dressed to impress in a shimmering, rich lace trimmed blue and white striped silk gown, with wide skirts pulled back from flounced flower sprigged white silk underskirts. A huge muslin fichu was arranged around her shoulders and on her elaborately curled, ringleted and backcombed powdered hair was a vast ribbon and flower bedecked white straw hat.

‘Goodness me, she really means business,’ Venetia murmured as they watched this vision of elegance and high fashion approach. She looked back over her shoulder at Edmond, who was standing uneasily behind them, looking as if he desperately wished he could run away. ‘I wonder what she wants?’

Reviews:

‘Before the Storm, tells the story of a group of young Englishwomen who meet in Bath and, frustrated by their inability to land a suitable British husband, go to Paris to try their luck with the French nobility.

Given that the French Revolution looms, you can’t help thinking their timing is a bit off. Described by the author as “a tale of iniquity and posh doom”, it contains all the staples of good historical romance, from upwardly mobile marriage-minded Mamas to a governess with a secret past.

However, like her previous novel, Blood Sisters, it is a book more about the bonds between the women than it is a love story. The real love story is between Clegg and Revolutionary France, and she matches historical detail with a vivid imagination.’

‘Lush, dreamy historical detail with a slightly punk rock aesthetic…’

UK Amazon: Before the Storm

US Amazon: Before the Storm

Hampton Court Palace

6 Apr

This may be a surprise but I’ve never been to Hampton Court Palace before despite growing up in Essex and spending a lot of my childhood in London, where my history obsessed grandmother, who raised me, came from. I didn’t know what to expect to be honest – it’s such an iconic building after all and the backdrop to so much Tudor drama and shenanigins.

It made my jaw drop to be honest as I walked up the drive towards the palace with its russet brick towers, decorative chimneys and sun warmed higgledy piggledy array of Tudor buildings. Absolutely stunning. And to imagine the history that it had witnessed was almost overwhelming. This was after all home to Wolsey, Henry VIII and his wives, Charles I, Cromwell, Charles II and his lady friends and on and on.

As I walked through the courtyards to the Queen’s apartments where the exhibition was being held, I found my gaze drawn up at the towers, the gleaming mullioned windows, the occasional glimpse of an elaborate brocade curtain and those twisted ornamental chimney stacks. In that moment, I lost my heart completely to Hampton Court. I still love Versailles, of course I do, but my word, it has some stiff competition here in England!

After I’d spent the morning perusing the sleepy eyed beauties of the Stuart court, I left and bumped into a large man dressed as Henry VIII and surrounded by several dozen wide eyed children. It was my intention at this point to get a drink and have a think about what I’d just seen but instead I couldn’t resist following a sign directing me to the Chapel Royal.

The chapel is the only part of Hampton Court where photography isn’t allowed but suffice to say that I was overwhelmed and deeply moved by it. I’d seen pictures before, of course, of the Grinling Gibbons woodwork behind the altar and the wonderful gilded ceiling with its painted azure sky and profusion of gold stars but no mere photograph can do it justice.

Next door there is the lovely Tudor garden with its pretty statues and overwhelming scent of herbs. It’s a truly peaceful spot.

After this I took refuge in a little courtyard opposite and admired the Tudor buildings overhead. I spent the rest of the day wandering about the palace rather aimlessly but enjoying every second as I discovered all sorts of courtyards, alleyways, staircases and seemingly forgotten little nooks and crannies. Hampton Court is SUCH a fun place to visit – you know that millions of people have trooped through all the same places but it feels like such a secret place, so full of intimate charm and romance. It really feels like you are discovering it all for yourself and that, I think, is really quite remarkable.

I also got hopelessly lost on more than one occasion and was occasionally flummoxed by the way that indoor parts of the palace, such as the corridor of the Chapel Royal looked like outdoor parts and so on. It was a nice place to be lost though as it definitely lends itself to a bit of confused meandering.

I began with the Georgian private apartments, a really lovely light filled suite of rooms beside the Queen’s state of apartments. They are simply decorated but there’s some wonderful paintings here including a series of works in the bedchamber by, I think, Honthorst and also the portrait of the Duke of Buckingham ‘Steenie’ with his wife and children. I’m quite interested in his daughter, Mary as she was apparently the love of Prince Rupert’s life, despite being married to one of his best friends.

After this I visited William III’s apartments, which are reached via a most majestic and beautiful painted staircase. These rooms are really quite wonderful and give a really evocative idea of how royal life must have been in the palace during the late Stuart period. William and Mary much preferred Hampton Court to Whitehall which was at that point the main royal residence in London, and so they began a series of lavish improvements there designed by Wren himself. Terrifyingly, his original plan involved demolishing the original Tudor palace and completely replacing it but luckily they ran out of money so it never happened. I think that the resulting mixture of ramshackle red brick Tudor palace and more pleasingly symmetrical Stuart grandeur is very becoming. I bet it annoyed the hell out of the thwarted Wren, not to mention his royal patrons though…

I’d like to know where and how Charles II lived when he was in residence at Hampton Court – did the Stuart court reside in style in the older parts of the palace that had once been inhabited by Henry VIII and his family? I know that Charles I was kept as a prisoner here before his execution after which Cromwell took it on as a residence while Lord Protector of the country. It’s said that his wife, Elizabeth, had a series of hidden passageways and doors constructed behind the state rooms so that she could leap out upon unsuspecting servants who might be slacking off. How she must have grumbled about the amount of housekeeping such an elderly palace entailed. Or maybe she relished it?

The Stuart and Georgian rooms of the palace are very quiet and I enjoyed a lovely peaceful stroll through them, along deserted galleries, down staircases and through bright vestibules. There’s even a little rest room on the ground floor of the King’s apartments, set aside for the weary visitor and overlooking the pretty Chocolate Court, on the other side of which William III’s chef Mr Nice used to prepare his hot chocolate. Crikey, it’s good to be king.

After this I joined most of the visitors and headed up an impressive staircase to the former Tudor apartments, the first room of which was an immense great hall where Henry VIII would once have presided over feasts and peculiarly costumed masques. As the Tudors are, for most, the real draw of Hampton Court, there’s a greater emphasis on education in these rooms with portraits and information enticingly displayed in all of the rooms. I was particularly taken with the famous long gallery, which is said to be haunted by the unfortunate Catherine Howard. It’s hung with lavish silk wall hangings now and has a very un-creepy atmosphere.

The best bit though was when we step out onto the King’s balcony overlooking the Chapel Royal and it was here that for the very first time I actually felt close to what and who Henry VIII must have been. It’s hard to explain but looking at his prie dieu, arranged with massive comfy cushion to kneel on and prayer book spread out for that day’s devotions, all beneath that glorious star spangled ceiling that looks like heaven itself and completely distant from the mere mortals gathered in the chapel below, I found myself thinking ‘So this is what it was like to be Henry VIII’. A remote and God like being. No wonder he went so off the rails.


I wasn’t actually hunting for Tudors while I was there though. I’m still in thrall to Wolf Hall and was keen to see somewhere that, oh be still my beating heart, Thomas Cromwell would have known. I didn’t really get much sense of that though as unlike the Stuart rooms, I didn’t really get a sense of ‘this is a bedroom’, ‘this is where the King had meetings’ and so on. It was only in the Young Henry VIII exhibition that I came across a remnant of Wolsey – a bricked up doorway, which apparently led to the long gallery in his day.

Poor old Wolsey – he creates this wondrous palace by the Thames and gets all forgotten.

After all this excitement, I headed off to the gardens for a bit of a stroll in the rain. I walked a little way along an avenue then turned back to see this behind me. Glorious.

I finished my visit with a trip to Henry VIII’s cellars, which obligingly smelt of herbs, old meat and spice and then his kitchens which are reached via a series of courtyards and alleyways called things like Fish Street and so on. My interests are really in the high life but I do like to visit below stairs once in a while and Henry VIII’s kitchens really are fascinating if you have any interest in the workings of a Tudor household. They appeared to eat a LOT of pie and herbs, eggs and onions were apparently all major components of any royal menu. I really loved all the earthenware pottery that was out on display. I was rather less keen on the tub of MYSTERY MEAT that was bubbling away in a side room, destined for the aforementioned pies.

I can’t believe that it took me so long to pay my first visit to Hampton Court but this was most assuredly not my last! If I ever become rich, I’m going to have the most AMAZING party there.

I think that my next royal visit should be to the Banqueting House as Whitehall comes up ALL the time in my research and yet I’ve never managed to visit even this one remaining part of it, which is a bit unfortunate of me, don’t you think?

The Wild, The Beautiful and The Damned at Hampton Court

5 Apr

So yesterday, I scampered off to Hampton Court Palace for the press preview of the new The Wild, The Beautiful and The Damned exhibition which has taken over Queen Mary II’s former apartments there. Well, I didn’t so much scamper as sidle but never mind. I don’t often get to see half past four in the morning and it’s not a pleasant sight.

In the sumptuous accompanying book which we were very kindly given in our press bags, the chief curator, Lucy Worsley writes that one of the purposes of the exhibition, besides showcasing some of the most lusciously beautiful art ever painted, is to show off the Stuart rooms in the castle, which are often overlooked in the rush to gawp at Henry VIII’s kitchen and the russet toned and evocative Tudor rooms. This is, I think, an immense shame as the Stuart and Georgian rooms of the palace are an absolute delight to visit.

The Wild, The Beautiful and The Damned focusses on the decadent and often sensual portraiture of the later Stuart courts from the triumphant return from exile of Charles II through to the rather less thrilling reign of poor old Queen Anne.

The exhibition opens with a triumphant portrait of Barbara Villiers, Countess of Castlemaine dressed as Athena with a decided twinkle in her heavily lidded eyes. From this point on you are led past some extraordinarily glamorous portraits of sultry, sloe eyed, peachy skinned beauties dressed in shimmering silks and showing off a King’s ransom of pearls.

It ends on a far more dark note with a portrait of an elderly Barbara dressed in sombre black – although the portrait’s caption informs us that she was still having amorous adventures in old age.

Each portrait tells a story, not of some ancient mythological tale but of duels, wicked poets, forbidden love, envious husbands, poisoned young wives, bawdy artists, elopement, fabulously expensive gold dresses, illegitimate children and at the centre of it all, King Charles himself who presides over one of the rooms in his wonderfully flamboyant Coronation portrait. I stood for a long time in front of it, noticing for the first time the expression of mingled relief and amusement on the King’s saturnine face.

Opposite the portrait of Charles II, there is a very large disordered bed, with a copy of the famous nude portrait of Nell Gwynne. Legend has it that the King hid this painting behind a rather more sedate landscape in his private rooms and would only reveal Nell’s likeness when in the company of his closest friends.

The exhibition takes visitors on a journey through the Queen’s State apartments, where they will learn more about the dark side of life at the Stuart court where youth, beauty and novelty are highly prized but can also lead to the destruction of the more unwary. It begins with the dazzling loveliness of the more successful court ladies like Barbara Castlemaine, Louise de Kerouaille, Frances Stuart and Hortense Mancini but there is a reminder of the less happy Lucy Walters, Charles’ mistress during his exile in the Hague and Paris, who died in obscurity, allegedly of syphilis.

On display together are the famous ‘Windsor Beauties’ of Lely and their later rivals, the ‘Hampton Court Beauties’ by Kneller – all of them gorgeous as ripe peaches and just as pampered. Their heavily lidded eyes inviting admiration from the viewer. My favourite is the luscious Jane Middleton who looks almost narcoleptic such is the sleepiness of her gaze and has the most wicked smile. Like so many ladies, poor Mrs Middleton had to endure the censure of a rejected lover who denounced her to posterity as smelly.

It’s often said that all of Lely’s female (and some of his male) subjects look much the same, something that was noted in his lifetime and blamed on his commissions for Barbara Castlemaine, whom he believed to be the epitome of female beauty, causing him to model all of his female sitters after her. After all, who wouldn’t want to be made to look a bit like the Countess of Castlemaine?

I really love the portrait of Frances Stuart, later Duchess of Richmond, who was painted by Lely in full exuberant beauty; vivacious and lovely in shimmering yellow silk. I’ve often wondered why her contemporaries seem to have been so entranced by Frances, who was the daughter of one of Henrietta Maria’s doctors during her exile in Paris, but I think I finally got it while standing in front of her portrait.

We were treated to a very lively and interesting guided tour by Brett Dolman, the exhibition’s curator who has said: ‘Visitors to the exhibition will discover that ‘Beauty’ is not just an aesthetic experience: it is an instrument of ambition, a conduit to pleasure and a magnet for sleaze. This is a story about great art, but also about mistresses and adultery. Visitors will understand what beauty meant and how it was used in the late 17th and 18th centuries and they will reflect, perhaps, on their own appreciation of beauty today in the 21st century.

The exhibition explores the ambiguity at the heart of Hampton Court Palace; beauty was a good thing, a reflection of divine perfection, an indication of virtue, but it was also a good excuse to decorate your bedchamber with soft-core private delights. Beauty was admired and revered, but also pursued and possessed. In the exotic world of the Restoration court, beauty could be exploited: women used it to command a new personal and political influence at the heart of government, but were themselves chased and abused, pilloried as whores.’

There was a moment when I was listening to Mr Dolman talk about the way that the women of the court used their beauty to ensnare me, when I looked across at the portrait of the future James II with his rather un-beautiful wife Anne Hyde, whom he courted scandal and familial disapproval to marry, and their daughters, Mary and Anne and thought, you know, it wasn’t all about beauty. Or maybe James didn’t have quite the same voluptuous tastes as his brother, Charles. Maybe she gave excellent back rubs?

No exhibition on the lascivious underbelly of Charles II’s glittering court would be complete without the presence of the Earl of Rochester and his monkey.

I love the detailing on this portrait of Queen Maria, the second wife of James II. If you ever get to see it in person, just take a look at the way that paint has been used to render the embroidery on her rather becomingly manly coat.

I’ve always loved this painting of Charles II dancing at The Hague to celebrate his return to the British throne. I’ve never before noticed that he actually appears twice as there’s also a banquet scene tucked into the corner.

I thought the exhibition was absolutely stunning. It’s a complete delight to have such marvellous portraits gathered together in such an evocative place and also so beautifully presented with gorgeous flounced swags gathered over the top of each painting. As I’m working on a novel about Henrietta, Duchess of Orleans (who didn’t feature, oh woe) I was really keen to both visit somewhere connected with the later Stuarts and also immerse myself in their times and the dark and decadent beauty with which they surrounded themselves and boy did this deliver.

The Wild, The Beautiful and the Damned is running until the 30th September 2012. There’s also and accompanying fabulous programme of ‘Salacious Gossip’ tours (£25 per person on Friday and Sunday nights and absolutely NOT for children) and lectures by Brett Dolman, Jenny Uglow (I’d love to go to this one as I love her book The Gambling Man: Charles II and the Restoration), Aileen Ribeiro (my art history heroine!) and others.

Further reading:

Beauty, Sex and Power: A Story of Debauchery and Decadent Art at the Late Stuart Court (1660-1714)

Marie Antoinette’s wedding dress

29 Feb

‘It didn’t take us long to reach the royal chapel and there was a small awkward pause as my ladies came forward to tweak my full skirts and, clicking their tongues disapprovingly against their teeth, do their best to hide the wide expanse of lacing at my back, which revealed that my beautiful cloth of silver dress, made from measurements sent from Vienna several months earlier, was far too small for me.

‘Good luck,’ Madame de Mailly whispered when the ladies in waiting finally melted back again, their wide silk and brocade skirts rustling against the marble floor. ‘You look beautiful. Look straight ahead and ignore all the staring.’ She gave my hand a quick surreptitious squeeze. ‘You’ll be fine.’

I turned and smiled reassuringly at the Dauphin, who was standing mutely beside me, his pale eyes wide with terror while a pulse beat time in the vein at his temple. Now that I had overcome my own fears, I wished that there was some way that I could bring the colour back into his cheeks and stop him trembling. ‘It will be over soon,’ was the best that I could manage as he hesitantly took my hand and we stepped forward into the luminous white and gold light of the chapel.

Ever since I was a little girl I have dreamed of the perfect wedding, complete with a gorgeous dress, handsome prince and all of my family smiling fondly as they watched me sail gracefully up the long aisle towards the altar. Mama would proudly wipe tears of joy from her eyes and my brother Joseph, tall and handsome in blue watered silk would be waiting to give me away to my new husband, who’d watch me lovingly as I made my way up the aisle. Even though I knew that it was all impossible, that such a wedding could never happen, I’d still clung to that dream no matter what and in the end, the reality wasn’t all that bad in comparison.

True, my beautiful dress didn’t fit properly, my prince wasn’t exactly handsome and my family were all thousands of miles away but nothing could have prepared me for the breathtaking spectacle of the columned gilt and white marble chapel at Versailles in all its wedding day splendour. The bright spring sunlight shone through the tall windows, sending bright shards of coloured light floating over the assembled congregation while overhead there soared a beautiful painted ceiling which depicted scantily clad angels cavorting against a pure azure blue sky.’ — Secret Diary II, Melanie Clegg.

It’s weird to be back in the world of Marie Antoinette again. It’s also very strange to see just how much my writing has changed and improved in the last three years. On the other hand it’s nice to read back something that I wrote so long ago and actually find myself laughing out loud at some of the dialogue – not because it’s awful but because it is genuinely quite funny. I keep being told that writing in the first person is horrible for readers but I really do enjoy myself when I do it. Perhaps I should do it more often.

I’m writing about Marie Antoinette’s wedding again, which is a lot of fun. I especially like the fact that her immensely expensive cloth of silver and diamond spangled dress wouldn’t do up properly, which must have annoyed everyone no end although she herself was probably fairly sanguine about it as at the time she was a bit of a scruff and not quite the fashionista of popular imagining.

It’s a shame that Marie Antoinette’s wedding dress (along with pretty much all those clothes we hear so much about), an iconic piece of fashion history if ever there was one, no longer exists or at least not in its original form or in a public collection. I can only imagine the thrill of being able to see it in person. I remember writing about it in my undergraduate dissertation – about the fact that so little exists of that fabulous wardrobe that once took up so much space in the attics of Versailles and could be visited like works of art and yet it has still reached almost mythical status in our minds. Or something like that.

We are fortunate though in that some examples of eighteenth century royal wedding dresses do still survive to give an idea of how Marie Antoinette’s dress would probably have looked. Remember that it was Versailles that created the rules about court dress and behaviour so where they led, everyone else scrambled to follow.

Probably the most gorgeously romantic example is this lavish wedding gown worn by Hedwig Elizabeth Charlotte Holstein-Gottorp when she married her cousin, the future King Charles XIII of Sweden on the 7th of July 1774, just over four years after Marie Antoinette’s wedding day at Versailles. Hedwig’s exquisite gown of silver tissue and lace, which accentuated her dainty 19″ waist, was made for her in Paris and so was guaranteed to be the height of fashion although the formal outfits worn at court had rules and etiquette that were quite removed from whatever was the mode at the time.

Another fine example is the dress worn by Sophia Magdalena of Denmark when she married the future King Gustav III of Sweden on the 4th of November 1766. The dress isn’t quite so ethereal and fairy princess like as that worn by her sister-in-law Hedwig but then she married in November so an altogether more sturdy and less diaphanous dress was probably determined upon. This dress was also made in Paris.

There’s also Sophia Magdalena’s coronation dress, which she wore on the 29th of May 1772 and was a heavy and gorgeous cloth of gold affair – when you get up close you realise that the dress fabric is patterned with gold crowns, which is rather fabulous.The fabric is so rich in fact that the gown itself is relatively simple in form and requires absolutely no embroidery or fuss other than the beautiful layered lace sleeves and tasselled fob at the hip. Well, I SAY ‘hip’ but…

We can only daydream now about how these wonderful dresses would have looked in the midst of marble and gilt chapels and glowing sumptuously in the soft light cast by thousands of candles. The actual act of wearing such a dress, however, is rather less dreamy, I’m sure as they are exceptionally weighty not to mention bulky. Still, one must suffer to be beautiful…

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