I began writing the Peninsular War Saga some years ago. At the time, I was attempting to find an agent or a publisher for one of my standalone historical romances, without much success. I had a lot of very positive feedback about my writing, my plots and my characterisation but everybody was saying the same thing; we’re sorry, but there is no market for traditional historical romance any more.
More than one agent urged me to try to write a contemporary romance. I made several attempts and hated all of them. Many people told me that with just a little adjustment, I could write for Mills and Boon historical. Once again, I made the attempt, and the people at Mills and Boon were lovely, gave great feedback, but were just not sure that my characterisation was quite right for them. I was getting nowhere.
To cheer myself up, I decided to scrap all my dreams of writing a marketable historical romance and just write something that I really wanted to do. There was definitely no market for a new series about the Peninsular War, since it had been done to death in the years following the runaway success of the Sharpe books and TV series. Still, it’s what I wanted to write, and since it was clear that nobody was going to read it anyway, I felt very liberated. I decided I could write it just for me, about a collection of people who didn’t always feel heroic or brave or even that patriotic. A lot of them joined because they had no option, or because they needed a job. They fought and they died and a lot of them became heroes. They also got wet, got grumpy when they were hungry, got sore feet and developed a bad head cold from time to time.
I wanted to explore areas of the war that I’d not really seen a lot about. What about the medical services? How did the commissariat work and who was responsible for ordnance and transport and prisoners of war? And what about the women and children who followed the army? What was it like in camp and on the long marches and all the boring hours between battles and skirmishes? What were relationships like between officers and men, away from the parade ground and the tidy regulations which governed army life?
Out of all these questions was born the Peninsular War Saga. Finally tired of trying to persuade an agent or a publisher to read one of the books, I decided to publish independently, without really thinking I’d sell more than a dozen copies, let alone develop an enthusiastic following. With book five doing well and book six in the early planning stages, I consider I’ve been incredibly lucky.
The Peninsular War Saga tells the story of the men and women of the fictional 110th Infantry during the wars against Napoleon; in particular, a young officer called Paul van Daan who joins the regiment in 1802 as it is about to go to India to fight under General Arthur Wellesley.
From the battle of Assaye, through Italy, Copenhagen and Portugal, we follow the early career of Lieutenant Paul van Daan, the most unusual officer ever to join the 110th as he attempts to find his place in the regiment. Along the way he makes both friends and enemies, discovers a talent for leadership and shares his life with two very different women.
An Unconventional Officer is slightly different to the other books, as it covers a longer time period, almost eight years. I wanted it to be a full introduction to Paul’s story and to get him to the point where he was well-established in Wellington’s army. While it introduces many of the main characters, the heart of this novel is the love story between Paul and Anne and its theme is Paul’s gradual development from a young officer willing to break all the rules, to a slightly more mature officer who is beginning to learn to fit in a little better.
This book is really a spin-off from the Peninsular War Saga, but it fits very securely within the series as well. It takes place halfway through the action of An Unconventional Officer, during the Copenhagen campaign, which is mentioned, but not explored in book one. I adore this book, partly because the navy theme enabled me to set part of it on the island which is my home and which I love, and partly because it is a real coming-of-age book for Major van Daan as well as a key point in his developing friendship with Sir Arthur Wellesley.
It is 1806 andCaptain Hugh Kelly RN returns to the Isle of Mann after fifteen years with a few months leave and a small fortune in prize money to find himself a sensible Manx wife. He pays court to Roseen Crellin, who is determined to resist her father’s efforts to find her a husband. Still dreaming of the young English soldier who sailed away and broke her heart, she has no intention of encouraging Captain Kelly’s courtship and certainly no intention of developing feelings for the man.
Major Paul van Daan is newly promoted and just back from Ireland, sailing with his battalion to Copenhagen under the command of Sir Arthur Wellesley. Paul’s courage and talent are unquestioned but his diplomatic skills need some work and in a joint operation with the navy there are many ways for a man of Paul’s temperament to get things wrong.
As Britain hovers on the brink of war with neutral Denmark and the diplomats and politicians negotiate to keep the Danish fleet out of Bonaparte’s hands, a more personal drama plays out on the decks of the Royal Navy and in the lines of Lord Cathcart’s army which could change the lives of Hugh, Roseen and Paul forever.
This book covers an area of the war that I knew very little about. The building and manning of the lines of Torres Vedras are absolutely fascinating and worth a lot more time than I was able to give them. It is also the story of a young couple learning to be married, and sets the tone for Paul and Anne’s relationship throughout the series. If you don’t leave your hero and heroine at the church door, you have to work out what their marriage is going to be like, and I loved the challenge of that.
On the heights of Bussaco Ridge, Paul van Daan leads his battalion into action under Lord Wellington in his defeat of the French under Marshal Massena. The book explores Paul’s developing career, and the happiness of his marriage to the lovely young widow of a fellow officer. As Wellington prepares to chase Massena out of Portugal, Paul is serving under the worst general in the army and must find a way to keep his regiment safe and protect his reputation.
In addition to the battles and the personal stories of my characters, I wanted to introduce something about army politics during this book. I particularly love finding an interesting, funny or even a very sad story from history and trying to work it into the lives of my characters.
Lord Wellington has led his army to the Spanish border where the French occupy their last stronghold in Portugal at Almeida. As the two armies face each other in the village of Fuentes de Onoro, Colonel Paul van Daan is becoming accustomed to his new responsibilities in command of a brigade and managing the resentment of other officers at his promotion over older and longer serving men. His young wife is carrying their first child and showing no signs of allowing her delicate situation to get in the way of her normal activities. And if that was not enough, Paul encounters a French colonel during the days of the battle who seems to have taken their rivalry personally, with potentially lethal consequences for the 110th and the rest of the third brigade of the light division.
This was definitely the most emotional book for me to write. I wanted to highlight the plight of women in wartime, and I’m proud of this book, but it was extremely painful for me.
In the freezing January of 1812, Lord Wellington pushes his army on to the fortress town of Ciudad Rodrigo and a bloody siege with tragic consequences. Colonel Paul van Daan and his wife Anne have a baby son and in the aftermath of the storming, take a brief trip to Lisbon to allow Paul’s family to take little William back to England. With his career flourishing and his marriage happy, Paul has never felt so secure. But his world is shattered when his young wife is taken prisoner by a French colonel with a personal grudge against Paul. As Wellington’s army begins the siege of Badajoz, the other great Spanish border fortress, his scouts and agents conduct a frantic search for the colonel’s wife. Meanwhile Anne van Daan is in the worst danger of her life and needs to call on all her considerable resources to survive, with no idea if help is on the way.
This book covers both triumph and miserable retreat and was a wonderful opportunity both to introduce some new characters and to revisit one of the major storylines from the first book. It turned out to be more emotional than I expected and I loved being able to highlight one of my favourite characters whom I felt I’d neglected a little. The story of the retreat from Burgos was impossible to glamorise and highlighted both the best and the worst of Wellington’s army.
It is June 1812 and back with her husband and his brigade, Anne van Daan is beginning to recover from her ordeal at the hands of Colonel Dupres as Lord Wellington marches his army into Spain and up to Salamanca. In a spectacularly successful action, Wellington drives the French back although not without some damage to the Third Brigade of the Light Division.
Still recovering from their losses at Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz earlier in the year, the Light Division remains in Madrid while Wellington lays siege to Burgos but some of Paul’s brigade have troubles of their own.
Lieutenant Simon Carlyon is determined not to allow his dead brother’s shameful reputation to blight his career in the army but finds it harder than expected to serve under the man who killed him. Colonel Johnny Wheeler is finding the lie he told to protect others difficult to live with, faced with the unrelenting hostility of a young officer. And Captain Michael O’Reilly’s life becomes complicated through a casual act of kindness.
The end of the campaigning season is not going as well for the Allied army and triumph turns to an undignified and dangerous retreat. At a time when the discipline of Wellington’s army seems to have broken down, Van Daan’s brigade need to set personal matters aside and concentrate on staying alive long enough to reach safety.
That’s as far as I’ve got with the novels. My next book is intended to be the sequel to An Unwilling Alliance, covering the disastrous Walcheren campaign of 1809. I’ve not been able to find a novel covering this campaign before so it feels like uncharted territory. I intend to pick up Hugh Kelly’s story, but as the campaign once again involved both army and navy, I will be joining the men of the 110th second battalion, who, while Major van Daan was leading the first battalion to glory in the Peninsula, were unlucky enough to be sent to Walcheren. The working title is An Inauspicious Expedition.
The other books in the Peninsular War Saga, as planned so far are as follows:
An Unrelenting Enmity: set during winter quarters from December 1812 to April 1813
An Auspicious Action: the story of the battle of Vitoria
An Uncivilised Storming: the Pyrenees and San Sebastian
An Inexorable Invasion: the invasion of France
An Improbable Abdication: Toulouse and the return to England
An Unmerciful Engagement: Waterloo
An Amicable Occupation: the Army of Occupation
Looking at that list, I feel a combination of excitement and sheer terror. At present I seem to be able to manage two books a year, but some of these will take more research than others, so I don’t promise that. There will also be more in the Manxman series, since I hope at some point to be able to reunite Hugh Kelly and Paul van Daan.
Currently, I’m beginning the research for the book about Walcheren, which will be published some time next year; I can’t give a date yet until I have a better idea of how long the research will take. I’m also making notes about book 6 in the main saga, which may be quicker to write, given that it is set outside of the main battles and campaigns, although obviously, given that this is the 110th, there will be some action.
So far, most of the books have been published only as e-books, but I am working at changing that. Early next year I am hoping to have all the books in paperback on Amazon, and then to get them into some bookshops or for sale on my website later in the year.
I’ve come a very long way from believing that nobody wants to read another series about the Peninsular War, and I’m so grateful to all my readers, especially those who follow me on facebook and twitter and visit my website regularly. Some of you have left fabulous reviews as well, and every good review is like a gift, even if it’s only a couple of lines.
It has been a good year in many ways at Writing with Labradors, despite losing our beloved Toby. We’re so grateful we have Oscar to step into his paw prints, and we’re looking forward to an even better 2019. In the meantime, remember to look out for book giveaways on Amazon on Christmas Eve, in honour of the Jolabokaflod or Christmas Book Flood. And for future giveaways and updates, please click on the link to subscribe to the newsletter.
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year from all of us at Writing with Labradors.
Nicholas Whitham has left the army for the unexciting life of a land agent in Regency Yorkshire, but his peace is disrupted by the arrival of Miss Camilla Dorne a young lady of doubtful reputation.
The Reluctant Debutante, the second book in the series, tells the story of Giles Fenwick, Earl of Rockcliffe, formerly one of Wellington’s exploring officers and Cordelia Summers, a wealthy merchant’s daughter with an independent attitude.
A Marcher Lord is a tale of love and war among the Border Reivers on the sixteenth century Anglo-Scottish borders, where a Scottish lord encounters a young Englishwoman who may or may not be a spy.
Working on a book based around a navy captain during the Napoleonic Wars, a visit to the National Maritime Museumin Greenwich seemed like an ideal way to start this visit to London. I can remember going to all the Greenwich museums growing up, but it has been a very long time.
The National Maritime Museum is the leading museum of its kind in the UK and probably one of the best in the world. It is part of a complex known as the Maritime Greenwich World Heritage Site and includes the Royal Observatoryand 17th-century Queen’s House. In 2012 the complex was given the overall name of Royal Museums Greenwich along with the famous Cutty Sark which stands nearby.
Greenwich has always had associations with the sea and the navy has roots on the waterfront while Charles IIfounded the Royal Observatory in 1675 for “finding the longitude of places”. The home of Greenwich Mean Time and the Prime Meridiansince 1884, Greenwich has long been a centre for astronomical study, while navigators across the world have set their clocks according to its time of day. Something about this knowledge has always given me a slight sense of awe when visiting this part of Greenwich.
The National Maritime Museum has a huge collection on Britain’s seafaring history including art, maps and charts, manuscripts, models and plans, navigational instruments and personal items belonging to important historical figures such as Nelsonand Captain James Cook.
Flamsteed House, the original part of the Royal Observatory, was designed by Sir Christopher Wren and Robert Hooke and was the first purpose-built scientific institution in Britain. In 1953, the Old Royal Observatory became part of the Museum.
The 17th-century Queen’s House, an early classical building designed by Inigo Jones, is the keystone of the historic “park and palace” landscape of maritime Greenwich. The Queen’s House was refurbished in 2001 to become the heart of displays of art from the Museum’s collection.
In May 2007 a major capital project, “Time and Space”, opened up the entire Royal Observatory site for the benefit of visitors. The £16 million transformation features three new modern astronomy galleries, four new time galleries, facilities for collections conservation and research, a learning centre and the 120-seat Peter Harrison Planetariumdesigned to introduce the world beyond the night sky.
The National Maritime Museum has galleries exploring various aspects of Britain’s maritime history. A gallery dedicated to Nelson and the Navy tells the story of Admiral Nelson, his battles, his life and his death at Trafalgar, and sets the battle in the context of the wars against the French in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century. It describes the ships, the sailors and how they lived and the way the navy was perceived at home.
The gallery concerned with traders explores the relationship between Britain and the wider world, particularly the powerful East India Company which spread its influence until it controlled huge areas of territory in India. I found this fascinating, partly because I studied this at University and partly because I spent time researching the Company in India when I was writing about Assaye in An Unconventional Officer.
Another gallery covered the difficult subject of the transatlantic slave trade, both up to abolition and beyond. I thought this topic was well-handled, looking at both slavers and abolitionists as well as the slaves who fought back against their masters in places like Haiti.
Other galleries explored the maritime history of London, the first world war and in Voyagers, the personal significance of Britain’s maritime story. I particularly liked the exploration of Turner’s famous painting of Trafalgar which analysed the painting and it’s meaning in the context of national pride and naval power following the battle.
The museum is huge and there is so much to see and do that it is easy to miss things. Work is in progress on a new gallery and there are various temporary exhibitions, a children’s play area and the fabulous Great Map.
If the museum has a fault, it is that the various galleries are sometimes hard to follow in the correct order. Especially as it is sometimes possible to enter a gallery from either end it is easy to find yourself going around in the wrong order and there is no numbering of exhibits to help with this. With a fairly good background in history it didn’t really bother me that much, but I can imagine it would irritate some people.
I loved the museum along with the Royal Observatory, which completed the story of some of the scientific aspects of navigation and the Cutty Sark, standing 400m outside. I didn’t manage the Queen’s House this time around, although I’d like to go back to it.
The Cutty Sark is one of my clearest childhood memories. It was a Sunday afternoon treat, even just going to see it. Going aboard was even better. The ship was one of the fastest tea clippers in the world and there was something romantic for me as a small girl, standing on the deck gazing up at the tall masts and trying to imagine billowing sails and a fresh breeze at sea. I was devastated in 2007 when the ship was badly damaged by fire and have followed the progress of the restoration.
We used to take the bus to the Isle of Dogs back in the sixties and seventies and then walk through the foot tunnel to Greenwich. The foot tunnel is a piece of history in itself, a masterpiece of late Victorian engineering which opened in 1902 and was built to replace an expensive and unreliable ferry service which took workers living south of the river to work in the docks and shipyards. The entrances at each end are beneath glazed domes and I can remember the joy of running through the tunnel calling out and hearing my voice echo, bouncing off the walls eerily. We used to count the steps at each end. There were lifts but for some reason we seldom used them.
A visit to Greenwich is both a research aide for the new book and a trip down memory lane. The strong sense of standing with both feet in maritime history is just what I need as I embark on the second half of my book which places me aboard a Royal navy ship bound for Copenhagen in 1807 under Admiral Gambier. But there is also a sense of standing with at least one foot in my own past, a child growing up in the East End with parents who took us to some historic site almost every weekend. There is a strong link between that excited little girl standing on the deck of an old ship and trying to imagine how it felt to sail in her and the woman writing a novel of those who did. I owe that as a debt to the parents who gave me that sense of history and why it matters to all of us.
The new book, An Unwilling Alliance, is due for publication in April 2018.
The concept of a “fallen woman” in twenty-first century Britain is so alien as to sound completely absurd, but to our Victorian ancestors it would have seemed completely natural, and homes for fallen women were an accepted part of life.
The term “fallen woman” would have been used to describe any woman who might have been considered to have lost her innocence or her virtue and had thus fallen from God’s grace like the biblical Eve. In nineteenth century Britain the term became associated with any woman considered to have stepped outside the boundaries of what was socially and morally acceptable. It was believed that a woman’s sexual experience should be entirely restricted to marriage and that she should be subordinate to a man; father, husband or other male relative.
There were few employment opportunities for women during the nineteenth century, particularly middle or upper class women who were expected to maintain their social class even in desperate times. Prostitution was rife in various forms but the term “fallen” was not restricted to a woman who had been obliged to support herself in this way. It was widely used to refer to any sexual activity outside matrimony and could as easily be applied to a woman having an extra-marital affair as to a woman who had been raped. In some cases, it was enough for a woman to behave in ways that differed from the social norm; a woman choosing to live alone or to pursue interests not considered suitable for a woman was also likely to be considered to have “fallen” and lost her reputation. Dancers and actresses, for example, were often assumed to be sexually available simply because of the nature of their profession.
The rapid growth of the cities during and after the industrial revolution, particularly London, resulted in a rise in the number of prostitutes working in the cities. This was seen as a problem, and brought about many rescue and rehabilitation schemes, often run by middle-class women. Some were based on religion, some on social principles but the assumption was that it was good for both society as a whole and the women individually if they could be returned to a “moral” life.
Some of the reformers worked on changes in the law, for example Josephine Butler in her opposition to the Contagious Diseases Acts. Others served on committees to raise funds for charities. A few worked on the ground in the various homes for fallen women which were set up around the capital and in other cities to try to draw women away from their immoral lifestyles. These homes varied a good deal. Some took a punitive attitude to women who had strayed. Rules could be strict and the staff unsympathetic and critical. Other homes, however, such as Urania Cottage which was set up and run by Charles Dickens and Lady Burdett-Coutts was considered a well-run place with understanding staff.
The moral code of the time meant that those working with fallen women could find that their motives were viewed with some suspicion. Prime Minister William Gladstone and his wife Catherine worked directly with some of these women, spending both time and money to try to rehabilitate them but Gladstone’s political career was placed in jeopardy when it was suggested that his interest in the cause had a more sinister motive.
The home mentioned in A Respectable Woman, the Lyons Home, is fictional but is based on some of the more sympathetic establishments. It is what we would probably call, in modern terms, a refuge and not all of the women who entered were prostitutes. Some were women fleeing from an abusive husband or partner, some were trying to escape from a pimp, others were just girls who had found themselves destitute for a time, needing somewhere to stay.
Like Prime Minister Gladstone, Dr Marshall in the book finds himself in trouble over his involvement with this particular cause. The men who lived with or employed the women were not always happy at middle-class interference and it was easy to spread rumours that something more sinister was involved. Moral judgements in Victorian England tended to be unsparing although it was usually women who bore the brunt of them.
A Respectable Woman is about a young woman who finds it difficult to conform to the expectations of a middle-class female in the 1850s. Born and raised on a mission station in Africa, Philippa Maclay has to curb her free spirit and hide her intelligence and independence in order to achieve the respectability she needs to survive. While working in London’s East End with “fallen women” or girls who might well become that way, she is very aware that without the ability to support herself in a respectable post she is in constant danger of losing her reputation and finding herself in the same situation. Her friendship with Kit Clevedon, which is essentially platonic for much of the book, would have condemned her in the eyes of respectable society.
Despite everything, Philippa refuses to conform to society’s harsh view of “fallen women” and her own treatment of the women and girls within her care is practical and sympathetic. She understands fully how they came to be in their desperate situations and she is unwilling to judge, knowing that she is as human and fallible as they are and understanding to that the men in their lives are equally responsible for their situation. Since a Respectable Woman is, in the end, a historical romance, Philippa is allowed to have her happy ending. Most women in her precarious situation were not so fortunate and the stigma of being a “fallen woman” too often meant that one step across the line between respectability and so-called “immorality” led to the stark choice between destitution and prostitution.
This excerpt from A Respectable Woman describes Philippa Maclay’s first Christmas in the East End as a teacher at Wentworth’s School for Girls, a charitable foundation. Daughter of a missionary who was murdered by slavers, she is obliged to support herself but is finding her post more congenial than she expected.
Wentworth’s School is directly based on Raines Foundation School, now in Bethnal Green but previously in Arbour Square in Stepney which is the school I went to back in the 1970s.
The Christmas holidays arrived, and more than half of the Wentworth’s pupils went home to their families for the celebration. The others, orphans or those whose families were unable to house them, like Joan Carter, remained at the school. There were some ten girls left, including Carter, who was still very weak, but just beginning to get out of bed for part of each day, and Phillips, Miss Chadwick’s prize pupil, whose aristocratic relatives clearly had no place for her in their festive celebrations. Christmas at Kola had always been primarily a religious festival, and Philippa had no experience of the more secular joys of the season. Both Miss Grafton and Miss Bentley had family with whom they would spend the holiday, and without their disapproving presence, Wentworth’s seemed to relax. The Board of Trustees had approved extra provisions for the celebrations, and Miss Chadwick, who seemed to have the ability to stretch money beyond belief, was planning a gala dinner on Christmas Day. Philippa was looking forward to the holiday. Without her more censorious staff, Amelia relaxed, and included her junior in the holiday plans as if by right. Philippa had dreaded spending the season alone, but found that there was no question of that. Amelia was determined to give her remaining charges a proper holiday, and Philippa found her services called upon to plan and organise the day. The school seemed quiet with most of its pupils gone, and although the girls still had their domestic duties, and scripture lessons continued, there was a holiday air. Every morning the girls set off for a walk after breakfast. Domestic tasks occupied the rest of the morning, and after luncheon, they were busy with needlework, learning their catechism or practicing their skills as parlour maid. But they were allowed more levity and more recreation time, and occasional lapses of behaviour were treated with leniency. On Christmas Eve, they received a visit from a number of the Board of Trustees with their wives and families. The Board consisted of around twenty-five local men, mostly businessmen, with a sprinkling of solicitors, doctors and clergymen. Standing slightly to one side of the group, Philippa noticed Mr Duncan, the local vicar, with his wife, and Dr Marshall. Prayers were held in the hall, and then the girls were called up one at a time to receive a small book from Mr Wentworth, who was Chairman of the Board. Prayer books, Philippa guessed, or some other religious tract. The Chairman then made a lengthy speech about the history and traditions of the school, and how fortunate were the girls who received their education there. Although Philippa deplored his pompous, condescending style of oratory, she reflected, looking at the scrubbed shiny faces looking up at him, that he was probably right. For the girls who made it through their time at the school and who took advantage of the opportunities it gave them, this was indeed fortunate. At the end of Mr Wentworth’s speech, there was another prayer, and then the girls were dismissed in the charge of Mary Phillips, to wash and prepare for evening service. Most of the Board left, to go to their own Christmas Eve services, but Mr Wentworth, along with Mr Simmonds, his deputy, and his wife, accompanied Miss Chadwick to the mistresses’ parlour. Philippa, following a sign from Miss Chadwick, joined them, as did the Duncans and Dr Marshall. Sherry and glasses had been set out on the table, and Miss Chadwick smilingly poured, while Philippa handed out the glasses. A toast was solemnly drunk. Wentworth’s eyes were moving around the room, assessing its contents. “Miss Chadwick, surely that bookshelf is new! And those books! I have not seen them before!” “They were provided by Miss Maclay, sir,” Amelia said composedly. “They belonged to her late father and she has kindly placed them at the disposal of our teachers.” Wentworth stalked across the room, his eye running over the titles. “They seem educational enough,” he said grudgingly. “The sherry is excellent,” Mr Simmonds said, as if not wishing to be outdone in suspicion. “Not purchased with school funds, I hope?” “The sherry was a gift from Dr Marshall, sir,” Miss Chadwick said, still pleasantly. Philippa shot a covert glance at that gentleman, and saw from the gleam in his eye that he was enjoying the scene just as much as she was. “I did not see Carter at prayers, Miss Chadwick,” Mrs Simmonds said. “She was not well enough to come down,” Miss Chadwick said. “But I hope she will be able to attend service tomorrow.” “I should hope so too!” Mr Simmonds said, sententiously. “Sickness should not be used as an excuse for idleness!” “I shall see that it does not,” Miss Chadwick agreed demurely. “I read your report on the accident,” Mr Wentworth said. “It seemed brief.” “I gave you all the information I had,” Miss Chadwick said. “Carter remembers very little of the event, and nothing at all of arriving back at school.” “How can you be sure that she is not deceiving you?” Mrs Simmonds said. Philippa looked at her assessingly. She did not like Mr or Mrs Simmonds. Wentworth was pompous, self important, but basically well meaning, she decided. He might quibble about money and expenses, but he trusted Miss Chadwick to take care of the girls, and to make the right decision. Mrs Simmonds on the other hand, she was sure, would make trouble if she could. She did not know that there was anything suspicious about Carter’s illness. She just assumed the worst. Dr Marshall spoke quietly: “Carter was not deceiving anybody about the extent of her injuries. I was not sure that I would be able to save her. The injuries were consistent with being struck by a carriage of some kind. To be honest, I assume that the driver recognised her dress as a Wentworth’s girl and brought her home. I don’t think she could have got here by herself.” “Then why did he not give an account of himself?” Wentworth said, peevishly. Philippa suspected he was thinking longingly of his hearth, his dinner and his cigar. “Because he was afraid of the consequences,” Dr Marshall said casually. “Especially if he had been drinking, it would have been hard to explain how he came to run down a schoolgirl on her way back from visiting her sick father.” “But she is on the mend now?” Mr Duncan said. “She is much better,” Dr Marshall said. “We must thank God that it ended so well,” the clergyman said, and Miss Chadwick, with demurely lowered eyes, murmured a devout ‘amen’. It was not long before the visitors took their leave. Only Dr Marshall remained. When Philippa returned from escorting them to the door, she found him sprawled in one of the chairs while Amelia poured more sherry for all of them. “Where did this come from, Amelia?” Dr Marshall asked. “It really is very good!” “You didn’t buy it?” Philippa said, startled. “Good Lord, no. Never heard of it until this afternoon.” “It was a gift from Jenson’s father,” Amelia said. “He’s a stevedore at the docks and he’s always sending us gifts. I suspect the origin of most of them, which is why I kept quiet. Philippa drink up!” Philippa smiled. “I am not accustomed to wine,” she said. “Any more and I’ll be drunk.” “I should like to see that,” Dr Marshall said, laughing. “Dr Marshall – you aren’t going to.” “Call me Tony. All my friends do.” “Tony. And will you call me Philippa?” “Certainly. Although only when we are not on duty.” He raised his glass with a lazy smile. “Will you come to church with us, Tony?” Amelia asked, getting to her feet. “Why not? You should have an escort, in this neighbourhood.” Amelia glanced at her assistant and grinned. “Oh, I’d say Philippa is a match for most local drunks in a fight. Did I tell you how she dealt with Joan Carter?” It was dark when they set out, a neat crocodile of trimly dressed creatures, their thick winter cloaks wrapped around them, their blue bonnets bobbing along beside the two mistresses and the doctor as they made their way along the dark streets. It was a bitterly cold, clear night and the stars were miniature beacons in the sky. Looking up at them, Philippa was reminded suddenly of the African night, crisp and cold and beautiful, like the night she had met Kit Clevedon. To her horror she felt tears start behind her eyes. She was homesick. Ridiculous to feel it now, in the grey filth of the East End streets, filled with the stink of poverty and wretchedness. There was nothing here to make her think of Kola. But hurrying past the seaman’s taverns, the public houses, the brothels and the overcrowded, teeming tenements and lodging houses, she could smell the fresh clear air, could hear the gentle lowing of the oxen and the occasional whinny of the horses. She missed it. She missed her father, with a different ache of pain, but she was becoming accustomed to that loss. She had expected it, prepared for it, and was living with it. What she had not been ready for, was this overpowering longing to see wide, open spaces instead of dirty streets, to hear the musical tones of the Mashona instead of the harsh cockney of most of her pupils. She missed her friends, the black children with whom she had grown up. She missed the girls, who had taught her to weave and the boys who had taught her to fight, and to climb trees and to use a hunting knife without hesitation or mercy, a skill which had very certainly saved her life. In the midst of this busy city she was suddenly bitterly lonely. “Are you all right?” Through her tears, Philippa looked up into the kind grey eyes of Tony Marshall. He had moved to walk beside her and had unobtrusively taken her arm. “Yes, I’m sorry.” She fumbled for her handkerchief and mopped her eyes. “Don’t ask my why, but I was suddenly homesick.” Tony glanced around him. Opposite, two sailors staggered out of a brilliantly lit doorway, their arms around two woman, raddled creatures of indeterminate age, dressed in shabby satin, shivering in the cold. Further along the road, a drunk was vomiting into the gutter. None of the girls even looked up. They had all seen such sights before. “It’s probably the contrast,” he said wryly, and Philippa laughed. “Probably. Do you think any of those noble gentlemen know what these girls walk past every time they go to church?” “Oh, some of them. Does it upset you, Philippa? The sights you see here?” “It upsets me because it’s what man has done to his own,” Philippa said. “I’ve seen the Mashona people dying of hunger when their cattle were hit by plague or when their crops failed. But those are acts of nature. These people live this way because their fellow man allows it. Expects it. I think I am very naïve in many ways.” “I think you have lived a very different life to any other English girl I have met,” Tony said. “It makes you unusual.” “That’s a nice way of putting it.” He laughed. “I don’t know what else to say. Philippa, you dress the same as every other woman of your station in life. But when you walk along a London street, people turn to stare at you, because you don’t walk the same. You walk as if your skirts are a hindrance and the buildings are crowding you. And your eyes look as if they are used to a wider horizon than this.” Philippa was silent for a moment. “I see. I didn’t realise I was so obvious.” “It isn’t something you do, it’s who you are. There are probably dozens of missionaries’ daughters who are nothing like you. But for all your appearance and your speech and your education, you aren’t really English. Not like me, or Amelia, or any of these girls. Africa was not just somewhere you lived, it was your home. Of course you miss it.” Philippa gave his arm a little squeeze. “That makes me feel a little less like a freak. Thank you, Tony. No more tears.” The church, bathed in flickering candlelight, was crowded that Christmas Eve. As the girls filed into their pews, Philippa looked around at the congregation. Most of the people looked reasonably prosperous. Some were very obviously middle class, the businessmen and professional men with their wives and families. Others were probably small tradesmen, butchers and bakers, managers of factories, and some of the skilled dockworkers, like stevedores, coopers and rope makers. The poor were absent. There were no ragged clothes or bare feet in the church that Christmas Eve, and none seemed surprised at their absence. Philippa supposed they would celebrate their Christmas in the public houses, and she was not sure that she blamed them. Would prayer and thanks to God keep out the cold, and the hunger and the worry about unpaid rent and unreliable work nearly as well as three penny worth of gin or port? Back at the school there was supper, a merry affair with at least twice as much food as usual, and no rules about talking at table, no solemn scripture reading. When it was over and prayers were said, the children were packed off to bed, and Amelia turned to her cousin. “Where did you put them?” “In your study. I take it you’ll want my help?” “If you expect me to climb a stepladder you must be all about in your head!” Amelia said bluntly. “Come along Philippa, there’s work to be done.” Curious, Philippa followed them to Amelia’s study. To her astonishment she found it piled high with boxes of greenery. There was holly and ivy and mistletoe, great boughs of fir tree, still decked with pinecones. “What on earth is all this?” she asked, bewildered. “To decorate the refectory and the schoolroom, of course. For Christmas.” Amelia’s voice was muffled behind the box she had picked up. “Didn’t you do that in Africa?” “The Mashona didn’t really know that much about English Christmas customs,” Philippa said sardonically. “Neither do you, it appears,” Tony said, holding out a box. “Prepare to be educated, then.” “I wanted a Christmas tree,” Amelia said, as they set down their burdens in the schoolroom. “But they were too expensive, and as Tony paid for this, I couldn’t insist.” “A Christmas tree?” Philippa was baffled. “It’s a new idea. The Prince brought it from Germany. They set up a fir tree in the house and decorate it with baubles and candles. I saw one last year when I visited the Wentworths on Boxing Day, but I don’t suppose any of the girls have ever heard of one.” “Then they won’t miss it,” Tony said firmly. “Stop talking and start working, Amelia. I do not plan on being here until midnight.” But it was not far off midnight when Philippa finally fell into bed, after an evening of hanging Christmas greenery, and laughter, and conversation and wine. She had never known an evening like that. Perhaps, after all, there was something to be said for having friends of her own race and her own culture. She had never felt the lack before, having been content with her father and her African friends. But she found that although she had not enjoyed the stilted, formal social manners of many of the English visitors to the mission, or of the people she had met on her one visit to England, she did enjoy the laughter and banter of Amelia and her cousin. Kit Clevedon had been like that, she thought, as she turned over in bed. She had often wondered about the nature of her liking for Clevedon. Having reached the age of sixteen without much interest or awareness of any of the young men she had met, she had thought that perhaps she was a little infatuated with the handsome young officer. But it had not been his looks or his charm that she had valued, she realised now. It had been his quick wit and his ready laughter, the companionship of a like-minded person for which, without realising it, she had hungered. Christmas day passed in a whirl of activity at the school. Breakfast over, the girls walked to morning service at St George in the East again, then hurried back through the frosty streets to help prepare the Christmas dinner. Amelia had worked magic with her limited resources, although Philippa suspected that there had been additions from her cousin to swell the feast. There was roast goose with all the trimmings followed by plum pudding and mince pies. Tony was spending Christmas day with friends, although Amelia was expecting him that evening. After luncheon, Amelia brought out a large basket of brightly wrapped gifts, and handed one to each girl. There were no religious tracts or prayer books, and the children were visibly delighted with the bright ribbons and lace handkerchief, which their mistress had provided for them. In the afternoon there were games of hunt the slipper and Blind Man’s Buff and Charades. By the time the children went to bed after evening prayers, both they and their mistresses were exhausted. Amelia and Philippa retired to Amelia’s parlour, where Philippa was surprised to find Tony awaiting them and a cold supper set out on the table. “Who did this?” Philippa asked, sinking gratefully into a chair. “My housekeeper and cook,” Tony said. “I think the cab driver thought I was going to entertain my mistress until we pulled up here. Now he just thinks I’m donating my leftover Christmas dinner to the deserving poor.” “You are,” his cousin informed him, rapidly filling a plate. “I certainly can’t afford lobster patties. Is that burgundy you’ve brought? Will you open it, please?” Philippa smilingly accepted a glass from Tony and allowed him to fill a plate with food. She was not in a talkative mood, and was happy to sit back and listen to the cousins as they squabbled over the food and talked about the day. “How were the Paisleys?” Amelia asked. “All well. They asked about you. Wanted to know if you were married yet.” Amelia laughed. “They would. I think I enjoyed myself here just as much as I would have at some dull dinner party. Sadly, tomorrow won’t be as enjoyable.” “Where are you going tomorrow?” Philippa asked. “My traditional boxing day dinner with the Wentworths.” Amelia sighed. “Never mind, it is only once a year. That reminds me, Philippa. Miss Grafton and Miss Bentley will be back here by eleven tomorrow, and after that you are on holiday, if you please, until Monday when school commences again. Do not, while I am out, allow them to bully you into helping them.” “I may as well. I don’t have any plans.” “Well make some,” Amelia told her severely. “They take advantage whenever they can, and it isn’t good for them.” Philippa did not argue, although she was at a loss to know what plans she might be expected to make. However, the matter was taken out of her hands the following morning, at eleven o’clock sharp, when she found Tony Marshall awaiting her in the hallway. “So you are off duty now.” Philippa laughed. “Did Amelia send you to check up on me?” “No, I have taken that office upon myself. If you have no plans, I thought you might like to come and see how I spend the rest of my time.” Philippa regarded him thoughtfully, her head on one side. “I would,” she said finally. “But on Boxing Day, Dr Marshall, don’t you have any other engagements?” “If I choose to spend my time with you, Miss Maclay, that is an engagement,” he said gravely. Philippa went to put on her outdoor shoes, bonnet and cloak, and joined him in the hallway. It felt strange to be leaving the building on an expedition of her own. In the four months she had been at Wentworths, she had left the school only in company with the pupils, always on school business. She had little money for cabs or omnibuses, and besides which it was hard for a female to go about unaccompanied. In the environs of the school the danger was real and tangible, and Philippa was not foolish enough to risk it. Even in Africa she had travelled with a gun or a knife, and since she could hardly do that here, she was restricted in her movements. There was another consideration, too. In all her years at Kola she had never given a thought to impropriety or to her reputation. Her father was not a worldly man, and it had never occurred to him that in allowing his daughter all the freedom of a boy, he might be damaging her in the eyes of the world. But with his death, Philippa had been made aware of the fact that her independence and freedom of speech and movement were frowned upon by the narrow confines of the society in which she was now expected to move. She knew she was different. It had not needed Tony Marshall to tell her that. She walked, in the heavy skirts and cloaks that propriety demanded, with difficulty, always longing for the light cotton skirts or breeches in which she strode about the mission. She did not always understand the rules by which she must now live, but knew that she was expected to be modest and demure, to walk in the street, if she walked at all, with lowered gaze and little speech. She was lucky to have found two friends, in Amelia and Tony, who could value her for herself, and who could allow her to be herself, but she did not deceive herself into thinking that they were average. She could not take herself off on expeditions of pleasure because she had no acquaintance and no chaperone, and to do it alone would be to expose her to criticism and censure, which she could ill afford. So she enjoyed her walk, through the silence of Boxing Day, with Tony Marshall’s easy steps at her side. They turned right onto the Commercial Road, and walked past shops and lodging houses, past tall business premises and small, shady public houses, now silent after the night’s revelry. There was a faint scent of spices on the breeze from the warehouses, almost overlaid by the smell of human beings crowded together into too little space. Presently Tony led her across the wide street and down Sutton Street towards the Ratcliffe Highway. Philippa, who was beginning to know a little about the area, glanced at him. “Are you by any chance luring me into a den of vice?” she asked. He grinned. “Something like that. Down here.” They turned into a narrow lane, lined on either side with gloomy, decaying two storied houses. Away from the wider streets the smell was worse, a combination of human waste, cooking, cheap gin and sweat. Philippa wrinkled her nose slightly, and then smiled. Attending one of the tribal ceremonies of the Mashona ought to have deadened any sensibilities she might have had about bad odours. There was a rotting pile of refuse in the middle of the street and two mangy dogs were rummaging about in it. Tony stopped before one of the larger houses about half way down the lane. He knocked, and presently a middle-aged woman, respectably dressed in grey, opened the door. “Dr Marshall. What a pleasant surprise. Do come in.” Philippa followed them through into the main kitchen, which was a big, square room, furnished with an old fashioned range, and several tables with wooden benches beside them. About ten women, ranging in age from about fifteen to about thirty were scattered about the room. One was stirring something on the range and one or two others were chopping vegetables at one of the tables. Some had sewing on their laps, and at least two were nursing small babies. The room was bare, but surprisingly clean and orderly. Tony turned to Philippa. “Miss Maclay, may I present Miss Ellis, who runs the Lyons Refuge. Miss Ellis, this is Miss Philippa Maclay, who now assists my cousin at Wentworth’s. While I am here, I would like to see Carrie again. How has she been?” Miss Ellis shook her head. “Very quiet, sir, not like herself at all. I don’t know what to think. The bruises are coming out nicely, and she bears the pain well, but she doesn’t say a word. I expect she’s ashamed of herself, and so she might be, with the trouble she’s caused us, but still, I don’t like the look of her.” “I’ll go up to her now.” Tony smiled at Philippa. “Perhaps you could show Miss Maclay around.” Miss Ellis smiled at his retreating back. “I’ll gladly do that, miss, but there’s not much to see. We do our best, but it’s not like the school. We’ve no money, you see, save what the mission can send us, and that’s little enough.” “How many women do you have living here?” Philippa asked. “Oh, anything between ten and thirty,” Miss Ellis said readily. “They don’t stay for more than a few nights, miss, not generally. They come from their husbands or their keepers, who beat them, or they’ve run away from the workhouse, or they’re sick and can’t work for a while. Most of them lead very irregular lives, Miss, if you take my meaning.” “You mean they’re prostitutes?” Philippa asked. The older woman nodded. “Yes, miss. We don’t ask and we don’t judge. We take them in, feed them and patch them up, and then one day they’re gone, and we don’t know where. Some come back, others we never see again. We never turn any away. Some bad winters, we have two to a bed and some sleeping on the floor, even here in the kitchen.” “Do any of them find other work?” Philippa asked. “Some. The younger ones, mostly, who were forced into this by hunger or need. Or the respectable ones, who were seduced by them who should know better, servants and the like. Kathleen over there is one of those. She’s been with us for a whole month, after her master took to her, as you might say, and then threw her out. It’s lucky that she fell in with us. We should be able to find work for her. But most of the others don’t want it. They’re not educated, Miss – only fit for a maid of all work, or for manual labour, and even this life is often better than that. Not like your girls at the school.” Philippa was silent as they toured the overcrowded little house. Nearly all the rooms were converted into dormitories; with iron bedsteads so close together that she wondered where there was space for the women who sometimes slept on the floor. Compared to this, Wentworth’s was the height of luxury. No wonder Joan Carter had risked her life to remain there rather than sink to this. “Who runs the place?” she asked Tony when they were outside once more. “One of the missions rents the house and gives a little money for food. A local Jewish business organisation contributes, as does the Parish church occasionally. Miss Ellis and the other workers are all volunteers. The women do their own cooking, washing, cleaning etc, and they sometimes take in sewing for money, like the school. Naturally we don’t tell the good ladies who give us work that prostitutes hem their linen. They think that respectable old ladies at the mission do the work.” “Is there something I can do?” Philippa asked. He glanced down at her. “Are you addicted to good works, Philippa?” She laughed and shook her head. “Oh, no. Just to being busy – and useful. And it would give me something to do on my days off.” “What do you do at present?” Tony asked curiously. “Mostly, I stay home and read.” “If you’re sure, I’ll speak to Miss Ellis. I should think she’d be delighted. Now, then – shall I shock you further with a tour of some of our local haunts? Would you like to see the docks?” “Yes, I should,” Philippa said serenely. “This is very kind of you, Dr Marshall.” “It is my pleasure, Miss Maclay,” he said seriously, and offered her his arm.
A Respectable Woman was the first full novel I wrote and the first to be published. It is set outside my normal time period of the Napoleonic wars, in the Victorian era and tells the story of Philippa Maclay, a young woman who finds herself orphaned and penniless in an era which was unforgiving to a middle class woman who needed to earn a living.
Much has been written about the plight of women in the days when there were very few respectable occupations open to a girl other than marriage. Marriage is not an option for Philippa when she loses her father and her home after an attack by a slave band on the African mission station where she grew up. Middle class women left without means of support could become a governess or a companion and maintain their respectability but they were vulnerable to losing their jobs. They were also expected to behave with the utmost circumspection and any hint of immorality was likely to see them turned off without a character. Women could – and did – sometimes find themselves destitute and the Victorian sex trade had it’s share of girls from good families fallen on hard times.
Those fortunate enough to keep their jobs were not always in a happy position socially. They were caught between social classes, a cut above the servants but not welcome in the drawing rooms and parlours of their employers. They were also, especially if young and inexperienced, potentially at risk from exploitation from predatory males; this has been a device of endless romantic novels.
Philippa is fortunate enough to have been offered a position teaching at a charity school in East London and has come to love the work but her temperament is not well suited to the rigid rules of society. She was not raised to be a lady and she resents the constraints placed upon her. In particular she refuses to give up her friendship with Kit Clevedon, a well-born army officer whom she met in Africa, despite knowing that it could ruin her. Kit himself has very definite ideas about Philippa, none of which include marriage, but he has come to value the friendship which is all she is willing to offer.
The school depicted in the novel is based on Raines Foundation School in East London which was my school back in the seventies, and anybody familiar with the school will recognise the location as the Arbour Square building. The running and organisation of Wentworths School is based on original material about Raines from local archives. This included Founder’s Day, a tradition celebrating the birth of Henry Raine which was still in existence when I left school in 1980.
The girls were noisier than usual, caught up in the excitement of the day, and Miss Chadwick was more lenient than she might have been. It was better, she pointed out to Miss Bentley, when she complained, that they work off some of the excitement before their visitors arrived, than during the celebrations. Morning school was cut short by an early meal of bread and cheese, and then the girls lined up, immaculate in their blue cloaks and bonnets, for the walk to the church. Most of the dignitaries had already arrived when the school party filed into the church, and quietly took their places in the pews allotted to them. Mr Duncan began the service with a hymn and a prayer, and then various members of the Board filed up to the lectern to read, to lecture or to pray. Philippa allowed her attention to wander, and moved her eyes idly over the congregation. By now she recognised most of the Board members and their wives. One or two had brought their children with them, expensively dressed and every bit as bored as the Wentworths girls by the tedious speeches and moralising. Philippa wondered what they thought of being dragged to this event, to watch children whose lives were so far removed from their own. Mr Wentworth sat at the front, and beside his wife sat a tall dark lady, demure in grey, who must be Lady Alverstone. On the other side of her was a tall young man in military uniform. Philippa stared in growing astonishment and horror. She could only see the back of his head, but she did not need him to turn round to recognise Kit Clevedon’s chestnut hair. What he was doing here, she could only guess. Lady Alverstone, of course. Had he not said that his mother was addicted to good works? That would explain, Philippa thought furiously, how her Ladyship had come to hear about the school. Philippa glanced around. Tony was sitting alongside Mrs Duncan at the front. There was no way of knowing if he would make any connection between the young officer so gallantly escorting his mother, and Philippa’s supposed lover. But once he heard Kit’s name, as he surely would, he would know. Silently fuming, Philippa awaited the end of the service. There was no conversation as the girls filed out of the church and through the churchyard to the imposing marble tomb, which marked the final resting place of Oliver Wentworth. Prayers were said, and then Mr Wentworth, Miss Chadwick, and one of the girls each stepped forward and placed a wreath on the tomb. After that, the girls formed up to be marched back to school, and the visitors meandered more slowly through the sunlit churchyard to their carriages, to be conveyed back for tea. Philippa would have accompanied them, but Miss Chadwick, who was escorting the guests to their carriages, detained her. Miss Grafton and Miss Bentley marched off, both backs rigid with indignation at the favour shown the younger mistress, and Amelia drew Philippa forward. “You will remember Miss Maclay, Mr Wentworth.” “Of course I do!” Mr Wentworth said, with unusual heartiness. “I hear nothing but praise for you, Miss Maclay, from all sides. We were fortunate to find you. Miss Chadwick, allow me to introduce you to Lady Alverstone, who has been kind enough to show interest in our little school. And this is Major Clevedon, her son, who is her escort today.” Lady Alverstone held out a friendly hand. “Miss Chadwick, I am impressed with your pupils, and can not wait to see your school.” The pleasant grey eyes moved to Philippa, and Lady Alverstone reached out her hand again. “And Miss Maclay. Although we’ve never met, I know what a debt of gratitude I owe to you.” Speechless with embarrassment, Philippa bobbed a small curtsey and took the older woman’s hand. She was aware of the puzzlement on the faces of those around her, and although she could not see his face, she could feel Tony Marshall’s outrage behind her, as his nimble brain assimilated the facts. Lady Alverstone turned to Mr Wentworth. “Many years ago, during his service in Africa, my son visited the mission station run by Miss Maclay’s late father. He was attacked by a lion, and wrote to tell me that only the courage and presence of mind of Miss Maclay saved his life. I shall always remember that.” Philippa found her voice at last. “I think the Major may have exaggerated my services a little, ma’am,” she said. “Not at all,” Kit said, holding out his hand. “As well you know, Miss Maclay. It has been a long time. Too long.” She was obliged to take his hand. Anger lent her courage, as always. Lifting her chin she met his laughing green eyes steadily. “Certainly, sir. And so much has happened in between.” “Well, well, Miss Maclay!” Mr Wentworth was positively jovial now. “It seems you have been too modest. Come, come, there is no need for either of you to walk back to the school. There is space in our carriage.” Back at the school, lessons recommenced, while the selected girls served tea in the refectory to their guests. Philippa had planned to join her class, but Miss Chadwick, quick to sense the advantage of Philippa’s connection with the Alverstone party, and wholly unaware of her young friend’s discomfort, sent a message for the monitor to take over the class, and kept Philippa with the tea party. Unsure of what Kit might say or do next, Philippa kept as quiet as possible, and was relieved when she found herself seated next to Mrs Wentworth, a pleasantly garrulous woman, who talked of the school and of her children without pausing for breath. At the end of the meal, Philippa rose to supervise the clearing of the plates into the kitchen, and the party began to prepare for the tour of the school. Returning to take up her place with her class, she unexpectedly found Kit standing by the doorway. It would have seemed rude to pass him by without a word, so she managed a smile and murmured apology. “Am I in disgrace?” he asked in a low, amused voice. “How can you ask that? Even if you had warned me!” “I’m sorry, Philippa. The opportunity seemed irresistible. And I wanted to see you here – at work.” “Well you’re about to. I need to get to my class. When this is over, I’m going to kill you!” He laughed and stepped aside. Philippa stepped into the hallway, and found herself face to face with Tony Marshall. It was clear that he must have heard every word of their encounter. She saw consternation in Kit’s face. “It’s all right,” she said quickly. “He knows.” “I see,” Kit drawled. Philippa wanted to hit him, and was sorely tempted to hit Tony, but there was no time. The party was beginning to drift towards the door. “Don’t start anything – either of you!” she hissed, in a savage undertone. “If either one of you says just one word to jeopardise my job, I’ll illustrate my next Bible class with a live demonstration of a crucifixion!” She marched past them and into the schoolroom. Kit gave a choke of laughter, but found no answering smile in the cold grey eyes of the doctor. On reflection, Kit supposed he did not blame him. In the eyes of Tony Marshall there could be nothing funny about Kit’s pursuit of the girl he loved. As they joined the schoolroom party, Kit watched the other man. Even without his prior knowledge of the doctor’s feelings for Philippa, he would have sensed Marshall’s tangible hostility. Wisely, Marshall dealt with it by removing himself to the far side of the group. The party stopped at the fourth class, taught by Philippa, and Marshall’s grey eyes never left her as she took the older girls through a series of sums, corrected gently, a girl made careless by nerves, behaved to all intents and purposes, as if she were not under observation at all. Mr Simmonds then asked if he might examine the class, and Philippa gave her gracious permission, and watched as he fired a few questions at the nervous girls. They performed well, and seemed to have genuinely absorbed the lessons. Kit looked at Philippa again. He had been speaking the truth when he said he had wanted to see her in her own setting. All their meetings had taken place in his world. Here, in the world she knew, she was quietly competent, friendly but slightly distant, at home with herself and sure in the knowledge that she was doing a good job. He could sense that the girls liked her and strove to please her. He was very aware of the close friendship that seemed to exist between herself and Miss Chadwick. And he found it slightly unnerving to realise that here, he was a fish out of water, much as she must have felt in his world. She was wearing a new dress. It was clearly bought with work in mind, and was too plain for his taste. But the colour suited her, and she looked beautiful. He was amused to see that he was not the only man here who thought so. Both Wentworth and Simmonds were watching the teacher more than the pupils. He was relieved when the party moved on to the next class. Now that he was here, he was not sure that it had been such a good idea to come. In his dreams, he had wanted Philippa out of here. He had thought of her as a poorly paid drudge, and had wanted to place her in luxury, with expensive clothes, and fancy servants. He had wanted her dependent upon him, available when he needed her company, her pretty face and her body for his pleasure. It occurred to him for the first time that he was never going to have those things. When it had just been a case of her moral scruples, he had never doubted his ability to seduce her. But he realised now that he was competing against a life that she had no wish to give up. She had taken this job because she needed to, but she was doing it because she loved it. She was at peace here, and content in a way that she could never be as the pampered mistress of a rich man. And as badly as he desired her body, it surprised him to realise, that it was just as important to him, that she should be happy in her choice. If he were ever to have Philippa Maclay as his mistress, it would be on her terms and not his. The interminable afternoon wore on, and finally the visitors were leaving, drifting slowly to their carriages, still talking, full of tea and goodwill, making complimentary remarks to Miss Chadwick. Miss Bentley and Miss Grafton sent the girls off to wash before supper, and Philippa found herself standing beside Lady Alverstone. “I was very impressed by your lesson, Miss Maclay.” “Thank you, ma’am. I had good material to work with.” “The girls here are very lucky to have such dedicated teachers.” The older woman smiled and offered her hand. “I hope to have more to do with your school in the future. I will be talking to Mr Wentworth further about it, but I am sure that we can do more to help such a good cause.” Philippa’s smile was genuine. “Thank you. I think the girls are worth it.” Kit appeared beside her. “A very interesting afternoon, Miss Maclay. I commend you.” “Thank you, sir.” He said no more, and she was glad of it. There were too many confusing emotions crowding her, and she wanted time alone in her room to think and to sort out how she felt. She could never be anything other than glad to see Kit, but his presence here had unsettled her. He had invaded her world, and nothing would ever feel quite the same again. She went through to join the girls at supper, and Miss Chadwick joined them, and made a short speech complimenting both girls and teachers on the success of the day. After supper she sent the girls to bed. Both Miss Bentley and Miss Grafton followed them shortly after, and Amelia turned to Philippa. “Let’s go to my parlour. It’s more comfortable, and I have a nice Madeira, which is just begging to be drunk. I know Mr Wentworth would be shocked, but I think we’ve earned it, don’t you?” “Yes,” Philippa said firmly. “Let us go immediately!” In Amelia’s sitting room, Philippa took possession of her favourite armchair, while Amelia poured two glasses of the rich wine. She handed one to Philippa who thanked her and sipped it with a sigh. “That is much better!” she said. “They should serve it after all such functions as this! Was it really a success, Amelia?” “Oh yes. The Board are very impressed, and will go away and write a very favourable report of the event which will be neatly filed away in their records and never be seen again. I shall probably receive a complimentary letter, which will go the same way. Philippa – thank you. Once again, you have proved invaluable.” “The bulk of the work was yours.” “And the best impression came from you. Mr Wentworth was especially impressed, although I’m not sure whether that was because of your excellent teaching or your connection with the Alverstones.” Philippa felt herself flush. “I have no connection to the Alverstones.” “You think not? Her Ladyship seemed eager to imply otherwise. And saving the life of the son of an Earl is certainly a way to get noticed.” “It was hardly my thought at the time.” “I suspect not. Can you tell me about it?” Philippa shrugged and placed her wine glass on the table. “It was nothing extraordinary. Two English officers were on a hunting furlough, and one of them decided a night ride to the mission was a sensible idea. He was attacked by a lion. I was on my way home from the kraal of a local chief, whose son I had been treating for an injury. I had a gun with me and frightened off the animal before it did too much damage.” “And Major Clevedon did not forget about it.” “Apparently not.” “He thought enough of it to tell his mother. And that could mean a lot for this school.” “Kit isn’t a philanthropist, Amelia.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Philippa could have bitten her tongue. Knowing that an attempt to retrieve her mistake would only arouse further suspicion, she took refuge behind her glass. “Kit?” Amelia queried gently. “Major Clevedon. Formality wasn’t great at the mission, and that’s the name he gave us. I didn’t know he was related to the Alverstones until today, although I knew his father was a peer.” She smiled and shrugged. “To be honest, that didn’t have much meaning on the mission either. He was just Kit.” “And you haven’t seen him since?” Amelia said casually. Too casually. Philippa sighed. “Yes. We’ve met socially once or twice.” “You didn’t mention it.” “I didn’t think it important. I’ve met a lot of people through my Cousin, Amelia. I ran into Kit at the theatre one evening. My party and his were slightly acquainted. And be honest, what would you have thought if I had specifically mentioned him?” “Fair enough. Philippa, I don’t claim the right to pry into your social life. I’m glad you have one. But my feeling was that there was more to your acquaintance with Major Clevedon than met the eye. And at the moment, it is important that your reputation remains spotless.” Philippa raised her eyebrows. “Why?” “Because you are going to receive a summons to see the Board some time over the next week or so, and they are going to offer you the job of Deputy Superintendent of the school. And since it has taken me months to talk them into it, I don’t want anything to jeopardise their decision.” Philippa stared at her in complete astonishment. To cover her confusion she took a gulp of wine and put the glass down on the table. “Why me?” she said finally. “I should have thought that was moderately obvious. You’re the only person I’ve ever employed here who was competent to do the job. You’re intelligent, a good teacher and a good manager. I want you to have the job, and there will be a salary increase. I hope you’ll accept it.” “If it’s what you want, of course I will,” Philippa said quickly. “But it’s going to cause some resentment you know. Miss Bentley and Miss Grafton….” “Will be furious. I know. But Miss Bentley has already given her notice. She is retiring. Miss Grafton…let us say she was never my appointment, and it would not distress me greatly if she moved on. We will advertise the post as soon as possible, and I hope your appointment will have been confirmed in time to help me with the interviews.” “Thank you,” Philippa said. She felt oddly shaken, and slightly tearful. “I mean – thank you for your confidence in me. I won’t let you down, I promise.” “I know that, my dear. I have total faith in your good sense, your integrity – and your discretion.” Amelia smiled faintly and leaned forward to pick up the wine bottle. “Your glass is almost empty. Have some more wine.” Philippa held out her glass. “Thank you,” she said, more steadily. “And I still promise that I won’t let you down.” “Philippa – just don’t let yourself down, and I’ll be happy,” Amelia said quietly. “Now tell me what you think we need to say in this advertisement.”
Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner was played at my mother’s funeral a few years back. It was very appropriate for her, because although for the last few years of her life she moved to the Isle of Man to be near us, she saw herself as very much a Londoner. She was fiercely proud of it, would defend London as the best city in the world – in fact the best place in the world – against anybody.
I was in London myself recently for a few days, cat sitting for a friend of my sisters and getting some quiet time after the complete madness of the past few months. It was as hot as Hades and I spent a few days with my sister catching up, being a tourist and getting sore feet after which she went home and I was alone and peaceful with Monty the cat. My intention wasto catch up on a lot of admin jobs that I’ve left for too long and then to get a really good way into my new Regency novel. It was a lovely flat with a balcony and the temptation to doze in the sun with Monty was huge, although I did try to resist.
It’s always odd being back in London. I’m not so familiar with this part, but we took a bus out through the East End where I grew up, to Stratfordand then went on to Canary Wharfand had lunch by the river. In my childhood, Stratford was our local shopping centre and Canary Wharf was a place we simply didn’t go – it consisted of rotting and boarded up warehouses with a few dingy businesses still struggling on. I’ve watched the evolution of docklands through my life and it’s been a fascinating process.
Despite being born and raised in the East End, I’m not really a city person. I don’t mind small towns; Douglasis about right for me. But I love the countryside and the coast, the feeling of fewer people and wider spaces and not feeling trapped. I don’t think I’d ever choose to live full time in a city again, especially a city as overcrowded as London now is.
Nevertheless – and maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner – I actually do still love London. It’s the place of my birth and my childhood. I love the history and the parks and the odd little corners that many people never visit. I was so lucky as a child to have parents who adored both history and walking. Every Sunday, unless the rain was torrential, we were dragged out to the number 8 bus stop at the end of the road, to “go for a walk”. This did not mean a twenty minute stroll through a park. It meant a four or five hour marathon through parts of London I would never have known existed.
We walked through theCity and listened to my mother’s stories of the blitz and of her first jobs in old fashioned offices, learning the switchboard and typing on an old fashioned typewriter. We wandered through the Inns of Courtand the world of legal London, with my Dad stopping to read every plaque on every wall. We discovered hidden gems like the Museum of the Order of St John and Postman’s Park. On wet days we did every museum in London including ones I’ve forgotten even existed. We went into obscure but beautiful churches which were always open to visitors back then, and if it was late enough in the day we would stay for evensong before getting the bus home. When people ask me why I write historical novels rather than any other kind, I find it hard to answer apart from to say I always loved history. But I know that this is why. At times, wandering through the ancient streets, I would whinge about the fact that my friends from school were all off ice skating or swimming or just hanging out in the street. But Mum was adamant that unless there was a genuine reason not to (like a broken leg – arms didn’t count, I once saw her scale the cliffs at Hastings with her arm in a sling) we would all go out together on Sundays. Church, Sunday lunch, walk or other outing and then home for tea and whichever series was on TV on Sundays. Saturdays were ours; on Sundays we belonged to her.
As I grew older the rule relaxed, but by then she didn’t have to nag me, I was hooked. At secondary school by then, I visited exhibitions relevant to whatever I was studying, sometimes with the school but sometimes on my own. I would think nothing – and still don’t – about taking myself off to the British Museumon a free day. A boat trip down to Hampton Courtor Greenwichwas a joy. I loved the Cutty Sark and the Tower of London – just wandering around outside them was enough. And I adored – and will always adore – theRiver Thames, where my parents did a lot of their courting.
All of this came from a family with very little. We lived, for the first thirteen years of my life, in an old rented house with no bathroom or indoor toilet. We washed in the kitchen sink and bathed in an old fashioned tin bath by the oil stove in the kitchen because there was no central heating. We ate healthily but with few luxuries on a daily basis although it made a meal out for a birthday or the extra treats at Christmas incredibly special.
When we moved to a council maisonette when I was thirteen, it was luxury. I can remember squabbling over who would be the first to use the new bath until we realised my mother was already in it. Curiously, we missed our old fashioned house; the new place had no garden. My parents were good managers and saved for their old age but we didn’t have that much stuff.
What we did have was experiences. We had one week’s holiday every year, always in the UK but always somewhere special. When we were small we went to holiday camps a lot as they were cheap and there was entertainment but as we got older we rented cottages and we explored Devon and Cornwall, the Lakes and Yorkshire, the Isle of Wight and parts of Scotland. We did it all by coach and bus and train; they had no car.
We went to the cinema to see every good new film going. We went to the London Palladium to see the Pantomime every Christmas. If there was a school trip to anywhere, they would find the money for us to go. My love of music came from endless school trips to concerts, the opera, and to hear Gilbert and Sullivan. My love of good plays and literature came from school trips to the Young Vic and Stratford upon Avon.They had never been abroad, but I went to Russia at sixteen with the school because my Dad did overtime to pay for it.
I’m aware as an adult of everything they did for us and everything they sacrificed so that we could absorb as many different experiences as they could afford to give us. It’s not that surprising that we both did so well. But I don’t think they thought it was that much of a sacrifice, I think they loved doing all these things with us, enjoyed introducing us to the city they both loved.
They were poor when we were young, got more comfortable as we grew up and travelled a bit more, spent more on themselves although they still never had a car or bought a house. They ate out a lot, discovered different cuisines and enjoyed it. They both still walked until arthritis and old age prevented them. But they never resented poverty or saw themselves as victims. They were never angry. They simply worked out what was important to them and what they could easily do without and if they needed more they worked a bit harder to get it.
They weren’t political although they never failed to vote, but they both voted on issues rather than blind loyalty to a party so at different times they voted for all three main parties. My mother voted for Margaret Thatcher simply on the grounds that it was time there was a woman in charge. She was a feminist without ever knowing what the word meant, or caring. My father voted Labour that year. Neither of them cared what anybody else voted. Their friends and family could be Labour or Tory or Liberal or nothing at all. It was considered rude to get personal about such matters as religion or politics. They were old enough to appreciate the welfare state, the NHS and any help they were given. They were gracious about it, didn’t see it as a right, said thank you when help was given. During the IRA bombings they continued to take us to all the same places, do all the same things. We missed the Ideal Home Exhibition bomb by a few minutes only, but there was no sense of anxiety. We were in London and that city belonged to us, not the bombers.
Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner. But when I’m back here, no matter how much it has changed, no matter how much I know that I’d never come back to live here now, I still feel a very primitive sense of belonging. This is my city, my home, my childhood. I feel an enormous sense of familiarity and of love and gratitude both to the people who raised me and the city that shaped all of us. I’ve lived in many places now and loved a fair few of them. But when I come back to London, I know I’ve come home.
A Respectable Womanwas the first book I published and I wanted to share some of the history behind the book. I have been writing for as long as I can remember, almost always historical fiction. There are even, I believe, one or two short stories in my old school magazines which were set in the past and with a degree in history I thoroughly enjoy the research aspect of writing.
If possible I love to visit the locations where my books are set, but with A Respectable Woman, it wasn’t hard to visualise the settings since I grew up in East London in the 1960s and 1970s and the school where Philippa Maclay goes to work as a teacher is based entirely on the old grammar school I attended as a child. The streets she walked are the ones I grew up with and although I have lived away from London for many years, it felt like going home.
Raine’s Foundation Grammar Schoolwas founded by Henry Raine and the original Lower School opened in 1719. Like Wentworths, boys and girls were taught separately and reading, writing and arithmetic were taught as well as useful skills which might help the girls get work in service and the boys to learn a trade. In 1736 Henry opened a boarding school which took girls from the Lower School and this would have been the equivalent of the school where Philippa taught. In reality the original schools were in Wapping and did not move to the Arbour Square site in Stepney until 1913 but I have chosen to base my story in the school that I knew. By coincidence, when I went to Wikimedia looking for a photograph of the school that I could use, I found one attributed to a John Darch, whom I rather suspect is one of my old history teachers. If that’s so, thanks very much, Mr Darch…
There are surviving records from the old Raine’s schools and I used these extensively when writing about the day to day running of Wentworths. I was particularly fascinated by the records of punishments and the day to day activities of the pupils. Times were hard in the Victorian East End, and it must have seemed like an amazing opportunity for some of these children to get an education at all as well as being housed and clothed and well fed.
The church where the girls go for their Christmas service and then for Founders Day is based on St George’s in the East on the Highway. As a child I attended services there, sang in the choir for many years and during my final year, as head girl, I laid the wreath on the tomb of Henry Raine. At the time it was simply a tradition, part of the school year, although I always loved it. Despite the fact that as teenagers we all mocked the old traditions I’m really aware now of how good it felt to be part of something. The school year was punctuated by these events and I have tried to give a sense of that in the book and of the sense of belonging it gave to Philippa, orphaned and cut adrift from the world in which she grew up.
Charity schools haven’t always had a good deal in fiction, from Dotheboys Hall in Charles Dickens to the harsh environment of Lowood in Jane Eyre. Conditions were certainly spartan, but in many cases they were no harder than home life for the children who attended them and I wanted to try to give the feel of the genuine enthusiasm of some of the people who served as teachers and board members and doctors for the work that they did. For all the poverty and misery of the East End in Victorian times, there were many philanthropists who gave up their time and energy to try to improve the lot of the working classes.
Lady Alverstone is a good example of a wealthy woman who has chosen to spend her time doing something more useful than simply being a society hostess. In addition to her interest in Philippa’s school she sets up soup kitchens for the survivors of the Cholera epidemic and chairs various committees including one which campaigns for the cause of Anti-Slavery.
The slave trade was abolished in British territories in 1807 and slavery itself was abolished in 1838, but illegal trading continued throughout the nineteenth century and abolitionists worked hard to bring pressure on the government to take action to stamp out the abuses of the system. There were two different anti-slavery societies during the nineteenth century which did valuable work.
There were various missionary societies during the nineteenth century, including the London Missionary Society and the Church Missionary Society. They sent missionaries to various stations around the world and the work of Philippa and her father is based loosely on the experiences of men like Moffatand Livingstonewho worked in Africa during the nineteenth century. Missionaries and their families were more likely to succumb to fever and illness than to be the victims of violence, but it did happen at times.
Kit Clevedon’s military service all took place in genuine theatres of war at the time. Many soldiers moved from Africa to the Crimea and then to India and the siege of Lucknow is well documented. During this era Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was unheard of although there are many hints in letters and accounts of the time that some serving officers and men were badly affected by their experiences of war. Kit’s decision to go into the army as the second son of an Earl would have been seen as entirely normal at the time. The first son inherited title and lands, the second went into the army and if there was a third, the church was often the recognised profession. Many young men served for a few years and then moved into other spheres, in politics or making a good marriage, but some found a genuine home in the army and chose to remain regardless of rank or wealth.
The Lyons Home for Fallen Women is based on a number of institutions set up to help unfortunate females who had strayed from the path of virtue, for example the London Female Dormitory. Many of these institutions had harsh rules about who they would and would not help and how that help should be given. Women were given only so many chances to reform and if they went back on the streets or to their pimps they would eventually be given up as a lost cause. The Lyons home was very liberal for it’s day but undoubtedly some homes were run on such compassionate lines and must have been a welcome shelter for women who had nowhere else to go.
‘A Respectable Woman’ is in many ways a very traditional love story, with hints of Cinderella. But Philippa is not sitting around waiting for a prince to rescue her. She is in fact, very likely to be the one doing the rescuing, and does so on more than one occasion. A woman left alone in Victorian times had a very limited number of options available to her and maintaining her respectability was all important. I enjoyed writing about a girl who developed a successful career and maintained her independence against all odds and I hope you will enjoy reading about her.
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