Dear Lord Wycliff–an epistolary romance novel
Most regency romances are set during the London season, which everyone assumes is in the spring.
It is true that by the 1820s that became the norm—A King’s or Queen’s speech in late January or early February convened the parliamentary session. This in turn brought all the noble families to London, and they usually stayed until early August.
But in the 1790s, when the Rebel Hearts Series is set, the King’s speech took place in very late in the fall, (in December in 1792), and the session drew to a close in late May or early June, (occasionally July).
In Dear Lord Wycliff, Book Two of the Rebel Hearts Series, Lady Corinna Capener comes at the beginning of November to prepare for the London season, a few weeks before the King’s speech in December.
I assure you, the timing is correct.
In Book One of Rebel Hearts, An Honorable Man, I barely allude to the reign of terror and the French Revolution. It figures more centrally in Book Two since our main male character, Lord Wycliff, is serving in the diplomatic service in Paris, at least until diplomatic relations are cut off and he must leave.
I am challenged more than I anticipated (but in the best possible way) in writing this epistolary novel. But I love this story of Corinna and Daniel. And of Georgiana and Olivier.
This is only an inspiration image I made in AI, not the final cover
Here is a little sneak peek. The first letter. (One thing you must know to begin this story is that is was very improper for a lady to write to a single, unrelated gentleman during regency times):
November 1, 1792 32 Portman Square London
Dear Georgie,
The days of adventure are over. Romance is dead. We were not waylaid by a highwayman on our way to London.
Instead, my brother arranged everything so that we traveled by easy stages and stopped each night at inns along the way. I wish I could have traveled to town as Rupert did, on the back of a horse. Instead, Jaminna and I rode in the carriage and took turns trying to entertain little Henry. Six-year-old boys should never be closed up in a carriage for four days on end. Neither should twenty-year-old ladies.
You know I cannot read while travelling in a carriage without becoming quite ill, so for four days I watched out the window and tried to think of games and stories engaging enough to while away the time. Lacking imagination, I borrowed some of yours.
But Georgie, there is one particularly lonely, atmospheric stretch of road between Highgate and Islington that sparked my imagination.
Picture this. Millions of stars shimmer above us. A low mist eddies over the road. I, the stupendously beautiful and spoiled Lady Corinna Anne Capener, wealthy beyond words, (it is my story after all), am making my way to take London by storm.
But what is this? Just as the full moon rises over the trees on the eastern horizon, a daring thief rides out of the woods, shoots into the air, and bellows, “stand and deliver.”
The carriage pulls to a shuddering stop. The horses buck and blow, mist rising from their backs. The carriage door opens, and a tall, dark man looms over us. His face is lean and chiseled—No wait, the lower portion of his face is hidden by a mask, and his eyes gleam from beneath the shadow of his hat.
I lift my chin and climb down into the terrifying night, bravely shielding my fellow travelers. Just like in the accounts of Claude Duval, that famous 17th century knight of the road, my gentleman highwayman bows over my hand and agrees to accept less plunder if I dance with him on the moonlit roadside.
I felt quite proud of this gripping beginning to my story. Both Henry and Minna were enthralled. Then Rupert rode up beside us to ask after our comfort. He reminded me of more prosaic probabilities, and I laughed. Even if we were stopped by a thief who was dressed in the latest fashion and acted in the most gentlemanly manner, you know my brother would not like to be relieved of fifty guineas and tied to a tree.
And with my luck our highwayman wouldn’t be a nobleman in disguise, forced by his evil, usurping uncle to make his living on the high toby, but only a garden variety crook, determined to take my pearl ring and necklace and the few pence I had in my reticule.
Worse, it is much more likely I would stare mutely, like a dullard, rather than banter and jest with my creation. I hate to disappoint you, but I am not made for adventure, except as it happens in books.
Despite the uncomfortable monotony (and lack of romantic highwaymen), we arrived in London yesterday and settled into Capener Court. Minna says she is eager to take me shopping to update my wardrobe for the coming season. Can you believe it? She is the most generous soul and exceedingly kind to me when any other lady would resent having to chaperon her husband’s younger sister for a second year.
Really, I don’t know how Rupert convinced her to marry him. Not that he isn’t a good brother, but you know how stuffy and conventional he can be. And we won’t even mention how miserly, not that Minna regards that for one moment. She seems to find it an amusing challenge.
I thank you for the note you slipped into my reticule. It was a delightful interlude on the long journey, although I am not concerned that you will languish as you predict. Before the month is out you will find something to entertain you, even in Folkestone. Exciting things always happen around you. To illustrate, I remind you of the infamous ‘mystery of the purloined handkerchief,’ and the questions surrounding ‘who put the toad in the Vicar’s soup bowl?’
I so wish you could have come with me to town this season as we planned. It is inconvenient in the extreme that your uncle chose this precise time to ride into a fence at Chester Racecourse and die. Even three months of mourning seems too long for a man you never knew.
I just read the last and realize how heartless I sound, but I am feeling selfish. If you were here, the season would be bearable. Instead, I am doomed to endure another string of parties and balls where I must pretend interest in men who have no interest in me beyond my portion, and whose conversation is limited to the weather, their horses and carriages, and the hunt. They would never discuss any interesting topics, with a ‘delicate lady.’
On that topic, I ask you, why is a woman who is as tall as many of the men she stands up with considered delicate?
That question is impossible to answer, so I will admit to the more selfish reason I wish you were here. Dearest Georgie, I don’t know how I am to continue my correspondence with Lord Wycliff if you are not here to smuggle my letters out to the post.
I have thought to beg one of the servants to help me, but they are loyal to Rupert and Minna. No sooner than I reveal my need to one of the maids, I fear she will expose me. I don’t like to think of what my brother will do if he ever discovers that I’ve been exchanging letters with an unrelated, unmarried gentleman, even if it is under the guise of his name.
I must stop, I know. I only await Lord Wycliff’s response to the abstract of my article on Maria Theresa, and then I will stop writing to him. I have already tempted fate far longer than is safe.
Pray for me. Or, upon second thought, don’t pray for me. The last time you prayed to be released from attending Lady Marianne’s birthday celebration, we had pouring rain for weeks.
My dearest friend, Minna is at my door. We are to go to Bond Street this morning to replace my torn pelisse. I hope my letter finds you well, and that you’ll write soon and report all the news. I know you well enough to believe you will have at least one exciting tale.
Ever your affectionate friend,
Corinna
***Of course, when Corinna says she is not made for adventure, you just know that she will not be able to avoid it!
Would you like to read the next letter, this one from Georgie? Sometimes I feel she is going to ‘steal the show’ she is so engaging.
