Take a Step Back in Time by Victoria Chatham

This month's question is: If the time machine were invented today, when would you want to visit and why? I had to think about this quite a bit because, although I write Regency romance, I would love to spend some time in the Edwardian era if I could spend that time as an upper-class lady. Take a look at How to Dress an Edwardian Lady here. If I had nothing else to do, I can just imagine taking the greatest pleasure in dressing up. But, just to give you a bit of a background, here is how the two eras came to be. 

Like the Regency, the Edwardian era was technically a relatively short period, the former spanning the years from 1811 to 1820, the latter the years 1901 to 1910, each being allied to the monarch of the time.

In 1811 King George III was considered unfit to rule and his son the Prince of Wales, became the Prince Regent. When his father died in 1820, he ascended the throne and ruled as George IV, followed by William IV and then Queen Victoria. On her death in 1901, her son Edward came to the throne as Edward VII until his death in 1910. The eras, however, tended to evolve and end a few years before and after the actual reigns of the monarchs who lent them their names so, for many, the Edwardian era was not considered at an end until the start of World War 1.

Television shows like Upstairs Downstairs and Downton Abbey solidified my interest in the clothes of the Edwardian era. Series like The Edwardian Country House and movies like Somewhere in Time starring the late Christopher Reeve and Jane Seymour, showed off the ladies’ costumes beautifully, especially their hats. The era of La Belle Epoque highlighted the balance, poise, and elegance of the super-rich who could afford to live the luxurious high life. The fabrics and styles leant themselves to the use of silks and satin for soft, feminine fashions with flowing skirts, ruffles and lots of lace. Fake fruit, fur, and feathers often decorated the wide-brimmed picture, or Merry Widow, hats held in place by a long hat-pin and it’s those hats that I envy the most. Take a look at the image on the cover of Envy the Wind and you will see what I mean. How pretty and feminine is this.

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For more about Victoria Chatham go here.

Landmark Roses and what I learned by Nancy M Bell

Writing Landmark Roses was a definite learning experience. Without Margaret Kyle who was my research go to person the book could not have been written. Margaret is a member of the Mennonite community in southern Manitoba and as such was invaluable in the construction of the novel. One of the most surprising things I learned was that there were a large number of Mennonites who migrated to Paraquay in the 1920's and mid to late 1940's. This was due to the Canadian government's plan to take over the Mennonite school system and have the children taught in English rather than their native Low German, and to not teach the religion in schools. Many of the families who made the long journey by rail and ship found themselves hacking an existence out of raw countryside. Also, the men who ran the communities were far more strict with the women and what rights they had than when they were in Canada. Some of the families made the long trek back to southern Manitoba and rejoined their original community where they still had extended family members and friends.
There was also an exodus to Mexico near Chihuahua for much the same reasons. There is still a large and vibrant Mennonite community there today.

Another surprising thing was my perception of the community. I grew up in south central Ontario where there are many Mennonite and Quaker communities. They tend to be very traditional, no cars, not electricity, TV etc and very conservative dress. More like what I see in the Hutterite communities in Alberta. Margaret told me her family drove cars, played cards and dressed like everyone else. She said her mother still had more clothes than Margaret does and takes great care to dress in the current fashions. I learned many other things during the research and writing of the novel, but these are the ones that stand out.

Excerpt from Landmark Roses:

Elsie straightened the new scarf, arranging it neatly on her head and smiled at her reflection. For a woman of fifty-five years she looked very well. The years may have etched fine lines at the corners of her eyes and around her mouth though the diffuse light filtering through the curtains softened them into nonexistence. She ran her hands over her still narrow waist and hips, smoothing the material of her best Sunday dress.
“Elsie, are you coming?” Ike’s voice echoed up the staircase. “I’ve got the buggy waiting by the porch steps.”
“Coming!” With one last appraising glance at her reflection, Elsie crossed the bedroom her heels clicking on the wood floor. No one could ever say Elsie Neufeld looked less than her best on a Sunday morning. The old house was quiet as she descended the stairs. Running her hand down the polished bannister, she smiled. The sunlit peace would soon be broken once the family arrived when Church was over. Her steps slowed momentarily when she entered the living room, ticking off the items prepared and waiting in the kitchen.
“Elsie…” Ike swung the screen door open and broke off abruptly when he caught sight of her standing in a golden beam of light.
“I’m right here, Ike. Come along, we’re going to be late if we don’t hurry.”
Her husband came to her side in two long strides and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Standing there all bright and golden you’re as beautiful as the day I married you.”
“Thank you, Ike.” Elsie giggled like a young girl and gave him a coquettish glance. “Sometimes it seems like only yesterday, doesn’t it?”
“Somedays,” he agreed moving toward the door and the waiting buggy.
Elsie went down the wide porch steps with her head high, pleased the long slender fingers of her hand looked elegant resting on her husband’s arm. Her wrist peeking out from the sleeve of her dress was still thinner than her sister Agatha’s. She patted at the strand of shining hair the prairie wind teased from under her hat, tucking it back safely where it belonged.
Ike handed her up into the buggy seat and waited until she was settled before going around to the driver’s side. He ran a hand over Polly’s hip as he passed and paused to straighten a strap on the bridle before joining his wife, the springs of the buggy squeaking in protest at the added weight.
“Giddup, mare.” Ike slapped the lines lightly on the bay gelding’s rump. The horse agreeably moved forward and obeyed the signals that sent her out of the yard and unto the dusty road. The September morning was warm with a slight edge to the air that said without a doubt that summer was fading. The breeze carried the scent of sun-ripened grain and last roses of summer nodding along the roadside. How she loved the smell of the wild roses that ran rampant over the rolling prairie. Overhead a pair of hawks circled in the autumn blue sky, bright in contrast to the golden prairie sweeping to the horizon. The creak and rumble of the buggy accompanied by the jingle of harness and the sound of the mare’s hooves striking the soft surface of the road was comfortingly familiar. Elsie turned and smiled at her husband of thirty-five years. Time had been as kind to him as it had to her, she reflected.
Ike tipped his head and caught her eye. “Penny for your thoughts?” He raised an eyebrow.
She shook her head and patted his arm. “Just enjoying the morning. It’s such a lovely day.”
There was already a line of other horse and buggies outside the church along with a scattering of automobiles parked haphazardly anyplace they could find space. Ike brought the buggy to a halt, set the brake and stepped down. He tied the horse’s lead to bracket in an open space on the hitching rail in the shade of a spreading tree. Elsie took his hand and disembarked the buggy, careful of her dress on the dusty wheel.
Together the couple joined the others entering the building, the white paint gleaming in the sun. Elsie nodded to acquaintances and scanned the gathering for her extended family. In such a small community it was impossible not to know everyone present and a hum of conversation buzzed around her. The men were handsome in their Sunday best and the women’s bright dresses fluttered like brilliant butterflies as they moved toward the open doors.
Elsie blinked in the sudden dimness of the small area just inside the porch. She shook her head when Ike glanced down inquiringly at her. Satisfied she was fine, he led her into the nave and waited for her to precede him into the pew with the female members of her family. Ike carried on to where his sons Ed, Jake, and Hank and the young men of the family were already seated. Elsie settled herself beside Agnes and glanced over at her daughters and granddaughters. She smiled to see Agnes, Susan and Helena had separated the boys young enough to still sit with the women. Sarah hadn’t arrived yet. Elsie frowned and turned to ask Agnes if she knew where her sister was. A stir at the back of the church distracted her and she turned to see Sarah entering leaning on her husband’s arm. She smiled as she joined the rest of the women in the pew. Elsie kept her expression carefully schooled, but noted the pallor of her daughter’s face and the faint sheen of perspiration on her brow. The building was warm and a bit stuffy, but she didn’t think it could account for Sarah’s pale face.
Perhaps it was just the pregnancy that was making the girl feel poorly. Elsie sent a silent prayer heavenward that it wasn’t the malaria rearing its ugly head. Not again, she prayed. Not when the dear child was carrying again.
The pastor began the service and Elsie gave her full attention to the matter. The Vorsängers were in fine form, the choristers leading the congregation in responsive singing. They sat at the front of the church on the left side of the raised platform where they called out the number of the songs so the congregation could find the selection in their Gesangbuch.
Elsie joined her voice with the others at the appropriate times, giving herself over to the oneness of community the combined voices invoked. With all present singing mindfully and in the moment, offering the music to God with heartfelt love and praise, Elsie knew she was more than just one person. She was part of the soul of the congregation enraptured by the strength of their combined voices and purpose, praising and following the glory of the Almighty.
“I was so helpless, full of sin, nothing good in myself I find,” she sang.

My other books can be found at my BWL Publishing webpage

My latest release is Wild Horse Rescue, a YA novel set in southern Alberta.

Why I Write Historical Romance by A.M.Westerling

It’s pretty simple, actually – I love history and I love romance. The love of romance is a slam dunk – who doesn’t love a Happily Ever After?! But what is it about history that’s so appealing to me?

I suppose my appreciation of history started with the fact I grew up on the Alberta prairies where most of the cities and towns are new by historical standards and were built within the last 150 years. Certainly there are native artifacts ie teepee rings, buffalo jumps and petroglyphs and pictographs that date from thousands of years ago but other than that, there simply isn’t anything old here.

Then the summer I turned 15, my family and I visited Europe. My grandmother’s 80^th birthday plus visiting other relatives in the Netherlands were the main reasons for the trip but my parents made sure we did a fair bit of touring. What an eye opening experience it turned out to be! I loved visiting the museums and old churches and it amazed me as I stood in these buildings that hundreds of years ago, people stood in the very same spot. What did they do? What did they think? How did they live their daily lives? I really felt a connection to the past.

We saw some glorious sights that trip like the Cathedral of Notre Dame and the Sacre Couer in Paris, and the palace in Versailles. One of the places we visited that really stands out for me, though, was the Castle of Vianden in Luxembourg.

There’s an opening in the middle of the solar floor that looks down into the main hall. I remember standing there while visions of beautiful maidens and gallant knights on horse back swirled through my mind. How romantic!

But let’s face it, there’s a lot to be said for modern plumbing, central heating and modern health practices. (Me visit a dentist one hundred years ago? No thanks!) However, you can visit times past through the pages of a book or a website and imagine how it used to be. 

I still love visiting historical sites. My long suffering sweetie has come along with me while I’ve checked out fur trading forts like Fort St. James in northern B.C, Fort Whoop Up in southern Alberta, and the hills of Custer’s Last Stand in Montana. We’ve visited Brigham Young's summer house in St. George, Utah, driven to old pueblos in New Mexico and visited Indian ruins in Arizona. 

Custer's Last Stand, the hill where he died.

Brigham Young's summer home

We've visited places in Europe too numerous to name, although I will share a couple. We spent a lovely day wandering through the Viking village of Ribe plus spent two nights in Falsled Kro in Denmark, a 16^th century inn (!) all in the name of research. Haha, now that was a tough job, let me tell you. *wink*

Falsled Kro

Researching my novels for me is a fun past time and I love how it gives me story ideas. For example, in A Heart Enslaved, the hero Thorvald plans to sell his slave Gisela and use the money to clear his name of a crime he didn’t commit. Through my research I discovered that in Viking society, criminals could pay restitution to their victims and therefore be cleared of any wrong doing. For The Countess’ Lucky Charm, I learned a bit about the North West Company and the early fur trade in Canada. In Her Proper Scoundrel, I discovered Bristol and its place in the slave trade. 

Find A Heart Enslaved HERE, Her Proper Scoundrel HERE and The Countess' Lucky Charm HERE  , all at your favorite online store.

Barkerville Beginnings was more personal for me as I’ve visited Barkerville a couple of times and I could really picture it in my head. As a living museum, the gold rush town really came to life and as I researched, I could place people and shops, hotels, etc. within the actual setting. 

Here I am on Barkerville's Main Street

Find Barkerville Beginnings at your favourite online store HERE.

Total Immersion

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Why write historical fiction? This is a deep question. The 1980’s, when I first started writing, was a low point for the genre. I remember querying ever so many agents and getting replies which said “only a small market for historical fiction.” That was discouraging enough, but not so much that I stopped working on those novels, driven by the writing demons as I was.   

Like everyone else who will reply to this question, I started young reading historical fiction, following the books my mother took out of the library. She was a voracious reader of both history and science fiction, and I became one as well. I began early, and remember writing a short story about the Princes in the Tower back in 8^th grade that got an “A.” (My story successfully creeped-out  the class, too, which was even better.)

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I could say that my love of history happened because I’ve often lived in old houses—several with disturbances of the kind that are often labelled “ghost.” I could talk about the love of my important elders for history, their familiarity with the past, and the way the past was always present in discussions about politics, or about how trips were taken to view gravestones, battlefields, Indian mounds, and museums. 

I could dwell on the lit professor grandpa that I adored. His study fairly breathed of old books, tweed, leather, pipe smoke and things past. A large oil painting of the Canterbury Pilgrims overlooked his desk, a beautiful obsidian spear point that had emerged during the spring plowing at the family farm in upstate NY sat beside his typewriter. All of these objects had stories, and he shared them with his children and grandchildren. At home, that wonderful quote of William Faulkner’s “The Past is never gone. It’s not even past,” was a statement of fact. 

The truth is more that I’ve never felt truly comfortable with the noisy, gasoline era into which I was born. Cars were something to get around in, but not by me beloved. Every time a tree falls in the creation of a road or a new development, I feel a terrible sense of loss.

I’ve often spoken of what I write as a kind of time travel, because for me that’s what it is—a way to be present in another place and time, to smell and taste that world, to deal with the hardships and the inevitable dirt and sweat, the blood and the loss, that is the genuine past.  The “romance” died quite early for me because I read and read and read, ever deeper into my chosen subjects. 

Living inside another time and place, or inside another culture, is truly an immersive experience; I love the scuba sense of diving in and swimming around inside these deep waters of history. Originally, I wrote from my own European-American perspective, and my books were set in 18th Century Europe or England or the colonial US.  The time shift alone caused me to change my perspective. I sometimes get nasty reviews because the 18th Century characters about whom I write do not behave up to the highest standards of the 21st Century. I always want to reply to these folks that I don't write these stories to make them comfortable. I write to show them as much as I can of what I've learned about what was--the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Maybe I'd be richer if I sugar-coated, but taking the trip into the past and taking my readers along with me is always far more important than whatever is currently P.C. If you want to read about the 18th Century people, expect to meet  men who have "patriarchy" firmly entrenched in their heads and women who have no other recourse than to accept or attempt to circumvent whatever their menfolk, their churches and their society dish

out. Englishwomen, as every reader of Jane Austen ought to know, could not inherit property until quite recently.

By Tom Walker~Available at Allposters.com

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In Genesee, and, later, to a far greater extent, in Fly Away Snow Goose, I had another task. here I found I had to shed the Euro-based colonizer culture into which I was born so that I could inhabit (as far as I am able) a life-way with a totally different outlook. The Tlicho tribe in Fly Away Snow Goose were historically a nomadic, communal people, living in small groups that got even smaller in winter--who shared food with one another. They disapproved the kind of willful ignorance of their environment, the braggadocio and "me-first-ism" that is  rampant in the capital-driven European cultures which almost overwhelmed them. 

Instead of "conquerors of nature," the Tlicho strove to always to be in "right relationship" with the earth and her creatures, to eat and/or to make use of every piece of any animal they killed. They saw the spirits in the sky and in the earth and water all across the enormous terrain they traversed every year, following the caribou. Everyone had to pull together, or the group might not survive the long frigid winters where starvation was a very real threat. This experience, this total immersion has changed my outlook on the world in a fundamental way.  

Now, it's as if I've put on an entirely new pair of spectacles.  

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~~Juliet Waldron
www.julietwaldron.com