Unlike the United States of America, which enshrined freedom of speech and the press way back in 1791, Great Britain provided no such protections to its citizens. Anyone who criticized the government in writing could be charged with seditious libel. Particularly after the Peterloo Massacre in 1819, arrests and prosecutions for this so-called crime became more numerous than ever, and truth was no defense against the charge. This made publishing a newspaper like Lucas’s The Weekly Disciple a risky endeavor, but ironically, the more the government tried to crack down on speech it considered injurious to the crown, the more such publications popped up and the more popular they became with working class people. It was pretty much whack-a-mole, and a good many publishers who were tried and imprisoned for seditious libel went right back to their old habits as soon as they were set free.
Richard Carlile, whose Every Woman’s Book is mentioned in this story, is one such author/publisher. Not only was he arrested and charged with seditious libel, blasphemy, and blasphemous libel (he was an avowed atheist), but when he was imprisoned for refusing to pay the fine, he turned publication of his newspaper, The Republican, to his common-law wife, and she was arrested and jailed as well. Undaunted, Carlile turned publication over to his sister and, when she was arrested, to his shop workers, one by one. In total, 150 people went to prison for the crime of publishing Carlile’s newspaper. I’m not sure if this makes him a hero or a villain, to be honest, but his experiences and those of other publishers like him who refused to remain anonymous are the reason I decided that Lucas and Honora would both keep their identities secret.
One of the other ways in which the British government tried to keep a lid on the press was through stamp duty. First imposed in 1712, stamp duty (or stamp tax) was ostensibly a tax on paper, since the amount was based on the number of sheets used, and applied to newspapers, pamphlets, legal documents, advertisements, and the like. Books and magazines were generally exempt. After Peterloo, Parliament passed a bill known as Six Acts, which expanded the stamp tax to any publication that sold for less than six pence, contained an opinion about the government, or which were published more often than every twenty-six days. By 1831, when A Bit of Rough takes place, the duty on newspapers was four pence per newspaper sheet. This would raise the cost of a three-sheet paper from a few pennies to more than a shilling, which would put purchase beyond the means of the intended audience. For obvious reasons, most publishers of small newspapers like Lucas did not pay the tax and thus were printing illegally.
Even as publishers decried the stamp tax (and even those who could afford to pay it opposed it), there was no chance of repealing or reducing it without reform of the electoral system. The Peterloo Massacre, which I’ve mentioned before, was kicked off when a crowd assembled in Manchester to demand reform of Parliamentary representation. The problems with the existing system were manifest, but conservatives—who were overly represented in the House of Lords, at the time an unelected body made up of peers—blocked every effort to expand the franchise and redraw the boundaries of boroughs. By 1800, Manchester was a city of about 95,000 people but did not have a single representative in the House of Commons. Meanwhile, Old Sarum—which had just seven voters—continued to elect two MPs! This state of affairs could not hold, but resistance to change remained fierce for the next several decades.
The death of King George IV in 1830 triggered a general election. Although the conservative Tories won a majority of the seats, division among the Tory MPs allowed Earl Grey, the leader of the liberal Whigs, to form a government and take up the cause of electoral reform. This government fell apart less than a year later, when the Reform Act failed to pass on a technicality. The election of 1831, which resulted in a landslide victory for Whigs, followed the collapse and is the election featured in this story. After the Reform Act passed in 1832, another election was called because borough boundaries were redrawn, with seats in the Commons both eliminated and created, and because significantly more citizens now had the right to vote. The resulting Parliament—still led by Earl Grey—went on to pass legislation in 1833 abolishing slavery and limiting (though not outlawing) child labor in factories.
For fans of Charles Dickens, there’s an Easter egg in the epilogue. If you didn’t catch it and are curious, search online for Sketches by Boz.
Finally, if you were visualizing Lucas and Honora traveling in a hansom cab (picture below) and wondering how he could get away with fingering her without anyone noticing, please note that the hansom was not invented until 1834.
Before the invention of the hansom, there were two styles of “hackneys” in use, the hackney “coach” and the hackney “cab” (which looks much more like a hansom). Please take it as given that Honora and Lucas hired a hackney coach rather than a hackney cab.
Once again, my sincerest thanks to my beta readers—Carrie Lomax, Eve Pendle, Dee Tenorio, and Joanne Renaud—and to my copy editor, Rhonda Merwarth, who always manages to squeeze me in despite my penchant for missing deadlines. I also have to give a major shout-out to my “sprinting partner” and accountability buddy, Zoe Archer/Eva Leigh. I sincerely doubt I’d ever finish anything if she wasn’t there, forcing me to put my butt in the chair and my hands on the keyboard.
If you stuck with me this far and you haven’t read my Lords of Lancashire series yet, I hope you’ll give it a try. The first book, The Lesson Plan, is a very steamy novella featuring Honora’s parents, Freddie and Conrad Pearce, and I’m sure you’ll enjoy seeing them early in their relationship. I know that revisiting them was one of the most enjoyable parts of writing this book.
Thanks again for spending your time with the people in my head and for bearing with my penchant for giving a history lesson at the end of every book. I really do enjoy the historical research part of this gig, and it seems a shame not to share some of what I learn when I fall down the rabbit hole. Or maybe it’s just that misery loves company. Either way, I appreciate your willingness to read all the way to The End.
—Jackie
Also By Jackie Barbosa
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The House of Uncommons
A Bit of Rough
First Comes Marriage
The Bedding Vow
Better to Burn
The Lords of Lancashire Series
Seducing the Highwayman
Tempting the Vicar
Surrendering to the Spy
Sleeping with the Enemy
My True Love Gave to Me
Lords of Lancashire: The Complete Collection
* * *
The Ever Afters Series
Carnally Ever After
Wickedly Ever After
Scandalously Ever After
Sinfully Ever After
All the Ever Afters (Complete Novella Collection)
First Comes Marriage
The House of Uncommons continues with Noel Langston and Catriona Fergusson’s story, First Comes Marriage. Read the blurb and first chapter (unedited) below.
Catriona Fergusson never expected to wind up in a London workhouse, but then, she never expected to be disowned by her family or to become a married man’s mistress. Falling pregnant when her protector believes he cannot father children is simply the latest calamity to strike her. Turned out of her home and stripped of funds, she has few choices and fewer friends.
Recently elected to the House of Commons, Noel Langston is on a mission to reform England’s cruel treatment of the poor, especially women and children. A foundling himself, he understands better than most the fate that awaits those who cannot afford to care for themselves or their offspring. So when he stumbles upon the mistress of his bitterest political rival during a visit to a workhouse, he is both shocked and horrified. Upon realizing that she is pregnant, he sees an opportunity to help her and her unborn child…and to ruffle the feathers of the politician who most often stand
s in the way of Noel’s reformist agenda.
First comes marriage, then comes the baby in the baby carriage. Can love come last?
Chapter One
London, December 18, 1833
* * *
The main room of St. James’s Parish Workhouse was not quite as grim as Noel Langston had expected. Between the high ceiling supported at twelve-foot intervals by sturdy wooden pillars and the tall mullioned windows along the main wall, the space was both airy and well-lit. Tables and benches were distributed throughout the large room, and each was occupied by one or more persons engaged in some form of labor. All of them were female as the primary tasks appeared to be the sewing of clothing and linens along with the carding and spinning of wool, although there were a handful of men, likely employed to empty and refill the large buckets of wash-water on a periodic basis. The laborers ranged in age from as young as nine or ten years old to so elderly that Noel would not have hazarded a guess as to an exact figure. Everyone seemed to be in a state of good health, even the oldest of the inhabitants, and all were wrapped in warm woolen shawls to guard against the deep chill that permeated the room. The shawls looked very new.
He glanced at his companions, Desmond Faircloth and Arthur Cox, to gauge what they made of the tableau. Both men bore expressions of careful neutrality, which told Noel they had the same impression he did.
Their visit had been expected. The scene had been staged.
Noel turned toward the matron, Mrs. Chappell, a sturdy woman in her mid-forties, and said, “I would like to speak to some of the residents if I may.”
As he anticipated, her features flickered with consternation, but she nodded. “Of course, sir.” She gestured in the direction of the table placed nearest the window, where a half dozen women were working together to assemble items of clothing from a bolt of grey fabric. “I am sure the ladies there would be amenable to a chat. But please, do not take up too much of their time.”
Arching an eyebrow at his friends, Noel strode across the floor to the indicated group and removed his hat. “Good afternoon,” he said, sketching a polite bow. In his experience, it was never a mistake to be courteous. “Could I trouble you to answer a few questions?”
All of the women—although the youngest looked no more than thirteen and was thus a girl—stopped what they were doing and stared at him. He wasn’t sure if their obvious astonishment sprang from his request or his deferential attitude, but they exchanged glances with one another before nodding.
“Aye, gov’nor,” said a thin woman with a leathery complexion and a missing front tooth. “What d’ye want to know?”
He gestured around the room. “Would you say this is a typical work day here? The number of people and the types of tasks they are performing and so on.”
The woman shrugged. “I reckon so. Hard to tell the difference one day to the next, ain’t it?”
Noel repressed a sigh. These people were dependent on the good graces of the master and matron of the workhouse and if they’d been told to put on a good show to make conditions appear less dire than they were, he could hardly expect them to betray the truth. Especially not when the matron of the house was in earshot.
And perhaps his own history made him susceptible to claims of abuse and privation in workhouses. Here but for the grace of God went he.
If the cruelty and privations were as severe as rumors had led him to believe, however, then a different approach was in order.
He gave the group his most winning smile. In his experience, that particular expression tended to soften even the most resistant members of the opposite sex. “I suppose it would be in such a large space,” he agreed. “But tell me, is it always this cold in here during the winter months?”
“Oh, aye,” another member of the group answered. She was a short and round but the loose folds of skin around her chin and neck suggested recent—and likely unintentional—weight loss. “But we ‘ave these, don’t we?” By way of illustration, she pulled the brown woolen shawl tighter to her body.
“Yes, they look very warm. And quite new.”
“That’s because we got them this morning,” piped in the adolescent girl. Her expression was utterly guileless as she twirled to model the garment, which covered her upper body adequately but could not conceal the tattered, threadbare state of her skirts and stockings or the holes that were beginning to form at the toes of her too-small slippers.
There was a collective intake of breath from all the women at the table, and Noel saw several of them shoot furtive glances behind him toward Mrs. Chappell. Having got at least some of what he needed to make his case as to the appalling state of even the best of London’s workhouses, he nodded gravely at the child and said, “An early Christmas present, no doubt, to replace the ones you had before.” Turning to look over his shoulder at the stony-faced matron, he gave her the same sunny smile and went on before the girl could correct his intentional misapprehension, “’Tis the season for such munificence, is it not?”
Mrs. Chappell’s answering smile was as false as her generosity. “It is but a small price to pay to ensure that our charges are kept warm in the winter months.”
A price Noel felt quite certain the parish would not have paid at all had they not been informed that three members of Parliament would be visiting the workhouse a week before Christmas.
Cox met Noel’s gaze and rolled his eyes heavenward. He was no more fooled than Noel was.
But his efforts at reassuring the women who’d feared reprisals nonetheless bore fruit, for they seemed to expel a breath of relief. He decided, however, that it would be best not to press his luck by asking further questions. He might elicit another inadvertent admission that would put paid to the lie everyone was desperately trying to project, but at what cost? At least, thanks to their visit, these women were better armed against the cold. If he did or said anything to suggest he wasn’t convinced by the show, whoever Mrs. Chappell blamed for the failure might well be punished by the confiscation of her shawl. He could not be responsible for that.
Bowing again to the women, he thanked them for answering his questions and wished them a happy holiday. To Faircloth and Cox he said, “Seen enough, gentlemen?”
Faircloth flicked his eyes around the space, as if mentally mapping everything he saw for future reference, and then looked over at Cox for confirmation. When the other man nodded, so did Faircloth.
Noel was about to take his first step away from the table when a woman from somewhere behind him and to his left called out, “Please, sir. Wait.” Her voice was strong but not shrill, calmly pitched and melodious.
He checked himself in mid-stride and turned in the direction whence the sound had come. There were several benches and tables beyond the one to which Mrs. Chappell had directed him, and he scanned the crowd in search of the woman who had spoken. Fortunately, she obviously wanted him to know who she was, for she raised her hand to draw his attention.
His first impression of her, however, was limited by the fact that several people stood between them. She sat on a bench that was perhaps five feet from the table, and like Mrs. Chappell had no doubt heard the entire conversation. Like the rest of the occupants of the room, she had one of the new woolen shawls wrapped around her torso and the top of her head was obscured by a white cap. As his gaze came to rest upon her, she lifted something from her lap—no doubt an item she was meant to be sewing—and set it on the empty bench beside her.
“Yes, madam,” he responded, though at this point, he could not tell whether she was old or young. “How may I be of assistance?”
As he spoke, the people standing in his line of sight stepped aside, affording him a clearer view. At the same time, she pushed the bench and rose with some difficulty to her feet. It was then that he realized two things. The first was that she was heavy with child; within four to six weeks of her confinement if he was any judge. The second was that he knew her.
Oh, not intimately. Nor, in fact, even personally, for they had never
been formally introduced. He had seen her a grand total of three times: once late last November in a hat shop where he’d been shopping for Christmas presents for a multiplicity of female relations; a second time in March when he’d gone to see Edmund and Charles Kean in King Lear at Covent Garden just a few days before the former’s dramatic onstage death; and finally at Vauxhall Gardens in late May or early June. On none of these occasions had they spoken to one another, but he had been informed of her identity by one of his companions on the second occasion and had it confirmed on the third.
There was no chance whatsoever that he was mistaken in his identification, however, despite the glancing nature of their acquaintance. He would have recognized her anywhere, even with her flaming red hair tucked beneath a cap and her perfectly sculpted features grown slightly hollow since last he’d seen her. For Catriona Fergusson was the mistress of The Dishonorable Mr. Charles Burleigh, sitting member of the House of Commons and Noel’s staunchest adversary in advancing his reformist proposals to the floor.
Noel felt as if he had been knocked alongside the head with a croquet mallet—stunned and confused. The child she carried must be Burleigh’s; to all accounts, she had been his paramour for over nine years and the union was considered by all who knew them to be the love match that his mercenary marriage was not. And yet, here she was, in St. James’ Parish Workhouse, which clearly signified not only that her association with Burleigh had come to an end but that it had come to a disastrous one. He could think of only one reason for a man to turn out his pregnant mistress in disgrace and without upkeep, and yet, he could not credit it.
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