The Reformation appears to have put paid to many of these practices in England. In the seventeenth century, the introduction of Guy Fawkes Day—a commemoration of the 1605 plot to blow up king and Parliament—meant that the bonfires moved a few days, to November 5. Elements of the older holiday remained in rural communities in England, with bonfires, carved turnip lanterns, bobbing for apples, and other traditions that varied by locale, but the gentry did not observe these rituals. Halloween, as we understand it, would have been unknown to Miss Sally Fitzhugh or the Duke of Belliston, although they might have been aware of the superstitions attached to the night as practiced by the tenants on their estates.
The modern holiday of Halloween, with its costumes, jack-o’-lanterns, and trick-or-treating, is generally held to be a mid-nineteenth-century Irish export to America. For those wishing to know more about the history of Halloween, I recommend Lisa Morton’s Trick or Treat: A History of Halloween.
The vampire, however, would not have been unknown in early-nineteenth-century London. While we associate the vampire myth with Bram Stoker’s 1897 novel, Dracula, the legend of these bloodsucking creatures of the night goes back much further. The eighteenth century saw vampire panic in various outposts of the Austrian empire. In his Dictionnaire Philosophique of 1764, Voltaire includes this précis of the vampire: “These vampires were corpses, who went out of their graves at night to suck the blood of the living, either at their throats or stomachs, after which they returned to their cemeteries. The persons so sucked waned, grew pale, and fell into consumption; while the sucking corpses grew fat, got rosy, and enjoyed an excellent appetite.” Sounds pretty familiar, doesn’t it?
The vampire legend pops up in English literature at the beginning of the nineteenth century. Although many refer to Byron’s 1813 The Giaour as the beginning of the vampire in popular literature in England, his is not the first bloodsucker on the page. Robert Southey’s 1801 epic poem Thalaba the Destroyer includes a vampire, followed, in 1810, by John Stagg’s The Vampyre. In his introduction to his poem, Stagg explains that his work “is founded on an opinion or report which prevailed in Hungary, and several parts of Germany, towards the beginning of the last century: It was then asserted, that, in several places, dead persons had been known to leave their graves, and, by night, to revisit the habitations of their friends; whom, by suckosity, they drained of their blood as they slept. The person thus phlebotomised was sure to become a Vampyre in their turn; and if it had not been for a lucky thought of the clergy, who ingeniously recommended staking them in their graves, we should by this time have had a greater swarm of blood-suckers than we have at present, numerous as they are.” But the vampire (and his “suckosity”) really came into his own in England in 1819, when Lord Byron’s physician, Polidori, made waves with the first vampire novel, named—wait for it—The Vampyre.
Miss Gwen, of course, is highly indignant that Polidori gets the credit for the first vampire novel when her Convent of Orsino came out thirteen years earlier. She attributes this to the male bias in critical literary studies.
Moving away from the occult, I owe one last historical mea culpa. On the back cover of the novel, the autumnal social whirl is referred to as “the Little Season.” That term came into use only later on in the century, as a means of differentiating the September to November social season from the Season proper in the spring. However, since it has become a commonplace in novels set during the period that the Season takes place during the spring, I was afraid that if I didn’t make clear that we were in the social subseason, there would be pointing of fingers and cries of “But that’s not the right time for the Season!”
In fact, the Season was something of a moving target. The Season developed as a means of entertaining those eminences who came to town to do their duty in Parliament, which meant that the Season tended to overlap with the parliamentary sessions. From the eighteenth century through the early nineteenth century, this meant that there was just one Season that ran from roughly October to May. Starting around about 1806, the Season began to gradually shift later and later, with the opening of Parliament pushing back from November to December to January, until, by 1822, the opening of Parliament and, with it, the Season had settled into the stretch between February and July. By the middle of the nineteenth century, one had two official social loci: the Season, which took place during the spring and summer, and the Little Season in the autumn.
One final note: Despite what Eloise may have said in that last chapter, Sir Percy Blakeney, aka the Scarlet Pimpernel, was not, in fact, a genuine historical character.
I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions about the veracity of the Pink Carnation (whose book is coming up next).
Photo © Sigrid Estrada
The author of ten previous Pink Carnation novels, Lauren Willig received a graduate degree in English history from Harvard University and a JD from Harvard Law School, though she now writes full-time. Willig lives in New York City.
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A CONVERSATION WITH
LAUREN WILLIG
Q. Wasn’t this book supposed to be about the Pink Carnation?
A. As those of you who follow me on my Web site know, Pink XI was originally meant to be about the Pink Carnation. It seemed like such a tidy end to the series: Miss Gwen’s book followed by Jane’s.
And then circumstances intervened.
Part of it was Sally’s fault. I had always intended to write a book about Sally Fitzhugh. If Turnip had a book, Sally had to have one too. It was, Miss Fitzhugh informed me, non-negotiable. But I had meant for Sally’s book, like Turnip’s, to be a Christmas book, out of the structure of the official series. There were just a few problems with this. Turnip went with Christmas like mistletoe with pudding. But Sally . . . didn’t. I plotted and I planned, but that Christmas book just wouldn’t come together. I tried to set her up with a relation of Lord Vaughn. I threw in pipers piping and geese a-laying.
I should have remembered Sally’s feelings about poultry. . . . Any holiday that included multiple species of birds was not for her. She flatly refused the partridge and became quite rude about the French hens.
Halloween, on the other hand, suited Sally beautifully. Counting my two stand-alone novels, The Mark of the Midnight Manzanilla is my thirteenth book. I couldn’t resist the idea of writing a Halloween book for number thirteen. (Black cat sold separately.) And, ever so conveniently, by the end of The Passion of the Purple Plumeria, Miss Gwen had just written the best seller of 1806, The Convent of Orsino. For a very long time (we’re talking circa 2006), I had been itching to write a vampire spoof, transposed to the early nineteenth century. Having Miss Gwen as the author of the 1806 equivalent of Twilight provided me with the perfect opportunity to get in a little vampire mockery.
Also, if I ended the series on Pink XI, it would be an odd number, which would make the display of covers on my website uneven. Twelve was a much more symmetrical number. Twelve Pink books. It had a nice ring to it.
There were also some less-frivolous reasons. The Pink Carnation’s book needs to take place, for various historical reasons, in late 1807. The Passion of the Purple Plumeria is set in the spring of 1805. That’s a big gap. I also wanted us, before the series ends, to get a last visit with some of our old characters. Jane’s book, for the same historical reasons mentioned above, takes place in Portugal, a long way from London, the Vaughns, Turnip, and the rest of the gang. It seemed hard to end the series without getting to see a little bit more of them. Meanwhile, in the modern part of the story, Eloise and Colin needed a little more time to get their affairs in order.
All of these were factors in the balance. The final decider? Real life took its toll. I knew that I was going to be writing Pink XI on a tight deadline, with a newborn. I hadn’t had much experience with newborns, but I knew enough to realize that they genera
lly involve a lack of sleep and something called “baby brain.” I did not want to tackle Jane Wooliston’s book with baby brain. Thirteenth book plus baby brain sounded like very bad luck, indeed. . . .
And that, my friends, is how Sally Fitzhugh got her book.
Q. When will we finally have the Pink Carnation’s story?
A. This is it, folks. The end of the line. Pink XII, aka The Next Book, aka The Something Something Moonflower, will be Jane’s book and the last book in the series. It’s been a much longer run than I had ever imagined—at one point, the idea that the series would stretch to six books would have boggled my brain—but it’s time to wrap things up.
The nice thing about taking the time to write Sally’s story in between is that it gave me an extra year for the details of Jane’s story to percolate and mull. The series has been building to this book for a long time, so I want us to go out with a bang!
Q. Does that mean no more Pink books after Pink XII?
A. I’m not ruling out the prospect of Pink spin-offs. I still have a number of characters, like Kat and Tommy, whom I’d like to see settled, and I’ve wanted, for a very long time, to write a mystery novel featuring Colin and Eloise. I’m also itching to do a novella about Jane in that missing time between the end of Purple Plumeria and the beginning of her book. On the other hand, I’m committed to writing two more stand-alone novels (the next one, set in the 1920s, will be coming out in 2015), so it all depends on how quickly the prose flows and how much extra time I can carve out to play with my old Pink friends.
Q. Did what I think happened with Eloise and Colin happen with Eloise and Colin?
A. You’ll just have to wait for the next book to find out! But I will say this: that was not how I intended the last chapter of this book to end. There I was, pounding away at the keyboard, swigging my second decaf venti skim peppermint mocha of the morning, convinced that I knew where that scene was going—when Colin surprised me as well as Eloise.
You will, however, be relieved to know that Colin isn’t renting out Selwick Hall after all. We’ll see him and Eloise back there in Pink XII. . . .
QUESTIONS FOR
DISCUSSION
1. The Duke of Belliston’s introduction in the novel is shrouded in mystery and distorted by fantastical gossip about him being a vampire. Did this color your initial perception of him? Or do you think the mysteriousness of his character made him more intriguing?
2. “Just because the man scorns society doesn’t mean that he’s an unholy creature of the night.” Even before Sally has met the duke, she defends him from the slanderous gossip of the ton. What do you think this says about the type of person she is?
3. How do you think the deaths of Lucien’s parents and his strained relations with the surviving members of his family shaped his character? How does his family situation impact his relationship with Sally?
4. Lucien and Sally are both very strong-willed individuals who prefer to be in control of various situations that arise. Do you think that either of them has the upper hand in their relationship at the beginning? Do you feel that the power dynamic between them changes over the course of the story? How do you think this will this affect their relationship going forward?
5. Do you think Sally and Lucien make a good couple? What about each of them makes them perfectly suited for each other? What makes them perhaps not perfectly suited?
6. Discuss Lucien’s motivations for running away to the Americas in the aftermath of his parents’ deaths. Do you think his fears were justifiable? If he had stayed (and tried to avenge his parents’ deaths), do you think he would have grown up to be the same man? How do you think he will make amends for his actions moving forward with Sally by his side?
7. Initially, who did you think was actually responsible for the murder of Lucien’s parents? Were you surprised when the real villain was revealed at the end? What were some of the clues that might have pointed to the real villain?
8. Why do you think Colin was initially so distant toward Eloise when he came to visit her? If you were her friend, what advice would you have given her? Were you caught off guard when he proposed to her at the end?
9. Why do you think Miss Gwen suggested that Lucien and Sally enter into a false engagement? Do you think she perceived their budding feelings for each other and was trying to “help things along”?
10. “You’re a one-woman cavalry charge! It doesn’t matter if it’s a windmill at the other end. You’ll tilt at it anyway, because: You. Don’t. Stop. To. Look. Everyone else’s troubles are just so much fodder for your entertainment. Never mind the toes you might tread on in the process.” Do you think Lucien’s accusations are true? Would you like Sally’s character as much if she were less meddlesome and officious? Or do you think that’s part of what makes Sally so endearing and lovable?
11. Just what do you think Sally has against chickens?
12. What do you think Sally gains from her relationship with her pet, Lady Florence? Does the stoat provide some sort of emotional support?
13. What do you think of Sally’s relationship with Lizzy and Agnes? At the beginning of the book, their friendship is undergoing a change as they move from their school days to their new positions in the outside world. Do you think those bonds will stand the test of their changing circumstances?
14. Even though the Pink Carnation is offstage in this book, what do you think she might be up to? Do you think she and Miss Gwen are still working together in some capacity?
15. At the end of the book, Eloise thinks to herself that “the best things sometimes happened by accident.” Do you think this is generally true of life, or do you think things turn out better when they’re planned?
Don’t miss the last novel in the bestselling
Pink Carnation series by Lauren Willig
The Lure of
the Moonflower
Available from New American Library in Summer 2015.
Lisbon, 1807
The mood in the Rossio Square was nasty.
The agent known as the Moonflower blended into the crowd, just one anonymous man among many, just another sullen face beneath the brim of a hat pulled down low against the December rain. The crowd grumbled and shifted as the Portuguese royal standard made its slow descent from the pinnacle of São João Castle, but the six thousand French soldiers massed in the square put an effective stop to louder expressions of discontent. In the windows of the tall houses that framed the square, the Moonflower could see curtains twitch, as hostile eyes looked down on the display put on by the conqueror.
The French claimed to come as liberators, but the liberated didn’t seem any too happy about it.
As the royal standard disappeared from view and the tricolore rose triumphant above the square, the Moonflower heard a woman sob and a man mutter something rather uncomplimentary about his new French overlords.
The Moonflower might have stayed to listen—listening, after all, was his job—but he had another task today.
He was here to meet his new contact.
That was all he had been told: Proceed to Rossio Square and await further instructions. He would know his contact by the code phrase: “The eagle nests only once.”
Who in the hell came up with these lines?
Once, just once, he would appreciate a phrase that didn’t involve dogs barking at midnight or doves flying by day.
The message had given no hint as to the new agent’s identity; it never did. Names were dangerous in their line of work.
The Moonflower had gone by many names in his twenty-seven years.
Jaisal, his mother had called him, when she had called him anything at all. The French had called him Moonflower, just one of their many flower-named spies, a web of agents stretching from Madras to Calcutta, from London to Lyons. He’d counted himself lucky; he might as easily have been the Hydrangea. Moonflower, at least, had a certain ring to it. In Lisbon, he was
Alarico, a wastrel who tossed dice by the waterfront; in the Portuguese provinces, he went by Rodrigo, Rodrigo the seller of baubles and trader of horses.
His father’s people knew him as Jack. Jack Reid, black sheep, turncoat, and renegade.
Jack turned up the collar of his jacket, surveying the scene, keeping an eye out for likely faces.
Might it be the dangerous-looking bravo with the knife he was using to pick his teeth?
No. He looked too much like a spy to be a spy. In Jack’s line of work, anonymity was key. Smoldering machismo and resentment tended to attract unwanted attention.
There was a great deal of smoldering in the crowd. Since the French had marched into Lisbon, two weeks since, with a ragtag force that could scarcely have conquered a missionary society, they had proceeded to make themselves unpleasant, requisitioning houses, looting stores, demanding free drinks.
The people of Lisbon simmered and stewed. This lowering of the standard, this public exhibition of dominance, was all that was needed to place torch to tinder. Jack wouldn’t be surprised if there were riots before the day was out.
Riots, yes. Rebellion, no. For rebellion, one needed not just a cause, but a leader, and that was exactly what they didn’t have right now. The Portuguese court had hopped on board the remaining ships of their fleet and scurried off to the Americas, well out of the way of danger, leaving their people to suffer the indignities of invasion.