Why Historicals?

I've been asked this question more than once since revealing that I am writing a historical romance novel (and as often from other romance novelists as from non-writers), so I figure it must be a fairly common one. The question is usually prefaced by one of the following observations:

1. I could never write a historical. The research just seems so daunting.
2. I could never write a historical. The research would bore me to tears.
3. I could never write a historical. The research takes too long.

Are you sensing a pattern here, LOL? Now, I'm not dissing on writers who choose contemporary or paranormal or chick lit or any other romance-related genre because they don't want to do the research it takes to write a historical. (Frankly, I'd find the amount of world-building it takes to write a satisfying paranormal much more intimidating, but I digress.) But I do think an interest in and a willingness to do research (though perhaps less than some folks imagine) is an essential characteristic of the historical romance novelist. And it doesn't surprise me that it's something I enjoy.

You see, in one of my former lives, I was a Classicist. I spent five years as an undergraduate and another three as a graduate student studying Greek and Latin literature, as well as classical history, religion, art history, and archaeology. Which means I spent a lot of time doing research. And I loved it. It was fascinating, marvelous stuff. So much that I fully expected to be a Classics professor at some rinky-dink college somewhere in the midwest until I could work my way up to a full professorship at a more prestigious institution.

What happened, you ask? Life! I met my husband when I was home for Christmas in 1989 and we married the following year. I was done with my masters at that point and started to work on my dissertation proposal when the economy struck. My husband took a big pay cut and I had to go to work full time. And the rest, as they say, is history. I took off on a new career path in technical writing and instructional design and never looked back. (Well, almost never. When I hears a technique for reading previously illegible portions of the Oxyrhynchus Papyrus had been discovered and expanded by roughly 20% the codex of ancient literature, I was mightily tempted. Unfortunately, it would probably take me several years just to get my Greek and Latin back up to snuff. You lose a lot in 15 years!)

Now, I don't write historicals just because it gives me an opportunity to do research. The truth is, I just find it much easier to create sexual tension and conflict in a historical setting where good girls really don't, social status is much more rigidly defined, and the rules are stricter and much more stringently adhered to. I can't dream up a contemporary story line to save my life. Historical story lines pop into my head on an almost daily basis.

But the research is a part of what I enjoy. I don't research every single aspect of my story's setting, of course. I wouldn't ever get any writing done if I did that. Instead, I write until I hit a point where I realize I don't know how the actors should behave (e.g., the etiquette of calling cards) or whether some historical event might conflict with a detail in my story (e.g., the date of Queen Victoria's marriage to Prince Albert). Then I look up what I need to know, read it, deal with it, and move on.

One aspect of my story I did have to do a bit more research on, however, was British horseracing in the early Victorian period. My hero is an Irish racehorse trainer, my heroine a breeder. Initially, this was merely a conceit to bring together two people who would otherwise never know one another: a working class man and the daughter of duke. But it quickly became an important and essential part of the story. I still don't know as much as I'd like to about British horseracing during that period, but I've come across some fascinating historical details that completely validated some aspects of my plot that I'd been a bit concerned might be implausible.

One of those details is that the hero's former employer substituted an ineligible horse for an eligible one by claiming the ineligible horse was the eligible one. (How's that for a convoluted sentence?) I wasn't sure this was feasible, however, until a few weeks ago when I discovered that the winner of the Derby in 1844 was disqualified for exactly this reason. And since my story is set in 1839, the facts line up almost perfectly. The character in the story initially gets away with his fraud until it is revealed at the end, after which the Jockey Club (horseracing's governing body) will be more alert in future. Which is perfect when mated with this little piece of historical fact (from http://www.tbheritage.com/Portraits/Gladiator.html):

It was a Gladiator colt of 1840, MACCABEUS, who was used by his unscrupulous owner, Goodman Levy, to run in Orlando's Derby of 1844, substituted for the three year old Running Rein. Maccabeaus (a.k.a. Running Rein in this race) won, but subsequent inquiries in the notorious court case following the protests lodged by Orlando's owner, Colonel Peel, proved "Running Rein" to be the four year old Gladiator colt. Lord George Bentinck, a member of the Jockey Club, who had declared war on the crooks and defaulters of the turf in that era, was instrumental in exposing the fraud and pursuing those involved in the deception.

It's a case of fiction filling in a missing piece of fact. Which totally tickles me.

After I learned about Maccabeus, one of my critique partners came across an even more fascinating detail about Bloomsbury, the winner of the Derby in 1839. It turns out there was a kerfuffle over that horse's eligibility to race on the grounds that his nominating papers incorrectly identified his sire. Better than that, Bloomsbury's owner when he won the Derby was also his trainer, a Mr. William Ridsdale. And just like that, the following scene was born:

“I understand you were at Epsom Downs for the Derby, Mr. O’Brien. Do I have that a’right?”

Patrick snapped his gaze to Viscount Hamptondale. The gentleman regarded him with friendly brown eyes. He did not appear to have noticed Patrick’s moony-eyed reverie. “Aye.”

“Perhaps you could explain to me, then, the rumpus over Bloomsbury’s pedigree. It was in the papers, of course, but then I gather the matter was dropped and I never quite understood the problem.”

Patrick’s gloom lifted a fraction. The question of Bloomsbury’s parentage had been the scandal of the Derby. “’Twas a problem in the nomination papers Ridsdale originally filed for the race. They didn’t match the General Stud Book.”

Hamptondale’s forehead wrinkled. “I gathered as much from the newspaper reports, but as I understood it, Ridsdale named one horse as Bloomsbury’s sire while two are listed in the book. But since the sire he named is one of the two in the book, I’m at a loss to understand why this would be grounds for disqualification.”

“’Tis a matter of verifying a horse’s eligibility to race. Since only listed animals are eligible to race, nomination must be precise to ensure accuracy. When Ridsdale entered Bloomsbury with Mulatto as his sire, rather than Mulatto or Tramp as in
the stud book, it raised the possibility that the horse entered was not the one listed in the book.”

“It seems a petty matter. Does it happen often that breeders enter ineligible horses under false pedigrees?”

Patrick felt the sting of righteous indignation in the center of his chest, along with the corresponding salve of his soon-to-be-delivered retribution. “Aye, it happens. And I’m sorry to say the perpetrators are rarely caught.”

“Do you think Mr. Ridsdale is guilty of such a crime, or merely of having made a mistake?” This query came from Lady Hamptondale. She regarded him with wide, aquamarine eyes so like Rosalind’s, he was briefly jolted by the resemblance.

He shrugged. “I could not say, my lady. I can say there are not many who consider Mr. Ridsdale and his brother to be a beneficial influence on the sport.”

“And why is that, Mr. O’Brien?” Aylsbridge drawled icily. His contempt was palpable.

Patrick gritted his teeth and swung his gaze to his host. Although he doubted the Hamptondales or Lady Cordelia understood the duke’s implication, Patrick did. Robert and William Ridsdale were commoners. The former had made his fortune as a gambler, the latter as a racehorse trainer. Their honesty was naturally suspect. As was Patrick’s.

“It is because they have shown themselves unworthy of trust by their behavior, your grace. As have other breeders I could name, were I so inclined.” Starting with Ashbourne. Suddenly, Patrick discovered one more reason to relish Ashbourne’s well-deserved fall from grace: a certain duke’s comeuppance.

“But you are not inclined,” Aylsbridge returned, his eyebrow arching skeptically.

“No, your grace. After all, I believe gentlemen do not disparage one another unless they can substantiate their criticisms.”

Aylsbridge lifted his glass and tilted it in Patrick’s direction, the tiniest hint of a smile touching his lips. “Touché, O’Brien. Touché.”

Now, a question for my beloved readers (all three of you :->): Does it matter to you whether your historical novels contain elements of historical fact like these, or do you care more about the feel of the historical setting? Does it bother you if the author makes up historical facts or alters them to suit her story?

N.B.: This has relevance to Living in Sin, since I have already altered history by having a non-existent filly place second in the Oaks in 1839 and need to have her win another race at the end of the story. And one of the things I'm still chewing over is whether to have her win a real race and thereby rewrite history or whether to invent a race and thereby add a fictional race to a well-documented race history. Tough choice!