Sex and morality in the novels of Georgette Heyer, by Leslie Wilson

Two strings to her bow, by John Pettie

To those who dread spoilers: there are some in here, because one can hardly discuss books without giving away some of the plot. However, with Georgette Heyer it's clear that the heroine will get her man at the end of each and every one. The fascination is in how this is achieved. So I'm not apologising!

To start with: I love Georgette Heyer's work. She's given me hours of pleasure, and I return to her over and over again. I love her wit, her elegant style, and respect the depth of her research.

On the other hand, I'm interested in history and the ways in which history is represented, and also interested in the Georgian era, and this makes me, in my leisure hours, inclined to cast an analytical eye on the way in which she has processed the knowledge she has; and today I want to talk about the sexual world of her novels.

Much though I like and admire Heyer's work, I would never class her with Jane Austen; she could never lay claim to having made significant breakthroughs in narrative technique, as Austen did. On the other hand, she does seem to inhabit the same moral world as Austen does; the end of her novels is a happy marriage, and her heroines are always virtuous.

Vittorio Reggiani: The Unconditional Lover

Indeed, they're almost all virgins, the only exceptions being the few whose marital trials are the subject of the novel, the heroines of 'April Lady', 'The Convenient Marriage', and 'A Civil Contract'. You could say of Horry ('The Convenient Marriage) and Nell (April Lady) that they are characterised by a kind of emotional virginity; but this is not the case with Jenny in 'A Civil Contract', and it's significant that only in this novel does Heyer, just briefly, speak of what goes on in the bedroom. 'Jenny was sometimes shy, but never shrinking.' Jenny is rather different, and far less of a commedia-del-arte character, than most of Heyer's heroines. She is down to earth and determined, and I've always felt that, if her husband is more experienced in bed, she is the one who makes the whole thing possible.

Oh - I've forgotten Juana in 'The Spanish Bride', probably because though I have read the book I didn't like it much. Heyer thought her novels were best when she gave way to her passion for military history. I don't. Here Heyer does say: 'She never denied him the comfort of her body.' Poor Juana, being woken up from deep sleep after the end of an exhausting day, and having to make love whether she felt like it or not!  If I've forgotten anyone else, do tell me.

Then there's Hero in 'Friday's Child.' I think she is definitely a virgin all the way through, and then there's Elinor in 'The Reluctant Widow', a novel I adore because of the humour. Her marriage is unconsummated, and just as well for her.

Regency Proposal; eighteenth-century woodcut

Leonie, who is brought up dressed as a boy (presumably to avoid rape) in 'These Old Shades', says 'Me, I am not very innocent,' but of course this refers to the things she has seen, not what she has experienced. Likewise, Prudence in 'The Masqueraders' has often dressed as a boy but has also retained her virtue - somewhat nauseatingly, (to me, at least) this is equated with never having been kissed. These heroines know, of course, about 'the muslin company,' meaning everything from prostitutes to courtesans, and they're almost all relaxed about these ladies' existence (Hero, of course, earns herself a box on the ear by referring to Opera dancers in public) - but they inhabit a different world.

But the men, on the other hand - and this is a major difference between Heyer and Austen. Of course we don't know if Austen's heroes are virgins when they take her heroines to bed. I can't believe it of Colonel Brandon, because of his advanced years, and I do wonder particularly about Frederick Wentworth, but this may be unfair, since it's only because he's a sailor. Austen was fairly relaxed about the existence of courtesans and adulterers in private life, though they and their male partners get slammed in her books. Frank Churchill probably has had mistresses in keeping. I'm sure Austen thought so. But she generally indicates that her heroes are men of good reputation. I do sometimes wonder though, what exactly that signifies. At least they don't have expensive mistresses and flaunt them.

Heyer's men frequently have mistresses in keeping at the start of the novel, and they're often flaunted big-time; sometimes they have just dismissed them, like Beaumaris in 'Arabella.' Or they have pasts, in which tarts with a heart of gold sometimes figure, faded 'cosy armfuls' who do them a favour and acknowledge that they've now turned virtuous. Then there's the Duke of Avon in 'These Old Shades. 'Behind me lies scandal upon sordid scandal,' he says, and in the early pages of the novel, he takes Leonie (who he knows is a girl) to a brothel, though he does suddenly realise what he's doing and sends her to wait for him downstairs. The seeds of redemption are already germinating in his heart.

Whereas Austen is cynical (I feel justifiably so) about the chance of a rake's redemption through the love of a good woman, and her heroines escape the likes of William Elliot or Henry Crawford, Heyer's novels abound in rakes just waiting to be reformed by her heroines. At least, they're reformed characters at the time the inevitable bear-hug takes place (I always find these 'crushing embraces' rather anaphrodisiac myself. Give me Peter Wimsey's 'Tu m'enivres!' any day.) I do wonder whether Avon, Alverstoke, et al do really remain faithful to their wives. Of course Venetia, in the eponymous novel, is quite calm about that possibility: 'It would be quite unreasonable to wish you to change all your habits,' she says to Lord Damerel.

Maybe Heyer was herself quite relaxed about husbands pursuing 'adventures? To her, the most important ingredient in romance was friendship, and this comes out, again and again in the novels. To share jokes, to be co-conspirators (sometimes against the world), to be comfortable with each other  is the crucial thing - far more important than the heroes' heroic physique and handsome face (anyway, they're not all Apollos).

Marcus Stone: The End of the Story

What are beyond the pale, though, are any 'natural' children. 'Children of your own?' the country doctor asks Alverstoke. 'Not to my knowledge,' his Lordship replies. And this at an era when courtesans often took their curren protectors' surnames and bore them children. Harriette Wilson was infertile, but her sister and rival Amy had children. This was also a time when noble lords often knew that only their eldest son was their own. This policy had its shortcomings, as the heir sometimes died, like Lady Melbourne's eldest son. So the next Lord Melbourne was William Lamb, later Victoria's Prime Minister, who was generally supposed to be Lord Egremont's son. Lord Alverstoke has had 'liaisons' with society women (though Heyer fuzzes this, leaving it hanging in the air whether these were only flirtations). In reality, of course, he would have bedded Cyprians and noble ladies alike, and  might well have planted his seed in some well-born household, not to mention giving his courtesans children as well as diamond necklaces.

'Natural children' indeed, are the sticking-point in the courtship of Sir Waldo Hawkridge and Miss Ancilla Trent ('The Nonesuch'). She believes him to be taking care of a squad of them and thus would as readily think of becoming his mistress as his wife. There's an oddness about this: one could almost infer that men who did the decent thing by their natural children (as did Harriet Smith's father in 'Emma') were deemed to be more immoral than those who abandoned them.


Actually, it was quite common for men to support their out-of-wedlock children in the Georgian era. Charles James Fox did. I think I'm right that the Duke of Devonshire introduced at least one into his household, and the Duchess's daughter by Mr Grey was looked after in his family. Dido Belle, the illegitimate niece of Lord Mansfield, was brought up almost as a daughter, and she was mixed-race, too.

So why are illegitimate children so offensive in Georgette Heyer that they need to be suppressed altogether? A modern writer might bring them in, and the heroine might love them as much as Alverstoke loves Frederica's younger brothers.

If this was an essay, I'd have to answer that question myself, but this is a blog, so I lay the matter before you, dear readers. What do YOU think?

All pictures are from Wikimedia Commons and are in the public domain, including in the US. They were also all created post-Regency, which seemed appropriate.

A Visit to Chatsworth - Celia Rees

A couple of weeks ago, I visited Chatsworth for the first time. I went with an old school friend. Neither of us had ever visited but we had always wanted to go. It was a mothers and daughters trip with a friend along as well. A Ladies Excursion, much in the tradition of Jane Austen. In fact, it had  first been mooted after a viewing of Death Comes to Pemberley. A fiction about a fiction had fired a desire to visit the source of such literary inspiration. My friend and I had visited houses as school girls, the ones local to us: Packwood House, Baddersley Clinton, Warwick Castle. In those days, the National Trust wasn't nearly as organised as it is now. There wasn't always a tea room and the shop was the guide to the house and a couple of postcards. Not even any fudge. Some houses were still in private hands and you were shown around for 1/6 by a trusty retainer or sometimes by the owner and had the feeling of rooms just vacated, rather like Lizzie's visit to Pemberley. Things are different now. 

Chatsworth is the stateliest of stately homes. The seat of the Dukes of Devonshire and one of the few really great houses still in family hands. From the moment it comes into view, suddenly brought to you by the artful curve of the drive, it is designed to overawe and impress, to flaunt position, wealth and power. We come to boggle and gawk, just as the visitors did in Austen's day. The interior is as grand and elegant as the Baroque exterior, from the great entrance hall to the glitter and gleam of the dining table that seems to go off to infinity. 

I find it almost impossible to imagine what it would have been like to live in such a place. The Devonshires have a mini British Museum in the Chapel Corridor, complete with an enormous Roman foot and two life size statues of the Egyptian Lion Goddess, Sekhmet. They even have their own sculpture gallery, not to mention paintings by Rembrandt, Gainsborough, Singer Sargent, Renoir and Lucian Freud. The family is still collecting, adding contemporary pieces to the historic collection. 

 It is rare to see such art and artefacts in private hands. The wealth that could acquire and own such things is as awesome as the items themselves.  

Whenever I visit a house, grand or not, there is always something that snags my attention.  Usually, it's something that I didn't anticipate, that I didn't expect to see. At Chatsworth it was the Mineral Collection. It wasn't that I was surprised to see a collection of fossils and minerals, collecting was a popular pursuit in the 18th and 19th Century in the spirit of the Enlightenment and scientific enquiry, what surprised me was that this was the collection of Georgiana, first wife of the 5th Duke of Devonshire, famous beauty and socialite, who I had previously associated with Keira Knightley and big hair. 

I, too, am interested in minerals and fossils. It is not an interest shared by everybody, my companions had moved on smartly. As I examined the specimens, I felt an entirely unexpected kinship with the notorious duchess. It made a kind of sense. Many of the minerals were beautiful and valuable, precious and semi precious, but it was not just that. This is Derbyshire, the Devonshire wealth came as much from under the ground as above it. 

In a house like this, there is only so much you can absorb. It was time for the shop and tearooms before moving on to the gardens.