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Lesbian Historic Motif Podcast - Episode 285 – Poetry about Love between Women from the 19th Century - transcript

(Originally aired 2024/04/21 - listen here)

Introduction

This episode completes my tour of (mostly English-language) poetry about love between women across the centuries, bringing us up through the 19th century. When I compiled the earlier poetry episodes, I could be rather all-encompassing in my selections. I included almost everything I could find that had some relation to same-sex love, regardless of the gender of the author, whether they had any direct participation in same-sex relationships, and whether the theme of the work was positive.

But in the 19th century, we have such an abundance of material that I found myself being a lot choosier. One big difference is that more women writers are being published generally, regardless of genre. Poems that once might have had only small private audiences, and perhaps been lost to posterity, are now being published in magazines, anthologies, and personal collections. So for this 19th century episode, I chose to exclude male authors.

I also was able to prioritize poems by women who participated in same-sex romantic relationships, even though they may also have been in heterosexual marriages. Not every poet I include here falls in that category, but the majority do. I focus on poems that are fairly overt in their romantic or erotic themes—another shift in what posterity is allowed to see of women’s writing. For the most part I include only one work by each author.

While there were some clear shifts in theme and content across the course of the century, I’ve organized the poems thematically, first by content and the authors attitude toward it, and then finishing by looking at two “communities” of poets who addressed poems to each other or were romantically involved with each other.

Poems of Admiration

My first topic is poems of admiration—one woman describing or addressing another in glowing terms that verge on the romantic but perhaps are not explicit about it. In these two examples, we have no direct evidence that the poets had same-sex relationships, so we might take these works as establishing a baseline for the sort of language and imagery that was considered unremarkable.

Eliza Mary Hamilton was an Irish poet whose family connections intersected with poets such as William Wordsworth and Samuel Taylor Coleridge. She published several individual poems under her initials E.M.H. and a single collected volume came out in 1838. Her poem “A Young Girl Seen in Church” conveys that electric connection one may feel for a stranger, even if the matter goes no further than admiration.

A Young Girl Seen in Church

Was she an orphan? —can another grief
So wholly chasten? —can another woe
So sanctify? —for she was (as a leaf
Of hue funereal mid the Spring's young glow)
Robed in emphatic black: —the soul of night
Filled her rich simply-parted ebon hair,
And raven eye-lashes, and made her bright
With solemn lustre day can never wear.
Two younger buds, a sister at each side,
Like little moon-lit clouds beside the moon,
Which up the sky's majestic temple glide,
Clad darkly too, she led, —but music soon
Moved over her, and like a breeze of heaven,
Shook from her lips the fragrance of her soul, —
And then, the thoughts with which my heart had striven,
Spoke in my gaze, and would not brook control.
I bent upon her my astonished eye,
That glowed, I felt, with an expression full
Of all that love which dares to deify, —
That adoration of the beautiful
Which haunts the poet, —I forgot the sighs
Of whispered prayer around me, and the page
Of hope divine, and the eternal eyes
That look through every heart, in every place and age.
I gazed and gazed as though she were a star,
Unconscious and unfallen, which shone above, afar.—
But eloquently grave, a crimson cloud
Of deep disquietude her cheek o'erspread
With exquisite rebuke; —and then I bowed
Like hers my earnest looks and conscious head,
Ashamed to have disturbed the current meek
Of her translucent thoughts, and made them flow
Painfully earthward. But she veiled that cheek, —
Veiled even its sweet reproach and sacred glow,
Like those pure flowers too sensitive to brook
Noon's burning eye, and its oppressive look,
That shut, in beautiful displeasure, up
Each brilliant petal of their heart's deep cup.

Mary Russell Mitford was an English author and dramatist—a neighbor and acquaintance of Jane Austen, and at one point her writing was the primary financial support of her parents. She was a friend of Elizabeth Barrett Browning (though I haven’t included her in the later section of this show that covers Browning’s circle). She doesn’t appear to have married, perhaps due to the need to support and care for her parents. This poem from 1827, titled “Written in a Blank-Paper Book Given to the Author by a Friend” reflects the close friendship-circles that most literary women enjoyed, as well as the effusive language of those friendships.

Written in a Blank-Paper Book Given to the Author by a Friend

My little book, as o'er thy page so white,
With half-closed eyes in idlest mood I lean,
Whose is the form that rises still between
Thy page and me,—a vision of delight?
Look on those eyes by the bright soul made bright;
Those curls, which who Antinous' bust hath seen
Hath loved; that shape which might beseem a queen;
That blush of purity; that smile of light.
'Tis she! my little book dost thou not own
Thy mistress? She it is, the only she!
Dost thou not listen for the one sweet tone
Of her unrivalled voice? Dost thou not see
Her look of love, for whose dear sake alone,
My little book, thou art so dear to me?

Allusive and Playful

The admiration women were free to express towards each other could be playful or could allude to themes of marriage and partnership without being read as erotic or sexual. Many of Emily Dickinson’s poems use language that is strongly romantic and sensual. Interpreted in the light of her close emotional bonds with her sister-in-law Susan Gilbert, modern scholarship generally accepts the categorization as love poems. I picked two of her verses—they’re short!—one somewhat melancholy as if the wedding it refers to ended sadly—and one full of energy and passion. Both were written in the early 1860s during her most prolific period.

Ourselves were wed one summer—dear—
Your Vision—was in June—
And when Your little Lifetime failed,
I wearied—too—of mine—

And overtaken in the Dark—
Where You had put me down—
By Some one carrying a Light—
I—too—received the Sign.

'Tis true—Our Futures different lay—
Your Cottage—faced the sun—
While Oceans—and the North must be—
On every side of mine

'Tis true, Your Garden led the Bloom,
For mine—in Frosts—was sown—
And yet, one Summer, we were Queens—
But You—were crowned in June—

This second poem provided the title for a rather delightful biographical movie about Dickinson.

Wild nights - Wild nights!
Were I with thee
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!

Futile - the winds -
To a Heart in port -
Done with the Compass -
Done with the Chart!

Rowing in Eden -
Ah - the Sea!
Might I but moor - tonight -
In thee!

Louise Guiney was an American poet and essayist who lived primarily in Boston and Providence, but later in life moved to England. This poem “Private Theatricals”, written in 1884, evokes the playful, coded, “are they or aren’t they” game of women who have become self-aware that their desires aren’t entirely socially acceptable.

Private Theatricals

You were a haughty beauty, Polly
       (That was in the play),
I was the lover melancholy
       (That was in the play);
And when your fan and you receded,
And all my passion lay unheeded,
If still with tenderer words I pleaded,
       They were in the play.

I met my rival in the gateway
       (That was in the play),
And so we fought a duel straightaway
       (That was in the play);
But when Jack hurt my arm unduly,
And you rushed over, softened newly,
And kissed me, Polly! truly, truly,
       Was that in the play?

Partnership

The 19th century encompassed the flourishing and celebration of women’s partnerships, under the labels of “romantic friendship” or “Boston marriages” or other terms. When women’s aspirations lay in literary or academic fields, a female partner might understand and support those aspirations far beyond what one could dream of receiving from a husband. When both partners were poets, we get some fascinating glimpses of their emotional lives together.

My first choice for this section is by Emily Hickey, an Irish poet, author, and translator. After studying at Cambridge, she had a position as lecturer in English language and literature at University College London. Written in 1889, “For Richer, For Poorer” is packed full of religious imagery—Hickey was prolific on the subject, especially after converting to Catholicism. But it is also packed with marriage imagery while centering a bond between two women. The title comes from marriage liturgy. The inspiration is the parable of the wise and foolish virgins waiting for the arrival of a bridegroom: half brought enough oil for their lamps while half had their lamps go out and missed the party when they had to go get more. And the final lines evoke Ruth and Naomi, who are often seen as icons of love between women. So whether Hickey intended this as a love poem, it can certainly be read that way.

For Richer, For Poorer

"Oh, give us of your oil, our lamps go out;
Your well-fed lamps are clear and bright to see;
And, if we go to buy us oil, maybe,
Far off our ears shall hear the jubilant shout,
"Behold the Bridegroom cometh, zoned about
With utter light and utter harmony. "
Then leave us not to weep continually
In darkness, for our souls' hunger and drought."

Then turned one virgin of the virgins wise
To one among the foolish, with a low
Sweet cry, and looked her, lovelike, in the eyes,
Saying, " My oil is thine; for weal, for woe,
We two are one, and where thou goest I go,
One lot being ours for aye, where'er it lies."

English poets and life-partners Katherine Harris Bradley and Edith Cooper merged their writing careers completely under the pen name “Michael Field”. Their poem “Prologue”, written in 1892, reflects this choice.

Prologue

It was deep April, and the morn
Shakespeare was born;
The world was on us, pressing sore;
My love and I took hands and swore,
Against the world, to be
Poets and lovers evermore,
To laugh and dream on Lethe's shore,
To sing to Charon in his boat,
Heartening the timid souls afloat;
Of judgement never to take heed,
But to those fast-locked souls to speed,
Who never from Apollo fled,
Who spent no hour among the dead;
Continually
With them to dwell,
Indifferent to heaven and hell.

Sarah Orne Jewett and Annie Fields were among the many prominent literary women of New England in the later 19th century. Jewett’s early diaries and letters document a series of romantic relationships with women. She met Annie Fields perhaps in the context of her husband, James T. Fields being editor of the Atlantic Monthly magazine and they two hit it off. After James Fields died, Sarah and Annie moved in together, exchanged rings and vows, and considered themselves married. I offer a poem from each of them about this relationship: Jewett commemorating their act of commitment, written in 1880, and Fields offering a tender, private contemplation of her beloved, 15 years later.

Love and Friendship

Do you remember, darling
   A year ago today
When we gave ourselves to each other
   Before you went away
At the end of that pleasant summer weather
Which we had spent by the sea together?

How little we knew, my darling,
   All that the year would bring!
Did I think of the wretched mornings
   When I should kiss my ring
And long with all my heart to see
The girl who gave the ring to me? …

We have not been sorry darling
   We loved each other so --
We will not take back the promises
  We made a year ago -- …
And so again, my darling
   I give myself to you,
With graver thought than a year ago
   With love that is deep and true.

To --, Sleeping

Beloved, when I saw thee sleeping there,
And watched the tender curving of thy mouth,
The cheek, our home of kisses, the soft hair,
And over all a languor of the south;
And marked thy house of thought, thy forehead, where
All trouble of the earth was then at rest;
And thy dear eyes, a blessing to the blest,
Their ivory gates closed on this world of care, --

Then, then I prayed that never wrong of mine,
That never pain which haunts these earth-built bowers,
If I could hinder, or could aught relieve,
Should ever more make sad this heart of thine;
And yet, dear love, how oft thou leav'st thy flowers,
Here in the rain to walk with me and grieve!

Jane Addams was one of the co-founders of Hull House, a “settlement house,” which was a sort of women’s community center of a type common in the eastern United States in the late 19th century. At a time when she had parted ways with her co-founder, a young woman named Mary Rozet Smith came to work at the institution. This poem recounts their meeting, looking back from 1895, when they had established a romantic partnership and considered themselves married. Some of the language feels a bit “cringe” (as the kids these days call it) talking about “when women attempt the things of men” but the conclusion seems to be that women are not required to choose between devoting themselves to good works and receiving love.

One Day I Came into Hull House

One day I came into Hull House,
(No spirit whispered who was there)
And in the kindergarten room
There sat upon a childish chair
A girl, both tall and fair to see,
(To look at her gives one a thrill).
But all I thought was, would she be
Best fitted to lead club, or drill?
You see, I had forgotten Love,
And only thought of Hull House then.

That is the way with women folks
When they attempt the things of men;
They grow intense, and love the thing
Which they so tenderly do rear,
And think that nothing lies beyond
Which claims from them a smile or tear.
Like mothers, who work long and late
To rear their children fittingly,
Follow them only with their eyes.
And love them almost pityingly.
So I was blind and deaf those years
To all save one absorbing care,
And did not guess what now I know —
Delivering love was sitting there!

Loss

Victorian literature is well known for themes of death, loss, and mourning. Though they aren’t the only era with that fixation. In the episode on 18th century poetry, I noted that there was something of a genre of women separated from their girlfriends lamenting that at least they might be united after death. But in the 19th century poems, they are more likely to be mourning the death or separation from someone they had successfully managed to share their life with.

American poet Katharine Lee Bates is, perhaps, most famous for penning the lyrics to “America the Beautiful.” This poem, “If You Could Come,” was written in the years shortly after 1915 when her partner Katharine Coman died and expresses the desire to be reunited, not in heaven, but here on earth.

If You Could Come

My love, my love, if you could come once more
From your high place,
I would not question you for heavenly lore,
But, silent, take the comfort of your face.

I would not ask you if those golden spheres
In love rejoice,
If only our stained star hath sin and tears,
But fill my famished hearing with your voice.

One touch of you were worth a thousand creeds.
My wound is numb
Through toil-pressed, but all night long it bleeds
In aching dreams, and still you cannot come.

When African-American teacher and correspondent Addie Brown added the poem “Alone” to an 1861 letter to her beloved, Rebecca Primus, they would still have years together, though often separated by economic and career necessity. (One of my earliest podcast episodes was inspired by their lives.)

Alone

Thou art not with me and the hours
All wearily go flitting by
A gloom is on my heart, and brow
That seeks relief in many sigh

I dare not dwell upon the past
Those joyous hours that knew not pain
I dare not ask the coming years
If we shall ever meet again

I only know thou art not here
And life has lost its sweetness to me
And though my lips may wear a smile
My heart is sad and all alone

Erotic

In poetry of earlier centuries, social attitudes towards what topics it was acceptable for women to write about meant that overtly sexual and erotic poems about female couples tended to be penned by men, with all that entails. But in the late 19th century, that barrier falls. Some erotic poems draw from the decadent tradition, depicting lesbian love as dangerous and doomed, others delight in sensual imagery.

It’s something of a theme in this episode to note that I’m not presenting an authors best known work. To some extent, that’s deliberate—why not introduce you to something you aren’t already familiar with? But to some extent it’s because the best known works may not be as overtly sapphic. In the case of American poet and activist Emma Lazarus, her best-known poem is probably “The New Colossus”—the poem inscribed on the Statue of Liberty. But Lazarus was prolific on many subjects, as well as being active in economic and Jewish causes. Although her biographers note that she never married, most shy away from any suggestion that she might have had same-sex desires. But then there’s this poem, “Assurance.”

Assurance

Last night I slept, and when I woke her kiss
Still floated on my lips. For we had strayed
Together in my dream, through some dim glade,
Where the shy moonbeams scarce dared light our bliss.
The air was dank with dew, between the trees,
The hidden glow-worms kindled and were spent.
Cheek pressed to cheek, the cool, the hot night-breeze
Mingled our hair, our breath, and went,
As sporting with our passion. Low and deep
Spake in mine ear her voice: "And didst thou dream,
This could be buried? This could be sleep?
And love be thralled to death! Nay whatso seem,
Have faith, dear heart; THIS IS THE THING THAT IS!"
Thereon I woke and on my lips her kiss.

It may be no coincidence that the two poems that I present here in translation, are also among the most explicitly sexual. Renée Vivien was a British poet who wrote in French, along themes popularized by Baudelaire and other Parisian decadent writers. She had a series of romantic and sexual relationships with women, including American writer and salonnière Nathalie Barney. I’ve included the original French text of “Nocturne,” published in 1901, on the website, but here present Beth Archers translation from the anthology The Defiant Muse.

J’adore la langueur de ta lèvre charnelle
Où persiste le pli des baisers d’autrefois.
Ta démarche ensorcelle,
Et ton impitoyable et perverse prunelle
A pris au ciel du nord ses bleus traîtres et froids.

Tes cheveux, répandus ainsi qu’une fumée,
Légers et vaporeux, presque immatériel,
Semblent, ô Bien-Aimée,
Recéler les rayons d’une lune embrumée,
D’une lune d’hiver dans le cristal des ciels.

Le soir voluptueux a des moiteurs d’alcôve :
Les astres sont pareils aux regards sensuels
Dans l’éther d’un gris mauve,
Et je vois s’allonger, inquiétant et fauve,
Le lumineux reflet de tes ongles cruels.

Sous ta robe, qui glisse en un frôlement d’aile,
Je devine ton corps, — les lys ardents des seins,
L’or blême de l’aisselle,
Les flancs doux et fleuris, les jambes d’immortelle,
Le velouté du ventre et la rondeur des reins.

La terre s’alanguit, énervée, et la brise,
Chaude encore des lits lointains, vient assouplir
La mer lasse et soumise…
Voici la nuit d’amour depuis longtemps promise…
Dans l’ombre je te vois divinement pâlir.

# # #

I love the languor of our sensual lips
Bearing still the fold of yesterday’s kisses.
Your gait is bewitching;
And the calm perversity of your eyes
Stole from northern skies their treacherous, icy blue.

Your hair, wafting like smoke,
Vaporously pale, as though not material,
Seams O dearest love,
To cast the rays of a veiled moon,
A winter moon in a crystal-cold heaven.

The sensuous evening is moist with love;
The stars glance seductively
In the mauve-gray sky,
And I see reaching out, frightening and wild,
The luminous gleam of your cruel nails.

Under your gown, which glides with the rustle of a wing,
I discern your body – the glowing lilies of your breasts,
The delicate gold of the underarm,
The soft ample thighs, the legs of a goddess,
The velvet belly, and rounded loins.

The earth, now weak, grows languorous, and a breeze,
Still warm from distant beds, comes to smooth
The sea at long last daunted…
Here, finally, the long-awaited night of love…
In the shadows, I see you grow divinely pale.

Inspired by Sappho

In the later 19th century, newly discovered works by Sappho—as well as a broader acknowledgement among the literati of the homoerotic themes in Sappho’s work—led to imitations and inspirations, as well as new translations. I included American poet Mary Hewitt’s translation of Sappho’s fragment 31, published in 1845, in one of my episodes on Sappho’s legacy, but I’ll reprise it here.

Fragment 31 (trans. Mary Hewitt)

Blest as the immortal gods is he
On whom each day thy glances shine
Who hears thy voice of melody
And meets thy smile so all divine

Oh when I list thine accents low
How thrills my breast with tender pain
Fire seems through every vein to glow
And strange confusion whelms my brain

My sight grows dim beneath the glance
Whose ardent rays I may not meet
While swift and wild my pulses dance
Then cease all suddenly to beat

And o’er my cheek with rapid gush
I feel the burning life-tide dart
Then backward like a torrent rush
All icy cold upon my heart

And I am motionless and pale
And silent as an unstrung lyre
And feel, while thus each sense doth fail
Doomed in thy presence to expire

Hewitt was also inspired to write original poetry in the style of Sappho, including this one, published in 1844 under the title “Imitations of Sappho.” (This poem is also a reprise from an earlier Sappho episode.)

Imitations of Sappho

If to repeat thy name when none may hear me,
To find thy thought with all my thoughts inwove
To languish where thou’rt not -- to sigh when near thee
Oh! If this be to love thee, I do love!

If when thou utterest low words of greeting
To feel through every vein the torrent pour
Then back again the hot tide swift retreating
Leave me all powerless, silent as before

If to list breathless to thine accents failing
Almost to pain, upon my eager ear
And fondly when alone to be recalling
The words that I would die again to hear

If at thy glance my heart all strength forsaking
Pant in my breast as pants the frighted doves
If to think on thee ever, sleeping--waking--
Oh! If this be to love thee, I do love!

While Hewitt’s Sappho pastiche is filled with romantic longing, Gertrud Günther, Baroness von Puttkamer, writing under the pen name Marie-Madeleine, picked up Sappho’s catalogs of beloved young women and ran with it in a more sensual direction. This poem, titled simply “Sappho,” is from her first published collection in 1895 when she was aged 19. Marie-Madeleine wrote in German, often in the vein of Baudelaire’s decadent and predatory lesbians, though this one is more sweetly longing. The translation is by Brigitte Eriksson and Frankie Hucklenbroich. Marie-Madeleine’s career survived late enough to meet an unfortunate end in Nazi Germany, when she was involuntarily committed to a sanitorium under the guise of drug addiction and died there.

Sappho

Gently, the ocean waves
sing, their eternal dirge
and softly, the humid spring night
unfolds me. My soul
searches for you.

Oh, come, sweet flocks of girls!
I want to drink of your beauty.
Give your wild hair to the wind,
and drop your raiments
silently.

My pale child, give me your mouth, and feed
my own mad fires. How cool
your red lips are. You haven’t learned how love
feels yet.

And you, with your thick mane of red-gold curls,
flowing almost to your heels,
like waves of flame,
show me the fires that glitter and flicker
from your eyes. You must not ever leave me,
for you are as beautiful
as the glowing sun.

And you too shy and slender sisters
are pale as moonlight,
with your quiet, heartache
and your silent pangs of love.
With your limbs’ marble splendor
shining white as the waves’ glimmering foam,
and your hair the night,
you are more silent
than a dream.

Oh, bouquet of blossoms! Oh, flock of girls!
I want to drink of your beauty.
Give your wild hair to the wind,
and drop your raiments
silently.

I’ve bent the boundaries of the 19th century slightly on behalf of a few very iconic authors whose work fits with the themes present at the turn of the century. No need to introduce English author Radcliffe Hall or submit her lesbian bona fines. Her “Ode to Sappho,” written in 1908, spins off of Ovid’s myth of her doomed love for Phaon, and probably reflects Hall’s own somewhat tortured experience of love.

Ode to Sappho

If not from Phaon I must hope for ease,
Ah ! let me seek it from the raging seas :
To raging seas unpitied I'll remove;
And either cease to live or cease to love.

(Ovid's Heroic Epistle, XV.)

Immortal Lesbian! canst thou still behold
From some far sphere wherein thy soul doth sing
This earth, that once was thine, while glimmered gold
The joyous beams of youth's forgotten spring?

Can thine unfathomed eyes embrace this sea,
Whose ebb and flow once echoed in thy brain ?
Whose tides bear record of thine ecstasy
And thy despair, that in its arms hath lain?

Those love-burnt lips! Can death have quenched their fire?
Whose words oft stir our senses to unrest?
Whose eager ardour caught and held desire,
A searing flame against thy living breast?

Passion-wan Lesbian, in that awful place
Where spirits wander lost without a name
Thou still art Sappho, and thine ardent face
Lights up the gloom with love's enduring flame.

Oh! Goddess, woman, lover, all divine
And yet divinely mortal, where thou art
Comes not as cadence from some song of thine
Each throbbing beat that stirs the human heart ?

Canst thou forget us who are still thy friends,
Thy lovers, o'er the cloudy gulf of years?
Who live, and love, and dying make amends
For life's short pleasures thro' death's endless fears ?

Once thou didst seek the solace of thy kind,
The madness of a kiss was more to thee
Than Heaven or Hell, the greatness of thy mind
Could not conceive more potent ecstasy !

Life was thy slave, and gave thee of her store
Rich gifts and many, yet with all the pain
Of hopeless longing made thy spirit sore,
E'en thou didst yearn, and couldest not attain.

Oh ! Sappho, sister, by that agony
Of soul and body hast thou gained a place
Within each age that shines majestie'ly
Across the world from out the dusk of space.

Not thy deep pleasures, nor thy swiftest joys,
Have made thee thus, immortal and yet dear
To mortal hearts, but that which naught destroys,
The sacred image of thy falling tear.

Beloved Lesbian ! we would dare to claim
By that same tear fond union with thy lot;
Yet 'tis enough, if when we breathe thy name
Thy soul but listens, and forgets us not.

Communities

As I was compiling the content for this episode and looking up biographical information, I was struck by the circles of poets writing at least marginally homoerotic poems to and about each other. Elizabeth Barrett Browning writes of George Sand; Dora Greenwell writes of Elizabeth Barrett Browning; Dora Greenwell writes of Christina Rossetti; Christina Rossetti mourns some unspecified woman; Isa Blagden writes a poem “To George Sand on her Interview with Elizabeth Barrett Browning” commemorating a meeting between those two in 1852, though the Blagden poem I’ve included is the more relevant one to an unknown woman named Alice. Not all of the women in this complex network had homoerotic relationships, but the themes intertwine through the whole.

Browning’s poem “To George Sand: A Desire,” written in 1844, does not touch directly on her rather isolated same-sex relationship, but rather addresses her gender transgression and masculine-coded presentation.

To George Sand: A Desire

Thou large-brained woman and large-hearted man,
Self-called George Sand ! whose soul, amid the lions
Of thy tumultuous senses, moans defiance
And answers roar for roar, as spirits can :
I would some mild miraculous thunder ran
Above the applauded circus, in appliance
Of thine own nobler nature's strength and science,—
Drawing two pinions, white as wings of swan,
From thy strong shoulders, to amaze the place
With holier light ! That thou to woman's claim,
And man's, might join beside the angel's grace
Of a pure genius sanctified from blame ;
Till child and maiden pressed to thine embrace,
To kiss upon thy lips a stainless fame.

Dora Greenwell’s poems included here fall more in the “admiration” category than anything overtly romantic. Greenwell came from an English family of clergymen, and her poems are often on Christian religious themes. “To Elizabeth Barrett Browning, in 1861” was written just after Browning’s death. (Greenwell wrote a previous sonnet “To Elizabeth Barrett Browning in 1851” which both praises Browning’s talent and expresses how inadequate Greenwell feels beside her.) This elegy does not claim a close connection, but frames the loss in personal—though not particularly romantic—terms.

To Elizabeth Barrett Browning, in 1861

I praised thee not while living; what to thee
Was praise of mine? I mourned thee not when dead;
I only loved thee,—love thee! oh thou fled
Fair spirit, free at last where all are free,
I only love thee, bless thee, that to me
For ever thou hast made the rose more red,
More sweet each word by olden singers said
In sadness, or by children in their glee;
Once, only once in life I heard thee speak,
Once, only once I kissed thee on the cheek,
And met thy kiss and blessing; scarce I knew
Thy smile, I only loved thee, only grew,
Through wealth, through strength of thine, less poor, less weak;
Oh, what hath death with souls like thine to do?

Greenwell’s 1875 poem “To Christina Rossetti” is similarly one of professional admiration. I include these as illustrations of the varieties of relationships among circles of poets.

To Christina Rossetti

Thou hast fill'd me a golden cup
With a drink divine that glows,
With the bloom that is flowing up
From the heart of the folded rose.
The grapes in their amber glow,
And the strength of the blood-red wine,
All mingle and change and flow
In this golden cup of thine,
With the scent of the curling vine,
With the balm of the rose's breath,
For the voice of love is thine,
And thine is the Song of Death!

I did an entire episode about Christina Rossetti’s ambiguous fantasy “The Goblin Market.” The poem I include here, “Gone Before,” written in 1856, reflects the romanticism of the Pre-Rafaelites, strong elements of Anglican spirituality, and the Victorian fascination with love, death, and loss. But as a verse in a female voice addressed to a female subject, it falls within our remit.

Gone Before

She was most like a rose, when it flushes rarest;
She was most like a lily, when it blows fairest;
She was most like a violet, sweetest on the bank:
Now she's only like the snow cold and blank
After the sun sank.

She left us in the early days, she would not linger
For orange blossoms in her hair, or ring on finger:
Did she deem windy grass more good than these?
Now the turf that's between us and the hedging trees
Might as well be seas.

I had trained a branch she shelters not under,
I had reared a flower she snapped asunder:
In the bush and on the stately bough
Birds sing; she who watched them track the plough
Cannot hear them now.

Every bird has a nest hidden somewhere
For itself and its mate and joys that come there,
Tho' it soar to the clouds, finding there its rest:
You sang in the height, but no more with eager breast
Stoop to your own nest.

If I could win you back from heaven-gate lofty,
Perhaps you would but grieve returning softly:
Surely they would miss you in the blessed throng,
Miss your sweet voice in their sweetest song,
Reckon time too long.

Earth is not good enough for you, my sweet, my sweetest;
Life on earth seemed long to you tho' to me fleetest.
I would not wish you back if a wish would do:
Only love I long for heaven with you
Heart-pierced thro' and thro'.

Isa Blagden was likely bi-racial, of Anglo-Indian parentage. She was a friend of the Brownings, Bulwer-Lyttons, and Trollopes and is included in this section of the podcast on the strength of her poem “To George Sand on her Interview with Elizabeth Barrett Browning.” commemorating a meeting between those two in 1852. But the 1873 poem I include here is addressed to an unknown woman named “Alice,” who may or may not be a specific real person.

Alice

In her golden chamber—
 Golden with the sun—
Where the roses clamber
 Breathless, one by one;

(O'er her casement creeping
 With their lavish grace,
Through her lattice peeping
 At her happy face,)

Sitteth fairest Alice
 Bending calmly there;
Roses, bear no malice,
 Ye are not so fair.

Bending o'er her missal,
 Alice sitteth there;
Shamrock, rose, and thistle,
 Carved in jewels rare,

Clasp the velvet cover,
 With a rare device;
Scrolls are blazoned over
 Gold and azure dyes.

Argent angels flying,
 Peacock's eyes and wings,
Martyrs bravely dying,
 Quaint and lovely things.

Rubies red, and glowing
 Pearls and emerald sheaves—
Sapphire rivers flowing,
 Glitter through the leaves.

I, a page, a servant,
 Alice as a queen
At my love so fervent
 Smiles, with pride serene.

All my love, my passion—
 All myself I give,
True to ancient fashion,
 Loving while I live.

Claiming nought from Alice,
 Knowing love is vain;
Wine poured from a chalice
 Flows not back again.

True love is a treasure
 Sacred and divine;
Without stint or measure
 Cast upon a shrine.

Alice is an altar
 Flaming with my love,
Where my prayers I falter
 As to heaven above.

Kneeling low before her,
 livery pulse and breath
Asks but to adore her,
 Faithful unto death.

The second social grouping who appeared in my working notes revolve around author Vernon Lee (the pen name of Violet Page) although I couldn’t find any relevant poems by Lee herself. Amy Levy wrote multiple love poems addressed to Vernon Lee, although it isn’t clear whether she was ever one of Lee’s several lovers. But the poem I chose to include here, “Sinfonia Eroica (To Sylvia),” written in 1884, can represent the flavor of her work. It’s unclear to me if Sylvia can be identified.

Sinfonia Eroica (To Sylvia)

My Love, my Love, it was a day in June
A mellow, drowsy, golden afternoon ;
And all the eager people thronging came
To that great hall, drawn by the magic name
Of one, a high magician, who can raise
The spirits of the past and future days,
And draw the dreams from out the secret breast,
Giving them life and shape.
     I, with the rest,

Sat there athirst, atremble for the sound ;
And as my aimless glances wandered round,
Far off, across the hush'd, expectant throng,
I saw your face that fac'd mine.
     Clear and strong

Rush'd forth the sound, a mighty mountain stream ;
Across the clust'ring heads mine eyes did seem
By subtle forces drawn, your eyes to meet.
Then you, the melody, the summer heat,
Mingled in all my blood and made it wine.
Straight I forgot the world's great woe and mine ;
My spirit's murky lead grew molten fire ;
Despair itself was rapture.
     Ever higher,

Stronger and clearer rose the mighty strain ;
Then sudden fell ; then all was still again,
And I sank back, quivering as one in pain.
Brief was the pause ; then, 'mid a hush profound,
Slow on the waiting air swell'd forth a sound
So wondrous sweet that each man held his breath ;
A measur'd, mystic melody of death.
Then back you lean'd your head, and I could note
The upward outline of your perfect throat ;
And ever, as the music smote the air,
Mine eyes from far held fast your body fair.
And in that wondrous moment seem'd to fade
My life's great woe, and grow an empty shade
Which had not been, nor was not.
     And I knew
Not which was sound, and which, O Love, was you.

Agnes Mary Frances Robinson, publishing as A. Mary F. Robinson, was definitely one of Vernon Lee’s lovers. Her poem “A Ballad of Forgotten Tunes” is directly addressed and dedicated to Lee. The poem’s theme is a take-off of the 15th century French poem by François Villon that catalogs famous women of history and myth and laments each one’s passing with the refrain, “Where are the snows of yesteryear?” Robinson’s verse is packed densely with historic and literary references, including one directly to Villon that you may catch in passing.

A Ballad of Forgotten Tunes

To V. L.
Forgotten seers of lost repute
That haunt the banks of Acheron,
Where have you dropped the broken lute
You play in Troy or Calydon ?
O ye that sang in Babylon
By foreign willows cold and grey,
Fall'n are the harps ye hanged thereon,
Dead are the tunes of yesterday !

De Coucy, is your music mute,
The quaint old plain-chant woe-begone
That served so many a lover's suit ?
Oh, dead as Adam or Guédron !
Then, sweet De Caurroy, try upon
Your virginals a virelay ;
Or play Orlando, one pavonne- 
Dead are the tunes of yesterday!

But ye whose praises none refute,
Who have the immortal laurel won ;
Trill me your quavering close acute,
Astorga, dear unhappy Don !
One air, Galuppi !  Sarti one
So many fingers use to play !-
Dead as the ladies of Villion,
Dead are the tunes of yesterday !

Envoy  

Vernon,  in vain you stoop to con
The slender, faded notes to-day-
The Soul that dwelt in them is gone :
Dead are the tunes of yesterday!

And that feels like a fitting end to our catalog of 19th century poetry. Where are the poems of yesterday?

---

Show Notes

In this episode we talk about:

• 19th century poetry
• Connections and cross-references between women poets
• Sources mentioned
  • In addition to being found in the following sources, the text of many of these poems have been taken from various online sources not mentioned.
  • Castle, Terry (ed). 2003. The Literature of Lesbianism: A Historical Anthology from Ariosto to Stonewall. Columbia University Press, New York. ISBN 0-231-12510-0
  • Domna C. Stanton. 1986. The Defiant Muse: French Feminist Poems from the Middle Ages to the Present. The Feminist Press, New York. ISBN 0-935312-52-8
  • Donoghue, Emma. 1997. Poems Between Women: Four centuries of love, romantic friendship, and desire. Columbia University Press, New York. ISBN 978-0-231-10925-3
  • Faderman, Lillian (ed). 1994. Chloe Plus Olivia: An Anthology of Lesbian Literature from the Seventeenth Century to the Present. New York: VIking. ISBN 0-670-84368-4
  • Faderman, Lillian. 1999.To Believe in Women: What Lesbians Have Done for America – A History. Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston. ISBN 0-395-85010-X
  • Greene, Ellen (ed). 1996. Re-Reading Sappho: Recepton and Transmission. University of California Press, Berkeley. ISBN 0-520-20602-9
  • Griffin, Farah Jasmine. 1999. Beloved Sisters and Loving Friends: Letters from Rebecca Primus of Royal Oak, Maryland, and Addie Brown of Hartford, Connecticut, 1854-1868. Alfred A. Knopf, New York. ISBN 0-679-45128-5
  • Johnson, Thomas R. (ed). 1961. The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson. Little, Brown, and Company, Boston. ISBN 0-316-18413-6
  • Vicinus, Martha. 2004. Intimate Friends: Women Who Loved Women, 1778-1928. University of Chicago Press, Chicago. ISBN 0-226-85564-3

Links to the Lesbian Historic Motif Project Online

• Website: http://alpennia.com/lhmp
• Blog: http://alpennia.com/blog
• RSS: http://alpennia.com/blog/feed/
• Twitter: @LesbianMotif
• Discord: Contact Heather for an invitation to the Alpennia/LHMP Discord server
• The Lesbian Historic Motif Project Patreon

Links to Heather Online

• Website: http://alpennia.com
• Email: Heather Rose Jones
• Mastodon: @heatherrosejones@Wandering.Shop
• Bluesky: @heatherrosejones
• Facebook: Heather Rose Jones (author page)

Lesbian Historic Motif Podcast - Episode 283 – Daughters of Derbyshire by Daniel Stride - transcript

(Originally aired 2024/03/31 - listen here)

The first story for our 2024 fiction series, “Daughters of Derbyshire,” is set in 17th century England in one of the repeated outbreaks of plague that devastated that century. It’s hard not to think of the terrible toll of the Covid pandemic when reading it. For all that, this is a quiet, contemplative story.

The author, Daniel Stride, lives pretty much on the opposite side of the globe from his story’s setting, in Dunedin, New Zealand. He has a lifelong love of literature in general, and speculative fiction in particular, although this story is purely historical. He writes both short stories and poetry and his work has been featured in Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, Bards and Sages Quarterly, and Te Korero Ahi Ka. His first novel, a steampunk-flavoured dark fantasy, Wise Phuul was published in November 2016 by the small UK press, Inspired Quill. A sequel novel, Old Phuul, is due out in 2024. Daniel is an aficionado of chocolate and cats, and can be found blogging about the works of J.R.R. Tolkien, among other things, at his blog A Phuulish Fellow, which is linked in the show notes. (https://phuulishfellow.wordpress.com/).

I will be your narrator for this story.

This recording is released under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International Public License. You may share it in the full original form but you may not sell it, you may not transcribe it, and you may not adapt it.

---

Daughters of Derbyshire

By Daniel Stride

 

The cart crept along the dirt road. Wheels splashed through the puddles left from yesterday’s rain. Kate sat beside the driver, clutching a cloth bag to her chest. She paid little heed to the creak and rattle of the wooden planks, nor to the clop of the hooves. The journey was not uncomfortable, and there was little rush. Billy Phillips’ donkey was a slow and steady beast, and would not hurry, though the armies of Satan himself marched behind.

Kate pondered the impending walk back to Tideswell.

Five well-known miles, past the glistening green of field and pasture, and through copses of shadowy oaks. Travellers often passed through her village, on their way to Sheffield, but she herself rarely journeyed further than this old and familiar road. Tideswell to Eyam, Dan unto Beersheba.

“More grim news from London,” said Billy. Gnarled hands gripping the reins, he stared ahead, lost in thought. The old folk of Tideswell said Billy had not been right since the wars, when he had lost his three sons in service to Parliament. “Fresh tidings reached the tavern last night. A rider on horseback.”

Kate frowned. “Have people sought to flee the city?”

“Always. Fear runs through the streets, for the great pits are full and grow ever-fuller. But by the Grace of God, the surrounding countryside turns back escapees, and even within London the dead are not left outside during the day.”

Plague and disease had stalked this land for years beyond count. Men, women, and children suffered and died. It was the way of the world, the reflection of a sinful race. Even so, this outbreak of pestilence in the capital sent terror through the hearts of all Englishmen. Even here, in quiet Derbyshire.

No. Especially here in quiet Derbyshire.

Death had reached out its cold and clammy hand to Eyam, and even now was tightening its grip. The Rector, William Mompesson, had decreed a cordon around the village. No-one entered Eyam, and no-one left, in the hope the plague might be contained here, and not spread across the countryside. At the boundary stones, the people of neighbouring villages left food-gifts and supplies, and in exchange Eyam’s locals left coins soaked in purifying vinegar. 

Billy Phillips, he of the white beard and distant stare, was making such a food delivery this very morning.

I’m making a delivery too.

Kate had finished her morning chores, mopped the floor, and chopped the firewood. She fetched the eggs from the hen house too, finding a bounty left among the straw. God smiled even in the midst of calamity. But she prayed the pestilence had not carried off Mary since their last meeting.

There is always God’s will. We must accept what He decrees.

Kate pulled the book from her bag. Not the family Bible. That remained on its shelf at home, and taking it upon a journey would have earned her the scolding of a lifetime. This was a bound collection of printed Psalms, for study in her own time.

Her parents had taught her to read, so she might comprehend the true and unalterable Word of God, without resort to papist blasphemies, or to the infamous errors of The Book of Common Prayer.

Kate opened the book at random, and mouthed the words to herself.

 Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.

---

The boundary stone loomed beside the road, flat and grey in the noonday sun. It had been placed months ago, together with others like it. Past here, only the damned might pass.

Billy tugged at the reins. Donkey and cart halted.

“Be a good young woman, and fetch the coins,” he said. “I’ll unload the parcels.”

Kate hopped down onto the road. She left her bag on the seat.

The day was clear and quiet. No birds sang, and no wind rustled the trees. She and Billy may have been the last mortals left alive. Step by step, Kate approached the stone. She felt a vast unseen wall looming over her.

She might neither see it, nor touch it, nor smell it. But she could feel it. The wall ran across the road, in its grim and all-encompassing glory. Thus were the folk of Eyam cut off from the world of the living. Thus was Kate cut off from Mary.

Save for the Rector’s letter.

The rock had small holes in it. Kate picked out the coins. Soaked in vinegar, the coins had now dried, but the sparkle remained.

Pennies, ha’pennies, and farthings, all the poor villagers of Derbyshire could afford.

Kate laid them on her palm. The faces frowned.

Carolus Rex.

No quarrel with the King. These parts yet mourned Oliver Cromwell, a just and true man, but Charles had returned to rule his realm, and the days of the Commonwealth were over. Alas the King had acquired malicious advisers, who steered the realm away from God and towards sin. The pagan festival of Christmas was celebrated again in the land, the debauched theatres had reopened, and Kate’s own father now murmured that the pestilence showed God’s displeasure.

The righteous always suffer in this world. The whore of Babylon raises her foul head, so we must commit ourselves yet more strongly to the path of Christ.

Kate heard the scuff of Billy’s boots. She turned. The old man approached, food-parcels piled high.

“What have they left?” he asked.

“Little enough. Soon they shall rely only upon on our charity.”

The pair arranged the parcels around the stone, and Billy slipped the coins into a leather purse. The money would be divided upon the Rector’s table back in Tideswell. Kate knew there would be no complaints. This charity was freely given and pleasing to God.

Billy cupped his hands, and shouted across the green fields.

“We have brought fresh supplies, and now we leave.”

No answer. If any of Eyam heard, they hid amidst the shadows. Billy wiped sweat from his wrinkled brow.

“You desire a ride back?”

“No,” said Kate. “I shall walk. I am meeting Mary Famwell, so we might talk across the stones.”

“As you wish. But come not close to her, nor cross the boundary. Even for a moment.”

“I understand.”

“God is watching.”

 “God is watching,” Kate agreed.

---

Kate stuffed the cloth bag under her arm, hiked her petticoat, and trod across the fields. A creek lay near, brown and slow-flowing, home to frogs and dragonflies. Mary showed her this place, before the pestilence, when Kate’s father came to Eyam on business. Kate still treasured that day, as she treasured their first meeting at the Tideswell market, behind the clothier’s stall.

   This creek was also mentioned in the letter, cryptically, so none save God might spy upon them. She had persuaded Rector Merton to write the communication, and send it with the last load of deliveries. Thus might Mary hear of her coming.

I brought her bread. If she lives, she will eat well.

The trickle of water came to Kate’s ears. Her heart beat faster.

There it lay, past the chestnut trees, ale-brown and inviting. The creek gleamed in the noonday sun. Stones both smooth and rounded thrust up from the bed. The grass along the banks grew green and lush, dotted with clover.

Kate had last been here at the height of summer, and she and Mary had dipped feet into cool waters until their toes wrinkled. Today, the air hung humid, but not so hot. A pleasant day for luncheon.

But the creek also ran with foreboding. This was a boundary between Eyam and the world. That far shore stood distant as the Virginia colony, and the water might be the full width of the Atlantic Ocean.

The boulder sat where she remembered. Shaped like a moss-covered tombstone, to make a grim comparison. But when death ravaged the world, grimness became a decadent luxury. Kate thought it best to endure, to treasure the joys God deemed appropriate, until righteousness inevitably prevailed, and the wicked were cast down. The world lay within His hands, and even King Charles must tremble before His word.

Kate found a comfortable spot beside the boulder. Mary had not yet come.

But she shall.

A cloud covered the sun, and for a moment Kate shivered.

She opened the cloth bag, and pulled out her Psalms. She flicked to one hundred and thirty-seven, and read the words aloud.

By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion. We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof.

Then she saw the figure, across the water. Cloaked and masked, it had left the shadow of the trees, and came across the fields towards her.

Kate twitched in excitement.

The figure waved, and Kate leapt to her feet.

“Mary!”

God in His infinite mercy had seen fit to spare her.

Mary was of age with Kate, and in soul stood closer than any sister. In the time before the pestilence, they met at market, and ate apples while their fathers discussed wool prices and lead mines. Both had newly come to the flower of womanhood, and both shared a devotion to God and His word. Mary set Kate’s heart afire, and to hold her hand was the best thing in the world.

The other girls of Tideswell might titter over young men, and soon enough wed them, but Kate felt no such desires. Young men, in her experience, were universally fools or brutes, afflicted with much vice and little virtue.

Would that no husband separate her from Mary.

But I cannot see her face. Neither the sparkle of her grey eyes, nor the rosiness of her cheeks.

Kate could not look upon Mary’s face while the plague raged. Only the beaked mask, which warded the wearer from dreadful airs.

Might she ask Mary to remove the mask, just this once?

No. She could not endanger Mary. The plague and its airs lurked in strange places. Even on the quiet banks of this ale-brown creek.

And God is watching.

Kate contented herself with a smile.

“You live,” she called. “How goes it in Eyam?”

Mary reached the far bank, and settled upon the clover. She wore not merely cloak and mask, but also gloves that stretched to her elbows.

“Poorly,” she said. “Much death and disaster. Some are struck down as if with lightning from on high; others cling to life in agony for many long days, or lie in their beds delirious with fever until the end takes them. There is little rhyme or reason behind the suffering, and few who sicken live to tell the tale. By happy will of God, my own parents and brothers have yet been spared.”

“Your Rector survives?”

“Aye. Mompesson lives. And Stanley, our true Rector. Mompesson received your letter, and slid it beneath my father’s door with a note of his own. My father’s hands shook as he read it aloud, but it warmed our hearts to hear from you.”

“The folk of Tideswell will never abandon Eyam.”

“And we shall never abandon each other.”

“I have brought you a gift myself.”

Taking care not to hit Mary, Kate threw the cloth bag across the creek. The bundle landed amidst the softness of the long grass. A monarch butterfly fluttered away.

“A loaf of bread, and a lump of hard cheese,” she said. “So that you and your kin shall eat well, even in these dark days.”

Mary fetched the bag, and looked inside.

“Your charity lies beyond reproach.”

“I also have my book of Psalms. I thought to read the verses aloud, so we might bask in the glory of His word.”

Behind the beak, Mary laughed. A sweet laugh, one belonging to happier times.

“You know me well. I too have brought His word. But not merely Psalms.”

She produced a fat blue book from within the folds of her cloak.

Kate blinked. “The Bible? You brought your family Bible?”

“I have.”

“Your father will scold you! It is far too precious to take out here.”

A full Bible, from Genesis to Revelation, printed and bound. Worth many hours of toil and labour.

“He granted me permission. He considers it far too precious to leave upon the shelf.”

“You shall return it when done?”

“That was the agreement. He taught me to read. He sees fit that I should read this.”

“What if it rains?”

“I have my cloak.”

“Thieves?”

“On the very borders of the plague village? Where Death itself walks? Kate, the people of Eyam scare the worst bandits, and those seek money and not Bibles.”

Kate relaxed.

“I am sorry,” she said. “This is more than I ever expected.”

“I understand. But would you like to hear me read?”

“With all my heart,” said Kate.

---

Kate walked home that afternoon, the five miles passing as a dream. But the haunting remembrance of Ecclesiastes hovered beside her like a ghost:

For man also knoweth not his time: as the fishes that are taken in an evil net, and as the birds that are caught in the snare; so are the sons of men snared in an evil time, when it falleth suddenly upon them.

Kate stopped, and looked back towards the trapped and hapless village. A place snared in an evil time, caught as with London in this net of terrible plague.

Would that Mary live to see better days.

---

Death found Billy Phillips the night of New Years Eve. A peaceful death, and not from pestilence, a better end than most in these times. He had known one Queen, three Kings, and the rise and fall of the Commonwealth, and yet he left no line or legacy, save his friends, of whom he had many. His wife died before the wars, his last son perished upon the battlefield at Newbury, and he had neither brothers nor sisters, nor even cousins. But he did not leave this world alone. Tideswell villagers mourned Billy as one.

But there was property. No sooner had he been buried – with difficulty, and labour, given the frosts – than Billy’s cottage and chattels were sold off by Rector Merton.

The donkey and cart fell into the hands of George Taylor, a man Kate’s father disliked for having once been found drunk in a ditch. On the Sabbath, no less.

---

The February snows had lessened, but even wrapped in her thickest wools, Kate shivered atop the cart. The weak and pallid sun gleamed through the clouds, and the trees stood leafless and barren, like so many skeletons.

George Taylor’s eldest son, John, held the reins. Large, muscled, and indisputably handsome, he had earned himself much admiration and notoriety among the maidens of Tideswell. Widow Butcher, old enough to know better, claimed his brown eyes might melt the iciest of hearts.

He did not melt Kate’s heart. Kate did not care much for John Taylor. But he had volunteered to drive the five miles to Eyam to deliver food parcels, and this was Kate’s first chance in months to see Mary again. She had little choice but to accompany him.

“Good news from London,” said John.

Kate said nothing. John went on. Scarfless, he did not seem to feel the cold.

“They say the plague has eased. King Charles shall shortly return to the city.”

“Hooray for the King.”

John laughed. “By my faith, Kate. You are a sour one. Let’s bottle you for vinegar.”

“My only hope is for the pestilence to depart Eyam.”

“Where London leads, Eyam shall follow.”

“As God wills, so it shall be.”

“And what does God will for Kate Pym?”

 She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You are no longer a mere girl, Kate. Your bosom is that of a woman, and your hips are ripe for childbearing. Why do you not seek a husband?”

“It is not my time.”

“Then when?”

“When God decides.”

John Taylor looked at her oddly. They continued in silence for the rest of the journey.

---

No coins in the boundary stone. The folk of Eyam had naught left to give.

Kate unloaded the parcels, grateful for the warmth of woollen gloves. Then she offered John a frosty farewell, and trudged out across the snow.

“You’re mad, woman!” John called to her.

She did not turn to argue.

Trees haunted Kate all the way to the creek. All shorn of leaves by the dreary season. Branches twisted and gnarled, and powdered with white.

---

Mary was waiting, a lonely figure in the desolation of winter. Once more, she stood enshrouded by a cloak, this time of thick grey wool. She wore leather gloves to the elbow, and that terrible beaked mask. But it was Mary. Kate knew her companion.

“You live!”

Such weight lifted from my shoulders.

“Aye,” Mary replied. “I am so fortunate. Thanks be to God.”

There was no sitting to enjoy each other’s company, not with the heaviness of the snowdrifts. Kate stood separated not by the trickle of flowing water, but by the harsh and immovable beauty of ice. The creek lay frozen between them, still and silent as the grave.

“I bring no loaf or cheese today,” said Kate. “Tideswell has gifted Eyam another cartload of charity parcels – all we can spare during the February snows.”

“Of course,” said Mary. “Eyam shall not forget. But in truth, we grow desperate. Since we last met, the pestilence has carried off both my mother and Thomas. Richard came down with those dark swellings, and wrestled with death for twelve terrible days, but at last survived. Others are not so lucky. The Thorpes have been wiped from the earth, and mothers bury their children in the cold soil, one by one.”

Would I could take you in my arms, and comfort you. But I cannot. God is watching.

“Your father?”

“He sits gloomily beside the hearth, and mutters of the end of days.”

“Perhaps his trials are ending,” said Kate. “The pestilence in London has eased. It will ease too in Eyam.”

“It shall ease when all lie dead. Pity the last soul, for he must bury the others.”

“Mary, place your trust in God.”

A bitter laugh from behind the beaked mask.

“I cling to Him as a drowning man clings to a raft. But Eyam rots before my eyes. The roofs and roads go unrepaired, the cows go unmilked. Stones chip and stores spoil. The Church gathers dust, for our services must be open-air, even in the whiteness of winter. Men flee one another, knowing at any time they or their children might be struck down. Each one of us waits for Death, Kate. It walks among us, sits at our tables, and sleeps in our beds. We cannot escape it. But I now wonder if madness shall come first.”

Kate shook her head.

“This world is the vale of tears, the place of sorrow. There is naught I can do, and naught you can do, save hold fast to our faith. Let us read His word, and take what comfort we can in the face of death.”

A pause. At last Mary nodded.

“You’re right, Kate. Sorry to have been so sour.”

“No apologies needed. I am not like you, trapped amid the walking dead in a Babylonian Captivity. My mother awaits me in our cottage back in Tideswell, and not beneath the earth. Did you bring your Bible again? If not, I still have my Psalms.”

“I brought it. But rather than Ecclesiastes, I planned something more hopeful…”

The gloom might eat away at her soul, but even amid snow and plague, Kate found warmth in the Gospels, and in the company of Mary. Would that she had the power of Biblical Joshua, to stop the passage of the sun across the sky.

Later, Kate followed her own footprints back over the snow. Beside a tree-trunk, she turned one last time. Mary still stood far-off, beak and cloak outlined against the white fields.

Kate waved.

The figure waved back.

---

The snows melted, and grass reappeared. Winter turned to spring, and spring to the heat of summer. John Taylor wedded a heavily pregnant Ruth Hadfield in July, and Kate could only shake her head.

News from Eyam suggested the pestilence still ravaged the village. Deliveries of food and supplies continued, but Kate had no chance to see Mary. Not when so much work was needed at home, and her own mother was ailing.

It was early September before Kate could again make the five-mile journey.

---

“Fire has devastated London,” said Sam. He sat in the driver’s seat, clenching the reins until his knuckles whitened. “St Paul’s Cathedral burned down. Everyone’s homeless.”

It was the third time he’d said this since leaving Tideswell. Kate herself had learned of the Great Fire yesterday. But she let him natter. The afternoon was too hot to yell.

Red-haired and squint-eyed, Sam Hipkins was not the comeliest lad to grace God’s green earth. Nor had God favoured him with brains, though if some mule had kicked him in the head, Kate had never heard. Worse, his family’s views of The Book of Common Prayer left much to be desired. Kate would not accuse Sam of papism – he wasn’t bright enough for that sin – though she did wonder.

The Taylors were dealing with childbirth, so it fell on Sam to deliver the parcels to Eyam. Kate would ensure the food got through. The cart itself… if George Taylor trusted this poor fool to return it in one piece, that was his business. She just pitied the donkey.

But sitting atop the cart meant she tasted a refreshing breeze. To live through this summer had been to endure the fiery furnace of Nebuchadnezzar without divine protection. One sweltering day followed another, trees and grass turned tinder-dry, no-one able to sleep at night… small wonder London had ignited.

Truly, God tested His people.

---

The grass grew green and lush, and the creek ran as ever. Kate was relieved. She had feared the creek had dried up in the summer heat.

But though she longed to stretch herself out beside the waters, best to hide from the sun. An overhanging willow grew not far off, arching across the creek. Shade, within sight of the meeting-boulder. She trudged over, and nestled down amid the twisted roots.

Slipping off shoes and stockings, Kate dipped her feet into the creek. She found a nice deep hollow. The cool water ran over her ankles, and up to her shins.

So good. So fresh.

Mary had not yet come.

She’ll swelter in that blasted beak.

There was naught to do but wait, and trust that God had again delivered Mary from the plague. The disease had gripped Eyam for twelve terrible months… the end must surely be in sight. They had not been cursed unto the seventh generation.

Kate opened her copy of Psalms, and commenced reading from the beginning.

Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful.

Dragonflies darted about. One even landed on the page, wings obscuring God’s word.

A flick of the fingers, and Kate chased it away.

---

Hours passed, and the heat grew less. But the shadows around the creek lengthened, and with them the dread grew in Kate’s heart.

She had talked with Rector Merton, of course. He had written her message as before, including the cryptic reference only Mary would understand. The message had been sent with an earlier delivery, and Kate had come on the appointed day.

So where was Mary?

The plague, you foolish woman. The plague.

Kate continued to read aloud from Psalms.

Her hands shook as she turned the pages. Nor was her mind on these words, for she pondered the verse from Ecclesiastes. The one Mary had read those months ago, as they sat upon the banks of this very creek.

“We have been snared in an evil time,” she whispered.

Tears in her eyes, she offered a desperate prayer to Him.

God is watching.

---

With the coming of November, the pestilence vanished from Eyam, and the villagers were finally freed from their torment. For fourteen months, the stalwart courage of this brave few had stopped the plague spreading beyond the boundary stones.

Kate knew this well.

Tideswell, as much as Sheffield, owed these people their lives. Eyam had endured in darkness, so that others might walk free beneath the sun. Herself among them.

But standing amid the Eyam cemetery, seeing the graves, row on row, as the dry husks of fallen leaves lay scattered about them…

A dagger in the heart.

Kate turned, and looked Mary in the eye.

“I cannot believe you survived. When you did not meet me beside the creek in September, I feared the worst. That you had followed your mother and brother…”

It was as before. Ere the coming of the pestilence, when all seemed right in the world. Mary was herself again, without that beaked mask. Grey eyes, and cheeks both pink and merry. The autumnal breeze ruffled her dark hair.

But a sorrow still hung over her, one harder to shed.

“I cannot believe I survived either,” said Mary. “I lay abed for weeks, fevered and sweating. Worse even than poor Richard, apparently, and Death shadowed my bedside. Only my father saved me. While Richard tended to the goats and hens, he tended to me. Dour and stubborn old man, he brought me water and broth, until I was well again.”

“He watched over you too.”

“Aye. He did.”

“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.”

“Indeed.” Mary slipped her hand into Kate’s. “Indeed.”

---

Show Notes

This quarter’s fiction episode presents “Daughers of Derbyshire” by Daniel Stride, narrated by Heather Rose Jones.

Links to the Lesbian Historic Motif Project Online

• Website: http://alpennia.com/lhmp
• Blog: http://alpennia.com/blog
• RSS: http://alpennia.com/blog/feed/
• Twitter: @LesbianMotif
• Discord: Contact Heather for an invitation to the Alpennia/LHMP Discord server
• The Lesbian Historic Motif Project Patreon

Links to Heather Online

• Website: http://alpennia.com
• Email: Heather Rose Jones
• Mastodon: @heatherrosejones@Wandering.Shop
• Bluesky: @heatherrosejones
• Facebook: Heather Rose Jones (author page)

Links to Daniel Stride Online

• Website: A Phuulish Fellow

Lesbian Historic Motif Podcast - Episode 281 - On the Shelf for March 2024 - Transcript

(Originally aired 2024/03/02 - listen here)

Welcome to On the Shelf for March 2024.

The On The Shelf episodes vary a lot in terms of how much content I have. I wouldn’t have predicted that the new book listings would be the one constant back when I set up this format—they weren’t even part of the template originally! But after a couple of bare-bones months, we have a lot to talk about this month.

First off is announcing the fiction line-up for this year. One of the ways I measure the success of this fiction series is whether I've attracted a true diversity of voices and stories. This year I'm feeling very happy about that aspect! I haven’t sorted out the order in which they’ll appear, because that can depend on when I locate appropriate narrators, but in no particular order we’ll be publishing the following.

• "The Font of Liberty" by Elizabeth Porter Birdsall - Set in 1830s France, the denizens of a publishing house deal with political activism and censorship. (And I love the little "font" pun in the title.)
• "A Very Long Malaise" by L.J. Lee - Romantic and political intrigue in Korea of the Joseon Dynasty (ca. 1790).
• "Follow the Monkey" by Jamie McGhee - Survival and hope in colonial Brazil during the rise of Quilombo dos Palmares, a hidden society of escaped slaves who took up arms against Portuguese colonists.
• "Daughters of Derbyshire" by Daniel Stride - When plague sweeps through 17th century Derbyshire, what does it mean to be a good neighbor?

I’m going to need to work very hard to find the right narrators for the Korean and Afro-Brazilian stories. Ideally the narrator would not simply be comfortable with the language (proper names and some incidental vocabulary) but would also share that background. All help in leads for potential narrators will be welcome!

News of the Field

Listeners are probably aware that I’m fairly active in the science fiction and fantasy community, and wow has the chatter been going at full volume in the last month. The very short version (for those who don’t read my blog regularly) is that the nomination data for the Hugo awards that were given out last year (when Worldcon was held in China) finally was released. And it was immediately apparent from the data that something very strange had happened. In fact, several different very strange things happened. And the people who knew the most about what happened—who, by the way, were non-Chinese members of the convention committee—were not providing much in the way of useful explanation.

Now, poking at strange data and trying figure out how it got that strange is not only something I enjoy, but is also much of what I do for a living. So along with a number of other people I started poking at the data and published a few blogs about what I observed, both on my own and in collaboration with another data geek. This has taken up a fair amount of my so-called free time in the last few weeks.

At this point, it’s clear that there were several types of data manipulation going on that not only resulted in some specific people and publications being removed from the Hugo ballot, but that appear to have systematically suppressed the number of Chinese publications and people from appearing on a ballot that should by all rights have seen them significantly represented. Needless to say, there are people working diligently on making sure that nothing like this can happen again.

Book awards can get an unwarranted amount of attention sometimes. There are always many more excellent books being published than there are awards to recognize that excellence. But if the awards are going to mean anything, the process needs to be transparent and reliable. And last year’s Hugos definitely were not. It will take a while for the community to recover from this. If you want to know more, there’s a link in the show notes to the article “Charting the Cliff” which covers many of the issues.

Publications on the Blog

Given all that, perhaps I’ll be forgiven for only blogging two publications for the Lesbian Historic Motif Project in the last month. One is the pop-history book I mentioned buying last month: A Short History of Queer Women by Kirsty Loehr. As I indicated previously, it’s light and fluffy and not very solid on the history, but it could be a fun read.

The second item was the article “Mistress and Maid: Homoeroticism, Cross-Class Desire, and Disguise in Nineteenth-Century Fiction” by Kirsti Bohata, which I read when I was working on the tropes episode about employment-based romances.

Book Shopping!

Shopping netted me one new book this month: The Illustrated Journeys of Celia Fiennes: 1685-1712. These are the travel journals of a woman who traveled by herself through all the counties of England in the late 17th century. “By herself” meaning with servants, of course. I love this sort of source material for women who did things that run contrary to the historic stereotypes. Not necessarily women who are ”breaking the rules” or becoming social outlaws, but simply ordinary things that get erased from the popular view of women’s history. And, of course, this specific book will be added to the background reading for my planned Restoration-era series.

Recent Lesbian/Sapphic Historical Fiction

Speaking of writing, let’s look at the new and recent books. I found five titles from the last few months that I hadn’t identified previously, five March books, and then three titles that I’ll mention in the “other books of interest” segment.

First up we have an American West romance, Above Rubies by Fyn Alexander from JMS Books.

The year is 1885 and all May Jakobsson wants is a home of her own and a woman to love. Leaving behind her poor immigrant family, she claims her one hundred and sixty acres under the Homestead Act in Dakota Territory. Life on the farm is lonely and there seems no hope of meeting the right woman, or any woman with her inclinations. That is, until an itinerant seamstress arrives in town.

When wealthy Boston socialite Temperance Lowell decides to take her sewing machine and travel the rails staying in different towns, she is seeking adventure while escaping Boston where the woman she was having an affair with is getting married. The last thing she expects is to meet a tall, shy woman wearing men’s clothes to whom she is instantly attracted.

Not only does their attachment cause an uproar in the town of Livingstone, especially among the men who were already hostile to a woman like May, and were more than interested in the beautiful and elegant Temperance, but it confuses May who, in her own words, is “as common as the dirt I dig.” Temperance, a little older and very sure of herself, knows May is the woman for her.

Can they make a life together in a rough town among farming folk? Will their love survive the challenges thrown their way?

Next is another romance with a western setting: Silver Heels: Women of the Wild West by Olivia Hampton.

Sabrina was born into wealth and privilege, but after she’s forced to run for her life, she finds herself in the newly formed Colorado Territory, and in the town of Big Antler. Becoming Silver, one of the most popular entertainers on the stage of a seedy theatre named The Pearl was never going to be Sabrina’s first choice for an escape plan, but that’s exactly where she ends up.

Maddie’s spent most of her life in boomtowns. She’s always ready to gamble, just not with her heart. No woman can tie her down. No town can keep her interest for long. A past filled with scars and a need for adventure keep her on the run.

The masked and mysterious Silver, and her devastatingly sexy high heeled shoes, gets Maddie’s attention and fast. The sparks fly faster. But love is dangerous. So is the man hunting for Sabrina. Will they risk it all for love and each other or will they fold under the pressure of their pasts and secrets?

The cover copy for this next book feels a bit over-the-top, so don’t be surprised if it doesn’t quite match the hype. Whispers in the Shadows: The Untold Story of a Love that Defied Convention by Haley Ruby

Step into the enthralling world of "Whispers in the Shadows," a captivating novel that transcends time and convention. This extraordinary tale, set against the backdrop of Victorian England, unveils the forbidden romance between Amelia, a woman of high society, and Charlotte, a spirited artist. Their story is a powerful testament to the enduring strength of love amidst societal constraints.

In the midst of London's rigid societal norms, Amelia and Charlotte's paths cross in a fateful encounter that ignites a passion both profound and forbidden. As they navigate the complexities of their hidden relationship, they confront not only personal conflicts but also the pressures of a society unwilling to accept their love. From secret meetings in moonlit gardens to the grand masquerade balls of London, their journey is one of courage, defiance, and unwavering commitment.

There’s an author’s advisory for Lies that Bind by Rae Knowles & April Yates from Brigids Gate Press that indicates it contains graphic sex and violence and potentially abusive situations.

Lorelei Keyes and Adele Hughes are content, if not entirely happy, running a sham séance business in the English tourist town of Matlock Bath. Lorelei's business savvy and Adele's gift for mimicry provide for their basic needs, but the customers are not the only ones deceived. With the arrival of a mysterious visitor, Viola, the couple finds their long-held secrets under threat of exposure and their quiet life upended. Viola pulls the pair onto a transatlantic crossing bound for Adele's homeland of New York, and the turbulent seas are nothing compared to the treacherous and tawdry happenings aboard the ship. Adele's gifts run much deeper than mimicry. Lorelei's past is more depraved than she lets on. The couple faces the end of their romance, and may stand to lose much more than that if they cannot discern Viola's true intentions before reaching their final destination. Not for the faint of heart, Lies That Bind challenges its readers as it investigates power dynamics, the nature of power, and the ways it can be expressed-whether by domination or self-acceptance; treachery or honesty.

It feels like there’s been a regular theme of sapphic historicals featuring female boxers in the last couple years. This one also tosses in some paranormal elements and is part of a series set in an alternate 1920s world with magic, but it’s the only sapphic entry in the series. Of Socialites and Prizefights (Flos Magicae) by Arden Powell.

When Deepa Patel rejects the wrong man, he curses her: every night, she will transform into a wild animal until her curse is broken by true love’s kiss. The problem is twofold. One: Deepa needs her nights to seduce shallow men into spending money on her—money she desperately needs to buy herself and her mother a better life. Two: she doesn’t believe in love. She’s never met a man she wanted to keep longer than a week, never mind forever.

She never considered her true love might be a woman.

Roz is unlike any of Deepa’s past suitors. She’s working class, with a nose that’s been broken at least once, courtesy of an underground boxing club. And she makes Deepa feel lighter and softer than she ever thought possible. But Roz can’t afford to give Deepa the life of luxury she craves.

Meanwhile, Deepa is posing as a wealthy nobleman's fiancée. There’s no love between them, but his lifestyle is everything she’s ever wanted. Caught between a real relationship and a loveless fake one, Deepa has to choose: give up on her dreams for a chance at true love, or make her dreams come true but stay cursed forever.

Due to the advance scheduling dynamics of indie books versus books from publishers, the March books are mostly the latter. First up is a historic fantasy from this month’s author guest: Song of the Huntress by Lucy Holland from Macmillan.

Britain, 60 AD. Hoping to save her lover and her land from the Romans, Herla makes a desperate pact with the Otherworld King. She becomes Lord of the Hunt and for centuries she rides, reaping wanderers’ souls. Until the night she meets a woman on a bloody battlefield – a Saxon queen with ice-blue eyes.

Queen Æthelburg of Wessex is a proven fighter, but after a battlefield defeat she finds her husband’s court turning against her. Yet King Ine needs Æthel more than ever: the dead kings of Wessex are waking, and Ine must master his bloodline’s ancient magic if they are to survive.

When their paths cross, Herla knows it’s no coincidence. Something dark and dangerous is at work in the Wessex court. As she and Æthel grow closer, Herla must find her humanity – and a way to break the curse – before it’s too late.

Pelican Girls by Julia Malye from Harper has that dancing-around-the-topic language that sometimes leads me to place a book in the “other books of interest” category if I can’t be certain of the sapphic content, but early reviews indicate that there’s a romance between two of the female characters. For those who keep track, this falls more in the literary genre.

Paris, 1720. La Salpêtrière hospital is in crisis: too many occupants, not enough beds. Halfway across the world, France's colony in the wilds of North America has space to spare and needs families to fill it. So the director of the hospital rounds up nearly a hundred female “volunteers” of childbearing age—orphans, prisoners, and mental patients—to be shipped to New Orleans.

Among this group are three unlikely friends: a sharp-tongued twelve-year old orphan, a mute ‘madwoman,’ and an accused abortionist. Charlotte, Pétronille, and Geneviève, along with the dozens of other women aboard La Baleine, have no knowledge of what lies ahead and no control over their futures. Strangers brought together by fate, these brave and fierce young women will face extraordinary adversity—pirates, slavedrivers, sickness, war—but also the private trauma of heartbreak and unrequited love, children born and lost, cruelty and unexpected pleasure, and a friendship forged in fire that will sustain through the years.

Stacy Lynn Miller’s “Speakeasy” series from Bella Books continues with a third volume: Last Barrel.

Three years after Whiskey War, Dax and Rose live the high life at the Foster House, running the poshest speakeasy on the west coast. Half Moon Bay is about to claim its place as the top tourist destination in Northern California, with a second club and the remodeled Seaside Hotel under Grace Parsons’s ownership and Dax’s management. Repeal of Prohibition is on the horizon with the prospect of making their illegal liquor businesses legitimate. Dax’s fractured friendship with Charlie Dawson is the only blowback from her battle with Frankie Wilkes. If she could fix it, her life with Rose would be perfect.

Or so Dax thinks until an election sweeps in Roy Wilkes as the new county sheriff. With the law behind him, he’s hellbent on revenge for the death of his brother in the wake of the whiskey war and puts everyone involved in his crosshairs. On day one, he wreaks havoc in Half Moon Bay with arrests and beatings. Nothing is off the table. No one close to Dax and Rose is safe, and they must leverage every resource to protect the people they love. How far will Dax go? Will beating Wilkes at his game come at too high a price? Who will survive to open the last barrel?

Another book in a continuing series is The Weavers of Alamaxa (Alamaxa #2) by Hadeer Elsbai from Harper Voyager. This series is inspired by Egyptian history, although set in a world with fantasy elements.

The world is on fire...but some women can control it.

The Daughters of Izdihar—a group of women fighting for the vote and against the patriarchal rule of Parliament—have finally made strides in having their voices heard...only to find them drowned out by the cannons of the fundamentalist Ziranis. As long as Alamaxa continues to allow for the elemental magic of the weavers—and insist on allowing an academy to teach such things—the Zirani will stop at nothing to end what they perceive is a threat to not only their way of life, but the entire world.

Two such weavers, Nehal and Giorgina, had come together despite their differences to grow both their political and weaving power. But after the attack, Nehal wakes up in a Zirani prison, and Giorgina is on the run in her besieged city. If they can reunite again, they can rally Alamaxa to fight off the encroaching Zirani threat. Yet with so much in their way—including a contingent of Zirani insurgents with their own ideas about rebellion—this will be no easy task.

And the last time a weaver fought back, the whole world was shattered.

Two incredible women are all that stands before an entire army. But they’ve fought against power before and won. This time, though, it’s no longer about rhetoric.

This time it’s about magic and blood.

We finish up with a book in Portuguese, Julieta e Cinderela by Vicky Fiorez which blends the characters of Cinderella and Shakespeare’s Juliet from Romeo and Juliet, set in 19th century Verona.

Juliet Capulet is devastated when she discovers that her family arranged her engagement to Romeo Montague, with the intention of ending the bloody feud between the families. But on her first visit to the Montague house, she meets Cinderella, the family's maid who wins her heart with generosity. Divided by class and background, the two find connection, even as the engagement progresses. But the Montagues can be brutal when crossed… [Note: This is a paraphrase of a Google translation of the Portuguese cover copy.]

While we’re talking about non-English books—and I have a couple more on the list for the near future—I’ll mention that the French translation of my book Daughter of Mystery is also coming out in March, after being pushed back for production changes.

Other Books of Interest

I put three titles in the “other books of interest” section, not because there’s any question of the sapphic content, but because they appear to fall more in the erotica category than the historic fiction category. I tread a fine balance here. One of the reasons I generally exclude erotica is because, if I don’t set my search terms to exclude it, I end up wading through an awful lot of male-gaze content that has only the barest acquaintance with historic settings. Even when written for the lesbian market, erotica rarely has a solid historic grounding, tending to fall much farther into the fantasy side of the line. But three titles popped up in my search that some listeners might be inclined to check out further.

Coming of Age (Bintanath #1) by Joan Fennelly is set in the Egypt of the ancient Pharaohs and combines the supernatural with a lesbian relationship.

Jewels of the Harem: Love's Secret Treasures by Lucilla Leigh is set in the harem of the Ottoman palace of Topkapi. In general I’d be wary of orientalist harem fantasies if you’re looking for solid representation of historic cultures.

And the same author has released Victorian Passions: Lesbian Romance Amidst Historical Intrigue which is more or less what it says on the label.

What Am I Reading?

What have I been reading in the past month? One of the books that got caught up in the Hugo award shenanigans was R. F. Kuang’s historic fantasy Babel, about linguistic-based magic and 19th century colonialism. It’s a very powerful book with an ending that found the right balance between tragedy and grim determination. As a linguist, I really enjoyed the magical premise.

An audiobook sale led me to pick up another one of K.J. Charles’ backlist: The Secret Casebook of Simon Feximal. I always enjoy Charles’ work but this one didn’t grab me as much as many of her other books.

A different audiobook sale inspired me to get Courtney Milan’s historic romance The Duke who Didn't. I’m having some interesting thoughts about what does and doesn’t throw me out of a historic romance, due to listening to this while also being in the middle of Emma R. Alban’s Don’t Want You Like a Best Friend. Both books are set in the Victorian period, both are very engagingly written, and both present characters that feel entirely like modern people dressed up in costume. Usually, that’s a “nope” for me. And…it’s sort of a problem for me in both these books? Except I enjoy the quality of the writing enough that I’m just pretending they’re actually contemporaries with a few quirks. But I’m not enjoying them as historic romances. I had a similar issue with Erica Ridley’s The Perks of Loving a Wallflower and Jane Walsh’s Her Countess to Cherish, except those two didn’t sweep me up in the writing and story enough for me to be able to ignore the modern attitudes and behaviors. And the non-sapphic historical mystery Death Below Stairs by Jennifer Ashley had solid writing chops, but that didn’t make up for the character failing historic plausibility for me. (Although in that case it was slightly different from a modern character, simply one that didn’t make sense in her own time.) So I’ve been pondering the interactions of these elements in terms of which directions a book can fail me and still leaving me glad I’d read it.

Author Guest

We’ll finish up this month’s episode with an interview with Lucy Holland.

(Interview will be included in the transcript when it has been transcribed.)

Show Notes

Your monthly roundup of history, news, and the field of sapphic historical fiction.

In this episode we talk about:

• The 2024 fiction line-up
• ”Charting the Cliff” – Hugo nomination shenanigans
• Recent and upcoming publications covered on the blog
  • Loehr, Kirsty. 2022. A Short History of Queer Women. Oneworld Publications, London. ISBN 978-0-86154-284-0
  • Bohata, Kirsti. 2017. “Mistress and Maid: Homoeroticism, Cross-Class Desire, and Disguise in Nineteenth-Century Fiction” in Victorian Literature and Culture 45:2 pp.341-359
• Book Shopping
  • Fiennes, Celia (ed. Christopher Morris). 1982. The Illustrated Journeys of Celia Fiennes: 1685-1712. MacDonald & Co, London. ISBN 356-08631-3
• Recent Lesbian/Sapphic Historical Fiction
  • Above Rubies by Fyn Alexander
  • Silver Heels: Women of the Wild West by Olivia Hampton
  • Whispers in the Shadows: The Untold Story of a Love that Defied Convention by Haley Ruby
  • Lies that Bind by Rae Knowles & April Yates
  • Of Socialites and Prizefights (Flos Magicae) by Arden Powell
  • Song of the Huntress by Lucy Holland
  • Pelican Girls by Julia Malye
  • Julieta e Cinderela by Vicky Fiorez
  • Last Barrel (Speakeasy #3) by Stacy Lynn Miller
  • The Weavers of Alamaxa (Alamaxa #2) by Hadeer Elsbai
• Other Titles of Interest
  • Coming of Age (Bintanath #1) by Joan Fennelly
  • Jewels of the Harem: Love's Secret Treasures by Lucilla Leigh
  • Victorian Passions: Lesbian Romance Amidst Historical Intrigue by Lucilla Leigh
• What I’ve been consuming
  • Babel by R. F. Kuang
  • The Duke who Didn't by Courtney Milan
  • The Secret Casebook of Simon Feximal by K.J. Charles
• This month we interview Lucy Holland and talk about:
  • Song of the Huntress by Lucy Holland
  • Sistersong by Lucy Holland
  • Breaking the Glass Slipper (podcast)

Links to the Lesbian Historic Motif Project Online

• Website: http://alpennia.com/lhmp
• Blog: http://alpennia.com/blog
• RSS: http://alpennia.com/blog/feed/
• Twitter: @LesbianMotif
• Discord: Contact Heather for an invitation to the Alpennia/LHMP Discord server
• The Lesbian Historic Motif Project Patreon

Links to Heather Online

• Website: http://alpennia.com
• Email: Heather Rose Jones
• Mastodon: @heatherrosejones@Wandering.Shop
• Bluesky: @heatherrosejones
• Facebook: Heather Rose Jones (author page)

Links to Lucy Holland Online

• Website: LucyHounsom.co.uk
• Patreon: Lucy Holland
• Twitter: @silvanhistorian
• Instagram: @silvanhistorian
• Facebook: Lucy Hounsom

I really really mean to get back on a regular schedule of LHMP blogs. Silly things like analyzing Hugo voting statistics and internet interruptions and processing the fiction submissions keep getting in the way. But each day is a new chance to get back on track.