To recreate the era, I deliberately tried to avoid creating a thinly disguised bodice ripper where an “empowered” woman mouthed off to prospective suitors in jerkins and tights, in other words, a typical romance novel. But he didn’t marry her. “Dear John,” she whispered. Usually his charges bored him with their interrogative chatter, for he knew that his information more often than not went into one ear and out of the other. A constant attendant at court, he had the mortification to see every one promoted but himself, and thus bewails his ill-luck. Witness Browning. He was bewildered. Maggot, kissing her hand to him.
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