Georgian
Gothick. Turrets and pointed arches were hallmarks of the style.
In the eighteenth century, until Jane Austen’s birth
in 1775, English architecture was dominated by a classical revival of Greek and
Roman styles, with symmetrical facades, pedimented windows, porticoes and
columns reminiscent of ancient temples. Simple lines were favored, the rooms
laid out to a mathematical formula with the tallest rooms on the ground floor. The
exterior façade could show a line of stone or brick to indicate the change in
floors, This could also be accentuated by a slight change in window style.
Several new fashions arrived in the last quarter of
the century. Gothic style was an imitation of medieval architecture with
turrets, buttresses, crenellated parapets, mock moats and pointed-arched
windows. It is the windows of Northanger Abbey that Catherine Morland notices –
the last remaining feature of the original medieval abbey (from the outside)
that had become General Tilney’s massive country house.
Where original Gothic ruins did not exist, they were
invented. Landowners instructed their architects to design faux-Gothic ruins
for their gardens in the form of guesthouses, lodges, pavilions and gatehouses.
Adlestrop Park, a magnificent house owned by Mrs.
Austen’s rich cousins, was demolished in the 1750s to be replaced with a grand
Gothic mansion of ashlar buttresses and fretted balustrades. This was formerly
the rectory and was visited by Jane Austen at least three times between 1794
and 1806 when the occupant was Rev. Thomas Leigh, cousin of Jane Austen's
mother. She is thought to have drawn inspiration from the village and its
surroundings for her novel Mansfield Park. The house, basically of 1670, has
been altered at different times, especially in 1824-5 with bay windows and
Welsh slate roof. ...
Newly built parsonages too, were often designed in
the Gothic style reminiscent of churches and cathedrals. A Gothic look might be
achieved economically by remodeling and installing pointed-arch windows, while
leaving the rest of the building untouched. Gothic wallpapers too, were
available from the 1760s.
What Uvedale Price called the “splendid confusion
and irregularity” of the Gothic, led to a love of the asymmetrical. Wings and
rooms were added: conservatories, greenhouses and servant’s halls, without
taking into consideration the need to balance them with the other side of the
house.
With a desire to enjoy the gardens, which could be
viewed through large windows and accessed through French doors, drawing rooms,
dining rooms, and reception rooms were moved down to the ground floor, which
had been historically located on the floor above.
In my new release: A BARON IN HER BED - THE SPIES OF MAYFAIR SERIES BOOK ONE, Guy Fortescue returns to England to claim his inheritance, Rosecroft Hall, willing to face death to claim his family's estate.
Blurb:
London, 1816. A handsome baron. A faux betrothal. And Horatia's plan to
join the London literary set takes a dangerous turn. Now that the war
with France has ended, Baron Guy Fortescue arrives in England to claim
his inheritance, abandoned over thirty years ago when his father fled to
France after killing a man in a duel. When Guy is set upon by footpads
in London, a stranger, Lord Strathairn, rescues and befriends him. But
while travelling to his country estate, Guy is again attacked. He
escapes only to knock himself out on a tree branch. Aspiring poet
Horatia Cavendish has taken to riding her father's stallion, "The
General", around the countryside of Digswell dressed as a groom. She has
become bored of her country life and longs to escape to London to
pursue her desire to become part of the London literary set. When she
discovers Guy lying unconscious on the road, the two are forced to take
shelter for the night in a hunting lodge. After Guy discovers her ruse, a
friendship develops between them. Guy suspects his relative, Eustace
Fennimore is behind the attacks on his life. He has been ensconced in
Rosecroft Hall during the family's exile and will become the heir should
Guy die. Horatia refuses to believe her godfather, Eustace, is
responsible. But when Guy proposes a faux betrothal to give him more
time to discover the truth, she agrees. Secure in the knowledge that his
daughter will finally wed, Horatia's father allows her to visit her
blue-stocking aunt in London. But Horatia's time spent in London proves
to be anything but a literary feast, for a dangerous foe plots Guy's
demise. She is determined to keep alive her handsome fiance, who has
proven more than willing to play the part of her lover even as he
resists her attempts to save him.
Excerpt:
At least two hours had passed before Horatia guided the
horse back towards the road. Distracted by her thoughts, she had ridden farther
than she intended. A glance at the skies told her the storm bank was almost
upon them.
They would have to take their chances and return by the
road. She urged The General into a gallop.
They came to the road that led to Malforth Manor but were
still some miles away. She would be lucky to reach home before the storm hit.
She eased the horse into a trot as they approached a sharp bend in the road,
the way ahead hidden by a stand of oaks. Once round the corner, she gasped and
pulled the horse up hard.
A body lay in the road.
Highwaymen tried this ruse she’d heard. She edged her horse
closer.
With a quick search of the landscape, she saw a horse
disappear over a hill with its reins trailing. She dismounted and approached
the man with caution. Barely a leaf stirred. It was oddly still, and the air
seemed hushed and quiet as death before the coming storm. It matched her mood
as she stood wondering what to do about the problem before her.
The man sprawled on his side. Judging by his clothes, he was
a gentleman. Beneath his multi-caped greatcoat his brown coat revealed the
skill of the tailor. His cream double-breasted waistcoat was of very fine silk.
Long legs were encased in tight-fitting buff-colored suede pantaloons. His
mud-splattered top boots showed evidence of loving care.
He moaned.
Horatia knelt beside him and grasped his shoulder. “Are you
all right?”
When he didn’t answer, she struggled to roll him onto his
back. A nasty gash trickled blood over his forehead where a bruise would surely
form.
The man’s dark hair was sticky with blood. “Can you hear me,
sir?” His eyelids fluttered. She shouldn’t stare at him while he remained unconscious,
but she couldn’t draw her eyes away. He had remarkable cheekbones. His dark
looks reminded her of Lord Byron. More rugged perhaps, but an undeniably
handsome face, his skin more swarthy than one usually saw in an English winter.
There was a dimple in his chin and a hint of shadow darkened his strong jaw
line. She gingerly picked up his wrist and peeled back the soft leather glove,
glad to find his pulse strong. An expensive gold watch had fallen from his
pocket. So, he hadn’t been robbed. It must have been an accident. She looked
around for some sign of what had happened but could see nothing.
A gust of chill wind made her shiver, and she glanced up at
the sky. Ashgrey snow clouds now hovered overhead. “I have to move you, sir.”
Horatia stood and looked around. The road ran along the
boundary of the Fortescue estate. Over the hill among the trees was a tiny
hunting lodge.
She’d passed it many times when she roamed the woods,
although she hadn’t been there for years. Her godfather, Eustace, lived for a
part of the year in the Fortescue mansion, but it was some distance away and
the snow had begun to fall.
It was by far the closest shelter, but trying to get the
motionless man onto a horse unaided would be impossible. She sighed. That was
not an option.
Horatia looked back at him. He was large, tall, and broad
shouldered.
How on earth could she move him? And what would she do with
him if she did? She looked up and down the deserted road with the hope that
someone–preferably someone with big, strong arms–would appear to help her, and
yet, she dreaded to be found in this invidious position. This was a quiet back
road; most folk preferred the more direct route, so she couldn’t expect to be
rescued soon.
She wondered if she should drag him under a tree and ride
for help. As she considered this, the snow grew heavier. It settled over the
ground and the prone man and touched her face like icy fingers. She couldn’t
leave him out in the open, prey to the elements while she went for help. In bad
weather it would take ages to ride to Digswell village. By the time she located
the apothecary and brought him here, the man would be near death. Somehow she
had to move him off the road and under shelter, although in the dead of winter,
there was little to be had.
Horatia bent down, wrapped his limp arm around her
shoulders, and caught a whiff of expensive bergamot. She took hold of his firm
waist and tried to pull him towards the trees, but he was too heavy. She eased
him down again.
Horatia pulled off her coat and shuddered at the cold. She
tucked it around him. The snow had begun to fall in earnest, and worse, the
prospect of a blizzard loomed. The wind gathered force. It stirred the tops of
the trees around them and whipped the snowflakes into chaotic spirals of white.
Panic forced her to act. She took hold of the man’s arms and
tried again to drag him. In small spurts she edged him closer to the scant
shelter of the nearest tree, an oak whose dead leaves remained, curled and
brown. Forced to pause, she took several deep breaths. He was quite a weight.
She broke into a sweat despite the absence of her coat and the frigid air.
Horatia was severely winded and gasping by the time she
reached the tree. It was a victory of sorts but afforded very little
protection. She propped him against the trunk.
His eyelids rose. Startling pale blue eyes stared
uncomprehendingly into hers.
BUY LINK: AMAZON UK BUY LINK:
Sources: All
Things Austen. An Encyclopedia of Austen’s World Volume I by Kirstin Olsen
Georgian
House Style by Ingrid Cranfield
How
to Read Buildings by Carol Davidson Cragoe
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