May 9, 2012April 21, 2021 by Susanna Ives

Illustrations and Instructions for Victorian Hair Dressing

Images from The Self-instructor in the Art of Hair Work: Dressing Hair, Making Curls, Switches, Braids, and Hair Jewelry of Every Description, by Mark Campbell, published in 1867. Click on an image to enlarge it.

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London
Spring, 1879
A day without Lilith Dahlgren was a fine day indeed, George, Marquess of Marylewick, mused as he eased back in his brougham seat.

He was finally heading home after surviving another insipid musical evening of delicate young darlings in dainty gowns gently butchering Bach or Mozart. He removed his top hat, tugged his tie loose, and gazed out at the night. Gold halos glowed around the gaslights, turning the London night a silken deep gray. The moody atmosphere reminded him of Joseph Mallord William Turner’s paintings. Turner was a real painter, unlike Lilith’s ramshackle bohemian friends whose art resembled the plum jelly drawings a four- year-old George had created on his nursery walls. These new artists should be punished for their pathetic attempts at art the same way he had been: their hands dipped in iced water and then slapped with a leather strap. Indolent wastrels, all of them.

George released a long stream of tired breath and reviewed his day to make sure he had squeezed every drop of productive juice from it. He had attended the boxing parlor as he did every morning. He had danced about the ring, thinking about the metaphorical punches he needed to deliver in the heated debate of the contentious Stamp Duty Extension Bill. After a brief breakfast with his sister, he had reviewed estate, bank, and stock accounts with his man of business. Then he had legged over to White’s to pass the remainder of the morning making political battle plans with the lord chancellor. Two more hours had been allocated in the afternoon for the business of his numerous wards and dependents, including the sugar-coated orders from his mama as she readied Tyburn Hall for the upcoming house party. Three Maryle relatives had appointments and were each given fifteen minutes. George believed that was sufficient time for them to express the matter at hand without lapsing into tears or drama. He abhorred sentimentality and rapturous overtures of any kind— all the things that characterized Lilith.

She was always blurting out odd things. For instance, yesterday, when he had been concentrating hard on cheating in a game of whist in hopes of finally beating her, she had piped up, “Do you know the interest of the Bank of England rose by a half a percentage?” Or last night, when she caught him in the corridor as he was trying to sneak a hedgehog into her room in revenge for losing every card game to her, including the ones he cheated at. “I’m going to purchase canal stocks instead of consuls with my pin money because at my young age, I can afford greater investment risks,” she’d said, shockingly oblivious to the squirming, prickly rodent under his coat.

No. 15 Wickerly Square, London
Tuesday, March 11, 1845

Vivienne Taylor repressed a mischievous smile as she gazed at the female members of the Wesley Congregation. The way the ladies sat in three neat rows, with their earnest faces poking out from their morning caps, resembled a gardening bed of black and white lacy flowers. They gathered for the weekly Bible lessons held in the parlor of Gertrude Bertis’s home on Wickerly Square.

Aunt Gertrude banged her cane on the floor, signaling the beginning of the lessons and scaring Garth, her pug dog, who had been snoozing at her feet. “Sisters, today we shall have a special reading in celebration.” Her mouth hiked slightly around the edges… the closest she came to smiling. For though she had a plump, flushed face—the kind made for grins and laughter—she kept her mouth and brow in tense, severe lines, making her appear decades older than her forty-one years. She wore her hair in a snug bun, but a few rebellious strands of silver and brown escaped and curled about her face. Her corset was laced tight, constraining her expansive, round form into rigid feminine contours. Yet when she gazed at her niece, a tender glow melted all the hardness in her eyes.

“My little Vivvie is engaged.” Aunt Gertrude reached over and patted the top of Vivienne’s hand. A wave of warmth flowed through Vivienne’s body.

The ladies cooed, “How lovely,” and “Won’t you be a beautiful bride?”—not the sort of disapproving words Vivienne had heard most of her twenty-two years, words such as, “Proper young ladies do not bring up the marriage customs of the ancient Spartans at the dinner parties,” and “Proper young ladies do not ask the circulating library for books by the Marquis de Sade,” and, the one that embarrassed her father the most, “Proper young ladies are not asked to leave Ladies Seminary.”

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Excerpt:

Dorian Hall. Essex.
Late Spring. 1867

Markham Litton peered into the darkness beyond the great arc windows in the drawing room as his guests prattled on. The night enjoyed a full moon. Usually, under such a celestial lamp, he could make out the dim shape of the church’s belfry rising above the churchyard trees. However, dense low-hanging clouds and rain concealed the landscape around Dorian Hall tonight. During the day, he could peer over the patchwork of fields to where the village church’s brick temple rose over the slate rooftops. There, beneath the sprawling yew tree in the churchyard, rested the graves of his son and wife.

Although their marriage had been a strained one, the passing of his wife had hurt him deeply. But nothing could stem the pain of losing his eldest son. At Tristan’s funeral, the vicar had assured Markham that the souls of the dead rested for the day when they would rise again and be reunited with their loved ones. Markham was never of the religious inclination. He didn’t know what he believed anymore. Nonetheless, it was comforting to think that his son Tristan simply slumbered in this bucolic setting, as peaceful as when he was an infant in his cradle, and one day, he would awaken to find his father at his side once again.

“Markham, old boy.” Lord Simon rested his hand on Markham’s shoulder.

Markham realized that his friend had been looking at him, waiting for a response, but he had drifted miles away. “My apologies,” he muttered.

Markham’s sister, Alice Grosse, flashed Simon a meaningful look from beneath her lashes. As much as his sister and friend tried to make their visit to Dorian Hall appear casual, their motive could hardly be disguised. They had joined forces, determined to “help” Markham.

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Excerpt:

December 1860
I should have taken the first train out of London.

Music thundered in Theo’s ears. His hands shook. Sweat poured down his back, drenching the shirt beneath his evening coat.

On the chalked dance floor, couples swept to a waltz being played by a chamber orchestra of violins, flutes, and a harp. The light of the gas flames in the chandeliers glistened on the silk and taffeta skirts as they swished to the lift and fall of the dance. The young ladies’ cheeks were flushed from the heat, and their hair was styled into stiff waves and spirals and adorned with beads and flowers. The scent of perfumes and men’s hair oils burned Theo’s nose. He balled and flexed his hands, taking long breaths to slow his racing heart. The last five years tending his gardens and living like a monk in the Snowdonia mountains of North Wales hadn’t managed to lessen his angst at coming back to the city.

“Pray, Theo, it’s but a dance, not a parliamentary debate,” Theo’s stepmother Marie, the Countess of Staswick, said. She scanned the ballroom with her shiny cocoa eyes. “You are going to scare off the ladies with that glower you wear.”

He forced a smile. Before him, another season’s fresh crop of debutantes whirled—one of whom, his stepmother had assured him, would make a lovely bride. Marie had never surrendered her belief that the soft arms of a loving wife could “cure” Theo where quack doctors and opiates had failed.

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Excerpt:

“I’m late. I’m so effing late,” Kiki muttered like a profane white rabbit. She hurried along as fast as was gracefully possible in four-inch heels over the pavers of the Atlanta Botanical Garden. She missed her warm, comfy yoga pants and fuzzy socks she had left abandoned in a puddle on her bathroom floor. Instead of spending a low-energy, low-risk evening cuddled with her warm laptop in bed, eating popcorn from the microwavable bag and binge-watching anime, she was attending an awkward evening of real, person-to-person networking. All stiff smiles, saying where she worked and then making small talk about the weather because that’s what she was left with as she wasn’t a sports fan unless commenting about the hotness of soccer players on the big screen at a bar counted.

Ahead of her, red, orange, and yellow tulips, planted in color-coordinated lines, bordered the path. Their vivid hues visually popped against the gloaming jewel tones striping the skyline. The midtown skyscrapers rose in harsh vertical lines above organic curves formed by the treetops. White-gold lights created hazy haloes along the building tops.

A picture of color and symmetry.

She reached to pull her camera from her red Japanese schoolgirl-style backpack and capture the moment, but then remembered she had left her backpack and camera at home. All she had was a useless clutch that held the basics: car keys, lipstick, phone, ID, credit card, business card, and two twenty-dollar bills—because her grandpa always said it was dangerous to go around without cash.

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Excerpt:

Norfolk, England 1819

Lord Blackraven could see her from the rocky cliff. She walked, trancelike, into the murky ocean of her doom. The moonlight illuminated her pale skin as her raven hair floated on the water. He jammed his heels into his stallion’s ribs, sending the beast sailing over the ravine. The branches slapped his face, keeping him from his beloved. He screamed her name wildly, “Arabellina! Arabellina!”

She heard his call but mistook it for the fevered voices in her confused mind. Lord Blackraven was never coming back. He was dead. Stabbed. Every dream of happiness lay buried with him. She took a long breath, her last, and sank into the swirling waves, the stone tied to her feet taking—

A quick motion in the periphery of Henrietta’s watering eye yanked her attention from her book. Had the mail coach come? She anxiously peered out the window to the cobblestone road just beyond the ivy-covered garden gate.

No mail coach. Just her elderly neighbor standing in her worn, sagging morning dress, shooing chickens off the road with a straw broom. Henrietta’s heart sank. The mantel clock chimed the hour, sounding like two spoons being clanked together ten times. The mail was twenty minutes late! This proved what she always suspected, that the Royal Mail Service held a personal grudge against her.

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