Help me welcome author and blogger Louise Bergin as she shares her research into Regency Weddings. She also offers a free sample of her writing by subscribing to her newsletter, so keep reading to learn about that.

When a historical romance author does research for her books, she never knows what trails she will go down in the search for background facts.

My latest book, Stop the Wedding!: Traditional Regency Romance Novella, has a looming deadline in the calling of the banns. Three weeks to announce the impending marriage in church and then the ceremony.

Except, I wondered, did that mean most weddings were performed on Mondays, the day after the final banns?

Did you catch the assumption in that question?

I assumed weddings were performed on Mondays because the couple would be eager to wed. My plot had a Monday wedding scheduled, but just to be certain this was believable, I asked a group of Regency romance authors my question.

They did a deep dive into the research. Their answer surprised me, and I had to add a couple of background details to make my story work.

In 1753, the English Parliament passed the Hardwicke Marriage Act, a pivotal moment in legalizing marriages. This act not only defined the parameters of a legally recognized marriage but also dictated the procedures involved, including the calling of the banns three times in the couple’s parish church.

To uncover the popular wedding days during the Regency era, I consulted a group of fellow romance authors. Our findings were surprising. For instance, during May 1805 at London’s fashionable St. George Church, there were 93 marriages.

Monday: 19

Tuesday: 8

Wednesday: 10

Thursday: 23

Friday: 1

Saturday: 11

Sundays: 21

Sunday marriages? And so many of them? 

Turns out that sometimes the couples were married as soon as the third set of banns were read. They walked up to the front the church and the vows would be exchanged. The congregation would be the witnesses, although only two would sign the register.

Sometimes the clergy refused to perform weddings on Sundays because it was the Lord’s day. Also all weddings (no matter the day), had to be completed by noon due to the Hardwicke Marriage Act. St. George’s must have been a very busy church those May mornings!

The authors speculated why Friday used so infrequently. They believed it was due to superstitions surrounding Good Friday.

Armed with this newfound knowledge, I made adjustments to my story, ensuring the time line and details aligned with historical accuracy. My minister refused to perform weddings on Sundays, and thus pushed my story’s time line to a Monday ceremony as the plot required. 

The lesson learned? Always question assumptions in research. You never know what you don’t know.

Thank you, Dorothy for allowing me to talk about the details of setting the date for a historical marriage.

The book Stop the Wedding! is available on Amazon as both a print book and an ebook. It’s also in Kindle Unlimited. Check it out here: 

https://tinyurl.com/StopTheWedding-LouiseBergin

Free Short Story:

If anyone would like a sample of my work, sign up for my monthly e-newsletter and receive a free Regency romance short story “The Earl’s Secret.” Here’s the opening line:

Miss Eleanor Axtell did not believe she should buy a husband without first thoroughly investigating him. The Earl of Belshire had requested her hand in marriage during the London season, but she hadn’t yet agreed to the match. A wise woman saw a man in his natural habitat before tying herself to him for life.

Sign up here to get the rest of the story: https://tinyurl.com/LouiseBerginReaders

About Louise:

As the graduate of an all-girls’ college, I studied accounting. While that was my practical career plan, learning to fence was my secret research to one day write historical romances. When I married my husband and became an Air Force officer’s wife, I learned you only had to clean your house once every three years to pass inspections – more time for family, reading, and writing!

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Website: http://www.louisebergin.com/

A Sneak Peek inside Stop the Wedding!

Andrew Marne, Marquess of Ellesmere, should have been residing at his London townhouse that Tuesday in April 1807 when the butler handed him two letters upon a silver tray. Instead, he was at the family seat in Cambridge. The mail didn’t have to be forwarded to him. The one letter with the heavy paper was obviously an invitation, which surprised him. Who knew where he actually was to invite him to an event? The other was a smaller missive with the address carefully written.

He opened the invitation. To a wedding. His Uncle George was marrying a Mrs. Dunn in less than three weeks in Kimblefield. That meant the banns were already being called in the church. 

Andrew sighed. Not again. Was this woman a more appropriate match for his widowed uncle than the opera dancer he’d attempted to wed last time? That one had cost 200 pounds to banish. Familial duty and affection for his uncle required Andrew to be certain. If this one proved to be a widow or spinster with a comfortable income, and not solely after his uncle’s money, Andrew would be satisfied and give his blessing.

The second letter came from a Mrs. Chastow. He didn’t know her, but she apparently was a neighbor of his uncle — and very concerned. In small, precisely written letters, she detailed exactly why he should be concerned about his uncle’s impending marriage. The phrases “fortune hunter” and “a poor woman who needs a wealthy man” leaped off the page. He blinked and forced himself to read the missive carefully. It was long and closely written, overlaid with a simpering poison. This Mrs. Chastow obviously greatly disliked his uncle’s intended, but she supported her statements with facts of widowhood, bad financial status, and of course, gossip. Andrew understood why she wrote to his family seat. She wouldn’t know he spent his time in London, but his uncle’s reason? 

He glanced at the cream paper invitation. Why send it to the family seat and delay notification of the wedding? 

 Had Uncle George hoped his nephew wouldn’t receive the invitation until the marriage with Mrs. Dunn had occurred? Maybe this gossip Mrs. Chastow had more truth on her side than he would have expected. He had to know.

Andrew didn’t delay. He summoned his butler. “I am going to Kimblefield. Uncle George intends to marry unsuitably.”

The butler properly showed no surprise. “Then not happy news, my lord.”

“I must stop this wedding and save him. Again.” His duty as head of the family demanded he protect his relatives, and that included saving them from making inappropriate marriages. Ever since Aunt Hortense had passed away five years ago, Uncle George possessed no sense when it came to women. How much would it cost this time to extricate the man? “See that a bag is packed for me and my horse is readied for my immediate departure. Send the rest by coach later.”

His horse was summoned, and Andrew swung into the saddle. Constant spring rains watered the English countryside. The horse could reach the village of Kimblefield, while a coach would be delayed by muddy ruts. 

After three days of travel through steady drizzle, it was Friday before he guided his horse through the stone pillars to the small, stone manor house. Two days before the wedding banns would be read for the second time. Cold, wet, and irritable, as his mount plodded up the drive, he would have to keep a tight rein on his temper. He hadn’t spent much of his childhood at Oakgrove Manor. It wasn’t one of the properties belonging to the title, being owned outright by his uncle. It looked like a prosperous, well-cared for place. Of course, by this time, George could have loaded the deed with all manner of mortgages to buy this woman’s affections.

He halted the horse and loosely tied it in place. With a firm knock on the door, he announced his arrival.

An unfamiliar manservant opened, and Andrew presented his card. After one swift glance at it, the man immediately widened the door and welcomed Andrew. He fussed at relieving him of the wet outer coat, the damp gloves, and promised the groom would take care of the horse.

“Shall I announce you?” the servant asked.

“No, I know the way.” Andrew hadn’t been here often, but the drawing room was located to the right. The rain meant they were either here or at her house.  He wanted to catch this woman and his uncle before she was aware of his arrival and could poison George’s mind against him. 

He entered the drawing room and spotted the single woman who occupied it. George must be somewhere else. Better all around. Andrew could pay her off without his uncle’s interference.

She was doing some embroidery, trying to impress by doing lady-like needlework. She looked up at him, her needle inserted into the design and her fine brows lifted in inquiry. He paused, immediately aware of why she’d captured his uncle’s interest.  This woman was much prettier than the earlier grasping actress George had wanted to wed. Appearing to be in her mid-twenties and thus younger than the previous contender, this one lacked the other’s brashness. Her posture was straight but natural, and managed to convey elegance. She had brown eyes and soft brown hair arranged in a simple style that reminded him of an ancient Greek statue. The green ribbon in her hair matched the green design printed on the cheap muslin of her dress. Her classical style gave her an air of serene calmness in a chaotic world.

“Good afternoon.” Her voice cool and polite. Not concerned at all as to whom he might be.

He bowed. Society’s betters always displayed perfect manners. “Permit me to introduce myself. I’m George’s nephew, Andrew Marne, Marquess of Ellesmere.” He watched for her reaction to his title, but her gaze neither wavered in alarm nor gleamed with interest. 

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said with the same serenity. “I am Miss Catherine Dunn.”

“Uncle George isn’t available?” he asked.

“He wanted a stroll through the woods after his midday meal.”

“You didn’t go with him?” His tone was deliberately censorious. 

“No, I didn’t.” 

He looked out the window. Although the drizzle that had followed him for days had stopped, the gray yet hung in the sky, and the foliage dripped. Was she already working toward Uncle George’s demise by encouraging an illness? Well, he was here to foil her plans.

“You won’t succeed,” he told her. “I’m here to stop this marriage.”

At last he had the satisfaction of ruffling her composure.  Her needlework fell to her lap, and her eyes widened, showing more of their lovely hazel color. “Stop it! But why?”

“You didn’t expect my arrival in your plans, did you? Get my uncle to the altar and then encourage a hasty death from ague or some other illness. . .“

Her mouth dropped open. “Where did you get such a terrible idea?”

“You are not the first fortune hunter I’ve had to deal with.” He stood in front of her, deliberately looming over her slight form. “I’ll make this easy. Will you refuse to marry my uncle for two hundred pounds?” The price was low, especially now that she knew he was a marquess, but he expected she would insist on more, no matter what price he started at. His price would start the negotiations.

“You want to pay me money?”

No indecisiveness on this girl. He liked a straightforward manner. “Yes.” 

Her eyes narrowed. “Let me make certain I clearly understand you, my lord. You will give me two hundred pounds, if I don’t marry your uncle?”

Her quickness toward the money surprised him. He’d expected a few more demure objections. Maybe she didn’t want his uncle interrupting this discussion any more than Andrew did. “That’s my agreement.”

She stood up, forcing him to step back. “For two hundred pounds, I promise.”

A sense of unease washed through him. She was being remarkably accommodating about giving up Uncle George. “I’m glad you agree.”

“Do you have the money on you?” she asked.

“I don’t carry such a large sum when I travel, but I can give you a draft on my bank.”

“I do prefer coins in my hand, my lord.”

She probably didn’t even have a bank. Fortune hunters tended to lack their own funds. “Of course, I will make sure the money is sent to you wherever you go.”

“I live here in Kimblefield village where I’ve been my whole life. Anyone can point out where the Dunns’ cottage is.”

At that moment, there was a bustle in the front hall, and Uncle George exclaimed, “He’s here! Ellesmere came for the wedding?”

Confirming to Andrew that his uncle had no intention of him actually showing up for the ceremony. He smiled grimly. He was thwarting everyone’s plans this afternoon.

The drawing room door opened, and his uncle came in, escorting an older lady patting her graying brown hair into place. 

“My boy, my boy,” his uncle said with an exaggerated heartiness. He pounded Andrew on the back in welcome. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

“I’m certain it’s a surprise,” Andrew said. His uncle looked healthy, despite the encouragement to walk in the rain. The ends of his gray hair were damp, but his pale blue eyes sharp and clear.  “I came about your impending nuptials.”

Uncle George cleared his throat. “Glad you could make it. Let me introduce you to my bride.” He tugged the older lady forward. “This is Mrs. Dunn, Margaret, my intended.”

Andrew stared. “Your intended?” 

This woman looked nothing like a fortune-hunter. With a round face currently creased by an anxious smile and ruddy cheeks from the cold walk, she looked more like a nanny who cared for an aristocrat’s family than someone seeking to entrap a rich man into marriage.

“And my mother.” The woman he’d met first stepped forward and placed a light kiss on her mother’s face.

“So you already met my daughter Catherine?” the older woman asked.

“Yes, and the marquess has given us a generous bride gift of two hundred pounds.” Her face and tone challenged him to contradict her. 

As much as the words choked him, Andrew said, “I did offer that much.”

A smile wreathed George’s face. “Splendid, my boy, and very generous!” He clapped Andrew on the back again, almost staggering him under the blow. “I think I’m glad you made it, after all.”

“You did send me an invitation,” Andrew reminded him through gritted teeth.

“Indeed.” His uncle’s smile dimmed before he glanced around the room. “We need something to celebrate.”

A fine wine was delivered, and everyone’s glasses were filled.

George lifted his drink. “Toast to my bride, the most wonderful woman in the world. I’m the lucky man she’s agreed to wed.”

Margaret wiggled and patted his hand, while saying, “Oh, my dear George. You don’t need to praise me.”

“Yes, he should.” Catherine sipped her wine to demonstrate her agreement. Over the edge of her glass, her gaze settled on Andrew. Was that a challenge?

He wouldn’t take up the gauntlet so quickly. First, he’d try to dissuade Uncle George. Yet, it was awkward to do the social niceties to the woman whose plans he intended to thwart while under the knowing gaze of her daughter. Laughter plainly danced in Catherine’s fine hazel eyes. He could writhe under such merriment, but he’d had years of playing the proper gentleman in all situations. 

Not until after dinner was he left alone with Catherine.

“Go tell the coach to make ready,” Uncle George said. “Both of you.” The fond glance he shared with Mrs. Dunn revealed he wanted time alone with his betrothed while the horses were put to.

Andrew had only to the request to the butler who left to tell the coachman, leaving him with Miss Catherine Dunn in the front hall. Evening had fallen and only the two candles left on the side table banished the darkness. It was just the two of them. 

She spoke first with the amusement she’d never lost underlying her voice. “When may I expect the one hundred pounds, my lord?”

In the meager candlelight, she appeared half shadow and half bright. He said, “You knew I’d mistaken you for your mother.”

Her even and white teeth flashed when she laughed. “You gave me no chance to inform you otherwise.”

That was true, but he wasn’t about to agree with her. She was a schemer who took after her mother.   The older woman had Uncle George in her coils; Andrew wasn’t about to become enmeshed in the daughter’s web strands. “But you knew.”

Her merriment dimmed. “I knew, but to make such an assumption about me was very insulting.”

“I made the assumption about your mother.”

Her anger sparked. “My mother is a good and kind woman who doesn’t deserve to be insulted by the likes of you. “

“The likes of me?”

“When do I collect my money? I promised I would never marry your uncle, and I won’t. That was our agreement.” The laughter had definitely fled from this elegant lady. 

He strove to recover. “I admit I wronged you.”

“And my mother.”

He bowed his head to acknowledge her statement but didn’t speak any agreement with it.

She pressed him, “The insult is not the action of a gentleman, my lord.”

She was right, but Andrew couldn’t accept this continued scolding over his mistake. “I have said I was wrong.” He swallowed hard. “And I regret my actions.”

For a moment, her assessing gaze rested upon him. “Since we are to be related, I accept your apology. When do I receive my money?”

Her persistence annoyed him. Most people treated him with deference, especially once they knew he was a marquess. She’d known who he was right from the moment he walked into the drawing room and told her. 

“I am certain my arrival provided you with a great deal of amusement.” He bit out, “Because I’m a gentleman, I will honor the agreement I proposed. However, you are no lady to thus demand something to which you had no right and obtained under false pretenses. Enjoy your money and make it last. It’s the last coin either your mother or you will extract from the Marne family."