If you’ve ever brought a toddler to the grocery store, you know what it’s like to write a novel. You can prepare all you want, but it will never go the way you expect. There’ll be surprises, distractions, accidents, meltdowns and the occasional detour down the wrong aisle. Sometimes you might impulsively throw something in the cart that you regret later. But sometimes following that impulse is one of the best things you ever did.
I began Queen of Lombard Street with the idea of a woman, Reina Martin, who starts at the bottom of society in Victorian England, but rises to power in banking and finance. Her ultimate goal is to build the first all-women’s bank, at a time when women aren’t allowed to open their own accounts without a man attached. (With the exception, I should add, of small and limited savings accounts.)
Since Reina was born to unmarried parents, she’s illegitimate. In the eyes of English law, she’s nullius filius—a child of no one. It’s pretty hard to start at a lower point than that.
But Reina has always been guided by what her Spanish mother told her when she was a little girl: that someday (with the help of books and education) she would become “reina de tu propio castillo,” queen of her own castle.
As soon as I threw in the new element of hiring paroled prisoners, my woman-rises-to-power novel changed course.
Before I even started writing, I did six months of research on real-life women in Victorian England who were trailblazers in a wide variety of professions. They each faced layer upon layer of obstacles, set up by a society that was determined to keep women at home and dependent.
But women managed to find ways inside the male-dominated institutions of the time—and some of them succeeded magnificently, in spite of all the obstacles piled around them. Women have always been accustomed to taking unconventional paths to success.
What struck me as I researched these trailblazers was that most of the time, they were busy building ladders not only for themselves, but for others. For example, Elizabeth Garrett Anderson, the first woman in England to qualify as a doctor, built a hospital for women, staffed entirely by women. Emily Faithfull, publisher to the Queen, taught typesetting to other women, then hired them at her own publishing firm.
So it seemed natural that when Reina buys an old fixer-upper in Mayfair and needs a household staff, she would go to an employment agency that tries to place recently paroled prisoners. (These charitable agencies did exist—although it was just as hard then as it is now to find work for someone after they’ve served time.)
Reina knows the risks of bringing this group of strangers with troubled pasts into her home. But she also understands that they’re all living in a rigged system. Their only hope of getting ahead is for someone to give them a chance. Ultimately, trust is a gift you have to give to someone, even knowing it could be a mistake. That’s how Reina ends up living with a group of former cutthroats, thieves, a forger and a juvenile delinquent. (Also, incidentally, a rat-catching dachshund named Alan.)
Ultimately, trust is a gift you have to give to someone, even knowing it could be a mistake.
As soon as I threw in the new element of hiring paroled prisoners, my woman-rises-to-power novel changed course. This one-degree navigational drift eventually sent the book into territory I was not planning on exploring. But the unruly and colorful household staff showed me—and Reina—what her story was really about.
Reina and her household staff are outsiders in a world that can be callous and brutal. If someone offered you a safety net in Victorian-era London, it was brittle, very small and way more decorative than useful. All these people have is each other. Despite their struggling, brawling and backsliding, they start to become a family when a devastating event brings them together. From then on, it’s clear how much they need each other.
After that, I understood that the story of Reina’s rise to power in banking and finance was inescapably linked to the power of her found family.
The times she lived in, just like the ones we live in now, celebrated stories of talented individuals rising to the top. But the Victorian era was also full of stories about people joining together to make things better, and trying like hell to improve life for others as well as themselves. Real-life women formed vast networks to support each other’s goals. They shared time, money, advice and genuine concern, because they knew it couldn’t be done without allies. They weren’t naive idealists, but they absolutely knew that progress isn’t made by cynics.
So Queen of Lombard Street isn’t an “extraordinary woman ahead of her time” novel—it’s a story about a woman who was very much of her time. While I researched these fabulous women from our past, I couldn’t help imagining what it would be like to talk with them. They would understand so much about us and the things we’re facing. Their examples provide not only inspiration but also comfort—which is why a look back into our past might help us figure out how to move forward.
Read our review of Queen of Lombard Street.
