What Not to Wear in Regency & Georgian England

In the course of writing sixteen novels set in either Regency or Georgian England, I've learned quite a lot about what people wore back then. I thought it might be fun to write a hub modeled around one of my favorite shows, What Not to Wear. This article is designed for everyone from historical fashion aficionados to people dressing up for a Jane Austen dinner. When I'm not writing romances, I'm a professor (of Shakespeare), so I can promise reasonable accuracy.

This piece addresses the Georgian era, because my current series of novels is set between 1781 and 1786, meaning that they take place during the reign of King George III, before he turned mad and was permanently replaced by his son, the Regent, in 1811. (The Georgian Era as a whole ran from 1714, the ascension of King George I, to the death of William IV, a brother of George IV, in 1837.)

A TATTOO.

Why? Because now we spent time and money decorating our bodies. But in the 1780s, a man's waistcoat did the same work. Its fabulousness was in direct proportion to the time and money involved in its creation. This one, for example, is described by the Victoria & Albert Museum as "a delicate pattern of swags, bows and floral sprays in silver-gilt-spangles, purl and beads, enlivened with red and green spangles, as well as red foil." *

When I'm writing I often use clothing as shorthand for a male character's wealth and power, as truly fabulous costumes required a fantastic outlay of money. For example, my character, the Duke of Villiers, employs his own workshop of embroiders: Who is that gentleman in a green coat? the heroine asks in Desperate Duchesses. But she knows that "green" is insufficient to describe the coat, calling it instead a pale, pale green, embroidered with black flowers. In Duchess by Night, I put Villiers in a "dressing gown made of Italian silk, dark lavender embroidered with a delicate border of black tulips." Either of these pieces would have taken an atelier of experienced embroiders weeks to finish.

That embroidery would not only riot all over the outside of the waistcoat and matched coat, but on any portion of the collar or inside that might be visible. That depended, of course, on whether the waistcoat was buttoned up, or left to fall open, gracefully displaying a bit more adornment. My Duke of Villiers would definitely button up his waistcoat, for all he was obsessed with embroidery. My favorite resource, Handbook of English Costume in the Eighteenth Century,says that a man frequently buttoned his waistcoat only at the waist in the 1750s and 60s, but by the 1770s, he'd button it to the top.** Villiers would never wear a collarless waistcoats (such as worn in 1800). He would require a small stand-up collar, with embroidery on both sides of the collar, naturally.

A Political Button

Why? Because buttons were big business-not used for advertising political opinions, but for advertising wealth. Conspicuous consumption, the lavish display of expensive items in order to prove one's ability to spend money frivolously, was essential to a claim of power. Dukes were at the very top of the social chain, just under nobility, and an indulgence in visible luxury emphasized their rank in society.

Buttons, small frivolous objects, were key to this display. A button, of course, can be made of a nubbin of wood. Even wrapped in gold foil or studded with diamonds, the wood is still just a button. Only a man of great wealth can waste his cash on buttons, and generally only a man of great wealth can achieve great power (this hasn't changed to this day, given the state of many politicians' personal bank accounts).

Handbook of English Costume in the Eighteenth Century has a separate section just to describe the extraordinary buttons men wore on their coats and waistcoats between 1775-1788. These buttons could be covered with gold or silver silk twist; they might be enameled and set with gems; they might even glitter with precious gems. The example here shows "dainty silver-gilt passementerie buttons," as described by the Victoria & Albert. *** These buttons have a wooden core with notches used to secure the strips of foil.

But some Georgian fashionistas weren't satisfied with diamond-studded buttons; they went for buttons the size of teacup saucers. At that size, they could be painted with designs, as described in a 18^th century journal, The Connoisseur: "even the buttons of his clothes are impressed with the figures of dogs, foxes, stags and horses."****

I couldn't imagine any of my heroes studding his chest with decorated buttons, so instead I created a secondary character with a button fetish, Viscount Saint Albans. To illustrate my example here he is in Desperate Duchesses:

"Viscount Saint Albans minced his way down the stairs. He was a slender man who made the very best of himself. This afternoon he was wearing a magnificent suit of lemon-colored iridescent silk, set with enameled buttons. His coat curved away from his waist; he left it entirely open, displaying all twenty buttons on his waistcoat (matching enamel, naturally)."*****

This sort of exaggerated fashion is difficult for a writer of historical romance to handle, just as a political button might be for a writer of contemporary romance. We must balance historical accuracy - the fact that an extremely rich duke would be quite likely to indulge in conspicuous consumption - against a modern sensibility that insists the same duke be very clean (unlikely), with all his teeth (ditto) and dressed in a manner that doesn't code as effeminate to the modern-day reader.

That doesn't mean the hero has to be fashion-free, but he can't be frivolous. As an example here's my hero, the Duke of Fletcher, from the second book in the Desperate Duchesses series, An Affair Before Christmas:

"He wore one color only... For Fletch, clothing was not about making a statement about one's aggression, but about making clear his erotic appeal. His breeches were almost sewn on. They slipped, smooth as silk - and they often were silk - over thighs bulging with muscle from his daily pounding rides. His coats were cut to display his shoulders, to flaunt his chest, cut away from his flat stomach."******

Fletch's cut-away coat is fashionable, and his silk breeches are a subtle form of conspicuous consumption. But his description codes not toward wealth but toward sex appeal, and if he were wearing boat-sized buttons with pictures of foxes on them (or, for that matter, a red or blue political button), he would lose his claim to male beauty in our eyes, at least.

I could go on (and I do, in my books!). Oh, the boots, gloves and wigs. And lace! Men loved it!

* Avril Hart and Susan North, Historical Fashion in Detail: The 17^th and 18^th Centuries, V&A Publications, 2000, p.146.

** C. Willett Cunnington and Phillis Cunnington, Handbook of English Costume in the 18^th Century, Faber, 1964, pg. 205.

*** Avril Hart and Susan North, Historical Fashion in Detail: The 17^th and 18^th Centuries, V&A Publications, 2000, pg. 120.

**** C. Willett Cunnington and Phillis Cunnington, Handbook of English Costume in the 18^th Century, Faber, 1964, pg. 200.

***** Eloisa James, Desperate Duchesses, HarperCollins, 2007

****** Eloisa James, An Affair Before Christmas, HarperCollins, 2007