Dumb Luck in a Box

I have a haphazard approach to research when I'm writing. It goes like this: look it up fast; if that fails, make something up and hope no one else knows either; prepare to duck. Sometimes, however, I'm right with bells on, and here's an example. This excerpt is from my March 2009 release A Most Lamentable Comedy:

“Paris, then, sir? Or how about Vienna?”
I look up from my writing case, tossing billets-doux into the fire. “No. It’s been too long. I want to go home.” My fingers search for the hidden spring in the writing case, and with a quiet click the secret compartment opens.
Barton raises his scarred eyebrows as gold glints in the firelight. “Ireland?”
“No. England.” England. It must be the damn weakness from nearly drowning that makes me want to weep.
He shakes his head. “Well, I suppose no one knows you in England. It’s as good a place as any. Near twenty years since I was there, too. What shall we do there? The usual?”
I nod and lay a handful of coins on the table for the family who have saved my life and shared their meager food with us. It is the least I can do, for I plan to steal away before dawn.
“And your name, this time, sir?”
My name.
“My own name.”
He looks at me blankly.
“My name is Nicholas Congrevance.” It is a stranger’s name on my tongue.
“Yes, sir. Of course it is, sir.” He winks at me.

I was pretty sure that my hero, Nicholas Congrevance, would have a box to keep writing things in. I was also pretty sure that it would have secret compartments for his emergency cash and other valuables in a life that demanded quick getaways.

And then, lo and behold, I watched an episode of Antiques Roadshow where an 1805 writing box, by master designer Nicholas Middleton (with original label) was on show, a thing of marvelous complexity and beauty, with secret compartments. It looks nice enough although fairly simple when closed, but check out the video here.

Writing boxes, or portable writing desks, were useful things. They kept ink, pens, and paper in one place and provided a comfortable, sloped surface for writing. You could pick them up and take them to a warmer, or better lit part of the house, and you could also, of course, take them on the road.

In the US, they were known as Jefferson boxes--this is Jefferson's, or possibly a reproduction of it--and with their cunning devices, springs, secret compartments, and usefulness combined with fine workmanship, they were the sort of item that would appeal to the presidential master-tinkerer. They were frequently made of exotic woods with stylish, delicate inlays.


They could also be intensely personal items, used to store letters and other treasures. Here's a writing box, once owned by Darwin's first daughter Annie, who died when she was ten, and which her mother used to store these small, touching momentos.

Popular throughout the nineteenth century, the writing box became very sophisticated in design and function, tempting you to think of it as the precursor of the laptop.


This is a box from the 1880s, made of American red oak, designed for shipboard travel and with an inbuilt calendar.

Here's a terrific source of boxes at hydra.com with some wonderful pictures. I would love to own one of these beautifully-crafted pieces.

Have you had dumb luck moments in writing? Or, do you want to make me jealous by telling me about the writing desk you own?

p.s. I'm over at the Riskies today talking about My Theory... about Regency fashion. Come and visit!