Guest Author: Y. S. Lee

Y S Lee was born in Singapore and raised in Vancouver and Toronto. In 2004, she completed her PhD in Victorian literature and culture. This research, combined with her time living in London, triggered an idea for a story about a women’s detective agency. The result, A Spy in the House, her first novel.

Ying is also the author of Masculinity and the English Working Class (Routledge). She now lives in Kingston, Ontario with her husband and young son.

Please welcome, Ying...

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I’m a passionate reader – and writer – of historical fiction. Many people assume this means I’d prefer to have been born in, say, 1832. But I love modern conveniences – hello, gleaming espresso machine at my friendly neighbourhood café – and I thought I’d try to explain why. Here are 5 reasons why historical fiction is better than time-travel:

1. The servant question. A few years ago, I travelled halfway around the world and stayed in various homes where it was normal to have live-in servants. Did you know that there’s a whole new grammar of paid labour? When your domestic employee cooks a meal according to your instructions, you say, “I made this for dinner tonight.” Or when she cleans out the closets, you say, “I thought it was high time to clean the closets.” I never really knew how to behave in situations like this; I’m sure it was embarrassing for everybody involved.
2. Victorian employers seemed to find servants even more stressful: there are dozens and dozens of nineteenth-century self-help books aimed at smoothing servant-employer relations. In the early twentieth century, even Virginia Woolf agonized constantly about her domestics. In contrast, I treat my domestic help very badly indeed: the vacuum cleaner gets shut in a closet whenever it’s not actually cleaning my floors; the washing machine hasn’t been paid in years; and I complain about the dishwasher when it’s too noisy, takes too long, or misses a speck. By Victorian standards, I’m a tyrant. And I like it that way. 
3. Modern Snack Foods. Sometimes, you just want some crisps. You’re stuck in 1858. So what do you do? Why, scamper down to the root cellar, unearth the couple of potatoes that haven’t gone either green or spongy, scrub them up, slice them with the precision of an Iron Chef, and deep-fry them in a kettle of hot fat. Or, you stay in our century and grab a packet of what M.F.K. Fisher calls “the square cellophane fruit on wire trees”.
4. You don’t need no education… if you’re a girl. I admit, this would have been tempting when I was grappling with le subjonctif in high-school French. But Victorian young ladies were woefully undereducated because, so the logic went, they had men to take care of them. This lack of formal education had disastrous results: no right to vote, no right to own property independent of your husband, and the assumption that women were less intelligent than men. I like the right to vote, and I’m voting for the 21st century, thanks.
5. David Tennant is unavailable to accompany me. And don’t give me that nonsense about getting used to the new Doctor. 

The family toothbrush. According to John Sutherland, whom I never doubt, dental hygiene is a relative latecomer to Western culture. In his terrific essay, “Heathcliff’s toothbrush”, Sutherland contemplates the state of our favourite Brontë psychopath’s teeth. Apparently, Heathcliff is unlikely to be able to gnash his gleaming white teeth in fury, because it would be rare for men of his age to have gnashable teeth. Indeed, while Victorians bathed regularly and believed in fresh air, they generally had only one toothbrush per household; the family toothbrush, if you will, in much the same way that families now have one nailbrush, or one shoe-polishing kit. A fortnight’s stay in 1840, anyone? I thought not.

Don’t get me wrong: I adore the nineteenth century, but I do so from a safe distance. Am I right? Or just cowardly and misguided? I’d love to hear from you on the subject. 

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The Agency: A Spy in the House

Y. S. Lee

Walker Books (UK) / Candlewick Press (US)

This is a colourful, action-packed Victorian detective novel centered around the exploits of 'agent' Mary Quinn. At a young age, Mary is rescued from the gallows by a woman masquerading as a prison warden. She is taken to Miss Scrimshaw's Academy for Girls. The school, Mary learns, is a front for a private investigation agency and, at 17, she is taken on as an agent. In her new role she is catapulted into the family home of the Thorolds to investigate the shady business dealings of Mr Thorold. (Goodreads)