Educated But Invisible: The Victorian Governess and Her Place in the Household

Educated Bet Invisible: The Victorian Governess and Her Place in the Household

I have been learning more about the lives of the Victorians, and trying to understand more about the class and education systems. So I want to look at the role of the governess, these were educated women who lived in a strange space between family member and servant, and she didn’t belong fully to either world.

In the early nineteenth century, Britain was changing at rapid speed. The middle classes were expanding, and with that came new expectations about respectability and education. Families wanted to show their refinement and increasingly believed their daughters should be well educated, not only in reading and writing but in music, languages, drawing, and manners. But sending girls away to school was often considered unsuitable, especially for wealthier families who wanted privacy and moral supervision. This created a demand for governesses- women who could educate them at home.

Most governesses came from what historians often call the “distressed gentlewoman” class. They were usually daughters of clergymen, officers, professionals, or small landowners whose family fortunes had declined. Teaching was one of the very few respectable ways a middle-class woman could earn a living without losing her social standing. 

Governesses typically taught reading, writing, arithmetic, history, geography, French, music, drawing, and most important of all, manners. They were expected to shape character as much as intelligence. Guiding girls to become refined wives and mothers. Their days would often be long and demanding, spent almost entirely with the children, having to balance patience with discipline while knowing they themselves were constantly being observed and judged.

Schools for girls did exist, particularly by the mid-Victorian period, but they were certainly very different environments. Many early girls’ schools focused heavily on accomplishments rather than academics, and their standards varied widely. For wealthier families, a governess offered a more personalised education and more importantly to many, moral reassurance. Over time, as educational reform grew and more formal schooling improved, the role of the governess slowly began to change, but for much of the century she remained central to many girls’ education.

The governess occupied an awkward and often lonely position in the household. She was more often too educated to feel at ease with the servants, but not truly accepted by the family. Some employers treated their governess with respect and even kindness, but others kept a distance. Servants sometimes viewed her with suspicion or resentment, unsure whether she ranked above them or not. Many governesses described feeling invisible- present in the but not fully included in conversations or family life.

Pay reflected this uncertain status. A governess might earn between £20 and £40 a year, sometimes with board and lodging included. This was more than many female servants earned, but far less than male professionals or tutors. The salary rarely allowed for any savings, leaving many women anxious about their future. Compared to male tutors, who often taught older boys subjects like Latin, mathematics, or preparation for university, governesses were paid less and given less authority, reflecting the clear and far wider gender inequalities that existed at the time.

Men who worked as tutors usually occupied a clearer professional role. They often taught for shorter periods, had defined academic goals, and were more likely to move on to other careers. Governesses, on the other hand, were expected to provide emotional care as well as education, they formed close bonds with children while knowing those relationships will most likely end.

As the children grew up or were sent away to school, many governesses found themselves facing an uncertain future. Some moved to another household, beginning the cycle again. Others tried to open small schools, became companions to elderly relatives, or relied on charity if work could not be found. Old age could be particularly frightening, and charitable institutions specifically for retired governesses emerged, one such charity was Governesses’ Benevolent Institution (GBI), founded in 1841. There were many of these charities , mostly in London. These charities came in response to this very real fear.

Despite the hardships, many governesses formed strong attachments to the children they taught and took pride in the role they played in their lives. Their letters and diaries reveal women who were thoughtful, sensitive, and resilient, often navigating loneliness. 

By the late Victorian period, expanding educational opportunities for women and the growth of formal schooling gradually reduced the need for governesses, but they remain an important part of social history.

Do you think the governess’s position -educated but socially isolated - reveals more about Victorian attitudes to class, gender, or both?

You can’t help but feel admiration for these women. In a society that offered them so few choices, governesses were made to carry enormous responsibility and with very little recognition. Though their presence was often overlooked at the time, their influence lived on in the lives of the children they helped to shape, leaving a legacy that is easy to miss but impossible to deny.

Image info:

Artist: Rebecca Solomon

Date: 1851

The Governess

The Rise of the Detective: Finding Order in a Changing Victorian World

The Rise of the Detective: Finding Order in a Changing Victorian World

I have been discovering more about different aspects of Victorian life, and today I thought we could find out about the rise of the police and more to the point, the detective. This was a new profession but it also became a new kind of fictional hero. This response was possibly a reaction to a world that suddenly felt like it had become bigger, faster, and even more uncertain than ever before, a time where people were desperate for some type of reassurance that someone, anyone could make sense of all the chaos. This sounds familiar, doesn’t it?

Lets start the beginning of the nineteenth century, when the idea of organised policing as still a relatively new idea and was by many viewed with a certain amount of suspicion. Many people were worried that a professional police force might threaten their personal freedoms in some way. They had visions of systems that had been in place abroad, particularly in France. These systems were seen as way too heavy-handed even to the point of oppressive. Crime existed, of course it did, but communities were used to dealing with it on a local level. They used watchmen or parish constables. These were local men, not professionals and they were responsible for keeping watch and maintaining order. There was a sense that justice was more immediate, even if it was not always effective. For ordinary people, feeling safe depended more on knowing their neighbours than on any official authority.

In 1829, things had started to change. The Metropolitan Police were established in London under Home Secretary Robert Peel. They were a uniformed, organised force. This was a huge turning point. The new officers, who soon became nicknamed “Bobbies,” walked the streets in blue coats, intended to be approachable rather than in any way military, but also a visible deterrent. For some Londoners, their presence brought them a feeling of safety. Streets that used to be dangerous now had regular patrols.

Despite this growing fascination, not everyone was entirely comfortable with this new kind of policing. Some Victorians worried about the idea of men watching people and gathering information. There were fears about privacy and the possible mistakes, and some critics even wondered whether too much power rested in the hands of just a few individuals. Similar concerned are often raised today with the use of facial recognition. But at the same time, many people did actually feel reassured knowing that there were skilled people working to solve crime. The suspicion and the trust reflected the wider Victorian society, a world learning to balance tradition with rapid change.

The role of the police, as you know, did eventually become more accepted, particularly as cities grew in the Industrial Revolution. Urban life did bring opportunities but it also caused serious overcrowding, poverty, and a rising anxiety about crime. Newspapers reported on thefts, assaults, and sensational trials, which fed into the public appetite for stories that were both frightening and compelling. Readers could not look away. Crime stories allowed them to confront their fears from a safe distance while also reassuring themselves that there will always be someone to put things right.

Out of this mix of anxiety, fascination, and social change came the first detectives. In 1842, the Metropolitan Police created its first Detective Branch, that later became known as the Criminal Investigation Department. Unlike the uniformed officers, detectives worked in plain clothes, they relied on observations, deductions and patience rather than the visible authority and deterrent that the “Bobbies” used.

To the Victorian imagination, this must have seemed almost mysterious. The detective was not just a figure who upheld the law but someone who was intelligent, someone who could see things that other people missed.

Real detectives quickly captured the public’s attention. Figures like Inspector Charles Frederick Field became minor celebrities of the time. Stories about their investigations appeared in newspapers and magazines, mixing fact with just a touch of drama. People were fascinated not only by the crimes themselves but by the process used to solve them. There was a growing belief that reason and persistence could restore some balance, a comforting thought for people in an age of rapid change.

One reason that detectives captured the public imagination so strongly was the growing number of famous criminal cases that filled the newspapers. Trials and investigations became kind of public entertainment. They were followed closely by readers wanting every new detail. Cases like the shocking Road Hill House case of 1860 showed Victorian England that brutality that could exist behind respectable peoples doors. The painstaking work detectives took to uncover the truth was also becoming interesting to the public. Later in the century, Jack the Ripper terrified London and showed the importance of detective work, as the fear spread through the crowded streets of the East End. For Victorians reading these stories, must have been complex- they must have felt horror at the crimes, but also a fascination with the process of investigation and a deep hope that justice could be delt.

Image info:

Sherlock Holmes in "The Man with the Twisted Lip"

Date: December 1891

Source: The Strand Magazine

Author: Sidney Paget

 

Literature was also starting to reflect this new fascination. Earlier crime stories had often focused on the criminals or on the moral lessons that can be learned, but by the mid-nineteenth century, authors had begun to place the investigator front and centre of the story. One of the earliest was Edgar Allan Poe’s detective C. Auguste Dupin. Although Poe was American, his influence shaped British writers who saw the potential for a new kind of story that was built around puzzles and intelligence.

Charles Dickens whose interest was in the workings of society, also played a role in popularising the detective genre. His friendship with Inspector Field helped to create his characters, this offered readers a glimpse into the investigative work. Dickens understood that crime stories were not just exciting but could also be emotional. They reflected the fears people had about poverty, inequality, and the hidden struggles of urban life. Through his writing, people could feel both sympathy and suspense, and he recognised that crime often came from hardship as much as it did from any malice.

By the late nineteenth century, the detective had fully captured the Victorian imagination. No figure is more famous Sherlock Holmes, an incredible creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Holmes first appeared in 1887, and he was and still is the perfect mix of logic and unique personality. He used his observational skills, scientific methods, and a confidence to solve the most baffling mysteries. For the audience who were living in an era of scientific discovery and social change, this must have felt reassuring as well and entertaining.

Image info:

Charlton Comics

Date: October 1955

But Holmes was not admired just for his intellect. He also felt human in his own way, he struggled with moments of isolation and intensity that gave a taste at the emotional cost of seeing things clearly. Dr Watson his loyal and steadying companion provided perspective, and this reminded audiences that friendship and empathy also mattered. Together, they created a partnership that felt both balanced and comforting, alongside the excitement and emotional connection. It is no wonder they are still so incredibly popular today, with so many different adaptations made in to films and series. They satisfy our curiosity and our need for answers. Even as the methods of investigation change, the appeal of solving mysteries and restoring order still continues to resonate with audiences today.

Do you think the popularity of detectives reflects the human need to believe that truth can always be uncovered, even in uncertain times?

Eliza Roberts: The Nurse History Almost Forgot

Eliza Roberts: The Nurse History Almost Forgot

During the Crimean War, nursing was still finding its self and the women who stepped into those overcrowded hospitals entered a world that very few civilians could ever imagine. Supplies were scarce, wards were packed tightly with wounded men, and the air had a constant smell of infection. Nurses were needed to work long hours on very little rest, washing linens, preparing food, comforting the dying, and trying to maintain some sense of order in the chaos. Many soldiers arrived with terrible injuries and also with diseases, exhaustion, and they were often frightened. In this environment, practical skill and emotional strength was just as important as compassion.

Today I want to discover more about Eliza Roberts, a woman who helped shape modern nursing long before it was properly recognised.

Roberts was born in 1802 in Shadwell, East London, into a working-class family where survival depended on work rather than on status. Nursing was not a respected calling at the time, especially for women of her background, but by 1829 she was working at St Thomas’ Hospital as an assistant nurse in a men’s surgical ward. Hospital work in this period was brutal and very unglamorous. Over the next two decades, Roberts learned by observing surgeons closely, and managing the daily realities of injury and disease. By 1840 she had become a ward sister, specialising in surgical accidents and lithotomy cases.

Those who worked with her recognised just how formidable she was. Senior doctors described her as having more practical knowledge than almost anyone else, male or female. She did though struggle with management, her ward experienced high staff turnover, perhaps due to her temper and uncompromising standards. By 1853, after twenty-four exhausting years,her failing health forced her to retire. She was in her early fifties.

When the Crimean War broke out soon after, Roberts’ health recovered just enough for her to volunteer. She joined the team of nurses led by Florence Nightingale, arriving at Scutari Hospital in October 1854. The conditions were appalling: filth, overcrowding, disease, and overwhelming numbers of wounded men. For many nurses, the shock was paralysing. For Roberts, it was grimly familiar. Within days, Nightingale recognised her value, describing her as “worth her weight in gold” and appointing her Head Nurse. That recognition likely brought a mixture of pride and pressure.

Roberts was no social ideal, but she was compketely reliable when lives were at stake. Her experience allowed her to work fast and with confidence. Something few others could. She dressed wounds and fractures with exceptional skill, often better than junior surgeons, and shouldered workloads that would have broken most people. During Nightingale’s illness in 1855, Roberts nursed her tirelessly, even standing firm up against senior military figures who attempted to interfere.

But Roberts was not easy to live with. She was barely literate, outspoken, prone to getting angry and she was proud of her rough edges. Her language and manners clashed sharply with Nightingale’s upper-class expectations, and tensions often flared up. Roberts knew how indispensable she was and did not hesitate to remind Nightingale of it, even threatening to resign if she was criticised. Behind this defiance may have been insecurity: a working-class woman navigating elite spaces, she may have felt valued for her labour but never fully accepted. Nightingale, chose competence, tolerating Roberts’ flaws because the work mattered more than keeping up appearances.

Roberts returned to England with Nightingale in 1856, her contribution though was not celebrated like Nightingales was but she was acknowledged. Nightingale remembered her as a splendid nurse and an excellent woman, which was high praise from someone who rarely gave it. Roberts died in 1878.

Her story raises a question. How many essential contributors to history have been remembered only through the shadow of someone more famous, and how differently might we view the past if we centred in these lesser-known people?

Image info:

Artist: Jerry Barrett

Date:1857

The Matchgirls’ Strike: Courage in the Face of Injustice

The Matchgirls’ Strike: Courage in the Face of Injustice

Today I want to learn more about a part of history that up until now I knew nothing about, the Matchgirls’ Strike of 1888. A time when young working women in London stood together against injustice and changed the course of history. How could I not have known anything about this until now?

In the late nineteenth century, as we all know the East End of London was crowded, noisy, and steeped in poverty. One of the factories that lined its streets was Bryant & May match factory in Bow. Inside, hundreds of girls and young women-many still only in their early teens- they worked long hours for exceptionally low wages. Their job was to dip small wooden splints into a dangerous white phosphorus, a substance that could cause a horrific condition known as “phossy jaw,” where the bones of the face slowly decayed. Fines were imposed on the women for even the smallest of mistakes, things like talking, dropping matches, or arriving a few minutes late. Pay could and would be reduced without any warning. For girls already living on the edge, those reductions in wages often meant hunger, not just for her but for her family aswell.

By 1888, frustration had been building for years. The girls endured the hideous smell of the chemicals, the constant worry of becoming ill, and the humiliation of the unfair and frankly exploitative treatment. Many of these women were supporting parents or younger siblings. They may well have felt invisible-young, poor, and dismissed by society as completely unimportant. But beneath that surface was strength.

In June 1888, the social reformer Annie Besant visited the factory and began speaking with the workers. She was completely shocked by what she heard from the women. She published an article titled “White Slavery in London,” in her weekly newspaper, The Link. She exposed the conditions inside Bryant & May. The factory owners as you can well imagine were not happy and reacted angrily to article. They pressured the girls to deny the claims and to tell people that Besant’s words were lies. When several workers simply refused, one was dismissed.

That dismissal became the spark needed to provoke the women into action.

On the 5th of July 1888, around 1,400 matchgirls walked out. It was bold, frightening and maybe even a decision that could push them into destitution. Most had no savings. Striking meant no wages at all. But they chose solidarity. They marched to see Besant, asking for help in organising their cause. For perhaps the first time, many of them felt their voices finally mattered.

Public opinion quickly shifted in their favour. Newspapers reported on their bravery. Meetings were held. Donations were even raised. The girls elected representatives, they showed remarkable confidence and complete unity. They were not willing to be passive victims; they were determined young women demanding fairness.

Within two weeks, the factory management agreed to negotiate. Fines and deductions were abolished and a formal grievance procedure was introduced. The strike officially ended on the 16th of July 1888. The girls returned to work as pioneers of change.

In the following weeks, they formed the Union of Women Matchmakers, which was one of the first unions for unskilled female workers. Their action helped inspire the wider “New Unionism” movement, proving that even the poorest workers could organise successfully.

The Matchgirls’ Strike was not only about wages. It was about dignity. These young women-many only teenagers- had challenged powerful businessmen and forced society to see them. They must have felt fear, yes, but also a sense of pride. They had discovered their collective strength, and stood up to be heard.

Their story reminds us that history is often not about kings and politicians, but made by ordinary people who refuse to just accept injustice.

Do you think their courage would have been possible without standing together? How much influence did Annie Besant have on the women?

Image info:

Matchgirls on strike against Bryant & May in London

Date: 1888

The English Reformation: Faith, Fear, and the Fight for Authority

The English Reformation: Faith, Fear, and the Fight for Authority

We have been discovering more about people of the Tudor era, and today I want to turn that same lens toward one of the most defining and divisive transformations of their world: the English Reformation. Rather than treating it as a clean religious revolution or a simple shift from Catholic to Protestant, it makes far more sense to see it as a deeply human process, shaped by fear, ambition, conscience, frustration, and circumstance. The Reformation did not arrive fully formed, nor was it driven by a single motive. It unfolded unevenly, propelled by individuals making choices under intense pressure, often with limited understanding of where those choices would lead.

At the centre of this story stands Henry VIII, but focusing solely on him risks oversimplifying what happened. Henry did not begin his reign as a reformer or a critic of Rome. On the contrary, he was a committed Catholic who publicly opposed the teachings of Martin Luther and earned papal praise for doing so. The break with Rome grew out of a personal and dynastic crisis rather than theological rebellion. By the late 1520s, Henry faced the terrifying possibility that his dynasty might fail. His marriage to Catherine of Aragon had produced only one surviving child, Mary, and the shadow of civil war still loomed large in English memory. A disputed succession was not an abstract worry; it was a genuine threat to stability.

When Henry sought an annulment and encountered resistance from the papacy, the issue quickly became political as well as personal. The pope’s hesitation was caused by European power struggles and imperial pressure, but to Henry it felt like England’s and his personal future was being dictated by foreign interests. This sense of frustration and humiliation mattered. The Reformation, in this light, was partly a declaration of sovereignty. It asserted that England’s king would not submit to an external authority, even one that claimed spiritual supremacy.

But dynastic anxiety alone cannot explain the sweeping changes that followed. The English Reformation succeeded because long-standing tensions already existed between Crown and Church. The medieval Church was wealthy, legally privileged, and intricately woven into everyday life. Monasteries controlled vast tracts of land, clerics operated in separate courts, and money flowed out of England through papal taxes and fees. To many, this system looked less like spiritual care and more like an institution beyond accountability.

This resentment created opportunities for men who understood how reform could strengthen royal power. Figures such as Thomas Cromwell recognised that the issue was not just marriage, but authority. By redefining the king as Supreme Head of the Church of England, the Crown gained control over doctrine, law, and wealth. The dissolution of the monasteries, often justified in moral language, transferred enormous resources into royal hands and rewarded loyal supporters. For many beneficiaries, reform was as much about land and advancement as belief.

That does not mean religion was irrelevant. The early sixteenth century was shaped by genuine spiritual unease. Across Europe, people questioned whether the Church truly guided souls toward salvation or whether it had become distracted by power and ritual. In England, reformist ideas circulated discreetly among scholars, courtiers, and merchants. Access to scripture in English and an emphasis on personal faith challenged the Church’s traditional role as mediator between God and believer. For some, this offered clarity and hope; for others, it threatened the foundations of a familiar world.

These tensions explain why reform in England moved cautiously and often inconsistently. Henry himself remained conservative in belief, persecuting Protestants and Catholics alike when he felt stability was threatened. The Church he created was structurally new but doctrinally restrained. It was only later, under his children, that belief shifted more clearly. Under Thomas Cranmer, religious reforms reflected a sincere attempt to reshape worship and theology, even as they provoked resistance and even fear.

Fear played a powerful role throughout the process. Rulers had watched religious division tear other countries apart. The English Crown feared rebellion, foreign invasion, and the erosion of authority. Religion became a tool of governance, a way to define loyalty and obedience. To dissent was not merely to believe differently, but to risk being labelled disloyal or treasonous. In this climate, conformity mattered more than conviction.

For ordinary people, the Reformation was often confusing and unsettling. Changes arrived through law rather than consent. Practices that were part community life for generations were suddenly condemned, altered, or removed. Images vanished, prayers changed, and familiar rituals disappeared. Some welcomed these reforms as purification; others mourned what they saw as the destruction of sacred tradition. Many simply adapted, learning to survive in a world where belief had become political.

Over time, the Reformation reshaped English identity. Under Elizabeth I, religion became a careful compromise, designed to avoid extremes while reinforcing royal authority. Under Elizabeth I, the monarch was deliberately styled “Supreme Governor” of the Church of England rather than “Supreme Head”, a carefully chosen title designed to soften religious opposition, reassure traditionalists, and reinforce royal authority without provoking unnecessary division. Protestantism grew intertwined with ideas of English independence and resistance to foreign control. But the settlement rested on fragile foundations, shaped by memory, fear, and unresolved divisions.

Seen this way, the English Reformation was not inevitable, nor was it driven by a single cause. It happened because personal fears aligned with political opportunity, because economic gain could be framed as moral reform, and because religious ideas emerged at a moment when authority itself was under strain. It was shaped by people navigating uncertainty, trying to protect power, conscience, or survival.

So the question remains: when we strip away hindsight and labels, what were the real reasons for the English Reformation? Was it primarily a crisis of belief, a struggle for power, a response to fear, or an uneasy combination of all three-and can we ever truly separate faith from politics when the future of a dynasty, a nation, and individual souls seemed to depend on the same choices?

Image info:

Artist: After Hans Holbein the Younger

Date: 1540–1547

Collection: Walker Art Gallery

In Service and Silence: The Long Life of Louisa McDonnell, Countess of Antrim

In Service and Silence: The Long Life of Louisa McDonnell, Countess of Antrim

I want to learn about Louisa McDonnell, Countess of Antrim.

She was born on the 15th of February 1855 at St James’s Palace, into the influential Grey family, where service to crown and country was a familiar expectation. Growing up amid court connections and political responsibility likely instilled in her a strong sense of restraint and loyalty. From an early age, she would have understood that personal feelings were often secondary to role and reputation.

In 1875, she married William Randal McDonnell, 6th Earl of Antrim, beginning a family life alongside her aristocratic obligations. Balancing motherhood with public duty may have brought tension, as affection and absence pulled her in different directions. Noble life demanded composure, even when emotions were complex.

In 1890, she was appointed Lady of the Bedchamber to Queen Victoria. This role required constancy, sensitivity, and absolute trust. Serving the Queen through her final years, Louisa would have witnessed grief, decline, and the loneliness of power. After Victoria’s death, she continued her service under Queen Alexandra, adapting once more to a new personality and court atmosphere, a testament to her emotional intelligence and resilience.

She lived to see extraordinary change, dying in London on the 2nd of April 1949, aged ninety-four. 

Do you think women like the Countess of Antrim found fulfilment in loyal service, or did such roles demand too much personal sacrifice?

Anna Maria Russell and the Social Ritual That Changed British Afternoons

Anna Maria Russell and the Social Ritual That Changed British Afternoons

I want to find out more about Anna Maria Russell, Duchess of Bedford, the woman often credited with the invention of afternoon tea. A custom that has become quintessentially British.

 

Anna Maria Stanhope was born on the 3rd of September in 1783. She was the daughter of Charles Stanhope, the 3rd Earl of Harrington, and Jane Fleming. Having been born into aristocracy, she would have learned how important behaviour and reputation was in elite circles, this must have shaped her instincts, making her aware that observing and adapting, was what was expected.

 

In 1808, she married Francis Russell, who later became the 7th Duke of Bedford. The marriage joined her to one of Britain’s most powerful families. When her husband eventually inherited the dukedom in 1839, Anna became Duchess of Bedford, a role that placed her even closer to court life. She was already considered a trusted figure, having already formed a close friendship with Queen Victoria. She had she served as a Lady of the Bedchamber between 1837 and 1841. This position required discretion, emotional intelligence, and a constant attentiveness, it also likely made her more aware of how routine and comfort mattered in the demanding royal schedule.

 

In 1841, Anna’s closeness to the royal household was made clear when Queen Victoria visited her at Woburn Abbey in Bedfordshire. The occasion must have felt like both an honour and a test. Entertaining a queen required organisation and a clear understanding of royal expectation. For Anna, the visit was likely a mix of pride and enormous pressure: pride that she was welcoming her queen, and pressure to make sure that it went I want to find out more about Anna Maria Russell, Duchess of Bedford, the woman often credited with the invention of afternoon tea. A custom that has become quintessentially British.

 

Anna Maria Stanhope was born on the 3rd of September in 1783. She was the daughter of Charles Stanhope, the 3rd Earl of Harrington, and Jane Fleming. Having been born into aristocracy, she would have learned how important behaviour and reputation was in elite circles, this must have shaped her instincts, making her aware that observing and adapting, was what was expected.

 

In 1808, she married Francis Russell, who later became the 7th Duke of Bedford. The marriage joined her to one of Britain’s most powerful families. When her husband eventually inherited the dukedom in 1839, Anna became Duchess of Bedford, a role that placed her even closer to court life. She was already considered a trusted figure, having already formed a close friendship with Queen Victoria. She had she served as a Lady of the Bedchamber between 1837 and 1841. This position required discretion, emotional intelligence, and a constant attentiveness, it also likely made her more aware of how routine and comfort mattered in the demanding royal schedule.

 

In 1841, Anna’s closeness to the royal household was made clear when Queen Victoria visited her at Woburn Abbey in Bedfordshire. The occasion must have felt like both an honour and a test. Entertaining a queen required organisation and a clear understanding of royal expectation. For Anna, the visit was likely a mix of pride and pressure. Pride that she was welcoming her queen, and pressure to make sure that it went perfectly and that the queen was comfortable. 

 

It was during this time that Anna became associated with afternoon tea. She had started to struggle with the time between lunch and an increasingly late evening meal, she is said to have felt a sinking feeling, and became fatigued and hungry. Her solution was a simple one, she requested that tea, bread, butter, and cake be served in the late afternoon. Whether or not she truly “invented” the custom or not altogether clear, but the practice spread through her social circles, eventually becoming popular with Victoria herself. This royal approval made the custom popular throughout Britain.

 

Anna Russell sadly died on the 3rd of July 1857 and is buried at Chenies in Buckinghamshire. 

 

Do you think everyday habits tell us more about history than any political event ever can?