What springs to mind when you read the word gallant? For me, the word is from a time gone by, when social norms were very different.

The adjective can be used to describe bravery and heroism; but it is mostly used to describe a male, not a female, who is charmingly attentive to women, and chivalrous and courteous. Originally, the word gallant meant spirited or dashing (from the Old French galant), but in the seventeenth century the French adopted it to mean politely attentive to women.

Pick up a work of classic literature and you will invariably encounter gallantry: a knight-in-shining-armour sort. But what of more modern works?

My new book Masquerade is set in Andalucía, Spain, in 1976. This was a seminal time in Spanish history, when society was on the cusp of great change. The dictator Franco was dead, and a new king and government were developing Spain into a nation that could stand proudly beside its European neighbours. Long-entrenched social norms were being cast aside in favour of a more liberated, modern way of living. Nowhere was the transformation more evident than in the shift in relations between men and women. Spanish women had long been cast as the damsels in distress; now they wanted their own rights and the freedom to be themselves and the equals of men. (For more information, see my blog post ‘Luz: A heroine of the sexual revolution’).

The women’s right movement that was gaining ground in this era was scathing of gallantry. Yet many women then and since have seen a certain beauty in the gallant actions of a man, so long as they are coming from a place of respect and not domination.

In Masquerade, the story opens with the ultimate act of gallantry. Luz, the heroine, falls from her horse and loses consciousness, and a gypsy, Leandro, carries her to his encampment and cares for her, and then takes her on horseback back to her home. Afterwards, Luz thanks him:

‘I’ve been meaning to thank you for taking care of me after my fall and returning me safely home. It was very kind of you.’

‘You were hurt, what else could I do?’

She thought she glimpsed a spark of something in his eyes: frustration, anger, impatience, but then it was gone and his expression became unreadable again.

‘Still, not everyone would have been so … gallant,’ she stammered, trying to find the right word. As she said it, she thought of him delivering her directly to her bedroom and felt her face warm at the suggestion of just how gallant he had been.

As if reading her mind he looked down at her and gave a slow, mischievous smile.

‘This is true. But we gypsies can be honourable, too.’ Green eyes glittered at her with amusement as he lowered his face closer to hers and added, ‘Or did you think we were all rogues and bandits, perhaps?’

Leandro is quick to associate his gallantry with honour, a very important tenet for the Spanish man. He is also careful to break down any assumption that gallantry is only a gentleman’s quality; a gypsy can be gallant too. How is Luz, the modern woman who is feisty and independent, to interpret such care? Are her feminist sensibilities to be injured, or is she to accept his action in the spirit it was carried out: simple kindness and protection for a lady in need?

Later in the book, a strong attraction has grown between Luz and Leandro. In his straightforward and provocative way, Leandro calls Luz on their feelings, and why she will not give into them.

‘There’s no shield from the forces of destiny,’ he says.‘I think you want it as much as I do – it was there from the first moment we laid eyes on each other. When two consenting adults are in agreement, where is the problem?’

Luz responds:‘But I don’t believe I’ve given my consent to anything of the sort so I think your presumption is a little misplaced.’

From there, the conversation turns:

‘We’re going to have to do something about your old-fashioned ways, Luz.’

‘I’m not old-fashioned, I simply don’t …’

‘Don’t what, Luz?’ As before, his eyes travelled up and down her in a way that made her legs go weak and her stomach fill with butterflies. ‘I think you are a little tense then.’

‘I’m not tense,’ she lied, instinctively taking two paces back and crossing her arms against her chest. She needed some distance between them; to put their relationship – such as it was – back on a more formal footing. ‘What you’re so casually suggesting is not something a decent woman does lightly, that’s all. And no decent man should demand it either.’

‘It’s not gallant, you mean?’ His green gaze was twinkling again.

She couldn’t help but smile at that quaint description she’d once used with regard to him. ‘It’s a question of “la honra” as even rogues and bandits know.’

The challenge, for Luz – and indeed for all the women of her time – is whether to desire and advocate for gallantry, or fight against it at every turn.

Here, Leandro is not being ungallant; he is not, of course, demanding that Luz be with him; he is mischievously challenging what holds her back: her head, not her heart or soul. He is asking her to consider what is old fashioned in her beliefs and values; how they fit with the progressive Spain.

But it is one thing to believe in progress and try to be a strong and free-willed woman; it is another to walk that path. As the poet John Donne wisely wrote:

No man is an island,
Entire of itself,
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.

Luz has to place her choices and actions within the context of the society in which she lives. And although that society is changing, it is not entirely changed; the vanguard exists still, and plenty of traditional views and norms are adhered to. The reality for Luz is that her honour is still very important.

Luz was well aware of the Spanish traditions that ruled the women in her country. Men often had dalliances before they committed to marriage; it was widely accepted. Spanish society also demanded that a woman be a virgin on her wedding night.

Where does that leave Luz and Leandro? Must she insist that he be a gallant gentleman and not seduce her? Must she suppress her own sexual awakening, and turn her back on the sexual revolution occurring around her? Or can she put aside gallantry and take control of her own desires and needs – and destiny? But if she does, what will be the consequences in a still-conservative country? Will she face rejection for her own casting off of gallantry? Is the path of a woman who does not closely protect ‘la honra’ a lonely one?