Well Is She or Isn’t She?

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Today we have not strayed far from Cavendish Mews and are still in Mayfair, but are far enough away in her mind that Lettice has chosen to take a taxi, hailed for her by her maid Edith from the nearby square, to Bond Street where the premises of Bonham’s Fine Art Valuers and Auctioneers* have been standing for well over a century. As it pulls up to the kerb, Lettice peers through the window of her shiny deep blue taxi up at the impressive four storey building built in ‘blood and bandages’** style with its ornate Art Nouveau first floor window and Mannerist bay windows and balconette above. Its Dutch Revival roofline just manages to outdo the red brick buildings to either side, and Bonhams is by far the most eye catching of them and it stands out along the Bond Street streetscape.

 

“That’ll be three and six, mum.” the Cockney taxi driver says through the glass divider between the driver’s compartment and the passenger carriage as he leans back in his seat. Stretching his arm across the seat he tips his cap in deference to the well dressed Lettice swathed in powder blue and artic fox fur in the maroon leather back seat.

 

Lettice smiles, fishes out her snakeskin handback and withdraws her coin purse from within its confines. She pays the diver his fare and a little extra for having brought her a relatively short distance when he could have taken someone going further than Bond Street. “Keep the change.” she says breezily as she hands him the money before depressing the handle of the taxi door and opening it.

 

“Thank you, mum.” the taxi driver replies with a smile as he tips his cap yet again. Flicking his sign to show he is available for hire, he puts the idling engine of his taxi into gear and pulls away from the kerb.

 

“Oh thank god you’re here, Lettice darling!” Margot cries as she runs from the front of Bonhams, the sound of her heels clicking across the footpath, as she envelops Lettice in an embrace of navy blue serge fox fur and Chypre*** perfume.

 

“Margot darling!” Lettice gasps, embracing her friend in return. Grasping her by the elbows, Lettice holds Margot at arm’s length and looks into her anguished face, her own face clouding over as she asks, “What on earth is it? What’s wrong?”

 

“My parents,” Margot’s husband Dickie answers softly as he walks up to Lettice and Margot. “That’s what’s wrong. Hullo Lettice old girl.” He places a kiss firmly on Lettice’s left cheek.

 

“Hullo Dickie.” Lettice replies with a smile. “Your parents?”

 

“Yes,” Dickie answers with a rather doleful look. “They’ve come to see whether the painting of Miss Rosevear really is a Winterhalter**** or not.”

 

After being gifted a Recency country “cottage residence” called ‘Chi an Treth’ (Cornish for ‘beach house’) as a wedding gift by the groom’s father, the Marquess of Taunton, newlyweds Margot and Dickie Channon, invited Lettice to spend a Friday to Monday with them there earlier in the year. Margot, encouraged by her father Lord de Virre who will foot the bill, has commissioned Lettice to redecorate a few of the principal rooms of ‘Chi an Treth’. Margot and Dickie also extended the weekend invitation to one of their other Embassy Club coterie, Lettice’s old childhood chum, Gerald Bruton. After the retirement of the housekeeper, Mrs. Trevethan, from the main house to the gatekeeper’s cottage one evening during their stay, the quartet of Bright Young Things***** played a spirited game of sardines****** and in doing so, Lettice potentially solved the romantic mystery of ‘Chi an Treth’ after discovering a boxed up painting of a local Cornish beauty named Elowen Rosevear, purportedly by the artist Winterhalter, long forgotten, and of a great beauty.

 

“Oh Margot!” Lettice exclaims consolingly and embraces her friend again. “What frightful bad luck.”

 

“As if my father would miss this opportunity to discover whether we are sitting on a small fortune assumed lost.” Dickie adds.

 

“And he’s in such a ghastly mood, Lettice darling.” Margot says tearfully. “And he terrifies me when he is in one of his black moods.”

 

“And Lady Channon?” Lettice asks, cocking her eyebrow questioningly as she glances again at Dickie.

 

“Is her usual glacial self.” Dickie pronounces in a depressing tone.

 

Lettice smiles bravely and takes Margot’s trembling glove clad right hand in her own glove encapsulated hands and gives them an encouraging squeeze. “Then let’s get this over with. The sooner we know the artistic background of Miss Rosevear, the sooner your frightful in-laws,” She pauses and looks apologetically at Dickie. “Sorry Dickie.”

 

“No offence taken.” he replies, raising his own glove clad hands and smiling at Lettice.

 

“The sooner Marquess and Marchioness will leave.” Lettice concludes.

 

“I wish Daddy was here!” Margot sulks with downcast eyes as she plays with Lettice’s fingers distractedly.

 

“Is he coming?” asks Lettice hopefully.

 

“No, he’s too busy to come. He’s off doing business somewhere here in the city. But he has invited the three of us to luncheon at Simpsons******* afterwards,” Margot replies softly. “To either celebrate or commiserate.”

 

“Jolly good of him, don’t you think, old girl?” Dickie pipes up with a smile.

 

“Come on Margot!” Lettice says. “Buck up and let’s get this whole ghastly business over and done with.”

 

Taking her husband’s proffered arm and Lettice’ hand, Margot walks between them and the three friends enter Bonhams.

 

The trio are shown into a private viewing salon, the walls of which are decorated with fine gold flocked wallpaper and hung with dozens of paintings in gilded frames of varying degrees of ornateness. There is no plan to the array of pieces of art besides wall space and Renaissance portraits hang alongside Dutch landscapes from the Seventeenth Century and the sitters of Georgian portraits look out of their frames with dewy eyes onto still life works from the Nineteenth Century. The room is furnished with beautiful antiques including a comfortable suite of Regency chairs and settees. A Rococo bombe chest with a carved front that has been gilt and decorated with hand painted roses has Limoges vases and silver candlesticks sitting on its marble top. Thick carpets cover the parquet floors, deadening the sound of footsteps and softening the noise of already discreetly hushed voices. The portrait of Miss Rosevear takes centre stage, sitting on an easel, looking as lovely as ever with her enigmatic smile and sparkling dark sloe eyes gazing out of her frame across her milky white shoulder following Dickie, Margot and Lettice as they enter the salon. And there, amidst all the finery, the glowering Marquess of Taunton and his brittle wife the Marchioness.

 

Facing slightly away from one another at either end of one of the dainty Regency settee surrounded by paintings, Lettice’s first thought is that the pair could easily be a painting themselves: their chilly stance towards one another make her think it should be called ‘An Uneasy Truce’. Both are dressed in their outmoded London best. The brooding Marquess of Taunton sits imperiously with a ramrod straight back in his old fashioned morning suit and spats, leaning heavily on an ebony walking cane with a silver top, whilst his wife the Marchioness stares icily into her own preoccupied thoughts, arrayed in an equally out dated fine silk chiné high necked floor length gown of pastel pinks, blues and lilacs, a cup held daintily in hand, ropes of pearls strangulating her throat and tumbling down her front. The Marchioness’ Edwardian pre-war look is completed by a large mauve picture hat covered in a bower of silk wisteria flowers.

 

“Lord Channon,” Lettice says politely as she bobs a small curtsey to her social superiors. “Lady Channon.”

 

The pair don’t speak, but Lady Channon begrudgingly nods her head almost imperceptibly and lowers her lids in acknowledgement.

 

“Oh good!” Dickie says, spying a pot of steaming tea on a silver tray on the low coffee table. “They brought tea.”

 

“Humph!” mutters Lord Channon. “Took their bloody time.”

 

“No biscuits then?” Dickie asks as he takes up a dainty gilt blue floral cup and adds a large spoonful of sugar to it.

 

“With that amount of sugar in your tea,” his mother quips icily through pursed lips that seem almost devoid of colour. “You hardly need a biscuit, Richard.”

 

Dickie looks dolefully at his mother.

 

Raising a tortoiseshell lorgnette affixed to her wrist with a mauve silk ribbon from amidst the folds in her gown, Lady Channon eyes her daughter-in-law. “Are you with child, Margot?” she asks crisply, her jaw remaining as square and determined, maintaining her look of general distain. “You look peaky.”

 

“Me?” Margot gulps. “Err… no… Mamma.” The last word spills from her lips awkwardly and she quickly looks down as she takes a seat on the second settee in a position as far away from her mother-in-law as possible and picks up a cup and saucer.

 

“We’ve only been married a few months, Mummy,” Dickie says defensively, ignoring his parents and smiling down at his wife, locking his gaze with Margot’s startled one as he smiles and pours tea into her proffered cup. “You can hardly expect miracles.”

 

“Why else did we send you off on an expensive honeymoon to Deauville, if not to propagate an heir, Richard?” snaps Lady Channon.

 

“Bloody Frogs********!” barks the Marquess, not bothering to turn his gaze to any of the party before him as he stares intently at Miss Rosevear in her gilt frame.

 

“There is no time to waste, Margot,” continues the Marchioness. “Richard isn’t getting any younger, and nor,” Her narrowing eyes are magnified by the lenses of her lorgnette. “Are you.”

 

The old woman immediately shifts her appraising eye to Lettice, who in an effort to protect her friend, sits on the settee with Margot rather than taking up a position in a salon chair, to try and draw Lady Channon’s attention away from her.

 

“Girl,” Lady Channon addresses Lettice curtly. “Isn’t your mother the one who keeps a house in Curzon Street who is dying of cancer?”

 

Shocked by so direct a question addressed to her brutally, Lettice is momentarily at a loss to answer the Marchioness. “Ahh, no, Lady Channon.” she says finally. Considering that both her parents were at Dickie and Margot’s wedding in late October of the previous year, and as such were received by both the Marquess and Marchioness, she is surprised that Lady Channon is unaware of her mistake in identity of her parentage. “I think you might be referring to our neighbours, the Tyrwhitts of Garstanton Park. Lord and Lady Tyrwhitt do have a house in Curzon Street, and Lady Tyrwhitt does have cancer, but is currently receiving treatment for it. My parents are Lord and Lady Chetwynd, the Viscount and Viscountess of Wrexham who live at Glynes.”

 

“Tyrwhitt?” Lord Channon barks again, seemingly in his own world. “Damn horse bolted and threw me off. Broke my leg he did!”

 

“Oh, do shut up about your horse, Marmaduke!” Lady Channon snaps, suddenly swivelling her wiry frame and her steely gaze away from Lettice to her husband. She looks at his upright figure angled away from her with scorn. “No-one gives a farthing whether you broke your leg, your pelvis or your head.” She turns back to Lettice just as sharply, startling the poor girl. “Yes, I see now. Yes, you take after the Chetwynds, not the Mainwarings. You’re a beauty, like your aunt Eglantine.”

 

“Err.. how is your rheumatism, Lady Channon?” Lettice asks in an effort to change the topic away from a character assassination of Margot or herself.

 

“Playing up.” the old woman replies laconically, dropping her lorgnette back in her lap and rubbing the small of her back. “It’s the draughts that cause it, you know.”

 

“All houses have draughts,” her husband replies darkly, proving that he is not so much in his own world as ignoring the company. “At least all the good ones do.”

 

“Oh yes,” Lettice says a little nervously. “The old schoolroom at Glynes was always draughty.”

 

She chuckles self consciously when neither the Marquess nor Marchioness comment, but rather give her a look of haughty distain.

 

“Tea, Lettice?” Dickie says kindly, proffering a cup of steaming tea to her which she accepts readily.

 

The party fall into an awkward silence: Lord and Lady Channon resuming their poses turned slightly away from one another like waxworks in Madame Tussauds********* and Lettice, Margot and Dickie all quietly sipping their tea, hoping to avoid any scrutiny, or scorn from their elders.

 

Fortunately they are saved from any further embarrassment or awkward conversation when a rather bookish looking man with patrician skin, horn rimmed spectacles and red hair, dressed in a smart morning suit more in vogue than Lord Channon’s, walks in smiling.

 

“Good morning, Lord and Lady Channon, Mrs. and Mrs. Channon and err…” He stops when he spies Lettice.

 

“The Honourable Lettice Chetwynd,” Dickie quickly introduces Lettice to the bewildered man. “Youngest daughter of the Viscount and Viscountess Wrexham.”

 

“Ah,” the man says with a nod. “How do you do, Miss Chetwynd. Welcome to Bonhams, all of you. My name is Maurice Fox, and I am proud to be one of the conservators and academic historical researchers at Bonhams.” He moves and stands next to the painting of Miss Rosevear standing on the easel. “It has been my pleasure to investigate the origins of this really rather remarkable portrait over the last few months.” He places a hand lovingly upon a curlicue of the portrait’s ornate gilded frame and rubs the gold coated plaster gently. “As I’m sure you’ll agree, the story of Miss Rosevear and Your Lordship’s ancestor as told to me by you son,” He turns and nods his head in acknowledgement. “Is in a word, tragic. However, the artist’s portrayal of Miss Elowen is anything but tragic.”

 

Lettice glances uneasily at Lord and Lady Channon who both face Mr. Fox, giving him their undivided attention. Lady Channon benignly sips what is left of what must by now be her tepid tea, but with each passing word that leaves Mr. Fox’s mouth, she can see Lord Channon’s brooding brow grow more furrowed as he starts to hunch forward over his silver topped cane. Mr. Fox obviously enjoys being the showman and presenting paintings back to their owners with a theatrical flourish that the artist may not have been able to convey with paint, but something tells Lettice that it is only a matter of time before Lord Channon will grow tired of the researcher’s patter.

 

“See how well the artist has captured Miss Rosevear’s youthful gaze and almost imperceptible smile. Perhaps he told her amusing stories or jokes as he painted her, or perhaps, Your Lordship, the Captain was present when this portrait was painted, bringing the pleasure to her face.” Mr. Fox again looks down with genuine affection at the painting. “And see how lifelike the ribbons in Miss Rosevear’s ornately styled hair look.” Raising a hand, he indicates with his pale fingers to them. “Only a skilled artist can bring such detail to vivid life. I’m sure you’ll agree, Your Lordship.”

 

Lord Channon does not return Mr. Fox’s beaming smile, and Mr. Fox either chooses to ignore, or perhaps misinterprets the aristocrat’s stony silence for intense concentration, rather than irritation.

 

“And the luminescence of her cheeks. A gentle ladylike flush perhaps, or was she embarrassed at the attention paid to her by having her portrait painted? Note the ruffles…”

 

“Oh, bedamned the painting’s finer qualities!” Lord Channon suddenly yells, his face reddening.

 

Lettice shudders from shock, the teacup rattling in its saucer noisily as she trembles at the Marquess’ sudden outburst, which is still frightening, even though she had predicted it. Margot is in such a state that she hurriedly drops her teacup and saucer onto the tea table with a loud clatter, spilling dark coloured tea into her saucer. Dickie nearly chokes on his mouthful of tea, and gasps like a fish out of water a few times in an effort not to cough and incur his father’s ire. Poor Mr. Fox physically leaps off the ground and takes a few steps back in fright as he responds to the aristocrat’s unexpected fury. Only Lady Channon seems unperturbed by her husband’s outburst, calmly moving her cup away from her lips and lowering it back into the saucer in her lap.

 

“I don’t give a damn about that girl’s foolish frou-frou or the tragedy of her bloody story!” Lord Channon continues. “Get on with it man!”

 

“I think my husband would prefer you shorten your preamble, Mr. Fox,” Lady Channon says in crisp syllables, her voice free of any nerves, her face unsmiling, her jaw square. “And get to the crux of the matter.”

 

“Just tell us, is it or isn’t it, a Winterhalter?” the Marquess asks, stamping the parquet floor with his ebony walking stick, making all the party present, except his wife, jump.

 

After a few tense moments whilst Mr. Fox tries to gather his rattled nerves he finally answers, “No, Your Lordship. It is not a Winterhalter.” His eyes squint and he takes a gasp of air which he holds as he waits for another outburst from the Marquess. “Possibly a local Cornish artist who was inspired by his work.”

 

“I’ve heard enough!” Lord Channon presses his weight onto his walking cane to aid him to rise. Immediately Lettice, Margot and Dickie rise themselves. “Come along Beatrice. We needn’t waste any more time here.”

 

“Mr. Fox, fetch His Lordship’s coat and my mantle,” Lady Channon says imperiously as she too rises with the swish and sigh of her silk gown.

 

Lord Channon reaches out his hand to his wife who places her own gloved hand on top of his and the pair sweep majestically away without so much as a second glance at the painting, nor a goodbye to their son, his wife or Lettice. They are followed by the scuttling Mr. Fox, who hurriedly tries to arrange their coat and wrap.

 

The trio of friends remain in the viewing salon, the atmosphere of which suddenly feels lighter and less energised with the departure of the Marquess and Marchioness, although the cloying scent of Lady Channon’s violet perfume wafts about the space in her wake. They all heave a sigh of relief, look at one another and laugh, releasing the pent-up breath that they have been collectively holding.

 

“Well Margot my love,” Dickie says with a smile as he reaches out and takes his wife’s hands. “It looks like you get your wish.”

 

“And what wish is that, may darling?” she asks, confused.

 

“You get to have Miss Rosevear returned to ‘Chi an Treth’, just like you wanted. Now that Father knows she isn’t a Winterhalter, he’ll have no interest in what happens to her.”

 

“Oh hoorah!” Margot claps her hands in delight. She turns to Lettice and squeezes her hand excitedly. “You can work her into your designs for ‘Chi an Treth’ can’t you Lettice darling?”

 

Lettice smiles. “I have the perfect place for her in the drawing room, right where she belongs.”

 

“Capital old girl!” Dickie exclaims, leaping up from his seat. “Come on you two. Let’s go have some commiseration pie at Simpson’s. I don’t know about you, but with the departure of my parents, I’m suddenly starving.”

 

“Well, it might be commiseration pie for you, my love,” Margot adds. “But it will be celebration pie for me.”

 

Margot and Lettice rise from their places on the settee and the three head towards the door of the salon. Lettice pauses on the way out to take one final glance at Miss Rosevear. She smiles and sighs with satisfaction, pleased that the painting will be returned to ‘Chi an Treth’ where it belongs, rather than be sold by the unscrupulous Marquess of Taunton in his greed.

 

As she slips away to join her friends, Lettice pulls up short and stares at a painting hanging low on the wall of the salon. Looking somewhat diminutive in a rather ornate gilded frame that seems to dominate it, a young man of the Renaissance stares out with sad eyes. His red hair frames his pale face in a pageboy style and a deep bluish black cap sits at a slightly jaunty angle across his head. Lettice ponders, staring intently at him. “Where have I seen you before?” she asks the empty room. She knows she has seen him before, but for the life of her, she can’t think where.

 

“Come on Lettice!” Dickie calls from the corridor outside. “I’m hungry!”

 

“Yes,” Lettice replies distractedly. “I’m coming!”

 

*Established in 1793, Bonhams is a privately owned international auction house and one of the world's oldest and largest auctioneers of fine art and antiques. It was formed by the merger in November 2001 of Bonhams and Brooks and Phillips Son and Neale.

 

**”Blood and Bandages” is an architectural style that was popular before the First World War where buildings are constructed of layers of red brick with intervening white stone dressings. Normally Portland Stone is used for the “bandages”, but in some cases white plaster rendering or tiling was popular. The rather macabre description of the late Victorian style came about as a result of people comparing the striped red and white of the buildings to the blood and bandages seen so commonly during the First World War.

 

***The term chypre is French for the island of Cyprus. Its connection to perfumery originated with the first composition to feature the bergamot-labdanum-oakmoss accord, François Coty's perfume Chypre from 1917, whose name was inspired by the fact that its raw materials came predominantly from Mediterranean countries.

 

****Franz Xaver Winterhalter (1805 – 1873) was a German painter and lithographer, known for his flattering portraits of royalty and upper-class society in the mid-19th century. His name has become associated with fashionable court portraiture. Among his best known works are Empress Eugénie Surrounded by her Ladies in Waiting (1855) and the portraits he made of Empress Elisabeth of Austria (1865).

 

*****The Bright Young Things, or Bright Young People, was a nickname given by the tabloid press to a group of Bohemian young aristocrats and socialites in 1920s London.

 

******Sardines is an active game that is played like hide and go seek — only in reverse! One person hides, and everyone else searches for the hidden person. Whenever a person finds the hidden person, they quietly join them in their hiding spot. There is no winner of the game. The last person to join the sardines will be the hider in the next round. Sardines was a very popular game in the 1920s and 1930s played by houseguests in rambling old country houses where there were unusual, unknown and creative places to hide.

 

*******After a modest start in 1828 as a smoking room and soon afterwards as a coffee house, Simpson's-in-the-Strand achieved a dual fame, around 1850, for its traditional English food, particularly roast meats, and also as the most important venue in Britain for chess in the Nineteenth Century. Chess ceased to be a feature after Simpson's was bought by the Savoy Hotel group of companies at the end of the Nineteenth Century, but as a purveyor of traditional English food, Simpson's has remained a celebrated dining venue throughout the Twentieth Century and into the Twenty-First Century. P.G. Wodehouse called it "a restful temple of food"

 

********The derogatory term used by the British to describe the French as “Frogs” dates back to at least the 16 Century, partially because of the fondness of the French for enjoying a good frog leg. The term also derives from the flag and coat of arms of the French kings. The ignorant English, not knowing that the fleur-de-lys was supposed to be a flower, though that it represented a gold frog. Hence “frog” became a derogatory term for the French. Interestingly, the term “frog” was used as a derogatory term by the French against themselves. Parisians were often called frogs by the couriers of Versailles because Paris at the time was surrounded by swamps.

 

*********Madame Tussauds is a wax museum in London; it has smaller museums in other major cities. It was founded by wax sculptor Marie Tussaud in 1835. Her mother worked for Philippe Curtius in Bern, Switzerland, who was a physician skilled in wax modeling. He taught Marie the art of wax modelling beginning when she was a child. One of the main attractions of her museum was the Chamber of Horrors. This part of the exhibition included victims of the French Revolution and newly created figures of murderers and other criminals. Other famous people were added, including Lord Nelson, the Duke of Wellington, Henry VIII and Queen Victoria. Some sculptures still exist that were made by Marie Tussaud herself. The gallery originally contained some four hundred different figures, but fire damage in 1925, coupled with German bombs in 1941, severely damaged most of such older models. The casts themselves have survived, allowing the historical waxworks to be remade, and these can be seen in the museum's history exhibit. The oldest figure on display is that of Madame du Barry, the work of Curtius from 1765 and part of the waxworks left to Grosholtz at his death. Madame Tussauds is a major tourist attraction in London, displaying the waxworks of famous and historical figures, as well as popular film and television characters.

 

Although the masters in this painting may appear very real, this scene is in fact made up of pieces from my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The painting of Miss Rosevear in its gilded frame is a 1:12 artisan piece made by V.H. Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The easel on which she stands comes from Kathleen Knight's Doll House in the United Kingdom.

 

The other paintings hanging on the walls have are also 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber's Miniatures in America and Marie Makes Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The Marie Antionette suite with its pretty upholstery has been made by the high-end miniatures manufacturer, Creal. The Bombe chest is also a 1:12 miniature artisan piece made by the high quality miniature makers, Hasson, and has a hand painted top to resemble marble and a hand painted front featuring garlands of roses.

 

The two Limoges style vases on the bombe chest were made by M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik in Germany, who specialise in making high quality porcelain miniatures. The Art Nouveau candlestick in the form of a woman with foliate decoration is an American 1:12 size miniature artisan piece made of sterling silver. Unfortunately, I do not know the artisan's name.

 

The vase of orange roses on the Art Deco occasional table is beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium.

 

The blue and white tea set came from a miniatures stockist on E-Bay, whilst the silver tray on which it stands, I have had since I was about seven, when I was given it as a gift for Christmas.

 

The miniature Persian rug made by hand by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney. The flocked creamy gold wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, with the purpose that it be used in the “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

Done