Have You Read it Yet?

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.

 

It's a quarter past eight and Lettice is still happily asleep in her bed, buried beneath a thick and soft counterpane of embroidered oriental satin brocade, whilst the rest of Mayfair is slowly awakening in the houses and flats around her. Her peaceful slumbers are rudely interrupted by a peremptory knock on her boudoir door.

 

“Morning Miss.” Edith, Lettice’s maid, says brightly as she pops her head around the white painted panelled door as she opens it.

 

Lettice groans – a most unladylike reaction – as she starts to wake up, disorientated, wondering for just a moment where she is before realising that she is in her own bed in Cavendish Mews. Raising her head she groans and winces as Edith draws the curtains back along their railing, flooding the room with a light, which whilst anaemic, is still painful to her eyes as the adjust.

 

“It’s looking a little overcast this morning, Miss.” the maid says brightly. “But this is England, the home of changeable weather,” She walks back across her mistress’ boudoir, lifts the upholstered lid on a wicker laundry basket just inside the bathroom door and deposits Lettice’s lacy undergarments and stockings, swept expertly by her from the floor, into it. “So, who knows what today’s mixed bag may hold.” She emerges and goes to one of Lettice’s polished wardrobes where she withdraws a pale pink bed jacket trimmed in marabou feathers from its wooden hanger.

 

Lettice groans again as she stretches and leans forward, whilst Edith hangs the bed jacket over her shoulders and fluffs up Lettice’s pillows. “How can you be so cheerful at this ungodly time of the morning, Edith?”

 

“Practice.” Edith replies matter-of-factly, rolling her eyes to the white plaster ceiling above. “Up you come, Miss.” she says encouragingly. “That’s it.”

 

As Lettice arranges herself in a sitting position, leaning against the pillows, Edith goes back to the open bedroom door and disappears momentarily into the hallway before returning with Lettice’s breakfast tray.

 

Prodding and plucking her pillows behind her to her satisfaction, Lettice nestles into her nest as she sits up properly in bed and allows her maid to place the tray across her lap. She looks down approvingly at the slice of golden toast in the middle of the pretty floral plate, the egg in the matching egg cup and the pot of tea with steam rising from the spout. She goes to lift the lid of the silver preserve pot.

 

“Damson preserve from Glynes, Miss.” Edith elucidates.

 

“Jolly good, Edith.” Lettice takes up a spoon and begins to dollop the rich gelatinous dark damson preserve onto her slice of toast. “I’m glad I pinched a few jars from Mater and Pater last time I went back to Wiltshire in spite of Mrs. Casterton’s protestations. I’m still His Lordship’s daughter, even if I don’t live at Glynes any more.”

 

“I imagine you upset her housekeeping records with your pinching, Miss.”

 

“Oh fie Mrs. Casterton’s records!” Lettice admonishes her parent’s long time housekeeper. She takes the knife and spreads the thick layer across the toast before cutting the slice in half with crunching strokes. Picking up a slice, she takes a dainty mouthful, closing her eyes in delight as she allows the rich fruity flavour of the damsons to reach her tastebuds. “Oh! Sheer bliss!” Depositing the bitten slice black on her plate, she rubs her index and middle fingers against her thumb to get rid of any cloying crumbs. “Any post yet, Edith?”

 

“Well, there is something which came via a delivery boy from Southwark Street* this morning, which I think might take your interest, Miss.”

 

“Southwark Street?” Lettice ponders as Edith walks the length of her mistress’ bedroom back to the open door. “I know that name. Why? Southwark Street… Southwark Street…” And then she realises why.

 

Lettice looks down the length of the room with suddenly wide and alert eyes, expectantly, to where Edith holds up a copy of Country Life** in the doorway. She gasps. “Oh hoorah! Bring it here this instant, Edith!” She holds out her arms, twiddling her fingers anxiously.

 

“Yes Miss.” Edith bobs a curtsey and brings the crisp magazine to her mistress’ bedside.

 

“Have you read it yet, Edith?”

 

“Miss!” Edith gasps, colour filling her cheeks at Lettice’s suggestion. “As if I would.”

 

Lettice gives her a doubtful stare making her maid blush even more. “So, you did then.” She shakes out the magazine which elicits the crisp crumple of fresh paper.

 

“Page eighteen, Miss.” Edith confirms with a smirk.

 

“Well, this changes my plans for the day then, Edith.” Lettice opines brightly as she takes up her bitten triangle of toast.

 

“Miss?” Edith queries.

 

“I was going to stay at home today, but I’ll have to pay a call on Gerald, and darling Margot en route back from Grosvenor Square.” She opens up the copy of Country life and hurriedly flips to page eighteen. “Can you pick me out something seasonably suitable.”

 

“Yes Miss.” Edith says, dropping a quick bob curtsey and walking into Lettice’s adjoining dressing room.

 

“What’s the weather like out there today?” Lettice asks before taking a bite of toast with a sigh and settling back into her fluffed pillow, preparing to read.

 

“As I said before, cloudy, I’m afraid, Miss. The forecast in the papers*** this morning say that it might rain this afternoon.”

 

“Typical,” Lettice sighs as she looks at the photos of the newly decorated Pagoda Room at Arkwright Bury captured in the Country Life photographer’s lens. “The day I have to go out, it decides to rain.

 

“Your Burberry****, then Miss?” Edith asks, popping her head around the door.

 

“Hhhmmm” Lettice purrs approvingly. “Very wise, Perhaps something neutral, say eau-de-nil, to go underneath, to suit it then.”

 

“Yes Miss!” Edith disappears into the dressing room again.

 

“Now, let’s see what my dear Mr. Tipping***** has to say about me this time.”

 

As Lettice glances towards the columns of elegant typeface her mind is carried back to the day she was let into Arkwright Bury by Mr. and Mrs. Gifford’s housekeeper, Mrs. Beaven to await the return of the owners of the Wiltshire house after their seaside holiday to Bournemouth.

 

Mr. Gifford’s uncle, Sir John Nettleford-Hughes was the one who set the wheels in motion for Lettice to visit Arkwright Bury and his nephew, Mr. Alisdair Gifford. Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John is still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intends to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. As an eligible man in a time when such men are a rare commodity, with a vast family estate in Bedfordshire, houses in Mayfair, Belgravia and Pimlico and Fontengil Park in Wiltshire, quite close to the Glynes estate, Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, invited him as a potential suitor to her 1922 Hunt Ball, which she used as a marriage market for Lettice. Luckily Selwyn Spencely, the handsome eldest son of the Duke of Walmsford, rescued Lettice from the horror of having to entertain him, and Sir John left the ball early in a disgruntled mood with a much younger partygoer. Lettice reacquainted herself with Sir John at an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Gladys Caxton at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, a baronial Art and Crafts castle near the hamlet of Kershopefoot in Cumberland. To her surprise, Lettice found Sir John’s company rather enjoyable. As she was leaving to return to London on the Monday, Sir John approached her and asked if she might meet with his nephew, Mr. Gifford, as he wished to have a room in his Wiltshire house, Arkwright Bury, redecorated as a surprise for his Australian wife Adelina, who collects blue and white porcelain but as of that time had no place identified to display it at Arkwright Bury. Lettice arranged a discreet meeting with Mr. Gifford at Cavendish Mews to discuss matters with him, and was then invited to luncheon with the Giffords at Arkwright Bury under the ruse that she, as an acquaintance of the Giffords with her interest in interior design, had come for a tour of the partially redecorated house. She agreed to take on the job of redecorating the room using a facsimile print of the original papers hanging in what was then called the ‘Pagoda Room’ before an 1870s fire, reproduced by Jeffrey and Company******. In spite of her concerns that Mrs. Gifford might not appreciate Lettice decorating a room in the home she herself was decorating, Mr. Gifford persuaded her to take the commission with the sweetener that his godfather, the Architectural Editor of Country Life, Henry Tipping, would write a favourable review of her interior decoration, thus promoting her work and capabilities as a society interior designer.

 

Lettice took advantage of a window of opportunity provided with the Giffords taking a short seaside holiday in Bournemouth, arranging for her professional paper hangers from London to visit Arkwright Bury and hang the small quantity of wallpaper produced from a sketch done by Lettice. She then hired several of her father’s agricultural labourers from the Glynes estate for the day, to carefully move furniture intended for use in the room into place and unpack the many boxes of Mrs. Gifford’s collection, carefully laying the pieces out so that Lettice could then arrange them all in what she hoped would be a pleasing manner to Mrs. Gifford’s own aesthetic eye.

 

Lettice remembers sitting in the light filled drawing room of Arkwright Bury, decorated in traditional country house style with lots of chintz coverings, much to Lettice’s displeasure with her preference for more modern patterns. Sitting in a pool of light cast through the large bay window of the drawing room she heard the clunk and splutter of the Giffords’ motor long before she saw it perambulate up the gravel driveway, and her heart began race. She worried that Mrs. Gifford, with her own very definite taste in interior design, would dislike what she had been commissioned to do, and her heartrate increased as the car pulled up before the front doors, and beat still faster as the pair walked through the drawing room door.

 

“Why Miss Chetwynd!” Mrs. Gifford exclaimed awkwardly. “We weren’t expecting you.”

 

As she flew into a fluster, half apologising for missing an engagement she forgot that she even had with Lettice, and half making sure that Mrs. Beavan had taken care of her in she and her husband’s absence, Mr. Gifford tried to calm her.

 

“There, there, Adelina.” he soothed. “You weren’t expecting Miss Chetwynd. However, I was.”

 

“Oh Alisdair!” she chided him. “That’s just as bad!” She turned to Lettice, standing uncomfortably in front of one of Mrs. Gifford’s pink chintz sofas, trying not to watch the drama unfolding before her. “Miss Chetwynd, I must apologise for my husband’s forgetfulness. If he’s told me, I would have made sure we left Bournemouth earlier than we did.” She turned back to her husband. “And you were the one who told me that I had plenty of time to shop in Burton’s***** in The Square******, when all this time you knew Miss Chetwynd would be here, awaiting us, Alisdair! Really! You must really think me an uncouth little colonial, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“It’s quite alright, Mrs. Gifford.” Lettice assured her with an anxious chuckle, putting out her arms, clad in the mulberry knit of her cardigan, to calm the excitable antipodean.

 

“Calm yourself Adelina.” her husband purred. “Miss Chetwynd is here on my bidding, my dear. She is part of your surprise that I told you about on the motor home from Dorset.”

 

“What?” Mrs. Gifford asked, her anxious gesticulating suddenly ceasing.

 

“I asked Miss Chetwynd here today because she has helped create the wonderful surprise for you.” Mr. Gifford explained. “It’s capital to have you here, Miss Chetwynd. Capital!”

 

“Mr. Gifford.” Lettice acknowledged the young man with a curt nod.

 

“I think, since it was your doing, you should lead the way.” Mr. Gifford went on.

 

“Miss Chetwynd’s work?” Mrs. Gifford asked anxiously, her eyes suddenly growing dark as she eyed Lettice. “What has she done, Alisdair?”

 

“Your husband commissioned me to do some work for you, Mrs. Gifford.” Lettice explained hurriedly, her stomach already starting to curdle, as she tried to shift any potential blame from herself and onto Mr. Gifford.

 

“Alisdair?” Mrs. Gifford snapped, thrusting her husband’s cloying hands away irritably as she turned her steely gaze to him. “Is this true? What have you commissioned Miss Chetwynd to do?”

 

“Just a little something for you as a treat, my dear.” he assured her with his usual, genial smile. “A way of saying thank you for all the hard work you’ve put into redecorating our new home since we inherited it.”

 

“Work that obviously is not up to standard, if you felt it necessary to go and engage the services of Miss Chetwynd, Alisdair!” Mrs. Gifford snapped.

 

“Nonsense, Adelina!” Mr. Gifford assured her.

 

“I did express my concerns about taking on this commission, Mrs. Gifford,” Lettice defended. “I was worried that you wouldn’t appreciate me interloping into your interior designs. But your husband was quite insistent.”

 

“Oh yes,” she replied, her mouth a narrow and bloodless line across her face. “Alisdair always wears people down when he wants his way, Miss Chetwynd. It’s quite alright. I shall lay the blame for whatever has transpired directly at your feet, Alisdair.”

 

“If you dislike it, my dear.” Mr. Gifford countered, a gentle and patient smile on his face, as he accepted any bitterness directed to him by his wife, as though a seasoned expert in how to manage her tirades. “You don’t even know what Miss Chetwynd has done yet.”

 

“Well,” she replied begrudgingly. “Perhaps you’d better show me.”

 

“Yes, do lead the way, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Gifford said blithely, waving his hand in a flourishing way toward the door leading out of the Arkwright Bury drawing room and into the hallway.

 

With her anxiety growing, souring her stomach, Lettice did as she was bid, and led the disgruntled Mrs. Gifford, face black as thunder, up the main central staircase of the house, with Mr. Gifford dancing with excitement and delight around the pair of them, like a little boy on Christmas Day about to open his presents, stating over and over “Capital, Miss Chetwynd! Capital!”, until finally they arrived before the door of what had been the sad and neglected study of Mr. Gifford’s deceased older brother, Cuthbert.

 

Reluctantly Lettice stopped before the door of the study and took a deep breath before opening it and ushering Mr. and Mrs. Gifford in with a sweeping gesture. She held her breath and closed her eyes tightly, awaiting Mrs. Gifford’s angry or acerbic remarks about the room she had so lovingly designed and pieced together with all good intentions behind her back. Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes and followed the Giffords into the newly created and reimagined Pagoda Room.

 

Lettice glanced lovingly around the small room, which was now completely transformed from what had been Cuthbert’s neglected former study. With the old, heavy curtains removed from the large sash windows and replaced with lighter and less obtrusive ones, the room was flooded with sunshine. The light bounced off the stylised Eighteenth Century orientally inspired wallpaper designs she had so lovingly recreated in green and blue, the antique Wiltshire made ladderback chairs Lettice selected from those stored in one of Arkwright Bury’s outbuildings, Mrs. Gifford’s beautiful marquetry loo table in the centre of the room, and of course, her wonderful collection of blue and white china.

 

“I’m sorry Mrs. Gifford,” Lettice began as the woman gasped, but she was silenced by Mrs. Gifford who held up her hand to stop Lettice’s protestations.

 

“Miss Chetwynd! What you have created,” Mrs. Gifford began “It’s… it’s wonderful!” she enthused. “It’s far more than I had ever envisaged for this room. I… I was going to put up a few shelves because I simply no longer had the energy, or the vision for this room after redecorating the house.”

 

“See,” Mr. Gifford said tenderly. “I told you that you deserved a gift of thanks after all that you have done here, Adelina.”

 

“Well, I can’t thank you enough, both of you.” Mrs. Gifford replied. “Now I see what a poor home for my collection a few shelves would have been. Miss Chetwynd, you have turned this neglected and forgotten room into a showcase for my collection. How can I ever thank you?”

 

“Oh, I shouldn’t worry too much about that, Adelina my dear!” Mr. Gifford piped up with a smile. “Miss Chetwynd’s reward will be a favourable review written by my godfather in Country Life.”

 

Sitting in her bed, Lettice now skims the article, delighted by Henry Tipping’s enthusiastic review of The Pagoda Room, calling it a ‘tasteful and sympathetic remodelling and reimagination of what might have been’ and ‘an elegant restoration of a forgotten corner of Arkwright Bury, transforming it into a stylish showpiece of interior design’. She sighs as she glances at the photographs filling the page, highlighting the paper hangings and the pieces Lettice carefully arranges about the room.

 

“Oh, I almost forgot, Miss.” Edith interrupts Lettice’s silent reveries abruptly.

 

“Forgot what, Edith?” Lettice queries.

 

“This, Miss.” Edith withdraws an envelope of creamy white with Lettice’s name and Cavendish Mews address written on the front in elegant copperplate.

 

Lettice accepts the correspondence from her apologetic maid. She turns the envelope over in her hands with interest, admiring the thickness and quality.

 

“It looks rather posh********, Miss.” Edith remarks. “Perhaps it’s from the palace: an Invitation from The King.”

 

Lettice laughs lightly. “Oh Edith! If an invitation came from the palace, it would have been hand delivered. No.” She puzzles over the envelope. “There is no return address. I wonder what it could be.” She holds it up to the morning light futilely, since the envelope is too think to give away an secrets inside.

 

“Best you open it then, Miss.” Edith suggests hopefully.

 

“You’re quite right, Edith.” Lettice laughs.

 

Lettice slips a finger beneath the lip of the envelope which has only been sealed at its apex, so the glue affixing it gives way easily. Lifting the flap of the envelope, she withdraws a gilt edged card, and suddenly all the happiness and joy she had felt a moment before dissipated, just as the colour drained from her face. Her smile fades from her lips as she reads.

 

“Bad news, Miss?” Edith asks, noticing how sad Lettice suddenly is. “Is it a funeral?”

 

“No – worse. It’s an invitation to afternoon tea.” Lettice replies glumly, her dainty fingers squeezing the edges of the card.

 

“Well, that doesn’t sound so bad, Miss. An invitation to tea is lovely!”

 

“You don’t know who it’s from.” Lettice remarks as she hands the card to her maid.

 

Edith looks down upon the card which has an address in Park Lane********* and reads aloud what is written in the same elegant copperplate as appears on the front of the envelope, “Dear Miss Chetwynd, I request your attendance for afternoon tea at four o’clock next Thursday at the above address, when I shall be at home.” Her voice trails off as she sees the signatory. She looks up at her mistress, who now has tears in her eyes and is as white as the pillows at her back. “Lady Zinnia!”

 

*Southwark Street is a major street in Bankside in the London Borough of Southwark, in London, just south of the River Thames. It runs between Blackfriars Road to the west and Borough High Street to the east. It also connects the access routes for London Bridge, Southwark Bridge and Blackfriars Bridge. At the eastern end to the north is Borough Market. The magazine Country Life was based at 110 Southwark Street from its inception in 1897 until March 2016, when moved to Farnborough, Hampshire, before returning to Paddington in 2022.

 

**Country Life is a British weekly perfect-bound glossy magazine that is a quintessential English magazine founded in 1897, providing readers with a weekly dose of architecture, gardens and interiors. It was based in London at 110 Southwark Street until March 2016, when it became based in Farnborough, Hampshire. The frontispiece of each issue usually features a portrait photograph of a young woman of society, or, on occasion, a man of society.

 

***Vice-Admiral Robert Fitzroy, founder of the UK Met Office, started collating measurements on pressure, temperature, and rainfall from across Great Britain, Ireland, and Europe in 1860. These observations were sent by telegraph cable to London every day where they were used to make a ‘weather forecast’ – a term invented by Fitzroy for this endeavour. After the Royal Charter ship sank in a violent storm in 1859, Fitzroy resolved to collect real-time weather measurements from stations across Britain's telegraph network to make storm warnings. Starting in 1860, observers telegraphed readings to Fitzroy in London who handwrote them onto Daily Weather Report sheets, enabling the first-ever public weather forecasts starting on 1st August 1861 and published daily in The Times newspaper. Fitzroy died by suicide in 1865 shortly after founding the UK Met Office, leaving his life's work trapped undiscovered in archives.

 

***The quintessential British coat, and now a global fashion icon, the Burberry trench coat was created during the Great War. Burberry trench coats were designed with durability in mind. Post-war, the Burberry became a trench coat that was worn by men and women. It became fashionable in the 1920s when the Burberry check became a registered trademark and was introduced as a lining to all rainwear.

 

****Henry Tipping (1855 – 1933) was a French-born British writer on country houses and gardens, garden designer in his own right, and Architectural Editor of the British periodical Country Life for seventeen years between 1907 and 1910 and 1916 and 1933. After his appointment to that position in 1907, he became recognised as one of the leading authorities on the history, architecture, furnishings and gardens of country houses in Britain. In 1927, he became a member of the first committee of the Gardens of England and Wales Scheme, later known as the National Gardens Scheme.

 

*****Jeffrey and Company was an English producer of fine wallpapers that operated between 1836 and the mid 1930s. Based at 64 Essex Road in London, the firm worked with a variety of designers who were active in the aesthetic and arts and crafts movements, such as E.W. Godwin, William Morris, and Walter Crane. Jeffrey and Company’s success is often credited to Metford Warner, who became the company’s chief proprietor in 1871. Under his direction the firm became one of the most lucrative and influential wallpaper manufacturers in Europe. The company clarified that wallpaper should not be reserved for use solely in mansions, but should be available for rooms in the homes of the emerging upper-middle class.

 

******Burton is a British online clothing retailer, former high street retailer and clothing manufacturer, specialising in men's clothing and footwear. The company was founded by Sir Montague Maurice Burton in Chesterfield in 1903 under the name of The Cross-Tailoring Company. It was first listed on the London Stock Exchange in 1929 by which time it had 400 stores, factories and mills.

 

*******The Square is where seven roads leading to and from all parts of the borough converge. Although not geographically at the centre of town it is at the heart of what is known as the Town Centre. The seven roads are.....Old Christchurch Rd ,Gervis Place, Exeter Rd, Commercial Rd, Avenue Rd, Bourne Ave and Richmond Hill.

 

********Over time the slang term posh morphed to mean someone with a lot of money or something that cost a lot of money. Adapted by the British, it came from the Romany language used by the gypsies in which “posh-houri” meant “half-pence.” It became used to denote either a dandy or a coin of small value. There is no evidence to support the folk etymology that posh is formed from the initials of port out starboard home (referring to the more comfortable accommodation, out of the heat of the sun, on ships between England and India).

 

*********Park Lane is a dual carriageway road in the City of Westminster in Central London. It is part of the London Inner Ring Road and runs from Hyde Park Corner in the south to Marble Arch in the north. It separates Hyde Park to the west from Mayfair to the east. The road was originally a simple country lane on the boundary of Hyde Park, separated by a brick wall. Aristocratic properties appeared during the late 18th century, including Breadalbane House, Somerset House, and Londonderry House. The road grew in popularity during the 19th century after improvements to Hyde Park Corner and more affordable views of the park, which attracted the nouveau riche to the street and led to it becoming one of the most fashionable roads to live on in London. Notable residents included the 1st Duke of Westminster's residence at Grosvenor House, the Dukes of Somerset at Somerset House, and the British prime minister Benjamin Disraeli at No. 93. Other historic properties include Dorchester House, Brook House and Dudley House. In the 20th century, Park Lane became well known for its luxury hotels, particularly The Dorchester, completed in 1931, which became closely associated with eminent writers and international film stars. Flats and shops began appearing on the road, including penthouse flats. Several buildings suffered damage during World War II, yet the road still attracted significant development, including the Park Lane Hotel and the London Hilton on Park Lane, and several sports car garages. A number of properties on the road today are owned by some of the wealthiest businessmen from the Middle East and Asia.

 

This beautifully decorated room may not be quite what you think it is. Whilst I know you feel sure you could pick up a teapot or plate, you may need to consider using tweezers, for this whole scene is made up entirely of 1:12 miniatures from my collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The blue and white china you see throughout the room, sitting on shelves and tables, are sourced from a number of miniature stockists through E-Bay, but mostly from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop in the United Kingdom. The gild edged Willow Pattern teapot is a hand painted example of miniature artisan, Rachel Munday’s work. Her pieces are highly valued by miniature collectors for their fine details.

 

The round loo table, which can be tilted like a real loo table, is an artisan miniature from an unknown maker with a marquetry inlaid top, and also came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop. So too did the Georgian corner cabinet with its delicate fretwork and glass shelves.

 

The ladderback chair on the left of the photo is a 1:12 miniature piece I have had since I was a child. The ladderback chair on the right came from a deceased estate of a miniatures collector in Sydney.

 

The wallpaper is an Eighteenth Century chinoiserie design of pagodas and would have been hand painted in its original form.

Done