Charlie Chet’s Thoroughbred Stud

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 however we are at Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie and his wife Arabella. Out the front of the elegant colonnaded façade of Glynes, Harris, the Viscount and Lady Sadie’s chauffer, gives the bonnet of Chetwynd’s 1912 Daimler a final polish as he awaits his passenger. At the back of the car, Ward, Lady Sadie’s lady’s maid runs her eye over the cases, portmanteaus and hat boxes nearly strapped there, mentally doing a final check to make sure that all of Lady Sadie’s and Lettice’s luggage is there.

 

“They better hurry Edwina.” Harris calls out to Ward, who glances up with a stern frown at her first name being used.

 

The lady’s maid scowls at the chauffer, whom she has never liked. He’s much younger than she is, and he cuts a handsome figure with his neatly trimmed red beard, pale patrician skin and smart Chetwynd chauffer’s livery. He carries the confidence of a young man, and when not on duty swaggers about and makes good sport for himself by teasing her, calling her by her first name in contradiction to the rules of the household, where as a senior member of the indoor staff, as a minor member of the outdoor staff, he should address her as ‘Miss Ward’ or ‘Ward’ at the very least. He also enjoys flirting unashamedly with the maids of the house and passing deliberately risqué remarks within her hearing, making the maids giggle and causing her to blush deeply, making a mockery of her in front of the junior staff.

 

“Her Ladyship and Miss Chetwynd will be here in their own good time, Mr. Harris!” she replies brittlely in disapproval of his criticism of her mistress, emphasising his name and title in an effort to remind the cheeky chauffer of the formality that their relationship.

 

Harris chuckles. “That’s all well and good, Edwina, but the railways don’t run to Chetwynd time!” And with that he whistles a ruby whistle* jovially as he resumes polishing the bonnet.

 

“Mamma!” Lettice calls as she hurriedly descends the Glynes staircase, arrayed in a soft powder blue travelling coat and matching cloche hat, her blonde waves and curls poking out from beneath it. “Mamma, where are you?”

 

Lettice has been visiting her family home in order to broach a most delicate subject about her forthcoming wedding with her mother, Lady Sadie: a subject which has caused rather a ruckus between the two women.

 

For nearly a year Lettice had been patiently awaiting the return of her then beau, Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, after being sent to Durban by his mother, Lady Zinnia in an effort to destroy their relationship which she wanted to end so that she could marry Selwyn off to his cousin, Pamela Fox-Chavers. Having been made aware by Lady Zinnia in October last year that during the course of the year, whilst Lettice had been biding her time, waiting for Selwyn’s eventual return, he had become engaged to the daughter of a Kenyan diamond mine owner whilst in Durban, Lettice had fled Lady Zinnia’s Park Lane mansion. She returned to Cavendish Mews and milled over her options over a week as she reeled from the news. Then, after that, she knew exactly what to do to resolve the issues raised by Lady Zinnia’s unwelcome news about her son. Taking extra care in her dress, she took herself off to the neighbouring upper-class London suburb of Belgravia and paid a call upon Sir John Nettleford-Hughes.

 

Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John was until recently still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intended 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. After an abrupt ending to her understanding with Selwyn, Lettice in a moment of both weakness and resolve, agreed to the proposal of marriage proffered to her by Sir John to her at a gallery exhibition opening they both attended. More like a business arrangement than a marriage proposal, Sir John offered Lettice the opportunity to enjoy the benefits of his large fortune, be chatelain of all his estates and continue to have her interior design business, under the conditions that she agree to provide him with an heir, and that he be allowed to discreetly carry on his affairs in spite of their marriage vows. He even suggested that Lettice might be afforded the opportunity to have her own extra marital liaisons if she were discreet about them.

 

The news of Lettice’s engagement to Sir John was lukewarmly received, at most, by her family. The announcement was received somewhat awkwardly by the Viscount initially, until Lettice assured him that her choice to marry Sir John has nothing to do with undue influence or mistaken motivations. Even Lady Sadie, who Lettice thought would be thrilled by the announcement of her engagement to such a wealthy and eligible man as Sir John, received the news with a somewhat muted response and a tight smile, and she discreetly slipped away after drinking a toast to the newly engaged couple with a glass of fine champagne from the Glynes wine cellar.

 

Now, six months on, plans are starting to be laid for the wedding, albeit at a somewhat glacial pace. Earlier in the week, alerted to it by the sound of raised voices echoing down the corridor, the Viscount had walked into the Glynes flower room and come across Lettice and her mother arguing bitterly, before Lettice slipped away, her face awash with tears. Several weeks ago, when Lettice and Sir John were taking tea with his younger sister, Clemance Pontefract, who as a widow, has recently returned to London and set up residence in Holland Park, Lettice suggested that Clemance might help her choose her trousseau**. Thinking that Lady Sadie’s ideas will doubtless be somewhat old fashioned and conservative when it comes to commissioning evening dresses and her wedding frock, Lettice wants to engage Clemance’s smart eye and eager willingness to please Lettice as her future sister-in-law to help her pick the trousseau she really wants. Knowing that the subject would be difficult to discuss with her mother, with whom she has a somewhat fraught relationship, Lettice decided to approach Lady Sadie face-to-face. Unsurprisingly, Lady Sadie did not take kindly to the suggestion, any more than she did the idea that Lord Bruton’s son, Gerald, Lettice’s oldest childhood chum and best friend, who designs gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street, making Lettice’s wedding frock. In the end, Lady Sadie wouldn’t countenance the idea of Gerald making Lettice’s gown, since she felt it would be embarrassing for her youngest daughter to appear in a frock made by the son of her family friend and neighbours, Lord and Lady Bruton, as well as have Gerald as a guest at the wedding. It was this definite final pronouncement that drove Lettice away in tears. Appealing to her father to help her, being his favourite child, Lettice disclosed a secret shared with her by Sir John about his sister, indicating why she has taken such a keen interest in being involved in Lettice’s wedding plans. Clemance had a daughter born the same year as Lettice, that she and her husband lost to diphtheria when the child was twelve. Upon hearing this revelation, the Viscount agreed to talk to Lady Sadie and try and sway her to allow Clemance to be involved in the acquiring of Lettice’s trousseau, a task that is usually the preserve of the bride and her mother, but made no promises. In the end, Lady Sadie agreed to Clemance’s potential involvement in the purchasing of Lettice’s trousseau, but only under the proviso of a formal introduction to her, and Lettice’s promise to visit each and every ‘approved’ Court dressmaker on Lady Sadie’s list without complaint or procrastination.

 

So it is that Lettice and Lady Sadie are preparing to journey up from Wiltshire to London by railway, but time is running out, and the two women haven’t long to start their journey before the London bound steam locomotive pulls into Glynes Village railway station.

 

“Mamma, are you ready to go? Harrison and Ward are waiting!” Lettice calls.

 

A door opening alerts her to some movement down the hallways to Lettice’s left. “Mamma?”

 

One of the Glynes under house maids*** in morning uniform appears through the door. “Oh!” she gasps, dropping a rather clumsy bob curtsey as she holds a vase of dying flowers she has just replaced with fresh ones in the Glynes small Blue Sitting Room. “Beg pardon M’lady!”

 

“Oh! Err…” Lettice exclaims. She struggles to remember the name of the newly employed skinny young girl with pale, rather sickly pallor and unruly red curls that poke out messily from beneath her cap. “Err…”

 

“Ellen, M’lady.” The maid drops another clumsy curtsey, obviously in awe at finding herself in the presence of one of the family members unsupervised.

 

“That’s it!” Lettice sighs. “Ellen.”

 

“That’s me, M’lady!” Ellen bobs another curtsey as she babbles, “I’m new here, but I like it ever so much at Glynes. My mum said I should try and get a factory job in one of the wool mills in Trowbridge****, but I didn’t want to, when I could have the privilege of working in this here fine house of yours, M’lady!” She curtseys again.

 

“Err… yes, Ellen.” Lettice says distractedly. “I don…”

 

“Thank you M’lady.” Ellen interrupts Lettice as she curtseys again.

 

“You know, Ellen,” Lettice replies. “You don’t have to curtsey every time I speak.” She smiles at Ellen benevolently. “Just when we first meet and just before you turn to leave.”

 

“Yes M’lady!” she drops a curtsey again. “Thank you M’lady.” She does so again.

 

Lettice shakes her head shallowly, holds up the palm of her hand and sighs with frustration, giving up. “Have you seen Her Ladyship anywhere in your travels, by chance, Ellen?”

 

“Oh yes M’lady!” Ellen nods, this time not stopping to curtsey. “She’s just down there.” She lugs the large hand painted vase into her left arm awkwardly, almost dropping in in the process and points with her right hand down the hall. “She’s in her letter writing room.”

 

“Letter writing room?” Lettice’s face crumples up as she thinks.

 

“Yes M’lady, the room she uses to write all her letters in at her desk in the corner.”

 

“Oh!” Lettice realises, descending the remainder of the staircase quickly. “I see. The morning room. Thank you, Ellen.”

 

“Thank you M’lady!” Ellen drops another bob curtsey as Lettice hurriedly slips past her and strides with hurried and determined steps towards the Glynes morning room where she opens the door and lets herself in.

 

Lettice has always found the Glynes morning room to be unsettling for her and rather overpowering visually. It is very much Lady Sadie’s preserve, thus Lettice’s unsettled feling about it. The original classical Eighteenth Century design has been overlayed with the comfortable Edwardian clutter of Lady Sadie’s continual and conspicuous acquisition that is the hallmark of a lady of her age and social standing. China cabinets of beautiful porcelain line the walls. Clusters of mismatched chairs unholstered in cream fabric, tables and a floral chaise lounge, all from different eras, fill the room: set up to allow for the convivial conversation of the great and good of the county after church on a Sunday. The hand painted Georgian wallpaper can barely be seen for paintings and photographs in ornate gilded frames that plaster the walls. The marble mantelpiece is covered by Royal Doulton figurines and more photos in silver frames. Several vases of Glynes’ hothouse flowers stand on occasional tables, but even their fragrance cannot smother Lady Sadie’s Yardley Lily of the Valley scent which is ever present in the air, and is even more present today after the chatelaine of Glynes has freshly applied it rather excessively in readiness for her journey up to London with her daughter.

 

“Mamma,” Lettice announces, clearing her throat gently. “Mamma”

 

Lettice spies her mother sitting at her Georgian bonheur de jour***** in the corner of the room, nestled closely to the fire, which this morning has not been lit by Ellen or one of the other housemaids owing to Lady Sadie’s imminent departure. The older woman is flitting through some photographs, books and papers, whilst her travelling coat and hat lay draped across the arm of her favoutrite Chippendale wingback armchair, upholstered in cream figured floral satin, just like most of the other chairs in the morning room.

 

“Mmm…” Lady Sadie murmurs distractedly, glancing up from her bonheur de jour’s surface which is covered in paper detritus.

 

“Mamma, Harris is ready to drive us down to the railway station. Ward has packed everything.” Lettice glances at the books, photographs and correspondence that litter the space in front of her mother. “What are you doing?”

 

Seemingly ignorant to her daughter’s question Lady Sadie remarks, “Ward is such a comfort. I’m so glad she is coming up to Fitzroy Square****** with me. I don’t think I could have gotten by in that big old rambling townhouse on my own with just the housekeeper and his wife. Ward will make sure everything is done just so, to my satisfaction.”

 

“You know Mamma,” Lettice says kindly, proffering an olive branch to her mother as she approaches her. “The offer always stands. You can come and stay with me at Cavendish Mews. I have a lovely spare bedroom with beautiful views of the London skyline.”

 

Reaching out and patting her daughter’s cream kid glove clad hand with her own diamond ring encrusted one, Lady Sadie replies, “That’s kind of you, Lettice my dear, but really your flat is far too small for Ward and me to stay in.”

 

“It’s not, Mamma!” Lettice retorts with a light laugh. “It’s a mansion flat*******.”

 

“Oh, come Lettice, where would Ward sleep if I came to stay?”

 

“I’m sure she and Edith could work out some sleeping arrangements.”

 

“I’d hate to put your young maid out, Lettice, especially when you say what a good worker she is. Goodness knows its hard enough to find staff here in Wiltshire these days, never mind in London. Besides, I’m so used to Ward being at my beck and call in my dressing room next door, Lettice.”

 

“I could probably telephone on ahead and ask for Edith to arrange a truckle bed for Ward so she could sleep in the spare bedroom with you. I think there are some in the cellar of Cavendish Mews. We used them to sleep on during the Zeppelin raids******** during the war.”

 

“Oh!” Lady Sadie gasps, clutching her chest with her bejewelled hand as she does. “Don’t mention those beastly raids! I shall never forget that dreadful day I was up in London and there was that raid that blew out the windows of Swan and Edgar*********. I was sure the head from the shop mannequin was a real person’s head as it bowled past me along Piccadilly!”

 

“Sorry Mamma!” Lettice apologises.

 

Lady Sadie takes a few moments for her breathing to grow less shallow and to regain her composure before continuing, “Once again, that’s kind of you to offer to put me up in Cavendish Mews, Lettice, but what’s the point in having a London townhouse if I don’t use it on the rare occasions when I’m visiting London. I’ll manage quite adequately with Ward and Mr. and Mrs. Selwood.”

 

Lettice sighs, trying to keep the relief of releasing her pent-up breath out of it. “I’m sure you will, Mamma. Well, if you change your mind.”

 

“I won’t dear.” Lady Sadie pats Lettice’s hand again, and gives it a gentle, comforting squeeze.

 

Although the offer was genuine, Lettice’s tenuous relationship with her mother would be strained, were she to stay at Cavendish Mews whilst they spent a few days shopping for Lettice’s trousseau. Lettice is silently grateful that the days of shopping for frocks at different Court dressmakers and department stores throughout London’s West End that Lady Sadie has deemed as ‘appropriate’, which will no doubt be interminable and long, have to be curtailed. Lettice has a prior engagement. Before this impromptu London shopping spree with her mother, Lettice had arranged to visit the quiet Essex farming village of Belchanp St Paul********** at the end of the week, where she has been commissioned to hand paint a feature wall for the famous British concert pianist, Sylvia Fordyce. Lettice has invited Gerald to join her, since unlike her, he drives and has a motorcar of his own at his disposal - a Morris Cowley*********** four-seater tourer – and can drive Lettice there and back. Since both Gerald and his homosexual lover, West End oboist Cyril, are both great admirers of Sylvia Fordyce, especially Cyril who is almost obsessed by her, Gerald is dying to see the inside of Sylvia’s seldom seen country retreat, ‘The Nest’ for himself, and make Cyril fearfully jealous.

 

“What’s all of this Mamma?” Lettice asks again, indicating to everything sitting on the bonheur de jour’s surface. She picks up an old, sepia photo from amongst those on her mother’s desk. It features one of the Glynes groomsmen in his Sunday suit and bowler, posing with a Shetland pony in front of the end of the stables, taken during the first decade of the century. “Why that’s Blair!” Lettice gasps. “With Gertie!”

 

“Yes.” Lady Sadie chuckles indulgently. “Your first Shetland pony for the pony trap. Oh! She was well chosen as she was every bit as recalcitrant as you were when you were seven! Such a stubborn beast as her I have yet to meet.” She chuckles good naturedly. “I’ve been having a moment of reminiscing before we depart.”

 

“Oh. But wait! That doesn’t look like one of ours,” Lettice adds, returning the photo to the desktop and picking up another more recent photo closer to her mother, obscuring images on the latest copy of Horse and Hound************. She looks at the splendid form of a handsome thoroughbred************* with a sleek coat, who looks every bit as noble as some of the ones forever immortalised in a book of photographs the Viscount had printed a few years ago of his racing and steeplechasing************** champions when the Glynes stable was perhaps at its pre-war best. The need for horses during the Great War saw the government sequester horses from across the country, from noblemen like the Viscount to humble farmers where the horse was a necessity for the farm, none ever to return. She turns the photograph over. “Prince Khazim from the stables of Charlie Chet.” she reads aloud. “Charlie Chet? Charlie Chet?” she ruminates.

 

“It’s not.” Lady Sadie replies, a slight awkwardness to her voice. “One of ours that is.”

 

“Are you looking to buy him?” Lettice asks, nodding at the copy of Horse and Hound. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard of a thoroughbred breeder called Charles Chet. He sounds Irish, especially if he goes by the name of Charlie, rather than Charles.”

 

Lady Sadie sighs and begins to tidy away the book of the estate horses, photos and magazines distractedly. “No. It’s from your brother.”

 

“Leslie?” Lettice asks in surprise. “You shock me, Mamma! Leslie was never a steeplechaser. That was always been yours and my passion.”

 

“Not Leslie.” Lady Sadie corrects with an irritated hiss. “Lionel.” Her voice strangulates and struggles to utter the name of she and the Viscount’s errant younger son, Lettice’s elder brother by three years. She shudders violently at the thought of him.

 

Lettice shudders too at the mention of her brother, whom she thankfully hasn’t seen since Leslie’s marriage to Bella in November 1922.

 

A cold, indifferent, mean and spiteful child, Lionel Chetwynd was difficult from birth, and as he grew his pinching and taunting of his nannies and siblings grew into something far more sinister the older he became. He tried to suffocate Lettice with a pillow as a baby, and then, when they were young children together, nearly took out her eye with a slingshot on purpose. As he grew up, Lionel showed no signs of conforming to social mores and rules of etiquette, no matter how harsh the treatment of at first the boarding schools and then the reform schools he was packed off to by his father. Expelled from the former, and coming back with crueller and more sardonic tricks from the latter, he became even more trouble, and by the time he had reached his late teens, Lionel had seduced several of the Glynes younger and less worldly maids in quick succession, producing a series of bastard offspring, that along with the maids themselves and in some cases their whole families, had to be discreetly paid off to disappear. This made Lionel such a liability, both to the good name of the Chetwynds and of the title of the Viscounts of Wrexham, and the Chetwynds’ fortunes, that as his depravities worsened, his father, the current Viscount was left with no other alternative but to pack Lionel off to British East Africa***************, where social mores were less restrictive, and at least any harm that may have been caused by Lionel that needed to be dealt with was at a respectable arm’s length from the Viscount and the rest of the family. With a generous allowance, Lionel has set up a successful horse stud, breeding fine thoroughbreds and steeplechasers, which are of great demand in places like the Muthaiga Club**************** in Nairobi which is the haunt of British settlers, gamblers and fortune hunters who have developed a taste for horseracing. Forbidden by the Viscount ton use the good name of Chetwynd in any of his endeavours, or lose his monthly allowance, Lionel’s stud is called Charles Chet Thoroughbreds, which he has shorted to the catchier Chalie Chet’s amongst the more casual and laid back society of the British Protectorates***************** and Colonies on the African continent.

 

“Lionel isn’t actually trying to sell Pappa one of his horses, is he?” Lettice asks, aghast.

 

“No, no, Lettice!” Lady Sadie assures her youngest daughter with a shallow shake of her head, making her pearl and diamond drop earrings shake beneath her lobes. “Even Lionel would never stoop so low as to try and have your father buy one the thoroughbreds that he almost definitely paid for via the allowance he gives Lionel each month.”

 

“Well,” Lettice adds dourly. “I wouldn’t. There is nothing Lionel wouldn’t stoop to. What does he want?” She snorts derisively through her nostrils. “A more generous allowance, I suppose.”

 

“Nothing actually,” Lady Sadie replies with a smile. “Which is something of a surprise for Lionel.”

 

“What? No piteous begging letter, crying foul against the rest of us for our happy and successful lives, decrying his drinking and gambling debts at the Muthaiga Club?”

 

“Remarkably, no.” Lady Sadie responds with raised eyebrows. She withdraws his letter from beneath the copy of Horse and Hound.

 

Even seeing Lionel’s spider copperplate inked on white lined notepaper, thin and sloped, with sharper points than gentle rounding on his Gs and Js, Lettice feels a chill run down her spine, like someone walking across her grave****************** with icy cold feet. She silently wonders what a graphologist******************* would make of her loathed brother’s character were he to analyse Lionel’s unique hand. Would he recognise the malevolence ingrained deep within her sibling?

 

“His last few letters have actually been full of good news for a change. I know Lionel has few redeeming features to his character…”

 

“None!” Lettice interrupts her mother hotly.

 

Lady Sadie bristles, caught between the pang of being disloyal to her errant youngest son, and trying unsuccessfully to think of anything redemptive about Lionel to counter Lettice, so she decides to ignore Lettice’s outburst and carries on, “But his thoroughbred stud is actually showing promise. It seems that he has met some rather influential people in the horse racing world in Africa courtesy of the Muthaiga Club.”

 

“Good or bad people?”

 

“I cannot speak for their characters based on the contents of Lionel’s letters.”

 

“Dubious then, I’d say.” Lettice mutters.

 

“Dubious or not, Lettice, they must hold some sway. They are interested in the horses he is breeding, and it seems like fortunes are made to be wagered for there, with all those adventure seekers one reads about occasionally in the papers here, as these people are paying excellent prices for his stock.”

 

“Well, the Dark Continent******************** is full of adventurers and pleasure seekers,” Lettice sighs peevishly, uncharitably displeased to hear of her brother’s evident success after all the pain, headaches, heartaches and troubles he has not only caused her personally, but the entire family. “It should come as no surprise, I suppose, that Lionel might have some moderate success there amongst the less salubrious clientele. If anyone can find a way to crawl out of swamp, smelling of roses, it’s Lionel.”

 

“I wouldn’t even suggest a less salubrious clientele, Lettice.” Lady Sadie corrects her daughter, ignoring the remark about Lionel crawling from a swamp. “He has written of a benefactress who is a British aristocrat of some significance, purportedly, who has a great passion for thoroughbreds and steeplechasers.”

 

“Does he mention this rather mysterious benefactress’ name?” Lettice asks, her interest suddenly piqued.

 

“No. Never.” Lady Sadie opines, turning Lionel’s latest letter over in her hand, shrugging as she does. “To be honest, I think she prefers her anonymity.”

 

“Humph!” scoffs Lettice with a shake of her head. “I would too, if I was arranging any kind of business deal with Lionel.”

 

“Well, whoever she is, she has deep pockets. She has acquired several thoroughbreds from Charles Chetwynd’s Stud to be shipped back to England.”

 

“I hate how he used Charles’ name in the title of his stud.” Lettice spits bitterly. “I’m sure he chose Lally’s husband’s name just to spite her.”

 

“I wouldn’t doubt that, Lettice. It’s only lucky you aren’t married yet, or he would have used your husband’s name instead, since he seems to despise you even more than he does Lally.” Lady Sadie concurs. Going on she adds, “However, whomever this aristocratic woman is, I don’t think Lionel has actually ever met her. She keeps herself at arm’s length from any dealings, and uses a stock man********************* as a middleman.”

 

“Very wise.” Lettice says with a nod.

 

“She certainly has far-reaching contacts too. Lionel says that he has been doing business in…” However, before Sadie can go any further, she gulps awkwardly and falls silent.

 

“Business in, where, Mamma?” Lettice queries.

 

“Oh, never mind, Lettice dear,” Lady Sadie mumbles, folding Lionel’s letter in half and then in half again hurriedly before opening the wide drawer beneath the writing space of her bonheur de jour and slipping it inside. “It doesn’t matter. We’ve been chatting long enough, and you did say that Harris and Ward were ready for us.”

 

The falsely jovial tone in Lady Sadie’s voice jars in Lettice’s ears. “What are you hiding, Mamma?” she asks seriously.

 

“Nothing Lettice!” Lady Sadie lifts her hands in defence. “Why must you be so suspicious, child, and always misalign me so, and presume I’m keeping something from you?”

 

“Because you are, Mamma!” Lettice replies plaintively. “It’s quite obvious you are! Tell me where Lionel is doing business now.”

 

“It… it really doesn’t matter, Lettice.” Lady Sadie splutters. “The less you know or have to do with Lionel’s affairs, the better. We’re all best just keeping out of them as much as we can.”

 

“Where, Mamma?” Lettice presses, her syllables pronounced, her voice edged with a steely determination.

 

“I must put on my coat and hat if we’re to make it in time for the train.” Lady Sadie says as she pushes back her seat, away from her writing desk and stands.

 

“Where?” Lettice asks matter-of-factly, placing her left hand firmly on her mother’s right shoulder with determination, preventing the older, more diminutive woman from moving as she bars her path to her coat and hat.

 

Lady Sadie looks up into her daughter’s eyes, a look of fear in her sparking sapphire chip eyes. “Durban.” She finally admits with a guilty gulp.

 

Lettice gasps and stumbles backwards as though she has just been burned, releasing her mother’s shoulder from her grip.

 

“Oh! I knew it would upset you if I told you, Lettice my dear.” Lady Sadie cries. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Lionel isn’t dealing with Selwyn, is he?” Lettice questions her mother quickly.

 

“No! No!” Lady Sadie assures her, raising her palms and gesticulating for her daughter to calm down. “There has been no mention of Selwyn in Lionel’s letters.” She looks sadly at her startled daughter, who suddenly looks deflated and pale in her powder blue travelling ensemble. “And you know that if Lionel had met him, he would crow about it just to make it stick in your craw, so I’m not hiding it.”

 

“Does he mention anything about Mr. Avendale, or his daughter Kitty?” Lettice asks, referring to the diamond mine owner and his young daughter, whom Selwyn broke off his arrangement with Lettice to become engaged to.

 

“No!” Lady Sadie affirms, holding up her palms again. “There has been no mention of either of them. The names are all professional horse owners who do the racing circuits in Africa. No Mr. Avendale or his daughter, and certainly no Selwyn. The chances of their crossing paths considering his interests are at such odds to Lionel’s seem extremely remote.”

 

Lettice sinks down onto the corner of one of her mother’s ornate white upholstered salon chairs and clutches the back as her eyes lower to the Chinese silk carpet beneath their feet. Her knuckles grow white as she clings to the rounded wooden top of the chair as she tries to regain her composure. Just when she thinks she is finally over her feelings for Selwyn and the hurt he caused her, it all comes flooding back in a barrage of bad memories.

 

Lady Sadie moves towards her daughter and lowers herself into a crouching position. Taking her right hand, she places it under Lettice’s chin and lifts it until Lettice is looking her directly in the eye. “I didn’t want to spoil our little shopping sojourn to London with thoughts of Lionel, or Selwyn. Please forgive me.”

 

“Oh, you have nothing to reproach yourself with, Mamma.” Lettice concedes, placing her own right hand on her mother’s left silk blouse sleeve. “It was me in my foolishness. You’re right, of course. The chances of Selwyn and Lionel crossing paths is extremely remote, and even if he does, what does it matter? I’m with John now.”

 

“Yes.” Lady Sadie says in a quavering voice.

 

“And we won’t let my silly thoughts of Selwyn or Lionel spoil our next few days of shopping, Mamma.” Lettice manages in a voice that sounds braver and more determined than she feels.

 

“Good girl.” Lady Sadie approves.

 

“Ahem!” a female voice announces her presence by clearing her throat, breaking the conversation between mother and daughter.

 

Lady Sadie and Lettice glance around over the tops of furniture and vases of tumbling summer flowers to the door of the Glynes morning room, where Moira the head parlour maid stands in her morning uniform of a full length striped blue and white calico print frock, a white apron and a mob cap trimmed with lace.

 

“Beg pardon Your Ladyship, Miss,” Moira starts. “But Mr. Harris says that you really ought to get a move-on, if you’re to make it for the quarter past twelve to London.”

 

Lady Sadie glances at a small gilt carriage clock standing on a sideboard, flanked by matching gilt candelabra garnitures**********************. Her eyes grow wide. “Good heavens, it’s nearly twenty past! Yes, let us away, Lettice, and at once!”

 

Lady Sadie snatches up her own cream coloured linen coat which matches her calf length skirt and with her daughter’s help slips it on before affixing her wide brimmed hat of straw decorated with cascades ornamental silk wisteria flowers atop her head with two carefully placed hatpins. Mother and daughter hurriedly leave the morning room, leaving Moira behind to close the doors behind them.

 

With hurried footsteps the two women move swiftly along the hallway, into the grand Georgian style Glynes entrance hall and out the front doors. Descending the stairs, they slow down as the louis heels of their court shoes crunch the white pebbles of the driveway beneath their feet and approach the Viscount’s Daimler, where Bramley, the Chetwynd’s faithful Butler of many years, holds the door open for them, whilst Harris is already in his leather seat in the driver’s cabin of the motorcar, the engine purring away. Ward sits in the passenger seat next to him, clutching her purse anxiously in her lap.

 

“I do hope you have a pleasant trip to London, Your Ladyship,” Bramly says in his usual calm and sonorous voice as he hands both ladies into the passenger cabin. “And a safe journey back, My Lady.” He addresses Lettice. “And that the shopping trip for your trousseau, My Lady, is a fruitful one.”

 

“Thank you Bramley.” both mother and daughter say in unison.

 

Bramley shuts the passenger door to the Daimler and taps its roof, indicating for Harris to commence the drive. With a jerk, the motorcar edges forward as the engine picks up. Bramley stands and watches the receding rear of the car with Lettice and Lady Sadie’s profiles framed through the back window as it picks up speed and moves down the long Glynes driveway towards the village beyond the estate gates.

 

*A ruby whistle is an old-fashioned term for a bold, loud and lusty whistle that is full of life.

 

**A trousseau refers to the wardrobe and belongings of a bride, including her wedding dress or similar clothing such as day and evening dresses.

 

***An under-housemaid was usually a young girl, whose work was supervised by the senior maid. Your girls often came to work in a large household from the age of twelve or even younger in country areas. Often their first jobs as domestics, they had many of the dirtier jobs which were given to them by the senior maids.

 

****Nestled in the heart of Wiltshire, Trowbridge is a vibrant town that was once renowned for its thriving woollen cloth industry, including Home Mills. The town's legacy is beautifully preserved today in its architecture and cultural landmarks.

 

*****A bonheur de jour is a type of lady's writing desk. It was introduced in Paris by one of the interior decorators and purveyors of fashionable novelties called marchands-merciers around 1760, and speedily became intensely fashionable. Decorated on all sides, it was designed to sit in the middle of a room so that it could be admired from any angle.

 

******Fitzroy Square is a Georgian square in London, England. It is the only one in the central London area known as Fitzrovia. The square is one of the area's main features, this once led to the surrounding district to be known as Fitzroy Square or Fitzroy Town[1] and latterly as Fitzrovia, though the nearby Fitzroy Tavern is thought to have had as much influence on the name as Fitzroy Square.

 

*******A ‘mansion flat’ refers to a luxurious apartment, often found in a large, grand building, particularly in Britain. These flats are characterised by their spaciousness, high ceilings, and often feature ornate design elements, resembling the grand scale of a mansion. As the daughter of a Viscount, it stands to reason that whilst Lettice lives in a flat, rather than a grand house, her flat is spacious and luxurious, implying it is a ‘mansion flat’.

 

********Zeppelin raids on London occurred during the First World War. These raids were part of Germany's strategy to conduct bombing campaigns against Britain. Zeppelins, which were large rigid airships, were used by the German military to carry out long-range bombing missions, primarily targeting civilian areas and infrastructure. The raids began in 1915, and while they didn't cause huge numbers of casualties compared to other forms of warfare, they created widespread panic and disrupted life in London and other parts of Britain. The first Zeppelin raid on London took place on May the 31st, 1915. Over the course of the war, the German airships dropped bombs on various cities, including London, causing deaths, injuries, and significant damage. Whilst the Zeppelins were initially successful in carrying out these attacks, they also had significant vulnerabilities. They were slow, large, and relatively easy targets for British aircraft and anti-aircraft artillery. By 1917, as more advanced aircraft and tactics were developed, the Zeppelins became less effective, and the German military shifted to using other types of bombers, including Gotha biplanes, which were faster and harder to target. Despite their limited military impact, the Zeppelin raids contributed to the sense of vulnerability and fear that civilians in Britain felt during the war, as they were one of the first large-scale aerial bombing campaigns in history.

 

*********Swan and Edgar was a prominent London department store, established in the early Nineteenth Century and located at Piccadilly Circus. It began as a haberdashery business founded by George Swan and William Edgar, evolving into a large retailer known for high-quality goods and fashionable clothing. The store also offered refreshments and became a popular meeting spot. Swan and Edgar faced challenges, including the Suffragette window-smashing campaign and wartime disruptions during both the Great War and the Second World War and cheaper goods imported to Britain in the 1970s, but it survived them all. Finally, Swan and Edgar closed their doors in 1982.

 

**********Belchamp St Paul is a village and civil parish in the Braintree district of Essex, England. The village is five miles west of Sudbury, Suffolk, and 23 miles northeast of the county town, Chelmsford.

 

***********Morris Motors Limited was a privately owned British motor vehicle manufacturing company established in 1919. With a reputation for producing high-quality cars and a policy of cutting prices, Morris's business continued to grow and increase its share of the British market. By 1926 its production represented forty-two per cent of British car manufacturing. Amongst their more popular range was the Morris Cowley which included a four-seat tourer which was first released in 1920.

 

************Horse and Hound is the oldest equestrian weekly magazine of the United Kingdom. Its first edition was published in 1884. The magazine contains horse industry news, reports from equestrian events, veterinary advice about caring for horses, and horses for sale.

 

*************The Thoroughbred is a horse breed developed for horse racing. Although the word thoroughbred is sometimes used to refer to any breed of purebred horse, it technically refers only to the Thoroughbred breed. Thoroughbreds are considered "hot-blooded" horses that are known for their agility, speed, and spirit.

 

**************A steeplechase is a long-distance race involving both galloping and jumping over obstacles, primarily fences and water jumps. In horse racing, steeplechases involve horses jumping over various obstacles like fences and ditches.

 

***************The Colony and Protectorate of Kenya, commonly known as British Kenya or British East Africa, was part of the British Empire in Africa. It was established when the former East Africa Protectorate was transformed into a British Crown colony in 1920. Technically, the "Colony of Kenya" referred to the interior lands, while a 16 km (10 mi) coastal strip, nominally on lease from the Sultan of Zanzibar, was the "Protectorate of Kenya", but the two were controlled as a single administrative unit. The colony came to an end in 1963 when an ethnic Kenyan majority government was elected for the first time and eventually declared independence as the Republic of Kenya.

 

****************The Muthaiga Club is a club in Nairobi. It is located in the suburb of Muthaiga, about fifteen minutes’ drive from the city centre. The Muthaiga Country Club opened on New Year's Eve in 1913, and became a gathering place for the colonial British settlers in British East Africa, which later became in 1920, the Colony of Kenya.

 

*****************A British Protectorate was a territory under the protection of the British Empire, where the Crown exercised foreign affairs, but the internal affairs of the territory were managed by local rulers or authorities, according to Wikipedia. These protectorates were distinct from colonies, which were directly ruled by the British Crown.

 

******************To "walk over someone's grave" is a figure of speech, not a literal act. It implies that someone is disrespecting or dishonoring a deceased person, or their memory, even though they are not physically present. It can also refer to the idea that a sudden shiver or shudder is caused by someone walking over the spot where one's future grave will be.

 

*******************Handwriting analysis, also known as graphology, has roots going back centuries, with systematic analysis beginning in the Seventeenth Century. While the Chinese are said to have studied handwriting thousands of years ago, the modern approach to graphology was established in the 1870s by French clerics led by Abbe Michon.

 

********************"The Dark Continent" is an outdated term historically used to refer to Africa, particularly Sub-Saharan Africa, due to its perceived mystique and lack of exploration by Europeans in the Nineteenth Century.

 

*********************A stock man is a person (usually a man) who looks after livestock.

 

**********************A garniture set is a collection of decorative objects, typically vases, urns, or other ornamental pieces to either side of a clock, designed to be displayed together, often on a mantelpiece or other prominent surface. These sets are characterized by their matching or unified design, and were particularly popular as a status symbol between the Seventeenth and Nineteenth Centuries.

 

Cluttered photos, books and magazines, Lady Sadie’s bonheur de jour is different from what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures from my collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The books and the copy of Horse and Hound on Lady Sadie’s desk are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. Therefore, it is a pleasure to give you a glimpse inside one of the books he has made, showing photographs of racing thoroughbreds in their stables. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books and magazines are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. The Horse and Hound magazine and the other books you can glimpse are not designed to open. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter. I hope that you enjoy this peek at just two of hundreds of his books that I own, and that it makes you smile with its sheer whimsy!

 

On the desk there are also three real photos of different horses. These 1:12 artisan miniature prints came from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The Chetwynd’s family photos seen on the desk are all real photos too, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frames come from Melody Jane’s Dollhouse Suppliers in the United Kingdom and are made of metal with glass in each.

 

The desk and its matching chair is a Salon Reine design, hand painted and copied from an Eighteenth Century design, made by Bespaq. All the drawers open and it has a lidded rack at either end. Bespaq is a high-end miniature furniture maker with high attention to detail and quality.

 

The wallpaper is a copy of an Eighteenth Century blossom pattern.

Done