A Weekend of fun, in Return for a Pair of Beach Pyjamas

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, Lettice is entertaining the world famous British concert pianist, Sylvia Fordyce in her well appointed her Cavendish Mews drawing room. Lettice met Sylvia at a private audience after a performance at the Royal Albert Hall*. Sylvia is the long-time friend of Lettice’s fiancée, Sir John Nettleford-Hughes and his widowed sister Clementine (known preferably now by the more cosmopolitan Clemance) Pontefract, the latter of whom Sylvia has known since they were both eighteen. Lettice, Sir John and Clemance were invited to join Sylvia in her dressing room after her Schumann and Brahms concert. After a brief chat with Sir John (whom she refers to as Nettie, using the nickname only his closest friends use) and Clemance, Sylvia had her personal secretary, Atlanta, show them out so that she could discuss “business” with Lettice. Anxious that like so many others, Sylvia would try to talk Lettice out of marrying Sir John, who is old enough to be her father and known for his philandering and not so discreet dalliances with pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger, Lettice was surprised when Sylvia admitted that when she said that she wanted to discuss business, that was what she genuinely meant. Sylvia owns a small country property just outside of Belchamp St Paul** on which she had a secluded little house she calls ‘The Nest’ built not so long ago by architect Sydney Castle***: a house she had decorated by society interior designer Syrie Maugham****. However, unhappy with Mrs. Maugham’s passion for shades of white, Sylvia wanted Lettice to inject some colour into the drawing room of her country retreat by painting a feature wall for her. Thus, she invited Lettice to motor up to Essex with her for an overnight stay at the conclusion of her concert series at The Hall to see the room for herself, and perhaps get some ideas as to what and how she might paint it. Lettice agreed to Sylvia’s commission, and originally had the idea of painting flowers on the wall, reflecting the newly planted cottage garden outside the large drawing room windows of ‘The Nest’. However, after hearing the story of Sylvia’s life – a sad story throughout which, up until more recent years, she had felt like a bird trapped in a cage, Lettice has opted to paint the wall with stylised feathers, expressing the freedom to fly and soar that Sylvia’s later life has given her the ability to do. Delighted with the outcome of her new feature wall, Sylvia has come to Cavendish Mews today to pay the remainder of her bill in full, a result not always so easily come by, by some of Lettice’s previous wealthy clients.

 

Just as Edith, Lettice’s maid, is arranging one of her light and fluffy sponge onto a white gilt edged plate in the kitchen to serve to Lettice and her guest, she hears the mechanical buzz of the Cavendish Mews servant’s call bell. Glancing up she notices the circle for the front door has changed from black to red, indicating that it is the front door bell that has rung.

 

“Oh blast.” she mutters. “Just as I’m about to serve cake too.”

 

Quickly whipping off the stained apron she is wearing which has splashes of cream and strawberry juice from decorating the cake, she hurries from the kitchen into the public area of the flat via a door in the scullery adjoining the kitchen, snatching up a clean apron from a hook by the door as she goes. Quickly fastening the freshly laundered apron over her blue and white striped calico print morning uniform as she walks into the entrance hall.

 

The front door buzzer goes again, sounding noisily, filling the atmosphere with a jarring echo.

 

“Edith?” Lettice’s voice calls from the drawing room where she is sitting with Sylvia.

 

“On my way, Miss!” Edith assures her mistress in a harried tone as she hurries across the think Chinese silk carpet to the front door. “I’m coming, alright. I’m coming.” mutters Edith irritably to herself as she makes her way toward the front door with rushed footsteps. “Keep your hair on****.”

 

She pats her cap and the hairpins holding her blonde waves neatly in place as she goes, hoping that she looks presentable as she opens the front door.

 

“It’s only little me, dear Lettice.” Gerald simpers as he walks into the drawing room where Lettice sits in her usual black japanned, rounded back, while upholstered tup armchair next to the telephone, whilst Sylvia Fordyce lounges languidly in the one opposite.

 

“Oh Gerald! What a lovely surprise!” Lettice says, standing up, the lilt in her voice cheerful, but the look in her sparkling blue eyes murderous as she glances at Gerald. “I… I thought I told you I was entertaining Miss Fordyce is afternoon.”

 

“Oh, you may well have,” he answers, lightly tapping the side of his head beneath the brim of his straw boater absently. “But silly me, it must have completely slipped my mind. I’m so sorry!” His words are apologetic, and his behaviour contrite, but there is a mischievous hazel tinted glint in his own dark brown eyes, and a cheeky curl upturning the corner of his mouth as she speaks that betrays his true thoughts. “It’s only a fleeting visit. I merely came by to drop off a little something for you.” He holds out a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine towards Lettice.

 

For the moment, Gerald politely ignores Sylvia’s dark sloe eyed stare as she remains draped languidly in her armchair, her long fingers steepled in front of her chest. He can feel her silently appraising his well-cut navy blue blazer with glinting gold buttons, his pressed white trousers with a crisp crease down the middle at both the front and back, his natty yet at the same time slightly foppish blue and white striped tie with a matching pocket square*****, his bold red carnation boutonnière****** and his stylish straw boater.

 

“Oh Gerald! Lettice says, accepting the gift. “You shouldn’t have.”

 

“Oh,” Gerald retorts, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s nothing really, just a new scarf in silk I had printed with one of my designs in Lyon. I had a few made up, but I wanted you to the be first to have one, of course. They are very much your colours, my dear Lettice.”

 

“Ahh!” exclaims Sylvia, suddenly breaking her languid pose and leaning forward in her seat, looking up at Gerald with great interest as her red painted mouth hangs open in anticipation, her tongue pressed to the base of her mouth behind her slightly discoloured teeth. “So, this is the wunderkind******* Gerald Bruton, of whom I have read so much about in The Lady******** as he takes the London fashion scene by storm.”

 

“Oh! Where are my matters!” Lettice remarks, quickly putting Gerald’s unopened parcel aside. “Sylvia darling, may I introduce Mr. Gerald Bruton, Grosvenor Street couturier, and my oldest, dearest and sometimes,” She pauses for effect. “My most frustrating chum from childhood. Gerald darling, may I introduce Miss Sylvia Fordyce, the world famous British concert pianist.”

 

“And you latest client… and hopefully new friend.” Sylvia adds with a smile.

 

It is only then that Gerald allows himself to truly take his attention away from Lettice and focus upon her guest. Wearing an over-sized chocolate brown velvet cloche, Sylvia’s black dyed sharp bob pokes out from beneath it, framing her striking, angular face which is caked with a thick layer of white makeup. Her lips are painted a bright red, which appears even more garish against the white of her face paint, just as the darkness of her glittering eyes are intensified by her white, almost ethereal, pallor. She wears no necklace, nor any earrings that Gerald can discern beneath the bottom of her cloche. In fact, her only piece of jewellery is a large aquamarine and diamond cluster ring on the left middle finger on her elegant pianist’s right hand. However, being the only piece of ornamentation she wears, it makes the ring, already a striking piece in its own right, even more so as it sparkles and winks beneath the electric light of Lettice’s chandelier overhead. Her outfit is simple and stripped back: a white satin blouse accessorised with a black and white cheque silk scarf tied in a loose and artistic style, and a long column like skirt in black, beneath the hem of which poke the pointed toes of a pair of high heeled black patent leather boots. Far from being conventionally beautiful, the pianist has captured the power of dressing to make her presence unignorable, and she wears her cultivated look with unabashed pride.

 

“Miss Fordyce needs no introduction.” Gerald enthuses as he bends down and raises Sylvia’s elegant hand, kissing it gently just above the sparkling cluster ring. “Enchanté.” he breathes in French.

 

“Charmante,” Sylvia replies with an enigmatic smile, bowing her head slightly as she slowly withdraws her hand from Gerald’s, enjoying the attention her is lavishing upon her. “I could say the same about you, Mr. Bruton, for Lettice speaks of you fondly, and often. I believe that it is you I have to thank for our clever Lettice finishing my feature wall. She has just been telling me that when her inspiration or energy was flagging whilst she was painting it, you spurned her on to complete it. I’m most grateful.”

 

“I did my best, Miss Fordyce.” Gerald replies, his cheeks flushing red at Sylvia’s compliment. “Lettice is,” He turns his head away from Sylvia and focuses upon his best friend. “A remarkable artist, and highly skilled.”

 

“Oh Gerald!” Lettice gasps.

 

“It sounds like you are also her biggest champion, my dear Mr. Bruton.” Sylvia opines.

 

“But,” Gerald goes on. “She doesn’t have the faith in her own abilities that she should.” He returns his attentions to Sylvia. “I’m sure you agree, Miss Fordyce.”

 

“Indeed I do, Mr. Bruton. Your friend is highly accomplished, and I was just telling our clever Lettice how delighted I am with my new feature wall.”

 

“I think it is very beautiful too, Miss Fordyce. You are most fortunate.” Gerald replies.

 

Without saying anything, Lettice gently puts her hand on Gerald’s forearm.

 

“Well!” Gerald says, clearing his throat a little awkwardly, taking Lettice’s silent hint in his stride. “I did say that this was only a fleeting visit. I really should be off.” He looks at Lettice with a meaningful look. “I’ve been here enough times to show myself out, whilst you entertain your guest. I do hope you like the scarf.”

 

“Oh really?” Sylvia interjects rising elegantly from her seat, the fabric of her outfit draping down over her slender frame like shivering water. “Must you go?” She turns her head to Lettice. “Must he go, Lettice darling? Your maid was fetching us cake wasn’t she? Surely there is enough for three?” She turns back to Gerald. “Please, Mr. Bruton. I’d so love you to stay! Darling Lettice and I have finished up the tedious part of my visit, settling my account, and we were just prattling away idly, weren’t we Lettice darling? Besides, I would value your opinion, since you are an arbiter of fashion, Mr. Bruton. Please?” She pouts her scarlet painted lips, which even in a plumped up form still have a slender look about them. “Please!”

 

“Well I…” Gerald looks between Sylvia and Lettice. “I suppose I could tarry for a short while. I don’t have to be at my next appointment just yet, and I do so love Edith’s sponges, which she has told me she has made for you, Miss Fordyce.”

 

“Oh Gerald!” Lettice laughs. “Please drop the pretence and save yourself the embarrassment. Bring that chair over and join us.” She indicates with a sweeping gesture to the black japanned Chippendale chair, upholstered in silver and blue Art Deco fabric, which whilst unorthodox with such clashing styles , works under Lettice’s clever eye for design. “I’ll tell Edith we’re a trio now.” She steps over and depresses the servants’ call button by the fireplace, the buzzer echoing in the service area of the flat.

 

“Thank you, Lettice.” Gerald says gratefully as he takes off his straw boater and places it on one of Lettice’s black japanned side tables before drawing up the chair she has indicated to the coffee table and takes a seat.

 

“Did Cyril put you up to this?” Lettice asks him, mentioning Gerald’s young, fey and more overtly homosexual lover who lives in a boarding house for theatrical types in Putney with Gerald’s friend Harriet Milford, who designs hats in addition to running her rather dramatic boarding house. “Turning up on my doorstep, knowing that Miss Fordyce would be here?”

 

“Well...” Gerald says, blushing red as he speaks.

 

“I knew you hadn’t forgotten that I told you Miss Fordyce was visiting today!” Lettice wags a finger at Gerald. “It isn’t like you to forget a date, even if it isn’t one of your own.”

 

“Who is Cyril, Mr. Bruton?” Sylvia asks, intrigued as she resumes her languid stance in her tub chair again.

 

“Cyril is my… my friend, Miss Fordyce.” Gerald pipes up quickly. “He’s… he’s an oboist who plays in the West End theatres, and like me,” He bushes even deeper. “He is a very big fan of yours, Miss Fordyce.”

 

“A friend.” Sylvia muses, looking Gerald up and down knowingly, but keeping her impressions to herself behind her heavily painted face, only smiling politely in acknowledgement of Gerald.

 

“When I told him that I was going with Lettice to stay at your very lovely little country retreat in Essex, he was more than a little jealous.”

 

“Was he indeed?” Sylvia chuckles indulgently.

 

Just at that moment, Edith walks into the drawing room.

 

“You rang, Miss?” Edith says, bobbing a polite curtsey.

 

“Yes Edith.” Lettice replies. “Mr. Bruton is staying now, so it will be tea for three now, if you can manage it.”

 

“Of course Miss.” Edith replies. “May I take your hat, Mr. Bruton.”

 

“Thank you Edith.” he says, passing her his straw boater. “I do like your delicious sponge cake, Edith.” Gerald compliments the young girl.

 

“Thank you, Sir.” Edith replies, blushing as she basks momentarily in Gerald’s compliment before bobbing another quick curtsey to the assembled company and retreating back into the dining room and through the green baize door, back into the service area of the flat.

 

“Even if my figure suffers for it.” Gerald adds, turning his attentions back to Sylvia.

 

“Such high praise for your cook, Lettice darling.” Sylvia says with her expertly plucked black eyebrows arching high over her eyes. “I am in for a treat!”

 

“Edith is an excellent cook when it comes to cakes, Sylvia darling, so I asked her to bake her speciality today, a cream filled strawberry sponge cake.”

 

“Goodness!” Sylvia gasps. “No wonder your figure suffers, Mr. Bruton, at the sound of such extravagance. I myself,” She raises a hand to her throat. “Do not suffer the same problem. As a performer, I have far too much frenetic energy to burn.”

 

“And you do it with such theatricality,” Gerald enthuses.

 

“Why thank you, Mr. Bruton.” Sylvia says, smiling indulgently as she does. “Such a lovely compliment.”

 

“Oh Gerald!” Lettice giggles. “I do believe you are quite smitten with Sylvia.”

 

“Don’t be cheeky…” Gerald goes to call Lettice by her most hated childhood pet name, ‘Lettuce Leaf’, but being the presence of the pianist he so admires, and wanting to maintain a good impression, he swallows awkwardly and finishes a little lamely, “Lettice.”

 

Sylvia laughs heartily. “You two do know each other well, don’t you, Lettice darling? You have a way between you that seems very comfortable. Have you known Mr. Bruton all your life?”

 

“Yes.” Lettice replies.

 

“I’m just a little older than Lettice, and we grew up on neighbouring estates in Wiltshire,” Gerald goes on. “And all of Lettice’s siblings, with the exception of her beast of a brother Lionel, are much older that we are, and my own brother Roland is a few years my senior and never had time for me.”

 

“So we just ended up playing together, didn’t we Gerald?”

 

“We did, Lettice.”

 

“And so, we became the best of chums and have stayed as such ever since.”

 

“How utterly delightful!” Sylvia opines with a clap of her hands. “But please, do go on about your friend, Cyril, Mr. Bruton. I love the West End theatre scene, and attend whenever my schedule allows. We theatrical types must support one another and stick together. Perhaps I’ve seen, or rather heard, your young oboist friend in a show?”

 

“Well, Cyril was performing in Julian Wylie’s********* revue, ‘Better Days’********** at the Hippodrome***********, but it’s just finished, so he is between engagements at the moment.”

 

“I see.” Sylvia replies, nodding and staring deeply into Gerald’s eyes.

 

“You… err, you wanted to ask me something about fashion, I believe, Miss Fordyce?” Gerald asks, feeling uncomfortable under Sylvia’s inscrutable stare.

 

“I did, Mr. Bruton!” Sylvia replies animatedly, releasing Gerald from her scrutiny. “Thank you for reminding me. Being the arbiter and setter of current London fashion trends that you are…”

 

“Oh, I don’t know if I’d go quite that far, Miss Fordyce.” Gerald chuckles, blushing yet again.

 

“Nonsense! Mr. Bruton!” Sylvia scoffs. “False modesty doesn’t suit you any more than it does darling Lettice, and,” She wags her index finger admonishingly at him, the cluster of diamonds and aquamarines on the finger next to it glinting and gleaming in the light. “It’s no good for business. Did you not design this divine frock for Lettice?”

 

Gerald turns to face Lettice, although he has no need to, as he recognised the rose and marone silk georgette knife pleated frock, the same one she wore when she first arrived at ‘The Nest’ with Sylvia when she went to look at the wall her hostess wanted redecorated, as being one of his own designs for Lettice the moment he laid eyes on her upon walking into the drawing room. “Indeed it is, Miss Fordyce.”

 

“Then I stand by what I say, Mr. Bruton. You have an eye for colour and cut, style and panache, and you create things that flatter your customers.”

 

“Well, Lettice is a special case, Miss Fordyce. As you’ve heard, she is my best friend, and she has always been so supportive of my frock making, ever since I first began. She’s something of a muse to me.”

 

“Muse or not, if you couldn’t design frocks, had no style or awareness of colour, poor Lettice might be wearing something that makes her look perfectly hideous at the moment. Although,” She turns and ponders over Lettice sitting comfortably in her armchair. “I do think that would be very hard to do, since she is so lithe and lovely.”

 

“We concur in that opinion, Miss Fordyce.” Gerald agrees.

 

“However, I stand by what I said before, you are an arbiter of fashion, and your creations are influencing what London women are wearing. So, I wanted to ask you, what is your opinion on,” She stands up suddenly, and spreads her legs slightly, the movement causing the black fabric of what Gerald had thought was a dress to reveal itself as being a pair of roomy Oxford bags************. “Women wearing trousers?”

 

Lettice immediately sees this as being a test for Gerald, as to whether Sylvia, who doesn’t suffer fools or people who don’t tend to share her opinion, will want to invite him to join her exclusive coterie of friends, as she has Lettice. Lettice sits forward slightly in her seat, causing an almost imperceptible widening of her guest’s eyes opposite her, the change, and slight flash in her eyes as she stares at Gerald causing Lettice to sit back in her seat.

 

Without batting an eyelid, Gerald replies firmly. “I always admired Paul Poiret************* for introducing wide legged trousers for women in 1910. I thought it a pity that they only caught on amongst the most avant-garde and daring of his clients.”

 

Lettice releases the pent-up breath she has silently been holding, sighing with relief, knowing by the subtle curl in Sylvia’s red streak of a mouth that she is pleased with Gerald’s response.

 

“And when do you think it will be commonplace to see trousers for women in London shops, Mr. Bruton?” Sylvia goes on, placing her hands in a stance of defiance on her hips. “Currently I have to travel to Berlin to get mine.” She kicks up her right heel a little, making her slacks billow for a moment before falling back down elegantly against her legs.

 

“Ahh, that is a very good question, Miss Fordyce.” Gerald replies. “If I had my way, they would be readily available for all women to wear. However…”

 

“However?” Sylvia asks.

 

“However, the English are conservative by nature, Miss Fordyce, and women wearing trousers would be too shocking for their taste, at least currently. London is not Paris, or Berlin, madam.”

 

At that moment, the conversation is broken by the sound of china rattling against silver, as Edith pushes open the green baize door leading from the scullery to the dining room carrying a large silver tray laden with Lettice’s best Art Deco Royal Doulton ‘Falling Leaves’ tea set, cups, saucers and plates to match, and one of her beautiful strawberry sponge cakes. The trio watch, transfixed as she slowly walks across the dining room and into the drawing room carrying the tray, which looks far to heavy for a girl as dainty as Edith. They observe in silence as she lowers the tray onto the low, black japanned coffee table, before rising and bobbing a curtsy to her mistress.

 

“Will there be anything else, Miss?” Edith asks, aware of the attention and curiosity she has created with her presence, but determined not to let it impact her polite and calm manner.

 

“No, thank you, Edith.” Lettice replies politely. “However, I’ll be sure to call if we need anything else.”

 

“Very good, Miss.” She bobs another curtsey and quickly retreats back to the kitchen.

 

“Yes,” Sylvia says quietly with a sigh as she watches Edith’s retreating figure disappear back through the green baize door. “The idea of women wearing trousers does seem to be too unpalatable for so much of the British population. Take your maid, for example, Lettice darling. Both times I have visited you here at Cavendish Mews, she cannot help but look aghast at my outlandish roomy trousers, her horror as plain as the nose on her face!”

 

“Oh Sylvia, darling!” Lettice protests, as she begins to unpack the tray and set up the teacups onto saucers. “That isn’t fair to poor Edith!”

 

“Whyever not, Lettice darling?” Sylvia retorts. “Surely it would be more practical for her to do her job, were she to wear trousers than some calico frock like she is wearing now. She should find the idea of me wearing trousers exciting, not abhorrent!”

 

“That may well be, Miss Fordyce, but she’ll never wear them.” Gerald replies.

 

“How ridiculous! I ask again, whyever not?” Sylvia asks again, throwing her hands up in the air in exasperation.

 

“Because Edith is what is known as a good girl.” Lettice elucidates. “She was brought up by her parents: a factory worker and a laundress I believe, to have moral scruples.”

 

“Moral scruples!” Sylvia scoffs dismissively.

 

“Where she comes from, Sylvia darling, women are servants, wives or mothers. They don’t rune businesses. They aren’t concert pianists. And they certainly don’t wear trousers.”

 

“She’ll never wear them, Miss Fordyce,” Gerald agrees. “Never!”

 

“And you, Mr. Bruton?” Sylvia asks with a cunning smile.

 

“Me, Miss Fordyce?”

 

“Would you be willing to make trousers for women, even if it would shock some parts of London society?”

 

“Well, as a matter-of-fact, Miss Fordyce,” Gerald says with a conspiratorial smile and a twinkle in his eyes. “I happen to be in the process of designing a range of beach pyjamas************* at the moment.”

 

“Beach pyjamas?” Sylvia asks, licking her lips with excitement. “What are they?”

 

“Well, rather like the name suggests, it’s a pair of wide-legged trousers with a matching blouse, made from colourful, brightly patterned cotton fabrics, similar to what you might wear to bed.”

 

“I don’t wear anything to bed, Mr. Bruton.” Sylvia replies with a throaty chuckle.

 

“Sylvia!” Lettice admonishes her guest as Gerald blushes red.

 

“Please pardon my lack of moral scruples, Mr. Bruton.” Sylvia says teasingly. “Perhaps I should take a leaf from your maid, Lettice darling.” She then continues, “Do go on about your beach pyjamas, Mr. Bruton! They sound positively delicious!” Sylvia murmurs.

 

“They are all the rage in Deauville.” Gerald goes on.

 

“Deauville is hardly Bournemouth, Brighton or Lyme Regis.” Lettice counters as she removes Edith’s cake from the tray.

 

“I just need an exponent of them who would be brave enough and willing to wear them.” Gerald defends.

 

“Maybe.” Lettice mutters doubtfully.

 

“Could they be made of silk or satin, Mr. Bruton?” Sylvia asks, sitting up, her eyes twinkling darkly.

 

“Of course, Miss Fordyce. In fact, they lend themselves to being made of something so deliciously extravagant.”

 

“Surely you aren’t suggesting you’d be Gerald’s proponent and wear beach pyjamas, Sylvia darling?” Lettice asks.

 

“Well why not, Lettice darling?” Sylvia counters her friend. “You know me well enough by now to know I don’t give a fig what people think! I am my own woman.” She pats her chest proudly. “Besides,” she adds with a throaty chuckle. “I’d enjoy nothing more than shocking those ghastly prudish Edwardian matrons sitting in their deckchairs along the pier at Bognor Regis*************** as I parade before them in a pair of Mr. Bruton’s beach pyjamas!” She pauses. “Made of satin, of course!”

 

“Of course, Miss Fordyce.” Gerald agrees, quickly getting swept up in the promise of the idea.

 

“Excellent!” Sylvia laughs. “What jolly fun!”

 

“Rather!” Gerald agrees, growing excited at the thought. “Jolly good show, Miss Fordyce!”

 

“Do you know what, Mr. Bruton?” Sylvia asks, as she accepts a cup of freshly poured tea from her hostess. “I’ve just had the most marvellous idea! I was saying to Lettice here, just before you arrived, how I was thinking of throwing a small soirée at ‘The Nest’ with a few like-minded friends: musicians, artists and the like,” She gesticulates about her as if demonstrating who the people’s professions might be. “To celebrate the completion of my fabulous Lettice Chetwynd original feature wall, and for me to be able to show it off to a few of my dearest friends.”

 

“That sounds splendid, Miss Fordyce.” Gerald says.

 

“Well I was just thinking, why don’t you join us? Lettice will have a familiar face beyond mine and Nettie’s to look at.”

 

“Nettie?” Gerald queries.

 

“It’s John’s pet name given him by Clemance and a select group of close friends.” Lettice pipes up as she hands Gerald his teacup. “But please don’t you call him that, Gerald darling!” she implores. “I don’t think I could take it seriously, coming from you.”

 

“Have no fear, Lettice darling!” Gerald chuckles. “I don’t think I could come at calling Sir John that, even if you wanted me too.” He screws up his nose in a mixture of perplexity and distaste. “Nettie…. Nettie.” He shakes his head.

 

“You could bring your… friend,” Sylvia goes on, her eyebrows arching over her eyes before she gives Gerald a cheeky and conspiratorial wink. “Cyril. Playing the oboe, he’s a musician after all, so he’d be in good company, and you did say just before that he was a trifle jealous of you getting to visit ‘The Nest’ without him.”

 

“That really is most generous of you, Miss Fordyce!” Gerald exclaims.

 

“Oh, my offer doesn’t come for free.” Sylvia’s dark eyes widen and sparkle in the light of the room. “There are strings attached to my invitation. I’m an artist, Mr. Bruton. I can’t afford to be that altruistic. No. I’d do you a trade. You and Cyril may come for a weekend at ‘The Nest’ and enjoy my company, and my largess, in return for a pair of your delicious sounding beach pyjamas, in satin! Deal?” she holds out her right hand, rather like an American businessman.

 

Gerald feels awkward as he mimics Sylvia, but he reaches out and shakes her hand. “Deal.”

 

*The Royal Albert Hall is a concert hall on the northern edge of South Kensington in London, built in the style of an ancient amphitheatre. Since the hall's opening by Queen Victoria in 1871, the world's leading artists from many performance genres have appeared on its stage. It is the venue for the BBC Proms concerts, which have been held there every summer since 1941.

 

**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.

 

***Sydney Ernest Castle was born in Battersea in July 1883. He trained with H. W. Edwards, a surveyor and worked as chief assistant to Arthur Jessop Hardwick (1867 - 1948) before establishing his own practice in London in 1908. From 1908 to 1918 he was in partnership with Gerald Warren (1881-1936) as Castle & Warren. He worked on St. George's Hill Estate in Weybridge, Surrey with Walter George Tarrant (1875-1942). Castle was elected a Fellow of the Royal Institute of British Architects (FRIBA) in 1925. He designed many buildings, including the Christian Association building in Clapham, a school in Balham and a private hotel in the Old Brompton Road, as well as many private residences throughout Britain. His firm’s address in 1926, when this story is set was 40, Albemarle Street, Piccadilly. He died in Wandsworth in March 1955.

 

****Syrie Maugham was a leading British interior decorator of the 1920s and 1930s and best known for popularizing rooms decorated entirely in shades of white. She was the wife of English playwright and novelist William Somerset Maugham.

 

****Meaning to keep calm and be patient, the earliest occurrence of the phrase “to keep your hair on” is recorded in The Entr’acte magazine in London in 1873, which mentioned that at the Winchester, a London music hall, an artist named Ted Callingham sang “Roving Joe” and “Keep Your Hair On”, two very laughable comic songs. A year later in 1874, it was being used commonly amongst the working classes. It is generally said that the phrase is based on the image of pulling one’s hair out in exasperation, anger or frustration, however some connect it to an earlier phrase from the Eighteenth Century “pulling off one’s wig” which refers to irascible and aged gentlemen, “when mad with passion,” have been known not only to curse and swear, but to tear their wigs from their heads, and to trample them under their feet, or to throw them into the fire.

 

*****A pocket square is a decorative square of fabric, typically silk or linen, that is displayed in the breast pocket of a jacket or suit. It serves as a fashion accessory to add a touch of style and visual interest to an outfit. Pocket squares can be folded in various ways, and the fabric is often chosen to complement or contrast with the rest of the attire. The exact origins of the pocket square are open to debate, but many believe they began in Ancient Egypt and Greece. These white fabric squares originally served practical purposes, such as maintaining cleanliness or deterring smells. Men would store them out of sight, only pulling them out when needed. Over time, pocket squares became a fashion statement and status symbol. Wealthy men would purchase brightly coloured fabrics, especially in bold red hues, to stand out from the crowd. They also often had infused scents to block unwanted smells. Throughout the Eighteenth Century, the popularity of pocket squares spread across Europe, even making their way into royal outfits. Pocket squares remained popular throughout the Eighteenth Century, but they truly evolved into the modern accessory we know today in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries.

 

******A boutonnière is a floral decoration, typically a single flower or bud, worn on the lapel of a tuxedo or suit jacket. While worn frequently in the past to distinguish a gentleman from a common labourer, boutonnières are now usually reserved for special occasions for which formal wear is standard, such as at balls and weddings.

 

*******The term "wunderkind," meaning a child prodigy or someone who achieves exceptional success at a young age, was invented in the late Nineteenth Century. Specifically, the first documented use in English dates back to 1891, with the term being borrowed from German, where it had been in use earlier.

 

********The Lady was a British women's magazine. It published its first issue on 19 February 1885 and was in continuous publication until its last issue in April 2025, at which time it was the longest-running women's magazine in Britain. Based in London, it was particularly notable for its classified advertisements for domestic service and child care; it also has extensive listings of holiday properties. It still has an online presence which offers a classified advertisements, jobs board and recruitment service.

 

*********Julian Wylie (1878 – 1934), originally Julian Ulrich Samuelson Metzenberg, was a British theatrical agent and producer. He began as an accountant and took an interest in entertainment through his brothers, Lauri Wylie and G. B. Samuelson. About 1910, he became the business manager and agent of David Devant, an illusionist, then took on other clients, and formed a partnership with James W. Tate. By the end of his life, he was known as the 'King of Pantomime'.

 

**********Julian Wylie’s last revue at the London Hippodrome was ‘Better Days’ in 1925. Comprising 19 scenes, Better Days had a try-out at the Liverpool Empire from 9th March 1925 before its debut at the London Hippodrome on 19th March 1925. The stars of the first edition of Better Days were Maisie Gay, Stanley Lupino, Madge Elliott, Connie Emerald with Ruth French and Anatole Wiltzak. The production had the usual Wylie flourish and touch with the dances and ensembles arranged by Edward Dolly and all the gowns and costumes designed by Dolly Tree. The modern gowns were created by Peron and Florence Henry and the costumes by Alias, Clarkson and Betty S. Roberts. ‘Better Days’, only ran for 135 performances and closed in early June, proving to be the last of Wylie’s run of productions at the London Hippodrome.

 

***********The Hippodrome is a building on the corner of Cranbourn Street and Charing Cross Road in the City of Westminster, London. The name was used for many different theatres and music halls, of which the London Hippodrome is one of only a few survivors. Hippodrome is an archaic word referring to places that host horse races and other forms of equestrian entertainment. The London Hippodrome was opened in 1900. It was designed by Frank Matcham for Moss Empires chaired by Edward Moss and built for £250,000.00 as a hippodrome for circus and variety performances. The venue gave its first show on 15 January 1900, a music hall revue entitled "Giddy Ostend" with Little Tich. The conductor was Georges Jacobi. In 1909, it was reconstructed by Matcham as a music-hall and variety theatre with 1340 seats in stalls, mezzanine, gallery and upper gallery levels. It was here that in 1910 Tchaikovsky's ‘Swan Lake’ received its English première in the form of Act 2 with Olga Preobajinska as the Swan Queen. The Hippodrome hosted the first official jazz gig in the United Kingdom, by the Original Dixieland Jazz Band, in 1919.

 

************Oxford bags were a loose-fitting baggy form of trousers favoured by members of the University of Oxford, especially undergraduates, in England from the mid-1920s to around the 1950s. The style had a more general influence outside the university, including in America, but has been somewhat out of fashion since then. It is sometimes said that the style originated from a ban in 1924 on the wearing of plus fours by Oxford (and Cambridge) undergraduates at lectures. The bagginess allegedly allowed plus fours to be hidden underneath – but the argument is undermined by the fact that the trousers (especially in the early years) were not sufficiently voluminous for this to be done with any success. The original trousers were 22–23 inches (56–58 cm) in circumference at the bottoms but became increasingly larger to 44 inches (110 cm) or more, possibly due to a misunderstanding of the measurement as the width rather than circumference.

 

*************Paul Poiret was a French fashion designer, a master couturier during the first two decades of the 20th century. He was the founder of his namesake haute couture house. Poiret established his own house in 1903. In his first years as an independent couturier, he broke with established conventions of dressmaking and subverted other ones. In 1903, he dismissed the petticoat, and later, in 1906, he did the same with the corset. Poiret made his name with his controversial kimono coat and similar, loose-fitting designs created specifically for an uncorseted, slim figure. Poiret designed flamboyant window displays and threw sensational parties to draw attention to his work. His instinct for marketing and branding was unmatched by any other Parisian designer, although the pioneering fashion shows of the British-based Lucile (Lady Lucy Duff Gordon) had already attracted tremendous publicity. In 1909, he was so famous, Margot Asquith, wife of British prime minister H. H. Asquith, invited him to show his designs at 10 Downing Street. The cheapest garment at the exhibition was thirty guineas, double the annual salary of a scullery maid. Jeanne Margaine-Lacroix presented wide-legged trousers for women in 1910, some months before Poiret, who took credit for being the first to introduce the style.

 

*************Beach pyjamas, which generally consisted of a pair of wide-legged trousers and a jacket of matching fabric, first gained popularity in the years immediately following the Great War, with evidence pointing to the early 1920s, specifically at European seaside resorts like Deauville in France. It is thought that French fashion designer, Coco Chanel, was also an early proponent of this style.

 

**************Deauville is a seaside resort on the Côte Fleurie of France’s Normandy region. An upper-class holiday destination since the 1800s, it’s known for its grand casino, golf courses, horse races and American Film Festival. Its wide, sandy beach is backed by Les Planches, a 1920s boardwalk with bathing cabins. The town has chic boutiques, elegant belle epoque villas and half-timbered buildings. As the closest seaside resort to Paris, Deauville is one of the most notable seaside resorts in France. The city and its region of the Côte Fleurie (Flowery Coast) have long been home to the French upper class's seaside houses and is often referred to as the Parisian Riviera.

 

***************Bognor Regis, also known as Bognor, is a town and seaside resort in West Sussex on the south coast of England, fifty-six miles south-west of London, twenty-four miles west of Brighton, six miles south-east of Chichester and sixteen miles east of Portsmouth. A seaside resort was developed by Sir Richard Hotham in the late Eighteenth Century on what was a sand and gravel, undeveloped coastline. It has been claimed that Hotham and his new resort are portrayed in Jane Austen's unfinished novel ‘Sanditon’. The resort grew slowly in the first half of the Nineteenth Century but grew rapidly following the coming of the railway in 1864.

 

This 1920s upper-class domestic scene is different to what you may think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures including items from my own childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

 

Lettice’s tea set sitting on the coffee table is a beautiful artisan set featuring a rather avant-garde Art Deco Royal Doulton design from the Edwardian era. The very realistic looking chocolate sponge cake topped with creamy icing and strawberries has been made from polymer clay and was made by Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The green tinged bowl behind the tea set is made of glass and has been made by hand by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. Made by the Little Green Workshop who specialise in high-end artisan miniatures, the black leather diary with the silver clasp is actually bound and has pages inside. The silver pen with the pearl end is also from the Little Green Workshop.

 

The black Bakelite and silver telephone is a 1:12 miniature of a model introduced around 1919. It is two centimetres wide and two centimetres high. The receiver can be removed from the cradle, and the curling chord does stretch out. The vase of yellow tiger lilies and daisies on the Art Deco occasional table is beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium. The vase of roses and lilies in the tall white vase on the table to the right of the photo was also made by hand, by Falcon Miniatures who are renowned for their realistic 1:12 size miniatures.

 

Lettice’s drawing room is furnished with beautiful J.B.M. miniatures. The black japanned wooden chair is a Chippendale design and has been upholstered with modern and stylish Art Deco fabric. The mirror backed back japanned china cabinet is Chippendale too. On its glass shelves sit pieces of miniature Limoges porcelain including jugs, teacups and saucers, many of which I have had since I was a child.

 

To the left of the Chippendale chair stands a blanc de chine Chinese porcelain vase, and next to it, a Chinese screen. The Chinese folding screen I bought at an antiques and junk market when I was about ten. I was with my grandparents and a friend of the family and their three children, who were around my age. They all bought toys to bring home and play with, and I bought a Chinese folding screen to add to my miniatures collection in my curio cabinet at home! It shows you what a unique child I was.

 

The painting in the gilt frame is made by Amber’s Miniatures in America. The carpet beneath the furniture is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug. The geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

Done