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Application of Starnet++ v2.0 elucidated detail of emissions.
Equipment: Takahashi FSQ-130ED, F3 Reducer 0.6x, IDAS NB12 Dual Narrowband Filter, and EOS R-SP4II, modified by Seo San on ZWO AM5n Equatorial Mount, autoguided with Fujinon 1:2.8/75mm C-Mount Lens, Pentax x2 Extender, ZWO ASI 174MM-mini, and PHD2 Guiding
Exposure: 15 times x 600 seconds, 7 x 240 sec, and 7 x 60 seconds at ISO 6,400 and f/3.0, focal length 390mm
site: 2,560m above sea level at lat. 24 23 21 South and long. 70 12 01 West near the peak of Cerro Ventarrones Chile
Ambient temperature was 11 degrees Celsius or 52 degrees Fahrenheit. Wind was mild, and guide error RMS was 0.73". Sky was dark, and SQML was 21.77 at the night.
Excerpt from rbg.ca:
Morphecore Prototype by Daito Manabe
b. 1976, Japan
Lives and works in Tokyo, Japan
Daito Manabe’s work presents an endlessly dancing digital figure, continuously morphing into new shapes, moving beyond any logic of physics or laws of the universe. Extracted from MRI scans of the artist’s brain, raw brainwave data is translated into digital movement that manipulates and choreographs Manabe’s 3D-scanned human body, alongside visual noises and glitches generated by distracting thoughts in the brain. The work thus presents a new potential relation between the brain and the body, emphasizing the ability of the mind to move into the infinite, while the body is still bound to physical limitations of motion, gravity, volume, shape, and form.
Daito Manabe is an artist, programmer, and DJ. His works branch into a variety of fields and take a new approach to everyday materials and phenomena. His practice is informed by careful observation and a quest to discover and elucidate the essential potentialities inherent to the human body, data, programming, computers, and other phenomena, thus probing the interrelations and boundaries delineating the analog and the digital, the real and the virtual.
Note: Measured Color Temperature- 5,020°K, but 5,000°K set in-camera and 5,020°K set is Photoshop, because Adobe bullshit software does not recognize, Nikon camera setting data for Color Temperature.
Final Note: This is stitched in Photoshop with Cyindrical Layout and Vignette removal selected, which is more correct than the bowtie version, with its built-in distortion. As you can see from this version, the sky and foreground will not be cropped out, as much as it would be with the elongated bowtie version. The slight stairstepping is probably due to the central crosshairs of the Type E Focusing Screen above the natural horizon or a very slight L/R tilt though I used a Manfrotto 438 Ball Levelling Head. Shit happens. But, this is a superior result to handheld or merely mounting a camera onto a tripod and panning.
A thorough step-by-step explanation of how I created the above panorama can be found on my website-
cassidyphotography.net/my-elucidation/
A gentle reminder about copyright and intellectual property-
Ⓒ Cassidy Photography (All images in this Flickr portfolio)
For Our Daily Challenge topic - 'The Big Question'
Much warm thanks to my Flickr contact, The Hills Are Alive, for introducing me to the heart, mind and writing of Sister Wendy. This book is elucidating big questions for me as I study for my course in chaplaincy.
This is my 305th image to make it to Explore. Thank you everyone for your support.
---Has not yet frosted but the foliage is changing. I suppose even 8th graders in primitive Kansas knew why this happened:
---The author [Avis Carlson] talks of the evening in 1907 when she received the 8th-grade diploma from a small-town school in Kansas, USA. She was 11 years, 8 months of age...The piece speaks for itself.... please read. And this was in a one room 16/36 school representing 8-grades in one room taught by one teacher....!
---‘At that point in the history of Kansas education, the county superintendents had a rite known as County Eighth Grade Examinations... Recently I ran onto the questions which qualified me for my 8th grade diploma. The questions on that examination in that primitive, one-room school taught by a person who never attended high school positively daze me.
---‘The orthography quiz.. asked us to spell 20 words, including abbreviated, obscene, elucidation, assassination and animosity. We were also required to make a table showing the different sounds of all the vowels. Among the other 8 questions was one which asked us to divide into syllables and mark diacritically the words profuse, retrieve, rigidity, defiance, priority, remittance, and propagate.
---‘Two of arithmetic’s 10 questions asked us to find the interest on an 8% note for $900 running 2-years, 2-months, and six days and also to reduce 3 pecks, 5 quarts, and 1 pint to bushels.
---‘In reading, we were required to tell what we know of the writings of Thomas Jefferson, and for another of the 10 questions to indicate the pronunciation and give the meanings of the following words: zenith, deviated, Coliseum, misconception, panegyric, Spartan, talisman, eerie, triton, crypt...
---‘In grammar’s 10 were two directing us to analyze and diagram: There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune'. [from Shakespeare]
--> Source: excerpted from, Small World Long Gone, by Avis Carlson.
I love the way the light falls upon their two bodies. The feminine shape, the curves, the elucidation of their bodies features that provide that lure of softness yet strength.
Ian as Kirito from "Sword Art Online" dual wielding the "Elucidator" and the "Dark Repulsor" swords. Costume photo shoot post Halloween
The Great Horned Owl is one of the America's largest and most common owls. That being said, my first encounter with one of these regal bird was only a few years ago. This encounter was special, however. We first noted him sitting atop a telephone pole near the banks of Kissimmee Lake. We decided to play a few calls and within minutes he swooped down to a nearby fencepost very close to me. Having once had a barred owl answer my call, I wanted to see if I could elucidate a similar response. Using a similar cadence of three short hoots followed by two longer I was enthralled when he turned with his powerful legs and talons to face me directly and came closer. I hooted back and he, intrigued, came even closer. He leaned forward and belted out another series of hoots. Our exchange of hoots went on for what seemed like an eternity, with this magnificent bird eventually no more than about 10 feet from me, We stood toe to toe, our eyes locked while in conversation. What I would have given to know exactly what he was thinking. Eventually, he flew off. Despite his size and 4 foot wingspan his flight was as silent as the evening sun. The soft feathers of the Great Horned Owl endow them with the ability to fly without making much of any noise. It's a distinct advantage when chasing prey. This was an evening of silent flight and noisy avian conversation that I will remember fondly for a long time to come. #GreatHornedOwl #HandHeld600mm
From the same shoot as the first photo. I'm still lost for words after that wonderful show by nature last night. Taken just a few moment earlier.
S.
The Saint-Restitut parish church in the eponymous village (département of Drôme, southeastern France) is quite unique for a Romanesque church, as its nave is attached at its western end to a square, tall and massive Mediæval defense tower... but let’s begin with the dedication and this bizarre “Restitut” saint.
Restitut is, in fact, the blind-born Sidoine mentioned in the Gospel, the one who was miraculously healed by Christ. In memory of the recovery of his eyesight, he changed his name to Restitut: Restitutus est ei visus. After the death of Christ, Restitut traveled with the members of the Bethany family cast away from the Holy Land on a small boat without sail or oar, which came to shore at the Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer in southern France. The small group of disciples, which included Mary Magdalene, dispersed and Restitut headed North along the Rhône to settle and preach in the region which we call today the Drôme Provençale, and more specifically in the low mountains of the Tricastin. Even though, towards the end of his life, Restitut went to Italy where he died, his remains were brought back here.
Strangely and unusually enough, the square tower (which is very old: it was most likely built during the first half of the 11th century) was used as a repository for Restitut’s relics. It may even have been built for that very purpose, when such relics were repatriated from Italy. The fact is that, because of the relics, the village and the church became a noted place of pilgrimage radiating beyond the borders of Provence and the Rhône valley during all of the Middle Ages. The relics were burned and dispersed by the Protestants during the Wars of Religion.
In order to allow the pilgrims to come close to the relics which were kept at the lower level of the square tower, an opening was made into its eastern wall and the church nave, built during the 1100s, was thus attached to it. The entrance into the church was located on the southern side, where the village square was spacious enough for pilgrim circulation.
This photograph will allow us to elucidate the mystery of this very strange church. The decoration here is spectacular for a Romanesque parish church, even with relics: the enormous arc doubleau, slightly pointed, and beyond, the lower level of the square tower, which acts as a semi-crypt where Restitut’s relics were kept enshrined, and above it, the tribune. The sculpted frieze that runs around the four sides of the square tower is spectacular and a treasure of Romanesque art in Provence.
The point is, though, most of that spectacular decoration was behind the congregation, and therefore the faithful could not see it during Mass... unless we admit that the opposite wall of the tower had been open as well (it was clearly rebuilt in the late 1100s), and that a second apse existed to the extreme West of the monument! Double-apsed churches are not unknown; they were even quite the norm at some point and in some areas, and in the Tricastin, we have at least two remaining examples of them in nearby La Garde-Adhémar and Bourg-Saint-Andéol...
This very plausible theory is neatly explained in the Zodiaque book Provence romane I, pp. 123–134. I will build on it to explain the rest of the church in my following captions.
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 south of the Thames in the middle-class London suburb of Putney in the front room of a red brick Edwardian villa in Hazelwood Road, where Gerald has brought Lettice to visit his friend, Harriet Milford. The orphaned daughter of a solicitor with little formal education, Harriet has taken in lodgers to earn a living, but more importantly for Lettice, has taken up millinery semi-professionally to give her some pin money*. As Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, has forbidden Lettice to wear a shop bought hat to Leslie, Lettice’s brother’s, wedding in November and Lettice has quarrelled with her own milliner, Madame Gwendolyn, Gerald thought that Harriet might benefit as much from Lettice’s patronage as Lettice will by purchasing one of Harriet’s hats to resolve her fashion conundrum.
Lettice glances around the front parlour of the Putney villa, which doubles as Harriet’s sewing room and show room for her hats, with the critical eye of an interior designer, all the while listening to the notes of the oboe being played upstairs. The room’s middle-class chintzy décor immediately appals her as she takes in the floral covers of the flouncy Edwardian sofa on which she perches gingerly, and its matching roomy armchair by the fire, a hand embroidered pouffe and the busy Edwardian floral wallpaper. A bookcase stands in the corner, full of mystery novels covered in dust which Lettice suspects might have belonged to Harriet’s father, the deceased Mr. Milford. The bookcase’s top and the fireplace mantle are cluttered with family portraits taken in the possibly happier days of the idyllic summers before the Great War. The walls are hung with a mixture of cheap botanical prints and quaint English country scenes, all in gaudy gilded plaster frames. “How ghastly,” Lettice utters quietly with a sigh.
“I know: you hate the floral chintz,” Gerald says in reply to Lettice’s laconic observation. “You don’t need to tell me. The look of distaste on your face says it all. But you aren’t here to redecorate Lettuce Leaf, so be a darling and remember to mind your manners. You are a viscount’s daughter, after all, and Hattie is just a solicitor’s daughter. However, in spite of her low birth in comparison to your own, she is a good person, and she is my friend. Show some of your good breeding and be gracious.”
Lettice shoots Gerald an annoyed look at his use of her abhorred nickname yet again. “I’m beginning to question your choice of new friends – not that I even knew she existed prior to today.”
“Oh, there is a lot about me you don’t know, Lettice darling.” Gerald says with an air of mystery.
She glances around her again. “It’s awfully untidy in here.” she remarks not unjustly as she takes in the sight of a concertina sewing box on casters which stands cascaded open next to the armchair, threads, embroidery silks, buttons and ribbons pouring from its compartments like entrails. Hats in different stages of being made up and decorated lie about on the arm of the chair and the settee or on the floor in a haphazard way. The brightly patterned rug is littered with spools of cotton, scissors, ribbon, artificial flowers and dogeared copies of Weldon’s** magazines.
“Yes, well, Hattie hasn’t learnt the finer points of presentation yet,” Gerald admits. “But I’m working on that. However, suspend your judgement until you see what she can create for you.” Pointing to the three hats Lettice inspected a few minutes before sitting atop what must have formerly been a tea table, he adds, “You’ve already seen that her work really is every bit as good as Madame Gwendolyn’s.”
“Well, we shall see.” Lettice pronounces, withholding her judgement on Harriet’s work.
Just at that moment, Harriet’s scurrying footsteps across the tiled vestibule floor outside the door announce her arrival and she hurries through the door bearing a tray loaded with tea making implements and a plate of biscuits. “Be a lamb and bring over father’s chess table, will you Gerry darling.” she instructs Gerald.
Obediently Gerald gets up from his seat on the floral sofa next to Lettice, and with the familiarity of a regular houseguest, picks up a tilt table nestled on the far side of the fireplace. Tilting its surface into an upright position, Lettice momentarily sees the chess board set in marquetry on its surface before it is quickly obscured by an old fashioned Edwardian gilt banded tea set and the plate of biscuits as Gerald takes everything off Harriet’s tray.
“Thanks ever so!” Harriet sighs with relief before depositing the tray on the floor by the door, walking back across the room and around the table and then collapsing into the armchair with another deeper sigh.
“As an interior designer, Lettice has just been commenting on your décor, Hattie darling,” Gerald says to their hostess as he resumes his own seat.
“Gerald!” gasps Lettice, her face flushing at her friend’s frank admission.
“Oh I’m sorry it’s so untidy, Miss Chetwynd.” Harriet apologises as she snatches a rather tattered copy of Weldon’s* off the arm of her chair, shoving in behind her floral cushion, and tries to bundle her sewing bits back into the tray of her sewing box on casters. “Gerry has told me I need to improve the presentation of my premises, but having no domestic staff to speak of other than me, and trying to run a boarding house at the same time as make hats means I just don’t seem to have the time to tidy up in here.”
“Nor do I, Hattie darling,” Gerald scolds. “But that’s no excuse.”
Harriet blushes at her friend’s gentle rebuke.
“Shall I be mother then***?” Lettice asks. When Harriet nods in agreement, Lettice perches herself on the edge of the chintz sofa and sets out the tea things. “So,” she asks, pouring hot brackish tea into the first china cup. “You run a lodging house too?”
“Yes, for theatrical artistes.” Harriet explains proudly with a smile. “That’s Cyril playing his oboe upstairs,” She rolls her eyes up to the white plaster ceiling decorated with floral boiseries. “Although he is a professional actor as well as a musician in the West End.”
“Indeed,” muses Lettice.
“Although I do wish he’d play something other than Schumann or Mozart when we have guests.” mutters Harriet.
“Oh why, Miss Milford?” Lettice asks.
“Well, it’s not exactly the jolliest of music, is it?” Getting up again, Harriet walks over to the open doorway leading to the vestibule. Standing astride the threshold she calls up the stairs, “Do you think you could play something a bit jollier on the oboe, Cyril? We have guests. Gerry’s brought a friend. How about a nice bit of jazz?”
The music stops abruptly followed by a rather feminine sounding man’s fey voice opining from upstairs, “How can you, Hattie? I’m an artiste!” The last word is uttered dripping with melodrama. “Jazz music does not make one money.”
“Really? Then explain to me how the Savoy Havana Band**** make a living, Cyril? Please? Do it for Gerry, if not for me!”
“Oh, alright,” the fey voice bemoans. “But only because Gerry brought a chum.” The music recommences, only this time the opening bars to ‘The Sheik of Araby’***** fill the air.
“Hattie had a rather awkward situation with a retired colonel when she first started letting rooms.” Gerald says in a lowered tone as Harriet smiles at the change in music.
“Yes, the old chap couldn’t keep his hands to himself.” Harriet replies with a curt nod as she walks across the room and takes her place again. “Dirty old lecher was old enough to be my grandfather!”
“How awful, Miss Milford!” Lettice exclaims.
“I don’t find I have the same problem with men who are theatrical types, especially those from the chorus, those who paint the sets or work in the wardrobe department,” She smiles at Gerald, who smiles back. “If you understand my meaning, Miss Chetwynd” Harriet says with a wink, returning her attention to Lettice “I feel much safer around the likes of Cyril and his chums.”
“Indeed yes.” agrees Lettice, glancing between Gerald and Harriet, the pang of jealousy curdling her stomach as it did when she first saw Gerald and Harriet embrace in the way she thought only she and Gerald did.
“My father sent me to domestic science classes, so I’m quite a dab hand at plain cooking and keeping house when I get the chance, so my lodgers are happy.”
“Do try one of Harriet’s jam fancies, Lettice,” Gerald encourages, picking up one for himself from the blue and gilt banded sandwich plate, placing it on the edge of his saucer as he picks up his cup of tea. “They really are rather good.”
Lettice picks one up and takes a small bite, the biscuit dough melting in her mouth. “Very good, Miss Milford.” she enthuses. “Every bit as delicious as my maid’s baking.”
“Thank you, Miss Chetwynd.” Harriet replies with a proud smirk. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Considering that Lettice doesn’t know how to make a cup of tea, never mind bake a biscuit, I would.” Gerald remarks cheekily.
Ignoring his remark, Lettice asks, “So how is it that you came to make hats, Miss Milford? I was just admiring those hats on the table over there before you came in. They are beautifully made.”
Turning her head, Harriet gazes pleasingly at the three hats sitting on the table next to her sewing machine in the bay window. “Thank you, Miss Chetwynd. Well, my mother before she passed on taught me how to sew and embroider. She embroidered that.” Harriet indicates to the pouffe at Lettice’s feet with its green flounces and a rose stitched on its top. “I always enjoyed sewing and working with fabrics, so I thought I’d try my hand at making hats.”
“Harriet had to turn over her sewing room to Cyril when he came to board with her.” Gerald adds.
“How do you know where Cyril sleeps?” Lettice asks with mild shock, her face flushing with colour when Gerald clears his throat awkwardly and blushes bright red as a silent form of reply. “Oh… oh, I see.”
“The light is much better in here anyway,” Harriet quickly pipes up brightly in a chivalrous effort to prevent her friend any further embarrassment, a gesture that does not go unnoticed by both Gerald and Lettice who both admire her action. “The bay windows downstairs are much bigger than the oriel windows up under the roof. Besides it’s much easier for customers to step in here than trudge up three flights of stairs to the attic.”
“And your little enterprise has taken off, I believe Miss Milford.”
“I’ve been moderately successful, Miss Chetwynd.”
“You’ve been very successful, Hattie darling.” Gerald corrects her encouragingly.
“And what are you going to call your cottage industry, Miss Milford?” Lettice asks. “Not Hattie’s Hats, I hope.”
“Oh how drole you are, Miss Chetwynd,” laughs Harriet. “No. Well, I hadn’t actually thought what I should call my ‘little enterprise’, as you call it, Miss Chetwynd. Maybe you and Gerry can help me find the perfect name.” Clearing her throat, she carries on. “Which brings me to the reason why you are here. I believe that you are in need of a new hat, Miss Chetwynd.”
“So, Gerald has told you about me then, Miss Milford?”
“Well, yes, Gerry did tell me that you are both to attend your brother’s wedding at the end of November – a country wedding in Wiltshire I’ve been told – and he did tell me that you have fallen out with your former milliner, Madame Gwendolyn of Oxford Street. He also gave me some background to your family,” She leans forward in her seat, her demeanour suddenly going from a relaxed stance to a more professional and formal one. “However, I am also perfectly capable of doing my own research, Miss Chetwynd. I’ve often seen your picture in the society pages in the company of Gerry, Minnie and Charles Palmerston, Celia Bamford, Willie Chelmsford, Priscilla Kitson-Fahey and more recently, American department store heir Georgie Carter: your ‘Embassy Club Coterie’ I believe you call it. You are also acquainted with Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon****** who has been linked romantically with the Duke of York in the last year. I also saw you in Vogue twice this year: once at the wedding of Dickie and Margot Channon in January - Margot Channon née de Virre your best friend – and then again at the marriage of the Princess Royal******* in February.”
“My, you are well informed, Miss Milford!” remarks Lettice, unable to disguise how impressed she is at Harriet’s research.
“I also noticed, without Gerry needing to tell me,” Harriet glances momentarily at Gerald slyly scoffing another of her jam fancies before returning her attention quickly to Lettice. “That the rather fetching straw hat with silk and feather trim you wore to the Royal Wedding was a model bought from Selfridges.”
“Gerald!” Lettice exclaims, slapping him hard on the knee.
Sitting up and spluttering out bits of biscuit onto the floor in front of him he manages to utter between coughs, “I… I didn’t… tell… her.”
“It’s true,“ Harried elucidates. “Gerry didn’t need to. I make it my business to study fashion, and anyone with a keen eye who reads Selfridges advertisements would know that it is a French mode Mr. Selfridge paid to import from Paris. Pretty yes, but not unique. No doubt, after your falling out with Madame Gwendolyn you found yourself in a tight spot Miss Chetwynd, needing a new hat, but not one from her. Being one of hundreds of guests at the wedding, you could get away with a shop bought hat. As a significant event on the Wiltshire social calendar, I imagine that you need something a little more discerning to wear to your brother’s wedding, considering that there will be far fewer guests in attendance than there were at Westminster Abbey, and therefore more attention paid to you.”
“Please forgive me, Miss Milford,” Lettice smiles across at Harriet, suddenly sitting up straight and looking her hostess directly in the eye. “I must confess that I underestimated you. When Gerald brought me here, and when I first met you outside, I didn’t detect an ounce of your shrewdness.”
“My father may not have valued my further education, but I did learn a few tricks and traits from him before he died.”
“Bravo, Miss Milford.” Lettice’s eyes glisten with interest. “You have my full and undivided attention. What are you proposing?”
“I believe you are wearing lemon yellow to the wedding, with russet accents. Is that right, Gerry darling?” Still recovering his breath after choking on biscuit crumbs he can only nod in reply before coughing again. “Then considering the shape of your face and the colour and style of your hair, I would suggest a yellow dyed straw, small brimmed picture hat with lemon yellow muslin and perhaps some russet flowers or autumnal shaded imitation fruit.”
“Hmmm….” Lettice ponders Harriet’s suggestions with a downwards gaze, envisaging what the hat might look like, before looking up again. “Very well Miss Milford. Consider yourself engaged to make my hat for Leslie’s wedding.”
“Oh hoorah!” exclaims Harriet, clapping her hands in delight. “We can settle terms later.”
Just as Lettice is about to agree, a tall, slender and handsome young man with pale patrician skin and a mop of blonde curls walks through the parlour door, dressed in a set of tails with a square instrument box in his right hand. Unnoticed by the party sitting in the parlour, the oboe music had ceased a short while ago, and the player now stood before them.
“Well, I’m off up the West End, Hattie.” Cyril’s voice, still containing that fey quality, was instantly recognisable. Placing a kiss on Harriet’s proffered right cheek, Cyril turns and snatches up a biscuit off the tray on the table before leaning over to Gerald and placing a kiss squarely on his lips, causing Gerald and Lettice to both blush at the brazen expression of affection bestowed upon Gerald so openly by the young men. As if nothing could be more natural, the young musician spins on his heel and elegantly walks to the door. Pausing on the threshold he turns back to the trio and says dramatically, “Don’t wait up.” Then he looks intently at blushing Gerald and adds, “I’ll see you after the show, Gerry darling. Ta-ta!” And he disappears from view, his exit from the villa being heralded moments later by the opening and then slamming of the front door.
The room is suddenly plunged into quiet, broken only by the ticking of the floral china clock on the mantle and the chirp of birdsong in the bushes outside the parlour window, the silence even more evident by the lack of Cyril’s playing drifting from upstairs.
“Well, you were right, Gerald,” Lettice says breathily after a few moments.
“About Harriet?” he asks gingerly.
“Well yes,” she agrees. “But also, about the fact that there is so much about you I don’t know.” She smiles cheekily, breaking the nervous feeling in the room. “So, is Cyril the reason you have come to know Miss Milford, or did you come to know Cyril through Miss Milford?”
*Originating in Seventeenth Century England, the term pin money first meant “an allowance of money given by a husband to his wife for her personal expenditures. Married women, who typically lacked other sources of spending money, tended to view an allowance as something quite desirable. By the Twentieth Century, the term had come to mean a small sum of money, whether an allowance or earned, for spending on inessentials, separate and in addition to the housekeeping money a wife might have to spend.
**Created by British industrial chemist and journalist Walter Weldon Weldon’s Ladies’ Journal was the first ‘home weeklies’ magazine which supplied dressmaking patterns. Weldon’s Ladies’ Journal was first published in 1875 and continued until 1954 when it ceased publication.
***The meaning of the very British term “shall I be mother” is “shall I pour the tea?”
****The Savoy Havana Band was a British dance band of the 1920s. It was resident at the Savoy Hotel, London, between 1921 and 1927. Players in the band included future American crooner Rudy Vallée and British pianist and composer Billy Mayerl.
*****“The Sheik of Araby” is a song that was written in 1921 by Harry B. Smith and Francis Wheeler, with music by Ted Snyder. It was composed in response to the popularity of the Rudolph Valentino feature film The Sheik. "The Sheik of Araby" was a Tin Pan Alley hit, and was also adopted by early jazz bands, especially in New Orleans, making it a jazz standard.
******Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon as she was known in 1922 went on to become Queen of the United Kingdom and the Dominions from 1936 to 1952 as the wife of King George VI. Whilst still Duke of York, Prince Albert initially proposed to Elizabeth in 1921, but she turned him down, being "afraid never, never again to be free to think, speak and act as I feel I really ought to" She was one of Princess Mary’s eight bridesmaids at her 1922 wedding.
*******Mary, Princess Royal and Countess of Harewood (1897 – 1965), was the only daughter of King George V and Queen Mary. She was the sister of Kings Edward VIII and George VI, and aunt of Queen Elizabeth II. She married Viscount Lascelles on the 28th of February 1922 in a ceremony held at Westminster Abbey. The bride was only 24 years old, whilst the groom was 39. There is much conjecture that the marriage was an unhappy one, but their children dispute this and say it was a very happy marriage based upon mutual respect. The wedding was filmed by Pathé News and was the first royal wedding to be featured in fashion magazines, including Vogue.
This rather cluttered and chaotic scene of a drawing room cum workroom may look real to you, but believe it or not, it is made up entirely with pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection, including pieces from my childhood.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism such as these are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable. The natural yellow straw hat with white ribbon trim on the arm of the settee was made by an unknown artisan in the United Kingdom and was sold through Doreen Jeffrey’s Small Wonders miniatures shop. The red velvet hat covered with roses on the arm of the chair was made by an unknown British artisan. The two hats on the carpet were both acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House in the United Kingdom.
The copies of Weldon’s Dressmaker and the Lady’s World Fancy Work Book scattered about the room are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. The books on the bookshelf in the background are also made by 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. In this case, the magazines are non-opening, however what might amaze you is that all Ken Blythe’s 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. 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.
The concertina sewing box on casters which you can see spilling forth its contents is an artisan miniature made by an unknown artist in England. It comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the in the United Kingdom. All the box’s contents including spools of ribbons, threads scissors and buttons on cards came with the work box. The box can completely expand or contract, just like its life-sized equivalent.
The hand embroidered and home made cream and green pouffe, the black japanned fire screen, the black metal fire tools and the plant in the corner all also come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop.
Harriet’s family photos seen cluttering the mantlepiece and the bookshelf in the background are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frames are almost all from Melody Jane’s Dollhouse Suppliers in the United Kingdom and are made of metal with glass in each.
The porcelain clock on the mantlepiece is made by M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik in Germany, who specialise in making high quality porcelain miniatures. The pot of yellow and blue petunias on the mantlepiece has been hand made and painted by 1:12 miniature ceramicist Ann Dalton. The castle shaped cottage orneé (pastille burner) on the bookshelf has been hand made, painted and gilded by Welsh miniature ceramist Rachel Williams who has her own studio, V&R Miniatures, in Powys. The bowl decorated with fruit on the bookshelf was hand decorated by British artisan Rachael Maundy.
The spools of threads, the tape measure, the silver sewing scissors in the shape of a stork and the box of embroidery threads I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House in the United Kingdom.
The tilt chess table in the middle of the room I bought from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The Edwardian tea set and cake plate on its surface come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House in the United Kingdom, whilst the biscuits on the plate come from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.
The sewing basket that you can see just behind the straw hat sitting on the arm of the sofa I bought from a high street shop that specialised in dolls and doll house furnishings. It is an artisan miniature and contains pieces of embroidery and embroidery threads.
The floral chintz settee and chair and the Art Nouveau china cabinet are made by J.B.M. miniatures who specialise in well made pieces of miniature furniture made to exacting standards.
The sewing machine to the left of the photo, I bought from Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers in the United Kingdom. It is made with extreme attention to detail, complete with a painted black metal body, authentic sewing mechanisms and a worksurface “inlaid” with mother-of-pearl.
The Chinese carpet beneath the furniture is hand made by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney, Australia.
The Edwardian mantlepiece is made of moulded plaster and was acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House in the United Kingdom.
The bookshelf in the background comes from Babette’s Miniatures, who have been making miniature dolls’ furnishings since the late eighteenth century.
The paintings and prints on the walls all come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House in the United Kingdom.
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 not at Cavendish Mews. We have travelled east across London, through Bloomsbury, past the Smithfield Meat Markets, beyond the Petticoat Lane Markets* frequented by Lettice’s maid, Edith, through the East End boroughs of Bethnal Green and Bow, to the 1880s housing development of Upton Park. It is here that Frank’s closest and only surviving relation lives: his grandmother. As Edith and Frank’s relationship has deepened over the past few months, Frank has been anxious to introduce his sweetheart to his grandmother, but he has wanted to wait for the right moment to do so. And so, today is the day!
Getting out at Upton Park railway station, the pair exit the polychromatic red and brown brick Victorian railway station with its ornate finials and elegant quoining. Even though the day is grey and overcast, the glare of natural light after being in the London underground blinds them momentarily. Before them the busy high street shopping precinct of Green Street stretches in either direction to their left and right, the noisy thoroughfare chocked with a mixture of chugging motor cars, lorries and the occasional double decker electrical tram. Even horse drawn carts with placid plodding old work horses unperturbed by the belching of their mechanical usurpers join the melee of trundling traffic going in either direction. People bustle past them on the footpath, going about their Sunday business cheerily, many off to the nearby Queens Road Market.
Edith looks across the road to the ramshackle collection of two and three storey buildings constructed over two centuries. Their canvas awnings fluttering in the breeze help to advertise a haberdasher, a lamp shop, a chemist, a boot repairer, a grocers, an electric sanitary laundry and a bakery. She smiles at the banality of it all and sighs with relief. Having never been to Upton Park before, Edith didn’t quite know what to expect. As she stands on the pavement, she cannot help but feel nervous about meeting Frank’s grandmother, her stomach roiling with anxiety and tension. However, seeing the similarities between the Upton Park high street and her own home high street in Harlesden, Edith feels a little easier. Up until this moment, she has been worried that Frank’s grandmother might be far grander than she or her family. Even the fact that the area she lives in has a park in its name suggests grandeur, so the ordinariness of her surroundings gives her hope and eases her apprehension a little.
“Everything you need is right here.” Frank remarks as he notice’s his sweetheart’s keen eye taking in her surrounds. “All it really needs now is a cinema**. Come on.”
The pair cross the busy thoroughfare of Green Street, weaving their way through the traffic, and head west a short distance before turning down the elm tree lined Kings Road, which is flanked to either side with identical polychromatic cream and red brick two storey Victorian terraces with grey or painted stone dressings. As Edith peers at their façades over the top of their low brick fences, she notes that each house has a small bay with two windows downstairs and two upstairs, a recessed porch and front door with a window above that. As they walk underneath the elm trees, Edith notices the slight flutter of several sets of lace curtains in the downstairs windows as suburban London housewives, no doubt alerted to the pair’s approach by their footsteps on the concrete footpath, peer out from the comfort of their front rooms.
“So, back before the war and the Spanish Flu, it used to be five of us here in Kings Road.” Frank chatters brightly, the heightened false joviality indicating his own underlaying nervousness at this very important meeting between the two most important women in his life. “My Grandpop and Gran, Mum, Dad and me.”
“Is your Grandpop going to be there today too?” Edith asks, suddenly aware that there may be a person she has not considered in the equation of her visit. Frank has only ever talked about his grandmother and not a grandfather.
“Not unless we’re having tea in the West Ham Cemetery,” Frank replies, somewhat in alarm.
“Oh I’m sorry, Frank. You haven’t mentioned him before, so I assumed that… well…” She gulps guiltily.
“Don’t worry about it, Edith.” Frank reassures her, putting his arm comfortingly around her. “I think we’re probably both as nervous as each other about today.”
Edith sighs and allows herself to fall into Frank’s protective embrace and press against his side as they walk. The familiar scent of him: a mixture of soap and the grocery shop, is comforting to her and helps her to keep her mettle. She knows how important this meeting is, and she wants to impress upon Frank’s grandmother that she really does care for her grandson, as well as making Frank proud of her.
“Not that you have anything to worry about. You’re my girl, and I know Gran is going to love you. I bet she’s just as nervous as we are,” Frank goes on. “Not that she’d tell me so.”
They stop in front of a terrace behind a low brick wall just the same as all the others, its front door painted black and a small patch of lawn, devoid of any other vegetation filling the space between the street and the house.
“Well, here we are then.” Frank says, rubbing Edith’s arm consolingly. “Like I was saying before, before the war there were five of us here, but Grandpop died in 1912, and of course my parents went with the Spanish Flu, so it only left Gran and me, so the landlord divided the house. He said it was so Gran could stay because she was a good tenant, but I reckon he just wanted to make more money by turning upstairs into a second tenement.” He lets out a deep breath tinged with remorse. “Still, at least it did mean when I moved to live closer to work that Gran could manage on her own downstairs, and the neighbours upstairs are nice people who keep an eye on her.”
Frank releases Edith and grasps her forearms and looks her squarely in the face, admiring her beauty as she stands in her Sunday best plum frock, her three quarter length black coat and her cloche with the purple silk roses and black feathers. In an effort he knows is to impress his grandmother, her second-hand crocodile skin handbag hangs from the crook in her left arm. She nervously fiddles with the butchers paper wrapped around a bunch of yellow roses she bought as a gift for Frank’s grandmother from a florist outside Down Street Railway Station***.
“Come on then, Edith.” Frank says, bucking his sweetheart up. “Let’s get this over with.”
Walking through the unlocked front door, the pair find themselves in the black and white lino lined hallway of the terrace, with a flight of stairs leading upwards. The vestibule smells of a mixture of carbolic soap, boiled cabbage and fish. “Smells like Mrs. Claxton managed to get some fish for tea.” Frank observes.
The doorway that would have led into what was once the front room has been bricked up and paper pasted over it, however an original frosted and stained glass panelled doorway adjunct to the stairs which leads to the back of the ground floor of the terrace now serves as the downstairs tenement’s front door. Walking up to it, Frank knocks loudly and then calls out “It’s only me, Gran,” before opening it and walking in without waiting for an answer.
“Och! Is that you, my bairn?” a voice thick with a Scottish brogue calls as Frank eases Edith out of her coat and hangs it on a hook in the hallway alongside his own coat, scarf and hat.
“Yes Gran!” he replies. “And I’ve brought Edith with me.”
“Good! Good!” comes the reply.
“Wait Frank!” Edith gasps.
“What is it?” Frank queries.
“I… I don’t know what to call your grandmother. I can’t very well call her Gran, can I? That would be presumptuous of me.”
“Oh, that’s true.” Frank replies, cocking his head thoughtfully to one side. “Well, she’s my Mum’s mum, so she’s a McTavish. So best call her Mrs. McTavish, at least initially.” He gives her a reassuring wink before leading her further down the corridor and through a second frosted and stained glass door like the first and into a neat, cheerful and light filled kitchen.
Edith quickly assesses the room with flitting glances around her. The kitchen is bigger than her parents’ one in Harlesden, but similarly to theirs, the room is dominated by a big black coal consuming range and features a dresser that is stuffed with all manner of mismatched decorative china and a panoply of cooking items. The walls are covered with cream coloured wallpaper featuring dainty floral sprigs. Several framed embroideries hang around the room and a cuckoo clock ticks contentedly to the left of the range. A rug covers the flagstone floor before the hearth. A round table covered in a pretty lace tablecloth has several mismatched chairs and stools drawn up to it. On the table itself stands a healthy looking aspidistra which obviously benefits from the sun as it filters through the lace curtains at the large kitchen window. Just like her mother’s table when guests come to call, a selection of decorative blue and white crockery has been set out, ready for use. A shop bought Dundee Cake****, still with its ornamental Scottish tartan ribbon wrapped around it, sits on a plate, whilst a biscuit tin and a cannister of tea stand next to it. A sewing work table with a sagging floral bag for storage beneath it stands open, its compartments filled with needles, thread, wool, buttons and everything a sewer and knitter needs. And there, in a very old and worn brown leather wingback chair sits Frank’s Scottish grandmother, Mrs. McTavish.
“Och, there you are, Francis my boy!” the old woman says with a growling enunciation of the letter r as she reaches up and grasps her grandson’s face in her hands, drawing him down for a puckered kiss on the lips.
“Oh Gran!” Frank gasps with embarrassment.
“What? Too big to be kissed by your old Gran, Francis?” she asks, the wrinkles and folds in her weathered and old face deepening in concern as she looks up into his fresh and youthful one.
“Francis?” Edith queries with surprise.
“I thought we had this discussion, Gran!” Frank protests. “I’m Frank, not Francis.”
“Och! Nonsense!” the old Scottish woman says sharply, slapping her grandson’s forearm lightly. “You’ll always be Francis to me, my little bairn!”
“Francis?” Edith repeats, unable to prevent a smile spreading across her face as she hears Frank’s real name for the first time.
“Now don’t you start.” Frank says warningly to his sweetheart, wagging a finger admonishingly at his grandmother at the same time, who smiles cheekily. “No-one will take me seriously if I’m Francis, so I’m Frank.”
“If you say so, Francis,” Mrs. McTavish replies, using his real name again, much to his irritation. Turning her attention to the stranger in the room, she addresses Edith, “And you must be Edith.” She smiles broadly, showing a set of slightly crooked and tea stained teeth. “How do you do, dearie.”
“How do you do, Mrs. McTavish.” Edith replies, smiling politely in return as she stands in the middle of the room. Frank tries to indicate something with his eyes, and remembering that she is holding the yellow roses that she bought, she presents them to the Scottish woman in the chair. “These are for you.”
“Och! How kind dearie!” she replies, taking them into her worn and gnarled hands which Edith notes as she passes them over, have rather long and elegant fingers. “I do so love flowers, and roses are a real treat. Thank you. They’ll brighten up the table. Will you Fr…”
“Gran!” Frank warns.
“Will you put them in some water, as-he-likes-to-be-known-now, Frank?”
“You are incorrigible, Gran!” Frank exclaims in exasperation, snatching the roses from his grandmother’s outstretched hands. He takes them over to the small trough sink underneath the window and finding a glass vase on the grooved wooden draining board, fills it with water and starts unwrapping the roses from their butchers paper housing.
“I bet he didn’t tell you his name was Francis, did he, dearie?” Mrs. McTavish asks Edith, indicating for Edith to take a seat in the Windsor chair, not too unlike her own at Cavendish Mews, that has been drawn up to the range.
“No, he didn’t.” Edith replies, inhaling the smell or carbolic soap which has obviously also been used in the neat kitchen. She also picks up the smell of coal dust and fried or baked potatoes coming from the range.
“Well you can hardly blame me, can you?” Frank calls from the sink. “Francis is a girl’s name, not a boy’s.”
“Nonsense bairn!” Mrs. McTavish says again. “What about Francis Drake the great Elizabethan explorer? Hhmm?”
“We don’t live in Elizabethan times, Gran.” Frank replies, putting the vase of roses on the table. He places a comforting hand on Edith’s shoulder before taking a seat in the high backed Windsor chair on the opposite side of the table to Edith.
“So, dearie,” Mrs. McTavish begins. “Frank,” She emphasises his preferred choice of name. “Has told me a bit about you, but he didn’t tell me whether you prefer to be called Eadie or Edith. What shall I call you?”
“Oh Edith is fine. No-one calls me Eadie.”
“Very good. So Edith, Frank tells me that he met you through delivering for the grocers that he works for up in the West End. Is that right?”
“Well yes,” Edith replies, prepared and yet at the same time not quite expecting the interrogation to start quite so soon after her arrival. “I work as a maid for the daughter of a viscount and Willisons is our local grocer.”
“And you’ve been a domestic since?”
“Since I was fourteen, Mrs. McTavish.”
The old woman nods and smiles pleasantly. “And you’re how old now, Edith?”
“She’s twenty-two.” Frank pipes up.
“Thank you, Francis,” the old woman addresses her grandson with wide eyes, this time deliberately using his proper name. “I was addressing Edith, not you. And were your parents in service too, dearie?”
“No.” Edith replies. “Well, my mother works as a laundress to bring in a little extra money, but my father works for McVitie and Price in Harlesden.”
“He received a promotion last year, to line manager.” Frank pipes up again.
“Och!” the old woman exclaims. “I’m addressing Edith, not you, bairn! Stop being a nuisance and interrupting. Make yourself useful and make us some tea, will you.” She points to a pretty blue floral teapot sitting in the shadows on a shelf at the side of the range over a small oven. “We can’t go having Dundee cake without tea, now can we?” she asks rhetorically.
Frank picks himself up out of his chair and walks around the table, reaching behind Edith to grab the teapot which he takes to the table. “Have you been cooking rumbledethumps*****, Gran?” he asks as he catches the same whiff of potatoes that Edith had smelt whilst sitting by the hearth.
“I have, bairn. I’ll give you some to take home to your landlady to heat up for you for your tea. That Mrs. Chapman could serve you a decent dish of rumbledethumps or two. You’re as skinny as a rake.” she observes before continuing her conversation with Edith. “And you were born in Harlesden then, Edith?”
“I was, Mrs. McTavish. So were both my parents. They met through a church picnic as they went to the same parish.”
“And what do you and my Fran… k, do, when you go out together?”
“I told you, Gran!” Frank mutters as he puts a third heaped teaspoon of tea from the red enamel and brass tea caddy into the pot. “We go dancing at the Hammersmith Palais****** and to the Premier in East Ham******* to catch a moving picture. I told you!”
“Och! Don’t keep interrupting, Francis!” the old Scottish woman exclaims, reverting back to his proper name yet again, this time in exasperation as she scolds Frank like a little boy. “And don’t forget to add an extra spoon for the pot********! And don’t stir that pot with the handle********* once the tea is made, or it will be nothing but strive for you!”
“No Gran!” Frank mutters in reply with slumped shoulders.
“We go to Hyde or Regent’s Park sometimes,” Edith adds hopefully, embroidering on Frank’s admission to their pursuits on their days off. “And listen to the band play under the rotunda, or visit the speakers********** and listen…”
“If they have anything decent to say.” Frank adds as he takes up the large brass kettle from the hob, only to find it nearly empty. He grumbles to himself as he goes and fills it at the tap.
“And sometimes we go to Lyon’s Corner House*********** in Piccadilly for tea, and sometimes we don’t go anywhere. We just sit in my kitchen at Cavendish Mews and take tea there.”
“Och! Doesn’t your mistress mind?”
“Miss Lettice is quite liberal and kind in that way, Mrs. McTavish,” Edith assures her. “But we usually only have tea in the kitchen on my days off if I know Miss Lettice isn’t going to be home. I don’t like to impose, nor abuse her kindness and generosity.”
“That’s very wise.” the old Scotswoman acknowledges.
“Oh Gran!” Frank groans loudly.
“What is it now, bairn?” she asks, bristling with mild irritation at her grandson’s constant interruptions.
“You’ve nearly let the range go out!” He investigates the canal ware************ coal scuttle and sees that it is nearly empty. “And there’s no coal.”
“Och, here!” With a groan she heaves herself out of her comfortable seat with the Scottish tartan blanket behind her head and reaches up under the ornamental fringe hanging from the mantle above the range and hands her grandson a small key. “Go and fill it up for me. There’s a good lad!” She smiles brightly and runs her hand lovingly along his cheek before patting it.
“You’ve been locking the coal store in the cellar?” he queries.
“There have been a few instances of coal theft in the neighbourhood lately.” Mrs. McTavish elucidates with a nod as she lowers herself back into her seat.
Muttering to himself, Frank leaves the two ladies alone in the kitchen. They both fall silent as they listen to his shuffling footsteps as he lugs the scuttle awkwardly out of the back door and heads for the coal cellar entrance.
“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” Edith asks knowingly after taking a few measured breaths upon the closure of the back door. “You knew the scuttle was empty and you let the fire die down.”
“I did, bairn.” Mrs, McTavish admits with a sigh. “And I used Francis’ real name because I knew he would ne have told you it. You’re a canny and clever wee lass aren’t you?” Her eyebrows arch over her glittering dark brown eyes. “I know, I’m a bit of a cheeky one, even at my age. I love Francis very much. He is, after all, my only real close family now with my daughter and son-in-law being gone these last few years.” she goes on. “But he’s so anxious that you and I should get along that he’ll do anything, say anything, to gild the lily about anything you are, say or do. I want to know the truth, without his interruptions and insistences.”
“Well, I hope I will please you, and that we will get along, Mrs. McTavish.” Edith leans across the space between them and grasps the older woman’s bony left hand as it rests on the arm of her chair with her right hand. “It is my fondest wish that we should. I only want to make Frank happy, I assure you.”
The old woman places her right hand over Edith’s and pats it gently, the worn and cool flesh of her palm sending a spark of energy though the younger woman. “I’m sure, dearie. And from what Francis has told me, and what you’ve shown so far whilst you’ve been here, I can tell you’re a nice lass, not racy or rude like some he’s met on his rounds.”
“No,” Edith muses, retreating and sitting back to her seat as she remembers meeting Vi at the Premier Cinema in East Ham just before Christmas. “No, I’m not at all racy, and I was raised to mind my manners. In fact I’m quite old fashioned and conservative, really.” She chuckles half to herself. “Or so Miss Lettice says.”
“Old fashioned and conservative isn’t always bad, dearie.” Mrs. McTavish answers as she snuggles back into the woolly warmth of the red, green and yellow blanket draped across the top of her chair. “So tell me, Edith, whilst my best lad is out of the room, what is it that drew you to him? He tells me that you sort of stumbled into courtship, or whatever it is you young people call it now. What is it about my Francis that you like so well?”
“Well, “ Edith thinks. “I suppose it’s because he is a bit old fashioned and conservative too. I like that he wants to do things correctly. He’s kind and thoughtful too, and I like that he is trying to better himself in little ways. I suppose I am too, in my own way.” Edith pauses before continuing. “I must confess that I do enjoy reading romance novels, Mrs. McTavish, but I’m under no illusions that Frank should sweep me off my feet with declarations of love or grand gestures of emotion. He told me just before Christmas when he took me out to the pictures, that he wishes that he could afford to buy me a brooch as a token of his affection, but I really don’t need it. He does little things for me, like pay for a deckchair when we go to Hyde Park, or gives me a box of chocolates now and then, and that’s more than enough for me.” She smiles. “We rub along well together, and I think we’re well suited, Mrs. McTavish. I love him and he loves me.”
“And what would you do, dearie, if Francis told you that he was going to do something that you did ne agree with?”
“Oh, I’m sure Frank wouldn’t do that, Mrs. McTavish. Like I said, he’s kind and gentlemanly.”
“Yes, but what if he did?”
“Like what?”
“Well,” she thinks. “What if he decided to follow those Communists or Bolshevists or whoever it was killed the Russian Czar and created anarchy there?”
“Oh, he’s not a communist, Mrs. McTavish!” Edith assures her.
“Yes, I know he isn’t, dearie,” she answers patiently. “But what would you say to him if he were?”
“Well, “ Edith ponders. “I suppose I’d tell him that I thought it was a bad idea, and why. I’ve found you have to reason with Frank.”
The old woman sighs and Edith can see her body relax within the confines of her old fashioned high necked Edwardian print dress. “Well that’s all I need to know, Edith.” She raises a hand to her chest and starts massaging it comfortingly. “I won’t always be around, and to know my Francis has met a nice girl who will help love and support him, and reason with him if he looks like he might get himself into trouble makes me very relieved.”
Edith wonders if she has just passed Mrs. McTavish’s test. Suddenly all the anxiety and fear that had been roiling around in Edith’s stomach starts to disperse.
“Did you make the fringe above the fireplace, Mrs. McTavish?” Edith asks, pointing to the beautifully embroidered floral scallops of duck egg blue and tan.
“I did my dear, and the tablecloth too.” She points proudly to the snowy white cloth on the table. “My clan comes from Perthshire, and I make bobbin lace – a skill which I learned from my mother, and my mother learned from hers.” She reaches to a small black pillow covered in dangling wooden bobbins sitting on an old pedestal table next to her. Edith stands up and steps over, crouching before the Scotswoman as she places the pillow in her lap and begins moving the bobbins deftly beneath her elegant fingers, creating a little bit more lace. “Snowflaking************* goes back in my family for as long as anyone can tell.” She indicates to a basket in front of her sewing table.
Edith follows her hand and sees a froth of beautiful white lace sticking out from it. With careful reverence she reaches into the basket and touches the rolls of lace, lace doilies and lace trimmed pillowcases inside.
“My mother does a little bit of lacework, Mrs. McTavish, but nothing like this.”
“Well, I make lace for some of those dressmakers who make the fancy frocks for the likes of your mistress up the West End.”
“Miss Lettice has a friend who makes frocks, Mrs. McTavish.” Edith remarks. “Maybe you make lace for him.”
“Maybe I do, dearie.”
A loud thud, followed by the bang of the back door and a few more smaller thuds indicate that Frank has returned from the coal cellar. Huffing he groans as he dumps the large canal ware scuttle full of crumbling black coal onto the hearth tiles. “You…” he puffs. “You didn’t need… to give me the key… Gran. The box was… unlocked.”
“Oh? Was it, bairn?” Mrs. McTavish asks, her eyes glistening cheekily as she looks to Edith. “Well, there you go. Must have forgotten to lock it last time I was down there.”
“Well,” Frank replies. “Luckily… no-one broke in… and stole your coal, Gran. And I’ve… locked it up for you… so it’s… safe as houses************** now.” He replaces the key back on the little hook beneath the fireplace fringe, and looks down at his sweetheart and his grandmother. He pauses for a moment to catch his breath before asking, “So, how are my two best girls getting on, then?”
“I think we’re getting along just fine, Francis.” Edith says with a cheeky smile.
*Petticoat Lane Market is a fashion and clothing market in Spitalfields, London. It consists of two adjacent street markets. Wentworth Street Market and Middlesex Street Market. Originally populated by Huguenots fleeing persecution in France, Spitalfields became a center for weaving, embroidery and dying. From 1882, a wave of Jewish immigrants fleeing persecution in eastern Europe settled in the area and Spitalfields then became the true heart of the clothing manufacturing district of London. 'The Lane' was always renowned for the 'patter' and showmanship of the market traders. It was also known for being a haven for the unsavoury characters of London’s underworld and was rife with prostitutes during the late Victorian era. Unpopular with the authorities, as it was largely unregulated and in some sense illegal, as recently as the 1930s, police cars and fire engines were driven down ‘The Lane’, with alarm bells ringing, to disrupt the market.
**It was not until five years after this story that the Carlton Cinema on Green Street opened its doors on the 29th of October, 1928 with the Fritz Lang film “The Spy” (Spione) starring Willy Fritsch. The Carlton Cinema was a project of exhibitors Clavering and Rose who employed noted cinema architect George Coles to convert the old St. George’s Industrial School building into the auditorium of the new cinema. The outer walls, now with original windows and doors bricked up were retained and a splendid new facade in an Egyptian style was built on Green Street. It was faced in multi-coloured tiles manufactured by the Hathern Station Brick and Terra Cotta Company similar to the George Coles designed Egyptian style Carlton Cinema, Islington. Inside the entrance led to a long connecting corridor which contained a cafe, and through this into the auditorium, which was set well back from and parallel to Green Street. Inside the auditorium, seating was provided for 2,117 in a semi-stadium plan, (a raised area at the rear, but with no overhanging balcony).
***Down Street, also known as Down Street (Mayfair), is a disused station on the London Underground, located in Mayfair. The Great Northern, Piccadilly and Brompton Railway opened it in 1907. It was latterly served by the Piccadilly line and was situated between Dover Street (now named Green Park) and Hyde Park Corner stations. The station was little used; many trains passed through without stopping. Lack of patronage and proximity to other stations led to its closure in 1932. During the Second World War it was used as a bunker by the Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, and the war cabinet. The station building survives and is close to Down Street's junction with Piccadilly. Part of it is now converted to a retail outlet.
****Dundee Cake has strong association to the geographical area through the marmalade makers Keillers of Dundee. Keillers used their surplus orange peel from their marmalade production to create the Dundee Cake. The cake was made as a rich buttery sultana cake flavoured with orange peel and almonds. Some Scottish bakers decided they didn't like glazed cherries in their fruit cakes (usually a staple in most fruitcakes) and so they baked a cake with blanched almonds instead.
*****Rumbledethumps is a dish that is popular in the Scottish border regions and is perfect for using up leftover mashed potatoes and excess vegetables. Often referred to as the Scottish version of bubble ‘n squeak, rumbledethumps recipes usually contain turnip and cabbage, but really any vegetable leftovers could be used. The vegetable mixture is topped with cheese and then baked until bubbling. The dish can be made the day before and heated up and whilst it can be eaten on its own, makes a nice accompaniment for a hearty stew.
******The Hammersmith Palais de Danse, in its last years simply named Hammersmith Palais, was a dance hall and entertainment venue in Hammersmith, London, England that operated from 1919 until 2007. It was the first palais de danse to be built in Britain.
*******The Premier Super Cinema in East Ham was opened on the 12th of March, 1921, replacing the 800 seat capacity 1912 Premier Electric Theatre. The new cinema could seat 2,408 patrons. The Premier Super Cinema was taken over by Provincial Cinematograph Theatres who were taken over by Gaumont British in February 1929. It was renamed the Gaumont from 21st April 1952. The Gaumont was closed by the Rank Organisation on 6th April 1963. After that it became a bingo hall and remained so until 2005. Despite attempts to have it listed as a historic building due to its relatively intact 1921 interior, the Gaumont was demolished in 2009.
********The traditional measurement when making that we give is one teaspoon per person, and one extra spoon for the pot. Although not confirmed by anyone else, my Grandmother always told me the one spoon of tea leaves per person rule is based on the assumption that in polite society, a sitter only ever drinks one cup from the pot, before the pot requires replenishment. The tea weakens after its first use, but by adding an extra spoonful of tea leaves, when replenished for a second time, the tea should still be strong and flavoursome enough for the enjoyment of the sitters.
*********A Scottish superstition states that it is considered bad luck to stir tea with anything other than a spoon, as the handle of a fork or spoon is said to stir up trouble for the improper stirrer.
**********A Speakers' Corner is an area where open-air public speaking, debate, and discussion are allowed. The original and best known is in the northeast corner of Hyde Park in London. Historically there were a number of other areas designated as Speakers' Corners in other parks in London, such as Lincoln's Inn Fields, Finsbury Park, Clapham Common, Kennington Park, and Victoria Park. Areas for Speakers' Corners have been established in other countries and elsewhere in Britain. Speakers here may talk on any subject, as long as the police consider their speeches lawful, although this right is not restricted to Speakers' Corner only. Contrary to popular belief, there is no immunity from the law, nor are any subjects proscribed, but in practice the police intervene only when they receive a complaint.
***********J. Lyons and Co. was a British restaurant chain, food manufacturing, and hotel conglomerate founded in 1884 by Joseph Lyons and his brothers in law, Isidore and Montague Gluckstein. Lyons’ first teashop opened in Piccadilly in 1894, and from 1909 they developed into a chain of teashops, with the firm becoming a staple of the High Street in the United Kingdom. At its peak the chain numbered around two hundred cafes. The teashops provided for tea and coffee, with food choices consisting of hot dishes and sweets, cold dishes and sweets, and buns, cakes and rolls. Lyons' Corner Houses, which first appeared in 1909 and remained until 1977, were noted for their Art Deco style. Situated on or near the corners of Coventry Street, Strand and Tottenham Court Road, they and the Maison Lyonses at Marble Arch and in Shaftesbury Avenue were large buildings on four or five floors, the ground floor of which was a food hall with counters for delicatessen, sweets and chocolates, cakes, fruit, flowers and other products. In addition, they possessed hairdressing salons, telephone booths, theatre booking agencies and at one period a twice-a-day food delivery service. On the other floors were several restaurants, each with a different theme and all with their own musicians. For a time, the Corner Houses were open twenty-four hours a day, and at their peak each branch employed around four hundred staff including their famous waitresses, commonly known as Nippies for the way they nipped in and out between the tables taking orders and serving meals. The tea houses featured window displays, and, in the post-war period, the Corner Houses were smarter and grander than the local tea shops. Between 1896 and 1965 Lyons owned the Trocadero, which was similar in size and style to the Corner Houses.
************Narrow boat painting, or canal art is a traditional British folk art. This highly decorative folk art once adorned the working narrow boats of the inland waterways of Britain. Canal ware, barge ware, or gift ware, are used to describe decorated trinkets, and household items, rather than the decorated narrow boats.
*************Lace made by hand using bobbins is properly called bobbin lace, but colloquially it is known as snowflaking, Depression lace, or chickenscratch, indicating that it was a way to make something out of nearly nothing.
**************John Hotten argued in his Slang Dictionary of 1859 that “safe as houses” may have arisen when the intense speculation on railways in Britain — the railway mania — began to be seen for the highly risky endeavour that it really was and when bricks and mortar became more financially attractive.
A cosy kitchen this may be, but it is not quite what it seems, for it is made up entirely of pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
Dominating the room is the large kitchen range which is a 1:12 miniature replica of the coal fed Phoenix Kitchen Range. A mid-Victorian model, it has hinged opening doors, hanging bars above the stove and a little bass hot water tap (used in the days before plumbed hot water). The fringing hanging from the mantle is actually a beautiful scalloped ribbon that was given to me at Christmas time by a very close friend of mine.
Mrs. McTavish’s intentionally worn leather wingback chair and the sewing table are both 1:12 artisan miniatures. The inside of the sewing table is particularly well made and detailed with a removable tray made up of multiple compartments. Beneath it, the floral fabric lines the underside and opens up into a central bag. Both pieces come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom. The top comparts are full of sewing items which also came from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop and various online specialists on E-Bay. The tartan rug draped over the back of the chair I have had since I was about six. It came with a blanket rocker miniature I was given for my sixth birthday.
The sewing basket that you can see on the floor beneath the sewing table I bought from a high street shop that specialised in dolls and doll house furnishings. It is an artisan miniature and contains pieces of embroidery and embroidery threads. Also inserted into it is an embroidery hoop that has been which embroidered by hand which came from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom.
The lidded wicker basket also beneath the sewing table was made by an unknown miniature artisan in America. The floral patterns on the top have been hand painted. The hinged lids lift, just like a real hamper, so things can be put inside. In this case it contains various lace doilies, some of which I have obtained from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom and one that I bought from the same high street shop that specialised in dolls and doll house furnishings that the sewing basket came from.
On the small pedestal table next to Mrs. McTavish’s chair sits a black velvet pillow used for making bobbin lace. It comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom, and so too does the table.
On the wall just behind Mrs. McTavish’s chair hangs a hand painted cuckoo clock. It has been made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.
In the background you can see Mrs. McTavish’s dark wood dresser cluttered with decorative china. I have had the dresser since I was a child. The shelves of the dresser have different patterned crockery which have come from different miniature stockists both in Australia and the United Kingdom.
Like the dresser, the round table and the Windsor chairs I have had since I was a child. The cloth on the table is hand crocheted antique lace which I have had since I was seven years old. The decorative china on the table also come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom. So too does the tea caddy, the aspidistra in the white pot and the floral teapot on the range. The biscuit tin with the decorative lid featuring a Victorian man and lady comes from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The Dundee cake is a 1:12 artisan miniature made of polymer clay with a real piece of tartan ribbon around it, made by Polly’s Pantry who specialises in making food miniatures. The vase of yellow roses came from an online stockist on E-Bay.
The brass pieces on the range all come from different online stockists of miniatures.
The rug on the floor comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today we are in Lettice’s chic, dining room, which stands adjunct to her equally stylish drawing room. She has decorated it in a restrained Art Deco style with a smattering of antique pieces. It is also a place where she has showcased some prized pieces from the Portman Gallery in Soho including paintings, her silver drinks set and her beloved statue of the ‘Modern Woman’ who presides over the proceedings from the sideboard.
Lettice is hosting a luncheon for her future sister-in-law Arabella Tyrwhitt who will soon marry her eldest brother Leslie. As Arabella has no sisters, and her mother is too unwell at present to travel up to London from Wiltshire, Lettice has taken it upon herself to help Arabella shop and select a suitable trousseau. So, she has brought her to London to stay in Cavendish Mews, rather than opening up the Tyrwhitt’s Georgian townhouse in Curzon Street for a week, so from there she can take Arabella shopping in all the best shops in the West End, and take her to her old childhood chum and best friend Gerald Bruton’s couturier in Grosvenor Street for her wedding dress. Lettice has invited a few of her friends from her Embassy Club coterie whom Arabella met there the other night. Lettice has asked her best girlfriend, the recently married Margot Channon and one of her other dear friends Minnie Palmerston. As both ladies are married, Lettice is hoping they may be able to shed some light on what life is like as a married woman with Arabella whilst also sharing in an afternoon of delicious food and delightful gossip.
“Oh Gerald will make you the most wonderful wedding dress, Bella,” Margot enthuses to Arabella. “Believe me! He made me the most stylish gown for my wedding last year. You’ll be the talk of the Wiltshire downs.”
“I think your mother is a wonderful sport letting Lettice help you pick your wedding gown, Bella.” exclaims Minnie. “My mother wouldn’t let me choose so much as a button without her say so, and my wedding dress wasn’t anywhere near as modern and fashionable as I would have liked. It wasn’t even made by the couturier I wanted! I had to settle for old fashioned Lucille*.”
“Well,” Arabella says a little awkwardly. “My mother, err, she isn’t all that well at present, you see.”
“So,” Lettice quickly pitches in to avoid Arabella any awkward explanations. “I’m doing Lady Tyrwhitt the biggest favour whilst she is indisposed, by hosting Bella here in my flat and taking her shopping.” Arabella smiles in relief at her future sister-in-law who sits to her right at the head of the table. “I mean, what’s the point in opening up their London townhouse for just a few days when Bella is welcome here at any time?”
“And where everything is so lovely and welcoming.” Arabella says gratefully.
“Hhmm… that’s most sensible, Lettice.” Minnie says.
“And this way, I can take Bella to places like the Embassy Club whilst she’s up here, as well as take her frock shopping.” Lettice giggles with a wink at Bella. “I can show here what she’s missing being stuck in dull old Wiltshire.”
“Oh, it’s not as dull as all that, Tice,” Arabella remarks, her face flushing with mild embarrassment as she feels so unworldly in comparison to Lettice and her smart London friends. “After all, we have cattle shows, garden parties and…”
“Cattle shows!” baulks Margot, her left hand pressing over her mouth in horror, her diamond engagement ring glinting under the light of the dining room. “How beastly! I do hope that there aren’t any cattle shows I have to go on Cornwall! I should dislike that intensely.”
“I agree!” nods Minnie, her green glass chandelier earrings bobbing about as they dangle from her lobes.
“You both grew up in London, so of course a cattle show is beastly to you two,” Lettice replies. “But Bella and I both grew up in the country, so we are used to life there. Cattle shows are part of county social life.”
“If I had to go and look at beastly… well beasts, in order to meet eligible men,” Minnie says with an air of distaste as she wrinkles her nose. “I think I’d rather stay single.”
“Good job the closest thing you’ve come to the countryside is Hyde Park on a summer’s day then isn’t it, Minnie?” retorts Lettice with a playful smile.
“I quite enjoy the county social round,” Arabella admits with a shy smile. “And whilst I’m so grateful for you taking me to nightspots around London, Tice, I don’t think I’ll ever be a nightclub kind of girl.”
“Poor darling,” Lettice teases her good naturedly as she speaks out to her other friends at the table. “She doesn’t know yet how deliciously addictive nightclubs can be.”
“We’ll fix that,” giggles Margot, reaching out a hand across the table, past the central floral arrangement of lightly fragrant white roses in a glass bowl and enveloping Arabella’s smaller hand with her own. “Don’t you worry about that Lettice.”
Picking up her thoughts on life in Wiltshire, Bella adds, “Wiltshire isn’t quite the ends of the earth socially. Don’t forget, we do have balls and parties to go to there, like your mother’s glittering Hunt Ball.”
“Yes,” titters Minnie. “Where Lettice met that dishy Selwyn Spencely!”
Margot joins in with Minnie’s girlish peals.
“Oh do stop you two!” Lettice says with a playful wave of her hand. “I’ve only had to opportunity to have luncheon with him once thus far since the ball.”
“But you are planning to see him again, aren’t you Tice?” asks Arabella.
“Of course she is,” teases Margot with a wag of her bejewelled finger. “You can see it written all over her face!”
“Lettice!” Minnie cries, pointing her her elegant finger at her friend across the table. “You’re holding out on us. You’ve arranged to see him again, haven’t you?”
“Lettice!” gasps Margot. “Not fair! Spill the beans at once!”
“Well,” Lettice admits. “He did ring me this morning.”
“And?” Margot and Minnie ask, their breath baited with excitement.
“And we’ve arranged to have luncheon again after Bella returns home to Wiltshire.”
Margot and Minnie squeal and clap with delight, gushing forth congratulations as though Lettice had just announced her engagement to Selwyn.
“I hope you aren’t putting off seeing him just because I’m here, Tice.” Bella says quietly, a guilty look crossing her pretty face.
“Not at all, Bella!” Lettice reaches over and squeezes Arabella’s hand comfortingly. “He telephoned whilst you were in the bathroom this morning. You are my guest and as such, you have my undivided attention. Mr. Selwyn Spencely can wait a few days.”
“Well, they do say that absence makes the heart grow fonder.” remarks Margot. “It certainly did for Dickie and I.”
“Where are you going, Lettice?” asks Minnie eagerly.
“I’ll tell you where, but not what day.” Lettice agrees. “The last thing I want is for you and Charles to be sitting, goggle eyed at the next table.”
“As if I would!” Minnie gasps, pressing a hand dramatically to her chest.
“As if you wouldn’t, more like!” Lettice retorts.
“Well,” Minnie looks across an Margot guiltily. “Yes, we would.”
The pair giggle conspiratorially.
“So where?” Minnie asks.
“The Café Royal.**”
“Oh how deliciously luxurious, Lettice darling!” Margot enthuses.
“I shall have Charles book us a table there every night for the fortnight after Bella leaves.” giggles Minnie teasingly, but her wink to Lettice assures her that she won’t.
“Oh Minnie!” Margot laughs. “You are awful!”
Just as Margot and Minnie break into more girlish titters, Edith, Lettice’s maid, emerges from the kitchen through the green baize door and walks towards the table with a tray on which she carries four of her home made orange curd tarts.
“Ah! What good timing!” Lettice claps her hands. “Edith, you are a brick! Ladies, dessert!”
Edith bobs a curtsey to her mistress and begins to serve the desserts to her guests first by carefully holding the tray on an angle to Arabella’s left, so she may easily help herself to one without the whole tray tipping forward and the tarts spilling onto the polished parquetry dining room floor.
“Thank you for that roast beef luncheon, Edith,” Arabella remarks as she selects the tart closest to her. “It was quite delicious.”
“You’re welcome, Miss Tyrwhitt.” Edith murmurs in reply, her face flushing with pleasure at the compliment.
Edith moves on and serves Minnie and then Margot, before finally coming back to Lettice who selects the one remaining tart from the tray. Ensuring that everyone has a replenished drink, Edith retreats to the kitchen, allowing the four ladies to carry on their conversation undisturbed by her presence.
“This looks delicious, Lettice darling.” remarks Margot as she looks down at the tart before her, the pastry a pale golden colour, a twist of candied orange and a dollop of whipped cream decorating its top.
“Yes,” concurs Minnie. “You’re so lucky Lettice. I don’t know how you manage to find such good staff in London.”
“I told you, Minnie. Mater gave me the telephone number of an excellent agency. That’s where I got Edith from. I’ll give it to you.”
“Oh,” Minnie sulks. “I think even if I employed the most perfectly qualified maid, I’d do something to muck the whole arrangement up. I usually do.”
“Good heavens, whatever are you talking about, Minnie?” Lettice exclaims.
“She’s only saying that because of her dining room faux pas.” Margot elucidates as she picks up her spoon and fork to commence eating her tart.
“What dining room faux pas?” Lettice asks.
Minnie looks around Lettice’s dining room at the restrained black japanned furnishings, white Art Deco wallpaper and elegant decorations. “I should just have done what Margot did and engaged you to decorate it for me.” she remarks as she picks up her own spoon and fork and begins to disseminate her dessert.
“What dining room faux pas?” Lettice asks again.
“At least you have taste, Lettice, unlike me.” Minnie continues uninterrupted.
“Nonsense Minnie darling, you have one of the most tasteful and fashionable wardrobes in London!” Margot counters.
“Well, it obviously doesn’t extend to my ability as an interior decorator.” Minnie grumbles back as she stabs her tart with her fork.
“Minnie, what dining room faux pas?” Lettice asks again, the smallest lilt in her raised voice betraying her frustration at being ignored.
“Well, you know how Charles’ grandfather left us the house in St John’s Wood?” Minnie asks.
“Yes,” Lettice says, laying aside her spoon and fork, leaving her trat untasted as she looks intently into the green eyes of her redheaded friend.
“When we moved in, it was full of all of old Lady Arundel’s ghastly furniture. Charles’ grandfather hadn’t done a single thing to update the place, so it was all dusty of festoons and potted palms.”
“So pre-war Edwardian!” adds Margot just before she pops the daintiest piece of tart into her mouth, smiling as she tastes it.
“Charles says to me when I complain about how dark and cluttered it is: ‘Minnie darling, why don’t you redecorate’. So of course I thought to myself that if you could do it so effortlessly, why couldn’t I?”
“I wouldn’t say effortlessly, Minnie darling.” Lettice corrects her friend. “Anyway, do go on. I’m all ears.”
“Well, I was delighted! My first real project as a wife, making a comfortable home for my husband. I asked Charles what room I should start with, and he suggested the dining room. After all, bringing potential business partners home to his dead grandmother’s fusty old dining room wouldn’t look very good, would it?”
“Indeed not, Minnie darling.” Lettice agrees, her lids lowering slightly as she concentrates on her friend’s story.
“He said that perhaps rather than throw out Lady Arundel’s dining table, I might start by picking some papers that went well with the dark furniture and red velvet seats, but would match our wonderful modern paintings which we hung in place of the muddy oils that were in there.”
“You could see where the old paintings had been by the non-faded patches of red flocked wallpaper.” Margot titters.
“That sounds ghastly,” Lettice remarks. “How sensible Charles was to suggest the walls first. Then you can decide what your new dining room furnishings will be once you are ready, and there’s no rush to fling out what you have at present.”
“Very well observed, Lettice darling.” Margot agrees.
“So where is the faux pas in that, then?” asks Lettice, looking across the roses of the centrepiece at her two friends in a perplexed fashion.
“The faux pas is what I chose!” pouts Minnie. “I’d started off so well too. I had the old black marble fireplace torn out and replaced with a lovely new surround.”
“Very streamline and modern,” Margot agrees, taking another mouthful of tart.
“Oh yes!” Minnie exclaims. “Quite to die for. Then I went to Jeffrey and Company*** looking for papers. It’s where my mother got our wallpapers for our homes when I was growing up.”
“Mine too.” affirmed Margot.
“And the assistant showed me the most divine poppies pattern on a geometric background. I thought to myself that being red, the poppies were a perfect choice for the walls.”
“It sounds perfect to me, Minnie darling.” Lettice says. “I still don’t see where the faux pas is?”
“You haven’t seen it on the walls.” Margot remarks half under her breath, looking apologetically at Minnie.
“No, it’s true Margot.” Minnie admits defeatedly with a sigh. “It sounds wonderful, but it looks positively awful!”
“Oh I wouldn’t have said that,” Margot counters. “It is rather busy and rather draws attention away from your paintings, but it isn’t awful.”
“Well Charles thinks it is! He says it’s like eating in a Maida Vale**** dining room! He doesn’t even want to eat in there now, and he certainly won’t bring any potential business partners around for dinner. He’s rather take them to his club!” Minnie whines. She drops her cutlery with a clatter onto the black japanned dining room table’s surface and hurriedly snatches her napkin from her lap. Carefully she dabs at the corners of her eyes.
“Oh Minnie!” Margot says, quickly getting up from her seat, dropping her own napkin on the seat of her chair and walking around to her friend where she wraps her arms around her shoulders comfortingly.
“Minnie darling. Please don’t cry.” Lettice gasps, standing up in her seat.
“You have modern wallpaper, but it doesn’t feel like Maida Vale in here.” Minnie says tearfully, thrusting her arms around in wild gesticulations.
Discreetly, Arabella moves Minnie’s half empty champagne flute out of her immediate reach to avoid any adding any drama with the spilling of drinks or shattering of glass to what is already an uncomfortable enough situation with the young woman sobbing in her seat whilst being comforted by her friends. Quietly Arabella wonders if the hot rush of London life with all its drama is all that good for the constitution if people behave this way over luncheon tables in the capital, and she secretly longs to retreat to the safety of her much quieter home of Garstanton Park back in Wiltshire.
“Do you need the smelling salts, Miss?” Edith, who unnoticed with Minnie’s loud crying and moaning, has slipped back into the dining room from the kitchen.
“What?” Lettice turns and registers her maid’s presence. “Ahh, no. No thank you Edith. Mrs. Palmerston is just having another one of her momentary dramas.”
“I am not!” bursts out Minnie, causing her already flushed face to go even redder as another barrage of tears and moaning escapes her shuddering frame.
“Of course you are, Minnie darling.” Lettice counters calmly in a good natured way. Turning back to her anxious maid she adds, “It will be over in a minute. Thank you, Edith.”
“Very good Miss.” Edith replies bewilderingly with raised eyebrows and an almost imperceptible shake of her head as she looks again at Mrs. Palmerston, red faced and weeping in her chair, her bare arms being rubbed by Mrs. Channon who coos and whispers quietly into her ears.
“Minnie has always been highly strung.” Lettice quietly assures Arabella whom she notices is looking particularly uncomfortable in her seat. “It will pass in a moment, and then we’ll get on with luncheon.”
After a few minutes of weeping, Minnie finally calms down, and both Lettice and Margot return to their seats to finish their desserts, all three behaving as if Minnie’s outburst had never occurred, and that such behaviour was not only understandable, but perfectly normal. Arabella, with her head down, eyes focussed squarely upon her half eaten tart says nothing and follows suit. For a few moments, nothing breaks the silence but the sound of cutlery scraping against crockery.
“I know, Minnie darling,” Lettice breaks the embargo on speaking cheerfully. “Why don’t I come and look at your dining room.”
“Oh would you?” exclaims Minnie with a sigh of relief. “Could you? Oh! That would be marvellous! What a brick you are, Lettice.” Then she pauses, her sudden happy energy draining away just as quickly. “But you can’t.” She shakes her head. “You’re redecorating Margot’s.”
Arabella unconsciously holds her breath, waiting for Minnie to start crying again.
“Well, yes I am,” Lettice agrees. “But there’s no reason why I can’t have two clients at once.”
“She’s not actually doing anything at ‘Chi an Treth’ at present,” Margot says, picking up her wine glass and draining it. “Are you Lettice darling?”
“Well I can’t right now, you see Minnie.” Lettice elucidates. “Funnily enough I’m waiting for Margot’s wallpapers to be printed by Jeffrey and Company, but they won’t be ready for a few weeks. So I can come and have a look, maybe make some recommendation for you and Charles to consider. Then if you’re happy, I can commence work after I’ve finished Margot’s.”
“Oh, but what about Bella? You’re helping her shop for her trousseau.” Minnie protests.
“I can assure you, I don’t need any help shopping for clothes.” Arabella says, releasing her pent-up breath. “Tice has pointed me in the direction of Oxford Street, so I can take myself there.”
“As it happens, we’re visiting Gerald on Thursday for Bella’s first consultation for her wedding dress. Why don’t I come on Thursday for luncheon whilst Bella and Gerald consult? She doesn’t need me to help her decide what she wants. She already has a good idea, don’t you Bella?”
Arabella nods emphatically.
“Well Thursday is cook’s afternoon off, but if you think you could cope with some sandwiches.” Minnie says hopefully.
“That’s settled then!” Lettice says with a sigh.
Suddenly the mood in the room lightens and spontaneous conversation begins to bubble about Lettice’s dining table again as Margot and Minnie ask Arabella about her plans for her wedding dress.
*Lucile – Lucy, Lady Duff Gordon was a leading British fashion designer in the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries who use the professional name Lucile. She was the originator of the “mannequin parade”, a pre-cursor to the modern fashion parade, and is reported to have been the person to first use the word “chic” which she then popularised. Lucile is also infamous for escaping the Titanic in a lifeboat designed for forty occupants with her husband and secretary and only nine other people aboard, seven being crew members. When hemlines rose after the war, her fortunes reversed as she couldn’t change with the times, always wanting to use too much fabric on gowns that were too long and too fussy and pre-war.
**The Café Royal in Regent Street, Piccadilly was originally conceived and set up in 1865 by Daniel Nicholas Thévenon, who was a French wine merchant. He had to flee France due to bankruptcy, arriving in Britain in 1863 with his wife, Célestine, and just five pounds in cash. He changed his name to Daniel Nicols and under his management - and later that of his wife - the Café Royal flourished and was considered at one point to have the greatest wine cellar in the world. By the 1890s the Café Royal had become the place to see and be seen at. It remained as such into the Twenty-First Century when it finally closed its doors in 2008. Renovated over the subsequent four years, the Café Royal reopened as a luxury five star hotel.
***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 Cmpany’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.
****Although today quite an affluent suburb of London, in 1922 when this scene is set, Maida Vale was more of an up-and-coming middle-class area owing to its proximity to the more up market St John’s Wood to its west. It has many late Victorian and Edwardian blocks of mansion flats. Charles’ remark that he felt like he was in a Maida Vale dining room was not meant to be taken as a compliment considering they live in St John’s Wood.
Lettice’s fashionable Mayfair flat dining room is perhaps a little different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures I have collected over time.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The orange curd tarts with their twist of orange atop each are made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in the United Kingdom. The empty wine glasses and the glass bowl in the centre of the table are also 1:12 artisan miniatures all made of hand spun and blown glass. They too are made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. The vase is especially fine. If you look closely you will see that it is decorated with flower patterns made up of fine threads of glass. The cream roses in the vase were also hand made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. The Art Deco dinner set is part of a much larger set I acquired from a dollhouse suppliers in Shanghai, as is the cutlery set. The champagne flutes that are filled with glittering golden yellow champagne were made by Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The candlesticks were made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.
In the background on the console table stand some of Lettice’s precious artisan purchases from the Portland Gallery in Soho. The silver drinks set is made by artisan Clare Bell at the Clare Bell Brass Works in Maine, in the United States. Each goblet is only one centimetre in height and the decanter at the far end is two- and three-quarter centimetres with the stopper inserted. Lettice’s Art Deco ‘Modern Woman’ figure is actually called ‘Christianne’ and was made and hand painted by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland. ‘Christianne’ is based on several Art Deco statues and is typical of bronze and marble statues created at that time for the luxury market in the buoyant 1920s.
Lettice’s dining room is furnished with Town Hall Miniatures furniture, which is renown for their quality. The only exceptions to the room is the Chippendale chinoiserie carver chair (the edge of which just visible on the far left-hand side of the photo) which was made by J.B.M. Miniatures.
The carpet beneath the furniture is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug hand made by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney, Australia. The paintings on the walls are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States. 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.
Fire for Inspiration, Water for Consecration, Air for Actualisation and Earth, Earth always embracing and creating Continuation, around and about within and without Spirit grants gateways to Illumination, Elucidation and to Interpretation…
Fire heats Water rises in Air and vast lands are All One windswept Earth and we Stellar Shimmers and Star Heirlings are full of vital Spirit seeking Ignition, Inspiration and Completion of our glorious Elemental Extraction Extension and Contraction.
© PHH Sykes 2022
phhsykes@gmail.com
The Blackhouse, Arnol
42 Arnol, Bragar, Isle of Lewis, HS2 9DB, 01851 710 395
www.historicenvironment.scot/visit-a-place/places/the-bla...
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.
Tonight however, we are at Simpson’s-in-the-Strand*, near Covent Garden and the theatre district of London’s West End. Here, amidst the thoroughly English surrounds of wooden panelling, beautifully executed watercolours of British landscapes and floral arrangements in muted colours, men in white waistcoats and women a-glitter with jewels are ushered into the dining room where they are seated in high backed chairs around tables dressed in crisp white tablecloths and set with sparkling silver and gilt china. The large room is very heavily populated with theatre patrons enjoying a meal before a show and therefore it is full of vociferous conversation, boisterous laughter, the clink of glasses and the scrape of cutlery against crockery as the diners enjoy the traditional English repast that Simpson’s is famous for. Seated at a table for two along the periphery of the main dining room, Lettice and Selwyn are served their roast beef dinner by a carver. Lettice is being taken to dinner by Selwyn to celebrate the successful completion of his very first architectural commission: a modest house built in the northern London suburb of Highgate built for a merchant and his wife. Lettice has her own reason to celebrate too, but has yet to elaborate upon it with Selwyn.
“I do so like Simpson’s.” Lettice remarks as the carver places a plate of steaming roast beef and vegetables in front of her. Glancing around her, she admires the two watercolours on the wall behind her and the jolly arrangement of yellow asters and purple and yellow pansies on the small console to her right.
“I’m glad you approve.” Selwyn laughs, smiling at his companion.
“I’m always put in mind of Mr. Wilcox whenever it’s mentioned, or I come here.”
“Who is Mr. Wilcox?” Selwyn asks, his handsome features showing the signs of deep thought.
“Oh,” Lettice laughs and flaps her hand, the jewels on her fingers winking gaily in the light. “No-one. Well, no one real, that is.” she clarifies. “Mr. Wilcox is a character in E. M. Forster’s novel, ‘Howard’s End’**, who thoroughly approves of Simpson’s because it is so thoroughly English and respectable, just like him.”
“I can’t say I’ve read that novel, or anything by him.” Selwyn admits as the carver places his serving of roast beef and vegetables before him. “My head has been too buried in books on architecture.” Selwyn reaches into the breast pocket of his white dinner vest and takes out a few coins which he slips discreetly to the man in the crisp white uniform and chef’s hat.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” the carver says, tapping the brim of his hat in deference to the Duke of Walmsford’s son before placing the roast beef, selection of vegetables in tureens and gravy onto the crisp white linen tabletop, and then wheeling his carving trolley away.
Lettice giggles as she picks up the gravy boat and pours steaming thick and rich dark reddish brown gravy over her dinner.
“Well, what’s so funny, my Angel?” Selwyn asks with a querying look as he accepts the gravy boat from Lettice’s outstretched hands and pours some on his own meal.
“Oh you are just like Mr. Wilcox.”
“You know,” He picks up his silver cutlery. “And please pardon me for saying this, but I didn’t take you for reading much more than romance novels.”
“Oh!” Lettice laughs in mild outrage. “Thank you very much, Selwyn!”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Selwyn defends himself, dropping his knife and fork with a clatter onto the fluted gilt edged white dinner plate.
“Then what do you mean?” Lettice asks, trying to remain serious as she looks into the worried face of her dinner companion, which makes her want to reach out and stroke his cheek affectionately and smile.
“I… I merely meant that most ladies of your background have had very little education, or inclination to want to read anything more than romance novels.”
“Well,” Lettice admits. “I must confess that I do quite enjoy romance novels, and I wouldn’t be as well read if it weren’t for Margot.”
“Aha!” Selwyn laughs, popping some carrots smeared in gravy into his mouth.
“But,” Lettice quickly adds in her defence. “I’ll have you know that my father is a great believer in the education of ladies, and so was my grandfather, and I applied myself when I studied, and I enjoyed it.”
“It shows my Angel,” Selwyn assures her. “You are far more interesting than any other lady I’ve met in polite society, most of whom haven’t an original thought in their heads.”
“I take after my Aunt Egg, who learned Greek amongst other languages, which served her well when she decided to go there to study ancient art. Although Mater insisted that I not go to a girl’s school, so I would not become a bluestocking*** and thereby spoil my marriage prospects by demonstrating…”
“That’s what I was implying,” Selwyn interrupts in desperate defence of his incorrect assumptions about Lettice. “Most girls I have met either feign a lack of intelligence, or more often genuinely are dim witted. Admittedly, it’s not really their fault. With mothers like yours, who believe that the only position for a girl of good breeding is that of marriage, they seldom get educated well, and their brains sit idle.”
“Well, I have a brain, and I know how to use it. Pater and Aunt Egg drummed into me the importance of intelligence as well as good manners and looks in women of society.”
“Well, there are a great many ladies whom I have met who could take a leaf out of your book. I know you have a mind of your own, my Angel,” Selwyn purrs. “And that’s one of the many attributes about you that I like. Having a conversation with you about art, or my passion of architecture, is so refreshing in comparison to speaking about floral arrangements or the weather, as I shall soon have to when I start escorting my cousin Pamela for the London Season.”
Lettice cannot help but shudder silently at the mention of Selwyn’s cousin, Pamela Fox-Chavers, for she is immediately reminded of what Sir John Nettleford-Hughes said to her at the society wedding of her friend Priscilla Kitson-Fahey to American Georgie Carter in November. He pointed out to her that Selwyn’s mother, Lady Zinnia, plans to match Selwyn and Pamela. From his point of view, it was already a fait accompli.
“I like my cousin,” Selwyn carries on, not noticing the bristle pulsating through Lettice. “But like so many of the other debutantes of 1923, she is lacking interests beyond the marriage market and social gossip and intrigues. You, on the other hand, my Angel, are well informed, and have your own opinions.”
“Well, you can thank Pater for instilling that in me. He hired some very intelligent governesses to school my sister and I in far more than embroidery, floral arranging and polite conversation.”
“And I’m jolly glad of it, my darling.”
“And Aunt Egg told me that I should never be afraid to express my opinion, however different, so long as it is artfully couched.”
“I like the sound of your Aunt Egg.”
“I don’t think your mother would approve of her, nor of me having a brain, Selwyn. Would she? I’m sure she would prefer you to marry one of those twittering and decorous debutantes.” She tries her luck. “Like your cousin Pamela, perhaps?”
“Oh, come now, Lettice darling!” Selwyn replies. If she has thrown a bone, he isn’t taking it as he rests the heels of his hands on the edge of the white linen tablecloth, clutching his cutlery. He chews his mouthful of roast beef before continuing. “That isn’t fair, even to Zinnia. She’s a very intelligent woman herself, with quite a capacity for witty conversation about all manner of topics, and she reads voraciously on many subjects.”
“I was talking to Leslie about what his impressions of your mother were when I went down to Glynes**** for his wedding in November.”
“Were you now?” Selwyn’s eyebrows arch with surprise over his widening eyes.
“Yes,” Lettice smirks, taking a mouthful of roast potato drizzled in gravy which falls apart on her tongue. Chewing her food, she feels emboldened, and sighs contentedly as she wonders whether Sir John was just spitting sour grapes because she prefers Selwyn’s company rather than his. Finishing her mouthful she elucidates, “Leslie is a few years older than us, and of course, I only remember her as that angry woman in black who pulled you away after we’d played in the hedgerows.”
“Well, she obviously left a lasting impression on you!” Selwyn chortles.
“But it isn’t a fair one, is it?” she asks rhetorically. “So, I asked Leslie what he remembered of her from time they spent together in the drawing room whilst you and I were tucked up in bed in the nursery.”
“And what was Leslie’s impression of Zinnia?”
“That, as you say, she is a witty woman, and that she liked to hold men in her thrall with her beauty, wit and intelligence.”
“Well, he’s quite right about that.”
“But that she didn’t much like other ladies for company, especially intelligent ones who might draw the gentlemen’s attention away from her glittering orbit.”
Selwyn chews his mouthful of dinner and concentrates on his dinner plate with downcast, contemplative eyes. He swallows but remains silent for a moment longer as he mulls over his own thoughts.
After a few moments of silence, Lettice airs an unspoken thought that has been ruminating about her head ever since Selwyn mentioned her. “You know, I’d love to meet Zinnia.”
Selwyn chuckles but looks down darkly into his glass of red wine. “But you have met her, Lettice darling. You just said so yourself. She was that angry woman yelling at you as I was dragged from the hedgerows of your father’s estate.”
“I know, but that doesn’t count! We were children. No, I’ve heard of her certainly over the years, but now that I’ve become reacquainted with you as an adult, and now that we are being serious with one another.” She pauses. “We are being serious with one another, aren’t we Selwyn?”
“Of course we are, Lettice.” Selwyn replies, unable to keep his irritation at her question out of his voice. “You know we are.” Falling back into silence, he runs his tongue around the inside of his cheek as he retreats back into his own inner most thoughts.
“Then I’d so very much like to meet her. You have met my toadying mother. Why shouldn’t I meet yours?”
“Be careful what you wish for, my Angel.” he cautions.
“What do you mean, Selwyn darling?”
Selwyn doesn’t answer straight away. He absently fiddles with the silver salt shaker from the cruet set in front of him, rolling its bulbous form about in his palm, as if considering whether it will give him an answer of some kind.
“Selwyn?” Lettice asks, leaning over and putting a hand on her companion’s broad shoulder.
“Just that you may not like her when you meet her.” He shrugs. “That’s all. Toadying is certainly not a word I would associate with Zinnia on any given day, that’s for certain.”
“Or you might be implying she might not like me.” Lettice remarks downheartedly. “Is that it?”
Softening his tone, Selwyn assures her, “I like you, and I’m sure she will too. You will get to meet her soon enough, Lettice darling. I promise. But not yet.” He suddenly snaps out of his contemplations and starts to cut a piece off his roast beef, slicing into the juicy flesh with sharp jabs of his knife. “We have plenty of time for all that. Let’s just enjoy us for now, and be content with that.”
“Oh of course, Selwyn darling,” Lettice stammers. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean, now.”
“I know you didn’t may angel.” He sees the look of concern she is giving him as she stiffens and sits back in her straight backed chair, afraid that she has offended him. “I just like it being just us for now, without the complication of Zinnia.”
“Is she complicated?”
“More than you’ll ever know, my angel. Aren’t most mothers?”
“I suppose.”
“Anyway, enough about Zinnia! I don’t want this evening to be about Zinnia! I want it to be about us. So not another word about her. Alright?” When Lettice nods shallowly, he continues, “I’m here to celebrate the success of Mr. and Mrs. Musgrave of Highgate being happy with their newly completed home.”
“Oh yes! Your first architectural commission completed and received with great success!” Lettice enthuses. “Let’s raise a toast to that.” She picks up her glass of red wine, which gleams under the diffused light of the chandeliers in Simpson’s dining room. “Cheers to you Selwyn, and your ongoing success.”
Their glasses clink cheerily.
“And what of Bruton?”
“Oh, Gerald is doing very well!” Lettice assures Selwyn, returning her glass to the tabletop. “His couture business is really starting to flourish.”
“It’s a bit of rum business*****, a chap making frocks for ladies, isn’t it?” Selwyn screws up his nose in a mixture of a lack of comprehension and distaste.
“It’s what he’s good at,” Lettice tugs at the peacock blue ruched satin sleeve of her evening gown as proof, feeling proud to wear one of her friend’s designs. “And he’s hardly the first couturier who’s a man, is he, Selwyn Darling?”
“I suppose not. Zinnia does buy frocks from the house of Worth******, and he was a man.”
“Exactly.” Lettice soothes. “And who would know what suits a lady better than a man?”
“Yes, and I must say,” Selwyn says, looking his companion up and down appreciatively in her shimmering evening gown covered in matching peacock blue bugle beads. “You do look positively ravishing in his creation.”
“Thank you, Selwyn.” Lettice murmurs, her face flushing at the compliment.
“We never see him at the club any more. I think the last time I saw him was the night I met you at your parents’ Hunt Ball, and that was almost a year ago.”
“Oh well,” Lettice blusters awkwardly, thinking quickly as to what excuse she can give for her dearest friend. She knows how dire Gerald’s finances are, partially as a result of his father’s pecuniary restraints, and she suspects that this fact is likely the reason why Gerald doesn’t attend his club any longer, even if he is still a member. Even small outlays at his club could tilt him the wrong way financially. However she also knows that this is a fact not widely known, and it would embarrass him so much were it to become public knowledge, especially courtesy of her, his best friend. “Running a business, especially in its infancy like Gerald’s and mine, can take time, a great deal of time as a matter of fact.”
“But you have time, my Angel, to spend time with me.” He eyes her. “Are you covering for Bruton?”
Lettice’s face suddenly drains of colour at Selwyn’s question. “No… no, I.”
Lowering his voice again, Selwyn asks, “He hasn’t taken after his brother and found himself an unsuitable girl, has he?”
Lettice releases the breath she has held momentarily in her chest and sighs.
“I know Gerald wouldn’t go for a local publican’s daughter, like Roland did, but being artistic like he is, I could imagine him with a chorus girl, and I know if news of that ever got back to Old Man Bruton, there would be fireworks, and it would be a bloody******* time for Bruton. Poor chap!”
“No, no, Selwyn darling!” Lettice replies with genuine relief. “I can assure you,” And as she puts her hand to her thumping heart, she knows she speaks the truth. “Gerald hasn’t taken up with a chorus girl. He genuinely is busy with his couture business. Establishing oneself, as you know only too well, isn’t easy, even for a duke’s son, much less a lower member of the aristocracy without the social profile. And my business is ticking along quite nicely now, so I don’t need to put in as much effort as Gerald does.”
“But how selfish of me, my Angel!” Selwyn exclaims, putting his glass down abruptly and looking to his companion. “What a prig I’m being, aggrandising myself and bringing up Bruton, when you said that you had something to celebrate tonight too. What is it?”
“Oh, it’s nothing like you’ve done, by finishing a house for someone.” Lettice says, flapping her hand dismissively.
“Well, what is it, Lettice darling?” Selwyn insists. “Tell me!”
Lettice looks down at her plate for a moment and then remarks rather offhandedly, “It was only that I had a telephone call from Henry Tipping******** the other day, and received confirmation that my interior for Dickie and Margot Channon’s Cornwall house ‘Chi an Treth’ will be featured in an upcoming edition of Country Life.”
“Oh may Angel!” Selwyn exclaims. “That’s wonderful!” He leans over and kisses her affectionately, albeit with the reserve that is expected between two unmarried people whilst dining in a public place, but with no less genuine delight for her. “That’s certainly more than nothing, and is something also worth celebrating!” I say, let’s raise a toast to you.” He picks up his glass of red wine again. “Cheers to you Lettice, and may the article bring you lots of recognition and new business.”
The pair clink glasses yet again and smile at one another.
*After a modest start in 1828 as a smoking room and soon afterwards as a coffee house, Simpson's-in-the-Strand achieved a dual fame, around 1850, for its traditional English food, particularly roast meats, and also as the most important venue in Britain for chess in the Nineteenth Century. Chess ceased to be a feature after Simpson's was bought by the Savoy Hotel group of companies at the end of the Nineteenth Century, but as a purveyor of traditional English food, Simpson's has remained a celebrated dining venue throughout the Twentieth Century and into the Twenty-First Century. P.G. Wodehouse called it "a restful temple of food"
**Howards End is a novel by E. M. Forster, first published in 1910, about social conventions, codes of conduct and relationships in turn-of-the-century England. Howards End is considered by many to be Forster's masterpiece. The book was conceived in June 1908 and worked on throughout the following year; it was completed in July 1910
***The term bluestocking was applied to any of a group of women who in mid Eighteenth Century England held “conversations” to which they invited men of letters and members of the aristocracy with literary interests. The word over the passing centuries has come to be applied derisively to a woman who affects literary or learned interests.
****Glynes is 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.
*****Rum is a British slang word that means odd (in a negative way) or disreputable.
******Charles Frederick Worth was an English fashion designer who founded the House of Worth, one of the foremost fashion houses of the Nineteenth and early Twentieth centuries. He is considered by many fashion historians to be the father of haute couture. Worth is also credited with revolutionising the business of fashion. Established in Paris in 1858, his fashion salon soon attracted European royalty, and where they led monied society followed. An innovative designer, he adapted 19th-century dress to make it more suited to everyday life, with some changes said to be at the request of his most prestigious client Empress Eugénie. He was the first to replace the fashion dolls with live models in order to promote his garments to clients, and to sew branded labels into his clothing; almost all clients visited his salon for a consultation and fitting – thereby turning the House of Worth into a society meeting point. By the end of his career, his fashion house employed 1,200 people and its impact on fashion taste was far-reaching.
*******The old fashioned British term “looking bloody” was a way of indicating how dour or serious a person or occasion looks.
********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.
Comfortable, cosy and terribly English, the interior of Simpson’s-in-the-Strand may look real to you, but it is in fact made up of pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection, including pieces from my childhood.
The dining table is correctly set for a four course Edwardian dinner partially ended, with the first course already concluded using cutlery, from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in the United Kingdom. The delicious looking roast dinner on the dinner plates, the bowls of vegetables, roast potatoes, boat of gravy and Yorkshire puddings and on the tabletop have been made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. The red wine glasses bought them from a miniatures stockist on E-Bay. Each glass is hand blown using real glass. The silver cruet set in the middle of the table has been made with great attention to detail, and comes from Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The silver meat cover you can just see in the background to the left of the photo also comes from Warwick Miniatures.
The table on which all these items stand is a Queen Anne lamp table which I was given for my seventh birthday. It is one of the very first miniature pieces of furniture I was ever given as a child. The Queen Anne dining chairs were all given to me as a Christmas present when I was around the same age.
The vase of flowers in the background I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Miniatures in the United Kingdom.
The wood panelling in the background is real, as I shot this scene on the wood panelled mantle of my drawing room. The paintings hanging from the wooden panels come from an online stockist on E-Bay.
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 have left the hustle and bustle of London, travelling southwest to a stretch of windswept coastline just a short drive the pretty Cornish town of Penzance. Here, friends of Lettice, newlyweds Margot and Dickie Channon, have been gifted a Recency country “cottage residence” called ‘Chi an Treth’ (Cornish for ‘beach house’) as a wedding gift by the groom’s father, the Marquess of Taunton. Margot, encouraged by her father Lord de Virre who will foot the bill, has commissioned Lettice to redecorate a few of the principal rooms of ‘Chi an Treth’. In the lead up to the wedding, Lord de Virre has spent a great deal of money making the Regency house habitable after many years of sitting empty and bringing it up to the Twentieth Century standards his daughter expects, paying for electrification, replumbing, and a connection to the Penzance telephone exchange. Now, with their honeymoon over, Dickie and Margot have finally taken possession of their country house gift and have invited Lettice to come and spend a Friday to Monday with them so that she might view the rooms Margot wants redecorating for herself and perhaps start formulating some ideas as to how modernise their old fashioned décor. As Lettice is unable to drive and therefore does not own a car, Margot and Dickie have extended the weekend invitation to one of their other Embassy Club coterie, Lettice’s old childhood chum, Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy who has tried to gain some independence from his family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street. Gerald owns a Morris*, so he can motor both Lettice and himself down from London on Friday and back again on Monday.
As the Morris drove slowly up the rather uneven and potholed driveway running through a wild and unkempt looking park that must once have been a landscaped garden, both Lettice and Gerald were taken aback by the house standing on the crest of an undulating hill overlooking a cove. When described as a Regency “cottage residence”, the pair were expecting a modest single storey house of maybe eight to ten rooms with a thatch roof, not the sprawling double storey residence of white stucco featuring arched French doors and windows with sea views, a wraparound cast iron verandah and high pitched slate tiled roof with at least a dozen chimneys.
Now settled in ‘Chi an Treth’s’ drawing room, Lettice looks about her, taking in the stripped back, slightly austere and very formal furnishings.
“I say old bean,” Gerald addresses Dickie from his seat next to Lettice on the rather hard and uncomfortable red velvet settee. “If this is what your father calls a ‘cottage residence’, no wonder you jumped at the chance to take it.”
“Apparently the Prince Regent** coined the term ‘cottage residence’ when he had Royal Lodge built at Windsor,” Dickie explains cheerily from his place standing before the crackling fire, leaning comfortably against the mantle. “And of course my ancestors being the ambitious breed they were, set about building a ‘cottage’ to rival it.”
“Was it built for a previous Marquess of Taunton?” Lettice asks with interest.
“Heavens no, darling!” their host replies, raising his hands animatedly. “It was built back around 1816 for one of the second Marquess’ bastard sons, who served as a ship’s captain and returned from fighting the Frenchies a decorated war hero.” Dickie points to two portraits at the end of the room, either side of a Regency sideboard.
“That would explain the maritime theme running through the art in here.” Lettice points casually to several paintings of ships also hanging about the walls.
“Aren’t they ghastly, Lettice darling?” Margot hisses as she glances around at the oils in their heavy frames. “We need some femininity in this old place, don’t you think?” She giggles rather girlishly as she gives her friend a wink. “Daddy has promised me the pretty Georgian girl in the gold dress that hangs in my bedroom in Hans Crescent. I think it could look lovely in here.”
“If you please, my love!” Dickie chides his new wife sweetly, giving her a knowing look.
“Oh, so sorry my love!” she replies, putting her dainty fingers to her cheeky smile.
“As the Marquess’ prolific illegitimate progeny were well known up and down the coast of Cornwall and beyond,” Dickie continues his potted history of the house. “And what with him being a hero of the Napoleonic wars, his father, my ancestor the second Marquess, thought it best to set him up in a fine house of his own.”
“That was far enough away from the family seat.” Gerald adds.
“That was far enough away from the Marchioness, more like!” Dickie corrects. “Last thing you want to do is rub your good lady wife’s nose into the fruits spawned from the sewing of your wild oats.”
Margot looks across at her husband from her armchair with a look of mock consternation. “I do hope, my sweet, that I’m not to be confronted with any illegitimate offspring when I’m Marchioness of Taunton.”
“Certainly not my love. The Marquess’s wife, Georgette, was fierce by all accounts, but she’d be a pussy cat compared to your fierceness, Margot.”
“I should think so.” Margot smiles with satisfaction.
“Anyway,” Dickie adds with a roguish smile. “I made sure I did away with any illegitimate offspring I had, prior to marrying you.”
The four friends laugh at Dickie’s quick, witty response, just as the door to the drawing room is forced open by a heavy boot, startling them all.
Looking to the door as it creaks open noisily on its hinges, an old woman with a wind weathered face with her unruly wiry white hair tied loosely in a bun, wearing a rather tatty apron over an old fashioned Edwardian print dress, walks in carrying a tea tray. Although weighed down heavily with a teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl, four cups and saucers and a glass plate of biscuits, the rather frail looking old woman seems unbothered by its weight, although her bones crack noisily and disconcertingly as she lowers the tray onto the low occasional table between the settee and armchairs.
“Oh, thank you Mrs. Trevethan.” Margot acknowledges the old woman.
“Omlowenhewgh agas boes!***” the elderly woman replies in a gravelly voice, groaning as she stretches back into an upright position.
“Yes… Yes, thank you Mrs. Trevethan.” Margot replies in an unsure tone, giving Lettice a gentle shrug and a quizzical look which her friend returns. “I’ll pour the tea myself I think.”
“Pur dha****.” she answers rather gruffly before retreating back the way she came with shuffling footsteps.
“What did she say?” Lettice asks Dickie once the door to the drawing room has closed and the old woman’s footfalls drift away, mingling with the distant sound of the ocean outside.
“Why look at me, old girl?” Dickie replies with a sheepish smile and a shrug as big as his wife’s.
“Because your Cornish, Dickie.” Lettice replies.
“Only by birth darling!” he defends with a cocked eyebrow and a mild look of distain.
“But it’s your heritage, Dickie.” counters Lettice disappointedly. “You’re supposed to know these things.”
“You know I went to Eaton, where they beat any hint of Cornish out of me my father and mother hadn’t already chased away prior to me going there.”
“It sounded like swearing to me,” Gerald adds in disgust, screwing up his nose. “Local dialect. So guttural.”
“Like ‘be gone you city folk, back from whence you came’?” Margot giggles.
“And who’d blame her?” Dickie pipes up. “After all, she and Mr. Trevethan have had run of this place ever since the old sea captain died. I mean, this place was supposed to be for Harry…”
“God bless Harry.” Margot, Lettice and Gerald all say in unison with momentarily downcast eyes.
“But of course, he never lived to be married and be given this place as a wedding gift, so Mr. and Mrs. Trevethan have been looking after the place for around four decades I’d reckon, give or take a few years.”
“So, there is a Mr. Trevethan then?” Lettice asks.
“Oh yes,” Dickie elucidates as he moves from the fireplace and takes his seat in the other vacant armchair. “He’s the gardener and odd job man.”
“Well, if that’s the case, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the whole house doesn’t fall down around our ears.” Gerald remarks disparagingly. “Getting the Morris safely over those potholes in your driveway was no mean feat, old bean.”
“They’re old, dear chap.” Dickie defends his housekeeper and gardener kindly. “Be fair. They’ve done a pretty good job of caretaking the old place, considering.”
“Poor chap.” mutters Gerald. “Looking at that old harridans’ haggard old face every day.”
“Oh Gerald!” gasps Lettice, leaning over and slapping his wrist playfully. “You are awful sometimes! For all you know, she was the beauty of Penzance when she and Mr. Trevethan were first courting. And,” she adds loftily. “I’ll have you know that I think the Cornish dialect sounds very beautiful,” She takes a dramatic breath as she considers her thoughts. “Rather like an exotic language full of magic.”
“You’ve been reading too much King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table.” Gerald cheekily criticises his friend’s reading habits lightly.
“Oh, thinking of which, I have a new novel for you, Lettice darling! It’s called ‘Joanna Godden’***** by Sheila Kaye-Smith. I’ve just finished it.” Margot takes up a volume from the round Regency side table next to her and passes it across to Lettice’s outstretched hands. “It’s a drama set in Kent. I’m sure you’ll like it. Now, shall I be mother?******” she asks, assuming her appropriate role of hostess as she reaches for and sets out the Royal Doulton teacups, a wedding gift from relations, and takes up the silver teapot, also a wedding gift. Expertly she pours the tea and then hands the cups first to her guests and then to her husband before picking up her own.
“I hope that old harridan didn’t spit in the tea.” Gerald looks uneasily at the cup of reddish tea he holds in his hands. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”
“Oh Gerald,” Lettice tuts, shaking her head in mock disapproval before chuckling light heartedly. “You do like to dramatise, don’t you?”
“If you announce her intentions like that,” Margot adds. “I’m sure she will, since she has the habit of listening at the keyhole.” She smiles cheekily as she finishes her sentence and settles back in her armchair.
“What?” Gerald splutters, depositing his cup rather clumsily and nosily on the Regency occasional table at his left elbow and looking over his shoulder to the door.
Margot, Dickie and Lettice all burst out laughing.
“Oh Gerald,” Lettice says gaily through her mirthful giggles. “You’re always so easy to bait.”
Gerald looks at his friends, smiling at his distress. “Oh!” He swivels back around again and tries to settle as comfortably as possible into the hard back of the settee. “I see.” He takes up his cup and glowers into it as he stirs it with his teaspoon, his pride evidently wounded at his friends’ friendly joke.
Lettice takes up her own cup of tea, adding sugar and milk to it and stirring, before selecting a small jam fancy from the glass dish of biscuits. Munching the biscuit she gazes about the room again, appraising the mostly Regency era furnishings of good quality with a few examples of lesser well made early Victorian pieces, the maritime oil paintings, the worn and faded Persian carpet across the floor and the vibrantly painted red walls, deciding that as well as formal, the room has a very masculine feel about it. “It’s really quite an elegant room, you know.” she remarks. “It has good bones.”
“Oh don’t look too closely at our less elegant damp patches or cracks to those so-called good bones, darling girl.” Dickie replies.
“Nor the chips to the paintwork and plaster or the marks we can’t quite account for.” Margot adds with a sigh. “I think I’d have been happy for Daddy to commission Edwin Lutyens******* to demolish this pile of mouldering bricks and build us a new country house.”
“Margot! What a beastly thing to say!” Lettice clasps the bugle beads at her throat in shock. “To demolish all this history, only to replace it with a mock version thereof. Why it is sheer sacrilege to even say it!”
“Blame it on my Industrial Revolution new money heritage,” Margot defends her statement. “Unlike you darling, with your ancestry going back hundreds of years and your romance for everything old.”
“I can’t see any damp patches, Dickie, or cracks.” Lettice addresses her male host again.
“That’s because it’s so dark in here,” Margot explains. “Even on an unseasonably sunny day like today, the red walls and the red velvet furnishings camouflage the blemishes.”
“All the more reason not to change the décor then, dear girl.” remarks Gerald as his gingerly sips his tea, still not entirely convinced of Mrs. Trevethan’s actions prior to the tea being deposited on the table.
“No! No, Gerald!” Margot counters. “That’s why I need you Lettice darling, and your vision. I want the place lightened up, smartened up and made more comfortable.”
“Those chairs are rather beautiful,” observes Lettice, indicating to the armchairs in which her host and hostess sit, admiring their ormolu mounted arms, sturdy legs and red velvet cushions.
“These things!” Margot scoffs, looking down at the seat beneath her. “They are so uncomfortable!” She rubs her lower back in an effort to demonstrate how lumpy and hard they are. “I can’t wait to banish them to the hallway. I can’t possibly sit pleasurably in these, or on that,” She indicates to the settee upon which Lettice and Gerald sit. “And read a book. They aren’t designed for comfort. No, what we want, and need is some soft, modern comfort in here to make life here more pleasurable for us and our guests. I want to sit in here and enjoy the afternoon sun streaming through those from the luxury of a new settee, or invite guests to snuggle into plush new armchairs.”
“Margot does have a point, Lettice darling.” Gerald adds, looking mournfully at Lettice as he bounces gingerly on his half of the settee, the flattened velvet seat barely yielding to his moving form.
Lettice looks around again. “There are no portraits of women in here, nor children.”
“That’s because there aren’t any, anywhere in the house.” Margot replies.
“What?” Lettice queries.
“The captain was a confirmed old bachelor all his life.” adds Dickie.
“But he looks quite dashing in his naval uniform,” Lettice observes. “Surely with his successful career, looks and a house like this to boot, he must have had every eligible woman in Cornwall dashing to knock down his door.”
“Even Mrs. Trevethan’s mother, who no doubt was even more beautiful than her daughter at the time the captain was looking for a bride.” Gerald chuckles, his response rewarded with a withering look from Lettice.
“He may well have been a desirous prospect, Lettice darling,” Dickie agrees. “But he remained unmarried all his life, and he lived to a great age.”
“There is a rumour,” adds Margot, leaning forward conspiratorially for dramatic effect. “That there was a sweetheart: a local lady of good breeding and family. However, her father didn’t approve of an illegitimate son-in-law, even if he did have a successful naval career and a grand new residence. We don’t know whether she was coerced, or if she really didn’t love him, but whatever the cause, she refused him. They say that her refusal of his marriage proposal broke his heart, and he swore then and there that he would never marry.”
“Oh how romantic!” Lettice enthuses.
“There is also talk in the family,” Dickie adds. “That there is a lost portrait of her.”
“A lost portrait?” breathes Lettice excitedly.
“Yes, by Winterhalter******* no less.” Margot explains.
“Oh how thrilling!” Lettice gasps, clutching her beads with exhilaration this time.
“Have you found it yet, old bean?” Gerald asks.
“No! Of course not,” replies Dickie. “Otherwise it wouldn’t be a lost portrait, would it? Do try to keep up old chap!”
“Not that I haven’t gone sneaking around the house looking for it atop cupboards and at the back of wardrobes.” Margot adds eagerly.
“That’s undoubtedly because that cussing old harridan Mrs. Trevethan and her husband probably stole it as soon as the captain had taken his last breath,” explains Gerald. “And now it hangs over their drawing room fireplace in the gatekeeper’s lodge.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Gerald!” scoffs Dickie. “The Trevethans are a kindly pair, if perhaps a little rough and eccentric for our tastes. They love this house as much as we…” He glances at his wife before correcting himself. “Well, as much as I, do. No, we just haven’t found it yet. We may never find it because it might have been taken by someone else long ago, destroyed by the old captain himself in a fit of emotional rage…”
“Or,” adds Margot. “It could simply be a Channon family legend.”
“Exactly.” agrees Dickie with a satisfied sigh as he reaches over and takes up a chocolate biscuit, taking a large bite out of it. “It wouldn’t be the first if it is.”
“I know!” Lettice pipes up with a cheeky smile on her face. “Let’s play sardines******** together tonight, and then one of us might stumble across it in the most unlikely of hiding places.”
*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.
**The Prince Regent, later George IV, was king of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and King of Hanover from the death of his father, King George III, on 29 January 1820 until his own death ten years later. He had already been serving as Prince Regent since 5 February 1811, during his father's final mental illness. It is from him that we derive the Regency period in architecture, fashion and design.
***”Omlowenhewgh agas boes” is Cornish for “bon appetit”.
*****“Pur dha” is Cornish for “very good”.
*****‘Joanna Godden’ is a 1921 novel by British writer Sheila Kaye-Smith (1887 – 1956). It is a drama set amongst the sheep farmers of Romney Marsh in Kent.
******The meaning of the very British term “shall I be mother” is “shall I pour the tea?”
*******Sir Edwin Landseer Lutyens (1869 – 1944) was an English architect known for imaginatively adapting traditional architectural styles to the requirements of his era. He designed many English country houses, war memorials and public buildings, and was one of the architects of choice for the British upper classes between the two World Wars.
********Franz Xaver Winterhalter (1805 – 1873) was a German painter and lithographer, known for his flattering portraits of royalty and upper-class society in the mid-19th century. His name has become associated with fashionable court portraiture. Among his best known works are Empress Eugénie Surrounded by her Ladies in Waiting (1855) and the portraits he made of Empress Elisabeth of Austria (1865).
********Sardines is an active game that is played like hide and go seek — only in reverse! One person hides, and everyone else searches for the hidden person. Whenever a person finds the hidden person, they quietly join them in their hiding spot. There is no winner of the game. The last person to join the sardines will be the hider in the next round. Sardines was a very popular game in the 1920s and 1930s played by houseguests in rambling old country houses where there were unusual, unknown and creative places to hide.
This beautiful Regency interior with its smart furnishings may not be all that it seems, for it is made up entirely with miniatures from my collection, including a number of pieces that I have had since I was a child.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The two walnut Regency armchairs with their red velvet seats and ormolu mounts are made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq. So too are the two round occasional tables that flank the settee and one of the armchairs.
The round walnut coffee table was made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Creal miniatures.
The red velvet mahogany settee, the Regency sideboard and the two non matching mahogany and red velvet chairs at the far end of the room I have had since I was around six or seven, having been given them as either birthday or Christmas gifts.
The irises in the vase on the sideboard are very realistic looking. Made of polymer clay they are moulded on wires to allow them to be shaped at will and put into individually formed floral arrangements. They are made by a 1:12 miniature specialist in Germany. The vase in which it stands is spun of real glass and was made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in England. The detail in this Art Deco vase is especially fine. If you look closely, you will see that it is decorated with fine latticework.
Also made of real glass are the decanters of whiskey and port and the cranberry glass soda syphon also made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in England. The white roses behind the syphon are also from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering, as is the glass plate of biscuits you can see on the coffee table.
The two novels on the occasional table next to the armchair come from Shepherds Miniatures in England, whilst the wedding photo in the silver frame is a real photo, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frame comes from Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers in England.
On the occasional table beside the settee stands a miniature 1950s lidded powder bowl which I have had since I was a teenager. It is stamped on its base with a green Limoges stamp indicating the era.
The Royal Doulton style tea set featuring roses on the coffee table came from a miniature dollhouse specialist on E-Bay, whilst the silver teapot comes from Smallskale Miniatures in the United Kingdom.
The silver Regency tea caddy (lettice’s wedding gift to Margot and Dickie if you follow the “Life at Cavendish Mews” series), the slender candlestick and the tall two handled vase on the mantle were made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.
The British newspapers that sit in a haphazard stack on the footstool in the foreground of the picture are 1:12 size copies of ‘The Mirror’, the ‘Daily Express’ and ‘The Tattler’ made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. There is also a copy of ‘Country Life’ which was made by me to scale using the cover of a real 1921 edition of ‘Country Life’.
The plaster fireplace to the right of the photo comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom.
All the paintings around the drawing room in their gilded or black frames are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States and Marie Makes Miniatures in the United Kingdom.
The Persian rug on the floor has been woven by Pike, Pike and Company in the United Kingdom.
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 have left the hustle and bustle of London, travelling southwest to the pretty Cornish town of Penzance. A short drive out of the town, friends of Lettice, newlyweds Margot and Dickie Channon, have been gifted a Recency country “cottage residence” called ‘Chi an Treth’ (Cornish for ‘beach house’) as a wedding gift by the groom’s father, the Marquess of Taunton. Margot, encouraged by her father Lord de Virre who will foot the bill, has commissioned Lettice to redecorate a few of the principal rooms of ‘Chi an Treth’. In the lead up to the wedding, Lord de Virre has spent a great deal of money making the Regency house habitable after many years of sitting empty and bringing it up to the Twentieth Century standards his daughter expects, paying for electrification, replumbing, and a connection to the Penzance telephone exchange. With their honeymoon over, Dickie and Margot have finally taken possession of their country house gift and invited Lettice to come and spend a Friday to Monday with them earlier in the year so that she might view the rooms Margot wants redecorating for herself and could start formulating some ideas as to how modernise their old fashioned décor.
After gaining approval from Margot for her designs, Lettice has returned alone to ‘Chi an Treth’ for two days. Margot in her desire to turn ‘Chi an Treth’ from a dark Regency house to a more modern country house flooded with light, has instructed Lettice to dispose of some of the darker historical pieces of furniture from the house and replace them with newer, lighter pieces. This idea rather upset Lettice, who has a very strong sense of history. Fortunately, her dear friend Gerald came up with the idea that she can repaint and re-purpose a few pieces, thus satisfying Margot’s desires for lighter and newer pieces, whilst also keeping the history of furnishings intact within ‘Chi an Treth’. And that is why Lettice is back in Penzance. She has selected several rather nice pieces for repurposing, reupholstering and repainting or re-staining, and already they are on their way back to London in the back of a lorry which arrived at ‘Chi an Treth’ this morning. Lettice will deal with the selection of pieces when she returns to the capital later in the day.
Whilst in the vicinity, Lettice has decided to spend a leisurely afternoon in and around Penzance before travelling back to London by train, exploring the town’s sights. Not driving a motor car, Mr. Trevethan, one of ‘Chi an Treth’s’ caretakers and its only gardener, has put himself and his pony trap at Lettice’s disposal. With his knowledge of the area, having been born and bred in Penzance, Lettice has taken in some of the area’s churches, including the St. Pol de Leon Church in Paul with its recently installed Arts and Crafts Movement memorial window to Lieutenant William Torquil Macleod Bolitho, designed by Robert Anning Bell, the Gulval Parish Church, St. Mary the Virgin Church, and St. Hilary Church. Mr. Trevethan has also shown her Lanyon Quoit*.
Going home to ‘Chi an Treth’ for his dinner** and to collect Lettice’s luggage to then deliver to the Penzance railway station, Mr. Trevethan has left Lettice in town so that she can amuse herself and take luncheon at her leisure before walking down to the station in time to catch her afternoon train to London. Wandering along Penzance’s Chapel Street with its interesting huddles of mish-mashed Victorian, Georgian and older single and two storey buildings, whilst looking for a small café to take tea and a light early afternoon meal, she walks past a Georgian glass window full of interesting bits and pieces that catches her eye and distracts her from her search.
“Mrs. Trevithick’s Treasures.” she reads aloud from the sign painted in an elegant cursive script above the window and then bursts out laughing. “Goodness, is everyone in Penzance a Tre-something?”
Looking again in the window she spies through her own ghostly and distorted reflection some old and rather ornate Victorian vases, a green glass water jug decorated with flowers, two Staffordshire dogs, some horse brasses, a set of fire irons and some blue and white pottery amongst many other things crammed in together. The interesting array of items, placed in a deliberate, yet at the same time a higgledy-piggledy fashion suggests to Lettice that Mrs. Trevithick might indeed have some treasures, if only you took the time to explore.
She glances at the dainty gold wrist watch on her left hand, a gift from her Aunt Eglantine when she turned eighteen. “Oh well, there is a dining car on the train,” she assures herself. “I’ll forego luncheon in town.”
Ignoring her stomach’s gently rumbling protestations, she pushes open the door to Mrs. Trevithick’s Treasures and wanders in.
A bell above the door clangs noisily as Lettice steps across the threshold, announcing her presence. For a moment she is plunged into darkness as her eyes adjust from the bright spring sunshine outside to the dimmer interior of the curiosity shop. A comforting smell, a mixture of bees’ wax polish and old paper, reminds her of the premises of the cabinet maker and upholsterer that she employs in London. The shop is quiet, with only the sound of ticking clocks, and the muffled sound of passing foot traffic and gulls outside breaking the soft silence. As her sight returns, she discovers a large and wide low ceilinged room decorated with William Morris wallpaper which, like the window, is full to bursting with a haphazard arrangement of interesting and mismatched items. Chintz covered armchairs that would suit a cosy seaside cottage jostle for space with high backed Victorian dining chairs with ornate barley twist decoration. Tables of all sorts of shapes and sizes cluster about, covered in embroidered doilies, decorative china and tableware, figurines, novelty teapots and pieces of silver plate. The walls are covered in everything from clocks and paintings of differing shapes and sizes to an impressive stuffed deer’s head.
“Can I help you, dear?” a Cornish accented female voice pipes up from somewhere deep within the shop’s interior.
Lettice turns towards a cabinet full of brightly coloured glass which is where the voice appears to have originated from. It is then she sees the woman hunched over a desk covered in open books and papers, peering up at her through a pair of rather thick spectacles.
“Mrs. Trevithick, I presume?” Lettice asks.
“I am dear. Can I help you?” She smiles cheerily, revealing a set of lovely white teeth. “Are you looking for something in particular?”
Lettice considers Mrs. Trevithick for a moment. She is much younger than she assumed a proprietor of such a shop would be, possibly being only a little older than she herself, with pale almost translucent skin, alert brown eyes and raven black hair set in a Marcelled wave***. She is a doughy woman with thick limbs and a burgeoning stomach stretching the cheap fabric of a gaily floral spring frock. Green and red glass beads cascade down her front, the strands pushed together by her heavy breasts.
“Ah,” Lettice hesitates. “No. No thank you. I’m just having a browse. Thank you.”
“Very good dearie,” Mrs. Trevithick replies happily as she settles back down over the desk where she resumes sorting paperwork. “Just let me know if you do.”
Lettice wanders away, pausing momentarily to admire a rather nice chess set put out on an inlaid chess table before moving along to peer into a large cabinet set against a wall, its glass front covered in Art Nouveau fretwork.
“It’s a lovely piece that.” Mrs, Trevithick pipes up from her desk, causing Lettice to gasp and jump at the shattering of the shop’s silence. “It comes from a very nice house here in Penzance. A very good quality piece from a nice family.”
“Yes,” Lettice acknowledges. “I’m sure it is. It’s very fine.”
She quickly moves on, and glances at an old and dark wooden screen.
“That came from an old widow’s cottage,” Mrs. Trevithick calls again from her seat at her desk. “Lots of history in that one.”
“Quite.” Lettice’s clipped reply slice sharply through the musty fug of the shop as she hurriedly steps away from the screen, slightly unnerved by the proprietor’s keen interest in her every move around the shop.
“Yes,” Mrs. Trevithick continues, groaning as she heaves herself up from her seat, the beads down her front tinkling and clunking as they knock together with her movement. “Poor old dear, she died of the influenza a few years back, before she could tell me it’s whole provenance.” The bulging figure of the female proprietor is now full revealed as she waddles out from behind the desk, her curvaceous hip narrowly missing a rather pretty fluted cranberry glass vase with a gilded lip. “But I think it might be mid Victorian.”
Lettice cannot help herself. “I think you’ll find it’s probably Georgian,” she corrects the shopkeeper.
“Oh?” Mrs. Trevithick’s face narrows slightly as her mouth goes round in surprise, obviously unused to being told by potential customers the age of her pieces. “Know something about antiques do you, dearie?”
“Yes. I’m an interior designer.” Lettice says proudly.
Yet even as she speaks, Lettice realises her mistake, for Mrs. Trevithick’s dark eyes sparkle as she catches on to that little piece of information and clings to it, rather like a fisherman expertly hooking a prize catch of a fat fish.
“You’re not from around these parts, are you?” Mrs. Trevithick notes, moving closer.
“Ahh, no.” Lettice replies noncommittally as she distractedly picks up a rather ugly and garishly painted teapot in the shape of Queen Victoria.
“From London?” the shopkeeper persists, her tongue running along the inside of her teeth.
“Yes.” Lettice replies laconically as she replaces the unattractive squat piece of vulgar Victorian pottery to its place atop a prettily embroidered doily.
“A friend of the new master and mistress of ‘Chi an Treth’ then?” Mrs. Trevithick asks. “They come from London. Well at least Mrs. Channon does. Of course, Mr. Channon is the Marquess of Taunton’s son. However, you must know that, being their friend.”
Lettice sighs, realising that now she has given herself away a little, her battle for anonymity is all but lost under the gently lilting, yet persistent interrogation of an expert town gossip like Mrs. Trevithick. No doubt Mrs. Trevethan, or even her husband would have spread the gossip of the newlyweds arriving, followed closely by their two fine friends from London, through Penance via the shops they frequented or in Mr. Trevethan’s case, one of the town’s pubs. Lettice remembers what the parochial village gossip at Glynes**** is like. Whilst Penzance is significantly larger than the village of Glynes, evidently the insatiable desire for attractive gossip, especially from out-of-towners like Lettice, is just as rampant.
“Would you perchance happen to be the young woman from London commissioned to redecorate some of the principle rooms of ‘Chi an Treth’ then?” the proprietor’s sausage like fingers steeple in front of her heavy breasts as she moves even more closely to Lettice, like a hunting dog hot on the trail of its prey. Mrs. Trevithick’s voice is thick with expectant delight, and she sighs with undisguised pleasure when Lettice affirms that she is indeed the woman whom she refers to. “Well, this is a pleasant surprise then isn’t it?”
“Is it?” Lettice feigns a lack of concern as she eyes a rather nice wall clock with a shining brass pendulum, the face set to the wrong time, doubtless on purpose by Mrs. Trevithick to confuse her browsers and help them forget the time so they will delay longer in her shop and perhaps buy something.
“Yes.” the shopkeeper enthuses, her lashes batting slightly as she speaks. “For as you can see, I am a purveyor of old things that their former owners no longer wanted.”
Lettice’s eyes grow wide with shock at the blatant attempt the other woman has made to acquire pieces from ‘Chi an Treth’s’ interior furnishings through her. Fortunately, her back is turned to Mrs. Trevithick, so she cannot see Lettice’s repugnance of her. “I… I don’t quite follow,” Lettice pretends misunderstanding, turning to face the shop proprietor with her own lids lowered slightly so as not to engage with her intense stare.
“Oh well,” Mrs, Trevithick elucidates in an oily fashion. “I believe Mrs. Channon is wanting more up-to-date décor, something more suited to a fashionable London lady, and has advised Mrs. Trevethan to prepare to remove several offending furnishings from the house. If you are looking to sell those pieces, please look no further. I will give you the best prices for them in Penance.”
Lettice smiles, the triumph in what she is about to say teasing the edges of her finely painted lips upwards. “Oh I’m so sorry Mrs. Trevithick, but you have been misinformed.”
“I… I have?” she stutters.
“Or rather your informant is not in full possession of the facts,”
“She… she isn’t?”
“No.” Lettice carries on, a superior lilt sharpening her already well pronounced words. “You see, it is true that Mrs. Channon has commissioned me to update several of her principal rooms. However, like me, she respects the history of ‘Chi an Treth’ and wishes me to repurpose some of the, as you put it, offending pieces of furniture, rather than fling them all out. In fact, “ Lettice turns her head away, hiding behind the lilac velvet brim of her hat decorated with white lace and imitation violets. “They left for London on the back of a lorry just a few hours ago.”
As she speaks, Lettice’s eyes fall upon several rather pretty silhouettes hanging above a table covered in Staffordshire pottery and domed Victorian seashell specimens, to either side of a barley twist shadow cabinet full of pretty china trios. Housed in round ivory frames, three are of gentlemen and one of a woman, and as Lettice stares at them, she notices how finely they have been executed.
“However, you are correct about one thing, Mrs. Trevithick.”
“Yes?” the other woman asks, hope adding an upwards lilt to her question of Lettice.
Lettice turns back. “We can do a little business. You see, I rather like these four silhouettes in the oval frames.” She smiles politely at Mrs. Trevithick. “They appear to be fifteen shillings each, so that’s three pounds in total. If you’d kindly wrap them up for me, I’ll take them with me now, as I am to catch the afternoon train back to London shortly.”
“Of course, dearie.” Mrs. Trevithick replies, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice.
Mrs. Trevithick moves forward and carefully unfastens the wires suspending the pictures from the hooks on the wall before waddling back to her desk, where she carefully wraps each one in tissue paper. As she does, Lettice stands by the desk and watches as the pretty silhouettes up.
“I have one more question, madam.” the shopkeeper asks coolly, using the more formal title rather than her initial friendly endearment.
“Yes, Mrs. Trevithick?” Lettice replies.
“I take it you were the lady who found the missing painting of Miss Elowen Rosevear?” She folds tissue neatly around a black frame, her thick fingers remarkably adept at wrapping neatly. When Lettice nods affirmatively, she continues. “Is she really as beautiful as Mrs Trevethan says?”
Lettice looks at the crestfallen woman, her shoulders slumped, and feels sorry for her. “I’m not sure how Mrs, Trevethan described her, Mrs, Trevithick. I will say that she is very beautiful indeed with dark hair and an enigmatic smile.”
“Mrs. Trevethan says that Mr. and Mrs. Channon took her up to London with them when they left.”
“You surely don’t propose to buy her, do you Mrs. Trevithick?” Lettice bursts out laughing. “She may be a Winterhalter*****, which will probably put her out of the acquisition of a provincial high street curiosity shop.”
“Oh no,” the shopkeeper assures her, raising her hands from her work in defence of her words. “I was just wondering if she was coming home.”
“If?” Lettice queries.
“Well,” Mrs. Trevithick looks around her, as if suspecting the walls of her cluttered shop to have ears. “I shouldn’t say this, but I imagine that if you are friends with Mr. Channon, that this will be of no surprise.”
“Are you about to be indiscreet?”
“Probably. But I want to ask anyway.”
“Very well, Mrs, Trevithick. I’ll keep your confidences,” Lettice looks at her, cocking her eyebrows questioningly.
“Well, it is common knowledge that the Marquess has squandered quite a lot of money, and Mrs. Trevethan is concerned that if the painting really is a valuable one, it may not be returned to ‘Chi an Treth’, as the Marquess might sell it.”
“Why didn’t Mrs. Trevethan ask me this question herself, Mrs. Trevithick?”
The shopkeeper chuckles bitterly to herself. “Because, as you’ve noted already, madam, I am perhaps less discreet than she is. She would never ask such a question of her master and mistress, or any of their friends. That’s why she can work successfully in service, and I can’t. I lost more than one position in service before the war because I like gossip too much. I don’t wish the war we had on anyone, but it enabled me to take up factory work, and that was where I met my husband, and with our wages from factory work during the war, we were able to set up this shop. Mrs. Trevethan feels terrible that such a beautiful piece of the house’s history, a house that she loves and that has been her home for more than forty years, might now be lost.”
“Does she wish I hadn’t found Miss Rosevear’s portrait, Mrs. Trevithick?” Lettice asks.
“She hasn’t said that to me, madam, but I suspect it does grieve her a little. After all, Mrs. Trevethan is the caretaker of ‘Chi an Treth’. To lose such a treasure, for it to be sold up in London and to never see it again, would be most upsetting. I’m sure you can understand that.”
“I can, Mrs. Trevithick.”
“Then?” The shopkeeper recommences her wrapping, a final wrap of tissue paper hissing as it gets folded about the frames before being tied with string. “Then is Miss Rosevear’s painting coming home.”
“Well Mrs. Trevithick,” Lettice sighs. “Mrs. Channon wants Miss Rosevear’s portrait hanging in pride of place in the drawing room at ‘Chi an Treth’. I’ve been friends with Margot for quite a few years now, and I can say that she is used to getting her way. Therefore, no matter what the Marquess, or even Mr, Channon might wish,” Lettice winks conspiratorially. “I think Miss Rosevear will most certainly be coming home after being authenticated in London.”
As Mrs. Trevithick ties the last of the string in place to secure the four silhouettes and passes the neatly wrapped parcel across the counter, she smiles gratefully at Lettice. Lettice wonders if she has done the right thing by saying what she has to the shopkeeper. She knows that as soon as she leaves the shop, or not much after that, Mrs. Trevithick will put a closed sign across the door and scuttle away, possibly to ‘Chi an Treth’ to tell Mrs. Trevethan the good news. Although she believes her pronouncement for the most part, Gerald’s voice echoes at the back of her mind, worrying her, for he predicts that the Marquess will sell Miss Rosevear at auction if she is found to be a genuine Winterhalter. Reasonably, who could blame him if his own family coffers are empty and he wishes to maintain a certain level of gracious living to which he and his wife have always been accustomed. The Marquess and Marchioness of Taunton are not the only aristocrats in straitened circumstances with the demise of the Gilded Age thanks in part to the war, and many noble families are faced with the idea of marrying in a young American heiress to the family, or sell an old master. Lettice is only grateful that her family is not one of them, perhaps more owing to luck and he eldest brother Leslie’s influence rather than outright planning.
“Thank you, Mrs. Trevithick.” Lettice says politely as she opens the door, the clanging bell ringing loudly overhead.
“Goodbye, dearie.” the shopkeeper waves, having reverted back to her warmer term of endearment.
Lettice, her parcel settled neatly under her left arm, walks back out onto the street and starts her journey along Chapel Street, before turning right into Market Jew Street and heading towards the Penance railway station where her London bound train awaits her.
*Lanyon Quoit is believed to be a burial chamber or a mausoleum from prehistoric times, this well-known Cornish quoit collapsed during a storm in 1815, breaking some stones, and was re-erected several years later.
**It was not uncommon in lower-class households for luncheon to be the main meal of the day, and thus, even though it was had in the middle of the day, it was often referred to as dinner. A lighter meal taken in the evening was often referred to as tea, rather than dinner, often because it was had with a cup of tea, and in some very poor households might only have consisted of a slice of thin bread and dripping.
***Marcelling is a hair styling technique in which hot curling tongs are used to induce a curl into the hair. Its appearance was similar to that of a finger wave but it is created using a different method. Marcelled hair was a popular style for women's hair in the 1920s, often in conjunction with a bob cut. For those women who had longer hair, it was common to tie the hair at the nape of the neck and pin it above the ear with a stylish hair pin or flower. One famous wearer was American entertainer, Josephine Baker.
****Glynes is 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. The village of Glynes, named after the house, sprung up on one edge of the Chetwynd’s estate.
*****Franz Xaver Winterhalter (1805 – 1873) was a German painter and lithographer, known for his flattering portraits of royalty and upper-class society in the mid-19th century. His name has become associated with fashionable court portraiture. Among his best known works are Empress Eugénie Surrounded by her Ladies in Waiting (1855) and the portraits he made of Empress Elisabeth of Austria (1865).
This busy shop floor is a little different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures from my miniatures collection.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The four silhouettes in round ebonised frames are taken from real Victorian and Regency silhouettes and were made by hand by Lady Mile Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The two miniatures of a nightwatchman and a sweep came from Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in the United Kingdom.
The furnishings in Mrs. Trevithick’s shop include a floral armchair, Art Nouveau fretwork cabinet and leather topped Chippendale desk made by the high-end miniature furniture manufacturers, Bespaq, a Victorian dining chair made by Town Hall Miniatures a wooden screen made by Shackleton Miniatures and a Queen Anne lamp table that I have had since I was about seven years old.
The Chippendale carver chair is a very special piece. It is part of a Chippendale dining setting and came from the Petite Elite Miniature Museum, later rededicated as the Carol and Barry Kaye Museum of Miniatures, which ran between 1992 and 2012 on Los Angeles’ bustling Wiltshire Boulevard. One of the chairs still has a sticker under its cushion identifying which room of which dollhouse it came. The Petite Elite Miniature Museum specialised in exquisite and high end 1:12 miniatures. The furnishings are taken from a real Chippendale design.
On the Chippendale desk stand a selection of Staffordshire pieces including two Staffordshire dogs, a fox family, a pastille burner in the shape of a cottage (also called a “cottage orné”) and a cabbage bowl, all of which have been hand made, painted and gilded by Welsh miniature ceramist Rachel Williams who has her own studio, V&R Miniatures, in Powys. Also on the desk to either end stand shell and seaweed displays beneath a glass cloches. Vintage miniature pieces, the shells and seaweed are real. Their bases are stained wood and the cloche is real glass. These I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in the United Kingdom.
The cabinet to the left of the photograph is full of teapots and jugs made by French ceramicist and miniature artisan Valerie Casson. Valerie Casson is renown for her meticulously crafted and painted miniature ceramics.
The tea set on the centre of the image and the cups and saucers in the shadow box on the wall (also acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in the United Kingdom) all come from various online miniature stockists on E-Bay.
The clock on the wall and the painting of horses also came from Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in the United Kingdom.
The cranberry glass vase in the foreground has been hand blown from real cranberry glass and gilded. It comes from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The Queen Victoria teapot in the extreme foreground is a hand painted miniature by an unknown artist which I acquired from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom.
The beautiful 1:12 size chess set is an artisan piece. To give you an idea of size, the pawns are only two millimetres in height! There are two wooden drawers beneath the board to house the pieces when not in use, and what is really wonderful is that the chess board surface is magnetic, which holds each metal piece nicely in place until moved!
The Persian carpet beneath the furniture is hand made by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney, Australia.
The wallpaper on the cluttered walls is William Morris’ “Sweet Briar” paper that I have printed.
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.
Tonight however we have headed east of Cavendish Mews, down through St James’, past Trafalgar Square and down The Strand to one of London’s most luxurious and fashionable hotels, The Savoy*, where, surrounded by mahogany and rich red velvet, gilded paintings and extravagant floral displays, Lettice is having dinner with the son of the Duke of Walmsford, Selwyn Spencely. The pair have made valiant attempts to pursue a romantic relationship since meeting at Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie’s, Hunt Ball the previous year. Yet things haven’t been easy, their relationship moving in fits and starts, partially due to the invisible, yet very strong influence of Selwyn’s mother, Lady Zinnia, the current Duchess of Walmsford. Although Lettice has no solid proof of it, she is quite sure that Lady Zinnia does not think her a suitable match for her eldest son and heir. From what she has been told, Lettice also believes that Lady Zinnia is matchmaking Selwyn with his cousin Pamela Fox-Chavers. In an effort to see what her potential rival for Selwyn’s affections is like, Lettice organised an ‘accidental’ meeting of she, Pamela and Selwyn at the Royal Horticultural Society’s Great Spring Show** a few weeks ago. As a result of this meeting, Selwyn has finally agreed to explain to Lettice his evident reluctance to introduce her to his mother as a potentially suitable match. Yet as she walks beneath the grand new Art Deco portico of the Savoy and the front doors are opened for her by liveried doormen, Lettice is amazed that surrounded by so many fashionable people, Selwyn thinks the Savoy dining room is the place to have a discreet dinner, especially after they have been very discreet about their relationship for the past year.
Lettice is ushered into the grand dining room of the Savoy, a space brilliantly illuminated by dozens of glittering electrified chandeliers cascading down like fountains from the high ceiling above. Beneath the sparkling light, men in white waistcoats and women a-glitter with jewels and bugle bead embroidered frocks are ushered into the dining room where they are seated in high backed mahogany and red velvet chairs around tables dressed in crisp white tablecloths and set with sparkling silver and gilt china. The large room is very heavily populated with theatre patrons enjoying a meal before a show and London society out for an evening. The space is full of vociferous conversation, boisterous laughter, the clink of glasses and the scrape of cutlery against crockery as the diners enjoy the magnificent repast served to them from the hotel’s famous kitchens. Above it all, the notes of the latest dance music from the band can be heard as they entertain diners and dancers who fill the parquet dance floor.
A smartly uniformed waiter escorts Lettice to a table for two in the midst of the grand dining salon, where Selwyn, dressed in smart white tie stands and greets Lettice.
“My Angel!” he gasps, admiring her as she stands before him in a champagne coloured silk crepe gown decorated with sequins with a matching bandeau set amidst her Marcelled** hair. “Don’t you look ravishing!”
“Thank you, Selwyn.” Lettice purrs in pleasure as she allows the waiter to carefully slide the seat of the chair beneath her as she sits. “That’s very kind of you to say so.” She gracefully tugs at her elbow length white evening gloves.
Sparkling golden French champagne is poured into their crystal flutes from a bottle sitting in a silver cooler on the linen covered table by their obsequious waiter. The expansive menu is consulted with Lettice selecting Pied de Veau*** and Selwyn choosing Cambridge Sausages**** both dishes served with a light Salade Romaine*****. Polite conversation is exchanged between the two. Lettice is given congratulations on the great success of the publication of her article in ‘Country Life’******, which Selwyn has finally seen. Selwyn is asked how Pamela’s coming out ball went. The pair dance elegantly around the true reason they are there.
It is only when a large silver salver of cheeses is put down and they are served Vol-au-Vent de Volaille à la Royale******* on the stylish gilt edged white plates of the Savoy that Lettice finally plucks up the courage to start the conversation that they have been trying to avoid.
Cutting a small piece of flaky golden pastry and spearing it with a piece of tenderly cooked chicken and a head of mushroom Lettice inserts it into her mouth and sighs with delight.
“There is nothing nicer than dinner at the Savoy, is there my Angel?” Selwyn addresses his dinner partner.
“Indeed no,” Lettice agrees after swallowing her dainty mouthful. “However, I must confess that I was surprised that you chose the Savoy dining room for us to meet. It’s the most indiscreet place to have a discreet dinner.” She deposits her polished silver cutlery onto the slightly scalloped edge of her plate. “We’ve been so careful up until now, choosing places where we are less likely to garner attention. Here we sit amongst all the most fashionable people of London society. There are bound to be friends of both your parents and mine who will see us sitting here together at a table for two.” She glances around at the bejewel decorated ladies looking like exotic birds in their brightly coloured frocks and feathers and their smartly attired male companions. “There are even photographers here this evening.”
“I know my Angel.” Selwyn replies matter-of-factly before putting a small amount of his own vol-au-vent into his mouth.
“Whilst I know my mother won’t mind seeing my name associated with yours, or a picture of the two of us together at the Savoy,” She glances nervously at Selwyn as he serenely chews his second course. “I thought we were trying to avoid Zinnia’s attention.”
Selwyn finishes his mouthful and then takes a slip of champagne before elucidating somewhat mysteriously. “A change of plans, my Angel.”
“A change of plans, Selwyn?” Lettice queries, running her white evening glove clad fingers over the pearls at her throat as she worries them. “What does that mean? I don’t understand.”
“You and I have had some rather awkward conversations over my refusal to introduce you to Zinnia, haven’t we, Lettice?”
“We have, darling Selwyn. And I thought that was what we were going to talk about this evening.”
“And so we will, but I also want this evening to be a statement of intention.”
“A statement of intention?” Lettice’s heart suddenly starts to beat faster as she licks her lips.
“Yes. . I invited you here this evening because it is one of the most fashionably public places to be seen. I want people to see us together this evening, my darling, whether it be Zinnia’s spies amongst us, or just the general citizenry of society. I also thought that since there is a rather ripping band playing tonight, that you and I might cut a rug******** a bit later and that perhaps we might get photographed. Zinnia won’t want to meet you, unless your presence is waved in front of her like a red rag to a bull.”
“I’m not sure I like that term when used in conjunction with your mother, Selwyn darling.” Lettice says warily.
“But it’s true. For all her forthrightness and ferocity, Zinnia is very good at playing ostriches when she wishes, and pretending not to see things she doesn’t want to see.” Selwyn explains before taking another sip of champagne. “I should have done this earlier, like when we agreed that I would escort you to your friend Priscilla’s wedding in November last year. However, I wasn’t man enough to stand up to her. Now I want to make a statement about you, about us,” He reaches out and places his pale and elegant right hand bearing a small signet ring over Lettice’s evening glove clad left hand, staring Lettice directly in the eye. “And I need Zinnia to sit up and take notice.”
Lettice picks up her champagne flute in her right hand and quickly sips as small amount of the effervescent beverage to whet her suddenly dry throat. She considers what Selwyn has just said along with other things people have said to her about Selwyn and Lady Zinnia over the last year since she reacquainted herself with Selwyn.
“The day I attended Priscilla’s wedding without you,” Lettice begins. “I met Sir John Nettleford-Hughes.”
“Sir John!” Selwyn scoffs, releasing Lettice’s hand, leaving a warm patch that Lettice can still feel through the thin fabric of her white glove. “He’s one of Zinnia’s cronies. I’m quite sure that they had,” Selwyn pauses whilst he finds the right word. “An understanding, shall we say, when they were both younger.” He looks at Lettice again. “I hope I didn’t shock you, my Angel.”
“Not at all, Selwyn darling.” Lettice assures him. “After all, I am twenty-three now, and a lady who has set forth into the world.”
“I’m glad my Angel. I’d never want to shock you with something like that.”
“It doesn’t shock me, Selwyn darling, but it would explain some things he said to me that day when I was cornered by him.”
“Cornered?”
“Yes. I now think he deliberately sought me out and cornered me so he could tell me what he did.”
“What did Sir John say?” Selwyn queries.
“I didn’t really pay that much attention to it,” Lettice begins, glancing down at her partially eaten vol-au-vent. “At least not at first. I thought he was just spitting venom at me because I spurned his affections the evening of Mater’s Hunt Ball when I met you.”
“What did he say?” Selwyn presses anxiously.
“When I explained your absence as my escort – he only knew because he is related to Cilla’s mother and she had been crowing to him about your attendance at the wedding – he laughed when I said that you were at Clendon********* meeting Pamela. He said it was not a coincidence that you were forced to cancel your own plans in preference for spending time with your cousin. He said that your mother had orchestrated it.”
“And so she had, my Angel.” Selwyn conforms. “And that is why I said that I should have been more of a man and stood up to Zinnia at that time. However,” He releases a pent up breath which he exhales shudderingly. “Zinnia is not someone to cross, especially when she is determined, or in a foul mood, of which she was both.”
“Sir John said that even though we had been discreet about spending time together, that your mother already knew about our assignations.”
“I would imagine him to be quite correct.”
“I accused him of telling her, but he denied it.”
“I would doubt that even as a crony of Zinnia, he would have had the pleasure of breaking the news of your existence as a potential future daughter-in-law to her. Zinnia’s talons reach far and wide, and her spies exist in some of the most unlikely places. What else did Sir John have to say?”
“He said that your mother is the one who would undoubtedly arrange your marriage to suit her own wishes. He implied that I ought not tip my cap at you since you were not free to make your own decision when it came to the subject of marriage. He said that even your father wouldn’t cross your mother on that front.”
Selwyn chuckles sadly. “Sir John is well informed.”
“So it’s true then?”
“What is, darling?”
“That you aren’t free to marry.”
“No, of course not. Not even Zinnia with all her bluster can force me to marry someone I don’t want to.”
Lettice releases a breath she didn’t even realise she was holding in her chest beneath the silk crepe and sparkling beading of her gown.
“However, Zinnia and my Uncle Bertrand have their own plans as regards Pammy and her relationship to me, and they are both applying pressure to both of us.”
“Sir John said that too.” Lettice utters deflatedly.
“I should like to point out, my Angel, that I was not aware as to the plans and plotting afoot for Pammy and I when I met you again at your mother’s ball.” Selwyn assures Lettice. “I didn’t even know about it in the lead up to Priscilla’s wedding. It was only that weekend at Clendon when I was first reintroduced to Pammy and I inadvertently overheard snippets of private conversations Zinnia and my uncle that I realised that they had been hatching their plot to bind us into a marriage of convenience to bind our families closer together for almost as long as Pammy has been alive.”
“So this wasn’t something new, then?”
“It was to me, Lettice darling, but not to them. Do you remember I told you at the Great Spring Show that my real aunt, Bertrand’s first wife, Miranda, was a bolter**********?”
“Yes Selwyn.”
“And that he fled to America and that was where he met Rosalind?”
“Yes Selwyn.”
“Well, the reason why he fled to New York was because the failure of his marriage to Miranda and her desertion of him led to quite a scandal. The scandal clung to Pammy, long after Miranda was gone, and I think after a he married Rosalind, being connected to an element of scandal herself, being a divorcée, she hatched the plan with Uncle Bertrand and Zinnia with Pammy’s social well being at heart.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I mean that from the outside, there is nothing unusual or untoward about two distant cousins marrying. The fact that the Spencely and Fox-Chavers happen to be two very distinguished and wealthy old families who would doubtless look to intermarry across the generations also throws off any whiff of scandal.”
“Are you saying they planned to marry you two so that Pamela would be untarnished by her mother’s actions?”
“Yes.”
“But how is the child responsible for her mother’s sins, Selwyn?”
“You know as well as I do, coming from a family as old and well established as your own, Lettice, that scandal sticks like glue.”
“Then why throw a ball for Pamela? Why introduce her to society?”
“Because as the next Duke of Walmsford, it is only fitting that I should marry a suitable girl from a suitable family who has been presented in society. Certain families won’t allow their daughters to socialise with poor Pammy, and I’m quite sure that whilst they send their eligible sons, just as many would never countenance a marriage between them and Pammy.”
“So if Pamela marries well, into a family who would welcome her, she is absolved of any wrongdoings of her mother. There is no whiff of scandal and she rises above reproach.”
“Exactly.” Selwyn sighs. “Clever girl.”
Lettice takes a larger than usual gulp of champagne as she allows the thoughts just formed from their conversation to sink in. “And how does Pamela feel about this? Does she even know that she is being matched with you, Selwyn?”
“Yes she does,” Selwyn explains. “Although I was the one who told her. However, like me, she has no desire to see us to get married. She barely knows me, and both of us treat each other like siblings rather than potential romantic marriage prospects.”
“Does she know why your mother, aunt and uncle hatched this plan?”
“Well,” Selwyn replies uncertainly. “She knows her mother deserted Uncle Bertrand, but I don’t think she realises that Miranda’s legacy to her is a tainted one, and I’m quite sure she doesn’t know about some of the other debutante’s families attitudes towards her because of Miranda’s actions.”
“So what is she to do, if no decent bachelor will have her, and you won’t marry her?”
“I didn’t say that no eligible bachelors would consider marriage with Pammy, Angel, only some.” Selwyn says with a smile. “And half of those who won’t marry her would only have wanted to marry her for her money.”
“You sound as if you know something.” Lettice remarks, giving her dinner partner a perplexed look.
“Oh I wouldn’t go as far as to say that, my Angel.” he replies mysteriously.
“So, what would you say then, Selwyn darling?” Lettice prods.
“I’d go so far as to say that being the happy and pretty young thing that she is, Pammy is in no short supply of admirers whose families would overlook her mother’s status as a bolter.”
“Because they want to marry her for her Fox-Chavers money?”
“Well, there are a few of those, I’ll admit,” Selwyn agrees. “But that is why her dear cousin Selwyn is escorting her to all these rather tedious London Season occasions. I can keep those wolves away. However even if we discount them, there are still a few rather decent chaps who are vying for Pammy’s attentions.”
“Are there any that Pamela is interested in?” Lettice asks hopefully.
“As a matter of fact there are two young prospects whom she is quite keen on, or so she confides in me.”
“Oh that’s wonderful, Selwyn!” Lettice deposits her glass on the linen covered surface of the table and claps her hands in delight, beaming with a smile of happy relief. The her face falls. “But then, what are we all to do? Hasn’t your mother charged you with chaperoning Pamela throughout the Season?”
“Well, that was the other reason why I decided to bring you to the Savoy, my Angel.” Selwyn remarks. “We need to be seen together about town, and the best way to do that is to be seen at the functions and places that will be popular because they are part of the London Season, like cricket matches at Lords, and the Henley Regatta************.”
“And the Goodwood races!” adds Lettice with enthusiasm. “And Cowes week************!”
“That’s the spirit, my Angel!” Selwyn encourages her with equal enthusiasm. “Zinnia has charged me with chaperoning Pammy for her own end, but we will use the Season to thwart her with our own ends in mind.”
“Oh Selwyn, how clever you are! What a darling you are!”
Just at that time, the waiter who served them their vol-au-vents and player of cheese approaches the table. Noticing their half eaten meals and their cutlery sitting idle, he tentatively asks, “Shall I clear now, Your Grace?”
“If you would fetch us clean plates and cutlery for the cheese.” Selwyn replies. “Which I think we shall enjoy after a turn on the dancefloor. Don’t you agree, my Angel?” He stands up, pushing his chair back and offering Lettice his hand.
“I do indeed, Selwyn darling!” Lettice pulls her napkin from her lap and drops it on the tabletop.
The waiter pulls out Lettice’s chair, and taking Selwyn’s hand, Lettice allows him to lead her proudly across the dining room of the Savoy. Pairs of eyes note the handsome young couple and lips whisper behind glove clad hands and fans as remarks are made as to who they are and that they appear to be together as a couple, yet for the first time since the night of her mother’s Hunt ball, Lettice doesn’t care what people are thinking or saying. She feels light, as though floating on a cloud, and as she falls comfortably into Selwyn’s strong arms and they begin to sway to the music, she feels proud to be with Selwyn: the man she is falling in love with, and who intends to marry her.
*The Savoy Hotel is a luxury hotel located in the Strand in the City of Westminster in central London. Built by the impresario Richard D'Oyly Carte with profits from his Gilbert and Sullivan opera productions, it opened on 6 August 1889. It was the first in the Savoy group of hotels and restaurants owned by Carte's family for over a century. The Savoy was the first hotel in Britain to introduce electric lights throughout the building, electric lifts, bathrooms in most of the lavishly furnished rooms, constant hot and cold running water and many other innovations. Carte hired César Ritz as manager and Auguste Escoffier as chef de cuisine; they established an unprecedented standard of quality in hotel service, entertainment and elegant dining, attracting royalty and other rich and powerful guests and diners. The hotel became Carte's most successful venture. Its bands, Savoy Orpheans and the Savoy Havana Band, became famous. Winston Churchill often took his cabinet to lunch at the hotel. The hotel is now managed by Fairmont Hotels and Resorts. It has been called "London's most famous hotel". It has two hundred and sixty seven guest rooms and panoramic views of the River Thames across Savoy Place and the Thames Embankment. The hotel is a Grade II listed building.
**May 20 1913 saw the first Royal Horticultural Society flower show at Chelsea. What we know today as the Chelsea Flower Show was originally known as the Great Spring Show. The first shows were three day events held within a single marquee. The King and Queen did not attend in 1913, but the King's Mother, Queen Alexandra, attended with two of her children. The only garden to win a gold medal before the war was also in 1913 and was awarded to a rock garden created by John Wood of Boston Spa. In 1919, the Government demanded that the Royal Horticultural Society pay an entertainment tax for the show – with resources already strained, it threatened the future of the Chelsea Flower Show. Thankfully, this was wavered once the Royal Horticultural Society convinced the Government that the show had educational benefit and in 1920 a special tent was erected to house scientific exhibits. Whilst the original shows were housed within one tent, the provision of tents increased after the Great War ended. A tent for roses appeared and between 1920 and 1934, there was a tent for pictures, scientific exhibits and displays of garden design. Society garden parties began to be held, and soon the Royal Horticultural Society’s Great Spring Show became a fixture of the London social calendar in May, attended by society ladies and their debutante daughters, the occasion used to parade the latter by the former. The Chelsea Flower Show, though not so exclusive today, is still a part of the London Season.
***Pied de Veau is a dish of calves feet served in a thick creamy chicken sauce, often served with carrots and onions.
****Cambridge Sausages are made from coarse ground lean and fatty pork with binder (rice in some receipts) and a heavy admixture of sweet spices such as mace, ginger and nutmeg, linked, in medium skins.
*****Salade Romaine is a salad made of Romaine lettuce, cherry tomatoes, cucumbers, red onions, parmesan cheese, and a delicious olive garden dressing.
******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.
*******Vol-au-Vent de Volaille à la Royale is a dish of sliced chicken with mushroom and quenelles cooked in a cream sauce served in a puff pastry casing. The Savoy’s kitchens were famous for their deliciously light and tasty vol-au-vent selections, with 1920s menus often containing a selection of four to six varieties as plats du jour.
********The term “cutting a rug” emerged in the 1920s from American culture and became common parlance on both sides of the Atlantic by the 1930s. It came about because of African American couples doing the Lindy Hop (also known as the Jitterbug). This was vigorous, highly athletic dancing that when done continuously in one area made the carpet appear as though it was “cut” or “gashed”. Selwyn using this language would have been at the front of the latest fashion for exciting youthful language from America.
*********Clendon is the family seat of the Duke and Duchess of Walmsford in Buckinghamshire.
**********A Bolter is old British slang for a woman who ended her marriage by running away with another man.
***********The Henley Royal regatta is a leisurely “river carnival” on the Thames. It was at heart a rowing race, first staged in 1839 for amateur oarsmen, but soon became another fixture on the London social calendar. Boating clubs competed, and were not exclusively British, and the event was well known for its American element. Evenings were capped by boat parties and punts, the air filled with military brass bands and illuminated by Chinese lanterns. Dress codes were very strict: men in collars, ties and jackets (garishly bright ties and socks were de rigueur in the 1920s) and crisp summer frocks, matching hats and parasols for the ladies.
************Cowes Week is one of the longest-running regular regattas in the world, and a fixture of the London Season. With forty daily sailing races, up to one thousand boats, and eight thousand competitors ranging from Olympic and world-class professionals to weekend sailors, it is the largest sailing regatta of its kind in the world. Having started in 1826, the event is held in August each year on the Solent (the area of water between southern England and the Isle of Wight made tricky by strong double tides). It is focussed on the small town of Cowes on the Isle of Wight.
This splendid array of cheeses on the table would doubtless be enough to please anyone, but I suspect that even if you ate each cheese and biscuit on this silver tray, you would still come away hungry. This is because they, like everything in this scene, are in reality 1:12 size miniatures from my miniatures collection, including pieces from my childhood.
Fun things to look for in this tableau:
The silver tray of biscuits have been made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. The cheeses and the vol-au-vents come from Beautifully handmade Miniatures in Kettering, as do the two slightly scalloped white gilt plates and the wonderful golden yellow roses in the vase on the table. The cutlery I acquired through Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. The silver champagne cooler on the table is made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The bottle of champagne itself is hand made from glass and is an artisan miniature made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The bottle is De Rochegré champagne, identified by the careful attention paid to recreating the label in 1:12 scale. The two glasses of sparkling champagne are made of real glass and were made by Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom.
The two red velvet upholstered high back chairs I have had since I was six years old. They were a birthday present given to me by my grandparents.
The painting in the background in its gilded frame is a 1:12 artisan piece made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States.
The red wallpaper is beautiful artisan paper given to me by a friend, who has encouraged me to use a selection of papers she has given me throughout the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.
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. Lettice is visiting her family home for Christmas and has stayed on to celebrate New Year’s Eve with them as well. She motored down to Wiltshire with her old childhood chum, Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy who has tried to gain some independence from his family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street. His family, the Brutons, are neighbours to the Cheywynds with their properties sharing boundaries. That is how Gerald and Lettice came to be such good friends. However, whilst both families are landed gentry with lineage going back centuries, unlike Lettice’s family, Gerald’s live in a much smaller baronial manor house and are in much more straitened circumstances.
Christmas has been and gone, and with it, Lettice’s elder sister Lalage (known to everyone in the family by the diminutive Lally), her husband Charles and their children and Lettice’s Aunt Eglantine, leaving the house emptier and significantly quieter, especially in the absence of the children. It is New Year’s Eve 1921, and nearly midnight as we find ourselves in the very grand and elegant drawing room of Glynes with its gilt Louis and Palladian style furnishings where Lettice has gathered with her father, mother, Leslie, Gerald and his parents Lord and Lady Bruton. Bramley, the Chetwynd’s butler has just delivered two bottles of champagne from the Glynes’ well stocked cellar which now chill in silver coolers and champagne glasses for everyone on a silver tray.
“Thank you Bramley,” the Viscount acknowledges his faithful retainer. “Will you stay and have a glass of champagne with us?”
“Thank you, My Lord.” he replies. “That’s most generous of you. However, we are having a small celebration of our own below stairs.”
“Well, I hope you’ve chosen a good vintage for everyone to enjoy, Bramley.”
“Very good of you, My Lord. There seemed to be a surplus of Deutz and Geldermann 1902 according to my records.”
“Very good Bramley.” the Viscount beams. “Well, happy New Year to you and all the staff.”
“Thank you My Lord.” replies the butler. Turning to the wider room where Lady Sadie and Lady Gwyneth are settled on the Louis style settee, Lord Bruton on the embroidered salon chair by the fire and Lettice and Gerald standing by the fireplace he announced in his deep burbling voice, “Happy New Year my lords, ladies and gentlemen.”
“Oh, happy new year, Bramley,” Lady Sadie replies, giving him one of her crisp, yet not ungenuine smiles. “Please pass our very best new year wishes to all the staff, won’t you?”
“I will My Lady,” Bramley replies as he retreats through the double doors of the salon, leaving the family and their select few guests to enjoy their celebrations in private.
“Not long to go now, everyone!” Lord Wrexham announces excitedly, spying the face of the Rococo clock on the mantelpiece between Lettice and Gerald’s conspiring figures as they lean against the mantle languidly. “Just another few minutes until it is nineteen twenty-two!”
“Shall we gather then, Chetwynd?” mutters Lord Bruton as he struggles to raise himself from the elegantly petit-point covered gilt salon chair, groaning as his wiry frame returns to an upright position. “Come on old gal!” he calls good naturedly to his wife as he reaches out a hand to help her rise.
“A little less of the old if you don’t mind!” Lady Gwyneth chides her husband, yet with a playful smile, as she takes his hand firmly. She releases a rather wheezing cough as she struggles to get to her feet.
Lettice looks over at her friend’s mother as she wobbles a little as she tries to regain her balance. Lady Gwenyth’s health has been in gradual decline over the last year, but the winter of 1921 in particular has taken the glow from her apple half cheeks, and as she wraps her elegant, if somewhat old fashioned Edwardian beaded evening gown around her, Lettice observes for the first time how much weight she has lost. With a full bosom and curvaceous hips, Lady Gwyneth was the height of femininity before the war, yet now that soft, doughy roundness that Lettice found so comforting as a child when enveloped in one of her all embracing cuddles, has been replaced by a somewhat sharper, more angular figure, that even the flowing lines of a Lucile* gown cannot completely smother in romantic swathes of satin and tulle.
“Are you alright, Lady Gwyneth?” Lettice asks in concern.
“Just the remnants of that chest cold I had last month, my dear. And what is this ‘Lady Gwyneth’ business, Lettice?” the older matron asks, giving Lettice a rather surprised look. “Since when have you become so grown up that I am no longer Aunt Gwen?”
Lettice feels a flush of embarrassment rise up her neck and fill her cheeks as she chuckles awkwardly.
“Mamma,” Leslie reaches down and offers his mother his hand to help her rise from the settee.
“Children are always so anxious to grow up,” Lady Sadie replies and looking over to her daughter and friend’s son. “And make their own decisions.”
“Well, a bit of independence living up in London hasn’t done Gerald any harm.” Lord Bruton blusters, turning and giving his son a slap on the back that makes the slender young man buckle forward and elicit a cough of his own.
“Yes, well,” Lady Sadie replies noncommittally, giving her daughter an appraising stare through narrowed, scrutinising eyes, which suggests that she does not feel the same about Lettice’s own levels of independence. She turns back to her eldest son and pats his hand kindly. “Thank you my dear. You are a good boy.” Then returning her gaze to her daughter, she continues, “The ability to self-govern and make decisions is far more attractive in a gentleman than a lady.” She emphasises the last word, her eyes growing almost imperceptibly wider, before turning to her husband.
“Oh I don’t know, Sadie,” her husband counters. “I rather like a bit of pluck in a girl.” He looks at his youngest daughter and gives her a beatific smile. “Why just look at Eglantine.”
“Yes let’s,” mutters Sadie disapprovingly as she fusses with the long rope of pearls about her neck. “She’s an unmarried artist in her fifties who lives in Maida Vale.”
“Little Venice**, Sadie,” the Viscount protests. He gives his wife a wounded glance. “Be kind.”
“And Aunt Eggy is an exhibited artist.” Leslie adds proudly. “At the Royal Academy*** no less.”
“Yes, well,” mutters Lady Sadie again.
Not wishing to engage in her mother’s conversation, Lettice turns to Gerald purposefully and asks, “So where is Rowland tonight, since he deigned to turn down Pater’s invitation this evening? It must be something special for him not to eat someone else’s good food and drink their quality champagne.”
Gerald glances anxiously across at his parents as they gather with Lettice’s parents and Leslie as they mill around the gilded tea table where the Viscount pops a bottle of champagne to a smattering of laughter and applause. Lowering his voice and sinking it closer to his friend Gerald says, “You have my big brother pegged well, darling. However, it’s not so much something, as someone.”
Lettice’s eyes grow wide. “Who Gerald? I didn’t think he liked any of the Huntington girls.”
“I think you need to lower your expectations, Lettuce Leaf.” Gerald replies.
"Don't call me that Gerald. You know I hate it." She slaps him playfully on the forearm for using her much hated childhood nickname.
"I know darling, but you are so easily baited."
“Whatever do you mean, ‘lower my expectations’, Gerald?”
“Well, let’s just say that he is down at The George tonight.” Gerald elucidates.
“Not Mr. Partridge’s daughter, Becky?” Lettice’s eyes grow round in shock. “But she’s the…”
“The barmaid,” Gerald finishes her sentence for her. “Yes, I know. But Mater and Pater don’t, so please don’t say anything.”
“As if I would, Gerald!” Lettice replies, raising a hand to her throat as she feels the warmth of a fresh flush again. “Mind you, Glynes is only a small village. News is bound to reach your parents if he is being so indiscreet.”
“I know. I know.” Gerald flaps his hands distractedly. “I’ve told him that he’s playing with fire. Mater and Pater think he’s at a New Year’s Eve party at the Fenton’s.”
“Well at least he is smart enough there. The Fentons are far enough away that Aunt Gwen is unlikely to make enquiries. But Becky works in her father’s pub, and The George is the heart of the village, and he’ll be the subject of gossip in no time.”
Gerald raises his hands in defence. “I can’t do any more than I already have. You know how Roland’s head is turned by a pretty face.”
“Yes,” Lettice muses. “Like Lionel. Let’s hope that Rowland doesn’t get Becky in the family way like Lionel did our first parlour maid. I don’t think your parents can afford to pack Rowland off to Kenya, like my parents did Lionel, nor bribe the mother-to-be with hush money.”
“Good heavens no. They can’t afford to patch the roof of Bruton Hall, never mind buy Rowland a farm outside of Nairobi.” Gerald agrees. “Besides, unlike Lionel, Rowland is the heir. What would have your parents done if it had been Leslie?”
Lettice looks over at her eldest brother, who catches her eye with an imploring look as he is accosted by their mother and Lady Gwyneth. “Luckily, we don’t need to find out. Leslie is taking his duties as the heir to Glynes very seriously, and his character is beyond reproach.”
“What are you two whispering about over there?” the Viscount calls over to Gerald and Lettice.
“Plotting the downfall of the establishment, piece by piece,” Leslie suggests playfully, gratefully breaking away from the two matrons to join his father’s conversation.
“We are doing no such thing, Leslie!” Lettice laughs.
“Well, whatever it is, stop being rude and come over here and whisper your intrigues to all of us,” Viscount Wrexham replies. “It’s nearly midnight.”
Lettice and Gerald walk across the old carpet and join the others, accepting a flute of sparking champagne from Viscount Wrexham as they gather about the gilded tea table with the others.
“Now,” Lord Wrexham begins in a commanding tone. “What are your New Year wishes, everyone?” He looks about the faces of the company gathered together. “Bruton? What’s yours?”
Lord Bruton looks up at his neighbour. “Well, it’s frightfully dull and practical, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say I wanted the roof of Brunton Hall mended.”
“Capital idea!” the Viscount replies, raising his glass cheerfully. “Nothing wrong with a practical wish. Gwyneth?”
“Oh I think I want what most mothers want for their children, Cosmo,” She looks firstly at Leslie, then Lettice and finally her younger son Gerald with a warm, if slightly tired smile. “Their happiness.”
“Well, I will concur with that,” adds Lady Sadie animatedly. “I wish for a successful Hunt Ball this year.” She glares at Lettice, who quickly disengages from her mother’s gaze and glances at the rich patterning of the carpet.
“Well, we are all looking forward to that Sadie,” Gwyneth enthuses. “It will be the event of the county calendar I’m sure.”
“Leslie?” the Viscount asks.
“A successful cattle sale with record prices, Father.” Leslie replies, raising his own glass.
“Well, I’ll second that, my boy!” Viscount Wrexham replies, raising his glass once again.
“I’m hoping for further success as a result of Margot’s wedding dress,” Gerald pipes up, glancing quickly at his father, who gives him somewhat of a hostile look which causes him to turn promptly to his mother, who smiles proudly at him. “I’ve already got three new clients as a result of the photos in Vogue.”
“See?” Lady Gwyneth says, opening her arms expansively as she looks around at the others. “What did I tell you? Happiness, that’s what we wish for.”
“Happiness and success,” Lettice adds. Looking across at her mother she expands with a steely determination in her voice. “Success in whatever form it comes.”
“Very good, my girl!” the Viscount raises his glass again. “Now, it’s midnight. Raise your glasses!”
The clock on the mantle chimes midnight prettily, in the distance somewhere, a church bell rings out across the quiet night and the muffled sound of cheers drift up from the servant’s quarters.
“Happy New Year!” Viscount Wrexham cheers. “Happy nineteen twenty-two!”
“Happy nineteen twenty-two!” everyone echoes as they raise their glasses and clink them together happily.
*Lucile – Lucy, Lady Duff Gordon was a leading British fashion designer in the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries who use the professional name Lucile. She was the originator of the “mannequin parade”, a pre-cursor to the modern fashion parade, and is reported to have been the person to first use the word “chic” which she then popularised. Lucile is also infamous for escaping the Titanic in a lifeboat designed for forty occupants with her husband and secretary and only nine other people aboard, seven being crew members.
**Little Venice is a district in West London, England, around the junction of the Paddington Arm of the Grand Union Canal, the Regent's Canal, and the entrance to Paddington Basin. The junction forms a triangular shape basin. Many of the buildings in the vicinity are Regency white painted stucco terraced town houses and taller blocks (mansions) in the same style.
***The Royal Academy of Arts (RA) is an art institution based in Burlington House on Piccadilly in London. Founded in 1768, it has a unique position as an independent, privately funded institution led by eminent artists and architects. Its purpose is to promote the creation, enjoyment and appreciation of the visual arts through exhibitions, education and debate.
This festive upper-class scene is not all that it may appear to be, for it is made up entirely of pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The champagne glasses are 1:12 artisan miniatures. Made of glass, they have been blown individually by hand by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering and are so fragile and delicate that even I with my dainty fingers have broken the stem of one. They stand on an ornate Eighteenth Century style silver tray made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The two wine coolers are also made by Warwick Miniatures. The Deutz and Geldermann champagne bottles are also an artisan miniature and made of glass with a miniature copy of a real Deutz and Geldermann label and some real foil wrapped around their necks. It was made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. Even the ice blocks in the coolers are made to scale and also came from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The gilt tea table in the foreground of the photo on which they all stand is made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.
The Chetwynd Christmas tree, beautifully decorated by Lettice, Harold and Arabella with garlands, tinsel, bows golden baubles and topped by a sparking gold star is a 1:12 artisan piece. It was hand made by husband and wife artistic team Margie and Mike Balough who own Serendipity Miniatures in Newcomerstown, Ohio.
The Palladian console table behind the Christmas tree, with its two golden caryatids and marble top, is one of a pair that were commissioned by me from American miniature artisan Peter Cluff. Peter specialises in making authentic and very realistic high quality 1:12 miniatures that reflect his interest in Georgian interior design. His work is highly sought after by miniature collectors worldwide. This pair of tables are one-of-a-kind and very special to me.
The gilt chair to the right of the photo is made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq, but what is particularly special about it is that it has been covered in antique Austrian floral micro petite point by V.H. Miniatures in the United Kingdom, which also makes this a one-of-a-kind piece. The artisan who made this says that as one of her hobbies, she enjoys visiting old National Trust Houses in the hope of getting some inspiration to help her create new and exciting miniatures. She saw some beautiful petit point chairs a few years ago in one of the big houses in Derbyshire and then found exquisitely detailed petit point that was fine enough for 1:12 scale projects.
The elegant ornaments that decorate the surfaces of the Chetwynd’s palatial drawing room very much reflect the Eighteenth Century spirit of the room.
On the console table made by Peter Cluff stands a porcelain pot of yellow and lilac petunias which has been hand made and painted by 1:12 miniature ceramicist Ann Dalton. It is flanked by two mid Victorian (circa 1850) hand painted child’s tea set pieces. The sugar bowl and milk jug have been painted to imitate Sèvres porcelain.
On the bombe chest behind the Louis settee stand a selection of 1950s Limoges miniature tea set pieces which I have had since I was a teenager. Each piece is individually stamped on its base with a green Limoges stamp. In the centre of these pieces stands a sterling silver three prong candelabra made by an unknown artisan. They have actually fashioned a putti (cherub) holding the stem of the candelabra. The candles that came with it are also 1:12 artisan pieces and are actually made of wax.
The sette, which is part of a three piece Louis XV suite of the settee and two armchairs was made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, JBM.
The Hepplewhite chair with the lemon satin upholstery you can just see behind the Christmas tree was made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.
All the paintings around the Glynes drawing room in their gilded frames are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States and V.H. Miniatures in the United Kingdom, and the wallpaper is an authentic copy of hand-painted Georgian wallpaper of Chinese lanterns from the 1770s.
The Persian rug on the floor has been woven by Pike, Pike and Company in the United Kingdom.
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 northwest of Lettice’s flat, in the working-class London suburb of Harlesden where Edith, Lettice’s maid, grew up. She is visiting her parents as she often does on her Wednesdays off, and today she is helping her mother, Ada, shop for groceries and the pair have been traversing the Harlesden high street. They have visited the local grocers where Ada has filled her basket with some of her household staples: lettuce and apples, some Bisto gravy powder, Oxo stock cubes, Ty-Phoo tea and some bars of Hudson’s Soap, the latter of which she will grate in her laundry to make soap flakes to wash the laundry she takes in to help supplement the family’s income. Now the pair are at Mr. Chapman’s, the local butcher. As the two ladies walk through the door, the shop bell rings out cheerfully to announce their arrival.
“Hullo Mrs. Watsford.” Mr. Chapman calls cheerily from his bench against the far wall behind the counter, where dressed in his familiar uniform of a navy blue vest and a blue and white striped apron he glances over his shoulder. He pauses slicing up some ham turns and smiles cheerily at the two women. “How are we today?”
“Oh quite well, Mr. Chapman. Thank you.” Ada replies as with a small groan she places her worn, roughly made shopping basket, the only one Edith has only ever known her mother to have, on the shop counter.
“And Mr. Watsford?” the middle aged and balding butcher asks, his smile bright and genuine beneath his salt and pepper moustache.
“Quite well too, Mr. Chapman. Thank you for asking. He’s at the factory at the moment.”
“As he should be, Mrs. Watsford. But I imagine he’ll be home for his tea, soon.”
“That he will Mr. Chapman.” Ada confirms.
It is then that Mr. Chapman’s eyes fall upon the pretty form of Edith standing next to her mother. He admires her willowy figure dressed in her three-quarter length black coat with her green leather handbag hanging in the crook of her arm and her purple rose and black feather decorated straw hat sitting smartly atop her flaxen hair which is tied in a neat chignon at the back of her neck. “I say,” he remarks with widening blue eyes. “This fine young lady can’t be your Edith, can it Mrs. Watsford?”
“Hullo Mr. Chapman.” Edith greets the butcher she has known all her life shyly as she deposits her handbag on the counter next to her mother’s basket and brown leather handbag.
“I say!” he laughs. “Wait until Nellie sets her eyes on you.” He leans back across the sawdust covered floor* behind the counter and calls though a small doorway leading from the shop, “Nellie! Nellie, you’ll never guess who’s out here.”
“Who is it then?” calls back an equally chipper female voice before moments later, Mrs. Chapman, in a pink and white striped frock covered with a pink floral pinny, bustles into the shop. She stops in her tracks when she spies Edith, and her slightly sagging face breaks into a broad smile of delight. “Why if it isn’t little Edith Watsford!”
Mrs. Chapman hurries out from behind the counter and envelops Edith in an all embracing hug, pressing the young girl to her heavy breast. When Edith first went into service for the pompous and mean spirited local widow, Mrs. Hounslow, who also happens to be the landlady of the Watsfords, Mrs. Chapman was a bright and cheerful influence in the life of the then homesick and unsure young girl. Mrs. Chapman felt for the poor young teenager with sallow cheeks and took Edith under her wing, slipping her a little bit of extra meat if she could spare it during the more lean years of the war, and stopping by when she knew Mrs. Hounslow was out to teach Edith a few easy recipes she wasn’t taught by her mother to cook for the old widow, who in spite of being quite wealthy, was always very mean when it came to providing a budget for food, yet still expected to eat like a queen.
“I haven’t seen you in, what, four years, my pet?” the butcher’s wife continues.
“Around about that, Mrs. Chapman.” Edith replies shyly.
“Yet, I’d know that face anywhere!” Mrs. Chapman chuckles, holding Edith at arm’s length and drinking in her smart appearance. “Where are you working now, Edith pet?”
“I’m up in Mayfair.” she replies proudly.
“Mayfair!” Mrs. Chapman exclaims. “Well isn’t that a turn up for the books, Ada!” She turns to Edith’s mother, her sparkling dark eyes crinkling up in delight. “Who would have thought? Little Edith, that wee slip of thing, all grown up and working for a household in Mayfair!”
“I work for the daughter of a viscount now, Mrs. Chapman.” Edith continues proudly. “It’s much easier than working for old Widow Hounslow, as she’s in one of those newfangled flats** where everything is on one floor, and everything is brand new. Plus, Miss Lettice is far nicer to work for than mean old Widow Hounslow.”
“Edith, love!” Ada exclaims. “Shame on you!” she chides. “You should be more grateful. Mrs. Hounslow took you on as her maid when you had no experience or references.”
“Because you were cheap.” adds Mrs. Chapman, her smiling mouth screwing up with distaste as she nods knowingly.
“Now I won’t have a bad word said about her, you two.” Ada wags her finger admonishingly at her daughter and then looks disappointingly at Mrs. Chapman. “You’re as bad as each other. Really you are! I know she isn’t the easiest woman to rub along with Nellie, but besides giving Edith her first position, she helped pay for many a meal in my house with her sixpences and shillings putting your husband’s meat on my table over the years. We should all be grateful to her. She does a lot for the locals.”
Both Edith and Mrs. Chapman roll their eyes, then look at one another knowingly before smiling mischievously at one another and chuckling.
“And thinking of meat, what can I get for you today, Mrs. Watsford? What does that hard working husband of yours fancy for his tea?”
“I’ve come to get two rashers of bacon and I think, a shilling’s worth of mutton for a pie.” Ada replies after a moment’s consideration.
“Coming right up, Mrs. Watsford.” Mr. Chapman replies as he turns around, whilst Ada fetches out her small leather reticule*** from the confines of her handbag.
“It looks like life has been good to you, now you aren’t working for that mean old Mrs. Hounslow anymore, my pet.” Mrs. Chapman says, addressing Edith as she grasps both her hands with the friendly familiarity of two long time friends. “Just look at that smart outfit of yours.”
“Oh,” Edith dismisses her Mrs. Chapman’s comment with a flap of her hand. “My coat came from a Petticoat Lane**** second-hand clothes stall. I picked it up dead cheap and remodelled it myself.”
“Taking after your old Mum then?” Mrs. Chapman remarks with a hint of pride. “Is that right Ada?”
“Mum taught me everything I know about sewing, Mrs. Chapman. She taught me how to make something beautiful from nothing special at all, and I’ll always be grateful for that.”
Ada smiles proudly at her daughter.
“And that colour in your cheeks, Edith pet!” Mrs. Chapman exclaims. “It must be all that good upper-class Mayfair air.”
“Now that, “ Ada remarks to Mrs. Chapman. “You can put down to Edith’s new beau.”
“A beau?” Mrs. Chapman gasps. “Edith pet, you didn’t say anything!”
“Well, you haven’t really given me the chance to tell you yet.” Edith giggles.
“Well tell me now!” the butcher’s wife trembles with anticipation. “Who is he? What’s his name?”
“His name is Frank Leadbetter. He lives in Holborn but works for my local grocers in Mayfair. He’s the delivery boy.”
“A good, fine and stable job, Ada.” Mrs. Chapman remarks to Edith’s mother with a nod of approval. “I like the sound of him.”
“Mum thinks he’s a Communist.” Edith whispers.
“I heard that, Edith love!” Ada pipes up. “And I’ll have you know, that I don’t think that. I just don’t hold with some of his fancy ideas about whose who and what’s what, is all.”
When Mrs. Chapman gives Edith a quizzical look, the young girl explains, “Frank is more political than Mum or Dad are, and he believes in bettering himself.”
“It’s not that I mind him bettering himself, Edith love.” Ada defends herself. “It’s his ideas about the system. I don’t think we need to tear down things that work just fine, only to re-build them again. You’ll agree with me, won’t you Mr. Chapman.”
“Of course I will, Mrs. Watsford.” The butcher replies as he returns with two rashers of bacon partially wrapped in paper and a tray of diced mutton. “In my shop, the customer is always right.”
Edith and Mrs. Chapman chuckle good naturedly as Ada’s face falls in disappointment at the half hearted statement from her would be ally.
“Mum’s softened a bit towards Frank since he showed up with tickets for her and Dad to the White Horse final*****.”
“Goodness! I would too, Mrs. Watsford!” Mr. Chapman enthuses as he takes out some of the diced mutton from the battered metal tray. “Tickets to the White Horse final! You and Mr. Watsford were the lucky ones. I’d hang onto this chap if I were you, Edith. Sounds to me like he’ll make a grand son-in-law for your parents.”
“We’re not getting married just yet, Mr. Chapman!” Edith blushes. “Just stepping out together.”
“Aye! Aye!” Mr. Chapman replies with a wink.
“Well, it seems like everything is better, now you aren’t working for old Widow Hounslow.” Mrs. Chapman says, squeezing Edith’s hands. “Congratulations pet. I’m so happy for you.”
Just then the light coming through the glass paned butcher’s front door is partially obscured and the bell above the door tickles prettily as it opens.
“Thinking of which,” remarks Mr. Chapman with an arched eyebrow as he quickly turns around back to his butchering bench.
An older woman dressed from head to foot in black sweeps haughtily into the shop, the black jet beads of her shawl sparkling in the light like precious jewels as she releases the door and allows it to slowly close behind her, yet not quite engage with the lock.
“Good morning, Mrs. Hounslow.” Mrs. Chapman says a little begrudgingly as she leaves Edith’s side and moves swiftly behind the old widow and closes the door to keep the cool air of the spring morning outside the already cool butcher’s shop.
“You know I don’t approve of women working in the front of the shop where they can be seen, Mrs. Chapman.” the old woman pronounces dourly through her bitter pucker of a mouth as she looks down her nose in judgement at the butcher’s wife. “It’s most unseemly.”
“Well, things have changed since the war, Mrs. Hounslow.” Mrs. Chapman replies defiantly with a forced brightness in her voice that rings untruly. “We all have to do our bit these days.”
“Your husband came back from the front, thank the good Lord,” the old widow replies crisply, before pausing and looking wistfully out of the shop window, through the rabbit and goose carcases hung outside the shop in as much of a lavish display as to bring out the flavour in the meats on display. “Unlike some.” She artfully withdraws a white handkerchief embroidered with a heavy black trim, which Edith imagines her mother spent hours sewing for her for only a measly few pence.
“As a matter of fact, Mrs. Hounslow,” Mrs. Chapman elucidates. “I’d only come out to the front of the shop from the cash office so that I could say hullo to Edith Watsford. You remember your former housemaid, don’t you Mrs. Hounslow?”
The old woman with her hair still styled in the fashion of her mid Nineteenth Century youth, coiled at the back and topped with a lace trimmed cap, as was common of many elderly women her age, peers with a squint across the shop floor of the butchers, only then appearing to notice that both Edith and Ada are present.
“Good morning, Mrs. Hounslow.” Ada says with deference, bobbing a small, servile curtsey to the widow.
“Mum!” Edith chides her mother, knowing that she should be the last person to curtsey to their mean landlady.
“Goodness!” remarks the old widow unflappably with an arch of her thick salt and pepper eyebrow over her right eye. “Is that my old chit of housemaid?”
“It is, Mrs. Hounslow.” Edith manages to say through barred teeth in a forced smile, refusing to curtsey to her former mistress.
“And doesn’t she look well, Mrs. Hounslow.” Mrs. Chapman enthuses. “All grown up and so elegant.”
Mrs. Hounslow peers at Edith with her coal black button eyes that match her outfit, contemplating the young girl from within the confines of her jowly and doughy face. “That, Mrs. Chapman is a matter of opinion.” she remarks dismissive of the butcher’s wife’s remark. “You look peaky, girl.” she snaps. “Are you sickening for something?”
“No, Mrs. Hounslow.” Edith remarks in surprise. “Not at all.”
“No doubt your new mistress, poor creature, doesn’t feed you as well as I did.”
Edith bristles with the insult implied by the old widow in her pronouncement like a sharp slap in the face. Mrs. Hounslow was always quick to find fault in anything Edith did, even when she had done it correctly. She remembers the many nights she went to bed in the dark and draughty attic up under the eaves of Mrs. Hounslow’s high pitched roof, her stomach growling after her meagre supper of watery broth with few limp pieces of cabbage and some slices of carrot in it. That was all she could muster for her supper after the old widow had dined on a fine repast and then forbade Edith from eating any of the leftovers, which Edith would then be obliged to serve the following day to the old widow who would greedily devour them for luncheon in the dining room. She wants to scream at the old woman, and tell her how much happier she is now, and how much better treated, but catching a glimpse of her mother’s pale face as she almost imperceptibly shakes her head, she holds her tongue. Old Widow Hounslow may not be her mistress any longer, but she is still her parents’ landlady, so she keeps her own counsel silently.
“Chapman!” Mrs. Hounslow barks at the butcher. “I want one of your raised game pies.”
“I…err…” stammers Mr. Chapman somewhat meekly. “I was just serving Mrs. Watsford, if you’d…”
“Mrs. Watsford, you don’t mind waiting whilst Mr. Chapman serves me, do you dear?” She eyes Ada with a hard stare which indicates that whilst posed as a question, it is clearly a statement. “You know what a busy woman I am.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Hounslow.” Ada says deferentially, picking up her basket and handbag and backing away meekly from the counter, allowing the imperious figure of the black clad widow to shuffle up to the counter, onto which she drops her beaded handbag with a rattle of glass beads.
“Now, Chapman,” Mrs. Hounslow continues sharply. “A raised game pie, no, a game pie and a giblet pie, delivered this afternoon, if you please. Trixy will be there to take it from you at the scullery door.”
“Very good, Mrs. Hounslow.” Mr. Chapman demurs.
“I’ll settle the account in due course, Mrs. Chapman.” the widow says, implying that the cash office is where the butcher’s wife belongs. She releases a sigh of satisfaction. “Well, I cannot stand around prattling idle gossip like some,” She looks meaningfully between Ada, Edith and Mrs. Chapman. “Gossip is the Devil’s work, and I on the other hand, have God’s deeds to perform. So many good deeds.” She smiles smugly to herself. “So if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Chapman, Mrs. Chapman, Mrs. Watsford.” Then she looks at Edith and mutters something unintelligible in a grunt and waves her hand at the young girl before picking up her handbag and sweeping out of the shop again.
There is a collective sigh from Mr. and Mrs. Chapman, Ada and Edith as Mrs. Hounslow leaves.
“If she didn’t spend as much as she does in here, I’d refuse to serve her.” Mr. Chapman says.
“It’s alright, Mr. Chapman.” Ada says, returning her heavy basket and handbag to the counter. “Really it is.”
“No, it’s not, Mum!” pipes up Edith hotly. “She’s a rude old…”
“Edith!” Ada warns, wagging her finger at her daughter warningly. “I won’t say it again. I won’t have anything said against Mrs. Hounslow. She’s our landlady and we should be grateful to have a roof over our heads. Anyway, Mrs. Hounslow’s a widow.”
“I know, Mum. I’ve grown up hearing about how Mrs. Hounslow’s husband died a hero in the siege of Mafeking in the Boer War. But that doesn’t give her the right to lord it over the rest of us. She’s a mean old so-and-so, Mum, and you know it. She treats everyone else like rubbish, and one day… well one day she won’t be allowed to.”
“My goodness!” Mrs. Chapman claps her hands with pride. “The old Edith I knew a few years ago wouldn’t have said that.”
“No, it’s the influence of young Frank Leadbetter, Nellie.” Ada says with a frown. “I told you, he’s all about pulling the old system down.”
“Well, I think that’s a jolly good influence, Ada.” Mrs. Chapman says. “Even if you don’t think so, especially if the system doesn’t work.” She smiles at Edith before turning back to Ada. “Your daughter has a very valid point, and well you know it, even if you won’t voice your opinion because she is your landlady. Old Widow Hounslow is mean and there’s an end to it.” She nods emphatically. “Do you remember Trixy, Edith?”
“Oh yes, of course I do.” Edith says. “She was the girl I trained up for Mrs. Hounslow before I left for my next position.”
“Well, the poor thing is even more timid and mouselike now than she was when she arrived at old Widow Hounslow’s, and that’s all on account of the mean old biddy!” Mrs. Chapman nods emphatically.
“Well, mean or not, I’m not going to let the likes of old Widow Hounslow spoil my day off.” Edith says pluckily. “Come on Mum. Let’s pay for your parcels and go home and see Dad. He’ll be home from the factory soon, wanting his tea.”
“Well, it’s been lovely to see you again, Edith.” Mr. Chapman says as he hands Ada her packages of meat.
“Yes it has, Edith pet.” agrees Mrs. Chapman with a smile. “I’m so pleased to see you looking so hale and hearty and doing so well for yourself. I’m so proud of you, and I know you do your mum and dad proud too.”
With her basket in the crook of her left arm, Ada hooks her right arm through her daughter’s and the two open the shop door and walk out onto the Harlesden high street with smiles on their faces.
*Regardless of where the butchers shop was, whether a suburban or up-market shop or a small concern in a village, the standard practice was to dust the wooden floorboards of the shop behind the counter where the butchering was done with sawdust. The idea was that the sawdust would sop up any spilled blood or dropped offcuts of meat that was easy to sweep away and helped prevent slips.
**With the “servant problem” far more prevalent following the Great War when servicemen and factory girls not wishing to return to their low paid and hard working lives of pre-war drudgery in service, the building of flats that were easier to maintain, rather than the large houses built prior to the war that required a retinue of servants to manage them, became the new fashion for the upper classes, but were still something of a novelty in 1923. By the end of the decade, wealthier people living in flats would not only be more common, but would be a statement of fashionable modern living.
***A reticule is the predecessor to a modern day purse and is a woman's small bag or purse, usually in the form of a pouch with a drawstring and made of net, beading, brocade or leather. They date back to the Eighteenth Century. Where did the word reticule come from? The term “reticule” comes from French and Latin terms meaning “net.” At the time, the word “purse” referred to small leather pouches used for carrying money.
****Petticoat Lane Market is a fashion and clothing market in Spitalfields, London. It consists of two adjacent street markets. Wentworth Street Market and Middlesex Street Market. Originally populated by Huguenots fleeing persecution in France, Spitalfields became a center for weaving, embroidery and dying. From 1882, a wave of Jewish immigrants fleeing persecution in eastern Europe settled in the area and Spitalfields then became the true heart of the clothing manufacturing district of London. 'The Lane' was always renowned for the 'patter' and showmanship of the market traders. It was also known for being a haven for the unsavoury characters of London’s underworld and was rife with prostitutes during the late Victorian era. Unpopular with the authorities, as it was largely unregulated and in some sense illegal, as recently as the 1930s, police cars and fire engines were driven down ‘The Lane’, with alarm bells ringing, to disrupt the market.
*****The first football match to be played at the newly opened Wembley Stadium in April 1923 was between the Bolton Wanderers and West Ham United. This match became known as the White Horse final, and was played just a few days after the completion of the stadium.
This cluttered, yet cheerful Edwardian butchers is not all it seems to be at first glance, for it is made up of part of my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The rashers of bacon and tray of diced meat on the counter come from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. The joints of meat in the background both on the bench and hanging from hooks above it also come from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop.
The eggs and the Cornish Ware bowl they are in come from Beautifully handmade Miniatures in Kettering, as does the shiny cash register and Ada’s rather battered wooden basket.
Inside the basket there are various foods and cleaning agents which would have been household names in the 1920s, and some of which are still known today including Oxo Stock Cubes, Ty-Phoo Tea, Bisto Gravy Powder and Hudson’s Soap. All these items are 1:12 size artisan miniatures made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire, with great attention to detail paid to their labels and the shapes of their jars and cans. Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures also made the tin of corned beef to the left of the photo, as can be derived from the “Little Things Food Co.” label.
In 1863, William Sumner published A Popular Treatise on Tea as a by-product of the first trade missions to China from London. In 1870, William and his son John Sumner founded a pharmacy/grocery business in Birmingham. William's grandson, John Sumner Jr. (born in 1856), took over the running of the business in the 1900s. Following comments from his sister on the calming effects of tea fannings, in 1903, John Jr. decided to create a new tea that he could sell in his shop. He set his own criteria for the new brand. The name had to be distinctive and unlike others, it had to be a name that would trip off the tongue and it had to be one that would be protected by registration. The name Typhoo comes from the Mandarin Chinese word for “doctor”. Typhoo began making tea bags in 1967. In 1978, production was moved from Birmingham to Moreton on the Wirral Peninsula, in Merseyside. The Moreton site is also the location of Burton's Foods and Manor Bakeries factories. Typhoo has been owned since July 2021 by British private-equity firm Zetland Capital. It was previously owned by Apeejay Surrendra Group of India.
The first Bisto product, in 1908, was a meat-flavoured gravy powder, which rapidly became a bestseller in Britain. It was added to gravies to give a richer taste and aroma. Invented by Messrs Roberts and Patterson, it was named "Bisto" because it "Browns, Seasons and Thickens in One". Bisto Gravy is still a household name in Britain and Ireland today, and the brand is currently owned by Premier Foods.
Oxo is a brand of food products, including stock cubes, herbs and spices, dried gravy, and yeast extract. The original product was the beef stock cube, and the company now also markets chicken and other flavour cubes, including versions with Chinese and Indian spices. The cubes are broken up and used as flavouring in meals or gravy or dissolved into boiling water to produce a bouillon. Oxo produced their first cubes in 1910 and further increased Oxo's popularity.
In 1837 Robert Spear Hudson opened a shop in High Street, West Bromwich. He started making soap powder in the back of this shop by grinding the coarse bar soap of the day with a mortar and pestle. Before that people had had to make soap flakes themselves. This product became the first satisfactory and commercially successful soap powder. Despite his title of "Manufacturer of Dry Soap" Robert never actually manufactured soap but bought the raw soap from William Gossage of Widnes. The product was popular with his customers and the business expanded rapidly. In the 1850s he employed ten female workers in his West Bromwich factory. In time the factory was too small and too far from the source of his soap so in 1875 he moved his main works to Bank Hall, Liverpool, and his head office to Bootle, while continuing production at West Bromwich. Eventually the business in Merseyside employed just over one thousand people and Robert was able to further develop his flourishing export trade to Australia and New Zealand. The business flourished both because of the rapidly increasing demand for domestic soap products and because of Hudson's unprecedented levels of advertising. He arranged for striking posters to be produced by professional artists (this was before other firms such as Pears Soap and Lever Brothers used similar techniques). The slogan "A little of Hudson's goes a long way" appeared on the coach that ran between Liverpool and York. Horse, steam and electric tramcars bore an advertisement saying "For Washing Clothes. Hudson's soap. For Washing Up". Robert was joined in the business by his son Robert William who succeeded to the business on his father's death. In 1908 he sold the business to Lever Brothers who ran it as a subsidiary enterprise during which time the soap was manufactured at Crosfield's of Warrington. During this time trade names such as Rinso and Omo were introduced. The Hudson name was retained until 1935 when, during a period of rationalisation, the West Bromwich and Bank Hall works were closed.
Also in Ada’s basket are some very lifelike looking fruit and vegetables. The apples are made of polymer clay are made by a 1:12 miniature specialist in Germany. The leaves of lettuce are artisan made of very thin sheets of clay and are beautifully detailed. I acquired them from an auction house some twenty years ago as part of a lot made up of miniature artisan food.
Edith’s handbag handmade from soft leather is part of a larger collection of hats and bags that I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel, including Ada’s tan soft leather handbag seen resting against her basket at the right of the picture.
The black umbrella came from an online stockist of 1:12 miniatures on E-Bay.
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 a short distance away from Cavendish Mews, skirting Hyde Park, travelling southwest through the refined Regency era houses of Belgravia to the well-heeled borough of Knightsbridge. There, within a stone’s throw of Harrods, in a fine red brick five storey Victorian terrace house in Edgerton Gardens, Lettice is attending the wedding breakfast* of her friend and debutante of the 1922 London Season, Priscilla Kitson-Fahey to American Georgie Carter. The Carters are a good Philadelphian society family, although they do come from money made through the uniquely American invention of the department store. However, this has been graciously overlooked by Priscilla’s widowed mother, Cynthia, in light of the fortune Georgie stands to inherit and the lavish allowance he is willing to spend on she and her daughter. Hired at great expense from a brewer’s family who own several properties throughout Knightsbridge, the furbished terrace house has been decked out with a profusion of gay flower arrangements as befits the celebration, whilst Gunter and Company** who are catering the breakfast, have erected a red and white striped marquee over the front entrance.
It is in the Edgerton Gardens terrace’s first floor reception room overlooking the garden square, where the wedding gifts to the new Mr. and Mrs. Carter are being displayed, that we find Lettice with her old childhood chum Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy who has tried to gain some independence from his family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street. Lettice was supposed to have been escorted to the wedding by Selwyn Spencely, the eldest son of the Duke of Walmsford, whom she has been discreetly seeing socially since having met him at her parent’s Hunt Ball in February. Unfortunately, Selwyn was called away on family business at the last moment, so Gerald has gallantly stepped in to accompany his best friend as he too has been invited to the wedding.
“I say,” whispers Gerald quietly to Lettice. “I shall never get used to a room full of Americans.” He looks about him. “They all speak so loudly.”
Lettice notes the voluble chatter washing about them, mostly voiced in strident midwestern American accents. Pricking up her ears momentarily, she catches snippets of conversations, for the most part about the wedding at the Brompton Oratory***, the bride’s wedding gown and what hats ladies were wearing, but also a man’s voice talking about buying Captain Cuttle**** from his owner, and one woman loudly and indiscreetly regaling some of her fellow Americans with stories about her presentation to the Prince of Wales***** in the Mayfair drawing room of a well-connected British friend.
“What is it they are saying now?” Lettice ponders quietly in reply to her friend. “Obtain a young heiress, or sell an old master.”
“Something like that.” Gerald muses. “Although in this case it’s a young heir.”
“So, we shall just have to get used to it as the Americans infiltrate our best, yet most penniless families.” Lettice pokes her friend in the ribs jovially. “Perhaps we’ll find you a wealthy heiress today.”
“Heaven help me!” Gerald throws up his hands in melodramatic mime.
“At least they are saying nice things about Cilla’s frock,” Lettice whispers with a smile as she catches her friend’s eye. “You’ll have a new flurry of women cloying for a frock or two from the House of Bruton when they see the going away outfit you designed for her.”
“Lord save me from Americans and their dry good store money.” Gerald mutters.
“I know you don’t mean that, Gerald.” Lettice scoffs, slapping his hand lightly with her own white glove clad hand. “Any money is good money for you, dry goods store or otherwise. At least this way you can enjoy American money without having to make a sham marriage to gain benefit from it. That will please your young musician friend, Cyril.”
“I think you are fast becoming a capitalist, my darling.” Gerald deflects, blushing at Lettice’s comment about his new companion whom she recently met in passing at his friend Harriet’s house in Putney on the south side of the Thames.
“Oh?” Lettice queries. “I thought you said I was a Communist.”
“Either way, they are both terrible, darling!” Gerald laughs.
Lettice titters along with him. She pauses for a moment and contemplates. “Gerald, what is a dry goods store, anyway?”
“No idea, darling.” He shrugs his shoulders. “However, whatever it is, it is strictly American, and they seem to make a great deal of money over there.”
“Thinking of money, I see old Lady Marchmont has given away another of her pieces of family silver.” Lettice discreetly indicates to a silver salver gleaming at the rear of a sideboard cluttered with wedding gifts and cards.
“Well, if she can’t afford to buy new pieces as gifts.”
“Yes, I suppose the death duties that had to be paid ate up most of the estate.”
“And with her husband, and all three of her sons killed in the war,” Gerald adds pragmatically. “Who is she going to leave what little she still has of the family silver to?”
“God bless Harrold, Morris and Vincent.” Lettice says.
“We need a drink if we’re going to toast our war dead.” Gerald says with a sigh. “I’ll go find us some champagne.”
Leaving Lettice’s side, Gerald wends his way through the beautifully dressed wedding guests, quickly disappearing from view amid the mixture of morning suits, feather decorated hats and matching frocks.
Lettice sighs and wanders over to the sideboard bearing Lady Marchmont’s silver salver and admires some of the other wedding gifts in front of it. Silver candelabras jostle for space with crystal vases and wine decanters. A very sleek and stylish coffee set she recognises from Asprey’s****** has been generously given by the Wannamaker family of Society Hill******* she discovers as she picks up the wedding card featuring a bride in an oval frame holding a bouquet in her hands. A Royal Doulton dinner service garlanded with boiseries of apricot roses and leaves is stacked up alongside Lady Marchmont’s salver and a pair of Meissen figurines also in shades of apricot and beautifully gilded hold court amidst all the other gifts.
“No Spencely today, Miss Chetwynd?” a well enunciated voice observes behind Lettice.
Gasping, she spins around to find the tall and elegant figure of Sir John Nettleford-Hughes standing before her.
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, Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, invited him as a potential suitor to her Hunt Ball earlier in the year, which she used as a marriage market for Lettice. Luckily Selwyn 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. Now, as he stands before Lettice, Sir John oozes the confidence of male privilege that his sex, class and enormous wealth bestows, and he wears it every bit as well as the smart and well-cut morning suit he is dressed in. The rather leering smile he gives her fills her with repugnance and Lettice shudders as Sir John takes up her glove clad right hand in his and draws it to his lips where he kisses it.
“Sir John,” Lettice says uncomfortably acknowledging him, a shudder rippling through her figure at his touch. “I didn’t see you at the church service.”
“Oh, I wasn’t there, Miss Chetwynd.” he replies flippantly, releasing Lettice’s hand, which she quickly withdraws. “I’m not much of a church goer myself,” Surprised by his blatant confession of not being particularly religious, Lettice falters, but Sir John saves her having to say anything by adding, “Especially since the war. Like Arthur Conan Doyle, I’m more into spiritualism these days than God********.”
“Indeed.” Lettice acknowledges. Changing the subject she continues rather stiffly, “I… I didn’t know you were acquainted with Priscilla, or is it Georgie you know.”
“Oh no, not the American. No.” he replies seriously. “I’m distantly related to Priscilla’s mother. We’re third cousins or some such,” Sir John sighs in boredom as he gesticulates languidly with his hand in which he holds a half empty champagne flute. “Which I suppose entitles me to an invitation to this rather vulgar show.” He looks with a critical scowl around the room full of rather beautiful, yet at the same time ostentatious, flower arrangements and all the guests milling about with glasses of champagne or wine in their hands chattering around them. He looks at the sideboard weighed down with expensive wedding gifts that Lettice had been inspecting. “Not that I’d imagine Cynthia paid for any of this, even if it is the bride’s family’s duty to host the wedding breakfast. I suppose the abrogation of such duties is one’s prerogative when as a virtually bankrupt widow, you have an American department store millionaire heir as a new son-in-law.” He cocks a well manicured eyebrow at Lettice to gauge her reaction, allowing it to sink with disappointment when she fails to respond. “Americans don’t tend to hold with tradition like we British do.” He nods and smiles at a passing acquaintance who catches his eye over Lettice’s left shoulder, raising his glass in acknowledgement. “No, I have no doubt that the Carters of Philadelphia have footed the bill not only for the wedding breakfast, but the European sojourn honeymoon for the young couple too. No doubt Cynthia, as my poor relation, wishes to show off her new found good fortune which isn’t even hers by rights. Why on earth should the couple go to Paris, when Edinburgh would have done equally as well. They do love splashing their rather grubby parvenu money about so, don’t they?”
“Who?”
“Why Americans of course, my dear Miss Chetwynd. Those from the New World are always so showy. I’m sure you agree.” Lettice is saved from having to give an answer when Sir John adds, “The Carters probably even paid for Priscilla’s wedding dress. It’s not one of your friend Bruton’s, is it?”
“No, Sir John. It’s a Lanvin********, I believe.” Lettice answers laconically, trying to avoid the scrutinising, sparkling blue eyed gaze of Sir John, which as at the Hunt Ball, runs up and down her figure appraisingly, making her feel as though he were undressing her before the entire company walking about them.
“Pity. He could have done rather well for himself grabbing at some of those shiny American dollars of Georgie’s.”
Lettice chooses not to mention the fact that Gerald has made the bride’s going away outfit as well as several evening frocks. “Well, Sir John,” she begins, smiling awkwardly. “It has been delightful to…”
“You know,” Sir John cuts her off, his eyes widening as his gaze intensifies. “You never did show me that portrait of Marie Antoinette that your father owns, like your mother promised at the Hunt Ball.”
“I’m quite sure that my mother would be only too glad to…”
“I was rather disappointed by your behaviour the night of the ball, Miss Chetwynd.” he interrupts abruptly.
“My behaviour, Sir John?”
“Your deliberate avoidance of me.” he elucidates.
“Sir John!” Lettice blushes at being so easily caught out. “I… I…”
“I think it is high time you made amends by you,” He adds emphasis to the last word. “Showing me that painting.”
“Well, I’m very sorry to disappoint you Sir John, but I am frightfully busy with a new commission here in London. I very much doubt I shall be back down at Glynes before November. Even then, it will be for my brother Leslie’s wedding. And then of course it is Christmas.”
“And you’ve had your head turned by young Spencely.” he utters, stunning Lettice with his knowledge of her and Selwyn’s recent involvement with one another. “Oh yes, I know.”
“Sir John!” Lettice gasps, blushing again at his flagrant statement.
“But as I noted when I saw you just now, he isn’t here today, is he?” His eyebrows knit as he speaks. Once again, he doesn’t wait for a reply. “And I know for a fact that up until a few days ago, his name was on the list of wedding guests, as your escort.”
“How can you know that, Sir John?” Lettice gasps in surprise. “We have been very discreet.”
“Because Cynthia isn’t my dear Miss Chetwynd. She has been trying, rather unsuccessfully I might add, to rub my nose in her new-found turn of fortunes by telling me about all the great and good of London society who will be attending her daughter’s wedding to the American. It’s quite a coup considering that were this not such a grand occasion thanks to her son-in-law’s family new money, none of those she was crowing about to me would have even considered accepting her invitation. Not that she could have afforded to invite them without the Carter’s money. As the widow of a rather insignificant man of an obscure and penurious parochial family, she was rather chuffed to have the eldest son of the Duke of Walmsford on her invitation list thanks to an advantageous connection with one of her daughter’s nightclub acquaintances – you, Miss Chetwynd. An invitation made at your request, Miss Chetwynd. Yet he isn’t here today, and you came on your own.”
Lettice’s cheeks flush bright red at Sir John’s insinuation. “I’ll have you know I came with Gera…” she begins hotly.
“Bruton was already on the list of invited guests, Miss Chetwynd.” Sir John interrupts her protestations. “I believe that like you, he is part of a coterie of Bright Young Things********* who attend the Embassy Club on Bond Street with Priscilla. That’s how you all come to be connected. Isn’t that so?”
Lettice nods like a chided child, with a lowered glance.
“And do you know why Spencely didn’t come today, Miss Chetwnd?”
“Yes I do,” she answers in a deflated fashion, Sir John’s question having knocked the bluster out of her. “He’s entertaining his cousin, Pamela Fox-Chavers at Clendon**********.”
“And do you know why that is?”
“Yes, because his mother, Lady Zinnia, organised it, so that Selwyn might reacquaint himself with his cousin after many years of separation. He is to be a chaperone to her when she debuts next year.”
Sir John chuckles to himself as he catches Lettice’s stare with his own and holds it for an unnerving few moments. “If you say so, Miss Chetwynd.”
“What are you laughing at? It’s true, Sir John. Selwyn told me himself.”
“Oh I’m sure he did, my dear. However, it was no coincidence that Pamela’s arrival at Clendon coincided with Priscilla’s wedding.”
“What do mean, Sir John?” Lettice asks warily. She thinks back through their conversation for a moment, her temperature rising as she whispers angrily, “Did you tell Lady Zinnia about Selwyn escorting me here today?”
“Now, now, Miss Chetwynd. Temper, temper.” He smiles lasciviously, the sudden spark in Lettice seeming to attract him even more to her.
“Did you?”
“You young people are rather tiresome with your intrigues.” he sighs. “No, I did not Miss Chetwynd. It would have done me no favours to put a wedge between you and Spencely.” He eyes her again before continuing, “Now look, I know you don’t like me, Miss Chetwynd. You’ve made that quite clear.”
“Sir John!” Lettice tries weakly to protest but is silenced by his raised hands.
“Don’t pretend my dear Miss Chetwynd. You loathe me, so therefore, I owe you no favours. Yet nevertheless, I feel you need to hear this. Perhaps it will be better received from me, someone you detest who has no vested interest in your happiness, rather than a friend whose kindness may be perceived as unwelcome interference.” He pauses for a moment, his mouth a tight line beneath his silver grey moustache. “Don’t tip your cap at young Spencely. You’re wasting your time. He isn’t free to make a marriage of his own choosing.”
Lettice utters a scornful laugh as she rolls her eyes. “Don’t tell me that you believe that marriages are made by mothers, too, Sir John?” She folds her arms akimbo defiantly across her chest, suddenly filled with a sense of determination to stand up to this man who is obviously and ridiculously jealous that her head has been turned by a handsome young man, rather than by his wealth. “I’ve heard that enough from my own mother.”
“In this case it is true, although Lady Sadie has no more say in who Spencely marries than either he or you do. Lady Zinnia is the one who pulls the strings. Not even the Duke would dare go against her when it comes to matters of marriage. It was decided long ago whom he should marry.”
Lettice laughs again. “And who might that be?”
“Well, I should have thought that would have been obvious to a young lady of some intelligence like you.”
“Pamela Fox-Chavers?”
“Exactly!” Sir John sighs satisfactorily. “You’re finally catching on. You may not be quite as bright as I first assumed you to be, but you aren’t a complete dullard like so many other addle headed young flappers.” He indicates with a discreet motion to a young girl in lemon yellow giggling girlishly with another flapper in pale pink as they whisper behind their hands at the passing parade of young American men.
“But Pamela is Selwyn’s cousin!” Lettice retorts, her eyes growing wide.
“True, but she’s only a distant one, and you must confess that it isn’t unusual for cousins to marry cousins. Look at the Royal Family. It’s been happening for hundreds of years to help preserve blood lines and seal the lines of succession.”
“But he barely knows her.”
“Be that as it may, the decision has been made, my dear Miss Chetwynd.”
“You make it sound like a fait accompli, Sir John.”
“And so it is.”
“But you seem to forget, Sir John, although you are the one who is privy to the knowledge of it, that I am currently pursuing a romantic relationship with Selwyn Spencely, and he with me. I have no intention of giving way so easily, especially for a person whom he barely knows and whom he has no affection for.”
“And I just told you to forget about marrying him.” Sir John retorts loftily in a lowered voice. “He is not at liberty to marry you, whatever you and he may think or try to convince yourselves to the contrary.” He affixes her again, his blue eyes piercing her. “If you pursue young Spencely as you so gallantly claim you will, then best you sharpen your lance, Miss Chetwynd. Lady Zinnia is no-one to trifle with. You think you and Spencely have been discreet up until now, but I can assure you, discreet or not, Zinnia will already know all about you and her son, and she will put a stop to your budding romance,” The last two words are spat out in a derisive tone which makes Lettice shudder. “Sooner or later, when it suits her intentions best. And when she does, it will be a spectacular and painful fall from the lofty battlements of love’s tower, my dear Miss Chetwynd. Zinnia is a hard woman who enjoys inflicting hurt onto others. It, along with collecting porcelain, is one of her greatest pleasures in life.” He points his empty champagne flute at her. “Just don’t come crawling to me cap in hand after it happens.” He arches his elegant eyebrows over his cold blue eyes. “You have been warned.”
“Thank you for your warning, Sir John.” Lettice replies in a steely and cold manner, squaring her jaw and tilting her head haughtily.
“I wish I could say it was my pleasure.” he replies resignedly. “Goodbye, Miss Chetwynd.” He turns his back on her and walks away without another word.
As Lettice watches his slender figure glide between the milling groups, quickly disappearing amidst the sea of bobbing heads and hats, Gerald returns with two flutes of champagne.
“What did that old letch want?” Gerald asks, following Lettice’s gaze, noticing Sir John’s retreating figure.
“Oh nothing,” Lettice says with a shrug of her shoulders and a shuddering breath. “He was just spitting sour grapes and venomous lies at me because I spurned his affections at the Hunt Ball.”
“Really?” Gerald’s eyes grow wide. “How disgusting!”
As she sips her effervescent champagne and listens absently to Gerald chat, she quietly tries to dismiss all Sir John just told her from her mind, but she can’t quite manage it. A knot forms in her stomach and the thoughts running through her head sours the taste of champagne on her lips.
*A wedding breakfast is a feast given to the newlyweds and guests after the wedding, making it equivalent to a wedding reception that serves a meal. The phrase is still used in British English, as opposed to the description of reception, which is American in derivation. Before the beginning of the Twentieth Century they were traditionally held in the morning, but this fashion began to change after the Great War when they became a luncheon. Regardless of when it was, a wedding breakfast in no way looked like a typical breakfast, with fine savoury food and sweet cakes being served. Wedding breakfasts were at their most lavish in the Edwardian era through to the Second World War
**Gunter and Company were London caterers and ball furnishers with shops in Berkley Square, Sloane Street, Lowndes Street and New Bond Street. They began as Gunter’s Tea Shop at 7 and 8 Berkley Square 1757 where it remained until 1956 as the business grew and opened different premises. In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries Gunter's became a fashionable light eatery in Mayfair, notable for its ices and sorbets. Gunter's was considered to be the wedding cake makers du jour and in 1889, made the bride cake for the marriage of Queen Victoria’s granddaughter, Princess Louise of Wales. Even after the tea shop finally closed, the catering business carried on until the mid 1970s.
***The Brompton Oratory is a large neo-classical Roman Catholic church in the Knightsbridge area of the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, London. Its full name is the Church of the Immaculate Heart of Mary. The foundation stone was laid in June 1869; and the new church designed by Herbert Dribble was consecrated on 16 April 1884. The church is faced in Portland stone, with the vaults and dome in concrete; the latter was heightened in profile and the cupola added in 1869. It was the largest Catholic church in London before the opening of Westminster Cathedral in 1903. Catholic aristocrats who married at the church include John Crichton-Stuart, 3rd Marquess of Bute, and Gwendoline Fitzalan-Howard in 1872, Lord William Beauchamp Nevill and Mabel Murietta in1889, Bernard Fitzalan-Howard, 16th Duke of Norfolk, and Lavinia Strutt in 1937, Simon Fraser, 15th Lord Lovat, and Rosamund Broughton in 1938, Peter Kerr, 12th Marquess of Lothian, and Antonella Newland in1943), Anthony Noel, 5th Earl of Gainsborough, and Mary Stourton in 1947 and Julian Asquith, 2nd Earl of Oxford and Asquith, and Anne Palairet in 1947). Others who married at the church include Lord of Appeal in Ordinary Baron Russell of Killowen, traveller and landowner John Talbot Clifton and author Violet Clifton in 1907) and Australian rules footballer Joe Fogarty in 1916.
****Captain Cuttle, ridden by jockey Steve Donaghue won the Derby at Epsom racecourse in June 1922.
*****The Prince of Wales would later become Edward VIII, King of the United Kingdom and the Dominions of the British Empire and Emperor of India from 20th of January 1936 until his abdication in December of the same year when he married American divorcée, Wallis Simpson. As well as a penchant for married woman, David, the Prince of Wales, had a great fondness for Americans and enjoyed their more relaxed and modern attitudes.
******Founded in 1781 as a silk printing business by William Asprey, Asprey soon became a luxury emporium. In 1847 the business moved to their present premises at 167 Bond Street, where they advertised 'articles of exclusive design and high quality, whether for personal adornment or personal accompaniment and to endow with richness and beauty the table and homes of people of refinement and discernment’. In 1862 Asprey received a Royal Warrant from Queen Victoria. They received a second Royal Warrant from the Future Edward VII in 1889. Asprey has a tradition of producing jewellery inspired by the blooms found in English gardens and Woodland Flora. Over the decades jewelled interpretations of flowers have evolved to include Daisy, Woodland and sunflower collections. They have their own special cut of diamond and produce leather goods, silver and gold pieces, trophies and leatherbound books, both old and new. They also produce accessories for playing polo. In 1997, Asprey produced the Heart of the Ocean necklace worn in the motion picture blockbuster, ‘Titanic’.
*******Society Hill is a historic upper-class neighborhood in Center City Philadelphia.
********By the end of his life, in 1930, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, creator of the fictional detective Sherlock Holmes, was a fervent believer in spiritualism, having spent decades researching ghosts, fairies and the paranormal. His fascination with the supernatural grew after his son Kingsley and his younger brother, Innes, battle-weary from service in World War I, died amid the worldwide influenza pandemic shortly after returning home.
*********Jeanne Lanvin (1867 – 1946) was a French haute couture fashion designer. She founded the Lanvin fashion house and the beauty and perfume company Lanvin Parfums. She became an apprentice milliner at Madame Félix in Paris at the age of 16 and trained with Suzanne Talbot and Caroline Montagne Roux before becoming a milliner on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré in 1889. In 1909, Jeanne joined the Syndicat de la Couture, which marked her formal status as a couturière. The clothing she made for her daughter began to attract the attention of a number of wealthy people who requested copies for their own children. Soon, Jeanne was making dresses for their mothers, and some of the most famous names in Europe were included in the clientele of her new boutique on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. By 1922 when this story is set, she had just opened her first shop devoted to home décor, menswear, furs and lingerie. Her gowns were always very feminine and romantic.
*********The Bright Young Things, or Bright Young People, was a nickname given by the tabloid press to a group of Bohemian young aristocrats and socialites in 1920s London.
**********Clendon is the family seat of the Duke and Duchess of Walmsford in Buckinghamshire.
Any bride would be only too happy to receive such an array of wedding gifts, however, however real they may appear, these are all items from my 1:12 miniatures collection, including pieces from my own childhood.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The silver coffee set on the square tray, the egg cruet set, the condiments caddy, the champagne bucket and the two candlesticks are all made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The two hand painted Meissen figures are also made by Warwick Miniatures. The three prong Art Deco style candelabra in the sideboard is an artisan piece made of sterling silver. Although unsigned, the piece was made in England by an unknown artist. The two silver water jugs were acquired from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The silver statue of the ballet dancers on the far right of the photo came from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House in the United Kingdom. The sods siphon, the bulbous glass vase and the glass jug are made from hand spun glass and have been made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The floral edged dinner service I acquired from an online stockist of miniatures through E-Bay. Lady Marchmont’s silver salver is a miniature I have had since I was around six or seven years old. All the Edwardian wedding cards are artisan pieces. Each is a 1:12 miniature version of a real wedding card, and all have ben made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.
The sideboard that can be seen laden with wedding gifts is of Queen Anne design. It was given to me when I was six. It has three opening drawers with proper drawer pulls and each is lined with red velvet.
The very realistic floral arrangements in tall vases are made by hand by Falcon Miniatures in America who specialise in high end miniatures.
The paintings on the walls came from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House in the United Kingdom.
The gold flocked Edwardian wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.
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 have headed a short distance south-east across London, away from Cavendish Mews and Mayfair, over the Regency houses and squares of Belgravia to the artistic upper-class suburb of Chelsea, where Lettice and her dear friend and fellow Embassy Club coterie member, Margot Channon, are attending the Royal Horticultural Society’s 1923 Great Spring Show*. Concerned about her beau, Selwyn Spencely’s, true affections for her, and worried about the threat his cousin and 1923 debutante, Pamela Fox-Chavers, poses to her own potential romantic plans with Selwyn, Lettice has concocted a ruse to spy on Pamela whom Selwyn is escorting to various functions throughout the Season as a favour to his mother, Lady Zinnia, whom Lettice suspects of arranging a match between the two cousins. This includes the Great Spring Show. To avoid looking obvious, Lettice has wrangled Margot to accompany her, even though she has her own misgivings about attending the show after being paraded about there by her own mother before the war as a young debutante. We find ourselves in one of the tents of the Great Spring Show where a grand display of floral arrangements are on show on tables around the pink and white striped canvas walls for the admiration of the society matrons and their daughters as they walk about the space in one of the mainstays of London’s 1923 Season. The cloying fragrance of hothouse flowers mixed with the scent of perfumes of all the women present hangs like a fug in the air, and mixed with a small amount of sweat owing to the closeness of the crowd within the tent the combination is so strong that it is almost visible. Beneath hundreds of pairs of court heels and a smattering of brogues, the grass of the lawns is trampled to a flat matted mass of brownish green blades.
“I hope you know that I feel positively nauseous being here,“ Margot whispers in Lettice’s ear over the top of the vociferous burbling of the women’s voices around them as they slowly went their way through the close gathering of people.
Margot looks nervously about her. The tent is populated with a large crowd of society ladies and a smattering of gentlemen. Just as she had predicted, the pair are surrounded by anxious mothers and daughters perambulating slowly about: the mothers showing off their marriageable daughters, dressed in the latest season fashions. Even as Margot catches passing glimpses of some of them, she knows that not all these young jeune fille à marier** are going to find husbands in the marriage market decimated by the Great War. She spots an ill-at-ease young girl of around seventeen or eighteen being reluctantly paraded around in a chartreuse satin day dress by her apprehensive birdlike mother. The colour doesn’t suit the poor girl and only makes her unhealthy pallor all the more evident, and the boxy square neckline and fashionable low waistline show how hefty she is beneath the frock as she clumps awkwardly across the trampled lawns in scuffed white court heels and bunching white lisle stockings. Margot feels sorry for her, knowing exactly how she feels, having done exactly the same thing just prior to the war with her own aspiring mother, Lady de Virre. Some of the older society matrons give the girl withering and dismissive glances as she stumbles in her mother’s wake, and Margot knows that she is doomed to failure in the marriage bed of the London Season, and will no doubt set sail, still unmarried, for India in the next year or so, where standards are not so high, and marriageable men more plentiful and less picky.
“I don’t know how I let you talk me into this, Lettice darling.” Margot hisses quietly, squeezing Lettice’s arm.
Lettice, walking alongside her, stops in her tracks and looks her friend squarely in the face. “Because you love me, of course,” she says matter-of-factly. “And you wouldn’t want me to face this barrage of female hostility alone.” She hooks her arm through Margot’s and the pair begin their slow navigation through the clumps of other women, looking about at the sporadic smattering of male faces to see whether they can see Selwyn amongst them. “Anyway,” Lettice continues. “I’m the one who should dread this more than you, Margot darling. You’re a married lady. Yet even with you on my arm, as a single woman in her twenties, I could still be seen as a threat by the mothers of the 1923 debutantes being paraded about here, especially if I am seen in the company of the Duke of Walmford’s son.”
Lettice looks past the parvenues wearing too much jewellery and just too bright a shade of frock trying too hard to blend in and not be ill at ease with their new money and the doughy and haughty society matrons as they pass judgement on those who fall within the prison of their gazes from beneath their new spring millinery. Occasionally she spots a male face: a young man in a smart new spring straw boater and a blue or a white blazer, but none is the face she wants to see. They are all fashionably clean shaven like Selwyn, but too young, or without his dark hair colour. She sighs with irritation.
“Where is he?” Lettice mutters.
Suddenly her view is blocked by a wall of rather muddy sage green georgette decorated with matching sage green beads in panels of somewhat outmoded Art Nouveau style.
“Why Miss Chertwynd, what an unexpected pleasure!”
Lettice smiles benignly, attempting to hide her dismay. As a staple of the London Season, she had expected to run into ladies she knew at the Great Spring Show, but she never imagined it would be Geraldine Evans, the elder of the two spinster sisters who live in Holland House, a Seventeenth Century manor house in the village of Glynes on her father’s Wiltshire estate.
“Henrietta!” the elder of the Miss Evanses calls out in delight, beckoning someone with an ecru lace glove clan finger. “Henrietta, look who I’ve found!”
Henrietta, the second of the spinster Miss Evanses suddenly appears through the crowd in an equally old fashioned Edwardian style ankle length gown of the pre-war era, leaning on a matching parasol whose end pierces the well-trodden ground beneath her.
“Why Miss Chetwynd!” the younger of the Miss Evanses exclaims with surprise, her face breaking into a happy smile. “Such an unexpected pleasure.”
“How do you do, Miss Evans, Miss Evans,” Lettice acknowledges them both with a curt nod. She glances at the two old women, who must be in their seventies at least, both dressed in their faded pre-war Edwardian splendour, their equally old fashioned whale bone S-bend corsets*** forcing their breasts into giant monobosoms down which strands of opera length pearls cascade. Wearing toques with feather aigrettes jutting out of them atop their waved white hair they look like older versions of Queen Mary. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“You were amongst the last of the people we expected to run into here, Miss Chetwynd.” the elder Miss Evans remarks. “Don’t you agree Henrietta?”
“Indeed Geraldine!” acknowledges her sister with a crackling voice that sounds like crisp autumn leaves underfoot. “Quite the least likely.”
“Well,” Lettice chuckles a little awkwardly. “I must confess that I am equally surprised at running into you two here.”
“Oh,” the elder of the Miss Evanses remarks with a dismissive sweep of her hand, a waft of Yardley’s Old English Lavender teasing Lettice’s nose as she does. “It’s one of the few pleasures of the Season that we enjoy and allow ourselves these days.”
“As two ladies long past their bloom of youth.” the younger Miss Evans twitters as she looks at the younger ladies around them. “Unlike you, Miss Chetwynd, and your...” She looks querying at Margot’s slightly startled face with raised eyebrows.
“Oh how very remiss of me!” Lettice apologises. “Miss Evans, Miss Evans, may I introduce Mrs. Richard Channon, daughter-in-law to Marquis and Marchioness of Taunton. Margot darling, may I introduce the Miss Evanses: acquaintances of mine who live in Glynes village in Wiltshire.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Channon.” the two old ladies twitter with gravitas, raising their glove clad hands to their mouths in delight.
“How do you do, ladies.” Margot replies, not quite able to keep the bemused smile off her painted red lips as she observes Lettice’s awkwardness at being caught conversing with these two old, dowdy and rather faded looking women amidst the smart ladies of London society.
“We didn’t know you enjoyed flowers.” the elder Miss Evans observes. “Are you perhaps accompanying Her Ladyship?” She stretches her jowly neck like a tortoise and looks around with unbridled excitement with her trembling head to see if she can spot Lady Sadie anywhere in the immediate vicinity.
“No, I’m afraid my mother isn’t here today, Miss Evans.” Lettice apologises. “I imagine she is at home in Wiltshire, which I must confess is where I expected you would be also. However, if you ask my mother, she will be the very first person to tell you that I am the only one of my siblings who shares her love of flowers. I often help her plan the plantings for the parterre at Glynes.”
“Well!” the younger of the Miss Evanses gasps. “Being the creative and artistic soul you are, of course you are interested in flowers. How could you not be? You take so after your dear aunt, Miss Eglantine, Miss Chetwynd.”
“Oh, is Miss Eglantine here with you today?” the elder Miss Evans queries, stretching her neck again.
“No, Miss Evans.” Lettice assures them. “I’m afraid that my aunt prefers some of the smaller, lesser known garden shows at this time of the year. She’s not one for all this show. No, I’m here to admire the flowers with my friend Mrs. Channon.”
“We did see pictures of you in the society pages of the newspaper, Miss Chetwynd,” the younger Miss Evans remarks in a total change of subject. “At the wedding of our new Duchess of York****. It was quite a thrill, wasn’t it Geraldine?” she concludes with a shy and rather foolishly girlish smile as she blushes beneath her dusting of pale face powder.
“Indeed yes, Henrietta.” agrees her sister. “Having been so long outside of fashionable society, it is always a delight to see a person of our acquaintance in the social pages.”
“And were you wearing one of Master Bruton’s outfits, Miss Chetwynd?” the younger sister asks. Without giving Lettice a chance to answer she adds, “And is your frock today also designed by Master Bruton, Miss Chetwynd?” She points her finger rather rudely at Lettice’s chest, as she looks Lettice up and down through the silver rimmed lorgnette she has tied by a navy blue ribbon to her wrist.
“Master Bruton?” Margot queries with a quizzical look at Lettice.
“Gerald.” Lettice quickly elucidates before acknowledging to the Miss Evanses that her flouncy frock of georgette in the palest of peach is indeed made by him.
As the Miss Evanses engage conversation with Margot, Lettice is suddenly struck by the unpleasant feeling that she is being watched, or perhaps more precisely, scrutinised. The crackling voices of the Miss Evanses and Margot’s well elocuted vowels die away as she turns and looks over her left shoulder. A mature woman dressed in a strikingly simple French blue frock with a layered calf length hem overlaid with a magnificent and thick arctic fox fur stole stands perfectly still, staring imperiously at Lettice from beneath the wide brim of a matching Navy blue felt hat. Pale and slender she is glacially beautiful, her dark and intense stillness at odds with the bright pastel blur of the women milling around her. Her thin lips are depressed into a disapproving line and her sharp and high cheekbones add to her steeliness. Her dark sloe blue eyes pierce Lettice to the core with a vehement dislike, as though she were an insect that must be exterminated.
“I imagine Master Bruton will soon be designing Miss Chetwnd’s own wedding frock.” the younger of the Miss Evanses announces rather vulgarly with another ungainly girlish twitter.
“Are you alright, Lettice darling?” Margot asks, reaching her hand up at touching her friend’s shoulder.
“What?” Lettice asks in surprise, spinning back around as Margot interrupts the hold of the mysterious woman’s gaze on her.
“I asked if you are feeling alright, Lettice darling.” Margot repeats, a worried look bleeding across her pretty face.
“I say, you do look rather pale all of a sudden, my dear Miss Chetwynd.” the older of the Miss Evanses says with concern.
“Oh,” Lettice replies, fanning herself with her glove clad hand as she feels the intense gazes of Margot and the two Miss Evanses. “Oh yes.” She looks back over her shoulder, but like a phantom, the mysterious woman in French blue is gone, leaving no trace of her presence. Turning back, she continues rather distractedly, “I think I’m just a little overcome by all the people in here.”
“Yes, well, it is rather close in here, Miss Chetwynd.” the younger Miss Evans remarks as she looks about at all the women and a few men milling around them.
“If you don’t mind, ladies,” Margot addresses the Miss Evanses. “I think I might take Miss Chetwynd outside the enclosure for a spot of air.”
“Oh yes! Do! Do Mrs. Channon.” the two Miss Evanses cluck away in concern.
“Well, goodbye Miss Evans, Miss Evans,” Margot says as she carefully starts to guide Lettice away. “It has been a pleasure making your acquaintance.” she lies.
As Margot leads Lettice away from the effusive pair of old women she leans into Lettice. “I say, well played Lettice darling.” she mutters conspiratorially. “I don’t know how you do that, but making yourself go pale like that worked a treat to get us away from that pair of wittering old biddies. I feared we’d never escape their vulturous clutches.” She squeezes Lettice’s inner arm as they walk. “Do you always have to pull a fit like that to escape them, darling?”
“Only sometimes.” Lettice remarks a little unsteadily, glancing nervously around her to see if she can catch another glimpse of the woman in dark blue as they move through the crush of floral scented women dressed in silk georgette and cotton chintz in pretty pastel colours.
The very next moment Lettice runs into the chest of a navy blue blazer which smells familiarly of Taylor’s sandalwood eau de cologne.
“Lettice!” Selwyn’s voice exclaims from somewhere above the brim of her straw picture hat.
Looking up, Lettice stares into the surprised face of her beau and smiles with relief. “Selwyn!”
“Angel, what on earth are you doing here?” Selwyn asks, grasping Lettice by the shoulders, looking around a little nervously as he does. “I didn’t think this was your type of occasion.”
“Oh it’s not, Your Grace.” Margot drops a small respectful curtsey. “Lettice has kindly agreed to accompany me in the absence of my husband.” explains Margot at Lettice’s arm. Stretching out her own hand encased in a burgundy leather glove to him like a queen she introduces herself. “How do you do, Your Grace, I’m Mrs. Richard Channon.” She smiles widely at him with her red painted lips.
“Yes, I think I recognise your face from the newspapers after your wedding, Mrs. Channon. How do you do.” Selwyn says, taking her proffered hand and kissing it. “And please, no ‘Your Graces’ since you are such a close friend of Miss Chetwynd. Just Mr. Spencely will do.”
“Thank you, Your Grac… err I mean, Mr. Spencely.” she corrects herself. “And you must be Pamela Fox-Chavers.” Margot continues, drawing Lettice’s attention to the shy young lady standing silently at Selwyn’s side, her arm linked with his. “How do you do. I’m Mrs. Richard Channon.”
Lettice looks across at Pamela who stares back at Lettice with a large pair of kind, pale blue eyes from beneath the stiffened lace brim of her hat. Framed by strawberry blonde waves of soft lustrous hair affixed in a chignon at the back of her neck, Pamela’s skin is like peaches and cream. Lettice takes in her beautifully cut frock of pale pink and blue satin adorned with lace appliqué and tiny bouquets of ornamental pink roses, and immediately identifies it as once of Lucile’s***** ‘Dream Dresses’*****. The young debutante of seventeen smiles at Lettice with the sweet and innocent face of an ingenue.
“Good heavens!” Pamela gasps. “How on earth did you know who I am, Mrs. Channon? I’m only just out!”
“I saw your photograph in the newspapers,” Margot says in reply. “From Queen Charlotte’s Ball******.”
“Pamela,” Selwyn says a little awkwardly. “May I introduce, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd. Lettice, may I present my cousin, the Honourable Pamela Fox-Chavers.”
“Oh, no introduction is necessary, Selwyn!” Pamela says with a shy smile. “I’d know you anywhere, Miss Chetwynd. It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you. Your face is always in the society pages, oh and you too Mrs. Channon.” she adds quickly when she sees the slightly perturbed look on Margot’s perfectly made up face. “Selwyn’s always talking about you, Miss Chetwynd.”
“Pammy!” Selwyn chides his young cousin gently, looking down at her with serious eyes as he flushes red with embarrassment.
Smiling cheekily, Margot explains, “I was just taking Lettice outside for a breath of fresh air. It’s awfully cloying in here with so many people about.”
“Lettice my angel,” Selwyn gasps quietly, gazing into her face with concerned eyes. “Are you alright?”
“I’ll be fine, Selwyn.” she assures him with a dismissive wave. “I just need some fresh air is all.”
“And maybe a little something to eat.” Margot adds, cocking an eyebrow at Selwyn meaningfully.
“Oh they’re serving Devonshire teas in the next tent, Mrs. Channon.” pipes up Pamela. “Shall we all go and have some? Then we can get better acquainted.” She looks with excited eyes to Lettice before turning back to Selwyn. “Can we Selwyn?” she begs like a young child wanting a treat, tugging on her cousin’s arm. “Please!”
“What a capital idea, Miss Fox-Chavers.” Margot replies with an indulgent smile of gratitude. “I think some Devonshire tea sounds like a very civilised way for us to all get to know one another better. Don’t you agree, Mr. Spencely?”
*May 20 1913 saw the first Royal Horticultural Society flower show at Chelsea. What we know today as the Chelsea Flower Show was originally known as the Great Spring Show. The first shows were three day events held within a single marquee. The King and Queen did not attend in 1913, but the King's Mother, Queen Alexandra, attended with two of her children. The only garden to win a gold medal before the war was also in 1913 and was awarded to a rock garden created by John Wood of Boston Spa. In 1919, the Government demanded that the Royal Horticultural Society pay an entertainment tax for the show – with resources already strained, it threatened the future of the Chelsea Flower Show. Thankfully, this was wavered once the Royal Horticultural Society convinced the Government that the show had educational benefit and in 1920 a special tent was erected to house scientific exhibits. Whilst the original shows were housed within one tent, the provision of tents increased after the Great War ended. A tent for roses appeared and between 1920 and 1934, there was a tent for pictures, scientific exhibits and displays of garden design. Society garden parties began to be held, and soon the Royal Horticultural Society’s Great Spring Show became a fixture of the London social calendar in May, attended by society ladies and their debutante daughters, the occasion used to parade the latter by the former. The Chelsea Flower Show, though not so exclusive today, is still a part of the London Season.
**A jeune fille à marier was a marriageable young woman, the French term used in fashionable circles and the upper-classes of Edwardian society before the Second World War.
***Created by a specific style of corset popular between the turn of the Twentieth Century and the outbreak of the Great War, the S-bend is characterized by a rounded, forward leaning torso with hips pushed back. This shape earned the silhouette its name; in profile, it looks similar to a tilted letter S.
****Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, as she was known at the beginning of 1923 when this story is set, went on to become Queen of the United Kingdom and the Dominions from 1936 to 1952 as the wife of King George VI. Whilst still Duke of York, Prince Albert initially proposed to Elizabeth in 1921, but she turned him down, being "afraid never, never again to be free to think, speak and act as I feel I really ought to". He proposed again in 1922 after Elizabeth was part of his sister, Mary the Princess Royal’s, wedding party, but she refused him again. On Saturday, January 13th, 1923, Prince Albert went for a walk with Elizabeth at the Bowes-Lyon home at St Paul’s, Walden Bury and proposed for a third and final time. This time she said yes. The wedding took place on April 26, 1923 at Westminster Abbey.
*****Lucile – Lucy, Lady Duff Gordon was a leading British fashion designer in the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries who use the professional name Lucile. She was the originator of the “mannequin parade”, a pre-cursor to the modern fashion parade, and is reported to have been the person to first use the word “chic” which she then popularised. Lucile is also infamous for escaping the Titanic in a lifeboat designed for forty occupants with her husband and secretary and only nine other people aboard, seven being crew members.
******Lucile aimed to make an art of beautiful dressing, and her ‘Dream Dresses’ were faerie tale creations of shimmering silks, gossamer laces, and delicate rainbows of ribbons in soft pastel shades. Influenced by her early designs for lingerie and tea gowns, Lucile’s dresses, which she also referred to as “Gowns of Emotion” were given suitably romantic name, like “Happiness”.
*******The Queen Charlotte's Ball is an annual British debutante ball. The ball was founded in 1780 by George III as a birthday celebration in honour of his wife, Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, for whom the ball is named. Debutantes were presented and made to curtsey to a large birthday cake in honour of Queen Charlotte. The Queen Charlotte's Ball originally served as a fundraiser for the Queen Charlotte's and Chelsea Hospital. The annual ball continued after Queen Charlotte's death in 1818, but was criticised by the British royal family in the 1950s and 1960s and folded in 1976. It was revived in the Twenty First Century by Jennie Hallam-Peel, a former debutante, who shifted its focus from entering high society to teaching business skills, networking, and etiquette, and fundraising for charities.
This wonderful display of floral arrangements in a marquee may not be all that you suppose it to be, for in fact it is made up entirely of pieces from my 1:12 size miniatures collection.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
All the floral arrangements that you see here come from various suppliers, including Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom, the Doll House Emporium, Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering and the Falcon Company, all of whom specialise in high quality, realistic 1:12 miniatures, and they are well known for their floral arrangements. There are also several examples of artisan floral arrangements, made by unknown artists.
The white and pink striped wall of the marquee is in truth one of my hand tailored business shirts which I spread across a cardboard backing. I think it looks quite effective. Don’t you?
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.
Tonight however, we have headed north-west from Cavendish Mews, across Marylebone, past Regent’s Park, the London Zoo and Lords Cricket Ground to the affluent and leafy residential streets of nearby St. John’s Wood. It is here that Lettice’s Embassy Club coterie friends Minnie Palmerston and her husband Charles reside in a neatly painted two storey early Victorian townhouse on Acacia Road that formerly belonged to Charles Palmerston’s maternal grandparents, Lord and Lady Arundel. Lettice was commissioned to redecorate their dining room, after Minnie decided to have a go at it herself with disastrous results. Now with the room freshly painted and papered, and the furniture expertly curated and arranged by Lettice, all of Minnie’s dining room faux pas is forgotten, and the Palmerstons are hosting a dinner for Lettice as a thank you. They have also invited another of their Embassy Club coterie, Lettice’s old childhood chum Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy who has tried to gain some independence from his family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street, to even up the numbers.
As Siobhan, the Palmerston’s Irish maid, serves roast beef with vegetables to the quartet, Lettice regales her friends with the story of her recent visit to Glynes, her family home in Wiltshire.
“And what was the reception like?” Minnie asks as she picks up her glass of wine.
“Well,” Lettice explains. “Pater was absolutely delighted with Henry Tipping’s* editorial about my redecoration of Dickie and Margot’s in Country Life**. When I arrived, he was sitting in the drawing room reading it, would you believe?”
“Oh, he wasn’t, was he Lettice darling?” Minnie laughs, making her diamond chandelier earrings jostle and sparkle in the light of the candelabra in the middle of the dining table.
“How perfectly droll!” Charles remarks from his seat beside his wife, accepting the gravy boat proffered to him by Lettice who is sitting opposite him.
“He told me how he couldn’t be prouder of me.” Lettice goes on.
“Well, that’s a turn up for the books, isn’t it!” Minnie exclaims, clapping her white evening glove clad hands.
“Oh, I think Pater has always believed in my abilities, deep down inside.”
“Well he’s always been supportive of your aunt’s artistic pursuits,” Gerald adds as he slices the pieces of beef on his plate. “Hasn’t he Lettice?”
“He has, Gerald. And besides, I am his favourite.”
“Even if you do say so yourself,” Gerald chortles before popping a morsel of meat into his mouth and sighing with delight.
“Will that be all, Madam?” Sobhan asks her mistress politely as there is a break in the conversation.
Minnie looks across the black japanned surface of her dining table at her white gilt dinner plates stacked with steaming slices of beef, chunks of golden potato and pumpkin, steamed cauliflower and shiny green peas. “I think so Siobhan. Thank you. We’ll ring if we need anything further.”
“Very good, Madam.” The maid retreats through the door to the left of the fireplace.
“Well, I must say that Minnie and I are as pleased as punch to have a room decorated by a woman written up in Country Life.” Charles says proudly.
“Do you really like it, Charles?” Lettice asks with a sparkle in her eyes.
“Oh yes I do. It’s smashing! Really it is. You’ve dragged it from the Nineteenth Century into now in a very striking, elegant and fashionable way.”
“What a lovely compliment, Charles.” Lettice says, blushing.
“Unlike your wife’s valiant attempts.” Minnie grumbles, dabbing the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “Which only made this room appear like a Maida Vale***** dining room.”
“I’ll never live that slur down, will I my poppet, even if it is true?”
“Never my love.” Minnie smiles back. “However, I have to agree with you. You had the vision Lettice. I could never have done this, and you prevented me from changing or swaying your vision, and I’m so very glad that you did.”
“Yes, at least my paintings don’t get lost against the papering on the walls,” remarks Charles. “And the whole scheme makes the room look bigger, less cluttered and more classical.”
“You’re a wonder, Lettice darling!” Minnie enthuses. “No question!”
“The fact that our dining room has been redecorated by one of the most fashionable society interior designers will certainly give us something interesting to talk about whenever we throw a dinner party.” Charles continues, addressing Lettice.
“And it will finally give me a topic to brighten the dinner table with,” Minnie adds brightly. “At least for a while. Which is so much more palatable than all that dull talk of your boring bankers and their equally tedious wives.”
“Those boring bankers, as you call them,” Charles addresses his wife. “Are my work colleagues and friends, my poppet.”
“Well I can’t help it if you have simply the most boring and tiresome friends in the whole of London,” Minnie replies with a pretty shrug of her shoulders. “Now can I, Charles darling?” She turns to Lettice. “Boring banking, stocks and shares.”
“That boring banking I do, and those stocks and shares help pay for all this, Minnie.” Charles counters, waving his knife around the newly appointed room. “And keeps you comfortably in stockings and fans.”
“He has a point, Minnie darling.” Lettice concedes.
“Well, at least they get used for something useful and interesting.” Minnie then faces ahead of her to Gerald. “It is simply too dreary for words.”
“Oh Minnie!” Gerald laughs. “You really are quite something. I’m amazed she can keep a civil tongue in her head when she is surrounded by your friends, Charles.”
“I have to threaten her with divorce.” Charles jokes as he takes a piece of roast potato and pops it in his mouth, smiling cheekily at his wife as he chews.
“Oh Charles!” Minnie gasps. “You are simply too beastly for words. Anyway, enough about your boring friends! No one wants to hear about them! What about your mother, Lettice? Was she as thrilled as your father was about the Country Life editorial?”
“You’ve never met Sadie before.” remarks Gerald sagely as he rolls his eyes. “She is seldom thrilled by anything.”
“Oh surely not, Gerald darling! She would have to be pleased that her youngest daughter is being haled a success.” Minnie retorts.
“Your idea of success and Sadie’s are quite different, Minnie darling.” Gerald replies.
Minnie turns to her friend with questioning eyes shimmering with concern, her lower lip hanging open slightly in anticipation as she waits for her to speak.
“Well, she conceded that if I must be written about, at least it was in a periodical that is respectable.” Lettice explains a little deflatedly.
“No!” Minnie gasps.
“I’m quite sure Sadie will be entertaining all the great and good of the county, lording the story over each and every one of them.” Gerald adds.
“Not that she will tell me.”
“Perhaps not.” Gerald counters. “But I’m sure Bella or Leslie will.”
“That’s terrible!” Minnie exclaims. “How can your own mother not be proud of you, Lettice darling?”
“Oh, dare say in her heart of hearts she may be a little pleased.”
“But she’ll never admit it.” adds Gerald.
“Especially to me.”
“And the Viscount is far too loyal to his wife to give the game away.”
“So what did she say, besides that she was satisfied that at least you’d been written about in an appropriate periodical?” Charles asks.
“Not much else,” Lettice answers. “Other than to remind me that whilst this little foray into interior design may have reaped me a small snippet of momentary notoriety, I should not forget my true duty to my family and society.”
“And what’s that then?” Minnie asks.
“To get married of course.” Gerald elucidates for his friend. “Sadie doesn’t think anything should come between Lettice and a good marriage prospect.”
“I was hoping that with Elizabeth*** marrying the Duke of York that it might deflect Mater from her determination to advance my marriage prospects, but it seems to have done quite the opposite, and all she wanted to do when I was down in Wiltshire visiting them, was to discuss my budding relationship with Selwyn.”
“And how is the budding relationship with the future Duke of Walmsford?” Minnie asks, her green eyes widening at even the smallest amount of gossip.
“You are incorrigible, Minnie!” Lettice exclaims. “You’d be the last person I’d confide in about the state of my love life.”
“Oh don’t be such a spoil sport!” Minnie bounces up and down in her high backed red and gold Art Deco black japanned dining chair. “I’m sure you held out on me about Elizabeth marrying the Duke of York when I asked you whether she was going to marry the Prince of Wales.”
Lettice does not reply, instead concentrating on cutting a slice of beef on her plate.
“Maybe she did, my poppet,” Charles remarks. “Because what Lettice says is true. I love you dearly, but there is no denying you are a frightful gossip.”
“Charles!” Minnie looks wounded, but then gives the game away as she smiles guilty at her husband. “You are a beast, Charles Palmerston! Goodness knows why I married you?”
“It obviously wasn’t for all my boring and tedious friends,” Charles chortled good-naturedly. “So it must be for my good looks and charming manners.” He takes her right hand in his left one and raises it to his lips and kisses it tenderly.
“Oh you!” Minnie blusters, flushing pink at his gesture before flapping at him with her napkin. Turning back to Lettice she says, “You can’t hold out on me about your relationship with Selwyn, Lettice darling! Not with me, one of your dearest friends!” She presses her elegantly manicured fingers to her chest over her heart overdramatically. “Tell me something: any little titbit to make me happy!” She pouts. “Please!”
“You know she’ll wear you down if you don’t, Lettice darling.” Charles sighs. “She’ll be at you all night, like a kitten with a catnip mouse.”
“Oh very well, Minnie.” Lettice acquiesces. “Although I must confess there isn’t much to tell.”
“Do I sense a dwindling in the ardour you have for Selwyn?” Minnie asks, genuinely concerned for her friend, but equally driven by the intrigue of gossip about her.
“Not exactly.” Lettice says a little awkwardly. “I had dinner with Selwyn at Simpson’s**** the other week.” She pauses, unsure what to disclose or even how to say it. “And we had…”
“An argument?” Minnie prompts.
“Not an argument exactly. More of a disagreement.”
“Over what, Lettice darling?”
“Over his mother.”
Sitting next to her, Gerald remains silent and focuses on cutting a potato into quarters.
“His mother?” Minnie queries. “The Duchess of Walmsford doesn’t approve of you, Lettice darling?”
“She can hardly disapprove of me if she hasn’t even met me yet. That’s what we had our disagreement over.”
Gerald continues to focus on cutting up the food on his plate.
“I want to meet her. I think I should meet her, now that Selwyn and I are more serious about pursuing our relationship. Yet he seems to show a strange reluctance to introducing the two of us, and it’s gnawing at me.”
“You’ve only really known one another for a short while, Lettice darling.” Charles reflects.
“You sound just like him, Charles. We’ve known each other over a year now.”
“But how often have you seen one another over that time, between his busy schedule and yours? Maybe a dozen times or so.” When Lettice nods, Charles continues. “Well then, it’s still early days yet. Why roil the calm waters of your budding relationship with the irritation of relations?”
“That was his argument, Charles.”
“Well, it seems perfectly reasonable to me.” Charles concludes. “Don’t you think so, Gerald?”
“Me?” Gerald asks, raising his head from his plate.
“Don’t you agree, Gerald?” Charles asks again.
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening.” he lies. “What am I agreeing to, Charles?”
“Oh it doesn’t matter, old bean.” Charles answers dismissively.
“Are you alright, Gerald?” Minnie asks from opposite him. “You’ve gone pale all of a sudden. Don’t tell me you don’t like the roast beef?”
“What?” Gerald looks down into his plate again. “Oh no, no, Minnie. The meal is delicious. Positively scrumptious.” he assures her. He is relieved when he sees the defensive look in Minnie’s green eyes dissipate. He continues, “No, I’m just a bit preoccupied with orders for frocks for the Royal Wedding. Lettice’s isn’t the only outfit I am making for the occasion.”
“So business is looking up for you too, old bean?” Charles pipes up. “Jolly good!”
Gerald sighs with relief as his ploy to steer the conversation away from Lettice’s and Selwyn’s relationship succeeds. Yet as he talks animatedly about the frocks he is making for other society ladies attending the royal wedding, his eyes and this thoughts drift to his best friend.
Although she is smiling and as animated as he is on the outside, Gerald worries that behind the gaiety of her recent success, Lettice is worried about her relationship with Selwyn. Gerald has tried in an oblique way to warn Lettice not to look solely to Selwyn for romance, so as not to be accused of interfering in her private affairs. Even as her best friend, Gerald knows there are only so many lines that he can cross before he is deemed as meddling where he shouldn’t and risks his friendship with her. Hearing Lettice talk about Selwyn’s mother, he worries that the reason Selwyn is reluctant to introduce her to his mother, the Duchess, is because she has plans for her son’s marriage that don’t include Lettice. Whilst he predicted this, and even voiced his opinion to Lettice’s mother, it was ill received by her. Gerald knows it will be even less warmly welcomed by Lettice if it comes from him, when in fact it should come from Selwyn. Yet he worries whether he is doing the right thing or not by not saying anything. He doesn’t want to lose the close relationship wit his best friend, yet at the same time he wonders whether it would be better to risk it to save her heart. Would she forgive him in the long run and come to understand that any pain he inflicted was offset by the pain she was spared had she not known Gerald’s feelings.
*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.
**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.
***Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, as she was known at the beginning of 1923 when this story is set, went on to become Queen of the United Kingdom and the Dominions from 1936 to 1952 as the wife of King George VI. Whilst still Duke of York, Prince Albert initially proposed to Elizabeth in 1921, but she turned him down, being "afraid never, never again to be free to think, speak and act as I feel I really ought to". He proposed again in 1922 after Elizabeth was part of his sister, Mary the Princess Royal’s, wedding party, but she refused him again. On Saturday, January 13th, 1923, Prince Albert went for a walk with Elizabeth at the Bowes-Lyon home at St Paul’s, Walden Bury and proposed for a third and final time. This time she said yes. The wedding took place on April 26, 1923 at Westminster Abbey.
*****After a modest start in 1828 as a smoking room and soon afterwards as a coffee house, Simpson's-in-the-Strand achieved a dual fame, around 1850, for its traditional English food, particularly roast meats, and also as the most important venue in Britain for chess in the Nineteenth Century. Chess ceased to be a feature after Simpson's was bought by the Savoy Hotel group of companies at the end of the Nineteenth Century, but as a purveyor of traditional English food, Simpson's has remained a celebrated dining venue throughout the Twentieth Century and into the Twenty-First Century. P.G. Wodehouse called it "a restful temple of food"
This 1920s Art Deco dining room with its table set for fur may look real to you, but it is in fact made up of 1:12 miniatures from my own miniatures collection, including some pieces from my childhood.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The dining table is correctly set for a four course Edwardian dinner partially ended, with the first course already concluded using cutlery, from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in the United Kingdom. The delicious looking roast dinner on the dinner plates and on the console in the background have been made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. All the wine and water glasses I have had since I was a teenager. I bought them from a high street stockist that specialised in dolls’ houses and doll house miniatures. Each glass is hand blown using real glass. The water carafe and the wine carafe on the console in the background were bought at the same time. The white porcelain salt and pepper shakers have been gilded by hand and also came from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in the United Kingdom. The three prong Art Deco style candelabra in the console is an artisan piece made of sterling silver. Although unsigned, the piece was made in England by an unknown artist.
The black japanned high backed chairs with their stylised Art Deco fabric upholstery came from a seller on E-Bay. The black japanned dining table and console in the background were made by Town Hall Miniatures. The tall stands that flank the fireplace were made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq. The vases of flowers on the stands are beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium.
The Streamline Moderne pottery tile fireplace surround and the Art Deco green electric fireplace I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in the United Kingdom. On the mantle of the fireplace stands a miniature artisan hand painted Art Deco statue on a “marble” plinth. Made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality of the detail in their pieces, it is a 1:12 copy of the “Theban Dancer” sculpture created by Claire-Jeanne-Roberte Colinet in 1925. The tall statues standing at either end of the console table are also made by Warwick Miniatures and were hand painted by me.
The paintings around the room are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States.
The stylised metallic red dioxide floral wallpaper was paper given to me by a friend who encouraged me to use it in my miniature tableaux.
FIRST THING TO DO IS FOR YOU TO ENRICH YOUR KNOWLEDGE
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This Is What We Do ....We Take The Children Along .....And Pass On Knowledge And Wisdom Gained Over These Years... This Is The Way We Put Our Children In Fast Track.....
Youngsters Are Quick Learners And Much More Proficient In Handling Modern Gadgets And Net knowers....Nevertheless,,,A Bottle Of Water Will Be of Help..since lots of Questions and Elucidation is the norm .That Is Another Matter.
We Need Their Car And Drive....To Reach High Places ..Especially In A Foreign Land......That Is A Different Matter....Altogether
(In This Image Shot Outside The Lick Observatory situate on A Cliff....Overlooking Silicon Valley, Me And My Son..At Sun Set Time)
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.
This morning Lettice is entertaining her friend Margot Channon, a fellow member of Lettice’s Embassy Club coterie and her best girlfriend. Edith, Lettice’s maid, has brought out Lettice’s Art Deco tea set, which now sits on the low black japanned coffee table between them along with a plate of delicious looking jam fancies that have come from the Huntley and Palmers tin in the flat’s kitchen. The mid-morning sunlight pours in through the window and the air is pungent with the fragrance of flowers as the two friends wait for Edith to withdraw from the drawing room, and earshot, before picking up on their conversation.
“My goodness, Lettice darling,” Margot exclaims as she picks up her fine bone china teacup with the Art Deco patterning and gilt edge, and sinks back comfortably into Lettice’s comfortable round tub chair. “It’s beginning to look like the Regent Street Flower Box in here!” She gesticulates to all the vases of flowers around them with her manicured hands.
“Oh yes.” Lettice remarks as if she is taking in the number of bouquets of roses, asters and orchids gracing the surfaces of her drawing room for the first time. “Yes, I suppose it is a bit much, Margot darling.”
“Are they all from Selwyn?” A cheeky half smile curls up Margot’s red painted lips as she waits for the answer she knows she is going to receive.
Lettice nods shallowly in reply, the movement a little self-conscious and shy.
Margot arches one of her fashionably shaped slim dark eyebrows as she contemplates her best girlfriend with an intense gaze from her deep sloe eyes. The smile on her painted lips falls away as she takes in the finer points of Lettice’s body language that only a close friend would notice: the way Lettice picks up her teacup a little hesitantly, the way she shuffles slightly awkwardly on the soft cushioned seat of her armchair, the way her blue eyes flit around the room in a desultory fashion.
“But you haven’t asked me here today to admire the floral arrangements given you by Selwyn, have you darling?” her remark coming out of her pretty mouth more like a statement of fact than a question.
“What Margot?” Lettice exclaims, raising her delicate fingers to her collar bone where she immediately starts to worry at the string of creamy pearls she wears: another sign to Margot that there is something afoot. “Can’t I have my very best bosom friend* over for a morning of idle gossip? How can you even suggest such a thing?”
“Oh, don’t play coy with me, Lettice.” Margot eyes her friend firmly. “It might appeal to Selwyn, but I’ve known you for long enough. I may not be worldly, or know how to run a household properly, but I do know when you’re up to something.”
“Well,” Lettice sighs, her shoulders sagging as she sinks back into her own tub chair with her cup of tea. “It is true, I didn’t really ask you over here to talk about Elizabeth’s** wedding to Bertie***.”
“Aha!” Margot crows triumphantly. She smiles smugly as she takes a sip of her tea before continuing. “Enough of the niceties and subterfuge. What devilish plot are you hatching behind those purportedly innocent lids of yours? Come on, spit it out: I’m all ears.”
“Alight!” Lettice leans forward in her seat conspiratorially and slides her cup back into its saucer.
Margot leans forward in her seat, mirroring Lettice, snatching up a jam fancy from the plate between them as she waits for Lettice to continue, popping its edge between her white teeth and biting down into the flaky biscuit crust.
“I need your help, Margot. I need you to come to the Great Spring Show**** with me.”
“Good god no!” Margot exclaims, sending pieces of partially chewed biscuit spraying from her mouth. “Why?”
“Oh, I knew you’d say that.” Lettice sulks.
Margot coughs and clears her throat. “You know I’m emotionally scarred by my experiences of being paraded about there as a jeune fille à marier***** by Mummy before the war!” She scrapes pieces of biscuit off her morning frock with her right index finger and thumb and drops them onto her saucer. “I felt humiliated! It was like being at one of those hideous cattle shows you people born and raised in the country seem to favour, only I was the cattle on show, not the spectator, and no-one wanted to acquire me. Why can’t you ask Gerald?”
“I did,” Lettice replies downheartedly. “But he said no.”
“Wise man. Good for him.” Margot concludes. “It’s ghastly: all those anxious mothers and daughters perambulating about and showing off, all the parvenues wearing just a little too much jewellery and just too bright a shade of frock trying too hard to blend in and not be ill at ease with their new money, the withering gazes coming from the beady eyes of those society matrons as they pass judgement on all and sundry from beneath their new spring millinery.” She sighs and clears her throat of the last few stubborn remaining crumbs as resolutely she picks up her teacup again. “No, it is simply too, too hideous.”
“Oh please, Margot darling!” Lettice implores. “I need you to come with me. Please!”
“But why?” Margot asks. “I didn’t think the Great Spring Show was particularly your scene, Lettice darling: more that of your mother. It strikes me that Sadie would be quite at home amid the horror of so many women beneath a single tent, all mixing up a turgid social melee where anyone can become a victim to their tutting and bitter tongues for dropping the tiniest of social briquettes. I should have thought that coming from the country as you do that you would have had enough of flower shows there to cure you of them for the rest of your life.”
“You aren’t entirely wrong there,” Lettice agrees. ‘But I need to go, even if every fibre of my being rails against me attending, and I need you to come with me, despite all your misgivings.”
“So, I say again Lettice, why? You must throw me a bone if you are to have any chance of me even so much as contemplating going.”
“You’ll be potentially assisting me with my love life.” Lettice says hopefully.
“Your love life?” Margot takes another bite of her biscuit as she waits for Lettice to continue, tiny crumbs sticking to her red painted lips.
“Selwyn will be there.” Lettice elucidates.
“Really?” Margot’s eyes widen in surprise. “I didn’t think it was particularly, dishy Mr. Spencely’s scene either.”
“It’s not, but he’s going anyway.”
“Well surely as you are no longer a debutante, and you have been seen dining with Selwyn, even if you’ve been careful enough not to end up in the society pages, that you can meet him in a place as innocuous as the Great Spring Show.” She wags a finger at Lettice as she stares intently at her. “There’s more to this than you are letting on. These titbits you’re casting me aren’t nearly tasty enough for this dog. Go on.”
Lettice glances around the room with guilty eyes and sighs. “You’ll think me a fool.”
“I’ll do no such thing!” Margot defends. “Until I know all the facts, at least.” she adds with a cheeky smile. She then looks Lettice firmly and earnestly in the eye. “Come on Lettice darling. This is me you’re talking with. How many foolish schemes and plots have we helped each other with over the years? Some worked, but may didn’t, and we’re still friends.”
“Do you remember me telling you about Pamela Fox-Chavers?”
“Yes,” Margot replies, quickly trying to recall what Lettice told her about her. “She’s Selwyn’s cousin?”
“Yes, that’s right: a distant one.”
“And he’s chaperoning her to certain occasions throughout the Season because she is just out, isn’t he?”
“Yes: a favour to his mother.”
“Oh I see!” Margot gasps with realisation. “You want me to go with you to the Royal Horticultural Society’s garden show so that we can just run into Selwyn, quite by chance.”
“Exactly. It will be less suspicious and draw less attention if I just happen to be there with a friend than if I went there by myself. If I went alone that would be too obvious, and raise some eyebrows.”
“Then I take it that this plan of yours is not being made in conjunction with Selwyn.”
“That’s correct.”
“But what I still don’t understand is why Gerald won’t escort you. Coming from the country as you do, he loves these sorts of occasions far more than I, and it will be good business for him to be seen there. All that exposure to those society matrons and their influence over the fashions their daughters wear would do his fledgling fashion house wonders.”
“He doesn’t want to be a party to what he calls my spying. He and Selwyn are members of the same club, and they do know one another socially.”
“Ahh,” Margot utters, the glee raising a glint in her eyes. “The plot thickens. So, you aren’t really going to the flower show to see Selwyn. You’re going so you can size up your competition.”
Lettice doesn’t reply, but the guilty look on her face and her failed attempt at a nonchalant shrug are enough of an answer.
“But I didn’t think Pamela Fox-Chavers was competition. You told me that Selwyn told you that he is doing this as a favour for his mother.”
“That’s what he tells me.”
“And you don’t believe him?”
“It’s not that I don’t believe him.” Lettice defends. “It’s more that I think that there are other games being played by certain parties.”
“And the end game for them doesn’t have you and Selwyn riding off in the sunset to live happily ever after, I take it?”
“Exactly, Margot darling.”
“And who might these people be?”
“Selwyn’s mother principally, I believe.”
“The Duchess?” Margot’s eyes grow wide. “Interesting. What proof do you have?”
“Well, nothing that I can truly substantiate,” Lettice admits. “But I have that feeling in the pit of my stomach.”
“Well, you know I’m a convert to a woman’s intuition, Lettice darling. So, what brings you to this conclusion?”
“Do you remember at Priscilla’s and Georgie’s wedding I pointed out a man whose attentions I spurned at Mater’s Hunt Ball?”
“Yes, a rather thin and decidedly oily man,” Margot remarks, pulling a face of distaste as she remembers his presence. “And much older than you too, but I can’t recall his name.”
“Sir John Nettleford-Hughes.”
“That’s it!”
“Well, at the wedding, Sir John bailed me up, and he told me that Selwyn isn’t free to make a marriage of his own choosing. He said that Lady Zinnia and Lord Fox-Chavers had arranged a marriage between their two children long ago.”
“An arranged marriage?”
“Yes, between two very powerful and influential families. It makes sense.”
“And do you believe this Sir John?”
“At first I thought he was just spitting poison at me for spurning his attentions, but the more time that passes, the more sense it makes to me. Sir John spoke of preserving blood lines.”
“Well Selwyn and Pamela are cousins.”
“Distant cousins, yes. And Selwyn is very cagey about me meeting his mother.”
“Do you think he’s ashamed of you, Lettice darling?” Margot gasps, immediately concerned for her dear friend’s wellbeing.
“No, not at all, Margot. As I look back upon the disagreements we’ve had over meeting his mother, I actually now think he’s trying to shield me from her. I mean, I can barely remember her. Selwyn and I were only children when I last saw Lady Zinnia and I just remember a mean and angry lady dressed in black, dragging Selwyn away. However, I spoke to Leslie about her because he was older than me when she used to visit Glynes****** as part of Mater and Pater’s set, and I’ve come to the conclusion that she’s a dangerous woman.”
“So how does this plan of yours to spy on Pamela Fox-Chavers at the Great Spring Show benefit you, Lettice darling? I still don’t understand.”
“In spite of Selwyn trying to keep me and Lady Zinnia apart, one day I am going to meet her. It’s inevitable.” Lettice sighs. “And when I do, I think I am going to have to show her that I am equal to, or preferably surpass Pamela Fox-Chavers from a marriageability perspective. I need to meet Pamela and see what she’s like for myself, as I suspect I’m going to have to fight her and the Duchess in order to win Selwyn.” She releases a pent-up breath she didn’t realise she was holding in her chest beneath her aqua blue morning frock. “So you see, Margot darling, that’s why I need you to come with me to the Great Spring Show.” She looks at her friend with imploring eyes. “Please tell me that you’ll come.”
Margot sighs and fiddles with the frothy white lace edge of her parasol as it rests against the black japanned Chippendale footstool next to her chair as she contemplates subjecting herself to the social melee of the Royal Horticultural Society’s annual flower show. She doesn’t want to go, but as she stares into the worried face of her friend with her quivering lips and cornflower blue eyes glinting with fear, she knows she needs to be a true and friend to Lettice and accompany her, to be her moral support.
“Very well.” Margot agrees. “We’ll go.”
“Oh Margot!” Lettice yelps with joy. Leaping out of her seat she runs around to her friend and flings her arms around her neck. “Thank you!”
Margot laughs and pats Lettice’s back comfortingly. “You’re welcome. However, I perceive that there is a fatal flaw in this plot of yours, Lettice darling.”
“And what’s that, Margot darling?”
“Well, the Great Spring Show goes for three days. How will we know which day to attend?”
“Well we don’t,” Lettice replies with a serious face. “We’ll just have to attend all three days.”
Margot’s face pales at the thought of having to attend three interminable days of the flower show. “Well, I…” she stammers.
Lettice cannot help herself and bursts out laughing. “Oh Margot! You should see your face!” She covers her own mouth to try and stem the peals of laughter that fly from her lips. Slowly regaining her composure, Lettice returns to her seat and elucidates. “It’s quite alright Margot. I know which day to attend. I’ve already done my research.”
“Oh you!” hisses Margot admonishingly.
“I telephoned Selwyn’s office to find out which days he is out of the office. It turns out that he has a very chatty secretary. And,” She smiles proudly. ”Just to be sure, I also telephoned one of Pamela’s fellow debutantes whom I’ve seen her knocking about with, in the society pages, and pretending to be another debutante planning her social calendar, I confirmed that one of the date Selwyn’s secretary identified as being a day he is out of his practice, matches the day she said that Pamela is attending the flower show.”
“For playing such a filthy rotten trick on me, I should jolly well make you go to the ghastly flower show all by yourself!” Margot pouts overdramatically, showing that she isn’t really cross with Lettice.
“Thank you again, Margot.” Lettice says to her friend. “You really are a brick!”
*The term bosom friend is recorded as far back as the late Sixteenth Century. In those days, the bosom referred to the chest as the seat of deep emotions, though now the word usually means a woman's “chest.” A bosom friend, then, is one you might share these deep feelings with or have deep feelings for.
**Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, as she was known at the beginning of 1923 when this story is set, went on to become Queen of the United Kingdom and the Dominions from 1936 to 1952 as the wife of King George VI. Whilst still Duke of York, Prince Albert initially proposed to Elizabeth in 1921, but she turned him down, being "afraid never, never again to be free to think, speak and act as I feel I really ought to". He proposed again in 1922 after Elizabeth was part of his sister, Mary the Princess Royal’s, wedding party, but she refused him again. On Saturday, January 13th, 1923, Prince Albert went for a walk with Elizabeth at the Bowes-Lyon home at St Paul’s, Walden Bury and proposed for a third and final time. This time she said yes. The wedding took place on April 26, 1923 at Westminster Abbey.
***Prince Albert, Duke of York, known by the diminutive “Bertie” to the family and close friends, was the second son of George V. Not only did Bertie propose to Elizabeth in 1921, but also in March 1922 after she was a bridesmaid at the wedding of Albert’s sister, Princess Mary to Viscount Lascelles. Elizabeth refused him a second time, yet undaunted Bertie pursued the girl who had stolen his heart. Finally, in January 1923 she agreed to marry him in spite of her misgivings about royal life.
****May 20 1913 saw the first Royal Horticultural Society flower show at Chelsea. What we know today as the Chelsea Flower Show was originally known as the Great Spring Show. The first shows were three day events held within a single marquee. The King and Queen did not attend in 1913, but the King's Mother, Queen Alexandra, attended with two of her children. The only garden to win a gold medal before the war was also in 1913 and was awarded to a rock garden created by John Wood of Boston Spa. In 1919, the Government demanded that the Royal Horticultural Society pay an entertainment tax for the show – with resources already strained, it threatened the future of the Chelsea Flower Show. Thankfully, this was wavered once the Royal Horticultural Society convinced the Government that the show had educational benefit and in 1920 a special tent was erected to house scientific exhibits. Whilst the original shows were housed within one tent, the provision of tents increased after the Great War ended. A tent for roses appeared and between 1920 and 1934, there was a tent for pictures, scientific exhibits and displays of garden design. Society garden parties began to be held, and soon the Royal Horticultural Society’s Great Spring Show became a fixture of the London social calendar in May, attended by society ladies and their debutante daughters, the occasion used to parade the latter by the former. The Chelsea Flower Show, though not so exclusive today, is still a part of the London Season.
*****A jeune fille à marier was a marriageable young woman, the French term used in fashionable circles and the upper-classes of Edwardian society before the Second World War.
******Glynes is 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.
This 1920s upper-class drawing room is different to what you may think at first glance, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
Lettice’s tea set is a beautiful artisan set featuring a rather avant-garde Art Deco Royal Doulton design from the Edwardian era. The jam fancies are also artisan miniatures from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. He has a dizzying array of meals which is always growing, and all are made entirely or put together by hand. The glass comport is made of real glass and was blown by hand. It too comes from Beautifully handmade Miniatures.
The books that you see scattered around Lettice’s drawing room 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, although these are amongst the exception. In some cases, you can even read the words of the titles, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books 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. 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. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.
The magazines on the lower shelf of the coffee table were made by hand by Petite Gite Miniatures in the United States.
The very realistic floral arrangements around the room are made by hand by either the Doll House Emporium or Falcon Miniatures in America who specialise in high end miniatures.
Margot’s umbrella comes from an online stockist that specialises in miniatures, whilst her red handbag with its gold chain strap comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House in the United Kingdom
Lettice’s drawing room is furnished with beautiful J.B.M. miniatures. The Art Deco tub chairs are of black japanned wood and have removable cushions, just like their life sized examples. To the left of the fireplace is a Hepplewhite drop-drawer bureau and chair of black japanned wood which has been hand painted with chinoiserie designs, even down the legs and inside the bureau. The Hepplewhite chair has a rattan seat, which has also been hand woven. To the right of the fireplace is a Chippendale cabinet which has also been decorated with chinoiserie designs. It also features very ornate metalwork hinges and locks.
On the top of the Hepplewhite bureau stand three real miniature photos in frames including an Edwardian silver frame, a Victorian brass frame and an Art Deco blue Bakelite and glass frame.
The fireplace is a 1:12 miniature resin Art Deco fireplace which is flanked by brass accessories including an ash brush with real bristles.
On the left hand side of the mantle is an Art Deco metal clock hand painted with wonderful detail by British miniature artisan Victoria Fasken.
In the middle of the mantle is a miniature artisan hand painted Art Deco statue on a “marble” plinth. Made by Warwick Miniatures in England, it is a 1:12 copy of the “Theban Dancer” sculpture created by Claire-Jeanne-Roberte Colinet in 1925.
The carpet beneath the furniture is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug, and 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.
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.
This morning 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. Lettice is visiting her family home as her parents hosted their first Hunt Ball since 1914 last night. Lady Sadie was determined that not only would it be the event of the 1922 county season, but also that it would be a successful entrée for her youngest daughter, still single at twenty-one years of age, to meet a number of eligible and marriageable men. Whilst Lettice enjoys dancing, parties and balls, she was less enthusiastic about the idea of the ball being used as a marriage market than her parents were. Yet Lady Sadie seems to have gotten her wish as Lettice and latecomer Selwyn Spencely seemed to hit it off last night, and spent much of the latter part of the evening together.
Whilst the fancy dress Hunt Ball is now over, there are still traces of its presence and as Lettice walks down the stairs of the lofty Adam style entrance hall. She can hear the sweep of brooms and the click of glassware coming through the open door of the ballroom as several servants laugh and chatter as they restore the grand room back to its pristine condition and shroud its gilded furnishings, crystal chandeliers and paintings in dust sheets again before closing its doors. As she reaches the base of the stairs, the faint waft of a mixture of perfumes greets her, rather like ghost of the party goers, long since gone and many like her mother, probably still abed as they recover from the excesses of the occasion, making their presence known. As she walks into the Glynes dining room with its Georgian wallpapers and furnishings, all signs that it had been used for a very lavish buffet the previous evening are gone, except one again for the faint whiff of a foreign perfume or the hit of roast beef in the air.
“Good morning Pappa,” Lettice says politely, walking over to her father who sits in his usual place at the head of the table reading the newspapers sent down from London on the milk train* and expertly ironed** by Bramley, the Chetwynd’s butler.
“Err… ahem… morning.” he mutters distractedly in reply, shaking the Daily Mirror with a crisp crack as Lettice plants a kiss on the top of his head.
“Good morning Leslie,” she says to her brother, who sits in his mother’s seat at the dining table to the left of their father with his back to the warmth of the fireplace. “How are you this morning?”
“I dare say the same as you, Tice.” he replies tiredly, taking a sip of orange juice. “Thank god for aspirin is all I’ll say.”
Lettice smiles indulgently across at her brother as she sits opposite him at the table. “Was that Arabella Tyrwhitt I saw you dancing with repeatedly last night?”
“It was,” he replies, hitting the top of his boiled egg sharply three times and cracking the shell. “You’re observant.”
“I didn’t know that you and Arabella had reached an understanding.” She pours some tea into her dainty rose patterned teacup from the silver teapot on the tabletop before her.
“Well, you’re so busy with your new interior designer life up in London now, you wouldn’t know what happens down here in dull old Wiltshire, would you?” He carefully peels the shell off the top of his egg.
“Are you goading me, Leslie?”
“Me? Goad you? How could you even think such a thing?” An overly expressive amateur dramatic wrist placed to his forehead tells Lettice that Leslie is far from being serious. “Not at all, Tice.” He smiles as the white of his egg is revealed, untainted by eggshell pieces. “Arabella and I reached an understanding last year.”
“Not a bad sort, the elder Tyrwhitt girl,” comes the Viscount’s voice from behind the screen of the newspaper, indicating that even though he is unsociably reading and hiding behind the Daily Mirror, he is still aware of the conversation between his eldest and youngest children washing around him. “She has her head screwed on properly: knows her way around horses, has a head for farming and can judge a cattle show. She’ll make a fine chatelaine of Glynes one day.” With a crack of paper, he lowers the London tabloid and eyeballs his daughter. “Don’t tell your mother I said that, or I shall never hear the end of it.”
“No Pappa,” Lettice replies, a giggle escaping her lips as the paper rises again and she catches the cheeky look on her brother’s face. “What’s new in the world today then, Pappa.”
“Haugdahl broke the land speed record in Florida***, apparently,” the Viscount replies. “One hundred and eighty miles per hour they say.”
“Goodness!” Leslie exclaims. “Imagine travelling at that speed! It must be exhilarating.”
“Thinking of converting the Saunderson**** are you, Leslie?” Lettice teases her brother. “You’ll have England’s, no the world’s fastest tractor!” She giggles at the thought, for which she is rewarded with a withering look from him.
“Oh, “ her father continues, a serious lilt in his voice. “And His Royal Highness was seen at that club,” He almost spits the word out. “Of yours.”
“The Embassy Club is hardly mine, Pappa.” Lettice defends.
“Well, it’s bad enough you go there in the first place.” he mutters admonishingly. “Women going to nightclubs.”
“I go there too, Pappa,” Leslie comes to his sister’s defence chivalrously. He then rather spoils the attempt by adding rather weakly, “Sometimes.”
“Yes, well,” his father huffs. “You don’t live in London to have all the temptations of the city flaunted before you.”
“You make London sounds like Sodom and Gomorrah, Pappa!” Lettice scoffs.
“Well it isn’t exactly…” he hesitates as he hears the handle of the dining room door turn.
The door opens and Moira, the maid who has taken to assisting wait table at breakfast and luncheon on informal occasions since the war, walks through the door with a silver salver on which she carries a boiled egg in a silver egg cup and some toast slices housed in a silver rack. “Your egg and toast, Miss.” she says politely as she lowers the tray and allows Lettice to pick up her egg and the toast rack. Turning to the Viscount she asks with deference, “Can I get you anything else, Sir?”
The Viscount slams down his paper with a thwack on the table, disturbing the neatly placed cutlery on his plate with an unnerving rattle. “Get away with your wittering, girl!” he blusters angrily. “When I want something, I’ll ask Bramley for it!”
Lettice catches the maid’s startled eye with her gaze, and narrowing her own eyes slightly, she gives an almost imperceptible shake of her head at her.
“No… no Sir,” Moira stammers. “Err… I mean yes, Sir.” She quickly bobs and curtsey and scurries back out the door she came through.
“Oh you shouldn’t terrorise the poor girl, Father,” Leslie says, giving his father an imploring look. “You know how hard it is to keep servants these days. She’s so devoted. We’re lucky to have her.”
“I agree Leslie,” Lettice adds. “Edith wouldn’t put up with that from me. She knows her rights.”
“Servants rights,” the Viscount sneers. “What utter rubbish. She gets food, board, uniform and wages. What more does she need?”
“A less disagreeable master,” Leslie replies.
“Damnable girl!” the Viscount blasts in reply. “She aught not to be waiting table at all! Where’s Bramley? Nothing has been the same since the bloody war!”
“You know why she’s waiting table, Pappa,” Lettice soothes. Reaching across she picks up the silver coffee pot and fills her father’s cup. “Things aren’t like they were before the war. We don’t have all the male servants we used to.”
“Well Bramley should be here to serve me! Why do I pay handsomely for a butler if he isn’t here to wait table at breakfast?”
“He’s busy keeping this old pile of bricks and plaster functioning. We can’t always have Bramley or Marsden waiting table, Father,” Leslie adds hopefully. “Especially not on informal occasions.”
“Oh I wish I could be like Mamma, and have breakfast in bed,” Lettice sighs, picking up the butter knife and smearing a small amount of creamy pale yellow butter from the home farm onto a triangle of toast before adding a dollop of homemade raspberry jam from the preserve pot.
“As soon as you become Mrs. Selwyn Spencely, you can.*****” Leslie replies from across the table.
“Oh, don’t you start!” Lettice groans. “I haven’t even started my breakfast yet.”
“Now, now, my darling girl,” Viscount Wrexham says, folding his paper in two and placing it flat on the table. “Don’t be coy.” He adds a dash of milk from the dainty floral breakfast set milk jug to his coffee and stirs it. “Spit it out! It seems last night was more of a success than you would care to admit to. How are things between you and young Spencely, eh?” He winks conspiratorially at his daughter, all thoughts of Moira’s irritating presence vanished from his mind.
“Oh Pappa! You’re as bad as Mamma!” She rolls her eyes and looks down, focusing upon spreading the rich red jam full of seeds across her toast with her knife. “Why do I feel like I’m about to be interrogated. There really is nothing to report.”
“Not according to what I saw, Tice.” Leslie remarks. “You two seemed to hit it off very nicely.”
“I thought you were too busy with Arabella to notice anyone else, Leslie.”
“We weren’t that unobservant.” Leslie sists back in his Chippendale dining chair and folds his arms comfortably across his stomach, a satisfied look upon his face. “Arabella and I could hardly fail to notice when our Cinderella of the ball fell for the most handsome and eligible prince in the room.”
“Oh, you do talk such rubbish, Leslie!” Lettice flaps her linen napkin at him.
“Well, it seems everyone in the ballroom last night was aware of the movements of you two. You and Selwyn will be the chief source of gossip at every breakfast table in Wiltshire and all the neighbouring counties this morning.”
“You do over exaggerate things Leslie.” Lettice replies dismissively.
“Well, I thought you and young Spencely seemed quite cosy, my dear,” her father adds, taking a sip of his coffee. “And I don’t usually notice such things. Don’t tell me your mother and I were wrong.”
“We just talked Pappa,” Lettice cries exasperatedly, dropping her knife onto her plate with a clatter. “As Leslie pointed out, we were hardly afforded any privacy to do anything more than that, with everyone evidently watching us.”
“Not that you noticed that yourself, of course,” Leslie proffers with a cheeky glint in his eye. “Making cow eyes****** like a teenage girl with a crush.”
“Oh do shut up, Leslie!” Lettice answers back grumpily, placing her arms akimbo as she feels her face heat as it colours with an embarrassed blush.
“So, it did go well with you and young Spencely, then?” the Viscount asks hopefully, excitement giving his eyes an extra sparkle of life.
“We just talked, Pappa.” Lettice reiterates. “About what we remembered of playing together as children, about how grumpy his mother was the last time we saw each other.”
“Oooh!” hoots the Viscount. “Lady Zinnia was fit to be tied every time her precious Spencely went home looking like he had been dragged backwards through a hedgerow.”
“That’s probably because he had been, if I remember anything about Tice at that age.” Leslie chortles.
“I call that frightfully unfair, Leslie! Lionel used to play with us too.”
“And what else did you talk about?” the Viscount asks, determined not to let the conversation stray away from his focus. He sits further forward in his chair and stares at his daughter with an expectant look.
“Oh I don’t know, Pappa. We talked about what we’ve done over the ensuing years since we last saw each other. That’s all.”
“He’s an architect, isn’t he, Tice?” Leslie asks.
“He is.”
“Well that sounds like a match made in heaven then,” Leslie claps his hands delightedly. “He can design the houses and you can decorate them. Perfect!”
“Until he becomes Duke, and Lettice the Duchess,” Viscount Wrexham adds with unbridled pleasure.
“Have you chosen my wedding dress yet, Pappa?” Lettice spits hotly.
“What?” He looks at her oddly. “Oh, no. I’ll leave that sort of women’s work to your mother, dear girl.” He waves his hand dismissively.
“I don’t think Tice was being literal, Father,” Leslie elucidates hopefully. “She was making a point.”
“What? What point?”
“I know you and Mamma want me to be married, Pappa,” Lettice begins.
“The sooner the better as far as I’m concerned if we’re talking about young Spencely.” agrees the Viscount. “He’s a splendid catch for you.”
Ignoring his remark, Lettice carries on, “But I will manage this in my own way, mind you. I don’t want you and especially not Mamma interfering.”
“Interfering?” the Viscount splutters.
“Interfering!” Lettice affirms strongly.
“So,” the older man replies, smiling with satisfaction. “Things did go well then.”
“We’ve agreed that we might, just might Pappa, catch up when he’s next in London and free to do so. Perhaps we will have dinner together or see a show.”
“I say!” the Viscount chortles, rubbing his hands together with glee. “Today will be a good day. Your mother will be over the moon with delight!”
“Unless Gerald Bruton’s rancourous remarks last night really have upset her.” Pipes up Leslie.
“Gerald?” gasps Lettice.
“What’s young Bruton said now?” the Viscount asks his son, his happy expression clouding over with concern.
“I don’t quite know,” Leslie admits with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “She refused to say. Whatever it was, it made her positively furious.”
The Viscount looks defeatedly at Lettice, “Well, then I hope for all our sakes that Spencely sees how perfect you are, Lettice, and that romance does blossom. It will be better for all of us if your mother is placated, and I couldn’t think of a better way to do it than your potential marriage.”
*A milk train was a very early morning, often pre-dawn, train that traditionally transported milk, stopping at many stops and private halts to pick up milk in churns from farming districts. The milk train also carried other good including newspapers from London and even the occasional passenger anxious to get somewhere extremely early.
**It was a common occurrence in large and medium-sized houses that employed staff for the butler or chief parlour maid to iron the newspapers. The task of butlers ironing newspapers is not as silly as it sounds. Butlers were not ironing out creases, but were using the hot iron to dry the ink so that the paper could be easily read without the reader's ending up with smudged fingers and black hands, a common problem with newspapers in the Victorian and Edwardian ages.
***Sprint car driver Sig Haugdahl and officials of the International Motor Contest Association (IMCA) reported that he had broken the record for fastest speed on land and had reached 180 miles per hour on the 7th of April 1922 whilst driving a 250 horse power car at the Daytona Beach Road Course in Florida. The claim of a new record had not been timed by the American Automobile Association and was not accepted because it was unverifiable. Remarkably, Haugdahl's claimed speed of 180 miles per hour was forty five percent faster than the official record of 124.09 miles per hour set by Lydston Hornsted on June the 24th, 1914, in a 200 horse power car.
****Saunderson, based near Bedford was Britain’s only large-scale tractor maker at the time of the Great War.
*****Before the Second World War, if you were a married Lady, it was customary for you to have your breakfast in bed, because you supposedly don't have to socialise to find a husband. Unmarried women were expected to dine with the men at the breakfast table, especially on the occasion where an unmarried lady was a guest at a house party, as it gave her exposure to the unmarried men in a more relaxed atmosphere and without the need for a chaperone.
******Making cow eyes is an expression for looking coy or docile yet clearly intending that the person looked at will find the looker attractive.
Contrary to what your eyes might tell you, this upper-class country house domestic scene is actually made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures, some of which come from my own childhood.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The Chippendale dining room table and matching chairs are very special pieces. They came from the Petite Elite Miniature Museum, later rededicated as the Carol and Barry Kaye Museum of Miniatures, which ran between 1992 and 2012 on Los Angeles’ bustling Wiltshire Boulevard. One of the chairs still has a sticker under its cushion identifying which room of which dollhouse it came. The Petite Elite Miniature Museum specialised in exquisite and high end 1:12 miniatures. The furnishings are taken from a real Chippendale design.
The table is littered with breakfast items. The Glynes pretty floral breakfast crockery is made by M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik in Germany, who specialise in making high quality porcelain miniatures. The toast rack, egg cups, cruet set tea and coffee pots were made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The eggs and the toast slices come from miniature dollhouse specialists on E-Bay. The butter in the glass butter dish has been made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. The glassware on the table, the jug of orange juice on the small demi-lune table in the background and the cranberry glass vase on the dining table are all from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in the United Kingdom. Each piece is hand blown using real glass. The cutlery set is made of polished metal. Made of polymer clay they are moulded on wires to allow them to be shaped at will and put into individually formed floral arrangements, the very realistic looking purple and pink tulips are made by a 1:12 miniature specialist in Germany.
The 1:12 miniature copy of ‘The Mirror’, is made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.
The Georgian style fireplace I have had since I was a teenager and is made from moulded plaster. On its mantlepiece stand two 1950s Limoges vases. Both are stamped with a small green Limoges mark to the bottom. These treasures I found in an overcrowded cabinet at the Mill Markets in Geelong. Also standing on the mantlepiece are two miniature diecast lead Meissen figurines: the Lady with the Canary and the Gentleman with the Butterfly, hand painted and gilded by me. There is also a dome anniversary clock in the middle of the mantlepiece which I bought the same day that I bought the fireplace. The vases contain hand made roses made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.
To the left of the photo stands an artisan bonheur de jour (French lady's writing desk). A gift from my Mother when I was in my twenties, she had obtained this beautiful piece from an antique auction. Made in the 1950s of brass it is very heavy. It is set with hand-painted enamel panels featuring Rococo images. Originally part of a larger set featuring a table and chairs, or maybe a settee as well, individual pieces from these hand-painted sets are highly collectable and much sought after. I never knew this until the advent of E-Bay!
The Hepplewhite chair with the lemon satin upholstery in the background was made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.
All the paintings around the Glynes dining room in their gilded frames are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States and the wallpaper is an authentic copy of hand-painted Georgian wallpaper from the 1770s.
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.
Tonight, Lettice has been entertaining her two Embassy Club coterie friends, newly married couple Dickie and Margot Channon, whom she recently redecorated a few rooms of their Regency country retreat in Cornwall, ‘Chi an Treth’. The dinner has come to a pleasurable conclusion and the trio have withdrawn to Lettice’s drawing room, adjunct to the dining room, to enjoy a digestif* and continue their gossip, before going out around ten o’clock to the Embassy Club in Bond Street for more drinks and dancing well into the wee small hours of the morning with their other friends.
“Dickie daring, why don’t you play barman, since you enjoy it so much.” suggests Margot as they sit down, Lettice and Margot in the two white, luxuriously padded tub armchairs and Dickie on the Hepplewhite desk hair placed between them.
“As you wish, my love!” Dickie says cheerily. “Gin and tonics all round?”
“Please!” enthuses Margot.
“Heavenly!” exclaims Lettice.
Whilst Dickie goes to the black japanned drinks cabinet in the adjoining dining room and fetches three highball glasses, the soda siphon and a bottle of Gordon’s gin**, Lettice presses the servant’s call bell next to the fireplace, eliciting a soft buzzing that can be heard from the kitchen through the green baize door leading to the service part of the flat.
“Right!” Dickie says, returning with his arms full. “Gin, tonic water, three glasses,” he remarks as he puts the items down one by one on the low black japanned coffee table between the tub chairs. “Now all we need is…”
“Yes Miss?” Edith, Lettice’s maid, asks as she appears with perfect timing by her mistress’ side, dressed in her black dress and fancy lace trimmed apron, collars and cap that she wears as her evening uniform.
“What do you need, Dickie?” Lettice asks, deferring to her friend with an elegant sweep of her hand.
“Ahh, some ice in a bucket, tongs, a lemon and a knife if you can manage it, Edith old girl.” Dickie replies with a bright smile.
“Yes sir,” Edith replies, smiling brightly as she bobs a curtsey.
Returning a few minutes later with the items on a silver tray, just as Edith bobs another curtsey to her mistress and her guests, Margot pipes up, “Oh Edith!”
“Yes Mrs. Channon?”
“I just wanted to let you know that Hilda is working out splendidly so far.” She smiles up at the maid, whose pretty face is framed by her lacy cap. “Thank you, Edith.”
“I’m pleased, Mrs. Channon. Will there be anything else?”
“No, thank you Edith.” Lettice replies with a smile and dismissing her maid with a gentle wave. “We won’t be here for too much longer. You can clean up the dining table after Mr. and Mrs. Channon and I have gone out to the club.”
“Yes Miss.”
The trio of friends sit in silence whilst they wait for Edith to retreat to the kitchen, Dickie quietly slicing the lemon with a small sharp silver handled knife.
“You do know that Edith probably already knows how her friend is faring, don’t you Margot darling?” Lettice says kindly.
“What?” Margot asks, here eyes widening like saucers. “How?”
Lettice laughs at her friend’s naivety. “You do give Hilda time off, don’t you?”
“Well of course I do, Lettice darling!” Margot defends herself, pressing her elegantly manicured hand to her chest where it presses against the gold flecked black bugle bead necklace she is wearing over her black evening dress. “I’m trying to be a model employer.”
“And what days did you give her off?”
“Well, she asked for Wednesdays, and Sundays free until four.”
Lettice smiles knowingly. “Just the same as Edith.”
When Margot’s look of confusion doesn’t lift, Dickie elucidates. “I think what Lettice is saying, my love, is that Hilda and Edith probably catch up on their days off, since the two have those in common.” He chuckles in an amused fashion as he pours gin over some ice in one of the highball glasses. “Really my love, you can be very naïve sometimes.”
“Do you think they talk about us?” Margot gasps.
“Margot darling, what servant doesn’t talk about their employer behind their back?” Dickie replies, depressing the release of the siphon, spraying carbolised tonic water into the glass. “That’s why it’s called servant’s gossip.”
“Well, I must be careful what I say around Hilda!” Margot replies, raising her hands to her flushed cheeks.
“I should think you would anyway.” her husband adds.
“I don’t think you have too much to worry about, Margot darling. If your Hilda is anything like Edith, the talk is more likely to be about the conditions she works in. I think Edith is more scanadalised by my life than genuinely interested in it. In fact, I think being the good chapel girl that she is, she is probably happier not to know what I get up to. Occasionally she might show an interest in one of my clients, like she did with Wanetta Ward the moving picture actress, but overall she’s just a shy young girl with her own life. She’s very discreet, and I’m sure your Hilda is too, Margot darling, so don’t worry too much.”
‘The joys of slum prudery***,” Dickie chuckles as he hands Lettice her digestif gin and tonic garnished by a slice of lemon. “You may not have to worry with Hilda, my love, but you’ll have to worry about the servants gossiping when you become the Marchioness of Taunton.” Dickie adds sagely, adding a good measure of gin to his wife’s glass as he prepares her drink. “My parents’ household staff thrive on any bit of gossip they can snaffle out. A single piece can keep them going for weeks. In fact I’m sure Mummy feeds them titbits of gossip just to keep them happily employed. My father might not be able to afford to pay them enormous wages, but Mummy makes up for it with morsels of gossip to amuse them all.”
“Well, thankfully I don’t have to worry about that yet,” Margot says. “I’m only just learning how to run a small household as it is. How on earth would I manage with a huge estate? I didn’t marry Dickie for his future title!”
“We know that. I’m sure you’ll be fine when the time comes, Margot darling.” Lettice soothes her friend assuringly, picking up the underlying sense of alarm in her voice. She takes a sip of her drink. “Bliss, Dickie!” she exclaims as the cool tartness of the gin and tonic reaches her tastebuds. “Thank you!”
“My pleasure, old girl!” Dickie replies as she goes about picking up ice cubes with the silver tongs and placing them in his and Margot’s highball glasses.
“Now, thinking of weddings, I must tell you about a most unusual occurrence, Margot darling.” Lettice continues, reaching down to the shelf beneath the surface of the table next to her on which she keeps the telephone. “I received this the other day in the post, and I wanted to talk to you about it.”
Lettice withdraws a postally franked envelope which she tosses onto the cover of her Vogue magazine sitting on the coffee table. Margot picks it up eagerly. She opens the already opened envelope and takes out an elegant card printed on thick paper featuring a champagne bottle buried amid a plethora of flowers on its front. Written in stylish lettering across the image in two banners are the words, wedding celebration.
“Oh, you received Priscilla’s wedding invitation!” Margot enthuses as she holds it in her lap. “I’m so pleased. Yes, we’re going too, if that was what you were going to ask.”
Dickie gives his wife a knowing look as he pours some gin into his highball glass, but says nothing.
“Well that wasn’t what I wanted to talk about as it happens.” Lettice replies. “I assumed that as we are all friends of Priscilla, that of course you would be attending her wedding to Georgie. No, it’s what’s inside that puzzled me.”
“Inside?” Margot queries, a cheeky smile curling up the corners of her mouth.
Dickie looks again at his wife as he adds a slug of extra gin to his own glass, but still says nothing.
“Yes!” Lettice says. “Take a look.”
Margot opens up the card and peruses it lightly before placing the card upright on the table between them, the cheeky smile broadening across her carefully painted lips, but says nothing.
Surprised, Lettice says, “The invitation is for me,” She pauses. “And a friend. Don’t you think that’s rather odd, even for Priscilla?” When Margot doesn’t reply, Lettice adds, “You don’t seem terribly surprised, Margot darling.”
Dickie squirts tonic into one glass. “Oh do stop being so coy, Margot. It doesn’t suit you tonight.” He sprays tonic irritably into the second glass. “Tell her!”
“Tell me what?” Lettice looks firstly at Dickie as he picks up a piece of lemon and places it on the lip of one of the highball glass, and then at Margot as she smiles back benignly at her.
“Me?” Margot asks, feigning innocence, raising her elegantly manicured hand to her throat where a blush starts to bloom.
“For pity’s sake, just own up and tell her!” Dickie hands her the prepared gin and tonic digestif.
“Well, I wish someone would tell me!” Lettice says a little irritated at being kept out of whatever the secret is.
When Margot says nothing, Dickie says as he picks up hie own glass. “It was Margot who arranged that.” He takes a sip of his drink, sighing with satisfaction.
“Margot?”
“Well, it was me who organised it,” Margot admits coyly.
“You did?” Lettice’s eyes widen in surprise.
“Yes. When Priscilla was chatting to me about wedding invitations,” Margot continues with a self conscious chuckle as she starts toying with her beads again. “I simply suggested that, well with you and Selwyn getting along so well together, that she might like to leave an opening for you to invite him if you wished.”
“Oh Margot!” Lettice exclaims aghast, blushing red as she does.
“I say!” Margot’s eyes grow wide as she glances first at her stunned, red faced friend and then her husband, who wears a knowing look. “Have I dropped the tiniest of social briquettes?”
“Well, it was a little,” Dickie pauses, trying to think of the correct word.
“What?”
“I did think it a little presumptuous, my love, when you told me.”
“Oh Lettice darling, I was only trying to help!” exclaims Margot, thrusting out her hands across the table to her friend, her face awash with anguish as she does. “Please don’t be cross with me! As I said, I just thought with you two getting along so well, you’d be sure to want to ask him. I haven’t done wrong, have I?”
Lettice doesn’t answer at first, taken aback by Dickie and Margot’s revelation. “Well, it was imprudent, Margot darling.” Lettice chastises her friend softly finally as she reaches out an takes Margot’s outstretched hands. “What if Selwyn and I had quarrelled? I would then have had to ask another gentleman of my acquaintance who isn’t invited to the wedding,” She pauses. “And as a jeune fille à marier****, that might have its own unwanted consequences.”
“I did try to warn you, my love,” Dickie says not unkindly to his wife. “But the deed was already done.”
“You haven’t quarrelled with him, have you?” Margot’s dark and frightened eyes scan Lettice’s face. “Selwyn that is.”
“No Margot darling.” Lettice assures her. “But what if I had?”
Lettice releases Margot’s hands as Dickie lifts up the highball glass of gin and tonic garnished with a lemon to his wife. She accepts it gratefully and takes more than a small and ladylike sip to calm her jangled nerves as she presses her hand to the cleft in her chest.
“Let this be a lesson to you about meddling in other people’s love lives, my darling.” Dickie says with a serious look to Margot. “I’m sure that poor Lettice and Spencely have more than enough meddling between Lady Sadie and Lady Zinnia.”
“Yes, Mamma tells me that marriages are made by mothers, not their children. There is plenty of meddling from Mater, Dickie darling, but I don’t actually think Lady Zinnia knows about Selwyn and I seeing one another socially.” Lettice says.
Dickie looks across at her doubtfully.
Settling back in her seat, cradling her digestif, Lettice continues, “Mind you, that will all be about to change.”
“How so, old girl?” Dickie queries as he sips his own gin and tonic.
“Because I did exactly what Margot hoped I would, and I invited Selwyn to Priscilla and Georgie’s wedding.”
Margot leans forward in her seat, her beads clattering together in in haste, her mouth hanging slightly open in sudden anticipation. “And did he say, yes?”
“Of course he did, Margot darling!” Lettice laughs lightly.
Margot quickly drops her highball glass onto the coffee table, narrowly missing sloshing some onto its black shiny surface. “Oh hoorah!” She claps her hands in delight, making the bangles on her arms jangle and beams at Lettice, who smiles back shyly, blushing a little as she does.
“If he’d said no, how else would Lady Zinnia know about he and I?” She doesn’t notice Dickie’s sage gaze towards her. “She’ll have to know after the wedding, as it will be in all the papers. Therefore, so will Selwyn and I.”
“That will be a social briquette to drop then.” remarks Dickie quietly.
“What do you mean, my love?” asks Margot.
“Because according to Mummy’s stories about Lady Zinnia, it is she who likes to make the society news, not read it.” He pauses for a moment before continuing, ‘And she likes to have her finger very firmly on all that happens in society’s upper echelons.” He cocks his eyebrow as he looks at Lettice. “She will be fit to be tied to find out through the tabloids that her son is seeing you and she didn’t even have the faintest whiff of it. Are you quite sure she doesn’t know about you and Spencely?”
“Oh quite, Dickie. We’ve not really seen anyone that we know when we have been out to luncheon, or dinner.”
“Or to that picnic in St. James’ Park.” Margot giggles girlishly.
“Or in St. James’s Park.”
“Oh pooh old Lady Zinnia and her grasp on gossip!” Margot says with a dismissive wave. “It’s Lettice and her happiness we care about.”
“I know,” mumbles Dickie half into his drink as he lifts it to his lips and swallows a bit of it, washing down any further thoughts about what Lady Zinnia’s reaction to finding out about Lettice and her son in such a public way might be.
*After dinner drinks are often referred to as digestifs. Digestif is actually the French word for “digestive,” meaning they are exactly what the name suggests: alcoholic beverages typically served after a meal to aid digestion.
**Gordon's London Dry Gin was developed by Alexander Gordon, a Londoner of Scots descent. He opened a distillery in the Southwark area in 1769, later moving in 1786 to Clerkenwell. The Special London Dry Gin he developed proved successful, and its recipe remains unchanged to this day. The top markets for Gordon's are (in descending order) the United Kingdom, the United States and Greece. Gordon's has been the United Kingdom’s number one gin since the late Nineteenth century. It is the world's best-selling London dry gin.
***After the excesses of the reign of William IV, Queen Victoria introduced a very middle-class morality with a focus on respectability to the British monarchy. As her people’s main influencer, the British became very prudish under her reign, and whilst affairs and the like were still not uncommon amongst the upper classes, the middle and lower classes became much more moralistic in the Nineteenth Century. In Queen Victoria’s slums, middle-class respectability and higher than average social morals were often seen as the only ways to escape a poor upbringing. Such attitudes were often called “slum prudery” by their upper-class social betters who had no need of such qualms because of their wealth and birthright allowing them access to society no matter what their behaviour.
****A jeune fille à marier was a marriageable young woman, the French term used in fashionable circles and the upper-classes of Edwardian society before the Second World War.
This upper-class Mayfair drawing room is different to what you may think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures.
Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:
The bottle of Gordon’s Dry Gin, the syphon and the glasses are all 1:12 artisan miniatures. All are made of real glass, as is the green tinged glass comport on the coffee table in the foreground. The bottle of gin came from a specialist stockist in Sydney. The comport, the syphon and hors d‘oeuvres were all supplied by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The porcelain ice bucket and tongs was made by M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik in Germany, who specialise in making high quality porcelain miniatures. The two empty highball glasses I have had since I was a teenager, when I acquired them from a specialist high street shop.
The postally franked envelope and the wedding invitation on the coffee table are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Mostly known for his miniature books, of which I have quite a large representation in my collection, Ken also made other items including letters and envelopes. To create something so small with such intricate detail really is quite extraordinary and a sign of artistry. 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.
The vase of yellow roses on the Art Deco occasional table and the vase of red roses on the right-hand side of the mantlepiece are beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium.
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 cord does stretch out.
Lettice’s drawing room is furnished with beautiful J.B.M. miniatures. The Art Deco tub chairs are of black japanned wood and have removable cushions, just like their life sized examples. To the left of the fireplace is a Hepplewhite drop-drawer bureau and chair of black japanned wood which has been hand painted with chinoiserie designs, even down the legs and inside the bureau. The Hepplewhite chair has a rattan seat, which has also been hand woven. To the right of the fireplace is a Chippendale cabinet which has also been decorated with chinoiserie designs. It also features very ornate metalwork hinges and locks.
On the top of the Hepplewhite bureau stand three real miniature photos in frames including an Edwardian silver frame, a Victorian brass frame and an Art Deco blue Bakelite and glass frame.
The fireplace is a 1:12 miniature resin Art Deco fireplace which is flanked by brass accessories including an ash brush with real bristles.
On the left hand side of the mantle is an Art Deco metal clock hand painted with wonderful detail by British miniature artisan Victoria Fasken.
In the middle of the mantle is a miniature artisan hand painted Art Deco statue on a “marble” plinth. Made by Warwick Miniatures in England, it is a 1:12 copy of the “Theban Dancer” sculpture created by Claire-Jeanne-Roberte Colinet in 1925.
The carpet beneath the furniture is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug, and 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.
Christiaan Huygens was a prominent Dutch mathematician, astronomer, physicist and horologist. His work included early telescopic studies elucidating the nature of the rings of Saturn and the discovery of its moon Titan, the invention of the pendulum clock and other investigations in timekeeping, and studies of both optics and the centrifugal force.
Huygens achieved note for his argument that light consists of waves, now known as the Huygens–Fresnel principle, which two centuries later became instrumental in the understanding of wave-particle duality. He generally receives credit for his discovery of the centrifugal force, the laws for collision of bodies, for his role in the development of modern calculus and his original observations on sound perception (see repetition pitch). Huygens is seen as the first theoretical physicist as he was the first to use formulae in physics.
Source: wikipedia
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.
Friends of Lettice, newlyweds Margot and Dickie Channon, have been gifted a Recency country “cottage residence” called ‘Chi an Treth’ (Cornish for ‘beach house’) in Penzance as a wedding gift by the groom’s father, the Marquess of Taunton. Margot in her desire to turn ‘Chi an Treth’ from a dark Regency house to a more modern country house flooded with light, commissioned Lettice to help redecorate some of the rooms in a lighter and more modern style, befitting a modern couple like the Channons. Lettice decamped to Penzance for a week where she oversaw the painting and papering of ‘Chi an Treth’s’ drawing room, dining room and main reception room, before fitting the rooms out with a lorryload of new and repurposed furnishings, artwork and objets d’arte that she had sent down weeks prior to her arrival from her London warehouse.
Now the rooms are finished, and under Lettice’s adept hands where once there was dark red paint, modern white geometric wallpaper hangs, and where formal, uncomfortable and old fashioned furnishings sat, more modern pieces dispersed by a select few original items give the rooms a lighter, more relaxed and more contemporary 1920s country house feel. To celebrate Margot and Dickie have organised a Friday to Monday, just as they did in January when they wanted Lettice to view the rooms of ‘Chi an Treth’ and give her interior redecoration suggestions. As Lettice is unable to drive and therefore does not own a car, Margot and Dickie have extended the weekend invitation, as they also did in January, to one of their other Embassy Club coterie, Lettice’s old childhood chum, Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy who has tried to gain some independence from his family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street. Gerald owns a Morris*, so he can motor both Lettice and himself back to London on Monday at the end of their stay. The quartet now sit in the house’s newly appointed drawing room, which is light and airy and very welcoming, just as Margot had hoped it would be. The fragrance of late summer roses freshly picked from ‘Chi an Treth’s’ garden by Mr. Treventhan, the gardener and odd job man, intermixes with the light waft of still fresh paint and the smell of the crashing ocean outside as it drifts in through the open French doors at the end of the room.
“I say Lettice darling!” Gerald enthuses as he looks around the newly redecorated drawing room of ‘Chi an Treth’. “You’ve transformed the old girl!”
“Isn’t it marvellous, Gerald! It’s so light and bright and thoroughly modern. Just what I wanted!” Margot purrs contently from the roomy confines of her sleek and modern eau-de-nil armchair. “No more dark red walls hung with ghastly maritime daubs. No more horrible old fashioned furniture.”
“Well,” Lettice says lowering her lids as she smiles and blushes at Margot’s evident happiness with her work. “I wouldn’t go quite that far, Margot.”
“Oh! Is it in here?” Gerald asks.
“It’s over there,” Lettice points behind Margot’s chair. “To the left of the fireplace, exactly where it was before the redecoration.”
Margot turns and looks over her shoulder at the small demilune table** covered in family photographs that sits beneath a pretty Georgian painting. “Oh no Gerald,” she remarks to him as he gets up from his seat on the end of the sofa that matches her armchair and walks across the room to the white painted demilune table. “You and Lettice are mistaken. That painting wasn’t here before the redecoration. There was a rather dull seascape hanging there in a frightful black frame. No. That painting comes from my old bedroom in Sloane Street. Mummy and Daddy said I could have it because I loved it so much.”
“I wasn’t talking about the painting, Margot darling.” Gerald corrects her.
“You weren’t, Gerald?” she questions, looking quizzically at the photos in gold, brass and silver frames on the demilune table, none of which were in ‘Chi an Treth’ prior to the redecoration.
“I was taking about the table.” he goes on to elucidate.
“Good god?” Dickie splutters from his place, smoking a pipe, his newest affectation as he plays lord of the manor, whilst leaning against the fireplace, a newspaper hanging limply in his empty left hand. “Is that the same half-round table that we used for port and sherry when we first came here?”
“It is.” Lettice confesses quietly. “It broke my heart just to fling all the house’s history out, just for the sake of modernisation.” She blushes at the last comment. “Sorry Margot.”
“You always were a sentimental thing, old girl!” Dickie laughs good naturedly as he carelessly tosses the Daily Mail onto the pile of newspapers and periodicals that sit atop a large eau-de-nil pouffe that matches the armchairs and sofa. “I wouldn’t have known it was the same table if Gerald hadn’t said something.”
“Well, it seemed a shame to waste a perfectly good table.” Lettice admits.
“But it wasn’t going to waste! I said you could do what you like with any of the furniture we weren’t going to keep, Lettice darling.” Margot says in surprise.
“And she did, Margot.” Gerald counters as he runs his hand idly along the smooth edge of the table.
“I spoke to my aunt about how best to repurpose it.” Lettice goes on.
“What does Lady Rostrevor know about repurposing furniture?” Dickie asks quizzically.
“Oh, not that aunt,” Lettice explains. “My Aunt Egg: Pater’s sister.”
“Oh, she’s the Chelsea artist, isn’t she?” Dickie confirms.
“Little Venice, but close enough.” corrects Lettice.
“I’ve been encouraging Lettice to apply her own artistic skills to her interiors and add a personal touch.” Gerald explains.
“So, I consulted Aunt Egg as how best to paint wood.”
“And the rest is her skills as an artist.” Gerald beams. “I was there, encouraging her every doubtful step of the way.”
“Doubtful?” Dickie asks.
“Lettice has doubts about her own abilities.” Gerald explains with a kind smile towards his friend sitting demurely on the sofa in the empty seat next to the one he has vacated.
“I say, old girl!” Dickie exclaims. “I don’t think you have anything to doubt, don’t you agree, my love?” he asks, addressing his wife.
“Rather, Lettice darling!” Margot smiles beatifically at her friend. “I agree with you, my love. I’d have scarcely recognised that old table myself!”
“I’d scarcely recognise this to be the same dark and old fashioned room we sat in, in January!” Gerald elaborates with a sweeping gesture at the papers, curtains, carpets and furnishings around them.
Just at that moment the door to the drawing room is forced open by a heavy boot, startling them all. Looking to the door as it creaks open noisily on its hinges, old Mrs. Trevethan, the housekeeper, with her wind weathered face with her unruly wiry white hair tied loosely in a bun, wearing a rather tatty apron over an old fashioned Edwardian print dress, walks in carrying a silver tray. Although weighed down heavily with a champagne bottle, four champagne flutes and a range of canapes for the Channons and their guests, the rather frail looking old woman, as usual, seems unbothered by its weight. She lowers the tray onto the low occasional table between the settee and armchairs with a groan and the disconcerting crack of bones.
“Oh, thank you Mrs. Trevethan.” Margot acknowledges the old woman.
“Omlowenhewgh agas boes!***” the elderly woman replies in a gravelly voice, groaning as she stretches back into an upright position before retreating the way she came, closing the door noisily behind her.
“Well,” Gerald corrects his lasts statement despondently. “I see some things haven’t changed.”
“Oh Gerald!” Lettice exclaims. “What do you have against old Mrs. Trevethan?”
“Is it because you think she was too slow binging you Aspirin the last time you stayed, old bean?” Dickie asks.
“Well there is that too.” mumbles Gerald, rubbing the toe of his shoe into the thick fabric of the green and blue Art Deco rug beneath his feet.
“She took very good care of me over the last week whilst I’ve been staying here on my own, Gerald.” Lettice defends the old woman. “And when I was down here a few months ago, Mr. Trevethan took me sightseeing.”
“She’s just an old Cornish witch, and you’ve fallen under her spell.” Gerald replies rather sulkily. When Margot and Dickie laugh at him he adds, “You all have!”
“It was the Aspirin.” Dickie chuckles knowingly as he puts down his pipe and walks over to the low table and picks up the bottle of champagne.
As Gerald blushes with guilt, his three friends laugh good naturedly at his expense.
“Well, the table isn’t the only piece of original furnishing I retained,” Lettice adds, reverting the subject back to her interior designs to spare her best friend any more embarrassment. “I did keep the two Regency gilt side tables and used those two matching stands that were in the reception room. I hope you don’t mind, Margot.”
Dickie pops the bottle of champagne expertly, the sound filling he and his guests with excitement and enthusiasm, rather like the effervescence of the golden champagne within the bottle.
“Oh I know I said I wanted a modern look, but I don’t mind the occasional piece, within reason.” Margot assures her friend as she hands a champagne flute to her husband to fill. “In fact I think they rather suit the room now you’ve redecorated it. It looks light enough with the pale wallpaper and the eau-de-nil suite that they don’t make the room look fusty or dark.” She passes the full flute to Lettice, who gratefully accepts it. “Besides, they complement Miss Rosvear’s presence.”
The quartet all pause and turn their heads to gaze upon the luminous portrait of the beautiful woman looking over her shoulder in the ornate gilded frame, hanging over a mirror topped Art Deco demilune table now used for the drinks tray, a dainty carriage clock and Lettice’s wedding gift to the Channons: a silver Regency tea Caddy from Asprey’s****.
“I am sorry that she wasn’t a Winterhalter***** after all, old bean.” remarks Gerald sadly.
“Oh I’m not!” Dickie laughs, resuming filling a second glass with champagne, which he passes over to Gerald.
“I’m not either.” adds Margot as she holds out a third flute to Dickie to fill.
“By her not being a Winterhalter, I have been spared the indignity of watching my father sell off yet another piece of our family history.” Dickie says, wiping the mouth of the champagne bottle against his wife’s glass. He smiles to himself as he goes on, “It was jolly good fun to see the old bully get his comeuppance for once. To see the colour drain from his face when the Bonham’s****** man told him that it was likely done by a local Cornish artist who was perhaps inspired by Winterhalter, was priceless!”
“Poor Mr. Fox.” Lettice remarks piteously.
“That was an ordeal!” Margot says as she releases a pent up breath that shudders nervously from within her. “But by finding out that she isn’t worth the fortune Lord and Lady Channon were hoping for, I am afforded the pleasure of having her hang here in my new drawing room.”
“Where she belongs.” Lettice smiles.
“Where she belongs.” the other three chime in, in agreement.
“Shall we propose a toast to Miss Rosevear?” suggests Lettice, raising her glass.
“Well, if you don’t mind, old girl,” Dickie says, raising his own glass. “I have a toast of my own that I’d like to raise first, that I think is more timely.”
“Well it is your house, Dickie darling,” Lettice concedes. “So as master, you may do as you wish.”
“What is the toast?” his wife asks, an expertly plucked eyebrow arching over her right eye, this revelation obviously unknown to her too.
“Well, I was chatting to Henry Tipping******* at my club earlier this week,” Dickie begins.
“Who is Henry Tipping, my love?” queries Margot.
“He’s a great authority on history, architecture, furnishings and gardens of country houses in Britain.” Gerald clarifies.
“Quite so, old bean!” exclaims Dickie. “And he is also the Architectural Editor of Country Life, and he’s rather thrilled to come down and see Lettice’s sympathetic redecoration of ‘Chi an Treth’.”
“Henry Tipping is interested in seeing my interior designs?” Lettice asks in astonishment. “Mine?”
“Indubitably, old girl.” Dickie smiles proudly, full of self-satisfaction at his announcement. “So I’d like to propose a toast to my hopes for this room to be featured in Country Life. To your future success, old girl!”
“To Lettice’s success!” Margot says, standing up elegantly and raising her glass.
“To Lettice’s success!” Gerald and Dickie echo as they click glasses with Margot and the silently stunned Lettice.
“Just imagine Sadie’s face when she sees your interiors in her beloved Country Life, Lettice!” giggles Gerald mischievously. “How I should like to be a fly on the wall to witness that!”
But Lettice doesn’t reply, this surprise in Margot’s new drawing room robbing her of words. However, a hopeful smile plays on her lips as she sips the effervescent champagne from her flute, her eyes sparking with possibility as she considers what this could mean for her career as an interior designer.
*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.
**Co-opting the French word for “half moon,” the demilune table is an accent table featuring an elegant, rounded front and a flat back. A demilune's flat back allows it to sit flush against a wall, making it a striking substitution for a standard console table or credenza.
***”Omlowenhewgh agas boes” is Cornish for “bon appetit”.
****Founded in 1781 as a silk printing business by William Asprey, Asprey soon became a luxury emporium. In 1847 the business moved to their present premises at 167 Bond Street, where they advertised 'articles of exclusive design and high quality, whether for personal adornment or personal accompaniment and to endow with richness and beauty the table and homes of people of refinement and discernment’. In 1862 Asprey received a Royal Warrant from Queen Victoria. They received a second Royal Warrant from the Future Edward VII in 1889. Asprey has a tradition of producing jewellery inspired by the blooms found in English gardens and Woodland Flora. Over the decades jewelled interpretations of flowers have evolved to include Daisy, Woodland and sunflower collections. They have their own special cut of diamond and produce leather goods, silver and gold pieces, trophies and leatherbound books, both old and new. They also produce accessories for playing polo. In 1997, Asprey produced the Heart of the Ocean necklace worn in the motion picture blockbuster, ‘Titanic’.
*****Franz Xaver Winterhalter (1805 – 1873) was a German painter and lithographer, known for his flattering portraits of royalty and upper-class society in the mid-19th century. His name has become associated with fashionable court portraiture. Among his best known works are Empress Eugénie Surrounded by her Ladies in Waiting (1855) and the portraits he made of Empress Elisabeth of Austria (1865).
******Established in 1793, Bonhams is a privately owned international auction house and one of the world's oldest and largest auctioneers of fine art and antiques. It was formed by the merger in November 2001 of Bonhams & Brooks and Phillips Son & Neale.
*******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.
This elegantly appointed drawing room with its modish Art Deco furnishings may not be all that you think them to be, for this scene is in truth made up with pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
On the coffee table, he savoury petite fours on the white porcelain plate and the champagne flutes, which are made from hand spun glass, have been made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The ornamental glass bon-bon dish, also made from hand spun glass, was made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. The silver tray and the bowl of caviar come from Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The bottle of Deutz and Geldermann champagne is an artisan miniature and is made of glass and has real foil wrapped around its neck. It was made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.
The Statue of the nude Art Nouveau woman on the right-hand pedestal to the right at the back is based on a real statue and is made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. It has been hand painted by me.
The glass topped demilune table in the background is a hand made miniature artisan piece, which sadly is unsigned. On its surface, made of real glass are decanters of whiskey and port and a cranberry glass soda syphon made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in England. The hand spun Art Deco glass vase containing creamy yellow handmade roses are also from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The silver Regency tea caddy is made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, whilst the metal carriage clock comes from Melody Jane Doll House Suppliers in the United Kingdom.
The three novels on the occasional table next to the armchair come from Shepherds Miniatures in England.
The wedding photo in the silver frame on the mantlepiece and the photos in frames on the demilune table behind the armchair are real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frame comes from Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers.
The Georgian style demilune table behind and to the right of the armchair is an artisan miniature from Lady Mile Miniatures in the United Kingdom. Painted white and then aged, it has been hand painted with a Georgian style design on its surface.
The hand spun Art Deco glass vase in the foreground containing white roses with yellow centres are made roses are also from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.
The newspapers on the pouffe, except the copy of Country Life, are made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The copy of Country Life was made by me.
The eau-de-nil suite consisting of armchairs, sofa and pouffe are all made of excellent quality fabric, and are very well made, as is the coffee table with its small drawer beneath the tabletop. All these pieces were made as a set by high-end miniatures manufacturer Jiayi Miniatures.
The Regency gilt swan pedestals and round tables are made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.
The fireplace is made of plaster, and comes from Kathleen Knight’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom.
The stylised Art Deco fire screen is made using thinly laser cut wood, made by Pat’s Miniatures in England.
The paintings around the ‘Chi an Treth’ drawing room in their gilded frames are 1:12 artisan pieces made by V.H. Miniatures and Marie Makes Miniatures in the United Kingdom and geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series. The Geometrically patterned Art Deco carpet on the floor comes from a miniatures specialist store on E-Bay.
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 is Tuesday and we are in the kitchen of Lettice’s flat: Edith her maid’s preserve, except on Tuesdays, every third Thursday of the month and occasionally after a big party. That is when Mrs. Boothby, Lettice’s charwoman*, comes from her home in Poplar to do all the hard jobs and Edith shares the space with her. Although this can be a bit of challenge, especially as Mrs. Boothby likes to smoke indoors, Edith is grateful that unlike her previous positions, she does not have to scrub the black and quite chequered kitchen linoleum, nor polish the parquetry floors, not do her most hated job, black lead the stovetop. Mrs. Boothby does them all without complaint, with reliability and to a very high standard. She is also very handy on cleaning and washing up duty with Edith after one of Lettice’s extravagant cocktail parties. Edith also has to admit that after her original reluctance, Mrs. Boothby has turned out to be rather pleasant company and the two have had many fine chats over time.
“Oh Mrs. Boothby, after you’ve finished polishing the floors in the drawing room this morning, would you mind laying down this sheet on the space behind Miss Lettice’s chair and the Chinese screen?” Edith pushes a neatly folded white sheet across the kitchen table to the old char.
“Why ‘ave I got to put dahn an old sheet for?” She looks perplexed at the pile of fabric before her. “Don’t Miss Chetwynd ‘ave enough rugs?”
“Oh yes, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith trys somewhat unsuccessfully to cover her amused smile. “It isn’t for that.”
“Then what’s it for, if you don’t mind me askin’?”
“It’s a drop sheet, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith elucidates.
“Oh. She getting’ painters in then? I bet I could find her cheaper ‘ouse painters than ooever she got. My Bruvver does a bit a ‘ouse paintin’, an I reckon ‘e does a very fine job ‘n all.”
“Oh no, Mrs. Boothby. Miss Lettice is going to paint a table today.”
“Paint a table?” The old woman looks queryingly at her younger counterpart. “Why? Ain’t it any good as is?”
“Apparently not, Mrs. Boothby. However, it isn’t for her. It’s for Miss de Virre, I mean, Mrs. Channon. It’s a table from her house in Cornwall.”
“Tartin’ up tables!” The old cockney woman tuts as she casts her eyes to the ceiling. “What them rich fancy folk won’t fink up next. I just throw an oilcloth over my table when I got friends comin’ for tea. That covers up the marks good and proper.”
“Oh no, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith explains. “Miss Lettice is going to redecorate it as part of her re-design of Mrs. Channon’s drawing room.”
“Well,” grumbles the old woman. “Whatever she’s doin’ it for, I hope she don’t get paint on my nice clean polished floors.”
“That’s what the drop sheet is for, Mrs. Boothby.”
“Ere dearie, pop the kettle on so as we can ‘ave a nice cup of Rosie-Lee** before I get started on the floors.” Mrs. Boothby says to Edith. “Washin’ floors can be firsty work for a woman, so best I get a cuppa before I start.”
“Yes, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies, lighting the gas ring underneath the bright copper kettle and walking over to the pine dresser to fetch two Delftware cups, saucers a milk jug and the sugar bowl.
Mrs. Boothby groans as she bends her wiry body to the floor to check what she calls her ‘Boothby boxes’, which are two boxes kept in the corner of the kitchen next to the dresser. One contains her scrubbing brushes, dustpan, and polishing rags, whilst the other contains a plethora of cleaning products.
“Ah,” the old Cockney woman mutters as she delves through the latter, metal cans clunking against one another as she does her inventory. “Pop Vim on the shopping list, will you Edith love. This can’s all but empty nah.” She continues fossicking. “Oh, and we need some more floor polish too.”
“Do you like that Kleen-eze Mr. Willison sent me last time, Mrs. Boothby?” Edith asks as she lays out the tea things on the deal kitchen table above the char’s head.
“It weren’t bad stuff, that. Yeah, ta. Get ‘him to get us some more of it if ‘e can.” The old woman affirms.
“I’ll see if Frank can get me some,” Edith says blithely, yet as soon as the words are out of her mouth, she realises her mistake as a frisson of energy electrifies the kitchen.
Edith likes Mrs. Boothby, but she knows that any news will soon be spread around Poplar and the surrounding area once Mrs. Boothby hears it. She and the other charwomen she knows run a very well informed gossip chain, and there is little Mrs. Boothby can’t tell Edith about the comings and goings on in the household of her former employer Mrs. Plaistow, thanks to her charwoman friend Jackie who does work for her and quite a few other houses in Pimlico, including that of Lettice’s former client, successful Islington Studios*** actress, Wanetta Ward. Edith, who is a little starstruck by the glamourous American, often gets tasty titbits of gossip about her from Mrs. Boothby thanks to Jackie who also cleans for her, however Edith does not fancy the shoe being on the other foot. However, as she turns back from fussing unnecessarily over the kettle, she sees it is too late. Mrs. Boothby’s pale and wrinkled face, framed by her wiry grey hair tied up in a brightly coloured scarf is paying close attention to the young maid. Her dark eyes are gleaming with delight, and she smiles like the cat who ate the cream.
“Oh!” she says with one of her bushy eyebrows arching upwards. “Frank now, is it?”
“Well I…” Edith stutters, her own pale cheeks growing warm as a blush fills them with colour.
“Yes my girl?” Mrs, Boothby asks, as with another groan she resumes her upright state. “And just when did Mr. Willison’s young delivery boy go from bein’ Mr. Leadbeater or bein’ Frank? Last I ‘eard, you weren’t interested in ‘im.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t interested in him, Mrs. Boothby,” Edith worries the blue rimmed edge of a saucer self-consciously. “I’d just never considered him as a prospect, is all. And I hadn’t Mrs. Boothby. Not until,”
“Yes,”
“Well, not until you’d mentioned it, Mrs. Boothby.”
“Aha!” the old cockney woman crows. “Ada Boothby does it again!”
“Does what, Mrs. Boothby?” Edith asks.
“Matchmakes, of course.” She smiles broadly, a glow of pride emanating from her slender figure in her grey dress and brightly printed cotton pinny. She rubs her careworn hands together with glee. “Oh I can’t wait to tell that damned Golda Friedmann dahn the end of my rookery****. She’ll be fit to be tied.”
“Wait!” Edith gasps, not understanding. “Who’s Golda Friedmann, and how she know about Frank and I? I don’t know her. She doesn’t work in the haberdashers in Poplar you sent me to.”
“Oh Lawd love you,” chortles Mrs. Boothby, the action resulting on one of her fruity hacking coughs that seem remarkably loud from such a diminutive figure. After catching her breath, she continues breathily, “She don’t know anyfink about you an’ your Frank.” She gulps again. “Nah! She’s the local matchmaker round our way, along with a few other Yids***** in Poplar. Goes around wiv ‘er nose in the air wrapped up in a fancy paisley shawl tellin’ folk she’s the one to match their son or daughter, like she was the Queen of Russia ‘erself.”
“Well she didn’t match me with Frank.” Edith says defensively.
“I know, Edith love.” Mrs. Boothby assures her with a calming wave of her hands.
“And nor did you, Mrs. Boothby,” Edith continues. “So I don’t see why you should feel so proud of yourself.”
“But you just said that if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t of considered ‘im!”
“Well,” Edith takes the kettle off the stove and pours hot water into the white teapot. “That’s true, but I’m the one that mentioned what you’d said to me about he and I on the night of Miss Lettice’s supper party for Mr. Channon and Miss de Virre.” She puts the lid on the pot with a clunk. “Err, I mean Mrs. Channon.”
Mrs. Boothby drags up a chair to the deal kitchen table and takes a seat, never taking her eyes off Edith’s face. “So ahh, when did you and Mr. Leadbeater, or should I say Frank, start, walkin’ out togevva?” She walks her index and middle finger across the clean table in front of her, as if to demonstrate her meaning.
“Only a few weeks now.” Edith admits with downcast eyes and a shy smile.
“A few weeks?” Mrs. Boothby gasps in outrage. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“I guess it just slipped my mind, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith defends herself, setting out the tea cups in the saucers, pushing one across to the charwoman. “What with one thing an another. Besides,” she adds. “I didn’t want to tell you unless I was sure. I wouldn’t want to go disappointing you if it all came to aught.”
“But nah fings is workin’ out for the two of you then?” Mrs. Boothby asks as she accepts the cup and saucer and reaches for the milk jug, slopping a good glug into the bottom of her empty cup******.
“We seem to have struck a nice rhythm, and Frank and I have a lot in common.”
“Oh that’s lovely to ‘ear, dearie.” the old woman watches as Edith pours tea into her cup. “I told you, youse was pretty, didn’t I?” She takes hold of the sugar bowl and greedily spoons in several heaped teaspoons of fine white sugar into her tea before stirring it loudly. “And you never knew ‘till I told you. So where’ve you been goin’? The ‘Ammersmith Palais*******?”
“Yes, we’ve been there a few times, along with my friend Hilda.”
“She’s the parlour maid from your Mrs. Plaistow’s isn’t she?” Mrs. Boothby asks, before adding unnecessarily, “The plain one.”
“Oh I wouldn’t call her plain, Mrs. Boothby!” Edith defends her friend hotly as she pours tea into her own empty cup, before then adding a dash of milk. “That’s most uncharitable.”
“I didn’t say that, Jackie told me when I mentioned to ‘er that you was still friends wiv ‘er from when you worked there togevva.”
“Oh yes, I remember Jackie,” Edith picks up her cup and sips her tea. “Always with an ear out for gossip.”
“We chars ‘ave to take our pleasures where we can get ‘em, dearie.” Mrs. Boothby says with a slightly haughty tone as she slurps her own tea loudly. “Bein’ a char is ‘ard graft day in, day out. And you can ‘ardly take the moral ‘ighground, what wiv you askin’ me about the goings on at Miss Ward’s, nah can you?”
Edith, suitably chastened, remains silent, her lack of response serving as an affirmation of the old Cockney’s statement.
“Anyway, I might never ‘ave met your ‘Ilda, but I bet she’s not a patch on you deary, what wiv your peaches n’ cream complexion and beautiful hair. What you got natural from God, so many women I know get from lotions and potions. Nah wonder Frank was nervous ‘bout askin’ you to step out wiv ‘im. Youse a real catch Edith love.”
“I never said he was nervous, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith giggles.
“But ‘e were, weren’t ‘e?” The old woman chuckles knowingly as she cradles her warm cup in both her hands. “All little boys what fink they’re big men, get nervous round a pretty girl.”
“Well,” Edith admits. “Maybe just a little.” Then she adds, “But I was nervous too.”
“Well, that’s nice, dearie. Youse just enjoy bein’ young an’ ‘appy togevva.” The old woman gazes into the distance, a far away look sodtening the sharpness of her gaze and the squareness of her jaw as her mouth hangs open slightly. She stays that way for a moment or two before she regains her steely composure and sharp look. Turning back to Edith she says, “Nah, ‘ow does this sound, Edith love? Mrs. Ada Boothby, Matchmaker and ‘Igh Class Char? That would shove it right up that uppity Golda Friedmann and ‘er matchmaker friends!”
“Oh Mrs. Boothy!” Edith giggles.
*A charwoman, chargirl, or char, jokingly charlady, is an old-fashioned occupational term, referring to a paid part-time worker who comes into a house or other building to clean it for a few hours of a day or week, as opposed to a maid, who usually lives as part of the household within the structure of domestic service. In the 1920s, chars usually did all the hard graft work that paid live-in domestics would no longer do as they looked for excuses to leave domestic service for better paying work in offices and factories.
**Rosie-Lee is Cockney slang for tea, and it is one of the most well-known of all Cockney rhyming slang.
***Islington Studios, often known as Gainsborough Studios, were a British film studio located on the south bank of the Regent's Canal, in Poole Street, Hoxton in Shoreditch, London which began operation in 1919. By 1920 they had a two stage studio. It is here that Alfred Hitchcock made his entrée into films.
****A rookery is a dense collection of housing, especially in a slum area. The rookeries created in Victorian times in London’s East End were notorious for their cheapness, filth and for being overcrowded.
*****The word Yid is a Jewish ethnonym of Yiddish origin. It is used as an autonym within the Ashkenazi Jewish community, and also used as slang. When pronounced in such a way that it rhymes with did by non-Jews, it is commonly intended as a pejorative term. It is used as a derogatory epithet, and as an alternative to, the English word 'Jew'. It is uncertain when the word began to be used in a pejorative sense by non-Jews, but some believe it started in the late Nineteenth or early Twentieth Century when there was a large population of Jews and Yiddish speakers concentrated in East London, gaining popularity in the 1930s when Oswald Mosley developed a strong following in the East End of London.
******In the class-conscious society of Britain in the 1920s, whether you added milk to your cup of tea first or the tea was a subtle way of defining what class you came from. Upper-class people, or those who wished to ape their social betters added milk after the tea, whereas middle-class or working class people comfortable in their own skins were known to add milk before the tea.
*******The Hammersmith Palais de Danse, in its last years simply named Hammersmith Palais, was a dance hall and entertainment venue in Hammersmith, London, England that operated from 1919 until 2007. It was the first palais de danse to be built in Britain.
This busy domestic kitchen scene is a little different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures from my miniatures collection.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
In front of Mrs. Boothby’s box is a can of Vim with stylised Art Deco packaging and some Kleeneze floor polish. Vim was a common cleaning agent, used in any Edwardian household. Vim scouring powder was created by William Hesketh Lever (1st Viscount Leverhulme) and introduced to the market in 1904. It was produced at Port Sunlight in Wirrel, Merseyside, a model village built by Lever Brothers for the workers of their factories which produced the popular soap brands Lux, Lifebuoy and Sunlight. Kleeneze is a homeware company started in Hanham, Bristol. The company's founder, Harry Crook, had emigrated to the United States with his family several years earlier, and whilst there joined Fuller Brush as a sales representative. He returned to Bristol several years later, and started a business making brushes and floor polish which were sold door-to-door by salesmen. Technically Kleeneze didn’t start until 1923, which is one years after this story is set. I couldn’t resist including it, as I doubt I will ever be able to photograph it as a main part of any other tableaux. Thus, I hope you will forgive me for this indulgence.
In the box are two containers of Zebo grate polish, a bottle of Bluebell Metal Polish and a can of Brasso. Zebo (or originally Zebra) Grate Polish was a substance launched in 1890 by Reckitts to polish the grate to a gleam using a mixture that consisted of pure black graphite finely ground, carbon black, a binding agent and a solvent to keep it fluid for application with a cloth or more commonly newspaper. Brasso Metal Polish is a British all-purpose metal cleaning product introduced to market in 1905 by Reckitt and Sons, who also produced Silvo, which was used specifically for cleaning silver, silver plate and EPNS. Bluebell metal cleaning products were a household name in the 1920s and 1930s after the business was incorporated in 1900.
The tin buckets, wooden apple box, basket, mop, brush and pan are all artisan made miniatures that I have acquired in more recent years.
Class 31/4 31402 approaches Hatfield & Stainforth with an eastbound passenger train (probably heading for Hull) - 01/10/1986.
The consist is longer than the regular four coach sets which were usually to be found on Manchester/Sheffield to Hull or Cleethorpes workings, but am unable to elucidate further. Any suggestions very welcome. The shadows suggest an early to mid-afternoon timescale.
Please do not share or post elsewhere without permission of the copyright holder(s).
© 2025 - 53A Models of Hull Collection. Scanned from the original 35mm colour transparency, photographed by Frank Lawson.
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FIRST THING TO DO IS FOR YOU TO ENRICH YOUR KNOWLEDGE
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This Is What We Do ....We Take The Children Along .....And Pass On Knowledge And Wisdom Gained Over These Years... This Is The Way We Put Our Children In Fast Track.....
Youngsters Are Quick Learners And Much More Proficient In Handling Modern Gadgets And Net knowers....Nevertheless,,,A Bottle Of Water Will Be of Help..since lots of Questions and Elucidation is the norm .That Is A Different Matter.
We Need Their Car And Drive....To Reach High Places ....That Is Different Matter....
(In This Image Shot Outside The Lick Observatory situate on A Cliff....Overlooking Silicon Valley, Me And My Son..At Sun Set Time)
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 have headed north-west from Cavendish Mews, across Marylebone, past Regent’s Park, the London Zoo and Lords Cricket Ground to the affluent and leafy residential streets of nearby St. John’s Wood. It is here that Lettice’s Embassy Club coterie friends Minnie Palmerston and her husband Charles reside in a neatly painted two storey early Victorian townhouse on Acacia Road that formerly belonged to Charles Palmerston’s maternal grandparents, Lord and Lady Arundel. Lettice has been commissioned to redecorate their dining room, after Minnie decided to have a go at it herself with disastrous results.
The day is bright and sunny as the weather starts to turn to warmer weather, and the street is quiet with only the footsteps of perambulating neighbours enjoying the good weather and occasional bark of a dog, which blend with the distant rumble of traffic from busy Finchley Road in the distance as Lettice strides across the road and walks up the eight steps that lead up to Minnie’s black painted front door. She depresses the doorbell which echoes through the long hallway inside and waits. Moments later, there is the sound of unhurried footsteps in the hallway that echo with authority as they approach.
The door is opened by a tall middle-aged woman wearing the blue and white striped print dress that is the morning uniform of many women in service around the upper-class houses of London. She wears a crisp white apron over the high buttoned frock, and her pale and slightly bony face framed by dark wavy hair appears from beneath a stiffly starched and goffered morning maid’s cap.
“Good morning, Madam.” the maid says in an Irish brogue, her face changing dramatically as she smiles down at Lettice.
Given the unfortunate nickname ‘Monstrous Minnie’ by Lettice’s old childhood chum Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy and of her Embassy Club coterie, Minnie has the propensity to have fits of histrionics, often ending in her yelling, crying, or both. Such outbursts, often directed towards her maids for the smallest infraction or irritation, make Minnie a far from attractive employer, in spite of the higher-than-average wages that she pays. Since she and Charles moved in to St John’s Wood around twelve months ago, she has been through nine maids within the first seven of those. Lettice is pleased to see Siobhan still answering the front door after five months, and still smiling.
“Good morning Siobhan.” Lettice answers with a sigh of relief, releasing the breath she has been holding ever since she climbed the stairs to the townhouse. Lettice is never quite sure what she will be faced with, or whom, when she visits the Palmerstons. “How are you?”
“Oh, one mustn’t grumble, Madam. Won’t you come in?”
“Thank you.” Lettice says as she steps over the threshold and into the townhouse’s vestibule. “Is your mistress at home?”
“Yes,” Siobhan says with a certain weariness and resignation as she helps Lettice out of her fox fur stole and her favourite powder blue coat and hangs the up on the heavy Victorian coatrack.
“That doesn’t sound promising, Siobhan.” Lettice says cautiously.
Minnie hired Siobhan because she thought that as she was Irish, she would be used to high spirits and histrionics, and from all that Lettice has gathered from her friend since the new maid started, it seems she was right. Siobhan has taken no offence to any outburst from her mistress, and to her credit, has even pulled her mistress into line a few times, which only a woman sure of herself and her beliefs could do without risking dismissal and a poor reference.
“Oh no. She’s fine, Madam.” the Irish maid elucidates with a sigh. “But she’s been like a naughty child around a Christmas tree on Christmas Eve ever since your men arrived two days ago with the new dining room furnishings.”
“Oh.” Lettice mutters, trying to remain serious at the maid’s complaint, but unable to hide the smile of mirth that turns up the corner of her mouth.
“I can’t keep her out of there for love nor money, Madam.”
At that moment their conversation is interrupted by an excited scream.
“Lettice! Lettice darling! Is that you?” echoes Minnie’s voice loudly from upstairs.
“See what I mean.” Siobhan mutters.
With a thump of excited footsteps, Minnie appears on the landing wrapped in a blue jacquard kimono of polychromatic silk with an embroidered collar and cuffs. Taking in her friend’s appearance, Lettice presumes she is halfway through getting dressed for an outing, for she has a soft green frock on beneath the robe, which hangs open, but her feet are still clad in vibrant pink satin mules with marabou feather trim.
“I knew it was you!” Minnie exclaims and she hurtles down the stairs with thudding footsteps and the next moment Lettice is enveloped in an embrace of blue, red and green satin which smells faintly of a mixture of Habinita* and cigarettes. Looking up into her excited face, Lettice can see that Minnie’s eye makeup is only half done. “How are you, Lettice darling?”
Lettice feels Minnie’s whispery kiss on her cheek as she is released from her friend’s enthusiastic embrace. “I’m very well thank you, Minnie darling. And you seem very excited.”
“Oh I am, darling! I am positively in raptures over the things that have been arriving with your men to redecorate my dining room with.”
“Told you.” mutters Siobhan with a knowing look to Lettice.
As if by her speaking, Minnie suddenly becomes aware of her maid’s presence, she says, “Haven’t you got some dusting or airing to do, Siobhan?”
“Yes, Madam.” The Irish maid replies with her eyebrows arching over her dark brown glittering eyes, before bobbing a curtsey and walking off down the hallway towards the rear of the house.
“She seems to be fitting in well.” Lettice nods after the retreating back of the domestic, smiling cheekily.
“Oh yes!” Minnie sighs. “Although she has more backbone than the maids I’m used to. Still, I have to confess that if she’s willing to put up with me, I should be able to tolerate her backbone.” She follows Lettice’s gaze.
The pair watch the maid disappear through a door at the far end of the corridor.
“Come on then!” Minnie slaps Lettice on the back before quickly winding her right arm around Lettice’s shoulder, placing her left hand on her collarbone and guiding her through the maze of overstuffed cream satin settees, nests of occasional tables and potted palms of the Edwardian drawing room and towards the dining room door. “Now, the servants are at your disposal for the day whilst you are here. Cook will serve luncheon when you want in the breakfast room. Just be a dear and tell her when you want to eat by sending a message to her via Siobhan.” Minnie flings open the door to the dining room dramatically and gasps. “Here we are then!”
The dining room is completely transformed. Gone is the old fashioned and rather staid Edwardian furnishings of Lady Arundel’s time, and perhaps more importantly, gone is the busy and bold wallpaper of red poppies against a black background with green and white geometric patterns that Minnie had had hung which had completely dominated the room. In its place, a luxurious metallic red dioxide paper embossed with flowers and leaves from Jeffrey and Company** hangs, giving the room a richness and intimacy. More importantly it doesn’t overpower the modernist paintings chosen by Charles to hang in the dining room, which sit unceremoniously placed on the fireplace mantle and on a black japanned console where Lettice’s men placed them. Two tall modern stands, the only two pieces, besides the paintings, from the room’s previous decoration, stand to one side of the tiled Art Deco gas fireplace. The rest of the room is populated with a jumble of sleek and stylish black japanned modern furnishings and lidded wooden crates of decorative items. The chairs set to go in the dining room are high backed to go with the proportions of the room, which has a high ceiling. They have been upholstered in a bold geometric pattern of red and gold, which compliments their black frames and the stylised wallpaper.
“You know,” Minnie says, releasing Lettice and stepping alongside the wall where she runs her hands over the lightly embossed pattern in the wall hangings. “I really wasn’t convinced by your choice of red dioxide, Lettice darling, even after we’d been to the Portland Gallery.” She caresses a large flower and several leaves lovingly. “I really did want gold. But now that I’ve seen it hung, I realise you were exactly right.” She looks at Lettice who sighs with satisfaction in response to Minnie’s admission. “Of course you were right, darling! Gold in here would have overpowered the paintings and the furnishings.”
“I did tell you, Minnie.” Lettice replies as she looks around the room.
“At least I did listen to you.” Minnie defends.
“It felt a bit more like coercion.”
“Well, you were right in the end Lettice. I just love this paper! It gives the room a cosy warmth, yet grandeur at the same time.”
“And it doesn’t feel like something out of Maida Vale***?” Lettice asks, referencing Minnie’s husband, Charles’, observation after she had it hung, that Minnie’s choice of bold wallpaper with its red poppies against a black background with green and white geometric patterns made the room feel like something from a gauche middle-class villa.
“Oh absolutely not, Lettice darling!” Minnie assures her friend. “Charles says it’s wonderful, and he will be more than happy to entertain in here.” Minnie looks around at the furniture, crates and artworks with a cursory glance. “Although I do think all this beauty will be wasted on those boring partners from the bank and their equally boring wives. All they care about is money, money, money,” She places a hand dramatically to her forehead and looks direly at Lettice. “Which leaves no breathing space for the art and beauty that feeds sensitive souls like you and I, Lettice darling.”
Lettice cannot help but giggle at her friend’s dramatic pose, covering her mouth with her hands as she does. “Oh Minnie!”
“Oh Minnie is right!” Charles’ pale and youthful face, clean shaven and topped with strawberry blonde hair pokes through the doorway leading from the hallway. He looks remarkably younger than his twenty eight years, appearing more like a boy of sixteen, with facial hair so pale that it is barely discernible against his peaches and cream skin. Stepping into the room he marches the few steps over to his wife and swipes her hand away from the wall. “I told you,” he scolds, not unkindly, but still with a little irritation. “Stop touching the wallpaper, or you’ll mark it.” He turns to Lettice. “Hullo Lettice darling.”
“Hullo Charles, darling!” Lettice replies, accepting an affectionate whispery kiss from her friend. “How are you?”
“All the better for seeing you and knowing that we’ll have a fully functional dining room by the end of the day. She,” He emphasises as he indicates with a flick of his thin eyebrows and a roll of his glittering blue eyes to his wife. “Has been like a jack-in-the box ever since your men came to deliver the furnishings. Every time I can’t find her where I expect her to be, I find her in here, toying.”
“So I heard from Siobhan,” Lettice remarks. “And so I see!” she adds, noting for the first time that several of the crates have had their lids prised open: the statues purchased at the Portland Gallery on Bond Street a few weeks ago lying exposed in their beds of white tissue paper or freed from them as they perch on the edge of the wooden boxes they came in.
“That’s not fair, Charles!” Minnie protests. “I was not toying!” She folds her arms akimbo, the kimono sleeves cascading prettily about her elbows. “I was… I was… communing with my new statues. After all, we’ve paid for them, so why shouldn’t I?”
“I’ve paid for them.” Charles corrects, once again not unpleasantly as he looks lovingly at his wife.
“Oh Minnie!” Lettice exclaims with exasperation. “Really! You couldn’t leave them alone for a few days.”
“Oh she’s like a kitten with a catnip mouse.” Charles laughs. “This project is her new toy, and she spends every waking hour she can in here. I told her though, that we can’t get you to redecorate the drawing room for a few months yet.”
“I wasn’t aware I was going to.” Lettice replies with a little bit of alarm.
“Well, I hadn’t actually gotten around to asking you yet,” Minnie pouts, glaring at her husband. “Thank you, Charles.”
“Never mind.” Charles answers her. “Now,” he adds as he looks his wife up and down critically. “Is this really how you greet our guest: dressed in a wrapper and slippers, Minnie?”
“Lettice isn’t a guest, Charles. She’s our friend. And as such, she’s seen us both in a far worse state than this. Don’t you remember the night Priscilla dared us to go swimming in the St James’s Park duck pond after we’d been at the Embassy until three?”
Charles shudders at the memory of dragging he and his wife from the murky depths of the lake one early morning in May, both of them drunk, drenched and draped in pond weeds, his shoes squelching and both of them shivering as the exhilaration of doing something forbidden loses its lustre as the alcoholic fug and bravado that comes with being tight**** wears off. “That Priscilla is a menace. Thank god she’s in Philadelphia, wreaking her own brand of mayhem there instead. I’m sure Georgie had no idea who he was truly marrying!” He shudders again. “Anyway, it doesn’t signify. Shouldn’t you be getting back upstairs and finish getting ready? We need to go soon.”
“I did want to stay, Lettice darling.” Minnie glowers. “But Charles contrived a visit to his parents for luncheon, whom I might just add, happen to be nicely out of town and down in Surrey, so we’ll be gone all day.”
“I told you, Lettice doesn’t need you scrutinising the placement of every item as she unpacks it, Minnie. You’ll be far more help to Lettice by keeping out of her way and coming with me for luncheon.” He looks beseechingly to Lettice to support his statement.
“It is true,” Lettice admits, speaking with a consoling tone. “That I prefer to work alone when I set up a room, Minnie darling. It will be easier if you come home and see my vision complete, and then you can see what it’s like and we can make any adjustments you want.”
“See, my poppet.” Charles goes up to his wife and drapes his arm around her and pulls her into his chest. “It really will be better if you’re in Surrey for the day. Besides, Mummy and Daddy are so looing forward to seeing you.”
“Oh!” Minnie concedes, her eyes cast to the dining room ceiling, blinking hard so as not to cry and make the makeup around her left eye not run. “I suppose you’re right. Although,” she adds. “I do think you are both beastly for ganging up on me and forcing me out of my own home.”
“Ahh-ahh!” Charles says, running his right hand lovingly over her right forearm. “No histrionics now, my sweet. You know this is best for everyone. Now, go on. Chop-chop! Go and finish getting ready, or we won’t get there in time for luncheon.”
Charles pushes he wife out the door that leads out into the hallway.
“Just ask Siobhan for anything you need, won’t you Lettice?”
“Of course,” Lettice assures him. “Oh, and thank you, Charles.” She casts her eye over Charles shoulder to where she last saw Minnie.
He winks and closes the door quietly behind him.
Lettice sighs and turns back to look at all the furnishings placed in a higgledy-piggledy way throughout the room. She walks up to two of the opened wooden crates stacked atop one another and grasps a statue of a woman in a dramatic pose with her back arched, one arm up and one arm down. She smiles and laughs quietly to herself as she cradles it in her hands. It seems apt to have chosen such a conspicuously posed statue for such a dramatic and vibrant personality as Minnie.
“See I told you,” Siobhan opens the third door of the dining room situated to the left of the fireplace which leads into what had been Lord Arundel’s smoking room. She nods and tuts knowingly. “Like a naughty child she is, dancing round the Christmas tree on Christmas Eve, anxious for her presents!”
“Indeed,” Lettice muses, but choosing not to say anything more in deference to her friend.
“And what time should I tell Cook that Madam will be expecting luncheon?”
*Molinard Habanita was launched in 1921. Molinard say that Habanita was the first women’s fragrance to strongly feature vetiver as an ingredient – something hitherto reserved for men, commenting that ‘Habanita’s innovative style was eagerly embraced by the garçonnes – France’s flappers – and soon became Molinard’s runaway success and an icon in the history of French perfume.’ Originally conceived as a scent for cigarettes – inserted via glass rods or to sprinkle from a sachet – women had begun sprinkling themselves with it instead, and Molinard eventually released it as a personal fragrance.
**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.
***Although today quite an affluent suburb of London, in 1922 when this scene is set, Maida Vale was more of an up-and-coming middle-class area owing to its proximity to the more up market St John’s Wood to its west. It has many late Victorian and Edwardian blocks of mansion flats. Charles’ remark that he felt like he was in a Maida Vale dining room was not meant to be taken as a compliment considering they live in St John’s Wood.
****To get tight is an old fashioned term used to describe getting drunk.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
On the lower of the two boxes is a miniature artisan hand painted Art Deco statue on a “marble” plinth. Made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality of the detail in their pieces, it is a 1:12 copy of the “Theban Dancer” sculpture created by Claire-Jeanne-Roberte Colinet in 1925. The tall statue standing on the edge of the upper box is also made by Warwick Miniatures and was hand painted by me.
The three wooden crates boxes came from The Doll’s House Suppliers in the United Kingdom. Edwardian times were the heyday of advertising, so it was not unusual to see popular household brands labels emblazoned on the side of buildings and even boxes.
The black japanned high backed chairs with their stylised Art Deco fabric upholstery came from a seller on E-Bay. The black japanned console was made by Town Hall Miniatures. The tall stand on which the ginger jar stands was made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.
The three prong Art Deco style candelabra in the console is an artisan piece made of sterling silver. Although unsigned, the piece was made in England by an unknown artist.
The paintings around the room are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States.
The Streamline Moderne pottery tile fireplace surround and the Art Deco green electric fireplace I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in the United Kingdom.
The stylised metallic red dioxide floral wallpaper was paper given to me by a friend who encouraged me to use it in my miniature tableaux.
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 southeast of Lettice’s flat at the Savoy Hotel*, where a lavish wedding breakfast** is being held for two of Lettice’s Embassy Club coterie of bright young things who have just been married at St. Mark’s Church, North Audley Street***: Dickie Channon, eldest surviving son of the Marquess of Taunton, and the newly minted Margot Channon, only daughter of Lord Charles and Lady Lucie de Virre.
“Cheers to you, dear Gerald.” Lettice remarks, raising her glass of glittering golden champagne to her friend.
“To me?” Gerald almost chokes on his last mouthful of cheese as he dabs at his mouth daintily with a fine damask napkin. “Whatever for, Lettuce…” He pauses mid nickname as he remembers they are not alone. As if pretending to clear his throat of water cracker biscuit crumbs he coughs. “Ahem… Lettice. Why me? Why not the bride and groom? This is,” He waves his hand about expansively. “After all, for them.”
“Oh, there will be plenty of that shortly with the dreaded speeches.” Lettice smiles, grateful that Gerald didn’t call her by her abhorred nickname within public earshot. “No, this is your moment too, as well as theirs.”
“I don’t see how you’ve come to that conclusion my dear. This isn’t my wedding.”
“Well no, it isn’t Gerald, not in name,” she indicates languidly over to Margot sitting at the bridal table next to Dickie, beaming with such happiness and looking radiant. “But it is your wedding gown that is on show today. And Margot is the perfect mannequin to show it off.”
“Do you really like it, Lettice?” Gerald barely dares to ask in a whisper, leaning forward his eyes sparkling with hope. “You aren’t just saying that because you’re my oldest and dearest chum?”
“Like it, Gerald?” Lettice stares at Gerald in amazement. “That daring asymmetrical hemline of satin and tulle, the cap sleeves, the boat neckline and that divine embroidery I’ve seen you work on for months: I absolutely love it! Margot will be the bride of the Season.”
“Do you really think so, darling?”
“You mark my words, Gerald. Just look at all the photographers outside St. Mark’s, waiting for a chance to capture the bride on the steps!” She thinks back to the last hour where the burst of flashbulbs that went off as Dickie and Margot stepped out of the chapel doors was blinding. “She’ll be in every society page up and down the country, in your dress, darling! A Gerald Bruton original.”
“Gosh! That is a rather thrilling thought.” Gerald smiles proudly as he tugs awkwardly at his collar.
A Savoy waiter discreetly reaches forth with white gloved hands and clears away the white gilt cheese plates and cheese and fruit knives.
“Thrilling? I’ll say Gerald! This will truly be the making of you, my clever darling. Cheers!”
Lettice raises her glass towards Gerald again, who this time lifts his own in return, the clink drowned out by the sounds of a string quartet playing salon music, vociferous chatter, and the scrape of silver against crockery as the wedding guests around them finish their cheese and fruit before desserts are served.
“Just think of all the future young brides here who will each want a frock equally as exquisite as Margot’s.” Lettice remarks before taking a sip of champagne. “Designed by you, of course darling.”
“Of course, darling!”
Sipping his own champagne, Gerald looks around the private dining room of the Savoy with its gold flocked wallpaper, gilt mirrors and Edwardian style Rococo inspired furnishings. Around the tables decorated with champagne and gold roses in crystal vases, several clusters of young women chat conspiratorially with heads as closely together as their picture hats will allow. He notices one group at a nearby table where a girl, caught pointing by his gaze, is indicating to him. She smiles shyly and quickly lowers her hand. He smiles broadly in return and raises his glass to her in acknowledgement. She takes up her own glass in return.
“See,” Lettice remarks proudly as she places a comforting hand upon her friend’s forearm. “You will have blushing brides-to-be and their mothers flocking to you before the fortnight is out.”
“Just the same, I don’t think the Marchioness of Taunton approved.” Gerald adds. “She did look rather grim throughout the ceremony as she watched Dickie and Margot get married.”
“Oh, pooh the Marchioness!” Lettice counters, looking to Margot’s mother-in-law who sits stiffly by her husband’s side wearing an old fashioned looking picture hat adorned with large silk flowers that perfectly match the powder blue shade of her very conservative and rather dowdy dress, a look of general distain on her sharp features as she looks down her nose at the happy wedding guests in her view. “I think she would look grim no matter what. Before the war, it was Harry who was heir apparent, not Dickie. I’m sure she imagined the heir to the Taunton title marrying someone more fitting than the daughter of a trade bought title like Lord de Virre. However, the dowery that that he brings to the marriage will be welcome in the Taunton coffers, I’m sure.”
“Lettice!” Gerald looks around him nervously, hoping that none of the other guests heard his friend speak so candidly about something that is commonly known, but seldom raised, especially somewhere so public.
“Lord de Virre told me so himself.” Lettice admits.
“Lady de Virre confided in me too,” Gerald adds quickly in an effort to change the subject. “That Vogue have asked for copies of the studio wedding photographs.”
“Well, that is exciting, Gerald! Your first appearance in Vogue!” Lettice enthuses. “The first of many, I’m sure. And today is Tuesday, so some of Margot and Dickie’s wealth is bound to rub off on you.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Well, you know the old rhyme, ‘marry on Monday for health, Tuesday for wealth’**** and so on.”
“I didn’t take you for believing in such superstitious nonsense, Lettice.” Gerald cocks an eyebrow in surprise at her.
“Oh I don’t,” she flaps the thought away as if it were cigarette smoke with her elegantly bejewelled hand. “But it was always a rhyme I remember Nanny Webb singing to me, no doubt under the Mater’s influence.”
Lettice looks over to the table where her parents sit. Lady Sadie is engrossed in a conversation over an arrangement of golden yellow roses with a grey haired old dowager wearing several strings of pearls about her neck and a haughty look of distain on her face as she catches Lettice’s eye. Lettice cringes.
“Is Sadie playing matchmaker with Lady Faversham?” Gerald asks discreetly, looking in the same direction as Lettice.
“Scheming more like.” Lettice mutters. “Do you know she has asked Sir John Nettleford-Hughes to the Hunt Ball after Christmas as a potential suitor for me?” Lettice screws up her nose.
“Sir John Nettleford-Hughes! Isn’t he in his mid-fifties?”
“More like his sixties!”
“Well, he’ll be in good company with Lady Faversham’s unmarried eldest son.”
“She doesn’t have an unmarried son too, does she?” Lettice’s eyes grow wide and her face pales at the thought, until she sees the cheeky smile on Gerald’s face as he raises his napkin to his lips attempting to hide it. “Oh you!” she hisses, slapping his wrist playfully and smiling.
“At least I made you smile.” Gerald says kindly.
“You will come to the Hunt Ball, won’t you darling?” Lettice’s squeeze of her friend’s left wrist highlighting the desperation of her plea.
“If we’re invited. The Brutons of leaky roofed Bruton Hall don’t have the panache of Sir John Nettleford-Hughes, not to mention the bank balance.”
“Of course you’ll be invited!” Lettice replies in outrage. “It’s traditional. Why you’re practically family being our neighbours. I’ll invite you all if Mater doesn’t: you, your mother, your brother and your father! You must come and rescue me from all the horrors Mater is planning to invite.”
“As a penniless spare to the heir, who earns his living making frocks for his financial betters: I’m hardly a suitable match for you to dance with at the ball, Lettice.” He smiles assuringly at his friend across the table and then places his own right hand over hers as it rests across his left wrist. “Who else am I protecting you from the attentions of?”
“Jonty Hastings.”
“Good god! Howling Hastings! I haven’t seen him since we were in the nursery. Didn’t we used to lock him in the airing cupboard at Bruton Hall?” Gerald asks mischievously.
“I’d forgotten that!” Lettice muffles her laughs with her napkin. ‘I think that’s why we gave him that nickname.”
“I think that might be the reason why we haven’t seen him since we were children.” Gerald chuckles. “Who else is Sadie pulling out of mothballs for you?”
The discreet gloved hands of the Savoy waiter places a blackberry tart topped with clotted cream, garnished with thinly sliced citrus in front of Lettice and Gerald.
“Tarquin Howard, Edward Lambley, Selwyn Spencely.” Lettice elucidates after the waiter withdraws.
“At least they are more our age,” Gerald says hopefully. “And Selwyn is dishy to boot.”
“Oh, you’re as bad as Mater!” Lettice flicks her napkin at him as she prepares to take a mouthful of her tart. “Can you believe she actually offered to show me his photograph in one of her magazines?”
“Well, I shouldn’t have minded that.” Gerald replies, uttering a satisfied sigh as he tastes the delicious dessert before him.
“Better you than me, Gerald. Do you know what else Mater said to me?”
Gerald looks questioningly to her, waiting for Lettice to continue.
“She said that Dickie and Margot only asked me to decorate their country house because they are my friends.”
“Well, they are, Lettice.”
“Yes, but she implied that my decorating isn’t good enough for anyone to put up with unless they are my friends.”
“She only said that to make you pack it all in so she can marry you off more easily, like she did your sister. But you and I know better.” Gerald says comfortingly. He picks up his champagne glass again and points it towards Lettice’s. “Pick up your glass, darling.”
Lettice looks questioningly at her friend as she wraps her fingers around the stem of her glass.
“Here’s to your success.” Gerald says, clinking her glass. “To the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd, successful society interior designer, and the best friend I could ever ask for!”
Lettice laughs, awarding Gerald with her beautiful smile.
*The Savoy Hotel is a luxury hotel located in the Strand in the City of Westminster in central London, England. Built by the impresario Richard D'Oyly Carte with profits from his Gilbert and Sullivan opera productions, it opened on 6 August 1889. It was the first in the Savoy group of hotels and restaurants owned by Carte's family for over a century. The Savoy was the first luxury hotel in Britain, introducing electric lights throughout the building, electric lifts, bathrooms in most of the lavishly furnished rooms, constant hot and cold running water and many other innovations. Carte hired César Ritz as manager and Auguste Escoffier as chef de cuisine; they established an unprecedented standard of quality in hotel service, entertainment and elegant dining, attracting royalty and other rich and powerful guests and diners.
**A wedding breakfast is a feast given to the newlyweds and guests after the wedding, making it equivalent to a wedding reception that serves a meal. The phrase is still used in British English, as opposed to the description of reception, which is American in derivation. Before the beginning of the Twentieth Century they were traditionally held in the morning, but this fashion began to change after the Great War when they became a luncheon. Regardless of when it was, a wedding breakfast in no way looked like a typical breakfast, with fine savoury food and sweet cakes being served. Wedding breakfasts were at their most lavish in the Edwardian era through to the Second World War.
***St. Mark’s Church Mayfair, is a Grade I listed building, in the heart of London's Mayfair district, on North Audley Street. St Mark's was built between 1825 and 1828 as a response to the shortage of churches in the area. The population in Mayfair had grown with the demand for town houses by the aristocracy and the wealthy, as they moved in from the country. The building was constructed in the Greek revival style to the designs of John Peter Gandy. In 1878 the architect Arthur Blomfield made significant changes to the church, adding a timber roof, and introducing Gothic style features. The thirty-four feet (ten metre) façade, together with the elegant porch, is known as one of the finest in London. Being in Mayfair, it was a popular place for the weddings of aristocratic families. It was deconsecrated in 1974, and today it is used as a mixed use venue.
****In the first few decades of the Twentieth Century, up until the Second World War, it was customary to hold weddings on weekdays. An old folk rhyme that many of the people at that time would have known went: “Marry on Monday for health, Tuesday for wealth, Wednesday the best day of all, Thursday for crosses, Friday for losses, and Saturday for no luck at all”. It would have been considered bad luck to get married on a Saturday, and bad form to marry on a Sunday.
This upper-class gustatory scene, with fare such as you could expect from the Savoy, is not what you may first imagine, for it is actually made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures, some of which come from my own childhood.
Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:
The Chippendale dining room table and matching chairs are very special pieces. They came from the Petite Elite Miniature Museum, later rededicated as the Carol and Barry Kaye Museum of Miniatures, which ran between 1992 and 2012 on Los Angeles’ bustling Wiltshire Boulevard. One of the chairs still has a sticker under its cushion identifying which room of which dollhouse it came. The Petite Elite Miniature Museum specialised in exquisite and high end 1:12 miniatures. The furnishings are taken from a real Chippendale design.
The table is set correctly for an Edwardian dinner, using cutlery, crockery and glassware from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in the United Kingdom. Each glass is hand blown using real glass. The plates have been gilded by hand and the cutlery set is made of polished metal. The napkin rings were made by Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom, as was the champagne flute that is filled with glittering golden yellow champagne. The silver cruet set, which peeps from behind the yellow roses, has been made with great attention to detail, and comes from Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The gold candelabra on the table is also a 1:12 artisan piece that I was given as a teenager. The gold roses are hand-made, and the bowl they sit in is made of hand blown and decorated glass. They also come from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures, as do the blackberry tarts which look real and good enough to eat!
The sugar castor on the table is 1 ½ centimetres in height and half a centimetre in diameter. Its finial actually comes apart like its life size equivalent. The finial unscrews from the body so it can be filled. I am told that icing sugar can pass through the holes in the finial, but I have chosen not to try this party trick myself. A sugar castor was used in Edwardian times to shake sugar onto fruits and desserts.
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 have followed Lettice southwest from her home, across St James’ Park to Hans Crescent in Belgravia, where the smart Edwardian four storey red brick and mock Tudor London home of the de Virre family stands. Two of Lettice’s Embassy Club coterie of bright young things are getting married: Dickie Channon, eldest surviving son of the Marquess of Taunton, and Margot de Virre, only daughter of Lord Charles and Lady Lucie de Virre. Lettice is visiting the home of the bride, which is a hive of activity in the lead up to the forthcoming nuptials.
Unusually, Lettice is ushered into the hall of the townhouse by a new maid rather than the de Virre’s butler, Mr. Geraldton. The maid is nervous and seems unsure of herself as she takes Lettice’s name and leads her up to the first floor to the gold drawing room where Lettice is informed the bride-to-be and her mother are.
“Miss Lettice Chetwynd, ma’am,” the maid mutters quickly before retreating back through the door and disappearing down the hallway.
“Lettice!” Margot gasps in delight, looking up from the cup of tea she holds in her lap.
“Oh Lettice!” Lady de Virre sighs. “Thank goodness! I might finally be able to speak to someone who has some sense.”
“What ever do you mean Lady de Virre?” Lettice asks, standing before her friend and her mother.
“I mean,” Lady de Virre suddenly falters as she sees Lettice clasping her green parasol with a black leather handle in her glove clad hand. “Oh. You aren’t stopping?” Her disappointment is palpable.
“Oh no, Lady de Virre! I mean, yes, Lady de Virre!” Lettice assures her hostess. “I came to see Margot, and of course you, although I can’t stay for too long. I have a potential client coming for afternoon tea.”
“Oh! That sounds exciting,” Margot enthuses. “Who?”
“Then if you are staying for tea: I assume you will stay for tea?” Lettice nods in assent to Lady de Virre’s question. “Why are you still holding your parasol?”
“Oh, the maid who answered the door didn’t take it, but really its…”
“Oh! That stupid, stupid girl!” mutters the older woman. “Can she never do anything right?” She picks herself up, out of the walnut salon chair she is comfortably sitting in and charges past Lettice to the door of the drawing room.
“Here Lettice, come sit by me,” Margot pats the gold brocade fabric next to her on the comfortable settee. “I could do with your support,” She giggles conspiratorially. “And your distraction.”
“Pegeen! Pegeen!” Lady de Virre calls shrilly down the hallway.
“Mummy, must you do that? You’re going to give me a headache,” Margot puts her cup on the low table before her and rubs her temples with her fingers. “Not that she hasn’t already.” she whispers to Lettice. “Mummy is really boring me to tears today. Who would ever have thought anyone could suck the joy and delight of organising a wedding? Lists of this, lists of that. Who will get offended sitting next to whom? And don’t get me started on my wedding dress.”
“I thought Gerald was designing it.”
“He is, but Mummy is trying to convince me that Lucile is a better choice.”
“Oh no, Margot. How dreadfully dull!”
Lady de Virre stalks back across the room, snatching Lettice’s parasol from where she has placed it leaning against the settee beside her and resumes her seat.
“Rather.” Margot replies to Lettice’s remark whilst glancing at her mother’s bristling figure.
A moment later the same nervous, mousy maid who let Lettice in appears through the door.
“You called, ma’am?”
“Pegeen, would you kindly take this,” Lady de Virre thrusts Lettice’s parasol towards the maid, the pointy end aimed dangerously at the young girl’s chest rather like a rifle in the titled lady’s hand. “And put it in the receptacle for which it was intended.”
“Ma’am?” The Irish maid looks alarmed, and glances awkwardly at Margot and Lettice installed comfortably on either end of the settee.
“She means, put it in the umbrella stand in the hallway, Pegeen.” Margot elucidates.
“Well why didn’t she say so?” Pegeen mutters as she grasps the offending end of the parasol which her mistress then releases from her steely grasp.
“And bring a third cup for Miss Chetwynd!” Lady de Virre bristles irritably.
The room falls silent until Pegeen closes the door behind her and her footsteps recede down the hallway.
“Oh it really is too tiresome!” huffs Margot’s mother.
“What is, Lady de Virre?” asks Lettice.
“Trying to find good staff in London. They all seem to be Irish halfwits these days, or girls who don’t know their place. I blame the war you know. Girls working in factories! Who would ever have thought?” Lettice and Margot glance at one another and try not to laugh. “Do you have the same problem, Lettice?”
“No, Lady de Virre.” Lettice smirks. “I have a very capable maid, and a charwoman, both of whom suit me very nicely.”
“Well, aren’t you the lucky one?” the older woman mutters sarcastically, rolling her eyes.
“I do have the card for the domestics agency in St James’ that I used to find my maid, if you’d like Lady de Virre.”
“Ah! You see Margot. Just as I was saying! Here is a girl who speaks sense and isn’t a flibbertigibbet like you.”
“Oh Mummy!”
“Ah, where is Mr. Geraldton, Lady de Virre?”
“He’s gone to Bournemouth.” Margot explains.
“His mother is quite unwell,” Lady de Virre chimes in. “Poor man! Now, perhaps you can talk some sense into my daughter, Lettice. I’m trying to get her to choose a wedding breakfast menu,” She picks up a sheath of papers from the small round tired table to her left and waves them in irritation at Margot. “Try as I might, she just won’t do it!”
“It’s not that I won’t, Mummy. I just want some time to look at them and think.” Margot looks at Lettice and rolls her eyes.
“Well we don’t have time Marguerite! The Savoy is always popular, as is Claridges.”
In the distance, a doorbell rings shrilly from somewhere below.
“Actually, Lady de Virre, that’s why I came here.”
“You’re going to throw a wedding breakfast for Marguerite and Richard?”
“Well, not exactly.” Lettice explains. “I actually came to see in Margot and Dickie would be interested in having a celebratory pre-wedding cocktail party at my flat. Would you Margot?”
“Oh really Lettice? Darling! You are a brick!” Margot enthuses. She embraces her friend and smiles broadly. “Of course we would!”
“Excellent, then I’ll,”
“S’cuse me ma’am,” Pegeen nudges open the door of the drawing room with the heel of her shoe, struggling under the weight of an enormous carboard box.
“Pegeen,” Lady de Virre gasps. “I thought I told you to bring a cup for Miss Chetwynd.”
“Can’t ma’am,” the maid replies. “Not when I’ve got this enormous box in ma hands.” She lowers it with a groan onto a vacant footstool where it lands with a thud. “Lord it ain’t half heavy ma’am.”
Lady de Virre crumples her nose in distaste as she peers at the box. “Well, what is it?”
“Don’t know ma’am. It’s for Miss de Virre.”
“Oh! It must be another wedding gift!” the older woman exclaims with an excited clap of her hands, her frustrations forgotten.
“I do hope it isn’t more linen. New parcels of it arrive every day! Gifts from unimaginative relatives!”
“It’s mighty heavy if it is linen, miss,”
“Ah! Another teacup, Pegeen!” Lady de Virre says commandingly. “Or have you already forgotten?”
“No ma’am,” Pegeen replies, looking curiously at the box. “I was just waitin’ for Miss de Virre to open her gift.”
“Out girl! And fetch a teacup for Miss Chetwynd! Now!”
The maid jumps at her mistress’ raised voice and retreats, closing the door behind her. Lettice and Margot cannot help themselves as they try to stifle giggles of mirth.
“You should be more appreciative of people’s generosity, Marguerite!” Lady de Virre wags a finger admonishingly at her daughter. “When you have your own household to manage, you’ll be grateful for every last stich of that linen.”
“Do you know, Lettice, we even received a mounted stag’s head as a gift from one of my Scottish cousins?” Margot laughs.
“No!” Lettice giggles.
“Yes! Goodness knows where we shall put it!”
“I could think of somewhere.” Lettice tries to control her peals of laughter.
“So could I!”
The pair tumble into fits of giggling.
“Oh, did you receive my gift Margo darling?” Lettice asks when she has finally composed herself enough to ask.
“Yes darling, I did, and I love it!”
“See Marguerite! I told you that you need to reply to all these cards that are mounting up!” Her mother waves her hand towards the top of the secretaire behind her, the surface of which is covered in wedding and congratulations cards.
“Oh good!” Lettice smiles.
“And we received your parent’s gift too, thank you Lettice.” Lady de Virre adds. “Marguerite will write a thank you card to them soon. Won’t you Marguerite?”
“Yes Mummy, I will! Such a beautifully modern tea set,” Margot says with a smile. “I never knew your parents knew my taste so intimately.” She winks conspiratorially at Lettice.
“Who is this gift from?” Lady de Virre asks.
Taking out a beautiful card of a young bride looking angelically at a cake, Margot scans the message inside. “Lady Ponting, whoever she is.”
“She’s the Marquess’ widowed younger sister.” Lady de Virre remarks knowingly. “You’ll need to brush up on your new family history before the wedding!”
“Yes Mummy! I know!” Margot acknowledges her mother’s sharp remark. Turning to her friend she continues, “Now that I’m marrying into the upper echelons of the aristocracy, Mummy has become a walking,” She sighs. “And talking, Debrett’s*.”
“Well, aren’t you going to open it?” Lady de Virre asks her daughter, looking at the box on the footstool with eyes glistening with excitement.
Margot removes the twine from around the box and opens it, a froth of white tissue paper spilling forth in soft whispers. Within the box she withdraws a delicate white china gravy boat decorated with roses with a gilt rim. Her mother reaches across the table with her bejewelled hand and seizes the piece from her. Turning it over she nods with approval.
“Hhhmm. Royal Doulton. An excellent choice.” she remarks.
“Come on Margot darling!” Lettice interrupts purposefully. “Let’s talk about your pre-wedding cocktail party before I have to go. Who would you like to invite? Gerald of course because he’s making your wedding dress.” She glances up at Lady de Virre to see whether she has heard and acknowledged her remark. “Celia, Peter, Leslie,”
At that moment, Pegeen returns with a teacup for Lettice. “Cor!” she says, eyeing the Royal Doulton china nestled amongst the cushions of white tissue paper. “If I’d known that box was full of china, I wouldn’t of bothered bringin’ another cup!”
*Debrett's is a British publisher and authority on etiquette and behaviour, founded in 1769 with the publication of the first edition of The New Peerage. The company takes its name from its founder, John Debrett.
Although perhaps a little cluttered and somewhat old fashioned by 1920s standards, the de Virre’s Edwardian style drawing room is very elegant and would have been typical of such a room in an established upper-class household during the inter-war period. The upper classes, whether titled or not, tended to enjoy their opulent and lavish interiors. Only the brave or modern thinker would have swept away the accumulation of antiques over the generations for the clean lined, stripped back Art Deco interiors fashionable in the new houses, flats and hotels being built around Britain and the world. This upper-class domestic scene is different from what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures, some of which come from my own childhood.
Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:
The gold satin upholstered settee and the Hepplewhite chair with the lemon satin upholstery were made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq. The coffee table in the foreground is made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Creal.
On the coffee table stands a silver serving tray on which are a silver coffee and tea set, a porcelain sugar bowl and milk jug and a glass bowl featuring a selection of biscuits. The galleried silver serving tray is engraved and was made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The tea and coffee pot are also made by them. The glass bowl of biscuits was made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering, who specialise in 1:12 size foods and glassware with amazing realism and attention to detail. The porcelain tea set, which has two matching cups and saucers, one on the coffee table and one on the two tier Regency table, were part of a job lot of over one hundred pieces of 1:12 chinaware I bought from a seller on E-Bay. The pieces are remarkably dainty and the patterns on them are so pretty. In front of the tea set stands a wedding card of an Edwardian bride looking at a wedding cake. It is a 1:12 size replica of a real Edwardian wedding card and was made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.
Behind the settee stands a walnut grand piano covered in family photographs and bibelots. The piano I have had since I was around eleven years old. Like a real piano, its lid does prop open on an angle. It has a matching piano stool. The de Virre’s family photos are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frames are from various suppliers, but all are metal. The three prong candelabra behind the photograph frames is an artisan piece of sterling silver made in Berlin and is actually only 3 centimetres in height and 3 centimetres in width. The vase of red roses on the piano is beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium.
The Georgian revival bureau to the left of the picture comes from Town Hall Miniatures. Made to very high standards, each drawer opens and closes. It is covered in Edwardian wedding cards made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. On the writing surface of the bureau sit some papers also made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures, and a miniature ink bottle and pen made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures. The ink bottle is made from a tiny faceted crystal bead and features a sterling silver bottom and lid. The pen is also sterling silver and features a tiny pearl in its end.
The floral arrangement in the farthest corner of the room is made by hand by Falcon Miniatures in America who specialise in high end miniatures. The vase of orange roses on the tall Bespaq stand to the right of the photo is beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium.
The paintings around the wall are all made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States, except the small gilt painting of a sailing boat in the upper left-hand corner of the photo. It was made by Marie Makes Miniatures in the United Kingdom.
The Royal Doulton style dinner set featuring roses in the carboard box came from a miniature dollhouse specialist on E-Bay.
The miniature Persian rug in the foreground of the photo was made by hand by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney, whilst the one in the back beneath the piano was hand woven by Pike, Pike and Company in the United Kingdom.
The gold flocked Edwardian wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.
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.
After a busy morning working at her desk, writing a list of some final tweaks to her friend Margot Channon’s interior designs for her Regency country house ‘Chi an Treth’, Lettice prepares to curl up in one of her armchairs and enjoy her latest library book from Boots*, a new romance, when the telephone rings noisily on the occasional table beside her.
BBBBRRRINGGG!
Edith, Lettice’s maid, is putting glassware back into the cocktail cabinet in the adjoining dining room and looks up anxiously. “That infernal contraption!” she mutters to herself. Edith hates answering the telephone. It’s one of the few jobs in her position that she wishes she didn’t have to do. Whenever she has to answer it, which is quite often considering how frequently her mistress is out and about, there is usually some uppity caller at the other end of the phone, whose toffee-nosed accent only seems to sharpen when they realise they are speaking to ‘the hired help’ as they abruptly demand Lettice’s whereabouts.
BBBBRRRINGGG!
“Oh pooh!” Lettice cries. “And just as I was getting comfortable.”
BBBBRRRINGGG!
“This had better not be Mr. Fulton telling me that the lorry of furnishings and hangings and papers bound for ‘Chi an Treth’ has broken down between London and Penzance.” she grumbles.
The silver and Bakelite telephone continues to trill loudly as Lettice brushes herself down and picks up the receiver.
“Mayfair 432,” she answers without the slightest trace of irritation in her very best telephone voice.
The line crackles for a moment before a clipped, upper-class male voice drifts down the line to the receiver at Lettice’s ear. “May I speak to Miss Chetwynd, please.”
“Yes, this is Miss Chetwynd speaking,” Lettice replies.
“Darling!” the unfamiliar male voice exclaims.
Lettice reddens at the familiarity of the term and nearly drops the receiver in shock. “May I ask who is calling, please?”
“Darling Lettice, it’s me,” the stranger on the end of the line says with a chuckle. When there is silence in response, he adds, “It’s Selwyn.”
“Oh Selwyn!” Lettice gasps in sudden recognition, and sits up abruptly in her seat, her face going from trepidation to a beaming smile, her eyes sparking with happiness.
Edith in the dining room, having put the glasses back into the cocktail cabinet makes to go, but Lettice waves her free left hand excitedly and beckons her maid over. Edith sighs but walks over reluctantly. As soon as she is within reach, Lettice reaches out and clasps her hand, encouraging her to stay, and refusing to let her go. She sighs again. Looking around the room she feels awkward as she overhears whisps of the conversation. She would much rather return to the kitchen and start cleaning the lidded serving dishes with Silvo silver paste, which is what she would be doing if her mistress hadn’t grabbed her as if her life depended on it.
“Darling Lettice, I’m going to be up in London for a few days.” Selwyn announces cheerily.
“When, Selwyn?” Lettice asks, almost too afraid to breathe.
“Next week,” he elucidates. “Tuesday and Wednesday. I have the designs of a house I’ve been commissioned to build for an artist couple in Hampstead.”
“How thrilling, Selwyn!” Lettice’s grip tightens around both the telephone receiver and Edith’s hand.
“Yes.” he says with a light laugh. “They’re quite progressive with their desires for designs on a new home. I was rather chuffed when they asked me to design it for them. So, I thought I’d also run a few errands whilst I’m in town. I’ll be staying at the Saville Club** whilst I’m up from the country.”
“Oh, so you’ll be quite close by then!” Lettice looks excitedly up at Edith, who awkwardly tries to evade her mistress’ eyes.
“Indeed yes. Just around the corner, really. I didn’t want Mummy and Daddy to open the London house just for a few days”
“No, I suppose that is wise.”
“And I was thinking that whilst I was in town, we might fulfil those plans that we made at the Hunt Ball.
“Plans Selwyn?” Lettice queries, a smile teasing up Lettice’s pale and full pink lips.
Edith cannot help herself and turns her head back and stares, open mouthed, in astonishment at her mistress’ obvious attempt to be coy. Ever since she returned from Wiltshire after the Hunt Ball Lettice has done nothing but talk about the handsome young Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, who was an old childhood friend whom she hadn’t seen in years. The way she spoke, the man danced like a dream and swept her off her feet that evening. Edith narrows her eyes and shakes her head at Lettice.
“Don’t you remember, darling girl, or had you had too much champagne?” His light-hearted chuckle emanates from his end of the line. “We planned to catch up when I was next in town if you were free.” He pauses for a moment and aside from a faint crackle down the line there is a palpable silence tinged with excitement and anticipation. “That is, assuming you’d still like to, of course, Lettice darling.”
Lettice pauses for a moment, giving her maid’s hand another squeeze before swallowing. “Oh yes, I should like that very much, Selwyn.” She winks at her maid cheekily. “What days did you say you would be in town again?”
“Tuesday and Wednesday. I was hoping you might be free for luncheon, or perhaps a cocktail?”
Lettice takes a deep breath before replying, “Well, I’ll just have to consult my diary. I’ve just sent some furniture down to Penzance for the house down there I’ve ben commissioned to redecorate.”
“Oh yes, I remember: your friends, the Channons.”
“You do have a good memory, Selwyn.”
“Well,” he pauses and chuckles, only this time a little awkwardly. “There are quite a few things I remember about you at the Hunt Ball.”
Lettice smile broadens on her lips as she feels a flush fill her cheeks and redden her neck. “And we still have so much to catch up on about what we’ve been doing over the last fifteen years since we were children together.”
“Yes,” Selwyn replies. “So, are you free on Tuesday or Wednesday, my dear Lettice?”
“Well, let me just check my diary, Selwyn.”
Lettice deposits the receiver on the surface of the black japanned table next to her novel and her cooling cup of tea. She reaches out and snatched as Edith’s other hand handing limply by her side and squeezes it as tightly as the other. She cannot help herself and let’s a quick little squeak escape her lips as she smiles up at her maid, who for all her attempts to be discreet cannot help but smile back. Lettice waits for a few more moments. Finally, when she thinks enough time has passed, she releases Edith’s left hand. The maid flicks her fingers back and forth, making sure the circulation her mistress cut off is restored to her digits.
Picking up the receiver Lettice says, “You happen to be in luck, Mr. Spencely. I am free for luncheon on Wednesday.”
“Oh hoorah!” Selwyn exclaims in delight. “Marvellous! I thought we might go to the Hotel Cecil*** for luncheon.”
“Oh no!” Lettice protests in return. “Everyone I know will be there!”
“You’d rather go to the Lyons Corner House**** on Tottenham Court Road?” Selwyn laughs good naturedly. “I’m sure no-one would know us there.”
Lettice sighs. “It’s not that I don’t want to be seen with you, Selwyn.”
“Then what?”
“I’m sure you’ll think me mad, but I can assure you that Mater has spies in her friends and their friends and acquaintances, who are only too happy to report what her youngest wayward daughter and her flatter friends are up to. I know I wouldn’t enjoy luncheon with you if I was forever wondering whether someone was watching us and planning on reporting every thing we do and every word we utter back to her before the day is out.”
This time when Selwyn laughs, it is a big, jolly guffaw.
“Don’t laugh at me, Selwyn, please! I know I sound quite mad, but it’s true.”
“Oh I’m sorry, Lettice darling. I know you aren’t mad. My mother does exactly the same and keeps tabs on all her children, so I know what it’s like. Now, if you told me that the potted palms in the Cecil reported back to your mother, well then, I would have to question your mental state.”
This time the pair of them laugh together, Lettice’s filled with relief.
“So, if the Cecil isn’t suitable this time, where do you suggest, my dear?”
Lettice thinks for a moment. “What about the Metropole*****?”
“I can’t say I’ve been there since the war.”
“Oh it’s very luxurious and the food is divine. I went there not long ago with a client of mine.”
“And it’s safe from your Mother’s spies?”
“Well,” Lettice admits. “Nowhere is that impenetrable, however we are less likely to find ladies dining there as we would at the Cecil, and those that are, are probably more inclined to be interested in politics and affairs of state rather than who is dining around them.”
“I’ll see if I can book us a discreet table, then, my darling girl.”
“If you would, Selwyn.”
“Shall we say one o’clock then, my angel?”
“Yes.” Lettice agrees. “Your angel…” she ruminates.
“I’m sorry Lettice. I didn’t mean to be so intimate,” Selwyn stutters hurriedly. “I apologise.”
“Oh please don’t, Selwyn!” Lettice assures him. “I was just thinking how lovely that sounds: to be your angel.”
“So, shall we say one then on Wednesday,” he pauses. “My angel?”
“Yes, one o’clock in the foyer of the Metropole Hotel. I shall see you then.”
“And I shall be counting the minutes until then, my angel.”
“Goodbye, dear Selwyn. Until then.”
“Goodbye my angel, until then.”
Lettice replaces the Bakelite receiver into the chrome cradle of the telephone.
“Well!” Lettice gasps with excitement. “You’ll never guess who that was, Edith!”
“I’m quite sure I couldn’t say, Miss.” Edith says with a downwards, disapproving look, hating having to be subjected to her mistress’ private telephone call.
“It was Selwyn Spencely! You’ll never guess what’s he’s gone and done, Edith!”
“I’m positive I’d never guess, Miss.” Edith replies, casting her eyes to the white painted ceiling.
“He’s taking me to luncheon at the Metropole on Wednesday!”
Lettice screams and jumps up and down, her long string of glass bugle beads jangling about in front of her as she wraps her arms dramatically around Edith’s neck and starts spinning her around. Edith stumbles and breaks away from her giddy mistress.
“Miss! Miss!” she chides. “Calm yourself and stop that jumping, or I’ll have Mrs. Clifford’s maid from downstairs up here in a trice, complaining about the light fixtures shaking, or plaster dust ending up in old Mrs. Clifford’s lunch.”
“Oh pooh old Mrs. Clifford and her luncheon!” Lettice laughs as she reaches out for her maid and starts dancing around with her again. “I’m gong to have luncheon on Wednesday with dreamy Selwyn Spencely, the most eligible and handsome young man in London!”
*Boots the chemist was established in 1849, by John Boot. After his father's death in 1860, Jesse Boot, aged 10, helped his mother run the family's herbal medicine shop in Nottingham, which was incorporated as Boot and Co. Ltd in 1883, becoming Boots Pure Drug Company Ltd in 1888. In 1920, Jesse Boot sold the company to the American United Drug Company. However, because of deteriorating economic circumstances in North America Boots was sold back into British hands in 1933. The grandson of the founder, John Boot, who inherited the title Baron Trent from his father, headed the company. The Boots Pure Drug Company name was changed to The Boots Company Limited in 1971. Between 1898 and 1966, many branches of Boots incorporated a lending library department, known as Boots Book-Lovers' Library.
**The Savile Club is a traditional London gentlemen's club founded in 1868, many of whose members have a common interest in the arts. Located in fashionable and historically significant Mayfair, its membership, past and present, include many prominent names.
***The Hotel Cecil was a grand hotel built 1890–96 between the Thames Embankment and the Strand in London, England. It was named after Cecil House, a mansion belonging to the Cecil family, which occupied the site in the Seventeenth Century. The hotel was the largest in Europe when it opened, with more than eight hundred rooms. The proprietor, Jabez Balfour, later went bankrupt and was sentenced to 14 years in prison. The Royal Air Force was formed and had its first headquarters here in the former Hotel Cecil in 1918. During the 1920s, it was one of the most fashionable hotels in London and was filled with flappers and young men, representing the spirit of the Jazz Age. The hotel was largely demolished in 1930, and Shell Mex House now stands on its site.
****Built by the Salmons and Glucksteins, a German-Jewish immigrant family based in London, J. Lyons and Company opened their first teashop in Piccadilly in 1894. From 1909 they developed this into a chain of teashops. The waitresses that worked in them were commonly known as Nippies as they were forever on their feet, nipping in and out of serving tables. The company also ran high class restaurants, founding the Trocadero in 1895, and hotels including the Strand Palace, opened in 1909, the Regent Palace, opened in 1915, and the Cumberland Hotel, opened in 1933, all in London. The last Lyon’s Corner House, in the Strand closed in 1977.
*****Now known as the Corinthia Hotel, the Metropole Hotel is located at the corner of Northumberland Avenue and Whitehall Place in central London on a triangular site between the Thames Embankment and Trafalgar Square. Built in 1883 it functioned as an hotel between 1885 until World War I when, located so close to the Palace of Westminster and Whitehall, it was requisitioned by the government. It reopened after the war with a luxurious new interior and continued to operate until 1936 when the government requisitioned it again whilst they redeveloped buildings at Whitehall Gardens. They kept using it in the lead up to the Second World War. After the war it continued to be used by government departments until 2004. In 2007 it reopened as the luxurious Corinthia Hotel.
This 1920s upper-class drawing room is different to what you may think at first glance, 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 tableau include:
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 roses and lilies on the Art Deco occasional table is beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium.
Lettice’s tea cup and saucer is part of a beautiful artisan set featuring a rather avant-garde Art Deco Royal Doulton design from the Edwardian era.
Lettice’s romantic novel is a 1:12 size miniature 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. This novel is one of the rarer exceptions and it has been designed not to be opened. Nevertheless, the cover is beautifully illustrated. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s books 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. 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 one of hundreds of his books that I own, and that it makes you smile with its sheer whimsy!
Lettice’s drawing room is furnished with beautiful J.B.M. miniatures. To the left of the photograph is a Chippendale cabinet which has been hand decorated with chinoiserie designs. It also features very ornate metalwork hinges and locks. The Art Deco tub chair upholstered in white embossed fabric is made of black japanned wood and has a removable cushion, just like its life sized equivalent.
The Chinese folding screen in the background 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.
In front of the screen on a pedestal table stands a miniature cloisonné vase from the early Twentieth Century which I also bought when I was a child. It came from a curios shop. Cloisonné is an ancient technique for decorating metalwork objects. In recent centuries, vitreous enamel has been used, and inlays of cut gemstones, glass and other materials were also used during older periods. The resulting objects can also be called cloisonné. The decoration is formed by first adding compartments (cloisons in French) to the metal object by soldering or affixing silver or gold wires or thin strips placed on their edges. These remain visible in the finished piece, separating the different compartments of the enamel or inlays, which are often of several colours. Cloisonné enamel objects are worked on with enamel powder made into a paste, which then needs to be fired in a kiln. The Japanese produced large quantities from the mid Nineteenth Century, of very high technical quality cloisonné. In Japan cloisonné enamels are known as shippō-yaki (七宝焼). Early centres of cloisonné were Nagoya during the Owari Domain. Companies of renown were the Ando Cloisonné Company. Later centres of renown were Edo and Kyoto. In Kyoto Namikawa became one of the leading companies of Japanese cloisonné.
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. Lettice is visiting her old family home for the wedding of Leslie to Arabella, the daughter of their neighbours, Lord Sherbourne and Lady Isobel Tyrwhitt. Today is the big day, and earlier in the morning Lettice was amongst the guests to watch her brother and his now wife exchange vows at the chapel in Glynes village. Now the wedding guests have repaired to the grand country house where the couple’s wedding breakfast* is being held in the Glynes grand dining room.
“I say, Sadie has been busy!” exclaims Gerald as he walks through the doors of the dining room.
“The whole household has been busy.” corrects Lettice as she walks proudly on his arm. “I could barely get a cup of tea, a slice of toast and a scraping of jam for breakfast,” she moans. “Which I had to take in my room because in here was out-of-bounds.”
The Glynes dining room, a large space, has been transformed into an indoor winter garden with tributes to the house’s gardeners with hothouse flower arrangements everywhere. Cascades of soft lilac wisteria, white blossom and pastel roses spill from vases on the mantlepiece and from jardinières on stands placed around the walls. The usual dining table used by the Chetwynds for dinners and banquets has been transformed into the bridal table, whilst several other smaller oblong tables have been brought in to serve as places for the other wedding breakfast guests. Each table is covered in crisp snowy white linen tablecloths taken from the Glynes great Elizabethan oak linen chests and pressed by housekeeper Mrs. Casterton’s staff, and upon their surfaces fine gilt white china, glassware and silver gleam, with each place setting carefully arranged by Bramley, the Chetwynd’s butler and Marsden, the first footman. Each table is graced with more fresh floral arrangements created by Lady Sadie herself and the parlour maid Emmery, whom the Countess has discovered has an aptitude for flower arranging. On the bridal table stands a grand three-tier wedding fruitcake made by Mrs. Honeychurch, the Chetwynd’s cook, its white royal icing edges decorated with pale yellow icing swirls and golden orange sugar roses.
“They look so happy,” Gerald remarks as they walk in front of the bridal table where Leslie and Isabella sit before the cake.
“I think Bella’s is your best wedding frock yet, Gerald.”
“Oh, do you really think so, Lettice?”
“I do.” she concurs proudly as they pass the bride and groom, admiring the creamy white satin boat neck of Bella’s wedding gown, trimmed with accents of antique lace, a gift to Isabella from Lady Sadie, taken from her own wedding dress.
‘Well, Bella was perfect to fit.” The pair move around to the table adjunct to the bridal table where they take their places. “She already had her ideas, which, unlike some women I see, were good ones, and I just had to bring them to life. She’s never has been a girl into fuss, and let’s be honest, she has so much natural beauty that no matter what I made for her would look wonderful on her.”
“And of course, I love my outfit too, Gerald.” Lettice smooths the pale buttery yellow crêpe of her frock which matches the pretty rose decorated wide brimmed straw hat made for her by Gerald’s friend Harriet.
“I should hope you do!” Gerald replies as he settles himself into his Chippendale style dining chair.
The pair watch as the country wedding guests, a mixture of family from both the Chetwynd and the Tyrwhitt clans, county society, guests from London and a smattering of local village folk, leisurely wend their way to their places, each marked with a handwritten card in Lady Sadie’s elegant copperplate script.
“I must say Lettice darling, I am grateful that you managed to convince Sadie to lift her embargo on me after the Hunt Ball and allow me to come.” Gerald remarks as he and Lettice nod at two of her distant spinster cousins from Guernsey as they make their way around them to their place much further down the table Lettice and Gerald are near the head of.
“Oh don’t thank me, Gerald.” Lettice replies. “Thank Leslie. He’s the one who confronted Mater and said that if he had to have cousins Eurphronia and Ethelreda from Guernsey,” She nods to the two rather horsey looking ladies now taking their places at the far end of the table. “Whom we haven’t seen nor heard from since Lally was married, then he and Bella were entitled to invite whichever guests they wanted, without question. And of course that included you.”
“Gosh! I must thank Leslie later then.”
“I still don’t know,” Lettice queries. “What was it you said to Mater that night of Hunt Ball that set her so against you. I’ve never known her to take against anyone so vehemently, except perhaps Aunt Egg.”
Gerald blushes, remembering the altercation he had with Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, at the ball. In a slightly inebriated state he told her that neither she nor Lettice had any sway over Selwyn Spencely’s choice of a wife, any more than Selwyn did himself, explaining that it was his mother, the Duchess of Mumford, Lady Zinnia, who would choose a wife for him. “I keep telling you, darling girl. I really don’t remember,” he replies awkwardly, covering his tracks as best as he can. “If you remember, I was rather tight** that night on your father’s champagne.”
“And I hope you will do so again today.” Lettice says cheekily, picking up the freshly poured glass of champagne set at her place just prior to her arrival.
“Try and stop me, darling!” Gerald picks up his glass and the two clink their glasses together in a conspiratorial toast.
“Lettice! Lettice stop that!” hisses her father, the Viscount, from his seat next to his wife at the bridal table, flapping his hand at her in an effort to gain her attention and growing red faced in the process. “Not until I make my speech.”
Lettice rolls her eyes and shakes her head, and like two admonished children, she and Gerald return their glasses, untouched, to their places with lowered heads.
“I am glad that Aunt Isobel was well enough to see Bella get married.” Lettice says with a satisfied sigh.
“Yes, I am too.” Gerald looks over the top of the wedding cake to see Isabella’s mother, whom they all call ‘Aunt Isobel’ despite her not being a blood relation, smiling proudly next to her husband, Sherbourne, as she looks down the table to her daughter and new son-in-law. “The radiotherapy*** seems to be having a positive impact on her health. Although evidently not enough for the Tyrwhitts to host the wedding breakfast.” he notes a little critically.
“Well, Mater thought it might tire poor Aunt Isobel out to arrange the wedding breakfast by herself, so she offered, and Isobel was probably too unwell at the time to refuse her.”
“Who would dare contradict Sadie’s wishes? Look, she is positively in her element, playing Lady Bountiful****, lording herself over all her minions, the great and good of the county.” Gerald says, nodding to Lettice’s beaming mother swathed in romantic soft pink floral silk de chiné wearing a floppy picture hat covered in satin roses in a matching shade.
“I do think Uncle Sherbourne looks rather tired though, don’t you Gerald?”
“Well, it isn’t every day that one loses one’s only daughter,” Gerald says dismissively. “He’s probably had a few sleepless nights worrying about her dowery and whether she has made the right decision.”
“Gerald!” Lettice slaps her friend playfully with her pale yellow kid gloves. “You surely can’t be suggesting that Leslie is a cad!” she laughs.
He chuckles in return and flashes her a beaming smile.
Returning her gloves to her lap, she glances up and over to where her eldest brother sits proudly in his morning suit gazing with fondness and laughing with his bride. Glowing can be the only adjective suitable to describe Leslie and Isabella as they radiate happiness.
“You must feel a little jealous,” Lettice remarks discreetly as she observes a slightly wistful look in her dear friend’s eyes as he too observes the happy couple.
“Of the sanctity of marriage?” Gerald scoffs with a dismissive snort. “Pray save me from that hell, Lettice darling!”
“You know what I mean, Gerald,” Lettice retorts. “Now that you’ve finally met someone.” she adds in a hushed tone.
Lettice bore witness to an exchange of affection between Gerald and a young oboe player named Cyril whilst visiting Gerald’s friend Harriet in Putney recently. As well as making hats, Harriet runs a boarding house for theatrical gentlemen where Cyril resides, and it is through her that Gerald met the handsome young musician.
“I hardly think we are at the marriage stage yet, Lettice darling.” Gerald whispers sagely. “Not that we could, mind you. We’ve only recently met. Anyway,” He glances meaningfully again at Leslie. “What’s the point in wishing for something you know you cannot have.”
Lettice reaches across to Gerald’s lap beneath the crisp white linen tablecloth and places her hand atop her friend’s, giving it a consoling squeeze. She sometimes forgets how her friend pined for many years with unrequited love for her eldest brother. Gerald has no more chance of marrying Cyril even if he does return Gerald’s affections, and Lettice can only imagine how careful her friend needs to be to avoid the authorities punishing him with imprisonment with hard labour just for loving another man.
“I wish Selwyn was here.” Lettice continues softly, casting her eyes down into her lap as she feels the sting of tears.
“What?” Gerald asks with a melodramatic gasp, quickly noticing Lettice’s sudden rush of emotion and trying to keep her from crying in front of her family and the rest of the county’s and the village’s society. “Am I not good enough for you as your squire?” He pouts at her and bats his long, dark eyelashes.
Lettice cannot help but let out a burst of laughter at his sad puppy dog face. “Oh Gerald! You know I don’t man that.”
“I know.” he says with a melancholy smile.
“You’re so good to me.”
“Agreed.” he nods. He then proceeds to add as a joking after thought, “Far better than you deserve.”
When Lettice laughs a little sadly, Gerald returns Lettice’s squeeze comfortingly. “I know you want Selwyn here. However,” he adds seriously. “You know it would be improper for him to be at such an intimate family occasion as your guest unless there has been a formal intention of marriage.”
“I know.” Lettice sighs.
“And Selwyn hasn’t made any such overtures, has he?”
Lettice looks down again. “Not yet.” she mumbles glumly.
“Well then. You shall simply have to settle for me, Lettice darling. I know I’m a poor second, and probably not even that. However, I will just have to do.”
“And you do splendidly, Gerald darling. You always know how to pick my spirits up when I’m feeling glum.”
“Isn’t that what best friends and chums of old are supposed to do?”
“Exactly right, Gerald.” Lettice replies, withdrawing her hands and discreetly dabbing the corners of her eyes with her pale yellow kid gloves. “What a pair we are, Gerald.” She sniffs. “Both of us crying for what we cannot have.”
“Don’t worry, everyone will think you are crying tears of joy for the happy couple, and that is how it should be. But don’t make a habit of blubbing when there is no conceivable reason to be crying, will you?”
“How do you do it, Gerald darling?”
“Do what?”
“Not break down and cry, sometimes?”
“Well, aren’t men supposed to be the superior race?” Gerald asks, mockingly. “It’s always a stiff upper lip and all that, don’t you know?” He smiles sadly at his friend and companion. “I suppose the truth of the matter is that Father probably beat it out of me as a child. I knew if I blubbed at the wrong time, I was in for a thrashing, or Roland would tell Father I was blubbing, so I was in for a thrashing, so I kept it hidden until I was alone.”
“I’m sorry Gerald.” Lettice mutters.
“Oh don’t be, Lettice darling. This is a wedding for heaven’s sake. Were supposed to be happy, not sad. No,” Gerald continues with a stoic sniff. “I’m happy for them and wish them well. Truly I do. It was inevitable really. They have always been destined to be together. Bella and Leslie are well suited for one another. They are both country folk. She loves riding and is interested in animal husbandry and all that awfully dirty estate business.” He waves his free left hand dismissively with a look of disgust at the thought of pigs in their muddy styes. “Whereas what I find best about the country is when we leave it to go back to the comfort and bright lights of London.”
“Don’t even mention animal husbandry, Gerald!” Lettice gasps, a shudder of revulsion running through her as she remembers the conversation she and her hated older brother Lionel had in Lady Sadie’s morning room a few days ago, when he spoke of women as fillies and mares, waiting to be sired by stallions.
“Oh, sorry Lettice darling!” Gerald apologises with a sombre glance at her. “I forgot.”
“I certainly can’t, even though I want to.”
“I knew things must have been looking bloody***** for you here when you sent that note across to me asking me to meet you at the Folly****** after dinner.”
“I can barely stand to even be in the same room as Lionel.” Lettice bristles as she looks across the Glynes dining room to the table set up on the opposite side of the bridal table, where her brother Lionel sits between their Aunt Eglantine, their father’s beloved younger sister, and Aunt Gladys, their mother’s parsimonious widowed elder sister. Emboldened by his imminent departure back to his place of exile in Kenya, he doesn’t even try and disguise his boredom at whatever the self-absorbed Gladys is saying to him.
“How can Aunt Egg stand to sit next to him?” Gerald asks.
“Because she doesn’t know about Lionel’s fathering of three illegitimate children in 1918.” Lettice elucidates quietly. “Lally and I joke openly about being Aunt Egg’s favourite niece depending upon the way the wind blows, but when it comes to her favourite nephew, there is no doubt as to who it is.”
“But why?” Gerald’s eyes grow wide in surprise. “I mean, she’s so lovely, artistic, and kind. And Lionel…” He shudders. “Lionel is such a… a…”
“A beast, Gerald?” She shrugs. “I guess there is no accounting for taste sometimes, even in our families. No, it would break her heart if she really knew what Lionel was like.”
“But that’s not fair to Leslie.”
“Oh, but Leslie is complicit in the subterfuge, Gerald. He’s so good and kind himself that he doesn’t want Aunt Egg upset by the truth. Besides, if she was upset, then Pater would be upset, and if he was upset, we all would be in for a beastly time.”
“How do you all do it?”
“Luckily Aunt Egg is safely ensconced with her own life in London, and with Lionel in Kenya, he’s barely ever mentioned. And if Aunt Egg does ask after him, we always glaze all the beastliness over with tales of derring-do******* from his sporadic letters to Mater and Pater, or what we’ve heard from friends who have passed through Nairobi and seen him.”
“I have to say that the Viscount and Sadie don’t seem too concerned about having him here.” Gerald observes as he glances in the direction of Lettice’s father and mother.
“Oh don’t be fooled,” Lettice elucidates as she glances at the smiling face of her father and her mother as she proudly plays mother-of-the-groom and gracious hostess to all the guests. “It’s all bravado: a show for Bella and the wedding guests. No-one wants to see a monster like Lionel spoil Bella and Leslie’s big day, except perhaps Lionel of course.”
“He always was unscrupulous.”
“Well, the last three years in exile certainly haven’t tempered his feelings of resentment and anger towards all of us, me especially.”
“But it was his own foolish philandering that got him banished to Africa.”
“Lionel doesn’t see it that way. As usual, he thinks that if I hadn’t told Mater and Pater about,” Lettice blushes at the thought. “About his indiscretion with Nelly, then those with Margaret and that poor simpleton Dora wouldn’t have come out and he would have gotten away with it.”
“It seems to me he did get away with it, and lightly.” Lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper he adds. “Banishment and the absolution for three illegitimate children, all paid for by your father. It’s a rather splendid deal if you ask me. He could have done far worse.”
“Lionel doesn’t think so, and we’re all sick of his digs and barbs which he inflicts on us every chance he gets. Pater and Mater have been on pins and needles ever since Lionel arrived. I had to speak to Mrs. Casterton about cautioning the maids, and I still had to warn Moira, whom I caught making cow eyes******* at him.”
“That would certainly have encouraged him, the cad.”
“I’m sure it did, even though he swears to me that he’s only interested in older women now, and married ones at that.”
“Good god!” Gerald rolls his eyes and then stares harshly at Lionel who remains bored between his two aunts, totally unaware that he is being spoken of and scrutinised. “Can he get any more rakish?”
“Lally refused to come and stay as she finds him so abhorrent, and she doesn’t want the children exposed to his wickedness.”
“He wouldn’t…” Gerald scarlessly dares to speak the words. “Well, Lionel wouldn’t hurt the little dears, would he?”
“With Lionel,” Lettice shrugs. “You never can quite tell what his scheming and perverse little mind is planning next.” She sighs heavily. “That’s half the problem. Just when you think you have him worked out, and know his next move, he does something unexpected that throws you.”
“And the unexpected from Lionel is always nasty.” says Gerald wearily, remembering how horrible Lionel was to him as a little boy.
“Always. He’s so unpredictable, except in his predictability of being mean, nasty, spiteful or hurtful.”
“Well, he’ll be on board a train back to London tomorrow morning.” Gerald says with a sigh of relief. “When does he set sail?”
“The Walmer Castle******** leaves Southampton for Cape Town on Friday, and not a moment too soon with Lionel on board, if you ask me.”
The hubbub of the light chatter of the guests filling the dining room is suddenly shattered by the sharp and repetitious rap of metal against glass, silencing everyone as heads turn towards the bridal table, where Lettice’s father, Viscount Wrexham has raised himself to his feet, tapping his crystal champagne flute with a silver knife.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if I could ask you all to take your places please,” the Viscount calls out loudly with his booming orator’s voice, usually reserved for the House of Lords. “As host for today’s wedding breakfast, I would just like to say a few words as the first course is served.”
Lettice and Gerald settle back into their seats as the Viscount commences his welcome speech to the assembled guests, all of whom pay attention to him, except for his eldest son Leslie and his new bride Isabella, who only have eyes for one another as they sit, smiling at one another in the centre of the bridal table.
*A wedding breakfast is a feast given to the newlyweds and guests after the wedding, making it equivalent to a wedding reception that serves a meal. The phrase is still used in British English, as opposed to the description of reception, which is American in derivation. Before the beginning of the Twentieth Century they were traditionally held in the morning, but this fashion began to change after the Great War when they became a luncheon. Regardless of when it was, a wedding breakfast in no way looked like a typical breakfast, with fine savoury food and sweet cakes being served. Wedding breakfasts were at their most lavish in the Edwardian era through to the Second World War.
**’Tight’ is an old fashioned upper-class euphemism for drunk.
**By the 1920s radiotherapy was well developed with the use of X-rays and radium. There was an increasing realisation of the importance of accurately measuring the dose of radiation and this was hampered by the lack of good apparatus. The science of radiobiology was still in its infancy and increasing knowledge of the biology of cancer and the effects of radiation on normal and pathological tissues made an enormous difference to treatment. Treatment planning began in this period with the use of multiple external beams. The X-ray tubes were also developing with replacement of the earlier gas tubes with the modern Coolidge hot-cathode vacuum tubes. The voltage that the tubes operated at also increased and it became possible to practice ‘deep X-ray treatment’ at 250 kV. Sir Stanford Cade published his influential book “Treatment of Cancer by Radium” in 1928 and this was one of the last major books on radiotherapy that was written by a surgeon.
****The old fashioned British term “looking bloody” was a way of indicating how dour or serious a person or occasion looks.
*****Lady Bountiful is a term used to describe a woman who engages in ostentatious acts of charity to impress others, and was often used in Edwardian times by titled ladies to describe themselves when conducting their charity or ministering works.
******In architecture, a folly is a building constructed primarily for decoration, but suggesting through its appearance some other purpose, or of such extravagant appearance that it transcends the range of usual garden buildings.
*******The phrase derring-do comes from Middle English, dorring don meant simply "daring to do." The phrase was misprinted as derrynge do in a 15th-century work by poet John Lydgate, and Edmund Spenser took it up from there. A glossary to Spenser's work defined it as "manhood and chevalrie.") Literary author Sir Walter Scott and others brought the noun into modern use.
********The RMS Walmer Castle was a passenger ship for Union-Castle Line, launched on the 6th of July 1901 and completed on the 20th of February 1902. The British government requisitioned her in 1917 and she then served as a troop ship in the North Atlantic. She returned to mercantile service, including sailings between Southampton and Cape Town after the war. She was scrapped in 1932.
Contrary to what your eyes might tell you, this upper-class country house wedding is actually made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures, some of which come from my own childhood.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The Chippendale dining room bridal table - covered by a fine linen tablecloth - and matching chairs are very special pieces. They came from the Petite Elite Miniature Museum, later rededicated as the Carol and Barry Kaye Museum of Miniatures, which ran between 1992 and 2012 on Los Angeles’ bustling Wiltshire Boulevard. One of the chairs still has a sticker under its cushion identifying which room of which dollhouse it came. The Petite Elite Miniature Museum specialised in exquisite and high end 1:12 miniatures. The furnishings are taken from a real Chippendale design.
In centre stage on the bridal table stands a three tier wedding cake covered in white icing, decorated with yellow swirls of icing and orange roses. The cake is made entirely of plaster, and I have had it since I was given it for a Christmas gift when I was seven.
The bridal table is set correctly for a five course Edwardian wedding breakfast, using cutlery and glassware from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in the United Kingdom. Each glass is hand blown using real glass. The cutlery set is made of polished metal. The crockery is made by an unknown English company and each piece has been gilded by hand. The linen napkins and napkin rings were made by Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The Georgian silver water jug in front of the floral arrangement and the cruet set which peeps from behind it, have been made with great attention to detail, and come from Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The flower arrangement on the table in the gilt double handled vase comes from M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik in Germany, who specialise in making high quality porcelain miniatures.
The Georgian style fireplace I have had since I was a teenager and is made from moulded plaster. On its mantlepiece stand two 1950s Limoges vases. Both are stamped with a small green Limoges mark to the bottom. These treasures I found in an overcrowded cabinet at the Mill Markets in Geelong. Also standing on the mantlepiece are two miniature diecast lead Meissen figurines: the Lady with the Canary and the Gentleman with the Butterfly, hand painted and gilded by me. There is also a dome anniversary clock in the middle of the mantlepiece which I bought the same day that I bought the fireplace.
The pink and white roses in the Limoges vases were made by hand by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures, whilst the larger floral arrangements of roses and cascading wisteria to either side of the fireplace come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House in the United Kingdom.
To the left of the photo stands a demilune table upon which stands a wine cooler also made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland. The bottle of Deutz and Geldermann champagne in it is an artisan miniature and made of glass and has real foil wrapped around its neck. It was made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The other bottles of wine, also made of glass with great attention to their lables, come from Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures.
All the paintings around the Glynes dining room in their gilded frames are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States and the wallpaper is an authentic copy of hand-painted Georgian wallpaper from the 1770s.
Chestnut tiger butterfly is the only butterfly across the sea in Japan.
They say also referred to a distance of 2000km.
Pathway has not yet been elucidated.
Has been investigated in more marking.
Thank you for your comments.
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 have headed north across London, away from Cavendish Mews and Mayfair, past Primrose Hill, Chalk Farm and Belsize Park to the leafy green surrounds of Hampstead Heath*, for today it is Easter Monday, and every Easter Monday or Bank Holiday a fair** is held on the Heath. The beautiful green space in northern London has been transformed from its usual lush and quiet self and it is now alive with a throng of London’s citizenry: rich and poor, young and old, lower-class and middle-class all intermingling and enjoying themselves on fairground rides, laughing at free entertainments, having their fortunes told and eating delicious holiday treats.
Seated on a park bench in a relatively quiet part of the Heath, Edith sits in the dappled sunlight of Autumn beneath a Cypress pine. The weather has been remarkably warm for this time of year, and much to her delight, today is no exception. She sighs contentedly as she removes her purple rose and black feather hand decorated straw hat from her head and allows the sun to fall upon her glossy chestnut tresses, which she has washed and tried to style in a modish way with her long hair held in a loose chignon at the back of her neck, curling softly around her ears, giving the impression of a pageboy bob. Patting the loose bun at the back of her neck where she can feel a small amount of perspiration gathering, she ponders again whether she should have her girlish length cut off in favour of the cropped style that seems to have gripped so many young women around London. Then she pictures her mother’s disappointed and disapproving face and quickly puts the idea at the back of her mind. She listens to the distant screams and cries of joyful people riding the mechanical swinging gondolas, the Ferris wheel and the merry-go-round, and to the closer sounds of leaves crushed under foot and giggled intimacies as young couples find a private place in the bushes to kiss and embrace, away from the prying eyes of the throng.
“Here we are then, Edith,” comes the familiar voice of Willison’s the Grocer’s delivery boy and Edith’s new beau, Frank Leadbetter, resounding happily over the hubbub of human chatter, laughter and the distant trill of fairground music. “One serving of the best quality chips that Hampstead Heath has to offer!”
Opening her eyes, Edith looks up at her young man’s happy face smiling down at her, as he hands her a crumpled bundle of newspaper, already showing little greasy spots where the oil from the chips held within the parcel is seeping through.
“Oh, thanks Frank!” Edith replies gratefully, reaching up and taking her parcel eagerly from his outstretched hand.
Moving over on the bench to make room for him, Edith heart leaps a little in her chest as Frank slips in next to her, his thigh pressed in his Sunday best suit trousers pressed up against hers clad in her plum coloured frock. The newspaper crumples noisily as they both pull at the pages of yesterday’s London tabloids to reveal nests of golden yellow hot chips, sending forth aromatic steam that quickly permeates the air around them.
“We better eat these quick,” Frank says with a chuckle, a cheeky smile and a wink as he adjusts his straw boater with its natty striped grosgrain ribbon on his head. “Or else we’ll find ourselves with a hundred new friends we didn’t know we had.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice, Frank,” Edith replies happily. “I’m famished after all the rides we’ve been on.”
“Which was your favourite, Edith?” Frank asks, preparing to make a mental note of it as he bites into a crisp hot chip, gasping as the fluffy hot potato inside burns his tongue.
Edith doesn’t reply at first, chewing her first hot chip blissfully as she contemplates her answer. “The merry-go-round, I think.” she answers at length.
“What? Not the swinging gondola?”
“Oh no, Frank!” Edith puts her hand to her chest and quickly swallows her mouthful of hot chip. “They ride up so high! I think if I’d ever been on a boat in my life, I should be sick from it. I don’t know how my brother does it.”
“Big boats don’t ride up and down on the waves like that you know, Edith.”
“How’d you know that, Frank Leadbetter? Have you ever been on one before?”
“Well, no,” Frank admits awkwardly. “But I have been on a rowboat on the Crystal Palace boating lake.***” he adds hurriedly in an effort to defend himself. “And that didn’t ride the waves like the mechanical gondola did.”
“A rowboat’s not a big boat, Frank!” Edith scoffs with a gentle smile. “Not like the ones I’m talking about that my brother sails to Australia on. He says that for the most part they are pretty smooth, but that if they get caught in stormy weather the boat rolls about like toy boats do on a pond. They have the tables and chairs nailed down to the floor so they don’t fly about everywhere in bad weather.”
“Well, I guess he’d know better than me then.” Frank concedes. “What does your brother do on his big boat, Edith?”
“He’s a dining saloon steward.” Edith replies proudly before greedily eating another long golden hot chip. “He got promoted to first class dining steward two voyages ago. So, what with him being promoted and my Dad becoming a line manager at McVities, the Watsfords seem to be going up in the world.”
“You’ll be too fancy for the likes of me soon, Edith,” Frank laughs good naturedly.
“Oh get away with you, Frank Leadbetter!” Edith giggles, sticking him playfully in the ribs with her elbow.
The pair eat some more of their hot chips in the beautiful spring sunshine before Frank asks, “Would you ever want to go on one of those big boats, Edith?”
“Why would I, Frank?” She looks at him thoughtfully.
“Well, you know, go places.” he elucidates as he chews contemplatively on a few chips.
“Where would I go?”
“I don’t know, Paris maybe.”
“Why on earth would I go to Paris, Frank?” Edith asks, giving him a doubtful glance before eating another chip.
“Well, don’t all you girls want to go to Paris?”
Edith looks at Frank earnestly. “I don’t know about all girls, Frank, but this girl is perfectly happy keeping her feet firmly in England!” She nods emphatically. “No Paris for me, thank you very much.” She rubs her greasy fingers on the edge of her newspaper parcel. “There isn’t anything I can’t find or buy here that I should need to go to Paris to get.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that Edith, because I don’t want to be anywhere but where you are.”
“Oh Frank!” Edith blushes, raising her hand to her flushed cheek. “I think that’s the nicest thing a chap’s ever said to me before.”
“Oh,” Frank utters disappointedly. “Had a few chaps vie for your affections before, have you?” Then he smiles broadly to show that he is only teasing her.
Sticking her chin upwards in an aloof way that is as equally teasing as Frank’s cheeky smile, the young girl replies, “A lady is entitled to her secrets. Don’t go fishing for what you shouldn’t be asking for, Frank Leadbetter!”
The pair fall into silence again as they continue to eat their hot chip feast. Through the trees they hear the distant smattering of far away applause as a free entertainment of some kind comes to an end. A bell rings out indicating that someone has hit the strongman’s bell and won a prize. A child screams unhappily, no doubt as a result of either a smack for being naughty or for being pulled away begrudgingly from the entertainments by their parents. Behind them, the leaves on the Cypress pine shiver and rustle in the sunlight and a muffled pair of giggles break out, indicating the presence of young lovers in the undergrowth. Frank glances awkwardly at Edith and finds her glancing at him equally uncomfortably, yet when they see one another’s looks and lock eyes, they start laughing.
“Where would you want to go, Frank?” Edith asks at length.
“You mean, aside from the bushes with you, Edith?” he laughs in reply.
“Oh, you are awful, Frank!” Edith snatches up her green leather handbag and hits his arm playfully with it, before returning it to where it hangs from the bench’s arm beneath the brim of her straw hat. “I’m being serious.”
“So was I.” Frank retorts, blushing.
Edith smirks. “You’ll just have to wait for that, won’t you Frank? You know I’m not that kind of girl. When you’ve got a ring on my finger, then we can…” She doesn’t complete her sentence, but nods knowingly to the slightly trembling bushes about them.
“Steady on Edith! We’ve only just started walking out together.”
“Well, don’t suggest anything else then Frank, if you aren’t prepared to wait.” Edith smiles. “No, I meant where would you like to travel? Do you want to go to Paris?”
“Not me, Edith. Paris isn’t my sort of place, I don’t think.”
“Well how do you know that, if you’ve never been there?”
“Well, I know it’s full of foreigners, and I don’t hold with foreigners****. No, a nice holiday to the Lake District will suit me just fine. I told you, the only place I want to be is with you.”
“Well that suits me just fine, Frank.” Edith replies as she picks up her black straw hat and puts it back on her head. Looking down in her lap she glances at the newspaper spread out across it, now devoid of any chips, with only crumbs of batter and traces of oil smearing the print. She looks at Frank’s lap and sees that he has also finished his chip feast. “Because now that we’ve eaten our chips, I’d like to go for a stroll to walk them off. Shall we?”
Frank leans over and takes the newspaper from her lap and screws it up with his own. Standing up and doffing his straw boater with one hand, he bows and offers his hand to Edith with a winning smile. “Shall we then, Miss Watsford?”
Taking his hand and rising up, she replies, “With pleasure Mr. Leadbetter.”
“Hhhmmm…” Frank ruminates aloud. “Edith Leadbetter. That has quite a nice ring to it.”
Edith smiles at the thought as she snuggles into Frank’s side.
And leaving the newspaper balled on the seat of the wooden bench, the pair walk away arm in arm as happily as two young lovers walking out together could be, meandering back towards the fun of the Easter Monday fair on Hampstead Heath.
*Hampstead Heath (locally known simply as the Heath) is a large, ancient London heath, covering 320 hectares (790 acres). This grassy public space sits astride a sandy ridge, one of the highest points in London, running from Hampstead to Highgate, which rests on a band of London Clay. The heath is rambling and hilly, embracing ponds, recent and ancient woodlands, a lido, playgrounds, and a training track, and it adjoins the former stately home of Kenwood House and its estate. The south-east part of the heath is Parliament Hill, from which the view over London is protected by law.
**Fairs have been held on Hampstead Heath since the mid 1800s, covering vast areas of East Heath to Spaniard’s Road. Before that, there had been fairs at Flask Walk in Hampstead since the 17th century, and another flourished in West End until it was shut down for rowdiness in 1820. The popularity of the fairs on the Heath exploded after 1871 when, just after the Hampstead Heath Act, the Bank Holidays Act created four public days’ rest. The Heath’s Bank Holiday fairs regularly attracted upward of 30,000 people at the August holiday, and 50,000 on Whit Mondays. Attendance records were broken when an estimated 200,000 people descended on the Heath one Easter Monday!
***Crystal Palace is an area in south London, named after the Crystal Palace Exhibition building, which stood in the area from 1854 until it was destroyed by fire in 1936. Approximately seven miles south-east of Charing Cross, it includes one of the highest points in London, at 367 feet, offering views over the capital. In the 1922 when this story is set, the Crystal Palace complex was used for exhibitions and entertainments and was still surrounded by a public park. Alongside the great wrought iron and glass structure was a large boating lake.
****The idea of being suspicious about foreigners was not an uncommon thing by people of all classes in England before the Second World War. Being the centre of the British Empire that ruled a quarter of the globe, the common ethos amongst the British people was that no-one was better than the English and foreigners with their different foods, ways of dress, customs and ideas were to be taught the British way and were viewed with suspicion and in some cases, hostility.
Although it may look life-sized to you, this idyllic scene is in fact comprised of pieces from my miniatures collection.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
Edith’s black dyed straw hat with purple roses and black feathers was made by an unknown artisan. 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable. This hat is part of a larger collection I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel. The green handbag, handmade from soft leather I also from her collection.
Made of polymer clay glazed to look oily and stuck to miniature newspaper print, the two servings of golden hot chips on the bench were made in England by hand by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination.
The setting for this scene is my front garden, and the tree behind the bench is a slow growing miniature conifer. I am not sure what variety it is, but it is a Cypress pine.
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 is a few days before the wedding of Her Royal Highness, Princess Mary* to Viscount Lascelles at Westminster Abbey, to which both Lettice and her childhood friend Gerald Bruton, have been invited, amongst other friends from their Embassy Club coterie. Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy, has tried to gain some financial independence from his impecunious family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street. With some recent good press in Vogue after a wedding gown he designed for his and Lettice’s friend Margot de Virre featured, he has attained some modest success, and a few of his creations will grace female guests at the wedding. This hasn’t stopped him from making a frock of oyster satin with pearl buttons and a guipure lace** Peter Pan collar*** for Lettice to wear to the ceremony and he has just arrived at her Cavendish Mews flat with it in hand to deliver to her in person, only to discover that she is out on an errand.
“Oh Edith, is he still here?” Lettice gasps breathlessly as the front door to her flat is opened by her maid. “It took such an effort to get back here.” She places a slightly clammy glove clad hand on Edith’s shoulder as she tries to catch her breath.
“Mr. Bruton Miss?” Edith asks in surprise at her mistress’ flustered and panting state. When her question is responded to with an affirmative nod, she continues. “He’s only just arrived with your frock for the wedding, Miss. He’s in the drawing room.”
“Oh good!” Lettice sighs, quickly hurrying through the door into the drawing room without even taking off her coat or hat or depositing her parasol into the umbrella stand. “I’ll see him now.”
Edith shakes her head in puzzlement at her mistress as she watches her go, a large pink and white candy striped hat box with a green ribbon trim clutched in her arms along with her snakeskin handbag.
“Thank god you’re still here, Gerald darling!” cries Lettice, bursting into the room and charging across its length. Depositing the large round box on the black japanned coffee table along with her handbag, she drops her stub handled parasol next to her chair. Suitably freed of impediments, she embraces her friend in an enveloping hug of velvet, fur and Habanita****. “Sorry, the traffic getting back was so appalling that I gave up at Bourdon Street and ran the rest of the way!”
“You ran?” Gerald looks surprised at his dear friend. “I thought the daughter of a viscount never ran.”
“Well, they don’t,” she elucidates, shrugging off her velvet and fur coat, casting it across the room where it lands with a crumpled sigh onto a black japanned Chippendale chair. “Unless they are desperate to catch their friend before he leaves.”
“Well, I’m here, aren’t I Lettuce Leaf?”
Lettice slaps him with the velvet toque she has just removed from her head. “You’re a beast, Gerald Bruton!”
“What?” Gerald laughs as he dodges the flapping hat.
“You know perfectly well, what!” Lettuce scolds. “Will you never tire of calling me by my loathed childhood nickname?”
“Not as long as it peeves you, Lettuce Leaf!”
She slaps him kittenishly again. “And if it isn’t a pet peeve any longer?”
“Then you won’t care if I call you Lettuce Leaf or not.”
His response is rewarded with another few wallops from her hat until he finally begs for mercy, as both of them bust into fits of childish giggles.
“So, what is it that you so desperately needed to see me for, darling?” Gerald finally manages to ask.
Tossing the hat on top of her discarded coat, she turns back to Gerald. “This, darling.” she says with a conspiratorial smile as she pats the top of the round cardboard box which is decorated prettily with pink and green ribbons, a scrunch of frothy white lace and an artificial flower.
Gerald looks down at the box, but is singularly unimpressed by it. “A box? What do I care for a box, and more importantly, why do you, darling?”
“Oh it isn’t the box, Gerald. Don’t be dim!” Lettice laughs. “It’s what’s inside.”
“Well show me then!” He uncrosses his arms for a moment to flip his left hand at it dismissively before returning to his bemused stance with arms akimbo. “You have my attention.”
Lettice tears the lid from the box excitedly and delves into a froth of noisy, snowy white tissue paper before withdrawing a beautiful hat of straw – not quite a cloche and not quite a picture hat but something in between – decorated with a lustrous oyster coloured satin ribbon, three white feathers and a rather fetching peach coloured ornamental flower. As she lifts it out, a receipt flutters face down onto the tabletop. Gerald goes to pick it up. “No! No! No!” Lettice says, brushing his hand away before placing the hat neatly over her coiffed blonde Marcelle***** waves. Positioning herself in a rather dramatic, yet elegant pose, she asks, “What do you think, Gerald?”
“I say darling!” Gerald gasps, his hands rising to his mouth where a broad smile appears. “That’s a rather natty looking chapeau!”
“Good enough to go with your frock to Princess Mary’s wedding?”
“I should say so!” Then he pauses for a moment and ponders the cardboard packaging again. “But that isn’t a Madame Gwendolyn hatbox.”
“No, it isn’t,” Lettice replies with a smirk, but says no more as she places the hat on the tabletop next to the hatbox and the receipt, which still lies face down. Gerald quickly reaches again for the latter, but Lettice snatches it up in her own hands before he can reach it. “No! No! No!” she repeats, wagging a finger warningly at her friend.
Gerald looks at the hat again, and then at the mischievous look on Lettice’s pretty face. “Well then? Who made it? You have me intrigued.”
“Well, I’m going to create a fashion first at the royal wedding.” Lettice announces mysteriously.
“It’s a beautiful chapeau darling, but I’d hardly say that it’s a fashion first.”
Lettice holds up a finger to silence him, before then revealing the printed side of the receipt. Gerald’s eyes grow wide as he takes in the typed letters and logo at the top.
“Selfridges? You bought this hat at Selfridges?” he splutters unbelievably. “But it’s so…”
“Stylish?”
“Very à la mode! I can scarcely believe it!”
“Well, not everything Mr. Selfridge has is fit only for shop girls and typists, Gerald, contrary to what you and others may believe. He has some Parisian models exclusively for his department store. And it only cost me nine pounds, nine and sixpence! Can you believe that rogue Madame Gwendolyn was going to charge me nine pounds alone just to refurbish an existing hat of hers that she hasn’t been able to sell with some new ribbons and frou-frou?”
“Well, this is far better value for money, I must say.” Gerald picks up the hat and takes a closer look at the fine stitching around the hatband and how seamlessly the ornamental flower appears to be affixed.
“And that’s how I’m going to create a fashion first at Princess Mary’s wedding!” Lettice claps her hands in delight.
Gerald looks at her perplexed for a moment, then glances at the hat and them back into Lettice’s mirth filled face. His eyes widen again. “Surely… surely not, Lettice! You can’t!” he splutters.
“Why not Gerald?”
“It’s a royal wedding for heaven’s sake! You can’t seriously expect to wear a hat from Selfridges to a royal wedding? You’re the youngest daughter of the Viscount Wrexham!”
“No-one would actually know it was a Selfridges hat, Gerald, except you and me, oh and Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon****** because I alluded to my potential plan when I saw her a few days ago.”
“Oh wonderful!” Gerald throws his hands in the air in despair. “You told one of Her Royal Highness’ bridesmaids!”
“Elizabeth won’t say anything, Gerald.” Lettice assures her friend. “Anyway, she’ll be far too busy on the day with bridesmaids duties to even see my hat, never mind pass remarks on it.”
“And what will Sadie say, when she finds out?”
“She doesn’t need to know any more than anyone else, Gerald. I’m surprised you’d even countenance the idea.” Lettice casts an astonished look at her friend. “I think I’d rather tell Her Royal Highness that it’s a Selfridges hat than tell Mater!”
“Well, she’ going to know it isn’t from Madame Gwendolyn, because it isn’t, and that’s where she gets her hats from, including the one she will be wearing to Westminster Abbey, I’m sure.”
“Oh, I’ll just tell her that I’ve found a fabulous new designer who is more representative of the modern woman.” Lettice remarks offhandedly. “Those last two words will be enough to stop her making further enquiries.”
“Imagine a Selfridges hat at a royal wedding,” chuckles Gerald. “You’ll bring the establishment down yet, Lettice darling, piece by piece, with your modern woman thoughts.”
Contrary to popular belief, fashion at the beginning of the Roaring 20s did not feature the iconic cloche hat as a commonly worn head covering. Although invented by French milliner Caroline Reboux in 1908, the cloche hat did not start to gain popularity until 1922, so in early 1922 when this story is set, picture hats, a hangover from the pre-war years, were still de rigueur in fashionable society. Although nowhere near as wide, heavy, voluminous or as ornate as the hats worn by women between the turn of the Twentieth Century and the Great War, the picture hats of the 1920s were still wide brimmed, although they were generally made of straw or some lightweight fabric and were decorated with a more restrained touch. For somewhere as socially important as Princess Mary’s 1922 wedding, a matching hat, parasol, handbag or reticule and gloves to go with a lady’s chosen frock were essential.
*Mary, Princess Royal and Countess of Harewood (1897 – 1965), was the only daughter of King George V and Queen Mary. She was the sister of Kings Edward VIII and George VI, and aunt of Queen Elizabeth II. She married Viscount Lascelles on the 28th of February 1922 in a ceremony held at Westminster Abbey. The bride was only 24 years old, whilst the groom was 39. There is much conjecture that the marriage was an unhappy one, but their children dispute this and say it was a very happy marriage based upon mutual respect. The wedding was filmed by Pathé News and was the first royal wedding to be featured in fashion magazines, including Vogue.
**Guipure lace is a delicate fabric made by twisting and braiding the threads to craft incredible designs that wows the eye. Guipure lace fabrics distinguish themselves from other types of lace by connecting the designs using bars or subtle plaits instead of setting them on a net.
***A Peter Pan collar is a style of clothing collar, flat in design with rounded corners. It is named after the collar of Maude Adams's costume in her 1905 role as Peter Pan, although similar styles had been worn before this date. Peter Pan collars were particularly fashionable during the 1920s and 1930s.
****Molinard Habanita was launched in 1921. Molinard say that Habanita was the first women’s fragrance to strongly feature vetiver as an ingredient – something hitherto reserved for men, commenting that ‘Habanita’s innovative style was eagerly embraced by the garçonnes – France’s flappers – and soon became Molinard’s runaway success and an icon in the history of French perfume.’ Originally conceived as a scent for cigarettes – inserted via glass rods or to sprinkle from a sachet – women had begun sprinkling themselves with it instead, and Molinard eventually released it as a personal fragrance.
*****Marcelling is a hair styling technique in which hot curling tongs are used to induce a curl into the hair. Its appearance was similar to that of a finger wave but it is created using a different method. Marcelled hair was a popular style for women's hair in the 1920s, often in conjunction with a bob cut. For those women who had longer hair, it was common to tie the hair at the nape of the neck and pin it above the ear with a stylish hair pin or flower. One famous wearer was American entertainer, Josephine Baker.
******Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon as she was known in 1922 went on to become Queen of the United Kingdom and the Dominions from 1936 to 1952 as the wife of King George VI. Whilst still Duke of York, Prince Albert initially proposed to Elizabeth in 1921, but she turned him down, being "afraid never, never again to be free to think, speak and act as I feel I really ought to" She was one of Princess Mary’s eight bridesmaids at her 1922 wedding.
This 1920s upper-class drawing room is different to what you may think at first glance, 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 tableau include:
Lettice’s elegant Selfridges straw hat sitting on the black japanned coffee table is decorated with an oyster satin ribbon, three feathers and an ornamental flower. The maker for this hat is unknown, but I acquitted it through Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniatures in the United Kingdom. 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism as this one is are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable.
The beautiful coloured card hatbox came from an online stockist of miniatures on E-Bay, whilst the receipt is a 1:12 miniature receipt, produced to exacting standards by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. Lettice’s snakeskin handbag with its golden clasp and chain also comes from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniatures in the United Kingdom.
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.
Next to the telephone stands a glass vase containing blue dried flowers (although you can’t see the flowers in the photo). The vase is made of hand spun glass. These items I have had since I was a teenager when I acquired them from a high street doll and miniatures stockist.
The red elephant to the upper right-hand corner of the photo is actually a glass bead and used to be part of a necklace which fell apart long before I bought it. It and many other elephants from the necklace in red and white glass came in a box of bits I thought would make good miniature editions that I bought at a flea market some fifteen years ago.
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 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.
"Trees are poems that the Earth writes upon the sky"--Kahlil Gibran. This quote spoke to me with respect to this image I took of a recent full moon rising over the Dells and Glassford Hill. For years, this tree has always stood out to me, any time I would pass it throughout the day while hiking. I have taken a number of pictures of it at different times, but never quite felt like I was capturing it during the best light. And so it shouldn't have surprised me that it caught my eye again with the backdrop of the moon rising into the darkening night sky behind it, like a spotlight on it and the water below. Even dead trees can still contain beauty and sometimes the darkness can help elucidate that what is lost by day. I hope you enjoy.
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 not in Lettice’s flat. Instead, we have followed Lettice south-west, through the neighbouring borough of Belgravia to the smart London suburb of Pimlico and its rows of cream and white painted Regency terraces. There, in a smart red brick Edwardian set of three storey flats on Rochester Row, is the residence of Lettice’s latest client, recently arrived American film actress Wanetta Ward.
The flat is all and sixes and sevens today as removalists disgorge beautiful new furnishings from their lorry. Carefully they carry items that Lettice has specifically chosen for Wanetta’s flat through the communal foyer illuminated by a lightwell three floors above, and up the sweeping stairs to flat number four. The painters and decorators have already been through, hanging fashionable papers chosen by Lettice on walls and giving the wainscots, cornicing and ceiling roses a much needed fresh coat of paint. The floors have been polished and now each room is cluttered with Chinese screens, oriental tables, black japanned furniture, oriental rugs, Chinoiserie pieces, paintings and boxes of decorative items. Lettice stands in the central vestibule and directs the men to carry different pieces into different rooms, a clipboard across the crook in her left arm as she ticks items off her inventory for the flat. She and a handful of men will return in a few days to set things up properly. Today is really all about moving everything from Lettice’s warehouse near the docks to its new home.
Lettice sighs with relief when the last removalist leaves after depositing the final box in the vestibule. Now she can check the boxes to make sure that everything has arrived safely. She closes the door and luxuriates in the silence as it falls about her like a comforting blanket. Walking into the flat’s drawing room, she admires the French blue wallpaper with its stylised motif of golden fans as they run the length of the room across a wall now devoid of the floor to ceiling bookshelves that had cluttered it previously. She emits a sigh of satisfaction as she smiles at it glowing in the mid-afternoon sun pouring through the bay window. Taking up a crowbar, she starts to separate the lids nailed onto boxes and crates so she can remove their contents. She chuckles quietly to herself as she works, a cheeky smile dancing across her lips as she thinks of how horrified her mother would be to see her using such an implement so adeptly. Lady Sadie would struggle to lift a fire poker, never mind wrench the lid from a wooden crate.
Soon the surface of a low table and the floor around her is littered with tissue paper, oriental pottery and Murano glassware. Picking up a vase with elegant golden yellow fluting spiralling around its bulbous base, Lettice holds it to the light, admiring the brilliance of the colour as it is caught in the sun’s rays. Just as she sets it down again, she hears a key turning in the lock of the front door, its unique metallic groan echoing through the vestibule and into the drawing room.
“Hullo?” Lettice calls in the direction of the front door.
“Is that you, darling Miss Chetwynd?” Miss Ward’s American enunciations sound loudly down the hallway as the front door creaks open. “It’s only me, Wanetta!”
“I’m in the drawing room.” Lettice replies as the sound of the front door slamming closed resounds through the flat.
She listens to the American woman’s footsteps and the tap of her walking stick that she uses for dramatic effect as she walks across the hallway and peeps into each room off it to take a sneak peak of what is in each before finally walking into the drawing room, a vision in orchid silk with her lucky pink floral hat atop her head.
“I’m afraid that you’re far too early, Miss Ward,” Lettice beams up from her kneeling position on the floor. “I’ve only just had the furniture moved in a few hours ago. I haven’t set things straight yet.”
“Oh,” Miss Ward bats away Lettice’s protestations with a flapping hand glittering in jewels. “That doesn’t matter my darling girl! I only came here today because I’d heard from the shipping company that my paintings had been delivered. I just wanted to make sure they were all here.”
“And if by checking on their safe arrival you were given an opportunity to have a little peek as to how things are going with the redecoration, that wouldn’t go astray either?”
Miss Ward blanches at the suggestion but doesn’t deny it. “I’m an inquisitive woman, darling. It took all my inner strength not to come charging down here beforehand to see how it was all progressing.”
The American’s eyes dart about the room, taking in the general chaos of misplaced furniture, tea chests disgorging paper and crates spilling forth decorative china and glassware.
“They are over there, Miss Ward,” Lettice rises from her place, brushing her hands down the calico smock she wears as a protective cover over her smart outfit beneath, before pointing to a stack of paintings resting against the wall by the fireplace. “I had my men unpack them in readiness for hanging.”
“That’s very good of you, darling.” Miss Ward looks across at Lettice as she removes her hat and tosses it carelessly onto a white upholstered reproduction Chippendale settee. “Only you could look so stylish in a smock, dear girl!” she laughs loudly as she props her stick against the arm of the settee.
“It’s just to protect my clothes.” Lettice explains with a slightly embarrassed self conscious chuckle as she gazes down at her smock’s crumpled and slightly dusty front. “Anyway, I’m glad you are here, Miss Ward. We can discuss the placement of your artworks. Mind you, I didn’t see a portrait of you in yellow amongst them.”
“Oh! Well, you wouldn’t. I had that delivered to my hotel room. It can hang there until I’m ready to move in.”
“Then how am I to…” Lettice begins.
Miss Ward gasps, interrupting Lettice’s spoken thought, finally slowing down enough to notice the wallpaper. “That wallpaper truly is stunning, Miss Chetwynd, my darling, darling girl! Truly it is!” she enthuses with clasped hands. “I say again, a stroke of genius on your part!”
“I’m glad you approve, Miss Ward.”
“Oh I do!” she agrees readily. “It is divine and makes such a statement,” She walks up to the wall and runs her elegant fingers over the paper, feeling the embossed lines of the fan in the print. “But in an elegant way. Classy! Not… not de… de…”
“Déclassé. Indeed, Miss Ward.” Lettice agrees. “Now whilst you’re here, I’d like you to cast your eyes over these choices of ornamental glassware and make sure that they are to your liking.”
“Oh yes? Let me see!”
Miss Ward walks purposely across the room to the low table cluttered with boxes and objects made of glass either solely or tinted at the least with golden yellow colouring. She gasps as she picks up an elegant decanter with a long neck and bulbous end with a golden yellow stopper. Carefully putting it back down she turns her attention to a rather lovely large clear glass bowl with a gilt rim, a smile of pleasure causing her painted lips to curl upwards in delight. Then she glimpses another decanter made completely of yellow glass. She picks it up with both hands, holding it with reverence.
“They’re all pieces from Murano, a little glass blowing island in Venice,” Lettice explains.
At length Miss Ward finally replies, “Oh darling! They are gorgeous! Where do you envisage these going?”
“Well, I have a black japanned cocktail cabinet and console table on order from my cabinet maker which are due to be delivered in a few days. I thought the cocktail cabinet might go here.” She indicates with an open hand to the space behind the white settee and a rolled up oriental rug with gold patterning to the left of the fireplace. “And the console table, here.” She points to the right of the fireplace, currently cluttered with Miss Ward’s stack of paintings. “I was going to put a cluster of these on it along with a pale yellow celadon vase decorated with gold bamboo that is still packed in one of these crates somewhere.” She indicates to a few of the as of yet unopened boxes.
“Then my portrait shall hang above it!” Miss Ward declares. “It will look perfect there!”
“Very well, Miss Ward. If that is your wish.” Lettice acquiesces, even though it irks her a little to have not seen the portrait to know if it will really suit the space on the wall.
“Does Harrods sell oriental ginger jars?” Miss Ward laughs as she notices the elegant writing on the side of a small crate from which a green, brown and blue Japanese jar pokes.
“No,” Lettice chuckles, looking to where her client is gazing. “Though I’m quite sure if I asked them to, they would. No, this is a Japanese temple vase from my oriental importers. The box is mine, left over from a rather fun cocktail party I had a few weeks ago for some friends of mine who are getting married.”
“Oh,” Miss Ward remarks. “I think I remember reading something about your party in the society pages of the Tatler.”
“I’m surprised you have time to read the society pages, Miss Ward, what with your new career at Islington Studios*.”
“I quite enjoy reading magazines between takes, and when I’m having my makeup done.” Miss Ward elucidates. “It helps to pass the time.”
“And things are going well with your film?”
“Oh, ‘After the Ball is Over’ is already in the bag, darling!”
“Goodness, that was fast, Miss Ward.”
“Things move like quick lightning in the flicks, Miss Chetwynd. No time to stand around gawking though. My next picture is already underway - ‘A Night at the Savoy’ with me as an elegant society lady. I almost don’t need to act.” the American woman laughs heartly.
Lettice has the good grace not to remark on Miss Ward’s lack of refinement as she says, “Well that is good news for you. A second film already.”
“Yes! I might even be able to host a cocktail party here for the release of ‘After the Ball is Over’.” Miss Ward exclaims. “Won’t that be fun?”
The young woman begins to hum the tune to ‘After the Ball is Over’ as she starts to dance around the room, pretending that she is held in the arms of some dashing young man. Lettice watches her in silence, admiring her client as she moves elegantly around the room, her orchid dress sweeping around her slim and tall figure in elegant folds, her signature pearls dancing down her neck along with her.
Suddenly she trips over the tag on the rolled-up carpet leaning against the fireplace, causing it to slide and fall against the settee with a whoosh and a dull thump, breaking the spell of elegance. On the mantlepiece, a small white vase teeters.
“Careful!” Lettice cries, reaching out as much to the little vase as she does Miss Ward.
Miraculously, Miss Ward steadies herself and catches the vase in her elegant hand. She looks down at it, contemplating it for a moment before remarking, “Isn’t this the little vase that was sitting here the day I had those two charladies** in here, cleaning up after the last tenant?”
“It is, Miss Ward.” Lettice agrees, walking over to the American woman.
“But I told them to throw anything left by him, out.”
“I know,” Lettice takes the vase from Miss Ward’s hand and places it back on the mantlepiece. “But I asked them to leave it.”
“Why, Miss Chetwynd?” Miss Ward looks down at Lettice with a puzzled look on her pretty face.
“Call it fancy, Miss Ward, but I rather like the idea of a room retaining a little of its past. There wasn’t much in the way of its history to work with, save for this little vase.”
“You’re talking to a girl who has a lucky hat, darling girl. I’m the last one to challenge your fancy.” She looks at the vase again, scrutinising its simple elegance. “And, I suppose you did say that you were going to have elements of white in my décor.”
“I did, Miss Ward.” Lettice confirms. “However, I also said that it wouldn’t be boring, and this little vase, with its history, is certainly not boring.” She smiles at the other woman.
“Well, I must go, my dear, dear girl.” Miss Ward says. “I only popped in before going on to the studios. I’m so pleased to know that everything is coming together, tickety-boo***!” She snatches up her gold knobbed walking stick and pink floral hat from the settee and sweeps across the room towards the door. As she crosses the threshold, she turns back dramatically to Lettice. “Just tickety-boo, darling!” Then she turns and walks away. “Cheerio, Miss Chetwynd, until next time!”
With the bang of the front door, Miss Ward is gone, leaving only a whiff of her perfume as a reminder that she was even there, and Lettice feels the calming silence settling about her again. “Coming together, tickety-boo.” she mutters before releasing a little snort as she shakes her head. “Now where is that yellow celadon vase?” Taking up the crowbar, she resumes opening a box, the wood of the lid groaning in protest as she splinters it open.
*Islington Studios, often known as Gainsborough Studios, were a British film studio located on the south bank of the Regent's Canal, in Poole Street, Hoxton in Shoreditch, London which began operation in 1919. By 1920 they had a two stage studio. It is here that Alfred Hitchcock made his entrée into films.
**A charwoman, chargirl, or char, jokingly charlady, is an old-fashioned occupational term, referring to a paid part-time worker who comes into a house or other building to clean it for a few hours of a day or week, as opposed to a maid, who usually lives as part of the household within the structure of domestic service. In the 1920s, chars usually did all the hard graft work that paid live-in domestics would no longer do as they looked for excuses to leave domestic service for better paying work in offices and factories.
***Believed to date from British colonial rule in India, and related to the Hindi expression “tickee babu”, meaning something like “everything's alright, sir”, “tickety-boo” means “everything is fine”. It was a common slang phrase that was popular in the 1920s.
This slightly chaotic upper-middle-class still life of redecoration in progress is different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures, some of which come from my own childhood and teenage years.
Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:
All the glass items on the table have been blown and decorated and tinted by hand by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The stoppers in the two decanters are removable. The ginger jar in the Harrods crate is also hand painted. It is an item that I bought from a high street doll house stockist when I was a teenager.
Wanetta’s lucky pink hat covered in silk flowers, which sits on the settee in the background is made by Miss Amelia’s Miniatures in the Canary Islands. It is an artisan miniature made just like a real hat, right down to a tag in the inside of the crown to show where the back of the hat is! 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable. Miss Amelia is an exception to the rule coming from Spain, but like her American counterparts, her millinery creations are superb. Like a real fashion house, all her hats have names. This pink raw silk flower covered hat is called “Lilith”. Wanetta’s walking stick, made of ebonized wood with a real metal knob was made by the Little Green Workshop in England.
The stylised Art Deco fire screen is made using thinly laser cut wood, made by Pat’s Miniatures in England.
The paintings stacked in the background were all made in America by Amber’s Miniatures.
The miniature Oriental rug rolled up in the background of the photo was made by hand by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney
The Georgian style fireplace I have had since I was a teenager and is made from moulded plaster.
The striking wallpaper is an art deco design that was very popular during the 1920s.
The Hôtel de La Villestreux is a neo-classical style mansion built in the mid-18th century.
In the 19th century, the hotel had a reputation for being haunted. Indeed, the sounds of chains and sighs were then heard on the upper floors; the mystery was elucidated after the discovery of a crack running through the entire height of the building, and transmitting from the ground floor the sounds emitted in the stables and in a baker's workshop.