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 east of Cavendish Mews, down through St James’, around Trafalgar Square and up Charing Cross Road, where, near the corner of Great Newport Street, Lettice is visiting A. H. Mayhew’s*, a bookshop in the heart of London’s specialist and antiquarian bookseller district, patronised by her father, Viscount Wrexham. It is here that Lettice hopes to find the perfect present for her oldest and dearest childhood chum, Gerald Bruton. Gerald is 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. It will soon be his birthday, and Lettice is treating him to an evening at the Café Royal** in Regent Street. However, she also wants something less ephemeral than a glittering evening out to dinner for Gerald to look back on in the years ahead as he turns twenty-five. Knowing how much he loves books, but also knowing that any profits his fledgling atelier makes must be re-invested in his business rather than indulging in books, Lettice has settled upon acquiring a beautiful and unusual volume for him from amongst the many tomes housed in Mr. Mayhew’s bookshop.

 

As Lettice lingers out the front of Mr. Mayhew’s, enjoying the luxury of peering through his tall plate glass windows that proudly bear his name and advertise that he does purchase libraries of old books, knowing that whether she is lucky enough to spot the perfect gift in the window display or not, somewhere amidst the full shelves inside, there will be a wonderful book for Gerald. She releases a shuddering sigh from deep within her chest as she remembers the last time she peered through these self-same windows in October of 1923 when the book she hoped to find was to give to Selwyn as a birthday gift in an effort to further solidify her commitment to him in his eyes. Her plan was to give him the book she bought – a copy of a volume of John Nash’s*** architectural drawings including his designs for the Royal Pavilion built for the Prince Regent in Brighton, Marble Arch, Buckingham Palace – at private dinner that he had arranged for the two of them at the Savoy****. However, from there everything had gone awry. When Lettice arrived at the Savoy and was shown to the table for two Selwyn had reserved for them, she was confronted not with the smiling face of her beau, but the haughty and cruel spectre of his mother, the Duchess of Walmsford, Lady Zinnia. Lady Zinnia, and Selwyn’s Uncle Bertrand had been attempting to marry him off to his cousin, 1923 debutante Pamela Fox-Chavers. Lady Zinnia had, up until that moment been snubbing Lettice, so Selwyn and Lettice arranged for Lettice to attend as many London Season events that year as possible where Selwyn and Pamela were also in attendance so that Lettice and Selwyn could spend time together, and at the same time make their intentions so well known that Lady Zinnia wouldn’t be able to avoid Lettice any longer. What the pair hadn’t calculated for in their plans was that Lady Zinnia is a woman who likes intrigue and revenge, and the revenge she launched upon Lettice that evening at the Savoy was bitterly harsh and painful. With a cold and calculating smile Lady Zinna announced that she had packed Selwyn off to Durban in South Africa for a year. She made a pact with her son: if he went away for a year, a year during which he agreed neither to see, nor correspond with Lettice, if he comes back and doesn’t feel the same way about her as he did when he left, he agreed that he will marry Pamela, just as Bertrand and Lady Zinnia planned. If however, he still feels the same way about Lettice when he returns, Lady Zinnia agreed that she would concede and will allow him to marry her. The volumes in Mr. Mayhew’s window begin to shimmer and blur as tears begin to sting Lettice’s eyes and impair her vision.

 

“Still.” Lettice breathes bitterly as she allows her head to lower as she closes her eyes. “Still, I cannot think of Selwyn without wanting to cry.” she thinks. “What is wrong with me? Come on. Pull yourself together, girl. Don’t let Lady Zinnia win.”

 

She sniffs and sighs deeply, taking a few deep breaths as she slowly regains her composure. After a few minutes of standing in front of the shop’s window, appearing to all the passers-by to be just another keen window shopper, Lettice finally feels composed enough to enter the shop.

 

“You won’t get the better of me, Lady Zinnia,” she mutters through barred teeth. “And you won’t destroy my love of books, nor my love for my best friend.”

 

She walks up to the recessed door of the bookshop which she pushes open. A cheerful bell dings loudly above her head, announcing her presence. As the door closes behind her, it shuts out the general cacophony of noisy automobiles, chugging busses and passing shoppers’ conversations. The shop envelops her in a cozy muffled silence produced by the presence of so many shelves fully laden with the volumes of the past. She inhales deeply and savours the smell of dusty old books and pipe smoke, which comfort and assure her that she has come to a safe place that will assuage her damaged heart. The walls are lined with floor to ceiling shelves, all full of books: thousands of volumes on so many subjects. Summer sunlight pours through the tall shop windows facing out to the street, highlighting the worn Persian and Turkish carpets whose hues, once so bright, vivid and exotic, have softened with exposure to the sunlight and any number of pairs of boots and shoes of customers, who like Lettice, searched Mayhew’s shelves for the perfect book to take away with them. Dust motes, something Lettice always associates with her father’s library in Wiltshire, dance blithely through beams of sunlight before disappearing without a trace into the shadows.

 

Lettice makes her way through the shop, wandering along its narrow aisles, reaching up to touch various Moroccan leather spines embossed with gilt lettering of titles and authors, until she nears the middle of the shop, where sitting at his desk before a small coal fire, smoking his pipe, sits the bespectacled proprietor, Mr. Mayhew, in his usual uniform of jacket, vest and bowtie, carefully cataloguing volumes he has acquired from a recent country house contents auction***** he attended in Buckinghamshire, his pipe hanging from his mouth, occasionally emitting puffs of acrid grey smoke as he works. The portly, balding gentleman is so wrapped up in his work that he does not notice Lettice as she walks up to his desk.

 

“Mr. Mayhew., how do you do” Lettice says, clearing her throat, her clipped tones slicing through the thick silence of the shop.

 

“Ahh,” Mr. Mayhew sighs with delight, puffing out another small cloud of pipe smoke as he realises who is standing before him. Removing the pipe from his mouth, he peers over the top of his gold rimmed spectacles. “Why if it isn’t my favourite Wiltshire reader herself.” He takes one final pleasurable puff of his pipe before reaching behind him and putting it aside on the pipe rack sitting precariously on the little coal fire’s narrow mantle shelf.

 

“I’m almost certain that you say that to every reader whom you know well, Mr. Mayhew.” Lettice rolls her eyes and smiles indulgently.

 

“Not every reader I know well come from Wiltshire though, Miss Chetwynd” the old man remarks with a chuckle, lifting himself out of the comfort of the well worn chair behind his desk, wiping his hands down the front of his thick black barathea vest.

 

“You’re just like my Aunt Egg, complimentary, but with an air of mystery.”

 

“There is no mystery to me, Miss Chetwynd.” He reaches out and takes Lettice’s dainty glove clad hand and squeezes it. “I am like,” He chuckles lightly. “An open book as it were.” He sweeps his free hand expansively around him, indicating to all the tomes lining the shelves that hedge his cluttered workspace. “I will pay a compliment to any customer who takes the time to enter my shop, appreciate my books, and speak to me with politeness: especially when they are as pretty as you, Miss Chetwynd.” He lifts her hand to his lips and kisses it.

 

“Oh, Mr. Mayhew!” Lettice laughs. “You speak such sweet, honeyed words.”

 

He gasps. “I do hope, Miss Chetwynd, that you don’t consider me to be as duplicitous as Richard III.” the old man says, picking up on Lettice’s literary Shakesperean reference******.

 

“Never, Mr. Mayhew!” Lettice exclaims

 

“Very good, Miss Chetwynd,” Mr. Mayhew replies. “I would hate for you to misjudge my motivations. I didn’t establish my little bookshop simply to make money. What a ludicrous idea that any shopkeeper would set up his establishment just to make money, when he can take equal measure of profit and pleasure from his endeavours. I have a great love of books, Miss Chetwynd, as I know you do too, my dear, both the written word and the engraving,” He waves his hands expansively at the floor to ceiling bookshelves around him, filled with hundreds of volumes on all manner of subjects. “As well you know.”

 

“Indeed Mr. Mayhew. I enjoy nothing more than spending time in my father’s library at Glynes, where more than one of your own volumes sits on his shelves.”

 

“And how is His Lordship, Miss Chetwynd? I sent him a beautiful 1811 calfskin vellum******* edition of Voltaire a few weeks ago with some lovely hand tinted engravings, a marbleised cover and colourful gilt bindings.”

 

“He is well, thank you Mr. Mayhew. I saw him just a few weeks ago, although it was only a fleeting visit, so he didn’t show me your volume of Voltaire.”

 

“A fleeting visit, Miss Chetwynd?” Mr. Mayhew queries. “What a pity you didn’t tarry longer with His Lordship. You must have him show you the Voltaire next time you go home to stay, Miss Chetwynd. Really it is rather lovely. It came to me after being sold at the second Stowe House Great Sale******** in 1921. I wanted to make sure it went to the right home, and I could think of no-one better than your father to be its custodian.”

 

“I have no doubt that it is, Mr. Mayhew. However, this time I went to Wiltshire not for pleasure, but to meet a gentleman who wishes to have a room redecorated as a surprise for his wife.”

 

“So, your interior design business is going well then, Miss Chetwynd?” Mr. Mayhew queries.

 

“It is indeed, Mr. Mayhew,” Lettice affirms. “Perhaps more successful than I had ever dreamed.”

 

“Well, that is splendid news, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Mayhew purrs rubbing his hands together. “And will you be accepting this gentleman’s commission.”

 

“Perhaps against my better judgement, I am, Mr. Mayhew.” Lettice admits.

 

“Against your better judgement, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“Well,” Lettice sighs. “The lady for whom this gentleman wants the room designed is his wife, and she is currently redecorating many other parts of the house. I am concerned that she won’t appreciate an interloper like me coming in and enforcing my designs upon her home. However, Mr. Gifford, the gentleman, assured me that if his wife doesn’t like it, he will accept any and all blame. So, in spite of my misgivings, I have accepted. Like Richard III, Mr. Gifford wooed me with his honeyed words.” Lettice sighs again. “In addition, he is the godson of Henry Tipping********* who has promised me a favourable review in Country Life********** if Mrs. Gifford likes the room.”

 

“Splendid! Splendid!” Mr. Mayhew says comfortingly. “We all have doubts and misgivings sometimes, Miss Chetwynd, however it sounds like a reasonable gamble.”

 

“I do hope you are right, Mr. Mayhew.”

 

“Now, what is it that I can entice you to add to your bookshelves today, Miss Chetwynd?” Mr. Mayhew steps out from behind his cluttered desk and speaks as he moves. “Something to help inspire you with this fraught new commission, perhaps?”

 

“Oh, that is a lovely idea, Mr. Mayhew.” Lettice replies. “However, it isn’t me that I’ve come looking for a book for.”

 

“Then to what do I owe the pleasure, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“I want something for my friend, Mr. Bruton, Mr. Mayhew.”

 

“The costumier?” Mr. Mayhew queries.

 

“The couturier.” Lettice corrects the bookseller.

 

“Of course, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“He turns twenty-five next week, and I would like to find him a beautiful book on fashion for him to enjoy.”

 

“Oh.” Mr. Mayhew utters with a mixture of disappointment and concern. “Well, I’m afraid that I don’t have anything contemporary, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“Oh, I don’t want something contemporary, Mr. Mayhew.” Lettice assures him. “Rather I want something that is beautifully illustrated that he might enjoy.”

 

“Well, in that case, Miss Chetwynd, I may have some things that might suit your friend Mr. Bruton. I just hope that I shan’t disappoint you, my dear Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Mayhew returns her smile.

 

“You never disappoint me, Mr. Mayhew.” Lettice counters. “But you never cease to surprise me, either.” she adds with the heavy implication that she hopes he can find for her the perfect birthday present for Gerald.

 

As if she has uttered magic words to strike the old bookseller into action, Mr. Mayhew’s face animates. “Then let Mayhew’s not let you down today, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

Mr. Mayhew picks up his spectacles and puts them on the bridge of his nose again before looking around him, squinting as he considers what buried treasures are hidden amidst the tomes on the shelves in the darkened, cosy interior of his bookshop. As a proprietor who knows his stock well – almost like one would know a family – he says, “I think I might have just the thing. Please, take a seat, Miss Chetwynd.” He indicates to the chair on the opposite side of the desk to his own. “If I may beg your indulgence, I won’t be too long.”

 

“You may, Mr. Mayhew.” Lettice replies.

 

The bookseller makes a small bow before he bustles off, disappearing amidst the bookshelves.

 

Lettice initially perches herself on the edge of the rather hard Arts and Crafts wooden seat and peruses Mr. Mayhew’s cluttered desk which is piled with old leather volumes, some of which speak of times long ago with their worn covers and aged pages. Then she spies a book of beautiful rose prints standing open on top of the ornate mahogany bookshelf to the left of the fireplace. Standing up, she walks over to it and gently begins turning the pages, admiring the beautiful engraved*********** illustrations.

 

“That’s a very fine copy of Redouté’s*********** Roses from the 1820s with beautiful stipple engravings************. You have exquisite taste, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Mayhew says as he returns with several volumes in his arms.

 

“Then it is my mother who has good taste, Mr. Mayhew.” Lettice replies. “I was just admiring it because I know my mother has a copy of this book in the morning room at Glynes. I think my father is a little jealous of her having it.”

 

“I would be too, Miss Chetwynd.” the old bookseller remarks as he slips the volumes with a soft thud atop the other closed books on his desk. “Now! Here we are!” Mr. Mayhew indicates to the books he has come back with. “Hopefully there is something here that Mr. Bruton will like.”

 

Lettice returns to her seat, whilst Mr. Mayhew also returns to his behind the desk. He hands her a large but slender volume with a rust coloured cover. Lettice reads on its cover in bold black printed typeface that it is a catalogue of ladies’ shoes from historical times to the present.

 

“It’s from the early 1810s, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Mayhew says proudly. “Around the time our beloved Miss Auten penned Sense and Sensibility, so even though it speaks of history in the title, the volume itself has become a part of history.”

 

Lettice murmurs her own delight as she turns the pages and looks at beautiful engravings of dainty shoes with fine court heels: each illustration clearly showing even the finest of details of each shoe. The illustrations are arranged in colours and dates, with three slippers illustrated on every page. “Delightful!” Lettice opines.

 

“Then there is this.” Mr. Mayhew holds out another volume, this time with an aquamarine coloured cover.

 

“Revue des Chapeaux,” Lettice reads.

 

“Published during the war, this book’s pages review in brilliant pictorial detail, millinery styles between 1913 and 1917.” Mr. Mayhew says with a sigh. “The photographs really are quite stylish, as is the presentation.”

 

Lettice turns the pages, admiring the images showing each hat usually contained, but occasionally stretching out of, a circle. The black and white photographs have been partially tinted before being printed to draw attention to some of the elegant ruffles and soft fabric roses of each hat. Lettice chuckles to herself as she spies a royal blue hat with a brim significantly smaller than some of the voluminous hats her mother wore before the war, the hat’s crown dominated by a bunch of pink hyacinths. “I used to have a hat similar to this.” Lettice muses, patting her own green cloche hat self-consciously as she does, as if distracted enough to believe that she is still wearing the old fashioned pre-war hat with its whimsical bouquet of flowers sticking from it.

 

“Did you indeed, Miss Chetwynd?” Mr. Mayhew purrs.

 

“Yes.” Lettice replies, suddenly snapping out of her reverie. “I think this one, however lovely, is perhaps not quite to Gerald’s taste.”

 

“Very well Miss Chetwynd.” the bookseller says obsequiously, withdrawing the offending volume. “As you wish.” He then fumbles a little as he takes a rather thin catalogue from beneath a much larger volume. He looks carefully at Lettice before asking, “You won’t be offended by a German volume, will you?”

 

Lettice laughs. “Good heavens, no, Mr, Mayhew! You sell my father antiquarian versions of Gothe*************! As his daughter, how could I possibly be offended?”

 

“No, of course not, Miss Chetwynd. Well,” Mr. Mayhew says rather awkwardly. “Will Mr. Bruton take offence?”

 

“I doubt it, Mr. Mayhew.” Lettice replies.

 

“That’s good, because in the years of anti-German sentiment of the war, after the Lusitania’s sinking**************, I had to hide this beautiful catalogue, along with quite a number of other books which I have only just recently started returning to my post-war shelves.”

 

Lettice takes the Victorian catalogue from Mr. Mayhew’s hands and opens it.

 

“It is a catalogue of coats, furs and blouses from 1898 from a Berlin manufacturer.”

 

She flips through the fine pages beautifully illustrated with chromolithographs***************. Ladies with synched waists and protruding bosoms thanks to the influence of S-bend corsets**************** wearing feather and flower adorned hats and bonnets, show off fur tippets*****************, automobiling coats and jackets with leg-o’-mutton sleeves******************. “Beautiful!” Lettice murmurs with admiration, running her hand over one mode of a woman in a coat of deep violet with fur lapels.

 

“I thought you might like that one, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Mayhew says proudly. “Of course, I only show this to a very small selection of privileged clients whom I think may be interested in it.”

 

“Well thank you, Mr, Mayhew.” Lettice replies with satisfaction. “I’m most grateful you did. I think this will do nicely for Gerald.”

 

“But wait, Miss Chetwynd. I do have one more volume to show you.” He holds up a very large buff coloured volume before handing it to Lettice. “It’s not marked, but this is a volume of Art Nouveau jewellery from Paris.”

 

Lettice gasps as she turns the pages of the volume in her lap as the sinuous, feminine lines of art nouveau appear in image after image in the shape of combs and pins, necklaces, cufflinks, brooches, cravat pins, hairpins, bracelets, hatpins and tiaras: fabulous creations made of gold, silver and platinum, studded with precious and semi-precious stones. Mr. Mayhew smiles and nods as he looks at Lettice’s transfixed face.

 

“For all his love of modernity, Gerald does have a rather silly soft spot for Art Nouveau.” Lettice utters.

 

“Then might I recommend that volume, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“Mr. Mayhew, yet again you never cease to amaze me with what you have within your shop. I think you have just found me, the perfect birthday gift for Gerald.”

 

“Splendid, Miss Chetwynd! Splendid!” Mr. Mayhew claps. “I’ll return the others then.”

 

As he begins gather up the books, Lettice adds, “I’ll take the German catalogue too.” She smiles. “It seems a shame for it to remain hidden away. I’ll give it to Gerald for Christmas!”

 

“Very good, Miss Chetwynd.” the old bookseller acknowledges.

 

As he returns from having put the other two volumes back on the shelves from where they came, Mr. Mayhew asks Lettice, “By the way, Miss Chetwynd, I meant to ask you how your young aspiring architect liked the volume of John Nash’s architectural drawings you bought him?”

 

Lettice’s face, so bright and flushed with colour, suddenly drains and falls.

 

“Oh dear!” Mr, Mayhew gasps, putting his pudgy fingers to his mouth. “Did I just drop a social briquette, my dear Miss Chetwynd?”

 

Quickly recovering herself, Lettice blusters with false joviality, “No! No, Mr. Mayhew! Not at all!”

 

“However?” the old man asks, indicating for Lettice to go on with her unspoken statement.

 

“Well,” Lettice continues. “It’s just, I don’t actually know whether he liked it or not.” Remembering the book wrapped up gaily in bright paper and decorated with a satin ribbon left abandoned on her seat at the Savoy, she continues, “Things didn’t quite eventuate the way we’d planned for my friend’s birthday. He had to leave England quite unexpectedly, and I didn’t see him that night.” She pauses. “He… he’s gone to Durban for a year or so.”

 

“Oh.” Mr. Mayhew exclaims, shocked by her statement, knowing what he does about Lettice’s attachment to Selwyn. “But he will be back, Miss Chetwynd?” He returns to his seat behind the desk and reaches for his pipe. Striking a match, he lights it and puffs away with concern on it as he looks to Lettice.

 

Lettice doesn’t reply straight away, watching the bookseller looking her earnestly in the face, awaiting a response. “I hope so.” When Mr. Mayhew’s face falls, she quickly adds, “Of course! Of course he will return, Mr. Mayhew! Of course!” She cannot countenance losing her steely resolve and breaking down in tears in Mr. Mayhew’s bookshop.

 

Sensing Lettice’s unhappiness and awkwardness, Mr. Mayhew quickly pipes up, “Well, you can give it to him when he returns, Miss Chetwynd.” He begins fumbling through the pile of books he had been cataloguing before Lettice’s arrival. “That’s the good thing about books,” he says as he rifles through the marbleised volumes with leather spines. “Unlike cakes and chocolate, they will keep.”

 

“Yes,” Lettice breathes, sighing with relief at Mr. Mayhew’s perceptiveness and kindness. “You’re quite right.”

 

“Aha!” Mr. Mayhew withdraws a volume from the pile. “Here it is.” He hands it to Lettice. “Have you ever read this?”

 

“Jane Eyre.” Lettice reads from the gilded letters on the spine. “No, Mr. Mayhew. I don’t think I’ve ever read anything by the Brontë sisters.”

 

“Tut-tut, Miss Chetwynd!” Mr. Mayhew admonishes her teasingly. “You don’t know what literary treasures you have been missing out on all these years of your young life. Start with Miss Eyre. Take it from me as a gift.” He smiles.

 

“Oh, but Mr. Mayhew!” Lettice exclaims.

 

“Take it!” he sweeps her protestations aside. “I have plenty of other volumes of it on my shelves. It was just part of this lot, and I wanted it for the seven 1811 volumes of The History of Charles Grandison*******************.”

 

“But Mr. Mayhew…”

 

“You’ll be doing me a favour, Miss Chetwynd.” he assures her. “Really you will.”

 

Lettice turns the pretty volume over in her hands.

 

“Besides, I think you may just find Miss Eyre to be a little bit of an inspiration for you, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“How so, Mr, Mayhew?”

 

“Well, Jane Eyre came to know a lot about the vicissitudes of life.”

 

*A. H. Mayhew was once one of many bookshops located in London’s Charring Cross Road, an area still famous today for its bookshops, perhaps most famously written about by American authoress Helene Hanff who wrote ’84, Charing Cross Road’, which later became a play and then a 1987 film starring Anne Bancroft and Anthony Hopkins. Number 56. Charing Cross Road was the home of Mayhew’s second-hand and rare bookshop. Closed after the war, their premises is now the home of Any Amount of Books bookshop.

 

**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.

 

***John Nash (18 January 1752 – 13 May 1835) was one of the foremost British architects of the Georgian and Regency eras, during which he was responsible for the design, in the neoclassical and picturesque styles, of many important areas of London. His designs were financed by the Prince Regent and by the era's most successful property developer, James Burton. Nash also collaborated extensively with Burton's son, Decimus Burton.

 

****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.

 

*****British and Irish country house contents auctions are usually held on site at the country house, and have been used to raise funds for their owners, usually before selling the house and estate. Such auctions include the sale of high quality antique paintings, furniture, objets d'art, tapestries, books, and other household items. Whilst auctions of estates was nothing new, by 1924 when this story is set, the sun was already setting on the glory days of the country house, and landed gentry who were asset rich but cash poor began selling off properties and their contents to pay for increased rates of income tax and death duties.

 

******In Shakespeare’s Richard III, after killing her first husband, Richard pursues Lady Anne, charming her and wearing her down until the mourning widow finally agrees to may him, only to discover that his charms are all a farce, and that in reality, he despises her, and thinks of her as mothing more than a trophy won, and to them be discarded. She opines to Queen Elizabeth:

“Even in so short a space, my woman's heart

Grossly grew captive to his honey words

And proved the subject of my own soul's curse,

Which ever since hath kept my eyes from rest;

For never yet one hour in his bed

Have I enjoy'd the golden dew of sleep,

But have been waked by his timorous dreams.”

 

*******Vellum is prepared animal skin or membrane, typically used as writing material. It is often distinguished from parchment, either by being made from calfskin, or simply by being of a higher quality. Vellum is prepared for writing and printing on single pages, scrolls, and codices.

 

********Stowe House is a grade I listed country house in Stowe, Buckinghamshire, England. It is the home of the private Stowe School and is owned by the Stowe House Preservation Trust. Over the years, it has been restored and maintained as one of the finest country houses in the UK. Stowe House is regularly open to the public. The house is the result of four main periods of development. Between 1677 and 1683, the architect William Cleare was commissioned by Sir Richard Temple to build the central block of the house. This building was four floors high, including the basement and attics and thirteen bays in length. From the 1720s to 1733, under Viscount Cobham, additions to the house included the Ionic North colonnaded portico by Sir John Vanburgh, as well as the re-building of the north, east and west fronts. The exterior of the house has not been significantly changed since 1779, although in the first decade of the Nineteenth Century, the Egyptian Hall was added beneath the North Portico as a secondary entrance. The house contained not one but three major libraries. Held by the aristocratic Grenville-Temple family since 1677, Reverend Luis C.F.T. Morgan-Grenville inherited Stowe House from his brother Richard G. Morgan-Grenville who died fighting at Ploegsteert Wood during the Great War in 1914. The Reverend sold Stowe House and most of its contents in 1921. The second Great Sale in October 1921, in which 3,700 lots were sold by Jackson-Stop Auctioneers.

 

*********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.

 

************Pierre-Joseph Redouté (1759 – 1840), was a painter and botanist from Belgium, known for his watercolours of roses, lilies and other flowers at the Château de Malmaison, many of which were published as large coloured stipple engravings. He was nicknamed "the Raphael of flowers" and has been called the greatest botanical illustrator of all time

 

************Stipple engraving is a technique perfected by Pierre Joseph Redouté which helped him reproduce his botanical illustrations. The medium involved engraving a copper plate with a dense grid of dots that could be modulated to convey delicate gradations of colour. Because the ink rested on the paper in miniscule dots, it did not obscure the “light” of the paper beneath the colour. After the complicated printing process was complete, the prints were hand finished in watercolour to conform to the models Redouté provided.

 

*************Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749 – 1832) was a German polymath and writer, who is widely regarded as the greatest and most influential writer in the German language. His work has had a profound and wide-ranging influence on Western literary, political, and philosophical thought from the late Eighteenth Century to the present day. Goethe was a German poet, playwright, novelist, scientist, statesman, theatre director, and critic. His works include plays, poetry and aesthetic criticism, as well as treatises on botany, anatomy, and colour.

 

*************Following the torpedoing and subsequent sinking of the British Cunard passenger liner RSM Lusitania by a German submarine (U-boat) in 1915, resulting in the loss of 1,195 deaths including many women and children, there was a wave of anti-German sentiment throughout Britain. Mobs of angry people stormed through the streets of British cities, hurling bricks through the windows of shops and restaurants with German sounding names, stealing merchandise in some cases, setting fires in others. Hotels refused rooms to people with Germanic names like Muller or Schultz, even when they could produce documents proving their British citizenship. Homes were ransacked and people driven from them, cars were vandalised, music by Mozart, Strauss and other German composers banned, German books destroyed, bottles of German Mosel smashed and according to more than one report of the day – a few mentally deficient patriots did their bit for the cause by chasing poor dachshunds down the street kicking them, or killing them!

 

***************Chromolithography is a method for making multi-colour prints. This type of colour printing stemmed from the process of lithography, and includes all types of lithography that are printed in colour. When chromolithography is used to reproduce photographs, the term photochrome is frequently used.

 

****************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.

 

*****************A tippet is a piece of clothing worn over the shoulders in the shape of a scarf or cape. Tippets evolved in the fourteenth century from long sleeves and typically had one end hanging down to the knees. By the 1920s, tippets were usually made of fox, mink or other types of fur.

 

******************A leg-o’-mutton sleeve (also known in French as the gigot sleeve) was initially named due to its unusual shape: formed from a voluminous gathering of fabric at the upper arm that tapers to a tight fit from the elbow to the wrist. First seen in fashionable dress in the 1820s, the sleeve became popular between approximately 1825 and 1833 – but by the time Queen Victoria ascended to the throne in 1837, the overblown sleeves had completely disappeared in favour of a more subdued style. The trend returned in the 1890s, with sleeves growing in size – much to the ridicule of the media – until 1906 when the mode once again changed.

 

*******************The History of Sir Charles Grandison, commonly called Sir Charles Grandison, is an epistolary novel by English writer Samuel Richardson first published in February 1753. The book was a response to Henry Fielding's The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling, which parodied the morals presented in Richardson's previous novels.

 

This dark, cosy and slightly cluttered bookshop may appear real to you, but it is in fact made up of pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

All the books that you see lining the shelves of Mr. Mayhew’s bookshop are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. So too are all the books you see both open and closed on Mr. Mayhew’s desk. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. Therefore, it is a pleasure to give you a glimpse inside five of the books he has made. To give you an idea of the work that has gone into this volume and the others, the books contain dozens of double sided pages of images and writing. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. For example, published in 1917, “Revue des Chapeaux” (the book at the front on the right) reviews in brilliant pictorial detail, millinery styles between 1913 and 1917. The pages shown in my photo may be seen photographed from the actual book and uploaded to Flickr in these two links: here ( www.flickr.com/photos/taffeta/7062767671/in/album-7215762... ) and here ( www.flickr.com/photos/taffeta/7062758273/in/album-7215762... ). The other books are also real books, including the catalogue of historical ladies’ shoes from 1812, the French book of Art Nouveau jewellery and metalwork design, the jacket catalogue from a Berlin manufacturer and the copy of Les Roses (1824) by Pierre-Joseph Redouté in the background to the upper left-hand corner of the photograph. 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. I hope that you enjoy this peek at just a few of hundreds of his books that I own, and that it makes you smile with its sheer whimsy!

 

Also on the desk beneath the books are some old papers and a desk calendar which I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The Chippendale desk itself is made by Bespaq, and it has a mahogany stain and the design is taken from a real Chippendale desk. Its surface is covered in red dioxide red dioxide leather with a gilt trim. Bespaq is a high-end miniature furniture maker with high attention to detail and quality.

 

The photos you can see in the background, all of which are all real photos, are 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 aspidistra in the blue jardiniere that can just be seen to the right of the fireplace in the background, the pipe and pipe stand, and the map also came from Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop 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.

An image dedicated to North Edmonton, because it's a little colder over there. The Smoke Stack from the Canada Packers plant is a fixture I've gravitated towards. To me it's like a big FU and a monument to central heating — so very yeg.

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, Lettice is far from Cavendish Mews, back in Wiltshire where she is staying at Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie and his wife. The current Viscount has summoned his daughter home, along with his bohemian artist younger sister Eglantyne, affectionately known as Aunt Egg by her nieces and nephews.

 

Through her social connections, Lettice’s Aunt Egg contrived an invitation for Lettice to an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Caxton, who are very well known amongst the smarter bohemian set of London society for their weekend parties at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, and enjoyable literary evenings in their Belgravia townhouse. Lady Gladys is a successful authoress in her own right and writes under the nom de plume of Madeline St John. Over the course of the weekend, Lettice was coerced into accepting Lady Gladys’ request that she redecorate her niece and ward, Phoebe’s, small Bloomsbury flat. Phoebe, upon coming of age inherited the flat, which had belonged to her parents, Reginald and Marjorie Chambers, who died out in India when Phoebe was still a little girl. The flat was held in trust by Lady Gladys until her ward came of age. When Phoebe decided to pursue a career in garden design and was accepted by a school in London closely associated with the Royal Society, she started living part time in the flat. Lady Gladys felt that it was too old fashioned and outdated in its appointment for a young girl like Phoebe. When Lady Gladys arranged for Lettice to inspect the flat, Lettice quickly became aware of Lady Gladys’ ulterior motives as she overrode the rather mousy Pheobe and instructed Lettice to redecorate everything to her own instructions and taste, whist eradicating any traces of Pheobe’s parents. Reluctantly, Lettice commenced on the commission which is nearing its completion. However, when Pheobe came to visit the flat whilst Lettice was there, and with a little coercion, Pheobe shared what she really felt about the redecoration of her parent’s home, things came to a head. Desperately wanting to express herself independently, Pheobe hoped living at the flat she would finally be able to get out from underneath the domineering influence of her aunt. Yet now the flat is simply another extension of Lady Glady’s wishes, and the elements of her parents that Pheobe adored have been appropriated by Lady Gladys. Determined to undo the wrong she has done by Pheobe by agreeing to all of Lady Glady’s wishes, in a moment of energizing anger, Lettice decided to confront Lady Gladys. However unperturbed by Lettice’s appearance, Lady Gladys advised that she was bound by the contract she had signed to complete the work to Gladys’ satisfaction, not Phoebe’s.

 

Thus, Viscount Wrexham has contrived a war cabinet meeting in the comfortable surrounds of the Glynes library with Lettice and Eglantyne to see if between them they can work out a way to untangle Lettice from Lady Gladys’ contract, or at least undo the damage done to Pheobe by way of Lettice’s redecoration of the flat.

 

Being early autumn, the library at Glynes is filled with light, yet a fire crackles contentedly in the grate of the great Georgian stone fireplace to keep the cooler temperatures of the season at bay. The space smells comfortingly of old books and woodsmoke. The walls of the long room are lined with floor to ceiling shelves, full thousands of volumes on so many subjects. The sunlight streaming through the tall windows facing out to the front of the house burnishes the polished parquetry floors in a ghostly way. Viscount Wrexham sits at his Chippendale desk, with his daughter sitting opposite him on the other side of it, whilst Eglantyne, a tall, willowy figure and always too restless to sit for too long, stands at her brother’s shoulder as the trio discuss the current state of affairs.

 

“So is what Gladys says, correct, Lettice?” the Viscount bristles from his seat behind his Chippendale desk as he lifts a gilt edged Art Nouveau decorated cup of hot tea to his lips. “Did you sign a contract?”

 

“Well yes of course I did, Pappa!” Lettice defends, cradling her own cup in her hands, admiring the beautifully executed stylised blue Art Nouveau flowers on it. “You told me that there should be a formal contract in place ever since I had that spot of unpleasantness with the Duchess of Whitby when she was reluctant to pay her account in full after I had finished decorating her Fitzrovia first-floor reception room.”

 

“And I take it, our lawyers haven’t perused it?” he asks as he replaces the cup in its saucer on the desk’s surface.

 

“No Pappa.” Lettice replies, fiddling with the hem of her silk cord French blue cardigan. “Should they have?”

 

The Viscount sucks in a deep breath audibly, his heckles arcing up.

 

“Cosmo.” his sister says calmingly, standing at his side, placing one of her heavily bejewelled hands on his shoulder, lightly digging her elegantly long yet gnarled fingers into the fabric of his tweed jacket and pressing hard.

 

The Viscount releases a gasp. He looks down upon the book he had been pleasurably reading before he summoned both his sister and daughter to his domain of the Glynes library, a copy of Padraic Colum’s* ‘The Golden Fleece and the Heroes who Lived Before Achilles’** illustrated by Willy Pognay, and focuses on it like an anchor to manage the temper roiling within him. Trying very hard to suppress his frustration and keep it out of his steady modulation, the Viscount replies, “Yes my girl,” He sighs again. “Preferably you should have any contracts drawn up by our lawyers, and then signed by a client: not the other way around. And if it does happen to be the other way around, our lawyers should give it a thorough going over before you sign it.”

 

“But a contract is a contract, Pappa, surely?” Lettice retorts before taking another sip of tea.

 

The Viscount’s breathing grows more laboured as his face grows as red as the cover of ‘The Golden Fleece and the Heroes who Lived Before Achilles’ on the tooled leather surface of the desk before him.

 

“Cosmo.” Eglantine says again, before looking up and catching her niece’s eye and tries to warn her of the thunderstorm of frustration and anger that is about to burst from the Viscount by giving her an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

 

The Viscount continues to breathe in a considered and deliberate way as he tries to continue, his deep voice somewhat strangulated by his effort not to slam his fists on the desktop and yell at his daughter. “A contact varies, Lettice. It depends on who has written it as to what clauses are contained inside, such as Gladys’ condition that she is to be completely satisfied with the outcome of the redecoration, or she may forfeit any unpaid tradesmen’s bills, not to mention your own. You should have read it thoroughly before you signed it.”

 

“Oh.” Lettice lowers her head and looks down dolefully into her lap.

 

The Viscount turns sharply in his Chippendale chair, withdrawing his shoulder from beneath his sister’s grounding grasp with an irritable shake and glares at his sister through angry, bloodshot eyes. When she was young, Eglantine had Titian red hair that fell in wavy tresses about her pale face, making her a popular muse amongst the Pre-Raphaelites she mixed with. With the passing years, her red hair has retreated almost entirely behind silver grey, save for the occasional streak of washed out reddish orange, except when she decides the henna it, and she still wears it as she did when it was at its fiery best, sweeping softly about her almond shaped face, tied in a loose chignon at the back of her neck.

 

“I place the blame for this situation solely at your feet, Eglantyne!” the Viscount barks at his sister.

 

“Me!” Eglantyne laughs in incredulity. “Me! Don’t be so preposterous, Cosmo.” She grasps at one of the many strings of highly faceted, winking bugle beads that cascade down the front of her usual choice of frock, a Delphos dress***, this one of silver silk painted with stylised orange poppies on long, flowing green stalks. “I call that most unfair!” she complains. “I’m not responsible for Gladys’ lawyers, or their filthy binding contract.”

 

“No, but you’re responsible for introducing Lettice to that infernal woman!” the Viscount blasts. “Bloody female romance novelist!”

 

“Language!” Eglantyne quips.

 

“Oh, fie my language!” the Viscount retorts angrily. “And fie you, Eglantyne!”

 

Always being her elder brother’s favourite of all his siblings, and therefore usually forgiven of any mistakes and transgressions she has made in the past as a bohemian artist, and very seldom falling into his bad books, Eglantine is struck by the forcefulness of his anger. Even though she is well aware of his bombastic temper, it is easier to deal with when it is directed to someone or something else. This unusual situation with his annoyance being squarely aimed at her leaves her feeling flustered and sick.

 

“Me? I… I didn’t know that… that Gladys was vying to get Lettice… before her so… so.. so she could ask her to redecorate her ward’s flat, Cosmo!” Eglantyne splutters. “How… how could I know?”

 

“Coerced is more like it!” Cosmo snaps in retort. “And you must have had some inkling, surely! You were always good at reading people and situations: far better than I ever was!”

 

“Well, I didn’t, Cosmo!” Eglantine snaps back, determined not to let her brother get the upper hand on her and blame her for something she rightly considers far beyond her control. “I mean, all I was doing was trying my best to get Lettice out of her funk over losing Selwyn.” She turns quickly to Lettice and looks at her with apologetic eyes. “Sorry my dear.” Returning her attention to her brother, she continues, “I didn’t want her wallowing in her own grief, something you were only too happy to indulge her in whilst she was staying here at Glynes with you!” She tuts. “Feeding her butter shortbreads and mollycoddling her. What good was there in doing that?”

 

“She was staying with Lally.” the Viscount mutters through gritted teeth.

 

“Same thing really.” Eglantine says breezily. “Like father like daughter. Lettice needed something to restore her spark, and quiet walks in the Buckinghamshire countryside weren’t going do that. I knew that Gladys enjoyed being surrounded by London’s Bright Young Things****, and she had spoken to me about Lettice’s interior designs.”

 

“Aha!” the Viscount crows. “So, you did know she had designs on Lettice!”

 

“If you’d kindly let me finish, Cosmo.” Eglantyne continues in an indignant tone.

 

The Viscount huffs and lets his shoulders lower a little as he gesticulates with a sweeping gesture across his desk towards his sister for Eglantine to continue.

 

“What I was going to say was that Gladys telephoned me and asked me about Lettice’s interior designs after she read that article by Henry Tipping***** in Country Life******, which you and Sadie, and probably half the country read. How could I know from that innocuous enquiry that Gladys would engage Lettice in this unpleasant commission? She simply telephoned me at just the right time, so I orchestrated with Gladys for Lettice and the Channons to go and stay at Gossington.” She folds her arms akimbo. “Lettice was stagnating, and that is not good for her. As I said before, she needed to have her creativity sparked. I thought it would do Lettice good to be amongst the bright and spirited company of a coterie of young and artistic people, and I wasn’t wrong, was I Lettice?”

 

Startled to suddenly be introduced into the heated conversation between her father and aunt about her, Lettice stammers, “Well… yes. It was a very gay house party, and I did also receive the commission from Sir John Nettleford-Huges for Mr. and Mrs. Gifford at Arkwright Bury, Pappa.”

 

“That old lecher.” the Viscount spits.

 

“Sadie doesn’t think so,” Eglantyne remarks with a superior air, a smug smile curling up the corners of her lips. “She seemed to think he’d be a good match for Lettice two years ago at her ludicrous matchmaking Hunt Ball.”

 

“Now don’t you start on Sadie, Eglantyne.” the Viscount warns with a wagging finger, the ruby in the signet ring on his little finger winking angrily in the light of the library, reflecting its wearer’s fit of pique. “I’m in no mood for your usual acerbic pokes at Sadie.”

 

“Sir John is actually quite nice, Pappa.” Lettice pipes up quickly in an effort to defuse the situation between her father and aunt. “Once you get to know him.” she adds rather lamely when her father glares at her with a look that suggests that she may have lost all her senses. She hurriedly adds, “And that’s gone swimmingly, Pappa, and as a result, Henry Tipping has promised me another feature article on my interior designs there in Country Life.”

 

“There!” Eglantyne says with satisfaction, sweeping her arm out expansively towards her niece, making the mixture of gold, silver, Bakelite******* and bead bracelets and bangles jangle. “See Cosmo, it’s not all bad news. An excellent commission right here in Wiltshire that guarantees positive promotion of Lettice’s interior designs in a prestigious periodical.”

 

“Well, be that as it may,” the Viscount grumbles. “You are still responsible for dismissing Lettice’s justified concerns about Gladys and her rather Machiavellian plans to redecorate her ward’s flat to her own designs and hold Lettice to account for it. You told me that you aired your concerns with your aunt, Lettice. Isn’t that so?”

 

Lettice nods, looking guiltily at her favourite aunt, fearing disappointment in the older woman’s eyes as she does.

 

“Well,” Eglantyne concedes with a sigh. “I cannot deny that Lettice did raise her concerns with me when we had luncheon together, but her concerns did not appear justified at the time.”

 

Ignoring Eglantyne’s last remark, the Viscount continues, addressing his daughter, “And that was before she commenced on this rather fraught commission wasn’t it?”

 

“Well Pappa, as I told you, I had already agreed in principle to accept Gladys’ commission at Gossington. Gladys is a little hard to refuse.”

 

“Bombastic!” the Viscount opines.

 

“Pot: kettle: black.” Eglantyne pipes up, placing her hands on her silk clad hips.

 

“Don’t test my patience any more, Eglantyne!” the Viscount snaps. He returns his attentions to his daughter. “But you hadn’t signed any contracts at that stage, had you, Lettice?”

 

“Well no, Pappa.” Lettice agrees. “But I think that Gladys was having the contracts drawn up by her lawyers at that time.”

 

“Why didn’t you intervene when Lettice spoke to you, Eglantyne?” the Viscount asks his sister.

 

“Because I didn’t see any cause for alarm, Cosmo.” she replies in her own defence.

 

“But Lettice told you that Gladys coerced her into agreeing to redecorate the flat, didn’t she?”

 

“Well yes,” Eglantyne agrees. “But as I said to Lettice at the time, Gladys wears most people down to her way of thinking in the end. It is a very brave, or stupid, person who challenges Gladys when she has an idea in her head that she is impassioned about.” She pauses for a moment before continuing. “I didn’t think it was a bad thing necessarily, Cosmo. Not only was it not unusual for Gladys to get her way, but at the time, Lettice needed someone to take the lead. Her own initiative was somewhat lacking after all that business with Zinnia shipping Selwyn off to Durban. So, I wasn’t concerned, and I doubt that you would be concerned about it either, were you in my shoes.”

 

“Well I wasn’t.” he argues. “What about Lettice’s other concerns about taking on the commission?” he softens his voice as he addresses his daughter, “What did you say to your aunt again, my dear?”

 

“I said I was concerned that Gladys had ulterior motives, Pappa.” Lettice replies.

 

“Which she did!” the Viscount agrees. “Go on.”

 

“I illuded to the fact that I thought Gladys saw her dead brother and sister-in-law as some kind of threat to her happy life with Phoebe, and she wanted to whitewash them from Phoebe’s life.”

 

“And I suggested to Lettice that that was a grave allegation to make without proof, Cosmo.” Eglantyne explains. “And all she had to back her allegations up were some anecdotal stories, which count for nothing.”

 

“You accused Lettice of overdramatising.” the Viscount says angrily.

 

“I know I did, Cosmo.” Eglantyne admits. “I did assuage Lettice of the concerns she had that Gladys was going to insist on making changes Phoebe or she didn’t like. I admit, I was wrong about that. I assured Lettice that Gladys adores her niece, and whilst in hindsight I may not now use the word adore, I’m still instant that Gladys only wants what she thinks is best for Phoebe. Phoebe is the daughter Gladys never planned to have, but also the child Gladys didn’t know could bring her so much joy and fulfilment in her life, as a parent. And to be fair, Cosmo, if you’d ever met Phoebe, you’d understand why I said what I did.”

 

“Go on.” the Viscount says, cocking his eyebrow over his right eye.

 

“Well Pheobe is such a timid little mouse of a creature. She seldom expresses an opinion.”

 

“That’s because Gladys has been quashing those opinions, Aunt Egg.” Lettice adds.

 

“Well, we know that now, but from the outside looking in, you wouldn’t know that without the intimate knowledge that you have now received from Phoebe, Lettice.”

 

“So what you’re implying Pappa is, that I have to see through the redecoration to Phoebe’s pied-à-terre******** to Gladys’ specifications, even if Pheobe herself doesn’t like them?”

 

“It does appear that way, my dear.” the Viscount concedes.

 

“Even if it is plain that Gladys is bullying her and taking advantage of the situation for her own means?” Lettice asks hopefully.

 

“It’s a sticky situation, my dear.” the Viscount replies consolingly. “I mean, you don’t actually have to go through with it. It isn’t like you need her money. If she doesn’t pay the tradesmen’s bills you’ll be a little out of pocket, but it won’t bankrupt you.”

 

“But,” Eglantyne says warningly. “You do run the risk of Gladys spreading malicious gossip about your business. Whatever Gladys may or may not be, she’s influential.” She sighs deeply. “It would be such a shame to ruin the career you have spent so long building and making a success.”

 

“And your mother wouldn’t fancy the trouble and scandals this poisonous woman could create, either.” adds the Viscount as an afterthought. “Especially when it comes to your marriageability.”

 

“Are you suggesting that Selwyn isn’t going to come back to me, Pappa?” Lettice asks bitterly, unable to keep the hurt out of her voice as colour fills her face and unshed tears threatening to spill fill her eyes.

 

“No,” the Viscount defends. “You know your happiness and security is of the utmost importance to me, Lettice my dear. No, I’m just being a realist. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Zinnia doesn’t have something nasty up her sleeve to spring upon the pair of you, even when he does come back. If there is even the slightest smear on your character, Lettice, she will use that against you. Zinna hasn’t spoken to you since that night, has she?”

 

“No, thank goodness!” Lettice replies.

 

“Well, that may not be such a good thing.” the Viscount goes on. “Zinnia enjoys playing a long game that can inflict more pain.”

 

“Your father speaks the truth, Lettice, and he is wise to be a pragmatist.” Eglantyne remarks sagely.

 

The older woman reaches into the small silver mesh reticule********* dangling from her left wrist and unfastens it. She withdraws her gold and amber cigarette holder and a small, embossed silver case containing her choice of cigarettes, her favourite black and gold Sobranie********** Black Russians. She depresses the clasp of the case and withdraws one of the long, slender cigarettes and screws it adeptly into her holder. She then withdraws a match holder and goes to strike a match.

 

“Must you, Eglantyne?” the Viscount asks. “You know Sadie doesn’t like smoking indoors.”

 

Eglantyne ignores her brother and strikes a match and lights her Sobranie, sucking the end of her cigarette holder, causing the match flame to dance and gutter whilst the paper and tobacco of the cigarette crackles. Whisps of dark grey smoke curl as they escape the corners of her mouth.

 

“I’m in your bad books, Cosmo, so I may as well be in hers too.” she says, sending forth tumbling clouds of acrid smoke. “No-one will deny me my little pleasure in life.” She smiles with gratification as she draws on her holder again. “Not even Sadie. And correction: Sadie only dislikes it when a lady smokes.”

 

“Well, I can’t stop you any more than I seem to be able to stop Gladys from forcing Lettice to decorate this damnable flat the way she wants it, rather than the way Phoebe wants it.” the Viscount replies in a defeated tone.

 

The three fall silent for a short while, with only the heavy ticking of the clock sitting on the library mantle and the crackle of the fire to break the cloying silence.

 

“What about Sir John?” the Viscount suddenly says.

 

“Sir John Nettleford-Hughes?” Eglantyne asks quizzically, blowing forth another cloud of Sobranie smoke.

 

“No, no!” he clarifies with a shake of his head. “Not that Sir John: Sir John Caxton, Gladys’ husband. Surely, we can appeal to him. He wouldn’t want Pheobe to be unhappy.”

 

“He’s completely under Gladys’ thumb***********.” Eglantyne opines.

 

“Aunt Egg is right, Pappa. The day I went to Eaton Square************ to have it out with Gladys, I saw John, and he couldn’t wait to retreat to the safety of his club and leave we two to our own devices. He’s as completely ruled by Gladys as Phoebe is.”

 

“I suppose you could turn this to your advantage and have Phoebe commission you to undo your own redecoration.” the Viscount suggests hopefully.

 

“I don’t think that would work very well, Cosmo.” Eglantyne remarks.

 

“How so?”

 

“Well, I don’t think Gladys would take too kindly to Lettice and Phoebe going behind her back, and we’ve just discussed the difficulties a scorned woman could cause to Lettice’s reputation, both personally and professionally.”

 

“Besides,” Lettice adds. “I don’t think the allowance Phoebe inherits from her father’s estate is terribly large, and I don’t imagine it will be easy as a woman to win any garden design commissions to be able to afford my services.”

 

“There’s Gertude Jekyll*************.” Eglantyne remarks.

 

“Yes, but she has influential connections like Edward Lutyens**************.” Lettice counters. “And as you have noted, Aunt Egg, Phoebe is rather unassuming. She doesn’t know anyone of influence, and wields none of her own. Besides, I’m sure Gladys won’t pay Phoebe to pay me to undo her prescribed redecorations.”

 

“You could always redecorate the pied-à-terre without charge,” the Viscount suggests hopefully.

 

“As recompense for the damage I’ve done redecorating it now, you mean, Pappa?”

 

“In a sense.”

 

“The outcomes would be the same unpleasant ones for Lettice as if Phoebe could afford to commission her to do it, Cosmo.” Eglantyne warns.

 

“Gerald was right.” Lettice mutters.

 

“About what, my dear?” her father asks.

 

“Well, Gerald said that Gladys was very good at weaving sticky spiderwebs, and that I had better watch out that I didn’t become caught in one.” She sighs heavily. “But it appears as if I have become enmeshed in one well and truly.”

 

“Well, however much it displeases me to say this to you Lettice, let this be a lesson to you my girl! In future, make sure that you engage our lawyers to draw up the contracts for you.”

 

“But I didn’t have this contract drawn up, Pappa,” Lettice defends. “Gladys did.”

 

“Well, make sure our lawyers review any contracts created by someone else before you undertake to sign one if future.”

 

Eglantyne stares off into the distance, drawing heavily upon her Sobranie, blowing out plumes of smoke.

 

“So, I’m stuck then.” Lettice says bitterly. “And its my own stupid fault.”

 

Eglantyne’s eyes flit in a desultory fashion about the room, drifting from the many gilt decorated spines on the shelves to the armchairs gathered cosily around the library’s great stone fireplace to the chess table set up to play nearby.

 

“Unless your aunt can come up with something, I’m afraid I don’t see a way out for you, Lettice.” the Viscount says. He then adds kindly, “But I wouldn’t be so hard on yourself, my dear. We all have to learn life’s lessons. Sometimes we just learn them in harder ways.”

 

Eglantyne continues to contemplate the situation her niece finds herself in.

 

“Well, I’ve certainly learned my lesson this time, Pappa.”

 

Eglantyne withdraws the nearly spent Sobranie from her lips, scattering ash upon the dull, worth carpet beneath her mule clad feet. “I may have one idea that might work.”

 

“Really Aunt Egg?” Lettice gasps, clasping her hands together as she does.

 

“Perhaps, Lettice my dear.”

 

“What is it, Eglantyne?” the Viscount asks.

 

“I don’t want to say anything, just in case I can’t pull it off.” Eglantyne contemplates for a moment before continuing. “Just leave this with me for a few days.”

 

*Padraic Colum was an Irish poet, novelist, dramatist, biographer, playwright, children's author and collector of folklore. He was one of the leading figures of the Irish Literary Revival.

 

**“The Golden Fleece and the Heroes who Lived Before Achilles” was a novel written by Padraic Colum, illustrated by Hungarian artist Willy Pognay, published by the Macmillan Company in 1921.

 

***The Delphos gown is a finely pleated silk dress first created in about 1907 by French designer Henriette Negrin and her husband, Mariano Fortuny y Madrazo. They produced the gowns until about 1950. It was inspired by, and named after, a classical Greek statue, the Charioteer of Delphi. It was championed by more artistic women who did not wish to conform to society’s constraints and wear a tightly fitting corset.

 

****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 Londo

 

*****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.

 

*******Bakelite, was the first plastic made from synthetic components. Patented on December 7, 1909, the creation of a synthetic plastic was revolutionary for its electrical nonconductivity and heat-resistant properties in electrical insulators, radio and telephone casings and such diverse products as kitchenware, jewellery, pipe stems, teapot handles, children's toys, and firearms. A plethora of items were manufactured using Bakelite in the 1920s and 1930s.

 

********A pied-à-terre is a small flat, house, or room kept for occasional use.

 

*********A reticule is a woman's small handbag, typically having a drawstring and decorated with embroidery or beading. 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, whereas these bags were made of net. By the 1920s they were sometimes made of small heavy metal mesh as well as netting or beaded materials.

 

**********The Balkan Sobranie tobacco business was established in London in 1879 by Albert Weinberg (born in Romania in 1849), whose naturalisation papers dated 1886 confirm his nationality and show that he had emigrated to England in the 1870s at a time when hand-made cigarettes in the eastern European and Russian tradition were becoming fashionable in Europe. Sobranie is one of the oldest cigarette brands in the world. Throughout its existence, Sobranie was marketed as the definition of luxury in the tobacco industry, being adopted as the official provider of many European royal houses and elites around the world including the Imperial Court of Russia and the royal courts of United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Spain, Romania, and Greece. Premium brands include the multi-coloured Sobranie Cocktail and the black and gold Sobranie Black Russian.

 

***********The idiom “to be under the thumb”, comes from the action of a falconer holding the leash of the hawk under their thumb to maintain a tight control of the bird. Today the term under the thumb is generally used in a derogatory manner to describe a partner's overbearing control over the other partner's actions.

 

************Eaton Square is a rectangular residential garden square in London's Belgravia district. It is the largest square in London. It is one of the three squares built by the landowning Grosvenor family when they developed the main part of Belgravia in the Nineteenth Century that are named after places in Cheshire — in this case Eaton Hall, the Grosvenor country house. It is larger but less grand than the central feature of the district, Belgrave Square, and both larger and grander than Chester Square. The first block was laid out by Thomas Cubitt from 1827. In 2016 it was named as the "Most Expensive Place to Buy Property in Britain", with a full terraced house costing on average seventeen million pounds — many of such town houses have been converted, within the same, protected structures, into upmarket apartments.

 

*************Gertrude Jekyll was a British horticulturist, garden designer, craftswoman, photographer, writer and artist. She created over four handred gardens in the United Kingdom, Europe and the United States, and wrote over one thousand articles for magazines such as Country Life and William Robinson's The Garden. Her first commissioned garden was designed in 1881, and she worked very closely wither her long standing friend, architect Sir Edward Lutyens.

 

**************Sir Edwin Landseer Lutyens 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 in the years before the Second World War. He is probably best known for his creation of the Cenotaph war memorial on Whitehall in London after the Great War. Had he not died of cancer in 1944, he probably would have gone on to design more buildings in the post-war era.

 

Cluttered with books and art, Viscount Wrexham’s library with its Georgian furnishings is different from what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures from my collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The majority of the books that you see lining the shelves of the Viscount’s library are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. So too are the postcards and the box for them on the Viscount’s Chippendale desk. Most of the books I own that Ken 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, as can be seen on The Times Literary Supplement broadsheet on the Viscount’s desk. 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. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. “The Golden Fleece and the Heroes who Lived Before Achilles” by Padraic Colum, illustrated by Willy Pognay, sitting on the Viscount’s desk is such an example. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really do make these miniature artisan pieces. 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.

 

On the desk are some 1:12 artisan miniature ink bottles and a blotter on a silver salver all made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures. The ink bottles are made from tiny faceted crystal beads and have sterling silver bottoms and lids. The ink blotter is sterling silver too and has a blotter made of real black felt, cut meticulously to size to fit snugly inside the frame. The silver double frame on the desk also comes from Mick and Marie’s Miniature Collectables. The bottle of port and the port glasses I acquired from a miniatures stockist on E-Bay. Each glass, the bottle and its faceted stopper are hand blown using real glass.

 

Also on the desk to the left stands a stuffed white owl on a branch beneath a glass cloche. A vintage miniature piece, the foliage are real dried flowers and grasses, whilst the owl is cut from white soapstone. The base is stained wood and the cloche is real glass. This I acquired along with two others featuring shells (one of which can be seen in the background) from Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The teapot and teacups, featuring stylised Art Nouveau patterns were acquired from an online stockist of dolls’ house miniatures in Australia.

 

The Chippendale desk itself is made by Bespaq, and it has a mahogany stain and the design is taken from a real Chippendale desk. Its surface is covered in red dioxide red dioxide leather with a gilt trim. Bespaq is a high-end miniature furniture maker with high attention to detail and quality.

 

The beautiful rotating globe in the background features a British Imperial view of the world, with all of Britain’s colonies in pink (as can be seen from Canada), as it would have been in 1921. The globe sits on metal casters in a mahogany stained frame, and it can be rolled effortlessly. It comes from Mick and Marie’s Miniature Collectables in Lancashire. The silver double frame on the desk also comes from Mick and Marie’s Miniature Collectables.

 

In the background you can see the book lined shelves of Viscount Wrexham’s as well as a Victorian painting of cattle in a gold frame from Amber’s Miniatures in America, and a hand painted ginger jar from Thailand which stands on a Bespaq plant stand.

 

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.

siananedenflower.wordpress.com/2014/06/21/no-pain-no-gain/

Jacksonville is a seaport city and the seat of Duval County, Florida, United States. With an estimated 868,031 residents as of 2015, Jacksonville is the most populous city in both the state of Florida and the southeastern United States. It is estimated to be the 12th most populous city in the United States and is the largest city by area in the contiguous United States. The Jacksonville metropolitan area has a population of 1,573,606 and is the 40th largest in the United States and fourth largest in the state of Florida.

 

The city is situated on the banks of the St. Johns River, in the First Coast region of North Florida, about 25 miles (40 km) south of the Georgia state line and 340 miles (550 km) north of Miami.

 

Prior to European settlement the Jacksonville area was inhabited by Native American people known as the Timucua. In 1564, the French established the short-lived colony of Fort Caroline at the mouth of the St. Johns River, becoming one of the earliest European settlements in the continental United States. In 1822, a year after the United States gained Florida from Spain, the town of Jacksonville was platted along the St. Johns River. Established at a narrow point in the river known as Wacca Pilatka to the Seminole and the Cow Ford to the British, the enduring name derives from the first military governor of the Florida Territory and seventh President of the United States, Andrew Jackson.

 

Jacksonville is the cultural, commercial and financial center of North Florida. A major military and civilian deep-water port, the city's riverine location supports two United States Navy bases and the Port of Jacksonville, Florida's third largest seaport. The two US Navy bases, Blount Island Command and the nearby Naval Submarine Base Kings Bay, form the third largest military presence in the United States. Jacksonville serves as headquarters for various banking, insurance, healthcare, logistics, and other institutions. These include CSX Corporation, Fidelity National Financial, FIS, Landstar System, Ameris Bancorp, Atlantic Coast Financial, Black Knight Financial Services, EverBank, Rayonier Advanced Materials, Regency Centers, Stein Mart, Web.com, Fanatics, Gate Petroleum, Haskell Company, Interline Brands, Sally Corporation, and Southeastern Grocers. Jacksonville is also home to several colleges and universities, including University of North Florida, Jacksonville University and Florida State College at Jacksonville.

 

Credit for the data above is given to the following website:

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jacksonville,_Florida

   

Parma was most probably founded by the Etruscans. The Romans founded a colony here. During the Roman Empire, it gained the title of Julia for its loyalty to the imperial house.

 

Attila sacked the city in 452 and during the Gothic War Totila Attila sacked the city in 452 and during the Gothic War Totila destroyed it again. It was then part of the Byzantine Exarchate of Ravenna and, from 569, of the Lombard Kingdom of Italy. During the Middle Ages, Parma became an important stage of the Via Francigena, the main road connecting Rome to Northern Europe.

 

Under Frankish rule, Parma was nominally a part of the Holy Roman Empire created by Charlemagne but locally ruled by its bishops. After the Peace of Constance in 1183 confirmed the Italian communes' rights of self-governance, quarrels with the neighboring communes became harsh, with the aim of controlling the vital trading line over the Po River.

The city was besieged in 1247–48 by Emperor Frederick II, who was however crushed in the Battle of Parma by the Lombard League. In 1331, the city submitted to King John of Bohemia. Parma fell under the control of Milan in 1341. After a short-lived period of independence, the Sforza imposed their rule creating a kind of feudalism.

 

A basilica existed probably already in the 6th century but was later abandoned. From 860, St. Mary's Church was built nearby, which became the cathedral. After its destruction by fire, the construction of today's cathedral began in 1059 by bishop Cadalo, who was later antipope with the name of Honorius II. The new church was heavily damaged by an earthquake in 1117 and had to be restored.

  

Over 100 Special Constables have been helping to make local communities in Manchester safer today, May 20, 2016, when they took part in National Give and Gain Day.

 

The celebration day promotes the power and potential of employee volunteering and will see thousands of people across the country spend a working day volunteering for good causes in their local community.

 

All of the special constables have been released by their employers for the day, to take part in a range of activities across the city with officers from Greater Manchester Police.

 

These included taking part in a number of warrant operations across the city as well as taking part in Automatic Number Plate Recognition activities with patrol teams.

 

The specials also took part in Court Enforcement Arrests, work with dog handling teams and supported a number of information events on issues such as legal highs and crime prevention.

 

As part of the initiative ten of the employers supporting the specials attended the events themselves, to shadow their employees as part of the Employee Supported Policing (ESP) initiative.

 

This gave them the chance to observe them first hand in the role of a volunteer police officer. It will also enable them to see the skills that specials constables develop in their role that can then be transferred back into their paid workplace.

 

Among those attending was Rory Underwood, the former England rugby international and British Lion and currently the Development Director for Alcumus Group. Alcumus is supporting Special Inspector Donn Houldsworth with two weeks additional paid leave per year to undertake special constable training.

 

Greater Manchester Police Special Constabulary has 230 special constables that are supported by 48 employers. Last year these employers contributed to over 16,300 volunteer hours of policing in the communities through Employer Supported Leave.

 

Chief Inspector Mark E Kenny said: “Give and Gain Day was a tremendous opportunity to demonstrate what an important role the Special Constabulary makes to the local community.

 

“It also gave local employers who support the work of special constables an excellent chance to see for themselves the work that the specials do and how their experience can benefit the jobs they have with them.”

 

For more information about Policing in Greater Manchester please visit www.gmp.police.uk

 

To report crime call police on 101 the national non-emergency number.

 

You can also call anonymously with information about crime to Crimestoppers on 0800 555 111. Crimestoppers is an independent charity who will not want your name, just your information. Your call will not be traced or recorded and you do not have to go to court or give a statement.

 

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 Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie and his wife Arabella. Sadly, it is a sombre occasion that has brought Lettice back to Wiltshire. Whilst not as old, or as noble a family as the Chetwynds, the Tyrwhitts have been part of the Wiltshire landed gentry for several generations and their estate, Garstanton Park, abuts the Glynes estate. Lord and Lady Tyrwhitt are as much a part of county society as the Viscount and Countess of Wrexham. The current generation of the two families have grown up as friends with the Viscount and Countess of Wrexham often visiting Lord and Lady Tyrwhitt and conversely. For many years Lady Isobel Tyrwhitt has been battling cancer, as it and the radiotherapy* used to treat it ravishes her body. Yet whilst all attentions were paid to her, no-one expected her husband Lord Sherbourne to suddenly have a stroke and drop to the ground whilst on his estate business. Lettice has returned to Glynes upon receiving news of her honorary uncle’s sudden turn.

 

We find ourselves in the Glynes library, a place of refuge for both Lettice and her father from the Viscountess, Lady Sadie, where they are surrounded by the comforting smell of old books and woodsmoke. The walls are lined with floor to ceiling shelves, all full of books: thousands of volumes on so many subjects. The thick velvet curtains are drawn over the tall windows facing out to the front of the house, helping to make the grand room cosy and keep it warm. The fire, a constant in the library, crackles contentedly whilst an ornate ormolu clock ticks away the minutes contentedly on the mantle. Dwarfed by the vast collection of books, Lettice and her father sit opposite one another in silence at the Viscount’s desk, both with heads cast down.

 

“None of my latest postcards seem worth filing in my album tonight.” the Viscount remarks, running his hands over the green leather cover of his postcard album, its use tooled in ornate gilt letters across the front.

 

“Well, that’s hardly a surprise, Pappa.” Lettice replies from her seat opposite him at his Chippendale desk.

 

“I just thought it might be a good thing, to distract me and take my mind off things.” the Viscount remarks as his fingers stray and he toys with one of the postcards he has taken from his box of cards as it stands in front of his postcard album. “The King always says that his stamp collection gave him solace during the darkest days of the war.”

 

“I suppose our minds just can’t be distracted sometimes, Pappa,” Lettice consoles her father lovingly.

 

“Perhaps.” he acquiesces quietly.

 

“Even by the pastimes and pursuits we enjoy the most.” Lettice adds.

 

“Then maybe a glass of port might assuage our sadness a little?” the Viscount suggests tentatively.

 

Lettice nods her ascent in a shallow fashion and her father gets up and walks over to the small demilune table in the corner of the library, returning with the decanter and two glasses which he fills generously with the rich golden red liquor which shimmers in the golden candescence of the library’s chandelier lighting.

 

“To Sherbourne.” the Viscount says sadly, raising his glass to his daughter.

 

“To Uncle Sherbourne.” Lettice responds with reverence, raising her own glass to clink with his.

 

The pair take a sip of their port and then deposit their glasses upon the gilt edged leather surface of the Viscount’s desk before falling back into their stupored silence, both lost in their own thoughts as they reflect on the events of the evening.

 

After being told by her father over the telephone that her honorary uncle, Lord Sherbourne, had collapsed whilst out on his estate, Lettice with the aid of her maid, Edith, hurriedly packed a valise with the essentials required for a short stay at Glynes. She then went with her old childhood chum, Gerald, who by good fortune just happened to be visiting when the news reached Lettice, back to his bachelor flat in Soho. She waited in his Morris Tourer** on the street whilst he scuttled upstairs and quickly threw a few things into a bag. Then they motored down without delay through the afternoon and early evening to Wiltshire. Gerald dropped Lettice off outside Glynes whilst he then motored on to his own family home, Bruton Hall, on his father’s estate, which also adjoins that of Lettice’s parents, agreeing that they would see each other at Garstanton Park, the Victorian home of the Tyrwhitts, a little later.

 

Lettice barely had time to hand her valise to Bramley, the Chetwynd’s butler, before she was bundled into the Chetwynd’s 1912 Daimler with her father the Viscount, her mother Lady Sadie and her elder sister Lalage (known to everyone in the family by the diminutive Lally) who had come down to Wiltshire just as Lettice had. They set off at speed over the small distance to Garstanton Park. In the entrance hall the quartet were greeted by the strained face of her eldest brother Leslie. Leslie delivered the grim news that according to Doctor Moreton, the Glynes village physician, Lord Sherbourne had suffered a series of strokes. He was found unconscious by Briers, the Garstanton Park Estate Manager, outside his offices and had never regained consciousness. Doctor Moreton advised that he was unlikely to rally and that it was only a matter of time before Lord Sherbourne died.

 

Leslie escorted them all up to Lord Sherbourne’s grand apartments on the second floor where his wife Arabella, daughter of Lord Sherbourne, and Lord Sherbourne’s wife, Lady Isobel and son, Nigel, were keeping vigil around Lord Sherbourne’s bed. It was a sad sight for Lettice, to see the man she had grown up calling Uncle Sherbourne lying pale and lifeless and dwarfed in his large bed. Lord Sherbourne was always a big, jovial and character filled man, and the physically reduced form lying silently beneath the heavy comforters of the bed didn’t really seem to be him. By the time Gerald arrived with his parents, Lord and Lady Bruton and his elder brother Roland, the end was very close, and before the Georgian longcase clock in the Garstanton Park entrance hall chimed nine o’clock at night, Lord Sherbourne Tyrwhitt had slipped away with a final ragged and gurgling breath, leaving them all in mourning.

 

With nothing left to do or wait for, Gerald, his brother and parents, Lettice, her parents and Lally, left Leslie, Arabella, Lady Isobel and the newly minted Lord Tyrwhitt, Nigel, at Garstanton Park and returned to their own homes for the evening.

 

“It’s good of you to keep me company, my darling girl.” the Viscount says softly at length, breaking the silence that hangs thickly throughout the Glynes library. “You know you don’t have to. I’ll be alright here with my books to console me.”

 

“To be honest, I don’t think I’d be able to sleep, Pappa.” Lettice admits. “I’d much rather be here with you than alone in my bedroom.”

 

“Well, I appreciate the company, darling girl.” He sips his port thoughtfully.

 

“Me too, Pappa.” Lettice idly picks up one of her father’s scattered postcards, one featuring a carriage, and stares down at it, not really seeing the image of the brougham drawn by two horses. She casts it aside. “I don’t know how Mamma can do it.”

 

“Your mother has always had a very healthy sleep regime, no matter what else may be going on around her.” her father chuckles. “Maybe even a little too healthy.”

 

“I still don’t understand how she can, considering…” Her voice trails off.

 

“It just doesn’t seem real.” muses the Viscount quietly as he mulls over his thoughts. “Any of it.”

 

“I know Pappa.” Lettice agrees sadly.

 

“I mean, I was only talking with him yesterday. He telephoned me in the morning, and we arranged to meet down in the village to discuss acquiring books for the school with the funds raised at the village fête.”

 

“Uncle Sherbourne seemed perfectly fine at the village fête too.” Lettice adds.

 

“Ahh yes,” the Viscount smiles, cradling his port in his hand as he settles back against the back of his Chippendale chair. “That was a grand day, wasn’t it my girl?”

 

“Oh, it was Pappa, although it feels a hundred years ago now.” sighs Lettice. “The village hall decked out in bunting, and the villagers dressed in their best and enjoying themselves.”

 

“Young Bella did your mother proud with the second-hand clothing stall.” her father remarks. “Did both of us proud, really.”

 

“Well, she did feel the weight of being a Chetwynd now, and she was determined to do her bit to make the day a success, even with the addition of Miss Evans’ awfully old fashioned picture hat.”

 

“Was that the great monstrosity of feathers and fruit that stood in prime position on Bella’s trestle?”

 

“It was.”

 

“I thought I recognised it, but I couldn’t quite place it on the day.”

 

“The elder Miss Evans put it there in pride of place herself, so Bella didn’t dare move it.” Lettice laughs.

 

“Nor did anyone else, I’ll wager.” remarks the Viscount. “No wonder Mrs. Maginot looked so aghast when she saw it sitting there. I now recall Geraldine Evans telling your mother and I at least a dozen times at different church services in 1911 that Mrs. Maginot made it for her at great expense for the King’s Coronation.”

 

“She must have left an impression on you, Pappa, if you remember that all these years later.”

 

“I don’t think she’d ever let us forget it, my darling girl.” the Viscount chortles before taking another draught of his port.

 

“It was so good to see Aunt Gwyneth and Aunt Isobel out and about that day too. Gerald tells me that Aunt Gwyneth still has respiratory problems, and of course Aunt Isobel has her radiation treatments to recoup from.”

 

“Yes, poor Gwyneth. The hard winter this last year really did weigh down on her, but I partially blame old Bruton as much as I do the wintery weather. After all, he’s the one who fitters any money they make from selling off parcels of the Bruton estate without investing it in the maintenance of the roof or blocking out the draughts so poor Gwyneth can keep warm and dry. There is a pervasive sense of damp throughout Bruton Hall these days, even in the summer months, and I’ll wager that’s gotten into Gwyneth’s lungs. She really needs a few months seaside holiday down at Lyme Regis.” he opines. “Not that they can probably even afford that.”

 

“Yes, Gerald has told me that Bruton Hall is slowly crumbling down around his parents’ ears.”

 

“I’m only lucky that it’s not the same here.” remarks the Viscount as he looks around him. “It’s not easy trying to keep things going. Leslie and I have to keep on top of things before they become too much of a problem.”

 

“Well, I know Leslie has been a great help to you, assisting with house and estate business.”

 

“I don’t suppose young Gerald is helping his parents at all.”

 

“In a financial way, do you mean, Pappa?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Oh no, Pappa.” Lettice replies dourly. “His fashion house is only just getting established, so any money he makes from his enterprise must go back into it to help strengthen it against lean times. He currently has a few rather influential clients whose accounts are frightfully in arrears, but he daren’t say anything to them, lest they influence their friends to look for frocks elsewhere.”

 

“Rather like your mother’s cousin Gwendolyn was with you, eh?”

 

“Ugh!” groans Lettice, remembering the difficulties she had getting her mother’s cousin, the Duchess of Whitby, to pay for Lettice’s redecoration services of her London home. “Yes, every bit like her, Pappa – maybe even worse. Anyway, why should Gerald put his hard earned money into a house that he will never inherit, especially if as you say, Lord Bruton and Roland just squander any money they should put towards the maintenance of Bruton Hall?”

 

“Well, I thought for his mother’s comfort, he might.”

 

“I think if he felt that any money would go to Aunt Gwyneth’s comfort, he would, Pappa.” Lettice intimates before sipping her glass of port again. She looks at her father seriously. “However, he knows better.”

 

“Well, it’s a shabby state of affairs, I must say.” the Viscount says with a resigned sigh.

 

“It’s very sad indeed, Pappa.”

 

“I’ll tell you in confidence, Lettice, I worry about the fate of both Bruton Hall and Garstanton Park,” the Viscount admits quietly. “As I doubt our new Lord Tyrwhitt will do as well as Sherbourne did as lord of the manor.”

 

“Nigel, do you mean?” Lettice queries. When her father nods, she exclaims. “Pappa, that’s most unkind of you!” She pulls her little gold Longines*** watch from the pocket of her frock, the same dress she had worn to the Henley Regatta**** with Selwyn Spencely earlier in the day, and looks at the face. “He’s only been Lord Tyrwhitt for a few hours. How can you pass such a harsh judgement on him?”

 

“He’s his mother’s son, just like Bella was her father’s daughter, my darling girl.” the Viscount elucidates matter-of-factly, shrugging his shoulders. “Bella is a country girl, through and through, just like Sherbourne was. That’s why she’s a good match for Leslie. They both love the country. She knows one end of a cow from the other, can manage horses, has a head for farming and can judge a cattle show. Nigel on the other hand,” He rolls his eyes, looking to the ornate Georgian plaster ceiling above. “Well he’s a city person, just like Isobel. He spends more time in their house around the corner from you in Mayfair than he does down here.”

 

“That’s not fair, Pappa. He keeps Aunt Isobel company when she comes up to London for her radiation therapy.”

 

“And he stays up there long after she has come back.” the Viscount retorts with a cocked eyebrow. “How many times have I seen young Tyrwhitt’s face alongside yours in the London society pages? Far more than I have seen it in the county papers where it belongs, let me assure you, my girl!”

 

“Well Nigel can’t help it if his penchant for music, which incidentally he inherited from Uncle Sherbourne, keeps him up in London.”

 

“It’s more than that, my darling girl!” the Viscount insists. “His heart is there, not here. He longs for the bright lights and bustle of London, just like you do. He’ll never make a good squire if he has no love of the countryside he owns.”

 

“Well, I think you are being too harsh on him, Pappa.” Lettice defends her friend. “You’ll see.”

 

“Oh, we will all see, my darling girl, in the fullness of time.” he replies dourly. “We will all see in the fullness of time.”

 

*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.

 

**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.

 

***Compagnie des Montres Longines, Francillon S.A., or simply Longines, is a Swiss luxury watchmaker based in Saint-Imier, Switzerland. Founded by Auguste Agassiz in 1832, the company has been a subsidiary of the Swiss Swatch Group and its predecessors since 1983. Its winged hourglass logo, registered in 1889, is the oldest unchanged active trademark registered with the World Intellectual Property Organisation

 

Cluttered with books and art, Viscount Wrexham’s library with its Georgian furnishings is different from what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures from my collection.

 

***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.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The majority of the books that you see lining the shelves of the Viscount’s library are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. So too are the postcards and the box for them on the Viscount’s Chippendale desk. Most of the books I own that Ken 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. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. The same can be said of this selection of his postcards, which are authentic 1:12 scale examples of real postcards. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really do make these miniature artisan pieces. 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.

 

On the desk are some 1:12 artisan miniature ink bottles and a blotter on a silver salver all made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures. The ink bottles are made from tiny faceted crystal beads and have sterling silver bottoms and lids. The ink blotter is sterling silver too and has a blotter made of real black felt, cut meticulously to size to fit snugly inside the frame. The silver double frame on the desk also comes from Mick and Marie’s Miniature Collectables. The bottle of port and the port glasses I acquired from a miniatures stockist on E-Bay. Each glass, the bottle and its faceted stopper are hand blown using real glass.

 

The Chippendale desk itself is made by Bespaq, and it has a mahogany stain and the design is taken from a real Chippendale desk. Its surface is covered in red dioxide red dioxide leather with a gilt trim. Bespaq is a high-end miniature furniture maker with high attention to detail and quality.

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 very far from Cavendish Mews, and in fact far from London. Taking advantage of their employers’ attendance of an amusing Friday to Monday country house party in Scotland, Lettice’s maid, Edith, and her best friend Hilda, the maid of Lettice’s married Embassy Club coterie friends Dickie and Margot Channon, with permission, have arranged to take a weekend trip to Manchester where they are staying for Friday and Saturday nights, before returning to London on Sunday so that they are ready to receive their employers upon their return on Monday. Both maids landed upon the idea to visit their friend Queenie on the Saturday. She lives in the village of Alderley Edge, just outside of Manchester, which is easily accessible via the railway, allowing them to take tea with her at a small tearoom in the pretty Cheshire village.

 

Queenie, Edith and Hilda all used to work together for Mrs. Plaistow, the rather mean wife of a manufacturing magnate who has a Regency terrace in Pimlico. Queenie was the cheerful head parlour maid, so both Edith and Hilda as younger and less experienced lower housemaids, fell under her instruction. Queenie chucked her position at Mrs. Plaistow’s a few years ago and took a new position as a maid for two elderly spinster sisters in Cheshire to be closer to her mother, who lives in Manchester. Still in touch with Edith, Queenie writes regularly, sharing stories of her life in the big old Victorian villa she now calls home, half of which is shut up because one of the two sisters is an invalid whilst the other is in frail condition and finds it hard to access the upper floors.

 

However, life for Queenie proved to be not as bright as her letters indicated, and all three maids were made to feel unwelcome at Mrs. Chase’s Tearooms in Alderley Edge because of their working class backgrounds by the snobbish proprietor and equally class conscious patrons, and Queenie revealed more sad stories after they left Mrs. Chase’s establishment, leaving both her friends aghast.

 

Now we find ourselves back in Manchester along Deansgate* where after returning to the city from Chester by railway, Edith and Hilda are taking advantage of their free time before dinner at their cheap, but respectable, hotel for single and travelling women, by taking in a few more of the sights of Manchester and are currently shopping at a beautiful manchester and linen shop along the ground floor of a tall four storey building towards the north end of Deansgate.

 

The soft linens covering the surfaces of tables and counters, as well as hanging from the walls of the shop serve as a buffer against the noisy sounds outside the large plate glass windows as heavy foot traffic fills the pavement of Deansgate, and electric trams** rattle noisily along the thoroughfare, their sound mixing in with the chug of motorcars and buses and the vociferous sound of human chatter. The smell of freshly laundered linen filling the air of the establishment, and keeping out the miasma of mechanical motorcar and lorry fumes, reminds Edith of her mother, who is a laundress, and of the kitchen of her family home in Harlesden where she does all the ironing on the big, round kitchen table. Extra protection from the acrid fumes outside is provided by the fragrance of fresh flowers which stand about in pretty vases on the surfaces of tables and chests of drawers, adding a bright shock of colour to the otherwise mostly snowy white surrounds of the establishment.

 

“This is nice, Edith.” Hilda remarks, picking up a dainty lace doily from a round table covered with a long lace tablecloth which is covered in napery and dollies, all arranged around a squat blue and white vase filled with brightly coloured pansies. “You could add this to your glory box***.”

 

“Hhhmmm…” Edith mutters distractedly, glancing up from where she thumbs a bunch of crisply pressed white sheets.

 

“For your glory box, Edith.” Hilda says again.

 

Edith considers the dainty piece of diamond shaped intricate lace in her best friend’s sausage like fingers. “No, I don’t think so, Hilda. Mum has already acquired a whole lot of beautiful lace doilies for me from flea markets.”

 

“Yes, but just imagine having something new like this.” Hilda enthuses. “No one has ever used it before.”

 

“If they’ll take my grubby maid’s wage here.” Edith mutters sulkily, releasing the sheet from between her index finger and thumb.

 

“Here, here!” Hilda exclaims, carefully replacing the doily amidst the pieces carefully arranged for display on the table and hurries over to her friend. “You mustn’t talk like that, Edith.” She winds her arms around her friend’s back and squeezes her upper arms beneath her plum coloured coat comfortingly.

 

“Why not?” Edith asks grumpily. “It’s how I feel.”

 

“And here I was thinking I was the one most put out by Mrs. Chase’s snobbery and that of her snooty customers.”

 

Edith sighs with frustration. “Evidently not, Hilda.” She runs her fingers over the knobbly woven lacework of a tablecloth that has been rolled up and stacked on top of the sheets she was considering for potential purchase.

 

“You mustn’t let this afternoon spoil our holiday.” Hilda insists, giving Edith’s shoulders another squeeze, before releasing her and moving alongside her at the table covered in table linen. She looks her friend squarely in the face. “Don’t tar everyone with the same brush. Yes, that nasty Mrs. Chase, or whatever her name was, was a nasty snob. But you said yourself that in a big city like London or Manchester, we can blend in with everyone else, and no-one knows who we are, or what we do for a living. You’re money’s every bit as good here as some mill owner’s wife or manchester merchant.” She nods seriously.

 

“Oh you’re right.” Edith sighs again. “I don’t mean to be out of sorts, but it’s more than the snobbery that’s gotten to me, Hilda. It’s the other business Queenie mentioned that really upset me the most.”

 

Edith’s mind drifts back to the charming Cheshire village of Alderley Edge where she and Hilda had had cream teas at Mrs. Chase’s Tearooms. After hurriedly finishing their scones and tea, scoffing them in less than ladylike gulps, the three friends had retreated to the relative safety of the street, where the late winter air around them felt warmer than the atmosphere of the tearooms. Following Queenie as she walked down the high street towards the Victorian villa owned by her employers, the Miss Bradleys, Hilda and Edith remained in awkward silence as they waited for their friend to explain why they had been made to feel so unwelcome in Mrs. Chase’s. The wide street, lined with neat Victorian and Edwardian double story shops, many built of red brick with slate roofs and Mock Tudor gabling, was relatively empty, with only a handful of smartly dressed people going about their business and a smattering of automobiles and lorries trundling past them in either direction, their chugging more noticeable in a village setting than in the busy streets of London where such noises are constant.

 

“At least no-one can make us feel second rate here on the footpath.” Hilda had said. ‘We have just as much right to be here as anyone else.”

 

Finally, Queenie stopped walking and sank down onto a public bench near the kerbside. She apologised to her two friends for spoiling their visit. “I should have insisted that I come to Manchester and meet you there. It’s just that when I received your postcard****, Edith, you and Hilda had arranged everything so nicely. You’d obviously worked out the railway schedules so you knew what time you would arrive and which train to take to get back to Manchester at a reasonable hour, so I just thought I’d take you to the only tearooms I know of that are nice in Alderley Edge. I didn’t want to spoil your plans.”

 

Queenie went on to explain that whilst Alderley Edge was a beautiful village, living in such a small community was different to living in a big city like London, which afforded anonymity. In her new home, everyone knew who Queenie was, and that she was the maid-of-all-work to the Miss Bradleys, and dining in the same establishment as a maid did not sit well with the snobbish mistresses of the neighbourhood who frequented Mrs. Chase’s Tearooms as well.

 

“You really need to leave here, if this is how things are, with everyone knowing who you are and judging you unfairly for it. Edith said to Queenie in concern. “Come back to London. There are plenty of jobs for parlour maids. With your experience, you could have the pick of the lot.”

 

“Well, it is true that I am currently looking for a new situation.” Queenie admitted. “However, it has its own complications, and I’m not looking to come back to London. I want to stay in Manchester, so I can be closer to Mum.”

 

“What complications?” Hilda queried from her seat beside her friend on the bench.

 

“Well, I haven’t told either of you, but old Miss Ida, the infirm Miss Bradley, had a fall and died about two months ago.” Queenie elucidated. “She hit her head on the patterned tiles in the hallway. She must have been trying to go upstairs in the night, although goodness knows why. Her mind seemed to have been slipping in the months prior. She was always looking for things she thought she’d lost, and at odd times of the night. It was almost as if she couldn’t rest until she’d found what she wanted. And she called me Nellie too, which Miss Florence told me was the name of their maid when their father was still alive, and she’s been buried in the churchyard many a winter. Once I caught Miss Ida trying to go out of doors at three in the morning, dressed only in her nightdress and bedcap, barefoot and raving that she would be late for school!”

 

“School?” Edith asked with wide eyes.

 

“Like I said, she was losing her mind, and I think Miss Florence knew it, because she instructed their lawyers to summon their nephew, Mr. Skellern to come and stop for a while. He’s been staying with us ever since just before Miss Ida died, but unlike the Miss Bradleys, he’s not a nice person. He’s haughty, demanding, and more of a snob than the ladies in Mrs. Chase’s, if you can believe that.” She paused for a moment, contemplating whether to continue. “He never calls me by my name: as if calling me Queenie, like I was christened, is too lowering for him. He calls me ‘girl’ instead. ‘Girl come here!’ ‘Girl, do that.’ ‘Get out of this room at once girl.’ ‘Do as I say, girl, and don’t question me.‘ And he’s accused me of trying to thieve from the sisters, which I’d never do!”

 

“Of course you wouldn’t!” agreed Hilda and Edith in their friend’s defence.

 

“I caught him counting the silverware one afternoon, and he accused me of stealing a carving set with silver collars that belonged to his great uncle, the Miss Bradley’s father, which I had never seen. I had to go to Miss Florence in her bed to plead my case, and she cleared up the matter with Mr. Skellern.”

 

“How did she do that?” Hilda asked.

 

“She told him that the set he mentioned, which Mr. Skellern had only ever seen in a photo taken of Mr. Bradley before he was even born, had been given away as a donation for a charity auction to raise money for wounded Boer War soldiers, years before I ever came to work for the Miss Bradleys.”

 

“That’s awful!” Edith cried in horror at Queenie’s story.

 

“What’s worse is that,” Queenie blushed red as she spoke the next words. “You implied in Mrs. Chase’s that I might have been with child, which I’m not,” She put up her careworn hands in defence of herself. “But only because luck’s a fortune.”

 

“Did Mr. Skellern try and take advantage of you?” Edith asked Queenie anxiously.

 

Queenie confirmed Edith’s worst fears with a shallow nod. “In the library. I was dusting the books, at his instruction, and was up the library steps. He tried to get his hands up under my skirt, and my camiknickers***** from John Lewis****** down, but I fought him off.”

 

“That’s disgusting!” Hilda burst hotly. “Good for you, Queenie!”

 

“Yes, but Mr. Skellern took offence to my refusal of his advances, and now I’m concerned that he’s trying to put his aunt into a convalescent home. He keeps threatening to dismiss me without a reference, and I’ve only been saved from that disaster by Miss Florence’s presence. Miss Florence won’t hear a bad word said about her nephew, nor will she contemplate writing me a reference because as far as she is concerned, she isn’t leaving her home, and I’ve been very happy within the employ of she and her sister. So, I’m trying to find a job as a hotel chambermaid in Manchester.”

 

“A chambermaid, Queenie?” Hilda asked in horror.

 

“They are less picky about references, and the pay’s better.” Queenie admitted a little guiltily.

 

“But you may be assaulted by a man like Mr. Skellern, Queenie!” Edith gasped. “You’ve heard the stories.”

 

“I don’t have many other options without a reference from Miss Florence. Thus is the plight of a poor, humble parlour maid. I could do far worse than be a hotel chambermaid, Edith.” Queenie cocked her eyebrow knowingly. “I’ve been told by more than Mr. Skellern that I’m pretty.”

 

“Don’t even consider it, Queenie!” Hilda shuddered. “Please!”

 

“Not all men are like Mr. Skellern.” Queenie replied with a cheeky glint in her eyes. “There have to be nice, wealthy men out there, who are just waiting to meet their Cinderella and sweep her from the ashes.”

 

The subtle clearing of a male throat near to her interrupts Edith’s reminisces about the conversation she and Hild had with Queenie in Alerley Edge earlier in the day. She gasps and looks to her left.

 

“I’m so sorry, madam.” a suited man says politely in an educated Mancunian accent. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

 

“It’s quite alright.” Hilda replies for her friend.

 

“I was just wondering whether there was anything I could assist you with, today, ladies.” he goes on.

 

“Ladies?” Edith pulls a face and nods at Hilda. “Well!”

 

“It isn’t often we get two such well dressed visitors from London in our humble establishment. You are from London, aren’t you, ladies?”

 

“Indeed we are!” Hilda answers for she and Edith in surprise.

 

“It’s your accents.” the floor walker goes on, answering Hilda’s unspoken question. “You’re either from London, or perhaps Cheshire?”

 

“London, most definitely.” Edith affirms.

 

“Then is there anything I can show you two London ladies that might be of interest?” he asks politely.

 

“See, I told you,” Hilda hisses to her best friend. “They aren’t all like Mrs. Chase and her cronies.”

 

Edith smiles at her friend before addressing the male assistant. “I was wondering what you had in the way of napkins, but not white ones. I’m rather partial to ecru or yellow.”

 

“Well, as you may have seen on the table over there,” he indicates with a sweeping, open palmed gesture to the round table where Hilda had found the dainty diamond shaped doily. “We do have some rather pretty mats with a yellow embroidered trim, and some rather fetching yellow napkins.” He reaches under the counter, out of sight of Edith and Hilda, and withdraws several placemats and napkins neatly folded and pressed into triangles. “Perhaps these might be of interest.”

 

*Deansgate is one of Manchester’s oldest thoroughfares. In Roman times its route passed close to the Roman fort of Mamucium and led from the River Medlock where there was a ford and the road to Deva (now Chester). Part of it was called Aldport Lane from Saxon times. (Aldport was the Saxon name for Castlefield). Until the 1730s the area was rural but became built up after the development of a quay on the river. The road is named after the lost River Dene, which may have flowed along the Hanging Ditch connecting the River Irk to the River Irwell at the street's northern end. ‘Gate’ derives from the Norse gata, meaning way. By the late Nineteenth Century Deansgate was an area of varied uses: its northern end had shopping and substantial office buildings while further south were slums and a working-class area around St John's Church.

 

**In the first half of the Twentieth Century, Deansgate was a route for trams operated by the Manchester Corporation Tramways, and subsequently carried numerous bus services when the trams were decommissioned.

 

***A hope chest, also called dowry chest, cedar chest, trousseau chest, or glory box is a piece of furniture once commonly used by unmarried young women to collect items, such as clothing and household linen, in anticipation of married life.

 

****One hundred years ago, postcards were the most common and easiest way to communicate with loved ones not only across countries whilst on holidays, but across neighbourhoods on a daily basis with the minutiae of life on them. This is because unlike today where mail is delivered on a daily basis, there were several deliveries done a day. At the height of the postcard mania in 1903, London residents could have as many as twelve separate visits from the mailman.

 

*****A camiknicker is a one piece form of lingerie which comprises a camisole top, and loose French Knicker style bottom. They are normally loose fitting enabling the wearer to step into them although some feature poppers or buttons at one side to give a more fitted look or a self tie belt to accentuate the wearer’s figure.

 

******John Lewis opened a drapery shop at 132 Oxford Street, London, in 1864. Born in Shepton Mallet in Somerset in 1836, he had been apprenticed at fourteen to a linen draper in Wells. He came to London in 1856 and worked as a salesman for Peter Robinson, an Oxford Street draper, rising to be his silk buyer. In 1864, he declined Robinson's offer of a partnership, and rented his own premises on the north side of Oxford Street, on part of the site now occupied by the department store which bears his name. There he sold silk and woollen cloth and haberdashery. His retailing philosophy was to buy good quality merchandise and sell it at a modest mark up. Although he carried a wide range of merchandise, he was less concerned about displaying it and never advertised it. His skill lay in sourcing the goods he sold, and most mornings he would go to the City of London, accompanied by a man with a hand barrow. Later he would make trips to Paris to buy silks. It is said that in 1905 John Lewis walked from Oxford Street to Sloane Square with twenty £1000 notes in his pocket and bought the Peter Jones department store. Sales at Peter Jones had been falling since 1902 and its new owner failed to reverse the trend. In 1914 he handed control of the store to his son Spedan. Lewis was regarded as an autocratic employer, prone to dismissing staff arbitrarily. The stores had difficulty retaining staff (there was a strike in 1920) and performed poorly compared to his rivals such as Whiteleys, Gorringes and Owen Owen. His management style led to conflict with his sons who disagreed with his business methods. It was only after his death that the company was transformed into the John Lewis Partnership, a worker co-operative. By the 1920s, when this story is set, there were John Lewis stores up and down Britain, including in Manchester. Today located in the Trafford Centre, John Lewis Manchester is one of the largest department stores in Europe, carrying half a million product lines.

 

This may look like a wonderful array of linens you might like to lay upon your table, but you might need a smaller surface for them, as this whole scene is made up of 1:12 size miniatures from my miniatures collection including pieces I have had since I was a child.

 

Fun thing to look for in this tableau include:

 

All the lace around the shop come from different places, including: Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom, Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom, and Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. There are also a few miniature artisan pieces from private collectors and there are even a few life size lace doilies cleverly disguised in this scene. The two lace doilies on the central table in the midground I have had since I was a child, and were acquired from a high street specialist shop who stocked 1:12 size miniatures. The placemats with their hand sewn gold trim and the lemon yellow napkins I acquired along with an artisan picnic basket from America. The lace tablecloth on the round central table is in reality a small lace doily that I bought from an antique shop in Inglewood in provincial Victoria. The dainty floral edged piece hanging on the wall at the back to the far left also came from there. The blue and yellow embroidered floral cloth in the foreground is an old hand embroidered doily from the 1920s that I have had in my possession for a long time. The starched sheets tied with ribbon on the table in the foreground and the clothes horse you can just see the edge of to the left of the photo come from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop.

 

All the floral arrangements come from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

Edith’s green handbag and Hilda’s brown one are handmade from soft leather is part of a larger collection of hats and bags that I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel.

 

The black umbrella came from an online stockist of 1:12 miniatures on E-Bay.

The crew of 3237 give a friendly wave as they race their train north away from Kyogle loop, on the way to Loadstone with a local passenger shuttle.

American postcard by Western Publishing & Novelty Co., Los Angeles, Calif, no. 849. Caption: Home of Gene Autry, North Hollywood, California.

 

Gene Autry (1907-1998) was an American singer, and actor who gained fame as a singing cowboy in a crooning style on radio, in films, and on television for more than three decades beginning in the early 1930s. From 1934 to 1953, Autry appeared in 93 films, and between 1950 and 1956 hosted The Gene Autry Show television series.

 

Orvon Grover "Gene" Autry was born near Tioga in Grayson County in north Texas, in 1907. His parents were Delbert Autry and Elnora Ozment. He worked on his father's ranch while at school. After leaving high school in 1925, Autry worked as a telegrapher for the St. Louis–San Francisco Railway. His talent at singing and playing guitar led to performing at local dances. While working as a telegraph operator in Chelsea, Oklahoma, Autry would sing and accompany himself on the guitar to pass the lonely hours. One night, he was encouraged to sing professionally by a customer, the famous humorist Will Rogers. As soon as he could save money to travel, he went to New York. In the autumn of 1928 he auditioned for Victor Records, but was turned down. He got the advice to sing on radio to gain experience and to come back in a year or two. In 1928, Autry was singing on Tulsa radio station KVOO (now KFAQ) as 'Oklahoma's Yodeling Cowboy'. Autry signed a recording deal with Columbia Records in 1929. He worked in Chicago on the WLS-AM radio show National Barn Dance for four years, and with his own show, where he met singer-songwriter Smiley Burnette. Autry and Burnette were discovered by film producer Nat Levine in 1934. Together, Autry and Burnette made their film debut for Mascot Pictures Corp. in In Old Santa Fe (David Howard, Joseph Kane, 1934) starring Key Maynard, as part of a singing cowboy quartet. He was then given the starring role by Levine in the 12-part serial The Phantom Empire (Otto Brower, B. Reeves Eason, 1935) with Frankie Darro. Shortly thereafter, Mascot was absorbed by the newly formed Republic Pictures Corp. and Autry went along to make a further 44 films up to 1940, all B-Westerns in which he played under his own name, rode his horse, Champion, had Burnette as his regular sidekick, and had many opportunities to sing in each film.

 

During the 1930s and 1940s, Gene Autry personified the straight-shooting hero—honest, brave, and true—and profoundly touched the lives of millions of Americans. In the Motion Picture Herald Top Ten Money-Making Western Stars poll, Autry was listed every year from the first poll in 1936 to 1942 and 1946 to 1954 (he was serving in the AAF 1943–45), holding first place 1937 to 1942, and second place (after Roy Rogers) 1947 to 1954, when the poll ceased. He also appeared in the Top Ten Money Making Stars Poll of all films from 1940 to 1942. His films often grossed ten times their average $50,000 production costs. Gene Autry was the first of the singing cowboys in films, but was succeeded as the top star by Roy Rogers while Autry served s a flight officer with the Air Transport Command during World War II. Part of his military service included his broadcast of a radio show for one year; it involved music and true stories. Gene briefly returned to Republic after the war to finish out his contract. The contract had been suspended for the duration of his military service, and he had tried to have it declared void after his discharge. Republic did then publicize him as King of the Singing Cowboys. He appeared in the film Texans Never Cry (Frank McDonald, 1951), with a role for newcomer Mary Castle. After 1951, Autry formed his own production company, Flying A Productions, to make Westerns under his own control, which continued the 1947 distribution agreement with Columbia Pictures. During the 1950s, Flying A produced his TV series The Gene Autry Show (1950), The Adventures of Champion (1955), and Annie Oakley (1954).

 

Gene Autry was also one of the most important pioneering figures in the history of country music, considered the second major influential artist of the genre's development after Jimmie Rodgers. His singing cowboy films were the first vehicle to carry country music to a national audience. In addition to his signature song, 'Back in the Saddle Again', and his hit 'At Mail Call Today', Autry is still remembered for his Christmas holiday songs, most especially his biggest hit 'Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer' as well as 'Frosty the Snowman', 'Here Comes Santa Claus', and 'Up on the House Top'. From 1940 to 1956, Autry had a huge hit with a weekly show on CBS Radio, Gene Autry's Melody Ranch. His horse, Champion, also had a CBS-TV and Mutual radio series, The Adventures of Champion. In response to his many young radio listeners aspiring to emulate him, Autry created the Cowboy Code, or Ten Cowboy Commandments. These tenets promoting an ethical, moral, and patriotic lifestyle that appealed to youth organizations such as the Boy Scouts, which developed similar doctrines. Autry retired from show business in 1964, having made almost 100 films up to 1955 and over 600 records. Autry was the owner of a television station, several radio stations in Southern California, and the Los Angeles / California / Anaheim Angels Major League Baseball team from 1961 to 1997. At the age of 91, Gene Autry diedin 1998 in Studio City, California, U.S. In 1932, Autry had married Ina May Spivey, the niece of Jimmy Long. After she died in 1980, he married Jacqueline Ellam, who had been his banker, in 1981. He had no children by either marriage. He is a member of both the Country Music Hall of Fame and Nashville Songwriters Hall of Fame, and is the only person to be awarded stars in all five categories on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, for film, television, music, radio, and live performance. The town of Gene Autry, Oklahoma was named in his honor, as was the Gene Autry precinct in Mesa, Arizona.

 

Sources: Wikipedia and IMDb.

 

And, please check out our blog European Film Star Postcards.

[Gran Turismo 7 - 917K]

5DIII & 50f1.8@1.8. Playing around with the nifty-fifty.

Otranto occupies the site of an ancient Greek city. It gained importance in Roman times, as it was the nearest port to the eastern coast of the Adriatic Sea.

 

After the end of the Roman Empire, it was in the hands of the Byzantine emperors until it surrendered to the Norman troops of Robert Guiscard in 1068. The Normans fortified the city and built the cathedral, that got consecrated in 1088. When Henry VI., son of Emperor Frederick Barbarossa, married Constanze of Sicily in 1186 Otranto came under the rule of the Hohenstaufen and later in the hands of Ferdinand I of Aragón, King of Naples.

 

Between 1480 and 1481 the "Ottoman invasion" took place here. Troops of the Ottoman Empire invaded and laid siege to the city and its citadel. Legends tell that more than 800 inhabitants were beheaded after the city was captured. The "Martyrs of Otranto" are still celebrated in Italy, their skulls are on display in the cathedral. A year later the Ottoman garrison surrendered the city following a siege by Christian forces and the intervention of Papal forces.

 

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Otranto had been one of the last Byzantine strongholds in Apulia, but finally Robert Guiscard could take it. It had probably been such a stronghold, as Otranto had hosted an autocephalous bishopric, only dependent of the patriarchal see of Byzantium since 968. So (Roman) Catholicism had to perform something "convincing" for the so long (Byzantine) Orthodox christians. One was to erect a huge church. The Otranto Cathedral was erected, over ruins of a Paleo-christian church from 1080 on and was consecrated in 1088. It is 54 metres long by 25 metres wide and is built on 42 monolithic granite and marble columns.

 

I had come to Otranto, to see the mosaic. I had planned to stay one night in Otranto, I spent three nights - and still had not seen all the details. I was so overwhelmed, that I took hundreds of photos, but the mosaic is "endless". I will upload only a couple.

 

It was created by a monk named Pantaleon and his workshop between 1163 and 1165. Pantaleon lived at the monastery San Nicola di Casole, located a few kilometres south of Otranto.

 

The mosaic covers the nave, both aisles, the apse and the presbytery. This sums up to a total of 1596 m². About 10 000000 (10 million!) "tesserae" were used.

 

There are scholars, who have counted up to 700 different "stories", that are told here. Though, these "stories" are often disputed, as today's interpretations are mostly very "vague". German historian Carl Arnold Willemsen published the most important book about the mosaic in Italian " L'enigma di Otranto", that since the 1970s is translated in many languages. I followed his theories.

 

Two men armed with round shields and long clubs are fighting. To the left a horse with a mane, that looks like flames and the Tree of Life has developed a leaf or fruit, that looks like a large boxfish.

  

Jazz

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 east of Cavendish Mews, down through St James’, around Trafalgar Square and up Charing Cross Road, where, near the corner of Great Newport Street, Lettice is visiting A. H. Mayhew’s*, a bookshop in the heart of London’s specialist and antiquarian bookseller district, patronised by her father, Viscount Wrexham. It is here that Lettice hopes to find the perfect birthday present for 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. Selwyn is not one to make a fuss about his birthday, but under Lettice’s persistent pressure, he has acquiesced and agreed to an intimate dinner with Lettice at The Savoy Hotel** in a few weeks. This gives Lettice just enough time to find a present for Selwyn. As Lettice lingers out the front of Mr. Mayhew’s, peering through his tall plate glass windows that proudly bear his name and advertise that he does purchase libraries of old books, she hopes that somewhere amidst the full shelves inside, there is the book she hopes to give to Selwyn that will further solidify her commitment to him in his eyes.

 

She sighs and walks up to the recessed door of the bookshop which she pushes open. A cheerful bell dings loudly above her head, announcing her presence. As the door closes behind her, it shuts out the general cacophony of noisy automobiles, chugging busses and passing shoppers’ conversations dissipates, the shop enveloping her in a cozy muffled silence produced by the presence of so many shelves fully laden with volumes. She inhales deeply and savours the comforting smell of dusty old books and pipe smoke. The walls are lined with floor to ceiling shelves, all full of books: thousands of volumes on so many subjects. Sunlight pours through the tall shop windows facing out to the street, highlighting the worn Persian and Turkish carpets whose hues, once so bright, vivid and exotic, have softened with exposure to the sunlight and any number of pairs of boots and shoes of customers, who like Lettice, searched Mayhew’s shelves for the perfect book to take away with them. Dust motes, something Lettice always associates with her father’s library in Wiltshire, dance blithely through beams of sunlight before disappearing without a trace into the shadows.

 

Lettice makes her way through the shop, wandering along its narrow aisles, reaching up to touch various Moroccan leather spines embossed with gilt lettering of titles and authors, until she nears the middle of the shop, where sitting at his desk before a small coal fire, smoking his pipe, sits the bespectacled Mr. Mayhew in his jacket, vest and bowtie, carefully checking titles on his desk’s surface against a hand written inventory. The portly, balding gentleman is so wrapped up in his work that he appears not to notice Lettice as she stands before him.

 

“Good afternoon Mr. Mayhew.” Lettice says, her clipped tones slicing through the thick silence of the shop.

 

“Ahh,” Mr. Mayhew sighs with delight as he realises who is standing before him, removing his gold rimmed spectacles and setting them aside atop his old cash box featuring an old photograph of a Georgian Mansion cut from an old book that could not be salvaged and sold. “Why if it isn’t my favourite Wiltshire reader herself.” He takes one final pleasurable puff of his pipe before putting it aside.

 

Lettice rolls her eyes and smiles indulgently. “I’m quote sure you say that to every reader whom you know well, Mr. Mayhew.”

 

“Ahh,” the old man remarks, lifting himself out of the comfort of the well worn chair behind his desk, wiping his hands down the front of his thick black barathea vest. “But not every reader I know as well as you come from Wiltshire, Miss Chetwynd.” He reaches out and takes Lettice’s dainty glove clad hand in his and raises it to his lips.

 

“You kiss me like I’m the Queen, Mr. Mayhew.” Lettice laughs.

 

“Well, you are royalty, of a sort, to me, Miss Chetwynd,” Mr. Mayhew replies as he releases her hand. “You and your father.”

 

“Yes,” Lettice muses happily. “I don’t suppose you have many customers who are such avid collectors or rare antiquarian editions of Goethe*** as my father.”

 

“Now, now, Miss Chetwynd, you play your own part in the success of Mayhew’s,” the old bookseller chortles. “Thanks to you showing an interest in fine editions yourself, under your father’s wonderful tutelage.”

 

“Well, I’d hardly classify myself as a collector, Mr. Mayhew.” Lettice scoffs. “At least not like my father is, but then I live in a neat modern flat in Mayfair which does not afford me the space of a library like my father has.”

 

“More’s the pity, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Mayhew opines. “I feel every home should have a library.”

 

“You’d be far wealthier if they did, Mr. Mayhew.”

 

“That may be true, Miss Chetwynd,” Mr. Mayhew agrees. “But you misjudge my motivations.” he chides Lettice mildly. “I didn’t establish my little bookshop simply to make money. What a ludicrous idea that any shopkeeper would set up his establishment simply to make money, when he can take equal measure of profit and pleasure from his endeavours. I have a great love of books, Miss Chetwynd, both the written word and the engraving,” He waves his hands expansively at the floor to ceiling bookshelves around him, filled with hundreds of volumes on all manner of subjects. “As well you know. And I feel that a house is not a home without at least a small library of books.”

 

“Then I suppose my flat may be classified as a home in your eyes, Mr. Mayhew, since I do have a number of beautiful volumes from you in my own bookshelves.”

 

“Of course you do, my dear Miss Chetwynd.” the old man purrs pleasurably. “You are a discerning woman of good taste.”

 

“And deep pockets, just like my father.” Lettice laughs good-heartedly.

 

“Now, what is it that I can entice you to add to your bookshelves today, Miss Chetwynd?” He steps out from behind his cluttered desk and speaks as he moves. “Now let me see. I did recently get a splendid edition of some Georgian interior designs that might appeal to you. Did you find that Regency cabinet maker’s book I found for you, useful, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“Oh I did Mr. Mayhew.” Lettice replies, acknowledging one of a number of fine and rare books the old bookseller has found Lettice since her move to London and the establishment of her interior design business.

 

“Splendid! Splendid!” Mr. Mayhew clucks, clapping his hands in delight.

 

“However, it isn’t me that I’ve come looking for a book for.” Lettice quickly adds before Mr. Mayhew begins the task of locating the book of Georgian interiors unnecessarily.

 

“Oh,” the bookseller replies a little downheartedly. “Well, I’m afraid I don’t have any new antiquarian versions of Gothe that I think His Lordship would like.” He scratches his balding head. “Although I do have quite a fine newly published edition of Padraic Colum’s**** ‘The Golden Fleece and the Heroes who Lived Before Achilles’***** illustrated by Willy Pognay, which luckily for you, Miss Chetwynd,” He wags a chubby finger at Lettice. “I forgot to mention to your father when he ordered his last shipment of books.”

 

“Oh I’m not looking for a book for my father either, Mr. Mayhew, at least not today.”

 

“Oh?” the older gentleman turns back to Lettice. “Your friend Mr. Bruton perhaps?”

 

“No, not him either, Mr. Mayhew.”

 

“Then who are you looking for a volume for, Miss Chetwynd? You know I have no head for guessing games, and I have no doubt that a lady as sociable as you would be well connected to many a distinguished person who would enjoy a volume from my humble little establishment.”

 

“You are a flatterer, Mr. Mayhew.” Lettice laughs, blushing at the bookseller’s remark. She pauses for a moment before continuing. “I am actually looking for a book on architecture today. A very close friend of mine, who just happens to be a budding architect, is celebrating their birthday soon.”

 

“Ahh,” Mr. Mayhew replies. “And would this budding young architect happen to have recently had success with a commission for a house in Hampstead, Miss Chetwynd?” he asks discreetly.

 

“You are well informed in here, aren’t you, Mr. Mayhew?” Lettice gasps in surprise.

 

Mr. Mayhew smiles enigmatically and taps his nose knowingly. “Well, contrary to popular belief, I do occasionally have my eye drawn to the social pages of the London newspapers by Mrs. Mayhew, especially when she recognises the name of the daughter of one of my most regular and loyal customers.”

 

“Well, suppose you and your social informant were correct,“ Lettice begins discreetly.

 

“Yes, Miss Chetwynd?” Mr. Mayhew coaxes with a wry smile.

 

“And assume that the aforementioned up-and-coming architect expressly stated the fact that he was particularly enamoured in older English architecture for his own amusement.”

 

“Yes, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“If you wanted to show your sincerity and your interest in the architect’s personal amusement, what would you recommend, Mr. Mayhew?”

 

“Well, Miss Chetwynd. I’d certainly want to give him something very special indeed.”

 

“Yes, I thought you might say that, Mr. Mayhew.” Lettice smiles.

 

“Then I have not disappointed you, my dear Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Mayhew returns her smile.

 

“You never disappoint me, Mr. Mayhew.” Lettice counters. “But you never cease to surprise me.” she adds with the heavy implication that she hopes he can find for her the perfect birthday present for Selwyn.

 

“Then let Mayhew’s not let you down on that count either, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“You never do, Mr. Mayhew.” Lettice replies with a sigh of comfort, releasing a pent-up breath she didn’t realise she had been holding.

 

Mr. Mayhew picks up his spectacles and puts them on the bridge of his nose again before looking around him, squinting as he considers what volumes lie on the shelves in the darkened, cosy interior of his bookshop. As a proprietor who knows his stock well – almost like one would know a family – he says, “I think I might have just the thing. Please, take a seat, Miss Chetwynd.” He indicates to the chair on the opposite side of the desk to his own. “If I may beg your indulgence, I won’t be too long.”

 

“You may, Mr. Mayhew.” Lettice replies.

 

The bookseller makes a small bow before he bustles off, disappearing amidst the bookshelves.

 

Lettice perches herself on the edge of the rather hard Arts and Crafts wooden seat and peruses Mr. Mayhew’s cluttered desk which is piled with old leather volumes, some of which speak of times long ago with their worn covers and aged pages. On the corner of the desk, precariously balanced and in danger of falling off if the proprietor were to push the books further across his desk, sits a photograph of Mrs. Mayhew in a dainty gilt frame. Next to it sits a desk calendar, set to the wrong date. Lettice listens and hears Mr. Mayhew muttering quietly behind a bookshelf nearby as he searches for what he hopes to find. Discreetly she changes the date on the calendar to the correct date for the old bookseller, smiling as she does so. In front of the photo and calendar sits a small brass pot of ink in which stands a quill feather pen, the fibres of which are yellow with age and dust. She toys with it in an amused fashion.

 

“Here we are, Miss Chetwynd!” Mr. Mayhew replies triumphantly as he returns holding two thick volumes in his arms. He pauses as he catches Lettice stroking the quill on his desk. “What’s your penmanship like, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

Lettice turns around and smiles up at the old, balding bookseller. “Nowhere near as good as yours, I’ll wager, Mr. Mayhew.” she laughs. “Especially with this old implement. I prefer a fountain pen. I think you must be the only man left in London who uses a quill pen.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure I’m not the only man in London who still uses one,” he replies as he squeezes around the corner of his desk and returns to his side of it, dropping the volumes with a soft thud atop several other closed books. “After all, I’m sure the King has to use a quill to sign the edicts and official documents that he has to witness.”

 

“I’m sure even His Majesty uses a fountain pen now, Mr. Mayhew.” Lettice assures him. “I know Queen Mary does.”

 

“Ahh, where is your sense of romance for the art of writing, Miss Chetwynd? You must admit that if Miss Austen penned beautiful pieces of literature like ‘Persuasion’ and ‘Pride and Prejudice’ with a quill pen, that there is still a good reason to use one.”

 

“I don’t think Miss Austen had the luxury of the fountain pen being invented when she was alive, Mr. Mayhew,” Lettice laughs. “Or I am sure she would have used one as an alternative to a quill.”

 

“Perhaps, Miss Chetwynd,” Mr. Mayhew says with a cheeky smile. “But I’ll have you know that the fountain pen was actually invented before Miss Austen’s death in the early 1800s.”

 

“Is that so, Mr. Mayhew?”

 

“Indeed it is, Miss Chetwynd. It was invented in England by a man named Frederick Fölsch in 1809.”

 

“My goodness, Mr, Mayhew! Once again, I am amazed by your knowledge of such things.”

 

The bookseller basks in Lettice’s praise for a few moments before adding somewhat self-deprecatingly, “It does help that I work in a bookshop, surrounded by such knowledge, Miss Chetwynd.” He coughs and clears his throat. “Now, thinking of books, here are two volumes I think your young architect friend might like.”

 

He presents Lettice with a thick grey bound volume with black lettering embossed boldly upon its front.

 

“The Mansions of England in the Olden Times******,” Lettice reads aloud. “Pictured by Joseph Nash.”

 

“I’m afraid it is only volume two of a four volume set from 1840, Miss Chetwynd, but it is still very beautiful. ‘The Mansions of England in the Olden Times’ is considered to be Joseph Nash’s master work. He was a wonderful watercolourist, as you will see.” He indicates with open hands for Lettice to open the volume. “I think your friend might appreciate the watercolours therein.”

 

With the reverence her father taught her to have for books, particularly old and rare ones, Lettice gingerly opens the volume. Her hand gently caresses the beautifully marbled end papers before she starts turning the old pages catching the slight waft of the mixture of dust and woodsmoke of an old library, as she turns the pages.

 

“This book smells faintly like my father’s library, Mr. Mayhew.” Lettice remarks.

 

“Well, I did acquire this from the family of the late Earl of Ellenborough*******, as the library stamp inside indicates. Sadly there are many estates that are now having to part with their treasures, since they can no longer afford to keep them.”

 

“Yes,” Lettice muses sadly. “I’m only grateful that Pater is not in that position, and he can keep his beautiful library at Glynes.”

 

“As am I, Miss Chetwynd.” acknowledges the bookseller.

 

Lettice pauses at a plate featuring the withdrawing room of Bramall Hall in Cheshire. The painting of the grand room with its ornate Elizabethan ceiling, oak panelled walls and stained glass is populated with matching Elizabethan characters: a couple by the fire, a woman in a bay window and a small child in the foreground on the edge of a rather large carpet. Her nose screws up slightly in distaste.

 

“Not to your liking, Miss Chetwynd?” Mr. Mayhew asks, picking up on her slight change in expression.

 

“Possibly not to the liking of the intended recipient, Mr. Mayhew. However renown a watercolourist Joseph Nash was, I don’t think my friend would like the rooms populated with imagined characters of the era. It seems a little fey.” She closes the book carefully and gently moves it aside.

 

“Then perhaps this will be more to your friend’s tastes.”

 

The old bookseller hands over a buff coloured volume of ‘The Royal Palaces, Historic Castles and Stately Homes of Great Britain’********.

 

Lettice accepts it and flips through the pages, and quickly discovers Clendon, the family seat of the Duke and Duchess of Walmsford, and Selwyn’s ancestral family home in Buckinghamshire, amongst the plates.

 

“I think my friend is intimately familiar with many of these houses and castles, Mr. Mayhew, so I fear it may not hold the appeal to him as it might for another reader.” She closes the volume.

 

“Does your friend have a particular era of architecture that he likes, Miss Chetwynd?” the bookseller asks solicitously, anxious to gain a good sale from Lettice if at all possible.

 

“Well, he does like John Nash’s********* work,” Lettice replies. “Especially the work he did around Regent’s Park.”

 

Mr. Mayhew thinks for a moment before replying. “Then I may be able to render assistance, Miss Chetwynd, although I will warn you, it may be a costly gift.”

 

“I don’t mind, Mr. Mayhew.” Lettice says steadfastly. “Selw… err, my friend’s happiness has no price.”

 

“Very well, Miss Chetwynd. Please wait here a moment.”

 

Mr. Mayhew slips away through the narrow aisles lined with full bookshelves again, this time disappearing through a door at the far end of the shop which is obviously a storeroom where the bookseller keeps things that are yet to be put on display, or items that may only be shown to certain customers. He returns a few minutes later with a smart half Morocco binding with gilt lettering which he places before her.

 

“This is a volume of John Nash’s architectural drawings including his designs for the Royal Pavilion built for the Prince Regent in Brighton, Marble Arch, Buckingham Palace, his collaboration with James Burton on Regent Street and his best-known collaborations with Decimus Burton of Regent's Park and its terraces and Carlton House Terrace.”

 

Lettice gasps as she carefully looks through the large book at the wonderful neoclassical and picturesque style architectural drawings in the book. Page after page of exquisitely rendered images show with clarity every detail of some of John Nash’s most famous buildings. When Lettice turns to a page showing the details of Buckingham Palace she sighs and says, “Mr. Mayhew, yet again you never cease to amaze me with what you have within your shop. I think you have just found me, the perfect birthday gift.”

 

*A. H. Mayhew was once one of many bookshops located in London’s Charring Cross Road, an area still famous today for its bookshops, perhaps most famously written about by American authoress Helene Hanff who wrote ’84, Charing Cross Road’, which later became a play and then a 1987 film starring Anne Bancroft and Anthony Hopkins. Number 56. Charing Cross Road was the home of Mayhew’s second-hand and rare bookshop. Closed after the war, their premises is now the home of Any Amount of Books bookshop.

 

**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.

 

***Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749 – 1832) was a German poet, playwright, novelist, scientist, statesman, theatre director, and critic. His works include plays, poetry, literature and aesthetic criticism, and treatises on botany, anatomy, and colour. He is considered to be the greatest German literary figure of the modern era.

 

****Padraic Colum was an Irish poet, novelist, dramatist, biographer, playwright, children's author and collector of folklore. He was one of the leading figures of the Irish Literary Revival.

 

*****”The Golden Fleece and the Heroes who Lived Before Achilles” was a novel written by Padraic Colum, illustrated by Hungarian artist Willy Pognay, published by the Macmillan Company in 1921.

 

******”The mansions of England in the Olden Times” was a four volume set published between 1839 and 1849 by English watercolourist and lithographer, Joseph Nash (1809 – 1878) who specialised in historical buildings. The four volume set is considered to be his major life’s work.

 

*******Edward Law, 1st Earl of Ellenborough, born in 1790, was a British Tory politician. He was four times President of the Board of Control and also served as Governor-General of India between 1842 and 1844. He died in 1844.

 

********”The Royal Palaces, Historic Castles and Stately Homes of Great Britain” is an interesting work on the Royal palaces, historic castles and stately homes of Great Britain. With an informative introduction by John Geddie, followed by the plates. Published in 1913 by Otto Schulze and Company, it features ninety-six full-page monochrome photograph plates including Buckingham Palace, Balmoral Castle, Kensington Palace and Edinburgh Castle.

 

*********John Nash (18 January 1752 – 13 May 1835) was one of the foremost British architects of the Georgian and Regency eras, during which he was responsible for the design, in the neoclassical and picturesque styles, of many important areas of London. His designs were financed by the Prince Regent and by the era's most successful property developer, James Burton. Nash also collaborated extensively with Burton's son, Decimus Burton.

 

This dark, cosy and slightly cluttered bookshop may appear real to you, but it is in fact made up of pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

All the books that you see lining the shelves of Mr. Mayhew’s bookshop are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. So too are all the books you see both open and closed on Mr. Mayhew’s desk. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. Therefore, it is a pleasure to give you a glimpse inside one of the books he has made. To give you an idea of the work that has gone into this volume and the others, the books contain dozens of double sided pages of images and writing. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. “The mansions of England in the Olden Times” was a four volume set published between 1839 and 1849 by English watercolourist and lithographer, Joseph Nash (1809 – 1878) who specialised in historical buildings. The four volume set is considered to be his major life’s work. “The Royal Palaces, Historic Castles and Stately Homes of Great Britain” is an interesting work on the Royal palaces, historic castles and stately homes of Great Britain. With an informative introduction by John Geddie, followed by the plates. Published in 1913 by Otto Schulze and Company, it features ninety-six full-page monochrome photograph plates including Buckingham Palace, Balmoral Castle, Kensington Palace and Edinburgh Castle. 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. I hope that you enjoy this peek at just two of hundreds of his books that I own, and that it makes you smile with its sheer whimsy!

 

Also on the desk are some old leatherbound volumes, and to the left stands a calendar with its back facing the camera, Mr. Mayhew’s pot of ink and quill pen, a cashbox tin with a historical building image on its top and a pair of Mr. Mayhew’s spectacles. All these I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The Chippendale desk itself is made by Bespaq, and it has a mahogany stain and the design is taken from a real Chippendale desk. Its surface is covered in red dioxide red dioxide leather with a gilt trim. Bespaq is a high-end miniature furniture maker with high attention to detail and quality.

 

The photos you can see in the background, all of which are all real photos, are 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 aspidistra in the blue jardiniere in the background, the pipe and pipestand, and the map also came from Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop 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.

Abbey Pumping Station Vintage Festival.

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 following Lettice’s maid, Edith, who together with her beau, local grocery delivery boy Frank Leadbetter, have wended their way north-east from Cavendish Mews, through neighbouring Soho to the Lyons Corner House* on the corner of Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road. As always, the flagship restaurant on the first floor is a hive of activity with all the white linen covered tables occupied by Londoners indulging in the treat of a Lyon’s luncheon or early afternoon tea. Between the tightly packed tables, the Lyons waitresses, known as Nippies**, live up to their name and nip in and out, showing diners to empty tables, taking orders, placing food on tables and clearing and resetting them after diners have left. The cavernous space with its fashionable Art Deco wallpapers and light fixtures and dark Queen Anne English style furnishing is alive with colour, movement and the burbling noises of hundreds of chattering voices, the sound of cutlery against crockery and the clink of crockery and glassware fills the air brightly.

 

Amidst all the comings and goings, Edith and Frank wait patiently in a small queue of people waiting to be seated at the next available table, lining up in front of a glass top and fronted case full of delicious cakes. Frank reaches around a woman standing in front of them in a navy blue dress with red piping and a red cloche and snatches a golden yellow menu upon which the name of the restaurant is written in elegant cursive script. He proffers one to Edith, but she shakes her head shallowly at him.

 

“You’ve brought me here so many times, Frank, I practically know the Lyons menu by heart, Frank.”

 

Frank’s face falls. “You don’t mind coming here again, do you Edith?” he asks gingerly, almost apologetically.

 

“Oh Frank!” Edith laughs good naturedly. She tightens her grip comfortingly around his arm as she stands beside him with it looped through his. “Of course I don’t mind? Why should I mind? I love coming here. This is far grander than any other tea shop around here, and the food is delicious.”

 

“Well so long as you don’t think it’s dull and predicable, Edith.”

 

“How could anything be dull and predictable with you involved in it, Frank?”

 

Frank blushes at his sweetheart’s compliment. “Well it’s just that we seem to have fallen into rather a routine, going to the Premier in East Ham*** every few weeks, before coming here for tea.”

 

“I don’t see anything wrong with that, Frank. You know I love going to the pictures, and a slap-up tea from here is nothing to sneeze at.”

 

“Well, so long as you don’t mind, Edith.”

 

“Frank Leadbetter, I don’t mind anything that I do with you.” Edith squeezes his arm again. “Anyway, it isn’t like we haven’t done other things on our days off as well between our visits here. We go walking in Hyde and Regent’s Parks and Kensington Gardens, and we do go dancing at the Hammersmith Palais****, so it’s not always the same.”

 

“And you’ve been a good sport, coming with me to the National Portrait Gallery.” Frank adds with a happy smile.

 

“Oh, I loved gong there, Frank!” enthuses Edith. “Like I told you, I never knew that there were galleries of art that were open to then public. If I had, I might have gone sooner.” She smiles with satisfaction. “But then again, if I had known about it, I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of you introducing me to it. I’m looking forward to us going back again one day.”

 

“But I suspect you enjoy the pictures more than the National Gallery.” Frank chuckles knowingly.

 

“Well,” Edith feels a flush fill her cheeks with red. “It is true that I perhaps feel a bit more comfortable at the pictures than the gallery, Frank, but,” She clarifies. “That’s only because my parents never took me to the gallery when I was growing up, like your grandparents did with you.”

 

“Whereas your parents took you to the pictures.”

 

“Oh yes Frank!” Edith sighs. “It was a cheap bit of escapism from the everyday for the whole family: Mum, Dad, Bert and me.” Her voice grows wistful as she remembers. “I used to look forward to going to the pictures on a Saturday afternoon with Mum and Dad and Bert. We’d walk into the entrance of the Picture Coliseum***** out of the boring light of day and into the magic darkness that existed all day there. I grew to love the sound of the flick and whir of the protector, knowing as I sat in my red leather seat in the balcony that I was about to be transported to anywhere in the world or to any point in time. Dad and Mum still love going there on the odd occasion to see a comedy. The pictures became even more important to me as a teenager after I left home and went into service for nasty old Widow Hounslow. She never gave me anything to be happy about in that cold house of hers as I skivvied for her in my first job, day in and day out, from sunrise to sunset, so the escape to a world of romance filled with glamorous people where there was no hard work and no dirty dishes or floors to scrub became a precious light in my life.”

 

“Alright, you’ve convinced me.” Frank chuckles.

 

“You know Frank, because I thought everyone went to the pictures, I’ve never actually asked you whether you enjoy going to them. Perhaps with your grandparents taking you to the gallery, you might not like it. Do you Frank?”

 

“Oh yes I do, Edith,” Frank assures his sweetheart. “I’m happy if you are happy, but even before I met you, I used to go to the pictures. Whilst I might not be as enamoured with the glamour and romance of moving picture stars like Wanetta Ward like you are, I do like historical dramas and adaptations of some of the books I’ve read.”

 

“Does that mean you didn’t enjoy ‘A Woman of Paris’******?” Edith asks with concern.

 

Frank turns away from his sweetheart and rests his arms on the glass topped counter, and gazes through it at the cakes on display below. “Oh, yes I did, Edith.” he mutters in a low voice in reply.

 

Edith hooks her black umbrella over the raised edge of the cabinet and deposits her green handbag on its surface and sidles up alongside Frank. “It doesn’t sound like you did, Frank.” she refutes him quietly.

 

“No, I really did, Edith.” he replies a little sadly. “Edna Purviance******* is so beautiful. I can well understand your attraction to the glamour of the moving pictures and their stars.”

 

“But something tells me that you didn’t like the film.” Edith presses, nudging Frank gently. “What was it?”

 

“Oh, it’s nothing, Edith.” Frank brushes her question off breezily as he turns his head slight away from her so she cannot see it.

 

“Well, it must be something. I chose the film, so I shall feel awful if you didn’t want to see it.” Edith tries to catch his eye by ducking her head, but fails. “You should have said something, Frank.”

 

A silence envelops them momentarily, at odds to all the gay noise and chatter of the Corner House around them. At length Frank turns back to Edith, and she can see by the glaze and glint of unshed tears in his kind, but saddened eyes, that this is why he turned away. “I didn’t mind seeing ‘A Woman in Paris’, Edith. Honestly, I didn’t.” He holds up his hands. “Like you are with me, I’m happy to go anywhere or do anything with you.”

 

“Then what is it, Frank?” Edith says with a concerned look on her face. “Please, you must trust me enough to tell me.”

 

Frank reaches out his left hand and wraps it loving around her smaller right hand as it sits on the surface of the counter, next to her handbag. “Of course I trust you Edith. I’ve never trusted a girl before, the way I trust you.” He releases her hand and runs his left index finger down her cheek and along her jaw lovingly. “You’re so good and kind. Goodness knows what you see in me, but whatever it is, Edith, I’m so glad you do.”

 

“What’s gotten into you, Frank?” she replies in consternation. “What was it about the film that has upset you so much and given you such doubts?”

 

The awkward silence falls between the two of them again as Edith waits for Frank to formulate a reply. His eyes flit between the shiny brass cash register, the potted aspidistra standing in a white jardinière on a tall plant stand, the Art Deco wallpaper and Lyons posters on the walls and the cakes atop the counter. He looks anywhere except into his sweetheart’s anxious face.

 

“It was the relationship between Jean’s mother and Marie in the film, Edith.” he says at length.

 

“What of it, Frank?”

 

“It reminded me of the relationship between your mum and me, Edith.”

 

“What?” Edith queries, not understanding.

 

“Well,” Frank elucidates. “Jean’s mum didn’t like Marie and refused to accept her.”

 

“I keep telling you, Frank,” Edith reassures her beau, looking him earnestly in the face. “Mum doesn’t dislike you. She just struggles with some of your more,” She nudges him again, giving him a consoling, and cheeky smile. “Progressive ideas. Anyway, Jean’s mum and Marie made up at the end of the film and went off to set up an orphanage in the countryside.”

 

“Are you suggesting that your mum and I might do the same?” Frank laughs a little sadly, trying to make light of the moment.

 

“That’s better, Frank.” Edith encourages, seeing him smile.

 

Frank looks back down again at all the cakes on display in the glass fronted cabinet. Cakes covered in thick white layers of royal icing like tablecloths jostle for space with gaily decorated special occasion cakes covered in gooey glazed fruit and biscuit crumbs. Ornate garlands of icing sugar flowers and beautifully arranged slices of strawberries indicate neatly where the cakes should be sliced, so that everyone gets the same portion when served to the table. Frank even notices a pink blancmange rabbit sitting on a plate with a blue and white edge.

 

“I love coming here because there are so many decadent cakes here.” Frank admits, changing the subject delicately, but definitely. “It reminds me of when my Gran was younger. She used to bake the most wonderful cakes and pies.”

 

“Oh, Mum loves baking cakes, pies and puddings too.” Edith pipes up happily. “She’s especially proud of her cherry cobbler which she serves hot in winter with hot custard, and cold in summer with clotted cream.”

 

“Being Scottish, Gran always loved making Dundee Cake********. She used to spend ages arranging scorched almonds in pretty patterns across the top.”

 

“That sounds very decadent, Frank.” Edith observes.

 

“Oh it was, Edith!” Frank agrees. “Mind you, I don’t think it would have taken half as long if she hadn’t been continually keeping my fingers out of the bowl of the decorating almonds and telling me that the cake ‘would be baked when it is done, and no sooner’.”

 

Edith chuckles as Frank impersonates his grandmother’s thick Scottish accent as he quotes her.

 

“Mum always made the prettiest cupcakes for Bert’s and my birthdays.” Edith points to the small glass display plate of cupcakes daintily sprinkled with colourful sugar balls and topped with marzipan flowers and rabbits sitting on the counter.

 

“I bet you they were just as lovely as those are, Edith.”

 

“Oh, better Frank,” she assures him. “Because they were made with love, and Mum is a very proud cook.”

 

“I did notice that when I came for Sunday roast lunch.”

 

Edith continues to look at the cakes on display on stands on the counter’s surface, some beneath glass cloches and others left in the open air, an idea forming in her mind, formulating as she gazes at the dollops of cream and glacé cherries atop a chocolate cake, oozing cream decadently from between its slices.

 

“That’s it Frank!” she gasps.

 

“What is, Edith?”

 

“That’s the solution to your woes about Mum, Frank.” She snatches up her bag and umbrella from the counter.

 

Frank doesn’t understand so he asks yet again, “What is, Edith?”

 

Edith rests her elbow on the glass topped counter as she looks Frank squarely in the face. “Who is your greatest advocate, Frank? Who always speaks well of you in front of others.”

 

“Well, you do, Edith.” He gesticulates towards her.

 

“Yes, I know that,” she admits. “But besides me, who else always says the nicest things about you?”

 

“Well Gran does.” Frank says without a moment’s hesitation.

 

“Exactly Frank!” Edith smiles. “You need someone other than me in your corner, telling Mum what a wonderful catch you are. And that someone is your Gran, Frank!” Her blue eyes glitter with hope and excitement. “See, now that you’ve met Mum and Dad, and I’ve met your Gran, it’s time that they met. I bet Mum and your Gran would bond over cake baking and cooking, and of course Mum would believe anything a wise Scottish woman who can bake a Dundee Cake would say.”

 

“And everything she would say would be about me!” Frank exclaims. “Edith! You’re a genius!”

 

Frank cannot help himself as he reaches out and grasps Edith around the waist, lifting her up and spinning her around in unbridled joy, causing her to squeal, and for the people waiting in line around them to chuckle and smile indulgently at the pair of young lovers before them.

 

“Oh, put me down Frank!” squeaks Edith. “Let’s not make a scene.”

 

Reluctantly he lowers his sweetheart to the ground and releases her from his clutches.

 

“Now, all we need to do is talk with Mum and Dad, and your Gran, and settle on a date.” Edith says with ethusiasm.

 

“We’ll talk about it over tea and cake, shall we, Edith?” Frank asks with an excited lilt in his voice.

 

“Ahem.” A female voice clearing her throat politely interrupts Edith and Frank’s conversation. Turning, they find that whilst they have been talking, they have reached the front of the queue of people waiting for a table, and before them stands a bright faced Nippie with a starched cap with a red ‘L’ embroidered in the centre atop a mop of carefully coiffed and pinned curls, dressed in a black alpaca dress with a double row of pearl buttons and lace apron. “A table for two, is it?”

 

*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.

 

**The name 'Nippies' was adopted for the Lyons waitresses after a competition to rename them from the old fashioned 'Gladys' moniker - rejected suggestions included ‘Sybil-at-your-service’, ‘Miss Nimble’, Miss Natty’ and 'Speedwell'. The waitresses each wore a starched cap with a red ‘L’ embroidered in the centre and a black alpaca dress with a double row of pearl buttons.

 

***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 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.

 

*****Located in the west London inner city district of Harlesden. The Coliseum opened in 1912 as the Picture Theatre. In 1915 it was renamed the Picture Coliseum. It was operated throughout its cinema life as an independent picture theatre. Seating was provided in stalls and balcony levels. The Coliseum closed in December 1975 for regular films and went over to screening adult porn films. It then screened kung-fu movies and even hosted a concert by punk rock group The Clash in March 1977. It finally closed for good as a picture theatre in the mid-1980’s and was boarded up and neglected for the next decade. It was renovated and converted into a pub operated by the J.D. Weatherspoon chain, opening in March 1993. Known as ‘The Coliseum’ it retains many features of its cinematic past. There is even cinema memorabilia on display. There is a huge painted mural of Gary Cooper and Merle Oberon in “The Cowboy and the Lady” where the screen used to be. Recently J.D. Weatherspoon relinquished the building and it is now operated as an independent bar renamed ‘The Misty Moon’. By 2017 it had been taken over by the Antic pub chain and renamed the ‘Harlesden Picture Palace’.

 

******’A Woman of Paris’ is a feature-length American silent film that debuted in 1923. The film, an atypical drama film for its creator, was written, directed, produced and later scored by Charlie Chaplin. The plot revolves around Marie St. Clair (Edna Purviance) and her beau, aspiring artist Jean Millet (Carl Miller) who plan to flee life in provincial France to get married. However when plans go awry, Marie goes to Paris alone where she becomes the mistress of a wealthy businessman, Pierre Revel (Adolphe Menjou). Reacquainting herself with Jean after a chance encounter in Paris a year later, Marie and Jean recommence their love affair. When Jean proposes to Marie, his mother tries to intervene and Marie returns to Pierre. Jean takes a gun to the restaurant where Marie and Pierre are dining, but ends up fatally shooting himself in the foyer after being evicted from the restaurant. Marie and Jean’s mother reconcile and return to the French countryside, where they open a home for orphans in a country cottage. At the end of the film, Marie rides down a road in a horse drawn cart and is passed by a chauffer driven automobile in which Pierre rides with friends. Pierre's companion asks him what had happened to Marie after the night at the restaurant. Pierre replies that he does not know. The automobile and the horse-drawn wagon pass each other, heading in opposite directions.

 

*******Edna Purviance (1895 – 1958) was an American actress of the silent film era. She was the leading lady in many of Charlie Chaplin's early films and in a span of eight years, she appeared in over thirty films with him and remained on his payroll even after she retired from acting, receiving a small monthly salary from Chaplin's film company until she got married, and the payments resumed after her husband's death. Her last credited appearance in a Chaplin film, ‘A Woman of Paris’, was also her first leading role. The film was not a success and effectively ended Purviance's career. She died of throat cancer in 1958.

 

********Dundee Cake is a traditional Scottish fruit cake that has gained worldwide fame since its first appearance over three hundred and fifty years ago. The Dundee Cake is one of Scotland's most famous cakes and, it is said, was liked by the Queen at tea-time. The story goes that Mary Queen of Scots didn’t like cherries, so a fruit cake was made and decorated with the distinctive almond decoration that has now become very familiar to those of us in the know. A more likely story is that the Dundee Cake recipe was created in the 1700s, later to be mass-produced by the Marmalade company Keiller’s Marmalade.

 

An afternoon tea made up with sweet cakes like this would be enough to please anyone, but I suspect that even if you ate everything you can see here in and on this display case, you would still come away hungry. This is because they, like everything in this scene are 1:12 size miniatures from my miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau:

 

The sweet cupcakes on the glass cake stand 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 pink blancmange rabbit on the bottom shelf of the display cabinet in the front of the right-hand side of the case was made by Polly’s Pantry Miniatures in America. All the other cakes came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. The glass and metal cake stands and the glass cloche came from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The glass cake stands are hand blown artisan pieces. The shiny brass cash register also comes from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures.

 

The J. Lyons & Co. Ltd. tariff is a copy of a 1920s example that I made myself by reducing it in size and printing it.

 

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.

 

The black umbrella came from an online stockist of 1:12 miniatures on E-Bay.

 

The wood and glass display cabinet I obtained from a seller of 1:12 miniatures on E-Bay.

 

The storage shelves in the background behind the counter come from Babette’s Miniatures, who have been making miniature dolls’ furnishings since the late Eighteenth Century. The plates, milk jug, silver teapots, coffee pots and trays on it all come from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Miniatures.

 

The aspidistra in the white planter and the wooden plant stand itself also come from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House shop, as does the 1920s Lyons’ Tea sign you can see on the wall.

 

The Art Deco pattern on the wall behind the counter I created myself after looking at many photos of different Lyons Corner House interiors photos. Whilst not an exact match for what was there in real life, it is within the spirit of the detailing found in the different restaurants.

Gain or shed (elevation)?

 

The user beholds the power of choice.

 

2018, Amherst, New York.

   

Like a lighthouse you must stand alone

And mark a sailor's journey's end

No matter what seas I have been sailing on

I'll always row this way again

- Rodney Crowell, 'Until I Gain Control Again'

my computer chair is becoming a squeeze

DSC06088

17 Oct 2022, 00:45:00 UTC, Stuart Florida USA. Orion Atlas AZ/EQ-G Pro mount. Celestron C8 f/20. Mallincam DS10C camera, bin 1, exposure ~5 ms, gain very low, best 25 of 2484 frames (filesize 25 GB, framerate ~35fps), no calibration frames, no filter, no guiding. Good focus. Sky was not steady but scope appeared at least roughly collimated.

 

from Stellarium:

Altitude: 46°

Magnitude: 0.61

Apparent diameter: 17.7 arcsec (41.2 with rings)

 

South is up.

 

Visible features -- from bottom up:

North Pole region, shadow of planet globe on rings at lower left, transparent Ring C visible across equatorial zone of planet (not a shadow), and edge of globe visible through Cassini Division between Rings A and B. Enke's Division is not resolved.

 

Processing notes: Autostakkert3, Astrosurface, and Photoshop.

 

Clouds: partly cloudy

Seeing: avg

Transparency: avg

 

From Sky & Telescope magazine: The north pole of Saturn is tipped towards Earth at this time; apparent magnitude +0.6.

 

From Wikipedia:

Saturn is the sixth planet from the Sun and the second-largest in the Solar System, after Jupiter. It is a gas giant with an average radius of about nine and a half times that of Earth. It has only one-eighth the average density of Earth; however, with its larger volume, Saturn is over 95 times more massive.

 

Saturn's interior is most likely composed of a core of iron–nickel and rock (silicon and oxygen compounds). Its core is surrounded by a deep layer of metallic hydrogen, an intermediate layer of liquid hydrogen and liquid helium, and finally, a gaseous outer layer. Saturn has a pale yellow hue due to ammonia crystals in its upper atmosphere. An electrical current within the metallic hydrogen layer is thought to give rise to Saturn's planetary magnetic field, which is weaker than Earth's, but which has a magnetic moment 580 times that of Earth due to Saturn's larger size. Saturn's magnetic field strength is around one-twentieth of Jupiter's. The outer atmosphere is generally bland and lacking in contrast, although long-lived features can appear. Wind speeds on Saturn can reach 1,800 km/h (1,100 mph; 500 m/s), higher than on Jupiter but not as high as on Neptune.

 

The planet's most notable feature is its prominent ring system, which is composed mainly of ice particles, with a smaller amount of rocky debris and dust. At least 83 moons are known to orbit Saturn, of which 53 are officially named; this does not include the hundreds of moonlets in its rings. Titan, Saturn's largest moon and the second largest in the Solar System, is larger than the minor planet Mercury, although less massive, and is the only moon in the Solar System to have a substantial atmosphere.

 

Saturn is named after the Roman god of wealth and agriculture and father of Jupiter. Its astronomical symbol (♄) has been traced back to the Greek Oxyrhynchus Papyri, where it can be seen to be a Greek kappa-rho with a horizontal stroke, as an abbreviation for Κρονος (Cronus), the Greek name for the planet (Saturn symbol (late classical and medieval mss).png). It later came to look like a lower-case Greek eta, with the cross added at the top in the 16th century to Christianize this pagan symbol.

 

The Romans named the seventh day of the week Saturday, Sāturni diēs ("Saturn's Day"), for the planet Saturn.

 

Saturn is a gas giant composed predominantly of hydrogen and helium. It lacks a definite surface, though it is likely to have a solid core. Saturn's rotation causes it to have the shape of an oblate spheroid; that is, it is flattened at the poles and bulges at its equator. Its equatorial and polar radii differ by almost 10%: 60,268 km versus 54,364 km. Jupiter, Uranus, and Neptune, the other giant planets in the Solar System, are also oblate but to a lesser extent. The combination of the bulge and rotation rate means that the effective surface gravity along the equator, 8.96 m/s2, is 74% of what it is at the poles and is lower than the surface gravity of Earth. However, the equatorial escape velocity of nearly 36 km/s is much higher than that of Earth.

 

Saturn is the only planet of the Solar System that is less dense than water—about 30% less. Although Saturn's core is considerably denser than water, the average specific density of the planet is 0.69 g/cm3 due to the atmosphere. Jupiter has 318 times Earth's mass, and Saturn is 95 times Earth's mass. Together, Jupiter and Saturn hold 92% of the total planetary mass in the Solar System.

 

Despite consisting mostly of hydrogen and helium, most of Saturn's mass is not in the gas phase, because hydrogen becomes a non-ideal liquid when the density is above 0.01 g/cm3, which is reached at a radius containing 99.9% of Saturn's mass. The temperature, pressure, and density inside Saturn all rise steadily toward the core, which causes hydrogen to be a metal in the deeper layers.

 

Standard planetary models suggest that the interior of Saturn is similar to that of Jupiter, having a small rocky core surrounded by hydrogen and helium, with trace amounts of various volatiles. Analysis of the distortion shows that Saturn is substantially more centrally condensed than Jupiter and therefore contains a significantly larger amount of material denser than hydrogen near its centre. Saturn’s central regions contain about 50% hydrogen by mass, while Jupiter’s contain approximately 67% hydrogen.

 

This core is similar in composition to Earth, but is more dense. The examination of Saturn's gravitational moment, in combination with physical models of the interior, has allowed constraints to be placed on the mass of Saturn's core. In 2004, scientists estimated that the core must be 9–22 times the mass of Earth, which corresponds to a diameter of about 25,000 km. However, measurements of Saturn's rings suggest a much more diffuse core with a mass equal to about 17 Earths and a radius equal to around 60% of Saturn's entire radius. This is surrounded by a thicker liquid metallic hydrogen layer, followed by a liquid layer of helium-saturated molecular hydrogen that gradually transitions to a gas with increasing altitude. The outermost layer spans 1,000 km and consists of gas.

 

Saturn has a hot interior, reaching 11,700 °C at its core, and radiates 2.5 times more energy into space than it receives from the Sun. Jupiter's thermal energy is generated by the Kelvin–Helmholtz mechanism of slow gravitational compression, but such a process alone may not be sufficient to explain heat production for Saturn, because it is less massive. An alternative or additional mechanism may be generation of heat through the "raining out" of droplets of helium deep in Saturn's interior. As the droplets descend through the lower-density hydrogen, the process releases heat by friction and leaves Saturn's outer layers depleted of helium. These descending droplets may have accumulated into a helium shell surrounding the core.

Rainfalls of diamonds have been suggested to occur within Saturn, as well as in Jupiter and ice giants Uranus and Neptune.

 

The outer atmosphere of Saturn contains 96.3% molecular hydrogen and 3.25% helium by volume. The proportion of helium is significantly deficient compared to the abundance of this element in the Sun. The quantity of elements heavier than helium (metallicity) is not known precisely, but the proportions are assumed to match the primordial abundances from the formation of the Solar System. The total mass of these heavier elements is estimated to be 19–31 times the mass of the Earth, with a significant fraction located in Saturn's core region.

 

Trace amounts of ammonia, acetylene, ethane, propane, phosphine, and methane have been detected in Saturn's atmosphere. The upper clouds are composed of ammonia crystals, while the lower level clouds appear to consist of either ammonium hydrosulfide (NH4SH) or water. Ultraviolet radiation from the Sun causes methane photolysis in the upper atmosphere, leading to a series of hydrocarbon chemical reactions with the resulting products being carried downward by eddies and diffusion. This photochemical cycle is modulated by Saturn's annual seasonal cycle. Cassini observed a series of cloud features found in northern latitudes, nicknamed the "String of Pearls". These features are cloud clearings that reside in deeper cloud layers.

 

Saturn's atmosphere exhibits a banded pattern similar to Jupiter's, but Saturn's bands are much fainter and are much wider near the equator. The nomenclature used to describe these bands is the same as on Jupiter. Saturn is perpetually covered with clouds of ammonia crystals, which may contain ammonium hydrosulfide as well. The clouds are located in the tropopause layer of the atmosphere, forming bands at different latitudes, known as tropical regions. These are subdivided into lighter-hued zones and darker belts. Saturn's finer cloud patterns were not observed until the flybys of the Voyager spacecraft during the 1980s. Since then, Earth-based telescopy has improved to the point where regular observations can be made.

 

The composition of the clouds varies with depth and increasing pressure. In the upper cloud layers, with the temperature in the range 100–160 K and pressures extending between 0.5–2 bar, the clouds consist of ammonia ice. Water ice clouds begin at a level where the pressure is about 2.5 bar and extend down to 9.5 bar, where temperatures range from 185 to 270 K. Intermixed in this layer is a band of ammonium hydrosulfide ice, lying in the pressure range 3–6 bar with temperatures of 190–235 K. Finally, the lower layers, where pressures are between 10 and 20 bar and temperatures are 270–330 K, contains a region of water droplets with ammonia in aqueous solution.

 

Saturn's usually bland atmosphere occasionally exhibits long-lived ovals and other features common on Jupiter. In 1990, the Hubble Space Telescope imaged an enormous white cloud near Saturn's equator that was not present during the Voyager encounters, and in 1994 another smaller storm was observed. The 1990 storm was an example of a Great White Spot, a unique but short-lived phenomenon that occurs once every Saturnian year, roughly every 30 Earth years, around the time of the northern hemisphere's summer solstice. Previous Great White Spots were observed in 1876, 1903, 1933 and 1960, with the 1933 storm being the most famous.

 

The winds on Saturn are the second fastest among the Solar System's planets, after Neptune's. Voyager data indicate peak easterly winds of 500 m/s (1,800 km/h). In images from the Cassini spacecraft during 2007, Saturn's northern hemisphere displayed a bright blue hue, similar to Uranus. The color was most likely caused by Rayleigh scattering. Thermography has shown that Saturn's south pole has a warm polar vortex, the only known example of such a phenomenon in the Solar System. Whereas temperatures on Saturn are normally −185 °C, temperatures on the vortex often reach as high as −122 °C, suspected to be the warmest spot on Saturn.

 

A persisting hexagonal wave pattern around the north polar vortex in the atmosphere at about 78°N was first noted in the Voyager images. The sides of the hexagon are each about 14,500 km (9,000 mi) long, which is longer than the diameter of the Earth. The entire structure rotates with a period of 10h 39m 24s (the same period as that of the planet's radio emissions) which is assumed to be equal to the period of rotation of Saturn's interior. The hexagonal feature does not shift in longitude like the other clouds in the visible atmosphere. The pattern's origin is a matter of much speculation. Most scientists think it is a standing wave pattern in the atmosphere. Polygonal shapes have been replicated in the laboratory through differential rotation of fluids.

 

HST imaging of the south polar region indicates the presence of a jet stream, but no strong polar vortex nor any hexagonal standing wave. NASA reported in November 2006 that Cassini had observed a "hurricane-like" storm locked to the south pole that had a clearly defined eyewall. Eyewall clouds had not previously been seen on any planet other than Earth. For example, images from the Galileo spacecraft did not show an eyewall in the Great Red Spot of Jupiter.

 

The south pole storm may have been present for billions of years. This vortex is comparable to the size of Earth, and it has winds of 550 km/h.

 

Saturn has an intrinsic magnetic field that has a simple, symmetric shape—a magnetic dipole. Its strength at the equator—0.2 gauss (µT)—is approximately one twentieth of that of the field around Jupiter and slightly weaker than Earth's magnetic field. As a result, Saturn's magnetosphere is much smaller than Jupiter's. When Voyager 2 entered the magnetosphere, the solar wind pressure was high and the magnetosphere extended only 19 Saturn radii, or 1.1 million km (712,000 mi), although it enlarged within several hours, and remained so for about three days. Most probably, the magnetic field is generated similarly to that of Jupiter—by currents in the liquid metallic-hydrogen layer called a metallic-hydrogen dynamo. This magnetosphere is efficient at deflecting the solar wind particles from the Sun. The moon Titan orbits within the outer part of Saturn's magnetosphere and contributes plasma from the ionized particles in Titan's outer atmosphere. Saturn's magnetosphere, like Earth's, produces aurorae.

 

The average distance between Saturn and the Sun is over 1.4 billion kilometers (9 AU). With an average orbital speed of 9.68 km/s, it takes Saturn 10,759 Earth days (or about 29+1⁄2 years) to finish one revolution around the Sun. As a consequence, it forms a near 5:2 mean-motion resonance with Jupiter. The elliptical orbit of Saturn is inclined 2.48° relative to the orbital plane of the Earth. The perihelion and aphelion distances are, respectively, 9.195 and 9.957 AU, on average. The visible features on Saturn rotate at different rates depending on latitude, and multiple rotation periods have been assigned to various regions (as in Jupiter's case).

 

Astronomers use three different systems for specifying the rotation rate of Saturn. System I has a period of 10h 14m 00s (844.3°/d) and encompasses the Equatorial Zone, the South Equatorial Belt, and the North Equatorial Belt. The polar regions are considered to have rotation rates similar to System I. All other Saturnian latitudes, excluding the north and south polar regions, are indicated as System II and have been assigned a rotation period of 10h 38m 25.4s (810.76°/d). System III refers to Saturn's internal rotation rate. Based on radio emissions from the planet detected by Voyager 1 and Voyager 2, System III has a rotation period of 10h 39m 22.4s (810.8°/d). System III has largely superseded System II.

 

A precise value for the rotation period of the interior remains elusive. While approaching Saturn in 2004, Cassini found that the radio rotation period of Saturn had increased appreciably, to approximately 10h 45m 45s ± 36s. An estimate of Saturn's rotation (as an indicated rotation rate for Saturn as a whole) based on a compilation of various measurements from the Cassini, Voyager and Pioneer probes is 10h 32m 35s. Studies of the planet's C Ring yield a rotation period of 10h 33m 38s + 1m 52s − 1m 19s .

So this is me... at 5200 masl (meters above sea level) and -10C walking on a glacier in the Peruvian Andes...

step by step... it's getting harder... to breath.............

step by step......... you feel how so little ...... oxygen gets in your lungs with every deep breath......

step by step................... you feel how the top of the glacier gets further and further away....

step by step....... you feel like ......... you are going to die.....

step by step..... your whole life appears .......... like a movie in your head...........................

step by step........... you start to ........ you start to..... think .... but actually you are not thinking.... you are connecting yourself with the mountain....

 

because it's not that you conquer the mountain.... the mountain opens it's arms.... and let you conquer it.... it just depends.... in how much PAIN you are willing to take..... because.... NO PAIN, NO GAIN

On Dauphin Island, Mobile Bay. Fort Gaines was one of the post War of 1812 brick and mortar forts designed to protect the Gulf cities from attack. Virtually obsolete at the time of the Civil War, the guns of Fort Gaines were fired in anger during the battle of Mobile Bay in 1864 against the attacking Union fleet of Admiral Farragut.

2001-Addidas

 

2826 gained an side advert for Addidas in 2001. 2826 was previosly Route Branded for Pershore Road for a short while. 2826 gained Uniclo Shortley after in 2002.

 

LIFE OF BUS 2826

 

New to Selly Oak Garage December 1984

Transferred to Liverpool Street, Birmingham Central 02/08/1986

Upon Selly Oak Closure

Route Branded Pershore Road September 2000

De-branded December 2000

Withdrawn July 2003

Sold to Mccolls Balloch June 2003

Withdrawn By 2010

Scraped

 

Location: Solihull Railway Station

April 2002

BC

Morning light over one of the small lochs on the walk out to Sandwood Bay.

Bald eagle gain height to swoop down for a meal

Tackle by TJCA's Lane Beaver of Enka running back during their preseason scrimmage at Rosman.

Gained a little confidence after making this cake - Still trying to conquer my Wedding Cake fear :-/ xx

Riley Gaines speaking with attendees at the 2023 Pastors Summit hosted by Turning Point Faith at the Omni Nashville Hotel in Nashville, Tennessee.

TJCA's Nomi McMullens running down the home sidelines during the Gryphons 63-42 win over Community School of Davidson. With the win, the Gryphons moved to 7-0 on the year and 3-0 in Southern Piedmont Conference play.

An attempt at capturing Sanders North Walsham depot based MCV Evora bodied Volvo B8RLE type number 524 - BV22 HBN “Norfolk Wanderer” at this location on the eastern perimeter of former RAF Langham the previous afternoon proved unsuccessful due to the bright afternoon sunshine casting long shadows. So, having returned here the next morning in this shot it is captured while passing the Langham Dome Museum with the above diverted Cromer bound Coasthopper service CH1 journey.

 

Former RAF Langham was East Anglia’s most northerly airfield and being situated near to the North Norfolk coast it was an ideal base for Coastal Command. Opened in 1940 - initially as a satellite to RAF Bircham Newton before gaining independence during 1942 - it finally closed after some periods of inactivity during 1961. The site was purchased by Norfolk poultry producer Bernard Matthews with Turkey rearing sheds erected on the runways. The Dome was built in 1942 and its wartime use was to train anti-aircraft gunners in ground-to-air anti-aircraft defence using ground breaking film technology which simulated air attacks by projecting images of enemy aircraft on to the interior walls. During the main season from June to October, the volunteer run award winning Museum, which gives an insight into what life was like for those serving at Langham during and after World War II, is open to the public from Wednesday to Sunday and all Bank Holidays. The pedestal mounted replica Supermarine Spitfire was added to the site during August 2020.

 

A short notice emergency road closure, due to Anglian Water mains repairs, from the morning of Tuesday 23rd July is located on the A149 at Stiffkey. As a result, all Coasthopper service CH1 journeys since then have been diverting in both directions over the Stiffkey - Morston section by way of Cockthorpe and Langham. Of course, the road between Langham and Morston is part of the service 46 route, however the road from Stiffkey to Langham via Cockthorpe is normally only used in term time by Wells School’s vehicles running light to/from Holt Depot. These light runs having previously featured amongst my uploads.

 

My first shot of vehicle 524 since 11th May 2023.

 

Hooded Merganser

Lophodytes cucullatus

Colorado

Health is everything for human been and they do lots of things to keep their health fit and fine. They go to gym, yoga classes, aerobic classes, dance classes and morning walk. Gym is the perfect platform to be perfect fit but it requires protein supplements and weight gain supplements for attractive body shape.

www.biggnutrition.com/blog/