This was from a trip out with Night Stalker McGowan in the rather ominously named "Babies Castle".... This was one of the very few rooms that actually had any form of natural light streaming in, which made the adventure all that more adventurous.... Can't beat exploring a place with no floorboards in almost complete darkness.... T'was fun though.... :)

 

My Blog - FS Photography

 

My Website - FS Photography Online

Light in Shadow

Created for Macro Mondays "My Favourite Novel (Fiction)"

 

This image is my interpretation of the book :

Light in Shadow By Jayne Ann Krentz

  

Zoe Luce is a successful interior designer in the Arizona town of Whispering Springs who's developed an unusual career specialty-helping recently divorced clients redesign their homes, to help them forget the past and start anew. But Zoe knows that some things can't be covered up with a coat of paint. And when she senses that one of her clients may be hiding a dark secret, she enlists P.I. Ethan Truax to find the truth. Working together, they solve the mystery . . . and barely escape with their lives. But Ethan's exquisite detection skills are starting to backfire on Zoe: she never wanted to let him find out about her former life; she never wanted to reveal her powerful, inexplicable gift for sensing the history hidden within a house's walls; she never wanted him to know that "Zoe Luce" doesn't really exist. She never wanted to fall in love with him. Now, no matter how much she resists, Ethan may be her only hope-because the people she's been running from have found her. And just when Zoe dares to dream of a normal life and a future with the man she loves, her own past starts to shadow her every step-and threatens to take her back into a nightmare.

  

To all Interior Designers: BROOK HILL Living wants YOU to show us your talent:

 

You are an aspiring Interior Designer or just love decorating? Then this is your chance to show off your style. BHL is giving you the Chance to decorate the Showcase of the CHILMARK House. You will get an Information board at the landing point where others get Information about you and also get the links to your social media. We will also promote your work on our 5000+ Facebook Fanpage to even show it to more people interested in Interior Design. On top we will showcase your Piece of Art at the upcoming HOME & GARDEN Fair, the best platform for any Interior Designer! Applying for this unique chance is very easy: Just send a notecard to SAMUEL FALLEN whith a link to your Facebook or flickr account or any other link to show us your style and talent. Write a few words about your ideas and inspiration for your own and unique CHILMARK House decoration. And you are done!

 

Interior Designer, High End Renovations, Custom Wallpaper, ... Interior Designer, High End Renovations, Custom Wallpaper, Interior Design And Decoration, Residential Design

 

Interior Designer, High End Renovations, Custom Wallpaper, ... Interior Designer, High End Renovations, Custom Wallpaper, Interior Design And Decoration, Residential Design

Here you can see the backs of the two of them.

Tetsuo-san and Yoko-san.

In fact, since I met them 40 years ago,

they introduced me to many contemporary artists, interior designers, and businesses.

After that, due to various circumstances, there was a gap of about 20 years,

but recently we have begun to enjoy museums, movies, and music together.

Their kind consideration will last forever. Thank you.

  

 

Interior Designer, High End Renovations, Custom Wallpaper, ... Interior Designer, High End Renovations, Custom Wallpaper, Interior Design And Decoration, Residential Design

Palm Beach Biltmore is a stunning mid-rise condominium building located on the Intracoastal Waterway in desirable Palm Beach, FL. Palm Beach Biltmore was constructed in 1926 as the Alba Hotel, which was converted into condominiums in the 1970s to offer 126 abodes in an architecturally-ornate old world-building. Palm Beach Biltmore hosts one- to five-bedroom homes over a variety of floor plan sizes, with units benefiting from traditional architectural elements and modern design functionality. Residents of Palm Beach Biltmore have access to a fantastic array of communal amenities, which include a private boat dock, a swimming pool, two tennis courts, an oceanfront beach club, exercise facilities, and warm and attentive staff. Palm Beach Biltmore represents a fantastic opportunity to live the waterfront lifestyle in an amenity-rich complex, whilst quick access to major highways gives the added convenience of a short drive to major metropolitan areas.

 

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

www.condo.com/building/Palm-Beach-Biltmore-Palm-Beach-FL-...

www.emporis.com/buildings/156144/the-biltmore-condominium...

 

© All Rights Reserved - you may not use this image in any form without my prior permission.

  

Jewel's toroidal glass-and-steel façade was designed by a consortium of architects, led by Moshe Safdie, who also designed Singapore's Marina Bay Sands. Renowned local firm RSP Architects Planners & Engineers were the executive architect and structural engineers. The landscape architect was PWP Landscape Architecture, who co-designed the National 9/11 Memorial in New York City, and worked with Safdie on the landscaping of Marina Bay Sands. Benoy were the interior designers; BuroHappold Engineering were responsible for the façade and Lighting Planners Associates handled the lighting. The Rain Vortex was engineered by water design firm WET Design. It has a 360-degree light and sound show projected onto it.

 

Jewel was envisioned to combine a marketplace and an urban park. "The component of the traditional mall is combined with the experience of nature, culture, education and recreation, aiming to provide an uplifting experience. By drawing both visitors and local residents alike, we aim to create a place where the people of Singapore interact with the people of the world," said Safdie.

 

The glass panels of the dome are framed in steel which rests on a complex latticework. At night, the glowing dome is visible from all surrounding areas.

 

Source: Wikipedia

Palm Beach Biltmore is a stunning mid-rise condominium building located on the Intracoastal Waterway in desirable Palm Beach, FL. Palm Beach Biltmore was constructed in 1926 as the Alba Hotel, which was converted into condominiums in the 1970s to offer 126 abodes in an architecturally-ornate old world-building. Palm Beach Biltmore hosts one- to five-bedroom homes over a variety of floor plan sizes, with units benefiting from traditional architectural elements and modern design functionality. Residents of Palm Beach Biltmore have access to a fantastic array of communal amenities, which include a private boat dock, a swimming pool, two tennis courts, an oceanfront beach club, exercise facilities, and warm and attentive staff. Palm Beach Biltmore represents a fantastic opportunity to live the waterfront lifestyle in an amenity-rich complex, whilst quick access to major highways gives the added convenience of a short drive to major metropolitan areas.

 

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

www.condo.com/building/Palm-Beach-Biltmore-Palm-Beach-FL-...

www.emporis.com/buildings/156144/the-biltmore-condominium...

 

© All Rights Reserved - you may not use this image in any form without my prior permission.

  

G'day everyone!

I thought I'd do things a little differently for this post. I've been focusing on a

project for the past weeks, it's a project in dedication to my dear brother Jay T. Murs and his Co-Owner Mikaela who're the owners of 6 Republic, which is a furniture event which runs partially throughout the year.

 

I'm a little late, my apologies however as a true interior designer myself, both in real life and second life, I'm very passionate and respectful

for the furniture upholsterers, and or content creators that produce wonderful pieces of love, and so it's only appreciated that I put as much

time back into the items in return.

 

This round at 6 Republic, it's theme is past versus present. And my thoughts had struck me to think outside the box in a way which no matter what objects I used for the project, it could tell its story. Also, it's rather interesting how the brain is wired with a lot of Interior Designers who like to paint a picture for the client, the panel or the viewers. My mind tends to take me places, and I can sometimes get a little deep when explaining so please excuse if I drift.

 

and think in mind of the Totem symbols of life, such as; earth, fire, water, and air or the fifth, known as akasha in India but two more have been adapted which are wood and metal

 

And so what I've been trying to accomplish with the project itself, is a home that consists of concrete, and it's a home that is remodeled from what could have been a warehouse or an outlet of some sort. So I've been using materials that are known and useful to mother kind, that they are also materials that can be formed by man, and

incorporating the

two is a debate which more than one can discuss, however, with this project, I wanted to keep the Interior very minimal and bare, and quite bland too, the only real makeup is the

storyline

I've used very very little greenery for the Interior, and I did this on purpose, due to the elements of earth, water, air, and wood. I think it's pretty self-explanatory as to why

I've addressed

these four, in particular, though why you may ask? Well usually once fire takes its toll, and it's like a beginning of mother nature taking over, and if you look at

land that has been abandoned for such a period of time and looks back after some time, you begin to see re-growth, and that's almost how I've envisioned the home, that's I've used a burnt colour pallet and then incorporating little to none

in greenery.

The exterior of the house is the same, I've kept it very very bare but still theirs a portion of mother nature and concrete which was formed by man. If you've caught onto what

I'm talking about then congratulations because I can often drift away.

 

Items used:

Baseball by Thor - Currently at 6 Republic: maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Haven%20Woods/122/127/24

Mayfair books by Elev8 - Currently at 6 Republic: maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Haven%20Woods/122/127/24

 

Jay Sideboard by Revival

Ottoman pillow by Revival

Scales by Junk

Botanical tote by Dust Bunny

Mannequin by Soy

Wardrobe by Eli Baily

 

Grandeur Decor website: www.grandeurdecorsl.com/

Grandeur Decor Facebook: www.facebook.com/Grandeur-decor-1302891386464008/

Follow me on Facebook: www.facebook.com/ZhaoiIntaglio

  

A condominium unlike anything in Palm Beach, The Bristol is the culmination of an esteemed team of developers, architects, designers and brokers, coming together to create the most spectacular residential tower in Florida.

 

The vision of Al Adelson and Eugene Golub, The Bristol is being developed by Flagler Investors LLC, which is comprised of the renowned Golub & Company LLC, Commercial Financial Management and Elion Partners. Combined, the companies have over a century and a half of experience in real estate investment and development.

 

International architecture firms Solomon Cordwell Buenz and Revuelta Architecture International (PA) designed the iconic 25-story tower, creating The Bristol’s sparkling glass façade and sweeping flow-through residences. Interiors are by New York-based interior designer Amir Khamneipur. While his distinctly elegant creations have graced residential buildings such as Trump Tower, and magazines including Elle Décor, his impeccable tastes will soon outfit The Bristol’s exquisite lobby, exclusive club lounge, tranquil terrace gardens, and two-story fitness center & spa.

 

The lush landscaping of The Bristol is being created by the internationally acclaimed EDSA, Inc. With a passion for cultivating inspiring environments, and a portfolio including the world’s most renowned resorts and residential buildings, EDSA will be crafting the serene exterior spaces throughout The Bristol.

 

Exclusive sales for The Bristol are being conducted by Douglas Elliman Development Marketing, a branch of Douglas Elliman Real Estate, one of the largest real estate companies in the nation. Broker Chris Leavitt is leading the four-person sales team, which consists of skilled agents with vast experience and expertise. The team includes Samantha Curry, who is among the 1% of agents nationwide to hold designation as a Certified Negotiation Expert; Marisela Cotilla, who has over thirty-five years of experience in luxury residential, commercial real estate and mortgage lending;

and Sonja Stevens, who as a resident and owner in Palm Beach, thoroughly understands the intricacies of the local market.

 

To learn more about The Bristol and the team behind it, visit

TheBristolPalmBeach.com to schedule your private viewing at the Palm Beach Island Sales Gallery.

 

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

www.thebristolpalmbeach.com/uploads/application/files/mee...

 

© All Rights Reserved - you may not use this image in any form without my prior permission.

   

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.

 

With a loud buzz, the electric doorbell announces the unexpected arrival of someone at the front door. Putting down the piece of table silver she is polishing, Edith, Lettice’s maid, goes to answer the front door, all the while wondering who is calling. Lettice usually advises Edith of any clients, existing or potential, who may be visiting, particularly because Edith needs to make sure that there are cakes and biscuits in the pantry to offer to them. Walking across the thick Chinese silk rug in the flat’s hallway, she can hear her mistress speaking animatedly on the telephone to a representative of Jeffrey and Company* from whom she is ordering papers for the dining room of her friend Minnie Palmerston. Lettice agreed to redecorate it before Christmas after Minnie asked her to, and work is now underway.

 

Edith opens the door to the dashing figure of Selwyn Spencely, the only son of the Duke of Walmsford, whom Lettice has been stepping out with, when their busy social diaries allow, since meeting him at her parent’s Hunt Ball last year. In his hands he holds a thick bunch of roses, a usual accessory every time he crosses the Cavendish Mews threshold.

 

“Good day, Edith. Is Miss Chetwynd home?”

 

“Mr. Spencely!” she gasps in surprise. “This is an unexpected pleasure. Yes, do come in.” She closes the front door and shuts out the cold January in the process. “It’s freezing out there. She’s just speaking with someone on the telephone in the drawing room, Sir, but I’ll announce you’re here.”

 

Shrugging out of his thick and expertly cut navy blue barathea coat, damp around the shoulders and down the back due the downpour outside, he lets it fall into Edith’s waiting arms. “Oh, don’t bother, Edith. I know my way. But if you could put these in some water for Miss Chetwynd.” He hands her the deep red roses which release a sweet fragrance as he does.

 

“Of course, Sir.” Edith replies, dropping a curtsey to her mistress’ guest.

 

As she turns to go, Selwyn calls after her, “Oh Edith! There will be a man with a large package knocking at the servants’ entrance shortly. When he does, just show him into the drawing room, will you?”

 

“Well yes, Sir.” Edith answers, her brow furrowing slightly. “But I…”

 

“It’s a surprise for Miss Chetwynd,” Selwyn interrupts her, giving her a winning smile and ending the conversation.

 

“Now just to confirm, it is the red dioxide metallic you are ordering, not the gold. Is that right?” Lettice asks in clearly enunciated tones down the telephone receiver as she sits at her Hepplewhite desk. “I don’t want the gold. It is rather expensive paper, and I’d hate for you to make a costly error.” She listens to the representative of Jeffrey and Company at the other end as he assures her that he has the correct details for her order. “Very well. And you’ll let me know when it arrives?” She listens again. “Very good. Good afternoon then.”

 

Lettice hangs up the receiver of the telephone with a half frustrated and half relieved sigh. In response the telephone utters a muffled ting of its bell as she hangs up. She begins scribbling notes in her black leather notebook with her silver fountain pen and with a rasp of nib against paper, she crosses off several things from her list for Minnie Palmerston’s dining room redecoration.

 

“I do like to see my favourite society interior designer, hard at work.” Selwyn pronounces, announcing his presence.

 

“Selwyn!” Lettice spins around in her chair, her eyes wide with shock as she sees him comfortably settled in one of her round white upholstered ebonised wood tub chairs. “What on earth are you doing here?” She self consciously pats the side of her elegantly marcelled** blonde hair and brushes her manicured fingers across the Peter Pan collar*** of her navy blue frock. “I wasn’t expecting you. What a delightful surprise!”

 

“Yes, your charming little maid was saying just the same thing not a moment ago when she answered the door to me.” Selwyn says, rising to his feet as Lettice rises to hers. “I just happened to be in the neighbourhood, and I thought I’d pop in, just on the off chance that you were here, to see how you are, my Angel. After all, I haven’t seen you since before Christmas.” He smiles warmly at his sweetheart who blushes prettily under his observant eye. “So I wanted to wish you all the very best for the season.”

 

“Oh yes!” Lettice breathes. “Happy 1923, Selwyn darling!” She stands up. “Are you stopping for long?”

 

“For a little while, my Angel.” he replies with an amused smile.

 

“Shall I ring for tea then?”

 

“Tea would be capital, my Angel. Thank you.”

 

Lettice depresses the servant’s call bell by the fireplace which she can hear echoing distantly in the kitchen. Edith appears moments later carrying a bulbous white vase containing the red roses Selwyn brough for Lettice as a gift.

 

“Oh Selwyn!” Lettice gasps. “Are these from you?” When he nods in acknowledgement, she adds. “They’re gorgeous!”

 

“Where would you like them, Miss?” she asks.

 

“Oh, on the telephone table, I think, Edith.” Lettice pronounces, as she picks up the telephone from her desk and walks it across the room, dragging the flex behind her, back to where it belongs.

 

“Very good, Miss.” Edith busily removes the vase of slightly withered yellow lilies and roses that were sitting on the table and replaces them with the roses. Picking up the other vase from where she placed it in the polished parquet floor she remarks, “There’s plenty of life left in these. I’ll pick through them and rearrange them in a smaller vase for you.”

 

“Oh no, you keep them, Edith. It will help brighten the kitchen up.” Lettice replies.

 

“That’s very kind of you, Miss. Thank you.”

 

“Oh, and could you please bring us some tea.”

 

“Yes Miss,” Edith answers with a bob curtsey. “Oh, and Mr. Spencely, that gentleman you mentioned is here. He’s in the kitchen at present. Shall I send him through?”

 

“Man? What man?” Lettice asks, glancing first at Edith and then at Selwyn.

 

“Yes, if you would, Edith. Thank you.”

 

“What man, Selwyn?” Lettice repeats to her beau as Edith retreats through the dining room and disappears through the green baize door into the service part of the flat.

 

Selwyn’s smile grows broader. “All will be revealed shortly, my Angel.” he assures her calmly.

 

The door Edith walked through opens and a workman carrying a large cardboard box steps across its threshold. Dressed in a flat cap damp from the rain outside and taupe coloured apron over a thick dark woollen jumper and black trousers, his face is florid with exertion as he breathes heavily and walks slowly.

 

“Ahh, put it down over here,” Selwyn commands as the deliveryman nears them, pointing with an indicating finger to the floor next to the table where Edith put the roses.

 

“You might ‘ave warned me I was goin’ ta have ta climb four flights of stairs with this, Guv!” the man huffs as he lowers the box onto the floor. He groans as he returns to an upright position and removes his cap. Withdrawing a grubby white kerchief from his pocket he wipes his brow before returning his cap to his head. He dabs his face with his kerchief as he inhales and exhales with laboured, rasping breaths.

 

“Good heavens!” Lettice gasps. “What on earth is in that box that’s so heavy?”

 

“Oh it’s not that ‘eavy, Mum,” the deliveryman pants. “If youse only takin’ it from room ta room.” He wipes the back of his neck with his kerchief. “Only if youse ‘oistin’ it up four flights of stairs!”

 

Selwyn ignores the deliveryman’s protestations as his focuses his attentions solely on Lettice. “I promised you when I had to withdraw from accompanying you to Priscilla’s wedding, that I was going to make it up to you, and this,” He taps the top of the box. “Is it!”

 

“What on earth is it?” Lettice asks with excitement and intrigue.

 

The red faced workman opens the box lid and delves into its interior. Newspaper scrunches noisily as he withdraws a shining lump of burnished brass with three fine finials which he places with a heavy laboured huff onto the telephone console.

 

“It’s a wireless, my Angel!” Selwyn says with a sweeping gesture towards the apparatus gleaming under the light of the chandelier overhead. “Merry Christmas, happy New Year,” He pauses. “And I’m sorry, all in one!”

 

“A wireless!” Lettice gasps. “Oh Selwyn, darling!” She jumps up from her seat next to the wireless and runs around the black japanned coffee table, throwing her arms around his neck. She looks over at the gleaming piece of new machinery with three knobs on the front below an ornamental piece of fretwork protecting some mesh fabric behind it. “How generous! I love it, darling!” She breaks away from Selwyn, her face suddenly clouding. “Oh, don’t you need a licence to have a radio?”

 

“The gent’s already paid fur it, Mum.” the workman says, reaching into the front pocket of his apron and withdrawing a slightly crumpled envelope. “Ten shillin’s, paid for through the General Post Office****.” He hands her the envelope.

 

“Ten shillings!” Lettice looks at Selwyn aghast. “On top of the apparatus itself. It must have cost a fortune!”

 

“Oh, it does, Mum!” the workman begins before being silenced by a sweeping gesture and a steely look from Selwyn. “Sorry, Guv.” He falls silent.

 

Turning back to Lettice, Selwyn continues, “It’s worth it to provide some pleasure to you, my Angel.”

 

“Oh Selwyn darling! You are a brick!” Lettice exhales in delight as she feels his hands pull her closer to him and kisses the top of her head tenderly. “But how does it operate?”

 

“Our good man here can tell you that better than I can, my darling.” Selwyn replies.

 

“Oh its really quite easy, Mum.” the workman assures Lettice. “It runs on a battery, oh, but just be careful! It’s an acid battery,” He points to his apron where his knees are. “So just watch yerself when youse moves it. Better youse ‘n yer maid move it togevva, side by side like, than youse on yer own, Mum.” He adds. “Turn it on ‘n off wiv this knob.” He points to the button on the left-hand side. “Turn the volume up or down wiv this knob.” He turns the button left and right. “And use the middle one to tune the wireless in.”

 

“Tune it in?” Lettice asks.

 

“Yes, Mum. ‘Ere I’ll show yer.” He leans down and turns the left knob to the right and it releases a satisfyingly crisp click. “We’ll just wait for the valves to warm up.” Slowly a quiet crackle begins behind the mesh. “This ‘ere’s the speaker, Mum.” He points to the fretwork covered mesh at the top of the wireless. “Sound‘ll come outta ‘ere.” he continues, feeling the need to clarify.

 

Just as Edith walks into the drawing room with a silver tray laden with tea things, the wireless releases a strangulated roar, making a juddering cacophony of discordant racket.

 

“Good heavens what’s that awful noise?” the young maid gasps, her eyes wide in horror as she allows the tray to clatter roughly onto the surface of the coffee table.

 

“It’s just the wireless warming up, Edith.” Selwyn assures her in a calm voice. “Do stay and watch this marvel of the modern age.”

 

“Marvel of the modern age!” Edith scoffs. “That infernal contraption is more than enough,” She glares at the shiny silver and black Bakelite***** telephone. “Without us having more gadgets around here.”

 

“Oh, don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud, Edith.” Lettice chides her maid mildly over the sound of the wireless static.

 

“This, my dear Edith,” Selwyn pronounces with a satisfied sigh. “Is the sign of the new age! Soon everyone will have one of these.”

 

“Heaven help us all then!” Edith rolls her eyes.

 

“And like I says, yer tune it wiv this knob, Mum.”

 

The workman starts to slowly turn the knob to the right, and as he does, the static sounds change, growing momentarily louder and then softer, and then slowly the discordant cacophony of harsh sounds starts to dissipate as music begins to be heard in its place. Very quickly the static is gone and the strains of violins and piano stream through the wireless speaker as ‘Londonderry Air’****** plays.

 

“Well, I never!” gasps Edith. “Its like having your own private band to play for you in that little box!”

 

“That it is, Miss.” agrees the workman.

 

“Oh, it’s wonderful, Selwyn darling!” Lettice exclaims, throwing her arms around his neck before kissing him with delight on the cheek.

 

And just for a little while, Lettice, Selwyn, Edith and the workman all stand and look at the shiny new wireless, enjoying the beautiful music drifting from its speaker.

 

The introduction of a radio, or a wireless as it was then known as, is the first real change we have seen to Lettice’s drawing room since we first met her two years ago, and in many ways it represents the spirit of change that the 1920s have become synonymous with. The British Broadcasting Company, as the BBC was originally called, was formed on the 18th of October 1922 by a group of leading wireless manufacturers including Marconi. Daily broadcasting by the BBC began in Marconi's London studio, 2LO, in the Strand, on November the 14th, 1922. John Reith, a thirty-three-year-old Scottish engineer, was appointed General Manager of the BBC at the end of 1922. Following the closure of numerous amateur stations, the BBC started its first daily radio service in London – 2LO. After much argument, news was supplied by an agency, and music drama and “talks” filled the airwaves for only a few hours a day. It wasn't long before radio could be heard across the nation, especially when radio stations were set up outside of London, like on the 6th of March when the BBC first broadcast from Glasgow via station 5SC.

 

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

 

**Marcelling is a hair styling technique in which hot curling tongs are used to induce a curl into the hair. Its appearance was similar to that of a finger wave but it is created using a different method. Marcelled hair was a popular style for women's hair in the 1920s, often in conjunction with a bob cut. For those women who had longer hair, it was common to tie the hair at the nape of the neck and pin it above the ear with a stylish hair pin or flower. One famous wearer was American entertainer, Josephine Baker.

 

***A Peter Pan collar is a style of clothing collar, flat in design with rounded corners. It is named after the collar of Maude Adams's costume in her 1905 role as Peter Pan, although similar styles had been worn before this date. Peter Pan collars were particularly fashionable during the 1920s and 1930s.

 

****With the advent of radio, as of the 18th of January, 1923, the Postmaster General granted the BBC a licence to broadcast. A licence fee of ten shillings was charged per wireless set sold, purchased through the General Post Office. Amateur wireless enthusiasts avoided paying the licence by making their own receivers and listeners bought rival unlicensed sets.

 

*****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, children's toys, and firearms. A plethora of items were manufactured using Bakelite in the 1920s and 1930s.

 

******The "Londonderry Air" is an Irish air that originated in County Londonderry. It is popular among the North American Irish diaspora and is well known throughout the world. The tune is played as the victory sporting anthem of Northern Ireland at the Commonwealth Games. The song "Danny Boy" uses the tune, with a set of lyrics written in the early Twentieth Century.

 

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Central to our story, the brass wireless, which is remarkably heavy for its size, comes from Melody Jane’s Doll House Supplies in the United Kingdom.

 

Lettice’s tea set is a beautiful artisan set featuring a rather avant-garde Art Deco Royal Doulton design from the Edwardian era. The green tinted glass comport on the coffee table , spun from real glass, is also from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

 

The black Bakelite and silver telephone is a 1:12 miniature of a model introduced around 1919. It is two centimetres wide and two centimetres high. The receiver can be removed from the cradle, and the curling chord does stretch out.

 

In front of the telephone sits a paperback novel from the late 1920s created by miniature British artisan, Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make these books 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, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

 

The vase of red roses on the Art Deco occasional table is beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium.

 

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

 

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

 

The geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Today we are in Lettice’s chic, dining room, which stands adjunct to her equally stylish drawing room. She has decorated it in a restrained Art Deco style with a smattering of antique pieces. It is also a place where she has showcased some prized pieces from the Portman Gallery in Soho including paintings, her silver drinks set and her beloved statue of the ‘Modern Woman’ who presides over the proceedings from the sideboard.

 

Lettice is hosting a luncheon for her future sister-in-law Arabella Tyrwhitt who will soon marry her eldest brother Leslie. As Arabella has no sisters, and her mother is too unwell at present to travel up to London from Wiltshire, Lettice has taken it upon herself to help Arabella shop and select a suitable trousseau. So, she has brought her to London to stay in Cavendish Mews, rather than opening up the Tyrwhitt’s Georgian townhouse in Curzon Street for a week, so from there she can take Arabella shopping in all the best shops in the West End, and take her to her old childhood chum and best friend Gerald Bruton’s couturier in Grosvenor Street for her wedding dress. Lettice has invited a few of her friends from her Embassy Club coterie whom Arabella met there the other night. Lettice has asked her best girlfriend, the recently married Margot Channon and one of her other dear friends Minnie Palmerston. As both ladies are married, Lettice is hoping they may be able to shed some light on what life is like as a married woman with Arabella whilst also sharing in an afternoon of delicious food and delightful gossip.

 

“Oh Gerald will make you the most wonderful wedding dress, Bella,” Margot enthuses to Arabella. “Believe me! He made me the most stylish gown for my wedding last year. You’ll be the talk of the Wiltshire downs.”

 

“I think your mother is a wonderful sport letting Lettice help you pick your wedding gown, Bella.” exclaims Minnie. “My mother wouldn’t let me choose so much as a button without her say so, and my wedding dress wasn’t anywhere near as modern and fashionable as I would have liked. It wasn’t even made by the couturier I wanted! I had to settle for old fashioned Lucille*.”

 

“Well,” Arabella says a little awkwardly. “My mother, err, she isn’t all that well at present, you see.”

 

“So,” Lettice quickly pitches in to avoid Arabella any awkward explanations. “I’m doing Lady Tyrwhitt the biggest favour whilst she is indisposed, by hosting Bella here in my flat and taking her shopping.” Arabella smiles in relief at her future sister-in-law who sits to her right at the head of the table. “I mean, what’s the point in opening up their London townhouse for just a few days when Bella is welcome here at any time?”

 

“And where everything is so lovely and welcoming.” Arabella says gratefully.

 

“Hhmm… that’s most sensible, Lettice.” Minnie says.

 

“And this way, I can take Bella to places like the Embassy Club whilst she’s up here, as well as take her frock shopping.” Lettice giggles with a wink at Bella. “I can show here what she’s missing being stuck in dull old Wiltshire.”

 

“Oh, it’s not as dull as all that, Tice,” Arabella remarks, her face flushing with mild embarrassment as she feels so unworldly in comparison to Lettice and her smart London friends. “After all, we have cattle shows, garden parties and…”

 

“Cattle shows!” baulks Margot, her left hand pressing over her mouth in horror, her diamond engagement ring glinting under the light of the dining room. “How beastly! I do hope that there aren’t any cattle shows I have to go on Cornwall! I should dislike that intensely.”

 

“I agree!” nods Minnie, her green glass chandelier earrings bobbing about as they dangle from her lobes.

 

“You both grew up in London, so of course a cattle show is beastly to you two,” Lettice replies. “But Bella and I both grew up in the country, so we are used to life there. Cattle shows are part of county social life.”

 

“If I had to go and look at beastly… well beasts, in order to meet eligible men,” Minnie says with an air of distaste as she wrinkles her nose. “I think I’d rather stay single.”

 

“Good job the closest thing you’ve come to the countryside is Hyde Park on a summer’s day then isn’t it, Minnie?” retorts Lettice with a playful smile.

 

“I quite enjoy the county social round,” Arabella admits with a shy smile. “And whilst I’m so grateful for you taking me to nightspots around London, Tice, I don’t think I’ll ever be a nightclub kind of girl.”

 

“Poor darling,” Lettice teases her good naturedly as she speaks out to her other friends at the table. “She doesn’t know yet how deliciously addictive nightclubs can be.”

 

“We’ll fix that,” giggles Margot, reaching out a hand across the table, past the central floral arrangement of lightly fragrant white roses in a glass bowl and enveloping Arabella’s smaller hand with her own. “Don’t you worry about that Lettice.”

 

Picking up her thoughts on life in Wiltshire, Bella adds, “Wiltshire isn’t quite the ends of the earth socially. Don’t forget, we do have balls and parties to go to there, like your mother’s glittering Hunt Ball.”

 

“Yes,” titters Minnie. “Where Lettice met that dishy Selwyn Spencely!”

 

Margot joins in with Minnie’s girlish peals.

 

“Oh do stop you two!” Lettice says with a playful wave of her hand. “I’ve only had to opportunity to have luncheon with him once thus far since the ball.”

 

“But you are planning to see him again, aren’t you Tice?” asks Arabella.

 

“Of course she is,” teases Margot with a wag of her bejewelled finger. “You can see it written all over her face!”

 

“Lettice!” Minnie cries, pointing her her elegant finger at her friend across the table. “You’re holding out on us. You’ve arranged to see him again, haven’t you?”

 

“Lettice!” gasps Margot. “Not fair! Spill the beans at once!”

 

“Well,” Lettice admits. “He did ring me this morning.”

 

“And?” Margot and Minnie ask, their breath baited with excitement.

 

“And we’ve arranged to have luncheon again after Bella returns home to Wiltshire.”

 

Margot and Minnie squeal and clap with delight, gushing forth congratulations as though Lettice had just announced her engagement to Selwyn.

 

“I hope you aren’t putting off seeing him just because I’m here, Tice.” Bella says quietly, a guilty look crossing her pretty face.

 

“Not at all, Bella!” Lettice reaches over and squeezes Arabella’s hand comfortingly. “He telephoned whilst you were in the bathroom this morning. You are my guest and as such, you have my undivided attention. Mr. Selwyn Spencely can wait a few days.”

 

“Well, they do say that absence makes the heart grow fonder.” remarks Margot. “It certainly did for Dickie and I.”

 

“Where are you going, Lettice?” asks Minnie eagerly.

 

“I’ll tell you where, but not what day.” Lettice agrees. “The last thing I want is for you and Charles to be sitting, goggle eyed at the next table.”

 

“As if I would!” Minnie gasps, pressing a hand dramatically to her chest.

 

“As if you wouldn’t, more like!” Lettice retorts.

 

“Well,” Minnie looks across an Margot guiltily. “Yes, we would.”

 

The pair giggle conspiratorially.

 

“So where?” Minnie asks.

 

“The Café Royal.**”

 

“Oh how deliciously luxurious, Lettice darling!” Margot enthuses.

 

“I shall have Charles book us a table there every night for the fortnight after Bella leaves.” giggles Minnie teasingly, but her wink to Lettice assures her that she won’t.

 

“Oh Minnie!” Margot laughs. “You are awful!”

 

Just as Margot and Minnie break into more girlish titters, Edith, Lettice’s maid, emerges from the kitchen through the green baize door and walks towards the table with a tray on which she carries four of her home made orange curd tarts.

 

“Ah! What good timing!” Lettice claps her hands. “Edith, you are a brick! Ladies, dessert!”

 

Edith bobs a curtsey to her mistress and begins to serve the desserts to her guests first by carefully holding the tray on an angle to Arabella’s left, so she may easily help herself to one without the whole tray tipping forward and the tarts spilling onto the polished parquetry dining room floor.

 

“Thank you for that roast beef luncheon, Edith,” Arabella remarks as she selects the tart closest to her. “It was quite delicious.”

 

“You’re welcome, Miss Tyrwhitt.” Edith murmurs in reply, her face flushing with pleasure at the compliment.

 

Edith moves on and serves Minnie and then Margot, before finally coming back to Lettice who selects the one remaining tart from the tray. Ensuring that everyone has a replenished drink, Edith retreats to the kitchen, allowing the four ladies to carry on their conversation undisturbed by her presence.

 

“This looks delicious, Lettice darling.” remarks Margot as she looks down at the tart before her, the pastry a pale golden colour, a twist of candied orange and a dollop of whipped cream decorating its top.

 

“Yes,” concurs Minnie. “You’re so lucky Lettice. I don’t know how you manage to find such good staff in London.”

 

“I told you, Minnie. Mater gave me the telephone number of an excellent agency. That’s where I got Edith from. I’ll give it to you.”

 

“Oh,” Minnie sulks. “I think even if I employed the most perfectly qualified maid, I’d do something to muck the whole arrangement up. I usually do.”

 

“Good heavens, whatever are you talking about, Minnie?” Lettice exclaims.

 

“She’s only saying that because of her dining room faux pas.” Margot elucidates as she picks up her spoon and fork to commence eating her tart.

 

“What dining room faux pas?” Lettice asks.

 

Minnie looks around Lettice’s dining room at the restrained black japanned furnishings, white Art Deco wallpaper and elegant decorations. “I should just have done what Margot did and engaged you to decorate it for me.” she remarks as she picks up her own spoon and fork and begins to disseminate her dessert.

 

“What dining room faux pas?” Lettice asks again.

 

“At least you have taste, Lettice, unlike me.” Minnie continues uninterrupted.

 

“Nonsense Minnie darling, you have one of the most tasteful and fashionable wardrobes in London!” Margot counters.

 

“Well, it obviously doesn’t extend to my ability as an interior decorator.” Minnie grumbles back as she stabs her tart with her fork.

 

“Minnie, what dining room faux pas?” Lettice asks again, the smallest lilt in her raised voice betraying her frustration at being ignored.

 

“Well, you know how Charles’ grandfather left us the house in St John’s Wood?” Minnie asks.

 

“Yes,” Lettice says, laying aside her spoon and fork, leaving her trat untasted as she looks intently into the green eyes of her redheaded friend.

 

“When we moved in, it was full of all of old Lady Arundel’s ghastly furniture. Charles’ grandfather hadn’t done a single thing to update the place, so it was all dusty of festoons and potted palms.”

 

“So pre-war Edwardian!” adds Margot just before she pops the daintiest piece of tart into her mouth, smiling as she tastes it.

 

“Charles says to me when I complain about how dark and cluttered it is: ‘Minnie darling, why don’t you redecorate’. So of course I thought to myself that if you could do it so effortlessly, why couldn’t I?”

 

“I wouldn’t say effortlessly, Minnie darling.” Lettice corrects her friend. “Anyway, do go on. I’m all ears.”

 

“Well, I was delighted! My first real project as a wife, making a comfortable home for my husband. I asked Charles what room I should start with, and he suggested the dining room. After all, bringing potential business partners home to his dead grandmother’s fusty old dining room wouldn’t look very good, would it?”

 

“Indeed not, Minnie darling.” Lettice agrees, her lids lowering slightly as she concentrates on her friend’s story.

 

“He said that perhaps rather than throw out Lady Arundel’s dining table, I might start by picking some papers that went well with the dark furniture and red velvet seats, but would match our wonderful modern paintings which we hung in place of the muddy oils that were in there.”

 

“You could see where the old paintings had been by the non-faded patches of red flocked wallpaper.” Margot titters.

 

“That sounds ghastly,” Lettice remarks. “How sensible Charles was to suggest the walls first. Then you can decide what your new dining room furnishings will be once you are ready, and there’s no rush to fling out what you have at present.”

 

“Very well observed, Lettice darling.” Margot agrees.

 

“So where is the faux pas in that, then?” asks Lettice, looking across the roses of the centrepiece at her two friends in a perplexed fashion.

 

“The faux pas is what I chose!” pouts Minnie. “I’d started off so well too. I had the old black marble fireplace torn out and replaced with a lovely new surround.”

 

“Very streamline and modern,” Margot agrees, taking another mouthful of tart.

 

“Oh yes!” Minnie exclaims. “Quite to die for. Then I went to Jeffrey and Company*** looking for papers. It’s where my mother got our wallpapers for our homes when I was growing up.”

 

“Mine too.” affirmed Margot.

 

“And the assistant showed me the most divine poppies pattern on a geometric background. I thought to myself that being red, the poppies were a perfect choice for the walls.”

 

“It sounds perfect to me, Minnie darling.” Lettice says. “I still don’t see where the faux pas is?”

 

“You haven’t seen it on the walls.” Margot remarks half under her breath, looking apologetically at Minnie.

 

“No, it’s true Margot.” Minnie admits defeatedly with a sigh. “It sounds wonderful, but it looks positively awful!”

 

“Oh I wouldn’t have said that,” Margot counters. “It is rather busy and rather draws attention away from your paintings, but it isn’t awful.”

 

“Well Charles thinks it is! He says it’s like eating in a Maida Vale**** dining room! He doesn’t even want to eat in there now, and he certainly won’t bring any potential business partners around for dinner. He’s rather take them to his club!” Minnie whines. She drops her cutlery with a clatter onto the black japanned dining room table’s surface and hurriedly snatches her napkin from her lap. Carefully she dabs at the corners of her eyes.

 

“Oh Minnie!” Margot says, quickly getting up from her seat, dropping her own napkin on the seat of her chair and walking around to her friend where she wraps her arms around her shoulders comfortingly.

 

“Minnie darling. Please don’t cry.” Lettice gasps, standing up in her seat.

 

“You have modern wallpaper, but it doesn’t feel like Maida Vale in here.” Minnie says tearfully, thrusting her arms around in wild gesticulations.

 

Discreetly, Arabella moves Minnie’s half empty champagne flute out of her immediate reach to avoid any adding any drama with the spilling of drinks or shattering of glass to what is already an uncomfortable enough situation with the young woman sobbing in her seat whilst being comforted by her friends. Quietly Arabella wonders if the hot rush of London life with all its drama is all that good for the constitution if people behave this way over luncheon tables in the capital, and she secretly longs to retreat to the safety of her much quieter home of Garstanton Park back in Wiltshire.

 

“Do you need the smelling salts, Miss?” Edith, who unnoticed with Minnie’s loud crying and moaning, has slipped back into the dining room from the kitchen.

 

“What?” Lettice turns and registers her maid’s presence. “Ahh, no. No thank you Edith. Mrs. Palmerston is just having another one of her momentary dramas.”

 

“I am not!” bursts out Minnie, causing her already flushed face to go even redder as another barrage of tears and moaning escapes her shuddering frame.

 

“Of course you are, Minnie darling.” Lettice counters calmly in a good natured way. Turning back to her anxious maid she adds, “It will be over in a minute. Thank you, Edith.”

 

“Very good Miss.” Edith replies bewilderingly with raised eyebrows and an almost imperceptible shake of her head as she looks again at Mrs. Palmerston, red faced and weeping in her chair, her bare arms being rubbed by Mrs. Channon who coos and whispers quietly into her ears.

 

“Minnie has always been highly strung.” Lettice quietly assures Arabella whom she notices is looking particularly uncomfortable in her seat. “It will pass in a moment, and then we’ll get on with luncheon.”

 

After a few minutes of weeping, Minnie finally calms down, and both Lettice and Margot return to their seats to finish their desserts, all three behaving as if Minnie’s outburst had never occurred, and that such behaviour was not only understandable, but perfectly normal. Arabella, with her head down, eyes focussed squarely upon her half eaten tart says nothing and follows suit. For a few moments, nothing breaks the silence but the sound of cutlery scraping against crockery.

 

“I know, Minnie darling,” Lettice breaks the embargo on speaking cheerfully. “Why don’t I come and look at your dining room.”

 

“Oh would you?” exclaims Minnie with a sigh of relief. “Could you? Oh! That would be marvellous! What a brick you are, Lettice.” Then she pauses, her sudden happy energy draining away just as quickly. “But you can’t.” She shakes her head. “You’re redecorating Margot’s.”

 

Arabella unconsciously holds her breath, waiting for Minnie to start crying again.

 

“Well, yes I am,” Lettice agrees. “But there’s no reason why I can’t have two clients at once.”

 

“She’s not actually doing anything at ‘Chi an Treth’ at present,” Margot says, picking up her wine glass and draining it. “Are you Lettice darling?”

 

“Well I can’t right now, you see Minnie.” Lettice elucidates. “Funnily enough I’m waiting for Margot’s wallpapers to be printed by Jeffrey and Company, but they won’t be ready for a few weeks. So I can come and have a look, maybe make some recommendation for you and Charles to consider. Then if you’re happy, I can commence work after I’ve finished Margot’s.”

 

“Oh, but what about Bella? You’re helping her shop for her trousseau.” Minnie protests.

 

“I can assure you, I don’t need any help shopping for clothes.” Arabella says, releasing her pent-up breath. “Tice has pointed me in the direction of Oxford Street, so I can take myself there.”

 

“As it happens, we’re visiting Gerald on Thursday for Bella’s first consultation for her wedding dress. Why don’t I come on Thursday for luncheon whilst Bella and Gerald consult? She doesn’t need me to help her decide what she wants. She already has a good idea, don’t you Bella?”

 

Arabella nods emphatically.

 

“Well Thursday is cook’s afternoon off, but if you think you could cope with some sandwiches.” Minnie says hopefully.

 

“That’s settled then!” Lettice says with a sigh.

 

Suddenly the mood in the room lightens and spontaneous conversation begins to bubble about Lettice’s dining table again as Margot and Minnie ask Arabella about her plans for her wedding dress.

 

*Lucile – Lucy, Lady Duff Gordon was a leading British fashion designer in the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries who use the professional name Lucile. She was the originator of the “mannequin parade”, a pre-cursor to the modern fashion parade, and is reported to have been the person to first use the word “chic” which she then popularised. Lucile is also infamous for escaping the Titanic in a lifeboat designed for forty occupants with her husband and secretary and only nine other people aboard, seven being crew members. When hemlines rose after the war, her fortunes reversed as she couldn’t change with the times, always wanting to use too much fabric on gowns that were too long and too fussy and pre-war.

 

**The Café Royal in Regent Street, Piccadilly was originally conceived and set up in 1865 by Daniel Nicholas Thévenon, who was a French wine merchant. He had to flee France due to bankruptcy, arriving in Britain in 1863 with his wife, Célestine, and just five pounds in cash. He changed his name to Daniel Nicols and under his management - and later that of his wife - the Café Royal flourished and was considered at one point to have the greatest wine cellar in the world. By the 1890s the Café Royal had become the place to see and be seen at. It remained as such into the Twenty-First Century when it finally closed its doors in 2008. Renovated over the subsequent four years, the Café Royal reopened as a luxury five star hotel.

 

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

 

****Although today quite an affluent suburb of London, in 1922 when this scene is set, Maida Vale was more of an up-and-coming middle-class area owing to its proximity to the more up market St John’s Wood to its west. It has many late Victorian and Edwardian blocks of mansion flats. Charles’ remark that he felt like he was in a Maida Vale dining room was not meant to be taken as a compliment considering they live in St John’s Wood.

 

Lettice’s fashionable Mayfair flat dining room is perhaps a little different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures I have collected over time.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The orange curd tarts with their twist of orange atop each are made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in the United Kingdom. The empty wine glasses and the glass bowl in the centre of the table are also 1:12 artisan miniatures all made of hand spun and blown glass. They too are made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. The vase is especially fine. If you look closely you will see that it is decorated with flower patterns made up of fine threads of glass. The cream roses in the vase were also hand made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. The Art Deco dinner set is part of a much larger set I acquired from a dollhouse suppliers in Shanghai, as is the cutlery set. The champagne flutes that are filled with glittering golden yellow champagne were made by Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The candlesticks were made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.

 

In the background on the console table stand some of Lettice’s precious artisan purchases from the Portland Gallery in Soho. The silver drinks set is made by artisan Clare Bell at the Clare Bell Brass Works in Maine, in the United States. Each goblet is only one centimetre in height and the decanter at the far end is two- and three-quarter centimetres with the stopper inserted. Lettice’s Art Deco ‘Modern Woman’ figure is actually called ‘Christianne’ and was made and hand painted by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland. ‘Christianne’ is based on several Art Deco statues and is typical of bronze and marble statues created at that time for the luxury market in the buoyant 1920s.

 

Lettice’s dining room is furnished with Town Hall Miniatures furniture, which is renown for their quality. The only exceptions to the room is the Chippendale chinoiserie carver chair (the edge of which just visible on the far left-hand side of the photo) which was made by J.B.M. Miniatures.

 

The carpet beneath the furniture is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug hand made by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney, Australia. The paintings on the walls are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States. The geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Today however we are not at Cavendish Mews, although we are still in Mayfair, moving a few streets away to Hill Street, where Edith, Lettice’s maid, and her beau, grocery boy Frank Leadbetter, are visiting Edith’s friend and fellow maid Hilda. It is a beautiful, sunny Sunday and Sundays all three have as days off from their jobs as domestic servants and delivery boy. Taking advantage of this, all three are going to spend the afternoon at Hammersmith Palias de Danse*. As usual, Frank collects Edith from Cavendish Mews and the pair then go to the home of Lettice’s married friends Margot and Dickie Channon, where Hilda works as a live-in maid.

 

Being Hilda’s day off, her employers usually decamp for the day, and today they are visiting their friend Priscilla who recently married American dry goods heir Georgie Carter. The pair have just returned to London from their honeymoon which took in much of Europe before visiting Georgie’s family in Philadelphia. The quartet will dine at the Café Royal**, doubtless at the expense of Georgie since the Channons seem perpetually to have financial difficulties, but as a result, the Channons have invited the Carters back to their Hill Street flat for after supper coffee, which means that Hilda must do one of her most hated jobs: grind coffee beans to make real coffee for Georgie Carter, who is particular about his American style coffee. We find the trio in the kitchen of the Hill Street flat, the ladies’ dancing frocks and Frank’s suit at odds with their surrounds as Hilda grinds the coffee beans sitting in a white china bowl in the large wooden and brass coffee grinder. By preparing the coffee, ready to make before she goes out, it will be easy to serve when her employers and their guests return after dinner, and the beans will still be fresh enough for Georgie’s liking.

 

“You know,” Frank remarks as he stands at Edith’s elbow and watches Hilda turn the handle of the coffee grinder with gusto. “I don’t see why they can’t just drink Camp Coffee*** like the rest of us.”

 

“Oh Frank!” gasps Edith, looking up at her beau and patting his hand with her own as he squeezes her left shoulder lovingly. “You know perfectly well why not, Frank. Mr. and Mrs. Channon’s friend, Mr. Carter is an American gentleman, and just like Miss Wanetta Ward the American moving picture star, he doesn’t like British coffee.”

 

“What rot!” Frank scoffs at the suggestion. “There’s nothing wrong with British coffee! If British coffee isn’t to Mr. Carter’s taste, let him have tea then, and save poor Hilda the effort of having to grind up coffee beans for his lordship.” He slips off the jacket of his smart Sunday blue suit, revealing his crisp white shirt, red tie and smart navy blue vest. He drapes it over the back of the Windsor chair Edith sits in. “Come on old girl,” he says to Hilda as he moves around the deal pine kitchen table. “Give me a go then. Give your arms a chance to recuperate before we go dancing.”

 

“You’re such a Socialist, Frank Leadbetter.” pipes up Hilda as with a grunt, she pushes the handle of the grinder mechanism over a particularly recalcitrant coffee bean.

 

“What?” gasps Frank as he takes over grinding from the grateful maid. “I thought you’d come to my defence, Hilda, especially as I’m being so chivalrous as to grind coffee beans for you.”

 

“Oh I am grateful, Frank, ever so.” Hilda replies, rubbing her aching forearms with her fat, sausage like fingers. “But just because you are being gallant, doesn’t mean I can’t call you a Socialist.”

 

“Because a hard working man like me thinks I’m every bit as good as this friend of your Mr. and Mrs. Channon, I’m now a Socialist?” Frank asks in an appalled voice. “You’re as bad as Edith’s mum.” He nods in his sweetheart’s direction.

 

“Mum thinks Frank might be a Communist.” Edith explains. “Even though we’ve both told her that he isn’t.”

 

“Handsome is as handsome does.” remarks Hilda with a cheeky smile as she glances at Frank winding the red knob topped brass handle of the grinder.

 

“I’m neither, I’ll have you know, Hilda Clerkenwell!” Frank retorts. “I’d prefer to think of myself as more of a progressive thinker when it comes to the rights and privileges of the working man,” He looks poignantly at Hilda. “And woman.”

 

“Same thing.” Hilda retorts matter-of-factly as she starts to straighten the russet grosgrain bandeau**** embellished with gold sequins which has slipped askew whilst she has been grinding coffee beans.

 

“Pardon my ignorance,” Edith begins gingerly. “But what exactly is a Socialist?”

 

“Socialism is a political movement that wants to reform various economic and social systems, transferring them to social ownership as opposed to private ownership.” remarks Hilda as she runs her hands down the back of her hair.

 

“Well done, Hilda!” Frank congratulates her.

 

“You sound surprised, Frank.” Hilda says with a cheeky smile. “Don’t they have smart girls where you come from, present company excluded, Edith!” Hilda adds hurriedly so as not to offend her best friend.”

 

“Oh, you know I’m not very political,” Edith assures Hilda, yet at the same time self consciously toys with her blonde waves as she speaks.

 

“I must confess, Hilda, I am a little surprised.” Frank admits. “I don’t know many girls who are interested in social rights and can give explanations so eloquently.”

 

“I’m so sorry Frank!” Edith defends herself. “I know you’ve tried to teach me, but I can’t help it. I get confused between this ist and the other ist. They all seem the same to me.” She blushes with mild embarrassment at her own ignorance.

 

“No, no, Edith!” Frank assures her as he stops grinding the coffee beans and reaches out his left hand, clasping her right one as it rests on the tabletop and squeezes it reassuringly. “This isn’t a criticism of you! It was a compliment to Hilda. You’re wonderful, and there are things that you understand and are far better at than me.”

 

“Than both of us, Edith.” adds Hilda quickly, the look of concern about her friend taking umbrage clear on her round face.

 

“Yes, inconsequential things.” Edith mumbles in a deflated tone.

 

“No, not at all.” Frank reassures her soothingly as he takes up grinding coffee again. “What good am I to myself if I can’t cook a meal to feed myself.”

 

“And for all my love of reading, Edith, you know I can’t sew a stitch.” Hilda appends. “I could never have made this beautiful frock.” She grasps the edge of the strap of her russet coloured art satin***** dress as she speaks. “Not in a million years. We’re all good at different things, and no-one could say you weren’t smart, Edith.”

 

“That’s right.” Frank concurs, smiling at his sweetheart. “One of the reasons why I’ve always admired you is because you aren’t some silly giggling Gertie****** like some of the housemaids I’ve known. You aren’t turned by just a handsome face, and your head isn’t filled with moving picture stars and nothing else.”

 

“Well, I do like moving picture stars, Frank.” Edith confesses.

 

“Oh I know, Edith, and I love you for that too.” Frank reassures her. “But it’s not all that is in there. You have a good head on your shoulders.”

 

“And a wise one too.” Hilda interjects. “How often do I ask you for advice? I’ve always asked you for your opinion on things for as long as we’ve been friends.”

 

“You are clever, and insightful, and you want a better life for yourself too, and that’s why I really love you. We want the same things from life.” Frank says in a soft and soothing tone full of love as he gazes at Edith. “You are very pretty, and no-one can deny that – not even you,” He holds out an admonishing finger as Edith goes to refute his remark. “But beauty, however glorious will fade. Just look at our Dowager Queen Mother*******. When beauty fades, wit and intelligence remain, and you have both of those qualities in spades, Edith.”

 

“Oh Frank.” Edith breathes softly. “You aren’t ashamed of me then?”

 

“Of course I’m not Edith! How could I ever be ashamed of you? I’m as proud as punch******** to step out with you! You’re my best girl.”

 

Frank winds the gleaming brass coffee grinder handle a few more times before stopping. He pulls out the drawer at the bottom and as he does, the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans fills the air around them, wafting up his, Edith and Hilda’s nostrils. He sighs with satisfaction at a job well done.

 

“Good enough for his American lordship?” Frank asks Hilda.

 

She peers into the drawer. “Good enough.” she acknowledges with another of her cheeky smirks, nodding affirmatively.

 

“I still think he could jolly well grind his own, you know, Hilda!” Frank opines.

 

“Socialist.” she laughs in reply as she walks around Frank, withdraws the drawer of ground coffee and knocks the contents into the small, worn Delftware coffee cannister with careful taps, so as not to spill and waste any of the hard-won grinds.

 

“I bet you, your Wanetta Ward doesn’t grind her own coffee, Edith.” Frank goes on as he walks back around to Edith and slips his jacket on again.

 

“I bet you she does, Frank!” Edith counters.

 

“What? A moving picture star grinding her own coffee? I don’t believe it!”

 

“Miss Ward is a very unorthodox person, Frank, even for an American.” she assures him. “I think she might surprise you if you ever get the pleasure of meeting her one day.”

 

“Maybe.” Frank says doubtfully. “Well now that coffee is ground, we should really get going.” He runs his hands around the back of his jacket collar to make sure it is sitting straight. “The Hammersmith Palais waits for no-one, not even those who slave for undeserving Americans.” He laughs good heartedly. “Shall we go?”

 

“Oh yes!” enthuses Edith as Frank chivalrously pulls out her chair for her as she stands up. “I’ll fetch our coats.”

 

With her pretty blue floral sprigged frock swirling about her figure, Edith hurries over to the pegs by the door where Frank’s, Hilda’s and her own coat and hats hang. She moves lightly across the floor, practicing her dance steps as she goes, silently moving to the music she hears the band playing in her head.

 

“I really wonder why I bother sometimes.” Hilda says despondently as she pulls her brown coat on over the top of the luxurious man-made silk frock that Edith made for her and decorated with lace trimming and small bursts of sequins.

 

“Like I said,” Frank mutters. “He should settle for Camp Coffee like the rest of us, or have tea.”

 

“Not grinding coffee, Frank!” Hilda scoffs in reply. “I mean go dancing at the Hammersmith Palais week after week. What’s the point?”

 

“What do you mean, Hilda?” Edith asks gently, slipping her arms into her own black three-quarter length coat as Frank holds to open for her.

 

“I mean why do I bother going dancing when no man at the Palais ever looks at me, even in this beautiful new frock you made me, Edith.” She picks up the lace trimmed hem of her dance dress and lifts it despondently.

 

Edith and Frank both glance anxiously at one another for a moment. Both know they are thinking exactly the same thing. What Hilda says is true. Whenever the three of them go to the Hammersmith Palais de Danse there are always far more women in attendance than men. The Great War decimated the male population, and almost drove an entire generation of young men into extinction. Sadly, this means that more and more women are finding themselves without a gentleman to step out with, and are deemed surplus to needs by society. In spite of any of his faults, Edith knows how lucky she is to have a young man like Frank. Even the attentions of pretty girls are less in demand with fewer men in circulation desiring their company. Unlike Edith, Hilda is a little on the plump side, enjoying the indulgence of sticky buns from the bakers and an extra serving of Victoria Sponge at the Lyons Corner Shop********* at the top of Tottenham Court Road. Her face is friendly, with soft brown eyes and a warm smile, but she isn’t pretty. Even with the judicious application of a little powder and rouge acquired from the make-up counter of Selfridges********** her skin lacks the fresh gleam that Edith has, and for as long as she has known her, Edith has always found Hilda to have a very pale complexion. When the three of them do go dancing, Frank is often the only man she dances with when he partners her around the dancefloor, and more often than not, Hilda ends up taking the part of the man, dancing with any number of other neglected wallflowers, just to ward of the tedium of waiting for someone to ask her to dance. The plight, for plight it was, of women like Hilda was all too common, in the post-war world of the 1920s.

 

“Perhaps you’re looking in the wrong place, Hilda.” Frank says.

 

“What do mean, Frank?”

 

“Well, a girl with brains like you needs a man who will stimulate her mentally. Perhaps you might find the man of your dreams at a library.”

 

“A library!” Hilda’s mind conjures up images of pale bookish young men in glasses with phlegmatic characters who would much rather shake her hand limply and discuss the benefits of Socialism, rather than sweep her off her feet romantically.

 

“Not at all helpful, Frank!” hisses Edith as she watches her best friend’s face fall.

 

“I was only joking.” Frank shrugs apologetically, unsure what to say.

 

Edith hurries over and wraps her arm around Hilda’s slumping shoulders consolingly. “A faint heart never won a fair lady, Hilda.” She pulls Hilda to her lovingly. Hilda looks up at her friend sadly, yet thoughtfully. “And I think it works the same in reverse.”

 

Seeing a way to make amends for his ill-timed joke, Frank pipes up, “That’s exactly right, Hilda. Edith wouldn’t have been anywhere near as attractive to me if she hadn’t had a bit of pluck.”

 

“And you look splendid in the dance frock I made for you, Hilda,” Edith adds. “Really you do.”

 

“Do you really think so, Edith?” Hilda asks, looking at her friend.

 

“Of course I do! I’m a professional seamstress, and you are my best friend. I wouldn’t make something that didn’t suit you!”

 

“No, no of course not.” Hilda replies.

 

“And didn’t Mrs. Minkin say that russet satin would suit your colourings?”

 

“She did.”

 

“Well then,” Edith replies matter-of-factly. “There is nothing more to be said.”

 

“That’s right.” agrees Frank, and without further ado, he sweeps Hilda into his arms.

 

With the ease of a natural dancer, Frank begins to waltz his partner carefully across the black and white chequered linoleum floor of the Channon’s kitchen, guiding her around the kitchen table and the chairs gathered around it, past the black and white stove and the dresser cluttered with crockery and provisions.

 

“Oh Frank!” Hilda says, laughing joyously as she allows herself to be swept away. “You really are a one!”

 

Edith smiles as she sees a light return to her best friend’s eyes, and a smile appear upon her pert lips. She considers herself so fortunate not just because she has a chap to step out with, but because Frank is so kind and considerate. Not just any man would understand or appreciate Edith’s wish to include Hilda in their excursions to the Hammersmith Palais de Danse, and not every man would be as willing to take a turn with her on the dancefloor, as has been proven. Then again, Frank is no ordinary man, and as time goes on and she gets to know him better, the more she is becoming aware that her sweetheart is a very special man indeed. She laughs as Frank dips Hilda, making her squeal in delight, before raising her up again and restoring her to her feet.

 

“There!” Frank says with a huff as he catches his breath. “Now that your feet are suitably warmed up, you’re ready to go, Miss Clerkenwell. We’ll have no more talk of you not wanting to come dancing with us.”

 

“Today might be the day you meet someone, Hilda. Don’t give up on the chance.” Edith enthuses.

 

“Oh alright you two!” Hilda acquiesces. “I give up. Let’s go then.”

 

“That’s the spirit, Hilda!” Frank says. “That pluck will win you a fine and handsome gentleman with a brain that you deserve.”

 

“I can hardly battle both of you, can I?” Hilda laughs as she carefully places her floppy brimmed brown velvet and copper faille poke-style bonnet decorated with a beige rose and leaves atop her head.

 

The three friends walk out of the kitchen door that leads out onto the flat’s back stairs and begin to descend to the street. Hilda locks the door behind her and the coffee grinder and the as of yet to be ground coffee beans sit on the table, ready for when she returns later that day to serve to Margot, Dickie and their friends Priscilla and Georgie Carter.

 

*The Hammersmith Palais de Danse, in its last years simply named Hammersmith Palais, was a dance hall and entertainment venue in Hammersmith, London, England that operated from 1919 until 2007. It was the first palais de danse to be built in Britain.

 

**The 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.

 

***Camp Coffee is a concentrated syrup which is flavoured with coffee and chicory, first produced in 1876 by Paterson & Sons Ltd, in Glasgow. In 1974, Dennis Jenks merged his business with Paterson to form Paterson Jenks plc. In 1984, Paterson Jenks plc was bought by McCormick & Company. Legend has it (mainly due to the picture on the label) that Camp Coffee was originally developed as an instant coffee for military use. The label is classical in tone, drawing on the romance of the British Raj. It includes a drawing of a seated Gordon Highlander (supposedly Major General Sir Hector MacDonald) being served by a Sikh soldier holding a tray with a bottle of essence and jug of hot water. They are in front of a tent, at the apex of which flies a flag bearing the drink's slogan, "Ready Aye Ready". A later version of the label, introduced in the mid-20th century, removed the tray from the picture, thus removing the infinite bottles element and was seen as an attempt to avoid the connotation that the Sikh was a servant, although he was still shown waiting while the kilted Scottish soldier sipped his coffee. The current version, introduced in 2006, depicts the Sikh as a soldier, now sitting beside the Scottish soldier, and with a cup and saucer of his own. Camp Coffee is an item of British nostalgia, because many remember it from their childhood. It is still a popular ingredient for home bakers making coffee-flavoured cake and coffee-flavoured buttercream. In late 1975, Camp Coffee temporarily became a popular alternative to instant coffee in the UK, after the price of coffee doubled due to shortages caused by heavy frosts in Brazil.

 

****A bandeau is a narrow band of fabric worn round the head to hold the hair in position. Although bandeaus existed long before the 1920s, there was a resurgence in popularity for embroidered grosgrain ribbons to be worn around the head across the forehead in the 1920s, and they are synonymous with 1920s flapper fashion.

 

*****The first successful artificial silks were developed in the 1890s of cellulose fibre and marketed as art silk or viscose, a trade name for a specific manufacturer. In 1924, the name of the fibre was officially changed in the U.S. to rayon, although the term viscose continued to be used in Europe.

 

******Although obscure as to its origin, the term “giggling Gertie” is of English derivation and was often used in a derisive way to describe silly children and young people, usually girls, who were deemed as being flippant and foolish.

 

*******Queen Alexandra was Queen of the United Kingdom and the British Dominions, and Empress of India, from the twenty-second of January 1901 to the sixth of May 1910 as the wife of King-Emperor Edward VII. Daughter of King Christian IX of Denmark, at the age of sixteen Alexandra was chosen as the future wife of Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, the son and heir apparent of Queen Victoria. When she arrived in England she was famed for her beauty and her style of dress and bearing were copied by fashion-conscious women. From Edward's death, Alexandra was queen mother, being a dowager queen and the mother of the reigning monarch. Alexandra retained a youthful appearance into her senior years, but during the Great War her age caught up with her. She took to wearing elaborate veils and heavy makeup, which was described by gossips as having her face "enamelled".

 

********Although today we tend to say as “pleased as punch”, the Victorian term actually began as “proud as punch”. This expression refers to the Punch and Judy puppet character. Punch's name comes from Punchinello, an Italian puppet with similar characteristics. In Punch and Judy shows, the grotesque Punch is portrayed as self-satisfied and pleased with his evil actions.

 

*********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.

 

********** Selfridges, also known as Selfridges & Co., is a chain of upscale department stores in the United Kingdom that is operated by Selfridges Retail Limited, part of the Selfridges Group of department stores. It was founded by Harry Gordon Selfridge in 1908. Harry Gordon Selfridge, Sr. was an American-British retail magnate who founded the London-based department store. His twenty year leadership of Selfridge’s led to his becoming one of the most respected and wealthy retail magnates in the United Kingdom. He was known as the 'Earl of Oxford Street'.

 

***********Faille is a type of cloth with flat ribs, often made in silk. It has a softer texture than grosgrain, with heavier and wider cords or ribs. Weft yarns are heavier than warp, and it is manufactured in plain weaving. It was especially popular in the Nineteenth Century, and its popularity, although somewhat dwindling, did carry through into the early decades of the Twentieth Century.

 

This cosy domestic kitchen scene is a little different to what you might think, for whilst it looks very authentic, it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures from my miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

 

On Hilda’s deal table stands her coffee grinder with its brass handle, wooden base and drawer, and red knobs. It comes from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. The little Delftware canister and the white china bowl also come from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop. The coffee beans in the bowl are really black carraway seeds. The vase of flowers comes from an online shop on E-Bay.

 

Hilda’s Windsor chair is a hand-turned 1:12 artisan miniature which came from America. Unfortunately, the artist did not carve their name under the seat, but it is definitely an unmarked artisan piece.

 

In the background you can see a very modern and up-to-date 1920s gas stove. It would have been expensive to instal at the time, and it would have been the cook’s or maid’s pleasure to cook on and in. It would have included a thermostat for perfect cooking and without the need of coal, it was much cleaner to feed, use and easier to clean. It is not unlike those made by the Roper Stove Company in the 1920s. The Roper Stove Company previously named the Florence-Wehrle Company among other names, was founded in 1883. Located in Newark, Ohio, the company was once the largest stove producer in the world. Today, the Roper Stove Company is a brand of Whirlpool.

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Tonight however, we are at Simpson’s-in-the-Strand*, near Covent Garden and the theatre district of London’s West End. Here, amidst the thoroughly English surrounds of wooden panelling, beautifully executed watercolours of British landscapes and floral arrangements in muted colours, men in white waistcoats and women a-glitter with jewels are ushered into the dining room where they are seated in high backed chairs around tables dressed in crisp white tablecloths and set with sparkling silver and gilt china. The large room is very heavily populated with theatre patrons enjoying a meal before a show and therefore it is full of vociferous conversation, boisterous laughter, the clink of glasses and the scrape of cutlery against crockery as the diners enjoy the traditional English repast that Simpson’s is famous for. Seated at a table for two along the periphery of the main dining room, Lettice and Selwyn are served their roast beef dinner by a carver. Lettice is being taken to dinner by Selwyn to celebrate the successful completion of his very first architectural commission: a modest house built in the northern London suburb of Highgate built for a merchant and his wife. Lettice has her own reason to celebrate too, but has yet to elaborate upon it with Selwyn.

 

“I do so like Simpson’s.” Lettice remarks as the carver places a plate of steaming roast beef and vegetables in front of her. Glancing around her, she admires the two watercolours on the wall behind her and the jolly arrangement of yellow asters and purple and yellow pansies on the small console to her right.

 

“I’m glad you approve.” Selwyn laughs, smiling at his companion.

 

“I’m always put in mind of Mr. Wilcox whenever it’s mentioned, or I come here.”

 

“Who is Mr. Wilcox?” Selwyn asks, his handsome features showing the signs of deep thought.

 

“Oh,” Lettice laughs and flaps her hand, the jewels on her fingers winking gaily in the light. “No-one. Well, no one real, that is.” she clarifies. “Mr. Wilcox is a character in E. M. Forster’s novel, ‘Howard’s End’**, who thoroughly approves of Simpson’s because it is so thoroughly English and respectable, just like him.”

 

“I can’t say I’ve read that novel, or anything by him.” Selwyn admits as the carver places his serving of roast beef and vegetables before him. “My head has been too buried in books on architecture.” Selwyn reaches into the breast pocket of his white dinner vest and takes out a few coins which he slips discreetly to the man in the crisp white uniform and chef’s hat.

 

“Thank you, Your Grace,” the carver says, tapping the brim of his hat in deference to the Duke of Walmsford’s son before placing the roast beef, selection of vegetables in tureens and gravy onto the crisp white linen tabletop, and then wheeling his carving trolley away.

 

Lettice giggles as she picks up the gravy boat and pours steaming thick and rich dark reddish brown gravy over her dinner.

 

“Well, what’s so funny, my Angel?” Selwyn asks with a querying look as he accepts the gravy boat from Lettice’s outstretched hands and pours some on his own meal.

 

“Oh you are just like Mr. Wilcox.”

 

“You know,” He picks up his silver cutlery. “And please pardon me for saying this, but I didn’t take you for reading much more than romance novels.”

 

“Oh!” Lettice laughs in mild outrage. “Thank you very much, Selwyn!”

 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Selwyn defends himself, dropping his knife and fork with a clatter onto the fluted gilt edged white dinner plate.

 

“Then what do you mean?” Lettice asks, trying to remain serious as she looks into the worried face of her dinner companion, which makes her want to reach out and stroke his cheek affectionately and smile.

 

“I… I merely meant that most ladies of your background have had very little education, or inclination to want to read anything more than romance novels.”

 

“Well,” Lettice admits. “I must confess that I do quite enjoy romance novels, and I wouldn’t be as well read if it weren’t for Margot.”

 

“Aha!” Selwyn laughs, popping some carrots smeared in gravy into his mouth.

 

“But,” Lettice quickly adds in her defence. “I’ll have you know that my father is a great believer in the education of ladies, and so was my grandfather, and I applied myself when I studied, and I enjoyed it.”

 

“It shows my Angel,” Selwyn assures her. “You are far more interesting than any other lady I’ve met in polite society, most of whom haven’t an original thought in their heads.”

 

“I take after my Aunt Egg, who learned Greek amongst other languages, which served her well when she decided to go there to study ancient art. Although Mater insisted that I not go to a girl’s school, so I would not become a bluestocking*** and thereby spoil my marriage prospects by demonstrating…”

 

“That’s what I was implying,” Selwyn interrupts in desperate defence of his incorrect assumptions about Lettice. “Most girls I have met either feign a lack of intelligence, or more often genuinely are dim witted. Admittedly, it’s not really their fault. With mothers like yours, who believe that the only position for a girl of good breeding is that of marriage, they seldom get educated well, and their brains sit idle.”

 

“Well, I have a brain, and I know how to use it. Pater and Aunt Egg drummed into me the importance of intelligence as well as good manners and looks in women of society.”

 

“Well, there are a great many ladies whom I have met who could take a leaf out of your book. I know you have a mind of your own, my Angel,” Selwyn purrs. “And that’s one of the many attributes about you that I like. Having a conversation with you about art, or my passion of architecture, is so refreshing in comparison to speaking about floral arrangements or the weather, as I shall soon have to when I start escorting my cousin Pamela for the London Season.”

 

Lettice cannot help but shudder silently at the mention of Selwyn’s cousin, Pamela Fox-Chavers, for she is immediately reminded of what Sir John Nettleford-Hughes said to her at the society wedding of her friend Priscilla Kitson-Fahey to American Georgie Carter in November. He pointed out to her that Selwyn’s mother, Lady Zinnia, plans to match Selwyn and Pamela. From his point of view, it was already a fait accompli.

 

“I like my cousin,” Selwyn carries on, not noticing the bristle pulsating through Lettice. “But like so many of the other debutantes of 1923, she is lacking interests beyond the marriage market and social gossip and intrigues. You, on the other hand, my Angel, are well informed, and have your own opinions.”

 

“Well, you can thank Pater for instilling that in me. He hired some very intelligent governesses to school my sister and I in far more than embroidery, floral arranging and polite conversation.”

 

“And I’m jolly glad of it, my darling.”

 

“And Aunt Egg told me that I should never be afraid to express my opinion, however different, so long as it is artfully couched.”

 

“I like the sound of your Aunt Egg.”

 

“I don’t think your mother would approve of her, nor of me having a brain, Selwyn. Would she? I’m sure she would prefer you to marry one of those twittering and decorous debutantes.” She tries her luck. “Like your cousin Pamela, perhaps?”

 

“Oh, come now, Lettice darling!” Selwyn replies. If she has thrown a bone, he isn’t taking it as he rests the heels of his hands on the edge of the white linen tablecloth, clutching his cutlery. He chews his mouthful of roast beef before continuing. “That isn’t fair, even to Zinnia. She’s a very intelligent woman herself, with quite a capacity for witty conversation about all manner of topics, and she reads voraciously on many subjects.”

 

“I was talking to Leslie about what his impressions of your mother were when I went down to Glynes**** for his wedding in November.”

 

“Were you now?” Selwyn’s eyebrows arch with surprise over his widening eyes.

 

“Yes,” Lettice smirks, taking a mouthful of roast potato drizzled in gravy which falls apart on her tongue. Chewing her food, she feels emboldened, and sighs contentedly as she wonders whether Sir John was just spitting sour grapes because she prefers Selwyn’s company rather than his. Finishing her mouthful she elucidates, “Leslie is a few years older than us, and of course, I only remember her as that angry woman in black who pulled you away after we’d played in the hedgerows.”

 

“Well, she obviously left a lasting impression on you!” Selwyn chortles.

 

“But it isn’t a fair one, is it?” she asks rhetorically. “So, I asked Leslie what he remembered of her from time they spent together in the drawing room whilst you and I were tucked up in bed in the nursery.”

 

“And what was Leslie’s impression of Zinnia?”

 

“That, as you say, she is a witty woman, and that she liked to hold men in her thrall with her beauty, wit and intelligence.”

 

“Well, he’s quite right about that.”

 

“But that she didn’t much like other ladies for company, especially intelligent ones who might draw the gentlemen’s attention away from her glittering orbit.”

 

Selwyn chews his mouthful of dinner and concentrates on his dinner plate with downcast, contemplative eyes. He swallows but remains silent for a moment longer as he mulls over his own thoughts.

 

After a few moments of silence, Lettice airs an unspoken thought that has been ruminating about her head ever since Selwyn mentioned her. “You know, I’d love to meet Zinnia.”

 

Selwyn chuckles but looks down darkly into his glass of red wine. “But you have met her, Lettice darling. You just said so yourself. She was that angry woman yelling at you as I was dragged from the hedgerows of your father’s estate.”

 

“I know, but that doesn’t count! We were children. No, I’ve heard of her certainly over the years, but now that I’ve become reacquainted with you as an adult, and now that we are being serious with one another.” She pauses. “We are being serious with one another, aren’t we Selwyn?”

 

“Of course we are, Lettice.” Selwyn replies, unable to keep his irritation at her question out of his voice. “You know we are.” Falling back into silence, he runs his tongue around the inside of his cheek as he retreats back into his own inner most thoughts.

 

“Then I’d so very much like to meet her. You have met my toadying mother. Why shouldn’t I meet yours?”

 

“Be careful what you wish for, my Angel.” he cautions.

 

“What do you mean, Selwyn darling?”

 

Selwyn doesn’t answer straight away. He absently fiddles with the silver salt shaker from the cruet set in front of him, rolling its bulbous form about in his palm, as if considering whether it will give him an answer of some kind.

 

“Selwyn?” Lettice asks, leaning over and putting a hand on her companion’s broad shoulder.

 

“Just that you may not like her when you meet her.” He shrugs. “That’s all. Toadying is certainly not a word I would associate with Zinnia on any given day, that’s for certain.”

 

“Or you might be implying she might not like me.” Lettice remarks downheartedly. “Is that it?”

 

Softening his tone, Selwyn assures her, “I like you, and I’m sure she will too. You will get to meet her soon enough, Lettice darling. I promise. But not yet.” He suddenly snaps out of his contemplations and starts to cut a piece off his roast beef, slicing into the juicy flesh with sharp jabs of his knife. “We have plenty of time for all that. Let’s just enjoy us for now, and be content with that.”

 

“Oh of course, Selwyn darling,” Lettice stammers. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean, now.”

 

“I know you didn’t may angel.” He sees the look of concern she is giving him as she stiffens and sits back in her straight backed chair, afraid that she has offended him. “I just like it being just us for now, without the complication of Zinnia.”

 

“Is she complicated?”

 

“More than you’ll ever know, my angel. Aren’t most mothers?”

 

“I suppose.”

 

“Anyway, enough about Zinnia! I don’t want this evening to be about Zinnia! I want it to be about us. So not another word about her. Alright?” When Lettice nods shallowly, he continues, “I’m here to celebrate the success of Mr. and Mrs. Musgrave of Highgate being happy with their newly completed home.”

 

“Oh yes! Your first architectural commission completed and received with great success!” Lettice enthuses. “Let’s raise a toast to that.” She picks up her glass of red wine, which gleams under the diffused light of the chandeliers in Simpson’s dining room. “Cheers to you Selwyn, and your ongoing success.”

 

Their glasses clink cheerily.

 

“And what of Bruton?”

 

“Oh, Gerald is doing very well!” Lettice assures Selwyn, returning her glass to the tabletop. “His couture business is really starting to flourish.”

 

“It’s a bit of rum business*****, a chap making frocks for ladies, isn’t it?” Selwyn screws up his nose in a mixture of a lack of comprehension and distaste.

 

“It’s what he’s good at,” Lettice tugs at the peacock blue ruched satin sleeve of her evening gown as proof, feeling proud to wear one of her friend’s designs. “And he’s hardly the first couturier who’s a man, is he, Selwyn Darling?”

 

“I suppose not. Zinnia does buy frocks from the house of Worth******, and he was a man.”

 

“Exactly.” Lettice soothes. “And who would know what suits a lady better than a man?”

 

“Yes, and I must say,” Selwyn says, looking his companion up and down appreciatively in her shimmering evening gown covered in matching peacock blue bugle beads. “You do look positively ravishing in his creation.”

 

“Thank you, Selwyn.” Lettice murmurs, her face flushing at the compliment.

 

“We never see him at the club any more. I think the last time I saw him was the night I met you at your parents’ Hunt Ball, and that was almost a year ago.”

 

“Oh well,” Lettice blusters awkwardly, thinking quickly as to what excuse she can give for her dearest friend. She knows how dire Gerald’s finances are, partially as a result of his father’s pecuniary restraints, and she suspects that this fact is likely the reason why Gerald doesn’t attend his club any longer, even if he is still a member. Even small outlays at his club could tilt him the wrong way financially. However she also knows that this is a fact not widely known, and it would embarrass him so much were it to become public knowledge, especially courtesy of her, his best friend. “Running a business, especially in its infancy like Gerald’s and mine, can take time, a great deal of time as a matter of fact.”

 

“But you have time, my Angel, to spend time with me.” He eyes her. “Are you covering for Bruton?”

 

Lettice’s face suddenly drains of colour at Selwyn’s question. “No… no, I.”

 

Lowering his voice again, Selwyn asks, “He hasn’t taken after his brother and found himself an unsuitable girl, has he?”

 

Lettice releases the breath she has held momentarily in her chest and sighs.

 

“I know Gerald wouldn’t go for a local publican’s daughter, like Roland did, but being artistic like he is, I could imagine him with a chorus girl, and I know if news of that ever got back to Old Man Bruton, there would be fireworks, and it would be a bloody******* time for Bruton. Poor chap!”

 

“No, no, Selwyn darling!” Lettice replies with genuine relief. “I can assure you,” And as she puts her hand to her thumping heart, she knows she speaks the truth. “Gerald hasn’t taken up with a chorus girl. He genuinely is busy with his couture business. Establishing oneself, as you know only too well, isn’t easy, even for a duke’s son, much less a lower member of the aristocracy without the social profile. And my business is ticking along quite nicely now, so I don’t need to put in as much effort as Gerald does.”

 

“But how selfish of me, my Angel!” Selwyn exclaims, putting his glass down abruptly and looking to his companion. “What a prig I’m being, aggrandising myself and bringing up Bruton, when you said that you had something to celebrate tonight too. What is it?”

 

“Oh, it’s nothing like you’ve done, by finishing a house for someone.” Lettice says, flapping her hand dismissively.

 

“Well, what is it, Lettice darling?” Selwyn insists. “Tell me!”

 

Lettice looks down at her plate for a moment and then remarks rather offhandedly, “It was only that I had a telephone call from Henry Tipping******** the other day, and received confirmation that my interior for Dickie and Margot Channon’s Cornwall house ‘Chi an Treth’ will be featured in an upcoming edition of Country Life.”

 

“Oh may Angel!” Selwyn exclaims. “That’s wonderful!” He leans over and kisses her affectionately, albeit with the reserve that is expected between two unmarried people whilst dining in a public place, but with no less genuine delight for her. “That’s certainly more than nothing, and is something also worth celebrating!” I say, let’s raise a toast to you.” He picks up his glass of red wine again. “Cheers to you Lettice, and may the article bring you lots of recognition and new business.”

 

The pair clink glasses yet again and smile at one another.

 

*After a modest start in 1828 as a smoking room and soon afterwards as a coffee house, Simpson's-in-the-Strand achieved a dual fame, around 1850, for its traditional English food, particularly roast meats, and also as the most important venue in Britain for chess in the Nineteenth Century. Chess ceased to be a feature after Simpson's was bought by the Savoy Hotel group of companies at the end of the Nineteenth Century, but as a purveyor of traditional English food, Simpson's has remained a celebrated dining venue throughout the Twentieth Century and into the Twenty-First Century. P.G. Wodehouse called it "a restful temple of food"

 

**Howards End is a novel by E. M. Forster, first published in 1910, about social conventions, codes of conduct and relationships in turn-of-the-century England. Howards End is considered by many to be Forster's masterpiece. The book was conceived in June 1908 and worked on throughout the following year; it was completed in July 1910

 

***The term bluestocking was applied to any of a group of women who in mid Eighteenth Century England held “conversations” to which they invited men of letters and members of the aristocracy with literary interests. The word over the passing centuries has come to be applied derisively to a woman who affects literary or learned interests.

 

****Glynes is the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie.

 

*****Rum is a British slang word that means odd (in a negative way) or disreputable.

 

******Charles Frederick Worth was an English fashion designer who founded the House of Worth, one of the foremost fashion houses of the Nineteenth and early Twentieth centuries. He is considered by many fashion historians to be the father of haute couture. Worth is also credited with revolutionising the business of fashion. Established in Paris in 1858, his fashion salon soon attracted European royalty, and where they led monied society followed. An innovative designer, he adapted 19th-century dress to make it more suited to everyday life, with some changes said to be at the request of his most prestigious client Empress Eugénie. He was the first to replace the fashion dolls with live models in order to promote his garments to clients, and to sew branded labels into his clothing; almost all clients visited his salon for a consultation and fitting – thereby turning the House of Worth into a society meeting point. By the end of his career, his fashion house employed 1,200 people and its impact on fashion taste was far-reaching.

 

*******The old fashioned British term “looking bloody” was a way of indicating how dour or serious a person or occasion looks.

 

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

 

Comfortable, cosy and terribly English, the interior of Simpson’s-in-the-Strand may look real to you, but it is in fact made up of pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection, including pieces from my childhood.

 

The dining table is correctly set for a four course Edwardian dinner partially ended, with the first course already concluded using cutlery, from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in the United Kingdom. The delicious looking roast dinner on the dinner plates, the bowls of vegetables, roast potatoes, boat of gravy and Yorkshire puddings and on the tabletop have been made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. The red wine glasses bought them from a miniatures stockist on E-Bay. Each glass is hand blown using real glass. The silver cruet set in the middle of the table has been made with great attention to detail, and comes from Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The silver meat cover you can just see in the background to the left of the photo also comes from Warwick Miniatures.

 

The table on which all these items stand is a Queen Anne lamp table which I was given for my seventh birthday. It is one of the very first miniature pieces of furniture I was ever given as a child. The Queen Anne dining chairs were all given to me as a Christmas present when I was around the same age.

 

The vase of flowers in the background I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The wood panelling in the background is real, as I shot this scene on the wood panelled mantle of my drawing room. The paintings hanging from the wooden panels come from an online stockist on E-Bay.

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Today however we have left the hustle and bustle of London, travelling southwest to a stretch of windswept coastline just a short drive the pretty Cornish town of Penzance. Here, friends of Lettice, newlyweds Margot and Dickie Channon, have been gifted a Recency country “cottage residence” called ‘Chi an Treth’ (Cornish for ‘beach house’) as a wedding gift by the groom’s father, the Marquess of Taunton. Margot, encouraged by her father Lord de Virre who will foot the bill, has commissioned Lettice to redecorate a few of the principal rooms of ‘Chi an Treth’. In the lead up to the wedding, Lord de Virre has spent a great deal of money making the Regency house habitable after many years of sitting empty and bringing it up to the Twentieth Century standards his daughter expects, paying for electrification, replumbing, and a connection to the Penzance telephone exchange. Now, with their honeymoon over, Dickie and Margot have finally taken possession of their country house gift and have invited Lettice to come and spend a Friday to Monday with them so that she might view the rooms Margot wants redecorating for herself and perhaps start formulating some ideas as to how modernise their old fashioned décor. As Lettice is unable to drive and therefore does not own a car, Margot and Dickie have extended the weekend invitation to one of their other Embassy Club coterie, Lettice’s old childhood chum, Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy who has tried to gain some independence from his family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street. Gerald owns a Morris*, so he can motor both Lettice and himself down from London on Friday and back again on Monday.

 

As the Morris drove slowly up the rather uneven and potholed driveway running through a wild and unkempt looking park that must once have been a landscaped garden, both Lettice and Gerald were taken aback by the house standing on the crest of an undulating hill overlooking a cove. When described as a Regency “cottage residence”, the pair were expecting a modest single storey house of maybe eight to ten rooms with a thatch roof, not the sprawling double storey residence of white stucco featuring arched French doors and windows with sea views, a wraparound cast iron verandah and high pitched slate tiled roof with at least a dozen chimneys.

 

Now settled in ‘Chi an Treth’s’ drawing room, Lettice looks about her, taking in the stripped back, slightly austere and very formal furnishings.

 

“I say old bean,” Gerald addresses Dickie from his seat next to Lettice on the rather hard and uncomfortable red velvet settee. “If this is what your father calls a ‘cottage residence’, no wonder you jumped at the chance to take it.”

 

“Apparently the Prince Regent** coined the term ‘cottage residence’ when he had Royal Lodge built at Windsor,” Dickie explains cheerily from his place standing before the crackling fire, leaning comfortably against the mantle. “And of course my ancestors being the ambitious breed they were, set about building a ‘cottage’ to rival it.”

 

“Was it built for a previous Marquess of Taunton?” Lettice asks with interest.

 

“Heavens no, darling!” their host replies, raising his hands animatedly. “It was built back around 1816 for one of the second Marquess’ bastard sons, who served as a ship’s captain and returned from fighting the Frenchies a decorated war hero.” Dickie points to two portraits at the end of the room, either side of a Regency sideboard.

 

“That would explain the maritime theme running through the art in here.” Lettice points casually to several paintings of ships also hanging about the walls.

 

“Aren’t they ghastly, Lettice darling?” Margot hisses as she glances around at the oils in their heavy frames. “We need some femininity in this old place, don’t you think?” She giggles rather girlishly as she gives her friend a wink. “Daddy has promised me the pretty Georgian girl in the gold dress that hangs in my bedroom in Hans Crescent. I think it could look lovely in here.”

 

“If you please, my love!” Dickie chides his new wife sweetly, giving her a knowing look.

 

“Oh, so sorry my love!” she replies, putting her dainty fingers to her cheeky smile.

 

“As the Marquess’ prolific illegitimate progeny were well known up and down the coast of Cornwall and beyond,” Dickie continues his potted history of the house. “And what with him being a hero of the Napoleonic wars, his father, my ancestor the second Marquess, thought it best to set him up in a fine house of his own.”

 

“That was far enough away from the family seat.” Gerald adds.

 

“That was far enough away from the Marchioness, more like!” Dickie corrects. “Last thing you want to do is rub your good lady wife’s nose into the fruits spawned from the sewing of your wild oats.”

 

Margot looks across at her husband from her armchair with a look of mock consternation. “I do hope, my sweet, that I’m not to be confronted with any illegitimate offspring when I’m Marchioness of Taunton.”

 

“Certainly not my love. The Marquess’s wife, Georgette, was fierce by all accounts, but she’d be a pussy cat compared to your fierceness, Margot.”

 

“I should think so.” Margot smiles with satisfaction.

 

“Anyway,” Dickie adds with a roguish smile. “I made sure I did away with any illegitimate offspring I had, prior to marrying you.”

 

The four friends laugh at Dickie’s quick, witty response, just as the door to the drawing room is forced open by a heavy boot, startling them all.

 

Looking to the door as it creaks open noisily on its hinges, an old woman with a wind weathered face with her unruly wiry white hair tied loosely in a bun, wearing a rather tatty apron over an old fashioned Edwardian print dress, walks in carrying a tea tray. Although weighed down heavily with a teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl, four cups and saucers and a glass plate of biscuits, the rather frail looking old woman seems unbothered by its weight, although her bones crack noisily and disconcertingly as she lowers the tray onto the low occasional table between the settee and armchairs.

 

“Oh, thank you Mrs. Trevethan.” Margot acknowledges the old woman.

 

“Omlowenhewgh agas boes!***” the elderly woman replies in a gravelly voice, groaning as she stretches back into an upright position.

 

“Yes… Yes, thank you Mrs. Trevethan.” Margot replies in an unsure tone, giving Lettice a gentle shrug and a quizzical look which her friend returns. “I’ll pour the tea myself I think.”

 

“Pur dha****.” she answers rather gruffly before retreating back the way she came with shuffling footsteps.

 

“What did she say?” Lettice asks Dickie once the door to the drawing room has closed and the old woman’s footfalls drift away, mingling with the distant sound of the ocean outside.

 

“Why look at me, old girl?” Dickie replies with a sheepish smile and a shrug as big as his wife’s.

 

“Because your Cornish, Dickie.” Lettice replies.

 

“Only by birth darling!” he defends with a cocked eyebrow and a mild look of distain.

 

“But it’s your heritage, Dickie.” counters Lettice disappointedly. “You’re supposed to know these things.”

 

“You know I went to Eaton, where they beat any hint of Cornish out of me my father and mother hadn’t already chased away prior to me going there.”

 

“It sounded like swearing to me,” Gerald adds in disgust, screwing up his nose. “Local dialect. So guttural.”

 

“Like ‘be gone you city folk, back from whence you came’?” Margot giggles.

 

“And who’d blame her?” Dickie pipes up. “After all, she and Mr. Trevethan have had run of this place ever since the old sea captain died. I mean, this place was supposed to be for Harry…”

 

“God bless Harry.” Margot, Lettice and Gerald all say in unison with momentarily downcast eyes.

 

“But of course, he never lived to be married and be given this place as a wedding gift, so Mr. and Mrs. Trevethan have been looking after the place for around four decades I’d reckon, give or take a few years.”

 

“So, there is a Mr. Trevethan then?” Lettice asks.

 

“Oh yes,” Dickie elucidates as he moves from the fireplace and takes his seat in the other vacant armchair. “He’s the gardener and odd job man.”

 

“Well, if that’s the case, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the whole house doesn’t fall down around our ears.” Gerald remarks disparagingly. “Getting the Morris safely over those potholes in your driveway was no mean feat, old bean.”

 

“They’re old, dear chap.” Dickie defends his housekeeper and gardener kindly. “Be fair. They’ve done a pretty good job of caretaking the old place, considering.”

 

“Poor chap.” mutters Gerald. “Looking at that old harridans’ haggard old face every day.”

 

“Oh Gerald!” gasps Lettice, leaning over and slapping his wrist playfully. “You are awful sometimes! For all you know, she was the beauty of Penzance when she and Mr. Trevethan were first courting. And,” she adds loftily. “I’ll have you know that I think the Cornish dialect sounds very beautiful,” She takes a dramatic breath as she considers her thoughts. “Rather like an exotic language full of magic.”

 

“You’ve been reading too much King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table.” Gerald cheekily criticises his friend’s reading habits lightly.

 

“Oh, thinking of which, I have a new novel for you, Lettice darling! It’s called ‘Joanna Godden’***** by Sheila Kaye-Smith. I’ve just finished it.” Margot takes up a volume from the round Regency side table next to her and passes it across to Lettice’s outstretched hands. “It’s a drama set in Kent. I’m sure you’ll like it. Now, shall I be mother?******” she asks, assuming her appropriate role of hostess as she reaches for and sets out the Royal Doulton teacups, a wedding gift from relations, and takes up the silver teapot, also a wedding gift. Expertly she pours the tea and then hands the cups first to her guests and then to her husband before picking up her own.

 

“I hope that old harridan didn’t spit in the tea.” Gerald looks uneasily at the cup of reddish tea he holds in his hands. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”

 

“Oh Gerald,” Lettice tuts, shaking her head in mock disapproval before chuckling light heartedly. “You do like to dramatise, don’t you?”

 

“If you announce her intentions like that,” Margot adds. “I’m sure she will, since she has the habit of listening at the keyhole.” She smiles cheekily as she finishes her sentence and settles back in her armchair.

 

“What?” Gerald splutters, depositing his cup rather clumsily and nosily on the Regency occasional table at his left elbow and looking over his shoulder to the door.

 

Margot, Dickie and Lettice all burst out laughing.

 

“Oh Gerald,” Lettice says gaily through her mirthful giggles. “You’re always so easy to bait.”

 

Gerald looks at his friends, smiling at his distress. “Oh!” He swivels back around again and tries to settle as comfortably as possible into the hard back of the settee. “I see.” He takes up his cup and glowers into it as he stirs it with his teaspoon, his pride evidently wounded at his friends’ friendly joke.

 

Lettice takes up her own cup of tea, adding sugar and milk to it and stirring, before selecting a small jam fancy from the glass dish of biscuits. Munching the biscuit she gazes about the room again, appraising the mostly Regency era furnishings of good quality with a few examples of lesser well made early Victorian pieces, the maritime oil paintings, the worn and faded Persian carpet across the floor and the vibrantly painted red walls, deciding that as well as formal, the room has a very masculine feel about it. “It’s really quite an elegant room, you know.” she remarks. “It has good bones.”

 

“Oh don’t look too closely at our less elegant damp patches or cracks to those so-called good bones, darling girl.” Dickie replies.

 

“Nor the chips to the paintwork and plaster or the marks we can’t quite account for.” Margot adds with a sigh. “I think I’d have been happy for Daddy to commission Edwin Lutyens******* to demolish this pile of mouldering bricks and build us a new country house.”

 

“Margot! What a beastly thing to say!” Lettice clasps the bugle beads at her throat in shock. “To demolish all this history, only to replace it with a mock version thereof. Why it is sheer sacrilege to even say it!”

 

“Blame it on my Industrial Revolution new money heritage,” Margot defends her statement. “Unlike you darling, with your ancestry going back hundreds of years and your romance for everything old.”

 

“I can’t see any damp patches, Dickie, or cracks.” Lettice addresses her male host again.

 

“That’s because it’s so dark in here,” Margot explains. “Even on an unseasonably sunny day like today, the red walls and the red velvet furnishings camouflage the blemishes.”

 

“All the more reason not to change the décor then, dear girl.” remarks Gerald as his gingerly sips his tea, still not entirely convinced of Mrs. Trevethan’s actions prior to the tea being deposited on the table.

 

“No! No, Gerald!” Margot counters. “That’s why I need you Lettice darling, and your vision. I want the place lightened up, smartened up and made more comfortable.”

 

“Those chairs are rather beautiful,” observes Lettice, indicating to the armchairs in which her host and hostess sit, admiring their ormolu mounted arms, sturdy legs and red velvet cushions.

 

“These things!” Margot scoffs, looking down at the seat beneath her. “They are so uncomfortable!” She rubs her lower back in an effort to demonstrate how lumpy and hard they are. “I can’t wait to banish them to the hallway. I can’t possibly sit pleasurably in these, or on that,” She indicates to the settee upon which Lettice and Gerald sit. “And read a book. They aren’t designed for comfort. No, what we want, and need is some soft, modern comfort in here to make life here more pleasurable for us and our guests. I want to sit in here and enjoy the afternoon sun streaming through those from the luxury of a new settee, or invite guests to snuggle into plush new armchairs.”

 

“Margot does have a point, Lettice darling.” Gerald adds, looking mournfully at Lettice as he bounces gingerly on his half of the settee, the flattened velvet seat barely yielding to his moving form.

 

Lettice looks around again. “There are no portraits of women in here, nor children.”

 

“That’s because there aren’t any, anywhere in the house.” Margot replies.

 

“What?” Lettice queries.

 

“The captain was a confirmed old bachelor all his life.” adds Dickie.

 

“But he looks quite dashing in his naval uniform,” Lettice observes. “Surely with his successful career, looks and a house like this to boot, he must have had every eligible woman in Cornwall dashing to knock down his door.”

 

“Even Mrs. Trevethan’s mother, who no doubt was even more beautiful than her daughter at the time the captain was looking for a bride.” Gerald chuckles, his response rewarded with a withering look from Lettice.

 

“He may well have been a desirous prospect, Lettice darling,” Dickie agrees. “But he remained unmarried all his life, and he lived to a great age.”

 

“There is a rumour,” adds Margot, leaning forward conspiratorially for dramatic effect. “That there was a sweetheart: a local lady of good breeding and family. However, her father didn’t approve of an illegitimate son-in-law, even if he did have a successful naval career and a grand new residence. We don’t know whether she was coerced, or if she really didn’t love him, but whatever the cause, she refused him. They say that her refusal of his marriage proposal broke his heart, and he swore then and there that he would never marry.”

 

“Oh how romantic!” Lettice enthuses.

 

“There is also talk in the family,” Dickie adds. “That there is a lost portrait of her.”

 

“A lost portrait?” breathes Lettice excitedly.

 

“Yes, by Winterhalter******* no less.” Margot explains.

 

“Oh how thrilling!” Lettice gasps, clutching her beads with exhilaration this time.

 

“Have you found it yet, old bean?” Gerald asks.

 

“No! Of course not,” replies Dickie. “Otherwise it wouldn’t be a lost portrait, would it? Do try to keep up old chap!”

 

“Not that I haven’t gone sneaking around the house looking for it atop cupboards and at the back of wardrobes.” Margot adds eagerly.

 

“That’s undoubtedly because that cussing old harridan Mrs. Trevethan and her husband probably stole it as soon as the captain had taken his last breath,” explains Gerald. “And now it hangs over their drawing room fireplace in the gatekeeper’s lodge.”

 

“Don’t talk nonsense, Gerald!” scoffs Dickie. “The Trevethans are a kindly pair, if perhaps a little rough and eccentric for our tastes. They love this house as much as we…” He glances at his wife before correcting himself. “Well, as much as I, do. No, we just haven’t found it yet. We may never find it because it might have been taken by someone else long ago, destroyed by the old captain himself in a fit of emotional rage…”

 

“Or,” adds Margot. “It could simply be a Channon family legend.”

 

“Exactly.” agrees Dickie with a satisfied sigh as he reaches over and takes up a chocolate biscuit, taking a large bite out of it. “It wouldn’t be the first if it is.”

 

“I know!” Lettice pipes up with a cheeky smile on her face. “Let’s play sardines******** together tonight, and then one of us might stumble across it in the most unlikely of hiding places.”

 

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

 

**The Prince Regent, later George IV, was king of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and King of Hanover from the death of his father, King George III, on 29 January 1820 until his own death ten years later. He had already been serving as Prince Regent since 5 February 1811, during his father's final mental illness. It is from him that we derive the Regency period in architecture, fashion and design.

 

***”Omlowenhewgh agas boes” is Cornish for “bon appetit”.

 

*****“Pur dha” is Cornish for “very good”.

 

*****‘Joanna Godden’ is a 1921 novel by British writer Sheila Kaye-Smith (1887 – 1956). It is a drama set amongst the sheep farmers of Romney Marsh in Kent.

 

******The meaning of the very British term “shall I be mother” is “shall I pour the tea?”

 

*******Sir Edwin Landseer Lutyens (1869 – 1944) was an English architect known for imaginatively adapting traditional architectural styles to the requirements of his era. He designed many English country houses, war memorials and public buildings, and was one of the architects of choice for the British upper classes between the two World Wars.

 

********Franz Xaver Winterhalter (1805 – 1873) was a German painter and lithographer, known for his flattering portraits of royalty and upper-class society in the mid-19th century. His name has become associated with fashionable court portraiture. Among his best known works are Empress Eugénie Surrounded by her Ladies in Waiting (1855) and the portraits he made of Empress Elisabeth of Austria (1865).

 

********Sardines is an active game that is played like hide and go seek — only in reverse! One person hides, and everyone else searches for the hidden person. Whenever a person finds the hidden person, they quietly join them in their hiding spot. There is no winner of the game. The last person to join the sardines will be the hider in the next round. Sardines was a very popular game in the 1920s and 1930s played by houseguests in rambling old country houses where there were unusual, unknown and creative places to hide.

 

This beautiful Regency interior with its smart furnishings may not be all that it seems, for it is made up entirely with miniatures from my collection, including a number of pieces that I have had since I was a child.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The two walnut Regency armchairs with their red velvet seats and ormolu mounts are made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq. So too are the two round occasional tables that flank the settee and one of the armchairs.

 

The round walnut coffee table was made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Creal miniatures.

 

The red velvet mahogany settee, the Regency sideboard and the two non matching mahogany and red velvet chairs at the far end of the room I have had since I was around six or seven, having been given them as either birthday or Christmas gifts.

 

The irises in the vase on the sideboard are very realistic looking. Made of polymer clay they are moulded on wires to allow them to be shaped at will and put into individually formed floral arrangements. They are made by a 1:12 miniature specialist in Germany. The vase in which it stands is spun of real glass and was made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in England. The detail in this Art Deco vase is especially fine. If you look closely, you will see that it is decorated with fine latticework.

 

Also made of real glass are the decanters of whiskey and port and the cranberry glass soda syphon also made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in England. The white roses behind the syphon are also from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering, as is the glass plate of biscuits you can see on the coffee table.

 

The two novels on the occasional table next to the armchair come from Shepherds Miniatures in England, whilst the wedding photo in the silver frame is a real photo, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frame comes from Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers in England.

 

On the occasional table beside the settee stands a miniature 1950s lidded powder bowl which I have had since I was a teenager. It is stamped on its base with a green Limoges stamp indicating the era.

 

The Royal Doulton style tea set featuring roses on the coffee table came from a miniature dollhouse specialist on E-Bay, whilst the silver teapot comes from Smallskale Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The silver Regency tea caddy (lettice’s wedding gift to Margot and Dickie if you follow the “Life at Cavendish Mews” series), the slender candlestick and the tall two handled vase on the mantle were made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.

 

The British newspapers that sit in a haphazard stack on the footstool in the foreground of the picture are 1:12 size copies of ‘The Mirror’, the ‘Daily Express’ and ‘The Tattler’ made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. There is also a copy of ‘Country Life’ which was made by me to scale using the cover of a real 1921 edition of ‘Country Life’.

 

The plaster fireplace to the right of the photo comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

All the paintings around the drawing room in their gilded or black frames are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States and Marie Makes Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The Persian rug on the floor has been woven by Pike, Pike and Company in the United Kingdom.

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Today however we are at Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie. Lettice is visiting her family home after receiving a strongly worded instruction from her father by letter to visit without delay or procrastination. Over luncheon, Lettice was berated by her parents for her recent decision to decorate the home of the upcoming film actress, Wanetta Ward. Lettice has a strained relationship with her mother at the best of times as the two have differing views about the world and the role that women have to play in it, and whilst receiving complaints about her choice of clients, Lettice was also scolded by mother for making herself unsuitable for any young man who might present as an eligible prospect. Although Lettice is undeniably her father’s favourite child, even he has been less than receptive to her recent choices of clients, which has put her a little out of favour with him. After Lady Sadie stormed out of the dining room over one of Lettice’s remarks, Viscount Wrexham implored his headstrong youngest daughter to try and make an effort with her mother, which is something she has been mulling over during her overnight stay.

 

Now Lettice stands in the grand Robert Adam decorated marble and plaster entrance hall of her family home as she prepares to take her leave. Outside on the gravel driveway, Harris the chauffer has the Chetwynd’s 1912 Daimler ready to drive her to the Glynes village railway station for the one fifteen to London. She has bid farewell to her brother Leslie and her father. Now there is just one final member of the family whom she needs to say goodbye to.

 

“Thank you Marsden.” Lettice remarks to the liveried first footman as he carries the last of Lettice’s luggage out to the Daimler.

 

“I hope you have a safe journey back to London, My Lady.” Bramley, the Chetwynd’s butler remarks as he walks into the entrance hall to see Lettice off.

 

“Thank you, Bramley,” Lettice replies. “Oh, I’m glad you are here. Do you know where my Mother might be?”

 

Considering her question, the old butler looks to the upper levels and ceiling of the hall before replying knowingly. “Well, it is still mid-morning according to Her Ladyship, so I would imagine that she will be in the morning room. Shall I go and see, My Lady?”

 

“No thank you Bramley. You have more than enough to do I’m sure, managing this old pile of bricks, without doing that for me. I’m perfectly capable of seeking her out for myself.”

 

Turning on her heel, Lettice walks away from the butler, her louis heels echoing off the marble tiles around the entrance hall in her wake.

 

“Mamma?” Lettice trills with false cheer as she knocks with dread on the walnut door to the morning room.

 

When there is no reply to her call, she considers two possibilities: either her mother is still in a funk with her and not speaking to her after the scene in the dining room yesterday, or she isn’t in the morning room at all. Both are as likely as each other. Taking a deep breath, she turns the handle and opens the door, calling her mother again as she does so.

 

The Glynes morning room is very much Lady Sadie’s preserve, and the original classical Eighteenth Century design has been overlayed with the comfortable Edwardian clutter of continual and conspicuous acquisition that is the hallmark of a lady of her age and social standing. China cabinets of beautiful porcelain line the walls. Clusters of mismatched chairs unholstered in cream fabric, tables and a floral chaise lounge, all from different eras, fill the room: set up to allow for the convivial conversation of the great and good of the county after church on a Sunday. The hand painted Georgian wallpaper can barely be seen for paintings and photographs in ornate gilded frames. The marble mantelpiece is covered by Royal Doulton figurines and more photos in silver frames. Several vases of flowers stand on occasional tables, but even their fragrance cannot smother her mother’s Yardley Lily of the Valley scent. Lady Sadie is nowhere to be seen but cannot have been gone long judging by her floral wake.

 

Walking over to the Eighteenth Century bonheur de jour* that stands cosily in a corner of the room, Lettice snorts quietly with derision as she looks at the baby photograph of Leslie, her eldest brother, which stands in pride of place in a big silver frame on the desk’s serpentine top, along with a significantly smaller double frame featuring late Nineteenth Century younger incarnations of her parents. Lettice, her sister Lally and brother Lionel have been relegated to a lesser hanging space on the wall, as befits the children seen as less important by their mother. Everything has always been about Leslie as far as their mother is concerned, and always has been for as long as Lettice can remember.

 

Lettice runs her fingers idly over several books sitting open on the desk’s writing space. There is a costume catalogue from London and a book on Eighteenth Century hairstyles. “Making plans for the Hunt Ball.” Lettice muses with a smile. It is then that she notices a much thicker book below the costume catalogue which has a familiar looking worn brown leather cover with a gilt tooled inlay. Moving the catalogue Lettice finds a copy of Debrett’s**

 

“Oh Mamma!” she exhales with disappointment as she shakes her head.

 

As she picks it up, she dislodges a partially written letter in her mother’s elegant copperplate hand from beneath it. Lettice knows she shouldn’t read it but can’t help herself as she scans the thick white paper embossed with the Wrexham coat of arms. Its contents make her face go from its usual creamy pallor to red with frustration.

 

“Ahh! Lettice!” Lady Sadie’s crisp intonation slices the silence as she walks into the morning room and discovers her daughter standing over her desk. “Heading back to London, are we?” she continues cheerily as she observes her daughter dressed in her powder blue travelling coat, matching hat and arctic fox fur stole. She smiles as she indicates to the desk’s surface. “I’m making plans for my outfit for the Hunt Ball. I thought I might come as Britannia this year.”

 

Lettice doesn’t answer her mother immediately as she continues to stare down at the letter next to her mother’s silver pen and bottle of ink. Remembering her father’s request, she draws upon her inner strength to try and remain civil as she finally acknowledges, “How appropriate that you should come as the all-conquering female warrior.”

 

“Lettice?” Lady Sadie remarks quizzically.

 

“Perhaps you might like to reconsider your choice of costume and come as my faerie godmother, since I’m coming as Cinderella.”

 

“Oh, now that’s a splendid idea! Although I don’t…”

 

“Or better yet, come as cupid instead!” Lettice interrupts her mother hotly, anger seething through her clipped tones as she tries to keep her temper.

 

“Now you’re just being foolish, Lettice,” Lady Sadie replies as she walks towards her daughter, the cheerful look on her face fading quickly as she notices the uncovered copy of Debrett’s on her desk’s surface.

 

“Not at all, Mamma! I think it’s most apt considering what you are trying to do.”

 

“Trying to do? What on earth are you talking about Lettice?” the older woman chuckles awkwardly, her face reddening a little as she reaches her bejewelled right hand up to the elegant strand of collar length pearls at her throat.

 

Lettice picks up the letter, dangling it like an unspoken accusation between herself and her mother before looking down at it and reading aloud, “My dear Lillie, we haven’t seen you at Glynes for so long. Won’t you, Marmaduke and Jonty consider coming to the Hunt Ball this year? Do you remember how much Jonty and my youngest, Lettice, used to enjoy playing together here as children? I’m sure that now that they are both grown, they should be reacquainted with one another.” She lowers her hand and drops the letter on top of the edition of Debrett’s like a piece of rubbish before looking up at her mother, giving her a cool stare.

 

“It isn’t ladylike to read other people’s correspondence, Lettice!” Lady Sadie quips as she marches up to her desk and snatches the letter away from Lettice’s reach, lest her daughter should cast it into the fire cracking peaceably in the grate.

 

“Is it ladylike to arrange the lives of two strangers without discussing it?”

 

“It has long been the prerogative of mothers to arrange their children’s marriages.” The older woman defends herself. “And you and Jonty Hastings aren’t strangers, Lettice. You and he…”

 

“Haven’t seen each other since we were about six years old, when we played in the hedgerows together and had tea in the nursery with Nanny Webb after she had washed the mud off us!”

 

“Well, all the better for the two of you to become reacquainted then, as I’m suggesting to his mother.” She runs her fingers along the edges of the letter in her hands defiantly. “And I am going to send this letter, Lettice,” Her voice gathers a steely tone of determination. “Whether you like it, or lump it.”

 

“Yes, Pappa told me after you,” she pauses for a moment to consider her words carefully. “Left, us at luncheon yesterday, that you had been making some discreet enquiries about inviting some eligible young bachelors for me to the ball this year.”

 

“And so I have, Lettice.” Lady Sadie sniffs. “Since you seem incapable of finding yourself a suitable match even after your successful debut London Season, I have taken it upon myself to do some…”

 

“Matchmaking, Mamma?”

 

“Arranging, Lettice. Tarquin Howard, Sir John Nettleford-Hughes…”

 

“Sir John is as old as the hills!” Lettice splutters in disbelief. “You surely can’t imagine I’d consider him a likely prospect!”

 

“Sir John is an excellent match, Lettice. You can hardly fail to see how advantageous it would be to marry him.”

 

“Once I look past the twenty five, no more, years age difference. No, better he be chased by some social climbing American woman looking for an entrée into the society pages. Perhaps I should ask Miss Ward to the ball. I’m sure she would love to meet Sir John.”

 

Lady Sadie’s already pale face drains of any last colour at the thought of an American moving picture star walking into her well planned ball. “Well, if you won’t countenance Sir John, I’ve also invited Edward Lambley and Selwyn Spencely.”

 

“Selwyn Spencely?” Lettice laughs. “The guest list just gets more and more implausable.”

 

“What’s so implausible about Selwyn Spencely, Lettice? The Spencelys are a very good family. Selwyn has a generous income which will only increase when he eventually takes his father’s place as the next Viscount Markham. He inherited a house in Belgravia from his grandfather when he came of age, so you two can continue to live in London until you become chatelaine of Markham Park.”

 

“Can you hear yourself, Mamma?” Lettice cries as she raises her arms in exasperation, any good will she tried to muster for her Mother quickly dissipating. “Do you want to pick what wedding gown I am to wear too?” Lettice laughs again. “Selwyn and I haven’t laid eyes on each other for almost as long as Jonty and I.”

 

“Well, he’s grown into a very handsome young man, Lettice. I’ve seen his photograph in The Lady.” Her mother bustles across the end of the floral chaise where a pile of well fingered magazines sit. “Look, I can show you.”

 

“Oh, please don’t Mamma!” Lettice throws her hands up in protest. “Please don’t add insult to injury.”

 

Lady Sadie turns around, a hurt look on her face. “How can you say that to me, Lettice? I’m only trying to do right by you, by securing a suitable and advantageous marriage for you.”

 

“But what about love, Mamma?” Lettice sighs. “What if I don’t wish to marry at all? What if I am happy just running my interior design business.”

 

“Oh what nonsense, Lettice! The younger generation are so tiresome. All this talk of love! I blame those moving pictures your Ward woman stars in that you and your friends all flock to slavishly! Your Father and I had our marriage arranged. We weren’t in love.” She emphasises the last two words with a withering tone. “We’d only even met a handful of times before we were married. Love came naturally in time, and look how happy we are.” She smiles smugly with self satisfaction. “And as for your business, you aren’t Syrie Maugham***, Lettice. You’ve always been told, from an early age, that your duty as a daughter of a member of this great and noble family, even as the youngest daughter, is to marry and marry well.” She sinks onto the chaise. “This foolishness about interior design,” She flaps her glittering fingers distractedly at Lettice. “Will have to end when you get married. Whether it be Jonty, Nicolas or Selwyn, you’ll have to give it up. No respectable man of position and good breeding will have his wife working as a decorator! He’d be ashamed!”

 

At her mother’s harsh words, Lettice abandons any attempt to try and make an effort with her. She looks up to the ornate white painted plaster ceiling and crystal chandelier hanging in the middle of the room as she clenches her hands into fists. “Well,” she looks angrily at her mother. “We wouldn’t want my future husband to be ashamed of my success, now would we?”

 

“What success, Lettice?” her mother scoffs. “You were only able to decorate Gwendolyn’s small drawing room because I asked her to allow you to do it.”

 

“I’ve plenty of clients now, no thanks to you, Mamma!”

 

“Dickie and Margot don’t count, dear,” Lady Sadie replies dismissively as she fingers the edges of a copy of the Tattler distractedly. “They are your friends. Of course they were going to ask you to decorate their house.”

 

Lettice gasps as though her mother just punched all the air out of her chest. She stands, silent for a moment, her face flushing with embarrassment and anger. “You’ve always been so cruel to me Mamma, ever since I was little.”

 

“And you’ve always been so stubborn and obstinate, ever since you were a child! Goodness knows what I did to deserve a wilful daughter. Lally was so lovely and pliable, and certainly no trouble to marry off.” She folds her hands neatly in her lap over her immaculately pressed tweed skirt and looks up at her daughter. “I don’t mean to be harsh, Lettice, but someone has to make you see sense. Goodness knows your Father can’t, what with him wound around your little finger! You will have to marry eventually, Lettice, and preferably soon. It’s a foregone conclusion. It’s what is expected of you, and as I said yesterday, you aren’t getting any younger, and you certainly don’t want to be left stuck on the shelf. Just think of the shame it would bring you.”

 

“More think of the shame it would bring you, Mamma.” Lettice spits bitterly. “To have a daughter who is a spinster, an old maid, and in trade to boot!”

 

“Now there is no need to be overtly nasty, Lettice.” Lady Sadie mutters brittlely. “It’s unbecoming.”

 

A little gilt clock on an occasional table chimes one o’clock prettily.

 

“Mamma, however much I would love to sit here and share bitter quips and barbs with you all day over a pot of tea, I really do have to leave!” Lettice says with finality. “I have a train to catch. Gerald and I have a reservation at the Café Royal**** tonight.” She walks over to her mother, bends down and goes to kiss her cheek, but the older woman stiffens as she averts her daughter’s touch. Lettice sighs as she raises herself up again. “I’ll see you in a week for Dickie and Margot’s wedding and then after that for Bonfire Night*****.”

 

“Hopefully you’ll have come to your senses about marriage and this ridiculous designing business by then.”

 

Lettice raises her head proudly and takes a deep breath before turning away from her mother and walks with a purposeful stride across the room. “No I won’t, Mamma.” she says defiantly. As she opens the door to leave the morning room, she turns back to the figure of her mother sitting facing away from her towards the fire. “Pappa asked me to make an effort at the Hunt Ball, and I will. I will dance and flirt with whomever you throw in my general direction, be they old, blind or bandy-legged.” She sees her mother’s shoulders stiffen, indicating silently that she is listening, even if she doesn’t want to acknowledge that she is. “However, be under no pretence Mamma. I am doing it for him, and not you.”

 

“Lettice…” Lady Sadie’s voice cracks.

 

“And,” Lettice cuts her off sharply. “No matter who I dance with, or charm, I will not marry any of them. Goodbye Mamma.”

 

Lettice closes the door quietly behind her and walks back down the hallway to the entrance hall. She walks through the front doors with her head aloof, and steps into the back of the waiting Daimler. Marsden closes its door and Harris starts the engine. The chauffer can sense the tension seething through his passenger as she huffs and puffs in the spacious rear cabin, dabbing her nose daintily with a lace edged handkerchief, so he remains quiet as he steers the car down the sweeping driveway. As the car pulls away from Glynes basking in the early afternoon autumnal sun, Lettice can almost feel two sets of eyes on her back: one pair from her father looking sadly out from the library and the other her mother’s peering critically from behind the morning room curtains.

 

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

 

**The first edition of Debrett's Peerage of England, Scotland, and Ireland, containing an Account of all the Peers, 2 vols., was published in May 1802, with plates of arms, a second edition appeared in September 1802, a third in June 1803, a fourth in 1805, a fifth in 1806, a sixth in 1808, a seventh in 1809, an eighth in 1812, a ninth in 1814, a tenth in 1816, an eleventh in 1817, a twelfth in 1819, a thirteenth in 1820, a fourteenth in 1822, a fifteenth in 1823, which was the last edition edited by Debrett, and not published until after his death. The next edition came out in 1825. The first edition of The Baronetage of England, containing their Descent and Present State, by John Debrett, 2 vols., appeared in 1808. Today, Debrett's is a British professional coaching company, publisher and authority on etiquette and behaviour. It was founded in 1769 with the publication of the first edition of The New Peerage. The company takes its name from its founder, John Debrett.

 

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

 

****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.

 

****Guy Fawkes Day, also called Bonfire Night, British observance, celebrated on November the fifth, commemorating the failure of the Gunpowder Plot of 1605. Guy Fawkes and his group members acted in protest to the continued persecution of the English Catholics. Today Guy Fawkes Day is celebrated in the United Kingdom, and in a number of countries that were formerly part of the British Empire, with parades, fireworks, bonfires, and food. Straw effigies of Fawkes are tossed on the bonfire, as are—in more recent years in some places—those of contemporary political figures. Traditionally, children carried these effigies, called “Guys,” through the streets in the days leading up to Guy Fawkes Day and asked passersby for “a penny for the guy,” often reciting rhymes associated with the occasion, the best known of which dates from the Eighteenth Century.

 

Cluttered with paintings, photographs and furnishings, Lady Sadie’s morning room 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 books on Lady Sadie’s desks are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. Therefore, it is a pleasure to give you a glimpse inside two of the books he has made. One of the books is a French catalogue of fancy dress costumes from the late Nineteenth Century, and the other is a book of Georgian hairstyes. To give you an idea of the work that has gone into these volumes, each book contains twelve double sided pages of illustrations and they measure thirty-three millimetres in height and width and are only three millimetres thick. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. The 1908 Debrett’s Peerage book is also made by Ken Blythe, but does not open. He also made the envelopes sitting in the rack to the left of the desk and the stamps you can see next to the ink bottle. The stamps are 2 millimetres by two millimetres each! Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter. I hope that you enjoy this peek at just two of hundreds of his books that I own, and that it makes you smile with its sheer whimsy!

 

On the desk is a 1:12 artisan miniature ink bottle and a silver pen, both made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures. The ink bottles is made from a tiny faceted crystal bead and has a sterling silver bottom and lid.

 

The Chetwynd’s family photos seen on the desk and hanging on the walls are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frames are almost all from Melody Jane’s Dollhouse Suppliers in the United Kingdom and are made of metal with glass in each. The largest frame on the right-hand side of the desk is actually a sterling silver miniature frame. It was made in Birmingham in 1908 and is hallmarked on the back of the frame. It has a red leather backing.

 

The vase of primroses in the middle of the desk is a delicate 1:12 artisan porcelain miniature made and painted by hand by Ann Dalton.

 

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

 

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

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Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Today however we have left the hustle and bustle of London, travelling southwest to a stretch of windswept coastline just a short drive the pretty Cornish town of Penzance. Here, friends of Lettice, newlyweds Margot and Dickie Channon, have been gifted a Recency country “cottage residence” called ‘Chi an Treth’ (Cornish for ‘beach house’) as a wedding gift by the groom’s father, the Marquess of Taunton. Margot, encouraged by her father Lord de Virre who will foot the bill, has commissioned Lettice to redecorate a few of the principal rooms of ‘Chi an Treth’. In the lead up to the wedding, Lord de Virre has spent a great deal of money making the Regency house habitable after many years of sitting empty and bringing it up to the Twentieth Century standards his daughter expects, paying for electrification, replumbing, and a connection to the Penzance telephone exchange. Now, with their honeymoon over, Dickie and Margot have finally taken possession of their country house gift and have invited Lettice to come and spend a Friday to Monday with them so that she might view the rooms Margot wants redecorating for herself and perhaps start formulating some ideas as to how modernise their old fashioned décor. As Lettice is unable to drive and therefore does not own a car, Margot and Dickie have extended the weekend invitation to one of their other Embassy Club coterie, Lettice’s old childhood chum, Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy who has tried to gain some independence from his family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street. Gerald owns a Morris*, so he can motor both Lettice and himself down from London on Friday and back again on Monday. After the retirement of the housekeeper, Mrs. Trevethan, from the main house to the gatekeeper’s cottage the previous evening, the quartet of Bright Young Things** played a spirited game of sardines*** and in doing so, potentially solved the romantic mystery of ‘Chi an Treth’ after discovering a boxed up painting, long forgotten, of a great beauty.

 

Now we find ourselves in ‘Chi an Treth’s’ Regency breakfast room with views through the French doors, overlooking the wild coast on a remarkably sunny day for this time of year. Dickie, Margot and Gerald are all seated around the table in their pyjamas and robes enjoying breakfast, some with more gusto than others, as Lettice stumbles into the room and joins them at the table.

 

“All hail the discoverer of lost treasures and the solver of mysteries!” cries Dickie dramatically as he doffs an invisible hat towards his friend.

 

“Oh!” gasps Gerald, raising his right hand gingerly to his temple. “Must you be so loud Dickie? Is he always like this in the mornings, Margot darling?”

 

“He is, Gerald,” Margot sighs from her seat opposite him at the breakfast table as she takes a slice of thinly sliced toast and spreads marmalade across it with as little noise as possible.

 

“Morning Dickie!” Lettice returns Dickie’s welcome, walking up to him and placing a kiss firmly on the top of his head amidst his sleep tousled sandy hair. “Good morning, Margot. Good morning, Gerald.” Stumbling down the room and reaching her seat at the table opposite Dickie she picks up her glass tumbler and then turns to Gerald to adds. “It could be worse.”

 

“What could be?” Gerald asks, taking the pot from Margot’s outstretched hand and proceeding to plop a generous spoonful of marmalade on his own toast slices.

 

“Dickie’s frightfully jolly morning personality trait.” she replies, walking back the way she came to the sideboard, where she helps herself to orange juice. “His cousin, the Earl McCrea, plays the bagpipes every morning to wake the guests when he’s on his Scottish estate.”

 

“How frightful,” Gerald winces at the thought before continuing in a withering voice. “After a night of champagne like we had last night, that’s the last thing I should want.”

 

“Apparently the Prince of Wales quite likes it though**** when he visits.” Margot adds. “Coffee, Lettice darling?”

  

“Tea,” Lettice replies laconically before turning her attention to the lidded chaffing dishes on the sideboard. Lifting one, she quickly drops it when she sees and smells what lies beneath it with a loud clatter that elicits a groan from Gerald, Margot and herself.

 

“Mrs. Trevethan’s kedgeree,” Margot remarks without looking up as she pours tea from a silver teapot into Lettice’s teacup.

 

“Ugh,” mutters Lettice.

 

“It takes some getting used to.” adds Margot.

 

“Is an acquired taste, I’d say.” observes Gerald wryly, looking about the plates at the table. “Since no-one appears to be having any.”

 

“I think my stomach will settle for a boiled egg and an apple.” Lettice places her glass of orange juice gingerly on the tabletop and reaches across to grab an apple from the glass comport in the centre of the table. She then sits before reaching for an egg from the cruet proffered by Margot.

 

“Freshly boiled by Mrs. Trevethan.” Margot says with a smile.

 

“What’s taking that woman so long to bring me a bloody aspirin?” quips Gerald.

 

“God how much did we drink last night?” Lettice asks.

 

“Before, or after you found the Winterhalter*****?” Dickie asks.

 

“That explains why my head is fit for cracking, just like an egg, this morning then.” Lettice rubs her own temples and winces. “I think I could do with a couple of aspirin too.”

 

“Surely they have heard of aspirin down here.” Gerald grumbles, his train of thought about his own sore head undisturbed by the conversation around him.

 

“It is only Cornwall, Gerald darling,” Margot gives him an aghast look. “Not the middle of the Sahara Desert or the Antarctic, you know.”

 

“I might have more luck getting some aspirin in the Sahara.”

 

“Now Gerald, there’s no need to be cantankerous, just because your hangover is purportedly worse than ours.” Margot quips.

 

“Was Mrs. Trevethan cross with the mess, we,” Lettice pauses, blushes and corrects herself. “I… made last night in the storeroom?”

 

“Not at all, dear girl!” Dickie pipes up cheerily, deliberately hitting his own egg with gusto to break the shell, eliciting a scowl from Gerald which he returns with a teasing smile. “Margot and Gerald did a capital job of tidying most of the mess up, and I think the old dear is rather pleased to have people to look after again.”

 

“She can’t care that much about us if it takes this long to fetch me an aspirin.”

 

“Oh do shut up, Gerald old boy,” Dickie barks, surprising even himself at the sudden change to his usual affable self. Taking a few deep breaths, he looks across the coffee pot, teacups and marmalade pot to his friend and continues in laboured syllables. “Look, we all need the bloody aspirins this morning, and they will get here when Mrs. Trevethan gets them to us. Alright, old boy?”

 

Gerald shrinks back in his seat, whilst both Margot and Lettice smirk at one another.

 

“I do like your bed jacket, Lettice darling.” Margot remarks. “It suits you. Did Gerald make it for you?”

 

“This?” Lettice pulls on the burnt orange brocade of her jacket, making the marabou feather trim quiver prettily about her pale face. “No. I actually bought this at Marshall and Snelgrove’s****** because I saw it and I liked the colour.”

 

“And what shall we do today?” Dickie asks the table, casting Gerald a warning look that makes Gerald think twice about saying that his head feels too poorly to do anything.

 

“Well,” Lettice remarks, turning around in her seat to peer through the French doors across the lawn and the windswept tree line. “It’s a fine day today. It might be nice to take advantage of the good weather and go exploring down along the cove.” She turns back. “That’s if no-one else has any other more appealing ideas of course.”

 

Margot smiles and starts nodding. “That sounds splendid, Lettice darling! You could bring your paints with you. There’s a rather nice vista featuring an old lighthouse that I know you would enjoy painting.”

 

“Capital idea, old girl!” Dickie agrees. “The bracing sea breeze will be a perfect way to dust off the fuzzy heads from last night.”

 

Gerald quietly sinks further back in his seat but says nothing.

 

At that moment, the door to the breakfast room creaks open and Mrs. Trevethan shuffles in, wearing the same rather tatty apron over another old fashioned Edwardian print dress of a rather muddy brown colour, carrying a silver tray on which she has several tumblers and a small jar of aspirin. When her eyes fall upon Lettice, she smiles broadly. “Metten daa******* Miss Chetwynd.” she says, dropping a bob curtsey.

 

“Good morning Mrs Trevethan.” Lettice replies.

 

The old woman shuffles across the room and around the oval breakfast table where she removes a glass and the jar of tablets and deposits them in front of Gerald. “Your aspirins, sir.”

 

Dickie gives him a knowing smile, and Gerald mutters a thank you in reply.

 

“I am sorry about the mess we made last night, Mrs, Trevethan.” Lettice apologises to the old Cornish woman as she places a glass tumbler on the table before her, feeling the heat of a fresh blush rising up her throat and into her cheeks as she speaks. “It really was an accident.”

 

“Oh!” scoffs the woman with a dismissive wave of her hand as if shooing a sand fly away. “That’s quite alright. It’s nice to have young people, any people, about the house again after so long. You did make a fine mess, but you cleaned it up pretty well.”

 

“Oh, that was Margot and Gerald’s doing, not mine.” she looks sheepishly to her two friends at either side of her at the table as she sips her orange juice. “I was quite shaken by the whole incident.”

 

“Well, that was quite a pile of things you brought down,” Mrs. Trevethan laughs as she looks down upon the slight girl before her. “Especially for one your size! But look at what hidden treasure you uncovered with it!”

 

“That’s true, Lettice old girl!” Dickie remarks. “If it weren’t for you, that Winterhalter might have sat there another century, evading would-be treasure hunters.”

 

“If it’s a Winterhalter, Dickie,” tempers Lettice. “It may not be. It may not be her.”

 

“Who?” Gerald asks, perplexed, passing Lettice the aspirin bottle after taking out two tablets for himself. “Winterhalter was a man.”

 

“The captain’s lost love of course, Gerald!” scoffs Lettice. “Don’t be dim.”

 

“Sorry, it’s the hangover.”

 

“Oh that’s Miss Rosevear in the painting,” Mrs. Trevethan remarks. “There is no doubt of that.”

 

Lettice eyes the old Cornish woman up and down. Even with her weather-beaten face and white hair indicating that she is of an advanced age, a quick calculation in her still slightly muffled head suggests that she cannot be so old as to have known the lady when the portrait was painted.

 

Mrs. Trevethan starts laughing again as she observes the changes on Lettice’s face, betraying her thoughts. “No dear, I’m not that old, but I still knew Miss Rosevear when I was young, and she was older, and even then, she was still a beauty. It’s her face make no mistake.”

 

“Really Mrs. Trevethan?” Margot gasps, sitting forward in her chair, her half finished cup of coffee held aloft as she sits in the older woman’s thrall. “How?”

 

“What was she like?” Lettice adds excitedly.

 

“Is there truth to the legend?” Dickie asks.

 

“Well, Mrs. Channon, I was a maid for the Rosevears when I was a girl and first went into service.” The old woman’s eyes develop a far away sheen as she reminisces. “Mr. Rosevear had a beautiful old manor about half-way between here and Truro. Burnt down now of course, but you can still see the ruins from the train, if you know where to look. There’s even an old halt******** where the house used to be: Rosevear Halt. My first ride on a train was taken from Rosevear Halt up to London when I was taken with a few of the other maids to clean Mr. Rosevear’s rented London house for the Season.”

 

“And Miss Rosevear?” Lettice asks with trepidation, hoping to glean information about the mysterious beauty in the painting and from the legend.

 

“Oh, Miss Elowen was the youngest of the three Rosevear daughters. They were all beautiful, but she was the loveliest, in my opinion anyway. She could dance and play the spinet, and she had a voice that could have charmed the angels from the heavens.” A wistful look crosses her face. “And she was blithe, or had been before my time at the house, I was told by some of the other maids. Her elder sisters were far more serious than she: set upon always wearing the most fashionable clothing and focussing upon good marriages, whereas the youngest Miss Rosevear, she just took life as it came to her without complaint. Although, she always had an air of sadness about her when I knew her.”

 

“Without complaint? What happened to her, Mrs. Trevethan?” Dickie asks, swept up in the tale as much as his wife and Lettice. “Why didn’t she marry my ancestor of sorts, the captain?”

 

“I don’t rightly know, sir, why she didn’t marry him. As I said, this all happened before my time with the Rosevears, but there were others amongst the older household staff who were witness to what happened, so I have some inkling. I think Mr. Rosevear took against the captain because,” Mrs. Trevethan pauses, lowering her eyes as she speaks. “And you’ll pardon me for speaking out of turn, sir.”

 

“Yes,” replies Dickie. “Go on.”

 

“Well, I think he took against the captain because he wasn’t a legitimate son of the Marquis of Taunton. The Rosevears were an old family you see, and well respected in the district. It might not have looked proper for someone of her family’s standing to marry the illegitimate son of the Marquis, even if he was a naval hero and well set up by his father. However,” She pauses again. “I don’t think things would have gone so badly for him, if it wasn’t for the other two Miss Rosevears.”

 

“What do you mean, Mrs, Trevethan?” asks Margot.

 

“Well, I said that Miss Elowen was the prettiest of all three, and I stand by that. Even when she was in her forties when I first met her, she had a look that could stop idle chatter in a room. Her two sisters weren’t so fortunate, and their looks had begun to fade by the time she met the captain, may God rest his soul. Miss Doryty, the eldest was ten years her little sister’s senior, and for all her plotting and planning for a good marriage, a good marriage never found her, nor her sister, Miss Bersaba. Miss Doryty was her father’s favourite as to look at one, you would like to see the other in appearance and temperament. I think she took against the captain because her little sister was likely to marry before her two siblings and Miss Doryty wasn’t going to have that any more than Miss Bersaba was. Miss Doryty was the eldest and felt it her right to marry first, and Miss Bersaba wanted Miss Doryty married off so that then she could get wed herself. Even when I worked for the Rosevears, both ladies still talked about her would-be suitors up in London, yet not a one ever materialised, and I never knew of them ever going to London. Miss Doryty always was bitter, and a bully. I think she swayed her father’s opinion on the captain. I also know, because I heard her say it often enough within my earshot, that she was of the opinion that it was Miss Elowen’s responsibility as the youngest daughter to care for her father and unmarried sisters into their dotage, since their mother had been in the churchyard many a year already.”

 

“And did she?” Lettice asks sadly, her hand rising to her mouth in upset.

 

“Like I said, Miss Chetwynd, Miss Elowen took whatever life dealt her with forbearance. She never complained, even though her sisters obviously treated her in a lesser way than they should their own kin.”

 

“And, she never married?” asks Margot.

 

“None of the Miss Rosevears did, Mrs. Channon. They lived alone in the Big House. I was still in service there after Mr. Rosevear died. The ladies continued to do good deeds in the district, and they used the house for tombolas and fetes to raise money for the poor. Then I met and married Mr. Trevethan and I had to leave the Rosevears’ service. I heard from friends who stayed on after I’d gone, that the house slowly fell into disrepair, but I was in Penzance with my own family, so I never went back to see for myself.”

 

“And you say there was a fire at the house?” Dickie asks.

 

“There was, sir.”

 

“How did it start, do you know?” continues Dickie.

 

“I couldn’t say for certain sir, but I’d imagine it started from a fallen log. The Rosevears had ever so many fireplaces without fireguards. It's why I won’t have Mr. Trevethan light a fire in any of the fireplaces here that don’t have fireguards. All you need is for a smouldering log to fall on a carpet, and before you know it… whoosh!” The old woman gesticulates dramatically interpreting the way of wild flames.

 

“And did Miss Rosevear die in the fire?” Margot asks. “How thrilling if she did.”

 

“And you say I love dramatics,” Gerald grumbles, looking at Dickie.

 

“What a terrible thing to say, my love.” Dickie looks at his wife with horrified eyes.

 

“Oh yes, but wouldn’t it be terrifically romantic?” gushes Margot in reply.

 

“None of the Rosevears died it the fire, Mrs. Channon. In fact, no one died in it, thank God! But the family lost a great deal of standing with the loss of the Big House and all its contents, and the sisters moved to Truro and lived in much reduced circumstances, I’m told. And that’s where they died. I don’t know who died first, Miss Bersaba or Miss Doryty, but my friend who used to help char for them after they moved to Truro said that the two elder sisters health declined dramatically, and Miss Elowen fulfilled the destiny predicted by her eldest sister, and she spent her life looking after her sisters.”

 

“Do you know if, after her sisters died, whether Elowen ever saw the captain again, Mrs. Trevethan?” Lettice asks tentatively.

 

“I can’t say for certain, Miss Chetwynd,” the old woman replies. “But almost certainly no, to my knowledge. Taking care of her sisters, Miss Rosevear became something of a recluse in Truro, and after Miss Doryty and Miss Bersaba had joined their parents in the churchyard, it was too late for Miss Elowen. She was set in her ways and lived as she had for many a year prior, alone and hidden from the world. The captain too. Mr. Trevethan and I only served him for about five years before he died, and he never left the property once during that time. He barely left the house. And I’d lived in Penzance my whole married life and we all knew about the sea captain in the house on the hill by the cove, and I never once heard of him coming to town. So, miss, I’d say he was much the same, a recluse. And so ends my tale.”

 

“Well, “ Dickie announces, releasing a pent up breath he didn’t realise he had been holding on to. “Thank you so much for sharing it with us, Mrs. Trevethan. I shall know who to come to the next time I want to know anything about local history.”

 

“I should be getting back now, sir. I have to reorganise that storeroom, and then there’s lunch to prepare.”

 

“Oh, we’ve decided to go down to the cove today so Miss Chetwynd can paint the landscape.” Margot announces with a smile. “Could you pack us a picnic luncheon to take with us, rather than having us eat it here, Mrs. Trevethan?”

 

“Oh, pur dha********* Mrs. Channon.” replies Mrs. Trevethan before dropping a quick bob curtsey and shuffling out through the breakfast room door again.

 

“Well, what a tragic tale!” enthuses Margot, taking up a slice of marmalade covered toast and taking a bite.

 

“Not so much tragic as just sad, my love.” Dickie replies.

 

“I say again,” Gerald grumbles. “You say I’m the one who loves drama.”

 

“Well you do, Gerald,” Lettice chimes in, stirring extra sugar into her almost forgotten cup of tea. “And we love you for it.” She assures him. “But I happen to agree with Margot. It is a tragic tale, more so than just sad. Sad is too… too…”

 

“Insipid?” Gerald offers.

 

“Thank you, Gerald. Yes, too insipid a word for it. The loss of youth and true love makes this a tragic tale.”

 

Dickie chuckles and shakes his head. “Well, I wouldn’t doubt that there was a little bit of wax lyrical about Mrs. Trevethan’s version of the story, as it would be with any local legend. However, what I think is important about the story is that it tells us exactly who the lady is in the Winterhalter painting. It gives us provenance, which makes it all the more valuable.”

 

“If it’s a Winterhalter, Dickie!” Lettice reminds him again. “It may not be.”

 

“Well, whether it is or it isn’t,” Margot adds in. “All this talk won’t get us out into this unseasonable sunshine and down to the cove so Lettice can paint the lighthouse. Let’s finish up breakfast and get ready to go out.”

 

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

 

**The Bright Young Things, or Bright Young People, was a nickname given by the tabloid press to a group of Bohemian young aristocrats and socialites in 1920s London.

 

***Sardines is an active game that is played like hide and go seek — only in reverse! One person hides, and everyone else searches for the hidden person. Whenever a person finds the hidden person, they quietly join them in their hiding spot. There is no winner of the game. The last person to join the sardines will be the hider in the next round. Sardines was a very popular game in the 1920s and 1930s played by houseguests in rambling old country houses where there were unusual, unknown and creative places to hide.

 

****As a youth the Prince of Wales (later King Edward VIII and then Duke of Windsor) became a proficient player of the highland bagpipe, being taught by William Ross and Henry Forsyth. He frequently, until his later years, played a tune round the table after dinner, sometimes wearing a white kilt. He was also known to wake the guests at his house on the Windsor Great Park, Fort Belvedere, with a rousing rendition of a tune on the bagpipes.

 

*****Franz Xaver Winterhalter (1805 – 1873) was a German painter and lithographer, known for his flattering portraits of royalty and upper-class society in the mid-19th century. His name has become associated with fashionable court portraiture. Among his best known works are Empress Eugénie Surrounded by her Ladies in Waiting (1855) and the portraits he made of Empress Elisabeth of Austria (1865).

 

******Marshall & Snelgrove was an up-market department store on the north side of Oxford Street, London, on the corner with Vere Street founded by James Marshall. The company became part of the Debenhams group.

 

*******“Metten daa” is Cornish for “good morning”.

 

********A halt, in railway parlance in the Commonwealth of Nations and Ireland, is a small station, usually unstaffed or with very few staff, and with few or no facilities. A halt station is a type of stop where any train carrying a passenger is scheduled to stop for a given period of time. In Edwardian times it was not unusual for wealthy families with large houses close to the railway line to have their own halt stop for visiting guests or mail and other deliveries.

 

*********”Pur dha” is Cornish for “very good”.

 

Contrary to what your eyes might tell you, even though the food looks quite edible, this upper-class Regency country house domestic scene is actually made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures, some of which come from my own childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The Royal Doulton style tea set featuring roses on the breakfast table came from a miniature dollhouse specialist on E-Bay, whilst the silver teapot on the left hand size of the picture comes from Smallskale Miniatures in the United Kingdom, as does the jam pot to the right of the toast rack. The toast rack, egg cruet set, cruet set and coffee pot were made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The eggs and the toast slices come from miniature dollhouse specialists on E-Bay. The apples in comport on the centre of the table are very realistic looking. Made of polymer clay are made by a 1:12 miniature specialist in Germany. The comport in which they stand is spun of real glass and was made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in England as is the glass of orange juice on the table, the jug of orange juice and the bunch of roses on the sideboard at the back of the photograph. The remaining empty glass tumblers are all hand made of spun glass and came from a high street dolls’ specialist when I was a teenager.

 

The Queen Anne dining table, chairs and Regency sideboard were all given to me as birthday and Christmas presents when I was a child.

 

The fireplace in the background of the photo comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom. The two candelabra on it were made by Warwick Miniatures, and the Georgian Revival clock on the mantlepiece is a 1:12 artisan miniature made by Hall’s Miniature Clocks, supplied through Doreen Jeffries Small Wonders Miniatures in England. The vases came from a miniatures specialist on E-Bay.

 

All the paintings around the drawing room in their gilded or black frames are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States and Marie Makes Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

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.

 

Lettice is sitting at her Hepplewhite desk next to the fire in her drawing room. On her desk sit two brightly coloured interior designs she has created for her new client, American film actress Wanetta Ward, using her watercolours and pencils. Whilst she works away, her old childhood chum, Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy who has tried to gain some independence from his family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street, is sitting in one of her Art Deco tub arm chairs contentedly sewing beads onto his and Lettice’s friend, Margot de Virre’s, wedding dress bodice. Both have cups of tea from the pot Lettice’s maid, Edith, keeps replenishing.

 

“You sound displeased, Lettuce Leaf,” Gerald responds to a disgruntled huff from Lettice, drawing out his thread as he speaks. “What’s the matter?”

 

“Calling me that name doesn’t help, Gerald,” she mutters crossly. “I keep telling you, we aren’t children anymore. I hated it then, so imagine how much I detest it now?”

 

“Oh! We are techy tonight!” Gerald remarks without looking up as he pushes his needle back into the centre of a crystal bead. He pauses and looks up. “I’m sorry.” He pouts dramatically. “Friends again?”

 

Lettice looks over at him disgruntledly, but at the sight of her friend’s rather comical expression of remorse, she sighs, smiles and then laughs tiredly. “Yes Gerald.”

 

“So,” he looks over at the desktop littered with Lettice’s paints and jugs of murky water with brushes sticking out of them. “What’s wrong then?”

 

“It’s these designs!” She flicks her hands irritably at the offending pieces of paper and gives them a contemptuous look. “I’m not happy with them. Miss Ward says yellow is her favourite colour, yet I can’t quite manage yellow walls with blue furnishings.” She holds up a design of a music room with grand piano in yellow with blue accents.

 

“Oh,” Gerald’s eyes open widely as he nods. “Yes, I do begin to see what you mean. Well, it’s dramatic, I’ll say that.”

 

“It’s vulgar, is what it is.” She picks up her paint brush again, although is dumbfounded as to what to do to improve the image, other than to screw it up and start again, as she stares at the yellow wash spread across the page like a huge bruise.

 

“Well, she is an actress, darling.” Gerald remarks, going back to his sewing. “And part of the American mi…”

 

“Oh, don’t you start on the mediocre middle-classes again!” she interrupts, wagging her brush at him threateningly. “I scolded Margot when we were shopping at Selfridges last week. She sounded just like you.”

 

“Oh, bully for Margot!” Gerald smiles contentedly, taking up another bead, casting in onto his thread and plunging it into the fabric of the bodice. “I really must congratulate her next time I see her.”

 

“You’re a bad influence on her, with your overt snobbery.”

 

“It is true,” Gerald sighs. “But I can’t help it. It’s just part of my charm.” He bats his eyelashes across at his friend and smiles. “Anyway, you are the one who called Miss Ward gauche, so shouldn’t her home reflect a little of that gaudy, showy moving picture actress personality of hers?”

 

“Not if I’m designing it, Gerald. I have a reputation of exceptionally good taste to uphold.” She looks at her second design of a dining room, also with yellow walls. “Miss Ward be damned! Anyway Gerald, you of all people shouldn’t complain about the middle classes.”

 

Gerald sighs and drops the beaded bodice into his lap, whilst still keeping a firm hold of his needle. “That too is true, my darling. If it were not for Mrs. Hatchett and her coterie, well...”

 

“See,” Lettice smiles. “Did I not say that she would be the making of your couture house?”

 

“Hardly!” he retorts, giving her a shocked look.

 

“What? Aren’t she and her friends putting in countless orders for day dresses, tea gowns and evening frocks?”

 

“Oh they are!” he remarks. “But,” He exhales disappointedly. “Up-and-coming middle-class mediocrity Mrs Hatchett and her friends’ outfits are hardly going to make the pages of the Tattler or Vogue, are they? And even their money can’t make Grosvenor Street pay for itself. A day dress suitable for a Surrey village fête is hardly going to cost what a stunning piece of couture,” He holds up the exquisitely embroidered fabric. “For the London Season will. Why else do you suppose I’m sitting here embroidering Margot’s bodice in your Mayfair drawing room and not at home in Soho?”

 

“I assume because you enjoy my company.” Lettice teases with a smile.

 

“Oh I do darling,” Gerald says in earnest. “But I also love the fact that here I don’t have to pay the electricity bill.” He glances up at the glittering chandelier above them casting prisms across the white painted ceiling with its Art Deco cornicing.

 

“Nor the grocer’s bill,” Lettice smirks with a friendly chuckle, indicating to the plates on the black japanned coffee table containing the remnants of one of Edith’s chocolate cakes.

 

“Nor the wine merchant’s bill. The largesse of one’s friends is always welcome.”

 

Lettice looks back sadly at her friend. “Have you asked your father about an increase to your allowance, or perhaps an advance?” she asks hopefully.

 

“It isn’t as easy as that. I’m not you, Lettice.”

 

“I’ll have you know Gerald, that I get constant lectures from Pater about designing for my own class if I must insist on designing anything, and Mater just wants me to throw it all away and marry some dull member of the peerage, live in the country and have a dozen children.”

 

“A dozen?”

 

“Well at least three, like Lally.”

 

“Your sister is expecting again?”

 

“Yes, due in February, and Mummy is always comparing me to my propagating older sister, lording it over me that ‘Lally is married’, unlike me, and ‘Lally has children’, unlike me! She’s convinced my life is unfulfilled. I’m a girl, and I’m the youngest child and…”

 

“And you have your father wrapped around your little finger.” Gerald counters with a knowing look.

 

“Well,” Lettice blushes. “I can’t deny that I do seem to have some influence over the Pater.”

 

“Whereas I am just the second son: the spare.”

 

“Well thankfully you aren’t the heir, Gerald.” Lettice gives him a knowing look. “Otherwise, you would have to fulfil your duty to carry on the family line with some poor little debutante who must never know that her husband…”

 

“Is sexually inverted.” Gerald finishes Lettice’s sentence discreetly, stabbing the fabric with his needle. “Yes, I know that doesn’t help my cause in father’s eyes, any more than my wish to sew frocks for ladies.”

 

“At least you don’t wear them, revel in that fact and have photographic proof, unlike dear Cecil* does.”

 

“Nonetheless, being the second son, a fashion designer and a deviant,” Gerald blushes, looking towards the dining room, making sure that Lettice’s maid, Edith, isn’t listening at the green baize door. “I’m a disappointment, through and through. And my obvious shortfalls do not endear me to Father.”

 

“You asked him then?” Lettice asks with defeat. When Gerald nods in assent she adds, “Not even an advance?”

 

“Not a bean.”

 

“That’s so unfair.”

 

“My father isn’t your father, Lettice.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well, we might be neighbours, but your father owns most of the neighbourhood. Your father is the Viscount of Wrexham with a fine estate, which Leslie has helped to modernise, thank goodness.” He raises his eyes to the ceiling. “Whilst my father is just Sir Bruton, a baron – an obstinate and old fashioned one, and an impecunious one at that – with a leaky roofed manor house on a plot of land that is getting smaller as he slowly sells it off. The golden pre-war days are gone, yet Father won’t face up to facts.”

 

“Poor Gerald,” Lettice says, standing up and putting a comforting hand on her friend’s shoulder. Looking down at the beautifully beaded bodice in Gerald’s lap she continues, “Well, let’s hope that Margot’s wedding dress heralds better times for you as well as her and Dickie. At least this gown will appear in the Tattler, if nowhere else, and that means good business for you. That’s a beautiful pattern you are embroidering.”

 

“Thank you darling.” Gerald smiles as he looks down at his own work. Suddenly he sits up in his seat. “That’s it!”

 

“What’s it, Gerald?” Lettice looks up from her paintings in concern.

 

“Patterns!” He looks at her excitedly. “Did you not say Miss Ward was also interested in bold patterns?”

 

“Yes Gerald. What of it?”

 

“And did I not see you when I was here last week, flicking through some wallpaper samples?” He clambers up from his seat, carefully putting the beaded bodice aside.

 

“You did Gerald.” Lettice looks at him questioningly.

 

“The combination of blue and yellow is jarring when yellow is the main colour.” He gesticulates around him dramatically. “What if you swap it around? I’m sure there was a strong Prussian blue wallpaper amongst the samples: one that had a bold pattern highlighted in gold.”

 

“You’re right Gerald!” Lettice agrees excitedly. “It was a fan pattern! Of course! I’ve been looking at this the wrong way around! Paper the walls rather than paint them! What a dullard I am!” She grabs up her brush and dunks it into the jug of murky water.

 

“No! No! Don’t change your pictures!” Gerald gasps, anxiously hurrying around to Lettice’s desk and staying her elegant hand. “Use them. Show Miss Ward how jarring yellow is, and then pull out the paper. Show her how luxurious it is, and you’ll easily be able to convince her that it’s the right choice.”

 

“It is a bold pattern…”

 

“Yet an elegant one.”

 

“And it’s certainly glamorous.”

 

“And fans are very oriental, darling.” Gerald bats his eyelashes coquettishly as he pretends to hide behind an imaginary fan.”

 

“Oh Gerald!” Lettice giggles. “What would I do without you?”

 

“You’d never be able to decorate Miss Ward’s flat, that’s certain!” he smiles at his friend’s glittering eyes and gentle grin as she contemplates the possibilities he has helped instil in her mind.

 

*Cecil Beaton was a British fashion, portrait and war photographer, diarist, painter, and interior designer, as well as an Oscar winning stage and costume designer for films and the theatre. Although he had relationships with women including actress Greta Garbo, he was a well-known homosexual.

 

For anyone who follows my photostream, you will know that I collect and photograph 1:12 size miniatures, so although it may not necessarily look like it, but this cluttered desk is actually covered in 1:12 size artisan miniatures and the desk itself is too. All are from my collection of miniatures.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Lettice’s Hepplewhite drop-drawer bureau and chair are beautifully and artfully made by J.B.M. miniatures. Both the bureau and chair are made of black japanned wood which have been hand painted with chinoiserie designs, even down the arms of the chair and inside the bureau. The chair set has a rattan seat, which has also been hand woven.

 

On the top of the Hepplewhite bureau stand three real miniature photos in frames including an Edwardian silver frame, a Victorian brass frame and an Art Deco blue Bakelite and glass frame. The latter comes from Doreen Jenkins’ Small Wonders Miniatures in England, whilst the other two come from Melody Jane Dolls’ House, also in England. The photos themselves are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.

 

The watercolour paint set, brushes, and Limoges style jugs (two of a set of three) also come from Melody Jane Dolls’ House. So too do the pencils, which are one millimetre wide and two centimetres long.

 

Also on the desk, are some 1:12 artisan miniature ink bottles, a roller, a blotter, a letter opener and letter rack, 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, sitting behind the paint box and next to the jug’s handle is sterling silver too and has a blotter made of real black felt, cut meticulously to size to fit snugly inside the frame. The letter opener and roller are also sterling silver. The letter rack which contains some 1:12 size correspondence, is brass. Like the other pieces, it is also made by the Little Green Workshop.

 

Lettice’s two interior design paintings are 1920s designs. They are sourced from reference material particular to Art Deco interior design in Britain in the 1920s.

 

The fireplace appearing just to the right of the photograph is a 1:12 miniature resin Art Deco fireplace on which stands an Art Deco metal clock hand painted with wonderful detail by British miniature artisan Victoria Fasken.

 

The geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Today however we are not in Lettice’s flat, and whilst we have not travelled that far physically across London, the tough streets, laneways and blind alleys of Poplar in London’s East End is a world away from Lettice’s rarefied and privileged world. On Tuesday Mrs. Boothby, Lettice’s charwoman*, discovered that Edith, Lettice’s maid, didn’t have a sewing machine when the Cockney cleaner found the young maid cutting out the pieces for a new frock. Mrs. Boothby made overtures towards Edith, inviting her to her home in Poplar in London’s East End with an air of mystery, saying she might be able to help her with her predicament of a sewing machine.

 

Friends of Lettice, newlyweds Margot and Dickie Channon, have been gifted a Recency country “cottage residence” called ‘Chi an Treth’ (Cornish for ‘beach house’) in Penzance as a wedding gift by the groom’s father, the Marquess of Taunton. Margot in her desire to turn ‘Chi an Treth’ from a dark Regency house to a more modern country house flooded with light, has commissioned Lettice to help redecorate some of the rooms in a lighter and more modern style, befitting a modern couple like the Channons. Lettice has decamped to Penzance for a week where she is overseeing the painting and papering of ‘Chi an Treth’s’ drawing room, dining room and main reception room, before fitting it out with a lorryload of new and repurposed furnishings, artwork and objets d’arte that she has had sent down weeks prior to her arrival. In her mistress’ absence, Edith has more free time on her hands, and so she was able to agree to Mrs. Boothby’s mysterious invitation. Even though she is happy with her current arrangement to take any items she wants to sew home to her parent’s house in Harlesden, where she can use her mother’s Singer** sewing machine on her days off. The opportunity of gaining access to a sewing machine of her own is too good for Edith to refuse.

 

Now the two women walk through the narrow streets of Poplar, passing along walkways, some concrete, some made of wooden planks and some just dirt, between tenements of two and three stories high. The streets they traverse are dim with the weakening afternoon light from the autumn sky blocked out by the overhanging upper floors of the buildings and the strings of laundry hanging limply along lines between them. Although Edith is not unfamiliar with the part of Whitechapel around Petticoat Lane*** where she shops for second hand clothes to alter and for haberdashery to do them, she still feels nervous in the unfamiliar maze of streets that Mrs. Boothby is guiding her down, and she sticks closely next to or directly behind the old Cockney char. The air is filled with a mixture of strong odours: paraffin oil, boiled cabbage and fried food intermixed with the pervasive stench of damp and unwashed bodies and clothes. Self-consciously, Edith pulls her three quarter length coat more tightly around her in an effort to protect herself from the stench.

 

“Below!” comes a Cockney female voice from above as a sash window groans in protest as it is opened.

 

“Ere! Look out, Edith dearie!” Mrs. Boothby exclaims, grabbing Edith by the arm and roughly pulling the maid out of the way, thrusting her behind her.

 

A moment later the air is filled with the harsh sound of slops splattering against the concrete path, and a pool of dirty liquid stains the concrete a dark muddy brown as it slowly dribbles down into a shallow drain that runs down the middle of the laneway.

 

“Wouldn’t want your nice clothes to get spoilt nah, would we dearie.” Mrs. Boothby says as she turns and smiles into Edith’s startled face.

 

“Was that?” Edith begins but doesn’t finish her question as she peers at the puddle draining away, leaving lumps on the path.

 

“I shouldn’t look too closely if I were you, dearie.” Mrs. Boothby says kindly in a matter-of-fact way. “If you ‘ave to ask, you’re better off not knowin’. That’s my opinion, anyway. Come on. Not much further nah.”

 

“You… you will take me home, won’t you Mrs. Boothby?” Edith asks a little nervously as they continue their progress down the lane which she notices is getting narrower and darker as they go.

 

“Course I will, dearie! You can rely on old Ida Boothby. I know these streets like the back of my ‘and. Youse perfectly safe wiv me.”

 

The laneway ends suddenly, and Edith is blinded for a moment by bright sunlight as they step out into a rookery**** with two storey Victorian tenements of grey stone and red brick either side of a concrete courtyard with a narrow drain running down its centre. The original builders or owners of the tenements obviously have meant for the sad buildings to be at least a little homely, with shutters painted a Brunswick green hanging to either side of the ground floor windows. Looking up, Edith notices several window boxes of brightly coloured geraniums and other flowers suspended from some of the upper floor windowsills. Women of different ages walk in and out of the open front doors, or sit in them on stools doing mending, knitting or peeling potatoes, all chatting to one another, whilst children skip and play on the concrete of the courtyard.

 

“Welcome to Merrybrook Place,” Mrs. Boothby says with a hint of pride in her voice. “My ‘ome. Though Lawd knows why they called it that. I ain’t never seen no brook, merry or otherwise, runnin’ dahn ‘ere, unless it’s the slops from the privvies dahn the end.” She points to the end of the rookery where, overlooked by some older tenements of brick and wooden shingling most likely from the early Nineteenth Century, a couple of ramshackle privies stand. “So just watch your step, Edith dearie. We don’t want you steppin’ your nice shoes in nuffink nasty.” She gives her a warm smile. “Come on.”

 

As they start walking up the rookery, one woman wrapped in a paisley shawl stands in her doorway staring at Edith with undisguised curiosity and perhaps a little jealousy as she casts her critical gaze over her simple, yet smart, black coat and dyed straw hat decorated with silk flowers and feathers.

 

“Wanna paint a picture Mrs. Friedmann?” Mrs. Boothby calls out hotly to her, challenging her open stare with a defensive one of her own. “Might last you longer, your royal ‘ighness!” She makes a mock over exaggerated curtsey towards her, hitching up the hem of her workday skirts.

 

The woman tilts her head up slightly, sniffs in disgust and looks down her nose with spite at both Edith and the Cockney charwoman before muttering something in a language Edith doesn’t need to speak to understand. Turning on her heel, the woman slams her door sharply behind her, the noise echoing off the hard surfaces of the court.

 

“Who was that, Mrs. Boothby?” Edith asks nervously.

 

“Lawd love you dearie,” chortles Mrs. Boothby, the action resulting on one of her fruity hacking coughs that seem remarkably loud from such a diminutive figure. “That’s that nasty local Yid***** matchmaker what I told you ‘bout.” Raising her voice she continues, speaking loudly at the closed door. “Golda Friedmann goes around wiv ‘er nose in the air wrapped up in that fancy paisley shawl actin’ like she was the Queen of Russia ‘erself. But she ain’t! She’s no better than the rest of us.”

 

As Mrs. Boothby trudges on up the rookery another doorway opens and an old woman with a figure that shows many years of childbirth steps out, dressed in a black skirt and an old fashioned but pretty floral print Edwardian high necked blouse. “Afternoon Ida.”

 

“Oh! Afternoon Lil!” Mrs. Boothby replies. “Oh Lil! I got somefink in ‘ere for you.” She opens up her capacious blue beaded bag and fossicks around making the beads rattle before withdrawing a couple of thin pieces of soap, one bar a bright buttercup yellow, a second pink and the last white. “’Ere. For the kiddies.”

 

“Oh fanks ever so, Ida!” the other woman replies, gratefully accepting the pieces of soap in her careworn hands.

 

“Edith,” Mrs. Boothby calls. “This ‘ere is my neighbour, Mrs. Conway.” A couple of cheeky little faces with sallow cheeks, but bright eyes, poke out from behind Mrs. Conway’s skirts and smile up shyly at Edith with curiosity. “Hullo kiddies.” Mrs. Boothby says to them. “Nah sweeties from me today. Sorry. Mrs. Conway, this ‘ere is Miss Watsford, what works for one of my ladies up in Mayfair.”

 

“Oh ‘ow do you do?” Mrs. Conway says, wiping her hands down her skirts before reaching out a hand to Edith.

 

“How do you do, Mrs. Conway.” Edith replies with a gentle smile, taking her hand, and feeling her rough flesh rub against her own as the old woman’s bony fingers entwine hers.

 

“Well, must be getting on, Lil,” Mrs. Boothby says. “Ta-ta.”

 

“Ta-ra, Ida. Ta-ra Miss Watsford.” Mrs. Conway replies before turning back and shooing the children inside good naturedly.

 

“Goodbye Mrs, Conway. It was nice to meet you.” Edith says.

 

At the next door, one painted Brunswick green like the shutters, Mrs. Boothby stops and takes out a large string of keys from her bag and promptly finds the one for her own front door. As the key engages with the lock the door groans in protest as it slowly opens. The old woman says, “Just stand ‘ere in the doorway, Edith dearie, while I’ll open the curtains.”

 

She disappears into the gloom, which vanishes a moment later as with a flourish, she flings back some heavy red velvet curtains, flooding the room with light from the front window. It takes a moment for Edith’s eyes to adjust as the old Cockney woman stands for a moment in the pool of light, so brilliant after the gloom, surrounded by a floating army of illuminated dust motes tumbling over one another in the air. As her eyes adjust, Edith discerns things within the tenement front room: a kitchen table not too unlike her own at Cavendish Mews, a couple of sturdy ladderback chairs, an old fashioned black leaded stove and a sink in the corner.

 

“Close the door behind you and come on in, dearie. The ‘ouse is still warmish from this mornin’.” Mrs. Boothby says kindly as she tosses her beaded handbag carelessly onto the table where it lands with a thud and the jangle of beads. “Take a seat and I’ll get the range goin’ and pop the kettle on for a nice cup of Rosie-Lee******! I dunno ‘bout you, but I’m parched.”

 

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies as she closes the door.

 

Shutting out the unpleasant mixture of odours outside with the closing of the door, Edith is comforted by the smells of carbolic soap and lavender. Looking about she notices a couple of little muslin bags hanging from the curtains.

 

“Good. Nah, give me your ‘at ‘n coat and I’ll ‘ang them up.” Mrs. Boothby says. Noticing Edith’s gaze upon the pouches she explains. “Lavender to ‘elp keep the moths and the smells from the privy at bay.”

 

“Oh.” Edith replies laconically.

 

As Mrs. Boothby hangs up Edith’s coat and hat as well as her own on a hook behind the door and then bustles about stoking up the embers of the fire left in the stove, Edith says, “Mrs. Conway seems like a nice person to have as your neighbour, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

“She’s a good un, that one. She takes care of all the little kiddies round ‘n ‘bout while their parents is at work.” Mrs. Boothby throws some coal into the stove and shoves it with a poker. “She’s got an ‘eart of gold she does. I owe ‘er a lot. She does ‘er best by them kiddies. Gives ‘em a meal made outta what she can, which for some might be the only meal they get. And she gives ‘em a good bath too when she can. That’s why I give ‘er the left over soap ends from the ‘ouses I go to.”

 

“Oh I’m sorry Mrs. Boothby. I always take Miss Lettice’s soap ends to Mum to grate up and make soap flakes from for washing.”

 

“Ahh, don’t worry dearie. I gets plenty from some of the other ‘ouses I go to. Some of ‘em even throws out bars of soap what’s been barely used cos they get cracked and they don’t like the look of ‘em no more. Some of them ladies up the West End don’t know just ‘ow lucky they is to ‘ave as many bars of soap as they like. Nah, you keep takin’ Miss Lettice’s ends to your mum. So long as they’s bein’ used, I’m ‘appy. Waste not, want not, I always say.”

 

With nothing to do whilst the older woman goes about filling the large kettle with water from the sink in the corner of the room, Edith has more time to look at her surroundings. The floor is made of wooden boards whilst the walls are covered in a rather dark green wallpaper featuring old fashioned Art Nouveau patterns. The house must one have had owners or tenants with grander pretentions than Mrs. Boothby for the stove is jutting out of a much larger fireplace surround, which although chipped and badly discoloured from years of coal dust, cooking and cigarette smoke, is marble. However, it is the profusion of ornaments around the small room that catches the young girl’s eye. Along the mantle of the original fireplace stand a piece of Staffordshire, a prettily painted cow creamer, a jug in the shape of a duck coming out of an egg and a teapot in the shape of Queen Victoria. Turning around behind her to where Mrs. Boothby gathers a pretty blue and white china teapot, some cups, saucers and a sugar bowl, she sees a large dresser that is cluttered with more decorative plates, teapots, jugs, tins and a cheese dish in the shape of a cottage.

 

“Not what you was expectin’ I’ll warrant.” Mrs, Boothby remarks with a knowing chuckle that causes her to emit yet another of her throaty coughs.

 

“Oh no Mrs. Boothby!” Edith replies, blushing with shame at being caught out staring about her so shamelessly. “I wasn’t really sure what to expect. I mean… I had no expectations.”

 

“Well, it’s nuffink special, but this is my ‘aven of calm and cleanliness away from the dirty world out there.” She points through the window where, when Edith turns her head, she can see several scrawny children playing marbles on the concrete of the courtyard. “And it’s ‘ome to me.”

 

“Oh yes, it’s lovely and clean and cheerful, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith assures her hostess. “No, I was just admiring all your pretty crockery. It reminds me of my Mum’s kitchen, actually. She is always collecting pretty china and pottery.”

 

“Well, who was it what told you to go dahn to the Caledonian Markets******* to buy a gift for your mum?” the old woman says with a cheeky wink. “Me that who!” She pokes her chest proudly, before coughing heavily again.

 

“So did you get all these from the Caledonian Markets then, Mrs. Boothby?” Edith asks, looking around again.

 

“Well, most, but not all. I got meself an art gallery from the Caledonian Markets, for when I washes the dishes.” She points to two cheap prints of classic paintings in equally cheap wooden frames hanging on the walls above the little sink. “Better than starin’ at a blank wall, even if it’s covered in wallpaper. Course, some a them ladies up the West End is awfully wasteful wiv much more than soap, and just like them soap ends, I get my share. Somethin’ a bit old fashioned or got a tiny chip in it and they’s throwin’ it out like it was a piece of rubbish, so I offer ta take it. Take that nice cow up there,” She points to the cow creamer on the mantle. “The lid got lost somewhere, so the lady from Belgravia what owned it told ‘er maid to throw it out, so I said I’d take it instead. That,” She points to the Staffordshire statue. “Was one of a pair, what the uvver ‘alf got broken, so it was being chucked, so I took it. I don’t care if it don’t ‘ave the uvver ‘alf. I like it as it is. It’s pretty. The Queen Victoria teapot was getting’ chucked out just ‘cos the old Queen died, and King Bertie was takin’ ‘er place. Well, I wasn’t ‘avin’ none of that. Poor old Queen! I said I’d ‘ave it if no-one else wanted it. And this teapot,” She withdraws the pretty blue and white china teapot from atop the stove. “This was just bein’ thrown out ‘cos it’s old and they’s no bits of the set left but this. But there ain’t nuffink wrong wiv it, and it must be at least a ‘undred years old!”

 

Mrs. Boothby pulls out a gilt edged blue and white cake plate which she puts on the table along with the tea cups, sugar bowl and milk jug. She then goes to the dresser and pulls down a pretty tin decorated with Art Nouveau ladies from which she takes several pieces of shortbread, which she places on the cake plate.

 

“That’s very lovely, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith points to a teapot in the shape of a rabbit sitting in a watering can. “It looks rather like Peter Rabbit.”

 

“Ahh… my Ken loves that too.” Edith’s ears prick at the mention of someone named Ken, but she doesn’t have time to ask who he is before Mrs. Boothby continues, “That bunny rabbit teapot is one of the few pieces I got what ‘as a sad story what goes wiv it. Poor lady what I cleaned for up in St. James’, it were ‘er baby’s, from the nursery, you know?” Edith nods in understanding. “Well, ‘e died. ‘E was a weak little mite ‘e were, ever since ‘e was born, and my poor lady was so upset when ‘e died that she got rid of everyfink in the nursery. She didn’t want nuffink to remind her of that little baby. So, I brought it ‘ome wiv me.” She sighs. “Well, the kettle’s boiled now, so ‘ow about a cup of Rosie-Lee, dearie?”

 

A short while later, Edith and Mrs. Boothby are seated around Mrs. Boothby’s kitchen table with the elegant Regency teapot, some blue and white china cups and the plate of shortbreads before them.

 

“Oh I tell you Edith dearie, I’m dying for a fag!” Mrs Boothby says. She starts fossicking through her capacious beaded bag before withdrawing her cigarette papers, Swan Vestas and tin of Player’s Navy Cut. Rolling herself a cigarette she lights it with a satisfied sigh and one more of her fruity coughs, dropping the match into a black ashtray that sits on the table full of cigarette butts. Mrs. Boothby settles back happily in her ladderback chair with her cigarette in one hand and reaches out, taking up a shortbread biscuit with the other. Blowing out a plume of blue smoke that tumbles through the air around them, the old woman continues. “Nah, about this sewin’ machine. My Ken’ll be ‘ome soon, I ‘ope. ‘E’s a bit late today.”

 

“Mrs. Boothby, who is Ken?” Edith asks with a questioning look on her face.

 

Just as Mrs. Boothby is about to answer her, she gasps as she hears a rather loud and jolly whistle.

 

“Well, speak of the devil, ‘ere ‘e comes nah!”

 

The front door of the tenement flies open and the space is instantly filled by the bulk of a big man in a flat cap with a large parcel wrapped in newspaper tied with twine under his right arm.

 

*A charwoman, chargirl, or char, jokingly charlady, is an old-fashioned occupational term, referring to a paid part-time worker who comes into a house or other building to clean it for a few hours of a day or week, as opposed to a maid, who usually lives as part of the household within the structure of domestic service. In the 1920s, chars usually did all the hard graft work that paid live-in domestics would no longer do as they looked for excuses to leave domestic service for better paying work in offices and factories.

 

**The Singer Corporation is an American manufacturer of consumer sewing machines, first established as I. M. Singer & Co. in 1851 by Isaac M. Singer with New York lawyer Edward C. Clark. Best known for its sewing machines, it was renamed Singer Manufacturing Company in 1865, then the Singer Company in 1963. In 1867, the Singer Company decided that the demand for their sewing machines in the United Kingdom was sufficiently high to open a local factory in Glasgow on John Street. The Vice President of Singer, George Ross McKenzie selected Glasgow because of its iron making industries, cheap labour, and shipping capabilities. Demand for sewing machines outstripped production at the new plant and by 1873, a new larger factory was completed on James Street, Bridgeton. By that point, Singer employed over two thousand people in Scotland, but they still could not produce enough machines. In 1882 the company purchased forty-six acres of farmland in Clydebank and built an even bigger factory. With nearly a million square feet of space and almost seven thousand employees, it was possible to produce on average 13,000 machines a week, making it the largest sewing machine factory in the world. The Clydebank factory was so productive that in 1905, the U.S. Singer Company set up and registered the Singer Manufacturing Company Ltd. in the United Kingdom.

 

***Petticoat Lane Market is a fashion and clothing market in Spitalfields, London. It consists of two adjacent street markets. Wentworth Street Market and Middlesex Street Market. Originally populated by Huguenots fleeing persecution in France, Spitalfields became a center for weaving, embroidery and dying. From 1882, a wave of Jewish immigrants fleeing persecution in eastern Europe settled in the area and Spitalfields then became the true heart of the clothing manufacturing district of London. 'The Lane' was always renowned for the 'patter' and showmanship of the market traders. It was also known for being a haven for the unsavoury characters of London’s underworld and was rife with prostitutes during the late Victorian era. Unpopular with the authorities, as it was largely unregulated and in some sense illegal, as recently as the 1930s, police cars and fire engines were driven down ‘The Lane’, with alarm bells ringing, to disrupt the market.

 

****A rookery is a dense collection of housing, especially in a slum area. The rookeries created in Victorian times in London’s East End were notorious for their cheapness, filth and for being overcrowded.

 

*****The word Yid is a Jewish ethnonym of Yiddish origin. It is used as an autonym within the Ashkenazi Jewish community, and also used as slang. When pronounced in such a way that it rhymes with did by non-Jews, it is commonly intended as a pejorative term. It is used as a derogatory epithet, and as an alternative to, the English word 'Jew'. It is uncertain when the word began to be used in a pejorative sense by non-Jews, but some believe it started in the late Nineteenth or early Twentieth Century when there was a large population of Jews and Yiddish speakers concentrated in East London, gaining popularity in the 1930s when Oswald Mosley developed a strong following in the East End of London.

 

******Rosie-Lee is Cockney slang for tea, and it is one of the most well-known of all Cockney rhyming slang.

 

*******The original Caledonian Market, renown for antiques, buried treasure and junk, was situated in in a wide cobblestoned area just off the Caledonian Road in Islington in 1921 when this story is set. Opened in 1855 by Prince Albert, and originally called the Metropolitan Meat Markets, it was supplementary to the Smithfield Meat Market. Arranged in a rectangle, the market was dominated by a forty six metre central clock tower. By the early Twentieth Century, with the diminishing trade in live animals, a bric-a-brac market developed and flourished there until after the Second World War when it moved to Bermondsey, south of the Thames, where it flourishes today. The Islington site was developed in 1967 into the Market Estate and an open green space called Caledonian Park. All that remains of the original Caledonian Markets is the wonderful Victorian clock tower.

 

I would just like to point out that I wrote this story some weeks ago, long before The Queen became ill and well before her passing. However it seems apt that this story of all, which I planned weeks ago to upload today as part of the Chetwyn Mews narrative, mentions the passing of The Queen (albeit Queen Victoria). I wish to dedicate this image and chapter to our own Queen of past and glorious times Queen Elizabeth II (1926 – 2022). Long did she reign over us, happy and glorious. God bless The Queen.

 

This cluttered, yet cheerful domestic scene is not all it seems to be at first glance, for it is made up of part of my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection. Some pieces come from my own childhood. Other items I acquired as an adult through specialist online dealers and artists who specialise in 1:12 miniatures.

 

Mrs. Boothby’s beloved collection of ornaments come from various different sources. The Staffordshire cow (one of a pair) and the cow creamer that stand on the mantlepiece have been hand made and painted by Welsh miniature ceramist Rachel Williams who has her own studio, V&R Miniatures, in Powys. If you look closely, you will see that the Staffordshire cow actually has a smile on its face! Although you can’t notice it in the photo, the cow creamer has its own removable lid which is minute in size! The duck coming from the egg jug on the mantle, the rooster jug, the cottage ware butter dish, Peter Rabbit in the watering can tea pot and the cottage ware teapot to its right on the dresser were all made by French ceramicist and miniature artisan Valerie Casson. All the pieces are authentic replicas of real pieces made by different china companies. For example, the cottage ware teapot has been decorated authentically and matches in perfect detail its life-size Price Washington ‘Ye Olde Cottage Teapot’ counterparts. The top part of the thatched roof and central chimney form the lid, just like the real thing. Valerie Casson is renown for her meticulously crafted and painted miniature ceramics. The Queen Victoria teapot on the mantlepiece and the teapot on the dresser to the left of the Peter Rabbit teapot come from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom. All the other plates on the dresser came from various online miniature stockists through E-Bay, as do the teapot, plate and cups on Mrs. Boothby’s kitchen table.

 

Mrs. Boothby’s picture gallery in the corner of the room come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

Mrs. Boothby’s beaded handbag on the table is also a 1:12 artisan miniature. Hand crocheted, it is interwoven with antique blue glass beads that are two millimetres in diameter. The beads of the handle are three millimetres in length. It came from Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

Spilling from her bag are her Player’s Navy Cut cigarette tin and Swan Vesta matches, which are 1:12 miniatures hand made by Jonesy’s Miniatures in England. The black ashtray is also an artisan piece, the bae of which is filled with “ash”. The tray as well as having grey ash in it, also has a 1:12 cigarette which rests on its lip (it is affixed there). Made by Nottingham based tobacconist manufacturer John Player and Sons, Player’s Medium Navy Cut was the most popular by far of the three Navy Cut brands (there was also Mild and Gold Leaf, mild being today’s rich flavour). Two thirds of all the cigarettes sold in Britain were Player’s and two thirds of these were branded as Player’s Medium Navy Cut. In January 1937, Player’s sold nearly 3.5 million cigarettes (which included 1.34 million in London). Production continued to grow until at its peak in the late 1950s, Player’s was employing 11,000 workers (compared to 5,000 in 1926) and producing 15 brands of pipe tobacco and 11 brands of cigarettes. Nowadays the brands “Player” and “John Player Special” are owned and commercialised by Imperial Brands (formerly the Imperial Tobacco Company). Swan Vestas is a brand name for a popular brand of ‘strike-anywhere’ matches. Shorter than normal pocket matches they are particularly popular with smokers and have long used the tagline ‘the smoker’s match’ although this has been replaced by the prefix ‘the original’ on the current packaging. Swan Vestas matches are manufactured under the House of Swan brand, which is also responsible for making other smoking accessories such as cigarette papers, flints and filter tips. The matches are manufactured by Swedish Match in Sweden using local, sustainably grown aspen. The Swan brand began in 1883 when the Collard & Kendall match company in Bootle on Merseyside near Liverpool introduced ‘Swan wax matches’. These were superseded by later versions including ‘Swan White Pine Vestas’ from the Diamond Match Company. These were formed of a wooden splint soaked in wax. They were finally christened ‘Swan Vestas’ in 1906 when Diamond merged with Bryant and May and the company enthusiastically promoted the Swan brand. By the 1930s ‘Swan Vestas’ had become ‘Britain’s best-selling match’.

 

The meagre foodstuffs on Mrs. Boothby’s shelf represent items not unusually found in poorer households across Britain. Before the Second World War, the British populace consumed far more sugar than we do today, partially for the poor because it was cheap and helped give people energy when their diets were lacking good nutritious foods. Therefore finding a tin of treacle, some preserved fruit or jam, and no fresh fruits or vegetables was not an unusual sight in a lower class home. All the tined foodstuffs, with the exception of the tin of S.P.C. peaches, are 1:12 size artisan miniatures made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire, with great attention to detail paid to their labels and the shapes of their jars and cans. The S.P.C. tin of peaches comes from Shepherd’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom. S.P.C. is an Australian brand that still exists to this day. In 1917 a group of fruit growers in Victoria’s Goulburn Valley decided to form a cooperative which they named the Shepperton Fruit Preserving Company. The company began operations in February 1918, canning pears, peaches and nectarines under the brand name of S.P.C. On the 31st of January 1918 the manager of the Shepparton Fruit Preserving Company announced that canning would begin on the following Tuesday and that the operation would require one hundred and fifty girls or women and thirty men. In the wake of the Great War, it was hoped that “the launch of this new industry must revive drooping energies” and improve the economic circumstances of the region. The company began to pay annual bonuses to grower-shareholders by 1929, and the plant was updated and expanded. The success of S.P.C. was inextricably linked with the progress of the town and the wider Goulburn Valley region. In 1936 the company packed twelve million cans and was the largest fruit cannery in the British empire. Through the Second World War the company boomed. The product range was expanded to include additional fruits, jam, baked beans and tinned spaghetti and production reached more than forty-three million cans a year in the 1970s. From financial difficulties caused by the 1980s recession, SPC returned once more to profitability, merging with Ardmona and buying rival company Henry Jones IXL. S.P.C. was acquired by Coca Cola Amatil in 2005 and in 2019 sold to a private equity group known as Shepparton Partners Collective.

 

The rather worn and beaten looking enamelled bread bin and colander in the typical domestic Art Deco design and kitchen colours of the 1920s, cream and green, which have been aged on purpose, are artisan pieces I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The various bowls, cannisters and dishes, the kettle and the Brown Betty teapot I have acquired from various online miniatures stockists throughout the United Kingdom, America and Australia. A Brown Betty is a type of teapot, round and with a manganese brown glaze known as Rockingham glaze. In the Victorian era, when tea was at its peak of popularity, tea brewed in the Brown Betty was considered excellent. This was attributed to the design of the pot which allowed the tea leaves more freedom to swirl around as the water was poured into the pot, releasing more flavour with less bitterness.

 

The black Victorian era stove and the ladderback chair on the left of the table and the small table directly behind it are all miniature pieces I have had since I was a child. The ladderback chair on the right came from a deceased estate of a miniatures collector in Sydney. The Welsh dresser came from Babette’s Miniatures, who have been making miniature dolls’ furnishings since the late Eighteenth Century. The dresser has plate grooves in it to hold plates in place, just like a real dresser would.

 

The grey marbleised fireplace behind the stove and the trough sink in the corner of the kitchen come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The green wallpaper is an authentic replica of real Art Nouveau wallpaper from the first decade of the Twentieth Century which I have printed onto paper. The floorboards are a print of a photo taken of some floorboards that I scaled to 1:12 size to try and maintain a realistic look.

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Today however we are not in Lettice’s flat. Instead, we have followed Lettice south-west, through the neighbouring borough of Belgravia to the smart London suburb of Pimlico and its rows of cream and white painted Regency terraces. There, in a smart red brick Edwardian set of three storey flats on Rochester Row, is the residence of Lettice’s client, recently arrived American film actress Wanetta Ward.

 

Now that the flat is completely redecorated under Lettice’s deft hands, Miss Ward has vacated her suite at the Metropole Hotel* and has been living at her Pimlico address for a few weeks now. As a thank you to Lettice, the American has invited her to afternoon tea. And so, we find ourselves in the beautifully appointed, spacious drawing room.

 

“Now, darling girl!” Miss Ward says as she sweeps into the drawing room through the green baize door that leads from the service area of the flat. “You must try my own brew of coffee!” She enthusiastically hoists a beautiful china coffee pot decorated with cherry blossoms in the air. “I promise you that you’ll never go back to that sludge you British call coffee after you’ve had this.”

 

Lettice smells the rich aroma from the pot’s spout as Miss Ward places it with an appropriately theatrical swoop, enhanced by the brightly coloured Spanish shawl draped over her bare shoulders, onto the silver tray on the cherrywood table between the Queen Anne style settee and the matching pair of Chinese armchairs. “It smells divine, Miss Ward.”

 

“Darling!” Miss Ward enthuses. “Divine isn’t the word for this!”

 

“I look forward to tasting it, then.” Lettice replies with a bemused smile. “And afternoon tea, Miss Ward?”

 

“I know! I know!” the American brandishes her hands in the air. “I admit I said it was a quaint observance, but it’s one that I’ve come to enjoy since living here in England. We might not have petit fours like they do at the Metropole, but trust me, Harriet has found the most wonderful little local bakery that makes an amazing selection of cookies. Try one!” She indicates to the plate piled generously with an assortment of brightly coloured and delicious looking biscuits.

 

“Harriet, Miss Ward?”

 

The American picks up a biscuit as she speaks and then pauses with it to her lips. “My new maid, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

Lettice considers the woman with a rather angular face in black silk moiré afternoon uniform and lace collar, cuffs, cap, apron and cap who answered the door. She didn’t strike her as having such a lovely name. She looked to be more of an Augusta or Bertha.

 

Miss Ward’s American voice interrupts Lettice’s contemplation. “Oh, I must thank you too, for the number of that domestics employment agency you gave me.”

 

“You can thank my mother, Miss Ward.” Lettice selects a small pink macaron and takes a ladylike bite from it before depositing the remainder on her plate. She feels the pastry and filling melt in her mouth. “She and I may not agree about a good many things, but Mater certainly knows the best agency In London for staff.”

 

“Well, Harriet is perfect!” Miss ward exclaims. “She fits in here so well, and she doesn’t throw a fit with all my comings and goings at all hours to and from the studio, taking telephone messages for me with the efficiency of a secretary, and she doesn’t even seem to mind the unannounced arrivals when friends come to pay call.”

 

“I do hope you told her about me coming today, Miss Ward.” Lettice remarks in alarm.

 

“Oh I did, Miss Chetwynd! It’s quite alright!” She stuffs the biscuit into her mouth, rubbing her fingers together to rid them of crumbs which tumble through the air and onto her lap where they disappear amidst the fuchsia coloured georgette of her dress. “Mind you,” she continues, speaking with her mouth full. “I don’t think Harriet likes it when I insist on making my own coffee.” She gulps loudly. “She doesn’t like it when I go onto the kitchen. She says it’s her domain.” She looks across at Lettice perched elegantly on the settee, dressed in a pretty pastel yellow frock that matches the trim of her straw hat. “I imagine your maid is the same.”

 

“I’m sure I haven’t asked Edith, Miss Ward.”

 

“Well, perhaps you should, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“What a ridiculous notion!” Lettice laughs. “Of course she wouldn’t mind! It’s my flat. I can come and go where and when I please.”

 

“If you’ll pardon me, my dear girl,” Miss Ward picks up the coffee pot and pours the steaming, rich golden brown liquid first into Lettice’s cup and then her own. “But it’s a ridiculous notion that you don’t. If I may be so bold: it may be your flat, but you’re a lady, and even I, the egalitarian American in the room, knows that masters and servants don’t mix. You probably vex the poor little mouse when you swan into her domain, rather than ring the servant’s bell. Not that she would tell you that of course! Your maid is much to meek to speak her mind, whereas Harriet tells me that god invented servants’ bells, so I don’t have to go into her kitchen.” She smiles cheekily. “Mind you, I draw the line at her making coffee for me or my guests.” She indicates to the milk jug and sugar bowl. “Now, there is cream in the jug and sugar in the bowl Miss Chetwynd. Do help yourself.” She picks up the jug and glugs a dollop of cream into her coffee before scooping up two large heaped teaspoons of sugar.

 

After Lettice has added a small amount of cream and a flat teaspoon of sugar to her own coffee, she looks around the drawing room observantly whilst she stirs her cup’s contents. To her delight, and no little amount of surprise, the room remains as she designed it. She was quite sure that Wanetta would rearrange her well thought out designs as soon as she moved in, yet against her predictions the furniture remains where she had them placed, the gold and yellow Murano glass comport still standing in the centre of the mantelpiece, the yellow celadon vase with gold bamboo in place on the console table. Even the small white vase, the only piece left over from the former occupier’s décor, remains next to the comport on the mantle. The American was ready to throw it into the dustbin at every opportunity, yet it happily nestles between the comport and a large white china vase of vibrant yellow roses and lilies. It is as she notices the celadon vase that she sees the painting of Wanetta, which only arrived at the flat when its sitter did.

 

“So that’s the famous yellow portrait, Miss Ward,” Lettice remarks, admiring the likeness of the dark haired American, draped in a golden yellow oriental shawl, sitting languidly in a chair.

 

“Oh yes!” gasps Miss Ward as she turns around in her armchair to look at the painting hanging to the right of the fireplace, above a black console table. “You haven’t seen it, have you? Do you like it?”

 

“Yes I do,” acknowledges Lettice. “It’s a remarkable likeness, and the artist has captured the light in your eyes so well.”

 

“Thank you, darling girl! I think it’s beautiful.”

 

“So is your coffee!” Lettice remarks. “It’s quite delicious, and not at all what Bramley makes for me at Glynes**.”

 

“I told you, you British drink sludge.” She takes an appreciative, if overly large, gulp of her own coffee. “Now this, is real coffee.”

 

“So, have you christened your cocktail cabinet, yet?”

 

“Yes I have. I threw a cocktail party for the actors, actresses, director and crew when we wrapped up ‘After the Ball is Over’. It was quite the occasion!”

 

“Oh I could well imagine, Miss Ward.”

 

“Of course,” the American quickly adds. “I’m sure it wasn’t anywhere near as extravagant as your cocktail party that you threw for Mr. and Mrs. Channon.”

 

“You heard about that then, Miss Ward?”

 

“Heard about it? My darling girl,” Her eyes widen and sparkle with excitement. “I immersed myself in the article published by the Tattler, drinking in every little detail of your fabulous soiree. You looked stunning, darling!”

 

Lettice blushes and shuffles awkwardly in her seat on the settee at the brazen compliment. “Thank you, Miss Ward.”

 

“So did Mrs. Channon, of course! And wasn’t Lady Diana Cooper’s*** robe de style**** to die for?”

 

“Err, yes… quite, Miss Ward.” Lettice replies awkwardly. Anxious to change the subject and move away from her own private life, and thereby avoid the American’s potential attempts to try and gather some gossip to share with her fellow actors and actresses at Islington Studios*****, Lettice asks. “And what’s the next moving picture you will be making, Miss Ward? Another villainess role in a historical romance?”

 

“Oh, the studio is shutting for Christmas, so I’m sailing on the Aquitania****** on Monday, back to the States to visit my parents. I haven’t seen them in an age, and, well, they aren’t getting any younger. Besides, Islington Studios are paying for the journey and are organising for me to promote ‘After the Ball is Over’ at a few functions whilst I’m back home.”

 

“That will be lovely for you, Miss Ward.”

 

“Oh don’t worry, I’ll be back in the new year, when we start filming ‘Skating and Sinning’.”

 

“’Skating and Sinning’, Miss Ward?”

 

“Yes!” the American gushes as she picks up the coffee pot which she proffers to Lettice, who declines, and then proceeds to fill her own cup. “It’s the first picture planned for 1922. Another historical drama, set in London in the Seventeenth Century, when the Thames froze over.”

 

“Yes, 1607 I believe.”

 

“You’re a font of knowledge, Miss Chetwynd!” Miss Ward exclaims, clapping her ring decorated hands in delight. “You never cease to amaze me! A first-class interior designer and a historian!”

 

“Knowing trivial historical facts is just part and parcel of an education in a family as old as mine, Miss Ward.” Lettice deflects, taking another sip of her coffee. “And the sinning?”

 

“The sinning, Miss Chetwynd?” the American woman queries.

 

“Well, I assume the frozen Thames explains the skating part of the film’s title, Miss Ward.”

 

“Oh, the sinning!” Miss Ward settles back in her armchair with a knowing smile, placing her coffee cup on the black japanned table between the two Chinese chairs. “Well, that’s me, darling!” She raises both her arms dramatically, the Spanish shawl gathering about her shoulders as she does. “I will be playing a merry young, recently widowed, Duchess, with her eyes on our heroine’s young betrothed!”

 

“And do you succeed, Miss Ward?”

 

“Ah-ah! That,” She wags her finger playfully at Lettice. “Would be telling, darling girl. I can’t go giving away the ending, or you won’t come see the film.”

 

Lettice smiles at the actress. “Well, I’m glad that London has entranced you enough to return from the delights of America.”

 

“Well of course it has! And anyway, I have to come back to enjoy and show off my beautiful new home!”

 

Lettice blushes at the compliment.

 

“I’ll have you know Miss Chetwynd, that at my cocktail party, I had so many compliments about this beautiful room, the furnishings and the décor. You’ll be hearing from directors and future starlets in the new year, I’ll guarantee!”

 

“I shall have to see whether I can accommodate them, Miss Ward.” Lettice replies. “As you know, I will be decorating some of the principal rooms of Mr. and Mrs. Channon’s country house in the new year, and I have a few other potential commissions currently under negotiation.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be able to squeeze them in, darling! When the moving pictures come knocking, you just won’t be able to say no.”

 

“Well…” Lettice begins, imagining her mother’s face drained of colour, and her father’s flushed with anger, if she takes on another commission from a moving picture actress.

 

“Oh, and thinking of my flat. The other reason why I asked you here.” Miss Ward interrupts, standing up and walking over to the console table beneath her portrait, where some papers sit beneath the base of one of the Murano glass bottles. She fumbles through them and withdraws a small slip of paper. Walking over to Lettice she hands it to her. “A cheque to settle my bill before I set sail for home, darling girl.”

 

“Thank you, Miss Ward.” Lettice replies, opening her lemon yellow handbag sitting between her and her black and yellow straw hat on the settee and depositing the cheque safely inside. “I appreciate your prompt payment.”

 

“It’s my pleasure, Miss Chetwynd.” the American replies. “And thank you again for all that you have done.” Her glittering eyes flit about the room. “I just love being here! It’s so perfect! It’s so, so me! A mixture of the old, and the new, the oriental and the European, all of which I love.”

 

“I’m so pleased you approve, Miss Ward. It is your home, after all.”

 

“I even have to concede that you were right about having touches of white in here. It adds a touch of class. And that wonderful wallpaper you suggested,” She indicates to the walls. “Well, it is the pièce de résistance of this room’s décor!” Stepping over to the fireplace, she picks up the small white vase. “This puzzles me though.” Her face crumples. “Why were you so anxious that I keep this vase?”

 

“Well, “ Lettice explains. “Call me sentimental, but I felt that it is part of your home’s story and coming from an old family home surrounded by history, I thought it would be a shame to see it just tossed away. I hope you don’t disagree.”

 

Miss Ward considers the small Parian vase in her manicured hands for a moment before replacing it. “Not at all, you sentimental girl you!”

 

The pair smile at one another, happily.

 

*Now known as the Corinthia Hotel, the Metropole Hotel is located at the corner of Northumberland Avenue and Whitehall Place in central London on a triangular site between the Thames Embankment and Trafalgar Square. Built in 1883 it functioned as an hotel between 1885 until World War I when, located so close to the Palace of Westminster and Whitehall, it was requisitioned by the government. It reopened after the war with a luxurious new interior and continued to operate until 1936 when the government requisitioned it again whilst they redeveloped buildings at Whitehall Gardens. They kept using it in the lead up to the Second World War. After the war it continued to be used by government departments until 2004. In 2007 it reopened as the luxurious Corinthia Hotel.

 

**Glynes is the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie.

 

***Born Lady Diana Manners, Diana Olivia Winifred Maud Cooper, Viscountess Norwich was an English aristocrat who was a famously glamorous social figure in London and Paris. As a young woman, she moved in a celebrated group of intellectuals known as the Coterie, most of whom were killed in the First World War. She married Duff Cooper in 1919. In her prime, she had the widespread reputation as the most beautiful young woman in England, and appeared in countless profiles, photographs and articles in newspapers and magazines. She was a film actress in the early 1920s and both she and her husband were very good friends with Edward VIII and were guests of his on a 1936 yacht cruise of the Adriatic which famously caused his affair with Wallis Simpson to become public knowledge.

 

****The ‘robe de style’ was introduced by French couturier Jeanne Lanvin around 1915. It consisted of a basque bodice with a broad neckline and an oval bouffant skirt supported by built in wire hoops. Reminiscent of the Spanish infanta-style dresses of the Seventeenth Century and the panniered robe à la française of the Eighteenth Century they were made of fabric in a solid colour, particularly a deep shade of robin’s egg blue which became known as Lanvin blue, and were ornamented with concentrated bursts of embroidery, ribbons or ornamental silk flowers.

 

*****Islington Studios, often known as Gainsborough Studios, were a British film studio located on the south bank of the Regent's Canal, in Poole Street, Hoxton in Shoreditch, London which began operation in 1919. By 1920 they had a two stage studio. It is here that Alfred Hitchcock made his entrée into films.

 

******The RMS Aquitania was a British ocean liner of the Cunard Line in service from 1914 to 1950. She was designed by Leonard Peskett and built by John Brown and Company in Clydebank, Scotland. She was launched on the 21st of April 1913 and sailed on her maiden voyage from Liverpool to New York on the 30th of May 1914. Like her sister ships the ill fated Lusitania and the renown Mauritania, she was beautifully appointed and was a luxurious way for first and second-class passengers to travel across the Atlantic between Britain and America.

 

This upper-class 1920s Art Deco drawing room scene may be different to how it may appear, for the whole scene is made up entirely with pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection, including pieces I have had since I was a teenager and others that I have collected on my travels around the world.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The cherry blossom patterned tea set, which if you look closely at the blossoms, you will see they have gilt centres, I acquired from an online stockist on E-Bay. It stands on a silver tray that is part of tea set that comes from Smallskale Miniatures in England. To see the whole set, please click on this link: www.flickr.com/photos/40262251@N03/51111056404/in/photost.... The wonderful selection of biscuits on offer were made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

 

The wooden Chinese dragon chairs and their matching low table ,that serves as Wanetta’s tea table, I found in a little shop in Singapore whilst I was holiday there. They are beautifully carved from cherrywood.

 

The Queen Anne settee made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, JBM with great attention to detail.

 

The black japanned cocktail cabinet with its gilded handles was made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.

 

All the glass comport on the mantlepiece has been blown and decorated and tinted by hand by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The white and gold Georgian Revival clock next to it is a 1:12 artisan miniature made by Hall’s Miniature Clocks, supplied through Doreen Jeffries Small Wonders Miniatures in England. The ginger jar to the right of the clock is hand painted. It is an item that I bought from a high street doll house stockist when I was a teenager.

 

The yellow celadon vase with gold bamboo painted on it, I bought as part of a job lot of small oriental vases from an auction many years ago. The soapstone lidded jar in the foreground came from the same auction house, but from a different job lot of oriental miniature pieces.

 

Lettice’s black straw hat with yellow trimming and a yellow rose, which sits on the settee is made by Mrs. Denton of Muffin Lodge. It is an artisan miniature made just like a real hat! 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable. Lettice’s lemon yellow purse is also an artisan piece and is made of kid leather which is so soft. It is trimmed with very fine braid and the purse has a clasp made from a piece of earring. It come from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniatures in the United Kingdom. Lettice’s furled Art Deco umbrella is also a 1:12 artisan piece made of silk, acquired through an online stockist on E-Bay.

 

The vases of flowers on the mantle piece and side table are beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium.

 

The stylised Art Deco fire screen is made using thinly laser cut wood, made by Pat’s Miniatures in England.

 

The black Bakelite and silver telephone is a 1:12 miniature of a model introduced around 1919. It is two centimetres wide and two centimetres high. The receiver can be removed from the cradle, and the curling chord does stretch out.

 

Wanetta’s paintings, including the yellow portrait, were made in America by Amber’s Miniatures.

 

The miniature Oriental rug on the floor was made by hand by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney

 

The Georgian style fireplace I have had since I was a teenager and is made from moulded plaster.

 

The striking wallpaper is an art deco design that was very popular during the 1920s.

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Today however we are not at Cavendish Mews. We have travelled east across London, through Bloomsbury, past the Smithfield Meat Markets, beyond the Petticoat Lane Markets* frequented by Lettice’s maid, Edith, through the East End boroughs of Bethnal Green and Bow, and through the 1880s housing development of Upton Park, to East Ham. It is here that we have followed Edith and her beau, grocery delivery boy Frank, to the Premier Super Cinema**, where, just before Christmas, Edith is being treated to her festive season gift from Frank.

 

The pair of lovers stand in the warmth of the cinema’s foyer, which as well as being a welcome place of warmth after the December chill of the journey up the High Street from the East Ham railway station, it is also brightly lit and cheerful. The cinema, renovated the previous year, isn’t called a picture palace for nothing, and no expense has been spared with thick red wall-to-wall carpets covering the floors and brightly coloured up-to-date Art Deco wallpaper covering the walls.

 

“And did Mrs. Boothby’s son like the book you gave him?” Frank asks his sweetheart.

 

Several months ago, Edith met Lettice’s Cockney charwoman*** Mrs. Boothby’s son, a forty-two year old man who is a sweet and gentle giant with the aptitude of a six year old, when Mrs. Boothby sold her a good quality second-hand hand treadle sewing machine. The old Cockney woman found it easier not to mention that she has a son, not because she is ashamed of him, but because not everyone outside of her Poplar neighbourhood would understand her wanting to keep and raise a child with such difficulties. Mrs. Boothby took Edith into her confidence by introducing her to her son, Ken, so aside from Frank, Edith hasn’t told anyone about Ken’s existence, not even her best friend Hilda. Several weeks ago, she bough Ken a copy of Beatrix Potter’s ‘The Tale of Benjamin Bunny’ from Selfridge’s as a Christmas gift because she discovered after meeting him how much he likes rabbits.

 

“Oh yes Frank! He loved it! He had me read it to him twice over when I visited Mrs. Boothby’s house for tea last Sunday. I think Mrs. Boothby was very touched that I should think of Ken at Christmas time. But why shouldn’t I? After all, if it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have a beautiful new sewing machine to whip up frocks on. He’s ever such a sweet soul. No wonder he is known as the gentle giant of Poplar.”

 

“That’s my girl,” Franks says proudly. “Generous to, and thoughtful of others.”

 

“Oh Frank!” Edith blushes at the compliment.

 

“I have to say that you’re looking every inch a lady, like your Miss Chetwynd, Edith,” Frank says as he admires the companion on his arm, dressed smartly in her three-quarter length black winter coat and purple rose and black feather decorated straw hat. “Far too grand for the likes of me.”

 

“Oh nonsense, Frank!” Edith scoffs in reply. “I’m not wearing anything new. My coat came from a Petticoat Lane second-hand clothes stall.” She gathers the hem in her black glove clad hand. “I picked it up dead cheap and remodelled it myself. The hat I decorated with bits and bobs I picked up from Mrs. Minkin’s down in Whitechapel.”

 

“Well, with that fancy new bag of yours,” He points to her snakeskin handbag with the gold chain slung over her wrist. “You look like you could afford to buy every seat in the cinema.”

 

“Oh, get away with you Frank!” Edith playfully slaps his arm with her left hand, before winding her right arm more tightly through his left arm and snuggling closer against his shoulder. “It’s second hand from Petticoat Lane too.” She pauses for a moment before continuing. “Mind you, I did buy it because I really wanted one like Miss Lettice’s.”

 

“That’s my girl, bettering herself all the time.” Frank says proudly.

 

“But not enough to better myself from you, Frank Leadbetter.” she coos softly in return.

 

“I just wish I could have afforded to buy you a better Christmas gift, Edith.”

 

“What?” Edith cries. “A slap up tea at Lyons Corner House**** on Tottenham Court Road, some delicious Gainsborough Dubarry Milk Chocolates*****,” She pats the side of her handbag in which the chocolates sit. “And a trip to the pictures! What more could a girl ask for, for Christmas?”

 

“I’d have liked to have got you something proper though Edith.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like a nice brooch or something.” Frank admits with a disappointed tone in his voice. “A girl like you deserves a nice piece of jewellery from her chap.”

 

“I don’t need any jewellery from you, Frank.” Edith assures him. “You give me all I need.” She gives his arm a gentle squeeze, eliciting a blush from the young man. “I’d much rather you save your pennies than spend them on unnecessary frippery for me.”

 

“It’s not frippery when we’re talking about you, Edith.” Frank mutters.

 

“Yes, it is, when you’re talking about wanting to move away from your current lodging house, Frank. Aren’t you always complaining to me about how it smells of boiled cabbage, and that your landlady who won’t allow any of you to have lady callers even visit and sit in the parlour with her as chaperone?”

 

“You wouldn’t want to sit in Mrs. Chapman’s front parlour, believe me!” Frank assures her with raised eyebrows. “Between the stink of cabbage, the sticky oil cloth on the tea table and the miserly amount of coal she ever puts on the fire, it’s not a welcoming place.”

 

“Well then, Frank Leadbetter! All the better you save your pennies and move to a different house with a nicer landlady who doesn’t cook cabbage, does put coals on the fire, and welcomes visitors.”

 

“I might need a better paying job for that.” Frank admits. “But I’m hoping that Mr. Willison might give me an increase to my wages in the new year. I’ve been doing more for him, ever since Mrs. Willison became poorly after catching pneumonia last month and she’s had to rest at home, and he’s been spending more time at home taking care of her.”

 

“That’d be good, Frank.”

 

“I know! I’ve taken on a lot more duties and been a real help. Mr. Willison even said so not last week.”

 

“Well, I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you, Frank.”

 

“Just think, if I did get an increase in my wages, I could afford to buy you a nice piece of jewellery, Edith.”

 

“Now don’t go spending it before you get it, Frank.” Edith scolds her beau, not unkindly. “Come on. Let’s decide what we’re going to see.”

 

The pair of lovers scan the brightly coloured posters plastered across the walls. Rudolph Valentino looks smoulderingly into the eyes of Nita Naldi as he holds her dramatically in his arms in an advertisement for ‘Blood and Sand’******. Marion Davies looks sombre yet beautifully aristocratic draped in jewels as Mary Tudor in ‘When Knighthood was in Flower’*******. John Bowers looks grimly down upon them as he holds Madge Bellamy to his side in an advertisement for ‘Lorna Doone’********.

 

“Look at this, Frank!” Edith gasps, pointing to a stand upon which is advertised another film.

 

“The Gipsy Cavalier*********,” Frank reads aloud the title printed in red script on the promotional lobby poster. “It looks like a lavish production.” he adds as he scans the images in the poster.

 

“It’s made here in England,” Edith says excitedly as she scans the credit information in fine print at the bottom of the poster. “So it might star Wanetta Ward!”

 

“Didn’t you tell me that she works for Islington Studios**********, Edith, not Vitagraph***********.”

 

“Well, she’s a big star here now, so she may work for several studios. Can we see this, please Frank?”

 

“Well,” Frank replies. “This is your Christmas gift, so of course we can see it.”

 

A short while later, the pair mill about the brightly illuminated foyer along with a handful of other patrons outside the cinema door, waiting for the film currently showing to end. Eventually, the double doors open and with the voluble burble of cheerful chatter, people begin to file out the door in pairs or small groups. Edith and Frank stand aside, next to the board advertising The Gipsy Cavalier to let them pass. Amongst them are two girls around the same age as Edith, one slender with a hard face and angular features in a moss green coat and black cloche hat, and her companion, a dark haired, rather pale, and doughy girl in a dark brown coat and matching cloche. At the sight of Frank and Edith the larger girl comes to a sudden halt, pulling up her thinner friend with whom she has linked her arm, their animated conversation ceasing as the thinner one turns to see what her friend has stopped for.

 

“Frank Leadbetter!” the doughy girl says, her face hardening as she puts her hands featuring pale fingers that look like uncooked sausages on her heavy hips defiantly. “You’ve got some cheek showing your face around here.”

 

“Oh, give over Vi!” Frank says, placing his arms akimbo across his chest in defence of her sharp words.

 

Noticing Edith standing next to Frank, her arm entwined with his, Vi’s dark eyes grow cold as she looks her up and down. “So, this is who you threw me over for, is it? A cook’s assistant not good enough for you? You want some skinny tart who looks better in a skirt and hat than I do, eh?”

 

Edith is taken aback by this strange girl’s rough language and vehemence towards her. Having never been called something so horrible before, she blanches at the insult and tightens her grip around Frank’s arm, too afraid to say anything in her defence.

 

Around them, patrons murmur and mutter disgruntledly, suddenly alerted to the altercation by the girl’s vulgar word cutting through the conviviality and joviality of the theatre foyer like a knife.

 

“You better watch your mouth, Vi.” Frank growls back warningly in a deep voice. “This here is a lady,” He untwines his arm from Edith, but them wraps his arm protectively around her shoulder, pulling her closer to him in a chivalrous gesture. “Which judging by the way you are addressing her, you most definitely are not. Sounds like you’ve been hanging around pub corners a bit too much on your afternoons off, Vi.”

 

“Where I hang round on my afternoons off is none of your business, Frank Leadbetter!” Vi spits back bitterly, her whole body edging forward menacingly.

 

“You’re right there, Vi,” Frank agrees with a snort. “I don’t care what rocks you crawl under. I never promised you anything.”

 

“You’re just saying that, ‘cos she’s here!” Vi acknowledges Edith with a curt nod in her direction and a sneer of revulsion.

 

Edith shrinks further back into Frank, but doesn’t say anything as she wraps her hands around her snakeskin handbag.

 

More murmuring goes on around them as interest in the argument picks up amongst the other people waiting to enter the cinema, an electric undercurrent of excitement filling some, whilst others peer over at the quartet with unveiled interest.

 

“Say what you like, Vi, but you’re the one who wanted to walk out with me.” Frank replies bravely. “I never wanted to step out with you, and I didn’t. Whereas,” He turns his head and looks down with a proud smile at Edith. “This is my girl, and I am stepping out with her.”

 

“You’re a liar Frank Leadbetter!” Vi spits viciously. “I know I meant something to you.”

 

“Only in your mind, Vi.” he recounters.

 

“Come, Vi,” her thin friend mutters, tugging on her arm. Looking both Frank and Edith up and down quickly with a look of disgust, she adds, “He’s not worth it.”

 

Reluctantly, the larger girl reneges and recants, walking away with her friend, their two heads together muttering as they go.

 

“Alright ladies and gents,” Frank announces to those who have been standing around watching his argument with Vi. “The real show is about start.” He looks down at Edith. “Shall we?”

 

Frank escorts Edith through the crowd of chattering cinema goers and they go to their seats.

 

Inside the dimly lit theatre a fug of cigarette smoke fills the auditorium. The place is filled with the faint traces of various perfumes, which mix with the stronger traces of cigarettes, fried food, and body odour. Around them quiet chatter and the occasional burst of a cough resound. It feels cosy and safe. At the front of the theatre, in a pit below the screen, a middle aged woman in an old fashioned Edwardian gown with an equally outmoded upswept hairdo that wet out of fashion before the war plays an upright piano with enthusiasm, dramatically banging out palm court music for the audience before the beginning of the feature.

 

Settling in their plush red velvet seats in the middle of the auditorium, Frank tentatively puts his arm around Edith’s shoulder. “You do know that I was telling the truth back there, don’t you, Edith?” Frank asks nervously. He looks to see Edith’s face, but it is obscured by the feather and flower decorated brim of her black straw hat.

 

“Oh I know you wouldn’t lie to me,” comes her soft reply. “But who was she, Frank?”

 

“Vi,” he sighs. “Vi used to work as a cook’s assistant, well a glorified kitchen maid really, for the house of an earl in Pimlico. I used to do deliveries there for Mr. Willison, and she’d be loitering around the kitchen door, smoking a Woodbine************ waiting for me. She was nice at first. I had fun chatting with her – nothing intimate mind you – just a how do you do and a passing of the day. I sensed she was lonely and perhaps didn’t have many friends amongst the staff of the house. Then Vi took a fancy to me and wanted me to step out with her, but I wouldn’t.”

 

Turning her head towards him, Frank can see tears glistening in Edith’s blue eyes as they gather there. “She said the most horrible thing to me.”

 

“Oh, please don’t let her spoil my Christmas present to you, Edith.” Frank pleads. “She isn’t worth a second thought, much less one of your tears. Honestly!” He pauses for a moment before continuing his story. “Vi grew more and more insistent with her propositions. She made some rather lewd and vulgar suggestions, all unwarranted and as you saw, she can be a bit intimidating. Eventually, it got so uncomfortable for me that I complained to Mr. Willison, and then one day when I went to deliver groceries she wasn’t there anymore. I heard from the house’s hall boy************* that she’d upped and done a flit in the night after some kerfuffle with the cook – not an uncommon thing apparently owing to Vi’s rather fiery temper. I never saw her again until just before.”

 

“Well,” Edith says shakily, dabbing her eyes with a white lace trimmed handkerchief she pulls from the confines of her snakeskin purse. “Thank you for calling me a lady, and for being so chivalrous, Frank. That meant a great deal to me back there.”

 

“Of course I’ll defend you, Edith, and call you a lady, because you are a lady. You’re my lady.” Frank pauses and removes his arm from about Edith before looking down earnestly at her. “That is, if you still want to be my lady.”

 

Edith’s heart melts at the mixture of fear and hope that sculpt the young man’s features in the dim golden light of the picture theatre.

 

“Put your arm back, Frank.” she says softly, with a gentle smile. “Of course I want to be your lady. I know how much courage it took for you to ask me to step out with you. So, if that awfully overbearing woman was so racy as to proposition you, I know you would never have said yes to walking out with her. That’s why I like you, Frank. You aren’t like so many other men. You’re a gentleman, and a gentle man. You’re kind and considerate and unlike so many other men who only want one thing from a girl.” She flushes at the mention of it.

 

“Goodness!” gasps Frank as he returns his arm to drape around Edith’s shoulders. “Thanks awfully, Edith.”

 

“Best of all, Frank, you showed me that I could find love again. After Bert died in the war, and with so many young men our age killed, I never thought I’d be lucky enough to meet someone again.”

 

“Do you mean that, Edith?” Frank breathes. “Truly?”

 

“Yes, of course I do, Frank. I wouldn’t lie to you any more than you would to me. Why do you ask?”

 

“Well, because you’re really the only girl I’ve ever felt this way about, so it’s rather jolly that you should feel the same way about me.” He smiles broadly across at her.

 

“Well, that’s the best Christmas present you could ever give me, Frank. That means more to me than any tea at Lyon’s, or trips to the pictures, or any jewellery that you could give me.”

 

“Thank you Edith.”

 

Edith reaches into her bag and withdraws the box of chocolates Frank gave her at the beginning of the evening when they met outside the Lyon’s Corner House on Tottenham Court Road. Opening it, she holds the box of brightly foil wrapped sweets out to Frank. “Here, have a Dubarry milk chocolate, Frank.”

 

As the lights in the picture theatre start to dim, Frank turns to Edith.

 

“I do love you, you know, Edith.” he whispers.

 

“I know Frank,” she whispers in reply. “I love you too.”

 

Behind them the projector whirrs and suddenly the screen is illuminated in blinding, brilliant white as the pianist in the pit below the screen starts to play the dramatic opening bars to the music to accompany The Gipsy Cavalier.

 

*Petticoat Lane Market is a fashion and clothing market in Spitalfields, London. It consists of two adjacent street markets. Wentworth Street Market and Middlesex Street Market. Originally populated by Huguenots fleeing persecution in France, Spitalfields became a center for weaving, embroidery and dying. From 1882, a wave of Jewish immigrants fleeing persecution in eastern Europe settled in the area and Spitalfields then became the true heart of the clothing manufacturing district of London. 'The Lane' was always renowned for the 'patter' and showmanship of the market traders. It was also known for being a haven for the unsavoury characters of London’s underworld and was rife with prostitutes during the late Victorian era. Unpopular with the authorities, as it was largely unregulated and in some sense illegal, as recently as the 1930s, police cars and fire engines were driven down ‘The Lane’, with alarm bells ringing, to disrupt the market.

 

**The 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.

 

***A charwoman, chargirl, or char, jokingly charlady, is an old-fashioned occupational term, referring to a paid part-time worker who comes into a house or other building to clean it for a few hours of a day or week, as opposed to a maid, who usually lives as part of the household within the structure of domestic service. In the 1920s, chars usually did all the hard graft work that paid live-in domestics would no longer do as they looked for excuses to leave domestic service for better paying work in offices and factories.

 

****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.

 

*****Although packaged in a purple of the box the same colour as Cadbury’s trademark purple, Gainsborough’s Dubarry range of milk chocolates were not marketed as Cadbury’s, but rather Gainsborough’s, paying tribute to the market town of Gainsborough in Lincolnshire, where Rose Bothers manufactured and supplied machines that wrapped chocolates. The Rose Brothers are the people for whom Cadbury’s Roses chocolates are named.

 

******Blood and Sand is a 1922 American silent drama film produced by Paramount Pictures, directed by Fred Niblo and starring Rudolph Valentino, Lila Lee, and Nita Naldi. It was based on the 1909 Spanish novel Sangre y arena (Blood and Sand) by Vicente Blasco Ibáñez and the play version of the book by Thomas Cushing.

 

*******When Knighthood Was in Flower is a 1922 American silent historical film about the romantic travails of Mary Tudor directed by Robert G. Vignola, based on the novel by Charles Major and play by Paul Kester. The film was produced by William Randolph Hearst (through his Cosmopolitan Productions) for Marion Davies and distributed by Paramount Pictures. This was William Powell's second film.

 

********Lorna Doone is a 1922 American silent drama film based upon Richard Doddridge Blackmore's 1869 novel of the same name. Directed by French director Maurice Tourneur in the United States, the film starred Madge Bellamy and John Bowers.

 

*********A Gipsy Cavalier is a 1922 British historical drama film directed by J. Stuart Blackton and starring Georges Carpentier, Flora le Breton and Rex McDougall. It was one of three films made in Britain during the early 1920s by the British-born American founder of Vitagraph Studios. All involved elaborate sets, costumes and extras and set an example of showmanship to emerging British filmmakers. It was adapted from the novel My Lady April by John Overton.

 

**********Islington Studios, often known as Gainsborough Studios, were a British film studio located on the south bank of the Regent's Canal, in Poole Street, Hoxton in Shoreditch, London which began operation in 1919. By 1920 they had a two stage studio. It is here that Alfred Hitchcock made his entrée into films.

 

***********Vitagraph Studios, also known as the Vitagraph Company of America, was a United States motion picture studio. It was founded by J. Stuart Blackton and Albert E. Smith in 1897 in Brooklyn, New York, as the American Vitagraph Company. By 1907, it was the most prolific American film production company, producing many famous silent films.[1] It was bought by Warner Bros. in 1925.

 

************Woodbine was a brand of cigarettes launched in 1888 by W.D. and H.O. Wills. Noted for its strong unfiltered cigarettes, the brand was cheap and popular in the early Twentieth Century with the working-class, as well as with army men during the Great War and the Second World War. In the Great War, the British Army chaplain Geoffrey Studdert Kennedy MC was affectionately nicknamed "Woodbine Willie" by troops on the Western Front to whom he handed out cigarettes along with Bibles and spiritual comfort. The intricate nineteenth century packet design remained current until the mid 1960s. Although Wills changed the packaging, Woodbine sales continued to drop. In common parlance, the unfiltered high-tar Woodbine was one of the brands collectively known as "gaspers" until about 1950, because new smokers found their harsh smoke difficult to inhale. A filtered version was launched in the United Kingdom in 1948, but was discontinued in 1988. Woodbines came in four different packs: five cigarettes, ten cigarettes, twenty cigarettes and fifty cigarettes.

 

*************The hall boy or hallboy was a the lowest ranked male domestic position held by a young male worker on the staff of a great house, usually a young teenager. The name derives from the fact that the hall boy usually slept in the servants' hall.

 

This beautiful Art Deco cinema interior is not all it appears to be, for it is made up entirely with pieces from my miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The posters around the cinema walls were all sourced by me and reproduced in high quality colour and print. “The Gipsy Cavalier” board is the only one I have created myself rather than printing an existing poster because there are no posters that I can find in the public domain for it. However all the images used in it, including the film reel images to either side of the main photo are all stills from the film, and the central image is a publicity shot for the film.

 

The chrome Art Deco smoker’s stand is a Shackman miniature from the 1970s and is quite rare. I bought it from a dealer in America via E-Bay.

 

The easel, table , vase of flowers and two flounced red velvet chairs all come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House in the United Kingdom.

 

The geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, who did so in the hope that I would find a use for it in the “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

 

The thick and bright red carpet is in fact a placemat which I appropriated in the late 1970s to use as a carpet for my growing miniatures collection. Luckily I was never asked to return it, and the rest of the set is long gone!

Comment une bibliothèque, un théâtre et d'autres partenaires culturels peuvent-ils cohabiter avec succès sous un même toit ? D'abord en abattant les cloisons...et deuxièmement, en combinant l’architecture de l’espace public avec le design de la programmabilité. Le résultat s’appelle Hub Kerkrade : non seulement un centre de ressources, mais aussi un vivier de connaissances, d’informations, d’éducation et de divertissement.

Kerkrade est une ville située dans la province la plus méridionale des Pays-Bas, à proximité de l'Allemagne. Le Hub Kerkrade, situé dans un ancien centre commercial, dispose d'une surface de pas moins de 5 000 m2, qui abrite le théâtre, la bibliothèque, divers partenaires culturels et l'école de musique de Kerkrade située à proximité. Cet emplacement fait partie du centre-ville revitalisé. Le design du Hub est une nouvelle co-création du guide créatif international et architecte Aat Vos (concept de design, stratégie, direction créative) en collaboration avec Mars Interior Designers (design, ingénierie).

A l'origine, la bibliothèque occupait la moitié de la surface du bâtiment et était séparée du théâtre par un mur. La suppression des cloisons a permis de créer plus d'espace, de lumière et une nouvelle idée pour le foyer. Cet espace pratiquement toujours vide s'est transformé en un espace de vie partagé multifonctionnel où l'on peut travailler, étudier ou se rencontrer. Le point de mire de cet espace se trouve dans le foyer : l'escalier du théâtre est équipé d'une belle rampe et d'un tapis rose rougeâtre, recouvert des deux côtés d'acier bleu. Le bar du foyer a été réalisé en cuivre et est désormais posé sur un fond de briques brutes, associé à un écran LED et à un caisson lumineux. Le « break drinks cabinet » vole la vedette, tant par sa taille que par l'éclairage changeant de couleur.

 

How can a library, a theatre and other cultural partners successfully coexist under one roof? Firstly by breaking down the walls...and secondly, by combining the architecture of public space with the design of programmability. The result is called Hub Kerkrade: not only a resource centre, but also a hotbed of knowledge, information, education and entertainment.

Kerkrade is a city in the southernmost province of the Netherlands, close to Germany. Hub Kerkrade, located in a former shopping centre, has a surface area of ​​no less than 5,000 m2, which houses the theatre, the library, various cultural partners and the nearby Kerkrade Music School. This location is part of the revitalised city centre. The design of the Hub is a new co-creation of international creative guide and architect Aat Vos (design concept, strategy, creative direction) in collaboration with Mars Interior Designers (design, engineering).

Originally, the library occupied half of the building's surface and was separated from the theatre by a wall. The removal of the partitions created more space, light and a new idea for the foyer. This almost always empty space has been transformed into a multifunctional shared living space where people can work, study or meet. The focal point of this space is in the foyer: the theatre staircase is equipped with a beautiful banister and a reddish-pink carpet, covered on both sides with blue steel. The foyer bar was made of copper and is now set against a background of raw bricks, combined with an LED screen and a light box. The "break drinks cabinet" steals the show, both in terms of its size and the colour-changing lighting.

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Today however, we have headed north-west from Cavendish Mews, across Marylebone, past Regent’s Park, the London Zoo and Lords Cricket Ground to the affluent and leafy residential streets of nearby St. John’s Wood. It is here that Lettice’s Embassy Club coterie friends Minnie Palmerston and her husband Charles reside in a neatly painted two storey early Victorian townhouse on Acacia Road that formerly belonged to Charles Palmerston’s maternal grandparents, Lord and Lady Arundel.

 

Having taken her future sister-in-law, Arabella Tyrwhitt, to her old childhood chum and best friend Gerald Bruton’s couturier in Grosvenor Street Soho for her initial wedding dress consultation, Lettice has left the two together to discuss designs whilst she visits Minnie in St John’s Wood. Minnie, a highly strung socialite, has redecorated her dining room in a style not to her husband’s taste, or so she was told by Minnie over a luncheon Lettice hosted for Arabella last week. Known for her melodrama, Lettice quietly ponders whether it really is as awful as Minnie implies as she pays the taxi driver the fare from Soho to St John’s Wood and alights the blue vehicle onto the street.

 

The day is bright and sunny, and the street is quiet with only the occasional bark of a dog and the distant rumble of traffic from busy Finchley Road in the distance as Lettice strides across the road and walks up the eight steps that lead up to Minnie’s black painted front door. She depresses the doorbell which echoes through the long hallway inside and waits. Moments later, there is the thud of Minnie’s hurried footsteps as she flings open the door dramatically.

 

“Lettice darling!” she cries, standing in the doorway in a beautiful may green day dress which compliments her red hair and green eyes, with cascades of green and black bugle beads tumbling down the front. “Come in! Come in!” she beckons her friend with enthusiastic waves which make the green, black and gold bangles on her wrist jangle noisily.

 

“Minnie.” Lettice leans in for a whispery kiss on the cheek as she steps across the threshold and follows Minnie’s indications and steps into a drawing room off the hallway, the room filled with diffused light from a large twelve pane window that looks out onto the street. Looking around her, she quickly takes in the overstuffed cream satin settees, nests of occasional tables, clusters of pictures in gilt frames in every conceivable space on the William Morris style papered walls and the potted parlour palms. “Oh yes,” she remarks as she removes her green gloves. “I do see what you mean. Very Edwardian.”

 

“Isn’t it ghastly, Lettice darling?” Minnie asks as she steps into the drawing room. “Here let me take your, umbrella, coat and hat.” She helps her friend shrug off her forest green coat and takes her rather artistic beret with its long tassel. “I think Lady Arundel could walk in here and not find a thing out of place!”

 

“It could be worse,” Lettice remarks, looking up at the crystal chandelier suspended from the ceiling high above. “It could be decorated in high Victorian style and lit with gasoliers*.”

 

“True darling.” Minnie calls from the hallway where she hangs up Lettice’s things on a heavy Victorian coatrack. “But you have yet to see my dining room faux pas.”

 

“Now Minnie, no matter what I say, I want no histrionics today like we had over luncheon last week,” Lettice chides her friend with a wagging finger. “Poor Bella didn’t know where to look.”

 

“Oh I am sorry.” Minnie apologises. “Coming from the country, she probably isn’t used to our London ways.”

 

“Your emotional outbursts have nothing whatsoever to do with London ways, so don’t go foisting it off.” Lettice replies, cocking one of her delicately plucked eyebrows at her friend.

 

“You sound just like Gladys.” Minnie says.

 

“Well, I hope I’m not as shrill sounding as her,” Lettice replies with a chuckle.

 

“And how is the beautiful bride-to-be?”

 

“Happily ensconced with Gerald in his Soho atelier, no doubt talking about all the finer details of the dream wedding frock I have already heard about from dear Bella.”

 

“She seems quite lovely, Lettice darling.”

 

“Oh, I adore Bella.” Lettice agrees with a wave of her hand. “Given we grew up running in and out of each other’s houses, living on neighbouring properties, it was inevitable that she would marry one of my brothers, or Lally or I marry one of Bella’s brothers. I’m just glad that it wasn’t the latter. All Bella’s brothers, whilst charming, take after their grandfather, and he was not a handsome man. Bella has her mother’s delicate and pretty genes and she and Leslie are well suited. They both love the country, and as you know from luncheon last week, Bella likes the county social round. As Pater says, Bella will one day make a wonderful chatelaine of Glynes**, supporting Leslie as a dutiful wife, hosting important county social functions like the Hunt Ball, opening fetes and awarding prizes at cattle shows.”

 

“How does Lady Sadie feel about her usurper?”

 

“Oh Mater loves Bella as much as we all do.” Lettice replies breezily. “Of course, Pater doesn’t dare express his appreciation quite so volubly in front of Mater, but I’m sure she is silently thinking the same thing, not that she would ever share that with any of us. No, the problem will be if Pater decides to pop his mortal clogs before she does. I don’t know how happy she will be to hand over the mantle of lady of the manor to her daughter-in-law, even if she does love her.”

 

“Well, let’s hope we don’t have to worry about that for a good while yet.” Minnie says soothingly.

 

“Indeed yes!” agrees Lettice. “Now, show me this dread dining room of yours, Minnie darling. I’m famished, and I’m intrigued to see just how much of a faux pas it really is.”

 

“Come right this way, interior decorator to all the great and good of this great country of ours,” Minnie says rather grandly as she walks towards a door that leads from the drawing room to the next room. Suddenly she pauses, clasping the brass doorknob in her hand and turns back to Lettice who has trailed behind her. “Prepare yourself my dear for l’horreur!” And she flings the door open.

 

Minnie and Lettice walk into the townhouse’s dining room, which like the adjoining drawing room has a high ceiling. Lettice is surprised that after the grandeur of the drawing room, it’s a much smaller room, perhaps more suited for intimate dining rather than a large banquet. She glances around and quickly takes in the mixture of old and new. An Edwardian dining setting in Queen Anne style fills the majority of the space, whilst a late Victorian sideboard and spare carver chairs press against the wall. To either side of the new Art Deco gas fireplace stand two modern stands on which sit rather old fashioned urns. Modernist paintings in bold colours hang on the walls, but Lettice can barely see them for the bold wallpaper of red poppies against a black background with green and white geometric patterns.

 

“Oh I see.” Lettice remarks, neither enthusiastically nor critically, but in a rather neutral way.

 

Lettice walks around the dining table on which stands a Georgian Revival tea set with steam snaking from the spot of the pot, a small carafe of water and glassware, crockery and cutlery for two at the head of the table. She stands before the Streamline Moderne fireplace surround and runs an elegant hand over one of the bold red blooms, feeling the slightly raised pattern. She sighs as she contemplates what she sees.

 

“Do you think it looks like something out of Maida Vale, Lettice darling?” Minnie asks hesitantly.

 

For a moment, Lettice doesn’t answer as she traces one of the green lines towards the gilt edge of a frame holding a painting of a tiger. “Tyger Tyger burning bright***,” she murmurs the beginning of the William Blake poem.

 

“Yes,” Minnie acknowledges her friend with a sigh of pleasure. “He’s rather glorious, isn’t he?”

 

“He is,” Lettice agrees. “However his gloriousness is diminished somewhat by the wallpaper which draws away attention from him, and the red fox.” She points to a larger canvas hanging over the sideboard.

 

“So you do think it’s middle-class Maida Vale then.” Minnie pronounces in a downhearted fashion.

 

“No, I don’t.” Lettice clarifies, turning around and placing a comforting hand on the slumped left shoulder of her friend. “And I think it was very unkind of Charles to say so. The wallpaper is beautiful, Minnie. It just doesn’t suit this room.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well, this is quite an intimate room: taller with these high ceilings, rather than wide. This wallpaper would suit a longer room with low ceilings, where expanses of this pattern could be exposed uninterrupted.”

 

“Like a mansion flat?”

 

“Exactly, Minnie! I did something similar for the moving picture actress, Wanetta Ward last year. She had a long, exposed wall and the bold pattern I used worked beautifully. And this wallpaer does nothing to show off yours and Charles’ beautiful paintings. It detracts rather than enhances. The paintings and the wallpaper vie for attention. Think about the National Gallery, or the Tate Gallery****. When you see pictures hanging on the wall, what do you notice about the surrounding to the painting?”

 

Minnie thinks for a moment, screwing up her pert nose with its dusting of freckles. “Well, I can’t say I’ve ever actually noticed the walls, Lettice darling.”

 

“Correct again, Minnie. No-one thinks about the walls because you’re not meant to. Your focus is meant to be on the paintings.”

 

“So you think I should strip the walls and paint them? Is that what you’re saying?”

 

“Well, you could, Minnie.” Lettice replies. “Or you could paint the walls and decorate the upper edge with a nice frieze paper.”

 

“Then it really would look like Maida Vale.” Minnie argues. “Only people who can’t afford wallpaper get friezes hung.”

 

Lettice considers her friend’s remark for a moment. “Mmm… yes, you’re quite right Minnie. Well, Jeffrey and Company***** do stock a range of beautiful papers in vibrant colours with pattern embossed into them. They look very luxurious.”

 

“Oh!” Minnie clasps her hands in delight. “I do like the sound of that! What colour would suit this room do you think?”

 

“Oh I should imagine a nice warm red or orange to go with this.” Lettice taps the top of the tiled fireplace surround. “And that colour range would also compliment your polished floors.”

 

“And I could get black japanned furniture like you, Lettice darling! I do like your chairs.”

 

“Oh no.” Lettice shakes her head. “Black japanned furniture is fine, but not my chairs. They are far too low for this room. You need an equivalent high backed chair.” She reaches out and pats one of the dining chairs. “Lady Arundel chose these well as they echo the height of the room. Perhaps if you had something high backed padded with a complimentary fabric to the paper: say red or orange.”

 

“Oh Lettice you are so clever!” enthuses Minnie. “When can you start.”

 

“Don’t you want to ask Charles before you go spending his money on redecorating, Minnie?” Lettice laughs. “Surely he’ll want a say.”

 

“Oh Charles told me today when I reminded him that you were coming for luncheon before he left for the office, that he’ll happily pay for anything you recommend, or better yet your services. So you don’t need to worry on that account.”

 

“Well, I would have to finish Dickie and Margot’s.” Lettice tempers.

 

“Oh, of course.” Minnie agrees.

 

“Well, I don’t have another redecorating assignment after them, so let me contemplate it.”

 

“I’ll go and get luncheon whilst you contemplate.” Minnie exclaims with a clap of her hands before scuttling away through a second door to the left of the fireplace.

 

With her exuberant friend gone, Lettice looks around the dining room, contemplating what she has suggested, picturing what embossed wallpaper in a rich red or vibrant orange would look like as a backdrop for the paintings. “Pity.” she muses as she again runs her hands over the stylised poppies in the pattern on the wall. Turning around she looks across the room. “Sorry Lady Arundel,” she remarks, tapping the top of the nearest dining chair again. “But it looks like your granddaughter-in-law wants to modernise.

 

“I’m afraid it’s Cook’s afternoon off today,” Minnie says apologetically as she walks back through the door through which she went, carrying a tray of tomato, ham and cucumber sandwiches. “So we’ll have to settle for these.” Looking down at the plate of appetising sandwich triangles as she places them on the dining table’s surface she adds. “I do hope she remembered not to make tongue****** ones. She should remember that I can’t stand cold tongue.”

 

Lettice peers at the fillings of bright red tomato, vivid green cucumber, and pink ham. “I think we’ll be safe.”

 

“Well, there’s half a trifle left over for dessert just in case they aren’t nice.” Minnie adds hopefully.

 

Lettice is suddenly struck by something. “Minnie?” she asks. “Minnie, why are you carrying the tray? And come to think of it, why did you answer the door? Where is Gladys?”

 

Minnie blushes, her pale skin and smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose reddening. “She handed in her immediate notice the week before last.”

 

“Oh no! Not another one Minnie?”

 

“She said she couldn’t work for a woman who had such histrionics as I do, and she’s gone back to Manchester.”

 

“Oh Minnie!” Lettice shakes her head dolefully.

 

“See! I told you, you sounded like Gladys, Lettice. I’ve been getting by with the tweeny*******, but Cook grumbles, so I can’t keep pinching her. That’s why I’m so grateful you gave me that telephone number for that domestic employment agency in Westminster. I’ve a new maid starting next week. Her name’s Siobhan, so I figured that she can’t complain about my histrionics as she’d be used to them, being Irish.”

 

“Well, let’s hope so Minnie.” Lettice chuckles as she pulls out her dining chair and takes her seat. “I can’t keep up with the revolving door of maids that come in and out of this house. How long have you been here for now?”

 

“Seven months or thereabout.” Minnie replies vaguely as she takes her own seat in the chair at the head of the dining table.

 

“And how many maids have you had in that time?”

 

“Nine.” Minnie replies with a guilty gulp.

 

“No wonder Charles feels his club is better suited to entertain prospective business associates.” Lettice shakes her head disapprovingly. “A tweeny waiting table.”

 

“Well hopefully, with Siobhan starting next week, and you agreeing to redecorate my dining room faux pas,” She looks around the room with glittering, excited eyes, as she imagines the possibilities. “Charles will be happy to start entertaining here.” She pauses and thinks for a moment. “You will won’t you?”

 

“Will I what, Minnie?”

 

“You will redecorate my dining room, won’t you?”

 

Lettice reaches around Minnie’s teacup and squeezes her friend’s hand comfortingly. “Of course I will. I’ll come up with some ideas of what I think might suit this room and then I’ll show you and Charles. Charles has to have some input, even if he has told you that you that I have carte blanche when it comes to redecorating.”

 

*A gasolier is a chandelier with gas burners rather than light bulbs or candles.

 

**Glynes is the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie.

 

***”The Tyger” is a poem by English poet William Blake, published in 1794 as part of his “Songs of Experience” collection and rising to prominence in the romantic period of the mid Nineteenth Century. The poem explores and questions Christian religious paradigms prevalent in late 18th century and early 19th century England, discussing God's intention and motivation for creating both the tiger and the lamb. Tiger is written as Tyger in the poem as William Blake favoured old English spellings.

  

****In 1892 the site of a former prison, the Millbank Penitentiary, was chosen for the new National Gallery of British Art, which would be under the Directorship of the National Gallery at Trafalgar Square. The prison, used as the departure point for sending convicts to Australia, had been demolished in 1890. Sidney R.J. Smith was chosen as the architect for the new gallery. His design is the core building that we see today, a grand porticoed entranceway and central dome which resembles a temple. The statue of Britannia with a lion and a unicorn on top of the pediment at the Millbank entrance emphasised its function as a gallery of British art. The gallery opened its doors to the public in 1897, displaying 245 works in eight rooms from British artists dating back to 1790. In 1932, the gallery officially adopted the name Tate Gallery, by which it had popularly been known as since its opening. In 1937, the new Duveen Sculpture Galleries opened. Funded by Lord Duveen and designed by John Russell Pope, Romaine-Walker and Gilbert Jenkins, these two 300 feet long barrel-vaulted galleries were the first public galleries in England designed specifically for the display of sculpture. By this point, electric lighting had also been installed in all the rooms enabling the gallery to stay open until 5pm whatever the weather. In 1955, Tate Gallery became wholly independent from the National Gallery.

  

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

  

******Beef tongue (also known as neat's tongue or ox tongue) is a cut of beef made of the tongue of a cow. It can be boiled, pickled, roasted or braised in sauce. It is found in many national cuisines, and is used for taco fillings in Mexico and for open-faced sandwiches in the United States.

 

*******A tweeny is a between maid, who works in the kitchen as well as above stairs, assisting at least two other members of a domestic staff.

 

This rather bright dining room is perhaps a little different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of pieces from my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection, some pieces from my own childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The Queen Anne dining table, chairs and sideboard were all given to me as birthday and Christmas presents when I was a child.

 

The three prong Art Deco style candelabra in the sideboard is an artisan piece made of sterling silver. Although unsigned, the piece was made in England by an unknown artist. The vase of flowers to the left of the candelabra is beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium. The carafe to the right of the candelabra is another artisan piece made of hand spun glass. I acquired it as a teenager from a high street dollhouse stockist.

 

The ornately hand painted ginger jar is one of a pair and comes from Melody Jane Dollhouse Suppliers in Britain. The tall stand on which the ginger jar stands was made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.

 

The paintings on the walls are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States. The stylised floral and geometric shape Art Deco wallpaper is a real Art Deco design which I have sourced and had printed in high quality onto A3 sheets of paper.

 

On the dining table the tray of sandwiches are made of polymer clay. Made in England by hand by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight they are very realistic with even the bread slices having a bread like consistency look. 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 water carafe came from the same high street stockist as the carafe on the sideboard. The Art Deco dinner set is part of a much larger set I acquired from a dollhouse suppliers in Shanghai. The Georgian Revival silver tea set on its tray I acquired from Smallskale Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The Streamline Moderne pottery tile fireplace surround I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in the United Kingdom.

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Today we are in Lettice’s chic, dining room, which stands adjunct to her equally stylish drawing room. She has decorated it in a restrained Art Deco style with a smattering of antique pieces. It is also a place where she has showcased some prized pieces from the Portman Gallery in Soho including paintings, her silver drinks set and her beloved statue of the ‘Modern Woman’ who presides over the proceedings from the sideboard.

 

“Luncheon is served, Miss.” Edith, Lettice’s maid, announces in a brave voice, disguising her nerves cooking for Lettice’s father the Sixth Viscount of Wrexham as she drops a respectful curtsey on the threshold between the dining room and the drawing room.

 

“What’s that?” Viscount Wrexham pipes as he sits up in the Art Deco tub chair by the fire that he has been comfortably installed in for the last hour and a half.

 

“Luncheon, Pappa.” Lettice replies. “Thank you, Edith.”

 

“Yes Miss.” Edith replies. She bobs another quick curtsey and wastes no time scurrying back through the green baize door into the relative safety of the kitchen.

 

“Shall we go through, Pappa?” Lettice asks with a happy smile and an indicating gesture.

 

The Viscount and his daughter stand up and stroll into the dining room, leaving their empty aperitif glasses on the low coffee table. Lettice takes her place as hostess at the head of the table, whilst her father takes his place to her left.

 

“What’s this?” the Viscount burbles discontentedly as he looks across the black japanned Art Deco table.

 

“It looks like luncheon to me, Pappa.” Lettice replies sweetly, aware that her answer will irritate her father. “Edith’s roast chicken. How delicious.”

 

“I can see that Lettice.” Viscount Wrexham growls. “Don’t be obtuse!”

 

“Then be more specific, Pappa.”

 

“To be more specific. Why did that lazy girl just leave it in the middle of the table. Girl! Girl!” he bellows towards the door. “Come here, girl!”

 

“Pappa!” Lettice exclaims.

 

Edith hurries back through the door with a harried look on her face. “Yes, Your Lordship?” She makes a quick bob curtsey and gazes down at her fingers folded neatly in front of her.

 

The Viscount glares firstly at her, then turns silently to glare at the food causing offence on the table.

 

“Thank you Edith,” Lettice says apologetically in a soothing tone. “His Lordship was mistaken. You may return to your duties.”

 

“What? I…” the older man splutters, turning his offended gaze to his daughter.

 

“Pappa.” Lettice places her elegant hand with its manicured nails over her father’s bigger hand and waits until Edith has slipped back through the green baize door like a shadow. “Papa. You’re in London now, not in Wiltshire: in my flat, not in Glynes*. This is luncheon, à la London. And in London, in my flat, we serve ourselves luncheon on informal occasions. Would you carve?” She proffers the carving cutlery to her disgruntled father.

 

“Well, I suppose someone must, since you see fit to deprive us of a butler,” he mutters.

 

“Pappa, look around you. I live in a flat, not a mansion. I don’t need a butler. Edith does very well as a cook and maid-of-all-work. And I’d like to keep her, so please stop terrorising her by bellowing at her.”

 

“What about for a dinner party! Don’t tell me you insult your guests as you do your poor Father by forcing them to serve themselves. You’ll never have a single client if you do.”

 

“No Pappa,” Lettice sighs in an exasperated fashion. “Edith can wait table as good as any butler.”

 

“Ptah! What nonsense! A girl waiting table. It’s like the war all over again.”

 

“Or,” Lettice speaks over her father forcefully to prevent a tirade coming from his lips. “If needs be, I hire extra staff from a domestic agency in Westminster Mamma put me in touch with. It’s the same agency she uses when you both come up to London from Glynes.” She spoons some boiled vegetables onto her plate next to the piece of roast chicken her father placed on it. “Thinking of which, it was lovely of Mamma to send up some orange roses from Glynes.”

 

“Yes, your Mother has done particularly well with the roses in the greenhouses at Glynes this year. They have protected the blooms from the Wiltshire cold and provided a profusion of flowers.”

 

“They are beautiful.” Lettice smiles as she looks at the fiery orange blooms in the tall cut crystal vase on the table before her.

 

“Well, your Mother and I both agree that this London flat of yours, like so much of London, lacks colour. It’s all black and white, just like those Bioscopes** you young people so adore.”

 

“Nonsense Pappa! My flat has lots of colour. Just look at the art on my walls.”

 

“Finger paintings!” he snorts derisively as he takes a bite of his chicken. “Your Mother and I agree about that too. Not to mention,” the Viscount pauses, deposits his cutlery onto his plate and turns in his seat to look behind him at the statue of the bronze woman reclining, yet gazing straight at him with a steely gaze. “Ahem.”

 

“It’s called modern art, Pappa. And she is divine: the embodiment of the New Woman in bronze. Anyway, thankfully my clients happen to like my choice of ‘finger paintings’ and modern sculpture from the Portland Gallery.”

 

“Aah, yes well,” the Viscount clears his throat and dabs the edges of his mouth with his blue linen napkin. “Thinking of clients. That brings me to the purpose of my visit.”

 

“Of course. There has to be a reason beyond visiting your beloved youngest daughter just to see to her welfare.”

 

“Now, don’t be like that Lettice.” He wags a finger admonishingly at her. “Many is the time I’ve come up to town just to have the pleasure of your company over luncheon at Claridge’s. No. No, your Mother, heard from… a friend, ahem.” The older man clears his throat awkwardly. “That you designed some interiors for the wife of that banker, Hatchett: the chorus girl.”

 

Lettice purposefully lowers her fork. Picking up her glass of red wine she replies, “I did Pappa. What of it?”

 

“Oh Lettice! Your poor mother and I were hoping that it was just a rumour.”

 

“Well why shouldn’t I design interiors for her? I’m an interior designer and she needed some rooms redesigning.”

 

“Lettice! You know perfectly well why. I shouldn’t have to spell it out for you. You aren’t a child anymore. You know your position in society. Be an interior designer by all means, but at least stick to your own class and be a society interior designer, my dear.”

 

“That doesn’t pay the bills, Pappa.”

 

The Viscount looks askance at his daughter. “For shame, Lettice!”

 

“Pappa, I’m a businesswoman now. I must talk about money. At least the Hatchett’s paid for my services.”

 

“You’re of age now Lettice, and I pay you a damn good allowance that should more than cover your expenses, and maybe even extend to getting a decent butler rather than a maid. Frocks, even the ones you like, can’t be that costly, surely.”

 

“Pappa, it’s not so much about the money. It’s about the success of my business. I want to do something with my life. I can’t be a successful interior designer if I provide my services at no fee. I’d be a sham!”

 

“Well what about that cousin of your Mother’s in Fitzroy Square? Cousin Gwendolyn wasn’t it?”

 

“Pappa, the Duchess of Whitby still hasn’t paid me a third of what she owes for the redesign of her small reception room. I’ve sent her two reminders which she has politely ignored. She is never at home when I visit, and she is evasive to say the least over the telephone.”

 

“Oh.” the Viscount looks down at his plate. “Well… well, I’ll talk to your Mother about talking to Gwendolyn about that.”

 

“It would be even better if you did Pappa.” Lettice raises her glass of claret. “She is more inclined to listen to you, as head of the Chetwynd household.”

 

“Oh, very well Lettice.” he sighs and clinks glasses with his daughter.

 

“Thank you Pappa!” She leans over and pecks her father on the cheek, sending a flush of colour across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. “You are a brick!”

 

The two continue to eat their luncheon from Lettice’s gilt blue and white Royal Doulton dinner set in an avant garde Art Deco pattern. For a short while the companionable silence is only broken by the sound of cutlery against crockery.

 

“Your Mother is right. I never could say no to you, Lettice.”

 

“You have to have a favourite Pappa.” Lettice smiles happily. “Why shouldn’t it be me?”

 

“It should be Leslie, as my son and heir.”

 

“Oh, he’s Mamma’s favourite.” Lettice flaps the remark away with a flick of her left hand. “We all know that. We’ve always known that.”

 

“Well Lettice, as I said before. Just remember your position in society. Your Mother and I, we’re prepared to tolerate your wish to dabble in this business folly of yours before you settle down and get married, but please be a society interior designer and design for your own class. Be discerning with your choice of clients. Hmmm?” He smiles hopefully at his daughter.

 

“We’ll see Pappa.” Lettice replies, a smile dancing on her lips as she sips her glass of claret.

 

*Glynes is the home of the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire.

 

** The Bioscope is an early term for what became by the mid 1920s a motion-picture theatre or cinema. The Bioscope was a hand-driven projector with a low-watt bulb placed behind the reel. Originally a Bioscope show was a music hall and fairground attraction. Mary Pickford was the original Bioscope Girl, so named because of the Bioscope films she starred in during the Great War and early 1920s.

 

Lettice’s fashionable Mayfair flat dining room is perhaps a little different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures I have collected over time.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

 

The roast chicken, tureens of vegetables and the gravy boat of gravy on the table all came from an English stockist of 1:12 artisan miniatures whom I found on E-Bay. They all look almost good enough to eat. The 1:12 artisan bottle of Pinot Noir is made from glass and the winery on the label is a real winery in France. The bottle was made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The wine and water glasses, carafe of water and the vase are all 1:12 artisan miniatures too, made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in England. The vase is especially fine. If you look closely you will see that it is decorated with lattices of fine threads of glass to give it a faceted Art Deco look. The orange roses in the vase were also hand made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. The Art Deco dinner set is part of a much larger set I acquired from a dollhouse suppliers in Shanghai.

 

In the background on the console table stand some of Lettice’s precious artisan purchases from the Portland Gallery in Soho. The pair of candelabra at either end of the sideboard are sterling silver artisan miniatures from Karen Ladybug Miniatures in England. The silver drinks set, made by artisan Clare Bell at the Clare Bell Brass Works in Maine, in the United States. Each goblet is only one centimetre in height and the decanter at the far end is two- and three-quarter centimetres with the stopper inserted. Lettice’s Art Deco ‘Modern Woman’ figure is actually called ‘Christianne’ and was made and hand painted by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. ‘Christianne’ is based on several Art Deco statues and is typical of bronze and marble statues created at that time for the luxury market in the buoyant 1920s.

 

Lettice’s dining room is furnished with Town Hall Miniatures furniture, which is renown for their quality. The only exceptions to the room is the Chippendale chinoiserie carver chair and the Art Deco cocktail cabinet (the edge of which just visible on the far right-hand side of the photo) which were made by J.B.M. Miniatures.

 

The carpet beneath the furniture is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug hand made by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney, Australia. The paintings on the walls are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States. The geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Today we are in the very modern and up-to-date 1920s kitchen of Lettice’s flat: Edith her maid’s preserve, where she is taking possession of her latest order from Willison’s Grocers, delivered by Mr. Willison’s boy, Frank Leadbeater.

 

“Tinned apricots, tinned pears,” Edith marks off the items written on her list that she telephoned through to Mr. Willison’s on Thursday morning. “Plum jam, Bovril.” She places a tick next to each with a crisp mark from her pencil, the sound of it scratching across the page’s surface. “Tinned cherries. Where are the tinned cherries, Frank?” Edith asks anxiously.

 

“They’re right here, Miss Edith,” he remarks, delving noisly into the box of groceries between the flour and Lyon’s tea, withdrawing a small tin of My Lady tinned cherries. “Just as you ordered.”

 

“Oh thank goodness!” Edith sighs, placing a hand on her chest, from which she releases the breath she has been holding.

 

“Everything is just as you ordered and selected and packed with extra care by yours truly!” Frank pats himself with his cycling cap on the chest as he puffs it out proudly through his rust coloured knitted vest.

 

“Oh, get on with you, Frank!” Edith scoffs with a mild chuckle, glancing up at his charming, if slightly gormless grin before continuing her inventory of items.

 

“It’s true Miss Edith!” he replies, holding his cap against his heart rather melodramatically. “I swear. I packed them up myself. As his most trusted member of staff, Mr. Willison lets me do things like that as well as the deliveries.”

 

“I thought you were the only person he employed, Frank.” Edith remarks without looking up from her list ticking.

 

“Yes,” the delivery boy coughs and blusters, colouring a little at the remark. “Yes well, it is true that I am his only employee, but Mrs. Willison does do the books and his daughter helps out on Saturdays. But I am his most trusted employee, and I’m working my way up the rungs.”

 

“What rungs, Frank? You’re the delivery boy. What is there beyond that? Mr. Willison isn’t going to hand his family business to his delivery boy to run.”

 

“Well no, not yet he isn’t, but I’m doing more and more around the shop when I’m not out on my delivery round, so I’m learning about things over time.”

 

“Things! What things?”

 

“Well, Mr, Willison let me help display goods in his front window the other day. Soon I will be able to add visual merchandiser to my list of skills.”

 

“You’ll add what?” Edith laughs, her hand flying to her mouth as she does to try and muffle it.

 

“Hey, it’s not funny Miss Edith!” Frank looks forlorn and crestfallen across at the chuckling maid. “Visual merchandising. It’s just a fancy term we use for window dressing.”

 

“Oh, do we now?” Edith cocks an eyebrow at him. “Very fancy indeed.”

 

“You may laugh now, my girl,” Frank wags a finger in a playful way at Edith. “But one day you’ll say that you knew me when.”

 

“When you have your own grocers?” Edith sounds doubtful as she speaks.

 

“Well, I could do. Others have. Why shouldn’t I?”

 

“Oh I don’t mind you having dreams, Frank.” she assures him. “Miss Lettice tells me the same.”

 

The delivery boy’s ears pick up and leaning a little bit closer to Edith he asks, “So what’s your dream then, Miss Edith, since mine is so laughable?”

 

“My dream?” she put her hand to her chest, taken aback that anyone should be so forward, least of all the man who delivers groceries from the local up-market grocers. “My dream is to…” Then she glances up at the kitchen clock ticking solemnly away on the eau-de-nil painted wall. “Shouldn’t you be out delivering groceries to your next customer, Frank?”

 

“Old Lady Basting’s cook can wait for her delivery a little while longer,” Frank asserts. “She never has a kind word for me anyway. It’s always ‘stop cluttering up the area with your bike, Frank’. Anyway, she’s terrible at paying her bills. I don’t know why Mr. Willison keeps her as a customer when she always waits for reminders before paying.”

 

“Well, a customer is a customer, Frank, even a late paying one. Quite a lot of cooks of titled families around here do the same. It’s almost like it’s expected that they don’t have to pay on time.”

 

“Expected?”

 

“You know: their right. Their right not to pay on time because that would be acknowledging that money makes business revolve.”

 

“Well it does, Miss Edith.”

 

“I know that Frank, and you know that, but families like Miss Lettice’s, they never like talking about money. It’s almost as if it’s dirty.”

 

“I imagine when you have so much money you never have to worry about it, why would you talk about it?”

 

“I suppose so Frank. Well, that’s it.” She smiles and puts down her notepad with a satisfied sigh. “That’s everything.”

 

“Course it is, Miss Edith. I told you I packed it myself, and Frank Leadbetter won’t ever let you down.”

 

“Well, since you’re whiling away some time, Frank, do you fancy a cup of tea then?” Edith asks with a shy smile.

 

“Oh, thank you!” Replies the young man. “Only if it isn’t too much trouble, mind you.”

 

“Oh it’s no trouble. I’m going to have one myself before I pack all this away,” she waves her hand expansively at the piles of groceries. “I can fetch two cups as easily as I can one.”

 

“I shan’t say no then, Miss Edith.” Frank agrees readily. “Cycling groceries around Mayfair, Belgravia and Pimlico is thirsty work.”

 

Edith goes to the dresser and fetches out two Delftware cups and saucers, the sugar bowl and milk jug which she arranges on the end of the table not covered in grocery items. She places the kettle on the stovetop and lights it with one of the matches from the red and white Webb Matches box that Frank has just brought. Then she scuttles across the black and white linoleum floor with the jug to the food safe where she fills it with a splash of milk, before bringing it back to the table.

 

“One of those Huntly and Palmers* chocolate dessert biscuits wouldn’t go astray with it.” Frank says reaching down to the elegantly decorated buttercup yellow and bluish grey tin.

 

“Ah-ah!” Edith slaps Frank’s hand away before he can remove the lid. “Those aren’t for you Frank, any more than they are me! I’ve got some leftover Family Assorted in the biscuit barrel. You can settle for one of them, if you deign, Mr. Leadbetter, Greengrocer to the best families in Mayfair.” She giggles girlishly and her smile towards him is returned with a beaming smile of his own.

 

“So, Miss Edith,” Frank asks with a cheeky smile as he leans over the box. “What is it you’re making me for my tea?”

 

“You, Frank Leadbetter?” she laughs in amazement. “You have quite some cheek today, don’t you?”

 

“Alright then, if it isn’t for me, what and who are these groceries for?”

 

“What and for whom, Frank.” Edith corrects him kindly.

 

“Is that what your dream is? To teach people how to speak properly, like that chap in Pygmalion** then? What’s his name?”

 

“Higgins, Henry Higgins.” Edith replies. “And no, I don’t. And stop fishing for information not freely given.” She gives his nose a playful squeeze as she crosses her arms akimbo and waits for the kettle to boil. “No, most of this is for a special dinner party Miss Lettice is throwing for friends from Buenos Aires who have come to see the wedding of Princess Mary to Viscount Lascelles***. They want summer pudding,” She tuts scornfully. “In the middle of winter!”

 

“Thus, all the tinned fruits.”

 

“Since I cannot move the seasons to those of the southern hemisphere, yes.”

 

Edith hears the kettle on the stove boiling and pours hot water into the white teapot sitting on the server shelf attached to the right of the stove. Placing the knitted cosy over its top, she moves it to the table. She looks Frank Leadbetter up and down as she does. He stands there, leaning against the deal kitchen table, dressed in dark trousers, a white shirt that could do with a decent pressing, his rust coloured knitted vest and a Brunswick green tie****. She looks at his face. He’s quite handsome really, now she looks at him, with fresh rosy cheeks, wind tousled sandy blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes.

 

“You know what Mrs. Boothby said to me, Frank?” Edith chuckles, picking up the pot and swirling the tea in it before pouring some into both cups.

 

“No!” Frank replies, accepting one cup. “What?”

 

“She thought that I was sweet on you, and that we might be stepping out together.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes really! That’s what she thought. She let it slip a month or so ago.”

 

Frank adds a heaped teaspoon full of sugar to his tea and stirs it thoughtfully. “Is that such a terrible idea?”

 

“What?” Edith asks.

 

“Us,” He indicates with a wagging finger between Edith and himself. “You and me, I mean, stepping out.”

 

“Well,” Edith feels a blush rising up her throat and flooding her cheeks. “No. Not at all, Frank. I was just saying that Mrs. Boothby thought we were, when we aren’t.” She looks away from Frank’s expectant face and spoons sugar into her own tea. “I hadn’t really given it much thought.”

 

“Ahh, but you have given it some consideration, then?”

 

Edith keeps quiet a moment and thinks with eyes downcast. “A little bit, in passing I suppose.”

 

“And what if we were, Edith?” Surprised by the sudden dropping of her title in a very familiar address, Edith glances back at Frank who looks at her in earnest. “Walking out together, I mean. Would that be agreeable to you?”

 

“Are you asking me to walk out with you, Frank Leadbetter?” Edith gasps.

 

“Well, yes, I suppose I am.” Frank chuckles awkwardly, his face colouring with his own blush of embarrassment. “Only if you’re agreeable to it of course.”

 

“Yes,” Edith smiles. “Yes, I’m agreeable to that, Frank.”

 

“You are?” Frank’s eyes widen in disbelief as his mouth slackens slightly.

 

“For a man so sure of his prospects, you seem surprised, Frank.”

 

“Oh well,” he stumbles. “Its not… I mean… I mean I am. I… I just didn’t think you… well… you know being here and all…”

 

“It’s aright Frank. I was only teasing.” replies Edith kindly. “You don’t need to explain.”

 

“And Miss Chetwynd doesn’t…”

 

“Oh no, Frank! As long as my work isn’t interfered with, Miss Lettice won’t mind. She’s a very kind and modern thinking mistress, Unlike Mrs. Plaistow.”

 

“I remember that was where I first set eyes on you, Edith, at her terrace in Pimlico.”

 

“Do you Frank?”

 

“I do.” Frank smiles proudly.

 

The two chuckle and shyly keep glancing at one another before looking away and burying themselves in their cups of tea awkwardly.

 

“Your day off is Wednesday, isn’t it?” Frank asks eventually.

 

“It is, Frank, how observant of you to notice,”

 

“Well, it pays to take note of things in my profession. You just never know when it might come in handy.” He taps the side of his nose knowingly.

 

“Only, I go and help my Mum on my day off.” Edith explains.

 

“Oh,” Frank says defeatedly, then thinks for a moment and adds. “Well, I work Wednesday anyway.”

 

“What days don’t you work, Frank?”

 

“Well, I don’t work Sundays. So, I’m free after church services are over.”

 

Edith laughs, “Well that works rather well then, as I have Sundays free until four.”

 

Frank joins Edith’s laughter. “Sunday it is then!”

 

The pair fall into an awkward silence again.

 

“So, where would you like to go, Edith?” asks Frank eventually, shattering the quiet punctuated only by the swinging pendulum of the wall clock.

 

“Well,” Edith replies after a few moments. “Miss Lettice’s client, Wanetta Ward is starring in a new moving picture called ‘After the Ball is Over’ at the Premier in East Ham*****. We could go and see that.”

 

“Sounds brilliant, Edith!”

 

Edith smiles shyly and blushes again, a sparkle shining in her eyes. “Yes, it does rather.”

 

* Huntley and Palmers is a British firm of biscuit makers originally based in Reading, Berkshire. The company created one of the world’s first global brands and ran what was once the world’s largest biscuit factory. Over the years, the company was also known as J. Huntley and Son and Huntley and Palmer. Huntley and Palmer were renown for their ‘superior reading biscuits’ which they promoted in different varieties for different occasions, including at breakfast time, and as a dessert biscuit.

 

**Pygmalion is a play by George Bernard Shaw, named after the Greek mythological figure. Written in 1912, it premiered at the Hofburg Theatre in Vienna on the 16th of October 1913 and was first presented in English on stage to the public in 1913. Its English-language premiere took place at Her Majesty's Theatre in the West End in April 1914 and starred Herbert Beerbohm Tree as phonetics professor Henry Higgins and Mrs Patrick Campbell as Cockney flower girl Eliza Doolittle. Shaw's play has been adapted numerous times, most notably as the 1938 film Pygmalion starring Leslie Howard and Wendy Hiller, the 1956 musical My Fair Lady and its 1964 film version starring Rex Harrison and Audrey Hepburn.

 

***Mary, Princess Royal and Countess of Harewood (1897 – 1965), was the only daughter of King George V and Queen Mary. She was the sister of Kings Edward VIII and George VI, and aunt of Queen Elizabeth II. She married Viscount Lascelles on the 28th of February 1922 in a ceremony held at Westminster Abbey. The bride was only 24 years old, whilst the groom was 39. There is much conjecture that the marriage was an unhappy one, but their children dispute this and say it was a very happy marriage based upon mutual respect. The wedding was filmed by Pathé News and was the first royal wedding to be featured in fashion magazines, including Vogue.

 

****In pre World War II times, it was unusual for even the most low paid male workers like delivery men to dress in a shirt, jacket, vest and tie. It represented respectability and the drive for upward mobility in a class conscious society. It is where the term “white collar job” comes from.

 

*****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.

 

This domestic scene may not be all that it appears, for it is made up completely of items from my 1:12 miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

All of Edith’s groceries are 1:12 artisan miniatures with amazing attention to detail as regards the labels of different foods. Some are still household names today. So many of these tins of various foods would have been household staples in the 1920s when canning and preservation revolutinised domestic cookery. They come from various different suppliers including Shepherds Miniatures in the United Kingdom, Kathleen Knight’s Doll House in the United Kingdom, Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering and Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The cardboard box branded with the name Sunlight Soap and the paper shopping bag also come from Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.

 

Bovril is the trademarked name of a thick and salty meat extract paste similar to a yeast extract, developed in the 1870s by John Lawson Johnston. It is sold in a distinctive bulbous jar, and as cubes and granules. Bovril is owned and distributed by Unilever UK. Its appearance is similar to Marmite and Vegemite. Bovril can be made into a drink ("beef tea") by diluting with hot water or, less commonly, with milk. It can be used as a flavouring for soups, broth, stews or porridge, or as a spread, especially on toast in a similar fashion to Marmite and Vegemite.

 

Bird’s were best known for making custard and Bird’s Custard is still a common household name, although they produced other desserts beyond custard, including the blancmange. They also made Bird’s Golden Raising Powder – their brand of baking powder. Bird’s Custard was first formulated and first cooked by Alfred Bird in 1837 at his chemist shop in Birmingham. He developed the recipe because his wife was allergic to eggs, the key ingredient used to thicken traditional custard. The Birds continued to serve real custard to dinner guests, until one evening when the egg-free custard was served instead, either by accident or design. The dessert was so well received by the other diners that Alfred Bird put the recipe into wider production. John Monkhouse (1862–1938) was a prosperous Methodist businessman who co-founded Monk and Glass, which made custard powder and jelly. Monk and Glass custard was made in Clerkenwell and sold in the home market, and exported to the Empire and to America. They acquired by its rival Bird’s Custard in the early Twentieth Century.

 

P.C. Flett and Company was established in Kirkwall in the Orkney Islands by Peter Copeland Flett. He had inherited a small family owned ironmongers in Albert Street Kirkwall, which he inherited from his maternal family. He had a shed in the back of the shop where he made ginger ale, lemonade, jams and preserves from local produce. By the 1920s they had an office in Liverpool, and travelling representatives selling jams and preserves around Great Britain. I am not sure when the business ceased trading.

 

S.P.C. is an Australian brand that still exists to this day. In 1917 a group of fruit growers in Victoria’s Goulburn Valley decided to form a cooperative which they named the Shepperton Fruit Preserving Company. The company began operations in February 1918, canning pears, peaches and nectarines under the brand name of S.P.C. On the 31st of January 1918 the manager of the Shepparton Fruit Preserving Company announced that canning would begin on the following Tuesday and that the operation would require one hundred and fifty girls or women and thirty men. In the wake of the Great War, it was hoped that “the launch of this new industry must revive drooping energies” and improve the economic circumstances of the region. The company began to pay annual bonuses to grower-shareholders by 1929, and the plant was updated and expanded. The success of S.P.C. was inextricably linked with the progress of the town and the wider Goulburn Valley region. In 1936 the company packed twelve million cans and was the largest fruit cannery in the British empire. Through the Second World War the company boomed. The product range was expanded to include additional fruits, jam, baked beans and tinned spaghetti and production reached more than forty-three million cans a year in the 1970s. From financial difficulties caused by the 1980s recession, SPC returned once more to profitability, merging with Ardmona and buying rival company Henry Jones IXL. S.P.C. was acquired by Coca Cola Amatil in 2005 and in 2019 sold to a private equity group known as Shepparton Partners Collective.

 

Peter Leech and Sons was a grocers that operated out of Lowther Street in Whitehaven from the 1880s. They had a large range of tinned goods that they sold including coffee, tea, tinned salmon and golden syrup. They were admired for their particularly attractive labelling. I do not know exactly when they ceased production, but I believe it may have happened just before the Second World War.

 

Sunlight Soap was first introduced in 1884. It was created by William Hesketh Lever (1st Viscount Leverhulme). It was produced at Port Sunlight in Wirrel, Merseyside, a model village built by Lever Brothers for the workers of their factories which produced the popular soap brands Lux, Lifebuoy and Sunlight.

 

Webb matches were manufactured by the match firm Bryant and May. Bryant and May was a British company created in the mid Nineteenth Century specifically to make matches. Their original Bryant and May Factory was located in Bow, London. They later opened other match factories in the United Kingdom and Australia, such as the Bryant and May Factory in Melbourne, and owned match factories in other parts of the world. Formed in 1843 by two Quakers, William Bryant and Francis May, Bryant and May survived as an independent company for over seventy years, but went through a series of mergers with other match companies and later with consumer products companies. The registered trade name Bryant amd May still exists and it is owned by the Swedish Match Company, as are many of the other registered trade names of the other, formerly independent, companies within the Bryant and May group.

  

Lyons Tea was first produced by J. Lyons and Co., a catering empire created and built by the Salmons and Glucksteins, a German-Jewish immigrant family based in London. Starting in 1904, J Lyons began selling packaged tea through its network of teashops. Soon after, they began selling their own brand Lyons Tea through retailers in the UK, Ireland and around the world. In 1918, Lyons purchased Hornimans and in 1921 they moved their tea factory to J. Lyons and Co., Greenford at that time, the largest tea factory in Europe. In 1962, J Lyons and Company (Ireland) became Lyons Irish Holdings. After a merger with Allied Breweries in 1978, Lyons Irish Holdings became part of Allied Lyons (later Allied Domecq) who then sold the company to Unilever in 1996. Today, Lyons Tea is produced in England. Lyons Tea was a major advertiser in the early decades of RTÉ Television, featuring the "Lyons minstrels" and coupon-based prize competitions.

 

The Dry Fork Milling Company, which produced Dry Fork Flour was based in Dry Fork Virginia. They were well known for producing cornmeal. They were still producing cornmeal and flour into the 1950s. Today, part of the old mill buildings are used as a reception centre.

 

Edith’s Windsor chair is a hand-turned 1:12 artisan miniature which came from America. Unfortunately, the artist did not carve their name under the seat, but it is definitely an unmarked artisan piece.

 

To the left of the sink is the food safe with a mop leaning against it. In the days before refrigeration, or when refrigeration was expensive, perishable foods such as meat, butter, milk and eggs were kept in a food safe. Winter was easier than summer to keep food fresh and butter coolers and shallow bowls of cold water were early ways to keep things like milk and butter cool. A food safe was a wooden cupboard with doors and sides open to the air apart from a covering of fine galvinised wire mesh. This allowed the air to circulate while keeping insects out. There was usually an upper and a lower compartment, normally lined with what was known as American cloth, a fabric with a glazed or varnished wipe-clean surface. Refrigerators, like washing machines were American inventions and were not commonplace in even wealthy upper-class households until well after the Second World War.

Shot for interior designer for entry in a Sub-Zero/Wolf contest. She needed all kinds of specific shots. Most shots are ambient with a little flash blended in. Pouring rain outside, but nice, defused light... For the purpose of the contest, the designer asked me NOT to remove switches and plates. Had to remove a big, ugly, clunky TV on a swivel arm in that right corner near the dishwasher. Super P.I.T.A. Please don't put TVs in nice kitchens, people. And look at that! Mike turned some lights on?!?!?! Weird....

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Today however we have headed north across London, away from Cavendish Mews and Mayfair, past Primrose Hill, Chalk Farm and Belsize Park to the leafy green surrounds of Hampstead Heath*, for today it is Easter Monday, and every Easter Monday or Bank Holiday a fair** is held on the Heath. The beautiful green space in northern London has been transformed from its usual lush and quiet self and it is now alive with a throng of London’s citizenry: rich and poor, young and old, lower-class and middle-class all intermingling and enjoying themselves on fairground rides, laughing at free entertainments, having their fortunes told and eating delicious holiday treats.

 

Seated on a park bench in a relatively quiet part of the Heath, Edith sits in the dappled sunlight of Autumn beneath a Cypress pine. The weather has been remarkably warm for this time of year, and much to her delight, today is no exception. She sighs contentedly as she removes her purple rose and black feather hand decorated straw hat from her head and allows the sun to fall upon her glossy chestnut tresses, which she has washed and tried to style in a modish way with her long hair held in a loose chignon at the back of her neck, curling softly around her ears, giving the impression of a pageboy bob. Patting the loose bun at the back of her neck where she can feel a small amount of perspiration gathering, she ponders again whether she should have her girlish length cut off in favour of the cropped style that seems to have gripped so many young women around London. Then she pictures her mother’s disappointed and disapproving face and quickly puts the idea at the back of her mind. She listens to the distant screams and cries of joyful people riding the mechanical swinging gondolas, the Ferris wheel and the merry-go-round, and to the closer sounds of leaves crushed under foot and giggled intimacies as young couples find a private place in the bushes to kiss and embrace, away from the prying eyes of the throng.

 

“Here we are then, Edith,” comes the familiar voice of Willison’s the Grocer’s delivery boy and Edith’s new beau, Frank Leadbetter, resounding happily over the hubbub of human chatter, laughter and the distant trill of fairground music. “One serving of the best quality chips that Hampstead Heath has to offer!”

 

Opening her eyes, Edith looks up at her young man’s happy face smiling down at her, as he hands her a crumpled bundle of newspaper, already showing little greasy spots where the oil from the chips held within the parcel is seeping through.

 

“Oh, thanks Frank!” Edith replies gratefully, reaching up and taking her parcel eagerly from his outstretched hand.

 

Moving over on the bench to make room for him, Edith heart leaps a little in her chest as Frank slips in next to her, his thigh pressed in his Sunday best suit trousers pressed up against hers clad in her plum coloured frock. The newspaper crumples noisily as they both pull at the pages of yesterday’s London tabloids to reveal nests of golden yellow hot chips, sending forth aromatic steam that quickly permeates the air around them.

 

“We better eat these quick,” Frank says with a chuckle, a cheeky smile and a wink as he adjusts his straw boater with its natty striped grosgrain ribbon on his head. “Or else we’ll find ourselves with a hundred new friends we didn’t know we had.”

 

“You don’t have to tell me twice, Frank,” Edith replies happily. “I’m famished after all the rides we’ve been on.”

 

“Which was your favourite, Edith?” Frank asks, preparing to make a mental note of it as he bites into a crisp hot chip, gasping as the fluffy hot potato inside burns his tongue.

 

Edith doesn’t reply at first, chewing her first hot chip blissfully as she contemplates her answer. “The merry-go-round, I think.” she answers at length.

 

“What? Not the swinging gondola?”

 

“Oh no, Frank!” Edith puts her hand to her chest and quickly swallows her mouthful of hot chip. “They ride up so high! I think if I’d ever been on a boat in my life, I should be sick from it. I don’t know how my brother does it.”

 

“Big boats don’t ride up and down on the waves like that you know, Edith.”

 

“How’d you know that, Frank Leadbetter? Have you ever been on one before?”

 

“Well, no,” Frank admits awkwardly. “But I have been on a rowboat on the Crystal Palace boating lake.***” he adds hurriedly in an effort to defend himself. “And that didn’t ride the waves like the mechanical gondola did.”

 

“A rowboat’s not a big boat, Frank!” Edith scoffs with a gentle smile. “Not like the ones I’m talking about that my brother sails to Australia on. He says that for the most part they are pretty smooth, but that if they get caught in stormy weather the boat rolls about like toy boats do on a pond. They have the tables and chairs nailed down to the floor so they don’t fly about everywhere in bad weather.”

 

“Well, I guess he’d know better than me then.” Frank concedes. “What does your brother do on his big boat, Edith?”

 

“He’s a dining saloon steward.” Edith replies proudly before greedily eating another long golden hot chip. “He got promoted to first class dining steward two voyages ago. So, what with him being promoted and my Dad becoming a line manager at McVities, the Watsfords seem to be going up in the world.”

 

“You’ll be too fancy for the likes of me soon, Edith,” Frank laughs good naturedly.

 

“Oh get away with you, Frank Leadbetter!” Edith giggles, sticking him playfully in the ribs with her elbow.

 

The pair eat some more of their hot chips in the beautiful spring sunshine before Frank asks, “Would you ever want to go on one of those big boats, Edith?”

 

“Why would I, Frank?” She looks at him thoughtfully.

 

“Well, you know, go places.” he elucidates as he chews contemplatively on a few chips.

 

“Where would I go?”

 

“I don’t know, Paris maybe.”

 

“Why on earth would I go to Paris, Frank?” Edith asks, giving him a doubtful glance before eating another chip.

 

“Well, don’t all you girls want to go to Paris?”

 

Edith looks at Frank earnestly. “I don’t know about all girls, Frank, but this girl is perfectly happy keeping her feet firmly in England!” She nods emphatically. “No Paris for me, thank you very much.” She rubs her greasy fingers on the edge of her newspaper parcel. “There isn’t anything I can’t find or buy here that I should need to go to Paris to get.”

 

“Well, I’m glad to hear that Edith, because I don’t want to be anywhere but where you are.”

 

“Oh Frank!” Edith blushes, raising her hand to her flushed cheek. “I think that’s the nicest thing a chap’s ever said to me before.”

 

“Oh,” Frank utters disappointedly. “Had a few chaps vie for your affections before, have you?” Then he smiles broadly to show that he is only teasing her.

 

Sticking her chin upwards in an aloof way that is as equally teasing as Frank’s cheeky smile, the young girl replies, “A lady is entitled to her secrets. Don’t go fishing for what you shouldn’t be asking for, Frank Leadbetter!”

 

The pair fall into silence again as they continue to eat their hot chip feast. Through the trees they hear the distant smattering of far away applause as a free entertainment of some kind comes to an end. A bell rings out indicating that someone has hit the strongman’s bell and won a prize. A child screams unhappily, no doubt as a result of either a smack for being naughty or for being pulled away begrudgingly from the entertainments by their parents. Behind them, the leaves on the Cypress pine shiver and rustle in the sunlight and a muffled pair of giggles break out, indicating the presence of young lovers in the undergrowth. Frank glances awkwardly at Edith and finds her glancing at him equally uncomfortably, yet when they see one another’s looks and lock eyes, they start laughing.

 

“Where would you want to go, Frank?” Edith asks at length.

 

“You mean, aside from the bushes with you, Edith?” he laughs in reply.

 

“Oh, you are awful, Frank!” Edith snatches up her green leather handbag and hits his arm playfully with it, before returning it to where it hangs from the bench’s arm beneath the brim of her straw hat. “I’m being serious.”

 

“So was I.” Frank retorts, blushing.

 

Edith smirks. “You’ll just have to wait for that, won’t you Frank? You know I’m not that kind of girl. When you’ve got a ring on my finger, then we can…” She doesn’t complete her sentence, but nods knowingly to the slightly trembling bushes about them.

 

“Steady on Edith! We’ve only just started walking out together.”

 

“Well, don’t suggest anything else then Frank, if you aren’t prepared to wait.” Edith smiles. “No, I meant where would you like to travel? Do you want to go to Paris?”

 

“Not me, Edith. Paris isn’t my sort of place, I don’t think.”

 

“Well how do you know that, if you’ve never been there?”

 

“Well, I know it’s full of foreigners, and I don’t hold with foreigners****. No, a nice holiday to the Lake District will suit me just fine. I told you, the only place I want to be is with you.”

 

“Well that suits me just fine, Frank.” Edith replies as she picks up her black straw hat and puts it back on her head. Looking down in her lap she glances at the newspaper spread out across it, now devoid of any chips, with only crumbs of batter and traces of oil smearing the print. She looks at Frank’s lap and sees that he has also finished his chip feast. “Because now that we’ve eaten our chips, I’d like to go for a stroll to walk them off. Shall we?”

 

Frank leans over and takes the newspaper from her lap and screws it up with his own. Standing up and doffing his straw boater with one hand, he bows and offers his hand to Edith with a winning smile. “Shall we then, Miss Watsford?”

 

Taking his hand and rising up, she replies, “With pleasure Mr. Leadbetter.”

 

“Hhhmmm…” Frank ruminates aloud. “Edith Leadbetter. That has quite a nice ring to it.”

 

Edith smiles at the thought as she snuggles into Frank’s side.

 

And leaving the newspaper balled on the seat of the wooden bench, the pair walk away arm in arm as happily as two young lovers walking out together could be, meandering back towards the fun of the Easter Monday fair on Hampstead Heath.

 

*Hampstead Heath (locally known simply as the Heath) is a large, ancient London heath, covering 320 hectares (790 acres). This grassy public space sits astride a sandy ridge, one of the highest points in London, running from Hampstead to Highgate, which rests on a band of London Clay. The heath is rambling and hilly, embracing ponds, recent and ancient woodlands, a lido, playgrounds, and a training track, and it adjoins the former stately home of Kenwood House and its estate. The south-east part of the heath is Parliament Hill, from which the view over London is protected by law.

 

**Fairs have been held on Hampstead Heath since the mid 1800s, covering vast areas of East Heath to Spaniard’s Road. Before that, there had been fairs at Flask Walk in Hampstead since the 17th century, and another flourished in West End until it was shut down for rowdiness in 1820. The popularity of the fairs on the Heath exploded after 1871 when, just after the Hampstead Heath Act, the Bank Holidays Act created four public days’ rest. The Heath’s Bank Holiday fairs regularly attracted upward of 30,000 people at the August holiday, and 50,000 on Whit Mondays. Attendance records were broken when an estimated 200,000 people descended on the Heath one Easter Monday!

 

***Crystal Palace is an area in south London, named after the Crystal Palace Exhibition building, which stood in the area from 1854 until it was destroyed by fire in 1936. Approximately seven miles south-east of Charing Cross, it includes one of the highest points in London, at 367 feet, offering views over the capital. In the 1922 when this story is set, the Crystal Palace complex was used for exhibitions and entertainments and was still surrounded by a public park. Alongside the great wrought iron and glass structure was a large boating lake.

 

****The idea of being suspicious about foreigners was not an uncommon thing by people of all classes in England before the Second World War. Being the centre of the British Empire that ruled a quarter of the globe, the common ethos amongst the British people was that no-one was better than the English and foreigners with their different foods, ways of dress, customs and ideas were to be taught the British way and were viewed with suspicion and in some cases, hostility.

 

Although it may look life-sized to you, this idyllic scene is in fact comprised of pieces from my miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Edith’s black dyed straw hat with purple roses and black feathers was made by an unknown artisan. 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable. This hat is part of a larger collection I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel. The green handbag, handmade from soft leather I also from her collection.

 

Made of polymer clay glazed to look oily and stuck to miniature newspaper print, the two servings of golden hot chips on the bench were made in England by hand by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination.

 

The setting for this scene is my front garden, and the tree behind the bench is a slow growing miniature conifer. I am not sure what variety it is, but it is a Cypress pine.

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

After a busy morning working at her desk, painting some interior designs for the Duchess of Whitby, Lettice prepares to curl up in one of her armchairs and enjoy her latest library book from Boots, a thrilling mystery, when the telephone rings noisily on the occasional table beside her.

 

“Oh blast!” Lettice cries. “And just as I was getting comfortable.”

 

The silver and Bakelite telephone continues to trill loudly as Lettice brushes herself down and picks up the receiver.

 

“Mayfair 432,” she answers without the slightest trace of irritation in her very best telephone voice. A distant female voice speaks down the line. “Oh Mrs. Hatchett, how do you do. Yes, this is Miss Chetwynd speaking.” She listens. “You’d like me to visit your home in Sussex? Next Thursday? Well Mrs Hatchett, I am rather in demand at the moment, and it is after all, the Season, which makes it doubly difficult.” She listens to more simpering words coming down the line. “Let me just check my diary.”

 

Lettice deposits the receiver next to the telephone. She reaches across to the low table before her and helps herself to a sip of tea and a nibble of one of the biscuits Edith has brought her. She then flicks a few pages in her new novel. Finally, when she thinks enough time has passed, she reaches across past the telephone and picks up her leather-bound diary which is fastened with an ornate silver clip. Taking up her silver pen, she flicks to next Thursday, knowing full well that it is free. She puts a star next to the Friday to Monday country party inked in for the following day. She will have plenty of time to get down to Sussex by train to visit Mrs Hatchett’s parochial manor house and back again to London to then travel the next day to Worcestershire for the weekend party.

 

Picking up the receiver she says, “You’re lucky Mrs. Hatchett. Thursday is the only day I have free in my diary for next week.”

 

She smiles like a Cheshire cat as she listens to Mrs. Hatchett’s enthusiastic response.

 

“Now, if you’d just remind me of your address is Sussex please, Mrs. Hatchett.” She jots it in her diary. “And you will ensure your driver picks me up from Rotherfield and Mark Cross*?” She listens to Mrs. Hatchett’s reassurances. “Splendid! Shall we say one o’clock then?” She listens. “Yes? Very good. Yes… yes, I shall see you then. Good morning Mrs. Hatchett.”

 

Lettice hangs up the receiver and squeals with delight.

 

“Edith! Edith!” she calls.

 

Her maid scurries in, frustrated that her mistress insists of screaming through the flat rather than pressing the servants’ bell next to the fireplace. “Can I help you, Miss?”

 

“Oh Edith!” Lettice gasps, leaping up from her seat and clasping her hands in delight. “Such good news!”

 

“Yes Miss?” Edith asks, waiting to hear more.

 

“Your cake did the trick!”

 

“My cake, Miss?” Edith does not understand.

 

“Yes, yes! Your mother’s chocolate cake recipe, for Mrs. Hatchett. Remember?”

 

“Oh that cake!” Edith thinks to herself how many cakes she has made since the rather loud and somewhat gauche Mrs. Hatchett, wife of a banker, sat in Lettice’s drawing room, enthusing over her host’s taste and style. “Very good, Miss.”

 

“It’s splendid Edith. Mrs. Hatchett wants me to visit her next Thursday to look about her home to then propose some interior design ideas!” She throws her arms around Edith’s neck, much to the other woman’s consternation as she stiffens awkwardly at the overfamiliarity.

 

“I best fetch you the Bluebell timetable then, Miss.” Edith mutters, slipping from her mistress’ grasp.

 

“Edith,” Lettice called after her.

 

“Yes, Miss?”

 

“You’re such a brick!”

 

“Yes, Miss!”

 

Lettice sinks back down into her round tub armchair, picks up her book and sighs happily.

 

*The village of Rotherfield in East Sussex had a railway station open there on September 1st 1880. It was renamed Rotherfield and Mark Cross on November 11th 1901. It was never a busy railway station with only light traffic boarding to London, partly due to an inconvenient location. The station was finally closed on June 14th 1965.

 

This year the FFF+ Group have decided to have a weekly challenge called “Snap Happy”. A different theme chosen by a member of the group each week, and the image is to be posted on the Monday of the week.

 

This week the theme, “connections/connected” was chosen by David, DaveSPN.

 

I have taken a slightly different perspective on the theme, but I hope that this telephone, which kept people connected in the 1920s and keep them equally connected today. This upper-class domestic scene is different to what you may think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

 

The black Bakelite and silver telephone is a 1:12 miniature of a model introduced around 1919.

 

The vase of red roses on the Art Deco occasional table and the glass vase of pink roses on the right-hand side of the mantlepiece are beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium.

 

Lettice’s tea set is a beautiful artisan set featuring a rather avant-garde Art Deco Royal Doulton design from the Edwardian era. The biscuits are also artisan miniatures from a specialist stockist of food stuffs. He has a dizzying array of meals which is always growing, and all are made entirely or put together by hand.

 

Lettice’s drawing room is furnished with beautiful J.B.M. miniatures. The Art Deco tub chairs are of black japanned wood and have removable cushions, just like their life sized examples. To the left of the fireplace is a Hepplewhite drop-drawer bureau and chair of black japanned wood which has been hand painted with chinoiserie designs, even down the legs and inside the bureau. The chair set has a rattan seat, which has also been hand woven. To the right of the fireplace is a Chippendale cabinet which has also been decorated with chinoiserie designs. It also features very ornate metalwork hinges and locks.

 

On the top of the Hepplewhite bureau stand three real miniature photos in frames including an Edwardian silver frame, a Victorian brass frame and an Art Deco blue Bakelite and glass frame.

 

The fireplace is a 1:12 miniature resin Art Deco fireplace which is flanked by brass accessories including an ash brush with real bristles.

 

On the left hand side of the mantle is an Art Deco metal clock hand painted with wonderful detail by British miniature artisan Victoria Fasken.

 

In the middle of the mantle is a miniature artisan hand painted Art Deco statue on a “marble” plinth. Made by Warwick Miniatures in England, it is a 1:12 copy of the “Theban Dancer” sculpture created by Claire-Jeanne-Roberte Colinet in 1925.

 

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

 

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Today however we have headed slightly north of Cavendish Mews to London’s busy shopping precinct along Oxford Street, where ladies flock to window shop, browse department stores and shops and to take tea with their friends. With the Christmas rush of 1921 behind them, the large plate glass windows have been stripped of their tinsel garlands and metallic cardboard stars, and displays are turning to the new fashions and must have possessions of 1922. Oxford Street is still busy with shoppers as Lettice walks up it dressed in a smart navy blue coat of velvet with a lustrous mink fur trim and matching hat, and the road congested with London’s signature red buses, taxis and private traffic. Yet neither the road nor the footpath are as crowded as they were when she found Edith, her maid’s, Christmas gift in Boots the Chemist, and for that she is grateful. Her louis heels click along the concrete footpath as she takes purposeful and measured footsteps towards her destination, the salon of her milliner Madame Gwendolyn which is situated above all the hubbub of shoppers and London office workers on the first floor of a tall and ornate Victorian building.

 

Lettice breathes a sigh of relief as she walks through the wood and plate glass door of the salon, simply marked with the name Gwendolyn in elegant gilt copperplate lettering, leaving behind the chug of belching double deckers, the toot of horns, the rumble of motorcar engines and the droning buzz of female chatter. The faint fragrance of a mixture of expensive scents from Madame Gewndolyn’s other clientele envelops her, dismissing the soot and fumes of the world outside as the quiet sinks in. Lettice always feels calmer in Madame’s salon, tastefully decked out in an Edwardian version of Regency with finely striped papers and upholstery.

 

“Good afternoon Miss Chetwynd,” the female receptionist greets Lettice politely in well enunciated tones, rising from her desk, showing off her smart outfit of a crisp white shirtwaister* with goffered lace detailing and a navy skirt. “Your timing, as ever, is perfect.” She smiles as she walks over and without asking, takes the coat from Lettice’s shirking shoulders.

 

“Thank you Roslyn,” Lettice acknowledges her assistance. As she goes to take Lettice’s white lace parasol, Lettice stops the young receptionist. “No thank you. I need this for my consultation.”

 

If taken aback by Lettice’s unusual refusal to relinquish her parasol, Roslyn doesn’t show it as she simply smiles politely and says, “Madame is expecting you. Please do come through.”

 

The two women walk across the polished floor of the foyer covered in expensive rugs that their feet sink into, until they stop before an inner set of double doors. Roslyn’s polite rap is greeted by a commanding “come” from the other side.

 

“Miss Chetwynd, Madame,” Roslyn announces as she opens the door inwards, leading Lettice into a salon, similarly furbished as the foyer which is filled with an array of beautiful hats elegantly on display.

 

“Ah, Miss Chetwynd,” Madame Gwendolyn says in the same clearly enunciated syllables as her receptionist, with a broad smile on her lips. “How do you do.”

 

“How do you do, Madame.” she replies as Roslyn retreats the way she came, closing the doors silently behind her.

 

Madame Gwendolyn smile broadens as she notices Lettice’s blue velvet toque with the mink trim which she made to match the coat now hanging in the wardrobe behind Roslyn’s desk in the foyer. Then it fades as her eye falls upon Lettice’s parasol in her client’s left hand. “Oh Miss Chetwynd, I’m so sorry Roslyn didn’t,” and she reaches out to take it from her hand.

 

“Oh no! No Madame,” Lettice assures the middle-aged milliner. “Roslyn went to take it from me, but I said no. We will need it for our appointment you see.”

 

“Oh,” Madame Gwendolyn’s expertly plucked and shaped brow arches ever so slightly. “Very well. Won’t you please take a seat, Miss Chetwynd.” She indicates to two Edwardian Arts and Crafts chairs carefully reupholstered in cream Regency stripe fabric to match the wallpaper hanging in the salon.

 

Lettice selects the one to her right and hangs the parasol over its arm before gracefully lowering herself into the seat and placing her snakeskin handbag at her side. As she does so, Roslyn slips back into the room bearing a tray on which sits tea making implements for one, which she carefully places on the small table next to a few recent fashion magazines, easily in Lettice’s range.

 

Once Roslyn obsequiously retreats again, Madame Gwendolyn says, “Now, I believe you may have come about a new hat for The Princess Royal’s wedding*. Is that so, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“You are well informed, Madame.” Lettice replies, glancing down at her knee as she speaks.

 

Madame Gwendolyn smiles again, taking up a leatherbound notebook. “How delightful for you to be in attendance.”

 

“Well, we are well acquainted, Madame,” Lettice answers dismissively.

 

“Of course! Of course.” the older woman replies, her back stiffening as she raises her pale and elegant hands in defence. “Now, might I enquire as to who will be making your frock for the occasion?”

 

“Yes. Mr. Gerald Bruton of Grosvenor Street.”

 

“Ah. Excellent! Excellent.” Madame replies like a toady as she jots Gerald’s name in her book. “And the fabrics, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“Oyster satin with pearl buttons and a guipure lace** Peter Pan collar***.”

 

“Excellent! Excellent!” Madame Gwendolyn repeats again, noting the details down. “White gloves, or grey?”

 

“Grey.”

 

The woman closes her notebook firmly, leaving it in her lap. “Well, I’m quite sure we can make something most suitable for the royal occasion to match your ensemble.”

 

The milliner rises and puts her notebook aside. Whilst she looks about her salon for possibilities, Lettice pours herself tea from the delicate hydrangea patterned pot on the table.

 

“Now, I could easily create something similar to this, in a soft grey, Miss Chetwynd.” Madame Gwendolyn returns with a beautiful picture hat of pale pink covered in a carefully crafted whorl of ostrich feathers.

 

“Hhhmmm…” Lettice considers.

 

“Or, this could easily be adapted to match your outfit, Miss Chetwynd,” she indicates to a more cloche shaped hat of white and black dyed straw with black ribboning. “By replacing the ribbon with a grey one. I also have some delightful pearl appliques that would add a beautiful touch of royal elegance to it.”

 

“Perhaps,” Lettice replies noncommittally with her head slightly cocked.

 

As she watches Madame Gwendolyn scurry across the salon and fetch a peach coloured wide brimmed hat with a band of silk flowers about the brim with an aigrette of cream lace, her thoughts drift back to the day the previous June when she and her dear Embassy Club coterie friend Margot were walking down Oxford Street, not too far from where she sits now. They had been discussing the Islington Studios**** moving picture starlet Wanetta Ward, whom Lettice had agreed to take on as a new customer, as well as Margot’s wedding plans. Ascot Week***** was fast approaching and Selfridges had a window display featuring four rather stylish hats, every bit as comparable in quality to those being shown to her by the toadying milliner before her at a fraction of the cost. Margot had laughed at Lettice when she had suggested that perhaps she should have worn a Selfridges hat to Royal Ascot, rather than the creation Madame Gwendolyn made her. Yet her hat from Madame Gwendolyn at twelve guineas was far from a roaring success in the fashion stakes. In fact, she had heard a fashion correspondent from the Tattler whispering a little too loudly that it might even have been a little old fashioned: a touch pre-war.

 

“Miss Chetwynd? Miss Chetwynd?” Madame Gwendolyn’s somewhat urgent calls press into her consciousness, breaking Lettice’s train of thought.

 

Lettice looks up into the face of the milliner with her upswept hairdo a mixture of pre-war Edwardian style mixed with modern Marcelling******. The woman is holding up a cream straw cloche decorated with pink silk flowers and an aigrette of ostrich plumes curled in on themselves.

 

“I think this one is most becoming. Don’t you think so, Miss Chetwynd? It would frame your face and hair so well. And, for you, because it is only the reworking of the decoration,” the older woman adds with a sly smile. “A bargain if I may say so, at only nine guineas.” She smiles in an oily way as she presses the hat closer to Lettice. “What do you think, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

Lettice looks blankly at Madame Gwendolyn for a moment before replying. “What I think, Madame, is I should like to give your suggestions some consideration.”

 

The milliner’s face drops, as do her arms as she lowers the hat until it hangs loosely in front of her knees in her defeated hands. “I… I don’t understand, Miss Chetwynd.” she manages to say in startled disbelief.

 

“Oh,” Lettice replies. “Haven’t I made myself clear, Madame? I’m not entirely convinced about any of the hats you have shown me. I don’t know if any of them will match my costume and parasol. I think they all look a little…”

 

“A little?” the older woman prompts.

 

“A little old fashioned. A little pre-war was how your hat for me for Royal Ascot last year was described. I want to look my very best. After all, this is a royal wedding.” She takes a final sip of her tea and then stands, picking up her purse and parasol. “So, I should like to consider my choices before deciding whether to accept one or not.”

 

As Lettice starts to walk across the salon floor, Madame Gwendolyn stutters, “Per… perhaps Miss Chetwynd… Perhaps you’d care to suggest your own ideas. I’m very open to a client’s ide…”

 

Lettice stops and turns abruptly to the milliner, cutting her sentence off. “Madame,” she says, a definite haughtiness growing in her gait, causing her shoulders to edge back almost imperceptibly and for her neck to arch. “If I had wanted to design my own hat, I would have made it myself, rather than come to you and pay you handsomely for it.”

 

“Oh, of course not Miss Chetwynd. How very careless of me to even suggest…. Such… such a gaffe! Please forgive me.”

 

“Really Madame, there is no need to apologise like some spineless, obsequious servant. I’d simply like time to consider what you’ve shown me, versus say, what Harry Selfridge has to offer.”

 

“Mr. Selfridge?” Madame Gwendolyn ponders, her eyes widening in surprise.

 

“Yes. He has a wonderful array of hats, many Paris models in the latest styles, in his millinery department, perhaps more suited to the more modern woman of today than the,” Lettice glances back at the hats on display in the salon. “The society matron. You really should take a look, Madame. You might see where the future of hats sits.”

 

Lettice pulls open the doors of the salon and walks purposefully out into the foyer, where Roslyn is busily scanning a copy of Elite Styles, cutting out images of hats with a pair of scissors behind her desk. She quickly gets up when she sees Lettice and her employer come out.

 

“Leaving so soon, Miss Chetwynd?” she asks, and without having to wait for an answer, turns to the white painted built in wardrobe behind her, opens it and withdraws Lettice’s coat.

 

As Lettice steps back into Oxford Street and is enveloped by its discordant cacophony of noise and potpourri of smells, she sighs and walks back the way she came with the measured steps of a viscount’s daughter. As she reaches the full length plate glass windows of Selfridge’s department store, she pauses when she sees two young women around her age, both obviously typists, secretaries or some other kind of office workers, scuttle up to the windows. Dressed in smart black coats and matching small brimmed straw hats with Marcelled hair in fashionable bobs, they look the epitome of the new and independent woman. They laugh lightly and point excitedly at things they see displayed in the department store window. Then, they agree and both scurry away and through the revolving doors of Selfridges.

 

“Why should I have my hats made at Madame Gwendolyn’s, just because Mamma does?” she asks no-one in particular, her quiet utterance smothered and swept away into the noisy hubbub around her.

 

She walks to the window, only to discover that it is full of hats, advertised as newly in from Paris.

 

“Oh, why not, then?” Lettice says, straightening her shoulders with conviction.

 

She follows the two office girls and steps through the revolving doors of Selfridges department store.

 

Contrary to popular belief, fashion at the beginning of the Roaring 20s did not feature the iconic cloche hat as a commonly worn head covering. Although invented by French milliner Caroline Reboux in 1908, the cloche hat did not start to gain popularity until 1922, so in early 1922 when this story is set, picture hats, a hangover from the pre-war years, were still de rigueur in fashionable society. Although nowhere near as wide, heavy, voluminous or as ornate as the hats worn by women between the turn of the Twentieth Century and the Great War, the picture hats of the 1920s were still wide brimmed, although they were generally made of straw or some lightweight fabric and were decorated with a more restrained touch. For somewhere as socially important as Princess Mary’s 1922 wedding, a matching hat, parasol, handbag or reticule and gloves to go with a lady’s chosen frock were essential.

 

*Mary, Princess Royal and Countess of Harewood (1897 – 1965), was the only daughter of King George V and Queen Mary. She was the sister of Kings Edward VIII and George VI, and aunt of Queen Elizabeth II. She married Viscount Lascelles on the 28th of February 1922 in a ceremony held at Westminster Abbey. The bride was only 24 years old, whilst the groom was 39. There is much conjecture that the marriage was an unhappy one, but their children dispute this and say it was a very happy marriage based upon mutual respect. The wedding was filmed by Pathé News and was the first royal wedding to be featured in fashion magazines, including Vogue.

 

**Guipure lace is a delicate fabric made by twisting and braiding the threads to craft incredible designs that wows the eye. Guipure lace fabrics distinguish themselves from other types of lace by connecting the designs using bars or subtle plaits instead of setting them on a net.

 

***A Peter Pan collar is a style of clothing collar, flat in design with rounded corners. It is named after the collar of Maude Adams's costume in her 1905 role as Peter Pan, although similar styles had been worn before this date. Peter Pan collars were particularly fashionable during the 1920s and 1930s.

 

****Islington Studios, often known as Gainsborough Studios, were a British film studio located on the south bank of the Regent's Canal, in Poole Street, Hoxton in Shoreditch, London which began operation in 1919. By 1920 they had a two stage studio. It is here that Alfred Hitchcock made his entrée into films.

 

*****Royal Ascot Week is the major social calendar event held in June every year at Ascot Racecourse in Berkshire. It was founded in 1711 by Queen Anne and is attended every year by the reigning British monarch and members of the Royal Family. The event is grand and showy, with men in grey morning dress and silk toppers and ladies in their best summer frocks and most elaborate hats.

 

******Marcelling is a hair styling technique in which hot curling tongs are used to induce a curl into the hair. Its appearance was similar to that of a finger wave but it is created using a different method. Marcelled hair was a popular style for women's hair in the 1920s, often in conjunction with a bob cut. For those women who had longer hair, it was common to tie the hair at the nape of the neck and pin it above the ear with a stylish hair pin or flower. One famous wearer was American entertainer, Josephine Baker.

 

This enclave of luxurious millinary may appear real to you, however it is fashioned entirely of 1:12 miniatures from my collection. Some of the items in this tableau are amongst the very first pieces I ever received as a young child.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The cream straw hat second from the left with pink roses has single stands of ostrich feathers adorning it that have been hand curled. The yellow straw hat on the far right of the photo is decorated with ornamental flowers and organza. The maker for these is unknown, but they are part of a larger collection I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel. The peach coloured hat with the flowers around the brim and the net aigrette second from the right, and the pink feather covered hat on the far left of the picture came from a seller on E-Bay. The black straw hat with the yellow trim and rose reflected in the mirror and the white straw hait with the black trim in the foreground were made by Mrs. Denton of Muffin Lodge in the United Kingdom. 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable.

 

The wooden hat blocks on which the hats are displayed also came from American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel.

 

The dressing table set, consisting of tray, mirror and two brushes were made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, but were hand painted with wonderful detail by British miniature artisan Victoria Fasken, sold through Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in England.

 

Lettice’s snakeskin handbag with its gold clasp and chain comes from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniature Shop in the United Kingdom. Lettice’s umbrella is a 1:12 artisan piece made of white satin and lace with a tiny cream bow. It has a hooked metal handle.

 

The Elite Styles magazine from 1922 sitting on the table was made by hand by Petite Gite Miniatures in the United States.

 

The blue hydrangea tea set came from a miniatures stockist on E-Bay.

 

The two Edwardian fashion plates hanging on the wall come from Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers in England.

 

The vintage mirror with its hand carved wooden frame was acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in England.

 

The two chairs, the tea table and the stands upon which two of the hats are displayed are all made by the high-end miniature furniture manufacturer, Bespaq.

 

The Regency sideboard I have had since I was around six or seven, having been given it as either a birthday or Christmas gift.

 

The cream Georgian pattern carpet on the floor comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in England. The Regency stripe wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, with the purpose that it be used in the “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Two of Lettice’s Embassy Club coterie of bright young things are getting married: Dickie Channon, eldest surviving son of the Marquess of Taunton, and Margot de Virre, only daughter of Lord Charles and Lady Lucie de Virre. Lettice is hosting an exclusive buffet supper party in their honour this evening, which is turning out to be one of the events of the 1921 London Season. Over the last few days, Lettice’s flat has been in upheaval as Edith, Lettice’s maid, and Lettice’s charwoman* Mrs. Boothby have been cleaning the flat thoroughly in preparation for the occasion. Earlier today with the help of a few hired men they moved some of the furnishings in Lettice’s drawing room into the spare bedroom to make space for a hired dance band and for the guests to dance and mingle. Edith’s preserve of the kitchen has been overrun by delivery men, florists and caterers. Throughout all of this upheaval, Lettice has fled to Margot’s parents’ house in Hans Crescent in nearby Belgravia, only returning just as a red and white striped marquee is erected by Gunter and Company** over the entrance and the pavement outside.

 

Now we find ourselves in Lettice’s dressing room where she and Margot sit at Lettice’s Regency dressing table making last minute adjustments and choices to their eveningwear. The surface of the dressing table is littered with jewellery and perfume bottles as the two excited girls chat, whilst Margot’s fiancée, Dickie, whips up the latest cocktails for them at the makeshift bar on Lettice’s dining table down the hall in the flat’s dining room.

 

“Oh Lettice, I’m so nervous!” Margot confides, clasping her friend’s hands.

 

“Good heavens why, darling?” Lettice looks across at her friend in concern as she feels the tremble in her dainty fingers wrapped around her own. She notices her pale face. “You aren’t having second thoughts, are you?”

 

“About the party?”

 

“About Dickie!”

 

“Goodness no, darling!” Margot clutches her bare throat with her hand, the diamonds in her engagement ring winking brightly. “About him I have never been so sure. He’s always been the one for me, darling. You of all people should know that!”

 

“Then what, Margot darling?”

 

“Well, this party!”

 

“What on earth do you mean? Its going to be a thrilling bash.” Lettice soothes. “I’ve hired this divine little jazz quartet to play dance music for us. All our friends are on the guest list, and they are all coming. It will be just like being at the Embassy Club, only it will be here instead.” She waves her arms generously around her. “What’s to be nervous about?”

 

“Oh, it just all seems so formal.”

 

“Formal?”

 

“Yes,” Margot goes on. “So grown up. I mean it’s one thing to see your names printed together in the papers, yet it’s quite another to have a party thrown in honour of your engagement as you step out into society as an engaged couple. I’m not used to being the centre of attention.”

 

“Well, you’ll have to get used to it, at least for a little while.” Lettice smiles as she hangs a necklace of sparkling diamonds from her jewellery casket about her neck, allowing them to cascade down the front of her powder blue silk georgette gown designed and made for her by Gerald. She sighs with satisfaction at the effect before addressing Margot again. “Think of this as a rehearsal for your wedding day.”

 

Margot gulps.

 

“Only tonight,” Lettice continues wagging a finger in the air. “You can drink as much as you like.”

 

The pair are interrupted by a loud knocking on the door before it suddenly opens, and Dickie pokes his head around it. The sound of the jazz band tuning up in Lettice’s drawing room pours into the room.

 

“Get out!” Lettice cries, jumping up from her seat and flapping her hands at Dickie. “You aren’t supposed to see the bride yet! It’s bad luck!”

 

“That’s on the wedding day you silly goose!” Dickie laughs.

 

“Don’t bother us now, Dickie,” Lettice continues, leaning against the doorframe and then glancing at Margot’s anxious face reflected in the looking glass of her dressing table. “We’re fixing something.”

 

“Oh, secret women’s business, is it?” he whispers conspiratorially with a cheeky smile.

 

“Something like that,” Lettice says breezily. “Margot just has a case of centre stage jitters.”

 

Dickie face clouds over. He frowns in concern and presses on the door.

 

“She’ll be fine.” Lettice assures him, pressing hard against the pressure she can feel from his side of the door. “I just need a few more minutes with her. Alright darling?”

 

“Well,” Dickie says a little doubtfully. “Only if you’re sure. But don’t be too long.” He glances at Lettice’s pretty green onyx Art Deco clock on her dressing table. “The guests will be arriving shortly.”

 

“We won’t be, Dickie.” she assures him as she presses a little more forcefully on the door.

 

“Well,” he remarks brightly in an effort to settle his fiancée’s nerves. “I’d only come down here to see if you two ladies fancied a special Dickie Channon pre-cocktail party cocktail?”

 

“Oh yes!” Lettice enthuses. “That sounds divine, darling! I’ll have a Dubonnet and gin. What will you have Margot, darling?”

 

“I’ll have a Bee’s Knees, thank you Dickie.” she replies with a less than enthusiastic lilt to her quiet voice.

 

The furrows on Dickie’s brow deepen as he glances between Margot and Lettice. Lettice raises a finger to silence the concerns he is about to express about Margot, and then she points back down the hallway to the dining room. Dickie’s mouth screws up in concern, and he shakes his head slightly as he withdraws.

 

“See you in a few minutes,” Lettice assures his retreating figure.

 

“He’s cross, isn’t he?” Margot asks as Lettice closes the door again.

 

“No, he’s just concerned is all,” she replies as she resumes her seat. “As am I.”

 

Margot’s stance of slumped shoulders displays her deflated feeling as much as the look in her dark eyes as she glances up at her friend.

 

“Look. How do you ever expect to be the Marchioness of Taunton one day, standing at the end of a long presentation line for a ball that you are hosting, if you can’t greet a few guests now?”

 

“I never wanted to be the future Marchioness of Taunton, just Mrs. Dickie Channon.”

 

“Well,” Lettice places a consoling hand on the bare shoulder of her friend. “The two come hand-in-hand, Margot darling, so you have to accept it, come what may.”

 

Lettice suddenly thinks of something and starts fossicking around in the drawers of her dressing table. She pulls open the right-hand drawer and pulls out some lemon yellow kid gloves and a pretty white bead necklace which sparkles in the light as she lays it on the dressing table top.

 

“What on earth are you doing, darling?” Margot asks Lettice.

 

Dropping a bright blue bead necklace on the surface of the dressing table next, Lettice makes a disgruntled noise and then reaches for the brass drawer pull of the left-hand drawer.

 

“I’m going to share something with you Margot. Something very special. I wasn’t going to, because it’s mine, and no-one else we know has it. However, it may give you the confidence you need for tonight to have something beautiful that nobody else does.”

 

She drags open the left hand drawer. Its runners protest loudly with a squeaking groan. Beads and chains spew forth as she does, spilling over the edge of the drawer.

 

“Ahh! Here it is!” Lettice cries triumphantly.

 

She withdraws a small eau-de-nil box with black writing on it. Opening it she takes out a stylish bevelled green glass Art Deco bottle which she places on the surface of her dressing table amidst pieces of her jewellery.

 

“What is it?” Margot looks on intrigued, a bemused smile playing upon her lips.

 

“I picked this up when I was last in Paris. I visited a little maison de couture on the rue Cambon. It was owned and run by a remarkable woman named Coco Chanel. She used to own a small boutique in Deauville and her clothes are remarkably simple and stylish. It’s simply called Chanel Number 5.***”

 

Margot picks up the scent bottle in both her elegant hands with undisguised reverence.

 

“Like her clothes, and even the perfume’s name, it is simple, yet unique. I’ve never smelt anything quite like it.”

 

“Oh its divine!” Margot enthuses as she removes the stopper and inhales deeply. ‘Like champagne and jasmine!”

 

“She wasn’t going to sell it to me as she only had the bottle on the counter for her own use, but I begged her after smelling it. No-one else at the party will be wearing this, so why don’t you Margot?”

 

“Really Lettice?”

 

“Yes,” Lettice smiles. “I’ll wear something else. It will be your scent of confidence for this evening.”

 

“Oh thank you darling.” Margot replies humbly. “This scent makes me feel better already.”

 

“Good!” Lettice sighs happily. “Then dab it on and let’s go. The first guests will be here soon, and it will be bad form not to be ready to greet them.”

 

“You’re right Lettice!” Margot agrees, sounding cheerier and more confident.

 

“Besides, Dickie will have made those cocktails for us now.”

 

Margot dabs her neck and wrists with scent from the Chanel Number 5. bottle with the round glass stopper whilst Lettice applies some Habanita****. The two gaze at themselves in Lettice’s looking glass, giving themselves a final check. Lettice with her blonde finger waved chignon and pale blue gown looks the opposite to Margot with her dark waves and silver gown, yet both look beautiful. Suitably satisfied with their appearances, they step away from the dressing table, walk out of Lettice’s dressing room and walk down the hallway to join Dickie who offers them both their cocktail of choice.

 

*A charwoman, chargirl, or char, jokingly charlady, is an old-fashioned occupational term, referring to a paid part-time worker who comes into a house or other building to clean it for a few hours of a day or week, as opposed to a maid, who usually lives as part of the household within the structure of domestic service. In the 1920s, chars usually did all the hard graft work that paid live-in domestics would no longer do as they looked for excuses to leave domestic service for better paying work in offices and factories.

 

**Gunter and Company were London caterers and ball furnishers with shops in Berkley Square, Sloane Street, Lowndes Street and New Bond Street. They began as Gunter’s Tea Shop at 7 and 8 Berley Square 1757 where it remained until 1956 as the business grew and opened different premises. In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries Gunter's became a fashionable light eatery in Mayfair, notable for its ices and sorbets. Gunter's was considered to be the wedding cake makers du jour and in 1889, made the bride cake for the marriage of Queen Victoria’s granddaughter, Princess Louise of Wales. Even after the tea shop finally closed, the catering business carried on until the mid 1970s.

 

***Chanel Number 5. was launched in 1921. Coco Chanel wanted to launch a scent for the new, modern woman she embodied. She loved the scent of soap and freshly-scrubbed skin; Chanel’s mother was a laundrywoman and market stall-holder, though when she died, the young Gabrielle was sent to live with Cistercian nuns at Aubazine. When it came to creating her signature scent, though, freshness was all-important. While holidaying with her lover, Grand Duke Dimitri Pavlovich, she heard tell of a Grasse-based perfumer called Ernest Beaux, who’d been the perfumer darling of the Russian royal family. Over several months, he produced a series of 10 samples to show to ‘Mademoiselle’. They were numbered one to five, and 20 to 24. She picked No. 5

 

****Molinard Habanita was launched in 1921. Molinard say that Habanita was the first women’s fragrance to strongly feature vetiver as an ingredient – something hitherto reserved for men, commenting that ‘Habanita’s innovative style was eagerly embraced by the garçonnes – France’s flappers – and soon became Molinard’s runaway success and an icon in the history of French perfume.’ Originaly conceived as a scent for cigarettes – inserted via glass rods or to sprinkle from a sachet – women had begun sprinkling themselves with it instead, and Molinard eventually released it as a personal fragrance.

 

This rather beautiful, if slightly messy boudoir scene may be a little different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures from my collection. Some pieces in this scene come from my own childhood, whilst other items in this tableau I acquired as a teenager and as an adult through specialist doll shops, online dealers and artists who specialise in making 1:12 miniatures.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Central to this story is the bottle of Chanel Number 5. which stands on the dressing table. It is made of very thinly cut green glass. It, and its accompanying box peeping out of the drawer were made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.

 

Lettice’s Regency dressing table was given to me as part of a Christmas present when I was around ten years old. Made of walnut, it features a real bevelled mirror, a central well for makeup, two working drawers and a faux marble column down each side below the drawers.

 

The same Christmas I was given the Regency dressing table, I was also given a three piece gilt pewter dressing table set consisting of comb, hairbrush and hand mirror, the latter featuring a real piece of mirror set into it. Like the dressing table, these small pieces have survived the tests of time and survived without being lost, even though they are tiny.

 

Even smaller than the gilt dressing table set pieces are the tiny pieces of jewellery on the left-hand side of the dressing table. Amongst the smallest pieces I have in my collection, the gold bangle, pearl and gold brooch and gold and amethyst brooch, along with the ‘diamond’ necklace behind the Chanel perfume bottle, the purple bead necklace hanging from the left-hand drawer and the blue bead necklace to the right of the dressing table’s well, I acquired as part of an artisan jewellery box from a specialist doll house supplier when I was a teenager. Amazingly, they too have not become lost over the passing years since I bought them.

 

Lettice’s Art Deco beaded jewellery casket on the left-hand side of the picture is a handmade artisan piece. All the peary pale blue beads are individually attached and the casket has a black velvet lining. It was made by Pat’s World of Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

To the right of Lettice’s jewellery casket is an ornamental green jar filled with hatpins. The jar is made from a single large glass Art Deco bead, whilst each hatpin is made from either a nickel or brass plate pin with beads for ornamental heads. They were made by Karen Lady Bug Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

There is a selection of sparkling perfume bottles on Lettice’s dressing table and in its well which are handmade by an English artisan for the Little Green Workshop. Made of cut coloured crystals set in a gilt metal frames or using vintage cut glass beads they look so elegant and terribly luxurious.

 

The container of Snowfire Cold Cream standing next to the Chanel perfume bottle was supplied by Shepherd’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom. Exactly like its life size counterpart, it features a very Art Deco design on its lid with geometric patterns in traditionally popular colours of the 1920s with the silhouette of a woman at the top. It is only nine millimetres in diameter and three millimetres in depth. Snowfire was a brand created by F.W. Hampshire and Company, who had a works in Sinfin Lane in Derby. The firm manufactured Snowfire ointment, Zubes (cough sweets) ice cream powder, wafers and cornets; Jubes (fruit sweets covered in sugar). Later it made ointment (for burns) and sweetening tablets. The company was eventually merged with Reckitt Toiletry Products in the 1960s.

 

Lettice’s little green Art Deco boudoir clock is a 1:12 artisan miniature made by Hall’s Miniature Clocks, supplied through Doreen Jeffries Small Wonders Miniatures in England. Made of resin with a green onyx marble effect, it has been gilded by hand and contains a beautifully detailed face beneath a miniature glass cover.

 

Also from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniatures in the United Kingdom are the pale yellow gloves sticking out of the right-hand drawer. Artisan pieces, they are made of kid leather with a fine white braid trim and are so light and soft.

 

The 1920s beaded headdress standing on the wooden hatstand was made by Mrs. Denton of Muffin Lodge in the United Kingdom. You might just notice that it has a single feather aigrette sticking out of it on the right-hand side, held in place by a faceted sequin.

 

The painting you can see hanging in the wall is an artisan miniature of an Elizabethan woman in a gilt frame, made my Marie Makes Miniatures.

 

The geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Today it is Tuesday, and we are in the very modern and up-to-date 1920s kitchen of Lettice’s flat: Edith her maid’s preserve. Being Tuesday, Mrs. Boothby, Lettice’s charwoman* who comes on Tuesdays and every third Thursday to do the hard jobs is busy polishing the floors in Lettice’s bedroom, whilst Edith arranges tea things on the deal kitchen table in the middle of the room whilst she waits for the copper kettle on the stove to boil.

 

“Oh good!” Mrs. Boothby sighs as she slips into the kitchen via the door that leads from the flat’s entrance hall. “You’ve got the kettle on, dearie!” A fruity cough emanates from deep within her wiry little body as she deposits her polishing box beneath the sink and puts the dirty rags that require washing down the laundry chute. “Nah just I’ll just sit ‘ere for a few minutes and you can give me a reviving cup of Rosie-Lee** and I’ll ‘ave a fag before I get started on scrubbin’ the bathroom.”

 

“Oh no you don’t!” Edith says sharply as she places her own hand firmly over the opening of Mrs. Boothby’s blue beaded handbag before the old Cockney woman can grab her cigarette papers, Swan Vestas and tin of Player’s Navy Cut.

 

“What?” Mrs. Boothby looks up at Edith in surprise. “I’m only goin’ for me fags, dearie, not a pistol.”

 

“Miss Lettice has a guest and I’ve just made a Victoria sponge.” She indicates to the golden sponge cake with jam and cream oozing from its middle standing next to Lettice’s Art Deco tea service. “I don’t want it or the tea I’m making smelling of your foul cigarette smoke, Mrs. Boothby!”

 

“Me smoke ain’t foul!” the older woman snaps back.

 

“Yes, it is, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

How Edith hates the older woman’s habit of smoking indoors. When she lived with her parents, neither smoked in the house. Her mother didn’t smoke at all: it would have been unladylike to do so, and her father only smoked a pipe when he went down to the local pub.

 

“The stench comin’ from privy down the end of my rookery, now that’s foul, dearie.”

 

“It’s all relative Mrs. Boothby.” Edith says cheerily. “Now, I will make you a cup of tea since I’m boiling the kettle for Miss Lettice,”

 

“Oh, ta.” Mrs. Boothby says sarcastically.

 

“But if you want to smoke today,” Edith ignores her. “Please go and do so on the porch outside.”

 

Mrs. Boothby groans as she picks herself out of Edith’s comfortable Windsor chair. Grumbling quietly, but not so quietly that Edith can’t hear her muttering, the old woman fossicks through her capacious bag and snatches out a cigarette she had already rolled previously and her box of Swan Vesta matches. She mooches over to the kitchen door that leads to the tradesman’s stairs and lights her cigarette, folding her bony arms akimbo across her sagging chest.

 

“Thank you.” Edith says diplomatically, even though she doesn’t really want to thank the Cockney woman at all.

 

“So,” Mrs. Boothby blows a plume of blueish silver smoke out into the outer corridor. “An American, then.”

 

Edith knows Mrs. Boothby is fishing for gossip on Lettice’s guest, and she doesn’t like to gossip with the charwoman. Unlike her friend and fellow maid Hilda, Mrs. Boothby is not very discreet. “Mmn,” she says non-committally as she starts placing the tea things on a square silver tray, a new purchase by Lettice from Asprey’s.

 

“Oh come on, dearie,” Mrs. Boothby’s eyes roll as she speaks. “Don’t be prim and propa. Ooh is she then?”

 

“You know I don’t like to gossip, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies.

 

“Well, you’d be the only maid this side of St. James what don’t, dearie.”

 

“All I know is that Miss Lettice asked me to bake a Victoria sponge for her guest, and that’s what I’ve done.”

 

“Well ya know ‘er name anyroad, ‘cos ya let ‘er in. Ya can tell me that much at least.”

 

“Her name is Miss Ward.”

 

“Wanetta Ward,” Mrs. Boothby crows triumphantly. “I ‘eard Miss Lettice talkin’ to ‘er.”

 

“Well, if you’ve been listening at keyholes, Mrs. Boothby, I don’t suppose anything I told you would be news then.”

 

“Oh come on, dearie,” she cries. Knowing the chink in Edith’s armour she continues. “What’s she look like then?”

 

As soon as the words are out of Mrs. Boothby’s mouth, Edith’s eyes light up. She loves fashion and the glamourous people that Lettice mixes with. Not that Mrs. Boothby knows it, because she never goes into her room, but Edith has scrapbooks of cuttings of London’s rich and famous clipped from Lettice’s discarded newspapers and magazines in her drawers.

 

“Oh she’s very glamourous! Tall and statuesque.”

 

“Aah,” Mrs. Boothby says dismissively, but the cocked eyebrow that Edith can’t see gives away that her interest has been piqued.

 

“Her hair is a soft curly rich dark auburn set in girlish bob, and she has peaches and cream skin. She is wearing an orchid silk chiffon dress with a matching satin slip. It’s daringly short!” Edith gushes. “You can see the bottom of her calves even before sits down.”

 

“Well, she must be American for certain then, ta wear somethin’ so daring.” Mrs. Boothby coaxes carefully.

 

“She has a beautiful hat to match which is covered in silk flowers. She wouldn’t let me take it from her. Something about her luck? I didn’t really understand. She walks with a walking stick, just for show I think as she has a very elegant gait.”

 

“Oh. I wonder if she’s an actress on the stage?”

 

“Maybe. She certainly has the bearing of a person who commands attention.”

 

“Or maybe,” the charwoman continues, puffing out another cloud of smoke. “Maybe she’s one of them movin’ picture actresses, like what I’ve seen up at the Premier*** in East Ham.”

 

“Imagine!” Edith enthuses, her eyes sparking. “A real American moving picture star!” She looks to the green baize door that leads to the living areas of the flat.

 

“Yes, imagine.” Mrs. Boothby smiles wistfully as she takes a long drag on her cigarette.

 

“Oh, you are awful Mrs. Boothby!” Edith gasps, suddenly realising what she’s done. “You’ve made me gossip.”

 

“Oh, now don’t you worry your pretty ‘ead about it, dearie.” Mrs. Boothby soothes the young maid. “I’m only int’rested in ooh frequents the houses I clean for so I knows I’m in a respectable establishment. I won’t tell a soul. I promise!”

 

The charwoman smiles a yellow toothy grin that makes Edith regret her lack of discretion slightly.

 

“Per’aps she’s come ta be a film star in London. I read in the papers that they’s makin’ films ‘ere in London, over in ‘Oxton**** nah the war’s over!”

 

“Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that Mrs. Boothby.” she mutters, turning her back on the Cockney woman to hide the blush crossing her face after realising that she has been taken in by her.

 

Taking the kettle off the stove Edith fills the elegant gilded white porcelain pot and stirs it. She goes to the dresser and removes a pretty Delftware teacup and saucer and puts it on the table. She pours of little of the tea from Lettice’s pot into the cup, adds a splash of milk and some sugar. She refills Lettice’s pot.

 

“Tea, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith places the Delftware teacup and saucer into the Cockney woman’s empty right hand as it pokes out from beneath her left elbow.

 

“Oh, ta!” she replies gratefully. Lifting the cup to her lips she takes a sip, savouring the delicious hot beverage.

 

“I must take the tea in to Miss Lettice.” Edith says in as businesslike a fashion as she can manage.

 

“And yer want ta get annuva geezer at your beautiful star again.” Another fruity cough escapes her throat as she chuckles to herself. “Ain’t I right?” She taps her nose with her left hand, the glowing but of the cigarette nestled between her index and middle fingers. “I know a young girl’s heart. B’lieve it or not, I used ta be a young slip of a fing once too!”

 

“Just leave the cup in the sink before you clean the bathroom.” Edith blanches at being caught out as starstruck. “I will have these things to wash later.”

 

Edith smiles conspiratorially at Mrs. Boothby, picks up the tray of tea things, holds her head high and slips through the green baize door into the dining room of the flat to serve her mistress and her glamorous guest, American Wanetta Ward in the drawing room beyond.

 

*A charwoman, chargirl, or char, jokingly charlady, is an old-fashioned occupational term, referring to a paid part-time worker who comes into a house or other building to clean it for a few hours of a day or week, as opposed to a maid, who usually lives as part of the household within the structure of domestic service. In the 1920s, chars usually did all the hard graft work that paid live-in domestics would no longer do as they looked for excuses to leave domestic service for better paying work in offices and factories.

 

**Rosie-Lee is Cockney slang for tea, and it is one of the most well-known of all Cockney rhyming slang.

 

***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.

 

****Islington Studios, often known as Gainsborough Studios, were a British film studio located on the south bank of the Regent's Canal, in Poole Street, Hoxton in Shoreditch, London which began operation in 1919. By 1920 they had a two stage studio. It is here that Alfred Hitchcock made his entrée into films.

 

This busy domestic kitchen scene is a little different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures from my miniatures collection, some of which come from my own childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Lettice’s tea set is a beautiful artisan set featuring a rather avant-garde Art Deco Royal Doulton design from the Edwardian era. It stands on a silver tray that is part of tea set that comes from Smallskale Miniatures in England. To see the whole set, please click on this link: www.flickr.com/photos/40262251@N03/51111056404/in/photost...

 

The Victoria sponge (named after Queen Victoria) is made by Polly’s Pantry Miniatures in America. The vase of flowers on the table is made of glass and it and the bouquet have been made by hand by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The box of Lyon’s tea has been made by Jonesey’s Miniatures in England.

 

On the dresser that can be seen just to the right of shot stands a Cornishware cannister. Cornishware is a striped kitchenware brand trademarked to and manufactured by T.G. Green & Co Ltd. Originally introduced in the 1920s and manufactured in Church Gresley, Derbyshire, it was a huge success for the company and in the succeeding 30 years it was exported around the world. The company ceased production in June 2007 when the factory closed under the ownership of parent company, The Tableshop Group. The range was revived in 2009 after T.G. Green was bought by a trio of British investors.

 

Edith’s Windsor chair is a hand-turned 1:12 artisan miniature which came from America. Unfortunately, the artist did not carve their name under the seat, but it is definitely an unmarked artisan piece.

 

In the background you can see a very modern and up-to-date 1920s gas stove. It would have been expensive to instal at the time, and it would have been the cook’s or maid’s pleasure to cook on and in. It would have included a thermostat for perfect cooking and without the need of coal, it was much cleaner to feed, use and easier to clean. It is not unlike those made by the Roper Stove Company in the 1920s. The Roper Stove Company previously named the Florence-Wehrle Company among other names, was founded in 1883. Located in Newark, Ohio, the company was once the largest stove producer in the world. Today, the Roper Stove Company is a brand of Whirlpool.

In 2014 the great artist, fashion and interior designer Isastella Corbara Sartori, worldwide famous with different art pseudos like Isa and Laetitia, primary designer for many years of the most exclusive apparel,accessories &jewellery limited edition collections of Barney's NY, collaborated with White Angel and myself for our music movie "Survivors of the Third Millennium", in particular to focus and visually finalize the concept written by White Angel on her visions and block for the movie, presented in worldwide première at the Foundation of Palazzo delle Stelline in Milano. Isastella and Angel have agreed a lot on the principles of an imagined future world after an apocalyptic event.

This lettering is the personation of one of their shared and deeply believed ideas and has been entered in the final sequences of the movie, just before the final titles with the credits to all the cooperators who worked in team to make true White Angel's dream .

We both want to dedicate our last pics quota of this collective profile to the magistral art of an amazing Master and one of our most loved mentors: Isastella Corbara Sartori, a grand Artist, a true Friend, an amazing Earthling.

 

Text transcript:

 

I AM MY OWN SOIL,

I SEED WHAT THEY TAUGHT ME,

YOU ARE MY CROP,

I AM MY OWN NET

 

©Isastella Corbara Sartori

co-shared with ©Vintage Workshop®

All rights reserved.

 

Notice: More pictures illustrating her creations and some portraits of her that we had the privilege to shoot at her private home, her studio and on the occasion of our meetings and exhibitions, will be shared in this same album in the next weeks and months.

 

Barbie®’s 50th Birthday Party at her Real-Life Malibu Dream House®

 

Photo courtesy Mattel

 

Styled and decorated by famed, “Happy Chic” interior designer Jonathan Adler

Party planned by renowned event planner Colin Cowie

Music provided by DJ AM

 

AT THE PARTY:

1,800 pairs of Barbie® sunglasses, 3,500 pairs of tiny shoes and 3,500 mini handbags fill up custom-designed lucite tables

3,000 pink roses, 100 hydrangea and 300 ranunculus make up the centerpieces

Guests can toast Barbie® with signature drinks including, Barbie Doll-icious!, Ken’s Caiprirosca, Strawberry Blonde and It’s a Pink Thing

146 pounds of pink candy including mints, chocolate, licorice, rock candy, gummy lips, jelly beans and more line the dessert table

1,030 pounds of ice make up the cake ice sculpture

 

INSIDE BARBIE’S HOUSE:

The wall-to-wall carpeting lining Barbie®’s bedroom and hallway feature a custom-designed “B” pattern

Over 200 yards of fuchsia velvet fabric were used to turn Barbie®’s bedroom into the dreamiest place in the house

50 custom-designed Barbie® pink peep-toe Christian Louboutin heels (straight from Barbie®’s first ever Runway Show at Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week this February) line Barbie®’s shoe closet

65 reproduction dolls of the original 1959 Black & White Bathing Suit® Barbie® doll were used to create an eye-catching one-of-a-kind wall mirror featured in the main living room

The sitting room’s “hair” chandelier, designed by Chris March (contestant on Season 4 of “Project Runway”), consists of 30 blonde wigs and took more than 60 hours to construct

Two pink plastic poodles on lucite pedestals flank the fireplace

Three pieces of Barbie® vintage art hang on the walls throughout the house, including the iconic portrait of Barbie by Andy Warhol and the Donald Baechler “Ice Cream” portrait

Barbie®’s in-house museum features 25 of the most iconic dolls throughout her 50 years.

 

WHAT’S NEXT FOR BARBIE®:

Barbie®’s custom décor and signature pieces from the Malibu Dream House® will be heading to Las Vegas! This spring, the Palms Casino Resort will launch the Barbie® Suite, the ultimate Vegas destination for bachelorettes, birthdays and anyone who wants to be pampered in pink. Additionally, select items from the house will available for purchase as part of the “Jonathan Adler Loves Barbie” collection launching this September.

 

Izzy and her mom the baker. Photo requested by and taken for Ann Marie C.

Miami Beach is a coastal resort city in Miami-Dade County, Florida, United States. It was incorporated on March 26, 1915. The municipality is located on natural and man-made barrier islands between the Atlantic Ocean and Biscayne Bay, the latter of which separates the Beach from the mainland city of Miami. The neighborhood of South Beach, comprising the southernmost 2.5 square miles (6.5 km2) of Miami Beach, along with downtown Miami and the Port of Miami, collectively form the commercial center of South Florida. Miami Beach's estimated population is 92,307 according to the most recent United States census estimates. Miami Beach is the 26th largest city in Florida based on official 2017 estimates from the US Census Bureau. It has been one of America's pre-eminent beach resorts since the early 20th century.

 

In 1979, Miami Beach's Art Deco Historic District was listed on the National Register of Historic Places. The Art Deco District is the largest collection of Art Deco architecture in the world and comprises hundreds of hotels, apartments and other structures erected between 1923 and 1943. Mediterranean, Streamline Moderne and Art Deco are all represented in the District. The Historic District is bounded by the Atlantic Ocean on the East, Lenox Court on the West, 6th Street on the South and Dade Boulevard along the Collins Canal to the North. The movement to preserve the Art Deco District's architectural heritage was led by former interior designer Barbara Baer Capitman, who now has a street in the District named in her honor.

 

Miami Beach is governed by a ceremonial mayor and six commissioners. Although the mayor runs commission meetings, the mayor and all commissioners have equal voting power and are elected by popular election. The mayor serves for terms of two years with a term limit of three terms and commissioners serve for terms of four years and are limited to two terms. Commissioners are voted for citywide and every two years three commission seats are voted upon.

A city manager is responsible for administering governmental operations. An appointed city manager is responsible for administration of the city. The City Clerk and the City Attorney are also appointed officials.

 

In 1870, a father and son, Henry and Charles Lum, purchased the land for 75 cents an acre. The first structure to be built on this uninhabited oceanfront was the Biscayne House of Refuge, constructed in 1876 by the United States Life-Saving Service at approximately 72nd Street. Its purpose was to provide food, water, and a return to civilization for people who were shipwrecked. The next step in the development of the future Miami Beach was the planting of a coconut plantation along the shore in the 1880s by New Jersey entrepreneurs Ezra Osborn and Elnathan Field, but this was a failed venture. One of the investors in the project was agriculturist John S. Collins, who achieved success by buying out other partners and planting different crops, notably avocados, on the land that would later become Miami Beach. Meanwhile, across Biscayne Bay, the City of Miami was established in 1896 with the arrival of the railroad, and developed further as a port when the shipping channel of Government Cut was created in 1905, cutting off Fisher Island from the south end of the Miami Beach peninsula.

 

Collins' family members saw the potential in developing the beach as a resort. This effort got underway in the early years of the 20th century by the Collins/Pancoast family, the Lummus brothers (bankers from Miami), and Indianapolis entrepreneur Carl G. Fisher. Until then, the beach here was only the destination for day-trips by ferry from Miami, across the bay. By 1912, Collins and Pancoast were working together to clear the land, plant crops, supervise the construction of canals to get their avocado crop to market, and set up the Miami Beach Improvement Company. There were bath houses and food stands, but no hotel until Brown's Hotel was built in 1915 (still standing, at 112 Ocean Drive). Much of the interior land mass at that time was a tangled jungle of mangroves. Clearing it, deepening the channels and water bodies, and eliminating native growth almost everywhere in favor of landfill for development, was expensive. Once a 1600-acre, jungle-matted sand bar three miles out in the Atlantic, it grew to 2,800 acres when dredging and filling operations were completed.

 

With loans from the Lummus brothers, Collins had begun work on a 2½-mile-long wooden bridge, the world's longest wooden bridge at the time, to connect the island to the mainland. When funds ran dry and construction work stalled, Indianapolis millionaire and recent Miami transplant Fisher intervened, providing the financing needed to complete the bridge the following year in return for a land swap deal. That transaction kicked off the island's first real estate boom. Fisher helped by organizing an annual speed boat regatta, and by promoting Miami Beach as an Atlantic City-style playground and winter retreat for the wealthy. By 1915, Lummus, Collins, Pancoast, and Fisher were all living in mansions on the island, three hotels and two bath houses had been erected, an aquarium built, and an 18-hole golf course landscaped.

 

The Town of Miami Beach was chartered on March 26, 1915; it grew to become a City in 1917. Even after the town was incorporated in 1915 under the name of Miami Beach, many visitors thought of the beach strip as Alton Beach, indicating just how well Fisher had advertised his interests there. The Lummus property was called Ocean Beach, with only the Collins interests previously referred to as Miami Beach.

Carl Fisher was the main promoter of Miami Beach's development in the 1920s as the site for wealthy industrialists from the north and Midwest to and build their winter homes here. Many other Northerners were targeted to vacation on the island. To accommodate the wealthy tourists, several grand hotels were built, among them: The Flamingo Hotel, The Fleetwood Hotel, The Floridian, The Nautilus, and the Roney Plaza Hotel. In the 1920s, Fisher and others created much of Miami Beach as landfill by dredging Biscayne Bay; this man-made territory includes Star, Palm, and Hibiscus Islands, the Sunset Islands, much of Normandy Isle, and all of the Venetian Islands except Belle Isle. The Miami Beach peninsula became an island in April 1925 when Haulover Cut was opened, connecting the ocean to the bay, north of present-day Bal Harbour. The great 1926 Miami hurricane put an end to this prosperous era of the Florida Boom, but in the 1930s Miami Beach still attracted tourists, and investors constructed the mostly small-scale, stucco hotels and rooming houses, for seasonal rental, that comprise much of the present "Art Deco" historic district.

 

Carl Fisher brought Steve Hannagan to Miami Beach in 1925 as his chief publicist. Hannagan set-up the Miami Beach News Bureau and notified news editors that they could "Print anything you want about Miami Beach; just make sure you get our name right." The News Bureau sent thousands of pictures of bathing beauties and press releases to columnists like Walter Winchell and Ed Sullivan. One of Hannagan's favorite venues was a billboard in Times Square, New York City, where he ran two taglines: "'It's always June in Miami Beach' and 'Miami Beach, Where Summer Spends the Winter.'"

 

Post–World War II economic expansion brought a wave of immigrants to South Florida from the Northern United States, which significantly increased the population in Miami Beach within a few decades. After Fidel Castro's rise to power in 1959, a wave of Cuban refugees entered South Florida and dramatically changed the demographic make-up of the area. In 2017, one study named zip code 33109 (Fisher Island, a 216-acre island located just south of Miami Beach), as having the 4th most expensive home sales and the highest average annual income ($2.5 million) in 2015.

 

South Beach (also known as SoBe, or simply the Beach), the area from Biscayne Street (also known as South Pointe Drive) one block south of 1st Street to about 23rd Street, is one of the more popular areas of Miami Beach. Although topless sunbathing by women has not been officially legalized, female toplessness is tolerated on South Beach and in a few hotel pools on Miami Beach. Before the TV show Miami Vice helped make the area popular, SoBe was under urban blight, with vacant buildings and a high crime rate. Today, it is considered one of the richest commercial areas on the beach, yet poverty and crime still remain in some places near the area.

 

Miami Beach, particularly Ocean Drive of what is now the Art Deco District, was also featured prominently in the 1983 feature film Scarface and the 1996 comedy The Birdcage.

The New World Symphony Orchestra is based in Miami Beach, under the direction of Michael Tilson Thomas.

Lincoln Road, running east-west parallel between 16th and 17th Streets, is a nationally known spot for outdoor dining and shopping and features galleries of well known designers, artists and photographers such as Romero Britto, Peter Lik, and Jonathan Adler. In 2015, the Miami Beach residents passed a law forbidding bicycling, rollerblading, skateboarding and other motorized vehicles on Lincoln Road during busy pedestrian hours between 9:00am and 2:00am.

 

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

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Miami_Beach,_Florida

 

© All Rights Reserved - you may not use this image in any form without my prior permission.

   

Woody helping me decide which new carpet I can't afford. I think its clear which one he likes, something that better complements his colouring. (And fortunately its not even the most expensive one..he's lying on that...)

Interior designer Christiaan Bakker fixes his Maquette.

The Buddha-Bar is a bar, restaurant, and hotel franchise created by restaurateur Raymond Vişan and DJ and interior designer Claude Challe, with its original location having opened in Paris, France in 1996. The Buddha Bar "soon became a reference among foreign yuppies and wealthy tourists visiting the city", and "has spawned numerous imitators" becoming popular in part because of the DJ's choice of eclectic, avant-garde music. It became known internationally for issuing popular compilations of lounge, chill-out music and world music, also under the Buddha Bar brand, released by George V Records. Locations have since been opened in a number of other countries, although not without controversy arising from the theme.

 

Equipment=Nikon D7000

 

Lens Used=Tamron SP AF 10-24mm F/3.5-4.5 Lens

 

Exposures=7

 

Location=Budapest, Hungary

 

Workflow=Luminosity Masks

 

Adobe Lightroom 5,

 

Nik Color Efex=Glamour Glow

 

OnOne Photo 10=Dynamic Contrast

Hi everyone,

 

I'm sharing with you a video and photo footage later on in high quality of the vanity build. I did plan on doing a whole bathroom but if you're interested in this video I'll do multiple parts in sections with each space of the bathroom so that you can follow through. This build is not a manual illustration or guide to real life design but simply explaining the process of design into a virtual world.

 

Tips & Notes;

 

The points are as mentioned in the following.

 

Mood-boards, colour palate, style, genre.

 

Pinterest is a helpful key to finding inspiration from other interior designers, decorators and architects.

Or perhaps your a collector of magazines, flick through them and cut out pages, glue them in a text book to create a colleague.

Puzzle together the colours you have in mind and how the mediums will work with one another. The principals of colour are quite

important to follow up with. If your stuck, look online for swatches to mix and match with. When I was university I was very

lucky to win a Taubman's paint swatch kit with every single paint of theirs. Whilst you're thinking of what colours you want to use

while looking for inspiration, think about the style or genre, like Hampton, black tie depression or Retro. My favourite is

Scandinavian because I'm part Norwegian so I just happen to gravitate to this style.

 

- Space; Once you have your structure and know where your bathrooms will be located, such as house holder

bathroom or one or more individual bathroom suites. When you have the bathroom

think about what it is that you'd really desire, maybe a stand-alone bath tub or a 2 man shower.

Have fun and explore the endless choices.

 

- Planning; The opportunities are endless as after all this is a virtual world where mistakes can't happen.

However what you have thought about adding to your bathroom, begin to think more realistic about the space.

 

Some other points to take into consideration.

 

- Structural Provisions

- Protection of openings

- Room Heights

- Space per person

- Light and Ventilation

- Access for people with a disability. Even though this isn't important for Second Life, it'll show that you have an understanding of floor coverage and space planning.

 

If your intrigued and would like to ask questions or want to know more about my process to building, I'd love to share.

 

I don't own rights to the music, it's simply for entertainment use and I make no profit off from the video itself.

 

JHI website; www.jackhanbyinteriors.com/

 

Credits;

 

The textures I've used are my own but someday I might do texture packs.

 

llorisen // menke duplex loft w/o curtains

 

Mithral * Tabletop Trio - *Now* available at Equal10 July round

 

Loft & Aria - Arion Floor Lamp

:neigeux: Electrical Outlet No.1[T2]High1

6. Minimalist Glass Bowl sink

BIGBULLY Thelma Wall Tap

Fancy Decor: Nannerl Bowl

Fancy Decor: Verona Towel Stack

Fancy Decor: Eagan Bowl

FD & Commoner: Modine Round Tray

[ARIA] Deloros Decorative Soap Dispenser

ARIA - Ava Sculpture

/ frag.ment's / Aromatherapy ( Woven Whites )

Skull Mask - inWorldLight

Fancy Decor: Minimal Art

Nutmeg. Attic Hideout Vase3

Loft & Aria - Turin Credenza

Fancy Decor: Prism Console

   

Client list is open for October 2020!

 

Book here:

- www.asharhia.com/shui-interiors

 

or here:

- www.facebook.com/AshaRhia.Interior.Designer/

Complete Homes Solutions is one of the best interior designer company in Mohali, Punjab. Who will enhance the beauty of your dream homes @ mohali.completehomes.in

glasgow

 

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Mom musta been mid-20's here.

 

She married Pops at 23;

Dad was 5 years older, when he slid into a Downtown office , where he was running an errand,

and Judith was working behind a desk, and

Eddie (more of a "Fast Eddie- then"

"charmed" my Mom with his

"super-suave-cito-ness", and the rest- as they say- was HISTORY!

 

(Photo was supplied by my Cousin Linda- a picture I'd not seen before....lifted off a Screenshot from F.B.)

  

R.I.P. Judith Kramer > 1933- 2024

Denver, CO - I have currently been working with an interior designer, who is great to work with, and quite talented. For this shot, I used a Godox AD200 Pro flash pointed directly at the ceiling.

"Luxury brands, high street stores and beautiful boutiques, we have it covered. Shopping in Edinburgh is a fantastic experience catering to all tastes, styles and budgets"