I convinced my mom to let me paint this corner cabinet that was her moms. It was a orange oak color. I painted it white and the back of the shelves and front of the doors are pink. I added the green knobs. It really complements my dishes now.

Found slide, 1977

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

 

It's a quarter past eight and Lettice is still happily asleep in her bed, buried beneath a thick and soft counterpane of embroidered oriental satin brocade, whilst the rest of Mayfair is slowly awakening in the houses and flats around her. Her peaceful slumbers are rudely interrupted by a peremptory knock on her boudoir door.

 

“Morning Miss.” Edith, Lettice’s maid, says brightly as she pops her head around the white painted panelled door as she opens it.

 

Lettice groans – a most unladylike reaction – as she starts to wake up, disorientated, wondering for just a moment where she is before realising that she is in her own bed in Cavendish Mews. Raising her head she groans and winces as Edith draws the curtains back along their railing, flooding the room with a light, which whilst anaemic, is still painful to her eyes as the adjust.

 

“It’s looking a little overcast this morning, Miss.” the maid says brightly. “But this is England, the home of changeable weather,” She walks back across her mistress’ boudoir, lifts the upholstered lid on a wicker laundry basket just inside the bathroom door and deposits Lettice’s lacy undergarments and stockings, swept expertly by her from the floor, into it. “So, who knows what today’s mixed bag may hold.” She emerges and goes to one of Lettice’s polished wardrobes where she withdraws a pale pink bed jacket trimmed in marabou feathers from its wooden hanger.

 

Lettice groans again as she stretches and leans forward, whilst Edith hangs the bed jacket over her shoulders and fluffs up Lettice’s pillows. “How can you be so cheerful at this ungodly time of the morning, Edith?”

 

“Practice.” Edith replies matter-of-factly, rolling her eyes to the white plaster ceiling above. “Up you come, Miss.” she says encouragingly. “That’s it.”

 

As Lettice arranges herself in a sitting position, leaning against the pillows, Edith goes back to the open bedroom door and disappears momentarily into the hallway before returning with Lettice’s breakfast tray.

 

Prodding and plucking her pillows behind her to her satisfaction, Lettice nestles into her nest as she sits up properly in bed and allows her maid to place the tray across her lap. She looks down approvingly at the slice of golden toast in the middle of the pretty floral plate, the egg in the matching egg cup and the pot of tea with steam rising from the spout. She goes to lift the lid of the silver preserve pot.

 

“Damson preserve from Glynes, Miss.” Edith elucidates.

 

“Jolly good, Edith.” Lettice takes up a spoon and begins to dollop the rich gelatinous dark damson preserve onto her slice of toast. “I’m glad I pinched a few jars from Mater and Pater last time I went back to Wiltshire in spite of Mrs. Casterton’s protestations. I’m still His Lordship’s daughter, even if I don’t live at Glynes any more.”

 

“I imagine you upset her housekeeping records with your pinching, Miss.”

 

“Oh fie Mrs. Casterton’s records!” Lettice admonishes her parent’s long time housekeeper. She takes the knife and spreads the thick layer across the toast before cutting the slice in half with crunching strokes. Picking up a slice, she takes a dainty mouthful, closing her eyes in delight as she allows the rich fruity flavour of the damsons to reach her tastebuds. “Oh! Sheer bliss!” Depositing the bitten slice black on her plate, she rubs her index and middle fingers against her thumb to get rid of any cloying crumbs. “Any post yet, Edith?”

 

“Well, there is something which came via a delivery boy from Southwark Street* this morning, which I think might take your interest, Miss.”

 

“Southwark Street?” Lettice ponders as Edith walks the length of her mistress’ bedroom back to the open door. “I know that name. Why? Southwark Street… Southwark Street…” And then she realises why.

 

Lettice looks down the length of the room with suddenly wide and alert eyes, expectantly, to where Edith holds up a copy of Country Life** in the doorway. She gasps. “Oh hoorah! Bring it here this instant, Edith!” She holds out her arms, twiddling her fingers anxiously.

 

“Yes Miss.” Edith bobs a curtsey and brings the crisp magazine to her mistress’ bedside.

 

“Have you read it yet, Edith?”

 

“Miss!” Edith gasps, colour filling her cheeks at Lettice’s suggestion. “As if I would.”

 

Lettice gives her a doubtful stare making her maid blush even more. “So, you did then.” She shakes out the magazine which elicits the crisp crumple of fresh paper.

 

“Page eighteen, Miss.” Edith confirms with a smirk.

 

“Well, this changes my plans for the day then, Edith.” Lettice opines brightly as she takes up her bitten triangle of toast.

 

“Miss?” Edith queries.

 

“I was going to stay at home today, but I’ll have to pay a call on Gerald, and darling Margot en route back from Grosvenor Square.” She opens up the copy of Country life and hurriedly flips to page eighteen. “Can you pick me out something seasonably suitable.”

 

“Yes Miss.” Edith says, dropping a quick bob curtsey and walking into Lettice’s adjoining dressing room.

 

“What’s the weather like out there today?” Lettice asks before taking a bite of toast with a sigh and settling back into her fluffed pillow, preparing to read.

 

“As I said before, cloudy, I’m afraid, Miss. The forecast in the papers*** this morning say that it might rain this afternoon.”

 

“Typical,” Lettice sighs as she looks at the photos of the newly decorated Pagoda Room at Arkwright Bury captured in the Country Life photographer’s lens. “The day I have to go out, it decides to rain.

 

“Your Burberry****, then Miss?” Edith asks, popping her head around the door.

 

“Hhhmmm” Lettice purrs approvingly. “Very wise, Perhaps something neutral, say eau-de-nil, to go underneath, to suit it then.”

 

“Yes Miss!” Edith disappears into the dressing room again.

 

“Now, let’s see what my dear Mr. Tipping***** has to say about me this time.”

 

As Lettice glances towards the columns of elegant typeface her mind is carried back to the day she was let into Arkwright Bury by Mr. and Mrs. Gifford’s housekeeper, Mrs. Beaven to await the return of the owners of the Wiltshire house after their seaside holiday to Bournemouth.

 

Mr. Gifford’s uncle, Sir John Nettleford-Hughes was the one who set the wheels in motion for Lettice to visit Arkwright Bury and his nephew, Mr. Alisdair Gifford. Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John is still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intends to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. As an eligible man in a time when such men are a rare commodity, with a vast family estate in Bedfordshire, houses in Mayfair, Belgravia and Pimlico and Fontengil Park in Wiltshire, quite close to the Glynes estate, Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, invited him as a potential suitor to her 1922 Hunt Ball, which she used as a marriage market for Lettice. Luckily Selwyn Spencely, the handsome eldest son of the Duke of Walmsford, rescued Lettice from the horror of having to entertain him, and Sir John left the ball early in a disgruntled mood with a much younger partygoer. Lettice reacquainted herself with Sir John at an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Gladys Caxton at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, a baronial Art and Crafts castle near the hamlet of Kershopefoot in Cumberland. To her surprise, Lettice found Sir John’s company rather enjoyable. As she was leaving to return to London on the Monday, Sir John approached her and asked if she might meet with his nephew, Mr. Gifford, as he wished to have a room in his Wiltshire house, Arkwright Bury, redecorated as a surprise for his Australian wife Adelina, who collects blue and white porcelain but as of that time had no place identified to display it at Arkwright Bury. Lettice arranged a discreet meeting with Mr. Gifford at Cavendish Mews to discuss matters with him, and was then invited to luncheon with the Giffords at Arkwright Bury under the ruse that she, as an acquaintance of the Giffords with her interest in interior design, had come for a tour of the partially redecorated house. She agreed to take on the job of redecorating the room using a facsimile print of the original papers hanging in what was then called the ‘Pagoda Room’ before an 1870s fire, reproduced by Jeffrey and Company******. In spite of her concerns that Mrs. Gifford might not appreciate Lettice decorating a room in the home she herself was decorating, Mr. Gifford persuaded her to take the commission with the sweetener that his godfather, the Architectural Editor of Country Life, Henry Tipping, would write a favourable review of her interior decoration, thus promoting her work and capabilities as a society interior designer.

 

Lettice took advantage of a window of opportunity provided with the Giffords taking a short seaside holiday in Bournemouth, arranging for her professional paper hangers from London to visit Arkwright Bury and hang the small quantity of wallpaper produced from a sketch done by Lettice. She then hired several of her father’s agricultural labourers from the Glynes estate for the day, to carefully move furniture intended for use in the room into place and unpack the many boxes of Mrs. Gifford’s collection, carefully laying the pieces out so that Lettice could then arrange them all in what she hoped would be a pleasing manner to Mrs. Gifford’s own aesthetic eye.

 

Lettice remembers sitting in the light filled drawing room of Arkwright Bury, decorated in traditional country house style with lots of chintz coverings, much to Lettice’s displeasure with her preference for more modern patterns. Sitting in a pool of light cast through the large bay window of the drawing room she heard the clunk and splutter of the Giffords’ motor long before she saw it perambulate up the gravel driveway, and her heart began race. She worried that Mrs. Gifford, with her own very definite taste in interior design, would dislike what she had been commissioned to do, and her heartrate increased as the car pulled up before the front doors, and beat still faster as the pair walked through the drawing room door.

 

“Why Miss Chetwynd!” Mrs. Gifford exclaimed awkwardly. “We weren’t expecting you.”

 

As she flew into a fluster, half apologising for missing an engagement she forgot that she even had with Lettice, and half making sure that Mrs. Beavan had taken care of her in she and her husband’s absence, Mr. Gifford tried to calm her.

 

“There, there, Adelina.” he soothed. “You weren’t expecting Miss Chetwynd. However, I was.”

 

“Oh Alisdair!” she chided him. “That’s just as bad!” She turned to Lettice, standing uncomfortably in front of one of Mrs. Gifford’s pink chintz sofas, trying not to watch the drama unfolding before her. “Miss Chetwynd, I must apologise for my husband’s forgetfulness. If he’s told me, I would have made sure we left Bournemouth earlier than we did.” She turned back to her husband. “And you were the one who told me that I had plenty of time to shop in Burton’s***** in The Square******, when all this time you knew Miss Chetwynd would be here, awaiting us, Alisdair! Really! You must really think me an uncouth little colonial, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“It’s quite alright, Mrs. Gifford.” Lettice assured her with an anxious chuckle, putting out her arms, clad in the mulberry knit of her cardigan, to calm the excitable antipodean.

 

“Calm yourself Adelina.” her husband purred. “Miss Chetwynd is here on my bidding, my dear. She is part of your surprise that I told you about on the motor home from Dorset.”

 

“What?” Mrs. Gifford asked, her anxious gesticulating suddenly ceasing.

 

“I asked Miss Chetwynd here today because she has helped create the wonderful surprise for you.” Mr. Gifford explained. “It’s capital to have you here, Miss Chetwynd. Capital!”

 

“Mr. Gifford.” Lettice acknowledged the young man with a curt nod.

 

“I think, since it was your doing, you should lead the way.” Mr. Gifford went on.

 

“Miss Chetwynd’s work?” Mrs. Gifford asked anxiously, her eyes suddenly growing dark as she eyed Lettice. “What has she done, Alisdair?”

 

“Your husband commissioned me to do some work for you, Mrs. Gifford.” Lettice explained hurriedly, her stomach already starting to curdle, as she tried to shift any potential blame from herself and onto Mr. Gifford.

 

“Alisdair?” Mrs. Gifford snapped, thrusting her husband’s cloying hands away irritably as she turned her steely gaze to him. “Is this true? What have you commissioned Miss Chetwynd to do?”

 

“Just a little something for you as a treat, my dear.” he assured her with his usual, genial smile. “A way of saying thank you for all the hard work you’ve put into redecorating our new home since we inherited it.”

 

“Work that obviously is not up to standard, if you felt it necessary to go and engage the services of Miss Chetwynd, Alisdair!” Mrs. Gifford snapped.

 

“Nonsense, Adelina!” Mr. Gifford assured her.

 

“I did express my concerns about taking on this commission, Mrs. Gifford,” Lettice defended. “I was worried that you wouldn’t appreciate me interloping into your interior designs. But your husband was quite insistent.”

 

“Oh yes,” she replied, her mouth a narrow and bloodless line across her face. “Alisdair always wears people down when he wants his way, Miss Chetwynd. It’s quite alright. I shall lay the blame for whatever has transpired directly at your feet, Alisdair.”

 

“If you dislike it, my dear.” Mr. Gifford countered, a gentle and patient smile on his face, as he accepted any bitterness directed to him by his wife, as though a seasoned expert in how to manage her tirades. “You don’t even know what Miss Chetwynd has done yet.”

 

“Well,” she replied begrudgingly. “Perhaps you’d better show me.”

 

“Yes, do lead the way, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Gifford said blithely, waving his hand in a flourishing way toward the door leading out of the Arkwright Bury drawing room and into the hallway.

 

With her anxiety growing, souring her stomach, Lettice did as she was bid, and led the disgruntled Mrs. Gifford, face black as thunder, up the main central staircase of the house, with Mr. Gifford dancing with excitement and delight around the pair of them, like a little boy on Christmas Day about to open his presents, stating over and over “Capital, Miss Chetwynd! Capital!”, until finally they arrived before the door of what had been the sad and neglected study of Mr. Gifford’s deceased older brother, Cuthbert.

 

Reluctantly Lettice stopped before the door of the study and took a deep breath before opening it and ushering Mr. and Mrs. Gifford in with a sweeping gesture. She held her breath and closed her eyes tightly, awaiting Mrs. Gifford’s angry or acerbic remarks about the room she had so lovingly designed and pieced together with all good intentions behind her back. Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes and followed the Giffords into the newly created and reimagined Pagoda Room.

 

Lettice glanced lovingly around the small room, which was now completely transformed from what had been Cuthbert’s neglected former study. With the old, heavy curtains removed from the large sash windows and replaced with lighter and less obtrusive ones, the room was flooded with sunshine. The light bounced off the stylised Eighteenth Century orientally inspired wallpaper designs she had so lovingly recreated in green and blue, the antique Wiltshire made ladderback chairs Lettice selected from those stored in one of Arkwright Bury’s outbuildings, Mrs. Gifford’s beautiful marquetry loo table in the centre of the room, and of course, her wonderful collection of blue and white china.

 

“I’m sorry Mrs. Gifford,” Lettice began as the woman gasped, but she was silenced by Mrs. Gifford who held up her hand to stop Lettice’s protestations.

 

“Miss Chetwynd! What you have created,” Mrs. Gifford began “It’s… it’s wonderful!” she enthused. “It’s far more than I had ever envisaged for this room. I… I was going to put up a few shelves because I simply no longer had the energy, or the vision for this room after redecorating the house.”

 

“See,” Mr. Gifford said tenderly. “I told you that you deserved a gift of thanks after all that you have done here, Adelina.”

 

“Well, I can’t thank you enough, both of you.” Mrs. Gifford replied. “Now I see what a poor home for my collection a few shelves would have been. Miss Chetwynd, you have turned this neglected and forgotten room into a showcase for my collection. How can I ever thank you?”

 

“Oh, I shouldn’t worry too much about that, Adelina my dear!” Mr. Gifford piped up with a smile. “Miss Chetwynd’s reward will be a favourable review written by my godfather in Country Life.”

 

Sitting in her bed, Lettice now skims the article, delighted by Henry Tipping’s enthusiastic review of The Pagoda Room, calling it a ‘tasteful and sympathetic remodelling and reimagination of what might have been’ and ‘an elegant restoration of a forgotten corner of Arkwright Bury, transforming it into a stylish showpiece of interior design’. She sighs as she glances at the photographs filling the page, highlighting the paper hangings and the pieces Lettice carefully arranges about the room.

 

“Oh, I almost forgot, Miss.” Edith interrupts Lettice’s silent reveries abruptly.

 

“Forgot what, Edith?” Lettice queries.

 

“This, Miss.” Edith withdraws an envelope of creamy white with Lettice’s name and Cavendish Mews address written on the front in elegant copperplate.

 

Lettice accepts the correspondence from her apologetic maid. She turns the envelope over in her hands with interest, admiring the thickness and quality.

 

“It looks rather posh********, Miss.” Edith remarks. “Perhaps it’s from the palace: an Invitation from The King.”

 

Lettice laughs lightly. “Oh Edith! If an invitation came from the palace, it would have been hand delivered. No.” She puzzles over the envelope. “There is no return address. I wonder what it could be.” She holds it up to the morning light futilely, since the envelope is too think to give away an secrets inside.

 

“Best you open it then, Miss.” Edith suggests hopefully.

 

“You’re quite right, Edith.” Lettice laughs.

 

Lettice slips a finger beneath the lip of the envelope which has only been sealed at its apex, so the glue affixing it gives way easily. Lifting the flap of the envelope, she withdraws a gilt edged card, and suddenly all the happiness and joy she had felt a moment before dissipated, just as the colour drained from her face. Her smile fades from her lips as she reads.

 

“Bad news, Miss?” Edith asks, noticing how sad Lettice suddenly is. “Is it a funeral?”

 

“No – worse. It’s an invitation to afternoon tea.” Lettice replies glumly, her dainty fingers squeezing the edges of the card.

 

“Well, that doesn’t sound so bad, Miss. An invitation to tea is lovely!”

 

“You don’t know who it’s from.” Lettice remarks as she hands the card to her maid.

 

Edith looks down upon the card which has an address in Park Lane********* and reads aloud what is written in the same elegant copperplate as appears on the front of the envelope, “Dear Miss Chetwynd, I request your attendance for afternoon tea at four o’clock next Thursday at the above address, when I shall be at home.” Her voice trails off as she sees the signatory. She looks up at her mistress, who now has tears in her eyes and is as white as the pillows at her back. “Lady Zinnia!”

 

*Southwark Street is a major street in Bankside in the London Borough of Southwark, in London, just south of the River Thames. It runs between Blackfriars Road to the west and Borough High Street to the east. It also connects the access routes for London Bridge, Southwark Bridge and Blackfriars Bridge. At the eastern end to the north is Borough Market. The magazine Country Life was based at 110 Southwark Street from its inception in 1897 until March 2016, when moved to Farnborough, Hampshire, before returning to Paddington in 2022.

 

**Country Life is a British weekly perfect-bound glossy magazine that is a quintessential English magazine founded in 1897, providing readers with a weekly dose of architecture, gardens and interiors. It was based in London at 110 Southwark Street until March 2016, when it became based in Farnborough, Hampshire. The frontispiece of each issue usually features a portrait photograph of a young woman of society, or, on occasion, a man of society.

 

***Vice-Admiral Robert Fitzroy, founder of the UK Met Office, started collating measurements on pressure, temperature, and rainfall from across Great Britain, Ireland, and Europe in 1860. These observations were sent by telegraph cable to London every day where they were used to make a ‘weather forecast’ – a term invented by Fitzroy for this endeavour. After the Royal Charter ship sank in a violent storm in 1859, Fitzroy resolved to collect real-time weather measurements from stations across Britain's telegraph network to make storm warnings. Starting in 1860, observers telegraphed readings to Fitzroy in London who handwrote them onto Daily Weather Report sheets, enabling the first-ever public weather forecasts starting on 1st August 1861 and published daily in The Times newspaper. Fitzroy died by suicide in 1865 shortly after founding the UK Met Office, leaving his life's work trapped undiscovered in archives.

 

***The quintessential British coat, and now a global fashion icon, the Burberry trench coat was created during the Great War. Burberry trench coats were designed with durability in mind. Post-war, the Burberry became a trench coat that was worn by men and women. It became fashionable in the 1920s when the Burberry check became a registered trademark and was introduced as a lining to all rainwear.

 

****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.

 

*****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.

 

******Burton is a British online clothing retailer, former high street retailer and clothing manufacturer, specialising in men's clothing and footwear. The company was founded by Sir Montague Maurice Burton in Chesterfield in 1903 under the name of The Cross-Tailoring Company. It was first listed on the London Stock Exchange in 1929 by which time it had 400 stores, factories and mills.

 

*******The Square is where seven roads leading to and from all parts of the borough converge. Although not geographically at the centre of town it is at the heart of what is known as the Town Centre. The seven roads are.....Old Christchurch Rd ,Gervis Place, Exeter Rd, Commercial Rd, Avenue Rd, Bourne Ave and Richmond Hill.

 

********Over time the slang term posh morphed to mean someone with a lot of money or something that cost a lot of money. Adapted by the British, it came from the Romany language used by the gypsies in which “posh-houri” meant “half-pence.” It became used to denote either a dandy or a coin of small value. There is no evidence to support the folk etymology that posh is formed from the initials of port out starboard home (referring to the more comfortable accommodation, out of the heat of the sun, on ships between England and India).

 

*********Park Lane is a dual carriageway road in the City of Westminster in Central London. It is part of the London Inner Ring Road and runs from Hyde Park Corner in the south to Marble Arch in the north. It separates Hyde Park to the west from Mayfair to the east. The road was originally a simple country lane on the boundary of Hyde Park, separated by a brick wall. Aristocratic properties appeared during the late 18th century, including Breadalbane House, Somerset House, and Londonderry House. The road grew in popularity during the 19th century after improvements to Hyde Park Corner and more affordable views of the park, which attracted the nouveau riche to the street and led to it becoming one of the most fashionable roads to live on in London. Notable residents included the 1st Duke of Westminster's residence at Grosvenor House, the Dukes of Somerset at Somerset House, and the British prime minister Benjamin Disraeli at No. 93. Other historic properties include Dorchester House, Brook House and Dudley House. In the 20th century, Park Lane became well known for its luxury hotels, particularly The Dorchester, completed in 1931, which became closely associated with eminent writers and international film stars. Flats and shops began appearing on the road, including penthouse flats. Several buildings suffered damage during World War II, yet the road still attracted significant development, including the Park Lane Hotel and the London Hilton on Park Lane, and several sports car garages. A number of properties on the road today are owned by some of the wealthiest businessmen from the Middle East and Asia.

 

This beautifully decorated room may not be quite what you think it is. Whilst I know you feel sure you could pick up a teapot or plate, you may need to consider using tweezers, for this whole scene is made up entirely of 1:12 miniatures from my collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The blue and white china you see throughout the room, sitting on shelves and tables, are sourced from a number of miniature stockists through E-Bay, but mostly from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop in the United Kingdom. The gild edged Willow Pattern teapot is a hand painted example of miniature artisan, Rachel Munday’s work. Her pieces are highly valued by miniature collectors for their fine details.

 

The round loo table, which can be tilted like a real loo table, is an artisan miniature from an unknown maker with a marquetry inlaid top, and also came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop. So too did the Georgian corner cabinet with its delicate fretwork and glass shelves.

 

The ladderback chair on the left of the photo is a 1:12 miniature piece 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 wallpaper is an Eighteenth Century chinoiserie design of pagodas and would have been hand painted in its original form.

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 far from Cavendish Mews, back in Wiltshire where she is staying at Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie and his wife Arabella. Today she is at Arkwright Bury, a Regency style country house, partially overgrown with creepers, set amidst a simple English park style garden belonging to a neighbour, of sorts, of her parents: Mr. Alisdair Gifford, nephew of Sir John Nettleford-Hughes and his Australian wife Adelina. Belonging to the Giffords for a few generations, Arkwright Bury was destroyed to some degree in a fire in the 1870s, but was then restored. During the ensuing years, when the house passed from Mr. Gifford’s father to Mr. Gifford’s older brother, Cuthbert, the house fell into disrepair. When he committed suicide after the war, the house was inherited by Alisdair Gifford, as Cuthbert had no spouse or offspring. The present Mr. and Mrs. Gifford have spent the better part of the last five years trying to save and restore Arkwright Bury from the ravages of neglect.

 

Mr. Gifford’s uncle, Sir John Nettleford-Hughes was the one who set the wheels in motion for Lettice to visit Arkwright Bury and his nephew, Mr. Gifford. Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John is still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intends to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. As an eligible man in a time when such men are a rare commodity, with a vast family estate in Bedfordshire, houses in Mayfair, Belgravia and Pimlico and Fontengil Park in Wiltshire, quite close to the Glynes estate, Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, invited him as a potential suitor to her 1922 Hunt Ball, which she used as a marriage market for Lettice. Luckily Selwyn Spencely, the handsome eldest son of the Duke of Walmsford, rescued Lettice from the horror of having to entertain him, and Sir John left the ball early in a disgruntled mood with a much younger partygoer. Lettice recently reacquainted herself with Sir John at an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Gladys Caxton at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, a baronial Art and Crafts castle near the hamlet of Kershopefoot in Cumberland. To her surprise, Lettice found Sir John’s company rather enjoyable. As she was leaving to return to London on the Monday, Sir John approached her and asked if she might meet with his nephew, Mr. Gifford, as he wishes to have a room in his Wiltshire house redecorated as a surprise for Adelina, who collects blue and white porcelain but as of yet has no place to display it at Arkwright Bury. Lettice arranged a discreet meeting with Mr. Gifford at Cavendish Mews to discuss matters with him, and was then invited to luncheon with the Giffords at Arkwright Bury under the ruse that she, as an acquaintance of the Giffords with her interest in interior design, had come for a tour of the house. She agreed to take on the job of redecorating the room using a facsimile print of the original papers hanging in what was then called the ‘Pagoda Room’ before the 1870s fire, reproduced by Jeffrey and Company*.

 

Lettice is taking advantage of a window of opportunity provided with the Giffords taking a short seaside holiday in Bournemouth, arranging for her professional paper hangers from London to come to Arkwright Bury and hang the small quantity of wallpaper produced from a sketch done by Lettice. Now with the smell of wallpaper glue still fresh, Lettice takes a satisfied breath as she admires the hangers’ skill as she runs her hands across the smooth paper covered in stylised pagodas, trees and oriental patterns. Around her the burble of gentle male Wiltshire accents and the sound of crockery against crockery fill her ears as agricultural labourers she has hired for the day from the Glynes estate carefully move furniture intended for use in the room into place and unpack the many boxes of Mrs. Gifford’s collection, carefully laying the pieces out so that Lettice can arrange them all in a pleasing manner.

 

“My Mrs. has got a dresser full of blue and white china like this.” one worker remarks as he unwraps some Eighteenth Century plates featuring a leaf decoration from a Sunlight Soap** crate and hands it carefully to Lettice who places it facing upwards on the shelf of the little Georgian corner cabinet, the only original feature of the old room to survive the conflagration of the 1870s.

 

“Get away with you, Bill!” chortles his friend, one of the other workers who busies himself removing a Blue Willow Pattern vase from a much smaller box, where it is nestled next to a similarly patterned teapot. “Your Mrs. wouldn’t have china as fancy as this stuff. Good quality is this.”

 

“Oh,” Bill exclaims, swiping his tweed flat cap off his head in a sweeping gesture and bowing to his friend. “An expert in china are you, now Len?”

 

“I know a bit.” Len replies proudly. “Enough to know that what your Mrs. has on her dresser shelves aren’t these.”

 

“I must remember your expertise, Mr. Musslewhite.” Lettice remarks with a cheeky smirk as she takes another plate from Bill and slips it on top of several others, beneath a blue and white floral teapot. “I could use a man with a little knowledge and a keen eye to peruse the country house auctions down here for me.”

 

“Oh!” Len clears his throat awkwardly and bows his head over the box. “Begging your pardon, Miss Chetwynd. I didn’t mean to speak out of turn. I meant no disrespect.”

 

Lettice smiles and chuckles quietly to herself as she looks at the triumphant gleam in Bill Berrett’s eyes as it brightens their vivid blue as he looks down on Len Musslewhite. “That’s alright, Mr. Musslewhite.” she acknowledges.

 

The room falls into a quiet, comfortable silence as the two labourers and Lettice continue to unpack, the rustling whispers of tissue paper and newspaper and the clunk of pottery being stacked and placed the only sounds to break it aside from a robin somewhere in the nearby grounds outside.

 

Lettice sighs again as she reflects upon the fine detailing of a large oriental teapot with a wicker handle. She considers it to be one of the finer examples in Mrs. Gifford’s collection thus far and sets it aside along with the early Willow Ware teapot and vase that Len Musslewhite has now unpacked. Her plan is to place three or four of the highlights from the collection in the middle of the room on the beautiful marquetry surface of a loo table*** which currently stands, surface facing outwards in a vertical position against the wall. As she glances at a large footed tazza, which last time she saw on top of Cuthbert Gifford’s old rolltop desk when this room was still a disused study and storeroom, an efficient rapping on the door breaks her consideration of whether the tazza should sit on a small wine table***** on a taller carved wooden pillar.

 

“Miss Chetwynd?” a polite female voice calls deferentially as a friendly middle-aged face framed by salt and pepper hair set in neat finger waves****** appears from behind the door as it opens.

 

“Yes Mrs. Beaven?” Lettice addresses the Gifford’s housekeeper.

 

“Beg pardon, Miss, but there’s a telephone call for you.” the housekeeper replies.

 

“For me?” Lettice queries. The only people aside from Mr. Gifford who know she is at Arkwright Bury are her parents, and unless they have rung through to the switchboard operator at the Glynes post office, they don’t know the telephone number.

 

“It’s Mr. Gifford, telephoning from Bournemouth, Miss.” Mrs. Beaven elucidates. “You may take the call in Mr. Gifford’s library downstairs.” The housekeeper eyes the mess of crumpled newspaper, tissue paper and quickly emptying crates littering the clean, dark stained floor.

 

“Thank you, Mrs. Beaven.” Lettice replies as she carefully works her way through the sea of boxes spewing forth paper and contents, so as not to break any of the china. As she reaches the housekeeper’s side, she sees Mrs. Beaven’s disgruntled look and follows her eyes. “Oh, don’t worry, Mrs. Beaven, Mr. Berrett, Mr. Musselwhite, and I will tidy all this up before we leave.”

 

“I certainly hope you will, Miss Chetwynd.” the older lady replies with a sniff as she hoists her pert nose in the air. “Your London wallpaper hangers certainly didn’t! They left me with paper scraps to sweep up and glue marks to take off the floor. I’ve only just had Joyce clean this floor, again.” She pauses and emphasises the last word in her sentence as she speaks.

 

“Ahh, well, I’ll be sure to pass your complaints on, Mrs. Beaven and address your concerns with my paperers.” Lettice replies lightly, not wishing to be reprimanded like a naughty schoolgirl when the issue is not of her making, especially not in front of her father’s labourers, and sweeping that particular topic blithely away. “Now, the library, you said?”

 

Mrs. Beaven’s face crumples in concern as she looks at their print smudged fingers. “I hope your men don’t expect luncheon in the dining room with you, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“Oh no, mum!” pipes up Mr. Berrett as he manoeuvres the now empty Sunlight Soap crate off the top of a second lidded crate yet to be unpacked. “A slice of your finest pork pie and some blackcurrant wine in your lovely kitchen will suit Len and me perfectly.”

 

“What cheek!” scoffs the housekeeper.

 

“The library, Mrs. Beaven?” Lettice persists, reminding the woman that she came to deliver a message, and now needed to take Lettice to the telephone, for even though Lettice has had a tour of Arkwright Bury, she would be hard pressed to remember behind which closed door sist the library and the waiting Mr. Gifford at the other end of the telephone line.

 

“Right this way, Miss.” Mrs. Beaven says, walking away with measured steps in her sensible black court shoes.

 

The housekeeper shows Lettice into Arkwright Bury’s library on the ground floor. Although nowhere near as large or palatial as her father’s library, Mr. Gifford’s gives off the same comforting feeling of being cocooned by books, and has the same smell of old books and woodfire smoke. The library, like most renovated rooms in the house, has a classical country house appearance, with comfortable armchairs unholstered in gold satin, a selection of curios and collections reflecting Mr. Gifford’s country pastimes and pursuits and a smattering of antiques. The walls are lined with floor to ceiling shelves full of books, and the large plate glass window gives the room a light and airy feel whilst affording views of the curving gravel driveway and anyone who approaches the house from the front. In the centre of the room stands Mr. Gifford’s large partner desk******* upon which sits his green Bakelite******** telephone.

 

“Mr. Gifford,” Lettice says cheerfully down the telephone. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you whilst you are away. How is Bournemouth?”

 

“Capital, Miss Chetwynd! Capital!” Mr. Gifford replies with equal cheer. “Adelina has just gone for a stroll along the promenade, so I thought I’d quickly telephone whilst she is out of the house and see how you were getting on.” He pauses. “Not that I’m checking up on you at all. I have total faith in you, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“Not at all, Mr. Gifford.” Lettice assures him. “No, things are going splendidly. My paperers have done an excellent job, and the room looks so much fresher and brighter now. Oh,” she adds. “I’m afraid my London hangers have rather upset your housekeeper. She was complaining to me about the paper they left and the glue marks on the floor.”

 

“Pshaw!” Mr. Gifford dismisses Lettice’s summary of Mrs. Beavan’s complaint. “Don’t give it a thought, Miss Chetwynd. Mrs. Beaven is always complaining about how untidy we are. I think she does it to make sure that we know how much work she does about the place, not that she does most of the hard graft, which is done by her underling, the all suffering but sweet tempered Joyce.” Lettice can hear Mr. Gifford chuckle in an amused fashion distantly down the slightly crackling line. “Let Mrs. Beaven complain. It makes her happy. Now, thinking of happy, you are happy with the paper on the walls, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“Oh yes, quite, Mr, Gifford.” Lettice assures him. “My men did a lovely, smooth job, and you can barely see the joins. They also cut it expertly around the uneven edges of the old Georgian corner cabinet. I’m sure after a few years, you will be able to tell visitors to Arkwright Bury that this was the original paper from the Pagoda Room.”

 

“Capital, Miss Chetwynd! Capital!” Mr. Gifford enthuses down the line. “And you found all of Adelina’s collection easily enough from my instructions.”

 

“Yes thank you, Mr. Gifford. I have two of my father’s men unpacking even as we speak. I’ll spend some time this afternoon arranging and rearranging, and review what I’ve done tomorrow and the day after, just to make sure I’m happy with the arrangement.”

 

“So, everything will be in place for when Adelina and I arrive home, then, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“Of course, Mr. Gifford!”

 

“Capital, Miss Chetwynd! Capital!” Mr. Gifford chortles.

 

“I just hope Mrs. Gifford likes how I arrange it, Mr. Gifford.”

 

“You’ve met Adelina, Miss Chetwynd. You know how delightfully aimable she is.”

 

Lettice silently considers Mr. Gifford’s choice of words. Whilst she enjoyed Mrs. Gifford’s company, and found her to be a very pleasant luncheon companion, aimable would not be a word Lettice would have used to describe Mrs. Gifford, who is very particular and, also very independent and proud of her own abilities in interior design. However this is a conversation she and Mr. Gifford have already had. Mr. Gifford gave her his assurance that if his wife doesn’t like the design, he will take full responsibility.

 

“Well,” Mr. Gifford goes on unabated in his positiveness. “I have no doubt that how you set things up will not only delight Adelina, but also my Godfather too. I popped into Southwark Street last week and told him that you were going down this week to decorate. He’s most anxious to receive a progress report.”

 

“I do hope Mr. Tipping********* isn’t going to pay me a surprise visit, Mr. Gifford.” Lettice says, airing her concerns. “Especially when the room is all at sixes and sevens.”

 

“Don’t worry, Miss Chetwynd. My Godfather won’t organise to photograph the room for Country Life********** or consider writing the article before Adelina gives the room her approval.”

 

“Well, that’s a relief, Mr. Gifford.” Lettice sighs.

 

“Well, I’d best pop off the line now, Miss Chetwynd. I’m not sure how soon Adelina will be back, and I’d hate to be caught as it were, and have to give the surprise up too soon. Goodbye then, Miss Chetwynd. See you very soon.”

 

“Goodbye Mr. Gifford. Enjoy the remainder of your stay in Bournemouth.”

 

As Lettice hangs up the receiver of the telephone in the cradle it utters a small strangulated final ting. She sighs and leans against Mr. Gifford’s partner desk. Quietly, Lettice hopes that Mrs. Gifford will like the room as she has it arranged. A second article in Country Life under the favourable penmanship of Henry Tipping would only add to her already increasing reputation as one of the best young and upcoming interior designers. The story may also eventually reach far flung Durban, where she quietly hopes against hope that Selwyn is still thinking fondly of her in spite of their enforced separation at the hands of his mother.

 

*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.

 

** Sunlight Soap was first introduced in 1884. 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.

 

***A loo table, also known as a tip-top table, is a folding table with the tabletop hinged so it can be placed into a vertical position when not used to save space. It is also called a tip table and a snap table with some variations known as tea table or pie crust tilt-top table. These multi-purpose tables were historically used for playing games, drinking tea or spirits, reading and writing, and sewing. The tables were popular among both elite and middle-class households in Britain and America in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries. They became collector's items in the early in the Twentieth Century.

 

****A tazza is a shallow cup or vase on a pedestal. First used in Britain in 1824, it comes from the Italian for cup, as well as derivations in Arabic and Persian dialects.

 

*****A wine table is a late Fifteenth Century device for facilitating after dinner drinking, the cabinetmakers called it a "Gentleman's Social Table." It was always narrow and of semicircular or horseshoe form, and the guests sat round the outer circumference. The wine table might be drawn up to the fire in cold weather without inconvenience from the heat.

 

******A finger wave is a method of setting hair into waves that was popular in the 1920s and early 1930s. Silver screen actresses such as Josephine Baker and Esther Phillips are credited with the original popularity of finger waves. The process involved pinching the hair between the fingers and combing the hair in alternating directions to make an "S" shape wave. A waving lotion was applied to the hair to help it retain its shape. The lotion was traditionally made using karaya gum. Over the years, the use of clips (and later tape) also became popular to hold the heavy damp waves until the gel dried. According to ‘Techniques of the 1920s and 1930s’: “Finger waves were developed in the 1920s to add style to, and soften the hard appearance of, the bobbed hairstyles that became very popular during the flapper period.”

 

*******A partner desk is a large desk with an open kneehole which allows use of the desk by two people seated opposite each other.

 

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

 

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

 

**********Country Life is a British weekly perfect-bound glossy magazine that is a quintessential English magazine founded in 1897, providing readers with a weekly dose of architecture, gardens and interiors. It was based in London at 110 Southwark Street until March 2016, when it became based in Farnborough, Hampshire. The frontispiece of each issue usually features a portrait photograph of a young woman of society, or, on occasion, a man of society.

 

This rather untidy space, all at sixes and sevens, may not be quite what you think it is. Whilst I know you feel sure you could pick up a teapot or plate, you may need to consider using tweezers, for this whole scene is made up entirely of 1:12 miniatures from my collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The blue and white china you see on the floor, spilling forth from boxes and sitting on shelves, are sourced from a number of miniature stockists through E-Bay, but mostly from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop in the United Kingdom. The gild edged Willow Pattern teapot is a hand painted example of miniature artisan, Rachel Munday’s work. Her pieces are highly valued by miniature collectors for their fine details.

 

The round loo, which is tilted like a real loo table can be tilted, is an artisan miniature from an unknown maker with a marquetry inlaid top, and also came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop. So too did the Georgian corner cabinet with its delicate fretwork and glass shelves.

 

The boxes you see around the room came from a specialist stockist of 1:12 miniatures on E-Bay.

 

The ladderback chair on the right of the photo is a 1:12 miniature piece I have had since I was a child. The ladderback chair on the left came from a deceased estate of a miniatures collector in Sydney.

 

The wallpaper is an Eighteenth Century chinoiserie design of pagodas and would have been hand painted in its original form.

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 far from Cavendish Mews, back in Wiltshire where she is staying at Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie and his wife. Today, we join Lettice and her sister-in-law, Arabella, as they visit the neighbouring property adjoining the Glynes estate to the south - Garstanton Park, the grand Gothic Victorian home of the Tyrwhitts, and Arabella’s childhood home. Whilst not as old, or as noble a family as the Chetwynds, the Tyrwhitts have been part of the Wiltshire landed gentry for several generations and Lord and Lady Tyrwhitt have been as much a part of county society as the Viscount and Countess of Wrexham. The current generation of the two families have grown up as friends with the Viscount and Countess of Wrexham often visiting Lord and Lady Tyrwhitt and conversely. In fact, the families have become so close that Leslie, the heir to the Wrexham title married Lord and Lady Tyrwhitt’s only daughter, thus guaranteeing a joining of the two great county families. Last year Lord Sherbourne Tyrwhitt died suddenly, thrusting his wife, Lady Isobel into the role of widowed dowager and catapulting his unprepared eldest son, Nigel, into the title of Lord Tyrwhitt, and the position as a lord of the manor, one that Nigel felt quite ready for.

 

After collecting her sister-in-law from the Glynes Dower House, where Arabella and Leslie live since marrying, Lettice and Arabella set off on foot for the Tyrwhitt estate. As they walk up the long, zigzagging driveway of Garstanton Park, Lettice and Arabella gossip about local village and wider county happenings or pass observations on what they see.

 

“Pardon me for saying this, Bella,” Lettice remarks as they walk. “But it seems to me that the hedges are looking a bit overgrown.” She reaches out a hand leisurely and runs them over the sun kissed leaves, enjoying the mild spring day.

 

“Oh you’re quite right in your observations, Tice.” Arabella agrees irritably. “It’s Nigel’s new economies in the household that are to blame.”

 

“Economies?” Lettice queries.

 

As she does, Lettice is thrust back to the day of her honorary uncle’s funeral, when she sat with Nigel, the new Lord Tyrwhitt, and heard his tale of woe. Nigel confided in her that the Garstanton Park estate was haemorrhaging money as his father poured money into the radiology treatment* for Lady Isobel’s cancer, letting the estate business slip through his fingers whilst he was distracted by her health. Upon his father’s death, Nigel made the unpleasant discovery that Mr. Langley, the former Estate Manager was embezzling money from the Garstanton Park estate, charging the estate for fictional works at highly inflated prices, and had failed to collect rents from the tenant farmers he favoured, who often let their farms fall into ruin, whilst he increased the rents on the others to cover the costs, but didn’t tell Nigel’s father. Although Mr. Langley’s misdeeds were discovered, it was too late, for they were only discovered after he fled with the cashbox before the old Lord Tyrwhitt’s death. The new Estate Manager, Mr. Briers, although a competent man, was unable to be the miracle worker old Lord Tyrwhitt hoped him to be. Mr. Briers revealed to Nigel how several years of mismanagement under Mr. Langley had changed the fortunes of the Garstanton Park estate for worse. In addition, Nigel discovered that prior to his death, his father had been selling off some of the more valuable paintings and antiques around the house to plug the financial gaps in his sinking ship. Lettice remembers Nigel remarking on how inciteful his sister is, and how it wouldn’t be long before she picked up that something was wrong, but as she walks alongside Arabella, she wonders how much she knows. Arabella doesn’t seem overly concerned as she walks, more irritated with Nigel’s decisions, strands of her dark hair coming loose from her chignon dancing around her face as she moves forward with a carefree smile on her face.

 

“Yes, Nigel felt that with all the duties he had to pay the government upon Father’s death**, he had to make certain economies.” Arabella replies.

 

“Well,” Lettice says seriously as she ruminates. “He’s probably right. I have heard whispered stories from friends in London about heirs preferring to let country houses fall into ruin and then sell the building materials off for scrap rather than try and find the money to keep them going.”

 

“Oh I don’t think things are that dire, Tice!” Arabella gasps with incredulity before chuckling light heartedly. “Father was a very competent lord of the manor. I’m sure aside from a few little inconveniences, he left everything in very good order for Nigel before he died. Nigel tells me that Mr. Briers, the new Estate Manager is a very good and capable man: far better than that awful Mr. Langley.” She shudders.

 

“Why the awful, Mr. Langley?” Lettice skilfully fishes to try and ascertain what her sister-in-law knows of the estate troubles.

 

“Surely you felt him undress you with his eyes when we were in his presence, Tice?” Arabella replies. “He had such a horrible leer.” Arabella shudders again. “And then he just up and left in the middle of the night one night, without so much as a by-your-leave! I still don’t know why he did that after so many years of loyal service. It’s not as if Father was a bad employer.”

 

That last statement answered Lettice’s silent question. Arabella knew very little to nothing about the estate’s current dire circumstances.

 

“Anyway, Nigel decided to do away with some of the grounds staff. All the undergardeners are gone now, save for Joe Billings. He and Mr. Rutter do the best they can, but maintenance of these outer parts of the estate come at the cost of keeping Mother’s parterre well planted and free of weeds. Oh, and don’t look too closely at the surfaces around the house when we get there.” Arabella goes on warningly to Lettice as they walk. “Nigel’s economies didn’t stop at the outdoor staff. He kept on cook and Mr. Greaves of course, but he and Mother only have one footman now, and only three housemaids.” Arabella sighs. “He promises to put staff back on once the death duties are paid, but something tells me that he may not re-instate them all. He forgets that as a big house, he is a major employer in the district.”

 

As the grand and expansive ornate Victorian Gothic façade of Garstanton Park comes into view over the top of the rise, Lettice remarks, “That statement about only having three housemaids almost renders me speechless, Bella. How can they manage this,” She waves her hand in the general direction of the house. “With only a cook, butler, footman and three housemaids?”

 

“Well, to try and economise, Nigel has also shut off some of the less used parts of the house, so it’s a bit easier to manage, I suppose. They live in rooms that probably equate roughly in size to only a bit bigger than the Glynes Dower House, and Leslie and I manage quite well with only cook, two maids and Becky the tweeny***.”

 

“Good morning Miss Bella, err, I mean Mrs. Chetwynd.” Mr. Greaves the Tyrwhitt’s butler says with deference and a smile as he answers the front door to Garstanton Park. “And Miss Chetwynd too. How do you do.”

 

“Oh it’s quite alright, Greaves,” Arabella says breezily as she walks past the butler in his starched morning suit. “You don’t have to call me Mrs. Chetwynd when it’s an informal visit like this, without my husband. You don’t mind, do you Tice?” When Lettice shakes her head in agreement, Arabella goes on. “You’ve called me Miss Bella for so long, I can hardly expect you to change all that now. You’ve gone through enough upheaval these past few months.”

 

“Yes, thank you, Miss Bella.” the old butler replies, closing the door behind Lettice as she follows Arabella into the entrance hall which smells comfortingly of a mixture of perfumes from the large arrangement of late spring blooms from the garden in blue and white bulbous vase on the round entranceway table, with a whiff of dust and must from the old tapestries than hang from the panelled walls around them. He takes both ladies’ light spring coats and hats from them.

 

“Are Mummy and my brother here?” Arabella asks as she walks over to the central hall table and picks up a copy of Horse and Hound**** from the table underneath the floral arrangement of pastel blooms.

 

“His Lordship and the Dowager are taking tea in the breakfast room, I believe, Miss Bella.” Greaves replies as he hangs their coats and hats up in a discreetly hidden narrow hall cupboard in the panelling just near the front door.

 

“Excellent. I’ll take this with me for Mummy.” Arabella holds up the periodical. “It will save you the trip, Mr. Greaves.”

 

“I’m much obliged, Miss Bella.” the older man replies. “Although I don’t think Her Ladyship is in the mood for reading Horse and Hound this morning, Miss Bella. You’ll find the breakfast room somewhat at sixes and sevens, I’m afraid.”

 

“Now that does sound intriguing, doesn’t it, Tice?”

 

“Indeed it does, Bella.” Lettice agrees.

 

“Mummy never fails to be in the mood to read Horse and Hound.” Arabella giggles conspiratorially with Lettice. “Come on!”

 

The old butler watches with a crumpled look of concern on his wrinkled face as the two giggling young ladies walk cheerfully down the corridor hand-in-hand towards the breakfast room.

 

“Well, I never much cared for this casket myself,” Lady Isobel remarks to her son as he places a round gilt box with a domed enamelled lid featuring flowers in front of her as she sits at the round breakfast table. “It was your great grandfather’s on your father’s side. I believe it was one of the trinkets he brought back from Italy after his Grand Tour*****.”

 

“Yes, but is it worth anything, Mummy?” Nigel asks in exasperation. “That’s what I need to know.”

 

“Well… I…” Lady Isobel whitters, puffing out her cheeks as she turns the box over in her jewelled hands, a concerned look crumpling her thin features. “I mean, it’s Eighteenth Century, and Venetian. I’m sure it’s worth something, Nigel dear.” She returns it to the surface of the table with an air of distaste and pushes it across to her son, as though the conversation over its value has tainted it somehow, tarnishing its beauty and elegance.

 

Nigel clasps it in both hands and pulls it towards him. He huffs as he looks at the dainty pink and blue flowers on the domed lid of the casket. “Which is worth more do you think, Mummy: this casket or the cameos?”

 

“Nigel dear, I really can’t say that I know.” Lady Isobel replies sulkily. “And I have to say that I don’t appreciate your line of questioning about this object’s value, or that. It’s a most distasteful and disagreeable conversation to be having. Really it is!” she huffs. “It wasn’t as if I went through every cupboard of Garstanton Park, querying the value of their contents, before I married your father.” She gingerly picks up her dainty gilt and white china teacup featuring an Art Nouveau pattern of leaves on it and puts it to her lips, sipping the tea, allowing the comfort of its familiar taste and warmth to sweep momentarily over her as she closes her eyes.

 

“Yes, I know that, Mummy,” Nigel goes on with a sigh, shoving the casket aside a little roughly before sinking deflatedly against the carved back of the Chippendale style chair he is seated on. He picks up his own teacup.

 

“I can’t say I’m altogether enjoying this experience, Nigel dear.” Lady Isobel goes on, giving her son a wounded look across the tabletop littered with tea making paraphernalia and a selection of items taken out of the corner cabinet of the breakfast room behind her. “It rather feels like going through your father’s drawers without his permission.” she adds, disconcertion curdling in her voice.

 

“It isn’t about enjoyment, Mummy.” Nigel says, replacing his teacup into his saucer. “It’s about necessity. And father isn’t here to ask permission of any more.”

 

“You might be a bit kinder, Nigel: you don’t have to remind me.” Lady Isobel spits indignantly before biting the inside of her lower lip. “I do still have some of my faculties left.”

 

Nigel sighs heavily again. He looks at the wooden crate before his mother containing a gilded Italian vase featuring a pastoral scene and several Limoges floral porcelain teacups before gazing up into Lady Isobel’s pale and wan face. “I don’t mean to be short tempered.” He reaches out his left hand and places it over her right one as it lays limply on the surface of the table by the side of her saucer. “Or harsh. I know you have all your faculties, and that this isn’t easy for you, Mummy,” He looks earnestly into her worried pale blue eyes. “But you must try. As I said to you, I’m just having a little bit of difficulty meeting all the bills that need paying at the moment. It’s only temporary I’m sure.”

 

“Your father never concerned me with such matters, Nigel.” Lady Isobel quips. “Perhaps he was better equipped to manage the financial affairs of the estate than you are.”

 

Nigel sucks in his breath and retracts his hand as if bitten at the acerbic remark from his mother, who is usually so meek and mild. He wonders whether it would be in his better interest to share with her the truth of the burden of all the financial problems of the estate, rather than simply tell her a few little things and cover some of the major problems up with kindness and lies. As he sits opposite the dowager in his chair, he remembers walking the estate with his father when he was six or seven. Fascinated by the stories of Squirrel Nutkin and Timmy Tiptoes by Beatrix Potter read to him by his nanny, Nigel tried to coax some grey squirrels to come and eat out of his hand, and when they wouldn’t he threw stones at them, causing them to race off the grass and scuttle up a nearby oak tree. His father had chuckled good naturedly at him and said that he would attract more bees with honey than vinegar*******, and when Nigel in his way of literal thinking at that age, replied that he wasn’t trying to attract bees, but rather squirrels, his father went on to explain about being kind and gentle rather than aggressive.

 

“Perhaps you are right, Mummy,” Nigel changes tact. “Perhaps with my lack of experience, Father was better at managing things than me, but inexperienced or not, I’m all you have to manage the estate now, oh and Briers of course.”

 

“Humph,” mutters his mother. “Perhaps Briers is the problem. Your father didn’t seem to have these financial problems with Langley at the helm as Estate Manager.”

 

“You know perfectly well that Mr. Langley left quite a while ago, without giving notice, and Father hired Mr. Briers, who is very competent. He was the one who advised me that we are a little cash poor at the moment, whilst he sees to the tenant farmers’ properties, which need quite a bit of work. I don’t want to take money away from Briers for repairs to the roofs of several of our famers’ cottages, when I can simply sell a trinket or two from the house that will never be missed to pay your doctor’s bills, Mummy. Father would agree with me on that, surely?”

 

“Maybe so.” Lady Isobel begrudgingly agrees with downcast eyes. “I’d rather you sell that vase and its pair, which I’ve always found vulgar, and those teacups that were buried away at the back of the cabinet, rather than the cameos.” She reaches out and lovingly runs her fingers along the rippled ebony edge of the one closest to her. “I’m rather fond of them, and besides, Bella will notice them gone if you do.”

 

“Bella doesn’t live here, any more, Mummy.” Nigel sighs with exasperation.

 

“Did I hear my name mentioned?” Arabella asks cheerfully as she and Lettice walk through the door of the breakfast room. “I may not reside here any more, now I’m Mrs. Leslie Chetwynd, Nigel darling, but I’m still a Tyrwhitt under it all, and I’m still a frequent visitor to my old home.” She holds the copy of Horse and Hound aloft as she does so. “You forgot your Horse and Hound downstairs, Mummy!” she exclaims as she tosses it onto the table near her brother’s elbow.

 

“Bella?” her mother gasps. “And Lettice too!” she adds, clasping her hands as she sees Lettice behind her. “What a lovely surprise!”

 

Arabella walks around the table and kisses her mother tenderly on her lightly powdered cheek and embraces her rather slender and brittle figure gently.

 

“Hullo Aunt Isobel,” Lettice says, awaiting her turn to embrace her honorary aunt. “Bella and I thought we’d pay you and Nigel a visit whilst I was down at Glynes staying for a few days.” She kisses and carefully embraces Lady Isobel as Arabella moves on to Nigel. “I hope you don’t mind us calling on you unannounced.”

 

“As if I would, dear Lettice. You and Bella are always welcome here any time of the day, announced or not. I’ll get Tilly to bring us some fresh tea and two more cups.”

 

“Tilly’s gone.” Nigel pipes up. “Remember, Mummy.”

 

“Oh yes.” She shakes her head and looks to Lettice. “Tilly fell victim to Nigel’s economy drive, dear Lettice and we had to let her go, along with some of the other indoor and outdoor staff.”

 

“Regrettably.” Nigel adds defensively. “I didn’t do it flippantly.”

 

“Yes, I’ve heard about Nigel’s changes to the way that the household is run.” Lettice says, catching Nigel’s gaze and winking conspiratorially. “And I think he’s quite wise, Aunt Isobel. Those taxes won’t pay themselves without some sacrifices.”

 

“Anyway, you don’t need to ring for any of the harried staff who remain,” Arabella adds. “Greaves let us in, and he’ll fetch us some tea.”

 

“Your brother needs to be reminded that as the new Lord Tyrwhitt, he is one of the bigger employers in the country: perhaps not as large as your father is, Lettice, but large nonetheless.”

 

“I’m well aware of my duties as employer to the locals, Mummy. It’s why I don’t want to take money away from the upkeep of the farm buildings on the estate. I want to make sure they have jobs and livelihoods.”

 

“Well,” Lady Isobel begins, pursing her lips and then falling silent.

 

Arabella turns to her brother. “Hullo Lord of the Manor,” she says teasingly to him as he stands up from his seat and embraces his sister.

 

“Hullo Nigel darling,” Lettice waves to him from beside his mother. “How are you?”

 

Before he can answer, Arabella notices the jumble of articles on the round breakfast table’s surface and asks, “What’s this big brother?” she asks with a light laugh. “Are we having a clean out as part of your stewardship as the new Lord Tyrwhitt?” She scoops up one of the Regency ebony and ivory cameos from the table. “You cannot get rid of Flora and Fauna!” She says with mocking alarm as she holds it out to Lettice. “Do you remember, Tice?”

 

“Remember what, Bella?” Lettice asks.

 

“Remember that’s what we christened them as children when we played with them? Flora and Fauna. This is Flora.” Arabella indicates to the one in her hand. “And that’s Fauna.” She points to the one remaining on the surface of the table.

 

“You know, Bella,” Lettice admits. “I’d quite forgotten until you mentioned it then. Why did we call them that?”

 

“I can’t remember why, exactly, but I think it had something to do with you learning about Greek mythology in the schoolroom at Glynes at the time. I know we called this one Flora because we thought she had a prettier face, and we agreed that flowers are prettier than animals.”

 

“Says who?” Nigel laughs.

 

“We were only children, Nigel.” Arabella answers with a smile and roll of her eyes.

 

“Fauna does have a rather sterner look,” Lettice agrees.

 

“See Nigel,” Lady Isobel mutters sagely. “I told you Bella would notice if we tried to sell them.”

 

The atmosphere of the sun filled breakfast room suddenly changes, going from light and happy to oppressive as Arabella almost drops the cameo. She returns it to the surface of the table and spins around to face her brother with a surprised look on her pretty face.

 

“Sell?” she asks with incredulity.

 

“Thank you, Mummy.” Nigel says sarcastically. “Most helpful.”

 

Arabella looks at the surface of the table again, as if seeing the items for what they are for the very first time as she notices the vase, teacups and saucers in a shallow wooden crate lined with paper to protect the delicate white porcelain from the hard edges of the crate. Her eyes grow wide as she slowly turns back to her brother, the look of surprise replaced with one as black as thunder as anger animates her features.

 

“Sell? You’re not selling Flora and Fauna, Nigel!”

 

“We’re just weighing up a few options, Bella.” Nigel defends himself, holding his hands in front of him as if supporting an invisible shield which will protect him from his little sister’s ever darkening hostile stare.

 

“Options? What do you mean, options, Nigel?” Arabella spits. “You can’t be serious about selling these things.” She reaches behind her and picks up the enamelled Italian casket. “These are our things! This is our family history, Nigel, not some old junk.”

 

“They’re just things, Bella.” Nigel begins, but Arabella cuts him short.

 

“Spoken like a true philistine! Shame!” she scoffs bitterly. “I’m surprised at you, Nigel! I thought you appreciated our family history as much as I do – as much as Father did! This belonged to our great grandfather, you know?” She shoves the enamel lidded trinket box towards Nigel, as if its movement with shame him. “He brought it back from Italy in the early Nineteenth Century, Nigel. The same with Flora and Fauna! I can’t believe that you would do this!”

 

“I don’t want to do this, but I have more important things to worry about right now than the provenance, or sentimental value of a few old trinkets, Bella.” Nigel counters, his own voice rising in volume and pitch as anger starts to trickle in as he hotly defends his actions. “I find myself a little cash poor at the moment is all.”

 

“Cash poor?” Arabella gasps in astonishment. “After you have gone on your economy drive, shut up half the house and decimated the staff? How can you be cash poor? I’m sure the house in London is fine with its easy access to the Royal Albert and Wigmore Halls for all your musical indulgences.”

 

“Come, that’s not fair, Bella!”

 

“You never did love the country, or this place, like I do, did you? London was always the true home for your heart!”

 

“It’s alright, Bella.” Lady Isobel says softly, reaching out and grasping her daughter’s wrist as it hangs limply at her side, in an effort to placate her. “Nigel is right. These are just objects. We are all of us, just caretakers of them for a time, and then they go to someone else who will love them.”

 

“No, it’s not Mummy!” Arabella retorts angrily. “It’s not right at all! This is our family history, here on this table, not just some random objects. Nigel should have plenty of money. What will he want to sell next, your pearls, and if so, will you let him?”

 

“If I could just explain, Bella.” Nigel begins.

 

“Explain what? Where and how you’ve spent all this money that your economising has saved you? I don’t think I actually want to know, Nigel!”

 

“Bella I…”

 

“Oh, spare me your platitudes, Nigel!” Arabella holds up her hands to stop him speaking. “I don’t wish to hear them.”

 

Without another word, Arabella turns on her heel and storms from the room as hot and angry tears blur her vision: her mother, Horse and Hound, Lettice and tea all forgotten.

 

“Bella wait!” Nigel calls, pushing his seat aside as he races through the breakfast room door after his sister. “Bella, please let me just explain!”

 

Lettice and Lady Isobel listen to Nigel’s pleas and protestations echo around the house as they drift down the corridor behind Arabella’s retreating footsteps, both growing fainter and fainter. A peace and calm returns to the atmosphere of the room as the cloying silence envelops them both.

 

“We only came to say hullo, and bring you your copy of Horse and Hound, Aunt Isobel.” Lettice says meekly at length, shattering the silence, sliding the now forgotten periodical across the French polished marquetry inlaid surface of the table almost apologetically.

 

“Thank you, Lettice.” Lady Isobel replies, politely accepting it, worrying the edges of the pages with her slender gnarled fingers. “That’s very kind of you dear. If Greaves is bringing tea, I suppose I shan’t bother him about bringing one fewer cup. He has more than enough to worry about these days, trying to run the household on a reduced budget and with reduced staff.”

 

“How much do you know, Aunt Isobel?” Lettice gently asks the older lady as she slips into the vacant seat next to her. She looks at the objects on the table sadly.

 

“Evidently not as much as you, Lettice my dear,” Lady Isobel replies with a wry smile. “You seem less surprised to come across Nigel and I deciding what heirlooms to keep and what to sell than Bella was.”

 

“I’m not.”

 

“Has Nigel confided in you, Lettice?” Lady Isobel asks gingerly.

 

“Has he confided in you, Aunt Isobel?” Lettice asks more boldly in reply.

 

“No, but I wish someone would.” The older lady picks up her teacup distractedly. “I think I deserve to know what’s going on when my son asks me which item on the table will fetch more money at auction.”

 

“I think Nigel has just been trying to protect you, Aunt Isobel.” Lettice soothes softly.

 

“I’m not a child, Lettice.” Lady Isobel defends herself, a steeliness edging into her indignant voice as she sits a little more proudly in her seat. “I’m a grown woman – and I’ve been on this earth far longer than you or Nigel have been, so please excuse me if I tell you that I think I have the right to know.”

 

“Of course you do, Aunt Isobel.” Lettice agrees. “Although it’s not really my story to tell, perhaps I can tell you a little of what I know until Nigel returns. Then, perhaps you and Bella should sit down with him and have a frank and honest conversation.”

 

“If honesty has been lacking in our interactions, it certainly hasn’t been on my part, Lettice.”

 

“No-one is suggesting that it is your fault, Aunt Isobel, or anyone’s. It isn’t Nigel’s either. Nigel was just trying to shield you. He did what he thought was best.”

 

“Well perhaps I am the best placed to decide what is best for me, Lettice.” Lady Isobel gives Lettice a look as stern as the tone of her voice.

 

“Yes, I think perhaps you are, Aunt Isobel.” Lettice agrees. Indicating to the cup in her hand, Lettice adds, “You err… may like to have something a little stronger than tea when you have that frank and honest conversation with Nigel.”

 

“Assuming Nigel hasn’t sent the contents of Garstanton Park’s wine cellar off to the wine merchant’s for auctioning off without my knowledge, of course.” Lady Isobel chortles a little uneasily, trying to make light and the best of a bad situation.

 

“Oh I don’t think Greaves would let the contents of the wine cellar go without a rather loud fight, Aunt Isobel.”

 

“I think you are right, Lettice dear.” Lady Isobel’s sad chuckle mixes with that of Lettice.

 

Lady Isobel deposits her cup into her saucer and reaches out both her hands to Lettice, who grasps them in return and squeezes them comfortingly. Lettice can feel the older woman trembling beneath her, and her ashen face and wide pale blue eyes, shadowed with fear, tells her how afraid she is. What worries Lettice is that she may have every reason to be fearful if she and Nigel are going through the cabinets of Garstanton Park, picking out prized family heirlooms to send off to the auction house.

 

*By the 1920s radiotherapy was well developed with the use of X-rays and radium. There was an increasing realisation of the importance of accurately measuring the dose of radiation and this was hampered by the lack of good apparatus. The science of radiobiology was still in its infancy and increasing knowledge of the biology of cancer and the effects of radiation on normal and pathological tissues made an enormous difference to treatment. Treatment planning began in this period with the use of multiple external beams. The X-ray tubes were also developing with replacement of the earlier gas tubes with the modern Coolidge hot-cathode vacuum tubes. The voltage that the tubes operated at also increased and it became possible to practice ‘deep X-ray treatment’ at 250 kV. Sir Stanford Cade published his influential book “Treatment of Cancer by Radium” in 1928 and this was one of the last major books on radiotherapy that was written by a surgeon.

 

**Modern inheritance tax dates back to 1894 when the government introduced estate duty, a tax on the capital value of land, in a bid to raise money to pay off a £4m government deficit. It replaced several different inheritance taxes, including the 1796 tax on estates introduced to help fund the war against Napoleon. The earliest death duty can be traced back to 1694 when probate duty, a tax on personal property in wills proved in court, was brought in. When the tax was first introduced it was intended to affect only the very wealthy, but the rise in the value of homes, particularly in the south-east of England, it began to creep into the realms of the upper middle-classes. From 1896, it was possible to avoid estate duty by handing on gifts during the life of the donor. To counter avoidance through last minute transfers, gifts handed over a limited time before death were still subject to the tax. Initially the period was one year but that rose to seven years over time. Freshly recovering from the Great War, the hefty death taxes imposed on wealthy families such as the Tyrwhitts in the post-war years of the 1920s, combined with increases to income taxes on the wealthy, caused some to start to sell off their country houses and estates, settling in more reduced circumstances (still very luxurious by today’s standards) in their smaller London homes.

 

***A tweeny is a maid who assists both the cook and head housemaid. It is short for between, as she was known as a between maid owing to the fact that she spent time between duties above and below stairs.

 

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

 

*****The Grand Tour was the principally Seventeenth to early Nineteenth Century custom of a traditional trip through Europe, with Italy as a key destination, undertaken by upper-class young European men of sufficient means and rank (typically accompanied by a tutor or family member) when they had come of age (usually about twenty-one years old).

 

*******The saying "you attract more bees with honey than vinegar" is a proverb that means that it is better to be kind and gentle than to be harsh and aggressive. The saying is often used to encourage people to be more positive and less confrontational in their interactions with others.

 

This elegant interior may look real to you, but in truth it is made up of pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection, plus two very special family heirlooms just for an extra surprise!

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Central to our story are Flora and Fauna, the two cameos sitting on the table. These are in fact a pair of very old clip on earrings which came into my possession from my maternal Grandmother. They were her mother’s before her, her mother’s before that and her mother’s before her at least. I estimate that these earrings are from around the Regency period between 1811 and 1820. They are carved ivory profiles on an ebony black background. The yellowing of the ivory is a sign of its advanced age, and their finer detail has been worn by many hands touching them over the centuries: not least of all mine. As a child, I used to use them as miniature pictures on the mantles of the fireplaces of my miniature tableaux I used to set up and play with (see I was even doing it then). I named them Flora and Fauna when my Grandmother told me that they were classical profiles of Roman Goddesses. Flora is on the right and is my favourite. Fauna, with a lightly sterner look is on the left.

 

The trinket box you see behind Flora and Fauna is in reality an Eighteenth Century miniature trinket made of gold and enamel. It is so dainty. The lid opens and one could store something incredibly small in it (like a handful of diamond chips), and there is a loop (hidden by Fauna’s scalloped edge) which allows it to be strung upon a chain. I picked this piece up from an antique dealer in London many years ago.

 

The copy of Horse and Hound is a miniature magazine made by British miniature artisan, Ken Blythe. I have a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my miniatures collection – books mostly. 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! Sadly, 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. As well as making books, he also made other small paper based miniatures including magazines like the copy of Horse and Hound. It is not designed to be opened. What might amaze you in spite of this is the fact is that all Ken Blythe’s books and magazines are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make them all 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 gilt Art Nouveau tea set, featuring a copy of a Royal Doulton leaves pattern, comes from a larger tea set which has been hand decorated by beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

 

The pretty floral rose crockery sitting in the shallow wooden crate to the right of the photograph is made by M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik in Germany, who specialise in making high quality porcelain miniatures. All the pieces in the cabinet in the background are also made by M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik. The pieces comprise two different 1:12 miniature dinner and tea sets. The vase containing the roses on the sideboard is also a M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik piece.

 

The vase in the shallow wooden crate and its pair sitting on the sideboard to the left-hand side of the photograph come from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom, as does the gilt pink vase on the right of the tall M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik vase of roses.

 

The wooden crate came from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering, and originally held fish set in ice. The hand made roses also came from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures.

 

The round table in the centre of the room, which tilts like a real loo table, is an artisan miniature from an unknown maker with a marquetry inlaid top, which came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop.

 

The Chippendale style chairs surrounding the round breakfast table, and the carver chair in the background, are very special pieces. They came from the Petite Elite Miniature Museum, later rededicated as the Carol and Barry Kaye Museum of Miniatures, which ran between 1992 and 2012 on Los Angeles’ bustling Wiltshire Boulevard. One of the chairs still has a sticker under its cushion identifying which room of which dollhouse it came. The Petite Elite Miniature Museum specialised in exquisite and high end 1:12 miniatures. The furnishings are taken from a real Chippendale design.

 

The sideboard featuring fine marquetry banding and collapsible extensions at either end appears to have been made by the same unknown artisan who made the round table. This piece I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop at the same time as the table. The Georgian corner cabinet with its fretwork and glass door and glass shelves also came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop.

 

The paintings on the wall came as part of a job lot of interesting 1:12 miniature paintings from Kathlen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop, whilst the flocked wallpaper on the walls is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, who inspired me to create 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 to the west of London, in nearby Buckinghamshire, at Dorrington House, a smart Jacobean manor house of the late 1600s built for a wealthy merchant, situated in High Wycombe, where Lettice’s elder sister, Lalage (known to everyone in the family by the diminutive Lally), resides with her husband Charles Lanchenbury and their three children, Harrold, Annabelle and baby Piers. Situated within walking distance of the market town’s main square, the elegant red brick house with its high-pitched roof and white painted sash windows still feels private considering its close proximity to the centre of the town thanks to an elegant and restrained garden surrounding it, which is enclosed by a high red brick wall.

 

Lettice is nursing a broken heart. Lettice’s beau, Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, had organised a romantic dinner at the Savoy* for he and Lettice to celebrate his birthday. However, when Lettice arrived, she was confronted not with the smiling face of her beau, but the haughty and cruel spectre of his mother, the Duchess of Walmsford, Lady Zinnia. Lady Zinnia, and Selwyn’s Uncle Bertrand had been attempting to marry him off to his cousin, 1923 debutante Pamela Fox-Chavers. Lady Zinnia had, up until that moment been snubbing Lettice, so Selwyn and Lettice arranged for Lettice to attend as many London Season events as possible where Selwyn and Pamela were also in attendance so that Lettice and Selwyn could spend time together, and at the same time make their intentions so well known that Lady Zinnia wouldn’t be able to avoid Lettice any longer. Zinnia is a woman who likes intrigue and revenge, and the revenge she launched upon Lettice that evening at the Savoy was bitterly harsh and painful. With a cold and calculating smile Lady Zinna announced that she had packed Selwyn off to Durban in South Africa for a year. She made a pact with her son: if he went away for a year, a year during which he agreed neither to see, nor correspond with Lettice, if he comes back and doesn’t feel the same way about her as he did when he left, he agreed that he will marry Pamela, just as Bertrand and Lady Zinnia planned. If however, he still feels the same way about Lettice when he returns, Lady Zinnia agreed that she would concede and will allow him to marry her.

 

Leaving London by train that very evening, Lettice returned home to Glynes, where she stayed for a week, moving numbly about the familiar rooms of the grand Georgian country house, reading books from her father’s library distractedly to pass the time, whilst her father fed her, her favourite Scottish shortbreads in a vain effort to cheer her up. However, rather than assuage her broken heart, her father’s ministrations only served to make matters worse as she grew even more morose. It was from the most unlikely of candidates, her mother Lady Sadie, with whom Lettice has always had a fraught relationship, that Lettice received the best advice, which was to stop feeling sorry for herself and get on with her life: keep designing interiors, keep shopping and most importantly, keep attending social functions where there are plenty of press photographers. “You may not be permitted to write to Selwyn,” Lady Sadie said wisely. ‘But Zinnia said nothing about the newspapers not writing about your plight or your feelings on your behest. Let them tell Selwyn that you still love him and are waiting for him. They get the London papers in Durban just as much as they get them here, and Zinnia won’t be able to stop a lovesick and homesick young man flipping to the society pages as he seeks solace in the faces of familiar names and faces, and thus seeing you and reading your words of commitment to him that you share through the newspaper men. Tell them that you are waiting patiently for Selwyn’s return.”

 

Since then, Lettice has been trying to follow her mother’s advice and has thrown herself into the merry dance of London’s social round of dinners, dances and balls in the lead up to the festive season. However, even she could only keep this up for so long, and was welcomed home with open and loving arms by her family for Christmas and the New Year. On New Year’s Eve, Lally, sitting next to Lettice, suggested that she spend a few extra weeks resting and recuperating with her in Buckinghamshire before returning to London and trying to get on with her life. Lettice happily agreed, and since arriving at Dorrington House with her sister and brother-in-law, she has enjoyed being quiet, spending quality time with her niece and nephews in the nursery, strolling the gardens with her sister or simply curling up in a window seat and reading.

 

We find ourselves in Dorrington House’s bright and airy breakfast room with its Dutch yellow painted walls, Chinese silk carpet, elegant Eighteenth Century furnishings and artwork, where breakfast is being served. Even in the weak morning light of winter, the breakfast room is always light and bright thanks to the large east facing windows overlooking the garden which catch the morning light. Charles, is sitting at the round Georgian table with its thin bands of inlay, dressed in his city clothes, reading the Daily Mail, which has been carefully ironed** for him by Edgars, the Lanchenbury’s butler, and munching a thin slice of toast when Lally strolls in, dressed in the uniform of all upper-class women in the counties during winter, a tweed skirt, thick stockings, a white blouse with a lace collar and a loosely draped cardigan: in Lally’s case a lovely warming chocolate brown one.

 

“Morning, Charles darling.” Lally says brightly as she kisses her husband gently on the top of his pomaded hair before taking her place adjunct to him at the breakfast table.

 

“Morning,” he mutters gruffly in reply as he concentrates on an article about the British submarine, HMS L24, sinking in a collision in the English Channel***. “Edgars says the eggs shouldn’t be long.”

 

“Oh good!” Lally enthuses, just as the door to the breakfast room is opened by the butler and he walks in carrying a small silver salver, upon which stand two eggs in matching silver eggcups. “Speaking of the devil.”

 

“Good morning Mrs. Lanchenbury.” the butler says politely. “Cook says to tell you that the sausages and bacon will be arriving shortly.”

 

“Good morning Edgars.” Lally replies cheerfully. “You and Cook have perfect timing, as usual.”

 

“We try, Mrs. Lanchenbury. We try.” he answers, flushing at his mistress’ compliment as he discreetly deposits one egg next to Charles’ plate and one next to Lally’s. “Will there be anything else madam?”

 

Lally looks across the breakfast table set for two. There are several slices of Mrs. Sawyers’ homemade toast in the silver toast rack, butter in a glass dish, a tureen of porridge and a bowl of fruit. The teapot emits curlicues of steam from its spout as it sits squatly next to Charles’ teacup. “I don’t think so, Edgars, but I’ll ring if I do.”

 

“Very good Mrs. Lanchenbury.” the butler replies before retreating discreetly through the door he came in through and closes it behind him.

 

Lally goes to strike the top of her egg when Charles clears his throat rather loudly as he turns the page of the Daily Mirror. After many years of marriage, Lally knows this particular fruity clearing of his throat is the entrée to a conversation with her husband about something that is irking him, so she pushes her egg aside and picks up a slice of toast instead.

 

“Yes Charles?”

 

“Hhhmmm?” he answers with raised eyebrows without looking up from his newspaper.

 

“Don’t be obtuse, my dear.” Lally continues with great patience. “When you clear your throat like that, it usually indicates that something is irritating you. So come on then, Charles. What is it?”

 

“Oh it’s nothing, nothing at all, Lally darling.”

 

Lally’s brow crumples. “You and I have been married for too long to know that isn’t true.”

 

Charles closes his newspaper and folds it in half, paying undue attention to each fold, before placing it atop his copy of The Times to his right on the tabletop. He then turns to his wife, who has paused mid stroke of butter to her toast, looking at him with a piqued gaze. “What are you and Tice planning to do with your day, whilst I’m off to London?”

 

“Yes, I noticed your town suit as soon as I walked in. Must you go in today?”

 

“Father and I are meeting with a few potential investors this morning in town, so I fear I must.”

 

“Doesn’t your father ever have a holiday, Charles?” Lally shakes her head when her husband gives her a nonchalant shrug and then continues. “Well, whilst you’re in town, Tice and I are going to play tennis down at The Barrows with Nettie Fisher and Alice Newsome. Why? Surely you don’t object?”

 

“Why on earth would I object to you and Tice playing tennis with Nettie Fisher and Alice Newsome?”

 

“Well, something’s obviously irking you, this morning.” Lally says sulkily, finishing buttering her toast before returning it to resting on the edge of the faceted glass butter dish.

 

“So, she isn’t sick then?”

 

“Who? Nettie Fisher or Alice Newsome?” Lally asks in surprise. “No!”

 

“Not them, Tice!” Charles bristles. “Is Tice ailing for something?”

 

“Well yes,” Lally begins. “Well no… well…”

 

“It’s just,” Charles interrupts his wife’s deliberations over her sister’s wellbeing. “I happened to run into Mrs. Sawyer on my way into breakfast and she was carrying a tray for your sister up to her room. I would have thought she would be having breakfast with us.”

 

“Ahh,” Lally sighs, cocking her thinly plucked and shaped eyebrow and nodding. “So that’s what’s irking you. It’s the fact that I’m letting Tice take breakfast in bed. Is that it?”

 

“Well, now you come to mention it.” Charles admits. “It’s just if she isn’t ill, and she isn’t a married lady, Tice should be having breakfast down here with us****.”

 

“Charles, darling,” Lally reaches out her right hand and places it lovingly over her husband’s left hand as it rests on the edge of the table next to the butter dish. “You know full well that Tice is pining for Selwyn. Their forced separation is hurting her so badly. I just don’t want her to have to worry about facing us first thing in the morning, when she evidently isn’t up to it.”

 

“Are her loving sister and brother-in-law so taxing to her, Lally darling?” Charles asks with concern.

 

“You will be,” Lally withdraws her hand and cuts her buttered toast in half with crisp slices with her silver knife. “If you insist on being like the Spanish inquisition!”

 

“Come now Lally!” Charles chides. “I’m hardly that. It would be remiss of me not to ask after Tice’s health in the morning.”

 

“And it would be wrong of you to do so, when you know full well that she is unhappy and only pretending to be bright and gay because Mater told her to be.”

 

“Well, I just don’t think Sadie would approve.” He reaches over for his egg and gently taps the top, breaking the shell.

 

“Oh pooh, Sadie!” Lally utters, hitting her egg sharply with the flat of her spoon in irritation, breaking the shell and causing the top of the eggshell to implode and imbed itself into the white of the egg.

 

“Temper, temper, Lally dear.”

 

“This is my house, not Mater’s, so if she were here, she could jolly well keep her nose out of how I run it, thank you very much, Charles.”

 

Charles raises his hands in defence. “I’m only suggesting that you are doing the same to Tice as Cosmo did, when she went home to Glynes after all that bad business with Lady Zinnia about Selwyn.”

 

“And what does that mean?”

 

“I’m merely implying, my dear, that you might be mollycoddling her a little. I was talking to Sadie at Christmas…”

 

“Oh not my mother again!” Lally’s eyes roll back in her head as she casts her frustrated glance to the ornate plaster ceiling above.

 

Ignoring his wife’s rude interruption, Charles continues, “I was taking to Sadie about Tice at Christmas, and she told me what your father did for Tice when she stayed at Glynes. Feeding her, her favourite shortbread, or allowing her to loll the morning away having breakfast in bed isn’t going to help Tice get on with things as Sadie suggested. I don’t always agree with your mother, but I happen to on this occasion. Tice can’t just spend a year withering away. She needs to get on with things.”

 

“Amazingly, I agree with Mater too, Charles.” Lally sighs. “However, Tice has been doing that with more gusto than I think she realised she had, and, well, Christmas has impacted her stamina. I just want to take care of Tice for a little bit, and allow her to recover. The best way I can do that is to let her come here and just be, Charles. She can be mopey and sullen, and she doesn’t have to pretend, here, within these four walls.”

 

“Well, I can’t say I entirely agree with your course of action, my dear, but then again, she isn’t my sister. I’m sure Mother, god rest her soul,” He casts his eyes upwards at the mention of his late mother. “Wouldn’t have let Penelope lie abed, even if she was suffering a broken heart.”

 

“But I’m not your mother, Charles.” Lally affirms with a steady voice. “And as you have acknowledged, she is my sister, so I will do what I think is best, and be damned for it if needs must. Anyway, I’m not entirely letting her off the hook. She has agreed to my suggestion of luncheon with Nettie and Alice today.”

 

“A tennis luncheon is hardly up to Tice’s usual standards of sociability, Lally.”

 

“That’s true Charles, but it’s a start. She didn’t object, like she did the other day when I suggested that we have luncheon with Lady Buchanan, so it’s a start.”

 

“I think I’d have objected if you suggested to me that we should have luncheon with Lady Buchanan.” Charles remarks disconcertedly. “Nasty old trout that she is.”

 

“Charles!” Lally exclaims as she bursts out laughing. “I never knew you despised her so.”

 

“Not despise, necessarily,” Charles answers, spooning up a mouthful of egg white as he tries to think of the right word. “More dislike intensely.”

 

“Well, I’ll be sure to deflect any dinner invites from the Major and Lady Buchanan, then.”

 

“I should think you would, Lally.”

 

“Anyway, going back to Tice. I’m also being a little selfish for having her here.”

 

“And how is that, Lally darling?”

 

“Well, I shall be happy to have her with me for company, since you are deserting me again so soon after New Year, as you set sail with your father, bound for Bombay on the P&O*****.”

 

“It’s not by choice, my darling, I can assure you.” Charles looks imploringly at his wife. “It’s father’s wish, just as it is his wish that I go up to town to see the investors he’s lined up for us to meet. Ever since Maison Lyonses****** at Marble Arch and in Shaftesbury Avenue have accepted our Georgian Afternoon Tea blend to serve as their own on the beverages menu, we can’t seem to supply enough of the damn stuff for them. Hopefully with money from these prospective investors, we can expand the tea export business in India.”

 

“I know, Charles. I’ll just miss you, is all.”

 

“And I shall miss you.” Charles replies, reaching across the table with puckered lips, kissing his wife tenderly. “Perhaps when the baby is a bit older, you and the children can come out to India for a visit.”

 

“And join the ranks of insufferable Memsaabs******* on the subcontinent?” Lally balks. “No fear!”

 

“We’ll see.” Charles replies, knowingly.

 

“Anyway, you’ll be hundreds of miles away, chasing after dusky maidens around prospective tea plantations,” Lally adds cheekily in jest. “That you won’t be here to know what Tice and I get up to.”

 

“Well,” Charles swallows a mouthful of egg. “Just don’t mollycoddle her, is all I’m saying. It won’t do her any good.”

 

“I promise you, my darling, that I won’t.” Lally agrees. “Besides, I don’t know how long I’ll have Tice here for, anyway.”

 

“How so?”

 

“Oh, I was chatting with Aunt Egg on New Year’s Eve at Glynes, and she seems to have something up her sleeve for Tice.”

 

“Oh?” Charles queries.

 

“I don’t know exactly what. She mentioned something about a lady romance novelist.”

 

“Heavens!” Charles throws his hands up in despair. “Surely, she doesn’t intend for Tice to read any more of those appalling romance novels than she already does? That will only make her feel worse!”

 

“I don’t know Charles,” Lally replies. “You know how Aunt Egg can be when she has something half planned. None of it made much sense. But, I’m sure everything will make itself known in due course.”

 

*The Savoy Hotel is a luxury hotel located in the Strand in the City of Westminster in central London. Built by the impresario Richard D'Oyly Carte with profits from his Gilbert and Sullivan opera productions, it opened on 6 August 1889. It was the first in the Savoy group of hotels and restaurants owned by Carte's family for over a century. The Savoy was the first hotel in Britain to introduce electric lights throughout the building, electric lifts, bathrooms in most of the lavishly furnished rooms, constant hot and cold running water and many other innovations. Carte hired César Ritz as manager and Auguste Escoffier as chef de cuisine; they established an unprecedented standard of quality in hotel service, entertainment and elegant dining, attracting royalty and other rich and powerful guests and diners. The hotel became Carte's most successful venture. Its bands, Savoy Orpheans and the Savoy Havana Band, became famous. Winston Churchill often took his cabinet to lunch at the hotel. The hotel is now managed by Fairmont Hotels and Resorts. It has been called "London's most famous hotel". It has two hundred and sixty seven guest rooms and panoramic views of the River Thames across Savoy Place and the Thames Embankment. The hotel is a Grade II listed building.

 

**It was a common occurrence in large and medium-sized houses that employed staff for the butler or chief parlour maid to iron the newspapers. The task of butlers ironing newspapers is not as silly as it sounds. Butlers were not ironing out creases, but were using the hot iron to dry the ink so that the paper could be easily read without the reader's ending up with smudged fingers and black hands, a common problem with newspapers in the Victorian and Edwardian ages.

 

***The HMS L24 was built by Vickers at their Barrow-in-Furness shipyard, launched on the 19th of February 1919, and completed at an unknown date. The boat was sunk with all hands lost in a collision with the battleship Resolution during an exercise off Portland Bill in the English Channel on the 10th of January 1924. A memorial is located in St Ann's Church in HMNB Portsmouth.

 

****Before the Second World War, if you were a married Lady, it was customary for you to have your breakfast in bed, because you supposedly don't have to socialise to find a husband. Unmarried women were expected to dine with the men at the breakfast table, especially on the occasion where an unmarried lady was a guest at a house party, as it gave her exposure to the unmarried men in a more relaxed atmosphere and without the need for a chaperone.

 

*****In 1837, the Peninsular Steam Navigation Company first secured a Government contract for the regular carriage of mail between Falmouth and the Peninsular ports as far as Gibraltar. The company, established in 1835 by the London shipbroking partnership of Brodie McGhie Willcox (1786-1861) and Arthur Anderson (1792-1868) and the Dublin Ship owner, Captain Richard Bourne (1880-1851) had begun a regular steamer service for passengers and cargo between London, Spain and Portugal using the 206 ton paddle steamer William Fawcett. The growing inclination of early Twentieth Century shipping enterprises to merge their interests, and group themselves together, did not go unnoticed at P&O, which made its first major foray in this direction in 1910 with the acquisition of Wilhelm Lund’s Blue Anchor Line. By 1913, with a paid-up capital of some five and half million pounds and over sixty ships in service, several more under construction and numerous harbour craft and tugs to administer to the needs of this great fleet all counted, the P&O Company owned over 500,000 tons of shipping. In addition to the principal mail routes, through Suez to Bombay and Ceylon, where they divided then for Calcutta, Yokohama and Sydney, there was now the ‘P&O Branch Line’ service via the Cape to Australia and various feeder routes. The whole complex organisation was serviced by over 200 agencies stationed at ports throughout the world. At the end of 1918, the Group was further strengthened by its acquisition of a controlling shareholding in the Orient Line and in 1920, the General Steam Navigation Company, the oldest established sea-going steamship undertaking, was taken over. In 1923 the Strick Line was acquired too and P&O became, for a time, the largest shipping company in the world. With the 1920s being the golden age of steamship travel, P&O was the line to cruise with. P&O had grown into a group of separate operating companies whose shipping interests touched almost every part of the globe. By March 2006, P&O had grown to become one of the largest port operators in the world and together with P&O Ferries, P&O Ferrymasters, P&O Maritime Services, P&O Cold Logistics and its British property interests, the company was, itself, acquired by DP World for three point three billion pounds.

 

******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.

 

*******Memsaab or Memsahib, a variation of Sahib, an Arabic term, which is also a loanword in several languages. Memsaab is a title for a woman in a position of authority and/or the wife of a Sahib.

 

This neat Georgian interior and fine breakfast fare may appear like something out of a historical stately country house, but it is in fact part of my 1:12 miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The round breakfast table in the centre of the room, which tilts like a real loo table, is an artisan miniature from an unknown maker with a marquetry inlaid top, which came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. On its surface the crockery, silver cutlery and serviettes with their napkin rings came from online stockists of miniatures on E-Bay. The fruit bowl is a hand painted example of miniature artisan, Rachel Munday. The fruit inside it all comes from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The toast rack and egg cups come from Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The eggs in the egg cups are amongst some of the smallest miniatures I own, and came from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The square of butter in the glass dish has been made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. The 1:12 miniature copy of ‘The Mirror’ and ‘The Times’, is made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.

 

The Chippendale style chairs surrounding the round breakfast table, and the carver chair in the background, are very special pieces. They came from the Petite Elite Miniature Museum, later rededicated as the Carol and Barry Kaye Museum of Miniatures, which ran between 1992 and 2012 on Los Angeles’ bustling Wiltshire Boulevard. One of the chairs still has a sticker under its cushion identifying which room of which dollhouse it came. The Petite Elite Miniature Museum specialised in exquisite and high end 1:12 miniatures. The furnishings are taken from a real Chippendale design.

 

The sideboard featuring fine marquetry banding and collapsible extensions at either end appears to have been made by the same unknown artisan who made the round table. This piece I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop at the same time as the table. The Georgian style silver lidded tureens on the sideboard’s surface I also acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop. The vase on the sideboard is made by M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik in Germany, who specialise in making high quality porcelain miniatures. Made of polymer clay the irises and foxgloves in the vase are moulded on wires to allow them to be shaped at will and put into individually formed floral arrangements. They came from a 1:12 miniature specialist in Germany.

 

The Regency corner cabinet with its elegant gilt detailing and glass door is made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq. The beautiful collection of china on display inside the cabinet, like the vase on the sideboard, is made by M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik in Germany.

 

The Georgian style paintings of silhouettes hanging around the room came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House shop, and the Chinese silk carpet came from an online stockist of 1:12 miniatures on E-Bay.

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

 

Lettice is far from Cavendish Mews, back in Wiltshire where she is staying at Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie and his wife Arabella. Today she is being entertained by a neighbour, of sorts, of her parents, Mr. Alisdair Gifford, nephew of Sir John Nettleford-Hughes and his Australian wife Adelina at their Wiltshire home of Arkwright Bury, a Regency style country house, partially overgrown with creepers, set amidst a simple English park style garden, which was destroyed to some degree in a fire in the 1870s, but was then restored. During the ensuing years, when the house passed from Mr. Gifford’s father to Mr. Gifford’s older brother, Cuthbert, the house fell into disrepair. When he committed suicide after the war, the house was inherited by Alisdair Gifford, as Cuthbert had no spouse or offspring. The present Mr. and Mrs. Gifford have spent the better part of the last five years trying to save and restore Arkwright Bury from the ravages of neglect.

 

Mr. Gifford’s uncle, Sir John Nettleford-Hughes was the one who set the wheels in motion for Lettice to visit Arkwright Bury and his nephew, Mr. Gifford. Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John is still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intends to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. As an eligible man in a time when such men are a rare commodity, with a vast family estate in Bedfordshire, houses in Mayfair, Belgravia and Pimlico and Fontengil Park in Wiltshire, quite close to the Glynes estate, Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, invited him as a potential suitor to her 1922 Hunt Ball, which she used as a marriage market for Lettice. Luckily Selwyn Spencely, the handsome eldest son of the Duke of Walmsford, rescued Lettice from the horror of having to entertain him, and Sir John left the ball early in a disgruntled mood with a much younger partygoer. Lettice recently reacquainted herself with Sir John at an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Gladys Caxton at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, a baronial Art and Crafts castle near the hamlet of Kershopefoot in Cumberland. To her surprise, Lettice found Sir John’s company rather enjoyable. As she was leaving to return to London on the Monday, Sir John approached her and asked if she might meet with his nephew, Mr. Gifford, as he wishes to have a room in his Wiltshire house redecorated as a surprise for Adelina, who collects blue and white porcelain but as of yet has no place to display it at Arkwright Bury. Lettice arranged a discreet meeting with Mr. Gifford at Cavendish Mews to discuss matters with him, and now has come to luncheon with the Giffords at Arkwright Bury under the ruse that she, as an acquaintance of the Giffords with her interest in interior design, has come for a tour of the house.

 

“So that is the end of the restored part of the house, Miss Chetywnd. I do hope you enjoyed the tour.”

 

“Oh I did, Mr. Gifford.” Lettice enthuses. Turning to his wife she continues, “Mrs. Gifford, as an interior designer, I have an intimate knowledge of what it takes to restore a room, and I must say you’ve done splendidly with your interiors.”

 

“Thank you Miss Chetwynd,” Mrs. Gifford, a slight woman with translucent skin and dark hair arranged in a soft chignon, answers, her cheeks colouring with a blush. “That’s a great compliment coming from you. I suppose I know what Arkwright Bury looked like, thanks to Alisdair’s father’s photographic collection of the interiors,” She sighs. “And I know what I like, so I had a very definite vision.”

 

“We still have a few rooms left to go.” Mr. Gifford says. “But just lately, we both seem to have run out of energy.

 

“Five years of restoration can do that to a person, I would imagine.” Lettice remarks.

 

“There are more than a few rooms, Alisdair,” his wife chides him kindly, calling out his optimism as being false as she folds her arms akimbo and gives her husband a hopeless look. “Be fair.”

 

“Oh, very well, Adelina. I concede. There may be a few more than a few rooms still to be restored and renovated, but at least we have completed about three quarters of the restoration. Thank goodness! Shall we continue?”

 

“Do you really want to see the unrestored rooms, Miss Chetwynd?” Mrs. Gifford asks. “They are very shabby looking, and in some cases are practically box rooms we use for storage of items that are yet to be placed around the house.”

 

“Oh yes, Mrs. Gifford.” Lettice replies enthusiastically. “I’m very interested to see what you have had to deal with upon inheriting Arkwright Bury.”

 

“Oh very well. Lead on Alisdair.” she replies.

 

The trio walk down a corridor that shows the signs of ingrained dirt and dust and possibly a leak in the roof at some stage, judging my the smell of damp that now pervades the air.

“It must have been in quite a state, when you inherited it from your brother, Mr. Gifford.” Lettice remarks, looking at a ragged piece of William Morris wallpaper hanging from the wall to her right.

 

“Oh it was frightfully run down.” Mr. Gifford opines, as you can see. He stops and fingers the edge of the lose wallpaper. “Terrible really. I don’t know what Cuthbert paid that caretaker pair for, but they did nothing, or the bare minimum whilst he was away at war, and I can’t say they did a great deal more once he came back, judging by the state of the roof when we inherited this pile of stones.” Mr. Gifford sighs heavily. “Not that poor Cuthbert would have noticed what they did once he came back from the front. Ahh, here we are.” He remarks as they approach a small Maplewood door. “My brother’s study.” Mr. Gifford gives the door a shove with his shoulder, causing it to creak and groan as it opens. “Damp in this part of the house caused all the doors to warp.” he says as a form of explanation. “Please do excuse the mess, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

Lettice and Mrs. Gifford follow Mr. Gifford through the door and Lettice looks around her. The room is small, and appears smaller because of the oppressive red wall hangings and the ramshackle collection of objects and furnishings stuffed into every conceivable space in any way possible, in spite of light pouring in through two windows. Tables and stools sit atop other tables. Tottering stacks of boxes balance precariously, some of them sending forth a tumble of aging tissue paper or old newspaper, wrapped around plates, pots and vases, all of blue and white painted porcelain. The room was evidently used as a study at some stage, with the space dominated by an old Victorian mahogany rolltop desk, the top pulled back, the surface barely discernible beneath piles of papers.

 

Noticing Lettice’s gaze fall upon the papers, Mr. Gifford explains, “My brother wasn’t well when he came back from the war.” He reaches into an open chocolate box that is stuffed with yellowing and fading pieces of paper: invoices, correspondence and empty envelopes all jumbled up with notes written by Cuthbert scrawled on scraps of paper. “Goodness knows what it all means. It doesn’t make any sense to us, but it must have to him.”

 

“The haunt of a troubled and haunted soul.” adds Mrs. Gifford as she picks up a dusty periodical about art from 1912 and then tosses it onto the dusty velvet seat of the chair drawn up to the desk, the action eliciting a cloud of tumbling dust motes from the cushion.

 

“King George!” Lettice remarks with astonishment, pointing to the portrait of the King in a gilded frame hanging up on the wall next to the Georgian corner cabinet she now recognises from the photo of the Pagoda Room, stuffed full with a jumble of books.

 

“Oh yes,” Mr. Gifford replies. “Apparently Cuthbert found the King’s gaze somewhat of a comfort to him in those last months of his life, so he replaced the portrait of our father that now hangs in the entrance hall, with this print of the King.”

 

“I can’t say I’d find the King gazing at me as I sat working at my desk, very restful.” Lettice admits with an awkward chuckle. “The exact same portrait hangs in the Glynes village hall. My siblings and I always felt sorry for whomever was manning the second-hand clothing stall at the village fête each year as children. No-one wanted to be under His Majesty’s piercing gaze.”

 

“I agree, Miss Chetwynd.” Mrs. Gifford adds. “It is quite piercing.”

 

“As I said, Cuthbert was not in his right mind when he returned from the war,” Mr. Gifford tries to explain. “So goodness knows what he saw that the rest of us plainly don’t.”

 

Lettice looks around at the stacks of old, musty books, the salvaged pieces of furniture that must be destined for elsewhere in the house, and the worn and sun faded oriental rug beneath their feet. “This must be your collection of blue and white china you were talking about before, Mrs. Gifford.” Lettice remarks, trying to draw the attention away from the ghost of Mr. Gifford’s dead brother.

 

“Yes, it is.” Mrs. Gifford replies absentmindedly as she reaches into a box with an apples label on it and pulls out a bulbous Chinese vase decorated with a blue vine leaf pattern. “I’m going to turn this room into a place where I can display my collection,” She sighs as she replaces the vase back into the box. “Eventually.”

 

“When we have the vim and vigour again.” Mr. Gifford adds.

 

“Yes,” his wife agrees laconically.

 

“Well, I’m happy to give you some advice, if you like Mrs. Gifford.” Lettice offers gently.

 

“Oh that’s kind of you, Miss Chetwynd, but I think I’ll just throw up a few shelves around the walls in here.” Mrs. Gifford replies brusquely, waving her hands about the dust mote spattered air around her. “That will do.”

 

“Adelina!” Mr. Gifford exclaims. “Miss Chetwynd was only trying to help.”

 

Mrs. Gifford pauses and looks guiltily at Lettice, who cannot hide the offence she took from the woman’s gruff rebuttal of her. “Oh, I’m sorry, Miss Chetwynd!” she exclaims, putting her palms up in defence of herself. “I didn’t mean for my words to come out like that. I mean no disrespect.”

 

“Its quite alright, Mrs. Gifford.” Lettice replies breezily, trying to fob off the snub. “Really it is.”

 

“I should just like to explain that I don’t want you to get your hopes up.” Mrs. Gifford clarifies.

 

“My hopes, Mrs. Gifford?”

 

“I don’t know what Sir John told you, but restoring Arkwright Bury has been no mean feat, and was far more costly than we imagined it would be when Alisdair inherited it and we took the old place on.” Mrs. Gifford goes on. “We hadn’t been here since before the war, probably summer 1913, wouldn’t you say, Alasdair?”

 

Mr. Gifford puts his finger and thumb to his clean shaven chin in contemplation as his lids lower over his hazel eyes. “Probably Adelina, or maybe autumn, but 1913 definitely. When Cuthbert came home from the war, he became a recluse, so we didn’t visit him here, and therefore hadn’t seen how the rot set in until after the funeral.”

 

Mrs. Gifford looks Lettice squarely in the face. “I know you are an interior designer, but I think your style is far too grand for modest little Arkwright Bury, hidden here in provincial Wiltshire.”

 

When Mr. Gifford visited Lettice in London, she had agreed that if she took him as a client and redecorated the room for him, that it would be kept a secret from his wife so that it would be a surprise for her, so Lettice keeps up the ruse, even though she hasn’t yet agreed to accepting Mr. Gifford’s commission. “Well, my advice comes at no charge, Mrs. Gifford, I assure you. I’m only here because I am visiting my parents and was able to pay a call on you, at the behest of your husband’s uncle, who suggested I might be of some assistance to you when I met him at the Caxtons’ country house party a few weeks ago.”

 

“And we really would be grateful for any advice, Miss Chetwynd, wouldn’t we Adelina?” He looks seriously at his wife, his eyes growing wide with unspoken words as they silently implore her to be polite to Lettice. “As you said, Adelina, work on restoring Arkwright Bury has taken its toll on both of us, including our ability to think creatively. This project has just absorbed our every waking moment, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“Alisdair is right, Miss Chetwynd. I’m sorry. I suggested putting up some shelves because it really is simply the easiest solution to displaying my collection, but if you have other ideas, I’d certainly take them under advisement.” Mrs. Gifford replies with both weariness and wariness in her voice. “However, I think Alisdair and I have done a splendid job of restoring the old girl.” She pats the wall next to her. “And I’ve put my mark on her.”

 

“Oh, and you have, Mrs. Gifford, splendidly!” Lettice exclaims. “No, I am only here because Sir John suggested that I may be able to be of assistance. I’m not touting for business from you, unwarranted.” She smiles, glad to tell the truth that she did not seek out this appointment, but was rather sought out instead, even if she selectively and conveniently leaves that fact out of her statement. “And I’ve recently taken on a commission for Sir John and Lady Caxton.”

 

“Well it was very good of you to come and visit, Miss Chetwynd.” Mrs. Gifford replies with evident relief in her voice. “Although we aren’t quite neighbours, your parents’ paths do cross with our own at county functions.”

 

“Thus why we were at your parent’s Hunt Ball those few years ago, when we first had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Gifford pipes up cheerfully.

 

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, Miss Chetwynd, I must go and see about luncheon. At least I managed to retain my cook from Briar Priory, so I don’t have to break her in, unlike some of the housemaids I have on staff.” Mrs. Gifford casts her eyes to the heavens. “I keep having to remind them which side to serve from when Alisdair and I dine at home, which is frightfully embarrassing for all concerned when we have guests: so consider yourself pre-warned, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“Noted, Mrs. Gifford.” Lettice replies.

 

As Mrs. Gifford opens the door of the study, which protests noisily upon its hinges as she does, she turns back. “And I’m supposed to be the colloquial little colonial.” She beams a cheeky smile. “Oh, thinking of which, you are in luck today, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“How so, Mrs. Gifford?”

 

“We took possession of a crate of wines from my father’s South Australian vineyard this week, so we will be having antipodean Verdelho with our fish course this afternoon. I shall leave you in the capable hands of my husband to finish the tour, Miss Chetwynd.” Mrs. Gifford looks to her husband. “I’ll see you both in the dining room, promptly at one, Alisdair.” She nods and eyes her husband seriously.

 

“Adelina knows I have the propensity to chat and forget all about the time.” Mr. Gifford admits guiltily.

 

“And Mrs. Grimsby’s schedule.” Mrs. Gifford adds. “And I certainly don’t want her to take umbrage and give notice, Alisdair. I don’t want to have to break in a new cook as well.”

 

“I promise Adelina, dear.” Mr. Gifford replies.

 

“Good show, Alisdair!” his wife pipes as she turns on her heel. “I’ll see you both there shortly.”

 

Lettice and Mr. Gifford both chuckle like naughty children as the door closes and the sound of Mrs. Gifford’s footsteps retreat down the corridor outside.

 

“I can see that rather determined streak we seem to encounter in most Australians,” Lettice remarks. “However she’s not at all what I expected, Mr. Gifford.”

 

“What were you expecting of my wife, Miss Chetwynd?” Mr. Gifford queries.

 

“Oh,” Lettice sighs as she shrugs her shoulders. “I suppose I was expecting a woman a little more forthright in her speech.”

 

“Oh Adelina can be very forthright when she feels that she’s been wronged, or she perceives her opinion isn’t being given much heed, Miss Chetwynd. You heard her say before that she appreciates your opinions, but she has her own plans for this room.”

 

“Yes, I did notice those less than subtle statements.” Lettice raises an expertly plucked eyebrow. “Which makes me a little uneasy, Mr. Gifford.”

 

“Uneasy, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“Yes. I mean I feel as though your wife has some definite ideas for this room in order for it to house her collection of blue and white porcelain.”

 

“Like get our carpenter to throw up a few shelves along the walls in here after giving the room a fresh lick of paint?”

 

“Well, even though it perhaps isn’t what I would do, yes, Mr. Gifford, it is still her collection.”

 

“But that’s exactly why I want your help, Miss Chetwynd. Adelina is a wonderful woman, and she’s done so much to help with restoration of Arkwright Bury, and put up with so much inconvenience in the process, but her interior design ideas are very unimaginative. When we lived at Briar Priory, her collection was housed in a little room we called the China Room. It was a dressing room I think, or maybe even a small study in the Eighteenth Century, and it was converted into a cabinet for the display of curios and porcelain in the Nineteenth Century, so it was perfect. It was so much more than what Adelina is proposing for in here.”

 

“Pardon me for asking, Mr. Gifford, but won’t your wife take offense if I do agree to take this room on an redecorate it?”

 

“Why would she take offense, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“Well, for a start, she will have no input into the room’s decoration, Mr. Gifford.”

 

“Well of course she won’t, Miss Chetwynd. As I think I explained to you in London, I want this to be a marvellous surprise for her, when we come back from our little seaside holiday to Bournemouth: a reward for all that she has done for the rest of Arkwright Bury.”

 

“And it is that very ‘all the rest’ that concerns me. From our tour of the house, I can see how much Mrs. Gifford has been involved in the restoration, redecoration and transformation of your home. If I were her, and some impudent woman from London came along and put her own stamp upon the house…”

 

“You’re hardly impudent, Miss Chetwynd.” laughs Mr. Gifford.

 

“Be that as it may, Mrs. Gifford may not perceive it that way.”

 

“I promise, Miss Chetwynd, that if you take Arkwright Bury on, and Adelina doesn’t like what you do, I will take full responsibility and incur any wrath from her. After all, this was all my idea.” Mr. Gifford assures Lettice. “However, I’m sure you will once again be surprised by my wife. You yourself admitted that when we first met you as the new owners of Arkwright Bury at your parent’s Hunt Ball two years ago, and you found out that Adelina was Australian, you were surprised.”

 

“Expecting a woman from Australia to have burnished skin and sun bleached hair, rather than pale, almost translucent skin and raven black hair is hardly the same as what her feelings are, Mr. Gifford. Emotions are emotions, no matter who we are, and I don’t wish to upset your wife.”

 

“You won’t, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Gifford insists. “I assure you. I’ve been married to Adelina for six years now. We were married just after Armistice Day**, and I knew her as a nurse during the war, so I know Adelina far better than you do.”

 

“Oh, I don’t doubt it, Mr. Gifford,” Lettice agrees. “But I find that decorating a house, especially one that is to become one’s home, is very personal. I wouldn’t want someone going behind my back, even with the best of intentions. I’d resent it as a gesture.”

 

“She won’t resent you, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“Perhaps.” Lettice mutters non-committally.

 

“Now, what is it that you would do, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“Me, Mr. Gifford?”

 

“Well of course. I’m not employing you, not to have an opinion, you know.”

 

“You are presumptuous, Mr. Gifford. I still haven’t said that I will take you on as a client, yet.”

 

“Yet, but you will.” he replies with self-assurance.

 

“If Jeffrey and Company*** agree to produce a small quantity of wall hangings of my sketch, based upon what used to hang in here, I’ll agree, Mr. Gifford.” Lettice clarifies. “However, they have not agreed yet. They have taken my sketch of the pattern under advisement and will consider my request once I go back to the with measurements, which you will give me before I leave Arkwright Bury today, Mr. Gifford.”

 

“So, you said you wouldn’t just install shelves like Adelina is suggesting, Miss Chetwynd. What would you do?”

 

Lettice looks around the cluttered and dusty room, and tries to imagine the space without the old roll top desk, the stacks of papers and boxes, the excess furniture and the crates of Mrs. Gifford’s blue and white porcelain.

 

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t cover the walls in shelves. They will only make this room smaller and darker.” She looks around her again, squinting as she tries to envision what the space could look like. “This room gets the morning light, doesn’t it?” Lettice asks as she points to one of the large sash window, partially obscured by a stack of boxes and a folded Chinese screen leaning against its frame. When Mr. Gifford nods in confirmation, she goes on, “I’d paper the walls in the design I’m trying to get Jeffrey and Company to reproduce, or failing that, some equivalent orientally inspired paper with a white background to compliment the china.” Lettice pauses.

 

“And then?” Mr. Gifford breathes as he encourages Lettice to go on.

 

“Well, I’d keep this.” She taps the side of the worn Georgian mahogany corner cabinet, running her fingers lovingly along the rope pattern trim that indicates where the fretwork covered glass door sits when it is closed. “But then again, I am a firm believer in preserving pieces of a house’s history, and if this survived the conflagration of, 1879, then I think it deserves to remain.”

 

“Oh I agree, Miss Chetwynd. No matter what happens to this room, the Georgian corner cabinet stays.”

 

“Is this destined for elsewhere in the house, Mr. Gifford?” Lettice asks, as she walks around Cuthbert’s open rolltop desk littered with its piles of fading and yellowing old papers gathering dust and a ginger jar missing its lid, which she realises may be the one pictured on an ornate pedestal in the photograph of the Pagoda Room at Arkwright Bury taken in 1876, that she has in her possession at Cavendish Mews. She wraps her fingers around the rounded edge of the tilted top of a loo table**** and squeezes it.

 

“We had that in the entrance hall of Briar Priory for all the newspapers and the mail. Adelina had a large green majolica jardinière in its centre with an fishbone fern in it, however the table already in the entrance hall here actually suits it far better than that loo table would, and would be too hard to try and remove the existing table downstairs anyway. So in short, no, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“Then I would put this in the centre of the room and display either some larger objects, like that tazza*****,” She points to the blue and white footed shallow bowl standing atop a small footstool standing indignantly on the top of Cuthbert’s desk. “Or a few favourite pieces of Mrs. Gifford’s on it. What are your wife’s favourite pieces in her collection, Mr. Gifford?”

 

“Well, there is a rather lovely hexagonal Chinese teapot around here somewhere.” Mr. Gifford replies, looking distractedly around him. “Oh, and this.” He carefully picks up a willow pattern teapot with a gilded spout and lid from a box spewing forth a stack of blue and white plates in various sizes and frothy yellowing tissue paper. “It’s Eighteenth Century and apparently quite rare: not that a philistine like me would know. Her father bought it from a curios shop in Adelaide and brought it over for Adelina’s birthday a few years ago. It’s her pride and joy.”

 

“Well, then a few curated pieces from the collection on the table.”

 

“And the rest, Miss Chetwynd?” Mr. Gifford looks around him at the stacks of boxes.

 

“A couple of carefully selected small Georgian breakfronted bookcases****** should house the majority of the pieces I can see, and be amply able to display Mrs. Gifford’s collection well, even if she continues to acquire some new additions. Perhaps a couple of small wine tables******* and a few pedestals for some other select or larger pieces. Your wife could even hang a few of the charger plates******* on the wall, if suitably positioned. It would leave the room, which is really quite small, appearing much more spacious than it is, due to a lack of furniture, and the white background of the patterned wallpaper would make the room lighter and take advantage of the morning sunlight.”

 

“Well, I’m sold, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Gifford sighs as he claps his hands. “When may I commission your adroit services?”

 

“I haven’t said yes yet, Mr. Gifford.” Lettice tempers him again.

 

“But I can see the brightness of excitement in your eyes, Miss Chetwynd. You can’t deny it.”

 

“I’m considering it, Mr. Gifford.” Lettice admits warily, knowing that Mr. Gifford’s observant eye has caught her out. “But I will not commit to it, yet.”

 

“Yet…” Mr. Gifford replies with a satisfied sigh.

 

Lettice is just about to try and curtail Mr. Gifford’s enthusiasm again when a loud metallic clang from the clocktower built over Arkwright Bury’s nearby stables announce the hour. The chime of the clock marking the hour heralds the flutter of birds’ wings as the doves that nest around the roofs of the country house fly out into the air in a startled fashion.

 

“Good heavens! Is that the clock!” Mr. Gifford exclaims, quickly putting the teapot back into the open box stacked atop several others. He fishes out his silver pocket watch from his breast pocket of his vest. “It’s one o’clock already, and Adelina will be expecting us for luncheon. Come along, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

Mr. Gifford puts an arm around his guest protectively as he guides her out through the door and into the corridor, closing it behind him, leaving the deserted study to fall into sullen silence once more, as dust motes raised by its recent visitors cascade through the air.

 

*Antipodean means relating to Australia or New Zealand (used by inhabitants of the northern hemisphere), such as “antipodean wines”.

  

**Armistice Day or Remembrance Day is a memorial day observed in Commonwealth member states since the end of the First World War to honour armed forces members who have died in the line of duty. It falls on the 11th of November every year. Remembrance Day is marked at eleven o’clock (the time that the armistice was declared) with a minute’s silence to honour the fallen. Following a tradition inaugurated by King George V in 1919, the day is also marked by war remembrances in many non-Commonwealth countries.

  

***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.

 

****A loo table, also known as a tip-top table, is a folding table with the tabletop hinged so it can be placed into a vertical position when not used to save space. It is also called a tip table and a snap table with some variations known as tea table or pie crust tilt-top table. These multi-purpose tables were historically used for playing games, drinking tea or spirits, reading and writing, and sewing. The tables were popular among both elite and middle-class households in Britain and America in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries. They became collector's items in the early in the Twentieth Century.

 

*****A tazza is a shallow cup or vase on a pedestal. First used in Britain in 1824, it comes from the Italian for cup, as well as derivations in Arabic and Persian dialects.

 

******Breakfront refers to any piece of furniture (especially a bookcase or cabinet) that has a central section that projects farther forward than the other sections.

 

*******A wine table is a late Fifteenth Century device for facilitating after dinner drinking, the cabinetmakers called it a "Gentleman's Social Table." It was always narrow and of semicircular or horseshoe form, and the guests sat round the outer circumference. The wine table might be drawn up to the fire in cold weather without inconvenience from the heat.

 

********A charger plate is a large, decorative plate that acts as a base for other dinnerware. Also known as service plates, under plates, or chop plates, charger plates are purely ornamental and aren't intended for direct food contact. Charger plates serve both aesthetic and practical purposes. Visually, charger plates provide elegance and enhance table decor. Practically, they protect the table and tablecloth from becoming dirty during service and help retain heat in dinnerware.

 

This rather untidy room, unloved and cluttered with items, including some you may recognise from the photo Mr. Gifford showed Lettice of the original Pagoda Room, may look real to you, but it is in fact made up of pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection, including items from my childhood.

 

Fun things to look for include:

 

Cuthbert’s mahogany rolltop desk is a miniature that I have had since I was about eleven years old. The top does roll up and down, and the pigeon holes and writing area of the desk move forward, just like a real rolltop desk. I bought the desk along with a lot of other 1:12 miniatures from a High Street speciality dollhouse shop in England. The receipt with a few handwritten amendments is actually the scroll with the pinked edge in the far right pigeon hole of the desk! The balloon backed chair with the buttoned velvet seat before it I have had since the age of seven.

 

The corner cabinet I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. The pedestal table and embroidered footstool standing upside down atop the desk also comes from there, as does the embroidered footstool on the ground and the grandfather clock to the right of the photograph. The round loo table standing to the left of the photograph tilts like a real loo table and is in its upright position, showing its underside. It is an artisan miniature from an unknown maker with a marquetry inlaid top, and also came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The books in the corner cabinet and on top of the desk are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. The magazine sitting on the chair and the boxes of papers on the desk’s pull-out writing space are also Ken Blythe’s work. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s books and magazines are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

 

The hand painted oriental ginger jar on the pedestal in the background next to the corner cabinet I acquired from Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers in the United Kingdom.

 

Adelina’s blue and white china collection, spewing from the boxes and gracing the top of the desk, are all sourced from a number of miniature stockists through E-Bay, but mostly from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The wooden boxes with their Edwardian advertising labels have been purposely aged and came from The Dolls’ House Supplier in the United Kingdom.

 

The Portrait of King George V in the gilt frame in the background was created by me using a portrait of him done just before the Great War of 1914 – 1918.

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

 

This morning Lettice is entertaining a neighbour, of sorts, of her parents, Mr. Alisdair Gifford, nephew of Sir John Nettleford-Hughes. Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John is still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intends to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. As an eligible man in a time when such men are a rare commodity, with a vast family estate in Bedfordshire, houses in Mayfair, Belgravia and Pimlico and Fontengil Park in Wiltshire, quite close to the Glynes estate, Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, invited him as a potential suitor to her 1922 Hunt Ball, which she used as a marriage market for Lettice. Luckily Selwyn Spencely, the handsome eldest son of the Duke of Walmsford, rescued Lettice from the horror of having to entertain him, and Sir John left the ball early in a disgruntled mood with a much younger partygoer. Lettice recently reacquainted herself with Sir John at an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Gladys Caxton at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, a baronial Art and Crafts castle near the hamlet of Kershopefoot in Cumberland. To her surprise, Lettice found Sir John’s company rather enjoyable. As she was leaving to return to London on the Monday, Sir John approached her and asked if she might meet with his nephew, Mr. Gifford, as he wishes to have a room in his Wiltshire house, Arkwright Bury, redecorated as a surprise for his Australian wife, Adelina, who collects blue and white porcelain but as of yet has no place to display it at Arkwright Bury. With a smile Lettice agreed, and thus Mr. Gifford now sits opposite her in her Mayfair drawing room.

 

She appraises Mr. Gifford as he helps himself to a biscuit from the plate on the low coffee table between them. He is a slight man, probably not more than ten years older than herself with pale patrician skin over a fine bone structure, and a mop of auburn hair which is streaked with silvery white hairs, possibly prematurely owing to his experiences in the war. He is dressed in a very smart morning suit with a silver fob watch chain hanging from his cherry red waistcoat pocket. He movements are as delicate as his frame, and his sparking blue eyes are further enhanced by the strong prescription of the glasses persistently sliding down his nose.

 

“Now, this is what I wanted to show you, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Gifford says in well educated and modulated tones from the comfort of one of Lettice’s round backed Art Deco arm chairs.

 

He reaches down with his elongated fingers into the slightly battered and worn brown leather case at his feet, which he arrived with, but refused to allow Edith, Lettice’s maid, to take from him. From it he withdraws an old photograph album. Covered in vibrant green Morocco leather, Lettice notices its bumped corners, which have worn down over many years losing their sharp edges, and a sun faded spine that tells of sitting for many a year, closed on a bookshelf. There is no writing on the cover, but glancing at the thick creamy card pages contained within the covers, she recognises it as a photograph album.

 

“This is a very precious piece of Arkwright Bury’s, and my own family’s, history.” Mr. Gifford goes on.

 

“I’m very looking forward to seeing it then.” Lettice remarks with curiosity as she leans forward in her own armchair.

 

“I don’t know whether my Uncle John told you or not when you were at the Caxton’s country house party at Gossington, but Arkwright Bury was badly damaged in a fire in 1879.”

 

“No,” Lettice admits. “Your uncle didn’t tell me a great deal about Arkwright Bury at all, Mr. Gifford, other than it fell into some disrepair when your elder brother went off to war, and that since you and your wife inherited it, you have been restoring it.”

 

“Quite right, Miss Chetwynd,” Mr. Gifford passes over the album to Lettice, who takes it with reverence into her elegant hands. “However, this will give you an idea of what Arkwright Bury used to look like in the 1860s and 70s, before the fire. It’s an album rescued from the conflagration which consists mostly of photographs of the house and its interiors, and not family photographs.”

 

“How very unusual.” Lettice remarks.

 

“Well, my grandfather was very passionate about architecture and photography, so I think this may have been a pet project of his.”

 

“And thus, perhaps why it was saved, Mr. Gifford?” Lettice asks tentatively.

 

“Perhaps, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Gifford replies with a gentle shrugging roll of his shoulders.

 

Lettice finds an old photograph of an unassuming Regency style country house, partially overgrown with creepers, set amidst a simple English park style garden on the front page. The house has a low pitched roof which is hidden from view by the building’s parapets. It has five bays of large sash windows over its two storeys and an Ionic columned portico.

 

“We think Arkwright Bury may have been designed by Anthony Keck*,” Mr. Gifford explains, assuming that Lettice will know who the Georgian architect is. “Although we cannot confirm it. Like so many things, the precious architectural drawings of Arkwright Bury went up in flames in the 1897 fire. I mean, his work isn’t found in Wiltshire, and if it is his, then it most probably was built after his retirement, and would be the only example in the county. I do know it was built in 1796, and Anthony Keck died just a year later.”

 

“And you have brought me this album because?” Lettice queries as she starts to turn the page.

 

“Well, because this has the only known surviving photograph of the Pagoda Room.” Mr. Gifford answers.

 

“The Pagoda Room?” Lettice asks.

 

“Yes. Just flip through the first few pages.” The gentleman says helpfully as he leans forward over the black japanned coffee table covered with Lettice’s Art Deco Royal Doulton tea set and tray of biscuits. “It should be on page six or so.” Lettice does as he says, counting the pages in her mind silently as she turns them. “Ahh! There it is.”

 

Lettice looks to where he points, and there, on a thick card page, beige and greyish and mottled with age, framed by flowers hand painted by one of the more artistic Gifford females of history, is an old photograph, underneath which is written in a delicate looped hand, ‘The Pagoda Room – July 1876’.

 

“Being from 1876, I’m sure my grandfather took this photograph.” Mr. Gifford explains. “It was called the Pagoda Room because as you can see on the walls, there is some Georgian wallpaper, hand painted and imported from China we assume, which features Pagodas on it. Of course I wasn’t born until after the fire, but my father remembers he and his sister, my Aunt Eugenia, making up stories about Chinese people who lived inside the pagodas.”

 

“I say!” Lettice laughs. “How frightfully jolly.”

 

Lettice looks at the image. It depicts the corner of what must have been a larger room with a high dado, papered with the Georgian wallpaper Mr. Gifford mentioned, featuring the stylised pagodas that gave the room its name. The corner is filled with Georgian and Regency furniture that is intermixed with pieces from later periods, the surfaces of tables and the shadowy interiors of a Georgian corner cabinet are cluttered with a collection of decorative porcelain that owed much to the conscientious consumption of the wealthy in the mid Victorian era. Paintings of Gifford ancestors hang on the walls in thick gilt frames, whilst a top heavy elaborate floral display of roses and ferns sits atop a heavily carved Victorian pillar. Overstuffed, yet comfortable looking chairs and sofas fill the space, their owners gone, but their presence marked by a stack of leatherbound books with decorative covers, a sewing basket and embroidery hoop, and a silver teapot, milk jug and sugar bowl and dainty china teacups on a galleried silver tray.

 

“My grandmother loved needlework, so I’m sure that’s her embroidery frame and basket in the photograph, and my grandfather was an avid reader.”

 

“Indeed.” Lettice remarks, lowering the page and allowing the well loved album to sit comfortably open across her lap as she reaches over to the black japanned side table on which her telephone stands and picks up her teacup. “And besides for its interesting historical context, you have brought me this album, why, Mr. Gifford?”

 

“Well, the Arkwright Bury fire tore through that part of the house and destroyed it entirely, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“Mmmm…” Lettice sips her tea.

 

“Or at least I thought it had until recently.” Mr. Gifford continues.

 

“Go on, Mr. Gifford.”

 

“Well, as my uncle explained to you, Adelinde and I have almost completed a full restoration of Arkwright Bury, and we only have a small amount left to do. This includes my brother, Cuthbert’s, study.”

 

“He died before the end of the war, didn’t he, Mr. Gifford?” Lettice asks gently.

 

“He did, Miss Chetwynd. He was honourably discharged after the Battle of Ypres**, but he came back a very changed man.”

 

“You never went to France yourself, did you, Mr. Gifford?”

 

“No,” Mr. Gifford admits a little guiltily. “But please don’t hold that against me, Miss Chetwynd. I wasn’t accepted because of my appalling eyesight.” He pushes his pair of thick lensed glasses up the bridge of his aquiline nose with awkward embarrassment. “I did however work under Mr. Churchill*** in the Admiralty.”

 

“I won’t hold your not going to battle in Flanders Fields**** against you, Mr. Gifford.” Lettice assures him with a comforting smile.

 

“Thank you.” he sighs. “That’s a relief.”

 

“Anyway, the war has been over for more than five years now.”

 

“Not for some people, it hasn’t.” Mr. Gifford says sadly. “And just because I’m not maimed physically like those poor returned soldiers you see selling matches at the top of Tottenham Court Road or in Piccadilly Circus, there is a certain amount of stigma against me: people thinking I didn’t do my bit during the war.”

 

“Well, I won’t jump to any incorrect conclusions about what you did, or didn’t do, during the war. My eldest brother returned from the conflict with all his limbs intact, both his eyes and most importantly his mind unaltered, thank god, so I’m hardly in a position to judge you for a lack of injuries.”

 

“Well, many others feel differently, especially those young, embittered war widows or fiancées, of which there are so many about. You were not affianced to a young officer or captain yourself, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“Thankfully no, Mr. Gifford.”

 

“Poor Cuthbert came back with all his limbs and his sight, but his mind was disturbed from what he witnessed over in France, and he killed himself: shot himself in the temple with his gun before Armistice Day*****.” Mr. Gifford says dryly.

 

“Yes, I had heard the rumour.” Lettice murmurs quietly in admission.

 

“And that’s why his study is one of the last places Adelina and I have to deal with.”

 

“Too many painful memories, Mr. Gifford?”

 

“Yes,” he admits. “But also, too much mess quite frankly. As I said, Cuthbert came back from the Western Front with his mind addled and his study reflects that, with piles of papers and books in all kinds of disorder, the meaning of which known only to him, so it’s just been too hard to deal with. In fact, Adelina and I closed the door on it, and more often than not have been using it as a storage room whilst we’ve been restoring other parts of Arkwright Bury, shoving furniture and boxes of things between Cuthbert’s belongings. Recently Adelina has been using it to store her boxes of blue and white porcelain that we brought over from Briar Priory, plus a few newly acquired pieces.” He sighs. “It’s actually only been recently that I have had the stomach to start sorting out Cuthbert’s things. Adelina wants to turn the study into a display room for her collection, since we can’t seem to find anywhere else suitable in Arkwright Bury to display it, which seems odd,” He laughs. “When you think that Briar Priory was so much smaller than Arkwright Bury is.”

 

“And that’s why you’ve come to see me?” Lettice asks, trying to get Mr. Gifford to explain himself and share his intentions.

 

“Yes.” Mr. Gifford agrees. “If you’re willing to take it on, I’d love for you to redecorate Cuthbert’s study as a surprise for Adelina. It would make it a happy space to be in, rather than a sad and neglected one.”

 

“Although that still doesn’t explain the necessity for this.” Lettice half raises the green Morocco leather photo album in her lap with her spare left hand.

 

“Well, I wanted you to look at the photo of the Pagoda Room because, I thought it had been completely destroyed by the fire, until I started going through Cuthbert’s study. Before it was Cuthbert’s study, it was my father’s study, and my grandfather’s before him. So much Gifford history was lost with the fire that my grandparents didn’t have the heart to try and replicate what they had, and the study was created from part of the shell of the Pagoda Room.”

 

“How do you know this, Mr. Gifford?”

 

“Well, do you see that corner cabinet?” Mr. Gifford points to a glass door decorated with delicate fretwork, half hidden in the shadows behind the elaborate floral arrangement on the pedestal. When Lettice affirms with a nod he continues, “Well I didn’t recognise it at first, but this is what my brother, father and grandfather all used as a corner bookcase. It was only when I was doing an inventory of Cuthbert’s books in it, that I suddenly looked at the door, and I recognised it as being the same one from the photograph of the Pagoda Room. So, I took out my penknife******.” He withdraws a small blade with an ebony handle from his pocket. “So useful. I never go anywhere without it being in my pocket, and I took to the red wallpaper just next to the cabinet. I cut away a little, and what do you think I found beneath it, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“The Chinese pagoda paper, I presume, Mr. Gifford.” Lettice laughs.

 

“Just so, Miss Chetwynd!” Mr. Gifford exclaims, bouncing on his seat excitedly. “It’s badly degraded of course, but I thought it would make a splendid backdrop to Adelina’s blue and white porcelain collection!”

 

“Aah… then I’m very sorry, Mr. Gifford,” Lettice begins to apologise. “But you have wasted your journey up to London from Wiltshire. I’m a redecorator and designer, not a restorer.”

 

“Oh I know that, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Gifford replies. “However, I also know from what I read in Mr. Tipping’s******* article in Country Life******** that you are a fine artist. You painted a demilune table********** for Mr. and Mrs. Channon, did you not?”

 

“I did Mr. Gifford. But what of it?”

 

“I had rather thought you might paint the design of the pagoda wallpaper from this photograph for me.”

 

“A demilune table is entirely different to a mural, Mr. Gifford!” Lettice exclaims in horror. “I’m hardly a muralist!”

 

“Oh I’m sorry, Miss Chetwynd, if I in any way implied that I wanted you to paint a mural.” Mr. Gifford defends raising his hands in concern. “No. I thought that because you have connections with wallpaper manufacturers who produce papers based on individual designs submitted, I was rather hoping you would design a panel of the pagoda wallpaper, which could then be reproduced as wallpaper to hang.”

 

Lettice ruminates on Mr. Gifford’s idea for a moment. “Well,” she says cautiously. “I suppose I could speak to Jeffrey and Company***********. They do produce bespoke wall hangings. Mind you, to be frank, it isn’t at all inexpensive, Mr. Gifford.”

 

“Oh I don’t mind, Miss Chetwynd. The Pagoda Room may have been large once, but I can assure you that Cuthbert’s study isn’t a terribly large space. I certainly don’t mind paying the cost to have it papered.”

 

“Well, I know it’s precious to you, but may I have this photograph then, Mr, Gifford?”

 

“Of course you may, Miss Chetwynd. Just slip it out of the album.”

 

As Lettice carefully extracts the old black and white photograph from the album she says. “I can see if I can recreate a design as close to the original as I can make out from this photograph. I take it you can tell me what the colours of it are from the little bit of paper you exposed?”

 

“I have it here, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Gifford replies with a sigh, delving into his satchel once more and withdrawing a crumbling piece of paper that shows a small piece of the pagoda door and some roof tiles in French blue and sage green on an ecru background that must once have been white, which he carefully hands over to Lettice with trembling fingers.

 

“Yes, well. Using this, I could come up with a panel, that once it meets your approval, I can then take to Jeffrey and Company, and see if they are willing to reproduce it, and at what price.”

 

“Capital, Miss Chetwynd! Capital!” Mr. Gifford enthuses excitedly.

 

“I’d have to see the room as well, Mr. Gifford.” Lettice says. “To establish the amount of wall space we are discussing to have papered.”

 

“Are you by chance coming down to Wiltshire to visit your family soon, Miss Chetwynd?” asks Mr. Gifford with a toothy smile.

 

“As a matter of fact, I am, Mr. Gifford.”

 

“Then perhaps I could extend an invitation to you, to take tea with my wife and I at Arkwright Bury, whilst you are in residence at Glynes.”

 

“That sounds splendid, Mr Gifford.”

 

“Of course, you cannot let on to Adelina about this, Miss Chetwynd. This would be strictly between us. I want this redecoration to be a surprise for her.”

 

“You are being presumptuous, Mr. Gifford. I haven’t said that I will take you on as my client yet.” Lettice cautions with a wagging finger. “There are many dependencies and counter-dependencies yet to consider. But I will consider your request after I have seen the room for myself.”

 

“Oh thank you, Miss Chetwynd!” Mr. Gifford replies, clapping his hands in delight.

 

“I said, consider, Mr. Gifford.” Lettice says again, attempting to temper Mr. Gifford’s enthusiasm.

 

“Well, thinking of consideration, Miss Chetwynd. I do have one final titbit that might just make you consider my request a little more favourably.” He pauses for affect.

 

“And what might that be, Mr. Gifford?” Lettice asks with intrigue.

 

“Well, Mr. Henry Tipping is my godfather.” Mr. Gifford says with a smile that makes him look like the cat who just ate the cream. “And when I mentioned your name to him as a potential candidate for redecorating Cuthbert’s study, he said to me that he would happily consider writing an article on your redecoration of the room for Country Life, if you agreed.”

 

“Well!” Lettice replies, her expertly shaped eyebrows arching over her glittering blue eyes. “That is an interesting incentive, Mr. Gifford.”

 

“I thought that might pique your interest, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Gifford replies with a satisfied sigh as he settles back in his armchair again.

 

*Anthony Keck (1726 – 1797) was an Eighteenth Century English architect with an extensive practice in Gloucestershire, Worcestershire, Herefordshire and South Wales. He designed at least fifty country houses in the South-West of England and South Wales.

 

**The Battle of Ypres was a series of engagements during the First World War, near the Belgian city of Ypres, between the German and the Allied armies (Belgian, French, British Expeditionary Force and Canadian Expeditionary Force). During the five engagements, casualties may have surpassed one million.

 

***Sir Winston Churchill (30th if November 1874 – 24th of January 1965) was a British statesman, soldier, and writer who twice served as Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, from 1940 to 1945 during the Second World War, and again from 1951 to 1955. Apart from two years between 1922 and 1924, he was a Member of Parliament from 1900 to 1964 and represented a total of five constituencies. Ideologically an adherent to economic liberalism and imperialism, he was for most of his career a member of the Conservative Party, which he led from 1940 to 1955. He was a member of the Liberal Party from 1904 to 1924. In October 1911, Prime Minister Asquith appointed Churchill First Lord of the Admiralty, and he took up official residence at Admiralty House. He created a naval war staff and, over the next two and a half years, focused on naval preparation, visiting naval stations and dockyards, seeking to improve morale, and scrutinising German naval developments. As First Lord, Churchill was tasked with overseeing Britain's naval effort when the First World War began in August 1914. In the same month, the navy transported 120,000 British troops to France and began a blockade of Germany's North Sea ports. Churchill sent submarines to the Baltic Sea to assist the Russian Navy and he sent the Marine Brigade to Ostend, forcing a reallocation of German troops. In September, Churchill assumed full responsibility for Britain's aerial defence. In May, Asquith agreed under parliamentary pressure to form an all-party coalition government, but the Conservatives' condition of entry was that Churchill must be removed from the Admiralty. Churchill pleaded his case with both Asquith and Conservative leader Bonar Law but had to accept demotion and became Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster.

 

****The term “Flanders Fields”, used after the war to refer to the parts of France where the bloodiest battles of the Great War raged comes from "In Flanders Fields" is a war poem in the form of a rondeau, written during the First World War by Canadian physician Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae, written in 1915.

 

*****Armistice Day or Remembrance Day is a memorial day observed in Commonwealth member states since the end of the First World War to honour armed forces members who have died in the line of duty. It falls on the 11th of November every year. Remembrance Day is marked at eleven o’clock (the time that the armistice was declared) with a minute’s silence to honour the fallen. Following a tradition inaugurated by King George V in 1919, the day is also marked by war remembrances in many non-Commonwealth countries.

 

******A penknife, or pen knife, is a small folding knife. Today penknife is also the common English term for both a pocketknife, which can have single or multiple blades, and for multi-tools, with additional tools incorporated into the design.

 

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

 

*********Country Life is a British weekly perfect-bound glossy magazine that is a quintessential English magazine founded in 1897, providing readers with a weekly dose of architecture, gardens and interiors. It was based in London at 110 Southwark Street until March 2016, when it became based in Farnborough, Hampshire. The frontispiece of each issue usually features a portrait photograph of a young woman of society, or, on occasion, a man of society.

 

**********A demilune is a half-moon shaped table that was created and very popular in the Eighteenth Century. With no hard edges or corners and a shallow profile, this type of accent table works well in so many tight spaces. Georgian rooms were often quite small, so they were a useful surface to have in bedrooms, hallways and entryways.

 

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

 

This may look like an old photograph taken in the Victorian era and inserted into a photograph album, affixed with corners, but it is in fact a photograph made up completely of pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection, including pieces from my teenage years, which has then been post produced as an old black and white photograph.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The embroidery frame, which features a partially completed embroidery, complete with a 1:12 miniature needle inserted into it was made by Falcon Miniatures, who are known for their detail in relation to their miniature pieces. I acquired it from Doreen Jeffrey’s Small Wonders Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The sewing basket sitting next to it on the overstuffed sofa is a 1:12 artisan miniature which I have had since I was a teenager. I acquired it from a high street dolls’ house and miniatures supplier and it is amongst my very first artisan pieces I purchased.

 

The silver tea set on the pedestal table, consisting of milk jug, sugar bowl and teapot come from Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The silver tray upon which they stand also comes from Warwick Miniatures. The two dainty floral teacups with gilt edging are part of a larger tea set that I acquired from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

 

The books on the table, by the slipper chair and on the sofa in the forefront of the picture 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. These books are amongst the rarer exceptions that have been designed not to be opened. Nevertheless, the covers are copies of real Victorian bindings. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s books and magazines are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

 

The overstuffed white settee and matching slipper chair, the two pedestal tables, the demilune table upon which the three vases sit, the three vases themselves, the corner cabinet and the china inside it, the hand embroidered footstool in front of the slipper chair, the two pillows on the sofa in the foreground, the paintings on the walls the extravagant floral arrangement and the two matching ornamental Victorian pillars I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The hand painted oriental ginger jar on the pedestal in the background next to the corner cabinet I acquired from Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers in the United Kingdom.

 

The floral sofa in the foreground I obtained from Crooked Mile Cottage Miniatures in the United States.

 

The oriental rug is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug and has been machine woven. The wallpaper is an Eighteenth Century chinoiserie design of pagodas and would have been hand painted in its original form.

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 to the west of London, in nearby Buckinghamshire, at Dorrington House, a smart Jacobean manor house of the late 1600s built for a wealthy merchant, situated in High Wycombe, where Lettice’s elder sister, Lalage (known to everyone in the family by the diminutive Lally), resides with her husband Charles Lanchenbury and their three children, Harrold, Annabelle and baby Piers. Situated within walking distance of the market town’s main square, the elegant red brick house with its high-pitched roof and white painted sash windows still feels private considering its close proximity to the centre of the town thanks to an elegant and restrained garden surrounding it, which is enclosed by a high red brick wall.

 

Following the death of Lord Sherbourne Tyrwhitt, patriarch of the family living on the estate adjunct to that of Lettice’s parents, Lettice and her sister Lally returned to their grand Georgian family home of Glynes in Wiltshire to attend the funeral of the man they have both grown up calling Uncle Sherbourne even though he was no blood relation. Indeed, the Chetwynds and the Tyrwhitts were only formally joined in November last year by the marriage of Lord Sherbourne’s only daughter, Arabella, to Viscount Wrexham’s eldest son and heir Leslie. With the funeral over, Lettice has agreed to keep Lally company in her empty home for a few days whilst her husband and children are away. And so, we find the siblings sitting at the round Georgian table of the bright and airy breakfast room of Dorrington House with its Dutch yellow painted walls, Chinese silk carpet, elegant Eighteenth Century furnishings and artwork as luncheon is being served.

 

“Will there be anything else, Mrs. Lanchenbury?” Edgars, Lally’s butler, asks politely as he deposits a partially filled decanter of red wine on the table.

 

“I don’t think so, Edgars, but I’ll ring if I do.” Lally replies with a reassuring smile from her seat at the round table. “Thank you.”

 

Lettice and her sister sit quietly at the table, backs straight in their Georgian chairs, not commencing either to serve themselves luncheon or to speak until the butler has retreated discreetly through the door and closed it behind him. As his footsteps echo down the hallway outside, the siblings release the pent-up breath they both have held within their chests whilst Edgars was serving their luncheon. They look at one another and both laugh, a glint in their eyes.

 

“Mater would be pleased with us, wouldn’t she Tice?” chuckles Lally.

 

“Don’t talk in front of the servants, dear.” Lettice imitates their mother’s overly plummy intonations, making them both laugh again.

 

“What astonishing bad luck we have,” Lally remarks a little despondently. “Arriving back here on cook’s day off. With only cold pork pie,” She gingerly lifts the scalloped edge of the covered serving dish at her right and peeps at what lies beneath it. “And some warmed potato au gratin to serve you. I’m sorry.”

 

“Oh, I don’t mind.” Lettice bushes her sister’s apologies aside. “One of Mrs. Sawyer’s pork pies is a feast in itself, Lally. Edith is a good plain cook, but nothing beats pastry made by a woman born and bred in the country.”

 

“And you don’t mind us dining in the breakfast room, rather than the dining room?” Lally asks with a lilt of concern in her voice.

 

“Goodness no, Lally!” Lettice replies in an effort to assuage her sister’s worries. “What’s the point when it is only, we two here. No, this is a nice cosy room with a cheerful fire going, which is perfect. We can take all our meals in here whilst I’m stopping if you like. Shall I pour?” She indicates to the crystal decanter containing a rich red wine in its bulbous base.

 

“If you would, Tice.” Lally acquiesces.

 

“So where has Charles gone? I know you told me before Uncle Sherbourne’s funeral, but I’m afraid with everything that went along with that, for the moment I can’t remember.”

 

“Oh, I don’t expect you to. Plate, Tice.” She indicates with a gesticulating hand for Lettice to pass her dinner plate - Lally’s everyday dinner service - to her, accepting it and depositing a scoop of steaming golden yellow potato au gratin onto her plate. “He and Lord Lanchenbury have set sail for Bombay on the P&O*.”

 

“And why have they gone to India?”

 

“To look at a new tea plantation.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Well, ever since Maison Lyonses** at Marble Arch and in Shaftesbury Avenue have accepted Lord Lanchenbury’s Georgian Afternoon Tea blend to serve as their own on the beverages menu, he can’t seem to supply enough of the stuff for the tea drinking populace of London. He and Charles are looking to expand the tea export business there.”

 

“Isn’t it funny, Lally?” Lettice remarks, accepting back her plate and pushing her sister’s full glass of wine across the table.

 

“What is, Tice?”

 

“That you still call your father-in-law Lord Lanchenbury, just as I do.”

 

“Well, with those glowering looks of his, his Victorian mutton chops*** and his equally severe and old fashioned manners hardly endear him to me or make me want to call him anything less.” She glances at her sister with serious eyes. “And, I don’t think he would appreciate me calling him ‘my dear George’ either.” Both girls chuckle at the thought. “Even Charles calls him Sir, in preference to Father or Pappa.”

 

“Too many years an old bachelor for Lord Lanchenbury, with no female company to soften the hard edges since his wife’s death.” Lettice pours herself a glass of wine.

 

“Oh I don’t think he’s short of female companionship.” Lally remarks as she stands up, reaches over and lifts the plate on which the pork pie sits and brings it closer to her. “If you understand my meaning, Tice.”

 

“Lally!” Lettice gasps, almost dropping the carafe in her hands, as her sister resumes her seat.

 

“What?” replies her sibling with a peal of laughter. “Don’t tell me that I’ve shocked you, Tice?”

 

“You have!”

 

“I’d hardly expect you to be shocked by the idea of a gentleman, even if it is crusty old Victorian Lord Lanchenbury, accepting a little paid female company, Tice. After all, you are the adventurous and worldly one, living amongst all the Bright Young Things**** up in London, whilst I have a much more sedate and conventional life here in Buckinghamshire.”

 

“Oh it isn’t the act itself, that shocks me, but rather hearing it spoken of from my sedate and conventional sister’s mouth, that does.”

 

“I’m not that unworldly, Tice.” Lally giggles.

 

Lally slices the pie generously, the silver knife cutting into the crisp golden crust with a satisfying crunch, revealing the richly coloured spiced meat interior and releasing the delicious smell of the cooked pork. Lettice lifts her plate and Lally plonks a slice of the pie on her plate before depositing one onto her own.

 

“I really can’t thank you enough, Tice, for agreeing to come and stay with me for a few days, directly from Glynes.”

 

“Oh I was only too happy to get out from under Mater’s own glowering stares, Lally.” She lifts her glass to her sister. “Cheers to happy sisterly relations.”

 

“Cheers indeed, Tice.” She raises her own full glass.

 

Their glasses clink cheerfully.

 

“Although admittedly, I probably wouldn’t have come if you’d asked me a few years ago.” Lettice admits with a tinge of guilt. “But only because of that poison Mater injected on purpose to strain our relationship.”

 

“Yes, I’m glad all that bad blood between us, created by Mother’s games of one-upmanship between us, is over and done with. I like having my little sister back again, Tice.” She smiles gratefully at Lettice.

 

“And I’m glad to have my elder sister’s confidence again too, Lally.” She reaches out and wraps her hand around Lally’s and gives it an encouraging squeeze.

 

“I just don’t think I could have faced coming home to an empty house after Uncle Sherbourne’s funeral.”

 

“Yes, it is a rather disparaging thought, isn’t it? Coming back to a silent house after all the dourness of the last few days. Where are my beloved nephew and niece, by the way?”

 

“After hearing about Uncle Sherbourne’s turn and knowing I had to get to Glynes quickly, I hurriedly packed a valise and gave Nanny money enough to take the children to Lyme Regis for a few days.”

 

“They’ll have the sun in their cheeks and the sea air in their hair when they get back.”

 

“They should be back the day after tomorrow according to the note Nanny left, so you will get to see them.”

 

“That will be nice, Lally, and it still gives us a whole day to ourselves before they do.” Lettice remarks.

 

“Yes,” muses her sister. “It will.”

 

The two sit in companionable silence for a little while, the sound of their cutlery scraping against their plates, their quiet chewing, and the crackle of the fire in the grate all that breaks the quiet peace of the breakfast room. Occasionally birds twitter from the shrubbery outside the window, and somewhere in the village beyond the high stone front wall, a horse clops by on the street, the scratch of cart or carriage wheels reminding Lettice of just how much of a world away High Wycombe is from the hustle and bustle of London, even if it is only twenty-nine miles away.

 

“You know, I always thought it would be Aunt Isobel who would go first.” Lally says, breaking the silence.

 

“I think we all thought that, Lally. After all, Aunt Isobel is the one who has always been sick.”

 

“Yes, and Uncle Sherbourne was always so hale and hearty.”

 

“Oh must you use that term, Lally? Hale and hearty, is all I’ve heard to describe poor Uncle Sherbourne for the last few days from every villager, mourner and well-wisher I’ve shaken hands with or spoken to throughout the whole ghastly ordeal.”

 

“Oh, I’m sorry Tice.” Lally apologises. “I guess the term must be catching, as now I think about it, it isn’t one that I usually use myself. Like you, I think I’ve just heard it so much over the last few days.”

 

“Well, do desist, my dear sister, of I shall be forced to reconsider my stopping here with you.” Lettice jokes as she cuts another thin sliver of pork pie and puts it to her mouth.

 

“Garstanton Park won’t be the same without him, will it?”

 

“Indeed no, especially the musical evenings Uncle Sherbourne was known for.”

 

“Will Nigel carry on do you suppose?”

 

Lettice looks anxiously at her sister, before quickly glancing back down at her plate, focusing upon the creamy white potato au gratin. She silently wonders how Lally knows about the financial difficulties the new Lord Tyrwhitt, Sherbourne’s only surviving son Nigel, has uncovered. From everything Nigel confided in her when they were in Gartsanton Park’s library cum music room after the funeral, Lettice thought she was one of the very few to be in his confidence and know the truth about the financial straits the Tyrwhitts now find themselves in.

 

“Having musical soirees, I mean.” Lally clarifies, sensing a lack of comprehension from her sister.

 

Lettice quietly releases a long breath before replying, “Well, Nigel does love that Bechstein***** as much as his father did. And even though I don’t really wish to say this with Uncle Sherbourne only freshly laid to rest, but Nigel plays it far better and more naturally than either Uncle Sherbourne or Aunt Isobel ever did.”

 

“Oh, Aunt Isobel always preferred the violin anyway. That was her instrument when she was younger before her hands became riddled with arthritis.” adds Lally. “But going back to my point, Garstanton Park will be awfully empty, with just Nigel and Aunt Isobel rattling around inside of it, with no Bella now she’s married to Leslie and living in the Glynes Dower House, and no sign of Nigel settling down and having a family yet. If I can feel lonely here at Dorrington with Charles and the children gone, I can only imagine what it will be like in such a big and drafty old place like Garstanton Park.”

 

“I imagine they’ll make the best of it. Nigel is often in their London house anyway, so no doubt he’ll just bring Aunt Isobel up with him when he comes, now.”

 

“Aahh yes,” Lally murmurs. “I tend to forget that you see Nigel quite often because he spends more time up in London than in Wiltshire. That will have to change.”

 

“Why should it change, Lally?”

 

“Well,” Lally scoffs. “Nigel can’t very well carry on a bachelor life in London and manage Garstanton Park at the same time, now can he?” She pauses and thinks for a moment. “They will stay on, won’t they?”

 

Lettice wonders whether she should disclose what Nigel told her about his doubts around keeping his great Victorian family home in his possession, but decides that discretion is better, even with her elder sister, considering the fact that he told her in confidence. “How can you give life to such a thought, Lally?”

 

“Oh I know, Tice.” Lally dabs the edges of her mouth with her damask napkin. “I feel like such a traitor by even uttering it, but ever since the war, with death duties being so high******.” Her voice trails off.

 

“Oh, I’m sure Nigel will make a good fist of it*******.” Lettice defends her friend with a false joviality that does not reflect the feeling growing in the pit of her stomach. “For as long as we and Pater can remember, there have always been Tyrwhitts at Garstanton Park. Why should the status quo change?”

 

“I know a number of people who have sold off their country houses since the end of the war and reside in reduced circumstances in London,” Lally remarks dourly, picking up her glass. ‘Not badly off of course, but certainly not in the style of the old family estates that they used to have before the war. Father is very lucky that Leslie made suggestions to modernise the Glynes estate.”

 

“Leslie was lucky that Pater could be persuaded.” Lettice replies.

 

“Well, that’s also true. I know Mother thinks it a poky little place, but I’m only grateful that Dorrington House,” She waves her hand around expansively about the tastefully decorated room with Dutch yellow walls and Georgian furnishings and artworks. “Is a more modest residence. I don’t need a whole retinue of staff to run it, nor a vast fortune to maintain it, so Charles and I can live very comfortably here, even with post-war economic inflation.”

 

“Oh let’s talk about something else, Lally.” Lettice remarks, trying to change the subject as she feels Mrs. Sawyer’s delicious pork pie start to turn to stone in her stomach.

 

“Yes, let’s talk about something jolly instead. We’ve been so consumed by Uncle Sherbourne’s death these last few days. Gerald was telling me at the wake that you have a Mrs. Hawarden who wants you to decorate her house in Ascot, but you don’t want to accept her commission?”

 

Lettice rolls her eyes. “I thought you said we were going to talk about something jolly, Lally.”

 

“Well, I’m intrigued.” her sister replies, placing her cutlery on the painted edges of her plate as she sits back in her chair and looks to Lettice with undivided attention. “It seems your article in Country Life******** has done your reputation the world of good if you are now being selective as to whom you decorate for.”

 

Lettice settles back in her own seat and cradles her glass of wine in her hand thoughtfully as she contemplates how to reply without sounding conceited. “It is true that Henry Tipping’s********* article about the interior designs I created for Dickie and Margot has certainly been a boon for business, but I would turn down Mrs. Hawarden even if the article had never been.”

 

“Why Tice? What’s wrong with her? Gerald tells me that she’s the wife of a fabric manufacturer from Manchester.”

 

“Yes, Mrs. Evelyn Hawarden is the wife of Joseph Hawarden of Hawarden Fabrics, and she is positively ghastly, Lally. Absolutely ghastly!”

 

“How so, Tice?” Lally asks, her interest piqued.

 

“Well, she wants me to redecorate rooms that I feel should really be left as they are, but she is a tinkerer. She keeps talking to me, no, at me,” Lettice corrects herself. “Demanding that I ruin them with inferior fabrics and, quite frankly, ghastly ideas about what she thinks makes for tasteful redecoration and modernisation.”

 

“Which evidently aren’t tasteful, looking at your expression, Tice.”

 

“Far from it, and I want to turn her down.”

 

“And what is it that’s stopping you.”

 

Lettice sighs and shakes her head. “She is horribly domineering, I’ve discovered. She is quite convinced that I am the only interior designer who has her vision.”

 

“Which you don’t.”

 

“Which I don’t.” Lettice sips her wine. “I have made a few suggestions that counter her own opinions as to what is tasteful and what is not, but she just talks over the top of me. She telephones almost every day in an effort to wear me down. I make Edith answer the telephone all the time now, which she hates, and lie to Mrs. Hawarden and tell her I’m not at home, which she hates even more, just so I don’t have to speak with the ghastly harridan.”

 

Lally picks up her own glass and contemplates for a few moments before answering. “Well, maybe you’re going about refuting her the wrong way, Tice.”

 

“What do you mean, Lally?”

 

“You say that she has some ghastly ideas that you have tried to counter. Why don’t you agree instead?”

 

“Agree? I don’t want to agree with her. Then she’ll have a pot of wallpaper glue and a brush in my hands quicker than you can say knife!”

 

“What I mean is, why not agree that her taste is very modern and forward thinking, far too modern and forward thinking for you. Remind her that you are a,” Lally pauses again as she tries to recall the description from the Country Life article. “A Classical Revivalist, was it?”

 

“A Modern Classical Revivalist.” Lettice corrects her sister.

 

“There you go! Show her that she is too modern for you, and convince her that you are too classical and old fashioned for her. If this Mrs. Hawarden is looking to use your skills to help her advance herself socially by modernising her home, you just need to plant the seed that you aren’t as forward thinking as she is, or that she thinks you are. Once the doubt is planted in her mind, it will quickly take root.”

 

“Do you think so, Lally?”

 

“Trust me, Tice. I’ve seen my father-in-law and my husband do it when they have had business propositions and advances from men they don’t wish to deal with.”

 

Lettice considers what her sister has said, and a small smile teases the edges of her mouth upward ever so slightly as an idea begins to formulate in her mind. “I do declare, Lally, you may be right in your way of thinking.”

 

“Of course I am, Tice,” Lally purrs as she takes another sip of her wine. “I’m your elder sister.”

 

*In 1837, the Peninsular Steam Navigation Company first secured a Government contract for the regular carriage of mail between Falmouth and the Peninsular ports as far as Gibraltar. The company, established in 1835 by the London shipbroking partnership of Brodie McGhie Willcox (1786-1861) and Arthur Anderson (1792-1868) and the Dublin Ship owner, Captain Richard Bourne (1880-1851) had begun a regular steamer service for passengers and cargo between London, Spain and Portugal using the 206 ton paddle steamer William Fawcett. The growing inclination of early Twentieth Century shipping enterprises to merge their interests, and group themselves together, did not go unnoticed at P&O, which made its first major foray in this direction in 1910 with the acquisition of Wilhelm Lund’s Blue Anchor Line. By 1913, with a paid-up capital of some five and half million pounds and over sixty ships in service, several more under construction and numerous harbour craft and tugs to administer to the needs of this great fleet all counted, the P&O Company owned over 500,000 tons of shipping. In addition to the principal mail routes, through Suez to Bombay and Ceylon, where they divided then for Calcutta, Yokohama and Sydney, there was now the ‘P&O Branch Line’ service via the Cape to Australia and various feeder routes. The whole complex organisation was serviced by over 200 agencies stationed at ports throughout the world. At the end of 1918, the Group was further strengthened by its acquisition of a controlling shareholding in the Orient Line and in 1920, the General Steam Navigation Company, the oldest established sea-going steamship undertaking, was taken over. In 1923 the Strick Line was acquired too and P&O became, for a time, the largest shipping company in the world. With the 1920s being the golden age of steamship travel, P&O was the line to cruise with. P&O had grown into a group of separate operating companies whose shipping interests touched almost every part of the globe. By March 2006, P&O had grown to become one of the largest port operators in the world and together with P&O Ferries, P&O Ferrymasters, P&O Maritime Services, P&O Cold Logistics and its British property interests, the company was, itself, acquired by DP World for three point three billion pounds.

 

**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.

 

***Nineteenth Century sideburns were often far more extravagant than those seen today, similar to what are now called mutton chops, but considerably more extreme. In period literature, "side whiskers" usually refers to this style, in which the whiskers hang well below the jaw line. The classic mutton chop is a type of beard in which the sideburns are grown out to the cheeks, leaving the moustache, soul patch, and chin clean-shaven. As with beards, sideburns went quickly out of fashion in the early Twentieth Century. In World War I, in order to secure a seal on a gas mask, men had to be clean-shaven; this did not affect moustaches.

 

****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.

 

*****C. Bechstein Pianoforte AG (also known as Bechstein), is a German manufacturer of pianos, established in 1853 by Carl Bechstein (1826 – 1900).

 

******Modern inheritance tax dates back to 1894 when the government introduced estate duty, a tax on the capital value of land, in a bid to raise money to pay off a £4m government deficit. It replaced several different inheritance taxes, including the 1796 tax on estates introduced to help fund the war against Napoleon. The earliest death duty can be traced back to 1694 when probate duty, a tax on personal property in wills proved in court, was brought in. When the tax was first introduced it was intended to affect only the very wealthy, but the rise in the value of homes, particularly in the south-east of England, it began to creep into the realms of the upper middle-classes. From 1896, it was possible to avoid estate duty by handing on gifts during the life of the donor. To counter avoidance through last minute transfers, gifts handed over a limited time before death were still subject to the tax. Initially the period was one year but that rose to seven years over time. Freshly recovering from the Great War, the hefty death taxes imposed on wealthy families such as the Tyrwhitts in the post-war years of the 1920s, combined with increases to income taxes on the wealthy, caused some to start to sell off their country houses and estates, settling in more reduced circumstances (still very luxurious by today’s standards) in their smaller London homes.

 

*******It is seldom heard in the land of its origin — the United States. When you make a good fist of something, you succeed in doing it. You do a good job and achieve a certain degree of success. According to some scholars, the word 'fist' in the expression is used in the sense of 'hand' — someone who does physical work.

 

********Country Life is a British weekly perfect-bound glossy magazine that is a quintessential English magazine founded in 1897, providing readers with a weekly dose of architecture, gardens and interiors. It was based in London at 110 Southwark Street until March 2016, when it became based in Farnborough, Hampshire. The frontispiece of each issue usually features a portrait photograph of a young woman of society, or, on occasion, a man of society.

 

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

 

This neat Georgian interior may appear like something out of a historical stately country house, but it is in fact part of my 1:12 miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The round breakfast table in the centre of the room, which tilts like a real loo table, is an artisan miniature from an unknown maker with a marquetry inlaid top, which came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. On its surface the crockery, silver cutlery, two glasses and decanter of red wine, which are made from real spun glass, came from online stockists of miniatures on E-Bay. The serviettes with their napkin rings also came from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop, as does the silver tray on which the decanter of wine sits. The Georgian style silver lidded serving dish and the Georgian style gravy boat come from Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The pie at the forefront of the image has been made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination.

 

The Chippendale style chairs surrounding the round breakfast table, and the carver chair in the background, are very special pieces. They came from the Petite Elite Miniature Museum, later rededicated as the Carol and Barry Kaye Museum of Miniatures, which ran between 1992 and 2012 on Los Angeles’ bustling Wiltshire Boulevard. One of the chairs still has a sticker under its cushion identifying which room of which dollhouse it came. The Petite Elite Miniature Museum specialised in exquisite and high end 1:12 miniatures. The furnishings are taken from a real Chippendale design.

 

The sideboard featuring fine marquetry banding and collapsible extensions at either end appears to have been made by the same unknown artisan who made the round table. This piece I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop at the same time as the table. The Georgian style silver lidded tureens on the sideboard’s surface I also acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop. The vase on the sideboard is made by M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik in Germany, who specialise in making high quality porcelain miniatures. Made of polymer clay the irises and foxgloves in the vase are moulded on wires to allow them to be shaped at will and put into individually formed floral arrangements. They came from a 1:12 miniature specialist in Germany.

 

The Regency corner cabinet with its elegant gilt detailing and glass door is made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq. The beautiful collection of china on display inside the cabinet, like the vase on the sideboard, is made by M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik in Germany.

 

The Georgian style paintings of silhouettes hanging around the room came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House shop, and the Chinese silk carpet came from an online stockist of 1:12 miniatures on E-Bay.

© Doug Santo

A corner cabinet by Èmile-Jacques Ruhlmann, on display as part of the "Jazz Age" exhibit at the Cleveland Museum of Art in Cleveland, Ohio, in the United States.

 

Ruhlmann (1879-1933) was a French furniture and interior designer who epitomized the French Art Deco style in the 1920s.

 

This 1923 cabinet is made of mahogany, with a Kingwood (amaranth) veneer and ivory inlay. It was designed as part of an overall interior design for the home of a wealthy family in Lyon, France.

 

#CMAJazzAge

the completed TV Cabinet, made with redwood pine painted with eggshell paint with an american white oak top finished with 5 layers of tung oil and buffed with a rag. The design is inspired by shaker style furniture.

This photo shows the detail inside the hand carved cockleshell. The carving is 34" wide, 17" high. The curious might like to know that the curvature of the back staves (visible below the shell) was achieved using a custom made wooden radius plane.

This wall corner angle cabinet with an open for glass door features a "crown" arch detail. (Rustic hickory in Kona stain with Licorice glaze.)

Alice in Wonderland

 

CZ 135mm f1.8 Sonnar

Corner cabinet , Huon Pine and Tiger Myrtle. Peter Whyte Photo

the completed TV Cabinet, made with redwood pine painted with eggshell paint with an american white oak top finished with 5 layers of tung oil and buffed with a rag. The design is inspired by shaker style furniture.

We wanted a small, discreet cabinet to hold our DVD player, Sky box, and Wii. We couldn't find what we wanted, so Angus built one by himself.

The corner cabinet was my grandmother's, made from cedar that grew on their land. The treasures inside are things handed down, things given to me, and mementoes I have bought along the years.

If you're considering into increasing the storage space in your bathroom, you might be considering a corner cabinet. Here are some benefits of using glass wall cabinets:

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To find out more details about glass wall cabinet options as well as other great ideas on interior design and decoration, take a look at Gravity Décor’s website.