Scafall: Volonte / Credenza & Fireplace Sets

75L - 99L per piece for this week's SL Home Decor Weekend Sale & 99 Sale! All pieces are PBR & Materials Enabled

 

I used in my photo:

 

-Fireplace & Firescreen

-Wall Frame + Light

-Leaning Frame

-Credenza

-Table Lamp Black

 

Scafall Mainstore

 

[SQUARE]: Concrete Panel 2C (Weekend sales)

[SQUARE]: ARIA Dry Stem Pot

[SQUARE]: ARIA Side Table

[SQUARE]: OPTIMUS Pendant GOLD

 

SQUARE Mainstore

 

[ARTSY]: Tior Bookshelf (I unlinked this part that you see on the wall from the bookshelf. You can change the texture by clicking the item)

[ARTSY]: Marble Collection (Marble 1-floor, Marble 2-head sculpture)

[ARTSY]: Centerpiece Vases (GIFT)

 

[ARTSY] Mainstore

[ARTSY] Primfeed

 

Oh Deer: My Favourite Things - Standing classic books with two glass paper weights

Oh Deer Mainstore

 

Black.Sand: Ottoman Sofa -Black-

BAZAR: Ivy Head

 

I rarely really covet something, these I would love to own. They are a detail from a firescreen.

Ancient High House Stafford UK 6th April 2016

Metropolitan Museum of Art

 

The Richard and Gloria Manney John Henry Belter Rococo Revival Parlor

 

The Richard and Gloria Manney Rococo Revival Parlor is a showcase of the most original of American mid-nineteenth-century furniture designers.After perfecting a lamination process that permitted layers of wood to be bent and carved to a degree previously unachievable,the German born Belter proceeded to exploit it's design possibilities to the fullest.In the 1850s his highly ornamented sets required a nationwide reputation,and demand for them soon transformed his New York shop into a large factory.

 

The room's architectural elements-windows,columnar screens,doorway, cornice,and rosette-are from the double parlor of an Italian style villa in Astoria, Queens,in about 1852. The original double parlor had relatively small dimensions and no fireplaces-factors that made its reconstruction in this space inadvisable.Instead,it's beautifully detailed elements were used to create the parlor of a type illustrated in a designed for an Italianate villa published by Minard LaFever in The Architectural Instructor (New York,1856, plate LXIII).

 

Three objects in the room-one of the console tables,the fire screen,and the mantel mirror-have recently been acquired for the permanent collection,in time for the 75th Annual Celebration,after having been loans since the room opened in 1983. The console table is a rare match to the other one installed in this room;practically mirrored images,both tables are attributed to Belter and exhibit finely executed carvings of naturalistic fruits and flowers,as well as unusually pierced legs.The firescreen retains its original needlework panel.A rococo shell is the dominant motif in the carved and gilded oval mantel mirror.Oval-shaped mantel mirrors are rather unusual, and additionally,this is the only Rococo Revival mantel mirror in the Museum's collection.

Holga 120S with shutter removed for time exposure. Georgia

At the dawn of the Nineteenth Century, Christmas was hardly celebrated – at least, not in a way we would recognise today. Many businesses didn't consider it to be a holiday. Gift giving had traditionally been a New Year activity, but moved as Christmas became more important to the Victorians. By the end of the century, Christmas had become the biggest annual celebration in the British calendar. Victorian advancements in technology, industry and infrastructure – as well as having an impact on society as a whole – made Christmas an occasion that many more British people could enjoy. From Christmas cards to decorated trees and Christmas crackers, many of our best-known Christmas traditions are products of the Victorian era.

 

The theme for "Smile on Saturday" for the 21st of December is "get in the festive mood". Anyone who follows my photostream knows that I love and collect 1:12 size miniatures which I photograph in realistic scenes. The artifice of recreating in minute detail items in 1:12 scale always amazes me, and it’s amazing how the eye can be fooled. I have created such a scene here, where everything is comes from my 1:12 miniatures collection. Therefore I have decided to use them to illustrate a very Victorian Christmas, which I think exemplifies being in the festive mood. I hope you like my choice for this week's theme, and that it makes you smile!

 

As this is the last "Smile on Saturday" before Christmas, I should just like to take this opportunity to wish everyone in the group a very happy Festive Season. May it be filled with happiness and joy for you all.

 

This scene is comprised of 1:12 miniatures from my 1;12 miniature collection, ranging from artisan pieces acquired in the last couple of years, to items I have had since my childhood. Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The Christmas tree is a 1:12 artisan miniature made by an unknown artist. I bought it via E-Bay from a seller in the United States. The tree came full dressed, complete with little gold angel on top, the apron at its bottom and all the baubles and bows between.

 

The Christmas presents you see beneath the Christmas tree and scattered around the room were made by husband and wife artistic team Margie and Mike Balough who own Serendipity Miniatures in Newcomerstown, Ohio. The Christmas garland hanging from the fireplace was also made by them.

 

The New Year cards you see on the mantlepiece of the fireplace are all 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of his work that I have come in the form of books, which 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. What might amaze you is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. As well as books, he also designed other paper based artistic items. This includes these New Year cards which are 1:12 copies of genuine Victorian New Year cards! 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 other Christmas cards seen around the room are artisan miniatures made by an unknown artist and came in their own presentation box. They came from kathleen Knight's Doll's House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The delicious looking plate of iced and decorated Christmas biscuits, which is a miniature artisan piece gifted to me by my dear Flickr friend and artist Kim Hagar (www.flickr.com/photos/bkhagar_gallery/), who surprised me with it last Christmas.

 

The antique velvet drawing room suite with its button-back upholstery I have had since I was a child of eight. The sofa, grandfather armchair and grandmother slipper chair were a gift to me that Christmas. The small salon chair in the back right-hand corner of the photo also comes from my childhood and I have had it since I was about ten.

 

The tall Dutch style chest of drawers to the far left of the photo was one of the first pieces of miniature furniture I ever bought for myself. I chose it as payment for several figures I made from Fimo clay for a local high street toy shop when I was eight years old. All these years later, I definitely think I got the better end of the deal!

 

The two wine tables and the demi-lune tables come from Kathleen Knight's Doll's House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The two cottages orné pastille burners sitting on the demi-line table have been hand made, painted and gilded by Welsh miniature ceramist Rachel Williams who has her own studio, V&R Miniatures, in Powys. The ornate Victorian ruby glass epergne between them is an artisan miniature made of real spun glass and came from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

 

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 as well.

 

The ornate white plaster fireplace with its wide mantle, the fire screen in front if it, and the hand embroidered pole fire screen to the left of the fireplace, the black leaded fire surround and brass fire tools also come from Kathleen Knight's Doll's House shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The grey marble French barrel clock on the mantlepiece is a 1:12 artisan miniature made by Hall’s Miniature Clocks, supplied through Doreen Jeffries Small Wonders Miniatures in England.

 

The two ornate fluted Victorian ruby glass vases standing to either side of the clock between the New Year cards are artisan miniatures made of real spun glass and came from Kathleen Knight's Doll's House shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The family photos on the mantlepiece and on the walls are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frames are from various suppliers, but all are metal.

 

The four miniature silhouettes featuring a Georgian era gentleman and lady, and two top hatted Victorian gentlemen come from Lady Mile Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The central portrait of an old Victorian woman in its gold frame also comes from Kathleen Knight's Doll's House shop in the United Kingdom, whilst the Regency portrait of the gentleman to the right-hand side of the photograph was made by Maria Makes Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The wallpaper is William Morris’ ‘Poppies’ pattern, featuring stylised Art Nouveau poppies. William Morris papers and fabrics were popular in the late Victorian and early Edwardian period before the Great War.

 

The miniature Victorian style rug on the floor is made by hand by Pike and Pike in the United Kingdom.

Polished before brass-plating is paramount

 

Inspired by Edgar Brandt's 'La Biche Dans La Foret'- 1924

  

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

 

Today however we are at Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie and his wife, Arabella. Lettice has been summoned to her old family home after an abrupt morning telephone call from her father, following the publication of an article in the publication, Country Life* featuring her interior designs for friends Margot and Dickie Channon’s Cornwall Regency country house ‘Chi an Treth’.

 

As Lettice elegantly alighted from the London train at Glynes village railway station, there on the platform amid the dissipating steam of the departing train and the smattering of visitors or return travellers to the village, stood Harris, the Chetwynd’s family chauffer. Dressed in his smart grey uniform, he took Lettice’s portmanteau, hastily packed in London by Edith her maid, and umbrella and walked out through the station’s small waiting room and booking office, leading Lettice to where the Chetwynd’s 1912 Daimler awaited her on the village’s main thoroughfare. As they drove through the centre of the village, Harris told Lettice through the glass partition from the front seat, that her article in Country Life* had caused quite a sensation below stairs. Quietly, Lettice smiled proudly to herself as she settled back more comfortably into the car’s maroon upholstery. Lettice is undeniably her father’s favourite child, but she has a strained relationship with her mother at the best of times as the two have differing views about the world and the role that women have to play in it. She only hopes as she nears her family home, that Lady Sadie, who does not particularly approve of her venture into interior design, will be proud of her achievement this time.

 

As the Daimler purrs up the gravel driveway and stops out the front of Glynes, Bramley, the Chetwynd’s butler, steps through the front door followed by Marsen, the liveried first footman. Marsden silently opens the door of the Daimler for Lettice and helps her step out before fetching her luggage.

 

“Welcome home, My Lady,” Bramley greets her with an open smile. “What a pleasure it is to see you looking so well.”

 

“Thank you Bramley,” she replies with a satisfied smile as she looks up at the classical columned portico of her beloved childhood home basking in the spring sunshine. “It’s always good to be home.”

 

“How was the train journey from London, My Lady?” Bramley asks Lettice as he falls in step a few paces behind her.

 

“Oh, quite pleasant, thank you Bramley. I have my novel to while away the time.”

 

“We were all pleased and proud to see your name in print in Her Ladyship’s copy of Country Life.”

 

“Oh, thank you, Bramley. That’s very kind of you to say. I take it that is why I have been summoned here today.”

 

The butler clears his throat a little awkwardly and looks seriously at Lettice. “I couldn’t say, My Lady, however they are expecting you, in the drawing room.” The statement is said with the gravitas that befits one of the country house’s finest rooms.

 

Lettice’s face falls. “Do I have time to refresh myself.” She peels off her gloves as she walks through the marble floored vestibule and into the lofty Adam style hall of Glynes. The familiar scent of old wood, tapestries and carpets welcomes her home.

 

“I was asked to show you into the drawing room immediately upon your arrival, My Lady,” Bramley says as Marsden closes the front doors and then the vestibule doors behind them. “Her Ladyship insisted, and His Lordship didn’t contradict her.”

 

“Oh. Do I sense an air of disquiet, Bramley?” Lettice asks, handing the butler her red fox collar and then shrugging off her russet three quarter length coat into his waiting white glove clad hands.

 

“Well My Lady, may I just say that your article caused somewhat of a stir both above and below stairs.” He accepts Lettice’s elegant picture hat of russet felt ornamented with pheasant feathers.

 

“Yes, so Harris told me. Good or bad above stairs, Bramley?”

 

“I think,” the older manservant contemplates. “Mixed, might be the best answer to that, My Lady.”

 

“Meaning?”

 

“Well, His Lordship, and Master Leslie were thrilled, as was the young Mrs. Chetwynd. However, as you know, My Lady, Her Ladyship has particular ideas as to your future.” He cocks an eyebrow and gives her a knowing look. “She’s had them planned since the day you were born, and you know she dislikes it when her plans go awry.”

 

“Oh.” Lettice says with a disappointed lilt in her answer. “Well, thank you Bramley,” she gives him a sad, yet grateful smile. “You are a brick for warning me.” She brushes down the front of her flounced floral sprigged spring frock, sighs and says with a sigh, “Then I best get this over with, hadn’t I?”

 

“I don’t see an alternative, My Lady.”

 

“Then don’t worry, I’ll show myself into the drawing room. I should imagine this will only be an overnight stay.”

 

Without waiting for a reply, Lettice turns on her heel and walks down the corridor, her louis heels clicking along the parquetry flooring, echoing off the walls decorated with gilt framed portraits of the Chetwynd ancestors, their dogs, horses and paintings of views of the estate. She stops before the pair of beautiful walnut double doors that open onto the drawing room, grasps one of the gilded foliate handles, turns it and steps in.

 

The very grand and elegant drawing room of Glynes with its grand dimensions, high ceiling and gilt Louis and Palladian style furnishings has always been one of Lettice’s favourite rooms in the house. It is from here that she developed her love for collecting fine Limoges porcelain to emulate the collection amassed by her great, great paternal grandmother Lady Georgiana Chetwynd. No matter what time of day, the room is always light and airy thanks to its large full-length windows and beautiful golden yellow Georgian wallpaper decorated in a pattern of delicate blossoms and paper lanterns which seems almost to exude warmth and golden illumination. Whilst decorated with many generations of conspicuous consumption, it is not overly cluttered and it does not have the suffocating feel of Lady Sadie’s morning room, which she loathes, and it smells familiarly of a mixture of fresh air, bees wax polish and just a waft of roses. Glancing around, Lettice can see the latter comes from two vases of roses – one white bunch and one golden yellow cluster – both in elegant porcelain vases. The room is silent, save for the quiet ticking of several clocks set about polished surfaces, the hiss of dusty wood as it burns and the muffled twitter of birds in the bushes outside the drawing room windows. And there, by the grand crackling fire, her parents sit in what she hopes to be companionable silence.

 

Lady Sadie sits in her usual armchair next to the fire, dressed in a grey woollen skirt, a burnt orange silk blouse and a matching cardigan with her everyday double strand pearls about her neck. With her wavy white hair framing her face in an old fashioned style she looks not unlike Queen Mary, as she sips tea from one of the floral tea cups from her favourite Royal Doulton set, lost in her own thoughts as she stares out through the satin brocade curtain framed windows. The Viscount on the other hand is sitting opposite his wife in the high backed gilded salon chair embroidered in petit point tapestry by his mother. Dressed in his usual country tweeds worn when going about the estate, Lettice notices that he is immersed in the very copy of Country Life that her interiors feature. Between them, tea and coffee in silver pots stand on a small black japanned chinoiserie occasional table along with the round silver biscuit sachet that has once been Lady Sadie’s mother’s.

 

“Well, here I am.” Lettice announces with false joviality, alerting both her parents to her presence as she closes the door behind her.

 

“Lettice!” the Viscount exclaims, jumping up from his seat, slightly crumpling the pages of the Country Life between his right fingers as he lets his hands fall to his side. “My dear girl!” He beams at her proudly. Thrusting out the magazine in front of him as if trying to prove a point, he continues. “What a surprise, eh?” He indicates to the article about ‘Chai an Treth’, which he was reading, as Lettice suspected.

 

“Pappa!”

 

Lettice hurries into the room, steps between the gilt upholstered chairs that are part of the Louis Quartzose salon suite that had been included in her mother’s dowery when she married her father and falls happily into the loving arms of the Viscount who smells comfortingly of fresh air and grass as he envelopes her.

 

“Don’t gush, Cosmo!” Lady Sadie chides, giving her husband a withering look of distain as she sips her tea with a crispness, passing judgement like usual over her husband and youngest daughter’s emotional relationship, which she unable to fathom.

 

“Hullo Mamma.” Lettice reluctantly removes herself from her father’s welcoming embrace and walks over to her mother, who places her teacup aside and tilts her head so that Lettice can give her an air kiss on both cheeks, their skin barely touching in the transaction.

 

“Help yourself to tea and biscuits.” Lady Sadie pronounces, indicating with a sharp nod to the low tea table upon which sits a third, unused, teacup and saucer nestled amongst the other tea things. “Mrs. Casterton has made her custard creams this week.”

 

“Thank you, Mamma.” Lettice sees a selection of vanilla and chocolate cream biscuits on a plate already as she helps herself to tea from the small round sterling silver pot, polished to a gleaming sheen by Bramley or the head parlour maid. She takes up one each of the two varieties of custard creams, ignoring the look of criticism from her mother by doing so, depositing them onto her saucer. She then settles down on the settee, closest to her father and puts her cup on the table next to her.

 

“My dear girl! My dear girl!” the Viscount repeats in a delighted voice as he tosses the copy of Country Life with the crumpling sound of paper onto the top of a pile of newspapers and periodicals atop a petite point footstool. “Exemplifying a comfortable mixture of old and new to create a welcoming and contemporary room, sympathetic to the original features.” he paraphrases one of Lettice’s favourite lines in Henry Tipping’s** article, giving away that this was hardly the first time he has read the article since the magazine arrived at Glynes. “What wonderful praise from Mr. Tipping.”

 

“Oh, do stop, Cosmo!” pleads Lady Sadie from her seat on the other side of the fireplace, toying with the pearls at her throat. “Gushing is so unbecoming,” She glares critically at her husband. “Especially from a man of your age. It’s emasculating.”

 

Lettice gives her mother a wounded glance before quickly looking at her father, however he bares a steeliness in his jaw.

 

“Why shouldn’t I gush, Sadie?” he replies in defence of himself and his daughter, looking over his shoulder at Lady Sadie, determination giving his voice strength. “This is our child we are talking about,” He turns back and smiles with unbridled delight at Lettice, his eyes glittering with pride. “And I’m damn proud that Lettice has her name in print in a periodical such as Country Life, even if you are less so.”

 

“I don’t know whether I am pleased at all, Cosmo.” Lady Sadie eyes her daughter. “I’d rather see your name printed in the society pages next to a certain eligible duke’s son’s name, Lettice.” she adds dryly as she picks up a custard cream and gingerly nibbles at it as though it might contain rat bait. “Then, I’d gush.”

 

“Mamma!” Lettice manages to utter in a strangulated fashion as disappointment at her mother’s reaction to the article grips her like a cold pair of hands around her throat.

 

“It’s your duty to marry, Lettice, and marry well. You know this.” Lady Sadie lectures in reply haughtily. “We’ve had this conversation time and time again. You don’t want to be a burden on poor Leslie when your father dies, do you?” She nibbles some more at the biscuit clutched between her fingers.

 

“Oh Sadie!” the Viscount gasps. “Don’t be crabby. You must concede that you are proud that one of the leading authorities on architecture and interior design in Britain has spoken so highly of our daughter’s work.”

 

The older woman pulls a face, cleaning mushy biscuit remains from her gums, but doesn’t dignify the statement with an answer.

 

“Can’t you be just a little happy for me, Mamma?” Lettice pleads as she reaches out and grasps her father’s bigger hand for comfort and support. “Just this once?”

 

“I’ll be happy when I see you married off.” She picks up her cup and saucer and takes a sip of tea. “Is it not bad enough that I have one wayward child? Perhaps I had better pack you off to British East Africa too.”

 

“Tipping said Lettice is a very capable interior designer.” the Viscount defends his favourite child. “And the photos prove that.”

 

“Capable!” Lady Sadie scoffs with a nod of disgusted acknowledgement of the magazine lying beyond the tea table. “The room looks barren – positively starved of furnishings and character. How can that be capable interior design? There is practically nothing in it, to design!”

 

“But paired back is the new style now, Mamma. People don’t want…”

 

“What?” Lady Sadie snaps, the fine bone china cup clattering in its saucer.

 

“Well they don’t necessarily want all this.” Lettice gesticulates around her, almost apologetically, to the furnishings around them. “People want cleaner lines these days, to better reflect their more modern lives.”

 

“So your father and I are old hat?” Lady Sadie quips. “Is that what you’re saying, Lettice?”

 

“No, of course not Mamma. I love you and Pappa, and Glynes is classically beautiful. You do a wonderful job at maintaining the elegance of the house. I did retain some of the original décor of Margot and Dickie’s house as part of my refurbishment, even though Margot told me to fling it all out. Mr. Tipping calls it ‘Modern Classical Revival Style’. You and Pappa taught me to always respect a house’s history, and that is what I did, whilst giving Margot the more modern look she wants.”

 

“Pshaw! That girl hasn’t an ounce of taste. Her family have always been new money.” remarks Lady Sadie dismissively. “You can always tell the difference between the old and the new. True breeding will always win out.”

 

“Margot is my friend Mamma! Please don’t say such hurtful things.”

 

“Well, whatever you may think of Lettice’s choice in friends, Sadie, you cannot deny the credit she has brought to the family name by being associated with the Marquis of Taunton.” retorts the Viscount.

 

“Only by association with this interior design folly nonsense of hers, Cosmo.” She flaps her bejewelled hand at her daughter, the lace trimmed handkerchief partially stuffed up the left sleeve of her knitted silk cardigan dancing about wildly with every movement. “At least you were good enough to have your name and business published in a respectable periodical, Lettice.” she concedes begrudgingly.

 

“Well, I’m proud of you, Lettice my girl, and there’s a fact.” He turns again and stares with a hard look at his wife before pronouncing, “And so too is your brother and Arabella, and the Tyrwhitts. Your mother is just bitter because she wasn’t the one who was able to announce the news to the whole village.”

 

“You had no right not to tell me about this article, Lettice!” Lady Sadie grumbles as she cradles her cup and saucer in her lap in a wounded fashion, whilst foisting angry and resentful looks at her daughter. “None at all! I hadn’t even had an opportunity to open the magazine and peruse it before I had the Miss Evanses up here, unannounced, crowing about your name in print in Country Life and how proud I must feel.”

 

Lettice cannot help but smile at the thought of her mother being assailed by the two twittering spinster sisters who live in Holland House, a Seventeenth Century manor house in the village. The pair are known for their love of gossip, and even more for their voracity at spreading it, as they attempt to fill their lives which they obviously feel are lacking in drama and excitement. The chagrin Lady Sadie must have felt would have been palpable.

 

“Don’t you dare smile at my humiliation, you wicked girl! I had to pretend, Lettice! Pretend to those two awful old women, fawning and toadying the way they do, that I had read the article, and there it sat, unopened on my bonheur de jour***, completely untouched.”

 

“I only wanted it to be a surprise, Mamma.”

 

“Well, it certainly was that.” The woman’s eyes flame with anger. “I had feign that I was only being a tease when I showed such surprise to the Miss Evanses about your name in that article. Luckily the two were more interested in their own delight at their association to you than my genuine surprise that they believed me.” She turns her head away from her husband and daughter and adds uncharitably, “Stupid creatures.”

 

“Now don’t be bitter, Sadie.” the Viscount chides his wife. “Bitterness doesn’t become a lady of any age.”

 

“I’m not bitter!” spits Lady Sadie hotly with a harsh laugh of disbelief.

 

“Yes, you are.” her husband retorts with a gentle laugh of his own. “The more you defend yourself, the more evident it is, Sadie. You are just upset that the Miss Evanses had done a successful job of spreading the news through the village before you had the chance to do so yourself. They took the wind out of your sails. Lettice meant it to be a delightful surprise, and it was, my dear girl.”

 

“She didn’t consider the consequences.”

 

“The petty rivalry between her somewhat misguided mother, who should know better, and two old village crones, should hardly be a concern of one of London’s newest and brightest interior designers, Sadie.”

 

“Well, shouldn’t I have the opportunity to boast about my own daughter, Cosmo?”

 

“Aha! There!” the Viscount crows triumphantly. “So, you are proud of Lettice then.”

 

Lady Sadie thrusts her cup noisily onto the side table and stands up, brushing biscuit crumbs from her lap with angry sweeps onto the Chinese silk carpet at her feet. “You do talk a lot of nonsense, Cosmo.” She mutters brittlely. “I need to go and attend to something. So, if you will please excuse me.” She prepares to leave, but then adds as an afterthought, “But when I come back, I hope you two will have finished your character assassination of me.”

 

Lettice and her father watch Lady Sadie stalk towards the door with her nose in the air.

 

“I just hope that the Duchess doesn’t read that article, Lettice.” Lady Sadie says with a meanness in her angry voice. “I very much doubt she would like a daughter in trade. I hope you realise that this little stunt of yours could have ruined the best match you’ll ever get.”

 

The older woman opens the door and walks out into the corridor.

 

“Just ignore your mother.” the Viscount waves his hand before his wife as if erasing her presence as the door slams behind her, making both he and his youngest daughter wince. “She really is just jealous of those two silly old spinsters because they were gossiping about you in the village before she was able to do so.”

 

“I just wanted it to be a lovely surprise for you and her, Pappa.” Lettice pleads with wide and concerned eyes welling with tears.

 

“I know, my girl. I know.” He takes his handkerchief from his inside pocket and passes it to Lettice, who dabs at her eyes.

 

“I even organised with Mr. Tipping for Mamma to get her edition early,” Lettice sniffs. “But I suppose the mail delivery let me down.”

 

“Well,” her father shrugs. “Any general worth his wait in salt**** will tell you that the very best laid plans can go awry.” He smiles at her consolingly. “Your mother is contrary at the best of times. She’ll never admit that she is happy with any success that isn’t of her own making. Why on earth you seek her approval, I don’t know.” he adds in exasperation. “Do you deliberately wish to punish yourself, dear girl?”

 

Lettice sighs and sniffs. “I just hope that one day she will be proud of me. I feel like I’ve always disappointed her.”

 

“How old are you?”

 

“Twenty-three, Pappa.”

 

“Then you are old enough to know that no matter how hard you try, your mother will never admit to you that she is proud of you. If you do end up marring young Spencely, I doubt even then that she will willingly admit to being proud of you.”

 

“You’re right, Pappa. I should know better. You know that Lally told me the Christmas before last that Mamma lords the perfection of her married life over me, whilst lording the glamour of my life over her.”

 

“Quite so.” the Viscount admits. “I always told your mother that playing that game would do her no god in the end.” He laughs sadly. “But you know your mother. She won’t be told anything. I’m glad that your sister told you what’s what. Sadie hasn’t that power over you any more, now that you know the truth, Lettice.”

 

“But why does she do it?”

 

“Like I said, your mother is sadly misguided. Whether you believe me or not, it isn’t done out of spite.”

 

“Then what?”

 

“She does it to try and get you to both emulate the good things in the other. She wants Lally to be ambitious like you. The truth is I don’t think she ever really approved of the match between Lally and Lanchenbury.”

 

“But Lally and Charles are very happy together.”

 

“I know, Lettice. I know.” He pats her hands. “I think she considers him to be a little below the expectations she had for her eldest daughter, coming from a good and wealthy, but relatively socially insignificant family. That’s why she aspires for you through the marriage bed, dear girl.”

 

“But marriage isn’t all I aspire to, Pappa.”

 

“I know that too, and both your mother and I know how decimated the options are for young ladies in the wake of the war, your mother probably far better than I. But you must forgive us for wanting you to fill the role we expect you to fill, and for us hoping that it is a financial and socially ambitious match you make.” He sighs wearily. “Although with the way the world is changing, that seems to be becoming a less likely thing. I’m only grateful your brother made me modernise the estate. Goodness knows if we would have survived this post-war world of ours, and even now, I wonder whether we actually will.”

 

“Don’t say that Pappa.”

 

“Whatever happens, don’t let your mother upset you, and don’t let her spoil your triumph. I repeat, your brother, Arabella, the whole district is so proud of you, and I’m sure that all your friends, and young Spencely are equally proud to know you.”

 

“Alright Pappa,” Lettice sighs as her father places a consoling hand on her shoulder and rubs it lovingly. “I won’t.”

 

“That’s my girl. Now, I’m sure your mother has gone to arrange luncheon for Lady Edgar, the vicar and any number of other members of the great and good of the county, all of whom she will be singing your praises to – not that she will tell you that.” The Viscount winks conspiratorially at Lettice. “So, what’s say you and I go and have luncheon at the Dower House with Leslie and Arabella? I know they would love to see you and congratulate you.”

 

“Thank you Pappa!”

 

Lettice and her father embrace, and the pair remain in position for a few minutes, enjoying the intimacy without the criticism of Lady Sadie.

 

*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.

 

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

 

****Although these days we commonly say that someone is worth their weight in gold, to say that someone is “worth one’s salt,” is the more traditional saying. Its meaning is the same. It’s a statement that acknowledges that they are competent, deserving, and – to put it simply – worthwhile. The phrase itself is thought to be rooted in Ancient Rome where soldiers were sometimes paid with salt or given an allowance to purchase salt. Similarly, if a person uses the phrase “worth its weight in salt,” to describe an object, they are expressing that they think the item is worth the price they paid or that it otherwise holds immense value to them.

 

This grand 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 and includes items from my childhood, as well as those I have collected as an adult.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The gilt Louis Quatorze chair and sofa, the black japanned chinoiserie tea table and the gilt swan round tables table are made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.

 

The gilt high backed salon chair is also made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq, but what is particularly special about it is that it has been covered in antique Austrian floral micro petite point by V.H. Miniatures in the United Kingdom, which makes this a one-of-a-kind piece. The artisan who made this says that as one of her hobbies, she enjoys visiting old National Trust Houses in the hope of getting some inspiration to help her create new and exciting miniatures. She saw some beautiful petit point chairs a few years ago in one of the big houses in Derbyshire and then found exquisitely detailed petit point that was fine enough for 1:12 scale projects.

 

The Palladian console tables at the back to either side of the fireplace, with their golden caryatids and marble was commissioned by me from American miniature artisan Peter Cluff. Peter specialises in making authentic and very realistic high quality 1:12 miniatures that reflect his interest in Georgian interior design. His work is highly sought after by miniature collectors worldwide. This pair of tables are one-of-a-kind and very special to me.

 

The elegant ornaments that decorate the surfaces of the Chetwynd’s palatial drawing room very much reflect the Eighteenth Century spirit of the room.

 

On the centre of the mantlepiece stands a Rococo carriage clock that has been hand painted and gilded with incredible attention to detail by British 1:12 miniature artisan, Victoria Fasken. The clock is flanked by a porcelain pots of yellow, white and blue petunias which have been hand made and painted by 1:12 miniature ceramicist Ann Dalton. At either end of mantle stand a pair of Staffordshire sheep which have been hand made, painted and gilded by Welsh miniature ceramist Rachel Williams who has her own studio, V&R Miniatures, in Powys. If you look closely, you will see that the sheep actually have smiles on their faces!

 

Two more larger example of Ann Dalton’s petunia posies stand on the Peter Cluff Palladian console tables. The one on the left is flanked by two mid Victorian (circa 1850) hand painted child’s tea set pieces. The sugar bowl and milk jug have been painted to imitate Sèvres porcelain. The right table features examples of pieces from a 1950s Limoges miniature tea set which I have had since I was a teenager. Each piece is individually stamped on its base with a green Limoges stamp. The vase containing the yellow roses is also a Limoges miniature from the 1950s.

 

The silver tea and coffee set and silver biscuit sachet on the central chinoiserie tea table, have been made with great attention to detail, and come from Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The wonderful selection of biscuits on offer were made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

 

The gilt edged floral teacups and plate on the table come from a miniatures specialist stockist on E-Bay. The blue and white vase the white roses stand in comes from Melody Jane’s Dolls House Suppliers in the United Kingdom.

 

The white and yellow roses are also made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

 

The copy of Country Life sitting on the footstool which is a lynchpin of this chapter was made by me to scale using the cover of a real 1923 edition of Country Life. The 1:12 miniature copy of ‘The Mirror’ beneath it is made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.

 

The hand embroidered pedestal fire screen may be adjusted up or down and was acquired through Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop.

 

All the paintings around the Glynes drawing room in their gilded frames are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States, and the wallpaper is an authentic copy of hand-painted Georgian wallpaper of Chinese lanterns from the 1770s.

 

The Georgian style fireplace I have had since I was a teenager and is made from moulded plaster.

 

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

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

 

Today however, we have travelled twenty-five miles west of London into Berkshire to the picturesque town of Ascot, where the Ascot Racecourse is. The town, built up along meandering roads, is made up mostly of large red brick mansions nestled discreetly amidst well established manicured gardens behind trimmed hedges and closed gates. It is here that Lettice has come to meet a prospective new client: Mrs. Evelyn Hawarden, wife of fabric manufacturer Joseph Hawarden. Hawarden Fabrics have been embraced by the British public since first appearing on the market in 1919, for their quality and affordability, and have proved especially popular amidst the working classes who want colour and something better than what they have had in the post-war boom of optimism, including Lettice’s maid, Edith, who made her friend Hilda a new dance frock using some Hawarden Fabrics russet art silk*. This has raised the Hawarden’s expectations and Mr. Hawarden has recently acquired ‘The Briars’, a red brick Georgian mansion in Ascot that is more suitable for he and his wife’s new social standing.

 

Against her usual practices, Lettice has foregone the initial meeting she would have had at Cavendish Mews after Mrs. Hawarden explained that she was simply too busy with her new house to come down to Mayfair, and implored Lettice to consider coming up to Ascot for the day. As she rides the train through the rolling green countryside of Berkshire, Lettice cannot help but wonder whether her agreement to Mrs. Hawarden’s demands is against her better judgement. Since the publication of the interiors she completed for her friends and fellow members of her Embassy Club coterie, Dickie and Margot Channon, in the magazine, Country Life**, Lettice’s expertise as an interior designer has suddenly been in great demand after Henry Tipping*** described her as having a “tasteful Modern Classical Revival Style”. She has already had to decline several hopeful clients whose wishes for new interiors do not appeal to her own sense of design. Yet here she is, travelling to see a woman who has shown to be somewhat bombastic at her insistence that Lettice visit her, rather than the other way around, at a house that she knows nothing about beyond the fact that it is a recent acquisition of Mr. Hawarden. As she distractedly turns the page of “Whose Body?”**** in her lap, having only taken in half of Dorothy L. Sayers words as she contemplates her journey, Lettice feels an unease in her stomach.

 

As requested, when the steam of the train carrying Lettice and a great number of people attending the Ascot Races from London to Ascot railway station cleared, there stood Mrs. Hawarden’s chauffer, dressed in a smart grey uniform and cap, ready to take her to ‘The Briars’. As the Worsley drove up the long and slightly rutted driveway boarded by clipped yew hedges, she prepared for the worst, but was pleasantly surprised when the car pulled into a wide carriage turning circle before a rather lovely two-storey red brick Georgian mansion with two white painted sash windows either side of a porticoed front door and five matching windows spread evenly across the façade of the upper floor. Assisted to alight by the chauffer, Lettice notes looking up at the façade before her that whilst the house is nowhere near as large or as fine as her own palatial Georgian childhood home of Glynes*****, it does have graceful and elegant country charm which makes her feel more at ease with what may lie within its walls.

 

Striding across the crunching white gravel driveway with the footsteps of the daughter of a Viscount to the front door, it is opened by a maid dressed in her black moire afternoon uniform accessorised with an ornamental lace apron, cuffs and matching cap. Whilst she may look the part, Lettice notes critically that the maid only takes her pea green travelling coat, leaving her holding her matching green stub ended parasol as she shows her into the drawing room, where Lettice is told by the maid that she is expected.

 

Entering the room Lettice is greeted by a fug of greyish blue cigarette smoke that hangs like a pall in the atmosphere. Beneath a round table in the middle of the room, a small whorl of reddish brown fur in a plaited basket bares its teeth and growls.

 

“Yat-See! Don’t growl at the guest! My dear Miss Chetwynd!” enthusiastically exclaims a female voice with a thick Mancunian accent Lettice recognises as Mrs. Hawarden’s. “Here you are at last!”

 

Rising from her place nestled into a very comfortable white upholstered sofa, Mrs Evelyn Hawarden appears to be in her mid thirties, and therefore much younger than her voice portrayed when she telephoned Lettice’s flat. With red hennaed hair set about her rounded face in soft Marcel waves****** she looks quite pert and pretty. Although dressed in a similar style to her mother, Lady Sadie, in a tweed calf length skirt, a flounced white silk blouse and a silk cardigan – the classic uniform of a relaxed country lady – Mrs. Hawarden cannot disguise her more aspiring middle-class origins, for she wears a little too much powder on her nose and sports a pair of round rouge marks on her cheeks that Lady Sadie would never entertain on her own face. Mrs. Hawarden’s hair is perhaps a little too obviously coloured, and she wears four strands of creamy white pearls about her neck, rather than the customary two worn informally. Even as she stands, she tugs awkwardly at her skirt, implying that this is not what she is used to wearing. Nevertheless, she has a pleasant smile and the sparkle in her brown eyes is a jolly one.

 

“How do you do, Mrs. Hawarden.” Lettice replies.

 

“Please pardon my pet Pekingese, Yat-See, for growling.” The hostess indicates to the bristling bundle of fur with wary black currant eyes. “He’s rather protective of his Mummy, don’t you know.” Mrs. Hawarden’s painted face falls when she notices Lettice still clutching her parasol. She glances between it and Lettice’s face. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss Chetwynd!” she exclaims apologetically. “Please just put your things down there.” She indicates with an open hand to the corner of a second cream sofa opposite the one she has been sitting on. “Barbara is new to being a maid. The house didn’t come with staff I’m afraid, and being new to the area ourselves, well, I think we’re seen as a rather unknown quantity, so getting help hasn’t been all that easy.”

 

“Oh it’s quite alright,” Lettice assures her hostess, gingerly lowering her parasol as Yat-See starts to growl again from his basket, and leans it against the soft edge of the sofa and deposits her handbag onto its seat. “I know how hard it can be to find good servants. I’m only grateful that I live in a flat and have requirements only for one maid.”

 

“Oh yes, I spoke to her the first time I telephoned you at Cavendish Mews. She seemed very efficient and was quick to get my details so that you could return my telephone call.”

 

“Thankfully Edith is a very capable maid, although I think you may have mistaken her efficiency for haste. Sadly, she has no love of the telephone and thinks it quite an unnatural contraption.” Lettice chuckles indulgently.

 

“What a load of rot!” blusters a burbling male Mancunian voice from behind a wall of newspaper, the utterance accompanied by clouds and curlicues of white cigarette smoke.

 

Yat-See immediately starts to bark in answer to the voice.

 

“Yat-see!” scolds Mrs. Hawarden. “Hush, or I’ll get Barbara to come and take you to the kitchen, which is where naughty boys go!”

 

Silently Lettice wishes her hostess would do just that. The dog seems to understand that he is being scolded and falls silent, but he continues to watch Lettice with his dark and suspicious eyes. Taking her gaze away from the pampered Pekingese and looking to the sofa behind her hostess, Lettice is suddenly made aware that she and Mrs. Hawarden are not the only two people in the room. The newspaper lowers to reveal a middle aged man, probably a little bit older than his wife, in a smart London suit, with slick black hair and a handsome mature face.

 

“Miss Chetwynd, may I present my husband, Mr. Joseph Hawarden, proprietor of Hawarden’s Fabrics.” Mrs. Hawarden says proudly, clasping her hands together.

 

“I say, how do you do, Miss Chetwynd!” Mr. Hawarden says, not getting up from his seat, but reaching forward and extending his hand to his guest. “Jolly glad to have you here. Evelyn’s done nothing but talk about your skills and what she wants you to do here, for the last few weeks. She was most impressed with your interiors in ‘Country Life’.” he adds, glancing across to the inlaid round top of the table between the two sofas upon which sit a collection of newspapers, magazines and periodicals, including the copy of ‘Country Life’ featuring the interiors for ‘Chi an Treth’.

 

Lettice extends her own hand and allows it to be shaken in a rather heavy and businesslike fashion by the industrialist. “How do you do, Mr. Hawarden. I’m delighted to be here,” She glances at Mrs. Hawarden. “Although I wasn’t expecting you to be here for this meeting.”

 

“Oh, Joseph just happens to be home this afternoon, Miss Chetwynd.” laughs Mrs. Hawarden a little awkwardly. “It isn’t by design. I’ll be the one making the decisions.”

 

“Yes,” agrees Mr. Hawarden, leaning forward and snatching a dainty teacup decorated with blue roses from the table and taking a rather large gulp from it, the cup’s rim disappearing beneath his finely manicured thick black moustache. “This interiors business is more Evelyn’s department than mine. My fabrics are fashion, not furniture fabrics.” He chortles good-naturedly. “But since I’ll be the one footing the bills, you should give me an estimate of your costs.”

 

“Oh,” Lettice begins a little nervously. “I shouldn’t think we’ll be discussing that today, Mr. Hawarden.”

 

“What?” he scoffs. “No costs today?”

 

“I shouldn’t think so.” Lettice assures him. “Today is really, just about consultation. I would usually have conducted it at my premises in Mayfair,” She momentarily looks at Mrs. Hawarden again before returning to the industrialist. “However, your wife was insistent that she didn’t have the time to come down. Today is about discussing what Mrs. Hawarden hopes to do with the interiors of ‘The Briars’.”

 

“I see,” Mr. Hawarden replies, tapping his nose knowingly with his right hand, still clutching the smoking end of his cigarette. “You’re a smart businesswoman, Miss Chetwynd. Best lull Evelyn into a sense of security, so then you can unleash the bills on me, eh?”

 

“Oh no…” stammers Lettice. “I don’t mean… I mean it would…”

 

The man bursts out laughing, his fulsome guffaws intermixing with the slightly more timid and higher pitched giggle of his wife.

 

“Don’t listen to Joseph, Miss Chetwynd,” Mrs. Hawarden assures her guest. “He’s just trying to be funny, within his limited ability of being a boring businessman.” She rolls her eyes at her husband, who smiles back sheepishly at her before putting up the paper again. “He doesn’t mean what he says, Miss Chetwynd.” Indicating to the sofa again she continues, “Please have a seat, won’t you.” She walks up to the table. “Barbara may not know what to do with an umbrella, Miss Chetwynd, but she does make a fine cup of tea. When Johnston went to pick you up from the railway station, I had her brew us up a pot. May I interest you?” She picks up third, as of yet unused, china teacup and a pretty sleek silver Art Deco teapot. “Or would you prefer coffee?”

 

“Oh no, tea will be most satisfactory,” Lettice replies as she sinks into the comfortable enveloping upholstery of the sofa next to her handbag. “Thank you, Mrs. Hawarden.”

 

As Mrs. Hawarden fixes her tea, Lettice tries to ignore the hostile stare of Yat-See and glances around the well lit drawing room flooded with light from one of the ground floor windows she had spied upon her arrival. Tastefully appointed, the room features what looks like original Eighteenth Century hand painted wallpaper, which whilst dulled somewhat from many decades of warm wood fires, and perhaps more recently cigarette smoke – she glances at Mr. Hawarden as he sits, absorbed in his newspaper once more, his cigarette smouldering between his right index and middle finger poking around the edge of the newsprint – it still shows off lovely rich hues. Some of the furnishings are possibly original to the room too, such as a small demilune table to the left of the fireplace and the inlaid round table between the two sofas, but the room has been overlaid with other styles over time. The cream damask sofas are obviously pre-war, but perhaps not much more than a decade old. Paintings of different eras and styles hang on the walls in an easy comfort of familiarity. The objects scattered about the surfaces of the room suggest an eclectic, yet restrained hand: silver candlesticks, tall vases, decorative bowls, Meissen figurines and two pretty ‘cottage orneé’ pastille burners******* on the mantle.

 

Lettice gratefully accepts the cup of tea proffered by her hostess. “So, you were saying that you are newcomers to Ascot, Mrs. Hawarden?”

 

“Yes,” Mrs. Hawarden replies, subconsciously reaching up to her strands of pearls and worrying them at the mention of them being newly arrived. “My husband and I are from Manchester originally, as I’m sure you can tell from our accents.” Lettice politely sips her tea and doesn’t remark upon either of their thick accents which are so different to those born in the south of England. “We only recently acquired ‘The Briars’ so that my husband can be closer to his new fabric factory in Croydon and to his London office, and I have been craving the space and fresh air of the south.” The woman opens a small silver cigarette case on the table, offers one to Lettice, who politely declines with s small shake of her head, and then takes out a thin cigarette for herself and lights it. Walking across the carpet she tosses the spent match into the grate as she leans against the fireplace.

 

“Indeed.” muses Lettice as she watches Mrs. Hawarden take a long drag on her cigarette before blowing out a plume of bluish grey acrid smoke into the air between she and Lettice.

 

Yat-See suddenly picks himself out of his basket, making Lettice flinch and her cup rattle in its saucer as she fears he is about to attack her legs. Yet he pads across the Chinese rug and sits in front of his mistress protectively keeping guard to protect her from the stranger in the drawing room.

 

“And this place was up for sale, and I fell in love with it instantly, didn’t I Joseph?”

 

“Indeed, you did, Evelyn.” agrees her husband without looking up from his newspaper.

 

“So, we bought it: lock, stock and barrel.”

 

“Then the furnishings aren’t yours, Mrs. Hawarden?” Lettice asks, gesturing to their surrounds as she places her teacup on the small Georgian pedestal table at her right.

 

“No. Oh no!” Mrs, Hawarden replies, evidently wishing to distance herself from the elegant, yet comfortably lived in country house style. “Not at all Miss Chetwynd! That’s why I couldn’t come down to Mayfair to meet you like you had originally suggested. We’re only freshly moved in, and I’m still trying to find my feet here. I haven’t even had time to unpack my photos from our Manchester house yet.”

 

“Yet you already know that you want to redecorate, Mrs. Hawarden,” Lettice queries. “Even though you are only newly minted here?”

 

“Goodness yes, Miss Chetwynd!” exclaims the hostess, blowing out another cloud of smoke as she speaks. She bends down and strokes her dog on the head, his black eyes closing in pleasure ar her touch. With a slight groan she stretches back into an upright position. “These,” she gesticulates with a languid hand around her. “Are the interiors of a dead woman.”

 

“A dead woman?” Lettice queries again in concern.

 

“Yes. You see we bought ‘The Briars’ from the descendants of the last occupier. Alice… Alice… Oh, what was her name, Joseph? Moynahan?”

 

“Mainwaring, Evelyn my dear.” Mr. Hawarden looks up from his paper to his wife. “Alice Mainwaring.”

 

“Yes!” Mrs. Hawarden claps her hands, sending a tumble of ashes cascading through the air where they land in Yat-See’s red dioxide coat and on the dark slate hearth surrounding the fireplace. “That’s it! Alice Mainwaring. Her widowed aunt or some such lived here alone and died a few years ago, and she didn’t want to hold onto the place.”

 

“Humph!” mutters Mr. Hawarden. “More like she couldn’t afford to hold onto the place, owing to these bloody awful rates of Income Tax******** the Government dare to charge us all now. Mind you, she put a good face on it, I’ll say that.”

 

Yat-See starts barking again.

 

“Yat-See!” scolds Mrs. Hawarden again. “She didn’t even want the old family paintings.”

 

“I doubt she could afford to keep them, Evelyn my dear, even if she’d wanted to.” Her husband counters. “I would have offered her less for the place if she’d taken them.”

 

“Anyway, whatever the circumstances, I felt the house could do with a little,” Mrs. Hawarden weaves her hand dramatically through the air as if holding a magic wand. “Sprucing up********.”

 

“Sprucing up?” Lettice queries again, looking uncertainly at Mrs. Hawarden.

 

“Yes!” Mrs. Hawarden says with a sigh, sending two plumes of smoke rushing from her nostrils. “Brighten it up a bit and make it a bit more,” She pauses whilst she thinks of the right word she is seeking. “Modern.”

 

“And you are expecting furnishings from Manchester, Mrs. Hawarden?” Lettice asks.

 

“Good lord no!” the hostess exclaims. “The furniture from our Audenshaw house is even worse than these bits of sticks. Yat-See, our clothes, my photos and a few bits and bobs are about all we wanted to bring from there. Isn’t that right, Joseph?”

 

“Quite, my dear Evelyn. Quite.”

 

“No.” She smiles with smug pleasure. “We’ve left that life behind, and now we plan to make a new start here.”

 

“You do know,” Lettice remarks tentatively. “That some people would be quite happy, if acquiring a country house and its contents in its entirety, to leave it all in situ.”

 

“Ahh.” Mrs. Hawarden says with a wagging bejewelled finger and a knowing smile at Lettice. “But Joseph and I aren’t just anyone. That’s why as soon as I saw your article, I knew I wanted your expertise to help me bring life back into this poor old house.” She slaps the mantlepiece with the palm of her hand. “I read in Country Life that the rooms of the Channon’s house were a bit dark, so you lightened it.”

 

“Well, yes,” Lettice agrees hesitantly. “I did, but the house really was rather damp being built by the sea, and awfully neglected after having stood empty for many years. This house appears to be in much better condition and is far cosier than ‘Chi an Treth’ was, Mrs. Hawarden.”

 

“And,” Mrs. Hawarden continues, appearing not to have heard Lettice’s protestations. “I also read that some of the statues you used to furnish the house came from the Portland Gallery in Mayfair.”

 

“They did, Mrs. Hawarden, but I…”

 

“And I just love the modernity of some of the art in there. I’m currently in the process of acquiring some nice new modern artworks from several London galleries, although not The Portland, to hang in place of some of these rather drab daubs.” she indicates to the classical oil painting of a landscape hanging above the fireplace behind her.

 

Lettice glances sadly at the small, rather pretty late Nineteenth Century oil painting of a mother and daughter gathering flowers just to the right of the fireplace, silently apologising to the possible former owner of the house.

 

“Actually, Evelyn my dear, I think you’ll find, I’m acquiring them.” remarks Mr. Hawarden rather definitely.

 

“Don’t be bore, dear Joseph.” Mrs. Hawarden retorts kindly. “Yes, it’s true, you may be putting up the money for them, but we both know that of the two of us, I’m the one with the real artistic vision.”

 

“If you say so, Evelyn.” Mr. Hawarden returns to his paper.

 

Lettice looks sadly around her at the well appointed and comfortable room. In her mind, she can’t see anything wrong with it, other than perhaps the hostile presence of Yat-See, and sadly he cannot be papered over. The room’s décor has grown with the house, mellowed and softened into a comfortable semi-formal Edwardian country house interior over the decades since its original construction, not entirely dissimilar to that of her brother Leslie’s new home with his wife in the Dower House at Glynes, only not quite so old, it having been built in the 1850s. A queasiness begins to roil about in the pit of her stomach. Yat-See seems to pick up on it and quietly growls at Lettice again, until he receives a small nudge on the bottom by the dainty toe of Mrs. Hawarden’s brown leather shoe.

 

“You do know that my style is Modern Classical Revival, don’t you, Mrs, Hawarden?” Lettice explains politely. “I do not believe in flinging everything out and replacing it with something new.”

 

“Yes of course I know, Miss Chetwynd.” Mrs, Hawarden smiles. “I’m not suggesting we ‘fling it all out’ as you say. I’d be happy if you felt it worth repurposing a few sticks of furniture. I believe you did repaint a demilune table, not unlike this one,” She reaches behind her and pats the surface of the table Lettice had noticed before. “For Mrs. Channon. You could do the same here, if you like. I’m happy to be led by you, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“Well,” Lettice says. “Really, I should be the one who is led by you, Mrs. Hawarden. Perhaps you could suggest to me what you were thinking and we’ll… work from there. Shall we?” She takes a small sip of her tea. “What do you envisage, Mrs. Hawarden?”

 

The woman looks around her, humming and hawing as she screws up her mouth in concentration.

 

“Well, for a start, if I’m going to have new paintings hanging in here, I’ll need new wallpaper. How old do you think this paper is, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“I would say it is probably Eighteenth Century.” Lettice says with concern. “You do realise that it’s probably hand painted. My parents have similar at our home in Wilt…”

 

“Well there you go!” interrupts Mrs. Hawarden. “That explains why it’s so dull and dreary! No: new paper for new paintings. Definitely!” the Pekingese starts barking animatedly. “See, even my beloved little boy agrees, don’t you darling?” She blows him a kiss. “Maybe something geometric?” She looks questioningly at Lettice who simply smiles up politely at her from her place on the sofa but says nothing. She casts her eyes around the room. “And of course these dreadful settees will have to go!”

 

Lettice quietly cringes at the use of the word ‘settee’, giving away Mr. Hawarden’s aspiring middle-class origins**********.

 

“Pity Evelyn my dear,” her husband pipes up. “I quite like these. They really are rather nice and comfy.” He starts bouncing up and down slightly in his seat, making the springs inside the sofa protest quietly beneath the white damask upholstery which makes Yat-See start quietly growling again.

 

“No! I want something more streamlined,” Mrs, Hawarden insists. “Rather like Mrs. Channon’s settees I think.”

 

A discreet knock on the drawing room door interrupts Mrs. Hawarden’s thoughts and makes Yat-See yap loudly as he scurries over to the door.

 

“Yes.” she calls out imperiously.

 

Barbara, the maid who had opened the door to Lettice upon her arrival and shown her into the drawing room opens the door and steps in, almost stepping on the dog, who barks savagely at the poor domestic.

 

“Yat-See! Hush darling! Yes Barbara?”

 

“Begging your pardon, mum, but lunch is ready.” The maid bobs a curtsey. “You said I ought to tell you when it was ready, and Cook is serving up now.”

 

“Yes, yes,” mutters Mrs. Hawarden dismissively with a final puff of smoke, dropping her cigarette butt into the grate next to the spent match. “Thank you, Barbara.”

 

The maid bobs another curtsey and turns to go.

 

“Oh Barbara!” Mrs. Hawarden calls after her gaily.

 

“Yes, mum?” the maid asks.

 

“Barbara, next time we are receiving guests and they are carrying an umbrella,” Mrs. Hawarden adeptly snatches up Lettice’s green umbrella from the floor and holds it out to her maid in a smooth movement. “Make sure you put it in the receptacle that it was designed to be inserted into.”

 

“Mum?” the maid asks queryingly, reaching tentatively out and accepting the umbrella.

 

“Put it in the hallstand, Barbara, with the other umbrellas.”

 

“Oh, yes mum!” Barbara apologises and bobs another curtsey, first at her mistress and then at Lettice, before quickly withdrawing.

 

Lettice silently cringes slightly again at witnessing the public beration of the poor, inexperienced maid, however mild it was.

 

“Well!” gasps Mrs. Hawarden, snatching up her beloved dog from the floor with a swoop. “Shall we go through then, Miss Chetwynd? I’m sure after your trip up from London, you must be starving.”

 

“Oh, yes.” Lettice lies brightly, depositing the teacup and saucer back onto the small Georgian occasional pedestal table and standing up. She eyes the dog warily as he hangs from his owner’s left arm.

 

“Good! Good!” her hostess replies, clapping her hands with delight. “That’s just as well. I’ve asked Cook to prepare a lovely lamb roast. You love titbits from the table, don’t you Yat-See?” She rubs her dog’s forehead lovingly before she winds her right arm through Lettice’s left. “Please, let me show you the way. Just wait until you see the dining room! It’s yellow!” She cringes. “Positively gruesome! I shall be very keen to hear your thoughts around what we can do about that.”

 

Mrs. Hawarden gently, yet at the same time forcefully, guides Lettice to the door from whence the maid came.

 

“Are you coming my dear?” Mrs, Hawarden calls to her husband over her shoulder.

 

“Yes, of course Evelyn!” Mr. Hawarden deposits the newspaper on the sofa cushions and extinguishes his cigarette in the ashtray on the table and follows the figure of his wife and Lettice arm-in-arm. “I shouldn’t wish to miss one of Cook’s wonderful roasts!”

 

As Lettice is guided down the hallway by her hostess, she senses what feels like a boulder in the very pit of her stomach. For the first time ever, she has a potential client with whom she is completely at odds with aesthetically, and she isn’t quite sure how she is going to explain her difference in opinions to the insistent Mrs. Hawarden diplomatically.

 

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

 

**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.

 

****Whose Body? is a 1923 mystery novel by English crime writer and poet Dorothy L. Sayers. It was her debut novel, and the book in which she introduced the character of Lord Peter Wimsey.

 

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

 

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

 

*******The Industrial Revolution in England caused a migration of people into the big cities in search of better wages and better working conditions. For the working class often this resulted in overcrowding in their housing conditions. There was poor sanitation and smells could be appalling. Pastille burners, sometimes called ‘cottage orneés’ were a way of combating these odours by burning pastilles of aromatic substances, which emitted sweet scented perfume into the room. They were made of porcelain or silver for the upper classes and by the late Eighteenth and early Nineteenth Centuries, pottery burners were bought by the middle and lower classes. They were modelled as cottages with a removable thatched roof, tollhouses, dovecotes decorated with flowers and by the 1830s the cottages had open windows so they became night lights as well. By 1840 designs for pastille burners included Chinese temples, Swiss cottages and turreted castles, all of which appealed to the Victorian taste. Pastille burners remained popular for all classes until 1870 when improvements to sanitary conditions were made.

 

*******In order to repay the expenditures made by the British during the Great War, like had been occurring since the Napoleonic Wars, the government increased Income Tax. The standard rate of income tax, which was six per cent in 1914, stood at thirty per cent in 1918. As a result of this, income tax rates amongst the wealthy were maintained at a high level, far in excess of those charged in the years before the war, making the management of estates very difficult if they were not productive, and many properties with stately homes left the ownership of their original families for the first time in generations, sold more often to wealthy industrialists or in the post-war era, wealthy Americans wishing for their own slice of British aristocratic history.

 

*********The verb spruce up means “to make neat or smart in appearance,” and it first appeared in English around the end of the 1500s.

 

**********Before, and even after the Second World War, a great deal could be attained about a person’s social origins by what language and terminology they used in class-conscious Britain by the use of ‘”U and non-U English” as popularised by upper class English author, Nancy Mitford when she published a glossary of terms in an article “The English Aristocracy” published by Stephen Spender in his magazine “encounter” in 1954. There are many examples in her glossary, amongst which are the word “sofa” which is a U (upper class) word, versus “settee” or “couch” which are a non-U (aspiring middle-class) words. Whilst quite outdated today, it gives an insight into how easily someone could betray their humbler origins by something as simple as a single word.

 

This comfortable country house drawing room interior may appear like something out of a historical stately country house, or a copy of ‘Country Life’, but it is in fact part of my 1:12 miniatures collection and includes items from my childhood, as well as those I have collected as an adult.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The Georgian style fireplace I have had since I was a teenager and is made from moulded plaster. The peacock fire screen and gilt fire tools I bought at the same time as the fireplace. Standing on the mantlepiece of the fireplace are two miniature diecast lead Meissen figurines: the Lady with the Canary and the Gentleman with the Butterfly, manufactured by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. They have been hand painted by me. Next to them on the mantlepiece are two silver candlesticks from Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom. Also on the mantlepiece are two pottery cottage orneé pastille burners which have been hand made, painted and gilded by Welsh miniature ceramist Rachel Williams who has her own studio, V&R Miniatures, in Powys. The dainty gilded clock is also made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland.

 

The two tall vases of flowers on the demilune tables flanking the fireplace are made by Falcon Miniatures, who are renown for the realism and detail in their miniatures.

 

The bowl decorated with fruit on the table on the left hand side of the fireplace was hand decorated by British artisan Rachael Maundy. The one on the right is a hand painted artisan miniature fluted bowl.

 

The two white damask sofas were supplied by Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. The round table, an artisan miniature with a marquetry inlaid top, also came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop, as did the small pedestal table next to the right hand sofa.

 

Lettice’s green handbag is also a hand-made artisan piece of soft green leather, made by Karen Ladybug Miniatures. Her furled umbrella is a 1:12 artisan piece made of hand painted wood, metal and satin.

 

The silver Art Deco tea and coffee pots and square tray on the round table were made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland. The blue rose tea set came from a miniatures stockist on E-Bay. The Elite Styles magazine from 1923 sitting on the table was made by hand by Petite Gite Miniatures in the United States. The 1:12 miniature copies of ‘The Times’, ‘The Mirror’ and the ‘Daily Express’, are made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The copy of ‘Country Life’ sitting on the table was made by me to scale using the cover of a real 1923 edition of ‘Country Life’. The vase of red roses in the foreground was made by Falcon Miniatures.

 

All the paintings around ‘The Briars’ drawing room in their gilded frames are 1:12 artisan pieces acquired through Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop and the wallpaper is an authentic copy of hand-painted Georgian wallpaper from the 1770s.

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

 

Friends of Lettice, newlyweds Margot and Dickie Channon, have been gifted a Recency country “cottage residence” called ‘Chi an Treth’ (Cornish for ‘beach house’) in Penzance as a wedding gift by the groom’s father, the Marquess of Taunton. Margot in her desire to turn ‘Chi an Treth’ from a dark Regency house to a more modern country house flooded with light, commissioned Lettice to help redecorate some of the rooms in a lighter and more modern style, befitting a modern couple like the Channons. Lettice decamped to Penzance for a week where she oversaw the painting and papering of ‘Chi an Treth’s’ drawing room, dining room and main reception room, before fitting the rooms out with a lorryload of new and repurposed furnishings, artwork and objets d’arte that she had sent down weeks prior to her arrival from her London warehouse.

 

Now the rooms are finished, and under Lettice’s adept hands where once there was dark red paint, modern white geometric wallpaper hangs, and where formal, uncomfortable and old fashioned furnishings sat, more modern pieces dispersed by a select few original items give the rooms a lighter, more relaxed and more contemporary 1920s country house feel. To celebrate Margot and Dickie have organised a Friday to Monday, just as they did in January when they wanted Lettice to view the rooms of ‘Chi an Treth’ and give her interior redecoration suggestions. As Lettice is unable to drive and therefore does not own a car, Margot and Dickie have extended the weekend invitation, as they also did in January, to one of their other Embassy Club coterie, Lettice’s old childhood chum, Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy who has tried to gain some independence from his family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street. Gerald owns a Morris*, so he can motor both Lettice and himself back to London on Monday at the end of their stay. The quartet now sit in the house’s newly appointed drawing room, which is light and airy and very welcoming, just as Margot had hoped it would be. The fragrance of late summer roses freshly picked from ‘Chi an Treth’s’ garden by Mr. Treventhan, the gardener and odd job man, intermixes with the light waft of still fresh paint and the smell of the crashing ocean outside as it drifts in through the open French doors at the end of the room.

 

“I say Lettice darling!” Gerald enthuses as he looks around the newly redecorated drawing room of ‘Chi an Treth’. “You’ve transformed the old girl!”

 

“Isn’t it marvellous, Gerald! It’s so light and bright and thoroughly modern. Just what I wanted!” Margot purrs contently from the roomy confines of her sleek and modern eau-de-nil armchair. “No more dark red walls hung with ghastly maritime daubs. No more horrible old fashioned furniture.”

 

“Well,” Lettice says lowering her lids as she smiles and blushes at Margot’s evident happiness with her work. “I wouldn’t go quite that far, Margot.”

 

“Oh! Is it in here?” Gerald asks.

 

“It’s over there,” Lettice points behind Margot’s chair. “To the left of the fireplace, exactly where it was before the redecoration.”

 

Margot turns and looks over her shoulder at the small demilune table** covered in family photographs that sits beneath a pretty Georgian painting. “Oh no Gerald,” she remarks to him as he gets up from his seat on the end of the sofa that matches her armchair and walks across the room to the white painted demilune table. “You and Lettice are mistaken. That painting wasn’t here before the redecoration. There was a rather dull seascape hanging there in a frightful black frame. No. That painting comes from my old bedroom in Sloane Street. Mummy and Daddy said I could have it because I loved it so much.”

 

“I wasn’t talking about the painting, Margot darling.” Gerald corrects her.

 

“You weren’t, Gerald?” she questions, looking quizzically at the photos in gold, brass and silver frames on the demilune table, none of which were in ‘Chi an Treth’ prior to the redecoration.

 

“I was taking about the table.” he goes on to elucidate.

 

“Good god?” Dickie splutters from his place, smoking a pipe, his newest affectation as he plays lord of the manor, whilst leaning against the fireplace, a newspaper hanging limply in his empty left hand. “Is that the same half-round table that we used for port and sherry when we first came here?”

 

“It is.” Lettice confesses quietly. “It broke my heart just to fling all the house’s history out, just for the sake of modernisation.” She blushes at the last comment. “Sorry Margot.”

 

“You always were a sentimental thing, old girl!” Dickie laughs good naturedly as he carelessly tosses the Daily Mail onto the pile of newspapers and periodicals that sit atop a large eau-de-nil pouffe that matches the armchairs and sofa. “I wouldn’t have known it was the same table if Gerald hadn’t said something.”

 

“Well, it seemed a shame to waste a perfectly good table.” Lettice admits.

 

“But it wasn’t going to waste! I said you could do what you like with any of the furniture we weren’t going to keep, Lettice darling.” Margot says in surprise.

 

“And she did, Margot.” Gerald counters as he runs his hand idly along the smooth edge of the table.

 

“I spoke to my aunt about how best to repurpose it.” Lettice goes on.

 

“What does Lady Rostrevor know about repurposing furniture?” Dickie asks quizzically.

 

“Oh, not that aunt,” Lettice explains. “My Aunt Egg: Pater’s sister.”

 

“Oh, she’s the Chelsea artist, isn’t she?” Dickie confirms.

 

“Little Venice, but close enough.” corrects Lettice.

 

“I’ve been encouraging Lettice to apply her own artistic skills to her interiors and add a personal touch.” Gerald explains.

 

“So, I consulted Aunt Egg as how best to paint wood.”

 

“And the rest is her skills as an artist.” Gerald beams. “I was there, encouraging her every doubtful step of the way.”

 

“Doubtful?” Dickie asks.

 

“Lettice has doubts about her own abilities.” Gerald explains with a kind smile towards his friend sitting demurely on the sofa in the empty seat next to the one he has vacated.

 

“I say, old girl!” Dickie exclaims. “I don’t think you have anything to doubt, don’t you agree, my love?” he asks, addressing his wife.

 

“Rather, Lettice darling!” Margot smiles beatifically at her friend. “I agree with you, my love. I’d have scarcely recognised that old table myself!”

 

“I’d scarcely recognise this to be the same dark and old fashioned room we sat in, in January!” Gerald elaborates with a sweeping gesture at the papers, curtains, carpets and furnishings around them.

 

Just at that moment the door to the drawing room is forced open by a heavy boot, startling them all. Looking to the door as it creaks open noisily on its hinges, old Mrs. Trevethan, the housekeeper, with her wind weathered face with her unruly wiry white hair tied loosely in a bun, wearing a rather tatty apron over an old fashioned Edwardian print dress, walks in carrying a silver tray. Although weighed down heavily with a champagne bottle, four champagne flutes and a range of canapes for the Channons and their guests, the rather frail looking old woman, as usual, seems unbothered by its weight. She lowers the tray onto the low occasional table between the settee and armchairs with a groan and the disconcerting crack of bones.

 

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

 

“Omlowenhewgh agas boes!***” the elderly woman replies in a gravelly voice, groaning as she stretches back into an upright position before retreating the way she came, closing the door noisily behind her.

 

“Well,” Gerald corrects his lasts statement despondently. “I see some things haven’t changed.”

 

“Oh Gerald!” Lettice exclaims. “What do you have against old Mrs. Trevethan?”

 

“Is it because you think she was too slow binging you Aspirin the last time you stayed, old bean?” Dickie asks.

 

“Well there is that too.” mumbles Gerald, rubbing the toe of his shoe into the thick fabric of the green and blue Art Deco rug beneath his feet.

 

“She took very good care of me over the last week whilst I’ve been staying here on my own, Gerald.” Lettice defends the old woman. “And when I was down here a few months ago, Mr. Trevethan took me sightseeing.”

 

“She’s just an old Cornish witch, and you’ve fallen under her spell.” Gerald replies rather sulkily. When Margot and Dickie laugh at him he adds, “You all have!”

 

“It was the Aspirin.” Dickie chuckles knowingly as he puts down his pipe and walks over to the low table and picks up the bottle of champagne.

 

As Gerald blushes with guilt, his three friends laugh good naturedly at his expense.

 

“Well, the table isn’t the only piece of original furnishing I retained,” Lettice adds, reverting the subject back to her interior designs to spare her best friend any more embarrassment. “I did keep the two Regency gilt side tables and used those two matching stands that were in the reception room. I hope you don’t mind, Margot.”

 

Dickie pops the bottle of champagne expertly, the sound filling he and his guests with excitement and enthusiasm, rather like the effervescence of the golden champagne within the bottle.

 

“Oh I know I said I wanted a modern look, but I don’t mind the occasional piece, within reason.” Margot assures her friend as she hands a champagne flute to her husband to fill. “In fact I think they rather suit the room now you’ve redecorated it. It looks light enough with the pale wallpaper and the eau-de-nil suite that they don’t make the room look fusty or dark.” She passes the full flute to Lettice, who gratefully accepts it. “Besides, they complement Miss Rosvear’s presence.”

 

The quartet all pause and turn their heads to gaze upon the luminous portrait of the beautiful woman looking over her shoulder in the ornate gilded frame, hanging over a mirror topped Art Deco demilune table now used for the drinks tray, a dainty carriage clock and Lettice’s wedding gift to the Channons: a silver Regency tea Caddy from Asprey’s****.

 

“I am sorry that she wasn’t a Winterhalter***** after all, old bean.” remarks Gerald sadly.

 

“Oh I’m not!” Dickie laughs, resuming filling a second glass with champagne, which he passes over to Gerald.

 

“I’m not either.” adds Margot as she holds out a third flute to Dickie to fill.

 

“By her not being a Winterhalter, I have been spared the indignity of watching my father sell off yet another piece of our family history.” Dickie says, wiping the mouth of the champagne bottle against his wife’s glass. He smiles to himself as he goes on, “It was jolly good fun to see the old bully get his comeuppance for once. To see the colour drain from his face when the Bonham’s****** man told him that it was likely done by a local Cornish artist who was perhaps inspired by Winterhalter, was priceless!”

 

“Poor Mr. Fox.” Lettice remarks piteously.

 

“That was an ordeal!” Margot says as she releases a pent up breath that shudders nervously from within her. “But by finding out that she isn’t worth the fortune Lord and Lady Channon were hoping for, I am afforded the pleasure of having her hang here in my new drawing room.”

 

“Where she belongs.” Lettice smiles.

 

“Where she belongs.” the other three chime in, in agreement.

 

“Shall we propose a toast to Miss Rosevear?” suggests Lettice, raising her glass.

 

“Well, if you don’t mind, old girl,” Dickie says, raising his own glass. “I have a toast of my own that I’d like to raise first, that I think is more timely.”

 

“Well it is your house, Dickie darling,” Lettice concedes. “So as master, you may do as you wish.”

 

“What is the toast?” his wife asks, an expertly plucked eyebrow arching over her right eye, this revelation obviously unknown to her too.

 

“Well, I was chatting to Henry Tipping******* at my club earlier this week,” Dickie begins.

 

“Who is Henry Tipping, my love?” queries Margot.

 

“He’s a great authority on history, architecture, furnishings and gardens of country houses in Britain.” Gerald clarifies.

 

“Quite so, old bean!” exclaims Dickie. “And he is also the Architectural Editor of Country Life, and he’s rather thrilled to come down and see Lettice’s sympathetic redecoration of ‘Chi an Treth’.”

 

“Henry Tipping is interested in seeing my interior designs?” Lettice asks in astonishment. “Mine?”

 

“Indubitably, old girl.” Dickie smiles proudly, full of self-satisfaction at his announcement. “So I’d like to propose a toast to my hopes for this room to be featured in Country Life. To your future success, old girl!”

 

“To Lettice’s success!” Margot says, standing up elegantly and raising her glass.

 

“To Lettice’s success!” Gerald and Dickie echo as they click glasses with Margot and the silently stunned Lettice.

 

“Just imagine Sadie’s face when she sees your interiors in her beloved Country Life, Lettice!” giggles Gerald mischievously. “How I should like to be a fly on the wall to witness that!”

 

But Lettice doesn’t reply, this surprise in Margot’s new drawing room robbing her of words. However, a hopeful smile plays on her lips as she sips the effervescent champagne from her flute, her eyes sparking with possibility as she considers what this could mean for her career as an interior designer.

 

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

 

**Co-opting the French word for “half moon,” the demilune table is an accent table featuring an elegant, rounded front and a flat back. A demilune's flat back allows it to sit flush against a wall, making it a striking substitution for a standard console table or credenza.

 

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

 

****Founded in 1781 as a silk printing business by William Asprey, Asprey soon became a luxury emporium. In 1847 the business moved to their present premises at 167 Bond Street, where they advertised 'articles of exclusive design and high quality, whether for personal adornment or personal accompaniment and to endow with richness and beauty the table and homes of people of refinement and discernment’. In 1862 Asprey received a Royal Warrant from Queen Victoria. They received a second Royal Warrant from the Future Edward VII in 1889. Asprey has a tradition of producing jewellery inspired by the blooms found in English gardens and Woodland Flora. Over the decades jewelled interpretations of flowers have evolved to include Daisy, Woodland and sunflower collections. They have their own special cut of diamond and produce leather goods, silver and gold pieces, trophies and leatherbound books, both old and new. They also produce accessories for playing polo. In 1997, Asprey produced the Heart of the Ocean necklace worn in the motion picture blockbuster, ‘Titanic’.

 

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

 

******Established in 1793, Bonhams is a privately owned international auction house and one of the world's oldest and largest auctioneers of fine art and antiques. It was formed by the merger in November 2001 of Bonhams & Brooks and Phillips Son & Neale.

 

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

 

This elegantly appointed drawing room with its modish Art Deco furnishings may not be all that you think them to be, for this scene is in truth made up with pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

On the coffee table, he savoury petite fours on the white porcelain plate and the champagne flutes, which are made from hand spun glass, have been made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The ornamental glass bon-bon dish, also made from hand spun glass, was made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. The silver tray and the bowl of caviar come from Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The bottle of Deutz and Geldermann champagne is an artisan miniature and is made of glass and has real foil wrapped around its neck. It was made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.

 

The Statue of the nude Art Nouveau woman on the right-hand pedestal to the right at the back is based on a real statue and is made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. It has been hand painted by me.

 

The glass topped demilune table in the background is a hand made miniature artisan piece, which sadly is unsigned. On its surface, made of real glass are decanters of whiskey and port and a cranberry glass soda syphon made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in England. The hand spun Art Deco glass vase containing creamy yellow handmade roses are also from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The silver Regency tea caddy is made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, whilst the metal carriage clock comes from Melody Jane Doll House Suppliers in the United Kingdom.

 

The three novels on the occasional table next to the armchair come from Shepherds Miniatures in England.

 

The wedding photo in the silver frame on the mantlepiece and the photos in frames on the demilune table behind the armchair are real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frame comes from Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers.

 

The Georgian style demilune table behind and to the right of the armchair is an artisan miniature from Lady Mile Miniatures in the United Kingdom. Painted white and then aged, it has been hand painted with a Georgian style design on its surface.

 

The hand spun Art Deco glass vase in the foreground containing white roses with yellow centres are made roses are also from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

 

The newspapers on the pouffe, except the copy of Country Life, are made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The copy of Country Life was made by me.

 

The eau-de-nil suite consisting of armchairs, sofa and pouffe are all made of excellent quality fabric, and are very well made, as is the coffee table with its small drawer beneath the tabletop. All these pieces were made as a set by high-end miniatures manufacturer Jiayi Miniatures.

 

The Regency gilt swan pedestals and round tables are made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.

 

The fireplace is made of plaster, and comes from Kathleen Knight’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The stylised Art Deco fire screen is made using thinly laser cut wood, made by Pat’s Miniatures in England.

 

The paintings around the ‘Chi an Treth’ drawing room in their gilded frames are 1:12 artisan pieces made by V.H. Miniatures and Marie Makes Miniatures in the United Kingdom and geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series. The Geometrically patterned Art Deco carpet on the floor comes from a miniatures specialist store on E-Bay.

NOTE > Not my IMAGE- solely here for Educational intent- and to further the appreciation for Art-Deco Metal WORK!

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

 

Today however we are not in Lettice’s flat. Instead, we have followed Lettice south-west, through the neighbouring borough of Belgravia to the smart London suburb of Pimlico and its rows of cream and white painted Regency terraces. There, in a smart red brick Edwardian set of three storey flats on Rochester Row, is the residence of Lettice’s latest client, recently arrived American film actress Wanetta Ward.

 

The flat is all and sixes and sevens today as removalists disgorge beautiful new furnishings from their lorry. Carefully they carry items that Lettice has specifically chosen for Wanetta’s flat through the communal foyer illuminated by a lightwell three floors above, and up the sweeping stairs to flat number four. The painters and decorators have already been through, hanging fashionable papers chosen by Lettice on walls and giving the wainscots, cornicing and ceiling roses a much needed fresh coat of paint. The floors have been polished and now each room is cluttered with Chinese screens, oriental tables, black japanned furniture, oriental rugs, Chinoiserie pieces, paintings and boxes of decorative items. Lettice stands in the central vestibule and directs the men to carry different pieces into different rooms, a clipboard across the crook in her left arm as she ticks items off her inventory for the flat. She and a handful of men will return in a few days to set things up properly. Today is really all about moving everything from Lettice’s warehouse near the docks to its new home.

 

Lettice sighs with relief when the last removalist leaves after depositing the final box in the vestibule. Now she can check the boxes to make sure that everything has arrived safely. She closes the door and luxuriates in the silence as it falls about her like a comforting blanket. Walking into the flat’s drawing room, she admires the French blue wallpaper with its stylised motif of golden fans as they run the length of the room across a wall now devoid of the floor to ceiling bookshelves that had cluttered it previously. She emits a sigh of satisfaction as she smiles at it glowing in the mid-afternoon sun pouring through the bay window. Taking up a crowbar, she starts to separate the lids nailed onto boxes and crates so she can remove their contents. She chuckles quietly to herself as she works, a cheeky smile dancing across her lips as she thinks of how horrified her mother would be to see her using such an implement so adeptly. Lady Sadie would struggle to lift a fire poker, never mind wrench the lid from a wooden crate.

 

Soon the surface of a low table and the floor around her is littered with tissue paper, oriental pottery and Murano glassware. Picking up a vase with elegant golden yellow fluting spiralling around its bulbous base, Lettice holds it to the light, admiring the brilliance of the colour as it is caught in the sun’s rays. Just as she sets it down again, she hears a key turning in the lock of the front door, its unique metallic groan echoing through the vestibule and into the drawing room.

 

“Hullo?” Lettice calls in the direction of the front door.

 

“Is that you, darling Miss Chetwynd?” Miss Ward’s American enunciations sound loudly down the hallway as the front door creaks open. “It’s only me, Wanetta!”

 

“I’m in the drawing room.” Lettice replies as the sound of the front door slamming closed resounds through the flat.

 

She listens to the American woman’s footsteps and the tap of her walking stick that she uses for dramatic effect as she walks across the hallway and peeps into each room off it to take a sneak peak of what is in each before finally walking into the drawing room, a vision in orchid silk with her lucky pink floral hat atop her head.

 

“I’m afraid that you’re far too early, Miss Ward,” Lettice beams up from her kneeling position on the floor. “I’ve only just had the furniture moved in a few hours ago. I haven’t set things straight yet.”

 

“Oh,” Miss Ward bats away Lettice’s protestations with a flapping hand glittering in jewels. “That doesn’t matter my darling girl! I only came here today because I’d heard from the shipping company that my paintings had been delivered. I just wanted to make sure they were all here.”

 

“And if by checking on their safe arrival you were given an opportunity to have a little peek as to how things are going with the redecoration, that wouldn’t go astray either?”

 

Miss Ward blanches at the suggestion but doesn’t deny it. “I’m an inquisitive woman, darling. It took all my inner strength not to come charging down here beforehand to see how it was all progressing.”

 

The American’s eyes dart about the room, taking in the general chaos of misplaced furniture, tea chests disgorging paper and crates spilling forth decorative china and glassware.

 

“They are over there, Miss Ward,” Lettice rises from her place, brushing her hands down the calico smock she wears as a protective cover over her smart outfit beneath, before pointing to a stack of paintings resting against the wall by the fireplace. “I had my men unpack them in readiness for hanging.”

 

“That’s very good of you, darling.” Miss Ward looks across at Lettice as she removes her hat and tosses it carelessly onto a white upholstered reproduction Chippendale settee. “Only you could look so stylish in a smock, dear girl!” she laughs loudly as she props her stick against the arm of the settee.

 

“It’s just to protect my clothes.” Lettice explains with a slightly embarrassed self conscious chuckle as she gazes down at her smock’s crumpled and slightly dusty front. “Anyway, I’m glad you are here, Miss Ward. We can discuss the placement of your artworks. Mind you, I didn’t see a portrait of you in yellow amongst them.”

 

“Oh! Well, you wouldn’t. I had that delivered to my hotel room. It can hang there until I’m ready to move in.”

 

“Then how am I to…” Lettice begins.

 

Miss Ward gasps, interrupting Lettice’s spoken thought, finally slowing down enough to notice the wallpaper. “That wallpaper truly is stunning, Miss Chetwynd, my darling, darling girl! Truly it is!” she enthuses with clasped hands. “I say again, a stroke of genius on your part!”

 

“I’m glad you approve, Miss Ward.”

 

“Oh I do!” she agrees readily. “It is divine and makes such a statement,” She walks up to the wall and runs her elegant fingers over the paper, feeling the embossed lines of the fan in the print. “But in an elegant way. Classy! Not… not de… de…”

 

“Déclassé. Indeed, Miss Ward.” Lettice agrees. “Now whilst you’re here, I’d like you to cast your eyes over these choices of ornamental glassware and make sure that they are to your liking.”

 

“Oh yes? Let me see!”

 

Miss Ward walks purposely across the room to the low table cluttered with boxes and objects made of glass either solely or tinted at the least with golden yellow colouring. She gasps as she picks up an elegant decanter with a long neck and bulbous end with a golden yellow stopper. Carefully putting it back down she turns her attention to a rather lovely large clear glass bowl with a gilt rim, a smile of pleasure causing her painted lips to curl upwards in delight. Then she glimpses another decanter made completely of yellow glass. She picks it up with both hands, holding it with reverence.

 

“They’re all pieces from Murano, a little glass blowing island in Venice,” Lettice explains.

 

At length Miss Ward finally replies, “Oh darling! They are gorgeous! Where do you envisage these going?”

 

“Well, I have a black japanned cocktail cabinet and console table on order from my cabinet maker which are due to be delivered in a few days. I thought the cocktail cabinet might go here.” She indicates with an open hand to the space behind the white settee and a rolled up oriental rug with gold patterning to the left of the fireplace. “And the console table, here.” She points to the right of the fireplace, currently cluttered with Miss Ward’s stack of paintings. “I was going to put a cluster of these on it along with a pale yellow celadon vase decorated with gold bamboo that is still packed in one of these crates somewhere.” She indicates to a few of the as of yet unopened boxes.

 

“Then my portrait shall hang above it!” Miss Ward declares. “It will look perfect there!”

 

“Very well, Miss Ward. If that is your wish.” Lettice acquiesces, even though it irks her a little to have not seen the portrait to know if it will really suit the space on the wall.

 

“Does Harrods sell oriental ginger jars?” Miss Ward laughs as she notices the elegant writing on the side of a small crate from which a green, brown and blue Japanese jar pokes.

 

“No,” Lettice chuckles, looking to where her client is gazing. “Though I’m quite sure if I asked them to, they would. No, this is a Japanese temple vase from my oriental importers. The box is mine, left over from a rather fun cocktail party I had a few weeks ago for some friends of mine who are getting married.”

 

“Oh,” Miss Ward remarks. “I think I remember reading something about your party in the society pages of the Tatler.”

 

“I’m surprised you have time to read the society pages, Miss Ward, what with your new career at Islington Studios*.”

 

“I quite enjoy reading magazines between takes, and when I’m having my makeup done.” Miss Ward elucidates. “It helps to pass the time.”

 

“And things are going well with your film?”

 

“Oh, ‘After the Ball is Over’ is already in the bag, darling!”

 

“Goodness, that was fast, Miss Ward.”

 

“Things move like quick lightning in the flicks, Miss Chetwynd. No time to stand around gawking though. My next picture is already underway - ‘A Night at the Savoy’ with me as an elegant society lady. I almost don’t need to act.” the American woman laughs heartly.

 

Lettice has the good grace not to remark on Miss Ward’s lack of refinement as she says, “Well that is good news for you. A second film already.”

 

“Yes! I might even be able to host a cocktail party here for the release of ‘After the Ball is Over’.” Miss Ward exclaims. “Won’t that be fun?”

 

The young woman begins to hum the tune to ‘After the Ball is Over’ as she starts to dance around the room, pretending that she is held in the arms of some dashing young man. Lettice watches her in silence, admiring her client as she moves elegantly around the room, her orchid dress sweeping around her slim and tall figure in elegant folds, her signature pearls dancing down her neck along with her.

 

Suddenly she trips over the tag on the rolled-up carpet leaning against the fireplace, causing it to slide and fall against the settee with a whoosh and a dull thump, breaking the spell of elegance. On the mantlepiece, a small white vase teeters.

 

“Careful!” Lettice cries, reaching out as much to the little vase as she does Miss Ward.

 

Miraculously, Miss Ward steadies herself and catches the vase in her elegant hand. She looks down at it, contemplating it for a moment before remarking, “Isn’t this the little vase that was sitting here the day I had those two charladies** in here, cleaning up after the last tenant?”

 

“It is, Miss Ward.” Lettice agrees, walking over to the American woman.

 

“But I told them to throw anything left by him, out.”

 

“I know,” Lettice takes the vase from Miss Ward’s hand and places it back on the mantlepiece. “But I asked them to leave it.”

 

“Why, Miss Chetwynd?” Miss Ward looks down at Lettice with a puzzled look on her pretty face.

 

“Call it fancy, Miss Ward, but I rather like the idea of a room retaining a little of its past. There wasn’t much in the way of its history to work with, save for this little vase.”

 

“You’re talking to a girl who has a lucky hat, darling girl. I’m the last one to challenge your fancy.” She looks at the vase again, scrutinising its simple elegance. “And, I suppose you did say that you were going to have elements of white in my décor.”

 

“I did, Miss Ward.” Lettice confirms. “However, I also said that it wouldn’t be boring, and this little vase, with its history, is certainly not boring.” She smiles at the other woman.

 

“Well, I must go, my dear, dear girl.” Miss Ward says. “I only popped in before going on to the studios. I’m so pleased to know that everything is coming together, tickety-boo***!” She snatches up her gold knobbed walking stick and pink floral hat from the settee and sweeps across the room towards the door. As she crosses the threshold, she turns back dramatically to Lettice. “Just tickety-boo, darling!” Then she turns and walks away. “Cheerio, Miss Chetwynd, until next time!”

 

With the bang of the front door, Miss Ward is gone, leaving only a whiff of her perfume as a reminder that she was even there, and Lettice feels the calming silence settling about her again. “Coming together, tickety-boo.” she mutters before releasing a little snort as she shakes her head. “Now where is that yellow celadon vase?” Taking up the crowbar, she resumes opening a box, the wood of the lid groaning in protest as she splinters it open.

 

*Islington Studios, often known as Gainsborough Studios, were a British film studio located on the south bank of the Regent's Canal, in Poole Street, Hoxton in Shoreditch, London which began operation in 1919. By 1920 they had a two stage studio. It is here that Alfred Hitchcock made his entrée into films.

 

**A charwoman, chargirl, or char, jokingly charlady, is an old-fashioned occupational term, referring to a paid part-time worker who comes into a house or other building to clean it for a few hours of a day or week, as opposed to a maid, who usually lives as part of the household within the structure of domestic service. In the 1920s, chars usually did all the hard graft work that paid live-in domestics would no longer do as they looked for excuses to leave domestic service for better paying work in offices and factories.

 

***Believed to date from British colonial rule in India, and related to the Hindi expression “tickee babu”, meaning something like “everything's alright, sir”, “tickety-boo” means “everything is fine”. It was a common slang phrase that was popular in the 1920s.

 

This slightly chaotic upper-middle-class still life of redecoration in progress is different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures, some of which come from my own childhood and teenage years.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

 

All the glass items on the table have been blown and decorated and tinted by hand by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The stoppers in the two decanters are removable. The ginger jar in the Harrods crate is also hand painted. It is an item that I bought from a high street doll house stockist when I was a teenager.

 

Wanetta’s lucky pink hat covered in silk flowers, which sits on the settee in the background is made by Miss Amelia’s Miniatures in the Canary Islands. It is an artisan miniature made just like a real hat, right down to a tag in the inside of the crown to show where the back of the hat is! 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable. Miss Amelia is an exception to the rule coming from Spain, but like her American counterparts, her millinery creations are superb. Like a real fashion house, all her hats have names. This pink raw silk flower covered hat is called “Lilith”. Wanetta’s walking stick, made of ebonized wood with a real metal knob was made by the Little Green Workshop in England.

 

The stylised Art Deco fire screen is made using thinly laser cut wood, made by Pat’s Miniatures in England.

 

The paintings stacked in the background were all made in America by Amber’s Miniatures.

 

The miniature Oriental rug rolled up in the background of the photo was made by hand by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney

 

The Georgian style fireplace I have had since I was a teenager and is made from moulded plaster.

 

The striking wallpaper is an art deco design that was very popular during the 1920s.

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 happy 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 grunts – 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. Sitting up in bed she 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 looks like it’s going to be a showery and overcast day today, Miss.” Edith says with seriousness as she looks out of the window onto the street below. “None too good for that charity event you are going to today.”

 

“Charity event?” Lettice queries, rubbing the sleep from her sore eyes and exhaling through her nose. “What,” She yawns, not bothering to stifle it and stretches her arms. “What charity event, Edith?”

 

“That theatrical one you are going to with Mr. Bruton in Regent’s Park, Miss.” Edith replies, walking across the floor of her mistress’ bedroom, snatching discarded lingerie and stockings from the floor as she goes as she opens the door to the adjoining bathroom.

 

“Oh that!” Lettice answers. “The Theatrical Garden Party isn’t until next week, Edith.”

 

“Oh, I thought it was today, Miss.” The maid lifts the upholstered lid on a wicker laundry basket just inside the bathroom door and deposits Lettice’s lacy undergarments and stockings into it. “I must have my weeks confused.” 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.

 

“No, the Actors’ Orphanage Garden Party* is definitely next week, Edith,” Lettice says aloud to assure herself as much as her maid as she allows Edith to drape the bed jacket around her shoulders. She sighs and looks out at the grey day that peeps through the window. “Thank goodness. We’d hate for it to be a wash-out. Last year drew such crowds.”

 

Edith goes back to the open bedroom door and disappears momentarily into the hallway before returning with Lettice’s breakfast tray.

 

Punching and fluffing 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.

 

“Marmalade, Miss.” Edith elucidates.

 

“Very good, Edith.”

 

“You… err… finished the last of the Glynes plum and raspberry conserve yesterday, Miss.”

 

“Did I?” Lettice remarks, withdrawing her napkin from underneath the plate and draping it across her front. “Oh well, all good things must come to an end, mustn’t they, Edith?”

 

“I couldn’t say, Miss.” Edith replies, her mouth forming into a slim line on her face as she keeps quiet about what she considers to be an extravagant amount of jam that Lettice applies to her toast every morning. In her opinion her mistress may as well forgo the toast altogether and eat the jam directly from the pot with a spoon. “The marmalade is shop bought, Miss.”

 

“Is it? Oh well, never mind.” Lettice answers as she takes up a spoon and begins to dollop the rich gelatinous golden orange marmalade onto her slice of toast. “I’ll fetch some more conserve from Mater and Pater next time I’m back in Wiltshire.” She takes the knife and spreads the thick layer across the toast before cutting the slice in half with crunching strokes. “Any post yet, Edith?”

 

“Some tradesmen’s correspondence and a larger envelope without a return address on it, Miss.”

 

“That will be a begging letter,” Lettice points the knife at her maid, slicing the air with it. “Put them on my desk will you. I’ll see to them when I get up.”

 

“Yes Miss.” Edith bobs a curtsey and goes to withdraw, yet just as she is about to close the bedroom door she glances at something on the console table outside. “Oh, and there is this, Miss, which I should think you’ll want to see.”

 

Lettice looks down the length of the room 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.

 

“What page is it on, Edith?” Lettice asks, grasping the folded pages from her maid and opening it before her, over the top of her breakfast tray.

 

“I couldn’t say, Miss.” Edith replies, her intonation reflecting the mild outrage she feels at being asked such a question. “As if I would go through your personal mail, Miss.” Even though she has done just as Lettice has suggested and found and skimmed the article on Lettice’s redecoration of ‘Chi an Treth’, there is no need for her to know.

 

“Oh of course you haven’t, Edith. I’m sorry” Lettice apologises, lowering the magazine and looking up at her maid with remorse in her blue eyes. “Forgive me?”

 

“Of course, Miss.”

 

“I’m so grateful to have a maid who doesn’t pry.”

 

“Yes Miss.” Edith answers with a smug smile. “Will that be all, Miss.”

 

“Yes, yes, Edith!” Lettice answers with a dismissive flip of her right hand as she lets go of half the copy of Country Life which drapes across her breakfast, narrowly avoiding being smeared with marmalade. “I should be finished in about a half hour and then you can clean up.”

 

“Very good, Miss.”

 

Once Edith has retreated and closed the door behind her, Lettice foists the breakfast tray from her lap onto the empty left half of the bed, the crockery and cutlery protesting noisily at being thrust so forcefully from her. Drawing her knees up, she rests the latest edition of Country Life on her thighs and turns to the contents page, scanning the list of articles and editorials. “Aha!” she gasps triumphantly upon finding it.

 

Flipping through the pages past other houses of note quicky, the paper rustles beneath her fingers until she reaches the editorial she wants. Taking a deep breath she begins to read quietly aloud to herself, “Country homes and gardens old and new. ‘Chi an Treth’, Cornwall, the seat of Mr. R. Channon.” She skims the first section of the editorial which explains how Dickie and Margot were gifted their country house, but pauses at the first two photographs beneath it. She smiles with satisfaction at the first one which shows the top of the demi-lune table that she painted by hand and then worried wasn’t going to meet Margot’s approval. The image beside it shows the stylish mirror topped Art Deco console table she installed beneath the portrait of the beautiful and tragic Miss Rosevear, flanked by two statues she acquired from Mr. Chilvers at the Portland Gallery. “A perfect balance of old and new.” she reads aloud from the caption below the photograph before allowing herself to release the pent-up breath she has been holding in her chest. Those few words consisting of twenty-six characters is enough to tell her that anything else she reads in Henry Tipping’s*** article will be sure to be favourable about her interior designs for the Channon’s Regency country house.

 

Looking across the gutter between the left-hand page and the right she reads, “in the capable hands of Miss Lettice Chetwynd, who has applied her tasteful Modern Classical Revival style.”

 

Lettice’s eyes stray to the large photograph of Dickie and Margot’s redecorated drawing room. She chuckles to herself, the action causing the corners of her mouth to curl up in a smile as she remembers her conversation with Margot in the week following the Country Life photo shoot at ‘Chi an Treth’. Margot complained bitterly about having to tidy the place up for Mr. Tipping and his crew, even though it was her housekeeper, Mrs. Trevethan, who really did the tidying up. Margot moaned about having to hide her novels like skeletons in the closet, and how Mr. Tipping tinkered around the rooms, moving small things like clocks and photos, whilst removing others for what he called photographic effect. Margot said that when it came to shifting Dickie’s pile of newspapers from the pouffe by the fireplace, his friendship with Mr. Tipping nearly came to an end. Gifted with a sense of drama, Lettice knew that Margot was over exaggerating this point, but she could imagine that having a photography crew traipsing through your newly decorated rooms would be somewhat of an inconvenience and more than a little irritating. Margot did however concede that the Country Life crew brought a magnificent array of flowers which they filled every conceivable space with when photographing, and then left behind for her pleasure upon their decampment.

 

“Miss Chetwynd’s treatment of the drawing room exemplifies a comfortable mixture of old and new furnishings to create a welcoming and contemporary room that is sympathetic to the original features.” Lettice reads. Dropping the pages onto her thighs, she smiles with unbridled delight at the complimentary way with which Mr. Tipping describes her interiors.

 

“Wait until Mater reads this,” she thinks smugly, remembering her request of the Country Life office to supply an advanced copy of the magazine to her parent’s home as well as her own once it was published. “Now she will have to take my interior decorating business seriously.”

 

As if on cue, the black and silver Bakelite telephone by her bedside begins to trill noisily. She looks at it, her eyes alive with excitement. Usually, it is Edith’s job to answer the telephone, one of her most hated duties in her position as Lettice’s maid. Lettice is amused by her hatred of ‘that infernal contraption’. However, today after reading what she has in the Country Life article about ‘Chi an Treth’ she feels magnanimous and picks up the receiver on the third shrill ring.

 

“Mayfair 432,” she answers with a happy lilt in her voice. A distant deep male voice speaks down the line. “Pappa! What an unexpected pleasure at this time of the morning. I would have thought you’d be out on estate business with Leslie at this time.” She smiles to herself and bites the inside of her lower lip in excitement and anticipation. “I do hope nothing is wrong, Pappa.” she adds cheekily. She listens. “Oh really? Did she? Whatever was the matter for Mamma to call you to her boudoir like that?” She listens again, her eyes crinkling at the corners in sheer delight as she listens, luxuriating in her moment of triumph. “Oh that!” She laughs feigning nonchalance as she curls the spiral cord of the telephone receiver around her left index finger. “You know Pappa, with all the excitement of preparing for Elizabeth’s**** up and coming wedding to the Duke of York and decorating Charles and Minnie Palmerston’s dining room, you know I had quite forgotten all about it.” She listens again. “Yes, yes, I had. I mean, it was so long ago when I decorated Dickie and Margot’s. You and Mamma did approve of me doing it considering that Dickie is the Marquess of Taunton’s son, didn’t you?” she asks teasingly. Her father’s voice, disembodied somewhere between London and Wiltshire booms bombastically down the line. “Well yes I can, Pappa. I’ll have to check my diary, but I think I could arrange to come down to Glynes at short notice,” She pauses. “Only that suits you, of course.” She listens again. “Yes, yes very well. I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve booked a ticket which train I’ll be on.” There is more male burbling along the line. “Alright. Goodbye Pappa. I’ll see you soon.” She hangs up the phone.

 

There is a quiet knock at the bedroom door.

 

“Is everything alright, Miss?” Edith opens it and pops her head around.

 

“So much for a maid who doesn’t pry.” Lettice says with arched eyebrows, making Edith blush at the remark. “Yes, everything is fine, but,” She throws the comforter back and swivels herself around on the mattress, revealing her white lace brassier beneath her open bed jacket and her silk crepe de chine step ins as she stretches her legs out of the bed. “There has been a change of plans. I shall have to forego breakfast this morning. I need you to pack me an overnight valise, Edith. I’m off to Glynes for an evening stay. I just need to ring the Victoria Station booking office and arrange a ticket.”

 

“To Glynes, Miss!” Edith gasps. “Whatever for?”

 

Holding up the copy of Country Life, Lettice says, still with arched eyebrows, and a knowing, but not unfriendly smile. “I think you know only too well, Edith.”

 

*The Actors' Orphanage was started in 1896 and established as the Actors' Orphanage Fund in 1912. The fund continues but the orphanage closed in 1958. The charity was started in 1896 by "Kittie" Carson and Mrs Clement Scott. The first building was in Croydon. It was established as the Actors' Orphanage Fund in 1912. In 1915 the Orphanage moved to Langley Hall at Langley (was in Buckinghamshire - now in Berkshire). The orphanage was both a home and a school to approximately sixty children. At ages fifteen to seventeen pupils sat the School Leaving Certificate of Cambridge University and if ten subjects were taken, to Matriculation. Over the years many from the theatrical profession gave time and money to the running of the Orphanage. They also threw large garden parties in Regents Park with rides and entertainment from famous people in the theatrical profession to help raise funds. These events were highly patronised, drawing the biggest crowds between 1920 and 1925. Past presidents of the Orphanage included Sir Gerald du Maurier, Noël Coward, Laurence Olivier and Richard Attenborough.

 

**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.

 

****Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, as she was known at the beginning of 1923 when this story is set, went on to become Queen of the United Kingdom and the Dominions from 1936 to 1952 as the wife of King George VI. Whilst still Duke of York, Prince Albert initially proposed to Elizabeth in 1921, but she turned him down, being "afraid never, never again to be free to think, speak and act as I feel I really ought to". He proposed again in 1922 after Elizabeth was part of his sister, Mary the Princess Royal’s, wedding party, but she refused him again. On Saturday, January 13th, 1923, Prince Albert went for a walk with Elizabeth at the Bowes-Lyon home at St Paul’s, Walden Bury and proposed for a third and final time. This time she said yes. The wedding took place on April 26, 1923 at Westminster Abbey.

 

This editorial from the pages of country life complete with photographs may look real to you, but if you look carefully at the elegantly appointed drawing room with its modish Art Deco furnishings you will find that they are made up with pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in the photographs in this article include:

 

On the coffee table sits a rounded bowl made from hand spun glass, which has been made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The ornamental glass bon-bon dish and other glass vases are also made from hand spun glass and were made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures, as are all the roses in the photographs.

 

The Statue of the nude Art Nouveau woman on the right-hand pedestal to the right at the back is based on a real statue and is made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. It has been hand painted by me.

 

The glass topped demilune table in the background is a hand made miniature artisan piece, which sadly is unsigned. On its surface, made of real glass are decanters of whiskey and port and a cranberry glass soda syphon made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in England. The silver Regency tea caddy is made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland.

 

The wedding photo in the silver frame on the mantlepiece and the photos in frames on the demilune table behind the armchair are real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frame comes from Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers.

 

The Georgian style demilune table behind and to the right of the armchair is an artisan miniature from Lady Mile Miniatures in the United Kingdom. Painted white and then aged, it has been hand painted with a Georgian style design on its surface.

 

The copy of Country Life on the pouffe was made by me.

 

The eau-de-nil suite consisting of armchairs, sofa and pouffe are all made of excellent quality fabric, and are very well made, as is the coffee table with its small drawer beneath the tabletop. All these pieces were made as a set by high-end miniatures manufacturer Jiayi Miniatures.

 

The Regency gilt swan pedestals and round tables are made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.

 

The fireplace is made of plaster, and comes from Kathleen Knight’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The stylised Art Deco fire screen is made using thinly laser cut wood, made by Pat’s Miniatures in England.

 

The paintings around the ‘Chi an Treth’ drawing room in their gilded frames are 1:12 artisan pieces made by V.H. Miniatures and Marie Makes Miniatures in the United Kingdom and geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series. The Geometrically patterned Art Deco carpet on the floor comes from a miniatures specialist store on E-Bay.

It reminds me of a cartoon character...:))

 

Miss Cecily asked me to light a fire for her birthday. I remembered how to do it. We have all the tools, firewood, kindling, and matches. 👍

It is a cool day and it is fun to watch... 😊

Our Daily Challenge 11-17 September : Early Memories.

One of several pokerwork items made by my grandmother either at the very end of Victoria's reign of in the early Edwardian period

I love it when a room comes together out of the blue. I found an old auction catologue in the charity shop today, so wasted no time in cutting out paintings and making some picture frames (some using matchsticks, on left).

 

Playmobil fans will notice no less than 19 bits of playmobil in this room (admittedly some very tiny!). The gold firescreen is a broken brooch (20p carboot sale), ashtray - vintage button, statuette - board game piece, oriental screen - doodle on cereal packet!

Preserved not renovated

 

A visit to Calke Abbey, like so many National Trust places, is a step back in time. But Calke is not presented like other country houses of its day. Paintwork is faded and peeling; vast collections of personal belongings are left as they were found. Here, the past is remarkably well preserved, in estate buildings, archaeology and the family’s belongings.

 

From its roots as a religious priory, to its history as a family home for twelve generations, Calke Abbey tells many stories. Unpeeling these layer by layer, we can explore what life was like at Calke for the people who lived and worked here, and how this unique place was shaped by the wider world.

Calke Abbey stands on the site of a medieval religious house. People first came to live at Calke in the 12th century as part of a small religious community, attracted by the secluded forest and good water supply. Calke Priory only lasted a few years as the canons moved to nearby Repton. The priory was dissolved by Henry VIII in 1538, but the canons had anticipated this and granted leases of Calke.

 

After passing through several hands, Richard Wendsley acquired Calke, eventually selling the estate in 1585 to Robert Bainbridge. His son sold the estate to Henry Harpur in 1622 for £5,350. It stayed in the Harpur family until the National Trust began caring for it in 1985.

 

Copied from the National Trust Calke Abbey

Grand but cosy! It's a nice place to sit and read a book in the evenings when the fire is lit, with a couple of dogs nearby, and Novello playing on the gramophone....Oh no! I have just realised what is missing: there should be a bell cord with which to summon Figgis for some sherry....Damn.

 

Today I made the firescreen and painted the armchairs.

 

Some cool real-life places:

 

www.countrylifeimages.co.uk/ResizedImages/Large/677818.jpg

www.countrylifeimages.co.uk/ResizedImages/Large/518679.jpg

www.bestofbute.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2008/11/mount-stu...

This is what lots of heating + beating + grinding + polishing + plating + antiquing + passion looks like!

 

This beautiful example of hand-forged steel, came as a result of a commission for an Art Deco Fireplace Screen for a Residential Interior-

& after many design solution that I proposed & drew -

inspired by everything from

the beautiful Monel grill work in the Chicago Board of Trade lobby, to a cast bronze frieze

on the old Marshall Fields building in Oak Park,Ill,

and of course the brilliant work of the Art Deco Metal Maestro-

Edgar Brant.

 

The design selected was based on metal railings and balconies that were created by Edgar Brandt for a Parisian retailer named "Bon Marche"- the salvaged bits, sell for over $5,000.00- and of course, are no longer available.

 

So after many hours of heating and beating steel (in August's 90+ degree days) grinding and polishing and carefully TIG welding all the elements together - I finally found a plating company with large enough Brass Plating tanks to handle such a piece-

this beauty was born.

As it progressed, I shot this.... flic.kr/p/8scaGa and this.... flic.kr/p/8CmuRz

 

"http://flic.kr/p/T22en">

 

Detail of St Dorothea from a firescreen commissioned in 1895 by Alice Radcliffe. By George Frampton

Detail of St Elizabeth of Hungary from a firescreen commissioned in 1895 by Alice Radcliffe. By George Frampton

Glass and gilt-metal firescreen from the entrance hall of the Henry O. Havemeyer house; created in 1890–91 by Louis Comfort Tiffany.

 

Front detail of a 1925 fire screen by metalsmith Edgar Brandt, on display as part of the "Jazz Age" exhibit at the Cleveland Museum of Art in Cleveland, Ohio, in the United States.

 

Brandt (1880-1960) was a French metalworker who lived in Paris. This fire screen, made of gilded wrought iron, depicts a stylized image of American dancer Isidora Duncan. The floral background is based on a style seen in Vienna in the 1910s. It was updated into an Art Nouveau style.

 

Art Nouveau was a style of art popular between 1890 and 1910. It was a reaction to the academism, Beaux-Arts, Neoclassicism, and Romanticism of the 19th century. Art Nouveau emphasized natural forms, particularly the curved lines of plants and flowers. Art Nouveau fell out of style by 1910, replaced by Art Deco and then Modernism.

 

#CMAJazzAge

Kitsch 1950's Wooden Firescreen Oriental / Chinese Scene

 

View On Black

The 1/6 scale parlour sits on top of our old aquarium, currently vacant. To decorate for Christmas I temporarily appropriated a picture frame for a fireplace. The firescreen/coal box is made from an old earring, a piece of lead flashing and liners from an instant coffee canister. This was necessary to cover the bottom of the frame. I may replace the fireplace later. The outer structure is crafted from balsa and beechwood and the the inner firebox from craft foam.

 

Rusty and Dusty Buchanan play with their new Radio Flyer.

painted out the fireplace at last...

made firescreen from patchwork curtain in studio, not sure if it will stay.

but it does a good job at hiding the fire insert that needs to be ripped out :)

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.

 

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

 

Thus, we find ourselves today a short distance north-east across London, away from Cavendish Mews and Mayfair, over Paddington and past Lisson Grove to the comfortably affluent suburb of Little Venice with its cream painted Regency terraces and railing surrounded public parks. Here in Clifton Gardens Lettice’s maiden Aunt Eglantine, affectionately known as Aunt Egg by her nieces and nephews, lives in a beautiful four storey house that is part of a terrace of twelve. Eglantine Chetwynd as well as being unmarried, is an artist and ceramicist of some acclaim. Originally a member of the Pre-Raphaelites* in England, these days she flits through artistic and bohemian circles and when not at home in her spacious and light filled studio at the rear of her garden, can be found mixing with mostly younger artistic friends in Chelsea. Her unmarried status, outlandish choice of friends and rather reformist and unusual dress sense shocks Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, and attracts her derision. In addition, she draws Sadie’s ire, as Aunt Egg has always received far more affection and preferential treatment from her children. Viscount Wrexham on the other hand adores his artistic little sister, and has always made sure that she can live the lifestyle she chooses and create art.

 

We are in Eglantyne’s wonderfully overcluttered drawing room, which unlike most other houses in the terrace where the drawing room is located in the front and overlooks the street, is nestled at the back of the house, overlooking the beautiful and slightly rambunctious rear garden and studio. It is just another example of Lettice’s aunt flouting the conventions women like Lady Sadie cling to. The room is overstuffed with an eclectic collection of bric-à-brac. Antique vases and ornamental plates jostle for space with pieces of Eglantyne’s own work and that of her artistic friends on whatnots and occasional tables, across the mantle and throughout several glass fronted china cabinets. Every surface is cluttered to over capacity. It is in this cosy space that Eglantyne has gathered Lettice, Phoebe and a rather surprised Lady Gladys as she makes her own attempt to see if they can work out a way to untangle Lettice from Lady Gladys’ contract, and undo the damage done to Pheobe by way of Lettice’s redecoration of the flat.

 

From her wingback chair by the fire, Eglantyne plays mother** as she picks up the teapot decorated with swirling Art Nouveau designs of vine leaves. When she was young, Eglantyne had Titian red hair that fell in wavy tresses about her pale face, making her a popular muse amongst the Pre-Raphaelites she mixed with. With the passing years, her red hair has retreated almost entirely behind silver grey, save for the occasional streak of washed out reddish orange, yet she still wears it as she did when it was at its fiery best, sweeping softly about her almond shaped face, tied in a loose chignon at the back of her neck. Large amber droplets hang from her ears, glowing in the diffused light filtering through the lace curtains that frame the window overlooking the garden. The earrings match the amber necklace about her neck that cascades over the top of her usual uniform of a lose Delphos dress*** that does not require her to wear a corset of any kind, and a silk fringed cardigan, both in beautiful shades of Firenze Blue****. “Your tea, Gladys my dear.” Eglantyne says with a sweet smile as she hands the delicate china teacup, as fine and brittle as most of the ornaments cluttering the drawing room around her, to Gladys.

 

“Thank you.” Lady Gladys replies stiffly, her face as black as thunder as she settles back into the figured white satin button back***** upholstery of Eglantyne’s elegant sofa.

 

“Phoebe,” Eglantyne calls cheerfully, alerting the fey young woman of the tea she is proffering to her. She smiles a little more brightly at Phoebe, dressed in a most becoming shade of light apple green which compliments her pale skin and halo of wispy blonde curls held back off her face by a matching pale apple green Alice band******, as she hands the cup to her. Eglantyne is rewarded with a small smile of hope on the young girl’s almost translucent lips as she accepts the tea gratefully.

 

“Lettice,” Eglantyne announces as she pours tea into the second to last empty cup on the tray before her, before adding a generous slosh of milk and two lumps of sugar to it. She gives her beloved niece an encouraging smile as she passes the teacup to Lettice.

 

“Why do I feel,” Lady Gladys says peevishly as she stirs her tea a little too forcefully with round clockwise stirs which both Eglantyne and Lettice notice with disapproval, before tapping her teaspoon loudly against the edge of her cup and depositing it noisily into her saucer*******. “That this is an ambush?” She picks up her cup and sips her tea in a disgruntled fashion, her right leg bouncing irritably crossed over her left, making the soft folds of her peach gown dance.

 

“Now why would you think that, Gladys?” Eglantyne says with an enigmatic smile as she pours tea into her own cup, turning her head away from Gladys momentarily to glance at Lettice sitting adjunct to her. “You are starting to sound like one of the protagonists in your novels.” She settles back comfortably into her wingback Chippendale chair and takes a sip of her black tea. “What’s the title of your latest one? Melisande? Melinda?”

 

“Miranda.” Lady Gladys corrects Eglantyne, adding to her irritation.

 

“That’s it! Miranda!” laughs Eglantyne. “Oh course! No, I simply thought it was high time that you and I had a little tête-à-tête, Gladys. I mean, I know we have spoken on the telephone, but I feel like it has been an age since I last saw you. It must have been that artists’ ball in Chelsea last spring.”

 

“I wasn’t aware that an intimate tête-à-tête would include both your niece and my own, Eglantyne.” Lady Gladys glowers.

 

“Oh, I thought it might be nice if we all had a little tête-à-tête together.” Eglantyne replies, slipping her teacup aside onto the galleried silver tray on the table beside her.

 

“Then this is obviously about the flat then.” Lady Gladys thrusts the gilt Art Nouveau teacup and saucer onto Eglantyne’s petit point footstool ungraciously, sloshing tea from her cup into her saucer, narrowly avoiding spilling tea onto the embroidery of yellow and pink roses beneath it. “Which of course I knew it would be as soon as I walked in and saw these two,” She nods her head disapprovingly first at Phoebe and then at Lettice. “Conspiring with you.”

 

Lettice looks into Lady Gladys’ eyes. She can’t recall them ever looking so dark and hostile towards her before. Any bright joviality or spirit is gone, replaced with some deep and angry bejewelled fire. She shudders in her seat as she considers the fact that they almost look murderous as they sink into the pale folds of her jowly flesh.

 

“There you go, sounding like one of your badly done by heroines again, Gladys.” Eglantyne says calmly. “Melodramatics are so unattractive in older women, and suggests an imbalance in character, don’t you think?”

 

“I resent that, Eglantyne.” Lady Gladys spits.

 

“And I resent your insinuation, Gladys. No-one is conspiring in my drawing room.”

 

“Maybe not now, Eglantyne.” Lady Gladys says, wagging one of her skinny bejewelled fingers at Eglantyne, the stones winking gaily. “But we’ve been friends for too many years, and conspired together too much for you to deny that you have not consorted with Pheobe and your niece prior to my arrival.”

 

“Well, I cannot deny that, Gladys.” Eglantyne confesses.

 

“I knew it!” Lady Gladys crows. “You’re just fortunate that we have been friends for as many years as we have, Eglantyne. I’ve had fallings out with other friends for lesser misdemeanours, and cut them dead.”

 

“Oh I know, Gladys.” Eglantyne replies. “The path to your door is strewn with the bodies of your spurned friends.”

 

“Oh ha, ha!” mocks Lady Gladys.

 

“And it is for the very reason that we have been such good friends for so many years that I felt compelled to step into the vexatious situation that the redecoration of your niece’s flat has become to try and straighten things out between yourself, your niece and my niece.”

 

“I don’t find it to be a vexatious situation, Eglantyne my dear.” Lady Gladys replies with a tight smile. “Aside from your niece,” She waves her hand sweepingly in Lettice’s general direction as she speaks. “Trying to undermine my… err… our,” She glances at Phoebe, who looks down into her cup, her face unreadable as she hides behind her cascade of curls. “Wishes. That, I find vexatious.”

 

“I say!” Lettice pipes up, her eyes growing wide in surprise and her voice edged with indignation. “I call that jolly unfair! It’s you who are the cause of vexation. I…”

 

Eglantyne silences Lettice by leaning forward and holding out her hand, her lined palm acting like a divider between Lettice and Lady Gladys, and causing the angry and resentful words from Lettice’s mouth to cease.

 

“These Bright Young Things********,” Eglantyne remarks with an awkward chuckle. “They are so passionate, aren’t they?”

 

“A little too passionate if you ask my opinion.” Lady Gladys mutters.

 

“Yes, quite.” Eglantyne agrees. “Please accept my apologies for my niece’s unconscionable and unladylike outburst, my dear Gladys.” She turns and stares at Lettice, shaking her head almost imperceptibly as she purses her lips as a warning.

 

Lady Gladys grunts her ascent with a curt nod.

 

“Good.” Eglantyne goes on. “I want there to be no bad blood between any of us, as a result of this little gathering, which I have arranged in the spirit of collaboration.”

 

“I don’t see the need for this meeting, arranged in a spirit of collaboration or otherwise.” Lady Gladys grumbles as she settles back against the sofa’s back again and foldes her arms akimbo.

 

“Now there is no need to get defensive, my dear Gladys.”

 

“I fear there is, Eglantyne, when I sense that you are all set on a path with a foregone conclusion, that I, as an interested party, have not been privy to.”

 

“Well,” Eglantyne explains. “There you have it, Gladys. As my dear friend of old, I’m not going to lie to you, and tell you falsehoods to your face. It is true that Lettice, Phoebe and I have been discussing the matter of the redecoration of the Ridgmount Gardens pied-à-terre********* without you, but only because without you, your niece can express her opinions uninterrupted.”

 

“Uninterrupted?” Lady Gladys balks. “I like that! I always allow Phoebe to express her opinion.”

 

“No you don’t.” Lettice interjects. “You just steamro…”

 

“Lettice!” her aunt warns her with a stony face.

 

“You don’t, Auntie Gladys.” Phoebe utters, breaking her silence.

 

“Of course I let you have an opinion, Phoebe! And don’t call me Auntie. You know I don’t like it!” she scolds.

 

“Very well, Gladys, I recant.”

 

“That’s better.” Lady Gladys smiles smugly.

 

“You do allow me to have an opinion, but only when it doesn’t contradict yours, or you wear me down, as you so often do, so that I will simply agree with you, which amounts to much the same thing.”

 

“Phoebe!” Lady Gladys gasps the smile of moments ago quickly falling away. “I’m offended.”

 

“Offended or not, that is the truth, Gladys.” Phoebe says, staring at her aunt, her eyes a little brighter as tears begin to form beneath her lids, threatening to burst forth at any moment.

 

“You can’t fault her truth, Gladys.” Eglantyne opines from her seat. “You know within yourself that you can be very stubborn when you want to be, and you do have a propensity to wear people down when you wish to get your way.”

 

Lady Gladys doesn’t reply, remaining poised and aloof in her seat, staring in a steely fashion at one of the Countess Baronovska’s vases filled with peach coloured roses sitting on Eglantyne’s cluttered mantlepiece.

 

“Your silence speaks volumes as to your own self-awareness, Gladys.” Eglantyne goes on with a tired sigh. “Even if you aren’t ready to voice your agreement with me. Phoebe is correct. You know she is. Now, this state of affairs around the Ridgmount Gardens pied-à-terre only came to my attention in the aftermath of the last conversation you had with my niece: a conversation that I know didn’t end too well.”

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Eglantyne.” Lady Gladys ventures. “It seemed perfectly fine to me. The crux of the matter is that I simply reminded your niece of her obligations to me. I didn’t have to choose Lettice to redecorate Phoebe’s flat but I wanted to give her, as a young up-and-coming designer nearer to Pheobe’s age than the likes of Syrie Maugham********** the opportunity to increase her profile as a society interior designer. I felt that being of a similar age, the two might get along and come up with a suitable redecoration scheme.”

 

“A redecoration scheme that you yourself, must be completely satisfied with.” Eglantyne interrupts.

 

“Well of course, Eglantyne.” Lady Gladys smiles. “Lettice did sign a contract with me, that as her client, I have the right to have her do everything I ask of her, or she forfeits payment.”

 

“But whose pied-à-terre is Ridgmount Gardens, Gladys?” Eglantyne asks.

 

“What do you mean, Eglantyne?”

 

“Whose pied-à-terre is Ridgmount Gardens? To whom does it belong?”

 

“What a ridiculous question!” Lady Gladys laughs. “Why its Phoebe’s of course! You know that!”

 

“Then, shouldn’t Phoebe be my niece’s client. Gladys? Shouldn’t Lettice be abiding by her wishes?”

 

“Well, technically yes,” Lady Gladys replies, squirming a little in her seat. “But I am the one footing the bills for the redecoration: bills which I might add are a little extravagant.”

 

“But you’ve agreed to their cost, Gladys.”

 

“Well, yes of course I have, Eglantyne. I’m not going to leave Phoebe with a half-decorated flat, am I?”

 

“But even if you are footing the bills as it were, shouldn’t Lettice be following Phoebe’s wishes, Gladys?” Eglantyne takes a sip of her tea. “After all, you aren’t going to be living in Ridgmount Gardens, are you? Phoebe is.”

 

“Well, Phoebe’s wishes and mine are virtually the same, aren’t they Phoebe my dear?” Lady Gladys laughs forcefully, turning her head to her niece.

 

Phoebe doesn’t reply, but drops her head into her lap.

 

“Phoebe?” Lady Gladys queries.

 

“Phoebe dear,” Eglantyne says kindly to the young girl. “Why don’t you tell your aunt what you told my niece when Lettice asked you about the redecoration.”

 

“Do you mean that I never actually requested the redecoration, Miss Chetwynd?” Phoebe asks.

 

“Phoebe!” Lady Gladys chokes. “Of course you did!”

 

“No I didn’t, Gladys.” Suddenly filled with bravado with both Lettice and Eglantyne supporting her against Lady Gladys, and undeterred by her aunt’s withering glance at her, she goes on, “You did!”

 

“No, I didn’t!” Lady Gladys retorts. “You discussed the colour scheme with Lettice when we had dinner at Gossington the first night you met her.”

 

“No, that isn’t true,” Phoebe replies matter-of-factly, her voice gaining a new found strength. “You discussed Lettice redecorating my flat whilst I was out rambling with some of your guests. You then discussed what colour the flat should be with Lettice over the top of me at dinner that night.” She register’s her aunt’s look of shock. “Oh you may not remember it that way, but our memories are seldom objective enough to tell the truth for us, and that is the truth.”

 

“Bravo Phoebe!” Lettice whispers under her breath as she sits in her seat, nursing her cup of tea.

 

“What did you tell Lettice when she asked you about how you would like your pied-à-terre decorated, Phoebe?” Eglantyne encourages the young girl who has suddenly blossomed with energy and purpose before her eyes.

 

“Well, I was actually quite happy with how things were.” Phoebe admits.

 

“Oh Phoebe!” Lady Gladys chides her niece gently. “I told you already, that you can’t live your life in a mausoleum!”

 

“But it wasn’t a mausoleum to me.” Phoebe explains. “It was a connection to my parents.”

 

“But you barely knew your parents, Phoebe!” Lady Gladys retorts, placing her teacup aside, more gently this time. “You were so young.”

 

“All the more reason then, to try and maintain some precious connection to them, Gladys.” Eglantyne remarks gently from her seat.

 

“But John and I have been more mother and father to Phoebe than Reginald and Marjorie.”

 

“No-one is disputing that, Gladys. Phobe is simply expressing her opinion that she wishes to maintain a connection with her parents, and perhaps maintain a modicum of their presence in her life.”

 

“Well,” Lady Gladys huffs, throwing a hand dramatically skywards. “This is all news to me!”

 

“Maybe,” Lettice ventures. “Maybe if you were perhaps a little more open to listening, Gladys, rather than telling Phoebe what you want to hear, you might know her opinion.”

 

“Lettice is right, my dear Gladys.” Eglantyne agrees in a calm voice.

 

“For what it’s worth, Gladys, you were right about the flat needing to be freshened up, and I actually don’t mind the colour you’ve chosen with Lettice to paint the flat, nor the curtains.”

 

Lettice cringes at the mention of the chintz curtains she detests, but remains silent on the matter.

 

“Well, at least I did something right.” Gladys beams.

 

“I want my books and my photographs, and that bookish, scholarly, ramshackle feeling I love.” Phoebe goes on.

 

“Well, I don’t approve of that rather untidy mess you call ‘bookish’ and ‘scholarly’ but as you say, it is your flat, so you may live in it however you like.”

 

“However,” Pheobe quickly interrupts her aunt. “It is also my wish that the memory of my parents live on in my flat, since it is my flat, and my London home. I want that essence of my parents: my mother’s china,” She takes a deep breath as tears well in her eyes. “And my father’s desk.”

 

“Now, Phoebe,” Lady Gladys retorts. “You know I told you that Reginald wanted me to have his writing desk.”

 

“But he didn’t stipulate that in his will, did he, Gladys?” Eglantyne asks.

 

“Well, no.” Gladys agrees begrudgingly. “He just hadn’t gotten around to…”

 

“And I distinctly remember you saying to me after you came back from India with Phoebe, how well organised Reginald had been with his affairs.” Eglantyne interrupts determinedly.

 

“Well I…” Gladys splutters, irritated at being called out on her appropriation of her deceased brother’s writing bureau. “I… I penned my first successful novel on that desk whilst Reginald and Marjorie were out in Bombay! It has sentimental value for me.”

 

“It does for me too.” remarks Phoebe sadly. “They are the only things I really have of them, and they mean more to me than photographs. Photographs are just faces, but the chips in my mother’s plates and teacups and the grooves and ink stains in my father’s bureau resonate so much with me. They tell me so much about who they were. I feel my parents’ presence through those chips, knocks and stains.”

 

“Where is the bureau now, Gladys?” Eglantyne asks matter-of-factly. “Here in London, or up in Scotland?”

 

“Here, at Eaton Square**********, in the Blue Room.” Lady Gladys replies.

 

“So, it isn’t even in your study!” Eglantyne exclaims aghast. “It’s relegated to a room for guests!”

 

“It doesn’t suit my office.” Gladys defends her actions. “It looks best in the Blue Room.”

 

“Give Phoebe the bureau back, Gladys.” Eglantyne states. “You have no right to it. Stop behaving badly. It doesn’t suit you, my dear friend. I know you are far better than this pettiness over an object you don’t even really care about.”

 

Lady Gladys doesn’t reply at first. She sits and fidgets with her bejewelled fingers in her seat, rather like an overgrown child after being reprimanded. “Oh, very well! You can have your father’s desk back Phoebe. I suppose I don’t really need it. And your mother’s china, although goodness knows why you want those old, nasty, cheap things in your nicely newly decorated flat.”

 

“That’s Phoebe’s business, Gladys.” Eglantyne says sagely.

 

Lady Gladys sits up more straightly in her seat and stares at Lettice. “And what would you do, if I were to hold true to my word, and the letter of our contract, and not pay you another penny for the work you’ve done, and leave you with the remainder of the unpaid bills, Lettice?”

 

“I’ve allowed for that, Gladys.” Lettice replies with a sigh. “I can afford to absorb the cost of the unpaid bills.”

 

“That’s no way to run a successful business, Lettice.” Lady Gladys chides her with a shaking head.

 

“Well, it depends on how you play the game of success I suppose, Gladys.” Lettice replies. “Whilst it may be true that I would have to pay for the unpaid bills out of my own purse, and that would mean this redecoration was done at a financial loss to me, which would not be an immediate success. However, Phoebe knows many young ladies of independent means at the Academy of Horticulture. And most of those ladies live in London. They can see Phoebe’s pied-à-terre for themselves and then commission me to redecorate their own flats. That then makes this a successful redecoration in the long run.”

 

Lady Gladys smiles knowingly. “I always thought from the moment I met you, that you would make a smart businesswoman. I can see traits of myself in you, my dear.” She sighs and stands up. As the other three ladies go to rise, she encourages them to remain seated with gesticulating hands. “Please don’t get up. I must take my leave of you. I do have a new novel to promote after all.” She turns to Eglantyne. “You are very fortunate, Eglantyne, that we are such old and good friends. You know I don’t take kindly to being told what to do.”

 

“Or taught a lesson,” Eglantyne adds. “Even when you need it.”

 

“Well, we will agree to disagree there.” Lady Gladys continues, undeterred. “You are fortunate too in the intelligence of your niece.”

 

“She’s a smart young lady.” Eglantyne agrees.

 

“Thank you Gladys.” Lettice says gratefully with a nod towards Lady Gladys before turning to Eglantyne. “Thank you Aunt Egg.”

 

“You can continue to forward the unpaid bills to me.” Lady Gladys goes on. “I will honour them.” She then turns to Phoebe. “However, Phoebe, if you and Lettice think you are better qualified to redecorate it than I am, then I want nothing more to do with Ridgmount Gardens. I shan’t say that I’m not offended by the way you three have conspired against me, because I am, but if this is how you choose to assert your independence, then I must learn to let you make your own mistakes.” She turns back to Eglantyne. “I’ll show myself out.”

 

And without another word, Lady Gladys picks up her handbag from where it has sat on the seat next to her and sweeps out of the room, haughty and aloof, leaving a waft of her signature lily of the valley perfume in her wake.

 

“Well, that was a rum************ apology, if ever I heard one.” Lettice remarks as she releases the pent up breath she didn’t realise she was holding on to.

 

“Well, don’t forget that Gladys is many things, Lettice,” her aunt replies. “Including proud. Let’s allow her to gather the tattered remains of that pride and leave with some dignity.”

 

“Yes Aunt Egg.”

 

“Thank you, Miss Chetwynd, for all your help managing my aunt.” Phoebe says with a beaming smile.

 

“You’re very welcome, my dear.” Eglantyne replies. “Although, I suspect it may be a while before I hear from Gladys again, but I will eventually. I always do. She and I have weathered harsher storms than this over the years.” She sighs. “And now you and Lettice have your wish. You can decorate your pied-à-terre as you see fit!”

 

Lettice, Phoebe and Eglantyne fall into excited chatter about what they might do with the Ridgmount Gardens flat’s redecoration as Eglantine’s Swiss head parlour maid, Augusta, sweeps into the drawing room with a fresh pot of tea for them.

 

*The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood (later known as the Pre-Raphaelites) was a group of English painters, poets, and art critics, founded in 1848 by William Holman Hunt, John Everett Millais, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, William Michael Rossetti, James Collinson, Frederic George Stephens and Thomas Woolner who formed a seven-member "Brotherhood" modelled in part on the Nazarene movement. The Brotherhood was only ever a loose association and their principles were shared by other artists of the time, including Ford Madox Brown, Arthur Hughes and Marie Spartali Stillman. Later followers of the principles of the Brotherhood included Edward Burne-Jones, William Morris and John William Waterhouse. The group sought a return to the abundant detail, intense colours and complex compositions of Quattrocento Italian art. They rejected what they regarded as the mechanistic approach first adopted by Mannerist artists who succeeded Raphael and Michelangelo. The Brotherhood believed the classical poses and elegant compositions of Raphael in particular had been a corrupting influence on the academic teaching of art, hence the name "Pre-Raphaelite".

 

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

 

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

 

****Firenze Blue is a rich blue shade that originated in Florence in Italy.

 

*****Button back upholstered furniture contains buttons embedded in the back of the sofa or chair, which are pulled tightly against the leather creating a shallow dimple effect. This is sometimes known as button tufting.

 

******The Alice band first started being worn around 1871, after Lewis Carroll's book Through the Looking-Glass was published. The name of the Alice band comes from the main character in the book, Alice. In the drawings John Tenniel made for the book, Alice wears a ribbon that keeps her long hair away from her face.

 

*******Before the Second World War, there were many little nuances which indicated which class you came from: a very important thing to know and exude in class conscious Britian. Sometimes it was something as obvious as how you were dressed, or the quality of your clothes. Other times it was far more subtle, such as the use of a word, like “sofa” to show you were upper class, rather than “settee” which was decidedly aspiring middle-class. It even came down to how you prepared, stirred and drank your tea, which made taking tea – an English tradition – a fraught affair. If you added milk to your cup, before you added your tea, you were aspiring middle-class, versus pouring the tea from the pot into the cup and then adding the milk which was decidedly upper class. Whether done in a clockwise or anti-clockwise fashion, stirring your tea was an aspiring middle-class trait, whilst upper-class people stirred their tea back and forth to “avoid a storm in a teacup”, and an upper class person never touched the sides of their cup with their teaspoon. This is still correct protocol today if you are taking tea with a member of the Royal Family. Tapping the teacup with your teaspoon was also considered aspiring middle-class, whereas an upper class person would remove their teaspoon silently and slip it onto their saucer soundlessly. Holding your pinkie finger aloft was also classified as an affectation and is an aspiring middle-class action.

 

********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.

 

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

 

**********Gwendoline Maud Syrie Maugham was a leading British interior decorator of the 1920s and 1930s who popularised rooms decorated entirely in white. In the 1910s, Maugham began her interior design career as an apprentice under Ernest Thornton-Smith for a London decorating firm, learning there about the intricacies of furniture restoration, trompe-l'œil, curtain design, and the mechanics of traditional upholstery. In 1922, two years before this story is set, at the age of 42, Maugham borrowed £400.00 and opened her own interior decorating business at 85 Baker Street, London. As the shop flourished, Maugham began decorating, taking on projects in Palm Beach and California. By 1930, she had shops in London, Chicago, and New York. Maugham is best-remembered for the all-white music room at her house at 213 King's Road in London. For the grand unveiling of her all-white room, Maugham went to the extreme of dipping her white canvas draperies in cement. The room was filled with massive white floral arrangements and the overall effect was stunning. Maugham charged high prices and could be very dictatorial with her clients and employees. She once told a hesitant client, "If you don't have ten thousand dollars to spend, I don't want to waste my time."

 

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

 

************The word “rum” can sometimes be used as an alternative to odd or peculiar, such as: “it's a rum business, certainly”.

 

This overstuffed and cluttered late Victorian room might look a bit busy to your modern eye, but in the day, this would have been the height of conspicuous consumption fashion. What may also surprise you is that the entire scene is made up with pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

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 tea set sits on a silver tray which is made of polished metal and was made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.

  

The two vases standing on the mantle with their blue and gilt banding of roses are “Baroness” pattern, made by Reutter Porzellanfabrik in Germany, who specialise in making high quality porcelain miniatures.

 

The roses in the vases are made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The foxgloves in the “Baroness” pattern Reutter Porzellanfabrik vase at the right of the photograph are made of polymer clay that is moulded on wires to allow them to be shaped at will and put into individually formed floral arrangements. Very realistic looking, they are made by a 1:12 miniature specialist in Germany.

 

Also on the mantlepiece stands a gilt carriage clock made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.

 

The fireplace and its ornate overmantle is a “Kensignton” model made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq. The mirrored china cabinet with its fretwork front was also made by Bespaq, as were Aunt Egg’s white floral figured satin upholstered Chippendale chair and the ornate white upholstered corner chair. The brass fire tools and ornate brass fender come from various online 1:12 miniature suppliers.

 

The footstool on which two teacups set stand is also made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq, but what is particularly special about it is that it has been covered in antique Austrian floral micro petite point by V.H. Miniatures in the United Kingdom, which makes this a one-of-a-kind piece. The artisan who made this says that as one of her hobbies, she enjoys visiting old National Trust Houses in the hope of getting some inspiration to help her create new and exciting miniatures. She saw some beautiful petit point chairs a few years ago in one of the big houses in Derbyshire and then found exquisitely detailed petit point that was fine enough for 1:12 scale projects.

 

The hand embroidered pedestal fire screen was acquired through Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The two whatnots are cluttered with vases from various online dolls’ house miniature suppliers, several miniature Limoges vases and white and lilac petunia pieces which have been hand made and painted by 1:12 miniature ceramicist Ann Dalton.

 

The Royal Doulton style figurines in the china cabinet are from Warwick Miniatures in Ireland and have been hand painted by me. The figurines are identifiable as particular Royal Doulton figurines from the 1920s and 1930s.

 

The 1:12 artisan miniature blue and white jasperware Wedgwood teapot on the round table near the bottom of the photo is actually carved from wood, with a removable lid which has been hand painted. I acquired it from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures. The hand blown blue and clear glass basket next to it comes from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

 

The paintings around Aunt Egg’s drawing room come from Amber’s Miniatures in the United States, V.H. Miniatures in the United Kingdom and Marie Makes Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The round pictures hanging on ribbons were made by me when I was twelve years old. The ribbons came from my maternal Grandmother’s sewing box, and the frames are actually buttons from her button box. The images inside (three Redoute roses) were cut from a magazine.

 

The wallpaper was printed by me, and is an authentic Victorian floral pattern produced by Jeffrey and Company. 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.

 

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

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

 

Today however we have headed a short distance north-east across London, away from Cavendish Mews and Mayfair, over Paddington and past Lisson Grove to the comfortably affluent suburb of Little Venice with its cream painted Regency terraces and railing surrounded public parks. Here in Clifton Gardens Lettice’s maiden Aunt Eglantine, affectionately known as Aunt Egg by her nieces and nephews, lives in a beautiful four storey house that is part of a terrace of twelve. Eglantine Chetwynd is Viscount Wrexham’s younger sister, and as well as being unmarried, is an artist and ceramicist of some acclaim. Originally a member of the Pre-Raphaelites* in England, these days she flits through artistic and bohemian circles and when not at home in her spacious and light filled studio at the rear of her garden, can be found mixing with mostly younger artistic friends in Chelsea. Her unmarried status, outlandish choice of friends and rather reformist and unusual dress sense shocks Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, and attracts her derision. In addition, she draws Sadie’s ire, as Aunt Egg has always received far more affection and preferential treatment from her children. Viscount Wrexham on the other hand adores his artistic little sister, and has always made sure that she can live the lifestyle she chooses and create art.

 

Before going into luncheon, Lettice is taking tea with her favourite aunt in her wonderfully overcluttered drawing room, which unlike most other houses in the terrace where the drawing room is located in the front and overlooks the street, is nestled at the back of the house, overlooking the beautiful and slightly rambunctious rear garden and studio. It is just another example of Lettice’s aunt flouting the conventions women like Lady Sadie cling to. The room is overstuffed with an eclectic collection of bric-à-brac. Antique vases and ornamental plates jostle for space with pieces of Eglantyne’s own work and that of her artistic friends on whatnots and occasional tables, across the mantle and throughout several glass fronted china cabinets. Every surface is cluttered to over capacity. As Lettice picks up the fine blue and gilt cup of tea proffered by her aunt, she cannot help but feel sorry for Augusta, Eglantine’s Swiss head parlour maid and Clotilde, the second parlour maid, who must feel that their endless dusting is futile, for no sooner would they have finished a room than they would have to start again since dust would have settled where they began. In addition to being a fine ceramicist, Eglantyne is also an expert embroiderer, and her works appear on embroidered cushions, footstools and even a pole fire screen to Lettice’s left as she settles back into a rather ornate corner chair that Eglantyne always saves for guests.

 

“So, how did you find Gossington, Lettice?” Eglantine asks as she sips tea from her own gilt edged teacup.

 

When she was young, Eglantine had Titian red hair that fell in wavy tresses about her pale face, making her a popular muse amongst the Pre-Raphaelites she mixed with. With the passing years, her red hair has retreated almost entirely behind silver grey, save for the occasional streak of washed out reddish orange, yet she still wears it as she did when it was at its fiery best, sweeping softly about her almond shaped face, tied in a loose chignon at the back of her neck. Large blue glass droplets hang from her ears, glowing in the diffused light filtering through the lace curtains that frame the window overlooking the garden. The earrings match the sparkling blue bead necklace about her neck that cascades over the top of her usual uniform of a lose Delphos dress** that does not require her to wear a corset of any kind.

 

“Oh it was splendid, Aunt Egg.” Lettice enthuses from her seat. “The Caxtons really are a fascinating and rather eccentric pair.”

 

“Yes,” muses Eglantine with a smile. “That’s why I like them, and always have. I knew you would too.”

 

“I didn’t know you were acquainted with them, and certainly not well enough to obtain an invitation for me, and Margot and Dickie.”

 

“Well, I didn’t want your first visit to Gossington be one you entered into by yourself. Whilst I know you can hold you own socially, my dear, I sometimes feel the first visit to Gossington can be a bit daunting if you are on your own, especially with so many witty young writers and poets in Gladys’ circle. I’ve heard and witnessed her houseguests saying the wrong thing in front of a wit, and before you know it, they become the butt end of witticisms all weekend, which can become rather tiresome after the first evening if you are subject to them.”

 

“Well, luckily nothing like that happened on my visit to me, Margot or Dickie: in fact no-one really.”

 

“It must have been a more sedate weekend then.” Eglantyne remarks sagely. “No Cecil or Noël then, I take it?”

 

“Cecil?” Lettice queries, before thinking again. “Cecil, Beaton***? Noël Coward****?”

 

“Yes.” Eglantyne remarks nonchalantly as she tugs at the edges of her soft pink silk knitted cardigan’s tassel ties to loosen it around her waist. “I do love them both dearly, and they’re terribly fun and awfully clever, but their wit, Noël’s especially, can be quite cutting. Noël’s planning to put out a new show later this year after his success in America and here with ‘The Young Idea’*****. It’s called ‘The Maelstrom’ or ‘The Vortex’****** or some such thing. It’s about a relationship between a son and his vain and aging mother.” She rolls her eyes. “Which could be really rather tedious, with two actors quipping at one another over three acts, except he’s decided to make the mother character a promiscuous creature with an extramarital affair at the heart of the play, and throw in some drug abuse just for a bit of spice, which should make it a roaring success, and an entertaining evening at the theatre, or at least we all hope so.”

 

“No, they weren’t there.” Lettice admits. “I would have loved it if Noël Coward was though. Gerald would have been green with envy. He has a fascination with him.”

 

“Well, I’m hardly surprised by that.” Eglantyne replies, looking her niece squarely in the face, giving her a knowing look. “They have so much in common, as he does with Cecil.” She cocks an eyebrow and moved her head slightly.

 

“Aunt Egg!” Lettice gasps, raising her hand to her throat, where she clasps at the dainty string of pearls she wears as she feels a flush of embarrassment begin to work its way up her neck and to her cheeks.

 

“Surely you aren’t shocked, my dear?” Eglantyne says, before carefully placing her cup back on to the galleried silver tray on her petit point embroidered footstool, on which the teapot, milk jug and sugar bowl stand. “When you’ve moved in the artistic circles I have, you learn very quickly that love comes in many forms – not just between a man and woman.”

 

“I am shocked, Aunt Egg.” Lettice admits, smoothing the crepe skirt of the eau de nil frock she is wearing. “I’ve always told Gerald to be so careful.”

 

“Oh, come dear: a man running a frock shop! It may be all well and good in Paris, but not in London, my dear!”

 

“There’s Norman Hartnell*******.” Lettice counters.

 

“Exactly!” replies Eglantyne with a knowing nod. “Anyway, however discreet Gerald may be, I have it on very good authority from acquaintances of mine in Chelsea, that he has been seen at select gatherings of like-minded souls with a rather talented and handsome young West End clarinettist on his arm.”

 

“Who told you about Gerald and Cyril?”

 

“Never you mind, Lettice my dear. I’m not giving up two of my very best sources of delicious London society gossip to you, just so you can go and tell them to keep mum! I want to know all the ins and outs of what is going on, especially about people I know. I need my little indulgences, since I cannot be everywhere as I’d like to be, and I am no longer quite the topic of drawing room conversation any more as my star fades. Even my art is now seen as Fin de Siècle********, rather than à la mode********* by the newer generation of artists, in spite of my best efforts to try new things and keep ahead of the trends.” She sighs. “I fear it is a lost cause. We all of us will fall out of fashion one day.” She pauses and considers something for a moment. “Goodness! I’m starting to sound like the mother in Noël’s new play. If I didn’t know he’d based her on Grace Forster**********, I might assume he had done so on me!” She reaches out and grasps Lettice’s bare forearm near her elbow and squeezes it comfortingly. “Don’t worry, I won’t speak out-of-turn about our dear Gerald. I know he’s your best chum from childhood days, and I love him almost as much as you do. His secret is perfectly safe with me.”

 

“Well, I’m grateful for that.” Lettice sighs. “I do worry about Gerald. I have known about his inclinations for a long time now, and I’ve met Cyril several times, but Cyril is more flamboyant and open about who he is than Gerald is.”

 

“Don’t worry. The gossip stemmed from a perfectly safe source, and as I said, they have only been seen together as a couple at select parties where such inclinations are not uncommon.” Eglantyne releases a satisfied sigh, indicating the conclusion of that particular conversation. “Now, thinking about acquaintances, and going back to your original question about my acquaintance with the Caxtons: I’ve known Gladys for longer than I’ve known John. I knew her when she had published her first Madeline St John novel. What she writes is ghastly romantic drivel in my opinion, and I was horrified to find you reading her romance novels, Lettice.”

 

“I don’t read them any more, thanks to Margot, who has broadened my reading range considerably from Madeline St John romances.”

 

“Well thank goodness for Margot Channon!” Eglantine breathes a sigh of relief. “Jolly good show, Margot. I never thought of her as a great reader of anything outside the society and fashion pages of the newspapers.”

 

“Oh, she’s a great reader, Aunt Egg. But my maid likes to read Madeline St John novels. She was positively beside herself with excitement when she found out I was meeting her favourite authoress.

 

“Well, I don’t know if I approve any more of your maid reading such romances than I do you, but whatever I may or may not think of the good of Gladys’ novels, they obviously have a broad appeal. Anyway, after her moderate success with her initial books, she met John, and then she became a patron to the arts thanks to the Caxton brewery money. She even bought more than her fair share of some of my ceramic pieces. Simply because she could, and she could promote my work.”

 

“I know, Aunt Egg. She showed me.”

 

“Anyway, it was really just by a stroke of good fortune that you received your invitation at just the right time.”

 

“Not according to Lally, Aunt Egg. She was put out because it rather spoiled the plans she had for us whilst I was staying with her at Dorrington House, and I think she was a little hurt that she wasn’t included in the invitation to Gossington, but Margot and Dickie were.”

 

“That might explain why she was so short with me when I telephoned Buckinghamshire last week to ask after her wellbeing and that of the children in Charles’ absence. Well,” She sighs in an exasperated fashion. “I cannot extend the largess of someone else any more than I already did to wrangle you and the Channons an invitation.” Eglantyne takes another sip of her tea. “It actually came about because Glady telephoned me a few weeks before Christmas. She was vying for an introduction to you after reading the article about you in Country Life. As you now know, her niece Phoebe has come into property here in London, and Gladys felt Phoebe needed a push to redecorate and make the place more her own, rather than simply adding a layer to her parent’s designs.” She pauses again. “I take it you did accept Glady’s commission.”

 

“Gladys is a little hard to refuse, Aunt Egg.” Lettice admits, before taking another sip from her cup. “She would have worn me down at length if I had said no.”

 

“Oh yes, that’s Gladys!” Eglantyne chortles, making the faceted bugle beads tumbling down the front of her sea green Delphos gown jangle about, glinting prettily. “She wears everyone down eventually.”

 

“But as it was, she didn’t have to, and I said yes.”

 

“Good for you, Lettice. It will be healthy for you to be working and creative. It will take your mind off all this Selwyn Spencely business. I take it you haven’t heard from him?” When Lettice bites her lower lip and shakes her head, Eglantyne continues. “Pity. I always thought him more of a man and would stand up to his bullying mother. She always did ride roughshod in everything she did when she was younger.”

 

“I wouldn’t dare go against lady Zinnia’s wishes, Aunt Egg. She’s positively terrifying.”

 

“You do realise that this is potentially your new mother-in-law if all goes according to your wishes for you and Selwyn, Lettice?”

 

“Of course!” Lettice replies. Then she pauses and her face clouds over. “Mind you, I hadn’t really considered the concept any more than an abstracted and distant idea until you just mentioned it. That is a rather frightening thought, especially if she doesn’t particularly like me.”

 

“Zinnia doesn’t like most women, Lettice, especially ones whom she perceives as a threat to her, or her well laid plans. You are young and pretty, and far more fashionable than she is. You are intelligent and often challenge the world and your place in it, as you should. However, like me, Zinnia’s star is fading as she gets older. She won’t always wield this power she currently has over Selwyn, especially if he comes back from Durban in a year feeling the same as when he left. You told me that Zinnia had agreed that Selwyn could marry you if he felt inclined upon his return.”

 

Lettice nods in response to her aunt’s statement, which comes across as more of a question.

 

“And you still love him?”

 

“Aunt Egg!” Lettice gasps. “How can you even ask?”

 

“You are young, my dear. When I was your age, I was forever changing my mind about all sorts of things: what to do, where to go, what to wear.”

 

“Well, Selwyn isn’t a Sunday best hat, subject to the fickle of fashion, Aunt Egg.”

 

“Just so, my dear. So long as you are sure.”

 

“I am, Aunt Egg.” Lettice replies with a steeliness in her voice. “Most definitely.”

 

The two ladies fall into a companionable silence for a short while, momentarily distracted by their own private thoughts. Between them on the mantle, Eglantyne’s gilt Georgian carriage clock marks the passing of the minutes with gentle ticks that echo between the two women, the sound absorbed by all the soft furnishings and knick-knacks around the room.

 

“Aunt Egg?” Lettice ventures tentatively at length.

 

“Yes, my dear?”

 

“What did you mean by Gladys wearing everyone down?”

 

“Just that my dear. Gladys has always had the power to pester people into submission.” Eglantyne laughs. “Why do you ask?”

 

“Well, it’s a few things, really. To begin with it was something Sir John said.”

 

“John?”

 

“Oh, not her husband, Sir John – Sir John Nettleford-Hughes.”

 

“Good heavens!” Eglantyne gasps. “Was he there? Nasty old lecher. I still can’t believe Sadie invited him to that matchmaking ball she held for you, when she knows as much about his reputation as a womaniser as I do.”

 

“He was there, Aunt Egg, and he was actually very nice to me throughout the weekend, and not the least predatorial.”

 

“Will wonders never cease? Does he have an ulterior motive?”

 

“Not that I’m aware of, Aunt Egg.”

 

“Well, just mind yourself around him, my dear Lettice. I’m no prude like your mother, but I do know that he isn’t a man with whom you can let down your guard. Always be on alert with him.”

 

“Yes, Aunt Egg.”

 

“Good girl. Of course, I should hardly be surprised that he was talking about Gladys. It’s no secret that when Gladys was still Gladys Chambers, she and Sir John Nettleford-Huges were an item. Then she met Sir John Caxton, and that ended the affair. You did know that, didn’t you Lettice?”

 

“Not before Sir John arrived late to dinner on our first evening at Gossington. But then Gladys told us a few stories about their time together over the course of the weekend.” Lettice blushes as she remembers the tale Lady Gladys told the company at dinner of Sir John eating fruit from the small of her back.

 

“Yes, I’m sure she did.” Eglantyne’s mouth narrows in distaste. “Her taste in men was always questionable prior to her meeting her husband. Anyway, what did Sir John Nettleford-Hughes have to say that would trouble you, my dear?”

 

“Well, he said Gladys usually wears people down to her way of thinking in the end.”

 

“And why does that concern you, Lettice? Are you worried that Gladys is going to insist on making changes Phoebe or you don’t like? I can assure you that she adores her niece. Phoebe is the daughter Gladys never planned to have, but also the child Gladys didn’t know could bring her so much joy and fulfilment in her life, as a parent.”

 

“I don’t doubt that, Aunt Egg, but it does seem to me that there is an ulterior motive to Gladys wanting Phoebe’s flat redecorated.”

 

“An ulterior motive, Lettice?”

 

“Yes.” Lettice sighs. “I think Gladys sees her dead brother and sister-in-law as some kind of threat to her happy life with Phoebe.”

 

“Threat?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“That’s a very grave allegation, my dear Lettice.” Eglantyne says with concern. “What proof do you have to support your suspicions.”

 

“Nothing solid, only circumstantial anecdotes.”

 

“Such as?”

 

“Well, when she talks about her deceased brother and sister-in-law in front of Phoebe, or even to Phoebe, she refers to them as ‘Reginald and Marjory’, not ‘your mother and father’ or ‘Phoebe’s parents’.”

 

Eglantyne pinches the inside of her right cheek between her teeth as she considers Lettice’s observation. “Well, it probably helps keep the waters from getting muddy. The Chambers died out in India when Phoebe was still very young. I would imagine that Gladys and John are more like parents to Phoebe than Reginald and Marjory were.”

 

“Yes, but nevertheless, they are her parents.” Lettice counters.

 

“That’s true. But Gladys referring to them as she naturally would by their first names is no reason to see her feeling threatened by their memory, Lettice.” Eglantyne cautions with a wagging finger from which clings a large amethyst ring which sparkles in the light of the drawing room.

 

“But this brings me back to my concerns about what Sir John Nettleford-Huges said, which culminates with what you said just a moment ago. If Pheobe really is the child that Gladys never had, nor knew she wanted, but that subsequent to her discovery of the joy of parenthood Gladys’ narrative with Pheobe is for her to look upon Gladys more as a mother than her own mother, then she would naturally want to put an emotional distance between Phobe and the memory of her own mother. I think she is deliberately trying to eradicate the memory of Reginald and Marjory from Pheobe’s mind.”

 

“I really do think you are overdramatising things, Lettice my dear.” Eglantyne insists. “Gladys loves Phoebe. Why on earth would she want to banish her precious memories of her parents, who were taken far too soon?”

 

“Because she sees them as a threat to the legitimacy of her rearing of Phoebe.”

 

“But how can two dead people threaten what Gladys and John did, stepping in to take care of Phoebe as their ward?”

 

“Nothing, but that doesn’t mean that Gladys doesn’t think it. People can be irrational, Aunt Egg.”

 

“The only person I am thinking may be a little irrational at present, I’m sorry to say, is you, my dear.”

 

“But Gladys doesn’t have anything nice to say about her brother or sister-in-law. She is very dismissive of their memory, and she is openly disparaging in her remarks about Marjory.”

 

“Well, it is true that Gladys always felt that Reginald could have married someone grander than Marjory, who was just a middle-class solicitor’s daughter from Swiss Cottage***********. But really, Lettice, how does this dislike of Reginald’s choice in wife manifest itself as a threat to Gladys?”

 

“Well, when I was taking to Phoebe about redecorating her parent’s Bloomsbury flat, she seemed quite uninspired by the idea. She seems perfectly happy to leave things as they are, whereas it is Gladys who seems intent on redecorating every part of the flat, and in so doing remove any memory of her brother and his wife. She is quite enthusiastic about it, as a matter-of-fact.”

 

“Look, Lettice,” Eglantyne says, leaning forward in her wing backed chair and looking her niece earnestly in the face. “You’ve met Phoebe now. You know how fey she is.”

 

“Yes, that’s an apt description of her, Aunt Egg. My thoughts were that she has a very other worldly way about her.”

 

“Exactly, Lettice. So, you also know that she isn’t like Gladys. She doesn’t express her opinions readily.”

 

“I’ll say. It was hard enough to squeeze a colour choice to redecorate the flat with out of her.”

 

“And that’s why Gladys came to me, asking for your services. She is concerned that Phoebe is so disinterested in anything beyond her studies in horticulture that she will never redecorate the flat. She thought that being closer to Phoebe’s age, you might be able to make some headway where she, being so much older, has failed.”

 

“But would it be so bad for Phoebe to leave things the way they are in Bloomsbury, if the arrangement in existence suits her?”

 

“If Sadie had given you a fully furnished flat, would you have left it decorated in the way she gave it to you, Lettice?”

 

“Of course not!” Lettice scoffs.

 

“Exactly!”

 

“But that’s because I am an interior designer, and I have my own independent ideas about what my home should look like.”

 

“Of course you do.” Eglantyne soothes. “So, think for a moment. Even with her backwards ways of thinking, has Sadie ever tried to stop you from redecorating your own flat at Cavendish Mews?”

 

“Well, no.” Lettice says. “But what does that have to do with Gladys and Phoebe?”

 

“Sadie wouldn’t stop you from having some independence and would allow you to express your own opinions in style at the very least. Perhaps Gladys is trying to instil the same streak of independence in Phoebe, which is obviously so sorely lacking in her.” She tuts. “Consider that, my dear, before you go accusing Gladys of wishing to wipe away the memory of her brother and sister-in-law. Now.” The older woman gets to her feet with a groan. “I must see what is happening with luncheon.” She groans again as she rubs the small of her back. “Augusta is very good, but like me, she has been slowing down a little bit as of late. We’re all getting older. Please excuse me, my dear.”

 

Lettice sits in her chair and contemplates what her aunt has said as she watches the woman love elegantly around china cabinets the sofa and occasional tables as she wends her way to the drawing room door. What Eglantine says is true, but at the same time, Lettice cannot help but feel that her own judgement of the situation is somehow more in line with the truth of the matter. Lady Gladys has agreed to arrange a time, when she is back in London promoting her latest romance novel, to take Lettice to view Phoebe’s Bloomsbury flat, and she wonders what that occasion will be like.

 

*The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood (later known as the Pre-Raphaelites) was a group of English painters, poets, and art critics, founded in 1848 by William Holman Hunt, John Everett Millais, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, William Michael Rossetti, James Collinson, Frederic George Stephens and Thomas Woolner who formed a seven-member "Brotherhood" modelled in part on the Nazarene movement. The Brotherhood was only ever a loose association and their principles were shared by other artists of the time, including Ford Madox Brown, Arthur Hughes and Marie Spartali Stillman. Later followers of the principles of the Brotherhood included Edward Burne-Jones, William Morris and John William Waterhouse. The group sought a return to the abundant detail, intense colours and complex compositions of Quattrocento Italian art. They rejected what they regarded as the mechanistic approach first adopted by Mannerist artists who succeeded Raphael and Michelangelo. The Brotherhood believed the classical poses and elegant compositions of Raphael in particular had been a corrupting influence on the academic teaching of art, hence the name "Pre-Raphaelite".

 

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

 

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

 

****Noël Peirce Coward was an English playwright, composer, director, actor, and singer, known for his wit, flamboyance, and what Time magazine called "a sense of personal style, a combination of cheek and chic, pose and poise". He too was a well-known homosexual, even though it was taboo in England for much of his life.

 

*****’The Young Idea’, subtitled ‘A comedy of youth in three acts’, is an early play by Noël Coward, written in 1921 and first produced the following year. After a pre-London provincial tour it ran at the Savoy Theatre for 60 performances from 1 February 1923, and is one of Noel Coward’s first commercial successes, albeit moderate. The play portrays the successful manoeuvring by two young adults to prise their father away from his unsympathetic second wife and reunite him with his first wife, their mother.

 

******’The Vortex’ is a play in three acts by the English writer and actor Noël Coward. The play depicts the sexual vanity of a rich, ageing beauty, her troubled relationship with her adult son, and drug abuse in British society circles after the First World War. The son's cocaine habit is seen by many critics as a metaphor for homosexuality, then taboo in Britain. Despite, or because of, its scandalous content for the time, the play was Coward's first great commercial success. The play premiered in November 1924 in London and played in three theatres until June 1925, followed by a British tour and a New York production in 1925 and 1926. It has enjoyed several revivals and a film adaptation.

 

*******Norman Hartnell was a leading British fashion designer, best known for his work for the ladies of the royal family. Hartnell gained the Royal Warrant as Dressmaker to Queen Elizabeth (later the Queen Mother) in 1940, and Royal Warrant as Dressmaker to Queen Elizabeth II in 1957. Princess Beatrice also wore a dress designed for Queen Elizabeth II by Hartnell for her wedding in 2020. He worked unsuccessfully for two London designers, including Lucile (Lady Duff Gordon), whom he sued for damages when several of his drawings appeared unattributed in her weekly fashion column in the London Daily Sketch. He eventually opened his own business at 10 Bruton Street, Mayfair in 1923, with the financial help of his father and first business colleague, his sister Phyllis. In the mid-1950s, Hartnell reached the peak of his fame and the business employed some 500 people together with many others in the ancillary businesses. Hartnell never married, but enjoyed a discreet and quiet life at a time when homosexual relations between men were illegal.

 

********Fin de Siècle is a French phrase meaning 'end of century' and is applied specifically as a historical term to the end of the nineteenth century and even more specifically to decade of 1890s.

 

*********The term à la mode, meaning fashionable comes from the French and means literally "according to the fashion".

 

**********Grace Forster was the elegant mother of Noël Coward’s friend Stewart Forster. Grace was talking to a young admirer, when a young woman within earshot of Noël and Stewart said, "Will you look at that old hag over there with the young man in tow; she's old enough to be his mother". Forster paid no attention, and Coward immediately went across and embraced Grace, as a silent rebuke to the young woman who had made the remark. The episode led him to consider how a "mother–young son–young lover triangle" might be the basis of a play. Thus ‘The Vortex’ synopsis was born.

 

***********Swiss Cottage is an area of Hampstead in the Borough of Camden in London. It is centred on the junction of Avenue Road and Finchley Road and includes Swiss Cottage tube station. Swiss Cottage lies three and a quarter miles northwest of Charing Cross. The area was named after a public house in the centre of it, known as "Ye Olde Swiss Cottage". Once developed, Swiss Cottage was always a well-to-do suburb of middle and upper middle-class citizens in better professions.

 

This lovely tea set might look like something your mother or grandmother used, but this set is a bit different, for like everything around it, it is part of my 1:12 miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Aunt Egg's dainty tea set on the embroidered footstool is made of white metal by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The set has been hand painted by artisan miniaturist Victoria Fasken.

 

The footstool on which the tea set stands is made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq, but what is particularly special about it is that it has been covered in antique Austrian floral micro petite point by V.H. Miniatures in the United Kingdom, which makes this a one-of-a-kind piece. The artisan who made this says that as one of her hobbies, she enjoys visiting old National Trust Houses in the hope of getting some inspiration to help her create new and exciting miniatures. She saw some beautiful petit point chairs a few years ago in one of the big houses in Derbyshire and then found exquisitely detailed petit point that was fine enough for 1:12 scale projects.

 

The fireplace and its ornate overmantle is a “Kensignton” model also made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq. The peacock feather fire screen, brass fire tools and ornate brass fender come from various online 1:12 miniature suppliers.

 

The round hand embroidered footstool at the left of the photograph acquired through Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom, as was the 1:12 artisan miniature sewing box on the small black japanned table in the background

 

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

Taken for Macro Mondays' "Mesh" theme, this image depicts the handle of a mesh fire screen. Flames provide the background.