before a little pampering.................bliss! A very big thank you to my lovely Father-in-law Michael for being so generous and giving me such a lovely gift :) x

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Because your Cornish, Dickie.” Lettice replies.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Margot, Dickie and Lettice all burst out laughing.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“What?” Lettice queries.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Oh how romantic!” Lettice enthuses.

 

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

 

“A lost portrait?” breathes Lettice excitedly.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

Today however, we are following Edith, Lettice’s maid, as she heads east of Mayfair, to a place far removed from the elegance and gentility of Lettice’s flat, in London’s East End. As a young woman, Edith is very interested in fashion, particularly now that she is stepping out with Mr. Willison the grocer’s delivery boy, Frank Leadbetter. Luckily like most young girls of her class, her mother has taught Edith how to sew her own clothes and she has become an accomplished dressmaker, having successfully made frocks from scratch for herself, or altered cheaper existing second-hand pieces to make them more fashionable by letting out waistlines and taking up hems. Thanks to Lettice’s Cockney charwoman*, Mrs. Boothby, who lives in nearby Poplar, Edith now has a wonderful haberdasher in Whitechapel, which she goes to on occasion on her days off when she needs something for one of her many sewing projects as she slowly adds to and updates her wardrobe. Mrs. Minkin’s Haberdashery is just a short walk from Petticoat Lane**, where Edith often picks up bargains from one of the many second-hand clothes stalls. Today she is visiting Mrs. Minkin with her friend and fellow maid, Hilda, who works for Edith’s former employer, Mrs. Plaistow and has Thursdays free until four o’clock.

 

“Cor, you are so lucky Edith,” remarks Hilda as the two friends stand at Mrs. Minkin’s cluttered, but well ordered shop counter. “Your Miss Lettice seems never to be home. Weekend parties and all that.”

 

“Are you complaining, Hilda?” Edith asks her friend as she gazes around the floor to ceiling shelves full of ribbons and bobbins, corsetry, elastics tapers, and fabrics and breathes in the smell of fabrics, and the cloves and lavender used by Mrs. Minkel to keep the moths at bay.

 

“Oh no!” Hilda defends with a shake of her head. “I’m so happy that you’ve got spare time in her absence to catch up with me, Edith. I just wish I had such luxury. You remember what it was like. I’m lucky if Mr. and Mrs. Plaistow go to Bournemouth for a fortnight in high summer, and even then, I get penalised by being paid board wages*** since they take Cook with them.”

 

“Miss Lettice has only gone down to Wiltshire for the weekend, Hilda,” Edith confirms, toying with a reel of pale blue cotton she plans to buy along with a reel of yellow and a reel of red cotton. “She’ll be back on Monday, so it would hardly be worth putting me on board wages.”

 

“She never does though, does she? Not even for Christmas when she goes home, and you go to your parents?”

 

“Well, no.” Edith admits, dropping her head as her face flushes with embarrassment. She knows how much better off she is with Lettice than in her old position as a parlour maid alongside Hilda at Mrs. Plaistow’s in Pimlico. Mrs. Plaistow is a hard employer, and very mean, whereas Lettice is the opposite, and she knows that she is very spoilt in her position as live-in domestic for a woman who is not at home almost as often as she is. “But,” she counters. “When Miss Lettice does come back, she’ll be bringing her future sister-in-law with her, and then I’ll be busy picking up after two flappers rather than one, and she often entertains when she has guests, so I’ll have my work cut out for me between cleaning and cooking for the pair of them.”

 

“Still, it’s not the same.” Hilda grumbles. “Even if you do have to work hard, it’s not like the hard graft I have to suffer under Mrs. Plaistow. Did I tell you that Queenie chucked in her position?”

 

“No!” Edith gasps, remembering Mrs. Plaistow’s cheerful head parlour maid who was kind and friendly to both her and Hilda. “She was always so lovely. You’ll miss her.”

 

“Will I ever.” Hilda agrees. “She’s gone home to Manchester, well to Cheshire actually. Said she’s done with the big lights of London now, and she wants to be closer to her mum now that she’s getting on a bit.”

 

“That’s nice for her.”

 

“That’s what she said, but I think she really found a new position to get away from Mrs. Plaistow and all her mean ways.”

 

“What’s her new position?”

 

“She’s working as a maid in Alderley Edge for two old spinster sisters who live in a big old Victorian villa left to them by their father who owned a cotton mill. She wrote to me a few weeks ago after she settled in. She told me that the old ladies don’t go out much as one of them is an invalid, and they seldom entertain. Half the house is shut up because it’s too hard for them to use it. There’s a cook, a gardener cum odd job man, and like you a char comes in to do the hard jobs, so she’s finding it much easier. She writes that she can even take the train in to Manchester on her afternoons off to go shopping and see her old mum.”

 

“That sounds perfect. Does that mean you’ll become the head parlour maid now, Hilda?”

 

Hilda cocks an eyebrow at her friend and snorts with derision. “Don’t make me laugh. This is Mrs. Plaistow we’re talking about.”

 

“Yes, but you seem the most obvious choice to fill Queenie’s spot.” Edith says cheerily. “You’ve been there for what, three years now?” Hilda nods in agreement to Edith’s question. “So, you’d be perfect.”

 

This time it is Hilda’s head that sinks between her shoulders in a defeated fashion, the pale brown knit of her cardigan suddenly hanging lose over her plump frame as she hunches forward slightly.

 

“Of course you would, Hilda!” Edith assures her friend, placing a comforting hand on her forearm.

 

“Mrs. Plaistow doesn’t think so. She says I need more experience.”

 

“Oh what rubbish!” Edith cries, the outrage and indignation for her friend’s plight palpable in her voice. “Three years is more than enough experience!”

 

“She’s gone and hired a new girl after putting an advertisement in The Lady****. Her name’s Agnes.”

 

Both girls look at one another, screw up their face at the name, mutter their disapproval and then burst into girlish laughter as they chuckle over the faces each other pulled in their shared disgust. It is then that Edith has a momentary pang of loss as she remembers the nights she and Hilda used to share in their tiny attic room at the top of Mrs. Plaistow’s tall Pimlico townhouse. It might have been cold with no heating to be had, but all the girlish silliness and fun they had made up for the lack of warmth: talking about the handsome soldiers they met on their shared days off, discussing what their weddings would be like – each being the other’s bridesmaid – and constant discussions about what was fashionable to wear.

 

“Mrs. Plaistow’s just being her usual penny-pinching self.” Edith remarks. “She just doesn’t want to increase your wages and pay you what you’re really worth. I bet she hired this Agnes at a lesser wage than Queenie got, and even then, I don’t think Queenie was paid her worth.”

 

“Probably not.” Hilda says in return.

 

“I don’t know why you put up with her, Hilda. There are plenty of jobs going for parlour maids. I got out and look at me now. I’ve overheard Miss Lettice talk about something called ‘the servant problem’ with some of her married lady friends, where people cannot find quality domestics like us unless they can provide good working conditions. That’s why my wage at Miss Lettice’s is higher than it was at Mrs. Plaistow’s, and why I have a nice bedroom of my own with central heating and a comfy armchair to sit in.”

 

“And Miss Lettice is a nice mistress.” Hilda adds. “Who’s away half the time.”

 

“And Miss Lettice is nice mistress.” Edith agrees. “I can always give you the details of the agency in Westminster that I registered myself with, which led Miss Lettice to me. It has a very good clientele.”

 

“I don’t think a duchess will pay any better than Mrs. Plaistow will.” remarks Hilda disparagingly. “Anyway, I’ve been making enquiries on my days off, not today of course, and putting my name about Westminster and St. James’, so who knows.”

 

“Well, the offer is there if you fancy.” Edith begins.

 

“Here we are, Edit, my dear!” Mrs. Minkin chortles cheerily, breaking the girls’ conversation as she appears through the door leading from her storeroom, a bolt of pretty blue floral cotton across her ample arms. “Mr. Minkin needs to keep to buying fabric and leave it to me to arrange it in my own back room.” She wags a pudgy finger decorated with a few sparkling gold rings warningly as she places the fabric down in front of the gleaming cash register. “It was hidden, but now it is found Edit my dear.”

 

A refugee from Odessa as a result of a pogrom***** in 1905, Mrs. Minkin’s Russian accent, still thick after nearly twenty years of living in London’s East End, muffles the h at the end of Edith’s name, making the young girl smile, for it is an endearing quality. Edith likes the Jewess proprietor with her old fashioned upswept hairdo and frilly Edwardian lace jabot running down the front of her blouse, held in place by a beautiful cameo – a gift from her equally beloved and irritating Mr. Minkin. She always has a smile and a kind word for Edith, and her generosity towards her has found Edith discover extra spools of coloured cottons or curls of pretty ribbons and other notions****** in the lining of her parcel when she unpacks it at Cavendish Mews. Mrs. Minkin always insists when Edith mentions it, that she wished all her life that she had had a daughter, but all she ever had were sons, so Edith is like a surrogate daughter to her, and as a result she gets to reap the small benefits of her largess, at least until one of her sons finally makes her happy and brings home a girl she approves of.

 

“Thank you, Mrs. Minkin.” Edith says.

 

“Have you seen the latest edition of Weldon’s*******, Edit my dear?” the older woman asks as she jots down the fabric price in pencil on a notepad by the register. “There’s a very nice pattern for a frock with side and back flounces in it.”

 

“That’s what this fabric is for!” Edith says excitedly. “I think it will make a lovely summer frock.”

 

“I thought so.” Mrs. Minkin says with a wink. “I’m getting to know my Edit’s style. No?”

 

Edith nods shyly in agreement.

 

“Now, anything else, Edit my dear?”

 

“I’ll take these three cottons too please, Mrs. Minkin.” Edith places her hands over the spools and rolls them forward across the glass topped counter.

 

“Of course, Edit my dear.” the older woman chortles. “Some buttons too?” She indicates with the sweeping open handed gesture of a proud merchandiser to a tray of beautifully coloured glass, Bakelite and resin buttons expertly laid out next to the till.

 

“Oh,” Edith glances down at them quickly. “No thank you Mrs. Minkin. I have some buttons at home in my button jar.”

 

“Nonsense!” she scoffs in reply, expertly flicking through the cards of buttons. “A new dress must have new buttons.” She withdraws a set of six faceted Art Deco glass buttons that perfectly match the blue of the flowers on the fabric Edith is buying. “You take these as a gift from me. Yes?”

 

“Oh, but Mrs. Minkin!” Edith begins to protest, but she is silenced by the Jewess’ wagging finger.

 

“I’ll just fold them in here with the dress fabric.” She announces as if nothing were more normal. “You take them home with you and when you have made the frock, you wear it in here for me so I can see my buttons.”

 

Then just as she is slipping the buttons into a fold in the patterned cotton, a contemplative look runs across her face. She glances at Edith and then shifts her head. “You know what would go nicely with this fabric?” she asks rhetorically as she deposits the cloth onto a pile of brown paper next to the register and leans back. Stretching her arms over a basket of various brightly coloured and patterned fabric rolls she plucks a hat stand from behind her on which sits a beautiful straw hat decorated with a brightly coloured striped ribbon and some dainty fabric flowers in the palest shade of blue and golden red. “This.” She places it on the counter between herself and the two maids, smiling proudly as though the hat were a beautiful baby.

 

“Oh Edith!” gasps Hilda. “Isn’t it lovely?”

 

“Oh yes it is.” agrees Edith.

 

“And with your blonde hair it would be perfect.” Hilda adds enthusiastically.

 

“Your friend has a good eye.” Mrs. Minkin pipes up, nodding in agreement at Hilda, blessing her with a magnanimous smile. “It would suit you very nicely.”

 

“Oh no, Mrs. Minkin.” Edith protests.

 

“Now, I can’t give it away,” the Jewess answers, squeezing her doughy chin between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand as she contemplates the pretty bow and flowers. “But for you, my dear Edit, I sell it for twelve and six.”

 

“Twelve and six!” gasps Edith. “Oh Mrs. Minkin, even at that generous price I could never afford it.” She gingerly reaches out and toys with one of the fabric blooms as it sits tantalisingly on the hat’s brim.

 

“Ahh,” sighs the older woman as she reaches over, picks up the hat stand and hat with a groan and returns it to the display top of the mahogany drawers behind her. “Pity. Your friend its right. It really would suit you.”

 

“I’m only a maid, Mrs. Minkin,” Edith reminds her. “And whilst I might get paid more generously than some,” She dares to glance momentarily at Hilda who does not return her gaze, distracting herself looking through a basket of balls of wool. “I’m afraid it’s Petticoat Lane for me, where I can buy a straw hat cheaply and decorate it myself with ribbons from here.”

 

“And you’ll do a beautiful job of it I’m sure, Edit my dear.” Mrs. Minkin replies consolingly. “Just remember to echo the colours on your new frock. Yes?”

 

“Alright Mrs. Minkin. I will.”

 

“Good girl.” Mrs. Minkin purrs.

 

Just as the older woman turns back to the two girls, Edith notices for the first time a small square box displayed next to the hat. The cover features the caricature of a woman in profile with a fashionable Eaton crop******** wearing a pearl necklace reaching into her handbag. “May-Fayre Handkerchiefs,” she reads aloud softly.

 

“Oh, I just received a delivery of them.” Mrs. Minkin reaches down and pulls open one of the drawers and withdraws another box. “They’re British made, and very good quality. Look.” She points proudly to some red writing on the face of the box. “The colours are guaranteed permanent.”

 

“Hankies?” Hilda queries. “You don’t need hankies, Edith. You’ve got loads of them.”

 

“Not for me, Hilda: for Mum,” Edith explains. “For Christmas.”

 

“But it’s summer. That’s months away!” Hilda splutters.

 

“I know, but I don’t see why I can’t do a spot of early Christmas shopping.” Edith defends her actions. “It will save me having to join the crowds desperately looking for gifts in December. How much are they Mrs. Minkin?”

 

“They’re three shillings and ninepence.” Mrs. Minkin replies. “You’re a sensible girl, Edit my dear. You shop for bargains, and you look for gifts all year round. What a pity you aren’t Jewish. You’d make a good wife for my Gideon.”

 

“No thank you, Mrs. Minkin,” Edith laughs. “No matchmaking for me.”

  

“Never mind.” Mrs. Minkin chuckles, joining in Edith’s good-natured laughing as she carefully folds brown paper around Edith’s fabric, buttons, box of handkerchiefs and spools of cotton.

 

“Besides,” Edith adds. “I already have a chap I’m walking out with. I can’t very well walk out with two, can I?”

 

“Well, a clever girl like you must have dozens of young men vying for her attentions, I’m sure.” The older woman ties Edith’s purchases up with some twine which she expertly trims with a pair of sharp shears.

 

“I wouldn’t say dozens. Anyway, just one will do me fine, Mrs. Minkin.”

 

“Now, the fabric is six shillings,” the proprietoress mutters, half to herself. “And the handkerchiefs three shillings and ninepence. With the three cottons, that comes to ten shillings exactly.” She enters the price into the register which clunks and groans noisily before the bright ting of a bell heralds the opening of the cash drawer at the bottom.

 

Edith opens her green leather handbag and pulls out her small black coin purse and carefully counts out the correct money in her palm. “Cheaper than a new straw hat.” She hands it over to Mrs. Minkin, who carefully puts it in the various denomination drawers of the till before pushing the cash drawer closed.

 

“Right you are Edit my dear. There you are.” Mrs. Minkin says cheerfully as she hands over Edith’s brown paper wrapped package bound with twine. “Now, what may I hep you with, my dear?” She turns her attention to Hilda.

 

“Me?” Hilda gulps, pressing the fingers of her right hand to her chest. “Oh, I’ve just come to keep my friend company. I don’t sew.”

 

“What?” The older woman’s eyes grow wide as she looks the rather dowdy brunette in the brown cardigan up and down appraisingly. “Not sew? What girl cannot sew?”

 

“Well I can’t,” Hilda replies. “And that’s a fact.”

 

“Foyl meydl*********!” gasps the Jewess aghast, her hand clasping the cameo at her throat. “All girls should know how to sew, even if badly.” She folds her arms akimbo over her large chest, a critical look on her face. “No goy********** will want to marry you if you can’t sew, my dear! Edit my dear,” She turns her attention away from Hilda momentarily. “You need to take your friend in hand and teach her how to sew.” She turns back to Hilda. “Your friend can show you. She knows how to make a silk purse from a sow’s ear. Eh?”

 

Hilda looks in terror at Edith, who bursts out laughing at her friend’s horrified face. Wrapping her arm comfortingly around her friend, Edith assures Mrs. Minkin that she will take Hilda under her wing. Winking conspiratorially at Hilda so that the proprietoress cannot see, she ushers her friend out of the haberdashery and back out onto the busy Whitechapel street outside with a cheery goodbye to Mrs. Minkin.

 

*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.

 

**Petticoat Lane Market is a fashion and clothing market in Spitalfields, London. It consists of two adjacent street markets. Wentworth Street Market and Middlesex Street Market. Originally populated by Huguenots fleeing persecution in France, Spitalfields became a center for weaving, embroidery and dying. From 1882, a wave of Jewish immigrants fleeing persecution in eastern Europe settled in the area and Spitalfields then became the true heart of the clothing manufacturing district of London. 'The Lane' was always renowned for the 'patter' and showmanship of the market traders. It was also known for being a haven for the unsavoury characters of London’s underworld and was rife with prostitutes during the late Victorian era. Unpopular with the authorities, as it was largely unregulated and in some sense illegal, as recently as the 1930s, police cars and fire engines were driven down ‘The Lane’, with alarm bells ringing, to disrupt the market.

 

***Board wages were monies paid in lieu of meals and were paid in addition to a servant’s normal salary. Often servants were paid board wages when their employer went on holiday, or to London for the season, leaving them behind with no cook t prepare their meals. Some employers paid their servants fair board wages, however most didn’t, and servants often found themselves out of pocket fending for themselves, rather than having meals provided within the household.

 

****The Lady is one of Britain's longest-running women's magazines. It has been in continuous publication since 1885 and is based in London. It is particularly notable for its classified advertisements for domestic service and child care; it also has extensive listings of holiday properties.

 

*****Pogroms in the Russian Empire were large-scale, targeted, and repeated anti-Jewish rioting that began in the Nineteenth Century. Pogroms began to occur after Imperial Russia, which previously had very few Jews, acquired territories with large Jewish populations from the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth and the Ottoman Empire from 1772 to 1815. The 1905 pogrom against Jews in Odessa was the most serious pogrom of the period, with reports of up to 2,500 Jews killed. Jews fled Russia, some ending up in London’s east end, which had a reasonably large Jewish community, particularly associated with clothing manufacturing.

 

******In sewing and haberdashery, notions are small objects or accessories, including items that are sewn or otherwise attached to a finished article, such as buttons, snaps, and collar stays. Notions also include the small tools used in sewing, such as needles, thread, pins, marking pens, elastic, and seam rippers.

 

*******Created by British industrial chemist and journalist Walter Weldon Weldon’s Ladies’ Journal was the first ‘home weeklies’ magazine which supplied dressmaking patterns. Weldon’s Ladies’ Journal was first published in 1875 and continued until 1954 when it ceased publication.

 

********The Eton crop is a type of very short, slicked-down crop hairstyle for women. It became popular during the 1920s because it was ideal to showcase the shape of cloche hats. It was worn by Josephine Baker, among others. The name derives from its similarity to a hairstyle allegedly popular with schoolboys at Eton.

 

*********”Foy meydl” is Yiddish for “lazy girl”.

 

**********”Goy” is Yiddish for a gentile, non-Jew.

 

Mrs. Minkin’s cluttered haberdashers with its bright wallpaper and assortment of notions is not all it seems to be at first glance, for it is made up of part of my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection. Some pieces come from my own childhood. Other items I acquired as an adult through specialist online dealers and artists who specialise in 1:12 miniatures.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The pretty straw picture hat on the left, decorated with a real fabric ribbon and artificial flowers is an artisan piece and was acquired through Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders miniature shop in the United Kingdom. 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable. In this case, the straw hat was made by a British artisan. In complete contrast, the hat on the right with its restrained decoration is a mass manufactured hat and came from Melody Jane’s Doll House in the United Kingdom. Contrary to popular belief, fashion at the beginning of the Roaring 20s did not feature the iconic cloche hat as a commonly worn head covering. Although invented by French milliner Caroline Reboux in 1908, the cloche hat did not start to gain popularity until 1922, so even though this story is set in that year, picture hats, a hangover from the pre-war years, were still de rigueur in fashionable society even after this. Although nowhere near as wide, heavy, voluminous or as ornate as the hats worn by women between the turn of the Twentieth Century and the Great War, the picture hats of the 1920s were still wide brimmed, although they were generally made of straw or some lightweight fabric and were decorated with a more restrained touch.

 

The May-Fayre handkerchief box and the lisle hose box sitting directly behind it come from Shepard’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom, who have a dizzying array of packaging pieces from the late 1800s to the 1970s. The Warner Brothers corset box behind them and the corset box sitting on the second shelf to the left were made meticulously by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The box of Wizard tapes on the top shelf to the left and the pink corsetry box on the bottom shelf to the left I acquired from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel as part of a larger collection of 1:12 artisan miniature hats, gloves, accessories and haberdashery goods. Edith’s green leather handbag also comes from Marilyn Bickel’s collection.

 

The jewellery stand, complete with jewellery comes from a 1:12 miniature supplier in Queensland. The round mirror, which pivots, and features a real piece of mirror was a complimentary gift from the same seller.

 

The basket in the midground to the right, filled with embroidery items is a 1:12 miniature I have had since I was a teenager. I acquired it from a high street shop that specialised in dolls and doll house accessories.

 

The Superior Quality buttons on cards in the foreground next to the cash register are in truth tiny beads. They, along with basket of rolled fabrics in the left midground, the spools of cottons and the balls of wool in the basket on the right all come from various online shops who sell dollhouse miniatures.

 

The brightly shining cash register was supplied by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in the United Kingdom.

 

The mahogany stained chest of drawers on which the hats, jewellery, mirror and boxes stand I have had since I was around ten years old.

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 are in central London, near the palace of Westminster and the Thames embankment at the very stylish Metropole Hotel*, where Lettice is finally having her first assignation with the eldest son of the Duke of Walmsford, Selwyn Spencely after he telephoned her last week. After she hung up the receiver on the cradle, Lettice was beside herself with joy, causing somewhat of a kerfuffle with her downstairs neighbour, Mrs. Clifford after her jumping up and down caused the lady’s pendant lamps to rattle and sway from the ceiling above. Since then, Lettice has spent hours of her life over the ensuing days going through her wardrobes, trying on outfit after outfit, much to the irritation of her maid, Edith, who has to pick up after her. In a whirl of excitement and nerves, Lettice has gone from deciding to wear pale pink organdie, to navy serge, then to peach and rose carmine satin, to black velvet with white brocade trim. Yet now, as she shrugs her coat from her shoulders into the waiting arms of the liveried cloak room attendant of the Metropole, Lettice knows that her choice of a soft pale blue summery calf length dress with lace inserts accessories by a blue satin sash and her simple double strand of perfectly matched pearls is the perfect choice. The colour suits her creamy skin and blonde chignon, and the outfit is understated elegance, so she appears fashionable and presentable, yet doesn’t appear to be trying to hard to impress. Breathing deeply to keep the butterflies in her stomach at bay she immediately sees her companion for luncheon lounging nonchalantly against a white painted pillar.

 

“Darling Lettice!” Selwyn exclaims as he strides purposefully across the busy lobby of the Metropole. “You look positively ravishing.”

 

Lettice smiles as she sees the glint of delight in his blue eyes as he raises her cream glove clad right hand to his lips and chivalrously kisses it. “Thank you, Selwyn.” she replies, lowering her lids as she feels a slight flush fill her cheeks at the sensation of his lips pressing through the thin, soft kid of her glove. “That’s very kind of you to say so.”

 

“I’ve secured us a discreet table for two, just as you requested, my angel.” He proffers a crooked arm to her. “Shall we?”

 

Lettice smiles at his words, enjoying the sound of his cultured voice call her by a pet name. She carefully winds her own arm though his and the two stroll blithely across the foyer, unaware of the mild interest that she and Selwyn create as a handsome couple.

 

“Good afternoon Miss Chetwynd,” the maître d of the Metropole restaurant says as he looks down the list of reservations for luncheon. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.” Ticking the entry off the reservation list he takes up two menus. “Right this way, Your Grace.”

 

He leads the couple through the busy dining room of the hotel where the gentle burble of voices fills the lofty space and mixes with the sound of silver cutlery against the blue banded gilt hotel crockery, the clink of glasses raised and the strains of popular Edwardian music from the small palm court quartet playing discreetly by a white painted pillar.

 

“Your Grace.” Lettice says in a lofty fashion, giggling as she makes a joking bob curtsey to Selwyn as they follow the maître d.

 

Selwyn scoffs and rolls his eyes up to the ornately plastered ceiling above. “You know it’s only because of Daddy**.”

 

“I know,” Lettice giggles again. “But isn’t it a scream: ‘Your Grace’.”

 

“I’m not ‘Your Grace’ to you, my angel,” he smiles in return. “Just Selwyn will be fine.”

 

“As you wish, Just Selwyn.”

 

The crisply uniformed maître d stops before a small table for two surrounded by tables of suited politicians and a smattering of older, rather tweedy women. He withdraws a dainty Chippendale style chair from the table and Lettice takes a seat. The older man expertly pushes the chair in with her as she settles before the crisp white linen covered table.

 

“Does this table suit you, Lettice darling?” Selwyn asks a little nervously. “Discreet enough for you?”

 

“Oh yes, thank you Selwyn.” Lettice replies as she observes all the diners around them, busily involved in their own discussions with never a thought for the two of them, although she does notice an older couple at a table a short distance away observing them discreetly. The woman turns to her husband, indicating something about Lettice’s wide brimmed pale blue hat, judging by her gesticulation and his withering glance in response.

 

“Could that be one of your mother’s spies?” Selwyn asks, breaking into her quiet thoughts.

 

“What?” Lettice gasps. “Where?”

 

“There.” Selwyn gestures towards a potted palm, the fronds trembling with the movement of a passing waiter carrying two plates of roast beef to a nearby table scurrying past.

 

“Oh Selwyn!” Lettice slaps his hand kittenishly. “You are awful! Don’t be a tease and startle me like that.” She smiles as she returns to perusing her menu. “You know my mother’s spies are everywhere.”

 

“As are Lady Zinnia’s.” he replies.

 

Selwyn looks around the room taking in the Georgian revival furnishings, the restrained Regency stripe wallpaper, the watercolours of stately British homes in gilt frames as much as his architect’s eye pays close attention to the restrained fluted columns, ornately plastered ceilings and general layout of the room. “It’s so thoroughly English, don’t you think?” he concludes as he picks up the menu to peruse it.

 

“Oh,” Lettice says a little deflated as she lowers her menu. “You’d prefer something a little more, European? Should we have dined at a French restaurant?”

 

“Oh no Lettice darling,” he assures her with a defending hand. “I was just remarking. As I think I told you on the telephone, I haven’t been here since before the war, and I think the décor is much improved. It’s so much lighter and free of that ghastly old Victorian look.”

 

“I was saying the same thing to Miss Wanetta Ward the last time I came here.” Lettice remarks.

 

“Wanetta Ward? Isn’t she the moving picture star?” Selwyn looks over the top of his menu at his luncheon companion.

 

“The very one!” Lettice elucidates. “Do you ever go?”

 

“To the kinema***? No.” He shakes his head vehemently. “Do you?”

 

“No, I don’t either, but Miss Ward insists that I must experience it some day. Not that Mater or Pater would approve if I ever worked up the gumption to go.”

 

“Surely you don’t need to tell them if you do go.”

 

“Are you encouraging me to be devious, Selwyn?”

 

“No,” Selwyn laughs, his eyebrows lifting over his sparking blue eyes. “I’m simply suggesting that you are of age, and your own person with your own life in London, whilst they live their lives in far away Wiltshire. You can go to kinema if you wish. No-one need see you. In saying that, my parents feel the same about it, especially Mummy. She is very much against what she calls ‘painted women who are a poor and cheap copy of great art, moving about overdramatically on screen’.”

 

“I’ll be sure not to tell Miss Ward your mother’s opinion of her the next time I see her.”

 

“My mother’s opinion is entirely uneducated, Lettice, I assure you. After all, like both you and I, she has never actually seen a moving picture before.”

 

“Well, considering that both my maid and my charwoman*** go to the pictures, I very much doubt that I ever will.” Lettice concludes. “How would it be if I sat next to them? Besides, I have heard picture theatres called fleapits***** before, which sounds none too promising when compared with a lovely evening at Covent Garden.”

 

“Well, I don’t know about you,” Selwyn announces, changing the subject. “But I rather like the look of the roast beef with Yorkshire pudding for luncheon. What will you have?”

 

Lettice looks disappointedly at her menu. “When I came here with Miss Ward, we shared a rather magnificent selection of savories and little deadlies******, but I suppose they must reserve them for afternoon tea, here.”

 

“Fear not!” Selwyn says, giving Lettice a beaming smile. He carefully catches the eye of the maître d and summons him with an almost imperceptible nod of his head.

 

“How may I serve Your Grace?” the maître d asks with a respectful bow as he approaches the table.

 

“Look here, my companion Miss Chetwynd had some sweet and savoury petit fours when she last came here and speaks very highly of them. I’d taken a fancy to trying them for myself, so might we have a selection for two, please?”

 

“Well Your Grace,” the maître d begins apologetically. “They are from our afternoon tea menu.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure you could have word to your chefs, especially to please such a charming guest.” He gestures with an open hand to Lettice as she sits rather awkwardly holding her menu, her eyes wide as she listens to Selwyn direct the manager of the restaurant. “It would please her,” He then plays his trump card with a polite, yet firm and businesslike smile that forms across his lips like a darkened crease. “Both of us really, if you could perhaps see about furnishing us with a selection from your afternoon tea menu.”

 

“Well I…” stammers the maître d, but catching the slight shift in Selwyn’s eyes and the twitch at the corner of his mouth he swallows what he was going to say. “Certainly, Your Grace.”

 

“Good man!” Selwyn replies, his eyes and his smile brightening. “And some tea I think, wouldn’t you agree, Lettice my dear?”

 

“Oh, oh… yes.” Lettice agrees with an awkward smile of her own.

 

As the uniformed manager scuttles away, shoulders hunched, with Selwyn’s request, Lettice says, “Oh you shouldn’t have done that, Selwyn. Poor man.”

 

“What? Are you telling me that you are displeased that you are getting what you desire for luncheon, even though it doesn’t appear on the menu?”

 

“Well, no.” Lettice admits sheepishly.

 

“See, there are advantages to having luncheon with a ‘Your Grace’.” He gives her a conspiratorial smile.

 

“You do enjoy getting your way, don’t you Selwyn?”

 

He doesn’t reply but continues to smile enigmatically back at her.

 

Soon a splendid selection of sweet petit fours and large and fluffy fruit scones with butter, jam and cream has been presented to them on a fluted glass cake stand by a the maître d along with a pot of piping hot tea in a blue and gilt edged banded teapot.

 

“So,” Selwyn says as he drops a large dollop of thick white cream onto half a fruit scone. “At the Hunt Ball we spent a lot of time talking about our childhoods and what has happened to me over the ensuing years,” He shakes a last drop off the silver spoon. “Yet I feel that you are at an unfair advantage, as you shared barely anything about yourself al evening.”

 

“Aahh,” Lettice replies as she spreads some raspberry jam on her two halves of fruit scones with her knife. “My mother taught me the finer points about being a gracious hostess. She told me that I must never bore my guests with trifling talk about myself. What I have to say or what I do is of little or no consequence. The best way to keep a gentleman happy is to occupy him with talk about himself.”

 

“You don’t believe that do, my angel?”

 

“Not at all, but I found it to be a very useful tactic at the Hunt Ball when I was paraded before and forced to dance with a seemingly endless array of eligible young men. It saved me having to do most of the talking.”

 

“I hope you didn’t feel forced to dance with me, Lettice darling.” Selwyn picks up his teacup and takes a sip of tea. “After all you did dance quite a bit with me.”

 

“You know I didn’t mind, Selwyn.” She pauses, her knife in mid-air. “Or I hope you didn’t think that.”

 

“I suppose a healthy level of scepticism helps when you are an eligible bachelor who happens to be the heir to a duchy and a sizeable private income. Such things can make a man attractive to many a woman.”

 

“Not me, Selwyn. I am after all a woman of independent means, and I have my own successful interior design business.”

 

“Ah, now that is interesting.” he remarks. “How is it that the daughter of a viscount with her own private income, a girl from a good family, can have her own business? It surely isn’t the done thing.”

 

“Well, I think if circumstances were different, I shouldn’t be able to.”

 

“Circumstances?”

 

“Well for a start, I am the youngest daughter. My elder sister, Lallage, is married and has thankfully done her bit for her husband’s family by producing an heir, and given our parents the welcome distraction of grandchildren, thus alleviating me of such a burden.”

 

“She and Lanchenbury just had another child recently didn’t they?”

 

“My, you are well informed. Yes, Lally and Charles had another son in February, so now my sister has provided not only an heir, but a spare as well.” She pauses for a moment before continuing. “Secondly, and perhaps what works most in my favour is that I am my father’s favourite child. If it were up to my mother, I should have been married and dispatched off by the end of the first Season after the war. But Pater enjoys indulging his little girl, and I know just how to keep him continuing to do so, and keeping Mater and her ideas at bay just enough.”

 

“And how do you achieve this miracle, my angel?”

 

“I decorate mostly for the great and the good of this fair isle,”

 

“I don’t think I’d call a moving picture star a member of the great and good!” laughs Selwyn heartily.

 

“Yes, well…” Lettice blushes and casts her eyes down into her lap sheepishly. “I did rather get in trouble for that, but only because my mother’s awful cousin Gwendolyn, the Duchess of Whitby, told tales behind my back. Anyway, I design and decorate mostly for people my parents approve of, and I play my part socially and pretend to be interested in the things my mother wants for me.”

 

“Like marriage?”

 

“Like marriage.”

 

“So, if you aren’t interested in marriage, why are we having luncheon then, my angel?”

 

“I never said I wouldn’t get married someday, Selwyn,” Lettice defends with a coy smile. “I just want to do it in my own fashion, and I believe that marriage should begin with love. If I am to get married to a man I love, I need to know him first.” She pauses again and stares firmly into her companion’s sparkling blue eyes. “I’m sure you agree.”

 

“I’m quite sure my mother, Lady Zinnia, wouldn’t agree with you and your modern ideas about marriage.”

 

“Any more than my own mother does. When I told her that I wanted to do this my own way, by arranging to meet you myself she told me ‘marriages are made by mothers, you silly girl’.”

 

“And you don’t agree with that?” he asks almost unsurely.

 

“Would I be here if I did, Selwyn?” Lettice takes up the bowl of cream and begins to drop some on her scones.

 

Selwyn starts chuckling in a relieved fashion, consciously trying to smother his smile with his left hand, a hold and ruby signet ring glinting in the diffused light cast from the chandeliers above. He settles back more comfortably in his seat, observing his female companion as she stops what she is doing and puts down both the spoon and bowl of cream self-consciously.

 

“What? What is it Selwyn? What have I done?”

 

“You haven’t done anything other than be you, my angel, and that is a great blessed relief.”

 

“Relief?” Lettice’s left hand clutches at the two warm strands of creamy pearls at her throat.

 

“Yes,” Selwyn elucidates, sitting forward again and reaching out his hand, encapsulating Lettice’s smaller right hand as it rests on the white linen tablecloth. “You see, I was worried that it was a mixture of champagne and the romance of the Hunt Ball that made you so attractive. You were so naturally charming.”

 

Lettice bursts out laughing, the joyous peal mixing with the vociferous noise around them. “I was dressed as Cinderella in an Eighteenth Century gown and wig. I’d hardly call that natural, Selwyn.”

 

“Aahh, but you were my darling, beneath all that. I must confess that when I suggested luncheon today it was with a little of that healthy scepticism that I came here.”

 

“But I don’t need your income, Selwyn, I have my own.”

 

“But you do have a scheming mother, and many a mother like Lady Sadie want their daughters to marry a fine title, especially one that they may have desired for themselves. A Duchess is a step up from a Countess, I’m sure you agree.”

 

“Oh I don’t care…”

 

“Shh, my angel,” Selwyn squeezes her hand beneath his. “I know. However, that also makes you a rather exceptional girl, so I’m glad that my misgivings were misplaced. I’m pleased to hear that you’re in no rush to get married, and that you have set yourself some expectations and rules as to how you wish to live. Perhaps you were born at just the right time to manage as a woman in this new post-war era.”

 

“Please don’t tell Mater that,” Lettice says, lowering her spare hand from worrying her pearls. “She’ll be fit to be tied.”

 

“I promise I shan’t say a word to Lady Sadie, or my own mother. Both are cut from the same cloth in that respect.” He releases her hand and settles back in his chair. Picking up a scone he takes a bite. After swallowing his mouthful and wiping his mouth with his serviette he continues, “Now, do tell me about your latest piece of interior design. I should like to know more about it.”

 

Lettice sighs as she feels the nervous tickles in her stomach finally start to dissipate as she settles back in her own seat and starts to tell him about ‘Chi an Treth’ the Regency house in Penzance that belongs to her friends, the newly married Dickie and Margot Channon.

 

*Now known as the Corinthia Hotel, the Metropole Hotel is located at the corner of Northumberland Avenue and Whitehall Place in central London on a triangular site between the Thames Embankment and Trafalgar Square. Built in 1883 it functioned as an hotel between 1885 until World War I when, located so close to the Palace of Westminster and Whitehall, it was requisitioned by the government. It reopened after the war with a luxurious new interior and continued to operate until 1936 when the government requisitioned it again whilst they redeveloped buildings at Whitehall Gardens. They kept using it in the lead up to the Second World War. After the war it continued to be used by government departments until 2004. In 2007 it reopened as the luxurious Corinthia Hotel.

 

**The title of Duke sits at the top of the British peerage. A Duke is called “Duke” or “Your Grace” by his social equals, and is called only “Your Grace” by commoners. A Duke’s eldest son bears his courtesy title, whilst any younger children are known as Lords and Ladies.

 

***In the early days of moving pictures, films were known by many names. The word “cinema” derives from “kinema” which was an early Twentieth Century shortened version of “kinematograph”, which was an early apparatus for showing 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.

 

*****Early cinemas were often derisively referred to as “fleapits”, however the name given them was for very good reason. As cheap entertainment for the masses, with entry costing a paltry amount, early moving picture theatres often had problems with fleas infesting themselves on patrons who were free of them from those who had them. This was especially common in poorer areas where scruffier cinemas did not employ cleanliness as a high priority. Even as late as the 1960s, some filthy picture houses employed the spraying of children with DDT when they came en masse to watch the Saturday Morning Westerns!

 

******Little deadlies is an old fashioned term for little sweet cakes like petit fours.

 

An afternoon tea like this would be enough to please anyone, but I suspect that even if you ate each sweet petit four or scone on the cake plate, you would still come away hungry. This is because they, like everything in this scene are 1:12 size miniatures from my miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau:

 

The sweet petite fours on the lower tier of the cake stand and the scones on the upper tier and on Lettice and Selwyn’s plates have been made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. Each petit four is only five millimetres in diameter and between five and eight millimetres in height!

 

The blue banded hotel crockery has been made exclusively for Doll House Suppliers in England. Each piece is fashioned by hand and painted by hand. Made to the highest quality standards each piece of porcelain is very thin and fine. If you look closely, you might even notice the facets cut into the milk jug and the steam hole in the teapot.

 

The fluted glass cake stand, the glass vase on Lettice and Selwyn’s table and the red roses in it were all made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The cake stand and the vase have been hand blown and in the case of the stand, hand tinted. The red roses in the vase are also made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures.

 

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

 

The vases of flowers on the stands in the background are beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium. The three plant stands are made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq, whilst the sideboard is made by high-end miniature furniture maker JBM. The paintings come from an online stockist on E-Bay.

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

 

Today however we have headed slightly west from Mayfair, across Hyde Park to Kensington Gardens, where on a bench along the path overlooking the Serpentine, not too far from the statue of Peter Pan* stands, Lettice’s maid Edith and her beau, greengrocer delivery boy, Frank Leadbetter sit. Around them, the bells of central London ring in the distance, calling the faithful who have not yet visited to prayers and masses, for today is Easter Sunday. Unlike last year, when the pair spent the Easter Monday bank holiday amidst the leafy green surrounds of Hampstead Heath**, the young couple have eschewed the crowds that fill the Easter fair** that is held on the Heath, preferring the quieter and more genteel surrounds of Kensington Gardens where only the splash of the Serpentine, the tweet of birds, the calls of ducks and the chatter of couples not unlike them punctuate the air around them.

 

“I say Edith, I do think your new Easter hat is jolly,” Frank compliments his sweetheart, admiring the straw hat she is wearing with its wide brim decorated with a gay blue green and red ribbon and artificial flowers in matching colours. “It suits you.”

 

“Do you really think so, Frank?” When the young man smiles broadly at her and nods, Edith continues as she pats the brim edge with her white cotton glove clad hand, “It was a bit of an extravagance, but Mrs. Minkin finally wore me down, telling me how much it would suit me with my blonde hair.”

 

“And so it does!” Frank assures her, before quickly adding, “Not that your black straw hat doesn’t.”

 

“Admittedly she had brought down the price from twelve and six, which I simply couldn’t justify.”

 

“Ahh,” Frank taps the right side of his nose with his finger knowingly. “But if I know my Edith, she probably still bargained down the price further.”

 

“Well,” Edith blushes coyly and glances down into the lap of her pretty homemade spring frock covered in a floral pattern of blue forget-me-not sprigs that she made using the sewing machine she bought from Ken, the son of Lettice’s char, Mrs. Boothby. “She did have it for nine and six, but I managed to haggle Mrs. Minkin down to seven and six.”

 

“That’s my girl!” Frank laughs good naturedly, clapping in delight. “No wonder my Granny loves you. Are you sure you aren’t really related to a canny Scotsman?”

 

“No Frank!” Edith laughs in reply. “I think Mrs. Minkin just enjoys the banter that goes with haggling. As she tells me, her ancestors have haggled over everything for centuries, so why should she rail against years of Jewish culture?”

 

“Well, it is nice seeing my girl in something new for a change.”

 

“Not that it’s the sunniest of days.” Edith says with a sigh, looking up to the overcast sky above with grey rain clouds roiling menacingly overhead. “It looks like it may rain, which may make my hat, and yours,” She points to Frank’s straw boater with it own pretty tricolour grosgrain trim atop his head. “Rather pointless.”

 

“Well, at least you were smart enough to bring a brolly.” Frank taps Edith’s black umbrella. He looks more closely at it and notices the damage along the black leather hook and the gently fraying edge of some of the black fabric in the furls. Sighing he adds as he worries a tatter, “I just wish I could afford to keep you in stockings and fans as you deserve.”

 

“Oh Frank,” Edith replies, noting his fingers on her umbrella. “You’ll have plenty of time for that later, after we save enough money to get married and I become a housewife.” She takes her beau’s long, slender hand in hers as much to get him to stop further damaging her umbrella as a sign of affection. “But we have plenty of time for that.”

 

“Well, I don’t know if your dad will ever want to give me your hand in marriage when the time comes, after that disastrous dinner at your parents’ last Sunday.” Frank shakes his head sadly. “Me and my big mouth.”

 

“Yes, you and that big mouth of yours.” Edith says not unkindly, rubbing his cheek consolingly with her spare hand as she pulls a face that is a mixture of love, pity, and admonishment. Her right eyebrow arches over her cornflower blue eye and her lips curl upwards in a sad smile.

 

“You did try to warn me, didn’t you? You told me before we went that I needed to mind my manners and not just go spurting off whatever was on my mind. Gran warned me of the same thing.”

 

“Don’t worry Frank. Mum is just a bit set in her ways, and she likes things the way they are because they work for her.”

 

“But the old order doesn’t work for everyone, and that’s why it’s broken and needs fixing. Has your Mum ever walked through the rookeries**** of Stepney or Poplar?”

 

“Probably not, Frank, and that’s why she probably doesn’t think anything is wrong, because nothing is wrong in her world.” Edith smiles across at Frank and looks earnestly into his face. “But I have, so I’ve seen the filth and squalor and poverty that offends you. I’ve seen the children with rickets and pale skin who are all skin and bone.”

 

“So, you understand me Edith, when I say that the world needs to change, and is changing for the better with improvements to people’s lives?”

 

“You know I do Frank, but you have to accept that Mum is a bit old fashioned, and she doesn’t really want change. She was concerned that you were a Communist.”

 

“A Communist?” Frank splutters. “I’d never get involved with that mixed up political movement. I don’t think they’ve done such a good job in Russia anyway, based upon what I’ve heard and read.”

 

“I know, Frank, but in Mum’s eyes, the likes of Miss Lettice and her family are people to look up to and admire, but not to aspire to be like. She doesn’t want me getting too far above my station. She feels that we all have our place in the order of things, and if we move out of those, it will create the upheaval like we heard happened in Russia.”

 

“But that’s preposterous!”

 

“See, even that word would frighten Mum because it’s foreign to her, just like me calling tea, dinner. Preposterous or not, that’s just how Mum thinks and to rail against her won’t do your cause any good.” She wags a finger admonishingly at her sweetheart.

 

“You believe in my cause, don’t you Edith?”

 

“Course I do, Frank.” Edith lets her gaze drift away. “I’ll admit you weren’t quite rabble rouser***** I’d ever imagined myself fancying in my life before the war, but we were all different people before the war, weren’t we?”

 

“I certainly am. I want change for all of us. I don’t want a world like we had before the war, where there was no equality and no rights for the working man, or woman.”

 

“I know, and Mum will come around too. Just give her time and do what she asks and try and temper your arguments. You’ll win her over with gentle persuasion over a longer period than you ever will with a hand raised in frustration.” She looks back at her sweetheart and smiles. “Just try. Alright, Frank?”

 

“Alright Edith, I’ll try.”

 

“Well, the roast dinner last Sunday wasn’t a complete disaster you know.” Edith consoles. “You may not have converted Mum to your cause, but you both believe in women’s suffrage, and,” she adds. “She did appreciate you giving her those yellow roses, and she was impressed by the fact that you knew what they meant. You heard her say that manners were very important to her, and she can’t fault them.”

 

“Unlike the wine.”

 

“Oh poor Frank!” Edith giggles. “I enjoyed it, but I think it was a bit too fancy for Mum’s taste. It’s the thought that counts.”

 

“I promise, I really will take you to Giuseppe’s up in the Islington****** one night, Edith, for a grand slap-up meal.”

 

“I’d like that, Frank.” Edith blushes. Then, returning the conversation to her parents and their opinion of Frank, she continues, “And you and Dad have a common interest in reading.”

 

“I don’t think your dad and I quite have the same taste in reading.” Frank looked doubtfully at Edith.

 

“That may be true, Frank, but you didn’t hear Dad complaining about you reading to better yourself. Mum might not believe in improving your lot in life so much, but Dad does, and that puts you in better stead for being a prospect for his only daughter.”

 

“You’re always so positive, Edith.” Frank remarks, looking in admiration at his sweetheart. “I really need to take a leaf out of your book.”

 

“Well, life isn’t always perfect, but I think you make of it what you want. And I’d like to make my life with you, Frank, so we better use those advantages that you have, to further your cause. Not that you’re proposing marriage any time soon.”

 

“Not right now I’m not, not that I don’t want to, but…”

 

“I know.” Edith nods. “You just want to be able to support me, and you can’t just at the moment. It will give us both a chance to save up some money. And by the time we’ve done that, you’ll have won both Dad and Mum over with your natural charm and care and consideration for me.”

 

“Oh!” Frank exclaims, tapping the crown of his straw boater as he does. “Thinking of care and consideration, I nearly forgot!”

 

He reaches down into a Willison’s Grocery bag at his feet. As his hands slip into its interior, the bag crumples nosily in protestation. He foists out a large white cardboard box on which is printed the words ‘happy Easter’ in pale green cursive copperplate script and the drawing of a large pink carnation. Through a window in the front, Edith can see a large Cadbury Easter egg******* wrapped in pretty green foil.

 

“Happy Easter Edith!” Frank says, presenting her with the Easter egg with a flourish.

 

“Oh Frank!” Edith gasps in return, taking the presentation box in her hands and looking at the egg in reverence. “But this is such an extravagance. I know Mr. Willison has been selling these for three and six!”

 

“Well, I’ll have you know that you aren’t the only person in London capable of haggling a better price, Miss Watsford!” Frank replies, sitting up with more of a straight back on the bench, smiling proudly. “In fact, I saved myself so much money buying this Easter egg for you that I think I can afford to take you for a slap-up tea at Lyon’s Corner House********.

 

Frank stands up and doffing his straw boater with one hand, he bows and offers his hand to Edith with a winning smile. “Shall we then, Miss Watsford?”

 

Taking his hand and rising, she replies, “With pleasure Mr. Leadbetter.”

 

Edith smiles at the thought as she snuggles into Frank’s side. And leaving the empty wooden bench, the pair walk away down the path towards the Peter Pan statue arm in arm as happily as two young lovers walking out together could be, meandering across Kensington Gardens.

 

*The statue of Peter Pan is a 1912 bronze sculpture of J. M. Barrie's character Peter Pan. It was commissioned by Barrie and made by Sir George Frampton. The original statue is displayed in Kensington Gardens, to the west of The Long Water, close to Barrie's former home on Bayswater Road.

 

**Hampstead Heath (locally known simply as the Heath) is a large, ancient London heath, covering 320 hectares (790 acres). This grassy public space sits astride a sandy ridge, one of the highest points in London, running from Hampstead to Highgate, which rests on a band of London Clay. The heath is rambling and hilly, embracing ponds, recent and ancient woodlands, a lido, playgrounds, and a training track, and it adjoins the former stately home of Kenwood House and its estate. The south-east part of the heath is Parliament Hill, from which the view over London is protected by law.

 

***Fairs have been held on Hampstead Heath since the mid 1800s, covering vast areas of East Heath to Spaniard’s Road. Before that, there had been fairs at Flask Walk in Hampstead since the 17th century, and another flourished in West End until it was shut down for rowdiness in 1820. The popularity of the fairs on the Heath exploded after 1871 when, just after the Hampstead Heath Act, the Bank Holidays Act created four public days’ rest. The Heath’s Bank Holiday fairs regularly attracted upward of 30,000 people at the August holiday, and 50,000 on Whit Mondays. Attendance records were broken when an estimated 200,000 people descended on the Heath one Easter Monday!

 

****A rookery is a dense collection of housing, especially in a slum area. The rookeries created in Victorian times in London’s East End were notorious for their cheapness, filth and for being overcrowded.

 

*****Rabble-rouse, “to stir up the public’s emotions,” is a back formation from rabble-rouser, which is a compound of the noun rabble, “a disorderly crowd,” and the verb rouse, “to stir to anger.” Rabble is of uncertain origin, but it may be related to Middle Dutch rabbelen, “to speak hurriedly.” An earlier sense of rouse was “to shake the feathers” and referred to hawks, and while the origin of rouse is equally uncertain, one hypothesis is a connection to Latin recūsāre, meaning “to demur, object,” which is the source of English recuse. The term rabble-rouser came into use in the early Twentieth Century, but really became more modern parlance from mid-century.

 

******The Italian quarter of London, known commonly today as “Little Italy” is an Italian ethnic enclave in London. Little Italy’s core historical borders are usually placed at Clerkenwell Road, Farringdon Road and Rosebery Avenue - the Saffron Hill area of Clerkenwell. Clerkenwell spans Camden Borough and Islington Borough. Saffron Hill and St. Peter’s Italian Catholic Church fall within the Camden side. However, even though this was the traditional enclave for Italians, immigrants moved elsewhere in London, bleeding into areas like Islington and Soho where they established bars, cafes and restaurants which sold Italian cuisine and wines.

 

*******One of the most iconic brands in existence, Cadbury’s distinctive purple and white logo has been a stalwart image on confectionery shelves across the UK for over a century - and never more so than at Easter. They first began following the tradition already established by some of the great European chocolatiers and began producing chocolate Easter eggs in 1875. Cadbury’s began in 1824 when John Cadbury opened a shop in Bull Street selling, among other things cocoa and drinking chocolate, which he prepared himself using a pestle and mortar. The Cadbury manufacturing business was born in 1831, when John Cadbury decided to start producing on a commercial scale and bought a four-storey warehouse in nearby Crooked Lane. Only a few years later in 1875 Cadbury produced their first Easter egg. The earliest eggs were made with dark chocolate and had a smooth, plain surface. They were filled with sugar-coated chocolate drops known as 'dragees’. By 1923, when this story is set, Cadbury were producing beautifully decorated milk and dark chocolate eggs in elaborate boxes decorated with the imagery of Easter. Whilst large baskets and intricately decorated cardboard presentation shells for Cadbury's Easter eggs used for those eggs promoted to the upper classes, cheaper versions that were still very beautiful were available for those of lesser means to help promote the brand of Cadbury for special occasions, like Christmas and Easter in every household across the Empire.

 

********J. Lyons and Co. was a British restaurant chain, food manufacturing, and hotel conglomerate founded in 1884 by Joseph Lyons and his brothers in law, Isidore and Montague Gluckstein. Lyons’ first teashop opened in Piccadilly in 1894, and from 1909 they developed into a chain of teashops, with the firm becoming a staple of the High Street in the United Kingdom. At its peak the chain numbered around two hundred cafes. The teashops provided for tea and coffee, with food choices consisting of hot dishes and sweets, cold dishes and sweets, and buns, cakes and rolls. Lyons' Corner Houses, which first appeared in 1909 and remained until 1977, were noted for their Art Deco style. Situated on or near the corners of Coventry Street, Strand and Tottenham Court Road, they and the Maison Lyonses at Marble Arch and in Shaftesbury Avenue were large buildings on four or five floors, the ground floor of which was a food hall with counters for delicatessen, sweets and chocolates, cakes, fruit, flowers and other products. In addition, they possessed hairdressing salons, telephone booths, theatre booking agencies and at one period a twice-a-day food delivery service. On the other floors were several restaurants, each with a different theme and all with their own musicians. For a time, the Corner Houses were open twenty-four hours a day, and at their peak each branch employed around four hundred staff including their famous waitresses, commonly known as Nippies for the way they nipped in and out between the tables taking orders and serving meals. The tea houses featured window displays, and, in the post-war period, the Corner Houses were smarter and grander than the local tea shops. Between 1896 and 1965 Lyons owned the Trocadero, which was similar in size and style to the Corner Houses.

 

Although it may look life-sized to you, this idyllic scene is in fact comprised of pieces from my miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The foil wrapped Easter egg in its presentation box is a 1:12 artisan miniature that I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom, which is also where the bench came from.

 

Edith’s pretty straw picture hat decorated with a real fabric ribbon and artificial flowers is an artisan piece and was acquired through Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders miniature shop in the United Kingdom. 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable. Although not as expensive, Frank’s straw boater also comes from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders miniature shop in the United Kingdom.

 

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

 

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

 

The setting for this scene is my rear garden, and you can see my circular lawn edged by a garden path in the distance. I think it makes a splendid stand in for the lovely surrounds of London’s Kensington Gardens.

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

 

Tonight however we have headed east of Cavendish Mews, down through St James’, past Trafalgar Square and down The Strand to one of London’s most luxurious and fashionable hotels, The Savoy*, where, surrounded by mahogany and rich red velvet, gilded paintings and extravagant floral displays, Lettice is having dinner with the son of the Duke of Walmsford, Selwyn Spencely. The pair have made valiant attempts to pursue a romantic relationship since meeting at Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie’s, Hunt Ball the previous year. Yet things haven’t been easy, their relationship moving in fits and starts, partially due to the invisible, yet very strong influence of Selwyn’s mother, Lady Zinnia, the current Duchess of Walmsford. Although Lettice has no solid proof of it, she is quite sure that Lady Zinnia does not think her a suitable match for her eldest son and heir. From what she has been told, Lettice also believes that Lady Zinnia is matchmaking Selwyn with his cousin Pamela Fox-Chavers. In an effort to see what her potential rival for Selwyn’s affections is like, Lettice organised an ‘accidental’ meeting of she, Pamela and Selwyn at the Royal Horticultural Society’s Great Spring Show** a few weeks ago. As a result of this meeting, Selwyn has finally agreed to explain to Lettice his evident reluctance to introduce her to his mother as a potentially suitable match. Yet as she walks beneath the grand new Art Deco portico of the Savoy and the front doors are opened for her by liveried doormen, Lettice is amazed that surrounded by so many fashionable people, Selwyn thinks the Savoy dining room is the place to have a discreet dinner, especially after they have been very discreet about their relationship for the past year.

 

Lettice is ushered into the grand dining room of the Savoy, a space brilliantly illuminated by dozens of glittering electrified chandeliers cascading down like fountains from the high ceiling above. Beneath the sparkling light, men in white waistcoats and women a-glitter with jewels and bugle bead embroidered frocks are ushered into the dining room where they are seated in high backed mahogany and red velvet chairs around tables dressed in crisp white tablecloths and set with sparkling silver and gilt china. The large room is very heavily populated with theatre patrons enjoying a meal before a show and London society out for an evening. The space is full of vociferous conversation, boisterous laughter, the clink of glasses and the scrape of cutlery against crockery as the diners enjoy the magnificent repast served to them from the hotel’s famous kitchens. Above it all, the notes of the latest dance music from the band can be heard as they entertain diners and dancers who fill the parquet dance floor.

 

A smartly uniformed waiter escorts Lettice to a table for two in the midst of the grand dining salon, where Selwyn, dressed in smart white tie stands and greets Lettice.

 

“My Angel!” he gasps, admiring her as she stands before him in a champagne coloured silk crepe gown decorated with sequins with a matching bandeau set amidst her Marcelled** hair. “Don’t you look ravishing!”

 

“Thank you, Selwyn.” Lettice purrs in pleasure as she allows the waiter to carefully slide the seat of the chair beneath her as she sits. “That’s very kind of you to say so.” She gracefully tugs at her elbow length white evening gloves.

 

Sparkling golden French champagne is poured into their crystal flutes from a bottle sitting in a silver cooler on the linen covered table by their obsequious waiter. The expansive menu is consulted with Lettice selecting Pied de Veau*** and Selwyn choosing Cambridge Sausages**** both dishes served with a light Salade Romaine*****. Polite conversation is exchanged between the two. Lettice is given congratulations on the great success of the publication of her article in ‘Country Life’******, which Selwyn has finally seen. Selwyn is asked how Pamela’s coming out ball went. The pair dance elegantly around the true reason they are there.

 

It is only when a large silver salver of cheeses is put down and they are served Vol-au-Vent de Volaille à la Royale******* on the stylish gilt edged white plates of the Savoy that Lettice finally plucks up the courage to start the conversation that they have been trying to avoid.

 

Cutting a small piece of flaky golden pastry and spearing it with a piece of tenderly cooked chicken and a head of mushroom Lettice inserts it into her mouth and sighs with delight.

 

“There is nothing nicer than dinner at the Savoy, is there my Angel?” Selwyn addresses his dinner partner.

 

“Indeed no,” Lettice agrees after swallowing her dainty mouthful. “However, I must confess that I was surprised that you chose the Savoy dining room for us to meet. It’s the most indiscreet place to have a discreet dinner.” She deposits her polished silver cutlery onto the slightly scalloped edge of her plate. “We’ve been so careful up until now, choosing places where we are less likely to garner attention. Here we sit amongst all the most fashionable people of London society. There are bound to be friends of both your parents and mine who will see us sitting here together at a table for two.” She glances around at the bejewel decorated ladies looking like exotic birds in their brightly coloured frocks and feathers and their smartly attired male companions. “There are even photographers here this evening.”

 

“I know my Angel.” Selwyn replies matter-of-factly before putting a small amount of his own vol-au-vent into his mouth.

 

“Whilst I know my mother won’t mind seeing my name associated with yours, or a picture of the two of us together at the Savoy,” She glances nervously at Selwyn as he serenely chews his second course. “I thought we were trying to avoid Zinnia’s attention.”

 

Selwyn finishes his mouthful and then takes a slip of champagne before elucidating somewhat mysteriously. “A change of plans, my Angel.”

 

“A change of plans, Selwyn?” Lettice queries, running her white evening glove clad fingers over the pearls at her throat as she worries them. “What does that mean? I don’t understand.”

 

“You and I have had some rather awkward conversations over my refusal to introduce you to Zinnia, haven’t we, Lettice?”

 

“We have, darling Selwyn. And I thought that was what we were going to talk about this evening.”

 

“And so we will, but I also want this evening to be a statement of intention.”

 

“A statement of intention?” Lettice’s heart suddenly starts to beat faster as she licks her lips.

 

“Yes. . I invited you here this evening because it is one of the most fashionably public places to be seen. I want people to see us together this evening, my darling, whether it be Zinnia’s spies amongst us, or just the general citizenry of society. I also thought that since there is a rather ripping band playing tonight, that you and I might cut a rug******** a bit later and that perhaps we might get photographed. Zinnia won’t want to meet you, unless your presence is waved in front of her like a red rag to a bull.”

 

“I’m not sure I like that term when used in conjunction with your mother, Selwyn darling.” Lettice says warily.

 

“But it’s true. For all her forthrightness and ferocity, Zinnia is very good at playing ostriches when she wishes, and pretending not to see things she doesn’t want to see.” Selwyn explains before taking another sip of champagne. “I should have done this earlier, like when we agreed that I would escort you to your friend Priscilla’s wedding in November last year. However, I wasn’t man enough to stand up to her. Now I want to make a statement about you, about us,” He reaches out and places his pale and elegant right hand bearing a small signet ring over Lettice’s evening glove clad left hand, staring Lettice directly in the eye. “And I need Zinnia to sit up and take notice.”

 

Lettice picks up her champagne flute in her right hand and quickly sips as small amount of the effervescent beverage to whet her suddenly dry throat. She considers what Selwyn has just said along with other things people have said to her about Selwyn and Lady Zinnia over the last year since she reacquainted herself with Selwyn.

 

“The day I attended Priscilla’s wedding without you,” Lettice begins. “I met Sir John Nettleford-Hughes.”

 

“Sir John!” Selwyn scoffs, releasing Lettice’s hand, leaving a warm patch that Lettice can still feel through the thin fabric of her white glove. “He’s one of Zinnia’s cronies. I’m quite sure that they had,” Selwyn pauses whilst he finds the right word. “An understanding, shall we say, when they were both younger.” He looks at Lettice again. “I hope I didn’t shock you, my Angel.”

 

“Not at all, Selwyn darling.” Lettice assures him. “After all, I am twenty-three now, and a lady who has set forth into the world.”

 

“I’m glad my Angel. I’d never want to shock you with something like that.”

 

“It doesn’t shock me, Selwyn darling, but it would explain some things he said to me that day when I was cornered by him.”

 

“Cornered?”

 

“Yes. I now think he deliberately sought me out and cornered me so he could tell me what he did.”

 

“What did Sir John say?” Selwyn queries.

 

“I didn’t really pay that much attention to it,” Lettice begins, glancing down at her partially eaten vol-au-vent. “At least not at first. I thought he was just spitting venom at me because I spurned his affections the evening of Mater’s Hunt Ball when I met you.”

 

“What did he say?” Selwyn presses anxiously.

 

“When I explained your absence as my escort – he only knew because he is related to Cilla’s mother and she had been crowing to him about your attendance at the wedding – he laughed when I said that you were at Clendon********* meeting Pamela. He said it was not a coincidence that you were forced to cancel your own plans in preference for spending time with your cousin. He said that your mother had orchestrated it.”

 

“And so she had, my Angel.” Selwyn conforms. “And that is why I said that I should have been more of a man and stood up to Zinnia at that time. However,” He releases a pent up breath which he exhales shudderingly. “Zinnia is not someone to cross, especially when she is determined, or in a foul mood, of which she was both.”

 

“Sir John said that even though we had been discreet about spending time together, that your mother already knew about our assignations.”

 

“I would imagine him to be quite correct.”

 

“I accused him of telling her, but he denied it.”

 

“I would doubt that even as a crony of Zinnia, he would have had the pleasure of breaking the news of your existence as a potential future daughter-in-law to her. Zinnia’s talons reach far and wide, and her spies exist in some of the most unlikely places. What else did Sir John have to say?”

 

“He said that your mother is the one who would undoubtedly arrange your marriage to suit her own wishes. He implied that I ought not tip my cap at you since you were not free to make your own decision when it came to the subject of marriage. He said that even your father wouldn’t cross your mother on that front.”

 

Selwyn chuckles sadly. “Sir John is well informed.”

 

“So it’s true then?”

 

“What is, darling?”

 

“That you aren’t free to marry.”

 

“No, of course not. Not even Zinnia with all her bluster can force me to marry someone I don’t want to.”

 

Lettice releases a breath she didn’t even realise she was holding in her chest beneath the silk crepe and sparkling beading of her gown.

 

“However, Zinnia and my Uncle Bertrand have their own plans as regards Pammy and her relationship to me, and they are both applying pressure to both of us.”

 

“Sir John said that too.” Lettice utters deflatedly.

 

“I should like to point out, my Angel, that I was not aware as to the plans and plotting afoot for Pammy and I when I met you again at your mother’s ball.” Selwyn assures Lettice. “I didn’t even know about it in the lead up to Priscilla’s wedding. It was only that weekend at Clendon when I was first reintroduced to Pammy and I inadvertently overheard snippets of private conversations Zinnia and my uncle that I realised that they had been hatching their plot to bind us into a marriage of convenience to bind our families closer together for almost as long as Pammy has been alive.”

 

“So this wasn’t something new, then?”

 

“It was to me, Lettice darling, but not to them. Do you remember I told you at the Great Spring Show that my real aunt, Bertrand’s first wife, Miranda, was a bolter**********?”

 

“Yes Selwyn.”

 

“And that he fled to America and that was where he met Rosalind?”

 

“Yes Selwyn.”

 

“Well, the reason why he fled to New York was because the failure of his marriage to Miranda and her desertion of him led to quite a scandal. The scandal clung to Pammy, long after Miranda was gone, and I think after a he married Rosalind, being connected to an element of scandal herself, being a divorcée, she hatched the plan with Uncle Bertrand and Zinnia with Pammy’s social well being at heart.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well, I mean that from the outside, there is nothing unusual or untoward about two distant cousins marrying. The fact that the Spencely and Fox-Chavers happen to be two very distinguished and wealthy old families who would doubtless look to intermarry across the generations also throws off any whiff of scandal.”

 

“Are you saying they planned to marry you two so that Pamela would be untarnished by her mother’s actions?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“But how is the child responsible for her mother’s sins, Selwyn?”

 

“You know as well as I do, coming from a family as old and well established as your own, Lettice, that scandal sticks like glue.”

 

“Then why throw a ball for Pamela? Why introduce her to society?”

 

“Because as the next Duke of Walmsford, it is only fitting that I should marry a suitable girl from a suitable family who has been presented in society. Certain families won’t allow their daughters to socialise with poor Pammy, and I’m quite sure that whilst they send their eligible sons, just as many would never countenance a marriage between them and Pammy.”

 

“So if Pamela marries well, into a family who would welcome her, she is absolved of any wrongdoings of her mother. There is no whiff of scandal and she rises above reproach.”

 

“Exactly.” Selwyn sighs. “Clever girl.”

 

Lettice takes a larger than usual gulp of champagne as she allows the thoughts just formed from their conversation to sink in. “And how does Pamela feel about this? Does she even know that she is being matched with you, Selwyn?”

 

“Yes she does,” Selwyn explains. “Although I was the one who told her. However, like me, she has no desire to see us to get married. She barely knows me, and both of us treat each other like siblings rather than potential romantic marriage prospects.”

 

“Does she know why your mother, aunt and uncle hatched this plan?”

 

“Well,” Selwyn replies uncertainly. “She knows her mother deserted Uncle Bertrand, but I don’t think she realises that Miranda’s legacy to her is a tainted one, and I’m quite sure she doesn’t know about some of the other debutante’s families attitudes towards her because of Miranda’s actions.”

 

“So what is she to do, if no decent bachelor will have her, and you won’t marry her?”

 

“I didn’t say that no eligible bachelors would consider marriage with Pammy, Angel, only some.” Selwyn says with a smile. “And half of those who won’t marry her would only have wanted to marry her for her money.”

 

“You sound as if you know something.” Lettice remarks, giving her dinner partner a perplexed look.

 

“Oh I wouldn’t go as far as to say that, my Angel.” he replies mysteriously.

 

“So, what would you say then, Selwyn darling?” Lettice prods.

 

“I’d go so far as to say that being the happy and pretty young thing that she is, Pammy is in no short supply of admirers whose families would overlook her mother’s status as a bolter.”

 

“Because they want to marry her for her Fox-Chavers money?”

 

“Well, there are a few of those, I’ll admit,” Selwyn agrees. “But that is why her dear cousin Selwyn is escorting her to all these rather tedious London Season occasions. I can keep those wolves away. However even if we discount them, there are still a few rather decent chaps who are vying for Pammy’s attentions.”

 

“Are there any that Pamela is interested in?” Lettice asks hopefully.

 

“As a matter of fact there are two young prospects whom she is quite keen on, or so she confides in me.”

 

“Oh that’s wonderful, Selwyn!” Lettice deposits her glass on the linen covered surface of the table and claps her hands in delight, beaming with a smile of happy relief. The her face falls. “But then, what are we all to do? Hasn’t your mother charged you with chaperoning Pamela throughout the Season?”

 

“Well, that was the other reason why I decided to bring you to the Savoy, my Angel.” Selwyn remarks. “We need to be seen together about town, and the best way to do that is to be seen at the functions and places that will be popular because they are part of the London Season, like cricket matches at Lords, and the Henley Regatta************.”

 

“And the Goodwood races!” adds Lettice with enthusiasm. “And Cowes week************!”

 

“That’s the spirit, my Angel!” Selwyn encourages her with equal enthusiasm. “Zinnia has charged me with chaperoning Pammy for her own end, but we will use the Season to thwart her with our own ends in mind.”

 

“Oh Selwyn, how clever you are! What a darling you are!”

 

Just at that time, the waiter who served them their vol-au-vents and player of cheese approaches the table. Noticing their half eaten meals and their cutlery sitting idle, he tentatively asks, “Shall I clear now, Your Grace?”

 

“If you would fetch us clean plates and cutlery for the cheese.” Selwyn replies. “Which I think we shall enjoy after a turn on the dancefloor. Don’t you agree, my Angel?” He stands up, pushing his chair back and offering Lettice his hand.

 

“I do indeed, Selwyn darling!” Lettice pulls her napkin from her lap and drops it on the tabletop.

 

The waiter pulls out Lettice’s chair, and taking Selwyn’s hand, Lettice allows him to lead her proudly across the dining room of the Savoy. Pairs of eyes note the handsome young couple and lips whisper behind glove clad hands and fans as remarks are made as to who they are and that they appear to be together as a couple, yet for the first time since the night of her mother’s Hunt ball, Lettice doesn’t care what people are thinking or saying. She feels light, as though floating on a cloud, and as she falls comfortably into Selwyn’s strong arms and they begin to sway to the music, she feels proud to be with Selwyn: the man she is falling in love with, and who intends to marry her.

 

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

 

**May 20 1913 saw the first Royal Horticultural Society flower show at Chelsea. What we know today as the Chelsea Flower Show was originally known as the Great Spring Show. The first shows were three day events held within a single marquee. The King and Queen did not attend in 1913, but the King's Mother, Queen Alexandra, attended with two of her children. The only garden to win a gold medal before the war was also in 1913 and was awarded to a rock garden created by John Wood of Boston Spa. In 1919, the Government demanded that the Royal Horticultural Society pay an entertainment tax for the show – with resources already strained, it threatened the future of the Chelsea Flower Show. Thankfully, this was wavered once the Royal Horticultural Society convinced the Government that the show had educational benefit and in 1920 a special tent was erected to house scientific exhibits. Whilst the original shows were housed within one tent, the provision of tents increased after the Great War ended. A tent for roses appeared and between 1920 and 1934, there was a tent for pictures, scientific exhibits and displays of garden design. Society garden parties began to be held, and soon the Royal Horticultural Society’s Great Spring Show became a fixture of the London social calendar in May, attended by society ladies and their debutante daughters, the occasion used to parade the latter by the former. The Chelsea Flower Show, though not so exclusive today, is still a part of the London Season.

 

***Pied de Veau is a dish of calves feet served in a thick creamy chicken sauce, often served with carrots and onions.

 

****Cambridge Sausages are made from coarse ground lean and fatty pork with binder (rice in some receipts) and a heavy admixture of sweet spices such as mace, ginger and nutmeg, linked, in medium skins.

 

*****Salade Romaine is a salad made of Romaine lettuce, cherry tomatoes, cucumbers, red onions, parmesan cheese, and a delicious olive garden dressing.

 

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

 

*******Vol-au-Vent de Volaille à la Royale is a dish of sliced chicken with mushroom and quenelles cooked in a cream sauce served in a puff pastry casing. The Savoy’s kitchens were famous for their deliciously light and tasty vol-au-vent selections, with 1920s menus often containing a selection of four to six varieties as plats du jour.

 

********The term “cutting a rug” emerged in the 1920s from American culture and became common parlance on both sides of the Atlantic by the 1930s. It came about because of African American couples doing the Lindy Hop (also known as the Jitterbug). This was vigorous, highly athletic dancing that when done continuously in one area made the carpet appear as though it was “cut” or “gashed”. Selwyn using this language would have been at the front of the latest fashion for exciting youthful language from America.

 

*********Clendon is the family seat of the Duke and Duchess of Walmsford in Buckinghamshire.

 

**********A Bolter is old British slang for a woman who ended her marriage by running away with another man.

 

***********The Henley Royal regatta is a leisurely “river carnival” on the Thames. It was at heart a rowing race, first staged in 1839 for amateur oarsmen, but soon became another fixture on the London social calendar. Boating clubs competed, and were not exclusively British, and the event was well known for its American element. Evenings were capped by boat parties and punts, the air filled with military brass bands and illuminated by Chinese lanterns. Dress codes were very strict: men in collars, ties and jackets (garishly bright ties and socks were de rigueur in the 1920s) and crisp summer frocks, matching hats and parasols for the ladies.

 

************Cowes Week is one of the longest-running regular regattas in the world, and a fixture of the London Season. With forty daily sailing races, up to one thousand boats, and eight thousand competitors ranging from Olympic and world-class professionals to weekend sailors, it is the largest sailing regatta of its kind in the world. Having started in 1826, the event is held in August each year on the Solent (the area of water between southern England and the Isle of Wight made tricky by strong double tides). It is focussed on the small town of Cowes on the Isle of Wight.

 

This splendid array of cheeses on the table would doubtless be enough to please anyone, but I suspect that even if you ate each cheese and biscuit on this silver tray, you would still come away hungry. This is because they, like everything in this scene, are in reality 1:12 size miniatures from my miniatures collection, including pieces from my childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau:

 

The silver tray of biscuits have been made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. The cheeses and the vol-au-vents come from Beautifully handmade Miniatures in Kettering, as do the two slightly scalloped white gilt plates and the wonderful golden yellow roses in the vase on the table. The cutlery I acquired through Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. The silver champagne cooler on the table is made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The bottle of champagne itself is hand made from glass and is an artisan miniature made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The bottle is De Rochegré champagne, identified by the careful attention paid to recreating the label in 1:12 scale. The two glasses of sparkling champagne are made of real glass and were made by Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The two red velvet upholstered high back chairs I have had since I was six years old. They were a birthday present given to me by my grandparents.

 

The painting in the background in its gilded frame is a 1:12 artisan piece made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States.

 

The red wallpaper is beautiful artisan paper given to me by a friend, who has encouraged me to use a selection of papers she has given me throughout the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

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

 

Today however, we are south of the Thames in the middle-class London suburb of Putney in the front room of a red brick Edwardian villa in Hazelwood Road, where Lettice has come to see her childhood chum Gerald’s friend, Harriet Milford. The orphaned daughter of a solicitor with little formal education, Harriet has taken in theatrical lodgers to earn a living, but more importantly for Lettice, has taken up millinery semi-professionally to give her some pin money*. As Harriet made Lettice a fetching picture hat for her brother Leslie’s wedding in November, Lettice thought that Harriet might benefit as much from her patronage as Lettice herself will by commissioning a new millinery creation for the wedding of Lettice’s friend Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon** who is marrying the Duke of York*** in a few months.

 

As the taxi she has taken from Mayfair putters away down the street, Lettice pushes on the black painted wrought iron gate flanked by two capped red brick pillars. It protests shrilly with the squeal of hinges as she opens it. She sighs and walks up the garden path snaking across a well clipped lawn. Lettice can hear the notes of an oboe being played as she walks.

 

“Coo-ee, Lettice darling!” comes a bright, rather effeminate call from above as the oboe music abruptly stops. Shading her eyes from the sun as she looks up, and peers to the roofline where she can see Cyril, one of Harriet’s theatrical lodgers, leaning out of his open oriel bedroom window above, waving madly. “Hattie! Hattie, Lettice is here!” he calls down over his shoulder. As well as being Harriet’s tenant, it has also come to light in more recent times that he is Gerald’s younger lover, and Lettice worries about Cyril’s indiscretion at being a homosexual, in comparison to Gerald who is very appropriately circumspect about his inclinations.

 

Without replying, she smiles and waves weakly in an understated way, embarrassed at being called to from above like a butcher’s boy or some other domestic. She glances around to make sure no-one has seen the interaction, not that there would be anyone she would likely know or run into in her upper-class circles in middle-class Hazelwood Road, Putney.

 

She goes to depress the doorbell next to the front door, but as she does, it is flung open exuberantly by Harriet, her mousy brown hair framing her pretty face, her bright print frock covered by a white cotton pinny, looking rather like the maids Lettice is used to answering doors for her, rather than mistress of the house she is about to enter. “How do you do, Miss Chetwynd!” she says brightly.

 

“Miss Milford.” Lettice replies with a pinched smile and a curt not of her head.

 

“Lord love Cyril, eh?” Harriet beams, glancing up, wincing into the unusually sunny sky above. “Who needs a doorbell when you can have an oboist trumpet your arrival. Right, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“Err, quite.” Lettice says awkwardly.

 

“Right this way Miss Chetwynd.” Harriet says with a genuine smile of pleasure at receiving Lettice. “Well, you know the way.” she adds, flinging open the first door on the left side of the hallway and indicating with an extended arm for Lettice to enter her parlour cum salon. “I’ve got the kettle on already, and you can be the first to sample my freshly made fruitcake.”

 

“The second, actually, Hattie.” a rather deep and drooping male voice annunciates clearly. From behind Harriet’s shoulder, a mature man with white hair and an impressive, expertly waxed handlebar moustache appears dressed in full evening attire with a top hat in his hand. “I just appropriated a slice from the kitchen table on my way out. Good of you to cut it for me in anticipation of my expedient departure.”

 

“Oh you cheeky boy!” Harriet slaps the older gentleman on the forearm playfully. “Without even so much as a by-your leave!”

 

Eyeing Lettice standing in the hallway dressed in her powder blue three quarter length coat and matching hat with a large arctic fox fur wrapped around her neck and draped down her front, the man asks, “And who have we here Hattie, my dear? An ingénue come to steal away the hearts of your bevvy of lead actors?”

 

“No lady will ever steal your heart away!” she scoffs.

 

“Never a truer word was spoken, my dear.” He puts a hand to his mouth. “But a great thespian can put on a convincing act.”

 

“Miss Chetwynd, may I present Mr. Charles Dunnage.” Harriet announces. “Charles, this is the Honourable Miss Lettice Chetwynd.”

 

“The honour,” Charles replies. “Is all mine, dear lady.” Taking up Lettice’s kid glove clad hand in his own white evening glove clad ones, he raises it dramatically to his lips and kisses it.

 

“Oh, get away with you, Charles!” Harriet laughs. “We don’t want Miss Chetwynd thinking she’s entered a home for retired theatrical lunatics.” She turns to Lettice. “Sorry, Miss Chetwynd. Charles is a Shakespearean actor at the Old Vic****. I…”

 

“How many times must I tell you, Hattie!” Charles huffs irritably, suddenly animating his shoulders, making them rise and fall with every syllable. “I’m a thespian,” He emphasises the word with reverence. “Not an actor.” He spits the last word out like an insult. “He’s an actor.” He points upwards with his cane to the plastered ceiling above, where the sound of Cyril’s oboe playing can be heard. “Only true thespians can perform the works of the Great Bard. Anyone can be an actor, and anyone is!” He arches his eyebrows, causing her brow to furrow in folds of pale white flesh.

 

The oboe playing stops. “I can hear you, you know, Charlie Boy!” Cyril calls down from above.

 

Charles shudders. “Like I was saying, my dears,” he pronounces loudly so that Cyril can hear. “Anyone can be an actor, however only some of us have the strength of character to be a thespian!” Looking at Lettice he continues conspiratorially in a more moderately toned voice. “My dear Miss Chetwynd, I suggest you flee this den of iniquity and retreat to the salubrious surrounds from whence you came, before you are swept into the maelstrom of actors that pass through this door.”

 

Stunned into silence by his dramatic and verbose statement, Lettice can only look the older man in the face with wide eyes and a closed mouth.

 

“Oh get on with you, Charles,” Harriet laughs good naturedly. “Or you’ll be late for rehearsals. You don’t want to miss your train. When shall I be expecting you?”

 

“I’ll be home around eleven, my dear, but don’t feel you have to wait up. I have my latch key.” He reached into his pocket and pulls out a key tied to a russet coloured ribbon which he dangles from his finger.

 

“Right you are then, Charles. See you later then.”

 

And with a bow, the older man dons his top hat and sweeps down the garden path, his black evening cape billowing behind him.

 

“You must really think I run a theatrical madhouse, Miss Chetwynd.” Harriet says apologetically with a shake of her head as both women watch Charles slip out the gate. “Please do go in and make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back in a jiffy***** with tea and what cake is left that Charles hasn’t yet consumed.”

 

Stepping across the threshold of the room, Lettice’s critical eye again glances around the front parlour of the Putney villa, which doubles as Harriet’s sewing room and show room for her hats. She crinkles her nose in distaste. She finds the room’s middle-class chintzy décor an affront to her up-to-date interior design sensitivities, with its flouncy floral Edwardian sofa and roomy armchair by the fire, a pouffe hand embroidered by Harriet’s deceased mother and the busy Edwardian floral wallpaper covered with a mixture of cheap botanical prints and quaint English country scenes, all in gaudy gilded plaster frames. Yet what makes it even worse is that it seems that no attempt has been made to tidy the room in spite of Lettice and Gerald’s constant nagging of Harriet to present her hats in an orderly space. Harriet’s concertina sewing box on casters still stands cascaded open next to the armchair, threads, embroidery silks, buttons and ribbons pouring from its compartments like entrails. Hats in different stages of being made up and decorated lie about on furniture or on the floor in a haphazard way along with baskets of millinery provisions. The brightly patterned rug is littered with spools of cotton, scissors, ribbon, artificial flowers and dogeared copies of Weldon’s****** magazines. Lettice usually sits on the rather lumpy and sagging overstuffed sofa, but today that is an impossibility, with the seats covered in cardboard hat boxs spewing forth a froth of white tissue paper and hats stacked upon them. She sighs irritably and remains standing amidst the chaos of the room, unable to take a seat.

 

“I really am grateful that you’ve come back to see me again, Miss Chetwynd!” Harriet gushes as she steps across the threshold into the parlour carrying her wooden tray on which stand tea things for two and a silver platter with several slices of dark fruitcake on it. “You were true to your word, telling people at your brother’s wedding about who made your hat, and I’ve already had an order from a Mrs. Minchinbury and her sister, Miss Rentoul.”

 

Harriet unloads the teapot, milk jug and sugar bowl onto a small hexagonal Indian table, and whilst balancing the tray on the edge of her deceased father’s former chess table, she pushes aside cotton threads, ribbons, a tape measure and a pair of scissors in the shape of a stork with her elbow to make room for the teacups and the tray of fruitcake slices, which Lettice notices rest upon a pretty lace doily.

 

“Ahh yes, they are my second cousins on my mother’s side.” Lettice says.

 

“And a Miss Eglantine Chetwynd from Little Venice, who I believe is your aunt.”

 

“She is, Miss Milford.” Lettice smiles.

 

“Please do sit down, Miss Chetwynd,” Harriet says as she leans the tray against the flounced edge of the sofa. “There’s no need to stand on ceremony here.”

 

“I’d be happy to, if only I had a place to sit, Miss Milford.” Lettice remarks crisply.

 

“Oh!” Harriet’s eyes grow wide. “Sorry, Miss Chetwynd,” she mutters apologetically as she quickly whisks a tangle of ribbons off the salon chair she uses when at her sewing machine onto the floor and draws it up to the Indian and chess tables. “I know you and Gerry keep telling me, but, well as you can see, I still haven’t had an opportunity to tidy up in here yet. I just don’t seem to get the time.”

 

“It’s of no consequence, Miss Milford, so long as I can sit.” Lettice lies as she perches on the salon chair and hangs her crocodile skin handbag over its arm. “And I would imagine my Aunt Egg would have rather enjoyed the chaos of your theatrical household.”

 

“She did, Miss Chetwynd.” Harriet admits with a shy smile and a nod.

 

“Shall I be mother******* then, Miss Milford?” Lettice asks poignantly staring at the teapot.

 

“Oh no, Miss Chetwynd,” Harriet springs from her own seat in the overstuffed armchair. “I’ll do it.”

 

Resuming her line of conversation whilst Harriet pours tea into the two pre-war Edwardian style cups, Lettice says, “Of course Aunt Egg would like this because she is an artist. However the likes of my cousins, or some of the finer people, even more exalted and refined, you may yet encounter doubtless wouldn’t approve,” She waves her hand around her. “Of all this.”

 

“Well, Gerry tells me that I should give this place up and move to your side of the river.”

 

“Gerald’s suggestion is quite a prudent one, Miss Milford.” Lettice replies, taking her teacup and saucer and placing them on the closed lid of the top layer of Harriet’s concertina sewing box.

 

“But I can’t afford that,” Harriet admits as she resumes her own seat. “At least not until I know my hat making can support me.”

 

“Then I strongly suggest that you take Gerald’s and my advice and make the time to tidy up in here.” Lettice takes a sip of tea. “Not to be unkind, Miss Milford, but it’s slovenly, and if you want to be taken seriously as a milliner, you need to present a professional front. Surely there is an equally light and spacious room upstairs you can use as a workroom.”

 

“You’re quite right, Miss Chetwynd. That wasn’t unkind at all. It’s the truth,” She looks guiltily at Lettice. “And I know it. I’ll do better. I promise.”

 

“I should hope so, Miss Milford, for I have a commission for you, and if you take it up, which I hope you will,” Lettice pauses for a moment for impact. “It could lead to many more commissions from much finer people than my second cousins.”

 

“I’ll be delighted to accept, Miss Chetwynd.” Harriet says, moving forward slightly on her chair, her teacup and saucer perched on her knee, help in place by her hand. “What do you wish to commission?”

 

“Before I tell you, do I have your solemn promise of secrecy, at least for the time being?”

 

“Yes of course, Miss Chetwynd.” Harriet’s brow furrows with concern. “What on earth is it you want?”

 

“My friend, Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, is going to marry the Duke of York in a few months.”

 

“But the papers say she is supposed to marry the Prince of Wales********.”

 

“It’s not been officially announced yet,” Lettice interrupts Harriet’s spurt of unfounded gossip. “But it will be very shortly, that she will marry the Duke of York.” Her eyes widen a she nods at Harriet, making her statement of fact clear. “And I need a hat for the occasion, Miss Milford, but not that one.” She points to a hat of straw decorated with garlands of lace ribbons and faux flowers around its wide brim sitting in a hat stand on Harriet’s appropriated work table. “Who on earth is that for? It looks like something the Miss Evanses would wear to one of my mother’s tombolas.”

 

“Well, I’m not sure who the Miss Evanses are, Miss Chetwynd, but this hat is meant for Mrs. Leonowens who lives down the street. Her granddaughter is getting married next Wednesday. She was very particular about what kind of hat she wanted, and its trimmings.” Looking critically at the hat she adds. “I suppose she is a little old fashioned in her taste,” She shrugs. “But that’s what she wanted.”

 

“Well, I’m very relieved to hear you say that your Mrs. Leonowens decided what was to go on that hat, and not you.” Lettice says with a sigh of relief. “After the beautiful creation you made for me for Leslie’s wedding, I consider you to have more than an ounce of good taste,” Looking again around her critically she adds. “In clothing and hats at any rate.”

 

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Miss Chetwynd,” Harriet says somewhat warily, yet with a smile. “I take it that Gerry is going to design your frock for the royal wedding?”

 

“He is, Miss Milford. Although even I am still a little unclear of the exact date, I believe the wedding will be in late April or early May at Westminster Abbey, so a spring wedding. Gerald thinks that as Lady Elizabeth is quite romantic, and loves pastel colours, that I should wear peach floral crêpe de chine, which I’ve agreed to. What do you propose, Miss Milford?”

 

“Well, Gerry and I can chat more about this when he visits Cyril later in the week,” Harriet pauses. “I take it I can talk to Gerry about this? I’m not sworn to secrecy from him, am I?”

 

“Oh no, Miss Milford! Gerald knows Lady Elizabeth too, so he knows her news and will doubtless be on the guest list too.”

 

“Oh, that’s a relief!”

 

“But not Cyril, even if he and Gerald are…”

 

“Friends, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“Friends, Miss Milford, you mustn’t mention why you are making this hat for me, at last until after the official announcement of the engagement is made in the newspapers. I do not wish to be the source of more gossip. I know Lady Elizabeth is very irritated by the current rumours.”

 

“I doubt Cyril will care to ask why I’m making a hat for you, Miss Chetwynd, but if he asks, I shall make up an excuse. Now, if your friend Lady Elizabeth is romantic, and looking at her pictures in the papers, in keeping with your friend’s style and something that would suit you as well, I suggest a deeply crowned hat with a wide, poke style brim.” She gesticulates around her own head how wide the brim would be and how it would sit. “Stiffened of course.” she adds. She looks at Lettice’s expectant face. “Made of apricot felt, edged with the thinnest trim of white lace I think and ornamented with pink and orange taffeta roses. What do you think, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“That sounds quite splendid, Miss Milford!” Lettice says, returning her cup to her saucer and sitting back in her chair. “Yes, do it!”

 

“Splendid, Miss Chetwynd! It will be subtle and yet striking as well.” Harriet remarks. “You might even outshine the bride.” She giggles girlishly.

 

“I do hope not, Miss Milford.” Lettice replies, albeit with a slight smile.

 

“But secretly, you wouldn’t mind it if you did.” Harriet responds with a knowing look. “A slice of cake, Miss Chetwynd?” She holds out the silver tray on which lay four slices of rich, dark fruitcake with a thin layer of white marzipan icing.

 

Lettice saves herself from having to reply by putting the piece of cake to her lips and taking a bite of it, allowing the moist sliver to fall apart in her mouth.

 

*Originating in Seventeenth Century England, the term pin money first meant “an allowance of money given by a husband to his wife for her personal expenditures. Married women, who typically lacked other sources of spending money, tended to view an allowance as something quite desirable. By the Twentieth Century, the term had come to mean a small sum of money, whether an allowance or earned, for spending on inessentials, separate and in addition to the housekeeping money a wife might have to spend.

 

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

 

***Prince Albert, Duke of York, known by the diminutive “Bertie” to the family and close friends, was the second son of George V. Not only did Bertie propose to Elizabeth in 1921, but also in March 1922 after she was a bridesmaid at the wedding of Albert’s sister, Princess Mary to Viscount Lascelles. Elizabeth refused him a second time, yet undaunted Bertie pursued the girl who had stolen his heart. Finally, in January 1923 she agreed to marry him in spite of her misgivings about royal life.

 

****The Old Vic theatre in the London borough of Lambeth was formerly the home of a theatre company that became the nucleus of the National Theatre. The company’s theatre building opened in 1818 as the Royal Coburg and produced mostly popular melodramas. In 1833 it was redecorated and renamed the Royal Victoria and became popularly known as the Old Vic. Between 1880 and 1912, under the management of Emma Cons, a social reformer, the Old Vic was transformed into a temperance amusement hall known as the Royal Victoria Hall and Coffee Tavern, where musical concerts and scenes from Shakespeare and opera were performed. Lilian Baylis, Emma Cons’s niece, assumed management of the theatre in 1912 and two years later presented the initial regular Shakespeare season. By 1918 the Old Vic was established as the only permanent Shakespearean theatre in London, and by 1923 all of Shakespeare’s plays had been performed there. The Old Vic grew in stature during the 1920s and ’30s under directors such as Andrew Leigh, Harcourt Williams, and Tyrone Guthrie.

 

*****The expression in a jiffy was in use as early as 1780. It is a colloquial English expression for “in a short amount of time.” The origins of jiffy are unknown, though there are theories. One suggestion is that it comes from British thieves’ slang for “lightning,” hence very fast. An early instance appears in 1780 edition of Town and Country Magazine: “Most of the limbs of the law do every thing in a jiffy”.

 

******Created by British industrial chemist and journalist Walter Weldon Weldon’s Ladies’ Journal was the first ‘home weeklies’ magazine which supplied dressmaking patterns. Weldon’s Ladies’ Journal was first published in 1875 and continued until 1954 when it ceased publication.

 

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

 

********In early January 1923 a newspaper ran a gossip item that Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon was soon to be engaged to Prince Albert the Duke of York’s elder brother, the Prince of Wales – a story that reportedly annoyed her. Rumour has it that part of Elizabeth’s hesitance to marry Albert was due to her being in love with David – the loftier “catch” – however, these stories are highly unlikely and probably have more to do with trying to explain her later hatred for Wallis Simpson. More likely, she knew that the story meant more pressure for her to make up her mind about Albert and she knew the rumour would wound him.

 

This rather cluttered and chaotic scene of a drawing room cum workroom may look real to you, but believe it or not, it is made up entirely with pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection, including pieces from my childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism such as these are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable. The natural straw hat with white lace ribbon trim and faux flower garlands on the table was made by an unknown artisan in the United Kingdom and was sold through Doreen Jeffrey’s Small Wonders miniatures shop.

 

The concertina sewing box on casters which you can see spilling forth its contents is an artisan miniature made by an unknown artist in England. It comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the in the United Kingdom. All the box’s contents including spools of ribbons, threads scissors and buttons on cards came with the work box. The box can completely expand or contract, just like its life-sized equivalent.

 

The black japanned fire screen in the background, the black metal fire tools and the potted plants and their stands all come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop.

 

Harriet’s family photos seen cluttering the mantlepiece in the background are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frames are almost all from Melody Jane’s Dollhouse Suppliers in the United Kingdom and are made of metal with glass in each.

 

The porcelain clock on the mantlepiece is made by M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik in Germany, who specialise in making high quality porcelain miniatures. The pot of yellow and blue petunias and the ornamental swan figurine on the mantlepiece have been hand made and painted by 1:12 miniature ceramicist Ann Dalton.

 

The tilt chess table I bought from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom, whilst the Indian hexagonal table comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The Edwardian tea set and plate of fruit cake slices on its surface come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop, as do the spools of threads, the silver sewing scissors in the shape of a stork and the spool of ribbon. The skeins of pink and blue thread I have had since I was a teenager, when I acquired the from a high street doll house miniature specialist shop.

 

The sewing basket that you can see on the floor just behind the chess table I bought from a high street shop that specialised in dolls and doll house furnishings. It is an artisan miniature and contains pieces of embroidery and embroidery threads.

 

The floral chintz chair is made by J.B.M. miniatures who specialise in well made pieces of miniature furniture made to exacting standards.

 

The Chinese carpet beneath the furniture is hand made by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney, Australia.

 

The Edwardian mantlepiece is made of moulded plaster and was acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The paintings and prints on the walls all come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House in the United Kingdom.

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

 

Today however we are at Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie. Lettice is visiting her family home for Christmas and has stayed on to celebrate New Year’s Eve with them as well. She motored down to Wiltshire with her old childhood chum, Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy who has tried to gain some independence from his family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street. His family, the Brutons, are neighbours to the Cheywynds with their properties sharing boundaries. That is how Gerald and Lettice came to be such good friends. However, whilst both families are landed gentry with lineage going back centuries, unlike Lettice’s family, Gerald’s live in a much smaller baronial manor house and are in much more straitened circumstances.

 

Christmas has been and gone, and with it, Lettice’s elder sister Lalage (known to everyone in the family by the diminutive Lally), her husband Charles and their children and Lettice’s Aunt Eglantine, leaving the house emptier and significantly quieter, especially in the absence of the children. It is New Year’s Eve 1921, and nearly midnight as we find ourselves in the very grand and elegant drawing room of Glynes with its gilt Louis and Palladian style furnishings where Lettice has gathered with her father, mother, Leslie, Gerald and his parents Lord and Lady Bruton. Bramley, the Chetwynd’s butler has just delivered two bottles of champagne from the Glynes’ well stocked cellar which now chill in silver coolers and champagne glasses for everyone on a silver tray.

 

“Thank you Bramley,” the Viscount acknowledges his faithful retainer. “Will you stay and have a glass of champagne with us?”

 

“Thank you, My Lord.” he replies. “That’s most generous of you. However, we are having a small celebration of our own below stairs.”

 

“Well, I hope you’ve chosen a good vintage for everyone to enjoy, Bramley.”

 

“Very good of you, My Lord. There seemed to be a surplus of Deutz and Geldermann 1902 according to my records.”

 

“Very good Bramley.” the Viscount beams. “Well, happy New Year to you and all the staff.”

 

“Thank you My Lord.” replies the butler. Turning to the wider room where Lady Sadie and Lady Gwyneth are settled on the Louis style settee, Lord Bruton on the embroidered salon chair by the fire and Lettice and Gerald standing by the fireplace he announced in his deep burbling voice, “Happy New Year my lords, ladies and gentlemen.”

 

“Oh, happy new year, Bramley,” Lady Sadie replies, giving him one of her crisp, yet not ungenuine smiles. “Please pass our very best new year wishes to all the staff, won’t you?”

 

“I will My Lady,” Bramley replies as he retreats through the double doors of the salon, leaving the family and their select few guests to enjoy their celebrations in private.

 

“Not long to go now, everyone!” Lord Wrexham announces excitedly, spying the face of the Rococo clock on the mantelpiece between Lettice and Gerald’s conspiring figures as they lean against the mantle languidly. “Just another few minutes until it is nineteen twenty-two!”

 

“Shall we gather then, Chetwynd?” mutters Lord Bruton as he struggles to raise himself from the elegantly petit-point covered gilt salon chair, groaning as his wiry frame returns to an upright position. “Come on old gal!” he calls good naturedly to his wife as he reaches out a hand to help her rise.

 

“A little less of the old if you don’t mind!” Lady Gwyneth chides her husband, yet with a playful smile, as she takes his hand firmly. She releases a rather wheezing cough as she struggles to get to her feet.

 

Lettice looks over at her friend’s mother as she wobbles a little as she tries to regain her balance. Lady Gwenyth’s health has been in gradual decline over the last year, but the winter of 1921 in particular has taken the glow from her apple half cheeks, and as she wraps her elegant, if somewhat old fashioned Edwardian beaded evening gown around her, Lettice observes for the first time how much weight she has lost. With a full bosom and curvaceous hips, Lady Gwyneth was the height of femininity before the war, yet now that soft, doughy roundness that Lettice found so comforting as a child when enveloped in one of her all embracing cuddles, has been replaced by a somewhat sharper, more angular figure, that even the flowing lines of a Lucile* gown cannot completely smother in romantic swathes of satin and tulle.

 

“Are you alright, Lady Gwyneth?” Lettice asks in concern.

 

“Just the remnants of that chest cold I had last month, my dear. And what is this ‘Lady Gwyneth’ business, Lettice?” the older matron asks, giving Lettice a rather surprised look. “Since when have you become so grown up that I am no longer Aunt Gwen?”

 

Lettice feels a flush of embarrassment rise up her neck and fill her cheeks as she chuckles awkwardly.

 

“Mamma,” Leslie reaches down and offers his mother his hand to help her rise from the settee.

 

“Children are always so anxious to grow up,” Lady Sadie replies and looking over to her daughter and friend’s son. “And make their own decisions.”

 

“Well, a bit of independence living up in London hasn’t done Gerald any harm.” Lord Bruton blusters, turning and giving his son a slap on the back that makes the slender young man buckle forward and elicit a cough of his own.

 

“Yes, well,” Lady Sadie replies noncommittally, giving her daughter an appraising stare through narrowed, scrutinising eyes, which suggests that she does not feel the same about Lettice’s own levels of independence. She turns back to her eldest son and pats his hand kindly. “Thank you my dear. You are a good boy.” Then returning her gaze to her daughter, she continues, “The ability to self-govern and make decisions is far more attractive in a gentleman than a lady.” She emphasises the last word, her eyes growing almost imperceptibly wider, before turning to her husband.

 

“Oh I don’t know, Sadie,” her husband counters. “I rather like a bit of pluck in a girl.” He looks at his youngest daughter and gives her a beatific smile. “Why just look at Eglantine.”

 

“Yes let’s,” mutters Sadie disapprovingly as she fusses with the long rope of pearls about her neck. “She’s an unmarried artist in her fifties who lives in Maida Vale.”

 

“Little Venice**, Sadie,” the Viscount protests. He gives his wife a wounded glance. “Be kind.”

 

“And Aunt Eggy is an exhibited artist.” Leslie adds proudly. “At the Royal Academy*** no less.”

 

“Yes, well,” mutters Lady Sadie again.

 

Not wishing to engage in her mother’s conversation, Lettice turns to Gerald purposefully and asks, “So where is Rowland tonight, since he deigned to turn down Pater’s invitation this evening? It must be something special for him not to eat someone else’s good food and drink their quality champagne.”

 

Gerald glances anxiously across at his parents as they gather with Lettice’s parents and Leslie as they mill around the gilded tea table where the Viscount pops a bottle of champagne to a smattering of laughter and applause. Lowering his voice and sinking it closer to his friend Gerald says, “You have my big brother pegged well, darling. However, it’s not so much something, as someone.”

 

Lettice’s eyes grow wide. “Who Gerald? I didn’t think he liked any of the Huntington girls.”

 

“I think you need to lower your expectations, Lettuce Leaf.” Gerald replies.

 

"Don't call me that Gerald. You know I hate it." She slaps him playfully on the forearm for using her much hated childhood nickname.

 

"I know darling, but you are so easily baited."

 

“Whatever do you mean, ‘lower my expectations’, Gerald?”

 

“Well, let’s just say that he is down at The George tonight.” Gerald elucidates.

 

“Not Mr. Partridge’s daughter, Becky?” Lettice’s eyes grow round in shock. “But she’s the…”

 

“The barmaid,” Gerald finishes her sentence for her. “Yes, I know. But Mater and Pater don’t, so please don’t say anything.”

 

“As if I would, Gerald!” Lettice replies, raising a hand to her throat as she feels the warmth of a fresh flush again. “Mind you, Glynes is only a small village. News is bound to reach your parents if he is being so indiscreet.”

 

“I know. I know.” Gerald flaps his hands distractedly. “I’ve told him that he’s playing with fire. Mater and Pater think he’s at a New Year’s Eve party at the Fenton’s.”

 

“Well at least he is smart enough there. The Fentons are far enough away that Aunt Gwen is unlikely to make enquiries. But Becky works in her father’s pub, and The George is the heart of the village, and he’ll be the subject of gossip in no time.”

 

Gerald raises his hands in defence. “I can’t do any more than I already have. You know how Roland’s head is turned by a pretty face.”

 

“Yes,” Lettice muses. “Like Lionel. Let’s hope that Rowland doesn’t get Becky in the family way like Lionel did our first parlour maid. I don’t think your parents can afford to pack Rowland off to Kenya, like my parents did Lionel, nor bribe the mother-to-be with hush money.”

 

“Good heavens no. They can’t afford to patch the roof of Bruton Hall, never mind buy Rowland a farm outside of Nairobi.” Gerald agrees. “Besides, unlike Lionel, Rowland is the heir. What would have your parents done if it had been Leslie?”

 

Lettice looks over at her eldest brother, who catches her eye with an imploring look as he is accosted by their mother and Lady Gwyneth. “Luckily, we don’t need to find out. Leslie is taking his duties as the heir to Glynes very seriously, and his character is beyond reproach.”

 

“What are you two whispering about over there?” the Viscount calls over to Gerald and Lettice.

 

“Plotting the downfall of the establishment, piece by piece,” Leslie suggests playfully, gratefully breaking away from the two matrons to join his father’s conversation.

 

“We are doing no such thing, Leslie!” Lettice laughs.

 

“Well, whatever it is, stop being rude and come over here and whisper your intrigues to all of us,” Viscount Wrexham replies. “It’s nearly midnight.”

 

Lettice and Gerald walk across the old carpet and join the others, accepting a flute of sparking champagne from Viscount Wrexham as they gather about the gilded tea table with the others.

 

“Now,” Lord Wrexham begins in a commanding tone. “What are your New Year wishes, everyone?” He looks about the faces of the company gathered together. “Bruton? What’s yours?”

 

Lord Bruton looks up at his neighbour. “Well, it’s frightfully dull and practical, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say I wanted the roof of Brunton Hall mended.”

 

“Capital idea!” the Viscount replies, raising his glass cheerfully. “Nothing wrong with a practical wish. Gwyneth?”

 

“Oh I think I want what most mothers want for their children, Cosmo,” She looks firstly at Leslie, then Lettice and finally her younger son Gerald with a warm, if slightly tired smile. “Their happiness.”

 

“Well, I will concur with that,” adds Lady Sadie animatedly. “I wish for a successful Hunt Ball this year.” She glares at Lettice, who quickly disengages from her mother’s gaze and glances at the rich patterning of the carpet.

 

“Well, we are all looking forward to that Sadie,” Gwyneth enthuses. “It will be the event of the county calendar I’m sure.”

 

“Leslie?” the Viscount asks.

 

“A successful cattle sale with record prices, Father.” Leslie replies, raising his own glass.

 

“Well, I’ll second that, my boy!” Viscount Wrexham replies, raising his glass once again.

 

“I’m hoping for further success as a result of Margot’s wedding dress,” Gerald pipes up, glancing quickly at his father, who gives him somewhat of a hostile look which causes him to turn promptly to his mother, who smiles proudly at him. “I’ve already got three new clients as a result of the photos in Vogue.”

 

“See?” Lady Gwyneth says, opening her arms expansively as she looks around at the others. “What did I tell you? Happiness, that’s what we wish for.”

 

“Happiness and success,” Lettice adds. Looking across at her mother she expands with a steely determination in her voice. “Success in whatever form it comes.”

 

“Very good, my girl!” the Viscount raises his glass again. “Now, it’s midnight. Raise your glasses!”

 

The clock on the mantle chimes midnight prettily, in the distance somewhere, a church bell rings out across the quiet night and the muffled sound of cheers drift up from the servant’s quarters.

 

“Happy New Year!” Viscount Wrexham cheers. “Happy nineteen twenty-two!”

 

“Happy nineteen twenty-two!” everyone echoes as they raise their glasses and clink them together happily.

 

*Lucile – Lucy, Lady Duff Gordon was a leading British fashion designer in the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries who use the professional name Lucile. She was the originator of the “mannequin parade”, a pre-cursor to the modern fashion parade, and is reported to have been the person to first use the word “chic” which she then popularised. Lucile is also infamous for escaping the Titanic in a lifeboat designed for forty occupants with her husband and secretary and only nine other people aboard, seven being crew members.

 

**Little Venice is a district in West London, England, around the junction of the Paddington Arm of the Grand Union Canal, the Regent's Canal, and the entrance to Paddington Basin. The junction forms a triangular shape basin. Many of the buildings in the vicinity are Regency white painted stucco terraced town houses and taller blocks (mansions) in the same style.

 

***The Royal Academy of Arts (RA) is an art institution based in Burlington House on Piccadilly in London. Founded in 1768, it has a unique position as an independent, privately funded institution led by eminent artists and architects. Its purpose is to promote the creation, enjoyment and appreciation of the visual arts through exhibitions, education and debate.

 

This festive upper-class scene is not all that it may appear to be, for it is made up entirely of pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The champagne glasses are 1:12 artisan miniatures. Made of glass, they have been blown individually by hand by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering and are so fragile and delicate that even I with my dainty fingers have broken the stem of one. They stand on an ornate Eighteenth Century style silver tray made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The two wine coolers are also made by Warwick Miniatures. The Deutz and Geldermann champagne bottles are also an artisan miniature and made of glass with a miniature copy of a real Deutz and Geldermann label and some real foil wrapped around their necks. It was made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. Even the ice blocks in the coolers are made to scale and also came from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The gilt tea table in the foreground of the photo on which they all stand is made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.

 

The Chetwynd Christmas tree, beautifully decorated by Lettice, Harold and Arabella with garlands, tinsel, bows golden baubles and topped by a sparking gold star is a 1:12 artisan piece. It was hand made by husband and wife artistic team Margie and Mike Balough who own Serendipity Miniatures in Newcomerstown, Ohio.

 

The Palladian console table behind the Christmas tree, with its two golden caryatids and marble top, is one of a pair that were commissioned by me from American miniature artisan Peter Cluff. Peter specialises in making authentic and very realistic high quality 1:12 miniatures that reflect his interest in Georgian interior design. His work is highly sought after by miniature collectors worldwide. This pair of tables are one-of-a-kind and very special to me.

 

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

 

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

 

On the console table made by Peter Cluff stands a porcelain pot of yellow and lilac petunias which has been hand made and painted by 1:12 miniature ceramicist Ann Dalton. It is flanked by two mid Victorian (circa 1850) hand painted child’s tea set pieces. The sugar bowl and milk jug have been painted to imitate Sèvres porcelain.

 

On the bombe chest behind the Louis settee stand a selection of 1950s Limoges miniature tea set pieces which I have had since I was a teenager. Each piece is individually stamped on its base with a green Limoges stamp. In the centre of these pieces stands a sterling silver three prong candelabra made by an unknown artisan. They have actually fashioned a putti (cherub) holding the stem of the candelabra. The candles that came with it are also 1:12 artisan pieces and are actually made of wax.

 

The sette, which is part of a three piece Louis XV suite of the settee and two armchairs was made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, JBM.

 

The Hepplewhite chair with the lemon satin upholstery you can just see behind the Christmas tree was made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.

 

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

 

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

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

 

Tonight, we are in the little maid’s room off the Cavendish Mews kitchen, which serves as Edith, Lettice’s maid’s, bedroom. The room is very comfortable and more spacious than the attic she shared with her friend and fellow maid, Hilda, in her last position. The room is papered with floral sprigged wallpaper, and whilst there is no carpet, unlike Lettice’s bedroom, there are rugs laid over the stained floorboards. The room is big enough for Edith to have a comfortable armchair and tea table as well as her bed, a chest of drawers and a small wardrobe. Best of all, the room has central heating, so it is always warm and cosy on cold nights.

 

Edith has returned to Cavendish Mews after spending Christmas with her family in Harlesden and New Year with her beau Frank at a pub in Rotherhithe, arriving a few days ahead of Lettice who will shortly return from her own Christmas holiday spent with her family at their country estate, Glynes, in Wiltshire. Edith is luxuriating in the silence of the flat with no Lettice present. Although not overly demanding and a very good mistress to work for, Edith always knows when Lettice is home, sensing her presence in the soft clip of her footfall on the parquetry floor, the distant sound of her favourite or latest American records on the gramophone, the waft of her expensive French perfumes about the rooms of the flat, the peal of her laughter as she giggles over tea or cocktails with visiting friends or the jangle of the servants call bells bouncing about in the kitchen near the back door. For now, it is just Edith with only the tick of the clocks about the house and the distant burble of late night traffic along Bond Street to disturb her quiet.

 

She sighs and takes a sip of tea from the Delftware teacup, part of the kitchen set she uses and places it back on the tea table next to the pot, covered with a cosy knitted for her by her mother three years ago as a Christmas gift. She glances around the room at her possessions. In comparison to her mistress, what she has amassed is meagre to say the least, but she is very happy with her own personal touches about her little bedroom. Her hat, a second hand black straw cloche she came by at Petticoat Lane* decorated with bits and bobs she picked up from her Whitechapel haberdasher Mrs. Minkin, sits on her hat stand, also acquired from Petticoat Lane, on one end of the dark chest of drawers. Her lacquered sewing box, a gift from her mother when she first left home to go into service, sits at the other. Behind it is wedged her latest scrapbook that she fills with newspaper articles about fashion, films and the advances of women. Next to the sewing box sit the latest editions to her library, three romance novels from Lettice as a Christmas gift. Next to her hat stand, her collection of hat pins, and next to that, the brass framed portrait photo of she and her parents taken at a professional photographic studio in the Harlesden High Street. If she squints and concentrates hard, Edith can just remember the occasion, with her pressed into her Sunday best white pinny with lace, made for her by her mother, and starched by her too, being a laundress. The needlepoint home sweet home Edith made hangs on the wall in a simple wooden frame above the drawers. Her eyes return to the chest of drawers’ highly polished surface where the eau de nil Bakelite**dressing table set from Boots***, a gift from Lettice the previous Christmas, sits and then she sees the face of Bert, her first love, gazing out at her. Although he is sitting stiffly and was possibly ill at ease dressed in his Sunday best when the photograph was taken, it cannot hide the kindness in his eyes, or the cheeky smirk that plays at the corners of his mouth.

 

“I wonder if it’s time.” Edith muses quietly to herself, taking another sip of tea.

 

Edith’s young man was the local postman in Harlesden, and that was how Edith first met him, delivering mail in her street. The Watsfords, Edith’s family, never had much post, but Bert would always find an excuse to stop if he saw her in that last year before the war before she had her first live-in post as a maid and was still living at home. She was fourteen and he was eighteen, and Edith’s parents, George and Ada, said they were both too young to be tethering themselves to one another, what with all their lives ahead of them. Bert’s mother wasn’t too keen on him courting a laundress’ daughter about to go out into service either. She had expectations of Bert. She always felt that being employed in a steady job with the post office, he could make a successful career for himself, and could do better than a local girl with a father who baked biscuits at the McVitie and Price factory and a mother who laundered clothes for those more fortunate than she. But they didn’t mind what their parents said. They loved each other. What might have been, Edith was never to find out, for then the war broke out, and Bert took the King’s shilling****, like so many young men his age, and he died at the Battle of Passchendaele in 1917.

 

“I think you’d like Frank,” Edith addresses Bert’s photograph. “He’s a hard worker, just like you were, and he rides a bike too.” She smiles. “He thinks he’s on the make, and maybe he is. He’s certainly trying to improve and better himself, and me too if he has his way. He wants to take me to an art gallery or two this year. He told me so on New Year’s Eve when we were down at The Angel by the Thames. Can you imagine me going and looking at paintings in a big gallery? I can’t, any more than I can imagine you doing it, Bert, but I’m willing to give it a go for him.”

 

She sits and thinks for a while, recalling moments spent with Frank on their days together.

 

Edith chuckles to herself again. “Last summer when the weather was fine, Frank and me, we would sometimes go to Hyde Park on our Sundays off rather than going to the pictures up in West Ham, and listen to the brass bands play in the rotunda. Frank paid for our deckchairs – he’s a gentleman like that you can rest assured – and we’d sit and listen to them play.” She sighs. “Oh it was grand! The sun shining warm on my face and only the distant burble of the traffic to even remind me that I was in London. And then on the way home, we’d stop and listen to the speakers***** if Frank thought they had anything decent to say. I bet you can’t imagine little me, your sweet and gentle Edith, listening to political speeches. If you had kept your head down over there in France, I might never have. We were never into politics, you and I, were we, Bert?” She takes another sip of her tea. “Not that we really knew each other all that well. We were both so young and probably really still finding out who we were ourselves, never mind each other.” She sighs more deeply as she ruminates. “The truth is that quite a lot of it goes over my head, Bert, but Frank takes the time to explain things to me so that I can understand it too. Frank is quite a political chap really, and he says that I should show an interest too. I asked him why, when I don’t even have the vote******, but he says it won’t always be the way it is now. He says that now is the time for the working man, and woman. He believes in the emancipation of women. There you go, Bert! That’s a big word for me isn’t it? Emancipation!” She smiles proudly. “It means to be set free from social or political restrictions.”

 

Edith stands up and wanders over to Bert’s photograph and picks it up. The Bakelite feels cool in her hands as she traces the moulded edges of the frame.

 

“I wonder if you’d come back from the war whether you would have come back a changed man, Bert, and whether we’d even still be together. Would I have been enough for you? Would you be a man like Frank, not that he went to the war. Being the same age as me, he just missed out on being old enough to enlist. Would you have come back different? So many did. I mean some came back with the most awful injuries you can imagine, and then there were the injuries you couldn’t see, which doctors are still considering.” She looks into Bert’s frozen face. “Mental damage, I mean – something the doctors are now calling shellshock. But for all of them, there were plenty of men who weren’t hurt in the war, and they all seem to want change. They haven’t gone back to their old jobs as footmen or other domestic staff or working on farms. Women too. Women who worked in the munitions factories during the war. Canary Girls, they called them, because their skin turned yellow from building the shells. They all want better jobs, better pay and better standards of living. Would you have joined their ranks, I wonder, and would I have been there to support you? I just did what Mum told me to do and went into domestic service proper, and I tell you what, Bert, with less men there to do the jobs in big houses, the work falls to women, and there are fewer of us too. Older staff mutter about women waiting at table and answering doors nowadays, because there are fewer footmen and butlers, but there are fewer parlour maids and kitchen maids too. I’ve read in the newspapers that it is called, ‘the servant problem’. I still keep scrapbooks, Bert, but the things I paste in them are different these days. There is less about Royal Family and more about fashion and the pictures, and ladies doing things they’ve never done before. Have I changed? Would you like the Edith Watsford I am today, I wonder?”

 

Edith runs her hands over Bert’s face, forever young, forever captured with that slight hint of smile and sparkle in his eyes.

 

“Frank wants me to meet his granny, Bert. His parents died of the Spanish Flu after the war, and he only has his granny now. I’d like to meet her, but at the same time I’m terrified. I’m not frightened of her, in fact I want to meet her.” She takes a deep sigh. “No, what I’m frightened of is the significance of meeting her, and what that meeting means. Mum and Dad have been crying out to meet Frank. They wanted him to come and join us in Harlesden for Christmas dinner, since my brother was at sea on Christmas Day, but I told them that Frank wants to do things correctly, which means I meet his family first and then he can meet mine. Meeting Frank’s granny means that I will have to let go of you, and I can’t really ask you how you feel about that. When you died, Mum just told me to get on with things, and not to worry about the past. Now I’m doing that. I didn’t think I’d ever find someone to love again, Bert, but I do love Frank. If I’m honest, now I’m older and know myself and the world a bit better, I might love Frank even more than I loved you. I was only fourteen after all, and didn’t really know much about love, other than what I’d read in romance novels.” She looks at the brightly coloured paper cover of one of the novels Lettice gave her for Christmas. “I still read them, but I know that what appears in those pages isn’t necessarily really love. I don’t expect a man to sweep me into his arms and confess his undying love for me. No, a mutual understanding and agreement about where we are going in life is what love is, or part of it anyway. Just look at Mum and Dad. Not that I don’t want a bit of romance along the way, and Frank is a good kisser. I’m sure he’d be happy to do a little more than kiss if I let him, but Mum told me not to let that happen until after I get a ring on my finger. By meeting Frank’s granny, Bert, it means it’s a big step closer to getting that ring on my finger. It means that I’m serious about him, and he me. It means that we are sure we want to be together and get married.”

 

Tears well in Edith’s eyes, even as she speaks.

 

“If I have to leave you behind in order to move on with Frank, would you let me, Bert? Would you be happy for me? Would you wish me well? Would you wish us well?”

 

Carefully Edith moves the latches on the back of the frame holding Bert’s image in place. She feels the backing come away and fall slightly into her fingers. The glass tilts, reflecting back a ghostly image of herself across Bert’s smiling face. She realises that no matter how she feels about Bert, there will never be a photograph of the two of them together. She thinks of her friend Hilda, who now works for Lettice’s friends Margot and Dickie Channon in a flat within walking distance of Lettice’s flat. Hilda longs to meet a man whom she can step out with the way Edith and Frank have been ding for almost a year now, yet she has no prospects. There are far fewer men to choose from than before the war, and plenty more women vying for interest in those who have returned from the conflict. Edith considers herself lucky to have such an opportunity with Frank. Perhaps the time for change has come.

 

Gently she slips her fingers between the photograph and the glass. She withdraws Bert’s photograph.

 

“If I’m serious about Frank, Bert, which I am, I can’t keep carrying you around in my purse, or in a picture frame. It’s not fair to Frank, or to me really. But, I’ll always carry a little of you in my heart.”

 

She opens one of the small top drawers of the chest of drawers, which squeaks on its rungs as it is pulled out. A waft of lavender from a small muslin sachet inside drifts up to her nose. She slips Frank’s photo underneath a stack of clean pressed handkerchiefs and then closes the drawer firmly. She opens the next drawer and places the frame into the empty space.

 

“I’ll take you out again when I have a photo of Frank to put in you.” she assures the frame as she closes the drawer again.

 

*Petticoat Lane Market is a fashion and clothing market in Spitalfields, London. It consists of two adjacent street markets. Wentworth Street Market and Middlesex Street Market. Originally populated by Huguenots fleeing persecution in France, Spitalfields became a center for weaving, embroidery and dying. From 1882, a wave of Jewish immigrants fleeing persecution in eastern Europe settled in the area and Spitalfields then became the true heart of the clothing manufacturing district of London. 'The Lane' was always renowned for the 'patter' and showmanship of the market traders. It was also known for being a haven for the unsavoury characters of London’s underworld and was rife with prostitutes during the late Victorian era. Unpopular with the authorities, as it was largely unregulated and in some sense illegal, as recently as the 1930s, police cars and fire engines were driven down ‘The Lane’, with alarm bells ringing, to disrupt the market.

 

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

 

***Boots the chemist was established in 1849, by John Boot. After his father's death in 1860, Jesse Boot, aged 10, helped his mother run the family's herbal medicine shop in Nottingham, which was incorporated as Boot and Co. Ltd in 1883, becoming Boots Pure Drug Company Ltd in 1888. In 1920, Jesse Boot sold the company to the American United Drug Company. However, because of deteriorating economic circumstances in North America Boots was sold back into British hands in 1933. The grandson of the founder, John Boot, who inherited the title Baron Trent from his father, headed the company. The Boots Pure Drug Company name was changed to The Boots Company Limited in 1971. Between 1898 and 1966, many branches of Boots incorporated a lending library department, known as Boots Book-Lovers' Library.

 

****To take the King’s shilling means to enlist in the army. The saying derives from a shilling whose acceptance by a recruit from a recruiting officer constituted until 1879 a binding enlistment in the British army —used when the British monarch is a king.

 

*****A Speakers' Corner is an area where open-air public speaking, debate, and discussion are allowed. The original and best known is in the northeast corner of Hyde Park in London. Historically there were a number of other areas designated as Speakers' Corners in other parks in London, such as Lincoln's Inn Fields, Finsbury Park, Clapham Common, Kennington Park, and Victoria Park. Areas for Speakers' Corners have been established in other countries and elsewhere in Britain. Speakers here may talk on any subject, as long as the police consider their speeches lawful, although this right is not restricted to Speakers' Corner only. Contrary to popular belief, there is no immunity from the law, nor are any subjects proscribed, but in practice the police intervene only when they receive a complaint.

 

******It was not until the Equal Franchise Act of 1928 that women over the age of twenty-one were able to vote in Britain and women finally achieved the same voting rights as men.

 

This cosy room may be a nice place to keep warm on a winter’s night, but what you may not be aware of is that it is made up entirely with pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The eau-de-nil dressing table set on Edith’s chest of drawers, which has been made with incredible detail to make it as realistic as possible, is a Chrysnbon Miniature set. The mirror even contains a real piece of reflective mirror. Judy Berman founded Chrysnbon Miniatures in the 1970’s. She created affordable miniature furniture kits patterned off of her own full-size antiques collection. She then added a complete line of accessories to compliment the furniture. The style of furniture and accessories reflect the turn-of-the-century furnishings of a typical early American home. At the time, collectible miniatures were expensive because they were mostly individually crafted.

 

The photo of Bert in the eau-de-nil frame and the family portrait in the brass frame on the chest of drawers are real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The brass frame comes from Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers.

 

Edith’s black dyed straw hat with purple roses and black feathers was made by an unknown artisan. 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable. This hat is part of a larger collection I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel. The hat stand it sits on also comes from her.

 

To the right of Edith’s hat is an ornamental green jar filled with hatpins. The jar is made from a single large glass Art Deco bead, whilst each hatpin is made from either a nickel or brass plate pin with beads for ornamental heads. They were made by Karen Lady Bug Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

Edith’s scrapbook wedged behind her sewing box is a 1:12 size miniature made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe, as are the three novels you can see on the surface of Edith’s chest of drawers. Most of the books I own that Ken has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. When open, you will find the scarpbook contains sketches, photographs and article clippings. Even the paper has been given the appearance of wrinkling as happens when glue is applied to cheap pulp paper. To give you an idea of the work that has gone into this scrapbook, it contains twelve double sided pages of scrapbook articles, pictures, sketches and photographs and measures forty millimetres in height and thirty millimetres in width and is only three millimetres thick. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

 

The sewing box, the ‘home sweet home’ embroidery and the pencil all come from various online shops who sell dollhouse miniatures. The franked postcard in the foreground on the tea table comes from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

Also on the tea table, the tea cosy, which fits snugly over a white porcelain teapot, has been hand knitted in fine lemon, blue and violet wool. It comes easily off and off and can be as easily put back on as a real tea cosy on a real teapot. It comes from a specialist miniatures stockist in England.

 

The Deftware cup, saucer and milk jug are part of a 1:12 size miniature porcelain dinner set which I acquired from a private collection of 1:12 miniatures in Holland.

 

Edith’s armchair is upholstered in blue chintz, and is made to the highest quality standards by J.B.M. Miniatures. The back and seat cushions come off the body of the armchair, just like a real piece of furniture.

 

The chest of drawers I have had since I was a teenager. I bought it from the toy section of a large city department store.

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Lettice?” Lady Sadie remarks quizzically.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Matchmaking, Mamma?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Lettice…” Lady Sadie’s voice cracks.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Cluttered with paintings, photographs and furnishings, Lady Sadie’s morning room with its Georgian furnishings is different from what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures from my collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

  

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

 

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

 

“Ugh,” mutters Lettice.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Good morning Mrs Trevethan.” Lettice replies.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Sorry, it’s the hangover.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“What was she like?” Lettice adds excitedly.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Yes,” replies Dickie. “Go on.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“And, she never married?” asks Margot.

 

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

 

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

 

“There was, sir.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Insipid?” Gerald offers.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

Concerned about her beau, Selwyn Spencely’s, true affections for her, and worried about the threat his cousin and 1923 debutante, Pamela Fox-Chavers, posed to her own potential romantic plans with Selwyn, Lettice concocted a ruse to spy on Pamela and Selwyn at the Royal Horticultural Society’s 1923 Great Spring Show*. As luck would have it, Lettice ran into Pamela and Selwyn, quite literally in the latter’s case, and they ended up having tea together. Whilst not the appropriate place to talk about Selwyn’s mother, Lady Zinnia, whom Lettice suspects of arranging a match between Selwyn and Pamela, who are cousins, Selwyn has agreed to organise a dinner with Lettice where they can talk openly about the future of their relationship and the interference of Lady Zinnia. However, whilst Lettice waits for the dinner to be arranged, she has a wonderful distraction to take her mind off things.

 

That is why today we are far from London, returning to Wiltshire, where Lettice grew up at Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie and his new wife Arabella. However, we are not at Glynes, but rather in Glynes Village at the local village hall where a much loved annual tradition is taking place. Every year the village have a summer fête, run by the local women and overseen by Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, to help raise money for a worthy cause in the village. The summer fête is one of the highlights of the village and country calendar as it always includes a flower show, a cake stand, stalls run by local famers’ wives selling homemade produce, games of hoopla, a coconut shy, a tombola and a jumble sale, a white elephant stall and a fortune teller – who is always local haberdasher Mrs. Maginot who has a theatrical bent and manages the Glynes theatrical players as well as her shop in the village high street. All the stalls and entertainments are held either in the village hall or the grounds surrounding it. Not only do the citizens of the village involve themselves in the fête, but also the gentry, and there is always much excitement when matriarch of the Brutons, Lady Gwyneth – Gerald’s mother, and Lady Isobel Tyrwhitt – Arabella’s mother, attend. Neither lady have been well over the last few years with Lady Gwyneth suffering a spate of bronchial infections and Lady Isobel receiving treatment for cancer, so it is a rare treat to have both in attendance. This year’s summer fête is a special one for Arabella in particular, for as the newly minted Mrs. Leslie Chetwynd, she now joins the effort to help run the Glynes summer fête for the first time and has been given the second-hand clothing stall to run as part of the jumble sale.

 

The Glynes village hall is a hive of activity, and the cavernous space resounds with running footsteps, voluble chatter from the mostly female gathering, hammering and children’s laughter and tears as they run riot around the adults as they set up their stalls. Mr. Lovegrove, who runs the village shop, climbs a ladder which is held by the elderly church verger Mr. Lewis and affixes the brightly coloured Union Jacks and bunting that have been used every year since the King’s Coronation in 1911 around the walls. Lady Sadie casts a critical eye over the white elephant stall, rearranging items to put what she considers the best quality items on more prominent display, whilst removing a select few pieces which she thinks unsuitable for sale, which she passes to Newman, her ladies maid, to dispose of. Bramley, the Chetwynd’s butler arranges and categorises books for the second-hand book stall, perhaps spending a little too much time perusing some of the titles. Mrs. Elliott who runs the Women’s Institute manages the influx of local women bringing in cakes with regimental efficiency. And amongst all the noise, activity and excitement, Arabella busies herself unpacking boxes of old clothes and tries her best to make her trestle an attractive addition to the summer fête. Lettice perches on an old bentwood chair, offering suggestions to her sister-in-law whilst pulling faces as she lifts up various donations before depositing them in disgust where they had been beforehand.

 

“Here we are then,” Gerald announces as he walks across the busy floor of the hall bearing a wooden tray containing several teacups and a plate of cupcakes from the refreshments stand, narrowly avoiding Mrs. Lovegrove’s two youngest children as they chase one another around his legs. The sound of his jolly call and his footsteps joining all the other cacophony of setting up going on around him. “Refreshments for the hard workers,” he looks at Arabella. “And the not-so-hard-workers.” he looks at Lettice.

 

“Don’t be cheeky!” Lettice says to him with a hard stare, letting a limp stocking fall from her hand and collapse into a wrinkled pool on the trestle table’s surface.

 

Gerald puts the three tea cups down where he can find a surface on Arabella’s trestle table, followed by a long blue and gilt edged platter on which sit three very festive cupcakes featuring Union Jacks made of marzipan sticking out of white clouds of icing.

 

“Mrs. Casterton’s special cupcakes.” he announces proudly with a beaming smile.

 

“How on earth did you get those, Gerald?” gasps Lettice in surprise, eyeing the dainty cakes greedily. “Mrs. Casterton hasn’t let me take food from her kitchen since I started dining at the table with the rest of the family, never mind pinch anything from her stall for the fundraiser!”

 

“It helps when you aren’t her employer’s indulged youngest child.” Gerald says, tapping his nose knowingly.

 

“I was not an indulged child!” Lettice defends, raising her hand to the boat neckline of her frock and grasping her single strand of creamy white pearls hanging about her neck. “You were more indulged by Aunt Gwen than I ever was by Mater or Pater.”

 

“Oh, just ignore him, Tice!” laughs Arabella from her place behind the trestle. “You know Gerald has always had the ability to charm anything from anyone when he wants to.”

 

“That’s true,” Lettice replies, eyeing Gerald with a cocked eyebrow and a bemused smile as she picks up her magenta and gilt rimmed cup and sips her tea. “I had forgotten that.”

 

“What can I say?” laughs Gerald proudly with a shrug of his shoulders.

 

“It’s not so much what you can say as what you can do, Gerald.” mutters Arabella with a frustrated sigh.

 

“I am at your service, my lady?” Gerald replies, making a sweeping bow before Arabella and Lettice, who both laugh at his jester like action.

 

“Be careful what you promise, Gerald.” giggles Lettice.

 

“Bella would never expect too much from me, Lettice.” Gerald retorts with a smile. “She’s known me all her life and she knows what my limitations are.”

 

“Well, I was hoping you could help me by working some magic on my second hand clothing stall.” Arabella remarks with another frustrated sigh as she tugs at the old fashioned shirtwaister** blouse with yellowing lace about the collar. “I’ve tried and tried all morning, but nothing I seem to do helps make anything look more modern and more attractive to buy.”

 

Lettice and Gerald look around at Arabella’s stall. The shirtwaister outfit with its pretty, albeit slightly marked, lace, tweed skirt and leather belt with a smart, yet old fashioned Art Nouveau buckle really is the most attractive piece that she has on display. Around it on the surface of her trestle are a jumble of yellowing linen napkins complete with tarnished napkin rings, a selection of embroidered, tatted*** and crocheted doilies, mismatched pairs of leather and lace gloves and several rather worn looking hats that are really only suitable for gardening now, rather than being worn to church services on Sunday.

 

“I warned you Gerald.” Lettice says with a knowing wink.

 

“Don’t you remember how much we all felt sorry for whomever ran the second-hand clothing stall at the fête each year as children, Bella?” Gerald asks.

 

“It was always the short straw.” Lettice adds.

 

“Yes, being stuck under the piercing stare of His Majesty.” Gerald indicates to the portrait of King George V, dating back to the pre-war years when the King still had colour in his hair.

 

“The worst stall to have because none of the villagers ever seem to have anything nice or remotely fashionable to donate, even for a good cause like new books for the village school.” Lettice picks up a pretty primrose yellow napkin. “These are nice at least.”

 

“Except there are only three of them.” points out Arabella with a disappointed air. “I can’t seem to find a fourth.” She picks up a red dyed straw hat in the vain hope that it will be there, even though she has searched beneath it three times already. “And I’ve looked everywhere.”

 

“Tea for two, perhaps?” Gerald suggests hopefully as he picks up his own teacup and takes a sip of tea.

 

“Oh, you two are no help!” scoffs Arabella. “I’ve a right mind to stick you both with these!” She grasps a pair of knitting needles complete with some rather dreadfully made rows of incomplete knitting and a ball of wool and thrusts them through the air between she, Lettice, and Gerald. “They’ll get you working.”

 

“Even if they do, Bella, we aren’t miracle workers.” remarks Gerald.

 

All three of them laugh good heartedly.

 

“Oh I must make the best of it,” Arabella sighs resignedly as she tugs at the left leg-of-mutton sleeve**** of the shirtwaister. “After all, this is my first year as Leslie’s wife, and the first jumble sale I am actively helping to run to help raise funds for the village. I must make this stall a success no matter what.” The steely determination in her voice surprises her as she speaks. “I’m a Chetwynd now, and I can’t disappoint the villagers with a poor show.”

 

“Nor Mater.” adds Lettice, taking another sip of tea.

 

“No indeed!” agrees Gerald. “Lady Sadie will be judging you from afar, Bella, rest assured. If your stall isn’t a great success, you’ll hear about it.”

 

“In a dozen little quips.” Lettice adds.

 

“More like a hundred.” corrects Gerald.

 

“Tearing delicately phrased strips off you.” agrees Lettice.

 

“Inflicting as much pain for as long as possible.” adds Gerald with seriousness.

 

“Oh stop, Gerald!” laughs Arabella. “She isn’t anywhere near as much of a dragon as you and Tice paint her to be.”

 

“You’ve only been married to the family for a little while now,” Lettice counters, looking at her sister-in-law over the magenta and gilt painted rim of her cup. “And you and Leslie have your own lives and are left pretty much to your own devices down in the Glynes Dower House from what I can gather. We’ll give you a little while longer to find out the truth about your wicked mother-in-law.” She smiles cheekily.

 

“I have grown up alongside you, going in and out of your house, Tice,” Arabella replies with a dismissive wave of her hand. “So it’s not like Sadie is an unknown quantity to me.”

 

“But you’ve never been a recipient of her acerbic tongue either, I’ll wager.” adds Gerald dourly. “You’re far too sweet and compliant a young daughter-in-law for that, but both Lettice and I have.”

 

“I still don’t know,” Lettice queries, turning her attention to Gerald. “What was it you said to Mater that night of Hunt Ball that set her so against you, Gerald? I’ve never known her to take against anyone so vehemently, except perhaps poor Aunt Egg who can never do any right in her eyes.”

 

Gerald blushes, remembering the altercation he had with Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, at the ball. In a slightly inebriated state he told her that neither she nor Lettice had any sway over Selwyn Spencely’s choice of a wife, any more than Selwyn did himself, explaining that it was his mother, the Duchess of Mumford, Lady Zinnia, who would choose a wife for him. “I keep telling you, darling girl. I really don’t remember,” he replies awkwardly, covering his tracks as best as he can. “If you remember, I was rather tight***** that night on your father’s champagne.”

 

“Well,” Arabella says with a sigh. “I’m determined not to incur her wrath, even though I’m sure it’s nowhere near as awful as you two suggest.”

 

“Oh-oh!” Gerald mutters under his breath to Lettice. “In coming.”

 

“Oh no.” moans Lettice quietly in return behind the painted smile she places on her face as she, Gerald and Arabella are suddenly set upon by the Miss Evanses, the two spinster sisters who live in Holland House, a Seventeenth Century manor house in the village.

 

The trio smile benignly as the two sisters twitter to one another in crackling voices that sound like crisp autumn leaves underfoot as they approach them.

 

“Well, twice in as many weeks, Miss Chetwynd!” exclaims the younger of the Miss Evanses in delight, a joyous smile spreading across her dry, unpainted lips. “Last week at the Royal Horticultural Society’s Great Spring Show, and now here! How very blessed we are to see you again.”

 

“How do you do, Miss Evans, Miss Evans,” Lettice acknowledges them both with a curt nod from her seat. She glances at the two old women, who must be in their seventies at least, both dressed in a similar style to when she saw them last week at the Royal Horticultural Society’s Great Spring Show, in floral gowns of pre-war Edwardian era length, their equally old fashioned whale bone S-bend corsets****** forcing their breasts into giant monobosoms down which sautoirs******* of glittering Edwardian style beads on gold chains cascade. Wearing toques with feather aigrettes jutting out of them atop their waved white hair they look like older versions of Queen Mary.

 

“I’m afraid you are a little early for the jumble sale, Miss Evans and Miss Evans,” Arabella remarks sweetly. “We are still setting up.”

 

“Oh, thank you! We know, Mrs. Chetwynd.” twitters the elder of the Miss Evanses, surprising Arabella a little as she still gets used to being referred to by her new married name. “I was just remarking to Henrietta this very morning over breakfast that we do so much look forward to the village fête every year.”

 

“Yes, it’s a nice way for us to be able to support the local community in our own small way, isn’t that right Geraldine?” enthuses her sister, raising her white lace glove clad hand to her wrinkled and dry mouth as she giggles in a rather unseemly girlish way.

 

“Indeed yes, Henrietta. It is to aid the school this year, is it not?”

 

“It is Miss Evans.” Arabella confirms. “To help buy new books for the children.”

 

“A very fine cause, I must say,” the younger of the Miss Evanses remarks indulgently. “Helping the young ones to read and develop their fertile minds. Rather like gardening, wouldn’t you say?”

 

“It is not even remotely like gardening!” quips her sister. “Stop talking such nonsense Henrietta.”

 

“We shall of course be glad of your patronage when the jumble sale opens in an hour.” Arabella quickly says in an effort to diffuse any unpleasantness between the two spinster sisters, at the same time emphasising the time the sale begins.

 

“Well,” adds the elder of the Miss Evanses seriously. “We shall of course come and spend a few shillings and pence when it opens officially, but…”

 

“Oh!” interrupts the younger of the Miss Evanses. “Is your frock designed by Master Bruton, Miss Chetwynd?” She addresses Gerald in the old fashioned deference of the village and county folk when addressing the children of the bigger aristocratic houses.

 

“Yes, Miss Evans. Mr. Bruton,” Lettice applies gravatas to the correct reference to Gerald’s name now that he is of age. “Did design my frock.”

 

“Oh it’s ever so smart!” the younger of the sisters enthuses.

 

“Thank you, Miss Evans.” Gerald acknowledges her.

 

“And your hat?” Miss Evans points to the yellow straw hat. “Didn’t I see you wearing that at Master Leslie’s wedding to Miss Arabella?”

 

“Mrs. Chetwynd, I think you mean, Henrietta.” corrects her sister with a sharpness to her remark.

 

“Oh yes!” bristles the younger Miss Evans at her sister’s harsh correction, raising her hand to her mouth again. “Yes of course! Mrs. Chetwynd, I do apologise.”

 

“It’s quite alright, Miss Evans.” Arabella assures her. “I am still getting used to being Mrs. Chetwynd myself.”

 

“How very observant of you, Miss Evans.” Lettice addresses the younger of the siblings. “I did indeed have my hat made for Leslie and Bella’s wedding. It was made by a friend of Mr. Bruton’s, Miss Harriet Milford.”

 

“Yes, well thinking of hats, I…” begins the elder Miss Evans.

 

“Oh it’s most becoming, Miss Chetwynd.” the younger Miss Evans interrupts her sister again as she compliments Lettice in an obsequious manner, followed by another twittering giggle.

 

“I can send someone down to Holland House this afternoon after the fête with her details if you like.” Lettice replies. “The next time you’re in London, you might pay her a call.”

 

The two sisters give one another a sour look at the idea, their lips thinning and their eyes lowering as they nod to one another in unison before turning back to Lettice and Gerald.

 

“Aside from the Great Spring Show, we don’t have much call to go up to London these days, do we Henrietta?”

 

“Indeed no, Geraldine.” agrees the younger Miss Evans between pursed lips, a tinge of regret in her statement.

 

“Besides we find the services of Mrs. Maginot’s in the high street to be quite adequate.”

 

“Good lord!” gasps Gerald, causing the two spinster sisters to blush at his strong language. “Is old Mrs. Maginot still going?” He chuckles. “Fancy that!”

 

The elder Miss Evans clears her dry and raspy throat awkwardly before continuing. “For our more bucolic, and doubtlessly simple tastes, Master Bruton, we find Mrs. Maginot to be quite satisfactory.” Both sisters raise their lace gloved hands to their toques in unison, patting the runched floral cotton lovingly. “We aren’t quite as fashionable as you smart and select London folk down here in sleepy little Glynes, Master Bruton, Miss Chetwynd, but we manage to keep up appearances.”

 

“On indeed yes, Miss Evans.” Lettice replies with an amused smile. “No-one could fault you on maintaining your standards.”

 

“I imagine you will soon be designing Miss Chetwnd’s own wedding frock, Master Bruton.” the younger of the Miss Evanses announces rather vulgarly.

 

“That’s only if I let her get married, Miss Evans,” Gerald teases her indulgently. “I might like to whisk her away and lock her in a tower so that I can keep her all to myself.”

 

“After what we all saw with our own eyes at the Hunt Ball, I’m sorry Master Bruton, but I don’t think you are in the running for Miss Chetwynd’s affections!” the younger Miss Evans twittering giggle escapes her throat yet again as her eyes sparkle with delight at the very faintest whiff of any gossip.

 

“How is Mr. Spencely, Miss Chetwynd?” the elder Miss Evans asks pointedly, her scrutinising gaze studying Lettice’s face.

 

Lettice blushes at the directness of both Miss Evans’ question and her steely gaze. “Oh, he’s quite well, as far as I know, Miss Evans.” she replies awkwardly.

 

“As far as you know?” the older woman’s outraged tone betrays her surprise as she looks quizzically into Lettice’s flushed face.

 

“Well, I haven’t seen Selw… err, Mr. Spencely just as of late.”

 

“Oh?” the elder Miss Evans queries. “I thought we saw you leave the tent we were in at the Great Spring Show, on the arm of Mr. Spencely.”

 

“Yes, I’m sure it was him, Miss Chetwynd.” adds the younger Miss Evans as she raises a lace clad finger in thought. “He’s very striking and hard to mistake for someone else.”

 

Silently Lettice curses the beady eyed observation the two spinster sisters are known for. Of course, they of all people at the bustling and crowded Chelsea flower show, noticed her inadvertent stumble into Selwyn and then her departure with him. Although perfectly innocent, and accompanied by her married friend Margot Channon, and Selwyn’s cousin, Pamela Fox-Chavers, she can see how easily the Miss Evanses can construe the situation to their own advantage of spreading salacious London gossip about Lettice, as daughter of the local squire, around the citizenry of Glynes village.

 

“I believe you were here for a purpose, Miss Evans.” Gerald pipes up, quickly defending his best friend from any more uncomfortable cross examination.

 

“Oh,” the elder Miss Evans replies, the disappointment at the curtailing of her attempt to gather gossip clear in both her tone of voice and the fall of her thin and pale face. “Yes.” She turns to Arabella. “I have actually come early today to see you on business, Mrs. Chetwynd.”

 

“Me, Miss Evans?” Arabella raises her hand to the scalloped collar of her blouse and toys with the arrow and heart gold and diamond broach there – a wedding gift from her husband.

 

“Yes.” replies the elder of the two sisters. “You see, when I heard that you were running the second-hand stall this year, I did feel sorry for you.”

 

“Sorry for me, Miss Evans?”

 

“Yes,” she replies, screwing up her eyes. “For as you know, there is always a poor offering of donated goods by the other villagers, and it makes for a rather sad and depressing sight amidst all this gaiety.” She gesticulates over Arabella’s trestle with a lace glove clad hand, sending forth the whiff of lavender, cloves and camphor in the process.

 

“Unless you are donating one of your lovely frocks to the sale, Master Bruton?” the younger of the Miss Evanses adds with a hopeful lilt in her voice. “I should buy it, even if it didn’t fit me.”

 

Gerald splutters and chokes on the gulp of tea he has just taken as the question is posed of him. Coughing, he deposits his cup quickly and withdraws a large white handkerchief which he uses to cover his mouth and muffle his coughs.

 

“Oh, poor Master Bruton!” exclaims the younger of the Miss Evanses as she reaches out and gently, but pointlessly, taps Gerald on the shoulder in an effort to help him. “Did you tea go down the wrong way?”

 

“I arrest my case.” her elder sister snaps giving Gerald a steely, knowing look.

 

“Now be fair, Miss Evans,” Lettice defends her friend, filled with a sudden burst of anger towards the hypocritical old woman, who despite having plenty of money of her own, only spends a few shillings at the fundraiser every year. “Gerald is still establishing himself in London! He cannot afford to give one of his frocks away when he has to pour what little profit he currently makes back into supporting and promoting his atelier.”

 

“As you like, Miss Chetwynd.” Miss Evans replies dismissively. “It is a pity though that neither Master Bruton, nor yourself could cast something Mrs. Chetwynd’s way, to help make her stall more,” She pauses momentarily as she considers the correct word. “Appealing.”

 

Lettice feels the harshness of the old woman’s rebuke, but she says nothing as she feels a flush of shame rise up her neck and fill her face.

 

“Geraldine!” her younger sister scolds her. “That’s most uncharitable of you.”

 

“Charity, my dear Henrietta, begins at home.” She looks critically at the knotted half completed knitting, the yellow and age stained linen and the mismatched gloves. “And Mrs, Chetwynd, I see that try as you might, you cannot disguise the usually dispirited efforts of the village used clothing drive this year.”

 

“Oh, well I haven’t really finished setting up yet, Miss Evans.” Arabella defends herself. “There are still some things to unpack from the boxes behind me.” She indicates to several large wooden crates stacked up behind her against the wall under the watchful gaze of the King.

 

“Which are items that doubtlessly didn’t sell last year, or the year before that have been shuffled away, only to make their annual reappearance.”

 

“Perhaps you have something appealing,” Lettice emphasises her re-use of the elder Miss Evans’ word as she tries to regain some moral standing against the older woman. “To offer at this year’s second-hand clothing stall, Miss Evans.”

 

“As a matter of fact,” the elder Miss Evans replies with a self-satisfied smile and sigh. “That is exactly why I am here.”

 

With a groaning heave, she foists the wicker basket, the handle of which she has been grasping in her bony right hand, up onto the trestle table’s surface. She opens one of the floral painted flaps and withdraws a large caramel felt Edwardian style picture hat of voluminous pre-war proportions from within the basket’s interior. The brim of the hat is trimmed with coffee and gold braid, woven into an ornate pattern whilst the crown is smothered in a magnificent display of feathers in curlicues and the brim decorated with sprigs or ornate autumnal shaded foliage and fruit.

 

“As I said, charity begins at home, so I thought I would add some style and panache to your stall, Mrs. Chetwynd, with the addition of this beautiful hat.”

 

“Oh, thank you, Miss Evans.” Arabella says with a sweet, yet slightly forced smile as the older woman tears off a smaller blue stiffed lace hat from a wooden hatstand and replaces it with her enormous millinery confection.

 

“I know it is only a hat from Mrs. Maginot, and not a London milliner,” she looks pointedly at Lettice. “But I dare say it will be more than suitable for our modest little country jumble sale.”

 

“Oh I’m sure it will be,” Arabella lies politely as she looks in dismay at the old fashioned headwear.

 

“Geraldine!” gasps her sister in disbelief. “You love that hat! I remember you had Mrs. Maginot make it for the King’s Coronation celebrations at great expense!”

 

“That’s true, Henrietta, but it just sits in a box at home these days and never gets worn anymore. It seems a shame to hide it away when it could look fetching on another’s head in church on Sunday. No-one will have anything to rival it. Not even you, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“I agree with that,” whispers Lettice discreetly into Gerald’s ear, unnoticed by either of the spinster sisters. “I’d rather die than be caught in that ghastly thing. It looks every minute of it’s age.”

 

“Just a touch Miss Havisham, don’t you think?” Gerald whispers back, causing both he and Lettice to quietly snort and stifle their giggles.

 

“Well, that really is most kind of you, Miss Evans.” Arabella says loudly and brightly with a polite nod of acknowledgement, anxious to cover up the mischievous titters from her friend and sister-in-law.

 

“It’s my pleasure.” she replies with a beatific smile. “Well, we shan’t hold you up any longer from doing your setting up of the clothes, Mrs. Chetwynd. Come along Henrietta. Let’s go and make sure Mr. Beatty has my floral arrangement in a suitably advantageous place. I’m not having it shunted to the back like last year.”

 

“Oh, yes Geraldine.” her sister replies obsequiously.

 

Lettice, Gerald and Arabella watch as the two old ladies slowly retreat and heave a shared sigh of relief.

 

Gerald deposits his cup on the trestle’s surface and walks up to the grand Edwardian hat and snatches it off the wooden stand before placing it atop his own head with a sweeping gesture. “Do you think it suits me?” he laughs.

 

Lettice and Arabella laugh so much they cannot answer.

 

“Well,” Gerald sighs, returning the hat to the stand. “Even if Hattie could make hats a hundred times more fashionable than this, maybe some local lady who is a bit behind the times will want to take this beauty home.” He arranges it carefully on the rounded block so that it shows off the autumnal themed fruit garland pinned to the wide felt brim.

 

“That’s the spirit I need, Gerald.” Arabella manages to say as she recovers from laughing at her friend’s theatrical modelling of the hat, and quietly she hopes that someone will buy the hat and everything else she has in her remit to sell, to help raise money for schoolbooks for the local village and country children that attend the Glynes Village School.

 

*May 20 1913 saw the first Royal Horticultural Society flower show at Chelsea. What we know today as the Chelsea Flower Show was originally known as the Great Spring Show. The first shows were three day events held within a single marquee. The King and Queen did not attend in 1913, but the King's Mother, Queen Alexandra, attended with two of her children. The only garden to win a gold medal before the war was also in 1913 and was awarded to a rock garden created by John Wood of Boston Spa. In 1919, the Government demanded that the Royal Horticultural Society pay an entertainment tax for the show – with resources already strained, it threatened the future of the Chelsea Flower Show. Thankfully, this was wavered once the Royal Horticultural Society convinced the Government that the show had educational benefit and in 1920 a special tent was erected to house scientific exhibits. Whilst the original shows were housed within one tent, the provision of tents increased after the Great War ended. A tent for roses appeared and between 1920 and 1934, there was a tent for pictures, scientific exhibits and displays of garden design. Society garden parties began to be held, and soon the Royal Horticultural Society’s Great Spring Show became a fixture of the London social calendar in May, attended by society ladies and their debutante daughters, the occasion used to parade the latter by the former. The Chelsea Flower Show, though not so exclusive today, is still a part of the London Season.

 

**A shirtwaister is a woman's dress with a seam at the waist, its bodice incorporating a collar and button fastening in the style of a shirt which gained popularity with women entering the workforce to do clerical work in the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries.

 

***Tatting is a technique for handcrafting a particularly durable lace from a series of knots and loops. Tatting can be used to make lace edging as well as doilies, collars, accessories such as earrings and necklaces, and other decorative pieces.

 

****A leg of mutton sleeve is a sleeve that has a lot of fullness around the shoulder-bicep area but is fitted around the forearm and wrist. Also known as a gigot sleeve, they were popular throughout different periods of history, but in particular the first few years of the Twentieth Century.

 

*****’Tight’ is an old fashioned upper-class euphemism for drunk.

 

******Created by a specific style of corset popular between the turn of the Twentieth Century and the outbreak of the Great War, the S-bend is characterized by a rounded, forward leaning torso with hips pushed back. This shape earned the silhouette its name; in profile, it looks similar to a tilted letter S.

 

*******A Sautoir is a long necklace consisting of a fine gold chain and typically set with jewels, a style typically fashionable in the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries.

  

Whilst this charming village fête scene may appear real to you, it is in fact part of my 1:12 miniatures collection, including items from my own childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Perhaps the main focus of our image, the elder Miss Evans’ camel coloured wide brimmed Edwardian picture hat is made of brown felt and is trimmed with miniature coffee coloured braid. The brim is decorated with hand curled feathers, dyed to match the shade of the hat, as well as a spray of golden “grapes” and dyed flowers. Acquired from an American miniatures collector who was divesting herself of some of her collection, I am unsure who the maker was, other than it was made by an American miniature artisan. 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism such as these are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable.

 

The shirtwaister dummy, complete with lace blouse, tweed skirt and Art Nouveau belt attached to a lacquered wooden base, is an artisan miniature as well, once again by an unknown person. It came from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The divine little patriotic cupcakes, each with a Union Jack on the top, has been made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. Each cupcake is only five millimetres in diameter and eight millimetres in height! The plate on which they stand and the teacups on the table are made by the Dolls House Emporium and are part of a larger sets including plates, tureens and gravy boats.

 

Miss Evans’ wicker picnic basket that can be seen peeping out near the right-hand side of the picture was made by an unknown miniature artisan in America. The floral patterns on the top have been hand painted. The hinged lids lift, just like a real hamper, so things can be put inside. When I bought it, it arrived containing the little yellow napkins folded into triangles and the hand embroidered placemats that you see on the table in the foreground.

 

The knitting needles and tiny 1:12 miniature knitting, the red woven straw hat, the doilies, the stockings and the napkins in their round metal rings all came from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom. The elbow length grey ttravelling gloves on the table are artisan pieces made of kid leather. I acquired these from a high street dolls house specialist when I was a teenager. Amazingly, they have never been lost in any of the moves that they have made over the years are still pristinely clean.

 

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

 

The Portrait of King George V in the gilt frame in the background was created by me using a portrait of him done just before the Great War of 1914 – 1918. I also created the Union Jack bunting that is draped across the wall in the background.

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

 

Tonight however we are at Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie. Lettice is visiting her family home as her parents host their first Hunt Ball since 1914. Lady Sadie has been completely consumed over the last month by the planning and preparation of the occasion, determined that not only will it be the event of the 1922 county season, but also that it will be a successful entrée for her youngest daughter, still single at twenty-one years of age, to meet a number of eligible and marriageable men. Letters and invitations have flown from Lady Sadie’s bonheur de jour* to the families of eligible bachelors, some perhaps a little too old to be considered before the war, achieving more than modest success. Whilst Lettice enjoys dancing, parties and balls, she is less enthusiastic about the idea of the ball being used as a marriage market than her parents are.

 

We find ourselves in the lofty Adam design hall of Glynes with its parquetry floors and ornate plasterwork, outside the entrance to the ballroom antechamber, through which guests must pass to enter the grand ballroom where tonight’s Hunt Ball is being held. From the ballroom, the sound of the band hired for the evening to play can be heard above the hubbub of happy voices as like an exclusive club, aristocracy and local county guests intermingle. At the entrance to the ballroom antechamber stand the Viscount and Countess Wrexham, Leslie and Lettice, all forming a reception line where they have been standing for the last half hour, since the clocks around them struck eight and the first guests began to arrive. Now a steady stream of partygoers appear across the threshold of the house, through the door held open by Mardsen, the Chetwynd’s tall first footman. He acknowledges each person with a bow from the neck which is seldom acknowledged in return as ladies and gentlemen in thick fur coats and travel capes, fur tippets and top hats alight from the motorcars and in a few cases, horse drawn carriages that pull up to the front door. Bustling with idle chatter they each sweep through the door with a comfortable sense of privilege and self assurance, gasping with pleasure as they feel the heat of the blazing fire in the hearth of the foyer: a delightful change to the chill of the evening air their journeys were taken in. Bramley, the Chetwtynd’s butler takes the gentleman’s topcoats, capes, hats, gloves and canes, whilst Mrs. Renfrew, the Chetwynd’s housekeeper, helps the ladies divest themselves of their capes, furs and muffs, the pair revealing spectacular fancy dress costumes of oriental brocade, pale silks and satins, colourfully striped cottons and hand printed muslins.

 

Standing next to her mother who is dressed as Britannia, Lettice, costumed as Cinderella in an Eighteenth century style wig and gown, smiles politely, yet vacantly, as she greets guest after guest, watching the passing parade of Pierrots, and Columbines, Sinbads and faeries, princesses and Maharajas, pirates and mandarins.

 

“Oh good evening Miss Evans, and Miss Evans,” Lady Sadie exclaims, placing her glove clad fingers onto the forearms of the two spinster sisters who live in Holland House, a Seventeenth Century manor house in the village. “How delightful to see you both. Do come in out of the cold and make yourselves comfortable. It was good of you to come up from the village for tonight’s festivities when I know you were both poorly before Christmas.” She smiles benignly as they twitter answers back at her in crackling voices that sound like crisp autumn leaves underfoot. “You remember my youngest daughter, Lettice don’t you ladies?”

 

“How do you do, Miss Evans, Miss Evans,” Lettice replies with a nod, accepting the two ladies from her mother like a parcel on a conveyor belt, smiling the same polite painted smile she, her parents and brother have been wearing since the first guest arrived. She glances at the two old women, who must be in their seventies at least, one dressed as Little Bo-Peep complete with shepherdess’ crook and the other as Miss Muffet with a hand crocheted spider dangling from her wrist, both looking more like tragic pantomime dames than anything else. Both women have worn the same costumes to every Hunt Ball Lettice can remember, and she is surer now that they are at close quarters, that the costumes are made from genuine Eighteenth Century relics from their ancestors. “What delightful costumes. Miss Bo-Peep I believe?”

 

“Indeed, Miss Chetwynd!” Giggles the elder of the Miss Evanses. “My how you’ve grown into a smart young woman since the last Hunt Ball your parents threw before the war.”

 

“We read about you often in the London illustrated papers, don’t we Geraldine?” pipes up her sister.

 

“Oh quite! Quite Henrietta! What a marvellous time you must have up there in London. It’s good of you to come and join us for these little parochial occasions, which must be so dull after all the cosmopolitan pleasures you enjoy.”

 

“Not at all, Miss Evans. Now, please do go in. You must be freezing after your drive up from the village. There’s a good fire going in the antechamber. Please go and warm yourselves.”

 

“You are too kind, Miss Chetwynd! Too kind!” acknowledges Henrietta.

 

The two rather macabre nursery rhyme characters giggle and twitter and walk into the ballroom antechamber.

 

“Ahh, Lady Sadie,” a well intonated, yet oily voice annunciates, causing Lettice to shudder. “What a pleasure it is to be asked to the event of the country season.”

 

Lettice turns to see Sir John Nettleford-Hughes, tall and elegant, yet at the same time repugnant to her, dressed in full eveningwear, yet also wearing a very ornamental turban in deference to the Hunt ball’s fancy dress theme. Lettice shudders again as Sir John takes up her mother’s right hand in his and draws it to his lips and kisses it.

 

“Oh, Sir John!” Lady Sadie giggles in a girlish way Lettice seldom hears from her dour and matronly Edwardian mother.

 

“Well, I must kiss the hand of the brave and bold defender of the Empire.” He smiles up at her with wily eyes glittering with mischief. “You are Britannia, are you not?”

 

“Indeed I am, Sir John.” Lady Sadie chortles proudly. “Well done. Now, you remember my youngest daughter, Lettice, don’t you?” She turns Sir John’s and her own attention to her daughter beside her.

 

“Good heavens!” Sir John exclaims, his piercing blue eyes catching Lettice’s gaze and holding it tightly as he eyes her up and down. “Could this elegant Marie Antoinette be the lanky teenager I remember from 1914?”

 

Lettice feels very exposed by the intensity of his stare, and she feels as he looks her over, that in his mind he is removing her gown and wig to see what lies beneath them. She feels the flush of a blush work its way up her neck, the heat of it at odds with the coolness of the Glynes necklace of diamonds and rubies, lent to her for the evening by her mother, at her throat.

 

“I’m actually Cind…” Lettice begins, before stopping short and gasping as she feels the sharp toe of her mother’s dance pump kick firmly into her ankle beneath her skirts. “So pleased to see you again, Sir John.” she concludes rather awkwardly.

 

“Do you know, Sir John,” Lady Sadie gushes. “I do believe we have a painting of Marie Antoinette in our very own Glynes gallery.”

 

“Is that so, Lady Sadie?” he replies, without disengaging his eyes from Lettice.

 

“Yes, one of Cosmo’s ancestors brought it back from France after the Revolution, when all those lovely things from the French aristocracy were being sold for a song.”

 

“Then I should very much like to see it, Lady Sadie, and make my own comparison between the woman that was,” He takes up Lettice’s right hand and plants a kiss on it just as he had done to her mother. “And the lady who is.”

 

Lettice quickly withdraws her hand from Sir John’s touch, feeling more repugnance for him by the moment.

 

“I’m sure that could be arranged, Sir John,” Lady Sadie says with a beaming smile. “Lettice, perhaps you might show Sir John the painting of Marie Antoinette in the East Wing Long Gallery after the buffet supper tonight?”

 

“I shall look forward to that, my lady,” Sir John says without waiting for Lettice’s agreement, his gaze still piercing her, until suddenly he glances away and strides confidently in the wake of the two Miss Evanses.

 

Lettice greets the next few guests politely, yet vacantly constantly gazing at the top of her glove clad hand where she felt Sir John’s pressing lips. She is still distracted by it when a cheerful voice interrupts her uneasy thoughts.

 

“I say, Lettice my dear, are you quite well?”

 

Brought back from her unsettled imaginings, Lettice finds herself staring onto the most friendly looking pirate she has ever seen.

 

“Lord Thorley!” she says with a genuine smile forming across her lips. “How do you do.”

 

“You are looking a bit peaky, my dear.” he replies, lifting up his black felt eye patch so that he might see her with both eyes. Looking concerned, Lord Thorley Ayres continues, “Are you quite well?”

 

“Oh, quite, Lord Thorley. It’s just a little… a little warm in here, what with the fire and my costume.” She starts fanning herself with her hand.

 

“Oh, I thought you looked a bit pale, rather than flushed, my dear.”

 

“Don’t nanny poor Lettice so, Thorley,” mutters his wife, dressed as a Spanish Infanta of the Seventeenth Century in a magnificent panniered gown and fitted bodice that pushes her already evident breasts further into view. “The poor thing probably feels quite overwhelmed by the ball. It’s been a few years since there was a ball here last. Now move along and let me see the woman who was once the girl I knew.” She shoos her husband along with a wave of her hand.

 

“Lady Ayres,” Lettice says with a pleasurable smile. “How very good to see you. It’s been far too long since we had a ball here.”

 

“Quite right. But all that sadness and austerity of the war is behind us now, thank goodness!” She rolls her eyes implying the tediousness of the Great War just passed. “Now we can enjoy our fun and frivolities again, just as we used to. Now, of course you remember our son, Nicholas.” Lady Rosamund grasps the slender shoulders of a young man in a Pierrot costume and forcefully moves him forward to meet Lettice.

 

“Of course I do.” Lettice remarks kindly, smiling at the young man around her age, who is obviously reluctant to be there. She remembers the stories friends from the Embassy Club have told her about Nicholas Ayers, the reluctant heir to a vast estate, Crofton Court, in Cumbria. They giggled and blushed as they told Lettice in less than hushed whispers that his visits to a well known Molly-house** near Covent Garden and his debauched ‘at homes’ on Fridays were amongst the worst kept secrets in London. She gazes at his pale face, which was evidently white enough before being given a liberal dusting of white powder. How ironic, she thinks to herself, that his face is painted up so sadly with Pierrot’s iconic dark teardrop running from his left eye, when he is so evidently unhappy to be on parade as a reluctant suitor under the hawk eyes of both his parents. What sort of life will he live, she wonders, never mind the poor unfortunate society debutante who does eventually marry him, oblivious to his inclinations towards men rather than women? She knows her father knows about Nicholas’ inclinations, but is equally aware that her mother is innocent of such knowledge. She glances quickly at her mother and when she sees that she is talking animatedly to the next guest, she leans forward and whispers in Nicholas’ ear, “It’s alright, you only have to dance with me the once, and then you’ve done your duty.” Nicholas looks at her in genuine fear. “It’s alright. Your secrets are safe with me Nicholas. I won’t tell. I don’t want to be on parade any more than you do, so let’s just do our duty, and then you can go back to your life and I’ll go back to mine.”

 

“Can’t you two wait until you are on the dancefloor to whisper sweet nothings in one another’s ears?” chortles Thorley good naturedly, a cheeky smile painting his lips.

 

“Don’t embarrass them, Thorley!” Rosamund slaps her husband’s hand playfully with her ivory and lace fan, the pearl drop earrings at her lobes shaking about wildly. She reaches out to Nicholas and grabs him by the shoulders again, steering him away. “Come along Nicholas. You’ll have plenty of time to dance with Lettice later.”

 

Lettice glances at her mother, who has now turned all her attention to her daughter. She smiles proudly and nods her approval at a potential interest between Lettice and Nicholas Ayres and his tens of thousands of pounds a year. Lettice glances away quickly, allowing her eyes to follow the backs of Nicholas and Lord and Lady Ayres as they wend their way into the throng gathering in the antechamber adjoining the ballroom, and sighs quietly. A lecherous old man who would enjoy nothing more than a moment alone with her, and an invert*** who would probably rather face a pit of snakes than dance with her: how will she survive this ordeal of her mother’s making? Why can’t her mother just accept the fact that she is happier being unmarried and running a successful business.

 

Sighing, Lettice quickly reforms her painted smile and greets the next Hunt Ball guest.

 

*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.

 

**A Molly-house was a term used in 18th- and 19th-century Britain for a meeting place for homosexual men. The meeting places were generally taverns, public houses, coffeehouses or even private rooms where men could either socialise or meet possible sexual partners.

 

*** Sexual inversion is a theory of homosexuality popular primarily in the late 19th and early 20th century. Sexual inversion was believed to be an inborn reversal of gender traits: male inverts were, to a greater or lesser degree, inclined to traditionally female pursuits and dress and vice versa.

 

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 Georgian style fireplace I have had since I was a teenager and is made from moulded plaster. On its mantlepiece stand two gilt blue and white vases which are from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House in the United Kingdom. They are filled with a mixture of roses made by hand by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The marble and ormolu clock on the mantle between them is of a classical French style of the Georgian or Regency periods and comes from Smallskale Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The fire dogs and guard are made of brass and also come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House, as to the candelabra hanging on the wall either side of the central portrait.

 

The gilt Louis Quatorze chairs either side of the fireplace and the gilt swan pedestals are made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq. The candelabras on the two pedestals I have had since I was a teenager.

 

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

 

The floral arrangements in urns on top of the tables consist of pink roses, white asters and white Queen Anne’s Lace. Both are unmarked, but were made by an American miniature artisan and their pieces have incredible attention to detail. The Seventeenth Century musical statues to the side of the flower arrangements were made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. They were hand painted by me.

 

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

 

The marquetry floor of the room is in fact a wooden chessboard. The chessboard was made by my Grandfather, a skillful and creative man in 1952. Two chess sets, a draughts set and three chess boards made by my Grandfather were bequeathed to me as part of his estate when he died a few years ago.

Best on black.

 

I am once again way behind on my thank you's! So to all my flickr friends ... THANK YOU for a taking a moment out of your day to view my photos and leave such kind and generous comments, awards, and favs!! I do greatly appreciate it!! You make me feel good about my photography and it makes me want to continue to try to improve :)

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 Lettice is entertaining a potential new client, Miss Wanetta Ward, an American actress come to London, in her Mayfair drawing room. Lettice’s maid, Edith, is starstruck. She coyly glances at her mistress’ guest as she sets out tea and her home made Victoria sponge on the black japanned coffee table between the two comfortable tub chairs the ladies are ensconced in. Miss Ward is tall and statuesque, with striking green eyes and auburn hair fashionably cut and styled in a bob. Dressed in an orchid silk chiffon gown, her lisle clad thighs are clearly visible. Toying with a long string of pearls between her painted fingernails, she is the embodiment of the ‘new woman’: fearless, nonchalant and bold.

 

“Thank you Edith,” Lettice says with a bemused smile, her long and elegant fingers partially hiding it. “That will be all.”

 

“Oh,” Edith replies, obviously crestfallen. “Yes Miss.”

 

Edith retreats, somewhat begrudgingly back through the adjoining dining room and though the green baize door, back into the service area of Lettice’s flat.

 

“I am sorry, Miss Ward,” Lettice apologises to her guest, draped languidly across the chair opposite her. “I’m afraid my maid might be a little in awe of you.”

 

“Oh please don’t apologise, darling!” the American replies, her joyous laughter bursting forth. “I’m used to it. Poor little thing. Does she like the flicks*?”

 

Lettice ponders the answer to her guest’s question for a moment as she pours tea into her cup. “I don’t rightly know, Miss Ward. I don’t know what my maid does on her days off.”

 

“Well, I must ask her on the way out.” The American replies, adding a generous slosh of milk and two teaspoons of sugar to her tea.

 

“I do wish you’d let Edith take your hat and cane, Miss Ward.” Lettice adds, picking up her own cup.

 

“Nonsense, darling! Can’t be without my good luck charm!” She lovingly pats the pink silk flower covered hat sitting on the chinoiserie stool next to her chair, and Lettice cannot help but notice how perfectly her guest’s nail varnish matches her hat and dress.

 

“Your good luck charm?” Lettice muses. “What on earth do you mean?”

 

“No doubt you’ll think me odd, most people do when I tell them,” She twists her pearls self consciously around her fingers. “But every time I wear this hat, I always have good luck.”

 

“I must ask your permission to borrow it then Miss Ward,” Lettice moves her hand to unsuccessfully conceal her amusement. “The next time I go to the Ascot races.”

 

“See!” the American replies, sinking back in her seat feeling vindicated. “I told you that you’d think me odd!”

 

“Not at all, Miss Ward.” Lettice soothes her guest. “When you are the daughter of an old and venerable British family like I am, a certain element of hereditary oddity is de rigueur.”

 

“De rigueur?”

 

“A must, Miss Ward.”

 

“Oh, then I shan’t feel so conscious of flaunting my superstition around London.”

 

“Especially when it is such a pretty accessory too, Miss Ward.”

 

“Why thank you darling.” She flaps her long and elegant hand, batting away Lettice’s compliment. “You are just the sweetest.”

 

“Now, I believe you’ve come about redecorating your flat in Pimlico, Miss Ward?”

 

“That’s right!” She claps her hands in unabashed glee. “Well, it isn’t quite mine yet. I take possession next Thursday. Oh!” She continues, throwing up her right hand dramatically, her wrist coming to rest upon her forehead. “The place looks like a mausoleum at present! All this heavy clutter: thick velvet curtains, occasional tables covered in knick-knacks, stuffed birds beneath glass. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you my dear?” She reaches down and picks up her plate of sponge and takes a slightly larger than polite slice from it with her fork. “I just had to come and see you!”

 

Lettice smiles with pleasure, taking a sip of tea from her cup before placing it on the telephone table at her left. “So, I’m the first interior designer that you’ve visited here in London, Miss Ward?”

 

“Well, not exactly. No,” The American sits back in her seat blushing. “I did go and see Syrie Maugham**.”

 

“Oh.” Lettice frowns, unable to hide her disappointment.

 

“Oh, but I didn’t like what she suggested, darling!” Miss Ward replies quickly, assuring her host, fearful of having made a social gaffe and jeopardising her chance of having Lettice agree to decorate her flat. “All those ghastly shades of white…” The American suddenly stops mid-sentence, noticing for the first time that Lettice’s walls are papered in white and that she is sitting on a white upholstered chair. “Anyway,” She clears her throat awkwardly and looks sheepishly at Lettice. “I don’t think she approved of me.”

 

“Whyever not, Miss Ward?” Lettice asks with a tinge of pleasure in her question, feeling suddenly a little less crushed.

 

“I don’t think she approves actresses, period. She talked about forgoing worldly pleasures and went on about white representing purity.” Miss Ward shivers at the recollection. “Besides,” she continues. “I did hear that you did some redecorating for the Duchess of Whitby.”

 

“Your contacts are correct,” Lettice replies. Suspecting Miss Ward to be something of a gossip she then continues, brandishing the knowledge Lord de Virre gave her just an hour before, “What they don’t know, and this is strictly between us, you understand Miss Ward,”

 

“Oh! My lips are sealed, darling.” The American puts her finger to her lips conspiratorially as she leans forward, her excitement at the thought of a secret shared palpable.

 

“Well, I shall also soon be decorating the principal rooms of the home belonging to the eldest son of the Marquis of Taunton.”

 

“Really?” Miss Ward enthuses overdramatically. “The Marquis of Taunton! Fancy that!”

 

Lettice smiles as she picks up her plate and eats a small, ladylike portion of Victoria sponge, satisfied in the knowledge that Miss Ward has no idea who she is talking about, but being a parvenu, will quickly spread the news to those who do.

 

“Your sources of information are well informed about me, Miss Ward, and yet, I know nothing of you. Please do tell me a little bit about yourself and why it is that you wish for me to be your interior designer.”

 

“Well, that’s really why I wanted to see you, even before I saw that pious Syrie Maugham. You’re young, and bold, like me!” She looks up and off into the distance, waving her hand dramatically. “A trailblazer! I also heard that you favour oriental elements in your interior designs. I’ve just spent the last six months in the International Settlement in Shanghai you see, and I just love all those oriental designs.”

 

“Shanghai?”

 

“Yes. My brother has a club there: the Diamond Lotus Club, and I’ve been headlining there. Shanghai is so much more exciting than dull old Chicago!” she enthuses. “The clothes cost less to have made,” She grasps the hem of her skirt and squeezes the chiffon. “And the far east is so exotic and colourful.”

 

“Then forgive me for asking, but if you love it so much, why have you come to London?”

 

“Well, I loved singing in the club, but I really have my heart set on being an actress.” She takes another large mouthful of cake.

 

“Well, the West End is full of theatres, Miss Ward.”

 

“Oh, not a stage actress darling!” Miss Ward dabs at the corners of her mouth for crumbs with her beautifully painted fingers. “No, a film actress. I have a screen test at Islington Studios*** on Monday.” She tilts her head and lowers her kohl framed lids in a slightly coquettish way as though already auditioning.

 

“Well, you certainly have a great presence, Miss Ward.” Lettice says diplomatically. “I’m sure you’ll do splendidly.”

 

“Thank you, darling. I can’t disagree with you. My mother always told me that everyone knew when I entered the room, even when I was a little girl in ringlets.”

 

“Yes, I’d believe that.” Lettice smiles.

 

“And what better place for a successful film actress to entertain, than in a beautiful orientally inspired drawing room decorated by you, darling! I want bold and colourful wallpapers and carpets, oriental vases, Chinese screens.” She looks hopefully at Lettice. “So, will you take me on?”

 

“Take you on, Miss Ward?”

 

“Yes, take me on, as a client?” Her face falls suddenly, her fork of cake midway between the plate and her mouth. “Oh, please don’t tell me that you don’t approve of actresses either!”

 

“Oh, I’m not Syrie Maugham, Miss Ward.” Lettice replies, smiling cheekily. “And besides, it will irritate my Mamma no end if I have a film actress as a client.”

 

“You mean,” she gasps, clasping her hands. “You’ll agree to decorate my new flat?”

 

“Well, I’ll still need to visit you new home, and we’ll need to discuss matters further.” Lettice elaborates. “However, in principle, yes.”

 

“Oh darling! I could positively kiss you!” She drops her plate with a loud clatter on the coffee table surface and leaps up from her seat.

 

“That really won’t be necessary, Miss Ward.” Lettice assures her, raising her hands gently in defence in the face of the American’s statuesque form across the crowded table. “Just make sure that you settle my accounts promptly.”

 

“American railroad dollars good enough for you?”

 

“Only if they can be converted into British currency.” Lettice beams. “And, when you are a famous actress, I expect you to tell everyone who designed your interiors.”

 

“Oh! I’ll tell all my friends to come and see you, you darling girl! You’ll have to beat them away from the door with a hickory stick.”

 

“Indeed, Miss Ward.” Lettice takes another sip from her teacup.

 

“See!” Miss Ward replies, taking her seat again and patting the top of her pink hat. “I told you this was my lucky charm! I wore a blue beret to see Syrie Maugham.”

 

“Then today must be both our lucky days, Miss Ward.”

 

“Oh no! Enough of this ‘Miss Ward’ business. If you are to design somewhere as intimate as my boudoir, you must call me, Wanetta.”

 

*”Flicks” is an old fashioned term for a cinema film, named so for the whirring sound of the old projectors and flickering picture cast upon the silver screen.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

 

Lettice’s tea set sitting on the coffee table is a beautiful artisan set featuring a rather avant-garde Art Deco Royal Doulton design from the Edwardian era. The Victoria sponge (named after Queen Victoria) is made by Polly’s Pantry Miniatures in America. The green tinged bowl behind the tea set is made of glass and has been made by hand by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

 

Wanetta’s lucky pink hat covered in silk flowers, which you can see poking out from behind the armchair on the right 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 black Bakelite and silver telephone is a 1:12 miniature of a model introduced around 1919. It is two centimetres wide and two centimetres high. The receiver can be removed from the cradle, and the curling chord does stretch out. The vase of yellow tiger lilies and daisies on the Art Deco occasional table is beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium. The vase of roses and lilies in the tall white vase on the table to the right of the photo was also made by hand, by Falcon Miniatures who are renowned for their realistic 1:12 size miniatures.

 

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

 

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

 

The painting in the gilt frame is made by Amber’s Miniatures in America. The carpet beneath the furniture is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug. The geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

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

 

Today however we are at Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie. Lettice is visiting her old family home for the wedding of Leslie to Arabella, the daughter of their neighbours, Lord Sherbourne and Lady Isobel Tyrwhitt. Today is the big day, and as the weakening November sun rises in what is a remarkably sunny day for the bride and groom, Lettice will shortly join the guests to watch her brother and his future wife exchange vows at the chapel in Glynes village. Even now she can hear the chimes from the belfry ring across the rolling green undulations of Lettice’s father’s estate, calling the great and good of the village and the county to come and bear witness to the wedding of their future squire.

 

We find ourselves in Lettice’s boudoir at Glynes, a room which she considers somewhat of a time capsule now with its old fashioned Edwardian furnishings and mementoes of those halcyon pre-war summers. She hardly even considers it her room any more, so far removed is she from that giddy teenager who had crushes on her elder brothers’ friends and loved chintz covered furniture, floral wallpaper and sweet violet perfume. Lettice stands at the window of her bedroom, lolling against the dusky pink and pale green, slightly faded floral folded back curtains. Even as she stands there she can almost catch a whiff the violet perfume and hear her girlish whispers and giggles of yesteryear, like ghosts of a distant time and place. Beyond her in the great park, some stubborn traces of morning mist still loiter around a copse of trees, and the birds twitter in the topiaries and the parterre garden that lie beyond the sweeping gravel turning circle of driveway. Fingering the fine lace curtain that is always draped across the glass of her window, Lettice sighs. A pale, diffused light falls upon her face, the sunlight warming her cheeks. She closes her eyes, blocking out the cheerful golden gleam in the pale blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds tinged with pale grey and washed out ultramarine.

 

“Were you imagining the bells ringing for your wedding, Tice?” a voice interrupts her thoughts.

 

“Oh!” Lettice gasps, spinning around, dropping the curtain pulled back idly in her hands, releasing a myriad of dust motes tumbling into the sunlight streaming through the window. “Leslie! You startled me!”

 

“Sorry Tice.” her elder brother says, as he walks into the room.

 

“Look at you, my big brother,” Lettice smiles proudly. “All dressed up for his wedding day.”

 

“I feel ridiculously overdressed.” Leslie says, running a finger around the inside of his starched collar uncomfortably.

 

She walks up to Leslie and tweaks his bow tie that he has knocked awry with his fingering of his collar before taking a step back and taking in her handsome brother dressed in his new morning suit.

 

“You never did like dressing up for fancy occasions like Mamma’s Hunt Ball, did you, Leslie?” she asks.

 

“Never. Give me a tweed jacket and tie any day.”

 

“Oh no Leslie!” Lettice chides, not unkindly. “Not today. It’s your wedding day, and even our tenant farmers who would rather be in the comfort of their workaday clothes get dressed up for their wedding.”

 

“I feel…” he begins.

 

“Sshhh!” Lettice puts one of her elegantly manicured fingers to his lips to silence her brother. “Today isn’t really about you and your feelings, Leslie. It’s about Bella. And Bella would be so disappointed if you weren’t turned out as splendidly as you are.” She considers his appearance, as if seeing him for the first time. “You know, it’s a shame you don’t like getting dressed up. You really scrub up rather handsomely. I can see what Bella saw beneath all that tweed and houndstooth you habitually wear.”

 

“Need to wear, for estate business.” Leslie corrects his sister. “Imagine the distrust if I turned up at one of the estate farms or a meeting of the tenants dressed in something like this! They’d think I didn’t understand a thing about farming.”

 

“Well, today is not about farming.” Lettice replies kindly. “It’s about pomp and show from two of the county’s great families, and no-one does pomp quite as well as the Chetwynds and the Tyrwhitts.”

 

“Were you thinking about a wedding of your own just now, listening to the bells?” Leslie asks again.

 

“Me? No,” Lettice replies. “The bells aren’t tolling for me yet.” She brushes a stray piece of lint off his frock coat. “No,” she adds dreamily. “I was just thinking about how often before the war I used to stand at the window, longing to be in the wider world.”

 

“And now you’re a part of it.”

 

“Indeed.” Lettice muses contentedly. “I was considering how much has changed since then.”

 

“Ahh yes, those halcyon days before the war.” Leslie sighs.

 

“I think before the war was the last time we were all in the house together: you, me, Lally and Lionel, Mater and Pater. One big, happy family.”

 

Leslie scoffs. “Is that what we were?”

 

“No,” Lettice admits. “Lionel has always courted trouble and caused us pain, long before he had to go to Kenya in disgrace. Do you remember how much he enjoyed teasing Lally and I when we were children?”

 

“Relentlessly.” Leslie sighs. “Especially you. Yet you two are the closest in age and should have been best friends. He always did have a beastly, nasty streak.”

 

“And you had to come and defend us.”

 

“Endlessly! Kenya might agree with his health, but Lionel’s still as mean and nasty now as he was then.”

 

“Oh yes. I’m well aware of that. We all are. Even Mater and Pater are acutely aware of it since it’s been so nice doing without it for the last few years. Who will defend me now or hold me in a special place in his heart, now that you are getting married, and I will be usurped by Bella for your affections?”

 

“You’ll always have a special place in my heart, mon petite soeur!” Leslie laughs. “You of all people should know that! You’re my baby sister. Eldest brothers always have special places in their hearts for their little sisters. Anyway, I thought things were going well between you and Spencely.”

 

“Oh they are, they are.” Lettice says distractedly.

 

“Then surely there is a place in his heart, a special place, just for you.”

 

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Lettice says as she turns away from her brother and walks over to the floral chaise lounge on which sit her new Harriet Milford made hat, her lemon yellow gloves and her matching handbag.

 

“You have doubts as to Spencely’s affections, Tice?” Leslie looks to his sister in concern.

 

“Oh no!” she assures him. “I’m sure he’s fond of me. It’s just…”

 

“Yes?” Leslie’s eyebrows arch over his questioning eyes.

 

“It’s just that I haven’t even met his parents yet. Surely you would think if he was serious about our romance and our future together that he would introduce me to his parents.”

 

“Have you asked him, Tice?”

 

“Several times, but Selwyn always dismisses it with a wave of his hand. He says I’ll get to meet them in the fullness of time. Surely after all these months, it’s time, even if we don’t get married yet. It’s a sign of intent.”

 

Leslie thinks for a moment. “The Duke and Duchess of Walmford.” He ponders. “I can’t say I know anything much about them, what with being buried in estate business. The social round is more Mater’s thing than mine.”

 

“Oh I can read all I want to in Debrett’s*, every bit as easily as Mamma can: names, dates of birth, clubs, lineage, pedigree. That isn’t meeting someone.”

 

“True.”

 

“I just have this nagging feeling in the back of my mind, and it curdles my stomach whenever I raise the moot point between us.”

 

“You don’t think he’s a bounder, do you? Spencely’s never struck me as being a cad. In fact, I always thought he was rather decent when it came to the ladies, especially when you consider that London’s society ballrooms are full of men like Lionel, whose predatory advances towards the fairer sex aren’t bundled off to Nairobi for society’s greater good like Pappa and Mamma did with him.”

 

“For all our good.” Lettice corrects him. She looks down at the oriental carpet beneath their feet, rich and exotic, yet also sadly worn and faded in places. A troubled look crosses her pale face. “It’s not actually Selwyn that troubles me. It’s his mother.”

 

“Lady Zinnia?”

 

“Yes. Do you remember her when we, well when I was little, and they used to come here for the hunt? You are ten years older than me. I can only vaguely remember a grumpy woman in black dragging Selwyn away from me after she caught us playing in the hedgerows together. Selwyn said that he received a dreadful tongue lashing from her, and there was no puddng for him that night. What was she like?”

 

“Well, it’s hard to say.”

 

“You don’t remember her?”

 

“Oh I do, but then you also have all the mythology about her wrapping around her and obscuring my memories of her.”

 

“What mythology, Leslie?”

 

“Oh just that she was a beauty of the age, a glacial, imperious beauty who was born to be the Duchess of Walmsford. I remember the photos of her in Mamma’s copies of The Tatler**, The Lady***, Country Life**** and Horse and Hound*****. Except for the latter she was always dressed in the most elegant gowns, dripping in diamonds, a tiara atop her head, entertaining the country’s great and good at one of their estates or another. It clouds what you remember.”

 

“Did she speak to you?”

 

“I’m sure she did. I can’t say as I remember, but I was only a teenage boy. She wouldn’t have been interested in me. My presence would barely have even registered with her.” He takes his right hand to his chin and rubs it with his index finger as he thinks. “Although one thing I do remember quite clearly about her was her laugh.”

 

“Well, that’s more than I remember Leslie. I just remember this sort of dull impressionistic like face screaming at me. What was it like that you remember it?”

 

“It was like breaking glass: not shrill, beautiful, but cruel. Now, when I think back on those occasions as an adult and being more worldly, if you can call working on the estate worldly, I think she flirted with men at the hunt a lot.”

 

“But she was married to the Duke then, wasn’t she?”

 

“The Duke didn’t always come, for whatever reason, and when he didn’t, she flirted with all the men, married or otherwise. I suppose being friends with Alice Keppel******, she was part of King Edward’s racy Sandringham set where flirtations, and more,” He blushes self-consciously. “Were de riguer*******. I think she liked being a great beauty and having men, all sorts of powerful and influential men, in her thrall.”

 

“And ladies?”

 

“I don’t seem to remember her spending a great deal of time with the ladies when she visited us. I don’t think she was a drawing room type, like Mamma is, dunking dry biscuits in tea and gossiping over embroidery. She liked witty people, men especially. I think the company of most women bored her as I don’t think she cared for gossip, especially not county gossip which she considered parochial. I remember she liked talking about politics and art: things as a young teenager I had no head for, and if I’m honest, I still don’t. I’m just your dull parochial country squire. Give me a cattle show or hunt meet over the Houses of Parliament any day.”

 

“Stop that Leslie!” Lettice admonishes him with a gentle slap to his forearm. “You’re a fine man. The world isn’t made up entirely of politicians and great thinkers. Bella’s lucky to have a man as loving, kind and caring as you.” She smiles at her brother. “But go on about Lady Zinnia.”

 

“Lady Zinnia.” Leslie thinks. “She was clever, and she enjoyed making the men laugh. Engaging with men was almost like a sport to her. Even when we went on the foxhunt, she was out in front with the men. She was an excellent horsewoman and could keep up with the head of the pack, even though she rode side-saddle. She was spirited. Yes,” Leslie nods. “That’s a good word for her. She was spirited. Why all this sudden interest in Lady Zinnia, Tice?”

 

“Because I think she is the problem between Selwyn and I, or at least the obstacle to us actually getting married and being happily together.” Lettice admits. “I don’t think she likes me, or she doesn’t approve of me.”

 

“But you just said yourself that she’s never met you, well not since you were a child. How can you say she doesn’t like or approve of you if she’s never met you as an adult?”

 

“I can’t quite pinpoint it, but that’s what I sense, Leslie.”

 

“That’s a very grave allegation, Tice.” Leslie’s face clouds over. “What proof do you have?”

 

“I don’t have any, really,” Lettice admits guiltily. “But it’s just something I feel, here in the pit of my stomach. It’s like a canker, sitting there.”

 

“You must have more to go on than that in order to feel this way, surely Tice.”

 

“Well, take today for example. I asked Selwyn to come, but apparently his family is entertaining his Uncle Bertram and Aunt Rosalind, the Fox-Chavers, at their Scottish estate, Kenmarric.”

 

“Well to be fair, Tice, if he hasn’t made formal overtures of marriage, it’s really not appropriate for him to attend as your guest. Besides it is partridge season, Tice.”

 

“Yes, I know.” Lettice admits with a huff. “But it seems that whenever we seem to be making a bit of progress, plan something special beyond a dinner or a picnic, something always comes up.” She rubs a worn patch of the rug distractedly at her feet with the toe of her golden yellow leather shoe. “And it usually involves his cousin, Pamela Fox-Chavers.”

 

“I’ve not heard of her.”

 

“She hasn’t been presented yet. Apparently, she debuts next year. There is to be a rather grand coming out ball for her in London at the Cecil********. She’s young and pretty from what I’ve gathered.”

 

“Tice! Tice!” Leslie puts his hands firmly on Lettice’s sunken shoulders, squeezing them comfortingly through the lemon satin capped sleeves of the frock Gerald made for her for the wedding. She looks up into her brother’s face unhappily. “It sounds to me like you’re making something up out of… well, where there is nothing.”

 

“I knew you’d say that, Leslie.” Lettice pouts as she sticks her toe into the silk of the rug.

 

“Don’t do that, or you’ll wear a hole in it. As the future master of Glynes and all the expenses that go with it, I don’t want to have to replace the carpet unnecessarily.”

 

“Oh no,” Lettice stops rubbing the carpet and looks back into her brother’s face, a sudden steeliness replacing the soft and teary vulnerability in her eyes a moment ago. “I want you to promise me that when you inherit Glynes, one of the first things you will do is let me redecorate my boudoir.” She looks around her at the Eighteenth Century floral wallpaper, the heavy Art Nouveau dressing table, the chintz chaise lounge. “Mamma keeps this room as a mausoleum. It’s like by keeping it exactly as I left it before the war, the more obliging, more obsequious, less irritating, less outspoken Lettice of my teenage years will come back. But she won’t! Do you know that none of those photos on the chimneypiece, except perhaps the one of Nanny Webb and I, are my photos in here? I took all mine to London when I moved there. Mamma put these in here to fill the space. She even put that one of me as a flower girl at Lally’s wedding in pride of place on that table, just to remind me of what a dutiful daughter I was. There is nothing of me in this room now. Nothing!”

 

“Alright, Tice,” Leslie chuckles. “I agree. But only if you’ll put these silly ideas of Lady Zinnia trying to come between you and Spencely out of your mind.” He looks earnestly at her. “It’s not uncommon for an older male cousin to escort his younger female cousin to functions and social engagements prior to her coming out. This, what’s her name?”

 

“Pamela,” Lettice spits. “Pamela Fox-Chavers.”

 

“Pamela will benefit from knowing someone at the balls and other functions of the Season that she is to attend. As I said before, Spencely strikes me as a good egg when it comes to the ladies, so he’ll help keep her safe, advise her about the SITs and NSITs*********, and probably stop her from getting into mischief. Don’t get jealous of a girl whom you don’t even know, and whom I’m sure you’ve no reason to be jealous of. You tell me I’m handsome and smart, well,” He spins her around to face a full length cheval mirror where she can see her reflection. “Look at yourself. You are beautiful and petite. You are smart. You live your own life up in London, away from Mater and Pater, which is more than a lot of girls of your age and background have. And you have a very successful business, which you created – no-one else. Think on that the next time you go to give me a compliment. You’re the most successful of all of us. Lionel lives as a rake in disgrace in Nairobi where he can do no harm other than drink too much gin or race a few thoroughbreds that really aren’t ready to be raced. Lally is married to a nice, if dull chap, and has brought forth a few progeny to carry on Charles’ line. I’ll inherit this old pile of bricks and pray I can weather the storm and keep it all going so that one of Bella’s and my progeny can take over when I’m gone. But you, you leave a legacy of beautiful interiors that are your own distinctive style. You influence taste and fashions. You are one of those Bright Young Things********** the papers are full of, and whom the world will talk about long after I’m buried and forgotten in that churchyard.” He points out the window, across the undulating hill to where the sound of the bells is coming from.

 

“Do you really think that, Leslie?” Lettice asks.

 

“Well of course I do, Tice.” he concurs. “We all do. Well, maybe not Mamma, and certainly not Lionel. But Lally, Father, Bella and I do, so we outnumber them. Nigel, Isobel and Sherbourne too. We’re all so proud of you. Even Mamma, though she would rather eat a pound of nails than say it, must have at least some unexpressed admiration for what you do and what you’ve achieved, Tice.”

 

“Leslie! Leslie there you are, old boy! Come on!” Lionel’s unusually suntanned face and sun bleached sandy blonde hair poke around the frame of Lettice’s dressing room door. “Oh, morning, Lettuce Leaf.” He nods to his little sister as an afterthought.

 

Lettice cringes at the use of her most hated childhood nickname, which is tolerable, or even amusing on occasion when said by her best friend Gerald, but like poison spat at her when it comes from her hated sibling.

 

“Look I hate to break this tender moment of sibling bonding between you two up.” Their brother sneers mockingly at them from beneath his mean sun blonde pencil moustache, mischief in his cold, glinting eyes. “I mean, it really is charming and all, but I’d like to remind you Leslie, that the car is waiting downstairs and the bells toll. Listen, can’t you hear them?” Dressed in his morning suit with a boutonniere of a white rose and some Queen Anne’s lace sticking from his lapel, he poses dramatically, lolling against the doorframe, a hand held to his ear as he perks up and peers through Lettice’s window into the bright morning beyond.

 

“Bugger off Lionel, you pillock!” growls Leslie warningly. “You’re only here for a few days. Pray you don’t leave with broken teeth.”

 

“Alright!” Lionel holds up his hands in defence. “Don’t shoot, or punch me.” He sneers again. “I’m just the messenger. Mater and Pater are downstairs with your best man, Leslie, and he’s getting anxious that his sister is going to arrive at the church to get married before you two do. The olds are trying to placate him, so I’d shake a leg and get a move on, if I were you.”

 

Smiling smarmily, Lionel slinks away, leaving Lettice and Leslie alone again.

 

“Look, I have to go, but, but we’ll talk later, Tice, alright?” Leslie assures his sister.

 

“No we won’t,” Lettice says, smiling sadly and reaching up to her favourite brother’s boutonniere, running her fingers along the soft silken petal of the white rose buds. “Not today at any rate.” She pats his arm comfortingly. “We both may hate Lionel, but even though I’d rather eat a pound of nails than say it, he’s right. The bells are chiming, and you’re getting married. I can’t hold you up from the most important moment of your life, and Bella would never speak to me again if I did. Off you go.”

 

“Tice,” Leslie begins, a hundred unfinished thoughts catching in his voice.

 

“I’ll be alright. I have Gerald to escort me this afternoon.” She smiles as she sees a mixture of anxiety and excitement in his eyes. “Just tell Mamma I’m fixing my hat and I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

 

“Alright, Tice.” He starts to leave. “I’ll see you in the chapel then.”

 

“Just try and stop me,” she replies with a smile. “It isn’t every day my big brother gets married. Now go, before Nigel has an aneurism on the drawing room carpet.”

 

With the pattering of hurried footsteps, Leslie disappears around the frame of the door and runs down the hall.

 

Lettice picks up her hat and walks over to her dressing table where she withdraws one of the long hatpins in the container standing on its surface. Carefully positioning her pretty lemon yellow straw hat with organza and artificial flower decoration against her straw yellow blonde chignon and affixes it with the hatpin. She listens to the crisp sound of the pin piercing the straw of her hat and feels the pin slide through the back of her hair. She tugs the brim gently, just to make sure her millinery is firmly in place and sighs as she considers her reflection. She admires her figure, expertly encased in the pale yellow satin frock with the Peter Pan collar*********** Gerald has made for her for the wedding. The two strings of perfect graduating creamy white pearls her parents gave her for her coming of age sit across her collar bones and a corsage of white roses sits daintily on her wrist.

 

Satisfied, she wanders back to the window and looks down. Through the lace scrim, she can see Nigel Tyrwhitt, Leslie’s bride-to-be’s brother and his best man, walk across the gravel towards her father’s Daimler, followed closely by Leslie. The two talk, but with the window closed and being two storeys up, Lettice can’t hear what they are saying, but she catches a waft of their laughter through the glass and knows that whatever they are saying, they are very happy that Leslie is about to marry Arabella. In the distance, the Glynes Church of England chapel bells peal, beckoning guest to enter to witness the marriage of Arabella Tyrwhitt, only daughter of Lord Sherboune and Lady Isobel Tyrwhitt to Leslie Cheywnd, son and heir of the Viscount and Viscountess of Wrexham, forever enmeshing two of the county’s great families.

 

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

 

**Tatler is a British magazine published by Condé Nast Publications focusing on fashion and lifestyle, as well as coverage of high society and politics. It is targeted towards the British upper-middle class and upper class, and those interested in society events.

 

***The Lady is one of Britain's longest-running women's magazines. It has been in continuous publication since 1885 and is based in London. The magazine was founded by Thomas Gibson Bowles (1842–1922), the maternal grandfather of the aristocratic and controversial Mitford sisters. Bowles also founded the English magazine Vanity Fair. He gave the Mitford girls' father (David Freeman-Mitford, Second Baron Redesdale) his first job: general manager of the magazine. Early contributors included Nancy Mitford and Lewis Carroll, who compiled a puzzle for the title

 

****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.

 

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

 

******Alice Frederica Keppel was a British society hostess and a long-time mistress and confidante of King Edward VII. Keppel grew up at Duntreath Castle, the family seat of the Edmonstone baronets in Scotland. She was the youngest child of Mary Elizabeth, née Parsons, and Sir William Edmonstone, 4th Baronet. In 1891 she married George Keppel, an army officer, and they had two daughters. Alice Keppel became one of the best society hostesses of the Edwardian era. Her beauty, charm and discretion impressed London society and brought her to the attention of the future King Edward VII in 1898, when he was still Prince of Wales, whose mistress she remained until his death, lightening the dark moods of his later years, and holding considerable influence. Through her younger daughter, Sonia Cubitt , Alice Keppel is the great-grandmother of Queen Camilla, the former mistress and second wife of King Edward VII's great-great-grandson King Charles III.

 

*******In French, de rigueur means "out of strictness" or "according to strict etiquette"; one definition of our word rigor, to which rigueur is related, is "the quality of being strict, unyielding, or inflexible." In English, we tend to use de rigueur to describe a fashion or custom that is so commonplace within a context that it seems a prescribed, mandatory part of it.

 

********The Hotel Cecil was a grand hotel built 1890–96 between the Thames Embankment and the Strand in London, England. It was named after Cecil House, a mansion belonging to the Cecil family, which occupied the site in the Seventeenth Century. The hotel was the largest in Europe when it opened, with more than eight hundred rooms. The proprietor, Jabez Balfour, later went bankrupt and was sentenced to 14 years in prison. The Royal Air Force was formed and had its first headquarters here in the former Hotel Cecil in 1918. During the 1920s, it was one of the most fashionable hotels in London and was filled with flappers and young men, representing the spirit of the Jazz Age. The hotel was largely demolished in 1930, and Shell Mex House now stands on its site.

  

*********SIT is the acronym for “safe in taxis” and NSIT is the acronym for “not safe in taxis”. These acronyms were used by debutantes and their mothers to refer to young men who could and couldn’t be trusted to escort a debutante home in a taxi without getting handsy. Some aristocratic mothers with daughters of a marriageable age being introduced into society kept a list of these young men and the debutantes themselves would avoid them.

 

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

 

Contrary to popular belief, fashion at the beginning of the Roaring 20s did not feature the iconic cloche hat as a commonly worn head covering. Although invented by French milliner Caroline Reboux in 1908, the cloche hat did not start to gain popularity until 1922, so even though this story is set in that year, picture hats, a hangover from the pre-war years, were still de rigueur in fashionable society and whilst Lettice is fashionable, she and many other fashionable women still wore the more romantic picture hat. Although nowhere near as wide, heavy, voluminous or as ornate as the hats worn by women between the turn of the Twentieth Century and the Great War, the picture hats of the 1920s were still wide brimmed, although they were generally made of straw or some lightweight fabric and were decorated with a more restrained touch.

 

This pretty and very feminine Edwardian boudoir may appear like something out of a historical house display, 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:

 

Lettice’s yellow straw hat decorated with ornamental flowers, fruit and organza. 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism such as these are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable. The maker of this hat is unknown, but it is part of a larger collection I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel. Lettice’s lemon yellow purse is also an artisan piece and is made of kid leather which is so soft. It is trimmed with very fine braid and the purse has a clasp made from a piece of earring. The matching lemon yellow gloves are made from the same soft kid leather. They came as a set from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The floral chintz chaise lounge with its scalloped end comes from Crooked Mile Cottage miniatures in America, whilst the dainty fringed footstool with its tiny rose and leaf pattern ribbon was hand upholstered by an artisan in England.

 

The silver dressing table set on the dressing table, consisting of mirror, brushes and a comb, as well as the tray on which the perfume bottle stand has been made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.

 

On the silver tray there is a selection of sparkling perfume bottles, which are handmade by an English artisan for the Little Green Workshop. Made of cut coloured crystals set in a gilt metal frames or using vintage cut glass beads they look so elegant and terribly luxurious. The faceted pink glass perfume bottle, made from an Art Deco bead came with the dressing table, which I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop.

 

The dressing table chair did not come with the dressing table, although it does match nicely. Upholstered in a very fine pink satin, it was made by the high-end dolls’ house miniature furniture manufacturer, Bespaq.

 

The plaster fireplace and its metal grate come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom. The fire pokers and bellows I have had since I was a teenager and come from a high street stockist who specialised in dolls houses and doll house miniatures.

 

The Chetwynd family photos seen cluttering the mantlepiece are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frames are almost all from Melody Jane’s Dollhouse Suppliers in the United Kingdom and are made of metal with glass in each.

 

The porcelain clock on the mantlepiece is made by M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik in Germany, who specialise in making high quality porcelain miniatures. The other vases in the room, except for the one containing the irises come from various online miniatures stockists.

 

Made of polymer clay that are moulded on wires to allow them to be shaped at will and put into individually formed floral arrangements, the very realistic looking blue irises are made by a 1:12 miniature specialist in Germany. The vase they stand in is a 1950s Limoges vase – one of a pair. Both are stamped with a small green Limoges mark to the bottom. These treasures I found in an overcrowded cabinet at the Mill Markets in Geelong. The pink roses on the dressing table and the cream roses on the round Regency occasional table come from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

 

The tall Dutch style chest of drawers to the far right 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 oriental rug is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug and has been machine woven. The wallpaper is an Eighteenth Century chinoiserie design of white camellias. All the paintings on Lettice’s boudoir walls come from Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers 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.

 

Tonight, however we are south of the Thames in the London district of Rotherhithe, where, surrounded by old warehouses, right on the southern foreshore of the Thames, stands the Angel*, a little red brick pub which is always busy, but tonight is exceptionally so, for it is New Year’s Eve 1922.

 

The pub’s comfortable old Victorian décor is festooned with chains of brightly coloured paper, no doubt made by hand by the publican and his family as Edith had created such cheap home made decorations for her own family home in Harlesden for Christmas. Everywhere there is noise and chatter as patrons fill chairs and benches, lean against the bar, or fill the linoleum covered floor space. A hundred conversations, cries of excitement and laughter mix with the clink of glasses, the thud of bottles and the scrape of chairs in one vociferous noise. A fug of acrid greyish white cigarette smoke hangs in the charged air as midnight approaches. Nestled into a cosy nook near the crackling fireplace, Edith, Lettice’s maid, sits alongside her beau, Frank Leadbetter, a delivery boy for Willison’s Grocers, the grocer’s closest to Lettice’s Mayfair flat. The Angel has an interesting mix of patrons, from local workers to more artistic types, as well as a small party of Bright Young Things** shunning the bright lights and nightclubs of London’s West End, at least before midnight, as they enjoy an evening of slumming*** which no doubt they will use to regale their friends with stories about their evening later. It is with these rather noisy people that Edith and Frank share a table, the group taking up majority of it with glasses of wine and champagne, bottles of beer and packets of fashionable Craven “A” cigarettes****. Being much quieter than their table companions, enjoying the delights of freshly made hot chips delivered in to the pub from a local fish and chippery, Edith and Frank don’t tend to be included by the boisterous slum visitors who prefer the colour of equally noisy local characters, except when there is a singalong.

 

Cheering at the conclusion of a boisterous final verse of ‘The Laughing Policeman’***** the group of upper-class people nod their heads in recognition at Frank and Edith before returning to the conversation they were having with a local dock worker before the latest spontaneous singalong began.

 

“It’s a funny sort of place, this, isn’t it Frank?” Edith asks, picking up her glass of port and lemon and sipping it.

 

“Funny, Edith?” Frank queries, cocking his eyebrow questioningly before taking a sip of his own dark ale.

 

“Well, I mean look around at the people here.” She eyes a pair of painters, their occupation evident from the paint splatters on their rather shabby black coats and paint smeared rags hanging limply from their pockets. Then she glances at the young lady in the party sharing the table with them, her fashionable oriental silk frock, and the marcelling****** in her glossy chestnut coloured hair, accessories by a pair of diamond star pins, making her look more suited to her mistress’ drawing room than a Rotherhithe pub. “This isn’t your standard pub crowd, at least not in any of the pubs up around where I’m from.”

 

“Don’t you like it?” Frank asks anxiously, a tinge of hurt in his voice as speaks.

 

Edith looks into Frank’s concerned face and then reaches out her hand and places it lovingly over his, giving it a comforting squeeze. “Of course I like it, Frank. I like anywhere where I’m with you.”

 

“Oh, that’s a relief!” Frank sinks back into the round open balloon back of the red velvet upholstered chair he is sitting on, the tension in his shoulders visibly dissipating as he does. “I’d hate to take my girl somewhere she didn’t like or feel comfortable in.”

 

“Oh no. I like it just fine. The crowd is unusual is all. What made you pick here, Frank? I thought you might have taken me to the Old Crown******* up Islington way.”

 

“Well, you know how I’ve been trying to better myself by attending lectures and the like on art?” When Edith nods as she picks up a hot chip from the diminishing steaming pile of golden fingers he continues. “Well, I ran into a couple of artists, and they told me that Augustus John******** comes here sometimes.”

 

“And who is he?” Edith asks before popping the hot chip into her mouth.

 

“Blimey Edith! I can see I’m going to have to take you to a few art galleries in the New Year!” Frank shakes his head.

 

“I’d like that, Frank.” Edith admits, swallowing.

 

“Augustus John just happens to be one of the best known artists in England!”

 

“I’m so proud of you trying to better yourself and learn things, Frank. I want to keep making you proud as your girl.”

 

“Oh you do, Edith. You know I’m proud of you too. You’re bettering yourself by learning about fine things at Miss Chetwynd’s.”

 

“Yes, but learning to say luncheon or dinner rather than tea isn’t the same thing as learning about art.”

 

“Now, now! I won’t have you talking yourself down, Edith. You’re my girl and I’m proud of you. We’ll go to some galleries on our afternoons off when the spring comes next year.”

 

“Thinking of the New Year,” Edith says. “Mum and Dad talked about you coming over for dinner one night. I want you to meet them. They want to meet you too.”

 

“And they will, Edith love.” Frank apologises. “I just want to do things the right way.”

 

“I know you do, Frank.” Edith looks down into her lap, brushing a few crumbs of golden chip batter off her black coat distractedly. “I told them that too. I told them that you want me to meet your Granny first, and then he’ll meet you.”

 

“And so you will, and then I will.”

 

“When Frank? I’m starting to see comparisons between Miss Lettice and me.”

 

“What do you mean, Edith?”

 

“Well, I don’t like to gossip, you know, but I can’t help overhearing things.” She looks at Frank guiltily. “And well, she talks with Mrs. Channon about wanting to meet Mr. Spencely’s mother, who sounds like a real dragon to me, just to make things formal like. A sign of intention she and Mrs. Channon call it.”

 

“But we’re formal, Edith. You know my intentions clear enough. You heard me tell you I love you at the Premier Super Cinema********** just a few weeks ago.” He reaches over and wraps his hands around her forearms. He looks at her suddenly forlorn face and slumping shoulders. “And you told me the same. What could be more formal than that?”

 

“Meeting your Granny, Frank. I know she means so much to you.”

 

“Well, she’s the only person I have left after Mum and Dad died of the Spanish Flu, and what with my brother getting killed in France, and him being unmarried and all.”

 

“Then why can’t I meet her, Frank? Don’t tell me that she’s a dragon like Mr. Spencely’s mum.”

 

“Oh no, she’s the loveliest woman, my Granny is.”

 

“Then she wouldn’t approve of me? I’m not good enough for her grandson? Is that it?”

 

“Of course not Edith.” He shakes her gently, as if trying to shake some sense into his sweetheart.

 

The fashionable upper-class girl suddenly bursts into a peal of laughter that pierces the air around her like shattering glass, momentarily distracting the young couple. “Oh you are too funny, Charlie Boy!” she says in elegantly modulated, yet slightly slurred, tones to the dock worker as her male companions join in her laughter cheerily. She turns and plonks down her glass of champagne a little clumsily as her constant drinking starts to have an impact on her faculties. Lunging across the table to grab one of the packets of cigarettes scattered across it, she suddenly notices the quiet young couple at the other end of the table. “Gasper, darlings?” she asks, her kohl lined eyes widening seductively as he holds out the open Craven “A” packet to them, the tan coloured cork ends jutting out through the torn red and white paper and silver foil packaging. When they shake their heads warily at her, she merely shrugs. “Help yourself if you change your mind.” She smiles lopsidedly at them, her red lipstick bleeding into her skin around the edges of her painted lips. “They aren’t really mine to offer, but I know Andrew won’t mind. He’s got plenty at home back in St John’s Wood. Don’t you darling?” She turns back to her party and drapes an arm languidly around one of the young men in her party who lets his own hand stray to her bottom cheeks where he fondles her unashamedly through the thin silk of her dress. Neither turn back to see the look of shock on both Edith and Frank’s faces.

 

Turning back to Edith, Frank continues, “Granny will love you, Edith – just like I do!”

 

“Then why aren’t I meeting her yet, Frank?” Tears begin to well in her eyes.

 

“Well, you were partially right, Edith.” Frank admits.

 

“About which part?”

 

“Well, she’s a bit protective of me, you see.” He looks earnestly into Edith’s eyes. “You can’t blame her, can you? If like she is to me, I am her only close living relation, she is always going to scrutinise any girl I show an interest in – not that there have been many,” he adds quickly. “And certainly none as serious as I am with you, Edith.”

 

“Well if you say that she’ll like me, what’s the problem, Frank?”

 

“Look I only told her about you recently, when we both knew we were sure about our feelings for one another. She isn’t upset, but Granny is a bit jealous of no longer being my best girl any longer. Once she’s adjusted herself to the idea, I can ask you around for tea at her house in Upton Park.”

 

“And when will that be, Frank?” Edith asks sulkily.

 

“Oh only a few weeks away, Edith. She’s already starting to come around to the idea, but I think now she knows about you and how serious I am about you, she just wanted what will probably be our last Christmas alone to be.. well, just us. It gives her a chance to deal with being usurped.”

 

“Usurped? What’s that mean, Frank?”

 

“It means to take the place of someone.” Frank replies proudly.

 

The gratified look on his face makes Edith chuckle and her concerns are broken.

 

“That’s my girl.”

 

Frank leans further forward in his chair and wraps his arms around Edith, pulling her to him. He can smell the comforting scent of fresh laundering and soap flakes in her coat as he buries his head into the nape of her neck and nuzzles her gently. He feels her arms tighten around his middle. After a few minutes the pair slowly break apart again and resume their seats properly.

 

“So, what else do you want to do this year, Edith?” Frank smiles.

 

“Well, besides going to a few galleries, and,” she pauses for effect. “Meet your Granny,”

 

“I promise Edith! Just a few weeks from now you’ll be sitting in her kitchen in Upton Park and you won’t be able to get away. I swear!”

 

“Then I was thinking again about having my hair bobbed.”

 

“Oh no, Edith love!” Frank reaches out a hand which he lovingly runs along the chignon at the back of her neck poking out from beneath her black straw cloche decorated with purple silk roses and black feathers. “Not your beautiful hair.”

 

“Oh it’s easy for you to say, Frank. You aren’t wearing it all day, every day. It gets awfully hot when I’m cooking and cleaning at Miss Lettice’s, and it takes ages to wash and dry.”

 

“Well, don’t do anything rash just yet. Meet my Granny first before you decide to bob your hair.”

 

“Doesn’t she approve of girls with bobbed hair then?”

 

“She gets all her fashion tips from Queen Mary, Edith!” Frank laughs. “Of course she doesn’t approve of bobbed hair!”

 

“Then I won’t,” Edith promises. The she adds the caveat, “Just yet.”

 

“That’s my girl!”

 

“Just yet, Frank.” she cautions again. “I have a feeling that nineteen twenty-three is going to be a year of change.”

 

“What gives you that idea, Edith?”

 

“I don’t know.” Edith admits. “But I just have this feeling.”

 

“Well, I don’t want things to change too much.”

 

“But I thought you were all about improvement and betterment, Frank.”

 

“And so I am.”

 

“Well improvement and betterment are just different words for change.”

 

“Well, as long as your feelings for me don’t change.” Frank says with a hopeful look.

 

“As if they would, Frank!”

 

“’Ere! Shurrup you lot!” the publican suddenly shouts loudly from the bar over the top of all the hubbub of human chatter. “It’s nearly midnight!”

 

Edith and Frank stand up and join everyone else in the Angel pub as they start the countdown to midnight. As Big Ben strikes, clusters of cheers can be heard momentarily in the distance across the inky black Thames before they are consumed by the cheers of the people around them as they begin to jump up and down and embrace one another.

 

“Happy nineteen twenty-three!” Frank yells, embracing Edith in his arms.

 

“Happy nineteen twenty-three!” Edith echoes as she sinks against his chest clad in a thick knitted vest and grey worsted wool jacket.

 

As a young woman begins to play the first few notes of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ on the old upright piano in the bar, Edith and Frank begin to sing along with everyone else, joining hands with each other and the people immediately around them.

 

*The Angel, one of the oldest Rotherhithe pubs, is now in splendid isolation in front of the remains of Edward III's mansion on the Thames Path at the western edge of Rotherhithe. The site was first used when the Bermondsey Abbey monks used to brew beer which they sold to pilgrims. It is located at 24 Rotherhithe St, opposite Execution Dock in Wapping. It has two storeys, plus an attic. It is built of multi-coloured stock brick with a stucco cornice and blocking course. The ground floor frontage is made of wood. There is an area of segmental arches on the first floor with sash windows, and it is topped by a low pitched slate roof. Its Thames frontage has an unusual weatherboarded gallery on wooden posts. The interior is divided by wooden panels into five small rooms. In the early 20th Century its reputation and location attracted local artists including Augustus John and James Abbott McNeil Whistler. In the 1940s and 50s it became a popular destination for celebrities including Laurel and Hardy. Today its customers are local residents, tourists and people walking the Thames Path.

 

**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.

 

***The Oxford English Dictionary dates the first use of the word “slumming” to 1884. It applies to a phenomenon called slum tourism, poverty tourism or ghetto tourism which involves wealthy people visiting impoverished areas of cities. Originally focused on the slums and ghettos of London and Manhattan in the Nineteenth Century, in London people visited slum neighbourhoods such as Whitechapel or Shoreditch to observe life in this situation – a phenomenon which caused great offence to the locals, since they seldom if ever gained from the ogling of their social superiors who were there for the spectacle rather than philanthropic reasons, the spoils going to the tour operators. By 1884 wealthier people in New York City began to visit the Bowery and the Five Points, Manhattan on the Lower East Side, neighbourhoods of poor immigrants, to see "how the other half lives". Sadly, slum tourism still exists today and is now prominent in South Africa, India, Brazil, Kenya, Philippines, Russia and the United States.

 

****Craven A (stylised as Craven "A") is a British brand of cigarette, currently manufactured by British American Tobacco under some of its subsidiaries; it was originally created by the Carreras Tobacco Company in 1921 and made by them until its merger into Rothmans International in 1972, who then produced the brand until Rothmans was acquired by British American Tobacco in 1999. The cigarette brand is named after the third Earl of Craven, after the "Craven Mixture", a tobacco blend formulated for the 3rd Earl in the 1860s by tobacconist Don José Joaquin Carreras. The year of release of the Craven "A" brand coincided with the well-publicised death of the 4th Earl of Craven in a yachting accident on the 10th of July 1921. It was the first machine-made cork-tipped cigarette, and it became a household name in over one hundred and twenty countries with the slogan "Will Not Affect Your Throat".

 

*****’The Laughing Policeman’ is a music hall song recorded by British artist Charles Penrose, published under the pseudonym Charles Jolly in 1922, making it one of the most popular songs of 1922 in Britain. It is an adaptation of ‘The Laughing Song’ by American singer George W. Johnson with the same tune and form but different subject matter, first recorded in 1890. Charles Penrose used the melody of "The Laughing Song" as well as the same hook of using laughter in the chorus, but changed the lyrics to be about a policeman, and recorded it under the title of ‘The Laughing Policeman’. The composition of the song is, however, credited entirely to Billie Grey, a pseudonym of Penrose's second wife Mabel. The song describes a fat jolly policeman who cannot stop laughing and has a chorus in which the sound of laughter is made in a sustained semi musical way by the singer. It is thought that the character of the Laughing Policeman was inspired by real-life police officer PC John 'Tubby' Stephens, a popular figure in Leicester.

 

******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.

 

*******The Old Crown is a pub built on the corner of Hornsey Lane and Highgate Hill in the north London suburb of Highgate, opposite Highgate Cemetery. Established in 1821 on the steepest part of Highgate Hill, the current building dates from 1908 and features a very ornate and pretty façade including a corner turret with a green tower. The Old Crown closed its doors in 2018 to become a restaurant/bar called Tourian Lounge, where food and drink were still served, but not in an old English pub style. A century after our story is set in 2022, it is Brendan the Navigator, a self-styled gastropub with live music.

 

********Augustus John (1878 – 1961) was a Welsh painter, draughtsman, and etcher. For a time he was considered the most important artist at work in Britain: Virginia Woolf remarked that by 1908 the era of John Singer Sargent and Charles Wellington Furse "was over. The age of Augustus John was dawning." He was the younger brother of the painter Gwen John. Although known early in the century for his drawings and etchings, the bulk of John's later work consisted of portraits. Those of his two wives and his children were regarded as among his best. By the 1920s when this story is set, John was Britain's leading portrait painter. John painted many distinguished contemporaries, including T. E. Lawrence, Thomas Hardy, W. B. Yeats, Aleister Crowley, Lady Gregory, Tallulah Bankhead, George Bernard Shaw, the cellist Guilhermina Suggia, the Marchesa Casati and Elizabeth Bibesco.

 

**********The Premier Super Cinema in East Ham was opened on the 12th of March, 1921, replacing the 800 seat capacity 1912 Premier Electric Theatre. The new cinema could seat 2,408 patrons. The Premier Super Cinema was taken over by Provincial Cinematograph Theatres who were taken over by Gaumont British in February 1929. It was renamed the Gaumont from 21st April 1952. The Gaumont was closed by the Rank Organisation on 6th April 1963. After that it became a bingo hall and remained so until 2005. Despite attempts to have it listed as a historic building due to its relatively intact 1921 interior, the Gaumont was demolished in 2009.

 

This jolly festive New year celebratory scene may not appear to be all it appears at first, for it is in fat made up of 1:12 scale miniatures from my large miniatures collection, including pieces from my childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Made of polymer clay glazed to look oily and stuck to miniature newspaper print, the serving of golden hot chips on the table were made in England by hand by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. Made from real glass with great attention to detail on the labels, the bottles of ale come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom, as does the glass of dark ale, also made of glass. The glass of golden champagne is made of real glass and comes from Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The two glasses of port and lemon in the low glasses come from an online stockist of miniatures on E-Bay. The packets of Craven “A” cigarettes come from Shephard’s Miniatures in the UK. Great attention has been paid to the labelling which makes them clearly identifiable and specific to the time between the 1920s and the late 1940s. Made of cut clear crystals set in a silver metal frames the square silver ashtray is made by an English artisan for the Little Green Workshop. It is filled with “ash” and even has a tiny cigarette sitting on its lip. The cigarette is a tiny five millimetres long and just one millimetre wide! Made of paper, I have to be so careful that it doesn’t get lost when I use it! Also made by an artisan, only an Indian one, the black ashtray also features miniature cigarettes, although all of them are affixed within the ashtray. The other glasses on the table and the carafe are all made of clear glass and were acquired from a high street stockist of miniatures when I was a young teenager.

 

The table on which all these items stand is a Queen Anne lamp table which I was given for my seventh birthday. It is one of the very first miniature pieces of furniture I was ever given as a child.

 

The fireplace surround in the background comes from Melody Jane’s Doll House Supplies in the United Kingdom.

 

On the mantle stand more glasses acquired from a high street stockist of miniatures when I was a young teenager. There is also a bottle of beer from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop and a bottle of champagne from Karen Ladybug Miniatures.

 

The Staffordshire hound and fox and the “Dieu et Mon Droit” (God and My Right) vase on the mantle have all been hand made, painted and gilded by Welsh miniature ceramist Rachel Williams who has her own studio, V&R Miniatures, in Powys.

 

The parlour palm in the background comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The colourful paper chains were made by me.

 

The two chairs I acquired from a deceased estate as part of a larger collection of miniatures. They date from the 1970s.

 

The wood panelling in the background is real, as I shot this scene on the wood panelled mantle of my drawing room.

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 are in central London, near the palace of Westminster and the Thames embankment at the very stylish Metropole Hotel*, where Lettice’s latest client, American film actress Wanetta Ward is living whilst her Edwardian Pimlico flat is redecorated by Lettice. We find ourselves in the busy dining room of the hotel where the gentle burble of voices fills the room and mixes with the sound of silver cutlery against the blue banded gilt hotel crockery, the clink of glasses raised and the strains of popular Edwardian music from the small palm court quartet playing discreetly by a white painted pillar. Surrounded by suited politicians and a smattering of older women, Lettice and Miss Ward sit at a table for two where a splendid selection of sweet and savory afternoon tea has been presented to them on a fluted glass cake stand by a smartly dressed waiter.

 

“Isn’t this fun?” Miss Ward giggles delightedly, looking at the delicacies placed before them. “Taking afternoon tea in London. What a wonderfully British thing to do. I’ve really taken to enjoying this rather quaint observance.” Pouring coffee from a silver coffee pot with an ebonised handle into her cup, she takes a sip. “Ugh!” she exclaims as she shudders and pulls a face. “Which is more than I can say for this sludge you British call coffee.” With a look of distain, she deposits the cup back into its saucer with a loud clatter. “No one makes coffee like we do back home.”

 

“Perhaps you might care for tea?” Lettice remarks quietly and diplomatically, indicating to the silver teapot beside her. “We’re very well known for our excellent tea.”

 

“Ugh!” Miss Ward says again, only this time without the melodrama of face pulling. “I think I’ll stick to the sludge, if it’s all the same to you, darling. You people might have conquered India and her tea plantations, but no-one makes tea like they do in Shanghai.” She sighs. “It’s almost an art form.”

 

“Perhaps we should have had cocktails then.”

 

“Now you’re talking, darling girl.”

 

“Only it might be frowned upon – two ladies alone, sitting and drinking in a hotel dining room.”

 

“See,” Miss Ward remarks in a deflated tone. “It’s like I told you when we met at my flat. You British are all a bunch of stuffed shirts**.” Looking around at the table of older gentlemen next to them, enjoying a fine repast as well as some good quality claret from a faceted glass decanter, she adds somewhat conspiratorially with a flick of her eyes, “And they don’t get much more stuffed that this bunch of politicians.”

 

“Are you always so frank, Miss Ward?”

 

“I’m American, darling. We’re known for our frankness as much as you are known for your diplomacy. I’d be letting the home side down if I wasn’t, especially whilst on foreign soil. Anyway,” she continues as a burst of guffaws come from the table as the gentlemen laugh at something one of them said. “I think they have been here for most of the afternoon, and that isn’t their first bottle. They aren’t going to pay enough attention to either of us to care what we two ladies are saying. I think they are happy if our secret women’s business stays secret. Don’t you agree Miss Chetwynd?”

 

Lettice discreetly looks over at them, noticing their florid faces and slightly rheumy eyes. “Yes, most probably.”

 

“In spite of the sludge they pass off as coffee here, I can say that afternoon tea at the Metropole is delicious.” The American woman picks up the cake stand and holds it aloft before Lettice for her to select a petit four. “Here! Try one.”

 

“I haven’t been here since before the war.” Lettice remarks, choosing a ham and tomato savoury before gazing around the room at the elegant Georgian revival furnishings, the restrained Regency stripe wallpaper, the watercolours of stately British homes in gilt frames and the white linen covered tables with stylish floral arrangements on each.

 

“Has it improved?”

 

“In looks, undoubtedly. It used to be very Victorian: lots of flocked wallpaper, dark furniture and red velvet. No, this is much brighter and more pleasant. The food however,” Lettice glances at the pretty petit four on her plate. “Is yet to be tested.” She picks up her cup and sips her tea. “Do you have your first script from Islington Studios*** yet, Miss Ward?”

 

“Oh I do, darling!” Miss Ward’s eyes grow wide and glisten with excitement. “The film is called ‘After the Ball is Over’. It’s a bit of a Cinderella story. A beautiful girl, despised by her haughty stepmother and stepsister wins the heart of a local lord, all set against the beautiful English countryside.” She picks an egg and lettuce savoury from the cake stand and takes a larger than polite bite from it before depositing the remains on her own plate.

 

“And are you the heroine?”

 

“Good heavens, no!” Miss Ward nearly chokes on her mouthful of egg and pastry. Placing the back of her hand to her mouth rather than her napkin, she coughs roughly, finishes her mouthful and then adds, “I’d rather die than play the heroine! They are always such insipid characters.” She pulls a face and then clears her throat of the last remaining crumbs. “No, I’m playing the stepsister, who uses her womanly wiles to charm the local lord in the first place.” She lowers her kohl lined eyes and smiles seductively. “She’s much more fun as a character, as are all mistresses and villainesses. Just think about the faerie tales you read when you were a girl. What a dull life Snow White or Cinderella would have led were it not for their wicked stepmothers.”

 

“I’d never considered that.” Lettice takes a small bite from her savoury.

 

“Trust me, I may not win the hearts of the audience, but I’ll be more memorable for playing the baddie than I ever would be for playing the helpless heroine.”

 

“How shockingly cynical, Miss Ward.”

 

“Cynical yes,” The American looks thoughtfully towards the ceiling for a moment before continuing, “But also truthful.”

 

“Well,” Lettice says a little reluctantly. “Thinking of truth, you haven’t invited me to afternoon tea just so I can enjoy the selection of sweet and savoury petit fours.” She withdraws her folio from beside her seat and places it on the table.

 

“Ahh!” Miss Ward’s green eyes sparkle with excitement. “The designs for my flat! I finally get to see them!” She rubs her elegant hands with their painted fingernails together gleefully.

 

“Now first, your boudoir.” Lettice withdraws a small pencil and watercolour sketch.

 

The sight of the picture makes Miss Ward gasp with delight as she stretches out her fingers to clutch the drawing. Bringing it closer to her, her painted lips curl up in pleasure.

 

“I thought a treatment of gold embellishment and brocade on black japanned furnishings might give a sense of luxury. I have kept the white ceiling, and white linens for the bed, but as you can see I’ve included some elements of red to bring that exotic oriental feel to the room you so wanted.”

 

“Delicious darling girl!” Miss Ward enthuses. “I have to admit, you were right when you said that white wouldn’t be boring if you used it. It helps balance the intensity of the black, red and gold.”

 

“I’m pleased you approve, Miss Ward.”

 

“Oh I do!” She hands the drawing back to Lettice. “What else?”

 

Lettice shows her a few more sketches showing her designs for the dressing room and the vestibule until she finally reaches the two for the drawing room and dining room. She places them on top of her folio, the pools of garish colour standing out against the white linen of the tablecloth and the buff of her folio.

 

“I remembered you telling me how much you like yellow, Miss Ward, but try as I might, I remain unconvinced that yellow walls are a suitable choice.” The American glances first at the drawings and then at Lettice but says nothing. “The colour is bold, and I know you wanted boldness,” Lettice continues. “But since we are being truthful, this strikes me as showy and déclassé.”

 

“Déclassé, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“Inferior and lacking in the class and elegance of the other rooms’ schemes.”

 

Miss Ward leans forward and picks up the drawing room painting, scrutinising it through narrowed eyes. Dropping it back down, she picks up her coffee cup and takes a sip before asking with a shrug, “Alright, so what do you suggest then?”

 

“Well, it’s funny you should be holding your cup while you ask, Miss Ward.” Lettice observes astutely.

 

“My coffee cup?” Miss Ward holds the cup in front of her and screws up her nose in bewilderment. “You want to paint the walls coffee coloured?”

 

“Oh no, Miss Ward,” Lettice cannot help but allow a small chuckle of relief escape her lips. “No, I was referring more to the outside, which is blue with a gold trim. Here, let me show you what I mean.” She reaches inside her folio and withdraws a piece of wallpaper featuring a geometric fan design in rich navy blue with gold detailing. “I thought we might paper the walls instead, with this.” She holds it out to her client. “It’s very luxurious, and it makes a bold statement, but with elegance. I thought with a suitable array of yellow venetian glass and some pale yellow oriental ceramics, this would both compliment any yellow you add to the room, and give you that glamour and sophistication you desire.”

 

Lettice doesn’t realise it, but she holds her breath as the American picks up the piece of wallpaper and moves it around so that the gold outlines of the fans are caught in the light of the chandeliers above. The pair sit in silence - Lettice in anxiety and Miss Ward in contemplation – whilst the sounds of the busy dining room wash about them.

 

“Pure genius!” Miss Ward declares, dropping the wallpaper dramatically atop Lettice’s sketches.

 

“You approve then, Miss Ward?” Lettice asks with relief.

 

“Approve? I love it, darling girl!” She lifts her savoury to her mouth and takes another large bite.

 

“I’m so pleased Miss Ward.”

 

“Oh it will be a sensation, darling! Cocktails surrounded by golden fans! How delicious.” She replies with her mouth half full of egg, lettuce and pastry. She rubs her fingers together, depositing the crumbs clinging to them onto her plate. “And it will compliment my yellow portrait so well, you clever girl.”

 

“Your, yellow portrait, Miss Ward?” Lettice queries, her head on an angle.

 

“Yes, didn’t I tell you?”

 

“Ahh, no.”

 

“Well, I had my portrait painted whilst I was in Shanghai, draped in beautiful yellow oriental shawls. It’s really quite striking,” she declares picking up the remnants of her savoury. “Even if I do say so myself.”

 

“For above the fireplace?”

 

“Oh no! My Italian landscape will go there.”

 

“Your Italian landscape?”

 

“Yes, I bought it off a bankrupt merchant in Shanghai trying to get back home to the States along with a few other nice paintings.”

 

“How many paintings do you have, Miss Ward?”

 

She contemplates and then silently starts counting, mouthing the numbers and counting on her fingers. “Eleven or so. My beloved brother had them packed up and sent over. They should be arriving from Shanghai in Southampton next week. I’ll get them sent directly to the flat. I’ll leave it up to you darling girl to decide as to where they hang.”

 

“You are full of surprises, Miss Ward.” Lettice remarks with a sigh, picking up her teacup and taking a sip from it.

 

“Evidently, so are you,” the American replies, indicating with her eyes to the wallpaper. “I wasn’t expecting anything as modern and glamourous as that in London!”

 

Smiling, Lettice says, “We aim to please, Miss Ward.”

 

*Now known as the Corinthia Hotel, the Metropole Hotel is located at the corner of Northumberland Avenue and Whitehall Place in central London on a triangular site between the Thames Embankment and Trafalgar Square. Built in 1883 it functioned as an hotel between 1885 until World War I when, located so close to the Palace of Westminster and Whitehall, it was requisitioned by the government. It reopened after the war with a luxurious new interior and continued to operate until 1936 when the government requisitioned it again whilst they redeveloped buildings at Whitehall Gardens. They kept using it in the lead up to the Second World War. After the war it continued to be used by government departments until 2004. In 2007 it reopened as the luxurious Corinthia Hotel.

 

**The phrase “stuffed shirt” refers to a person who is pompous, inflexible or conservative.

 

***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.

 

An afternoon tea like this would be enough to please anyone, but I suspect that even if you ate each sweet or savoury petit four on the cake plate, you would still come away hungry. This is because they, like everything in this scene are 1:12 size miniatures from my miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau:

 

The savoury petite fours on the lower tier of the cake stand and the sweet ones on the upper tier have been made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. Each petit four is only five millimetres in diameter and between five and eight millimetres in height! The selection includes egg and lettuce, ham and tomato, Beluga caviar, salmon and cucumber and egg, tomato and cucumber savouries and iced cupcakes for the sweet petit fours.

 

The blue banded hotel crockery has been made exclusively for Doll House Suppliers in England. Each piece is fashioned by hand and painted by hand. Made to the highest quality standards each piece of porcelain is very thin and fine. If you look closely, you might even notice the facets cut into the milk jug. Several pieces of the same service appear on the table in the background and the tiered sideboard to the left of the table.

 

The fluted glass cake stand, the glass vase on Lettice and Miss Ward’s table and the red roses in it were all made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The cake stand and the vase have been hand blown and in the case of the stand, hand tinted. The teapot is made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The coffee pot with its ornate handle and engraved body is one of three antique Colonial Craftsman pots I acquired from a seller on E-Bay. The two matching pots are on the sideboard in the background. Lettice’s folio was made by British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Lettice’s interior design paintings are 1920s designs. They are sourced from reference material particular to Art Deco interior design in Britain in the 1920s.

 

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

 

On the table in the background luncheons of fish and salad and spaghetti bolognaise are waiting to be eaten. The fish and salad plates are made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures and the plates of spaghetti bolognaise are made by Frances Knight. The vases of flowers on the table and on the stands are beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium. The three plant stands are made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq, whilst the sideboard is made by high-end miniature furniture maker JBM.

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

 

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

 

Now we find ourselves out in the elements, along ‘Chi an Treth’s’ own stretch of wild coast on a remarkably sunny day for this time of year. Dickie, Margot, Gerald and Lettice all headed out after breakfast to allow the bracing sea air help to clear their heads, addled by too much champagne the previous evening. Lettice suggested it and Margot added that there were some vistas that Lettice might enjoy painting. So, Lettice packed up her folio and her watercolours and has just finished painting a view of an old lighthouse standing on a rocky outcrop whilst Margot, Dickie and Gerald all fossick for seashells and other treasures washed up into ‘Chi an Treth’s’ own little cove.

 

“Incoming!” cries Gerald as a warning as he collapses dramatically onto the sand next to Lettice, sending a spray of golden granules up into the air.

 

“Oh Gerald! Must you?” cries Lettice in exasperation with an anguished expression, gently wiping sand off her watercolour of the lighthouse.

 

“Oh, what’s wrong my little Lettuce Leaf?” Gerald teases, pinching her dainty chin between his right thumb and forefinger.

 

“Don’t call me that, Gerald!” she scolds, her face crumpling even more. “We aren’t four anymore and you know how much I detest it.”

 

“Then tell me what’s wrong, darling.”

 

Lettice takes a deep breath of bracing sea air and looks around her. In the distance along the sparkling water’s edge, Margot and Dickie walk arm in arm, a pair of silhouetted lovers with their heads buried together conspiratorially, the conversation too distant to hear, but their body language giving a clue as to the sweet nothings and giggles being shared between them. The sun shines in the partly cloudy sky overhead and gulls caw and screech as they sail on the breeze, looking for food.

 

“Oh it’s just my head, Gerald, that’s all.”

 

“Ah-ah!” he tuts, wagging a warning finger at her. “You had no pity for me at breakfast.”

 

“That’s because you were being a sulky pillock this morning.”

 

“I had every right to be!” Gerald defends, settling back on his elbows into the soft dry sand. “I had a sore head. I still do.”

 

“You were rude about Mrs. Trevethan again,” Lettice points out. “Which was unfair. I don’t know why you’ve set against her. She’s a harmless old woman.”

 

“I think she’s a Cornish witch, and she has you in her thrall, especially after that story about the Rosevear sisters this morning.”

 

“Oh wasn’t it thrilling, Gerald?” gushes Lettice. “So romantic and tragic.”

 

“If a bit fanciful,” Gerald replies with doubt in his voice. “Like any local piece of folklore.”

 

“Well, I thought it was beautifully sad, even if you don’t.”

 

“Oh, I’m just saying that you should take what that old woman says with a grain of sand, is all, darling.”

 

“Don’t you mean a grain of salt, Gerald?” Lettice asks, looking across at her friend.

 

“Considering we’re on the Cornish coast,” He picks up a fistful of sand and allows it to pour from his enclosed fingers like an hourglass. “I think sand is more appropriate.” He smiles at Lettice.

 

“Oh you!” She gives him a friendly push before sinking back a little into her sand pillow.

 

Gerald sits up and looks at Lettice’s painting as it leans against her emerald green leather folio with its golden brown marbled lined interior. “I say,” he remarks, looking out across the water to the lighthouse and comparing the watercolour with the real view. “This is really rather good, Lettice.”

 

“You sound surprised, Gerald.” she replies. “You’re the one who keeps telling me I could do worse than apply for the Slade School of Art*****.”

 

“And so you could.”

 

“Oh, I don’t think I want to go to all that bother.” She yawns quietly, not bothering to cover her mouth as she lolls back against the sand. “Besides, I also don’t want some tutor telling me how to paint. Painting is an individual and unique experience, not to be dictated to by others who think they know better.” She looks at Gerald, who is watching her intently, listening to every word she says. “And now my interiors business is finally taking off.”

 

“Until Sadie marries you off at the Hunt Ball.”

 

Lettice’s eyes narrow. “I should throw sand in your face for that remark!” she quips.

 

“But you won’t, because you love your Gerry-werry to much to hurt him,” Gerald replies in a babyish voice. Clearing his throat, he then continues in a normal tone, “Plus you don’t want to get on my bad side and find yourself stuck in the wilds of Cornwall when I refuse to motor you back to London.”

 

“I don’t know,” Lettice muses, looking up into the blue sky spattered with fast moving white roiling clouds. “There could be worse places to find myself stuck.”

 

“Like ‘Uddersfield,” remarks Gerald in a mock Yorkshire brogue.

 

“Like Huddersfield,” agrees Lettice with a laugh. “After all, Cornwall is the home of the legend of King Arthur.”

 

“You’d miss London too much, darling. All the latest west end shows, the dinners in Soho,” Gerald looks seriously at Lettice. “The fabulous frocks from Grosvenor Street. Somehow Lettice, I don’t think the Penzance Repertory, Mrs. Cornwall’s Ye Olde Arthurian Teashop and her side line in dressmaking can complete with The Palladium******, The Café Royal******* and…”

 

“And your frocks!” Lettice scoffs, completing his sentence for him.

 

“Exactly.” Gerald replies with a satisfied sigh.

 

“You really are an awful snob, Gerald.”

 

“Thank you darling.” he sighs with satisfaction. “When you are as well lineaged as I am, yet practically destitute, what is there left to be but a snob? Anyway,” he adds, leaning over and picking up Lettice’s painting and glancing at the others carefully tucked into her portfolio’s interior. “All I was saying was that I think you should consider painting murals as part of your interior designs. Other designers do, and you have the talent, which some of them don’t.”

 

“Maybe,” Lettice muses with a sigh, repossessing her painting and putting it back next to her watercolours.

 

The pair sit back in companionable silence for a little while, basking in the dappled sunlight with their eyes closed until Lettice breaks it.

 

“Do you really think it’s a Winterhalter?” She gazes back over to Dickie and Margot, now ambling slowly back across the beach towards she and Gerald.

 

“Well,” Gerald sighs, sitting up and following Lettice’s gaze. “Dickie certainly seems to think so: especially after that story spun by that old Cornish witch about the young and beautiful Miss Rosevear.”

 

“And tragic,” Lettice adds.

 

“And tragic.” Gerald concedes.

 

“I do wish he wouldn’t get his hopes up. He’ll be crushed if it turns out not to be.”

 

“Too late, darling. I’d say all Dickie sees when he looks into the face of the younger Miss Rosevear are the pound signs.”

 

“Surely you don’t mean?” Lettice begins, turning to her friend with wide eyes.

 

“Obtain a young heiress, or sell a great master.” Gerald replies prosaically.

 

“But Margot is an heiress. Just look at all the money Lord de Virre has spent on fixing up ‘Chi an Treth’. Electrifying such an old house wouldn’t have been cheap, never mind the plumbing and the telephone.”

 

“Since when have you ever known Dickie to live within his, or someone else’s means, darling? He’s just like his father, or my father for that matter. None of them can live within their means, and as soon as they get hold of any money, it’s spent. Margot may have brought a sizeable dowery, but its not enough to line the empty vaults of the Marquess.”

 

“But Dickie said only this morning after breakfast that he would bring it back with them to London to take to Bonhams******** for authentication by an expert.”

 

“You mark my words, darling,” Gerald taps his nose in a knowing way with a sad smile. “The moment Dickie gets confirmation that it is a Winterhalter, Miss Rosevear’s fate will be sealed and she will never return to ‘Chi an Treth’.”

 

“Oh that is sad!” Lettice remarks.

 

“What’s sad, darling?” Marot asks, collapsing onto the picnic rug next to Lettice, weighed down by the picnic basket carefully packed by Mrs. Trevethan earlier in the day.

 

“Oh, nothing Margot.” she replies with a false joviality in her voice.

 

“We were just saying that it’s a shame we have to return to London tomorrow.” Gerald quickly chimes in, saving Lettice any embarrassment at trying to think of a story on the fly.

 

“Well, you can always come back,” Margot says with a friendly smile. “I’m so glad this place has cast its spell on you two, like it has on Dickie and I.”

 

“You can come and go as you please,” Dickie adds. “Treat the place as your own. You know there’s a train from London to Penzance, Lettice. You can always come down and Mr. Trevethan can pick you up from the station in the pony trap.”

 

“Anyway Lettice,” Margot continues. “You’ll have to come back soon to begin the redesigns to the drawing room, dining room and the reception hall. Have you had any ideas yet? I can’t wait to hang Miss Rosevear in her rightful place in my newly painted and papered, modern, drawing room.”

 

“Yes, of course, Margot darling.” Lettice says with a painted smile on her lips as she looks over at Dickie and wonders whether Gerald’s wry observation of his motives is correct.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

****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 by lawyers and philanthropist Felix Slade in 1868, Slade School of Fine Art is the art school of University College London and is based in London, England. It has been ranked as the United Kingdom’s top art and design educational institution. The school is organised as a department of University College London's Faculty of Arts and Humanities. Two of its most important periods were immediately before, and immediately after, the turn of the twentieth century. It had such students as Dora Carrington, Mark Gertler, Paul Nash, C.R.W. Nevinson and Stanley Spencer.

 

******Located on Argyll Street, London, in the famous area of Soho the London Palladium Theatre started life as The Palladium in 1910. The theatre holds 2,286 seats. Of the roster of stars who have played there, many have televised performances. Between 1955 and 1969 Sunday Night at the London Palladium was held at the venue, which was produced for the ITV network. The show included a performance by The Beatles on 13 October 1963. One national paper's headlines in the following days coined the term "Beatlemania" to describe the increasingly hysterical interest in the band. Whilst the theatre has a resident show, it is also able to host one-off performances, such as concerts, TV specials and Christmas pantomimes. It has hosted the Royal Variety Performance forty-three times, most recently in 2019. In March 2020, the venue closed due to the COVID-19 pandemic's effect on the theatre industry, but reopened over four months later on 1 August 2020.

 

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

 

********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.

 

Beautiful as it may be, this picturesque pastime on the beach may not be all it seems, for it is in fact made up of miniatures from my 1:12 miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Renown in miniature collectors’ circles for making miniature books that you can actually read, the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe did not make books exclusively. He also made other small pieces like this artist’s portfolio. He did several different types of portfolios including this nautically themed one which contains four watercolour paintings which slip in and out of their marbled paper housing. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make these miniature artisan pieces. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago and through his estate courtesy of the generosity of his daughter and son-in-law. This was the first piece I bought from his estate. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

 

The box of watercolours, paint brushes and black paint box all come rom Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers in the United Kingdom.

 

The shells scattered about on the sand are miniature shells I have collected from Apollo Bay and Brighton Beach over various visits with friends.

 

The sand that is spread about is in actual fact Très Or Sucre Or (golden sugar) imported from France which was a gift to me from a dear friend a few years ago. Too beautiful to stir into tea, I have used it numerous times for different photographic purposes.

Truro

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

 

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

 

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

 

So it is that we find ourselves in the kitchen cum living room of Mrs. Boothby’s tenement in Merrybrook Place in Poplar. By her own admission, it is a haven of cleanliness amidst the squalor of surrounding Poplar. Mrs. Boothby was just about to explain to Edith who someone called Ken is, when she was interrupted by the sound of his whistle. Moments later the door to Mrs. Boothby’s house flew open and the frame was filled by a tall bulking man wearing a flat cap with a parcel beneath his right arm wrapped in newspaper and tied up with twine.

 

“Ken!” Mrs. Boothby gasps, releasing a fresh plume of smoke as she exhales after drawing on her lit cigarette. “You’re ‘ome at last.”

 

“’Ome now!” he replies loudly and laconically as he steps across the threshold.

 

“Well don’t just stand there in the door, lettin’ all the cold air in and the ‘ot air out!” Mrs. Boothby scolds. “Come inside wiv you, and close the door behind you.”

 

The man pushes the door closed behind him with rather more force than is required and it slams loudly, and his violent slamming makes the crockery in the dresser behind Edith rattle. “Closed now!” he says defiantly.

 

Rather startled by the arrival of this man, Edith looks up at him with wide eyes filled with concern. Without the sun from the courtyard outside blinding her, Edith can see the man towering over them is very tall and muscular beneath his clothes, and rather than being Mrs. Boothby’s age, as she thought he was at first, she finds he is actually much younger. Clean shaven, he is dressed in a long grey coat and he has a collarless blue and white striped shirt and dusty black trousers held up by suspenders on beneath. There is a bright red and white spotted handkerchief tied around his neck. His face is as white as Mrs. Boothby’s, but his face is quite unlike hers. Where her face is drawn and pinched, his is fresh and rounded. He looks to Mrs. Boothby with bright eyes which are just like hers.

 

“Ken!” Mrs. Boothby says admonishingly. “What ‘ave I told you ‘bout slammin’ the door! Lawd you’ll frighten Old Mr. and Mrs. Blackfriar upstairs, not to mention Mrs. Conway next door.”

 

“Sorry Ma!” Ken replies in the same loud and rather toneless voice. It is then that he sees the Regency china teapot on the table. “Good pot, Ma!” He exclaims. “Good pot!”

 

“Well of course it’s the good pot, Ken. You knew I was havin’ someone ‘ome for tea today. I told you that this mornin’. You remember don’t you?”

 

“Nice lady!” he says loudly, and then suddenly he notices Edith sitting, rather frightened in his presence, in her chair. Realising Mrs. Boothby has company he quickly whisks off his cap with his empty left hand, revealing a mop of unruly curly red hair.

 

“That’s right. The nice lady I work wiv up the West End. Nah, Ken, this his ‘er. This is Miss Watsford. Edith, this is my son, Kenneth, but we just call him Ken, don’t we son?”

 

“I’m Ken! That’s me!”

 

“Yes son,” Mrs. Boothby says soothingly. “That’s you alright. You’re my big little Ken, ain’t cha?”

 

“Son?” Edith gasps. It is then she suddenly sees the gormless grin that teases up the corners of his mouth and plumps his lips and the childish delight highlighting his glinting eyes as he looks down at her. Only then does she realise that Ken might be big and bulky, but he’s never hurt another living being.

 

“How do, Miss Watsford!” Ken says dropping his flat cap on the table and thrusting the paper wrapped parcel out in front of him like an offering.

 

“Nah, nah!” Mrs. Boothby fusses, dropping the cigarette she holds in her hand into the ashtray and standing up. “Miss Watsford don’t want that right nah. ‘Ere.” She takes one of the shortbread biscuits from the plate and gives it to the bulking lad. “Nah, go sit dahn on your bed and play wiv your toys for a bit, and let Miss Watsford and I ‘ave a nice chat. Then you can show ‘er what you got when I tell you. Alright?”

 

“Alright Ma.”

 

“Good boy.” She reaches up and runs a hand along her child’s soft cheek before planting a tender kiss on it. “And later, after I’ve taken Miss Watsford back ‘ome, I’ll read you one of them Beatrix Potter books you like. Alright?”

 

“Peter Rabbit?” Ken points to the teapot of the rabbit coming out of a watering can standing on one of the upper shelves of the dresser.

 

“Yes if you want, son. Nah, go sit dahn on your bed, and I’ll call you in a bit.”

 

Snatching up his cap, Ken quietly plods over to a bed that Edith hadn’t noticed before, in the corner of the room. Around and on it sit a few precious toys: a stuffed rabbit and a teddy bear, both clearly very well loved, and a few children’s books.

 

“Son?” Edith says, her eyes darting about the room as she puts the pieces of Ken’s presence together in her mind. “Oh Mrs. Boothby, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you had a son. I… I…” she stammers in an embarrassed fashion. “I just assumed that with your husband passed away, and no mention of a child.”

 

“That I ‘ad no children.” Mrs. Boothby completes Edith’s unspoken assumption.

 

“I actually thought you might have had a son who… well, who died in the war.”

 

“Why would you fink that, Edith dearie?” Mrs. Boothby gives her a quizzical look.

 

“Well, there are so many widows and grieving mothers about.”

 

The old woman sits back down again and releases another fruity cough. As she clears her throat roughly she picks up her cigarette and continues. “Well ‘how were you to know that I ‘ad a son, dead or otherwise, if I ain’t never told you. ‘Ere, ‘ave some more tea.” She lifts the pot and pours Edith some fresh tea into her half empty cup.

 

“So how old is your son, Mrs. Boothby?”

 

“Well that depends who you ask. If you ask me, ‘e’s fourty-two, cos that’s ‘ow old ‘e is. I brought ‘im into the world in April eighteen eighty.” Then she pauses before continuing. “But if you ask any of them fancy do-gooder doctors, they’d tell you ‘e’s six, cos that ‘ow old they say ‘e is in ‘is own ‘ead.”

 

The old Cockney woman sighs and takes a long drag on her cigarette, the paper and tobacco crackling as she draws deeply, the sound clear in the sudden heavy silence that hangs thickly in the room like the acrid smoke of her cigarette. Edith looks at Ken sitting in his bed a childlike smile of delight brightening his face, playing happily like a six year old holding the floppy arms of his toy rabbit, making him dance on his knee. Mrs. Boothby follows Edith’s gaze with her own sharp eyes before continuing.

 

“So, nah you see why it’s a bit easier for me not to mention that I ‘ave a son.” She exhales another plume of bitter blueish grey smoke. “Not that I’m ashamed of ‘im, cos I ain’t. “E’s a good lad ‘e is, but ‘e’s got ‘is own cross to bear. I ‘ad problems you see, when ‘e was born. I’d been scrubbin’ floors right up ‘till me waters broke almost, what wiv Bill bein’ away in the merchant navy and ‘is pay not coverin’ all I ‘ad to pay for. I ‘ad to make ends meet someow and ‘ave everythin’ ready for Ken when ‘e arrived. Anyway, ‘e must ‘ave been in the wrong position, ‘cos the midwife couldn’t get ‘im in the right spot and she ‘ad to get the doctor.” She takes another long drag of her cigarette before stumping it out in the ashtray as she blows out another plume of cigarette smoke. She takes out her papers and quietly begins rolling another cigarette. “Not that I wanted ‘im. I couldn’t afford a doctor, but ‘e’s one of them do-gooder doctors what don’t charge those what can’t afford to pay, and that was me. I needed every brass farvin’ I could get my grubby ‘ands on. They said Ken didn’t get enough oxygen when ‘e was being born and as such that ‘is mind wouldn’t develop much beyond a six year old. That bloody Irish Catholic priest offered to take Ken away.” Mrs. Boothby spits angrily before putting the cigarette between her lip and lighting it.

 

“Priest!” Ken calls angrily from his truckle bed. “Priest bad!”

 

“Yes son! The priest is bad, but ‘e ain’t ‘ere so don’t you trouble your pretty ‘ead about it.” Mrs. Boothby says comfortingly. She looks over at her son, and just like a cloud momentarily blocking out the sun, Ken’s angry spat dissipates and he happily mumbles something to his rabbit before laughing.

 

“But you kept Ken.” Edith ventures gingerly as she watches Mrs. Boothby draw the rolled cigarette paper filled with tobacco to her lips and lick it, before rolling it closed.

 

“I ain’t no Irish trash. I’m a Protestant, not that I’m all that bovvered wiv God, and certainly not that Irish God when the priest said I should just give Ken up and put ‘im in one of them ‘ouses for unwanted kiddies with mental problems. But Mrs. Conway next door told ‘im to clear off quick smart. She told me that all kiddies is a blessin’, and she was right.”

 

“So you raised him then.”

 

“I did!” Mrs. Boothby replies proudly. “And when Bill came ‘ome from bein’ on the sea, I knew Mrs. Conway was right. Bill and I loved Ken, faults ‘n all. Mrs. Conway was right. Kiddies are a blessin’. Bill and I became closer ‘cos of Ken. ‘E still drank, but not like ‘e did before Ken were born. It were our job to raise ‘im propper and make sure ‘e could take care of ‘imself, and Bill took that serious like. They says it takes a village to raise a child, and well, I got a village right ‘ere outside this door. Mrs. Conway looked after Ken just like any uvver kiddie when Bill went back to sea and I took up charring again.”

 

“So that’s why you said you owe her so much.” Edith says, suddenly understanding Mrs. Boothby’s statement about Mrs. Conway earlier.

 

The old woman nods. “And cos ‘e was raised wiv all the uvver kiddies, they all grew up togevva, and they protected Ken, ‘till ‘e could protect ‘imself. When ‘e were older, when Bill were ‘ome, he taught Ken ‘ow to box, not to fight like some ‘round ‘ere, but just to defend ‘imself. You know what I mean?”

 

Edith nods. “Somehow, I suspect Ken wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Edith muses, smiling over at Ken.

 

“You got that right, Edith dearie. When Ken were a bit older, course ‘e couldn’t do school wiv the uvver kiddies, not bein’ as good wiv words and numbers like them, but ‘e were a big and strong lad, so I got ‘im a job wiv the local rag’ n’ bone man***.”

 

“So Ken is accepted in the neighbourhood then?”

 

“Course ‘e is, dearie. “E’s a local lad, and we look after our own dahn ‘ere. All the ladies ‘round these parts love ‘im when ‘e comes by wiv the wagon, cos they know Ken won’t try and cheat ‘em out of nuffink, and Mr. Pargiter and ‘is boys love ‘im too cos ‘e’s good for business, and they take good care of ‘im.”

 

“Did he have to go to war, Mrs. Boothby?” She looks again at the happy man now playing with both his bear and his rabbit.

 

“Fank the Lawd, no!” Mrs. Boothby casts her eyes to the stained ceiling above. “‘E were deemed mentally unfit for service,” The old woman blows out a ragged breath full of cigarette smoke before continuing a moment later. “And Lawd knows I ain’t never been so grateful as I were that day that our Ken came out baked the way ‘e did. Lads came ‘ome from the war more mentally unfit than the way they went to it. More mentally unfit than our Ken!”

 

“And some never came home.” Edith mumbles, dropping her head sadly.

 

Mrs. Boothby reaches out a careworn hand and takes hold of Edith’s squeezing it comfortingly.

 

“’Ere, let’s not get all upset when the sun is shin’ outside and Ken’s ‘ere wiv us.” Mrs. Boothby says, her voice full of false joviality as she blinks back tears. “Nah workin’ for Mr. Pargiter like ‘e does, Ken comes across a lot of good stuff. Ain’t that right, Ken?”

 

“What Ma?” Ken asks expectantly, raising his head from his toys and looking up happily at his old mother in her chair.

 

“You comes across lots of nice fings when you take Mr. Pargiter’s cart ‘round, don’t you?” she asks him patiently.

 

“Yes Ma.”

 

“Includin’ somfink you wanna show to Miss Watsford, ain’t that right, Ken?”

 

“Yes Ma!” Ken replies excitedly bouncing on his truckle bed, making the wooden frame squeak under his weight.

 

“So come show what you got to Miss Watsford then.” Mrs. Boothby says to her son encouragingly.

 

Obediently Ken tears the newspaper and twine enthusiastically from around the parcel he was carrying when he arrived home. Moving the gilt blue and white plate of uneaten shortbread biscuits to the middle of the table, Mrs. Boothby makes way for Ken’s surprise. With a groan he deposits a hand treadle Singer sewing machine on the edge of the table. Edith gasps.

 

“There you go Edith, dearie!” Mrs. Boothby says proudly.

 

“Oh Mrs. Boothby, I… I can’t afford this on a maid’s wage.” Edith stammers.

 

“You don’t know ‘ow much it is yet.” the old woman counters with a doubtful look.

 

“Well it’s sure to be exp…” Edith begins, but is silenced by Mrs. Boothby’s raised hand.

 

“Ken, ‘ow much Mr. Pargiter sell this to you for?” Mrs. Boothby asks her son.

 

“Five bob, Mum.” Ken replies proudly, smiling his gormless grin, turning his head, first to his mother and then Edith for approval.

 

“Well that sounds a fair price from old Mr. Pargiter.” Mrs. Boothby confirms as she eyes up the machine. “So if we add on an extra shillin’ for Ken’s time, that’ll be six bob, Edith.”

 

Edith gasps. “Six shillings!” She runs her hand lovingly along the machine’s black painted treadle and admires the beautiful gold and red painted decoration. “But it’s worth so much more than that.”

 

“But that ain’t what it’s bein’ sold for, Edith dearie. It’s six shillins. You fink six shillins a good price to sell this ‘ere sewin’ machine to Miss Watsford, Ken my boy?”

 

“Yes Ma!” Ken replies, nodding emphatically.

 

“Well, you ‘eard the man. Six shillins, that’s the price then, Edith dearie.” Mrs. Boothby says with a cheeky smile. "Take it or leave it.”

 

“Oh Mrs. Boothby, Ken…” Edith breathes with delight. “How can I say no?”

 

“You can’t.” Mrs. Boothby concludes as she blows out a final billowing cloud of cigarette smoke and squashes the stub of her cigarette into the ashtray with the others. “Nah, just pay me the six shillins when I come in on Tuesday.”

 

“Oh Ken,” Edith says, looking up at the tall man with his beaming smile and glittering eyes. “How can I ever thank you?”

 

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

 

**The Singer Corporation is an American manufacturer of consumer sewing machines, first established as I. M. Singer & Co. in 1851 by Isaac M. Singer with New York lawyer Edward C. Clark. Best known for its sewing machines, it was renamed Singer Manufacturing Company in 1865, then the Singer Company in 1963. In 1867, the Singer Company decided that the demand for their sewing machines in the United Kingdom was sufficiently high to open a local factory in Glasgow on John Street. The Vice President of Singer, George Ross McKenzie selected Glasgow because of its iron making industries, cheap labour, and shipping capabilities. Demand for sewing machines outstripped production at the new plant and by 1873, a new larger factory was completed on James Street, Bridgeton. By that point, Singer employed over two thousand people in Scotland, but they still could not produce enough machines. In 1882 the company purchased forty-six acres of farmland in Clydebank and built an even bigger factory. With nearly a million square feet of space and almost seven thousand employees, it was possible to produce on average 13,000 machines a week, making it the largest sewing machine factory in the world. The Clydebank factory was so productive that in 1905, the U.S. Singer Company set up and registered the Singer Manufacturing Company Ltd. in the United Kingdom.

 

***A rag-and-bone man is a person who goes from street to street in a vehicle or with a horse and cart buying things such as old clothes and furniture. He would then sell these items on to someone else for a small profit.

 

This cluttered, yet cheerful domestic scene is not all it seems to be at first glance, for it is made up of part of my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection. Some pieces come from my own childhood. Other items I acquired as an adult through specialist online dealers and artists who specialise in 1:12 miniatures.

 

The Singer hand treadle sewing machine with its hand painted detail I acquired from American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel as part of a lot of her miniature hats from a milliner’s tableau.

 

Mrs. Boothby’s beloved collection of decorative “best” blue and white china on the kitchen table come from various online miniature stockists through E-Bay. The Scottish shortbreads on the cake plate have been made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. They actually come in their own 1:12 miniature artisan tin, complete with appropriate labelling.

 

Also on the table are Mrs. Boothby’s Player’s Navy Cut cigarette tin and Swan Vesta matches, which are 1:12 miniatures hand made by Jonesy’s Miniatures in England. The black ashtray is also an artisan piece, the bae of which is filled with “ash”. The tray as well as having grey ash in it, also has a 1:12 cigarette which rests on its lip (it is affixed there). Made by Nottingham based tobacconist manufacturer John Player and Sons, Player’s Medium Navy Cut was the most popular by far of the three Navy Cut brands (there was also Mild and Gold Leaf, mild being today’s rich flavour). Two thirds of all the cigarettes sold in Britain were Player’s and two thirds of these were branded as Player’s Medium Navy Cut. In January 1937, Player’s sold nearly 3.5 million cigarettes (which included 1.34 million in London). Production continued to grow until at its peak in the late 1950s, Player’s was employing 11,000 workers (compared to 5,000 in 1926) and producing 15 brands of pipe tobacco and 11 brands of cigarettes. Nowadays the brands “Player” and “John Player Special” are owned and commercialised by Imperial Brands (formerly the Imperial Tobacco Company). Swan Vestas is a brand name for a popular brand of ‘strike-anywhere’ matches. Shorter than normal pocket matches they are particularly popular with smokers and have long used the tagline ‘the smoker’s match’ although this has been replaced by the prefix ‘the original’ on the current packaging. Swan Vestas matches are manufactured under the House of Swan brand, which is also responsible for making other smoking accessories such as cigarette papers, flints and filter tips. The matches are manufactured by Swedish Match in Sweden using local, sustainably grown aspen. The Swan brand began in 1883 when the Collard & Kendall match company in Bootle on Merseyside near Liverpool introduced ‘Swan wax matches’. These were superseded by later versions including ‘Swan White Pine Vestas’ from the Diamond Match Company. These were formed of a wooden splint soaked in wax. They were finally christened ‘Swan Vestas’ in 1906 when Diamond merged with Bryant and May and the company enthusiastically promoted the Swan brand. By the 1930s ‘Swan Vestas’ had become ‘Britain’s best-selling match’.

 

The various bowls, cannisters and dishes and the kettle I have acquired from various online miniatures stockists throughout the United Kingdom, America and Australia.

 

The black Victorian era stove and the ladderback chair on the left of the table and the small table directly behind it are all miniature pieces I have had since I was a child. The ladderback chair on the right came from a deceased estate of a miniatures collector in Sydney.

 

The grey marbleised fireplace behind the stove and the trough sink in the corner of the kitchen come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Miniatures in the United Kingdom. Mrs. Boothby’s picture gallery in the corner of the room also came from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop.

 

The green wallpaper is an authentic replica of real Art Nouveau wallpaper from the first decade of the Twentieth Century which I have printed onto paper. The floorboards are a print of a photo taken of some floorboards that I scaled to 1:12 size to try and maintain a realistic look.

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

 

Today is Tuesday and we are in the kitchen of Lettice’s flat: Edith her maid’s preserve, except on Tuesdays, every third Thursday of the month and occasionally after a big party. That is when Mrs. Boothby, Lettice’s charwoman*, comes from her home in Poplar to do all the hard jobs and Edith shares the space with her. Although this can be a bit of challenge, especially as Mrs. Boothby likes to smoke indoors, Edith is grateful that unlike her previous positions, she does not have to scrub the black and quite chequered kitchen linoleum, nor polish the parquetry floors, not do her most hated job, black lead the stovetop. Mrs. Boothby does them all without complaint, with reliability and to a very high standard. She is also very handy on cleaning and washing up duty with Edith after one of Lettice’s extravagant cocktail parties. Edith also has to admit that after her original reluctance, Mrs. Boothby has turned out to be rather pleasant company and the two have had many fine chats over time.

 

“Oh Mrs. Boothby, after you’ve finished polishing the floors in the drawing room this morning, would you mind laying down this sheet on the space behind Miss Lettice’s chair and the Chinese screen?” Edith pushes a neatly folded white sheet across the kitchen table to the old char.

 

“Why ‘ave I got to put dahn an old sheet for?” She looks perplexed at the pile of fabric before her. “Don’t Miss Chetwynd ‘ave enough rugs?”

 

“Oh yes, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith trys somewhat unsuccessfully to cover her amused smile. “It isn’t for that.”

 

“Then what’s it for, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

 

“It’s a drop sheet, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith elucidates.

 

“Oh. She getting’ painters in then? I bet I could find her cheaper ‘ouse painters than ooever she got. My Bruvver does a bit a ‘ouse paintin’, an I reckon ‘e does a very fine job ‘n all.”

 

“Oh no, Mrs. Boothby. Miss Lettice is going to paint a table today.”

 

“Paint a table?” The old woman looks queryingly at her younger counterpart. “Why? Ain’t it any good as is?”

 

“Apparently not, Mrs. Boothby. However, it isn’t for her. It’s for Miss de Virre, I mean, Mrs. Channon. It’s a table from her house in Cornwall.”

 

“Tartin’ up tables!” The old cockney woman tuts as she casts her eyes to the ceiling. “What them rich fancy folk won’t fink up next. I just throw an oilcloth over my table when I got friends comin’ for tea. That covers up the marks good and proper.”

 

“Oh no, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith explains. “Miss Lettice is going to redecorate it as part of her re-design of Mrs. Channon’s drawing room.”

 

“Well,” grumbles the old woman. “Whatever she’s doin’ it for, I hope she don’t get paint on my nice clean polished floors.”

 

“That’s what the drop sheet is for, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

“Ere dearie, pop the kettle on so as we can ‘ave a nice cup of Rosie-Lee** before I get started on the floors.” Mrs. Boothby says to Edith. “Washin’ floors can be firsty work for a woman, so best I get a cuppa before I start.”

 

“Yes, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies, lighting the gas ring underneath the bright copper kettle and walking over to the pine dresser to fetch two Delftware cups, saucers a milk jug and the sugar bowl.

 

Mrs. Boothby groans as she bends her wiry body to the floor to check what she calls her ‘Boothby boxes’, which are two boxes kept in the corner of the kitchen next to the dresser. One contains her scrubbing brushes, dustpan, and polishing rags, whilst the other contains a plethora of cleaning products.

 

“Ah,” the old Cockney woman mutters as she delves through the latter, metal cans clunking against one another as she does her inventory. “Pop Vim on the shopping list, will you Edith love. This can’s all but empty nah.” She continues fossicking. “Oh, and we need some more floor polish too.”

 

“Do you like that Kleen-eze Mr. Willison sent me last time, Mrs. Boothby?” Edith asks as she lays out the tea things on the deal kitchen table above the char’s head.

 

“It weren’t bad stuff, that. Yeah, ta. Get ‘him to get us some more of it if ‘e can.” The old woman affirms.

 

“I’ll see if Frank can get me some,” Edith says blithely, yet as soon as the words are out of her mouth, she realises her mistake as a frisson of energy electrifies the kitchen.

 

Edith likes Mrs. Boothby, but she knows that any news will soon be spread around Poplar and the surrounding area once Mrs. Boothby hears it. She and the other charwomen she knows run a very well informed gossip chain, and there is little Mrs. Boothby can’t tell Edith about the comings and goings on in the household of her former employer Mrs. Plaistow, thanks to her charwoman friend Jackie who does work for her and quite a few other houses in Pimlico, including that of Lettice’s former client, successful Islington Studios*** actress, Wanetta Ward. Edith, who is a little starstruck by the glamourous American, often gets tasty titbits of gossip about her from Mrs. Boothby thanks to Jackie who also cleans for her, however Edith does not fancy the shoe being on the other foot. However, as she turns back from fussing unnecessarily over the kettle, she sees it is too late. Mrs. Boothby’s pale and wrinkled face, framed by her wiry grey hair tied up in a brightly coloured scarf is paying close attention to the young maid. Her dark eyes are gleaming with delight, and she smiles like the cat who ate the cream.

 

“Oh!” she says with one of her bushy eyebrows arching upwards. “Frank now, is it?”

 

“Well I…” Edith stutters, her own pale cheeks growing warm as a blush fills them with colour.

 

“Yes my girl?” Mrs, Boothby asks, as with another groan she resumes her upright state. “And just when did Mr. Willison’s young delivery boy go from bein’ Mr. Leadbeater or bein’ Frank? Last I ‘eard, you weren’t interested in ‘im.”

 

“I didn’t say I wasn’t interested in him, Mrs. Boothby,” Edith worries the blue rimmed edge of a saucer self-consciously. “I’d just never considered him as a prospect, is all. And I hadn’t Mrs. Boothby. Not until,”

 

“Yes,”

 

“Well, not until you’d mentioned it, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

“Aha!” the old cockney woman crows. “Ada Boothby does it again!”

 

“Does what, Mrs. Boothby?” Edith asks.

 

“Matchmakes, of course.” She smiles broadly, a glow of pride emanating from her slender figure in her grey dress and brightly printed cotton pinny. She rubs her careworn hands together with glee. “Oh I can’t wait to tell that damned Golda Friedmann dahn the end of my rookery****. She’ll be fit to be tied.”

 

“Wait!” Edith gasps, not understanding. “Who’s Golda Friedmann, and how she know about Frank and I? I don’t know her. She doesn’t work in the haberdashers in Poplar you sent me to.”

 

“Oh Lawd love you,” chortles Mrs. Boothby, the action resulting on one of her fruity hacking coughs that seem remarkably loud from such a diminutive figure. After catching her breath, she continues breathily, “She don’t know anyfink about you an’ your Frank.” She gulps again. “Nah! She’s the local matchmaker round our way, along with a few other Yids***** in Poplar. Goes around wiv ‘er nose in the air wrapped up in a fancy paisley shawl tellin’ folk she’s the one to match their son or daughter, like she was the Queen of Russia ‘erself.”

 

“Well she didn’t match me with Frank.” Edith says defensively.

 

“I know, Edith love.” Mrs. Boothby assures her with a calming wave of her hands.

 

“And nor did you, Mrs. Boothby,” Edith continues. “So I don’t see why you should feel so proud of yourself.”

 

“But you just said that if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t of considered ‘im!”

 

“Well,” Edith takes the kettle off the stove and pours hot water into the white teapot. “That’s true, but I’m the one that mentioned what you’d said to me about he and I on the night of Miss Lettice’s supper party for Mr. Channon and Miss de Virre.” She puts the lid on the pot with a clunk. “Err, I mean Mrs. Channon.”

 

Mrs. Boothby drags up a chair to the deal kitchen table and takes a seat, never taking her eyes off Edith’s face. “So ahh, when did you and Mr. Leadbeater, or should I say Frank, start, walkin’ out togevva?” She walks her index and middle finger across the clean table in front of her, as if to demonstrate her meaning.

 

“Only a few weeks now.” Edith admits with downcast eyes and a shy smile.

 

“A few weeks?” Mrs. Boothby gasps in outrage. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

 

“I guess it just slipped my mind, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith defends herself, setting out the tea cups in the saucers, pushing one across to the charwoman. “What with one thing an another. Besides,” she adds. “I didn’t want to tell you unless I was sure. I wouldn’t want to go disappointing you if it all came to aught.”

 

“But nah fings is workin’ out for the two of you then?” Mrs. Boothby asks as she accepts the cup and saucer and reaches for the milk jug, slopping a good glug into the bottom of her empty cup******.

 

“We seem to have struck a nice rhythm, and Frank and I have a lot in common.”

 

“Oh that’s lovely to ‘ear, dearie.” the old woman watches as Edith pours tea into her cup. “I told you, youse was pretty, didn’t I?” She takes hold of the sugar bowl and greedily spoons in several heaped teaspoons of fine white sugar into her tea before stirring it loudly. “And you never knew ‘till I told you. So where’ve you been goin’? The ‘Ammersmith Palais*******?”

 

“Yes, we’ve been there a few times, along with my friend Hilda.”

 

“She’s the parlour maid from your Mrs. Plaistow’s isn’t she?” Mrs. Boothby asks, before adding unnecessarily, “The plain one.”

 

“Oh I wouldn’t call her plain, Mrs. Boothby!” Edith defends her friend hotly as she pours tea into her own empty cup, before then adding a dash of milk. “That’s most uncharitable.”

 

“I didn’t say that, Jackie told me when I mentioned to ‘er that you was still friends wiv ‘er from when you worked there togevva.”

 

“Oh yes, I remember Jackie,” Edith picks up her cup and sips her tea. “Always with an ear out for gossip.”

 

“We chars ‘ave to take our pleasures where we can get ‘em, dearie.” Mrs. Boothby says with a slightly haughty tone as she slurps her own tea loudly. “Bein’ a char is ‘ard graft day in, day out. And you can ‘ardly take the moral ‘ighground, what wiv you askin’ me about the goings on at Miss Ward’s, nah can you?”

 

Edith, suitably chastened, remains silent, her lack of response serving as an affirmation of the old Cockney’s statement.

 

“Anyway, I might never ‘ave met your ‘Ilda, but I bet she’s not a patch on you deary, what wiv your peaches n’ cream complexion and beautiful hair. What you got natural from God, so many women I know get from lotions and potions. Nah wonder Frank was nervous ‘bout askin’ you to step out wiv ‘im. Youse a real catch Edith love.”

 

“I never said he was nervous, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith giggles.

 

“But ‘e were, weren’t ‘e?” The old woman chuckles knowingly as she cradles her warm cup in both her hands. “All little boys what fink they’re big men, get nervous round a pretty girl.”

 

“Well,” Edith admits. “Maybe just a little.” Then she adds, “But I was nervous too.”

 

“Well, that’s nice, dearie. Youse just enjoy bein’ young an’ ‘appy togevva.” The old woman gazes into the distance, a far away look sodtening the sharpness of her gaze and the squareness of her jaw as her mouth hangs open slightly. She stays that way for a moment or two before she regains her steely composure and sharp look. Turning back to Edith she says, “Nah, ‘ow does this sound, Edith love? Mrs. Ada Boothby, Matchmaker and ‘Igh Class Char? That would shove it right up that uppity Golda Friedmann and ‘er matchmaker friends!”

 

“Oh Mrs. Boothy!” Edith giggles.

 

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

 

**Rosie-Lee is Cockney slang for tea, and it is one of the most well-known of all Cockney rhyming slang.

 

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

 

****A rookery is a dense collection of housing, especially in a slum area. The rookeries created in Victorian times in London’s East End were notorious for their cheapness, filth and for being overcrowded.

 

*****The word Yid is a Jewish ethnonym of Yiddish origin. It is used as an autonym within the Ashkenazi Jewish community, and also used as slang. When pronounced in such a way that it rhymes with did by non-Jews, it is commonly intended as a pejorative term. It is used as a derogatory epithet, and as an alternative to, the English word 'Jew'. It is uncertain when the word began to be used in a pejorative sense by non-Jews, but some believe it started in the late Nineteenth or early Twentieth Century when there was a large population of Jews and Yiddish speakers concentrated in East London, gaining popularity in the 1930s when Oswald Mosley developed a strong following in the East End of London.

 

******In the class-conscious society of Britain in the 1920s, whether you added milk to your cup of tea first or the tea was a subtle way of defining what class you came from. Upper-class people, or those who wished to ape their social betters added milk after the tea, whereas middle-class or working class people comfortable in their own skins were known to add milk before the tea.

 

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

 

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

In front of Mrs. Boothby’s box is a can of Vim with stylised Art Deco packaging and some Kleeneze floor polish. Vim was a common cleaning agent, used in any Edwardian household. Vim scouring powder was created by William Hesketh Lever (1st Viscount Leverhulme) and introduced to the market in 1904. It was produced at Port Sunlight in Wirrel, Merseyside, a model village built by Lever Brothers for the workers of their factories which produced the popular soap brands Lux, Lifebuoy and Sunlight. Kleeneze is a homeware company started in Hanham, Bristol. The company's founder, Harry Crook, had emigrated to the United States with his family several years earlier, and whilst there joined Fuller Brush as a sales representative. He returned to Bristol several years later, and started a business making brushes and floor polish which were sold door-to-door by salesmen. Technically Kleeneze didn’t start until 1923, which is one years after this story is set. I couldn’t resist including it, as I doubt I will ever be able to photograph it as a main part of any other tableaux. Thus, I hope you will forgive me for this indulgence.

  

In the box are two containers of Zebo grate polish, a bottle of Bluebell Metal Polish and a can of Brasso. Zebo (or originally Zebra) Grate Polish was a substance launched in 1890 by Reckitts to polish the grate to a gleam using a mixture that consisted of pure black graphite finely ground, carbon black, a binding agent and a solvent to keep it fluid for application with a cloth or more commonly newspaper. Brasso Metal Polish is a British all-purpose metal cleaning product introduced to market in 1905 by Reckitt and Sons, who also produced Silvo, which was used specifically for cleaning silver, silver plate and EPNS. Bluebell metal cleaning products were a household name in the 1920s and 1930s after the business was incorporated in 1900.

 

The tin buckets, wooden apple box, basket, mop, brush and pan are all artisan made miniatures that I have acquired in more recent years.

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“A dozen?”

 

“Well at least three, like Lally.”

 

“Your sister is expecting again?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Not a bean.”

 

“That’s so unfair.”

 

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

 

“What do you mean?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Yes Gerald. What of it?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“It is a bold pattern…”

 

“Yet an elegant one.”

 

“And it’s certainly glamorous.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Also on the desk, are some 1:12 artisan miniature ink bottles, a roller, a blotter, a letter opener and letter rack, all made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures. The ink bottles are made from tiny faceted crystal beads and have sterling silver bottoms and lids. The ink blotter, sitting behind the paint box and next to the jug’s handle is sterling silver too and has a blotter made of real black felt, cut meticulously to size to fit snugly inside the frame. The letter opener and roller are also sterling silver. The letter rack which contains some 1:12 size correspondence, is brass. Like the other pieces, it is also made by the Little Green Workshop.

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Oh.” Edith replies laconically.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Mrs. Boothby, who is Ken?” Edith asks with a questioning look on her face.

 

Just as Mrs. Boothby is about to answer her, she gasps as she hears a rather loud and jolly whistle.

 

“Well, speak of the devil, ‘ere ‘e comes nah!”

 

The front door of the tenement flies open and the space is instantly filled by the bulk of a big man in a flat cap with a large parcel wrapped in newspaper tied with twine under his right arm.

 

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

 

**The Singer Corporation is an American manufacturer of consumer sewing machines, first established as I. M. Singer & Co. in 1851 by Isaac M. Singer with New York lawyer Edward C. Clark. Best known for its sewing machines, it was renamed Singer Manufacturing Company in 1865, then the Singer Company in 1963. In 1867, the Singer Company decided that the demand for their sewing machines in the United Kingdom was sufficiently high to open a local factory in Glasgow on John Street. The Vice President of Singer, George Ross McKenzie selected Glasgow because of its iron making industries, cheap labour, and shipping capabilities. Demand for sewing machines outstripped production at the new plant and by 1873, a new larger factory was completed on James Street, Bridgeton. By that point, Singer employed over two thousand people in Scotland, but they still could not produce enough machines. In 1882 the company purchased forty-six acres of farmland in Clydebank and built an even bigger factory. With nearly a million square feet of space and almost seven thousand employees, it was possible to produce on average 13,000 machines a week, making it the largest sewing machine factory in the world. The Clydebank factory was so productive that in 1905, the U.S. Singer Company set up and registered the Singer Manufacturing Company Ltd. in the United Kingdom.

 

***Petticoat Lane Market is a fashion and clothing market in Spitalfields, London. It consists of two adjacent street markets. Wentworth Street Market and Middlesex Street Market. Originally populated by Huguenots fleeing persecution in France, Spitalfields became a center for weaving, embroidery and dying. From 1882, a wave of Jewish immigrants fleeing persecution in eastern Europe settled in the area and Spitalfields then became the true heart of the clothing manufacturing district of London. 'The Lane' was always renowned for the 'patter' and showmanship of the market traders. It was also known for being a haven for the unsavoury characters of London’s underworld and was rife with prostitutes during the late Victorian era. Unpopular with the authorities, as it was largely unregulated and in some sense illegal, as recently as the 1930s, police cars and fire engines were driven down ‘The Lane’, with alarm bells ringing, to disrupt the market.

 

****A rookery is a dense collection of housing, especially in a slum area. The rookeries created in Victorian times in London’s East End were notorious for their cheapness, filth and for being overcrowded.

 

*****The word Yid is a Jewish ethnonym of Yiddish origin. It is used as an autonym within the Ashkenazi Jewish community, and also used as slang. When pronounced in such a way that it rhymes with did by non-Jews, it is commonly intended as a pejorative term. It is used as a derogatory epithet, and as an alternative to, the English word 'Jew'. It is uncertain when the word began to be used in a pejorative sense by non-Jews, but some believe it started in the late Nineteenth or early Twentieth Century when there was a large population of Jews and Yiddish speakers concentrated in East London, gaining popularity in the 1930s when Oswald Mosley developed a strong following in the East End of London.

 

******Rosie-Lee is Cockney slang for tea, and it is one of the most well-known of all Cockney rhyming slang.

 

*******The original Caledonian Market, renown for antiques, buried treasure and junk, was situated in in a wide cobblestoned area just off the Caledonian Road in Islington in 1921 when this story is set. Opened in 1855 by Prince Albert, and originally called the Metropolitan Meat Markets, it was supplementary to the Smithfield Meat Market. Arranged in a rectangle, the market was dominated by a forty six metre central clock tower. By the early Twentieth Century, with the diminishing trade in live animals, a bric-a-brac market developed and flourished there until after the Second World War when it moved to Bermondsey, south of the Thames, where it flourishes today. The Islington site was developed in 1967 into the Market Estate and an open green space called Caledonian Park. All that remains of the original Caledonian Markets is the wonderful Victorian clock tower.

 

I would just like to point out that I wrote this story some weeks ago, long before The Queen became ill and well before her passing. However it seems apt that this story of all, which I planned weeks ago to upload today as part of the Chetwyn Mews narrative, mentions the passing of The Queen (albeit Queen Victoria). I wish to dedicate this image and chapter to our own Queen of past and glorious times Queen Elizabeth II (1926 – 2022). Long did she reign over us, happy and glorious. God bless The Queen.

 

This cluttered, yet cheerful domestic scene is not all it seems to be at first glance, for it is made up of part of my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection. Some pieces come from my own childhood. Other items I acquired as an adult through specialist online dealers and artists who specialise in 1:12 miniatures.

 

Mrs. Boothby’s beloved collection of ornaments come from various different sources. The Staffordshire cow (one of a pair) and the cow creamer that stand on the mantlepiece have been hand made and painted by Welsh miniature ceramist Rachel Williams who has her own studio, V&R Miniatures, in Powys. If you look closely, you will see that the Staffordshire cow actually has a smile on its face! Although you can’t notice it in the photo, the cow creamer has its own removable lid which is minute in size! The duck coming from the egg jug on the mantle, the rooster jug, the cottage ware butter dish, Peter Rabbit in the watering can tea pot and the cottage ware teapot to its right on the dresser were all made by French ceramicist and miniature artisan Valerie Casson. All the pieces are authentic replicas of real pieces made by different china companies. For example, the cottage ware teapot has been decorated authentically and matches in perfect detail its life-size Price Washington ‘Ye Olde Cottage Teapot’ counterparts. The top part of the thatched roof and central chimney form the lid, just like the real thing. Valerie Casson is renown for her meticulously crafted and painted miniature ceramics. The Queen Victoria teapot on the mantlepiece and the teapot on the dresser to the left of the Peter Rabbit teapot come from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom. All the other plates on the dresser came from various online miniature stockists through E-Bay, as do the teapot, plate and cups on Mrs. Boothby’s kitchen table.

 

Mrs. Boothby’s picture gallery in the corner of the room come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

Mrs. Boothby’s beaded handbag on the table is also a 1:12 artisan miniature. Hand crocheted, it is interwoven with antique blue glass beads that are two millimetres in diameter. The beads of the handle are three millimetres in length. It came from Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

Spilling from her bag are her Player’s Navy Cut cigarette tin and Swan Vesta matches, which are 1:12 miniatures hand made by Jonesy’s Miniatures in England. The black ashtray is also an artisan piece, the bae of which is filled with “ash”. The tray as well as having grey ash in it, also has a 1:12 cigarette which rests on its lip (it is affixed there). Made by Nottingham based tobacconist manufacturer John Player and Sons, Player’s Medium Navy Cut was the most popular by far of the three Navy Cut brands (there was also Mild and Gold Leaf, mild being today’s rich flavour). Two thirds of all the cigarettes sold in Britain were Player’s and two thirds of these were branded as Player’s Medium Navy Cut. In January 1937, Player’s sold nearly 3.5 million cigarettes (which included 1.34 million in London). Production continued to grow until at its peak in the late 1950s, Player’s was employing 11,000 workers (compared to 5,000 in 1926) and producing 15 brands of pipe tobacco and 11 brands of cigarettes. Nowadays the brands “Player” and “John Player Special” are owned and commercialised by Imperial Brands (formerly the Imperial Tobacco Company). Swan Vestas is a brand name for a popular brand of ‘strike-anywhere’ matches. Shorter than normal pocket matches they are particularly popular with smokers and have long used the tagline ‘the smoker’s match’ although this has been replaced by the prefix ‘the original’ on the current packaging. Swan Vestas matches are manufactured under the House of Swan brand, which is also responsible for making other smoking accessories such as cigarette papers, flints and filter tips. The matches are manufactured by Swedish Match in Sweden using local, sustainably grown aspen. The Swan brand began in 1883 when the Collard & Kendall match company in Bootle on Merseyside near Liverpool introduced ‘Swan wax matches’. These were superseded by later versions including ‘Swan White Pine Vestas’ from the Diamond Match Company. These were formed of a wooden splint soaked in wax. They were finally christened ‘Swan Vestas’ in 1906 when Diamond merged with Bryant and May and the company enthusiastically promoted the Swan brand. By the 1930s ‘Swan Vestas’ had become ‘Britain’s best-selling match’.

 

The meagre foodstuffs on Mrs. Boothby’s shelf represent items not unusually found in poorer households across Britain. Before the Second World War, the British populace consumed far more sugar than we do today, partially for the poor because it was cheap and helped give people energy when their diets were lacking good nutritious foods. Therefore finding a tin of treacle, some preserved fruit or jam, and no fresh fruits or vegetables was not an unusual sight in a lower class home. All the tined foodstuffs, with the exception of the tin of S.P.C. peaches, are 1:12 size artisan miniatures made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire, with great attention to detail paid to their labels and the shapes of their jars and cans. The S.P.C. tin of peaches comes from Shepherd’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom. S.P.C. is an Australian brand that still exists to this day. In 1917 a group of fruit growers in Victoria’s Goulburn Valley decided to form a cooperative which they named the Shepperton Fruit Preserving Company. The company began operations in February 1918, canning pears, peaches and nectarines under the brand name of S.P.C. On the 31st of January 1918 the manager of the Shepparton Fruit Preserving Company announced that canning would begin on the following Tuesday and that the operation would require one hundred and fifty girls or women and thirty men. In the wake of the Great War, it was hoped that “the launch of this new industry must revive drooping energies” and improve the economic circumstances of the region. The company began to pay annual bonuses to grower-shareholders by 1929, and the plant was updated and expanded. The success of S.P.C. was inextricably linked with the progress of the town and the wider Goulburn Valley region. In 1936 the company packed twelve million cans and was the largest fruit cannery in the British empire. Through the Second World War the company boomed. The product range was expanded to include additional fruits, jam, baked beans and tinned spaghetti and production reached more than forty-three million cans a year in the 1970s. From financial difficulties caused by the 1980s recession, SPC returned once more to profitability, merging with Ardmona and buying rival company Henry Jones IXL. S.P.C. was acquired by Coca Cola Amatil in 2005 and in 2019 sold to a private equity group known as Shepparton Partners Collective.

 

The rather worn and beaten looking enamelled bread bin and colander in the typical domestic Art Deco design and kitchen colours of the 1920s, cream and green, which have been aged on purpose, are artisan pieces I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The various bowls, cannisters and dishes, the kettle and the Brown Betty teapot I have acquired from various online miniatures stockists throughout the United Kingdom, America and Australia. A Brown Betty is a type of teapot, round and with a manganese brown glaze known as Rockingham glaze. In the Victorian era, when tea was at its peak of popularity, tea brewed in the Brown Betty was considered excellent. This was attributed to the design of the pot which allowed the tea leaves more freedom to swirl around as the water was poured into the pot, releasing more flavour with less bitterness.

 

The black Victorian era stove and the ladderback chair on the left of the table and the small table directly behind it are all miniature pieces I have had since I was a child. The ladderback chair on the right came from a deceased estate of a miniatures collector in Sydney. The Welsh dresser came from Babette’s Miniatures, who have been making miniature dolls’ furnishings since the late Eighteenth Century. The dresser has plate grooves in it to hold plates in place, just like a real dresser would.

 

The grey marbleised fireplace behind the stove and the trough sink in the corner of the kitchen come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The green wallpaper is an authentic replica of real Art Nouveau wallpaper from the first decade of the Twentieth Century which I have printed onto paper. The floorboards are a print of a photo taken of some floorboards that I scaled to 1:12 size to try and maintain a realistic look.

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

 

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

 

Now that the flat is completely redecorated under Lettice’s deft hands, Miss Ward has vacated her suite at the Metropole Hotel* and has been living at her Pimlico address for a few weeks now. As a thank you to Lettice, the American has invited her to afternoon tea. And so, we find ourselves in the beautifully appointed, spacious drawing room.

 

“Now, darling girl!” Miss Ward says as she sweeps into the drawing room through the green baize door that leads from the service area of the flat. “You must try my own brew of coffee!” She enthusiastically hoists a beautiful china coffee pot decorated with cherry blossoms in the air. “I promise you that you’ll never go back to that sludge you British call coffee after you’ve had this.”

 

Lettice smells the rich aroma from the pot’s spout as Miss Ward places it with an appropriately theatrical swoop, enhanced by the brightly coloured Spanish shawl draped over her bare shoulders, onto the silver tray on the cherrywood table between the Queen Anne style settee and the matching pair of Chinese armchairs. “It smells divine, Miss Ward.”

 

“Darling!” Miss Ward enthuses. “Divine isn’t the word for this!”

 

“I look forward to tasting it, then.” Lettice replies with a bemused smile. “And afternoon tea, Miss Ward?”

 

“I know! I know!” the American brandishes her hands in the air. “I admit I said it was a quaint observance, but it’s one that I’ve come to enjoy since living here in England. We might not have petit fours like they do at the Metropole, but trust me, Harriet has found the most wonderful little local bakery that makes an amazing selection of cookies. Try one!” She indicates to the plate piled generously with an assortment of brightly coloured and delicious looking biscuits.

 

“Harriet, Miss Ward?”

 

The American picks up a biscuit as she speaks and then pauses with it to her lips. “My new maid, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

Lettice considers the woman with a rather angular face in black silk moiré afternoon uniform and lace collar, cuffs, cap, apron and cap who answered the door. She didn’t strike her as having such a lovely name. She looked to be more of an Augusta or Bertha.

 

Miss Ward’s American voice interrupts Lettice’s contemplation. “Oh, I must thank you too, for the number of that domestics employment agency you gave me.”

 

“You can thank my mother, Miss Ward.” Lettice selects a small pink macaron and takes a ladylike bite from it before depositing the remainder on her plate. She feels the pastry and filling melt in her mouth. “She and I may not agree about a good many things, but Mater certainly knows the best agency In London for staff.”

 

“Well, Harriet is perfect!” Miss ward exclaims. “She fits in here so well, and she doesn’t throw a fit with all my comings and goings at all hours to and from the studio, taking telephone messages for me with the efficiency of a secretary, and she doesn’t even seem to mind the unannounced arrivals when friends come to pay call.”

 

“I do hope you told her about me coming today, Miss Ward.” Lettice remarks in alarm.

 

“Oh I did, Miss Chetwynd! It’s quite alright!” She stuffs the biscuit into her mouth, rubbing her fingers together to rid them of crumbs which tumble through the air and onto her lap where they disappear amidst the fuchsia coloured georgette of her dress. “Mind you,” she continues, speaking with her mouth full. “I don’t think Harriet likes it when I insist on making my own coffee.” She gulps loudly. “She doesn’t like it when I go onto the kitchen. She says it’s her domain.” She looks across at Lettice perched elegantly on the settee, dressed in a pretty pastel yellow frock that matches the trim of her straw hat. “I imagine your maid is the same.”

 

“I’m sure I haven’t asked Edith, Miss Ward.”

 

“Well, perhaps you should, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“What a ridiculous notion!” Lettice laughs. “Of course she wouldn’t mind! It’s my flat. I can come and go where and when I please.”

 

“If you’ll pardon me, my dear girl,” Miss Ward picks up the coffee pot and pours the steaming, rich golden brown liquid first into Lettice’s cup and then her own. “But it’s a ridiculous notion that you don’t. If I may be so bold: it may be your flat, but you’re a lady, and even I, the egalitarian American in the room, knows that masters and servants don’t mix. You probably vex the poor little mouse when you swan into her domain, rather than ring the servant’s bell. Not that she would tell you that of course! Your maid is much to meek to speak her mind, whereas Harriet tells me that god invented servants’ bells, so I don’t have to go into her kitchen.” She smiles cheekily. “Mind you, I draw the line at her making coffee for me or my guests.” She indicates to the milk jug and sugar bowl. “Now, there is cream in the jug and sugar in the bowl Miss Chetwynd. Do help yourself.” She picks up the jug and glugs a dollop of cream into her coffee before scooping up two large heaped teaspoons of sugar.

 

After Lettice has added a small amount of cream and a flat teaspoon of sugar to her own coffee, she looks around the drawing room observantly whilst she stirs her cup’s contents. To her delight, and no little amount of surprise, the room remains as she designed it. She was quite sure that Wanetta would rearrange her well thought out designs as soon as she moved in, yet against her predictions the furniture remains where she had them placed, the gold and yellow Murano glass comport still standing in the centre of the mantelpiece, the yellow celadon vase with gold bamboo in place on the console table. Even the small white vase, the only piece left over from the former occupier’s décor, remains next to the comport on the mantle. The American was ready to throw it into the dustbin at every opportunity, yet it happily nestles between the comport and a large white china vase of vibrant yellow roses and lilies. It is as she notices the celadon vase that she sees the painting of Wanetta, which only arrived at the flat when its sitter did.

 

“So that’s the famous yellow portrait, Miss Ward,” Lettice remarks, admiring the likeness of the dark haired American, draped in a golden yellow oriental shawl, sitting languidly in a chair.

 

“Oh yes!” gasps Miss Ward as she turns around in her armchair to look at the painting hanging to the right of the fireplace, above a black console table. “You haven’t seen it, have you? Do you like it?”

 

“Yes I do,” acknowledges Lettice. “It’s a remarkable likeness, and the artist has captured the light in your eyes so well.”

 

“Thank you, darling girl! I think it’s beautiful.”

 

“So is your coffee!” Lettice remarks. “It’s quite delicious, and not at all what Bramley makes for me at Glynes**.”

 

“I told you, you British drink sludge.” She takes an appreciative, if overly large, gulp of her own coffee. “Now this, is real coffee.”

 

“So, have you christened your cocktail cabinet, yet?”

 

“Yes I have. I threw a cocktail party for the actors, actresses, director and crew when we wrapped up ‘After the Ball is Over’. It was quite the occasion!”

 

“Oh I could well imagine, Miss Ward.”

 

“Of course,” the American quickly adds. “I’m sure it wasn’t anywhere near as extravagant as your cocktail party that you threw for Mr. and Mrs. Channon.”

 

“You heard about that then, Miss Ward?”

 

“Heard about it? My darling girl,” Her eyes widen and sparkle with excitement. “I immersed myself in the article published by the Tattler, drinking in every little detail of your fabulous soiree. You looked stunning, darling!”

 

Lettice blushes and shuffles awkwardly in her seat on the settee at the brazen compliment. “Thank you, Miss Ward.”

 

“So did Mrs. Channon, of course! And wasn’t Lady Diana Cooper’s*** robe de style**** to die for?”

 

“Err, yes… quite, Miss Ward.” Lettice replies awkwardly. Anxious to change the subject and move away from her own private life, and thereby avoid the American’s potential attempts to try and gather some gossip to share with her fellow actors and actresses at Islington Studios*****, Lettice asks. “And what’s the next moving picture you will be making, Miss Ward? Another villainess role in a historical romance?”

 

“Oh, the studio is shutting for Christmas, so I’m sailing on the Aquitania****** on Monday, back to the States to visit my parents. I haven’t seen them in an age, and, well, they aren’t getting any younger. Besides, Islington Studios are paying for the journey and are organising for me to promote ‘After the Ball is Over’ at a few functions whilst I’m back home.”

 

“That will be lovely for you, Miss Ward.”

 

“Oh don’t worry, I’ll be back in the new year, when we start filming ‘Skating and Sinning’.”

 

“’Skating and Sinning’, Miss Ward?”

 

“Yes!” the American gushes as she picks up the coffee pot which she proffers to Lettice, who declines, and then proceeds to fill her own cup. “It’s the first picture planned for 1922. Another historical drama, set in London in the Seventeenth Century, when the Thames froze over.”

 

“Yes, 1607 I believe.”

 

“You’re a font of knowledge, Miss Chetwynd!” Miss Ward exclaims, clapping her ring decorated hands in delight. “You never cease to amaze me! A first-class interior designer and a historian!”

 

“Knowing trivial historical facts is just part and parcel of an education in a family as old as mine, Miss Ward.” Lettice deflects, taking another sip of her coffee. “And the sinning?”

 

“The sinning, Miss Chetwynd?” the American woman queries.

 

“Well, I assume the frozen Thames explains the skating part of the film’s title, Miss Ward.”

 

“Oh, the sinning!” Miss Ward settles back in her armchair with a knowing smile, placing her coffee cup on the black japanned table between the two Chinese chairs. “Well, that’s me, darling!” She raises both her arms dramatically, the Spanish shawl gathering about her shoulders as she does. “I will be playing a merry young, recently widowed, Duchess, with her eyes on our heroine’s young betrothed!”

 

“And do you succeed, Miss Ward?”

 

“Ah-ah! That,” She wags her finger playfully at Lettice. “Would be telling, darling girl. I can’t go giving away the ending, or you won’t come see the film.”

 

Lettice smiles at the actress. “Well, I’m glad that London has entranced you enough to return from the delights of America.”

 

“Well of course it has! And anyway, I have to come back to enjoy and show off my beautiful new home!”

 

Lettice blushes at the compliment.

 

“I’ll have you know Miss Chetwynd, that at my cocktail party, I had so many compliments about this beautiful room, the furnishings and the décor. You’ll be hearing from directors and future starlets in the new year, I’ll guarantee!”

 

“I shall have to see whether I can accommodate them, Miss Ward.” Lettice replies. “As you know, I will be decorating some of the principal rooms of Mr. and Mrs. Channon’s country house in the new year, and I have a few other potential commissions currently under negotiation.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be able to squeeze them in, darling! When the moving pictures come knocking, you just won’t be able to say no.”

 

“Well…” Lettice begins, imagining her mother’s face drained of colour, and her father’s flushed with anger, if she takes on another commission from a moving picture actress.

 

“Oh, and thinking of my flat. The other reason why I asked you here.” Miss Ward interrupts, standing up and walking over to the console table beneath her portrait, where some papers sit beneath the base of one of the Murano glass bottles. She fumbles through them and withdraws a small slip of paper. Walking over to Lettice she hands it to her. “A cheque to settle my bill before I set sail for home, darling girl.”

 

“Thank you, Miss Ward.” Lettice replies, opening her lemon yellow handbag sitting between her and her black and yellow straw hat on the settee and depositing the cheque safely inside. “I appreciate your prompt payment.”

 

“It’s my pleasure, Miss Chetwynd.” the American replies. “And thank you again for all that you have done.” Her glittering eyes flit about the room. “I just love being here! It’s so perfect! It’s so, so me! A mixture of the old, and the new, the oriental and the European, all of which I love.”

 

“I’m so pleased you approve, Miss Ward. It is your home, after all.”

 

“I even have to concede that you were right about having touches of white in here. It adds a touch of class. And that wonderful wallpaper you suggested,” She indicates to the walls. “Well, it is the pièce de résistance of this room’s décor!” Stepping over to the fireplace, she picks up the small white vase. “This puzzles me though.” Her face crumples. “Why were you so anxious that I keep this vase?”

 

“Well, “ Lettice explains. “Call me sentimental, but I felt that it is part of your home’s story and coming from an old family home surrounded by history, I thought it would be a shame to see it just tossed away. I hope you don’t disagree.”

 

Miss Ward considers the small Parian vase in her manicured hands for a moment before replacing it. “Not at all, you sentimental girl you!”

 

The pair smile at one another, happily.

 

*Now known as the Corinthia Hotel, the Metropole Hotel is located at the corner of Northumberland Avenue and Whitehall Place in central London on a triangular site between the Thames Embankment and Trafalgar Square. Built in 1883 it functioned as an hotel between 1885 until World War I when, located so close to the Palace of Westminster and Whitehall, it was requisitioned by the government. It reopened after the war with a luxurious new interior and continued to operate until 1936 when the government requisitioned it again whilst they redeveloped buildings at Whitehall Gardens. They kept using it in the lead up to the Second World War. After the war it continued to be used by government departments until 2004. In 2007 it reopened as the luxurious Corinthia Hotel.

 

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

 

***Born Lady Diana Manners, Diana Olivia Winifred Maud Cooper, Viscountess Norwich was an English aristocrat who was a famously glamorous social figure in London and Paris. As a young woman, she moved in a celebrated group of intellectuals known as the Coterie, most of whom were killed in the First World War. She married Duff Cooper in 1919. In her prime, she had the widespread reputation as the most beautiful young woman in England, and appeared in countless profiles, photographs and articles in newspapers and magazines. She was a film actress in the early 1920s and both she and her husband were very good friends with Edward VIII and were guests of his on a 1936 yacht cruise of the Adriatic which famously caused his affair with Wallis Simpson to become public knowledge.

 

****The ‘robe de style’ was introduced by French couturier Jeanne Lanvin around 1915. It consisted of a basque bodice with a broad neckline and an oval bouffant skirt supported by built in wire hoops. Reminiscent of the Spanish infanta-style dresses of the Seventeenth Century and the panniered robe à la française of the Eighteenth Century they were made of fabric in a solid colour, particularly a deep shade of robin’s egg blue which became known as Lanvin blue, and were ornamented with concentrated bursts of embroidery, ribbons or ornamental silk flowers.

 

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

 

******The RMS Aquitania was a British ocean liner of the Cunard Line in service from 1914 to 1950. She was designed by Leonard Peskett and built by John Brown and Company in Clydebank, Scotland. She was launched on the 21st of April 1913 and sailed on her maiden voyage from Liverpool to New York on the 30th of May 1914. Like her sister ships the ill fated Lusitania and the renown Mauritania, she was beautifully appointed and was a luxurious way for first and second-class passengers to travel across the Atlantic between Britain and America.

 

This upper-class 1920s Art Deco drawing room scene may be different to how it may appear, for the whole scene is made up entirely with pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection, including pieces I have had since I was a teenager and others that I have collected on my travels around the world.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The cherry blossom patterned tea set, which if you look closely at the blossoms, you will see they have gilt centres, I acquired from an online stockist on E-Bay. It stands on a silver tray that is part of tea set that comes from Smallskale Miniatures in England. To see the whole set, please click on this link: www.flickr.com/photos/40262251@N03/51111056404/in/photost.... The wonderful selection of biscuits on offer were made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

 

The wooden Chinese dragon chairs and their matching low table ,that serves as Wanetta’s tea table, I found in a little shop in Singapore whilst I was holiday there. They are beautifully carved from cherrywood.

 

The Queen Anne settee made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, JBM with great attention to detail.

 

The black japanned cocktail cabinet with its gilded handles was made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.

 

All the glass comport on the mantlepiece has been blown and decorated and tinted by hand by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The white and gold Georgian Revival clock next to it is a 1:12 artisan miniature made by Hall’s Miniature Clocks, supplied through Doreen Jeffries Small Wonders Miniatures in England. The ginger jar to the right of the clock is hand painted. It is an item that I bought from a high street doll house stockist when I was a teenager.

 

The yellow celadon vase with gold bamboo painted on it, I bought as part of a job lot of small oriental vases from an auction many years ago. The soapstone lidded jar in the foreground came from the same auction house, but from a different job lot of oriental miniature pieces.

 

Lettice’s black straw hat with yellow trimming and a yellow rose, which sits on the settee is made by Mrs. Denton of Muffin Lodge. It is an artisan miniature made just like a real hat! 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable. Lettice’s lemon yellow purse is also an artisan piece and is made of kid leather which is so soft. It is trimmed with very fine braid and the purse has a clasp made from a piece of earring. It come from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniatures in the United Kingdom. Lettice’s furled Art Deco umbrella is also a 1:12 artisan piece made of silk, acquired through an online stockist on E-Bay.

 

The vases of flowers on the mantle piece and side table are beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium.

 

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

 

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

 

Wanetta’s paintings, including the yellow portrait, were made in America by Amber’s Miniatures.

 

The miniature Oriental rug on the floor was made by hand by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney

 

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

 

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

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

 

Today however we are 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 is visiting her family home over the Christmastide and New Year period. She motored down to Wiltshire with her old childhood chum, Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy who has tried to gain some independence from his family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street. His family, the Brutons, are neighbours to the Cheywynds with their properties sharing boundaries. That is how Gerald and Lettice came to be such good friends. However, whilst both families are landed gentry with lineage going back centuries, unlike Lettice’s family, Gerald’s live in a much smaller baronial manor house and are in much more straitened circumstances.

 

It is mid-morning and Lettice pads as quietly as possible across the cavernous Adam style entrance hall of Glynes, the louis heels of her shoes echoing around the space. Anxiously she looks over her shoulder down the corridor that passes the morning room, her mother’s domain where she knows Lady Sadie is right now, and where she does not wish to be drawn into. She turns to her right and walks up to a pair of beautiful walnut double doors and knocks loudly.

 

“Come!” comes a muffled male voice from inside.

 

Lettice opens the doors and walks through into the light filled library where she is greeted by the comforting smell of old books and woodsmoke. Although as masculine as the morning room is feminine, Lettice feels far more at home in her father’s library, partially because it is his domain and also because he and she both know that, with her reading extending not much further than The Lady*, Horse and Hound** or a sedate Regency romance, Lady Sadie is unlikely to disturb either of them as long as they remain within the library’s four walls. The walls of the long room are lined with floor to ceiling shelves, all full of books: thousands of volumes on so many subjects. Weak wintery sunlight drifts through the tall windows facing out to the front of the house, burnishing the polished parquetry floors in a ghostly way. The fire, another constant in the library, crackles contentedly. And there, sitting at his Chippendale desk, sits Viscount Wrexham, dealing with estate business.

 

“Ah! My darling girl!” the Viscount puts aside his pen, pushes his chair back over the richly woven carpet and stands.

 

Lettice walks down the length of the room carrying a tapestry carpet bag in shades of red wine and moss green – a piece of luggage that she used to convey her Christmas presents for the family down to Wiltshire, and the only piece that does not match any of her other elegant deep blue leather Vuitton*** luggage that accompanied her from London in Gerald’s motorcar.

 

“Have you a moment to spare for me, Pappa!” Lettice asks as she reaches her father’s desk.

 

“Yes,” the Viscount says a little wearily. “Only if it isn’t too long. Shall I ring for tea?”

 

When Lettice nods eagerly, the Viscount pulls the handle of the servants call bell. The Chetwynd’s faithful butler, Bramley’s, familiar footfall outside the library door precedes his knock, and he is quickly dispatched with an order for tea to be served indulgently in the Viscount’s favourite blue and white gilt Art Nouveau tea set.

 

Sitting opposite her father at his desk, Lettice ponders her father’s face, which looks wan, and she notices the dark circles in the sagging flesh under his eyes. “You look and sound tired, Pappa.” she states matter-of-factly. “Are you all right?”

 

“Oh, your brother and I have to deal with some not too pleasant business at Mile End Farm. It’s been keeping me awake at night, and I didn’t want to deal with it before Christmas.”

 

“What business, Pappa?”

 

“Estate business.” The Viscount brushes his daughter off with a dismissive wave. “Nothing you need to worry your pretty head about.”

 

“If it is causing you to have sleepless nights, and as the estate is our family’s, I think it is very much my business, Pappa.” Lettice presses. “Even if Leslie is to inherit it, and not me. Have you difficulties with old Farmer Cooper again?”

 

“Well,” the Viscount admits. “Since you insist, yes. Ever since his son died in Ypres, and his wife of influenza, he’s taken to drinking heavily, and all but given up on Mile End Farm, and I can’t have such fertile soil untilled. If Cooper doesn’t start working the farm again, Leslie and I will have no choice but to break his leasehold in favour of another farmer.”

 

“But Coopers have been farming Mile End Farm for generations.” Lettice protests.

 

“The estate is getting expensive to maintain. Taxes have increased to help pay for the war that the Kaiser dragged us into, yet the Weimar Republic won’t pay for****,” The Viscount sighs heavily. “And I can’t afford to run a charity any more, not even for the likes of Cooper, however long his family have worked our estate.”

 

“Charity?”

 

“He’s not paid his rent.”

 

“How in arrears is he?”

 

“Three months.”

 

“Oh my!” Lettice’s hand goes to her mouth.

 

“Now you see why I didn’t want to deal with this before Christmas.” The Viscount sighs sadly again. “For all his latter faults, Cooper doesn’t deserve to be given an ultimatum on Christmas Eve. But, I can’t wait any longer. I have at least three farmers I know of who would give their eye teeth to be given Mile End Farm to work, and as the future owner of the estate, Leslie needs to know how it works.”

 

“That’s sad, Pappa.”

 

“This is the new post-war world, Lettice. You know as much as anyone that the world has changed, inexorably so. If Cooper chooses to drink his life away, I can’t stop him.”

 

Their conversation is interrupted by the gentle knocking at the door.

 

“Come!” Viscount Wrexham calls commandingly again.

 

Bramley enters carrying a silver tray laden with the blue and white gild Art Nouveau tea things, just as requested. “Tea, My Lord.”

 

“Very good, Bramley.” the Viscount acknowledges the butler. “We’ll have it here, I think.” He looks to his daughter. “Yes?” To which she nods in reply.

 

With the tea things set up on the gilt tooled brown leather surface of the Viscount’s Chippendale desk, and Bramley discreetly retreated beyond the library doors this Viscount says, “Now, before Leslie and I pay a call on Cooper, what is it you wanted to see me about, my girl?”

 

“Well Pappa,” Lettice replies. “I need your advice on these.”

 

Lettice withdraws the four silhouettes in black ebonised frames that she bought from Mrs. Trevithick’s Treasures when working on Margot and Dickie’s house in Cornwall and places them on her father’s desk.

 

“And what have we here?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow as he admires the two Regency gentlemen and the Georgian lady and gentleman in black on white within the thin black frames. “Hhhmmm.” He scratches his cleanly shaven chin and ruminates quietly. “These look a little bit like something your mother has in the morning room. Wouldn’t you be better asking her?”

 

“Oh no, Pappa!” Lettice exclaims awkwardly and with a little too much protesting to be polite. “Mamma would only tell me what I already know about them.”

 

“And what do you know about them, my girl? What does your interior designer eye tell you?”

 

“They are silhouettes and two are Regency, or early Victorian and two are Georgian. The two gentlemen appear to be cut paper, and the Georgian couple possibly painted.”

 

“Where did you acquire these from, Lettice?”

 

“From a little curiosity shop in Cornwall when I was doing preliminary works on the redecoration of Dickie and Margot Channon’s house. I thought you might have a book on the subject?” Lettice asks hopefully.

 

The Viscount settles back in his seat and sips tea from his gilt edged cup, the blue and gilding glowing in the electric light of the chandelier overhead. He gazes around the shelves about them. Lettice holds her breath in anticipation of her father’s answer, not daring to speak for fear of breaking his considered concentration. Only the gentle ticking of the clock on the mantle and the quiet cracking of the fire breaking the silence.

 

“I think I do have a book on silhouettes here somewhere.”

 

He heaves himself out of his seat with a groan and dragging his library steps along the parquet floor to a section of shelves near the fireplace, he climbs up to one of the upper shelves. “I’m sure I had something up here, possibly ordered by your mother when she had a mania for collecting silhouettes that ended up in here when she grew tired of it.” He begins running his fingers along the dark vellum volumes with gilt letting and others with brightly coloured dustjackets. “Ah! Here we are!” He pulls out a blue coloured volume with gilt lettering. “The history of Silhouettes by E. Nevill Jackson*****!”

 

Taking the volume over to the desk, the pair begin to look through the photographic plates in the book, scanning image after image, sipping their tea as companionably they look at silhouette after beautiful silhouette.

 

“I’d say, looking at this,” Lettice points to an image of a gentleman in a top hat. “That the two gentlemen may be Swiss or German. See the similarity in the cut of the frock coats.”

 

“Very good, Lettice.” her father replies approvingly. “Well spotted, my girl. And they are thin card like these.” He indicates to the notes about how the image was created. “This would make them Biedermeier, then.”

 

They continue to look.

 

“Ahh, now this is interesting,” the Viscount announces as they reach a page featuring five very fine silhouettes. “Your Georgian couple, unlike the Biedermeier pair, appear to be Indian ink painted on paper, and look like the work of Francis Torond*******.”

 

“Who was Francis Torond?” Lettice asks excitedly.

 

“Let’s consult Ms Jackson’s biography section.” The Viscount flicks through the book. “Here we are. Francis Torond was French, but emigrated to England around 1796.” He scans the biography. “He only worked as a silhouette artist for about ten years. He painted in Indian ink on fine paper using a quill pen for fine detail. His works are usually in framed in oval turned ebonized wood or oval giltwood frames.” Lettice gasps. “And his works are often identified through trade labels. Let’s see.” The Viscount turns the picture of the Georgian lady over and using his silver letter opener, carefully prises the backing from its frame, and the pair see a very dirty paper label pasted across the back of the portrait. “There we are! Torond, number thirteen Wells Street, London. This is a Frances Torond! And I’ll wager the pair is then too!”

 

Outside in the entrance hall, the distant trill of the telephone can be heard ringing out anxiously.

 

“How much did you pay for them?” the Viscount asks, continuing to look at the portraits before him.

 

“Fifteen shillings each.”

 

“Quite the bargain then, I’d say.” the Viscount says proudly with an approving nod. “Canny girl.”

 

Their conversation is interrupted yet again by the gentle knocking at the library door.

 

“Come!” Viscount Wrexham calls commandingly again.

 

Bramley pokes his head around the door. “Sorry to disturb, My Lord.”

 

“Good heavens Bramley! Is Leslie here already?” the Viscount asks anxiously. “I’m afraid Lettice and I have quite lost track of the time. We’ve been quite engrossed in successfully solving a little mystery.”

 

“Ahh… no My Lord. It’s the telephone. My Lord.”

 

“Who is it then, Bramley?”

 

“It’s actually for Miss Lettice, My Lord.” the butler replies coolly in his friendly baritone voice.

 

“For me?” Lettice raises her hand to the pearls at her throat and toys with them.

 

“Yes, My Lady. It’s Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon******** ringing from St. Paul's, Walden Bury.”

 

“Oh well, I’ll take the telephone call in here then, Bramley.” Lettice says, walking over to the small round three legged Georgian pedestal table the old fashioned black candlestick telephone stands on. ‘That is if you don’t mind, Father.”

 

“Not at all.” the Viscount acquiesces.

 

Lettice picks up the telephone and picks up the receiver in her left hand, placing it to her ear, and speaks clearly into the round mouthpiece of the candlestick base that she holds in her right hand. “Hullo Elizabeth darling!” she exclaims happily. “What an unexpected surprise! Merry Christmas and happy New Year.” A distant female voice speaks down the line. “Oh yes! Yes, it was marvellous. Mamma wasn’t too painful. Lally, Charles and the children came up, and so did Aunt Egg, of course. And Pappa,” She glances over at her father who has resumed looking at the silhouette portraits in an effort to be discreet and not overhear his daughter’s conversation. “Gave me a wonderful book on Egyptian art. He thinks that the discovery like the boy king’s tomb by Mr. Carter********* in Egypt is going to start a new wave of Egyptomania**********.” She smirks. “How was yours?” She listens to Elizabeth’s voice. “Is he?” The voice at the other end grows more excited. “Did he really? Again?” The voice answers animatedly. “And what did you say?” Even the Viscount, however discreet with his back turned, cannot help but pick up his ears to his daughter’s conversation. “You did? Oh congratulations, Elizabeth darling!” Lettice beams with delight. “No misgivings this time, I hope?” She listens again. “Well, that is a relief! How absolutely thrilling!” She listens again. “Oh, thank you Elizabeth darling! Oh yes I’d love to!” The voice at the other end of the telephone grows more serious. “Well of course I will! How could I refuse? Well, I’ll be back in London the day after tomorrow. Gerald’s motoring us both back to town. You must come over for tea, or cocktails and tell me all about it.” The voice speaks again. “Yes, alright Elizabeth darling. Yes… yes, I shall see you then. And congratulations again! Alright. Goodbye for now!”

 

Lettice hangs up the receiver and squeals with delight.

 

“Well!” Lettice gasps with excitement. “You’ll never guess who that was, Pappa!”

 

“I was led to believe by Bramley that it was your friend, Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon.” her father says dourly.

 

“She won’t be Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon much longer! The Duke of York proposed for a third time, and this time she said yes!” Lettice squeals again, jumping up and down on the spot. “She’s going to become the Duchess of York!”

 

“Well, that is jolly news!” the Viscount replies. “I can’t wait to tell your mother! She’ll be beside herself with joy that she entertained the future Duchess of York here at the Hunt Ball last year! I might even get a few days without any quibbles from her thanks to the news. Here’s hoping, anyway.” He crosses his fingers. “I say,” he adds dourly at the end. “I do hope she knows what she’s doing, getting married to the Windsors. I can’t say I’d fancy the King and Queen as my in-laws, Queen Mary especially!”

 

“I suppose since this is the third time the Duke of York proposed, that she realises. She says that she has no misgivings this time. I’ll have to get Gerald to design me a new dress and get Harriet to make me a hat for the wedding.”

 

“When will the wedding take place?”

 

“Elizabeth doesn’t know yet, but I don’t imagine it will be too far away.”

 

“Yes, no doubt the Windsors want to secure her for the Duke and marry them quickly before she changes her mind, if this is the third proposal.”

 

*The Lady is one of Britain's longest-running women's magazines. It has been in continuous publication since 1885 and is based in London. It is particularly notable for its classified advertisements for domestic service and child care; it also has extensive listings of holiday properties.

 

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

 

***Louis Vuitton Malletier, commonly known as Louis Vuitton, is a French luxury fashion house and company founded in 1854 by Louis Vuitton. The label's LV monogram appears on most of its products, ranging from luxury bags and leather goods to ready-to-wear, shoes, watches, jewellery, accessories, sunglasses and books. The Louis Vuitton label was founded by Vuitton in 1854 on Rue Neuve des Capucines in Paris. Louis Vuitton started at $10,567 as a sales price. Louis Vuitton had observed that the HJ Cave Osilite trunk could be easily stacked. In 1858, Vuitton introduced his flat-topped trunks with Trianon canvas, making them lightweight and airtight. Before the introduction of Vuitton's trunks, rounded-top trunks were used, generally to promote water runoff, and thus could not be stacked. It was Vuitton's grey Trianon canvas flat trunk that allowed the ability to stack them on top of another with ease for voyages. Many other luggage makers later imitated Vuitton's style and design, but Vuitton was the choice of luggage for the rich and influential.

 

****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. Following the ratification of article 231 of the Treaty of Versailles at the conclusion of the Great War, the Central Powers were made to give war reparations to the Allied Powers. Each of the defeated powers was required to make payments in either cash or kind. Because of the financial situation in Austria, Hungary, and Turkey after the war, few to no reparations were paid and the requirements for reparations were cancelled. Bulgaria, having paid only a fraction of what was required, saw its reparation figure reduced and then cancelled. Due to the lack of reparation payments by Germany, France occupied the Ruhr in 1923 to enforce payments, causing an international crisis and hyperinflation in Germany. As a result of all 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.

 

*****“The History of Silhouettes” by Emily Neville Jackson was published by The Connoisseur, in London in 1911. The first edition has blue cloth boards with gilt lettering on the cover. It has one hundred and twenty one pages of text and bibliography with an additional seventy two plates of photographs of silhouettes. Emily Jackson was a noted collector and authority on silhouettes, especially the work of Auguste Amant Constant Fidèle Edouart, who was a French-born portrait artist who worked in England, Scotland and the United States in the Nineteenth Century who specialised in silhouette portraits.

 

*******Francis Torond was an accomplished and successful silhouette artist of the late Georgian and Regency periods in England. He experienced financial difficulty and decided it was not a profitable career, so sadly only worked as a profilist for a decade. He is renowned today for his exquisite conversation pieces, and also for his clare-obscur style – the technique of using light and shade in a pictorial piece of art. Born around 1743, he emigrated withhis family from France to England around 1776, settling in Westminster in London. Francis Torond painted entirely in Indian ink on fine laid paper, using a quill pen to depict detail. He was incredibly skilled in highlighting the details of clothing and the background in which his sitters were painted. China, furniture and lighting were all beautifully painted. He did not use any mechanical means to produce his silhouettes, and he advertised that he could copy any silhouette onto furniture or jewellery. He died at his St Giles home in 1812.

 

********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.

 

*********On the 4th of November 1922, English archaeologist Howard Carter and his men discovered the entrance to the boy king, Pharaoh Tutankhamun's tomb in the Valley of the Kings. He unseals the entrance on the 16th of February 1923, discovering the most intact Egyptian burial chamber ever unearthed. It sparks a worldwide interest in all things Egyptian. The craze he started became known as Tutmania, and it inspired everything from the architecture of public building and private houses alike to interior design and fashion. Famously at the time, socialite Dolores Denis Denison applied one of the earliest examples of getting the media of the day to pay attention to her because of her dress by arriving at the prestigious private view of the King Tut Exhibition in London, dressed as an Egyptian mummy complete in a golden sarcophagus and had to be carried inside by her driver and a hired man. Although it started before the discovery of the tomb, the Art Deco movement was greatly influenced by Egyptian style. Many of the iconic decorative symbols we associate with the movement today came about because of Howard Carter’s discovery of Tutankhamun's tomb in the Valley of the Kings.

 

**********Egyptomania refers to a period of renewed interest in the culture of ancient Egypt sparked by Napoleon's Egyptian Campaign in the 19th century. Napoleon was accompanied by many scientists and scholars during this Campaign, which led to a large interest after the documentation of ancient monuments in Egypt. The ancient remains had never been so thoroughly documented before and so the interest in ancient Egypt increased significantly. Jean-François Champollion deciphered the ancient hieroglyphs in 1822 by using the Rosetta Stone that was recovered by French troops in 1799 which began the study of scientific Egyptology.

 

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The majority of the books that you see lining the shelves of the Viscount’s library are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. So too are all the books you see both open and closed on the Viscount’s Chippendale desk. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. Therefore, it is a pleasure to give you a glimpse inside one of the books he has made. “The History of Silhouettes” by Emily Nevill Jackson was published by The Connoisseur, in London in 1911. To give you an idea of the work that has gone into this volume and the others, the book contains thirty double sided pages of silhouette images and script and measures thirty-three millimetres in height and thirty millimetres in width and is only five millimetres thick. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter. I hope that you enjoy this peek at just one of hundreds of his books that I own, and that it makes you smile with its sheer whimsy!

 

The miniature silhouettes that Lettice bought in Cornwall were made by Lady Mile Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The Art Nouveau tea set I acquired from an online specialist of miniatures in E-Bay.

 

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

 

On the desk are some 1:12 artisan miniature ink bottles and a blotter on a silver salver all made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures. The ink bottles are made from tiny faceted crystal beads and have sterling silver bottoms and lids. The ink blotter is sterling silver too and has a blotter made of real black felt, cut meticulously to size to fit snugly inside the frame.

 

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

 

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

 

The Persian rug you can just glimpse in the bottom left-hand corer of the photo was hand woven by Pike, Pike and Company in the United Kingdom.

 

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

Generous additions of Comet Motueka Southern Sublime and HBC 586 give this Hybrid Style full Fruit Flavour and Aroma with a Smooth fluffy Dark Malt Backbone

From Bomber Brewing in Eastvan on Adanac

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

 

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

 

After the retirement of the housekeeper, Mrs. Trevethan, from the main house to the gatekeeper’s cottage, the quartet of Bright Young Things** find themselves alone in the sprawling double storey Regency residence of white stucco with ample time on their hands owing to a lack of distractions beyond what parlour games from the Nineteenth Century they found mouldering in the games room cupboard. Encouraged by the consumption of several bottles of French champagne before, during and after dinner, Lettice, Margot, Dickie and Gerald have embarked upon a game of sardines*** after Lettice suggested them playing it earlier in the day. An old house, new to them all, full of wonderful nooks and crannies is too much of a temptation not to play the game. So far Gerald has been found hiding behind an old oriental screen in one of the disused bedrooms and Margot inside the capacious, if slightly musty, interior of an empty wardrobe. Lettice was the last of them to find Margot, so it is her turn to hide and await the other three sardines to seek her out.

 

Abandoning the ideas of the disused bedrooms upstairs, Lettice has returned to the ground floor of ‘Chi an Treth’ in search of a much better hiding place. Seeking out the service entrance, she quietly pushes open the green baize door studded with dull brass tacks. Like all the other doors and windows of ‘Chi an Treth’, it groans on its hinges, but gives way easily, leading Lettice into the servants’ quarters of the house with its white painted walls and bare lightbulb utilitarian décor. She is about to go into the kitchen to seek out the pantry or a dry store cupboard when her eye catches a narrow wooden door standing partially ajar at the end of a rather short corridor with no other doors off it and only a small bench for furniture.

 

“Perfect!” she breathes with excitement, scuttling along the old, worn flagstone floor, her louis heels clicking loudly. “Shhhh!” she hisses at them in her slightly inebriated state. “You’re sure to give me away if I don’t hurry!”

 

Unusually, the door opens outwards, and unlike the green baize door, whilst it does creak, its groaning protests are far quieter than its counterparts. Slipping inside, Lettice finds the light pull cord and with eyes closed, yanks on it, hoping that this rather out-of-the-way store cupboard has been electrified. Her wishes are granted as with a click and the almost imperceptible buzz of electricity, the room is suddenly flooded in a soft golden light from a naked bulb above. A small flurry of dust motes disturbed into the air are illuminated in the glow.

 

“Oh bully for Lord de Virre!” Lettice exclaims, clasping her elegant hands in delight. “Thank goodness he insisted the service area of the house was electrified as well as the living areas.”

 

Happy with her choice of hiding place, Lettice settles to await for the others to find her out and sardine with her.

 

Figuring it will take a little while for her friends to find her and finding sitting in one spot doing nothing rather boring, Lettice decides to explore her cupboard hiding place more thoroughly. She works out quickly that it must be a storage room for things for the nearby dining room as there are stacks of neatly folded table linens on the lower shelves. There are also interesting odd pieces of various dinner sets including tureens without lids, jugs, bowls and stacks of mismatched plates.

 

“Hhhmmm. No longer usable, but evidently too good to throw away.” she remarks as she picks up a blue and white sugar bowl without a lid bearing a pretty floral pattern. She turns it over in her hands thoughtfully. “This must be Regency era. I wonder if the old captain himself used this.”

 

Putting it back, she continues to explore, finding incomplete canteens of cutlery, lacquered stands for vases and bowls and boxes of any amount of different cleaning agents from different eras of the house’s history. Lettice quietly wonders whether there are cupboards like this at Glynes**** and if so, what she might find in them.

 

“Perhaps my own family’s long lost portrait,” she remarks aloud, even though there is no one to hear her. Peering curiously into a Huntley and Palmer’s***** biscuit box full of age discoloured napkins she adds, “Not that we have one that I know of.”

 

Stepping back, she suddenly discovers that the pale blue satin front of her bodice has come away with dust from the Huntly and Palmer’s box.

 

“Oh no!” she exclaims, batting at the sooty looking smears with her hands. “Oh, Gerald will kill me if I ruin one of his dresses!”

 

Unwilling to pull out any of the neatly folded table linens on the lower shelves out and sully them for fear of Mrs. Trevethan’s wrath if she is in fact the regular user of them, Lettice begins to fossick for alternatives to dust down her gown and manage, if not eradicate, any marks on her bodice. Forgetting the box of old linen napkins in her panic, she searches the shelves high and low for a cloth of some kind.

 

It is then that she spots a muslin cloth which looks quite clean dangling from a stack on an upper shelf. Lettice stretches up, but isn’t quite tall enough to reach it, even when she stands on her toes. She jumps up but misses it. She jumps again and feels the fabric teasingly caress her fingertips like a light breeze. She jumps a third time, and this time catches the fabric between her right index and middle fingers. Locking them tightly, she lands on the ground again, but doesn’t realise that by doing so she is also bringing with her the rest of the pile as well as the cloth, and down it comes, colliding crashing, making such a din that Lettice screams in fright, adding to the discordant cacophony as wood splinters, newspaper crumples and china shatters over the unforgiving flagstone floor.

 

The little broom cupboard is plunged into a thick silence in the immediate wake of the accident. Standing with her back against a shelf, Lettice is momentarily shocked into stillness before her body starts to react to the near miss of the shower of objects that now lie smashed and broken across the ground, as opening her tightly clenched eyes she starts to tremble and then sob.

 

“Lettice! Lettice!” Dickie cries are heard getting closer and closer to her hiding place along with the thunder of his approaching footsteps as he bursts into the cupboard. His eyes widen at the carnage of splintered porcelain, pottery and glass across the floor along with shattered pieces of wood. As he takes it in, he looks over at his friend, dusty and sobbing, but apparently unharmed. “Lettice dear girl! Are you alright?”

 

It is like the floodgates open with his words and Lettice stumbles across the broken items into Dickie’s arms and cries, uttering great juddering sobs as she clings to him.

 

“There, there, old girl,” Dickie soothes reassuringly, running his hands over Lettice’s blonde hair as she buries herself into his chest. “It’s alright. You’re alright. No harm done. You’ve just had a bad fright is all.”

 

“Lettice!” Gerald’s voice calls anxiously as his running steps grow louder before finding Dickie and Lettice on the threshold of the store cupboard. “Lettice are you alright? Answer me.”

 

“Shh. Shh.” Dickie mutters. “It’s alright old girl.”

 

“Oh my god, Lettice!” Margot gasps, appearing at the door. “Dickie! Dickie, is she injured? Oh! I’ll never forgive myself if she’s been hurt.”

 

“It’s alright darling, it’s fine Gerald.” Dickie assures them. “Lettice just had a rather nasty fright and a near miss is all.” He sways gently, rocking Lettice slowly as she continues to cry, only with less force now as she starts to calm down. Looking over his shoulder at his wife’s face, looking even more pale than usual against her dark hair he says, “Go fetch the brandy from the drawing room would you, my love?”

 

“Of course! Of course!” Margot replies breathlessly as she turns to leave.

 

“And for god’s sake, don’t run Margot. Just walk.” he chides as she goes. “We don’t want you turning an ankle on the flags to top it all off.”

 

“What happened?” Gerald asks, looking at the mess lying across the ground and the swirl of dust motes dancing in the golden light cast by the naked lightbulb above as it gently circles above.

 

“I’d say a few boxes went for a tumble, dear boy.” Dickie observes. “But there’s been no harm done to Lettice here. Now has there?” He directs his last comment to the young lady in his arms.

 

“Which is more than I can say for the captain’s old dinner service.” Gerald remarks, bending down and picking up a chunk of white pottery by its brightly painted handle. “What a mess you’ve made Lettuce Leaf.”

 

Sniffing, Lettice releases herself from Dickie’s arms and wipes her eyes with the back of her now rather grubby hand, smearing kohl across her cheek. “Don’t… don’t call me that, Gerald,” she says in a breaking voice. “You know I don’t like it.”

 

Gerald smiles gratefully firstly at her and then at Dickie. “No,” he smirks. “No harm done to Lettice.”

 

“Here’s the brandy,” Margot calls, appearing at the door clutching the crystal decanter from the drawing room and a faceted glass tumbler.

 

“Capital, my love.” Dickie says gratefully.

 

Gerald takes them from Margot and pours several large slugs of brandy into the tumbler and hands it to Lettice, who takes it in both of her still slightly trembling hands and raises the glass to her quivering lips.

 

“I say old girl,” Dickie pipes up cheerfully in an effort to break the tension. “I always took you for being an expert at playing sardines!”

 

“Yes darling,” Gerald adds. “You know that you’re supposed to let us find you, not alert us of your hiding place by creating a ruckus.”

 

“Or a mess,” Lettice snuffles. Looking down at the broken pieces she notices what is left of an old pendulum wall clock amongst the debris, it’s glass face covering shattered and its hands telling the incorrect time of ten past ten, no doubt never to move again. “Oh, I am sorry Dickie.”

 

“Come, come!” Dickie replies, placing a caring arm around his friend’s shoulder. “It doesn’t matter about that. They’re just things. So long as you’re not hurt.” He smiles at her. “That’s what’s important.”

 

“Oh but Mrs. Trevethan!” Lettice protests. “She already has so much to do, looking after us and keeping the house tidy without this!” She extends a hand to the debris at her feet.

 

“Oh, pooh Mrs. Trevethan!” Margot replies, walking into the storeroom. “They don’t call this a broom cupboard for nothing!” She goes to a corner of the room which has remained undisturbed and pulls out a handmade birchwood broom and a metal bucket. “I’ll clean this up.” She looks over at Gerald, lolling languidly against the door frame holding the decanter of brandy. “And Gerald will help me, won’t you Gerald?”

 

“What? Me?” Gerald’s eyes grow wide as he looks back at Margot in shock as she withdraws a dustpan and brush. “But… but I’m a guest.”

 

“And such a helpful guest too,” Margot answers back in honeyed tones. “He designs frocks and sweeps floors.” She thrusts the dustpan and brush out to him forcefully. “What more could a hostess ask for?”

 

“But.. but what about Dickie?” he splutters.

 

“Dickie is playing nursemaid to Lettice,” she replies matter-of-factly. “So he’s got his hands full.”

 

“Evidently so have I.” Gerald replies glumly as he begrudgingly accepts the dustpan and brush from Margot.

 

Lettice giggles, but quickly smothers it with her hand as she receives a glare from her childhood friend.

 

“That’s better!” Dickie smiles. “Now, you just come out here, and we’ll leave Margot and Gerald to this.” He ushers Lettice out of the cupboard. “There’s a little seat out here in the hallway.”

 

The pair sit down on the small wooden bench in the hallway and watch in silence as Gerald and Margot start sorting things.

 

“Well, I don’t think this will ever go again.” Gerald chuckles as he picks up the wall clock and leans it against a corner of the shelves atop a stack of flour bags, its springs and cogs protesting metallically with its movement.

 

“If it even was going before, Gerald.” Margot replies. “I think our Mrs. Trevethan is a little bit of a hoarder, with so much space to store things and the run of the house her own until now.” She considers and assesses the mess on the floor with her left hand resting on her hip as she clutches the broom, looking a peculiar sight dressed in an elegant deep blue satin evening frock and high heels whilst holding it. “Now, any broken bits of wood can go into here.” She puts down a metal bucket. “And we’ll use it for firewood. And any broken glass and porcelain can go here.” She places a second bucket next to the first. “And I’ll get Mrs. Trevethan to deal with it in the morning.”

 

“I say,” Gerald remarks as he leans over a cracked square of wood and some discoloured tissue paper. “What’s this?”

 

“What’s what?” Margot asks as she starts sweeping broken pieces of pottery and shards of glass into a pile.

 

“This.” Gerald replies as he starts to move the splintered piece of wood.

 

“Gerald now isn’t a time for playing,” Margot says exasperatedly as she leans on the broom handle. “We’ll never get this cleaned up by breakfast time if you insist on fiddling with everything. Let’s just tidy this up. It won’t take long!”

 

“No!” protests Gerald, transfixed by what he has found. “I’m serious.”

 

“So am I, Gerald.” grumbles Margot.

 

Not hearing her querulous remark, he ignores her, and he moves closer to the pile of wood. “It looks like an old frame.” He shifts the wood aside. “A gilded frame.”

 

“Houses like this are full of old frames, Gerald,” Dickie calls from his seat on the bench next to Lettice where he cradles her with one arm, and the decanter of brandy in his other hand. “You know that. We English never like to throw away anything that might be of service at a later date.”

 

“No, this is different. It’s a beautiful frame. It must have been boxed up as it’s in splendid condition.”

 

Outside the store cupboard, Lettice and Dickie hear Margot’s broom cease its gentle swishing as the pair in the storeroom cease speaking.

 

“Margot? Gerald?” Dickie calls. “Are you alright?”

 

When no answer is forthcoming, both he and Lettice pick themselves up off the bench and walk to the door of the storeroom.

 

“I say you two,” Dickie continues. “What is going on here?” He looks at his wife and friend who are standing in the middle of the space, staring at the gilded frame as it gleams in the light, nestled comfortably amid a bed of crumpled tissue paper. His eyes widen.

 

“What is it, Gerald?” Lettice asks.

 

Gerald turns around and stares at Lettice, a look of amazement on his face. “See for yourself, darling.” he breathes.

 

Lettice looks at the painting inside the frame. Looking out from behind a thin layer of protective glass, a young lady with dark curls shaped into a stylish fashion by a host of red ribbons gazes over the bare shoulder. Two ropes of pearls hang about her elongated neck. However, it is her face, beautiful and radiant, with a knowing smile and soulful brown eyes that follow you about that catches her own eyes. She gasps.

 

“Lettice, dear girl,” breathes Dickie softly. “I think you may have inadvertently discovered the long lost Winterhatler****** of ‘Chi an Treth’.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

****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.

 

*****Huntley and Palmers is a British firm of biscuit makers originally based in Reading, Berkshire. The company created one of the world’s first global brands and ran what was once the world’s largest biscuit factory. Over the years, the company was also known as J. Huntley and Son and Huntley and Palmer. Huntley and Palmer were renown for their ‘superior reading biscuits’ which they promoted in different varieties for different occasions, including at breakfast time.

 

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

 

This cluttered storage space full of interesting remnants of times past may not be all that it first appears, for this scene is made up of items from my miniatures collection, including pieces that I have had since I was a child.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The lost Winterhalter painting of ‘Chi an Treth’ in its gilded frame is a 1:12 artisan piece made by V.H. Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The pendulum wall clock behind the frame I have had since I was a young child. It was either a Christmas or a birthday gift, but I cannot remember which.

 

The tin buckets, mop and birchwood broom are all artisan made miniatures that I have acquired in more recent years.

 

The feather duster on the top shelf I made myself using fledgling feathers (very spring) which I picked up off the lawn one day thinking they would come in handy in my miniatures collection sometime. I bound them with thread to the handle which is made from a fancy ended toothpick!

 

The table linens on the bottom right-hand shelves are all 1:12 size miniatures with beautiful tint stitching to finish each piece off. They were acquired from Michelle’s Miniatures in Sydney.

 

The porcelain jugs, bowls, tureens, plates and cups all come from different eBay online sellers.

 

The Huntly and Palmers’ box to the top right of the photograph comes from Jonesy’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom. Huntley and Palmers is a British firm of biscuit makers originally based in Reading, Berkshire. The company created one of the world’s first global brands and ran what was once the world’s largest biscuit factory. Over the years, the company was also known as J. Huntley and Son and Huntley and Palmer. Huntley and Palmer were renown for their ‘superior reading biscuits’ which they promoted in different varieties for different occasions, including at breakfast time.

 

In front bottom right hand corner of the photo is a can of Vim with stylised Art Deco packaging. It was made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering, as was the box of Sunlight soap in the small tin bucked to the right of the photograph. Vim was a common cleaning agent, used in any Edwardian household. Vim scouring powder was created by William Hesketh Lever (1st Viscount Leverhulme) and introduced to the market in 1904. It was produced at Port Sunlight in Wirrel, Merseyside, a model village built by Lever Brothers for the workers of their factories which produced the popular soap brands Lux, Lifebuoy and Sunlight. Kleeneze is a homeware company started in Hanham, Bristol. The company's founder, Harry Crook, had emigrated to the United States with his family several years earlier, and whilst there joined Fuller Brush as a sales representative. He returned to Bristol several years later, and started a business making brushes and floor polish which were sold door-to-door by salesmen. Technically Kleeneze didn’t start until 1923, which is two years after this story is set. I couldn’t resist including it, as I doubt I will ever be able to photograph it as a main part of any other tableaux. Thus, I hope you will forgive me for this indulgence.

 

On the shelf to the left of the photograph is some Zebo grate polish made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in the United Kingdom. Zebo (or originally Zebra) Grate Polish was a substance launched in 1890 by Reckitts to polish the grate to a gleam using a mixture that consisted of pure black graphite finely ground, carbon black, a binding agent and a solvent to keep it fluid for application with a cloth or more commonly newspaper.

 

The tin buckets, wooden apple box, basket, mop, brush, pan and birchwood broom are all artisan made miniatures that I have acquired in more recent years.

For the generous and lovely hurleygurley, enough beauty to make one cry, & my current personal favorite of the Myanmar photos.

 

**Up for auction, a 16x20 signed print of this image for Katrina Relief Auction. Please be generous, and obtain a print you love in the process!

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

 

Today however, we have followed Lettice southwest from her home, across St James’ Park to Hans Crescent in Belgravia, where the smart Edwardian four storey red brick and mock Tudor London home of the de Virre family stands. Two of Lettice’s Embassy Club coterie of bright young things are getting married: Dickie Channon, eldest surviving son of the Marquess of Taunton, and Margot de Virre, only daughter of Lord Charles and Lady Lucie de Virre. Lettice is visiting the home of the bride, which is a hive of activity in the lead up to the forthcoming nuptials.

 

Unusually, Lettice is ushered into the hall of the townhouse by a new maid rather than the de Virre’s butler, Mr. Geraldton. The maid is nervous and seems unsure of herself as she takes Lettice’s name and leads her up to the first floor to the gold drawing room where Lettice is informed the bride-to-be and her mother are.

 

“Miss Lettice Chetwynd, ma’am,” the maid mutters quickly before retreating back through the door and disappearing down the hallway.

 

“Lettice!” Margot gasps in delight, looking up from the cup of tea she holds in her lap.

 

“Oh Lettice!” Lady de Virre sighs. “Thank goodness! I might finally be able to speak to someone who has some sense.”

 

“What ever do you mean Lady de Virre?” Lettice asks, standing before her friend and her mother.

 

“I mean,” Lady de Virre suddenly falters as she sees Lettice clasping her green parasol with a black leather handle in her glove clad hand. “Oh. You aren’t stopping?” Her disappointment is palpable.

 

“Oh no, Lady de Virre! I mean, yes, Lady de Virre!” Lettice assures her hostess. “I came to see Margot, and of course you, although I can’t stay for too long. I have a potential client coming for afternoon tea.”

 

“Oh! That sounds exciting,” Margot enthuses. “Who?”

 

“Then if you are staying for tea: I assume you will stay for tea?” Lettice nods in assent to Lady de Virre’s question. “Why are you still holding your parasol?”

 

“Oh, the maid who answered the door didn’t take it, but really its…”

 

“Oh! That stupid, stupid girl!” mutters the older woman. “Can she never do anything right?” She picks herself up, out of the walnut salon chair she is comfortably sitting in and charges past Lettice to the door of the drawing room.

 

“Here Lettice, come sit by me,” Margot pats the gold brocade fabric next to her on the comfortable settee. “I could do with your support,” She giggles conspiratorially. “And your distraction.”

 

“Pegeen! Pegeen!” Lady de Virre calls shrilly down the hallway.

 

“Mummy, must you do that? You’re going to give me a headache,” Margot puts her cup on the low table before her and rubs her temples with her fingers. “Not that she hasn’t already.” she whispers to Lettice. “Mummy is really boring me to tears today. Who would ever have thought anyone could suck the joy and delight of organising a wedding? Lists of this, lists of that. Who will get offended sitting next to whom? And don’t get me started on my wedding dress.”

 

“I thought Gerald was designing it.”

 

“He is, but Mummy is trying to convince me that Lucile is a better choice.”

 

“Oh no, Margot. How dreadfully dull!”

 

Lady de Virre stalks back across the room, snatching Lettice’s parasol from where she has placed it leaning against the settee beside her and resumes her seat.

 

“Rather.” Margot replies to Lettice’s remark whilst glancing at her mother’s bristling figure.

 

A moment later the same nervous, mousy maid who let Lettice in appears through the door.

 

“You called, ma’am?”

 

“Pegeen, would you kindly take this,” Lady de Virre thrusts Lettice’s parasol towards the maid, the pointy end aimed dangerously at the young girl’s chest rather like a rifle in the titled lady’s hand. “And put it in the receptacle for which it was intended.”

 

“Ma’am?” The Irish maid looks alarmed, and glances awkwardly at Margot and Lettice installed comfortably on either end of the settee.

 

“She means, put it in the umbrella stand in the hallway, Pegeen.” Margot elucidates.

 

“Well why didn’t she say so?” Pegeen mutters as she grasps the offending end of the parasol which her mistress then releases from her steely grasp.

 

“And bring a third cup for Miss Chetwynd!” Lady de Virre bristles irritably.

 

The room falls silent until Pegeen closes the door behind her and her footsteps recede down the hallway.

 

“Oh it really is too tiresome!” huffs Margot’s mother.

 

“What is, Lady de Virre?” asks Lettice.

 

“Trying to find good staff in London. They all seem to be Irish halfwits these days, or girls who don’t know their place. I blame the war you know. Girls working in factories! Who would ever have thought?” Lettice and Margot glance at one another and try not to laugh. “Do you have the same problem, Lettice?”

 

“No, Lady de Virre.” Lettice smirks. “I have a very capable maid, and a charwoman, both of whom suit me very nicely.”

 

“Well, aren’t you the lucky one?” the older woman mutters sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

 

“I do have the card for the domestics agency in St James’ that I used to find my maid, if you’d like Lady de Virre.”

 

“Ah! You see Margot. Just as I was saying! Here is a girl who speaks sense and isn’t a flibbertigibbet like you.”

 

“Oh Mummy!”

 

“Ah, where is Mr. Geraldton, Lady de Virre?”

 

“He’s gone to Bournemouth.” Margot explains.

 

“His mother is quite unwell,” Lady de Virre chimes in. “Poor man! Now, perhaps you can talk some sense into my daughter, Lettice. I’m trying to get her to choose a wedding breakfast menu,” She picks up a sheath of papers from the small round tired table to her left and waves them in irritation at Margot. “Try as I might, she just won’t do it!”

 

“It’s not that I won’t, Mummy. I just want some time to look at them and think.” Margot looks at Lettice and rolls her eyes.

 

“Well we don’t have time Marguerite! The Savoy is always popular, as is Claridges.”

 

In the distance, a doorbell rings shrilly from somewhere below.

 

“Actually, Lady de Virre, that’s why I came here.”

 

“You’re going to throw a wedding breakfast for Marguerite and Richard?”

 

“Well, not exactly.” Lettice explains. “I actually came to see in Margot and Dickie would be interested in having a celebratory pre-wedding cocktail party at my flat. Would you Margot?”

 

“Oh really Lettice? Darling! You are a brick!” Margot enthuses. She embraces her friend and smiles broadly. “Of course we would!”

 

“Excellent, then I’ll,”

 

“S’cuse me ma’am,” Pegeen nudges open the door of the drawing room with the heel of her shoe, struggling under the weight of an enormous carboard box.

 

“Pegeen,” Lady de Virre gasps. “I thought I told you to bring a cup for Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“Can’t ma’am,” the maid replies. “Not when I’ve got this enormous box in ma hands.” She lowers it with a groan onto a vacant footstool where it lands with a thud. “Lord it ain’t half heavy ma’am.”

 

Lady de Virre crumples her nose in distaste as she peers at the box. “Well, what is it?”

 

“Don’t know ma’am. It’s for Miss de Virre.”

 

“Oh! It must be another wedding gift!” the older woman exclaims with an excited clap of her hands, her frustrations forgotten.

 

“I do hope it isn’t more linen. New parcels of it arrive every day! Gifts from unimaginative relatives!”

 

“It’s mighty heavy if it is linen, miss,”

 

“Ah! Another teacup, Pegeen!” Lady de Virre says commandingly. “Or have you already forgotten?”

 

“No ma’am,” Pegeen replies, looking curiously at the box. “I was just waitin’ for Miss de Virre to open her gift.”

 

“Out girl! And fetch a teacup for Miss Chetwynd! Now!”

 

The maid jumps at her mistress’ raised voice and retreats, closing the door behind her. Lettice and Margot cannot help themselves as they try to stifle giggles of mirth.

 

“You should be more appreciative of people’s generosity, Marguerite!” Lady de Virre wags a finger admonishingly at her daughter. “When you have your own household to manage, you’ll be grateful for every last stich of that linen.”

 

“Do you know, Lettice, we even received a mounted stag’s head as a gift from one of my Scottish cousins?” Margot laughs.

 

“No!” Lettice giggles.

 

“Yes! Goodness knows where we shall put it!”

 

“I could think of somewhere.” Lettice tries to control her peals of laughter.

 

“So could I!”

 

The pair tumble into fits of giggling.

 

“Oh, did you receive my gift Margo darling?” Lettice asks when she has finally composed herself enough to ask.

 

“Yes darling, I did, and I love it!”

 

“See Marguerite! I told you that you need to reply to all these cards that are mounting up!” Her mother waves her hand towards the top of the secretaire behind her, the surface of which is covered in wedding and congratulations cards.

 

“Oh good!” Lettice smiles.

 

“And we received your parent’s gift too, thank you Lettice.” Lady de Virre adds. “Marguerite will write a thank you card to them soon. Won’t you Marguerite?”

 

“Yes Mummy, I will! Such a beautifully modern tea set,” Margot says with a smile. “I never knew your parents knew my taste so intimately.” She winks conspiratorially at Lettice.

 

“Who is this gift from?” Lady de Virre asks.

 

Taking out a beautiful card of a young bride looking angelically at a cake, Margot scans the message inside. “Lady Ponting, whoever she is.”

 

“She’s the Marquess’ widowed younger sister.” Lady de Virre remarks knowingly. “You’ll need to brush up on your new family history before the wedding!”

 

“Yes Mummy! I know!” Margot acknowledges her mother’s sharp remark. Turning to her friend she continues, “Now that I’m marrying into the upper echelons of the aristocracy, Mummy has become a walking,” She sighs. “And talking, Debrett’s*.”

 

“Well, aren’t you going to open it?” Lady de Virre asks her daughter, looking at the box on the footstool with eyes glistening with excitement.

 

Margot removes the twine from around the box and opens it, a froth of white tissue paper spilling forth in soft whispers. Within the box she withdraws a delicate white china gravy boat decorated with roses with a gilt rim. Her mother reaches across the table with her bejewelled hand and seizes the piece from her. Turning it over she nods with approval.

 

“Hhhmm. Royal Doulton. An excellent choice.” she remarks.

 

“Come on Margot darling!” Lettice interrupts purposefully. “Let’s talk about your pre-wedding cocktail party before I have to go. Who would you like to invite? Gerald of course because he’s making your wedding dress.” She glances up at Lady de Virre to see whether she has heard and acknowledged her remark. “Celia, Peter, Leslie,”

 

At that moment, Pegeen returns with a teacup for Lettice. “Cor!” she says, eyeing the Royal Doulton china nestled amongst the cushions of white tissue paper. “If I’d known that box was full of china, I wouldn’t of bothered bringin’ another cup!”

 

*Debrett's is a British publisher and authority on etiquette and behaviour, founded in 1769 with the publication of the first edition of The New Peerage. The company takes its name from its founder, John Debrett.

 

Although perhaps a little cluttered and somewhat old fashioned by 1920s standards, the de Virre’s Edwardian style drawing room is very elegant and would have been typical of such a room in an established upper-class household during the inter-war period. The upper classes, whether titled or not, tended to enjoy their opulent and lavish interiors. Only the brave or modern thinker would have swept away the accumulation of antiques over the generations for the clean lined, stripped back Art Deco interiors fashionable in the new houses, flats and hotels being built around Britain and the world. This upper-class domestic scene is different from what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures, some of which come from my own childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

 

The gold satin upholstered settee and the Hepplewhite chair with the lemon satin upholstery were made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq. The coffee table in the foreground is made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Creal.

 

On the coffee table stands a silver serving tray on which are a silver coffee and tea set, a porcelain sugar bowl and milk jug and a glass bowl featuring a selection of biscuits. The galleried silver serving tray is engraved and was made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The tea and coffee pot are also made by them. The glass bowl of biscuits was made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering, who specialise in 1:12 size foods and glassware with amazing realism and attention to detail. The porcelain tea set, which has two matching cups and saucers, one on the coffee table and one on the two tier Regency table, were part of a job lot of over one hundred pieces of 1:12 chinaware I bought from a seller on E-Bay. The pieces are remarkably dainty and the patterns on them are so pretty. In front of the tea set stands a wedding card of an Edwardian bride looking at a wedding cake. It is a 1:12 size replica of a real Edwardian wedding card and was made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.

 

Behind the settee stands a walnut grand piano covered in family photographs and bibelots. The piano I have had since I was around eleven years old. Like a real piano, its lid does prop open on an angle. It has a matching piano stool. The de Virre’s family photos are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frames are from various suppliers, but all are metal. The three prong candelabra behind the photograph frames is an artisan piece of sterling silver made in Berlin and is actually only 3 centimetres in height and 3 centimetres in width. The vase of red roses on the piano is beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium.

 

The Georgian revival bureau to the left of the picture comes from Town Hall Miniatures. Made to very high standards, each drawer opens and closes. It is covered in Edwardian wedding cards made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. On the writing surface of the bureau sit some papers also made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures, and a miniature ink bottle and pen made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures. The ink bottle is made from a tiny faceted crystal bead and features a sterling silver bottom and lid. The pen is also sterling silver and features a tiny pearl in its end.

 

The floral arrangement in the farthest corner of the room is made by hand by Falcon Miniatures in America who specialise in high end miniatures. The vase of orange roses on the tall Bespaq stand to the right of the photo is beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium.

 

The paintings around the wall are all made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States, except the small gilt painting of a sailing boat in the upper left-hand corner of the photo. It was made by Marie Makes Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The Royal Doulton style dinner set featuring roses in the carboard box came from a miniature dollhouse specialist on E-Bay.

 

The miniature Persian rug in the foreground of the photo was made by hand by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney, whilst the one in the back beneath the piano was hand woven by Pike, Pike and Company in the United Kingdom.

 

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

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

 

Today however, we have followed Lettice southwest from her home, across St James’ Park to Hans Crescent in Belgravia, where the smart Edwardian four storey red brick and mock Tudor London home of the de Virre family stands. Two of Lettice’s Embassy Club coterie of bright young things are getting married: Dickie Channon, eldest surviving son of the Marquess of Taunton, and Margot de Virre, only daughter of Lord Charles and Lady Lucie de Virre. Lettice is visiting the home of the bride, which is a hive of activity in the lead up to the forthcoming nuptials.

 

Lettice has just been spending time with Margot and her mother in the house’s gold drawing room and is just leaving to return home to Cavendish Mews to meet a potential client. As she walks brusquely down the hall, past Lord de Virre’s study, her louis heels click loudly against the parquetry floor.

 

“Margot! Margot, is that you?” Lord de Virre’s voice calls out through the partially open door.

 

Lettice stops, turns and pops her head into the study. Decorated with dark mahogany furniture, gold embossed wallpaper, thick Persian rugs and trophies and souvenirs of Lord de Virre’s travels, it is a masculine room which exudes comfort and cosiness. The room is dominated by a great mahogany rolltop desk, at which Lord de Virre sits hunched over. The scratch of a pen against paper can be heard, and a thin silver trail of exotic smelling smoke arises from the silver ashtray sitting to his right.

 

“No Lord de Virre,” Lettice answers his call. “It’s only me.”

 

“Ah!” Lord de Virre turns around in his seat, beaming at his young guest. “Lettice! We don’t see you nearly enough these days!”

 

“London calls,” she replies gaily.

 

“Yes, with all its delicious temptations for the young.” He picks up a small glass of port and sips it, and it is then that Lettice notices the finely faceted decanter of deep golden liquid on the desk’s surface. “Have you been visiting the bride-to-be?”

 

“I have Lord de Virre.”

 

“Good girl! She needs some distraction from her mother and her endless lists of wedding to-dos.”

 

“Is that why you’re hiding in here, Lord de Virre?”

 

The older man colours at Lettice’s suggestion. “Oh, I’m no good with table settings, wedding dresses and that sort of thing,” he blusters, fiddling with the writing paper on the desk in front of him. “Anyway, I’ve just been scribbling down a few words whilst I think of them for my father-of-the-bride speech.”

 

Lettice blushes too, not wishing to cause embarrassment to a man whom she likes very much. Charles de Virre, unlike her own father, has been anything but distant, and always showed interest in anything she spoke about when she came to visit or stay with de Virres, even as a silly little girl or teenager before the war. As a businessman, rather than a gentleman like her father, Lord de Virre always encouraged Lettice’s desire to follow her dream of becoming an interior designer, and his support and sound business advice has been welcome since the inception of her enterprise.

 

“You know,” Lettice remarks to try and dispel the unease she has created as she slips through the door and into the male preserve. “I always found this room fascinating: intimidating but fascinating nonetheless.”

 

“Yes, well,” Lord de Virre replies, picking up his cigarette and drawing on it before blowing out a plume of greyish white smoke. “The secrets of industry are always interesting to a young entrepreneur ahead of her time.”

 

“That’s very kind of you to say, Lord de Virre.” Lettice colours at the compliment. She walks over to Lord de Virre. “Margot and I used to sneak in here sometimes whilst you were away during the war.”

 

“Did you now?” He cocks an eyebrow at his slender young companion as she sidles up to his big desk. “I didn’t know that. Cheeky girls. I hope that Lucie never caught you in here.”

 

“No.” Lettice smiles. “She never did. We were careful. Margot always said that she had a sense of you in this room. She said if she could catch a whiff of your eau de cologne, or your cigarettes,” She glances at the half smoked cigarette in his hand. “Then you were alright. You might be in danger, but you would be alright.” She titters in an embarrassed fashion. “It sounds so silly hearing myself say that, but I guess it was Margot’s and my game, or mantra perhaps as the war went on and we grew up.”

 

“Well,” Lord de Virre replies softly, touched by Lettice’s confession. “It must have worked, because here I am.”

 

“Yes,” Lettice chuckles. “Here you are.”

 

“Well, it was either yours and Margot’s mantra, or Lucie’s photo.” He indicates to a photo of his wife in a brass frame on the desktop next to one of Margot as a baby.

 

“It’s a very pretty photo of her,” Lettice observes.

 

“Yes, Lucie had it taken in 1916. I carried it inside my coat in the pocket next to my heart for the remaining two years of the war. She swears that’s what brought me home.”

 

“Well, it was one thing or the other. The main thing is, Lord de Virre, you did make it home.”

 

“But many others didn’t.” the older man speaks the unspoken ending to her sentence. “Yes. I dare say that Lucie wouldn’t have been so happy with her prospective son-in-law had Margot come home with the news in 1914 when young Harry was still heir apparent.”

 

“Would you have minded, Lord de Virre?”

 

“Me? Good heavens no!” He takes another sip of his port, and indicates to the bottle, the invitation to imbibe declined politely by Lettice with a gentle shake of her head. “Margot could have loved him before he was the heir apparent, and he was destined to a life of impecuniosity and obscurity.”

 

“Margot said that she would have married him even if he was titleless, penniless and you disapproved.”

 

“Did she? Well! Bully for her! Good to know she has some of my fighting spirit that Lucie hasn’t managed to tame.” He smiles to himself as he runs his fingers over the frame of his daughter as a baby. “No, I have enough money from my business arrangements to have kept Margot in stockings and fans for a good many years. I think I can comfortably extend that largess to support them both. Just between you and I, Lettice, I suspect that is why the Marquess is so keen on the match of his heir with the daughter of a man in trade with a bought title.”

 

“Surely, surely you aren’t suggesting the Marquess?” Lettice’s question trails off.

 

“Unlike your father, perhaps under the wise influence of his eldest son, the Marquess hasn’t modernised, and unlike me, he didn’t have a good war. No, I’m afraid to say that he may be property rich, but,” He huffs awkwardly. “It appears that that’s where it ends.”

 

“But he’s giving Margot and Dickie a house in Cornwall!”

 

“And who do you think is bankrolling the renovations to have it electrified, connected to the Penzance telephone exchange, plumbed for goodness sake?”

 

“Oh, I had no idea!” Lettice rests her hand on the edge of the desk to steady herself at the news.

 

“Well,” Lord de Virre points the glowing end of his cigarette at Lettice. “Just don’t you say anything.” He taps the side of his nose knowingly. “At least Lucie is happy. She can’t do enough to please young Dickie. She finally gets her wish.”

 

“Margot’s happiness.” Lettice smiles

 

“Well yes, that too,” Lord de Virre remarks. “But first and foremost a real title in the family.” He chuckles cheekily to himself.

 

“Oh Lord de Virre!” Lettice scoffs. “You are awful!”

 

“Now, thinking of business, Lettice, I’m glad you’re here. I’d like to discuss a little bit of business with you.”

 

“With me, Lord de Virre?” she asks in surprise.

 

“Yes Lettice.” he replies matter-of-factly. “You are a successful young businesswoman, are you not?”

 

“Well, I don’t know if I’d go quite that far,” Lettice blushes again at the compliment. “Yet.”

 

“Nonsense! You’ve been listening to your parents too much, my girl! Now, I believe that once the honeymoon is over, the newlyweds are planning to invite you down to their new seaside residence in Penzance to show it off. When my darling daughter asks you to redecorate a few of the principal rooms,”

 

“That’s very presumptuous of you, Lord de Virre!”

 

“Not at all, Lettice. I know she will for a fact.”

 

“And how do you know?”

 

“Because I am the one who planted the seed in her mind.” He laughs good naturedly. “The house is really quite beautiful, but it’s not been lived in and neglected for far too long. The old retainers who caretake the place do as good a job as they are able, but it needs some modernisation and updating beyond electricity, a telephone and plumbed bathrooms. So, when she suggests that you do some redecoration for her, stand your ground and tell her that you won’t do it as a friendly favour. You’re a businesswoman Lettice, so she must pay.”

 

“But you just said that Dickie hasn’t a bean! How are they to pay?”

 

“Calm yourself, child,” Lord de Virre waves his hands in front of Lettice, trying to dampen her concerns. “Whatever she wants, whatever it costs, she can have. You just send your bills to me. Alright?”

 

“Really Lord de Virre?”

 

“Yes, Lettice. And just think what a feather that will be for your business hat. First the Duchess of Whitby, and then the daughter-in-law of the Marquess of Taunton!”

 

“Well, that would be something.” Lettice muses at the thought, a smile teasing the corners of her mouth upwards.

 

“Then we have an arrangement, Miss Chetwynd?” Lord de Virre extends his hand towards Lettice.

 

“I think we do, Lord de Virre.” Lettice takes his hand, and they shake in businesslike style to seal the arrangement.

 

Dark and masculine, this tiny corner of Lord de Virre’s study is different from what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures, some of which come from my own childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

 

The mahogany rolltop desk is a miniature that I have had since I was about eleven years old. The top does roll up and down, and the pigeon holes and writing area of the desk move forward, just like a real rolltop desk. I bought the desk along with a lot of other 1:12 miniatures from a High Street speciality dollhouse shop in England. The receipt with a few handwritten amendments is actually the scroll with the pinked edge in the far right pigeon hole of the desk! Much of the printing has faded, but as you an see the handwritten amendments can still be seen in black ink.

 

Lord de Virre’s family photos are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frames are from Melody Jane’s Dollhouse Suppliers in the United Kingdom and are made of metal with glass in each.

 

On the desk are some 1:12 artisan miniature ink bottles, stamps, a blotter, a roller and letter rack, all made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures. The ink bottles are made from tiny faceted crystal beads and have sterling silver bottoms and lids. The ink blotter is sterling silver too and has a blotter made of real black felt, cut meticulously to size to fit snugly inside the frame. The stamp is made of brass. The silver letter rack which contains some 1:12 size correspondence, also made by the Little Green Workshop. The silver pen with a pearl end and the letter opener with a cloisonné handle are also made by the Little Green Workshop. All the piles of correspondence, bills and documents atop the desk were made meticulously by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.

 

Also made by the Little Green Workshop is the silver ashtray. Made from a metal piece used for jewellery making, it features faceted crystals inserted into it. It has ‘ash’ moulded inside it so it looks remarkably real. A single cigarette with a red burning tip rests against its lip. This is the smallest of my 1:12 miniature collection. The cigarette is a tiny five millimetres long and just one millimetre wide! Made of paper, I have to be so careful that it doesn’t get lost when I use it! Also on the desk is a box of Swan Vesta matches, which is a 1:12 miniature hand made by Jonesy’s Miniatures in England. Swan Vestas matches are manufactured under the House of Swan brand, which is also responsible for making other smoking accessories such as cigarette papers, flints and filter tips. The matches are manufactured by Swedish Match in Sweden using local, sustainably grown aspen. The Swan brand began in 1883 when the Collard and Kendall match company in Bootle on Merseyside near Liverpool introduced 'Swan wax matches'. These were superseded by later versions including 'Swan White Pine Vestas' from the Diamond Match Company. These were formed of a wooden splint soaked in wax. They were finally christened 'Swan Vestas' in 1906 when Diamond merged with Bryant and May and the company enthusiastically promoted the Swan brand. By the 1930s 'Swan Vestas' had become 'Britain's best-selling match'.

 

The bottle of port in its faceted glass bottle and the tiny port glass are both actually made of plastic and come from a miniature suppliers in Shanghai.

 

Atop the desk stands a photo in a frame. Like the other two photographs in the pictre, it too is a real photo, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frames is also from Melody Jane’s Dollhouse Suppliers in the United Kingdom and is made of are metal with glass. The Edwardian mahogany clock next to the frame is a 1:12 artisan miniature made by Hall’s Miniature Clocks, supplied through Doreen Jeffries Small Wonders Miniatures in England. Next to it you can just see the base of an urn. The urn is only two and a half centimetres high and is an antique miniature and has been hand turned and polished. It has an African ebony body and a bubinga wood top and base. Next to the urn, on the right-hand side of the rolltop desk’s top stand three ledgers from Shepherd’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

In the background you can catch tantalising glimpses of other things in Lord de Virre’s study including a Regency painting of a horse in a gold frame from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering, and a hand painted ginger jar from Thailand which stands on a Bespaq plant stand. Bespaq is a high-end miniature furniture maker with high attention to detail and quality.

 

The Persian rug you can just glimpse in te bottom right-hand corer of the photo was hand woven by Pike, Pike and Company in the United Kingdom.

 

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

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

 

However today we are not in Lettice’s flat, rather we have followed her south from London into Sussex to the home of Lettice’s newest potential client, Mrs. Hatchett.

 

As requested, when the steam of the train carrying Lettice from London to Rotherfield and Mark Cross cleared, there stood Mrs. Hatchett’s chauffer, dressed in a smart black uniform. As the Worsley turned into the gates above which the name of the house was emblazoned in wrought iron curlicues, she prepared for the worst, but was pleasantly surprised to find that ‘The Gables’ was in fact a rather lovely Arts and Crafts country house with prominent gabling, from which it obviously took its name, sitting amidst a sympathetic and charming informal English garden.

 

Now sitting in Mrs. Hatchett’s old fashioned and overstuffed drawing room awaiting tea with her hostess, Lettice tries very hard not to pass judgement on her as she looks about her at all the heavy Victorian furnishings and clutter.

 

“I did warn you, Miss Chetwynd,” Mrs. Hatchett begins, her apologetic tones bursting the silence only broken by the soft tick of the French barrel clock on the mantlepiece. “It is a bit of a mausoleum.”

 

Lettice has already counted five vases and just as many photograph frames that needlessly clutter the stylish Georgian style mantle. “No, no,” she interjects diplomatically with a defensive wave of her hands. “Victoriana can be quite charming Mrs. Hatchett. I know the Mater and Pater have plenty of it in our family home.”

 

“You are kind Miss Chetwynd, but I would imagine that your family home is much grander than ‘The Gables’ and therefore far more able to manage Victorian furnishings elegantly. Please let us not pretend that it is anything more than clutter here.” Mrs. Hatchett looks about her in dismay.

 

“Well…” Lettice begins, shifting awkwardly on the red velvet button back upholstered armchair.

 

“I didn’t invite you here today to approve of what you see, Miss Chetwynd,” Mrs. Hatchett interrupts her guest. “But rather for you to reimagine what it could be, if you stripped all this old fashioned tatt out.”

 

A stifled gasp and a sniff interrupt her as a parlour maid appears at the door with a silver tray laden with tea things and a selection of biscuits.

 

“Oh! Thank you, Augusta. You may put the tea things here.” Mrs. Hatchett indicates to the oval table between the two women.

 

“My mistress barely five minutes in her grave,” the maid mutters.

 

“Thank you, Augusta!” Mrs. Hatchett snaps. “Miss Chetwynd doesn’t care to hear your opinion about the drawing room furnishings.”

 

Berated, the parlour maid silently sets out the tea things and retreats, but just as she reaches the door she says defiantly, “It’s not ‘tatt’, Madam!” And leaves.

 

“I’m so sorry Miss Chetwynd, like almost everything in this house, Augusta is the former Mrs. Hatchett’s legacy.” Picking up a photo in an ornate frame on the pedestal table next to her, she continues in a wistful voice, “It wasn’t what I imagined.”

 

“What wasn’t, Mrs. Hatchett?”

 

“My marriage.” She hands the portrait of herself and her handsome husband to Lettice. “You don’t imagine when you marry a dashing man in uniform,”

 

“He was a captain, wasn’t he?” Lettice looks at the stylish wartime couple in the wedding portrait.

 

“Yes, Charlie was a captain in the air force. He was handsome and smart, and so self-possessed in his stance that he radiated confidence.”

 

“And you…”

 

“I was a pretty chorus girl in ‘Chu Chin Chow’*, and he swept me off my feet. We were married after a whirlwind romance.” She smiles. “Well, it was wartime, wasn’t it? There was no time for a lengthy pre-war courtship. And then his leave was over, and I found myself married and rather than living in exciting London like I was used to, I found myself buried here in the country and living under my mother-in-law’s roof with Charlie flying over into France.”

 

“I see.” Lettice replies.

 

“Oh, I’m sure you don’t, Miss Chetwynd. You see, I didn’t realise until after the war, what a mummy’s boy I’d married. Handsome, yes, Charlie is handsome, but as soon as the uniform came off, he lost all his self-possession and went straight back to being under his domineering mother’s thumb and following her wishes. We stayed living here rather than have a home of our own, and he just let her undermine me and overrule me as his wife. I was nothing here. She never approved of the ‘chorus girl’. What would I know? No, the respectable Victorian widow knew how to hire and manage staff, plan meals and parties for her son, and was strict about ‘not redecorating’. I couldn’t change anything in the room we were given, which I’m sure was a guest bedroom. I’m surprised I was even allowed to hang my clothes in the wardrobe. Nasty old trout she was: so anxious to fling me out like yesterday’s newspaper!”

 

“So that’s why you want to throw all this,” Lettice waves her hands about her. “Out.”

 

“It’s not just that Miss Chetwynd, although I must confess I’d be happy to erase every last trace of my mother-in-law from this earth. Look, I know you don’t need me as one of your clients when you have duchesses and other titled ladies wanting you to decorate for them. I know that to you, like everyone in your class, that I am just a brash social climber with too much money: the chorus girl who found herself a rich banker. I don’t have the right pedigree, have the right manners or the right clothes. I try too hard to fit in, and the harder I try the more obvious I become.” She reaches out and grasps Lettice’s hand tightly. “But I need you, Miss Chetwynd. Not to try and ape the houses of peers with your taste, but to help support me to support my husband, and the only way I can do that, is to shine out from the tarnished shadow of his mother. Now that she is dead, Charlie has some of that confidence I fell in love with back and is finally embarking on doing something that he wants to do.”

 

“And what is that?”

 

“He wants to enter politics. When the war ended, the government announced that the men would come home to ‘homes fit for heroes’, but here we are, two years on since the armistice and there are men who fought for the empire, living in a disused prison in Worcestershire**. Can you imagine how they feel? The intention of the government is there, but where is the will? Charlie wants to represent these men, and that’s why I need you to decorate this house. I want to be able to entertain here to further Charlie’s political intentions, and I can’t do it when it looks like this. Contrary to my dead mother-in-law’s opinion, although I’m sure she knew better, I have confidence. I can entertain the influential and shine brilliantly as a hostess, but in order for me to do that, I need a house that represents Charlie and me.” She looks down at the tea table. “Oh damn that woman!”

 

“Who?” Lettice queries. “The former Mrs. Hatchett?”

 

“No, that wretched Augusta, although it may just as well be my scheming mother-in-law commanding from her grave! She has intentionally forgotten the teaspoons in order to show me up in front of you and make you think I’m an uncivilised chorus girl!” She pushes the servant’s bell by the fireplace. “Well, the sooner she is replaced, the better! Oh blast! I forgot the bell in here is out of service awaiting the repair man. I’ll be back in a moment, Miss Chetwynd.” Mrs. Hatchett scuttles away, her receding heels clicking on the polished wooden floor of the corridor outside.

 

Lettice sits back uncomfortably in her chair and feels terribly guilty. A few minutes later, Mrs Hatchett returns with the missing teaspoons. She puts them down and smiles with satisfaction.

 

“Mrs Hatchett,” Lettice says, looking squarely at her hostess. “I owe you an apology.”

 

“Me, Miss Chetwynd? Goodness! What could you possibly need to apologise to me for?”

 

“For my snobbery, Mrs. Hatchett.”

 

Mrs. Hatchett waits for Lettice to continue.

 

“You’re right Mrs. Hatchett. We all read or heard the story about the ‘chorus girl who married the pilot who owned a bank’. None of us bothered… wanted, to know you. We all sit in judgement and laugh as you try with us and fail. So, don’t! Forget society and embrace politics. I really admire what you and your husband are trying to achieve now that I know about it. You may not be the kind of client my family, or even my friends want me to have, but I’m not always one to stick with social conventions. I’ll decorate your home for you, if you would like me to.”

 

“Yes, Miss Chetwynd,” Mrs. Hatchett smiles gratefully. “I would like you to, very much!”

 

*‘Chu Chin Chow’ is a musical comedy written, produced and directed by Oscar Asche, with music by Frederic Norton, based on the story of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. It was the most popular show in London’s West End during the Great War. It premiered at His Majesty’s Theatre in London on the 3rd of August 1916 and ran for 2,238 performances, a record number that stood for nearly forty years!

 

** After the Great War, the plan was for house building programs for returned soldiers, dubbed ‘homes fit for heroes’. However, in 1921 European economic crisis saw the withdrawal of these programs. In Britain families were housed in many disused spaces available including a defunct prison in Worcestershire, with a single cell allotted per family!

 

This overstuffed and cluttered Victorian drawing room would have looked very old fashioned by 1920, and certainly to a young and modern flapper such as Lettice, or even a middle-aged woman like Mrs. Hatchett. This upper-middle-class domestic scene 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.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

 

The family photos on the mantlepiece and Mrs. Hatchett’s wedding photo on the pedestal table at the right of the picture 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 one on the pedestal table and the matching one on the far left of the fireplace I have had since I acquired them from a specialist dolls’ house supplier when I was a teenager.

 

The 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. Made of resin with a marble effect, it has had the gilding picked out by hand and contains a beautifully detailed face beneath a miniature glass cover.

 

The vase of flowers on the left-hand side of the fireplace is made beautifully by hand to extraordinary and realistic standards by Falcon Miniatures in England. This vase contains red roses, bearded blue Dutch irises and white lilies.

 

The walnut sideboard on the right-hand side of the fireplace is made by Babette’s Miniatures, who have been making miniature dolls’ furnishings since the late eighteenth century. The sideboard features ornate carvings, finials and a mirrored back. On it stand three miniature grading jugs, a hand painted fruit bowl that I also bought as a teenager and two cranberry glass vases that have been hand blown and made from real glass by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. Beautifully Handmade miniatures also made the cranberry glass comport in the foreground and the tea set and plate of biscuits set out for Lettice and Mrs. Hatchett. On the sideboard’s upper shelf stands a bust of Queen Victoria made of pewter by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland which has been hand painted by me. The horse trophy on the mantlepiece at the back is also a Warwick Miniatures 1:12 miniature made of pewter.

 

The Art Nouveau jardiniere and the squat vase next to the wedding photo on the pedestal table were supplied by Karen Ladybug Miniatures in England.

 

The Victorian red velvet button back suite of gentleman’s and lady’s armchairs, settee, central pedestal table and occasional tables I bought from a high street dolls’ house supplier when I was twelve. Sets like this are still made in their millions today for doll houses around the world, but I have noticed that the quality in detail and finishing has diminished over the ensuing years.

 

The miniature Persian rug on the floor is made by hand by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney.

 

The two Georgian silhouettes of the gentleman and the lady are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Lady Mile Miniatures in England. The other two paintings of horses are also 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States. The wallpaper is William Morris’ ‘Compton’ 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 wooden Georgian fire surround is made by Town Hall Miniatures, supplied through Melody Jane Dolls’ House Suppliers in England.

I hydrated a generous helping of water balls over the past few days and had a play with them this evening. In my quasi-scientific way, I used the same technique as in my Day 93 shot, with a snooted strobe illuminating a colorful magazine image below and then shooting down through a water-filled dish full of water balls harkening back to my Day 54 image. It wasn't what I expected but it'll certainly do.

Next time... we combine both techniques... muhahahaaaaa. =D

Now I know I shouldn't have tried this dress on but I was bored while in town today and it was the last one in my size and so it had to be done.

 

Needless to say I love it. something about a proper full skirted maxi dress that does it for me sadly at £70 in the sale its way out of my budget. Yeah I know 7 charity shop dresses at a tenner each or this. I will take the 7 charity shops ones mainly because I like the money going to a good cause.

 

Anyway it was lovely but sadly not to be

This is Zyanya Remembers for the theme “be generous” in the Blythe a Day group on Flickr. I really got to thinking about giving and being generous when I was editing this picture…so much so that I decided to give my local animal shelter some items from their Amazon wish list! It was so easy, I just added the items to my cart and had them sent straight to the shelter. We have adopted six cats there over the years, so I am happy to help them out a little bit.

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

 

Two of Lettice’s Embassy Club coterie of bright young things are getting married: Dickie Channon, eldest surviving son of the Marquess of Taunton, and Margot de Virre, only daughter of Lord Charles and Lady Lucie de Virre. Lettice is hosting an exclusive buffet supper party in their honour this evening, which is turning out to be one of the events of the 1921 London Season. Over the last few days, Lettice’s flat has been in upheaval as Edith. Lettice’s maid, and Lettice’s charwoman* Mrs. Boothby have been cleaning the flat thoroughly in preparation for the occasion. Earlier today with the help of a few hired men they moved some of the furnishings in Lettice’s drawing room into the spare bedroom to make space for the hired dance band and for the guests to dance and mingle. Edith’s preserve of the kitchen has been overrun by delivery men, florists and caterers. Yet it has finally all fallen into place perfectly just as a red and white striped marquee is erected by Gunter and Company** over the entrance and the pavement outside.

 

Now we find ourselves in Lettice’s dining room, which has become the focal point for half the party guests as her dining table is given over to a magnificent buffet created by Harrods catering, whilst Dickie stands at one corner, thoroughly enjoying playing the part of barman as he makes cocktails for all his friends.

 

Lettice sighs with satisfaction as she looks around the drawing room and dining room of her flat. Both rooms have a golden glow about them created by a mixture of electric light and candlelight and the fug of cigarette smoke. The rooms are populated with London society’s glittering young people, nicknamed “bright young things” by the newspapers. Men in white tie and tails with a smattering of daring souls wearing dinner jackets chatter animatedly and dance with ladies in beautifully coloured evening gowns with loose bodices, sashes and irregular and handkerchief hems. Jewels wink at throats, on fingers, dangling from ears and in carefully coiffed and finger waved hair, illuminated by the brilliant lighting. Bugle beads glitter as gowns gently wash about the figures of their wearers as they move. Everywhere gay chatter about the Season and the upcoming wedding of Margot and Dickie fills the air, the joyous sound mixing with the lively jazz quartet who play syncopated tunes lustily in a corner of Lettice’s drawing room.

 

“Dubonnet and gin?” Dickie asks Lettice as she stands by the buffet and picks up a biscuit lightly smeared with salmon mousse.

 

“Oh you are a brick, Dickie!” Lettice enthuses, popping the dainty morsel into her mouth. Accepting the reddish gold cocktail from him she adds, “But really, this is your party. You should be out there, socialising with Margot, not standing here making cocktails for everyone.”

 

“Why should I bother going out there to socialise,” he waves his hand across the crowded room to the edge of the makeshift dancefloor where his fiancée stands in a beautiful ankle length silver georgette gown studded in silver sequins, surrounded by a small clutch of equally elegant young guests. “When they all have to come to me for drinks.”

 

“Ahhh,” Lettice titters as she sips her cocktail. “So there is method in your madness, Dickie.”

 

“Isn’t there always, Lettice?” he laughs. “Now, you are technically hostess of this bash. Go out there and dazzle everyone.” Then he stops and adds, “Well, not quite everyone.” And he blows a kiss to his fiancée whose eye he has caught from across the crowded room.

 

“Alright Dickie,” Lettice laughs and she saunters off into the crowd, pausing to smile and say hullo and accept the compliments of her many guests.

 

Suddenly she spots a beautiful woman in a pale pink beaded gown with dark finger waved hair framing her peaches and cream complexion standing docilely by the dancefloor watching the stream of passing couples dancing past in each other’s arms. She seems distant and remote, even a little sad, and far removed from the frenetic energy and jolly bonhomie about her. Excusing herself from the couple who are addressing her, Lettice slips over to her.

 

“Hullo Elizabeth***!” Lettice embraces her warmly. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to come along tonight considering everything that’s happened.”

 

“I wasn’t sure myself, Lettice.” Elizabeth replies, a warm smile revealing a slightly crooked set of teeth. “But I couldn’t let Dickie and Margot down.” Then she adds quickly as an afterthought, “Or you, darling Lettice.”

 

“Well, I’m glad you’ve come. How are you feeling?”

 

“A little battered and bruised emotionally.” Elizabeth admits with a lilt of sadness. “But one mustn’t complain.”

 

“I still don’t understand why you said no to his marriage proposal. I thought you loved Bertie****.”

 

“I did.” Elizabeth remarks before correcting herself. “I do! But I’m afraid that if I said yes to him, I’d never, never again be able to be free to think, speak and act as I feel I really ought to. Besides,” she adds conspiratorially, glancing about her before continuing. “His mother terrifies me.”

 

“She terrifies all of us,” Lettice laughs lighty as she waves her hand gaily about the room. “Now, what you need to pick you up and forget your heartache is one of these.” She points to the glass in her hand.

 

“What is it?” Elizabeth asks, eyeing Lettice’s glass and sniffing its contents with suspicion.

 

“A Dubonnet and gin. Dickie will make you one. Go and ask him.” Lettice grasps Elizabeth by the shoulder and sends her toddling across to Dickie as he stands behind a line of bottles and a beautiful arrangement of roses.

 

“Lettice!” Margot suddenly calls from across the room, beckoning her over enthusiastically. “Lettice, darling!”

 

Squeezing between small clusters of well-dressed guests drinking and eating or leaving the dance floor, Lettice makes her way over to her friend.

 

“Hullo Margot, darling! Are you having a fabulous time?”

 

“Fabulous isn’t enough of a word to describe it, darling!” she replies with eyes shimmering with excitement and joy. “Such a thrilling bash! I can’t thank you enough!”

 

“Yes Lettice,” a deep male voice adds from behind her. “You certainly do know how to throw a party!”

 

“Lord de Virre!” Lettice exclaims, spinning around. “Oh! I didn’t know you’d arrived. Now, who can I introduce you to?”

 

“No-one my dear. My beautiful daughter has been doing an ample job of introducing me to so many people that already this old man cannot remember who is whom.”

 

“Never old!” Lettice scolds, hitting his arm playfully as she curls her own through the crook in his. “Then if I can’t introduce to anyone, perhaps I can entreat you into eating something.”

 

“Now that I won’t refuse, Lettice.”

 

Lettice and Margot guide Lord de Virre across the crowded dining room to the buffet table weighed down with delicious savoury petit fours, vol-au-vents, caviar, dips, cheese and pâte and pasties. Glasses full, partially drained and empty are scattered amidst the silver trays and china plates.

 

“Champagne, Sir?” Dickie calls out.

 

“Good show Dickie!” laughs Lord de Virre over the noise of the party. “Playing barman tonight, are we?”

 

“It’s the best role to play at a party, Sir.” He passes Lord de Virre a flute of sparkling champagne poured from the bottle wedged into a silver ice bucket.

 

Behind him Lettice spies Elizabeth with a Dubonnet and gin in her glove clad hand. Lettice catches her eye and discreetly raises her glass, which Elizabeth returns with a gentle smile.

 

“Now Lettice, darling,” Margot enthuses as she selects a dainty petit four. “Daddy has just reminded me of an idea we had a few weeks ago, which I meant to ask you about, but between all Gerald’s dress fittings and other arrangements for the wedding,” She flaps her hand about, the diamonds in her engagement ring sparkling in the light. “Well, I completely forgot.”

 

Lettice tries not to smile as she feels the gentlest of squeezes from Lord de Virre’s arm and remembers the conversation that she and he had some weeks ago in his study. “What is it?” She glances between Margot and her father, pretending not to know what is coming.

 

“Well, Daddy suggested… I mean… I was wondering…”

 

“Yes, Margot darling?”

 

“Well, you know how the Marquess is giving us that house in Cornwall?”

 

“Yes! Chi an… an…?”

 

“Chi an Treth!” Dickie calls out helpfully.

 

“Yes!” Margot concurs. “Beach House! Well, it hasn’t been lived in for ever such a long time, and it’s a bit old fashioned. Daddy is kindly organising for it to be electrified, re-plumbed and have it connected to the Penzance telephone exchange for us.” Margot pauses. “And… well he and… we… that is to say that I thought…”

 

“Yes?” Lettice coaxes with lowered lids as she takes a gentle sip of her Dubonnet and gin.

 

“Well, we… Dickie and I that is… well we rather hoped that you might consider fixing up a couple of rooms for us. Would you? I would just so dearly love a room or two decorated by you! Dickie even thinks that his father can pull some strings and get you an article in Country Life if you do?”

 

“Oh Margot!” Lettice exclaims, releasing her grip on Lord de Virre and depositing her glass on the table she flings her arms about her friend’s neck. “I’d love to!”

 

Lettice suddenly feels a gentle poking of fingers into the small of her back. Letting go of Margot, she stands back and looks at her, remembering the lines Lord de Virre asked her to come up with and rehearse upon agreeing to Margot’s request.

 

“Of course, I can’t do it straight away, you understand. You know I’m currently mid-way through Miss Ward’s flat in Pimlico.”

 

“Oh that’s alright,” Margot beams. “The modernisation isn’t finished yet, so we won’t even be going down there to inspect the place until after our honeymoon.”

 

Lettice feels Lord de Virre’s prodding in her back again.

 

“And I won’t do it for free, Margot. I have already given you a wedding gift. I’m a businesswoman now.”

 

“Oh, well that’s just the thing,” Margot exclaims, clasping her hands in delight. “Daddy has kindly agreed to pay for it all.”

 

Lettice looks up at Lord de Virre. He looks back at her seriously, but she can see a smile tweaking the edges of his mouth, trying to create a cheeky smile. She tries to keep up the pretence that she didn’t already know that Margot was going to ask her to redecorate for her and Dickie as she says, “Really Lord de Virre? All of it? That’s very generous of you.”

 

“Not a bit of it, Lettice. This is a good, sound business transaction. You may send your quotes to me for consideration,” He ennunciates the last word carefully to stress its importance, more for Margot’s sake than Lettice’s. “Once you have seen the rooms as they are now.”

 

“Thank you Lord de Virre,” Lettice replies. “Well Margot, I suppose that settles it then!”

 

“Oh Dickie!” Margot exclaims, scuttling over to her fiancée. “She said yes!”

 

“Who did, darling?” Dickie asks as he adds crème de menthe to colour his Fallen Angel cocktail a pale green.

 

“What do you mean, who?” Margot hits his arm jokingly as she sways excitedly from side to side. “Lettice of course!” She looks back over to her friend standing alongside her father. “She’s agreed to decorate for us.”

 

“Oh, jolly good show!” Dickie smiles. “Thanks awfully Lettice, darling! Now you’re the brick!”

 

“Always Dickie!” Lettice laughs back.

 

“Listen Dickie!” Margot gasps. “The band is playing ‘Dancing Time’*****! Come away from the bar and dance with me.”

 

“You’d best not refuse her, my boy!” teases Lord de Virre. “It’s madness if you try. I never could!”

 

The happily engaged couple hurry across the room, hand in hand, slipping between clusters of guests before disappearing into the crowd on the dancefloor as the music from the band soars above the burble of the crowd and the clink of glasses.

 

“So, we finally have an official arrangement, Miss Chetwynd?” Lord de Virre says discreetly as he raises his glass towards Lettice.

 

“I think we do, Lord de Virre.” Lettice smiles and clinks her glass with his as they toast their arrangement formally. “Your offer is simply too good to refuse.”

 

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

 

**Gunter and Company were London caterers and ball furnishers with shops in Berkley Square, Sloane Street, Lowndes Street and New Bond Street. They began as Gunter’s Tea Shop at 7 and 8 Berley Square 1757 where it remained until 1956 as the business grew and opened different premises. In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries Gunter's became a fashionable light eatery in Mayfair, notable for its ices and sorbets. Gunter's was considered to be the wedding cake makers du jour and in 1889, made the bride cake for the marriage of Queen Victoria’s granddaughter, Princess Louise of Wales. Even after the tea shop finally closed, the catering business carried on until the mid 1970s.

 

***Elizabeth Bowes Lyon as she was known in 1921 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"

 

****Prince Albert, Duke of York, known by the diminutive “Bertie” to the family and close friends, was the second son of George V. Not only did Bertie propose to Elizabeth in 1921, but also in March 1922 after she was a bridesmaid at the wedding of Albert’s sister, Princess Mary to Viscount Lascelles. Elizabeth refused him a second time, yet undaunted Bertie pursued the girl who had stolen his heart. Finally, in January 1923 she agreed to marry him in spite of her misgivings about royal life.

 

*****’Dancing Time’ was a popular song in Britain in 1921 with words by George Grossmith Jr. and music by Jerome Kern.

 

This rather splendid buffet of delicious savoury treats might look real to you, but in fact the whole scene is made up on 1:12 scale miniatures from my miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

On Lettice’s black japanned dining table delicious canapés are ready to be consumed by party guests. The plate of sandwiches, the silver tray of biscuits and the bowls of dips, most of the savoury petite fours on the silver tray furthest from the camera and the silver tray of Cornish pasties were made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. The cheese selection on the tray closest to the camera were made by hand by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering, as are the empty champagne glasses all of which are made of hand blown glass. The bowl of caviar was made by Karen Lady Bug Miniatures in England.

 

The tray that the caviar is sitting on and the champagne bucket are made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The bottle of Deutz and Geldermann champagne. It is an artisan miniatures and made of glass and has real foil wrapped around its neck. It was made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. Several of the other bottles of mixers in the foreground are also made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The bottle of Gordon’s Dry Gin, the bottle of Crème de Menthe, Cinzano, Campari and Martini are also 1:12 artisan miniatures, made of real glass, and came from a specialist stockist in Sydney. Gordon's London Dry Gin was developed by Alexander Gordon, a Londoner of Scots descent. He opened a distillery in the Southwark area in 1769, later moving in 1786 to Clerkenwell. The Special London Dry Gin he developed proved successful, and its recipe remains unchanged to this day. The top markets for Gordon's are (in descending order) the United Kingdom, the United States and Greece. Gordon's has been the United Kingdom’s number one gin since the late Nineteenth century. It is the world's best-selling London dry gin. Crème de menthe (French for "mint cream") is a sweet, mint-flavored alcoholic beverage. Crème de menthe is an ingredient in several cocktails popular in the 1920s, such as the Grasshopper and the Stinger. It is also served as a digestif. Cinzano vermouths date back to 1757 and the Turin herbal shop of two brothers, Giovanni Giacomo and Carlo Stefano Cinzano, who created a new "vermouth rosso" (red vermouth) using "aromatic plants from the Italian Alps in a recipe which is still secret to this day. Campari is an Italian alcoholic liqueur, considered an apéritif. It is obtained from the infusion of herbs and fruit (including chinotto and cascarilla) in alcohol and water. It is a bitters, characterised by its dark red colour.

 

The vase of red roses on the dining table and the vase of yellow lilies on the Art Deco console are beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium. Also on the console table stand some of Lettice’s precious artisan purchases from the Portland Gallery in Soho. The pair of candelabra at either end of the sideboard are sterling silver artisan miniatures from Karen Ladybug Miniatures in England. The silver drinks set, made by artisan Clare Bell at the Clare Bell Brass Works in Maine, in the United States. Each goblet is only one centimetre in height and the decanter at the far end is two- and three-quarter centimetres with the stopper inserted. Lettice’s Art Deco ‘Modern Woman’ figure is actually called ‘Christianne’ and was made and hand painted by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland. ‘Christianne’ is based on several Art Deco statues and is typical of bronze and marble statues created at that time for the luxury market in the buoyant 1920s.

 

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

 

The paintings on the walls are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States. The geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

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

 

Today however, we have headed north-west from Cavendish Mews, across Marylebone, past Regent’s Park, the London Zoo and Lords Cricket Ground to the affluent and leafy residential streets of nearby St. John’s Wood. It is here that Lettice’s Embassy Club coterie friends Minnie Palmerston and her husband Charles reside in a neatly painted two storey early Victorian townhouse on Acacia Road that formerly belonged to Charles Palmerston’s maternal grandparents, Lord and Lady Arundel.

 

Having taken her future sister-in-law, Arabella Tyrwhitt, to her old childhood chum and best friend Gerald Bruton’s couturier in Grosvenor Street Soho for her initial wedding dress consultation, Lettice has left the two together to discuss designs whilst she visits Minnie in St John’s Wood. Minnie, a highly strung socialite, has redecorated her dining room in a style not to her husband’s taste, or so she was told by Minnie over a luncheon Lettice hosted for Arabella last week. Known for her melodrama, Lettice quietly ponders whether it really is as awful as Minnie implies as she pays the taxi driver the fare from Soho to St John’s Wood and alights the blue vehicle onto the street.

 

The day is bright and sunny, and the street is quiet with only the occasional bark of a dog and the distant rumble of traffic from busy Finchley Road in the distance as Lettice strides across the road and walks up the eight steps that lead up to Minnie’s black painted front door. She depresses the doorbell which echoes through the long hallway inside and waits. Moments later, there is the thud of Minnie’s hurried footsteps as she flings open the door dramatically.

 

“Lettice darling!” she cries, standing in the doorway in a beautiful may green day dress which compliments her red hair and green eyes, with cascades of green and black bugle beads tumbling down the front. “Come in! Come in!” she beckons her friend with enthusiastic waves which make the green, black and gold bangles on her wrist jangle noisily.

 

“Minnie.” Lettice leans in for a whispery kiss on the cheek as she steps across the threshold and follows Minnie’s indications and steps into a drawing room off the hallway, the room filled with diffused light from a large twelve pane window that looks out onto the street. Looking around her, she quickly takes in the overstuffed cream satin settees, nests of occasional tables, clusters of pictures in gilt frames in every conceivable space on the William Morris style papered walls and the potted parlour palms. “Oh yes,” she remarks as she removes her green gloves. “I do see what you mean. Very Edwardian.”

 

“Isn’t it ghastly, Lettice darling?” Minnie asks as she steps into the drawing room. “Here let me take your, umbrella, coat and hat.” She helps her friend shrug off her forest green coat and takes her rather artistic beret with its long tassel. “I think Lady Arundel could walk in here and not find a thing out of place!”

 

“It could be worse,” Lettice remarks, looking up at the crystal chandelier suspended from the ceiling high above. “It could be decorated in high Victorian style and lit with gasoliers*.”

 

“True darling.” Minnie calls from the hallway where she hangs up Lettice’s things on a heavy Victorian coatrack. “But you have yet to see my dining room faux pas.”

 

“Now Minnie, no matter what I say, I want no histrionics today like we had over luncheon last week,” Lettice chides her friend with a wagging finger. “Poor Bella didn’t know where to look.”

 

“Oh I am sorry.” Minnie apologises. “Coming from the country, she probably isn’t used to our London ways.”

 

“Your emotional outbursts have nothing whatsoever to do with London ways, so don’t go foisting it off.” Lettice replies, cocking one of her delicately plucked eyebrows at her friend.

 

“You sound just like Gladys.” Minnie says.

 

“Well, I hope I’m not as shrill sounding as her,” Lettice replies with a chuckle.

 

“And how is the beautiful bride-to-be?”

 

“Happily ensconced with Gerald in his Soho atelier, no doubt talking about all the finer details of the dream wedding frock I have already heard about from dear Bella.”

 

“She seems quite lovely, Lettice darling.”

 

“Oh, I adore Bella.” Lettice agrees with a wave of her hand. “Given we grew up running in and out of each other’s houses, living on neighbouring properties, it was inevitable that she would marry one of my brothers, or Lally or I marry one of Bella’s brothers. I’m just glad that it wasn’t the latter. All Bella’s brothers, whilst charming, take after their grandfather, and he was not a handsome man. Bella has her mother’s delicate and pretty genes and she and Leslie are well suited. They both love the country, and as you know from luncheon last week, Bella likes the county social round. As Pater says, Bella will one day make a wonderful chatelaine of Glynes**, supporting Leslie as a dutiful wife, hosting important county social functions like the Hunt Ball, opening fetes and awarding prizes at cattle shows.”

 

“How does Lady Sadie feel about her usurper?”

 

“Oh Mater loves Bella as much as we all do.” Lettice replies breezily. “Of course, Pater doesn’t dare express his appreciation quite so volubly in front of Mater, but I’m sure she is silently thinking the same thing, not that she would ever share that with any of us. No, the problem will be if Pater decides to pop his mortal clogs before she does. I don’t know how happy she will be to hand over the mantle of lady of the manor to her daughter-in-law, even if she does love her.”

 

“Well, let’s hope we don’t have to worry about that for a good while yet.” Minnie says soothingly.

 

“Indeed yes!” agrees Lettice. “Now, show me this dread dining room of yours, Minnie darling. I’m famished, and I’m intrigued to see just how much of a faux pas it really is.”

 

“Come right this way, interior decorator to all the great and good of this great country of ours,” Minnie says rather grandly as she walks towards a door that leads from the drawing room to the next room. Suddenly she pauses, clasping the brass doorknob in her hand and turns back to Lettice who has trailed behind her. “Prepare yourself my dear for l’horreur!” And she flings the door open.

 

Minnie and Lettice walk into the townhouse’s dining room, which like the adjoining drawing room has a high ceiling. Lettice is surprised that after the grandeur of the drawing room, it’s a much smaller room, perhaps more suited for intimate dining rather than a large banquet. She glances around and quickly takes in the mixture of old and new. An Edwardian dining setting in Queen Anne style fills the majority of the space, whilst a late Victorian sideboard and spare carver chairs press against the wall. To either side of the new Art Deco gas fireplace stand two modern stands on which sit rather old fashioned urns. Modernist paintings in bold colours hang on the walls, but Lettice can barely see them for the bold wallpaper of red poppies against a black background with green and white geometric patterns.

 

“Oh I see.” Lettice remarks, neither enthusiastically nor critically, but in a rather neutral way.

 

Lettice walks around the dining table on which stands a Georgian Revival tea set with steam snaking from the spot of the pot, a small carafe of water and glassware, crockery and cutlery for two at the head of the table. She stands before the Streamline Moderne fireplace surround and runs an elegant hand over one of the bold red blooms, feeling the slightly raised pattern. She sighs as she contemplates what she sees.

 

“Do you think it looks like something out of Maida Vale, Lettice darling?” Minnie asks hesitantly.

 

For a moment, Lettice doesn’t answer as she traces one of the green lines towards the gilt edge of a frame holding a painting of a tiger. “Tyger Tyger burning bright***,” she murmurs the beginning of the William Blake poem.

 

“Yes,” Minnie acknowledges her friend with a sigh of pleasure. “He’s rather glorious, isn’t he?”

 

“He is,” Lettice agrees. “However his gloriousness is diminished somewhat by the wallpaper which draws away attention from him, and the red fox.” She points to a larger canvas hanging over the sideboard.

 

“So you do think it’s middle-class Maida Vale then.” Minnie pronounces in a downhearted fashion.

 

“No, I don’t.” Lettice clarifies, turning around and placing a comforting hand on the slumped left shoulder of her friend. “And I think it was very unkind of Charles to say so. The wallpaper is beautiful, Minnie. It just doesn’t suit this room.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well, this is quite an intimate room: taller with these high ceilings, rather than wide. This wallpaper would suit a longer room with low ceilings, where expanses of this pattern could be exposed uninterrupted.”

 

“Like a mansion flat?”

 

“Exactly, Minnie! I did something similar for the moving picture actress, Wanetta Ward last year. She had a long, exposed wall and the bold pattern I used worked beautifully. And this wallpaer does nothing to show off yours and Charles’ beautiful paintings. It detracts rather than enhances. The paintings and the wallpaper vie for attention. Think about the National Gallery, or the Tate Gallery****. When you see pictures hanging on the wall, what do you notice about the surrounding to the painting?”

 

Minnie thinks for a moment, screwing up her pert nose with its dusting of freckles. “Well, I can’t say I’ve ever actually noticed the walls, Lettice darling.”

 

“Correct again, Minnie. No-one thinks about the walls because you’re not meant to. Your focus is meant to be on the paintings.”

 

“So you think I should strip the walls and paint them? Is that what you’re saying?”

 

“Well, you could, Minnie.” Lettice replies. “Or you could paint the walls and decorate the upper edge with a nice frieze paper.”

 

“Then it really would look like Maida Vale.” Minnie argues. “Only people who can’t afford wallpaper get friezes hung.”

 

Lettice considers her friend’s remark for a moment. “Mmm… yes, you’re quite right Minnie. Well, Jeffrey and Company***** do stock a range of beautiful papers in vibrant colours with pattern embossed into them. They look very luxurious.”

 

“Oh!” Minnie clasps her hands in delight. “I do like the sound of that! What colour would suit this room do you think?”

 

“Oh I should imagine a nice warm red or orange to go with this.” Lettice taps the top of the tiled fireplace surround. “And that colour range would also compliment your polished floors.”

 

“And I could get black japanned furniture like you, Lettice darling! I do like your chairs.”

 

“Oh no.” Lettice shakes her head. “Black japanned furniture is fine, but not my chairs. They are far too low for this room. You need an equivalent high backed chair.” She reaches out and pats one of the dining chairs. “Lady Arundel chose these well as they echo the height of the room. Perhaps if you had something high backed padded with a complimentary fabric to the paper: say red or orange.”

 

“Oh Lettice you are so clever!” enthuses Minnie. “When can you start.”

 

“Don’t you want to ask Charles before you go spending his money on redecorating, Minnie?” Lettice laughs. “Surely he’ll want a say.”

 

“Oh Charles told me today when I reminded him that you were coming for luncheon before he left for the office, that he’ll happily pay for anything you recommend, or better yet your services. So you don’t need to worry on that account.”

 

“Well, I would have to finish Dickie and Margot’s.” Lettice tempers.

 

“Oh, of course.” Minnie agrees.

 

“Well, I don’t have another redecorating assignment after them, so let me contemplate it.”

 

“I’ll go and get luncheon whilst you contemplate.” Minnie exclaims with a clap of her hands before scuttling away through a second door to the left of the fireplace.

 

With her exuberant friend gone, Lettice looks around the dining room, contemplating what she has suggested, picturing what embossed wallpaper in a rich red or vibrant orange would look like as a backdrop for the paintings. “Pity.” she muses as she again runs her hands over the stylised poppies in the pattern on the wall. Turning around she looks across the room. “Sorry Lady Arundel,” she remarks, tapping the top of the nearest dining chair again. “But it looks like your granddaughter-in-law wants to modernise.

 

“I’m afraid it’s Cook’s afternoon off today,” Minnie says apologetically as she walks back through the door through which she went, carrying a tray of tomato, ham and cucumber sandwiches. “So we’ll have to settle for these.” Looking down at the plate of appetising sandwich triangles as she places them on the dining table’s surface she adds. “I do hope she remembered not to make tongue****** ones. She should remember that I can’t stand cold tongue.”

 

Lettice peers at the fillings of bright red tomato, vivid green cucumber, and pink ham. “I think we’ll be safe.”

 

“Well, there’s half a trifle left over for dessert just in case they aren’t nice.” Minnie adds hopefully.

 

Lettice is suddenly struck by something. “Minnie?” she asks. “Minnie, why are you carrying the tray? And come to think of it, why did you answer the door? Where is Gladys?”

 

Minnie blushes, her pale skin and smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose reddening. “She handed in her immediate notice the week before last.”

 

“Oh no! Not another one Minnie?”

 

“She said she couldn’t work for a woman who had such histrionics as I do, and she’s gone back to Manchester.”

 

“Oh Minnie!” Lettice shakes her head dolefully.

 

“See! I told you, you sounded like Gladys, Lettice. I’ve been getting by with the tweeny*******, but Cook grumbles, so I can’t keep pinching her. That’s why I’m so grateful you gave me that telephone number for that domestic employment agency in Westminster. I’ve a new maid starting next week. Her name’s Siobhan, so I figured that she can’t complain about my histrionics as she’d be used to them, being Irish.”

 

“Well, let’s hope so Minnie.” Lettice chuckles as she pulls out her dining chair and takes her seat. “I can’t keep up with the revolving door of maids that come in and out of this house. How long have you been here for now?”

 

“Seven months or thereabout.” Minnie replies vaguely as she takes her own seat in the chair at the head of the dining table.

 

“And how many maids have you had in that time?”

 

“Nine.” Minnie replies with a guilty gulp.

 

“No wonder Charles feels his club is better suited to entertain prospective business associates.” Lettice shakes her head disapprovingly. “A tweeny waiting table.”

 

“Well hopefully, with Siobhan starting next week, and you agreeing to redecorate my dining room faux pas,” She looks around the room with glittering, excited eyes, as she imagines the possibilities. “Charles will be happy to start entertaining here.” She pauses and thinks for a moment. “You will won’t you?”

 

“Will I what, Minnie?”

 

“You will redecorate my dining room, won’t you?”

 

Lettice reaches around Minnie’s teacup and squeezes her friend’s hand comfortingly. “Of course I will. I’ll come up with some ideas of what I think might suit this room and then I’ll show you and Charles. Charles has to have some input, even if he has told you that you that I have carte blanche when it comes to redecorating.”

 

*A gasolier is a chandelier with gas burners rather than light bulbs or candles.

 

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

 

***”The Tyger” is a poem by English poet William Blake, published in 1794 as part of his “Songs of Experience” collection and rising to prominence in the romantic period of the mid Nineteenth Century. The poem explores and questions Christian religious paradigms prevalent in late 18th century and early 19th century England, discussing God's intention and motivation for creating both the tiger and the lamb. Tiger is written as Tyger in the poem as William Blake favoured old English spellings.

  

****In 1892 the site of a former prison, the Millbank Penitentiary, was chosen for the new National Gallery of British Art, which would be under the Directorship of the National Gallery at Trafalgar Square. The prison, used as the departure point for sending convicts to Australia, had been demolished in 1890. Sidney R.J. Smith was chosen as the architect for the new gallery. His design is the core building that we see today, a grand porticoed entranceway and central dome which resembles a temple. The statue of Britannia with a lion and a unicorn on top of the pediment at the Millbank entrance emphasised its function as a gallery of British art. The gallery opened its doors to the public in 1897, displaying 245 works in eight rooms from British artists dating back to 1790. In 1932, the gallery officially adopted the name Tate Gallery, by which it had popularly been known as since its opening. In 1937, the new Duveen Sculpture Galleries opened. Funded by Lord Duveen and designed by John Russell Pope, Romaine-Walker and Gilbert Jenkins, these two 300 feet long barrel-vaulted galleries were the first public galleries in England designed specifically for the display of sculpture. By this point, electric lighting had also been installed in all the rooms enabling the gallery to stay open until 5pm whatever the weather. In 1955, Tate Gallery became wholly independent from the National Gallery.

  

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

  

******Beef tongue (also known as neat's tongue or ox tongue) is a cut of beef made of the tongue of a cow. It can be boiled, pickled, roasted or braised in sauce. It is found in many national cuisines, and is used for taco fillings in Mexico and for open-faced sandwiches in the United States.

 

*******A tweeny is a between maid, who works in the kitchen as well as above stairs, assisting at least two other members of a domestic staff.

 

This rather bright dining room is perhaps a little different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of pieces from my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection, some pieces from my own childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

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

 

The three prong Art Deco style candelabra in the sideboard is an artisan piece made of sterling silver. Although unsigned, the piece was made in England by an unknown artist. The vase of flowers to the left of the candelabra is beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium. The carafe to the right of the candelabra is another artisan piece made of hand spun glass. I acquired it as a teenager from a high street dollhouse stockist.

 

The ornately hand painted ginger jar is one of a pair and comes from Melody Jane Dollhouse Suppliers in Britain. The tall stand on which the ginger jar stands was made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.

 

The paintings on the walls are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States. The stylised floral and geometric shape Art Deco wallpaper is a real Art Deco design which I have sourced and had printed in high quality onto A3 sheets of paper.

 

On the dining table the tray of sandwiches are made of polymer clay. Made in England by hand by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight they are very realistic with even the bread slices having a bread like consistency look. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. The water carafe came from the same high street stockist as the carafe on the sideboard. The Art Deco dinner set is part of a much larger set I acquired from a dollhouse suppliers in Shanghai. The Georgian Revival silver tea set on its tray I acquired from Smallskale Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The Streamline Moderne pottery tile fireplace surround I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in the United Kingdom.

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

 

After a busy morning working at her desk, writing a list of some final tweaks to her friend Margot Channon’s interior designs for her Regency country house ‘Chi an Treth’, Lettice prepares to curl up in one of her armchairs and enjoy her latest library book from Boots*, a new romance, when the telephone rings noisily on the occasional table beside her.

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

Edith, Lettice’s maid, is putting glassware back into the cocktail cabinet in the adjoining dining room and looks up anxiously. “That infernal contraption!” she mutters to herself. Edith hates answering the telephone. It’s one of the few jobs in her position that she wishes she didn’t have to do. Whenever she has to answer it, which is quite often considering how frequently her mistress is out and about, there is usually some uppity caller at the other end of the phone, whose toffee-nosed accent only seems to sharpen when they realise they are speaking to ‘the hired help’ as they abruptly demand Lettice’s whereabouts.

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

“Oh pooh!” Lettice cries. “And just as I was getting comfortable.”

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

“This had better not be Mr. Fulton telling me that the lorry of furnishings and hangings and papers bound for ‘Chi an Treth’ has broken down between London and Penzance.” she grumbles.

 

The silver and Bakelite telephone continues to trill loudly as Lettice brushes herself down and picks up the receiver.

 

“Mayfair 432,” she answers without the slightest trace of irritation in her very best telephone voice.

 

The line crackles for a moment before a clipped, upper-class male voice drifts down the line to the receiver at Lettice’s ear. “May I speak to Miss Chetwynd, please.”

 

“Yes, this is Miss Chetwynd speaking,” Lettice replies.

 

“Darling!” the unfamiliar male voice exclaims.

 

Lettice reddens at the familiarity of the term and nearly drops the receiver in shock. “May I ask who is calling, please?”

 

“Darling Lettice, it’s me,” the stranger on the end of the line says with a chuckle. When there is silence in response, he adds, “It’s Selwyn.”

 

“Oh Selwyn!” Lettice gasps in sudden recognition, and sits up abruptly in her seat, her face going from trepidation to a beaming smile, her eyes sparking with happiness.

 

Edith in the dining room, having put the glasses back into the cocktail cabinet makes to go, but Lettice waves her free left hand excitedly and beckons her maid over. Edith sighs but walks over reluctantly. As soon as she is within reach, Lettice reaches out and clasps her hand, encouraging her to stay, and refusing to let her go. She sighs again. Looking around the room she feels awkward as she overhears whisps of the conversation. She would much rather return to the kitchen and start cleaning the lidded serving dishes with Silvo silver paste, which is what she would be doing if her mistress hadn’t grabbed her as if her life depended on it.

 

“Darling Lettice, I’m going to be up in London for a few days.” Selwyn announces cheerily.

 

“When, Selwyn?” Lettice asks, almost too afraid to breathe.

 

“Next week,” he elucidates. “Tuesday and Wednesday. I have the designs of a house I’ve been commissioned to build for an artist couple in Hampstead.”

 

“How thrilling, Selwyn!” Lettice’s grip tightens around both the telephone receiver and Edith’s hand.

 

“Yes.” he says with a light laugh. “They’re quite progressive with their desires for designs on a new home. I was rather chuffed when they asked me to design it for them. So, I thought I’d also run a few errands whilst I’m in town. I’ll be staying at the Saville Club** whilst I’m up from the country.”

 

“Oh, so you’ll be quite close by then!” Lettice looks excitedly up at Edith, who awkwardly tries to evade her mistress’ eyes.

 

“Indeed yes. Just around the corner, really. I didn’t want Mummy and Daddy to open the London house just for a few days”

 

“No, I suppose that is wise.”

 

“And I was thinking that whilst I was in town, we might fulfil those plans that we made at the Hunt Ball.

 

“Plans Selwyn?” Lettice queries, a smile teasing up Lettice’s pale and full pink lips.

 

Edith cannot help herself and turns her head back and stares, open mouthed, in astonishment at her mistress’ obvious attempt to be coy. Ever since she returned from Wiltshire after the Hunt Ball Lettice has done nothing but talk about the handsome young Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, who was an old childhood friend whom she hadn’t seen in years. The way she spoke, the man danced like a dream and swept her off her feet that evening. Edith narrows her eyes and shakes her head at Lettice.

 

“Don’t you remember, darling girl, or had you had too much champagne?” His light-hearted chuckle emanates from his end of the line. “We planned to catch up when I was next in town if you were free.” He pauses for a moment and aside from a faint crackle down the line there is a palpable silence tinged with excitement and anticipation. “That is, assuming you’d still like to, of course, Lettice darling.”

 

Lettice pauses for a moment, giving her maid’s hand another squeeze before swallowing. “Oh yes, I should like that very much, Selwyn.” She winks at her maid cheekily. “What days did you say you would be in town again?”

 

“Tuesday and Wednesday. I was hoping you might be free for luncheon, or perhaps a cocktail?”

 

Lettice takes a deep breath before replying, “Well, I’ll just have to consult my diary. I’ve just sent some furniture down to Penzance for the house down there I’ve ben commissioned to redecorate.”

 

“Oh yes, I remember: your friends, the Channons.”

 

“You do have a good memory, Selwyn.”

 

“Well,” he pauses and chuckles, only this time a little awkwardly. “There are quite a few things I remember about you at the Hunt Ball.”

 

Lettice smile broadens on her lips as she feels a flush fill her cheeks and redden her neck. “And we still have so much to catch up on about what we’ve been doing over the last fifteen years since we were children together.”

 

“Yes,” Selwyn replies. “So, are you free on Tuesday or Wednesday, my dear Lettice?”

 

“Well, let me just check my diary, Selwyn.”

 

Lettice deposits the receiver on the surface of the black japanned table next to her novel and her cooling cup of tea. She reaches out and snatched as Edith’s other hand handing limply by her side and squeezes it as tightly as the other. She cannot help herself and let’s a quick little squeak escape her lips as she smiles up at her maid, who for all her attempts to be discreet cannot help but smile back. Lettice waits for a few more moments. Finally, when she thinks enough time has passed, she releases Edith’s left hand. The maid flicks her fingers back and forth, making sure the circulation her mistress cut off is restored to her digits.

 

Picking up the receiver Lettice says, “You happen to be in luck, Mr. Spencely. I am free for luncheon on Wednesday.”

 

“Oh hoorah!” Selwyn exclaims in delight. “Marvellous! I thought we might go to the Hotel Cecil*** for luncheon.”

 

“Oh no!” Lettice protests in return. “Everyone I know will be there!”

 

“You’d rather go to the Lyons Corner House**** on Tottenham Court Road?” Selwyn laughs good naturedly. “I’m sure no-one would know us there.”

 

Lettice sighs. “It’s not that I don’t want to be seen with you, Selwyn.”

 

“Then what?”

 

“I’m sure you’ll think me mad, but I can assure you that Mater has spies in her friends and their friends and acquaintances, who are only too happy to report what her youngest wayward daughter and her flatter friends are up to. I know I wouldn’t enjoy luncheon with you if I was forever wondering whether someone was watching us and planning on reporting every thing we do and every word we utter back to her before the day is out.”

 

This time when Selwyn laughs, it is a big, jolly guffaw.

 

“Don’t laugh at me, Selwyn, please! I know I sound quite mad, but it’s true.”

 

“Oh I’m sorry, Lettice darling. I know you aren’t mad. My mother does exactly the same and keeps tabs on all her children, so I know what it’s like. Now, if you told me that the potted palms in the Cecil reported back to your mother, well then, I would have to question your mental state.”

 

This time the pair of them laugh together, Lettice’s filled with relief.

 

“So, if the Cecil isn’t suitable this time, where do you suggest, my dear?”

 

Lettice thinks for a moment. “What about the Metropole*****?”

 

“I can’t say I’ve been there since the war.”

 

“Oh it’s very luxurious and the food is divine. I went there not long ago with a client of mine.”

 

“And it’s safe from your Mother’s spies?”

 

“Well,” Lettice admits. “Nowhere is that impenetrable, however we are less likely to find ladies dining there as we would at the Cecil, and those that are, are probably more inclined to be interested in politics and affairs of state rather than who is dining around them.”

 

“I’ll see if I can book us a discreet table, then, my darling girl.”

 

“If you would, Selwyn.”

 

“Shall we say one o’clock then, my angel?”

 

“Yes.” Lettice agrees. “Your angel…” she ruminates.

 

“I’m sorry Lettice. I didn’t mean to be so intimate,” Selwyn stutters hurriedly. “I apologise.”

 

“Oh please don’t, Selwyn!” Lettice assures him. “I was just thinking how lovely that sounds: to be your angel.”

 

“So, shall we say one then on Wednesday,” he pauses. “My angel?”

 

“Yes, one o’clock in the foyer of the Metropole Hotel. I shall see you then.”

 

“And I shall be counting the minutes until then, my angel.”

 

“Goodbye, dear Selwyn. Until then.”

 

“Goodbye my angel, until then.”

 

Lettice replaces the Bakelite receiver into the chrome cradle of the telephone.

 

“Well!” Lettice gasps with excitement. “You’ll never guess who that was, Edith!”

 

“I’m quite sure I couldn’t say, Miss.” Edith says with a downwards, disapproving look, hating having to be subjected to her mistress’ private telephone call.

 

“It was Selwyn Spencely! You’ll never guess what’s he’s gone and done, Edith!”

 

“I’m positive I’d never guess, Miss.” Edith replies, casting her eyes to the white painted ceiling.

 

“He’s taking me to luncheon at the Metropole on Wednesday!”

 

Lettice screams and jumps up and down, her long string of glass bugle beads jangling about in front of her as she wraps her arms dramatically around Edith’s neck and starts spinning her around. Edith stumbles and breaks away from her giddy mistress.

 

“Miss! Miss!” she chides. “Calm yourself and stop that jumping, or I’ll have Mrs. Clifford’s maid from downstairs up here in a trice, complaining about the light fixtures shaking, or plaster dust ending up in old Mrs. Clifford’s lunch.”

 

“Oh pooh old Mrs. Clifford and her luncheon!” Lettice laughs as she reaches out for her maid and starts dancing around with her again. “I’m gong to have luncheon on Wednesday with dreamy Selwyn Spencely, the most eligible and handsome young man in London!”

 

*Boots the chemist was established in 1849, by John Boot. After his father's death in 1860, Jesse Boot, aged 10, helped his mother run the family's herbal medicine shop in Nottingham, which was incorporated as Boot and Co. Ltd in 1883, becoming Boots Pure Drug Company Ltd in 1888. In 1920, Jesse Boot sold the company to the American United Drug Company. However, because of deteriorating economic circumstances in North America Boots was sold back into British hands in 1933. The grandson of the founder, John Boot, who inherited the title Baron Trent from his father, headed the company. The Boots Pure Drug Company name was changed to The Boots Company Limited in 1971. Between 1898 and 1966, many branches of Boots incorporated a lending library department, known as Boots Book-Lovers' Library.

 

**The Savile Club is a traditional London gentlemen's club founded in 1868, many of whose members have a common interest in the arts. Located in fashionable and historically significant Mayfair, its membership, past and present, include many prominent names.

 

***The Hotel Cecil was a grand hotel built 1890–96 between the Thames Embankment and the Strand in London, England. It was named after Cecil House, a mansion belonging to the Cecil family, which occupied the site in the Seventeenth Century. The hotel was the largest in Europe when it opened, with more than eight hundred rooms. The proprietor, Jabez Balfour, later went bankrupt and was sentenced to 14 years in prison. The Royal Air Force was formed and had its first headquarters here in the former Hotel Cecil in 1918. During the 1920s, it was one of the most fashionable hotels in London and was filled with flappers and young men, representing the spirit of the Jazz Age. The hotel was largely demolished in 1930, and Shell Mex House now stands on its site.

 

****Built by the Salmons and Glucksteins, a German-Jewish immigrant family based in London, J. Lyons and Company opened their first teashop in Piccadilly in 1894. From 1909 they developed this into a chain of teashops. The waitresses that worked in them were commonly known as Nippies as they were forever on their feet, nipping in and out of serving tables. The company also ran high class restaurants, founding the Trocadero in 1895, and hotels including the Strand Palace, opened in 1909, the Regent Palace, opened in 1915, and the Cumberland Hotel, opened in 1933, all in London. The last Lyon’s Corner House, in the Strand closed in 1977.

 

*****Now known as the Corinthia Hotel, the Metropole Hotel is located at the corner of Northumberland Avenue and Whitehall Place in central London on a triangular site between the Thames Embankment and Trafalgar Square. Built in 1883 it functioned as an hotel between 1885 until World War I when, located so close to the Palace of Westminster and Whitehall, it was requisitioned by the government. It reopened after the war with a luxurious new interior and continued to operate until 1936 when the government requisitioned it again whilst they redeveloped buildings at Whitehall Gardens. They kept using it in the lead up to the Second World War. After the war it continued to be used by government departments until 2004. In 2007 it reopened as the luxurious Corinthia Hotel.

 

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

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

 

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

 

Lettice’s tea cup and saucer is part of a beautiful artisan set featuring a rather avant-garde Art Deco Royal Doulton design from the Edwardian era.

 

Lettice’s romantic novel is a 1:12 size miniature made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. This novel is one of the rarer exceptions and it has been designed not to be opened. Nevertheless, the cover is beautifully illustrated. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter. I hope that you enjoy this peek at just one of hundreds of his books that I own, and that it makes you smile with its sheer whimsy!

 

Lettice’s drawing room is furnished with beautiful J.B.M. miniatures. To the left of the photograph is a Chippendale cabinet which has been hand decorated with chinoiserie designs. It also features very ornate metalwork hinges and locks. The Art Deco tub chair upholstered in white embossed fabric is made of black japanned wood and has a removable cushion, just like its life sized equivalent.

 

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

 

In front of the screen on a pedestal table stands a miniature cloisonné vase from the early Twentieth Century which I also bought when I was a child. It came from a curios shop. Cloisonné is an ancient technique for decorating metalwork objects. In recent centuries, vitreous enamel has been used, and inlays of cut gemstones, glass and other materials were also used during older periods. The resulting objects can also be called cloisonné. The decoration is formed by first adding compartments (cloisons in French) to the metal object by soldering or affixing silver or gold wires or thin strips placed on their edges. These remain visible in the finished piece, separating the different compartments of the enamel or inlays, which are often of several colours. Cloisonné enamel objects are worked on with enamel powder made into a paste, which then needs to be fired in a kiln. The Japanese produced large quantities from the mid Nineteenth Century, of very high technical quality cloisonné. In Japan cloisonné enamels are known as shippō-yaki (七宝焼). Early centres of cloisonné were Nagoya during the Owari Domain. Companies of renown were the Ando Cloisonné Company. Later centres of renown were Edo and Kyoto. In Kyoto Namikawa became one of the leading companies of Japanese cloisonné.

We make a living by what we get, we make a life by what we give.

Sir Winston Churchill

British politician (1874 - 1965)

  

Fox Lake, Wisconsin

070813

  

© Copyright 2013 MEA Images, Merle E. Arbeen, All Rights Reserved. If you would like to copy this, please feel free to contact me through my FlickrMail, Facebook, or Yahoo email account. Thank you.

 

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This photograph has achieved the following highest awards:

 

Super Six, The Academy

 

InfiniteXposure, Level 7 VIOLET, (19)

 

Frame It! Level 5 (5)

 

Challenge Club Champion

 

DSLR Autofocus, Hall of Fame (5)

 

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

 

Today however we are northwest of Lettice’s flat, in the working-class London suburb of Harlesden where Edith, Lettice’s maid, is paying an unexpected call on her parents whilst her mistress is away enjoying the distractions of the London Season. Edith’s father, George, works at the McVitie and Price biscuit factory in Harlesden, and her mother, Ada, takes in laundry at home. They live in a small, two storey brick terrace house which opens out directly onto the street, and is far removed from the grandeur of Lettice’s flat, but has always been a cosy and welcoming home for Edith. Even before she walks through the glossy black painted front door, Edith can smell the familiar scent of a mixture of Lifebuoy Soap, Borax and Robin’s Starch, which means her mother is washing the laundry of others wealthier than she in the terrace’s kitchen at the rear of the house.

 

“Mum!” Edith calls out cheerily as she opens the unlocked front door and walks in. “Mum, it’s me!”

 

“Edith!” Ada gasps in delighted surprise, glancing up to the door leading from the hallway into the kitchen. “I wasn’t expecting you. What a lovely surprise!”

 

Ada rises from her chair at the worn kitchen table and embraces her daughter lovingly. Holding her at arm’s length, she admires her three-quarter length black coat and purple rose and black feather decorated straw hat. “Look at you, my darling girl.” The older woman self-consciously pushes loose strands of her mousey brown hair back behind her ears. Chuckling awkwardly, she remarks with a downwards glance. “You’re far too fancy for the likes of us now, Edith.”

 

“Don’t talk nonsense, Mum!” Edith dismisses her mother’s comment with a flap of her hand. "My coat came from a Petticoat Lane* second-hand clothes stall. I picked it up dead cheap and remodelled it myself.”

 

“Taking after your old Mum then?” Ada remarks with a hint of pride.

 

“You taught me everything I know about sewing, Mum, and I’ll always be grateful for that.”

 

The joyful smile suddenly fades from Ada’s face as it clouds in concern. “But it’s Tuesday today. You don’t have Tuesdays off. Is everything alright, love?”

 

“It’s fine, Mum.” Edith assures her mother, placing a calming hand on her mother’s shoulder with one hand as she places her basket on the crowded kitchen table with the other. “Miss Lettice has gone to stay with friends on the Isle of Wight for Cowes Week**, so I thought I’d pop in and visit since I have a bit of free time whilst she’s away.”

 

“Oh! That’s alright then!” the older woman sighs with relief, fanning herself as she lowers herself back into her seat.

 

Feeling the stuffiness in the room from the lighted range and the moisture from the steaming tubs of washing, Edith takes off her coat and hangs it on a hook by the back door. She then places her hat on one of the carved knobs of the ladderback chair drawn up to the table next to her mother’s usual seat.

 

“Oh don’t put it there, love.” Ada chides. “It might get damaged. Such a pretty hat should sit on the table where it’s safe.”

 

“It’s nothing special, Mum. This came from Petticoat Lane too, and it’s not new. I decorated the hat with bits and bobs I picked up from a Whitechapel haberdasher Miss Lettice’s char***, Mrs. Boothby, told me about.”

 

“Well, homemade or not, it’s too pretty to hang there.”

 

“It’s my hat, Mum, and I promise you, it’ll be fine there.

 

“Well, suit yourself, love. Anyway, your timing is perfect. I just filled Brown Betty****. Grab yourself a cup and bring over the biscuit tin. Your Dad will be home for lunch soon. He’ll be glad to see you.”

 

Edith walks over to the big, dark Welsh dresser that dominates one side of the tiny kitchen and picks up a pretty floral teacup and saucer from among the mismatched crockery on its shelves: one of her mother’s many market finds that helped to bring elegance and beauty to Edith’s childhood home. She looks fondly at the battered McVitie and Price’s tin. “How’s Dad?”

 

“Oh, things are looking up for him.” Ada says proudly as she flips open her large sewing basket and fossicks through it looking for a spool of brightly coloured blue cotton thread.

 

“Oh?” Edith queries.

 

“Yes, there’s talk of him being made a line manager. Isn’t that a turn up for the books?”

 

“Oh Mum! That’s wonderful news.” The younger woman enthuses as she puts the empty teacup, saucer and biscuit tin on the table and sits down next to her mother. “You might be finally able to pack all this in.” She waves her hand about the kitchen at the tubs of washing, drying laundry and pressed linens.

 

“Oh I don’t know about that, Edith. Anyway, I have built up a good reputation over the years.”

 

“Yes,” Edith remarks scornfully. “For charging too little for the excellent work you do.” She looks over, past her mother, to a neat pile of lace edged linens. “What’s that you’re doing now, Mum?”

 

“Oh it’s just some work for Mrs. Hounslow. She wants her new sheets and pillowcases monogrammed.”

 

“And how much are you, not being paid, for that, Mum?” Edith emphasises.

 

“Oh Edith! Mrs. Hounslow’s a widow.”

 

“I know, Mum. I’ve grown up hearing about how Mrs. Hounslow’s husband died a hero in the siege of Mafeking in the Boer War. But I’ve never heard of her scraping for a penny for a scrap to eat. And where are those pretty lace trimmed sheets from?”

 

“Bishop’s in the High Street.”

 

“See! No second-hand sheets for old Widow Hounslow!”

 

“Now I won’t have a bad word said about her, Edith.” Ada wags her finger admonishingly at her daughter before selecting a needle from the red cotton lined lid of her basket and threads it. “She’s helped pay for many a meal in this house with her sixpences and shillings over the years. You should be grateful to her.”

 

“Pshaw!” Edith raises her eyes to the ceiling above. “I wish you’d let me help out more, Mum. I live in, so I don’t have the expenses of lodgings, and Miss Lettice pays me well.”

 

“Now, I won’t hear of it, Edith.” Ada raises her palms to her daughter, still clutching the threaded needle between her right index finger and thumb. “You earned that money with hard work at Miss Chetwynd’s. You pay enough to help keep us as it is.”

 

“But Mum,” Edith pours tea into her mother’s and then her own teacup. “If Dad does get this better job at McVitie’s, and I paid you a bit more of my wage, you probably really could give up washing, sewing and mending for the likes of Mrs. Hounslow.”

 

“And then what would I do, Edith?” The older woman adds a dash of milk to her tea.

 

“Well, you might like to put your feet up for a bit or buy a few nice new things for around here. Get rid of our battered old breadbin and those cannisters.” She points to the offending worn white enamel green trimmed pieces on the dresser.

 

“Oh, so we’re not grand enough then, Miss Edith?” Ada says in mock offence as she looks down her nose at her daughter and she raises herself and sits a little more erectly in her seat. “I love my breadbin thank you very much. That was a wedding gift from your Aunt Maude.”

 

“You know that’s not what I mean,” Edith replies, shaking her head exasperatedly. Adding milk and sugar to her own tea she continues, “I just want you to have nice things, Mum: things like those I have at Miss Lettice’s.”

 

“I’m so pleased you like it there, love.” Ada places a careworn hand lovingly on top of her daughter’s.

 

“Oh Mum, it’s so much better than Mrs. Plaistow’s was. It’s so much smaller than their townhouse, and I don’t have to traipse up and down stairs all day. There’s a gas stove, so I don’t have to fetch coal in or blacklead grates. Even if there were, Miss Lettice has Mrs. Boothby do all the hard graft I used to have to do at the Plaistow’s.”

 

“And Miss Chetwynd? She’s still being good to you?”

 

“Yes Mum.” Edith takes a sip of her tea. “I still haven’t broken her of the habit of just waltzing into the kitchen whenever she feels like it, rather than ringing the bell.”

 

“And her, a lord’s daughter.” Ada tuts, shaking her head.

 

“Well, a Viscount’s daughter at any rate.”

 

“You think she’d know better.”

 

“I’m sure she’s different when she goes home to Wiltshire. It does sound like a very grand house.”

 

“So much grander than here, Edith.”

 

“Now don’t start again, Mum. You know I didn’t mean anything by what I said before. Anyway. I have a something for you, but I shan’t give it to you if you’re going to be contrary!” Edith teases.

 

“Contrary indeed!” Ada snorts derisively.

 

Edith takes a bulky parcel wrapped in cream butcher’s paper tied up with brightly coloured string from her basket and places it carefully on the table before her mother.

 

“Well what is it?” Ada asks in surprise.

 

“Why don’t you open it, Mum, and find out.” Edith replies playfully in return.

 

With trembling fingers Ada tugs at the knot in the string. Loosening it causes the protective layer of paper to fall noisily away to reveal a beautiful, glazed teapot in the shape of a cottage with a thatched roof with the chimney as the lid.

 

“Oh Edith, love!” gasps Ada. “It’s beautiful!”

 

“Since you won’t let me give you more money, I may as well buy you some nice things Mum!”

 

“Oh this must have cost a fortune!” Ada appraises the paintwork on the pot. “For shame, Edith! You shouldn’t have spent your money on me.”

 

“Nonsense Mum! I bought this at the Caledonian Markets***** where it was so reasonably priced as it was on its own and didn’t have the milk jug and sugar bowl to match. Do you like it?”

 

“Like it, Edith? Oh, I love it!” Ada hugs her daughter, batting her eyelids as she attempts to keep back the tears of appreciation and joy.

 

“Good! Then we can have tea out of this, rather than old Brown Betty!”

 

“What?” Ada cries. “Oh no, I can’t well do that! This teapot is far too nice to use everyday! There’s nothing wrong with Brown Betty. Brown Betty was your Great Grandma’s!” She runs her hand lovingly over the handle of the pot. “No, I’ll keep this pot for good. I’ll take it up to the parlour and we’ll use it on Christmas Day, when you and your brother are home.”

 

“Oh Mum!” Edith sighs, shaking her head in loving despair at her mother who beams with delight at her new present.

 

*Petticoat Lane Market is a fashion and clothing market in Spitalfields, London. It consists of two adjacent street markets. Wentworth Street Market and Middlesex Street Market. Originally populated by Huguenots fleeing persecution in France, Spitalfields became a center for weaving, embroidery and dying. From 1882, a wave of Jewish immigrants fleeing persecution in eastern Europe settled in the area and Spitalfields then became the true heart of the clothing manufacturing district of London. 'The Lane' was always renowned for the 'patter' and showmanship of the market traders. It was also known for being a haven for the unsavoury characters of London’s underworld and was rife with prostitutes during the late Victorian era. Unpopular with the authorities, as it was largely unregulated and in some sense illegal, as recently as the 1930s, police cars and fire engines were driven down ‘The Lane’, with alarm bells ringing, to disrupt the market.

 

**Cowes Week is one of the longest-running regular regattas in the world, and a fixture of the London Season. With forty daily sailing races, up to one thousand boats, and eight thousand competitors ranging from Olympic and world-class professionals to weekend sailors, it is the largest sailing regatta of its kind in the world. Having started in 1826, the event is held in August each year on the Solent (the area of water between southern England and the Isle of Wight made tricky by strong double tides). It is focussed on the small town of Cowes on the Isle of Wight.

 

***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.

 

****A Brown Betty is a type of teapot, round and with a manganese brown glaze known as Rockingham glaze. In the Victorian era, when tea was at its peak of popularity, tea brewed in the Brown Betty was considered excellent. This was attributed to the design of the pot which allowed the tea leaves more freedom to swirl around as the water was poured into the pot, releasing more flavour with less bitterness.

 

***** The original Caledonian Market, renown for antiques, buried treasure and junk, was situated in in a wide cobblestoned area just off the Caledonian Road in Islington in 1921 when this story is set. Opened in 1855 by Prince Albert, and originally called the Metropolitan Meat Markets, it was supplementary to the Smithfield Meat Market. Arranged in a rectangle, the market was dominated by a forty six metre central clock tower. By the early Twentieth Century, with the diminishing trade in live animals, a bric-a-brac market developed and flourished there until after the Second World War when it moved to Bermondsey, south of the Thames, where it flourishes today. The Islington site was developed in 1967 into the Market Estate and an open green space called Caledonian Park. All that remains of the original Caledonian Markets is the wonderful Victorian clock tower.

 

This cluttered, yet cheerful domestic scene is not all it seems to be at first glance, for it is made up of part of my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection. Some pieces come from my own childhood. Other items I acquired as an adult through specialist online dealers and artists who specialise in 1:12 miniatures.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The central focus of our story, sitting on Ada’s table, is the cottage ware teapot. Made by French ceramicist and miniature artisan Valerie Casson, it has been decorated authentically and matches in perfect detail its life-size Price Washington ‘Ye Olde Cottage Teapot’ counterparts. The top part of the thatched rood and central chimney form the lid, just like the real thing. Valerie Casson is renown for her meticulously crafted and painted miniature ceramics.

 

Surrounding the cottage ware teapot are non-matching teacups, saucers, a milk jug and sugar bowl, all of which have come from different miniature stockists both in Australia and the United Kingdom. The Brown Betty teapot in the foreground came from The Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

Sitting atop a stack of neatly folded 1:12 size linens sits Ada’s wicker sewing basket. Sitting open it has needles stuck into the padded lid, whilst inside it are a tape measure, knitting needles, balls of wool, reels of cotton and a pair of shears. All the items and the basket, except for the shears, are hand made by Mrs. Denton of Muffin Lodge in the United Kingdom. The taupe knitting on the two long pins that serve as knitting needles is properly knitted and cast on. The shears with black handles in the basket open and close. Made of metal, they came from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniature Shop in the United Kingdom. The blue cotton reel and silver sewing scissors come from an E-Bay stockist of miniatures based in the United Kingdom.

 

Sitting on the table in the foreground is a McVitie and Price’s Small Petite Beurre Biscuits tin, containing a selection of different biscuits. The biscuits were made by hand of polymer clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. McVitie's (Originally McVitie and Price) is a British snack food brand owned by United Biscuits. The name derives from the original Scottish biscuit maker, McVitie and Price, Ltd., established in 1830 on Rose Street in Edinburgh, Scotland. The company moved to various sites in the city before completing the St. Andrews Biscuit Works factory on Robertson Avenue in the Gorgie district in 1888. The company also established one in Glasgow and two large manufacturing plants south of the border, in Heaton Chapel, Stockport, and Harlesden, London (where Edith’s father works). McVitie and Price's first major biscuit was the McVitie's Digestive, created in 1892 by a new young employee at the company named Alexander Grant, who later became the managing director of the company. The biscuit was given its name because it was thought that its high baking soda content served as an aid to food digestion. The McVitie's Chocolate Homewheat Digestive was created in 1925. Although not their core operation, McVitie's were commissioned in 1893 to create a wedding cake for the royal wedding between the Duke of York and Princess Mary, who subsequently became King George V and Queen Mary. This cake was over two metres high and cost one hundred and forty guineas. It was viewed by 14,000 and was a wonderful publicity for the company. They received many commissions for royal wedding cakes and christening cakes, including the wedding cake for Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Phillip and Prince William and Catherine Middleton. Under United Biscuits McVitie's holds a Royal Warrant from Queen Elizabeth II.

 

Also on Ada’s table in the foreground there are several packets of Edwardian cleaning and laundry brands that were in common use in the early Twentieth Century in every household, rich or poor. These are Sunlight Soap, Robin’s Starch, Jumbo Blue and Imp Washer Soap. All these packets were made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.

 

Sunlight Soap was first introduced in 1884 by William Hesketh Lever (1st Viscount Leverhulme) and introduced to the market in 1904. It was produced at Port Sunlight in Wirrel, Merseyside, a model village built by Lever Brothers for the workers of their factories which produced the popular soap brands Lux, Lifebuoy and Sunlight.

 

Before the invention of aerosol spray starch, the product of choice in many homes of all classes was Robin starch. Robin Starch was a stiff white powder like cornflour to which water had to be added. When you made up the solution, it was gloopy, sticky with powdery lumps, just like wallpaper paste or grout. The garment was immersed evenly in that mixture and then it had to be smoothed out. All the stubborn starchy lumps had to be dissolved until they were eliminated – a metal spoon was good for bashing at the lumps to break them down. Robins Starch was produced by Reckitt and Sons who were a leading British manufacturer of household products, notably starch, black lead, laundry blue, and household polish. They also produced Jumbo Blue, which was a whitener added to a wash to help delay the yellowing effect of older cotton. Rekitt and Sons were based in Kingston upon Hull. Isaac Reckitt began business in Hull in 1840, and his business became a private company Isaac Reckitt and Sons in 1879, and a public company in 1888. The company expanded through the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries. It merged with a major competitor in the starch market J. and J. Colman in 1938 to form Reckitt and Colman.

 

Imp Washer Soap was manufactured by T. H. Harris and Sons Limited, a soap manufacturers, tallow melters and bone boiler. Introduced after the Great War, Imp Washer Soap was a cheaper alternative to the more popular brands like Sunlight, Hudsons and Lifebuoy soaps. Imp Washer Soap was advertised as a free lathering and economical cleaner. T. H. Harris and Sons Limited also sold Mazo soap energiser which purported to improve the quality of cleaning power of existing soaps.

 

Edith’s black dyed straw hat with purple roses and black feathers was made by an unknown artisan. 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable. This hat is part of a larger collection I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel.

 

In the background you can see Ada’s dark Welsh dresser cluttered with household items. Like Ada’s table, the Windsor chair and the ladderback chair to the left of the photo, I have had the dresser since I was a child. The shelves of the dresser have different patterned crockery and silver pots on them which have come from different miniature stockists both in Australia and the United Kingdom. There are also some rather worn and beaten looking enamelled cannisters and a bread tin in the typical domestic Art Deco design and kitchen colours of the 1920s, cream and green. Aged on purpose, these artisan pieces I recently acquired from The Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom. There are also tins of various foods which would have been household staples in the 1920s when canning and preservation revolutinised domestic cookery. Amongst other foods on the dresser are a tin of Macfie’s Finest Black Treacle, two jars of P.C. Flett and Company jam, a tin of Heinz marinated apricots, a jar of Marmite and some Oxo stock cubes. All these items are 1:12 size artisan miniatures made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire, with great attention to detail paid to their labels and the shapes of their jars and cans.

 

Robert Andrew Macfie sugar refiner was the first person to use the term term Golden Syrup in 1840, a product made by his factory, the Macfie sugar refinery, in Liverpool. He also produced black treacle.

 

P.C. Flett and Company was established in Kirkwall in the Orkney Islands by Peter Copeland Flett. He had inherited a small family owned ironmongers in Albert Street Kirkwall, which he inherited from his maternal family. He had a shed in the back of the shop where he made ginger ale, lemonade, jams and preserves from local produce. By the 1920s they had an office in Liverpool, and travelling representatives selling jams and preserves around Great Britain. I am not sure when the business ceased trading.

 

The American based Heinz food processing company, famous for its Baked Beans, 57 varieties of soups and tinend spaghetti opened a factory in Harlesden in 1919, providing a great deal of employment for the locals who were not already employed at McVitie and Price.

 

Marmite is a food spread made from yeast extract which although considered remarkably English, was in fact invented by German scientist Justus von Liebig although it was originally made in the United Kingdom. It is a by-product of beer brewing and is currently produced by British company Unilever. The product is notable as a vegan source of B vitamins, including supplemental vitamin B. Marmite is a sticky, dark brown paste with a distinctive, salty, powerful flavour. This distinctive taste is represented in the marketing slogan: "Love it or hate it." Such is its prominence in British popular culture that the product's name is often used as a metaphor for something that is an acquired taste or tends to polarise opinion.

 

Oxo is a brand of food products, including stock cubes, herbs and spices, dried gravy, and yeast extract. The original product was the beef stock cube, and the company now also markets chicken and other flavour cubes, including versions with Chinese and Indian spices. The cubes are broken up and used as flavouring in meals or gravy or dissolved into boiling water to produce a bouillon. Oxo produced their first cubes in 1910 and further increased Oxo's popularity.

 

The large kitchen range in the background is a 1:12 miniature replica of the coal fed Phoenix Kitchen Range. A mid-Victorian model, it has hinged opening doors, hanging bars above the stove and a little bass hot water tap (used in the days before plumbed hot water).

150mm x 170mm photograph. Note on reverse generously translated by Nettenscheider.

 

"On the training area, attack of Stormtrooper".

 

In light assault order,Stoßtruppen from an unidentified infantry formation practice negotiating barbed wire obstacles before assaulting enemy positions.

 

Note the men have their rifles slung over their backs. This allowed them to access the real tools of their trade, namely hand-grenades and wire-cutters. When an enemy position was reached, it was generally bloody hand-to-hand fighting, with pistols and knives. Only when a trench was cleared were rifles then used to defend the position or cover a withdrawal.

  

Letter generously translated by Nettenscheider; authored in France on 23.7.1917, the author sends his regards to his friend "Johana" from the Western Front.

 

Infantrymen from Königlich Bayerisches 2. Infanterie Regiment „Kronprinz“ enjoy a midday repast with some of the locals. Of course the item of interest here is the unofficial sleeve insignia being worn by these fellows. Given their "unofficial" status, it is difficult to find any kind information as to what the insignia represents, but in this case the flaming-grenade probably denotes these men's proficiency as grenade-throwers / assault troops.

 

Thanks to Immanuel Voigt for his assistance in acquiring this splendid card.

2017 one photo each day

2017 weekly alphabet challenge - generous. These lovely flowers are always generous with the way they keep flowering.

Flickr Lounge weekly theme photographer's choice.

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

 

Today is the 11th of November: Armistice Day*, and like so many of the citizenry of London, both Lettice and her maid, Edith, have addended the remembrance service at the Cenotaph** on Whitehall in Westminster. Only three years since the cessation of hostilities, the service caused an outpouring of grief amongst those who lost someone in the Great War. As the pair enter through the front door of Lettice’s flat together, Edith goes to walk through the service door back to the kitchen.

 

“Do you mind awfully, Edith,” Lettice asks quietly. “If we don’t stand on ceremony just at the moment?”

 

“Miss?” Edith queries, looking oddly at her mistress who looks a father forlorn figure standing in the vestibule in spite of her stylish black sheath coat with fur trim and elegant purple felt hat adorned with flowers.

 

Lettice looks up at Edith, her eyes red from having shed tears for the lost. “I know it isn’t conventional, but would you care to join me in the drawing room for a glass of sherry?” She smiles hopefully. “I could do with the company.”

 

“Of course, Miss,” Edith replies awkwardly, obviously uncomfortable at the idea of being treated as an equal by her mistress. “If that’s what you wish.”

 

Lettice leads the way into the drawing room. “Please sit.” She indicates, like the gracious society hostess she has been raised to be, to one of her white upholstered Art Deco tub chairs with a vague wave before walking into the adjoining dining room where she opens the black japanned cocktail cabinet and withdraws a faceted decanter of sherry and two small sherry glasses. Returning to the drawing room she places them on the low table between the two chairs and pours a little golden amber liquid first into Edith’s glass and then her own.

 

Edith perches nervously upon the edge of her seat, self-conscious about her second hand Petticoat Lane*** three quarter length coat and self-decorated black straw hat, which look smart when she is in her parent’s kitchen in Harlesden, but feel shabby to her amidst the refined elegance of Lettice’s Mayfair drawing room. As Lettice shrugs off her own coat and throws it carelessly onto the Chippendale chair by the china cabinet, Edith smooths her coat across her knees nervously.

 

“Please do feel free to take your hat off, Edith.” Lettice remarks as she unpins her own from her head and places it on the black japanned table next to the sherry decanter.

 

“Yes Miss.” Edith replies deferentially, withdrawing the long hat pin from her own hat, allowing her to remove it and place it upon the stool next to her.

 

Lettice takes up her glass and quietly sips her beverage before remarking, “It was so sad, wasn’t it Edith?”

 

“Well, it wasn’t that long ago that we were still at war with the Kaiser, Miss.” Edith gently picks up her glass and takes a very small sip.

 

“Yes, only three years.” Lettice muses. “Although in some ways I feel like the pre-war world was a lifetime ago. Don’t you Edith?”

 

“Me Miss?” Edith nearly chokes on her mouthful of sherry, surprised to be asked her opinion by her employer. She ponders the question for a moment before replying, “Not really Miss. Days like today make me feel like I’m still living in the shadow of the war.”

 

“But the world is moving on, and things are different. The world seems to move at a faster pace.”

 

“It certainly does, Miss.”

 

“And is perhaps more unsettled than its pre-war self was.” Lettice muses, licking her lips.

 

“The war shook down the order of things, Miss.”

 

“Yes,” Lettice agrees. “As women, we have more emancipation now than we did before the war. Even you, Edith, with your more conservative views of our place in the world, cannot complain about your new-found freedoms.”

 

Edith feels a blush fill her cheeks. “Well, I must confess, that’s true to a degree. My friend Hilda and I can go to the Palais de Danse**** without a chaperone now.”

 

“We proved that we’re not the weaker sex, taking men’s jobs and doing difficult work like nursing during the war.”

 

“Did you nurse during the war, Miss?”

 

“Yes. Part of Glynes***** was converted to a convalescent home for soldiers injured on the front, whilst we lived in the remainder.”

 

“Oh, you must have seen some terrible things, Miss.” Edith gasps.

 

“I suppose so.” Lettice says dismissively. Her face clouds for a moment as she contemplates the maimed men wheeled around the hallways and gardens of her childhood home over those few terrible years of the war, missing arms, legs, even part of their faces. Then she remembers the men who looked perfectly healthy and normal, but who screamed like banshees in the night or cowered beneath their beds like babies at the slamming of a door. Shellshock was what the Glynes village doctor and the matron from London had called it. She blinks the memories away quickly before she starts to cry. She takes another sip of her sherry and then smiles across at Edith. “I try not to think about it now.”

 

“These were a good idea.” Edith tugs at the bright red cotton poppy****** pinned to her lapel, a blue ribbon trailing from it upon which is written ‘British Legion Remembrance Day’. “I feel like I’m doing my bit for the veterans, widows and orphans of the war, even if it only cost a few pence.”

 

“Yes,” Lettice smiles at her maid. “Wasn’t that so poignant and moving?”

 

“The men and women queuing up to leave floral tributes at the Cenotaph, do you mean, Miss?”

 

“Yes.” Lettice replies wistfully. “The women especially. So many women.” Her voice trails off.

 

“So many people lost someone.” Edith says, falling silent for a moment as she sips some more of her sherry. “Did you lose anyone, Miss?”

 

“Me?” Lettice asks. “No. My eldest brother, Leslie, held a desk job here in Whitehall during the war, and my other brother, Lionel, was involved in strategic movements in France, or some such, which kept him well away from the front.” She puts her glass down on the coffee table. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if my father didn’t have something to do with that.”

 

“But you lost friends?”

 

“Oh yes Edith, so many friends. My mother is hosting her first Hunt Ball since before the war after Christmas, and I suspect she is finding it much more difficult to fill the room with eligible young men for me than she did when my elder sister had come out into society.” She studies her maid for a moment. “Did you?”

 

“Lose friends, Miss? Yes, ever so many.” She nods sagely.

 

“No. I mean, did you lose someone special?”

 

“Well my brother Bert served in the navy, but he came home alright,” Edith pauses and takes a larger sip of sherry in an effort to quell the emotions building within her chest. “But now you mention it Miss, yes, there was someone special I lost.”

 

“A beau?” Lettice asks. She quietly feels ashamed that she knows so little about her maid’s personal life. She knows she has parents who live in Harlesden, but this is the first that she has heard of a brother, and she never considered that Edith might have had a sweetheart at some stage in her life.

 

Edith drains her glass before placing it down with a slightly shaky hand on the table. “His name was Bert too.”

 

“Oh! I’m so sorry Edith!” Lettice gasps, her eyes widening. “I… I had no idea.”

 

“Oh, you weren’t to know, Miss.” Edith assures her employer as she blinks to keep her tears at bay. “My mum says I shouldn’t talk about him as there’s no point crying over the past. What’s done is done.” She sniffs. “Perhaps she’s right.”

 

“Do you have a photo of him?” Lettice asks, intrigued by her discovery about Edith’s past.

 

“Yes, I carried it with me today. I carry him wherever I go.” Edith reaches down and picks up her small green handbag off the floor and opens it. She fumbles through its contents, finally settling on what she is looking for. “This is Bert.”

 

Edith hands a slightly dog-eared sepia studio portrait of a rather handsome looking young man in a suit to Lettice. Carefully taking the photograph between her elegant fingers, Lettice stares down at the image before her. Although he is sitting stiffly and was possibly ill at ease dressed in his Sunday best when the photograph was taken, it cannot hide the kindness in his eyes, or the cheeky smirk that plays at the corners of his mouth. She suspects he might have been what Bramley, her father’s butler, would call “rather a lad”. His youthful face implies that he was no more than twenty when his likeness was taken. She chews the inside of her cheek as she tries to imagine what he must have sounded like.

 

“Bert was a postman. That’s how I met him.” Edith smiles sadly as she looks over at the photograph of Bert in Lettice’s hands. “He used to deliver mail in our street. We never had much post, but he’d find an excuse to stop if he saw me. This was before I had my first live-in post as a maid, so I was still at home.” She chuckles. “He even confessed to me that he used to come down our street even if he had no letters to deliver, just in the hope that he’d catch a glimpse of me and stop for a chat.”

 

“How old were you?” Lettice fills Edith’s glass again and then tops up her own.

 

Edith takes up her glass. “I was fourteen and he was eighteen. Mum said we were both too young to be tethering ourselves to one another, what with all our lives ahead of us, especially as Mum had started making enquiries about live-in posts for me after I’d cut my teeth skivvying for mean old Widow Hounslow for a year. His mum wasn’t too keen on him courting me either. She had expectations of Bert. She always felt that being employed in a steady job with the post office, he could make a successful career for himself, and could do better than a local girl with a dad who baked biscuits and a mum who laundered clothes. But we didn’t care. Bert fancied me, and I fancied him, and that was all that mattered to us.” She blinks back more tears, but cannot stop a few from spilling from her eyes and running down her cheeks. She opens her handbag again and withdraws a small white handkerchief, neatly embroidered with her initials in violet thread, and dabs her cheeks. “Then the war came, and Bert took the King’s shilling*******, like so many young men his age,” Edith sighs and sniffs again. “So that was that.”

 

Lettice pauses a moment, glass to her lips, before she asks, “How…er… how did…?”

 

“He died at the Battle of Passchendaele, Miss. He only had another year of the war to go, silly blighter. I always told him to keep his head down, but I suppose he was only following his captain’s orders. They all were.”

 

The pair of women fall silent, the air thick between them with unspoken words and unanswered questions.

 

“I read his name on the list of casualties posted up outside the post office,” Edith continues. “There’s irony for you.” She pauses and then looks directly into Lettice’s face. “His mother didn’t even have the courtesy to come and tell me herself. She disliked me so much, she let me read it on the high street where I broke down in tears and made a scene of myself in public, to my shame.”

 

“No, not to your shame, Edith!” Lettice assuages. “It’s only natural that you should cry over the loss of your sweetheart.”

 

“I just wish she’d told me. I would have cried in private at home. I could have maintained my dignity.” Edith blushes red with shame. “All those women and girls around me, looking piteously at me, whispering “she’s one… she’s lost someone” before turning away.”

 

“Didn’t any of them help you?”

 

“Mrs. Carraway, our neighbour two doors down, had just been at the fishmongers, having heard a roumour that there was some plaice to be had, and she saw me all distraught. She took me home to Mum.”

 

“Oh that’s awful, Edith.” Lettice reaches out her hand to her maid’s, but Edith withdraws it out of reach, uncomfortable with the familiarity and the sense of pity. Lettice pretends to have been reaching for her hat to cover her clumsy faux pas and toys distractedly with a lavender silk flower on its brim, tugging at the petals. “What a terrible thing to go through.”

 

Lettice pushes the photograph back across the table to Edith, who reaches down and picks it up. Without looking at it, she slips it back into her purse.

 

“Don’t you have a frame for that?” Lettice asks kindly. “It’s a shame to see the edges getting tattered.

 

“I wanted one, but like I said, Mum said there is no point carrying on about the past, so even though I wanted to, I never did.” She pats her handbag. “Still, it’s safe enough in here.”

 

Lettice nods and takes up her glass again.

 

“Now if you don’t mind, Miss,” Edith remarks, clearing her throat and sniffing once more. “I should really get on with my work.” She stands and picks up her hat, mustering her dignity. “I have lunch to prepare, and it won’t make itself.”

 

“Yes,” Lettice replies, looking up. “Yes of course. Well, thank you for sitting with me, Edith. And thank you for…”

 

Her sentence is cut short by Edith as she replies. “Oh, that’s quite alright, Miss. I hope you are feeling better.”

 

“I feel a little better now, Edith. I think I might just sit here and read for a little, recollect my thoughts, before luncheon.”

 

“Then I best be getting back to the kitchen, Miss.”

 

Lettice watches as Edith walks quickly around the tub chairs, following her with her eyes as she makes her way through the dining room and through the green baize door into the servery and the kitchen. She sighs as she sinks back into her chair, quite stunned by the revelations of her maid. The silence of the room is only broken by the gentle ticking of the clock on the mantle and the distant thrum of London traffic along Regent Street. And then she hears it: the quiet sobs of her poor maid, maintaining her dignity by crying for her lost love in private.

 

Lettice picks up her glass again and takes another sip. How lucky she considers herself to be to not have been engaged either before, or during the war, for it saved her so much heartache.

 

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

 

**The Cenotaph is a war memorial on Whitehall in London. Its origin is in a temporary structure erected for a peace parade following the end of the First World War, and after an outpouring of national sentiment it was replaced in 1920 by a permanent structure designed by famous British architect Sir Edwin Lutyens (1969 – 1944) and designated the United Kingdom's official national war memorial.

 

***Petticoat Lane Market is a fashion and clothing market in Spitalfields, London. It consists of two adjacent street markets. Wentworth Street Market and Middlesex Street Market. Originally populated by Huguenots fleeing persecution in France, Spitalfields became a center for weaving, embroidery and dying. From 1882, a wave of Jewish immigrants fleeing persecution in eastern Europe settled in the area and Spitalfields then became the true heart of the clothing manufacturing district of London. 'The Lane' was always renowned for the 'patter' and showmanship of the market traders. It was also known for being a haven for the unsavoury characters of London’s underworld and was rife with prostitutes during the late Victorian era. Unpopular with the authorities, as it was largely unregulated and in some sense illegal, as recently as the 1930s, police cars and fire engines were driven down ‘The Lane’, with alarm bells ringing, to disrupt the market.

 

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

 

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

 

******The remembrance poppy is an artificial flower worn in some countries to commemorate their military personnel who died in war. Veterans' associations exchange poppies for charitable donations used to give financial, social and emotional support to members and veterans of the armed forces. Inspired by the war poem "In Flanders Fields", and promoted by Moina Michael, they were first used near the end of Great War to commemorate British Empire and United States military casualties of the war. French national Madame Guérin (1878 – 1961), known fondly as “The Poppy Lady from France”, established the first "Poppy Days" in 1921 to raise funds for veterans, widows, orphans, liberty bonds, and charities such as the Red Cross. Today, the remembrance poppy is mainly used in the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth, where it has been trademarked by veterans' associations for fundraising. In these countries, small remembrance poppies are often worn on clothing leading up to Remembrance Day/Armistice Day, and poppy wreaths are often laid at war memorials. In Australia and New Zealand, they are also worn on Anzac Day.

 

*******To take the King’s shilling means to enlist in the army. The saying derives from a shilling whose acceptance by a recruit from a recruiting officer constituted until 1879 a binding enlistment in the British army —used when the British monarch is a king.

 

This upper-class domestic scene is different to what you may think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Lettice’s purple toque covered in silk flowers and lace, which sits on the coffee table 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 hat is called “Shona”. Edith’s black dyed straw hat with purple roses and black feathers was made by an unknown artisan. I acquired it as part of a larger collection I bought from an American miniature collector, Marilyn Bickel.

 

The photograph of Bert on the table was produced by Little Things of Interest Miniatures in America. It is a 1:12 miniature replica of a real photograph, printed on photographic quality paper and remarkably detailed for something so small.

 

The vase of red roses on the Art Deco occasional table are beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium. The vase on the mantlepiece was made by Limoges porcelain in 1950s. It is stamped with a small green Limoges mark to the bottom. I found it along with two others in an overcrowded cabinet at the Mill Markets in Geelong. The vase is filled with hand made pink roses produced by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. Beautifully Handmade Miniatures also produced the hand made green glass comport on the coffee table, which is made from genuinely hand blown glass.

 

Lettice’s drawing room is furnished with beautiful J.B.M. miniatures. The Art Deco tub chairs are of black japanned wood and have removable cushions, just like their life sized examples. To the left of the fireplace is a Hepplewhite drop-drawer bureau and chair of black japanned wood which has been hand painted with chinoiserie designs, even down the legs and inside the bureau. The chair set has a rattan seat, which has also been hand woven. To the right of the fireplace is a Chippendale cabinet which has also been decorated with chinoiserie designs. It also features very ornate metalwork hinges and locks.

 

On the top of the Hepplewhite bureau stand three real miniature photos in frames including an Edwardian silver frame, a Victorian brass frame and an Art Deco blue Bakelite and glass frame.

 

The fireplace is a 1:12 miniature resin Art Deco fireplace which is flanked by brass accessories including an ash brush with real bristles.

 

On the left hand side of the mantle is an Art Deco metal clock hand painted with wonderful detail by British miniature artisan Victoria Fasken.

 

In the middle of the mantle is a miniature artisan hand painted Art Deco statue on a “marble” plinth. Made by Warwick Miniatures in England, it is a 1:12 copy of the “Theban Dancer” sculpture created by Claire-Jeanne-Roberte Colinet in 1925.

 

The carpet beneath the furniture is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug, and the geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

Dear Mona, your generosity has no limits 😍 Knowing your pictures, admiring your art, it becomes pretty obvious in what delicate and elegant ways you conceive artistry, you develop your own creativity. When you pay attention to some of our contributions, I believe you look at them under the same perspective and taste. Thus, the fact that you choose to highlight one of my pictures in your groups is the greatest compliment. It is a real honour to have my latest picture featuring as the cover of Show us your Journey through SL ( no Avatar please )! Thank you very much, my friend ❤

She’s worried by him. He's not looking happy. He seems lost in thought, his mind in a far off place. Yes, she's been watching him, Mrs Claus has. And he's taken to drinking on these long dark nights.

 

For him, Christmas is complicated this year. The job has always been pretty easy for as long as he can remember. Which is several hundred years. Ever since he took over the job from St Nicholas. But now, and very suddenly.....he's getting cold feet! Of course he tends to the reindeer through the year, and relaxes through the summer with lazy days sitting in the sunshine on the mountainside, cuddled up to Mrs Claus. She's his soul-mate and kindred spirit and they are very much in love. The elfs work away happily in the workshops nearby. There's a great spirit between them and they have a boisterous party in the end hut every Saturday in the summer months, with singing and dancing, and perhaps too much beer.

 

But all is not well. And it’s not just Christmas 2018 on his mind. Already he’s worried about Christmas 2019 too. Word has it that the major toy suppliers are stockpiling already, causing a shortage of product that’s affecting him now. And what's he going to do if there is a hard Brexit? All the children's gifts are going to be stopped in the French ports it appears . And even if they get through they are warning of long delays and higher prices. Christmas might have to be postponed, or even cancelled. It’s not just about the toys. There’s the staff issue too. He would like to employ more elves to make more toys but his cheap labour of Polish and Romanian elves (There’s also a Syrian elf pretending to be Croatian) will have been forced to go back to their own countries. For God's sake he might even have to employ British elves but they will want higher wages, and manufacturing quality will fall (But at least he can put labels stating "Made in Great Britain" on them to cover up the faults and cracks in them). So many problems. Lord knows, he's even heard that he won't even be able to fly his sleigh across the sky on Christmas Eve because Britain has left the EU. And he will have to pay money for a visa. And the reindeer will need to be quarantined each time they cross a border. And Customs will want to inspect his sack. It all seems so nightmarish.

 

Yes, Brexit is one headache for Santa, but there's a greater problem on his mind. He's dedicated his life to giving presents to boys and girls all over the world. But this gender equality thing is really vexing him. He is Father Christmas. Yes, a slightly rounded, pale skinned mature gent who loves nothing more than to go He-He-He and make people smile. But he doesn’t adjust to change easily. He’s heard some folk are questioning him. Why does Santa have to be a man, they say? OK, he’s tried to get with this new way of thinking, even suggesting that Mrs Claus comes along on Christmas Eve and helps him get the presents out. A bit of sex equality. He would love her to be there but SHE insists it is a man’s job and she wants to stay in and get the ironing done before they go on holiday on Christmas Day. He’s further stressed that they are asking on social media why he only employs elves and not elfettes? And if he did would they get the same pay? Some are branding him sexist and a misogynist. For generations he has given dolls and more feminine toys to little girls, and cars and construction toys to boys. But now he's not even allowed to think of the children in terms of girls and boys. Who is he to assume they identify with being one or other and give them toys historically associated with their gender? But bad as that is, now there are the ‘others’: neither male or female, despite outward appearances, some who were boys last Christmas, and are now girls....and some who haven't decided yet. How can he possibly plan ahead? Another problem is that there is falling demand for the traditional toys he normally delivers. Kids are so demanding and the number of texts and emails he gets from children demanding…yes DEMANDING the latest smart phone or Playstation console depresses him. Where do they think he will get the money from? And so many have the gall to complain when they don’t get what they want! They even ask to know his Formal Complaint Procedures !!! Who do they think Father Christmas is? The way things are now is just insane for a middle aged gent who has always generously thought on the romantic side of tradition and tried year after year just to make people happy.

 

Christ! The maniacs in charge of the asylum have already driven him to drink and now they might make him swear in front of Mrs Claus. WTF is going on? How can he single handed keep children's dreams alive when these do-gooders and very unseasonal snowflakes stupidly destroy everything that creates happy, well-rounded children? They will eventually kill Christmas if they get their way. As far as he is concerned if things don’t improve pretty darned quick, he’s had enough and he’s buggering off and he will just find a part-time log cutter’s job somewhere out of the way in Finland. Somewhere he can have a nice quiet, happy life with Mrs Claus and no more late night’s out on Christmas Eve.

 

Here's wishing all my flickr friends a very Merry Christmas and a happy and healthy New Year. I hope 2019 smiles better.

  

(PS I had to put a couple of extra stone on just to look more like the real Santa, and just let my body go. I think it is quite a good likeness now)

 

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 is the day after Lettice’s exclusive buffet supper party for two of her Embassy Club coterie of bright young things who are getting married: Dickie Channon, eldest surviving son of the Marquess of Taunton, and Margot de Virre, only daughter of Lord Charles and Lady Lucie de Virre. The soirée in their honour was a glittering success and will go down as one of the events of the 1921 London Season according to the Tattler’s society pages correspondent who busily scribbled notes about all the great and good of the land who were present and what they were wearing, whilst a photographer from the London magazine captured the guests in all their glittering finery.

 

The day has been spent setting the Mayfair flat back to rights and Lettice’s maid, Edith, with the help of Mrs. Boothby, Lettice’s charwoman* and one of Mrs. Boothby’s friends, Jackie, have swept and polished, scrubbed and cleaned, whilst Gunter and Company’s** men have restored the furnishings to where they were before the drawing room was turned into a ballroom and the dining room into a buffet.

 

It's after midnight in the up-to-date modern kitchen and silence envelops the flat. Outside only the occasional drone of a taxi dropping late night revellers home, or the hiss of two fighting cats somewhere on the moonlight rooftops outside breaks the evening quiet. Edith has washed all the glasses, crockery and silverware from dinner and after such a busy day of work she should be tired and sleeping soundly like Lettice is, but instead she is still full of excitement from the previous evening as she sits at the deal kitchen table and thinks about all the beautiful people to whom she served drinks.

 

Her mistress looked beautiful in a powder blue silk georgette gown designed by her childhood friend Gerald Bruton who has his own dress shop in Grosvenor Street. Margot wore a stunning low waisted gown of silver satin. However, it was another guest at the party, Lady Diana Cooper *** who really caught Edith’s eye. With a neat, short chignon of waves and curls woven around a bandeau of diamonds, she wore a stunning blue gown of layer upon diaphanous layer of handkerchief point Lanvin blue silk taffeta which Edith knows from her mistress’ cast-off fashion magazines to be a ‘robe de style’**** with a full skirt supported by a wire hoop underneath the fabric. Pinned to the waist was a large pink satin rose with a slightly smaller one sewn to the right shoulder.

 

“Oh,” Edith sighs as she picks up a jam fancy biscuit from the Delftware plate in front of her and takes a bite. “How I should love to be reminded of that gown forever.”

 

As she munches on the biscuit and takes a sip of tea from her teacup, Edith suddenly has an idea. One of her pleasures in her spare time is to collect articles on the latest styles of clothes and hair from Lettice’s old magazines and paste them into scrapbooks. Her current scrapbook has a blank first page which she has kept for something special. Now she knows what that something special is.

 

Slipping quietly out into the drawing room of the flat, Edith fossicks carefully through the Chippendale gilded black japanned chinoiserie cabinet next to the fireplace and withdraws her mistress’ box of watercolours which she takes back to the kitchen. Going into her own little bedroom off the kitchen she withdraws a pack of coloured pencils from her chest of drawers and snatches up her scrapbook from its surface where it sits upright behind her sewing box, leaning against the floral papered wall. Returning to the kitchen she sets everything out on the table.

 

“Come on now girl,” Edith mutters encouragingly to herself as she takes up a grey lead pencil. “Let’s put that memory of yours to the test and see if we can’t get it out on paper.”

 

The pencil tip scratches across the paper as Edith’s hand moves deftly over the page. She starts to hum ‘After the Ball is Over’*****. Soon the figure of a woman emerges on the page with a short chignon dancing gaily with one arm out and another crossed over her chest. The room remains silent except for the tick of the clock, Edith’s soft humming and the sound of pencil against paper as the dress quickly takes form, with its cascades of layers billowing out over the model’s legs, the gown daringly showing her calves, just as Viscountess Norwich had when she danced with her handsome husband and other friends at the party.

 

“Not bad,” Edith says as she finishes her sketch. “Not bad at all. Now for some colour.”

 

She goes to the kitchen cupboard where she keeps the old Victorian jugs that Lettice uses for water when she is doing watercolour sketching and withdraws the smallest jug. Filling it with some water she goes back to her seat. She looks guiltily at her mistress’ watercolours resting atop the scrapbook.

 

“Well,” Edith reasons. “My schoolteachers all said I had artistic flair.” She sighs. “And if I were as lucky as Miss Lettice, I’d have had a tutor to teach me art, or maybe even have gone to the Slade School of Fine Art. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind me using her paints just this one time.”

 

She releases a sigh of pleasure as she mixes the vibrant robin’s egg blue shade of the gown and begins to paint her sketched figure. The colour lightens as she reaches the hem, matching the stockings on her model. Adding more colour to the pool of blue she then defines the shoes. Rinsing the brush in the jug she waits until the blue paint is dry before adding the rose madder of the silk rose on the shoulder and sleeve, and blonde hair to match her own shade to her figure. Making notes about Lettice’s party in the margins around the edge of her picture, Edith waits until the watercolour is dry. Taking up her colour pencils she adds detail, highlights of colour and shading to her sketch, totally oblivious of the time as the hands on the kitchen clock pass one o’clock, all the while humming happily away.

 

“There!” Edith remarks at last, satisfied with her creation. “Perhaps I could give Mr. Bruton a run for his money.” She chuckles to herself at the thought. “Now I shall have Lady Cooper’s gown forever.”

 

As she starts to pack up the watercolours, pencils, sketchbook and tea things she continues to hum ‘After the Ball is Over’, her body swaying to the tune as she imagines herself dancing at a party in the beautiful gown she had just created from memory on paper.

 

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

 

**Gunter and Company were London caterers and ball furnishers with shops in Berkley Square, Sloane Street, Lowndes Street and New Bond Street. They began as Gunter’s Tea Shop at 7 and 8 Berley Square 1757 where it remained until 1956 as the business grew and opened different premises. In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries Gunter's became a fashionable light eatery in Mayfair, notable for its ices and sorbets. Gunter's was considered to be the wedding cake makers du jour and in 1889, made the bride cake for the marriage of Queen Victoria’s granddaughter, Princess Louise of Wales. Even after the tea shop finally closed, the catering business carried on until the mid 1970s.

 

***Born Lady Diana Manners, Diana Olivia Winifred Maud Cooper, Viscountess Norwich was an English aristocrat who was a famously glamorous social figure in London and Paris. As a young woman, she moved in a celebrated group of intellectuals known as the Coterie, most of whom were killed in the First World War. She married Duff Cooper in 1919. In her prime, she had the widespread reputation as the most beautiful young woman in England, and appeared in countless profiles, photographs and articles in newspapers and magazines. She was a film actress in the early 1920s and both she and her husband were very good friends with Edward VIII and were guests of his on a 1936 yacht cruise of the Adriatic which famously caused his affair with Wallis Simpson to become public knowledge.

 

****The ‘robe de style’ was introduced by French couturier Jeanne Lanvin around 1915. It consisted of a basque bodice with a broad neckline and an oval bouffant skirt supported by built in wire hoops. Reminiscent of the Spanish infanta-style dresses of the Seventeenth Century and the panniered robe à la française of the Eighteenth Century they were made of fabric in a solid colour, particularly a deep shade of robin’s egg blue which became known as Lanvin blue, and were ornamented with concentrated bursts of embroidery, ribbons or ornamental silk flowers.

 

*****’After the Ball is Over’ was a popular 1891 song written by Charles K. Harris.

 

Believe it or not Edith’s sketch and her scrapbook as well as all the items around them are perhaps not quite as they appear, for all of them are 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures from my miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Edith’s scrapbook is a 1:12 size miniature made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. Therefore, it is a pleasure to give you a glimpse inside this wonderful scrapbook from the 1920s which contains sketches, photographs and article clippings. Even the paper has been given the appearance of wrinkling as happens when glue is applied to cheap pulp paper. To give you an idea of the work that has gone into this scrapbook, it contains twelve double sided pages of scrapbook articles, pictures, sketches and photographs and measures forty millimetres in height and thirty millimetres in width and is only three millimetres thick. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter. I hope that you enjoy this peek at just one of hundreds of his books that I own, and that it makes you smile with its sheer whimsy!

 

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

 

The Huntley and Palmer’s Family Circle Biscuits tin containing a replica selection of biscuits is also a 1:12 artisan piece. Huntley and Palmers is a British firm of biscuit makers originally based in Reading, Berkshire. The company created one of the world’s first global brands and ran what was once the world’s largest biscuit factory. Over the years, the company was also known as J. Huntley and Son and Huntley and Palmer. Huntley and Palmer were renown for their ‘superior reading biscuits’ which they promoted in different varieties for different occasions, including at breakfast time. The design on the tin originates from the 1920s, but continued much later due to its popularity. The biscuits on the plate are 1:12 scale artisan pieces. The jam fancy is made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering, whilst the chocolate chip biscuit has been made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination.

 

The tea cosy, which fits snugly over a white porcelain teapot, has been hand knitted in fine lemon, blue and violet wool. It comes easily off and off and can be as easily put back on as a real tea cosy on a real teapot. It comes from a specialist miniatures stockist in England.

 

The Deftware cup, saucer and milk jug are part of a 1:12 size miniature porcelain dinner set which I acquired from a private collection of 1:12 miniatures in Holland.

Generous amount of benches are in place along the walk for a quick break, or just to bask in the surrounding beauty.