My Great Grandparents were Victorians, and after a dinner party, my Great Grandfather used to enjoy sitting with his male guests in the dining room, after the ladies withdrew to the drawing room, where they drank port, brandy and muscatel, smoked cigars and were treated to a slice of Stilton from a large cheese wheel. Stilton is an English cheese, produced in two varieties: blue, which has Penicillium roqueforti added to generate a characteristic smell and taste, and white, which does not. My Great Grandfather only ever ate Blue Stilton. Even on nights when they weren’t entertaining, my Great Grandfather used to indulge in a snifter or brandy and a slice of Blue Stilton in his study after dinner. I remember him doing so, and it is he that I have to thank for my love of Blue Stilton and other blue varieties of cheese to this day. He used to indulge me, in an effort to teach me about cheese and broaden my palate, by giving me a small slice to eat. The more time that passed, and the cheese wheel reduced in size, the stronger the taste and aroma of the cheese became!

 

The theme for "Looking Close on Friday" for the 13th of June is "cheese". Now, I know you are going to say that this should be a macro shot: and it is. What might surprise you is that everything in this photograph, from the flowers to the cigars, the bottle and glasses to the paintings on the wall, and even the cheese itself are all in fact 1:12 miniatures from my extensive collection which I use for photography purposes. Although not exact, this image very much reflects what the sideboard in my Great Grandparent’s dining room looked like when I was a child: very much of that Victorian and Edwardian era. My Great Grandfather was a cigarette smoker more than a cigar smoker, but he always had a box of them to offer to guests. Anyone who follows my photostream knows that I love and collect 1:12 size miniatures which I photograph in realistic scenes. The artifice of recreating in minute detail items in 1:12 scale always amazes me, and it’s amazing how the eye can be fooled. I hope you like my choice of this week’s theme, and that it makes you smile!

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

As the main focus of my image, the cheese wheel of Blue Stilton came from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The knife, gilded white plates and stained wooden box of cigars also came from there.

 

The vase of red roses on the sideboard is beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium.

 

All the brandy snifters on the silver tray in the background I have had since I was a teenager. I bought them from a high street stockist that specialised in dolls’ houses and doll house miniatures. Each glass is hand blown using real glass. The carafe on the same tray I bought at the same time. The tray was made for me from silver metal by my Grandfather, who was very clever and gifted with his hands. The 1:12 artisan bottle of brandy was made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire, and is made from glass and the label is a copy of a real brandy label.

 

The paintings on the wall are from Amber’s Miniatures in America, and the flocked wallpaper is beautiful hand embossed paper given to me by a friend to use with my miniatures.

 

The Queen Anne sideboard I have had since I was six years old.

“Wine is a drink for boys – port for men.” – Sir Winston Churchill, British statesman, military officer, writer and Prime Minister of the United Kingdom from 1940 to 1945 and again from 1951 to 1955.

 

The theme for "Looking Close on Friday" the 3rd of October is "in a bottle". Originally, I had something else in mind, but last weekend, as part of my birthday celebrations, I went to stay at a little pied-à-terre in the city with a friend. It was furnished with, and full of antiques and curios, so my friend and I had planned it as a photography weekend, since we both are quite partial to antiques and collectables. This is why I was so late commenting on so many of your photographs last week. Upon our arrival, we found that our hosts had left us a gift of two hand blown and cut crystal port glasses and a bottle of aged tawny port that had been decanted into a Victorian era cut glass bottle for us, with a sterling silver collar around its neck to identify it, sitting on a silver tray on the sideboard. We were very touched by their kindness and generosity. I just happened to take a photograph of the port sitting in its bottle on the sideboard and didn’t even think that I might use it. It was only once I was home again, and going through all the photographs I took across the course of the weekend (there were a great many) that I came across it, and thought how perfect it would be for the theme! I hope you like my choice for this week’s theme, and that it makes you smile!

HBW 11.25.09

 

My favorite sugar bowl, once a frequent subject of mine, re-shot & reprocessed. Photographed under recessed kitchen lighting on top of a silver tray.

 

Wishing all of you a very Happy Thanksgiving.

Better bring the bottle Jeeves.....It's been one of those days!

This is how some photographers often describe good bokeh, so that's how I got the idea for this shot!

 

I was having tea last night while watching "Borat" (tea for make benefit glorious sleepytime!) and instead of drinking it I snapped away in the kitchen. I was too tired to get my tripod so this was all handheld--the creamer in my left hand and my (heavy) camera in my right. A killer for my already suffering wrists! If you look closely, you can see the shape of a sugar bowl in the bokeh! =)

Wednesday 20th of August, 1952

 

Today I took tea with dear Aunt Gwendoline at her house in Hans Place to celebrate her seventy third birthday. Looking across at the row of red brick Edwardian terraces, and the private central gardens with its wrought iron fence and lockable gate, one could easily forget there had ever been a war just a few years ago. The same can be said for Aunt Gwendoline’s cook’s access to pantry staples. The last I heard we were still on sugar rationing, yet when I arrived and was shown into her drawing room by the maid – a new girl I don’t know, although finding and keeping decent help is hard these days – I was met by Gwendoline, her daughters Gertie and Vera and a silver tray of dainty cupcakes topped with cream and decorated with coloured sprinkles of sugar! Such an almost unheard of luxury! Any idea of black-market activity was banished the moment Gwendoline offered them to us. Heaven! I haven’t had such a sweet treat since 1940, when it seemed our entire lives went on the ration, destroying all sweetness in life - literally. I was even able to have a second one. Of course, I can’t tell Valentine. He will be furious with me, not because I was unpatriotic, but because I didn’t bring the second cupcake home for him to enjoy.

 

* * * * *

 

The theme for "Looking Close on Friday" for the 29th of December is "food with sprinkles". Now I know you are going to say that this should be a macro shot, and it is. What might surprise you is that everything in this photograph, from the carpet, wallpaper and furnishings to the tea set and cupcakes are made up entirely of 1:12 size miniatures from my extensive collection which I use for photography purposes. Each of these dainty cupcakes topped by sprinkle covered cream is only five millimetres in diameter and between five and eight millimetres in height! Each one could sit comfortably on the pad of my little finger! Made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight, her work, like these cupcakes, is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. I hope you like my choice of this week’s theme, and that it makes you smile!

Designed for miniature dollhouse scale (1:12 ) dollhouses; the “lady” of the house’s vanity, dressing table, dressing room, powder room or bathroom; and room boxes.

  

A photoshop collage of a fragment of a PANO-vision screen shot of the "Les Demoiselles d'Avignon" and a tarnished silver tray from an estate.

Late afternoon sunbeams shining through the window, stopping on the bureau and the wine bottles before falling in ripples on the wall.

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

 

Today however, we are not at Cavendish Mews. We are not even in London. Instead, we are north of the capital, in the quiet little Essex farming village of Belchamp St Paul*. Lettice met the world famous British concert pianist, Sylvia Fordyce at a private audience after a performance at the Royal Albert Hall**. Sylvia is the long-time friend of Lettice’s fiancée, Sir John Nettleford-Hughes and his widowed sister Clementine (known preferably now by the more cosmopolitan Clemance) Pontefract, the latter of whom Sylvia has known since they were both eighteen. Lettice, Sir John and Clemance were invited to join Sylvia in her dressing room after her Schumann and Brahms concert. After a brief chat with Sir John (whom she refers to as Nettie, using the nickname only his closest friends use) and Clemance, Sylvia had her personal secretary, Atlanta, show them out so that she could discuss “business” with Lettice. Anxious that like so many others, Sylvia would try to talk Lettice out of marrying Sir John, who is old enough to be her father and known for his dalliances with pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger, Lettice was surprised when Sylvia admitted that when she said that she wanted to discuss business, that was what she genuinely meant. Sylvia owns a small country property just outside of Belchamp St Paul on which she had a secluded little house she calls ‘The Nest’ built not so long ago: a house she had decorated by society interior designer Syrie Maugham***. However, unhappy with Mrs. Maugham’s passion for shades of white, Sylvia wanted Lettice to inject some colour into her drawing room by painting a feature wall for her. Thus, she invited Lettice to motor up to Essex with her for an overnight stay at the conclusion of her concert series at The Hall to see the room for herself, and perhaps get some ideas as to what and how she might paint it. Lettice agreed to Sylvia’s commission, and originally had the idea of painting flowers on the wall, reflecting the newly planted cottage garden outside the large drawing room windows of ‘The Nest’. However, after hearing the story of Sylvia’s life – a sad story throughout which, up until more recent years, she had felt like a bird trapped in a cage, Lettice has opted to paint the wall with stylised feathers, expressing the freedom to fly and soar that Sylvia’s later life has given her the ability to do.

 

Thrilled with her new feature wall, Sylvia is throwing an intimate weekend house party to which she has invited Lettice and Sir John, Lettice’s oldest childhood chum, Gerald Bruton, whom she met up in London by lucky happenstance when paying Lettice’s bill, Gerald’s young and fey homosexual partner, Cyril, who is an oboist, and a smattering of other musically inclined guests. Lastly, Sylvia has also invited the West End theatre actress Paul Young, the current paramour of Sir John. So, this evening we find ourselves in the drawing room of ‘The Nest’, which has been restored to rights with Sylvia’s elegant furnishings and collection of blue and white porcelain on display against the backdrop of Lettice’s hand painted feather covered feature wall. Designed in the prevailingly fashionable Arts and Crafts country style, the spacious room dominated by Sylvia’s walnut grand piano, is illuminated by the soft golden glow of lamps, and the guests stand around in small clutches.

 

The gentlemen present are smartly turned out in stiff black tie, or in the case of Gerald, the more modern, modish and daring tuxedo, a style influenced by the more relaxed American culture from across the Atlantic. The ladies on the other hand are in a range of beautifully coloured beaded evening dresses. Our hostess’s black dyed sharp bob sits neatly about her angular face. She wears no earrings or necklace, and her skin is caked with its customary thick layer of white makeup, her red painted lips the only colour afforded her face. Wearing her usual large aquamarine and diamond cluster ring on her left middle finger on her elegant pianist’s hands, tonight Sylvia has dressed unusually in something other than black or white and is wrapped in a column of sparkling, bead encrusted gold lamé. Sylvia’s sharp appearance is in total contrast to Lettice who stands at her side, arrayed in one of Gerald’s new creations for her: a gown of silverly powder blue tule that wafts around her like a cloud when she moves, accessorised with a beaded belt and pearls cascading down her front. Her blonde hair is Marcelled**** into soft waves around her lightly painted face.

 

The guests applaud as Cyril finishes playing a piece of music he knows by heart on his oboe as a party piece.

 

“Oh Gerald, darling!” Sylvia purrs. “Your Cyril is an accomplished oboist, as well as a charming character. I can see how easily he must have charmed his way into your heart.”

 

“If music be the fruit of love,” Gerald replies wistfully, looking dew eyed at his lover as he basks in the adulation of the other guests at Sylvia’s intimate gathering. “Play on.”

 

“Shakespeare!” Sylvia exclaims. “A classical education then, Gerald darling.”

 

“Thanks to Lettice’s father, Miss Fordyce.” Gerald nods and smiles gratefully towards Lettice, who stands opposite him at Sylvia’s left.

 

“Oh, Sylvia, please, Gerald darling!” Sylvia insists. She smiles before drawing deeply on her Craven “A”***** through her amber and gold holder, making the butt glow and the paper crackle. “We’re all friends here.” She blows out a plume of silvery grey smoke elegantly.

 

“Sylvia.” Gerald confirms.

 

“So how is our lovely Lettice’s father connected to your classical education, then?” Sylvia goes on, glancing between her two companions.

 

“Well, Gerald and I are the same age, Sylvia, and being neighbours to the Brutons, Gerald spent a lot of time at Glynes with me, just the same as the children of the Tyrwhitt family on the estate neighbouring ours on the other side. It was like we were all extensions of one another’s families, really: always in and out of one another’s houses and gardens.”

 

‘And my father,” Gerald continues with a slight air of bitterness. “Well, he was only ever really interested in lavishing money on my older brother, Roland, as his heir, but Viscount Wrexham saw something in me that he felt was worth nurturing from an academic perspective.”

 

“As he did in me, Sylvia.” Lettice adds. “My father believes in a good education for women as well as men, to equip them for a life beyond the drawing room, the likes of which my mother would happily have me bound to: embroidery and idly chit-chat about county affairs.”

 

“A very forward thinking man.” Sylvia muses with a curt nod. “I approve wholeheartedly.”

 

“So, because Gerald and I are the same age, my father asked Gerald’s father if he would mind if Gerald were to join me in the Glynes schoolroom for classes.”

 

“And since my father had no desire to spend money on my education, and Viscount Wexham was paying for the tutelage, he agreed.” Gerald concludes.

 

“Well, jolly good show, Viscount Wrexham!” Sylvia says, exhaling another cloud of roiling smoke after drawing on her cigarette and giving Gerald’s left forearm a gentle squeeze of comfort with her right hand. “He did well, seeing you as a prodigy, Gerald darling. And now, here you are, an up-and-coming couturier with a beautiful and talented lover.” She nods at Cyril across the room.

 

Gerald blushes red with a mixture of embarrassment at Sylvia’s compliment, and her acknowledgement of his lover. “I say,” he says. “It really is most kind of you to have Cyril and I here, together, for the weekend, Miss Fordi… err… Sylvia.”

 

“Oh, it’s my pleasure, Gerald darling.” Sylvia assures him. “Besides, this weekend treat doesn’t come for free.” Her dark eyes widen and sparkle in the light cast by the lamps around the room. “I’m not that altruistic. I will hold you to your promise of a pair of beach pyjamas******. I want nothing more than to scandalise and shock people when I sit on the beach at Blackpool, or parade down the pier!”

 

“Oh Sylvia!” Lettice laughs.

 

“What?” Sylvia asks, feigning innocence.

 

“You are incorrigible!”

 

“It will help keep my name in the papers, and people coming to my concerts. Heaven save me from the boredom of middle-aged mediocrity.”

 

“I promise I will make them for you, Mi… Sylvia.” Gerald replies. “In Nile green******* satin with black piping. It’s the least I can do for you being so… ahem!” He clears his throat awkwardly. “Understanding of Cyril’s and my...”

 

“Arrangement?” Sylvia prompts.

 

“Ahem!” Gerald clears his throat again. “Err… yes.”

 

Sylvia smiles sadly. “I know we don’t know each other well yet, my dear Gerald, but I do hope we will. Please take it on good authority from me, that I have known many inverts******** in my life.” She draws on her cigarette thoughtfully. “The moment you walked into Lettice’s drawing room the day she and I were settling my account for this wonderful feature wall,” She turns and glances at Lettice who blushes at Sylvia’s compliment directed towards her, then turns her attention back to Gerald. “I knew who you were from the articles I have perused about your rising star in the fashion magazines I read. Now, please pardon me for being so direct, but I knew what you were the moment you moved towards us and opened your pretty mouth, and those things are not to be found on the glossy pages of magazines, you’ll be pleased to know.”

 

“Oh dear!” Gerald gasps. “Is it really that… am I…” He stammers. “Is it really that obvious? I do try and keep my… my true self… well concealed.”

 

“Not at all, Gerald darling!” Sylvia reassures him. Cyril on the other hand,” She raises her expertly plucked and shaped eyebrows into two deep arches. “Well, he’s easily pinned, being more fey and obvious than you, my dear. However, there is no need for any awkwardness or embarrassment here, Gerald darling.” Sylvia squeezes his arm comfortingly again. “I just told you that I’ve known men like you for many years. When you are exposed to such acquaintances and friendships, it give one a sixth sense, as it were. And,” She drags the last of her cigarette before stumping the but out in the ashtray of the chrome smoker’s stand in front of her, blowing out more acrid smoke as she does. “As I said, we are all friends here. Your secret is perfectly safe with me,” She pauses for a heartbeat. “As is, Nettie’s.”

 

Sylvia nods across at Sir John who stands, talking with Cyril animatedly about music, along with striking Hungarian violinist sisters, Jelly d'Aranyi********* and Adila Fachiri**********. The young West End actress, Paula Young hangs on Sir John’s arm. Cyril glances up too and catches Gerald’s eye, indicating with a gentle narrowing of his own bright blue eyes that he wants his lover to join him.

 

“I think I had better go and rescue Cyril from such musically elite company before it goes to his head,” Gerald says, making his excuses. “Or he shall be insufferable for weeks to come.”

 

As Gerald joins the small clutch, slipping in beside Cyril and lovingly wrapping his arms around his lover’s waist and resting his head comfortably on his shoulder, Lettice remarks with a deep sigh, “How content he looks.”

 

“Does Gerald not often look content, Lettice darling?” Sylvia asks as she fishes in her packet for another cigarette before screwing it into her holder.

 

“Gerald is my oldest and best chum, Sylvia darling.” Lettice takes a sip of her Parisian*********** cocktail from the wide lip of her Marie Antoinette glass************. “I’ve known him all my life, and I can confirm with my hand firmly placed over my heart that I have seen him more unhappy than happy over those years. It was only after he met Cyril, that he finally seems content in life.”

 

“Well,” Sylvia lights her cigarette with her silver table lighter, exhaling another billow of acrid smoke. “We all deserve some happiness in life, don’t we?”

 

“It seems to me, Sylvia, that after what you disclosed to me about your life, you haven’t exactly been blessed with a great deal of happiness romantically.” Lettice opines. “And pardon me for saying this, but there seems to be a noticeable absence from this evening’s little soirée of a certain gentleman from Chippenham*************.”

 

“Gentleman! Ha!” Sylvia snorts derisively, sending smoke plumes from both her nostrils like an angry bull. “My little soirée tonight, is no place for the Lieutenant-Colonel to be attending, Lettice darling!”

 

“Well, why not, Sylvia darling?”

 

The older woman chuckles bitterly. “For someone with a wise and shrewd head for business, you can be so naïve sometimes, Lettice darling.” She shakes her head.

 

Lettice blushes at Sylvia’s rebuke but remains silently sipping her drink.

 

“I told you the first time I brought you to ‘The Nest’, the Lieutenant-Colonel is married, a brute and a boor: which is why I’m attracted to him.” She takes up her own cocktail glass and drains in in three large gulps, arching her neck upwards and screwing her eyes up as she does. Placing the empty vessel back on the surface of the black japanned coffee table she goes on. “And those are the exact same reasons why he shouldn’t be here. Our distinguished and enlightened company,” she wafts her hand around the room at her guests happily chattering away. “Would only take offence after he managed to insult every single one of them with his thoughtless remarks, assuming they had not already fled to the sanctity of their rooms, crying off about a feigned headache, in an effort to escape the boredom of his dull small talk. No, he and Mrs. Lieutenant-Colonel will be cosily tucked up together in their own Chippenham drawing room tonight, completely and utterly bored and disaffected in one another’s company, whilst I enjoy the pleasures of the scintillating company I have gathered here tonight, yourself included Lettice my darling, to christen and celebrate your feature wall – which is how it should be.”

 

“I’m so pleased you like the feature wall, Sylvia darling.” Lettice enthuses, steering the conversation away from awkward and dangerous ground to something safer. “As I said to you at Cavendish Mews, I really wasn’t sure about it, but now, with all the furnishings restored in here, I can see my vision was right.”

 

“Of course it was, Lettice darling!” Sylvia replies through gritted teeth as she holds her cigarette holder in her mouth whilst she fixes herself another cocktail. “I needed someone with vision, and someone for whom white was not the only colour she was happy to use.”

 

Sylvia busies herself, bending over the coffee table, making a boulevardier************** for herself, combining bourbon, bitter Campari and red vermouth over ice. Standing back up again with a groan from having stretched her back awkwardly, she goes on, “Anyway, stop being naughty, Lettice darling, trying to change the subject. We were talking about relationships and contentedness.”

 

“Well yes,” Lettice says with an awkward intake of breath. “As I was saying, Gerald seems very content with Cyril.”

 

However, not to be dissuaded, Sylvia cuts Lettice off. “And you, Lettice darling?”

 

“Me?”

 

“You! Are you content?” Sylvia asks as she looks meaningfully over at Sir John with Paula Young still hanging off his arm as he chuckles at something witty that Jelly d'Aranyi has just said.

 

Lettice follows Sylvia’s gaze.

 

Paula looks beautiful with her dark hair bobbed and slicked down fashionably in an Eaton crop***************, her pale, almost flawless skin, highlighted by her dark, kohl**************** lined eyes and a streak of bright red gloss across her lips. She clings to Sir John in an almost predatory fashion as she occasionally glances up at her hostess flanked by Lettice, her gaze growing hostile as Lettice catches her eye.

 

“Oh that?” Lettice remarks with a half-hearted a laissez-faire attitude. “Oh, I knew about her even before I agreed to marry John.” She sighs heavily. “Of course, Mater and Pater don’t know. John’s very discreet.”

 

“Are you sure of that, Lettice darling?” Sylvia eyes her companion over the top of her glass. “You did tell me that neither of your parents seem overly enthused about your engagement to our Nettie.”

 

“Oh yes!” Lettice assures Sylvia, shaking her head as if trying to rid herself of an irritating insect buzzing around her. “I’m sure they don’t. They’d never allow me to marry a man whom they knew was a philanderer.”

 

“Well, a gentle word of warning, Lettice darling. Nettie is his own worst enemy when it comes to women. He may be discreet, but he’s not as discreet as he should be sometimes, especially when the infatuation is new, and goodness knows, Paula’s not at the best of times.” Sylvia cautions. “So just make sure they don’t find out, lest your engagement all comes to naught.”

 

“Well,” Lettice says, taking another sip of her Parisian. “John tells me he’s tiring of Paula anyway as she is getting too clingy and demanding for his liking.” It is her turn to snort derisively. “Just look at how she tightens her grip on him, every time she and I catch one another’s eyes.” She sighs, betraying her true concerns about Paula to her hostess. “I’m hardly a threat to her.”

 

Sylvia considers her younger companion thoughtfully for a moment, taking the measure of her not so steely gaze as she looks across Sylvia’s drawing room to the clutch of guests standing in a circle. “You do know that there will be others after she’s gone, don’t you Lettice?”

 

“Of course I know, Sylvia. John was very disclosing when he proposed to me. He made things perfectly clear. I know the lay of the land. It’s why I agreed to her coming to your little weekend soirée.”

 

“So he did ask you, then?”

 

“Oh yes, he did.” Lettice replies rather flatly.

 

“That’s good,” Sylvia lets out a pent-up sigh of relief. “Because when Nettie asked me if he could invite her here for the weekend since Clemance cried off with a bad head cold, I said that if he was being truly honest with you, he had to ask your permission first. I have no issue with bed hopping, as you know, Lettice darling, but not at the expense of, the happiness of, or the comfort of any of my guests.”

 

“You are the consummate hostess, Sylvia darling.” Lettice responds as she sips her drink again. “You think of everything.”

 

“I didn’t do wrong by agreeing to Paula coming, did I Lettice darling?” Sylvia asks cautiously, concern think in her voice. “I mean, I do want us to be friends, especially if you are going to marry Nettie. You are still going to become Lady Nettleford-Hughes, aren’t you?”

 

“Yes, of course I am Sylvia.” Lettice turns and reaches out a hand to her hostess, smiling reassuringly as she does. When Sylvia takes it in her own thin and elegant white hand, Lettice goes on. “And we are friends already, no matter what I may or may not have decided. You said yourself, more than once, that we have certain things in common, and I’m inclined to agree with you. Anyway, going back to John and his request, could I have refused him any more than you could? John has told me outright that he despises jealousy, and if I really am going to make this marriage to him work, I have to be accepting of Paula and whomever follows in her footsteps, and most importantly, I cannot be a jealous wife.”

 

“Can you be content with that, Lettice darling?” Sylvia asks carefully.

 

Lettice is about to answer her when Adila Fachiri suddenly breaks from the circle of chatting guests and scurries up to her hostess, her dark eyes illuminated with excitement. “Sylvia! Sylvia darling!” she says in her heavily smoky and dark Hungarian accented voice. “You simply must come. Come with me now!” She reaches out her hands and takes Sylvia’s glass and lit cigarette from her, discarding them on the table.

 

“Adila, what on earth?” Sylvia asks in surprise.

 

“Our clever little oboist has had the most wonderful idea! You, he, Jelly and I are going to perform a quartet for our less musically gifted guests!” Adila laughs gaily. “Please excuse us, Miss Chetwynd. Come, Sylvia! Come along!”

 

And without further ado, Adila drags Sylvia away from Lettice’s side.

 

Lettice watches as Sylvia is cajoled, without too much difficulty, to her place at the grand piano whilst Jelly fetches hers and Adila’s violins. Sir John turns around and catches Lettice’s eye, waving at her with his right hand in which he holds his own half-drunk cocktail, gesticulating for her to join he and Paula. She releases her own pent-up sigh as she wonders how her marriage is going to be. Sylvia’s unanswered question dances through her head as she watches Paula’s arm wind around Sir John’s waist rather like a serpent. Can Lettice really be content with this marriage to Sir John? He has been very disclosing and open with her about his philandering. He hasn’t promised her love, but has offered her security and the ability to have more independence than most married women of her class. There are pros and cons to the bargain she has made. However, the question Lettice is asking herself more and more is, do the pros outweigh the cons?

 

“Shall I be tempted by the Devil thus?” she quietly asks herself, quoting Shakespeare’s Richard III.

 

*Belchamp St Paul is a village and civil parish in the Braintree district of Essex, England. The village is five miles west of Sudbury, Suffolk, and 23 miles northeast of the county town, Chelmsford.

 

**The Royal Albert Hall is a concert hall on the northern edge of South Kensington in London, built in the style of an ancient amphitheatre. Since the hall's opening by Queen Victoria in 1871, the world's leading artists from many performance genres have appeared on its stage. It is the venue for the BBC Proms concerts, which have been held there every summer since 1941.

 

***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.

 

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

 

*****Craven A (stylized as Craven "A") is a British brand of cigarettes, currently manufactured by British American Tobacco. Originally founded and produced by the Carreras Tobacco Company in 1921 until merging with 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.

 

******Beach Pyjamas, made of silk, linen, or cotton, often in bright, cubist-inspired prints, were the height of summer and resort fashion in the 1920s and 1930s. They were worn from the afternoon to the evening as a fashionable summer style. They generally consisted of wide-legged trousers and a jacket of matching fabric.

 

*******Nile green is defined as a “pale bluish-green colour” and was very popular in the 1920s, fashionably named so for the Tut-Mania that took the world by storm after Howard Carter discovered Tutankhamun’s tomb in 1922.

 

********Sexual inversion is a theory of homosexuality popular primarily in the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth 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.

 

*********Jelly d'Aranyi, fully Jelly Aranyi de Hunyadvár was a Hungarian violinist who made her home in London. She was born in Budapest, the great-niece of Joseph Joachim and sister of the violinist Adila Fachiri, with whom she often played duets. She was an excellent interpreter of Classical, Romantic and modern music. After d'Aranyi had, at his request, played "gypsy" violin music to him one evening, Maurice Ravel dedicated his popular violin-and-piano composition Tzigane to her. Again at his request, she gave the first British performance of the Sonata for Violin and Cello in 1922. Ralph Vaughan Williams dedicated his Concerto Accademico to her. Gustav Holst's Double Concerto for Two Violins was written for Jelly and Adila.

 

**********Adila Fachiri. Adila Fachiri was a Hungarian violinist who had an international career but made her home in England. She was the sister of the violinist Jelly d'Arányi, with whom she often played duets. She first went to England in 1909, and in 1915, she married Alexander Fachiri, an English barrister living in London. By 1924, she had played in public in Hungary, Austria, Germany, Italy, France and the Netherlands, as well as appearing regularly at London concerts. One of her preferred accompanists was the pianist Julie Lasdun, mother of architect Denys Lasdun.

 

***********The Parisian cocktail dates from the 1920s and consists of one third French Vermouth, one third Crème de Cassis and one third gin, shaken well and strained into wide cocktail glass. It falls into a category of drinks that often feature French ingredients or have Parisian connections. Several notable cocktails have gained recognition for their ties to Paris or French culture.

 

************A "Marie Antoinette glass" typically refers to a champagne coupe, a shallow, bowl-shaped glass with a short stem. While the shape has been linked to Marie Antoinette's breast in popular culture, historical records debunk this claim. The coupe was popular during Marie Antoinette's reign due to the sweeter champagne produced at the time, and its shape was also favoured for its ability to dip cakes in the beverage.

 

*************Chippenham is a market town in north-west Wiltshire, England. It lies thirteen miles north-east of Bath, eighty-six miles west of London and is near the Cotswolds Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty.

 

**************The boulevardier cocktail is an alcoholic drink composed of whiskey, sweet vermouth, and Campari. It originated as an obscure cocktail in 1920s Paris, and was largely forgotten for eighty years, before being rediscovered in the late 2000s as part of the craft cocktail movement, rapidly rising in popularity in the 2010s as a variant of the negroni, and becoming an IBA official cocktail in 2020.

 

***************The Eton crop is a very short, slicked-down hairstyle for women, often seen as a masculine-leaning style. It was popularized in the 1920s and 30s and was worn by figures like Josephine Baker. The Eton crop emphasizes the shape of the head and focuses attention on the face.

 

***************Kohl is a cosmetic product, specifically an eyeliner, traditionally made from crushed stibnite (antimony sulfide). Modern formulations often include galena (lead sulfide) or other pigments like charcoal. Kohl is known for its ability to darken the edges of the eyelids, creating a striking, eye-enhancing effect. Kohl has a long history, with ancient Egyptians using it to define their eyes and protect them from the sun and dust, however there was a resurgence in its use in the 1920s and 1930s. In the 1920s, kohl eyeliner was a popular makeup trend, particularly among women embracing the "flapper" aesthetic. It was used to create a dramatic, "smoky eye" look by smudging it onto the lash line and even the inner and outer corners of the eyes. This contrasted with the more demure, natural looks favoured in the pre-war era.

 

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 pieces from my teenage years.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The wonderful hand painted wall behind the fireplace is the work of artis Emma Jennings www.emmajennings.com.au/artgallery who is inspired by the natural surrounds of her home in the Dandenong Ranges to the East of Melbourne. The panel is a limited edition print of her work, and was given to me, with Emma’s permission, to use as a wallpaper in one of my miniature tableaus.

 

Sylvia’s roomy Art Deco cream satin armchairs are made by Jai Yi Miniatures who specialise in high end miniature furniture. The black japanned coffee table and round occasional table with their gilded patterns are vintage pieces I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The chrome Art Deco smoker’s stand is a Shackman miniature from the 1970s and is quite rare. I bought it from a dealer in America via E-Bay.

 

The three toned marble fireplace is genuinely made from marble and is remarkably heavy for its size. It, the two brass fire dogs and filagree fireplace fender come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop, as do the two blue and white vases and the two blue and white gilt ginger jars on the mantle. Also on the mantle stands a little green and gold Art Deco clock, which is a 1:12 artisan miniature made by Hall’s Miniature Clocks, supplied through Doreen Jeffries Small Wonders Miniatures in England.

 

The two large blue and white urns flanking the fireplace are Eighteenth Century Chinese jars that I bought as part of a large job lot of small oriental pieces of porcelain, pottery and glass from an auction house many years ago.

 

The bottle of Gordon’s Dry Gin, the bottles of Cinzano, Campari and Martini are also 1:12 artisan miniatures, made of real glass, and came from a specialist stockist in Sydney. The soda syphon and gilt ice bucket with silver tongs sticking out of it were made by M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik in Germany, who specialise in making high quality porcelain miniatures. The packet of Craven “A” cigarettes and the Swan Vestas matchbox beneath it were made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire, with extreme attention paid to the packaging. The wine glasses and water carafe I have had since I was a teenager. I bought them from a high street stockist that specialised in dolls’ houses and doll house miniatures. Each glass is hand blown using real glass. The cigarette lighter is made of sterling silver and was made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures. The Swan Vesta’s matches sitting in the holder on the smoker’s stand also come from Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures.

 

The painting above the mantlepiece is a 1:12 artisan piece made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States.

 

The blue and white carpet interwoven with gold I acquired through an online stockist of 1;12 miniatures on E-Bay.

Metropolitan Museum of Art. New York City.

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.

 

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 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.

 

Today we have not strayed far from Cavendish Mews and are still in Mayfair, but are far enough away in her mind that Lettice has chosen to take a taxi, hailed for her by her maid Edith from the nearby square, to Bond Street where the premises of Bonham’s Fine Art Valuers and Auctioneers* have been standing for well over a century. As it pulls up to the kerb, Lettice peers through the window of her shiny deep blue taxi up at the impressive four storey building built in ‘blood and bandages’** style with its ornate Art Nouveau first floor window and Mannerist bay windows and balconette above. Its Dutch Revival roofline just manages to outdo the red brick buildings to either side, and Bonhams is by far the most eye catching of them and it stands out along the Bond Street streetscape.

 

“That’ll be three and six, mum.” the Cockney taxi driver says through the glass divider between the driver’s compartment and the passenger carriage as he leans back in his seat. Stretching his arm across the seat he tips his cap in deference to the well dressed Lettice swathed in powder blue and artic fox fur in the maroon leather back seat.

 

Lettice smiles, fishes out her snakeskin handback and withdraws her coin purse from within its confines. She pays the diver his fare and a little extra for having brought her a relatively short distance when he could have taken someone going further than Bond Street. “Keep the change.” she says breezily as she hands him the money before depressing the handle of the taxi door and opening it.

 

“Thank you, mum.” the taxi driver replies with a smile as he tips his cap yet again. Flicking his sign to show he is available for hire, he puts the idling engine of his taxi into gear and pulls away from the kerb.

 

“Oh thank god you’re here, Lettice darling!” Margot cries as she runs from the front of Bonhams, the sound of her heels clicking across the footpath, as she envelops Lettice in an embrace of navy blue serge fox fur and Chypre*** perfume.

 

“Margot darling!” Lettice gasps, embracing her friend in return. Grasping her by the elbows, Lettice holds Margot at arm’s length and looks into her anguished face, her own face clouding over as she asks, “What on earth is it? What’s wrong?”

 

“My parents,” Margot’s husband Dickie answers softly as he walks up to Lettice and Margot. “That’s what’s wrong. Hullo Lettice old girl.” He places a kiss firmly on Lettice’s left cheek.

 

“Hullo Dickie.” Lettice replies with a smile. “Your parents?”

 

“Yes,” Dickie answers with a rather doleful look. “They’ve come to see whether the painting of Miss Rosevear really is a Winterhalter**** or not.”

 

After being 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, newlyweds Margot and Dickie Channon, invited Lettice to spend a Friday to Monday with them there earlier in the year. 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’. Margot and Dickie also extended the weekend invitation to one of their other Embassy Club coterie, Lettice’s old childhood chum, Gerald Bruton. After the retirement of the housekeeper, Mrs. Trevethan, from the main house to the gatekeeper’s cottage one evening during their stay, the quartet of Bright Young Things***** played a spirited game of sardines****** and in doing so, Lettice potentially solved the romantic mystery of ‘Chi an Treth’ after discovering a boxed up painting of a local Cornish beauty named Elowen Rosevear, purportedly by the artist Winterhalter, long forgotten, and of a great beauty.

 

“Oh Margot!” Lettice exclaims consolingly and embraces her friend again. “What frightful bad luck.”

 

“As if my father would miss this opportunity to discover whether we are sitting on a small fortune assumed lost.” Dickie adds.

 

“And he’s in such a ghastly mood, Lettice darling.” Margot says tearfully. “And he terrifies me when he is in one of his black moods.”

 

“And Lady Channon?” Lettice asks, cocking her eyebrow questioningly as she glances again at Dickie.

 

“Is her usual glacial self.” Dickie pronounces in a depressing tone.

 

Lettice smiles bravely and takes Margot’s trembling glove clad right hand in her own glove encapsulated hands and gives them an encouraging squeeze. “Then let’s get this over with. The sooner we know the artistic background of Miss Rosevear, the sooner your frightful in-laws,” She pauses and looks apologetically at Dickie. “Sorry Dickie.”

 

“No offence taken.” he replies, raising his own glove clad hands and smiling at Lettice.

 

“The sooner Marquess and Marchioness will leave.” Lettice concludes.

 

“I wish Daddy was here!” Margot sulks with downcast eyes as she plays with Lettice’s fingers distractedly.

 

“Is he coming?” asks Lettice hopefully.

 

“No, he’s too busy to come. He’s off doing business somewhere here in the city. But he has invited the three of us to luncheon at Simpsons******* afterwards,” Margot replies softly. “To either celebrate or commiserate.”

 

“Jolly good of him, don’t you think, old girl?” Dickie pipes up with a smile.

 

“Come on Margot!” Lettice says. “Buck up and let’s get this whole ghastly business over and done with.”

 

Taking her husband’s proffered arm and Lettice’ hand, Margot walks between them and the three friends enter Bonhams.

 

The trio are shown into a private viewing salon, the walls of which are decorated with fine gold flocked wallpaper and hung with dozens of paintings in gilded frames of varying degrees of ornateness. There is no plan to the array of pieces of art besides wall space and Renaissance portraits hang alongside Dutch landscapes from the Seventeenth Century and the sitters of Georgian portraits look out of their frames with dewy eyes onto still life works from the Nineteenth Century. The room is furnished with beautiful antiques including a comfortable suite of Regency chairs and settees. A Rococo bombe chest with a carved front that has been gilt and decorated with hand painted roses has Limoges vases and silver candlesticks sitting on its marble top. Thick carpets cover the parquet floors, deadening the sound of footsteps and softening the noise of already discreetly hushed voices. The portrait of Miss Rosevear takes centre stage, sitting on an easel, looking as lovely as ever with her enigmatic smile and sparkling dark sloe eyes gazing out of her frame across her milky white shoulder following Dickie, Margot and Lettice as they enter the salon. And there, amidst all the finery, the glowering Marquess of Taunton and his brittle wife the Marchioness.

 

Facing slightly away from one another at either end of one of the dainty Regency settee surrounded by paintings, Lettice’s first thought is that the pair could easily be a painting themselves: their chilly stance towards one another make her think it should be called ‘An Uneasy Truce’. Both are dressed in their outmoded London best. The brooding Marquess of Taunton sits imperiously with a ramrod straight back in his old fashioned morning suit and spats, leaning heavily on an ebony walking cane with a silver top, whilst his wife the Marchioness stares icily into her own preoccupied thoughts, arrayed in an equally out dated fine silk chiné high necked floor length gown of pastel pinks, blues and lilacs, a cup held daintily in hand, ropes of pearls strangulating her throat and tumbling down her front. The Marchioness’ Edwardian pre-war look is completed by a large mauve picture hat covered in a bower of silk wisteria flowers.

 

“Lord Channon,” Lettice says politely as she bobs a small curtsey to her social superiors. “Lady Channon.”

 

The pair don’t speak, but Lady Channon begrudgingly nods her head almost imperceptibly and lowers her lids in acknowledgement.

 

“Oh good!” Dickie says, spying a pot of steaming tea on a silver tray on the low coffee table. “They brought tea.”

 

“Humph!” mutters Lord Channon. “Took their bloody time.”

 

“No biscuits then?” Dickie asks as he takes up a dainty gilt blue floral cup and adds a large spoonful of sugar to it.

 

“With that amount of sugar in your tea,” his mother quips icily through pursed lips that seem almost devoid of colour. “You hardly need a biscuit, Richard.”

 

Dickie looks dolefully at his mother.

 

Raising a tortoiseshell lorgnette affixed to her wrist with a mauve silk ribbon from amidst the folds in her gown, Lady Channon eyes her daughter-in-law. “Are you with child, Margot?” she asks crisply, her jaw remaining as square and determined, maintaining her look of general distain. “You look peaky.”

 

“Me?” Margot gulps. “Err… no… Mamma.” The last word spills from her lips awkwardly and she quickly looks down as she takes a seat on the second settee in a position as far away from her mother-in-law as possible and picks up a cup and saucer.

 

“We’ve only been married a few months, Mummy,” Dickie says defensively, ignoring his parents and smiling down at his wife, locking his gaze with Margot’s startled one as he smiles and pours tea into her proffered cup. “You can hardly expect miracles.”

 

“Why else did we send you off on an expensive honeymoon to Deauville, if not to propagate an heir, Richard?” snaps Lady Channon.

 

“Bloody Frogs********!” barks the Marquess, not bothering to turn his gaze to any of the party before him as he stares intently at Miss Rosevear in her gilt frame.

 

“There is no time to waste, Margot,” continues the Marchioness. “Richard isn’t getting any younger, and nor,” Her narrowing eyes are magnified by the lenses of her lorgnette. “Are you.”

 

The old woman immediately shifts her appraising eye to Lettice, who in an effort to protect her friend, sits on the settee with Margot rather than taking up a position in a salon chair, to try and draw Lady Channon’s attention away from her.

 

“Girl,” Lady Channon addresses Lettice curtly. “Isn’t your mother the one who keeps a house in Curzon Street who is dying of cancer?”

 

Shocked by so direct a question addressed to her brutally, Lettice is momentarily at a loss to answer the Marchioness. “Ahh, no, Lady Channon.” she says finally. Considering that both her parents were at Dickie and Margot’s wedding in late October of the previous year, and as such were received by both the Marquess and Marchioness, she is surprised that Lady Channon is unaware of her mistake in identity of her parentage. “I think you might be referring to our neighbours, the Tyrwhitts of Garstanton Park. Lord and Lady Tyrwhitt do have a house in Curzon Street, and Lady Tyrwhitt does have cancer, but is currently receiving treatment for it. My parents are Lord and Lady Chetwynd, the Viscount and Viscountess of Wrexham who live at Glynes.”

 

“Tyrwhitt?” Lord Channon barks again, seemingly in his own world. “Damn horse bolted and threw me off. Broke my leg he did!”

 

“Oh, do shut up about your horse, Marmaduke!” Lady Channon snaps, suddenly swivelling her wiry frame and her steely gaze away from Lettice to her husband. She looks at his upright figure angled away from her with scorn. “No-one gives a farthing whether you broke your leg, your pelvis or your head.” She turns back to Lettice just as sharply, startling the poor girl. “Yes, I see now. Yes, you take after the Chetwynds, not the Mainwarings. You’re a beauty, like your aunt Eglantine.”

 

“Err.. how is your rheumatism, Lady Channon?” Lettice asks in an effort to change the topic away from a character assassination of Margot or herself.

 

“Playing up.” the old woman replies laconically, dropping her lorgnette back in her lap and rubbing the small of her back. “It’s the draughts that cause it, you know.”

 

“All houses have draughts,” her husband replies darkly, proving that he is not so much in his own world as ignoring the company. “At least all the good ones do.”

 

“Oh yes,” Lettice says a little nervously. “The old schoolroom at Glynes was always draughty.”

 

She chuckles self consciously when neither the Marquess nor Marchioness comment, but rather give her a look of haughty distain.

 

“Tea, Lettice?” Dickie says kindly, proffering a cup of steaming tea to her which she accepts readily.

 

The party fall into an awkward silence: Lord and Lady Channon resuming their poses turned slightly away from one another like waxworks in Madame Tussauds********* and Lettice, Margot and Dickie all quietly sipping their tea, hoping to avoid any scrutiny, or scorn from their elders.

 

Fortunately they are saved from any further embarrassment or awkward conversation when a rather bookish looking man with patrician skin, horn rimmed spectacles and red hair, dressed in a smart morning suit more in vogue than Lord Channon’s, walks in smiling.

 

“Good morning, Lord and Lady Channon, Mrs. and Mrs. Channon and err…” He stops when he spies Lettice.

 

“The Honourable Lettice Chetwynd,” Dickie quickly introduces Lettice to the bewildered man. “Youngest daughter of the Viscount and Viscountess Wrexham.”

 

“Ah,” the man says with a nod. “How do you do, Miss Chetwynd. Welcome to Bonhams, all of you. My name is Maurice Fox, and I am proud to be one of the conservators and academic historical researchers at Bonhams.” He moves and stands next to the painting of Miss Rosevear standing on the easel. “It has been my pleasure to investigate the origins of this really rather remarkable portrait over the last few months.” He places a hand lovingly upon a curlicue of the portrait’s ornate gilded frame and rubs the gold coated plaster gently. “As I’m sure you’ll agree, the story of Miss Rosevear and Your Lordship’s ancestor as told to me by you son,” He turns and nods his head in acknowledgement. “Is in a word, tragic. However, the artist’s portrayal of Miss Elowen is anything but tragic.”

 

Lettice glances uneasily at Lord and Lady Channon who both face Mr. Fox, giving him their undivided attention. Lady Channon benignly sips what is left of what must by now be her tepid tea, but with each passing word that leaves Mr. Fox’s mouth, she can see Lord Channon’s brooding brow grow more furrowed as he starts to hunch forward over his silver topped cane. Mr. Fox obviously enjoys being the showman and presenting paintings back to their owners with a theatrical flourish that the artist may not have been able to convey with paint, but something tells Lettice that it is only a matter of time before Lord Channon will grow tired of the researcher’s patter.

 

“See how well the artist has captured Miss Rosevear’s youthful gaze and almost imperceptible smile. Perhaps he told her amusing stories or jokes as he painted her, or perhaps, Your Lordship, the Captain was present when this portrait was painted, bringing the pleasure to her face.” Mr. Fox again looks down with genuine affection at the painting. “And see how lifelike the ribbons in Miss Rosevear’s ornately styled hair look.” Raising a hand, he indicates with his pale fingers to them. “Only a skilled artist can bring such detail to vivid life. I’m sure you’ll agree, Your Lordship.”

 

Lord Channon does not return Mr. Fox’s beaming smile, and Mr. Fox either chooses to ignore, or perhaps misinterprets the aristocrat’s stony silence for intense concentration, rather than irritation.

 

“And the luminescence of her cheeks. A gentle ladylike flush perhaps, or was she embarrassed at the attention paid to her by having her portrait painted? Note the ruffles…”

 

“Oh, bedamned the painting’s finer qualities!” Lord Channon suddenly yells, his face reddening.

 

Lettice shudders from shock, the teacup rattling in its saucer noisily as she trembles at the Marquess’ sudden outburst, which is still frightening, even though she had predicted it. Margot is in such a state that she hurriedly drops her teacup and saucer onto the tea table with a loud clatter, spilling dark coloured tea into her saucer. Dickie nearly chokes on his mouthful of tea, and gasps like a fish out of water a few times in an effort not to cough and incur his father’s ire. Poor Mr. Fox physically leaps off the ground and takes a few steps back in fright as he responds to the aristocrat’s unexpected fury. Only Lady Channon seems unperturbed by her husband’s outburst, calmly moving her cup away from her lips and lowering it back into the saucer in her lap.

 

“I don’t give a damn about that girl’s foolish frou-frou or the tragedy of her bloody story!” Lord Channon continues. “Get on with it man!”

 

“I think my husband would prefer you shorten your preamble, Mr. Fox,” Lady Channon says in crisp syllables, her voice free of any nerves, her face unsmiling, her jaw square. “And get to the crux of the matter.”

 

“Just tell us, is it or isn’t it, a Winterhalter?” the Marquess asks, stamping the parquet floor with his ebony walking stick, making all the party present, except his wife, jump.

 

After a few tense moments whilst Mr. Fox tries to gather his rattled nerves he finally answers, “No, Your Lordship. It is not a Winterhalter.” His eyes squint and he takes a gasp of air which he holds as he waits for another outburst from the Marquess. “Possibly a local Cornish artist who was inspired by his work.”

 

“I’ve heard enough!” Lord Channon presses his weight onto his walking cane to aid him to rise. Immediately Lettice, Margot and Dickie rise themselves. “Come along Beatrice. We needn’t waste any more time here.”

 

“Mr. Fox, fetch His Lordship’s coat and my mantle,” Lady Channon says imperiously as she too rises with the swish and sigh of her silk gown.

 

Lord Channon reaches out his hand to his wife who places her own gloved hand on top of his and the pair sweep majestically away without so much as a second glance at the painting, nor a goodbye to their son, his wife or Lettice. They are followed by the scuttling Mr. Fox, who hurriedly tries to arrange their coat and wrap.

 

The trio of friends remain in the viewing salon, the atmosphere of which suddenly feels lighter and less energised with the departure of the Marquess and Marchioness, although the cloying scent of Lady Channon’s violet perfume wafts about the space in her wake. They all heave a sigh of relief, look at one another and laugh, releasing the pent-up breath that they have been collectively holding.

 

“Well Margot my love,” Dickie says with a smile as he reaches out and takes his wife’s hands. “It looks like you get your wish.”

 

“And what wish is that, may darling?” she asks, confused.

 

“You get to have Miss Rosevear returned to ‘Chi an Treth’, just like you wanted. Now that Father knows she isn’t a Winterhalter, he’ll have no interest in what happens to her.”

 

“Oh hoorah!” Margot claps her hands in delight. She turns to Lettice and squeezes her hand excitedly. “You can work her into your designs for ‘Chi an Treth’ can’t you Lettice darling?”

 

Lettice smiles. “I have the perfect place for her in the drawing room, right where she belongs.”

 

“Capital old girl!” Dickie exclaims, leaping up from his seat. “Come on you two. Let’s go have some commiseration pie at Simpson’s. I don’t know about you, but with the departure of my parents, I’m suddenly starving.”

 

“Well, it might be commiseration pie for you, my love,” Margot adds. “But it will be celebration pie for me.”

 

Margot and Lettice rise from their places on the settee and the three head towards the door of the salon. Lettice pauses on the way out to take one final glance at Miss Rosevear. She smiles and sighs with satisfaction, pleased that the painting will be returned to ‘Chi an Treth’ where it belongs, rather than be sold by the unscrupulous Marquess of Taunton in his greed.

 

As she slips away to join her friends, Lettice pulls up short and stares at a painting hanging low on the wall of the salon. Looking somewhat diminutive in a rather ornate gilded frame that seems to dominate it, a young man of the Renaissance stares out with sad eyes. His red hair frames his pale face in a pageboy style and a deep bluish black cap sits at a slightly jaunty angle across his head. Lettice ponders, staring intently at him. “Where have I seen you before?” she asks the empty room. She knows she has seen him before, but for the life of her, she can’t think where.

 

“Come on Lettice!” Dickie calls from the corridor outside. “I’m hungry!”

 

“Yes,” Lettice replies distractedly. “I’m coming!”

 

*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 and Brooks and Phillips Son and Neale.

 

**”Blood and Bandages” is an architectural style that was popular before the First World War where buildings are constructed of layers of red brick with intervening white stone dressings. Normally Portland Stone is used for the “bandages”, but in some cases white plaster rendering or tiling was popular. The rather macabre description of the late Victorian style came about as a result of people comparing the striped red and white of the buildings to the blood and bandages seen so commonly during the First World War.

 

***The term chypre is French for the island of Cyprus. Its connection to perfumery originated with the first composition to feature the bergamot-labdanum-oakmoss accord, François Coty's perfume Chypre from 1917, whose name was inspired by the fact that its raw materials came predominantly from Mediterranean countries.

 

****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).

 

*****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.

 

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

 

********The derogatory term used by the British to describe the French as “Frogs” dates back to at least the 16 Century, partially because of the fondness of the French for enjoying a good frog leg. The term also derives from the flag and coat of arms of the French kings. The ignorant English, not knowing that the fleur-de-lys was supposed to be a flower, though that it represented a gold frog. Hence “frog” became a derogatory term for the French. Interestingly, the term “frog” was used as a derogatory term by the French against themselves. Parisians were often called frogs by the couriers of Versailles because Paris at the time was surrounded by swamps.

 

*********Madame Tussauds is a wax museum in London; it has smaller museums in other major cities. It was founded by wax sculptor Marie Tussaud in 1835. Her mother worked for Philippe Curtius in Bern, Switzerland, who was a physician skilled in wax modeling. He taught Marie the art of wax modelling beginning when she was a child. One of the main attractions of her museum was the Chamber of Horrors. This part of the exhibition included victims of the French Revolution and newly created figures of murderers and other criminals. Other famous people were added, including Lord Nelson, the Duke of Wellington, Henry VIII and Queen Victoria. Some sculptures still exist that were made by Marie Tussaud herself. The gallery originally contained some four hundred different figures, but fire damage in 1925, coupled with German bombs in 1941, severely damaged most of such older models. The casts themselves have survived, allowing the historical waxworks to be remade, and these can be seen in the museum's history exhibit. The oldest figure on display is that of Madame du Barry, the work of Curtius from 1765 and part of the waxworks left to Grosholtz at his death. Madame Tussauds is a major tourist attraction in London, displaying the waxworks of famous and historical figures, as well as popular film and television characters.

 

Although the masters in this painting may appear very real, this scene is in fact made up of pieces from my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The painting of Miss Rosevear in its gilded frame is a 1:12 artisan piece made by V.H. Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The easel on which she stands comes from Kathleen Knight's Doll House in the United Kingdom.

 

The other paintings hanging on the walls have are also 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber's Miniatures in America and Marie Makes Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The Marie Antionette suite with its pretty upholstery has been made by the high-end miniatures manufacturer, Creal. The Bombe chest is also a 1:12 miniature artisan piece made by the high quality miniature makers, Hasson, and has a hand painted top to resemble marble and a hand painted front featuring garlands of roses.

 

The two Limoges style vases on the bombe chest were made by M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik in Germany, who specialise in making high quality porcelain miniatures. The Art Nouveau candlestick in the form of a woman with foliate decoration is an American 1:12 size miniature artisan piece made of sterling silver. Unfortunately, I do not know the artisan's name.

 

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

 

The blue and white tea set came from a miniatures stockist on E-Bay, whilst the silver tray on which it stands, I have had since I was about seven, when I was given it as a gift for Christmas.

 

The miniature Persian rug made by hand by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney. The flocked creamy gold wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, with the purpose that it be used in the “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

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

 

Today however we are a short distance away from Cavendish Mews, skirting Hyde Park, travelling southwest through the refined Regency era houses of Belgravia to the well-heeled borough of Knightsbridge. There, within a stone’s throw of Harrods, in a fine red brick five storey Victorian terrace house in Edgerton Gardens, Lettice is attending the wedding breakfast* of her friend and debutante of the 1922 London Season, Priscilla Kitson-Fahey to American Georgie Carter. The Carters are a good Philadelphian society family, although they do come from money made through the uniquely American invention of the department store. However, this has been graciously overlooked by Priscilla’s widowed mother, Cynthia, in light of the fortune Georgie stands to inherit and the lavish allowance he is willing to spend on she and her daughter. Hired at great expense from a brewer’s family who own several properties throughout Knightsbridge, the furbished terrace house has been decked out with a profusion of gay flower arrangements as befits the celebration, whilst Gunter and Company** who are catering the breakfast, have erected a red and white striped marquee over the front entrance.

 

It is in the Edgerton Gardens terrace’s first floor reception room overlooking the garden square, where the wedding gifts to the new Mr. and Mrs. Carter are being displayed, that we find Lettice 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. Lettice was supposed to have been escorted to the wedding by Selwyn Spencely, the eldest son of the Duke of Walmsford, whom she has been discreetly seeing socially since having met him at her parent’s Hunt Ball in February. Unfortunately, Selwyn was called away on family business at the last moment, so Gerald has gallantly stepped in to accompany his best friend as he too has been invited to the wedding.

 

“I say,” whispers Gerald quietly to Lettice. “I shall never get used to a room full of Americans.” He looks about him. “They all speak so loudly.”

 

Lettice notes the voluble chatter washing about them, mostly voiced in strident midwestern American accents. Pricking up her ears momentarily, she catches snippets of conversations, for the most part about the wedding at the Brompton Oratory***, the bride’s wedding gown and what hats ladies were wearing, but also a man’s voice talking about buying Captain Cuttle**** from his owner, and one woman loudly and indiscreetly regaling some of her fellow Americans with stories about her presentation to the Prince of Wales***** in the Mayfair drawing room of a well-connected British friend.

 

“What is it they are saying now?” Lettice ponders quietly in reply to her friend. “Obtain a young heiress, or sell an old master.”

 

“Something like that.” Gerald muses. “Although in this case it’s a young heir.”

 

“So, we shall just have to get used to it as the Americans infiltrate our best, yet most penniless families.” Lettice pokes her friend in the ribs jovially. “Perhaps we’ll find you a wealthy heiress today.”

 

“Heaven help me!” Gerald throws up his hands in melodramatic mime.

 

“At least they are saying nice things about Cilla’s frock,” Lettice whispers with a smile as she catches her friend’s eye. “You’ll have a new flurry of women cloying for a frock or two from the House of Bruton when they see the going away outfit you designed for her.”

 

“Lord save me from Americans and their dry good store money.” Gerald mutters.

 

“I know you don’t mean that, Gerald.” Lettice scoffs, slapping his hand lightly with her own white glove clad hand. “Any money is good money for you, dry goods store or otherwise. At least this way you can enjoy American money without having to make a sham marriage to gain benefit from it. That will please your young musician friend, Cyril.”

 

“I think you are fast becoming a capitalist, my darling.” Gerald deflects, blushing at Lettice’s comment about his new companion whom she recently met in passing at his friend Harriet’s house in Putney on the south side of the Thames.

 

“Oh?” Lettice queries. “I thought you said I was a Communist.”

 

“Either way, they are both terrible, darling!” Gerald laughs.

 

Lettice titters along with him. She pauses for a moment and contemplates. “Gerald, what is a dry goods store, anyway?”

 

“No idea, darling.” He shrugs his shoulders. “However, whatever it is, it is strictly American, and they seem to make a great deal of money over there.”

 

“Thinking of money, I see old Lady Marchmont has given away another of her pieces of family silver.” Lettice discreetly indicates to a silver salver gleaming at the rear of a sideboard cluttered with wedding gifts and cards.

 

“Well, if she can’t afford to buy new pieces as gifts.”

 

“Yes, I suppose the death duties that had to be paid ate up most of the estate.”

 

“And with her husband, and all three of her sons killed in the war,” Gerald adds pragmatically. “Who is she going to leave what little she still has of the family silver to?”

 

“God bless Harrold, Morris and Vincent.” Lettice says.

 

“We need a drink if we’re going to toast our war dead.” Gerald says with a sigh. “I’ll go find us some champagne.”

 

Leaving Lettice’s side, Gerald wends his way through the beautifully dressed wedding guests, quickly disappearing from view amid the mixture of morning suits, feather decorated hats and matching frocks.

 

Lettice sighs and wanders over to the sideboard bearing Lady Marchmont’s silver salver and admires some of the other wedding gifts in front of it. Silver candelabras jostle for space with crystal vases and wine decanters. A very sleek and stylish coffee set she recognises from Asprey’s****** has been generously given by the Wannamaker family of Society Hill******* she discovers as she picks up the wedding card featuring a bride in an oval frame holding a bouquet in her hands. A Royal Doulton dinner service garlanded with boiseries of apricot roses and leaves is stacked up alongside Lady Marchmont’s salver and a pair of Meissen figurines also in shades of apricot and beautifully gilded hold court amidst all the other gifts.

 

“No Spencely today, Miss Chetwynd?” a well enunciated voice observes behind Lettice.

 

Gasping, she spins around to find the tall and elegant figure of Sir John Nettleford-Hughes standing before her.

 

Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John is still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intends to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. As an eligible man in a time when such men are a rare commodity, Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, invited him as a potential suitor to her Hunt Ball earlier in the year, which she used as a marriage market for Lettice. Luckily Selwyn rescued Lettice from the horror of having to entertain him, and Sir John left the ball early in a disgruntled mood with a much younger partygoer. Now, as he stands before Lettice, Sir John oozes the confidence of male privilege that his sex, class and enormous wealth bestows, and he wears it every bit as well as the smart and well-cut morning suit he is dressed in. The rather leering smile he gives her fills her with repugnance and Lettice shudders as Sir John takes up her glove clad right hand in his and draws it to his lips where he kisses it.

 

“Sir John,” Lettice says uncomfortably acknowledging him, a shudder rippling through her figure at his touch. “I didn’t see you at the church service.”

 

“Oh, I wasn’t there, Miss Chetwynd.” he replies flippantly, releasing Lettice’s hand, which she quickly withdraws. “I’m not much of a church goer myself,” Surprised by his blatant confession of not being particularly religious, Lettice falters, but Sir John saves her having to say anything by adding, “Especially since the war. Like Arthur Conan Doyle, I’m more into spiritualism these days than God********.”

 

“Indeed.” Lettice acknowledges. Changing the subject she continues rather stiffly, “I… I didn’t know you were acquainted with Priscilla, or is it Georgie you know.”

 

“Oh no, not the American. No.” he replies seriously. “I’m distantly related to Priscilla’s mother. We’re third cousins or some such,” Sir John sighs in boredom as he gesticulates languidly with his hand in which he holds a half empty champagne flute. “Which I suppose entitles me to an invitation to this rather vulgar show.” He looks with a critical scowl around the room full of rather beautiful, yet at the same time ostentatious, flower arrangements and all the guests milling about with glasses of champagne or wine in their hands chattering around them. He looks at the sideboard weighed down with expensive wedding gifts that Lettice had been inspecting. “Not that I’d imagine Cynthia paid for any of this, even if it is the bride’s family’s duty to host the wedding breakfast. I suppose the abrogation of such duties is one’s prerogative when as a virtually bankrupt widow, you have an American department store millionaire heir as a new son-in-law.” He cocks a well manicured eyebrow at Lettice to gauge her reaction, allowing it to sink with disappointment when she fails to respond. “Americans don’t tend to hold with tradition like we British do.” He nods and smiles at a passing acquaintance who catches his eye over Lettice’s left shoulder, raising his glass in acknowledgement. “No, I have no doubt that the Carters of Philadelphia have footed the bill not only for the wedding breakfast, but the European sojourn honeymoon for the young couple too. No doubt Cynthia, as my poor relation, wishes to show off her new found good fortune which isn’t even hers by rights. Why on earth should the couple go to Paris, when Edinburgh would have done equally as well. They do love splashing their rather grubby parvenu money about so, don’t they?”

 

“Who?”

 

“Why Americans of course, my dear Miss Chetwynd. Those from the New World are always so showy. I’m sure you agree.” Lettice is saved from having to give an answer when Sir John adds, “The Carters probably even paid for Priscilla’s wedding dress. It’s not one of your friend Bruton’s, is it?”

 

“No, Sir John. It’s a Lanvin********, I believe.” Lettice answers laconically, trying to avoid the scrutinising, sparkling blue eyed gaze of Sir John, which as at the Hunt Ball, runs up and down her figure appraisingly, making her feel as though he were undressing her before the entire company walking about them.

 

“Pity. He could have done rather well for himself grabbing at some of those shiny American dollars of Georgie’s.”

 

Lettice chooses not to mention the fact that Gerald has made the bride’s going away outfit as well as several evening frocks. “Well, Sir John,” she begins, smiling awkwardly. “It has been delightful to…”

 

“You know,” Sir John cuts her off, his eyes widening as his gaze intensifies. “You never did show me that portrait of Marie Antoinette that your father owns, like your mother promised at the Hunt Ball.”

 

“I’m quite sure that my mother would be only too glad to…”

 

“I was rather disappointed by your behaviour the night of the ball, Miss Chetwynd.” he interrupts abruptly.

 

“My behaviour, Sir John?”

 

“Your deliberate avoidance of me.” he elucidates.

 

“Sir John!” Lettice blushes at being so easily caught out. “I… I…”

 

“I think it is high time you made amends by you,” He adds emphasis to the last word. “Showing me that painting.”

 

“Well, I’m very sorry to disappoint you Sir John, but I am frightfully busy with a new commission here in London. I very much doubt I shall be back down at Glynes before November. Even then, it will be for my brother Leslie’s wedding. And then of course it is Christmas.”

 

“And you’ve had your head turned by young Spencely.” he utters, stunning Lettice with his knowledge of her and Selwyn’s recent involvement with one another. “Oh yes, I know.”

 

“Sir John!” Lettice gasps, blushing again at his flagrant statement.

 

“But as I noted when I saw you just now, he isn’t here today, is he?” His eyebrows knit as he speaks. Once again, he doesn’t wait for a reply. “And I know for a fact that up until a few days ago, his name was on the list of wedding guests, as your escort.”

 

“How can you know that, Sir John?” Lettice gasps in surprise. “We have been very discreet.”

 

“Because Cynthia isn’t my dear Miss Chetwynd. She has been trying, rather unsuccessfully I might add, to rub my nose in her new-found turn of fortunes by telling me about all the great and good of London society who will be attending her daughter’s wedding to the American. It’s quite a coup considering that were this not such a grand occasion thanks to her son-in-law’s family new money, none of those she was crowing about to me would have even considered accepting her invitation. Not that she could have afforded to invite them without the Carter’s money. As the widow of a rather insignificant man of an obscure and penurious parochial family, she was rather chuffed to have the eldest son of the Duke of Walmsford on her invitation list thanks to an advantageous connection with one of her daughter’s nightclub acquaintances – you, Miss Chetwynd. An invitation made at your request, Miss Chetwynd. Yet he isn’t here today, and you came on your own.”

 

Lettice’s cheeks flush bright red at Sir John’s insinuation. “I’ll have you know I came with Gera…” she begins hotly.

 

“Bruton was already on the list of invited guests, Miss Chetwynd.” Sir John interrupts her protestations. “I believe that like you, he is part of a coterie of Bright Young Things********* who attend the Embassy Club on Bond Street with Priscilla. That’s how you all come to be connected. Isn’t that so?”

 

Lettice nods like a chided child, with a lowered glance.

 

“And do you know why Spencely didn’t come today, Miss Chetwnd?”

 

“Yes I do,” she answers in a deflated fashion, Sir John’s question having knocked the bluster out of her. “He’s entertaining his cousin, Pamela Fox-Chavers at Clendon**********.”

 

“And do you know why that is?”

 

“Yes, because his mother, Lady Zinnia, organised it, so that Selwyn might reacquaint himself with his cousin after many years of separation. He is to be a chaperone to her when she debuts next year.”

 

Sir John chuckles to himself as he catches Lettice’s stare with his own and holds it for an unnerving few moments. “If you say so, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“What are you laughing at? It’s true, Sir John. Selwyn told me himself.”

 

“Oh I’m sure he did, my dear. However, it was no coincidence that Pamela’s arrival at Clendon coincided with Priscilla’s wedding.”

 

“What do mean, Sir John?” Lettice asks warily. She thinks back through their conversation for a moment, her temperature rising as she whispers angrily, “Did you tell Lady Zinnia about Selwyn escorting me here today?”

 

“Now, now, Miss Chetwynd. Temper, temper.” He smiles lasciviously, the sudden spark in Lettice seeming to attract him even more to her.

 

“Did you?”

 

“You young people are rather tiresome with your intrigues.” he sighs. “No, I did not Miss Chetwynd. It would have done me no favours to put a wedge between you and Spencely.” He eyes her again before continuing, “Now look, I know you don’t like me, Miss Chetwynd. You’ve made that quite clear.”

 

“Sir John!” Lettice tries weakly to protest but is silenced by his raised hands.

 

“Don’t pretend my dear Miss Chetwynd. You loathe me, so therefore, I owe you no favours. Yet nevertheless, I feel you need to hear this. Perhaps it will be better received from me, someone you detest who has no vested interest in your happiness, rather than a friend whose kindness may be perceived as unwelcome interference.” He pauses for a moment, his mouth a tight line beneath his silver grey moustache. “Don’t tip your cap at young Spencely. You’re wasting your time. He isn’t free to make a marriage of his own choosing.”

 

Lettice utters a scornful laugh as she rolls her eyes. “Don’t tell me that you believe that marriages are made by mothers, too, Sir John?” She folds her arms akimbo defiantly across her chest, suddenly filled with a sense of determination to stand up to this man who is obviously and ridiculously jealous that her head has been turned by a handsome young man, rather than by his wealth. “I’ve heard that enough from my own mother.”

 

“In this case it is true, although Lady Sadie has no more say in who Spencely marries than either he or you do. Lady Zinnia is the one who pulls the strings. Not even the Duke would dare go against her when it comes to matters of marriage. It was decided long ago whom he should marry.”

 

Lettice laughs again. “And who might that be?”

 

“Well, I should have thought that would have been obvious to a young lady of some intelligence like you.”

 

“Pamela Fox-Chavers?”

 

“Exactly!” Sir John sighs satisfactorily. “You’re finally catching on. You may not be quite as bright as I first assumed you to be, but you aren’t a complete dullard like so many other addle headed young flappers.” He indicates with a discreet motion to a young girl in lemon yellow giggling girlishly with another flapper in pale pink as they whisper behind their hands at the passing parade of young American men.

 

“But Pamela is Selwyn’s cousin!” Lettice retorts, her eyes growing wide.

 

“True, but she’s only a distant one, and you must confess that it isn’t unusual for cousins to marry cousins. Look at the Royal Family. It’s been happening for hundreds of years to help preserve blood lines and seal the lines of succession.”

 

“But he barely knows her.”

 

“Be that as it may, the decision has been made, my dear Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“You make it sound like a fait accompli, Sir John.”

 

“And so it is.”

 

“But you seem to forget, Sir John, although you are the one who is privy to the knowledge of it, that I am currently pursuing a romantic relationship with Selwyn Spencely, and he with me. I have no intention of giving way so easily, especially for a person whom he barely knows and whom he has no affection for.”

 

“And I just told you to forget about marrying him.” Sir John retorts loftily in a lowered voice. “He is not at liberty to marry you, whatever you and he may think or try to convince yourselves to the contrary.” He affixes her again, his blue eyes piercing her. “If you pursue young Spencely as you so gallantly claim you will, then best you sharpen your lance, Miss Chetwynd. Lady Zinnia is no-one to trifle with. You think you and Spencely have been discreet up until now, but I can assure you, discreet or not, Zinnia will already know all about you and her son, and she will put a stop to your budding romance,” The last two words are spat out in a derisive tone which makes Lettice shudder. “Sooner or later, when it suits her intentions best. And when she does, it will be a spectacular and painful fall from the lofty battlements of love’s tower, my dear Miss Chetwynd. Zinnia is a hard woman who enjoys inflicting hurt onto others. It, along with collecting porcelain, is one of her greatest pleasures in life.” He points his empty champagne flute at her. “Just don’t come crawling to me cap in hand after it happens.” He arches his elegant eyebrows over his cold blue eyes. “You have been warned.”

 

“Thank you for your warning, Sir John.” Lettice replies in a steely and cold manner, squaring her jaw and tilting her head haughtily.

 

“I wish I could say it was my pleasure.” he replies resignedly. “Goodbye, Miss Chetwynd.” He turns his back on her and walks away without another word.

 

As Lettice watches his slender figure glide between the milling groups, quickly disappearing amidst the sea of bobbing heads and hats, Gerald returns with two flutes of champagne.

 

“What did that old letch want?” Gerald asks, following Lettice’s gaze, noticing Sir John’s retreating figure.

 

“Oh nothing,” Lettice says with a shrug of her shoulders and a shuddering breath. “He was just spitting sour grapes and venomous lies at me because I spurned his affections at the Hunt Ball.”

 

“Really?” Gerald’s eyes grow wide. “How disgusting!”

 

As she sips her effervescent champagne and listens absently to Gerald chat, she quietly tries to dismiss all Sir John just told her from her mind, but she can’t quite manage it. A knot forms in her stomach and the thoughts running through her head sours the taste of champagne on her lips.

 

*A wedding breakfast is a feast given to the newlyweds and guests after the wedding, making it equivalent to a wedding reception that serves a meal. The phrase is still used in British English, as opposed to the description of reception, which is American in derivation. Before the beginning of the Twentieth Century they were traditionally held in the morning, but this fashion began to change after the Great War when they became a luncheon. Regardless of when it was, a wedding breakfast in no way looked like a typical breakfast, with fine savoury food and sweet cakes being served. Wedding breakfasts were at their most lavish in the Edwardian era through to the Second World War

 

**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 Berkley 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.

 

***The Brompton Oratory is a large neo-classical Roman Catholic church in the Knightsbridge area of the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, London. Its full name is the Church of the Immaculate Heart of Mary. The foundation stone was laid in June 1869; and the new church designed by Herbert Dribble was consecrated on 16 April 1884. The church is faced in Portland stone, with the vaults and dome in concrete; the latter was heightened in profile and the cupola added in 1869. It was the largest Catholic church in London before the opening of Westminster Cathedral in 1903. Catholic aristocrats who married at the church include John Crichton-Stuart, 3rd Marquess of Bute, and Gwendoline Fitzalan-Howard in 1872, Lord William Beauchamp Nevill and Mabel Murietta in1889, Bernard Fitzalan-Howard, 16th Duke of Norfolk, and Lavinia Strutt in 1937, Simon Fraser, 15th Lord Lovat, and Rosamund Broughton in 1938, Peter Kerr, 12th Marquess of Lothian, and Antonella Newland in1943), Anthony Noel, 5th Earl of Gainsborough, and Mary Stourton in 1947 and Julian Asquith, 2nd Earl of Oxford and Asquith, and Anne Palairet in 1947). Others who married at the church include Lord of Appeal in Ordinary Baron Russell of Killowen, traveller and landowner John Talbot Clifton and author Violet Clifton in 1907) and Australian rules footballer Joe Fogarty in 1916.

 

****Captain Cuttle, ridden by jockey Steve Donaghue won the Derby at Epsom racecourse in June 1922.

 

*****The Prince of Wales would later become Edward VIII, King of the United Kingdom and the Dominions of the British Empire and Emperor of India from 20th of January 1936 until his abdication in December of the same year when he married American divorcée, Wallis Simpson. As well as a penchant for married woman, David, the Prince of Wales, had a great fondness for Americans and enjoyed their more relaxed and modern attitudes.

 

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

 

*******Society Hill is a historic upper-class neighborhood in Center City Philadelphia.

 

********By the end of his life, in 1930, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, creator of the fictional detective Sherlock Holmes, was a fervent believer in spiritualism, having spent decades researching ghosts, fairies and the paranormal. His fascination with the supernatural grew after his son Kingsley and his younger brother, Innes, battle-weary from service in World War I, died amid the worldwide influenza pandemic shortly after returning home.

 

*********Jeanne Lanvin (1867 – 1946) was a French haute couture fashion designer. She founded the Lanvin fashion house and the beauty and perfume company Lanvin Parfums. She became an apprentice milliner at Madame Félix in Paris at the age of 16 and trained with Suzanne Talbot and Caroline Montagne Roux before becoming a milliner on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré in 1889. In 1909, Jeanne joined the Syndicat de la Couture, which marked her formal status as a couturière. The clothing she made for her daughter began to attract the attention of a number of wealthy people who requested copies for their own children. Soon, Jeanne was making dresses for their mothers, and some of the most famous names in Europe were included in the clientele of her new boutique on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. By 1922 when this story is set, she had just opened her first shop devoted to home décor, menswear, furs and lingerie. Her gowns were always very feminine and romantic.

 

*********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.

 

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

 

Any bride would be only too happy to receive such an array of wedding gifts, however, however real they may appear, these are all items from my 1:12 miniatures collection, including pieces from my own childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The silver coffee set on the square tray, the egg cruet set, the condiments caddy, the champagne bucket and the two candlesticks are all made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The two hand painted Meissen figures are also made by Warwick Miniatures. 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 two silver water jugs were acquired from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The silver statue of the ballet dancers on the far right of the photo came from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House in the United Kingdom. The sods siphon, the bulbous glass vase and the glass jug are made from hand spun glass and have been made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The floral edged dinner service I acquired from an online stockist of miniatures through E-Bay. Lady Marchmont’s silver salver is a miniature I have had since I was around six or seven years old. All the Edwardian wedding cards are artisan pieces. Each is a 1:12 miniature version of a real wedding card, and all have ben made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.

 

The sideboard that can be seen laden with wedding gifts is of Queen Anne design. It was given to me when I was six. It has three opening drawers with proper drawer pulls and each is lined with red velvet.

 

The very realistic floral arrangements in tall vases are made by hand by Falcon Miniatures in America who specialise in high end miniatures.

 

The paintings on the walls came from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House 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.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Oh! Is it in here?” Gerald asks.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Doubtful?” Dickie asks.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Poor Mr. Fox.” Lettice remarks piteously.

 

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

 

“Where she belongs.” Lettice smiles.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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.

you never know what youre gonna find :)

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 from her home to just a short distance away. Still in Mayfair, she is visiting Asprey* in Bond Street: jewellers to the royal family, silversmiths and goldsmiths and suppliers of luxury goods. With Dickie Channon and Margot de Virre’s engagement announced, Lettice is charged with finding a wedding gift not only of her own, but for her parents to send to the home of Margot’s parents. Leaving the busy shopping strip populated by suited men on their way to their offices and clubs and smartly dressed ladies enjoying a day of shopping, Lettice slips in through the beautiful full length glass doors of Asprey’s into the cossetted comfort of the light filled luxury shop. Leaving the bustle of London behind her with the quiet click of the doors closing, she breathes in the gentle waft of expensive perfume and leather.

 

“Ah! Miss Chetwynd!” a mature frock coated shop walker greets Lettice with a broad smile. “How do you do.”

 

Lettice greets the stout, smartly dressed man with the familiarity of the regular client that she is. “How do you do, Crosbie,” she addresses him as she does her family butler.

 

“And to what do we owe this great pleasure of your visit, Miss Chetwynd?” Mr. Crosbie asks obsequiously, clasping his glove clad hands together behind his back. “A finishing touch for one of your latest interiors, perhaps? I have some lovely silver tea services just in from our silversmiths.”

 

Lettice looks distractedly around the beautiful mahogany display cabinets filled with leather dressing cases and travel de necessaires, candelabras, coffee and tea services.

 

“Not today, Crosbie,” she flashes him one of her winning smiles, not fooled for a moment by the portly floor walker’s flattery and toady behaviour.

 

Lettice knows that when she walks into Asprey’s that she is a valued customer because of how much money she spends there and how much influence she has on others who also patronise the shop. Her mind slips back to her first visit to Asprey as a teenager before the war, when she accompanied her mother who was looking to buy some new jewellery for a court levee. The frock coated staff fawned over Viscountess Wrexham and her daughter noticed for the first time the deference paid not only to her mother, but to her as well as a member of a family held in such high esteem and a future patron of the shop.

 

“A new travel de necessaire for your next country house soirée, perhaps?” Mr. Crosbie asks attentively. “Or maybe some new pearls for the Season?”

 

“No, nothing like that today, Crosbie,” Lettice replies.

 

“Please,” Mr. Crosbie indicates with a sweeping gesture to a small mahogany Queen Anne style table decorated with a white vase filled with fragrant rose blooms, flanked by two dainty velvet seated salon chairs. “Some tea perhaps, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“Oh Crosbie,” she sighs, sinking into one of the chairs, crossing her legs elegantly and propping her black handled green parasol against her thigh. “You are a brick!”

 

The older manager looks over and catches the eye of a junior member of staff to whom he nods almost imperceptibly. The younger man quietly slips away from behind a counter of silver salvers and trays and disappears into the back of the showroom.

 

“Then,” Mr. Crosbie asks, taking his place adjunct to Lettice. “What is your pleasure today, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

Lettice’s eyes the glittering shelves again. Champagne buckets, strawberry dishes, biscuit barrels, lidded chafing dishes, trophies and meat covers all polished to a gleaming sheen wink and glow against their mahogany housings or in glass display cases, under the morning light from the street outside and diffused light from crystal chandeliers overhead.

 

“Well, you would no doubt have read in The Times that my friends Margot de Virre and Richard Channon have recently become engaged.”

 

Crosbie’s gleaming brown eyes lift towards the ceiling and his mouth falls open ever so slightly as he considers the names of all the newly engaged couples of note announced in the London newspapers. “The Marquess of Taunton’s son and Lord de Virre’s daughter,” he remarks thoughtfully. “Yes, I did see that. Ah!”

 

The younger shop walker arrives with a silver tray laden with a sleek teapot, sugar bowl, milk jug, a cup and saucer and a selection of biscuits on a plate. He carefully places the tray on the table, next to Lettice’s crocodile skin handbag. Mr. Crosbie nods ever so slightly at the younger man and he retreats, walking quietly back across the carpeted floor.

 

“So, you see my dilemma Crosbie,” Lettice says. “I need a wedding gift.”

 

“Well, Miss Chetwynd,” the older man says in an assuring tone. “You aren’t the first person to visit Asprey to purchase a wedding gift for them.” He pauses. “However we have so many lovely things to choose from, that I feel sure we shall find the perfect gift from you.”

 

“Oh it isn’t just for me, Crosbie,” Lettice replies apologetically. “I also need a wedding gift for my parents.”

 

“Ah! How is his Lordship?” Mr. Crosbie asks. “And her Ladyship?”

 

“Quite well thank you, Crosbie,” Lettice states. “However, they are too ensconced in Wiltshire to come to London to select their own gift.”

 

“Well, I’m sure we can find a suitable gift for them too, Miss Chetwynd.” He smiles politely. “Shall I pour?”

 

“Oh, you are a brick, Crosbie!” Lettice says. “Yes please.”

 

As he pours, Mr. Crosbie artfully makes sure that the sleek body of the teapot and its elegant spout catches the light and the attention of his customer.

 

“That’s a lovely teapot, Crosbie,” Lettice remarks thoughtfully.

 

“It’s one of the new tea services we have just received from our silversmiths.” He adds hopefully, “It is Georgian Revival Moderne: very fashionable Miss Chetwynd. Will you take milk and sugar?”

 

“Yes, thank you, Crosbie. Oh, and the crockery?”

 

“Also in a new and very fashionable line, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Crosbie adds with delight that Lettice has noticed it. “Do have a chocolate or a vanilla Bourbon biscuit.”

 

“Thank you, Crosbie.” She picks up a chocolate cream Huntley and Palmer’s biscuit and munches daintily on it. After finishing her mouthful and taking a sip of tea she continues, “Now. I want something different. Something special for two of my closest friends: not just a tea set.” Crosbie’s face falls slightly at her words. “Anyone can give a tea set.”

 

“Indeed, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Crosbie acquiesces with a slight lilt of disappointment.

 

“No!” Lettice continues. “I want something, different. The Marquess is giving the newlyweds a house near Penzance as a country retreat. I am told it is a Regency house. I’d like to give them something suitable for there. What can you show me, Crosbie?”

 

The older man’s eyes light up again. “Ah! Well, Asprey’s do have a few rather lovely pieces that might suit. If I could beg your indulgence, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

Lettice nods in agreement as the man moves purposefully across the red carpeted floor to the mahogany display shelves where he fetches several pieces. She continues to enjoy the Bourbon biscuits and her tea whilst he searches for potential presents. Returning, he places two lidded boxes and a tray on the table before her.

 

“A Regency Revival letter tray, and two Georgian Revival tea caddies, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Crosbie says soothingly with a flourish of his hands worthy of a magician having produced a rabbit from a hat.

 

Lettice scrutinises each, carefully picking them up and considering them as gifts. Across the table from her, Mr. Crosbie quietly holds his breath as he watches, clutching his glove glad hands together beneath the table’s surface.

 

“Yes,” Lettice says at length. “Yes, I think the larger of the tea caddies, Crosbie.”

 

“Very good, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Crosbie enthuses. “And for your parents?”

 

“Oh, the tea service, definitely.” she replies with a wry smile. “They are very good at giving tea sets.”

 

“Very good, Miss Chetwynd. I’ll have the accounts drawn out. Shall I have the tea service and the tea caddy sent directly to Lord and Lady de Virre with a small note of compliments from you and the Viscount?"

 

“The tea set, yes,” Lettice says. “But the tea caddy, no. Please have that sent to me.”

 

“Certainly Miss Chetwynd. I can have it delivered to you this afternoon, if that suits.”

 

“Splendid Crosbie,” Lettice smiles and sighs, relieved that she has the perfect wedding gift for her friends. Finishing her tea, she grasps her parasol and handbag and prepares to leave. Then, as an after thought she adds, “Oh, and have another of those tea services sent to me as well.” She looks again at the sleek teapot glinting on the tray. “I quite like the way the pot pours.”

 

“Yes, Miss Chetwynd!” Mr. Crosbie says with undisguised pleasure.

 

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

 

This luxury goods shop floor with all its silver may appear real to you, however it is fashioned entirely of 1:12 miniatures from my collection. Some of the items in this tableaux are amongst the very first pieces I ever received as a young child.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

 

The panoply of silver items that full the shelves and cabinets were once commonplace items in both upper and middle-class households. These items include candelabras, candlesticks, a biscuit barrel, an egg cruet set, a lidded muffin dish, a punch bowl, a toast rack, vases, trophies, coffee sets, tea sets, a strawberry dish, lidded chafing and serving dishes, meat covers, gravy boats, a water jug, an ice bucket, a sweetmeat dish, silver trays and salvers, and tea caddies. Almost all of the silver pieces in this scene are exclusively made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The only pieces not made by them are the square tray and tea service in the foreground, and the three prong Arts and Crafts style candelabra which sits atop a stand in front of the mahogany cases. The square tray and tea service in the foreground, which come from Smallskale Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The three prong candelabra is an artisan piece of sterling silver made in Berlin and is actually only 3 centimetres in height and 3 centimetres in width.

 

The Queen Anne table and two chairs in the foreground were amongst the first miniatures I was ever given as a child. They were birthday presents given to me when I was seven years old.

 

Lettice’s snakeskin handbag with its gold clasp and chain comes from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniature Shop in the United Kingdom. Lettice’s umbrella also comes from Smallskale Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The Art Deco style teacup, saucer and plate come from an EBay stockist of miniatures, whilst the tiny chocolate and vanilla Bourbon biscuits from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in the United Kingdom. They specialise in miniature foods, and the array of items they have along with the fine and realistic detail of their hand made pieces is quite amazing!

 

The vase of roses on the Queen Anne table is beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium.

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 town of Rotherfield and Mark Cross where ‘The Gables’, the home of Lettice’s newest client, Mrs. Hatchett, is. Lettice has been given the honour of being the first guest invited to stay at ‘The Gables’ since its redecoration under Lettice’s adept hand. And just as she threatened, she has managed to wrangle an invitation for her old childhood chum, Gerald Bruton, as she is determined to prove to him that whilst Mr. and Mrs. Hatchett may not be top-drawer – rather “up-and-coming middle-class mediocrity” to quote Gerald – they are good, decent people. They might even be beneficial to the success of Gerald’s Grosvenor Street dress shop.

 

“Well Lettuce Leaf,” Gerald remarks as they step into the light and airy ground floor drawing room to enjoy aperitifs with their hosts. “I must say that this room oozes your restrained good taste.”

 

“Thank you, Gerald.” Lettice replies with a contented sigh. “Well, I might not have won convincing Mrs. Hatchett not to have chintz upholstery."

 

"See! I told you she would want it! So up-and-coming middle-class mediocrity."

 

"But Gerald," Lettice proceeds determinedly. "You should have seen it before it fell to me to redecorate. And don’t call me Lettuce Leaf!”

 

“I’m only teasing.” Gerald smiles. He sighs with undisguised boredom. “I have to get some amusement whilst I am trapped here away from the illicit pleasures of London in the dull green and leafy bosom of Sussex.”

 

“Oh come Gerald. It’s not as bad as all that.” Lettice slaps Gerald’s hand with one of her own white glove glad ones. “Admit it. This isn’t the house you were expecting, is it?”

 

Gerald looks over at his friend, standing in a gown of eau-de-nil satin decorated with silver sequins and bugle beads – one of his own creations. He looks down and runs his shoe distractedly over the luxurious Chinese carpet on the floor.

 

“Oh you!” Lettice hisses. “You and your snobbery and pride! I’ll tell you what I think you thought.”

 

“And what’s that Lettuce Leaf?”

 

“I think, no, I know, you were pleased to be picked up by Mrs. Hatchett’s chauffeur, dressed in his smart black uniform.”

 

“Well, he is rather dashing, you know.” Gerald smiles cheekly at the thought of his handsome face, broad shoulders and muscular arms.

 

“It’s more than that! You didn’t think there was going to be a chauffeur, any more than you thought there was going to be a Worsley to drive us through the village.”

 

“Well… I…” Gerald blushes.

 

“You enjoyed being the honoured guest of the ‘big house’ as we were swept down the high street under the eyes of all the locals. Admit it!”

 

Gerald chuckles. “It’s like they’d never seen a Londoner before.”

 

“Gerald! Don’t be such a snob! And,” she continues. “Like me when I first came here, when we turned into the gates above which the name of the house was emblazoned in wrought iron curlicues, your heart sank as you prepared for the worst, but you were then pleasantly surprised to find that ‘The Gables’ was in fact a rather lovely Arts and Crafts country house sitting amidst a charming informal English garden.”

 

“Alright. Alright, yes. I admit I was pleasantly surprised Lettice. However,” He wags an admonishing finger at his friend. “A beautiful home, redecorated by a lady of quality and taste does not make Mrs. Hatchett, or her banker husband, top-drawer.”

 

“You're improving Gerald. At least you aren't calling her 'that woman' anymore."

 

"I can hardly do that, now that I've actually met her, can I Lettice? It's not proper form."

 

"Well, at any rate, Mrs. Hatchett doesn’t want to be top-drawer, Gerald. Neither of them does. He wants to get into politics to represent the forgotten heroes of the Great War,”

 

“I knew you were having communist tendencies.”

 

“Not at all, Gerald. And, as I was saying before you so rudely interrupted, she just wants to be a respectable and dutiful wife.”

 

“Well, that is a problem.” Gerald sighs as he tweaks with his white bow tie. “Just look at that rather garish maroon silk crepe dress she greeted us in this morning when we arrived. She is still a chorus girl, in love with vulgar colours and too much jewellery - not to speak of make-up!”

 

“And that’s why I have managed to get you an invitation for this weekend.” Lettice wraps her arm through the crook of his conspiratorially as she moves closer to him. “You can dress her and teach her what a respectable politician’s wife should wear: more sombre colours, less powder, pearls and the like.”

 

“And who is going to teach her about manners, Lettice?” He looks at her doubtfully. “She said aperitifs in the drawing room. Where is she?” He indicates with an open left hand to the empty drawing room. “As hostess she should be here to greet us.”

 

As if she knew she was being spoken about, Mrs. Hatchett, followed by her husband, bustle rambunctiously into the room just at that moment, filled with apologies.

 

“We’re so sorry to have kept you waiting Miss Chetwynd, Mr. Bruton.” Mrs. Hatchett apologises. “Poor Charlie was held up in the office and I had to rush him to get ready.”

 

Gerald looks his host and hostess up and down with an appraising eye. Mrs. Hatchett’s choice of evening wear isn’t much better than her afternoon wear: a drop waist dress with an asymmetrical hem cut from some garish red imitation satin and accessorised with faux pearls that don’t pretend to look real and rhinestone ornaments. Dressed semi formally compared to Gerald’s set of tails, Mr. Hatchett on the other hand in his dinner jacket, shows the signs beneath it of a successful banker who perhaps enjoys too many long luncheons and dinners at his club. Still, he is handsome with salt and pepper hair and she is very pretty in a coquettish way beneath the powder.

 

“Yes, I must be the one to apologise.” Mr. Hatchett says. “How do you do Miss Chetwynd. It’s a pleasure to finally meet the woman for whom I have written so many cheques.”

 

Lettice blushes at the mention of money.

 

“He’ll make a splendid Labour Party minister.” Gerald quips beneath his breath.

 

“How do you do, Mr. Hatchett!” Lettice gushes with a tone of overly cheerful bonhomie to hide Gerald’s rude remark. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you too.” She takes her host’s extended hand. “Although Mrs. Hatchett speaks of you so often, I almost feel that I have met you.”

 

“Lies! Lies! It’s all lies, my dear Miss Chetwynd.” Turning to Gerald he continues. “And you must be Mr. Bruton.” He offers his hand to his guest.

 

Gerald looks at it momentarily with a sense of mild distaste before remembering his top-drawer manners and politely taking it, feeling his host’s firm grip crush his own gentle one. “How do you do, Mr. Hatchett.”

 

“And do what do we owe the pleasure of your company, Mr. Bruton?” He looks between Lettice and Gerald. “Is my home to be an assignation for the two of you so that you can get away from your chaperones? Eh?” He beams broadly and laughs good heartedly, seemingly unaware of the discomfort he has caused his guests with his remark as awkwardness flows between Lettice and Gerald.

 

“Oh no, Mr. Hatchett,” Lettice begins, looking awkwardly down at the Chinese carpet. “It isn’t… we aren’t…”

 

“We’re… we’re old childhood chums, Mr. Hatchett. That’s all! I would never…” Gerald splutters as he feels the heat of blush flood his face.

 

“Charlie!” Mrs. Hatchett says in a rather startled fashion. “You must forgive my husband Miss Chetwynd, Mr. Bruton. He does have a tendency to joke, and is rather apt to speak his mind.”

 

Gerald is silently surprised by his hostess' awareness of their embarrassment.

 

“Well, isn’t that the sign of a good politician, Mrs. Hatchett.” Lettice quickly replies, trying to dissipate hers and Gerald’s feelings of awkwardness.

 

“Quite right, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Hatchett agrees. “I can see why you took to her Dolly my dear.” He smiles at his wife. “And I must confess Miss Chetwynd, I am delighted with what you’ve done with our house. I almost wouldn’t believe it’s the same house, you’ve transformed it beyond all former recognition from the cellar to the dome. This calls for champagne.”

 

“Yes Charlie.” Mrs. Hatchett replies, smiling, as she goes to the servant’s bell by the fireplace, now fully repaired, and rings it.

 

A young maid whom Lettice doesn’t recognise arrives moments later with a silver tray laden with a champagne bottle, four flutes and some delicious looking canapés.

 

“No Augusta, Mrs. Hatchett?” Lettice asks.

 

“No, Miss Chetwynd.” Mrs. Hatchett replies with a happy sigh. “Like so much of the past of this house, Augusta is thankfully gone.”

 

“No loss there, I must say.” Mr. Hatchett adds. “She was quite a tartar that one!” He laughs loudly. “My mother held onto her for years. Probably too many years if I'm being honest.”

 

"And that's what we need, Mr. Hatchett," Lettice adds. "More honest politicians."

 

Gerald snorts derisively at Lettice's comment, but fortunately with the arrival of drinks and hors d'oeuvres, no-one seems to have noticed.

 

“Thank you Jennie. Mr. Hatchett will pour.” Mrs. Hatchett instructs the maid. “You may go.”

 

“Yes madam.” the maid replies as she drops a quick bob curtsey and leaves.

 

“She’s a local girl, and much better suited to our new home.” Mrs. Hatchett adds as the door to the hallway closes.

 

Mr. Hatchett pops the champagne cork and proceeds to pour the sparkling golden liquid into the glasses.

 

“Our almost new home, Dolly my dear,” Mr. Hatchett counters his wife as he passes a filled flute of champagne to Lettice. “I must confess Miss Chetwynd, I am pleased you didn’t let my wife have it all her own way. I think if she had, she might have thrown out all our family photos and Grandfather’s steeple chase cup to boot.” He indicates to the sideboard on which his prized family memories and history stand proudly gleaming in the light.

 

“Oh no Charlie…” Mrs. Hatchett begins, blushing.

 

“Not at all, Mr. Hatchett.” Lettice smiles at her female host. “Your wife understands full well that a future Member of Parliament must have a suitable family background. However, I think you will agree that the mantlepiece does look better a little less cluttered.”

 

“And with mother’s sketch of me up there too, in pride of place, Miss Chetwynd. How could I not agree?”

 

“Thank you. Then I am hoping you will agree to another idea I have had, Mr. Hatchett, which will explain Gerald’s presence.”

 

“Oh? I’m all ears Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Hatchett says with raised eyebrows.

 

“I fear you shall want me gone before the evening is gone, Mr. Hatchett.” Gerald says with a slightly apologetic tone as he accepts a flute of champagne from his host. “You see, not only am I Lettice’s childhood chum, but I also run a little establishment in Grosvenor Street: ladies wear, evening frocks mostly.”

 

“As I can attest to.” Lettice does a quick pirouette to show off her shimmering evening gown.

 

“Yes, you see Charlie,” Mrs. Hatchett explains. “When Miss Chetwynd first came here, I told her that I still cannot dress myself suitably to be an up-and-coming MP’s wife.”

 

“Oh I can see where this is going.” Mr. Hatchett frowns, his face growing stern.

 

Seeing his face cloud over like a brooding thunderstorm about to break, Lettice, Gerald and Dolly Hatchett all stop smiling and fall silent, with only the ticking of the Georgian Revival clock on the mantle to quietly break the sudden silence.

 

Mr. Hatchett suddenly breaks the momentary silence with a great jolly guffaw. “Lucky you married a banker then, isn’t it Dolly?”

 

The other three immediately relax their tense shoulders, smile and chuckle.

 

"Oh Charlie!" Mrs. Hatchett slaps his hand. "You are awful!"

 

“You should have seen your faces, Miss Chetwynd, Mr. Bruton!” Mr. Hatchett chuckles. “Oh, please forgive me! I do enjoy a good tease.”

 

“So does Gerald, Mr. Hatchett.” Lettice replies. “The two of you should get along swimmingly.” She looks to Gerald with a raised eyebrow and a cheeky smirk playing upon her lips.

 

“It’s a bit of a rum business Mr. Bruton, for a man, isn’t it?” Mr. Hatchett addresses Gerald. “Designing dresses for ladies?”

 

“Well, Mr. Hatchett,” Gerald colours once again. “I’m not the first to do it.”

 

“Yes, look at Norman Hartnell*, Charlie.” Mrs. Hatchett adds quickly, noticing Gerald’s sudden awkwardness.

 

Gerald smiles at her gratefully, whilst Lettice suspects that Dolly Hatchett may just have done the first thing to win over her snobbish friend, just by being her own kind and thoughtful self.

 

“Well, cheers then!” Mr. Hatchett says, raising his champagne flute aloft in a toast. “To a newly decorated home.”

 

“And a soon-to-be newly decorated wife.” adds Mrs. Hatchett.

 

Lettice and Gerald join in the toast, and Lettice sighs with satisfaction that she has helped, in some little way, to perhaps start her host off on a successful career in politics, and to show her old childhood chum that you don't need to be top-drawer to be a a person worth knowing.

 

*Norman Hartnell was a British fashion designer who started his business in the 1920s. He designed clothes for many members of the aristocracy and was seen as a suitable and respectable alternative to Parisian designers by the more conservative British upper classes. He designed clothes for many famous people and the Royal Family including Queen Elizabeth II, Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother and Princess Margaret.

 

This upper-middle-class room, decorated by the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd, 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 sideboard and Mrs. Hatchett’s wedding photo on 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 from various suppliers, but all are metal. The one on the mantle and the matching one on the sideboard I have had since I acquired them from a specialist dolls’ house supplier when I was a teenager. The horse trophy on the sideboard is a 1:12 pewter miniature made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.

 

Both the paintings on the walls are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States. The Georgian silhouettes of the gentleman is 1:12 artisan pieces made by Lady Mile Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The silver Art Nouveau frame containing the sketch of the young man to the left of the clock is a 1:12 artisan miniature made by Pat’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The frame is a very thin slice of steel that has been laser cut with the intricate Art Nouveau design.

 

The white and gold 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 settee and armchair, upholstered in Mrs. Hatchett’s preferred blue chintz, are made to the highest quality standards by J.B.M. Miniatures. The back and seat cushions all come off the body of the armchair and settee, just like a real piece of furniture.

 

The Windsor chair by the fireplace is a hand-turned 1:12 artisan miniature which came from America. Unfortunately, the artist did not carve their name under the seat, but it is definitely an unmarked artisan piece. The same artist may also have made the central pedestal table which is also hand made.

 

The silver tray on the pedestal table belongs to the same silver set as the tea set on the Welsh dresser whilst the plate of finely made hors d‘oeuvres are artisan miniatures from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in England. The 1:12 artisan bottle of Deutz & Geldermann Champagne is made of glass with a real foil topper. The winery is real and still exists today. The two empty champagne flutes are also 1:12 artisan miniatures made of real glass by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. The two full glasses of champagne and the bowl of caviar are artisan miniatures made by Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom and the ice container is made by Reutter Porzellan in Germany.

 

The Welsh dresser and the French provincial sideboard both come from Babette’s Miniatures, who have been making miniature dolls’ furnishings since the late eighteenth century. The dresser has plate grooves in it, just like a real dresser would. It contains a mixture of china and silverware. The Art Deco style tea set on the top shelf and the silver tea set on the second shelf are recent additions from specialist dollhouse miniature suppliers, whilst the silver plates on the second shelf and the hand painted porcelain bowl on the left-hand side of the main bench I have had since I was a young teenager. The glass fruit bowl containing fruit is a 1:12 artisan miniature from Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers in the United Kingdom.

 

The Art Deco smoker’s stand is made of lead and was made by Shackman Miniatures on New York. Although new to my collection, it was made in the 1970s. It has a small box of Swan Vesta matches inserted into the holder.

 

The vases of about the room are beautifully hand made by the Doll House Emporium.

 

The carpet in the foreground is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug made in miniature by hand by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney, Australia.

 

The wooden Georgian fire surround is made by Town Hall Miniatures, supplied through Melody Jane Dolls’ 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.

 

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.

Wine de-canter and crystal cut glasses on a silver tray at Canons Ashby.

 

July 2017

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

 

Today we are in the very modern and up-to-date 1920s kitchen of Lettice’s flat: usually Edith her maid’s preserve. However, this morning it has been invaded by two deliverymen from nearby Harrods department store. 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 the flat has been in upheaval as Edith and Lettice’s charwoman* Mrs. Boothby have been cleaning the flat thoroughly in preparation for the occasion. Today they will move some of the furnishings to make space for the guests to dance and mingle and roll up the carpets so Mrs. Boothby can give the parquet floors a good waxing before the first guest arrives. Lettice has fled her flat for the day to avoid all the upheaval and keep out of the way of her servants. The florist is expected at midday and the caterers from Harrods at four o’clock, but for now, all the alcohol for the party has arrived.

 

“Cor! Would yer look at all that!” Mrs. Boothby gasps as she slips into the kitchen via the door that leads from the flat’s entrance hall and stares at the kitchen table. “I was hopin’ for a nice reviving cup of Rosie-Lee** before I starts polishin’ the dinin’ room floor.”

 

“Not a chance I’m afraid, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith sighs. “Not until these gentlemen are finished. As you see, my table has been taken over by deliveries.”

 

“’Scuse me, Miss,” a green liveried deliveryman mutters as he tries to slip unobtrusively past Edith, a large wooden crate of champagne bottles in his broad, muscular arms.

 

“Sorry.” Edith slips a little closer to the stove and watches as the box is deposited onto the table with a soft thud and the rattle of bottles.

 

“Cor! ‘Ow many people is Miss Lettice expectin’ tonight, dearie?”

 

“About one hundred and twenty guests I think, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

“Gawd knows where they’s gonna fit.” Mrs. Boothby casts her eyes to ceiling. She picks out a bottle from the crate. Looking at the label is starts to read aloud, “Da Rock… da Rockegree.”

 

“De Rochegré,” Edith corrects her appalling French pronunciation.

 

“You certainly know French champagne!” The deliveryman cocks his eyebrow in obvious surprise, but gives her a happy smile, revealing a neat set of white teeth as his blue eyes sparkle.

 

“I work for a flapper,” Edith replies, blushing at the compliment, but daring to return his smile with a shy one of her own. “It pays to know.”

 

“Right you are, Miss!” the deliveryman exclaims, tapping his finger to his cap. “’Scuse me, but there’s more where these come from.” And he walks towards the door that leads to the back service stairs of Cavendish Mews, slipping aside to let another Harrods deliveryman, older than him wearing glasses carrying a bottle of gin and a bottle of Cinzano, pass.

 

“Humph!” Mrs. Boothby mutters in a disgruntled fashion, screwing up her nose and depositing the bottle back into the crate in a rather offhand way. “French!” she sniffs as it clatters back into the crate.

 

“What’s wrong with French champagne, Mrs. Boothby?” Edith asks, thinking to herself that it’s unlikely the old Cockney woman from Poplar has ever had so much as a taste of French champagne in her life.

 

“Well, it’s fancy ain’t it?” She crews up her nose. “And it’s foreign!” She glares at the offending bottle as its glass gleams in the morning sunshine pouring through the kitchen window. “I don’t like foreign. Give me a good pint of British beer at the ‘Appy Go Lucky** any day of the week.”

 

“Well, if Miss Lettice and her friends drink it, it can’t be all bad, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

The old woman gives her a doubtful look. “Well, nuffink’s as good as a nice reviving cup of Rosie-Lee is it?” she asked pointedly.

 

“Oh, alright then. I’ll make you a cup,” Edith gives in. “But you’ll have to have it over here by the stove. There isn’t any room on the table, what with the champagne buckets, glasses and bottles in the way.”

 

“Ta very much, dearie.” the Cockney woman says with a smug and satisfied grin.

 

Edith busies herself using the small shelf on the right-hand side of the stove to make a pot of tea for herself and the charwoman.

 

“Fetch me two cups, and the sugar bowl from the dresser, will you Mrs. Boothby?”

 

“Right you are, dearie!” she replies cheerfully, pulling down two Deftware teacups and the sugar bowl.

 

“You’ll have to settle for milk directly from the bottle this morning,” Edith mutters as she walks over to the food safe and withdraws a pint bottle of milk. “As I shan’t have the time, or it looks like the space, to wash a milk jug.”

 

“I don’t mind, dearie! As long as I get my Rosie-Lee. I’m about parched, and I can’t be polishin’ the dinin’ room floor wiv a dry mouth.”

 

Edith pours hot water over the tealeaves in the pot and stirs it vigorously before hitting the rim of the pot three times with her spoon. Turning back to the table, she sighs. “Where is all this going to go?”

 

“Down the gullets of them rich fancy guests what’s comin’ tonight, I shouldn’t wonder!” The wiry thin Cockney woman bursts out laughing at her own joke, which turns into one of her bouts of fruity coughing.

 

“Well said!” the first and younger of the Harrods deliverymen pipes up as he steps across the threshold of the kitchen through the service entrance. “You are a card, aren’t you mother?”

 

“Mother!” Mrs. Boothby flaps her hand at him. “I ain’t your mother. Cheeky blighter!”

 

The deliveryman deposits another rattling crate of bottles onto the kitchen table. “A dozen Deutz and Geldermann.” he remarks, looking to Edith with another broad smile.

 

“Thank you.” she replies, daring to meet his eyes and smiling a little more broadly this time. Turning back momentarily to Mrs. Boothby she remarks, “More French champagne.”

 

The two women watch the handsome deliveryman leave again, his broad shouldered bulk filling the doorframe. They remain silent for a few moments.

 

“Well, you are a dark ‘orse, dearie!” Mrs. Boothby remarks, sizing up her companion with a wide eyed gaze.

 

“What on earth do you mean, Mrs. Boothby?”

 

“Well, look at you, all sweetness and innocence in your blue and white cotton print morning uniform, flirtin’ wiv the deliveryman!”

 

“I wasn’t flirting!” Edith splutters. She spins around and starts pouring the tea, trying to hide the flush of colour rising up her neck and flooding her cheeks. “I was only talking, that’s all.”

 

“You was talkin’, and smilin’, and flirtin’ my girl! Don’t you deny it!” The older woman leans on the shelf of the stove and peers from her vantage point up into Edith’s face, trying unsuccessfully to catch her eye, but clearly seeing her blush.

 

“Oh, you do create something from nothing.”

 

“And ‘ere I was, thinkin’ you was sweet the grocer’s delivery boy.” the older woman continues to tease, smiling cheekily as Edith squirms under her gaze.

 

“Frank Leadbetter? Mrs. Boothby, you do talk a lot of rot!” She looks up, her face now quite scarlet. “I’m just being friendly is all!”

 

“Aahh… friendly,” the older woman remarks with a cocked eyebrow and a knowing look as she picks up her cup of tea. “I see.”

 

“Mrs. Boothby!”

 

“Ahem!” The older of the deliverymen clears his throat, interrupting the two ladies.

 

Turning around in surprise, Edith and Mrs. Boothby stare across at the skinny middle aged man who returns their gaze critically over the top of his glasses. Clearly embarrassed at inadvertently catching them in the middle of a very personal conversation, he smiles awkwardly at them.

 

“Yes?” Edith asks, wiping her hands down her apron, but trying to hold his gaze with confidence she doesn’t now have.

 

“Aahh, that’s the last of the delivery, Miss. If you could just sign here, Miss?”

 

He hands her his clipboard and pen. Edith takes it from him and signs the form agreeing that the delivery is complete, without even glancing at the inventory. Anxious that he leaves so that she can recover her dignity, she thrusts the clipboard back to him. “Very good.”

 

Taking it back, he tips his hat and mutters, “Good day, ladies.”

 

Scuttling out the service door, Edith follows him, closes it behind him and snibs it. She stands with her back to the room for a moment whilst she regains her composure, taking a few deep and calming breaths, all the while feeling Mrs. Boothby’s eyes upon her.

 

Finally turning back, Edith mutters, “Oh you are awful sometimes, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

The Cockney charwoman smiles as she leans against the stove, her saucer in one hand and her cup raised to her lips. Lowering it to reveal a smile as mirth filled as her eyes, she says, “And youse a flirt, dearie.” She pauses, once again considering the young maid in a new light. “Still, I don’t blame you. Youse a pretty little fing, ‘though I suspect you don’t know quite how pretty you is. And,” She takes a deep sigh. “If I was firty years younger, I’d flirt wiv ‘im too.” She shakes her head and narrows her eyes as she glances towards the closed door. “‘E was a good looking fella, ‘e was.”

 

Anxious to change the subject and salvage some dignity, Edith walks across the room. “Come on Mrs. Boothby, help me move these bottles off the table and onto the bench. I need to clean all these glasses and sort the crockery and the silverware before the caterers arrive this afternoon. I’ll never be able to do it without my table to work on.”

 

“Is it worf a ‘Untley and Palmer’s to go wiv me Rosie-Lee?”

 

“You can have two Huntley and Palmers of your choice from the special box I ordered from Harrods for tonight’s party if you do.”

 

“Oh!” Mrs. Boothby beams in delight. “Ta!”

 

The two women begin moving the bottles, Edith’s embarrassment gone, and Mrs. Boothby’s mischief abated, as they focus on the job at hand.

 

*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.

 

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:

 

On Edith’s deal table is a panoply of bottles for the party. The Harrod’s crate, which I purchased from an EBay seller in the United Kingdom, is full of bottles of Deutz and Geldermann and De Rochegré champagne. All are artisan miniatures and made of glass and some have real foil wrapped around their necks. They and the various bottles of wine and mixers in the background are 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 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 silver tray that I have had since I was around eight years old. The silver cocktail shaker is also made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. The silver wine cooler in the foreground is made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.

 

On the first shelf of dresser that can be seen just to the right of shot stands the Deftware kitchen tea set. Each piece features the traditional painting of a windmill.

 

To the left of the dresser, a spice cabinet with six marked drawers hangs from the wall. Also hanging on the wall are three copper frypans with black metal handles which, along with the copper kettle on the stove came from a specialist dollhouse supplier.

 

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

 

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

Wickham Place is the London home of Lord and Lady Southgate, their children and staff. Located in fashionable Belgravia it is a fine Georgian terrace house.

 

Today Lady Southgate is receiving her friend the Honourable Diana Chetwynd in the Salon, and she has had Withers the butler bring in her fine Limoges tea set on a silver salver.

 

The Salon, situated on the first floor of Wickham Place with views across the square, retains much of its Eighteenth Century elegance in spite of the passing years and the changes to fashionable décor. The salon still retains its white marble Georgian fireplace and hand printed wallpaper featuring birds and flowers. The Marie Antoinette suite with its floral brocade is also original. The instigator of the original décor, Georgiana Lambert - a Georgian relative of Lord Southgate - hangs in a portrait above the fireplace. It, and her two favourite Meissen figurines of the Lady with the Canary and the Gentleman with the Butterfly have been moved from their original home in the Green Drawing Room into the Salon by the current Lady Southgate. There are perhaps a few more signs of the current lady of the house’s taste with two Limoges vases on the mantlepiece, a Queen Anne china cabinet filled with her porcelain collection and an Impressionist painting above the Hepplewhite bonheur du jour (ladies writing desk).

 

This year the FFF+ Group have decided to have a weekly challenge called “Snap Happy”. A different theme chosen by a member of the group each week, and the image is to be posted on the Monday of the week.

 

This week the theme, “a cup of tea” was chosen by Lisa (red stilletto),

 

What better way to take tea than with a Limoges tea set in the comfort and elegance of the Salon. However this upper-class domestic scene is different, 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 1950s Limoges tea set on an artisan sterling silver salver. The tea set consists of teapot, sucrier (lidded sugar bowl), milk jug, hot water jug and two cups and saucers. Each piece is stamped with a small green Limoges mark to the bottom. The set is larger and some pieces are in the Queen Anne china cabinet next to the fireplace. The sterling silver salver was made in England in 1988.

 

Two 1950s Limoges vases on the mantlepiece. 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.

 

A Chinese screen dating from the 1920s featuring hand-painted soapstone panels of birds and flowers. It is framed in ebony and capped with fruitwood and is remarkably heavy for its size. The reverse features Chinese scenes with mountains and pagodas.

 

An Eighteenth Century Hepplewhite bonheur du jour (ladies writing desk), hand decorated with leaves and gilding, made by the Bespaq company, who also made the Marie Antionette suite.

 

Georgian and Regency portraits of ladies and an Impressionist landscape, all in gilded frames.

 

A miniature Persian rug made by hand by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney.

 

Two miniature diecast lead Meissen figurines: the Lady with the Canary and the Gentleman with the Butterfly, hand painted and gilded by me.

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 we are in the very modern and up-to-date 1920s kitchen of Lettice’s flat: usually Edith her maid’s preserve. However, this afternoon it has been invaded since four o’clock by several of the catering staff of the nearby Harrods department store. 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 the flat has been in upheaval as Edith 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 band and for the guests to dance and mingle. Lettice has fled her flat for the day to avoid all the upheaval and keep out of the way of her servants and hired staff. Harrods delivered the alcohol this morning, the florist delivered some amazing floral arrangements at midday and now the caterers from Harrods are filling Edith’s preserve with a cacophony of chatter and the clatter of food preparation.

 

Edith stands in a corner of her kitchen, dressed in her afternoon uniform of black silk moiré with her special lace collar, cuffs, lace trimmed apron and pleated headpiece kept for formal occasions. She carefully observes the three caterers wearing white aprons to protect their green Harrods uniforms as they busily work on different tasks around Edith’s central deal kitchen table. One artfully lays out a range of Macfarlane Lang Homestead cracker biscuits on one of the silver trays that Lettice has borrowed from her parents’ estate. The caterer carefully leaves space for several fluted glass bowls in which he has already scooped and garnished some brightly coloured salmon dip and French onion dip which he made upon arrival at Lettice’s flat. The second skilfully assembles vol-au-vents filled with spiced mushroom pâte and savoury petit fours of egg and lettuce, ham and tomato, lettuce tomato and cucumber and cured meats onto another of Lettice’s family silver trays. A second, smaller tray has a bowl of caviar and several petit fours topped with caviar and wedges of lemon ready to be served. The third caterer is busily assembling a tray of thin triangular sandwiches filled with egg mayonnaise, cucumber and lettuce, tomato and cheese, ham and tomato and ham and cucumber fillings. Their fingers dance across their work as they laugh and chatter lightly with one another, however their conversation does not extend to Edith whom they seem quite happy to ignore.

 

“My goodness,” Edith remarks at length. “How swiftly you work, gentlemen.”

 

“Time is of the essence.” one of the men deigns to reply. “There is no time to waste.”

 

“Oh,” Edith replies quietly retreating a little further from the table, feeling somewhat rebuked for interrupting the men.

 

“What time do your mistress’ guests arrive, girl?” snaps the head caterer as he completes another perfect petit four of egg and lettuce.

 

“Ahh,” Edith stammers nervously. “The invitation is for eight, err… I think.”

 

“Think? You think?” he splutters incredulously. “You aren’t here to think, girl! I asked you a question. Now answer it!”

 

“Sorry, sir,” Edith mumbles. “Yes, yes, eight o’clock, sir.”

 

“What was that girl?” he barks distractedly as he reaches for an empty vol-au-vent case. “Stop muttering would you!”

 

“Yes sir,” Edith replies, trying to add confidence to her voice as she raises her voice. “Eight o’clock sir.”

 

“And how many guests?” he demands in reply.

 

“About one hundred and twenty.” Edith responds.

 

“About? About?” The head caterer’s eyes widen and his face reddens like a beetroot as he retorts, “Catering is a precise business, girl! Even a stupid lump like you should know that! I didn’t ask for abouts, I want to know how many guests are coming, and I want an answer!”

 

Mustering all her courage and resolve Edith counters, “And I’ve answered it as best as I can for you, sir. I’m afraid that I’m not privy to my mistress’ exact number of guests. When I asked her, she told me around one hundred and twenty guests.”

 

“Useless, useless girl!” the head caterer carps as he returns to his task. “Very good gentlemen,” he continues more kindly as he addresses his companions whilst glancing up at the kitchen clock hanging on the wall. “We’re doing splendidly for time.”

 

“Did you ever doubt it, Walter?” the caterer filling sandwiches replies.

 

“Never!” Walter, the head caterer answers back, smiling proudly. “We are a well-oiled machine.” His smile vanishes as his gaze falls upon Edith and his lips purse in disapproval.

 

The youngest caterer, the one creating the sandwiches, looks over to his left and gives Edith a momentarily smile, which she returns, feeling a little relief that at least one of the three Harrods staff was a little kinder than the others.

 

Emboldened by his engagement with her, she addresses the youngest man. “Can I help in any way,” she asks timidly with a small smile.

 

“The best thing you can do,” Walter snaps, looking up and glaring at Edith. “Is to keep out of our way, you stupid girl, and speak only when spoken to!”

 

Edith feels tears of embarrassment and shame start to sting her eyes as she lowers her head. She reaches into the pocket of her dress and withdraws a small white handkerchief and discreetly dabs at her eyes.

 

“It’s alright Miss,” the younger man says kindly in reply to Edith’s offer. “It’s good of you to offer, but we all know what our allocated tasks are. We can manage fine.”

 

“I could do with a spot of refreshment to keep my gears greased,” remarks the caterer setting out the biscuits. Looking up from his work, he spies Edith standing quietly by the stove, her hands folded meekly before her. “You there girl!” he addresses her loftily, as if seeing her for the first time. “Do something useful girl and put on the kettle and make Mr. Rowntree,” He looks at Walter. “Mr. Brown,” He looks at the youngest caterer. “And myself a pot of tea! Now girl!”

 

“Yes sir,” Edith replies and catches herself just in time to stop herself from curtseying to the haughty caterer.

 

The young girl picks up the brightly polished kettle and walks across the room and over to the sink where she fills it. Walking back, she heaves the heavy vessel onto the shelf beside the stovetop and reaches out to move one of the large copper pots of consommé boiling on the stovetop to one of the rear burners.

 

“Stop!” Walter cries out, almost causing Edith to spill the boiling contents of the pot on herself as she jumps anxiously. “Don’t touch that!”

 

“But sir,” she answers. “The kettle is too heavy for me to lift over the pot. I shall burn myself if I try.”

 

“You can’t just go moving that consommé to another burner, you stupid, stupid girl!” blusters Walter angrily. “That is sitting at perfect simmering temperature. Burn yourself for all I care, but you are not to move that pot! Who the bloody hell do you think you are?”

 

“And ooh the bloody ‘ell do you fink you are?” comes a cockney voice from the diagonally opposite corner of the kitchen.

 

All eyes turn in surprise to the door leading from the service stairs into the kitchen, where Mrs. Boothby, Lettice’s charwoman*, stands. Arrayed in a long blue coat, she has a fox fur stole draped about her shoulders whilst on her head sits a pre-war toque of navy blue. Her rangy figure bristles with anger as her beaded blue bag and her umbrella in her hands and the single peacock feather aigrette sticking out of her toque tremble with the anger radiating from her. Raising her chin, she draws herself up to her full height as she glares with eyes aflame at the head caterer from Harrods.

 

“Who?” Walter splutters, as much startled as the others by the woman’s sudden appearance in the doorway.

 

“Nah! Nah!” Mrs. Boothby replies, shaking her head at him as she steps purposefully across the room. “I asked you a question,” She pokes the man sharply in the chest with a bony right index finger. “And I believe that a gentleman answers a lady’s question. Nah! I’ll ask you again, since it seems to me that youse maybe ‘ard of ‘earing. Oooh the bloody ‘ell are you, to be bullying this ‘ere young girl?” She pokes him again for good measure.

 

“I’m Walter Rountree, head cater of Harrod’s catering department.” he replies pompously, pulling himself up to his full height, looking down his nose imperiously at Mrs. Boothby. “Who are you, old woman, to come barging in here like this?”

 

The youngest caterer utters a snorting laugh which he quickly extinguishes as the Cockney woman’s beady eyes momentarily snap from Water’s face and glare at him.

 

“I,” Mrs. Boothby sneers with a set, square jaw. “Am Mrs. Boothby, ‘ousekeeper for the ‘Onourable Miss Lettice Chetwynd, Mr. Walter Rowntree of ‘Arrods catering!” She pokes him sharply again, and this time Water backs away slightly. “And I am responsible for this ‘ere girl’s well bein’. And,” she adds forcefully. “I don’t like the way you’re addressin’ ‘er!”

 

“I don’t think I rightly care, Mrs. Boothby.” he blusters in reply. “I know now who to blame for this girl’s inability to answer the simplest of questions.”

 

A tense silence falls across the room, with the other two caterers standing mid activity, poised with knife or spoon in hand and poor Edith cowering by the stove, all watching the stand off between the haughty head caterer and the old cockney woman. Only the ticking of the clock on the wall and the distant rumble of traffic through the ajar kitchen window breaks the silence.

 

“Well, Mr. Walter Rowntree of ‘Arrods catering,” Mrs. Boothby continues undaunted. “I think you will when Mr. Cowling, the ‘ead of catering learns ‘ow you bullied a young and defenceless girl, what I left ‘ere to oversee your work whilst I was out on business.” She pauses and then adds. “It is Mr. Cowling what sent you ‘ere, wan it?”

 

The other two caters gasp at the mention of their superior’s name, giving Mrs. Boothby the advantage that she needs to bolster her bravado.

 

Glancing momentarily at the other two men she proceeds, “And, I don’t think Mr. Cowling would be terribly pleased to ‘ear that the actions of you, Mr.?” She raises a black leather glove clad hand to the caterer arranging the biscuits and dips. “Err, Mr.?”

 

“Mr. Jones, Ma’am.”

 

“And you, Mr. err?” the old woman looks sharply at the young man standing over the sandwiches.

 

“Brown, Ma’am.”

 

Returning her gaze to Walter, Mrs. Boothby completes her sentence with names. “I don’t think Mr. Cowling would be terribly pleased to ‘ear that the actions of Mr. Jones, Mr. Brown, or you Mr. Walter Rowntree of ‘Arrods catering, were to blame for the sudden wivdrawl of the patronage of the ‘Onourable Miss Lettice Chetwynd, ‘er parents the Viscount and Countess of Wrexham, or the Marquess and Marchioness of Taunton, what’s son and future daughter-in-law tonight’s party is being ‘eld in ‘onour of, from the hestalishment of ‘Arrods Department Store, nah would ‘e?”

 

No-one responds to her at first.

 

“Well… no.” Walter finally replies, breaking the stunned silence enveloping the others in the room. “No, he wouldn’t.”

 

“Well then,” Mrs. Boothby smiles thinly. “I suggest that you apologise to Edith ‘ere right nah, and if youse does it nicely, I might just forget this whole sorry business and not tell my Mistress what disgraceful behaviour I’ve seen ‘ere today. Hhhmmm?”

 

Walter blanches as she smiles smugly at him before slowly turning back to Edith and the other two men, who still stand goggle eyed and white faced at he and Mrs. Boothby.

 

He clears his throat awkwardly. “Err… I’m sorry, Miss. I didn’t mean to be so abrupt.”

 

“Or rude and abnoxious,” Mrs. Boothby pipes up helpfully.

 

“Err, yes, or rude or obnoxious. I hope you will forgive me.”

 

Edith doesn’t reply, too stanned by what has just taken place in her kitchen.

 

Mrs. Boothby releases a long breath of satisfaction at Walter’s apology, resulting in one of her nasty fruity smokers’ coughs bursting forth, wracking her body.

 

“Oh Mrs. Boothby, are you alright?” Edith gasps, rushing over to the old woman. “Here, let me get you a glass of water.”

 

The old Cockney woman bats Edith’s attentions away with a waving hand as she regains her composure. “I’m alright, dearie,” she gasps breathlessly. “Nah, grab that box of champagne bottles what’s sittin’ up there and come wiv me. We best stock the cocktail cabinet before Miss Chetwynd gets ‘ome.”

 

“Yes Mrs. Boothby!” Edith replies, dropping a curtsey at the imposing woman’s instructions.

 

Edith picks up the box the Cockney woman indicated to and takes it towards the green baize door that leads into the flat’s dining room, and still dressed in her coat, fur and hat, complete with umbrella and beaded bag on her arm, Mrs. Boothby follows.

 

Turning back to the three men, Mrs. Boothby addresses the youngest as an afterthought. “’Ere Mr. Brown, put the kettle on would you and make us a cup of Rosie Lee** would you?”

 

“Yes ma’am.” he replies meekly.

 

“Ta!” Mrs. Boothby acknowledges before following Edith through the door.

 

Edith and Mrs. Boothby giggle as they scuttle across the dining room and out of any possible earshot of the three Harrods caterers.

 

“Oh, Mrs. Boothby,” Edith gasps as she puts the crate of champagne on the empty dining table. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

 

“Humph!” Mrs. Boothby sniffs, looking back to the door leading to the kitchen. “We may not all ‘ave the vote*** yet, but that don’t mean that little men like ‘im can treat us women like rubbish.”

 

“But, but how did you know his manager was Mr. Cowling, Mrs. Boothby?” Edith asks.

 

The old Cockney woman smiles broadly. “Easy! I read ‘is name this mornin’ on the docket on Miss Lettice’s desk when I was tidying.”

 

Both women chuckle as the start to sort out the bottles in the crate.

 

*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.

 

***In 1921 when this story is set, not every woman in Britain had the right to vote. In 1918 the Representation of the People Act was passed which allowed women over the age of thirty who met a property qualification to vote. Although eight and a half million women met this criteria, it was only about two-thirds of the total population of women in Britain. It was not until the Equal Franchise Act of 1928 that women over twenty-one were able to vote and women finally achieved the same voting rights as men. This act increased the number of women eligible to vote to fifteen million.

 

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:

 

On Edith’s deal table delicious canapés are being prepared for the party. The plate of sandwiches, the silver tray of biscuits and the bowls of dips, most of the savoury petite fours on the silver tray closest to the camera and the two white bowls containing salmon dip and egg mayonnaise 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 loaf of bread with the slices hanging off it is made by Polly’s Pantry Miniatures in America. The ripe red tomatoes in the Cornishware bowl are made by hand by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering, whilst the sliced pieces of tomato on the chopping board come from The Dollhouse Suppliers in England, who specialise in hand made fruit and vegetables made from Fimo and dried air clay. The bowl of caviar was made by Karen Lady Bug Miniatures in England. The very real looking lettuce lying next to the bread I bought along with a few other vegetables, including the cucumber on the chopping board, from an auction house some years ago. The jars of herbs and lemon slices are also 1:12 miniatures, made of real glass with real cork stoppers in them which I also bought from an auction and have had for many years.

 

The tin of Macfarlane Lang’s Homestead Biscuits features a 1920s design on its lid. It was purchased from Shepherd’s Miniatures in England. Macfarlane Lang and Company began as Lang’s bakery in 1817, before becoming MacFarlane Lang in 1841. The first biscuit factory opened in 1886 and changed its name to MacFarlane Lang and Co. in the same year. The business then opened a factory in Fulham, London in 1903, and in 1904 became MacFarlane Lang & Co. Ltd. In 1948 it formed United Biscuits Ltd. along with McVitie and Price.

 

The tray that the caviar is sitting on and the champagne bucket sitting on the bench in the background are made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.

 

The Harrod’s crate sitting next to the champagne bucket on the kitchen bench in the background I purchased from an EBay seller in the United Kingdom. It is full of bottles of Deutz and Geldermann and De Rochegré champagne. All are artisan miniatures and made of glass and some have real foil wrapped around their necks. They are made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.

 

On the first shelf of dresser that can be seen just to the right of shot stands the Deftware kitchen tea set. Each piece features the traditional painting of a windmill.

 

To the left of the dresser, a spice cabinet with six marked drawers hangs from the wall. I have had that piece since I was around eight years old. Also hanging on the wall are three copper frypans with black metal handles which, along with the copper pots and kettle on the stove came from a specialist dollhouse supplier.

 

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

 

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

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

 

Today it is Tuesday, and we are in the very modern and up-to-date 1920s kitchen of Lettice’s flat: Edith her maid’s preserve. Being Tuesday, Mrs. Boothby, Lettice’s charwoman* who comes on Tuesdays and every third Thursday to do the hard jobs is busy polishing the floors in Lettice’s bedroom, whilst Edith arranges tea things on the deal kitchen table in the middle of the room whilst she waits for the copper kettle on the stove to boil.

 

“Oh good!” Mrs. Boothby sighs as she slips into the kitchen via the door that leads from the flat’s entrance hall. “You’ve got the kettle on, dearie!” A fruity cough emanates from deep within her wiry little body as she deposits her polishing box beneath the sink and puts the dirty rags that require washing down the laundry chute. “Nah just I’ll just sit ‘ere for a few minutes and you can give me a reviving cup of Rosie-Lee** and I’ll ‘ave a fag before I get started on scrubbin’ the bathroom.”

 

“Oh no you don’t!” Edith says sharply as she places her own hand firmly over the opening of Mrs. Boothby’s blue beaded handbag before the old Cockney woman can grab her cigarette papers, Swan Vestas and tin of Player’s Navy Cut.

 

“What?” Mrs. Boothby looks up at Edith in surprise. “I’m only goin’ for me fags, dearie, not a pistol.”

 

“Miss Lettice has a guest and I’ve just made a Victoria sponge.” She indicates to the golden sponge cake with jam and cream oozing from its middle standing next to Lettice’s Art Deco tea service. “I don’t want it or the tea I’m making smelling of your foul cigarette smoke, Mrs. Boothby!”

 

“Me smoke ain’t foul!” the older woman snaps back.

 

“Yes, it is, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

How Edith hates the older woman’s habit of smoking indoors. When she lived with her parents, neither smoked in the house. Her mother didn’t smoke at all: it would have been unladylike to do so, and her father only smoked a pipe when he went down to the local pub.

 

“The stench comin’ from privy down the end of my rookery, now that’s foul, dearie.”

 

“It’s all relative Mrs. Boothby.” Edith says cheerily. “Now, I will make you a cup of tea since I’m boiling the kettle for Miss Lettice,”

 

“Oh, ta.” Mrs. Boothby says sarcastically.

 

“But if you want to smoke today,” Edith ignores her. “Please go and do so on the porch outside.”

 

Mrs. Boothby groans as she picks herself out of Edith’s comfortable Windsor chair. Grumbling quietly, but not so quietly that Edith can’t hear her muttering, the old woman fossicks through her capacious bag and snatches out a cigarette she had already rolled previously and her box of Swan Vesta matches. She mooches over to the kitchen door that leads to the tradesman’s stairs and lights her cigarette, folding her bony arms akimbo across her sagging chest.

 

“Thank you.” Edith says diplomatically, even though she doesn’t really want to thank the Cockney woman at all.

 

“So,” Mrs. Boothby blows a plume of blueish silver smoke out into the outer corridor. “An American, then.”

 

Edith knows Mrs. Boothby is fishing for gossip on Lettice’s guest, and she doesn’t like to gossip with the charwoman. Unlike her friend and fellow maid Hilda, Mrs. Boothby is not very discreet. “Mmn,” she says non-committally as she starts placing the tea things on a square silver tray, a new purchase by Lettice from Asprey’s.

 

“Oh come on, dearie,” Mrs. Boothby’s eyes roll as she speaks. “Don’t be prim and propa. Ooh is she then?”

 

“You know I don’t like to gossip, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies.

 

“Well, you’d be the only maid this side of St. James what don’t, dearie.”

 

“All I know is that Miss Lettice asked me to bake a Victoria sponge for her guest, and that’s what I’ve done.”

 

“Well ya know ‘er name anyroad, ‘cos ya let ‘er in. Ya can tell me that much at least.”

 

“Her name is Miss Ward.”

 

“Wanetta Ward,” Mrs. Boothby crows triumphantly. “I ‘eard Miss Lettice talkin’ to ‘er.”

 

“Well, if you’ve been listening at keyholes, Mrs. Boothby, I don’t suppose anything I told you would be news then.”

 

“Oh come on, dearie,” she cries. Knowing the chink in Edith’s armour she continues. “What’s she look like then?”

 

As soon as the words are out of Mrs. Boothby’s mouth, Edith’s eyes light up. She loves fashion and the glamourous people that Lettice mixes with. Not that Mrs. Boothby knows it, because she never goes into her room, but Edith has scrapbooks of cuttings of London’s rich and famous clipped from Lettice’s discarded newspapers and magazines in her drawers.

 

“Oh she’s very glamourous! Tall and statuesque.”

 

“Aah,” Mrs. Boothby says dismissively, but the cocked eyebrow that Edith can’t see gives away that her interest has been piqued.

 

“Her hair is a soft curly rich dark auburn set in girlish bob, and she has peaches and cream skin. She is wearing an orchid silk chiffon dress with a matching satin slip. It’s daringly short!” Edith gushes. “You can see the bottom of her calves even before sits down.”

 

“Well, she must be American for certain then, ta wear somethin’ so daring.” Mrs. Boothby coaxes carefully.

 

“She has a beautiful hat to match which is covered in silk flowers. She wouldn’t let me take it from her. Something about her luck? I didn’t really understand. She walks with a walking stick, just for show I think as she has a very elegant gait.”

 

“Oh. I wonder if she’s an actress on the stage?”

 

“Maybe. She certainly has the bearing of a person who commands attention.”

 

“Or maybe,” the charwoman continues, puffing out another cloud of smoke. “Maybe she’s one of them movin’ picture actresses, like what I’ve seen up at the Premier*** in East Ham.”

 

“Imagine!” Edith enthuses, her eyes sparking. “A real American moving picture star!” She looks to the green baize door that leads to the living areas of the flat.

 

“Yes, imagine.” Mrs. Boothby smiles wistfully as she takes a long drag on her cigarette.

 

“Oh, you are awful Mrs. Boothby!” Edith gasps, suddenly realising what she’s done. “You’ve made me gossip.”

 

“Oh, now don’t you worry your pretty ‘ead about it, dearie.” Mrs. Boothby soothes the young maid. “I’m only int’rested in ooh frequents the houses I clean for so I knows I’m in a respectable establishment. I won’t tell a soul. I promise!”

 

The charwoman smiles a yellow toothy grin that makes Edith regret her lack of discretion slightly.

 

“Per’aps she’s come ta be a film star in London. I read in the papers that they’s makin’ films ‘ere in London, over in ‘Oxton**** nah the war’s over!”

 

“Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that Mrs. Boothby.” she mutters, turning her back on the Cockney woman to hide the blush crossing her face after realising that she has been taken in by her.

 

Taking the kettle off the stove Edith fills the elegant gilded white porcelain pot and stirs it. She goes to the dresser and removes a pretty Delftware teacup and saucer and puts it on the table. She pours of little of the tea from Lettice’s pot into the cup, adds a splash of milk and some sugar. She refills Lettice’s pot.

 

“Tea, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith places the Delftware teacup and saucer into the Cockney woman’s empty right hand as it pokes out from beneath her left elbow.

 

“Oh, ta!” she replies gratefully. Lifting the cup to her lips she takes a sip, savouring the delicious hot beverage.

 

“I must take the tea in to Miss Lettice.” Edith says in as businesslike a fashion as she can manage.

 

“And yer want ta get annuva geezer at your beautiful star again.” Another fruity cough escapes her throat as she chuckles to herself. “Ain’t I right?” She taps her nose with her left hand, the glowing but of the cigarette nestled between her index and middle fingers. “I know a young girl’s heart. B’lieve it or not, I used ta be a young slip of a fing once too!”

 

“Just leave the cup in the sink before you clean the bathroom.” Edith blanches at being caught out as starstruck. “I will have these things to wash later.”

 

Edith smiles conspiratorially at Mrs. Boothby, picks up the tray of tea things, holds her head high and slips through the green baize door into the dining room of the flat to serve her mistress and her glamorous guest, American Wanetta Ward in the drawing room beyond.

 

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

 

**Rosie-Lee is Cockney slang for tea, and it is one of the most well-known of all Cockney rhyming slang.

 

***The Premier Super Cinema in East Ham was opened on the 12th of March, 1921, replacing the 800 seat capacity 1912 Premier Electric Theatre. The new cinema could seat 2,408 patrons. The Premier Super Cinema was taken over by Provincial Cinematograph Theatres who were taken over by Gaumont British in February 1929. It was renamed the Gaumont from 21st April 1952. The Gaumont was closed by the Rank Organisation on 6th April 1963. After that it became a bingo hall and remained so until 2005. Despite attempts to have it listed as a historic building due to its relatively intact 1921 interior, the Gaumont was demolished in 2009.

 

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

 

This busy domestic kitchen scene is a little different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures from my miniatures collection, some of which come from my own childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Lettice’s tea set is a beautiful artisan set featuring a rather avant-garde Art Deco Royal Doulton design from the Edwardian era. It stands on a silver tray that is part of tea set that comes from Smallskale Miniatures in England. To see the whole set, please click on this link: www.flickr.com/photos/40262251@N03/51111056404/in/photost...

 

The Victoria sponge (named after Queen Victoria) is made by Polly’s Pantry Miniatures in America. The vase of flowers on the table is made of glass and it and the bouquet have been made by hand by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The box of Lyon’s tea has been made by Jonesey’s Miniatures in England.

 

On the dresser that can be seen just to the right of shot stands a Cornishware cannister. Cornishware is a striped kitchenware brand trademarked to and manufactured by T.G. Green & Co Ltd. Originally introduced in the 1920s and manufactured in Church Gresley, Derbyshire, it was a huge success for the company and in the succeeding 30 years it was exported around the world. The company ceased production in June 2007 when the factory closed under the ownership of parent company, The Tableshop Group. The range was revived in 2009 after T.G. Green was bought by a trio of British investors.

 

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

 

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

Name: John T. Ingleson

Arrested for: not given

Arrested at: North Shields Police Station

Arrested on: 30 March 1915

Tyne and Wear Archives ref: DX1388-1-260-John T Ingleson

 

The Shields Daily News for 7 April 1915 reports:

 

“BREAKING AND ENTERING. SOLDIERS COMMITTED FOR TRIAL AT NORTH SHIELDS.

 

Frederick Jones (19) and John Thomas Ingleson (19), soldiers, stationed at Earsdon, were brought up on remand at North Shields today charged with breaking and entering on the 30th March a dwelling house, situated at 9 Lovaine Terrace and stealing 16 knives, a cruet, clock, pair of scissors, case of needles, silver tray and two salt cellars valued at £3 7s 6d the property of the executors of the late Thomas Williamson.

 

They were also charged with breaking and entering between 10pm on the 29th ult. and 7.45am on the 30th ult. a confectioner’s shop in Queen Alexandra Road and stealing two loaves of bread, valued at 7d, the property of Messrs Patterson and Reed.

 

George Anderson, a cashier, identified the goods as the property of the executors of the late Mr Williamson. PC John Dixon stated that at 2.50am on the 30th ult. he found a window broken at 9 Lovaine Terrace. He lifted the sash and upon shining his lamp around the room he saw Jones behind a bookcase and the other man crouching in a corner. Witness arrested defendants and on searching them at the police station found the goods mentioned in their possession…

 

Det.-Insp. said that on the morning of the 30th, from what Jones told him, he examined Messrs Patterson and Reed’s shop and found a large stone, which exactly fitted the break in the window. Afterwards witness jointly charged both men and Jones replied, “We did it” and Ingleson said, “I say the same”. When formally charged with the first offence Jones said, “We took them” and Ingleson said, “We wanted to get in there mostly to get some clothes”. Replying to the second charge, defendants both said they wanted something to eat. They were committed for trial at the Quarter Sessions and the magistrates complimented PC Dixon upon his smart capture. On the recommendation of Chief Constable Huish, the Watch Committee have granted the merit badge to PC Dixon.”

 

The Shields Daily News for 9 April 1915 reports:

 

“SHOP BREAKING BY SOLDIERS AT NORTH SHIELDS

 

Frederick Jones, 19, and John Thomas Ingleson, 19, privates in the Duke of Wellington’s First Riding Regiment, stationed at Earsdon, were charged with having broken into the unoccupied house of the late Mr Thomas Williamson, Lovaine House, Lovaine Terrace, North Shields on March 30 and with having stolen various goods, valued at £3 7s 6d. They were also charged with the theft of two loaves of bread from the confectionery shop of Messrs Patterson and Reed at North Shields on the same date. Accused pleaded guilty.

 

An officer from the prisoners’ regiment said they were indifferent soldiers, because they had repeatedly absented themselves without leave. The officer knew nothing about the men’s records and said that was a matter that was not very carefully gone into at this time.

 

The Chairman said he observed from the depositions taken at the police court that Jones said, “We wanted money and clothes. I have soldiered for six months for a shilling. I got 90 days pay stopped.”

 

The officer said it was true that Jones had lost a great deal of his pay but that was for absenting himself from his regiment. The balance of the account was on the other side.

 

Jones, who was convicted of wilful damage at Dublin in May last, was sentenced to six months’ imprisonment with hard labour on each charge, to run concurrently. Ingleson was sentenced to four months imprisonment with hard labour”.

 

These images are taken from an album of photographs of prisoners brought before the North Shields Police Court between 1902 and 1916 (TWAM ref. DX1388/1). This set is our selection of the best mugshots taken during the First World War. They have been chosen because of the sharpness and general quality of the images. The album doesn’t record the details of each prisoner’s crimes, just their names and dates of arrest.

 

In order to discover the stories behind the mugshots, staff from Tyne & Wear Archives & Museums visited North Shields Local Studies Library where they carefully searched through microfilm copies of the ‘Shields Daily News’ looking for newspaper reports of the court cases. The newspaper reports have been transcribed and added below each mugshot.

 

Combining these two separate records gives us a fascinating insight into life on the Home Front during the First World War. These images document the lives of people of different ages and backgrounds, both civilians and soldiers. Our purpose here is not to judge them but simply to reflect the realities of their time.

 

(Copyright) We're happy for you to share this digital image within the spirit of The Commons. Please cite 'Tyne & Wear Archives & Museums' when reusing. Certain restrictions on high quality reproductions and commercial use of the original physical version apply though; if you're unsure please email archives@twmuseums.org.uk.

Coral $1.00 garage sale.

Dome and tray $18.00 garage sale.

belgian pattiserie

Just the beginning, more to come. Comments and critique please.

 

PS I know it is a bit out of center.............forgot to level it.

**

Website * Blog * Film Photography Blog * Facebook * Instagram

 

welcome - www.facebook.com/anna.psareva

It´s served..Still life study

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 following Sir John’s imposing chauffer driven black Worsley as he takes his fiancée, Lettice, out to dinner. Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John was until recently still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intended to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. After an abrupt ending to her understanding with Selwyn Spencely, son and heir to the title Duke of Walmsford, Lettice in a moment of both weakness and resolve, agreed to the proposal of marriage proffered to her by Sir John. More like a business arrangement than a marriage proposal, Sir John offered Lettice the opportunity to enjoy the benefits of his large fortune, be chatelain of all his estates and continue to have her interior design business, under the conditions that she agree to provide him with an heir, and that he be allowed to discreetly carry on his affairs in spite of their marriage vows. He even suggested that Lettice might be afforded the opportunity to have her own extra marital liaisons if she were discreet about them. Lettice’s heart sank as the purring Worsley pulled up in the queue of vehicles leading to the newly erected Art Deco portico of one of London’s most luxurious and fashionable hotels, The Savoy*.

 

“Of all the places to bring me.” she silently thought to herself as she squirmed on the red Moroccan leather seat next to her fiancée.

 

Once a place Lettice enjoyed going to, the luxurious mahogany, rich red velvet, gilded paintings and extravagant floral displays of the Savoy’s grand dining salon no longer hold the charms for her as they once did, for it was here that Selwyn had organised a romantic dinner for two for he and Lettice in honour of his birthday. However, when Lettice arrived, she was confronted not with the smiling face of her then beau, but the haughty and cruel spectre of his mother, the Duchess of Walmsford, Lady Zinnia. It was in the middle of the dining room that with a cold and calculating smile Lady Zinna announced that she had packed Selwyn off to Durban in South Africa for a year. She made a pact with her son: if he went away for a year, a year during which he agreed neither to see, nor correspond with Lettice, if he came back and still had feelings for Lettice, Lady Zinnia agreed that she would concede and would allow him to marry her. That trip turned out to be fateful, as Lettice later found out from Lady Zinnia when she was summoned to the Duchess’ Park Lane mansion and was shown a cache of photographs and newspaper clippings of Selwyn engaged to the daughter of a wealthy Kenyan diamond mine owner. It was this revelation that caused her to fall into the open and welcoming arms of Sir John.

 

“Are you alright, Lettice my dear?” Sir John asks with concern as he looks into his fiancée’s face, which in spite of the warm, golden light flooding from the Savoy’s windows, looks wan and drawn. “You look very pale all of a sudden.”

 

“Well,” Lettice replies with a shiver, pulling her arctic fox fur stole more snugly around her bare shoulders. “You know what memories I have of this place, John. You might have taken me somewhere else.”

 

The car inches forward to the second place in line as in front of them a lady in a red sequin bespangled evening frock is helped to alight from the passenger cabin of a black and yellow Coupé de Ville** Rolls Royce by one of the liveried footmen of the Savoy.

 

“Well,” Sir John begins in a rather nonchalant fashion. “Think of the Savoy like a horse, Lettice my dear.”

 

“A horse?” Lettice queries in return.

 

“Yes, my dear. When your best thoroughbred throws you during a steeplechase*** what do you do?”

 

“You lie on the ground winded, that’s what you do!”

 

Sir John snorts and chuckles derisively at Lettice’s reply before going on, “You get back on her of course, and keep riding.” He smiles kindly at Lettice. “A faint heart never won a race.”

 

“I still don’t see what that has to do with the Savoy.” Lettice quips.

 

“It’s simple my dear. The Savoy has bad connotations for you, and I understand that.”

 

“Do you?” Lettice snaps disbelievingly.

 

“Of course I do, Lettice my dear.” Sir John soothes. “I may be many things, but I am not a cruel or unkind man.”

 

“Then why did you bring me back to the place of my humiliating rendezvous with Lady Zinnia, if not to rub salt into my wounds****?”

 

“I’m a pragmatist, Lettice, not a sadist.” Sir John replies matter-of-factly as the Worsley is driven up to the steps of the Savoy by Richardson, Sir John’s chauffer. “The best way to dispel those connotations is to make new and happy memories here.”

 

The door of Sir John’s Worsley is opened and the same Savoy liveried footman who helped the previous vehicle’s occupants from their motorcar now proffers his hand to Lettice, who accepts it with a scowl, not directed towards him, but to her unthinking fiancée who waits for her to exit the cabin before stepping out onto the Savoy’s steps himself.

 

The doors to the Savoy are swung open welcomingly for Lettice and Sir John by two liveried doormen and the pair stride in with assured steps, their arms interlinked. Lettice applies a painted smile***** to her face as the wealthy and elegantly dressed clientele of the hotel milling around in the foyer observe and scrutinise them as they walk. The pair are 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 guided through the cavernous 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 and Sir John to a table for two in the midst of the grand dining salon, where they take their seats and peruse the menu. Sir John orders them Caviar de Sterlet****** and saumon fumé******* to start with, followed by Consommé Olga******** and paupiette de sole femina*********. As the waiter sets a silver platter of cheeses and an assortment of water cracker biscuits on the crisp white linen covered table between them as a palate cleanser before their next course of Suprême de Chapon Monselet**********, Sir John clears his throat.

 

“Feeling a little better about the Savoy now, my dear Lettice?”

 

“I don’t know if I’ll ever feel the same about the Savoy, no matter how many times we come here, John.” Lettice says as she sips some of the deep red Bordeaux from her crystal wine glass.

 

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, many craning their necks, stealing surreptitious glances at Sir John, London’s most famous, or infamous, former bachelor, and the pretty Viscount’s daughter and society interior designer who has ensnared him into marriage.

 

“I promise that time is a great healer of wounds, my dear.” Sir John assures her, ignoring the stares of the diners around him and expertly piercing the stilton before him, breaking off a crumbly piece which he lathers a water cracker biscuit with before taking a healthy bite out of it.

 

“I’ll have to take your word for that.” Lettice grumbles.

 

“You’ll find that I’m rather a pragmatist, Lettice my dear.” Sir John goes on. “So in an effort to be somewhat pragmatic, and assuage your discomfort at being here, let’s chat about something pleasurable. You were saying before that you went to visit Charles Hatchett’s wife in Queen Anne’s Gate***********?”

 

“Yes,” Lettice concurs with a sigh as she takes up her own cheese knife and cuts a sliver of Swiss cheese which she places on a cracker of her own choosing from the options laid out on the platter. “I redecorated some of the rooms in Mrs. Hatchett’s house in Sussex back in 1921 when I was just starting out my interior design business. Now that her husband is finally an MP, they have taken a long lease on a rather run-down old town house in Queen Anne’s Gate that had belonged to an admiral. I’m taking on a commission to redecorate some of her principal rooms used for entertaining.”

 

“Do you think that is wise, Lettice my dear?” Sir John asks cautiously with a cocked eyebrow as he cuts himself a slice of gouda cheese from its red waxy rind.

 

“Because it is so run down? Oh, there is no need to worry, John darling. The Hatchetts are currently having maintenance done to make the house habitable again.”

 

“No.” John counters. “I meant, do you think it wise to take on a commission from the wife of a Labour MP?”

 

“Oh yes!” Lettice enthuses. “Mrs. Hatchett has given me carte blanche to decorate this time, and I have great plans for what I want to create for her. None that include chintz!” She shudders at the thought of the floral patterned sofas she finally agreed to in her interiors for ‘The Gables’.

 

“I meant, don’t you think this commission will upset your parents somewhat?” Sir John takes a bite out of the gouda graced cracker before continuing. “We already know that both your parents, not to mention many other people, are against our marriage.”

 

“Oh, I don’t think Pater and Mater are against it, John darling.” Lettice assures him.

 

“Well, perhaps not, but you must confess that they were both a little reserved in their enthusiasm for our engagement.”

 

“I can’t deny that.” Lettice finishes her cracker with Swiss cheese. “But what has that to do with taking a commission from Dolly Hatchett.”

 

“Well, I’m all for your independence, my dear Lettice, but don’t you think you are dropping the tiniest of social briquettes taking on the commission of a Labor MP’s wife, even if you have completed a commission for her previously? Mightn’t this be seen by your parents as another act of rebellion, like engaging yourself to me?”

 

“No, I don’t think so, John.”

 

“Well, I think that this commission might put them a little more off side, my dear. Might I suggest a little caution and prudence, just for the moment?”

 

“Have you been talking to Gerald?”

 

“Gerald?”

 

“My friend, Gerald Bruton.” Lettice elucidates.

 

“Oh!” Sir John chuckles. “That Gerald. No.” He swallows the last of his gouda and crackers. “Why?”

 

“Oh it’s nothing.” Lettice flaps her hand between she and Sir John dismissively. “It’s just that when he visited me not long ago, he made a similar remark.”

 

“Then it isn’t an unfounded concern, Lettice my dear.”

 

Lettice sighs. “I know Mater and Pater being somewhat lukewarm about our engagement at best isn’t quite what we’d hoped for, and Lally being so beastly about the wedding, and Aunt Egg being totally against the idea has made it even worse, but I can’t let my parents rule who I take the commissions of. I have a moderately successful business now.”

 

“More than moderate I’d say my dear, especially once Sylvia gets that positive review for you in The Lady************.”

 

“Then fie caution and prudence, and fie Mater and fie Pater if they don’t like my choice of clients!” Lettice retorts a little hotly, to the surprise of Sir John. “This is my interior design business. Surely, I should be allowed to decide whom I take on the commissions of. You’ll back me in this won’t you, John darling?”

 

“Of course I will, Lettice my dear!” Sir John assures her. “I thoroughly support your independence. It’s just that…” His voice trails off.

 

“Just what, John?”

 

“It’s just that, at this moment when things are delicate, as people grow used to our engagement, we could probably do without any more ructions.”

 

“And you see Dolly Hatchett’s commission as a ruction?”

 

Sir John nods shallowly as he takes another sliver of stilton from the larger wedge on the ornate silver tray.

 

“But she’s a successful MP’s wife now, not just the chorus girl from Chu-Chin-Chow************* who made a suitable match above her station. She’s changed so much from when I first met her.”

 

“She may be an MP’s wife, but her husband is on the wrong side of the chamber, my dear.” Sir John sniffs in distaste. “I just hope this doesn’t make relations with your family any more strained than they already are. I’d prefer to keep your parents on as good a terms as possible, at least before the wedding. Think of which,” He pauses. “Have you spoken to your mother about Clemmie helping you with your trousseau************** up here in London, yet?”

 

“No, not yet, John darling. There hasn’t really been the ideal moment to broach the subject yet,” Lettice admits apologetically. “But I will.”

 

“Well just see that you do, and soon. Maybe discuss that with Sadie, before you tell her about Dolly Hatchett’s commission.”

 

“Yes, John darling. I will.” Lettice agrees with a smile. She then goes on, “Of course Mrs. Hatchett’s commission is the perfect opportunity for me to really make my mark as an interior designer, John darling.”

 

“How so?”

 

“Well, you heard me say that Mrs. Hatchett has given me carte blanche to redecorate.”

 

“Yes,” Sir John sips his glass of Bordeaux as he picks a sliver of cracker from between his teeth with his tongue. “What of it?”

 

“Well you haven’t heard what I’ve got planned.” Lettice says with a hopeful smile.

 

“Go on then. I’m listening.”

 

“Well, there is an exhibition in Paris. It’s called ‘Exposition internationale des arts décoratifs et industriels modernes’***************. It is highlighting and showcasing the new modern style of architecture and interior design: a style I am an exponent of. I’d love to go and gather new ideas on interior design there and incorporate them into my own. Since Mrs. Hatchett’s house won’t be finished for a few months, and I’m currently in the process of creating the design for Sylvia’s new feature wall, I thought I could go once Sylvia’s interior is finished, and I could use Mrs. Hatchett’s home to showcase my new interior designs ideas inspired by the exhibition.”

 

“Oh, that does sound rather exciting.” Sir John agrees.

 

“Then don’t stymie me in my business affairs, John darling! Support me!” Lettice pleads. “In fact,” She pauses for a moment, a smile dancing on her lips as she thinks before continuing, “Why don’t you come with me?”

 

“To Paris?” Sir John queries.

 

“Yes!”

 

“With you?”

 

“Yes! We could go to the exposition together! It would be awfully jolly to have you along, and Paris is the city of romance.” Lettice enthuses. “We could take the midday London-to-Paris flight from Cricklewood Aerodrome****************. I’ve done that before when I went to Paris for a wedding a few years ago. Wouldn’t that be thrilling?”

 

Sir John sighs. “You certainly do know how to throw caution to the wind, don’t you Lettice my dear?”

 

“Well, why shouldn’t we go together? We’re here, dining in public together tonight. Our engagement is official. What’s to stop us travelling on the same aeroplane. There is nothing improper about it.”

 

“I’m not so sure about that, Lettice my dear. What would people think?”

 

“Oh don’t be so old fashioned! This is the 1920s, not the 1820s. Women are more independent and the world is more progressive.”

 

“Nevertheless, there are still things such as society’s expectations and social mores.”

 

“But we’re engaged, John darling! There is nothing inappropriate about us flying to Paris together.”

 

“I suppose…” Sir John muses cautiously. “So long as we stayed in separate suites in Paris.”

 

“Of course!”

 

“Hhhmmm…” Sir John purrs as he smiles enigmatically. “I’m warming to the idea, Lettice my dear.”

 

“You are?”

 

“Yes.” he agrees. “Although I will say that an entire trip devoted to this exposition of yours might bore me a little. You’re the interior designer. I’m not.”

 

“Well, you don’t have to come to see the exposition exclusively, John darling. You could come and explore a little bit of it with me, and then go sightseeing on your own.”

 

“Yes, I was just thinking that.” Sir John’s oily smile broadens and his eyes start to glitter mischievously.

 

“Yes, there is the Champs-Élysées, and…”

 

“I have been to Paris before Lettice.” Sir John interrupts her abruptly. “Don’t forget that Clemmie lived there with Harrison for many years before the war.”

 

“Oh of course!” Lettice laughs self-consciously. “How very foolish of me.”

 

“The Champs-Élysées wasn’t the kind of sightseeing I was thinking of.”

 

Lettice feels a knot grow in the pit of her stomach as he speaks.

 

“No?” she ventures timidly.

 

“No, but I thought, if I accompany you for the morning to this exposition of yours, I might pay a call on an old friend of mine in the afternoon.” Sir John strokes his cleanly shaven chin thoughtfully. “Yes, that might be frightfully jolly.”

 

“A friend?” Lettice asks cautiously.

 

“Yes, from long before the war.” Sir John murmurs as he takes another sip of Bordeaux from his glass.

 

“And old friend?” Lettice fishes. “Perhaps, I could meet him too.”

 

“Her, you mean.” Sir John replies dourly, elucidating. “Madeline Flanton.”

 

“Indeed, yes.” Lettice says, her face flushing with embarrassment at her mistaken assumption. “This Madame Flanton...”

 

“Mademoiselle Flanton,” Sir John says, adding emphasis to her unmarried title as he lowers his voice. “Was an actress from the Follies Bergère****************, that I was introduced to at the Palais de Glace***************** along the Champs-Élysées before you were even born,” He looks meaningfully at his red faced fiancée sitting across from him at the table. “Which is why your talk of the Champs-Élysées reminded me of her.”

 

“Yes, yes of course!” Lettice says hurriedly in an effort to cover up her sudden awkwardness as she realises what Sir John has implied with statement. “Perhaps I could meet Mademoiselle Flanton when we go to Paris.” She takes a large gulp of her Bordeaux, which suddenly tastes bitter in her mouth.

 

“Are you sure you’d want to my dear, knowing what you know of me, and my, friendships?”

 

Determined not to back down, or appear weak, Lettice blurts out. “Indeed yes. I’m sure if she is an old friend,” She hopes that the flame of appeal of Madeline Flanton has been extinguished by four years of war and the passing of time. “I should like to meet her.”

 

Sir John sits in quiet contemplation for a moment, his delicate fingers steepled in front of him as he thinks. “You know, you may be on to something, Lettice my dear. Any whiff of scandal will be discarded if we both visit Madeline. Genius, my dear! Genius!” He claps his hands and beams in delight. “No-one from the newspapers who might tail us in Paris would question my visiting an actress, if you were to be seen visiting her too. After a quick cocktail, Madeline is famous for her hospitality and her cocktails.”

 

“I’m sure she is.” Lettice interjects rather flatly, lowering her head.

 

“Now, now, don’t be like that, Lettice my dear.” Sir John leans across the table and puts his right index finger under Lettice’s lowered chin, lifting her head up, forcing her to engage his intense stare. “We had this discussion at Clemance’s. Perhaps love will come to us in time, but you cannot, and must not, expect it from me, for I cannot promise it you, Lettice, any more than I can promise you fidelity. I was thinking that after a polite social cocktail or two, Madeline could discreetly slip you out the back way of her apartment and arrange for you to be whisked back to the hotel.”

 

“Leaving you to…” Lettice’s sentence remains awkwardly unfinished as she realises that far from extinguished, the passing of time has in fact fanned the flames of Sir John’s infatuation with this Madeliene Flanton.

 

“Catch up on old times.” Sir John finishes Lettice’s sentence. He sighs heavily. “You asked me not to stymie you in your affairs.” He gives her a knowing look. “Then don’t stymie me in mine.”

 

“I said business affairs.” Lettice clarifies. “And yours and my affairs, business or otherwise, are quite different, John.” she adds, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

 

“But ours is an arrangement.” he reminds her gently. “And an arrangement requires give, as well as take, on the side of both parties involved.”

 

Lettice cannot help herself as she remarks, “Isn’t your Mademoiselle Flanton a little old to still be an actress at the Folies Bergère, if you met her before I was born.”

 

“Now, now.” Sir John cautions Lettice warningly with a withering look and a wagging finger as he reaches out and delves his knife into the stilton again. “Cattiness doesn’t suit you, Lettice my dear. I thought you were a little more grown up than that.”

 

“Sorry.” Lettice mumbles in apology.

 

“Cattiness and spite are reserved for actresses. Ladies, on the other hand, carry themselves with grace and decorum, no matter what the circumstances.” He sighs heavily again. “I’ve known actresses who have become ladies, like Lily Elsie******************, but I’m not in the habit of engaging myself to anyone other than someone who is a lady from birth.”

 

“I do apologise, John.” Lettice replies meekly after her fiancée’s sharp rebuke. “That was unfair of me.”

 

“I won’t have jealously from you Lettice.” Sir John withdraws his knife and drops a crumbling piece of stilton onto another biscuit. Wagging the knife between he and Lettice he goes on, “There is no place for jealously in our arrangement, my dear, otherwise our marriage won’t work.”

 

“I won’t let it happen again.” Lettice manages to say as she cradles her glass in her hands.

 

“I should hope you won’t, my dear.” Sir John replies. After taking a bite from his cracker he goes on, “Madeline was a great beauty when I met her, and her looks have served her well throughout the ensuing years since then. She is now a film actress, working for Cinégraphic******************** in Paris. Madeline is a consummate hostess, and has always been very hospitable to any guest I have had accompany me to her smart Parisian apartment.”

 

“I’m quite sure, John.”

 

“And I would expect civility from my companion in equal measure to Madeline’s generosity of spirit and hospitality.” He looks at Lettice seriously.

 

“Of course, John.” Lettice replies.

 

“Good!” Sir John beams. “Let me consider your suggestion of this little sojourn to Paris a little longer. The more I think about it, the more appealing it is to me. Now, have you had enough cheese to cleanse your palate?”

 

Lettice nods shallowly, the thought of eating more cheese curdling her stomach.

 

“Excellent! Then I’ll have the maître d' take this away,” Sir John waves his hand dismissively at what remains of the cheese and water cracker biscuits. “And have him bring our Suprême de Chapon Monselet.”

 

Lettice puts her glass aside and wonders how her suggestion that she and Sir John fly to Paris together, which just minutes ago had been full of promise, was suddenly and completely awry.

 

*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.

 

**A Coupé de ville is a car body style produced from 1908 to 1939. It has an external or open-topped driver's position, as well as an enclosed compartment for passengers. Although the different terms may have once had specific meanings for certain car manufacturers or countries, the terms are often used interchangeably. Some coupés de ville have the passengers separated from the driver in a fully enclosed compartment while others have a canopy for the passengers and no partition between the driver and the passengers (passengers enter the compartment via driver's area).

 

***A steeplechase is a distance horse race in which competitors are required to jump diverse fence and ditch obstacles. Steeplechasing is primarily conducted in Ireland (where it originated), Great Britain, Canada, United States, Australia, and France. The name is derived from early races in which orientation of the course was by reference to a church steeple, jumping fences and ditches and generally traversing the many intervening obstacles in the countryside.

 

****The origin of “rub salt in the wound”, a phrase utilised to express the exacerbation of an already painful or challenging scenario, highlighting the added difficulty or stress, lies in a literal physical practice with roots tracing back to ancient times. Historically, salt was rubbed into wounds as an antiseptic to prevent infection. While it was a method to cleanse and treat the injury, the process was extremely painful due to the interaction between salt and open flesh. Over time, the practice evolved into a metaphor. The application of salt, although for healing, caused additional suffering. Similarly, the idiom began to symbolise a situation where an action or statement intensifies the pain or difficulty in an already problematic situation.

 

*****A painted smile typically refers to a smile that is not sincere or genuine, often masking underlying emotions like sadness, pain, or fear. It's a façade, a false expression intended to deceive or hide true feelings.

 

******Sterlet caviar is a type of caviar that comes from the Sterlet sturgeon, a small fish species that's found in the Caspian Sea. Its small silver-grey caviar with a nutty flavour, and is famed for its velvety smooth finish.

 

*******“Saumon fumé” is the French phrase used for smoked salmon. It refers to salmon that has been cured and then smoked, typically using a cold or hot smoking method.

 

********Consommé Olga is a classic beef consommé with a distinctive flavour, often served with scallops and julienned vegetables. It's a clear, flavourful soup, typically made with beef or veal broth, and features a unique method for clarifying the broth using egg whites and a meat-vegetable mixture. The dish is then garnished with julienned carrots, celeriac, and cucumber, and sometimes includes scallops. It was made famous by being served to first-class passengers aboard the ill-fated maiden voyage of the RMS Titanic in 1912.

 

*********A paupiette is a piece of meat, beaten thin, and rolled with a stuffing of vegetables, fruits, or sweetmeats. It is often featured in recipes from Normandy.

 

**********Suprême de Chapon Monselet is chicken breasts with artichokes, potatoes and aromatics, named for Charles Monselet (30 April 1825, Nantes - 19 May 1888, Paris) the French journalist, novelist, poet and playwright, nicknamed "the king of the gastronomes".

 

***********Queen Anne’s Gate is a street in Westminster, London. Many of the buildings are Grade I listed, known for their Queen Anne architecture. Simon Bradley and Nikolaus Pevsner described the Gate’s early Eighteenth Century houses as “the best of their kind in London.” The street’s proximity to the Palace of Westminster made it a popular residential area for politicians.

 

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

 

*************‘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!

 

**************A trousseau refers to the wardrobe and belongings of a bride, including her wedding dress or similar clothing such as day and evening dresses.

 

***************The International Exhibition of Modern Decorative and Industrial Arts was a specialized exhibition held in Paris, from April the 29th (the day after it was inaugurated in a private ceremony by the President of France) to October the 25the, 1925. It was designed by the French government to highlight the new modern style of architecture, interior decoration, furniture, glass, jewelry and other decorative arts in Europe and throughout the world. Many ideas of the international avant-garde in the fields of architecture and applied arts were presented for the first time at the exposition. The event took place between the esplanade of Les Invalides and the entrances of the Grand Palais and Petit Palais, and on both banks of the Seine. There were fifteen thousand exhibitors from twenty different countries, and it was visited by sixteen million people during its seven-month run. The modern style presented at the exposition later became known as “Art Deco”, after the exposition's name.

 

****************A London-to -Paris air service from Cricklewood Aerodrome, Hampstead, was inaugurated by Handley Page Transport in 1920. Fares were £18 18s return: a small fortune at the time. Each passenger was allowed 30 pounds of luggage for free and were charged accordingly for air freight for any amount over that. Cricklewood Aerodrome closed in 1929 due to suburban development and the Golders Green Estate was built on the site. Some of the streets where the aerodrome was bear the names of Handley Page.

 

*****************The Folies Bergère is a cabaret music hall in Paris, France. Located at 32 Rue Richer in the 9th Arrondissement, the Folies Bergère was built as an opera house by the architect Plumeret. It opened in May 1869 as the Folies Trévise, with light entertainment including operettas, comic opera, popular songs, and gymnastics. It became the Folies Bergère in September 1872, named after nearby Rue Bergère. The house was at the height of its fame and popularity from the 1890s Belle Époque through the 1920s. Revues featured extravagant costumes, sets and effects, and often nude women. In 1926, Josephine Baker, an African-American expatriate singer, dancer and entertainer, caused a sensation at the Folies Bergère by dancing in a costume consisting of a skirt made of a string of artificial bananas and little else. The institution is still in business, and is still a strong symbol of French and Parisian life.

 

******************The Palais de Glace was a prominent ice-skating rink located on the Champs-Élysées in Paris during the Belle Époque era. Designed by architect Gabriel Davioud, it was known as the “Rotonde du Panorama National” before being converted into the “Palais de Glace” in 1893. The building later became "”he Palace of Nero” during the Universal Exhibition of 1900.

 

*******************Lily Elsie, was an English actress and singer during the Edwardian era. She was best known for her starring role in the London premiere of Franz Lehár's operetta The Merry Widow. Beginning as a child star in the 1890s, Elsie built her reputation in several successful Edwardian musical comedies before her great success in “The Merry Widow”, opening in 1907. Afterwards, she starred in several more successful operettas and musicals, including “The Dollar Princess” (1909), “A Waltz Dream” (1911) and “The Count of Luxembourg” (1911). Admired for her beauty and charm on stage, Elsie became one of the most photographed women of Edwardian times. Elsie left the cast of “The Count of Luxembourg” to marry Major Sir John Ian Bullough, the son of a wealthy textile manufacturer, in 1911, thus becoming Lady Bullough. Sadly, the marriage was an unhappy one, and this was clear by 1915. However due to the social stigma associated with divorce, the couple remained together unhappily until the early 1930s when they finally divorced.

 

********************Cinégraphic was a French film production company founded by director Marcel L'Herbier in the 1920s. It was established following a disagreement between L'Herbier and the Gaumont Company, a major film distributor, over the film "Don Juan et Faust". Cinégraphic was involved in the production of several films, including "Don Juan et Faust" itself. Cinégraphic focused on more experimental and artistic films.

 

This splendid array of cheeses on the table would doubtless be enough to please anyone, but I suspect that even if you ate each wedge of cheese and every 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 come from Beautifully handmade Miniatures in Kettering, as do the two slightly scalloped white gilt plates and the wonderful golden yellow roses in the glass vase on the table. The cutlery I acquired through Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. The bottle of Bordeaux is hand made from glass and is an artisan miniature made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The bottle features the label from a real winery in Bordeaux. The silver tray on which the wine bottle on the table is made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The two glasses of red wine are made of real glass and were acquired from an online miniatures stockist 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 not at Cavendish Mews. We are not even in London. Instead, we are north of the capital, motoring through the hedge lined lanes cut through the rich arable snow dusted farmland of Essex as world famous British concert pianist, Sylvia Fordyce, drives Lettice towards the little village of Belchamp St Paul* in her smart and select silvery sage green 1922 Lea Francis** four seater, two door tourer on a circuitous journey to take in some of the picturesque country villages along the way. Lettice met the famous forthright musician last week at a private audience after a performance at the Royal Albert Hall***. Sylvia is the long-time friend of Lettice’s fiancée, Sir John Nettleford-Hughes and his widowed sister Clementine (known preferably now by the more cosmopolitan Clemance) Pontefract, the latter of whom Sylvia has known since they were both eighteen. Lettice, Sir John and Clemance were invited to join Sylvia in her dressing room after her Schumann and Brahms concert. After a brief chat with Sir John (whom she refers to as Nettie, using the nickname only his closest friends use) and Clemance, Sylvia had her personal secretary, Atlanta, show them out so that she could discuss “business” with Lettice. Anxious that like so many others, Sylvia would try to talk Lettice out of marrying Sir John, who is old enough to be her father and known for his dalliances with pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger, Lettice was surprised when Sylvia admitted that when she said that she wanted to discuss business, that was what she genuinely meant. Sylvia owns a small country property on which she had a secluded little house she calls ‘The Nest’ built not so long ago: a house she had decorated by society interior designer Syrie Maugham****. However, unhappy with Mrs. Maugham’s passion for shades of white, Sylvia wants Lettice to inject some colour into her drawing room by painting a feature wall for her. Thus, she has invited Lettice to motor up to Essex with her for an overnight stay at the conclusion of her concert series at The Hall to see the room for herself, and perhaps get some ideas as to what and how she might paint it.

 

Lettice smiles as she inhales the fresh cold air through the chink in her automobile window she has open and looks at the passing landscape of snow-covered verges lined with trees denuded of their leaves that skirt the undulating white fields around them. “It’s must be so lovely and green in springtime, Sylvia darling.” Lettice opines to Sylvia, sitting across from her in the driver’s seat.

 

“Oh it is,” Sylvia replies over the loud rumble of the purring engine as she turns the steering wheel to guide the Lea Francis up a bend in the road and over a wintery white knoll. She grunts. “The only problem with this time of year and spring is how the weather can turn the roads into treacherous quagmires.”

 

As if attempting to prove her point, the Lea Francis skids slightly on the muddy road, making Lettice gasp.

 

“Don’t worry, Lettice darling,” Sylvia assures her nervous passenger as she changes the gear expertly with a noisy clunk. “I’ve done this trip many times before at this time of the year, and I know the roads well. We won’t come a cropper*****, I promise.”

 

They drive along Gage’s Road, through a cluster of thatched cottages which forms the hamlet of Knowl Green.

 

“We’re nearly there.” Sylvia announces. “Not long now.”

 

They soon drive into a larger cluster of weatherboard and stone farm buildings and cottages with thatched roofs which hug the road as it widens. The recent snowfall makes Lettice think how much like giant cottage loaves the thatched cottages look. A long village green hedged by a smattering of Elizabethan and Georgian cottages appears on the left-hand side of the car.

 

“Welcome to Belchamp St Paul, Lettice darling! That’s the Half Moon******.” Sylvia points to a thatched building with a crescent moon above the front door and a wing with a rounded bay window at the front extending out towards the road. The Georgian paned windows on the ground floor are illuminated with warm and welcoming golden light. “It’s our local, and where we will have supper tonight.”

 

“So, we’re not dining at ‘The Nest’ then?” Lettice asks.

 

“Good god, no!” Sylvia scoffs as they motor past a fork in the road with signposts indicating to Ovington, Clare, Cavendish and Sudbury on a small island which it shares with a red telephone box******* its bright paint standing out against its white snowy surrounds. “You’re only here for the night, Lettice darling, so I didn’t ask Atlanta to join us, nor get Mrs. Silas to cook for us.”

 

“Mrs. Silas?” Lettice queries as Sylvia changes gears with a noisy clunk again as they continue along Vicarage Road, following the sign to Cavendish and Sudbury.

 

“She’s the wife of the farmer I bought the parcel of land I built ‘The Nest’ on, from.” Sylvia elucidates. “I pay her as a housekeeper-cum-cook. She keeps an eye on the place when I’m not here and cooks for me if I’m staying on my own without Atlanta, or have a house party and Atlanta can’t manage the catering alone. I can probably rustle us up some toast, scrambled eggs and some tea for breakfast tomorrow, but don’t ask anything more of me in the kitchen, Lettice darling.” she chuckles throatily. “Anyway as it is, I’m changing my plans.”

 

“Oh, Sylvia darling?” Lettice queries.

 

“Yes,” Sylvia admits guiltily. “I was going to stop at my beloved ‘Nest’ for the duration before I go on my next tour of the provinces, but I’ve had the most delicious invite from a rather dashing Lieutenant-Colonel to his country place, just outside of Chippenham********.” She sighs resignedly. “He’s married, of course, and is a brute and a boor: but that’s why I’m attracted to him!” She lets out another pensive sigh. “It will be a disaster of course, but as I told you last week, I always pick the wrong kind of man.”

 

“I see.” Lettice says with a grimace as the car motors past a smattering of thatched Georgian cottages.

 

“Oh look!” Sylvia exclaims. “There’s Mr. Silas, the man I bought the land from, now.” She points a black leather driving glove hand at a man trudging up the road towards them on the left-hand side of the road. He cuts a lonely figure walking up the road alone against the wintery landscape on an overcast day, with his head down against the wind. Sylvia depresses the horn of the Lea Francis twice, making a loud, yet cheerful, hooting noise. He looks up from watching where he walks and waves to Sylvia’s approaching car. She waves back enthusiastically as they motor past him. “He must be heading for the Half Moon for a ploughman’s lunch.”

 

“Won’t that upset Mrs. Silas?”

 

“Oh Mrs. Silas will have been too busy this morning with airing ‘The Nest’ for me, on top of her own chores, to make Mr. Silas luncheon.”

 

They motor past a lovely old church set well back from the road behind a low snow capped brick wall.

 

“That’s St Andrew’s*********.” Sylvia points out. “It’s far grander than one might expect of a local parish church in a farming village of this size. I’ll show it to you tomorrow before I motor you into Sudbury to catch the LNER********** back to London. I’m sorry, Lettice darling. I feel a bit beastly, not taking you back to London myself and all, after I invited you up here.”

 

“It was always part of the plan, Sylvia.” Lettice assures her. “That I would take the railway back to London. You were stopping up here for a week or so. I was only ever coming for the night, so it isn’t like I’m weighed down by luggage, with only my overnight valise and a brolly to return home with.”

 

They motor on just a little further, past a gentle bend in the road.

 

“Here we are then.” Sylvia says as they slow down and pull up to an old and dilapidated farmer’s gate in a rather scrappy looking hedgerow. Leaving the motor in park with the engine running, she gets out.

 

Lettice watches Sylvia. Dressed in an oversized and rather mannish soft brown velvet cloche pulled low over her head and a luxuriously thick half-length mink fur coat synched at the waist with a wide leather belt with the collar turned up to shelter her from the winter winds of Essex as they slice across the fallow fields, she looks tall and almost androgenous. This look is perpetuated by the fact that she is wearing a pair of roomy Oxford bags***********. Lettice smiles to herself as she remembers her maid at Cavendish Mews, Edith’s, scandalised look when she answered the front door to Sylvia dressed this way. “Don’t worry my dear,” she had assured poor Edith as she stood in the entrance hall, eyes agog at the sight of a woman in slacks. “They’re all the rage in Berlin!”, as if that would allay Edith’s concerns.

 

Sylvia walks up and unlatches the gate which is loosely tethered closed with a rusty old chain and opens it before getting back into the Lea Francis and driving it forward up a boggy driveway of sorts created by two rutted tracks made by motorcar tyres in the mud. Putting the car back into park again, she gets out and closes the gate behind them, reaffixing the old chain. Getting back into the motor, Sylvia catches Lettice’s surprised look. “You don’t think I want to alert people to the fact that there is a house hidden just up there behind that copse, do you, Lettice darling?” she asks. She smiles a smile that is a mixture of smugness and cheekiness. “It isn’t called a retreat for nothing, you know.”

 

They motor up the rutted track through the dusting of snow and into the copse. Lettice gasps with amazement as a smart red brick cottage with mullioned windows, several large chimneys and a sharply angled slate roof built in the picturesque British Arts and Crafts style of Charles Voysey************ begins to emerge from behind the trees.

 

“You’d never guess this was here, Sylvia darling.” Lettice exclaims.

 

“Now you see why I call it, ‘The Nest’.” Sylvia says knowingly, her red lipstick painted mouth breaking into a broad and proud smile as they motor up to the front of the house, where Lettice can see the wintery beginnings of a neat, landscaped cottage garden. “It’s so perfectly coddled amidst the trees. Welcome!” She brakes and turns the engine off.

 

As Lettice hauls her blue leather overnight valise out of the maroon leather back seat, she looks up at the façade and remarks, “It’s so lovely and compact.”

 

“Oh, don’t be fooled, Lettice darling.” Sylvia replies. “Sydney Castle************* is an absolute whizz at making as much as he can out of even the smallest space. It may look modest, but ‘The Nest’ has four bedrooms, all with their own private bathrooms, so my American friends from New York won’t complain about the archaic plumbing like they do about the big old houses they stay in over here: sharing bathrooms or worse yet, not having any indoor plumbing at all!” She bends down and lifts a terracotta plant pot with a dormant shrub of some kind in it and fishes in its saucer underneath, withdrawing a key. She puts the key in the door and unlocks it. “Come along inside, Lettice darling. Mrs. Silas will have turned on the central heating and stoked the fires in the main rooms already, so it will be nice and toasty.”

 

“Central heating!” Lettice exclaims. “What bliss!”

 

A short while later, after being shown to her spacious bedroom upstairs under the steeply slanted roof, unpacking her case, freshening up in the modest adjoining ensuite bathroom and changing from her tweed travelling clothes and Burberry macintosh************** into a rose and marone silk georgette knife pleated frock, Lettice makes her way back downstairs to the cosy drawing room, where she finds Sylvia, still dressed in her Oxford bags, but now accessorised stylishly with a pair of heels rather than boots, and a smart white silk blouse with a cross over frill, draped languidly in a roomy white lounge chair, smoking one of her Craven “A”*************** cigarettes pleasurably.

 

“Is this one of your clever Gerald’s outfits, Lettice Darling?” Sylvia asks, blowing out a plume of pale grey cigarette smoke into the air above her head as she appraises her guest.

 

Released from beneath her over-sized brown velvet cloche, Sylvia’s black dyed sharp bob sits neatly about her angular face. She wears no necklace or earrings, and only the large aquamarine and diamond cluster ring on her left middle finger on her elegant pianist’s hands. As with the drive up, Sylvia’s face is caked with a thick layer of white makeup which she has simply touched up and reapplied after any damage incurred enroute, her red painted lips the only colour afforded her in her entire outfit aside from the cool blue of the aquamarine. As she lounges lazily, she almost blends into Syrie Maugham’s shades of white.

 

“Yes, it is, Sylvia.” Lettice replies, doing a pirouette which causes the skirt of pleats to fly out prettily. When she stops, she notices a faceted glass vase of tulips on a low black japanned oriental coffee table. “Tulips!” she remarks. “In winter! Will your home never cease to amaze?”

 

Sylvia takes a long drag on her cigarette, the paper crackling as she does, before stubbing it out into the chrome smoker’s stand next to her chair and blowing out a final plume of acrid cigarette smoke. “They’re freshly in from Mrs. Silas. Mr. Silas is a flower grower, selling flowers to stallholders in Covent Garden, so he has quite a few greenhouses. Coffee?” She indicates to a dainty blue and white patterned Nipponese**************** eggshell porcelain***************** coffee set next to the vase, set upon a silver salver.

 

“Thank you.” Lettice says, picking up a cup and pouring herself some coffee before adding sugar and milk.

 

“Sadly, the house doesn’t amaze when it comes to this room, Lettice darling.” Sylvia mutters disappointedly. “Which of course is one of the reasons I invited you here.”

 

Lettice looks about the room, which is designed in the prevailingly fashionable Arts and Crafts country style of heavy wooden pieces intermixed with the cleaner and more modern lines of the Modernist movement which is slowly taking hold. The room is dominated as she would expect by a grand wooden piano. The sleek lounge is white, whilst oriental tables, lacquered and japanned sit around them on the blue and gold carpet Sylvia replaced Syrie Maugham’s white one with. The chrome pillar smoker’s stand standing next to Sylvia’s lounge chair gleams in the illumination from the overhead pendant lights. The wall behind her is dominated by a large black and cream marble open fireplace in which a fire, laid by Mrs. Silas a little earlier, crackles contentedly.

 

“I see what you mean by your love of blue and white porcelain.” Lettice remarks as she admires a pair of large bulbous Japanese blue and white urn flanking the fireplace.

 

“It’s not quite as fine a collection as Adelinda Gifford,” Sylvia acknowledges with a wave of her hand. “However, I do have a few nice pieces, even if I do say so myself.”

 

“I’d say more than a few, Sylvia.” Lettice counters.

 

“But you see what I mean by Mrs. Maugham’s rather uninspiring white walls.” Sylvia goes on.

 

“Oh,” Lettice remarks with an awkward chuckle. “The paper is rather lovely.” She walks up to it and runs her hand over the delicate embossed white diamond shapes covering the paper.

 

“It’s insipid!” Sylvia retorts bitterly. “All that money wasted on shades of white. And that’s why I want you to inject this room with drama and colour, Lettice darling!”

 

Lettice takes a seat in the chair opposite Sylvia and places her dainty demitasse****************** on the round table at her right. She looks up at the white feature wall into which the large marble fireplace is built. There are no paintings hanging on it, other than a single watercolour landscape in a gilded frame above the mantle, highlighting the vast expanse of space. She sighs deeply. “A feature wall is far greater than a demilune console table,” Lettice cautions her new friend, anxious not to disappoint her if she says no. “It’s such a large space.”

 

“And that’s why I want you to paint it, Lettice darling!” Sylvia goes on. “It’s the perfect canvas for you to be bright and bold!” she enthuses. “Release that inner artiste that I know is within you.”

 

Lettice sighs even more deeply and stares up at the offending wall. “What were you thinking, Sylvia darling?”

 

“What were you thinking, Lettice darling?” Sylvia answers her friend’s question with a question.

 

Lettice doesn’t answer straight away as she looks up at the wall and then around the room, to see where the light comes from. Large and long mullioned windows imbedded into white painted wooden panelling overlook the front garden along the wall opposite the fireplace, whilst more wooden panelling, painted white by Syrie Maugham grace the remaining two narrower walls. Lettice considers a pair of very beautiful blue and white oriental lidded ginger jars featuring flowers that stand at either end of the mantle shelf. “Can you get your Mr. Silas to paint the wall a flat navy blue?” she asks Sylvia.

 

“Either him or another local.” Sylvia agrees. “If I ask nicely. Why?”

 

“Well, I don’t think I’d like to paint the entire expanse of wall myself,” Lettice replies. “But I might consider painting a pattern by hand over the top of a darker colour if someone could paint the base layer for me.”

 

“Consider it done! And, what would that pattern look like, Lettice darling?” Sylvia asks, leaning forward in anticipation, barely daring to breathe in case she frightens Lettice off the idea of painting the wall.

 

“I’d take inspiration from your blue and white porcelain.” Lettice ruminates aloud as she stares at the ginger jars and two smaller vases that flank a tiny vibrant green Bakelite******************* mantle clock that sits in the middle of the wide mantlepiece. “But white on blue perhaps, rather than blue on white, with a gilded element.” Her eyes begin to glisten with excitement and enthusiasm as her lips turn into a smile. “Something from the garden perhaps. Flowers, or leaves.” She gasps. “Feathers!”

 

“Well, this is ‘The Nest’, Lettice darling.” Sylvia remarks, scarcely daring to hope. “Of course,” she adds with twinkling eyes and a wily smile. “If you take my job on, as I hope you will, Lettice, I’ll have a word with my friend. She’s a senior journalistic contributor and editor at The Lady********************, and I know she’d love to get in here with her best photographer and report an exclusive on Sylvia Fordyce’s secluded country retreat, decorated by Syrie Maugham and Lettice Chetwynd.” She pauses. “Or shall we make that decorated by Lettice Chetwynd and Syrie Maugham?”

 

“Are you trying to take a leaf out of Alisdair Gifford’s book to curry favour, Sylvia darling?”

 

“Well, I had rather heard from Nettie that a splash of publicity wouldn’t hurt as an incentive.” Sylvia’s smile widens and her eyes glitter with delight. “Call it my trump card, if you like, Lettice darling.”

 

“You said you were going away. Could I borrow a few choice pieces of your blue and white porcelain whilst you are gone, to give me inspiration?”

 

“Of course, Lettice darling! You may have full run of ‘The Nest’ if you wish. Whatever you like.”

 

“Well, it would be rather fun.” Lettice muses. “A whole wall to hand paint and decorate.”

 

“Of course it would.” Sylvia purrs.

 

“And I do like big and bold statements.”

 

“Which is one of the many reasons I asked you to take on my little project, Lettice darling.”

 

Lettice doesn’t answer straight away, and the air quickly grows thick with Sylvia’s anticipation as she waits for Lettice’s reply with baited breath.

 

“Very well Sylvia. I’ll do it!”

 

“Oh hoorah!” Sylvia applauds, clasping her elegant long fingers together in delight. “Thank you, Lettice darling! I knew I could count on you.”

 

“Let’s sit down and talk about the logistics of this. When did you say you would be touring the provinces again?”

 

*Belchamp St Paul is a village and civil parish in the Braintree district of Essex, England. The village is five miles west of Sudbury, Suffolk, and 23 miles northeast of the county town, Chelmsford.

 

**Lea and G. I. Francis started the business in Coventry in 1895. They branched out into car manufacturing in 1903 and motorcycles in 1911. Lea-Francis built cars under licence for the Singer company. In 1919, they started to build their own cars from bought-in components. From 1922, Lea-Francis formed a business relationship with Vulcan of Southport sharing manufacturing and dealers. Vulcan supplied bodies to Lea-Francis and in return received gearboxes and steering gear. Two six-cylinder Vulcan-designed and manufactured cars were marketed as Lea-Francis 14/40 and 16/60 as well as Vulcans. The association ended in 1928 when Vulcan stopped making cars. The company had a chequered history with some notable motorcycles and cars, but financial difficulties surfaced on a regular basis. The Hillfields site was abandoned in 1937 when it was sold by the receiver and a new company, under a slightly different name, moved to Much Park Street in Coventry. It survived there until 1962 when the company finally closed.

 

***The Royal Albert Hall is a concert hall on the northern edge of South Kensington in London, built in the style of an ancient amphitheatre. Since the hall's opening by Queen Victoria in 1871, the world's leading artists from many performance genres have appeared on its stage. It is the venue for the BBC Proms concerts, which have been held there every summer since 1941.

 

****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.

 

*****In the Eighteenth Century, anyone who took a headlong fall from a horse was said to have fallen “neck and crop”. “Come a cropper” was a colloquial way of describing a “neck and crop” fall, and is first cited in Robert S. Surtees' Ask Mamma, 1858. We now use the term for failing badly at something.

 

******The Half Moon Inn is a pretty thatched tavern overlooking Belchamp St Paul’s village green. With low beams and an old log fire it maintains most of the original features of the current Georgian era building. Originally built in the early Sixteenth Century, The Half Moon has been at the centre of Belchamp St Paul village life for more than four hundred years.

 

*******The first standard public telephone kiosk introduced by the United Kingdom Post Office was produced in concrete in 1921 and was designated K1 (Kiosk No.1). The Post Office had taken over almost all of the country's telephone network in 1912. The red telephone box K1 (Kiosk No.2), was the result of a competition in 1924 to design a kiosk that would be acceptable to the London Metropolitan Boroughs which had hitherto resisted the Post Office's effort to erect K1 kiosks on their streets.

 

********Chippenham is a market town in north-west Wiltshire, England. It lies thirteen miles north-east of Bath, eighty-six miles west of London and is near the Cotswolds Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty.

 

*********It is not known when the first church was built on the sight that today houses St Andrew’s Church of England in Belchamp St Paul. There was a church, however when the Dean of St Paul's, Ralph de Dicto, visited Belchamp on the 15th of January 1181. This early Norman church consisted of a nave with north and south doorways and a chancel. It was dedicated in honour of St Andrew the Apostle who is the patron saint of missionaries, mariners and fishermen. All churches dedicated in honour of St Andrew are usually near rivers. It would seem that after the visitation of Dean William Say in 1458 a major rebuilding of the church took place which was completed in the year 1490. The building which we now see consists of a chancel, nave, north aisle, tower and south porch. The roof dates from 1490 and is of the trussed rafter, beam type, often found in Essex churches.

 

**********The first Sudbury station was built by the Colchester, Stour Valley, Sudbury & Halstead Railway, which even before the opening on 30 July 1849. A railway line has existed there ever since and continues to run today. It is the northern terminus of the Gainsborough Line, a branch off the Great Eastern Main Line in the East of England, serving the town of Sudbury, Suffolk. In 1925 at the time this story is set, the railway would have been run by the London and North Eastern Railway (LNER).

 

***********Oxford bags were a loose-fitting baggy form of trousers favoured by members of the University of Oxford, especially undergraduates, in England from the mid-1920s to around the 1950s. The style had a more general influence outside the university, including in America, but has been somewhat out of fashion since then. It is sometimes said that the style originated from a ban in 1924 on the wearing of plus fours by Oxford (and Cambridge) undergraduates at lectures. The bagginess allegedly allowed plus fours to be hidden underneath – but the argument is undermined by the fact that the trousers (especially in the early years) were not sufficiently voluminous for this to be done with any success. The original trousers were 22–23 inches (56–58 cm) in circumference at the bottoms but became increasingly larger to 44 inches (110 cm) or more, possibly due to a misunderstanding of the measurement as the width rather than circumference.

 

************Charles Francis Annesley Voysey was an English architect and furniture and textile designer. Voysey's early work was as a designer of wallpapers, fabrics and furnishings in the Arts and Crafts style and he made important contribution to the Modern Style, and was recognized by the seminal The Studio magazine.

 

*************Sydney Ernest Castle was born in Battersea in July 1883. He trained with H. W. Edwards, a surveyor and worked as chief assistant to Arthur Jessop Hardwick (1867 - 1948) before establishing his own practice in London in 1908. From 1908 to 1918 he was in partnership with Gerald Warren (1881-1936) as Castle & Warren. He worked on St. George's Hill Estate in Weybridge, Surrey with Walter George Tarrant (1875-1942). Castle was elected a Fellow of the Royal Institute of British Architects (FRIBA) in 1925. He designed many buildings, including the Christian Association building in Clapham, a school in Balham and a private hotel in the Old Brompton Road, as well as many private residences throughout Britain. His firm’s address in 1926, when this story is set was 40, Albemarle Street, Piccadilly. He died in Wandsworth in March 1955.

 

**************Thomas Burberry established Burberry in Basingstoke in 1856 at just twenty-one years old, founded on the principle that clothing should be designed to protect people from the British weather. A few years later in 1879 he invented gaberdine, a breathable wearable and hardwearing fabric that revolutionised rainwear. The Burberry trench coat was invented during the First World War with epaulettes used to suspend military equipment, but in the inter-war years, with the Burberry check registered as a trademark and introduced as lining to their rainwear, it became a luxury brand for the wealthy.

 

***************Craven A (stylized as Craven "A") is a British brand of cigarettes, currently manufactured by British American Tobacco. Originally founded and produced by the Carreras Tobacco Company in 1921 until merging with 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.

 

****************Nipponese is the adjective used when relating to a characteristic of Japan or its people or their culture or language. It was used predominantly before the Second World War, and goods exported from Japan were marked Nipon. The term Japanese became the common adjective used after the war, making a pivotal moment of change in Japan’s history after the atomic bombs that hit Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

 

*****************Eggshell porcelain is actually a type of Chinese porcelain characterized by an excessively thin body under the glaze. It often had decoration engraved on it before firing that, like a watermark in paper, was visible only when held to the light; such decoration is called anhua, meaning literally “secret language.” It is very delicate and fragile.

 

******************A demitasse is a small coffee cup. It was the French, in the 1800s, who originated the demitasse and turned after-dinner coffee drinking into an art. Demitasse means “half-cup.” The cups are, typically, half the size of a regular coffee cup, holding two to three ounces of beverage.

 

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

 

********************The 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.

 

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.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Sylvia’s roomy Art Deco cream satin armchairs are made by Jai Yi Miniatures who specialise in high end miniature furniture. The black japanned coffee table and round occasional table with their gilded patterns are vintage pieces I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The chrome Art Deco smoker’s stand is a Shackman miniature from the 1970s and is quite rare. I bought it from a dealer in America via E-Bay.

 

The three toned marble fireplace is genuinely made from marble and is remarkably heavy for its size. It, the two brass fire dogs and filagree fireplace fender come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop, as do the two blue and white vases and the two blue and white gilt ginger jars on the mantle. Also on the mantle stands a little green and gold Art Deco clock, which is a 1:12 artisan miniature made by Hall’s Miniature Clocks, supplied through Doreen Jeffries Small Wonders Miniatures in England.

 

The two large blue and white urns flanking the fireplace are Eighteenth Century Chinese jars that I bought as part of a large job lot of small oriental pieces of porcelain, pottery and glass from an auction house many years ago.

 

The tiny blue and white coffee set with coffee pot, creamer, sugar bowl and demitasse cups in the foreground on the coffee table are all hand painted. I acquired them from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop. The silver tray the coffee pot, creamer and sugar bowl stand on also comes from there. The faceted glass vase on the coffee table is an artisan miniature made from real glass. It comes from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The tulips in the vase 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 silver cigarette lighter and the packet of Craven “A” cigarettes on the table were made with great attention to detail by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The Swan Vesta’s matches sitting in the holder on the smoker’s stand also come from Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures.

 

The painting above the mantlepiece is a 1:12 artisan piece made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States.

 

The blue and white carpet interwoven with gold I acquired through an online stockist of 1;12 miniatures on E-Bay.

 

The embossed chequered wallpaper is art paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

332/365 (4,013)

 

And another one for the 365 treasure hunt, number 48 Oval.

 

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 to broach a most delicate subject about her forthcoming wedding, a subject which has caused a scene between Lettice and her mother.

 

For nearly a year Lettice had been patiently awaiting the return of her then beau, Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, after being sent to Durban by his mother, Lady Zinnia in an effort to destroy their relationship which she wanted to end so that she could marry Selwyn off to his cousin, Pamela Fox-Chavers. Having been made aware by Lady Zinnia in October last year that during the course of the year, whilst Lettice had been biding her time, waiting for Selwyn’s eventual return, he had become engaged to the daughter of a Kenyan diamond mine owner whilst in Durban, Lettice had fled Lady Zinnia’s Park Lane mansion. She returned to Cavendish Mews and milled over her options over a week as she reeled from the news. Then, after that, she knew exactly what to do to resolve the issues raised by Lady Zinnia’s unwelcome news about her son. Taking extra care in her dress, she took herself off to the neighbouring upper-class London suburb of Belgravia and paid a call upon Sir John Nettleford-Hughes.

 

Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John was still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intended to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. As an eligible man in a aftermath of the Great War when such men were a rare commodity, with a vast family estate in Bedfordshire, houses in Mayfair, Belgravia and Pimlico and Fontengil Park in Wiltshire, quite close to the Glynes estate belonging to her parents, Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, invited him as a potential suitor to her 1922 Hunt Ball, which she used as a marriage market for Lettice. Selwyn rescued Lettice from the horror of having to entertain him, and Sir John left the ball early in a disgruntled mood with a much younger partygoer. Lettice reacquainted herself with Sir John at an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Gladys Caxton at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, a baronial Art and Crafts castle near the hamlet of Kershopefoot in Cumberland. To her surprise, Lettice found Sir John’s company rather enjoyable. She then ran into him again at the Portland Gallery’s autumn show where she found him yet again to be a pleasant and attentive companion for much of the evening.

 

Sir John also made a proposition to her that night: he offered her his hand in marriage should she ever need it. More like a business arrangement than a marriage proposal, Sir John offered Lettice the opportunity to enjoy the benefits of his large fortune, be chatelain of all his estates and continue to have her interior design business, under the conditions that she agree to provide him with an heir, and that he be allowed to discreetly carry on his affairs in spite of their marriage vows. He even suggested that Lettice might be afforded the opportunity to have her own extra marital liaisons if she were discreet about them. Turning up unannounced on his doorstep, she agreed to his proposal after explaining that the understanding between she and Selwyn was concluded. However, in an effort to be discreet, at Lettice’s insistence, they did not make their engagement public until the new year: after the dust about Selwyn’s break of his and Lettice’s engagement settled. Sir John motored across from Fontengil Park in the days following New Year 1925 and he and Lettice announced their engagement before the Viscount and Lady Sadie the Countess, Leslie, Arabella and the Viscount’s sister Eglantyne (known by all the Chetwynd children affectionally as Aunt Egg). The announcement received somewhat awkwardly by the Viscount initially, until Lettice assured him that her choice to marry Sir John has nothing to do with undue influence or mistaken motivations, but perhaps the person most put out by the news is Aunt Egg who is not a great believer in the institution of marriage, and felt Lettice was perfectly fine as a modern unmarried woman. Lady Sadie, who Lettice thought would be thrilled by the announcement of her engagement, received the news with a somewhat muted response and she discreetly slipped away after drinking a toast to the newly engaged couple with a glass of fine champagne from the Glynes wine cellar.

 

Now, six months on, plans are starting to be laid for the wedding, albeit at a somewhat glacial pace. Earlier in the day, alerted to it by the sound of raised voices echoing down the corridor, the Viscount had walked into the Glynes flower room and come across Lettice and her mother arguing bitterly, before Lettice slipped away, her face awash with tears. Several weeks ago, when Lettice and Sir John were taking tea with his younger sister, Clemance Pontefract, who as a widow, has recently returned to London and set up residence in Holland Park, Lettice suggested that Clemance might help her choose her trousseau**. Thinking that Lady Sadie’s ideas will doubtless be somewhat old fashioned and conservative when it comes to commissioning evening dresses and her wedding frock, Lettice wants to engage Clemance’s smart eye and eager willingness to please Lettice as her future sister-in-law to help her pick the trousseau she really wants. Knowing that the subject would be difficult to discuss with her mother, with whom she has a somewhat fraught relationship, she decided to approach Lady Sadie face-to-face. Unsurprisingly, Lady Sadie did not take kindly to the suggestion, any more than she did the idea that Lord Bruton’s son, Gerald, Lettice’s oldest childhood chum and best friend, who designs gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street, making Lettice’s wedding frock. In the end, Lady Sadie wouldn’t countenance the idea of Gerald making Lettice’s gown, since she felt it would be embarrassing for her youngest daughter to appear in a frock made by the son of her family friend and neighbours, Lord and Lady Bruton, as well as have Gerald as a guest at the wedding. It was this definite final pronouncement that drove Lettice away in tears. Appealing to her father to help her, being his favourite child, Lettice disclosed a secret shared with her by Sir John about his sister, indicating why she has taken such a keen interest in being involved in Lettice’s wedding plans. Clemance had a daughter born the same year as Lettice, that she and her husband lost to diphtheria when the child was twelve. Upon hearing this revelation, the Viscount agreed to talk to Lady Sadie and try and sway her to allow Clemance to be involved in the acquiring of Lettice’s trousseau, a task that is usually the preserve of the bride and her mother, but made no promises.

 

So, we find ourselves in the sumptuous drawing room of Glynes with its grand dimensions, high ceiling and gilt Louis and Palladian style furnishings. No matter what time of day, the room is always light and airy thanks to its large full-length windows and beautiful golden yellow Georgian wallpaper decorated in a pattern of delicate blossoms and paper lanterns which seems almost to exude warmth and golden illumination. Lady Sadie is seated in her usual seat by the fireplace, whilst the Viscount cannot settle, and walks about on the thick and ornate rug that covers the parquet floor. Between them a black japanned Eighteenth Century Chinoiserie tea table stands on which sits a silver tea service and a selection of biscuits, the latter of which remain untouched as the husband and wife argue.

 

“Oh, I knew you would do this Cosmo! I just knew it!” Lady Sadie admonishes the Viscount in exasperated tones from her seat in one of the gilt Louis Quinze salon chairs, part of the fine suite in the Glynes drawing room gifted to the Viscount by his father-in-law, Lord Lansdowne. She folds her arms akimbo. “I thought I had made it quite clear to you, that you had to stay strong and not make concessions to Lettice’s wishes! The easier we make it for Lettice to marry that awful, Sir John Nettleford-Hughes, the less likely our plan for a break in their engagement will be.”

 

The Viscount cringes at the rebuke as he paces in front of his wife.

 

“Are you deliberately undermining me, Cosmo?” Lady Sadie asks in shock. “Do you actually want Lettice to marry a man closer to your age than her own, and…” She shudders. “A known philanderer?”

 

“Of course I don’t, Sadie!” the Viscount retorts hotly, turning and staring in horror at the diminutive figure of his wife, diminished by the roomy size of her chair, her own face twisted in anger. “How can you even ask?”

 

“Well, I have to wonder, Cosmo.” Lady Sadie throws her hands in the air and lifts her gaze to the ornately plastered ceiling above. “Lettice has you so perfectly wound around her little finger, just like a bandalore*, ready to be brought to heel whenever she wants!”

 

“That’s a low thing to say, Sadie, even for you when you are at your most spiteful! I don’t want this ill-fated marriage any more than you do, but I had to concede when Lettice mentioned Mrs. Pontefract’s dead daughter. Surely, you as a mother can appreciate that?”

 

Lady Sadie allows her hands to fall into her lap where she twists a white, lace trimmed handkerchief between her diamond adorned fingers. She doesn’t answer immediately, and falls silent for a few moments. Tears begin to well in her blue eyes, threatening to spill. “Now it is you who is being cruel by asking me that, Cosmo.” she finally says, her voice low and her syllables as measured as her breathing as she tries to maintain her composure. “Of course I can appreciate Mrs. Pontefract’s feelings. Have you forgotten that I lost Leonard and Lydia.” A single tear escapes each eye and slowly roll down her lightly powdered cheeks.

 

“We, lost Leonard and Lydia.” the Viscount corrects his wife, adding grim emphasis to the first word of his sentence as he utters the names of their two stillborn children – Leonard born a year after Leslie and Lydia two years before Lionel was born. “In some ways, it was perhaps the lesser of two evils that they were stillborn. At least we didn’t have the pain of knowing them, and loving them, only to then say goodbye to them like Mrs. Pontefract had to with her daughter.”

 

Once again, Lady Sadie doesn’t answer.

 

“They were my children too, Sadie.

 

Lady Sadie releases a long sigh and sniffs, dabbing her eyes. “I’m sorry, Cosmo. You’re quite right. That was unfair of me. I’m just so worried that Lettice’s marriage to Sir John will go ahead, no matter what obstacles we put in her way. She’s so headstrong and determined.”

 

“She is that, I’ll warrant, so I don’t think you acquiescing on the matter of at least meeting Sir John’s sister, and countenancing her assistance will make too much of a difference.” the Viscount remarks. “It isn’t too much of a concession. As Lettice says, it’s not like she wants to shop for her trousseau with that silly goose Margot. Sir John is around our age, so it stands to reason that this Mrs. Pontefract would be of a similar age too. She may actually prove quite useful if you don’t fancy going up to London for whatever reason, and it also stands to reason that she can take delivery of items since she is apparently permanently residing in Holland Park rather than have them being sent to Fitzroy Square*** if you aren’t in residence. The caretakers have enough to do in our absence without taking charge of numerous packages arriving at the tradesman’s entrance, not knowing whether they are correct or not. Mrs. Pontefract can check them, and deal with the tradesmen if anything is incorrect”

 

“Hhhmmm…” Lady Sadie muses, her face contorting in thought as she considers her husband’s suggestion. She picks up her teacup and takes a sip of tea before continuing, “That’s actually quite a good idea, Cosmo.”

 

“Thank you Sadie.” the Viscount remarks, surprised at his wife’s measured praise. “I thought so. Besides, you might rather like her.”

 

“Oh, I do hope not, Cosmo!” Lady Sadie retorts, returning her cup to its saucer. “I hope she is every bit as odious as her brother is. It will be awful to befriend her, only to find myself stuck in an awkward situation socially when the engagement between Lettice and her brother is broken.”

 

“If it’s broken.” the Viscount counters, eyeing his wife. “I still think we’re on a precipice here.”

 

“It will break.” Lady Sadie nods curtly. “I’ll make sure of that.”

 

“I must confess, I do think the ruse you have set, saying you will refuse to allow Bruton’s boy to make her dress is a stroke of genius, Sadie. It will sit uncomfortably in Lettice’s craw far more than this business with Mrs. Pontefract will.”

 

“And you didn’t promise her that you would change my mind?” Lady Sadie asks warily as she slips the handkerchief under the cuff of her burnt orange cardigan and pushes it up into her sleeve.

 

“I told Lettice that she should keep on your good side by attending fittings with whomever you have selected as appropriate dressmakers.” the Viscount replies. “And I didn’t let on at all that you will eventually allow young Bruton to make it.”

 

“Good!” Lady Sadie replies crisply as she smooths down her tweed skirt over her knees.

 

“But I did have to say that I’d talk to Lord Bruton about the matter.”

 

“Oh no! You aren’t really going to, are you Cosmo?” Lady Sadie whines. She sighs. “Just when I thought I had an ally, I…”

 

The Viscount sinks down into the seat next to her and raises his hands in self-defence. “No, I’m not going to, Sadie.” He looks at her earnestly. “I can be as Machiavellian as you if I choose to be, my dear, and I’m quite capable of setting my own ruse.”

 

Lady Sadie screws up her nose and looks her husband up and down doubtfully as he takes up his own teacup and settles back comfortably into the gold embroidered upholstery of his own seat, smiling smugly like the cat who ate the cream.

 

“As it happens, I have to go and see Bruton about some business in the village raised by those wittering Evans sisters.” He says, referring to the two elderly genteel gossipy spinster sisters who live in Holland House, a Seventeenth Century manor house, in Glynes village. “Geraldine Evans has a bee in her bonnet**** over the parcel of land next to their home owned by Bruton. That rumour that he’s going to sell it has raised its ugly head in the village.”

 

“Oh not again!” Lady Sadie opines.

 

“Yes again.”

 

“How many times must the poor Brutons be subjected to the indignity of idle village gossip, not least of all from the Evans sisters, who perpetrate so much of it in the first place?”

 

“My thoughts precisely, my dear Sadie. Anyway, Geraldine Evans wants me to find out if there is any truth to it, and if there is, to put in a good word for her, as she wants to buy it directly from him. So, if I am to go over to Bruton Hall for no real conceivable reason, as it will simply be whispered gossip and rumours again, at least Lettice will think I am helping her sway the making of her wedding frock.”

 

“Bravo Cosmo!” Lady Sadie claps her hands. “I’m sorry I doubted you. Perhaps you can be as Machiavellian as me when you wish.”

 

“Now, what’s all this, anyway?” the Viscount nods at a pretty oval gilt and enamel jewellery casket with a hinged lid with a diamond necklace spilling from it and a pearl bracelet and a matching pair of pearl earrings in front of it. “Why is your jewellery box down here?”

 

“Ahh…” Lady Sadie purrs. “After Lettice’s and my spat this morning, I not long ago thought of another ruse to add an additional fly to her wedding planning ointment. As a Chetwynd, she will want to wear the Wrexham Tiara for her wedding.”

 

“Well, that’s under lock and key with our coronets and other valuables for the Season at Lloyds***** up in London.”

 

“I know, but Lettice will want to wear it. Lally wore it for her wedding, so Lettice will want to follow suit. We must be firm about this, Cosmo.”

 

“About what, Sadie?”

 

“We must make excuses not to fetch it from the bank.” Sadie explains. “She doesn’t know it’s there.”

 

“How do you know this?”

 

“Ward, came across Lettice snooping through my wardrobes yesterday when I was down in the village and she all but admitted to her that she was looking for it.”

 

“And Ward didn’t tell her that it was in London?”

 

“No, she simply said that it wasn’t in the house at present. She’s the cleverest lady’s maid I’ve ever had! So, if she is looking to wear the Wrexham Tiara for her wedding, we must use it, or rather its absence, as an excuse to stall Lettice’s wedding plans and allow more time to pass.”

 

“And what if Sir John just goes and has a new one made for Lettice. We have both remarked before, that Sir John Nettleford-Hughes is richer than Croesus******. He can well afford to have a tiara made to rival the Crown Jewels.”

 

“Believe me, Cosmo, Sir John can offer Lettice the most beautiful tiara studded in diamonds, but she won’t countenance wearing it.” Lady Sadie shakes her head as she picks up her cup and sips some more of her tea. She smiles to herself before going on. “And we have you, to thank for that.”

 

“Me, Sadie?”

 

“You, Cosmo.” Lady Sadie acknowledges her husband with a sage nod. “You taught Lettice to appreciate our family history and lineage. Anything Sir John comes up with for her will be new, and I suspect more likely to be vulgar and showy, rather like that awful and German,” She sniffs in disgust. “How tasteless,” She sniffs again. “Motorcar he tears up and down our quiet country lanes in. The Wrexham Tiara with its emeralds from India, diamonds from Africa and pearls gifted to the first Viscount by King Charles II is so steeped in history that she won’t want to not wear it.”

 

“And how pray, Sadie, do you propose that we delay producing the blasted thing?”

 

“Language, Cosmo!” Lady Sadie chides.

 

“Oh, to hell with my language, infernal woman!” the Viscount barks back as his temper starts to fray. “We can’t lie to Lettice and say that we’ve lost it, or I certainly can’t, even if you can! Besides, she’s too smart for that. She won’t believe it if we tell her it’s lost.”

 

“Calm yourself, Cosmo.” Sadie replies, putting her cup down again and gesticulating for her husband to breathe. “You’re quite correct, Lettice is too smart to fall for such a clumsy lie. However, she will believe me when she finally gets up the courage to ask me, which,” She raises he diamond ring adorned right index finger. “I guarantee won’t be until after we have gone to every court dressmaker on my list, if she really does want to keep on my good side, that I’m having the Wrexham Tiara repaired for her wedding – having the stones cleaned and reset or some such.” She flits her hand about distractedly. “That takes time. The more time that passes, the more the sheen of this newly minted engagement will tarnish. It’s already starting to happen.”

 

“And how do you know that, Sadie?”

 

“Oh, just through little things, Cosmo.” Lady Sadie replies with an air of mystery and superiority. “Lettice doesn’t speak of Sir John in quite such glowing terms anymore,” She releases a satisfied sigh through her flared nostrils. “And the fact that a date for their nuptials has yet to be set, and the banns******* have not been announced, suggests the novelty of deliberately trying to upset Lady Zinnia is wearing thin and being replaced by the truth of her situation, engaged to that man. Lettice is having second thoughts. Trust me.”

 

“I suppose I must do just that,” the Viscount sighs as he gazes down upon the jewellery on the round Georgian mahogany table between them. “Although I still question your certainty about it all.”

 

Lady Sadie smiles and reaches out across the table, in front of a vase of her golden yellow roses and squeezes her husband’s forearm encouragingly. “Feelings were never your strong suit, Cosmo, but they are mine.” She assures him. “Call it women’s intuition.”

 

Lady Sadie sits back again and begins toying with the pearl bracelet on the tabletop.

 

“In the meantime, should I need to placate our youngest child, I shall do so with some of the jewellery I wore at our wedding, as a sort of,” She screws up her nose again. “Good will gesture, so as not to give away my true feelings about her marriage plans.”

 

“Let’s hope this elaborate ruse of yours works, my dear.” the Viscount acquiesces.

 

“Do you remember our wedding day?” Lady Sadie asks, picking up one of the pearl earrings in her hand.

 

“How could I forget it, Sadie my dear.” He reaches out and tenderly takes the earring, rolling the creamy sphere around in his palm, before giving it back to his wife by dropping it back into her open palm. “In spite of the fact that I was so nervous, standing there at the altar in the Glynes village chapel, waiting for you, it was one of the most precious days of my life.”

 

“Oh Cosmo!” Lady Sadie gasps, her voice cracking with emotion, as once again tears fill her eyes. “You sentimental old fool.”

 

“Thank goodness Peregrine Leighton-Jones was there at my side as my best man, keeping me calm and steadfast.” the Viscount goes on.

 

“Ahh yes! Good old Pere! I still miss him.” Lady Sadie sighs wistfully. “Another victim of that wretched Great War I still fail to see the point of.”

 

“I kept wondering whether you would ever arrive. I had almost convinced myself at one stage as I stood there, that you were going to elope with Pere.”

 

“What do mean, Cosmo?”

 

“I had convinced myself that the time of your arrival at the chapel would come and go, the guests would disperse, I’d go back to Glynes with my parents and Pere. Then Pere would make his excuses and leave, and the next thing I’d hear about either of you was that he’s whisked you off to Gretna Green********.”

 

Lady Sadie bursts out laughing loudly, the joyful sound, a rarity for her, surprising the Viscount as the emanation permeated the atmosphere around them. “What a ridiculous notion. Cosmo! Why on earth would you have imagined, firstly that I would ever elope, and secondly, I would elope with Pere, your best friend and best man of all people?”

 

“Well, I mean, I’ve never been the most handsome of men, let’s be honest, Sadie, certainly not when you compared me next to Pere. Pere was far better looking than me with his handlebar moustache********* and smart military uniform. I was simply the Viscount’s heir, the country squire’s son grown rich and pudgy off the fat of the Glynes estate. And I’m sure I wasn’t the most chivalrous of the two of us either. I’ve never been able to completely control my temper.” He snorts. “I still can’t, blast my eye**********!”

 

“Language, Cosmo!” Sadie quips again.

 

“See!” the Viscount mutters, putting his arms out pleadingly to his wife sitting opposite him. “And Pere was far smarter than me.”

 

“Oh no he wasn’t, Cosmo. I may agree with you that he might have cut a more dashing figure than you in his Life Guards’*********** uniform, and his manner may have been less gruff and more polished than yours, but you were always smarter than Pere. Pere’s father paid one thousand guineas************ to purchase him a commission in the Household Cavalry************* you know?”

 

“No, I didn’t know.”

 

“Oh yes. He did. So, I say again, he wasn’t anywhere near as smart as you were, Cosmo.”

 

“Well, he was certainly wittier and more urbane with his wonderful world travelling exploits, compared to bucolic me, who has always been more at ease on the estate talking to farmers than in a London ballroom trying to make small talk with pretty young debutantes like you, Sadie. Eglantyne was the one who inherited the ability to move through society with ease, not me.”

 

“Well, Pere may have been more worldly, but he never stood a chance against you, Cosmo. I wanted a husband who was stable, and even though he was charming, and knew how to sweep me off my feet with a grand and romantic gesture, I always knew Pere had a wandering eye, and when the eye wanders, the romance ceases. I did try to warn Evelyn about him when she announced her engagement to Pere, but she didn’t listen, much to her later regret. Pere would have broken my heart, over and over again, had I married him, just as he did Evelyn’s. But you, Cosmo,” Sadie drops the earring back on the table and reaches out and clasps her husband’s bigger weathered right hand between her smaller, soft white ones and rubs it in an intimate and comforting gesture that makes him smile. “The furthest your eye would ever stray, would be to the nearest head of Hereford************** at the County Cattle Show.”

 

“How romantic you make me sound, Sadie.” the Viscount mutters dryly.

 

“Oh, don’t be an old fool, Cosmo.” Sadie says, rubbing his hands more vigorously in a show of solidarity with him. “I don’t mean it to sound quite like that. I wanted a full time husband, not a philanderer, someone I could love with all my heart and grow old with, someone I could trust implicitly. Pere would never have been any of those things. Did I not turn up at the church at the correct time, and walk down that aisle towards you?”

 

“You did, Sadie.” the Viscount agrees with a snort of derision at his own foolishness, a smile breaking across his face, lightening it, as he looks across at his wife. “And you were a vision in white satin and lace. I couldn’t believe my luck. At moments like these, I sometimes still can’t quite believe it.”

 

“Even after all these years of marriage?”

 

The Viscount nods.

 

“My father was determined that no cost should be spared for my wedding gown,” Lady Sadie muses. “So, my mother commissioned Worth*************** to make it for me. I know it was frowned upon when I smiled walking up the aisle****************, but I just couldn’t help myself. I was a beautiful bride in the wedding gown of my dreams, marrying the man I knew I would be happy to spend the rest of my life with. Pere would have broken my heart, but as we know Cosmo, you always do the right thing.”

 

“I Cosmo, Fredrick, Clarence, George, James Chetwynd, take thee, Alexandrina, Sarah*****************, Elizabeth, Grace Lansdowne to be my lawfully wedded wife.”

 

“Goodness how I hate my first name!” Lady Sadie scoffs, rolling her eyes as she speaks. “I’ve never liked it. It’s so… so…”

 

“Pompous?” the Viscount chuckles.

 

“I was going to say old-fashioned,” Lady Sadie chuckles good-naturedly as she corrects her husband. “But yes, it is rather pompous too. Of course that’s hardly surprising, considering my father made an art form out of pomposity. Naming me after Queen Victoria****************** was more than an act of patriotism for him. It was his way to make me more noble than our esteemed and long lineage already made me.”

 

“He always made me feel inferior against every other suitor of yours.” the Viscount shook his head. “The dull and unworldly Viscount’s son from Wiltshire who couldn’t dance…”

 

“He was right about that.” Lady Sadie confesses with a chuckle. “You dance like an elephant with two left feet.”

 

The Viscount chuckles too before going on, “And who had no witty repartee. Another reason why I was certain that you were going to marry Pere.”

 

“No, Cosmo. There was never any question in my mind. Left feet or not, you were always the one for me. I would have eloped with you if you’d asked me to.” She smiles and squeezes the Viscount’s hand between her own. “But it wouldn’t have been right, and you always do what is right. And in the end, between us, we wore my father down and we didn’t have to. Instead we did it properly, before all the people we loved.” She sighs happily. “To have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer,”

 

“Luckily you haven’t been subjected to the latter, my dear Sadie.”

 

“In sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; and I promise to be faithful to thee until death do us part.”

 

*A bandalore is a toy with an automatically winding cord by which it is brought back to the hand when thrown, and is the archaic term for what we know today as a yo-yo. Yo-yos were introduced to England during the late Eighteenth Century, coinciding with their popularity in France and other parts of Europe. They were known as "bandalores" or "quizzes" in England. A painting of Prince George IV (later King George IV) playing with a yo-yo further popularized the toy in the fashionable circles of England.

 

**A trousseau refers to the wardrobe and belongings of a bride, including her wedding dress or similar clothing such as day and evening dresses.

 

***Fitzroy Square is a Georgian square in London, England. It is the only one in the central London area known as Fitzrovia. The square is one of the area's main features, this once led to the surrounding district to be known as Fitzroy Square or Fitzroy Town[1] and latterly as Fitzrovia, though the nearby Fitzroy Tavern is thought to have had as much influence on the name as Fitzroy Square.

 

****The idiom "to have a bee in your bonnet" means to be overly preoccupied or obsessive about something, constantly talking or thinking about it. The phrase dates back to the early Sixteenth Century, with early mentions of "head full of bees". The addition of "bonnet" evolved later, possibly relating to the large bonnet worn by beekeepers.

 

*****The origins of Lloyds Bank date from 1765, when button maker John Taylor and Quaker iron producer and dealer Sampson Lloyd set up a private banking business in Dale End, Birmingham. The first branch office opened in Oldbury, some six miles west of Birmingham, in 1864. The association with the Taylor family ended in 1852 and, in 1865, Lloyds & Co. converted into a joint-stock company known as Lloyds Banking Company Ltd. Through a series of mergers, including Cunliffe, Brooks in 1900, the Wilts. and Dorset Bank in 1914 and, by far the largest, the Capital and Counties Bank in 1918, Lloyds emerged to become one of the "Big Four" clearing banks in the United Kingdom. By 1923, Lloyds Bank had made some fifty takeovers, one of which was the last private firm to issue its own banknotes—Fox, Fowler and Company of Wellington, Somerset. Lloyds merged with the Trustee Savings Bank in 1995 and operated as Lloyds TSB Bank plc from 1999 to 2013. In January 2009, it became a key subsidiary of Lloyds Banking Group following the acquisition of HBOS by Lloyds TSB Group. The bank's operational headquarters are in London, with additional offices in Wales and Scotland, and it also manages office complexes, brand headquarters, and data centres in Birmingham, Yorkshire, Leeds, Sheffield, Halifax, and Wolverhampton.

 

******The idiom “richer than Croesus” means very wealthy. This term alludes to Croesus, the legendary King of Lydia and supposedly the richest man on earth. The simile was first recorded in English in 1577.

 

*******The banns of marriage is a public announcement made in a church, especially in the United Kingdom, that two people are going to get married in their local parish church.

 

********Gretna Green is a parish in the southern council area of Dumfries and Galloway, Scotland, close to the town of Gretna, on the Scottish side of the English-Scottish border. Gretna's principal claim to fame arose in 1753 when an Act of Parliament, Lord Hardwicke's Marriage Act, was passed in England, which provided that consent to the marriage had to be given by the parents if both parties were not at least 21 years old. The romantic Scots did not adopt this law and the handfasting ceremonies (as they were known) continued. When knowledge of this difference reached the ears of the young lovers from over the border in England, it wasn’t long before they began eloping to marry in Gretna. The blacksmith in Gretna was authorised to conduct the wedding, simply because anyone in Scotland could conduct a handfasting ceremony. It just happened that in Gretna Green the first building over the border was a blacksmiths’ smithy. Weddings took place in the workshop, while the blacksmith and his men continued their work. The first notable ‘Blacksmith Priest’, Joseph Paisley was not a blacksmith but adopted this title and since then all these marriage men inherited the title of ‘Blacksmith Priest’.

 

*********Handlebar moustaches, particularly lengthy and upwardly curved, were favoured by military figures in the Victorian era, and were seen as a symbol of strength and discipline.

 

**********Blast my eye(s) or blast your eye(s) is an old fashioned English slang term, often used by the upper-classes as an exclamation of irritation, impatience or annoyance.

 

***********The Life Guards is the most senior regiment of the British Army and part of the Royal Household Cavalry, along with The Blues and Royals.

 

************The guinea was a coin, minted in Great Britain between 1663 and 1814, that contained approximately one-quarter of an ounce of gold. The name came from the Guinea region in West Africa, from where much of the gold used to make the coins was sourced. It was the first English machine-struck gold coin, originally representing a value of twenty shillings in sterling specie, equal to one pound, but rises in the price of gold relative to silver caused the value of the guinea to increase, at times to as high as thirty shillings. From 1717 to 1816, its value was officially fixed at twenty-one shillings. After the guinea coin ceased to circulate, the guinea continued in use as a unit of account worth twenty-one shillings (£1.05 in decimalised currency). The guinea had an aristocratic overtone, so professional fees, and prices of land, horses, art, bespoke tailoring, furniture, white goods and other "luxury" items were often quoted in guineas until a couple of years after decimalisation in 1971. The guinea was used in a similar way in Australia until that country converted to decimal currency in 1966, after which it became worth $2.10.

 

************Before the Great War, it was common for upper-class boys to receive military training from a young age, while lower-class boys typically wouldn't have access to such training. It was very difficult and expansive to get into military academies. You needed money and connections, which the lower classes of society typically didn't have. And without being trained in a military academy, it would be very difficult to become an officer. British society was also very classist, elitist and hierarchical. Upper-class people were traditionally thought to be naturally better suited for leadership positions in all sectors of society, including the military. That's why upper-class men typically served as officers, while it was very difficult for lower-class men to be anything other than rank and file soldiers. This was actually one of the major criticisms about how the British Army handled World War I, and that's why you didn't see as many people with titles among the top brass in the British Army in the Second World War. Up until 1871, the purchase of officer commissions in the British Army was a common practice through most of its history.

 

*************The Hereford is a British breed of beef cattle originally from Herefordshire in the West Midlands of England. It was the result of selective breeding from the mid-eighteenth century by a few families in Herefordshire, beginning some decades before the noted work of Robert Bakewell.

 

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

 

***************In the Victorian era, it was generally frowned upon for brides to smile during the church ceremony. This was a reflection of broader societal attitudes towards facial expressions, particularly for women. Smiles, especially broad or "vulgar" smiles, were often seen as frivolous or even inappropriate for a serious occasion like a wedding, which was meant to convey solemnity and respect. Additionally, the notion of a "serene" or "tranquil" expression, particularly for women, was highly valued, symbolizing femininity and grace.

 

****************The diminutive of Sarah is Sadie, and that is where Lady Sadie gets her name from.

 

*****************Queen Victoria’s real name was Alexandrina Victoria after one of her godparents, Tsar Alexander I of Russia, and Victoria after her mother, Princess Victoria of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld, who became the Duchess of Kent when she married Prince Edward, Duke of Kent. Additional names proposed by her parents – Georgina, Georgiana, Charlotte and Augusta, were dropped on the instructions of the then Prince Regent, later George IV.

 

This detail of a 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 I have collected as an adult, as well as one that was especially made for me.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The gilt Louis Quatorze chairs and the gilded Regency swan legged table are made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.

 

The beautiful gold and bronze decorated black chinoiserie screen in the background is a very special 1:12 miniature screen created especially for me, and there is no other like it anywhere else in the world. It was handmade and decorated over a twelve month period for me as a Christmas gift two years ago by miniature artisan Tim Sidford as a thanks for the handmade Christmas baubles I make him every year. Tim’s miniature works are truly amazing! You can see some of his handmade decorated interiors using upcycled Playmobil, found objects and 1:12 miniatures here: www.flickr.com/photos/timsidford/albums/72157624010136051/

 

On the table, Lady Sadie’s jewellery casket is in reality an Eighteenth Century miniature trinket made of gold and enamel. It is so dainty. The lid opens and one could store something incredibly small in it (like a handful of diamond chips), and there is a loop (hidden at the back) which allows it to be strung upon a chain. I picked this piece up from an antique dealer in London many years ago. Lady Sadie’s jewellery is also not all that appears, well some of it is. Lady Sadie’s sparking “diamond” necklace is made of tiny strung faceted silver beads. It came as part of an artisan jewellery box from a specialist doll house supplier when I was a teenager. The pearls on the other hand are all real seed pearls, and the bracelet is strung on strands of silk.

 

Also, on the table stands a Limoges miniature vase featuring a blue flower. Stamped on its base with a green Limoges stamp, it dates from the 1950s. The yellow roses are made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The gilt edged floral teacups and saucers come from a miniatures specialist stockist on E-Bay.

 

The silver tea set and biscuit barrel in the foreground has been made with great attention to detail, and comes from Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The wonderful selection of biscuits on offer were also made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

beautful photo of lady with roses. Lace sewn directly to the photo, jewels, bits of vintage scraps , metal door findings, buttons... hanger on back with more ribbon...

More on the 30 day photo challenge here: ellemoss.blogspot.com/

I used a medium soft box as the background and a couple of boards to shape the light around to the front of the set up. You can see the complete set up on my blog: bit.ly/1yqBpoh

I had a hard time working through the backlighting as I couldn't figure out what "look" i was really going for. Looking forward to this week's assignment today! : )

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

 

Today we are 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 for Christmas and the New Year. 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. The Christmas tree, cut from the grove of trees on the Glynes estate, adorned with its gold tinsel, satin bows and shiny glass baubles still stands amidst all the grand gilt Louis and Palladian style furnishings of the drawing room: a remnant of the family Christmas, the gaily decorated presents that sat beneath its boughs are but a joyful memory from Christmas Day now, and the tree will be taken down by Bramley, the Chetwynd’s faithful butler and several of the Glynes’ maids tomorrow for Twelfth Night*. Lettice’s sister, Lalage (known to everyone in the family by the diminutive Lally), is also staying at Glynes with her own family, but has gone to visit locally living friends with her husband, Charles, and their three children. However, Lettice’s Aunt Eglantyne, the younger artistic spinster sister of the Viscount (known affectionately as Aunt Egg by all her nieces and nephews), remains at Glynes for the day along with Lettice. The Viscount and Lady Sadie, Leslie and Arabella, and Eglantyne are all gathered in the drawing room at the behest of Lettice, who has mysteriously announced that she has some important news to share, but will divulge nothing more.

 

“Where the devil is she then?” asks the Viscount irritably as he sits on an upright gilt salon chair embroidered with fine petit point by his mother, his arms folded akimbo across his chest. “The bloody cheek of her!”

 

“Language, Cosmo.” chides Lady Sadie from her seat across the fire from him, her usual place in the Glynes drawing room, where she quietly sits and embroiders some roses on a piece of linen stretched across her embroidery hoop.

 

“Well!” blusters the Viscount. “I think I have a right to be irked, Sadie. Lettice goes on about wanting to make some important announcement, telling us we all need to be present, being irritably mysterious about it,” He unfolds his arms and gesticulates before him. “And then she doesn’t even have the decency to show up at the time she asks us all to be here. Leslie and I need to be attending to the estate, not pandering to her and playing her silly games!”

 

“Pappa is right. It is rather selfish of Tice, Mamma.” Leslie adds in a slightly kinder, yet serious tone, uncharacteristically critical of his youngest sibling. “The estate doesn’t stop just because it’s New Year, and Pappa and I have business at Willow Wood Farm, and that’s on the far side of the estate.”

 

“If Lettice says it’s important, it’s important, Cosmo dear.” Eglantyne insists coolly from her seat on a sofa, toying distractedly with the long black glass bead sautoir** cascading down the front of her dramatic russet coloured Delphos gown***, her usual choice of frock, as she flips through Lady Sadie’s latest copy of Horse and Hound****. “She isn’t prone to over dramatisation.”

 

“No, but she does enjoy being the centre of attention.” mutters the Viscount.

 

“Wherever might she get that from?” Eglantyne asks rhetorically as she looks up at her brother from over the top of the magazine, watching him redden, bluster and shift uncomfortably in his seat under her astute observations, causing her to smile behind the pages of equestrian events held up in front of her.

 

Lady Sadie glances at the delicate Dresden china clock on the drawing room mantle. “I’m as put out as you Cosmo. Arabella and I have business in the village to attend to, don’t we Arabella dear?” When Arabella nods her ascent with a shallow nod, Lady Sadie goes on. “But it is only just after eleven. Let’s give Lettice a few more minutes.”

 

As the Viscount coughs and grumbles his reluctant agreement, folding his arms akimbo again across his golden yellow shepherd’s check***** vest, a loud rumbling from outside begins to break the tense atmosphere of the drawing room. “What the blazes…” the Viscount falters.

 

Lady Sadie puts aside her embroidery, rises from her seat and walks across the drawing room carpet to the full length windows that afford unobstructed views of the driveway. She discreetly moves the scrim curtain slightly and sighs heavily. “It’s Sir John in that ghastly, vulgar and showy car of his.”

 

“He’s come down in his Torpedo******?” Leslie pipes up, pulling himself out of his languid position by his wife’s side on the sofa, sitting upright in excitement. “I say! How ripping!”

 

“A racing car for a racy lifestyle.” opines the Viscount disparagingly in a quiet voice. “The old letch.”

 

Not hearing her husband’s denigrating comments about Sir John, Lady Sadie replies to her son’s remark. “Irritating is more like it. This really is too tiresome!” She sighs again. “What on earth can he want?”

 

“I thought you liked, Sir John, Sadie.” Arabella remarks, looking up from an old copy of The Tatler******* in her hands.

 

“Oh I don’t mind him, dear,” Lady Sadie responds with a huff, dropping the edge of the lace scrim curtain and turning back to face the room, whilst outside the front door Sir John energetically leaps elegantly from his Bugatti. “It’s just that being our neighbour… mmm… of sorts, and of influence in the district, whatever his business is, it will take precedence over Lettice’s news, however important she may think it, and that means we will be later in visiting the Miss Evanses.”

 

“Heaven forbid we should miss visiting the Miss Evanses.” Arabella remarks sarcastically, glad that she is facing away from her mother-in-law and into the room as she rolls her eyes upwards and smirks cheekily at Leslie, who smirks back as they share their mutual dislike of the two genteel gossipy spinster sisters who live in Holland House, a Seventeenth Century manor house, in Glynes village.

 

“Arabella!” Lady Sadie chides. “You know as well as I do that both the Miss Evanses have been sick with head colds since before Christmas.”

 

“That didn’t stop them trudging up here from the village with their beastly head colds to see the Christmas tree in the hall,” Leslie gripes. “Snuffling and coughing all over the place, and making a general nuisance of themselves with their simpering ‘only if it’s not too much trouble to get us a chair, give us an extra snifter or two of brandy, have Harris take us home’.” He rolls his eyes this time.

 

“Well, whatever they may or may not be, Leslie,” Lady Sadie counters. “The Evanses live in our village, and as lady of the manor, and your wife the future lady, Arabella and I have a duty to pay sick visits to them and see to their wellbeing. It’s just the same for you, as the presumptive heir, have a duty to visit the tenant farmers at Willow Wood Farm with your father.”

 

“I think Lettice should accompany us to the Miss Evanses, since she is putting us out like this.” Arabella says sulkily. “Perhaps three against two will make our sick visit a little more palatable. Even when they are sick, they can still whitter away nineteen to the dozen********. It’s exhausting.”

 

“Arabella!” Lady Sadie scolds. “That is most uncharitable.”

 

“But true.” smirks Leslie.

 

“Nothing will ever kill Geraldine or Henrietta Evans.” mutters the Viscount disgruntledly. “And at this rate, with infernal Sir John here as well, Leslie and I will never get to Willow Wood Farm.”

 

“Now, now!” Ladie Sadie replies as she walks back across the room. “Be polite. Stop slouching,” She flips her bejewelled hand in her husband’s general direction, causing him to sit up straightly in his seat. “And mind your manners, Cosmo.” She lowers herself elegantly into her seat and smooths down the tweed of her skirt over her knees as she prepares to receive Sir John with a painted smile on her face. “It’s not Sir John’s fault that you have better things to do than sit down and chat about county business with him.”

 

At that moment, the door to the Glynes drawing room opens and Bramley walks in.

 

“Err… Sir John Nettleford-Hughes, Milord.” the butler announces stiffly, but with a slight awkwardness as he speaks and steps aside to allow Sir John to enter.

 

Sir John strides in, oozing the confidence of male privilege that his sex, class and enormous wealth bestows with every step, wearing it every bit as well as the smart and well-cut Jermyn Street********* tweed suit he is dressed in. As he does so, Lettice follows closely in his wake, smiling a little shyly as she then steps alongside him and slips her left hand into his right. He turns his head ever so slightly to her and squeezes her hand in return in a most intimate fashion as his confident smile strengthens ever so slightly.

 

Arabella gasps as does Leslie, the married couple exchanging surprised glances at what they see. The pages of Horse and Hound in Eglantyne’s hands shiver with astonishment as she stares with her wide green eyes as her niece and Sir John approach them all.

 

“Sir John,” the Viscount says, rising to his feet. “How do you do. To what do I owe the..” The strangled gasp of surprise coming from his wife as she rises from her seat with trembling elegance distracts him momentarily. He turns away from his guest and sees Lady Sadie’s face drain of colour, as her blue eyes like cold aquamarine chips grow wide. He frowns at her, then quickly returns his attention to Sir John and concludes his sentence. “The unexpected pleasure?” It is then that he notices his youngest daughter as she slips alongside Sir John. “Oh good! There you are Lettice.” he says with false bonhomie. “Look who’s here!”

 

“Err.. Cosmo.” Lady Sadie manages to utter in a strangulated way as she steps from her seat to her husband’s side.

 

“How do you do, Lord Chetwynd,” Sir John turns his attention momentarily to the Viscount’s wife. “Lady Sadie.” He nods curtly. “It’s not really so unexpected a visit.” he continues, cutting off anything Lady Sadie might be about to say with his well elocuted syllables, his confident smile broadening a little more.

 

“Cosmo.” Lady Sadie tries to interject again.

 

“You see,” Sir John concludes. “I’ve come here at Lettice’s behest.”

 

For nearly a year Lettice had been patiently awaiting the return of her beau, Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, after he was sent to Durban by his mother, Lady Zinnia in an effort to destroy his and Lettice’s relationship which she wanted to end so that she could marry Selwyn off to his cousin, Pamela Fox-Chavers. Lettice was subsequently made aware by Lady Zinnia that during the course of the year, whilst Lettice had been biding her time, waiting for Selwyn’s eventual return, he had become engaged to the daughter of an Australian, Kenyan diamond mine owner, whilst in Durban. Fleeing Lady Zinnia’s Park Lane mansion, Lettice returned to Cavendish Mews and milled over her options over a week as she reeled from the news. Then, after that week, she knew exactly what to do to resolve the issues raised by Lady Zinnia’s unwelcome news about her son. Taking extra care in her dress, she took herself off to the neighbouring suburb of Belgravia and paid a call upon Sir John Nettleford-Hughes.

 

Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John is still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intends to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. As an eligible man in a aftermath of the Great War when such men are a rare commodity, with a vast family estate in Bedfordshire, houses in Mayfair, Belgravia and Pimlico and Fontengil Park in Wiltshire, quite close to the Glynes estate belonging to her parents, Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, invited him as a potential suitor to her 1922 Hunt Ball, which she used as a marriage market for Lettice. Selwyn rescued Lettice from the horror of having to entertain him, and Sir John left the ball early in a disgruntled mood with a much younger partygoer. Lettice reacquainted herself with Sir John in the last year at an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Gladys Caxton at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, a baronial Art and Crafts castle near the hamlet of Kershopefoot in Cumberland. To her surprise, Lettice found Sir John’s company rather enjoyable. She then ran into him again at the Portland Gallery’s autumn show in Bond Street, where she found him yet again to be a pleasant and attentive companion for much of the evening. As well as lavishing her with his attentions, Sir John made a proposition to her that night: he offered her his hand in marriage should she ever need it. More like a business arrangement than a marriage proposal, Sir John offered Lettice the opportunity to enjoy the benefits of his large fortune, be chatelain of all his estates and continue to have her interior design business, under the conditions that she agree to provide him with an heir, and that he be allowed to discreetly carry on his affairs in spite of their marriage vows. He even suggested that Lettice might be afforded the opportunity to have her own extra marital liaisons if she were discreet about them. Turning up unannounced on his doorstep, she agreed to his proposal after explaining that the understanding between she and Selwyn was concluded. However, in an effort to be discreet, at Lettice’s insistence, they have not made their engagement public, allowing the dust about Selwyn’s break of his and Lettice’s engagement to settle, until now.

 

“At… Lettice’s behest?” the Viscount queries, cocking an eyebrow as he looks uncomprehendingly at his daughter. “What’s this about, Lettice? Enough with your silly games of intrigue! Leslie and I don’t have time for this, when we have estate business to attend to.”

 

“Err… Pappa.” Leslie ventures.

 

“Cosmo.” Lady Sadie tries again, reaching out and touching her husband’s arm, and indicating to her youngest daughter’s hand.

 

“You might think otherwise, Lord Chetwynd, when you hear what I’ve come here about.” remarks Sir John matter-of-factly.

 

“We’re engaged, Pappa!” Lettice blurts out, unable to contain herself any longer, her painted lips broadening into a bright smile as she shows her perfect white teeth. “Sir John and I!”

 

Lady Sadie, Leslie, Arabella and Eglantyne all draw their breath as one.

 

“What?” the Viscount’s face falls.

 

“Sir John and I are engaged, Pappa.” Lettice repeats.

 

“You… you and… Sir John?” the Viscount stammers, looking uncomprehendingly between his daughter and the older man.

 

“Lettice and I are announcing our engagement, Lord Chetwynd.” Sir John says, his confident smile strengthening as he tenderly raises Lettice’s left hand in his right one, the intimate movement sending a shock through Lady Sadie. He proudly proffers Lettice’s hand to the Viscount and Lady Sadie, where a beautiful and surprisingly dainty Victorian engagement ring sits on Lettice’s ring finger, a large square cut emerald********** surrounded by smaller diamonds set in platinum sparkling gaily in the light cast by the electrified chandelier above.

 

Leslie and Arabella gasp, rising quickly to their feet and scurrying across the drawing room carpet to inspect the ring. Never one to be rushed, Eglantyne slowly rises with poise and elegance, but says nothing, her lips pursed, and her face twisted into a look of disgusted intrigue, before slowly sauntering the few paces to join her nephew and his wife at Lettice and Sir John’s side.

 

“I wish you every happiness Tice***********!” Arabella cries with enthusiasm, throwing her arms around her sister-in-law, her exuberance breaking the stunned silence of the others.

 

“Yes, every happiness, Tice!” Leslie adds, following his wife’s response and hugging his sister. Yet as the felicitations fall from his lips, his voice betrays the concerns he has. As he holds her at arm’s length, his sparking pale blue eyes and slightly quavering smile are full of unspoken questions. Lettice smiles confidently in return and silently squeezes her eldest brother’s forearms as an indication that everything is alright, even if the news of her engagement is a shock to him. Leslie’s smile strengthens a little, his face taking on a slightly resigned look as he continues with a huff, “Good old Tice! After seeing all the fuss of our wedding, and how beautiful Bella looked, you just couldn’t resist, could you?”

 

Lettice releases the breath she had been holding, laughing anxiously as she does. “No, you’re quite right, Leslie! I had to be the next one in the family to get married! Heaven forbid one of Mamma’s cousins usurped me.”

 

“I say, congratulations old bean!************” Leslie says, turning his attention to Sir John and slapping his right upper arm with his left hand in a kind fashion and shaking his hand enthusiastically. “You’ve picked yourself a beautiful and intelligent bride.”

 

“Thanks ever so, old chap.” Sir John replies with a happy smile of gratitude towards his future brother-in-law.

 

“Yes, congratulations, Sir John.” Arabella says kindly. A little unsure as to whether to kiss him or not, she falters before him. “Tice inherited the looks and the brains in the Chetwynd family,” She turns to Leslie and smiles. “Unlike my husband.”

 

“Cheeky!” Leslie laughs as he looks at his pretty wife.

 

“Thank you, my dear Mrs. Chetwynd.” Sir John replies to Arabella, proffering his right cheek for her to kiss, assisting her in her indecision. “Now, if we are to be family, you really must address me as John.” His right cheek grazes Arabella’s left cheek.

 

“If we are to have you as our brother-in-law, you must call us Leslie and Bella.” Leslie pipes up.

 

“Yes… yes of course, Leslie and Bella.” Sir John chuckles distractedly in reply, accepting another congratulatory handshake from Leslie. Yet his eyes drift from Leslie’s gaze to his fiancée as she stands looking somewhat forlorn before her parents. Although her back is turned to him, Sir John can tell by her stance that Lettice is anxious. Her shoulders are stiffly upright, and her hands are clasped in front of her beseechingly.

 

“I wish you every happiness, Lettice my dear.” Lady Sadie remarks as she places her arms firmly on Lettice’s forearms and proffers her an air kiss of congratulations. “Although this is somewhat of a surprise, I must say.” she adds with an awkward laugh, releasing her daughter and staring across at Sir John.

 

“Engaged?” the Viscount asks in disbelief again.

 

“Please say you aren’t cross with me, Pappa.” Lettice addresses her crestfallen looking father with a mewling pout. “With us. I mean, I know we didn’t actually ask your permission, but we didn’t think you’d mind,” She prattles on. “And I am of age, after all.”

 

“Of course you are, Lettice my dear.” Lady Sadie replies on behalf of her husband, filling in the awkward silence between father and daughter. “I must say, you certainly took your time about it though.” She tuts. “Twenty-four, out in society and still on the shelf.” She smiles, but like Leslie there is concern in her blue eyes, causing her usual hard brilliance to mellow into a softer hue as worry fills them. “Still, you have chosen,’ she gulps. “Chosen well. Sir John is every bit of a catch as you are. It’s… it’s just come as something of a surprise, hasn’t it, Cosmo, my dear?”

 

“Please say you’re happy for me, Pappa!” Lettice implores.

  

“But when?” the Viscount manages to ask his daughter in a voice hoarse with emotion, looking at her with questioning eyes, seeing Lettice as a young woman for the first time, rather than a little girl. “How?”

 

“Oh, in the usual way, Lord Chetwynd.” Sir John says brightly, taking a few steps, leading him out of Leslie and Arabella’s orb of conversation and intruding into Lettice’s one with her parents. “I proposed, and she said yes.”

 

“Well, it kind of snuck up on us and surprised us, didn’t it, John darling.” Lettice says awkwardly, gulping and breathing heavily as she does.

 

“Yes!” Sir John chuckles a little awkwardly, thrusting his left hand deep into his trouser pocket as he rolls up and down slightly upon the balls of his feet. “Yes, I suppose it did.”

 

“So how did it happen,” Eglantyne asks as she steps up to her niece and fiancée, speaking for the first time. “Exactly?” There is an edge of hostility to her voice as she speaks, and as she glides elegantly up alongside her brother, she blows a cloud of acrid smoke from the Black Russian Sobranie************* she has lit and placed in her amber and gold holder, into Sir John’s face as she speaks. “It’s a story I should very much like to hear.”

 

“Aunt Egg!” Lettice exclaims, fanning her face with her hand to dissipate the heavy fug of smoke that envelops them.

 

“Really Eglantyne!” Lady Sadie snaps. “Must you smoke in here? You know how much I disapprove of men smoking indoors,” She looks askance at her sister-in-law with her hennaed red hair and bohemian dress drawing upon her cigarette. “Never mind women! It’s undignified!”

 

“Yes, I must, Sadie, even if it sticks in your craw. If my niece is announcing her surprise engagement, I think I must insist on smoking, short of being offered a very stiff drink by you to dull the surprise.” Eglantyne snaps back.

 

Lettice looks at her aunt with hurt eyes. “Aunt Egg!”

 

Ignoring Lettice, Eglantyne folds her arms akimbo and fixes Sir John with her appraising green eyes, smiling as she draws deeply on her cigarette through her holder. “Please, do go on, John. Regale us with the tale of your proposal.”

 

“Well, you were actually there, Eglantyne my dear,” Sir John replies with confidence, giving Lettice’s forearm a gentle comforting and protective squeeze, drawing her closer to him, determined not to be intimidated by Eglantyne, ignoring her evident hostility.

 

“I was?” Eglantyne asks in surprise, sending forth another plume of acrid greyish blue smoke.

 

“You were.” he assures her. “It was the night of the Portland Gallery’s autumn show.”

 

“Lettice?” Eglantyne queries, turning in surprise to Lettice. “Why did I not know about this?” she asks with a mixture of resentment and bitterness in her voice.

 

“Well, Lettice doesn’t have to tell you everything, Eglantyne.,” Sir John retorts. “Even if you are her favourite aunt.

 

“Well it didn’t quite happen that night, Aunt Egg” Lettice tries to explain in an apologetic tone. “It is true that John did propose to me that night, or rather he made me a proposition…” She pauses. “Of sorts.”

 

“A proposition?” Lady Sadie asks in concern, glancing first and Lettice and then more skeptically at Sir John. “What did you mean, child?”

 

“Well, I offered her my hand in marriage that night, should she ever need it.” Sir John replies.

 

“But that was…” Lady Sadie calculates the dates in her head. “But… didn’t you… you and Selwyn… still have an understanding then?” she manages to falter as she blushes, looking questioningly at her daughter.

 

“I did, Mamma.” Lettice replies.

 

“And that, my dear Eglantyne is why you wouldn’t have heard about my proposal that evening.” Sir John says cheerfully. “There was nothing to say on the matter. Lettice was still engaged to young Spencely at the time. I’d only asked Lettice to consider my proposal that evening, not accept it, and then, only in the event should circumstances with young Spencely ever change.”

 

“And how fortuitous for you that her circumstances changed, dear John.” Eglantyne remarks caustically.

 

“Aunt Egg!” Lettice looks askance at her aunt.

 

“Fortunate for us both, dear Eglantyne.” Sir John replies, pulling Lettice a little closer to him.

 

“I never took you for the marrying kind, John.” Eglantyne opines.

 

“Well,” Sir John bristles. “I didn’t take you as being a woman who put such faith in society gossip, Eglantyne.”

 

“Eglantyne!” Lady Sadie echoes Lettice’s admonishment.

 

“I was merely making an observation.” Eglantyne retorts, raising her bejewelled gnarled hands in defence, sending a trail of curling cigarette smoke into the air as she does. “I meant no offence.”

 

“Well, your opinions on the institution of marriage are well known, Eglantyne.” Lady Sadie quips, shaking her head slightly at her sister-in-law as she eyes her with an inscrutable look with hard eyes. “So let that be an end to it!”

 

“I shall say no more.” Eglantyne replies, withdrawing and standing next to Leslie.

 

“The main thing is, I proposed.” Sir John says defiantly.

 

“And I accepted, willingly.” Lettice says with a sudden steeliness in her voice. “And” She looks earnestly into her father’s face. “I hope you will give us your blessing, Pappa. Will you?”

 

Everyone in the drawing room suddenly looks at the Viscount as he stands in silence before his daughter. His look is indecipherable as he stares at her, his eyes sparkling with the unshed tears he holds back. His hands tremble almost imperceptibly at his side. The silence is palpable, and the longer it goes on, only broken by the gentle ticking on the clock on the mantle, the more awkward everyone becomes.

 

“Cosmo?” Lady Sadie asks uncertainly, gently reaching out and grasping his slumping shoulder.

 

“Pappa?” Lettice asks tentatively, her eyes filling with tears that threaten to spill at any moment.

 

He doesn’t reply at first, seemingly frozen in his stance as he gazes with a questioning look at his daughter. The unanswered question by his daughter finally reaches into the Viscount’s consciousness and breaks his silence. He coughs and stammers. “Well… well, your mother has said it already, but this news..” He pauses. “This welcome news..” he corrects. He lets out a shuddering breath as he speaks the two words. “Has come upon us rather suddenly. But you are of age, Lettice, so you do not need my permission. You may marry whomever you wish.”

 

“Indeed!” pipes up Lady Sadie. “You certainly took your time about it, Lettice. You aren’t getting any younger. You’re twenty-four now.”

 

“But will you give us your blessing, Pappa?” Lettice asks again, wrapping her left hand in Sir John’s right hand and squeezing it. When he squeezes it comfortingly in return Lady Sadie’s eyes to widen slightly and she shudders again at their obvious intimacy, which she is not used to.

 

“Are you happy with your choice, Lettice?” the Viscount asks.

 

Lettice doesn’t answer for a moment. Her mind is awash with a mixture of emotions: anger and resentment for Lady Zinnia, heartbreak and disappointment for Selwyn at his betrayal of her, gratefulness to Sir John for his proposal of marriage and his willingness to be truthful to her. “Of course I am, Pappa!” she finally answers with steeliness in her voice, chuckling as she finishes speaking. “We both are, aren’t we, John darling?” She turns to her fiancée.

 

“Indeed we are, Lettice.” he agrees, nodding his assent.

 

“Then we must open some champagne to celebrate!” the Viscount replies, blinking and smiling brightly at his daughter. “After all it isn’t every day that my youngest daughter announces her engagement, is it?” He opens his arms welcomingly to her.

 

“Oh Pappa!” Lettice exclaims with relief, releasing the pent-up breath she didn’t even realise that she was holding on to.

 

“Thank you!”

 

As Lettice falls into her father’s arms, burying her head into his shoulder she lets the tears of happiness and relief fall from her eyes as she closes them and inhales the familiar scent of her father, a mixture of musky eau de cologne and the scent of books. What she does not notice is the Viscount’s own tears and the trace of concern in his face and eyes as he pulls her close to him.

 

“Are you really sure, Lettice.” he whispers quietly in her ear.

 

“I am, Pappa.” she answers back in equally hushed tones, tightening her closed lids and smiling.

 

Releasing her from his embrace, the Viscount approaches Sir John. Sniffing he blusters, “Well, what is it they say, Sir John? I’m not losing a daughter, but gaining a son.” He reaches out his big hand and firmly shakes Sir John’s, slapping him firmly on the upper arm in a chummy way. “Isn’t that right?”

 

“Indeed it is, Lord Chetwynd,” Sir John says with a sigh of relief, not quite yet feeling comfortable or familiar enough to release the formality and call him, Cosmo.

 

“Congratulations!” the Viscount says with a half-smile, shaking Sir John’s hand.

 

“Yes, congratulations.” Lady Sadie echoes her husband, smiling politely at Sir John before allowing her gaze to dart back to her youngest child.

 

“Well!” the Viscount booms. “We must celebrate! Sadie! Ring for Bramley!” He claps his hands. “We must have champagne!”

 

A short while later Bramley and Moira the head parlourmaid arrive, as instructed, with two bottles of the finest champagne from the Viscount’s cellars in silver coolers and a tray of champagne flutes on a silver tray. They place them upon the ornate galleried gilded rococo table placed in the centre of the cluster of sofas and chairs.

 

“If I may wish you and Sir John my heartiest congratulations, My Lady.” the old retainer says to Lettice.

 

“Thank you, Bramley.” Lettice replies with a satisfied smile. “If you’d be good enough to share the news with all the staff below stairs, I’d appreciate it.”

 

“Certainly, My Lady.”

 

Amid the hubbub of slightly subdued chatter around the table, the Viscount pops the cork of one of the bottles and fills several of the glasses, draining the bottle before opening the second and filling the remaining flutes and passing the glasses around.

 

“A toast!” the Viscount announces, clearing his throat.

 

“Oh, it’s a shame that Lally and Charles aren’t here for this.” Blurts out Arabella.

 

“Well, we’ll just have to have another round when they get back from their visit to Bowood**************.” Leslie says. “Won’t we?”

 

“A toast!” the Viscount says again, raising his flute of sparking champagne and smiling at Lettice. “To the marriage of my lovely youngest daughter, Lettice and her fiancée, our friend and neighbour, Sir John. Nettleford-Hughes”

 

He, Lady Sadie, Leslie, Arabella and even Eglantyne, albeit a little begrudgingly, toast the newly engaged couple. “To Lettice and Sir John.” As the party sip their congratulatory champagne, Lady Sadie cannot help but shudder again as she watches Lettice’s and Sir John’s lips meet in a chaste kiss.

 

The company then break up into smaller groups and chatter animatedly as they sip their champagne. Sir John talks with Eglantyne on one of the sofas, their faces serious and their conversation animated. The Viscount and Leslie mill next to the drawing room’s impressive chinoiserie screen discussing the fact that it is now unlikely that they will get to Willow Wood Farm today. Lady Sadie wanders around, never quite settling, joining the fray of conversations, but then moving on, going from one armchair or sofa to another until she finishes her glass of champagne and quietly slips out of the drawing room. Arabella and Lettice put their heads together conspiratorially, giggling girlishly.

 

“Oh Tice!” Arabella sighs. “That is such a stunning engagement ring!”

 

“It was John’s mother’s ring.” Lettice answers. “His younger sister, Clemance has been keeping it safely aside for him.”

 

“I didn’t know Sir John had a sister, Tice.” Arabella admits.

 

“John, Bella my dear.” Lettice corrects her sister-in-law.

 

“Yes, of course: John!” Arabella replies, blushing as she does.

 

“John actually has quite a number of siblings, Bella, but I think Clemence is his favourite. She lived with her husband abroad for many years, in Paris mostly, but when he died last year, she returned to England, which is probably why you’ve never heard of her. She lives in London now, so when he announced our engagement, she gave him the ring, saying that she had kept it safely for him until he finally found the right young lady to give it to.”

 

“And that was you, Tice! You!” Arabella laughs.

 

“You are a hopeless romantic, Bella!” Lettice laughs, grateful to have at least one member of her family happy about her engagement. “Quite hopeless!”

 

“You know me, Tice!” Arabella giggles in response. “How delightful Sir… I mean, John’s sister sounds.”

 

“Oh, Clemance is lovely, Arabella. I’m sure you’ll like her when you meet her.”

 

“Just look at the way that emerald sparkles!” Arabella adds, lifting Lettice’s hand, causing the stones to wink and sparkle. “It’s magnificent.” she breathes with excitement. “It speaks of exotic climes and thrilling adventures.”

  

“Do you know, Bella, that emeralds are purported to be the revealer of truths?” Lettice asks her sister-in-law, speaking loudly enough for her father to hear. When Arabella shakes her head, Lettice goes on, “Emeralds reputedly could cut through all illusions and spells, including the truth or falsity of a lover's oath. Some believed it could also dampen lust. However, that is contrary to what they thought in ancient Greece and Rome, where emeralds were said to be the gemstone of the goddess Venus, purveyor of love and hope.”

 

“Who told you that, my clever girl?” the Viscount interrupts, drawing up alongside his daughter and daughter-in-law, his half empty glass of champagne in his hand.

 

“The language tutor you engaged to teach me French, Pappa.” Lettice laughs.

 

“What has the meaning of emeralds in ancient times to do with French?” the Viscount retorts in surprise, guffawing as he does.

 

“Nothing, but I did find that Monsieur Bertrand did have a secret passion for allegory as we took our lessons.”

 

“Not so secret, evidently, Tice.” giggles Arabella.

 

“Well, I hope he taught you about allegory in French, my dear.” the Viscount chortles.

 

“Bien sûr, Pappa!” Lettice laughs, the joyous sound making her father smile sadly.

 

“I’m so happy for you, Tice my dear!” Arabella enthuses again. “Sir John really is quite the catch.”

 

Father, daughter and daughter-in-law chuckle for a moment before the Viscount says, “My dear, I’m sorry to intrude on your conversation with Arabella, but I have a word with you?”

 

“Of course, Pappa.”

 

“In private.” he adds.

 

“Of course, Pappa.” Lettice says, nodding as she gives her sister-in-law an apologetic look.

 

“Please excuse us, Arabella my dear.” the Viscount apologises as he leads Lettice away from the cluster of his family gathered in clusters around the gilded galleried table, to a sofa further away where they can have a discussion without the fear of being eavesdropped upon. “Please.” He indicates for her to sit.

 

“This is all rather cloak and dagger, isn’t it Pappa?” Lettice titters as she does as she is bidden, and sinks down upon the soft gold satin upholstery with figured patterns upon it.

 

“This is no laughing matter, Lettice.” the Viscount acknowledges, his crumpled and wrinkled face looking dark. “Now this is serious, my dear. I want to talk to you.”

 

“Pappa!” Lettice’s face clouds as she sips her half empty flute of champagne. “You’re worrying me.”

 

“No need to be worried, my girl.” The Viscount takes a mouthful of champagne before continuing. “However, I do need to ask you something.”

 

“Yes,” Lettice replies, instantly taking a more dour stance. “What is it, Pappa?”

 

“Now, you know that I’m not one who is very good with expressing my emotions,” the Viscount blusters awkwardly. “But I hope that you do know I love you. Don’t you, my girl?”

 

“Oh Pappa!” Lettice scoffs, waving her hand, the emerald catching the Viscount’s eye as it and the surrounding diamonds winks and sparkle. “Of course I do!”

 

“And that I only want the very best for you.” He wags his index finger at her.

 

“Of course, Pappa.”

 

“Then please understand that what I’m about to ask and say, only comes from my love and concern for you and your happiness?”

 

“Goodness!” Lettice exclaims with a mixture of trepidation and frustration. “What on earth is this about Pappa?”

 

“Well,” the Viscount confesses. “I just want to make sure that you are quite certain.”

 

“Of marrying John?”

 

“Of marrying Sir John.” he agrees.

 

“Oh really Pappa!” Lettice mutters. “You must start calling him John, if we are to be engaged. You can’t very well call my husband Sir John all our married life.”

 

“Yes, quite. Err… John.” he coughs awkwardly. He pauses and takes another mouthful of champagne, swilling the fizzy liquid around in his mouth. Sighing he adds, “This is all very sudden, Lettice.”

 

“I knew you’d say that, Pappa, but it’s been long enough, and I’ve made up my mind,” Lettice replies defiantly. “No matter what you and Aunt Egg may think.”

 

“Now, now. Don’t be too hard on us, my girl. It’s just that this has all come as rather a shock to us. You mustn’t expect hearty congratulations when we had no idea this arrangement between the two of you was even a possibility.”

 

“Why do you call it an arrangement, Pappa?” Lettice asks hotly.

 

The Viscount doesn’t answer straight away. “No reason my girl. A poor choice of words on my part. An understanding then.” he concedes. “Anyway, you can hardly expect your aunt to be pleased no matter who you choose to marry. You know she’s a free spirit and doesn’t conform to society like the rest of us.” He looks across at Eglantyne as she talks with Sir John on the sofa. “I mean, Eglantyne wasn’t exactly thrilled when Leslie announced he was marrying Arabella,” He chuckles. “And we’d been voicing that possibility within her earshot for years before he finally asked her to marry him.”

 

“Well, she seemed a little happier about Leslie’s engagement than mine.” Lettice sulks. “She needn’t have been quite so openly hostile.”

 

“You’re her protégée, my girl, and you are my favourite daughter.” The Viscount chuckles again. “Just don’t tell Lally that by the way.” He wags a finger at Lettice. “We just want to be sure that you are happy, and that this isn’t something you are just rushing into. Give us both time. Eh?”

 

“Alright Pappa.” Lettice acquiesces.

 

“Good girl.” The Viscount smiles at his daughter before going on. “He’s a lot older than you, isn’t he? Sir John, I mean.” the Viscount continues. “He’s closer to my age than he is yours.”

 

“You’re concerned about the age difference between us?” Lettice asks.

 

The Viscount bites the inside of his bottom lip in concern. He’s felt for a long time now that Sir John was quite a lecherous man, paying undue attention to younger women at the social functions he and the Viscount attended in the district at the same time. Then there were the whiffs of scandal, implying that he may have gone off with one or two of them. There was even the rumour that he went home with a much younger partygoer at the 1922 Hunt Ball held at Glynes, purportedly because Lettice had spurned his attentions that evening, preferring those of Selwyn Spencely. All this whilst uncomfortable to think about, was at least at arm’s length when Sir John had his life, and the Viscount and his family had theirs, yet now the two have been catapulted together with the announcement of Lettice’s engagement to Sir John. These circumstances have brought the Viscount’s disparaging thoughts and the rumours about Sir John to the front of his mind. He stares at his daughter: a young lady yes, but still such an innocent as she looks at him with her defiant gaze. Does he share his concerns with her?

 

“Well, I…” he stammers. “Well it’s just that…”

 

“Pappa?”

 

“I just don’t want you feeling that you have to get married. I… I mean… I mean your mother and I want you to marry of course, and marry well.” he huffs. “And I know… John is a most eligible bachelor, but that doesn’t mean I want you to settle for Sir… err John, just because…”

 

“Settle?” Lettice interrupts.

 

“I want to make sure that that there is no undue influence, I mean. You know,” He gesticulates in the space between them. “Upon your decision, I mean, to marry him.”

 

“Undue influence?” Lettice looks at her father in surprise. “What on earth does that mean?”

 

“Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh dear!” The Viscount sighs heavily as he rubs his big hand over his wrinkled and weathered face. “This isn’t coming out quite the way I wanted it, my girl.” He pauses and tries again. “You know words are not my strongest suit. Look, let me speak plainly.”

 

“I wish you would, Pappa.”

 

“I know back in twenty-two, your mother saw Sir John as a good match, and I know that you had your reservations about him being… well, being too old and stuffy. Of course you were attracted to young Spencely with all his charms.”

 

“What on earth has this to do with undue influence, Pappa?” Lettice asks. “This makes no sense.”

 

The Viscount lowers his voice. “I just want to make sure that you haven’t changed your mind about Sir John, because of something,” He turns and glances over his shoulder, unable to see his wife, who still hasn’t returned since he saw her deposit her empty champagne flute on the silver tray before quietly leaving the room with her head bowed in concern. He turns back to Lettice. “Something your mother might have said, or suggested, after young Spencely ended your engagement so suddenly.”

 

“Well, Mamma has hardly hidden her displeasure at my current status of remaining unmarried, Pappa at twenty-four. When I announced the understanding between Selwyn and I, it was obviously a relief to her.”

 

“I know your mother has put a great deal of emphasis on you being out in society for a while now, and anxious about you being stuck on the shelf. But I…”

 

“Pappa, please stop.” Lettice sets her now empty champagne glass aside and holds up her hands. “I can assure you that there was no undue pressure or influence from Mamma, or you in my decision.”

 

“No! No of course not.” he stammers in reply. Sighing he continues, “Well, that’s a relief. And.. and John?”

 

“Well, aside from him making his proposal at the Portland Gallery, which would weigh heavily on any girl’s conscience, there has been no pressure from him to decide.”

 

“It does seem a little bit odd, don’t you think?” the Viscount shakes his head as he screws up his face in distaste.

 

“Odd, Pappa?”

 

“Yes. It seems a rather rum business*************** what with him making the proposition to you as he did at the gallery, and then shortly after, Lady Zinnia announcing that Selwyn is marrying that horrible Antipodean**************** heiress in Durban.”

 

“Kitty Avendale” Lettice sighs heavily.

 

“Is that her name?”

 

“Yes.” Lettice answers laconically, focussing her attention on her toe of her shoe as she uses it to rub the pile of the Oriental carpet beneath it distractedly.

 

“Ghastly name, for a ghastly girl. “Treacherous trollop!”

 

Lettice allows herself a sad chuckle before going on. “Well,” she sighs. “I shan’t disagree with you about her name Pappa, but no, I don’t believe that John and Lady Zinnia are in any way conspiring. When John offered his proposal of sorts, he knew perfectly well that Selwyn and I were planning to get married upon his return from Durban.”

 

“Are you quite sure about that?”

 

“What are you implying, Pappa?”

 

“Nothing, my girl. I just want to make sure that you’re sure, and that… that this isn’t a result of some arrangement between Zinnia and John. She never wanted you to marry young Spencely, and wanted to end your romantic involvement with him, no matter what the cost, and Sir… err John and his proposal seems the perfect solution, if she knew that John was interested in you.”

 

The Viscount’s words hang between father and daughter.

 

“No, Pappa.” Lettice says resolutely. “John is not contriving with Lady Zinnia. He even encouraged me to hold onto hope that Selwyn was coming back to me. He said that I should only consider his offer if circumstances between Selwyn and I changed,” She sighs heavily. “And that is exactly what has happened, Pappa. Circumstances have changed, and none of them have to do with any scheming from John or Lady Zinnia. I’m quite sure of it. John was quite content to remain unmarried.”

 

“That’s what I mean, my dear girl!” His eyes light up. “Pardon me for saying this, but it seems so incredibly at odds with his behaviour to date.”

 

“But why should John wish to enter into a marriage he doesn’t want for Lady Zinnia’s ends, Pappa? It makes no sense that he would do that.”

 

“I concede, I can’t answer that.”

 

“Has it ever occurred to you, Pappa, that I might be the one who stirred his heart?”

 

“Well, of course it has, my dear!” he assures her hurriedly. “I think there are a great many men whose hearts you could stir”

 

“You’re so kind Pappa.” Lettice lowers her gaze. “I promise you that John says that he admires me for far more than my beauty, and her certainly isn’t a fortune hunter.”

 

“I’m quite aware of the latter, my dear. He is richer than Croesus*****************.”

 

“He admires me for my mind, my wit, and my business acumen. As he says, he’s a businessman at heart, so he wants to marry someone with a similar mind. We’ve already discussed the difference in age between us, and what that means for both of us. You also may be surprised, and hopefully pleased, to hear that he has no wish to stop me from continuing my endeavours in my interior design business.”

 

The Viscount’s face shows his pleased amazement. “I must confess that does surprise me.”

 

“That’s what I mean by John being a businessman at heart, Pappa. He has remarked, on a number of occasions, that the last kind of woman he wishes to attach himself to is one who is bord and bone idle.”

 

“I see.”

 

“Or one who becomes jealous if he has to go away on business trips. He admires industry and fruitfulness. His offer is a very generous one. I am able to enjoy being Lady Nettleford-Hughes and all the status and wealth that accompanies the title. I shall be chatelaine of his properties and enjoy them. He will even allow me to hang what he calls my ‘daubs’ on the walls of his houses if it so pleases me.”

 

The Viscount chuckles at Sir John’s adroit term for the style of modern paintings Lettice has a preference for.

 

“And all the while I will still have my own business to run: a business he not only supports, but encourages.” Lettice goes on.

 

“And you’re quite sure that the understanding between you and Selwyn is ended, my girl?” the Viscount asks seriously, lowering his head. “I mean, quite sure?”

 

“I am Pappa.” Lettice replies adamantly. “He’s engaged. That feels like a very definite action in order for him to end things with me. If he’d really wanted to marry me, now the year of separation imposed upon us by Lady Zinnia is at an end, he could have communicated it with me. They do have a telephone exchange in Durban, even if he was delayed in sailing back to me. But I’ve heard nothing from him at all. His silence speaks volumes.”

 

“I see.” the Viscount lowers his eyes momentarily. “No chance then?”

 

“Pappa!” Lettice gasps with exasperation. “How many times must I tell you before you believe me? Yes, I’m quite sure it is done with Selwyn and there is no chance for us. I saw the proof for myself: a whole cache of newspaper articles and clippings showing Selwyn and Miss Avendale smiling together with headlines emblazoned beneath them touting their engagement. What more proof do I need?” She holds up a hand. “And before you say it, Pappa, I will not suffer the indignity of hearing it directly from him. I would die of shame and embarrassment.”

 

“No of course not, Lettice.” He pauses for a moment and then adds. “But these wretched newspaper men often mistake their facts in an effort to get their stories out quickly. And,” he continues. “Such things as newspapers can be forged you know, especially for a woman as wealthy and influential as Zinnia is.”

 

“I know Pappa, and in my heart of hearts, I did consider it.”

 

“And I wouldn’t put anything past that scheming Zinnia. She’s a horrible, ghastly and despicable woman with eyes only for intrigues and forwarding her own interests!”

 

“You are kind to defend me Pappa, and I don’t disagree with your frank observations of her, which I adore. Lady Zinnia is no friend to me. Please forgive me for saying this Pappa, and for being so frank, but,” She smiles sadly. “It does sound rather like you are a drowning man clutching at straws.”

 

The Viscount looks his daughter earnestly in the face. “When did you grow up to be such a wise young lady, Lettice? You know me so well, my dear.” The Viscount chuckles sadly. “It is true that both your mother and I had high hopes for the match with young Spencely. He… well, he seemed like such a good match for you. It seemed perfect. He’s handsome. You are similar in age. He comes from an excellent family, Lady Zinnia and her intrigues notwithstanding. Even the fact that he designed houses made the whole thing seem preordained. He could have designed the houses and you could have decorated them.”

 

“I agree, Pappa.” The pain of Selwyn’s betrayal bursts within her like a blossom blooming, filling her heart with pain, and her eyes well with tears she is determined not to shed. She gulps before continuing. “Selwyn seemed to be the perfect match, but evidently it wasn’t, if he has decided to marry Miss Avendale.”

 

“I didn’t expect of him what has transpired. He seemed like a very decent fellow with a good character.”

 

“I don’t disagree with you, Pappa. As you know, I’m as surprised and upset by it as anyone, as I think as the jilted party, I have the right to be.”

 

“Oh of course you do, my dear! Of course!”

 

“And Gerald, who of course knows him from the club they both share, said the same thing as you. I cannot explain it, other than he fell in love with Miss Avendale.” She lets out a remorseful sigh. “For a little while after I received the news of Selwyn’s engagement from Lady Zinnia, I must confess that I held out a candle for Selwyn. I hoped that he would contact me and tell me that it was all some mistake, or a fabrication of some kind by his mother,” She looks seriously up at her father. ‘But he didn’t, did he?”

 

“Well, then I suppose there is very little left to be said on the matter, is there?” the Viscount says resignedly.

 

“Don’t be so downhearted, Pappa. Be happy for me. Be happy for both of us. John is a good man. Yes, he’s older that Selwyn, and no, he’s not perfect, but he’s good, and most importantly he isn’t lying to me, Pappa.” It is her turn to look her father squarely in the face. “I won’t be dissuaded from this marriage, Pappa. I intend to marry him.”

 

“As long as you are sure, my girl.”

 

“I am.” Lettice replies resolutely. “Quite sure, Pappa.”

 

“And he makes you happy, Lettice? You know that your happiness in paramount to me, whatever your mother may feel about titles and social standing.”

 

“He does Pappa.”

 

“Well then, I guess there is little more to say on that matter, either.”

 

“Where is Mamma, by the way?” Lettice looks over her shoulder where Eglantyne and Sir John are still engaged in their conversation, whilst Leslie and Arabella share a confidence together, standing by the galleried table, heads down and giggling together.

 

“I saw her leave a little while ago.” the Viscount states. “Is she not back?” He looks and still can’t see her. “Perhaps she went to shed her tears of joy at your engagement in private. You know how your mother feels about showing too much emotion…” He pauses and then adds, “In public anyway. I shall go and find her, and then, Lettice my dear, we will open another bottle of champagne. After all, it isn’t every day that my youngest daughter announces her engagement.”

 

“Then you are happy for me, Pappa?” Lettice asks hopefully.

 

“Your happiness is all that matters, my dear. So, if you are happy, I will be happy for you. Although it will take a little while for me to get used to having a son-in-law who is the same age as me, you have my blessing.”

 

“Oh Pappa!” Lettice leaps out of her seat and embraces her father gratefully. “Thank you!”

 

The Viscount lingers for a while, enjoying the moment of intimacy with his favourite child before he releases her, and holds her at arm’s length, smiling at her. “I’ll be back with your mother shortly.” he says, excusing himself.

 

*Dating back to the fourth century, many Christians have observed the Twelfth Night — the evening before the Epiphany — as the ideal time to take down the Christmas tree and festive decorations. Traditionally, the Twelfth Night marks the end of the Christmas season, but there's reportedly some debate among Christian groups about which date is correct. By custom, the Twelfth Night falls on either January 5 or January 6, depending on whether you count Christmas Day as the first day. The Epiphany, also known as Three Kings' Day, commemorates the visit of the three wise men to baby Jesus in Bethlehem.

 

**A sautoir is a French term for a long necklace that suspends a tassel or other ornament.

 

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

 

****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.

 

*****Shepherd’s check is a popular pattern for a rather sturdy tweed, commonly worn in the country. Coming in various colours and pattern styles, the small check version in black and white is commonly known as Pepita check in Germanic countries.

 

******Introduced in 1922, the Type 30 was the first production Bugatti to feature an Inline-8. Nicknamed the “Torpedo” because of its similar look to the wartime munition, at the time Bugatti opted to move to a small two-litre engine to make the car more saleable, lighter and cheap. The engine capacity also made the Type 30 eligible for Grand Prix racing, which was a new direction for the marque. Despite the modest engine capacity, the power output was still remarkable thanks to the triple-valve arrangement. Also benefiting the Type 30 was good road handling, braking and steering which was common throughout the marque. The Type 30 was also the first Bugatti to have front brakes.

 

*******Tatler was introduced on the 3rd of July 1901, by Clement Shorter, publisher of The Sphere. It was named after the original literary and society journal founded by Richard Steele in 1709. Originally sold occasionally as The Tatler and for some time a weekly publication, it had a subtitle varying on "an illustrated journal of society and the drama". It contained news and pictures of high society balls, charity events, race meetings, shooting parties, fashion and gossip, with cartoons by "The Tout" and H. M. Bateman.

 

********We are all familiar with the phrase “ten to the dozen’” which means someone who talks fast. However, the original expression is actually “nineteen to the dozen”. Why nineteen, you ask? Many sources say we simply don’t know, but there are other sources that claim it goes back to the Cornish tin and copper mines, which regularly flooded. With advancements in steam technology, the hand pumps they used to pump out this water were replaced by beam engines that could pump 19,000 gallons of water out for every twelve bushels of coal burned (much more efficient than the hand pumps!)

 

*********Jermyn Street is a one-way street in the St James's area of the City of Westminster in London. It is to the south of, parallel, and adjacent to Piccadilly. Jermyn Street is known as a street for high end gentlemen's clothing retailers and bespoke tailors in the West End.

 

**********The first diamond engagement ring can be traced back to 1477 when Archduke Maximillian of Austria proposed to Mary Burgundy. This exchange began a tradition that caught on in elite societies. However, engagement rings didn’t become popular among the masses until the mid-1900s. In 1947, British-owned diamond company, De Beers, premiered a new advertising campaign. This campaign featured the slogan, “A diamond is forever,” and helped diamond engagement rings to soar in popularity. Within three years of the launch of this campaign, diamond engagement ring sales increased by fifty percent and the numbers continued to skyrocket. In fact, in 1939, only about ten percent of engagement rings included diamonds. Thus, Lettice’s Victorian engagement ring, taken from Sir John’s mother’s collection of jewellery featuring an emerald as the predominant stone, would not have been unusual.

 

**********In more socially conscious times it was traditional to wish the bride-to-be happiness, rather than saying congratulations as we do today. Saying congratulations to a bride in past times would have implied that she had won something – her groom. The groom on the other hand was to be congratulated for getting the lady to accept his marriage proposal.

 

************Gaining popularity by the younger upper-class set between the wars, “old bean” was a phrase used as a friendly reference to a man. It arose in the trenches of the Great War, used by the Tommies, but was always tinged with upper-class stuffiness, which is possibly why it caught on more with the upper-classes of society.

 

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

 

**************Bowood is a Grade I listed Georgian country house in Wiltshire, that has been owned for more than two hundred and fifty years by the Fitzmaurice family. The house, with interiors by Robert Adam, stands on extensive grounds which include a garden designed by Lancelot "Capability" Brown. It is adjacent to the village of Derry Hill, halfway between Calne and Chippenham. The greater part of the house was demolished in 1956.

 

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

 

**************** Antipodean is a term relating to Australia or New Zealand (used by inhabitants of the northern hemisphere).

 

*****************The idiom “richer than Croesus” means very wealthy. This term alludes to Croesus, the legendary King of Lydia and supposedly the richest man on earth. The simile was first recorded in English in 1577.

 

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 I have collected as an adult, as well as one that was especially made for me.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The gilt Louis Quatorze chairs and sofa, the gilded Rococo chinoiserie central table and the gilt swan round tables and matching pedestal are made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.

 

The gilt high backed salon chair in the foreground to the left is also made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq, but what is particularly special about it is that it has been covered in antique Austrian floral micro petite point by V.H. Miniatures in the United Kingdom, which makes this a one-of-a-kind piece. The artisan who made this says that as one of her hobbies, she enjoys visiting old National Trust Houses in the hope of getting some inspiration to help her create new and exciting miniatures. She saw some beautiful petit point chairs a few years ago in one of the big houses in Derbyshire and then found exquisitely detailed petit point that was fine enough for 1:12 scale projects. She also made the footstool you see in the right foreground. In addition, she also painted the Bespaq chest of drawers you can see in the background to the far right of the photo. She has painted an idyllic English school Eighteenth Century picnicking scene on its front, making it a very special one of a kind.

 

The beautiful gold and bronze decorated black chinoiserie screen in the background is a very special 1:12 miniature screen created especially for me, and there is no other like it anywhere else in the world. It was handmade and decorated over a twelve month period for me as a Christmas gift two years ago by miniature artisan Tim Sidford as a thanks for the handmade Christmas baubles I make him every year. Tim’s miniature works are truly amazing! You can see some of his handmade decorated interiors using upcycled Playmobil, found objects and 1:12 miniatures here: www.flickr.com/photos/timsidford/albums/72157624010136051/

 

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 pedestal to the left of the screen stands a blue and white hand painted vase which I acquired from Kathleen Knights Doll’s House Shop in the United Kingdom. Standing on the hand painted set of drawers to the right of the photo stand are two miniature diecast lead Meissen figurines: the Lady with the Canary and the Gentleman with the Butterfly, made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces, The pair have been hand painted and gilded by me. Also on the chest of drawers stand two large lidded urns and a pedestal bowl. These three pieces were made by M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik in Germany, who specialise in making high quality porcelain miniatures. All the pieces in the cabinet in the background are also made by M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik.

 

The silver champagne bucket, wine cooler and tray on the central chinoiserie tea table, have been made with great attenti

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Who told you about Gerald and Cyril?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“I know, Aunt Egg. She showed me.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“And you still love him?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Aunt Egg?” Lettice ventures tentatively at length.

 

“Yes, my dear?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“John?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Not that I’m aware of, Aunt Egg.”

 

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

 

“Yes, Aunt Egg.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“An ulterior motive, Lettice?”

 

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

 

“Threat?”

 

“Yes.”

 

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

 

“Nothing solid, only circumstantial anecdotes.”

 

“Such as?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Of course not!” Lettice scoffs.

 

“Exactly!”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

Today we are just a short distance from Cavendish Mews, in the artistic and bohemian suburb of Bloomsbury, where Lettice is visiting the pied-à-terre* of Phoebe Chambers, niece and ward of Lady Gladys Caxton. Through her social connections, Lettice’s Aunt Egg contrived an invitation for Lettice to an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Caxton, who are very well known amongst the smarter bohemian set of London society for their weekend parties at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, and enjoyable literary evenings in their Belgravia townhouse. Lady Gladys is a successful authoress in her own right and writes under the nom de plume of Madeline St John. Over the course of the weekend, Lettice was coerced into accepting Lady Glady’s request that she redecorate Phoebe’s small London flat. Phoebe, upon coming of age inherited the flat, which had belonged to her parents, Reginald and Marjorie Chambers, who died out in India when Phoebe was still a little girl. The flat was held in trust by Lady Gladys until her ward came of age. When Phoebe decided to pursue a career in garden design and was accepted by a school in London closely associated with the Royal Society, she started living part time in Bloomsbury. Lady Gladys feels that the flat is too old fashioned and outdated for a young girl like Phoebe. When Lettice agreed to take on the commission, Lady Gladys said she would arrange a time for Lettice to inspect the flat the next time Lady Gladys was in London. Now the day has arrived.

 

Having heard from Lady Gladys over the course of the weekend party in Gossington that Phoebe’s pied-à-terre had been shut up for years and was in a somewhat neglected state of affairs, she expected it to be not unlike the study she recently saw at Arkwright Bury in Wiltshire, the home of Mr. and Mrs. Gifford: a room which she has also agreed to redecorate. However, unlike the musty, dust filled and forgotten study, shut up and stuffed with an odd assortment of bits and pieces and boxes of junk, Lettice is pleasantly surprised to find Pheobe’s flat remarkably cosy. Although too small for her own liking and tastes, Lettice can see how a small flat like this would suit an independent girl like Pheobe. It has one bedroom with an adjoining dressing room, a small kitchenette and a bathroom in addition to the drawing room she stands in now. Traces of the studious and serious Phoebe are everywhere with piles of books stacked on footstools and occasional tables and a cluttered desk buried under books and notes from her studies. The general feel of the flat is comfortable, studious clutter, and whilst Lettice cannot deny that the pre-war furnishings are a little outdated, they seem to be perfectly functional for Pheobe, who appears far more concerned about and focussed upon reading her collection of horticulture books and referring to her notes written in a neat hand, rather than the pattern or design of the sofa or chairs upon which she perches.

 

“So these are your friends from your horticulture course, Pheobe?” Lettice asks as she stands before the small coal fireplace that heats the drawing room and stares at the unframed photographs on its narrow mantle shelf which jostle for space with one another and packets of flower seeds. When Phoebe nods shallowly in a timid manner, Lettice takes a moment to look more closely at them. They are women of around Lettice’s age, all different sizes and shapes as they pose on a pier in an undisclosed seaside town, in front of a formal building which Lettice assumes is likely to be the Royal Horticulture Society and a final one where four girls pose in their bathing costumes at a lido. Phoebe is not amongst their number, Lettice observes. “You aren’t with them, Pheobe?”

 

“I prefer to take photographs.” Pheobe mumbles.

 

“Do you like photography, Pheobe?”

 

Pheobe nods shallowly again, and then mutters, “I prefer plants.”

 

Lettice smiles as she turns back to the photographs and goes on gingerly, so as not to frighten the mousey Pheobe, “Well, all your friends look like quite a jolly crew. Do you get along well with them all?” Phoebe doesn’t reply, but nods quickly again, causing the halo of blonde wispy curls around her face to bounce about and take on a lithe and lively life of their own.

 

“Here we are then!” comes Lady Glady’s booming voice cheerfully as she sails into the cluttered room, a sweep of lavender, lace and winking diamonds and faceted glass beads. “Tea for three.” She deposits a galleried silver tray topped with tea making paraphernalia onto an ornately decorated Edwardian tea table of mahogany standing between two armchairs upholstered in peach floral brocade and an upright backed chair upholstered in cream satin. “I can still find the tea things, even after not having lived here for more than a decade,” She looks pointedly at Pheobe. “Which just confirms my suspicions.”

 

“And what suspicions are those, Lady Gladys?” Lettice asks.

 

“Ah-ah!” the older woman wags her finger admonishing at Lettice. “We may not be at Gossington, my dear, but remember that I am still a Fabian**, and Fabianism is not bound by walls. We are egalitarian, Lettice. We are all on a first name basis.”

 

“Sorry,” Lettice apologises, lowering her head in admonishment. “Old habits die hard, Gladys.”

 

“Never mind, dear.” Lady Gladys reaches out and rubs Lettice’s shoulder comfortingly.

 

“What suspicions were you referring to, Auntie Gladys?” Phoebe asks, uttering the most words Lettice has heard her say since she and Lady Gladys arrived.

 

“The suspicion, Pheobe dear,” The older woman raises one of her diamond ring encrusted hands up to her niece’s face and tugs gently on her chin, teasingly. “And don’t call me Auntie. You know I don’t like it!” she scolds.

 

“No Gladys.” Pheobe replies, lowering her head.

 

“The suspicion is, Pheobe, that this flat is more of a mausoleum to Reginald and Marjorie’s memory, rather than a place for you to live in.”

 

“Where things were left by my parents makes sense to me, Gladys.”

 

“Well, be that as it may,” Lady Gladys says with a serious look clouding her jowly face. “It’s unhealthy to live in the shadows of two people who have been dead for many, many years.”

 

Lettice glances anxiously at Pheobe, who in Lettice’s experience has only shown a demonstrative concern for her parents’ memories beyond her interest in plants. The way her aunt speaks about Pheobe’s parents, she worries the poor, fey girl will start to cry. However, to her surprise, she remains stoic and silent, her gaze falling to the polished floorboards and worn Indian carpet beneath her.

 

Lady Gladys glances up with a critical gaze at the two photographic studio portraits in oval frames hanging to either side of the fireplace. “Don’t you agree, Lettice?”

 

“Me?” Lettice gulps, not wishing to come between the older woman, her niece and the ghosts of both their pasts which are so complexly entwined. “Well I…”

 

However, before Lettice has to try and stumble her way through a stuttered response, Lady Gladys gasps, “The cake! I forgot the cake! It’s still in the kitchenette. We can’t have tea and not have cake, can we?” She asks rhetorically. She quickly sweeps out of the room again with heavy, clumping footsteps.

 

“I only call her Auntie when Gladys is being especially frustrating.” Phoebe whispers, her mouth ends perking up in a tentative smile. “Which is quite often, really.”

 

“Pheobe!” Lettice finds herself surprised that Phoebe can muster that much pluck to rebel against her domineering aunt.

 

“She hates me calling her Auntie because she thinks it ages her, and there are few things Gladys hates more than being reminded that she is old.”

 

“Phoebe!” Lettice gasps again, startled by the girl’s sudden daring streak.

 

“That’s why, aside from Nettie and a very select few others, Gladys won’t entertain anyone her own age. The last thing she wants is to become irrelevant.”

 

“Oh, she isn’t that vain, surely, Pheobe.”

 

Phoebe is about to counter Lettice’s remark when Lady Gladys strides back into the drawing room.

 

“Here we are then, my dears! Since I only pay my London housekeeper to keep house, and Mrs. Brookhurst is very particular about sticking to the assigned specifics designated in her role, Harrod’s finest comes to the rescue!” She places a beautifully light and golden Victoria sponge oozing jam and cream onto the tea table next to the pink Art Nouveau floral teapot.

 

“Not bake it yourself, Gladys?” Phoebe remarks saucily, glancing cheekily at Lettice from below her fluttering blonde lashes.

 

“I may have lived here once, Phoebe, but I wouldn’t remember how to use that old range in there.” Lady Gladys defends. “Besides, you know my opinion on household chores.” She looks at Lettice and goes on with a bright smile. “It is my opinion, which is to the contrary of what is written in story books, that cooking and cleaning are a guaranteed way to quash beauty, charm and wit in women. It’s why you’ll never see any of my heroines scrubbing pots and pans or dusting mantlepieces. I’ve yet to see a maid who, after a few years of service, doesn’t look as drab as an old worn bedsheet washed and put through the mangle one too many times.” She sinks onto an armchair dramatically. “My main readership consists of middle-class housewives and I suspect more than a few domestics. None of them want to read about a girl who skivvies away just like them. They want escape from the dull everyday through glamour, excitement and romance.”

 

“My maid reads your novels, Gladys. She was positively thrilled when she saw your name on the invitation to the weekend we had at Gossington.”

 

“Well, I must sign a spare copy of one of my latest novels for her when the redecoration is done, Lettice. Would she like that?”

 

“Oh I’m sure she’d love that, Gladys. Thank you.” Lettice replies with a smile as she takes a seat in a remarkably comfortable straight backed chair. “Thinking of Edith, she is only a plain cook, so I too, find Harrod’s Food Hall and catering service to be of great service.”

 

Lady Gladys nods in appreciation. “Not poured the tea yet, Pheobe?” she remarks critically as she watches her niece drape herself like a falling leaf into the armchair opposite the tea table and withdraw a black pencil marking the page in a large botanical studies book on roses before lowering her head towards it to read.

 

“You may be adverse to housework, Auntie Gladys, but you’re far better at playing hostess than me.” Phoebe responds with a tired sigh without looking up from the page.

 

“Don’t call me that, Phoebe.” Lady Gladys snaps irritably. “Anyway, you’d be far more adept at hosting, if you’d only try and make an effort to play the host a little, dear.”

 

Phoebe pointedly ignores her aunt’s whining protestations and runs the point of her pencil underneath a sentence in the description of a red dogwood rose, demonstrating how ardent her studies are.

 

“Very well then.” Lady Gladys says with a huff of irritation. “Shall I be mother*** then?”

 

Without waiting for a reply, Lady Gladys takes up a cup and pours in some strong tea before handing the cup to Lettice. She indicates with a sweeping gesture to the milk jug and sugar bowl, implying that Lettice should help herself. After pouring tea for Phoebe and herself, she slices the Victoria sponge, her knife gliding through the layers of soft cake, jam and cream.

 

As Lettice carefully pushes a pile of books so as not to topple them, to clear some space on the table to the left of her elbow to place her plate, Lady Gladys opines, “I do wish you’d made a little room for us, Phoebe dear. All these piles of books are most difficult to navigate. You knew we were coming today.”

 

“In case you don’t remember, Gladys,” Phoebe mutters testily from her book. “There isn’t any more room.”

 

“A lesser person might think you didn’t want us here, dear.” Lady Gladys goes on, a slightly hurt and clearly annoyed tone to her voice as she speaks.

 

Phoebe sighs as she reluctantly withdraws her head from the book she is studying. “As you well know, I’ve been busy attending my garden design classes, and besides, this arrangement suits me very well. Why should I change it?”

 

“Humph!” snorts Lady Gladys, frowning. She turns her attentions away from her niece, who has already returned her nose to her book, and focuses instead on Lettice. “Now, thinking of arrangements: my dear Lettice, what do you think? It’s a rather poky little place, isn’t it, and shabby?” She sighs. “But, it was Reginald and Marjorie’s intention to bequeath it to Phoebe.”

 

“Well,” Lettice begins, feeling rather awkward when being faced with Lady Glady’s overt criticism of the flat that belonged to her brother and sister-in-law. “I think it’s quite compact and charming.”

 

“Compact!” Lady Gladys snorts derisively. “Charming! Come, come, Lettice. There is no need for your diplomacy here, my dear. Let’s be honest: it’s old and shabby, and most things need flinging out into the street, and replacing with something newer, fresher and more stylish.”

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t be that dramatic, Gladys.” Lettice retorts.

 

“Nonsense, Lettice! The dustbin is where most of this old tatt should go. Out with the old, and in with the new. Eh?”

 

“Well, what do you think, Pheobe?”

 

When Pheobe’s head doesn’t rise from her book, and her wispy blonde curls continue to obscure her face, Lady Gladys goes on. “It’s no use trying to engage her my dear Lettice. Goodness knows I’ve tried.” She raises her voice and annunciates each syllable even more clearly than she was already doing with round vowels and clipped tones. “Pheobe could test the patience of a saint! She can hear us perfectly well, but as Phoebe seems to have abrogated her involvement in redecorating the flat, I see that like most things outside her life as a landscape gardener, I shall have to step in and fill her place and make the decisions, like usual.”

 

“I said I was happy with repainting the flat green. Isn’t that enough?” Phoebe grumbles, almost in a resigned whisper. “I’d rather the flat wasn’t disturbed whilst I’m studying for my latest round of horticulture exams.”

 

“Don’t worry, Phoebe dear.” Lady Gladys says with a dismissive wave of her bejewelled fingers. “We’ll organise it all to take place when there is a hiatus in your studies. Now,” She claps her hands and looks about her gleefully, like a small child with a shiny new toy, with sparkling eyes. “I think these can go for a start.” She starts bouncing up and down on her seat, the springs groaning in protest as dust motes emitted from the old armchair tumble and fly through the air around her. “Nasty old Edwardian things. Marjorie chose them of course, even though my dear Reginald wanted something a bit more up-to-date and fashionable. She always was frightfully dull and conservative, my sister-in-law.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure they are quite comfortable, Gladys.” Lettice begins. “With a little bit of respringing and some new fab…”

 

Lady Gladys stops Lettice speaking by holding up her hand in protest. “No, no! I won’t hear of these awful things being kept. They represent everything vulgar in Marjorie’s middling middle-class taste. No, fling them out!”

 

Lettice glances at Phoebe again, but the girl makes no move to interject.

 

“Didn’t I read about an eau de nil sofa and chairs in the Country Life article about your redecoration of the Channons house, Lettice?” Lady Gladys goes on unabated.

 

“Err… yes.” Lettice replies warily.

 

“Good. Then we’ll have an eau de nil suite here too. Quite fashionable and up-to-date! Excellent! Excellent!” Gladys toys excitedly with the violet faceted beads draped around her neck and down her front. “Now, of course being the bookish girl that she is, we’ll need something better than this rather haphazard arrangement,” She waves her hands about at the precariously balanced towers of books about the drawing room. “For her library.” She looks around. “There!” She points to a lovely old, stylised Art Nouveau china cabinet full of pretty Edwardian floral porcelain cups and saucers. “We’ll replace that monstrosity of the last decade with a new era bookcase. What do you say, Lettice?”

 

“Well perhaps we should…” Lettice begins as she turns once more to Pheobe’s halo of blonde curls.

 

“Don’t delegate decisions to Pheobe when I’m asking the question, Lettice!” Lady Gladys snaps sharply, causing Lettice to shudder involuntarily at the tone of her quip. “She’s clearly demonstrated that she isn’t interested, so I’m the one making decisions.”

 

“Of course, Gladys.” Lettice answers in quiet deference to the dominating woman. “A more modern bookshelf will be perfect there.”

 

“Splendid! Splendid!” Lady Gladys replies, rubbing her fingers together in glee. “I knew you’d see it my way, my dear. Everyone does,” She pauses. “Eventually.” She picks up her plate and scoops off a slice of cake with her fork and eats it. As Lady Gladys chews, her powdered and rouged cheeks expanding and contracting and her painted lips moving around rhythmically, Lettice can almost see the thoughts in her head as she glances around. Swallowing she eyes the two photographs to either side of the fireplace.

 

Following her gaze, Lettice quick says, “I have a great fondness for family photographs, Gladys. I think we should keep the photos of your brother and sister-in-law where they are in the new scheme. They are, after all,” She looks imploringly at Pheobe’s gently bobbing head, but she does not look up from the printed page. “Phoebe’s parents.”

 

“Yes of course, Lettice. Very good. Then there is that.” She points to the pretty Georgian desk in the corner of the room. “That desk was my brother’s, and is an old family heirloom. I’ll take that.”

 

Pheobe’s head suddenly shoots up from her books. “But that’s mine, Gladys. It was Father’s.”

 

Lady Gladys looks across at her niece with cool eyes. “I know it was dear.” She pauses for a moment and makes a show of sighing heavily for dramatic effect before continuing. “And I didn’t want to tell you this, but he really did want to leave it to me. I’ve just left it here out of ease. I’ll have it moved to the Belgravia when the redecoration starts.”

 

“But I thought you said that Mother and Father left me the flat and all its contents.” Phoebe exclaims, sitting upright in her seat, suddenly very alert and aware of everything going on around her, any appearance of nonchalance gone.

 

“Well, they did, dear.” Lady Gladys replies.

 

“Then it stays here, where it belongs.” Phoebe insists, a sudden anxiousness in her voice as she glances between Lettice and her aunt with startled eyes.

 

“But Reginald really did want me to have it, Phoebe dear.” Lady Gladys insists.

 

“But that’s the most poignant thing I have to remind me of Father.” Phoebe tries to protest.

 

“It was my father’s, and his father’s before him, and his before that, Pheobe. It should come to me, by rights. Don’t be selfish.”

 

“But… but I love it.” Tears begin to fill Pheobe’s pale blue eyes, making them sparkle and glitter. “It was… Father’s.”

 

“I see now, I should have removed it before you became attached to it,” Lady Gladys remarks, settling back comfortably into the armchair she seems so much to dislike and takes another scoop of cake, popping it into her mouth.

 

Lettice sees her moment to interject and pipes up, “I’m sure I could easily accommodate such a pretty and classical piece of furniture into my designs, Gladys. My style is Classical Revivalist, after all.”

 

“The desk is mine!” Lady Gladys commands in a sharp and raised voice that indicates she is not to be crossed on this matter, a few pieces of sponge not yet consumed flying from her mouth and through the air, landing in half chewed wet globs on the carpet. “This is not your concern, Lettice.” She forces a chuckle. “With all due respect of course.” She swivels her head back to her niece. “You heard Lettice. You will have your parents’ portraits retained as part of the redecoration. What could be more poignant than that?”

 

“But I…” Phoebe begins meekly.

 

“Don’t worry, Phoebe dear. Lettice will get you a much nicer, and bigger new desk as part of the design.” She sharply turns her head back to Lettice and eyes her with a hard stare. “Won’t you, Lettice?”

 

Lettice hears the undisguised warning in the older lady’s bristling tone of voice. “Yes, yes of course I will, Pheobe.” She answers brightly with a smile, but failing to obscure her awkwardness and regret as she utters the words which she does not want to air.

 

“That’s settled then.” Lady Gladys says with a smile, confirming the end to that particular part of the conversation about décor. “You’ll soon forget it, Pheobe dear. After all, until you came of age, you didn’t even know any of this existed.” She glances around the small drawing room of the flat. “And anyway, you’ll get it back when I die. Now, about curtains and carpets,” she adds, quickly changing the subject. “I think we’ll have new ones in more contemporary patterns, in shades of green, perhaps with a touch of blue or yellow, Lettice.”

 

“Yes, of course, Gladys.” Lettice answers in a deflated tone.

 

As Lady Gladys continues to talk unabated about her vision for the flat’s redecoration, Lettice listens in silence, occasionally nodding her polite ascent, even though the words just wash around her like the distant drone of London traffic. After meeting Lady Gladys at Gossington, Lettice had her suspicions that she had an underlying ulterior motive to her request for Lettice to redecorate the flat: to eradicate the presence of her deceased brother and sister-in-law from the place, and perhaps make them even more of a distant memory to Phoebe, who has spent more of her life growing up with Lady Gladys and her husband, than her parents. Although she could not pin it specifically to anything she had said or done, Lettice fancied that having raised Phoebe, Lady Gladys sees the memory of her dead brother and his wife as a threatening spectre in Pheobe’s and her own life. Now she knows her suspicions to be well founded, and clearly out in the open as Lady Gladys strips away almost every reminder of her brother and sister-in-law as she shares her wishes about the redecoration of the flat. She feels sick to her stomach as she glances over at Phoebe, who up until now has shown little emotion, as silent tears well in her eyes and spill down her pale cheeks.

 

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

 

**The Fabian Society is a British socialist organisation whose purpose is to advance the principles of social democracy and democratic socialism via gradualist and reformist effort in democracies, rather than by revolutionary overthrow. The Fabian Society was also historically related to radicalism, a left-wing liberal tradition.

 

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

 

This rather ramshackle drawing room of the studious Phoebe Chambers may look real to you, but in fact it is made up entirely with pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection, including pieces from my own childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Phoebe’s drawing room has a very studious look thanks to the many 1:12 size miniature books 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 one of the books he has made as it lies open on a footstool in the foreground, the page bookmarked by a pencil. It is a book of botanical prints by the renown botanical illustrator Pierre-Joseph Redouté (1759 – 1840). To give you an idea of the work that has gone into his volumes, the book contains fifty double sided pages of illustrations and text. 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. He also made the packets of seeds seen on the mantlepiece and the bureau in the background, which once again are copies of real packets of Webbs seeds. 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!

 

The floral Edwardian style armchairs are made by JaiYi miniatures, who are a high quality miniature furniture manufacturer, whilst the ornate Victorian tea table on which the tea set stands and the Art Nouveau china cabinet in the background were made by Bespaq miniatures, who are another high quality miniature furniture manufacturer. The two highly lacquered occasional tables in the mid and foreground I bought from a high street dolls’ house supplier when I was twelve. The dainty fringed footstool in the foreground with its tiny rose and leaf pattern ribbon trim was hand made and upholstered by a miniatures artisan in England. The armchair in the foreground with its serpentine arms I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The floral tea set on the tea table, I acquired through an online stockist on E-Bay, whilst the silver galleried tray comes from Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The Victoria sponge (named after Queen Victoria) on the tea table and the slices of it on the plates on the occasional tables are made by Polly’s Pantry Miniatures in America.

 

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. On the writing surface of the bureau sit miniature ink bottles and a quill pen made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures. The ink bottles are made from a tiny faceted crystal beads and feature sterling silver bottoms and lids. The pencils on the bureau, acquired from Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers are 1:12 miniature as well, and are only one millimetre wide and two centimetres long. The French dome clock bookended by Ken Blythe volumes on top of the bureau is a 1:12 artisan miniature made by Hall’s Miniature Clocks, supplied through Doreen Jeffries Small Wonders Miniatures in England.

 

The wonderful Carlton Ware Rouge Royale jardiniere (featuring real asparagus fern fronds from my own garden) comes from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

Phoebe’s photos of her student friends on 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 photos of Phoebe’s parents in the gilded round frames come from Melody Jane’s Doll’s House Suppliers in the United Kingdom. The floral picture in the round frame came from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The china tea set in the cabinet in the background I sourced through a miniatures supplier in Australia, whilst the silver pieces came from Warwick Miniatures in Ireland.

 

The oriental rug is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug and has been machine woven.

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, Lettice is entertaining 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, in the dining room of her Cavendish Mews flat: a room equally elegantly appointed with striking black japanned Art Deco furnishings intermixed with a select few Eighteenth Century antiques. The room is heady with the thick perfume of roses brought back from Glynes, the Chetwynd’s palatial Georgian family estate in Wiltshire, from where Lettice has recently returned after visiting a neighbour of sorts of her parents, Mr. Alisdair Gifford who wishes Lettice to decorate a room for his Australian wife Adelina, to house her collection of blue and white china. A bowl full of delicate white blooms graces the black japanned dining table as a centrepiece, whilst a smaller vase of red roses sits on the sideboard at the feet of Lettice’s ‘Modern Woman’ statue, acquired from the nearby Portland Gallery in Bond Street. Silver and crystal glassware sparkle in the light cast by both candlelight and electric light. The pair of old friends have just finished a course of Suprême de Volaille Jeanette: a fillet of chicken served with a rich white roux creamy sauce, ordered from Harrod’s Meat and Fish Hall* and warmed up and finished off by Edith, Lettice’s maid, in the Cavendish Mews kitchen. Gerald returns to the table with two small glasses of port after filling them from a bottle of liqueur in Lettice’s cocktail cabinet in the corner of the room just as Edith steps across the threshold of the dining room carrying a silver tray laden with three types of cheese and an assortment of biscuits, wafers and crackers.

 

“About time, Edith.” Lettice mutters irritably as Edith approaches and slides the tray gently onto the dining table. “Careful! Don’t scratch the table’s surface.”

 

“I’m sorry, Miss.” Edith says as she blushes, a lack of understanding filling her face. “I… I didn’t realise I was scratching it.”

 

“Well, you haven’t, Edith,” she snaps back. “But you need to be more careful!”

 

“Yes Miss.” Edith bobs a curtsey, a wounded look on her usually bright face.

 

Glancing between Lettice toying distractedly with the rope of pearls about her neck looking anywhere but at either her maid or himself, and the poor embarrassed domestic, Gerald pipes up, “There’s nothing to apologise for, Edith. There’s no harm done. Miss Chetwynd is just a bit tired and overwrought. Aren’t you Lettice darling?”

 

When Lettice doesn’t answer, whether because she hasn’t heard Gerald as she gets lost in her own thoughts, or because she knows that she is in the wrong, admonishing her maid like that for no reason, Gerald adds, “The Suprême de Volaille Jeanette was delicious. Thank you.” He then gently indicates with a movement of his kind eyes and a swift sweeping gesture of his hand that she should go.

 

“Yes Sir. Thank you, Sir.” Edith replies as she bobs a second curtsey and quickly scuttles back through the green baize door leading from the diming room back into the service area of the flat.

 

“You don’t seem yourself at all, Lettice darling!” Gerald says in concern once he estimates that Edith is out of earshot. “Upbraiding Edith like that, and for no good reason. She didn’t mark the table. You’ve been in a funk ever since you came back from Wiltshire.” He pauses momentarily and reconsiders. “Actually no, you’ve been like this for a little while before that.” He looks at her knowingly. “What’s the matter with you, darling?”

 

“Oh I’m sorry.” Lettice sighs.

 

“It’s not me you should be sorry to.”

 

“I’ll apologise to Edith a little bit later. I’ll let her settle down first.”

 

“Well, I should hope you will.” Gerald takes a sip and cocks his eyebrow over his eye as he stares at Lettice. “Alright, out with it! What’s the matter, then?”

 

“Looking at me the way you are, can’t you guess, Gerald darling?”

 

“It’s that rather awful Fabian** charlatan, Gladys, isn’t it?” Gerald replies. As he does, he shudders as he remembers the awful snub Lady Gladys gave him.

 

Through her social connections, Lettice’s Aunt Egg contrived an invitation for Lettice to an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Caxton, who are very well known amongst the smarter bohemian set of London society for their weekend parties at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, and enjoyable literary evenings in their Belgravia townhouse. Lady Gladys is a successful authoress in her own right and writes under the nom de plume of Madeline St John. Over the course of the weekend, Lettice was coerced into accepting Lady Glady’s request that she redecorate the Bloomsbury flat of her ward, Phoebe Chambers. When Lettice agreed to take on the commission, Lady Gladys said she would arrange a time for Lettice to inspect the flat the next time Lady Gladys was in London. The day it happened, Lettice was invited to hear Lady Gladys give a reading from her latest romance novel ‘Miranda’ at its launch in the Selfridge’s book department. Wanting company, and thinking he might enjoy the outing, Lettice invited Gerald to join her. When Lady Gladys met Gerald, she took an instant dislike to him and snubbed him, calling him ‘Mister Buttons’ much to his chagrin.

 

“Well done, Gerald darling.” Lettice replies sulkily, toying idly with her own glass.

 

“So, what’s the trouble with Gladys now?” Gerald asks. “Come on, tell me all the ghastly details.”

 

“What’s the point, Gerald darling? It won’t make one iota of difference.” Her shoulders slump forward as she speaks.

 

“You don’t know that.” Gerald counters. “If nothing else, it will probably make you feel better just talking about it, and hopefully by unblocking the frustrations you so obviously feel, you’ll be a bit kinder to poor Edith.” He gives her a hopefully glance.

 

“I know. Edith didn’t deserve my ire.”

 

“Especially when she didn’t do anything wrong. It would be a shame to lose such a good maid. Good servants like Edith are hard to come by.”

 

“I know, Gerald! I know!”

 

“If I could afford to employ her full time as a seamstress, I would. However I can only afford Molly to do some piecework for me a few days a week at the moment. But once my atelier expands, you’d better watch out. I’ll poach her.”

 

“Edith?”

 

“Yes of course, darling. Who else?”

 

“As a seamstress? Why?”

 

“Good heavens! Haven’t you noticed how smartly turned out she is when she’s not in uniform and is going out?” Gerald asks with incredulity. When Lettice shakes her head coyly he continues, “For a woman who has an eye for detail, you can be very unobservant sometimes. Edith, like most working girls, makes her own clothes, I’d imagine from patterns in one of those cheap women’s magazines directed towards middle-class housewives I see flapping in the breeze at newspaper kiosks. However, unlike a great many of them, she obviously has a natural aptitude for sewing. That’s why I’d take her on as a seamstress.”

 

“I must confess, I’ve never really noticed what Edith wears. She’s just…” Lettice isn’t quite sure how to phrase it. “She’s just there.”

 

“Well, one day she may not be,” Gerald warns before taking another sip of liqueur. “And then you’ll be in trouble trying to find her like as a replacement. Anyway,” he coughs. “I’m not going to pinch her from you just yet. Now, what’s the problem with Gladys?”

 

Lettice lets out a very heavy sigh. “Oh, she’s awful, Gerald darling: positively frightful. She rings me nearly every day, or sometimes several times a day, hounding me! I’m starting to make Edith answer the telephone more often now, because I’m terrified that it will be Gladys.”

 

“Well, we all know how much dear Edith hates the telephone.”

 

“Well, usually that would be true, but she knows that Gladys is Madeline St John, and I’ve told her that Gladys promises to give her a few signed copies of her books one of these days, so she doesn’t seem to mind when it’s her. Gladys seems to have that common touch with her.”

 

“Common is right.” quips Gerald. “Low-class gutter novelist works her way into the upper echelons by way of an advantageous marriage.”

 

“Gerald!” Lettice gasps

 

“It’s true Lettice, and you must know it by now, even if you didn’t know it before.”

 

“Well, whatever she may or may not be, Gerald, I just can’t talk to her directly. I need a moment to gird my loins*** before I take on the unpleasant task of talking to her, or perhaps a more appropriate description would be, being spoken to by her, at considerable length.”

 

“You haven’t corrupted poor Edith and coerced her into telling little white lies for you when Gladys does ring and say that you’re out.”

 

“No!” Lettice gives Gerald a guilty side glance. “Well not yet anyway.” she corrects. “I’ve thought about doing it, and it’s a very tempting idea. However, I know how much Edith already hates answering the telephone, and being such a despicably honest girl, I think asking her to fib for me, especially to her favourite romance writer, might be just a bridge too far for her.”

 

“Damn the goodness of your maid, Lettice darling.” Gerald replies jokingly with a cheeky smile causing his mouth to turn up impishly, as he cuts a slice of cheese and puts it on a water cracker wafer, before lifting it to his lips.

 

“Oh you’re no help!” Lettuce swats at her best friend irritably. “You make me feel guilty for even countenancing such a thought.”

 

“Well, someone has to try and keep you honest in this sinful city, darling.” he jokes again. “Mummy would never forgive me if I didn’t try and keep you as virtuous as possible.”

 

“I’d believe that of Aunt Gwen.” Lettice agrees. “On the other hand, Mater is convinced that you’re the root of the destruction of her precious, obsequious youngest daughter.”

 

“Sadie is wiser and more observant than I’ve ever given her credit for.” Gerald murmurs in surprise. “I should be more charitable to her in future as regards her intellect.”

 

“That I should like to see.” Lettice giggles, a smile breaking across her lips and brightening her face, dispelling some of the gloom.

 

“That you will never see.” Gerald replies firmly. “That’s better. At least I made you laugh.”

 

“You always make me laugh, darling Gerald.” Lettice reaches across the table and grasps his hand lovingly, winding her fingers around his bigger fisted hand. “You are the best and most supportive friend I could ever hope to have.”

 

“Jolly good, my dear. Now, besides telephoning far too often, what else is the trouble with Gladys?” Gerald presses.

 

“Well, she seems to want to be in control of everything in relation to Pheobe’s Bloomsbury pied-à-terre redecoration.”

 

“Isn’t Gladys footing the bill, Lettice darling?”

 

“Well yes, she is.”

 

“Then it seems to me that she has every right to be involved in the decision making that goes on, particularly as you’ve told me that Phoebe shows a lack of interest in the whole project.”

 

“Yes, but what Gladys is doing is taking over. I don’t think she’d even engage my services if I didn’t have the contacts in the painting, papering and furnishing business she needs. I have no chance to exercise any of my own judgement. Anything I do has to be checked by her: the paint tint for the walls, the staining of the floorboards, the fabric for the furnishings. And she has demonstrated that she has no real interest in my ideas.”

 

“Hhhmmm…” Gerald begins, chewing his mouthful of cheese and biscuit thoughtfully before continuing. “That does sound a trifle tiresome.”

 

“A trifle tiresome? Gerald, you always were the master of understatement.”

 

“I see no reason to panic. She is the client exercising her rights. And since she is the one paying for your services, indulge her in her necessity to be consulted on all facets of the redecoration.”

 

“Oh I’m doing that. Against my better judgement, I’m having floral chintz draperies hung in the drawing room and bedroom because that’s what she wants.”

 

“Good heavens!” Gerald exclaims, nearly choking on a fresh mouthful of cheese and wafer biscuit. “You, selecting chintz as part of your décor decisions?”

 

“My point exactly. It isn’t me that’s decided that, it’s Gladys who has. You know how much I loathe chintz at the best of times.” Lettice shudders at the thought. “I tried hinting at some plain green hangings instead as a very nice alternative, but like anything else where I try my best to negotiate for Phoebe, I am barked at and told in no uncertain terms that I will do no such thing.”

 

“Negotiate for Phoebe?”

 

“Yes, now that I’m well and truly wound up in what you rightly called Gladys’ sticky spiderweb, I’m beginning to see things for what they truly are.”

 

“Such as?”

 

“For a start, I don’t think Phoebe is disinterested in the renovations to her pied-à-terre at all. I’ve seen with my own eyes now, how whenever Pheobe expresses an opinion contrary to that of Gladys, Gladys quickly snuffs out any dissention. As far as Gladys is concerned, her choice is not only the best and right choice, but the only choice to make. Pheobe wants to keep some of her parents’ belongings in the flat, but Gladys won’t hear of it! She wants a clean sweep! I suggest a compromise, but Gladys dismisses it. So, the colours to go on the walls, the furnishings, the fabrics, even the hideous chintz curtains have all been decided upon and approved by Gladys, and Phoebe doesn’t even get a chance to express an opinion. Phoebe isn’t disinterested, she’s simply overruled and completely smothered by Gladys’ overbearing nature.”

 

“Delicious.” Gerald murmurs as he leans his elbows on the black japanned surface of the dining table and leans forward conspiratorially.

 

“It’s not delicious at all!” Lettice splutters. “It’s a frightful state of affairs!”

 

“Well, in truth, that really does sound bloody*****, Lettice darling!”

 

“Like I said, it’s a dreadful state of affairs! I feel as if I am betraying not only poor Pheobe, but the memory of her dead parents in favour of a domineering woman whom no-one it seems can stand up to.”

 

“Have you tried her husband, Sir John?”

 

“He kowtows to her wishes as much as anyone else. I now understand why he has such a dogged look upon his face. I thought it was just age.”

 

“When in fact it was just Gladys?”

 

“Indeed! And what’s even worse is that Gladys is wearing me down now too. It’s just easier to agree to everything she says, and not even attempt a compromise in Phoebe’s favour.”

 

“Well, whilst I know you don’t like the situation, from my own personal experience of dealing with difficult clients, I can say that the path of least resistance is sometimes the best. Do you remember that frock I made for Sophie Munro, the American shipping magnate’s daughter?”

 

Lettice considers Gerald’s question for a moment. “Yes, I think I do. Wasn’t it pale pink with blue trimming?”

 

“Indeed it was, Lettice darling: pink linen with blue trim, with a bias cut drape over one sleeve and a flounced skirt. Poor Sophie has an… ahem…” Gerald clears his throat rather awkwardly as he thinks of the correct phrase. “A rather Rubenesque figure, and the flounced skirt was perhaps less flattering than something with long pleats, which was I had suggested to Mrs. Munro.”

 

“But Mrs. Munro was like Gladys?”

 

“She was, darling, and she wouldn’t hear a word of it. A flounced skirt was what Mrs. Munro wanted, and a flounced skirt was what Sophie received, and she flounced her way back to America, where I’m sure her rather voluptuous derrière will be commented upon by every young eligible man on Long Island, for all the wrong reasons. However, I did it, and I cut ties with Mrs. Munro because now that my atelier is finally turning a modest profit, I can. I don’t need recommendations from her, but I do need her to be happy so that she will at least speak favourably of me, rather than say disparaging things. The same goes for you. Do what Gladys wants and then be done with her. Do it as quickly as possible, then the pain will be over, and she will praise you to boot.”

 

“I can’t help but feel badly for Phoebe though, Gerald.”

 

“I know you do, and I feel sorry for poor Sophie Munro being laughed at behind her back by young cads as she tries to be beguiling with a large derrière, but there you have it. You cannot be responsible to solve the relationship between mother and daughter.”

 

“Aunt and ward.” Lettice corrects.

 

“It equates to the same.” Gerald counters. “You are a businesswoman, Lettice, not an agony aunt******.”

 

“Well, you’re a businessman, and you seem to be a good agony aunt to me.”

 

Gerald and Lettice chuckle before Gerald replies, “Indeed I am, but I’m also a friend. You aren’t friends with Pheobe, and even if you were, you still wouldn’t be able to solve Gladys’ overbearing personality. She is who she is, and Pheobe has to learn how to make her way through life with it. Perhaps you will afford her a little freedom from Gladys by redecorating her pied-à-terre, so she can escape from under Glady’s overbearing shadow, even if the redecoration is not quite as Phoebe would have it. Even then, Phoebe will probably add her own personal touches to her new home over time. It’s only natural that she should.”

 

“Oh,” Lettice sighs heavily. “I suppose you’re right, Gerald.”

 

“Of course I’m right, Lettice darling. I’m always right.” he adds jokingly.

 

“Now don’t you start!” Lettice replies wearily before smiling as she recognises Gerald’s remark as a jest, teasing about Lady Gladys’ overbearing personality.

 

“Well, it sounds like you need a bit of cheering up, Lettice darling,” Gerald goes on as he places another slice of cheese on a biscuit.

 

“I could indeed, Gerald darling!”

 

“Well then, if you are a good girl, and apologise to Edith like I told you, like Cinderella you shall go to the ball!”

 

“Oh you do talk in riddles sometimes, Gerald darling! What on earth do you mean?”

 

“My birthday!” Gerald beams. “Come join me at Hattie’s down in Putney for my birthday!”

 

“You’re having your birthday at Hattie’s?” Lettice queries, her voice rising in surprise. “I thought we were going to the Café Royal****** to celebrate: my treat!”

 

“Now, now, be calm, Lettice darling! We are, but Hattie wants to throw a party for me on my birthday at Putney with Cyril, Charlie Dunnage and a few of the other chaps she has living with her in the house, so we’ll do that first, and then go to dinner at the Café Royal: your treat.”

 

“Well…” Lettice says warily. Her stomach flips every time Gerald mentions his lover, Cyril, an oboist who plays at various theatres in the West End and lives in the Putney home of Gerald’s friend Harriet Milford, who has turned her residence into a boarding house for theatrical homosexual men, not because she is in any way jealous of their relationship, but because she knows that Gerald being a homosexual carries great consequences should he be caught in flagrante with Cyril. Homosexuality is illegal******** and carries heavy penalties including prison sentences with hard labour, not to mention the shame and social ostracization that would follow any untoward revelations. It would mean the end of his fashion house and all his dreams.

 

Gerald misinterprets the look on his best friend’s face as being misgivings about the party. “Oh come on Lettice! Every time I’ve been spending the night with Cyril down in Putney, which has been quite a lot lately,” he confesses with a shy, yet happy smile. “I’ve been sneaking one or two bottles of champagne into his room, which he’s been stashing under the bed, so there will be plenty to drink, and Hattie is making me a birthday cake, so it will be a rather jolly party. You aren’t still imagining Hattie to be a usurper to you in my affections, are you Lettuce Leaf?”

 

“Don’t call me that Gerald! You know how I hate it!” scowls Lettice. “I’ll call you Mr. Buttons!” She threatens.

 

“You can call me what you like, Lettice darling, only please say you’ll come! You’re my best and oldest chum! It would make me so happy!”

 

“Oh very well, Gerald. Of course I’ll come.”

 

“Jolly good show, Lettice darling!” Gerald enthuses. “We’ll have a whizz of a time!”

 

*Harrod’s Meat and Fish Hall (the predecessor to today’s food hall) was opened in 1903. There was nothing like it in London at the time. It’s interior, conceived by Yorkshire Arts and Crafts ceramicist and artist William Neatby, was elaborately decorated from floor to ceiling with beautiful Art Nouveau tiles made by Royal Doulton, and a glass roof that flooded the space with light. Completed in nine weeks it featured ornate frieze tiles displaying pastoral scenes of sheep and fish, as well as colourful glazed tiles. By the 1920s, when this scene is set, the Meat and Fish Hall was at its zenith with so much produce on display and available to wealthy patrons that you could barely see the interior.

 

**The Fabian Society is a British socialist organisation whose purpose is to advance the principles of social democracy and democratic socialism via gradualist and reformist effort in democracies, rather than by revolutionary overthrow. The Fabian Society was also historically related to radicalism, a left-wing liberal tradition.

 

***To gird one’s loins: to prepare oneself to deal with a difficult or stressful situation, is likely a Hebraism, often used in the King James Bible (e.g., 2 Kings 4:29). Literally referred to the need to strap a belt around one's waist, i.e. when getting up, in order to avoid the cloak falling off; or otherwise before battle, to unimpede the legs for running.

 

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

 

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

 

******An agony aunt is a person, usually a woman, who gives advice to people with personal problems, especially in a regular magazine or newspaper article.

 

*******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.

 

********Prior to 1967 with the introduction of the Sexual Offences Act which decriminalised private homosexual acts between men aged over 21, homosexuality in England was illegal, and in the 1920s when this story is set, carried heavy penalties including prison sentences with hard labour. The law was not changed for Scotland until 1980, or for Northern Ireland until 1982.

 

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

... at least for now.

 

I have so many treasures tucked away, as I try for a less cluttered look in our house.

The majority of the de-cluttering has been in the bedrooms and the former home office/ guest room which has turned into my little Woman Cave.

Tommy's Man Cave is his recliner in front of the TV. ;-)

 

I have not put anything back on the walls in those rooms... yet. If anyone remembers my older shots of those rooms, then you know how many prints and paintings were on the walls!

 

Most of my treasures have been stored in bins and boxes on shelves in my walk-in storage closet. But I like to keep a few things out on the shelves where I can see them, in case I want to go "shopping" in my own little thrift store/closet. ;-)