Maine Bird List
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The Cheviot ewe was guarding her Crystalix supplment against all comers. Pregnant ewes need all the help they can get with extra minerals. These tubs with a molasses base encourage the sheep to lick the contents and get their extra minerals and vitamins
A supplement to the series "Azumino and its vicinity in winter."
Kita Alps is half-hidden by snow clouds but this area does not have much snow unlike its neighbours of Hakuba and Otari.
Ikeda-Matsukawa Bridge over the Takasegawa river is locally known as a good view point of Kita Alps peaks, but the bridge itself is rarely shot.
It is so named as it is a boundary between Ikeda and Matsukawa municipalities.
Mt.Fuji-like peak near the centre is called Ariakesan (有明山 2,268 m). It is not very high but looks prominent. Hence it is regarded as a sacred mountain, and there are shrines at the foot and at the peak in Matsukawa village. It is not a volcano.
It is nicknamed Shinano Fuji. Shinano is the old name of Nagano prefecture. It is one of dozens of local Fuji mountains in Japan.
© Leanne Boulton, All Rights Reserved
Candid street photography from Glasgow, Scotland. Fighting with reams of supplements comes with the newspaper territory, I'd hate to have a 'paper round' these days - at least, way back when, it was only the Sunday papers that had all of those supplements in. Enjoy!
“The construction of beams
brings the fruition of dreams.
The casting of steel
makes your fantasy real…”
Read this post on a little virtual keyhole ☂
Love and sparkles,
Dea
Red Deer - Cervus elaphus
Double click image....
The red deer (Cervus elaphus) is one of the largest deer species. The red deer inhabits most of Europe, the Caucasus Mountains region, Asia Minor, Iran, parts of western Asia, and central Asia. It also inhabits the Atlas Mountains region between Morocco and Tunisia in northwestern Africa, being the only species of deer to inhabit Africa. Red deer have been introduced to other areas, including Australia, New Zealand, United States, Canada, Peru, Uruguay, Chile and Argentina. In many parts of the world, the meat (venison) from red deer is used as a food source.
The red deer is the fourth-largest deer species behind moose, elk and sambar deer. It is a ruminant, eating its food in two stages and having an even number of toes on each hoof, like camels, goats and cattle. European red deer have a relatively long tail compared to their Asian and North American relatives. Subtle differences in appearance are noted between the various subspecies of red deer, primarily in size and antlers, with the smallest being the Corsican red deer found on the islands of Corsica and Sardinia and the largest being the Caspian red deer (or maral) of Asia Minor and the Caucasus Region to the west of the Caspian Sea. The deer of central and western Europe vary greatly in size, with some of the largest deer found in the Carpathian Mountains in Central Europe.Western European red deer, historically, grew to large size given ample food supply (including people's crops), and descendants of introduced populations living in New Zealand and Argentina have grown quite large in both body and antler size. Large red deer stags, like the Caspian red deer or those of the Carpathian Mountains, may rival the wapiti in size. Female red deer are much smaller than their male counterparts.
The European red deer is found in southwestern Asia (Asia Minor and Caucasus regions), North Africa and Europe. The red deer is the largest non-domesticated land mammal still existing in Ireland. The Barbary stag (which resembles the western European red deer) is the only member of the deer family represented in Africa, with the population centred in the northwestern region of the continent in the Atlas Mountains. As of the mid-1990s, Morocco, Tunisia and Algeria were the only African countries known to have red deer.
In the Netherlands, a large herd (ca. 3000 animals counted in late 2012) lives in the Oostvaarders Plassen, a nature reserve. Ireland has its own unique subspecies. In France the population is thriving, having multiplied fivefold in the last half-century, increasing from 30,000 in 1970 to approximately 160,000 in 2014. The deer has particularly expanded its footprint into forests at higher altitudes than before. In the UK, indigenous populations occur in Scotland, the Lake District, and the South West of England (principally on Exmoor). Not all of these are of entirely pure bloodlines, as some of these populations have been supplemented with deliberate releases of deer from parks, such as Warnham or Woburn Abbey, in an attempt to increase antler sizes and body weights. The University of Edinburgh found that, in Scotland, there has been extensive hybridisation with the closely related sika deer.
Several other populations have originated either with "carted" deer kept for stag hunts being left out at the end of the hunt, escapes from deer farms, or deliberate releases. Carted deer were kept by stag hunts with no wild red deer in the locality and were normally recaptured after the hunt and used again; although the hunts are called "stag hunts", the Norwich Staghounds only hunted hinds (female red deer), and in 1950, at least eight hinds (some of which may have been pregnant) were known to be at large near Kimberley and West Harling; they formed the basis of a new population based in Thetford Forest in Norfolk. Further substantial red deer herds originated from escapes or deliberate releases in the New Forest, the Peak District, Suffolk, Lancashire, Brecon Beacons, and North Yorkshire, as well as many other smaller populations scattered throughout England and Wales, and they are all generally increasing in numbers and range. A census of deer populations in 2007 and again in 2011 coordinated by the British Deer Society records the red deer as having continued to expand their range in England and Wales since 2000, with expansion most notable in the Midlands and East Anglia.
Nutritional supplements are not a substitute
for a nutritionally balanced diet.
(Deepak Chopra)
Looking close... on Friday! - REFLECTION on BLACK BACKGROUND
(photo by Freya, edit by me)
Thanks for views, faves and comments!
Around 1539 La Hacienda El Rosario in what is today San Isidro became the property of the Dominican Order. A century later a Dominican Father Martin planted the first olive trees in this area to supplement the order's income. About half a century ago the grove was declared a national monument. It's a wonderful spot in which to relax from the dusty city. Birds abound and I noticed not only Hummingbirds and Long-tailed Mockingbirds but also lots of Saffron Finches. They were industriously foraging the lawns and now and then a bath was taken.
This patch of light shining on the whole food vitamins and supplements I take each day fascinated me. Seeing this reminded me it has been such a challenging, painful, intense, lonely journey to get to this point. I’ve also experienced some growth, support, light and a tiny glimpse of life slowly returning. As I tried to heal and recover I was led down a path that involved psychiatric medications that only made things worse for me and prevented me from growing, recovering, and healing (which eventually I courageously discontinued three years ago). And while I’m still struggling a lot I reached a point that I’ve learned the importance of caring for myself in healthy ways—among many things, one way I do this is through these whole food vitamins and supplements.
Hummingbirds love nectar from flowers, but will come to the feeders as long as the sugar water is clean and fresh.
These RAW photos were taken while lying on my back, looking up with my camera, under the hummingbird feeder hanging from the corner of the screened-in porch. I only cropped them.
For more information about Ruby-throated hummingbirds that visit my garden, please click here:
Hummingbirds love nectar from flowers, but will come to the feeders as long as the sugar water is clean and fresh.
These RAW photos were taken while lying on my back, looking up with my camera, under the hummingbird feeder hanging from the corner of the screened-in porch. I only cropped them.
For more information about Ruby-throated hummingbirds that visit my garden, please click here:
Law's Notes, 09-27-XX, supplemental.
I finally met Zep, or Sister D, and Cupcake, or Elise today. Well... again. Last time I met D it was under a much more enjoyable circumstance, and honestly, so was the last time I met Elise. At least we were all under the same spell from which I generated my consciousness.
It seems like an eternity ago. In my mind, I was a cocky soon-to-be pilot who was always on top of his game, arrogant, brash. I was given a chance to glimpse into my future, and I took ample opportunity to do so... until I realized it wasn't time travel, it was chemical reversion on the part of the Old Man and everyone else in Midian. Then things got real.
After the sort of survival quest I've been on, not to mention being birthed and baptized in blood by Two - aka, Volpe- I have to say I've lost a lot of swagger.
It's hard to not learn humility in my shoes. Even regret. It's transitional. The hole left in me doesn't really allow much feeling about this one way or another, so my reflection is mostly a distant one... I still use arrogant brash comedian like I would use a familiar, comfortable sweater. I know it, I know how it moves.
But this meeting was awkward. I felt it somewhat, which meant it must have really broken past whatever emotional straight-jacket circumstances have put me in.
They were both kind enough. D, even had an active interest in pursuing a friendship on some level.
I may take her up on it.
Supplemental irrigation is a must in the arid west and wheel-lines are among the most efficient way to get needed water to crops in the field. Primarily, very large fields.
I also find it nearly impossible to pass by a beautiful, back-lit wheel-line when the conditions for a compelling photograph are rather extraordinary, as they were in this particular instance near
Corvallis, Montana in the heart of the Bitterroot Valley.
Hummingbirds love nectar from flowers, but will come to the feeders as long as the sugar water is clean and fresh.
These RAW photos were taken while lying on my back, looking up with my camera, under the hummingbird feeder hanging from the corner of the screened-in porch. I only cropped them.
“The construction of beams
brings the fruition of dreams.
The casting of steel
makes your fantasy real…”
Read this post on a little virtual keyhole ☂
Love and sparkles,
Dea
Another STP working captured on a Sunday, as 66569 works north towards Craven Arms with a spent ballast engineers from Severn Tunnel Junction to Crewe Basford Hall. The former Onibury Station House is visible at the rear of the train.
The Marches is pretty devoid of freight traffic with the lack of coal workings, and less frequent steel trips to Shotton too, so anything is a bonus. Sunday 7.2.16
For the Phoenix Railway Photographic Circle on-line Journal - click on the link:
This is a top-to-bottom pano, inspired by MJ Northern's bikini stitching technique. With a rented 24mm PC-E I was able to try out MJ's technique on a subject that needed it. This is an exposure fusion of 2 images, with a SB-800 thru Gary Fong lightsphere CR to spotlight the drawers. Cropped to 4:5 aspect ratio.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today we are in Lettice’s drawing room where Edith, Lettice’s maid, has just shown in Lettice’s new milliner and friend of Gerald’s, Miss Harriet Milford. The orphaned daughter of a solicitor with little formal education, Harriet has taken in theatrical lodgers to earn a living, but more importantly for Lettice, has taken up millinery semi-professionally to give her some pin money*. As Harriet made Lettice a fetching picture hat for her brother Leslie’s wedding in November, Lettice commissioned her to make a new millinery creation for her for the wedding of Lettice’s friend Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon** who is marrying the Duke of York*** in a few days.
Although dressed in a fawn coloured three quarter length morning frock that makes up in functionality what it lacks in fashion, Lettice’s pretty visitor does not seem to feel self-conscious or at all ill at ease in her stylish surroundings as she takes them in with an observant eye. Lettice indicates with an open hand to the chair opposite her own and Harriet elegantly takes a seat and places the rather large round white cardboard hatbox that she brought into the drawing room with her onto the green and gold satin Chippendale stool next to her chair.
“It really was very good of you to come to me, Miss Milford.” Lettice says gratefully as she sinks down into her round Art Deco tub chair.
“It’s my pleasure, Miss Chetwynd,” Harriet replies as she smiles across at her hostess. “I’m just trying to demonstrate a little of that professionalism you spoke of when you commissioned me to make the hat.”
“Oh I can assure you, Miss Milford,” Lettice chortles as she pushes the copy of Vogue that she had been reading to the edge of the black japanned coffee table. “You will quickly gain the patronage of every one of Madame Gwendolyn’s clients if you personally deliver every one of your millinery creations to their new owners. Goodness knows she won’t.”
“Oh dear!” Harriet exclaims, raising her bare hands to her cheeks as she blushes. “Have I made another faux pas? I do beg your pardon.”
“Oh not at all, Miss Milford.” Lettice assures her soothingly. “No, your personalised service, if this is something you are prepared to do for your clients, will put you streets ahead of your competition, I assure you.”
“Well,” Harriet breathes a sigh of relief, her shoulders loosening. “Thank goodness for that! Mind you, you are a bit of a special client, Miss Chetwynd.”
“Me?” Lettice asks, raising her well manicured hand to her chest. “How is it that I, of all people, should garner such favour?”
At that moment, Edith enters the drawing room carrying a silver tray which holds Lettice’s elegant Art Deco tea service. Bobbing a courtesy, she unpacks a teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl and two teacups and saucers onto the cleared surface of the coffee table. Assured by Lettice that if she needs anything further she will ring, Edith bobs a second curtsey and leaves.
“Oh, I do so, miss having a parlour maid.” Harriet sighs as she watches Edith’s retreating figure leave the room. “They do make life so much easier when entertaining.”
“Oh yes!” Lettice enthuses. “Edith is such a brick. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
“Sadly, I suspect that either my father, or more likely I, was swindled by the other gentlemen in father’s partnership. I can’t imagine him dying and leaving me in such an impecunious situation that I can’t even afford to have a maid-of-all work. When Father was alive we had a cook, a tweeny and a parlour maid.”
“Then your belated father’s partners are no gentlemen, if you don’t mind me saying, my dear Miss Milford.”
“Indeed I don’t. They are however solicitors and lawyers, and I must confess that much of what they spoke to me about in the days following Father’s funeral bamboozled me.”
“Well, I’m hardly surprised by that, Miss Milford. You’re certainly a smart woman, and capable too, but legalise, well,” Lettice tuts and shakes her head. “That is quite another language indeed, and one peddled by a certain type of lawyer and solicitor to swindle, rather than assist those in a less fortunate situation.”
“Evidently I may be smart, but I’m not capable of keeping a neat home.” Harriet admits. “And that’s why you are a rather special client, Miss Chetwynd. I didn’t want to subject you to the indignity of having you collect your hat from my front parlour, which I will confess is still just as untidy as the last time you saw it. I just don’t seem to be able to keep on top of the housework along with all the other duties of running a boarding house, not that my tenants are particularly handy with a mop, dustpan or broom either.”
Lettice feels a pang of guilt as Harriet speaks, and she remembers the conversation she had not a few short weeks ago in this very room wit Gerald about the shoddy way in which she treated the young lady the last time they met.
“Yes, well about that, Miss Milford.” Lettice begins, the words catching awkwardly in her throat as she speaks.
“About what, Miss Chetwynd?” Harriet asks, looking up with innocent eyes to her hostess sitting across the black japanned coffee table.
“Look, I don’t know how else to say this, but I think I was rather unjust to you when we last saw one another. I shouldn’t have been so critical of your housekeeping skills.”
“No! No, Miss Chetwynd.” Harriet defends her. “You did right to upbraid me. I need to be told things that will impact or restrict the success I strive for.”
“No. I was wrong for being quite so critical, Miss Milford. It didn’t come from a place of kindness or good will. It was ungallant of me, and I was unjust to you.”
“Did Gerry put you up to this?” Harriet asks warily.
“Yes… well no… well yes and no.”
Harriet huffs and smacks the top of the hatbox in her lap in frustration. “Goodness, I can’t trust him, can I? Just because I said…”
Lettice’s hands held out, palms facing outwards silence Harriet.
“Please, Miss Milford, don’t be cross with Gerald.” Lettice pleads. “He did the right thing by pulling me up and admonishing me. You see, Gerald and I are like brother and sister, and he knows me far too well, and what my propensities can be, especially when I feel threatened.”
“Threatened? Miss Chetwynd..”
“That last time I saw you, I behaved like a prig. I was overly critical. In fact, if I’m being truthful, which I am now going to be, even though I suspect you may despise me after the fact, I was looking to find fault, in even the smallest of trivialities.”
“But why, Miss Chetwynd?”
“Because I felt threatened by you.” Lettice looks guiltily across at Harriet. “Because I felt jealous of you, and your relationship with Gerald. I wanted to prove myself to be better than you.” She looks down sadly into her lap. “And in doing so, I made myself look worse than you, in Gerald’s eyes.”
“I’m sure that isn’t true, Miss Chetwynd.”
“I can assure you it is, Miss Milford. You know how adroit our Gerald is. He told me that from your account, which I’m sure was kinder than I deserve, that I sounded pompous, and I know that I was being pompous and mean spirited and far worse.”
“Because you are jealous of me?”
Lettice nods remorsefully.
“But I thought we had all that out already, Miss Chetwynd, the day you collected the hat I made you for your brother’s wedding last year. I told you the last thing I want to do is intrude on your friendship with Gerry, nor usurp you in his affections. I promise you, I’m not a threat.”
“I know, but even though I said I believed you, I lied. I didn’t believe you, and I unjustly wanted to find fault in you and punish you for what I now know, and in truth probably knew then, to be for no good reason. I was being spiteful.” She looks directly into Harriet’s placid face. “And I know now that I was very wrong to do that, and that I hurt you in the process, Miss Milford, intentionally. And I sincerely apologise.”
A silence falls heavily between the two of them.
“I believe, Miss Milford that now is the time for you to behave like the leading ladies who sometimes hang off the arms of your theatrical boarders, and make a scene by throwing a fit before storming out.”
Harriet laughs, a burst of genuine delight cascading from her pretty pert lips. “Oh Miss Chetwynd, you overestimate both my ability for and enjoyment of melodramas. I am very far from theatrical, so there will be no fits of temper, at least not from me, a fact for which you may be grateful.”
“You are far nicer to me than I deserve, Miss Milford. I’ve been a beast, and here you are, as smiling and civilised as ever.”
“My Father once told me that in his profession as a lawyer, you see the very best and the very worst in human nature, and that when you are faced with the latter, you should always channel the former so that you have nothing to reproach yourself with. I don’t know if I wholly agree with his holier than thou approach, but then again, he was a man of very black and white opinions, however in spite of all you have told me, Miss Chetwynd, you haven’t diminished in my esteem.”
“Then I really don’t deserve to know you, for you must surely be a saint.”
“Not at all, Miss Chetwynd. I may not admire you for your misjudgement of me, but I admire your truth and honesty, even if it took a nudge from Gerry for you to be so. You told me that we would never be bosom friends****, and nor do I want you to be one. However, I do honestly think that I can gain a great deal from you. As I noted, we both are trying to establish names for ourselves, albeit in different areas, and as women in a male dominated world, I think I would value your dispassionate and truthful opinion as I make my way in it.” She pauses. “That is if you can move on from this silly and unfounded jealously, Miss Chetwynd.”
“I think I could manage that.”
“Good!” Harriet sighs. “Well, now that we have that bit of business out of the way, perhaps we might move on to the business that I came here today to transact.” She pats the top of the plain cardboard hatbox and cocks an eyebrow at Lettice.
“I’ll just ring for Edith to fetch the hatstand from my dressing table.”
A short while later, with the hatstand fetched, Harriet presents Lettice with the hatbox.
“Me, Miss Milford?”
“I think that since this is your hat, you should have the honour of unveiling it, Miss Chetwynd.”
“And if I don’t like it?” Lettice asks earnestly, looking into her companion’s placidly smiling face.
“I don’t think we need to worry about that occurring, Miss Chetwynd.” Harriet’s lips curl up just a little bit more at the edges of her mouth as she speaks.
“Good.” Lettice agrees. “It’s vital as a woman in business to believe in your product.”
“See, Miss Chetwynd,” Harriet says. “Such wise advice from one businesswoman to another.”
Lettice lifts the lid off the round hatbox and drops it at her feet. Faced with a froth of white tissue paper, she carefully unfolds it, the paper whispering noisily beneath her fingers. She delves her fingers in until she feels the firmness of a satin covered brim beneath her hand, and grasping it, she foists the hat free, the tissue paper cascading to the ground around her. Lettice casts the hatbox aside and places the hat on the hatstand. With her left index finger and thumb pinching her chin, she contemplates the hat with a considered look, sighing with satisfaction.
“A deeply crowned hat with a wide, poke style brim.” Harriet gesticulates around the hat’s edges without actually touching it. “Stiffened of course.” she adds. “I know I had suggested from the outset that it should be made of apricot felt, but really for a Royal wedding, I felt satin was called for. And, as we discussed, I have edged it with the thinnest trim of white lace and ornamented the crown with creamy orange taffeta roses and ribbons. What do you think, Miss Chetwynd?”
“Honestly, Miss Milford,” Lettice replies. “I think it is perfect!”
“I’m so pleased you think so, Miss Chetwynd.” Harriet replies with a proud smile.
*Originating in Seventeenth Century England, the term pin money first meant “an allowance of money given by a husband to his wife for her personal expenditures. Married women, who typically lacked other sources of spending money, tended to view an allowance as something quite desirable. By the Twentieth Century, the term had come to mean a small sum of money, whether an allowance or earned, for spending on inessentials, separate and in addition to the housekeeping money a wife might have to spend.
**Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, as she was known at the beginning of 1923 when this story is set, went on to become Queen of the United Kingdom and the Dominions from 1936 to 1952 as the wife of King George VI. Whilst still Duke of York, Prince Albert initially proposed to Elizabeth in 1921, but she turned him down, being "afraid never, never again to be free to think, speak and act as I feel I really ought to". He proposed again in 1922 after Elizabeth was part of his sister, Mary the Princess Royal’s, wedding party, but she refused him again. On Saturday, January 13th, 1923, Prince Albert went for a walk with Elizabeth at the Bowes-Lyon home at St Paul’s, Walden Bury and proposed for a third and final time. This time she said yes. The wedding took place on April 26, 1923 at Westminster Abbey.
***Prince Albert, Duke of York, known by the diminutive “Bertie” to the family and close friends, was the second son of George V. Not only did Bertie propose to Elizabeth in 1921, but also in March 1922 after she was a bridesmaid at the wedding of Albert’s sister, Princess Mary to Viscount Lascelles. Elizabeth refused him a second time, yet undaunted Bertie pursued the girl who had stolen his heart. Finally, in January 1923 she agreed to marry him in spite of her misgivings about royal life.
****The term bosom friend is recorded as far back as the late Sixteenth Century. In those days, the bosom referred to the chest as the seat of deep emotions, though now the word usually means a woman's “chest.” A bosom friend, then, is one you might share these deep feelings with or have deep feelings for.
Contrary to popular belief, fashion at the beginning of the Roaring 20s did not feature the iconic cloche hat as a commonly worn head covering. Although invented by French milliner Caroline Reboux in 1908, the cloche hat did not start to gain popularity until 1922, so even though this story is set in that year, picture hats, a hangover from the pre-war years, were still de rigueur in fashionable society and whilst Lettice is fashionable, she and many other fashionable women still wore the more romantic picture hat. This included Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, the future Queen of Great Britain and Queen Mother, and she maintained her romantic style all her life using soft colours and often wide brimmed hats. Although nowhere near as wide, heavy, voluminous or as ornate as the hats worn by women between the turn of the Twentieth Century and the Great War, the picture hats of the 1920s were still wide brimmed, although they were generally made of straw or some lightweight fabric and were decorated with a more restrained touch.
This 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:
Central to our story, the beautiful hat made by Harriet with it’s soft peach colour, romantic wide brim and soft satin rose trim. 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism such as these are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable. The maker of this hat is unknown, but it is part of a larger collection I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel. The hat stand the hat rests on is also part of Marilyn Bickel’s collection.
The Vogue magazine from 1923 sitting on the coffee table reflects the prevailing style for romantic hats and soft colours of the time and was made by hand by Petite Gite Miniatures in the United States. Lettice’s tea set is a beautiful artisan set featuring a rather avant-garde Art Deco Royal Doulton design from the Edwardian era.
Lettice’s drawing room is furnished with beautiful J.B.M. miniatures. The Art Deco tub chairs are of black japanned wood and have removable cushions, just like their life sized examples. To the left of the fireplace is a Hepplewhite drop-drawer bureau and chair of black japanned wood which has been hand painted with chinoiserie designs, even down the legs and inside the bureau. The Hepplewhite chair has a rattan seat, which has also been hand woven. To the right of the fireplace is a Chippendale cabinet which has also been decorated with chinoiserie designs. It also features very ornate metalwork hinges and locks.
On the top of the Hepplewhite bureau stand three real miniature photos in frames including an Edwardian silver frame, a Victorian brass frame and an Art Deco blue Bakelite and glass frame.
The fireplace is a 1:12 miniature resin Art Deco fireplace which is flanked by brass accessories including an ash brush with real bristles.
On the left hand side of the mantle is an Art Deco metal clock hand painted with wonderful detail by British miniature artisan Victoria Fasken.
In the middle of the mantle is a miniature artisan hand painted Art Deco statue on a “marble” plinth. Made by Warwick Miniatures in England, it is a 1:12 copy of the “Theban Dancer” sculpture created by Claire-Jeanne-Roberte Colinet in 1925.
The carpet beneath the furniture is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug, and the geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today we are in Lettice’s chic, dining room, which stands adjunct to her equally stylish drawing room. She has decorated it in a restrained Art Deco style with a smattering of antique pieces. It is also a place where she has showcased some prized pieces from the Portman Gallery in Soho including paintings, her silver drinks set and her beloved statue of the ‘Modern Woman’ who presides over the proceedings from the sideboard.
Lettice is hosting a luncheon for her future sister-in-law Arabella Tyrwhitt who will soon marry her eldest brother Leslie. As Arabella has no sisters, and her mother is too unwell at present to travel up to London from Wiltshire, Lettice has taken it upon herself to help Arabella shop and select a suitable trousseau. So, she has brought her to London to stay in Cavendish Mews, rather than opening up the Tyrwhitt’s Georgian townhouse in Curzon Street for a week, so from there she can take Arabella shopping in all the best shops in the West End, and take her to her old childhood chum and best friend Gerald Bruton’s couturier in Grosvenor Street for her wedding dress. Lettice has invited a few of her friends from her Embassy Club coterie whom Arabella met there the other night. Lettice has asked her best girlfriend, the recently married Margot Channon and one of her other dear friends Minnie Palmerston. As both ladies are married, Lettice is hoping they may be able to shed some light on what life is like as a married woman with Arabella whilst also sharing in an afternoon of delicious food and delightful gossip.
“Oh Gerald will make you the most wonderful wedding dress, Bella,” Margot enthuses to Arabella. “Believe me! He made me the most stylish gown for my wedding last year. You’ll be the talk of the Wiltshire downs.”
“I think your mother is a wonderful sport letting Lettice help you pick your wedding gown, Bella.” exclaims Minnie. “My mother wouldn’t let me choose so much as a button without her say so, and my wedding dress wasn’t anywhere near as modern and fashionable as I would have liked. It wasn’t even made by the couturier I wanted! I had to settle for old fashioned Lucille*.”
“Well,” Arabella says a little awkwardly. “My mother, err, she isn’t all that well at present, you see.”
“So,” Lettice quickly pitches in to avoid Arabella any awkward explanations. “I’m doing Lady Tyrwhitt the biggest favour whilst she is indisposed, by hosting Bella here in my flat and taking her shopping.” Arabella smiles in relief at her future sister-in-law who sits to her right at the head of the table. “I mean, what’s the point in opening up their London townhouse for just a few days when Bella is welcome here at any time?”
“And where everything is so lovely and welcoming.” Arabella says gratefully.
“Hhmm… that’s most sensible, Lettice.” Minnie says.
“And this way, I can take Bella to places like the Embassy Club whilst she’s up here, as well as take her frock shopping.” Lettice giggles with a wink at Bella. “I can show here what she’s missing being stuck in dull old Wiltshire.”
“Oh, it’s not as dull as all that, Tice,” Arabella remarks, her face flushing with mild embarrassment as she feels so unworldly in comparison to Lettice and her smart London friends. “After all, we have cattle shows, garden parties and…”
“Cattle shows!” baulks Margot, her left hand pressing over her mouth in horror, her diamond engagement ring glinting under the light of the dining room. “How beastly! I do hope that there aren’t any cattle shows I have to go on Cornwall! I should dislike that intensely.”
“I agree!” nods Minnie, her green glass chandelier earrings bobbing about as they dangle from her lobes.
“You both grew up in London, so of course a cattle show is beastly to you two,” Lettice replies. “But Bella and I both grew up in the country, so we are used to life there. Cattle shows are part of county social life.”
“If I had to go and look at beastly… well beasts, in order to meet eligible men,” Minnie says with an air of distaste as she wrinkles her nose. “I think I’d rather stay single.”
“Good job the closest thing you’ve come to the countryside is Hyde Park on a summer’s day then isn’t it, Minnie?” retorts Lettice with a playful smile.
“I quite enjoy the county social round,” Arabella admits with a shy smile. “And whilst I’m so grateful for you taking me to nightspots around London, Tice, I don’t think I’ll ever be a nightclub kind of girl.”
“Poor darling,” Lettice teases her good naturedly as she speaks out to her other friends at the table. “She doesn’t know yet how deliciously addictive nightclubs can be.”
“We’ll fix that,” giggles Margot, reaching out a hand across the table, past the central floral arrangement of lightly fragrant white roses in a glass bowl and enveloping Arabella’s smaller hand with her own. “Don’t you worry about that Lettice.”
Picking up her thoughts on life in Wiltshire, Bella adds, “Wiltshire isn’t quite the ends of the earth socially. Don’t forget, we do have balls and parties to go to there, like your mother’s glittering Hunt Ball.”
“Yes,” titters Minnie. “Where Lettice met that dishy Selwyn Spencely!”
Margot joins in with Minnie’s girlish peals.
“Oh do stop you two!” Lettice says with a playful wave of her hand. “I’ve only had to opportunity to have luncheon with him once thus far since the ball.”
“But you are planning to see him again, aren’t you Tice?” asks Arabella.
“Of course she is,” teases Margot with a wag of her bejewelled finger. “You can see it written all over her face!”
“Lettice!” Minnie cries, pointing her her elegant finger at her friend across the table. “You’re holding out on us. You’ve arranged to see him again, haven’t you?”
“Lettice!” gasps Margot. “Not fair! Spill the beans at once!”
“Well,” Lettice admits. “He did ring me this morning.”
“And?” Margot and Minnie ask, their breath baited with excitement.
“And we’ve arranged to have luncheon again after Bella returns home to Wiltshire.”
Margot and Minnie squeal and clap with delight, gushing forth congratulations as though Lettice had just announced her engagement to Selwyn.
“I hope you aren’t putting off seeing him just because I’m here, Tice.” Bella says quietly, a guilty look crossing her pretty face.
“Not at all, Bella!” Lettice reaches over and squeezes Arabella’s hand comfortingly. “He telephoned whilst you were in the bathroom this morning. You are my guest and as such, you have my undivided attention. Mr. Selwyn Spencely can wait a few days.”
“Well, they do say that absence makes the heart grow fonder.” remarks Margot. “It certainly did for Dickie and I.”
“Where are you going, Lettice?” asks Minnie eagerly.
“I’ll tell you where, but not what day.” Lettice agrees. “The last thing I want is for you and Charles to be sitting, goggle eyed at the next table.”
“As if I would!” Minnie gasps, pressing a hand dramatically to her chest.
“As if you wouldn’t, more like!” Lettice retorts.
“Well,” Minnie looks across an Margot guiltily. “Yes, we would.”
The pair giggle conspiratorially.
“So where?” Minnie asks.
“The Café Royal.**”
“Oh how deliciously luxurious, Lettice darling!” Margot enthuses.
“I shall have Charles book us a table there every night for the fortnight after Bella leaves.” giggles Minnie teasingly, but her wink to Lettice assures her that she won’t.
“Oh Minnie!” Margot laughs. “You are awful!”
Just as Margot and Minnie break into more girlish titters, Edith, Lettice’s maid, emerges from the kitchen through the green baize door and walks towards the table with a tray on which she carries four of her home made orange curd tarts.
“Ah! What good timing!” Lettice claps her hands. “Edith, you are a brick! Ladies, dessert!”
Edith bobs a curtsey to her mistress and begins to serve the desserts to her guests first by carefully holding the tray on an angle to Arabella’s left, so she may easily help herself to one without the whole tray tipping forward and the tarts spilling onto the polished parquetry dining room floor.
“Thank you for that roast beef luncheon, Edith,” Arabella remarks as she selects the tart closest to her. “It was quite delicious.”
“You’re welcome, Miss Tyrwhitt.” Edith murmurs in reply, her face flushing with pleasure at the compliment.
Edith moves on and serves Minnie and then Margot, before finally coming back to Lettice who selects the one remaining tart from the tray. Ensuring that everyone has a replenished drink, Edith retreats to the kitchen, allowing the four ladies to carry on their conversation undisturbed by her presence.
“This looks delicious, Lettice darling.” remarks Margot as she looks down at the tart before her, the pastry a pale golden colour, a twist of candied orange and a dollop of whipped cream decorating its top.
“Yes,” concurs Minnie. “You’re so lucky Lettice. I don’t know how you manage to find such good staff in London.”
“I told you, Minnie. Mater gave me the telephone number of an excellent agency. That’s where I got Edith from. I’ll give it to you.”
“Oh,” Minnie sulks. “I think even if I employed the most perfectly qualified maid, I’d do something to muck the whole arrangement up. I usually do.”
“Good heavens, whatever are you talking about, Minnie?” Lettice exclaims.
“She’s only saying that because of her dining room faux pas.” Margot elucidates as she picks up her spoon and fork to commence eating her tart.
“What dining room faux pas?” Lettice asks.
Minnie looks around Lettice’s dining room at the restrained black japanned furnishings, white Art Deco wallpaper and elegant decorations. “I should just have done what Margot did and engaged you to decorate it for me.” she remarks as she picks up her own spoon and fork and begins to disseminate her dessert.
“What dining room faux pas?” Lettice asks again.
“At least you have taste, Lettice, unlike me.” Minnie continues uninterrupted.
“Nonsense Minnie darling, you have one of the most tasteful and fashionable wardrobes in London!” Margot counters.
“Well, it obviously doesn’t extend to my ability as an interior decorator.” Minnie grumbles back as she stabs her tart with her fork.
“Minnie, what dining room faux pas?” Lettice asks again, the smallest lilt in her raised voice betraying her frustration at being ignored.
“Well, you know how Charles’ grandfather left us the house in St John’s Wood?” Minnie asks.
“Yes,” Lettice says, laying aside her spoon and fork, leaving her trat untasted as she looks intently into the green eyes of her redheaded friend.
“When we moved in, it was full of all of old Lady Arundel’s ghastly furniture. Charles’ grandfather hadn’t done a single thing to update the place, so it was all dusty of festoons and potted palms.”
“So pre-war Edwardian!” adds Margot just before she pops the daintiest piece of tart into her mouth, smiling as she tastes it.
“Charles says to me when I complain about how dark and cluttered it is: ‘Minnie darling, why don’t you redecorate’. So of course I thought to myself that if you could do it so effortlessly, why couldn’t I?”
“I wouldn’t say effortlessly, Minnie darling.” Lettice corrects her friend. “Anyway, do go on. I’m all ears.”
“Well, I was delighted! My first real project as a wife, making a comfortable home for my husband. I asked Charles what room I should start with, and he suggested the dining room. After all, bringing potential business partners home to his dead grandmother’s fusty old dining room wouldn’t look very good, would it?”
“Indeed not, Minnie darling.” Lettice agrees, her lids lowering slightly as she concentrates on her friend’s story.
“He said that perhaps rather than throw out Lady Arundel’s dining table, I might start by picking some papers that went well with the dark furniture and red velvet seats, but would match our wonderful modern paintings which we hung in place of the muddy oils that were in there.”
“You could see where the old paintings had been by the non-faded patches of red flocked wallpaper.” Margot titters.
“That sounds ghastly,” Lettice remarks. “How sensible Charles was to suggest the walls first. Then you can decide what your new dining room furnishings will be once you are ready, and there’s no rush to fling out what you have at present.”
“Very well observed, Lettice darling.” Margot agrees.
“So where is the faux pas in that, then?” asks Lettice, looking across the roses of the centrepiece at her two friends in a perplexed fashion.
“The faux pas is what I chose!” pouts Minnie. “I’d started off so well too. I had the old black marble fireplace torn out and replaced with a lovely new surround.”
“Very streamline and modern,” Margot agrees, taking another mouthful of tart.
“Oh yes!” Minnie exclaims. “Quite to die for. Then I went to Jeffrey and Company*** looking for papers. It’s where my mother got our wallpapers for our homes when I was growing up.”
“Mine too.” affirmed Margot.
“And the assistant showed me the most divine poppies pattern on a geometric background. I thought to myself that being red, the poppies were a perfect choice for the walls.”
“It sounds perfect to me, Minnie darling.” Lettice says. “I still don’t see where the faux pas is?”
“You haven’t seen it on the walls.” Margot remarks half under her breath, looking apologetically at Minnie.
“No, it’s true Margot.” Minnie admits defeatedly with a sigh. “It sounds wonderful, but it looks positively awful!”
“Oh I wouldn’t have said that,” Margot counters. “It is rather busy and rather draws attention away from your paintings, but it isn’t awful.”
“Well Charles thinks it is! He says it’s like eating in a Maida Vale**** dining room! He doesn’t even want to eat in there now, and he certainly won’t bring any potential business partners around for dinner. He’s rather take them to his club!” Minnie whines. She drops her cutlery with a clatter onto the black japanned dining room table’s surface and hurriedly snatches her napkin from her lap. Carefully she dabs at the corners of her eyes.
“Oh Minnie!” Margot says, quickly getting up from her seat, dropping her own napkin on the seat of her chair and walking around to her friend where she wraps her arms around her shoulders comfortingly.
“Minnie darling. Please don’t cry.” Lettice gasps, standing up in her seat.
“You have modern wallpaper, but it doesn’t feel like Maida Vale in here.” Minnie says tearfully, thrusting her arms around in wild gesticulations.
Discreetly, Arabella moves Minnie’s half empty champagne flute out of her immediate reach to avoid any adding any drama with the spilling of drinks or shattering of glass to what is already an uncomfortable enough situation with the young woman sobbing in her seat whilst being comforted by her friends. Quietly Arabella wonders if the hot rush of London life with all its drama is all that good for the constitution if people behave this way over luncheon tables in the capital, and she secretly longs to retreat to the safety of her much quieter home of Garstanton Park back in Wiltshire.
“Do you need the smelling salts, Miss?” Edith, who unnoticed with Minnie’s loud crying and moaning, has slipped back into the dining room from the kitchen.
“What?” Lettice turns and registers her maid’s presence. “Ahh, no. No thank you Edith. Mrs. Palmerston is just having another one of her momentary dramas.”
“I am not!” bursts out Minnie, causing her already flushed face to go even redder as another barrage of tears and moaning escapes her shuddering frame.
“Of course you are, Minnie darling.” Lettice counters calmly in a good natured way. Turning back to her anxious maid she adds, “It will be over in a minute. Thank you, Edith.”
“Very good Miss.” Edith replies bewilderingly with raised eyebrows and an almost imperceptible shake of her head as she looks again at Mrs. Palmerston, red faced and weeping in her chair, her bare arms being rubbed by Mrs. Channon who coos and whispers quietly into her ears.
“Minnie has always been highly strung.” Lettice quietly assures Arabella whom she notices is looking particularly uncomfortable in her seat. “It will pass in a moment, and then we’ll get on with luncheon.”
After a few minutes of weeping, Minnie finally calms down, and both Lettice and Margot return to their seats to finish their desserts, all three behaving as if Minnie’s outburst had never occurred, and that such behaviour was not only understandable, but perfectly normal. Arabella, with her head down, eyes focussed squarely upon her half eaten tart says nothing and follows suit. For a few moments, nothing breaks the silence but the sound of cutlery scraping against crockery.
“I know, Minnie darling,” Lettice breaks the embargo on speaking cheerfully. “Why don’t I come and look at your dining room.”
“Oh would you?” exclaims Minnie with a sigh of relief. “Could you? Oh! That would be marvellous! What a brick you are, Lettice.” Then she pauses, her sudden happy energy draining away just as quickly. “But you can’t.” She shakes her head. “You’re redecorating Margot’s.”
Arabella unconsciously holds her breath, waiting for Minnie to start crying again.
“Well, yes I am,” Lettice agrees. “But there’s no reason why I can’t have two clients at once.”
“She’s not actually doing anything at ‘Chi an Treth’ at present,” Margot says, picking up her wine glass and draining it. “Are you Lettice darling?”
“Well I can’t right now, you see Minnie.” Lettice elucidates. “Funnily enough I’m waiting for Margot’s wallpapers to be printed by Jeffrey and Company, but they won’t be ready for a few weeks. So I can come and have a look, maybe make some recommendation for you and Charles to consider. Then if you’re happy, I can commence work after I’ve finished Margot’s.”
“Oh, but what about Bella? You’re helping her shop for her trousseau.” Minnie protests.
“I can assure you, I don’t need any help shopping for clothes.” Arabella says, releasing her pent-up breath. “Tice has pointed me in the direction of Oxford Street, so I can take myself there.”
“As it happens, we’re visiting Gerald on Thursday for Bella’s first consultation for her wedding dress. Why don’t I come on Thursday for luncheon whilst Bella and Gerald consult? She doesn’t need me to help her decide what she wants. She already has a good idea, don’t you Bella?”
Arabella nods emphatically.
“Well Thursday is cook’s afternoon off, but if you think you could cope with some sandwiches.” Minnie says hopefully.
“That’s settled then!” Lettice says with a sigh.
Suddenly the mood in the room lightens and spontaneous conversation begins to bubble about Lettice’s dining table again as Margot and Minnie ask Arabella about her plans for her wedding dress.
*Lucile – Lucy, Lady Duff Gordon was a leading British fashion designer in the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries who use the professional name Lucile. She was the originator of the “mannequin parade”, a pre-cursor to the modern fashion parade, and is reported to have been the person to first use the word “chic” which she then popularised. Lucile is also infamous for escaping the Titanic in a lifeboat designed for forty occupants with her husband and secretary and only nine other people aboard, seven being crew members. When hemlines rose after the war, her fortunes reversed as she couldn’t change with the times, always wanting to use too much fabric on gowns that were too long and too fussy and pre-war.
**The Café Royal in Regent Street, Piccadilly was originally conceived and set up in 1865 by Daniel Nicholas Thévenon, who was a French wine merchant. He had to flee France due to bankruptcy, arriving in Britain in 1863 with his wife, Célestine, and just five pounds in cash. He changed his name to Daniel Nicols and under his management - and later that of his wife - the Café Royal flourished and was considered at one point to have the greatest wine cellar in the world. By the 1890s the Café Royal had become the place to see and be seen at. It remained as such into the Twenty-First Century when it finally closed its doors in 2008. Renovated over the subsequent four years, the Café Royal reopened as a luxury five star hotel.
***Jeffrey and Company was an English producer of fine wallpapers that operated between 1836 and the mid 1930s. Based at 64 Essex Road in London, the firm worked with a variety of designers who were active in the aesthetic and arts and crafts movements, such as E.W. Godwin, William Morris, and Walter Crane. Jeffrey and Cmpany’s success is often credited to Metford Warner, who became the company’s chief proprietor in 1871. Under his direction the firm became one of the most lucrative and influential wallpaper manufacturers in Europe. The company clarified that wallpaper should not be reserved for use solely in mansions, but should be available for rooms in the homes of the emerging upper-middle class.
****Although today quite an affluent suburb of London, in 1922 when this scene is set, Maida Vale was more of an up-and-coming middle-class area owing to its proximity to the more up market St John’s Wood to its west. It has many late Victorian and Edwardian blocks of mansion flats. Charles’ remark that he felt like he was in a Maida Vale dining room was not meant to be taken as a compliment considering they live in St John’s Wood.
Lettice’s fashionable Mayfair flat dining room is perhaps a little different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures I have collected over time.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The orange curd tarts with their twist of orange atop each are made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in the United Kingdom. The empty wine glasses and the glass bowl in the centre of the table are also 1:12 artisan miniatures all made of hand spun and blown glass. They too are made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. The vase is especially fine. If you look closely you will see that it is decorated with flower patterns made up of fine threads of glass. The cream roses in the vase were also hand made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. The Art Deco dinner set is part of a much larger set I acquired from a dollhouse suppliers in Shanghai, as is the cutlery set. The champagne flutes that are filled with glittering golden yellow champagne were made by Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The candlesticks were made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.
In the background on the console table stand some of Lettice’s precious artisan purchases from the Portland Gallery in Soho. The silver drinks set is made by artisan Clare Bell at the Clare Bell Brass Works in Maine, in the United States. Each goblet is only one centimetre in height and the decanter at the far end is two- and three-quarter centimetres with the stopper inserted. Lettice’s Art Deco ‘Modern Woman’ figure is actually called ‘Christianne’ and was made and hand painted by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland. ‘Christianne’ is based on several Art Deco statues and is typical of bronze and marble statues created at that time for the luxury market in the buoyant 1920s.
Lettice’s dining room is furnished with Town Hall Miniatures furniture, which is renown for their quality. The only exceptions to the room is the Chippendale chinoiserie carver chair (the edge of which just visible on the far left-hand side of the photo) which was made by J.B.M. Miniatures.
The carpet beneath the furniture is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug hand made by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney, Australia. The paintings on the walls are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States. The geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.
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Strobist:2 bare sb600's for BG illumination left and right rear. Sb800 shoot thru umbrella high camera right. Sb800 in 17" SB low camera left. Triggered by PW's processed in LR.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however we are not at Cavendish Mews, although we are still in Mayfair, moving a few streets away to Hill Street, where Edith, Lettice’s maid, is visiting her friend and fellow maid Hilda. Edith and Hilda used to share at attic bedroom together in the Pimlico townhouse of Mr. and Mrs. Plaistow, their former situation, where they worked together as parlour maids. Edith recently helped Hilda obtain a new position as live-in maid for Lettice’s married Embassy Club coterie friends, Dickie and Margot Channon. Whilst Edith spends her Sundays off with her beau, Willison’s Grocers delivery boy Frank, she shares her Wednesdays off between visiting her parents in Harlesden and spending the day enjoying the pleasures London has to offer with Hilda. It is in the Channon’s Hill Street flat’s kitchen that we find ourselves today where Edith and Hilda are taking luncheon before heading off to nearby Oxford Street for a spot of window shopping.
Hilda has found that the Channon’s rather chaotic household and way of living somewhat of challenge to get used to working in, but it always guarantees great stories that she can share with her best friend, and this is what the girls are doing. The Channons are away, visiting Dickie’s parents, the Marquess and Marchioness of Taunton in Cornwall, which makes it easier for Hilda to entertain Edith at the flat in Hill Street, and the pair are enjoying Dickie and Margot’s unknown largess as the table is set with tea for two, bread from the glazed bread crock and a choice of spreads for them to enjoy.
“Well, “ Hilda says with a sigh of relief as she unscrews the yellow lid from the Marmite* jar. “I can tell you I was relieved to hear Mrs. Channon say to your Miss Lettice over lunch last week that the reason why they are going to see her in-laws is because they find it too lowering to visit the flat.” She scoops some of the thick dark Marmite out of the jar and smears the paste thinly across her slice of bread.
“Mmmm…” murmurs Edith in reply, her own knife still laying next to her untouched slice of bare bread.
“She sounds like a nasty old trout anyway.” Hilda prattles on as she cuts her slice of Marmite topped bread into two by slicing it with ungainly drags of her Bakelite** handled knife. “Poor Mrs. Channon always comes back from these stays at the in-law’s castle so downcast, and despondent.”
“Yes…” Edith replies in a distracted way, still leaving her bread untouched.
“And I’ve heard she and Mr. Channon talk about the fact that they have no children yet.” Hilda picks up one half of her bread and bites into it hungrily, chewing her mouthful a few times and half swallowing it before adding, “I mean, I know they have been married for a year and all, so it is unusual.” She loudly chews her mouthful of bread and Marmite a few more times. “But you can’t force babies to come, now can you?”
“Mmmm…”
“And, I mean fancy the Marchioness being rich enough to live in a castle, yet she and the Marquess barely give Mr. Channon a penny to live by, and they won’t visit his home because they think it’s too lowering.” Hilda emphasises the last word before taking another large bite of her bread. “What a cheek! ‘d hate her for a mother-in-law, no matter how rich she is! She’s just plain rude, if you ask me! Don’t you agree, Edith?”
“No…” Edith replies after a few moments, her voice reedy and tinged with a far off quality.
“You don’t, Edith?” Hilda asks, her face screwing up in disbelief, her mouth a thin, long line moving up and down as she chews.
“I don’t what?” Edith replies.
“You don’t agree with me, Edith!” Hilda retorts in surprise. “Haven’t you been listening to me?” She looks at the slice of bare bread on Edith’s plate and her untouched cup of tea, and then up into Edith’s rather pale and wan face with apprehension. “What’s wrong Edith? You haven’t touched your tea.”
“Oh!” Edith gasps, before smiling at her friend. “Nothing, Hilda.” She picks up the jar of Golden Shred Marmalade*** and unscrews the painted red lid.
“Aren’t you going to put butter on your bread first?” Hilda asks with disquiet as she watches Edith’s clean knife edge towards the gelatinous golden orange conserve within the jar.
“What?” Edith looks at the marmalade and then looks at the bar of creamy pale yellow butter on the white glazed tray of the butter dish. “Oh! Oh yes!” She giggles somewhat forcefully at her mistake. “Silly me.”
“What’s wrong Edith?” Hilda asks her friend in genuine concern as she watches her butter her bread. “You’ve been a bit off ever since you’ve arrived, and I don’t think you’ve really heard a word I said since you got here.”
“Yes I have, Hilda!” Edith defends.
“You’re not,” Hilda glances down to Edith’s stomach, encased in a pretty floral print frock of her own making, cocking her eyebrow as she does. “You know… in the family way with Frank, are you?”
“Hilda!” Edith let’s her knife clatter loudly onto her blue and white plate. “Good heavens, no!” She blushes. “I’m not that kind of girl! You know that! How could you even think such a thing? I haven’t let Frank touch me like that, and he knows he can’t, until he’s put a ring on my finger.”
“Oh, that’s a relief!” Hilda sinks back not the comfort of the round back of her Windsor chair. “Then what is it? Something’s bothering you. It’s as plain as the nose on your face. Is it Miss Lettice? Has she done something? I know your brother is home. Is he alright?”
“Of course my brother’s alright!” Edith scoffs in surprise. “You only saw him at the Hammersmith Palais**** on Sunday. And no, it’s nothing about Miss Lettice.”
“Well, a lot can happen in a few days, Edith. So, what is it, then. Is it to do with Frank?”
Edith doesn’t reply for a moment, which tells her best friend so much before she finally does reply falteringly. “Well, yes… well not him, exactly.”
“What is it then?” Hilda sits forward and picks up the last bite of her first half of her bread. “Come on! Out with it then!”
Edith sighs deeply and toys with the marmalade as she smears it across her slice of bread. “I’m worried about meeting Frank’s grandmother on Sunday.”
“But I thought you wanted to meet her.” Hilda replies, her eyes widening in surprise. “You’re the one who has been banging on to me for weeks about Frank dragging his heels. Now he’s gone and done the right thing and organised for you two to finally meet. I don’t understand.”
“Oh, I am glad, Hilda. Really, I am.”
“Well you don’t sound it, I must confess.” Hilda says matter-of-factly as she snatches up her second half of her bread and bites deeply into it, emitting a small gasp of pleasure at doing so.
Edith cuts her slice of bread in half with desultory strokes as she considers her reply. “It’s hard to explain.”
“Try me.”
“Alright. Well, I’m worried that she won’t like me.”
“What?” Hilda gasps. “What is there not to like about you, Edith? You’re wonderful! Frank’s picked himself the best of the catch!” She pats Edith’s arm comfortingly as she leans forward. “You’re pretty and smart. You’ve landed yourself a good job as far as being in service goes. Goodness,” She slaps Edith’s forearm. “You’re even clever enough to whip Frank up a shirt on that new Singer***** of yours, I’ll wager. I’m sure she’ll be tickled pink that her grandson has found such a catch as you.”
“But she sounds so grand, Hilda. She makes lace, and she lives in Upton Park. It sounds much nicer than Harlesden.”
“What rubbish!” Hilda scoffs. “Lots of women make lace, and they aren’t fine ladies like Mrs. Channon or Miss Lettice. In fact, I doubt that either of our mistresses could sew their own lace. And as for Upon Park, it’s just an ordinary suburb, just like any other in London.”
“Have you been there?”
“Well, no.” Hilda admits. But as her friend’s face falls, she quickly adds, “But I have been with you to the Premier****** in East Ham, and that isn’t far away, and there’s nothing particularly grand or special about it. Upton Park is just an ordinary London suburb, just like many others, and that includes Harlesden.”
“I don’t really know much about Frank’s upbringing, other than his parents died in the Spanish Flu epidemic. His grandmother might not approve of a working girl whose father works in a biscuit factory and a mother who is a laundress.”
“Rubbish! Your parents are both respectable people, Edith. Your mum keeps a lovely house and did a splendid job of raising you and your brother. You’ve nothing whatever to be ashamed of! I’m sure your nerves are just bringing all this nonsense up.”
“Oh,” Edith sighs. “You’re probably right, Hilda.” She smiles wanly at her friend and reaches up her own right hand and places it gratefully on her best friend’s left forearm. “Thank you.”
“Course I’m right.” Hilda says with satisfaction.
The pair settle back in companionable silence for a short while. Hilda happily helps herself to another slice of thick and soft white bread from the bread crock, far nicer than the bread she used to be served by the cook in Mrs. Plaistow’s, who deliberately gave the maids food of a poorer quality out of sheer spite, whilst feeding she and her kitchen maid little delicacies that she would create just for them. Smearing a thick layer of rich, dark and gleaming Marmite on her bread, Hilda feels the silence change. Glancing up at her friend she watches as she gingerly nibbles at her slice of bread, spread with a thin layer of jewel like orange marmalade. Her eyes, usually so bright, seem dull and sad and she is obviously troubled and distracted by something more than she is saying. Hilda sips her tea and ponders the situation.
“There’s something else worrying you, isn’t there Edith?” she confronts her friend at length.
“No, I…”
“Don’t try and deny it!” Hilda protests, raising one of her doughy arms with its wide hands and fat, sausage like fingers. “I’ve known you long enough Edith Watsford, to know there is something wrong. What is it? Don’t you want to tell it me?”
Edith looks guiltily at her, evidently upset at withholding information from her most trusted of friends, yet unable to voice them. Finally, she speaks.
“You’ll think me foolish, if you thought my other reasons were rubbish, Hilda.”
“Your reasons may be rubbish,” Hilda agrees. “But your concerns aren’t. Come on Edith. We tell each other everything. You know I won’t think you’re foolish. Like I said before, you’re a smart girl, and smart girls aren’t foolish.” She smiles in a welcoming fashion, encouraging Edith to share. “I won’t pass judgement on you.” she concludes softly, putting down her slice of bread, just to prove the point that she is paying full attention. “Promise.”
Edith puts down her own nibbled slice of bread and explains with a heaviness and reluctance, “I feel foolish, because I can’t help but feel I’m cheating on Bert’s memory by going to see Frank’s grandmother.”
When Edith pauses and looks across at her friend, Hilda doesn’t respond, even though she wants to. She wants to tell her that such an idea is nonsense, and that she has been crying over the photo of a dead man for far too long as it is, but she knows that will only make Edith feel foolish, and she doesn’t want her to feel that way. Instead, she stays silent for a moment before asking, “How’s that then?”
“Well, by me going to see Frank’s grandmother, it commits me more to Frank, and I can’t help but feel that in doing so, I’m not being generous to Bert’s memory.”
“That’s,” Hilda begins, about to add the word rubbish. However, she quickly changes her mind, swallows the word and instead says, “Understandable.”
“Do you really think so, Hilda?”
Hilda smiles, but her smile contains pity for her friend. “For all the time we shared that awful, cold attic bedroom at Mrs. Plaistow’s, I remember how often you talked about Bert, and how often you looked at his picture. Of course, he was your first love, and whilst I have no real experience of love myself, I do know that first loves remain in your heart.”
Edith nods shallowly.
“But I think that Bert would be disappointed in you if you didn’t take this chance with Frank, Edith. He sounded like a nice chap, and I think he’d be happy for you if you had a chance at love again. You’re lucky.” she adds. “Not all of us get that chance.” Now her pity is for herself.
“Oh, I’m sorry Hilda!” Edith exclaims. “I must sound so ungrateful! Here I am with a lovely man like Frank, and I’m worried about a man who isn’t even alive any more.”
“He lives in your heart.” Hilda says in a strangulated voice as she struggles to hold back her own tears.
“Don’t worry, Hilda!” Edith assures her friend. “We’re going to find you a good man at the Hammersmith Palais. You wait and see!”
“Not with the number of women there are in comparison to the men.” Hilda says doubtfully, picking up her bread slice and her cup. “Like most of the plainer girls, I end up dancing with other women rather than sit and be a wallflower. Thank goodness for your Frank dancing with me from time to time, or your brother last week.” After slurping a sip of hot sweet and milky tea, she adds, “My Mum used to tell me I had good child-bearing hips. I think she used to say it out of kindness, because I’ve always been on the heftier side.” She looks down at herself. “I’ll never be a slip of thing like you, and there’s a fact.”
“Oh I wouldn’t…” Edith begins, but Hilda holds up her hand in protest again as she pops her bread between her teeth.
Taking the slice out of her mouth, she continues, “Anyway, Mum doesn’t say that any more, partially I think to spare me the humiliation of being reminded that I’m still single at the age of twenty three, but I think more so to keep herself from remembering that as her only child left alive, if I am destined to be an old maid, she’ll never have grandchildren.”
“Oh, don’t talk like that, Hilda! You might meet the man you are going to marry, tomorrow.”
“Let’s be honest, Edith,” Hilda says in a deflated fashion. “I’m nowhere near as pretty as you, nor as trim, and with so many young men killed in the war, my chances of finding someone are slim. Besides, I can’t sew my own pretty frocks like you can, and it seems that dresses in my size are mostly muddy brown or olive in colour. They are hardly becoming are they?”
“Well, we might be able to do something about that.” Edith says with a genuine smile that returns brightness to her eyes. “Now that I do have my own sewing machine, I can just as easily make up a frock for you as I can for me. I have plenty of Weldon’s******* at home.”
Hilda’s sad face suddenly brightens and her cheeks fill with colour, giving her a pretty flush of pink. “Would you Edith?” she dares to ask. “Would you really?”
“Oh yes, of course I will!” Edith exclaims. “If I start working on it in the evenings this week, it might even help keep my mind off meeting Frank’s grandmother. I probably won’t have anything ready for a week or two, but if you don’t mind waiting.”
“Oh, of course I don’t mind waiting! That would be wonderful!”
“Well,” Edith says, sparking up herself at the thought of making a frock for her best friend. “I know we said we were going to go and look in the shop windows on Oxford Street, but why don’t we go to Mrs. Minkin’s Haberdashers in Whitechapel instead? We could pick some nice fabric today, and maybe even look at frock patterns to see what you like.”
“We’d better eat up then!” Hilda says before stuffing what is left of her second slice of bread into her mouth and washing it down with another slurp of tea. Through a wall of chewed up bread mixed with tea she adds, “Whitechapel’s a bit further away than Oxford Street.”
As Edith stands and prepares to help tidy the luncheon dishes away, Hilda waves her hands over them, indicating to her that she will take care of them when she gets back. Hilda goes to the pegs by the back door to the flat and picks up her chocolate brown overcoat and camel felt cloche with the chocolate brown grosgrain ribbon, the latter of which she pulls down over her mousy brown hair. Holding out Edith’s black coat to her, the pair of best friends wrap up against the still chilled early spring weather and slip out the door, their joyously chattering filling the air like birdsong as they discuss what Hilda’s new frock might look like.
*Marmite is a food spread made from yeast extract which although considered remarkably English, was in fact invented by German scientist Justus von Liebig although it was originally made in the United Kingdom. It is a by-product of beer brewing and is currently produced by British company Unilever. The product is notable as a vegan source of B vitamins, including supplemental vitamin B. Marmite is a sticky, dark brown paste with a distinctive, salty, powerful flavour. This distinctive taste is represented in the marketing slogan: "Love it or hate it." Such is its prominence in British popular culture that the product's name is often used as a metaphor for something that is an acquired taste or tends to polarise opinion.
**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.
***Golden Shred orange marmalade still exists today and is a common household brand both in Britain and Australia. They are produced by Robertson’s. Robertson's Golden Shred recipe perfected since 1874 is a clear and tangy orange marmalade, which according to their modern day jars is “perfect for Paddington’s marmalade sandwiches”. Robertson's marmalade dates back to 1874 when Mrs. Robertson started making marmalade in the family grocery shop in Paisley, Scotland.
****The Hammersmith Palais de Danse, in its last years simply named Hammersmith Palais, was a dance hall and entertainment venue in Hammersmith, London, England that operated from 1919 until 2007. It was the first palais de danse to be built in Britain.
*****The Singer Corporation is an American manufacturer of consumer sewing machines, first established as I. M. Singer & Co. in 1851 by Isaac M. Singer with New York lawyer Edward C. Clark. Best known for its sewing machines, it was renamed Singer Manufacturing Company in 1865, then the Singer Company in 1963. In 1867, the Singer Company decided that the demand for their sewing machines in the United Kingdom was sufficiently high to open a local factory in Glasgow on John Street. The Vice President of Singer, George Ross McKenzie selected Glasgow because of its iron making industries, cheap labour, and shipping capabilities. Demand for sewing machines outstripped production at the new plant and by 1873, a new larger factory was completed on James Street, Bridgeton. By that point, Singer employed over two thousand people in Scotland, but they still could not produce enough machines. In 1882 the company purchased forty-six acres of farmland in Clydebank and built an even bigger factory. With nearly a million square feet of space and almost seven thousand employees, it was possible to produce on average 13,000 machines a week, making it the largest sewing machine factory in the world. The Clydebank factory was so productive that in 1905, the U.S. Singer Company set up and registered the Singer Manufacturing Company Ltd. in the United Kingdom.******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.
*******Created by British industrial chemist and journalist Walter Weldon Weldon’s Ladies’ Journal was the first ‘home weeklies’ magazine which supplied dressmaking patterns. Weldon’s Ladies’ Journal was first published in 1875 and continued until 1954 when it ceased publication.
This cosy domestic kitchen scene is a little different to what you might think, for whilst it looks very authentic, it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures from my miniatures collection.
Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:
On Hilda’s deal table is everything required for a nice, hearty luncheon for two working maids. The bread crock, butter knives and the butter dish come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom. The bar of butter on the dish I have had since I was six. It came as part of a dinner set, underneath a silver butter dish. The blue and white floral tea set, plates and bread slices all come from different online stockists of miniatures on E-Bay. The vase of flowers also comes from an online shop on E-Bay. The jar of Marmite and the jar of Golden Shred Marmalade are handmade artisan miniatures with great attention to the labelling, made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire., a panoply of things as she readies luncheon for Lettice and her guests. The mahogany stained serving tray, the gravy boat of gravy, the chopping board, napkins and cutlery all came from an English stockist of 1:12 artisan miniatures whom I found on E-Bay. Edith’s green handbag, appearing on the table at the bottom right-hand corner of the photo, is handmade from soft leather. I bought it along with many other items from an American miniature collector named Marilyn Bickel.
Hilda’s two different Windsor chairs are hand-turned 1:12 artisan miniatures which came from America. Unfortunately, the artist did not carve their name under the seat of either, but both are definitely unmarked artisan pieces.
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.
Departing Buchanan Bus Station in Glasgow is First Glasgow Alexander Dennis Enviro 400EV City bodied BYD electric double decker 38470 - LG72DZR in an overall advert for British-Supplements.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however we are not at Cavendish Mews, although we are still in Mayfair, moving a few streets away to Hill Street, where Edith, Lettice’s maid, and her beau, grocery boy Frank Leadbetter, are visiting Edith’s friend and fellow maid Hilda. It is a beautiful, sunny Sunday and Sundays all three have as days off from their jobs as domestic servants and delivery boy. Taking advantage of this, all three are going to spend the afternoon at Hammersmith Palias de Danse*. As usual, Frank collects Edith from Cavendish Mews and the pair then go to the home of Lettice’s married friends Margot and Dickie Channon, where Hilda works as a live-in maid.
Being Hilda’s day off, her employers usually decamp for the day, and today they are visiting their friend Priscilla who recently married American dry goods heir Georgie Carter. The pair have just returned to London from their honeymoon which took in much of Europe before visiting Georgie’s family in Philadelphia. The quartet will dine at the Café Royal**, doubtless at the expense of Georgie since the Channons seem perpetually to have financial difficulties, but as a result, the Channons have invited the Carters back to their Hill Street flat for after supper coffee, which means that Hilda must do one of her most hated jobs: grind coffee beans to make real coffee for Georgie Carter, who is particular about his American style coffee. We find the trio in the kitchen of the Hill Street flat, the ladies’ dancing frocks and Frank’s suit at odds with their surrounds as Hilda grinds the coffee beans sitting in a white china bowl in the large wooden and brass coffee grinder. By preparing the coffee, ready to make before she goes out, it will be easy to serve when her employers and their guests return after dinner, and the beans will still be fresh enough for Georgie’s liking.
“You know,” Frank remarks as he stands at Edith’s elbow and watches Hilda turn the handle of the coffee grinder with gusto. “I don’t see why they can’t just drink Camp Coffee*** like the rest of us.”
“Oh Frank!” gasps Edith, looking up at her beau and patting his hand with her own as he squeezes her left shoulder lovingly. “You know perfectly well why not, Frank. Mr. and Mrs. Channon’s friend, Mr. Carter is an American gentleman, and just like Miss Wanetta Ward the American moving picture star, he doesn’t like British coffee.”
“What rot!” Frank scoffs at the suggestion. “There’s nothing wrong with British coffee! If British coffee isn’t to Mr. Carter’s taste, let him have tea then, and save poor Hilda the effort of having to grind up coffee beans for his lordship.” He slips off the jacket of his smart Sunday blue suit, revealing his crisp white shirt, red tie and smart navy blue vest. He drapes it over the back of the Windsor chair Edith sits in. “Come on old girl,” he says to Hilda as he moves around the deal pine kitchen table. “Give me a go then. Give your arms a chance to recuperate before we go dancing.”
“You’re such a Socialist, Frank Leadbetter.” pipes up Hilda as with a grunt, she pushes the handle of the grinder mechanism over a particularly recalcitrant coffee bean.
“What?” gasps Frank as he takes over grinding from the grateful maid. “I thought you’d come to my defence, Hilda, especially as I’m being so chivalrous as to grind coffee beans for you.”
“Oh I am grateful, Frank, ever so.” Hilda replies, rubbing her aching forearms with her fat, sausage like fingers. “But just because you are being gallant, doesn’t mean I can’t call you a Socialist.”
“Because a hard working man like me thinks I’m every bit as good as this friend of your Mr. and Mrs. Channon, I’m now a Socialist?” Frank asks in an appalled voice. “You’re as bad as Edith’s mum.” He nods in his sweetheart’s direction.
“Mum thinks Frank might be a Communist.” Edith explains. “Even though we’ve both told her that he isn’t.”
“Handsome is as handsome does.” remarks Hilda with a cheeky smile as she glances at Frank winding the red knob topped brass handle of the grinder.
“I’m neither, I’ll have you know, Hilda Clerkenwell!” Frank retorts. “I’d prefer to think of myself as more of a progressive thinker when it comes to the rights and privileges of the working man,” He looks poignantly at Hilda. “And woman.”
“Same thing.” Hilda retorts matter-of-factly as she starts to straighten the russet grosgrain bandeau**** embellished with gold sequins which has slipped askew whilst she has been grinding coffee beans.
“Pardon my ignorance,” Edith begins gingerly. “But what exactly is a Socialist?”
“Socialism is a political movement that wants to reform various economic and social systems, transferring them to social ownership as opposed to private ownership.” remarks Hilda as she runs her hands down the back of her hair.
“Well done, Hilda!” Frank congratulates her.
“You sound surprised, Frank.” Hilda says with a cheeky smile. “Don’t they have smart girls where you come from, present company excluded, Edith!” Hilda adds hurriedly so as not to offend her best friend.”
“Oh, you know I’m not very political,” Edith assures Hilda, yet at the same time self consciously toys with her blonde waves as she speaks.
“I must confess, Hilda, I am a little surprised.” Frank admits. “I don’t know many girls who are interested in social rights and can give explanations so eloquently.”
“I’m so sorry Frank!” Edith defends herself. “I know you’ve tried to teach me, but I can’t help it. I get confused between this ist and the other ist. They all seem the same to me.” She blushes with mild embarrassment at her own ignorance.
“No, no, Edith!” Frank assures her as he stops grinding the coffee beans and reaches out his left hand, clasping her right one as it rests on the tabletop and squeezes it reassuringly. “This isn’t a criticism of you! It was a compliment to Hilda. You’re wonderful, and there are things that you understand and are far better at than me.”
“Than both of us, Edith.” adds Hilda quickly, the look of concern about her friend taking umbrage clear on her round face.
“Yes, inconsequential things.” Edith mumbles in a deflated tone.
“No, not at all.” Frank reassures her soothingly as he takes up grinding coffee again. “What good am I to myself if I can’t cook a meal to feed myself.”
“And for all my love of reading, Edith, you know I can’t sew a stitch.” Hilda appends. “I could never have made this beautiful frock.” She grasps the edge of the strap of her russet coloured art satin***** dress as she speaks. “Not in a million years. We’re all good at different things, and no-one could say you weren’t smart, Edith.”
“That’s right.” Frank concurs, smiling at his sweetheart. “One of the reasons why I’ve always admired you is because you aren’t some silly giggling Gertie****** like some of the housemaids I’ve known. You aren’t turned by just a handsome face, and your head isn’t filled with moving picture stars and nothing else.”
“Well, I do like moving picture stars, Frank.” Edith confesses.
“Oh I know, Edith, and I love you for that too.” Frank reassures her. “But it’s not all that is in there. You have a good head on your shoulders.”
“And a wise one too.” Hilda interjects. “How often do I ask you for advice? I’ve always asked you for your opinion on things for as long as we’ve been friends.”
“You are clever, and insightful, and you want a better life for yourself too, and that’s why I really love you. We want the same things from life.” Frank says in a soft and soothing tone full of love as he gazes at Edith. “You are very pretty, and no-one can deny that – not even you,” He holds out an admonishing finger as Edith goes to refute his remark. “But beauty, however glorious will fade. Just look at our Dowager Queen Mother*******. When beauty fades, wit and intelligence remain, and you have both of those qualities in spades, Edith.”
“Oh Frank.” Edith breathes softly. “You aren’t ashamed of me then?”
“Of course I’m not Edith! How could I ever be ashamed of you? I’m as proud as punch******** to step out with you! You’re my best girl.”
Frank winds the gleaming brass coffee grinder handle a few more times before stopping. He pulls out the drawer at the bottom and as he does, the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans fills the air around them, wafting up his, Edith and Hilda’s nostrils. He sighs with satisfaction at a job well done.
“Good enough for his American lordship?” Frank asks Hilda.
She peers into the drawer. “Good enough.” she acknowledges with another of her cheeky smirks, nodding affirmatively.
“I still think he could jolly well grind his own, you know, Hilda!” Frank opines.
“Socialist.” she laughs in reply as she walks around Frank, withdraws the drawer of ground coffee and knocks the contents into the small, worn Delftware coffee cannister with careful taps, so as not to spill and waste any of the hard-won grinds.
“I bet you, your Wanetta Ward doesn’t grind her own coffee, Edith.” Frank goes on as he walks back around to Edith and slips his jacket on again.
“I bet you she does, Frank!” Edith counters.
“What? A moving picture star grinding her own coffee? I don’t believe it!”
“Miss Ward is a very unorthodox person, Frank, even for an American.” she assures him. “I think she might surprise you if you ever get the pleasure of meeting her one day.”
“Maybe.” Frank says doubtfully. “Well now that coffee is ground, we should really get going.” He runs his hands around the back of his jacket collar to make sure it is sitting straight. “The Hammersmith Palais waits for no-one, not even those who slave for undeserving Americans.” He laughs good heartedly. “Shall we go?”
“Oh yes!” enthuses Edith as Frank chivalrously pulls out her chair for her as she stands up. “I’ll fetch our coats.”
With her pretty blue floral sprigged frock swirling about her figure, Edith hurries over to the pegs by the door where Frank’s, Hilda’s and her own coat and hats hang. She moves lightly across the floor, practicing her dance steps as she goes, silently moving to the music she hears the band playing in her head.
“I really wonder why I bother sometimes.” Hilda says despondently as she pulls her brown coat on over the top of the luxurious man-made silk frock that Edith made for her and decorated with lace trimming and small bursts of sequins.
“Like I said,” Frank mutters. “He should settle for Camp Coffee like the rest of us, or have tea.”
“Not grinding coffee, Frank!” Hilda scoffs in reply. “I mean go dancing at the Hammersmith Palais week after week. What’s the point?”
“What do you mean, Hilda?” Edith asks gently, slipping her arms into her own black three-quarter length coat as Frank holds to open for her.
“I mean why do I bother going dancing when no man at the Palais ever looks at me, even in this beautiful new frock you made me, Edith.” She picks up the lace trimmed hem of her dance dress and lifts it despondently.
Edith and Frank both glance anxiously at one another for a moment. Both know they are thinking exactly the same thing. What Hilda says is true. Whenever the three of them go to the Hammersmith Palais de Danse there are always far more women in attendance than men. The Great War decimated the male population, and almost drove an entire generation of young men into extinction. Sadly, this means that more and more women are finding themselves without a gentleman to step out with, and are deemed surplus to needs by society. In spite of any of his faults, Edith knows how lucky she is to have a young man like Frank. Even the attentions of pretty girls are less in demand with fewer men in circulation desiring their company. Unlike Edith, Hilda is a little on the plump side, enjoying the indulgence of sticky buns from the bakers and an extra serving of Victoria Sponge at the Lyons Corner Shop********* at the top of Tottenham Court Road. Her face is friendly, with soft brown eyes and a warm smile, but she isn’t pretty. Even with the judicious application of a little powder and rouge acquired from the make-up counter of Selfridges********** her skin lacks the fresh gleam that Edith has, and for as long as she has known her, Edith has always found Hilda to have a very pale complexion. When the three of them do go dancing, Frank is often the only man she dances with when he partners her around the dancefloor, and more often than not, Hilda ends up taking the part of the man, dancing with any number of other neglected wallflowers, just to ward of the tedium of waiting for someone to ask her to dance. The plight, for plight it was, of women like Hilda was all too common, in the post-war world of the 1920s.
“Perhaps you’re looking in the wrong place, Hilda.” Frank says.
“What do mean, Frank?”
“Well, a girl with brains like you needs a man who will stimulate her mentally. Perhaps you might find the man of your dreams at a library.”
“A library!” Hilda’s mind conjures up images of pale bookish young men in glasses with phlegmatic characters who would much rather shake her hand limply and discuss the benefits of Socialism, rather than sweep her off her feet romantically.
“Not at all helpful, Frank!” hisses Edith as she watches her best friend’s face fall.
“I was only joking.” Frank shrugs apologetically, unsure what to say.
Edith hurries over and wraps her arm around Hilda’s slumping shoulders consolingly. “A faint heart never won a fair lady, Hilda.” She pulls Hilda to her lovingly. Hilda looks up at her friend sadly, yet thoughtfully. “And I think it works the same in reverse.”
Seeing a way to make amends for his ill-timed joke, Frank pipes up, “That’s exactly right, Hilda. Edith wouldn’t have been anywhere near as attractive to me if she hadn’t had a bit of pluck.”
“And you look splendid in the dance frock I made for you, Hilda,” Edith adds. “Really you do.”
“Do you really think so, Edith?” Hilda asks, looking at her friend.
“Of course I do! I’m a professional seamstress, and you are my best friend. I wouldn’t make something that didn’t suit you!”
“No, no of course not.” Hilda replies.
“And didn’t Mrs. Minkin say that russet satin would suit your colourings?”
“She did.”
“Well then,” Edith replies matter-of-factly. “There is nothing more to be said.”
“That’s right.” agrees Frank, and without further ado, he sweeps Hilda into his arms.
With the ease of a natural dancer, Frank begins to waltz his partner carefully across the black and white chequered linoleum floor of the Channon’s kitchen, guiding her around the kitchen table and the chairs gathered around it, past the black and white stove and the dresser cluttered with crockery and provisions.
“Oh Frank!” Hilda says, laughing joyously as she allows herself to be swept away. “You really are a one!”
Edith smiles as she sees a light return to her best friend’s eyes, and a smile appear upon her pert lips. She considers herself so fortunate not just because she has a chap to step out with, but because Frank is so kind and considerate. Not just any man would understand or appreciate Edith’s wish to include Hilda in their excursions to the Hammersmith Palais de Danse, and not every man would be as willing to take a turn with her on the dancefloor, as has been proven. Then again, Frank is no ordinary man, and as time goes on and she gets to know him better, the more she is becoming aware that her sweetheart is a very special man indeed. She laughs as Frank dips Hilda, making her squeal in delight, before raising her up again and restoring her to her feet.
“There!” Frank says with a huff as he catches his breath. “Now that your feet are suitably warmed up, you’re ready to go, Miss Clerkenwell. We’ll have no more talk of you not wanting to come dancing with us.”
“Today might be the day you meet someone, Hilda. Don’t give up on the chance.” Edith enthuses.
“Oh alright you two!” Hilda acquiesces. “I give up. Let’s go then.”
“That’s the spirit, Hilda!” Frank says. “That pluck will win you a fine and handsome gentleman with a brain that you deserve.”
“I can hardly battle both of you, can I?” Hilda laughs as she carefully places her floppy brimmed brown velvet and copper faille poke-style bonnet decorated with a beige rose and leaves atop her head.
The three friends walk out of the kitchen door that leads out onto the flat’s back stairs and begin to descend to the street. Hilda locks the door behind her and the coffee grinder and the as of yet to be ground coffee beans sit on the table, ready for when she returns later that day to serve to Margot, Dickie and their friends Priscilla and Georgie Carter.
*The Hammersmith Palais de Danse, in its last years simply named Hammersmith Palais, was a dance hall and entertainment venue in Hammersmith, London, England that operated from 1919 until 2007. It was the first palais de danse to be built in Britain.
**The Café Royal in Regent Street, Piccadilly was originally conceived and set up in 1865 by Daniel Nicholas Thévenon, who was a French wine merchant. He had to flee France due to bankruptcy, arriving in Britain in 1863 with his wife, Célestine, and just five pounds in cash. He changed his name to Daniel Nicols and under his management - and later that of his wife - the Café Royal flourished and was considered at one point to have the greatest wine cellar in the world. By the 1890s the Café Royal had become the place to see and be seen at. It remained as such into the Twenty-First Century when it finally closed its doors in 2008. Renovated over the subsequent four years, the Café Royal reopened as a luxury five star hotel.
***Camp Coffee is a concentrated syrup which is flavoured with coffee and chicory, first produced in 1876 by Paterson & Sons Ltd, in Glasgow. In 1974, Dennis Jenks merged his business with Paterson to form Paterson Jenks plc. In 1984, Paterson Jenks plc was bought by McCormick & Company. Legend has it (mainly due to the picture on the label) that Camp Coffee was originally developed as an instant coffee for military use. The label is classical in tone, drawing on the romance of the British Raj. It includes a drawing of a seated Gordon Highlander (supposedly Major General Sir Hector MacDonald) being served by a Sikh soldier holding a tray with a bottle of essence and jug of hot water. They are in front of a tent, at the apex of which flies a flag bearing the drink's slogan, "Ready Aye Ready". A later version of the label, introduced in the mid-20th century, removed the tray from the picture, thus removing the infinite bottles element and was seen as an attempt to avoid the connotation that the Sikh was a servant, although he was still shown waiting while the kilted Scottish soldier sipped his coffee. The current version, introduced in 2006, depicts the Sikh as a soldier, now sitting beside the Scottish soldier, and with a cup and saucer of his own. Camp Coffee is an item of British nostalgia, because many remember it from their childhood. It is still a popular ingredient for home bakers making coffee-flavoured cake and coffee-flavoured buttercream. In late 1975, Camp Coffee temporarily became a popular alternative to instant coffee in the UK, after the price of coffee doubled due to shortages caused by heavy frosts in Brazil.
****A bandeau is a narrow band of fabric worn round the head to hold the hair in position. Although bandeaus existed long before the 1920s, there was a resurgence in popularity for embroidered grosgrain ribbons to be worn around the head across the forehead in the 1920s, and they are synonymous with 1920s flapper fashion.
*****The first successful artificial silks were developed in the 1890s of cellulose fibre and marketed as art silk or viscose, a trade name for a specific manufacturer. In 1924, the name of the fibre was officially changed in the U.S. to rayon, although the term viscose continued to be used in Europe.
******Although obscure as to its origin, the term “giggling Gertie” is of English derivation and was often used in a derisive way to describe silly children and young people, usually girls, who were deemed as being flippant and foolish.
*******Queen Alexandra was Queen of the United Kingdom and the British Dominions, and Empress of India, from the twenty-second of January 1901 to the sixth of May 1910 as the wife of King-Emperor Edward VII. Daughter of King Christian IX of Denmark, at the age of sixteen Alexandra was chosen as the future wife of Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, the son and heir apparent of Queen Victoria. When she arrived in England she was famed for her beauty and her style of dress and bearing were copied by fashion-conscious women. From Edward's death, Alexandra was queen mother, being a dowager queen and the mother of the reigning monarch. Alexandra retained a youthful appearance into her senior years, but during the Great War her age caught up with her. She took to wearing elaborate veils and heavy makeup, which was described by gossips as having her face "enamelled".
********Although today we tend to say as “pleased as punch”, the Victorian term actually began as “proud as punch”. This expression refers to the Punch and Judy puppet character. Punch's name comes from Punchinello, an Italian puppet with similar characteristics. In Punch and Judy shows, the grotesque Punch is portrayed as self-satisfied and pleased with his evil actions.
*********J. Lyons and Co. was a British restaurant chain, food manufacturing, and hotel conglomerate founded in 1884 by Joseph Lyons and his brothers in law, Isidore and Montague Gluckstein. Lyons’ first teashop opened in Piccadilly in 1894, and from 1909 they developed into a chain of teashops, with the firm becoming a staple of the High Street in the United Kingdom. At its peak the chain numbered around two hundred cafes. The teashops provided for tea and coffee, with food choices consisting of hot dishes and sweets, cold dishes and sweets, and buns, cakes and rolls. Lyons' Corner Houses, which first appeared in 1909 and remained until 1977, were noted for their Art Deco style. Situated on or near the corners of Coventry Street, Strand and Tottenham Court Road, they and the Maison Lyonses at Marble Arch and in Shaftesbury Avenue were large buildings on four or five floors, the ground floor of which was a food hall with counters for delicatessen, sweets and chocolates, cakes, fruit, flowers and other products. In addition, they possessed hairdressing salons, telephone booths, theatre booking agencies and at one period a twice-a-day food delivery service. On the other floors were several restaurants, each with a different theme and all with their own musicians. For a time, the Corner Houses were open twenty-four hours a day, and at their peak each branch employed around four hundred staff including their famous waitresses, commonly known as Nippies for the way they nipped in and out between the tables taking orders and serving meals. The tea houses featured window displays, and, in the post-war period, the Corner Houses were smarter and grander than the local tea shops. Between 1896 and 1965 Lyons owned the Trocadero, which was similar in size and style to the Corner Houses.
********** Selfridges, also known as Selfridges & Co., is a chain of upscale department stores in the United Kingdom that is operated by Selfridges Retail Limited, part of the Selfridges Group of department stores. It was founded by Harry Gordon Selfridge in 1908. Harry Gordon Selfridge, Sr. was an American-British retail magnate who founded the London-based department store. His twenty year leadership of Selfridge’s led to his becoming one of the most respected and wealthy retail magnates in the United Kingdom. He was known as the 'Earl of Oxford Street'.
***********Faille is a type of cloth with flat ribs, often made in silk. It has a softer texture than grosgrain, with heavier and wider cords or ribs. Weft yarns are heavier than warp, and it is manufactured in plain weaving. It was especially popular in the Nineteenth Century, and its popularity, although somewhat dwindling, did carry through into the early decades of the Twentieth Century.
This cosy domestic kitchen scene is a little different to what you might think, for whilst it looks very authentic, it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures from my miniatures collection.
Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:
On Hilda’s deal table stands her coffee grinder with its brass handle, wooden base and drawer, and red knobs. It comes from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. The little Delftware canister and the white china bowl also come from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop. The coffee beans in the bowl are really black carraway seeds. The vase of flowers comes from an online shop on E-Bay.
Hilda’s Windsor chair is a hand-turned 1:12 artisan miniature which came from America. Unfortunately, the artist did not carve their name under the seat, but it is definitely an unmarked artisan piece.
In the background you can see a very modern and up-to-date 1920s gas stove. It would have been expensive to instal at the time, and it would have been the cook’s or maid’s pleasure to cook on and in. It would have included a thermostat for perfect cooking and without the need of coal, it was much cleaner to feed, use and easier to clean. It is not unlike those made by the Roper Stove Company in the 1920s. The Roper Stove Company previously named the Florence-Wehrle Company among other names, was founded in 1883. Located in Newark, Ohio, the company was once the largest stove producer in the world. Today, the Roper Stove Company is a brand of Whirlpool.
Locomotive Services Limited 90001 INTERCITY (Royal Scot) made a visit to London Euston to supply power to GWR's Night Riveria Sleeper that was diverted away from London Paddington. It is seen photographed having uncoupled from 57605/57603 as it prepares to head back to Crewe on 0Z53.
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.
It is evening and Lettice is sitting at her Hepplewhite desk next to the fire in her drawing room. Her desk is covered with reference books, paper and pencils. Whilst she works away, her old childhood chum, Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy who has tried to gain some independence from his family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street, is draped languidly across one of her Art Deco tub arm chairs with a half drunk glass of champagne in one hand and a half finished frock in floral silk de chiné lying across his lap. Not uncommonly the two keep each other company as they work. For Lettice, it is companionable time spend with her dear friend, and for Gerald, whose finances are somewhat straitened, it saves him money using Lettice’s electricity and dining, quite literally, on her largesse.
Gerald hears the silence coming from Lettice’s desk and he looks over. His friend sits with her left elbow pressing onto the desk’s surface, her head in her left hand whilst she toys with a green pencil in her right hand. “Are you struggling Lettuce Leaf?” Gerald asks in concern.
“Don’t call me that Gerald!” Lettice snaps at her friend. “You know I don’t like it.”
“You didn’t mind it when we were four.”
“But we are not four any more Gerald.” She gives him a doubtful look.
“Well, now that I successfully have your attention. Is this Margot and Dickie’s designs you’re working on?”
“Trying to.” Lettice sighs, flinging down her pencil and sagging back defeatedly into her chair.
“Trying is obviously the word for it.” Gerald observes.
“Oh, be a darling and pass my glass of champagne, will you Gerald?” Lettice asks, reaching out to him.
“What?” Gerald asks. “When I have Anne Woods’ newest frock nicely spread across my lap?”
Lettice returns his questions with a roll of her eyes. “It’s not that hard to reach over and fetch my glass. You don’t even have to get up.”
Gerald reaches over the black japanned coffee table, past his sewing box and grabs Lettice’s glass, making the attempt look, and sound with a well placed groan, harder than it actually is. “It’s not that hard to walk around and grab it yourself, either.”
“And it isn’t that hard to sew in your own Soho bachelor flat.” Lettice responds with a cheeky grin, taking the glass from her friend.
“Ahhh touché my dear,” Gerald replies, raising his glass to hers, the flutes clinking together. “Lady Sadie is right, my acerbic tongue is rubbing off on you nicely.”
“Thinking of my mother,” Lettice remarks offhandedly. “What on earth did you say to her at the Hunt Ball? She was so struck by it that she refuses to talk about it.”
Gerald blushes, remembering the altercation he had with Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, at the ball. In a slightly inebriated state he told her that neither she nor Lettice had any sway over Selwyn Spencely’s choice of a wife, any more than Selwyn did himself, explaining that it was his mother, the Duchess of Mumford, Lady Zinnia, who would choose a wife for him. “I don’t remember, darling,” he replies awkwardly, covering his tracks as best as he can. “I was rather tight* on your father’s champagne.”
“Well, it might be a little while before you are welcome back at Glynes**.”
“Oh well darling, I shall miss your father’s largesse,” Gerald sighs. “Which is all the more reason why I should take advantage of your generosity.” He waves his hands around him indicating to his comfortable surrounds.
Lettice smiles at her friend and says, “You should, darling.” She reaches out and pats his hand conciliatorily. “You’re good company for me”
“Even if Lady Sadie says otherwise?”
“Especially if Mater says something to the contrary!” To steer the subject away from a less pleasant path she adds, “How is the lovely Miss Anne Woods frock going anyway?”
“Quite nicely thank you.” He holds up the lifeless pale pink flowery dress with bell sleeves and pleats. “I think that the boat neckline will suit her broader shoulders much better than a boxy square one, which will only accentuate it.”
“Very wise, Gerald.” Lettice agrees, scrutinising the shape of the fabric and trying to image the young lady in in. “You are making a wonderful couturier by not letting women make mistakes with their clothes, even if they think they know better.”
“Thank you, darling. But this conversation isn’t about me. It’s about you.” Gerald demurs. “Now whatever is wrong with Margot and Dickie’s designs?”
“Well, you know how Margot wants to replace all the furnishings in ‘Chi an Treth’, because she thinks they are dark and too old-fashioned?”
“Yes.”
“Well I…”
“Let me guess. You don’t want to just get rid of all that furniture, do you?”
“Ah how well you know me, dear Gerald!” Lettice’s shoulders rise, as if being freed of a great weight. “I think it would be a shame, especially when the lovely Miss Rosevear is to hang in pride of place in the drawing room.”
“If, she hangs there.” Gerald corrects his friend.
“Do we know what Dickie has done with her?”
“I believe that under advisement from Dickie’s father, she has been sent to Bonhams***. No doubt the Marquess imagines that Bonhams will fetch the best price for her.”
“So, all the more reason to hold onto some of the history of the house if she doesn’t return.” Lettice says with desperation strangling her usually clear tones.
The pair fall silent for a shot while, both lost in their own thoughts, with only the crackle of the fire and the ticking of the clock on the mantle to break the quiet.
“When we drove back to London after the ball, didn’t I see you had a book on Regency furnishings that you took from your father’s library?”
“Why yes. I have it here.” She pulls it out from a stack of reference books stacked on a Chippendale black japanned footstool adjunct to her desk.
“Pass it over.” Gerald commands, putting his glass of champagne aside and holding his hands out.
Lettice hands him the large brown leather volume with a tooled cover and spine. “I did consult it, but didn’t find it to be of much inspiration. Lots of dark, rich greens, blues, reds and gold. Not at all what Margot wants.”
“No eau-de-nil sofas then?” chuckles Gerald as he begins flipping through the pages.
“I told you, Gerald, I looked through it, but didn’t find any inspiration.”
“Ahh, but that’s because we are looking for different things, darling.”
“Whatever do you mean, Gerald?” Lettice begins, but is silenced by her friend raising his hand and wagging a finger admonishingly at her, so she slumps back in her seat and finishes what is left of the champagne in her glass.
Gerald sits with the book open in his lap on top of the frock he is sewing and flips leisurely through it, carefully turning each page and scanning it with the narrowed eyes of a scholar who knows exactly what he is looking for, and with the patience that looking for hidden treasure requires.
“Aha!” he cries finally, his eyes wide with excitement as a broad smile graces his face. “I have it!”
“What have you, Gerald?”
He looks up at her. “Do you remember when we sat on the beach of the cove on the Saturday we spent in Cornwall with Dickie and Margot?”
“Yes of course I do, Gerald.”
“And do you remember what I said to you?”
“You always have a lot to say to me, Gerald.” Lettice replies with a cheeky smirk playing on her lips.
“Alright, yes, I know.” her friend concedes. “To remind you what I’m talking about, I said that you should consider painting murals as part of your interior designs. Do you remember me telling you that, darling?”
“Vaguely.” Lettice admits. “But I don’t know if I’m in favour of that. You aren’t suggesting that I paint Miss Rosevear on Margot and Dickie’s wall, surely? What does that have to do with that book on Regency furnishings?”
“Nothing, Lettice darling, and I’m not suggesting anything of the sort.” He stares at her intensely. “I appreciate that you might not feel your artistic talents worthy of painting a mural, even if I think your talent would be well applied at the Slade School of Art****. But this will be a suitable compromise.”
“Compromise, what on earth do you mean?”
“Come and look.” Gerald commands his friend, beckoning her over. She rises from her Hepplewhite chair before her desk and steps over to Gerald, who wraps an arm comfortingly around her waist. “See here.” He points to a fantastically ornate sideboard with in-built dumb waiters at either end topped with candelabras. The front is covered with a long two tone green striped fabric covering the shelves behind, and it is to this that he indicates.
“You want me to paint fabric?” Lettice asks, screwing her nose up.
“You really can be frightfully dense sometimes, darling.” Gerald chuckles, pulling her more closely to him. “Look again. That isn’t fabric. It’s wood, painted to look like fabric.”
“A trompe-l'œil*****, you mean?”
“I do. Now, I’m not suggesting you paint a trompe-l'œil, but what I am suggesting is that you do something like this.” He points to a games table on the page beneath. “Those panels are painted by hand to appear like marquetry. You could take some of the old furniture that Margot wants banished and repurpose it in your new, lighter interior design by painting them white, or eau-de-nil if Margot so insists, and decorate them with new designs. That way…”
“That way I am keeping the furniture, and Margot will still be happy!” Lettice claps her hands excitedly. Moving slightly away from him she bends down and places her hands on his cheeks and kisses him. “Gerald you are a genius!”
Blushing as much for the unexpected kiss as the compliment, Gerald replies, “I know, darling.”
He hands back the book to Lettice, who carries it back to the desk and places it open on its surface to the left-hand side. She takes up her red pencil and begins to draw sinewy lines on the blank page before her. Gerald releases a satisfied sigh trough his nose, and with the air suitably humming with inspiration and industry from Lettice as her hand moves across the page, her pencils making soft scratching noises against the paper, Gerald picks up his needle and returns to sewing his frock for his broad shouldered client.
*’Tight’ is an old fashioned upper-class term for drunk.
**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.
***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.
****Established by lawyers and philanthropist Felix Slade in 1868, Slade School of Fine Art is the art school of University College London and is based in London, England. It has been ranked as the United Kingdom’s top art and design educational institution. The school is organised as a department of University College London's Faculty of Arts and Humanities. Two of its most important periods were immediately before, and immediately after, the turn of the twentieth century. It had such students as Dora Carrington, Mark Gertler, Paul Nash, C.R.W. Nevinson and Stanley Spencer.
*****Trompe-l'œil is an art technique that uses realistic imagery to create the optical illusion that the depicted objects exist in three dimensions when in fact it is not there at all. Forced perspective is a comparable illusion in architecture.
For anyone who follows my photostream, you will know that I collect and photograph 1:12 size miniatures, so although it may not necessarily look like it, but this cluttered desk is actually covered in 1:12 size artisan miniatures and the desk itself is too. All are from my collection of miniatures.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
Lettice’s Hepplewhite drop-drawer bureau and chair are beautifully and artfully made by J.B.M. miniatures. Both the bureau and chair are made of black japanned wood which have been hand painted with chinoiserie designs, even down the arms of the chair and inside the bureau. The chair set has a rattan seat, which has also been hand woven.
The Regency era cabinet maker’s book on Lettice’s desk is a 1:12 size miniature made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. Therefore, it is a pleasure to give you a glimpse inside one of the books he has made. To give you an idea of the work that has gone into this volume, it contains twelve double sided pages of illustrations and it measures thirty-three millimetres in height twenty millimetres in width and is only three millimetres thick. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter. I hope that you enjoy this peek at just one of hundreds of his books that I own, and that it makes you smile with its sheer whimsy!
On the top of the Hepplewhite bureau stand three real miniature photos in frames including an Edwardian silver frame, a Victorian brass frame and an Art Deco blue Bakelite and glass frame. The latter comes from Doreen Jenkins’ Small Wonders Miniatures in England, whilst the other two come from Melody Jane Dolls’ House, also in England. The photos themselves are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.
The pencils come from Melody Jane Dolls’ House. They are one millimetre wide and two centimetres long.
Also on the desk, are some 1:12 artisan miniature ink bottles, a roller, a blotter and a letter opener, all made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures. The ink bottles are made from tiny faceted crystal beads and have sterling silver bottoms and lids. The ink blotter is sterling silver too and has a blotter made of real black felt, cut meticulously to size to fit snugly inside the frame.
The 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 Lettice is entertaining a potential new client, Miss Wanetta Ward, an American actress come to London, in her Mayfair drawing room. Lettice’s maid, Edith, is starstruck. She coyly glances at her mistress’ guest as she sets out tea and her home made Victoria sponge on the black japanned coffee table between the two comfortable tub chairs the ladies are ensconced in. Miss Ward is tall and statuesque, with striking green eyes and auburn hair fashionably cut and styled in a bob. Dressed in an orchid silk chiffon gown, her lisle clad thighs are clearly visible. Toying with a long string of pearls between her painted fingernails, she is the embodiment of the ‘new woman’: fearless, nonchalant and bold.
“Thank you Edith,” Lettice says with a bemused smile, her long and elegant fingers partially hiding it. “That will be all.”
“Oh,” Edith replies, obviously crestfallen. “Yes Miss.”
Edith retreats, somewhat begrudgingly back through the adjoining dining room and though the green baize door, back into the service area of Lettice’s flat.
“I am sorry, Miss Ward,” Lettice apologises to her guest, draped languidly across the chair opposite her. “I’m afraid my maid might be a little in awe of you.”
“Oh please don’t apologise, darling!” the American replies, her joyous laughter bursting forth. “I’m used to it. Poor little thing. Does she like the flicks*?”
Lettice ponders the answer to her guest’s question for a moment as she pours tea into her cup. “I don’t rightly know, Miss Ward. I don’t know what my maid does on her days off.”
“Well, I must ask her on the way out.” The American replies, adding a generous slosh of milk and two teaspoons of sugar to her tea.
“I do wish you’d let Edith take your hat and cane, Miss Ward.” Lettice adds, picking up her own cup.
“Nonsense, darling! Can’t be without my good luck charm!” She lovingly pats the pink silk flower covered hat sitting on the chinoiserie stool next to her chair, and Lettice cannot help but notice how perfectly her guest’s nail varnish matches her hat and dress.
“Your good luck charm?” Lettice muses. “What on earth do you mean?”
“No doubt you’ll think me odd, most people do when I tell them,” She twists her pearls self consciously around her fingers. “But every time I wear this hat, I always have good luck.”
“I must ask your permission to borrow it then Miss Ward,” Lettice moves her hand to unsuccessfully conceal her amusement. “The next time I go to the Ascot races.”
“See!” the American replies, sinking back in her seat feeling vindicated. “I told you that you’d think me odd!”
“Not at all, Miss Ward.” Lettice soothes her guest. “When you are the daughter of an old and venerable British family like I am, a certain element of hereditary oddity is de rigueur.”
“De rigueur?”
“A must, Miss Ward.”
“Oh, then I shan’t feel so conscious of flaunting my superstition around London.”
“Especially when it is such a pretty accessory too, Miss Ward.”
“Why thank you darling.” She flaps her long and elegant hand, batting away Lettice’s compliment. “You are just the sweetest.”
“Now, I believe you’ve come about redecorating your flat in Pimlico, Miss Ward?”
“That’s right!” She claps her hands in unabashed glee. “Well, it isn’t quite mine yet. I take possession next Thursday. Oh!” She continues, throwing up her right hand dramatically, her wrist coming to rest upon her forehead. “The place looks like a mausoleum at present! All this heavy clutter: thick velvet curtains, occasional tables covered in knick-knacks, stuffed birds beneath glass. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you my dear?” She reaches down and picks up her plate of sponge and takes a slightly larger than polite slice from it with her fork. “I just had to come and see you!”
Lettice smiles with pleasure, taking a sip of tea from her cup before placing it on the telephone table at her left. “So, I’m the first interior designer that you’ve visited here in London, Miss Ward?”
“Well, not exactly. No,” The American sits back in her seat blushing. “I did go and see Syrie Maugham**.”
“Oh.” Lettice frowns, unable to hide her disappointment.
“Oh, but I didn’t like what she suggested, darling!” Miss Ward replies quickly, assuring her host, fearful of having made a social gaffe and jeopardising her chance of having Lettice agree to decorate her flat. “All those ghastly shades of white…” The American suddenly stops mid-sentence, noticing for the first time that Lettice’s walls are papered in white and that she is sitting on a white upholstered chair. “Anyway,” She clears her throat awkwardly and looks sheepishly at Lettice. “I don’t think she approved of me.”
“Whyever not, Miss Ward?” Lettice asks with a tinge of pleasure in her question, feeling suddenly a little less crushed.
“I don’t think she approves actresses, period. She talked about forgoing worldly pleasures and went on about white representing purity.” Miss Ward shivers at the recollection. “Besides,” she continues. “I did hear that you did some redecorating for the Duchess of Whitby.”
“Your contacts are correct,” Lettice replies. Suspecting Miss Ward to be something of a gossip she then continues, brandishing the knowledge Lord de Virre gave her just an hour before, “What they don’t know, and this is strictly between us, you understand Miss Ward,”
“Oh! My lips are sealed, darling.” The American puts her finger to her lips conspiratorially as she leans forward, her excitement at the thought of a secret shared palpable.
“Well, I shall also soon be decorating the principal rooms of the home belonging to the eldest son of the Marquis of Taunton.”
“Really?” Miss Ward enthuses overdramatically. “The Marquis of Taunton! Fancy that!”
Lettice smiles as she picks up her plate and eats a small, ladylike portion of Victoria sponge, satisfied in the knowledge that Miss Ward has no idea who she is talking about, but being a parvenu, will quickly spread the news to those who do.
“Your sources of information are well informed about me, Miss Ward, and yet, I know nothing of you. Please do tell me a little bit about yourself and why it is that you wish for me to be your interior designer.”
“Well, that’s really why I wanted to see you, even before I saw that pious Syrie Maugham. You’re young, and bold, like me!” She looks up and off into the distance, waving her hand dramatically. “A trailblazer! I also heard that you favour oriental elements in your interior designs. I’ve just spent the last six months in the International Settlement in Shanghai you see, and I just love all those oriental designs.”
“Shanghai?”
“Yes. My brother has a club there: the Diamond Lotus Club, and I’ve been headlining there. Shanghai is so much more exciting than dull old Chicago!” she enthuses. “The clothes cost less to have made,” She grasps the hem of her skirt and squeezes the chiffon. “And the far east is so exotic and colourful.”
“Then forgive me for asking, but if you love it so much, why have you come to London?”
“Well, I loved singing in the club, but I really have my heart set on being an actress.” She takes another large mouthful of cake.
“Well, the West End is full of theatres, Miss Ward.”
“Oh, not a stage actress darling!” Miss Ward dabs at the corners of her mouth for crumbs with her beautifully painted fingers. “No, a film actress. I have a screen test at Islington Studios*** on Monday.” She tilts her head and lowers her kohl framed lids in a slightly coquettish way as though already auditioning.
“Well, you certainly have a great presence, Miss Ward.” Lettice says diplomatically. “I’m sure you’ll do splendidly.”
“Thank you, darling. I can’t disagree with you. My mother always told me that everyone knew when I entered the room, even when I was a little girl in ringlets.”
“Yes, I’d believe that.” Lettice smiles.
“And what better place for a successful film actress to entertain, than in a beautiful orientally inspired drawing room decorated by you, darling! I want bold and colourful wallpapers and carpets, oriental vases, Chinese screens.” She looks hopefully at Lettice. “So, will you take me on?”
“Take you on, Miss Ward?”
“Yes, take me on, as a client?” Her face falls suddenly, her fork of cake midway between the plate and her mouth. “Oh, please don’t tell me that you don’t approve of actresses either!”
“Oh, I’m not Syrie Maugham, Miss Ward.” Lettice replies, smiling cheekily. “And besides, it will irritate my Mamma no end if I have a film actress as a client.”
“You mean,” she gasps, clasping her hands. “You’ll agree to decorate my new flat?”
“Well, I’ll still need to visit you new home, and we’ll need to discuss matters further.” Lettice elaborates. “However, in principle, yes.”
“Oh darling! I could positively kiss you!” She drops her plate with a loud clatter on the coffee table surface and leaps up from her seat.
“That really won’t be necessary, Miss Ward.” Lettice assures her, raising her hands gently in defence in the face of the American’s statuesque form across the crowded table. “Just make sure that you settle my accounts promptly.”
“American railroad dollars good enough for you?”
“Only if they can be converted into British currency.” Lettice beams. “And, when you are a famous actress, I expect you to tell everyone who designed your interiors.”
“Oh! I’ll tell all my friends to come and see you, you darling girl! You’ll have to beat them away from the door with a hickory stick.”
“Indeed, Miss Ward.” Lettice takes another sip from her teacup.
“See!” Miss Ward replies, taking her seat again and patting the top of her pink hat. “I told you this was my lucky charm! I wore a blue beret to see Syrie Maugham.”
“Then today must be both our lucky days, Miss Ward.”
“Oh no! Enough of this ‘Miss Ward’ business. If you are to design somewhere as intimate as my boudoir, you must call me, Wanetta.”
*”Flicks” is an old fashioned term for a cinema film, named so for the whirring sound of the old projectors and flickering picture cast upon the silver screen.
**Syrie Maugham was a leading British interior decorator of the 1920s and 1930s and best known for popularizing rooms decorated entirely in shades of white. She was the wife of English playwright and novelist William Somerset Maugham.
***Islington Studios, often known as Gainsborough Studios, were a British film studio located on the south bank of the Regent's Canal, in Poole Street, Hoxton in Shoreditch, London which began operation in 1919. By 1920 they had a two stage studio. It is here that Alfred Hitchcock made his entrée into films.
This 1920s upper-class domestic scene is different to what you may think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures including items from my own childhood.
Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:
Lettice’s tea set sitting on the coffee table is a beautiful artisan set featuring a rather avant-garde Art Deco Royal Doulton design from the Edwardian era. The Victoria sponge (named after Queen Victoria) is made by Polly’s Pantry Miniatures in America. The green tinged bowl behind the tea set is made of glass and has been made by hand by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.
Wanetta’s lucky pink hat covered in silk flowers, which you can see poking out from behind the armchair on the right is made by Miss Amelia’s Miniatures in the Canary Islands. It is an artisan miniature made just like a real hat, right down to a tag in the inside of the crown to show where the back of the hat is! 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable. Miss Amelia is an exception to the rule coming from Spain, but like her American counterparts, her millinery creations are superb. Like a real fashion house, all her hats have names. This pink raw silk flower covered hat is called “Lilith”. Wanetta’s walking stick, made of ebonized wood with a real metal knob was made by the Little Green Workshop in England.
The black Bakelite and silver telephone is a 1:12 miniature of a model introduced around 1919. It is two centimetres wide and two centimetres high. The receiver can be removed from the cradle, and the curling chord does stretch out. The vase of yellow tiger lilies and daisies on the Art Deco occasional table is beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium. The vase of roses and lilies in the tall white vase on the table to the right of the photo was also made by hand, by Falcon Miniatures who are renowned for their realistic 1:12 size miniatures.
Lettice’s drawing room is furnished with beautiful J.B.M. miniatures. The black japanned wooden chair is a Chippendale design and has been upholstered with modern and stylish Art Deco fabric. The mirror backed back japanned china cabinet is Chippendale too. On its glass shelves sit pieces of miniature Limoges porcelain including jugs, teacups and saucers, many of which I have had since I was a child.
To the left of the Chippendale chair stands a blanc de chine Chinese porcelain vase, and next to it, a Chinese screen. The Chinese folding screen I bought at an antiques and junk market when I was about ten. I was with my grandparents and a friend of the family and their three children, who were around my age. They all bought toys to bring home and play with, and I bought a Chinese folding screen to add to my miniatures collection in my curio cabinet at home! It shows you what a unique child I was.
The painting in the gilt frame is made by Amber’s Miniatures in America. The carpet beneath the furniture is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug. The geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however we are not in Lettice’s flat. Instead, we are in central London, near the palace of Westminster and the Thames embankment at the very stylish Metropole Hotel*, where Lettice’s latest client, American film actress Wanetta Ward is living whilst her Edwardian Pimlico flat is redecorated by Lettice. We find ourselves in the busy dining room of the hotel where the gentle burble of voices fills the room and mixes with the sound of silver cutlery against the blue banded gilt hotel crockery, the clink of glasses raised and the strains of popular Edwardian music from the small palm court quartet playing discreetly by a white painted pillar. Surrounded by suited politicians and a smattering of older women, Lettice and Miss Ward sit at a table for two where a splendid selection of sweet and savory afternoon tea has been presented to them on a fluted glass cake stand by a smartly dressed waiter.
“Isn’t this fun?” Miss Ward giggles delightedly, looking at the delicacies placed before them. “Taking afternoon tea in London. What a wonderfully British thing to do. I’ve really taken to enjoying this rather quaint observance.” Pouring coffee from a silver coffee pot with an ebonised handle into her cup, she takes a sip. “Ugh!” she exclaims as she shudders and pulls a face. “Which is more than I can say for this sludge you British call coffee.” With a look of distain, she deposits the cup back into its saucer with a loud clatter. “No one makes coffee like we do back home.”
“Perhaps you might care for tea?” Lettice remarks quietly and diplomatically, indicating to the silver teapot beside her. “We’re very well known for our excellent tea.”
“Ugh!” Miss Ward says again, only this time without the melodrama of face pulling. “I think I’ll stick to the sludge, if it’s all the same to you, darling. You people might have conquered India and her tea plantations, but no-one makes tea like they do in Shanghai.” She sighs. “It’s almost an art form.”
“Perhaps we should have had cocktails then.”
“Now you’re talking, darling girl.”
“Only it might be frowned upon – two ladies alone, sitting and drinking in a hotel dining room.”
“See,” Miss Ward remarks in a deflated tone. “It’s like I told you when we met at my flat. You British are all a bunch of stuffed shirts**.” Looking around at the table of older gentlemen next to them, enjoying a fine repast as well as some good quality claret from a faceted glass decanter, she adds somewhat conspiratorially with a flick of her eyes, “And they don’t get much more stuffed that this bunch of politicians.”
“Are you always so frank, Miss Ward?”
“I’m American, darling. We’re known for our frankness as much as you are known for your diplomacy. I’d be letting the home side down if I wasn’t, especially whilst on foreign soil. Anyway,” she continues as a burst of guffaws come from the table as the gentlemen laugh at something one of them said. “I think they have been here for most of the afternoon, and that isn’t their first bottle. They aren’t going to pay enough attention to either of us to care what we two ladies are saying. I think they are happy if our secret women’s business stays secret. Don’t you agree Miss Chetwynd?”
Lettice discreetly looks over at them, noticing their florid faces and slightly rheumy eyes. “Yes, most probably.”
“In spite of the sludge they pass off as coffee here, I can say that afternoon tea at the Metropole is delicious.” The American woman picks up the cake stand and holds it aloft before Lettice for her to select a petit four. “Here! Try one.”
“I haven’t been here since before the war.” Lettice remarks, choosing a ham and tomato savoury before gazing around the room at the elegant Georgian revival furnishings, the restrained Regency stripe wallpaper, the watercolours of stately British homes in gilt frames and the white linen covered tables with stylish floral arrangements on each.
“Has it improved?”
“In looks, undoubtedly. It used to be very Victorian: lots of flocked wallpaper, dark furniture and red velvet. No, this is much brighter and more pleasant. The food however,” Lettice glances at the pretty petit four on her plate. “Is yet to be tested.” She picks up her cup and sips her tea. “Do you have your first script from Islington Studios*** yet, Miss Ward?”
“Oh I do, darling!” Miss Ward’s eyes grow wide and glisten with excitement. “The film is called ‘After the Ball is Over’. It’s a bit of a Cinderella story. A beautiful girl, despised by her haughty stepmother and stepsister wins the heart of a local lord, all set against the beautiful English countryside.” She picks an egg and lettuce savoury from the cake stand and takes a larger than polite bite from it before depositing the remains on her own plate.
“And are you the heroine?”
“Good heavens, no!” Miss Ward nearly chokes on her mouthful of egg and pastry. Placing the back of her hand to her mouth rather than her napkin, she coughs roughly, finishes her mouthful and then adds, “I’d rather die than play the heroine! They are always such insipid characters.” She pulls a face and then clears her throat of the last remaining crumbs. “No, I’m playing the stepsister, who uses her womanly wiles to charm the local lord in the first place.” She lowers her kohl lined eyes and smiles seductively. “She’s much more fun as a character, as are all mistresses and villainesses. Just think about the faerie tales you read when you were a girl. What a dull life Snow White or Cinderella would have led were it not for their wicked stepmothers.”
“I’d never considered that.” Lettice takes a small bite from her savoury.
“Trust me, I may not win the hearts of the audience, but I’ll be more memorable for playing the baddie than I ever would be for playing the helpless heroine.”
“How shockingly cynical, Miss Ward.”
“Cynical yes,” The American looks thoughtfully towards the ceiling for a moment before continuing, “But also truthful.”
“Well,” Lettice says a little reluctantly. “Thinking of truth, you haven’t invited me to afternoon tea just so I can enjoy the selection of sweet and savoury petit fours.” She withdraws her folio from beside her seat and places it on the table.
“Ahh!” Miss Ward’s green eyes sparkle with excitement. “The designs for my flat! I finally get to see them!” She rubs her elegant hands with their painted fingernails together gleefully.
“Now first, your boudoir.” Lettice withdraws a small pencil and watercolour sketch.
The sight of the picture makes Miss Ward gasp with delight as she stretches out her fingers to clutch the drawing. Bringing it closer to her, her painted lips curl up in pleasure.
“I thought a treatment of gold embellishment and brocade on black japanned furnishings might give a sense of luxury. I have kept the white ceiling, and white linens for the bed, but as you can see I’ve included some elements of red to bring that exotic oriental feel to the room you so wanted.”
“Delicious darling girl!” Miss Ward enthuses. “I have to admit, you were right when you said that white wouldn’t be boring if you used it. It helps balance the intensity of the black, red and gold.”
“I’m pleased you approve, Miss Ward.”
“Oh I do!” She hands the drawing back to Lettice. “What else?”
Lettice shows her a few more sketches showing her designs for the dressing room and the vestibule until she finally reaches the two for the drawing room and dining room. She places them on top of her folio, the pools of garish colour standing out against the white linen of the tablecloth and the buff of her folio.
“I remembered you telling me how much you like yellow, Miss Ward, but try as I might, I remain unconvinced that yellow walls are a suitable choice.” The American glances first at the drawings and then at Lettice but says nothing. “The colour is bold, and I know you wanted boldness,” Lettice continues. “But since we are being truthful, this strikes me as showy and déclassé.”
“Déclassé, Miss Chetwynd?”
“Inferior and lacking in the class and elegance of the other rooms’ schemes.”
Miss Ward leans forward and picks up the drawing room painting, scrutinising it through narrowed eyes. Dropping it back down, she picks up her coffee cup and takes a sip before asking with a shrug, “Alright, so what do you suggest then?”
“Well, it’s funny you should be holding your cup while you ask, Miss Ward.” Lettice observes astutely.
“My coffee cup?” Miss Ward holds the cup in front of her and screws up her nose in bewilderment. “You want to paint the walls coffee coloured?”
“Oh no, Miss Ward,” Lettice cannot help but allow a small chuckle of relief escape her lips. “No, I was referring more to the outside, which is blue with a gold trim. Here, let me show you what I mean.” She reaches inside her folio and withdraws a piece of wallpaper featuring a geometric fan design in rich navy blue with gold detailing. “I thought we might paper the walls instead, with this.” She holds it out to her client. “It’s very luxurious, and it makes a bold statement, but with elegance. I thought with a suitable array of yellow venetian glass and some pale yellow oriental ceramics, this would both compliment any yellow you add to the room, and give you that glamour and sophistication you desire.”
Lettice doesn’t realise it, but she holds her breath as the American picks up the piece of wallpaper and moves it around so that the gold outlines of the fans are caught in the light of the chandeliers above. The pair sit in silence - Lettice in anxiety and Miss Ward in contemplation – whilst the sounds of the busy dining room wash about them.
“Pure genius!” Miss Ward declares, dropping the wallpaper dramatically atop Lettice’s sketches.
“You approve then, Miss Ward?” Lettice asks with relief.
“Approve? I love it, darling girl!” She lifts her savoury to her mouth and takes another large bite.
“I’m so pleased Miss Ward.”
“Oh it will be a sensation, darling! Cocktails surrounded by golden fans! How delicious.” She replies with her mouth half full of egg, lettuce and pastry. She rubs her fingers together, depositing the crumbs clinging to them onto her plate. “And it will compliment my yellow portrait so well, you clever girl.”
“Your, yellow portrait, Miss Ward?” Lettice queries, her head on an angle.
“Yes, didn’t I tell you?”
“Ahh, no.”
“Well, I had my portrait painted whilst I was in Shanghai, draped in beautiful yellow oriental shawls. It’s really quite striking,” she declares picking up the remnants of her savoury. “Even if I do say so myself.”
“For above the fireplace?”
“Oh no! My Italian landscape will go there.”
“Your Italian landscape?”
“Yes, I bought it off a bankrupt merchant in Shanghai trying to get back home to the States along with a few other nice paintings.”
“How many paintings do you have, Miss Ward?”
She contemplates and then silently starts counting, mouthing the numbers and counting on her fingers. “Eleven or so. My beloved brother had them packed up and sent over. They should be arriving from Shanghai in Southampton next week. I’ll get them sent directly to the flat. I’ll leave it up to you darling girl to decide as to where they hang.”
“You are full of surprises, Miss Ward.” Lettice remarks with a sigh, picking up her teacup and taking a sip from it.
“Evidently, so are you,” the American replies, indicating with her eyes to the wallpaper. “I wasn’t expecting anything as modern and glamourous as that in London!”
Smiling, Lettice says, “We aim to please, Miss Ward.”
*Now known as the Corinthia Hotel, the Metropole Hotel is located at the corner of Northumberland Avenue and Whitehall Place in central London on a triangular site between the Thames Embankment and Trafalgar Square. Built in 1883 it functioned as an hotel between 1885 until World War I when, located so close to the Palace of Westminster and Whitehall, it was requisitioned by the government. It reopened after the war with a luxurious new interior and continued to operate until 1936 when the government requisitioned it again whilst they redeveloped buildings at Whitehall Gardens. They kept using it in the lead up to the Second World War. After the war it continued to be used by government departments until 2004. In 2007 it reopened as the luxurious Corinthia Hotel.
**The phrase “stuffed shirt” refers to a person who is pompous, inflexible or conservative.
***Islington Studios, often known as Gainsborough Studios, were a British film studio located on the south bank of the Regent's Canal, in Poole Street, Hoxton in Shoreditch, London which began operation in 1919. By 1920 they had a two stage studio. It is here that Alfred Hitchcock made his entrée into films.
An afternoon tea like this would be enough to please anyone, but I suspect that even if you ate each sweet or savoury petit four on the cake plate, you would still come away hungry. This is because they, like everything in this scene are 1:12 size miniatures from my miniatures collection.
Fun things to look for in this tableau:
The savoury petite fours on the lower tier of the cake stand and the sweet ones on the upper tier have been made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. Each petit four is only five millimetres in diameter and between five and eight millimetres in height! The selection includes egg and lettuce, ham and tomato, Beluga caviar, salmon and cucumber and egg, tomato and cucumber savouries and iced cupcakes for the sweet petit fours.
The blue banded hotel crockery has been made exclusively for Doll House Suppliers in England. Each piece is fashioned by hand and painted by hand. Made to the highest quality standards each piece of porcelain is very thin and fine. If you look closely, you might even notice the facets cut into the milk jug. Several pieces of the same service appear on the table in the background and the tiered sideboard to the left of the table.
The fluted glass cake stand, the glass vase on Lettice and Miss Ward’s table and the red roses in it were all made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The cake stand and the vase have been hand blown and in the case of the stand, hand tinted. The teapot is made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The coffee pot with its ornate handle and engraved body is one of three antique Colonial Craftsman pots I acquired from a seller on E-Bay. The two matching pots are on the sideboard in the background. Lettice’s folio was made by British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Lettice’s interior design paintings are 1920s designs. They are sourced from reference material particular to Art Deco interior design in Britain in the 1920s.
The Chippendale dining room chairs are very special pieces. They came from the Petite Elite Miniature Museum, later rededicated as the Carol and Barry Kaye Museum of Miniatures, which ran between 1992 and 2012 on Los Angeles’ bustling Wiltshire Boulevard. One of the chairs still has a sticker under its cushion identifying which room of which dollhouse it came. The Petite Elite Miniature Museum specialised in exquisite and high end 1:12 miniatures. The furnishings are taken from a real Chippendale design.
On the table in the background luncheons of fish and salad and spaghetti bolognaise are waiting to be eaten. The fish and salad plates are made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures and the plates of spaghetti bolognaise are made by Frances Knight. The vases of flowers on the table and on the stands are beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium. The three plant stands are made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq, whilst the sideboard is made by high-end miniature furniture maker JBM.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Lettice is sitting at her Hepplewhite desk next to the fire in her drawing room. On her desk sit two brightly coloured interior designs she has created for her new client, American film actress Wanetta Ward, using her watercolours and pencils. Whilst she works away, her old childhood chum, Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy who has tried to gain some independence from his family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street, is sitting in one of her Art Deco tub arm chairs contentedly sewing beads onto his and Lettice’s friend, Margot de Virre’s, wedding dress bodice. Both have cups of tea from the pot Lettice’s maid, Edith, keeps replenishing.
“You sound displeased, Lettuce Leaf,” Gerald responds to a disgruntled huff from Lettice, drawing out his thread as he speaks. “What’s the matter?”
“Calling me that name doesn’t help, Gerald,” she mutters crossly. “I keep telling you, we aren’t children anymore. I hated it then, so imagine how much I detest it now?”
“Oh! We are techy tonight!” Gerald remarks without looking up as he pushes his needle back into the centre of a crystal bead. He pauses and looks up. “I’m sorry.” He pouts dramatically. “Friends again?”
Lettice looks over at him disgruntledly, but at the sight of her friend’s rather comical expression of remorse, she sighs, smiles and then laughs tiredly. “Yes Gerald.”
“So,” he looks over at the desktop littered with Lettice’s paints and jugs of murky water with brushes sticking out of them. “What’s wrong then?”
“It’s these designs!” She flicks her hands irritably at the offending pieces of paper and gives them a contemptuous look. “I’m not happy with them. Miss Ward says yellow is her favourite colour, yet I can’t quite manage yellow walls with blue furnishings.” She holds up a design of a music room with grand piano in yellow with blue accents.
“Oh,” Gerald’s eyes open widely as he nods. “Yes, I do begin to see what you mean. Well, it’s dramatic, I’ll say that.”
“It’s vulgar, is what it is.” She picks up her paint brush again, although is dumbfounded as to what to do to improve the image, other than to screw it up and start again, as she stares at the yellow wash spread across the page like a huge bruise.
“Well, she is an actress, darling.” Gerald remarks, going back to his sewing. “And part of the American mi…”
“Oh, don’t you start on the mediocre middle-classes again!” she interrupts, wagging her brush at him threateningly. “I scolded Margot when we were shopping at Selfridges last week. She sounded just like you.”
“Oh, bully for Margot!” Gerald smiles contentedly, taking up another bead, casting in onto his thread and plunging it into the fabric of the bodice. “I really must congratulate her next time I see her.”
“You’re a bad influence on her, with your overt snobbery.”
“It is true,” Gerald sighs. “But I can’t help it. It’s just part of my charm.” He bats his eyelashes across at his friend and smiles. “Anyway, you are the one who called Miss Ward gauche, so shouldn’t her home reflect a little of that gaudy, showy moving picture actress personality of hers?”
“Not if I’m designing it, Gerald. I have a reputation of exceptionally good taste to uphold.” She looks at her second design of a dining room, also with yellow walls. “Miss Ward be damned! Anyway Gerald, you of all people shouldn’t complain about the middle classes.”
Gerald sighs and drops the beaded bodice into his lap, whilst still keeping a firm hold of his needle. “That too is true, my darling. If it were not for Mrs. Hatchett and her coterie, well...”
“See,” Lettice smiles. “Did I not say that she would be the making of your couture house?”
“Hardly!” he retorts, giving her a shocked look.
“What? Aren’t she and her friends putting in countless orders for day dresses, tea gowns and evening frocks?”
“Oh they are!” he remarks. “But,” He exhales disappointedly. “Up-and-coming middle-class mediocrity Mrs Hatchett and her friends’ outfits are hardly going to make the pages of the Tattler or Vogue, are they? And even their money can’t make Grosvenor Street pay for itself. A day dress suitable for a Surrey village fête is hardly going to cost what a stunning piece of couture,” He holds up the exquisitely embroidered fabric. “For the London Season will. Why else do you suppose I’m sitting here embroidering Margot’s bodice in your Mayfair drawing room and not at home in Soho?”
“I assume because you enjoy my company.” Lettice teases with a smile.
“Oh I do darling,” Gerald says in earnest. “But I also love the fact that here I don’t have to pay the electricity bill.” He glances up at the glittering chandelier above them casting prisms across the white painted ceiling with its Art Deco cornicing.
“Nor the grocer’s bill,” Lettice smirks with a friendly chuckle, indicating to the plates on the black japanned coffee table containing the remnants of one of Edith’s chocolate cakes.
“Nor the wine merchant’s bill. The largesse of one’s friends is always welcome.”
Lettice looks back sadly at her friend. “Have you asked your father about an increase to your allowance, or perhaps an advance?” she asks hopefully.
“It isn’t as easy as that. I’m not you, Lettice.”
“I’ll have you know Gerald, that I get constant lectures from Pater about designing for my own class if I must insist on designing anything, and Mater just wants me to throw it all away and marry some dull member of the peerage, live in the country and have a dozen children.”
“A dozen?”
“Well at least three, like Lally.”
“Your sister is expecting again?”
“Yes, due in February, and Mummy is always comparing me to my propagating older sister, lording it over me that ‘Lally is married’, unlike me, and ‘Lally has children’, unlike me! She’s convinced my life is unfulfilled. I’m a girl, and I’m the youngest child and…”
“And you have your father wrapped around your little finger.” Gerald counters with a knowing look.
“Well,” Lettice blushes. “I can’t deny that I do seem to have some influence over the Pater.”
“Whereas I am just the second son: the spare.”
“Well thankfully you aren’t the heir, Gerald.” Lettice gives him a knowing look. “Otherwise, you would have to fulfil your duty to carry on the family line with some poor little debutante who must never know that her husband…”
“Is sexually inverted.” Gerald finishes Lettice’s sentence discreetly, stabbing the fabric with his needle. “Yes, I know that doesn’t help my cause in father’s eyes, any more than my wish to sew frocks for ladies.”
“At least you don’t wear them, revel in that fact and have photographic proof, unlike dear Cecil* does.”
“Nonetheless, being the second son, a fashion designer and a deviant,” Gerald blushes, looking towards the dining room, making sure that Lettice’s maid, Edith, isn’t listening at the green baize door. “I’m a disappointment, through and through. And my obvious shortfalls do not endear me to Father.”
“You asked him then?” Lettice asks with defeat. When Gerald nods in assent she adds, “Not even an advance?”
“Not a bean.”
“That’s so unfair.”
“My father isn’t your father, Lettice.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we might be neighbours, but your father owns most of the neighbourhood. Your father is the Viscount of Wrexham with a fine estate, which Leslie has helped to modernise, thank goodness.” He raises his eyes to the ceiling. “Whilst my father is just Sir Bruton, a baron – an obstinate and old fashioned one, and an impecunious one at that – with a leaky roofed manor house on a plot of land that is getting smaller as he slowly sells it off. The golden pre-war days are gone, yet Father won’t face up to facts.”
“Poor Gerald,” Lettice says, standing up and putting a comforting hand on her friend’s shoulder. Looking down at the beautifully beaded bodice in Gerald’s lap she continues, “Well, let’s hope that Margot’s wedding dress heralds better times for you as well as her and Dickie. At least this gown will appear in the Tattler, if nowhere else, and that means good business for you. That’s a beautiful pattern you are embroidering.”
“Thank you darling.” Gerald smiles as he looks down at his own work. Suddenly he sits up in his seat. “That’s it!”
“What’s it, Gerald?” Lettice looks up from her paintings in concern.
“Patterns!” He looks at her excitedly. “Did you not say Miss Ward was also interested in bold patterns?”
“Yes Gerald. What of it?”
“And did I not see you when I was here last week, flicking through some wallpaper samples?” He clambers up from his seat, carefully putting the beaded bodice aside.
“You did Gerald.” Lettice looks at him questioningly.
“The combination of blue and yellow is jarring when yellow is the main colour.” He gesticulates around him dramatically. “What if you swap it around? I’m sure there was a strong Prussian blue wallpaper amongst the samples: one that had a bold pattern highlighted in gold.”
“You’re right Gerald!” Lettice agrees excitedly. “It was a fan pattern! Of course! I’ve been looking at this the wrong way around! Paper the walls rather than paint them! What a dullard I am!” She grabs up her brush and dunks it into the jug of murky water.
“No! No! Don’t change your pictures!” Gerald gasps, anxiously hurrying around to Lettice’s desk and staying her elegant hand. “Use them. Show Miss Ward how jarring yellow is, and then pull out the paper. Show her how luxurious it is, and you’ll easily be able to convince her that it’s the right choice.”
“It is a bold pattern…”
“Yet an elegant one.”
“And it’s certainly glamorous.”
“And fans are very oriental, darling.” Gerald bats his eyelashes coquettishly as he pretends to hide behind an imaginary fan.”
“Oh Gerald!” Lettice giggles. “What would I do without you?”
“You’d never be able to decorate Miss Ward’s flat, that’s certain!” he smiles at his friend’s glittering eyes and gentle grin as she contemplates the possibilities he has helped instil in her mind.
*Cecil Beaton was a British fashion, portrait and war photographer, diarist, painter, and interior designer, as well as an Oscar winning stage and costume designer for films and the theatre. Although he had relationships with women including actress Greta Garbo, he was a well-known homosexual.
For anyone who follows my photostream, you will know that I collect and photograph 1:12 size miniatures, so although it may not necessarily look like it, but this cluttered desk is actually covered in 1:12 size artisan miniatures and the desk itself is too. All are from my collection of miniatures.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
Lettice’s Hepplewhite drop-drawer bureau and chair are beautifully and artfully made by J.B.M. miniatures. Both the bureau and chair are made of black japanned wood which have been hand painted with chinoiserie designs, even down the arms of the chair and inside the bureau. The chair set has a rattan seat, which has also been hand woven.
On the top of the Hepplewhite bureau stand three real miniature photos in frames including an Edwardian silver frame, a Victorian brass frame and an Art Deco blue Bakelite and glass frame. The latter comes from Doreen Jenkins’ Small Wonders Miniatures in England, whilst the other two come from Melody Jane Dolls’ House, also in England. The photos themselves are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.
The watercolour paint set, brushes, and Limoges style jugs (two of a set of three) also come from Melody Jane Dolls’ House. So too do the pencils, which are one millimetre wide and two centimetres long.
Also on the desk, are some 1:12 artisan miniature ink bottles, a roller, a blotter, a letter opener and letter rack, all made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures. The ink bottles are made from tiny faceted crystal beads and have sterling silver bottoms and lids. The ink blotter, sitting behind the paint box and next to the jug’s handle is sterling silver too and has a blotter made of real black felt, cut meticulously to size to fit snugly inside the frame. The letter opener and roller are also sterling silver. The letter rack which contains some 1:12 size correspondence, is brass. Like the other pieces, it is also made by the Little Green Workshop.
Lettice’s two interior design paintings are 1920s designs. They are sourced from reference material particular to Art Deco interior design in Britain in the 1920s.
The fireplace appearing just to the right of the photograph is a 1:12 miniature resin Art Deco fireplace on which stands an Art Deco metal clock hand painted with wonderful detail by British miniature artisan Victoria Fasken.
The geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however, we are south of the Thames in the middle-class London suburb of Putney in the front room of a red brick Edwardian villa in Hazelwood Road, where Lettice has come to collect a hat from her childhood chum Gerald’s friend, Harriet Milford. The orphaned daughter of a solicitor with little formal education, Harriet has taken in lodgers to earn a living, but more importantly for Lettice, has taken up millinery semi-professionally to give her some pin money*. As Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, has forbidden Lettice to wear a shop bought hat to Leslie, Lettice’s brother’s, wedding in November and Lettice has quarrelled with her own milliner, Madame Gwendolyn, Gerald thought that Harriet might benefit as much from Lettice’s patronage as Lettice will by purchasing one of Harriet’s hats to resolve her fashion conundrum. Today is judgement day as Harriet presents Lettice with her millinery creation.
Lettice’s critical eye again glances around the front parlour of the Putney villa, which doubles as Harriet’s sewing room and show room for her hats. She crinkles her nose in distaste. She finds the room’s middle-class chintzy décor an affront to her up-to-date interior design sensitivities, with its flouncy floral Edwardian sofa and roomy armchair by the fire, a pouffe hand embroidered by Harriet’s deceased mother and the busy Edwardian floral wallpaper covered with a mixture of cheap botanical prints and quaint English country scenes, all in gaudy gilded plaster frames. Yet what makes it even worse is that no attempt has been made to tidy the room since her last visit a month ago. Harriet’s concertina sewing box on casters still stands cascaded open next to the armchair, threads, embroidery silks, buttons and ribbons pouring from its compartments like entrails. Hats in different stages of being made up and decorated lie about on furniture or on the floor in a haphazard way. The brightly patterned rug is littered with spools of cotton, scissors, ribbon, artificial flowers and dogeared copies of Weldon’s** magazines. A cardboard hatbox spewing forth a froth of white tissue paper perches precariously on the arm of the sofa, whilst in an equally hazardous position on the right arm of the armchair, a sewing tin threatens to spill its content of threads, thimbles and a black velvet pincushion all over the chair’s seat and the floor.
“Sorry, Miss Chetwynd,” Harriet mutters apologetically as she ushers Lettice into the front parlour. “I still haven’t had an opportunity to tidy up in here yet.”
“It’s of no consequence, Miss Milford.” Lettice lies as she sweeps into the room swathed in a powder blue coat trimmed with sable that Gerald has made for her. She perches on the sofa in the same place where she sat on her last visit and deposits her crocodile skin handbag against its overstuffed pink and floral arm.
“Your censorious gaze and the reproving way you pass that remark tell me otherwise, Miss Chetwynd.”
“Are you always so observant, Miss Milford?”
“Just like my father,” Harriet replies, glancing up at a very Edwardian photographic portrait of a dour bespectacled man in a large oval frame on the mantelpiece.
“I’m sorry Miss Milford,” Lettice acknowledges her criticality politely. “But I must confess I am used to visiting tidier establishments.”
“Yes, I suppose Madame Gwendolyn’s shop is far tidier than my front parlour is.” Harriet admits. “But then again, I would imagine that she also has a retinue of staff to keep it so for her.”
“Perhaps,” Lettice agrees with a half-smile. “I’m only concerned that if you wish for your little enterprise to be taken seriously, you need to present a professional front. I myself use my own drawing room as a showroom for my clients, so I make sure to keep it tidy when I have clients or prospective clients visiting.”
“Or you maid does, Miss Chetwynd: the same one who bakes biscuits for you.”
“Touché, Miss Milford.” Lettice replies, cocking her eyebrows in amused surprise at Harriet’s quick, yet adroit remark. “I think your father should have taken more interest in your education. You might have made a very fine lawyer, had you been given the opportunity.”
“Thank you, Miss Chetwynd.” Harriet replies, blushing at the compliment.
“The lack of education afforded to women in our country, just because we are women, is a scandal. Yet our patriarchal society is what will ensure that we remain the fairer and less educated sex.”
“You sound like you might have made a fine lawyer too, Miss Chetwynd.” Harriet acknowledges. “I’m sure had you been born a few decades earlier you would have made a fine suffragette.”
“Or a radical.”
“However, that isn’t why you’ve come here today. You’ve come about a far more appropriately feminine pursuit, the acquisition of the hat for your brother’s wedding.”
“Indeed, Miss Milford. My mother would be suitably gratified to see me passing my time thus rather than in radical discussion, even if she would prefer it was at Madame Gwendolyn’s establishment.”
“Then I do hope I shan’t disappoint Lady Sadie, or you, Miss Chetwynd.”
Harriet walks over to a corner of the parlour and withdraws a yellow straw hat on a hatstand that she has kept concealed behind a brass firebox. She reverently carries it across the room and deposits it on the tilt chess table sitting empty between the seats of the two women s that Lettice might inspect it closely.
“Considering your colourings, the shape of your face and the soft chignon you wear at the nape of your neck, I’ve opted for a rather romantic picture hat rather like that featured on the cover of Weldon’s Spring Fashions.” Harriet explains as she holds up the magazine’s cover next to the hat for Lettice to make comparisons. “I know it’s autumn now, but it has been remarkably mind, and,” she adds. “This is for a wedding after all.”
Lettice examines the hat before her. The shape of the wide brimmed hat that sits low on its stand immediately appeals to Lettice, and she can easily see herself wearing it very comfortably. “Very observant again, Miss Milford.” she says approvingly.
“As you can see, I’m acknowledging the season and once again trying to compliment your own colourings with the trimmings.” Harriet says proudly as she carefully turns the hat on its stand. “A russet and golden brown satin rose and some ornamental autumnal fruits in golds and vermillion. I hope you will agree.”
Lettice reaches out and touches the satin rose, rubbing the luxuriant fabric between her thumb and forefinger with satisfaction. “Agree? Why my dear Miss Milford, you have managed to do something Madame Gwendolyn has never done for me.” She beams with delight. “You have made a hat that suits my personality beautifully. How could I fail but to be pleased? I must confess that I am more impressed with what you have created than I even dared hope for.”
“Then may I take it that you won’t quibble over my price of seven guineas, nine and sixpence?” Harriet asks, trying to keep the nerves out of her well modulated voice. She has never charged such an exorbitant price for one of her creations before, but Gerald told her that seven guineas, nine and sixpence should be the price she should ask Lettice for it. Thinking quickly she adds, “It is quite comparable to the cost of a mode from Selfridges.”
“You sell your skills to cheaply, Miss Milford.”
“I may possibly increase my fees if my ‘little enterprise’ as you continue to call it, really takes off, Miss Chetwynd.”
“I shouldn’t speak so disparagingly of your enterprise, Miss Milford. I must sound unspeakably rude and patronising. Please forgive me.”
“Rude, no Miss Chetwynd.” Harriet acknowledges.
“As amends for my snobby behaviour,” Lettice proffers hopefully. “I shall happily promote your name to anyone at the wedding who asks me who made my hat.”
“I’d be grateful, Miss Chetwynd.” Harriet replies with a grateful smile. “And I’ll try and get this place tided up should any of your friends come knocking. I did at least keep the telephone connected after father died, so I am in the book. I found it useful to have a telephone for enquiries about rooms to let initially, but now also for queries about hats.”
“Most prudent, Miss Milford.”
Harriet stands up, reaches past Lettice’s shoulder and takes up the plain cardboard hatbox stuffed with white tissue paper and places it on the seat of her armchair. She proceeds to pick up Lettice’s new hat, and like a mother tucking its child into bed, she lovingly places her creation into the box, nestling it amongst the nosily crumpling paper.
“Miss Chetwynd, do you mind if I make another frank observation?” she asks.
“My dear Miss Milford, you have made several so far,” Lettice laughs. “Why should I stop you now?”
Harriet snatches up the box and resumes her seat, placing the open hatbox on her lap.
“I’m glad you said yes Miss Chetwynd, for you see, something has been bothering me since your first visit here.”
“And what is that, Miss Milford.”
“Well, I couldn’t help but notice how ill at ease you seemed. Could it be because Gerry didn’t tell you about our friendship?”
Lettice looks across at Harriet whose mousy brown hair cut into a soft bob frames her pretty face, free of makeup. Her brown eyes have an earnest look in them. Lettice acknowledges Harriet’s question with a quick and curt nod, before casting her eyes down, ashamed that her feelings have been so easily perceived by someone she barely knows.
“I thought so.”
“I didn’t know you existed until Gerald pulled his motor up outside the front of your house.”
“I must confess I’m surprised, as Gerry talks about you all the time. You two are obviously the greatest of friends, and have been since you were children.” Harriet licks her lips a little awkwardly before continuing. “Perhaps he is a little embarrassed by our friendship, after all, I’m not an aristocrat’s daughter like you and some of your other friends he tells me about.”
“I’m sure that isn’t true, Miss Milford.” Lettice assures her hostess. “Gerald can be a frightful snob. I’ve pulled him up on it enough in recent times, and,” she admits a little begrudgingly. “He’s done the same with me. If Gerald really was ashamed of you, he wouldn’t have introduced us. That I do know.”
“He’s been wonderful to me since we met. I’m not sure if he told you, but I’m guessing not if he didn’t really tell you about me prior to our first meeting, but we met at the haberdashers we share in Fulham.”
“That Gerald did tell me.”
“Well, he’s given me encouragement and guidance as I try to get this millinery business up and running, and, well after my difficulties with the handsy General when I first started letting rooms, I feel more comfortable with gentlemen friends who don’t want to paw me.”
“Like Gerald and your Cyril, you mean.”
“Yes.” Harriet acknowledges with a blush.
“Where is Cyril, by the way? I haven’t heard his oboe playing today.”
“He’s in Norfolk, visiting his mother.” Harriet explains. She hesitates for a moment before carrying on. “I’ve never had many friends, you see. I was always the shy one at school, and not at all popular. What few friends I have had up until recently have been rather bookish and shy like me, so it was like a breath of fresh air when Gerry took an interest in plain and shy little me.”
“Hardly plain, Miss Milford.” Lettice counters kindly.
“You do know that I’d never want to intrude on your friendship with Gerry, don’t you? You’re his oldest and best friend, and he’s so proud of you and how you’ve set up your own business all by yourself. You inspire him you know.” Lettice blushes and glances back down into her lap at Harriet’s admission. “And you’re such a chum to him. He says you use the word ‘brick’ to describe your good friends, so you are his ‘brick’ then. Now that I know that he didn’t tell you about me, I must have come across as an interloper: a middle-class girl of no particular note trying to usurp you in Gerry’s affections. However, I can assure you that I’m not. Your friendship with him is perfectly safe. I’m just happy to bask in Gerry’s minor attentions for as long as he wishes to bestow them upon me.”
“Well, I must confess that I did suffer a few pangs of jealously when I first saw the two of you being so familiar together, but I realised after we left you, that you are no threat. Gerald and I had a frank conversation of our own on the way home.” Lettice admits. “Not that Gerald is bound to me by any means. He can be friends with whomever he likes, and so long as his dalliances with gentlemen are discreet, I’m happy. He just needs to be careful in that respect.”
“I tell Cyril the same thing.”
“So, if Gerald wants to be friends with you, who am I to argue? All the same, I am pleased to hear from you that you are no threat, Miss Milford.”
“Not at all, Miss Chetwynd.” She sighs with relief and places the lid on the hatbox on her lap before putting it aside. “Well, now that we have that awkward little conversation out of the way, might I interest you in some tea?”
“Some tea would be splendid, Miss Milford. Thank you.”
Harriet gets up and walks across the room. As she reaches the threshold of the parlour door she turns back and says, “You know we really do have quite a lot in common, you know, Miss Chetwynd?”
“How so, Miss Milford?” Lettice looks up from smoothing down the hem of her frock over her knees.
“Well, we both have Gerry as our friend, and we are both forward thinking women in a patriarchal world.”
“That’s true, Miss Milford.”
“We both are trying to establish names for ourselves, albeit in different areas. And we both have progressed ourselves in spite of our parents’ lack of interest in furthering our education. We could almost form a sisterhood.”
Lettice doesn’t necessarily agree with Harriet’s point about her education, which is quite presumptuous. Her father, the Viscount Wrexham, unlike Lady Sadie, was quite indulgent with Lettice’s education, giving her far more opportunities than were afforded to her elder sister Lally. Harriet realises that she has overstepped the mark by being overly familiar when she sees a cool steeliness darken Lettice’s sparkling blue eyes and harden her features slightly, but it is too late for her to retract her words.
“I wouldn’t go so far as to presume that we will ever be bosom friends***, Miss Milford. However, let me get used to your existence,” Lettice concedes with all the good grace of a Viscount’s daughter. “And I’m sure that we can be friends of a sort that goes beyond a passing acquaintance or an agreeable business arrangement.”
“Very well, Miss Chetwynd.” Harriet replies with a half-smile. “I’ll be satisfied with that. Better that we be friends of a sort than enemies for no reason. I think as women wanting to forward ourselves in this male dominated world, we probably have enough of them as it is.”
“Perhaps, Miss Milford. Let us see.”
*Originating in Seventeenth Century England, the term pin money first meant “an allowance of money given by a husband to his wife for her personal expenditures. Married women, who typically lacked other sources of spending money, tended to view an allowance as something quite desirable. By the Twentieth Century, the term had come to mean a small sum of money, whether an allowance or earned, for spending on inessentials, separate and in addition to the housekeeping money a wife might have to spend.
**Created by British industrial chemist and journalist Walter Weldon Weldon’s Ladies’ Journal was the first ‘home weeklies’ magazine which supplied dressmaking patterns. Weldon’s Ladies’ Journal was first published in 1875 and continued until 1954 when it ceased publication.
***The term bosom friend is recorded as far back as the late Sixteenth Century. In those days, the bosom referred to the chest as the seat of deep emotions, though now the word usually means a woman's “chest.” A bosom friend, then, is one you might share these deep feelings with or have deep feelings for.
Contrary to popular belief, fashion at the beginning of the Roaring 20s did not feature the iconic cloche hat as a commonly worn head covering. Although invented by French milliner Caroline Reboux in 1908, the cloche hat did not start to gain popularity until 1922, so even though this story is set in that year, picture hats, a hangover from the pre-war years, were still de rigueur in fashionable society and whilst Lettice is fashionable, she and many other fashionable women still wore the more romantic picture hat. Although nowhere near as wide, heavy, voluminous or as ornate as the hats worn by women between the turn of the Twentieth Century and the Great War, the picture hats of the 1920s were still wide brimmed, although they were generally made of straw or some lightweight fabric and were decorated with a more restrained touch.
This rather cluttered and chaotic scene of a drawing room cum workroom may look real to you, but believe it or not, it is made up entirely with pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection, including pieces from my teenage years.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
At the centre of our story is Lettice’s yellow straw hat decorated with ornamental flowers, fruit and organza. 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism such as these are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable. The maker of this hat is unknown, but it is part of a larger collection I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel. The hat stand the hat rests on is also part of Marilyn Bickel’s collection.
The copy of Weldon’s Dressmaker Spring Fashions edition on the tabletop is a 1:12 size miniature made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. In this case, the magazine is non-opening, however what might amaze you is that all Ken Blythe’s books and magazines are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.
The spools of ribbon, the tape measure, the silver sewing scissors in the shape of a stork and the box of embroidery threads and the box of cottons I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House in the United Kingdom.
The tilt chess table on which these items stand I bought from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom.
The concertina sewing box on casters to the left of the photograph which you can see spilling forth its contents is an artisan miniature made by an unknown artist in England. It comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the in the United Kingdom. All the box’s contents including spools of ribbons, threads scissors and buttons on cards came with the work box. The box can completely expand or contract, just like its life-sized equivalent.
The round white metal sewing tin on the armchair is another artisan piece I have had since I was a young teenager. If you look closely you will see it contains a black velvet pin cushion, a pair of sewing scissors, needles, threads and two thimbles. Considering this is a 1:12 artisan miniature, imagine how minute the thimbles are! This I bought from a high street shop that specialised in dolls and doll house furnishings. It does have a lid which features artificial flowers and is trimmed with braid, but I wanted to show off the contents of the tin in this image, so it does not feature.
The spools of yellow, purple and blue cottons come from various online shops who sell dollhouse miniatures.
The bookshelf in the background comes from Babette’s Miniatures, who have been making miniature dolls’ furnishings since the late eighteenth century.
Harriet’s family photos seen cluttering the bookshelf in the background are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frames are almost all from Melody Jane’s Dollhouse Suppliers in the United Kingdom and are made of metal with glass in each. The castle shaped cottage orneé (pastille burner) on the bookshelf has been hand made, painted and gilded by Welsh miniature ceramist Rachel Williams who has her own studio, V&R Miniatures, in Powys. The bowl decorated with fruit on the bookshelf was hand decorated by British artisan Rachael Maundy.
Lettice’s snakeskin handbag with its gold clasp and chain comes from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniature Shop in the United Kingdom.
The parlour palm in its striped ceramic pot I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom.
The floral chintz settee and chair and the Art Nouveau china cabinet are made by J.B.M. miniatures who specialise in well made pieces of miniature furniture made to exacting standards.
The paintings and prints on the walls all come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House in the United Kingdom.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however, we have followed Lettice southwest from her home, across St James’ Park to Hans Crescent in Belgravia, where the smart Edwardian four storey red brick and mock Tudor London home of the de Virre family stands. Two of Lettice’s Embassy Club coterie of bright young things are getting married: Dickie Channon, eldest surviving son of the Marquess of Taunton, and Margot de Virre, only daughter of Lord Charles and Lady Lucie de Virre. Lettice is visiting the home of the bride, which is a hive of activity in the lead up to the forthcoming nuptials.
Unusually, Lettice is ushered into the hall of the townhouse by a new maid rather than the de Virre’s butler, Mr. Geraldton. The maid is nervous and seems unsure of herself as she takes Lettice’s name and leads her up to the first floor to the gold drawing room where Lettice is informed the bride-to-be and her mother are.
“Miss Lettice Chetwynd, ma’am,” the maid mutters quickly before retreating back through the door and disappearing down the hallway.
“Lettice!” Margot gasps in delight, looking up from the cup of tea she holds in her lap.
“Oh Lettice!” Lady de Virre sighs. “Thank goodness! I might finally be able to speak to someone who has some sense.”
“What ever do you mean Lady de Virre?” Lettice asks, standing before her friend and her mother.
“I mean,” Lady de Virre suddenly falters as she sees Lettice clasping her green parasol with a black leather handle in her glove clad hand. “Oh. You aren’t stopping?” Her disappointment is palpable.
“Oh no, Lady de Virre! I mean, yes, Lady de Virre!” Lettice assures her hostess. “I came to see Margot, and of course you, although I can’t stay for too long. I have a potential client coming for afternoon tea.”
“Oh! That sounds exciting,” Margot enthuses. “Who?”
“Then if you are staying for tea: I assume you will stay for tea?” Lettice nods in assent to Lady de Virre’s question. “Why are you still holding your parasol?”
“Oh, the maid who answered the door didn’t take it, but really its…”
“Oh! That stupid, stupid girl!” mutters the older woman. “Can she never do anything right?” She picks herself up, out of the walnut salon chair she is comfortably sitting in and charges past Lettice to the door of the drawing room.
“Here Lettice, come sit by me,” Margot pats the gold brocade fabric next to her on the comfortable settee. “I could do with your support,” She giggles conspiratorially. “And your distraction.”
“Pegeen! Pegeen!” Lady de Virre calls shrilly down the hallway.
“Mummy, must you do that? You’re going to give me a headache,” Margot puts her cup on the low table before her and rubs her temples with her fingers. “Not that she hasn’t already.” she whispers to Lettice. “Mummy is really boring me to tears today. Who would ever have thought anyone could suck the joy and delight of organising a wedding? Lists of this, lists of that. Who will get offended sitting next to whom? And don’t get me started on my wedding dress.”
“I thought Gerald was designing it.”
“He is, but Mummy is trying to convince me that Lucile is a better choice.”
“Oh no, Margot. How dreadfully dull!”
Lady de Virre stalks back across the room, snatching Lettice’s parasol from where she has placed it leaning against the settee beside her and resumes her seat.
“Rather.” Margot replies to Lettice’s remark whilst glancing at her mother’s bristling figure.
A moment later the same nervous, mousy maid who let Lettice in appears through the door.
“You called, ma’am?”
“Pegeen, would you kindly take this,” Lady de Virre thrusts Lettice’s parasol towards the maid, the pointy end aimed dangerously at the young girl’s chest rather like a rifle in the titled lady’s hand. “And put it in the receptacle for which it was intended.”
“Ma’am?” The Irish maid looks alarmed, and glances awkwardly at Margot and Lettice installed comfortably on either end of the settee.
“She means, put it in the umbrella stand in the hallway, Pegeen.” Margot elucidates.
“Well why didn’t she say so?” Pegeen mutters as she grasps the offending end of the parasol which her mistress then releases from her steely grasp.
“And bring a third cup for Miss Chetwynd!” Lady de Virre bristles irritably.
The room falls silent until Pegeen closes the door behind her and her footsteps recede down the hallway.
“Oh it really is too tiresome!” huffs Margot’s mother.
“What is, Lady de Virre?” asks Lettice.
“Trying to find good staff in London. They all seem to be Irish halfwits these days, or girls who don’t know their place. I blame the war you know. Girls working in factories! Who would ever have thought?” Lettice and Margot glance at one another and try not to laugh. “Do you have the same problem, Lettice?”
“No, Lady de Virre.” Lettice smirks. “I have a very capable maid, and a charwoman, both of whom suit me very nicely.”
“Well, aren’t you the lucky one?” the older woman mutters sarcastically, rolling her eyes.
“I do have the card for the domestics agency in St James’ that I used to find my maid, if you’d like Lady de Virre.”
“Ah! You see Margot. Just as I was saying! Here is a girl who speaks sense and isn’t a flibbertigibbet like you.”
“Oh Mummy!”
“Ah, where is Mr. Geraldton, Lady de Virre?”
“He’s gone to Bournemouth.” Margot explains.
“His mother is quite unwell,” Lady de Virre chimes in. “Poor man! Now, perhaps you can talk some sense into my daughter, Lettice. I’m trying to get her to choose a wedding breakfast menu,” She picks up a sheath of papers from the small round tired table to her left and waves them in irritation at Margot. “Try as I might, she just won’t do it!”
“It’s not that I won’t, Mummy. I just want some time to look at them and think.” Margot looks at Lettice and rolls her eyes.
“Well we don’t have time Marguerite! The Savoy is always popular, as is Claridges.”
In the distance, a doorbell rings shrilly from somewhere below.
“Actually, Lady de Virre, that’s why I came here.”
“You’re going to throw a wedding breakfast for Marguerite and Richard?”
“Well, not exactly.” Lettice explains. “I actually came to see in Margot and Dickie would be interested in having a celebratory pre-wedding cocktail party at my flat. Would you Margot?”
“Oh really Lettice? Darling! You are a brick!” Margot enthuses. She embraces her friend and smiles broadly. “Of course we would!”
“Excellent, then I’ll,”
“S’cuse me ma’am,” Pegeen nudges open the door of the drawing room with the heel of her shoe, struggling under the weight of an enormous carboard box.
“Pegeen,” Lady de Virre gasps. “I thought I told you to bring a cup for Miss Chetwynd.”
“Can’t ma’am,” the maid replies. “Not when I’ve got this enormous box in ma hands.” She lowers it with a groan onto a vacant footstool where it lands with a thud. “Lord it ain’t half heavy ma’am.”
Lady de Virre crumples her nose in distaste as she peers at the box. “Well, what is it?”
“Don’t know ma’am. It’s for Miss de Virre.”
“Oh! It must be another wedding gift!” the older woman exclaims with an excited clap of her hands, her frustrations forgotten.
“I do hope it isn’t more linen. New parcels of it arrive every day! Gifts from unimaginative relatives!”
“It’s mighty heavy if it is linen, miss,”
“Ah! Another teacup, Pegeen!” Lady de Virre says commandingly. “Or have you already forgotten?”
“No ma’am,” Pegeen replies, looking curiously at the box. “I was just waitin’ for Miss de Virre to open her gift.”
“Out girl! And fetch a teacup for Miss Chetwynd! Now!”
The maid jumps at her mistress’ raised voice and retreats, closing the door behind her. Lettice and Margot cannot help themselves as they try to stifle giggles of mirth.
“You should be more appreciative of people’s generosity, Marguerite!” Lady de Virre wags a finger admonishingly at her daughter. “When you have your own household to manage, you’ll be grateful for every last stich of that linen.”
“Do you know, Lettice, we even received a mounted stag’s head as a gift from one of my Scottish cousins?” Margot laughs.
“No!” Lettice giggles.
“Yes! Goodness knows where we shall put it!”
“I could think of somewhere.” Lettice tries to control her peals of laughter.
“So could I!”
The pair tumble into fits of giggling.
“Oh, did you receive my gift Margo darling?” Lettice asks when she has finally composed herself enough to ask.
“Yes darling, I did, and I love it!”
“See Marguerite! I told you that you need to reply to all these cards that are mounting up!” Her mother waves her hand towards the top of the secretaire behind her, the surface of which is covered in wedding and congratulations cards.
“Oh good!” Lettice smiles.
“And we received your parent’s gift too, thank you Lettice.” Lady de Virre adds. “Marguerite will write a thank you card to them soon. Won’t you Marguerite?”
“Yes Mummy, I will! Such a beautifully modern tea set,” Margot says with a smile. “I never knew your parents knew my taste so intimately.” She winks conspiratorially at Lettice.
“Who is this gift from?” Lady de Virre asks.
Taking out a beautiful card of a young bride looking angelically at a cake, Margot scans the message inside. “Lady Ponting, whoever she is.”
“She’s the Marquess’ widowed younger sister.” Lady de Virre remarks knowingly. “You’ll need to brush up on your new family history before the wedding!”
“Yes Mummy! I know!” Margot acknowledges her mother’s sharp remark. Turning to her friend she continues, “Now that I’m marrying into the upper echelons of the aristocracy, Mummy has become a walking,” She sighs. “And talking, Debrett’s*.”
“Well, aren’t you going to open it?” Lady de Virre asks her daughter, looking at the box on the footstool with eyes glistening with excitement.
Margot removes the twine from around the box and opens it, a froth of white tissue paper spilling forth in soft whispers. Within the box she withdraws a delicate white china gravy boat decorated with roses with a gilt rim. Her mother reaches across the table with her bejewelled hand and seizes the piece from her. Turning it over she nods with approval.
“Hhhmm. Royal Doulton. An excellent choice.” she remarks.
“Come on Margot darling!” Lettice interrupts purposefully. “Let’s talk about your pre-wedding cocktail party before I have to go. Who would you like to invite? Gerald of course because he’s making your wedding dress.” She glances up at Lady de Virre to see whether she has heard and acknowledged her remark. “Celia, Peter, Leslie,”
At that moment, Pegeen returns with a teacup for Lettice. “Cor!” she says, eyeing the Royal Doulton china nestled amongst the cushions of white tissue paper. “If I’d known that box was full of china, I wouldn’t of bothered bringin’ another cup!”
*Debrett's is a British publisher and authority on etiquette and behaviour, founded in 1769 with the publication of the first edition of The New Peerage. The company takes its name from its founder, John Debrett.
Although perhaps a little cluttered and somewhat old fashioned by 1920s standards, the de Virre’s Edwardian style drawing room is very elegant and would have been typical of such a room in an established upper-class household during the inter-war period. The upper classes, whether titled or not, tended to enjoy their opulent and lavish interiors. Only the brave or modern thinker would have swept away the accumulation of antiques over the generations for the clean lined, stripped back Art Deco interiors fashionable in the new houses, flats and hotels being built around Britain and the world. This upper-class domestic scene is different from what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures, some of which come from my own childhood.
Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:
The gold satin upholstered settee and the Hepplewhite chair with the lemon satin upholstery were made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq. The coffee table in the foreground is made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Creal.
On the coffee table stands a silver serving tray on which are a silver coffee and tea set, a porcelain sugar bowl and milk jug and a glass bowl featuring a selection of biscuits. The galleried silver serving tray is engraved and was made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The tea and coffee pot are also made by them. The glass bowl of biscuits was made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering, who specialise in 1:12 size foods and glassware with amazing realism and attention to detail. The porcelain tea set, which has two matching cups and saucers, one on the coffee table and one on the two tier Regency table, were part of a job lot of over one hundred pieces of 1:12 chinaware I bought from a seller on E-Bay. The pieces are remarkably dainty and the patterns on them are so pretty. In front of the tea set stands a wedding card of an Edwardian bride looking at a wedding cake. It is a 1:12 size replica of a real Edwardian wedding card and was made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.
Behind the settee stands a walnut grand piano covered in family photographs and bibelots. The piano I have had since I was around eleven years old. Like a real piano, its lid does prop open on an angle. It has a matching piano stool. The de Virre’s family photos are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frames are from various suppliers, but all are metal. The three prong candelabra behind the photograph frames is an artisan piece of sterling silver made in Berlin and is actually only 3 centimetres in height and 3 centimetres in width. The vase of red roses on the piano is beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium.
The Georgian revival bureau to the left of the picture comes from Town Hall Miniatures. Made to very high standards, each drawer opens and closes. It is covered in Edwardian wedding cards made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. On the writing surface of the bureau sit some papers also made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures, and a miniature ink bottle and pen made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures. The ink bottle is made from a tiny faceted crystal bead and features a sterling silver bottom and lid. The pen is also sterling silver and features a tiny pearl in its end.
The floral arrangement in the farthest corner of the room is made by hand by Falcon Miniatures in America who specialise in high end miniatures. The vase of orange roses on the tall Bespaq stand to the right of the photo is beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium.
The paintings around the wall are all made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States, except the small gilt painting of a sailing boat in the upper left-hand corner of the photo. It was made by Marie Makes Miniatures in the United Kingdom.
The Royal Doulton style dinner set featuring roses in the carboard box came from a miniature dollhouse specialist on E-Bay.
The miniature Persian rug in the foreground of the photo was made by hand by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney, whilst the one in the back beneath the piano was hand woven by Pike, Pike and Company in the United Kingdom.
The gold flocked Edwardian wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however, we have followed Lettice southwest from her home, across St James’ Park to Hans Crescent in Belgravia, where the smart Edwardian four storey red brick and mock Tudor London home of the de Virre family stands. Two of Lettice’s Embassy Club coterie of bright young things are getting married: Dickie Channon, eldest surviving son of the Marquess of Taunton, and Margot de Virre, only daughter of Lord Charles and Lady Lucie de Virre. Lettice is visiting the home of the bride, which is a hive of activity in the lead up to the forthcoming nuptials.
Lettice has just been spending time with Margot and her mother in the house’s gold drawing room and is just leaving to return home to Cavendish Mews to meet a potential client. As she walks brusquely down the hall, past Lord de Virre’s study, her louis heels click loudly against the parquetry floor.
“Margot! Margot, is that you?” Lord de Virre’s voice calls out through the partially open door.
Lettice stops, turns and pops her head into the study. Decorated with dark mahogany furniture, gold embossed wallpaper, thick Persian rugs and trophies and souvenirs of Lord de Virre’s travels, it is a masculine room which exudes comfort and cosiness. The room is dominated by a great mahogany rolltop desk, at which Lord de Virre sits hunched over. The scratch of a pen against paper can be heard, and a thin silver trail of exotic smelling smoke arises from the silver ashtray sitting to his right.
“No Lord de Virre,” Lettice answers his call. “It’s only me.”
“Ah!” Lord de Virre turns around in his seat, beaming at his young guest. “Lettice! We don’t see you nearly enough these days!”
“London calls,” she replies gaily.
“Yes, with all its delicious temptations for the young.” He picks up a small glass of port and sips it, and it is then that Lettice notices the finely faceted decanter of deep golden liquid on the desk’s surface. “Have you been visiting the bride-to-be?”
“I have Lord de Virre.”
“Good girl! She needs some distraction from her mother and her endless lists of wedding to-dos.”
“Is that why you’re hiding in here, Lord de Virre?”
The older man colours at Lettice’s suggestion. “Oh, I’m no good with table settings, wedding dresses and that sort of thing,” he blusters, fiddling with the writing paper on the desk in front of him. “Anyway, I’ve just been scribbling down a few words whilst I think of them for my father-of-the-bride speech.”
Lettice blushes too, not wishing to cause embarrassment to a man whom she likes very much. Charles de Virre, unlike her own father, has been anything but distant, and always showed interest in anything she spoke about when she came to visit or stay with de Virres, even as a silly little girl or teenager before the war. As a businessman, rather than a gentleman like her father, Lord de Virre always encouraged Lettice’s desire to follow her dream of becoming an interior designer, and his support and sound business advice has been welcome since the inception of her enterprise.
“You know,” Lettice remarks to try and dispel the unease she has created as she slips through the door and into the male preserve. “I always found this room fascinating: intimidating but fascinating nonetheless.”
“Yes, well,” Lord de Virre replies, picking up his cigarette and drawing on it before blowing out a plume of greyish white smoke. “The secrets of industry are always interesting to a young entrepreneur ahead of her time.”
“That’s very kind of you to say, Lord de Virre.” Lettice colours at the compliment. She walks over to Lord de Virre. “Margot and I used to sneak in here sometimes whilst you were away during the war.”
“Did you now?” He cocks an eyebrow at his slender young companion as she sidles up to his big desk. “I didn’t know that. Cheeky girls. I hope that Lucie never caught you in here.”
“No.” Lettice smiles. “She never did. We were careful. Margot always said that she had a sense of you in this room. She said if she could catch a whiff of your eau de cologne, or your cigarettes,” She glances at the half smoked cigarette in his hand. “Then you were alright. You might be in danger, but you would be alright.” She titters in an embarrassed fashion. “It sounds so silly hearing myself say that, but I guess it was Margot’s and my game, or mantra perhaps as the war went on and we grew up.”
“Well,” Lord de Virre replies softly, touched by Lettice’s confession. “It must have worked, because here I am.”
“Yes,” Lettice chuckles. “Here you are.”
“Well, it was either yours and Margot’s mantra, or Lucie’s photo.” He indicates to a photo of his wife in a brass frame on the desktop next to one of Margot as a baby.
“It’s a very pretty photo of her,” Lettice observes.
“Yes, Lucie had it taken in 1916. I carried it inside my coat in the pocket next to my heart for the remaining two years of the war. She swears that’s what brought me home.”
“Well, it was one thing or the other. The main thing is, Lord de Virre, you did make it home.”
“But many others didn’t.” the older man speaks the unspoken ending to her sentence. “Yes. I dare say that Lucie wouldn’t have been so happy with her prospective son-in-law had Margot come home with the news in 1914 when young Harry was still heir apparent.”
“Would you have minded, Lord de Virre?”
“Me? Good heavens no!” He takes another sip of his port, and indicates to the bottle, the invitation to imbibe declined politely by Lettice with a gentle shake of her head. “Margot could have loved him before he was the heir apparent, and he was destined to a life of impecuniosity and obscurity.”
“Margot said that she would have married him even if he was titleless, penniless and you disapproved.”
“Did she? Well! Bully for her! Good to know she has some of my fighting spirit that Lucie hasn’t managed to tame.” He smiles to himself as he runs his fingers over the frame of his daughter as a baby. “No, I have enough money from my business arrangements to have kept Margot in stockings and fans for a good many years. I think I can comfortably extend that largess to support them both. Just between you and I, Lettice, I suspect that is why the Marquess is so keen on the match of his heir with the daughter of a man in trade with a bought title.”
“Surely, surely you aren’t suggesting the Marquess?” Lettice’s question trails off.
“Unlike your father, perhaps under the wise influence of his eldest son, the Marquess hasn’t modernised, and unlike me, he didn’t have a good war. No, I’m afraid to say that he may be property rich, but,” He huffs awkwardly. “It appears that that’s where it ends.”
“But he’s giving Margot and Dickie a house in Cornwall!”
“And who do you think is bankrolling the renovations to have it electrified, connected to the Penzance telephone exchange, plumbed for goodness sake?”
“Oh, I had no idea!” Lettice rests her hand on the edge of the desk to steady herself at the news.
“Well,” Lord de Virre points the glowing end of his cigarette at Lettice. “Just don’t you say anything.” He taps the side of his nose knowingly. “At least Lucie is happy. She can’t do enough to please young Dickie. She finally gets her wish.”
“Margot’s happiness.” Lettice smiles
“Well yes, that too,” Lord de Virre remarks. “But first and foremost a real title in the family.” He chuckles cheekily to himself.
“Oh Lord de Virre!” Lettice scoffs. “You are awful!”
“Now, thinking of business, Lettice, I’m glad you’re here. I’d like to discuss a little bit of business with you.”
“With me, Lord de Virre?” she asks in surprise.
“Yes Lettice.” he replies matter-of-factly. “You are a successful young businesswoman, are you not?”
“Well, I don’t know if I’d go quite that far,” Lettice blushes again at the compliment. “Yet.”
“Nonsense! You’ve been listening to your parents too much, my girl! Now, I believe that once the honeymoon is over, the newlyweds are planning to invite you down to their new seaside residence in Penzance to show it off. When my darling daughter asks you to redecorate a few of the principal rooms,”
“That’s very presumptuous of you, Lord de Virre!”
“Not at all, Lettice. I know she will for a fact.”
“And how do you know?”
“Because I am the one who planted the seed in her mind.” He laughs good naturedly. “The house is really quite beautiful, but it’s not been lived in and neglected for far too long. The old retainers who caretake the place do as good a job as they are able, but it needs some modernisation and updating beyond electricity, a telephone and plumbed bathrooms. So, when she suggests that you do some redecoration for her, stand your ground and tell her that you won’t do it as a friendly favour. You’re a businesswoman Lettice, so she must pay.”
“But you just said that Dickie hasn’t a bean! How are they to pay?”
“Calm yourself, child,” Lord de Virre waves his hands in front of Lettice, trying to dampen her concerns. “Whatever she wants, whatever it costs, she can have. You just send your bills to me. Alright?”
“Really Lord de Virre?”
“Yes, Lettice. And just think what a feather that will be for your business hat. First the Duchess of Whitby, and then the daughter-in-law of the Marquess of Taunton!”
“Well, that would be something.” Lettice muses at the thought, a smile teasing the corners of her mouth upwards.
“Then we have an arrangement, Miss Chetwynd?” Lord de Virre extends his hand towards Lettice.
“I think we do, Lord de Virre.” Lettice takes his hand, and they shake in businesslike style to seal the arrangement.
Dark and masculine, this tiny corner of Lord de Virre’s study is different from what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures, some of which come from my own childhood.
Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:
The mahogany rolltop desk is a miniature that I have had since I was about eleven years old. The top does roll up and down, and the pigeon holes and writing area of the desk move forward, just like a real rolltop desk. I bought the desk along with a lot of other 1:12 miniatures from a High Street speciality dollhouse shop in England. The receipt with a few handwritten amendments is actually the scroll with the pinked edge in the far right pigeon hole of the desk! Much of the printing has faded, but as you an see the handwritten amendments can still be seen in black ink.
Lord de Virre’s family photos are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frames are from Melody Jane’s Dollhouse Suppliers in the United Kingdom and are made of metal with glass in each.
On the desk are some 1:12 artisan miniature ink bottles, stamps, a blotter, a roller and letter rack, all made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures. The ink bottles are made from tiny faceted crystal beads and have sterling silver bottoms and lids. The ink blotter is sterling silver too and has a blotter made of real black felt, cut meticulously to size to fit snugly inside the frame. The stamp is made of brass. The silver letter rack which contains some 1:12 size correspondence, also made by the Little Green Workshop. The silver pen with a pearl end and the letter opener with a cloisonné handle are also made by the Little Green Workshop. All the piles of correspondence, bills and documents atop the desk were made meticulously by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.
Also made by the Little Green Workshop is the silver ashtray. Made from a metal piece used for jewellery making, it features faceted crystals inserted into it. It has ‘ash’ moulded inside it so it looks remarkably real. A single cigarette with a red burning tip rests against its lip. This is the smallest of my 1:12 miniature collection. The cigarette is a tiny five millimetres long and just one millimetre wide! Made of paper, I have to be so careful that it doesn’t get lost when I use it! Also on the desk is a box of Swan Vesta matches, which is a 1:12 miniature hand made by Jonesy’s Miniatures in England. Swan Vestas matches are manufactured under the House of Swan brand, which is also responsible for making other smoking accessories such as cigarette papers, flints and filter tips. The matches are manufactured by Swedish Match in Sweden using local, sustainably grown aspen. The Swan brand began in 1883 when the Collard and Kendall match company in Bootle on Merseyside near Liverpool introduced 'Swan wax matches'. These were superseded by later versions including 'Swan White Pine Vestas' from the Diamond Match Company. These were formed of a wooden splint soaked in wax. They were finally christened 'Swan Vestas' in 1906 when Diamond merged with Bryant and May and the company enthusiastically promoted the Swan brand. By the 1930s 'Swan Vestas' had become 'Britain's best-selling match'.
The bottle of port in its faceted glass bottle and the tiny port glass are both actually made of plastic and come from a miniature suppliers in Shanghai.
Atop the desk stands a photo in a frame. Like the other two photographs in the pictre, it too is a real photo, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frames is also from Melody Jane’s Dollhouse Suppliers in the United Kingdom and is made of are metal with glass. The Edwardian mahogany clock next to the frame is a 1:12 artisan miniature made by Hall’s Miniature Clocks, supplied through Doreen Jeffries Small Wonders Miniatures in England. Next to it you can just see the base of an urn. The urn is only two and a half centimetres high and is an antique miniature and has been hand turned and polished. It has an African ebony body and a bubinga wood top and base. Next to the urn, on the right-hand side of the rolltop desk’s top stand three ledgers from Shepherd’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom.
In the background you can catch tantalising glimpses of other things in Lord de Virre’s study including a Regency painting of a horse in a gold frame from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering, and a hand painted ginger jar from Thailand which stands on a Bespaq plant stand. Bespaq is a high-end miniature furniture maker with high attention to detail and quality.
The Persian rug you can just glimpse in te bottom right-hand corer of the photo was hand woven by Pike, Pike and Company in the United Kingdom.
The gold flocked Edwardian wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however, we have headed north-west from Cavendish Mews, across Marylebone, past Regent’s Park, the London Zoo and Lords Cricket Ground to the affluent and leafy residential streets of nearby St. John’s Wood. It is here that Lettice’s Embassy Club coterie friends Minnie Palmerston and her husband Charles reside in a neatly painted two storey early Victorian townhouse on Acacia Road that formerly belonged to Charles Palmerston’s maternal grandparents, Lord and Lady Arundel. Lettice has been commissioned to redecorate their dining room, after Minnie decided to have a go at it herself with disastrous results.
The day is bright and sunny as the weather starts to turn to warmer weather, and the street is quiet with only the footsteps of perambulating neighbours enjoying the good weather and occasional bark of a dog, which blend with the distant rumble of traffic from busy Finchley Road in the distance as Lettice strides across the road and walks up the eight steps that lead up to Minnie’s black painted front door. She depresses the doorbell which echoes through the long hallway inside and waits. Moments later, there is the sound of unhurried footsteps in the hallway that echo with authority as they approach.
The door is opened by a tall middle-aged woman wearing the blue and white striped print dress that is the morning uniform of many women in service around the upper-class houses of London. She wears a crisp white apron over the high buttoned frock, and her pale and slightly bony face framed by dark wavy hair appears from beneath a stiffly starched and goffered morning maid’s cap.
“Good morning, Madam.” the maid says in an Irish brogue, her face changing dramatically as she smiles down at Lettice.
Given the unfortunate nickname ‘Monstrous Minnie’ by Lettice’s old childhood chum Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy and of her Embassy Club coterie, Minnie has the propensity to have fits of histrionics, often ending in her yelling, crying, or both. Such outbursts, often directed towards her maids for the smallest infraction or irritation, make Minnie a far from attractive employer, in spite of the higher-than-average wages that she pays. Since she and Charles moved in to St John’s Wood around twelve months ago, she has been through nine maids within the first seven of those. Lettice is pleased to see Siobhan still answering the front door after five months, and still smiling.
“Good morning Siobhan.” Lettice answers with a sigh of relief, releasing the breath she has been holding ever since she climbed the stairs to the townhouse. Lettice is never quite sure what she will be faced with, or whom, when she visits the Palmerstons. “How are you?”
“Oh, one mustn’t grumble, Madam. Won’t you come in?”
“Thank you.” Lettice says as she steps over the threshold and into the townhouse’s vestibule. “Is your mistress at home?”
“Yes,” Siobhan says with a certain weariness and resignation as she helps Lettice out of her fox fur stole and her favourite powder blue coat and hangs the up on the heavy Victorian coatrack.
“That doesn’t sound promising, Siobhan.” Lettice says cautiously.
Minnie hired Siobhan because she thought that as she was Irish, she would be used to high spirits and histrionics, and from all that Lettice has gathered from her friend since the new maid started, it seems she was right. Siobhan has taken no offence to any outburst from her mistress, and to her credit, has even pulled her mistress into line a few times, which only a woman sure of herself and her beliefs could do without risking dismissal and a poor reference.
“Oh no. She’s fine, Madam.” the Irish maid elucidates with a sigh. “But she’s been like a naughty child around a Christmas tree on Christmas Eve ever since your men arrived two days ago with the new dining room furnishings.”
“Oh.” Lettice mutters, trying to remain serious at the maid’s complaint, but unable to hide the smile of mirth that turns up the corner of her mouth.
“I can’t keep her out of there for love nor money, Madam.”
At that moment their conversation is interrupted by an excited scream.
“Lettice! Lettice darling! Is that you?” echoes Minnie’s voice loudly from upstairs.
“See what I mean.” Siobhan mutters.
With a thump of excited footsteps, Minnie appears on the landing wrapped in a blue jacquard kimono of polychromatic silk with an embroidered collar and cuffs. Taking in her friend’s appearance, Lettice presumes she is halfway through getting dressed for an outing, for she has a soft green frock on beneath the robe, which hangs open, but her feet are still clad in vibrant pink satin mules with marabou feather trim.
“I knew it was you!” Minnie exclaims and she hurtles down the stairs with thudding footsteps and the next moment Lettice is enveloped in an embrace of blue, red and green satin which smells faintly of a mixture of Habinita* and cigarettes. Looking up into her excited face, Lettice can see that Minnie’s eye makeup is only half done. “How are you, Lettice darling?”
Lettice feels Minnie’s whispery kiss on her cheek as she is released from her friend’s enthusiastic embrace. “I’m very well thank you, Minnie darling. And you seem very excited.”
“Oh I am, darling! I am positively in raptures over the things that have been arriving with your men to redecorate my dining room with.”
“Told you.” mutters Siobhan with a knowing look to Lettice.
As if by her speaking, Minnie suddenly becomes aware of her maid’s presence, she says, “Haven’t you got some dusting or airing to do, Siobhan?”
“Yes, Madam.” The Irish maid replies with her eyebrows arching over her dark brown glittering eyes, before bobbing a curtsey and walking off down the hallway towards the rear of the house.
“She seems to be fitting in well.” Lettice nods after the retreating back of the domestic, smiling cheekily.
“Oh yes!” Minnie sighs. “Although she has more backbone than the maids I’m used to. Still, I have to confess that if she’s willing to put up with me, I should be able to tolerate her backbone.” She follows Lettice’s gaze.
The pair watch the maid disappear through a door at the far end of the corridor.
“Come on then!” Minnie slaps Lettice on the back before quickly winding her right arm around Lettice’s shoulder, placing her left hand on her collarbone and guiding her through the maze of overstuffed cream satin settees, nests of occasional tables and potted palms of the Edwardian drawing room and towards the dining room door. “Now, the servants are at your disposal for the day whilst you are here. Cook will serve luncheon when you want in the breakfast room. Just be a dear and tell her when you want to eat by sending a message to her via Siobhan.” Minnie flings open the door to the dining room dramatically and gasps. “Here we are then!”
The dining room is completely transformed. Gone is the old fashioned and rather staid Edwardian furnishings of Lady Arundel’s time, and perhaps more importantly, gone is the busy and bold wallpaper of red poppies against a black background with green and white geometric patterns that Minnie had had hung which had completely dominated the room. In its place, a luxurious metallic red dioxide paper embossed with flowers and leaves from Jeffrey and Company** hangs, giving the room a richness and intimacy. More importantly it doesn’t overpower the modernist paintings chosen by Charles to hang in the dining room, which sit unceremoniously placed on the fireplace mantle and on a black japanned console where Lettice’s men placed them. Two tall modern stands, the only two pieces, besides the paintings, from the room’s previous decoration, stand to one side of the tiled Art Deco gas fireplace. The rest of the room is populated with a jumble of sleek and stylish black japanned modern furnishings and lidded wooden crates of decorative items. The chairs set to go in the dining room are high backed to go with the proportions of the room, which has a high ceiling. They have been upholstered in a bold geometric pattern of red and gold, which compliments their black frames and the stylised wallpaper.
“You know,” Minnie says, releasing Lettice and stepping alongside the wall where she runs her hands over the lightly embossed pattern in the wall hangings. “I really wasn’t convinced by your choice of red dioxide, Lettice darling, even after we’d been to the Portland Gallery.” She caresses a large flower and several leaves lovingly. “I really did want gold. But now that I’ve seen it hung, I realise you were exactly right.” She looks at Lettice who sighs with satisfaction in response to Minnie’s admission. “Of course you were right, darling! Gold in here would have overpowered the paintings and the furnishings.”
“I did tell you, Minnie.” Lettice replies as she looks around the room.
“At least I did listen to you.” Minnie defends.
“It felt a bit more like coercion.”
“Well, you were right in the end Lettice. I just love this paper! It gives the room a cosy warmth, yet grandeur at the same time.”
“And it doesn’t feel like something out of Maida Vale***?” Lettice asks, referencing Minnie’s husband, Charles’, observation after she had it hung, that Minnie’s choice of bold wallpaper with its red poppies against a black background with green and white geometric patterns made the room feel like something from a gauche middle-class villa.
“Oh absolutely not, Lettice darling!” Minnie assures her friend. “Charles says it’s wonderful, and he will be more than happy to entertain in here.” Minnie looks around at the furniture, crates and artworks with a cursory glance. “Although I do think all this beauty will be wasted on those boring partners from the bank and their equally boring wives. All they care about is money, money, money,” She places a hand dramatically to her forehead and looks direly at Lettice. “Which leaves no breathing space for the art and beauty that feeds sensitive souls like you and I, Lettice darling.”
Lettice cannot help but giggle at her friend’s dramatic pose, covering her mouth with her hands as she does. “Oh Minnie!”
“Oh Minnie is right!” Charles’ pale and youthful face, clean shaven and topped with strawberry blonde hair pokes through the doorway leading from the hallway. He looks remarkably younger than his twenty eight years, appearing more like a boy of sixteen, with facial hair so pale that it is barely discernible against his peaches and cream skin. Stepping into the room he marches the few steps over to his wife and swipes her hand away from the wall. “I told you,” he scolds, not unkindly, but still with a little irritation. “Stop touching the wallpaper, or you’ll mark it.” He turns to Lettice. “Hullo Lettice darling.”
“Hullo Charles, darling!” Lettice replies, accepting an affectionate whispery kiss from her friend. “How are you?”
“All the better for seeing you and knowing that we’ll have a fully functional dining room by the end of the day. She,” He emphasises as he indicates with a flick of his thin eyebrows and a roll of his glittering blue eyes to his wife. “Has been like a jack-in-the box ever since your men came to deliver the furnishings. Every time I can’t find her where I expect her to be, I find her in here, toying.”
“So I heard from Siobhan,” Lettice remarks. “And so I see!” she adds, noting for the first time that several of the crates have had their lids prised open: the statues purchased at the Portland Gallery on Bond Street a few weeks ago lying exposed in their beds of white tissue paper or freed from them as they perch on the edge of the wooden boxes they came in.
“That’s not fair, Charles!” Minnie protests. “I was not toying!” She folds her arms akimbo, the kimono sleeves cascading prettily about her elbows. “I was… I was… communing with my new statues. After all, we’ve paid for them, so why shouldn’t I?”
“I’ve paid for them.” Charles corrects, once again not unpleasantly as he looks lovingly at his wife.
“Oh Minnie!” Lettice exclaims with exasperation. “Really! You couldn’t leave them alone for a few days.”
“Oh she’s like a kitten with a catnip mouse.” Charles laughs. “This project is her new toy, and she spends every waking hour she can in here. I told her though, that we can’t get you to redecorate the drawing room for a few months yet.”
“I wasn’t aware I was going to.” Lettice replies with a little bit of alarm.
“Well, I hadn’t actually gotten around to asking you yet,” Minnie pouts, glaring at her husband. “Thank you, Charles.”
“Never mind.” Charles answers her. “Now,” he adds as he looks his wife up and down critically. “Is this really how you greet our guest: dressed in a wrapper and slippers, Minnie?”
“Lettice isn’t a guest, Charles. She’s our friend. And as such, she’s seen us both in a far worse state than this. Don’t you remember the night Priscilla dared us to go swimming in the St James’s Park duck pond after we’d been at the Embassy until three?”
Charles shudders at the memory of dragging he and his wife from the murky depths of the lake one early morning in May, both of them drunk, drenched and draped in pond weeds, his shoes squelching and both of them shivering as the exhilaration of doing something forbidden loses its lustre as the alcoholic fug and bravado that comes with being tight**** wears off. “That Priscilla is a menace. Thank god she’s in Philadelphia, wreaking her own brand of mayhem there instead. I’m sure Georgie had no idea who he was truly marrying!” He shudders again. “Anyway, it doesn’t signify. Shouldn’t you be getting back upstairs and finish getting ready? We need to go soon.”
“I did want to stay, Lettice darling.” Minnie glowers. “But Charles contrived a visit to his parents for luncheon, whom I might just add, happen to be nicely out of town and down in Surrey, so we’ll be gone all day.”
“I told you, Lettice doesn’t need you scrutinising the placement of every item as she unpacks it, Minnie. You’ll be far more help to Lettice by keeping out of her way and coming with me for luncheon.” He looks beseechingly to Lettice to support his statement.
“It is true,” Lettice admits, speaking with a consoling tone. “That I prefer to work alone when I set up a room, Minnie darling. It will be easier if you come home and see my vision complete, and then you can see what it’s like and we can make any adjustments you want.”
“See, my poppet.” Charles goes up to his wife and drapes his arm around her and pulls her into his chest. “It really will be better if you’re in Surrey for the day. Besides, Mummy and Daddy are so looing forward to seeing you.”
“Oh!” Minnie concedes, her eyes cast to the dining room ceiling, blinking hard so as not to cry and make the makeup around her left eye not run. “I suppose you’re right. Although,” she adds. “I do think you are both beastly for ganging up on me and forcing me out of my own home.”
“Ahh-ahh!” Charles says, running his right hand lovingly over her right forearm. “No histrionics now, my sweet. You know this is best for everyone. Now, go on. Chop-chop! Go and finish getting ready, or we won’t get there in time for luncheon.”
Charles pushes he wife out the door that leads out into the hallway.
“Just ask Siobhan for anything you need, won’t you Lettice?”
“Of course,” Lettice assures him. “Oh, and thank you, Charles.” She casts her eye over Charles shoulder to where she last saw Minnie.
He winks and closes the door quietly behind him.
Lettice sighs and turns back to look at all the furnishings placed in a higgledy-piggledy way throughout the room. She walks up to two of the opened wooden crates stacked atop one another and grasps a statue of a woman in a dramatic pose with her back arched, one arm up and one arm down. She smiles and laughs quietly to herself as she cradles it in her hands. It seems apt to have chosen such a conspicuously posed statue for such a dramatic and vibrant personality as Minnie.
“See I told you,” Siobhan opens the third door of the dining room situated to the left of the fireplace which leads into what had been Lord Arundel’s smoking room. She nods and tuts knowingly. “Like a naughty child she is, dancing round the Christmas tree on Christmas Eve, anxious for her presents!”
“Indeed,” Lettice muses, but choosing not to say anything more in deference to her friend.
“And what time should I tell Cook that Madam will be expecting luncheon?”
*Molinard Habanita was launched in 1921. Molinard say that Habanita was the first women’s fragrance to strongly feature vetiver as an ingredient – something hitherto reserved for men, commenting that ‘Habanita’s innovative style was eagerly embraced by the garçonnes – France’s flappers – and soon became Molinard’s runaway success and an icon in the history of French perfume.’ Originally conceived as a scent for cigarettes – inserted via glass rods or to sprinkle from a sachet – women had begun sprinkling themselves with it instead, and Molinard eventually released it as a personal fragrance.
**Jeffrey and Company was an English producer of fine wallpapers that operated between 1836 and the mid 1930s. Based at 64 Essex Road in London, the firm worked with a variety of designers who were active in the aesthetic and arts and crafts movements, such as E.W. Godwin, William Morris, and Walter Crane. Jeffrey and Company’s success is often credited to Metford Warner, who became the company’s chief proprietor in 1871. Under his direction the firm became one of the most lucrative and influential wallpaper manufacturers in Europe. The company clarified that wallpaper should not be reserved for use solely in mansions, but should be available for rooms in the homes of the emerging upper-middle class.
***Although today quite an affluent suburb of London, in 1922 when this scene is set, Maida Vale was more of an up-and-coming middle-class area owing to its proximity to the more up market St John’s Wood to its west. It has many late Victorian and Edwardian blocks of mansion flats. Charles’ remark that he felt like he was in a Maida Vale dining room was not meant to be taken as a compliment considering they live in St John’s Wood.
****To get tight is an old fashioned term used to describe getting drunk.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
On the lower of the two boxes is a miniature artisan hand painted Art Deco statue on a “marble” plinth. Made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality of the detail in their pieces, it is a 1:12 copy of the “Theban Dancer” sculpture created by Claire-Jeanne-Roberte Colinet in 1925. The tall statue standing on the edge of the upper box is also made by Warwick Miniatures and was hand painted by me.
The three wooden crates boxes came from The Doll’s House Suppliers in the United Kingdom. Edwardian times were the heyday of advertising, so it was not unusual to see popular household brands labels emblazoned on the side of buildings and even boxes.
The black japanned high backed chairs with their stylised Art Deco fabric upholstery came from a seller on E-Bay. The black japanned console was made by Town Hall Miniatures. The tall stand on which the ginger jar stands was made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.
The three prong Art Deco style candelabra in the console is an artisan piece made of sterling silver. Although unsigned, the piece was made in England by an unknown artist.
The paintings around the room are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States.
The Streamline Moderne pottery tile fireplace surround and the Art Deco green electric fireplace I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in the United Kingdom.
The stylised metallic red dioxide floral wallpaper was paper given to me by a friend who encouraged me to use it in my miniature tableaux.
Here are several add-on lenses and their home-made adapters for mounting on my Nikon 105mm f/2.5 AI-S lens. I keep an inventory of damaged filters for scavenging rings to make a variety of adapters for working with a number of primary lenses.
On the left is an RMS thread to 52mm adapter, shown fitted with a Gaertner 80 mm microscope objective. Below is an unmounted 60mm. Their knurled mounting "position" rings have been color coded with a marker for quick reference... red = very short working distance, blue = longer working distance. The mounted objective / aluminum disc (fitted with a 52mm ring), is ready to be mounted on the front of the 105mm with the Gaertner objective facing the subject.
At top center is an adapter made from empty 58mm filter rings, and a Zeiss Microscope "dove-tail" accessory adapter (silver ribbed screw). The adapter is shown fitted with a Voss 75mm enlarging lens, below is an unmounted Laminex 90mm. An enlarging lens is screwed into a lens mounting ring locked in place by the silver knob, its aperture always at its widest setting... to minimize vignetting. This mounting ring remains locked in place allowing for quick changing of a number of enlarging lenses. The short stack of empty rings on the right is screwed onto the lens adapter just above the red ring, serving as a spacer to prevent the enlarging lens from contacting the Nikon 105mm objective, the adapter being mounted with the enlarging lens facing the camera.
Both adapters have threaded rings that face the subject, for mounting a home-made frozen dinner bowl flash diffuser fitted with an empty Raynox UAC 2000 snap on lens mount adapter.
These lenses provide very good magnification when used on the 105mm, which is always used focused at infinity to provide the greatest working distance.
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