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I’ll not Promise Anything, but I’ll Try by raaen99

© raaen99, all rights reserved.

I’ll not Promise Anything, but I’ll Try

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

Today however we are at Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie and his wife Arabella. Lettice is visiting her family home to broach a most delicate subject about her forthcoming wedding, a subject which has caused a scene between Lettice and her mother.

For nearly a year Lettice had been patiently awaiting the return of her then beau, Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, after being sent to Durban by his mother, Lady Zinnia in an effort to destroy their relationship which she wanted to end so that she could marry Selwyn off to his cousin, Pamela Fox-Chavers. Having been made aware by Lady Zinnia in October that during the course of the year, whilst Lettice had been biding her time, waiting for Selwyn’s eventual return, he had become engaged to the daughter of a Kenyan diamond mine owner whilst in Durban. Fleeing Lady Zinnia’s Park Lane mansion, Lettice returned to Cavendish Mews and milled over her options over a week as she reeled from the news. Then, after that week, she knew exactly what to do to resolve the issues raised by Lady Zinnia’s unwelcome news about her son. Taking extra care in her dress, she took herself off to the neighbouring upper-class London suburb of Belgravia and paid a call upon Sir John Nettleford-Hughes.

Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John is still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intends to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. As an eligible man in a aftermath of the Great War when such men are a rare commodity, with a vast family estate in Bedfordshire, houses in Mayfair, Belgravia and Pimlico and Fontengil Park in Wiltshire, quite close to the Glynes estate belonging to her parents, Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, invited him as a potential suitor to her 1922 Hunt Ball, which she used as a marriage market for Lettice. Selwyn rescued Lettice from the horror of having to entertain him, and Sir John left the ball early in a disgruntled mood with a much younger partygoer. Lettice recently reacquainted herself with Sir John at an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Gladys Caxton at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, a baronial Art and Crafts castle near the hamlet of Kershopefoot in Cumberland. To her surprise, Lettice found Sir John’s company rather enjoyable. She then ran into him again at the Portland Gallery’s autumn show where she found him yet again to be a pleasant and attentive companion for much of the evening.

Sir John also made a proposition to her that night: he offered her his hand in marriage should she ever need it. More like a business arrangement than a marriage proposal, Sir John offered Lettice the opportunity to enjoy the benefits of his large fortune, be chatelain of all his estates and continue to have her interior design business, under the conditions that she agree to provide him with an heir, and that he be allowed to discreetly carry on his affairs in spite of their marriage vows. He even suggested that Lettice might be afforded the opportunity to have her own extra marital liaisons if she were discreet about them. Turning up unannounced on his doorstep, she agreed to his proposal after explaining that the understanding between she and Selwyn was concluded. However, in an effort to be discreet, at Lettice’s insistence, they did not make their engagement public until the new year: after the dust about Selwyn’s break of his and Lettice’s engagement settled. Sir John motored across from Fontengil Park in the days following New Year and he and Lettice announced their engagement in the palatial Glynes drawing room before the Viscount and Lady Sadie the Countess, Leslie, Arabella and the Viscount’s sister Eglantyne (known by all the Chetwynd children affectionally as Aunt Egg). The announcement received somewhat awkwardly by the Viscount initially, until Lettice assured him that her choice to marry Sir John has nothing to do with undue influence, mistaken motivations, but perhaps the person most put out by the news is Aunt Egg who is not a great believer in the institution of marriage, and feels Lettice was perfectly fine as a modern unmarried woman. Lady Sadie, who Lettice thought would be thrilled by the announcement of her engagement, received the news with a somewhat muted response and she discreetly slipped away after drinking a toast to the newly engaged couple with a glass of fine champagne from the Glynes wine cellar.

Today we find ourselves in the Glynes library. A refuge for the Viscount from his wife, the library is a quiet space that smells of dust, old books and woodsmoke. The walls are lined with floor to ceiling shelves, all full of books: thousands of volumes on so many subjects. Sunlight pours through the tall windows facing out to the front of the house, burnishing the polished parquetry floors. Dust motes, dance blithely through beams of spring sunlight. And there, sitting at his Chippendale desk, sits Viscount Wrexham, with Leslie standing at his right shoulder as he shares estate correspondence with his father.

“And what’s this?” the Viscount asks as Leslie wafts a chit* written by hand on a scrappy piece of paper in front of him.

“It’s from Leonard Musslewhite, Pappa.” Leslie replies. “It’s for the temporary repairs he did to Eyebright Farm’s barn after that big storm that brought down the old cedar tree.”

“Ahh yes!” the Viscount replies, remembering the early spring storm, more wind than rain, that blew tils and chimneypots from roofs and felled trees across the county. “Well, pay him out of the petty cash, Leslie my boy, and then look in the estate diary as to when we can pay a visit to Eyebright Farm. Those are slate tiles on his barn roof, and temporary or no, Lenoard Musselwhite’s no carpenter, so I don’t imagine his patch job will be much chop**. Do you?”

“No Pappa.” Leslie agrees with a chuckle. “And that barn is in good form for its age. I’d hate for there to be any damage because of a leaking roof when it next rains. We can see if any of the slate tiles that blew off during the storm are salvageable.”

“Good thinking, my boy!” the Viscount agrees with a curt nod. “Anything else before I settle down to my latest stamps?” He lovingly caresses a strip of six brown unfranked Penny Black*** stamps poking out of an envelope that arrived from London in the morning post.

“Well,” Leslie says a little reluctantly. “There is also this.” He holds out a letter with distaste written on a mauve coloured sheet decorated with violets around the edge, covered in spidery copperplate. As he does, a waft of flowery perfume drifts through the air between them.

“Pooh!” the Viscount decries, screwing up his nose at the scent. “What the devil is that, Leslie?” He recoils from it as though it were poisoned. “That looks… and smells like something for your mother, not me!”

“I wish I could say it was, but no, it’s addressed to the office of the estate and is for you, I’m afraid, Pappa. It’s a rather simpering letter from Geraldine Evans.” Leslie replies, referring to the elder of the two genteel gossipy spinster sisters who live in Holland House, a Seventeenth Century manor house, in Glynes village. “It’s about that plot of land next to their house that belongs to Lord Bruton.”

“What the blazes is that whittering Geraldine Evans writing to me about a matter involving Bruton for?”

“It seems that the rumour mills of the village are running hot again about Lord Bruton being beset with financial difficulties, and word on the high street seems to be he is wanting to sell the land. Miss Evans wonders whether, being his friend, you might find out if there is any truth to the rumours, and if so, could you put in a good word for her, as she and her sister would like first dibs**** to acquire it. She’d prefer it to stay open meadow.”

“She’d be better writing to Gwenyth than me,” the Viscount mutters, referencing Lord Bruton’s wife Lady Gwenyth, flapping irritably at the letter, indicating for Leslie to take it out of his sights. “If she wants to curry favour with Bruton.”

“She probably feels that with you two being friends, Lord Bruton is more likely to confide in you than Aunt Gwen,” Leslie responds, calling Lady Bruton by her honourary title of aunt. Looking imploringly at his father, he goes on, “Especially when it comes to financial woes, which you know he won’t share with her.”

The Viscount looks doggedly at his son. He sighs resignedly and then holds his hand out to Leslie and snatches the letter. “Alright. I’ll write back to her, even if it is just to shut her whittering up for now.” He slips the offending letter into one of the small drawers beneath the brown and gilt leather tooled surface of his desk. “I’ve heard nothing about it.”

“As I said, it’s probably just rumours, Pappa.” Leslie says with a relieved sigh. “You know how the village is when it comes to gossip.”

“Yes, and Geraldine and Henrietta Evans are the worst perpetrators of Glynes village gossip!” the Viscount opines gruffly. “Blast the pair of them!”

Leslie nods in agreement, not being particularly enamoured of either lady.

Just then, one of the warm mahogany doors of the library opens inward and Lettice slips in and slinks across the room without greeting either her father or her eldest brother.

“I hope, Lettice,” the Viscount mutters warningly, glancing up addressing his sulky youngest child as she moves towards them with hunched shoulders. “That you haven’t come in here to make a scene. This is one of the few places in the house I can escape your mother’s histrionics, so I shan’t tolerate yours. Your brother and I are busy with estate affairs. Too busy for a scene like the one I witnessed before.”

Earlier in the day, alerted to it by the sound of raised voices echoing down the corridor, the Viscount had walked into the Glynes flower room and come across Lettice and her mother arguing bitterly, before Lettice slipped away, her face awash with tears. Lettice has been visiting Glynes especially to see her mother to broach a subject of some delicacy about her forthcoming marriage to Sir John. Several weeks ago, when Lettice and Sir John were taking tea with his younger sister, Clemance Pontefract, who as a widow, has recently returned to London and set up residence in Holland Park, Lettice suggested that Clemance might help her choose her trousseau*****. Thinking that Lady Sadie’s ideas will doubtless be somewhat old fashioned and conservative when it comes to commissioning evening dresses and her wedding frock, Lettice wants to engage Clemance’s smart eye and eager willingness to please Lettice as her future siter-in-law to help her pick the trousseau she really wants. Knowing that the subject would be difficult to discuss with her mother, with whom she has a somewhat fraught relationship, she decided to approach her face-to-face. Unsurprisingly, Lady Sadie did not take kindly to the suggestion, any more than she did the idea that Lord Bruton’s son, Gerald, Lettice’s oldest childhood chum and best friend, who has started designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street, making Lettice’s wedding frock. In the end, Lady Sadie wouldn’t countenance the idea of Gerald making Lettice’s gown, since she felt it would be embarrassing for her youngest daughter to appear in a frock made by the son of her family friend and neighbours, Lord and Lady Bruton, as well as have Gerald as a guest at the wedding. It was this definite final pronouncement that drove Lettice away in tears.

“I can see by your face, my girl, that you are still very angry with your mother.” the Viscount observes as he looks into his daughter’s red and pouting face, her cheeks still marred by her earlier tears, and her bright blue eyes glistening with a barrage of them that are yet to be shed.

“What’s Mater done, Tice?” Leslie asks in concern.

Lettice slumps into the Chippendale chair on the opposite side of the desk to her father and elder brother. She utters a shuddering sigh. “She’s just being her usual, beastly self, is all, Leslie!”

The Viscount looks up at his son’s uncomprehending face. “Your Mother is refusing to let Gerald Bruton make Lettice’s wedding dress.”

“Oh.” Leslie opines with raised eyebrows.

“She wants us to go to ghastly Madame Handley-Seymour’s****** in Bond Street instead!” Lettice bursts. “But I won’t go! I just won’t!” She thumps her palm on the edge of her father’s desk in frustration, making the owl under glass and double silver picture frames shake, and the Viscount’s ink bottles on their silver tray rattle noisily.

“Tice!” Leslie is shocked by Lettice’s sudden petulant outburst

However, the Viscount takes it all in his stride as he says “Temper! Temper, Lettice my girl. I told you already, I’ll have no histrionics.”

“Sorry Pappa.” Lettice mutters in a low and unhappy tone. She sniffs as she takes a crumpled lace edged handkerchief from a small pocket in her spring frock and dabs at her nose and wipes her eyes and cheeks with it. “It’s just so miserably unfair. Mamma is being a beast for not letting Gerald make my wedding frock when I especially want him to. He’s made me so many frocks since he opened his shop in London. Who would know what suits me better? Certainly not Madame Handley-Seymour!”

“Why has Mater taken so against Gerald making Tice’s wedding frock,” Leslie asks. “Especially if she really wants it. It is Tice’s wedding after all. Why shouldn’t she get married in a frock of her own choosing?”

Lettice smiles up gratefully at her brother from her seat.

“Because, Leslie my boy, your Mother feels that it would be an embarrassment to the family,” the Viscount elucidates with remarkable calm.

“How so, Pappa?”

“Well, Gerald will be an honoured guest at the wedding too, and she feels it would just be too ridiculous for all the great and good of the county attending the wedding to know that he also made Lettice’s dress. She also thinks it would be an embarrassment for Lord Bruton, as we all know he doesn’t exactly approve of his son’s… ahem!” the Viscount coughs and clears his throat awkwardly, blushing a little as he does. “His choices in life.”

“Well, Roland isn’t exactly a pillar of society.” Leslie remarks, referring to Lord Bruton’s son and heir and Gerald’s older bullying brother. “Carousing and womanising with girls of an unsuitable class aren’t the most moral of behaviours. In fact, I’d say of the two of them, Gerald is the one he should be less concerned about. Besides, Gerald did a beautiful job making Bella’s wedding dress, and he was invited to our wedding, as were all the Brutons, and there was no kerfuffle. Well, none that I know of, anyway.”

“Yes, I know.” the Viscount hisses. “But let’s be honest, Leslie: a man making ladies garments is a bit of a rum business*******, don’t you think?” He turns back to his daughter and adds a little more softly with a gentle smile, “Your mother has a point, Lettice my dear.”

“You’re taking her side, Pappa!” Lettice gasps, sitting up more straightly in her seat, her jaw squaring with indignation. “I think that’s jolly unfair!”

“No, I’m not taking anyone’s side, Lettice.” the Viscount holds up his hands in defence. “In fact, I am trying to keep as far out of this business as I can. Frocks and wedding plans are your mother’s domain, not mine, so I defer to her decisions on this matter.”

“So, you agree with Mamma about not letting Clemance Pontefract help with my trousseau too, Pappa?” Lettice asks in disbelief.

“Who’s Clemance Pontefract?” Leslie queries.

“John’s younger widowed sister who lives in Holland Park.” Lettice explains.

“What has she got to do with your trousseau, Tice?” Leslie persists.

“Clemance has only recently returned to London after her husband died. She’s ever so smart and select and knows so much about fashion. She spent many years before the war in Paris, and returned there at the end of hostilities. John and she are very close, and he knows she feels lonely and at a bit of a loose end here in London, so we thought that we’d try and involve her more in the wedding by letting her help me pick my trousseau, especially since Mamma hates coming up to London.”

“Well, I can understand if Mater feels put out by you involving a relative stranger, Tice.” Leslie interrupts Lettice’s explanation.

“She’s not a stranger, Leslie!” Lettice retorts.

“To you maybe, but to Mater she is. To me too.”

“To all of us.” the Viscount adds.

“She’s John’s younger sister.” Lettice persists.

“That may be, but have we met her?” Leslie counters. “No! Sorry Tice, but Mater is in the right this time.”

“Of course you’d take her side too, Leslie,” Lettice spits in frustration. “Being her favourite.”

“Now it’s you who isn’t being fair, my girl. Your Mother has a right to feel bitter about being usurped, Lettice.” the Viscount tries to reason with his youngest daughter. “It has always been the preserve of mothers, going back generations, to help their daughters choose their wedding trousseau. Just think about it from her perspective. You come sauntering in here and tell her that she’s been replaced by a woman she has never heard of, never mind met. I’d feel like I was being discarded like something unwanted if I were her too.”

“Pappa has a point, Tice.”

“I’m not replacing Mamma!” Lettice laughs with incredulity. “As I said to Mamma before, it’s not like I’m suggesting that I go wedding frock shopping with Margot.” Lettice implores. “Clemance is more around Mamma’s age than mine, and I wasn’t suggesting that Clemance take over, either, just simply be of help. After all, she lives in London.”

“Yes, and we have a townhouse in Fitzroy Square********.” the Viscount counters.

“Yes, which you only open up when you and Mamma have to go up to London, which the pair of you only ever do now when you have to go to one of the King’s levées********* or other courtly duties. Clemance lives in Holland Park. We could go shopping if Mamma doesn’t feel like coming up to London.”

“Ahh, but you see, Lettice my girl, she does feel like going up to London.” The Viscount pauses and looks earnestly into his daughter’s face. “For you.”

“In fact,” Leslie adds. “She’s been rather excited about helping you pick clothes. She’s been talking to me about it like a twittering bird over the last few weeks.”

“Yes, I know,” Lettice adds rather flatly. “She’s been making plans in my absence, and has written a list of whom she deems the ‘most suitable’ court dressmakers that we can visit, without even asking me what my preference might be.”

“Touché, Lettice my dear.” the Viscount adds to the conversation. “You’ve been making your own plans for goodness knows how long about this trousseau business without your mother.”

Lettice’s mouth flaps open and closed, but nothing comes out as she realises that her father is correct, and she suddenly recognises the miscalculations she has made with her plans, even though they have been done with good intentions.

The trio fall silent for a moment, the ticking of the clock on the mantlepiece and the twitter of blackbirds in the shrubbery outside the library windows the only things to break it.

“There’s an extra reason why John particularly wanted Clemance to be involved in the acquiring of my trousseau, Pappa.” Lettice finally says, breaking the thick hush of the room. “One I didn’t disclose to Mamma.”

“This should be good.” the Viscount mutters with resignation, sitting back in his seat and folding his arms akimbo across his golden yellow shepherd’s check********** vest.

“What is it, Tice?” Leslie asks, leaning forward with interest.

Lettice’s eyes dart between her brother and her father. “I’ll tell you, but only if you both promise never to bring this up in Clemance’s presence.”

“I promise.” Leslie readily agrees.

“I promise conditionally.” the Viscount grumbles. “If it really is something that should not be spoken about in front of this Clemance sister of Sir John’s. Tere are far too many inconsequential secrets in this world, and you know I don’t like secrets as a general rule, my girl.”

“Oh it is very consequential, Pappa, and if either of you tell Mamma, she must be sworn to secrecy too.” Lettice insists.

“Well,” the Viscount adds. “I cannot say in all honesty that your Mother is the soul of discretion, however she knows when to keep a confidence, Lettice. Go on.”

A few more tense moments go by as Lettice considers what her father has just said.

“John wants Clemance to be involved in my wedding plans because,” Her voice catches for a second. “Because she and her husband did have a daughter, who like me was born in 1900.” Lettice’s eye shimmer with tears and her lip trembles slightly. “But she… she died of diphtheria when she was twelve.”

A tenseness suddenly fills the atmosphere around the trio as Leslie and the Viscount process what Lettice is telling them.

“So, you see. That’s why you can’t say anything in front of Clemance, unless she divulges it to you, which I doubt she will do. She hasn’t disclosed it to me.”

“Then how do you know this to be true, Tice?” Leslie asks.

“Because when John and I visited Clemance in Holland Park, I saw a portrait hanging in the hallway of Clemance with a little girl. I asked John, and he told me quickly, but in the strictest confidence, what I have just told you now. Clemance has been at rather a loose end since her husband died. Aside from John, she has no close family. She has taken rather a shine to me, and John thinks this fondness comes about because I remind her of her lost daughter.”

“So, Sir John thinks she might be a bit happier, less at a loose end, as it were, if she were involved in the wedding plans.” the Viscount murmurs sadly.

Lettice nods her confirmation shallowly. “She can participate in something she never thought she’d have the opportunity to do. And like Mamma, she has been gaily chatting to me about plans for my trousseau.”

“Well,” Leslie says exhaling, releasing a pent-up breath. “That does make a difference.” He turns and looks at his father. “Surely it does, Pappa?”

The Viscount doesn’t answer straight away, remaining ponderous in his seat, scratching his freshly shaved chin with right index finger and thumb, lost in his own deep contemplation of Lettice’s revelation about Clemance.

“Pappa?” Lettice asks hopefully.

“Alright,” the Viscount finally answers. “I’ll have a quiet word with your Mother, now Lettice.”

“Oh Pappa!” Lettice exclaims, clasping her hands and beaming.

“In my own way, mind you.” he adds quickly, taking his finger away from his chin and wagging it at his daughter. “I’ll have no histrionics or scenes from you about either it, or your Mother’s choice of dressmakers, no matter what her decision is.”

“Yes Pappa.” Lettice acquiesces quietly, nodding and lowering her eyes to her lap.

“Surely Mater won’t say no to Lettice’s request once she knows about Clemance’s lost child, Pappa!” Lettice says.

“Ahh my boy!” the Viscount replies with a sigh, pushing the seat away from his desk and standing up with a groan. He pats Leslie on the shoulder. “You always were your Mother’s favourite and she yours. You forgive or don’t see half her faults.” His shoulders rise and fall as he breathes heavily. “However, for all her faults, your Mother is a good woman. I’m quite sure she won’t refuse. Of course,” He turns back to his daughter, who has also now arisen from her seat. “You will have to organise a suitable introduction for your Mother to meet Clemance.”

“Oh, I will, Pappa!” Lettice readily agrees, her eyes now sparkling with joy, rather than unshed tears.

“And you will go to Madame Handley-Whoever’s for a fitting, as per your Mother’s wishes.”

“But Pappa…” Lettice begins, but a serious and intense stare from her father silences her protestations.

“As per your Mother’s wishes!” he repeats firmly.

“Yes Pappa.”

“Talking Sadie around about Clemance will be a lot simpler than convincing her to let Gerald Bruton design your wedding frock though. It may take some time…”

“Oh, thank you Pappa!”

“And,” he interrupts her thankful acknowledgement. “I cannot promise you that I can persuade her, Lettice my dear. I’ll have a chat with Lord Bruton about how feels about the matter, and whether he would be too mortified by his son designing your wedding frock,” He turns to Leslie again. “Since I am now going to be obliged to go and speak with him about Geraldine Evans’ rumours and gossip anyway. If he agrees to it, that may persuade your Mother.”

“Oh Pappa!” Lettice exclaims. “You really are a brick!”

“Maybe!” he cautions his daughter. “I’ll not promise anything, but I’ll try! And if you really do want to succeed in your endeavours, I strongly suggest you try and keep on Sadie’s good side as much as you can.” He raises his bushy eyebrows smattered with silvery white hairs and gives Lettice a knowing look. “Even though I know that will be hard for you.”

“I’ll try, Pappa.”

“Good girl!” the Viscount smiles. “Come along then!” he bustles. “Let’s go find your Mother. Hopefully she’s not too far away, and in a calmer and better temper. Leslie and I have more important things to do than go on a treasure hunt for her around the house.”

The trio walk across the library together towards the double doors leading out into the grand Glynes entrance hall.

“Madame Handley-Seymour.” Leslie muses as they walk. “Madame Handley-Seymour.”

“What about her?” Lettice asks.

“Didn’t Madame Handley-Seymour make the wedding dress for your friend Elizabeth*********** when she married Bertie************ a few years ago?”

“Yes,” Lettice sighs.

“Well, that’s not such a bad choice, Tice.” Leslie continues, winding a comforting arm around his little sister. “At least she’s fashionable. At least she didn’t suggest the woman who made Lally’s dress back in 1910 – you know, the one who sailed on the Titanic and was in that scandal about how empty her lifeboat was*************.”

“Oh, she mentioned her too, Leslie, don’t you fret!” Lettice replies with a chuckle.

*A chit is a short official note, typically recording a sum owed.

**The phrase “Not much chop" is an informal, English, Australian and New Zealand English idiom meaning "not very good" or "not much to be desired". It's used to express a low opinion of something or someone. Born out of the British Raj, this rem derives from the word “chop” which was a quality, class, a mark or stamp indicating this on goods send out of India, a word that ultimately comes from the Hindi word chāp, “stamp”.

***The Penny Black was the world's first adhesive postage stamp used in a public postal system. It was first issued in the United Kingdom on 1 May 1840 but was not valid for use until 6 May. The stamp features a profile of Queen Victoria.

****"First dibs" is an informal way of saying that someone has the right to have or choose something before anyone else. It essentially means having a prior claim or preference. The term is often used in situations where there are limited resources or choices, and someone wants to secure their preferred option. The origin of the phrase is believed to be a children's game called "dibstones" (or a variation of it) played in 17th-century Britain. This game involved tossing small pebbles or knuckle-bones and catching them, with the first person to catch them being said to have "dibs" on them. Over time, "dibs" became a way to express a claim on something, and "first dibs" evolved to mean having the first choice.

*****A trousseau refers to the wardrobe and belongings of a bride, including her wedding dress or similar clothing such as day and evening dresses.

******Elizabeth Handley-Seymour (1867–1948) was a London-based fashion designer and court-dressmaker operating as Madame Handley-Seymour between 1910 and 1940. She is best known for creating the wedding dress worn by Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, the future Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother, for her marriage to the Duke of York, the future King George VI, in 1923; and later, Queen Elizabeth's coronation gown in 1937.

*******Rum is a British slang word that means odd (in a negative way) or disreputable.

********Fitzroy Square is a Georgian square in London, England. It is the only one in the central London area known as Fitzrovia. The square is one of the area's main features, this once led to the surrounding district to be known as Fitzroy Square or Fitzroy Town[1] and latterly as Fitzrovia, though the nearby Fitzroy Tavern is thought to have had as much influence on the name as Fitzroy Square.

*********A "royal levée" refers to a formal reception or gathering, often held by a sovereign or their representative, where they receive dignitaries, officials, and other important guests. It is a tradition with roots in ancient practices of rulers displaying their power and accessibility.

**********Shepherd’s check is a popular pattern for a rather sturdy tweed, commonly worn in the country. Coming in various colours and pattern styles, the small check version in black and white is commonly known as Pepita check in Germanic countries.

***********Elizabeth Bowes Lyon went on to become Queen of the United Kingdom and the Dominions from 1936 to 1952 as the wife of King George VI. Whilst still Duke of York, Prince Albert initially proposed to Elizabeth in 1921, but she turned him down, being "afraid never, never again to be free to think, speak and act as I feel I really ought to"

************Prince Albert, Duke of York, known by the diminutive “Bertie” to the family and close friends, was the second son of George V. He was Duke of York from 1920 to 1936, living in London and also (from 1932) at Royal Lodge, Windsor Great Park. He became King George VI, King of the United Kingdom and the Dominions of the British Commonwealth from the 11th of December 1936 until his death in 1952. He was also the last Emperor of India from 1936 until the British Raj was dissolved in August 1947, and the first head of the Commonwealth following the London Declaration of 1949.

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

Cluttered with books and art, Viscount Wrexham’s library with its Georgian furnishings is different from what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures from my collection.

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

The majority of the books that you see lining the shelves of the Viscount’s library are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. So too is the stamp album, the envelopes and even the Penny Black stamps on the Viscount’s Chippendale desk. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. 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 each miniature an artisan piece. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

Also on the desk to the left stands a stuffed white owl on a branch beneath a glass cloche. A vintage miniature piece, the foliage are real dried flowers and grasses, whilst the owl is cut from white soapstone. The base is stained wood and the cloche is real glass. This I acquired along with two others featuring shells (one of which can be seen in the background) from Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in the United Kingdom.

On the desk are some 1:12 artisan miniature ink bottles and a blotter on a silver salver all made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures. The ink bottles are made from tiny faceted crystal beads and have sterling silver bottoms and lids. The ink blotter is sterling silver too and has a blotter made of real black felt, cut meticulously to size to fit snugly inside the frame. On the desk is a roller and a bell, both also made from sterling silver, a silver pen with a tiny seed pearl in its end and a brass cloisonné handled letter opener which also come from the Little Green Workshop.

The Chippendale desk itself is made by Bespaq, and it has a mahogany stain and the design is taken from a real Chippendale desk. Its surface is covered in red dioxide red dioxide leather with a gilt trim. Bespaq is a high-end miniature furniture maker with high attention to detail and quality.

In the background you can see the book lined shelves of Viscount Wrexham’s as well as a hand painted ginger jar from Thailand which stands on a Bespaq plant stand.

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.

A Fly in the Ointment by raaen99

© raaen99, all rights reserved.

A Fly in the Ointment

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

Today however we are at Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie and his wife Arabella. Lettice is visiting her family home to broach a most delicate subject about her forthcoming wedding.

For nearly a year Lettice had been patiently awaiting the return of her then beau, Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, after being sent to Durban by his mother, Lady Zinnia in an effort to destroy their relationship which she wanted to end so that she could marry Selwyn off to his cousin, Pamela Fox-Chavers. Having been made aware by Lady Zinnia in October that during the course of the year, whilst Lettice had been biding her time, waiting for Selwyn’s eventual return, he had become engaged to the daughter of a Kenyan diamond mine owner whilst in Durban. Fleeing Lady Zinnia’s Park Lane mansion, Lettice returned to Cavendish Mews and milled over her options over a week as she reeled from the news. Then, after that week, she knew exactly what to do to resolve the issues raised by Lady Zinnia’s unwelcome news about her son. Taking extra care in her dress, she took herself off to the neighbouring upper-class London suburb of Belgravia and paid a call upon Sir John Nettleford-Hughes.

Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John is still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intends to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. As an eligible man in a aftermath of the Great War when such men are a rare commodity, with a vast family estate in Bedfordshire, houses in Mayfair, Belgravia and Pimlico and Fontengil Park in Wiltshire, quite close to the Glynes estate belonging to her parents, Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, invited him as a potential suitor to her 1922 Hunt Ball, which she used as a marriage market for Lettice. Selwyn rescued Lettice from the horror of having to entertain him, and Sir John left the ball early in a disgruntled mood with a much younger partygoer. Lettice recently reacquainted herself with Sir John at an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Gladys Caxton at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, a baronial Art and Crafts castle near the hamlet of Kershopefoot in Cumberland. To her surprise, Lettice found Sir John’s company rather enjoyable. She then ran into him again at the Portland Gallery’s autumn show where she found him yet again to be a pleasant and attentive companion for much of the evening.

Sir John also made a proposition to her that night: he offered her his hand in marriage should she ever need it. More like a business arrangement than a marriage proposal, Sir John offered Lettice the opportunity to enjoy the benefits of his large fortune, be chatelain of all his estates and continue to have her interior design business, under the conditions that she agree to provide him with an heir, and that he be allowed to discreetly carry on his affairs in spite of their marriage vows. He even suggested that Lettice might be afforded the opportunity to have her own extra marital liaisons if she were discreet about them. Turning up unannounced on his doorstep, she agreed to his proposal after explaining that the understanding between she and Selwyn was concluded. However, in an effort to be discreet, at Lettice’s insistence, they did not make their engagement public until the new year: after the dust about Selwyn’s break of his and Lettice’s engagement settled. Sir John motored across from Fontengil Park in the days following New Year and he and Lettice announced their engagement in the palatial Glynes drawing room before the Viscount and Lady Sadie the Countess, Leslie, Arabella and the Viscount’s sister Eglantyne (known by all the Chetwynd children affectionally as Aunt Egg). The announcement received somewhat awkwardly by the Viscount initially, until Lettice assured him that her choice to marry Sir John has nothing to do with undue influence, mistaken motivations, but perhaps the person most put out by the news is Aunt Egg who is not a great believer in the institution of marriage, and feels Lettice was perfectly fine as a modern unmarried woman. Lady Sadie, who Lettice thought would be thrilled by the announcement of her engagement, received the news with a somewhat muted response and she discreetly slipped away after drinking a toast to the newly engaged couple with a glass of fine champagne from the Glynes wine cellar.

Today we find ourselves in the Glynes flower room, a small room that Lady Sadie uses to arrange flowers for the house. The room is used to houses many different vases on shelves for every possible type of flower provided by the Glynes gardeners. There is a butler’s sink for Lady Sadie to stand at with wooden surfaces to either side of the deep enamelled trough. And now, with the benches covered in spring flowers freshly gathered that morning for her, Lady Sadie enjoys the pleasurable pastime of arranging them in a selection of vases she has taken down from the surrounding shelves.

Several weeks ago, when Lettice and Sir John were visiting his younger sister, Clemance Pontefract, who as a widow, has recently returned to London and set up residence in Holland Park, Lettice suggested that Clemance might help her choose her trousseau*. Thinking that Lady Sadie’s ideas will doubtless be somewhat old fashioned and conservative when it comes to commissioning evening dresses and her wedding frock, Lettice wants to engage Clemance’s smart eye and eager willingness to please Lettice as her future siter-in-law to help her pick the trousseau she really wants. Knowing that the subject will be difficult to discuss with her mother, Lettice is aware that this is the ideal time to approach her mother, with whom she has a somewhat fraught relationship. Thus Lettice is sitting on a small stool behind her mother, fining it easier to address her back, rather than face to face, as she toys with the pale pink glass beads around her neck.

“Now Mamma. I’ve been thinking about my trousseau.” Lettice begins.

Lady Sadie turns off the gleaming brass tap she has been using to fill a porcelain vase featuring a pastoral image painted on it with cold water. “Ahh…” she murmurs thoughtfully as she leaves the vase sitting in the bottom of the deep white enamelled sink. “Yes, I’ve been giving your trousseau some considerable thought too, Lettice.”

Lettice looks up in alarm at her mother after hearing her statement about her trousseau. “You have, Mamma?”

Lady Sadie turns away from the sink to face her daughter. “Well don’t look so surprised, Lettice!” she says with a bemused smile. “I mean, I know I might not be the most fashionable of women by the standards of London’s Bright Young People** or whatever the newspapers have christened you and your friends,” She tugs self-consciously on the pretty aquatone blue cotton summer blouse with the wide white Peter Pan collar*** she is wearing. “But I am your mother, and it is a mother’s right to help influence her daughter when choosing her trousseau.” She smiles happily as she picks up her shears. “Besides, I do have an interest in fashion you know.”

“I never said you didn’t, Mamma.” Lettice defends.

“Not that I am particularly enamoured with the fashion for raised hemlines**** this season.” Lady Sadie adds disapprovingly. “Goodness knows what The King and Queen Mary think of the débutantes being presented before them now. When they curtsey before them, just think of all those exposed knees! It’s scandalous!”

This time it is Lettice who feels self-conscious as she tugs at the flounces around the hem of her white georgette day dress that fall softly around her crossed knee. “How terribly shocking.” she mutters sarcastically.

“Oh, you’re just as bad!” Lady Sadie waves her bejewelled hand dismissively at her youngest daughter. “You and Gerald Bruton are responsible for this latest fashion for exposed knees.”

She turns back to the sink and picks up a purple foxglove in her left hand, and with her black handled shears in her left, she cuts the flower’s stem at an angle over the old newspapers she has spread out on the bench next to the sink before placing the foxglove in the vase she has just filled with water.

“I call that most unfair, Mamma!” Lettice protests, momentarily forgetting that she will need to keep her mother on side and not quarrel with her whilst she broaches the delicate subject of her trousseau. However the indignity she feels from her mother’s cutting remark makes her lash out. “You can hardly blame Gerald and me solely for the fashions of the day! I thought even you, Mamma, in your old fashioned style would realise that most of the edicts of fashion come from Paris.”

“I’m well aware of who dictates the fashion, Lettice.” Lady Sadie replies coolly as she picks up a second foxglove and shortens its stem by an inch with her shears. “But Gerald designs frocks in the style and you and your young flapper friends wear them, so you perpetuate the scandalous modes of the day.”

“Would you rather I look unfashionable, Mamma? Like Queen Mary in her pre-war ankle length gowns*****?”

“No of course not, Lettice,” Lady Sadie retorts calmly. “There’s no need to overreact and be melodramatic. But a modicum of modesty might not go astray. I myself, prefer calf length skirts.”

“Well anyway,” Lettice answers, folding her arms akimbo and changing the subject back to the one she wants to broach with her mother. “About my trousseau.”

“Oh yes! As I was saying, I’ve had some thoughts about that.”

“Good!” Lettice replies. “Because I have too…”

Lady Sadie cuts her off as she goes on. “Of course I will have my work cut out for me, organising it all,” she says with a heavy sigh as she places the trimmed foxglove into the vase. “I can’t say that I love venturing up to London – I don’t see how either you or Sir John can enjoy it enough to want to live there at least for some of the year – but I shall brave the London fashion houses for your sake.”

“Well Mamma…” Lettice begins.

“In fact, I was thinking that I could make a special trip up to London and we could visit a few select couturiers I had in mind.” Lady Sadie goes on, gazing ahead of her, her eyes narrowing and her jaw squaring as she thinks about it.

“Well, I might have a solution for you in that respect, Mamma.” Lettice says, soothingly. “Or rather John and I do.”

“What do I need a solution for, Lettice?” Lady Sadie asks uncomprehendingly, looking back over her sounder at her daughter. “I told you, I’ve already been thinking about suitable couturiers.” She adds emphasis to the last two words to add gravitas to their meaning. And I’ve made a list which I have subsequently narrowed down to about three.”

“Three, Mamma?” Lettice exclaims.

“Yes.” Lady Sadie replies with a proud smile. “That should limit the time I need to spend up in London. I’m really rather proud of my quick thinking.”

“Well, Mamma,” Lettice chuckles awkwardly. “You just said how much you despise London.”

Lady Sadie laughs in shock. “Now don’t put words in my mouth. That’s a dreadful habit you have, Lettice. I didn’t say that I ‘despise London’ – I merely said that ‘I’m not fond of it’.”

“Well, John has a widowed younger sister, Clemance Pontefract, who lived abroad with her husband, but returned to London when he died.”

“How very interesting, dear.” Lady Sadie replies as she busies herself trimming excess greenery off another foxglove with the dexterity of a skilled floral arranger, her tone indicating that she is anything but interested in Clemance’s existence.

Lettice huffs lightly, but labours on. “Clemance spent many years living in Paris before the war, Mamma. She’s very smart and select, and she knows all there is to know about clothes. I think she is a little lonely now that she is back in London, living in Holland Park as a widow.”

“Then Mrs. Pontefract should go back to Paris, if she dislikes it so much here, and rejoin all her friends there.” Lady Sadie counters.

“I don’t think it’s quite that simple, Mamma. Besides, I think Paris has changed…”

“Oh, it certainly has!” Lady Sadie opines haughtily with a derisive snort, slicing off the bottom of the foxglove’s stem. “And not for the better, I must say!”

“Be that as it may, it is the centre of fashion, and I thought,” Lettice tries again a little awkwardly.

“Yes?” Lady Sadie snaps.

“That is, John and I thought, that as Clemance is lonely here in London, and because she does know a great deal about fashion…”

“Yes?”

“That she would be more than willing to help me pick my trousseau up in London.” Lettice finishes. “In fact, we thought she would be perfect to help me. That way, you wouldn’t have to trouble yourself about it, or have to come up to London when you obviously don’t want to.”

“Are you suggesting that this Mrs. Pontefract would usurp me, Lettice?” Lady Sadie gasps with a mixture of hurt and surprise. “That she take my place in helping you shop for your trousseau?”

Lettice quickly realises that the suggestion she was making, a suggestion which she thought would be one her mother would only be too happy to agree to, is in fact one she finds most unpalatable.

“Do you think that because of my preference for the country, that I wouldn’t come up to London for you, Lettice?” she continues in a mortified fashion, her voice cracking with emotion. “That I wouldn’t be interested in my youngest daughter’s wedding frock and new wifely wardrobe?”

Lettice knows that a terrible scene is about to erupt between she and her mother unless she manages to salvage the situation quickly. Lady Sadie’s eyes sparkle with unshed tears as her pale face begins to contort in a mixture of disbelief and hurt. Her hand, bejewelled with sparkling diamond and gold rings rises slowly to her throat. Her lips quiver.

“No! No, no, Mamma!” Lettice insists, holding up her palms. “Of course I’m not.” She smiles at her mother comfortingly, but cannot quite bring herself to reach out and touch her on the arm. “What I meant was,” she adds, thinking quickly, wondering why she hadn’t predicted this outcome and thought of a suitable answer. “Was that, well, since you don’t come up to London very much, she might be of assistance to you… to us, I mean.”

“But if she hasn’t been in London very long, Lettice.”

“But she does know about fashion,” Lettice quickly adds. “And a second opinion is always helpful.”

“I wasn’t aware that my style was so awful that I needed a second opinion, Lettice!” Lady Sadie spits. “Or should I say a third opinion: unless of course you are proposing not to accompany me on the expedition to shop for your own trousseau,” She sniffs. “Because you are ashamed of me.”

Lettice lets out a sigh of exasperation. “Of course I’m not, Mamma!”

“Well, it certainly sounds like it.”

Lettice rolls her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mamma! John is very close to his sister, and he loves Clemance very much. She is recently returned to England and a lonely widow. I believe he feels sorry for her, and he’d really like her to be part of the wedding plans.”

“Well,” Lady Sadie replies with trembling lips again. “Can’t she arrange something else?”

“Like what, Mamma?”

“Like something that she and Sir John can do together.” She raises the index finger of her right hand as she suddenly has an idea. “She can help him shop for his wedding suit!”

“I don’t think that will be terribly adventurous or interesting for her, Mamma. John really wants us to get to know her better, and by us, I mean you as well.”

“Well I…”

“It’s not like I’m suggesting that you and I go wedding frock shopping with Margot.” Lettice implores. “Clemance is more around your age than mine.”

Lady Sadie’s eyes grow wide in shock. “Lettice!” she exclaims. “How can you be so indelicate?”

“I’m not being indelicate! I’m just stating a truth. Please Mamma! At least think about the idea.”

“Well,” Lady Sadie’s mouth puckers in distaste. “We’ll have to see about that.”

Lettice decides that a change of tack might be appropriate.

“When you say you’ve been thinking about my trousseau, Mamma, whom were you thinking of for my wedding frock?”

Going back to her flower arranging, Lady Sadie pulls out a blue iris from the wicker basket to her right and looks at it with thoughtfulness, comparing it to the hue of the foxgloves before deciding that they might go well together in the same vase.

“Mamma, did you hear me?”

“Yes, thank you. I did, Lettice.” Lady Sadie replies peevishly. “As a matter of fact, I have given it considerable thought. At first, I thought of Lucile******, as she made such a lovely wedding frock for Lally when she married Charles.”

“Oh no!” Lettice pulls a face. “Not Lucile! She so… so… old fashioned. Her dresses are so pre-war!”

“Yes.” Lady Sadie acknowledges her daughter’s concerns resignedly as she trims the iris stalk. “I thought you’d say that, Lettice. I happen to think that her dresses are romantic.”

“They’re fusty, Mamma. I don’t want to get married in a dress that is covered in flounces and silk flowers! This is 1925, not 1905!”

“Thank you Lettice,” Lady Sadie counters crisply. “I am not of infirm mind as of yet. I know perfectly well it is 1925.” She puts the iris into the vase. “And then, I realised who was the perfect choice for you.”

“Gerald!” Lettice says with a sigh of relief. “Oh Mamma! I didn’t think you’d even contemplate it!”

“Gerald?” Lady Sadie spits in horror, turning around to face her daughter, looking her up and down with wide eyes. “Of course I didn’t think of Gerald Bruton! Why on earth would I, Lettice?”

Lettice’s shoulders slump. “Well… because he is an up-and-coming designer, and he is my very best friend. Who could be more perfect?”

“You may have Gerald Bruton as a guest to the wedding, Lettice, but you certainly aren’t having him design your wedding frock, certainly not if I have anything to do with it!”

“But Mamma…” Lettice pleads.

“No!” Lady Sadie holds up her palm.

“But Mamma!”

“No!” Lady Sadie shakes her head warningly.

“He designed Bella’s wedding dress!” Lettice blurts out. “And you said she looked like a picture on her wedding day.”

“That’s true, but that was Isobel’s decision. My decision is that we will visit Madame Handley-Seymour*******.”

“But I want Ger…” Lettice begins to mewl.

“No Lettice!” Lady Sadie replies adamantly. “Let us have no further talk about Gerald Bruton making your wedding dress. Madame Handley-Seymour is one of Bond Street’s most influential couturiers and court dressmakers. Just look at that lovely wedding frock she made for your friend Elizabeth******** when she married the Duke of York.”

“But Mamma!” Lettice whines.

“If Madame Handley-Seymour is good enough for The King and Queen, the Prince and the new Duchess of York, she is certainly good enough for you!”

“Oh Mamma!” Lettice cries as tears begin to well in her eyes.

Suddenly Lettice picks herself up from her seat and runs towards the door, the tears starting to flow down her cheeks as she does. Just as she reaches it, she runs into her father, the Viscount.

“What the…” he stammers. He grabs hold of Lettice by the shoulders and sees how distressed she is. “Lettice!” he exclaims in concern as he looks down at her face. “Lettice whatever is it?”

“Oh Pappa!” is all she can reply through her tears, and then without giving any more explanation, she pulls away from her father and runs down the hall, her heels echoing hollowly as they race across the black and white linoleum.

The Viscount stands on the spot against the doorjamb, half in the Glynes flower room and half in the hallway, a stunned look on his face.

“Sadie!” he snaps as his wife turns back calmly to her flowers and picks out another blue iris from the basket. “What have you done?”

“Me Cosmo?” she replies, feigning innocence without turning to face her husband. “I’ve done nothing.”

“Well, you must have done something!” he snaps, taking several strides into the room until he is beside his wife, leaning against the wooden benchtop surrounding the sink. “I could hear your raised voices from down the hallway, which is why I cam down here to investigate.”

“I’m sorry your exploration was pointless then, my dear.” Lady Sadie replies nonchalantly as she pulls a bent bit of greenery off the iris in her hand and drops it on the newspaper to the left of her with the other refuse.

“What the blazes do you think you’re doing, upsetting our daughter like you obviously have?” the Viscount growls angrily as he attempts to catch his wife’s eye.

“What!” she answers, dropping her hands down as she speaks. “I’ll tell you what. I’ve just put an extra fly into Lettice’s ointment.”

“What the devil do you mean, Sadie?” the Viscount barks back at her. “Stop speaking in riddles, you ridiculous woman! I have no time for your foolish games today!”

“I’m not playing games, Cosmo.” she replies, finally glancing up at him. “Or rather I am, because the stakes are high. I just told Lettice that Gerald Bruton can’t design her wedding frock, and that we will go and see Madame Handley-Seymour to design it.”

“What the blazes did you do that for, you confounding woman? If she wants her frock designed by Gerald, why the devil shouldn’t she? He did a damn fine job to Arabella’s dress.”

“Because it is just something else to irk her, and make her think twice about marrying Sir John, of course.” she replies as though it is the most natural conclusion to come to. “Her unsuitable marriage will be even less attractive to her now that I’ve forbade her to have her dress made by Gerald Bruton.”

“I thought you said that we were playing the long game with all this business with Lettice and Sir John, Sadie.” the Viscount mutters as he calms down.

“I did.” Lady Sadie assures him.

“Then what?” he splutters.

“I never said that we couldn’t use some gentle persuasion along the way, Cosmo.”

“You surely don’t think that Lettice will call a halt to the wedding just because she can’t have the frock she wants, do you, you ridiculous woman?”

“I’m not a ridiculous woman,” Lady Sadie retorts. Pointing her right index finger at her husband she goes on. “You mark my words, when a girl can only get married once, her choice of wedding frock and how she looks in it on the day will be of vital consideration.” She goes back to trimming the iris before placing it in the vase. “She’ll try to talk you around to her way of thinking, Cosmo, because she has you wrapped around her little finger, but you mustn’t give in! You must stand firm, even if it means you defer back to me as the decision maker.”

“And what if the wedding goes ahead, Sadie?”

“It won’t Cosmo. I can assure you.”

“And if it does?” he persists.

“If we reach a certain point in this ridiculous engagement, I’ll recant, and Gerald can make her frock. But believe me, Cosmo, I’m already seeing doubts in her eyes when she speaks of Sir John now. She’s thinking long and hard about this decision made in haste.”

“I hope you’re right, Sadie.” the Viscount says, looking doubtfully at his wife. “And that there won’t be a wedding.”

“Trust me.” She pauses her flower arranging and reaches out and puts her right hand on his left forearm and squeezes the flesh beneath his tweed jacket. “It will not happen.”

“You’re a hard woman, Sadie.” the Viscount sighs after a few moments. “Very hard.”

“Well,” she sniffs, resuming her work. “Someone has to play the villain in this play, so it may as well be me, since you’ve always said I’ve been too hard on Lettice, and I say that you’re always too soft.” She snatches up the last iris and clips off the end of its stalk before depositing it into the vase. “She’ll forgive me in the end.”

“Well, I hope you are right about that too, Sadie.” he replies.

*A trousseau refers to the wardrobe and belongings of a bride, including her wedding dress or similar clothing such as day and evening dresses.

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

***A Peter Pan collar is a style of clothing collar, flat in design with rounded corners. It is named after the collar of Maude Adams's costume in her 1905 role as Peter Pan, although similar styles had been worn before this date. Peter Pan collars were particularly fashionable during the 1920s and 1930s.

****1925 was really the year that ladies’ fashions crossed the threshold from “old fashioned” to what is now considered “modern”. Dresses became streamlined and slender, without the excess fabric of previous years. Waistlines remained at the hip, whilst hemlines rose to the knee.

*****King George V was no fan of the modern style of ladies’ dress, and when hemlines rose from floor length to ankle length during the war, and then higher still after the war, he expressed his disapproval. Queen Mary’s official biographer James Pope-Hennessy wrote that she experimented with shorter skirts in the early 1920s but that the King didn’t approve, so she went back to the longer lengths of 1916. Her style remained, for the most part, frozen in time at that period, for the remainder of her life.

******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.

*******Elizabeth Handley-Seymour (1867–1948) was a London-based fashion designer and court-dressmaker operating as Madame Handley-Seymour between 1910 and 1940. She is best known for creating the wedding dress worn by Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, the future Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother, for her marriage to the Duke of York, the future King George VI, in 1923; and later, Queen Elizabeth's coronation gown in 1937.

********Elizabeth Bowes Lyon 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"

This wonderful flower room full of beautiful blooms may appear real to you, however it is fashioned entirely of 1:12 miniatures from my collection.

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

The three glass vases: two cranberry glass and one clear glass, were made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in England. The detail in each vase is especially fine. If you look closely, you will see that they are decorated with fluting, frills and latticework. The two large porcelain floral vases on the benchtops are 1950s Limoges vases. The roses and other flowers have been painted on them by hand, and they have stamped with a small green Limoges mark to the bottom. These treasures I found in an overcrowded cabinet at the Mill Markets in Geelong. The other porcelain vases with printed flowers on them come from various online miniature stockists on EBay.

The white and peach roses in the vase on the left of the photo are all handmade by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in England. The tulips, daffodils and foxgloves are all very realistic looking. Made of polymer clay they are moulded on wires to allow them to be shaped at will and put into individually formed floral arrangements. They are made by a 1:12 miniature specialist in Germany.

The shears with black handles open and close. Made of metal, they came from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniature Shop in the United Kingdom.

The Edwardian British newspapers that the vases, shears and flowers stand on are 1:12 size copies of ‘The Mirror’, the ‘Daily Express’ and ‘The Tattler’ made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.

The ladderback chair to the left of the photo is a recent 1:12 miniature which has a hand-woven rattan seat. It was acquired from an estate of a miniature collector in Sydney and dates from around the 1970s.

The butler’s sink comes from Melody Jane’s Doll’s House Shop in the United Kingdom.

The tile frieze that appears along the back wall above the sink is an Art Nouveau design from the Lambeth works of Royal Doulton and features white Irises.

When Plans go Awry by raaen99

© raaen99, all rights reserved.

When Plans go Awry

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A horse?” Lettice queries in return.

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you?” Lettice snaps disbelievingly.

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

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

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

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

The doors to the Savoy are swung open welcomingly for Lettice and Sir John by two liveried doormen and the pair stride in with assured steps, their arms interlinked. Lettice applies a painted smile***** to her face as the wealthy and elegantly dressed clientele of the hotel milling around in the foyer observe and scrutinise them as they walk. The pair are ushered into the grand dining room of the Savoy, a space brilliantly illuminated by dozens of glittering electrified chandeliers cascading down like fountains from the high ceiling above. Beneath the sparkling light, men in white waistcoats and women a-glitter with jewels and bugle bead embroidered frocks are guided through the cavernous dining room where they are seated in high backed mahogany and red velvet chairs around tables dressed in crisp white tablecloths and set with sparkling silver and gilt china. The large room is very heavily populated with theatre patrons enjoying a meal before a show and London society out for an evening. The space is full of vociferous conversation, boisterous laughter, the clink of glasses and the scrape of cutlery against crockery as the diners enjoy the magnificent repast served to them from the hotel’s famous kitchens. Above it all, the notes of the latest dance music from the band can be heard as they entertain diners and dancers who fill the parquet dance floor.

A smartly uniformed waiter escorts Lettice and Sir John to a table for two in the midst of the grand dining salon, where they take their seats and peruse the menu. Sir John orders them Caviar de Sterlet****** and saumon fumé******* to start with, followed by Consommé Olga******** and paupiette de sole femina*********. As the waiter sets a silver platter of cheeses and an assortment of water cracker biscuits on the crisp white linen covered table between them as a palate cleanser before their next course of Suprême de Chapon Monselet**********, Sir John clears his throat.

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

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

She glances around at the bejewel decorated ladies looking like exotic birds in their brightly coloured frocks and feathers and their smartly attired male companions, many craning their necks, stealing surreptitious glances at Sir John, London’s most famous, or infamous, former bachelor, and the pretty Viscount’s daughter and society interior designer who has ensnared him into marriage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I don’t think so, John.”

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

“Have you been talking to Gerald?”

“Gerald?”

“My friend, Gerald Bruton.” Lettice elucidates.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just what, John?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How so?”

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

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

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

“Go on then. I’m listening.”

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

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

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

“To Paris?” Sir John queries.

“Yes!”

“With you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course!”

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

“You are?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No?” she ventures timidly.

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

“A friend?” Lettice asks cautiously.

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

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

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

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

“Mademoiselle Flanton,” Sir John says, adding emphasis to her unmarried title as he lowers his voice. “Was an actress from the Follies Bergère****************, that I was introduced to at the Palais de Glace***************** along the Champs-Élysées before you were even born,” He looks meaningfully at his red faced fiancée sitting across from him at the table. “Which is why your talk of the Champs-Élysées reminded me of her.”

“Yes, yes of course!” Lettice says hurriedly in an effort to cover up her sudden awkwardness as she realises what Sir John has implied with statement. “Perhaps I could meet Mademoiselle Flanton when we go to Paris.” She takes a large gulp of her Bordeaux, which suddenly tastes bitter in her mouth.

“Are you sure you’d want to my dear, knowing what you know of me, and my, friendships?”

Determined not to back down, or appear weak, Lettice blurts out. “Indeed yes. I’m sure if she is an old friend,” She hopes that the flame of appeal of Madeline Flanton has been extinguished by four years of war and the passing of time. “I should like to meet her.”

Sir John sits in quiet contemplation for a moment, his delicate fingers steepled in front of him as he thinks. “You know, you may be on to something, Lettice my dear. Any whiff of scandal will be discarded if we both visit Madeline. Genius, my dear! Genius!” He claps his hands and beams in delight. “No-one from the newspapers who might tail us in Paris would question my visiting an actress, if you were to be seen visiting her too. After a quick cocktail, Madeline is famous for her hospitality and her cocktails.”

“I’m sure she is.” Lettice interjects rather flatly, lowering her head.

“Now, now, don’t be like that, Lettice my dear.” Sir John leans across the table and puts his right index finger under Lettice’s lowered chin, lifting her head up, forcing her to engage his intense stare. “We had this discussion at Clemance’s. Perhaps love will come to us in time, but you cannot, and must not, expect it from me, for I cannot promise it you, Lettice, any more than I can promise you fidelity. I was thinking that after a polite social cocktail or two, Madeline could discreetly slip you out the back way of her apartment and arrange for you to be whisked back to the hotel.”

“Leaving you to…” Lettice’s sentence remains awkwardly unfinished as she realises that far from extinguished, the passing of time has in fact fanned the flames of Sir John’s infatuation with this Madeliene Flanton.

“Catch up on old times.” Sir John finishes Lettice’s sentence. He sighs heavily. “You asked me not to stymie you in your affairs.” He gives her a knowing look. “Then don’t stymie me in mine.”

“I said business affairs.” Lettice clarifies. “And yours and my affairs, business or otherwise, are quite different, John.” she adds, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

“But ours is an arrangement.” he reminds her gently. “And an arrangement requires give, as well as take, on the side of both parties involved.”

Lettice cannot help herself as she remarks, “Isn’t your Mademoiselle Flanton a little old to still be an actress at the Folies Bergère, if you met her before I was born.”

“Now, now.” Sir John cautions Lettice warningly with a withering look and a wagging finger as he reaches out and delves his knife into the stilton again. “Cattiness doesn’t suit you, Lettice my dear. I thought you were a little more grown up than that.”

“Sorry.” Lettice mumbles in apology.

“Cattiness and spite are reserved for actresses. Ladies, on the other hand, carry themselves with grace and decorum, no matter what the circumstances.” He sighs heavily again. “I’ve known actresses who have become ladies, like Lily Elsie******************, but I’m not in the habit of engaging myself to anyone other than someone who is a lady from birth.”

“I do apologise, John.” Lettice replies meekly after her fiancée’s sharp rebuke. “That was unfair of me.”

“I won’t have jealously from you Lettice.” Sir John withdraws his knife and drops a crumbling piece of stilton onto another biscuit. Wagging the knife between he and Lettice he goes on, “There is no place for jealously in our arrangement, my dear, otherwise our marriage won’t work.”

“I won’t let it happen again.” Lettice manages to say as she cradles her glass in her hands.

“I should hope you won’t, my dear.” Sir John replies. After taking a bite from his cracker he goes on, “Madeline was a great beauty when I met her, and her looks have served her well throughout the ensuing years since then. She is now a film actress, working for Cinégraphic******************** in Paris. Madeline is a consummate hostess, and has always been very hospitable to any guest I have had accompany me to her smart Parisian apartment.”

“I’m quite sure, John.”

“And I would expect civility from my companion in equal measure to Madeline’s generosity of spirit and hospitality.” He looks at Lettice seriously.

“Of course, John.” Lettice replies.

“Good!” Sir John beams. “Let me consider your suggestion of this little sojourn to Paris a little longer. The more I think about it, the more appealing it is to me. Now, have you had enough cheese to cleanse your palate?”

Lettice nods shallowly, the thought of eating more cheese curdling her stomach.

“Excellent! Then I’ll have the maître d' take this away,” Sir John waves his hand dismissively at what remains of the cheese and water cracker biscuits. “And have him bring our Suprême de Chapon Monselet.”

Lettice puts her glass aside and wonders how her suggestion that she and Sir John fly to Paris together, which just minutes ago had been full of promise, was suddenly and completely awry.

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

**A Coupé de ville is a car body style produced from 1908 to 1939. It has an external or open-topped driver's position, as well as an enclosed compartment for passengers. Although the different terms may have once had specific meanings for certain car manufacturers or countries, the terms are often used interchangeably. Some coupés de ville have the passengers separated from the driver in a fully enclosed compartment while others have a canopy for the passengers and no partition between the driver and the passengers (passengers enter the compartment via driver's area).

***A steeplechase is a distance horse race in which competitors are required to jump diverse fence and ditch obstacles. Steeplechasing is primarily conducted in Ireland (where it originated), Great Britain, Canada, United States, Australia, and France. The name is derived from early races in which orientation of the course was by reference to a church steeple, jumping fences and ditches and generally traversing the many intervening obstacles in the countryside.

****The origin of “rub salt in the wound”, a phrase utilised to express the exacerbation of an already painful or challenging scenario, highlighting the added difficulty or stress, lies in a literal physical practice with roots tracing back to ancient times. Historically, salt was rubbed into wounds as an antiseptic to prevent infection. While it was a method to cleanse and treat the injury, the process was extremely painful due to the interaction between salt and open flesh. Over time, the practice evolved into a metaphor. The application of salt, although for healing, caused additional suffering. Similarly, the idiom began to symbolise a situation where an action or statement intensifies the pain or difficulty in an already problematic situation.

*****A painted smile typically refers to a smile that is not sincere or genuine, often masking underlying emotions like sadness, pain, or fear. It's a façade, a false expression intended to deceive or hide true feelings.

******Sterlet caviar is a type of caviar that comes from the Sterlet sturgeon, a small fish species that's found in the Caspian Sea. Its small silver-grey caviar with a nutty flavour, and is famed for its velvety smooth finish.

*******“Saumon fumé” is the French phrase used for smoked salmon. It refers to salmon that has been cured and then smoked, typically using a cold or hot smoking method.

********Consommé Olga is a classic beef consommé with a distinctive flavour, often served with scallops and julienned vegetables. It's a clear, flavourful soup, typically made with beef or veal broth, and features a unique method for clarifying the broth using egg whites and a meat-vegetable mixture. The dish is then garnished with julienned carrots, celeriac, and cucumber, and sometimes includes scallops. It was made famous by being served to first-class passengers aboard the ill-fated maiden voyage of the RMS Titanic in 1912.

*********A paupiette is a piece of meat, beaten thin, and rolled with a stuffing of vegetables, fruits, or sweetmeats. It is often featured in recipes from Normandy.

**********Suprême de Chapon Monselet is chicken breasts with artichokes, potatoes and aromatics, named for Charles Monselet (30 April 1825, Nantes - 19 May 1888, Paris) the French journalist, novelist, poet and playwright, nicknamed "the king of the gastronomes".

***********Queen Anne’s Gate is a street in Westminster, London. Many of the buildings are Grade I listed, known for their Queen Anne architecture. Simon Bradley and Nikolaus Pevsner described the Gate’s early Eighteenth Century houses as “the best of their kind in London.” The street’s proximity to the Palace of Westminster made it a popular residential area for politicians.

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

*************‘Chu Chin Chow’ is a musical comedy written, produced and directed by Oscar Asche, with music by Frederic Norton, based on the story of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. It was the most popular show in London’s West End during the Great War. It premiered at His Majesty’s Theatre in London on the 3rd of August 1916 and ran for 2,238 performances, a record number that stood for nearly forty years!

**************A trousseau refers to the wardrobe and belongings of a bride, including her wedding dress or similar clothing such as day and evening dresses.

***************The International Exhibition of Modern Decorative and Industrial Arts was a specialized exhibition held in Paris, from April the 29th (the day after it was inaugurated in a private ceremony by the President of France) to October the 25the, 1925. It was designed by the French government to highlight the new modern style of architecture, interior decoration, furniture, glass, jewelry and other decorative arts in Europe and throughout the world. Many ideas of the international avant-garde in the fields of architecture and applied arts were presented for the first time at the exposition. The event took place between the esplanade of Les Invalides and the entrances of the Grand Palais and Petit Palais, and on both banks of the Seine. There were fifteen thousand exhibitors from twenty different countries, and it was visited by sixteen million people during its seven-month run. The modern style presented at the exposition later became known as “Art Deco”, after the exposition's name.

****************A London-to -Paris air service from Cricklewood Aerodrome, Hampstead, was inaugurated by Handley Page Transport in 1920. Fares were £18 18s return: a small fortune at the time. Each passenger was allowed 30 pounds of luggage for free and were charged accordingly for air freight for any amount over that. Cricklewood Aerodrome closed in 1929 due to suburban development and the Golders Green Estate was built on the site. Some of the streets where the aerodrome was bear the names of Handley Page.

*****************The Folies Bergère is a cabaret music hall in Paris, France. Located at 32 Rue Richer in the 9th Arrondissement, the Folies Bergère was built as an opera house by the architect Plumeret. It opened in May 1869 as the Folies Trévise, with light entertainment including operettas, comic opera, popular songs, and gymnastics. It became the Folies Bergère in September 1872, named after nearby Rue Bergère. The house was at the height of its fame and popularity from the 1890s Belle Époque through the 1920s. Revues featured extravagant costumes, sets and effects, and often nude women. In 1926, Josephine Baker, an African-American expatriate singer, dancer and entertainer, caused a sensation at the Folies Bergère by dancing in a costume consisting of a skirt made of a string of artificial bananas and little else. The institution is still in business, and is still a strong symbol of French and Parisian life.

******************The Palais de Glace was a prominent ice-skating rink located on the Champs-Élysées in Paris during the Belle Époque era. Designed by architect Gabriel Davioud, it was known as the “Rotonde du Panorama National” before being converted into the “Palais de Glace” in 1893. The building later became "”he Palace of Nero” during the Universal Exhibition of 1900.

*******************Lily Elsie, was an English actress and singer during the Edwardian era. She was best known for her starring role in the London premiere of Franz Lehár's operetta The Merry Widow. Beginning as a child star in the 1890s, Elsie built her reputation in several successful Edwardian musical comedies before her great success in “The Merry Widow”, opening in 1907. Afterwards, she starred in several more successful operettas and musicals, including “The Dollar Princess” (1909), “A Waltz Dream” (1911) and “The Count of Luxembourg” (1911). Admired for her beauty and charm on stage, Elsie became one of the most photographed women of Edwardian times. Elsie left the cast of “The Count of Luxembourg” to marry Major Sir John Ian Bullough, the son of a wealthy textile manufacturer, in 1911, thus becoming Lady Bullough. Sadly, the marriage was an unhappy one, and this was clear by 1915. However due to the social stigma associated with divorce, the couple remained together unhappily until the early 1930s when they finally divorced.

********************Cinégraphic was a French film production company founded by director Marcel L'Herbier in the 1920s. It was established following a disagreement between L'Herbier and the Gaumont Company, a major film distributor, over the film "Don Juan et Faust". Cinégraphic was involved in the production of several films, including "Don Juan et Faust" itself. Cinégraphic focused on more experimental and artistic films.

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

Fun things to look for in this tableau:

The silver tray of biscuits have been made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. The cheeses come from Beautifully handmade Miniatures in Kettering, as do the two slightly scalloped white gilt plates and the wonderful golden yellow roses in the glass vase on the table. The cutlery I acquired through Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. The bottle of Bordeaux is hand made from glass and is an artisan miniature made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The bottle features the label from a real winery in Bordeaux. The silver tray on which the wine bottle on the table is made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The two glasses of red wine are made of real glass and were acquired from an online miniatures stockist in the United Kingdom.

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

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

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

Casting a Long Shadow by raaen99

© raaen99, all rights reserved.

Casting a Long Shadow

Anyone who follows my photostream knows that I love and collect 1:12 size miniatures which I photograph in realistic scenes. The artifice of recreating in minute detail items in 1:12 scale always amazes me, and it’s amazing how the eye can be fooled. Amongst the tens of thousands of items that make up the collection, I have a substantial glassware selection. This includes this beautiful blue glass jug and its matching glasses, which I bought from a high street stockist of dolls and dolls’ house miniatures when I was a young teenager. The pieces are made from hand blown and spun glass, and I am very partial to the colour.

The theme for “Smile on Saturday” for the 3rd of May is “the shadow of glass”, so I really wanted to use a piece or two from my miniatures collection for it. I have photographed the drinks set on a page from one of my books on glass from my library: “Glass: Pleasures and Treasures” by George Savage, published by Weidenfield and Nicholson in 1965. The image from the book depicts a blue glass urn from Roman times. Setting the miniature drinks set up on the page, I was so delighted by the long blue shadows they cast. I spent a bit of time arranging them, and this was the shot I liked the most. I hope you like my choice of this week’s theme too, and that it makes you smile!

The Return of Mrs. Hatchett by raaen99

© raaen99, all rights reserved.

The Return of Mrs. Hatchett

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

Today however we are not in Lettice’s flat. Instead, we have followed Lettice south-east, past the Royal Academy, across Picadilly, through the neighbouring borough of St James’ with its private clubs and gentlemen’s tailors, over St James’ Park and Birdcage Walk where once the Royal Menagerie and aviaries of King James I and King Charles II had stood, to Queen Anne’s Gate* in Westminster, lined with fine early Eighteenth Century townhouses. Walking beneath a cloudy spring sky with teasing peeks of blue between the rolling white and grey clouds, Lettice strides up the street with unhurried footsteps, cutting a fine figure in her three-quarter length fox fur coat with a wide brimmed red felt hat positioned at a jaunty angle on her head. The heels of her red pumps click along the footpath as she looks up pleasurably and admires the simple, elegant façades of the red and rich brown brick buildings around her, all set with rigid rows of twelve, nine and six pane Georgian windows. She pauses to make a closer inspection of one of the ornately carved canopies** over the main door of a residence. Painted in white to match the window frames of the house, the wood of the canopy is finely carved with a mixture of flowers, draped festoons, oak leaves and acorns. In the centre, the face of a woman, possibly Queen Anne herself, peers out surrounded by the curls of her hair and lace of her collar. It is then that she realises as she notices the shiny brass numbers nailed to the black painted door, that she has reached her destination. “Very nice.” she murmurs in a mixture of approval and admiration. She can hear the muffled sound of distant hammering but cannot tell whether it emanates from the house she stands before, or another in the row. Looking behind her she notices several tradesmen’s vehicles parked amidst the smarter Austins and Worsleys along the street. Walking up the two Portland stone steps to the front door she notices a bell pull sticking out of the red brick to the left of the door. She pulls it. From within the house the sound of a loud bell echoes hollowly, implying that the interior is devoid of furnishings. She waits, but when no-one comes to open the door, she exercises the bellpull for longer. Once again, the bell echoes mournfully from deep within the house behind the closed door. Finally, a pair of shuffling footsteps can be heard along with indecipherable muttering and then a vaguely familiar fruity cough as the latch to the door turns.

“Mrs. Boothby!” Lettice exclaims, coming face-to-face with the wrinkled face of her charwoman*** as the old Cockney woman opens the door to the townhouse.

“Well, as I live an’ breave!” she exclaims in return with a broad and toothy smile before coughing loudly again, making Lettice wince. “If it ain’t Miss Lettice! G’mornin’ mum!” Dressed in a bright floral cotton pinny over her dress and with an equally bright and cheerfully patterned scarf tied around her head, she bobs a curtsey respectfully. “You must be ‘ere to see Mrs. ‘Atchett! C’mon in wiv ya!”

Lettice walks through the door held open by Mrs. Boothby and steps into a well proportioned vestibule devoid of furnishings, but with traces of where furniture and paintings once were by way of tell-tale shadows and outlines on the floor and walls. Now that she has stepped into the townhouse, she can hear the hammering and sawing of tradesmen more clearly, confirming that the work she heard from outside is happening in this building. Ahead of her a carved dividing screen of two burnished mahogany columns with a delicate glass lunette**** of seven panes of clear glass splaying out from a central semi-circle above, frames an equally empty hallway at the end of which she can see the sweeping curl of a bannistered Georgian staircase with dainty spindles along it. Only a non-working clock with a brass frame showing the wrong time graces the walls of the hallway, imbedded into a space above a closed doorway that may possibly lead downstairs the servants’ quarters in the basement.

“Come this way, mum. Mrs. ‘Atchett’s frough ‘ere, just up the stairs, in the drawin’ room on the first floor.” Mrs. Boothby says. “If you can call it that right now.” The old woman leads the way, her low heeled shoes slapping across the dusty, stained and badly damaged parquetry floor, pieces of which are missing or sticking up, splintered. Noticing Lettice’s concerned look, the Mrs. Boothby goes on, “You mustn’t mind the mess, mum. It’s all sixes ‘n’ sevens ‘round ‘ere, what wiv tradesmen thumpin’ in and out in their ‘obnail boots*****. C’mon up.”

“How is it that you are here, Mrs. Boothby?” Lettice asks in bewilderment as she follows the older woman down the hallway and up the staircase, which she finds is carpeted in a tatty, filthy and moth eaten Victorian stair runner.

“Well, you know ‘ow it is, mum. Word gets ‘round.” Mrs. Boothby replies with air of mystery.

“Does it, Mrs. Boothby?” Lettice queries, eyeing the back of her charwoman sceptically as they ascend the stairs with Mrs. Boothby in the lead.

“Indeed it does, mum!” Mrs. Boothby replies cheerfully, releasing another of her fruity coughs as she does.

“This is quite a coincidence.” Lettice adds, remembering when she first visited the Pimlico flat of one of her former clients, the American film actress Wanetta Ward, and found Mrs. Boothby answering the door. “This wouldn’t happen to be because you heard from Edith that I was potentially going to do some redecoration for Mrs. Hatchett, would it Mrs. Boothby?”

Mrs. Boothby stops on the first floor landing. Turning back to face Lettice she allows her hand to rest upon the curving mahogany bannister. “’Eavens no, mum! Our Edith is the soul of discretion! She’d never gossip ‘bout you or ‘ooever you’re decoratin’ for!” she purposefully lies with an air of conviction in her voice, determined not to let Edith, Lettice’s maid, suffer any consequences because Mrs. Boothby easily wheedled out of her the fact that Mrs. Hatchett was setting up a house in Queen Anne’s Gate with her Member of Parliament husband. “’Er mum brung ‘er up proppa, just like mine did me.”

“Of course, Mrs. Boothby!” Lettice finds herself apologising. “So, how did you find this position, working for Mrs. Hatchett, then, Mrs. Boothby?”

“Well I cleaned for Lady Pembroke-Duttson, just ‘round the corner from ‘ere ‘till ‘er ‘ouse burnt dahwn in November that is. I was doin’ for ‘er in ‘er new ‘ouse in them fancy Artillery Mansions******, and she mentioned that Mrs. ‘Atchett was movin’ into the neighbour’ood, so I made some enquiries. So, ‘ere I is.” She spreads her careworn hands expansively. “Lady Pembroke-Duttson left a big gap in me schedule, so I’m ‘opin’ this’ll be permanent like soon.”

“But I thought you just said you were still cleaning for Lady Pembroke-Duttson, Mrs. Boothby.” Lettice says with a sceptical squint.

“Ay?” the old woman asks.

“You just said that you were cleaning for Lady Pembroke-Duttson.” Lettice elucidates. “How can she leave a gap in your schedule of jobs if you’re still cleaning for her.”

Thinking quickly on her feet, Mrs. Boothby releases a throaty chuckle, blushing as she does. “Lawd luv you, mum! Cleanin’ a flat in Artillery Mansions ain’t like cleanin’ ‘er old ‘ouse what burnt dahwn. ‘Er old ‘ouse ‘ad ever so many rooms, whereas now she’s got rooms ‘bout the size of yours, mum. That leaves a big gap, mum.”

Lettice silently wonders whether the old charwoman’s story holds any truth, however she has no proof that it doesn’t, so she just smiles benignly and nods. Whether Mrs. Boothby squeezes titbits of gossip from Edith or not, the pair of domestics keep Lettice’s Cavendish Mews flat spick and span, and with such difficulty finding decent staff in the aftermath of the war, Lettice decides that she best say nothing about her suspicions to Edith.

“Anyway,” Mrs. Boothby adds. “It’s only right, ain’t it?”

“What is, Mrs. Boothby?”

“Me cleanin’ for Mr. and Mrs. “Atchett, mum.”

“How so, Mrs. Boothby?” Lettice queries.

“Well, Charlie ‘Atchett’s the MP for Tower ‘Amlets*******, and that includes me, what wiv me own ‘ouse bein’ in Poplar! It’s only right!”

“Does Mrs. Hatchett know that you clean for me, Mrs. Boothby?” Lettice asks warily, holding her breath as she speaks.

“Lawn no, mum.” Mrs. Boothby cackles.

“Well, just see that she doesn’t, Mrs. Boothby.” Lettice snaps, irritated by the cockney woman’s gib attitude to the situation. “I can’t have a whiff of any perceived potential gossip from me with Mrs. Hatchett. I won’t have any such thing jeopardise this commission.”

“As if I would.” Mrs. Boothby replies with a lofty air. “Come along now. She’s just in ‘ere.”

The pair walk down a dingy oak panelled corridor lined with open doors through which Lettice can see a series of rooms in different states of decay and repair, all empty except for one where a group of workmen on scaffolds strip paper off a wall and patch the brickwork behind it, and a second where men are laying a new floor, which is where all the hammering is emanating from. The old Cockney woman leads Lettice past a fine mahogany door that has been removed from its hinges and into a gloomy room devoid of furniture except for a pair of old, mouldering brown leather wingback******** armchairs, a neat pedestal table and a portrait sitting on an easel. A large white marble fireplace is being scrubbed with a wiry brush by another charwoman, far younger than Mrs. Boothby, overweight and with a mass of black curls tied back off her face by a rag bandeau********* on her hands and knees in front of the grate, grunting noisily with her laboured movements, her efforts revealing beautiful white details from beneath many years of brown grime.

“Well, she was ‘ere, mum.” Mrs. Boothby apologises in surprise. “I dunno know where she’s gawn now.” She looks at the other charwoman cleaning the fireplace. “’Ere, Elsie! You know where Mrs. ‘Atchett’s gawn?”

“Nah!” the charwoman grunts back monosyllabically before pausing in her labours and leaning back on her haunches and looks up at Mrs. Boothby, ignoring Lettice’s presence entirely. “Gawn to the lav most likely. I think I need it too. Cleanin’ this fireplace gives me the shits**********!”

Lettice sucks in a gulp of air in shock at the other woman’s vulgarity.

“Elsie!” Mrs. Boothby exclaims aghast. “Whachoo fink you’re doin’, sayin’ words like that in front of a laydee! This ‘ere is the Honourable Miss Lettice Chetwynd, what’s a friend of Mrs. ‘Atchett’s.” She gesticulates with sweeping gestures around Lettice like a vendeuse*********** showing off a model in the latest fashion.

“So?” Elise replies, yawning loudly, giving Lettice ample view of her grey, rotting teeth. “’S not my concern!” Scrabbling off her knees with another exhausted groan, she wanders off lazily, her down-at-heel slippers slapping loudly across the floor as she exits the room through another door, muttering to herself as she does.

“I do beg your pardon, mum.” Mrs. Boothby apologises profusely.

“It’s quite alright, Mrs. Boothby.” Lettice replies, gracefully attempting to smooth over the nasty gaff from the other woman.

“No it ain’t! Elsie’s got no right to talk to you like that! Elsie was ‘ere when I arrived. I dunno, ‘cos I don’t talk to ‘er much, but I fink she’s the daughter of one of the carp’nters,” She indicates behind her with her right thumb. “And the wife of annuva. She’s very rude, lazy, and got no respect for no-one.” Her old face crumples in distaste. “She certainly ain’t no friend of mine, and that’s a fact!”

“Really, it’s quite fine.” Lettice assures Mrs. Boothby.

“I’ll go see if I can find Mrs. ‘Atchett for you, mum.” Mrs. Boothby says soothingly, bustling from the room through the same open door Elsie had exited through.

Left alone, Lettice is better able to explore and take in her gloomy surroundings. The walls are papered in old fashioned Victorian flocked wallpaper which must once have been a beautiful gold, but is now dreary, faded and tattered. Large floor to ceiling bookshelves made of dark mahogany run along the walls to either side of the fireplace, adding to the overall cheerlessness of the room. Dirty and torn scrim hangs at the window, obscuring the view and the much needed daylight. There is a pervading smell of damp which is only offset by the scent of freshly cut timber coming from the carpenters laying the floor down the hallway. Lettice notices a single ornate pedestal appearing out of the gloom in the space to the right of the fireplace. Various cleaning agents have been left around the room: some Vim*********** on an empty bookshelf beneath a bright yellow cleaning cloth, probably deposited there by Mrs. Boothby, and some Zebo Grate Polish************* on the mantle along with a feather duster. The blue, red and yellow Victorian carpet beneath her feet must once have been very fine, but now, like the stair runner is faded, worn and dirty. In fact, aside from the portrait on the easel, there is a thick film of filth on almost every surface, as though it has been decades since the room was property cleaned. The portrait however, is dazzling by comparison to its surroundings. Set in a simple gold frame, the oil on canvas depicts Mrs. Hatchett with her modishly styled blonde hair and pale peaches and cream complexion in a pale blue gown against a neutral coloured background. Mrs. Hatchett’s eyes glitter and sparkle whilst a gentle smile teases the edges of her reddened lips. The strokes are bold and the image has a sense of energy and about it.

“Do you like it, Miss Chetwynd?” comes a familiar voice.

Lettice turns and sees Dolly Hatchett standing in the doorway Mrs. Boothby and Elsie had disappeared through. Like her portrait, Mrs. Hatchett’s pale blue eyes twinkle and sparkle with life, and her soft skin has a gentle glow to it as she smiles at Lettice, her simple gesture adding warmth and joy to the cheerless room. No wonder Captain Charles Hatchett, home on leave during the Great War, had fallen in love with the chorus girl from ‘Chu Chin Chow’************** as he watched her in the darkened auditorium of His Majesty’s Theatre. Wrapped in a sleek full length mink coat with a string of pearls at her throat and a fashionable black felt cloche from under which her blonde waves poke, the slightly awkward and gauche wife of the once banker, now Member of Parliament, that Lettice met for the first time at her Sussex home in 1921 is gone. In her place stands an elegant and confident woman whose experience, social advancement and successes since that time have given her a presence which Lettice cannot help but admire.

“Mrs. Hatchett!” Lettice exclaims. “You look wonderful!”

Mrs. Hatchett laughs, her peal beautiful and carefree, as she steps into the room, walking with poise across the carpet to Lettice’s side. “No, not me, Miss Chetwynd, the portrait!”

“Oh!” Lettice turns and glances back at the painting before returning her attention to Mrs. Hatchett. “Oh it’s marvellous too, but not nearly so much as you, Mrs. Hatchett.” she enthuses.

“You always were so kind to me, Miss Chetwynd,” Mrs. Hatchett says with a dismissive sweep of her hand. “Thank you.” She blushes.

“You’ve changed so much, Mrs. Hatchett.” Lettice remarks with a smile. “You are nothing like the, dare I say it, mousey, young woman I met in 1921! You’re so, so assured, self-possessed!”

Mrs. Hatchett laughs again. “I’m still little Dolly Hatchett the chorus girl under my warpaint.” She cocks an expertly plucked and shaped eyebrow, also newly acquired since Lettice last met her, over her eye. “I’m just better at disguising her now, so I can be the suitable wife successful MP for Towers Hamlets, Charles Hatchett, needs.”

“I’m sure it’s more than that, Mrs. Hatchett.” Lettice counters.

“Maybe,” Mrs. Hatchett admits quietly. “But if it is, I have you and dear Mr. Bruton to thank for it. You helped me to understand that I deserved more respect than that which I received from my mother-in-law, and Mr. Bruton taught me the power of clothes when it comes to presenting a confident appearance.”

“Indeed he has!” Lettice sighs. “You look ever so smart and select, Mrs. Hatchett.”

“Thank you, Miss Chetwynd.” Mrs. Hatchett purrs. “Goodness, it does seem an age since that wonderful weekend at ‘The Gables’.”

“Yes, we were celebrating the completion of my interior decoration for you.”

“And you encouraged me to let myself be dressed by Mr. Bruton that first evening. Now everyone in Rotherfield and Mark Cross, and a good many more beyond it, follows what I wear with interest and try to mimic it.”

“Well, I’m happy for you, Mrs. Hatchett.”

A gust of wind blows outside, causing the windows to rattle in their casings and the scrim to quiver. The rasp of leaves echoes from the fireplace and some dust and soot falls from the chimney and into the empty blacklead grate.

Lettice shivers. “I’m glad you warned me to wear a fur coat here, Mrs. Hatchett. It’s rather chilly.”

“I’d have had a fire laid, Miss Chetwynd,” Mrs. Hatchett apologises. “But I’m a bit apprehensive that the whole place doesn’t ignite before I get chimney sweeps in to check and clean the flues. One of the daily women I’ve hired told me of a woman who lived not far from here that she cleaned for, whose house went up in flames dramatically in November.”

“Did she?” Lettice tries to muffle a gentle smile with her hand.

“She did! She said she was lucky to get away with her life!”

Lettice’s smile broadens as she recognises the more innocent, less worldly, but more endearing Dolly Hatchett carefully obscured beneath the layers of Gerald’s couture, just as Mrs. Hatchett assured her she was.

“Anyway,” Mrs. Hatchett goes on. “What do you think of the House of Usher?”

“You don’t like it, Mrs. Hatchett?” Lettice queries, surprised considering how enthused Mrs. Hatchett had sounded over the telephone about she and her husband’s new London home, intended to replace the pied-à-terre*************** in Kensington that Charles and she are currently using as their London base.

“Oh I do from the outside,” Mrs. Hatchett quickly explains. “But this…” Her voice trails off as she waves her hand around the room.

“Yes,” Lettice sighs. “This.”

As if the house knows that it is being spoken of disparagingly, some more soot falls from somewhere high above, crashing and crumbling into the grate in a disgruntled fashion.

“Charlie tells me that her bones are good,” Mrs. Hatchett goes on. “But looking about these rooms all I see is decay.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far, Mrs. Hatchett!” Lettice blusters. “It seems to me that you’ve already begun the house’s rebirth and renewal. The rooms are well proportioned, being early Eighteenth Century.”

“Aaahh…” Mrs. Hatchett sighs contentedly. “And that’s why I need your eye of possibility again, Miss Chetwynd. You saw through all my mother-in-law’s drab Victorian décor at ‘The Gables’ and envisioned how beautiful and light it could be, and you brought that vision to fruition. Now you can see it here, or at least I hope you can, somewhere under the layers and layers of filth and decomposition.”

“I think I can.” Lettice admits, looking around the room again.

She goes to sit in the larger of the old wingback brown leather chairs.

“Oh, I shouldn’t do that if I were you, Miss Chetwynd!” Mrs. Hatchett exclaims, putting out her hands to stop Lettice from sitting.

“Why ever not, Mrs. Hatchett?” Lettice asks in surprise.

“Well, for a start, in case you hadn’t noticed, we do have a bit of damp problem. There’s nothing to say it hasn’t gotten into the furniture left by the auctioneers when they cleaned the house out.”

“Yes,” Lettice sniffs and screws up her nose a little. “There is a definite sense of dampness in the air.”

“Oh, and behind these worn old papers,” She gesticulates around the room again. “And in the plaster ceilings, under the wainscots, and,” She moves the toe of her black leather pump back and forth on the carpet, making the parquet flooring beneath groan. “And the floorboards.”

“Oh don’t, Mrs. Hatchett!” Lettice pleads her hostess, who smiles cheekily when she sees Lettice shiver.

Stopping her torment of the floor, Mrs. Hatchett goes on. “Secondly, I believe he died there.”

“Who?” Lettice’s eyes grow wide as she stares at the worn seat of the chair.

“The Admiral.” Mrs. Hatchett replies, pointing to the single painting hanging on the wall in the room, hanging above the fireplace.

Lettice looks up at the portrait, which like most everything else in the room is dark and covered in a film of dirt. Through the filth, beneath the cracking golden yellow layers of varnish, Lettice can see a rather handsome looking gentleman in a dark frock coat and orange breeches leaning against a wall, gazing out of the frame into the distance.

“Or so I have on good authority.” Mrs. Hatchett adds.

“From whom?” Lettice asks in alarm.

“From his old housekeeper.” Mrs. Hatchett replies. “She came with the house, staying on after the Admiral died to show us, as the new owners, the quirks of the house.”

“That’s quite a quirk!” Lettice looks askance at the chair.

“Apparently, he was one hundred and twelve when he died. He was bed, ahem…” Mrs. Hatchett clears her throat awkwardly. “Chair ridden and he only lived in this room and a few others since 1910. You wait until I show you some of the downstairs rooms towards Birdcage Walk where the garden has unceremoniously entered the house.”

“Well, I shall lo…” Lettice begins when a sudden rattling over crockery interrupts her words.

“’Ere we are mum… err… Miss… Miss Chetwynd,” Mrs. Boothby stutters as she quickly remembers that she is supposed to pretend that she doesn’t know Lettice. “And Mrs. ‘Atchett.” The old woman walks into the room carrying a wooden tray on which sit two plain white teacups and saucers, a matching milk jug, sugar bowl, a non-matching but pretty floral teapot covered in pink roses, and a tin of Huntly and Palmer**************** biscuits.

“Oh splendid timing Mrs. Boothby!” Mrs. Hatchett sighs, clapping her steepled fingers in delight.

With a groan, Mrs. Boothby lowers it onto the pedestal table. “Take a seat, mu… Miss Chetwynd and Mrs. ‘Atchett!”

“I think I’d prefer to stand.” Lettice remarks, looks askance at the chair.

“Suit yourself.” Mrs. Boothby remarks, looking oddly first at Lettice and then at the chair, screwing up her nose as she considers the chair may be a little grubby, but not beyond her mistress sitting in. “Do you want me to keep cleanin’ in ‘ere, mum?” she addresses Mrs. Hatchett.

Lettice almost replies automatically, but luckily her utterance is cut off by Mrs. Hatchett.

“If you’d just focus on the dining room for now, thank you Mrs. Boothby. You may return here after Miss Chetwynd and I have finished our business.”

“Very good, mum.” Mrs. Boothby answers, dropping a quick bob curtsey. She turns and goes to walk away. Then she turns back to Mrs. Hatchett. “Oh, and mum?”

“Yes Mrs. Boothby?” Mrs. Hatchett asks.

“You’re still alright wiv me ‘avin that old teapot I found,” She nods towards the floral teapot on the tray.

“Oh yes, Mrs. Boothby. Of course! Of course!” Mrs. Hatchett replies.

She giggles once the old Cockney woman has left the room. “I do believe she is a bit of a collector.” She smiles indulgently at Lettice. “But I rather like her, so I can’t help but indulge her.”

“She is certainly nicer than the other daily woman I met.” Lettice adds seriously.

“Oh, the other one came with them.” Mrs. Hatchett indicates through the door off its hinges into the hallway where the banging of nails being hammered into wood continue. “She’s rather slovenly, and certainly sullen.”

“You still can’t quite manage the staff, can you, Mrs. Hatchett?” Lettice chuckles.

Mrs. Hatchett chuckles self consciously in return. “I told you that it’s still little me under this façade that you and Mr. Bruton helped to create.” She muses silently to herself, smiling before continuing, “I think I might employ her as a daily.”

“What?” Lettice ask in surprise. “Who?”

“Mrs. Boothby. The old woman who answered the door to you and brought our tea in. She’s been very reliable and works hard, she knows the area well, has a cheerful disposition, and she seems to have some rather good references.”

Lettice does not reply to Mrs. Hatchett’s remarks about Mrs. Boothby as Mrs. Hatchett sets about pouring tea into the teacups, which Lettice notices are thicker and plainer than what she is used to, and assumes that they must be part of an old servant’s set from below stairs, left when the Admiral’s more finer possessions were cleared out by the auctioneers who sold off his estate. Perhaps the teapot escaped by being hidden in an out of the way corner cupboard, she considers.

“So, Mrs. Hatchett,” Lettice finally says with a sigh, accepting a cup of tea proffered to her by Mrs. Hatchett to which she adds sugar and milk. “You’d like me to decorate this room, a dining room and another reception room?”

“Yes, Miss Chetwynd.” Mrs. Hatchett enthuses. “The suite of principal rooms on this floor, which Charlie and I will use as our main entertaining space.”

“I shall have to see the state of the other rooms.” Lettice sips her tea as she stands next to Mrs. Hatchett and looks again around the gloomy interior in the midst of which they stand with a critical eye.

“I shall take you on a tour directly after we’ve had our tea, Miss Chetwynd.” Mrs. Hatchett replies. “And I’ll show you some of the rooms you won’t have to deal with, luckily for you. Biscuit?” She opens the tin of Huntley and Palmer’s Empire Assortment and proffers the selection of biscuits to Lettice.

“I can’t take your commission on straight away.” Lettice tempers her companion’s enthusiasm as she selects a jam fancy from amongst the biscuits on the offing in the tin. “I’ve just accepted a commission from another client who wants some work done on her country house in Essex.”

“Oh, that’s alright!” Mrs. Hatchett replies, selecting a Bourbon biscuit for herself. “This place won’t be shipshape for a good month or two yet: maybe even longer. Work is only really just getting started.” She bites into her biscuit and munches it pleasurably.

“And what do you envisage this time, Mrs. Hatchett?” Lettice asks after finishing her own mouthful of biscuit and sip of tea. “Oh, and just to be clear, I won’t settle for chintz of any kind this time.”

“Oh no, my dear Miss Chetwynd! Of course not!” Mrs. Hatchett assures her.

“Well, I know you have a fondness for it, Mrs. Hatchett.” Lettice eyes Mrs. Hatchett over the white china edge of her cup as she takes another sip of tea.

“I do, Miss Chetwynd. I won’t lie.” Mrs. Hatchett admits guiltily. “But not this time. Not here.”

“Good!” Lettice replies. “Then we are in agreeance.”

“When you came to ‘The Gables’, Miss Chetwynd,” Mrs. Hatchett goes on. “I told you that I didn’t need you to ape the houses of peers with your own taste.”

“Yes, I remember that, Mrs. Hatchett.”

“Well this time, because this is a London house, and a place where Charlie and I plan to entertain other MPs and dignitaries, I need Queen Anne’s Gate to exude stability, knowledge and most of all, sophistication.”

“And what does that look like to you, Mrs. Hatchett?” Lettice asks.

“No, what does it look like to you, Miss Chetwynd? You once again have a clean slate to work with.” She looks around her critically. “Or rather it will be when you come back.”

“If I agree.” Lettice counters.

“Can you resist such an offer, Miss Chetwynd? I’m giving you carte blanche to redesign and decorate these rooms.”

“Do you really mean that, Mrs. Hatchett?” Lettice asks. When Mrs. Hatchett nods her confirmation, Lettice goes on, “Well, if I am to be given carte blanche, may I ask, how avant-garde might I be permitted to be with this interior design?”

“As much as you want, Miss Chetwynd!” Mrs. Hatchett says with a hopeful lilt. “Carte blanche! Neither Charlie nor I know anything about art perse, so we’ll be guided by you. My only request is that I was hoping you could take some of your inspiration from my portrait in your design.” She walks over to her portrait and rubs the edge of the gilded frame affectionately. “You see, I’m really rather proud of it, and I want it to hang above the fireplace in here in place of the Admiral’s portrait.”

“A centrepiece?”

“Yes, that’s right!”

Lettice looks at the portrait again, carefully admiring the vivid brushstrokes of the artist who has so expertly captured Mrs. Hatchett’s spirit. “Very good, Mrs. Hatchett.” she agrees with a smile.

“Oh hoorah!” Mrs. Hatchett deposits her teacup and what is left of her biscuit on the tray and claps her hands in delight. “So, what have you in mind, Miss Chetwynd?”

“There is an exhibition happening in Paris in April. It’s called ‘Exposition internationale des arts décoratifs et industriels modernes’*****************. It is highlighting and showcasing the new modern style of architecture and interior design: a style I am an exponent of. I’m planning to go when it opens, Mrs. Hatchett, and I’m hoping to gather new ideas on interior design there and incorporate them into my own. Since the house won’t be finished for a few months, I could use your interior designs to showcase some of my ideas inspired by the exhibition.”

“I say!” Mrs. Hatchett breathes. “How deliciously fashionable! I’d have the most avant-garde house amongst the MPs’ wives! That would be a feather for my cap!”

“Yes, it would, Mrs. Hatchett.” Lettice purrs. “You’d be the most fashionable, the most up-to-date, the most smart and select.”

“Yes! I agree!” Mrs. Hatchett laughs. “As avant-garde and daring as you like, Miss Chetwynd!”

“Then we’d best finish our tea so you can show me around, Mrs. Hatchett.” Lettice concludes.

*Queen Anne’s Gate is a street in Westminster, London. Many of the buildings are Grade I listed, known for their Queen Anne architecture. Simon Bradley and Nikolaus Pevsner described the Gate’s early Eighteenth Century houses as “the best of their kind in London.” The street’s proximity to the Palace of Westminster made it a popular residential area for politicians.

**Originally a street and a square, Queen Anne’s Gate began life as Queen Square and Park Street. The two were separated by a high wall until 1873when the two areas were combined into Queen Anne’s Gate. Queen Square was constructed first, then when Park Street was constructed, residents of Queen Square were so concerned that the road would be used as a cut through for carriages to avoid the traffic of King Street, the Sanctuary and Tothill Street that a subscription was collected for the building of the wall to avoid the residents having the peace of their square disturbed. The architecture of the buildings in the original Queen Square part of Queen Anne’s Gate is superb, and the main doors to the majority of buildings have very elaborate decorated wooden canopies.

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

****A lunette is a crescent- or half-moon–shaped or semi-circular architectural space or feature, usually above a doorway or walkway, variously filled by windows, masonry, a painted mural, or sometimes left void.

*****Hobnailed boots (known in Scotland as “tackety boots”) are boots with hobnails (nails inserted into the soles of the boots), usually installed in a regular pattern, over the sole. They usually have an iron horseshoe-shaped insert, called a heel iron, to strengthen the heel, and an iron toe-piece. They may also have steel toecaps. Often used for mountaineering, the hobnails project below the sole and provide traction on soft or rocky terrain and snow, but they tend to slide on smooth, hard surfaces. They have been used since antiquity for inexpensive durable footwear, and were often by workmen and the military.

******Built in Westminster, quite close to the Palace of Westminster and the Houses of Parliament Artillery Mansions was just one of the many fine Victorian mansion blocks to be built in Victoria Street around St James Underground Railway Station in the late 1800s. Constructed around open courtyards which served as carriageways and residential gardens, the mansion blocks were typically built of red brick in the fashionable Queen Anne style. The apartments were designed to appeal to young bachelors or MPs who often had late parliamentary sittings, with many of the apartments not having kitchens, providing instead communal dining areas, rather like a gentleman’s club. Artillery Mansions, like many large mansion blocks employed their own servants to maintain the flats and address the needs of residents. During the Second World War, Artillery Mansions was commandeered by the Secret Intelligence Service as a headquarters. After the war, the building reverted to private residences again, but with so many of its former inhabitants either dead, elderly or in changed circumstances owing to the war, it became a place to house many ex-servicemen. The Army and Navy Company, who ran the Army and Navy Stores just up Victoria Street registered ‘Army and Navy Ltd.’ at Artillery Mansions as a lettings management company. By the 1980s, Artillery Mansions was deserted and in a state of disrepair. It was taken over by a group of ideological squatters who were determined to bring homelessness and housing affordability to the government’s attention, but within ten years, with misaligned ideologies and infighting, the squatters had moved on, and in the 1990s, Artillery Mansions was bought by developers and turned into luxury apartments.

*******The London constituency of Tower Hamlets includes such areas and historic towns as (roughly from west to east) Spitalfields, Whitechapel, Bethnal Green, Wapping, Shadwell, Mile End, Stepney, Limehouse, Old Ford, Bow, Bromley, Poplar, and the Isle of Dogs (with Millwall, the West India Docks, and Cubitt Town), making it a majority working class constituency in 1925 when this story is set. Tower Hamlets included some of the worst slums and societal issues of inequality and poverty in England at that time.

********A wingback chair is a type of chair with a back that curves out to the sides. Wingback chairs are named for the wings, or extensions, of fabric on either side of the seat, typically, but not always, stretching down to the arm rest. The wings can be made of wood or metal, but they're typically padded and upholstered in fabric. The wingback chair was invented in the Sixteenth Century. It was created during a period of fine English furniture design when English furniture makers were creating furniture that has elaborate designs and ornate carvings. The name “wingback chair” is derived from the chair's back wings. The wings were added to provide support for the head and neck of the person sitting in it, as well as affording the sitter with protection from draughts and to trap the heat from a fireplace in the area where the person would be sitting. Hence, in the past, these were often used near a fireplace. They also provided a place for a person to rest their arms, which gave it its distinctive look—a shape similar to that of a bird's wing or butterfly wing.

*********A bandeau is a narrow band worn round the head to hold the hair in position.

**********Believe it or not, but the interjection of “shit” was not uncommon by the 1920s amidst the lower classes. The earliest known use of the interjection shit is in the 1860s. It is also recorded as a noun from the Old English period (pre-1150).

***********Derived from the French, a vendeuse is a saleswoman, usually one in a fashionable dress shop.

************Vim was a common cleaning agent, used in any Edwardian household. Vim scouring powder was created by William Hesketh Lever (1st Viscount Leverhulme) and introduced to the market in 1904. It was produced at Port Sunlight in Wirrel, Merseyside, a model village built by Lever Brothers for the workers of their factories which produced the popular soap brands Lux, Lifebuoy and Sunlight.

*************Zebo (or originally Zebra) Grate Polish was a substance launched in 1890 by Reckitts to polish the grate to a gleam using a mixture that consisted of pure black graphite finely ground, carbon black, a binding agent and a solvent to keep it fluid for application with a cloth or more commonly newspaper.

************* ‘Chu Chin Chow’ is a musical comedy written, produced and directed by Oscar Asche, with music by Frederic Norton, based on the story of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. It was the most popular show in London’s West End during the Great War. It premiered at His Majesty’s Theatre in London on the 3rd of August 1916 and ran for 2,238 performances, a record number that stood for nearly forty years!

**************The Fall of the House of Usher is a short story in the horror/gothic genre by American writer Edgar Allan Poe, first published in 1839 in Burton's Gentleman's Magazine. The story revolves around the narrator visiting his the house of his childhood friend, Roderick Usher: the House of Usher falling slowly but more surely into decrepitude as the story goes on, before finally splitting in two as the narrator flees, and silking into a lake.

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

****************Huntley and Palmers is a British firm of biscuit makers originally based in Reading, Berkshire. The company created one of the world’s first global brands and ran what was once the world’s largest biscuit factory. Over the years, the company was also known as J. Huntley and Son and Huntley and Palmer. Huntley and Palmer were renown for their ‘superior reading biscuits’ which they promoted in different varieties for different occasions, including at breakfast time, morning and afternoon tea and reading time.

*****************The International Exhibition of Modern Decorative and Industrial Arts was a specialized exhibition held in Paris, from April the 29th (the day after it was inaugurated in a private ceremony by the President of France) to October the 25the, 1925. It was designed by the French government to highlight the new modern style of architecture, interior decoration, furniture, glass, jewelry and other decorative arts in Europe and throughout the world. Many ideas of the international avant-garde in the fields of architecture and applied arts were presented for the first time at the exposition. The event took place between the esplanade of Les Invalides and the entrances of the Grand Palais and Petit Palais, and on both banks of the Seine. There were fifteen thousand exhibitors from twenty different countries, and it was visited by sixteen million people during its seven-month run. The modern style presented at the exposition later became known as “Art Deco”, after the exposition's name.

Although this may appear to be a real room, this is in fact made up with 1:12 miniatures from my miniatures collection.

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

The two intentionally worn leather wingback chairs are both 1:12 artisan miniatures which I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom. The small pedestal table, the white plaster fireplace, the black painted metal fire basket and fender, black painted fire irons, easel, metal step ladder and pedestal also come from there. The painting on the easel is my own selection of what I thought Mrs. Hatchett might look like, put into a gilded frame that also came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop.

The wooden tea tray is a 1;12 artisan miniature piece that I acquired from a miniatures stockist on E-Bay. The floral teapot is an artisan piece as well, decorated by the artist Rachel Munday, whose work is highly prized by miniatures collectors. The Huntley and Palmer’s Empire Assorted Biscuit tin containing a replica selection of biscuits is also a 1:12 artisan piece. The plain white teacups, milk jug and sugar bowl are painted metal and come from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop.

The painting hanging above the fireplace came from Amber’s Miniatures in the United States.

On the fireplace stands a bottle of Zebo grate polish and a can of Brasso. Zebo (or originally Zebra) Grate Polish was a substance launched in 1890 by Reckitts to polish the grate to a gleam using a mixture that consisted of pure black graphite finely ground, carbon black, a binding agent and a solvent to keep it fluid for application with a cloth or more commonly newspaper.

The feather duster on the fireplace mantle I made myself using fledgling feathers (very spring) which I picked up off the lawn one day thinking they would come in handy in my miniatures collection sometime. I bound them with thread to the handle which is made from a fancy ended toothpick!

On s shelf to the right of the photo on top of a yellow cleaning cloth is a can of Vim with stylised Edwardian. Vim was a common cleaning agent, used in any Edwardian household. Vim scouring powder was created by William Hesketh Lever (1st Viscount Leverhulme) and introduced to the market in 1904. It was produced at Port Sunlight in Wirrel, Merseyside, a model village built by Lever Brothers for the workers of their factories which produced the popular soap brands Lux, Lifebuoy and Sunlight.

The flocked wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend who encouraged me to use it as wallpaper for my 1:12 miniature tableaux.

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

Dollhouse by David Smalldon Digital Designs

© David Smalldon Digital Designs, all rights reserved.

Dollhouse

Haunted doll house by David Smalldon Digital Designs

© David Smalldon Digital Designs, all rights reserved.

Haunted doll house

Easter Sunday in Roundwood Park by raaen99

© raaen99, all rights reserved.

Easter Sunday in Roundwood Park

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

Today however we are northwest of Lettice’s flat, in the working-class London suburb of Harlesden where Edith, Lettice’s maid’s, parents live in a small, two storey brick terrace house which opens out directly onto the street. Edith’s father, George, works at the McVitie and Price biscuit factory in Harlesden, and her mother, Ada, takes in laundry at home, although with her husband’s promotion to a Line Manager, she no longer needs to do it quite so much to supplement their income. We have ventured slightly north of George and Ada’s little terrace and are in Roundwood Park*, a large Victorian public park built on Knowles Hill in the 1890s. It is here that George and Ada, Edith and her beau, Frank Leadbetter have come to enjoy a picnic together. Edith has been stepping out with Frank, the young grocery delivery boy and sometimes window dresser of Mr. Willison’s Grocery in Binney Street, Mayfair for a few years now, and he and Edith hope to announce their engagement soon.

Around the quartet, the bells of London ring out in the distance, calling the faithful who have not yet visited to prayers and masses, for today is Easter Sunday. Overhead the bright blue sky is clear, and the quartet are bathed in glorious spring sunshine as they settle around and on a wooden bench on the edge of a brick pathway that hedges one of the many lush green lawns of Roundwood Park. They are not alone with other families with similar ideas taking advantage of the good weather enjoying picnics of their own on the other benches around them and on the lush green lawns of the park. In the obscuring shadows of trees, young lovers share food and discreet kisses in a pleasurable moment of intimacy. People promenade past Edith and Ada as they withdraw cutlery, crockery and a batch of Ada’s home made hot cross buns from Edith’s beautiful picnic basket with the hand painted lid – a gift from Australia from her seafaring brother Bert, who is a steward aboard the SS Demosthenes** whose route runs between London and Australia via Cape Town. Children peer with interest at Ada’s hot cross buns, and one braver toddler even reaches out a chubby star like hand to take one, but is smacked swiftly by his mother as she tugs him away, creating a barrage of screams and tears.

“Good afternoon.” Ada says politely to a wealthier looking lady who passes them by, smiling down at Ada and Edith on their knees on the red paving stones of the footpath and catching Ada’s eye. The lady smiles and murmurs a polite return greeting before leisurely strolling on, the stick of her umbrella tapping the paving stones beneath her feet. Ada pats the brim her russet felt hat decorated with silk flowers and feathers self-consciously.

“What’s wrong, Mum?” Edith asks in concern, glancing at her mother.

“Did you see that lady’s hat?” Ada asks.

“I didn’t notice.” Edith remarks, withdrawing Ada’s trusty red thermos**** with the orange banding from her basket.

“It’s as lovely as yours.” Ada opines, nodding at her daughter’s hat.

With the arrival of spring like weather, Edith has forgone her usual black dyed straw cloche and is wearing the wider brimmed natural straw hat decorated with a gaily striped ribbon and artificial flowers and fruit that she bought from Mrs. Minkin, a Jewish haberdasher in Whitechapel, recommended to her by Lettice’s charwoman*** Mrs. Boothby.

“Not like my old, bedraggled hat.” Ada continues, patting its soft brim self-consciously again. “Everyone’s in their Easter Sunday best, and the best I can rustle up is a hat that’s probably seen too many Easter Sunday sermons.”

“Oh stop it, Mum!” Edith says, reaching out and grasping her mother’s forearm and squeezing it reassuringly. “You look fine.” She takes out a milk bottle with a gleaming gold foil cap.

“In my old dark red polka dot skirt with the flounces, whilst you’re in your pretty frock that echoes the spring?” Ada says, screwing up her face in doubt.

“Mum, you look fine!” Edith assures her. “In fact, you look better than fine. You look lovely.” Edith pauses for a moment. “And, you can hold your head up proudly against any of these fine ladies.”

Ada pulls a face but then concedes with a murmured thank you to her daughter for her kindness.

“With Dad being a Line Manager now, and money not as tight as it used to be, maybe we could go and visit Bishop’s***** the drapers, or better yet, Mrs. Minkin’s haberdashery over in Whitechapel, and I can help you shop for a new hat.”

“Oh Edith!” Ada scoffs. She looks down into her lap. “I should be ashamed for being so proud and self-conscious about my looks. It’s unseemly, especially in a woman my age.”

“No it isn’t, Mum.” Edith retorts. “You deserve to treat yourself every now and then. Why not a new hat? Anyway,” She smiles broadly at her mother. “You’ll need to get yourself a new hat when Frank and I get married, won’t you?”

‘Well, it can wait until then.” Ada assures her daughter.

“You know I’ve never been here before, Mr. Watsford.” Frank remarks to George as they stand in the sunshine whilst Edith and Ada unpack their Easter Sunday picnic. “It’s lovely, and I think much nicer than West Ham Park******, which was where we used to go as a family when I was young.”

“Yes,” George agrees. “It’s a beautiful park, and we have a lot of good memories of outings here as a family, isn’t that right, Ada love?”

“What’s that George?” Ada asks as she looks up from where she is placing a hot cross bun on each of the four white china plates Edith packed in the picnic basket.

“Here’ you’ve done enough,” George replies, bending down and putting his hands out to his wife. “Let’s get you up from there and settled on the bench, Ada love.”

Ada groans as she takes George’s hands gratefully and allows him to help her get up. “Oh, I don’t mind if I do. My knees aren’t all they used to be, especially when pressed on old pavers. You don’t mind finishing up, do you, Edith love?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll pour the tea, Mum.” Edith assured her mother with a bright smile.

“And I’ll help Mrs. Watsford.” Frank adds, kneeling down next to Edith and helping her pull out teacups from the capacious wicker picnic basket.

As Ada sinks with relief onto the seat of the wooden bench she asks, “Now what were you asking me, George love?”

“Oh, I was just saying to young Frank here, how as a family, we have a lot of good memories of outings in Roundwood Park as a family.” George replies.

“Indeed we do.” Ada remarks. “George and I did a lot of our courting here back when Roundwood Park first opened.”

“Well, it seems like a lovely place to do that, Mrs. Watsford.” Frank says, daring to steal a glance at his sweetheart who busies herself unaware of being observed as she pours tea from the thermos into a cup.

“You must take Frank for a proper tour of the park after our picnic, Edith love.” Ada says to her daughter. “Show him the lodge house and the drinking fountain*******, and the ornamental beds and rose garden too.”

“I will Mum.” Edith agrees.

“Of course she will, Ada love.” George soothes. “The young couple will doubtless want a bit of time on their own together, and a stroll is just the ticket.”

“Dad!” Edith exclaims, blushing red as she pours tea into a cup for her mother and hands it to her, whilst Frank passes her a hot cross bun on a plate.

Noticing her daughter’s obvious embarrassment at her father’s clumsy remark, to change the subject slightly, Ada goes on, “George and I met here in Roundwood Park, you know, Frank.”

“No, I didn’t know., Mrs. Watsford.” Frank says as he passes a cup of tea to George, who bends down and helps himself to milk from the bottle.

“Oh yes.” Ada says as she puts her tea on the slats of the bench next to her and proceeds to slice open her hot cross bun with a knife. “We met here at a picnic for young people from the congregation of All Souls******** organised by the Vicar.” She looks slyly at her husband as he stands next to her, sipping his tea and thinks to herself that what is good for the goose is good for the gander. “Of course, we’d never have met if I hadn’t spoken to him first.”

George chokes on his tea.

“He was far too shy to talk to me, so I offered him something from my tin of home made biscuits,” Ada continues. “And that is how we met.”

Clearing his throat, Goerge defends himself. “I would have gotten around to talking to you, eventually, Ada love.”

“Oh would you now, George?” Ada asks with an arched eyebrow and a knowing look.

“That sounds rather like how Edith and I started stepping out,” Frank admits. “Only ours was over a box of groceries.”

“And a suggestion from Mrs. Boothby,” Edith adds.

“But if you hadn’t mentioned it to me, I don’t think I’d ever have been game enough to ask you out, Edith.” Frank admits. “I thought she was far too good for me, Mrs. Watsford.”

“Well, thank goodness for Mrs. Boothby then.” Ada says cheerfully with a smile as she butters her hot cross bun with butter from a square wrapped in foil sitting atop the picnic basket. “I’d says she was your cupid.”

‘I agree!” concurs Frank, remembering how it was Mrs. Boothby who encouraged him not that long ago to get on with asking Edith’s parents for their blessing to marry their daughter. “She is that.”

“I’ll have to meet this Mrs. Boothby you talk about one day, Edith.” Ada remarks as she settles back against the bench’s back and chews contentedly on her hot cross bun.

“Yes, I’ll do that.” Edith replies as holding her cup in one hand and her cut and buttered hot cross bun in the other, she takes a seat alongside her mother.

“What other reminisces do you have of Roundwood Park, Mr. and Mrs. Watsford?” Frank asks as he sits on the blue and white gingham picnic rug laid out across the paving stones alongside the basket. Looking up from beneath his straw boater with its brightly striped band he smiles between Edith’s parents.

“Well, there are plenty.” George says.

“Oh yes, like the story I heard last week!” Edith giggles.

“Now… Edith.” Ada warns with a faltering voice.

“What story was that?” Frank asks with interest, glancing first at his sweetheart and then between the smirking George and pale faced Ada.

“Mum made hot cross buns just like these for Dad on their first Easter Sunday picnic, and then gave all of them away before Dad could get a one!” Edith giggles.

As Frank, Edith and George giggle good naturedly around Ada she defends herself, “Well, mathematics were never my strongest suit when I was at school, and I hadn’t counted them.” She joins in with their joviality. “And anyway, I might have been smitten by the Lord if I’d refused to give the Vicar one.”

Ada’s final remark makes them all laugh a little more.

“It’s a shame that Mrs. McTavish couldn’t be with us today, Frank.” Ada remarks.

“She always spends Easter with her brother, my Great Uncle, Finlay, in Aberdeen, Mrs. Watsford. I think now that both my parents are gone, and me out at work every day and living in a boarding house in Clapham Junction, she feels the absence of family, keenly. You’re all lucky to be so close, with only Bert being away on the sea for stretches at a time.”

“I’m always grateful of that fact,” Ada says with a sigh. “Especially after those dreadful war years when so many families were destroyed forever.” She lifts her eyes to the blue sky dotted with white fluffy clouds above. “We have much to be thankful for.”

“Thinking of the war, what about all the lovely concerts the Willesden Junction Brass Band held in the bandstand********* we’ve seen over the years as a family, Ada love?” George remarks. “The ones before the war were especially good.”

“Oh yes, George!” Ada sighs with delight, allowing her head to loll backwards and for the spring sun to kiss her face. “Tuppence to hire a deckchair for the afternoon.”

“If we’re lucky, they might even play for a bit later in the day.” George adds.

“I say!” enthuses Frank. “That would be ripping!”

“The Willesden Junction Brass Band are quite accomplished you know, Frank.” George goes on. “They won the Camberwell Contest and the Camberwell Green Contest in 1911 and the Tottenham Contest in 1912.”

“That sounds very impressive, Mr. Watsford.” Frank remarks.

“I’ll show you the bandstand when we take a walk later, Frank.” Edith says cheerfully before taking a bite out of her hot cross bun and sighing with contentment.

“I’d like that, Edith.”

“It’s rather rustic,” George points out. “The balustrades are made from locally sourced branches made into a lattice, but it’s really rather charming.” He looks at his daughter. “If you see them setting up, you must come and fetch your mum and I.”

“As if I wouldn’t, Dad!” Edith laughs. “I used to love playing in the Gymnasium**********.”

“You were like a monkey in the zoo!” Ada laughs. “Clinging and swinging from those climbing frames and bars.”

“Weren’t you worried she’d fall, Mrs. Watsford?” Franks asks.

“Terrified, Frank, but to her credit, she never did.” Ada replies. “But even if she had, she’s have done what any child does at that age, and pick herself up off the ground, dust herself off and do it all again.”

“I would too, Mum.” Edith concurs before taking a sip of tea. “I loved all the round flowerbeds filled with tulips, hyacinths and daffs when I was little too.”

“What do you mean when you were little?” George chortles. “You still do now.”

“I noticed how you stopped to admire the red and purple tulips planted near the gates when we arrived, Edith.” Frank murmurs, smiling lovingly at his sweetheart.

“Thinking of flowers, of course I’ve shown marrows at the Willesden Show*********** with Mr. Pyecroft.” George adds.

“You and Ernie Pyecroft and your marrows!” Ada scoffs light heartedly as she shakes her head.

“Ernie and I are going to beat Mr. Johnson one day and win first prize for our marrows!” George wags a finger at his wife before tapping the side of his nose knowingly. “Once we figure out what is in that fertilizer of his.”

Ada sighs through her nostrils, rolls her eyes and shakes her head at her husband.

“Don’t mind Dad.” Edith chuckles. “He’s marrow mad.” She turns to her mother. “Didn’t you put me into the running for the ‘Bonny Babies’ prize one year, Mum?”

“Oh, not you, love.” Ada corrects her daughter. “You grizzled too much when we were parted to be in the ‘Bonny Babies’. I pictured you crying your lungs out before the judges.”

“Well I’m sure I remember us being there,” Edith persists. “We were somewhere with lots of babies and a flapping canvas tent.”

“I entered your brother one year. That might be what you remember, Edith love.” Ada suggests.

“Goodness! Imagine Bert being a ‘Bonny Baby’!” Frank laughs as he takes another mouthful of one of Ada’s hot cross buns as he thinks of Edith’s younger brother.

“He was a blithe and bonny baby.” Ada defends her son. “But just not bonny enough. He didn’t win.”

“What would you have won if he had, Mrs. Watsford?” Frank asks.

“Oh goodness Frank!” Ada gasps. “That was all the way back in 1903. I can’t remember. A bottle of cod liver oil, probably.”

Frank and Edith both look at one another, pulling faces of disgust as they both remember being given spoonfuls of the nasty tasting stuff when they were children by their mothers.

“You may not have been a ‘Bonny Baby’ contest winner, Edith,” Frank says lovingly as he looks at his sweetheart. “But I know you’d win a beauty contest now.”

“Oh Frank!” Edith exclaims, blushing at his compliment. “Thank you.”

“Alright you two!” George says brightly. “Off you go! Edith, take Frank on a wander of the gardens for a little bit and allow me to rest my weary bones on the bench in your absence.”

“I’ll unpack the finger sandwiches Edith made and the apple pie I made whilst you’re gone.” Ada adds.

“Are you sure, Mum?” Edith asks, getting up as Frank scrambles up from his seat on the picnic rug. “I can do it when I get back.”

“Your dad can help me, Edith love.” Ada replies. “Now, off you go.”

Ada and George watch as with linked arms, Edith and Frank slowly meander away down the path in the direction of the drinking fountain and gatekeeper’s lodge, their heads bowed towards one another as they chat: the perfect young couple in love.

“Do you think Frank will propose to her today?” George asks his wife.

“With Nyrie McTavish away, I doubt it, George love.” Ada replies. “His grandmother means too much to him for her to miss out on being one of the first to be told.”

The pair settle back into the worn wooden slats of the bench and allow the beautiful spring sun to sink into their bones. Closing their eyes, they fall silent for a little while, lost in the spheres of their own separate thoughts.

“However,” Ada adds at length. “I don’t think it will be too long before Frank proposes.”

“How do you know, Ada love?” George asks.

“Well, that awkwardness that seemed to be between them at New Year seems to have disappeared, thank goodness.” Ada breathes a heavy sigh. “I can’t quite put my finger on it. I just have a feeling that it will be soon.”

*Roundwood Park takes its name from Roundwood House, an Elizabethan-style mansion built in Harlesden for Lord Decies in around 1836. In 1892 Willesden Local Board, conscious of a need for a recreation ground in expanding Harlesden, started the process of buying the land for what is now Roundwood Park. Roundwood Park was built in 1893, designed by Oliver Claude Robson. He was allocated nine thousand pounds to lay out the park. He put in five miles of drains, and planted an additional fourteen and a half thousand trees and shrubs. This took quite a long time as he used local unemployed labour for this work in preference to contractors. Mr. Robson had been the Surveyor of the Willesden Local Board since 1875. As an engineer, he was responsible for many major works in Willesden including sewerage and roads. The fine main gates and railings were made in 1895 by Messrs. Tickner & Partington at the Vulcan Works, Harrow Road, Kensal Rise. An elegant lodge house was built to house the gardener; greenhouses erected to supply new flowers, and paths constructed, running upward to the focal point-an elegant bandstand on the top of the hill. The redbrick lodge was in the Victorian Elizabethan style, with ornamented chimney-breasts. It is currently occupied by council employees although the green houses have been demolished. For many years Roundwood Park was home to the Willesden Show. Owners of pets of many types, flowers and vegetables, and even 'bonny babies' would compete for prizes in large canvas tents. Art and crafts were shown, and demonstrations of dog-handling, sheep-shearing, parachuting and trick motorcycling given.

**The SS Demosthenes was a British steam ocean liner and refrigerated cargo ship which ran scheduled services between London and Australia via Cape Town. It stopped at ports including those in Sydney and Melbourne. She was launched in 1911 in Ireland for the Aberdeen Line and scrapped in 1931 in England. In the First World War she was an Allied troop ship.

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

****When we think of thermos flasks these days we are often reminded of the plaid and gawdy floral varieties that existed in the 1950s, 60s and 70s. Invented in 1892 by Sir James Dewar, a scientist at Oxford University, the "vacuum flask" was not manufactured for commercial use until 1904, when two German glass blowers formed Thermos GmbH. They held a contest to name the "vacuum flask" and a resident of Munich submitted "Thermos", which came from the Greek word "Therme" meaning "hot". In 1907, Thermos GmbH sold the Thermos trademark rights to three independent companies: The American Thermos Bottle Company of Brooklyn, New York; Thermos Limited of Tottenham, England; Canadian Thermos Bottle Co. Ltd. of Montreal, Canada. The three Thermos companies operated independently of each other, yet developed the Thermos vacuum flask into a widely sought after product that was taken on many famous expeditions, including: Schackelton\'s trip to the South Pole; Lieutenant Robert E. Peary\'s trip to the Arctic; Colonel Roosevelt\'s expedition to Mombassa and into the heart of the African Congo with Richard Harding Davis. It even became airborne when the Wright Brothers took it up in their airplane and Count Zepplin carried it up in his air balloon.

*****Bishop’s was a drapery shop located along the Harlesden High Street from the late Victorian era through until the Second World War.

******West Ham Park is a privately owned public park in West Ham in the London Borough of Newham. Spanning seventy-seven acres, it is the largest park in the borough. The park has been managed by the City of London Corporation since 1874. The park features ornamental gardens, children's playgrounds, and sporting facilities including five-a-side football pitches, cricket nets and tennis courts. Until its closure in 2016, a nursery stood at the north east corner of the park, and was one of the largest operations of its kind in the United Kingdom, producing over two hundred thousand spring and summer bedding plants each year for the park, gardens and churchyards in the City of London and other Corporation open spaces. Plants grown in the nursery were also used for state occasions and banquets hosted by the City of London Corporation.

*******The Roundwood Park drinking fountain, with a plaque commemorating the opening of the park in 1895 stands just inside the main gates off Harlesden Road adjunct to the old lodge house.

********The parish of All Souls, Harlesden, was formed in 1875 from Willesden, Acton, St John's, Kensal Green, and Hammersmith. Mission services had been held by the curate of St Mary's, Willesden, at Harlesden institute from 1858. The parish church at Station Road, Harlesden, was built and consecrated in 1879. The town centre church is a remarkable brick octagon designed by E.J. Tarver. Originally there was a nave which was extended in 1890 but demolished in 1970.

*********For more than ten years after Roundwood Park opened, the Willesden Junction Brass Band gave concerts at the bandstand. Thew band played on Thursday evenings, and at weekends. For the first ten years they were not paid, but made money by selling seats and programmes. Then, in 1905, a change in the law allowed the Council to pay the band twenty-five pounds to play on Sundays. These concerts became so popular, that a new rustic-type bandstand was built to the south of the “Gymnasium” (children's playground), where more space for the audience was available. As tastes changed, the concerts lost their popularity, so the park lost its bandstand. In its place a new Summer Theatre was built in 1959 at an estimated cost of £6,750. This was well used, especially for children's events.

**********The word “gymnasium” which of course we all associate with the modern term “gym” is an old fashioned word used to describe a children’s playground because in the Edwardian era, playgrounds were more about children getting exercise and plenty of fresh air than they were about actual playing.

***********The “Willesden Show” was an annual event that celebrated growing fresh vegetables and flowers, with prizes. The show also hosted livestock and pets, with dog-handling, sheep shearing, as well as arts and crafts. The show later became the “Brent Show” after the Willesden Borough merged with Wembley in 1965.

Although it may look life-sized to you, this idyllic outdoor scene is in fact comprised of pieces from my miniatures collection, and the Roundwood Park background in in truth my front garden.

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

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

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

The wicker picnic basket was made by an unknown miniature artisan in America. The floral patterns on the top have been hand painted. The hinged lids lift, just like a real hamper, so things can be put inside.

The hot cross buns were made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. The butter wrapped in foil was also made by her.

The Thermos flask came as part of another picnic set I acquired from a miniatures collector through E-Bay. The blue and white gingham picnic rug came from the same set. The enamelled teacups and plates come from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom.

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

The bench is made by Town Hall Miniatures, and acquired through E-Bay.

The brick footpath upon which the bench sits a very special piece, and one of my more recent additions to my miniatures collection. Made painstakingly by hand, this was made by my very dear Flickr friend and artist Kim Hagar (www.flickr.com/photos/bkhagar_gallery/), she surprised me with this amazing piece entitled “Wall” as a Christmas gift, with the intention that I use it in my miniatures photos. Each brick has been individually cut and then worn to give texture before being stuck to the backing board and then painted. She has created several floors in the same way for some of her own miniature projects which you can see in her “In Miniature” album here: www.flickr.com/photos/bkhagar_gallery/albums/721777203007....

The Story of an Easter Past by raaen99

© raaen99, all rights reserved.

The Story of an Easter Past

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

Today however we are northwest of Lettice’s flat, in the working-class London suburb of Harlesden where Edith, Lettice’s maid’s, parents live in a small, two storey brick terrace house which opens out directly onto the street. Edith’s father, George, works at the McVitie and Price biscuit factory in Harlesden, and her mother, Ada, takes in laundry at home, although with her husband’s promotion as a Line Manager, she no longer needs to do it quite so much to supplement their income. Whilst far removed from the grandeur of Lettice’s Mayfair flat, the Harlesden terrace has always been a cosy and welcoming home for Edith and her seafaring brother, Bert.

We find ourselves in Ada’s kitchen, the heart of the Watsford’s little home. Even before she walked through the glossy black painted front door today, Edith could smell the familiar scent of her mother’s delicious baking, and as she walked into the terrace’s kitchen at the rear of the house, she found Ada making one of her favourite seasonal treats: hot cross buns* for Easter.

Edith is sitting at her usual perch on a tall ladderback chair drawn up to the round table, worn and scarred by years of heavy use that dominates the cluttered, old fashioned kitchen as her mother withdraws a tray of four large and delicious looking hot cross buns from the baking oven on the left-hand side of the old kitchen range that dominates the far wall of the kitchen. The air of the kitchen is injected with the sweet, mouthwatering smell of cooked currants, cinnamon, nutmeg and a hint of orange. Holding the battered metal baking tray with a thick yellow cloth with red edging, Ada slips it onto the kitchen table with a clatter, making the four golden brown hot cross buns rattle around.

“Oh Mum!” Edith gasps with admiration as she looks at the perfectly baked buns with glistening raisins poking out of the dough like jewels, decorated with their creamy white flour paste crosses. “They look perfect!”

“They smell perfect too!” pipes up George, who, being a Sunday, is sitting in his chair by the range, enjoying his Sunday Express crossword** as he absorbs its cosy heat.

“Thank you, both of you.” Ada remarks with a satisfied smile, placing her hands on her fleshy hips as she admires her own handiwork with twinkling caramel brown eyes. “They aren’t bad, even if I do say so myself.”

“Mum!” Edith exclaims again. “They are far better than that! I can never get my hot cross buns to be as light and fluffy as yours.”

“Do you give it a good knead like I’ve told you to, Edith love?” Ada asks her daughter.

“I do, Mum.” Edith nods.

“And you remember my saying?” Ada continues.

“Yes Mum: ‘make fresh today and bake fresh tomorrow’. I make sure I let the dough rest and rise the day before, just like you’ve told me to do.” Edith replies. “I never bake hot cross buns with dough I’ve made the same day, and they still don’t come out as light and fluffy as yours.”

“Well, I know what I think it is, Edith love.” Ada says, tapping her nose knowingly with a careworn finger.

“What is it, Mum?”

“You won’t like it, Edith love.”

‘Oh, please tell me, Mum!” Edith pleads. “Is it something I’m doing wrong?”

“Oh no!” Ada retorts, quickly reassuring her daughter. “I wouldn’t say that. I think it’s your equipment.”

“But Miss Lettice’s kitchen is lovely and up-to-date, Mum! She even has a beautiful gas stove to bake in.”

“And therein lies the problem.” Ada replies, standing up straight and reaching over, tapping the cool black leaded top of her range with affection, smiling beatifically as she does. “Nothing beats these good old coal ranges when it comes to baking.”

“Oh Mum!” Edith exclaims aghast. “You’re so… so…”

“Old fashioned, Edith love?” Ada asks.

“Traditional, Mum!” Edith assures her.

“I told you, you wouldn’t like my reason,” Ada replies. “But there it is nonetheless, Edith love. They may be a bit old hat***, dirty, and somewhat problematic and recalcitrant at times, but nothing beats a good old coke**** range for baking.”

“Your Mum has a point, Edith love.” George remarks, looking over the top of his newspaper, his blue pencil clutched between his right index and middle finger peering around the edge of the printed sheets. “I can’t say there is anything she has baked in that oven that hasn’t come out looking and smelling wonderful.”

“You just want a freshly baked hot cross bun, George love.” Ada says, eyeing her husband knowingly and wagging a finger at him.

“Well,” George remarks, folding his newspaper crisply in half and casting it and his pencil onto the kitchen table as he drags his Windsor chair across the flagstones and sits at the table opposite his daughter. ‘Now that you mention it, I wouldn’t say no to one.” He rubs his stomach, enwrapped in an argyle patterned***** knitted vest, indicating his hungriness. “No-one makes hot cross buns as nicely as you do, Ada my love.”

“Oh you!” Ada flaps her red trimmed yellow cloth at him playfully, before leaning forward with a groan to kiss her husband tenderly on the lips. “You always know how to wrangle what you want out of me.”

“Flattery never fails.” George admits with a gormless grin.

“Alright Edith love.” Ada says with a sigh, albeit a happy one as she happily gives in to her husband’s indulgence. “Will you be a help and fetch down the tea things and some plates, whilst I fill the Brown Betty******.”

“Yes Mum!” Edith replies with eagerness, anxious to enjoy and savour the delight of one of her mother’s home made hot cross buns.

A short while later the table is set with a selection of Ada’s mismatched china pieces, all market finds she has made by her over the years, taken down from the shelves of the great, dark Welsh dresser behind Edith’s ladderback chair. George has a pretty blue and white floral sprigged Royal Doulton******* cup, whilst Ada has a pink, yellow and blue floral Colclough******** one, and Edith has her favourite yellow rose Royal Albert********* teacup with its dainty fluted sides and gilt edge. The Brown Betty sits gleaming between them, steam rising in delicate curlicues from her spot, flanked by a pretty Victorian milk jug and sugar bowl which is missing its lid.

“Right then!” Ada says cheerfully as she picks up a plate. “One for you George.” She picks up a hot cross bun and plops it on the plate and hands it to her husband, who accepts it gratefully with wide, hungry eyes. “And one for you, Edith love.” She picks up a second bun and places it on a plate which she then hands to her daughter. “And lastly one for me.” She adds one to her own plate. ‘Please help yourself to butter.” She indicates with an open hand to the small square of butter sitting in a gleaming clear glass dish.

“I wonder who will get the last one?” George asks, eyeing the remaining hot cross bun on the silver baking tray.

“Yes, I wonder.” Ada says sarcastically with raised eyebrows, knowing full well, as does Edith, that George will claim the last one for himself.

“You know the story of how your mum and I met, don’t you Edith love?” George asks as he cuts his bun in half with a knife.

Edith rolls her eyes. “Of course I do, Dad!” she replies with a good natured smile. “You have told Bert and I more times than I can count how you met Mum at the young people’s social picnic in Roundwood Park********** organised by the Vicar of All Souls***********. You tell us that Mum wouldn’t have been nearly as attractive if she hadn’t been carrying a tin of her best biscuits at the time.”

“Pshaw!” Ada scoffs as she butters her own hot cross bun before handing the dish to her husband.

“It’s true.” He accepts the butter dish. “Your mum knows the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and it certainly is mine.”

“Pshaw!” Ada repeats. “You mean you weren’t attracted to me anyway?” She turns back to her daughter. “I looked very fetching that day. I was wearing my new Sunday best dress for spring which I’d made especially for the picnic. It was made of cotton decorated with sprigs of pink roses, and it had leg-of-mutton sleeves************. I was wearing my best Sunday hat too, made of straw with the dried flowers around the brim.”

“Yes,” George replies, clearing his throat awkwardly. “You were as lovely as a summer’s day, Ada.”

Ada giggles rather girlishly, an unusual thing for Edith to witness and pushes a few loose strands of her mousy brown hair flecked with grey that has come loose from her bun behind her ear. “Your father was too shy to talk to me. It was only because I thought he looked rather handsome in his Sunday best suit and I asked him if he’d like a biscuit that we even spoke.”

“I say, steady on, old girl!” George retorts, clearing his throat awkwardly again. “That’s not how I remember it.”

“Men seldom remember the truth of things in the aftermath.” Ada winks at her daughter conspiratorially. “They are very good at inventing their own history.”

“Well, anyway,” George blusters as his cheeks redden with embarrassment, suggesting there is more than a little truth to his wife’s story. “What I wanted to ask you, Edith,” He focusses his attention on his daughter, trying to ignore his wife’s smug smile, pausing his buttering of his hot cross bun “Was, did I ever tell you about the first Easter Sunday picnic we had after your mother and I had been stepping out together?”

“No.” Edith replies, accepting the butter dish as he passes it to her, sitting more upright in her seat as she pays close attention. “I don’t think so.”

“Do you remember that picnic, Ada love?” George asks, smiling at his wife, his eyes sparkling with happiness and love.

Ada pauses for a moment, her buttered bun paused between her plate and her mouth. Her brow crumples over her eyes as she concentrates. “I remember the crocuses were out. The lawns near the old Lodge House Café************* were a sea of purple and lilac, with a smattering of orange.”

“As they are every spring, Ada love.” George remarks.

Edith bites into one half of her hot buttered hot cross bun and sighs with happiness, savouring the taste of the freshly baked and lightly spiced dough and warm, juicy currants as she chews.

“Do you remember anything else, Ada love?” George asks his wife as he bites into his own hot cross bun, washing the mouthful down with a swig of tea from his cup.

“I obviously must have made hot cross buns.” Ada adds hopefully, but the doubt in her voice demonstrates clearly that she doesn’t remember. “Or you wouldn’t have brought this reminiscence up.”

George chuckles, snoring through his nose as he finishes his mouthful of hot cross bun. “I’ll say you did!” he manages to say jovially as he chews.

Edith swallows her mouthful of bun and deposits the remainder on her plate. Picking up her teacup she asks before sipping its contents, “Well don’t keep me in suspense, Dad!” She swallows her tea. “What happened?”

“Yes, what did happ…” Ada begins, before halting mid-sentence and starting again. “Am I going to want our daughter to hear whatever you’re about to share, George Watsford?” She returns her untouched half of her bun to her plate and looks sharply at her husband.

“Goodness Ada, how suspicious you are.” George chuckles good naturedly. He turns to his daughter. “That’s marriage for you. Are you sure you want to marry Frank?” he adds jokingly.

“Oh Dad!” Edith laughs, flapping her hand dismissively at him.

“What are you going to tell our daughter, George?” Ada persists.

“I was simply going to tell Edith about how popular your hot cross buns were that day.” George elucidates.

“Oh well, that’s alright then.” Ada replies, heaving a sigh of relief, easing her tensed shoulders and settling back into the round spindled back of her Windsor chair. Picking up the half a hot cross bun she gives her permission by nodding and saying, “Go ahead.” She then takes a bite of her bun and sighs happily.

After quickly scoffing the remainder of his first half of his hot cross bun, George rubs his buttery fingers together before steepling them over his plate and staring at his daughter who returns his gaze with alert eyes, anxious to know what transpired. “Well Edith, as you know at these sorts of occasions, once again being a young people’s Easter Sunday picnic organsied by the Vicar, everyone knew everyone else.”

George pauses and looks at his wife to see if she remembers the picnic, however her face remains passive, her eyes inquisitive.

“Go on Dad.” Edith says with anticipation.

“And of course that meant that everyone also knew about your mum’s baking prowess.” George goes on.

“Oh George!” Ada gasps, blushing at her husband’s compliment.

“What happened, Dad?” Edith asks.

“Well, on the day of the Easter Sunday picnic, your mum had baked me a basket of fresh hot cross buns that we were able to share, but when we sat down,” He turns his attentions back to his wife. “Lilian and Ernie Pyecroft, who were of course only young lovers a-courting then too and not married, came and joined us.” George chuckles as he remembers. “Your mum offered them a freshly baked hot cross bun each, which they took. And then your Aunt Maud arrived with your Uncle Sydney and she offered them a bun each, and then the Vicar and his wife walked past, so she offered them one each.”

“It was the right and Christian thing to do, George,” Ada defends herself. “To offer the Vicar and his wife a hot cross bun each! I could hardly have not! I would have looked stingy.”

“Aha!” George laughs, pointing at his wife. “You do remember then, Ada!”

“Of course I remember, George love.” Ada replies, her face flushing with embarrassment.

“Well, what was so wrong with offering the Vicar and his wife a hot cross bun, Dad?” Edith asks. “I’d have done the same.”

“Of course you would, Edith love.” Ada purrs. “I’m proud of you.”

“Because,” George explains with a loud guffaw. “By the time she had done that, she’d given away all the hot cross buns she’s made for us, and I didn’t get to have a one that day!”

“Oh Mum!” Edith replies as she starts to giggle.

“I was just trying to be a good, Christian soul.” Ada defends herself again, folding her arms akimbo, but blushing bright red as she does.

“You were that,” George laughs harder. “To my detriment!”

Then even Ada starts to laugh at the tale of that Easter many springs ago before the war. “At least I made you some more the next Sunday when we had a picnic, George Watsford! And you were able to have as many as you wanted.”

George’s laughs start to subside, and he concurs with this wife.

“What did you eat then, if all the hot cross buns were gone?” Edith asks her parents.

“Oh don’t worry, Edith love. I knew your father had a good appetite, so I’d also made a nice cherry cobbler, which we made short work of.”

“We did that.” George agrees.

The family trio continue to enjoy their hot buttered fresh hot cross buns, chuckling away at George’s tale as they finish them off. The kitchen feels warm and cosy filled with the smell of Ada’s hot cross buns and the sound of their gentle enjoyment of them. True to his usual form, George scoffs the last of his first hot cross bun, and then helps himself to the last one on the tray between them all. Ada and Edith smile at him indulgently as they watch him enjoy it like a little boy.

“More tea, Edith love?” Ada asks, picking up the Brown betty and proffering its tilted spout towards her daughter’s teacup.

“Yes please, Mum.” Edith replies, lifting up her cup.

As Ada fills her daughter’s cup, a thoughtful look crosses Edith’s face.

“Mum, I’ve just had the loveliest idea.” she says looking up at her mother.

“What’s that, Edith love?” Ada asks.

“Well, why don’t we have a picnic on Easter Sunday in Roundwood Park: you Dad, me and Frank!” Edith enthuses. “You can bake hot cross buns and I’ll make some sandwiches. It will give me a good excuse to use the wonderful picnic basket Bert brought back from Australia for me.”

“What about Mrs. McTavish, Edith?” George asks.

“Oh, she’s gone to stay with her brother in Aberdeen, as she does every year at Easter, Dad, so it’s just Frank on his own.”

“Well, I think that sounds like a capital idea, Edith.” Ada agrees. “Let’s do it! What do you think, George?”

“I’m happy to, Ada love, but only on one condition though.” George adds.

“What?” Ada and Edith ask at the same time.

“That there are to be no giving of hot cross buns to any passenger vicars.” Georg says with a definite nod as he eats the last of his second hot cross bun.

*A hot cross bun is a spiced bun, usually containing small pieces of raisins and orange peel, marked with a cross on the top, which has been traditionally eaten on Good Friday in the United Kingdom, Ireland, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, Canada, India, Pakistan, Malta, the United States and the Commonwealth Caribbean. They are available all year round in some countries now, including the United Kingdom and Australia. The bun marks the end of the season of Lent and different elements of the hot cross bun each have a specific meaning, such as the cross representing the crucifixion of Jesus, the spices inside signifying the spices used to embalm him and sometimes also orange peel reflecting the bitterness of his time on the cross.

**The Sundy Express became the first newspaper to publish a crossword in November 1924.

***The term “old hat”, meaning out-of-date or old fashioned, is a relatively new saying, dating from 1911, taken quite literally from the words “old” and “hat”.

****Coke is a grey, hard, and porous coal-based fuel with a high carbon content. It is made by heating coal or petroleum in the absence of air. Coke is an important industrial product, used mainly in iron ore smelting today, but was also commonly used as a cheap fuel in stoves and forges in the Victorian and Edwardian eras before the and even in the immediate years after the Second World War. The unqualified term "coke" usually refers to the product derived from low-ash and low-sulphur bituminous coal by a process called coking.

*****An argyle pattern features overlapping diamonds with intersecting diagonal lines on top of the diamonds. They are traditionally knit, not woven, using an intarsia technique. The pattern was named after the Seventeenth Century tartan of Clan Campbell of Argyll in western Scotland.

******A Brown Betty is a type of teapot, round and with a manganese brown glaze known as Rockingham glaze. In the Victorian era, when tea was at its peak of popularity, tea brewed in the Brown Betty was considered excellent. This was attributed to the design of the pot which allowed the tea leaves more freedom to swirl around as the water was poured into the pot, releasing more flavour with less bitterness.

*******Royal Doulton is an English ceramic manufacturing company dating from 1815. Operating originally in Vauxhall, London, later moving to Lambeth, in 1882 it opened a factory in Burslem, Stoke-on-Trent, in the centre of English pottery. From the start the backbone of the business was a wide range of utilitarian wares, mostly stonewares including storage jars, tankards and the like, and later extending to pipes for drains, lavatories and other bathroom ceramics. From 1853 to 1902 its wares were marked Doulton & Co., then from 1902, when a royal warrant was given, Royal Doulton. It always made some more decorative wares, initially still mostly stoneware, and from the 1860s the firm made considerable efforts to get a reputation for design, in which it was largely successful, as one of the first British makers of art pottery. Initially this was done through artistic stonewares made in Lambeth, but in 1882 the firm bought a Burslem factory, which was mainly intended for making bone china tablewares and decorative items. It was a latecomer in this market compared to firms such as Royal Crown Derby, Royal Worcester, Wedgwood, Spode and Mintons, but made a place for itself in the later 19th century. Today Royal Doulton mainly produces tableware and figurines, but also cookware, glassware, and other home accessories such as linens, curtains and lighting. Three of its brands were Royal Doulton, Royal Albert and (after a post-WWII merger) Mintons. Royal Doulton is one of the last great British bone china manufacturers still in existence.

******** Colclough Bone China was founded in Staffordshire in 1890 by Herbert J. Colclough, the former mayor of Stoke-on-Trent. Herbert loved porcelain and loved the ordinary working man. One of his desires was to bring fine bone china, a preserve of the upper and middle classes, to the working man. He felt that it would give them aspirations and dignity to eat off fine bone china. Colclough Bone China received a Royal Warrant from King George V in 1913. Colclough went on to innovate the production of fine bone china for the mass market in the 1920s and 1930s. They produced the backstamp brands Royal Vale and Royal Stanley. Colclough Bone China merged with Booth’s Pottery and later acquired Ridgeway China. Eventually they amalgamated with Royal Doulton in the 1970s.

*********In 1896, Thomas Clark Wild bought a pottery in Longton, Stoke on Trent, England, called Albert Works, which had been named the year before in honor of the birth of Prince Albert, who became King George VI in 1936. Using the brand name Albert Crown China, Thomas Wild and Co. produced commemorative bone-china pieces for Queen Victoria's 1897 Diamond Jubilee, and by 1904 had earned a Royal Warrant. From the beginning, Royal Albert's bone china dinnerware was popular, especially its original floral patterns made in rich shades of red, green, and blue. Known for incredibly fine, white, and pure bone china, Royal Albert was given to the sentimental and florid excesses of Victorian era England, making pattern after pattern inspired by English gardens and woodlands. With designs like Serena, Old English Roses, and Masquerade and motifs inspired by Japanese Imari, the company appealed to a wide range of tastes, from the simplest to the most aristocratic. In 1910, the company created its first overseas agency in New Zealand. Soon it had offices in Australia, Canada, and the United States. Willing to experiment with the latest in industrial technologies, the company was an early adopter of kilns fuelled by gas and electricity. Starting in 1927, Royal Albert china used a wide variety of more stylized backstamps, some with the crown, some without, and others stylized with script and Art Deco lettering. Some of these marks even had roses or other parts of the pattern in them. Patterns from the years between the wars include American Beauty, Maytime, Indian Tree, Dolly Varden, and Lady-Gay. The '40s saw patterns like Fragrance, Teddy's Playtime, Violets for Love, Princess Anne, Sunflower, White Dogwood, Mikado, Minuet, Cotswold, and the popular Lady Carlyle. Royal Albert incorporated as a limited company in 1933, and in the 1960s it was acquired by Pearson Group, joining that company's Allied English Potteries. By 1970, the porcelain maker was completely disassociated with its T.C. Wild & Sons origins and renamed Royal Albert Ltd. Pearson Group also acquired Royal Doulton in 1972, putting Royal Crown Derby, Royal Albert, Paragon, and the Lawleys chain under the Royal Doulton umbrella, which at this point included Minton, John Beswick, and Webb Corbett. In 1993, Royal Doulton Group was ejected from Pearson Group, for making less money than its other properties. In 2002, Royal Doulton moved the production of Royal Albert china from England to Indonesia. A few years later, Waterford Wedgwood absorbed Royal Doulton Group and all its holdings, which currently makes three brands, Royal Doulton, Minton, and Royal Albert, including the Old Country Roses pattern, which is Royal Albert’s most popular design.

**********Roundwood Park takes its name from Roundwood House, an Elizabethan-style mansion built in Harlesden for Lord Decies in around 1836. In 1892 Willesden Local Board, conscious of a need for a recreation ground in expanding Harlesden, started the process of buying the land for what is now Roundwood Park. Roundwood Park was built in 1893, designed by Oliver Claude Robson. He was allocated nine thousand pounds to lay out the park. He put in five miles of drains, and planted an additional fourteen and a half thousand trees and shrubs. This took quite a long time as he used local unemployed labour for this work in preference to contractors. Mr. Robson had been the Surveyor of the Willesden Local Board since 1875. As an engineer, he was responsible for many major works in Willesden including sewerage and roads. The fine main gates and railings were made in 1895 by Messrs. Tickner & Partington at the Vulcan Works, Harrow Road, Kensal Rise. An elegant lodge house was built to house the gardener; greenhouses erected to supply new flowers, and paths constructed, running upward to the focal point-an elegant bandstand on the top of the hill. The redbrick lodge was in the Victorian Elizabethan style, with ornamented chimney-breasts. It is currently occupied by council employees although the green houses have been demolished. For many years Roundwood Park was home to the Willesden Show. Owners of pets of many types, flowers and vegetables, and even 'bonny babies' would compete for prizes in large canvas tents. Art and crafts were shown, and demonstrations of dog-handling, sheep-shearing, parachuting and trick motorcycling given.

***********The parish of All Souls, Harlesden, was formed in 1875 from Willesden, Acton, St John's, Kensal Green, and Hammersmith. Mission services had been held by the curate of St Mary's, Willesden, at Harlesden institute from 1858. The parish church at Station Road, Harlesden, was built and consecrated in 1879. The town centre church is a remarkable brick octagon designed by E.J. Tarver. Originally there was a nave which was extended in 1890 but demolished in 1970.

************A gigot sleeve is a sleeve that was full at the shoulder and became tightly fitted to the wrist. It was more commonly known as a leg-of-mutton sleeve.

*************Oliver Claude Robson who designed Roundwood Park decided that a café would be a good addition to the park, so in 1897 a suitable building was designed and constructed by council employees. It was made of brick and timber with a steeply pitched slate roof and gables, with a verandah surrounding it. Various owners succeeded one another. In 1985, a new building was constructed because the old one became run down.

This cluttered, yet cheerful domestic scene is not all it seems to be at first glance, for it is made up of part of my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection. Some pieces come from my own childhood. Other items I acquired as an adult through specialist online dealers and artists who specialise in 1:12 miniatures.

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

The hot cross buns on the silver baking tray on the kitchen table have been made in England by hand by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. The Brown Betty teapot, made of real glazed pottery, comes from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom. various odd china pieces all come from online stockists of miniatures on E-Bay. The newspaper which features an image of Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, the future Queen Elizabeth and one day Queen Mother, is a copy of a real Daily Mail newspaper from 1925 and was produced to high standards in 1:12 by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The pencil on top of it is a 1:12 miniature as well, acquired from Melody Jane Dolls’ House Suppliers. It is only one millimetre wide and two centimetres long.

Edith’s handbag handmade from soft leather is part of a larger collection of hats and bags that I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel, including Ada’s tan soft leather handbag seen resting against her basket at the right of the picture.

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

In the background you can see Ada’s dark Welsh dresser cluttered with household items. Like Ada’s table, the Windsor chair and the ladderback chair to the left of the photo, I have had the dresser since I was a child. The shelves of the dresser have different patterned crockery and silver pots on them which have come from different miniature stockists both in Australia and the United Kingdom. There are also some rather worn and beaten looking enamelled cannisters and a bread tin in the typical domestic Art Deco design and kitchen colours of the 1920s, cream and green. Aged on purpose, these artisan pieces I acquired from The Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom. There are also tins of various foods which would have been household staples in the 1920s when canning and preservation revolutionised domestic cookery. Amongst other foods on the dresser are a jar of Bovril, a tin Bird’s Golden Raising Powder, some Ty-Phoo tea, a tin of S.P.C. canned fruit and some Oxo stock cubes. All these items are 1:12 size artisan miniatures made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire, with great attention to detail paid to their labels and the shapes of their jars and cans.

Bovril is the trademarked name of a thick and salty meat extract paste similar to a yeast extract, developed in the 1870s by John Lawson Johnston. It is sold in a distinctive bulbous jar, and as cubes and granules. Bovril is owned and distributed by Unilever UK. Its appearance is similar to Marmite and Vegemite. Bovril can be made into a drink ("beef tea") by diluting with hot water or, less commonly, with milk. It can be used as a flavouring for soups, broth, stews or porridge, or as a spread, especially on toast in a similar fashion to Marmite and Vegemite.

In 1863, William Sumner published A Popular Treatise on Tea as a by-product of the first trade missions to China from London. In 1870, William and his son John Sumner founded a pharmacy/grocery business in Birmingham. William's grandson, John Sumner Jr. (born in 1856), took over the running of the business in the 1900s. Following comments from his sister on the calming effects of tea fannings, in 1903, John Jr. decided to create a new tea that he could sell in his shop. He set his own criteria for the new brand. The name had to be distinctive and unlike others, it had to be a name that would trip off the tongue and it had to be one that would be protected by registration. The name Typhoo comes from the Mandarin Chinese word for “doctor”. Typhoo began making tea bags in 1967. In 1978, production was moved from Birmingham to Moreton on the Wirral Peninsula, in Merseyside. The Moreton site is also the location of Burton's Foods and Manor Bakeries factories. Typhoo has been owned since July 2021 by British private-equity firm Zetland Capital. It was previously owned by Apeejay Surrendra Group of India.

Bird’s were best known for making custard and Bird’s Custard is still a common household name, although they produced other desserts beyond custard, including the blancmange. They also made Bird’s Golden Raising Powder – their brand of baking powder. Bird’s Custard was first formulated and first cooked by Alfred Bird in 1837 at his chemist shop in Birmingham. He developed the recipe because his wife was allergic to eggs, the key ingredient used to thicken traditional custard. The Birds continued to serve real custard to dinner guests, until one evening when the egg-free custard was served instead, either by accident or design. The dessert was so well received by the other diners that Alfred Bird put the recipe into wider production. John Monkhouse (1862–1938) was a prosperous Methodist businessman who co-founded Monk and Glass, which made custard powder and jelly. Monk and Glass custard was made in Clerkenwell and sold in the home market, and exported to the Empire and to America. They acquired by its rival Bird’s Custard in the early Twentieth Century.

S.P.C. is an Australian brand that still exists to this day. In 1917 a group of fruit growers in Victoria’s Goulburn Valley decided to form a cooperative which they named the Shepperton Fruit Preserving Company. The company began operations in February 1918, canning pears, peaches and nectarines under the brand name of S.P.C. On the 31st of January 1918 the manager of the Shepparton Fruit Preserving Company announced that canning would begin on the following Tuesday and that the operation would require one hundred and fifty girls or women and thirty men. In the wake of the Great War, it was hoped that “the launch of this new industry must revive drooping energies” and improve the economic circumstances of the region. The company began to pay annual bonuses to grower-shareholders by 1929, and the plant was updated and expanded. The success of S.P.C. was inextricably linked with the progress of the town and the wider Goulburn Valley region. In 1936 the company packed twelve million cans and was the largest fruit cannery in the British empire. Through the Second World War the company boomed. The product range was expanded to include additional fruits, jam, baked beans and tinned spaghetti and production reached more than forty-three million cans a year in the 1970s. From financial difficulties caused by the 1980s recession, SPC returned once more to profitability, merging with Ardmona and buying rival company Henry Jones IXL. S.P.C. was acquired by Coca Cola Amatil in 2005 and in 2019 sold to a private equity group known as Shepparton Partners Collective.

Oxo is a brand of food products, including stock cubes, herbs and spices, dried gravy, and yeast extract. The original product was the beef stock cube, and the company now also markets chicken and other flavour cubes, including versions with Chinese and Indian spices. The cubes are broken up and used as flavouring in meals or gravy or dissolved into boiling water to produce a bouillon. Oxo produced their first cubes in 1910 and further increased Oxo's popularity.

The large kitchen range in the background is a 1:12 miniature replica of the coal fed Phoenix Kitchen Range. A mid-Victorian model, it has hinged opening doors, hanging bars above the stove and a little bass hot water tap (used in the days before plumbed hot water).

Cupcakes for Everyone! by raaen99

© raaen99, all rights reserved.

Cupcakes for Everyone!

“Come along my dears!” Mother called to the children who were squealing and laughing uproariously, lost amidst the joys and delights of their party games. “It’s time for tea! Cupcakes for everyone!”

The theme for "Looking Close… on Friday" for Friday 11th of April is "crazy cupcakes". Now I know you are going to say that this should be a macro shot, and it is. What might surprise you is that everything in this photograph, from the furnishings and wallpaper to the crockery and cupcakes are made up entirely of 1:12 size miniatures from my extensive collection which I use for photography purposes. Anyone who follows my photostream knows that I love and collect 1:12 size miniatures which I photograph in realistic scenes. The artifice of recreating in minute detail items in 1:12 scale always amazes me, and it’s amazing how the eye can be fooled. Every one of these dainty cupcakes topped by dainty flowers, Union Jacks, sprinkles and marzipan rabbits (it is the lead up to Easter after all) and covered cream icing is only five millimetres in diameter and between five and eight millimetres in height! Each one could sit comfortably on the pad of my little finger! Made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight, her work, like these cupcakes, is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. I hope you like my choice for this week’s theme, that the cupcakes are crazy enough, and that they make you smile!

Frank Asks an Important Question by raaen99

© raaen99, all rights reserved.

Frank Asks an Important Question

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

Today however we are northwest of Lettice’s flat, in the working-class London suburb of Harlesden visiting the home of Edith’s, Lettice’s maid, beloved parents. Edith’s father, George, works at the McVitie and Price biscuit factory in Harlesden as a Line Manager, and her mother, Ada, takes in laundry at home. They live in a small, two storey brick terrace house which opens out directly onto the street, and is far removed from the grandeur of Lettice’s Mayfair flat, but has always been a cosy and welcoming home for Edith and her younger brother Bert all their young lives. Since her father’s promotion in 1922, Edith’s mother is only laundering a few days a week now. The money she makes from this endeavour she uses for housekeeping to make she and George’s life a little more comfortable, but she is able to hold back a little back as pin money* to indulge in one of her joys, collecting pretty china ornaments to decorate their home with.

We are in Ada’s front parlour, which is where most of her decorative porcelain finds from different shops, fairs and flea markets around London are proudly displayed. With busy stylised floral wallpaper and every surface cluttered with ornaments, it can only be described as highly Victorian in style, and it is an example of conscious consumption, rather than qualitative consumption, to demonstrate how prosperous the Watsford family is, especially now that George holds the management position that he does. Like many others of its kind in Harlesden and elsewhere in London, it is the room least used in the house, reserved for when special guests like the parish minister or wealthy old widow and the Watsford’s landlady, Mrs. Hounslow, pay a call. However today’s special guest is not either the minister, nor Mrs. Hounslow. It is Frank Leadbetter, Edith’s beau, who has arranged to visit Edith’s parents on his own, as he has a very important question to ask of them both.

Dressed in his Sunday best suit, Frank sits awkwardly in one of two Victorian high backed barley twist chairs. The combination of the formality of his suit and the hard and uncomfortable horsehair upholstery of the chair encourage Frank to sit with a ramrod stiff back in his seat. He looks awkwardly around the room, allowing his gaze to flit in a desultory fashion around the unfamiliar surrounds of the Watsford’s formal front parlour. Cluttering the surface of an old Victorian sideboard and an ornate whatnot, the cold stares of Queen Victoria, Edward VII, Queen Alexandra and the current King George V and Queen Mary stare out from the glazed surfaces of plates and other objects celebrating coronations and jubilees, whilst on the mantle, flanked by pretty statues of castles and churches, younger versions of George and Ada in sepia pose formally with Edith as a little girl and Bert as a baby, gazing out from brass frames with blank stares. Frank coughs awkwardly and nervously tugs at his stiff collar, feeling hot even though there is no fire going in the small grate of the fireplace.

“Now, now, young Frank!” George booms good naturedly from the one comfortable seat in the room, an old armchair with thick red velvet button back** upholstery. “No need to be nervous, me lad!”

“Oh, you don’t know why I’m here, Mr. Watsford.” Frank replies, running his right index finger nervously around the inside of his collar.

George chuckles. “I think I can guess, Frank.”

Frank gazes down at Ada’s dainty best blue floral china tea set on the lace draped octagonal table set between the cluster of chairs. A selection of McVitie’s*** biscuits brought home by George from the nearby factory sit in a fluted glass dish.

“Will Mrs. Watsford be long, do you think, Mr. Watsford?”

“I shouldn’t think so, Frank. She’s only gone to boil the kettle and fill the pot.”

As if knowing that she was being spoken about, Ada sweeps through the door of the parlour, holding aloft the glazed teapot in the shape of a cottage with a thatched roof with the chimney as the lid that Edith bought for her as a gift from the Caledonian Markets****. “Here we are then,” she says with a heightened level of exuberance. “Tea for three!” She carefully places the teapot in the centre of the tea table.

“Perfect timing, Ada love.” George replies, and without waiting, reaches across the void between him and the tea table and snatches up a biscuit.

“George!” she chides. “Where are your manners?” She looks askance at her husband, who settles back in his seat, quite unperturbed by his wife’s scolding. “Guests first.” She sweeps her hand across the table towards the biscuits as she lowers herself precariously onto the edge of the other high backed barley twist chair. “Frank?”

“Err… umm…” Frank stutters. “Ahh, no… no thank you, Mrs. Watsford. I… I’m not hungry.”

“Oh well, more for us then, Ada love.” George says cheerfully through a biscuit filled mouth, stretching out his hand to the glass dish again.

“George!” Ada cries, slapping her husband’s hand sharply, the sound echoing around the cluttered parlour.

George retreats in his seat, recoiling and rubbing his chastised hand rather like a dog nurses a limp paw.

“Shall I be mother then*****?” Ada asks rhetorically as she automatically picks up the milk jug. “You take milk, don’t you Frank?”

“Err… yes, Mrs. Watsford.” Frank replies as she slops some milk into his cup before adding a dash to her husband’s and her own.

“And sugar?”

“Err.. two please, Mrs. Watsford.”

“Ahh, a sweet tooth after my own heart.” Ada replies with an indulgent smile, putting two heaped teaspoons of sugar into Frank’s cup before adding one to George’s and two to her own. “Now!” she sighs, taking up the cottage ware teapot pouring tea into the cups. “You wanted to talk to us, Frank?”

“Well…” Frank begins.

“You know it feels jolly funny having you here Frank, but not Edith.” Ada interrupts the young man even as he begins. “I’m quite used to you coming with Edith now.”

“Well, you know… I… I really wanted this to be a conversation that I had alone with you and Mr. Watsford,” Frank indicates to George, still licking his wounds. “Mrs. Watsford. So, I asked Hilda to take Edith out shopping today.”

“And she isn’t missing you, Frank?” Ada queries, as she replaces the pot in the middle of the tea table.

“Err…” Frank blushers, heaving and puffing his cheeks out. “Well, I told Edith a bit of a tall tale. I said that I had to help Giuseppe, my chum with his restaurant in the Islington****** today.”

“Oh yes,” Ada remarks with a tone of distaste as she hands George his cup of tea. “Giuseppe. He was your Italian friend who gave you the wine that we shared that first time we met, wasn’t he?”

Frank blushes red at the painful memory of that first rather awkward Sunday luncheon he had at the Watsfords’ when he and Ada had had a disagreement about some of his beliefs about life. “Yes.”

“My, my.” Ada takes up her own cup of tea and cradles it in her lap as she smiles to herself. “Such subterfuge to be alone with us.”

“You might not enjoy poor Frank’s discomfort quite so readily, Ada.” George pipes up from his seat as he sips his tea, tempering his wife.

“I was merely asking a question, George love.” Ada replies with a smug smile.

“No you weren’t, and you know it.” George retorts. “You were bringing up difficult memories of that awkward first tea we all had together, when you know perfectly well that we have all come a long way from there.” He gives his wife a doleful look. “Stop raking over old coals that don’t need to be raked over.”

“I agree, George.” Ada replies calmly. “We have come a long way; however, I was merely reminding Frank that in spite of that, we still have some concerns about his philosophies about life.”

“You have concerns, Ada love. I don’t.”

“Well one of us has to, if Frank has come here asking for Edith’s hand.” Ada turns her attentions to their young guest. “That is why you are here, isn’t it, Frank?”

“Well… I…” Frank stammers.

“Of course it is, Ada love. Frank?” George asks, sitting up in his seat.

“Well yes, Mr. Watsford. That’s what I came for. I came to formally ask for Edith’s hand in marriage.”

George leaps from his seat, dropping his half drunk cup of tea into the tea table noisily, sloshing tea into the saucer in his haste, before he bustles around the small black japanned cane table on which a vase of flowers stands before patting Frank on the back. “Of course! Of course! We’d be delighted, wouldn’t we Ada?” He turns and beams at his wife before turning quickly back to Frank without waiting for a reply. “What took you so long, Frank my boy?”

“Well Mr. Watsford, I know Edith and I have been stepping out for a while now,” Frank explains, sighing with relief and smiling at George’s exuberant acceptance of his request for Edith’s hand. “But I wanted to have a few things in place before I asked you.”

“Jolly good! Jolly good!” George chuckles delightedly. “Have you got a ring yet?”

“I’m not quite there yet, Mr. Watsford, but I’m getting there. I… I also wanted to assure you that my intentions are genuine. I… I love Edith and I don’t want anyone else.”

“Well, of course you don’t, lad!” George puffs, rubbing the young man’s right shoulder comfortingly. “We knew the moment we saw you together, that you two were made for each other, didn’t we Ada?”

Ada doesn’t reply immediately.

“Oh, this is wonderful, Frank!” George shakes Frank’s hands, barely able to contain his joy. “Welcome to the family!”

“Now just hang on for a moment.” Ada’s voice cuts in, slicing the joy with its sharp edge. “Let’s not rush into this without a few clarifying things first.”

“What?” George asks. He snorts preposterously. “Whatever do mean, Ada love? Frank’s just said his intentions are good. I don’t need anything more than that.”

“Well I do.” Ada replies calmly.

“What… what is… is it, Mrs. Watsford?” Frank asks, his voice quavering with nerves.

“Now, if you’d both just sit down for a moment,” Ada says, replacing her cup on the table, indicating for the two men to resume their seats.

Deflated, both Frank and George return to their respective seats.

“Now, Frank,” Ada starts, leaning forward in her seat. “I would just like to say that in principle, I am as pleased as my husband is that you’re asking for Edith’s hand in marriage.”

“Then Ada…?” George begins, but his wife silences him by holding up the palm of her hand to him.

She goes on. “I’d already had words with Edith about the two of you eloping.”

“Oh I’d never do that to you, Mr. Watsford or my Gran, Mrs. Watsford.” Frank assures her, looking earnestly into her unreadable face.

“Yes, I’m glad to hear it, as it confirms what Edith said, which was the same as you.” Ada turns to her husband. “Prospects?”

George looks quizzically at his wife. “Prospects?”

“Yes, prospects!” Ada’s eyes grow wide as she looks knowingly at him. She lowers her voice and whispers, “Remember, we discussed this?” When he looks uncomprehendingly at her again, she adds in a hiss, “When I said you’d go all doolally******* over Frank’s proposal, which you have?”

“Oh!” George pipes up. “Oh yes!” He sits up in his seat and turns to Frank. “Now young man, Both you and Edith have told us that you’re trying to improve your lot in life.” Ada scoffs from her seat. Ignoring her, he asks, “What are your prospects for Edith, once you’re married?”

“Well, it is true that I am trying to improve my circumstances. It’s one of the reasons why I have held off asking for Ediths hand until now. Like I said, I wanted to get a few things in place before I did.”

“Such as?” George’s bushy eyebrow arches over his right eye as he asks.

“Well, as you both know, I’ve been doing extra duties at Mr. Willison’s to build up my skills. I don’t want to be a delivery boy all my life.”

“No of course not, lad!” George pipes up.

“George!” Ada exclaims. “Let the boy finish. I want to hear what he has to say, not you.”

“Err… no, of course not.” George blusters. “Go on, Frank.”

“Well, I’ve been doing a bit of window dressing and arranging of products for Mr. Willison. I’ve also been taking a correspondence course on bookkeeping, which Edith doesn’t know about.”

“Why not?” Ada snaps.

“Because I wanted to complete it first and show that I’ve applied the skills before I told her: rather like a surprise, Mrs. Watsford.”

“Alright Frank.” Ada softens. “And have you?”

“Well, it’s a bit hard to get Mrs. Willison to relinquish anything about the shop’s books, but I did manage to do a bit of bookkeeping earlier this month when she was poorly and in bed. Technically she gave the task to her daughter, Miss Henrietta, but she wanted to do other things in her spare time, so it was reasonably easy to convince her to give it over to me to do, and Mrs. Willison did admit that I did a good job of it.”

“Well that’s something, isn’t it Ada?”

Ada nods in agreement with her husband, but keeps looking at Frank with an observant stare.

Frank continues. “And I’ve been tapped on the shoulder by friends of mine who are part of a trades union.” An uncomfortable look begins to cloud Ada’s features at the mention of unions. “And they tell me that soon there might be an opening or two in one of the suburban grocers for an assistant manager position, which would lead eventually to a position where I’d be running my own corner grocer.”

“In Metroland********?” George splutters. “My daughter all the way out there?”

“It’s not so bad, Mr. Watsford. The Chalk Hill, Grange and Cedars Estates are all built along the railway line not too far from Wembley Park, so Edith would be able to visit you easily, and you’d be able to come and visit us too. We’d live in a nice little flat above the shop with indoor plumbing and all electrified.” Ada tuts at the mention of electricity, but Frank continues to paint a vision of his and Edith’s rosy future. “The children we have, your grandchildren can grow up attending local schools and getting lots of fresh air.”

“Well, since you put it like that, I guess it’s not so bad, is it Ada?”

“Well,” Ada purses her lips. “I’m sure that Edith has told you that I hold no faith in that newfangled electricity, but living in Cavendish Mews she seems to have become a convert.”

“And a lovely new estate is far healthier for any children that we have, Mrs. Watsford. It’s far better than living in a house in Clapham Junction.”

“And how much will this flat of yours cost?” Ada asks seriously.

“Around five shillings a week for a two-up two down******** semi********* in the Chalk Hill Estate, Mrs. Watsford.” Frank says, gaining strength in his convictions, filling his voice with a new boldness and surety. “And, if we were to live in a flat above the grocers’ shop, it would be even less, and we’d still have all the modern conveniences like hot and cold running water and an inside privy.”

“Nothing wrong with an outdoor privy.” remarks George.

“Nothing wrong with an indoor one, either, Mr. Watsford. I only the best for Edith and our children.”

“Alright, young Frank.” George backs down.

“Now, going back to what I had eluded to before, Frank,” Ada continues. “You’re a good lad, Frank Leadbetter, and I can see that by your thoughtfulness and your manners. I know you love our Edith, and you obviously treat her very well…”

“As she deserves, Mrs. Watsford.” Frank assures her.

“I know, Frank.” Ada tempers him. “However, the vehemence with which you spurn your new ideas around is still a bit frightening to me.”

“Oh, there’s nothing to be frightened of Mrs. Watsford.”

“But these labour unions of yours…” Ada’s voice trails off.

“I can assure you, Mrs. Watsford, the unions aren’t bad, and I am not a Communist.” Frank defends himself. “As I said just before, I only want the best for Edith and for the family I hope we will have together. I just want a better world for all of us, and the unions will help with that. However, I swear that I’m not associated with any of those militant factions that popped up after the Russian Revolution. I believe in peaceable actions, discussion and compromise.” Frank looks earnestly at Ada. “I would never put Edith in any danger. I’m a hard working man who just wants a good future. Some of the finer details of it may be different to yours and Mr. Watsford’s, Mrs. Watsford, but at the end of the day, our ideals are the same, and whatever I do, Edith and her wellbeing is central in everything I do, and everything I have planned.”

Ada sighs and smiles. “Alright Frank. So long as she is, I can only give you my blessing too.”

“Oh thank you, Mrs. Watsford!” Frank exclaims, standing up and walking over to Ada who rises from her seat and embraces Frank kindly.

“Good lad!” George says, standing up as well and beaming over his wife’s shoulder, winking at Frank.

He reaches down and snatches up two more biscuits from the fluted glass bowl on the tea table.

“George!” Ada scolds, not quick enough to catch him this time.

He smiles back at her gormlessly.

“At this rate I’m going to have to let out that vest of yours, George Wastford!” Ada remarks.

George turns to Frank. “Are you sure you want the joy of these moments of wedded bliss, Frank my boy?” he asks jokingly.

*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.

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

***McVitie's (Originally McVitie and Price) is a British snack food brand owned by United Biscuits. The name derives from the original Scottish biscuit maker, McVitie and Price, Ltd., established in 1830 on Rose Street in Edinburgh, Scotland. The company moved to various sites in the city before completing the St. Andrews Biscuit Works factory on Robertson Avenue in the Gorgie district in 1888. The company also established one in Glasgow and two large manufacturing plants south of the border, in Heaton Chapel, Stockport, and Harlesden, London (where Edith’s father works). McVitie and Price's first major biscuit was the McVitie's Digestive, created in 1892 by a new young employee at the company named Alexander Grant, who later became the managing director of the company. The biscuit was given its name because it was thought that its high baking soda content served as an aid to food digestion. The McVitie's Chocolate Homewheat Digestive was created in 1925. Although not their core operation, McVitie's were commissioned in 1893 to create a wedding cake for the royal wedding between the Duke of York and Princess Mary, who subsequently became King George V and Queen Mary. This cake was over two metres high and cost one hundred and forty guineas. It was viewed by 14,000 and was a wonderful publicity for the company. They received many commissions for royal wedding cakes and christening cakes, including the wedding cake for Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Phillip and Prince William and Catherine Middleton. Under United Biscuits McVitie's holds a Royal Warrant from Queen Elizabeth II.

****The original Caledonian Market, renown for antiques, buried treasure and junk, was situated in in a wide cobblestoned area just off the Caledonian Road in Islington in 1921 when this story is set. Opened in 1855 by Prince Albert, and originally called the Metropolitan Meat Markets, it was supplementary to the Smithfield Meat Market. Arranged in a rectangle, the market was dominated by a forty six metre central clock tower. By the early Twentieth Century, with the diminishing trade in live animals, a bric-a-brac market developed and flourished there until after the Second World War when it moved to Bermondsey, south of the Thames, where it flourishes today. The Islington site was developed in 1967 into the Market Estate and an open green space called Caledonian Park. All that remains of the original Caledonian Markets is the wonderful Victorian clock tower.

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

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

*******Doolally is British and Irish slang for a person who is eccentric or has gone mad. It originated in the military.

*******Metroland is a name given to the suburban areas that were built to the north-west of London in the counties of Buckinghamshire, Hertfordshire and Middlesex in the early part of the Twentieth Century that were served by the Metropolitan Railway. The railway company was in the privileged position of being allowed to retain surplus land; from 1919 this was developed for housing by the nominally independent Metropolitan Railway Country Estates Limited (MRCE). The term "Metroland" was coined by the Met's marketing department in 1915 when the Guide to the Extension Line became the Metro-land guide. It promoted a dream of a modern home in beautiful countryside with a fast railway service to central London until the Met was absorbed into the London Passenger Transport Board in 1933.

********Two-up two-down is a type of small house with two rooms on the ground floor and two bedrooms upstairs. There are many types of terraced houses in the United Kingdom, and these are among the most modest. The first two-up two-down terraces were built in the 1870s, but the concept of them made up the backbone of the Metroland suburban expansions of the 1920s with streets lined with rows of two-up two-down semi-detached houses in Mock Tudor, Jacobethan, Arts and Crafts and inter-war Art Deco styles bastardised from the aesthetic styles created by the likes of English Arts and Crafts Movement designers like William Morris and Charles Voysey.

*********A semi-detached house (known more commonly simply as a semi) is a house joined to another house on one side only by a common wall.

This cluttered and old fashioned, yet cosy front parlour may look realistic to you, however it is in fact made up of pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection, including pieces from my childhood.

You may think that by 1926 when this story is set, that homes would have been more modern and less Victorian, and many were. However, there were a lot of people during this era who grew up and established their homes during the reign of Queen Victoria and did not want to update their homes, or could not afford to do so, so an interior like this would not have been uncommon in the 1920s and even in the lead up to and during the Second World War.

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

The old fashioned high backed Victorian chairs with their barley twist detailing and brass casters were made by Town Hall Miniatures

Ada’s collection of commemorative plates of Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee in 1897, the Coronation of King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra in 1902 and the Coronation of King George V and Queen Mary in 1911 on the sideboard and the whatnot are all made by the British miniature artist Rachel Munday. The plate of Edward VIII on the far left is a piece of souvenir ware from around 1905 and is made of very finely pressed tin.

The bust of Queen Victoria was made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. It has been hand painted by me.

The Victorian Prince of Wales (later King Edward VII) vase in the centre of the fireplace has been hand made, painted and gilded by Welsh miniature ceramist Rachel Williams who has her own studio, V&R Miniatures, in Powys.

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

The church and castle statues at either end of the fireplace are made of resin and are hand painted. They came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom.

Sitting on the central pedestal table is the cottage ware teapot Edith gave her mother as a gift a few years ago. Made by French ceramicist and miniature artisan Valerie Casson, it has been decorated authentically and matches in perfect detail its life-size Price Washington ‘Ye Olde Cottage Teapot’ counterparts. The top part of the thatched rood and central chimney form the lid, just like the real thing. Valerie Casson is renown for her meticulously crafted and painted miniature ceramics.

Also on the table, the glass dish of biscuits is an artisan piece. The bowl is made from real glass with the biscuits attached and hand painted. It came from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The teacups, milk jug and sugar bowl also come from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop.

Ada’s wicker sewing basket, sitting closed to show off its pretty florally decorated top, has knitting needles sticking out of it. The basket was hand made by Mrs. Denton of Muffin Lodge in the United Kingdom.

The fireplace, the whatnot, the central pedestal table, the embroidered footstool by the fireplace, the brass fire irons and the ornate black japanned cane table on which Ada’s sewing box stand also came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop.

The sideboard is a piece I bought as part of a larger drawing room suite of dolls house furniture from a department store when I was a teenager.

The collection of floral vases on the bottom two tiers of the whatnot came from an online stockist of miniatures on E-Bay.

The vase of flowers are all beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium and inserted into a real, hand blown glass vase.

The little white vase in the forefront of the photo is mid Victorian and would once have been part of a tiny doll’s tea service. It is Parian Ware. Parian Ware is a type of biscuit porcelain imitating marble. It was developed around 1845 by the Staffordshire pottery manufacturer Mintons, and named after Paros, the Greek island renowned for its fine-textured, white Parian marble, used since antiquity for sculpture. I have had it since I was about ten years old.

The ‘home sweet home’ embroidery and the painting on the wall come from online shops who sell dollhouse miniatures, as does the Art Nouveau vase on the left hand side of the picture.

Like a Bird in a Cage by raaen99

© raaen99, all rights reserved.

Like a Bird in a Cage

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

Today however, we have travelled a short distance west from Cavendish Mews, skirting Hyde Park, around Hyde Park Corner, through Knightsbridge past the Brompton Road and Harrods with its ornate terracotta façade, past the great round Roman amphitheatre inspired Royal Albert Hall that was built in honour of Queen Victoria’s late husband prince Albert in 1861, past Kensington Palace, to Holland Park. It is here, in a cream painted stucco three storey Nineteenth Century townhouse with a wrought and cast iron glazed canopy over the steps and front door, flanked by two storey canted bay windows to each side with Corinthian pilasters, that we find ourselves. Lettice has come to the elegant and gracious home of her widowed future sister-in-law, Clementine (known preferably now by the more cosmopolitan Clemance) Pontefract.

Lettice is engaged to Clemance’s elder brother, Sir John Nettleford Hughes. Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John, according to London society gossip enjoys dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. As an eligible man in a aftermath of the Great War when such men are a rare commodity, with a vast family estate in Bedfordshire, houses in Mayfair, Belgravia and Pimlico and Fontengil Park in Wiltshire, quite close to the Glynes estate belonging to her parents, Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, invited him as a potential suitor to her 1922 Hunt Ball, which she used as a marriage market for Lettice. Although she did not become engaged to him then, Lettice did reacquaint herself with Sir John at an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by mutual friends Sir John and Lady Gladys Caxton at their Scottish country estate in 1924. To her surprise, Lettice found Sir John’s company rather enjoyable. She then ran into him again later that year at the Portland Gallery’s autumn show in Soho, where she found him yet again to be a pleasant and attentive companion for much of the evening. Sir John also made a proposition to her that night: he offered her his hand in marriage should she ever need it. More like a business arrangement than a marriage proposal, Sir John offered Lettice the opportunity to enjoy the benefits of his large fortune, be chatelain of all his estates and continue to have her interior design business, under the conditions that she agree to provide him with an heir, and that he be allowed to discreetly carry on his affairs in spite of their marriage vows. He even suggested that Lettice might be afforded the opportunity to have her own extra marital liaisons if she were discreet about them. When Lettice’s understanding with Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, fell apart, Lettice agreed to Sir John’s proposal.

Even though Lettice is twenty-four now, as an unmarried young lady, she still must be discreet as to how often she sees her future husband unaccompanied, so as not to sully her reputation. Therefore, Clemance has arranged an afternoon tea for Lettice and Sir John at her elegant Holland Park home where she can be seen, for societal purposes, as a chaperone for Lettice. Clemance’s drawing room is elegantly appointed with the comfortable Edwardian clutter of her continual and conspicuous acquisition that is the hallmark of a lady of her age and social standing. Clusters of floral chintz chairs and sofas are placed around the room in small conversational clutches, whilst elegant French antiques, collected by her and her late husband Harrison during their years living in France, stand around the walls. The room is papered in pale pink Georgian style wallpaper and hung with Eighteenth Century pastoral scenes in gilded frames, whilst the floor is parquet. The room smells of freshly arranged hothouse flowers, and a canary twitters in a cage.

The trio are discussing over a tea of chocolate sponge served with cream and strawberries, Lettice’s recent acceptance of world famous British concert pianist, Sylvia Fordyce’s commission to create a feature wall in the drawing room of ‘The Nest’, Sylvia’s discreet country retreat in Essex, which Lettice visited last week. Sylvia is the long-time friend of Sir John and Clemance, and the pair introduced Lettice to Sylvia at a private audience after a Schumann and Brahms piano concert. After a brief chat with Sir John and Clemance, Sylvia had her personal secretary show them out so that she could discuss “business” with Lettice. Anxious that like so many others, Sylvia would try to talk Lettice out of marrying Sir John, Lettice was surprised when Sylvia admitted that when she said that she wanted to discuss business, that was what she genuinely meant. Sylvia invited Lettice to motor up to Essex with her for an overnight stay at ‘The Nest’ upon the conclusion of her concert series to see the room for herself, and perhaps get some ideas as to what and how she might paint it.

“So,” Sir John says as he sips his tea from one of Clemance’s gilded Art Nouveau patterned Royal Doulton cups. “You’re taking Sylvia’s commission on then, Lettice my dear.”

“I am, John.” Lettice agrees, sitting alongside her fiancée on the low backed and comfortable flounced floral chintz sofa.

“Oh hoorah!” Clemance exclaims from her own matching armchair opposite, clapping her hands in delight, the action startling the little canary in its cane cage on the pedestal table next to her, causing it to flutter from its perch and twitter loudly in fright. “Oh!” Clemance puts her hands to her mouth as she turns and looks at her little pet. “Oh I’m sorry Josette!” she says in an apologetic tone to the bird, who flutters back to its perch and utters a sharp and shrill cheep at her. “Poor dear creature.”

“Who?” Sir John asks. “Sylvia?”

“No, Nettie!” Clemance replies using Sir John’s pet name used only by Clemance and his closest friends from his younger days, picking up her own delicate teacup and turning her attentions back to her brother and his fiancée. “Not Sylvia. And don’t be obtuse.” She gives John a peevish look. “There’s nothing poor about Sylvia. No, I was referring to poor Josette.” She indicates with her bejewelled hand in a sweeping gesture to her bird. “I don’t think the poor little creature coped very well with the travel from Paris to London, and she is still trying to adjust to life in Holland Park. I’ve consulted my book of canaries and caged birds,” She pats a blue tooled leather volume with the image of three gilded canaries and the title pressed into the cover atop a stack of books next to the cage. “But all their suggestions on settling birds into new homes seem not to work. The only thing that does seem to work is when I play the piano: Chopin mostly. But for the most part since our arrival in London, Josette sounds so disgruntled.”

As if she knows she is being spoken of, the canary utters another angry tweet, causing Lettice and Sir John to glance at one another and share a conspiratorial smile.

“Perhaps you should play something for Josette now, Clemmie.” Sir John chuckles, his smile broadening, nodding to Clemance’s beautiful maple grand piano with its lid held open filling a corner of her spacious drawing room.

“We might enjoy that too, Clemance.” Lettice adds cheekily, her shoulders quivering with her own laughter.

“Oh you two!” Clemance says, flapping her hand at the pair on the sofa opposite her. “You’re as bad as each other, thinking I’m a mad old woman, fussing after my little bird!”

“Well, you must confess, Clemmie darling,” Sir John opines to his sister. “It is a little odd, fretting so much over a little thing like that.” He now nods to the chirping bird in the cage.

“The only thing odd is your lack of affection for animals, Nettie.” Clemance replies, groaning as she places her hands on the round arms of her chair and pushes herself up and out of the comfortable seat that over the years of owning it, has moulded to her shape. “But then again, you’ve never been an animal lover, have you Nettie darling?”

“I call that jolly unfair, Clemmie!” Sir John protests. “I loved the dogs we had when we were growing up.”

“Not as much as I did.” Clemance retorts, grasping the single strand of pearls draped down the front of her wisteria patterned crêpe de chine day frock. “You and Mother were always kicking them out of the way.”

“John!” Lettice exclaims, depositing her own teacup onto the low maple occasional table in front of her with a clatter and turning in her seat to look at her fiancée with startled eyes. “You didn’t?”

“Well, they got in the way.” Sir John defends himself. “They were always under foot. And to correct dear Clemmie’s memory of our childhood, which has become clouded and skewed with the passing decades, I didn’t kick them. Mother did, but I didn’t.”

“What would you call it then?” Clemance asks.

“I nudged them with my foot, and encouraged them to move, which they always did.”

“Well,” Lettice adds with determination. “I certainly hope you won’t be encouraging our dogs to move that way when we’re married.”

“Are we getting dogs, Lettice darling?” Sir John asks with arched eyebrows.

“Indeed we are!” Lettice replies with a steeliness in her voice. “A house is not a home without dogs.”

“Then why don’t you have a dog now, if you love them so slavishly?” Sir John queries, taking another slice of chocolate sponge from the cake plate on the table and depositing it onto his own plate. He looks to his fiancée. “More cake?”

“Err, no thank you, John darling.” Lettice shakes her head at the offer. “Anyway, Cavendish Mews is hardly the place for a dog, really, unless it was a small dog.” Lettice explains. “It’s too small, and dogs, even little ones, need space to run around,” She looks at Sir John pointedly. “So that they don’t get under foot. They need nature, and London is in short supply of that.”

“There are plenty of parks, Lettice,” Clemance says with an expansive wave that causes her draped sleeve to flutter prettily through the air before settling again. “You could take your dog to one of them.”

“Or one of the squares around Mayfair.” Sir John adds.

“No.” Lettice disagrees. “Those places are for dogs on leashes. No dog can roam around freely when at the end of a leash.”

“Rather like a bird in a cage.” Sir John looks at Clemance.

Josette tweets loudly again.

“I’ll have you know that Josette was free to fly throughout Harrison’s and my Paris apartment.” Clemance defends herself again.

“No doubt making a mess wherever it flew.” Sir John shudders at the thought of bird droppings being discovered around the room.

“She,” Clemance says pointedly. “Didn’t make a great deal of mess, any more than she does now.” She folds her arms akimbo in defiance and determination. “And once Josette is settled here, I will allow her out of her cage for a few hours each day, but not yet. She’s too flighty at the moment. She’s as likely to fly out of the nearest open window at present, given half the chance.” She looks indulgently at her canary, who chirps and twitters before pecking lightly at a little silver bell attached to one of the bars of the cage.

“You know larks don’t sing when in cages, don’t you Clemmie darling?” Sir John asks his sister, smiling cheekily.

Placing her hands on her hips and leaning forward over the table towards her elder brother, Clemance goes on, “My we are full of trivia today, Nettie darling.” She smiles, showing that she is not angry with her brother, and that the lively banter between the two of them is quite normal. “As it happens, I do know that little gem of a fact. Luckily, Josette isn’t a lark. She’s a canary.”

“Oh enough of that, you two.” Lettice interrupts. “Please play us something on the piano, Clemance.”

“Very well my dear Lettice,” Clemance agrees, moving around the embroidered footstool in front of her chair and gliding between the pedestal table used for Josette’s cage and the rounded arm of the sofa. “But I must warn you that I am no Sylvia Fordyce.”

“I’m not expecting such perfection from any mere mortal, dear Clemance.” Lettice assures her with a laugh.

Taking a seat on the stool at the piano, Clemance turns to her twittering canary and asks, “So, what shall it be, Josette: a Chopin Polonaise, Mazurka or Nocturn?” When the bird utters a louder chirp when she says the word Mazurka, Clemance continues. “Very good, Josette. A Mazurka it is.

As Clemance noisily ruffles through her well-worn sheet music on the piano’s music rack whilst Josette seems to chirp orders at her, Sir John turns back to Lettice. Depositing his plate of half-eaten slice of cake back onto the table he takes her delicate hands in his, enfolding them gently in his own smooth ones. The intimacy of the act still comes as a surprise to Lettice who jumps a little. When Sir John reacts by retracting a little, Lettice apologises to her fiancée for her jumpiness, claiming that she is still trying to get used to the idea of them being engaged. This seems to appease Sir John, and he smiles at Lettice with his blue eyes.

“You’ll get used to it soon enough, my dear.” Sir John assures Lettice.

“Will I?” Lettice asks, unable to keep an edge of anxiousness out of her voice.

“Of course you will, Lettice darling,” he replies. His smile develops a remorseful tinge. “In time.” He squeezes her hands. “You’ll see.”

“Yes,” Lettice agrees with a dismissive snort and a beaming smile. “Of course I will.”

“We are going to make a good partnership, Lettice: you and I.”

“Is that all, John?” Lettice asks, looking earnestly at Sir John.

“I’m a successful businessman, Lettice,” Sir John replies with a quizzical look. “And you a budding businesswoman in a world of men. What more do we need?”

Lettice remains silent for a moment, contemplating her fiancée’s statement before swallowing the lump in her throat and uttering awkwardly. “Love?”

“Now Lettice,” Sir John says seriously in a lowered tone, making sure that Clemance cannot overhear them as she scrambles through her sheets of music. “Love can be quite overrated.”

“But I…” Lettice begins.

Sir John releases Lettice’s hand and raises his right hand, placing a finger to her lightly painted lips as he shushes her. “I blame the obsession the general populace have with moving pictures now for the focus on love matches nowadays. Love can make things complicated. You saw this with how things ended with your young Spencely.”

“Or it can make you happy.” She falls silent for a moment before murmuring almost inaudibly, “I was happy with Selwyn.”

“My parents did well enough without it, your grandparents too, didn’t they Lettice? I warned you from the start that my… ahem.” Sir John clears his throat before continuing. “My desires in that regard are complex. You know this. Rest assured Lettice my dear, that I have the greatest of respect for you as a human being, and fondness too.”

“Is that all, John?” Lettice whispers.

“Perhaps love may come in time, but you cannot, and must not, expect it,” Sir John replies remorsefully. “For I cannot promise it you, Lettice. At the moment, that is reserved for the West End actress Paula Young, until some other little slip of a thing usurps her, and that will happen. Already she is getting cloying and tiresome, so I think it is time to jump ship. You won’t want to be like Paula, full of expectations that are unrealistic which get dashed along with her heart. You know what a broken heart feels like, don’t you? Settle for deep respect and fondness.”

“But I…” Lettice begins, but is silenced by her future sister-in-law.

“Here we are, Josette.” Clemance says from the piano. “You like this one, so I hope our guests do too.”

Clemance begins playing the opening bars of Chopin’s Mazurka, Op 17. No. 4.* The soft, gentle notes of the classical piece echoing from beneath the soundboard seem to echo Lettice’s feelings deep within her chest: a mixture of nervousness and a certain amount of sadness. Clemance’s fingers of both hands move gracefully across the keyboard, bringing the music to life, the tune evidently pleasing Josette as she trills happily from her cage, eyeing her mistress though dark beady eyes.

“So tell me, Lettice darling,” Sir John says brightly, adeptly changing the subject as he snatches his plate of half-eaten cake off the table again and settles back into the cosy comfort of the overstuffed Edwardian sofa. “What exactly is Sylvia’s commission?”

Lettice is surprised by how easily Sir John can change, from doting fiancée to cool businessman, from serious and intense to exuding good humour and bonhomie as he is now as he lounges back on the sofa eating chocolate sponge cake with cream and strawberries, exuding every confidence, and it makes her wonder who she is really marrying. Perhaps Sir John is right. Love can complicate things, but it seems that her fiancée is intricate and impenetrable enough as it is.

“Oh yes!” calls Clemance from the piano as she keeps playing. “Do tell us, Lettice darling. Knowing Sylvia, it’s sure to be something dynamic.”

Lettice clears her throat awkwardly as she retrieves her cup of tea from the table and cradles it in her hands. “Well,” she begins, adding a false, bright joviality to her voice as she speaks. “It’s really to undo some work by Syrie Maugham**.”

“Oh!” chortles Sir John. “That will set the cat amongst the pigeons***!”

“So typically Sylvia,” Clemance agrees with a laugh of her own.

“Sylvia always enjoyed being controversial, didn’t she Clemmie, even when you first met as young ladies?”

“For as long as I’ve known her, Nettie.”

“What is she having you do, Lettice darling?” Sir John asks, intrigued, his empty fork paused midway between his mouth and his lap.

“Well, she had Syrie Maugham decorate her drawing room at ‘The Nest’.” Lettice begins.

“Oh, that’s her little country retreat, isn’t it?” Clemance asks.

“Yes, it is.” Lettice concurs. “It’s in Essex, just outside of Belchamp St Paul****. I went to stay there so I could see the room for myself.”

“Lucky you, Lettice darling.” Clemance remarks. “I haven’t been invited yet.”

“Be fair, Clemmie darling, you’ve not been back in the country all that long,” Sir John defends Sylvia. “And it has only been a few weeks since Sylvia saw you. She said she’d invite you when she came back from her tour of the provinces that her agent has arranged for her.”

Clemance stops playing the piano and turns around on her stool to catch the eye of her brother. “That’s so typically you, Nettie darling!” She shakes her head, smiling indulgently.

“What have I said now?” Sir John asks, pleading innocence.

“You hear what you want to hear, not necessarily what is said, a trait you also picked up from Mother.” Clemance replies. “Sylvia said she’d look me up in the book*****, not invite me to ‘The Nest’! Truthfully, I don’t know anyone, other than you Lettice, who has been there and can vouch for its existence.” She turns back around and picks up where she left off playing, causing Josette to chirp happily in appreciation.

“So, what doesn’t Sylvia like about Mrs. Maugham’s designs, Lettice?” Sir John asks. “She would have paid a pretty penny****** for her services, and no doubt she will be doing the same with yours, or at least I hope she will.”

“She doesn’t appreciate Syrie Maugham’s over reliance on white, and,” Lettice sighs. “I must confess I understand why. The drawing room doesn’t seem to reflect Sylvia at all.”

“And what does she want you to do, Lettice?” Sir John asks again.

“To paint a feature wall for her, reflecting more of her personality and passion.”

“Oh hoorah!” Clemance says as the music comes to a gentle end which is softly applauded by both Lettice and Sir John. “I’m sure that will look wonderful!”

Clemance stands and steps away from the piano. Josette twitters cheerfully in her cage now and seems far more content. Clemance smiles at her pet. “That’s cheered you up, hasn’t it, Josette?” she asks. As if replying, the canary utters a peal of happy twittering notes. Turning to Sir John and Lettice, she goes on, “See, I told you my piano playing would make her less irritable.”

“Indeed you did!” her brother replies in mild surprise. “Proof that music hath charms to soothe the savage beast*******.”

“I’d hardly call a canary a ‘savage beast’, John.” Lettice opines.

“That’s because you’ve never been bitten by her sharp beak,” Sir John wags his fork at Lettice. ‘Like I have.”

“What are you going to paint on Sylvia’s walls, Lettice?” Clemance asks, resuming her seat in her comfortable floral armchair.

“I thought I might take inspiration from some wonderful pieces of blue and white china she has in the drawing room of ‘The Nest’.”

“I’m sensing a pattern here, Lettice darling.” Sir John remarks from his corner of the sofa. “After what you did for dear Adelinda.” He references the ‘Pagoda Room’, a small room in ‘Arkwright Bury’, the Wiltshire home of his and Clemance’s nephew, Alisdair Gifford and his Australian wife Adelinda. Sir John encouraged Lettice to take up the commission of his nephew and redecorate the room in Eighteenth century chinoiserie style to act as a backdrop for Adelinda’s collection of fine blue and white china: a commission that gained Lettice a favourable review in Country Life******** by Henry Tipping*********.

“Not at all, John.” Lettice replies with certainty. This is something very new and different. For Mr. Gifford…”

“Oh Alisdair, please!” Sir John retorts. “After all, you will be family once we are married.”

“Very well John, Alisdair’s redecoration, it was mimicking what had once hung on the walls. What Sylvia wants is something truly unique to her, and her alone. I thought I would take inspiration from some of Sylvia’s blue and white porcelain and paint a pattern of white on blue perhaps, rather than blue on white, with a gilded element.”

“That sounds rather exciting, and daring!” Clemance enthuses, sitting forward in her seat.

“That’s what Sylvia said.” Lettice agrees.

“What do you think you might paint for her then?” Sir John asks.

“At first I was going to paint something from the garden: flowers, or leaves perhaps,” Lettice explains. “Then I thought of feathers, which she really liked the idea of. I became more convinced after we had dinner that night that feathers are the right choice.”

“And why is that, Lettice darling?” Clemance asks.

“Well you see, Sylvia told me her story over dinner.” Lettice glances seriously, first at Sir John and then at Clemance. “Her whole story, which she says really only you two know.”

“So, she told you about her father and mother?” Clemance asks.

Lettice nods. “Yes, that her father died young, and that her mother couldn’t cope and needed to reach out to her brother, Ninian**********.”

“And what did she tell you about her time with her Uncle Ninian?” Clemance asks, her eyes wary as she looks at Lettice.

“She told me that he recognised in her what her mother also did, that she had the talent to be an accomplished pianist, but in order to do that, her mother needed Ninian’s money and connections.”

“Quite right, my dear.” Clemance nods. “It is through her Uncle Ninian that Sylvia and I met.”

“She told me the same story you did, that you were both staying at the von Nyssens, in Charlottenburg: you to be finished and she to attend the Universität der Künste***********.”

“And what did she tell you about when she came back to England after her period at the Universität der Künste came to an end?” Sir John asks quietly from his seat, his plate now discarded and all his attention upon his fiancée.

“Everything I think.” Lettice replies matter-of-factly. “That her Uncle Ninian basically held her captive, trying to recoup the money he invested in her by marrying her off to one of his wealthy friends. She told me that he was controlling of everything in her life, and that she wasn’t even allowed to see her mother again, except one last time on Primrose Hill************. That was one of the reasons why I decided that I would paint feathers for her on her wall.” Lettice’s voice lowers and saddens as she opines, “It seems to me that Sylvia was rather like a bird in a cage during that period of her life: on display and never granted her freedom, yet unlike a lark, she did have to sing, or rather perform and play the piano for all her would-be suitors.”

“That’s a very apt summation.” Clemance says sadly. “That was a hard time for Sylvia, and of course being sequestered as she was by her uncle, I had no idea what had happened to her.”

“But then she broke free, and managed to forge a life of her own,” Lettice adds more cheerfully. “And that is also why I want to paint feathers for her, as a symbol of the freedom she has now, and the heights to which she has risen in her career.”

“So, Sylvia told you about the Brigadier then.” Clemance says.

“Oh, she told me about Brigadier Piggott the night we met at the Royal Albert Hall*************, but whilst I was staying with her in Essex, she also told me about her first husband, Mr. Pembroke, the impresario, who turned out to be a wastrel and…” She pauses as she thinks how best to coin the fact that Sylvia disclosed her first husband’s homosexuality to her. “And other things.” she finally concludes. “And how he was a victim of foul play.”

“I see.” Sir John says dourly.

“So, she has told you everything, then.” Clemance concludes.

“I only think she entrusted me and took me into her confidence because I am marrying you, John.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t imagine that would be the only reason, Lettice darling,” Sir John replies, clearing his throat and sitting up in his seat, all the comfort and languor in his stance gone as he is reminded of the serious and sad business of Sylvia Fordyce’s life. “But it probably helped.”

“Sylvia is very good at keeping her own counsel, Lettice.” Clemance adds. “After those terrible few years with her Uncle Ninian, I think Sylvia is apt at managing everything about her life by herself. She neither needs to seek advice, nor share anything about her life with anyone else if she chooses not to. She is fiercely independent.”

“Thus, why I want to paint feathers for her, Clemance.”

“I think that Ninian also has a great deal to answer for Sylvia’s poor choice in men. I think being thrust in front of much older men as a jeune fille à marrier************** whom she didn’t love created a perverse sense of what a marriage was like for her, certainly if the Brigadier was anything to go by. We never met her first husband. He never came to any of Gladys’ parties where we reacquainted ourselves.”

“Oh!” Clemance gasps. “Oh thinking of marriages, and perhaps to not too subtly turn our attention and conversation away from the sad early life of Sylvia Fordyce, I have some magazines I’d like to give you to peruse, Lettice.” She gets up again with another groan. “It will help give you some ideas about what your trousseau*************** might look like: not that I don’t think you wouldn’t know, being the fashionable Bright Young Thing**************** you are, with friends like Gerald Bruton to dress you.” She sighs. “But food for thought. Have you spoken to your mother yet, about me helping you pick your trousseau, my dear?”

“Not yet, Clemance, but I doubt there will be any issues with her handing the reigns entirely over to you.” Lettice replies breezily. “Sadie hates London and only comes up here when she absolutely has to.”

Clemance takes the few steps across from her seat to Lettice. She places a hand lightly on Lettice’s shoulder. “Well, she might feel differently helping her youngest daughter to choose her trousseau. I know I would.” Her blue eyes suddenly become a little cloudy and lose their brightness as she speaks. “Best you ask her before you agree.”

Lettice sighs heavily. “Yes Clemance, I will, I promise, when I next go home to Glynes*****************.”

“Good girl.” Clemance squeezes Lettice’s shoulder and then wends her way between the furnishings of the drawing room and walks out the door.

In her cage, Josette flits about in desultory fashion, clinging first to one of the bars of her cage and then landing on the perch and winging, before flying up to peck at the silver bell. As she does, a single pale yellow feather falls from her tail. Blown by the wind created by Josette’s flight, the feather glides soundlessly out of the cage between the bars and lands on the tabletop, next to a round sterling silver box with a raised lid that Clemance uses for birdseed. As Josette lands on the floor of the cage, the feather is blown off the table and it drifts down, landing on the parquet floor of the drawing room.

Noticing it fall, Lettice puts her teacup aside and stands up before talking over to the table and dropping down to pick the feather up off the floor. She envelops it in her left hand as she stands up. She pauses before the cage’s bars and looks at Josette. The little canary seems to look back at her with her alert black eyes. She twitters and sings. “Hullo Josette.” Lettice says quietly. “You don’t have to be afraid of me. I won’t hurt you.”

Josette continues to fly about her cage, twittering and singing, whilst Lettice watches her antics, momentarily mesmerised.

“I do hope you don’t feel like her.” Sir John’s voice drifts into her consciousness.

“What?” Lettice asks distractedly, spinning around to face her fiancée, who has returned to his languorous stance, leaning back into the soft upholstery and nest of cushions of the sofa. His arms are draped over the left arm of the sofa and across its back. Once again, he exudes the confidence of male privilege that his sex, class and enormous wealth bestows with every languid breath, wearing it every bit as well as the smart and well-cut Jermyn Street****************** tweed suit he is dressed in.

“Like a bird in a cage.” Sir John replies with a confident smile. “I hope you don’t feel like a bird in a cage, like you feel that Sylvia did when she got married to Josiah Pembroke. This fine marriage of ours is going to benefit us both, albeit in different ways. I will still be able to enjoy my dalliances with Paula and her like, and you, my dear Lettice, will be afforded the luxury of independence that few women of our class can enjoy.”

*Mazurkas, Op. 17. is a set of four mazurkas for solo piano by Frédéric Chopin, composed in 1832–1833 and published in 1834.

**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.

***If you put the cat among the pigeons or set the cat among the pigeons, you cause fierce argument or discussion by doing or saying something. The idiom comes from colonial India, where a popular pastime was to put a wild cat in a pen with pigeons. Bets would be made on how many birds the cat would bring down with one paw-swipe. The period of the British colonisation of India may have introduced this concept, and hence the phrase to the English language.

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

*****In the 1920s, being listed in “the book” meant being listed in the telephone directory.

******The origin of the idiom “a pretty penny” dates back to the Sixteenth Century. The word “pretty” in this context does not refer to beauty but rather to a considerable or substantial amount. This phrase is used to describe something that is expensive or costs a significant amount of money.

*******“Music has charms to soothe a savage breast.” is the famous line uttered by a character in William Congreve's 1697 play “The Mourning Bride”. The meaning for “Music soothe the savage breast” quote can be interpreted as chest or heart. That is likely what William was referring to when he wrote his playwright. Still, as time went by, people began to incorrectly use the quote in numerous instances. As it is today, the phrase is misquoted wrongly in many places. The literal meaning of the incorrect quote is in reference to the power of music. Whoever began to misquote the phrase, wanted to say that music has the power to soothe even the most savage beast in the world. In a way, even though the quote is incorrect, it does make some sense. That’s because breast – as it was used back then – referred to feelings, emotions and heart.

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

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

**********Ninian is a Christian saint, first mentioned in the 8th century as being an early missionary among the Pictish peoples of what is now Scotland. Whilst the meaning of Ninian is uncertain, it may have links to the Irish and Scottish Gaelic word naomh, meaning “saint,” “holy,” or “sacred.”

***********The Universität der Künste, Berlin (Berlin College of Music) ranks as one of the largest educational music institutes in Europe, rich in content and quality. It dates back to the Royal (later State) Academy of Music, founded under the aegis of the violinist Joseph Joachim, a friend of Brahms, in 1869. From the date of its foundation under directors Joseph Joachim, Hermann Kretzschmar, Franz Schreker and Georg Schünemann, it has been one of the leading academies of music in the German-speaking countries. Composers such as Max Bruch, Engelbert Humperdinck and Paul Hindemith, performers such as Artur Schnabel, Wanda Landowska, Carl Flesch and Emanuel Feuermann, and academics such as Philipp Spitta, Curt Sachs, Erich Moritz von Hornbostel and Kurt Singer taught there. Prominent teachers later included the two directors Boris Blacher and Helmut Roloff, and the composer Dieter Schnebel.

************Like Regent's Park, the park area of Primrose Hill was once part of a great chase, appropriated by Henry VIII. Primrose Hill, with its clear rounded skyline, was purchased from Eton College in 1841 to extend the parkland available to the poor people of north London for open air recreation. At one time Primrose Hill was a place where duels were fought and prize-fights took place. The hill has always had a somewhat lively reputation, with Mother Shipton making threatening prophesies about what would happen if the city sprawl was allowed to encroach on its boundaries. At the top of the hill is one of the six protected viewpoints in London. The summit is almost sixty-three metres above sea level and the trees are kept low so as not to obscure the view. In winter, Hampstead can be seen to the north east. The summit features a York stone edging with a William Blake inscription, it reads: “I have conversed with the spiritual sun. I saw him on Primrose Hill.”

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

**************A jeune fille à marier was a marriageable young woman, the French term used in fashionable circles and the upper-classes of Edwardian society before the Second World War.

***************A trousseau refers to the wardrobe and belongings of a bride, including her wedding dress or similar clothing such as day and evening dresses.

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

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

******************Jermyn Street is a one-way street in the St James's area of the City of Westminster in London. It is to the south of, parallel, and adjacent to Piccadilly. Jermyn Street is known as a street for high end gentlemen's clothing retailers and bespoke tailors in the West End.

This upper-class drawing room may appear real to you, but it is in fact made up of 1:12 miniature pieces from my extensive collection, including items from my old childhood.

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

The copy of the “Book of Canaries and Caged Birds” on display here 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, although the book’s interiors are beautiful, so too is the cover, and I couldn’t resist displaying it for you to see. What might amaze you is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. In this case, the “Book of Canaries and Caged Birds”, written by W.A. Blackston, W. Swayland and A.F. Wiener was published by Cassel in London in the 1880s with 56 full colour chromolithographs, which are replicated inside this volume in 1:12 scale. To produce something in such detail makes this a true artisan piece. The books directly behind the “Book of Canaries and Caged Birds” are also Ken Blythe’s work, but are of the type that are not designed to be opened. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

The gilt Art Nouveau teacup in front of the book, featuring a copy of a Royal Doulton leaves pattern, comes from a larger tea set which has been hand decorated by beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

The tiny silver container with its removable lid was made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.

The wicker cage with the bird on its perch I acquired through an online stockist on E-Bay.

The wooden pedestal table is made from beautiful golden walnut and is an unsigned artisan piece that I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom.

In the background you can see Clemance’s grand piano which I have had since I was about ten years of age. It is made from walnut. The footstool has several sheets of music on it which were made by Ken Blythe. The sofa in the background to the left of the photo is part of a Marie Antionette suite with pretty floral upholstery which has been made by the high-end miniatures manufacturer, Creal.

All the paintings around Clemance’s drawing room in their gilded frames are 1:12 artisan pieces made by V.H. Miniatures in the United Kingdom, and the wallpaper is an authentic copy of late Victorian paper from the 1880s.

The Persian rug on the floor has been woven by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney, Australia.

Happy Days Are Here Again by raaen99

© raaen99, all rights reserved.

Happy Days Are Here Again

"Happy Days Are Here Again," written by Milton Ager and Jack Yellen in 1929, became a powerful anthem for Franklin D. Roosevelt's 1932 presidential campaign, resonating with Americans seeking hope during the Great Depression. The original recordings of this jaunty song from the late 1920s and early 1930s usually have the sung lyrics accompanied by a banjo.

Originating out of America during the 1920s the banjo quickly gained popularity in Britain too because it was reasonably cheap as an instrument, portable, easy to learn on and musical duelling matches were played like draughts or chess.

The theme for "Looking Close on Friday" for the 21st of March is "part of a musical instrument". Whilst I do come from a very artistic family, with my parents being artists, my Grandmother a writer and poet and my Grandfather a designer, and all of us like music, because both my grandparents were forced to play the piano as children, I was not forced to do the same. Thus, when this theme came up, as I have no musical instruments of my own so to speak, I decided to resort to my large 1:12 miniatures collection, for within it I have a beautiful artisan made banjo, which I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House shop in the United Kingdom. It has metallic strings, and its head - the circular section of a banjo which I have chosen to make my part of a musical instrument that I am focussing on – is made of white leather. Since the banjo originated in the 1920s, I have decided to surround it by some 1:12 miniature sheet music from the 1920s made by the miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Titles include: "Taxi!" "Auto Race" "Motor Race", "Casey Jones" and "Happy Days". Anyone who follows my photostream knows that I love and collect 1:12 size miniatures which I photograph in realistic scenes. The artifice of recreating in minute detail items in 1:12 scale always amazes me, and it’s amazing how the eye can be fooled. I hope you like my choice of this week’s theme, and that it makes you smile!

The booklets of music are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Known mostly for his authentic replication of books in 1:12 scale, in some cases, you can even read the words of the titles, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection. In addition to books, he also made some other 1:12 miniatures from paper, including the sheets of music. What might amaze you even more is that each has the correct music inside! To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

Madame Fortuna by raaen99

© raaen99, all rights reserved.

Madame Fortuna

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 north of Cavendish Mews, beyond St John’s Wood, over the far side of Regent’s Park and London Zoo, past Primrose Hill in the affluent middle-class suburb of Swiss Cottage, named for the ornately gingerbreaded Swiss style cottage orné* of the Swiss Cottage Inn**, past which Edith, Lettice’s maid, is walking as she heads from Swiss Cottage railway station*** towards Strathray Gardens. Having eschewed her usual pleasurable pursuits with Hilda, or a visit to her parents on her usual Wednesday morning off, Edith has an appointment in the smart upper middle-class London suburb. She trudges down the rain slicked concrete footpaths beneath the bare branches of the plane trees that run down either side of the Victorian red brick villa lined streets, following her own hand written instructions as to how to reach Strathray Gardens from the underground railway station. The branches above look stark against the slate grey skies.

For the last few weeks, unable to contain her own excitement and curiosity, in a desperate attempt to try and get some inkling as to when Frank will propose to her, Edith has been corresponding with, according to her advertisement in the newspaper, a “discreet clairvoyant” named Madame Fortuna, at Box Z 1245, The Times, E.C.4., whom she has now discovered is in reality, a woman named Mrs. Fenchurch who lives in Strathray Gardens in Swiss Cottage.

As Edith walks past the smart old fashioned two and three storey red brick villas with their undulating façades built in the 1880s and 1890s, Edith cannot help but feel a sense that she is interloping – that she is being stared at and scrutinised through the lace curtains dressing and obscuring the windows, that she is being judged by the upper middle-class housewives sitting in their drawing rooms and morning rooms overlooking the relatively quiet streets, as she goes on her way to what she now considers as she gets closer to it, may be a ridiculous assignation.

Finally, she stops before an intimidating three storey Modern Gothic/Queen Anne revival style house of red brick with Tudoresque style gabling, gothic style tracery painted in white around its leadlight windows, and large bays crowned by a crenelled balconette, overlooking the empty tree lined street. Now Edith feels a sense of trepidation as she stands on the threshold of the drive that leads up to the front steps. Leaning against the stone gothic finial capped brick newel post that flanks the half circle carriageway, she fishes the rather old fashioned Art Nouveau postcard of a woman and flowers from her green leather handbag and consults the spidery, yet elegant writing on the reverse. She looks at the number on the post next to her. She looks up at the house again. The address is definitely the correct one. She sighs and takes a deep breath to give herself courage before walking across the carriage turn and up the five steps, trying to gain the confidence of her convictions which she suddenly doesn’t feel as she steps beneath the white painted gothic style vestibule portico and presses the gleaming brass call bell by the white painted front door flanked with panels of stained glass. At first there is no response to her ring. Just as Edith’s resolve starts to fail her and she turns to leave and retreat like a defeated and foolish girl to Cavendish mews, a light goes on inside the hallway, illuminating the lozenges of stained glass around the front door, showing off their bright colours.

The door is suddenly opened by a rather rangy looking maid with an angular face, dark button eyes and a thin, downturned mouth. She is dressed in a morning uniform of pale blue and white striped calico, topped with a mob cap with a trim of crisply goffered lace, which is all too familiar to Edith who has her own version of the same uniform hanging up in the narrow wardrobe of her maid’s room in Cavendish Mews.

“Yes?” the maid asks sharply, looking Edith up and down with an appraising gaze.

Edith suddenly feels a fraud and shabby to boot dressed in her black three-quarter length coat from a Petticoat Lane**** second-hand clothes stall that she has remodelled, beneath the wiry maid’s beady, hard gaze. Taken aback by the domestic’s hostile look and brusqueness, Edith doesn’t answer.

“Yes?” the maid asks again, cocking an eyebrow as her lips purse in irritation.

“I… err…” Edith stammers.

“Oh no!” the maid says, mistaking Edith’s dour winter coat and black cloche decorated with purple satin flowers. “No thank you Miss. We’ve already members of the congregation of St. Peter’s Belsize Park*****. We’ve no wish to join your Fellowship.”

As she goes to close the door, Edith in an act of daring that surprises both she and the domestic she faces, she quickly puts her foot, clad in her best black kid cross strap shoe, in the jam, stopping the maid from closing the door in her face.

The uniformed maid looks down at Edith’s offending shoe and scowls. “Get your foot out of my door!” she snaps in a curt hiss, staring vehemently at Edith. “If it’s converts you’re looking for, I told you we aren’t interested.”

“Who is it, Trudy?” comes a quavering, elderly female voice from somewhere close by inside the villa.

“No-one Madam.” the maid calls back quickly in a loud and jovial sing-song voice, never taking her eyes of Edith’s face as she does. “Just another Quaker****** from Hampstead*******.”

The maid says again, “Get your foot out of my door!” She considers Edith’s outfit: smart, but obviously homemade or cobbled together with a bit of apt dressmaking. Reassessing Edith’s reason for visiting a determined steely tone enters her already hostile tone as she says, “If its work you’re looking for, you’ll find none here. Madam has a cook, and me as her parlour maid, and that’s all she needs. Now go away.”

“I’m here to see Mrs. Fenchurch.” Edith suddenly blurts out awkwardly like an admission of guilt, before adding insistently in a slightly lower and imploring tone of voice, “I’m here to see Madame Fortuna.” The name she adds emphasis to in an effort to explain to the gatekeeping domestic the reason for her presence on the doorstep.

The maid looks up, startled at Edith’s pronouncement, her eyes growing wide in what Edith perceives to be fear or perhaps concern. Still, rather than trying to crush her toe in the door, her stance eases slightly and she steps aside. “Come inside.” At first Edith doesn’t stir, remaining mute and immobile until the maid hisses, “Quickly girl, before the neighbours see you standing there!”

The domestic’s words create a result as like a tin toy when it is wound, Edith springs into action and steps across the threshold of the house into a large entrance hall tiled in black and white patterned tessellated pavers and panelled in white painted wood. A steep staircase with a dark runner held in place by shining brass stair rods******** leads upstairs, whilst a round table in the middle of the hall is covered in local circulars, several of the big London newspapers, including The Times, and a copy of the Tatler********* around a rather large aspidistra********** with glossy green leaves in a majolica jardinière***********. Against a wall, a large grandfather clock sonorously ticks the minutes away seriously.

“I’m nothing to be ashamed of.” Edith opines as she responds to the last remark of the truculent domestic. “I have every right to be here.”

“We’ll see about that. Name?” the maid snaps in a surly fashion, ignoring Edith’s statement as she glares at her.

“Edith.” Edith replies simply.

The domestic gasps with frustration, her eyes rolling to the ceiling above. Sighing with irritation she asks again, “Edith what?”

“Edith Watsford,” Edith replies nervously. “Miss Edith Watsford.” she corrects herself. She pauses for a moment before continuing in an uncertain fashion, “I’ve… I’ve corresponded with Madame Fortuna via The Times… and… and this is the time we agreed on that I should call upon her.”

“I don’t wish to know what you and Madam have corresponded about!” the maid says tersely. “Sit there.” She points sharply, indicating to a hard wooden hall chair sitting against the white wooden panelled wall. She turns on her heel and then turns back again suddenly. Pointing her finger at Edith this time she adds with a grim look, “And don’t move.” She then turns again and carefully opens a door pulled to that leads off the hallway into the downstairs room with the bay window overlooking the street.

Doing as she is bid, Edith sinks meekly onto the seat and waits, listening to the constant tick of the clock, and the muffled sound of the conversation between the maid and her mistress – the woman with the quavering voice. Leaning forward on her seat, Edith tries to listen to what is being said in the next room, but sitting against the far wall on the opposite side to the hall, and too frightened by the warning from the domestic to move closer, she cannot make out what is being said.

Finally, the door opens and the maid appears again. “Come in.” she says grimly, stepping aside. “Madam will see you now.”

Nervously Edith gets up from the hard hallway seat and walks across the entranceway, her low heels clicking noisily across the tiles. “Thank you.” she says politely to the maid as she slips apprehensively past the older woman.

“Miss Watsford?” the quavering voice Edith heard before asks as she steps into the room.

Edith finds herself in a rather overcluttered drawing room with a lofty ceiling. The salon is gloomy and stuffy in spite of the large bay window Edith saw from the street because what light manages to enter has to filter through a set of wooden venetian blinds and a set of thick red velvet hangings with a bobbled gold tassel trim, the stuffiness added to by very heavily patterned floral wallpaper. It is filled with heavy Jacobean revival furniture fashionable in the 1890s when the villa would have been built, with all the chairs and sofas jostling for space with one another upholstered in red velvet in an equally outmoded button back************ style. Every surface is cluttered with a lifetime of knick-knacks conspicuously displayed. Edith suddenly feels a pang of sadness for the poor maid standing at the door. No wonder she is crochety, having to dust all these objects by herself, if what she says is true and there only being a cook and herself to do all the domestic chores.

“Well, don’t stand at the door, letting in the draught, Miss Watsford,” the elderly female voice chides, but in a kindly manner, like an indulgent grandparent. “Please do come in and sit down.”

It is only then that Edith realises that Mrs. Fenchurch, or rather Madame Fortuna as she knows her, is seated in the bay in a high backed red velvet button backed Victorian armchair drawn up to a round table draped with a fine lace tablecloth and topped with another large aspidistra with glossy leaves. The woman’s appearance is as old fashioned as her décor, and she has, in common with many elderly women of her age, retained the hairstyle fashionable in her youth, some fifty years or so ago, her almost white tresses coiled at the back and covered in a dainty lace cap in a long obsolete fashion. Her black bouclé silk************* dress with its gigot sleeves************** and high, stiff neck is tightly corseted and is at complete odds to the contemporary and practical, loose style Edith wears and appears at least thirty years out of date. A large cameo is fastened at her throat, and she peers at Edith through a gold rimmed pince-nez***************, yet her eyes, unlike her maid’s, are friendly and her jowly face sitting above her embroidered collar is open and looks kind with a welcoming smile on her lips.

“Please, Miss Watsford,” the elderly lady says again, indicating with a sweeping gesture to a matching ballon button backed red velvet salon chair opposite her at the table. “Do take a seat.” She turns her attention to her maid. “We’ll have tea thank you, Trudy,” She glances quickly at Edith, appraising her through the lenses of her pince-nez before looking back at her servant. “Without the strainer, I think.”

“Yes Madam.” Trudy replies obsequiously.

“And some biscuits if you can manage it.” she adds.

As the door closes softly and Trudy’s footfalls on the tiles in the hallway fade into the distance, the old woman lets out a sigh of relief and smiles broadly at Edith. “You mustn’t mind dear Trudy, Miss Watsford,” she says gently in her genteel, upper-class tones. “She can be a little terse, but that’s only because she doesn’t approve of my endeavours as Madame Fortuna, and she worries for our reputation as a respectable household in the neighbourhood, and our standing in the St Peter’s parish congregation.”

“I see.” Edith remarks, looking around her.

“But she’s good to me, and she allows me my indulgence.” Mrs. Fenchurch observes Edith’s wide eyes and slightly sagging mouth with mild amusement. “Are you quite alright, Miss Watsford?”

“Oh! Oh, I’m sorry!” Edith stammers in an embarrassed apology, realising that she has been caught looking agog at her surroundings. “Yes quite.” She pauses. “Umm… how should I address you? Mrs. Fenchurch or Madame Fortuna?”

“Whichever you feel more comfortable with.” Mrs. Fenchurch answers. “But most clients call me Madame Fortuna.”

“Then I’ll do the same if you don’t mind, Madame Fortuna.” Edith says with a sigh of relief as she peels off her gloves.

“Not at all, my dear Miss Watsford.” When she notices Edith’s eyes straying about the room in a desultory way again, Mrs. Fenchurch asks with a good natured chuckle, “Not quite what you were expecting from Madame Fortuna?”

“Well, I… I really don’t know, Madame Fortuna.”

“Perhaps you were expecting a cauldron, a book of spells and spiderwebs in the corners of the room?” Mrs. Fenchurch asks tongue-in-cheek. “Trudy would never let the latter occur, although she might permit me the former.”

“Oh no!” Edith quickly defends. “I wasn’t… well… well I don’t rightly know what I was expecting Madame Fortuna.” It is then that she notices a rather large glass sphere sitting in a footed ebonised wooden stand just to Mrs. Fenchurch’s left, partially obscured by the bulbous white porcelain planter and leaves of the aspidistra. “What’s that?” She points across the table towards it.

“This?” Mrs. Fenchurch turns her head and looks to where Edith is indicating. She smiles proudly and her eyes light up. “This, my dear Miss Watsford, is my crystal ball.”

“I thought only gypsies at fairs had them,” Edith pauses for a moment before quickly adding, “Not that I’ve ever seen one before, myself. What do you use it for, Madame Fortuna.”

The older lady runs her palm over the ball’s surface closest to her hand in a rather intimate and loving action. “My crystal ball aids me in my art of clairvoyance.” she says rather mysteriously. “I can gaze into it, and sometimes I can see shapes and light that help me to foresee possible outcomes of future events.”

“Goodness! Even on a winter’s day like today, Madame Fortuna?” Edith asks. “It’s awfully dark in here.”

“Well, I do have other clairvoyant aids that I can use.” Mrs. Fenchurch replies. “Like these.” She indicates to a deck of red and white patterned cards stacked in the middle of the table, adjunct to the potted aspidistra.

“Playing cards?” Edith queries.

“No, my dear, Miss Watsford, although playing cards can be used to tell fortunes. No, these are special fortune telling cards.” She places her palm on the deck. “How do you feel about me using them to answer the questions you have?”

Edith sits ramrod in her seat, clutching her green handbag and looks with startled eyes at the cards, as though they are about to explode or catch fire.

“No, I thought not.” Mrs. Fenchurch says kindly. “I think you and I will have some tea and get to know one another a little better, and then I’ll read your leaves. How does that sound, Miss Watsford?”

“Oh!” Edith sighs with relief. “Oh yes, that sounds much better, Madame Fortuna. There used to be an old woman down the street from us in Harlesden who used to read people’s tea leaves.”

“Is that where you come from, my dear? Harlesden?”

“Yes, Madame Fortuna. I was born in Harlesden. My Dad works at the McVitie and Price biscuit factory there as a line manager.”

Just at that moment, the door to the drawing room opens and Trudy returns carrying a wooden tray holding a teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl and two cups, as well as a small glass dish of biscuits.

“And thinking of biscuits, here comes Trudy with our tea.” Mrs. Fenchurch smiles up at her maid, who with bowed head, avoids the gaze of either her mistress or Edith as she unpacks the tray with a serious face. As Trudy places the biscuits on the table’s surface, Mrs. Fenchurch asks, “I don’t suppose that selection is McVitie and Price’s, Trudy?”

The domestic stops what she is doing and looks with a crumpled look of concern at the older lady. “No Madam!” she exclaims. “They’re Huntley and Palmers****************, like always.” She looks quizzically at her employer. “Why do you ask?”

“It’s just Miss Watsford here, comes from Harlesden,” Mrs. Fenchurch says with a proud smile. “And her father works for McVitie and Price.”

Trudy doesn’t respond to her mistress’ revelation as to Edith’s family background, nor look at the younger woman. Instead, she says to Mrs. Fenchurch in a business like fashion, “No strainer, Madam, like you requested.”

“Thank you Trudy. That will be all for now.” Mrs. Fenchurch waves her hand through the air dismissively. “I’ll call you if I need you.”

“Yes Madam.” Trudy replies obsequiously, bobbing a curtsey and quickly retreating from the room.

“Do you mind frightfully if I smoke, Miss Watsford?” Mrs. Fenchurch asks. “I know it probably isn’t what you expect from a lady like me either, but it was recommended to me by my doctor. I found it calmed my nerves during the zeppelin raids in the war, but has become another rather pleasurable indulgence in the ensuing years.”

“It’s your house, Madame Fortuna.” Edith replies, even though she isn’t particularly enamoured by the habit. “But what have you to be nervous about? I’m the one who’s nervous.”

“Thank you my dear.” Mrs. Fenchurch takes a small red Morocco leather case from the tabletop and flips it open. She removes a thin cigarette and lights it before blowing a plume of tumbling smoke in the opposite direction to Edith. “We all of us, have our quirks, and I suppose a dose of nerves before one of my clairvoyant sessions is one of mine.” She slips the cigarette into the notch on the rim of the ashtray and leaves it to slowly burn. “And there is no need for you to be nervous with me. Now, shall I be mother***************** then, Miss Watsford?” she asks, picking up the silver pot, which Edith notices is badly tarnished. Seeing her critical look at the state of the pot, the older woman goes on. “So, you’re not a teacher then. You’re a domestic.”

Edith’s eyes grow wide in surprise. “Goodness! However, did you know that? Did your crystal ball tell you Madame Fortuna?”

Mrs. Fenchurch smiles as she pours tea into Edith’s blue and white floral patterned cup. “I could lie and say yes, Miss Watsford, but I don’t believe in my line of business, that lying is a good thing. Don’t you agree?” she asks rhetorically.

“No, Madame Fortuna.” Edith replies unnecessarily.

‘It was the way you looked at my teapot that betrayed you.” Mrs. Fenchurch goes on. “Trudy looks at it the same way whenever she raises the idea of polishing it with me. I tell her I won’t have the pot I use for reading leaves interfered with in any way.” She hands Edith her cup of tea. “I’ll let you help yourself to milk and sugar, since I don’t know how you take it, and my crystal ball won’t tell me that either.”

“Thank you, Madame Fortuna.” She gratefully accepts the cup from her hostess. She adds a large slosh of milk to her tea. “Yes, I’m just a humble domestic, like your Trudy.”

“And where do you work, my dear Miss Watsford, and for whom?” She picks the cigarette back up, draws upon it and exhales another plume of greyish white smoke into the air above them.

“I work as a live-in maid-of-all-work for the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd in Mayfair, Madame Fortuna.” Edith adds two heaped spoonfuls of sugar to her milky tea and stirs it. “I’m glad you’re honest, Madame Fortuna.” Edith admits, releasing a pent-up breath. “I must confess, even though I’d been saying it for a while, it took a lot of courage for me to finally write to you care of The Times.”

“And why did you choose me, Miss Watsford?” Mrs. Fenchurch asks, adding a level teaspoon of sugar to her tea. “There are other clairvoyants who advertise in The Times.”

“Well, because you said in your advertisement, that you are discreet.”

“Discretion is a byword here in Strathray Gardens, Miss Watsford.” Mrs. Fenchurch assures her as she adds a small amount of milk to her tea. “Please, do have a biscuit, even if it is only one from Huntley and Palmer.” She proffers the fluted clear glass plate of biscuits to Edith who picks a dainty jam tart.

The pair fall into a companionable silence for a short while. They sip their tea, eat biscuits and Mrs. Fenchurch finishes her cigarette before stubbing it out in the black ashtray. As she sips her tea and munches on her biscuit, Mrs. Fenchurch eyes Edith through her pince-nez, her mouth screwing up into a tight, wrinkled purse as she ruminates.

“Do you mind if I ask you a most indelicate question, Miss Watsford?” Mrs. Fenchurch asks at length.

Licking her lips of crumbs, Edith shakes her head.

“You’re not in trouble, are you Miss Watsford?”

“Me?” Edith’s eyes grow wide again. “No Madame Fortuna! I’ve never broken a law in my life.”

“No,” Mrs. Fenchurch chuckles sadly. “I didn’t mean like that. In meant trouble in the family sense, if you understand my meaning, Miss Watsford.” She looks seriously at Edith.

“Oh goodness no!” Edith gasps.

Mrs. Fenchurch holds up her hands in defence, displaying the frothy lace cuffs at her wrists. “Pardon me for asking, Miss Watsford, but in my… well, my line of work, I do get young ladies in trouble in my parlour looking for answers to their problems: answers my crystal ball and fortune telling cards can’t provide.”

“Oh no, Madame Fortuna!” Edith takes a gulp of her tea. “I can assure you, I’m not that kind of girl! Not in the least!”

“Well, that’s good.” Mrs. Fenchurch opines with satisfaction. “No, you didn’t strike me as such, but you never can tell. Dressed as smartly as you are, I wouldn’t have taken you for a domestic. That’s why I thought you might have been a teacher, or governess.”

“I’m quite handy with the needle, Madame Fortuna.” Edith says proudly. “I learned from my mum, who’s a laundress.”

“Very good.” The older woman sips her own tea thoughtfully. “So why are you here then, Miss Watsford? What is it that you want to know from Madame Fortuna?”

“I’m not sure you’ll think it worthy of your clairvoyant powers, Madame Fortuna.” Edith admits guiltily. “I very nearly retreated when your maid didn’t answer the door straight away.”

“Come now, Miss Watsford! It must be of some great importance to you, if you agonised so much before answering my advertisement.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have come.” Edith mutters as she drinks more of her tea.

“Don’t drain your cup, my dear!” Mrs. Fenchurch warns, flapping her hand towards Eith with her nose buried in the dainty blue and white floral teacup. “And I’m glad you have come. No matter is too insignificant for Madame Fortuna.” She reaches over and takes Edith’s cup and saucer from her as Edith replaces the cup onto the saucer. “So what is it you seek answers to, Miss Watsford?”

Edith doesn’t answer immediately as she thinks about what now seems a triviality in her life. “Well, it’s about the young man I’m stepping out with.”

“You’re concerned about his character?” Mrs. Fenchurch queries as she winds her wrinkled, yet elegant fingers around Edith’s teacup.

“Oh no!” Edith assures her. “Frank’s ever such a nice chap. He isn’t hiding any secrets from me.”

“Then what, Miss Watsford?” Holding the cup in her left hand, she swirls what is left at the bottom of it three times from left to right. “Tell Madame Fortuna.”

“Well, he says he wants to marry me, but he’s been dragging his heels about it.” Edith admits with a frustrated sigh. “We almost had a falling out over it when we were up the Elephant****************** a few weeks back. I just want to know he really means to marry me.”

“I see.” Mrs. Fenchurch says, and as she does, she flips Ediths cup upside down with her left hand, the loud sound of the teacup’s edge hitting the saucer startling Edith and making her jump in her seat. Speaking in a loud and dramatic tone, the older woman goes on, “Let Madame Fortuna and her advanced skills in tasseomancy******************* solve your quandary, Miss Watsford!”

The older woman leans forward over the cup, her puffed sleeves with their beaded embroidery panels acting like a protective shield as she rotates the cup three times before turning it back up again, carefully making sure the handle is pointing towards Edith. Mrs. Fenchurch peers inside.

“Come!” Mrs. Fenchurch commands Edith after spending a few moments examining the leaves left stuck on the inside of the teacup.

She begins to shuffle her seat towards Edith, and Edith does the same, until the pair are side by side with the bay window behind them, filtering light into Edith’s now empty teacup.

“What do you see, Madame Fortuna?” Edith asks with trepidation.

Mrs. Fenchurch points to the clump of tealeaves near the rim of the cup that seems to be drifting away from a larger clump. “Do you see that, Miss Watsford?” she asks.

“Yes Madame Fortuna.”

“Well that is a past love. Someone you are letting go of, or already have, and they are…”

“Oh that will be Bert!” Edith gasps, referencing her first serious beau who, before taking up the King’s shilling******************** and going to war in 1914 was her local postman. He died at the Battle of Passchendaele********************* in 1917. “He…”

“Ssshhh!” Mrs. Fenchurch hisses, holding up her left hand and placing her index finger against Edith’s lips to silence her. “Madame Fortuna doesn’t need you to tell her. She needs you to listen.” She points back to the small clump of leaves and continues. “This is your first love. He was a love that you held on to for a long time, maybe long after you should have stopped, but,” She pers more closely at the leaves. “You have done so now, and the bind you had is broken. He isn’t significant any more.”

“Yes Madame Fortuna.” Edith says, wide eyed.

“Now, this larger clump,” She points to another trail of leaves down near the handle of the teacup. “This is your new love. This is strong.” Her eyes grow wide. “You are committed to him,” She looks across at Edith and smiles confidently. “And he is committed to you.” She looks back into the cup. “Look at how enmeshed the leaves are. Your bond is strong.”

“Oh yes, Madame Fortuna!” Edith exclaims. “Frank…”

Mrs. Fenchurch hisses again, holding up her left index finger once more. “Listen. Madame Fortuna shall do the telling.”

Edith sits quietly in her seat, leans forward and looks first into the cup, then up at Mrs. Fenchurch’s serious face with its paper like translucent skin, and then back at the cup.

“See, Miss Watsford.” The old woman points to a line of leaves to the right of the large clump. “He has been stirred into action: made aware of your wish to wed, and he is now getting ready to take the next steps.”

“Oh when, Madame Fortuna? When?”

“Well, do you see how they are stuck to the side of the cup, Miss Watsford?” When Edith nods with excited anticipation, Mrs. Fenchurch goes on, “The rim of the cup symbolises the present, the sides represent the near future, and the bottom of the cup signifies the far future.” She smiles broadly at Edith, her gentle blue-grey eyes sparkling with quiet and controlled energy. “Your young man isn’t going to propose tomorrow, but he will do so in the near future.”

“Really, Madame Fortuna?”

“Really, my dear Miss Watsford.” Mrs. Fenchurch places the cup back onto the saucer, around which the excess wet clumps of leaves stick whilst a pool of milky tea, now cold, gathers in the base of it. “Madame Fortuna’s tasseomancy doesn’t lie. I hope that sets your mind at ease.”

“Oh it does, Madame Fortuna! Very much!” Edith exclaims, clasping her hands together in delight.

Mrs. Fenchurch grasps Edith’s right shoulder with her left hand and squeezes it comfortingly. “You just need to be patient, my dear Miss Watsford. It will come.”

A short while later, Mrs. Fenchurch stands at the front pane of her bay window and watches through the slats of the venetian blinds as Edith walks away down Strathray Gardens, back towards the underground railway station. The maid has a skip in her step and a lightness in her stance that she didn’t have coming. Mrs. Fenchurch smiles and sighs through her nose with satisfaction.

“You’ve been smoking again, Madam.” Trudy tuts as she sidles up alongside her at the window, clutching the heavily tarnished teapot. “It’s most unseemly in a lady like you.”

“Don’t chide me, Trudy! I’m a grown woman, and at a far more advanced age than you. If I choose to smoke, then that is my prerogative.”

Trudy follows her mistress’ gaze and watches Edith’s retreating figure through the glass. “What did you tell her, Madam: that silly slip of a girl?”

Mrs. Fenchurch twists the shiny shilling she took as payment from Edith for her tasseomancy session with Madame Fortuna in her fingers playfully. “I told her that her young man will propose soon.”

“Pshaw!” Trudy scoffs, stepping away from the window and back to the table where she begins to stack up the dirty tea things on her wooden tray. “You know no such thing.” She looks at the congealed tea leaves and dregs of cold tea on Edith’s saucer and mutters, “What a load of old mumbo-jumbo.”

“Madame Fortuna’s tasseomancy doesn’t lie. I told her what I read in her leaves. I told her the truth, Trudy.” Mrs. Fenchurch insists, turning away from the window and walking back towards her seat.

“You told her your version of the truth, more like it, Madam.”

“I saw what I saw in the leaves, Trudy.” Mrs. Fenchurch retorts, sinking down into the comfortable red velvet embrace of her chair. “And I told her what she needed to hear.”

“I’m going to go to the scullery right now and polish this pot, Madam.”

“Oh no you’re not, Trudy!” Mrs. Fenchurch replies with a commanding steeliness to her voice. “That pot is the vessel for my tasseomancy. I shan’t have you taint it with your domestic cleanliness! And that’s an end to it. If you are feeling industrious and want to polish something, go and polish the doorknobs.”

*A Cottage orné (French for 'decorated cottage') dates back to a movement of "rustic" stylised cottages of the late Eighteenth and early Nineteenth centuries during the Romantic movement, when some sought to discover a more natural way of living as opposed to the formality of the preceding Baroque and Neoclassical architectural styles. English Heritage defines the term as "A rustic building of picturesque design." Cottages ornés often feature well-shaped thatch roofs with ornate timberwork. Examples in England include Queen Charlotte’s Cottage in Kew Gardens, the German cottage used by the children of Queen Victoria at Osbourne on the Isle of White, and The Hermitage, Hanwell in Ealing, as well as the Swiss Cottage Pub after which the suburb of Swiss Cottage was named.

**According to the Dictionary of London Place Names, the district of Swiss Cottage is named after an inn called The Swiss Tavern that was built in 1804 in the style of a Swiss chalet on the site of a former tollgate keeper's cottage, and later renamed Swiss Inn and in the early 20th century Swiss Cottage.

***Swiss Cottage is a disused London Underground station in Swiss Cottage, north-west London. It was opened in 1868 as the northern terminus of the Metropolitan and St. John's Wood Railway (M&StJWR), the first northward branch extension from Baker Street of the Metropolitan Railway (now the Metropolitan line). Subsequent to the opening of a new Swiss Cottage station, which was served initially by the Bakerloo line (1939–1979) and is now on the Jubilee line (1979–present), this Metropolitan line Swiss Cottage station was closed in 1940.

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

*****St Peter's Church, Belsize Park is a Victorian church built in the gothic style with a clock tower. Built on Belsize Square, it was consecrated in 1859, and stands in its own garden.

******The Religious Society of Friends (or Quakers) began in 1643 in the United Kingdom, at a time of growing disillusionment with the established church. Inspired by George Fox, people sought an alternative, calling themselves “the Friends of Truth”. Commonly known today as the Religious Society of Friends, they are committed to working for equality and peace.

*******The Hampstead Meeting House is a Friends meeting house (a Quaker place of worship) at 120 Heath Street in Hampstead. It was designed by Fred Rowntree in the Arts and Crafts style in 1903.

********A stair rod, also commonly referred to as a carpet rod, is an ornamental decorative hardware item used to hold carpeting in place on steps.

*********Tatler was introduced on the 3rd of July 1901, by Clement Shorter, publisher of The Sphere. It was named after the original literary and society journal founded by Richard Steele in 1709. Originally sold occasionally as The Tatler and for some time a weekly publication, it had a subtitle varying on "an illustrated journal of society and the drama". It contained news and pictures of high society balls, charity events, race meetings, shooting parties, fashion and gossip, with cartoons by "The Tout" and H. M. Bateman.

**********Aspidistras are a flowering plant native to eastern and southeastern Asia, particularly China and Vietnam. They grow well in shade and prefer protected places, which made them the ideal indoor house plant for dark Victorian and Edwardian houses which often only had diffused light seeing in through window treatments of venetian blinds, curtains, lace scrim or a combination of all three.

***********Jardinière is a French word, from the feminine form of gardener. In English it means a decorative flower box, planter, planterette or plant pot which flowers or other plants are cultivated and displayed.

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

*************Bouclé silk, pronounced “boo-clay” is derived from the French word for “curled” or “ringed,” reflecting the fabric's characteristic looped yarns. It is typically made from a combination of fibres, including wool, cotton, silk, linen, and synthetic materials. The loops can vary in size and tightness, giving the fabric a unique texture.

**************A gigot sleeve is a sleeve that was full at the shoulder and became tightly fitted to the wrist. It was more commonly known as a leg-of-mutton sleeve.

***************Pince-nez is a style of glasses, popular in the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries, that are supported without earpieces, by pinching the bridge of the nose. The name comes from French pincer, "to pinch", and nez, "nose".

****************Huntley and Palmers is a British firm of biscuit makers originally based in Reading, Berkshire. The company created one of the world’s first global brands and ran what was once the world’s largest biscuit factory. Over the years, the company was also known as J. Huntley and Son and Huntley and Palmer. Huntley and Palmer were renown for their ‘superior reading biscuits’ which they promoted in different varieties for different occasions.

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

******************”Up the elephant” is an old fashioned term Londoners used to use to describe visiting the busy shopping precinct of Elephant and Castle, south of the Thames. In its heyday, Elephant and Castle was known as "the Piccadilly Circus of South London".

*******************Tasseomancy, known more commonly as tasseography, is the art of identifying symbols and interpreting messages found in the shapes and configurations of tea leaves.

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

*********************The Third Battle of Ypres, also known as the Battle of Passchendaele, was a campaign of the First World War, fought by the Allies against the German Empire. The battle took place on the Western Front, from July to November 1917, for control of the ridges south and east of the Belgian city of Ypres in West Flanders, as part of a strategy decided by the Allies at conferences in November 1916 and May 1917.

This overstuffed and cluttered Victorian drawing room would have looked very old fashioned by the mid 1920s when this story is set, and it may look real to you. However, this upper-middle-class domestic scene is different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures, some of which come from my own childhood.

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

The crystal ball in its stand is actually a glass marble used for arranging flowers. I deliberately chose one that had lots of bubbles inside it to give the image a magical feeling. The stand is made of glazed brown pottery and is really the stand for a small cloisonne egg.

The teapot also came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. It is sterling silver, hallmarked Birmingham 1910 and has a removable lid, so it was probably a commissioned piece of Edwardian whimsy for someone wealthy, be they an adult or child. The blue grape and vine tea set came from a miniatures stockist on E-Bay. The design is a copy from an Edwardian Royal Doulton set.

The black ashtray is also an artisan piece, the bae of which is filled with “ash”. The tray as well as having grey ash in it, also has a 1:12 cigarette which rests on its lip (it is affixed there). The cigarette lighter is made of sterling silver and was made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures. The cigarette case, which can be seen just behind the teapot is an artisan miniature as well. It is made of red Morocco leather and opens on a minute hinge to reveal cigarettes inside.

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

The tarot cards are a desk of 1:12 sized playing cards which came from an online stockist of miniatures on E-Bay.

The Aspidistra to the left of the photo comes from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop.

The tablecloth is a hand hade lace edged doily which I bought from an antique and curios shop some years ago.

The Victorian red velvet button back lady’s armchair and the salon chair in the background, I bought from a high street dolls’ house supplier when I was twelve.

The wallpaper is a replica of real Victorian era floral wallpaper. It is very heavily decorated and colourful, and would have been very expensive to have made and hung.

On With the Dance by raaen99

© raaen99, all rights reserved.

On With the Dance

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

Today is Tuesday and on Tuesdays, every third Thursday of the month and occasionally after a big party, Mrs. Boothby, Lettice’s charwoman*, comes from her home in Poplar to do all the hard jobs and help Edith, Lettice’s maid. We find ourselves just a short distance from Cavendish Mews, quite near Mr. Willison’s grocers’ shop in Binney Street Mayfair, where Lettice has an account, and from where Edith orders her groceries for the Cavendish Mews flat. It is also from Willison’s grocers’ shop that Edith’s romantic love life stems, for she is stepping out with Frank Leadbetter, Mr. Willison’s delivery boy, who carries orders about Mayfair and the surrounding suburbs on the bicycle provided for him by his employer. As we look down Binney Street towards Cavendish Mews, we can see old Mrs. Boothby dressed in a long navy blue winter coat wearing a toque** with an aigrette*** sticking out of it, with a beaded blue bag hanging from the crook of her elbow and a cigarette stuck between the index and middle fingers of her left hand as she walks down the street after finishing her work at Cavendish Mews. She looks up in the direction of the side entrance to Mr. Willison’s Grocery, where Frank can be seen wheeling out the smart black Willison’s delivery bicycle with the business name emblazoned on a panel between the two spoked wheels and the wicker basket on the front loaded with paper bags of groceries ready for delivery.

“Frank! Yoo-hoo! Frank!” calls Mrs. Boothby, waving her hand, still holding the stub of her cigarette over her head as she approaches him. “It’s the man of the ‘our!” she says with a crooked smile. “We was just takin’ ‘bout you!”

“Hullo Mrs. Boothby!” Frank says brightly, pausing on his bicycle and smiling back at the old woman. “Were you now? Finished at Cavendish Mews for the morning, have you?”

“I ‘ave, young Frank! On me way to ‘Ilda at the Channons’ in ‘Ill Street. Let’s see what stories “Ilda ‘as about Mr. and Mrs. Channon for me today.”

The pair laugh wholeheartedly, imagining what stories their friend Hilda might shade about her employers, Lettice’s friends Margot and Dickie Channon, who live a short walk away at a flat in Hill Street, similar in size to Cavendish Mews.

“Weather looks not too bad, for a March day.” Frank looks up at the sky between the buildings.

“Not bad. Not bad at all, Frank.” Mrs. Boothby agrees as she follows Frank’s gaze and glances upwards from underneath her navy blue toque.

“Looks like spring might finally be in the air.” He indicates to the pale blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds that float soundlessly overhead, allowing for shafts if sunlight to bathe and warm Frank’s and Mrs. Boothby’s upturned faces for a few blissful moments at a time. “And how are you anyway, Mrs. Boothby?”

“Aaaww, fair to muddlin’, young Frank. Me back and knees ache, but that ain’t nuffink unusual. They dun call it ‘ousemaid’s knee**** for nuffink neiver.” She gives her left knee a slap with her left hand, sending forth a shower of cigarette ash. “An’ I’m still tryin’ to fill the time what I used to spend cleanin’ for old Lady Pembroke-Duttson down in Westminster.”

“What happened to Lady Pembroke-Duttson then, Mrs. Boothby?”

“Ooohh! It were awful, Frank!” She tosses her spent cigarette butt into the gutter. “’Er big old ‘ouse burnt dahwn in November! It were a bit ramshackle like an’ tumbledown, what wiv ‘er bein’ so old and on ‘er own there, but she ‘ad a lot of it shut up, so it weren’t too bad for me, since I only ‘ad to do for her in a few suites of downstairs rooms, the kitchen and ‘er bedroom and barfroom up top. She lorst so many luverly fings in that fire. Mind you, I scored a few nice bits ‘n pieces from ‘er fire sale of ‘er leftovers she didn’t want no more.”

“Did she…” Frank lowers his voice. “Did she perish in the fire, then? Is that why you have a gap in your work schedule?”

“Lawd love you, Frank Leadbetter! She ain’t perished in ‘er own fire! She lives dahwn at Artillery Mansions***** nahw, but they’s got their own live in staff to maintain the flats, so I don’t do for ‘er no more, is all.”

“Oh!” Frank breathes a sigh of relief. “That’s a mercy then.”

“Not for me it ain’t! I got a big ‘ole in me, whachoo call it?”

“Err… your work schedule, Mrs. Boothby?” Frank asks helpfully.

“’Ere that’s it: me work whatchamacallit. Why, you know of anyone what needs a good char? Need me to do for ya’ Frank?”

“Not me, Mrs. Boothby!” Frank holds up his hands in defence. “My landlady Mrs. Chapman does all her own housework, and I wouldn’t want to get on her bad side if I suggested that she needed any help beyond her daughter who gives her a hand, even if she did need it. Mrs. Chapman would probably fling me out my ear for being an ingrate.” Frank lowers his voice again. “Just between you and me, Mrs. Boothby, she’s a real curmudgeon. It doesn’t take much to rile her up, let me tell you.” Hie eyebrows arch over his bright blue eyes. “So you probably wouldn’t want to work for her anyway. Still, the rent is cheap for me, so I will put up with Mrs. Chapman’s grumpy moods for now, whilst I keep saving money.”

“Well, I don’t fink I’d fancy goin’ to do a place in Clampham regular like anyway. It’s a bit outta me way, bein’ south side of the Thames. I’d ‘ave to take the Oxo cube******, and that’ll take too long.”

“Thinking of which.” He pats the Willison’s Groceries brown paper shopping bag in his basket. “I should be getting along myself. I’ve a delivery to do in Pimlico.”

“’Ere, nahw ‘ang on Frank. Can you wait a minute of two?”

Frank fishes out his grandfather’s silver pocket watch from his trouser pocket and glances at its face, worn over the years by the many times it has been withdrawn from pockets just like this: first by his grandfather, then his father and now Frank himself. “Well, I suppose I can, Mrs. Boothby.” His face crumples a little as he returns it to his pocket. “So long as it isn’t too long. I know you enjoy a good chin wag.” He chuckles good naturedly as he dismounts his bike and leans it up against the brick wall of the grocers, plastered with advertising that they are next to. “Or so Edith tells me. Thinking of Edith, I was going to invite her to Cruft’s*******,” He points to a poster of a rather grumpy looking terrier advertising the annual dog show as the Islington Agricultural Hall. “But time just got away from me. I know she likes dogs. Do you think Edith would like to go next year, Mrs. Boothby?”

“I’m sure she would Frank,” the old Cockney char lowers herself onto the wooden bench next to Frank’s parked bicycle. “But I fink there’s somefink she’d be likin’ a lot more than an invite to Crufts.”

“Oh, what’s that, Mrs. Boothby?”

Mrs. Boothby doesn’t answer directly, as with a groan she starts fossicking through her capacious beaded bag before withdrawing her cigarette papers, Swan Vestas******** and tin of Player’s Navy Cut*********. Rolling herself a cigarette she strikes a match and lights her cigarette. She takes a long and pleasurable drag on it, and as she blows out a plume of grey smoke she releases a couple of her fruity coughs. “Oh loverly.” she says, unaware of Frank pulling a disturbed face as she coughs nosily again.

“Are you alright, Mrs. Boothby?” Frank asks in concern.

“Me?” she replies in surprise. “Never better! Why?”

“Well, it’s just,” Frank starts to gesticulate as he bends down and crouches in front of her. “Your cough, Mrs. Boothby!”

“Oh that!” She releases another hacking and spluttering cough. “It’s just me old chest,” She beats her chest heavily with her fist. “And these cold March mornin’s is all. The sooner spring is ‘ere, the betta, I say!” She coughs again and takes another drag on her cigarette, making the paper crackle as she does.

“Are you sure, Mrs. Boothby?” Frank queries, the uncertainty clear on his face.

“Oh yes!” she scoffs, flapping her hand about, sending forth a shower of ash and a swirl of acrid cigarette smoke into the air. “Don’t choo worry ‘bout me! Nahw listen!” she huffs. “I need to ‘ave a serious word wiv you, Frank Leadbetter.”

“Oh that does sound ominous, Mrs. Boothby.” Frank admits with a gulp. “You sound awfully like Mrs. Chapman when I’ve brought some mud in on my shoes and tread it into her freshly cleaned hall runner. What have I done?”

Mrs. Boothby looks at him with a serious look, her eyes glittering like dark jewels imbedded in the winkles of her pale face. “It’s more ‘bout whatchoo ain’t done, Frank.” she says, arching an eyebrow knowingly over her left eye. “That’s the problem.”

“What haven’t I done, Mrs. Boothby?”

“Well, you know how fond I am of our Edith, don’t you, Frank?”

“Of course I do, Mrs. Bootby, and she’s very fond of you too.”

“Well, we agree on a lot ‘a fings, but they’s some fings we don’t always see eye to eye on, and this is one of ‘em!”

“What do you mean, Mrs. Boothby?” the young man asks in confusion with a perplexed look. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, I was just talkin’ wiv Edith at Cavendish Mews this mornin’ and she told me that rather than go and see ‘er mum ‘n dad tomorra, like she’d usually do if she ain’t goin’ out wiv you or ‘Ilda, she’s goin’ to see one of them mumbo-jumbo clairwhatsits! And it’s all your doin’, young Frank!”

“Edith’s going to see Clare whom, Mrs. Boothby?”

“She ain’t gonna see a girl called Clare, you berk**********!” Mrs. Boothby retorts, coughing roughly again. “She’s goin’ to see one of them clairwhatsits tomorra! You know, one of them fortune teller types!”

“Oh, a clairvoyant!” Frank exclaims, suddenly understanding what Mrs. Boothby means.

“That’s them! And it’s a whole lot of mumbo-jumbo, and she’s goin’ to waste a good shillin’ or two talkin’ to one tomorra that’s probably a clairwhatsit charlatan***********!”

“Edith did remark in passing to me that she felt like going to see a clairvoyant,” Frank says as his face crumples in concentration. “But I just put it down to a foolish fancy and dismissed it.”

“Well, it may be a foolish fancy to you, young Frank, but she’s serious! She’s doin’ it, ‘n all, and it’s because of you!”

“Because of me, Mrs. Boothby?”

“And you know it,” The old Cockney char nods sagely. “Because she wants to know when youse two are goin’ to get wed!”

Franks sighs, now fully understanding the situation. “That was when she mentioned it to me, Mrs, Boothby. We’d been up the Elephant************ and were caught in a rain shower. We ended up under the awnings of a jewellers on Walworth Road and she saw some wedding rings in the window, so she asked me when I was going to ask her dad for her hand in marriage.”

“And whachoo say?” Mrs. Boothby asks.

“Well, I said, soon.” Frank assures her. “But just not quite yet.”

“Exactly!” Mrs. Boothby says with an irritated sigh before drawing on her cigarette once more. “Not quite yet.” She exhales a plume of smoke. “You sound like you’re draggin’ your ‘eels, Frank my boy!”

“Edith said the same thing, but I’m not.” Frank replies in his own defence. “I’m just trying to save up a little more money, so that we can set up house together: a nice home. I want to ask Edith’s dad for her hand when I think I look most favourable. I want to I’m a man of principles.”

Mrs. Boothby chuckles and reaches out a careworn hand, running it along Frank’s pale cheek. “I know you are, young Frank, and principles is all fine in their place, but sometimes they are like blockers, and they stop us doin’ what we know we should do.” She pauses and drags on her cigarette again, blowing a plume of smoke into the air above their heads. “It sounds to me like Edith’s mum and dad are as anxious for you to ask ‘em for Edith’s ‘and in marriage as Edith is, and I’m sure wiv your gran getting’ on in years, she’d sleep better knowin’ that you’re goin’ to get married. Just because you ask Edith’s dad for ‘er ‘and doesn’t mean you ‘ave to get married right away.”

“Perhaps not,” Frank agrees. “But once the cat is out of the bag, there will be pressure from all our friends for us to get married. You know there will”

“Only if you tell ‘em.” Mrs. Boothby counters. “Just keep it just between you two, Edith’s parents and your gran for now. No-one else need know ‘till youse wanna announce it.”

“There is always pressure put on the young couple to set a date.” He looks at her seriously. “Long engagements are not very fashionable, even when they are for all the right reasons.”

“There won’t be no pressure from the Watsfords to get wed quick once you’ve committed yourself to Edith.” Mrs. Boothby assures him. “They’ll be ‘appy to wait, knowing that it will ‘appen when it’s meant to ‘appen, and then so will Edith, and she’ll ‘ave no need for this mumbo-jumbo clairwhatsit stuff she’s doin’!”

“So, what do you suggest, Mrs. Boothby?”

Mrs. Boothby picks herself up off the bench with a groan, takes a final drag from her cigarette and tosses the smouldering butt across the concrete of the footpath and into the gutter. She stands up and points to the London Underground advertisement on the wall behind them, next to the one for Cruft’s Dog Show. Frank looks at the advertisement. It shows a stylised. Art Deco image of a pair of young people at a dance together. He is dressed smartly in tails, and she in a gaily coloured, fashionable gypsy girdled************* dance frock. They stare lovingly into one another’s eyes.

“Get on wiv the dance, young Frank!” Mrs. Boothby says, quoting the phrase written below the image in bold russet coloured Art Deco style font. “Get yourself over to Mr. and Mrs. Watsford’s as soon as you can, and ask ‘em for Edith’s ‘and! You’ve got all you need to impress ‘em! Youse workin’ your way up ‘ere at Mr. Willison’s, and youse got your name dahwn at that trades ‘all place of yours for a new position in these fancy new suburbs they’s buildin’. You’re young, ‘ealthy and and doin’ well. No time like the present! Eh?”

“Well, I can’t do it now, Mrs. Boothby.” Frank replies. “I have to deliver these groceries to Pimlico.

Mrs. Boothby laughs throatily. “I don’t mean now, you berk! But the time is now, Frank! Don’t wait too long, or you’ll lose ‘er.” She smiles sadly. “And to lose a pearl like our Edith would be a tragedy!”

“I promise I won’t lose her, Mrs. Boothby.” Frank assures her. “It won’t be too much longer now. Trust me! I have a plan and I’ll put it into action.” He leans forward and gives her a peck on the cheek.

“Frank!” the old woman gasps, putting her hand to her right cheek where Frank’s lips were.

“Thank you for being such a good friend, Mrs, Boothby. Frank pulls up his bicycle and climbs astride it again. “You really are a brick!” He laughs. “Goodbye now.”

The old woman waves Frank off as he rides the bicycle out onto the road and settles onto the seat. He waves back to her, but doesn’t look back as he sets off down Binney Street towards his destination in Pimlico, whistling merrily as he goes.

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

**A toque is a small round, brimless hat which was especially popular during the Edwardian era.

***The term aigrette, taken from the French for egret, or lesser white heron refers to the tufted crest or head-plumes of the egret, or other birds, used for adorning a headdress or hats. The word may also identify any similar ornament, in gems.

****Prepatellar bursitis (known more commonly as “housemaid’s knee” is an inflammation of the prepatellar bursa at the front of the knee. It is marked by swelling at the knee, which can be tender to the touch and which generally does not restrict the knee's range of motion. It can be extremely painful and disabling as long as the underlying condition persists.

*****Built in Westminster, quite close to the Palace of Westminster and the Houses of Parliament Artillery Mansions was just one of the many fine Victorian mansion blocks to be built in Victoria Street around St James Underground Railway Station in the late 1800s. Constructed around open courtyards which served as carriageways and residential gardens, the mansion blocks were typically built of red brick in the fashionable Queen Anne style. The apartments were designed to appeal to young bachelors or MPs who often had late parliamentary sittings, with many of the apartments not having kitchens, providing instead communal dining areas, rather like a gentleman’s club. Artillery Mansions, like many large mansion blocks employed their own servants to maintain the flats and address the needs of residents. During the Second World War, Artillery Mansions was commandeered by the Secret Intelligence Service as a headquarters. After the war, the building reverted to private residences again, but with so many of its former inhabitants either dead, elderly or in changed circumstances owing to the war, it became a place to house many ex-servicemen. The Army and Navy Company, who ran the Army and Navy Stores just up Victoria Street registered ‘Army and Navy Ltd.’ at Artillery Mansions as a lettings management company. By the 1980s, Artillery Mansions was deserted and in a state of disrepair. It was taken over by a group of ideological squatters who were determined to bring homelessness and housing affordability to the government’s attention, but within ten years, with misaligned ideologies and infighting, the squatters had moved on, and in the 1990s, Artillery Mansions was bought by developers and turned into luxury apartments.

******The Cockney rhyming slang for the London Underground, known commonly as “the tube” is “Oxo cube”.

*******Named after its founder, Charles Cruft, who worked as general manager for a dog biscuit manufacturer, travelling to dog shows both in the United Kingdom and internationally, which allowed him to establish contacts and understand the need for higher standards for dog shows, Crufts is an international dog show held annually in the United Kingdom, held since 1891, and organised by The Kennel Club. It is the largest show of its kind in the world. In 1886, Cruft's first dog show, billed as the "First Great Terrier Show", had 57 classes and 600 entries. The first show named "Crufts"—"Cruft's Greatest Dog Show"—was held at the Royal Agricultural Hall, Islington, in 1891. It was the first at which all breeds were invited to compete, with around two thousand dogs and almost two and a half thousand entries.

********Swan Vestas is a brand name for a popular brand of “strike-anywhere” matches. Shorter than normal pocket matches they are particularly popular with smokers and have long used the tagline “the smoker’s match” although this has been replaced by the prefix ‘the original’ on the current packaging. Swan Vestas matches are manufactured under the House of Swan brand, which is also responsible for making other smoking accessories such as cigarette papers, flints and filter tips. The matches are manufactured by Swedish Match in Sweden using local, sustainably grown aspen. The Swan brand began in 1883 when the Collard & Kendall match company in Bootle on Merseyside near Liverpool introduced “Swan wax matches”. These were superseded by later versions including “Swan White Pine Vestas” from the Diamond Match Company. These were formed of a wooden splint soaked in wax. They were finally christened “Swan Vestas” in 1906 when Diamond merged with Bryant and May and the company enthusiastically promoted the Swan brand. By the 1930s “Swan Vestas” had become “Britain’s best-selling match”.

*********Made by Nottingham based tobacconist manufacturer John Player and Sons, Player’s Medium Navy Cut was the most popular by far of the three Navy Cut brands (there was also Mild and Gold Leaf, mild being today’s rich flavour). Two thirds of all the cigarettes sold in Britain were Player’s and two thirds of these were branded as Player’s Medium Navy Cut. In January 1937, Player’s sold nearly 3.5 million cigarettes (which included 1.34 million in London). Production continued to grow until at its peak in the late 1950s, Player’s was employing 11,000 workers (compared to 5,000 in 1926) and producing 15 brands of pipe tobacco and 11 brands of cigarettes. Nowadays the brands "Player" and "John Player Special" are owned and commercialised by Imperial Brands (formerly the Imperial Tobacco Company).

**********The full phrase Berkeley (or Berkshire) hunt has been shortened to "berk," which has become a milder slang word of its own, but was originally used by Cockneys. Berk means idiot, as in "you're being a berk."

***********By the end of 1919, belief in Spiritualism was spreading like wildfire. Spiritualism is defined as a relatively modern religion that is based on the beliefs that the spirits of the dead exist, and both have the inclination and the ability to communicate with the living. This raised interest in clairvoyance in general, and saw a surge in spirit mediums, fortune tellers and seers, most of whom were theatrical charlatans using smoke and mirrors to pretend to communicate with the dead or foretell the future, preying upon a mourning populace in the aftermath of the Great War.

************The London suburb of Elephant and Castle, south of the Thames, past Lambeth was known as "the Piccadilly Circus of South London" because it was such a busy shopping precinct. When you went shopping there, it was commonly referred to by Londoners, but South Londoners in particular, as “going up the Elephant”.

*************A gypsy girdle became a popular feature of women’s dresses from the mid 1920s, consisting of a wide sash fastened over the hips. It was gathered vertically at the centre front where it was often accented by a fashionable rhinestone, or real jewel, brooch or a mirror image clasp.

The street scene may look real to you, but it is in fact made up of pieces from my 1;12 miniatures collection.

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

Frank’s black metal delivery bicycle with its basket on the front came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. The sign on the body of the bicycle I made myself with the aid of the brown paper bag in the front of the basket which bears the name “Walter Willison’s Tea and Grocery”. The paper bag is filled with grocery items, which along with the bag were made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.

Mrs. Boothby’s beaded handbag on the table is also a 1:12 artisan miniature. Hand crocheted, it is interwoven with antique blue glass beads that are two millimetres in diameter. The beads of the handle are three millimetres in length. It came from Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The umbrella came from and online stockist of miniatures on E-Bay.

The bench is made by Town Hall Miniatures, and acquired through E-Bay.

The tree that is blurred in the foreground and the red metal wall mounted letterbox both came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom.

The advertisements along the wall of the shop, aside from the two advertising the British Empire Exhibition which I made myself, are all 1:12 size posters made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Ken is known mostly for the 1;12 miniature books he created. I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but he also produced other items, including posters. All of these are genuine copies of real Edwardian posters. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make these items miniature artisan pieces. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

The brick wall upon which they are stuck is a very special piece, and one of my more recent additions to my miniatures collection. Made painstakingly by hand, this was made by my very dear Flickr friend and artist Kim Hagar (www.flickr.com/photos/bkhagar_gallery/), she surprised me with this amazing piece entitled “Wall” as a Christmas gift, with the intention that I use it in my miniatures photos. Each brick has been individually cut and then worn to give texture before being stuck to the backing board and then painted. She has created several floors in the same way for some of her own miniature projects which you can see in her “In Miniature” album here: www.flickr.com/photos/bkhagar_gallery/albums/721777203007....

The Sad Story of Successful Sylvia Fordyce by raaen99

© raaen99, all rights reserved.

The Sad Story of Successful Sylvia Fordyce

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

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

After agreeing to take Sylvia’s commission of a painted mural, Lettice and Sylvia are dining in Half Moon****, the Eighteenth Century public house in Belchamp St Paul where they sit in comfortable wooden seats either side of the large stone fireplace enjoying an apéritif before sitting down to dinner. The public house is decorated in the tasteful version of traditional country kitchen style which is fashionable, with comfortable mismatched cottage style chairs clustered around tables, throw rugs on the flagstone floor and a liberal scattering of silver knick-knacks along the fireplace mantle. Small clusters of local farmers populate the room, mostly gathered around the bar, and Lettice and Sylvia are the only women except for the publican’s wife who is kept busy pulling pints behind the bar. They are made even more conspicuous by Sylvia’s choice of outfit. She wears a pair of Oxford bags*****, accessorised stylishly with a pair of black patent leather heels, and a smart white silk blouse with a cross over frill. Released from beneath her over-sized brown velvet cloche, which hangs alongside her luxuriously thick half-length mink fur coat on a peg near the front door, Sylvia’s black dyed sharp bob sits neatly about her angular face. She wears no necklace or earrings, and her face is caked with a thick layer of white makeup. Her red painted lips the only colour afforded her in her entire outfit.

Sitting in her seat with a port and lemonade in one hand and a cigarette in the other, Sylvia observes as Lettice appraises her with alert eyes. “A penny for your thoughts, Lettice darling?” she asks.

“Hhhmm…” Lettice murmurs before sitting up more straightly in her seat, suddenly aware that she has been caught staring. “Oh! I was just pondering about you, Sylvia darling.”

“About me? Really?” Sylvia queries, arching a well-manicured eyebrow over her eye as she lifts her cigarette to her lips and draws upon it. “Why?”

“Well,” Lettice begins. “I was just thinking. If I am to paint a mural for you, Sylvia. I should very much like to know you a little better, so that I can paint something that truly reflects you, and your personality.”

“I’ve told you a little bit about my chequered past Lettice darling,” Sylvia replies, blowing a cloud of billowing smoke out of her mouth as she does. “I am a pianist, and was long before I was, unhappily married.”

“Yes, I know that Sylvia,” Lettice replies, sipping her own port and lemonade, screwing her eyes up thoughtfully as she examines Sylvia. “But I can’t help but feel that you are like an onion, with many layers, and that what you have shared is but the first of those.”

“How very intriguing.”

Lettice notices Sylvia shift ever so slightly in her seat, the movement suggesting discomfort at Lettice’s observations of her. “Perceptive I’d say, judging by your response, Sylvia darling.” Lettice corrects. “The woman who is before me is extremely talented, very forthright, fiercely independent, and is obviously used to getting what she wants. She sits fearlessly in a country pub, quite unruffled by the aghast stares and exclamations she gets from the men around her because she wears trousers just as they do.” Lettice watches as Sylvia smiles self-consciously as she brushes the knee of her right leg crossed over her left with her elegant left hand bearing its single aquamarine and diamond cocktail ring. Lettice is sure that beneath the mask of white makeup, Sylvia is blushing. “Who is Sylvia Fordyce?” Lettice asks.

Sylvia sighs heavily and shifts in her seat again. “Sylvia Fordyce is a confection of my own making. Talented, I shan’t deny. However, the woman who is so independent has not always been so. The woman you say gets what she wants has often been deprived of the most basic of human needs. The woman you say who wears trousers fearlessly, unafraid has been anything but in her past. Sylvia Fordyce is an enigma you shouldn’t even attempt to understand her, Lettice darling.”

“But how can I paint a mural for a, and I use your words Sylvia, a concoction or an enigma? I need to know a little more about the backstory of Miss Sylvia Fordyce if I am to take her commission on.”

“Is that a request, Lettice darling?” Sylvia asks.

“What do you think?” Lettice replies, sipping her drink.

“I’d say not.” Sylvia replies definitely, taking another deep draw on her cigarette. Blowing out smoke she takes another sip of her own drink before continuing, “And if I refuse?” Her right eyebrow goes up again, warily.

“I have other potential clients ready to fill my diary, Sylvia darling. I go to see Dolly Hatchett at her new residence in Queen Anne’s Gate******* next week.”

“Dolly Hatchett.” Sylvia’s dark eyes grow wide. “As in the wife of Charles Hatchett, the MP for Tower Hamlets***? That Dolly Hatchett?”

“The same.” Lettice affirms with a smirk.

“Well, you are full of surprises.” Sylvia emits a low growling laugh. “Fancy you decorating for a Labour MP. Your Conservative parents must be furious!”

“They were when I did my first interior designs for her house in Sussex, but now they don’t comment on my choice of clients any more.”

“That’s because your star appears to be on the rise, Lettice darling. Features in Country Life*********, Tatler********** and The Lady*********** is a sure sign of success, my dear.”

“Thank you.”

“You know, you say that I’m used to getting my own way, and you’re right, but I think you’re far more used to getting yours, Lettice darling.” Sylvia points her finger with her manicured nail at Lettice.

“Perhaps Sylvia.” Lettice concedes. “So if that is true, my demand stands. I’d like to know a little more about you, so that I can create something beautiful that truly reflects you.”

“My story is a long one, Lettice.” Sylvia deflects.

“The night is young. We aren’t dining until eight. There is plenty of time.”

“It’s not a particularly happy story to enjoy before dinner.” Sylvia warns.

“I suspect that it isn’t. No woman can be as forthright as you are in a world of men without having to fight for your place in it. You wear your battle scars like a badge of honour.”

“A world of men.” Sylvia muses as she draws on her cigarette, making the paper crackle quietly as she does.

“I’m finding it to be the same, if it’s of any consolation.” Lettice admits. “I’m so often dismissed as the pretty viscount’s daughter who dabbles in design.”

“Hardly a cause for solace, Lettice.” Sylvia sighs, blowing out another plume of greyish white cigarette smoke thoughtfully. “Rather a tragedy really. Still, you have good lineage where independence and determination are concerned. You’ve probably been told this before by others, but you remind me very much of your aunt Eglantyne.”

“Aunt Egg?.” Lettice replies in surprise. “I didn’t know you were acquainted with her.”

“Oh yes,” Sylvia nods. “Being artists, albeit different types, she being a ceramicist and I being a musician, we do cross paths from time to time. She, Nettie and I used to meet at Gladys Caxton’s literary and artistic salons when she was still Gladys Chambers: if you can call a rather raucous and drunken gathering at her brother’s flat in Bloomsbury a ‘salon’.” Sylvia’s growling laugh burbles from deep within her, up her throat and out of her mouth.

“Well as it happens I have been told that I am like my Aunt Egg before,” Lettice replies proudly. “So, since you have started, why don’t you tell me a little more about yourself, Sylvia.”

“Is this the only way I will secure your commitment to paint a mural on my drawing room wall at The Nest, Lettice?” When Lettice doesn’t answer, Sylvia adds, “You drive a hard bargain, my dear.”

“It will be worth your while, Sylvia darling, I promise.”

“Very well,” Sylvia sighs. “But only under one condition.” When Lettice nods her ascent, she goes on. “You must not speak about what I am about to tell you with anyone except Nettie or Clemmie.” Sylvia says dourly, referring to Sir John Nettleford-Hughes, using his pet name used only by his closest friends from his younger days. “They are the only two people who know the truth of my history, and I only trust you with it because you are marrying Nettie.”

“I can be discreet.” Lettice assures her.

“I’m sure you can be, Lettice Darling. Very well.” Sylvia groans. She extinguishes her cigarette in the black ashtray on the table next to her glass and then withdraws another Craven “A” cigarettes*********** from her bright red and white packet, lighting it with a match. She puffs out a small burst of acrid smoke from between her teeth. “Where shall I begin?”

“You have said several times that you don’t pick the right men to love, and that you married unwisely,” Lettice begins tentatively, leaning forward over the large arch of stones of the fireplace. “Why don’t you start there?”

“To answer that question, my dear, we must go back even further to my childhood.”

“I’m listening.”

She settles back in her seat like a true performer: a storyteller before her enthralled audience. “My father was a haberdasher: Fordyce Fabrics along Uxbridge Road in Shepard’s Bush. We lived in a smart Queen Anne Revival house************ in Bedford Park************* with a bay window overlooking a neat garden and the street beyond - my parents and I with our cook, parlour maid and my nanny. My childhood was happy. My father always said that he had thread flowing through his veins, and he must have been right for two reasons: firstly, his haberdashery was very successful and secondly it can’t have been blood flowing to his heart, because he had a heart attack and died when I was just seven. It was then that my mother discovered why my father had no family to speak of. He was descended from a line of Huguenot************** weavers who fled France in the late Seventeenth Century*********** and set up business in Spitalfields****************. His real surname was Forvace, but he changed it to Fordice to overcome prejudice against foreigners – even though he was born in England along with many previous generations of the Forvace family – and build his business. His Forvace relations never forgave my father for changing his name, and they disowned him. My widowed mother was quite fragile mentally, and she certainly had no head for business, and she sold Fordyce Fabrics whilst still well and truly in mourning for my father to some swindlers at a grossly undervalued price. This led us before too long to be living in genteel impecuniousness.”

“That must have been hard for you, Sylvia.”

“It was. I was young and I didn’t fully understand why my nanny had to go. She was the first, and my mother learned rudimentary domestic skills from our cook before she too left along with our parlour maid. My mother began to sell some of our nicer possessions that might fetch a decent price at the pawnbrokers, but that could only go so far. Eventually my mother was forced to reach out for help to her only surviving close relation, her brother, my Uncle Ninian*****************, who was a wealthy, yet mean spirited, moneylender. Uncle Ninian never approved of my mother’s marriage to my father, feeling that she had married beneath her station, so whilst he did what he considered to be his Christian duty by providing for us, it wasn’t an easy life he made for us. My mother and I managed to get by with most of our house shut off to save on heating and lighting, her cooking our meals and a daily woman****************** who came in to help her when she needed it. We didn’t have money spare for treats like the annual trips to the seaside at Bournemouth, or new toys for birthdays and Christmas for me, like we did when my father was alive. Indeed, we were in such penury that as I grew out of my clothes as I became a young lady, my mother, who was a good seamstress, had to alter some of her own dresses for me to wear. I was always the ridicule of the other children at school because of my old fashioned and odd clothes, and I was only too pleased to leave school when I was fifteen.”

“How awful!” Lettice remarks as she sips some more of her port and lemonade. “However, one thing puzzles me, Sylvia darling.”

“And what’s that, Lettice darling?”

“Well, if you were in such straitened circumstances, how is it you came to be living with the von Nyssens, in Charlottenburg and attending the Universität der Künste, Berlin******************* when you met John’s sister? Clemance told me that is how you two met.”

“It’s true, Clemmie and I did meet because we were both staying with the von Nyssens, in Charlottenburg, and I was attending the Universität der Künste where I was studying piano. Going back to my rather unhappy childhood, my one consolation was my mother’s ability to play the piano. We had a very nice upright piano******************** which my mother loved to play, and thus it was never pawned by her, and her playing never cost us a penny. She was a very good pianist, and I imagine that it is from her that I have my aptitude for playing the instrument. My mother may not have had a mind for business, nor been very good at cooking, but she could use her piano playing skills to help bring in a little bit of extra money for us which we always seemed so sorely in need of to keep the bailiffs from the door. Living in Bedford Park, there were plenty of parents full of pretentions who wished for their bored and untalented children to learn to play the piano, so my mother gave lessons five mornings and three afternoons a week. She also tutored me most evenings, and what she discovered was that I had an aptitude that she felt, if nurtured properly, could make me into a concert pianist. Thus, one Saturday, she quite literally sewed me into her very best brown velvet dress and took me off to my Uncle Ninian’s house in Belsize Park. I must have looked ridiculous in a time of tightly fitting sleeves, sweeping hems with trains and cape like ornamentations over the bust and shoulder, sitting at my uncle’s piano dressed in tightly corseted velvet gown that was too short for me with old fashioned gigot sleeves*********************. However, Uncle Ninian saw beyond my ill fitting and old fashioned garb as he listened to me play a Mozart sonata. He agreed with my mother, that with my aptitude, under the right tutelage, I could perhaps make something of myself as a pianist. Thus, with his money behind me, I ended up at the von Nyssens and I met Clemmie. She became my first real friend I had had in years. She didn’t care that we came from such different backgrounds and upbringings, and she still doesn’t. We have stayed friends ever since, even if time passes by and we don’t see one another for long periods.”

“So that’s how you became a concert pianist then?” Lettice asks.

“Oh no my dear!” Sylvia laughs, blowing out another plume of acrid cigarette smoke. “It takes much more than an expensive musical education to become a concert pianist.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Lettice blushes with embarrassment at her rather naïve remark. “You would have had to work hard to gain a place in an orchestra.”

“Far more than that, Lettice, I needed the right connections. When my period at the Universität der Künste, Berlin came to an end and I left the von Nyssens, three years after Clemmie had gone back to London, rather than go home to Bedford Park as I presumed was going to happen, when I arrived back in the capital, I was instead taken to Belsize Park, back to my Uncle Ninian’s ghastly dark house. I wasn’t allowed even to see my mother, whom I had been corresponding with regularly whilst I was in Germany.” When Lettice’s face twists in a questioning way, Sylvia draws on her cigarette and goes on. “My Uncle Ninian‘s memory was long, and he still blamed his sister for marrying beneath her station for love. Thanks to Uncle Ninian’s investment in me, not only had I come back to London an accomplished pianist, but a cultured, elegant and fashionably dressed and pretty young woman. Uncle Ninian considered himself the creator of this silk purse from a sow’s ear, and he didn’t wish my mother to influence my chances of a good and advantageous marriage with her talk of romance. So, I became a prisoner in his home. He hired a companion for me who was far more a gaoler than a companion. She was a spinster who wore nothing but black and looked like a ghoul as she hung in the background wherever I went. She slept in the same room as me, and on the rare occasions I was allowed to go out when I wasn’t with Uncle Ninian, she had to accompany me. The only time I was ever free of her was when I was in the company Uncle Ninian. I wrote to my mother: copious piteous letters begging her to come and rescue me from their clutches, but she never replied.”

“Your letters were being intercepted?” Lettice asks knowingly.

“They were.” Sylvia nods sadly. “Not a one reached her as I was to later find out. I imagine they ended up on Uncle Ninian’s study fire and were turned to ashes in the grate. Once I was settled into my new prison of a home, Uncle Ninian began a regime of hosting dinner parties to which he invited older single men of his acquaintance: bankers mostly. Not a one was under forty, whilst I was twenty-three. My instructions were to play the piano for them, dressed in an array of sumptuous evening gowns and decked out in jewels Uncle Ninian would give my gaoler companion before each one of these awful evenings, and then take away again at the end of the night. I was to charm them into wanting to marry me, and I had no problem doing that.”

“And that is how you met your boorish and brutish brigadier?”

“No, my dear Lettice. Things were not that simple. My room at Uncle Ninian’s quickly filled with the cloying scent of hothouse flowers as bouquets and marriage proposals arrived. However, what Uncle Ninian hadn’t counted on was my friendship with Clemmie. When we were in Germany together, as young women of the same age, she opened my eyes to the stories in the romance novels she read, and she and Nettie’s parents had been a love match. I wasn’t going to settle for anything less, and I loathed all the old men paraded before me. Being trapped at Uncle Ninian’s, always on show at his soirées, I began to resent my ability to play the piano so well as the old leches he invited ogled me and pawed at me, all with the complicit agreement of Uncle Ninian. So, I began to play badly on purpose. However, I discovered that the only difference that made was with Uncle Ninian’s temperament. He started scolding me, and when that failed to change my attitude, he started to slap me and push me to the ground before proceeding to kick me, leaving my legs bruised.”

“That’s so terrible, dear Sylvia.”

“I did warn you that my tale was not a happy one, Lettice.” Sylvia cautions. “However, Uncle Ninian was smart. He kicked me where no-one would see my bruises, so the proof of his abuse, never surfaced. I do firmly believe that it is a mixture of his abuse and the pawing of those men during those years that has made me attracted to the wrong kind of man, and always older men,” She coughs awkwardly. “Well, mostly. However, Uncle Ninian’s mistreatment of me also taught me to be strong, to be forthright and not give in. I refused to accept a single proposal, and before too long, word spread about Ninian’s beautiful and talented, yet recalcitrant and intractable niece, and acceptances to his little dinner parties began to dwindle. Angry with me as he always was by that time, he finally played his trump card. He told me that he would give one more dinner party, and that I would accept one of the marriage proposals that came about as a result of it. If I failed to do so, he threatened to cut off my mother without a penny. I knew she couldn’t live on the pittance she earned from giving piano lessons in Bedford Park, so I agreed, under the one condition that I was allowed to see her.”

“Did your uncle agree?”

“To his credit, yes, Uncle Ninian was momentarily possessed by a skerrick of human kindness and it was arranged that I would be allowed to meet my mother for a half hour beneath the boughs of Shakespeare’s Tree********************** on Primrose Hill*********************** one Sunday afternoon in spring, escorted by him and my ghoulish gaoler companion.”

“And how did you find her?”

“She looked a lot older, and thinner, sadder, and generally genteelly tatty and unfashionable. I don’t think she owned a newer dress than those she had before my father had died even then. Nevertheless, her eyes sparkled and she smiled proudly when she saw what a beautiful young woman I had become since she had taken me to Uncle Ninian’s. It was at that meeting that I discovered that my mother had not received one of my letters since my return to London. Uncle Ninian told my mother about the ultimatum he had set for me. Before my companion, who was far stronger than her rangy figure portrayed, dragged my mother in one direction screaming, whilst I was dragged calling out to her back to our carriage by Uncle Ninian, my mother implored me not to comply and to live my life as I wanted, on my own terms. However, the hollow look of her underfed face haunted me in the nights after our assignation. I couldn’t bear to think of her cast out of our home in Bedford Park, a place of happy memories for her. It was the last vestige of the happy life she had once had, left to her. I couldn’t risk her losing that!”

“So you agreed to your uncle’s demands?”

“Yes, I complied to Uncle Ninian’s ultimatum, Lettice. However, what I didn’t know, couldn’t have known, was that by doing so, I began my slow escape into the freedom of the life I have today. By the time Uncle Ninian gave that final dinner party, all the wealthy bankers had long since dropped off, having no interest in a wilful girl like me, however pretty I may have been. Thus there were only older businessmen trying to build their profiles up in attendance, and rather than the dozens that were there initially, there were less than half a dozen in attendance that night. That left my pickings rather slim. However, one man amongst them dressed in white tie and tails wore his with particular flair. Although his hair was white, it theatrically long, rather in the style of the Pre Raphaelites************************. He turned out to be my saviour, or so, in my foolish girlhood, I thought.”

“Who was he?” Lettice breathes, enthralled.

“Josiah Pembroke was a theatrical agent: not a good one as it turned out, and I ended up being the only successful act, actually the only act at all, upon his books, and with no thanks or imput from him, but on the night of Uncle Ninian’s final dinner party he exuded success, and unlike any of the other men at those ghastly soirées , he was the only one who didn’t ogle me or try to caress my hands, or more. He was genuinely interested in my playing, and he obviously saw in me his theatre ticket stub to a life of wealth and comfort. A marriage proposal came and I accepted. We were married at St Peter's Church, Belsize Park************************* with only my mother and Uncle Ninian as witnesses.”

“But I thought you said that you married Marmaduke Piggott, a brigadier in the British army, Sylvia.”

“And so I was, but he was not my first husband. Josiah Pembroke was. The lack of wedding guests should have been a warning to me, but I was so anxious to flee the prison of Uncle Ninian’s house that I didn’t realise that I could be going from a frying pan into a fire. Josiah had no booked acts. He had no acts at all, and as I quickly discovered, all his friends were rather fey young men, many with what appeared to be rather dubious backgrounds, and all who regarded me with mistrusting eyes as they pulled my new husband out the door in the early evening into the London night, not returning from their escapades until the early morning light. And rather than the beautiful home, Josiah promised me, we ended up living in a rather squalid flat in Bloomsbury. Spending my nights alone in my bed, and my days with a crochety and grumpy man in a run-down flat where I had to do everything for us, including the cooking and the cleaning was not what I’d envisaged my marriage to be, nor what Josiah had promised Uncle Ninian. However, I did finally have my freedom, and it was because of where we lived that I ended up reacquainting myself with Clemmie and I met Nettie. The flat was not far from Gladys Caxton, then Gladys Chambers’ pied-à-terre**************************, and Gladys being Gladys, befriended everybody in the neighbourhood and she invited us to her ‘salons’. Whilst Josaiah was busy doing whatever he was doing with his friends in the dark London nights, with my new freedoms due to my neglectful husband, I began to become a known personality at different artistic parties throughout Chelsea. Soon I was performing, and I learned to love playing the piano again. I also learned about romantic love from men to whom I was attracted, and since my own husband was absent from my bed, I found love and companionship in the arms of other men. My mother’s final words to me, for they were her final as she died of bronchial pneumonia*************************** six months after I was married, reminded me to live my life as I wanted, and so I did.”

“And Josaiah didn’t care?”

“Josiah was too busy with his own shadowy and sordid life to pay much attention to me in the end, and nor did he care. To be honest, I have no idea why he married me since contrary to my initial thoughts, he didn’t take advantage of my talents to make money. Perhaps all he wanted was to have a woman to do for him that he didn’t have to pay: cooking his meals and washing his clothes. As I now know, my first husband was queer, my dear Lettice: as queer as his friends with the mistrusting eyes he went out carousing and rutting with, God knows where every night. I suppose they were jealous of me, and anxious that I should not spoil the rhythm and fun of their lives. Little did they know that they had nothing to fear from a girl like me who knew nothing about their way of existence. Within four years of our wedding day, Josiah Pembroke was dead. His body was found, bloodied and beaten to a pulp in the rather dark arches and passages of Adelphi Terrace****************************: a victim of foul play whether at the hands of the drunks and down-and-outs you still can find there, or as a result of an assignation gone wrong.”

“I’m truly sorry, Sylvia.”

“Oh I’m not, Lettice!” Sylvia laughs throatily before pausing. “Oh, forgive me my dear! I’ve shocked you. I’m sorry. Please don’t misunderstand me. I don’t wish to appear glib. I’m not happy that my first husband died, but like Brigadier Marmaduke Piggott’s death concluding my second ill-fated marriage, Josaiah Pembroke’s passing was the best thing for my first. I suddenly found myself a widow and as far as I was concerned, unfettered. Orphaned, with no family to speak of, as I wasn’t going back to Uncle Ninian’s in Belsize Park under any circumstances, for the first time in my life I was unconstrained and I could begin to do as my mother had implored me to do. I had rediscovered my love of the piano, and I was very good at playing it. I was young and pretty, and I knew it. This made me… now how do my American friends coin it?” Sylvia ponders for a moment. “I was… marketable. With Nettie and Clemmie’s help, I soon found the wonderful agent I still have now, an impresario who had me performing to packed houses firstly around Britain and then throughout Europe. Like now, it was a happy period of my life. I had freedom. I had money. I was independently wealthy. I married Marmaduke in 1911 not because I was obliged to, but because I thought, once again foolishly, that all women should marry if given the opportunity. You’d have thought that I’d have learned my lesson, wouldn’t you? However, by then I was in my early forties, so I was too old to have children – not that I wanted any – but that was a moot point between Marmaduke and I, and it spelled the beginning of our rocky and unhappy marriage. He drank, and God knows I did too, and still do.” Sylvia lifts her glass. “He was abusive, so I fought back by having affairs with equally unsuitable and usually married men, as tends to be my penchant. It’s taken me more than half a century of living, a controlling uncle and two abysmal marriages to work out that the only person I can truly rely upon is myself and as that is the case, I shall do as I please. Thus, how you come to find me the forthright and fiercely independent woman that I am. No more shall I be reliant upon a man, except for my own pleasures, even the ill-fated ones. My story may be a sad one, but please don’t feel sorry for me. In some ways, I am stronger than I might have been had my story been different, and as I said before, I am the happiest now that I have ever been. Whilst I may no longer be young or beautiful, I have my freedom, and I am independent and able to make my own decisions. I still have my talent, and enjoy playing the piano more now than I ever have. My select group of real friends, which I hope will now include you, Lettice darling, enrichen my life, which is a full and satisfied one.”

“Thank you Sylvia.” Lettice says after a few moments. “I certainly wasn’t expecting a story like yours, but I’m so grateful you’ve told me. It’s given me far more of an insight into you, and it will enable me to paint the right kind of mural for you.” Her eyes sparkle in the low light of the public house. “Something that inspires freedom, I think.”

“Excellent.” Sylvia purrs contentedly. “I like the sound of that.”

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

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

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

****The Half Moon Inn is a pretty thatched tavern overlooking Belchamp St Paul’s village green. With low beams and an old log fire it maintains most of the original features of the current Georgian era building. Originally built in the early Sixteenth Century, The Half Moon has been at the centre of Belchamp St Paul village life for more than four hundred years.

*****Oxford bags were a loose-fitting baggy form of trousers favoured by members of the University of Oxford, especially undergraduates, in England from the mid-1920s to around the 1950s. The style had a more general influence outside the university, including in America, but has been somewhat out of fashion since then. It is sometimes said that the style originated from a ban in 1924 on the wearing of plus fours by Oxford (and Cambridge) undergraduates at lectures. The bagginess allegedly allowed plus fours to be hidden underneath – but the argument is undermined by the fact that the trousers (especially in the early years) were not sufficiently voluminous for this to be done with any success. The original trousers were 22–23 inches (56–58 cm) in circumference at the bottoms but became increasingly larger to 44 inches (110 cm) or more, possibly due to a misunderstanding of the measurement as the width rather than circumference.


******Queen Anne’s Gate is a street in Westminster, London. Many of the buildings are Grade I listed, known for their Queen Anne architecture. Simon Bradley and Nikolaus Pevsner described the Gate’s early Eighteenth Century houses as “the best of their kind in London.” The street’s proximity to the Palace of Westminster made it a popular residential area for politicians.

*******The London constituency of Tower Hamlets includes such areas and historic towns as (roughly from west to east) Spitalfields, Whitechapel, Bethnal Green, Wapping, Shadwell, Mile End, Stepney, Limehouse, Old Ford, Bow, Bromley, Poplar, and the Isle of Dogs (with Millwall, the West India Docks, and Cubitt Town), making it a majority working class constituency in 1925 when this story is set. Tower Hamlets included some of the worst slums and societal issues of inequality and poverty in England at that time.

********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.

*********Tatler was introduced on the 3rd of July 1901, by Clement Shorter, publisher of The Sphere. It was named after the original literary and society journal founded by Richard Steele in 1709. Originally sold occasionally as The Tatler and for some time a weekly publication, it had a subtitle varying on "an illustrated journal of society and the drama". It contained news and pictures of high society balls, charity events, race meetings, shooting parties, fashion and gossip, with cartoons by "The Tout" and H. M. Bateman.

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

***********Craven A (stylized as Craven "A") is a British brand of cigarettes, currently manufactured by British American Tobacco. Originally founded and produced by the Carreras Tobacco Company in 1921 until merging with Rothmans International in 1972, who then produced the brand until Rothmans was acquired by British American Tobacco in 1999. The cigarette brand is named after the third Earl of Craven, after the "Craven Mixture", a tobacco blend formulated for the 3rd Earl in the 1860s by tobacconist Don José Joaquin Carreras.

************British Queen Anne Revival architecture, also known as Domestic Revival, is a style of building using red brick, white woodwork, and an eclectic mixture of decorative features, that became popular in the 1870s, both for houses and for larger buildings such as offices, hotels, and town halls. It was popularised by Norman Shaw (1831–1912) and George Devey (1820–1886).

*************Bedford Park is a suburban development in Chiswick, begun in 1875 under the direction of Jonathan Carr, with many large houses in British Queen Anne Revival style by Norman Shaw and other leading Victorian era architects including Edward William Godwin, Edward John May, Henry Wilson, and Maurice Bingham Adams. Its architecture is characterised by red brick with an eclectic mixture of features, such as tile-hung walls, gables in varying shapes, balconies, bay windows, terracotta and rubbed brick decorations, pediments, elaborate chimneys, and balustrades painted white. The estate's main roads converge on its public buildings, namely its church, St Michael and All Angels; its club, its inn, The Tabard, and next door its shop, the Bedford Park Stores; and its Chiswick School of Art. Bedford Park has been described as the world's first garden suburb, creating a model of apparent informality emulated around the world. It became extremely fashionable in the 1880s, attracting artists including the poet and dramatist W. B. Yeats, the actor William Terriss, the actress Florence Farr, the playwright Arthur Wing Pinero and the painter Camille Pissarro to live on the estate. It appeared in the works of G. K. Chesterton and John Buchan, and was gently mocked in the St James's Gazette.

**************The Huguenots were Protestants who fled France and Wallonia (southern Belgium) from the sixteenth to the eighteenth century due to religious persecution during the European Wars of Religion. After the English Reformation, England was seen as a safe place for refugees.

***************After the Massacre of St Bartholomew's Day in Paris in 1572, when over ten thousand Huguenot Protestants were murdered, many fled to England. A second, larger, wave of Huguenots fled from France in the 1680s when King Louis XIV revoked a previous royal edict protecting Protestants from religious persecution and they were again attacked. Many Huguenots had difficult and dangerous journeys, escaping France and crossing to England by sea.

****************Many Huguenot Protestants upon arriving in England after their dangerous journey, set up in London, in Spitalfields, the City, Clerkenwell, Soho, Greenwich, Marylebone and Wandsworth.

*****************Ninian is a Christian saint, first mentioned in the 8th century as being an early missionary among the Pictish peoples of what is now Scotland. Whilst the meaning of Ninian is uncertain, it may have links to the Irish and Scottish Gaelic word naomh, meaning “saint,” “holy,” or “sacred.”

******************A “daily woman”, charwoman, chargirl, or char, jokingly charlady, is an old-fashioned occupational term, referring to a paid part-time worker who comes into a house or other building to clean it for a few hours of a day or week, as opposed to a maid, who usually lives as part of the household within the structure of domestic service.

*******************The Universität der Künste, Berlin (Berlin College of Music) ranks as one of the largest educational music institutes in Europe, rich in content and quality. It dates back to the Royal (later State) Academy of Music, founded under the aegis of the violinist Joseph Joachim, a friend of Brahms, in 1869. From the date of its foundation under directors Joseph Joachim, Hermann Kretzschmar, Franz Schreker and Georg Schünemann, it has been one of the leading academies of music in the German-speaking countries. Composers such as Max Bruch, Engelbert Humperdinck and Paul Hindemith, performers such as Artur Schnabel, Wanda Landowska, Carl Flesch and Emanuel Feuermann, and academics such as Philipp Spitta, Curt Sachs, Erich Moritz von Hornbostel and Kurt Singer taught there. Prominent teachers later included the two directors Boris Blacher and Helmut Roloff, and the composer Dieter Schnebel.

********************In the beginning, the piano was the privilege of the aristocracy but this began to change by the mid Nineteenth Century with the rise of the middle class. With the advancement of industrialisation and improved production methods, pianos started to become more affordable for the up-and-coming bourgeoisie. When upright pianos became popular around the same time, they became commonplace in the front parlours and drawing rooms of any respectable middle-class house, and it became the expectation of middle-class children, particularly daughters to learn the piano as part of their education.

*********************A gigot sleeve is a sleeve that was full at the shoulder and became tightly fitted to the wrist. It was more commonly known as a leg-of-mutton sleeve.

**********************An oak tree, known as "Shakespeare's Tree" stands on the slope of Primrose Hill, planted in 1864 to mark the three hundredth anniversary of Shakespeare's birth. A large crowd of workmen marched through London to watch the planting ceremony in 1864. A replacement tree was re-planted in 1964.

***********************Like Regent's Park, the park area of Primrose Hill was once part of a great chase, appropriated by Henry VIII. Primrose Hill, with its clear rounded skyline, was purchased from Eton College in 1841 to extend the parkland available to the poor people of north London for open air recreation. At one time Primrose Hill was a place where duels were fought and prize-fights took place. The hill has always had a somewhat lively reputation, with Mother Shipton making threatening prophesies about what would happen if the city sprawl was allowed to encroach on its boundaries. At the top of the hill is one of the six protected viewpoints in London. The summit is almost sixty-three metres above sea level and the trees are kept low so as not to obscure the view. In winter, Hampstead can be seen to the north east. The summit features a York stone edging with a William Blake inscription, it reads: “I have conversed with the spiritual sun. I saw him on Primrose Hill.”

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

*************************St Peter's Church, Belsize Park is a Victorian church built in the gothic style with a clock tower. Built on Belsize Square, it was consecrated in 1859, and stands in its own garden.

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

***************************Bronchopneumonia is a subtype of pneumonia. It is the acute inflammation of the bronchi, accompanied by inflamed patches in the nearby lobules of the lungs. Bronchopneumonia. Other names. Bronchial pneumonia, bronchogenic pneumonia.

****************************In 1768, the Adam brothers built a very large and elegant development including a run of houses with a terrace that over-looked the river Thames in Westminster, which was much closer before the Embankment was built. It was this terrace that caused the word "terrace" to take on the meaning of a row of houses. Torn down in 1935 and replaced with the art deco New Adelphi building, it was the demolition of the Adelphi that was, at least partially, responsible for the creation of the Georgian Society in 1937. Adelphi Terrace had a series of arches and passages beneath it which functioned as wine cellars and storage space for the tenants, as well as accommodation for unfortunate down-and-outs and alcoholics before its demolition.

Though this may be the perfect example of an interwar public house, things are not entirely as you may suppose, for this scene is made up entirely of pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection,.

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

Central to our image is a very special piece, and one of my more recent additions to my miniatures collection. Made painstakingly by hand, the fireplace was made by my very dear Flickr friend and artist Kim Hagar (www.flickr.com/photos/bkhagar_gallery/), who surprised me with this amazing handmade fireplace as a Christmas gift, with the intention that I use it in my miniatures photos. Each stone has been individually cut, made and then worn to give texture before being stuck to the backing board and then painted. The only real part of the fireplace is the thick wooden mantle. She has created several floors in the same way for some of her own miniature projects which you can see in her “In Miniature” album here: www.flickr.com/photos/bkhagar_gallery/albums/721777203007....

Around the fireplace stand two windsor chairs. They are both hand-turned 1:12 artisan miniatures which came from America. Unfortunately, the artists did not carve their name under the seats, but they are definitely unmarked artisan pieces. The Georgian table with the raised edge and the other pedestal table came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom, as did the black painted metal fireplace fender, the brass firedogs the basket in the grate and the brass fire pokers in their stand.

On the table nearest the fire stands a black ashtray, which is an artisan piece, the base of which is filled with “ash”. The tray as well as having grey ash in it, also has a 1:12 cigarette which rests on its lip (it is affixed there). The packet of Craven “A” cigarettes and the Swan Vestas matchbox beneath it were made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire, with extreme attention paid to the packaging. The glasses of port on both tables are made from real glass. I acquired them, along with small slivers of lemon floating on their surfaces from miniature stockists on E-Bay.

The silverware that clutters the mantlepiece come from various different suppliers. The two Georgian style ale jugs were made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The plates and the bowl at the back of the mantle are 1:12 artisan miniatures made of sterling silver by an unknown artist. They all came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop. The brass and wood bed warmer also comes from there. The two pairs of Staffordshire dogs and cows were hand made, painted and gilded by Welsh miniature ceramist Rachel Williams who has her own studio, V&R Miniatures, in Powys.

The brass candlesticks and ashtrays in the background come from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop.

The Nest by raaen99

© raaen99, all rights reserved.

The Nest

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

Today however, we are not at Cavendish Mews. We are not even in London. Instead, we are north of the capital, motoring through the hedge lined lanes cut through the rich arable snow dusted farmland of Essex as world famous British concert pianist, Sylvia Fordyce, drives Lettice towards the little village of Belchamp St Paul* in her smart and select silvery sage green 1922 Lea Francis** four seater, two door tourer on a circuitous journey to take in some of the picturesque country villages along the way. Lettice met the famous forthright musician last week at a private audience after a performance at the Royal Albert Hall***. Sylvia is the long-time friend of Lettice’s fiancée, Sir John Nettleford-Hughes and his widowed sister Clementine (known preferably now by the more cosmopolitan Clemance) Pontefract, the latter of whom Sylvia has known since they were both eighteen. Lettice, Sir John and Clemance were invited to join Sylvia in her dressing room after her Schumann and Brahms concert. After a brief chat with Sir John (whom she refers to as Nettie, using the nickname only his closest friends use) and Clemance, Sylvia had her personal secretary, Atlanta, show them out so that she could discuss “business” with Lettice. Anxious that like so many others, Sylvia would try to talk Lettice out of marrying Sir John, who is old enough to be her father and known for his dalliances with pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger, Lettice was surprised when Sylvia admitted that when she said that she wanted to discuss business, that was what she genuinely meant. Sylvia owns a small country property on which she had a secluded little house she calls ‘The Nest’ built not so long ago: a house she had decorated by society interior designer Syrie Maugham****. However, unhappy with Mrs. Maugham’s passion for shades of white, Sylvia wants Lettice to inject some colour into her drawing room by painting a feature wall for her. Thus, she has invited Lettice to motor up to Essex with her for an overnight stay at the conclusion of her concert series at The Hall to see the room for herself, and perhaps get some ideas as to what and how she might paint it.

Lettice smiles as she inhales the fresh cold air through the chink in her automobile window she has open and looks at the passing landscape of snow-covered verges lined with trees denuded of their leaves that skirt the undulating white fields around them. “It’s must be so lovely and green in springtime, Sylvia darling.” Lettice opines to Sylvia, sitting across from her in the driver’s seat.

“Oh it is,” Sylvia replies over the loud rumble of the purring engine as she turns the steering wheel to guide the Lea Francis up a bend in the road and over a wintery white knoll. She grunts. “The only problem with this time of year and spring is how the weather can turn the roads into treacherous quagmires.”

As if attempting to prove her point, the Lea Francis skids slightly on the muddy road, making Lettice gasp.

“Don’t worry, Lettice darling,” Sylvia assures her nervous passenger as she changes the gear expertly with a noisy clunk. “I’ve done this trip many times before at this time of the year, and I know the roads well. We won’t come a cropper*****, I promise.”

They drive along Gage’s Road, through a cluster of thatched cottages which forms the hamlet of Knowl Green.

“We’re nearly there.” Sylvia announces. “Not long now.”

They soon drive into a larger cluster of weatherboard and stone farm buildings and cottages with thatched roofs which hug the road as it widens. The recent snowfall makes Lettice think how much like giant cottage loaves the thatched cottages look. A long village green hedged by a smattering of Elizabethan and Georgian cottages appears on the left-hand side of the car.

“Welcome to Belchamp St Paul, Lettice darling! That’s the Half Moon******.” Sylvia points to a thatched building with a crescent moon above the front door and a wing with a rounded bay window at the front extending out towards the road. The Georgian paned windows on the ground floor are illuminated with warm and welcoming golden light. “It’s our local, and where we will have supper tonight.”

“So, we’re not dining at ‘The Nest’ then?” Lettice asks.

“Good god, no!” Sylvia scoffs as they motor past a fork in the road with signposts indicating to Ovington, Clare, Cavendish and Sudbury on a small island which it shares with a red telephone box******* its bright paint standing out against its white snowy surrounds. “You’re only here for the night, Lettice darling, so I didn’t ask Atlanta to join us, nor get Mrs. Silas to cook for us.”

“Mrs. Silas?” Lettice queries as Sylvia changes gears with a noisy clunk again as they continue along Vicarage Road, following the sign to Cavendish and Sudbury.

“She’s the wife of the farmer I bought the parcel of land I built ‘The Nest’ on, from.” Sylvia elucidates. “I pay her as a housekeeper-cum-cook. She keeps an eye on the place when I’m not here and cooks for me if I’m staying on my own without Atlanta, or have a house party and Atlanta can’t manage the catering alone. I can probably rustle us up some toast, scrambled eggs and some tea for breakfast tomorrow, but don’t ask anything more of me in the kitchen, Lettice darling.” she chuckles throatily. “Anyway as it is, I’m changing my plans.”

“Oh, Sylvia darling?” Lettice queries.

“Yes,” Sylvia admits guiltily. “I was going to stop at my beloved ‘Nest’ for the duration before I go on my next tour of the provinces, but I’ve had the most delicious invite from a rather dashing Lieutenant-Colonel to his country place, just outside of Chippenham********.” She sighs resignedly. “He’s married, of course, and is a brute and a boor: but that’s why I’m attracted to him!” She lets out another pensive sigh. “It will be a disaster of course, but as I told you last week, I always pick the wrong kind of man.”

“I see.” Lettice says with a grimace as the car motors past a smattering of thatched Georgian cottages.

“Oh look!” Sylvia exclaims. “There’s Mr. Silas, the man I bought the land from, now.” She points a black leather driving glove hand at a man trudging up the road towards them on the left-hand side of the road. He cuts a lonely figure walking up the road alone against the wintery landscape on an overcast day, with his head down against the wind. Sylvia depresses the horn of the Lea Francis twice, making a loud, yet cheerful, hooting noise. He looks up from watching where he walks and waves to Sylvia’s approaching car. She waves back enthusiastically as they motor past him. “He must be heading for the Half Moon for a ploughman’s lunch.”

“Won’t that upset Mrs. Silas?”

“Oh Mrs. Silas will have been too busy this morning with airing ‘The Nest’ for me, on top of her own chores, to make Mr. Silas luncheon.”

They motor past a lovely old church set well back from the road behind a low snow capped brick wall.

“That’s St Andrew’s*********.” Sylvia points out. “It’s far grander than one might expect of a local parish church in a farming village of this size. I’ll show it to you tomorrow before I motor you into Sudbury to catch the LNER********** back to London. I’m sorry, Lettice darling. I feel a bit beastly, not taking you back to London myself and all, after I invited you up here.”

“It was always part of the plan, Sylvia.” Lettice assures her. “That I would take the railway back to London. You were stopping up here for a week or so. I was only ever coming for the night, so it isn’t like I’m weighed down by luggage, with only my overnight valise and a brolly to return home with.”

They motor on just a little further, past a gentle bend in the road.

“Here we are then.” Sylvia says as they slow down and pull up to an old and dilapidated farmer’s gate in a rather scrappy looking hedgerow. Leaving the motor in park with the engine running, she gets out.

Lettice watches Sylvia. Dressed in an oversized and rather mannish soft brown velvet cloche pulled low over her head and a luxuriously thick half-length mink fur coat synched at the waist with a wide leather belt with the collar turned up to shelter her from the winter winds of Essex as they slice across the fallow fields, she looks tall and almost androgenous. This look is perpetuated by the fact that she is wearing a pair of roomy Oxford bags***********. Lettice smiles to herself as she remembers her maid at Cavendish Mews, Edith’s, scandalised look when she answered the front door to Sylvia dressed this way. “Don’t worry my dear,” she had assured poor Edith as she stood in the entrance hall, eyes agog at the sight of a woman in slacks. “They’re all the rage in Berlin!”, as if that would allay Edith’s concerns.

Sylvia walks up and unlatches the gate which is loosely tethered closed with a rusty old chain and opens it before getting back into the Lea Francis and driving it forward up a boggy driveway of sorts created by two rutted tracks made by motorcar tyres in the mud. Putting the car back into park again, she gets out and closes the gate behind them, reaffixing the old chain. Getting back into the motor, Sylvia catches Lettice’s surprised look. “You don’t think I want to alert people to the fact that there is a house hidden just up there behind that copse, do you, Lettice darling?” she asks. She smiles a smile that is a mixture of smugness and cheekiness. “It isn’t called a retreat for nothing, you know.”

They motor up the rutted track through the dusting of snow and into the copse. Lettice gasps with amazement as a smart red brick cottage with mullioned windows, several large chimneys and a sharply angled slate roof built in the picturesque British Arts and Crafts style of Charles Voysey************ begins to emerge from behind the trees.

“You’d never guess this was here, Sylvia darling.” Lettice exclaims.

“Now you see why I call it, ‘The Nest’.” Sylvia says knowingly, her red lipstick painted mouth breaking into a broad and proud smile as they motor up to the front of the house, where Lettice can see the wintery beginnings of a neat, landscaped cottage garden. “It’s so perfectly coddled amidst the trees. Welcome!” She brakes and turns the engine off.

As Lettice hauls her blue leather overnight valise out of the maroon leather back seat, she looks up at the façade and remarks, “It’s so lovely and compact.”

“Oh, don’t be fooled, Lettice darling.” Sylvia replies. “Sydney Castle************* is an absolute whizz at making as much as he can out of even the smallest space. It may look modest, but ‘The Nest’ has four bedrooms, all with their own private bathrooms, so my American friends from New York won’t complain about the archaic plumbing like they do about the big old houses they stay in over here: sharing bathrooms or worse yet, not having any indoor plumbing at all!” She bends down and lifts a terracotta plant pot with a dormant shrub of some kind in it and fishes in its saucer underneath, withdrawing a key. She puts the key in the door and unlocks it. “Come along inside, Lettice darling. Mrs. Silas will have turned on the central heating and stoked the fires in the main rooms already, so it will be nice and toasty.”

“Central heating!” Lettice exclaims. “What bliss!”

A short while later, after being shown to her spacious bedroom upstairs under the steeply slanted roof, unpacking her case, freshening up in the modest adjoining ensuite bathroom and changing from her tweed travelling clothes and Burberry macintosh************** into a rose and marone silk georgette knife pleated frock, Lettice makes her way back downstairs to the cosy drawing room, where she finds Sylvia, still dressed in her Oxford bags, but now accessorised stylishly with a pair of heels rather than boots, and a smart white silk blouse with a cross over frill, draped languidly in a roomy white lounge chair, smoking one of her Craven “A”*************** cigarettes pleasurably.

“Is this one of your clever Gerald’s outfits, Lettice Darling?” Sylvia asks, blowing out a plume of pale grey cigarette smoke into the air above her head as she appraises her guest.

Released from beneath her over-sized brown velvet cloche, Sylvia’s black dyed sharp bob sits neatly about her angular face. She wears no necklace or earrings, and only the large aquamarine and diamond cluster ring on her left middle finger on her elegant pianist’s hands. As with the drive up, Sylvia’s face is caked with a thick layer of white makeup which she has simply touched up and reapplied after any damage incurred enroute, her red painted lips the only colour afforded her in her entire outfit aside from the cool blue of the aquamarine. As she lounges lazily, she almost blends into Syrie Maugham’s shades of white.

“Yes, it is, Sylvia.” Lettice replies, doing a pirouette which causes the skirt of pleats to fly out prettily. When she stops, she notices a faceted glass vase of tulips on a low black japanned oriental coffee table. “Tulips!” she remarks. “In winter! Will your home never cease to amaze?”

Sylvia takes a long drag on her cigarette, the paper crackling as she does, before stubbing it out into the chrome smoker’s stand next to her chair and blowing out a final plume of acrid cigarette smoke. “They’re freshly in from Mrs. Silas. Mr. Silas is a flower grower, selling flowers to stallholders in Covent Garden, so he has quite a few greenhouses. Coffee?” She indicates to a dainty blue and white patterned Nipponese**************** eggshell porcelain***************** coffee set next to the vase, set upon a silver salver.

“Thank you.” Lettice says, picking up a cup and pouring herself some coffee before adding sugar and milk.

“Sadly, the house doesn’t amaze when it comes to this room, Lettice darling.” Sylvia mutters disappointedly. “Which of course is one of the reasons I invited you here.”

Lettice looks about the room, which is designed in the prevailingly fashionable Arts and Crafts country style of heavy wooden pieces intermixed with the cleaner and more modern lines of the Modernist movement which is slowly taking hold. The room is dominated as she would expect by a grand wooden piano. The sleek lounge is white, whilst oriental tables, lacquered and japanned sit around them on the blue and gold carpet Sylvia replaced Syrie Maugham’s white one with. The chrome pillar smoker’s stand standing next to Sylvia’s lounge chair gleams in the illumination from the overhead pendant lights. The wall behind her is dominated by a large black and cream marble open fireplace in which a fire, laid by Mrs. Silas a little earlier, crackles contentedly.

“I see what you mean by your love of blue and white porcelain.” Lettice remarks as she admires a pair of large bulbous Japanese blue and white urn flanking the fireplace.

“It’s not quite as fine a collection as Adelinda Gifford,” Sylvia acknowledges with a wave of her hand. “However, I do have a few nice pieces, even if I do say so myself.”

“I’d say more than a few, Sylvia.” Lettice counters.

“But you see what I mean by Mrs. Maugham’s rather uninspiring white walls.” Sylvia goes on.

“Oh,” Lettice remarks with an awkward chuckle. “The paper is rather lovely.” She walks up to it and runs her hand over the delicate embossed white diamond shapes covering the paper.

“It’s insipid!” Sylvia retorts bitterly. “All that money wasted on shades of white. And that’s why I want you to inject this room with drama and colour, Lettice darling!”

Lettice takes a seat in the chair opposite Sylvia and places her dainty demitasse****************** on the round table at her right. She looks up at the white feature wall into which the large marble fireplace is built. There are no paintings hanging on it, other than a single watercolour landscape in a gilded frame above the mantle, highlighting the vast expanse of space. She sighs deeply. “A feature wall is far greater than a demilune console table,” Lettice cautions her new friend, anxious not to disappoint her if she says no. “It’s such a large space.”

“And that’s why I want you to paint it, Lettice darling!” Sylvia goes on. “It’s the perfect canvas for you to be bright and bold!” she enthuses. “Release that inner artiste that I know is within you.”

Lettice sighs even more deeply and stares up at the offending wall. “What were you thinking, Sylvia darling?”

“What were you thinking, Lettice darling?” Sylvia answers her friend’s question with a question.

Lettice doesn’t answer straight away as she looks up at the wall and then around the room, to see where the light comes from. Large and long mullioned windows imbedded into white painted wooden panelling overlook the front garden along the wall opposite the fireplace, whilst more wooden panelling, painted white by Syrie Maugham grace the remaining two narrower walls. Lettice considers a pair of very beautiful blue and white oriental lidded ginger jars featuring flowers that stand at either end of the mantle shelf. “Can you get your Mr. Silas to paint the wall a flat navy blue?” she asks Sylvia.

“Either him or another local.” Sylvia agrees. “If I ask nicely. Why?”

“Well, I don’t think I’d like to paint the entire expanse of wall myself,” Lettice replies. “But I might consider painting a pattern by hand over the top of a darker colour if someone could paint the base layer for me.”

“Consider it done! And, what would that pattern look like, Lettice darling?” Sylvia asks, leaning forward in anticipation, barely daring to breathe in case she frightens Lettice off the idea of painting the wall.

“I’d take inspiration from your blue and white porcelain.” Lettice ruminates aloud as she stares at the ginger jars and two smaller vases that flank a tiny vibrant green Bakelite******************* mantle clock that sits in the middle of the wide mantlepiece. “But white on blue perhaps, rather than blue on white, with a gilded element.” Her eyes begin to glisten with excitement and enthusiasm as her lips turn into a smile. “Something from the garden perhaps. Flowers, or leaves.” She gasps. “Feathers!”

“Well, this is ‘The Nest’, Lettice darling.” Sylvia remarks, scarcely daring to hope. “Of course,” she adds with twinkling eyes and a wily smile. “If you take my job on, as I hope you will, Lettice, I’ll have a word with my friend. She’s a senior journalistic contributor and editor at The Lady********************, and I know she’d love to get in here with her best photographer and report an exclusive on Sylvia Fordyce’s secluded country retreat, decorated by Syrie Maugham and Lettice Chetwynd.” She pauses. “Or shall we make that decorated by Lettice Chetwynd and Syrie Maugham?”

“Are you trying to take a leaf out of Alisdair Gifford’s book to curry favour, Sylvia darling?”

“Well, I had rather heard from Nettie that a splash of publicity wouldn’t hurt as an incentive.” Sylvia’s smile widens and her eyes glitter with delight. “Call it my trump card, if you like, Lettice darling.”

“You said you were going away. Could I borrow a few choice pieces of your blue and white porcelain whilst you are gone, to give me inspiration?”

“Of course, Lettice darling! You may have full run of ‘The Nest’ if you wish. Whatever you like.”

“Well, it would be rather fun.” Lettice muses. “A whole wall to hand paint and decorate.”

“Of course it would.” Sylvia purrs.

“And I do like big and bold statements.”

“Which is one of the many reasons I asked you to take on my little project, Lettice darling.”

Lettice doesn’t answer straight away, and the air quickly grows thick with Sylvia’s anticipation as she waits for Lettice’s reply with baited breath.

“Very well Sylvia. I’ll do it!”

“Oh hoorah!” Sylvia applauds, clasping her elegant long fingers together in delight. “Thank you, Lettice darling! I knew I could count on you.”

“Let’s sit down and talk about the logistics of this. When did you say you would be touring the provinces again?”

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

**Lea and G. I. Francis started the business in Coventry in 1895. They branched out into car manufacturing in 1903 and motorcycles in 1911. Lea-Francis built cars under licence for the Singer company. In 1919, they started to build their own cars from bought-in components. From 1922, Lea-Francis formed a business relationship with Vulcan of Southport sharing manufacturing and dealers. Vulcan supplied bodies to Lea-Francis and in return received gearboxes and steering gear. Two six-cylinder Vulcan-designed and manufactured cars were marketed as Lea-Francis 14/40 and 16/60 as well as Vulcans. The association ended in 1928 when Vulcan stopped making cars. The company had a chequered history with some notable motorcycles and cars, but financial difficulties surfaced on a regular basis. The Hillfields site was abandoned in 1937 when it was sold by the receiver and a new company, under a slightly different name, moved to Much Park Street in Coventry. It survived there until 1962 when the company finally closed.

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

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

*****In the Eighteenth Century, anyone who took a headlong fall from a horse was said to have fallen “neck and crop”. “Come a cropper” was a colloquial way of describing a “neck and crop” fall, and is first cited in Robert S. Surtees' Ask Mamma, 1858. We now use the term for failing badly at something.

******The Half Moon Inn is a pretty thatched tavern overlooking Belchamp St Paul’s village green. With low beams and an old log fire it maintains most of the original features of the current Georgian era building. Originally built in the early Sixteenth Century, The Half Moon has been at the centre of Belchamp St Paul village life for more than four hundred years.

*******The first standard public telephone kiosk introduced by the United Kingdom Post Office was produced in concrete in 1921 and was designated K1 (Kiosk No.1). The Post Office had taken over almost all of the country's telephone network in 1912. The red telephone box K1 (Kiosk No.2), was the result of a competition in 1924 to design a kiosk that would be acceptable to the London Metropolitan Boroughs which had hitherto resisted the Post Office's effort to erect K1 kiosks on their streets.

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

*********It is not known when the first church was built on the sight that today houses St Andrew’s Church of England in Belchamp St Paul. There was a church, however when the Dean of St Paul's, Ralph de Dicto, visited Belchamp on the 15th of January 1181. This early Norman church consisted of a nave with north and south doorways and a chancel. It was dedicated in honour of St Andrew the Apostle who is the patron saint of missionaries, mariners and fishermen. All churches dedicated in honour of St Andrew are usually near rivers. It would seem that after the visitation of Dean William Say in 1458 a major rebuilding of the church took place which was completed in the year 1490. The building which we now see consists of a chancel, nave, north aisle, tower and south porch. The roof dates from 1490 and is of the trussed rafter, beam type, often found in Essex churches.

**********The first Sudbury station was built by the Colchester, Stour Valley, Sudbury & Halstead Railway, which even before the opening on 30 July 1849. A railway line has existed there ever since and continues to run today. It is the northern terminus of the Gainsborough Line, a branch off the Great Eastern Main Line in the East of England, serving the town of Sudbury, Suffolk. In 1925 at the time this story is set, the railway would have been run by the London and North Eastern Railway (LNER).

***********Oxford bags were a loose-fitting baggy form of trousers favoured by members of the University of Oxford, especially undergraduates, in England from the mid-1920s to around the 1950s. The style had a more general influence outside the university, including in America, but has been somewhat out of fashion since then. It is sometimes said that the style originated from a ban in 1924 on the wearing of plus fours by Oxford (and Cambridge) undergraduates at lectures. The bagginess allegedly allowed plus fours to be hidden underneath – but the argument is undermined by the fact that the trousers (especially in the early years) were not sufficiently voluminous for this to be done with any success. The original trousers were 22–23 inches (56–58 cm) in circumference at the bottoms but became increasingly larger to 44 inches (110 cm) or more, possibly due to a misunderstanding of the measurement as the width rather than circumference.

************Charles Francis Annesley Voysey was an English architect and furniture and textile designer. Voysey's early work was as a designer of wallpapers, fabrics and furnishings in the Arts and Crafts style and he made important contribution to the Modern Style, and was recognized by the seminal The Studio magazine.

*************Sydney Ernest Castle was born in Battersea in July 1883. He trained with H. W. Edwards, a surveyor and worked as chief assistant to Arthur Jessop Hardwick (1867 - 1948) before establishing his own practice in London in 1908. From 1908 to 1918 he was in partnership with Gerald Warren (1881-1936) as Castle & Warren. He worked on St. George's Hill Estate in Weybridge, Surrey with Walter George Tarrant (1875-1942). Castle was elected a Fellow of the Royal Institute of British Architects (FRIBA) in 1925. He designed many buildings, including the Christian Association building in Clapham, a school in Balham and a private hotel in the Old Brompton Road, as well as many private residences throughout Britain. His firm’s address in 1926, when this story is set was 40, Albemarle Street, Piccadilly. He died in Wandsworth in March 1955.

**************Thomas Burberry established Burberry in Basingstoke in 1856 at just twenty-one years old, founded on the principle that clothing should be designed to protect people from the British weather. A few years later in 1879 he invented gaberdine, a breathable wearable and hardwearing fabric that revolutionised rainwear. The Burberry trench coat was invented during the First World War with epaulettes used to suspend military equipment, but in the inter-war years, with the Burberry check registered as a trademark and introduced as lining to their rainwear, it became a luxury brand for the wealthy.

***************Craven A (stylized as Craven "A") is a British brand of cigarettes, currently manufactured by British American Tobacco. Originally founded and produced by the Carreras Tobacco Company in 1921 until merging with Rothmans International in 1972, who then produced the brand until Rothmans was acquired by British American Tobacco in 1999. The cigarette brand is named after the third Earl of Craven, after the "Craven Mixture", a tobacco blend formulated for the 3rd Earl in the 1860s by tobacconist Don José Joaquin Carreras.

****************Nipponese is the adjective used when relating to a characteristic of Japan or its people or their culture or language. It was used predominantly before the Second World War, and goods exported from Japan were marked Nipon. The term Japanese became the common adjective used after the war, making a pivotal moment of change in Japan’s history after the atomic bombs that hit Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

*****************Eggshell porcelain is actually a type of Chinese porcelain characterized by an excessively thin body under the glaze. It often had decoration engraved on it before firing that, like a watermark in paper, was visible only when held to the light; such decoration is called anhua, meaning literally “secret language.” It is very delicate and fragile.

******************A demitasse is a small coffee cup. It was the French, in the 1800s, who originated the demitasse and turned after-dinner coffee drinking into an art. Demitasse means “half-cup.” The cups are, typically, half the size of a regular coffee cup, holding two to three ounces of beverage.

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

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

This 1920s upper-class drawing room is different to what you may think at first glance, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures.

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

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

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

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

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

The tiny blue and white coffee set with coffee pot, creamer, sugar bowl and demitasse cups in the foreground on the coffee table are all hand painted. I acquired them from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop. The silver tray the coffee pot, creamer and sugar bowl stand on also comes from there. The faceted glass vase on the coffee table is an artisan miniature made from real glass. It comes from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The tulips in the vase are very realistic looking. Made of polymer clay they are moulded on wires to allow them to be shaped at will and put into individually formed floral arrangements. They are made by a 1:12 miniature specialist in Germany.

The silver cigarette lighter and the packet of Craven “A” cigarettes on the table were made with great attention to detail by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The Swan Vesta’s matches sitting in the holder on the smoker’s stand also come from Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures.

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

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

The embossed chequered wallpaper is art paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

A Private Audience with Sylvia Fordyce by raaen99

© raaen99, all rights reserved.

A Private Audience with Sylvia Fordyce

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 travelled a short distance from Cavendish Mews, skirting Hyde Park, around Hyde Park Corner, through Knightsbridge past the Brompton Road and Harrods with its ornate terracotta façade, to the northern edge of South Kensington where the great round Roman amphitheatre inspired Royal Albert Hall, built in honour of Queen Victoria’s late husband prince Albert in 1861 stands. Illuminated by lights, the great terracotta mosaic frieze, depicting “The Triumph of Arts and Sciences” above the doors welcomed men in white waistcoats and women a-glitter with jewels earlier in the evening as they were ushered through the Hall’s doors to enjoy a performance of a selection of pieces by Schumann and Brahms by the famous British concert pianist, Sylvia Fordyce. Amongst the appreciative audience seated in the lofty auditorium were Lettice and her fiancée, Sir John Nettleford-Hughes, accompanied by Sir John’s widowed sister Clementine (known preferably now by the more cosmopolitan Clemance) Pontefract serving as chaperone for Lettice. Sir John and Clemance are both long time friends of Sylvia Fordyce, and Sylvia has invited Sir John, Clemance and Lettice to her dressing room in the basement of the Hall after the completion of the evening’s performance for a private audience.

“Would you kindly tell Miss Fordyce that Sir John Nettleford-Hughes, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd and Mrs. Clemance Pontefract are here to see her.” Sir John says with hauteur to the rather surly, muscular looking man standing outside Sylvia’s dressing room door with his arms folded across his chest menacingly.

“Is she expecting you?” the man asks gruffly, eyeing the trio perfectly in elegant evening dress who look so out of place in the greasy and dirty service corridors of the great Victorian hall.

Sir John smiles politely at the man, oozing the confidence of male privilege that his sex, class and enormous wealth bestows, wearing it every bit as well as the smart and well-cut set of tails he is dressed in. “Of course she is!” he enunciates in a haughty tone.

By his left side, Lettice squeezes his hand with her own nervously as the man knocks at the door and is granted entry by a commanding female voice from within.

“Don’t worry my darling.” Sir John assures Lettice, giving her a winning smile. “Sylvia doesn’t like too much of a crowd after a performance, but she’ll see us.”

“We’re very old friends of hers.” Clemance adds in a comforting purr as she pats the diamond tiara that has been expertly woven into her stylishly waved hair.

“In fact, she specifically sent tickets to me, for you Lettice,” Sir John goes on. “Because she so wants to meet you.”

“I’m a little nervous, meeting one of Britain’s most accomplished concert pianists,” Lettice admits. “Never mind her also being an old friend of yours.”

Sir John wraps his arm around her and gives her a gentle squeeze. “You’ll be fine. You’ll charm her as you do everyone. Sylvia wants to meet you because you are now my fiancée, my dear. She is anxious that we should all be friends.”

“And you’ll like her, Lettice.” Clemance insists. “She’s a very charismatic woman.”

The door suddenly opens, and the burly guard reemerges. “Miss Fordyce will see you.” He says in a grumpy tone, pushing the door open roughly with his muscular arm and allowing the trio entry.

They walk into a dressing room decorated with old fashioned Victorian style gold flocked wallpaper filled with a mish-mash of furnishings including a wardrobe, a chaise, some drawers and a Chinese screen. The room is crammed with dozens and dozens of flower arrangements in vases, urns and baskets: irises, tulips, lilies and ever so many roses in any number of shades. As Lettice looks around the space it reminds her more of the regent Street Flower Box than a dressing room. The fragrance of so many blooms is cloying and almost overpowering. And there, sitting at a flounced dressing table amongst them all is Sylvia Fordyce the world famous concert pianist herself.

“Ahh, Nettie darling!” Sylvia says, using Sir John’s pet name used only by his closest friends from his younger days, looking up from a selection of cards from well wishes and glimpsing his reflection in the black and gilt painted mirror before her.

“Sylvia my dear! A marvellous performance tonight, if I may say so.” Sir John says with pleasure as she walks up to his friend and kisses her hand chivalrously as she extends it to him.

“You may, dear Nettie!” Sylvia replies, spinning around to face him properly.

Dressed in the traditional black worn by performers on stage, Sylvia’s black georgette sleeveless sheath frock is spangled with rhinestones applied in a diamond patterns around the waist and a long necklace of shimmering golden faceted beads hangs about her elegant, swan like neck. Her hair is cut into a sharp bob, the style of which only accentuates the angularity of her face. Dyed jet black, her tresses make her face, pasted in a thick layer of white makeup, look even paler. She has high and sharp cheek bones and expertly plucked and fashioned brows over large brown eyes framed by long black lashes. Her thin lips are the only part of her coloured, painted with a bright red shade of lipstick. They part in a happy smile and her dark eyes warm as she spies Clemance. “Oh and Clemmie! I didn’t know you were coming tonight! How delicious!”

“Sylvia darling!” Clemance exclaims in reply.

“I’d heard you were back in the country after Harrison’s death.” Sylvia reaches out her hands with her long pianist’s fingers, graced by only one cluster of sparking jewels to her old friend. “I’m so sorry for your loss, my dear.”

“Thank you Sylvia.” Clemance replies, accepting Sylvia’s condolences and hands warmly.

“So where are you living, now you’re back in London?” Sylvia asks, her eyes alert. “Bunking in with that no good brother of yours in Belgravia?” She glances across at Sir John and gives him a cheeky smile before refocussing her attention on Clemance.

“Never fear!” Clemance chuckles good naturedly. “No, I’m living in Holland Park.”

“Why, then we’re practically neighbours, Clemmie darling! I’m only in Holland Park Gardens! We must catch up, - properly I mean, not like this.” She waves her hand expansively around the flower filled dressing room. “Are you in the book*?”

“Yes.”

“Then I shall look you up, once I’m back from this latest tour of the provinces my agent has booked me to do.”

“I’d like that, Sylvia.”

“Sylvia I’d like to…” Sir John begins before being interrupted by a young woman dressed in a smart tweed suit as she bursts through the door past the guard.

“More flowers, Miss Fordyce.” she announces, hoisting a basket filled with a cascade of the most beautiful red and white fragrant roses.

“Oh!” Sylvia mutters distractedly. “Put them down over there, Atlanta.” She points to a space on the floor near to the Chinese screen. “Anywhere you can find a space, really.”

“Yes Miss Fordyce.” the young woman answers.

“Nettie darling! Clemmie! You remember my private secretary, Atlanta, don’t you?”

“How do you do.” Sir John says politely.

“Lovely to make your acquaintance again, Atlanta.” Clemance echoes.

“And you remember my friends, Sir John Nettleford-Huges and his sister, Mrs. Pontefract, don’t you, Atlanta?” Sylvia asks her secretary.

Stretching as she resumes a standing position after placing the unwieldy basket of flowers on the floor of the dressing room the young girl replies, “Yes of course! How do you do, Sir John,” She nods curtly from the neck. “Mrs. Pontefract” She nods again.

“Who is that rather overblown basket from anyway, Atlanta?” Sylvia glares at the basket.

“The Messrs Charteris, Colquhoun and Denver of course.” Atlanta replies tiredly with a sniff of disapproval. “Who else would send you something so incredibly gushing?”

“Oh lord!” Sylvia remarks, looking more hostilely at the basket of blooms. “That can go to Guy’s Hospital then**. It’s not coming home with us.”

“You wait until you read their card, Miss Fordyce.” her secretary goes on.

“Oh, spare me!” Sylvia replies, raising her hands and rolling her eyes to the discoloured distemper*** ceiling above. She looks imploringly at Sir John. “What it is to be a victim of one’s own success, Nettie darling!” She sighs and sinks back into her seat. “I’ve grown somewhat of a following amongst the queers**** of Lonon’s West End theatre audience. They’ll all be clamouring at the door when I leave later tonight.”

“How very tiresome for you.” Sir John replies with an edge of sarcasm to his voice.

“Well, let’s just hope there is at least one red blooded stage-door johnny***** buried amongst them whom I can take home to Holland Park Gardens tonight.” Sylvia replies with a wicked smirk.

“Sylvia,” Sir John huffs with frustrated with his friend’s narcissistic obsession of herself. “I’d like to introduce you to my fiancée, Miss Lettice Chetwynd.”

“Ah!” Sylvia exclaims, her irritation at the flowers a moment ago forgotten. “Now this should be interesting! I’ve been dying to meet you, Miss Chetwynd!”

Sir John steps aside and guides Lettice, dressed in a striking turquoise silk crêpe evening dress with a gypsy girdle****** ornamented with silver lined black seed beads, forward. She wears a matching bandeau******* decorated with an aigrette******** of dyed black feathers and a diamond spray in her waved blonde hair and a rope of pearls that is wrapped around her throat and cascades down her front. “How do you do, Miss Fordyce.” Lettice says politely, extending an elbow length white glove clad right hand to the concert pianist.

“Enchanté!” Sylvia gasps with unbridled delight, drinking in Lettice’s elegant form, reaching out her own hand and taking Lettice’s. She glances at Sir John. “Nettie! She’s every bit as beautiful as you described!” she exclaims, the remark making Lettice blush. Drawn back to Lettice, Sylvia goes on, “Now, now! You mustn’t blush Miss Chetwynd! You should always accept every compliment when it’s given,” She pauses for a moment as she thinks of the word she wants to use. “Graciously.” She wags a finger at Lettice. “After all, you never know when they might dry up.” She then shifts her gaze to Sir John’s sister. “So that’s why you came this evening, Clemmie: to act as chaperone for Miss Chetwynd!”

“Well, Lettice hardly needs a chaperone at twenty-five, Sylvia,” Clemence replies. “But for societal purposes, yes.”

“Well, I’m glad you came, Clemmie darling, and I hoped you enjoyed the performance!” Sylvia says.

“Oh I did, Sylvia. We all did, didn’t we?”

Sir John and Lettice both murmur in agreement.

“Then you must come again, when I give a new performance!” Sylvia claps her hands together theatrically, making the large diamond and aquamarine ring on her middle left finger sparkle in the light. “But enough of that now. As I said, I’ll telephone you, Clemmie, or I’ll get Atlanta to do so once I’m back from touring.” She returns her focus to Lettice, her dark brown eyes widening. “And you Miss Chetwynd. I’ve been dying to meet you, even before you met Nettie here and decided to make an honest man of him.” She chuckles throatily.

“Me?” Lettice queries, gulping in surprise.

“You my dear!” she purrs as she concurs with a nod. “In fact, whilst I asked Nettie to bring you here this evening, so that he could introduce you to me as his fiancée, I have my own ulterior motives for wishing to meet you.”

“Really?” Lettice asks. “That sounds rather foreboding.”

“Mmmm…” Sylvia murmurs with an enigmatic smile.

Sir John makes an awkward stage cough. “Now behave, Sylvia.”

“Nettie darling! Clemmie!” Sylvia replies. “It’s been lovely to see you two tonight, but right now, I want to chat with Miss Chetwynd alone.”

“I don’t know if I think that’s a very good idea, Sylvia.” Sir John says with a low and slightly nervous chuckle. “Can you be trusted? It looks like there is mischief in your eyes this evening.”

“Mischief!” Sylvia tuts in return. “You and your suspicious mind, Nettie!” She laughs. “How wise you are, my dear.” She smiles a wide and knowing smile at her friend. “However, in this case I can assure you that you have nothing to fear. Your character shall not be defamed.” She winks at him. “I wish only to discuss the business of redecoration with Miss Chetwynd this evening, not you.”

“Sylvia, it’s been lovely.” Clemance says, bending down and kissing the pianist on the right cheek proffered to her.

“I’ll telephone you.” Sylvia assures her again, reaching up and squeezing Clemance’s upper arms with her elegant fingers. “And we’ll have cocktails, like they do in America.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Sylvia.” Clemance laughs.

Once again turning her attentions to Sir John, Sylvia goes on, “And Nettie darling, no doubt I will see you,” She arches a well plucked eyebrow high over her right eye. “With the delightful Miss Chetwynd.” Her gaze darts momentarily back to Lettice before returning to Sir John. “You make a handsome couple. Now!” She proffers the same cheek to Sir John and like his sister, he bends down to the seated pianist and kisses her. “Atlanta will escort you and Clemmie to the bar for a drink, where you may cool you heels at my expense, whilst Miss Chetwynd and I become better acquainted as we discuss a little interior design over champagne.” She taps a bottle of French champagne cooling in a silver bucket on a spindly black japanned table sitting next to her dressing table.

“Right this way, Sir John, Mrs. Pontefract.” Sylvia’s assistant says, opening the dressing room door with a sweeping gesture.

Sir John looks quizzically at Sylvia.

“Don’t worry, Nettie!” Sylvia moves her hand up and down in a calming sign in the air between she and her friend. “I told you I wanted to talk about some redecoration I want done, with the most fashionable and desirable interior designer of the moment. It’s just luck that she also happens to be your fiancée. I promise we won’t discuss you,” Her eyes flit back to Lettice, gleaming wickedly, before shooting back to Sir John. “Much!”

“We’ll be at the basement bar, Lettice darling.” Sir John assures his fiancée.

“I’ll be fine, John.” Lettice replies. “If Miss Fordyce wants to discuss interior design…”

“Well I hope that’s all.” Sir John says darkly.

“You sound like you have something to hide, John.” Lettice replies in a low voice. “Do you?”

Sir John holds up his hands. “We have no secrets, you and I.” He glances nervously at Sylvia. “But Sylvia is a dangerous and fierce woman in her own right.”

“Then she will have met her match with me, won’t she John?” Lettice smiles bravely. “If I can manage Lady Gladys Caxton.”

He turns back to Lettice and smiles weakly. “Just make sure she doesn’t shock you too much with her talk, or eat you alive, eh?”

“Oh pshaw!” Sylvia says, flipping her elegant left hand dismissively at Sir John. “Off you go now, Nettie. Leave Miss Chetwynd and I to chat like a good and obedient boy.”

With some gentle persuasion and guidance, Atlanta manages to usher Sir John and Clemance out through the door and closes it quietly behind her.

“Well, Miss Fordyce,” Lettice begins with a deep intake of breath.

The pianist suddenly sits upright in her seat at the dressing table, throwing off her languid stance as she holds her arms up rigidly and stretches out her fine fingers as though she is reaching to the heavens above. Her face is serious, her eyes closed, and her lips now nothing more than a thin streak of red across her white powdered face as she lifts her face to the light above. “Hush!” Sylvia commands as she pauses in this dramatic position for a moment before slowly lowering herself back into her seat and languidly opening her eyes. “Pray allow me this moment of silence.”

Lettice stands before the older woman and does as she is bid, saying nothing and not moving as a look of peace crosses the musician’s face and a blissful smile slowly curls up the corners of her mouth.

“Isn’t it divine, my dear Miss Chetwynd?” Sylvia asks, breathing deeply.

“Isn’t what divine, Miss Fordyce?” Lettice responds with her own question.

“The silence.” Sylvia replies.

Lettice listens. Around them the quiet air is thick. The slightly sweet and metallic smell of fifty years of greasepaint from past occupiers of the room fills the already cloying floral atmosphere. Lettice remembers her parents talking about the extravagant Shakespeare Memorial Ball********* that they attended at the Royal Albert Hall, two days before King George’s Coronation in 1911, with the Viscount dressed up as Julius Caesar and Lady Sadie as Lady Macbeth. Dust motes float silently through the air around the overhead pendant light and the wall sconces around the dressing room. Only the occasional footfall or hushed conversation in the corridor outside breaks the silence.

“I love this quiet time,” Sylvia finally says, exhaling deeply through her nostrils. “Even more than the adulation of the audience as it rises to its feet and cries for an encore.” She sighs happily. “It’s what every artist craves in their heart of hearts – the silence after the theatrics are all over. It is sheer bliss.”

Lettice doesn’t answer, unsure as to what to say, however, evidently an answer was not required from her.

“Please, do sit down, Miss Chetwynd.” Sylvia says, indicating with a sweeping gesture to the sagging flouncy Edwardian floral chaise lounge that sits across from the dressing table. “Just push those chocolates aside to make room for yourself.” She nods at an open box full of very expensive looking sweetmeats. “Who are they from?”

Lettice pushes the box along the seat cushion to make some space and picks up the card. “A Miss. Vesta Hartley.” Lettice replies, blushing red as she reads what else is written in the card.

“Damn woman.” Sylvia mutters. “I don’t care how many times she implores me, or what she tries to bribe me with, I have never shared her sapphist********** inclinations, and never will.”

Lettice quietly and discreetly slips the card aside. “So, Miss Fordyce, you wanted to speak to me on business?” she asks.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” Sylvia asks Lettice, not waiting for a response before fishing out a black ashtray and packet of Craven “A” cigarettes*********** from behind a screen of congratulatory cards cluttering her lace draped dressing table. Lettice shallowly shakes her head as the woman fossicks for a silver lighter. “Would you care for one?” she asks Lettice, thrusting the open packet out to Lettice.

“No thank you.” Lettice answers with a gentle shake of her head. “I don’t smoke.”

“Oh I thought you would.” Sylvia replies, withdrawing the packet she proffered. “I thought all you young Flappers did. Besides, you’re engaged to Nettie, and he’s not exactly known for farouche dining companions or wallflowers.”

Lettice toys distractedly with the black lace fan with ebony slats dangling from her right wrist by black velvet ribbon. “Look, Miss Fordyce,” she begins with irritation. “Did you want to talk to me privately just to warn me off marrying John?” She sighs heavily. “Because if you are, I think you should know that John has been very disclosing about his…” Lettice doesn’t know quite how to conclude her sentence.

“Attachments?” Sylvia queries helpfully, cocking her eyebrow at Lettice’s pretty, yet forlorn figure seated upon the chaise.

“Exactly.” Lettice sighs again.

“Certainly not, Miss Chetwynd!” Sylvia scoffs, lighting her cigarette and blowing out a plume of pale grey acrid smoke. “Who am I to tell you what to do? Besides, when it comes to marriage, I don’t exactly have the best record.”

“But you aren’t married Miss Fordyce.” Lettice opines in surprise.

“Fordyce is my maiden name, and my stage name. I was married. I’m really, Mrs. Marmaduke Piggott.” She stops and draws on her cigarette again before pulling a face. “Ghastly name, isn’t it? I’m a widow now.” She puffs out another cloud of roiling smoke. “But even when I wasn’t, I’ve always been known as Miss Fordyce professionally. I was known as Sylvia Fordyce the pianist long before I met and married Marmaduke, and I decided to carry on as such, but I can tell you more about that, later. Sylvia Fordyce looks far better on a concert program or playbill and sounds far nicer than Sylvia Piggott. Anyway,” she goes on. “You must call me Sylvia, since your fiancée and I are on a first name term basis, and I shall call you Lettice.”

“Very well, Sylvia.” Lettice agrees.

“Anyway as I was saying, I make it my business never to interfere with other people’s love lives. You marry whomever you want, Lettice. Why did you think I’d warn you off Nettie?”

Lettice’s face crumples as she lowers her head and looks down into her lap. “Because others have tried to do so, my own family included.”

“Ahh.” Sylvia says knowingly, dragging thoughtfully on her cigarette. As she taps the spent ash off its end into the ashtray, she slips it into a notch on the rim to hold it. She leans over to the bottle of champagne, withdraws it and unravels the foil from around its top. “Well, I’m glad that you told me that you have full disclosure as far as Nettie is concerned. You’re obviously walking into this marriage with your eyes open, which is good. You need to. Nettie, god love him, has quite a history, as I’m sure he’s told you, and you must know of, if you know Gladys Caxton.” Lettice nods shallowly, but Sylvia is too busy removing the cage from around the cork to notice. “Oh, and before you ask.” She pops the cork. “I might call him Nettie, but that doesn’t mean I’m the same as Gladys or the countless other women who call him that. Nettie and I have never had a fling.” She assures Lettice. “I take it you’ll have a glass of champagne, Lettice?” Lettice nods and as Sylvia pours the sparkling golden liquid into one of the glass flutes sitting in front of the wine cooler, she adds, “He’s never been my type. Interestingly, for a woman who has made a career in the arts, Nettie is too cultivated culturally to appeal to me in that way. I love my friendship with Nettie and our long and in-depth conversations about the nuances of music, but I seem to prefer the rather boorish, brutish military type of man who knows all there is to know about a revolver, but couldn’t tell one end of a violin from the other: like my dead husband.” She smiles as she hands the glass of champagne to Lettice and chuckles bitterly. “Which is why I say that I never interfere in anyone else’s romantic affairs. I pick the wrong type of man every time.” She sighs through barred teeth. “But there you have it. Cin-cin.”

Sylvia picks up her own filled glass of champagne and extends it towards Lettice’s. Lettice raises her own and the two flutes clink cheerfully.

Sylvia continues, “I only really know Nettie because of his sister. Clemmie and I became friends because we were two English girls staying with the same impecunious German aristocratic family, the von Nyssens, in Charlottenburg as part of our finishing off at the same time. Clemmie had been sent out to Berlin to improve her German, and I was living with the von Nyssens so that I could take lessons at the Universität der Künste, Berlin************.”

After taking a sip of her champagne, Lettice tentatively asks, “So, if you’ve not invited me here to warn me off John, Sylvia. Why am I here?”

“To talk business of course!” Sylvia sips her own glass of champagne. “I’ve read quite a bit about you, my dear. I read the favourable articles Henry Tipping************* write about you in Country Life**************, and I’ve been following your career, although I must confess, it was that last article by Henry Tipping on the room you decorated for the Giffords in Wiltshire that really made me want to speak with you.”

“Alisdair Gifford is John’s nephew.” Lettice opines.

“Yes, I know. Nettie mentioned to me that you were going to redecorate a room for Alisdair’s wife to house her blue and white china collection, so I was most anxious to see what the results looked like, and I was suitably impressed.”

“You were, Sylvia.”

“Quite.” Sylvia nods before taking another sip of her champagne. She swallows, picks up the butt of her cigarette, takes one long final draw on it and extinguishes it in the ashtray, expelling another cloud of greyish smoke tumbling through the air. She withdraws another cigarette from her packet and lights it immediately with her bulky silver lighter. “You see, I am a collector of blue and white porcelain too.”

“Really?”

“Not in the way Adelinda Gifford does,” Sylvia drags on her freshly lit cigarette and sighs, blowing out more smoke. “But, I do have a few rather nice pieces, even if I do say so, myself.”

“Alright Sylvia,” Lettice says in a relieved tone, reaching into the gold tissue paper lined box of chocolates and taking out one with a piece of candied orange peel on its top. “My interest is piqued.”

“Oh good!” Sylvia claps her hands, sending a shower of ash across her lap, which she blows off with a puff. “I told you before that I would share a little about my married life, so here it is, sad and bitter though it may be.” She settles back in her seat like a true performer: a storyteller before her enthralled audience. “The best thing Brigadier Marmaduke Piggott did for me and our ill-fated marriage was to get himself blown up at the Battle of Passchendaele***************.”

“Sylvia!” Lettice gasps.

“I’m sorry, Lettice, but it’s true. Whilst I don’t wish him dead, Marmaduke took very much after the first part of his surname. He was a pig: brutish and violent. Ours was a very unhappy marriage, and I’d be lying if I said that it was all one sided. If you back me into a corner, Lettice, I will fight like a tigress. We did things to deliberately hurt one another in every sense.” She draws on her cigarette, blows out another tumble of smoke and then takes a less than ladylike gulp of champagne from her glass. “Anyway, he died, and he left me, even after death duties, well off enough for me to buy a small parcel of land in Essex, just outside of a charming little village called Belchamp St Paul****************.”

“I can’t say I know it.” Lettice admits.

“Oh I’m hardly surprised, Lettice. It’s a small farming village, very picturesque with a pub and a rather large church built in the Fifteenth Century. A local famer was selling off some of his land which included a rather lovely copse of trees, which is why I bought it. I had Sydney Castle***************** build me a smart and select little red brick cottage there, hidden from view from the road by the copse. I call it ‘The Nest’ because it is nestled in amongst the trees, hidden and private. I had Syrie Maugham****************** decorate it.” She pauses for a moment before asking, “You aren’t friends with her, are you?”

“Who, Syrie Maugham?” Lettice asks.

“Yes.”

“Well, considering that we are in competition with one another, I can safely say that, no we aren’t, Sylvia.”

“Oh good!” Sylvia takes another sip of champagne. “So I can tell you then, without fear of reprisals, that I wasn’t at all happy with her insistence on white walls. She has an obsession for shades of white!”

“Oh yes I know.” Lettice sips her champagne.

“So as a result I have white chairs and white cushions, white curtains and white carpets. I got rid of her white carpet and replaced it with a blue one I much prefer, but I’m still stuck with her god-awful white walls. ‘The Nest’ is my little place out of London, where I can stop being Sylvia Fordyce the famous concert pianist and entertainer, and just be Sylvia the country hostess and entertain a select group of close friends in cosy comfort. An all white colour scheme does not suggest cosy comfort in any way, shape or form. I’m sure you agree, Lettice.”

“So what was it you were hoping you’d engage me to do, Sylvia?”

“Well, I read in a previous article by Henry Tipping that you painted a table for Mrs. Richard Channon of Penzance.”

“Margot!” Lettice gasps. “She’s my best girlfriend, and I hope my maid-of-honour when I marry John. Yes, she had a rather pretty demilune table******************* which she was happy to discard, but I decided to paint it and repurpose it in my design. Did you want me to paint some of your furnishings?”

“Goodness me no, Lettice!” Sylvia puffs out another cloud of smoke after dragging on her cigarette again. “No! I want something far grander than that! What I want is a feature wall in my drawing room at ‘The Nest’, my dear.”

“You want me to recommend some paper hangings?”

“I want you to paint it, Lettice!” Sylvia exclaims. “I want something blue and bold to be a foil for Syrie Maugham’s shades of white, that will also compliment my blue and white porcelain collection. Nettie tells me you’re quite an accomplished paintress.”

“Oh, that’s very flattering and kind of him to say so.” Lettice blushes at the compliment, awkwardly taking another sip of champagne.

“He’s nothing of the sort if your table is anything to go by, Lettice. You’re obviously a talented artist, like your Aunt Eglantyne.” Sylvia’s eye flash with excitement. “I want you to paint my feature wall in the drawing room of ‘The Nest’. Say you’ll do it, Lettice!” she implores. “Say you will.”

“Well, I’ll have to…”

“I have a series of concerts to give, here at the Hall this week, and then I’m free for a couple of weeks before I go on tour around the country. Come down to ‘The Nest’ at Belchamp St Paul, and stop the night. Come alone. Then you can see it for yourself, and maybe get some ideas as to what you could do.”

Lettice looks at the older woman sitting across from her. In spite of the thick layer of white makeup she wears, Lettice can sense that her cheeks are flushed with excitement beneath it. Her eyes sparkle with hope, and her thin painted lips are pressed into a tentative smile.

“Please consider it.” Sylvia says expectantly. “Or, at the very least accept my invitation as a form of hospitality from one of Nettie’s oldest and dearest friends to you, as his fiancée, Lettice. It sounds as if you may be a little short on well wishers, and I for one am happy to wish you both well.”

A grateful smile breaks across Lettice’s lips. “Thank you, Sylvia. I accept.”

“Splendid!” Sylvia sighs with relief.

*In the 1920s, being listed in “the book” meant being listed in the telephone directory

**Guy's Hospital is an NHS hospital founded by philanthropist Thomas Guy in 1721, located in the borough of Southwark in central London. It is part of Guy's and St Thomas' NHS Foundation Trust and one of the institutions that comprise the King's Health Partners, an academic health science centre.

***Distemper is a kind of paint using glue or size instead of an oil base, for use on walls, ceilings or for scene-painting.

****Originally meaning strange or peculiar, the word “queer” came to be used pejoratively against LGBT people in the late Nineteenth Century.

*****A stage-door johnny is a term used to describe a man who frequents a theatre for the purpose of courting an actress or chorus girl.

******A gypsy girdle became a popular feature of women’s dresses from the mid 1920s, consisting of a wide sash fastened over the hips. It was gathered vertically at the centre front where it was often accented by a fashionable rhinestone, or real jewel, brooch or a mirror image clasp.

*******A bandeau is a narrow band, usually made or ribbon or fabric worn round the head to hold the hair in position.

********An aigrette is a headdress consisting of a white egret's feathers (often dyed) or other decoration such as a spray of gems.

*********Recreating the magnificence of Tudor England, the auditorium of the Royal Albert Hall was decked out with stone columns, draping vines, sloping green lawns, groves of cypress trees, and a blue fabric sky stretched below the Hall’s dome on the 20th of June 1911. Guests included the Prime Minister Herbert Asquith, Home Secretary Winston Churchill, and, due to the event taking place two days before the Coronation of King George V, many members of European royalty. The event was possibly the most spectacular event to ever take place at the Hall and was a roaring success, raising £10,000.00 for the Shakespeare Memorial Fund.

**********A sapphist is an old fashioned term for a lesbian. The term is derived from the name of the poet Sappho who lived on the Greek island of Lesbos (circa 600 BC). She was a lesbian by geography and sexual orientation.

***********Craven A (stylized as Craven "A") is a British brand of cigarettes, currently manufactured by British American Tobacco. Originally founded and produced by the Carreras Tobacco Company in 1921 until merging with Rothmans International in 1972, who then produced the brand until Rothmans was acquired by British American Tobacco in 1999. The cigarette brand is named after the third Earl of Craven, after the "Craven Mixture", a tobacco blend formulated for the 3rd Earl in the 1860s by tobacconist Don José Joaquin Carreras.

************The Universität der Künste, Berlin (Berlin College of Music) ranks as one of the largest educational music institutes in Europe, rich in content and quality. It dates back to the Royal (later State) Academy of Music, founded under the aegis of the violinist Joseph Joachim, a friend of Brahms, in 1869. From the date of its foundation under directors Joseph Joachim, Hermann Kretzschmar, Franz Schreker and Georg Schünemann, it has been one of the leading academies of music in the German-speaking countries. Composers such as Max Bruch, Engelbert Humperdinck and Paul Hindemith, performers such as Artur Schnabel, Wanda Landowska, Carl Flesch and Emanuel Feuermann, and academics such as Philipp Spitta, Curt Sachs, Erich Moritz von Hornbostel and Kurt Singer taught there. Prominent teachers later included the two directors Boris Blacher and Helmut Roloff, and the composer Dieter Schnebel.

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

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

***************The Third Battle of Ypres, also known as the Battle of Passchendaele, was a campaign of the First World War, fought by the Allies against the German Empire. The battle took place on the Western Front, from July to November 1917, for control of the ridges south and east of the Belgian city of Ypres in West Flanders, as part of a strategy decided by the Allies at conferences in November 1916 and May 1917.

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

*****************Sydney Ernest Castle was born in Battersea in July 1883. He trained with H. W. Edwards, a surveyor and worked as chief assistant to Arthur Jessop Hardwick (1867 - 1948) before establishing his own practice in London in 1908. From 1908 to 1918 he was in partnership with Gerald Warren (1881-1936) as Castle & Warren. He worked on St. George's Hill Estate in Weybridge, Surrey with Walter George Tarrant (1875-1942). Castle was elected a Fellow of the Royal Institute of British Architects (FRIBA) in 1925. He designed many buildings, including the Christian Association building in Clapham, a school in Balham and a private hotel in the Old Brompton Road, as well as many private residences throughout Britain. His firm’s address in 1926, when this story is set was 40, Albemarle Street, Piccadilly. He died in Wandsworth in March 1955.

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

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

This theatrical dressing 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:

The flounced dressing table adorned with lace and ribbon and its matching chair come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop in the United Kingdom, as does the small black cane table on which the bucket of champagne and champagne glass stand, the floral chaise in the foreground and the oriental screen in the background. The mirror is actually a small pink plastic framed doll’s looking glass. The handle broke off long ago, but I kept it anyway, and I painted it in black and gilded it to give it a Regency look.

The two glasses of sparkling champagne are made of real glass and were made by Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The silver champagne bucket is made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The bottle of Deutz and Geldermann champagne. It is an artisan miniatures and made of glass and has real foil wrapped around its neck. It was made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The box of hand made chocolates and Bassett’s liquorice all sorts were also made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures with close attention paid to their packaging to make them as authentic as possible.

The array of flowers come from several different sources including: Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering, the Doll House Emporium in America and Falcon Miniatures in America who specialise in high end miniatures, as well as some made of polymer clay that are moulded on wires to allow them to be shaped at will and put into individually formed floral arrangements which come from a 1:12 miniature specialist in Germany. The glass vases you see come from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures, whilst the porcelain one comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop.

The cards buried amidst the flowers or sitting on the dressing table and the letters in their envelopes are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Ken was known for the books he made, which 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. As well as making books, Ken also made other small items out of paper, including this selection of cards. What might amaze you is that all Ken Blythe’s books and cards are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real life-sized versions. 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 black ashtray is also an artisan piece, the bae of which is filled with “ash”. The tray as well as having grey ash in it, also has a 1:12 cigarette which rests on its lip (it is affixed there).

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

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.

My Gift to the Bride-To-Be by raaen99

© raaen99, all rights reserved.

My Gift to the Bride-To-Be

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 not long returned from Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie and his wife Arabella. Lettice visited her family home for Christmas and the New Year until not long after Twelfth Night*. For nearly a year Lettice had been patiently awaiting the return of her then beau, Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, after being sent to Durban by his mother, Lady Zinnia in an effort to destroy their relationship which she wanted to end so that she could marry Selwyn off to his cousin, Pamela Fox-Chavers. Having been made aware by Lady Zinnia in October that during the course of the year, whilst Lettice had been biding her time, waiting for Selwyn’s eventual return, he had become engaged to the daughter of a Kenyan diamond mine owner whilst in Durban. Fleeing Lady Zinnia’s Park Lane mansion, Lettice returned to Cavendish Mews and milled over her options over a week as she reeled from the news. Then, after that week, she knew exactly what to do to resolve the unpleasant issues raised by Lady Zinnia’s unwelcome news about her son. Taking extra care in her dress, she took herself off to the neighbouring upper-class London suburb of Belgravia and paid a call upon Sir John Nettleford-Hughes.

Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John is still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intends to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. As an eligible man in a aftermath of the Great War when such men are a rare commodity, with a vast family estate in Bedfordshire, houses in Mayfair, Belgravia and Pimlico and Fontengil Park in Wiltshire, quite close to the Glynes estate belonging to her parents, Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, invited him as a potential suitor to her 1922 Hunt Ball, which she used as a marriage market for Lettice. Selwyn rescued Lettice from the horror of having to entertain him, and Sir John left the ball early in a disgruntled mood with a much younger partygoer. Lettice recently reacquainted herself with Sir John at an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Gladys Caxton at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, a baronial Art and Crafts castle near the hamlet of Kershopefoot in Cumberland. To her surprise, Lettice found Sir John’s company rather enjoyable. She then ran into him again at the Portland Gallery’s autumn show in Soho, where she found him yet again to be a pleasant and attentive companion for much of the evening. Sir John also made a proposition to her that night: he offered her his hand in marriage should she ever need it. More like a business arrangement than a marriage proposal, Sir John offered Lettice the opportunity to enjoy the benefits of his large fortune, be chatelain of all his estates and continue to have her interior design business, under the conditions that she agree to provide him with an heir, and that he be allowed to discreetly carry on his affairs in spite of their marriage vows. He even suggested that Lettice might be afforded the opportunity to have her own extra marital liaisons if she were discreet about them. Turning up unannounced on his doorstep, she agreed to his proposal after explaining that the understanding between she and Selwyn was concluded. However, in an effort to be discreet, at Lettice’s insistence, they did not make their engagement public until the new year: after the dust about Selwyn’s break of his and Lettice’s engagement settled. Sir John motored across from Fontengil Park in the days following New Year and he and Lettice announced their engagement in the palatial Glynes drawing room before the Viscount and Lady Sadie the Countess, Leslie, Arabella and the Viscount’s sister Eglantyne (known by all the Chetwynd children affectionally as Aunt Egg). The announcement was received somewhat awkwardly by the Viscount initially, until Lettice assured him that her choice to marry Sir John has nothing to do with undue influence or mistaken motivations. However, the person most put out by the news is Aunt Egg who is not a great believer in the institution of marriage, and feels Lettice was perfectly fine as a modern unmarried woman.

Today Lettice is entertaining her Aunt Egg in her elegantly appointed Cavendish Mews drawing room in an effort to curry favour with her and change her mind about the engagement of Lettice and Sir John.

“Oh Aunt Egg!” Lettice exclaims in exasperation, sinking in the rounded back of her white upholstered tub chair. “After the somewhat mediocre response to my engagement to John, I need someone in my corner.”

“And why would that be me, my dear Lettice?” Eglantyne asks.

“Well, I… I just thought.” Lettice stammers.

“You thought what, Lettice?”

“Well, usually you are at odds with Mater. If Mater says it is white, you say it is black. I thought, well I thought that since Mamma seems to be as lukewarm to the idea of me becoming the next Lady Nettleford-Hughes..”

“That I would immediately be for it, my dear?” Eglantyne finishes Lettice’s statement for her as she picks up her teacup and sips some more tea from it beneath lowered lids, avoiding Lettice’s imploring gaze, before returning it to its saucer.

“Well… well yes.” Lettice admits guiltily.

Lettice’s Aunt Egg, as well as being unmarried, is an artist and ceramicist of some acclaim. Originally a member of the Pre-Raphaelites** in England, these days she flits through artistic and bohemian circles and when not at her Little Venice*** home in her spacious and light filled studio at the rear of her garden, can be found mixing with mostly younger artistic friends in Chelsea. Her unmarried status, outlandish choice of friends and rather reformist and unusual dress sense shocks Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, and attracts her derision. In addition, she draws Sadie’s ire, as Aunt Egg has always received far more affection and preferential treatment from her children. Viscount Wrexham on the other hand adores his artistic little sister, and has always made sure that she can live the lifestyle she chooses and create art. Today Eglantyne has eschewed her usual choice of an elegant and column like Delphos gown**** and has opted instead for a rather loose and slightly mannish two piece suit of dark navy wool crêpe. However, as a lover of colour and bohemian style, she has accessorised it with a hand painted Florentine silk scarf splashed with purples and magentas, and as usual, she has strings of colourful glass bugle bead sautoirs***** cascading down her front. When she was young, Eglantyne had Titian red hair that fell in wavy tresses about her pale face, making her a popular muse amongst the Pre-Raphaelites she mixed with. With the passing years, her red hair, when not hennaed, has retreated almost entirely behind silver grey, save for the occasional streak of washed out reddish orange. Today she has hidden it beneath a very impressive turban, which in spite of being dyed navy to match her suit, is at odds with it, especially with a rather exotic aigrette****** of magenta dyed feathers affixed with a diamante brooch sticking out of it.

“Yes, I was more than a little surprised at Sadie’s lack of enthusiasm for your marriage to John when you announced your engagement, especially when you consider how much she tried to foist you under his nose.” She snorts derisively. “As if he didn’t know of your existence as a young jeune fille à marier*******.” Eglantyne goes on. “However, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Lettice my dear, but today I am not the Thoroughbred to back. For once,” She sighs resignedly. “I am in complete agreement with your mamma.”

“What?” Lettice asks, looking across the low black japanned coffee table at her aunt. “Won’t you wish your favourite niece well in her marriage Aunt Egg?”

“Who says you are my favourite niece?” Eglantyne asks finally engaging Lettice’s gaze with her own emerald green eyes and cocking an eyebrow as she does.

“You do!” Lettice retorts in surprise. Then she adds with a little hurt in her voice, “Or rather, you used to.”

“But as you have opined, my dear, on many occasions - you are quite sure I call your sister Lally and all your female cousins, ‘my favourite niece’. You’ll never know, will you my dear,” the older woman continues with a cheeky smile. “I like to keep you all guessing who will inherit my jewels when I die.”

“Oh Aunt Egg!” Lettice scoffs. “You mustn’t talk like that.”

“We all of us are going to die one day, Lettice. Anyway,” Eglantyne smiles and reaches out to her niece, wrapping her knee in one of her gnarled and bejewelled hands in a comforting and intimate gesture. “To allay your fears, you are probably the most like me out of all of you girls, with your artistic tendencies, so why shouldn’t you be my favourite? I’ve always enjoyed indulging you.” She withdraws her loving touch and sinks back into her seat. “Mind you, you might be more of a favourite to me if you let me smoke in here.” She taps her gold cigarette case containing her favourite Black Russian Sobranies******** sitting on the green and gold embroidered stool next to her.

“In case you’ve forgotten, Aunt Egg, my drawing room is also my showroom for my interior design business. It’s bad enough that Mrs. Boothby smokes in the kitchen when she comes.”

“So, this Mrs. Boothby of yours can smoke, but I can’t?” Eglantyne asks with effrontery.

“Mrs. Boothby is my char*********, Aunt Egg. You are my aunt. Good chars like Mrs. Boothby are hard to find, what with the servant problem**********.”

“And aunts are easily replaceable?” Eglantyne laughs.

“No, but you know what I mean, Aunt Egg!” Lettice laughs. “I’d hate for my drawing room to wreak of cigarette smoke.”

“You may not like to hear this my dear, but whilst you might be my favourite because you are most like me in temperament and artistic abilities,” Eglantyne smiles and picks up her teacup again. “In some ways, you are just like your mother.”

“Well, if I am your favourite niece, why won’t you give my engagement your blessing, Aunt Egg?” Lettice asks imploringly again.

“You know me well enough, my dear Lettice, to know that I have no faith in the institution of marriage.” Eglantyne replies matter-of-factly. “Why on earth should I wish to celebrate with congratulations and champagne, or tea for that matter.” She foists her cup upwards as she speaks. “The contract that sells my independent and intelligent niece with a head for business that many men could well do with, like a chattel to her husband?” She shakes her head. “We shan’t fall out over this, and please know that I love you dearly, but for once, I don’t understand you Lettice. You have a perfectly good and full life.” She gesticulates broadly around her with dramatic and sweeping gestures. “Why would you want to spoil it with an engagement?”

“Well I…” Lettice begins, but is interrupted by Edith, her maid as she enters the drawing room, ringing her hands anxiously. Lettice looks across at her. “Yes, what is it, Edith? I don’t think the pot needs replenishing yet, thank you.”

“Beg pardon, Miss, but I haven’t come to replenish the pot.” Edith explains. “There’s a man at the tradesman’s entrance with a parcel which he says is for you.”

“A parcel, Edith?”

“Yes Miss. A very large parcel too, all wrapped up in brown paper.”

Lettice looks first at her aunt who returns it with a quizzical gaze, and then glances down at the floral patterns in the Chinese silk carpet at her feet, her face crumpling as she does so. “I’m not expecting any parcels.”

“That’s what I thought, Miss.” Edith agrees with a curt nod. “I don’t know if I ought to let him in.”

“Well, why ever not, Edith?”

“Well, he looks a little rough, if you don’t mind me saying, Miss. He’s a delivery man you see, Miss.”

“Delivery men often look rough, Edith.” Lettice opines.

“What does he want, Edith?” Eglantyne asks.

“That’s just the thing, Miss Chetwynd.” Edith replies, addressing the older woman. “He says Miss Lettice is expecting his parcel.”

“But I’m not.”

“Yes Miss. Err… I mean, no Miss.” Edith stammers.

“Where is he from?” Lettice asks.

“The Portland Gallery in Soho, Miss.”

“The Portland Gallery? Oh!” gasps Lettice, placing her teacup aside and straightening her skirt so it sits neatly just over her knee. “Show him in!”

“Very good Miss.” Edith answers in a slightly worried tone, lowering her head and retreating.

“Mr. Chilvers must be sending me something very special on approval if I don’t know anything about it!” Lettice exclaims, bouncing a little in her seat as she trembles with excitement.

“Indeed.” her aunt agrees with a smile and a nod.

Just then, the bell at the front door rings. When no-one answers it, it jarringly sounds again.

“Edith!” Lettice calls from her seat. “Edith there is someone at the door!”

“Edith’s dealing with the tradesman from the Portland Gallery.” Eglantyne points out helpfully.

“Oh yes!” Lettice exclaims. She rises from her seat as the doorbell rings a third time. “Then I suppose I must go and answer it. Would you excuse me, Aunt Egg?”

As Lettice enters the entrance hall with its black japanned console table, Edith comes in through the doorway that leads from the service area of the house.

“Beg pardon, Miss. I’m just trying to deal with the man from the Portland Gallery. The parcel’s ever so large and he needs someone to hold the doors open for him, Miss.”

“It’s alright, Edith.” Lettice assures her with a wave and a nod of her head. “I’ll answer the front door.”

“Thank you, Miss.” Edith replies gratefully, retreating quickly back into the corridor behind the door.

When Lettice answers the door, she finds to both her surprise and delight, Sir John on her threshold, dressed in a splendid three-quarter length grey winter overcoat with a glossy beaver fur collar, it’s smart cut and perfect fit indicating at a glance that it has come from one of the finest Jermyn Street*********** tailors. He holds his silver topped walking cane in his grey glove clad hand and smiles warmly at Lettice, his eyes sparkling at the sight of her.

“Well, this is a surprise, John!” Lettice exclaims in pleasure.

“No more than it is a surprise to find you answering your own front door, Lettice my dear.” Sir John says with a mirthful lilt to his voice, a cheekiness turning up the corners of his smile. “What a thoroughly modern woman you are to dispense with the usual protocols.”

“Well,” Lettice replies with an awkward and embarrassed laugh. “Usually I wouldn’t, but… well Edith is occupied with a tradesman bringing me an apparently large package from the Portland Gallery.”

“That sounds rather thrilling, my darling!” Sir John replies with arched eyebrows. Elegantly, he leans in and kisses Lettice’s right cheek before stepping back slightly and withdrawing a bunch of beautiful red roses with a theatrical flourish and a smile from behind his back. “For you!”

“Oh John!” Lettice exclaims, accepting the proffered red blooms, their velvety petals slightly open and releasing a waft of sweet fragrance. “They’re beautiful.” She spends a moment admiring them and appreciating their scent before she suddenly realises that Sir John is still standing on her front doormat. “Oh, where are my manners!” she gasps. “Please, do come inside.” She steps aside and allows Sir John to enter. “Aunt Egg is visiting too. We’re just in the drawing room.”

“Oh splendid.” Sir John opines. “lead the way.”

The pair walk back into the drawing room where Aunt Egg remains seated. Lettice scurries ahead and deposits the roses on the stool next to the seat her aunt occupies before she pulls a back japanned Chippendale chair across the carpet and draws it up to the coffee table between Lettice’s two armchairs.

“Look who it is, Aunt Egg!” Lettice says brightly.

“John!” Eglantyne replies. “What a surprise. How do you do.”

“How do you do, Eglantyne.” he replies. “I just happened to be passing, and I thought I’d stop, in the hopes of catching Lettice.”

“And with a bunch of roses!” Eglantyne remarks, reaching out at touching the rich blooms. “You are sure of yourself.”

Lettice turns to her fiancée as he places his derby on a small round chinoiserie tabletop and starts to unbutton his coat whilst still clutching his gloves and his cane in his left hand. “Here, let me take those.” she says apologetically, reaching out. Laughing awkwardly as she accepts his coat she adds, “As you can see, I’d never make a good maid.”

“It’s just as well that I don’t want to marry one then, isn’t it, Lettice my darling.” Sir John replies with a chuckle.

She smiles. “Aunt Egg and I were just having tea. I’ll have Edith fetch a third cup when she arrives.”

Moments later an unnerved Edith shows a rather burley fellow in overalls and a workman’s cap clutching a tall and wide parcel wrapped in brown paper into the drawing room where he stands awkwardly before the assembled company, somewhat dumbstruck by the elegant surroundings and well dressed inhabitants of Lettice’s drawing room as he glances around.

“You must be Mr. Chilver’s man.” Lettice says, breaking the awkward silence.

“Yes mum! Said ‘e ‘ad a package for you, mum. Special delivery.”

“Yes! Yes! Well, I wasn’t exactly expecting it, but if you would be good enough to lean it down here,” she indicates with a sweeping gesture to the Hepplewhite desk next to the fireplace. “Thank you.”

“Yes mum.” the delivery man says gratefully, gently lowering the parcel with a groan and leaning it against the edge of the desk.

“Excellent.” Lettice replies. “Oh Edith,”

“Yes Miss?”

“Could you take Sir John’s coat, hat and gloves, please.” Lettice proffers the clothing items to her maid. “And fetch another cup, please.”

“Yes Miss.” Edith replies, accepting the items and bobbing a quick curtsey before turning to go.

“Oh and Edith,” Lettice goes on.

“Yes Miss?” Edith answers, turning back.

“Please take a couple of sixpences out of the housekeeping money tin to tip our man here.” Lettice smiles gratefully at her maid. “I’ll replenish it later.”

“Yes Miss,” Edith replies bemused. “Very good, Miss.”

“Much obliged, mum.” the burly man replies, snatching his cap from his head and twisting it anxiously between his hands, before turning at Edith’s insistence and following her as she guides him back through the green baize door between the dining room and the service area of the flat.

“Were your ears burning, John?” Eglantyne asks.

“No!” he chuckles in reply. “Should they have been?”

“Lettice and I were just discussing your engagement.” Eglantyne elucidates.

“Were you?” Sir John arches his elegantly shaped eyebrows as he gazes knowingly and undeterred at Eglantyne. “Ahh well, thinking of that,” he goes on, a confident smile gracing his thin lips. “I know you wouldn’t have been expecting this parcel, Lettice my dear.” His smile broadens with pleasure, not least of all for having an audience in Eglantyne. “But it comes from me. I arranged to have it sent over. Mr. Chilvers has been kindly holding onto it for me.” He steps over to the parcel and hoists it up with a groan, leaning it against himself as the edge rests on the black japanned surface of the coffee table. “Now that it is official, and our engagement will be appearing in The Times, and the Wiltshire Times and Trowbridge Advertiser************, this is my gift to my bride-to-be!”

“Oh John!” Lettice exclaims.

“What is it?” Eglantyne asks, leaning forward, her beads trailing down her front rattling noisily together as she does.

“Well, why don’t you open it and find out, Lettice?” Sir John says, gazing at his future bride expectantly and extending his left hand encouragingly towards her as he speaks.

Lettice needs no second bidding. With trembling hands, she steps forward and gingerly tears at a loose piece of paper which rips noisily as she pulls it asunder. The corner of a simple wooden frame appears first, and then as she continues to tear at the paper, growing more excited with each rip, Lettice can soon see the bold colours and energetic strokes of thickly layered paint on canvas.

“Picasso’s ‘The Lovers’!” Eglantyne gasps in amazement.

“You bought it!” Lettice exclaims, raising her hand to her painted lips, upon which a broad smile appears. “For me?”

Angular lines pick out the faces and torsos of two figures on the canvas. Eyes, noses, hands, two thin lines making up a mouth. Fragmented, distorted and distracted the image radiates intimacy as much as it does boldness: a hand resting on a shoulder, the pair of figures’ heads drawn closely together, both with eyes downcast.

“Well, I could hardly declare that I would allow you to hang these daubs of modern art you so dearly, if in my opinion misguidedly, love, unless I gave you at least one to hang.” Sir John says proudly.

“Oh John! I don’t know what to say!” Lettice places a chaste kiss on his proffered left cheek.

“A thank you is customary.” Sir John answers with a chuckle.

“Thank you! You are a darling, John!” Lettice gushes, kissing him chastely on the lips this time, and embracing her fiancée. “Oh! I love it!”

Sir John chuckles. “I’m glad, Lettice darling.”

“But where will you hang it for now, Lettice?” Eglantyne asks. “Until you can hang it on one of John’s walls?” she adds, referring to Sir John’s previous comment.

“Well, I thought Lettice could hang it in here, above the fireplace.” Sir John answers for Lettice, indicating to the space above the mantle currently occupied by a colourful still life of pottery and fruit.

“Oh no!” Lettice exclaims, shaking her head. “It’s far too intimate a painting to hang in here.” The tips of her fingers run across her lips playfully and her eyes sparkle as Lettice drunks in the fine details of the colours and the textures of the brushstrokes. “I shall hang it in my boudoir, and that way I can look at it every morning until we are married, John darling!”

Lettice immediately turns on her heel and hurries out of the drawing room and into the entrance hall of the flat, calling for Edith to help her move a painting in her bedroom.

“Well,” Eglantyne remarks as she sinks back languidly into her seat again, staring up at the painting in Sir Johns hands. “You are full of surprises, my dear John.”

Sir John lifts the painting off the surface of the coffee table and shakes it, freeing it of the last of its brown paper protective wrapping.

“I never would have imagined you buying a Picasso.” Eglantyne goes on, admiring the boldness of the artwork as Sir John lowers it back to the ground and carefully leans it against the edge of the desk again.

“Well,” he remarks as he bends down and gathers up the paper, scrunching it noisily together in a big ball. “It’s not for me, but for Lettice.” He pauses with the large ball of paper in his hands and looks at Lettice’s aunt earnestly. “I really do care for her, you know.” he states with determination.

“Oh I don’t doubt it, John, but as I was saying to Lettice before your unexpected arrival, I cannot with all good conscience condone your engagement.”

“Why not, Eglantyne?”

“You know perfectly well, John, that I am a free spirit. I don’t believe in, nor have any faith in, the institution of marriage that society seems so desparate to conform us all to.” Eglantyne replies matter-of-factly. “As I remarked to Lettice just a short while ago, why on earth should I wish to celebrate the contract that sells my beautiful, intelligent and independent niece like a chattel?” She picks up her nearly empty teacup of now tepid tea. “Lettice had a perfectly good and full life before she became engaged to you.”

“Now don’t be bitter, Eglantyne dear.” Sir John chides.

“I’m not. I’m simply stating the fact that Lettice was perfectly fine on her own: a single and independent modern woman, just as she has every right to be.”

“Has she no right to be a happily married woman, Eglantyne?”

“She won’t be happy with you, John. No girl with marriage prospects like Lettice will. And, before you say it,” She wags a heavily bejewelled gnarled finger at Sir John. “I didn’t encourage her involvement with Selwyn Spencely either, unlike her mother who is so besotted with pedigree and titles, so I’m not playing favourites. Lettice was perfectly fine without any man in her life. In fact, she was just embarking on what promised to be a most successful career as an interior designer, but now pfftt!” Sir John can see her lips pursed tightly together in disapproval. Her eyes glow with frustration. “It’s gone! Just like that!”

“Says whom?” Sir John asks defensively.

“Your marriage contract.” Eglantyne replies with squinting eyes boring into him.

“No, it doesn’t, Eglantyne, or rather it won’t, which shows you just how little you know, and what little faith you place in me as a suitable suitor for your precious favourite niece!” When her eyes grow wide in surprise at his sudden harsh outburst at her, Sir John continues, “I’ll have you know that I have made an agreement with Lettice that when she marries me, she may continue her interior design business. Heaven save me from a bored and idle wife with nothing to do all day.” He rolls his eyes.

“Except interfere in your own affairs.”

“Exactly Eglantyne!” Sie John agrees. “I’m a businessman. She’s a businesswoman, and a successful one, as you’ve pointed out. Why should I stop her from reaching the heights she aspires to and her full potential?”

“Then you’re a better man than I took you for, John.” Eglantyne acquiesces.

“You did say I was full of surprises.”

“I did.”

“But?” Sir John says, picking up the unspoken word from Eglantyne’s lips. He shakes his head. “Do you really despise me so?”

Eglantyne lifts her eyes to the ornate plaster ceiling above as she shakes her own head as she raises her hand to her rumpled brow. She sighs heavily. “I don’t despise you, John.”

“Then what, Eglantyne?”

“Come.” She pats the Art Deco patterned cushioned seat of the Chippendale chair next to her. As he walks around the coffee table and lowers himself onto it, she continues, “You mustn’t spread this rumour around, John, but I actually quite like you as a person. I think you and I are rather alike in some ways, which is probably why I do like you. We’re both forthright, even when society suggests we ought not to be, and you’ve never conformed to the societal rule that you should get married.”

“Then…”

“Until now.”

“Well, maybe I just hadn’t met the right girl, up until now.” Sir John defends, smiling smugly with a cocked eyebrow, staring at Eglantyne with defiance.

“Oh come!” Eglantyne scoffs. “You’ve never involved yourself with the right girls to get married to in the first place, John. You’ve always had a penchant for chorus girls - young chorus girls. Everyone knows that.” She glances up and looks towards the open doorway of the drawing room. In the flat beyond it she can hear Lettice instruct Edith to help her remove a painting off her boudoir wall. “Well, almost everyone.”

“Is that all?” Sir John laughs.

“What do you mean is that all?” Eglantyne exclaims in effrontery. “I may not have the belief in the sanctity of marriage, but that isn’t to say my niece doesn’t! This is not an inconsequential step for her. I question your motives.” She eyes him now that they are at the same level. “Just what are you up to, John?”

“Me?” He feigns innocence as he holds his hands up in defence. “I’m not up to anything, as you so bluntly put it, Eglantyne. Perhaps your somewhat suspicious mind will be put at ease when I tell you that your intelligent young niece has walked into this marriage proposal with completely open eyes.”

“I doubt that!” Eglantyne scoffs again.

“Oh but that is where you are wrong, Eglantyne. She knows about my… err… dalliances, shall we say, just as you do.”

“So, she knows about Paula Young then?” Eglantyne asks, referring to the young up-and-coming West End actress who is the latest in Sir John’s list of conquests.

“Not by name as such, no.” Sir John admits. “I felt it was a little…” He pauses as he tries to think of the correct phrasing. “Indelicate at this sensitive stage in our engagement to introduce her by name. However, she does know, Eglantyne, and she also knows that I won’t shame her publicly – which I give you my assurance I won’t. I’ll never give her a reason to reproach me, and in return for her allowing me my little dalliances with the likes of Paula and those who follow her into my bed thereafter, and keeping them in her confidence, she gets to maintain her business unimpeded by me, be the chatelaine of all my properties, and live a life of luxury. In return, I get an intelligent and pretty wife to appear alongside me at social functions, and maybe some of that idle society gossip can finally be put to bed.”

“Really, John?” Eglantyne exclaims in disbelief. “It’s hardly a marriage I’d condone my niece to enter. A marriage of convenience that suits you.”

“I promise I’ll make her happy, Eglantyne.” Sir John assures her.

“With pretty paintings paid for with deep pockets?” Eglantyne gesticulates towards the Picasso.

“We’re both getting exactly what we want out of the bargain.”

“Really, John?” Eglantyne asks again with incredulity. “I don’t possibly see how being permitted to continue her business affairs is enough in a marriage to make Lettice happy.”

“If I’m being perfectly honest, which I know I can be with you, dear Eglantyne,” Sir John goes on. “As part of our arrangement, so long as she gives me an heir, and there is no question as to his paternity, I am also giving Lettice the opportunity to engage in arrangements of her own outside the marriage bed, should she choose to indulge.”

Eglantyne shudders. “I still cannot condone such a marriage, even with that clause. A marriage of two people loving anyone other than one another is recipe for tears and divorce. There is no happiness that I can see for poor Lettice.” She sighs. “Nor for you in the long run, you sad, misguided soul. However, she has made up her mind,” She pauses. “For now ,anyway, whilst she is besotted with the idea. Let’s see how long that lasts for once the realties of this arrangement of yours start to solidify in Lettice’s mind. Will you let her go if she comes to her senses before she walks up the aisle?”

“Of course, Eglantyne. Lettice isn’t the only one who has her eyes open. I know I’m much older than her, and that perhaps my dalliances may be too much for a sensitive soul like Lettice, but I aim to keep them as discreetly far away from her sphere as possible.”

“Can a leopard change his spots, thus?” Eglantyne leans forward. “Don’t forget that I have known you for a long time, John. Discretion has never been your strongest suit.”

“Well, Eglantyne,” Sir John stares back at her. “We shall just have to wait and see.”

“Indeed we will see.” Eglantyne nods knowingly.

*Twelfth Night (also known as Epiphany Eve depending upon the tradition) is a Christian festival on the last night of the Twelve Days of Christmas, marking the coming of the Epiphany. Different traditions mark the date of Twelfth Night as either the fifth of January or the sixth of January, depending on whether the counting begins on Christmas Day or the twenty-sixth of December. January the sixth is celebrated as the feast of Epiphany, which begins the Epiphanytide season.

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

***Little Venice is an affluent residential district in West London, England, around the junction of the Paddington Arm of the Grand Union Canal, the Regent's Canal, and the entrance to Paddington Basin. The junction, also known as Little Venice and Browning's Pool, forms a triangular shape basin designed to allow long canal boats to turn around. Many of the buildings in the vicinity are Regency white painted stucco terraced town houses and taller blocks (mansions) in the same style.

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

*****A sautoir is a French term for a long necklace that suspends a tassel or other ornament.

******An aigrette is a headdress consisting of a white egret's feather or other decoration such as a spray of gems.

*******A jeune fille à marier was a marriageable young woman, the French term used in fashionable circles and the upper-classes of Edwardian society before the Second World War.

********The Balkan Sobranie tobacco business was established in London in 1879 by Albert Weinberg (born in Romania in 1849), whose naturalisation papers dated 1886 confirm his nationality and show that he had emigrated to England in the 1870s at a time when hand-made cigarettes in the eastern European and Russian tradition were becoming fashionable in Europe. Sobranie is one of the oldest cigarette brands in the world. Throughout its existence, Sobranie was marketed as the definition of luxury in the tobacco industry, being adopted as the official provider of many European royal houses and elites around the world including the Imperial Court of Russia and the royal courts of United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Spain, Romania, and Greece. Premium brands include the multi-coloured Sobranie Cocktail and the black and gold Sobranie Black Russian.

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

**********With new employment opportunities opening for working-class women in factories and department stores between the two World Wars, many young people, mostly female, left the long hours, hard graft and low wages of domestic service opting for the higher wages and better treatment these new employment opportunities provided.

***********Jermyn Street is a one-way street in the St James's area of the City of Westminster in London. It is to the south of, parallel, and adjacent to Piccadilly. Jermyn Street is known as a street for high end gentlemen's clothing retailers and bespoke tailors in the West End.

************The Wiltshire Times and Trowbridge Advertiser is weekly newspaper which serves the towns of west Wiltshire, including Trowbridge. Printed in Trowbridge it was established in 1854 by Benjamin Lansdown, as The Trowbridge and Wiltshire Advertiser. Benjamin was born in Trowbridge and was the son of a woollen mill employee but this was not the path he wished to follow and he was apprenticed as a printer alongside Mr John Sweet. He bought a hard press and second-hand typewriter before starting his own newspaper, along with establishing his own stationery shop in Silver Street around 1860. He moved the business into 15 Duke Street around 1876. Duke Street became home to the impressive R. Hoe & Co printing press that allowed printers to use continuous rolls of paper, instead of individual sheets, to speed up the process and countless copies of the newspaper rolled off the press at Duke Street for many years. The newspaper was based there for more than one hundred years and the business remained within the Lansdown family for generations until it was finally sold in the early 1960s. Over the years in had various names including The Trowbridge and North Wiltshire Advertiser from 1860 until 1880, The Wiltshire Times and Trowbridge Advertiser from 1880 until 1949, The Wiltshire Times between 1950 and 1962 and The Wiltshire Times & News between 1962 and 1963. It then became known as the Wiltshire Times – the banner it holds today. In 2019, the Wiltshire Times and its sister paper the Gazette & Herald moved to offices on the White Horse Business Park in North Bradley, stating that its Duke Street building was no longer fit for purpose. These offices later closed in 2020 as the three Covid-19 pandemic lockdowns struck. The Wiltshire times is still serving the local community both in a paper and an online format with a small team of journalists who passionately believe in the value of good trusted journalism and providing in-depth local news coverage.

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 “Lovers” painting by Picasso is a 1:12 miniature painted by hand in the style of Picasso by miniature artist Mandy Dawkins of Miniature Dreams in Thrapston. The frame was handmade by her husband John Dawkins.

Lettice’s tea set is a beautiful artisan set featuring a rather avant-garde Art Deco Royal Doulton design from the Edwardian era called “Falling Leaves”. The glass comport is made of real glass and was blown by hand is an artisan miniature acquired from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The bunch of red roses to the far left of the image also comes from Beautifully handmade Miniatures.

The very realistic floral arrangements around the room are made by hand by the Doll House Emporium in America who specialise in high end miniatures.

The Vogue magazine that you see on Lettice’s coffee table 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, although this is amongst the exception. In some cases, you can even read the words of the titles, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

Sir John’s silver knobbed walking stick is also a 1:12 artisan miniature. The top is sterling silver. It was made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures.

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.

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.

The Scandalous Scavenger Hunt by raaen99

© raaen99, all rights reserved.

The Scandalous Scavenger Hunt

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.

Whilst her mistress is enjoying a Christmas and New Year visit with her parents at Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, Edith, Lettice’s maid is using her time before Lettice returns to give the flat a thorough dusting and clean along with the help of Mrs. Boothby, the charwoman* who comes to help Edith with all the harder jobs around the flat. Whilst Mrs. Boothby tackles the makeup stains in Lettice’s bathroom, Edith has borrowed a small ladder from Robert, the Cavendish Mews’ residential handyman, and is dusting the crystal chandelier in the dining room. She gaily hums ‘The Parade of the Wooden Soldiers’** which she had enjoyed listening to on New Year’s Eve after Frank brought a gramophone around to her parents’ house in Harlesden where they held a small party. The trade union friend Frank borrowed the gramophone from also supplied a whole range of wonderful shellac records which everyone at the party took turns selecting from to play. Thanks to his generosity, Edith and Frank had danced their way around her parent’s kitchen, foxtrotting into 1925. She smiles as she remembers the highlight of spending so much time with Frank that evening, even if her parents and friends were right there with them. She’s also glad that, thanks to Mrs. Boothby’s wise counsel, she has reconciled with the idea that if Frank is offered a job as a manager or assistant manager of a grocers in one of the new Metroland*** suburbs being bult in Buckinghamshire, Hertfordshire and Middlesex, as his wife, she will join him. As she runs a damp cloth over the pendeloques**** and festoons***** of crystal, she wonders, and quietly hopes that Frank will propose to her in 1925.

“’Ere Edith dearie,” Mrs. Boothby calls from the dining room floor below. “Whatchoo ‘ummin’ so cheerfully ‘bout?” She utters one of her deep fruity, phlegm filled coughs a she speaks. “Finkin’ ‘bout Frank was you?”

“Never you mind what I was thinking about, Mrs. Boothby!” Edith answers back, feeling the hotness of a blush rising up her neck and filling her face.

“Aye! Aye!” Mrs. Boothby points a gnarled and bony, careworn finger at Edith’s blushing figure up the ladder. “So, you was finkin’ of ‘im!”

Edith sighs. “I just wish I knew when he was going to propose, Mrs. Boothby.”

“Ahh! ‘E will, dearie, when ‘e’s good and ready! You’ll see!”

“I think I need one of those clairvoyants I see adverting discreetly in the newspapers.” Edith mutters. “They’ll give me the answers I seek.”

“Ahh me! Always in a rush ain’t you?”

“What do you mean, Mrs. Boothby?”

“Just sit back and enjoy the expectation, Edith dearie! That’s the best part of bein’ in love!” the old Cockney says with another fruity cough before sighing deeply. “What it is to be young an’ in love.”

“Oh, you do talk some rot sometimes, Mrs. Boothby!” Edith scoffs dismissively, her face growing redder. “I’ll have you know that I was simply humming to pass the time more pleasurably.” she continues, trying to cover up Mrs. Boothby’s correct assessment of her thoughts. “Cleaning chandeliers is no easy job, you know.”

“Try cleaning Miss Lettice’s barfroom!” the old Cockney char exclaims, arching her back, and rubbing the base of her spine, the opening of her lungs eliciting a few more heavy coughs. “Lawd knows what’s in that muck Miss Lettice wears on ‘er face, but it marks the porcelain good ‘n’ proppa. I only cleaned in there wiv Vim****** a bit before Christmas! Whatchee done, slappin’ that stuff on ‘er pretty face for, anyroad?”

“Miss Lettice had a few parties to attend before Christmas, Mrs. Boothby, especially those American Carters’ Thanksgiving Christmas ball in Park Lane*******.”

“Were it fancy dress then, this party of ‘ers?” Mrs. Boothby asks.

“No, just a formal ball, although by all accounts there was quite a to do. Why do you ask, Mrs. Boothby?”

“Well, I just fought, what wiv all them red an’ black marks on ‘er vanity, she must ‘ave slapped on a lot of makeup an’ gone in fancy dress.” Mrs. Boothby opines.

“Yes!” Edith giggles girlishly. “As a clown!”

The two women begin laughing, a little at first, then their peals growing more raucous until Mrs. Boothby starts coughing again. Doubling over as her whole wiry body is wracked with coughing, she struggles to catch her breath.

Edith scrambles down the ladder. “Let me get you some water.” she exclaims, rushing through the green baize door to the kitchen before Mrs. Boothby can try to say anything. She returns a few moments later with a tumbler of water. “Here!” She thrusts the glass into the old woman’s shaking hand. “Drink this.”

“Fank… you… Edith… dearie.” Mrs. Boothby manages to say in a horse whisper between coughs as she gratefully lifts the glass to her dry lips and gulps the water shakily, pausing every now and then to elicit another heavy cough.

“Come,” Edith says kindly. “Sit yourself down here.” She pulls out one of the black japanned dining chairs from the oblong table.

“But.. Miss Lettice…” the old woman gasps.

“Miss Lettice isn’t here to worry about you sitting on one of her precious dining chairs, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith assures her. “And besides,” She guides the old woman carefully down onto the white satin cushioned seat. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind, even if she did know.”

The old woman settles against the wooden slats of the chair’s back and slowly catches her breath.

“That’s it.” Edith says soothingly, crouched before the old woman, rubbing the top of Mrs. Boothby’s hand lightly with her fingers. “Take a few deep breaths.” When the old Cockney coughs heavily a few more times, Edith pushes the glass across the black polished surface of the table. “Drink some more water, Mrs. Boothby.”

“Fanks.” Mrs. Boothby huffs.

Once she has finished the glass, Edith returns to the kitchen to refill it, commanding Mrs. Boothby to remain seated in her absence. When she returns with the tumbler full of fresh water again, Mrs. Boothby asks, “So what ‘appened?”

“What do you mean, Mrs. Boothby? “ Edith asks, taking the seat at the top of the table, diagonally across from the old Cockney charwoman. “We were taking and then, you just started coughing.”

“Not me, ya berk********.” Mrs. Boothby says raspily. “Miss Lettice!”

“What do you mean, Miss Lettice?”

“You said there was much ado at that fancy American party Miss Lettice went to.” Mrs. Boothby elucidates. “What ‘appened?”

“Well,” Edith says with a shaky intake of breath. “It was all over the newspapers the next day.”

“What was, Edith dearie?”

“Well, the hostess, Mrs. Georgie Carter used to be not so well off before she married Mr. Carter. I remember once Miss Lettice asked me to box up a few bits and pieces from her wardrobe she’d barely worn, or decided she didn’t like, and when Mrs. Carter, when she was still Miss Kitson-Fahey that is, came around for luncheon, Miss Lettice told her that she was going to give the box to charity and would Miss Kitson-Fahey please get rid of it for her.”

“So?”

“So, of course the clothes were really meant for Miss Kitson-Fahey to wear. Miss Kitson-Fahey and Miss Lettice were around the same size you see, and her clothes, even her everyday ones, were a bit shabby and old fashioned, and the next time she came to luncheon she was wearing some of them, only with the buttons changed or a new trim on them to try and disguise where they came from originally.” Edith nods. “And Miss Lettice never said anything to her.”

“But what’s that got to do wiv the party, Edith Dearie?”

“Well, now that Miss Kitson-Fahey is Mrs. Georgie Carter, well, she’s richer than Croesus********* isn’t she? So, when she wants anything now, she just gets it. And she decided that all the Bright Young Things********** like Miss Lettice at the party, should go on a scavenger hunt.”

“A what?” Mrs. Boothby asks.

“A scavenger hunt, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies. “You know, where the host or hostess of a party makes up a list of items and then their guests have to go and find them. Bert and I used to play it at each other’s birthday parties when we were little, with our friends and the local children who we invited. Mum would make a list of things that would be easily found, like a currant bun, because we were having them for birthday tea, or some flowers that grew in the garden, a peg from the laundry basket, or a certain toy, and we’d break off into groups and try and bring back as many things on the list Mum gave us as we could.”

“Sounds daft to me.” Mrs. Boothby grumbles.

“Well, Mrs. Carter’s list must have been daft because people from the party were caught all over London in the early morning doing ridiculous things. Two men from the party, drunk as lords*********** according to the newspapers, were arrested trying to get across to Duck Island************ in St James Park to steal swan feathers. Another party guest was detained for being a public nuisance after she tried to scale the wall at Buckingham Palace in order to steal the wellies************* of the King’s head gardener, and Tallulah Bankhead************** the American actress appearing in the West End was cautioned after she was caught trying to steal a sheep from a poor distressed farmer in the wee hours as he drove his flock up New Bridge Street to the Smithfield Markets!”

“What?” Mrs. Boothby’s eyes grow wide. “Daft that is! What people want to do, goin’ ‘round getting’ into trouble wiv Bobbies*************** an’ bovverin’ good law-abidin’ folk like that for?”

“For a lark, Mrs. Boothby!” Edith exclaims. “They were all things on Mrs. Carter’s scavenger hunt list.”

“What? A live sheep?” Mrs. Boothby scoffs.

“And swan feathers and wellies from the King’s gardener.”

“I ‘ope Miss Lettice didn’t go in for none of that silliness.”

“Well, I can’t say she didn’t, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith admits with a downward gaze. “But at least she had the sense not to end up in the newspapers like Ms. Bankhead or the others did. She got in very late that evening, or should I say early in morning after the party, because I was already up and having my breakfast when she came stumbling in through the front door with her sister Mrs. Lanchenbury, wearing a bobby’s helmet!”

“No!” gasps Mrs. Boothby, causing her to cough again.

“Drink some more water, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith insists before going on. “Miss Lettice handed me the helmet from her head when I walked into the entrance hall, and told me to dispose of it as I saw fit, as she and Mrs. Lanchenbury had no further need of it. Then they both giggled and stumbled away into Miss Lettice’s bedroom, where I found them a few hours later, fast asleep, still fully dressed, lying across her bed!” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what other mischiefs they had been up to, but Miss Lettice’s grey crêpe romain**************** frock was covered in marks and stains, some of which I can’t get out.”

“Well, if she flings it out, you can salvage some bits off it, I’m sure, Edith dearie.” Mrs. Boothby says comfortingly.

“Oh, I intend to, if she does.” Edith agrees with a shallow but emphatic nod. “Which I think she will do.”

“You’ll make me and your mum proud, dearie!”

“Waste not, want not.”

“Exactly! And the bobby’s ‘at?” Mrs. Boothby croaks. “Whatchoo do wiv that then?”

“Well, I decided I couldn’t put it in our dustbins, in case anyone found it there! I didn’t want the household involved, and I certainly didn’t want to be incriminated,”

“So?”

“So I put it in Mrs. Clifford’s dustbin downstairs instead. Myra was fit to be tied when she found it. I heard her scream all the way up the tradesman’s stairwell. Next thing I knew, she was on my threshold, helmet in hand, thumping on the door, causing quite a scene!”

“I ‘ope you gave ‘er what for!”

“I opened the door, and when she accused Miss Lettice of putting it in her mistress’ dustbin, I told her that Miss Lettice was sleeping and had been since she came home from the party, so she couldn’t have put it in there, and could she please be quiet so Miss Lettice and Mrs. Lanchenbury could sleep undisturbed.” Edith then adds with a smug smile, “And I wasn’t lying. Miss Lettice didn’t put it in her dustbin.”

The two women chuckle heartily together over the incident.

“That Myra’s a toffee-nosed snob of a maid, anyway,” Mrs. Boothby smiles.

“Just like Mrs. Clifford.” Edith opines.

“It couldn’t ‘ve ‘appened to a nicer person. She’s no…”

BBBBRRRINGGG!

The telephone in the drawing room starts ringing, stopping Mrs. Boothby mid sentence.

Edith looks through the double doors into the adjoining drawing room. “That infernal contraption!” she mutters.

BBBBRRRINGGG!

“They ain’t goin’ away, you know, Edith dearie.” Mrs. Boothby remarks sagely. “Miss Lettice ain’t the only one wiv one of them fings in their ‘omes. They’s even turnin’ up on the streets nah, in red booths*****************, you know?”

Edith gets up from the table, and leaving Mrs. Boothby where she sits with her half emptied tumbler of water, walks into the drawing room and up to the black japanned occasional table upon which the silver and Bakelite telephone continues to trill loudly.

BBBBRRRINGGG!

“I should knock you over, next time I’m dusting. Let’s hear you ring then, infernal contraption!”

BBBBRRRINGGG!

“I can answer it for you, Edith dearie.” Mrs. Boothby offers, knowing that Edith will never accept her offer. “If you like.”

Edith hates answering the telephone. It’s one of the few jobs in her position as Lettice’s maid that she wishes she didn’t have to do. Whenever she has to answer it, which is quite often considering how frequently her mistress is out and about, there is usually some uppity caller at the other end of the phone, whose uppity accent only seems to intensify when they realise they are speaking to ‘the hired help’ as they abruptly demand Lettice’s whereabouts.

BBBBRRRINGGG!

“Come on now Edith!” she tells herself, smoothing her suddenly clammy hands down the apron covering her print morning dress. “It’s only a machine, and the person at the other end can’t hurt you, even if they are angry that you aren’t her.”

BBBBRRRINGGG!

“Mayfair 432, the Honourable Miss Lettice Chetwynd’s residence.” Edith answers with a slight quiver to her voice. Her whole body clenches and she closes her eyes as she waits for the barrage of anger from some duchess or other titled lady, affronted at having to address the maid. A female voice speaks down the line. “Oh Mrs. Hatchett, how do you do. What a pleasant surprise! Yes, this is Edith, Miss Chetwynd’s maid.” She smiles and her anxiety dissipates.

Lettice decorated some of the principal rooms of Mrs. Hatchett’s house, ‘The Gables’ in Rotherfield and Mark Cross in Sussex, in 1921. Even though Mrs. Hatchett is a little overbearing, it is only because she is enthusiastic. Edith likes her because Mrs. Hatchett, being a banker cum Labour politician’s wife, and formerly a London West End actress, has not been born with a pedigree that finds talking to the staff offensive, like so many other callers on Lettice’s telephone.

Edith listens. “No. No, I’m afraid that Miss Chetwynd isn’t at home, Mrs. Hatchett.” She listens to the disappointed response. “She’s still with her family in Wiltshire.” She listens. “Yes, I can have her telephone you in Sussex. I’m quite sure Miss Chetwynd still has…” Mrs. Hatchett cuts Edith short and she listens again. “Queen Anne’s Gate******************? Really? Oh congratulations, Mrs. Hatchett.” Edith listens again. “Oh! Oh well I’m quite sure she would delighted to do that for you, but not being privy to her diary, I shall have to get her to telephone you.” She listens again. “Yes, I’d just take it down. One moment whilst I fetch a pencil and paper, Mrs. Hatchett.” Edith puts the receiver down on the table next to the telephone base and brushes her clammy palms down her apron for a second time. The then picks up the pencil atop the pad of paper that Lettice left for her to jot any messages on from the lower tier of the table. Picking up the receiver in her left hand she stands poised with pencil in hand to write and says, “I’m ready for your message now Mrs. Hatchett. Please go ahead. She writes a message based on Mrs. Hatchett’s response. “Yes. Yes, I’ll make sure Miss Chetwynd receives your message when she returns from the country. Very good. Good day Mrs. Hatchett.”

Edith hangs up the receiver and sighs with relief. “Damn infernal contraption!” she mutters as she glares at the telephone shining brightly under the light of the electrified chandelier above.

“See!” Mrs. Boothby says from her place at the dining room table. “That weren’t so bad, were it, Edith dearie?”

“That’s only because it was Mrs. Hatchett, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith sighs. “She’s lovely in comparison to some of those toffee-nosed ladies and duchesses who telephone here.”

“Ain’t she the wife of Charlie Hatchett the politician?”

“That’s right, Mrs. Boothby. Mr. Hatchett is a Labour MP, and was part of Mr. MacDonald’s government last year.”

“E’s the MP for Tower ‘Amlets*******************, and that includes me!” Mrs. Boothby says excitedly. “Fancy that! Cor! What a small world. Eh?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Hatchett have just taken possession of a townhouse in Queen Anne’s Gate,” Edith says, perusing the note she has written down on the pad for Lettice. “And she wants Miss Lettice to redecorate the drawing room for her.”

“Queen Anne’s Gate, you say?” Mrs. Boothby says. When Edith nods in confirmation, the old Cockney woman eyes her sharply before going on, “It ain’t right that.” She mutters as she shakes her head.

“What’s not right, Mrs. Boothby?” Edith asks.

“That ain’t!” the old Cockney woman protests. “That fancy new ‘ouse in Queen Anne’s Gate!”

“Well, I suppose Mr. Hatchett needs to be close to the Houses of Parliament.”

“Nah, e’s supposed to be a Labour MP, ain’t ‘e?”

“He is. Mrs. Boothby. I just said so. Didn’t you hear me?”

“And that’s the workers’ party, ain’t it?”

“Yes, Mrs. Boothby, or so Frank tells me.”

“Well, Mr. ‘Atchett ain’t no lord like some of them uvver politicians.” Mrs. Boothby opines before taking another sip of water. “‘E says e’s just an ordinary man, like us, Edith dearie.”

“Oh, I don’t know if I’d say Mr. Hatchett was quite like us, Mrs. Boothby, even if he does.” Edith scoffs lightly as she replaces the pad and pencil back on the lower shelf of the table on which the telephone stands. “He’s a banker, or rather he was before he became a politician. That doesn’t make him a lord, but it puts him a rung or two above you and I, Mrs. Boothby.”

“Well ‘e said ‘e was just an ‘ard workin’ man, like anyone else.” Mr. Boothby crumples up her nose in disgust. “But I don’t fink it’s right for ‘im to say that if ‘e’s goin’ to live in Queen Anne’s Gate in a fancy big ‘ouse like them lawds, even if it is decorated by Miss Lettice, and yet some of ‘is constituents is the poorest people in the land!”

Edith laughs loudly. “Are you suggesting he and Mrs. Hatchett should live in an ordinary two-up two-down******************** like my parents?”

“That’d be a step up for me!” Mrs. Boothby retorts. “I only got two rooms for Ken ‘n’ me, and the privvy’s a shared one dahwn the end of the rookery*********************.”

“Somehow, no matter how egalitarian she is, I don’t think Mrs. Hatchett would like to live in a semi-detached********************** villa in Metroland*********************** like Frank and I hope to someday.” Edith shakes her head. “And I think Mr. Hatchett is a man of pretensions, so I’m sure he won’t want to live in even the best rooms available in Poplar. Queen Anne’s Gate is so close to the Palace of Westminster that it will be very handy for Mr. Hatchett to get to the House easily, and I’m sure Mrs. Hatchett will be entertaining dignitaries quite a lot as an MP’s wife.”

“Well,” Mrs. Boothby mutters. “I’ll be ‘avin words wiv Mr. I’m-just-the-same-as-you-‘Atchett, next time I sees ‘im out there campaignin’! I shall give ‘im a good piece of mind! Lyin’ like that to poor folk like me who can’t even ‘ave their own private privy! It’s a scandal, that is!”

“Yes,” Edith giggles. “Almost as scandalous as Mrs. Carter’s scavenger hunt.”

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

**’The Parade of the Tin Soldiers’, also known as ‘The Parade of the Wooden Soldiers’, is an instrumental musical character piece, in the form of a popular jaunty march, written by German composer Leon Jessel, in 1897. In 1922, the instrumental version of ‘The Parade of the Wooden Soldiers’ was a hit single performed by Carl Fenton's Orchestra. Hit versions were also recorded by the Vincent Lopez Orchestra in 1922 and by Paul Whiteman and his Orchestra in 1923.

***Metroland is a name given to the suburban areas that were built to the north-west of London in the counties of Buckinghamshire, Hertfordshire and Middlesex in the early part of the Twentieth Century that were served by the Metropolitan Railway. The railway company was in the privileged position of being allowed to retain surplus land; from 1919 this was developed for housing by the nominally independent Metropolitan Railway Country Estates Limited (MRCE). The term "Metroland" was coined by the Met's marketing department in 1915 when the Guide to the Extension Line became the Metro-land guide. It promoted a dream of a modern home in beautiful countryside with a fast railway service to central London until the Met was absorbed into the London Passenger Transport Board in 1933.

****The hanging crystals on a chandelier are called pendeloques, sometimes spelled pendalogues. They can also be referred to simply as prisms.

*****The clusters of crystal trimmings which hang down from the chandelier in a basket are known as a festoon. These can be a few strands or many clusters. Another name for them is a garland.

******Vim was a common cleaning agent, used in any Edwardian household. Vim scouring powder was created by William Hesketh Lever (1st Viscount Leverhulme) and introduced to the market in 1904. It was produced at Port Sunlight in Wirrel, Merseyside, a model village built by Lever Brothers for the workers of their factories which produced the popular soap brands Lux, Lifebuoy and Sunlight.

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

********The full phrase Berkeley (or Berkshire) hunt has been shortened to "berk," which has become a milder slang word of its own, but was originally used by Cockneys. Berk means idiot, as in "you're being a berk."

*********This term to be richer to Croesus, implies great wealth, and alludes to Croesus, the legendary King of Lydia and supposedly the richest man on earth. The simile was first recorded in English in 1577.

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

***********The idiom "to be drunk as a lord" is a somewhat humorous and old-fashioned expression that is used to describe someone who is extremely drunk. The origin of this phrase likely dates back to a time when the British aristocracy, often referred to as "lords," were known for their heavy drinking habits and lavish banquets.

************Originally built in St James Royal Park in 1665 on the site of a duck decoy, the island is both a sanctuary and a breeding ground for the collection of wildfowl and other birds. There are approximately seventeen species of bird regularly breed in the park, including mute swans and a resident colony of pelicans. Duck Island also houses the water treatment facilities and pumps for the lake and fountain.

*************The term Wellington boot comes from Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington, who instructed his shoemaker to create the boot by modifying the design of the Hessian boot. The terms gumboot and rubber boot are both derived from the rubber modern Wellington boots are made from, with the term "gum" coming from gum rubber.

**************Tallulah Bankhead was an American actress. Primarily an actress of the stage, Bankhead also appeared in several films including an award-winning performance in Alfred Hitchcock's ‘Lifeboat’. In 1923, she made her debut on the London stage at Wyndham's Theatre. She appeared in over a dozen plays in London over the next eight years, most famously in ‘The Dancers’ and at the Lyric as Jerry Lamar in Avery Hopwood's ‘The Gold Diggers’. Her fame as an actress was ensured in 1924 when she played Amy in Sidney Howard's ‘They Knew What They Wanted’. The show won the 1925 Pulitzer Prize. Whilst living in London, Bankhead became one of the members of Cecil Beaton’s coterie of hedonistic Bright Young Things. She also had a brief but successful career on radio later in life and made appearances on television.

***************The term “bobby” is not now widely used in Britain to describe the police (except by the police, who still commonly use it to refer to themselves), though it can occur with a mixture of affection and slight irony in the phrase "village bobby", referring to the local community police officer. However, it was very common in mid 1920s London. It is derived from Robert Peel (Bobby being the usual nickname for Robert), the founder of the Metropolitan Police.

****************Crêpe romain is a lightweight semi-sheer luxury fabric, originally of silk with a dull lustre and a wrinkled texture.

*****************The first standard public telephone kiosk introduced by the United Kingdom Post Office was produced in concrete in 1921 and was designated K1 (Kiosk No.1). The Post Office had taken over almost all of the country's telephone network in 1912. The red telephone box K1 (Kiosk No.2), was the result of a competition in 1924 to design a kiosk that would be acceptable to the London Metropolitan Boroughs which had hitherto resisted the Post Office's effort to erect K1 kiosks on their streets.

******************Queen Anne’s Gate is a street in Westminster, London. Many of the buildings are Grade I listed, known for their Queen Anne architecture. Simon Bradley and Nikolaus Pevsner described the Gate’s early Eighteenth Century houses as “the best of their kind in London.” The street’s proximity to the Palace of Westminster made it a popular residential area for politicians.

*******************The London constituency of Tower Hamlets includes such areas and historic towns as (roughly from west to east) Spitalfields, Whitechapel, Bethnal Green, Wapping, Shadwell, Mile End, Stepney, Limehouse, Old Ford, Bow, Bromley, Poplar, and the Isle of Dogs (with Millwall, the West India Docks, and Cubitt Town), making it a majority working class constituency in 1925 when this story is set. Tower Hamlets included some of the worst slums and societal issues of inequality and poverty in England at that time.

********************Two-up two-down is a type of small house with two rooms on the ground floor and two bedrooms upstairs. There are many types of terraced houses in the United Kingdom, and these are among the most modest. The first two-up two-down terraces were built in the 1870s, but the concept of them made up the backbone of the Metroland suburban expansions of the 1920s with streets lined with rows of two-up two-down semi-detached houses in Mock Tudor, Jacobethan, Arts and Crafts and inter-war Art Deco styles bastardised from the aesthetic styles created by the likes of English Arts and Crafts Movement designers like William Morris and Charles Voysey.

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

**********************A semi-detached house (known more commonly simply as a semi) is a house joined to another house on one side only by a common wall.

***********************Metroland is a name given to the suburban areas that were built to the north-west of London in the counties of Buckinghamshire, Hertfordshire and Middlesex in the early part of the Twentieth Century that were served by the Metropolitan Railway. The railway company was in the privileged position of being allowed to retain surplus land; from 1919 this was developed for housing by the nominally independent Metropolitan Railway Country Estates Limited (MRCE). The term "Metroland" was coined by the Met's marketing department in 1915 when the Guide to the Extension Line became the Metro-land guide. It promoted a dream of a modern home in beautiful countryside with a fast railway service to central London until the Met was absorbed into the London Passenger Transport Board in 1933.

This 1920s upper-class drawing room is different to what you may think at first glance, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures including items from my own childhood.

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

The black Bakelite and silver telephone is a 1:12 miniature of a model introduced around 1919. It is two centimetres wide and two centimetres high. The receiver can be removed from the cradle, and the curling chord does stretch out.

Edith’s feather duster, lying on the table, I made myself using fledgling feathers (very spring) which I picked up off the lawn one day thinking they would come in handy in my miniatures collection sometime. I bound them with thread to the handle which is made from a fancy ended toothpick!

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

Lettice’s drawing room is furnished with beautiful J.B.M. miniatures. The Art Deco tub chair upholstered in white embossed fabric is made of black japanned wood and has a removable cushion, just like its life sized equivalent.

The Chinese folding screen in the background I bought at an antiques and junk market when I was about ten. I was with my grandparents and a friend of the family and their three children, who were around my age. They all bought toys to bring home and play with, and I bought a Chinese folding screen to add to my miniatures collection in my curio cabinet at home! It shows you what a unique child I was.

In front of the screen on a pedestal table stands a miniature cloisonné vase from the early Twentieth Century which I also bought when I was a child. It came from a curios shop. Cloisonné is an ancient technique for decorating metalwork objects. In recent centuries, vitreous enamel has been used, and inlays of cut gemstones, glass and other materials were also used during older periods. The resulting objects can also be called cloisonné. The decoration is formed by first adding compartments (cloisons in French) to the metal object by soldering or affixing silver or gold wires or thin strips placed on their edges. These remain visible in the finished piece, separating the different compartments of the enamel or inlays, which are often of several colours. Cloisonné enamel objects are worked on with enamel powder made into a paste, which then needs to be fired in a kiln. The Japanese produced large quantities from the mid Nineteenth Century, of very high technical quality cloisonné. In Japan cloisonné enamels are known as shippō-yaki (七宝焼). Early centres of cloisonné were Nagoya during the Owari Domain. Companies of renown were the Ando Cloisonné Company. Later centres of renown were Edo and Kyoto. In Kyoto Namikawa became one of the leading companies of Japanese cloisonné.