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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.

Lichfield, Staffordshire, cathedral, lady chapel, apse, stained glass window, lower section by groenling

© groenling, all rights reserved.

Lichfield, Staffordshire, cathedral, lady chapel, apse, stained glass window, lower section

dated 1532 ; originally in Herkenrode abbey in Belgium

Lichfield, Staffordshire, cathedral, lady chapel, apse, stained glass window, lower section, detail by groenling

© groenling, all rights reserved.

Lichfield, Staffordshire, cathedral, lady chapel, apse, stained glass window, lower section, detail

dated 1532 ; originally in Herkenrode abbey in Belgium ; restored in 1945 after damage in WW2, restored again in 2015

Heisey glass (1235 Beaded Panel and Sunburst 7 ounce salver) (1897-1913) by James St. John

Available under a Creative Commons by license

Heisey glass (1235 Beaded Panel and Sunburst 7 ounce salver) (1897-1913)

(HGM 2014.43.63, Heisey Glass Museum, Newark, Ohio, USA)
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"1235 Beaded Panel and Sunburst" is the designation for a specific glass product design made in Newark, Ohio by the Heisey Glass Company (1896 to 1957). Heisey glass designs are called "patterns". Pattern designations include a number (not necessarily consecutively numbered during the history of the glass factory) and a name. Some pattern names were given by the Heisey company, while others were given by Heisey glass researchers.

"Salver" refers to a serving tray.

The source of silica for Heisey glass is apparently undocumented, but was possibly a sandstone deposit in the Glassrock area (Glenford & Chalfants area) of Perry County, Ohio (if anyone can provide verfication of this, please inform me). Quarries in the area targeted the Pennsylvanian-aged Massillon Sandstone (Pottsville Group) and processed it into glass sand suitable for glass making.
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From museum signage:

Augustus H. Heisey (1842-1922) emigrated from Germany with his family in 1843. They settled in Merrittown, Pennsylvania and after graduation from the Merrittown Academy, he worked for a short time in the printing business.

In 1861, he began his life-long career in the glass industry by taking a job as a clerk with the King Glass Company of Pittsburgh. After a stint in the Union Army, Heisey joined the Ripley Glass Company as a salesman. It was there that he earned his reputation of "the best glass salesman on the road".

In 1870, Heisey married Susan Duncan, daughter of George Duncan, then part-owner of the Ripley Company and later full owner, at which time he changed its name to George Duncan & Sons. A year later, he deeded a quarter interest to each of his two children. A few years after his death, A.H. Heisey and James Duncan became sole owners. In 1891, the company joined the U.S. Glass Company to escape its financial difficulties. Heisey was the commercial manager.

Heisey began to formulate plans for his own glass company in 1893. He chose Newark, Ohio because there was an abundance of natural gas nearby and, due to the efforts of the Newark Board of Trade, there was plenty of low cost labor available. Construction of the factory at 301 Oakwood Avenue began in 1895 and it opened in April of 1896 with one sixteen-pot furnace. In its heyday, the factory had three furnaces and employed nearly seven hundred people. There was a great demand for the fine glass and Heisey sold it all over the world.

The production in the early years was confined to pressed ware, in the style of imitation cut glass. The company also dealt extensively with hotel barware. By the late 1890s, Heisey revived the colonial patterns with flutes, scallops, and panels which had been so popular decades earlier. These were so well accepted that from that time on, at least one colonial line was made continuously until the factory closed.

A.H. Heisey's name appears on many different design patents including some when he was with George Duncan & Sons. Heisey patterns that he was named the designer include 1225 Plain Band, 305 Punty and Diamond Point, and 1776 Kalonyal.

Other innovations instituted by A.H. Heisey were the pioneering in advertising glassware in magazines nationally, starting as early as 1910 and the first glass company to make fancy pressed stems. That idea caught on quickly and most hand-wrought stemware is made in this manner, even now.
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Info. at:
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heisey_Glass_Company
and
heiseymuseum.org

The Trouble with Gladys by raaen99

© raaen99, all rights reserved.

The Trouble with Gladys

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

Tonight, Lettice is entertaining her old childhood chum Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy who has tried to gain some independence from his family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street, in the dining room of her Cavendish Mews flat: a room equally elegantly appointed with striking black japanned Art Deco furnishings intermixed with a select few Eighteenth Century antiques. The room is heady with the thick perfume of roses brought back from Glynes, the Chetwynd’s palatial Georgian family estate in Wiltshire, from where Lettice has recently returned after visiting a neighbour of sorts of her parents, Mr. Alisdair Gifford who wishes Lettice to decorate a room for his Australian wife Adelina, to house her collection of blue and white china. A bowl full of delicate white blooms graces the black japanned dining table as a centrepiece, whilst a smaller vase of red roses sits on the sideboard at the feet of Lettice’s ‘Modern Woman’ statue, acquired from the nearby Portland Gallery in Bond Street. Silver and crystal glassware sparkle in the light cast by both candlelight and electric light. The pair of old friends have just finished a course of Suprême de Volaille Jeanette: a fillet of chicken served with a rich white roux creamy sauce, ordered from Harrod’s Meat and Fish Hall* and warmed up and finished off by Edith, Lettice’s maid, in the Cavendish Mews kitchen. Gerald returns to the table with two small glasses of port after filling them from a bottle of liqueur in Lettice’s cocktail cabinet in the corner of the room just as Edith steps across the threshold of the dining room carrying a silver tray laden with three types of cheese and an assortment of biscuits, wafers and crackers.

“About time, Edith.” Lettice mutters irritably as Edith approaches and slides the tray gently onto the dining table. “Careful! Don’t scratch the table’s surface.”

“I’m sorry, Miss.” Edith says as she blushes, a lack of understanding filling her face. “I… I didn’t realise I was scratching it.”

“Well, you haven’t, Edith,” she snaps back. “But you need to be more careful!”

“Yes Miss.” Edith bobs a curtsey, a wounded look on her usually bright face.

Glancing between Lettice toying distractedly with the rope of pearls about her neck looking anywhere but at either her maid or himself, and the poor embarrassed domestic, Gerald pipes up, “There’s nothing to apologise for, Edith. There’s no harm done. Miss Chetwynd is just a bit tired and overwrought. Aren’t you Lettice darling?”

When Lettice doesn’t answer, whether because she hasn’t heard Gerald as she gets lost in her own thoughts, or because she knows that she is in the wrong, admonishing her maid like that for no reason, Gerald adds, “The Suprême de Volaille Jeanette was delicious. Thank you.” He then gently indicates with a movement of his kind eyes and a swift sweeping gesture of his hand that she should go.

“Yes Sir. Thank you, Sir.” Edith replies as she bobs a second curtsey and quickly scuttles back through the green baize door leading from the diming room back into the service area of the flat.

“You don’t seem yourself at all, Lettice darling!” Gerald says in concern once he estimates that Edith is out of earshot. “Upbraiding Edith like that, and for no good reason. She didn’t mark the table. You’ve been in a funk ever since you came back from Wiltshire.” He pauses momentarily and reconsiders. “Actually no, you’ve been like this for a little while before that.” He looks at her knowingly. “What’s the matter with you, darling?”

“Oh I’m sorry.” Lettice sighs.

“It’s not me you should be sorry to.”

“I’ll apologise to Edith a little bit later. I’ll let her settle down first.”

“Well, I should hope you will.” Gerald takes a sip and cocks his eyebrow over his eye as he stares at Lettice. “Alright, out with it! What’s the matter, then?”

“Looking at me the way you are, can’t you guess, Gerald darling?”

“It’s that rather awful Fabian** charlatan, Gladys, isn’t it?” Gerald replies. As he does, he shudders as he remembers the awful snub Lady Gladys gave him.

Through her social connections, Lettice’s Aunt Egg contrived an invitation for Lettice to an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Caxton, who are very well known amongst the smarter bohemian set of London society for their weekend parties at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, and enjoyable literary evenings in their Belgravia townhouse. Lady Gladys is a successful authoress in her own right and writes under the nom de plume of Madeline St John. Over the course of the weekend, Lettice was coerced into accepting Lady Glady’s request that she redecorate the Bloomsbury flat of her ward, Phoebe Chambers. When Lettice agreed to take on the commission, Lady Gladys said she would arrange a time for Lettice to inspect the flat the next time Lady Gladys was in London. The day it happened, Lettice was invited to hear Lady Gladys give a reading from her latest romance novel ‘Miranda’ at its launch in the Selfridge’s book department. Wanting company, and thinking he might enjoy the outing, Lettice invited Gerald to join her. When Lady Gladys met Gerald, she took an instant dislike to him and snubbed him, calling him ‘Mister Buttons’ much to his chagrin.

“Well done, Gerald darling.” Lettice replies sulkily, toying idly with her own glass.

“So, what’s the trouble with Gladys now?” Gerald asks. “Come on, tell me all the ghastly details.”

“What’s the point, Gerald darling? It won’t make one iota of difference.” Her shoulders slump forward as she speaks.

“You don’t know that.” Gerald counters. “If nothing else, it will probably make you feel better just talking about it, and hopefully by unblocking the frustrations you so obviously feel, you’ll be a bit kinder to poor Edith.” He gives her a hopefully glance.

“I know. Edith didn’t deserve my ire.”

“Especially when she didn’t do anything wrong. It would be a shame to lose such a good maid. Good servants like Edith are hard to come by.”

“I know, Gerald! I know!”

“If I could afford to employ her full time as a seamstress, I would. However I can only afford Molly to do some piecework for me a few days a week at the moment. But once my atelier expands, you’d better watch out. I’ll poach her.”

“Edith?”

“Yes of course, darling. Who else?”

“As a seamstress? Why?”

“Good heavens! Haven’t you noticed how smartly turned out she is when she’s not in uniform and is going out?” Gerald asks with incredulity. When Lettice shakes her head coyly he continues, “For a woman who has an eye for detail, you can be very unobservant sometimes. Edith, like most working girls, makes her own clothes, I’d imagine from patterns in one of those cheap women’s magazines directed towards middle-class housewives I see flapping in the breeze at newspaper kiosks. However, unlike a great many of them, she obviously has a natural aptitude for sewing. That’s why I’d take her on as a seamstress.”

“I must confess, I’ve never really noticed what Edith wears. She’s just…” Lettice isn’t quite sure how to phrase it. “She’s just there.”

“Well, one day she may not be,” Gerald warns before taking another sip of liqueur. “And then you’ll be in trouble trying to find her like as a replacement. Anyway,” he coughs. “I’m not going to pinch her from you just yet. Now, what’s the problem with Gladys?”

Lettice lets out a very heavy sigh. “Oh, she’s awful, Gerald darling: positively frightful. She rings me nearly every day, or sometimes several times a day, hounding me! I’m starting to make Edith answer the telephone more often now, because I’m terrified that it will be Gladys.”

“Well, we all know how much dear Edith hates the telephone.”

“Well, usually that would be true, but she knows that Gladys is Madeline St John, and I’ve told her that Gladys promises to give her a few signed copies of her books one of these days, so she doesn’t seem to mind when it’s her. Gladys seems to have that common touch with her.”

“Common is right.” quips Gerald. “Low-class gutter novelist works her way into the upper echelons by way of an advantageous marriage.”

“Gerald!” Lettice gasps

“It’s true Lettice, and you must know it by now, even if you didn’t know it before.”

“Well, whatever she may or may not be, Gerald, I just can’t talk to her directly. I need a moment to gird my loins*** before I take on the unpleasant task of talking to her, or perhaps a more appropriate description would be, being spoken to by her, at considerable length.”

“You haven’t corrupted poor Edith and coerced her into telling little white lies for you when Gladys does ring and say that you’re out.”

“No!” Lettice gives Gerald a guilty side glance. “Well not yet anyway.” she corrects. “I’ve thought about doing it, and it’s a very tempting idea. However, I know how much Edith already hates answering the telephone, and being such a despicably honest girl, I think asking her to fib for me, especially to her favourite romance writer, might be just a bridge too far for her.”

“Damn the goodness of your maid, Lettice darling.” Gerald replies jokingly with a cheeky smile causing his mouth to turn up impishly, as he cuts a slice of cheese and puts it on a water cracker wafer, before lifting it to his lips.

“Oh you’re no help!” Lettuce swats at her best friend irritably. “You make me feel guilty for even countenancing such a thought.”

“Well, someone has to try and keep you honest in this sinful city, darling.” he jokes again. “Mummy would never forgive me if I didn’t try and keep you as virtuous as possible.”

“I’d believe that of Aunt Gwen.” Lettice agrees. “On the other hand, Mater is convinced that you’re the root of the destruction of her precious, obsequious youngest daughter.”

“Sadie is wiser and more observant than I’ve ever given her credit for.” Gerald murmurs in surprise. “I should be more charitable to her in future as regards her intellect.”

“That I should like to see.” Lettice giggles, a smile breaking across her lips and brightening her face, dispelling some of the gloom.

“That you will never see.” Gerald replies firmly. “That’s better. At least I made you laugh.”

“You always make me laugh, darling Gerald.” Lettice reaches across the table and grasps his hand lovingly, winding her fingers around his bigger fisted hand. “You are the best and most supportive friend I could ever hope to have.”

“Jolly good, my dear. Now, besides telephoning far too often, what else is the trouble with Gladys?” Gerald presses.

“Well, she seems to want to be in control of everything in relation to Pheobe’s Bloomsbury pied-à-terre redecoration.”

“Isn’t Gladys footing the bill, Lettice darling?”

“Well yes, she is.”

“Then it seems to me that she has every right to be involved in the decision making that goes on, particularly as you’ve told me that Phoebe shows a lack of interest in the whole project.”

“Yes, but what Gladys is doing is taking over. I don’t think she’d even engage my services if I didn’t have the contacts in the painting, papering and furnishing business she needs. I have no chance to exercise any of my own judgement. Anything I do has to be checked by her: the paint tint for the walls, the staining of the floorboards, the fabric for the furnishings. And she has demonstrated that she has no real interest in my ideas.”

“Hhhmmm…” Gerald begins, chewing his mouthful of cheese and biscuit thoughtfully before continuing. “That does sound a trifle tiresome.”

“A trifle tiresome? Gerald, you always were the master of understatement.”

“I see no reason to panic. She is the client exercising her rights. And since she is the one paying for your services, indulge her in her necessity to be consulted on all facets of the redecoration.”

“Oh I’m doing that. Against my better judgement, I’m having floral chintz draperies hung in the drawing room and bedroom because that’s what she wants.”

“Good heavens!” Gerald exclaims, nearly choking on a fresh mouthful of cheese and wafer biscuit. “You, selecting chintz as part of your décor decisions?”

“My point exactly. It isn’t me that’s decided that, it’s Gladys who has. You know how much I loathe chintz at the best of times.” Lettice shudders at the thought. “I tried hinting at some plain green hangings instead as a very nice alternative, but like anything else where I try my best to negotiate for Phoebe, I am barked at and told in no uncertain terms that I will do no such thing.”

“Negotiate for Phoebe?”

“Yes, now that I’m well and truly wound up in what you rightly called Gladys’ sticky spiderweb, I’m beginning to see things for what they truly are.”

“Such as?”

“For a start, I don’t think Phoebe is disinterested in the renovations to her pied-à-terre at all. I’ve seen with my own eyes now, how whenever Pheobe expresses an opinion contrary to that of Gladys, Gladys quickly snuffs out any dissention. As far as Gladys is concerned, her choice is not only the best and right choice, but the only choice to make. Pheobe wants to keep some of her parents’ belongings in the flat, but Gladys won’t hear of it! She wants a clean sweep! I suggest a compromise, but Gladys dismisses it. So, the colours to go on the walls, the furnishings, the fabrics, even the hideous chintz curtains have all been decided upon and approved by Gladys, and Phoebe doesn’t even get a chance to express an opinion. Phoebe isn’t disinterested, she’s simply overruled and completely smothered by Gladys’ overbearing nature.”

“Delicious.” Gerald murmurs as he leans his elbows on the black japanned surface of the dining table and leans forward conspiratorially.

“It’s not delicious at all!” Lettice splutters. “It’s a frightful state of affairs!”

“Well, in truth, that really does sound bloody*****, Lettice darling!”

“Like I said, it’s a dreadful state of affairs! I feel as if I am betraying not only poor Pheobe, but the memory of her dead parents in favour of a domineering woman whom no-one it seems can stand up to.”

“Have you tried her husband, Sir John?”

“He kowtows to her wishes as much as anyone else. I now understand why he has such a dogged look upon his face. I thought it was just age.”

“When in fact it was just Gladys?”

“Indeed! And what’s even worse is that Gladys is wearing me down now too. It’s just easier to agree to everything she says, and not even attempt a compromise in Phoebe’s favour.”

“Well, whilst I know you don’t like the situation, from my own personal experience of dealing with difficult clients, I can say that the path of least resistance is sometimes the best. Do you remember that frock I made for Sophie Munro, the American shipping magnate’s daughter?”

Lettice considers Gerald’s question for a moment. “Yes, I think I do. Wasn’t it pale pink with blue trimming?”

“Indeed it was, Lettice darling: pink linen with blue trim, with a bias cut drape over one sleeve and a flounced skirt. Poor Sophie has an… ahem…” Gerald clears his throat rather awkwardly as he thinks of the correct phrase. “A rather Rubenesque figure, and the flounced skirt was perhaps less flattering than something with long pleats, which was I had suggested to Mrs. Munro.”

“But Mrs. Munro was like Gladys?”

“She was, darling, and she wouldn’t hear a word of it. A flounced skirt was what Mrs. Munro wanted, and a flounced skirt was what Sophie received, and she flounced her way back to America, where I’m sure her rather voluptuous derrière will be commented upon by every young eligible man on Long Island, for all the wrong reasons. However, I did it, and I cut ties with Mrs. Munro because now that my atelier is finally turning a modest profit, I can. I don’t need recommendations from her, but I do need her to be happy so that she will at least speak favourably of me, rather than say disparaging things. The same goes for you. Do what Gladys wants and then be done with her. Do it as quickly as possible, then the pain will be over, and she will praise you to boot.”

“I can’t help but feel badly for Phoebe though, Gerald.”

“I know you do, and I feel sorry for poor Sophie Munro being laughed at behind her back by young cads as she tries to be beguiling with a large derrière, but there you have it. You cannot be responsible to solve the relationship between mother and daughter.”

“Aunt and ward.” Lettice corrects.

“It equates to the same.” Gerald counters. “You are a businesswoman, Lettice, not an agony aunt******.”

“Well, you’re a businessman, and you seem to be a good agony aunt to me.”

Gerald and Lettice chuckle before Gerald replies, “Indeed I am, but I’m also a friend. You aren’t friends with Pheobe, and even if you were, you still wouldn’t be able to solve Gladys’ overbearing personality. She is who she is, and Pheobe has to learn how to make her way through life with it. Perhaps you will afford her a little freedom from Gladys by redecorating her pied-à-terre, so she can escape from under Glady’s overbearing shadow, even if the redecoration is not quite as Phoebe would have it. Even then, Phoebe will probably add her own personal touches to her new home over time. It’s only natural that she should.”

“Oh,” Lettice sighs heavily. “I suppose you’re right, Gerald.”

“Of course I’m right, Lettice darling. I’m always right.” he adds jokingly.

“Now don’t you start!” Lettice replies wearily before smiling as she recognises Gerald’s remark as a jest, teasing about Lady Gladys’ overbearing personality.

“Well, it sounds like you need a bit of cheering up, Lettice darling,” Gerald goes on as he places another slice of cheese on a biscuit.

“I could indeed, Gerald darling!”

“Well then, if you are a good girl, and apologise to Edith like I told you, like Cinderella you shall go to the ball!”

“Oh you do talk in riddles sometimes, Gerald darling! What on earth do you mean?”

“My birthday!” Gerald beams. “Come join me at Hattie’s down in Putney for my birthday!”

“You’re having your birthday at Hattie’s?” Lettice queries, her voice rising in surprise. “I thought we were going to the Café Royal****** to celebrate: my treat!”

“Now, now, be calm, Lettice darling! We are, but Hattie wants to throw a party for me on my birthday at Putney with Cyril, Charlie Dunnage and a few of the other chaps she has living with her in the house, so we’ll do that first, and then go to dinner at the Café Royal: your treat.”

“Well…” Lettice says warily. Her stomach flips every time Gerald mentions his lover, Cyril, an oboist who plays at various theatres in the West End and lives in the Putney home of Gerald’s friend Harriet Milford, who has turned her residence into a boarding house for theatrical homosexual men, not because she is in any way jealous of their relationship, but because she knows that Gerald being a homosexual carries great consequences should he be caught in flagrante with Cyril. Homosexuality is illegal******** and carries heavy penalties including prison sentences with hard labour, not to mention the shame and social ostracization that would follow any untoward revelations. It would mean the end of his fashion house and all his dreams.

Gerald misinterprets the look on his best friend’s face as being misgivings about the party. “Oh come on Lettice! Every time I’ve been spending the night with Cyril down in Putney, which has been quite a lot lately,” he confesses with a shy, yet happy smile. “I’ve been sneaking one or two bottles of champagne into his room, which he’s been stashing under the bed, so there will be plenty to drink, and Hattie is making me a birthday cake, so it will be a rather jolly party. You aren’t still imagining Hattie to be a usurper to you in my affections, are you Lettuce Leaf?”

“Don’t call me that Gerald! You know how I hate it!” scowls Lettice. “I’ll call you Mr. Buttons!” She threatens.

“You can call me what you like, Lettice darling, only please say you’ll come! You’re my best and oldest chum! It would make me so happy!”

“Oh very well, Gerald. Of course I’ll come.”

“Jolly good show, Lettice darling!” Gerald enthuses. “We’ll have a whizz of a time!”

*Harrod’s Meat and Fish Hall (the predecessor to today’s food hall) was opened in 1903. There was nothing like it in London at the time. It’s interior, conceived by Yorkshire Arts and Crafts ceramicist and artist William Neatby, was elaborately decorated from floor to ceiling with beautiful Art Nouveau tiles made by Royal Doulton, and a glass roof that flooded the space with light. Completed in nine weeks it featured ornate frieze tiles displaying pastoral scenes of sheep and fish, as well as colourful glazed tiles. By the 1920s, when this scene is set, the Meat and Fish Hall was at its zenith with so much produce on display and available to wealthy patrons that you could barely see the interior.

**The Fabian Society is a British socialist organisation whose purpose is to advance the principles of social democracy and democratic socialism via gradualist and reformist effort in democracies, rather than by revolutionary overthrow. The Fabian Society was also historically related to radicalism, a left-wing liberal tradition.

***To gird one’s loins: to prepare oneself to deal with a difficult or stressful situation, is likely a Hebraism, often used in the King James Bible (e.g., 2 Kings 4:29). Literally referred to the need to strap a belt around one's waist, i.e. when getting up, in order to avoid the cloak falling off; or otherwise before battle, to unimpede the legs for running.

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

*****The old fashioned British term “looking bloody” or “sounding bloody” was a way of indicating how dour or serious a person or occasion looks.

******An agony aunt is a person, usually a woman, who gives advice to people with personal problems, especially in a regular magazine or newspaper article.

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

********Prior to 1967 with the introduction of the Sexual Offences Act which decriminalised private homosexual acts between men aged over 21, homosexuality in England was illegal, and in the 1920s when this story is set, carried heavy penalties including prison sentences with hard labour. The law was not changed for Scotland until 1980, or for Northern Ireland until 1982.

Lettice’s fashionable Mayfair flat dining room is perhaps a little different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures I have collected over time.

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

The silver tray of biscuits have been made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. The empty wine glasses and the glass bowl in the centre of the table are also 1:12 artisan miniatures all made of hand spun and blown glass. They are made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The vase is especially fine. If you look closely you will see that it is decorated with flower patterns made up of fine threads of glass. The cream roses in the vase were also hand made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. The Art Deco dinner plates are part of a much larger set I acquired from a dollhouse suppliers in Shanghai. The cutlery set came from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. The candlesticks were made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.

In the background on the console table stand some of Lettice’s precious artisan purchases from the Portland Gallery in Soho. The silver drinks set is made by artisan Clare Bell at the Clare Bell Brass Works in Maine, in the United States. Each goblet is only one centimetre in height and the decanter at the far end is two- and three-quarter centimetres with the stopper inserted. Lettice’s Art Deco ‘Modern Woman’ figure is actually called ‘Christianne’ and was made and hand painted by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland. ‘Christianne’ is based on several Art Deco statues and is typical of bronze and marble statues created at that time for the luxury market in the buoyant 1920s.

Lettice’s dining room is furnished with Town Hall Miniatures furniture, which is renown for their quality. The only exceptions to the room is the Chippendale chinoiserie carver chair (the edge of which just visible on the far left-hand side of the photo) which was made by J.B.M. Miniatures.

The carpet beneath the furniture is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug hand made by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney, Australia. The paintings on the walls are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States. The geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

Nettie by raaen99

© raaen99, all rights reserved.

Nettie

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 nursing a broken heart. Her beau, Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, has been sent to Durban for a year by his mother, the Duchess of Walmsford, Lady Zinnia in an effort to destroy their relationship which she wants to end so that she can marry Selwyn off to his cousin, Pamela Fox-Chavers. Lettice returned home to Glynes to lick her wounds, however it only served to make matters worse as she grew even more morose. It was from the most unlikely of candidates, her mother Lady Sadie, with whom Lettice has always had a fraught relationship, that Lettice received the best advice, which was to stop feeling sorry for herself and get on with her life and wait patiently for Selwyn’s eventual return. Since then, Lettice has been trying to follow her mother’s advice and has thrown herself into the merry dance of London’s social round of dinners, dances and balls. However, even she could only keep this up for so long, and on New Year’s Eve, her sister, Lally, suggested that she spend a few extra weeks resting and recuperating with her in Buckinghamshire before returning to London and trying to get on with her life. Lettice happily agreed, however her rest cure ended abruptly with a letter from her Aunt Egg in London, summoned Lettice back to the capital and into society in general. Through her social connections, Aunt Egg has contrived an invitation for Lettice and her married Embassy Club coterie friends Dickie and Margot Channon, to an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party of Sir John and Lady Caxton, who are very well known amongst the smarter bohemian set of London society for their amusing weekend parties at their Scottish country estate and enjoyable literary evenings in their Belgravia townhouse. Lady Gladys is a successful authoress in her own right and writes under the nom de plume of Madeline St John, so they attract a mixture of witty writers and artists mostly.

Tonight, we are at Gossington, the Scottish Baronial style English Art and Crafts castle near the hamlet of Kershopefoot in Cumberland, which is the country seat of Sir John and Lady Gladys. After arriving belatedly, owing to engine trouble with Dickie’s Lea Francis* four seater, which forced them to stop in York along the way before completing their journey, Lettice, Dickie and Margot spent a pleasant, albeit rainy, afternoon in Sir John and Lady Gladys’ drawing room with other stragglers invited to the weekend. Sir John and Lady Gladys always have an interesting mixture of guests. This is mostly due to the number of witty writers and artists drawn to Lady Gladys, and the smattering of the younger generation of Britain’s aristocracy who find the Caxton’s relaxed and slightly eccentric characters refreshingly different and amusing. Lady Gladys dispenses with all formalities of titles during their gatherings, and are “simply John and Gladys” to their guests. Playing board games or chess, the company amused their hosts with regaled tales of nightclubs, parties and the life of the young in busy London whilst waiting for the majority of Bright Young Things** headed by Pheobe - Sir John and Lady Gladys’ ward and Lady Gladys’ niece - to return from a ramble over the Scottish countryside.

Now it is time for dinner, and guests, suitably dressed for the occasion in a mixture of smart formal wear and bohemian artistic chic, wend their way from the Gossington drawing room into the adjoining cluttered late Victorian Arts and Crafts dining room with its William Morris ‘Poppies’ wallpaper, gilt framed paintings and heavy, ornate furnishings, where the long dining table has been fully extended and set for a splendid eight course dinner.

“Now, for those of you here present,” Lady Gladys announces as she stands, arrayed in a beautiful silver Delphos gown*** with pearls cascading down her front and a diamond tiara woven through her white Marcelle waved**** hair, at her place at the head of the table. “As this is our first dinner together at Gossington tonight, and we are all still getting to know one another, I have taken the liberty of seating you all according to my own design. However tomorrow and Sunday nights we will dispense with the formalities, as you know I am apt to do, and you may sit wherever you like at the table, except for the foot and the head, which are the preserves of John and I.”

Her announcement is acknowledged by excited chatter and a smattering of appreciative applause from the assembled guests as they all seek out their places. Lettice finds herself near the head of the table, between Pheobe, and next to a woman called Nettie according to the card, who as of yet has not left her room for pre-dinner cocktails. Lettice knows that she has been deliberately seated next to Pheobe so that she may talk to Sir John and Lady Glady’s ward about her wishes for the redecoration of the pied-à-terre***** in Bloomsbury that she has recently moved into after being been accepted to a garden design school in Regent’s Park associated to the Royal Academy.

Pheobe, it turns out as Lettice takes her seat at the table alongside her, is as far removed from her outgoing and spontaneous aunt as you could imagine. A rather pale creature with translucent alabaster skin and wispy blonde curls that cascade around her pretty face, framing it beautifully, Pheobe sits demurely at her place, her eyes cast downward to the magenta and gilt edged Royal Doulton dinner service, not engaging with the other guests and their loud, raucous conversations. As Gladys laughs loudly at some bawdy remark from a young male writer before ordering him jovially to take his seat at the table, Lettice contemplates the differences between the two women. Unlike her hostess, who obviously thrives on being surrounded by people and in the limelight, Pheobe is delicate, elfin and almost fey in not only her looks but her actions and way of speaking. Lettice considers her choice of garden design as a career to be most apt, for she can easily picture Pheobe working quietly alone, planting and nurturing beautiful plants whose whispers of leaves and blooms are the only companionship she needs.

“So, Pheobe,” Lettice addresses the younger girl informally as per the relaxed style established by Sir John and Lady Gladys. “I’m Lettice Chetwynd. I’m not sure if you’ve heard of me before.”

“Yes, oh yes.” Pheobe replies a little distractedly as she continues to look down at her plate and doesn’t engage Lettice’s gaze.

“I’m an interior designer.” Lettice goes on. “I decorated the home of my friends Dickie and Margot Channon,” she indicates to her friends sitting at the table through a gap between an Art Nouveau vase full of cascading red roses and a silver Arts and Crafts water pitcher.

“Indeed yes.” Pheobe replies, still not looking up from her place setting.

“And your aunt thought that since you’ve moved into your parent’s flat in Bloomsbury, that I might help you redecorate it.”

“What?” Pheobe suddenly looks up at Lettice, a startled look in her dazzling sea blue eyes.

“Yes,” Lady Gladys pipes up from beside her niece at the head of the table. “As I was saying earlier, Lettice, there isn’t anything fundamentally wrong with the furnishings as such, but, well…” She sighs. “It is a little old fashioned, especially for a young girl like you, Pheobe darling.”

“But it was Mummy and Daddy’s flat.” Pheobe replies meekly, looking to her aunt.

“Yes, I know dear” Lady Gladys sighs. “But they left it to you when they died, and now that you’re of age, well, I thought it was high time that you put your own stamp on it, as it were – make it your own, so to speak.”

“But it was Mummy and Daddy’s.” Pheobe repeats in her willowy voice that is almost drowned out by a burst of laughter coming from where Dickie and Margot are sitting as he finishes telling a funny story.

“Yes, we know that dear,” Lady Gladys confirms, a hint of frustration tainting her voice. “But now, it is yours. It can’t stay the same forever, can it?” She forces a laugh. “We don’t want you living in a mausoleum to your parents, now do we?”

When Pheobe doesn’t reply and returns to staring down at her plate, Lettice gingerly suggests to Lady Gladys, “Perhaps Pheobe doesn’t want change for change’s sake, Gladys.”

“What nonsense, Lettice!” Lady Gladys retorts preposterously. “Pheobe just doesn’t quite know what it will look like. She doesn’t have the… the vision, that you do, my dear. That’s why John and I wanted to engage you. We want you to help Pheobe envision what it could look like.”

“I have vision.” Pheobe mutters quietly.

“What was that, Pheobe dear?” Lady Gladys frowns at her niece and cups her hand around her left ear. “Do speak up. I’ve told you about muttering. No-one will hear you if you mutter.”

“I said, I have vision.” Pheobe says a little more loudly, sitting up more straightly in her tall backed Arts and Crafts dining chair as she speaks and glares at her aunt.

“Of course you do, my dear, for gardens and flowers. The gardens here at Gossington are a tribute to your vision when it comes to landscaping, Pheobe dear. But landscaping a garden and decorating a room, well, those are very different things.” She glances up at Lettice. “Aren’t they, Lettice?”

“They aren’t entirely different, Gladys, if you don’t mind me saying.” Lettice counters politely.

Her statement elicits a disgruntled look from her hostess and an almost imperceptible perk to the corners of Pheobe’s pale pink lips.

“Well, the place certainly needs a lick of paint!” Lady Gladys opines. “Years of my brother’s pipe smoking, and the fumes of London traffic have left their mark. I mean, I tried to air it whenever I was in London, but you know how decay can set in when a house isn’t lived in, Lettice.”

“Perhaps you have a favourite colour, Pheobe?” Lettice asks in an effort to gently coax the young girl into the conversation, but only silence follows. “We could paint it your favourite colour.”

“You like green, don’t you Pheobe dear?” Lady Gladys asks her niece encouragingly. “Like the plants you love so much.” When no reply is forthcoming, the older woman huffs in frustration. “Can’t you express an opinion for once, child?”

“Green.” Pheobe mumbles in assent as she looks as a vol-la-vent, golden brown and oozing glazed mushrooms with a sprig of greenery sticking from it is carefully and expertly slipped on to her place setting by the Caxton’s tall first footman.

“Sorry I’m late, dear Gladys!” comes a well enunciated male voice that, as it rings in her ears, strikes a familiar tone for Lettice. “I had terrible car trouble this afternoon coming up from Fontengil Park.”

Lettice looks up to the head of the table to see the tall and elegant figure of Sir John Nettleford-Hughes standing at Lady Gladys’ shoulder.

Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John is still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intends to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. As an eligible man in a time when such men are a rare commodity, with a vast family estate in Bedfordshire, houses in Mayfair, Belgravia and Pimlico and Fontengil Park in Wiltshire, quite close to the Glynes estate, 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. Luckily Selwyn rescued Lettice from the horror of having to entertain him, and Sir John left the ball early in a disgruntled mood with a much younger partygoer. Now, as he stands before Lady Gladys, Sir John oozes the confidence of male privilege that his sex, class and enormous wealth bestows, and he wears it every bit as well as the smart and well-cut tweed suit he is dressed in as he takes up his hostess’ hand and kisses it chivalrously.

“Please forgive me, dear lady.” he says sleekly as he lets his hostess’ hand go.

“Oh Nettie!” Gladys chortles. “There is nothing to forgive! Dickie Channon,” She indicates to Dickie sitting half way down the table. “Had car troubles today too. You’re here now, and that’s the important thing, and just in time for our first course.”

“Do I have time to change?” Sir John asks, eyeing the steaming vol-au-vents being set out before the gathered ensemble of diners. “I think your third footman is arranging for my valise to be taken up to my room.”

“Nonsense, Nettie! This is us!” laughs Lady Gladys. “You know we don’t stand on ceremony here.”

“Says the woman in a diamond tiara.”

“Your tweeds will be fine under the circumstances, Nettie.” Lady Gladys assures him. “Now, I’ve put you just three seats down from me,” She stands and indicates with a sweeping gesture over her niece’s halo of blonde ringlets to the still empty seat next to Lettice. “Next to Lettice Chetwynd, Eglantine Chetwynd the artist’s niece. Her family comes from Wiltshire, not far from your Fontengil Park. Perhaps you’ve come across the Chetwynds before?”

The rather leering smile Sir John gives Lettice as he looks over to her elicits a shudder from her.

“Why yes. I know the Chetwynds of Glynes quite well. In fact, I’ve even had the pleasure of Miss Chetwynd’s company before on several occasions.”

“Oh! What a splendid stroke of luck it was then, that I decided to put you two next to one another.” Lady Gladys beams as she claps her bejewelled hands in delight.

Slipping into his seat next to her, Sir John takes up Lettice’s glove clad right hand in his and draws it to his lips where he kisses it. “Miss Chetwynd.” he greets her. “Such a pleasure to see you again.”

“Sir John.” she replies, withdrawing her hand and discreetly rubbing the place where he kissed it with her napkin, out of sight, beneath the edge of the table.

As a mushroom vol-au-vent is expertly placed before Sir John, the pair start to eat their first course.

“I… I wasn’t aware that you were acquainted with Lady… err I mean, Gladys, Sir John.” Lettice remarks.

“What! Nettie?” Gladys says, obviously overhearing the commencement of their conversation. “Course I know Nettie! We’ve known each other for…” She releases a huff as she contemplates the decades. “Well for…”

“Shall we say, for ‘many a long summer’, Gladys.” Sir John says helpfully.

“Oh you flatterer you,” Lady Gladys waves one of her glittering diamond clad hands at Sir John in a kittenish fashion, giving her the ridiculous air of a pathetically youthy woman. “Quoting my own words back to me.”

When Lettice looks quizzically at Sir John, he smiles magnanimously at her. “It’s a quote from her first romance novel, ‘The Woodland Glade’.” he elucidates.

“Oh.” Lettice acknowledges him, her blue eyes widening a little.

“That’s how I know Gladys. A chance encounter at a mutual friend’s musical soirée in London started a…” Sir John pauses for a moment whilst he contemplates the right word. “A friendship, shall we say, that gave me access to her first manuscript.”

“Oh, don’t be coy, Nettie! Let’s be frank, since we are amongst friends and young people who aren’t hung up on sexual relations: we were in bed together and I read you an excerpt of it lying naked on my stomach whilst you used the small of my back for a fruit bowl, from which you ate grapes and a banana, as I recall.”

Lettice feels the hotness of a flush rise up her neck and filling her cheeks at the frank honesty of Gladys and her past relationship with Sir John. Quickly glancing around the dinner table, she doesn’t see anyone else particularly shocked by the admission, including Lady Gladys’ husband. A queasiness blooms in her stomach as she imagines the oily Sir John in a state of some disarray with their hostess and she shudders with repugnance.

“Please pardon Gladys’ honesty, Miss Chetwynd.” Sir John says kindly in a low voice, so as not to be overheard by their hostess again, reaching out and patting Lettice’s small hand comfortingly with his larger hand before politely withdrawing it. “She makes assumptions that everyone here is as liberal as she is, which is a terrible habit to have, I know. However, Gladys’ world revolves around Gladys, her experiences, and her ideas about life. She’s always been like that. No, let me assure you that whilst what she says is true, err… for the most part,” A blush reddens his own cheeks momentarily. “This all happened before she married her John. I’d hate for you to get the wrong impression of me, Miss Chetwynd.”

“And what impression might that be, Sir John?” Lettice whispers stiffly in reply.

“I know you judge me, based upon what you’ve heard about me,”

“That implies that I think of you.”

“Touché, my dear Miss Chetwynd. Regardless of whether I am at the front of your mind or not, you judge me, as you do others who drift in and out of your social sphere, based upon the idle gossip you’ve heard about me,”

“And what I’ve seen, Sir John, with my own two eyes. Don’t forget that I saw you leave my mother’s Hunt Ball in the company of Phylis Moncrief.”

“Well, possibly that too.” he acknowledges. “I can’t deny that I am a womaniser, so I won’t.”

“I suspect you rather revel in that reputation, Sir John.”

“Perhaps, Miss Chetwynd. I must confess that I do rather enjoy pursuing ladies younger than me, although I was younger when I met Gladys, and for my sins, we are similar in age. However, whatever presumptions you may make about me based upon my reputation, I won’t have you think that I carry on with married women, because I make it a rule not to do so. There are enough feckless young men out there only too happy to throw caution and convention to the wind and an equal number of foolish young women, bored with the confines and sanctity of marriage, to threaten and ruin a perfectly good one, all for a night of passion.” He shakes his head. “I won’t add to their number.”

“You surprise me, Sir John.” Lettice remarks, lowing her knife and fork to the edges of her plate as she takes up her glass of freshly poured sparkling champagne.

“Because I have moral scruples. Miss Chetwynd?”

“Yes.” Lettice admits frankly, taking a sip of her beverage.

“Well, I may not have many when it comes to relationships, but that is one of them.” Sir John looks down and cuts into the pastry casing of his vol-au-vent, scattering golden brown shards of pastry across the pristine edge of his plate.

“Is this why you are called, Nettie, Sir John? A nickname from those heady days of romance with our hostess?” Lettice nods to the place card in front of Sir John’s dinner setting upon which Nettie is written in Gladys’ romantic, looping copperplate. “I was expecting to be sitting next to a woman – Antoinette – not you, Sir John.”

“Yes.” Sir John laughs. “I suppose it must have been somewhat of a surprise when I arrived. It’s an easy assumption to make. Yes, Nettie is the nickname Gladys came up with for me, and since both her husband and I have the same given name, it makes things easier at these social gatherings of theirs to be known as Nettie. Gladys was living in Bloomsbury in her brother’s pied-à-terre when we met. Her brother was out living in India with his family.”

Lettice glances at Pheobe, but the fey girl seems withdrawn into her own thoughts as she nibbles at her vol-au-vent and doesn’t appear to have heard the mention of the father or the flat.

“She did know John at the time,” Sir John continues. “But had only just become his secretary, and there was no whiff of romance between the two. I helped fund her first novel after reading some of it. I’m a bit of a gambling man, as you may be aware, Miss Chetwynd, but only when I’m sure I’m onto a winning thing.”

“Most gamblers, whether skilled or hopeless at their art, would say the same, Sir John.”

“True,” Sir John chuckles a little awkwardly. “However, the passion that exuded from her words on the page told me that her novel would be a great success, and it was.” He takes a mouthful of vol-au-vent and then dabs the corners of his mouth as he chews. “And the rest, as they say, is history.”

“And her husband?”

“Well, I knew that Gladys’ and my relationship would only be a short lived one: a bright firework blazing in the night sky, but all too ephemeral. When I heard about the way she spoke of him, and saw the look on her face when she did, I knew our star was fading, so I finished it, leaving the path clear for the other Sir John, and Gladys and Nettie became good friends, and for her first two novels at least, good business partners.”

“I see.” Lettice remarks, chewing a mouthful of her vol-au-vent thoughtfully. “Well, I don’t think I can quite come at calling you Nettie, Sir John.”

“Try it.” Sir John says with a cheeky smirk. “You’ll never know until you try, Miss Chetwynd. Besides, whether you like it or not, you will have to call me, Nettie throughout this weekend.”

“And you don’t mind, Sir John?”

“Not at all, Miss Chetwynd. It’s a friendly nickname, with pleasant connotations, used amongst friends.”

“Are we friends, Sir John?”

“We could be, if you like, Miss Chetwynd.” he says suggestively, making Lettice shudder again.

“You said that I loathed and detested you, Sir John – hardly terms of friendship, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Ahh well.” Sir John clears his throat awkwardly. “Yes, well, ever since I knew you were coming to this weekend at Gossington, I’ve been thinking about the way we parted at Priscilla’s wedding.” He takes a sip of champagne. “I was angry with you, Miss Chetwynd, because you’d had your head turned by young Spencely.” He pauses for a moment. “I’m not proud to say this, but in the spirit of Gladys’ frank honesty, I’ll admit I was jealous.”

“Of me, Sir John?”

“Of Spencely and you, Miss Chetwynd. They say that a woman scorned in love is dangerous and should not be crossed. Well, I can say that the same can sometimes apply to men. I’m not used to being refused by young ladies the way you refused me, but then again you aren’t a money-grubbing chorus girl or a parvenu with social climbing pretentions, as seems to be my predilection when it comes to romantic encounters, Miss Chetwynd.”

“I’m pleased to say that I’m not, Sir John.”

“And I was a man scorned. I was spitting poison at you at Priscilla and George’s wedding. I’d blame the champagne I’d drunk, but there must be a seed planted and germinating for me to say to you the things I did that day, so I won’t pretend and try and hide behind a feeble excuse.”

“Well,” Lettice releases a sad sigh. “I thank you for your honesty and contriteness, Sir John.”

“Look, I really am sorry for what has happened to you and Spencley at the hands of Zinnia, Miss Chetwynd. No-one deserves a forced separation imposed upon them like that.”

“Well,” Lettice replies, focusing upon her plate and not engaging with Sir John. “You have every reason to gloat, Sir John. After all, you did try to warn me that Lady Zinnia is no-one to trifle with, and you were right. Look at Selwyn and I now.”

“I didn’t come to gloat, Miss Chetwynd. I genuinely am sorry for your plight, for plight it is, as there can be no other words to describe your situation at the hands of Zinnia’s perverseness.”

“Really, Sir John?” Lettice asks. “Not even an ounce of self-righteousness?”

“No, Miss Chetwynd. I genuinely mean what I say.”

“Well, thank you.” Lettice says, looking up into Sir John’s bright blue eyes and seeing a kindness in them that she has never seen before. She smiles at him. “I certainly wasn’t expecting that from you. You are full of surprises tonight… Nettie.”

“You’ll usually find John and Gladys’ weekend country house parties are full of surprises… Lettice.” Sir John says before taking a sip of his champagne and smiling back at her.

*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 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 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.

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

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

Contrary to what your eyes might tell you, this upper-class country house dinner party scene is actually made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures, some of which come from my own childhood.

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

The table is set for a lavish Edwardian dinner party of four courses when we are just witnessing the first course, as it is served, using cutlery, from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in the United Kingdom. The delicious and very realistic looking mushroom vol-au-vents on the plates also come from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. The russet and gilt edged china on the table and the sideboard against the far wall were made by the Dolls’ House Emporium. The red wine glasses, I bought them from a miniatures stockist on E-Bay. Each glass is hand blown using real glass. The white wine glasses and water glasses I have had since I was a teenager. Also spun from real glass, I acquired them from a high street stockist of doll house and miniature pieces. The central stylised Art Nouveau bowl containing Lady Glady’s red roses I acquired from an online stockist through E-Bay, whilst the roses also came from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. The silver Arts and Crafts water jugs and their silver trays, I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The central doily is made from very fine lace, which I have also had since I was a teenager, was acquired from the same high street stockist of doll house and miniature pieces as the wine and water glasses.

The walnut sideboard on the right-hand side of the fireplace is made by Babette’s Miniatures, who have been making miniature dolls’ furnishings since the late Eighteenth Century. The sideboard features ornate carvings, finials and a mirrored back. On it stand two hand painted oriental ginger jars which I acquired through Melody Jane’s Dolls House Suppliers in the United Kingdom. There is also ab small vase of primroses and an ornamental arrangement of fruit, both of which are delicate 1:12 artisan porcelain miniature ornaments made and painted by hand by ceramicist Ann Dalton. The tureen and gravy boat that matches the dinner service was made by the Dolls’ House Emporium. The water carafe is made of real spun glass. I have also had this piece since I was a teenager. It was acquired from the same high street stockist of doll house and miniature pieces at the same time as the wine and water glasses and the lace doily. The silver wine cooler has been made with great attention to detail, and comes from Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The De Rochegré champagne bottle in the wine cooler is an artisan miniatures and made of glass with a real foil wrapper around its neck. It and the various bottles of wine in the background are made with great attention to their readable labels by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.

The silver plates stuck up on the far wall and the silver vase on the demilune table came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom.

The tall Art Nouveau vase on the demilune table comes from the same online stockist as the squat bowl containing roses on the dining room table. The daffodils in the tall 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 Art Nouveau statue of the woman standing in front of the painting of cows fording a river was made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland. Based upon the statue ‘Leila’ by Hippolyte Francois Moreau, the French sculptor famous for his bronze statuettes of young women, it is very detailed. It was hand painted by me.

The oblong dining table I have had since I was a teenager, and it was acquired from the same high street stockist of doll house and miniature pieces as the wine and water glasses, carafe and lace doily. The Queen Anne dining chairs were all given to me as birthday and Christmas presents when I was a child.

The paintings hanging on the walls are all 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States. The wallpaper is William Morris’ ‘Poppies’ pattern, featuring stylised Art Nouveau poppies. William Morris papers and fabrics were popular in the late Victorian and early Edwardian period before the Great War.

The miniature Arts and Crafts rug on the floor is made by hand by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney.

An Invitation That Cannot be Refused by raaen99

© raaen99, all rights reserved.

An Invitation That Cannot be Refused

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 to the west of London, in nearby Buckinghamshire, at Dorrington House, a smart Jacobean manor house of the late 1600s built for a wealthy merchant, situated in High Wycombe, where Lettice’s elder sister, Lalage (known to everyone in the family by the diminutive Lally), resides with her husband Charles Lanchenbury and their three children, Harrold, Annabelle and baby Piers. Situated within walking distance of the market town’s main square, the elegant red brick house with its high-pitched roof and white painted sash windows still feels private considering its close proximity to the centre of the town thanks to an elegant and restrained garden surrounding it, which is enclosed by a high red brick wall.

Lettice is nursing a broken heart. Lettice’s beau, Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, had organised a romantic dinner at the Savoy* for he and Lettice to celebrate his birthday. However, when Lettice arrived, she was confronted not with the smiling face of her beau, but the haughty and cruel spectre of his mother, the Duchess of Walmsford, Lady Zinnia. Lady Zinnia, and Selwyn’s Uncle Bertrand had been attempting to marry him off to his cousin, 1923 debutante Pamela Fox-Chavers. Lady Zinnia had, up until that moment been snubbing Lettice, so Selwyn and Lettice arranged for Lettice to attend as many London Season events as possible where Selwyn and Pamela were also in attendance so that Lettice and Selwyn could spend time together, and at the same time make their intentions so well known that Lady Zinnia wouldn’t be able to avoid Lettice any longer. Zinnia is a woman who likes intrigue and revenge, and the revenge she launched upon Lettice that evening at the Savoy was bitterly harsh and painful. 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 comes back and doesn’t feel the same way about her as he did when he left, he agreed that he will marry Pamela, just as Bertrand and Lady Zinnia planned. If however, he still feels the same way about Lettice when he returns, Lady Zinnia agreed that she would concede and will allow him to marry her.

Leaving London by train that very evening, Lettice returned home to Glynes, where she stayed for a week, moving numbly about the familiar rooms of the grand Georgian country house, reading books from her father’s library distractedly to pass the time, whilst her father fed her, her favourite Scottish shortbreads in a vain effort to cheer her up. However, rather than assuage her broken heart, her father’s ministrations only served to make matters worse as she grew even more morose. It was from the most unlikely of candidates, her mother Lady Sadie, with whom Lettice has always had a fraught relationship, that Lettice received the best advice, which was to stop feeling sorry for herself and get on with her life: keep designing interiors, keep shopping and most importantly, keep attending social functions where there are plenty of press photographers. “You may not be permitted to write to Selwyn,” Lady Sadie said wisely. ‘But Zinnia said nothing about the newspapers not writing about your plight or your feelings on your behest. Let them tell Selwyn that you still love him and are waiting for him. They get the London papers in Durban just as much as they get them here, and Zinnia won’t be able to stop a lovesick and homesick young man flipping to the society pages as he seeks solace in the faces of familiar names and faces, and thus seeing you and reading your words of commitment to him that you share through the newspaper men. Tell them that you are waiting patiently for Selwyn’s return.”

Since then, Lettice has been trying to follow her mother’s advice and has thrown herself into the merry dance of London’s social round of dinners, dances and balls in the lead up to the festive season. However, even she could only keep this up for so long, and was welcomed home with open and loving arms by her family for Christmas and the New Year. On New Year’s Eve, Lally, sitting next to Lettice, suggested that she spend a few extra weeks resting and recuperating with her in Buckinghamshire before returning to London and trying to get on with her life. Lettice happily agreed, and since arriving at Dorrington House with her sister and brother-in-law, she has enjoyed being quiet, spending quality time with her niece and nephews in the nursery, strolling the gardens with her sister or simply curling up in a window seat and reading.

This morning we find ourselves in one of Dorrington House’s ten guest bedrooms: a pretty and cosy one overlooking the elegant rear garden in which Lettice has been accommodated since her arrival from Glynes. Lettice lies beneath the beautifully embroidered satin comforter, luxuriating in the joy of being allowed to have breakfast in bed at her sister’s house. If she were at home in Glynes, there is no way known that her mother would let her take her breakfast in her boudoir, never mind in bed, since Lettice is unmarried and therefore undeserving of such a privilege**. She sighs contentedly as she listens to the blackbirds and robins chirping in the greenery beyond the sash window of her comfortably appointed room. In the hearth a fire, lit for her by one of Lally’s lower house maids long before Lettice was awake, crackles cheerfully, its heat warming the room enough that Lettice may sit up against a nest of her pillows and have her bare arms exposed without feeling cold. In the distance she can hear the clock on the landing ticking away the minutes and hours of the day, and still further away the muffled sound of a childish squeal indicates that Lettice’s nephew and niece are awake and playing in the day nursery with their nanny. Lettice sighs again and stretches her legs beneath the covers, her left foot connecting with the wooden breakfast tray placed at the foot of the bed by Lally’s cook, Mrs. Sawyer, nudging it slightly, causing the breakfast china and the ornate Indian silver teapot on it to rattle in protest at being pushed out of the way. She picks up a current copy of Vogue that has been sent to her from London and silently peruses the latest frocks from Paris whilst she contemplates reaching down and taking up her breakfast tray to put on her lap to commence her breakfast, but just the thought of doing so seems like too much of an effort. So, she casts a desultory gaze over the newest designs by Jeanne Lanvin*** instead and dreams about dancing with Selwyn arrayed in such a gown.

As she admires a robe de style**** design in black with embroidered red poppies, Lettice’s morning daydreams are interrupted by a gentle tapping at her door.

Quickly tossing the copy of Vogue aside, Lettice snatches up her pale pink bed jacket trimmed in marabou feathers from the other side of the large bed, and drapes it across her bare shoulders and arms as the tapping begins for a second time. “Yes?” she asks as calmly as possible.

The door opens and Lally pokes her head around it. “It’s only me, Tice darling. May I come in?”

“Lally!” Lettice exclaims as she shuffles herself into a more upright position against the nest of pillows behind her. “Yes, of course! Do, do come in, darling.”

“Thank you.” Lally replies quietly, slipping into her sister’s room and closing the door behind her.

Lally looks around what she and Charles call the ‘Chinese Bedroom’ because of all the Eighteenth Century chinoiserie furnishings filling it, still unused to the best guest bedroom in the house being occupied. Traces of her little sister lie about everywhere. Her travelling set of brushes and a mirror sit on the dressing table’s surface, along with bottles of Lettice’s favourite perfumes and a selection of her cosmetics. A blue hatbox sits against the Chinese dressing screen with the hat Lettice wore to the wedding of Mary, Princess Royal***** to Viscount Lascelles in 1922 sitting atop it. Her peacock blue embroidered robe hangs from the end of the screen, whilst a row of dainty shoes sit just behind it, the latter obviously organised into neat order by one of the housemaids, since Lettice is not known for the organisation of her own wardrobe. The room is filled with the comforting fug of sleep intermixed with the scent of woodsmoke and roses brought in especially for Lettice from the Dorrington House greenhouse. And there, on the left side of the bed is Lettice, draped in her delicate bedjacket, her golden tresses spilling freely across the pillows behind her.

“I hope you don’t mind me popping in like this.” Lally says a little defensively. “Oh, you haven’t touched your breakfast.” She observes the undisturbed pot of tea, hard boiled egg, triangle of toast, square of butter from the home farm and orange from the Dorrington House orangery******. “Is everything alright?”

“Oh it’s fine, Lally, and yes,” Lettice lurches towards the breakfast tray, dragging it across the orange and yellow embroidered flowers of the counterpane towards her. “Breakfast is perfect. I was just about to start. I was just so engrossed in my latest copy of Vogue.”

“I see.” Lally purrs with a satisfied smile. “I see you received your post this morning then.”

“Yes, thank you Lally.” Lettice indicates with an open hand to the two copies of Vogue as well as a card sent down from London sitting atop a silver salver next to a silver letter opener near the raised mound of her feet beneath the covers.

“I received some post this morning too.” Lally admits, holding up a postcard featuring an idealised photographic scene of a couple in a donkey cart.

“Not a postcard from Charles, opining about me having breakfast abed, surely? He and Lord Lachenbury only left for India a few days ago.”

“Oh!” Lally says, laughing as she looks at the postcard. “No! No, Charles and Lord Lachenbury will still be en route abord the P&O*******. No, it will be ages before the arrive in Bombay.”

“Then what is it?” Lettice enquires.

“It’s an invitation for the two of us to attend a luncheon party at Mrs. Alsop’s down at Shalstone Cottage.”

“That sounds rather dull. A cottage? Who is Mrs. Alsop, Lally?”

“Head of the local branch of the WI********.” Lally pulls a face. “She’s a dreadful gossip, and rather a bore, I’m afraid. I can say you’re indisposed if you like, but as treasurer of the WI, I had better go.”

“Well,” Lettice says with a sigh, reaching down to the silver salver near the foot of the bed and snatching up the card from atop its envelope. “Even if I didn’t want to come, I’d go to support you, Lally. However, you may have to pass on my excuses anyway.” She holds the card out to her elder sister.

“What is it, Tice?”

“It’s from Aunt Egg.” Lettice wags the card in her sister’s direction. “Read it.”

Approaching the bed, Lally accepts the card from her sister. She smiles and snorts in amusement as she stares at the stylised gilt decorated Art Nouveau card featuring a woman in a long russet coloured tea gown facing away from the viewer, her old fashioned upswept hairstyle with its topknot clearly a feature of the design. “God bless Aunt Egg. Anyone would think she was living in 1904 not 1924.”

“I know.” agrees Lettice with a smile as she starts buttering her toast, the crisp scrape of her knife against the slice cutting through the air.

“She’s going to leave you all her jewellery, you know, Tice.” Lally says with a knowing look.

“Oh!” Lettice scoffs, waving her sister’s remark away dismissively with a wave of her hand. “She teases all of us with her flippant remarks about her jewellery. No, she plays her hand close to her chest.”

“But you’re the most like her, Tice: the most artistic. I’m just like all the other Chetwynd cousins – a rather pedestrian country squire’s wife who attends luncheons at the behest of the head of the WI – unlike you, who has her own successful interior design business and socialises with a smart and select London set.”

“Read the card, Lally.” Lettice hisses as she takes a bite of her toast.

Lally reads aloud, “’Dearest Lettice, I’m sorry to write like this, but I really can’t have you lolling about at Dorrington House, being pandered to, and mollycoddled by Lally.’” Lally drops her arms, the card still clenched tightly in her right hand. She stares wide eyes in astonishment at their aunt’s statement. “Mollycoddling! What a cheek, Aunt Egg!”

“Well,” Lettice indicates down to the breakfast tray across her lap as she gulps down a slice of toast. “Charles would doubtless agree with her. Let’s be honest, Lally, that whilst I have adored staying here with you, being feted, and waited upon hand and foot, you are pandering to me.”

“Well…” mutters Lally, blushing as she speaks.

“Keep reading.” Lettice insists as she takes up the silver teapot and pours hot tea into her dainty blue sprigged china teacup.

Lally takes up the card again. “Let’s see, where was I? Oh yes, ‘being pandered to, and mollycoddled by Lally. It’s time you stopped hiding away in the bucolic bosom of Buckinghamshire’,” Lally pauses again. “Aunt Egg does have a way with words, doesn’t she?” She sniggers and shakes her head.

“Keep reading!” Lettice insists.

“’And come home to London, where I will admit, you are missed by your Embassy Club coterie of friends. Only last week I heard from Cilla Carter Minnie Palmerston, and Margot Channon three times, asking when you were coming home. I simply must insist that you come back post haste. However, like me, I know you are a woman of your own will,’” Lally looks across at her sister as she sips her tea in bed. “She’s right there. The two of you are by far the most stubborn of the women in the Chetwynd family.”

“Keep reading, Lally!”

“’So, well aware of the fact that you won’t return solely upon my request, I have had to make arrangements to compel you out of your broken hearted stupor in the stultifying countryside and thrust you back into the beating heart of London society. I’ve managed to wrangle an invitation for you, and Dicke and Margot Channon, to attend one of Sir John and Lady Caxton’s amusing Friday to Monday long weekend parties at Gossington along with a host other notable Bright Young Things********. It will do you good to be with some people of your own age.’” Lally drops her arms again. “People your own age?” she blusters. “Does Aunt Egg suddenly think me ninety, rather than thirty five?”

“You know how she is, dear Lally.” She’s just trying to create a compelling reason for me to leave you and go back to London as she bids. Don’t take it personally.” Lettice implores as she takes another dainty bite of her toast. “Keep reading.”

“’The Channons will be expecting dinner at Cavendish Mews on Monday evening to discuss arrangements. Apparently, Dickie has enough money for petrol for the motor to be able to drive three of you up to Gossington! Will wonders never cease? Please wire, if indeed you can find a telegraph office in the wilds of Buckinghamshire, what train you will be arriving on at Victoria Station and I will arrange to collect you. With love, Aunt Egg.’”

“So you see, Lally darling, I’ll have to arrange a journey back to London.” Lettice says apologetically. “Perhaps you can drop me at High Wycombe railway station on your way to luncheon this afternoon, and then send Tipden back to fetch me after he drops you off at Mrs. Whatsit’s.”

“Mrs. Alsop.” Lally reiterates.

“Exactly!” Lettice sighs. “Quite right! By the time he’s back I’ll have sent a wire.”

“Well of course, Tipden and my car are at your disposal, Lettice darling,” Lally says in a disappointed voice. “But it really is too beastly of Aunt Egg to charge in and spoil our plans like this. I was arranging for us to visit Lady Verney********* at Claydon House********** in Aylesbury Vale whilst you were stopping with me. Oh well!” She sighs and raises her hands in despair. “I shall simply have to telephone her and cancel.”

“I’m sure you could still visit Lady Verney, even without me, Lally darling.”

“You’d like Lady Varney. She’s been a campaigner for girls’ education for decades now, and is really quite intelligent and independent.”

“Oh that is a pity, but I’m afraid it can’t be helped, Lally. An invitation from the Caxtons cannot be refused.”

“And who are Sir John and Lady Caxton?” Lally queries. “I don’t think I know them.”

“Oh, Sir John and Lady Gladys are very well known amongst the smarter bohemian set of London society for their amusing weekend parties at their Scottish country estate and enjoyable literary evenings in their Belgravia townhouse. Lady Gladys is a successful authoress in her own right and writes under the nom de plume of Madeline St John, so they attract a mixture of witty writers and artists mostly.”

“Oh!” Lally gasps. “So that’s who it is!”

“Who, Lally?”

“Aunt Egg mentioned to me when we were at Glynes over Christmas and New Year, that she was arranging something for you with a lady novelist. It must be this, Lady Gladys.”

“I suppose the artistic connection is how Aunt Egg knows the Caxtons, although, I didn’t actually know that they were acquainted.”

“Well she must be more than acquainted with them if Aunt Egg could,” Lally scans the message on the card in her aunt’s spidery cursive handwriting. “Wrangle you an invitation, Tice darling.” Lally sighs disappointedly before snatching the half eaten slice of toast off her sister’s plate and takes a large bite from it. After swallowing her mouthful she continues, “I don’t see why, if she has organised an invitation for Dickie and Margot Channon, why she couldn’t have arranged one for me. She knows Charles has set sail for India and that I’ll be alone without you.”

“You’re hardly alone, Lally darling. What about Mrs. Alsop?” Lettice says with a cheeky grin as she takes back what is left of her triangle of toast.

“Oh, ha-ha!” replies Lally sarcastically.

“But in all seriousness Lally, you aren’t alone here. There are Nettie Fisher and Alice Newsome, and all those other lovely friends of yours who have been so hospitable to me since I arrived. They are all quite wonderful.”

“I suppose.” Lally replies deflatedly.

“Well, this is all rather thrilling!” Lettice says excitedly, pushing aside her breakfast tray and throwing back the covers with a sudden surge of gusto. “The Caxtons are quite eccentric characters, especially Lady Gladys, and from what I’ve read of them, they are refreshingly different and amusing. Thus, there is never a shortage of guests for their Friday to Monday house parties, and invitations to Gossington are a highly desirable, yet all too rare commodity. Margot will be beside herself!”

“Well then, however sad it is, I shall bid you a fond farewell, dear Tice.”

Lettice climbs out of bed and embraces her sister lovingly, inhaling her familiar scent of Yardley’s English Lavender. “Don’t worry, Lally darling.” She kisses her affectionately on the left cheek. “I’ll come back down again as soon as this weekend with the Caxtons is over.”

“I bet you won’t, Tice!” Lally retorts resignedly. She holds her sister at arm’s length, taking in the sudden vitality that has put a sparkle back into her eyes and roses into her cheeks. “This will be the beginning of a welcome distraction for you.” Then she adds sadly, “And one that is far better than any remedy I can provide you with. Best you follow Aunt Egg’s instructions and go back to London.”

“Oh thank you, Lally Darling!” Lettice cries joyfully, throwing her hands around her elder sister’s neck and clinging tightly to her. “You are a brick!”

“Yes, you’ll get all of Aunt Egg’s jewellery, Tice darling. You are her favourite by far.”

*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.

**Before the Second World War, if you were a married Lady, it was customary for you to have your breakfast in bed, because you supposedly don't have to socialise to find a husband. Unmarried women were expected to dine with the men at the breakfast table, especially on the occasion where an unmarried lady was a guest at a house party, as it gave her exposure to the unmarried men in a more relaxed atmosphere and without the need for a chaperone.

***The House of Lanvin was named after its founder Jeanne Lanvin in 1889. Jeanne Lanvin was born in 1867 and opened her first millinery shop in rue du Marche Saint Honore in 1885. Jeanne made clothes for her daughter, Marie-Blanche de Polignac, which began to attract the attention of a number of wealthy people, who requested copies for their own children. Soon, she was making dresses for their mothers, which were included in the clientele of her new boutique on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. In 1909, Jeanne Lanvin joined the Syndicat de la Couture, which marked her formal status as a couturière. The Lanvin logo was inspired by a photograph taken for Jeanne Lanvin as she attended a ball with her daughter wearing matching outfits in 1907. From 1923, the Lanvin empire included a dye factory in Nanterre. In the 1920s, Lanvin opened shops devoted to home decor, menswear, furs and lingerie, but her most significant expansion was the creation of Lanvin Parfums SA in 1924. "My Sin", an animalic-aldehyde based on heliotrope, was introduced in 1925, and is widely considered a unique fragrance. It would be followed by her signature fragrance, Arpège, in 1927, said to have been inspired by the sound of her daughter's practising her scales on the piano.

****The ‘robe de style’ was introduced by French couturier Jeanne Lanvin around 1915. It consisted of a basque bodice with a broad neckline and an oval bouffant skirt supported by built in wire hoops. Reminiscent of the Spanish infanta-style dresses of the Seventeenth Century and the panniered robe à la française of the Eighteenth Century they were made of fabric in a solid colour, particularly a deep shade of robin’s egg blue which became known as Lanvin blue, and were ornamented with concentrated bursts of embroidery, ribbons or ornamental silk flowers.

*****Mary, Princess Royal and Countess of Harewood (1897 – 1965), was the only daughter of King George V and Queen Mary. She was the sister of Kings Edward VIII and George VI, and aunt of Queen Elizabeth II. She married Viscount Lascelles on the 28th of February 1922 in a ceremony held at Westminster Abbey. The bride was only 24 years old, whilst the groom was 39. There is much conjecture that the marriage was an unhappy one, but their children dispute this and say it was a very happy marriage based upon mutual respect. The wedding was filmed by Pathé News and was the first royal wedding to be featured in fashion magazines, including Vogue.

******An orangery or orangerie was a room or a dedicated building on the grounds of fashionable residences of Northern Europe from the Seventeenth to the Nineteenth Centuries where orange and other fruit trees were protected during the winter, as a very large form of greenhouse or conservatory.

*******In 1837, the Peninsular Steam Navigation Company first secured a Government contract for the regular carriage of mail between Falmouth and the Peninsular ports as far as Gibraltar. The company, established in 1835 by the London shipbroking partnership of Brodie McGhie Willcox (1786-1861) and Arthur Anderson (1792-1868) and the Dublin Ship owner, Captain Richard Bourne (1880-1851) had begun a regular steamer service for passengers and cargo between London, Spain and Portugal using the 206 ton paddle steamer William Fawcett. The growing inclination of early Twentieth Century shipping enterprises to merge their interests, and group themselves together, did not go unnoticed at P&O, which made its first major foray in this direction in 1910 with the acquisition of Wilhelm Lund’s Blue Anchor Line. By 1913, with a paid-up capital of some five and half million pounds and over sixty ships in service, several more under construction and numerous harbour craft and tugs to administer to the needs of this great fleet all counted, the P&O Company owned over 500,000 tons of shipping. In addition to the principal mail routes, through Suez to Bombay and Ceylon, where they divided then for Calcutta, Yokohama and Sydney, there was now the ‘P&O Branch Line’ service via the Cape to Australia and various feeder routes. The whole complex organisation was serviced by over 200 agencies stationed at ports throughout the world. At the end of 1918, the Group was further strengthened by its acquisition of a controlling shareholding in the Orient Line and in 1920, the General Steam Navigation Company, the oldest established sea-going steamship undertaking, was taken over. In 1923 the Strick Line was acquired too and P&O became, for a time, the largest shipping company in the world. With the 1920s being the golden age of steamship travel, P&O was the line to cruise with. P&O had grown into a group of separate operating companies whose shipping interests touched almost every part of the globe. By March 2006, P&O had grown to become one of the largest port operators in the world and together with P&O Ferries, P&O Ferrymasters, P&O Maritime Services, P&O Cold Logistics and its British property interests, the company was, itself, acquired by DP World for three point three billion pounds.

*******The Women's Institute (WI) is a community-based organization for women in the United Kingdom, Canada, South Africa and New Zealand. The movement was founded in Stoney Creek, Ontario, Canada, by Erland and Janet Lee with Adelaide Hoodless being the first speaker in 1897. It was based on the British concept of Women's Guilds, created by Rev Archibald Charteris in 1887 and originally confined to the Church of Scotland. From Canada the organization spread back to the motherland, throughout the British Empire and Commonwealth, and thence to other countries. Many WIs belong to the Associated Country Women of the World organization. Each individual WI is a separate charitable organisation, run by and for its own members with a constitution agreed at national level but the possibility of local bye-laws. WIs are grouped into Federations, roughly corresponding to counties or islands, which each have a local office and one or more paid staff.

********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.

*********Lady Margaret Maria Verney, was an English-born Welsh educationist. Verney was the daughter of Lady Sarah Elizabeth Amherst and her husband John Hay-Williams, 2nd Baronet Williams of Bodelwyddan. On the death of her father in 1859, she inherited his house "Rhianfa", on Anglesey, which she retained as a family home. In 1868 she married Sir Edmund Hope Verney, MP, then merely Captain Verney. She became a leading campaigner for girls' education in Britain. In 1894 she became a member of the Statutory Council of the University of Wales, holding the position until 1922.

**********Claydon House is a country house in the Aylesbury Vale, Buckinghamshire, England, near the village of Middle Claydon. It was built between 1757 and 1771 and is now owned by the National Trust. Claydon has been the ancestral home of the Verney family since 1620. The present Verney family, are the descendants of Sir Harry Calvert, 2nd Baronet who inherited the house in 1827. He was very tenuously related to the Verneys only through marriage. However, he adopted the name Verney on inheriting. The house was given to the National Trust in 1956 by Sir Ralph Verney, 5th Baronet. His son, Sir Edmund Verney, 6th Baronet, a former High Sheriff of Buckinghamshire, lived in the house until 2019.

This cosy boudoir 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:

The mahogany stained breakfast tray came from an English stockist of 1:12 artisan miniatures whom I found on E-Bay. On its surface the crockery, serviettes with their napkin rings came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. The teapot also came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop. 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 cutlery came from an online stockist of miniatures. The orange comes from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The egg cup come from Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The egg in the egg cup is amongst some of the smallest miniatures I own, and came from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The square of butter in the glass dish has been made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination.

The two copies of Vogue, the Art Nouveau style card and the addressed and postmarked envelope on the silver tray are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Ken Blythe was famous in miniature collectors’ circles mostly for the miniature books that he made: all being authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection. However, he did not make books exclusively. He also made other small pieces like the card and envelope. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make these miniature artisan pieces. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago and through his estate courtesy of the generosity of his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

The small silver letter salver is a 1:12 artisan miniature piece of sterling silver. The artist is unknown. Being made of silver, it is very heavy for its size. The sterling silver letter opener is made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures.

Lettice’s comforter is in fact a piece of beautiful vintage embroidered sari silk from the 1970s, laid over a box to give the appearance of the corner of a bed. I even put my fingers under the covers to give the impression of a body as you can see in the bottom right-hand corner of the image, where the comforter is raised slightly.

Lettice’s elegant straw hat sitting on the French blue hatbox in the background is decorated with an oyster satin ribbon, three feathers and an ornamental flower. The maker for this hat is unknown, but I acquitted it through Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniatures in the United Kingdom. 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism as this one is are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable.

The blue hatbox in the background on which the hat sits is a 1:12 artisan miniature and made of blue kid leather which is so soft to the touch, and small metal handles, clasps and ornamentation. It has been purposely worn around their edges to give it age. It also comes from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniatures in England.

The Chinese screen is made of black japanned wood and features hand painted soapstone panels, so it is very heavy. I picked it up at an auction some twenty years ago.

The dressing table featuring fine marquetry banding appears to have been made by the same unknown artisan who made the round table. This piece I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop. The brush on its surface is part of a set painted by miniature artisan Victoria Fasken, and was also acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop. The vase on the dressing table surface is a 1950s Limoges piece. The vase is stamped with a small green Limoges mark to the bottom. I found this treasure in an overcrowded cabinet at the Mill Markets in Geelong. The pink roses it contains came from beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

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

Sunset in the meadow by J16R9 - Éclectisme

© J16R9 - Éclectisme, all rights reserved.

Sunset in the meadow

A Birthday Afternoon Tea for Aunt Gwendoline by raaen99

© raaen99, all rights reserved.

A Birthday Afternoon Tea for Aunt Gwendoline

Wednesday 20th of August, 1952

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

* * * * *

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

PA281911 by simonrwilkinson

© simonrwilkinson, all rights reserved.

PA281911

Kingston Lacy, National Trust, near Wimborne Minster, Dorset. Left: Marriage salver
Walker and Tolhurst 1896 Centre: Salver
John Carter (1748 - 1817) 1773 Right: Marriage salver 1895
Charles Boyton

A Surprise Guest at Dinner by raaen99

© raaen99, all rights reserved.

A Surprise Guest at Dinner

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

Tonight however we have headed east of Cavendish Mews, down through St James’, past Trafalgar Square and down The Strand to one of London’s most luxurious and fashionable hotels, The Savoy*, where, surrounded by mahogany and rich red velvet, gilded paintings and extravagant floral displays, Lettice is having dinner with the son of the Duke of Walmsford, Selwyn Spencely to help celebrate his birthday. The pair have made valiant attempts to pursue a romantic relationship since meeting at Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie’s, Hunt Ball. Yet things haven’t been easy, their relationship moving in fits and starts, partially due to the invisible, yet very strong influence of Selwyn’s mother, Lady Zinnia, the current Duchess of Walmsford. Although Lettice has no solid proof of it, she is quite sure that Lady Zinnia does not think her a suitable match for her eldest son and heir. From what she has been told, Lettice also believes that Lady Zinnia has tried matchmaking Selwyn unsuccessfully with his cousin Pamela Fox-Chavers. In an effort to prove that they are serious about being together, Selwyn suggested at a dinner in the self-same Savoy dining room a few months ago, that be seen together about town, and the best way to do that is to be seen at the functions and places that will be popular because they are part of the London Season. Taking that approach, the pair have discarded discretion, and have been seen together at many different occasions and their photograph has graced the society pages of all the London newspapers time and time again.

Lettice strides with the assured footsteps of a viscount’s daughter as she walks beneath the grand new Art Deco portico of the Savoy and the front doors are opened for her by liveried doormen. She still gets a thrill at being so open about her relationship with Selwyn amidst all the fashionable people populating the Savoy dining room, especially after the pair have been very discreet about their relationship for the past year.

Lettice is ushered into the grand dining room of the Savoy, a space brilliantly illuminated by dozens of glittering electrified chandeliers cascading down like fountains from the high ceiling above. Beneath the sparkling light, men in white waistcoats and women a-glitter with jewels and bugle bead embroidered frocks are 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 to a table for two in the midst of the grand dining salon, but Lettice stops dead in her tracks on the luxurious Axminister carpet when she sees someone other than Selwyn awaiting for her at the white linen covered table.

“Surprise.” a cool female voice enunciates, the single word lacking the usual joyful lilt when spoken. “Miss Chetwynd, we finally meet.”

Seated at the table is a figure Lettice recognises not only from old editions of her mother’s copies of The Lady** and Horse and Hound***, but from a more recent social engagement, when she attended the Royal Horticultural Society’s Great Spring Show**** in May. Her pale white face and calculating dark eyes appraise Lettice coldly as she stands, frozen to the floor.

“Lady Zinnia!” Lettice gasps with an involuntary shiver, before quickly recovering her manners and dropping an elegant curtsey. “Your Grace.”

“How very clever of you to recognise me, my dear.” Lady Zinnia replies with a proud smile that bears no warmth towards Lettice in it. “Please, do join me, won’t you? I was just arranging for some caviar to be served upon your arrival. You can serve the caviar now that my guest is here.”

“Very good, Your Grace.” the waiter answers with deference.

As Lettice allows herself, as if sleepwalking, to take her place adjunct to the Duchess of Walmsford with the assistance of the waiter withdrawing and pushing in her chair for her, she takes in the mature woman’s elegant figure. Dressed in a strikingly simple black evening gown adorned with shimmering black bugle beads with satin and net sleeves, her only jewellery is a long rope of perfect white pearls. Her careful choice of a lack of adornment only serves to draw attention to her glacially beautiful features. Her skin, pale and creamy, is flawless and her cheekbones are high. Her dark wavy cascades of hair only betrays her maturity by way of a single streak of white shooting from her temple, but even this is strikingly elegant as it leaves a silvery trail as it disappears into the rest of her almost blue black tresses. Her dark sloe blue eyes pierce Lettice to the core.

“You know, you’re even more beautiful in the flesh than you are in the newspapers my dear Miss Chetwynd,” begins Lady Zinnia. “Although I can still see beneath that polished, cosmopolitan chic exterior of yours, the wild bucolic child of the counties who dragged my son through the muddy hedgerows back before the war.”

“And I can still see the angry mother that bundled Selwyn away.” replies Lettice.

“Touché, my dear.” Lady Zinnia says with a slight smile curling up the corners of her thin lips. “I’m pleased that I left such a lasting impression upon you.”

“I was expecting to have dinner with Selwyn this evening, Your Grace.” Lettice says, deciding that there is no point in bartering barbs thinly disguised as pleasantries with the hostile duchess.

“Oh, I know you were, Miss Chetwynd, but I’m afraid that there was a slight change of plans.” Lady Zinnia answers mysteriously. “Oh, and I think we can dispense with the formalities. Lady Zinnia will be quite satisfactory.”

“A change of plans, Your Gr… Lady Zinnia?”

“Yes,” She chuckles quietly as she reaches down into her lap below the linen tablecloth and fumbles about for something. “So I will have to do, I’m afraid.” She withdraws a Moroccan leather case with her initials tooled on its front in ornate gilded lettering. “I know you don’t partake, but do you mind if I smoke, Miss Chetwynd?” She depresses a clasp in the side and it opens to reveal a full deck of thin white cigarettes. “It’s not so much of a taboo as it once was for a woman to smoke in public.”

“Feel free to catch on fire, Lady Zinnia.” Lettice replies as the older woman withdraws a silver lighter from the clutch purse she must have on her lap.

“Oh how deliciously droll, my dear Miss Chetwynd.” Lady Zinnia replies, apparently unruffled by Lettice’s own hostile barb. “Did you read that line in Punch****?”

“Where is Selwyn, Lady Zinnia?” Lettice asks, leaning forward, unable to keep the vehemence out of her voice.

“I’m afraid that my son,” She emphasises the last two words with heavy gravitas. “Had to go away quite suddenly, Miss Chetwynd.” Lady Zinnia screws a cigarette in an unconcerned fashion into a small amber holder with a gold end.

“Go away?”

“Yes, Miss Chetwynd.” She looks directly at Lettice with her piercing stare, as if she were pinning a delicate butterfly to a mounting board with a sharp pin. “He was suddenly offered an opportunity to showcase his architectural panache in a place far more accepting of this preferred new modernist style he favours than London ever will.”

“Where?”

“Durban.” Lady Zinnia answers matter-of-factly before placing the cigarette holder to her lips and lighting the cigarette dangling from it with her silver lighter.

“Durban!” Lettice gasps. “As in, South Africa?”

“I’m glad to see you know your geography, Miss Chetwynd.” Lady Zinnia says as she withdraws the cigarette holder from her lips and exhales an elegant plume of acrid silver grey smoke which tumbles out over itself. “Your father didn’t waste the money he spent on your expensive education.” She sighs with boredom. “Yes, Durban in South Africa.”

“But he didn’t indicate any of this to me.” Lettice mutters in disbelief.

“Oh, it was very sudden, Miss Chetwynd, and he hadn’t long to make up his mind.” the Duchess replies cooly. “As I indicated, it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and they seldom come around, as I’m sure you know only too well yourself, Miss Chetwynd, being the successful young interior designer that you are.”

Lettice silently presses the book of architecture sitting on the chair at her side that she bought at Mayhew’s****** just a few weeks ago for Selwyn for his birthday, wrapped in bright paper and tied with a gayly coloured ribbon by herself.

“He really had no choice but to leap at the chance.” continues Lady Zinnia.

“He would never have gone without saying goodbye to me first.” Lettice insists.

“You’d be amazed what I can make people do, Miss Chetywnd.” Lady Zinnia replies threateningly and then takes another drag on her cigarette, before blowing out a fresh plume of smoke. “Even my own beloved son.”

“You?” Lettice’s eyes, glistening with tears that threaten to burst forth, growing wide in shock. “You did this?”

“Well, let’s be honest, shall we? I really had no choice, Miss Chetwynd.” Lady Zinnia replies. “No doubt you will despise me for it, but when you reach my age, my dear, you realise that you cannot be friends with everyone in this life. Besides,” she goes on, taking another drag on her cigarette, the paper crackling slightly as her cheeks draw inwards. “You cannot blame me entirely, when you yourself are at least partially to blame for this, Miss Chetwynd.”

“Me?” Lettice splutters hotly, her dainty hands clenching in anger at the older woman’s accusation. “How do you come to that conclusion?”

“Well, if you hadn’t blundered blithely into my son’s life, spoiling all my well laid plans,” Her dark eyes widen, increasing her look of vehemence towards Lettice. “There would be no need for him to go, now would there, Miss Chetwynd?”

“Durban. Durban!” Lettice keeps repeating hollowly.

“Yes, it’s rather a lovely place: beautiful sunny weather this time of year, although it a little out of the way, I must confess.” Lady Zinnia smiles at her own harsh amusement. “Perhaps when you one day get married, your husband will take you there for your honeymoon.”

Lettice looks with vehemence across the table at her companion, her view of her features slightly blurred by the tears in her eyes. “Yes, Selwyn can show me the buildings he designed during his stay there.” she replies with determination.

“Bravo, Miss Chetwynd.” Lady Zinnia rests her almost spent cigarette in the black marble ashtray she has been provided with by the Savoy staff and quietly slowly claps her hands, her white elbow length gloves muffling the sound. “Such spirited words. I must admire your pluck. No wonder my dear Selwyn is attracted to you. He is determined to create his own world, against social conventions too.”

Just at that moment, two waiters approach their table. One carries a silver ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne and two long crystal champagne flutes, whilst the other bears an ornate silver tray upon which stand a fan of biscuits, a plate of lemon slices and a bowl of glistening, jewel like caviar.

“Shall I pour, Your Grace?” the waiter with the champagne asks as he places the ice bucket on the edge of the table.

“Oh yes, please do!” enthuses Lady Zinnia jovially. “We are in a celebratory mood tonight, aren’t we Miss Chetwynd?” She does not even bother to look at Lettice as she speaks, and Lettice does not reply as her head sinks.

“May I be so bold as to ask what Your Grace is celebrating?” the waiter asks politely.

“Indeed you may,” replies Lady Zinnia. “My son is going to Durban for a year to design beautiful homes for South African families. He set sail this morning for Cape Town, and we are wishing him every success.”

“Congratulations to His Grace, Your Grace.” the waiter says as the cork in the champagne bottle pops and he pours sparkling golden effervescent champagne into the two glasses.

“Thank you!” Lady Zinnia replies, taking up her glass. “Well, Miss Chetwynd, shall we toast Selwyn’s success?”

She holds her glass up, and for appearance’s sake before the two waiters and the other guests of the Savoy dining room surreptitiously watching them from the nearby tables, Lettice picks up her own glass and connects it with the Duchess’, but she does not smile as she does so.

“Well, I don’t know about you, Miss Chetwynd, but I’m famished.”

Lady Zinnia proceeds to select a biscuit which she places on her gilt edged white plate. She places a small scoop of sticky black caviar on it and tops it with a thin slice of lemon. Lettice does the same, but unlike Lady Zinnia, she does not attempt to eat anything on her plate.

Once the pair of waiters have retreated, Lettice turns back to Lady Zinnia and asks, “Why do you dislike me so as a prospective wife for your son, Lady Zinnia?” She shakes her head. “I make him happy. He makes me happy. I don’t understand.”

“No,” the duchess releases a bitter chuckle. “I don’t suppose you do.”

“What’s wrong with me? I come from a good family. My father’s estate is still quite successful. Unlike many other estates, Glynes is still turning a profit year on year. I’m well educated, like you are yourself.”

“I don’t think you are entirely unsuitable, Miss Chetwynd,” Lady Zinnia concedes, eyeing her young companion with a fresh look of consideration. “Although I would prefer Selwyn to pick a girl from a more notable linage.”

“We can trace our lineage back to Tudor times.”

“And mine can be traced back to the Norman Conquest.”

“Then why did you send him to my mother’s Hunt Ball in the first place, Lady Zinnia?”

“Well, I only sent Selwyn as my emissary to support dear Sadie. I must confess that I never really had a lot of time for your mother. I’d hardly call her a friend: more of a polite acquaintance. She prattles on, like so many other women of our generation, about pointless, meaningless things which I find fearfully tiresome.” She sighs. “Ahhh… but I do have time for your father. He was always very witty and he believed in the emancipation of women, a cause we had in common. He wasted his intelligence on someone as blinkered and old fashioned like your mother,” She sighs again. “However, that was the decision he made. So, when Sadie sent an invitation to her first Hunt Ball since before the war, I didn’t want to attend myself and be stuck with her idle gossip, but I did want to support her in some way, on account of your dear father, so I sent Selwyn instead. I didn’t realise that she was using the occasion to attempt to find you a husband.” She pauses and takes a dainty bite out of the caviar covered biscuit. “If I had known, I would never have sent Selwyn. I have my own plans for him.”

“Pamela?” Lettice asks quietly.

“Yes. Selwyn told me that he had shared with you the plans that his Uncle Bertrand and I had made to match Pamela and him, thus uniting our two great families.”

“Selwyn will never marry her, Lady Zinnia. He doesn’t love her.” Lettice hisses quietly.

“Temper, temper, Miss Chetwynd.” Lady Zinnia cautions in reply. “As I said before, you would be amazed what I have made people do.”

“And Pamela doesn’t love him either.” adds Lettice.

“And that is a problem, even I must admit to. One reluctant party is one thing, but two is quite another.”

“She’s met a very nice banker’s son.”

“Yes, I know, my dear - Jonty Knollys.”

Lettice laughs bitterly. “Of course you know. You seem to have spies everywhere.”

Ignoring her remark, Lady Zinnia carries on, “So you see my dear Miss Chetwynd, I do not have anything against you perse, but you have been rather a fly in Bertrand’s and my ointment. When I saw you with your friend at the Great Spring Show, I knew you were going to be trouble, and when Bertrand told me that he and Rosamund met you at the Henley Regatta, and Rosamund told me that she had observed that there were little intimacies exchanged between the two of you, I knew that with Pamela taking an interest in young Mr. Knollys and Bertrand willing to break his and my long laid plans because Knollys is equally as wealthy as the Spencelys are, I had to step in to separate you two.”

“But why, Lady Zinnia?”

“As I said, I would prefer Selwyn to make a more advantageous match with a girl from a family not unlike that with the lineage and solid financial background of the Spencelys. Mr. Knollys may not have the lineage, but he does have the money to support Pamela handsomely, and she will cultivate enough social connections that people will overlook her husband’s lack of them. However, I am not without some understanding of the human heart, and I do admire a woman with spirit who is well educated and can stand her own ground, so I made a pact with Selwyn.”

“A pact?”

“Yes. I told him that if he went away for a year, a year during which he agreed neither to see, nor correspond with you, if he comes back and doesn’t feel the same way about you as he did when he left, he agreed that he will marry Pamela, just as Bertrand and I planned. If however, he still feels the same way about you when he returns, I agreed that I would concede and will allow him to marry you.”

“But if you knew that Lord Fox-Chavers was wavering towards agreeing to a match between Jonty Knollys and Pamela…”

“Aha, but Selwyn doesn’t, and now that he has made this agreement with me, even if you wrote to him, he will not break our pact and he won’t read your letters. He gave me his solemn promise, and he forfeits his right to marry you if he breaks it. Besides, I have made Bertrand make the same pact with Pamela.”

Lettice shakes her head in disbelief at what Lady Zinnia is saying between mouthfuls of caviar. “Why have you done this? All you are doing is making Selwyn, Pamela, Jonty and I miserable.” Lettice finally asks in exasperation. “If you love Selwyn, if you don’t really dislike me, why are you putting the pair of us through such pain unless you are an exceedingly perverse individual? I don’t understand your motives.”

“Perhaps I am perverse.” chortles Lady Zinnia. “I must confess, I actually quite enjoy being a little perverse. It’s really quite simple my dear Miss Chetwynd, I don’t want my son marrying an infatuation. I nearly made the same mistake and married for love, and I can tell you that if I had, I would not be in as advantageous a position socially or financially today. I want Selwyn to have a clear head before he proposes marriage, and I want him to follow the course I have firmly had set out for the last twenty years. I cannot let something as irritating as the first flushes of young love ruin my well laid plans.” She takes another bite of her caviar and after finishing her mouthful she continues, “Rest assured Miss Chetwynd that however perverse you may think me, I am as much a woman of my word as my son is of his. If he comes back from Durban in a year and he tells me that he still loves you as deeply and passionately that he wants to marry you, I shan’t stand in his way.” She takes out another cigarette from her case and screws it into her cigarette holder. “However, a year is an eternity for the flames of love, however strong you may think they are. A year is more than adequate time for it to be snuffed out and extinguished.” She smiles meanly as she lights her cigarette. Blowing out another plume of cascading grey smoke she concludes, “Don’t imagine for one moment that Selwyn will want to marry you upon his return. He will be a changed man: changed for the better I hope, and free of the shackles of foolish youthful love.” She spits the last word like it is something distasteful. “If I were you, I’d seek another suitor to marry you within the next year. It will help you save face and avoid unnecessary embarrassment.”

Lettice feels the grand Savoy dining room swimming about her as she tried to take in everything Lady Zinnia says. Without even saying a word in goodbye, she manages to raise herself out of her seat and begins to wend her way between the tables of diners, some of whom notice her elegant figure as she slips silently, unsteadily past. Never once does she look back. Never once does she allow her emotions to break free as her footsteps quicken, as she pushes more urgently past the elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen milling about the room. It is only when, after what feels like a lifetime, she reaches the portico of the Savoy and she feels the cool air of the London evening on her cheeks that she allows the tears to fall, and down they cascade, like a dam that burst its banks, in an endless pair of rivulets.

*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.

***Horse and Hound is the oldest equestrian weekly magazine of the United Kingdom. Its first edition was published in 1884. The magazine contains horse industry news, reports from equestrian events, veterinary advice about caring for horses, and horses for sale.

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

*****Punch, or The London Charivari was a British weekly magazine of humour and satire established in 1841 by Henry Mayhew and wood-engraver Ebenezer Landells. Historically, it was most influential in the 1840s and 1850s, when it helped to coin the term "cartoon" in its modern sense as a humorous illustration. From 1850, Sir John Tenniel (most famous for his illustrations for Lewis Carroll’s “Alice in Wonderland” and “Through the Looking Glass”, was the chief cartoon artist at the magazine for over fifty years. After the 1940s, when its circulation peaked, it went into a long decline, finally closing in 1992. It was revived in 1996, but closed again in 2002.

******A. H. Mayhew was once one of many bookshops located in London’s Charring Cross Road, an area still famous today for its bookshops, perhaps most famously written about by American authoress Helene Hanff who wrote ’84, Charing Cross Road’, which later became a play and then a 1987 film starring Anne Bancroft and Anthony Hopkins. Number 56. Charing Cross Road was the home of Mayhew’s second-hand and rare bookshop. Closed after the war, their premises is now the home of Any Amount of Books bookshop.

Fun things to look for in this tableau:

The caviar petit fours and 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 bowl of caviar and the two champagne flutes comes from Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The two slightly scalloped white gilt plates and the wonderful creamy white roses in the vase on the table come from Beautifully handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The cutlery and the lemon I acquired through Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. The lemon slices I acquired through an online miniature stockist of miniatures on E-Bay. The silver champagne cooler on the table is made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The bottle of champagne itself is hand made from glass and is an artisan miniature made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The bottle is De Rochegré champagne, identified by the careful attention paid to recreating the label in 1:12 scale.

The two 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.

Salver 243-365 (16-5722) by ♔ Georgie R

© ♔ Georgie R, all rights reserved.

Salver 243-365 (16-5722)

This trophy was presented to the winner of the beginners' class at the Wealden Postcard Club. It could only be won once as the winner proceeded to the advanced class. I won it in 2014 but that was the last year in which the competition was held and since then the Club has been disbanded so I got to keep the trophy.

The Our Daily Challenge group has chosen Mirror today.

A Discarded Warning by raaen99

© raaen99, all rights reserved.

A Discarded Warning

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My behaviour, Sir John?”

“Your deliberate avoidance of me.” he elucidates.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And do you know why that is?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pamela Fox-Chavers?”

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

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

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

“But he barely knows her.”

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

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

“And so it is.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

**Gunter and Company were London caterers and ball furnishers with shops in Berkley Square, Sloane Street, Lowndes Street and New Bond Street. They began as Gunter’s Tea Shop at 7 and 8 Berkley Square 1757 where it remained until 1956 as the business grew and opened different premises. In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries Gunter's became a fashionable light eatery in Mayfair, notable for its ices and sorbets. Gunter's was considered to be the wedding cake makers du jour and in 1889, made the bride cake for the marriage of Queen Victoria’s granddaughter, Princess Louise of Wales. Even after the tea shop finally closed, the catering business carried on until the mid 1970s.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

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

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

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

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

The gold flocked Edwardian wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

Well Is She or Isn’t She? by raaen99

© raaen99, all rights reserved.

Well Is She or Isn’t She?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After being gifted a Recency country “cottage residence” called ‘Chi an Treth’ (Cornish for ‘beach house’) as a wedding gift by the groom’s father, the Marquess of Taunton, newlyweds Margot and Dickie Channon, invited Lettice to spend a Friday to Monday with them there earlier in the year. Margot, encouraged by her father Lord de Virre who will foot the bill, has commissioned Lettice to redecorate a few of the principal rooms of ‘Chi an Treth’. Margot and Dickie also extended the weekend invitation to one of their other Embassy Club coterie, Lettice’s old childhood chum, Gerald Bruton. After the retirement of the housekeeper, Mrs. Trevethan, from the main house to the gatekeeper’s cottage one evening during their stay, the quartet of Bright Young Things***** played a spirited game of sardines****** and in doing so, Lettice potentially solved the romantic mystery of ‘Chi an Treth’ after discovering a boxed up painting of a local Cornish beauty named Elowen Rosevear, purportedly by the artist Winterhalter, long forgotten, and of a great beauty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is he coming?” asks Lettice hopefully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dickie looks dolefully at his mother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minnie’s Dining Room Faux Pas by raaen99

© raaen99, all rights reserved.

Minnie’s Dining Room Faux Pas

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

Today however, we have headed north-west from Cavendish Mews, across Marylebone, past Regent’s Park, the London Zoo and Lords Cricket Ground to the affluent and leafy residential streets of nearby St. John’s Wood. It is here that Lettice’s Embassy Club coterie friends Minnie Palmerston and her husband Charles reside in a neatly painted two storey early Victorian townhouse on Acacia Road that formerly belonged to Charles Palmerston’s maternal grandparents, Lord and Lady Arundel.

Having taken her future sister-in-law, Arabella Tyrwhitt, to her old childhood chum and best friend Gerald Bruton’s couturier in Grosvenor Street Soho for her initial wedding dress consultation, Lettice has left the two together to discuss designs whilst she visits Minnie in St John’s Wood. Minnie, a highly strung socialite, has redecorated her dining room in a style not to her husband’s taste, or so she was told by Minnie over a luncheon Lettice hosted for Arabella last week. Known for her melodrama, Lettice quietly ponders whether it really is as awful as Minnie implies as she pays the taxi driver the fare from Soho to St John’s Wood and alights the blue vehicle onto the street.

The day is bright and sunny, and the street is quiet with only the occasional bark of a dog and the distant rumble of traffic from busy Finchley Road in the distance as Lettice strides across the road and walks up the eight steps that lead up to Minnie’s black painted front door. She depresses the doorbell which echoes through the long hallway inside and waits. Moments later, there is the thud of Minnie’s hurried footsteps as she flings open the door dramatically.

“Lettice darling!” she cries, standing in the doorway in a beautiful may green day dress which compliments her red hair and green eyes, with cascades of green and black bugle beads tumbling down the front. “Come in! Come in!” she beckons her friend with enthusiastic waves which make the green, black and gold bangles on her wrist jangle noisily.

“Minnie.” Lettice leans in for a whispery kiss on the cheek as she steps across the threshold and follows Minnie’s indications and steps into a drawing room off the hallway, the room filled with diffused light from a large twelve pane window that looks out onto the street. Looking around her, she quickly takes in the overstuffed cream satin settees, nests of occasional tables, clusters of pictures in gilt frames in every conceivable space on the William Morris style papered walls and the potted parlour palms. “Oh yes,” she remarks as she removes her green gloves. “I do see what you mean. Very Edwardian.”

“Isn’t it ghastly, Lettice darling?” Minnie asks as she steps into the drawing room. “Here let me take your, umbrella, coat and hat.” She helps her friend shrug off her forest green coat and takes her rather artistic beret with its long tassel. “I think Lady Arundel could walk in here and not find a thing out of place!”

“It could be worse,” Lettice remarks, looking up at the crystal chandelier suspended from the ceiling high above. “It could be decorated in high Victorian style and lit with gasoliers*.”

“True darling.” Minnie calls from the hallway where she hangs up Lettice’s things on a heavy Victorian coatrack. “But you have yet to see my dining room faux pas.”

“Now Minnie, no matter what I say, I want no histrionics today like we had over luncheon last week,” Lettice chides her friend with a wagging finger. “Poor Bella didn’t know where to look.”

“Oh I am sorry.” Minnie apologises. “Coming from the country, she probably isn’t used to our London ways.”

“Your emotional outbursts have nothing whatsoever to do with London ways, so don’t go foisting it off.” Lettice replies, cocking one of her delicately plucked eyebrows at her friend.

“You sound just like Gladys.” Minnie says.

“Well, I hope I’m not as shrill sounding as her,” Lettice replies with a chuckle.

“And how is the beautiful bride-to-be?”

“Happily ensconced with Gerald in his Soho atelier, no doubt talking about all the finer details of the dream wedding frock I have already heard about from dear Bella.”

“She seems quite lovely, Lettice darling.”

“Oh, I adore Bella.” Lettice agrees with a wave of her hand. “Given we grew up running in and out of each other’s houses, living on neighbouring properties, it was inevitable that she would marry one of my brothers, or Lally or I marry one of Bella’s brothers. I’m just glad that it wasn’t the latter. All Bella’s brothers, whilst charming, take after their grandfather, and he was not a handsome man. Bella has her mother’s delicate and pretty genes and she and Leslie are well suited. They both love the country, and as you know from luncheon last week, Bella likes the county social round. As Pater says, Bella will one day make a wonderful chatelaine of Glynes**, supporting Leslie as a dutiful wife, hosting important county social functions like the Hunt Ball, opening fetes and awarding prizes at cattle shows.”

“How does Lady Sadie feel about her usurper?”

“Oh Mater loves Bella as much as we all do.” Lettice replies breezily. “Of course, Pater doesn’t dare express his appreciation quite so volubly in front of Mater, but I’m sure she is silently thinking the same thing, not that she would ever share that with any of us. No, the problem will be if Pater decides to pop his mortal clogs before she does. I don’t know how happy she will be to hand over the mantle of lady of the manor to her daughter-in-law, even if she does love her.”

“Well, let’s hope we don’t have to worry about that for a good while yet.” Minnie says soothingly.

“Indeed yes!” agrees Lettice. “Now, show me this dread dining room of yours, Minnie darling. I’m famished, and I’m intrigued to see just how much of a faux pas it really is.”

“Come right this way, interior decorator to all the great and good of this great country of ours,” Minnie says rather grandly as she walks towards a door that leads from the drawing room to the next room. Suddenly she pauses, clasping the brass doorknob in her hand and turns back to Lettice who has trailed behind her. “Prepare yourself my dear for l’horreur!” And she flings the door open.

Minnie and Lettice walk into the townhouse’s dining room, which like the adjoining drawing room has a high ceiling. Lettice is surprised that after the grandeur of the drawing room, it’s a much smaller room, perhaps more suited for intimate dining rather than a large banquet. She glances around and quickly takes in the mixture of old and new. An Edwardian dining setting in Queen Anne style fills the majority of the space, whilst a late Victorian sideboard and spare carver chairs press against the wall. To either side of the new Art Deco gas fireplace stand two modern stands on which sit rather old fashioned urns. Modernist paintings in bold colours hang on the walls, but Lettice can barely see them for the bold wallpaper of red poppies against a black background with green and white geometric patterns.

“Oh I see.” Lettice remarks, neither enthusiastically nor critically, but in a rather neutral way.

Lettice walks around the dining table on which stands a Georgian Revival tea set with steam snaking from the spot of the pot, a small carafe of water and glassware, crockery and cutlery for two at the head of the table. She stands before the Streamline Moderne fireplace surround and runs an elegant hand over one of the bold red blooms, feeling the slightly raised pattern. She sighs as she contemplates what she sees.

“Do you think it looks like something out of Maida Vale, Lettice darling?” Minnie asks hesitantly.

For a moment, Lettice doesn’t answer as she traces one of the green lines towards the gilt edge of a frame holding a painting of a tiger. “Tyger Tyger burning bright***,” she murmurs the beginning of the William Blake poem.

“Yes,” Minnie acknowledges her friend with a sigh of pleasure. “He’s rather glorious, isn’t he?”

“He is,” Lettice agrees. “However his gloriousness is diminished somewhat by the wallpaper which draws away attention from him, and the red fox.” She points to a larger canvas hanging over the sideboard.

“So you do think it’s middle-class Maida Vale then.” Minnie pronounces in a downhearted fashion.

“No, I don’t.” Lettice clarifies, turning around and placing a comforting hand on the slumped left shoulder of her friend. “And I think it was very unkind of Charles to say so. The wallpaper is beautiful, Minnie. It just doesn’t suit this room.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, this is quite an intimate room: taller with these high ceilings, rather than wide. This wallpaper would suit a longer room with low ceilings, where expanses of this pattern could be exposed uninterrupted.”

“Like a mansion flat?”

“Exactly, Minnie! I did something similar for the moving picture actress, Wanetta Ward last year. She had a long, exposed wall and the bold pattern I used worked beautifully. And this wallpaer does nothing to show off yours and Charles’ beautiful paintings. It detracts rather than enhances. The paintings and the wallpaper vie for attention. Think about the National Gallery, or the Tate Gallery****. When you see pictures hanging on the wall, what do you notice about the surrounding to the painting?”

Minnie thinks for a moment, screwing up her pert nose with its dusting of freckles. “Well, I can’t say I’ve ever actually noticed the walls, Lettice darling.”

“Correct again, Minnie. No-one thinks about the walls because you’re not meant to. Your focus is meant to be on the paintings.”

“So you think I should strip the walls and paint them? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Well, you could, Minnie.” Lettice replies. “Or you could paint the walls and decorate the upper edge with a nice frieze paper.”

“Then it really would look like Maida Vale.” Minnie argues. “Only people who can’t afford wallpaper get friezes hung.”

Lettice considers her friend’s remark for a moment. “Mmm… yes, you’re quite right Minnie. Well, Jeffrey and Company***** do stock a range of beautiful papers in vibrant colours with pattern embossed into them. They look very luxurious.”

“Oh!” Minnie clasps her hands in delight. “I do like the sound of that! What colour would suit this room do you think?”

“Oh I should imagine a nice warm red or orange to go with this.” Lettice taps the top of the tiled fireplace surround. “And that colour range would also compliment your polished floors.”

“And I could get black japanned furniture like you, Lettice darling! I do like your chairs.”

“Oh no.” Lettice shakes her head. “Black japanned furniture is fine, but not my chairs. They are far too low for this room. You need an equivalent high backed chair.” She reaches out and pats one of the dining chairs. “Lady Arundel chose these well as they echo the height of the room. Perhaps if you had something high backed padded with a complimentary fabric to the paper: say red or orange.”

“Oh Lettice you are so clever!” enthuses Minnie. “When can you start.”

“Don’t you want to ask Charles before you go spending his money on redecorating, Minnie?” Lettice laughs. “Surely he’ll want a say.”

“Oh Charles told me today when I reminded him that you were coming for luncheon before he left for the office, that he’ll happily pay for anything you recommend, or better yet your services. So you don’t need to worry on that account.”

“Well, I would have to finish Dickie and Margot’s.” Lettice tempers.

“Oh, of course.” Minnie agrees.

“Well, I don’t have another redecorating assignment after them, so let me contemplate it.”

“I’ll go and get luncheon whilst you contemplate.” Minnie exclaims with a clap of her hands before scuttling away through a second door to the left of the fireplace.

With her exuberant friend gone, Lettice looks around the dining room, contemplating what she has suggested, picturing what embossed wallpaper in a rich red or vibrant orange would look like as a backdrop for the paintings. “Pity.” she muses as she again runs her hands over the stylised poppies in the pattern on the wall. Turning around she looks across the room. “Sorry Lady Arundel,” she remarks, tapping the top of the nearest dining chair again. “But it looks like your granddaughter-in-law wants to modernise.

“I’m afraid it’s Cook’s afternoon off today,” Minnie says apologetically as she walks back through the door through which she went, carrying a tray of tomato, ham and cucumber sandwiches. “So we’ll have to settle for these.” Looking down at the plate of appetising sandwich triangles as she places them on the dining table’s surface she adds. “I do hope she remembered not to make tongue****** ones. She should remember that I can’t stand cold tongue.”

Lettice peers at the fillings of bright red tomato, vivid green cucumber, and pink ham. “I think we’ll be safe.”

“Well, there’s half a trifle left over for dessert just in case they aren’t nice.” Minnie adds hopefully.

Lettice is suddenly struck by something. “Minnie?” she asks. “Minnie, why are you carrying the tray? And come to think of it, why did you answer the door? Where is Gladys?”

Minnie blushes, her pale skin and smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose reddening. “She handed in her immediate notice the week before last.”

“Oh no! Not another one Minnie?”

“She said she couldn’t work for a woman who had such histrionics as I do, and she’s gone back to Manchester.”

“Oh Minnie!” Lettice shakes her head dolefully.

“See! I told you, you sounded like Gladys, Lettice. I’ve been getting by with the tweeny*******, but Cook grumbles, so I can’t keep pinching her. That’s why I’m so grateful you gave me that telephone number for that domestic employment agency in Westminster. I’ve a new maid starting next week. Her name’s Siobhan, so I figured that she can’t complain about my histrionics as she’d be used to them, being Irish.”

“Well, let’s hope so Minnie.” Lettice chuckles as she pulls out her dining chair and takes her seat. “I can’t keep up with the revolving door of maids that come in and out of this house. How long have you been here for now?”

“Seven months or thereabout.” Minnie replies vaguely as she takes her own seat in the chair at the head of the dining table.

“And how many maids have you had in that time?”

“Nine.” Minnie replies with a guilty gulp.

“No wonder Charles feels his club is better suited to entertain prospective business associates.” Lettice shakes her head disapprovingly. “A tweeny waiting table.”

“Well hopefully, with Siobhan starting next week, and you agreeing to redecorate my dining room faux pas,” She looks around the room with glittering, excited eyes, as she imagines the possibilities. “Charles will be happy to start entertaining here.” She pauses and thinks for a moment. “You will won’t you?”

“Will I what, Minnie?”

“You will redecorate my dining room, won’t you?”

Lettice reaches around Minnie’s teacup and squeezes her friend’s hand comfortingly. “Of course I will. I’ll come up with some ideas of what I think might suit this room and then I’ll show you and Charles. Charles has to have some input, even if he has told you that you that I have carte blanche when it comes to redecorating.”

*A gasolier is a chandelier with gas burners rather than light bulbs or candles.

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

***”The Tyger” is a poem by English poet William Blake, published in 1794 as part of his “Songs of Experience” collection and rising to prominence in the romantic period of the mid Nineteenth Century. The poem explores and questions Christian religious paradigms prevalent in late 18th century and early 19th century England, discussing God's intention and motivation for creating both the tiger and the lamb. Tiger is written as Tyger in the poem as William Blake favoured old English spellings.


****In 1892 the site of a former prison, the Millbank Penitentiary, was chosen for the new National Gallery of British Art, which would be under the Directorship of the National Gallery at Trafalgar Square. The prison, used as the departure point for sending convicts to Australia, had been demolished in 1890. Sidney R.J. Smith was chosen as the architect for the new gallery. His design is the core building that we see today, a grand porticoed entranceway and central dome which resembles a temple. The statue of Britannia with a lion and a unicorn on top of the pediment at the Millbank entrance emphasised its function as a gallery of British art. The gallery opened its doors to the public in 1897, displaying 245 works in eight rooms from British artists dating back to 1790. In 1932, the gallery officially adopted the name Tate Gallery, by which it had popularly been known as since its opening. In 1937, the new Duveen Sculpture Galleries opened. Funded by Lord Duveen and designed by John Russell Pope, Romaine-Walker and Gilbert Jenkins, these two 300 feet long barrel-vaulted galleries were the first public galleries in England designed specifically for the display of sculpture. By this point, electric lighting had also been installed in all the rooms enabling the gallery to stay open until 5pm whatever the weather. In 1955, Tate Gallery became wholly independent from the National Gallery.


*****Jeffrey and Company was an English producer of fine wallpapers that operated between 1836 and the mid 1930s. Based at 64 Essex Road in London, the firm worked with a variety of designers who were active in the aesthetic and arts and crafts movements, such as E.W. Godwin, William Morris, and Walter Crane. Jeffrey and Cmpany’s success is often credited to Metford Warner, who became the company’s chief proprietor in 1871. Under his direction the firm became one of the most lucrative and influential wallpaper manufacturers in Europe. The company clarified that wallpaper should not be reserved for use solely in mansions, but should be available for rooms in the homes of the emerging upper-middle class.


******Beef tongue (also known as neat's tongue or ox tongue) is a cut of beef made of the tongue of a cow. It can be boiled, pickled, roasted or braised in sauce. It is found in many national cuisines, and is used for taco fillings in Mexico and for open-faced sandwiches in the United States.

*******A tweeny is a between maid, who works in the kitchen as well as above stairs, assisting at least two other members of a domestic staff.

This rather bright dining room is perhaps a little different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of pieces from my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection, some pieces from my own childhood.

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

The Queen Anne dining table, chairs and sideboard were all given to me as birthday and Christmas presents when I was a child.

The three prong Art Deco style candelabra in the sideboard is an artisan piece made of sterling silver. Although unsigned, the piece was made in England by an unknown artist. The vase of flowers to the left of the candelabra is beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium. The carafe to the right of the candelabra is another artisan piece made of hand spun glass. I acquired it as a teenager from a high street dollhouse stockist.

The ornately hand painted ginger jar is one of a pair and comes from Melody Jane Dollhouse Suppliers in Britain. The tall stand on which the ginger jar stands was made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.

The paintings on the walls are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States. The stylised floral and geometric shape Art Deco wallpaper is a real Art Deco design which I have sourced and had printed in high quality onto A3 sheets of paper.

On the dining table the tray of sandwiches are made of polymer clay. Made in England by hand by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight they are very realistic with even the bread slices having a bread like consistency look. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. The water carafe came from the same high street stockist as the carafe on the sideboard. The Art Deco dinner set is part of a much larger set I acquired from a dollhouse suppliers in Shanghai. The Georgian Revival silver tea set on its tray I acquired from Smallskale Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

The Streamline Moderne pottery tile fireplace surround I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in the United Kingdom.

Grauhof, Goslar, Niedersachsen, Klosterkirche, crucifixion altar, detail by groenling

© groenling, all rights reserved.

Grauhof, Goslar, Niedersachsen, Klosterkirche, crucifixion altar, detail

dated 1718, carved by Biggen

Grauhof, Goslar, Niedersachsen, Klosterkirche, crucifixion altar, detail by groenling

© groenling, all rights reserved.

Grauhof, Goslar, Niedersachsen, Klosterkirche, crucifixion altar, detail

dated 1718, carved by Biggen

Grauhof, Goslar, Niedersachsen, Klosterkirche, crucifixion altar by groenling

© groenling, all rights reserved.

Grauhof, Goslar, Niedersachsen, Klosterkirche, crucifixion altar

dated 1718, carved by Biggen

The Romantic Legend of ‘Chi an Treth’ by raaen99

© raaen99, all rights reserved.

The Romantic Legend of ‘Chi an Treth’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because your Cornish, Dickie.” Lettice replies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Margot, Dickie and Lettice all burst out laughing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” Lettice queries.

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh how romantic!” Lettice enthuses.

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

“A lost portrait?” breathes Lettice excitedly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New Year Wishes for 1922 by raaen99

© raaen99, all rights reserved.

New Year Wishes for 1922

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, well,” mutters Lady Sadie again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Leslie?” the Viscount asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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