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.
