Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today we are still in Mayfair, and only a short distance from Cavendish Mews, out the front of an imposing Palladian style mansion on the grand thoroughfare of Park Lane, opposite Hyde Park. Lettice gulps as she looks up at the cascading layer cake of columns, balustrades, balconies and rows of windows, most shaded from the afternoon sun by striped awnings. At one window not covered by an awning, a maid in her afternoon uniform of black moiré with a lace cap, cuffs and apron gazes out over the street below. Lettice catches her eye and smiles meekly at her, but the maid does not return it, looking both quizzically and critically at her standing on the steps leading up to the front door of the palatial residence, before retreating into the shadows within. Lettice’s heart begins to flutter. For nearly a year Lettice has been patiently awaiting the return of her beau, Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, after being sent to Durban 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. Now Lettice has been invited to tea by Lady Zinnia, and it is the Park Lane mansion belonging to the Duke and Duchess of Walmsford that Lettice now stands before. Gulping again, she depresses the button next to the enormous white painted double front doors with black painted knockers. Deep within she can hear a bell ring, announcing her arrival. A tall and imperious looking bewigged footman in splendid Eighteenth Century style livery answers the door.
“The Honourable Lettice Chetwynd to see Her Grace.” Lettice says firmly, determined not to betray her nerves at being here.
“Is Her Grace expecting you, Miss Chetwynd?” and the footman asks, and when she affirms that she is, he steps aside, ushering her from the golden late afternoon light outside into the cool darkened marble hallway within.
Lettice feels that even the sound of her shallow breaths echo noisily off the marble of the lofty entrance hall as she enters it. The grand space is illuminated from skylights in a dome three storeys above, by a grand electrified crystal chandeliers hanging from vaulted ceilings and by sconces in the ornately carved columns about her. The footman politely asks her to wait whilst he strides silently up the sweeping carpeted spiral staircase with shining ostentatious silver banisters to the upper floors of the mansion. Lettice takes a seat in an elegant, gilded chair. The wine coloured velvet upholstery looks soft and comfortable, but Lettice quickly discovers that it is anything but that, feeling the hard horsehair beneath her as it forces her to sit up more straightly in her seat. “How very Lady Zinnia.” Lettice remarks bitterly as she waits. Somewhere, deep within the bowels of the house, behind one or more sets of tightly closed doors, the muffled sound of a clock chiming four o’clock makes its presence known. Lettice shivers, sighs and hopes that Lady Zinnia will not keep her waiting too long as part of a cruel joke of her own making. A short while later, the footman returns.
“Her Grace will see you now, Miss Chetwynd. Please follow me to the Cream Drawing Room.”
He leads her up the grand staircase to the second floor and then takes her through a suite of rooms with lofty, vaunted ceilings, polished parquet floors and walls lined with gilded columns. Each room is filled with gilt chairs and sofas upholstered in sumptuous satins and rich velvets, no doubt all as uncomfortable as the salon chair she has recently vacated. The walls of the chambers are hung with paintings of past generations of the Dukes of Walmsford and their families, all of them peering at Lettice with imperious gazes, silently judging her as an outsider by their dark, glazed and cold stares.
After what feels like an age to Lettice, they finally they stop before two rich mahogany doors inset with brightly polished brass. The footman knocks loudly upon the door three times.
“Miss Chetwynd, Your Grace.” the liveried footman announces as he turns the door handles, opens the doors and steps into the grand Cream Drawing Room with Lettice in his wake.
Lettice is awe struck for a moment by the room, which is even grander and more luxuriously appointed than those state rooms and apartments she has walked through thus far. Whether named for the furnishings, or whether the salon was decorated after being given its name, the White Drawing Room is decorated with white wallpaper featuring a very fine white Regency stripe, and the lofty space is full of sofas, chaises and chairs all upholstered in white or cram fabrics. Lettice suspects the pared back wallpaper design has been chosen deliberately, so as not to distract from the many gilt framed paintings hanging on them, not to draw attention away from any of the other fine pieces about the apartment. The furnishings are mostly Regency and show off the wealth of the former Dukes of Walmsford with their ornate gilding on chair arms and backs and table legs. Palladian console tables with marble surfaces featuring caryatids* covered in gold jostle for space with ornate ormolu** decorated Empire display cabinets and pedestals held aloft by swans with long necks. Across every surface and on each shelf in the cabinets stand pieces of porcelain from the Eighteenth Century, reflecting the current Duchess of Walmsford’s taste for mostly French ornaments. Vases, bowls, urns, ginger jars and figurines made by Veuve Perrin***, Limoges**** and Chelsea***** grace French polished mahogany and polished grey marble, each item carefully placed to show it off to its very best, whilst the cabinets burst with full dinner services of Sèrves***** covered in floral designs. The salon is flooded with light from the full length windows that overlook Park Lane, the ample sunlight, even on an autumnal London day creating additional brilliance, and the space is filled with the cloying scent of hothouse roses with cascade in ornate arrangements from some of the Duchess’ more impressive vases. The whole arrangement is designed to impress and intimidate visitors, and it achieves this with Lettice as she enters the room, mustering as much courage as she can to walk like the daughter of a viscount, yet feeling a sham amongst such excessive splendour, which even the King and Queen might well be jealous of.
And there, perching daintily on a gold and cream Regency stripe sofa adorned with glittering ormolu next to the crackling fire, sits the current Duchess of Walmsford herself, Lady Zinnia. Arrayed in a rose pink satin frock decorated with ornamental silk flowers, which like everything else around her oozes taste, wealth and status, Lady Zinnia still has the unbreakable steely hardness that sends a shiver down Lettice’s spine as she approaches her. Whilst the pale shade of her frock may not soften her look, it does successfully highlight her flawless pale skin. Several strands of perfect creamy white pearls cascade down the front of her outfit, whilst gold and large pearl droplets hang effortlessly from her lobes. Clusters of diamonds wink amongst her wavy tresses which are all deep blue black, save for the one signature streak of white shooting from her temple and disappearing like a silver trail amongst her darker waves.
“Your Grace.” Lettice utters, dropping an elegant and low curtsey before the Duchess.
Lady Zinnia’s pale white face with her high cheekbones and joyless calculating dark eyes appraise Lettice coldly as Lettice rises from the polished marquetry floor littered with expensive silk Chinese rugs. She purses her thin lips.
“Miss Chetwynd. Right on time.” Lady Zinna remarks as she glances away from Lettice dismissively to the ornate French Rococo clock adorned with porcelain roses sitting in the centre of the mantle. Her eyes dart back to Lettice who now stands before her hostess. “Please, do take a seat.” She indicates with a sweeping movement of her hand which artfully shows off a pearl and winking diamond bracelet at her wrist, to a chair matching the sofa on which she perches which is also drawn up to the fire opposite her.
Lettice does as she is bid, and lowers herself gingerly onto the edge of the walnut chair, feeling the smooth, cool metallic surface of the ormolu on the arms beneath her hands as she does. Glancing down she notices that the arms of both her chair and Lady Zinnia’s sofa are supported by gilded sphinxes. Lettice remembers the tutor who was hired at great expense by her father when she was a child to teach her the classics and smiles bitterly as she recalls him teaching her that the sphinx, with its head of a woman, haunches of a lion and wings of a bird is a treacherous and merciless being.
“Is something amusing, Miss Chetwynd?” Lady Zinnia asks, her clipped voice slicing the perfumed air between them.
“No, Your Grace.” Lettice replies. “I was just thinking, as I look around, how you have set this room in such a way that noting is left to chance. Everything is planned and placed with purpose.”
“How very adroit of you, Miss Chetwynd.” the Duchess replies. “But of course, as an interior designer of some moderate success, I should expect nothing less. You have a keen eye.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Lettice replies stiffly, allowing the slight cast by the titled woman to go unremarked upon. However as Lettice sits there, she now knows that this is to be tone of their meeting, and she silently seethes that even in defeat, Lady Zinnia will not be gracious.
“Now, knowing that in spite of the fact that you come from obscure and unremarkable aristocratic lineage,” Lady Zinnia remarks, eliciting a gasp of outrage from Lettice, much to her delight. “That your parents would have taught you the importance of timeliness,”
“Which they have.” Lettuce defends hotly.
“Admirably so, Miss Chetwynd. So, I have already ordered tea, coffee and cake for us.” Lady Zinnia indicates to the galleried gold rectangular Rococo tea table which stands between them, like a fortress, upon which sits a silver tea service and a cake plate on which stands a splendid looking Victoria sponge cake dusted with sugar and oozing jam and cream.
The Duchess takes up a small silver bell from the side table to her right and gives it two definite rings. The tinkle of the bell, high pitched and remarkably loud for such a dainty bell, pierces the charged, rose scented air between them. Immediately two more footmen in the Duke of Walmsford’s livery, different to the one who showed her upstairs, sweep through the White Drawing Room’s doors and stride across the room. They bow respectfully to Lady Zinnia and then turn in unison and nod their heads in acknowledgement of Lettice, before stopping between the two women, standing side by side in front of the tea table: hands behind their backs and heads lifted slightly, starting straight ahead impassively in complete silence and unmoving, as if they were mechanical and their mechanisms had wound down.
“Tea or coffee, Miss Chetwynd?” lady Zinnia asks.
“Tea, I think, Your Grace.” she replies.
One footman immediately springs to life, as if wound up again, and picks up the stylish silver teapot from the table with his white glove clad hand and pours tea into a dainty floral and gilt edged French porcelain teacup. The other footman takes up the cup and makes the few steps between his position and Lettice, and places the cup and saucer on the low occasional table to the right of her chair. Meanwhile the other footman has poured tea for the Duchess, which is then delivered to her in the same fashion as the tea was delivered to Lettice by the same footman.
“That’s a beautiful teapot, if I may say so, Your Grace.” Lettice admits begrudgingly.
“You may, Miss Chetwynd.” Lady Zinnia replies politely. “The set is Georg Jensen********. I bought it just before the war.”
The footman who had poured the tea starts slicing the Victoria sponge with a silver knife, whilst the other footman removes the teapot and coffee pot from the small silver tray on which they stand. He then picks up the tray which still holds a dainty milk jug and a sugar basket containing sugar lumps and a pair of silver sugar nips*********.
“You’ll forgive me, but I’ve forgotten how you took your tea when we had dinner at the Savoy*********, Miss Chetwynd.”
The footman walks over to Lettice, bows slight with a stiff back and holds out the tray to Lettice, in his glove clad hands, allowing her to add her own milk and sugar to suit her own tastes to her beverage.
Lettice shudders as she remembers the dinner at the Savoy that Selwyn had organised with her. He had intended it to be a romantic evening for he and Lettice in honour of his birthday. However, when Lettice arrived in the main dining room, she was confronted not with the smiling face of her beau, but the haughty and cruel spectre of Lady Zinnia. It was there that Lettice learned about the pact Lady Zinnia had made with her son before packing him off to Durban for a year.
“That’s because I didn’t have tea with you that evening, Your Grace.” Lettice replies awkwardly as he drops first one and then a second lump of sugar in her tea, stirring the contents of her cup to dissolve the sugar before adding a small amount of milk.
“That’s right! You left directly after the caviar, didn’t you, Miss Chetwynd?” Lady Zinnia smiles cruelly. “You really did miss a fine repast that evening.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it, Your Grace.”
The footman who cut the cake places a generous slice each onto two dainty floral plates that match the teacups. As the other footman allows Lady Zinnia to help herself to sugar and milk for her tea, he takes up a plate and places it on the table next to Lettice’s teacup and saucer.
“I’m not all that hungry, Your Grace.”
Lady Zinnia looks up with her hard gaze from her teacup, still holding the now empty sugar nips aloft, seemingly unconcerned that the bowing footman at her side cannot straighten up again until she has replaced them in the bowl. “I seem to remember you saying that at the Savoy too, Miss Chetwynd. I must say, I find a woman who has little appetite rather tiresome, however pretty and charming she may be.” She continues to hold the sugar nips in her hand, suddenly taking great interest in the elegant repousse work*********** on the curved handle as she continues. “You Bright Young Things************ are so tiresome, worrying about being rake thin.”
The tray in the bent footman’s hands begins to quiver a little, causing the sugar basket and milk jug to rattle ever so slightly as he strains to maintain his stiff back and bent stance. Lady Zinnia’s eyes flick to him angrily, causing him to make a frightened intake of breath as he tries not to move.
“In my day.” Lady Zinnia goes on. “We ate as much as we could muster, and then simply tightened our stays a little more.” She sighs with irritation, and still holding the sugar tongs, pointing them accusingly at Lettice as she adds. “But of course you young flappers have all eschewed your corsets in favour of all those filly undergarments from Paris that have become so much in vogue, haven’t you.”
The tray in the footman’s hands tremble again. With a slow, and purposefully languid movement, Lady Zinnia replaces the tongs in the sugar basket and picks up the milk jug, pouring a decent amount into her cup, turning her brackish looking tea an insipid pale brown.
Replacing the jug to the tray she turns her attention to the young footman. “Get out!” she hisses through barred white teeth, her breath so forceful in its vehemence that Lettice can see it blows the young man’s fringe out of place.
The young footman starts in fright, making the silverware in his hands rattle all the more.
“Poole!” Lady Zinnia addresses the other footman.
“Yes, Your Grace?” he asks, standing stiffly to attention, his hands quickly placed behind hi back again as he stares ahead of him, rather than at Lady Zinnia.
“Poole, see to it that this pathetic excuse for a third footman doesn’t come back until he can serve me in the correct way a Duchess of the Realm should be served, or I’ll have you both reprimanded.” She looks Poole up and down appraisingly, seemingly pleased by his unflappability. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Your Grace!” Poole replies.
“Good!” She returns her attentions to the other footman. “And you! Just be grateful that you are only going to receive a reprimand and dock in your wages, and aren’t thrown out on your ear with no reference.” She pauses as she replaces her cup and saucer on the side table and picks up her cake plate and fork. “I shan’t be so lenient a second time.”
“Yes… yes Your Grace.” the footman replies quickly before depositing the silver tray back onto the tea table and joining his companion as the pair make a hasty retreat, far less composed and sleek as their arrival.
As the doors are closed behind them, lady Zinnia returns her attentions to Lettice. “Pardon that little…” She pauses and toys with her fork, sticking it into the tip of her sponge cake as she considers her words. “Unpleasantness, Miss Chetwynd. It’s so hard to find decent footmen with proper backbone amongst the pool of domestics available since the end of the war. Standards amongst servants are slipping. I’m sure your parents would agree with me.”
Lettice doesn’t reply, instead taking up her cup and saucer and sipping her tea.
Picking up where she had left off before berating her servants, Lady Zinnia continues, “And of course you left your birthday present for Selwyn behind at the Savoy as well. But don’t worry, I made sure to have it put aside for when he returns.”
Once again, Lettice does not rise to the Duchess’ bait and bites her tongue rather than replying.
Lady Zinnia slices her fork delicately through the light and fluffy Victoria sponge on her plate.
“You must despise me, Miss Chetwynd.” she says before slipping a small mouthful between her red painted lips.
“No, not at all, your Grace.”
“What?” Lady Zinnia replies, her eyes widening in surprise. “Not even a little, Miss Chetwynd? Are you a saint walking upon the earth?”
“No, Your Grace.” Lettice replies. “The truth is that I don’t hate you, because I don’t think of you.” she lies, lifting her cup to her lips partly to hide any sign of emotion that might suggest otherwise, and partly to prevent her from saying what she would really like to, to the Duchess.
An almost imperceptible ripple runs through Lady Zinnia’s composure and the woman’s thin lips move slightly as she chews, revealing themselves like a bright blood red gash across her perfect, white face. Lettice smiles behind the lip of her cup, knowing that her remark has hit its mark perfectly and irritated her titled hostess.
“Oh, I find that hard to believe, Miss Chetwynd.” Lady Zinnia answers after a momentary pause. “Everyone who meets me, thinks about me. It’s only natural that they should.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Your Grace, but as we don’t move in the same circles, me being so much younger than you,” Lettice replies, determined to show Lady Zinnia up for her almost unbelievable conceitedness. “I must confess I haven’t.”
“Oh come now, Miss Chetwynd,” Lady Zinnia scoffs. “Are you telling me that even though it was I, who has separated you and my son and prevented you from seeing him for a year, that you didn’t think of me?”
Determined not to give her the satisfaction of knowing how much Lettice has thought of her, she continues her plucky lie to Lady Zinnia. “Indeed no. I have felt Selwyn’s absence over the last year, very keenly. However, it is him I have been thinking of, Your Grace.” She gives Lady Zinnia a dismissive look and crumples her nose up in distaste. “Not you. However, I’ve been busy distracting myself by attending balls and functions to make Selwyn’s absence less obvious.”
“Yes, I’ve seen you in the society pages, Miss Chetwynd.”
“And I’m sure your spies have kept you well informed too, Your Grace.”
“My spies!” laughs Lady Zinnia. “My, how you young people develop such fanciful ideas!”
Ignoring her remark, Lettice goes on, Tthen of course I have had my work to keep me occupied as well.”
“Ah yes!” Lady Zinnia acknowledges. “You’ve done some work for Gladys Caxton, I believe. Her ward’s flat here in London if I’m not mistaken.”
“Indeed, Your Grace. And I’ve designed a room for the wife of the godson of Sir John Nettleford-Hughes, at Arkwright Bury in Wiltshire.”
“Oh yes, Miss Chetwynd. My sources,” she emphasises the last word to draw Lettice’s attention to her choice of words. “Tell me that I am to expect a most favourable article about it by Henry Tipping****** in Country Life******* this month.”
“As I said, Your Grace,” Lettice replies. “Your spies keep you well informed as to the comings and goings in my life.”
The two women fall into an awkward silence again.,,,,,,,
“Anyway, the year of separation you have enforced upon Selwyn and I is almost at an end, without incident,” Lettice dares to say as her boldness grows. “And I am very much looking forward to seeing your son returned from Durban, and arranging for the formal announcement of our engagement.”
The Duchess doesn’t say anything.
“I imagine that is why you have summoned me here today. To concede defeat?” Lettice allows herself a triumphant smile. “After a year of enforced separation, one during which both of us have held to your wish that we not correspond with one another, Selwyn is returning to me and we will pick up just as we left off.” A thought comes into her head. “You might even consider giving me back the book I left at the Savoy. After all, it is my gift to give Selwyn, not yours, Your Grace.”
The stony silence and scrutinising stare Lettice receives in return unnerves her. She wonders what on earth is going on inside the mind behind those cold and dark eyes. However, she doesn’t have long to wait as the Duchess picks up her silver bell again, this time giving it three definite rings: two short ones and one long one, rather like a signal. She deposits the bell back on the table and takes another mouthful of cake. Her tongue darts out of her bitter mewl of a mouth and snatches up a crumb of cake that has lodged itself on her bottom lip.
The door to the White Drawing Room is suddenly opened again, by Poole the footman, and in bustles a woman in a smart printed cotton frock of sprigged flowers with a pale pink silk cardigan worn over the top of the bodice. Glass beads jangle about her throat, glinting in the light as she moves towards the two seated ladies. As Lettice expects, as the woman draws closer, she can see that she is quite plain looking. Lettice considers that it is likely that all the females on the Duchess’ household staff will be quite plain, to avoid any light being drawn away from the titled woman herself. The woman appears middle aged and has her straight, mousey brown hair tied in a neat chignon at the back of her neck. She approaches the Duchess and drops her a deep, respectful curtsey before rising, never releasing a buff coloured card folder that she hugs over her chest.
“Your Grace, you rang?” she asks in a soft, pleasant and well educated voice, which reminds Lettice a little of one of her less favourite nannies when growing up.
“Miss Chetwynd, may I present Miss Carroway, my Secretary.” Lady Zinnia announces.
“Carroway, Miss Chetwynd.” She sweeps her well manicured hand out in the direction of where Lettice sits.
Miss Carroway turns her head and looks towards Lettice with soft brown and kind eyes. “How do you do, Miss Chetwynd.”
“How do you do, Miss Carroway.” Lettice replies, a little perplexed as to why Lady Zinnia has summoned her secretary.
“Do you have it, Carroway?” Lady Zinnia asks.
“Right here, Your Grace.” She releases her arms from around her and relinquishes the thin buff folder to her employer.
Lady Zinnia puts aside her slice of cake, accepts the proffered folder, opens it and looks at the contents inside. Her hands skim over whatever is inside, whilst her eyes flit over it quickly.
“I think you’ll find everything is in order, Your Grace.”
“Yes,” Lady Zinnia remarks rather distractedly as she continues to inspect the contents.
“Will that be all, Your Grace?” Miss Carroway asks.
“Yes, thank you, Carroway.” Lady Zinnia replies with a dismissive shallow wave, as though shaking something irritable from her left hand.
Miss Carroway retreats quickly and as she approaches the doors, Poole opens them again for her from outside and closes them behind her after she has scuttled out.
“What’s this then?” Lettice asks once the doors as closed again.
“This, my dear Miss Chetwynd, is what I summoned you here today to speak of.” Lady Zinnia replies in a very businesslike fashion.
“I thought I had come here so that we could discuss Selwyn’s imminent return to England.” Lettice retorts.
“And so we will, Miss Chetwynd, but perhaps the conversation may not be quite what you imagined or planned it to be.” she replies enigmatically.
“What do you mean, Lady Zinnia?” Lettice asks, the assured smile curling the Duchess’ lips upwards curdling her stomach. “What is in that folder, and how does it concern Selwyn?”
“What is in this folder pertains to you both, Miss Chetwynd.” Lady Zinnia replies, the smile, cold and unfriendly, broadening on her face. “You see, as you have noted, my sources,” Once again she emphasises her choice of words. “Are spread far and wide, and one of my contacts in Durban was approached independently by a very reliable source who had access to and presented him with these.” Lady Zinnia withdraws a dozen pages from the folder and leans forward with them.
Lettice leans forward herself and grasps the papers over the tea table before settling back in her seat. Looking at them she sees that they are photos, cut from articles in newspapers, magazines or journals. She cannot help but emit a gasp as she sees Selwyn’s handsome, smiling face peering out from them. It is one of the few times in the last twelve months since she has seen a new photograph of him, with news from Durban society generally not worthy enough to be printed in London newspapers, and the Durban papers impossible to obtain in London. It is then as she spreads them out across her lap, that she notices that aside from Selwyn’s appearance, they all have something else in common.
“You see, Miss Chetwynd, what this source provided is photographic proof that when Selwyn comes home, he won’t be returning alone.”
Lettice’s head spins as she looks down at the smiling face of a young girl, laughing and cheerful, on Selwyn’s arm in each and every photograph. She looks to be about Lettice’s age, with light coloured hair coiffured into styles using large exotic flowers, dressed in fashionable looking gowns. There are photographs of her standing beside Selwyn, dancing with him, taking with him, and there is even one of the two of them riding horses together, whilst another shows the pair of them in fancy dress costumes: he as Sinbad the Sailor and she as Columbine according to the typed caption printed below.
“The young lady in these photos is Kitty Avendale,” Lady Zinnia goes on. “She’s the daughter of an Australian adventurer and thrill seeker turned Kenyan diamond mine owner. The jewels you see her wearing all come from his, by all accounts, very generous diamond mine.” She takes a sip of her tea.
Lettice’s mouth suddenly feels very dry.
“The output from his mines put the fortunes of the Duke of Walmsford in the shadows.” Lady Zinnia continues. “Mr. Richard Avendale may indeed be richer than the King himself. Of course it’s a bit hard to tell exactly quite how wealthy he is, even with access to some of his business ledgers. He’s a very discreet man: most admirable in an Australian, I must say. Kitty is twenty-three, which I think is also, your age, Miss Chetwynd. She’s Mr. Avendale’s only daughter - indeed his only surviving child - which makes her an heiress of some interest to many young men, but she seems to have tipped her hat towards Selwyn.”
Lettice looks at the smiling faces of Selwyn and Kitty in the photos in disbelief.
“The… the fact… the fact that they have been photographed together is no proof that Selwyn and Kitty are involved romantically.” Lettice manages to say, albeit without the conviction she hoped for. “If that were the case, I’d be engaged to half the eligible bachelors in London, and a few married men too.”
“That’s true,” Lady Zinnia agrees. “But you’ll find that if you feel behind a couple of those photos, the proof of the seriousness of their relationship.”
Lettice looks up uncomprehendingly at the Duchess. The older woman indicates with a bejewelled hand for Lettice to feel behind the back of the photographs. As she does, Lettice feels a few have a thin margin of paper folded up behind the bottom of some of them. She picks up one of Selwyn and Kitty posed together holding champagne glasses aloft and folds down the paper.
“Mr. Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, and Miss Kitty Avendale, only daughter of diamond mine millionaire Richard Avendale, engaged.” she reads. She lets the paper slip from her fingers into her lap, and blindly scrambles for another one. This one shows Selwyn standing behind a seated Kitty. “Mr. Selwyn Spencely and Miss Kitty Avendale, engaged.” She grasps another, showing Selwyn and Kitty dancing together. “The happy couple.” she reads. She drops it in her lap, unable to read any more as the tears mist her vision as they flood her eyes.
“So, there you have it, Miss Chetwynd.” Lady Zinnia says in triumph. “Incontrovertible proof. Selwyn has forsaken you, and forgotten your, foolish dalliance,” She smiles cruelly. “And he’s proposed to a peerless match greater than even I had hoped for.”
“No. No, he… No. No.” Lettice begins.
“Of course, Bertrand doesn’t mind, now that Pamela has gone against both his and my original plans and gotten herself engaged to that banker’s son, Jonty Knollys.” She sighs. “He may not have a title, or pedigree that Selwyn presented, but he is certainly from a wealthy family, so she could have done worse for herself.”
“No. No! No!” Lettice stammers in disbelief as the tears fall from her eyes, creating wet splotches on the newspaper clippings.
“And you, my dear Miss Chetwynd,” Lady Zinna rises from her seat elegantly. “You can still make a suitable match: one with a man more befitting your station, such as a viscount, or earl’s son, and all this nonsense you’d planned with Selwyn will all be swept under the carpet and quickly forgotten about.” She smiles piteously at the crumpled form of Lettice collapsed and tearful on the chair before her. “You’re young and pretty, and have a good enough lineage that will have country squires lining up to accept your hand. Give up this London life and move to the country near your parent’s estate, and you’ll soon forget Selwyn.”
Just at that moment, the clock on the mantle chimes the three quarter hour prettily.
“Goodness!” Lady Zinnia exclaims. “Is that the time? I’m so sorry, but this rather difficult conversation took a little longer than I imaged that it would, Miss Chetwynd. I’m afraid I really must go and get dressed. It’s awfully tiresome, but I’m having luncheon with the Queen today, and well, you can’t refuse a royal invitation can you? Would you excuse me?”
Without waiting for a response, the Duchess turns on her heels and walks towards the doors of the White Drawing Room, her heels sinking into the luxurious silk carpet.
As she starts to walk on the bare parquet floor, her Louis heels announcing to the footman outside of her approach, she pauses and turns back. “You may stay here as long as you need to, Miss Chetwynd, and when you feel composed enough to leave, then Poole will show you out. Have some more tea. There’s plenty left in the pot. I find tea in a crisis always helps.”
As Lettice cries piteously, her sobs echoing around the well-appointed White Drawing Room, Lady Zinnia quietly instructs her footman before slipping away. The doors close behind her, and Lettice is left alone to weep and wail and process this seismic shift in everything she has been planning for, for the last year.
*A caryatid is a sculpted female figure serving as an architectural support taking the place of a column or a pillar supporting an entablature on her head. The Greek term karyatides literally means "maidens of Karyai", an ancient town on the Peloponnese. Caryatids are sometimes called korai (“maidens”). Similar figures, bearing baskets on their heads, are called canephores (from kanēphoroi, “basket carriers”); they represent the maidens who carried sacred objects used at feasts of the gods. The male counterparts of caryatids are referred to as atlantes.
**Ormolu is the gilding technique of applying finely ground, high-carat gold–mercury amalgam to an object of bronze, and objects finished in this way. The mercury is driven off in a kiln, leaving behind a gold coating. The French refer to this technique as "bronze doré"; in English, it is known as "gilt bronze". The technique was banned in the Nineteenth Century on account of its toxicity.
***Veuve Perrin was a factory in Marseille, France, that manufactured Faïence wares between 1748 and 1803.
****Limoges porcelain is hard-paste porcelain produced by factories in and around the city of Limoges, France. Beginning in the late Eighteenth Century, Limoges was produced but the name Limoges does not refer to a particular manufacturer. By about 1830 Limoges, which was close to the areas where suitable clay was found, had replaced Paris as the main centre for private porcelain factories, although the state-owned Sèvres porcelain near Paris remained dominant at the very top of the market. Limoges has maintained this position to the present day.
****Chelsea porcelain is the porcelain made by the Chelsea porcelain manufactory, the first important porcelain manufactory in England, established around 1743–45, and operating independently until 1770, when it was merged with Derby porcelain. It made soft-paste porcelain throughout its history, though there were several changes in the "body" material and glaze used. Its wares were aimed at a luxury market, and its site in Chelsea, London, was close to the fashionable Ranelagh Gardens pleasure ground, opened in 1742.
*****The Manufacture nationale de Sèvres is one of the principal European porcelain factories. It is located in Sèvres, Hauts-de-Seine, France. It is the continuation of Vincennes porcelain, founded in 1740, which moved to Sèvres in 1756. It has been owned by the French crown or government since 1759. Its production is still largely based on the creation of contemporary objects today. It became part of the Cité de la céramique in 2010 with the Musée national de céramique, and since 2012 with the Musée national Adrien Dubouché in Limoges.
******Henry Tipping (1855 – 1933) was a French-born British writer on country houses and gardens, garden designer in his own right, and Architectural Editor of the British periodical Country Life for seventeen years between 1907 and 1910 and 1916 and 1933. After his appointment to that position in 1907, he became recognised as one of the leading authorities on the history, architecture, furnishings and gardens of country houses in Britain. In 1927, he became a member of the first committee of the Gardens of England and Wales Scheme, later known as the National Gardens Scheme.
*******Country Life is a British weekly perfect-bound glossy magazine that is a quintessential English magazine founded in 1897, providing readers with a weekly dose of architecture, gardens and interiors. It was based in London at 110 Southwark Street until March 2016, when it became based in Farnborough, Hampshire. The frontispiece of each issue usually features a portrait photograph of a young woman of society, or, on occasion, a man of society.
********Georg Arthur Jensen was a Danish silversmith and founder of Georg Jensen A/S (also known as Georg Jensen Sølvsmedie). Jensen made his first piece of jewelry in 1899, a silver and silver and gilt "Adam and Eve" belt buckle. In 1901, Jensen abandoned ceramics and began again as a silversmith and designer with the master, Mogens Ballin. This led Jensen to make a landmark decision, when in 1904, he risked what small capital he had and opened his own little silversmithy at 36 Bredgade in Copenhagen. Jensen's training in metalsmithing along with his education in the fine arts allowed him to combine the two disciplines and revive the tradition of the artist craftsman. Soon, the beauty and quality of his Art Nouveau creations caught the eye of the public and his success was assured. The Copenhagen quarters were greatly expanded and before the end of the 1920s, Jensen had opened retail in Berlin (1909), London (1921), and New York City (1924). The New York retail store, Georg Jensen Inc. (New York, NY), was founded and operated independently as a family business by Frederik Lunning, a successful salesman of Georg Jensen products first in Odense, then in Copenhagen. The first store, 1924-1935, was incorporated as Georg Jensen Handmade Silver, followed in 1935-1978 by the large Fifth Avenue department store selling many goods aside from Jensen silver, incorporated as Georg Jensen Inc
*********Sugar tongs, also known as sugar nips, are small serving utensils used at the table to transfer sugar pieces from a sugar bowl to a teacup. The tongs appeared at the end of the Seventeenth Century, and were very popular by 1800, with half of the British households owning them.
**********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.
***********Repoussé from the French, meaning “pushed back,” refers to any type of ornamentation in which the design is raised in relief on the reverse or interior side of the metal material at hand.
This very grand and imposing drawing room full of treasures may appear like something out of a historical stately country house, but it is in fact part of my 1:12 miniatures collection and includes items from my childhood, as well as those I have collected as an adult.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The Victoria sponge (named after Queen Victoria) on the pedestal cake plate and its slices on the plates are made by Polly’s Pantry Miniatures in America. The silver tea service on its galleried tray are made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.
The gilt Empire suite with its crem and gold striped upholstery, the gilt galleried central tea table, the Regency corner cabinet, the Regency gilt swan round side tables and matching swan pedestals are made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq. The Palladian console tables at the back to the left and right of the photograph, with their golden caryatids and marble was 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 elegant ornaments that decorate the surfaces of Lady Zinnia’s palatial Cream Drawing Room very much reflect the Eighteenth Century and early Nineteenth Century spirit of the room.
On the centre of the mantlepiece stands a Rococo carriage clock that has been hand painted and gilded with incredible attention to detail by British 1:12 miniature artisan, Victoria Fasken. The clock is flanked by a porcelain pots of yellow, white and blue petunias which have been hand made and painted by 1:12 miniature ceramicist Ann Dalton.
Next to them stand two porcelain vases of pink and white asters which have been made by M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik in Germany, who specialise in making high quality porcelain miniatures. All the pieces in the corner cabinet in the background are also made by M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik. The pieces comprise two different 1:12 miniature dinner and tea sets. The vase containing the pink roses on the console table to the right of the photo is also a M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik piece, as is the vase closest to us on the round side table to the left of the photo, the two large lidded urns on the swan pedestals, the pedestal cake plate on which the Victoria sponge stands, and Lettice’s and the Duchess’ cups and plates.
Also standing on the mantlepiece are two miniature diecast lead Meissen figurines: the Lady with the Canary and the Gentleman with the Butterfly, hand painted and gilded by me.
The painted fruit bowl on the right-hand console table has been painted by miniature artisan Rachel Munday. Her pieces are highly valued by miniature collectors for their fine details.
The remaining vases you see around the room are all miniature Limoges vases from the 1950s and 1960s. They all feature small green Limoges marks to their bottoms.
The Regency style fireplace , the black painted hearth and fire surround I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop in the United Kingdom.
The pink and yellow roses were made by hand by the team at Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.
All the paintings around Lady Zinnia’s Cream Drawing Room in their gilded frames are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States and Marie Makes Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The striped wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.
The Georgian style rug on the floor has been woven by Pike, Pike and Company in the United Kingdom.
