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.
This afternoon we have not strayed far from Cavendish Mews and are still in Mayfair, on Bond Street where the premises of the Portland Gallery stand. Lettice has important business with the patrician Mr. Chilvers, the gallery owner, with whom she wishes to discuss acquiring a new painting.
“Shall I call you a taxi, Miss?” Edith, Lettice’s maid, asked as Lettice bustled into drawing room of Cavendish Mews, swathed in fox furs to protect her from the chilly late morning autumnal London air outside, announcing she was going to Portland Gallery.
“Oh, you are a brick, Edith!” Lettice replied breezily, but then continued just before Edith set down her feather duster and prepared to walk down to the taxi rank in the next street, “But really there’s no need. It’s such a lovely day outside, I think I’ll walk.”
Edith looked out of the drawing room window at the dull grey skies hanging above the terrace opposite and crumpled her nose, before she looked back with surprise at her mistress as she fiddled with the large pearl studded hatpin that was skewered through her hair at the back of her head, holding her elegant red felt broad brimmed hat in place.
“Are you quite alright, Miss?”
Lettice stopped fiddling with the hatpin. “Oh, quite Edith. I’ve got it fastened now.” She sighed as she turned to her Chippendale china cabinet and caught a glimpse of her modish reflection in the spotless glass not long cleaned by Edith. “There! It’s nice and secure.” She tugged on the brim of her hat as she spoke, just to prove the point.
“I didn’t mean about your hat, Miss.” Edith scoffed.
“Then what did you mean, Edith?”
“Well, if you’ll pardon me, Miss, but you don’t walk anywhere,” Edith replied matter-of-factly.
“Well, a girl is afforded the luxury of changing her mind and habits every now and then, isn’t she, Edith?” Lettice retorted blithely.
“On a day when it looks like rain?” The maid looked sceptically at her mistress through appraising screwed up eyes.
“I’ll take a brolly, then.” Lettice huffed as she slipped on a pair of bright red leather cuff length gloves. “Will that satisfy you Edith?”
“Yes Miss.” Edith replied, sounding every bit like she felt quite the opposite as Lettice swept out.
A short while later, as Lettice walked up the street towards Bond Street, the sharp clicking sound of her heels on the concrete footpath blending with the noise of footsteps and the chugging of engines as pedestrians and motor cars passed her, she sighed and breathed deeply, smiling happily to herself. With her snakeskin handbag jostling around the crook of her right arm, and one of her stumpy handled umbrellas swinging in her left, she allowed her mind to drift as she walked brusquely.
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, Lady Zinnia in an effort to destroy their relationship which she wanted to end so that she could marry Selwyn off to his cousin, Pamela Fox-Chavers. Now Lettice has been made aware by Lady Zinnia that during the course of the year, whilst Lettice has been biding her time, waiting for Selwyn’s eventual return, he has become engaged to the daughter of a Kenyan diamond mine owner whilst in Durban. Fleeing Lady Zinnia’s Park Lane mansion, Lettice returned to Cavendish mews and milled over her options over a week as she reeled from the news. Then, yesterday morning she knew exactly what to do to resolve the issues raised by Lady Zinnia’s unwelcome news about her son. Taking extra care in her dress, she took herself off to the neighbouring upper-class London suburb of Belgravia and paid a call upon Sir John Nettleford-Hughes.
Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John is still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intends to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. As an eligible man in a aftermath of the Great War when such men are a rare commodity, with a vast family estate in Bedfordshire, houses in Mayfair, Belgravia and Pimlico and Fontengil Park in Wiltshire, quite close to the Glynes estate belonging to her parents, Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, invited him as a potential suitor to her 1922 Hunt Ball, which she used as a marriage market for Lettice. Selwyn rescued Lettice from the horror of having to entertain him, and Sir John left the ball early in a disgruntled mood with a much younger partygoer. Lettice recently reacquainted herself with Sir John at an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Gladys Caxton at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, a baronial Art and Crafts castle near the hamlet of Kershopefoot in Cumberland. To her surprise, Lettice found Sir John’s company rather enjoyable. She then ran into him again at the Portland Gallery’s autumn show where she found him yet again to be a pleasant and attentive companion for much of the evening.
Sir John also made a proposition to her that night: he offered her his hand in marriage should she ever need it. More like a business arrangement than a marriage proposal, Sir John offered Lettice the opportunity to enjoy the benefits of his large fortune, be chatelain of all his estates and continue to have her interior design business, under the conditions that she agree to provide him with an heir, and that he be allowed to discreetly carry on his affairs in spite of their marriage vows. He even suggested that Lettice might be afforded the opportunity to have her own extra marital liaisons if she were discreet about them. Last night, turning up unannounced on his doorstep, she agreed to his proposal after explaining that the understanding between she and Selwyn was concluded.
As she walked, Lettice’s thoughts drifted back to the previous evening when she had sat on the sofa next to Sir John in his elegant drawing room, as they discussed the future after he had agreed to hold to his terms if she married him.
“Would you mind horribly, if we waited until after Christmas and New Year, before we announce our engagement to my family, John?” Lettice asked cautiously. Sir John’s bright face darkened slightly as she did so, and she thought she could see a sadness in his eyes. “You do mind.”
“No, no I don’t mind,” he replied a little awkwardly. “I… I just don’t understand why, Lettice.”
“I’m not ashamed of you, or of our engagement, if that’s what you’re worried about, John.” Lettice assured him quickly with an earnest look.
Sir John’s face brightened again, as relief softened his features, rather like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.
“No, “ Lettice went on. “I just don’t want there to be any speculation that your proposal of marriage is something I am rushing into on the tail of my break with Selwyn.”
“His break with you, you mean, Lettice.”
“Yes,” Lettice chuckled sadly. “His break with me. Thank you for reminding me of that fact.”
“He’s a damn fool to let you slip though his fingers, Lettice, and I must say.” Sir John’s brow crumpled as he spoke.
“Thank you, John.”
“But going back to your point about speculations. I thought your parents would be thrilled for us. I mean, it was your mother who asked me to come to her Hunt Ball in 1922 as a potential suitor.”
“Oh and they will be, John.” Lettice replied hurriedly, pushing aside and ignoring her father’s very vocal aspersions that Sir John is an old lecher. “They will. It’s just that,” She paused as she gathered her thoughts. “Being my father’s favourite, he always pays extra attention to me, and considering how upset I was after Lady Zinnia sent Selwyn to Durban, it would seem odd - out of character - if I just blurted out and said that Selwyn and I no longer have an arrangement, and now I’m marrying you. If we…”
“Let the dust settle?”
“Exactly, John!” Lettice enthused. “Then, they will be more receptive to our engagement, and not think it so odd.”
Lettice observed as Sir John ruminated, considering her reasoning.
“Very well,” he finally replied. “You know your parents better than I, Lettice.”
“Oh thank you, John!” she exclaimed.
“But not too long, mind you.” he tempered her enthusiasm. “I’d like our intentions known early in the new year, so that we may marry in November.”
“Of course, John.”
“Anyway, how could I refuse my bride-to-be anything?” His eyes softened as she stared at her.
As he chuckled good naturedly, Lettice added with hope in her voice, “I have another condition of our marriage, John.”
His chuckles grew as he said, “Of course you do, Lettice. In my experience, it seems it is every bride’s prerogative to have conditions.”
“I didn’t think you were overly familiar with brides, John.”
“Well, I’ve never really been the marrying kind, before you that is, as you know Lettice. However, many an elicit affair of mine has ended with the peal of wedding bells, so I suppose in my own oblique way, I’ve known a good many brides.” He glanced anxiously up into Lettice’s face as he spoke, gauging her reaction to his statement. “I hope that doesn’t shock you too much.”
“As I said before, John. Now that I know you better, and am starting to understand you better too,” she replied kindly. “No, it doesn’t.”
“Jolly good!” he sighed with relief. “So, what is it then?”
“What is what, John?”
“What is the bride-to-be’s condition then?”
“Oh that!” Lettice laughed, waving her hand dismissively before her, the diamonds on her fingers glinting in the lamplight of Sir John’s drawing room. “Well, now I think about it, there are actually two.”
“Two now?” Sie John’s eyebrows knitted as he spoke. “Best you tell me them then, lest the groom has any counter conditions of his own.”
“Well, the first I don’t think you’ll mind too much, John.”
“Then indulge me, Lettice.” Sir John mused with an indulgent smile. “What is it?”
“Well, if I am to be mistress of your houses once we are married,”
“Our houses, you mean, Lettice.” Sir John corrected her.
“Our houses,” Lettice replied. “I should very much like to keep on my maid, Edith.”
“Well, as chatelaine of several houses, I’ll be more than happy to hand over the staffing to you, my dear. But you’ve talked about her before. Isn’t she just an ordinary maid-of-all work?”
“Yes and no. She was an under parlour maid in her previous position. However, if she comes with me, I want her to have a new position.”
“Oh yes?”
“I should like her to be my lady’s maid.”
Sir John looked surprised at her suggestion. “But I thought you were so proud of being a modern woman, Lettice, and had no need for a lady’s maid. You said so yourself when we met at Gossington. You told me that it’s the 1920s, so you don’t need a maid to fasten you into your outfits nowadays.”
“Well, I don’t really, and I get my hair done by a professional coiffeuse*.”
“Then what would you propose this maid of yours?”
“Edith.”
“Edith, do?” Sir John queried. “As my future wife, I don’t mind indulging you, Lettice. However,” he cautioned. “I will not fritter my money away on staff who do nothing.”
“Well Edith wouldn’t do nothing. I’ve discovered, thank in part to Gerald Bruton, that she’s an excellent seamstress, and with a mother who is laundress, she knows how to goffer** lace to perfection, so whilst I don’t need her to dress me, she does an excellent job of maintaining my wardrobe.”
“So, a Mistress of the Robes*** for the future Lady Nettleford-Hughes, then?”
“I’d like that, John.”
He chuckled again, still with good humour as he replied, “Well, then you shall have your wish.” Sitting back on the Regency striped sofa next to Lettice he continued, “And what is your second condition, My Lady?”
“Well, were you speaking in earnest before, when you said I could buy and hang the Picasso?”
Lettice held her breath as she waited for Sir John to answer.
“I said so, didn’t I?”
“You did.”
“Then you may. Go and see Chilvers this week, and tell him to put that daub, however ghastly it is, on my account and take it home with you to Cavendish Mews.”
“Oh John!” Lettice threw her arms around Sir John in unbridled delight at his agreement. “Thank you!”
In her reverie, Lettice almost walks past the impressive three storey Victorian Portland Gallery building with its Portland stone facings, which is where the gallery takes its name from. The ground floor part of the façade has been modernised in more recent times, and features large plate glass windows through which passers by may look at the beautiful objets d’art artfully presented in them by Mr. Chilvers. Currently one window artfully displays a clutch of pottery pieces by Bernard Leach****, whilst the other has a single modernist vase of white marble set up against a rich red velvet curtain, giving it a very dramatic look.
Lettice momentarily looks at her reflection in the the full length plate glass doors on which the Portland Galleries’ name is written in elegant gilt font along with the words ‘by appointment only’ printed underneath in the same hand, before walking proudly inside. As the door closes behind her, shutting out the sound of noisy automobiles and chugging busses and the clatter of footsteps on the busy pavement and the chatter of shoppers, the air about her changes. In the crisp and cool silence of the gallery Lettice’s heels click across the black and white marble floor. Her eyes flit in a desultory fashion around the red painted gallery hung with brightly coloured paintings and populated with tables, cabinets and pillars upon which stand a myriad of different sculptures and other artistic pieces.
“Ah! Miss Chetwynd!” a mature frock coated man greets Lettice with a broad smile. Taking her hand, he kisses it affectionately, yet with respect. “How do you do.”
“Mr. Chilvers!” Lettice greets the smartly dressed gallery owner with a warm smile and the familiarity of the regular client that she is. “How do you do.”
Born Grand Duke Pytor Chikvilazde in the Russian seaside resort town of Odessa, the patrician gallery owner with the beautifully manicured and curled handlebar moustache fled Russia after the Revolution, escaping aboard the battleship HMS Marlborough***** from Yalta in 1919 along with the Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna and other members of the former, deposed Russian Imperial Family. Arriving a in London later that year after going via Constantinople and Genoa, the Russian emigree was far more fortunate than others around him on the London docks, possessing valuable jewels smuggled out of Russia in the lining of his coat. Changing his name to the more palatable Peter Chilvers, he sold most of the jewels he had, shunned his Russian heritage, honed his English accent and manners, to reinvent himself as the very British owner of an art gallery in Bond Street, thus enabling him to continue what he enjoyed most about being Grand Duke Pytor Chikvilazde and enjoy a thriving arts scene. As one of his more high profile customers, Mr. Chilvers happily fawns over Lettice, delighted that she chooses to patronise his very exclusive gallery for pieces to decorate the interiors of her clients’ homes with.
“Always a pleasure to have you present in my humble little establishment, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Chilvers remarks obsequiously, releasing Lettice’s fingers and clasping his hands together in front of him. “Now, when you telephoned this morning, you mentioned you wanted to buy a painting.” His dark eyes glitter with anticipation. “Which one of my beauties has taken your fancy?”
“Well, Mr. Chilvers,” Lettice remarks as she strides across the floor of the gallery, smoothly gliding around pedestals and tables displaying pieces of art. “You’ll hardly be surprised when I tell you that I’m interested in…” But the words she is about to utter die on her tongue as she stares up at the painting hanging above the fireplace. Her mouth slackens and her throat becomes suddenly dry as she looks at it. “Where is it, Mr. Chilvers?”
“Ahh! I feared as much.” Mr. Chilvers sighs with regret. “The Picasso.”
“Yes! Where have you moved ‘The Lovers’ to, Mr. Chilvers?”
“I’m afraid that the Picasso is no longer available, Miss Chetwynd.” he replies, opening his hands in a meek gesture of apology.
“No longer available?” Lettice utters disbelievingly.
“I’m afraid it’s been sold, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Chilvers elucidates. When he sees Lettice’s face fall, he continues, “I did try to warn you at my little autumnal soirée, that there were others in the room that evening, who had taken a fancy to ‘The Lovers’. Mister Picasso’s new works are causing quite a sensation this season in fashionable avant-guard circles.”
“But I was ready to buy it.” Lettice manages to utter in a strangulated voice.
“I’m very sorry, Miss Chetwynd.” he apologises again. “But it is too late.”
“I don’t suppose you could give me the name of the person who acquired it, Mr. Chilvers?” Lettice asks furtively with s sly gaze and a shy smile.
“Miss Chetwynd!” the gallery owner chides her mildly with a disapproving look. “I can’t believe that you, of all people, would countenance asking me such a thing! Many is the time you have acquired art from me that someone else has desired. You know as well as I do that discretion is my byword, and is therefore that of the Portland Gallery. I would never compromise the anonymity of my purchasers.”
“Yes, of course! How foolish of me!” Lettice excuses herself with a shaking head. “Forgive me, Mr. Chilvers.”
“There is nothing to forgive, Miss Chetwynd.” he purrs. “But, perhaps there is something else I can show you that might take your fancy?”
He indicates above the mantle upon which stand several pieces of art pottery, to the selection of paintings in wooden and gilded frames hanging above it. Lettice looks at the street scenes, landscapes and seascapes painted in watercolours and oils. All are lovely, but uninspiring in her eyes as she stares at their muddy browns and ochres.
“No, thank you, Mr. Chilvers.” Lettice says shaking her head slowly, unable to avoid keeping the disappointment from her voice as she speaks. “They lack the… the…” In her regret at having not bought the Picasso on the evening of the Portland Gallery’s autumn show, she cannot find the words as she gesticulates around her.
“The vitality, perhaps, Miss Chetwynd?” Mr. Chilvers ventures politely.
“Exactly, Mr. Chilvers!” Lettice sighs in a deflated fashion. “The vitality, the colour, the movement, of Mr. Picasso’s works.”
“Well, I might be able to get another piece of Picasso’s work, Miss Chetwynd, but as I said, his pieces have been creating quite a stir, so it may be a little while before I get one.”
“It doesn’t matter, even if you do, Mr. Chilvers.” Lettice sighs. “It won’t be ‘The Lovers’, will it?”
“Sadly, not, Miss Chetwynd.” the gallery owner replies regretfully.
The pair fall into silence for a short while.
“I do have the work of a promising young English artist named Roland Penrose****** coming as part of a shipment from France, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Chilvers says optimistically. “He is a friend of Picasso, and Penrose’s work has been influenced greatly by him. His work is quite striking, I can assure you. I really think you will like it.”
“No, no, Mr. Chilvers.” Lettice rebuts sadly. “Thank you, but no. It was ‘The Lovers’ I had set my heart upon.”
“I understand, Miss Chetwynd.”
“It’s my own idiotic fault for not buying it when you encouraged me to.”
The pair fall into silence again as they both look up at the paintings hanging on the gallery wall in front of them.
“It is funny, is it not, Miss Chetwynd,” Mr. Chilvers remarks. “What passions can stir the heart.”
“Indeed it is, Mr. Chilvers.” Lettice replies with another deep sigh, as she contemplates her own passion, recent heartbreak, and now the renewal of her life that she is about to embark on, as Lady Nettleford-Hughes.
*A coiffeuse is the old fashioned term for a woman who is a hairdresser.
**Goffer means to crimp, plait, or flute (linen, lace, etc.) especially with a heated iron.
***A Mistress of the Robes is a position held by a woman of high rank in the royal household who is in charge of a queen’s wardrobe
****Bernard Howell Leach was a British studio potter and art teacher. He is regarded as the "Father of British studio pottery".
*****In 1919, King George V sent the HMS Marlborough to rescue his Aunt the Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna after the urging of his mother Queen Dowager Alexandra. On the 5th of April 1919, the HMS Marlborough arrived in Sevastopol before proceeding to Yalta the following day. The ship took Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna and other members of the former, deposed Russian Imperial Family including Grand Duke Nicholas and Prince Felix Yusupov aboard in Yalta on the evening of the 7th. The Empress refused to leave unless the British also evacuated wounded and sick soldiers, along with any civilians that also wanted to escape the advancing Bolsheviks. The Russian entourage aboard Marlborough numbered some 80 people, including forty four members of the Royal Family and nobility, with a number of governesses, nurses, maids and manservants, plus several hundred cases of luggage.
******Sir Roland Algernon Penrose was an English artist, historian and poet. He was a major promoter and collector of modern art and an associate of the surrealists in the United Kingdom. After studying architecture at Queens' College, Cambridge, Penrose switched to painting and moved to France, where he lived from 1922 and where in 1925 he married his first wife the poet Valentine Boué. During this period he became friends with the artists Pablo Picasso, Wolfgang Paalen and Max Ernst, who would have the strongest influence on his work and most of the leading Surrealists.
Whilst this up-market London gallery interior complete with artisan pieces may appear real to you, it is in fact made up completely with pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection. This tableau is particularly special because almost everything you can see is a handmade artisan miniature piece.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
Central to our photo the copy of “Place du Théâtre Francois, Paris” is a 1:12 miniature painted by hand in the style of Pissarro by miniature artist Ann Hall. The frame was handmade too.
The two pen and watercolour images hanging to the right of the photograph are by miniature artist R. Humphreys. I acquired these through Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop in the United Kingdom.
The jug and bowl on the fireplace mantle had been hand fashioned and painted by an unknown miniature artisan ceramicist, as are the two vases that flank it. The jug and bowl I acquired from a private collector of miniatures selling their collection on E-Bay, whilst the vases came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom.
The jug and the vase on the stands to either side of the fireplace are by unknown artisans as well. They were acquired from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom.
The two pedestals either side of the fireplace were made by the high end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.