If you enjoyed Antique Charming check out The Activist, The Showgirl, and The Pincushion:
The Archivist, the Showgirl, and the Pincushion
“Come along, and mind no touching, girl! I’ve eyes in the back of my head, ya’ know,” the old lady scolded as she motioned me to follow her inside. Keeping a safe distance as she shuffled along with the help of a cane, I saw no other help which was a puzzle. Surely the mistress of such an estate, the august Mrs. Fitzpatrick-Hughes could afford it. And such a house it was. Not so much grand as an over-enunciation of its status, it was your basic 20th century pile channeling an English country manor home. With its expanse of checker-boarded marble floor, the foyer alone was large enough to hold my squirrel’s nest of an apartment. A curving staircase unfurled dramatically as if awaiting an unseen hostess to make her entrance. Tucked beneath it was an elevator, which my surly escort and I took to the second floor. As we ascended I couldn’t help stealing glances. With raisin eyes sunk deep into a sour sap face and an old-fashioned flowered scarf on her head she resembled a babushka—save for the incongruous pair of eyeglasses perched on her beaky nose. Huge plastic frames in a cheerful sparkly blue, circa 1985; they clashed at least a century with her dour demeanor and dress. The wonder was that they wouldn’t be out of style today in certain hipster enclaves.
I was in the home of the singular Mrs. Fitzpatrick-Hughes, the once and famous, if not scandalous Ziegfeld girl billed as Sylvie Van Cleeve—whose song and dance career had died a thousand spangled deaths before reviving and landing her in the gilded lap of Cyril Royston Fitzpatrick-Hughes.
