Confessions of a Vicar’s Daughter
Confessions of a Vicar’s Daughter is a tale of toasted buns, exposed hypocrisies, and one young lady’s intimate education in accountability. When the vicar’s golden-haired darling engineers a scorched teatime scandal, she anticipates a delicious view through the keyhole. But, what follows is a brisk turn of events, an unflinching lesson in consequences, and the most unwelcome use of a hairbrush.
Act 1 — Through the Keyhole
At first glance, Tabitha Bloom seemed like the very embodiment of virtue, a beacon of sweetness and light. As the beautiful, twenty year-old daughter of the vicar, her smile could make the sternest of hearts melt like butter on a warm crumpet. She was always ready to lend a helping hand, whether it was arranging the flowers for Sunday service, handing out scones at vicarage garden parties, or assisting her father in his duties. Her halo shone so brightly, no one noticed the horns hidden beneath her golden blonde curls. In every way, she should have appeared to be the perfect daughter.
At second glance, those who looked beyond her angelic façade might discover a more complex and intriguing personality, one that belied her initial purity. Perhaps slipping an occasional stinging-nettle into one of the flower arrangements, or contributing a splash of hot chilli sauce when spreading jam on the scones, or even replacing her father's sermon notes with a recipe for currant buns. Tabitha's fertile mind was like an iceberg: smooth on the surface, treacherous beneath, and always drifting toward someone else’s misfortune.
On this particular morning, Tabitha's gaze fell on Nancy, the curvy nineteen year-old housemaid, whose stoic demeanour and charming eagerness to please made her a tempting target. Ms Perkins, the cook, had issued a warning in no uncertain terms.
“We’ve no time to make a second batch of hot-cross buns,” she noted, jabbing a floury finger at Nancy. “So watch the oven, and woe betide you if you let them singe.”
Tabitha, with a practised ear for eavesdropping, had noted these instructions with keen interest. A mischievous smile played on her lips as she contemplated the potential for chaos and the opportunity to land Nancy in some serious hot-water.
“Oh my goodness,” she said moments later, appearing in the kitchen doorway with a realistic look of wide-eyed concern. “I seem to have spilt tea on Father’s sermon notes again. Would you mind helping me blot them, Nancy? You’ve such a delicate touch. I’m hopeless with ink. I always make it worse.”
Nancy hesitated, checking the kitchen timer. But there was plenty of time, and she headed for the parlour, towel in hand.
The very moment Nancy was out of sight, Tabitha darted back, turning up the oven dial and adding another five minutes to the clockwork timer. Adjusting her cuffs like an innocent bystander, she returned to the parlour just in time to thank Nancy with a dazzling smile.
Fifteen minutes later, Tabitha gave a delighted grin as the smell of scorched dough began to waft through the house. It lingered like the scent of incense beside a confessional.
Seated in the drawing room, Tabitha sipped her tea and cast a casual glance toward the kitchen. Muffled voices soon turned to sharper ones. A clatter of crockery was followed by, “What on earth have you done to these buns young lady?” Nancy’s flustered stammering was not quite audible, but it was evidently failing to placate the no-nonsense cook.
Tabitha allowed herself a sly smirk. She crossed one ankle over the other, squeezing her thighs together in a delighted squirm of anticipation, and took another dainty sip of her tea.
Checking the mantle clock, she saw there were at least five minutes until her governess was due. Enough time for a sly reconnoitre, and besides, she had Miss Cranleigh wrapped around her little finger.
Slipping silently down the hall, she crouched at the kitchen door, pressing one eye to the keyhole. Her heart thudded with anticipation. Inside, the scene was better than she’d dared hope.
Nancy stood red-cheeked and wide-eyed, hands fidgeting with her apron. Cook, stout and scandalised, brandished the blackened buns as if holding evidence of high treason. The scolding was in full flow now, every word delicious and stern. And then — oh my! — Cook seized Nancy by the wrist, dragged her across her knee, and in one fluid movement had flipped up the hem of her skirt.
Tabitha’s breath caught as she played witness to this unexpected icing on the cake. Her gaze widened at the sight of Nancy's plain cotton briefs and pale thighs. She leaned in a touch closer, transfixed.
Nancy kicked her feet and wriggled, and then the smacks began. Brisk and measured, Cook’s hand rose and fell with a heavy matronly rhythm. The sound of crisp slaps of a determined palm meeting a pert bottom echoed through the flagstone kitchen. Tabitha’s cheeks flushed. Her interest felt almost indecent, and for reasons she preferred not to examine too closely. It wasn’t just the spectacle. It was the ceremony: the skirt raised, the authoritative tone, the sense of someone being well and truly put in their place.
As she adjusted her posture to try and secure an even better view, a shadow fell across the floor beside her.
“Miss Bloom, I presume.”
Tabitha froze. The voice had a distinctive weight, but it was not Miss Cranleigh, her usual governess, whose mild manner and weak demeanour had never posed any real threat. This voice was unfamiliar. Crisp, clipped, and unwavering.
Tabitha turned. Standing behind her was a tall, trim woman in a charcoal-grey travelling coat and gloves. Her eyes, a clear and rather intimidating grey, studied Tabitha like a puzzle that wouldn't require much solving.
“Oh,” Tabitha stammered, springing upright. “You’re not Miss Cranleigh. And — whoever you are — you’re early.”
“I am Miss Sharpe,” the woman said, unamused. “Miss Cranleigh has the flu and I will be overseeing your lessons in the interim.”
Tabitha blinked. “I see. Well. I was just—”
“Spying at the keyhole. Yes I noticed that already,” Miss Sharpe confirmed. “And, in your bare feet, I might add. A most unladylike position for a vicar’s daughter.”
Tabitha flushed. “I can explain—”
“You’ll have the opportunity to try,” said Miss Sharpe. “For now, you will return to your room and wait for me there.”
With a snort of indignation, Tabitha turned on her heel and headed for the stairs, feeling Miss Sharpe's attentive eyes upon her. Wide-eyed and disarmed, she began to suspect that this temporary governess might not be the pushover that Miss Cranleigh had proved to be.
She walked upstairs with measured grace and a riot of confused feelings. This wasn’t going how she’d planned. Not at all. And yet, somewhere beneath the embarrassment, something warm and curious tingled in her tummy.
As the kitchen commotion began to subside, Miss Sharpe entered in time to see Nancy, still red-faced and moist-eyed. She stood, straightening her skirt and apron with a sulky pout.
“If you would be so kind, I'd like tea upstairs in ten minutes,” Miss Sharpe instructed.
Nancy nodded, still flustered, and hurried to prepare the tea.
Miss Sharpe then made her way upstairs, her heels clicking on the wooden floor, leaving a trail of anticipation and a hint of danger in her wake.
In her room, Tabitha paced. She couldn't shake the feeling that she was in the presence of someone formidable. Someone who commanded respect without demanding it. A shiver ran down her spine as she recalled the stern lines of Miss Sharpe's face and the quiet authority of her bearing. That voice had carried a low, serious tone that seemed to vibrate through every cell in her body.
It was a sensation that both unsettled and intrigued her, like the warm breath of a secret whispered into her ear. A forbidden excitement, which she couldn't quite decipher, was stirring inside her. Alongside her anxiety there was a thrill of anticipation that she dare not acknowledge.
Was she actually looking forward to her encounter with the formidable Miss Sharpe?
Act 2 – A Very Thorough Lesson
Tabitha sat on the edge of her bed, legs crossed, hands folded in her lap. She lifted her chin to a defiant angle — a posture she had often practised in her dressing table mirror, and always with satisfying effect.
The nerve of that woman! Spying, indeed. As though she were some common scullery sneak, rather than the daughter of the house.
She rehearsed protestations under her breath: “I thought I heard a noise and I was curious,” seemed too soft. “I wanted to know if someone needed my help,” was better. But she settled on a more decisive, “You have no right to question my integrity like this.” That one would be perfect. If Miss Sharpe had any sense of decorum, she'd conduct the whole conversation with due civility, and move on.
After five minutes Miss Sharpe entered without warning, closing the door behind her. Tabitha sprang to her feet. The impeccable Governess had removed her coat and gloves, revealing a trim navy blouse buttoned to the neck and a long skirt that whispered as she walked.
“Miss Bloom,” she began, with the tone of someone conducting an inventory. “Let us proceed directly to the matter at hand.”
Tabitha cleared her throat. “If this is about the kitchen—”
“The kitchen is merely a symptom,” began Miss Sharpe. “This is about your behaviour and, above all, your apparent enjoyment of others’ humiliation.”
Tabitha blinked. “I—I beg your pardon?”
“There's no need to beg,” Miss Sharpe replied. “I suggest you save your energy.” She stepped closer. “Do not mistake my calm for leniency. I find discipline best delivered with composure, particularly with regard to young ladies who ought to know better.”
Tabitha’s bravado began to fray.
“Now just wait a moment. Miss Cranleigh never speaks to me like this, and I think you’ll find my Father does not approve of old fashioned methods.”
“Your father,” Miss Sharpe interjected, “has authorised me to stand in for Miss Cranleigh. My methods may differ from hers, but my duty is to maintain morals and academic standards in this household. And, I believe you may be conflating discipline and negotiation, Miss Bloom. One involves compromise; the other, correction.”
Tabitha, aghast, opened her mouth but found that no sound emerged.
Miss Sharpe raised an eyebrow. “So, I take it you have nothing further to add? Good. In that case, we shall proceed.”
She seated herself on the velvet cushioned stool beside Tabitha's dressing table, smoothing her skirt with unhurried grace, and pointing an imperious finger to the floor beside her right foot.
“Come here.”
The command was calm, but Tabitha stood frozen, her stomach lurching.
“I really don't think—” she began, but Miss Sharpe cut her off with icy precision:
“Correct, you didn't think. Which is precisely the problem.” After a long pause, Miss Sharpe added, “Over my knee, if you please.”
Tabitha's ears rang as she waited, hoping for some hint of a jest, but Miss Sharpe's expression remained stern.
She stepped forward in a daze, her limbs feeling stiff and uncooperative. The moment her palms touched Miss Sharpe’s lap, the reality of her position hit her like a poignant sermon. She hesitated, then slowly bent forward, her face flaming. Her silk summer dress slid against the rougher pleated skirt below, exposing an indecent amount of thigh.
Miss Sharpe adjusted her position with brisk efficiency, guiding Tabitha’s hips with both hands until she lay squarely in place, her toes barely brushing the bedroom carpet. The stool creaked beneath them and Tabitha clenched her teeth... and her dignity.
“This is completely outrageous,” she tried to protest.
The response to this half-hearted assertion came in the form of a sharp smack. Clean, purposeful, and sending a warm sparkle through her upturned behind. Tabitha gasped.
This was not how heroines in novels behaved — or perhaps, more distressingly, this was exactly how heroines in novels were sometimes treated. It wasn’t agony, but the sting had real bite, and not only in the physical sense. The very indignity of it set her nerves alight. Another smack followed, and then another. It became a firm, rhythmic spanking, with Miss Sharpe’s fine-tuned instinct finding the exact tempo to keep her squirming.
Her delicate silk dress offered little protection, but nevertheless Miss Sharpe took a moment to draw it up, folding it back over Tabitha’s spine, exposing her lower back and the thin cotton of her panties. It was more symbolism than a meaningful increase in severity, the shame of exposure stinging almost as much as the firm right palm.
Tabitha whimpered, but didn’t dare protest. Somewhere in the burning embarrassment of being held and handled so firmly, a strange anticipation had taken root. She accepted the rhythm, the sharp sounds, and the humiliating realisation that this was precisely the fate she so often took delight in watching from the sidelines.
A temporary respite appeared to arrive in the form of a soft knock, and Nancy's voice.
“Tea tray, ma'am.”
But any optimism Tabitha might have felt was soon shown to be premature, and she went rigid as several more resounding spanks were dotted across the seat of her pants.
“Set it on the table, please,” Miss Sharpe replied, barely pausing from her ministrations. And then, addressing Tabitha, “Not quite so amusing when you’re the one on display, is it?”
Tabitha squeezed her lips tight as she felt a crescendo of spanks land with unmistakeable purpose across the tops of her tender, reddened thighs. She didn't want the maid to hear her yelp in protest. She didn’t even have to look up to feel the satisfaction that would be emanating from Nancy.
Miss Sharpe delivered these final smacks with even more firmness, their penetrating sting acting as a conclusive punctuation to the discipline.
Tabitha stumbled to her feet, her face burning with shame. The movement felt awkward and unbalanced, but with some sense of relief she clutched both hands to the stinging seat of her panties, feeling the heat radiate through to her eager massaging fingers.
“Now, Miss Bloom,” Miss Sharpe said, “you may apologise.”
Tabitha lifted her head, her lip trembling.
“I’m— I’m sorry for… for spying,” she managed, though her voice quivered more than she expected.
“Is that all you have to say for yourself? It's not much of an apology.” Miss Sharpe’s voice was light in tone, but heavy in menace.
There was a long pause while Tabitha visualised the indignity of a possible return to Miss Sharpe's knee. She tried to think of something else to say, but her mind was blank.
“I really am very sorry. I confess — it was me who turned up the oven,” Tabitha blurted out. “I distracted Nancy on purpose, and then I fiddled with the timer. It was all my fault.”
There was a glacial silence. Even Nancy seemed to go still behind her.
Miss Sharpe rose. “I see.”
She opened her handbag with a soft click, and withdrew a large wooden hairbrush. It appeared well-worn, as though it had seen many similar duties over the years. Tabitha’s blood ran cold.
“No,” she whispered. “Please, not the hairbrush.”
“You will bend over the bed,” Miss Sharpe instructed, walking to the end of it. “And Nancy — would you be so kind as to hold her wrists? I cannot abide wriggling.”
Tabitha stared, mortified. Nancy obeyed without a word. She stepped forward, taking Tabitha’s forearms, and firmly pinning them to the quilt. Her grip was strong, perhaps from domestic duties, Tabitha speculated. Whatever the reasons, she found herself utterly helpless.
She was face-down now, her bottom perched precariously on the edge of the mattress. In mute horror she felt her panties eased down to her knees. The sudden breeze against skin not accustomed to exposure, sent a shiver all the way to her toes in a manner that, strangely, wasn’t wholly unpleasant.
Instinctively, she wriggled in a bid to preserve her modesty, but Nancy’s hands were firm, her grip unyielding.
There was the faintest twitch at the corner of the maid’s mouth and Tabitha clenched her fists in anticipation. It was unbearable. Nancy wasn’t being cruel, wasn’t gloating. She was just capable, and entirely in control.
Tabitha caught herself thinking of the way she had crouched to watch Nancy. Of how pleasurable it had been, knowing someone else was in trouble and about to face the consequences. And now she saw a glint of that same satisfaction mirrored in Nancy’s face. Stripped of control and shamefully displayed, she wasn’t sure if the heat in her cheeks stemmed more from fear of the brush, or from the thought that someone else was now watching her.
The broad, polished hairbrush struck with a unique, inherent authority.
It was a very different sensation to Miss Sharpe’s hand. More intense, but also deeper, as if each impact had a point to prove. Tabitha gasped with every stroke, the sting flaring hot and immediate, then blooming outward into a slow, throbbing pain that seemed to pulse with every heartbeat.
She felt her muscles tense, face buried in the coverlet. Nancy didn’t say a word — didn’t gloat or smirk — but her grip was steady and inescapable, and that in itself was humiliating. Worse still was the silence between each swat, the dreadful anticipation that made Tabitha’s toes curl and her thighs tense.
Her hips jerked under each stroke, under each blistering moment of pain, and her heart raced as she realised a tiny part of her didn’t quite want it to stop. She made no attempt to count the strokes. Time twisted into a blur of heat, humiliation, and the soft rustle of Miss Sharpe’s skirt as she moved methodically.
When it ended — finally — Tabitha lay still for a moment, breath hitching as she barely managed to suppress a sob. She didn’t dare to move.
Miss Sharpe’s voice, when it came, was maddeningly unflustered.
“I believe that will suffice.”
Nancy released her wrists, but Tabitha didn’t look up at her. She couldn’t bear to meet her eye as she awkwardly rose to her feet. With a haste born of necessity and modesty, she tugged up her underwear and straightened her skirt, feeling a painful prickle as the fabric made contact with her cherry-red and smarting rear.
“You will compose yourself,” the governess continued, “and then we shall begin today's lessons.”
Tabitha nodded once, mute with a mixture of aching discomfort, confusion, and residual heat. She smoothed her hair with trembling fingers and slipped behind her writing desk, wincing as she lowered herself gingerly onto the hard wooden chair.
Miss Sharpe poured the tea, unhurried and precise. She took a single sugar cube, stirred exactly four times, and took a sip before glancing up.
“Thank you Nancy. You may return for the tray later.”
Nancy bobbed a delicate curtsey and Tabitha risked a glance, catching the faintest serene smile playing on the maid’s lips. I’ll find a way to get her back for this, Tabitha thought... and then paused. Not while Miss Sharpe was still around, of course, but some time soon.
As Miss Sharpe opened up their French text book, Tabitha shifted in her seat and tried to ignore the warmth that was radiating as she sat.
She was used to orchestrating such scenes. Not starring in them. And certainly not wondering whether that awful hairbrush was always kept ready for action in Miss Sharpe's handbag.
Act III – Firm Appointments
Afternoon tea at the vicarage was a sacred ritual. Finger sandwiches, lace napkins, and precisely brewed Darjeeling. Today, the tray was graced by a plate of shortbread in place of the unsalvageable buns.
Tabitha sat rather more upright than usual, perched delicately on a soft cushion with the faint stiffness of someone trying not to make a scene. She had spoken very little during tea. The Vicar, oblivious to the quiet storm beneath his daughter's composed exterior, helped himself to another biscuit with gentle enthusiasm.
“Delightful, simply delightful,” he murmured. “The house has been so peaceful this afternoon. I've never heard a raised voice. A very steadying influence, Miss Sharpe seems to be. I suppose you must be getting along very equitably with your governess, dear?”
Tabitha blinked. Her smile twitched.
“Oh,” she replied, “so far I've found she’s very thorough.”
The Vicar beamed at the tea tray before them. “That's lovely dear. I'll speak to the agency later and ask for Miss Sharpe to be made permanent.”
Tabitha’s hand froze halfway to her teacup.
“Permanent?” she asked, incredulous.
“Oh yes,” the Vicar confirmed. “It’s rare to find someone so effective these days.”
Nancy cleared her throat very softly behind her hand, a pair of delicate silver tongs poised beside the bowl of sugar cubes.
“Would you like another one? I wondered if you would care for something to soften any bitterness, Miss?” Nancy asked sweetly.
“No,” Tabitha stammered, “I think I've had quite enough for now, thank you.”
Tabitha could feel her cheeks heating once more and dropped her eyes to her lap. Beneath her skirts, the sting of the morning’s lesson still lingered. She winced at every slightest movement on the cushion as it reignited the infuriating pin-prickle of smarting.
She took another sip of tea, composed, and tried not to think about hairbrushes. Or wrists pinned to quilts. Or the way Nancy had held her down — so firm and unshakable. She tried not to think about the fact that, despite it all, she’d behaved herself for almost four whole hours.
Miss Sharpe hadn’t once needed to raise her voice, yet she commanded more obedience than any sermon or scolding ever could. Tabitha felt a delicious, grudging admiration for that kind of control. Not that she would ever admit it aloud.
She had learned her lesson, for now at least, but as the mantle clock ticked in the background she dared to wonder — perhaps an occasional reminder wouldn't be entirely unwelcome...
From the Private Diary of Miss Tabitha Bloom: I have decided that Miss Sharpe is quite the most impossible woman alive. Impossibly cold, impossibly calm, and impossibly good at turning one’s bottom into a blazing beacon of repentance. And yet — heaven help me — there’s something about the way she speaks, the way she arranges consequences, that rather gets under the skin (and the knickers). Nancy had the gall to offer me a second cushion at supper. I declined with dignity, though not without a wince. Still, I’ve made it through the entire evening without so much as a sideways look at the sugar bowl. Miss Sharpe would be pleased. Not that I care what she thinks. Not at all. Certainly not. Though I do wonder, purely out of curiosity, if she keeps that hairbrush beside her bed.