Confessions of Clementine: Part 2
The campaign of comeuppance continues in this second letter from Clementine Beaufort-Smythe, who takes poetic revenge on her friend Poppy with a missing bathrobe, a damp corridor dash wearing only her birthday suit, and a close encounter with the Duchess. But has she gone too far — and what will Aunt Agatha say?
The Damp Corridor Dash
A scheming correspondent from Little Dithering pens a triumphant (if slightly soggy) update.
Dear Aunt Agatha,
You will, I trust, permit me a little gloating. For after weeks of simmering injustice, I have at last balanced the scales, or rather, tipped them in my favour.
As you may recall, my dear friend Poppy (whose sense of mischief is only eclipsed by her poor timing) was entirely responsible for my recent embarrassment among the rose border. Her suggestion of a bracing dip au naturel led to a memorable encounter with a greenhouse, a bamboo cane, and a gardener possessed of a lively aim.
So you will understand, I hope, that revenge was not only sweet, it was practically medicinal.
My opportunity came one morning after tennis, when Poppy retired for a long and luxurious soak. I noted, with interest, that she had neglected to lock the bathroom. More fool her.
While she soaked in blissful ignorance — scented steam curling through the keyhole — I crept in, delicately collected her bathrobe, her slippers, and every last towel, and tiptoed away like a very stylish cat burglar.
My plan was simple. To wait nearby and observe her inevitable dash for decency. And oh, Agatha, what a spectacle it was.
She emerged ten minutes later, dripping wet and utterly scandalised, like a modern-day Venus de Milo. The look on her face was something between indignation and metaphysical panic. She was in a state of nature, rather like the artistic depictions of Eve in the garden, but without so much as a fig leaf to protect her modesty.
I could hear her muttering something unladylike while she attempted to slink along the corridor. I watched (completely unseen, of course) from behind the velvet curtain by the staircase. The view, and the acoustics, are excellent. I had to bite my handkerchief to avoid betraying myself with a fit of the giggles. She was darting between doorways wearing what I think might be referred to as a bare essentials wardrobe.
To her stealthy credit, she successfully avoided detection by two housemaids, and one postman. And she nearly made it. Truly, she did. If only she could have made it up the staircase, her bedroom door would have been tantalisingly within reach.
Half a dozen steps from salvation, she was intercepted by my mother, the Duchess of Larkswood. Poppy froze, blushing and dripping wet, like a Grecian statue caught in a sudden downpour.
Mother, ever the pragmatist, said, “Kindly drip on the tiles, not the silk runner. And while you're at it, explain to me why you're prancing around the house in a state of undress.”
Poppy stammered an explanation, but Mother was having none of it. She sat herself down on the top step of the grand staircase and pulled Poppy across her lap. I may have giggled a little too loudly at that point.
She declared that hairbrushes are far less forgiving when damp, and judging by Poppy's yelps, it's evidently true. The tune the hairbrush played had a rhythm of damp regret. It can't have lasted more than a minute or two, but I did notice that Poppy sat down rather gingerly at tea.
I realise, of course, that my delight may not paint me in the best moral light, but it’s awfully difficult to maintain high-minded regret when one’s dearest friend has just been caught in a disrobed slink by one’s mother.
Do you think I’ve gone too far? I heard from one of the maids that Poppy has sworn revenge. I've managed to assemble a rather impressive collection of hidden towels, but I don't know if it will be enough.
With triumphant affection,
Clementine Beaufort-Smythe
P.S. I’m told that mother has since sent her hairbrush for re-varnishing. I do hope it’s not my turn next.
Aunt Agatha responds with a cooling hand and a raised eyebrow…
Dear Miss Beaufort-Smythe,
It is one of life’s curious truths that vengeance, when served cold, so often arrives dripping wet, blushing, and clutching a loofah.
While I cannot officially condone your latest escapade — as it appears to contain elements of burglary, voyeurism, and mild theatrical sadism — I must acknowledge its execution was, shall we say, well-polished.
That said, Clementine, a staircase ambush involving a naked house-guest and your mother’s best hairbrush is rarely the hallmark of moral enlightenment. Even if the orchestration was, by your own giddy admission, rather elegant.
It is to your credit, I suppose, that you confined your revenge to indoors, a mercy she did not extend to you. However, your tone suggests rather more triumph than contrition, and I must gently remind you that smugness, however well-earned, is no substitute for remorse.
Poppy, for all her sins, may have planted the seed — but you have cultivated the entire revenge border. And now, having sown embarrassment, you should expect a harvest of retaliation. Frankly, I would not store anything valuable in your bath towel cupboard for the foreseeable future.
As for the Duchess, her decision to forgo drying the offender before applying the remedy speaks of a woman with commendable priorities and an unwavering sense of justice. I only hope her skirts survived the ordeal — wet mischief can leave such unfortunate watermarks.
Your postscript gave me pause. The re-varnishing of a hairbrush is rarely a good omen. Do take care that your mother doesn’t decide to test its durability on the original subject of last season’s scandal. One suspects she may still have lemon curd flashbacks.
In the meantime, I strongly suggest a peace offering. Nothing elaborate. A truce sealed with shortbread and a promise not to hide anyone’s underthings for at least a fortnight should suffice.
Yours in caution and camphor,
Aunt Agatha
P.S. Should you feel tempted to escalate, do recall the golden rule of country house warfare: never start a skirmish in a home with only one bathroom. You will lose.
#FF #OTK #Nude #Bare #Hairbrush
Reprinted from The Little Dithering Gazette, under strict embargo from the Duchess of Larkswood’s personal archive.