Etiquette Summer School
When Delia Hastings is summoned to the headmistress’s study during her final week at St. Eleanora’s Summer School for Young Ladies, she expects a stern talking-to, not a formal correction in front of her peers. But tradition runs deep at St. Eleanora’s, and decorum must be restored. What follows is a quiet reckoning: six strokes, six memories, and a lesson in grace that may stay with her far longer than she ever expected.
“No summer ever came back, and no two summers ever were alike.” (Christina Rossetti)
Chapter 1: Miss Hastings is Summoned
Delia Hastings stood in front of the desk with her hands clasped before her, not because she had been told to, but because anything else felt entirely out of place. She had hoped it would prevent her from fidgeting, though she still felt jittery, her tummy fluttering like a butterfly.
The curtains drawn against the setting sun increased the sense of claustrophobia. The relentless ticking of the wall clock intensified the tension and with every second, Delia felt her fate approaching.
Miss Fairholme sat behind the desk, draped in her academic gown, her posture as composed as her gaze. The crook-handled cane lay across the desk, rarely used, but ever present. It remained a silent threat, for now, but Delia knew its silence would not last.
When Miss Fairholme finally spoke, her voice was low and clear. “Delia Hastings,” she began, her eyes never leaving Delia's face. “I have called you here today because there are matters we must discuss.”
Delia winced as a cold bead of perspiration trickled down her spine. The headmistress's gaze, piercing and unyielding, bore down on her, making the air in the room feel heavier. Delia struggled to keep her composure under the weight of that stare.
“A lady does not indulge in horseplay at the dinner table. Nor does she interrupt her headmistress with remarks better suited to a music-hall revue.”
Delia flushed but said nothing. She knew that nothing she said in these moments could help. It was better to maintain a dignified silence.
“Our special Etiquette Summer School has traditions. They are not arbitrary. They are what remains when the world forgets its manners. My job during your time here, is to help you learn to live by them.”
A pause. Delia’s eyes flicked downwards. The cane was dark, mottled rattan, its handle polished by years of use. It wasn’t a threat, exactly. More of an inevitability.
“This is your first serious infraction,” Miss Fairholme continued, “and you will receive six strokes of the cane. I will administer them in the Common Room, in the presence of your fellow students, and in accordance with school tradition.”
She opened her mouth, not to protest, but to ask a question she couldn’t quite form. But her voice failed her, and she she simply nodded, stiffly.
Miss Fairholme shook her head to discourage any further conversation.
“You will not be the first, Miss Hastings, nor will you be the last. When you are called, you will walk in, accept your correction, and you will leave a little wiser than you were.”
The headmistress reached for the small brass bell at the edge of her desk and gave it a single ring.
Within seconds, the door opened, and this summer's appointed Head Girl stepped inside. Delia recognised her as Verity Chambers, the girl who read aloud at morning assembly, always precise, never flustered.
“Miss Chambers, please escort Miss Hastings to the Common Room.”
Miss Fairholme turned her gaze back to Delia, her tone softening only slightly.
“When you arrive at the common room, wait outside the door. I expect you to stand facing the wall, hands on your head. You will be summoned when I'm ready.”
Delia acknowledged with a nod.
With the feeling of being drawn into a tale of tradition and expectation, she turned and followed the Head Girl out into the corridor.
Chapter 2: Prepared for Instruction
The corridor stretched out ahead. It was wood-panelled to shoulder height. Above, hung school photographs and plaques, all crisply framed in dark oak. The polished floor caught the glow of the overhead lights, casting a gentle gleam with each step taking her one footfall closer to the common room.
Delia followed with eyes lowered, not watching Verity's back, but aware of her every movement. She walked with quiet confidence — precise, unhurried — a study in self-possession that only heightened the unrest in Delia’s mind.
The corridor was neither long nor dim, but it felt like stepping into a world where the past and present were intertwined, where every action had a meaning.
At the end, the corridor turned sharply. Already Delia could see the frosted half-glass door that led into the Senior Girl's Common Room. Though the glass was opaque, light poured out in a warm wash and behind it, shadowy motion suggested a room that was not empty. With a shiver of apprehension, she wondered how many of her peers would bear witness to the ritual?
As they rounded the corner, Verity slowed and came to a stop beside her.
“You have to wait here,” she said gently, gesturing to the pale patch of wall beside the door. “Face the wall. Hands on your head. You will be called when it’s time.”
Delia hesitated, not out of defiance, but from the sudden realisation that the moment had come too soon. That she had run out of steps. Still, she nodded.
Verity caught the flicker of doubt. Her voice softened. She placed a hand on Delia’s shoulder. The moment was brief, but steadying.
“It’ll be all right. Be brave, Delia. We’ve all been through this. Some of us more than once.”
Delia blinked. “Really?” she asked.
Verity nodded. “Oh yes. No one gets through their first Summer School without learning the rules the hard way. We all think we’re too clever. Too grown-up. But the school has its way of reminding us. But,” she hesitated, “you later realise it was exactly the reminder you needed.”
Delia gave the smallest nod of understanding and turned toward the wall. Placing her hands on her head felt strangely exposing.
Miss Chambers waited a moment longer, then stepped quietly through the door and closed it behind her.
Delia stood, alone now in the corridor.
The air pressed close. Distant footsteps, the soft slam of a locker, the faint drift of laughter from somewhere far away — all these things carried on as though nothing had changed. But for Delia, everything had changed, narrowing to this patch of wall and the fear behind the frosted glass.
She couldn’t have said whether she stood there for one minute or ten.
Then she heard it — faint, but clear.
The unmistakable tap of rattan being set down against wood. It wasn't loud or dramatic, but it was a sound that sent a jolt through her spine.
Then came the summons. Miss Fairholme’s voice, level and composed, carried through the glass like a string pulled taut.
“Miss Hastings. We are ready for you.”
The common room was about to become the setting for a public display of contrition. This wasn’t a simple reprimand. It was a ritual, a public display of accountability, and Delia could feel the pressure building, her heart pounding in her chest as she braced herself for what was to come.
Delia drew in a breath. At the threshold, she paused, glanced down, and quickly adjusted her uniform — smoothing the pleats of her skirt, checking the button at her collar, brushing away an invisible crease on her waistcoat. Her shoes gleamed; her hair was pulled tight. If she was going to face this, she would face it as a lady.
Her hand trembled slightly as she turned the handle. And then, with a final breath, Delia Hastings stepped inside.
Chapter 3: Six of the Best
The door swung shut behind her with a click.
Delia stood motionless, just inside the room, as if the air itself had become thicker. The space was familiar. A large, light-filled room with polished wooden floors and tall windows looking out onto the west lawn. She had taken tea here only yesterday, the same space filled with idle chatter and the clink of china, but now transformed.
The usual clutter of magazines, cushions, and playing cards had vanished. The chairs were arranged around the room’s perimeter, a semi-circle of formality. Several of the girls were already seated, watching with carefully blank expressions. Their uniforms were immaculate, hands folded neatly in laps. No one whispered, and no one fidgeted.
Delia glanced around, nervous, trying to find her friend Bea, though she didn't seem to be here yet.
In the exact centre of the room, stood a single straight-backed chair. It was small, upright, old-fashioned. The placement, precisely central and without companion, gave it the solemnity of an altar.
Miss Fairholme stood beside it. Across the seat lay the familiar shape of her cane. Her gown flowed about her in sharp, geometric folds and her mortarboard was worn with immaculate precision.
Delia moved forward slowly, aware of every breath and feeling exposed under the steady, silent, expectant gaze of her peers. This was a ritual, after all, and the role of the witness was as essential as that of the penitent.
Miss Fairholme spoke at last.
“Miss Hastings. Since you are close friends, I have excused Bea from attendance this evening, but the other students are assembled. I trust you will accept this correction with good grace and dignity.”
Delia stared back, heart pounding.
“You are here today because your conduct last night failed to meet the standards of this college. Decorum is not merely affectation. It is the outward shape of inward discipline. And where one falters, the other must be restored.”
“Yes, Miss Fairholme.”
“This is not punishment for punishment’s sake. It is tradition and you will carry it with you, as others have done.”
Then, gently but without ceremony, Miss Fairholme took the cane by its crook handle and lightly tapped the seat of the chair.
“It is time Miss Hastings. Tuck the folds of your skirt between your thighs to keep the fabric taught and then take the traditional position.”
Delia stepped forward until she was close enough to feel the upright chair-back against the front of her thighs. With quiet deliberation, she adjusted her skirt and bent forward at the waist, until her palms rested lightly on the seat. Her heels came together and her shoulders levelled.
She looked the very image of a proper young lady in poised disgrace.
Miss Fairholme shifted slightly, and Delia caught the first glimpse of the cane in motion. It was not raised, not yet, but it was preparing.
And then, in an awful moment, she heard a swoosh and subconsciously felt her body tense, but it was merely the headmistress making a practise movement to confirm she had a secure grip on the cane's handle.
Delia fixed her gaze on the chair seat, bracing herself for the inevitable.
There was no preamble, no dramatic pause. Just a swift, silent motion from the corner of her eye, and then the swoosh and crack of rattan cutting through the still air.
The sound arrived before the pain, but only just.
It was real. Not ceremonial. Not symbolic. A crisp line of fire ignited across the seat of her skirt. It felt so sharp and sudden that it forced a gasp from Delia’s lips.
She gripped the edge of the chair, her knuckles whitening. Her knees quivered, threatening to buckle, but she steadied herself and held position.
Her thoughts were in flight. And in that moment of blurred vision and focused sting, in her mind she found herself somewhere else entirely...
She was standing again on the school’s gravelled drive, suitcase in hand, watching a pair of swans drift across the pond as the great door creaked open. The building had been larger than she’d expected — not the stately manor house of her imagination, but something sterner: four square storeys of grey stone, ivy and impeccable windows.
She hadn’t asked to come here. Her parents, or more specifically, her aunt and godmother, after some “well-meaning consultation”, had decided that what Delia needed was a touch of polish. The Etiquette Summer School at St Eleanora’s, they said, would be character-building. “A finishing education,” her aunt had called it, with a smile that had not invited debate.
Delia had baulked at the formality of it all, and at the girl who met her with a clipboard and no smile.
“Welcome to St Eleanora’s. You’re in Room Seven. Supper is at six. You will dress formally. Miss Fairholme does not tolerate lateness.”
Delia had laughed, though it was a nervous laugh. At this moment she could't bring herself to take it seriously.
Now, bent forward in the common room, cheeks burning, she knew better.
The second stroke descended with precision, landing lower and more squarely.
It was not harder, but more calculated. Each movement was a reminder that this was no mere formality. The sting radiated swiftly, and Delia sucked in her breath, not just from the pain, but from the weight of the ritual being imposed upon her.
There was no cruelty in the act, but neither was there any gentleness. The air was thick with a sense of inevitability, each movement precise and unyielding.
Delia's thoughts scattered as she tried to distance herself from the throbbing pain, and she found herself back, once again, on the day of arrival...
The bedroom was filled with the soft scent of potpourri, and the windows offered a view of the orchard. Bea had already claimed the bed by the window, so Delia took the one near the door. She recalled dropping her suitcase, unzipping it, and then noticing the items neatly laid out across the coverlet.
Blouse. Skirt. Waistcoat. Polished shoes, dark tights, and beside them… a hair ribbon. Navy blue.
“It’s not a costume,” Bea tried to explain. “It’s what they expect.”
Delia picked up a pair of modest navy-blue sports briefs, in thick cotton. Holding them at arm's length, her expression of disgust sent her friend into a fit of giggles.
The third stroke caught her just off-centre. It was a glancing kiss of fire that made her shift her weight. It took every ounce of her willpower not to cry out, but she instinctively rose and reached back, rubbing the spot where the sting was most intense.
Miss Fairholme’s voice was steady and unyielding. With calm composure, she tapped the chair seat with the tip of her cane.
“Remain in your position, Miss Hastings. You are here for a purpose, and I expect full decorum.”
Delia’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. Yet even that gentle reprimand caused another memory to surface…
She had expected someone older. More schoolmarm, less scholar. But the woman who sat behind the desk had greeted her with precise diction, silk gloved hands, and eyes that didn’t blink more than necessary.
Miss Fairholme's stern gaze was mirrored by her commanding presence, the black academic gown and mortar board lending her an otherworldly, almost regal, air of authority.
“You are not here to learn behaviour,” Miss Fairholme had said. “You are here to learn conduct.”
Delia hadn’t known there was a difference, but she was beginning to learn.
The fourth stroke landed with neat, efficient precision, and surprisingly, it didn't sting quite as sharply. Not because it was lighter, but because Delia's focus had narrowed, her breathing steady and even. Her mind, no longer resisting, had begun to accept the rhythm, finding a strange, detached calm within the ordeal.
The depth of the sensation remained, but the initial shock had dissipated. What lingered was a grim understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the ritual's purpose and her role within it.
Yet, she still tried to detach from the burning heat that bloomed in her bottom, her mind wandering once more into the labyrinth of memories...
It had been about the ribbon. Or rather, the absence of it. In a small act of rebellion, Delia had left it on her pillow that morning.
Miss Fairholme had summoned her after supper.
There had been no lecture. Just a chair drawn back from the desk, and the quiet instruction, “Over my lap, please. You will count twelve. And reflect.”
The hairbrush had been unyielding, its strokes precise and unapologetic. Not humiliating, but undeniably real. Her thighs had throbbed for an hour, but her pride had ached for much longer.
The fifth stroke was not gentler, but it landed with a deliberate, measured precision. The room was shrouded in a heavy silence, the other girls holding their breath.
Delia blinked, feeling a prickling at the corners of her eyes, not from pain this time, but from an emotion that was softer, more profound. It was not regret, but a quiet, aching awareness of the moment.
Something like... understanding.
She squeezed her eyes shut, a solitary tear escaping to trace a path down her cheek, tickling her skin as it rolled to the edge of her nose. In the brief darkness behind her eyelids, she found refuge in another memory...
It had been Tuesday morning. The class on conversational posture. While the others slouched, she had kept her chin up, her fingers precisely arranged upon the saucer.
Miss Fairholme had nodded, her voice steady and approving.
“Miss Hastings, that's a very proper impression.”
It was such a small thing. A sentence. But it had lit a spark in her. For the first time since joining the summer school, she’d felt a pride, not only in herself, but also in winning approval from Miss Fairholme.
The final stroke did not startle, but the heat penetrated deeper this time.
It landed firmly across the lowest point of her bottom, as if underlining all that had come before. There was no speech, only the sharp thwack of the rattan, and the hush that followed it.
Delia remained bent, her breath coming in carefully measured beats. Her palms were still pressed against the chair, her knees locked straight.
Tears came now, quiet and unforced, feeling as though they had been earned. They flowed gently, washing away the tension that had built inside her.
Miss Fairholme moved in front of her, and after a moment’s silence, spoke.
“You may rise.”
Delia stood with care, blinking away the tears. She adjusted her skirt with trembling hands, feeling the sting lingering beneath, a burning reminder of ceremony rendered all too real.
Miss Fairholme met her gaze, her eyes holding a depth of understanding.
“Miss Hastings,” she said gently, “you bore that with dignity. And now you will carry the memory with you.”
Her tone was quiet — not approving, exactly, but affirming. The headmistress’s eyes softened, just a fraction.
“We are not born graceful, Miss Hastings. We learn it. Sometimes one lesson at a time.”
Then she turned to the other girls, her voice steady and calm.
“That will be all.”
Chapter 4: In Good Grace
The door to the common room closed behind her with a soft click.
Verity Chambers stood waiting just a few paces away. The Head Girl didn’t speak. She merely gave a small, respectful nod, and turned to lead the way.
Delia followed, her legs stiff and unyielding, her emotions still raw and exposed. Each step was deliberate, measured, not just from the lingering pain, but from an overwhelming desire to maintain her composure, to not falter under the weight of her experience.
They walked in silence until they had rounded the corridor, far from any lingering witnesses. Then Verity slowed.
“You did well.”
Delia looked up, surprised. “I... didn’t cry out.”
“Exactly.” Verity’s voice was low. “Miss Fairholme notices that sort of thing.”
On the bedroom landing, Verity paused outside Room Seven. “There’s tea in the dormitory. Bea kept it warm and I know she's waiting for you.”
Delia managed a first real smile. Verity placed a hand briefly on her arm. “You’re one of us now, Hastings. Not just because of the uniform.”
Then she was gone, disappearing down the corridor with quiet assurance.
Inside Room Seven, the air was warm and low-lit. A small lamp on the bedside table gave the space a golden glow. The curtains were drawn, and one of the windows cracked open, stirring the curtains with the cool scent of the orchard.
Bea was sitting cross-legged on Delia’s bed, already changed into her nightgown. It was white cotton, trimmed with navy ribbon. A proper uniform, even at bedtime.
As soon as Delia entered, Bea shot upright. She didn’t ask what had happened. It wasn't necessary.
She crossed the room and placed a cup of tea in Delia’s hand, wrapping her own around Delia’s fingers for a moment before letting go.
“I saved you the last shortbread,” she said. “Though you have to promise not to drop crumbs on the sheets.”
Delia managed a sound that was almost a laugh, though her eyes still shimmered. She sat slowly on the edge of the bed, wincing just enough to make Bea offer a sympathetic grimace.
“I thought it would be worse,” Delia admitted after a pause. “But somehow it wasn’t. It was everything it... needed to be.”
There was a silence. It wasn't heavy, more companionable. Without asking, Bea picked up Delia's hairbrush and began to brush her hair. It was a tender moment, soothing, relaxing. And a far cry from some previous hairbrush encounters.
A moment later, Bea said more softly, “You know… we call it the Society of Six.”
Delia glanced sideways. “Is that a joke?”
“Not at all. You don’t get to join unless you’ve taken six strokes in the Common Room and survived.”
Delia considered this, her smile growing more real by the second.
“I suppose I’m a member now.”
“You are. And you joined with better composure than most.”
They sat in quiet companionship for a moment, sipping tea.
Then Delia rose, moving carefully toward her nightdress, which was folded at the end of her bed. Feeling more at home now, easy and unselfconscious in Bea's presence, she undressed slowly, slipping out of her uniform with the reverence of someone folding away a flag after parade. Each item laid neatly in place — waistcoat, blouse, skirt — until only her nightdress remained.
When she finally climbed under her covers, Bea leaned over to their shared night-table and flicked off the lamp and darkness settled over Room Seven.
Delia’s voice came softly through the dark.
“Bea?”
“Mmm?”
“You know, I think… I might actually belong here.”
Bea didn’t reply straight away. But when she did, her voice was very certain.
“I knew that when I met you on day one. We all did.”
“Some lessons are not written in books. They are carried, one line at a time.” — St Eleanora’s Handbook for Young Ladies