Fountain of Misfortune
When a genteel tea party at Thistlewood Grange descends into mayhem, the blame can (as usual) be traced to Arabella and Georgina Worthington. A misjudged jug of lemonade, a toppled cake stand, and an ill-timed flirtation send the nieces headfirst into the ornamental fountain—and directly into a rather damp reckoning. With wet bloomers, rattled china, and one deeply conflicted vicar, Fountain of Misfortune is a spirited tale of toppled decorum, toasty buns, and traditional discipline, applied with rhythm, conviction, and more than a few droplets of moral clarity.
Act 1: Tea, Bickering, and the Baptism of Battenbergs
The garden terrace at Thistlewood Grange had long been a battleground and the scene of countless skirmishes. Most of these campaigns were launched by Lady Worthington's nieces, Arabella and Georgina, whose antics ranged from mere border raids on the biscuit tin, to full-scale sabotage of afternoon tea.
While these forays occasionally yielded temporary gains, Lady Worthington maintained the upper hand with her fearsome arsenal — of which the hairbrush was both first resort, and final recourse. It was said to have quelled more uprisings than the Home Guard, and even had its own campaign medal.”
There had, of course, been the decisive repulsion of the Battenberg Brigade, the annihilation of the Croquet Cavalry, and the defeat of the Pudding Guerrilla Squad. (They came to a sticky end.) Each insurgency was met with a swift disciplinary counteroffensive. The belligerents always found themselves re-educated, and thoroughly dampened in spirit.
And yet, as she set down her teacup and narrowed her gaze across the table, she suspected that another plot was already getting under way.
Between Lady Worthington's babbling ornamental fountain and the Croquet Lawn, the patio tea table was arranged with the sort of ceremony usually reserved for minor diplomatic visits. The linen tablecloth was crisp, a triple-tiered cake stand was filled, and the silver teapot was polished. A light breeze toyed with the napkins like a mischievous spirit.
It was precisely the sort of atmosphere to lull Aunts (or Generals) into a false sense of security.
Lady Worthington presided over the tea table and watched her nieces with the eyes of a hawk. To her right stood her dependable housemaid, Daisy, clutching the second-best china teacups on a silver tray. She stood with the careful poise of someone who knew precisely how expensive they were.
Opposite, Arabella and Georgina Worthington sat demurely on wrought-iron chairs, their hands folded and their expressions the picture of innocence, if one ignored the barely concealed ankle nudges and the dangerously mild-mannered smiles being exchanged between cucumber sandwiches.
“It’s lovely to sit outdoors,” said Arabella, smiling like a duchess in a toothpaste advertisement. “The air is so bracing.”
“Fresh,” Georgina agreed. “Brisk, even. Perfect for cooling one’s… temper.”
Arabella turned slowly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing at all,” said Georgina sweetly. “Only that some people seem to become a little excitable when questioned about their croquet tactics.”
Lady Worthington didn’t look up. “Girls.”
“She's only complaining because she's a sore loser, Aunty.”
Georgina coloured. “Oo, I am not. You're such a fibber!”
Lady Worthington set her teacup down. “Enough.”
There was a pause, and a moment of apparent calm. Conveniently this gave the twins enough time to assume their most realistic innocent expressions, just in time for the arrival of the Reverend Frame.
He approached calmly across the lawn, although not without some degree of trepidation. After all, he had met the twins before, and he was carrying a tray of currant buns with the utmost care.
“Good afternoon Lady Worthington and,” with a gentlemanly bow, “young ladies. A gift from Audrey my housekeeper. Toasty warm hot-cross buns.”
The twins appeared suitably impressed as he set them on the tea table.
“Oh, Hot cross buns. How absolutely divine,” Georgina cooed, fluttering her eyelashes and adjusting the neckline of her summer frock in a manner that would have unsettled a slightly less devout gentleman.
“Aunty!” Arabella objected. “Tell her. She's always an outrageous flirt when the vicar comes to tea.”
“Oo- I am not,” Georgina protested. “I only wanted to complement his buns.”
“Girls, a modicum of decorum, if you please!” Lady Worthington's voice cut through the air like a stale breakfast muffin launched at an unwelcome visitor. “I will not tolerate you making a spectacle of yourselves when the Reverend has so kindly come to afternoon tea.”
Lady Worthington's voice may have been loaded with warning, but it was already too late!
The table rattled as Georgina stood sharply, her chair grating back across the stone. Arabella rose to meet her, grabbing the lemonade jug with intent.
“You wouldn't dare,” Georgina warned.
Arabella, a contrary young lady at the best of times, took this as a challenge. In a spectacular moment, she contradicted her sister's assertion both verbally and physically.
With her oft used battlecry of, “Oh, I dare!” she flung almost three pints of lemonade and ice cubes, at the front of Georgina's dress.
Georgina lunged instinctively, sending them both teetering onto the brink of the ornamental fountain like indiscreet synchronised swimmers poised on the brink of ruin. Then, in a rare moment of perfect sibling coordination, they shrieked in unison and toppled backwards into the ornamental fountain, dragging the cake stand with them.
An appetising avalanche of battenburg followed and there was an almighty splash, accompanied by the sound of a shattering teacup.
Ripples spread across the pond like social shame at a garden party. Two scandalised gasps were heard from the vicar and Lady Worthington, but only a resigned sigh was heard from Daisy, as she retrieved her dustpan and brush.
Silence reigned, for a moment.
Lady Worthington rose slowly, her chair whispering back beneath her. Though her hands remained gloved, her expression suggested the gloves were about to come off.
Arabella surfaced first, soaked, spluttering, and wearing what appeared to be an improvised water hyacinth corsage. Georgina followed, a limp napkin clinging to her shoulder like a soggy sash of shame. Even the central display of stone cherubs seemed to look down on the disgraceful scene with frowns of frank disapproval.
The girls emerged onto the stone steps, soaked to their petticoats, shoes squelching, curls plastered to their foreheads.
Lady Worthington cleared her throat.
“Daisy,” she said, “would you be so good as to fetch a pair of towels?”
Daisy hesitated, sensing Lady Worthington might have more to add.
“And,” her mistress added, “fetch my hairbrush. You'd better bring the spare one too, for the sake of expediency.”
Arabella gave a tiny, despondent whimper. In her eyes, the housemaid seemed just a little too eager to fulfil Lady Worthington's request.
Daisy bobbed a curtsy and disappeared into the house, her expression caught somewhere between glee and trepidation. The air seemed to hum with expectation.
“Two hairbrushes? This isn't going to end well,” Daisy whispered to herself.
Georgina, ever the diplomat in moments of self-generated crisis, attempted a smile. “Perhaps just the towels would suffice, Auntie?”
“No, dear,” said Lady Worthington, with exquisite poise. “I think we shall have both.”
Act 2: Over the Knee, and Under No Illusion
The atmosphere on the stone terrace had become notably cooler, though not due to the breeze. Arabella and Georgina stood dripping beside the now dishevelled tea table, their sodden frocks clinging with tragic dignity, hanging like deflated sails.
Reverend Frame had witnessed the twin baptism with a mixture of alarm and theological uncertainty. He carefully weighed his desire for continued cake and conversation with a sense of looming peril.
Taking a position beside Lady Worthington’s side, he straightened his hat and began blinking behind his spectacles.
Daisy returned, carefully carrying two thick towels and two rather formidable hairbrushes — one walnut, one ebony — as though she were presenting ceremonial regalia. Lady Worthington, calm as a glacier and twice as unmovable, turned to Daisy.
“Leave all of that on the tea table, Daisy. And for goodness’ sake, help those two get out of their dresses.”
With a series of awkward tugs and pulls, the sodden dresses were finally persuaded to loosen their clinging grip and were peeled off. The twins' cotton underthings, once modest and unassuming, had lost most of their usual mystery. Daisy, with a mixture of efficiency and barely concealed amusement, hung the dripping summer frocks over the fountain's balustrade, creating a makeshift laundry line that did little to enhance the serenity of the scene.
Arabella and Georgina, now clad in only their white, clingy bloomers and shifts, presented a sorry sight for society Debutantes. They folded their arms tightly across their chests in a bid to reduce both the shivering, and to stem any further decline in their modesty.
The vicar, ever a gentleman, averted his gaze, but not before catching a glimpse of the absurdity of the situation. His mind conjured an image of shrouded martyrdom from a classical oil painting, only far less innocent and far more damp
Trying to maintain his composure in the midst of this visual feast of embarrassment and amusement, the vicar finally broke the silence.
“Perhaps a prayer for the drying?” he suggested, his voice wavering as he tried to restrain a wry chuckle.
Georgina wrung out her braid and gave her sister a poisonous glare. “That was all your fault.”
“You deserved it. You're more bitter than that jug of lemonade!”
Lady Worthington raised a hand. “Enough.”
Arabella swallowed. “Auntie… we are rather wet. Perhaps we ought to change?”
“Indeed,” said Lady Worthington. “There certainly will be a change around here, and I think it needs to begin with a reminder. Reverend, would you be so kind?”
Daisy hovered nearby, blinking with polite effort not to stare. Ever the faithful attendant, she handed the walnut hairbrush to Lady Worthington, passing the ebony model to the vicar. She felt it was far better coordinated to his clerical suit.
The poor man froze. “I—er—well—yes. Yes, of course. If… if it must be done.”
Lady Worthington gestured calmly toward the wrought-iron garden bench. “Firmly please, but with kindness.”
“Certainly.”
Arabella turned to Georgina. “You always make things worse.”
“This would never have happened if you could control your temper,” Georgina retorted.
Lady Worthington cleared her throat. “Girls.”
They turned in sync.
“I believe it’s time.”
And so, with all the solemnity of a coronation and none of the decorum, the Worthington nieces were guided over two seated laps—one reverent, one imperious—and simultaneously introduced to the refined choreography of traditional discipline.
Wet cotton offered little resistance. The hairbrushes made contact with a sound not unlike someone testing ripe melons at the greengrocer’s with a little too much enthusiasm.
Smack.
“Ow!”
Smack.
“Hey! Arabella is smirking, Auntie!”
The patio wafted with the scent of wet cotton and the resounding echo of the hairbrushes' rhythmic thwacks. Each swat sent a fine spray of water droplets into the air.
Smack.
“Georgina started it!”
Smack-smack.
“Yowch, Auntie!” yelped Arabella.
“Ouch, Reverend!” cried Georgina.
The reverend’s face was colouring rather like the bloomers which, having long surrendered most of their former opacity to the fountain water, were now blooming with a glow unsanctioned by the weather.
The twins kicked in unison, their limbs flailing, voices rising in pitch and volume, all modesty long since abandoned. If a singular ray of hope was to be seen, they at least began to show a little more remorse and solidarity.
Arabella winced mid-swat. “This is definitely your fault.”
“Oh really?” Georgina snapped, clinging to the bench. “I wasn’t the one who weaponised the lemonade!”
Arabella yelped as another sharp smack landed. “Well, at least we’re suffering equally.”
Georgina groaned. “I don't know about equally. The Reverend has ecclesiastical might on his side.”
“Yes, but Auntie Henrietta has had more practice. We'll check in the bathroom mirror later.”
“Well, I bet mine will win for colour,” Arabella blurted between spanks.
“But mine should win for resilience!” Georgina countered through gritted teeth.
From the sidelines, Daisy tried very hard not to smile. The sight of the synchronised swats, the choral protests, and the white cotton bloomers trembling like surrender flags, was more than any maid could be expected to ignore.
Reverend Frame, hot under the collar but determined, continued his share of the work with pastoral conviction. He wasn’t entirely sure what theological category this encounter fell into, but suspected it might need its own footnote in the next vestry meeting.
Lady Worthington, unmoved and unhurried, conducted her side like a cellist at a particularly expressive recital. The sound of the hairbrushes against the wet fabric was a steady, rhythmic beat, punctuated by occasional splashes of water.
“Would you take the time from me, Vicar?” Lady Worthington asked, her voice as steady as her ministrations.
Reverend Frame, eager to please, replied, “Of course, Lady Worthington. I wouldn't want to disrupt the harmony of our... sermon.”
The reverend adjusted his grip on the hairbrush, trying to mark time with Lady Worthington's spanks. “One, two, three...” he muttered under his breath, his face growing even redder with the effort.
“Very good, Vicar,” Lady Worthington said, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Keep the tempo steady. We wouldn't want to lose the rhythm.”
The bloomers, almost translucent from the water, clung to their skin, beginning to reveal more than they concealed. Daisy almost fancied she could see faint wisps of steam rising from the damp and heated fabric. It seemed a curious sight and made her bite her lip to suppress a giggle.
And then, at last... silence.
Two very subdued girls were helped upright. Their expressions were somewhere between chastened and chagrined. Daisy observed the backs of their bloomers were glowing a particularly telling shade of rosé.
Lady Worthington handed a towel to each with all the ceremony of a diplomat returning seized documents.
“Both of you, upstairs at once. I expect you showered and changed in fifteen minutes,” she said. “And no more bickering. I trust I have made my position clear?”
“Yes, Aunt Henrietta,” came the muted chorus.
They trudged off, Arabella clutching the towel to her derrière and Georgina sniffling into hers. Daisy followed at a discreet distance behind them. She had been sent by Lady Worthington to collect the remainder of their wet clothes ready for the laundry and it left her perfectly placed to catch the tail-end of their conversation.
As Arabella and Georgina handed over their saturated underthings with a wet splot, she paused just long enough to hear their bickering resume from the bathroom.
“I made much less of a fuss than you did,” Arabella declared.
“Well that's a cheek! You were squirming like a cat in a bathtub.”
Daisy rolled her eyes, shook her head, and went to tidy the tea things.
The Battenbergs were lost at sea, there had been no peace, and the garden looked like the aftermath of a tornado. But, Daisy couldn’t help smiling. The Reverend had finally found his backbone, and the nieces had found their matching comeuppance, right where it counted. An uncomfortable ceasefire had been declared — one that, judging by the nieces’ countenances, was sitting a little uncomfortably. But, not a bad afternoon’s penance, all told.
When she returned to the terrace with a fresh tea tray, she gave the Reverend a polite smile and gestured toward the cake stand. She couldn’t decide which had been more satisfying. The splash, the swats, or watching the vicar find his stride.
“Would you care for a couple of toasty buns, Reverend?”
The Reverend turned scarlet.
“Ah—n-no thank you, Miss Daisy. I… I think I’ve had quite enough for one afternoon.”
#FF #MF #OTK #Hairbrush #Vicar
An extract from the restricted archive of Vestry Meeting Minutes, 1952. Not to be quoted without express permission from the Bishop, Lady Worthington, or Daisy.