When Prudence Featherstone campaigns to muffle the village church bells, she finds herself face to face with a most unexpected form of pastoral resistance. A Sound Correction is a riotous tale of muffled decorum, ecclesiastical determination, and the redemptive power of olivewood. Expect scripture, scandal, and a peal of thoroughly instructive consequences.
There were only a few things in life that Miss Prudence Featherstone disliked more than noise—though she was, in due course, to discover another.
This included, but was not limited to: the over-exuberance of the handbell choir, the thwack of cricket bats on summer afternoons, the gramophone at The Hare and Barrel—especially when it played jazz—and, above all, the joyous clanging of the bells of St Mildred’s, which she had once likened to “a brass band being mugged in a stairwell.”
When Miss Fenella Devenish checks into a country inn with swan-towel expectations and impeccable standards, she’s not prepared to encounter a chambermaid whose idea of turndown service resembles a laundry accident. But after a frank discussion involving chocolates, apron strings, and a well-handled shoehorn, standards are restored in style. Turn-Down Service is a tale of poise, presentation, and the curiously instructive charm of a properly folded towel.
There was a quiet perfection about The Brindlecombe Arms. The hydrangeas beside the entrance bloomed in a manner that exuded class. Dappled afternoon light filtered through antique lace curtains. And somewhere, from speakers carefully hidden among the cornices, the strains of harp music completed the regal ambience.
Miss Fenella Devenish arrived shortly after three, precisely on time. She was the sort of woman who travelled with her own pillow mist and noticed when a doily had been rotated ninety degrees off-centre. Her reservation was for a junior suite—the “Elysium Suite.” The poetic reference to Greek mythology had appealed to her, although she privately suspected the motif of heavenly tranquillity would not extend beyond the door plaque. Still, it would do.
When Kat checks into a charming seaside cottage, she expects doilies and downtime—not a mysterious room labelled “Renovation in Progress.” But curiosity gets the better of her, and what she uncovers inside is a one-of-a-kind guest amenity, and a surprisingly thorough welcome that leaves her blushing—on more than one cheek. Regulation in Progress is a cheeky tale of misread warnings, unexpected hospitality, and a holiday experience that leaves a lasting impression.
1. A Cosy Little Mystery
Katherine Everley — Kat to everyone except her bank manager — had stayed in plenty of quirky British holiday rentals, but Primrose Cottage took the teacake.
It smelled faintly of lavender blossom and seemed to have doilies on every flat surface. Chintz curtains hung in the living room windows, mismatched teacups rested on crocheted coasters, and the bookshelf was stacked with jigsaws and dusty paperbacks. It was the kind of place where time hadn’t so much stood still as knitted itself a shawl and popped the kettle on.
When Laura ignores a “No Cold Callers” sign to pitch her premium cleaning products, she’s in for a surprise regarding what’s about to get a dusting down. Let’s just say — Patrick has a very hands-on approach to customer service, and he’s about to give her a lesson in why you should never knock on a door without reading the signs — literally.
There were several signs along Victoria Avenue that Laura felt she could quite happily live without: Mind the Step, Please Close the Gate, No Junk Mail. They were all, in her view, exercises in stating the obvious. Even the electricity distribution box nearby, with its dramatic KEEP OUT – DANGER OF DEATH, seemed a bit over-the-top—though she grudgingly admitted that one might be justified.
At number 42, a brass plaque reading No Cold Callers briefly caught her eye. She dismissed it with breezy indifference and pressed the doorbell.
In hindsight, she would come to regard this moment with a shade more caution. Her thoughts on household signage would never be quite the same again.
When Julian Peveril strolls into the village library with a smudged copy of Anna Karenina and eighty-three days of overdue fines, he expects a scolding at most. What he receives instead is a practical demonstration of Section Twelve: Paragraph Two, administered with authority, a corrective ruler, and just enough punctuation to make him regret every exclamation mark. Overdue Consideration is a tale of late returns, early regrets, and the enduring wrath of a well-organised librarian.
There was an air of formidable calm about the St. Mallow’s Village Library. Dust motes drifted through slats of golden light, a clock ticked in a tolerable breach of the “Silence” policy, and the reading chairs all bore the slightly sagged look of being sat upon by the same few devoted patrons for the better part of forty years.
Miss Eliza Cartwright presided over this temple of silence with the gravitas of a minor bishop. She was a woman of exacting standards, polished vowels, and the ability to silence patrons with a glance. In her domain, order was more than a virtue—it was a necessity.
Clementine turns to a trusted advice column after an ill-advised bout of early morning skinny dipping leaves her quite literally exposed and at the mercy of Rose, the gardener’s assistant, whose bamboo cane proves surprisingly persuasive. A blushing confession of barefaced mischief, botanic discipline, and a young lady’s deepening appreciation for blooms and blushes.
The Skinny Dipping Incident
A breathless confession from Little Dithering, where one debutante's morning dip turns unexpectedly educational…
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.
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.
The final instalment of Clementine’s misadventures sees an attempted double prank spiral into damp disgrace, thorough hay bale justice, and a very itchy finale. A soggy tale of sabotage, sisterhood, and shared regrets.
Just Desserts
Clementine writes from the heart to confess a failed act of vengeance, and a lesson learned the damp way.
I write today from the comfort of an extra-soft cushion, clutching a moist handkerchief, and nursing a wounded sense of dignity. I'm reporting what I hope shall be the final chapter in this regrettable saga of vengeance, miscalculation, and aggravated posteriors.