When an ambitious young museum curator oversleeps on the morning of Little Dithering’s grand exhibit launch, she finds herself learning about history in a far more hands-on manner than she ever anticipated. Expect stern discipline, scandalised dignitaries, and one unforgettable contribution to the living arts — all under the watchful eye of Lady Hawtrey’s slipper.
Act I: Making an Exhibition of Oneself
In the long and sometimes draughty annals of the Little Dithering Historical Society, there were few exhibits which generated as much drama as Discipline Through the Ages.
Lady Hawtrey, the Society’s chairwoman and undisputed sovereign of museum matters, surveyed the preparations with the air of a general preparing for battle. Her hair was drawn back in a chignon so severe it seemed to exert its own gravitational pull, and her expression suggested that any exhibit falling short of perfection would face immediate and public execution. Her eyes, sharp as a hawk, missed nothing.
When an old birthday custom is revived in a very off-limits location, two students at Marlebridge College find themselves unexpectedly observed, and even more unexpectedly instructed. What begins as a cheeky tradition ends with a lesson neither of them saw coming. After all, some traditions are best upheld under expert supervision...
It was 9:30pm when Edie Carlton ushered Lorna Bell from the bottom of the rear dormitory staircase and into the shadows behind the hydrangeas.
“Come on,” Edie whispered urgently, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “If we’re going to do it, it has to be tonight. Otherwise we'd have to wait another twelve months!”
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.
When a bottle of Ruby Rouge nail varnish collides with a priceless Persian rug, Daisy the housemaid finds herself on the sharp end of Lady Worthington’s unyielding standards. After a very instructive encounter with a wooden hairbrush, the redness might well extend beyond the rug. The Ruby Rouge Calamity is an exquisitely upholstered tale of red stains, raised eyebrows, and lessons thoroughly learned.
In the well-upholstered calm of post-war England, where domestic staff still curtsied while polishing the silver every Thursday, there resided in a grand Mayfair mansion one Lady Henrietta Worthington.
She was a buxom, formidable creature, discreetly entering her fifties, and possessed of the stature of an Edwardian sideboard—with a similar air of uncompromising permanence.
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 Lady Octavia Berridge steps onto the stage at the annual Pageant of Virtue, she expects to deliver a rousing speech on modesty—not to find herself embroiled in a scandalous mishap orchestrated by her own niece. What follows is a tale of moral outrage, theatrical missteps, and one very public brush with discipline—literally. The Velvet Curtain Scandal is a cheeky lesson in artistic excess, familial correction, and why one should never mix Greco-Roman studies with a morality play.
Lady Octavia Berridge would sooner be caught reading a scandalous paperback novel—in public—than allow the annual Pageant of Virtue to descend into chaos.
For forty-three years, the event had proceeded without scandal, disruption, or so much as an improperly positioned petticoat. Which is why, on a bright Thursday in spring, as she mounted the village hall stage to deliver her customary speech on the perils of modern behaviour, she had every reason to expect yet another triumph.
The following authors may or may not exist in any conventional sense, and if they do, they are surely the sort to insist on handwritten correspondence and the correct use of a dessert fork. Consider this section a fiction within the fiction, with each persona crafted to reflect the tone, temperament, and tailored sensibilities of the stories they “write.”
Whether wistful, wicked, or ever-so-well-mannered, these biographies might help you find the flavour of story that suits your mood. And, perhaps to suggest that, somewhere between velvet upholstery and moral instruction, a little elegance still matters.