Confessions of a Vicar’s Daughter is a tale of toasted buns, exposed hypocrisies, and one young lady’s intimate education in accountability. When the vicar’s golden-haired darling engineers a scorched teatime scandal, she anticipates a delicious view through the keyhole. But, what follows is a brisk turn of events, an unflinching lesson in consequences, and the most unwelcome use of a hairbrush.

Act 1 — Through the Keyhole

At first glance, Tabitha Bloom seemed like the very embodiment of virtue, a beacon of sweetness and light. As the beautiful, twenty year-old daughter of the vicar, her smile could make the sternest of hearts melt like butter on a warm crumpet. She was always ready to lend a helping hand, whether it was arranging the flowers for Sunday service, handing out scones at vicarage garden parties, or assisting her father in his duties. Her halo shone so brightly, no one noticed the horns hidden beneath her golden blonde curls. In every way, she should have appeared to be the perfect daughter.

At second glance, those who looked beyond her angelic façade might discover a more complex and intriguing personality, one that belied her initial purity. Perhaps slipping an occasional stinging-nettle into one of the flower arrangements, or contributing a splash of hot chilli sauce when spreading jam on the scones, or even replacing her father's sermon notes with a recipe for currant buns. Tabitha's fertile mind was like an iceberg: smooth on the surface, treacherous beneath, and always drifting toward someone else’s misfortune.

By #ClementineAshe

When an ill-timed remark, and a cheeky glimpse of red silk delicates, cause a stir at the most respectable event of the parish calendar, Clara Pimm finds herself under the unyielding supervision of Miss Rosalind Fairleigh — a governess with a reputation as polished as her hairbrush. A tale of lace, lemonade, and lessons delivered with impeccable form.

Act I: Miss Pimm's Mischief

The vicarage garden party, highlight of the parish's social calendar, had reached its fragrant, bustling peak. Under a marquee adorned with bunting, the ladies of the district clustered like brooches on a pillow. Lace parasols bobbed gently as teacups clinked. The usual uninspiring raffle prizes, from toffees to a mechanical egg-whisk, were displayed on a linen-draped table.

At the centre of this meticulously arranged scene stood Miss Rosalind Fairleigh, a renowned governess known throughout the county for her stern demeanour and unyielding discipline. Tall and composed, her sharp blue eyes constantly assessed her surroundings, missing nothing and forgiving even less.