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 1 – 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 Sasha Penrose strides into St. Winifred’s School to protest her younger sister’s punishment, she expects her family name to open doors — or at the very least, close disciplinary files. But Headmistress Fairholme is not so easily swayed. What begins as a bold bluff quickly turns into a reckoning, and Sasha soon finds herself learning a most personal lesson in humility — delivered with quiet authority and a decidedly traditional touch. Calling Bluffs is a tale of overconfidence, old-school discipline, and the uncomfortable discovery that some lessons must be learned the hard way.
Act 1 – Enter Miss Penrose
For many years, St Winifred’s School for Young Ladies used its sandstone grandeur as a barrier to the whims of modern society. The entrance hall, with its soaring vaulted ceiling, the stately ticking of a longcase clock, and a grand portrait of Queen Mary in all her regal finery, seemed to whisper that time itself had taken a polite sabbatical.
If these walls could talk, they’d do so in impeccable elocution — and not without a touch of warning. One thought of the generations of young ladies who had walked these halls with measured steps and demure demeanour. The conversations, and the fun. The pranks played, and the consequences felt.
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 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.
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.