When Daisy the housemaid spills a bottle of Ruby Rouge nail varnish on a priceless Persian rug, she finds herself at the mercy of Lady Worthington’s unyielding brand of domestic discipline. A painful and humiliating spanking with a heavy wooden hairbrush ensures that the redness soon spreads far beyond the carpet. The Ruby Rouge Calamity is an exquisitely upholstered tale of blemished rugs... and blistered seats.

In the well-upholstered calm of post-war England, where domestic staff still curtsied while polishing the silver, 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.

Her floral-print dresses billowed with the pomp and ceremony of garden parties long past, and the pearl necklace she wore was not so much an accessory as a warning label. A descendant, or so she claimed, of minor nobility, she viewed the world as one might view a naughty puppy in need of correction.

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.

A Fête Worse Than Death is a tale of bunting, buttercream, and one young lady's spectacular miscalculation at the Little Dithering summer fête. When debutante Clementine Beaufort-Smythe crosses paths with the formidable Mrs. Poppet (and her prize-winning sponge), tradition and impropriety collide behind the WI tent, with results neither the bishop nor the cake stand will soon forget.

A Fête Worse Than Death

It was the sort of summer afternoon on which nothing dreadful was ever supposed to happen. Sunlight danced on bunting, bees hovered near sponge cakes and, in the parish of Little Dithering, the annual fête was in full swing.

Elderly gentlemen, with silver hair and weathered faces, wore panama hats with the sort of conviction that could only come from a lifetime of public school tradition. Ladies in floral summer frocks carried parasols like they were royal sceptres, ready to fend off both sun and scandal. The air was filled with the hum of cheerful chatter and the thock of coconuts tumbling in the shy.

In a quiet corner of a provincial museum, Evelyn discovers a meticulously preserved 1950s classroom. Desks stand aligned, rules are unbending, and a crook-handled cane rests with menace on the teacher's desk. When the enigmatic Miss Hartley offers her a hands-on lesson in history, Evelyn must decide how far she's willing to surrender to her deepest longings. Custodian of the Cane is a tale combining discipline, ritual... and desire.

Act 1 – Echoes of Discipline

The Living Museum of Yesteryear was a tapestry, each exhibit a thread woven with meticulous care to transport visitors to another time. These whispers and echoes of the past were not merely remembered, but breathed and lived. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and the faintest must of relics, as if the walls held memories of generations.

Evelyn wandered through the corridors, her tummy fluttering with a mix of curiosity and something else. Something closer to a thrill of anticipation. A miner’s cottage, a bathtub before a coal fire, a butcher’s shop with an apple-cheeked actor behind the counter. Each of these scenes provoked only passing smiles. But then she turned a corner and stopped.

Correction Protocol is a tale of misapplied machine learning and one intern’s unexpectedly thorough performance review. When Jenna Marks wanders into the prototype labs, she unwittingly triggers a correctional sequence involving automated discipline, escalating misunderstandings, and the uncomfortable realisation that — to get ahead — you sometimes have to start from behind.

Act 1 – Meet the Robots

The soft lighting of Clarion Dynamics' empty offices cast an eerie glow over the deserted desks and darkened conference rooms. The only sound was the whir of computers and the faint thump of music drifting from the distant launch party. When the party invites went out, Jenna Marks was notably absent from the guest list.

She sat alone, burning with resentment, staring at the to-do list in front of her. The tasks blurred together as a constant reminder of her disgrace. She was alone, stuck, and frustrated that one small mistake had been enough to land her in this administrative purgatory.

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.

At the quaint parish of St. Agatha’s (Nether Wippley), decorum reigns — until Lettice Fallowfield’s sultry soprano and scandalous disregard for choir robes strike a chord that’s anything but sacred. With a flustered organist, an incriminating photograph, and the unyielding eye of Miss Thistlecroft upon her, Lettice soon learns that some consequences are felt below the waistline.

Act 1 – Treble Trouble

In the hushed sanctuary of St Agatha’s, Nether Wippley, the organ loft was bathed by a kaleidoscope of colours pouring through the stained glass windows. Douglas Cresswell, a keen amateur photographer when not occupied with organ duties, was in a flurry of artistic fervour and nervous energy. His eyes darted towards the vision that was Lettice – the most recent, and most delectable addition to St Agatha's choir.

The striking twenty year-old soprano was a veritable siren, whose voice was as sweet as her smile, and whose reputation was daringly unconventional.

When society darling Clarissa Fairweather descends upon the ancestral halls of Wildmere for a weekend visit, she expects a life of pampered ease. But amid the scent of furniture polish and formidable standards, she soon discovers that polished households have unique methods for dealing with tarnished attitudes. In some corners of the country, the butler doesn't merely serve tea.

Act 1 – Arrival at Wildmere Hall

The gravel crunched under the tyres of the little red MG as it skidded to a halt before the ivy-clad facade of Wildmere Hall. A faint haze of late summer-dust floated in its wake, settling gently onto the stone lions flanking the steps.

Clarissa Fairweather emerged, her floral chiffon mini dress clinging to her hips while its playful skirts billowed like silken gossamer in the gentle breeze. She paused dramatically, one hand on her hip and the other playfully tossing her hair over her shoulder, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she surveyed the house.

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 1 — 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.

When a daring Parisian chemise collides with the rigid standards of Mayfair society, Celestine Langley and her mischievous accomplice find themselves on the sharp end of Lady Renshaw’s formidable resolve. The Fitting Room Scandal is an exquisitely tailored tale of silk, scandal, and lessons stitched firmly into memory.

Act 1 — Temptations of Silk

In the heart of Mayfair, where the streets were as prim and proper as a vicar's sermon, stood Maison Bellamy. It was a sanctuary of sartorial elegance that could make even the most modest of gowns seem fit for a queen. The shopfront, with its polished brass fittings and discreet signage, was a beacon of understated opulence. Its reputation, like its hemlines, always tailored to the most exacting of standards.

The air shimmered with anticipation as Lady Renshaw entered, followed at a more languid pace by her niece, Celestine. Her honey-blonde curls were perfectly arranged, though her cherry-red lips were slightly too glossy for early afternoon appointments. The girl had charm, Lady Renshaw conceded, but charm applied in the wrong direction was often no better than wilful disobedience.