By #ClementineAshe

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.”

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

Wisdom for the Wayward receives a breathless confession from Little Dithering, where one debutante's morning dip turns unexpectedly educational…

Dear Aunt Agatha,

I write in the spirit of discreet confession, and in the faint hope that you may reassure me that I am not, in fact, utterly beyond redemption.

By #HerbieHind

A Fête Worse Than Death is a tale of bunting, buttercream, and one girl'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.

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.

By #VeraRanscombe

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.

Chapter 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.

By #VeraRanscombe

When Delia Hastings is summoned to the headmistress’s study during her final week at St. Eleanora’s Summer School for Young Ladies, she expects a stern talking-to, not a formal correction in front of her peers. But tradition runs deep at St. Eleanora’s, and decorum must be restored. What follows is a quiet reckoning: six strokes, six memories, and a lesson in grace that may stay with her far longer than she ever expected.

“No summer ever came back, and no two summers ever were alike.” (Christina Rossetti)

Chapter 1: Miss Hastings is Summoned

Delia Hastings stood in front of the desk with her hands clasped before her, not because she had been told to, but because anything else felt entirely out of place. She had hoped it would prevent her from fidgeting, though she still felt jittery, her tummy fluttering like a butterfly.

By #ClementineAshe

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.

By #ClementineAshe

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.

By #ClementineAshe

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.

SpankLit is a collection of short stories for the discerning reader who appreciates a certain je ne sais quoi in tales of genteel discipline. If you find joy in neatly turned ankles, a well-placed hairbrush, and the occasional instructive mishap, then you’ve come to the right place.

We celebrate the charm of bygone settings, mischievous moments, and the noble tradition of correction and redemption. Our stories are cheeky, sometimes naughty, but always handled with taste, wit, and a deep respect for vintage upholstery.

And impeccable decorum? Well — naturally!