The Butler Did It
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 I: 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.
“No porter? No footman?” she muttered, hoisting her weekend bag over one shoulder with a world-weary sigh. “Honestly, it's like stepping into a crusty old novel.”
She clattered up the steps in platform sandals that threatened to snap under the indignity of country paving, and rapped on the polished oak door with a manicured knuckle. After a pause long enough to suggest the house was gathering its composure, the door swung open.
Mr. Withers, the butler of Wildmere Hall, stood framed in the doorway. He was tall, solemn, and never known to be ruffled. His morning coat looked freshly brushed and immaculate, his silver hair gleaming under the afternoon sun.
Clarissa swept past him with barely a nod, trailing the scent of expensive perfume and a faint air of disdain.
“I hope someone remembered to put the kettle on,” she announced to the hallway at large. “The drive was a complete nightmare. Honestly, these country lanes! And the dust! My poor car looks like it’s been in a desert rally.”
Mr. Withers closed the door silently behind her, inclining his head with faultless politeness.
Lady Mildred Pembroke-Forbes awaited them in the drawing room, reclining in a high-backed armchair that looked as though it had been imported from a Transylvanian castle. She was a slim, sharp-eyed woman in her late fifties, wearing a pale lilac cardigan and an air of formidable composure.
“My dear Clarissa,” she said warmly. “Welcome to Wildmere.”
Clarissa bestowed a perfunctory air kiss in her aunt's general direction and immediately launched into a fresh volley of grievances.
“The journey was dreadful. And, when I finally thought it was nearly over, would you believe there were actual sheep on the road? Honestly, it's so primitive. I don't know how you survive out here.”
Lady Mildred smiled sweetly and took a delicate sip of her tea.
Clarissa, not finished, swept a derisive look around the room.
“And heavens above, we all love antiques, but antique wallpaper? I don't think so. But, I suppose it's meant to be charming? And what,” she asked, sniffing dramatically, “is that smell?”
“Beeswax furniture polish, my dear,” Lady Mildred said serenely. “We find it preserves both the furnishings and the decorum around the house. Delicate surfaces sometimes need a bit of elbow-grease to keep them in order.”
Clarissa missed the undertone entirely.
“And another thing,” she continued, plopping herself gracelessly into an armchair, “I hope there's a proper dinner tonight. I simply can't face another one of those ghastly 'light supper' affairs. A girl's figure needs maintaining.”
Mr. Withers, standing silently at Lady Mildred's side, absorbed this torrent with the vague interest of someone listening to an out of date weather forecast.
At last, Lady Mildred set down her teacup with a soft clink.
“Withers,” she said pleasantly, “I trust you caught all of that?”
“Indeed I did, madam,” Mr. Withers replied, inclining his head. “I made most careful mental notes.”
“Good,” said Lady Mildred. “Would you see to it that matters are thoroughly dealt with after tea?”
“It would be my honour, madam,” said Mr. Withers gravely.
Clarissa, mistaking the exchange for some arcane country-house ritual about unpacking luggage or adjusting pillows, smirked inwardly. It seemed her weekend might not be so tedious after all. Despite her Aunt's fierce reputation, she was proving to be a pushover.
Clarissa stretched luxuriously in her chair, flicked a speck of dust from her skirt, and turned to Mr. Withers with a flippant grin.
“Do hurry up with the tea, Withers,” she said airily. “And perhaps something edible? I've had a rather tedious journey.”
Mr. Withers bowed slightly.
“Of course, Miss Clarissa,” he said. “I shall fetch tea immediately, and afterwards we shall attend to any outstanding matters.”
There was a glint in his eye as he directed a courteous bow towards Lady Mildred. She was serene, and yet somehow knowing.
Clarissa, oblivious, gave a shrug and pulled out her compact mirror to reapply her lipstick. She had no idea that in about fifteen minutes’ time, she would be receiving a very different kind of attention — and that when Mr. Withers' addressed what he referred to as outstanding matters, it wouldn't be the sofa cushions that were getting plumped.
Act II: Tea... and a Surprise Appointment
Clarissa lounged in the drawing room, one leg draped carelessly over the arm of a delicately carved Georgian chair, daintily demolishing a plate of shortbread.
Lady Mildred, having finished her tea, settled in her high-backed chair with a copy of The Lady magazine. She turned the pages with unhurried precision, as though no care in the world could penetrate the oak-panelled tranquillity of Wildmere Hall.
At precisely four o'clock, Mr. Withers returned, bearing a fresh tray laden with a second teapot, warm scones, and a small pot of homemade strawberry jam.
“Your tea, madam,” he said with a bow to Lady Mildred.
“Thank you, Withers,” she said without looking up from her magazine. “I think I'll relax here and catch up on a little reading, but I presume you know how to proceed?”
“Naturally, madam,” said Mr. Withers with a bow so slight it might have been an optical illusion.
He turned to Clarissa with impeccable courtesy.
“If Miss would be so kind as to accompany me for a few moments?”
Clarissa, still in the full flush of imagined triumph, tossed her hair and rose from her chair with a smirk. “Really, Withers. Must you always be quite so formal.”
Lady Mildred turned another page of The Lady without glancing up, as though tea and reading were her only concerns.
Clarissa, still chatting lightly about her travel preferences, sauntered towards the door. Mr. Withers held it open for her, and with a final, self-satisfied glance at her aunt, she passed through.
The door closed with a soft, almost conspiratorial click.
Act III: An Unwelcome Lesson in Deportment
In the wide, echoing hallway, Mr. Withers guided Clarissa to a hall bench with the solemn dignity normally shown to a visiting dignitary being escorted to an official ceremony. Clarissa, suddenly realising something was amiss, tried to maintain her composure, but her eyes widened as she took in the bench and the stern expression on Withers' face.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” she snapped, her voice wavering slightly as she folded her arms and scowled.
“No need to concern yourself, Miss Clarissa,” said Withers, cutting across her protest with glacial politeness, “what I am doing will become clear to you in a moment.”
He seated himself on the bench, his back so straight he might have been posing for an Edwardian treatise entitled The Art of Proper Posture. From a convenient hook beside the coat stand, he retrieved a gleaming mahogany clothes brush. It looked alarmingly robust, and gripped firmly in his right hand it carried the weight of understated authority.
Mr Withers, in a courteous yet insistent manner, drew Clarissa over his lap. The movements felt precise and deliberate, as if he were performing a well-rehearsed ritual. She found herself positioned with firmness, held in position with a strong hand gripping her slender waist. To her increasing dismay, she felt the hem of her dress being adjusted — and not in the direction she would have requested.
“Mr. Withers!” she exclaimed, her voice a mix of indignation and anxiety. “This is highly improper! I demand you release me at once!”
Withers, however, remained unfazed, his expression as stern as ever. “My duty is to ensure Lady Mildred's requirements are carried out, Miss Clarissa,” he said, his voice as calm as if he were discussing afternoon tea. “Now, let us begin.”
Clarissa's eyes widened in horror as she realised the full extent of her predicament. She squirmed and struggled as she tried to free herself from Withers' firm grip. “This is ridiculous!” she cried, her voice echoing through the hallway. “I won't stand for it!”
“Rest assured that you won't have to stand for anything. I find that a horizontal position is far more convenient.”
The first smack of the clothes brush landed with a sharp crack, prompting a yelp of pure disbelief from Clarissa.
“Ouch! That hurt!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide with shock and indignation.
Clarissa squirmed furiously, but the butler merely adjusted his grip with the implacable detachment of a man straightening a tablecloth. Each crisp spank echoed around the stairwell, accompanied by Clarissa’s increasingly incoherent protests.
“You—you can't possibly treat me this way!”
“On the contrary, Miss Clarissa,” Withers replied, verifying his grip on the brush's stout handle, “Lady Mildred has always been most insistent upon this exact approach.”
Clarissa gasped, her cheeks flushed, her struggles becoming more desperate.
“I demand you stop, this instant!”
Clarissa wriggled, kicked, and issued a series of noises that could have been mistaken for a foxhunt in full cry. Her satin briefs were not the most daring in her wardrobe, but they were providing no meaningful defence against the bristling attentions of Mr. Withers' chosen instrument.
“Just you wait until my aunt hears about this!” she gasped.
“Ah,” said Withers with the faintest hint of a smile. “These walls are very thin, Miss . I fancy Lady Mildred is already well aware.”
The sounds of Clarissa's muffled exclamations and the sharp, percussive cracks of the clothes brush were indeed passing through the closed door of the drawing room.
Lady Mildred, seated comfortably in an armchair by the fireplace, remained unperturbed. She calmly buttered another scone, her movements graceful and deliberate.
The distinctive even tempo of the cracks continued, each one accompanied by Clarissa’s increasingly indignant protests. Lady Mildred could just about make out the butler's unflappable tones through the wall.
“Please hold still, Miss Clarissa,” Withers said, his voice as calm and measured as ever. “This ceaseless wriggling is most unbecoming.”
“Ouch! Stop this, right now! Ouch!” Clarissa cried, her voice now tinged with panic.
Lady Mildred nibbled at her scone with delicate bites, her expression one of serene disinterest. She took occasional sips of tea and observed the dancing flames in the fireplace, demonstrating the commotion in the hallway was of no concern to her.
Another crack echoed down the corridor, followed by yet another outraged squeal.
“How dare you!”
Clarissa's assertion remained unanswered as Lady Mildred reached for the jam pot and spread a fresh layer atop her second scone. She was humming a satisfied tune under her breath, a faint smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
Back in the hallway, the air was still reverberating with a brisk rhythm of a very thorough spanking, beginning to be punctuated by Clarissa's doleful apologies. Her voice betrayed a mix of discomfort and surrender, as she squirmed over Mr Withers' lap.
“Alright, alright! I'm sorry!” she wailed, her words punctuated by the sharp, stinging kisses of the clothes brush.
Withers, with a steady hand and an unyielding resolve, delivered a final salvo of rapid, well-aimed swats, each one accompanied by a sincerely expressed squeal from Clarissa. The duet of brush upon her satin panties played out in a chorus of warm smarting, leaving her breathless and her inadequately covered bottom flushed a deep crimson.
By the time Mr. Withers judged the lesson sufficiently impressed, Clarissa was feeling thoroughly chastened. Her dress was rumpled, her hair tumbled wildly around her shoulders, and her eyes were bright with unshed tears. She gratefully rubbed her behind with furious embarrassment.
The butler appeared to brush an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve, and surveyed her calmly.
“If I might suggest, Miss Clarissa,” he said, “some very soft and restorative cushions may be found in the library wing.”
Clarissa glared at him while straightening out her dress, unable to summon a retort that did not involve stamping her foot like an indignant five-year-old. Given her current position, she suspected such a response would only exacerbate matters.
Her lower lip trembled, and she held back a sob. Her entire bottom throbbed with the warmth of residual smarting. Mr Withers offered his arm with impeccable courtesy.
“When you are ready, Miss,” he said gravely. “I believe Lady Mildred awaits your apology.”
Clarissa, cheeks burning, accepted his arm with the meek dignity of a defeated revolutionary being escorted to parole. And so they returned to the drawing room. The butler walking as upright as a guardsman, Clarissa wriggling beside him in tender mortification.
There was silence in the hallway, at last, filled only by the slow tick of the grandfather clock.
“Ahem, madam,” Withers said smoothly. Only the faintest flush in his cheeks betrayed his exertions. “Miss Clarissa requests a moment of your time.”
Lady Mildred lowered her magazine, her expression one of gracious enquiry.
“Very good, Withers.”
Beside him, Clarissa hovered on the threshold, the very picture of chastened repentance. One hand hovered, rubbing at the seat of her elegant skirt with unconscious abandon. Her cheeks were nearly as pink as the tea roses blooming outside the windows.
Lady Mildred raised an eyebrow with polite interest as the butler, and a pink-cheeked Clarissa, stepped further into the room.
“I trust Mr. Withers has made everything perfectly clear to you?”
Clarissa opened her mouth, closed it again, and finally gave a jerky nod.
“Yes, Aunt Mildred,” she said meekly, in a voice quite unlike her usual drawl. “I'm very sorry for my earlier unladylike impertinence. It won't occur again.”
Lady Mildred smiled benignly.
“Splendid. Do sit down, dear, and have a little more tea. I've always found that a firm hand and a hot cup of Darjeeling can resolve almost any misunderstanding.”
Clarissa, lowered herself gingerly onto the edge of a chair, wincing as the prickling sting was reignited by the contact.
Lady Mildred, serene once more, poured her niece a cup of tea with the air of a queen bestowing favours. And Wildmere Hall, having reasserted its inexorable code of decorum, settled back into its accustomed peace.
Epilogue
The tea tray rattled slightly as Clarissa, still shifting uncomfortably, tried to serve herself a scone with trembling fingers. Lady Mildred, suppressing a smile, reached across and deftly steadied the plate for her.
“Steady hands, my dear,” she murmured. “They are the mark of good breeding.”
“Yes, Aunt Mildred. Thank you.” Clarissa said, her voice very small.
They sat in companionable silence for a time. Lady Mildred returned to her magazine, her tea steaming in the afternoon sun. Clarissa nibbled her scone, trying to suppress an uncomfortable grimace whenever she shifted on the embroidered chair cushion.
Thoroughly chastened, Clarissa had merely become the latest in a long line of youthful visitors to benefit from Lady Mildred’s quiet philosophy: that a little polish, properly applied, can improve not only the furniture, but also the next generation.
“A commendable result, Withers,” Lady Mildred privately observed later that evening. “And she's considerably less dusty than when she arrived.”
Excerpt from Lady Mildred Pembroke-Forbes’ private diary, August 14th: “Tea: satisfactory. Weather: fair. Niece: much improved, after intervention by Withers. Recommend similar polishing regimen for future guests displaying signs of undue self-importance.”