The Velvet Curtain Scandal
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.
Prudence, her niece, had returned from art school and was burning with artistic temperament. She even volunteered to provide some art for the village hall theatre backdrop.
Lady Octavia had her reservations. The girl had once painted a study of a milkmaid reclining beside a haystack that resulted in the WI art exhibition being cancelled immediately and without notice. The milkmaid, Sophie, had later sworn that when she posed for the painting, she was certainly wearing far more of her customary outfit than the enthusiastic young artist had chosen to acknowledge.
Nevertheless, Sophie found herself banned from WI events for the rest of the year.
But Prudence was family, and family must occasionally be given opportunities to prove themselves worthy of forgiveness.
At precisely three o’clock, the house lights dimmed, the stage lights brightened, and Lady Octavia—standing before the village theatre’s lush velvet curtain—addressed her audience.
“Ladies, gentlemen, and girls who should know better,” she began, her voice rich with authority, “we gather today to celebrate virtue, decency, and the importance of setting an example. Especially to those young ladies who have taken to loitering around the less reputable corner of the village green.”
There were nods of agreement from the front rows.
“Modesty,” she continued, “is not merely a hemline, but an attitude. We must resist the vulgarities of the age and—”
At this moment, several members of the audience emitted small gasps. Someone tittered. A sharp whisper of “Oh my word” was followed by a muffled cough. Lady Octavia, interpreting the stirrings as signs of agreement, raised both her voice—and an eyebrow.
“—and embrace the decorum befitting our great tradition. Modesty,” she declared, “is like a good undergarment—essential, structured, and not to be flaunted. It has to be said, there is nothing so unattractive as a young woman who—”
At that moment, the vicar—who later admitted he may have been dozing during the first part of the speech—leapt to his feet. His mouth appeared to operate on autopilot for as long as five seconds before he slumped to the floor with a thud. His wife let out a shriek.
“He’s dead!” came a melodramatic cry from the rear of the room. This wasn’t true—he had merely fainted—but it succeeded in bringing Lady Octavia’s speech to an abrupt halt.
Sensing the change in atmosphere, she turned, confused, and for the first time saw what the audience had been reacting to.
Behind her, where there ought to have been a simple backdrop of velvet curtain, there was now a very different scene. A life-sized Greco-Roman nude rendered in confident charcoal strokes. Not merely anatomically correct, but—depending on one’s seating—alarmingly frontal.
Worse still, the figure was not merely nude, but had been depicted in a rather suggestive pose, with one hand casually resting on a fortuitously positioned tree branch.
Someone—and she had a very good idea who—had quietly drawn back the curtain as soon as her speech got underway. Lady Octavia blushed the shade of a rare vintage claret.
As chaos and consternation engulfed the room, Prudence peeked out from the wings, looking far less than remotely sorry.
The silence was finally broken by the thud of somebody’s hymn book hitting the floor.
Lady Octavia gathered herself.
“My apologies,” she said, turning with the composure of a duchess discovering that the soggy half of a dunked biscuit had just deposited itself into her teacup. “Please excuse me, while I address this minor artistic misunderstanding…”
She swept to one side and seized Prudence firmly by the lobe of her left ear.
“Faversham!” she commanded, addressing her startled housemaid, who was observing from the front row of the audience. “Be so kind as to reach into my handbag and pass my hairbrush. The extra-large Mason Pearson, if you please. I know you’re familiar.”
Blushing, the maid stood and handed it to her, trying her best to keep the wretched thing at arm’s length.
“You,” said Lady Octavia, with a calm that boded ill, “are coming with me.”
Moments later, the audience, still murmuring, watched as shadows flickered behind the backdrop. Someone well-intentioned had switched off the stage lights in a valiant attempt to draw a veil over the events that were about to transpire.
Unfortunately, the back-lighting was on a separate circuit, and the backdrop was now illuminated like a cinema screen. The result was unintentional shadow-theatre of the most instructive kind.
The silhouette of Lady Octavia appeared first, seating herself on a stout wooden chair. Another figure—recognisably Prudence—was deposited over her lap. It was a surprisingly nimble manoeuvre, and earned some approving nods from amongst the Women’s Institute.
Then, with a rhythm that spoke of unmistakable purpose, a third shape began to rise and fall.
Thwack.
Thwack.
The audience held its breath. Some of its younger members winced in subconscious sympathy. One elderly gentleman had to be escorted out and revived with a cup of tea—reinforced with three additional sugar lumps.
From the stage came squeaks, squeals, and an alarming number of “Ouches.”
One well-bred lady covered her eyes, but failed to close her opera glasses.
“Aunt Octavia! Please stop! I won’t be able to sit down at my easel!”
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
It took some time, but the audience eventually heard a variety of earnest promises that nude subjects would be avoided in future.
After a final cacophony of ouches and thwacks, the two unscheduled silhouettes simultaneously departed: stage left and stage right.
One was a lithe figure, hands clutched to her behind, and scurrying in a manner that portrayed her as now looking far more than remotely sorry. The other was a determined figure of grand proportion, dusting off her skirts in the manner of a job well done.
The stage manager, still clutching a clipboard and two biscuits, whispered, “Should we call that Act Two?”
When the velvet curtain was finally re-drawn over the scandalous artwork—and appropriate adjustments to the lighting were made—the hall secretary made his announcements. Barely able to suppress a grin, he declared that Lady Octavia’s speech would now resume.
It’s unclear whether anyone present actually remembered her speech, but they certainly never forgot the occasion.
The next day, Prudence was nowhere to be seen. Lady Octavia took tea alone, relishing the quiet. Then the postman delivered a note and a parcel.
The note read:
Dear Aunt Octavia,
Please accept this new artwork as a gesture of contrition. I have endeavoured to keep it modest, tasteful, and free from heroic nudity.
Sorely yours,
Prudence.
The canvas was charming. A peaceful English countryside with oak trees swaying, geese wandering, and even a distant cricket pavilion. Lady Octavia had it hung immediately.
It was not until a week later—when the afternoon sun fell just so—that she noticed a small detail beneath one of the trees.
There, painted in miniature and half-concealed by a bush, was the unmistakable form of a large woman seated on a tree stump, her hairbrush raised heavenwards.
Across her lap, equally unmistakable, was a young woman with a familiar expression of artistic regret. The young woman’s skirt appeared to be bunched modestly around her ankles, and her expression suggested other small garments may have accompanied it.
Luckily, a fortuitously placed tree branch made it quite impossible to determine the specifics of the situation.
Lady Octavia considered this, and broke into a smile.
She poured herself another cup of tea and turned her thoughts to next year’s programme. Because, as Lady Octavia reflected over her teacup, there is nothing so unattractive as a woman entirely lacking a sense of humour.
From the Spring Supplement of The Spanklit Society Papers, 1953. Marked “For Instructional Use Only” by the Women’s Institute (South Riding Chapter).