The Vicarage Garden Party
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 I: 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.
Those who knew her were struck with apprehension, whilst those who underestimated her were frequently struck by something else. Her philosophy had always been that a wooden hairbrush offered the optimal route for getting to the bottom of most problems.
Never far from her line of sight was Clara Pimm, the nineteen-year-old daughter of the vicar. She possessed blonde curls, a figure to raise eyebrows, and a history of never quite living up to her saintly lineage.
Clara’s afternoon might have passed without incident had she not observed, just a touch too audibly, that if Lady Brompton’s posterior grew any wider, she’d need to be escorted by a signalman with a flag.
Lady Brompton had, alas, been just within earshot. A dozen heads swivelled like synchronised weather vanes and a collective gasp was heard. Clara had always had a bit of a wild streak, one that she attempted to reveal only to her closest friends, like Pippa Moncrief, who was currently trying to stifle a giggle behind her fan.
Rosalind crossed the lawn with the intensity of a storm about to break. There was no apparent haste, just a quiet, understated energy. It remained to be seen what damage might be left in her wake.
“Miss Pimm. This way, if you please.”
Clara’s grin faltered. “Oh, certainly. Would you like my help with something?”
“No,” said Rosalind, serene. “On this occasion, it is I who would like to help you with something.”
Miss Fairleigh, whose grip was politely impervious to protest, took Clara in hand and began to steer her towards the house. Clara, realising the depth of her predicament, let out a cry that was equal parts indignation and desperation, appealing to her father, the Reverend Pimm.
“Father! Will you kindly instruct this ridiculous woman to unhand me!”
The Reverend Pimm, his cheeks flushing a shade of crimson that would have made a summer rose envious, cleared his throat.
“Ah, Clara, my dear. I was going to mention it over tea, but it appears fate has intervened. As it happens, I engaged Miss Fairleigh’s services just yesterday. Fortuitous timing, I believe.”
Clara's eyes widened in disbelief.
“Engaged her? Father, what on earth are you talking about?”
“My dear,” he said mildly, “Miss Fairleigh is here at my behest. With your mother away in Malvern, tending to Aunt Agatha's delicate constitution, I thought it prudent to secure some feminine guidance for you. And who better than Miss Fairleigh, with her methods of pastoral care that are renowned far and wide.”
Given everything she had heard about Rosalind's methods for reinforcing etiquette and propriety, Clara was not reassured.
She stared, aghast, but her father remained unmoved. He was still smarting from his discovery of a secret book club, operated amongst local débutantes. Recalling how Clara had diverted Hymn-Book funds to buy copies of “The Scarlet Letter” merely confirmed his instincts that brisk intervention was required.
“And, given the quantity of strawberries you consumed while you should have been paying attention to my earlier benediction, I think her intervention might not be coming a moment too soon. Please proceed with my wholehearted blessing, Miss Fairleigh.”
Clara, feeling her father's words almost as heavily as the hold upon her wrist, could only muster a weak protest as she was led away, her mind a whirlwind of dread and vague foreboding.
A pair of matrons paused mid-scoop at the trifle table, and leaned in.
“I always said she needed a firm hand,” murmured one.
“Well, it certainly looks like she's found one now,” chuckled the other, with the air of someone enjoying the spectacle rather too much.
As Clara stumbled onward, a rogue gust caught her skirt and sent it billowing. A flash of red silk and lace-topped stockings drew a collective gasp from the onlookers. Her frantic attempts to claw her hem back into place caused a further awkward stumble and one of her slippers, a pale thing with a ribbon bow, was sent spinning from her heel and fluttered to the ground like a wounded bird.
With one shoe on, and one shoe off, and one reputation hanging by a thread, Clara limped after the implacable Miss Fairleigh, who continued to propel her forwards.
Casting a glance over her shoulder, her face a blend of outrage and woe, she spotted her chum Pippa, who with a deft flick, snatched up the errant slipper.
Pippa's expression of unbridled glee as she vanished behind the rose trellis was less than comforting, but at least the shoe was in capable hands.
Like an uncooperative ship, navigated through stormy seas by an adroit captain, the pair finally made port with the conservatory. They disappeared through the open door — though disappear was perhaps too generous a term, for the glass walls offered scant privacy.
Clara's face contorted in a mixture of indignation and desperation. But, if nothing else, she took a modicum of solace in the knowledge that her impending scolding would be at least partially muffled from the garden party's prying ears.
Act II: Discipline Under Glass
The conservatory was a little world of its own. Glass-roofed, sun-warmed. A watering can sat polished to a mirrored gleam beside a potting bench, and wicker furniture lounged amid leafy pot-plants, like respectable relics of a jungle expedition. Clara trailed in behind, her attempts at explanation faltering like a deflating balloon.
“Miss Fairleigh, I do apologise if I overstepped. It was merely intended as a jest.”
“A jest at the expense of others,” Rosalind interrupted coolly. “You may think me severe, Clara, but my purpose is not to stifle. I only wish to remind you of things the world will not overlook so kindly. There is a time for wit, certainly. But when it mocks others, or makes light of one’s own dignity, it ceases to charm and begins to corrode.”
Rosalind seated herself with a finality that discouraged both backchat and escape. Then, with the faintest lift of a brow, she guided Clara decisively down across her lap — welcoming her on a one-way descent into ignominy
“You are not a child. Society will not indulge you as one, and I would rather you learned that truth in private, instead of somewhere the consequences may be less forgiving.”
Clara found herself face-to-face with her distorted reflection in the gleaming brass watering can. Her shocked expression stretched comically wide, the exaggerated oval shape doing little to dignify her current predicament. Beside it, a calm reflection of Miss Fairleigh appeared serenely undisturbed, a striking contrast that made Clara feel, absurdly, as if she were posing for a very improper modern art tableau.
Her voice rose. “This is completely outrageous! I’m the vicar’s daughter! You can’t treat me like this!”
“I can,” said Rosalind, calm as ever, “and I shall. It is not your father’s title but your conduct that concerns me. And you, Miss Pimm, are perilously close to becoming an embarrassment.”
The startling impact of Rosalind's palm across the upturned seat of Clara's tightly stretched skirt caused her to jolt forwards, her head twisting to stare back in pure astonishment.
“Ouch! You can’t possibly—!”
The Thwack of palm upon bottom began to ring out like a staccato beat of retribution. Each sorely felt impact was punctuated by Miss Fairleigh's fluent scolding.
“You will not mock guests.” Thwack.
“You will conduct yourself with modesty.” Thwack.
“You will not consume strawberries during the Lord’s Prayer.” Thwack.
Clara writhed. “Oh, but Miss Fairleigh, I've never been treated so—!”
“In that case, let's hope you do not require too many reminders. But, do not underestimate my resolve, Miss Pimm.”
With practised ease, her left arm encircling Clara’s waist, Rosalind assured her grip and began to unleash an even more forthright salvo upon the delicate rounded target.
The immediate response of squirming yelps and protests slowly gave way to a resigned acceptance. In Miss Fairleigh's experience, the focussed energy of a smarting behind often had a way of promoting swift personal reflection.
“Well?” Miss Fairleigh asked, her hand momentarily coming to rest upon Clara's stinging rear. “What do you have to say for yourself now?”
With a sulky but reflective sniffle, Clara replied.
“I'm very sorry, Miss Fairleigh. I think I'm learning when to be quiet, and when to behave.”
“That's a good beginning, Clara. But decorum is not only about being quiet and behaving. It's about being kind, considerate, and respectful to others. It's about knowing when to speak and when to listen, and being mindful of the impact your words and actions have on those around you.”
Miss Fairleigh reached for a small brass bell on the conservatory side-table and gave it a smart shake. Its ting echoed through the warm air.
The housemaid entered silently, her eyes flicking once from Clara to Rosalind and back again. In the spirit of all good attendants, she displayed not the merest flicker of surprise at seeing Miss Pimm so inelegantly upended over the governess's lap.
“Would you be so kind,” said Rosalind without looking up, “as to bring me the clothes brush from the hallway console?”
Clara made a noise that might have been a gasp or a plea, while the housemaid merely gave a neat curtsy, returning moments later with the requested brush. Sturdy, dark-handled, precisely the kind made for dusting down jackets — or impertinent seats. Clara, catching a glimpse, felt her stomach twist.
“Now, Clara, let's put the finishing touches on your lesson. Remember, a lady must always be mindful of her behaviour, not just in public, but also in private. And sometimes, that means accepting a little extra... polishing, shall we say, to ensure she's truly refined.”
In a single fluid motion, Miss Fairleigh gathered up Clara's skirts and hooked her right leg over the young lady's ankles, a refinement of delicate pinning technique which she had perfected over the years.
The sharper smacks now addressed directly to Clara's knickers were undeniably emphatic. Clara yelped, squirmed, and finally, quite against her will, felt her resistance melt into flustered submission. She slumped lower, gripping at the chair leg as the heat and smarting accumulated, her skin growing more sensitive with every swat.
The sound of polished wood meeting silk echoed against the tiled floor. It had become a rhythmic tattoo of discipline, exploring variations in pace and exuberance, yet never once wavering in its relentless consistency.
Moments later, and with a sense of resignation, Clara felt Miss Fairliegh's fingers deftly hook under the waistband of her knickers, sweeping them down to her knees in a swift, well-practised motion. The cool air against her bare bottom was a stark contrast to the heat that followed as the clothes brush resumed its lively dance. Every fresh impact sent another rosy, stinging ripple across her softly yielding cheeks.
Clara winced, biting her lower lip to suppress a cry, but she held her position — partly from a newfound determination to redeem herself, and also from the desire not to provoke Miss Fairliegh any further.
Rosalind’s mind, meanwhile, flicked briefly to her youth. She remembered her own governess, Miss Hebblethwaite, and the uncomfortable consequences that followed a disastrous ink-pot incident. Like Clara — she had not appreciated it at the time, but was grateful now.
Just beyond the rose trellis, Pippa crouched with the dropped slipper cradled like contraband, peering through the glass with an expression somewhere between awe and barely-suppressed laughter.
Her vigil ended abruptly when Mrs Prewitt, the cook, appeared from the side path, a basket of mint under one arm and a frown upon her brow.
“Off with you, young lady. This is not a sideshow.”
As Pippa scampered off, Mrs Prewitt followed her gaze through the glass, squinted once, and then gave a satisfied chuckle.
“My word! That Miss Fairleigh has the wrist action of a champion jockey.”
As the final emphatic strokes landed, Clara lay panting, her hair tousled, her cheeks glowing scarlet from every direction.
“I'll try my best to be more ladylike, Miss Fairleigh. I promise,” she said softly, and quite without irony.
Rosalind helped her up and adjusted her hair ribbon with a touch that was surprisingly gentle.
“I'm very glad to hear it,” she replied, permitting herself a prim but sincere smile. “You may begin by offering Lady Brompton a heartfelt apology — ideally one that does not include allusions to locomotives.”
Clara managed a weak nod, her face still warm with embarrassment.
Rosalind watched her straighten her outfit and collect herself with newfound poise, then turned back to the conservatory’s window to adjust a sprig of lemon verbena.
“One hates to snip the blooms,” she murmured, “but some disciplined pruning does rather encourage future growth.”
Act III: Artistic Liberties
Clara re-emerged from the vicarage with freshly smoothed skirts and a sweetened, rosy cheeked demeanour. She held herself a touch more upright, her steps more deliberate, as if every inch of her posture had been corrected by an etiquette committee.
She made her way towards Lady Brompton, who was still nursing her tea with the caution of a woman expecting to be jostled again. Clara curtsied.
“Lady Brompton,” she said, with admirable composure, “Please permit me to apologise, most sincerely, for my earlier lapse in decorum.”
Lady Brompton raised a powdered eyebrow, looked her up and down, and sniffed.
“Accepted. Though next year, dear, perhaps try to match your underthings to the bunting — not the strawberries.”
Clara blushed anew, but managed a faint smile. The worst, she believed, was behind her.
Not far off, Rosalind observed from beneath the flowering arbour, sipping tea with the serenity of a general surveying a pacified field. She caught the vicar’s eye across the lawn and offered the subtlest of nods. He returned it, visibly relieved.
But Clara had one further trial to endure.
By the lemonade table, Pippa was waiting — stray slipper in hand, her expression gleaming with conspiratorial joy.
“Darling,” she said sweetly, handing it over, “you dropped this during your flight. I kept it safe. The shoe fared better than your dignity, I’m afraid”
Clara groaned. “How much did you see?”
Pippa fluttered her lashes.
“Oh, more or less as you'd expect. You’ve got lovely lace detailing around your stocking-tops — very fetching. You must tell me where you found them. And I have to say, Miss Fairleigh has an excellent sense of rhythm.”
She leaned in, voice dropping to a mock-conspiratorial murmur. “And of course, that red silk. Though it was quite hard to notice when your French knickers came down... there wasn’t much of a contrast by then.”
Clara let out a noise of protest somewhere between a squeak and a moan.
“You’re incorrigible!”
“I’m inspired,” Pippa corrected. “In fact, I’ve already started a sketch. I’m thinking of calling it The Scarlet Cheeks. Very classical. Allegorical, even.”
“You'd better not be planning to show that to anyone.”
“Certainly not,” Pippa replied cheerfully. “Not until I've finished it off with my watercolours.”
The pair dissolved into giggles, the sort that made parasols turn and matrons narrow their eyes.
Nevertheless, the garden party had resumed its usual course. Strawberries were replenished, raffle prizes redistributed, and tales of Clara Pimm’s chastening encounter passed from parasol to parasol, growing more colourful with each gossipy retelling. By dusk, she had been variously reported as birch'd, banished, and secretly betrothed to a young curate.
Rosalind Fairleigh returned to her teacup beneath the flowering arbour, satisfied with the success of her sharp insights — and even sharper discipline. She permitted herself a modest smile, content that order (and decorum) had been restored, though she made a mental note to have the clothes brush re-polished before next Sunday.
#FF #Hand #Hairbrush #OTK #Governess
Postscript – Extract from Pippa's private diary:
What a day! Clara disgraced herself spectacularly and was summarily dealt with by Miss Fairleigh in the conservatory. By the conclusion of this memorable chastisement, Clara’s bottom glowed like a beacon. Frankly, it was difficult to tell where her cheeks ended and the half-mast red knickers began. It’s a spectacle that will be etched into my memory for years to come.
My watercolour, tentatively titled “The Scarlet Cheeks,” is progressing beautifully. I’d say that my brushstrokes capture the essence of Miss Fairleigh’s brushstrokes perfectly. I may even enter it in the Harvest Fair, though I’ll need to find a way to anonymise the facial expressions.
Clara assures me she’s a changed woman. I estimate this transformation will last precisely as long as it takes for her to sit down comfortably again — no more than three days.
P.S. I’ve also begun a companion artwork. A fictional study entitled “A Head Girl’s Reflections.” In it, I myself feature as a benevolent but unflinching disciplinarian, presiding over a finishing school for wayward débutantes. So far, it involves a great deal of firm moral instruction (especially for a young lady named Clara) delivered by means of a walnut paddle, inscribed with: “For Your Own Good.”