Wisdom for the Wayward: No. 1
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.
You see, it began, as so many things do, with a dare. My so-called friend Poppy (whose advice has a curious tendency to end with me being upended) claimed she had heard that swimming in cold water is excellent for the complexion because “It tightens the pores and shocks the soul into good behaviour.” She also assured me it would be invigorating — and, to be fair, she wasn't wrong.
I awoke at dawn, for the sake of discretion, to attempt a spot of early morning skinny dipping in the ornamental lake on our family estate. You see, I did everything I could to remain unseen.
My first mistake was recruiting Poppy to stand guard. My second mistake was trusting her when she volunteered with such suspicious enthusiasm.
What I only discovered later was that she’d moved my clothes. All of them. My garments had mysteriously migrated to the far side of the boathouse.
So there I was, stark naked beside a very English lake, attempting to feel like a water nymph, but mostly feeling like a startled goose.
Using the rose border for cover — clad only in damp indignation — I was apprehended by Rose, our gardener’s assistant. Rose is a no-nonsense country girl with strong opinions, stronger forearms, and an apparent fondness for bamboo canes (used, I had assumed, solely for tomato support).
To her credit, she neither laughed nor swooned. She simply offered me a small canvas apron and suggested I come with her to the greenhouse to “warm up and reflect.” I was grateful for the offer, at first, because the water was decidedly chilly. The tiny apron she gave me barely covered my front ornamental garden, let alone the rear paddock!
But, she graciously offered to walk close behind me as she marched me into the greenhouse, to provide cover for any further indecency. I am not proud of what followed. Suffice to say that I found myself in a most unladylike position over a potting stool, receiving what Rose called a “symbolic horticultural correction.”
That bamboo cane really stings, let me tell you, and after sixty seconds of vigorous cultivation across my freshly unearthed rear borders, I felt like I was coming into bloom. I swear, I could hear the tomato seedlings whispering.
Now, dearest Agatha, just as I was reflecting on the moral of the situation and wondering if the tomato seedlings might still be judging me, who should approach in search of fresh tomatoes, but Mrs. Poppet herself. I know she still eyes me with distrust, ever since the unfortunate sponge cake sabotage at last year’s fête.
Rose barely had time to hide me behind the water barrel. Once she'd stopped laughing, she did retrieve my clothes, so I suppose I have to be grateful for that.
If word reaches Mother, I fear I may be packed off to a strict finishing school (run by even stricter Nuns) with nothing but a hairbrush and a prayer.
So, dear Aunt Agatha, what does one write in a thank-you note to the gardener who has seen more of one than one’s dressmaker? She knows far too much, and I need to ensure she's on my side. Perhaps a basket of freshly picked tomatoes with a note saying, ‘Thanks for the... warmth and support’? Or is that a touch too ripe?
Yours in petal-toned penitence,
Clementine Beaufort-Smythe
P.S. I do hope you can keep this between us. I wouldn't want the entire village to know about my “blooming” encounter with Rose and her bamboo cane.
Wisdom for the Wayward: Aunt Agatha replies, with as much discretion as the incident allows. Best taken sitting gingerly...
Dear Miss Clementine,
Let me begin by assuring you — with no small degree of relief — that you are far from the first debutante to find herself entangled in a compromising position behind a rose bush. In fact, I recall a near-identical case from the Countess of Dibley’s niece, which also involved an ornamental pond, a member of the groundskeeping staff, and something called a compost fork. (We do not speak of it at Ascot.)
Still, it does sound as though you have been rather thoroughly tended to.
I commend your commitment to early morning constitutional routines — though I must suggest, in future, a bathing costume and a less meddlesome chaperone. Poppy, for all her charm, appears to be the sort of friend one should never trust with secrets, decency, or laundry.
As for Rose, I should say you have stumbled upon a gardener of rare vigour and even rarer restraint. To conceal a naked heiress from Mrs Poppet and offer botanical chastisement without so much as a raised eyebrow is no mean feat. I would advise extreme politeness, at least until the memory of your aproned exit fades from local horticultural lore.
A thank-you gift is, of course, essential. A basket of tomatoes may be appropriate, though I would caution against any card suggesting ‘warmth’, ‘support’, or indeed anything that might hint at the angle of your encounter. A simple: “For your kindness and discretion — with gratitude, Clementine,” should suffice. Avoid the word “ripened.”
In short, my dear: you have erred, been plucked, pruned, and (perhaps rightly) potted. Let this be your lesson in the perils of outdoor nudity and unreliable friends. If your complexion now appears rosier, may it serve as a reminder that modesty is not only a virtue, but sometimes a blessed layer of insulation.
With affection,
Aunt Agatha
P.S. I note with interest that the local nursery now stocks a heritage rose named ‘Blush Clementine’. It’s described as a vigorous variety in the warmest shade of pink — and while they don’t specify the inspiration, I have my suspicions. Let’s just say it’s a colour I’ve recently become rather well acquainted with.
Reprinted from The Little Dithering Gazette, under strict embargo from the Duchess of Larkswood’s personal archive.