J/W Fic: Jeeves and the Tennis Coach (Part 1/5)

[out_there]

Title: Jeeves and the Tennis Coach
Author: out_there
Fandom: Jeeves and Wooster
Pairing: Jeeves/Bertie
Rating: PG (I'm so tempted to make a PG Wodehouse joke right here, but I'm going to restrain myself).
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, I make no money from this.
Word Count: 57,000 (approximately).
Notes: Thank you to phoebesmum for betaing something of this length. Thank you to 0bake who inspired and encouraged this story, even though it was originally meant to be a 500 word drabble. A huge thank you to everyone who read along in my LJ and squeed as I wrote: I never would have got this finished without all you guys.

Summary: Have there been any times when you, Mr Wooster, managed to get the best of Jeeves?





There is something eminently satisfying about receiving letters from one's readers. It's quite an unexpected delight to open the morning's mail and find a missive asking questions about this acquaintance or that, wondering how I met Bingo (while a boy at Eton, if you were in the middle of wondering that very question), or where Jeeves and I would recommend visiting while in New York (the Stork Club, located on East 53rd Street, is a wonderful example of what Americans quaintly call a 'speakeasy' and a topping spot for a good b-and-s).

I tell you this, dear readers, so that you will grasp my positive reaction to finding a letter addressed to yours truly, asking a most intriguing question: have there been any times when you, Mr Wooster, managed to get the best of Jeeves?

Well, I say.

It's not the type of question one gets asked often. When talking about this precise question, it's not one I've ever been asked. Most people of my acquaintance know Jeeves and his rather remarkable brain, and therefore would not dare to think that such a thing would be possible.

We Woosters are known amongst our contemporaries. We are possessed of bright, if slightly unusual minds -- especially in the case of my Uncle Henry and his reported habit of carrying on conversations with other people's rose bushes -- and stiff upper lips in times of trial. We are ready with shoulders for damsels to cry on and comforting words for friends in trouble. However, when comparing the Woosters with the Jeeveses, there is a notable difference in the mental faculties, if you catch my meaning.

This leads to the logical answer that I've never managed to get the upper hand on Jeeves, but such logic would lead you wrong. On several occasions, I've come so close as to mark it a victory.

The first occasion would be my decision to travel to New York. At the time Jeeves had been quite keen on overseas travel, stating that it provided education both for a man's soul and mind. As I said at the time, I am full up on education, having suffered through numerous years of it at Oxford, Eton and Bramley-on-Sea. After sitting through many a lecture by the fearsome Rev. Aubrey, education stops resembling flashes of light from heaven and appears more like sparks from a firing squad.

Jeeves said, "Yes, sir," in that way of his that means nothing of the sort. He did not mean that he agreed with me; rather he meant that he understood that I had not yet agreed and was considering other ways to convince his wayward employer. He started by leaving brochures around where I would be sure to see them. They were the type filled with glossy photographs of skylines and tall buildings, and pictures of very large boats with crisply pressed sailors.

I would have none of it. Indeed, I said as much. "Jeeves," I said one morning over my tea, "this will stop now."

Jeeves played that he did not understand my meaning. "What will stop, sir?"

"This meddling, Jeeves. This meddling will stop. I have said that I will not travel and so travel I won't. I will not be connived into sailing over oceans by means of colourful brochures or talk of widening my mind. Are we clear, Jeeves?"

One does not like to be harsh, but there are times when one must draw a line and stand by it. Otherwise one becomes a servant to one's servants and that will not do.

"Yes, sir," he said and then left to draw a disapproving bath.

The brochures disappeared, as well they should have, but Jeeves had not given up. His next approach was to mention, in passing conversation, his niece in New York and her latest letter to him. As one might expect, he was quite subtle in drawing her into the topic of the day and would somehow manage to mention how the play I'd seen last night sounded similar to one his niece had recently seen on Broadway, and from there branch out to how remarkable she was finding the New York nightlife.

I withstood these pointed comments as many a Wooster has withstood attacks, with courage and a congenial smile. "How interesting," I would say with civility, or "You don't say?"

When my patience was extremely pushed, I would say, "Really, Jeeves?" in a cold tone, and Jeeves would drop the matter for the day, sensing that the Wooster temper is not to be trifled with.

No matter how persistent Jeeves was, I did not succumb. In battles of wills, I usually admit defeat graciously and allow Jeeves to run my life as he sees fit. Sartorial matters notwithstanding, Jeeves' judgement is the soundest I know and can be trusted to lead to the most desirable outcome for all involved. But I had made my point, and stand by it I would. So I forbore -- if forbore is the word I want -- Jeeves' comments and his ability to deposit American detective stories by my bedside.

Now I am sure the more observant of my readers will be standing up, crying, "But, Mr Wooster, how can you claim this valiant withstanding of Jeeves' powers of suggestion? We have read your stories and we know that you went to New York. How do you explain that kettle of fish?"

To those readers I reply that, while I am a man of iron constitution, able to withstand Jeeves' cunning mind while still enjoying the finer things in life, it would take a far stronger man than I to withstand a monstrous relative on par with the fabled Medusa. In other words, I was ordered to go to New York by my Aunt Agatha, a woman whose glare could turn a man's courage to stone and his spine to jelly, or vice versa.

The important thing to remember about this tale is that it was not Jeeves who compelled me to travel. Jeeves may have many powers, but I doubt that it was he who managed to make my cousin Gussie run off to America in pursuit of a stage actress.

Though I still wonder why Aunt Agatha thought I was the best candidate to convince Gussie not to marry his dramatic dream girl. The mind of Aunt Agatha is a steel trap, sharp enough to slice a finger clean off, and she usually spouts the opinion that re: family respectability, I'm as much use as a Brussels sprout. When I wrote to her of Gussie's happy nuptials to that same dear actress, she spouted that opinion quite clearly.

The second occasion that I matched wits with Jeeves involved a particularly natty pair of striped flannel trousers.

As my readers will be aware, when it comes to matters of dress, Jeeves can be ... one does not like to use the word hidebound, but hidebound he is. His tastes tend towards the conservative, the tried and true. He lacks the spirit of adventure required when following current fashions and simply can't appreciate that young gentlemen of today do not follow the same sartorial standards that our grandfathers did.

While I understand his disapproval of Oxford bags, and agree that there is something quite ridiculous about young men walking around with their trouser cuffs dragging along the pathway, his objection to striped flannel is rather unjustified.

This particular pair was pale green, striped with a fetching yellow, and had been quite admired by Catsmeat Potter-Pirbright when I collected them from my tailor's. They struck quite a chord with the rest of the Drones when I wore them, but I get ahead of myself.

Firstly, I should say that I knew of Jeeves' prejudice against the noble striped f. Hence I also ensured that I purchased a dove-grey shirt and blue tie woven with light charcoal lines that would meet with Jeeves' approval. Refusing the usual delivery service, I carried the items home myself.

When I got to my front door, I spent a few minutes with my ear pressed against the wood, holding my breath as I listened for Jeeves' footsteps. The trouble with this is that when entering or leaving a room, Jeeves has the rummiest ability to move soundlessly, to enter and exit rooms without any of its occupants noticing. While this makes him a tremendous valet and precisely the chap you want after a particularly rambunctious night, it vastly reduces the effectiveness of eavesdropping for footsteps.

So I straightened, set my shoulders and walked fearlessly into the lion's den. Luckily for me, Jeeves was in the kitchen.

I called out a cheery, "What ho, Jeeves!" and headed for my bedroom, much like a fox heads to the nearest thicket when the hounds are on its trail. I had just stashed the trousers under my pillow when Jeeves spoke behind me.

"Good afternoon, sir."

As I said, the man is blessed with the rummiest ability to walk without a sound.

Fixing my most charming smile in place, I handed him the bag of garments. "I stopped in at my tailors and simply had to buy these."

"Indeed, sir?"

"Catsmeat thought they were quite becoming." I did not flinch at the way Jeeves' expression sunk to one capable of freezing over rushing rivers, but it was a near thing.

"While Mr Potter-Pirbright is considered well presented by his followers, his features differ quite essentially from yours, sir."

"I don't follow your meaning at all, Jeeves."

"What suits him may not necessarily suit you, sir," Jeeves said, in his most reasonable tone.

Don't be fooled by the reasonable tone, dear readers. Jeeves uses that tone to make the most ludicrous of proposals sound judicious and prudent, to make aunts and uncles agree with his discreetly phrased suggestions. That reasonable voice and chiselled countenance has changed more than one mind. It must be treated with the utmost gravity.

Accordingly, I waved at the bag and said, "Then perhaps you should give me your opinion, Jeeves, as to whether or not it will suit me."

He opened the bag cautiously, and then the ghost of a smile settled across his handsome brow. "They would be quite becoming, sir. If you wished to wear them this afternoon, I could press them now."

"Splendid idea, Jeeves!" I said, pleased both by the suggestion and by the idea of Jeeves ironing in the kitchen. It would give me the opportunity to find my new trousers a more suitable hiding place. Knowing Jeeves and the miraculous way that my bed never appears to be rumpled, they would not stay undiscovered if left under my pillow.

This led to two weeks of careful cunning, as I had to ensure that the trousers remained hidden and could not trust that any particular hiding place would remain a secret from Jeeves for long. I got to the stage where I couldn't relax with a good book or have a jolly time at the club because at the back of my mind I kept worrying over the latest sequestered spot and if Jeeves would find it.

The other problem was that I couldn't wear them out. After all the cloak-and-dagger of buying and keeping the trousers, you would have thought that I'd be able to show them off at a suitable occasion. But to do that, it would require dressing when Jeeves was not at home and leaving the flat without Jeeves seeing me. When one has a valet as attentive and efficient as Jeeves, that's a mighty hard thing to do.

The tension of hiding my prized striped flannels without even being able to wear them was too much to bear. It took a day's rumination on the subject to come up with a solution. I would sneak the trousers out of the flat, to the Drones Club, and keep them there. That way, I could find a private spot to change into them when I wished to wear them and Jeeves would be none the wiser. Even if he happened to spot me in them, given that I never wore them back to the flat, they would remain safe from his nefarious and conservative ways.

Thus decided, I put my plan into motion. On a particularly crisp day, one that warranted a coat, I decided to return to my room under the guise of changing my tie. Then I took my flannel trousers from their current resting place behind my dressing table mirror and hid them beneath my coat. Clamping down an arm in desperate hopes that they wouldn't slip and fall to the floor, I walked over my doorstep and to sartorial freedom.

I left quickly, telling Jeeves that I had changed my mind and decided the navy tie I was wearing was the superior choice, and headed straight for the club. I kept my arm clenched against my side the entire way. It didn't relax until I'd rounded the corner of Dover Street and was safely inside the heavy wooden doors, surrounded by fellow Drones.

Needless to say, I went and changed costume, and was received quite favourably by the crowd. Boko Fittleworth was quite taken with them, declaring them to be the bee's knees. Considering Boko's usual sensibilities towards dressing and his ability to make Jeeves flinch at a casual glance I would normally be wary of his praise, but the rest of the fellows agreed, and a dozen Drones are not wrong in matters of attire. If there is one thing that a good Drone knows, it is London fashions.

That was the second time that I bested Jeeves' attempts to control every aspect of my life. "Ah but wait, Mr Wooster," I hear you saying, "What happened to these hard-won trousers?" It was the strangest thing. After a night of celebrating my success, I changed back into the trousers I had worn when leaving the flat, and asked the Drones' butler, Rodgers, to hang the precious flannels somewhere safe.

When I dropped into the club the next day, they were nowhere to be found. I tracked Rodgers down and asked him for the whereabouts, and he apologised quite profusely. Apparently, they had been found in the early hours of the morning by some of the other club members, who were preserved up to the gills with brandy. The cold light of day had shown my beloved striped f. horrendously stained with wine. Well, in such a situation, there is very little that one can do. Once he's had a few drinks, the best of fellows can become clumsy and with the best of intentions, accidents will happen. There is nothing that will save a favourite item from a nasty encounter with red wine. Before the advent of Jeeves, many were the shirts lost to such stains.

I could have approached Jeeves with the item in question and asked him to perform whichever magic he used to save those shirts, but that would have made the entire deceitful charade rather pointless. A gentleman knows when to admit defeat.

I did say several times, implying more than twice, but this third time... To put it bluntly, I hesitate to mention it. Much like conking policemen and stealing silver cow creamers, this is not an issue one would want brought to a magistrate's attention. However I have trusted my dear readers to have the common decency not to go blabbing every detail to Sir Watkyn Basset and his ilk, so I assume I can trust you all with this as well.

Between my brushes with matrimonial entrapment and the experiences of chums, I have more than a passing familiarity with the nuances of romance. Many a time a friend in need has come to old Bertie with his tale of lovelorn woe for a dose of encouragement and advice.

Now, the thing that most people forget is the importance of subtlety when courting the object of one's affections. Said o. of one's a. must be wooed carefully, gently, much in the way one would calm a friend who had pointed a gun to his temple and expressed the desire to end the whole shebang. Judicious use of soft words and much talk about the general wonderfulness of life is generally the best way to go about it.

Yet there is something about love that robs most people of the ability to think clearly and remember this. They read the wrong types of novels -- the kind written by Rosie M Banks and her contemporaries, filled to the brim with proud, middle-class girls and bold, passionate, young men -- and start thinking the key to seduction is sweeping statements and dramatic gestures. This, I may tell you with some authority, is not the case.

Following my advice will lead to an engagement in a quick and sure matter, I may assure you. Following the example set by those literary heroes, on the other hand, tends to result in disaster all around. Young men fret at the idea of sudden responsibilities and hie themselves to their club to relax. Young ladies return to the family home and start entertaining the interests of others. Meanwhile, friends of both are subjected to hours of conversation on the relative merits or failings of the other party. It is misery for everyone.

So, as I said, in matters of the heart, patience and temperance must be the watch-words of the day. One cannot throw oneself into the arms of a beloved and hope they will catch you. You have a far greater chance that they will take three quick steps backwards and watch you hit the carpet like the first fish of the day flopping onto land.

The important detail -- the one that I failed to mention -- is that the object of my affections ate a great deal of fish and wore a size eleven bowler hat. To put it quite plainly, I'd found myself quite infatuated by Jeeves and showing all the typical signs of staring into space, smiling goofily and generally finding the sunshine brighter and roses sweeter.

As soon as I noticed this, I stopped it right away. Flopping like a fish and staring like a moon-dazed cow is only effective on girls like Madeleine Basset. For a fellow like Jeeves, who is accustomed to studying the psychology of the individual, one must be far more cunning.

The first step, as in any well-laid battle plan, is to scout your surroundings and find the lie of the land. All it takes is something as simple as an offhand comment, something subtle like wondering aloud, "Whatever happened to that Mary girl, Jeeves?"

Jeeves blinked but continued pouring my brandy with an ease that many a barman has sought to emulate, if emulate is the word I want. "Mary, sir?"

"Surname started with an A. Bingo was head-over-heels for her at one time."

"I'm afraid that doesn't narrow the possibilities a great deal, sir."

"I was sure it was a Mary," I said, racking up the grey cells and taking a shot. "Maybe it was a Myrtle. From that tea shop on Branch Street?"

"I believe you're thinking of Mabel Knightly, formerly Miss Mabel Ashworth, sir."

"Formerly?" I said, bucking up a great deal. You see, this girl had gone from an unsuccessful understanding with Bingo -- one in which he understood her to be a charming, earthy girl and she understood him to be the type of man able to convince wealthy relatives to approve the engagement -- to an understanding with Jeeves, last I heard. It was quite remarkable to think of a girl interested in Bingo being then interested in Jeeves, not unlike imagining a keen sportswoman deciding that she no longer loved hounds and was potty for foxes.

However strange it was, this attachment had played on my mind. The Code of the Woosters strictly forbids interfering in another's romantic life, unless you happen to be helping two lovebirds get together or stay together, or lending a hand to a pal who's landed in an unfortunate engagement. When it comes to destroying another's happiness in order to pursue one's own selfish pleasures, the Code will not allow it.

But as I'd been pondering this dismal prospect, the girl had up and married someone else. It was all very fortunate. Although probably not so fortunate for Jeeves at the time. "Was it sudden, Jeeves?"

"She was married on the seventeenth of last May to a Spencer Knightly of Knightly and Sons' Fine Furniture. I've heard she's quite happy, sir." I doubted anyone could have out-stiffed Jeeves' upper lip at that particular moment. Maintaining a brave face while burdened by disappointment was a true sign of a noble man.

"And what about you, Jeeves? Any new romances to take the sting from the old?"

Here, Jeeves glanced at me. Only a passing glance, less than a momentary flicker of his attention, but for an instant I was quite certain he would refuse to answer. It was a quite personal question and Jeeves has a deep belief in maintaining one's correct station in life -- in gentlemen and valets both acting as they should and not trotting all over each other's worlds -- but then he gave a soft cough and returned to the decanter. "Not at present, sir."

While I was careful not to jump to my feet and cry, "Aha! All is well!", I will not deny there was a certain air of victory to the way I swirled my glass that night.

The method from here was simple. Jeeves, magnificent as he may be, has a tendency to clutter these things with complications and detailed schemes when, nine times out of ten, mere propinquity will do the trick.

Quite often, I've ended up engaged to a girl after doing nothing more elaborate and romantic than spending a good while hanging about and chatting to fill in the time. I have a theory that love -- romantic love, I mean, because familial love is something completely different and tends to be dictated to one at an early age, and is therefore quite beyond anyone's control -- comes in two main varieties: the fast and the slow. The fast is that sudden strike of lightning when you first hear a tinkling laugh or see a particularly fetching profile. It leaves you quite muddled, nervous and unable to speak around the desired, and quite unable to talk of anything else when you're not around them. Bingo Little could tell you about it in much detail.

The second type, the type that tends to blindside me and land me in the bisque, is the slow kind, which seems to be a case of simply becoming accustomed to another's face and voice.

I had high hopes of this working in Jeeves' case. After all, Jeeves is not the sort that you would expect to fall fast for anyone. His mind may be hare footed -- thoughts flying faster than telegraphs while the rest of us plod along like plough horses -- but the rest of him is steadfast and measured, steeped in tradition and the feudal spirit. That's not the type of fellow to lose his head over any profile, no matter how resplendent.

So while Bingo ran around flattering tea-room waitresses and Tuppy alternately argued and apologised to my cousin Angela, the only change I made to my weekly routine was to stay in a few more nights.

At first this had very little effect on the working relationship between Jeeves and me. Any half-rate valet will know not to burden his employer with his presence, not to hover over the young master's shoulder while he is enjoying a rest from the general festivities of the club, and Jeeves is far better than half-rate. In the middle of a thrilling novel about detectives and blood-soaked knives, the last thing one wants is clomping footsteps -- not that Jeeves ever clomps, mind you -- and the sound of someone fussing behind you. On the other hand, when one is purposely hovering by one's hearth in order to induce fondness for one's company, having a competent valet who remains silent and scarce can make things difficult.

A lesser man would have shrunk from this challenge or sought counsel from worldly friends. I will admit that I considered this but the prospect of asking Bingo or Gussie or any of the Drones crowd for advice was downright depressing. It would be like an eagle approaching a sparrow for advice on the art of hunting small wriggling creatures. While the sparrow might have some experience, and some stories of what had worked for him, it was laughable that an eagle would be reduced to such tactics. Not to mention the strong possibility that they would misunderstand the delicacy of the situation and biff straight round to Jeeves for his input.

Instead of bemoaning my situation to the sympathetic ears of certain fatheaded fellows, I wandered to a nearby bookshop and scoured the shelves with eyes as sharp as any bird of prey's. Ignoring the fiction shelves where I most like to browse, I found my way to the philosophy section. Most of those books are heavy tomes, filled with complicated sentences and sprinkled with foreign words in italics -- normally German or Greek -- and filled with ideas that only Florence Craye or Honoria Glossop could follow.

I opened a few to test them. Letting them fall to a random page, I would read a sentence or two to see if it was comprehensible to a chap like me. Most failed dismally.

The one that didn't immediately fail and start trouncing the old grey matter started with, "Sober passions make men commonplace. If I hang back before the enemy, when my country's safety is at stake, I am but a poor citizen." It went on to talk about self-regarding friendships and how one must rally to the call of a friend in need, and all that. It seemed like the perfect thing.

The perfect thing for what, you may ask, and I would say that it was the perfect thing to read at the flat while Jeeves made himself scarce. The title was "Diderot's Early Philosophical Works" and in matters of philosophy -- in matters of all things, certainly, but especially philosophy -- Jeeves can always be counted upon to explain confusing ideas and to discuss their meaning. The book, therefore, was the perfect thing for encouraging conversation.

I tried the ruse that night. First, I left it sitting in plain view beside my chair and I did not miss the way that Jeeves glanced down at the title. He did not mention it, but the set of his shoulders seemed rather approving. Next, after dinner, I settled back with a brandy and opened the thing.

It wasn't long before I came across a sentence like this:

"The agitation caused by Diderot and his circle about the theory of transformism, it has been said, must have largely contributed to awaken the attention of Erasmus Darwin in England and Lamarck in France to the necessity of throwing more positive light on that great issue."

"Jeeves," I said, drawing him over, "you wouldn't happen to know anything about this Diderot fellow, would you?"

Jeeves did not fail me.

"Denis Diderot was a French philosopher and writer in the mid-1700s, sir. He was quite a prominent figure in the so-called Age of Enlightenment, which advocated reason as a means to establishing an authoritative system of aesthetics, ethics, government, and logic. He wrote several essays and was the editor-in-chief of the famous Encyclopédie, although that was heavily edited without his permission before printing."

I had to stop for a moment to follow Jeeves' meaning. He has that effect on many people. "Then you're just the bird to ask. This bit here," I pointed at the above-mentioned passage, "this theory of transformations. What is that, Jeeves?"

"I take it you mean the theory of transformism, sir?"

"That's the thing."

"It was an early theory that attempted to rationalise biology and what we now know as evolution, sir."

I gestured at him to continue.

"Lamarck, a French naturalist, was the first to seriously propose a theory that dictated the form of animals and offspring, stating that the law of use and disuse and that of inheritance of acquired characteristics could explain the changes in species. The law of use and disuse was also accepted and propagated by Darwin and his theory of evolution."

As I'd suspected, the book did the trick. Jeeves is as skilled in conversation as anything else and once the conversation was started, it continued to flow along gaily. It continued until nearly midnight, when I was in the middle of telling Jeeves about the science class at Eton that was planning to bisect -- or I may mean dissect; it's definitely some sort of sect -- the classroom's frog. Now, as any boy of thirteen will tell you, a fellow at that age can become quite attached to a familiar creature, much as he may become attached to a favourite horse or hound.

"We had even named the thing, Jeeves," I said, and Jeeves, sitting on the couch -- since making him stand for such a long conversation would have been extremely cruel and kept it a more formal affair -- interrupted.

"You named the thing Jeeves, sir?"

Someone who does not know Jeeves might not understand Jeeves' sense of humour and may have taken this for a serious question. However, someone like me, familiar with his droll ways, could hear the joke beneath the grave tone.

"Actually, Jeeves, we named him Caesar Augustus. Caesar for the regal way that he sat upon a rock, staring at the Science Master as if he were a lowly servant. And Augustus for his resemblance to Gussie Fink-Nottle."

Jeeves nodded. "From some angles, there is a rather amphibious structure to Mr Fink-Nottle's features."

"That's what we thought. Of course, no one would have said it to his face. That would have been cruel. But the true meaning of Caesar's epithet was common knowledge." I stopped to sip my brandy. "The Science Master was a tall thin man, can't remember his name but he looked like an overcooked piece of asparagus, and clearly did not share our fondness for the creature. So when Catsmeat suggested that we liberate Caesar, he didn't have to convince any of us."

"The battle cry to protect a beloved class pet tends to stir the sleeping gallant within young gentlemen."

"We were stirred, Jeeves. We were positively shaken up. Outraged, even."

"I can imagine," Jeeves said. He had one arm on the armrest and leant towards me slightly; it was the most relaxed I'd seen him in a good while.

"We hatched a plan to steal into the classroom late at night. It involved sneaking out of our rooms, silently tripping down the halls, and required a whole range of look-outs to ensure the safety of the mission. Catsmeat had managed to steal keys -- I'm still not sure how but he said it had something to do with his impersonation of the Earl of Balfour -- and there was a careful system of birdcalls in place to warn the poor fool doing the burglary if the authorities decided to show without invitation."

"And what was your role in the daring iniquity, sir?"

I gawked at him. "Iniquity? That's a touch strong, Jeeves. We were protecting a helpless creature, saving it from a fate... well, not worse than death, but being murdered and then split asunder and gawked at by an entire crowd is still a rotten fate. We were saving it, performing an act of mercy. Nothing lawless about it."

"Apart from the way you broke the school's rules, one may assume."

"Well, apart from that trifling affair, but now you're quibbling over details, Jeeves. It was a gallant deed well done. As for my part, I was the one who pulled the shortest straw of the lot so I had to sneak into the classroom, calico bag at the ready, and then ease the lid off Caesar's tank. Caesar was a bally good sport about the whole thing. Barely squirmed when I picked him up and settled into the bag as if it were a top Summer hotel for all amphibians of class."

I mimicked the movement. It's a rather precise movement, picking up a creature that can jump at any moment and fitting him into a bag designed for heavy books. Jeeves' lips twitched.

"I had to take him back upstairs and slot him into one of Gussie's newt tanks. Would have gone without a hitch, if not for Stinker Pinker. That bungler Stinker forgot which birdcall meant someone was coming from ahead of me and which meant he was coming from behind, and in that frozen moment of forgetting, he forgot to warn me at all."

"Indeed, sir?"

"The English Master walked straight into me. I'd been walking quite swiftly and suddenly Mr Thistledown was right in front of me. We collided! He stumbled one way and I stumbled the other and in the confusion, I dropped the calico bag. It was just as well. That way I only got punished for being out of bed."

Jeeves looked distinctly amused. "Did the punishment fit the crime?"

"If I'd still been at Marmsbury House, it would have been the frightful bare upper lip of Rev. Aubrey and six by whangee. As it was, I had to write out The Rime of the Ancient Mariner fifty times. A bit steep for colliding with a teacher, if you ask me."

"The many men, so beautiful," Jeeves recited. "And they all dead did lie."

"And a thousand thousand slimy things lived on; and so did I." When you write lines out fifty times, you tend to memorise them against your will. Especially the bits about slimy things. They particularly appeal to boys of a certain age. "In fact, that was the only good thing about the rummy affair. Like those thousand slimy things, Caesar lived on. Like a Houdini of the first degree, he'd hopped away during the confusion and wasn't to be found."

On that note of qualified victory, we bade each other good night and headed to our respective beds.

The next night I had a dinner organised with Tuppy. Living at Brinkley Court has spoiled poor Tuppy. He was always a man who enjoyed his food -- who adored it more than anything save my cousin Angela, and I suspect that if he was forced to choose between them, his choice would rely very much upon the particular dish -- but after numerous stays with my Aunt Dahlia and that culinary mastermind, Anatole, other chefs have lost their ability to dazzle him. It wasn't that I blamed him for feeling the lack of Anatole's brand of gastronomic grandeur, but it seemed unfair to sit at the Drones club and complain about the fare.

He was only in London for a few days and one is obliged to be nice to the fiancé of one's dearest cousin, so that week saw me out at the club more often than I would have liked. Given the choice, I would have stayed confined to my flat with Jeeves' cooking and, hopefully, Jeeves' company but I did not have a choice in the matter. By Monday, I was more than a little relieved to see Tuppy off at the station.

I returned to the old house and hearth with a merry stride, but Jeeves wasn't there. I'd been hoping to lunch at home, but an absence of Jeeves meant an absence of food. If I went to the club I would be pulled into conversation and games, and while throwing cards into someone's topper may be an excellent way to pass a pleasant afternoon, I had been looking forward to propping my feet upon my table, reading a little and possibly catching Jeeves in a comfortable tête-à-tête.

I compromised and dined at a local tea house. It was a satisfactory episode but it took my all not to watch the clock ticking by. Dining alone is an odd thing. In the sanctity of one's own home, it is a comfortable, relaxed event and yet when dining alone in public, one always has the urge to bury one's head in a newspaper, like one of those big desert birds burying their noggin in the sand. I usually spend so much time trying to give that nonchalant air of dining alone out of choice that I can hardly appreciate the meal. It befuddles me that Bingo can stand to spend so much time alone in these places, but he probably spends more time enjoying the waitresses than the food.

It was not long before I was back in the flat, reading Diderot and waiting for Jeeves to return. It didn't take too long.

When Jeeves unlocked the front door, not even the rattle of a key could be heard. Trying rather hard to follow Diderot's point -- something about teaching blind people to read, which I'm fairly sure has already been done with bumpy paper, if I recall rightly -- I didn't notice Jeeves until he slipped past my chair.

"What ho, Jeeves."

"Good afternoon, sir," he said with a decorous nod. "I was under the impression that you and Mr Glossop were dining at the club today."

I shook my head. "Tuppy took the earlier train."

"Indeed, sir?"

"All it took was a little reminiscing over Anatole's Consommé aux Pommes d'Amour, a little mention of the delays that sometimes happen with rail travel and the frightful notion of his train being delayed so long that he missed entrees for Tuppy to decide an earlier departure would be preferred."

"Ah."

"And what have you been up to, Jeeves? Enjoying the sunny weather and the thawing wind?"

"I called upon my niece, sir. I was not expecting you back so soon," Jeeves said and then levitated into the kitchen. It wasn't the most encouraging sign a chap could ask for.

He returned shortly with a drink on silver tray, which was precisely what I'd been longing for. Jeeves does have almost supernatural prescience when it comes to drinks. He can tell, almost before I can, whether I need a cup of tea in the morning or one of his famous restoratives. It's a darned useful talent to have, especially first thing when one is not at one's best. In fact, before my morning cup, I'm far from my best and have difficulty with the most basic concept of speech. I've been told that it's not unlike seeing Frankenstein's monster arise for the first time, groaning as he stumbles from the bed.

As I was saying, Jeeves returned with a welcome drink. Then he said something extremely peculiar. "Sir, will you be entertaining Mrs Gregson on Wednesday night? If so, I thought that we should discuss the menu."

"Have you been getting at my cooking sherry, Jeeves?"

"No, sir," Jeeves replied coldly.

"Unless you're fried to the tonsils, I don't see why you'd ask such a preposterous question. My Aunt Agatha is in Italy at the m., traipsing around museums and the like with Florence. How could I possibly entertain her?"

"I was given to understand that both ladies would be returning to London on Wednesday morning, sir."

I wondered for a brief moment if Jeeves' brain, usually such a hardworking fellow, had decided to take a short holiday in the land of insanity to take in the sights. I boggled at him. "Are you sure about the cooking sherry?"

"Yes, sir."

"In that case, I'm quite at a loss, Jeeves. You've been with me through thick and thin, and have frequently played the cavalry in my hour of need. I thought that we shared an understanding."

"Indeed, sir?"

"There are certain females of whom one would not speak ill, as to do so would be an unforgivable breach of etiquette, but who nonetheless are less than welcome in the Wooster homestead. First and foremost on that list is my Aunt Agatha," I said, holding up a hand and counting names off on my fingers, "and coming a close second is Florence Craye. Followed, for good reason, by Madeleine Basset and Honoria Glossop."

"Yes, sir."

Clearly, I had not been firm enough on this issue in the past. I set out to explain the situation to Jeeves. "Now, while they may individually all have their merits and one is obliged to make polite conversation with them at parties, they are not in any circumstances to be invited into my flat. Especially not two at a time, and you well know there is no way the laws of hospitality would allow me to invite Aunt Agatha for dinner and not also invite her travelling companion."

"Yes, sir."

"Can you imagine it?" I shuddered, picturing the scene. On my right, I would have Aunt Agatha calling me a jelly and asking if I intended to be a wastrel for the rest of my life; on the other, Florence would expound the value of an honest day's work and the importance of toil to improve the spirit and mind. Those readers familiar with my Aunt Agatha will know that she could make any self-respecting, horrifying ghoul give a terrified scream and flee in terror; since Aunt Agatha married Florence's father, Florence has started to show a striking similarity to my foreboding aunt. "It would be the eighth circle of hell, Jeeves, the one that lucky Dante chap managed to avoid. I would have nowhere to hide and the pair of them would spend the night examining how I failed to meet expectations."

"Perhaps you could discuss Diderot and your new-found interest in his theories, sir?"

I looked askance at Jeeves, but he looked every inch the respectable manservant. There was not a hint of that suggestion being a joke.

"Jeeves, simply because one has decided to try to broaden one's mental horizons and has read a dead Frenchman’s beliefs that one should not shy away from adversity and trials for it enriches one's entire sense of self, does not mean that I intend to seek out adversities and encourage horrendous trials under my own roof. After all," I said, playing on Jeeves' sympathy as a last resort, "you read the same such intellectual fare and you don't see me commanding you to spend time with the more frightening of the fairer sex."

There was a certain twinkle in Jeeves' eye that told me I had hit the right tone.

"Yes, sir," he said, and then shimmied off to the mail tray. He returned with an opened telegraph envelope. "This came for you this morning from Mrs Gregson."

I stared at the ghastly thing but couldn't bring myself to touch it. "From Aunt Agatha? It wouldn't, by any chance, be an order to give her and Florence dinner on Wednesday night?"

"It is precisely that, sir."

"Egads, Jeeves."

"Quite, sir."

"Do you think there's any chance I could come down with a deadly and contagious illness by Wednesday? Better make it Tuesday, just to be safe."

"That sounds unlikely, sir."

"What about a riding accident, Jeeves? Fellows have them all the time. Those riding types are constantly falling off a horse and biffing into comas for a week or so."

"I fear that might not be in your best interest, sir."

"Why not? A mild dose of unconsciousness would be vastly preferable to that dinner."

"Be that as it may, sir, I doubt that either Mrs Gregson or Miss Craye would consider your inability to reply a hindrance to the conversation. I would go so far as to say that they are precisely the type of informed female to believe in the healing powers of keeping the mind alert. There is a more than likely chance that, believing so, they would sit vigil by your bedside and continue to converse."

I groaned, and hid my head in my hands. "It is hopeless, Jeeves. My flat -- formerly known as a comforting, cosy place to rest upon one's laurels -- will now become a prison of unpleasant company."

Of all Jeeves' abilities, by far his most outstanding is the way in which he can bring the gleaming taper’s light of hope to the darkest pits of despair. It may start with a discreet cough or a mere "If I may suggest, sir," but sure enough the idea that follows will be a ripe one, filled to the brim with ingenuity that would inspire the angels themselves.

"If I may suggest, sir," Jeeves said, making my stomach flip and my heart flop -- or possibly vice versa -- as I awaited the words that would save me, "perhaps it may be advisable to visit Brinkley Court for the week. It is doubtful that Mrs Gregson would stray so far from her planned travel route simply to pursue a meal with you."

"And a week of Anatole's cooking would certainly compensate for the scare of this afternoon," I added, quite pleased with Jeeves' suggestion. "But, Jeeves, what of the telegram?"

"I shall send a reply to Mrs Gregson, sir, explaining that you had already left the city when her message arrived, and therefore will not be able to comply." Jeeves stood there like the strongest anchor ever to weather storms and tides. "With your permission, I will also send a telegram to Mrs Travers, advising her of your imminent arrival. If you left immediately, you could be there in time for dinner, sir."

I sprang from my armchair. Such a near escape from disaster demands an ovation of the standing variety. "Once again, Jeeves, you have proved the foremost marvel of the modern world. How long will it take to pack for the merry trip?"

"Your suitcases are already in the two-seater, sir."

As I'd said, Jeeves was a marvel. "And those telegrams?"

"Already sent, sir."

I gave Jeeves a firm look. "Then why ask on the subject of Aunt Agatha and Florence dining with me? You could have saved an imagined night of horror and simply told me I needed to chuff off to the better of two aunts."

Jeeves pulled himself up to his full height, which would impress a sterner man than I. There are times when the family resemblance between Jeeves and his Uncle Charlie is quite apparent; said Uncle Charlie being, of course, the butler Silversmith at Deverill Hall and one of that rare breed of butlers who exudes the type of dignity and authority that would have Prime Ministers and princes swallowing nervously, tugging at their collars, and hoping that they remembered their manners. This was one of those times.

"One does not wish to presume, sir."

"Very well, very well, Jeeves. I meant nothing by it," I said by way of apology. To complain so ungracefully after such a revelation was peering a gift horse in the mouth and threatening to return it when the equine shoots you a shifty look. "I simply wish it to be known that in future, if the prospect of a visiting aunt should raise its ugly head, you have my full permission to take whatever steps you deem necessary to protect the young master from enduring such a trial. I assure you that the effort will be appreciated and give great satisfaction."

"Duly noted, sir," Jeeves said, his tone thawing once more to a warm tone of respect.

The journey to Brinkley Court had a chummy, carefree air. When travelling with any half decent egg, whether a close chum or a vague acquaintance, the act of roving forms a temporary bond of friendship between the two of you. Whether by car, ship or train, you have sat in the same seats for the same hours and seen the same sights. When reading a novel becomes unfeasible, this bond will assert itself and demand conversation to pass the time. So it was with Jeeves and me. A few casual comments about the weather led to this and that, and without quite knowing how, we drifted yet again to the topic of boyhood.

"I can't imagine you getting into trouble as a whelp, Jeeves." I found myself watching the careful way Jeeves' hands gripped the steering wheel, turning ever so slightly as the road curved. If we had not been talking, I'm sure my mind would have fixated quite inappropriately on those fingers. "I am sure you must have been a serious, sensible child, never caught breaking a rule."

"It's true that I was never caught breaking a rule, sir." From the glimmer in his eye, I realised my original estimation had been wrong. Probably, even as a juvenile Jeeves, he had still been smarter than most of those around him. "And you, sir? Would you have described yourself as a troublesome child?"

"I was in trouble a great deal, so I'm forced to say yes." I pulled my gaze away from Jeeves' hands. "Boys at school always feel so overlooked, so lost amongst the barbarian hordes of uniformed pupils. It's not uncommon for them to long for their House Master to merely know their surname. My House Master knew my sur-, first and middle name. It was unfortunately common to hear him bellow 'Bertram Wilberforce Wooster' down the halls and threaten to use a riding crop on anyone who assisted my attempts to escape justice."

Jeeves raised an eyebrow. "The pertinent issue would be whether the punishments were just."

"I would like to say not and that I was unfairly persecuted for no apparent reason, but honesty forbids. Four times out of five I'd done the deed in question, either as the outcome of a dare or my own bad judgement when helping a pal in dire straits."

"And the other time out of five?"

"The code of the Woosters does not allow one to turn around and deliver a friend into the hands of the authorities, Jeeves. One can plead one's innocence, of course, but without pointing to the guilty party, teachers find it hard to believe the word of a boy renowned for being where he shouldn't and doing what he's been expressly told not to." I shrugged, trying to indicate by my nonchalant behaviour how little can be done in such a situation. "Other times, taking the blame was itself a way of helping a chum."
"I am not convinced that taking responsibilities for another's actions could be considered helping them, sir. Logical consequences are the scarecrows of fools and the beacons of wise men."

"Shakespeare?"

"Thomas Huxley, sir."

I had no idea who Thomas Huxley was but I did not say as much. "What you must understand, Jeeves, is that one of the first threats for a medium infraction is to retain students on school grounds over the holidays. For me, a boy who spent his holidays with aunts and uncles -- a week at Aunt Dahlia's, a few days with Uncle Willoughby, the remaining time at Aunt Agatha's -- the threat was not very great. I would go so far as to say the prospect of avoiding a Christmas spent with my Aunt Agatha was positive encouragement and adding the benefit that another chap could go home to loving parents and siblings made it all the merrier."

Jeeves fell silent. I assumed he had grown weary of the constant chatter and prepared myself for a quiet journey from here on. Even travelling companions can grow quite sick of the mundane details of another's past years but after a moment, the quietude was broken. "I doubt your aunts were pleased by that, sir."

"Very little pleases aunts, Jeeves," I replied and the conversation moved to Jeeves' Aunt Mildred and how she met his Uncle Charlie. It was quite the story of below-stairs romance and went as so:

Aunt Mildred, or Millie as she had been known, was working as a kitchen maid at a place up north called Hillcrest House when the family's eldest son returned from the Indies. As this is not one of Rosie M. Banks' stories, the eldest son was not dashing and impressive and used to charming sweet-natured maids, but a boring, bookish type interested in figures. His valet, however, was another story.

Where the master was bookish and insipid, his valet was tall and striking, a man of strict manners and mysterious appeal.

"Your Uncle Charlie?" I asked disbelievingly.

"Certainly, sir."

"He makes a strong impression, no doubt, but it's hard to imagine him as a romantic lead of the stiff, silent mould."

"This was before the mellowing warmth of wife and children softened his natural personality, sir."

I gawked, possibly with my mouth open. I well remembered the last time I'd stayed at Deverill Hall and had Uncle Charlie announce me not unlike an Emperor proclaiming feeding time for the lions. If that was him softened, his natural personality must be capable of cutting diamonds.

"My Aunt Mildred despaired of gaining his attention, until she overheard him discussing the local fauna with the groundskeeper."

"He was interested in plants?"

"I believe you are thinking of the word flora, sir, of or pertaining to the plant life in a particular region. No, my uncle was interested in the local wildlife, particularly the avian members of the grounds."

I got the message. "The chap was a birdwatcher."

Jeeves nodded and continued with the tale. The gist was that Millie, upon realising where his interests lay, used her next day off to purchase one of those big books that list birds under their scientific name and natural habitat with large coloured pictures. She studied the breeds most likely to be current visitors and then took to walking amongst the grounds, looking for nests.

After several nights of careful searching, she found a nest of nightingales and promptly shared her find with Charlie. Nightingales being quite rare in the north, the fellow, as you could imagine, was well pleased and asked her to show it to him. For the following weeks, the two were thick as thieves, walking after dinner to see the proud parents hatch their little flock.

They were finally brought together by one of the fledglings falling from the nest. Millie caught the poor thing, and Charlie gallantly offered to return it to its siblings. Despite his fear of heights, he shimmied up the tree with the fragile thing cradled close to his chest.

When he returned to the ground after this daring feat, the chap decided to be bold and brave, and dropped to one knee to courteously swear his undying affection and ask for her hand.

"As one could expect, my Aunt Mildred was delighted and agreed immediately. A year later, after they were married, she sought out that nest again and found that it hadn't been a nightingale at all. It was actually a relatively common erithacus rubecula."

"A European robin," I supplied and Jeeves raised a noble brow. "My cousin Bonzo was batty about birds a few years back. Claimed Brinkley Court hosted a rare breed of owl but I suspect bird watching was just an excuse he used when caught sneaking out at night. Surely an avid birdwatcher like your Uncle Charlie would have noticed, though."

"He had, sir. He had kept up the pretence merely as a way of spending time with my Aunt Mildred."

"Clever fellow," I said, and meant every word.

The conversation lulled and I watched the green countryside pass by, distracted by my own thoughts. The retreat to Aunt Dahlia's was a necessary one but I had my doubts as to how much the change of scenery would help my plans. On one hand, it was so seeped in romantic atmosphere that its grounds must have seen at least a dozen proposals in the last handful of years. A third of those engagements had been to myself, so I knew that I held a good track record when it came to twilight walks and idle conversation amongst rose gardens.

On the other hand, Brinkley Court is a great house and holds the according numbers of domestic staff. Domestic staff are much like wasps: though you may only see one or two buzzing around, if you follow them back to the nest, you invariably find more than you expect. In a house like Brinkley, with footmen, butlers, chefs and maids, there was bound to be a cheery servants' hall -- I assume they are cheery, as I've never actually been in one -- where Jeeves could spend his idle hours.

When we are both at home in the metrop., there are a limited number of rooms for the two of us to inhabit, leaving a stronger reason to spend time in the same room. When I visit in the country, Jeeves has a tendency to ... I'm not sure how to phrase it. I could not say he abandons me, for he always appears when I need him, but he does not hover in the same way. Between that cheery servants' hall and the layout of great houses, which often beds families as far from the servants' quarters as possible, I could see my careful plan of slow acclimatisation through proximity going up in smoke.

And then there was the utterly dismal prospect of romantic grounds and a cheery servants' hall possessing an attractive maid or a comely footman and Jeeves getting swept up by the wrong party. The thought was disheartening, to say the least. I possibly sighed.

For a moment, the upcoming week in the country looked completely lacking in the hope department. But faint heart has never won fair lady and stygian gloom forlorn goes quite against the spirit of the Woosters. We Woosters take pride in maintaining a positive outlook on a bleak situation. We are staunch and stalwart in the face of overwhelming odds, and if any maid or footman wanted to try running off with my valet, they would find that Bertram Wooster was not so easy to scare away.

All I needed was a scheme as clever as old Aunt Millie's. Settling my hat over my eyes, I leaned back and worked up the old grey matter.

When I woke up, Jeeves was pulling into Brinkley Court.

We were greeted at the door by Tuppy, waving heartily and bellowing out, "Good show, Bertie!"

"Thank you," I said, not having a clue what he was on about. I clambered out of the car and walked over to him, waving at Jeeves to take the car round and unpack suitcases and do whatever other things miraculous valets do.

"A telegraph would have done but you coming down in person is really showing the old school spirit."

"Well, you know how much respect I have for the old school spirit," I replied, thinking cheerfully of our days in Eton collars. "But I think you need to explain the situation to me, Tuppy."

Tuppy's broad face darkened. "Didn't you come down to explain certain facts to your fatheaded cousin?"

"I thought Claude and Eustace were still over in France." My twin cousins had gone there to soak in the continental atmosphere and to escape Aunt Agatha after that incident involving lace doilies, two helium balloons and Aunt A.'s dog, Macintosh. By now, they must have absorbed so much Parisian air that they'd each be the size of zeppelins. "When did they get back?"

"Claude and Eustace are still in Paris, as far as I know. I was talking about Angela."

"Tut," I said, defending her strongly.

"Oh, I like that," he said, showing clearly by his tone and expression that he did not, in fact, like it one bit. "Here I am, old school chum, and you automatically take the girl’s side. Where's the school spirit? Where's the loyalty?"

"The loyalty lies with my favourite cousin."

"Pish posh. How many years have you known me, Bertie? For how long have we been friends?"

"I do not deny the years of friendship, it is simply that Angela has been my cousin for longer and, to be quite plain, for a generally good egg, Tuppy, you do have the amazing ability to be insensitive to a girl's finer feelings. One could almost call it brutish."

Tuppy is one of those active types, always eager for a game of cricket or rugby in the right season, and a generally decent crumpet, but he seems to have almost no understanding of how a woman's mind works or how she will take offence to being told her new hat makes her look like a Pekinese. Not a great character flaw in the wide scheme of things but it did land him in the soup with Angela from time to time.

"What happened, Tuppy? When you came to London you were in fine spirits, good company to one and all, and speaking of Angela as sweet-natured girl that she is. Now you are saying her name in a deeply insulting way and I cannot understand how you could go from one to the other so swiftly." He glared at me in quite an obstinate manner, so I added, "Why did you think I'd come here?"

"I sent you a telegram," he said sullenly.

"From London?"

"From Worcestershire."

"After you got off the train, Tuppy?"

"Straight after. Well, after I'd had a cup of tea and some lunch from the larder, of course."

"Of course," I said, nodding. "So, to succinctly summarise the events, I saw you off in London this morning, you got to Brinkley Court, had something to eat, sent me a telegram and I arrived an hour or so after you'd sent it?"

Tuppy saw the flaw in his timing. "You didn't get my telegram?"

"Since Jeeves is still constrained by the laws of the universe and can't induce my car to go at three hundred miles an hour, I believe that is the only logical conclusion."

"Then why are you here, Bertie?"

"I'm escaping my Aunt Agatha," I confessed and Tuppy shuddered. Amongst the Drones, the shrill banshee call of an intimidating aunt is well known and my Aunt Agatha is known as one of the worst. "Your telegram must have arrived after we high-tailed it to the country."

"Then you don't understand my predicament, Bertie. If you did, you'd sympathise and call Angela a blighter as well."

"I doubt I'd use that precise wording but if you explain the situation, I can promise my sympathy."

Tuppy turned and looked out towards the road, much like that chap Ulysses: a grey spirit yearning in desire, wanting to follow sinking stars and something else. "Angela, the little squirt, is being completely unreasonable."

"How so?"

"She has decided she wants to improve her tennis game." I mulled this one over for a bit. "I don't quite follow you, old bean. I fail to see the dire results of trying to hit a tennis ball with a racquet."

"You haven't seen her coach, Facet. He's nothing short of a Teutonic Adonis, Bertie, and when they are not on the court, the pair of them wander the gardens and talk in French, twittering in a thoroughly indecent manner. Now do you see?"

"I do, Tuppy."

"You know what those gardens are like."

"I do, Tuppy." In fact, I'd been planning on using those very gardens to my own advantage. "But Angela isn't the type to two-time you. I'm sure that if you mentioned it to her she would understand and spend less time around the bird."

"I have mentioned it to her. I was quite clear on the matter." From his jutting chin and puffed cheeks, I could see it had led to an argument. "Do you know what she said to me, Bertie? She implied that I had visited London solely to sweet-talk a pretty waitress! Me! Can you imagine it?"

If it had been Bingo Little, I could have imagined it all too quickly but Tuppy, as I've said, was a decent chap. He'd no more flirt with another girl than Jeeves would wear a red evening coat. "Where would she get that idea from?"

"She said that a friend of hers had seen me stop every afternoon in that tea shop, the one round the corner from your flat."

"You did stop every afternoon at that tea shop."

"Only for their cake! It had nothing to do with the girl serving it."

"You know how girls are about this sort of thing. One girl thinks she sees something, and she tells another, and that girl tells another, and by the time it got to Angela, the story must have been vastly exaggerated. All she needs is the sensible word of her trustworthy cousin to put her right." I placed a comforting hand on Tuppy's shoulder. "I'll talk to her after dinner and sort the whole thing out."

"That was why I telegrammed you." Tuppy appeared suitably reassured. "If she won't listen to reason, at least she'll listen to family."

I was a little insulted by that, and pulled my hand back. "I'm sure all will be well in the morning."

"Since you and Jeeves are here, I'm sure you manage to get that blasted Facet fired," he said, and went inside.

Passing Seppings, who informed me that Angela and Aunt Dahlia were dressing for dinner, I went up to my usual room and found that Jeeves had already prepared my evening wear and turned over the horrible picture of Uncle Tom that glares down over the mantelpiece. I've complained about this monstrosity to Aunt Dahlia but she continues to place me in the same room, showing a complete disregard for one of her least-disliked nephews.

"Jeeves," I said, pulling off jacket and shirt, and wiping away some of the grime of travel. I would have preferred a hot bath after such a trip, but it would have to wait until later. "You haven't happened to hear anything about Angela and this new tennis coach, have you?"

"Not a great deal, sir. Only that Miss Angela and Mr Glossop were overheard arguing over M Facet's recent employment."

"Have you seen him?" I asked, pulling off shoes, socks and trousers. "Facet, I mean."

"Briefly, sir."

"Tuppy described him as a Teutonic Adonis."

"I would consider that an inaccurate description, sir."

That put my fears to rest. A chap never likes another chap horning in on his girl, but if the second chap happens to be more dapper and good-looking than the first, it can end badly for the first chap (the one less dapper and good-looking, I mean). It was best to learn as much as I could. "In what way was it inaccurate, Jeeves?"

"The young man is from French stock, sir. I believe he is a cousin of Anatole's, so describing him as Teutonic and implying that his looks or ancestors were Germanic would be quite incorrect."

My previous fears rose from their grave, much like Count Orlock in that German film. Now there was a character who Jeeves could have comfortably called Teutonic. "I'm more interested in the Adonis side of things, Jeeves. Was that inaccurate?"

"No, sir. The young man has an athletic build, open smile and clear brown eyes. In appearance, he bears a marked similarity to the surrealist, René Crevel."

"He paints odd pictures, you mean?"

"I mean that he is a highly attractive young man, who has been spending a great deal of time with Miss Angela. If Miss Angela were unattached and not so devoted to Mr Glossop, one could quite clearly see the allure that he, M Facet, might hold over her."

This gave me quite a chill down the spine. It's one thing to hear a friend complain about a handsome rival; it's quite another to hear one's own valet sum the fellow up in terms that almost include the word 'dreamboat'.

Trying not to sound pipped, I said, "Tuppy wants him fired."

"Indeed, sir?"

"Do you think you could do it, Jeeves?"


Continued in Part Two

Comments

[emeraldreeve.livejournal.com]

Very riveting chapter! Your Bertie voice is perfect. I love this:I gawked, possibly with my mouth open. I well remembered the last time I'd stayed at Deverill Hall and had Uncle Charlie announce me not unlike an Emperor proclaiming feeding time for the lions. If that was him softened, his natural personality must be capable of cutting diamonds.

[out-there.livejournal.com]

Your Bertie voice is perfect.

Thank you. I was reading a bit of Wodehouse when I read this -- specifically, the story in which he meets Jeeves' frightening Uncle Charlie -- so I'm thrilled that the language worked for you.

[pettyrevenge.livejournal.com]

Yes!!! It's back! I've been waitinbg for you to post this here for ages, I thought it was one of the best when I first read it, and i have to say that opinion's not changed.

[out-there.livejournal.com]

Thank you. It took me forever to send it to beta -- I kept procrastinating, I have to admit -- but it's finally polished and posted.

[derien.livejournal.com]

I haven't finished this chapter yet, but I just wanted to say that I'm incredibly delighted with you for bringing up the question of Mabel the waitress! It's a perfect jumping off point. :)

(I also can't help but wonder if you wanted another letter in this word: the rest of him is steadfast and measured, seeped in tradition Surely you meant 'steeped' like tea, rather than 'seeped' like water slowly coming into a basement? Although I guess they are sort of the same.)

[out-there.livejournal.com]

I haven't finished this chapter yet, but I just wanted to say that I'm incredibly delighted with you for bringing up the question of Mabel the waitress! It's a perfect jumping off point.

Mabel the Waitress is pretty much the *only* point in the series in which the idea of Jeeves being interested in women seems vaguely plausible. Of course, I had to get rid of it. *g*

(I also can't help but wonder if you wanted another letter in this word: the rest of him is steadfast and measured, seeped in tradition Surely you meant 'steeped' like tea, rather than 'seeped' like water slowly coming into a basement? Although I guess they are sort of the same.)

I meant seeped, but I think that in context, steeped is the better word. I might go fix that up now.

[derien.livejournal.com]

My. This is SO good. Well written, good Bertie voice and the plot is working out better than canon. I'm quite enthralled.

[out-there.livejournal.com]

Well written, good Bertie voice and the plot is working out better than canon.

*laughs* You know, that was actually one of the most daunting things about this story -- that I'd have to have a *plot*, instead of just kissing and snark.

[oxoniensis.livejournal.com]

Oh, my, I'm LOVING this! Such fun, and I love that you've got so many little side anecdotes along with the main plot: the one about the nightingale nest was adorable!

[out-there.livejournal.com]

Such fun, and I love that you've got so many little side anecdotes along with the main plot: the one about the nightingale nest was adorable!

Thank you! I kept getting distracted by all these other little stories I wanted to throw in -- I guess because as much as I love Bertie telling stories about his life, hearing him relate stories about everyone else is just as amusing.

[serpenatrix.livejournal.com]

Wow, this is awesome, you write one of the best Bertie voices I've ever read! And all the Wodehousian humour is there! For example, these images are great!:

After sitting through many a lecture by the fearsome Rev. Aubrey, education stops resembling flashes of light from heaven and appears more like sparks from a firing squad.

One cannot throw oneself into the arms of a beloved and hope they will catch you. You have a far greater chance that they will take three quick steps backwards and watch you hit the carpet like the first fish of the day flopping onto land.

His mind may be hare footed -- thoughts flying faster than telegraphs while the rest of us plod along like plough horses

For these and other little details, I thought I was reading Wodehouse himself!

[out-there.livejournal.com]

For these and other little details, I thought I was reading Wodehouse himself!

Wow. That is such a wonderful thing to hear, and the lines that you quoted were all favourites of mine! Thank you.

[sor-bet.livejournal.com]

This chapter is such a wonderful beginning! I love the bits of Bertie-history we get that showcase his character perfectly -- the way he'd take punishments for his friends at school, and the affair of the flannel trousers. I wish I'd been copying down all the wonderful lines I came across, and now I'm in too much of a hurry to get to the next chapter to go through and find them again, but Bertie saying "Tut" to Tuppy as an angry disagreement made me grin, and there was a paragraph about Jeeves maintaining the line between master and servant that I thought was totally accurate. I really feel like I'm reading canon. On to chapter 2!

[out-there.livejournal.com]

I really feel like I'm reading canon.

Thank you! When it comes to a canon as particular and individual as Wodehouse, that's pretty much the nicest thing you could say.

[wemblee.livejournal.com]

I just found this via del.icio.us. Wow. I really, really like it. Your prose sounds like Wodehouse, but sort of cleaner and crisper? I don't mean that as an insult to Wodehouse, whose style is brilliant; I just mean, it's clearly Wodehousian, but you bring your own voice to it. (I hope I don't sound like I'm on crack.)

I really, really like your Bertie. He's no Jeeves, obviously, but he's got brains. He's sweet, but he's got moxie. It's really one of my favorite interpretations of him. (It sort of reminds me of the Bertie characterization in the musical By Jeeves!, which I absolutely love.)

I love all the stories-within-the-story. Jeeves' aunt and uncle falling in love, Bertie rescuing the frog... I love the idea of them just talking and bonding. And the frog story -- oh my goodness. I mean, obviously we love these characters or we wouldn't be reading fanfic about them, but that story just makes Bertie that much more loveable.

I also like that you play up the conflict in their relationship as well, so that the bonding is more of a payoff.

This is seriously good. I'm thrilled that there are five parts. Lots to read, yay!

[out-there.livejournal.com]

Your prose sounds like Wodehouse, but sort of cleaner and crisper? I don't mean that as an insult to Wodehouse, whose style is brilliant; I just mean, it's clearly Wodehousian, but you bring your own voice to it.

Thank you! And, yeah, I know what you mean, so trust me, I'm taking it as a huge compliment.

(It sort of reminds me of the Bertie characterization in the musical By Jeeves!, which I absolutely love.)

Hee. I actually was listening to that -- quite a bit -- during the months I was writing, so you're probably more right than you realise.

I also love the description of "he's got moxie" because he does. He's not brilliance personified like Jeeves, but he is brainier than most of his friends and to be able to think/write the stories the way he does (since they're almost always from his POV) shows that he's bright but not egotistical about it; he doesn't need to be the smartest guy in the room, which is quite refreshing.

And the frog story -- oh my goodness. I mean, obviously we love these characters or we wouldn't be reading fanfic about them, but that story just makes Bertie that much more loveable

I adore the frog story more than I can say. Honestly, I love the canonical references to Bertie as a kid -- if he's this adorable as an adult, kid-Bertie would be too sweet for words! -- and had a good deal of fun trying to imagine what type of story he'd share with Jeeves.

One more thing...

[wemblee.livejournal.com]

Also, I have kind of a kink for Bertie getting the upper hand for once and trying to seduce Jeeves, so, yay.

Re: One more thing...

[out-there.livejournal.com]

Bertie trying to be in-control is adorable.

Utterly adorable.

[soul-bonnie.livejournal.com]

First of all, great story! Second: Extra credit for quoting Ulysses!! One of my fav poems!! ^________________^

[out-there.livejournal.com]

Thank you!