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out_thereTitle: Jeeves and the Tennis Coach
Author: out_there
Fandom: Jeeves and Wooster
Continued from Parts One and Two.
The thing had orange eyes and looked as if it had swapped ears with a bat. It also looked familiar. It wasn't until it let out a low 'woo' that I spotted the resemblance. "It's Aunt Agatha."
"Sir?" Jeeves had raised an eyebrow and if I'd been in his posish instead of mine, I would have been just as surprised.
"I've seen this owl before. During that vile bicycle ride to Kingham, the thing was perched on a signpost. Bally thing nearly gave me a heart attack. I was so rattled at the time and given its almost identical appearance to my Aunt Agatha -- you do see the resemblance, don't you, Jeeves?"
Jeeves nodded and belatedly removed his hand from my arm. "There is a certain familiarity to its features."
"Nearly identical, Jeeves. For a moment, I thought it was Aunt Agatha. Then I realised she does not make a habit of sitting on signposts by country roads."
"Not to my knowledge, sir."
"Well, that and the thing hooted at me. If it had been Aunt Agatha sitting on a signpost, you can be sure the first words out of her mouth would have been asking what in the world I thought I was doing, followed by an urging to press the pedals harder and a reminder that sitting on a bicycle is no excuse for slouching." We stood looking at the thing a few moments more. "I say, Jeeves, is there something else we're supposed to be doing? As birdwatchers, I mean."
"Generally the object of the venture is to observe the bird in its natural habitat, sir."
"You mean you find it, you take a gander at it and call it a successful day?"
"Essentially, sir."
I waited for another two minutes and the only thing the bally bird did was stare back at me, reminding me of Aunt Agatha at last year's Christmas lunch. "The thing looks as if it's planning my next engagement, Jeeves. It's frightfully unnerving."
"Then perhaps we should move on, sir," Jeeves said and we did just that.
"My Aunt Agatha looked precisely like that the last time she introduced me to a girl who could perfectly mould me into a half-decent human being. Her words, Jeeves, not mine."
"I assumed as much."
I stepped over a small ditch and continued, "It's always a terrible experience to be introduced to someone that way. It makes you feel like cattle at a market having your potential future rattled off at auction. And if you talk to the girl in anything but the coldest terms, you can bet the aunt in question will ensure everyone knows of the upcoming nuptials by the following Sunday."
"Having someone intervene in such matters can be uncomfortable at the best of times, sir." Here Jeeves stepped over a furrow that I failed to see.
Consequently, I stumbled for a few steps giving the impression of a man, deathly afraid of heights, suddenly finding himself on stilts.
"It's not the intervention, Jeeves, it's the method of proposing. Proposing by aunt is doomed to failure. A proposal should be from the horse's mouth. It should be heartfelt and genuine and utterly personal."
"Yet so many young men have difficulties when it comes to expulsions of that nature. They can be overcome with shyness or swept away by nerves, and those things they hold most true and wish to say can remain trapped by inelegance."
"The only way to get an elegant proposal, Jeeves, is to write it. I suppose you could then memorise it for best effect, but it's still a chancy thing." I sighed for the problem of a clear, effective proposal is not an easy one to solve. If it was, my friends would have far less worries and there would be fewer girls who could claim the dubious honour of once being my intended. "But the words that come out are generally not the words planned, so even memorising it could still lead to trouble. It would be like reciting poetry in class. After spending hours upon hours learning each verse, when you have to stand there alone and say it, you get it muddled and out of order. That could be quite disastrous when offering to marry someone."
"Perhaps a well-worded letter would be best," Jeeves said thoughtfully.
"That comes with its own setbacks. For one, the matter of grammar. In a spoken declaration, there is a great deal more freedom. If you're writing the thing down, you have to be careful of commas and parentheses and the issue of spelling becomes vital. Imagine if, while concentrating on hitting the right romantic tone, you misspell 'marriage' or, even worse, her name. You would be quite doomed."
"It would be unfortunate."
We continued walking for a few steps, then I stopped as a thought hit me. "There is a greater danger than that in a written appeal, Jeeves."
"Indeed, sir?"
"It is the danger to one's privacy. After gathering one’s courage, one tends to get down on one knee in a quiet, secluded place. If the answer is no, only the two of you knows it. But if the declaration is written and the answer is no, it can become a public affair. You are left hoping that the other party will keep the matter as silent as the grave, but there is always the chance that the fellow will share your earnest and possibly badly written letter, and people will mock you far and wide."
I realised, as the words left my mouth, the blunder I'd made. You can't very well go around talking of romance and trying to soften a chap up, and then imply that they'd be so indiscreet as to share a heartfelt love letter with all and sundry. "I do apologise, Jeeves. I didn't mean that you would be likely to take out a page in the Daily Mail. I'm sure it would be the last thing you'd do, so I guess the debate between written and verbal declarations is quite a moot point. Well, I mean, when it comes to you. A chap would simply have to work up the bally nerve and say the words."
Jeeves was staring at me, his face frozen. When truly upset or stirred, Jeeves is the epitome of that stony British stare Tennyson described so well. He will look dignified and quite untouched while I, if suffering the same u. or s. emotions, would squirm and frown and go all glossy about the brow.
"Although saying those words can be awfully hard," I said, fidgeting under Jeeves' calm gaze. It was one of those moments that stretched horribly. At first I thought Jeeves might be speechless with delight, thinking of the best way to say that he understood and requited.
In the distance, birds twittered in the trees and leaves rustled in the wind, and I was sure that any minute Jeeves would come to life -- or at least raise a brow -- and say something extremely Jeevesian to show he reciprocated.
Then that silent moment extended into a silent few minutes. Jeeves blinked once, but otherwise looked precisely as if I had said nothing more romantic than 'Nice night, what?' and I saw that his tongue was possibly not cleaved to the roof of his mouth in overwhelming emotion but in dawning horror. I had probably stared much the same way when the Basset first thought I wanted to marry her. The nauseous thought of spending decades in her company had fought against years of chivalrous values and I'd been struck dumb, unable to find a way to tell her politely and kindly that the very idea gave me nightmares.
Clearly, Jeeves was caught in the same spot, not wanting to be overly cruel but also quite horrified that the simpering idiot in front of him had decided, without consultation, that they were to spend the foreseeable future together.
In such a situation, one is understandably crushed. Ideally, the object of one's affections should feel the same. But on the other hand, it seems unfair to sulk about the thing and subject said o. to an embarrassing scene of whining or arguing in one's own favour, and it reeks of selfishness to show that you've taken the hit hard. Stiff upper lips are vital on occasions like this.
"Well," I said, looking about at the skyline, "Just a hypothetical. Both ways are heavily flawed, though. Next time I propose, I shall do so by telegram."
Jeeves finally stirred from his harrowing impersonation of a statue. "Telegram, sir?"
"Yes, Jeeves, telegram." I started to walk once more, and Jeeves fell in beside me. "I can picture it now. It would start 'Dear Sarah' -- assuming, of course, that the girl's name is Sarah and not Mabel or Agnes or some such, because even when proposing by telegraph getting the name right is still important -- but, yes, 'Dearest Sarah. Am head over heels for you. Cannot bear life without you. Want you to marry me. Please reply.' It would make the proposal process far less of a feat of endurance."
"Yes, sir."
I picked up my stride, warming to my topic. "Of course, you'd still have the horrendous wait, wouldn't you? You'd send off a nice telegram and every extra minute that passed would make you wonder if you'd done it right, if the girl loved you, if her parents would agree. If she wasn't at home and you had to wait hours for a reply, it could send you mad with worry."
I fumbled in my pocket for a gasper and Jeeves helpfully lit it for me.
"There's no way around it, Jeeves. If one wishes to propose, one must subject oneself to the most humiliating test of waiting and hoping that the rarest of things has happened: that two people have both formed similar attachments. It is enough to make me happy to remain a gay bachelor."
"Romance is frequently strewn with uneasy feelings, sir. I doubt any of us do it well."
Jeeves stopped walking, so I did too. He looked meaningfully at my shoes and cleared his throat. I glanced down to see if I'd accidentally donned a brightly mismatched pair of socks but could see nothing amiss.
"Sir," Jeeves started and then halted.
Luckily for me -- because in the awkwardness of the moment, I had a suspicion that if allowed to continue, Jeeves may have used phrases like 'inappropriate', 'regret' and 'resignation' -- Angela came stalking up the path, treading like a delicate, sweet-natured young woman who has had her heart broken and would love nothing more than to see the heart-breaker impaled upon a pike.
"What ho, Angela," I said, waving her nearer. This earned me a slight smile. From her, I mean, not Jeeves. Jeeves looked on neutrally, his chiselled features once more becoming quite c. in appearance.
"What ho, Bertie," she said in a way that made me suspect she'd been looking for me and not because she wanted to throw roses before me.
"Is everything all right?"
"Tuppy has been making comments about my feet. He has declared them perfectly proportioned."
"That's very sweet of him, Angela."
She crossed her arms. "Clearly you told him that Honoria said I had flat feet, Bertie. I confided in you as a cousin and now I find you are physically incapable of keeping your trap shut for a few measly hours."
"Angela!" I cried, wounded. "I spoke to Tuppy and told him certain things only. I did not betray a confidence; I merely enlightened a friend of particular details so he would be aware that he was acting like a fathead."
"Bertie, I think you have the fattest head of them all," she said, and turned on her supposedly well proportioned feet and stalked back towards the house. Given the option of continuing my stroll with Jeeves or dashing after my irritated cousin and getting an earful, I scampered after her as quick as I could.
I am quite sure Honoria Glossop is wrong because Angela put on a sudden bout of speed -- while wearing Parisian heels, no less -- that would have been impossible if she had been flatfooted. I followed her to the doorway and then decided that tracking a girl to her bedroom when she does not wish to be disturbed goes against the standard of behaviour expected of a gentleman. I would go up to my rooms and if she wished to talk to me, she could find me there.
I undressed quickly and pulled on my heliotrope pyjamas. I took a little care in hanging my clothes back up; normally I would leave that job to Jeeves, but in the current situation I wanted to escape Jeeves' company. It's all well and good being discreet and sensitive to another's possible distress, but even the best of chaps needs the occasional moment alone to mope in disappointment. I'm not enough of a Fink-Nottle type to start threatening to drown myself or anything like that, but there is something very soothing about crawling into bed, turning off all the lights and clutching your pillow. (As any lower schoolboy will tell you, a pillow can be a first-rate substitute for a stuffed bear or some other comforting childhood toy.)
When dealing with a set-back, I find it helps to look on the bright side and consider how much worse it could have been. While Jeeves is not the type prone to sudden bursts of laughter, he could have sneered or smirked, could have looked ridiculously amused by the idea. He might have used his height to look down on me like something stuck to the bottom of a shoe or said in clear, cold tones how little he thought of me as a romantic prospect, how great my flaws are or the number of other terrible, distasteful things he would willingly choose to do rather than agree.
It could have been much worse.
And who knew? Maybe this would be like Florence Craye or Bobbie Wickham, and I would wake in the morning and see my narrow escape. After all, a life with Jeeves would be...
Here, I had to stop and think hard. It would be sartorially boring, I told myself, limited to respectable, understated clothes. I would wear nothing but navy, grey and brown for the rest of my casual hours. I would find myself travelling around the globe, going to places I didn't want to and leaving the metrop. far behind, simply because of Jeeves' Viking streak and his taste for adventure. I would probably be expected to read books of poetry and have serious conversations, to start learning things I was happy to forget at the end of school. And for all I knew, Jeeves snored.
Yes, it had been a narrow, lucky escape and I resolved to think of it in those terms.
My bedroom door slid open, so quietly that I knew it could only have been opened by one man. I did not move, other than to close my eyes and let my mouth droop open slightly. The art to feigning sleep has nothing to do with a convincing snore -- most honest snores do not sound convincing at all, rather they're so preposterous that you know they can only be real -- but with long, relaxed breathing. If you breathe deeply and remain still, there is a very good chance that roving House Masters and interrupting valets will assume you are fast asleep and leave you like that.
The other benefit is that breathing in this way always puts me to sleep. I was out like a light and can only suppose that Jeeves hovered in the doorway for a bare moment, and then closed the door and went his way.
The next thing I was aware of was not, unfortunately, the warm sunshine and possible distant chirping of birds but the sound of Brinkley Court's enormous fire bell. Uncle Tom, a man wary of few things, has a particular fear of burning to death in his bed. I suppose, compared to a fear of frogs or umbrellas, this is not a completely unreasonable fear -- there have been recorded cases of people dying from fire or smoke, while the numbers extinguished by frogs and umbrellas remains so low as to be negligible -- but Uncle Tom's way of dealing with it was to install the largest fire bell in the county.
As a boy staying at Brinkley Court over holidays, it was not unusual to wake to a fire drill, the bell clanging loudly and everyone heading out the front door in an orderly fashion, except for one or two maids who would gasp and swoon, and end up being carried out by footmen. I have a suspicion that Uncle Tom's fire drills were probably responsible for at least half of the inter-servant marriages at Brinkley Court.
Still, my point was this: I had vast experience at being woken in this most unpleasant manner and knew where I should head. The front door, down the main stairs and through the hall, should have been my destination. As a boy, I could have walked there without opening my eyes or really having to go through the necessity of waking up. Yet this time I didn't.
It is quite strange how one reacts to a crisis. Some of the coolest cucumbers can lose their head and struggle in a most underhanded way to save their own skin, occasionally at the cost of women and children. Others, sometimes the most selfish cads you could imagine, are capable of extreme heroics despite their own natures. In times of crisis, regardless of the heat or chill of our most recent interactions, my first instinct is to find Jeeves.
I would like to say it was pure concern for his safety that led to me throwing my legs out of bed and heading straight to his lair when the ear-splitting sound of the fire bell woke me, but I fear it is more true to say that by this stage, after years of having my life saved by one man, I have become accustomed to seeking him in moments of grave personal danger.
I made it through the hallways and down the stairs at a quick trot, pulling my dressing gown around me as I went. I even managed the difficult feat of tying the thing as I rounded the corner to the servants' quarters and saw Jeeves exiting his room.
Now, I would not say I'd spent a great deal of time imagining Jeeves in his nightclothes, as that's not the way to think of one's personal gentleman, but if the thought had crossed my mind, as such random thoughts from time to time do, I would have given even money that he wore a nightshirt to bed or, failing that, a pair of pyjamas in black or navy blue. Like the pyjamas, I would have estimated that his dressing gown would have also been of a dark, sombre shade, again favouring the idea of black or blue. If it was green, I would bet you pound for penny that it would have been the darkest shade of green available, the precise colour of a mighty fir seen at the witching hour of a moonless night.
I would not, for one moment, have considered that the man owned a meadow-green dressing gown covered with sky-blue swirls. If, by some vast stretch of belief, I was convinced that he owned a garment matching that description, I could never have imagined him wearing it.
I pulled up short and blinked a few times in case, without noticing, I'd breathed in a great deal of smoke and had started hallucinating. No matter how many times I blinked, Jeeves still stood there, wearing that satin monstrosity.
As I stepped closer, I noticed the collar of his pyjamas, peeking out between neck and lapels like a timid schoolgirl. The pyjamas not only agreed with the twirling bright green and blue of the gown, but had added their own touch of whimsy to the ensemble through orange piping.
I opened my mouth and made a horrified squeak.
"Yes, sir?" Jeeves ran a hand over his hair, settling the sleep-messed style into something more presentable.
I closed my mouth and stopped staring. "Your pyjamas, Jeeves!"
A man does not like to be woken from sleep -- especially not by a very loud bell ringing in the tranquil hour of night -- and have his pyjamas criticised. Many fellows would have glared and told me to go boil my head. Jeeves managed to contain himself to a cold, offended tone. "They were a gift from my Aunt Annie, sir."
"I take it this is the reason she isn't welcomed at your family occasions."
"One of many reasons, sir."
Once again, I had to tear my gaze from that gown and collar. A sight like that is eye-catching, to say the least. "I understand the power of an aunt and the importance of accepting the gift graciously, but why wear them, Jeeves? Why not hide them in the back of the wardrobe, never to be worn amongst god-fearing company?"
"That would not honour the spirit in which the articles were given, sir."
"I would say that a pair of pyjamas like that," and here I waved to draw his attention to the frightening sight before me, "could only be given in the spirit of extreme cruelty."
"Be that as it may, sir, one does wonder why you are here at this time of night."
"The fire bell went off. Surely you heard it?"
"Yes, sir. But I believe the customary reaction to hearing a fire alarm is to exit the premises as quickly as possible."
"Well, yes," I said, seeing his point, "but I wanted to check on you first."
Given our more recent discussions, I could see why that confession made Jeeves raise a brow. The most basic sense of decency, of human feeling, would dictate that I not bring the subject up. The type of understanding that we now shared, unpleasant though it might be, was not the type open to diplomatic bargaining. Talking about it would bring nothing but humiliation and embarrassment on both sides.
Beside that, there was also the issue of honesty to my words. One could argue quite well that I had gone to Jeeves' lair our of a sense of self-survival -- in that my survival would be more certain if Jeeves was by my side -- than out of misplaced affection.
I tried to add a different meaning to my concern. "The last time that blasted bell rang, I cycled eighteen miles and sat gingerly for a week. I thought it prudent to see if the bell was orchestrated by you, Jeeves, because, if so, I will hide in my room until the event is over. So the relevant question is did you or did you not, either directly or indirectly, cause the fire bell to ring?"
"Most assuredly not, sir," Jeeves said firmly.
"Well," I said, "I suppose anyone dressed like that would rather burn than ring the bell and have to appear before company. Come on. We'd better head out before Aunt Dahlia starts counting heads."
"Yes, sir."
We made our way, with full speed, to the back door and joined the congregation of night-attired yawners. Upon our approach, Aunt Dahlia fixed me with a beady stare and sharp smile. It was the way a vulture would smile at a man dying of thirst.
She spoke in a calm, sweet tone that sent shivers down my spine and left my toes quaking. Or that could have been the effect of standing on the wet grass. In all the excitement, I had forgotten to don my slippers.
"Bertie, dear, you didn't by any chance decide through your singularly unique use of logic, and complete lack of common sense, that sounding the alarm was somehow to the benefit of all?"
"No, Aunt Dahlia." I could see that any minute now she would start to call me Attila and imply that I brought nothing but disaster and heartbreak to all who knew me. It's quite untrue, but aunts do get these ideas. "I had nothing to do with it, old flesh and blood."
"Are you sure, dear?"
"Quite sure, Aunt Dahlia."
"If I find, Attila my darling, that you have reverted to your bell-pulling ways and not owned responsibility of this Hun-like act, I promise you that next time Waterbury drives me somewhere, we will make sure you are tied face-down on the driveway and merrily roll over you as we go."
Understanding my history at Brinkley Court and the one occasion that I did ring the fire alarm -- on the advice and urgings of Jeeves, I must point out -- Aunt Dahlia's assumption and subsequent threat was not entirely unwarranted.
"I assure you, dearest aunt of mine, that I was fast asleep in my bed when the alarm was run. As you can see, I am dressed only for bed and as cold as anyone else here."
She looked me over from head to foot, pausing at my damp and rather chilly bare feet. "Well, if you didn't ring the bell, who did?"
"I did, ma'am." From the back of the crowd of servants, a girl raised her hand. She stepped forward and I recognised her as Jane, the highly-strung housemaid -- Jeeves had called her neurotic -- who tended to jump a foot every time I come round a corner. She looked as if all it would take was one unexpected cough to make her bolt for the bushes. "There was smoke. From the kitchen, ma'am."
"Is everyone accounted for?" Aunt Dahlia asked, taking the attention from the flight-bound Jane and focussing on the relevant issue. She counted us out. "Tom, Angela, Tuppy and Bertie. What of the servants, Seppings?"
I looked over at the throng of domestic staff. Amongst a mass of brown, grey, well-worn white and ever-respectable navy dressing gowns and coats, Jeeves stood out like a tropical butterfly in a collection of cabbage moths. He stepped forward and conferred with Seppings.
"Everyone is accounted for, madam," Seppings said, "except for Messieurs Anatole and Facet."
I looked back at Jane. "You say the fire started in the kitchen?" I asked, a sense of foreboding settling around my midsection.
"Anatole!" Uncle Tom cried.
"Anatole!" Aunt Dahlia echoed, her voice carrying much further. "Quick, everyone, round to the back door. Waterbury, go and fetch the firemen."
Like a colony of ants being ordered by their queen, we followed her in an almost organised line. Apart from Waterbury, of course, who headed to the garage at double time.
In newspapers, house fires always burn across the eaves, flames licking up the curtains and dancing across the roof, trying to leap to the nearest tree and start an uncontrollable blaze. As we walked around the back, I watched for these signs and saw none. Rooms were dark, the occasional hallway was lit by electric bulbs and in a very anti-climatic manner, no flames climbed the building walls.
The only hint of danger came from the kitchen window. Being an old house, certain windows never quite close properly in Brinkley Court and the kitchen window was one of these. The closest it came to being closed was only having an inch gap. It was just wide enough to allow a stealthy entrance, if you grabbed the frame hard, jerked it up and down until the latch gave and then pulled outwards. Before Uncle Tom decided every thief in the area would be overwhelmingly attracted to his silver collection and had every window barred, I'd found it a good entrance to use when one has snuck out of the house and forgotten one's keys. A little bit of pulling, a push up to the ledge and a clown's roll forward over the bench, and you were good as gold.
But now, from between the bars, the window released a dark curl of smoke, like a smoker so tired he barely had the energy to exhale. Through the grimy glass and thick cloud, the fireplace -- or where I was pretty sure it would have been, since I was having trouble making out the corners of the room, let alone the details -- roared in burnished orange.
"Bertie, stop peeking through windows and get over here," Aunt Dahlia called out, voice carrying across the murmur of worried servants and possibly to the next three villages. "Tuppy, take some of the footmen to the garden shed and fetch some buckets. Make sure they'll hold water. Angela, help Seppings organise the servants. We'll need a line of them to the old well."
I have often wondered if Aunt Dahlia was a military general in a previous life. It would explain a great deal.
"And Jeeves and I, Aunt Dahlia? How can we help?"
She patted a maternal hand on my arm. "Be a good boy and go fetch Anatole for me."
"Yes, Aunt D-- Aunt Dahlia!" I exclaimed, seeing the flaw in her plan. "Anatole's in the kitchen."
"Yes, Bertie. I was aware of that."
"I'm not a fireman, Aunt Dahlia. I'm not even wearing slippers."
"I was aware of that, too, Bertie. I wasn't asking you to put the fire out," she said, as if such a suggestion was clearly ridiculous while her idea was completely sane. "I was asking you to pop into the kitchen, have a look, and lead Anatole to safety if you can."
"You're asking me to risk life and limb--"
She now looked like a general who'd been told his favourite regiment of guards had been surrounded by the enemy. Her face, usually hinting at a red tinge, was now screaming the colour clearly. It was not a pretty sight. "If you ever want another of Anatole's meals here, you will do as you're told, Bertie."
"I will not, Aunt Dahlia."
"I thought you were a Wooster!"
There was no cause for that. "I am, but--"
"But you will stand back and let your elderly uncle face down flames? You will let your frail aunt put herself in danger while you stand back worried for your own skin? Or your young cousin, perhaps? I'm ashamed of you, Bertie. I never thought you were such yellow, snivelling coward."
"I'm not, Aunt Dahlia."
"Then you'll do it?"
I sighed. Clearly, I was beaten. "I don't see why Tuppy can't do it."
"Once you've seen that fellow fearlessly charge into a scrum of ten rugby players without breaking his stride, you know that he could carry four wooden buckets up here at a good pace. The same could not be said of you, Bertie."
I thought about this. Tuppy has the solid arms and broad thighs built by years of rugby whereas I have the slimmer frame developed through years of book-reading, piano-playing and slow saunters through London streets. In matters of brawn, Tuppy's the better pick. "You have a point, aunt of mine."
She made a shooing motion with her hand. "Yes, I do. Now hurry up and get in there before the whole room catches fire and the situation becomes dangerous for you, Bertie."
"Very well. But if I end this night as a very crispy, overcooked piece of bacon, I will haunt Brinkley Court for the next thousand years. You will never get a decent night's sleep, Aunt Dahlia."
"Hurry up, Bertie, or I won't get a decent night's sleep tonight."
Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I set my shoulders and walked to the back door. In some houses, the back door leads directly to the kitchen. In Brinkley Court, it actually leads to a corridor that has doors connecting it to the kitchen, to the servants' hall and further up, to the stairs leading to the servants' quarters. I tensed as I opened the door, imagining columns of fire lining the walls, but the corridor looked precisely as it had earlier in the day, albeit a great deal darker.
I hit the switch and the bulb flickered to life -- say what you will for Uncle Tom but he does believe in keeping the house up to modern standards -- weakly illuminating the hallway and the smoke sliding from the bottom of the kitchen door.
I pulled my sleeve down over my hand. A friend of mine had once said that when caught in a fire you should always pull your jacket over your hands and over your head. If you touched something hot or something dropped on you and you caught alight, it was a lot easier to remove your jacket than your head or hands.
Turning the knob, I pushed the door open and was met by a wave of smoke stronger than my own bad breath after Boat Race night, which is not a comparison I make easily. After a good deal of coughing and a quick step back, it cleared enough that I could make out the details, like watching a blurry, damaged film. On the east side of the room, the fireplace glowed brightly and the fire had spread outwards onto the heath rug. The rug was smouldering and looked to be the culprit for the vast amounts of smoke.
The fire had spread as if someone had smashed a bottle of instant flames on the stone floor, but the walls and the furniture seemed untouched, apart from the smoke. Something groaned, and I nearly jumped back again, fearing it was the roof collapsing but a hand on my shoulder stopped me.
"M Anatole, sir," Jeeves said, pointing through the smoke and pulling back the hand on my shoulder. Possibly I should have been surprised at his sudden appearance, but this was Jeeves. Jeeves always appears without a sound and precisely when you need him most.
I squinted through the haze and saw a bundled mass sitting against the bottom of the kitchen bench. It groaned again, and Jeeves and I hastened forward to pick the fellow up by his arms and drag him outside. It sounds much easier to do than it actually is, as Anatole cursed us in a variety of French and disjointed English, calling us several things I couldn't translate and generally digging his heels in.
But between the two of us, we managed to drag him outside and dump him by the house. Aunt Dahlia gave a whoop of joy and I took the deep, satisfied breath of a job well done despite a lack of quality air. Or I was gasping in a satisfied manner until Jeeves turned and headed back in.
Belatedly, I remembered Facet.
For a petty, uncharitable moment, I considered staying outside. It is not the type of thing one wishes to admit about one's own personality, but self-knowledge is a thing to be admired, and in that moment, I knew myself to be a bitter man. Then I considered that it was not only one unreasonably handsome man's life at stake but two, if something should happen to Jeeves, and I went in after him.
Resolving to act more like a Wooster and less like an Iscariot, I stepped through the doorway and strode to the kitchen. It was a great deal like last January -- when that remarkable cold snap and resultant coal-burning left the metrop. covered in a fog so thick that I walked past the Drones' doors three times before finding my way inside -- except an uncomfortable warmth had taken the place of the damp cold. Between the dark haze and the amber firelight, Jeeves was a striking figure amongst the moving shadows, his spine straight, broad shoulders ready and horrendous dressing gown darkened by soot. It was all quite poetic: the valet stood in the burning kitchen, ta-tum ta-tum ta-tum.
He bent over and I dashed to his side, fearing smoke inhalation had got the better of him and fate had conspired to slay the noble figure in his tracks.
When I reached out a hand to steady him, I saw the truth of the matter. He had found Facet, sprawled against the bench much as Anatole had been, and had bent to haul him up. Even in the murky half-light, a wave of Facet's golden brown hair fell rakishly over his forehead and his shapely lips were softly parted. If I had to help rescue the fellow, at least he could have the decency to look a little less attractive in the throes of distress. He should have been grimy and soot-covered, or drooled in his unconsciousness, head lolling back at a buffoonish angle instead of gracefully resting to one side.
We Woosters are men of courage and conscience. We do not kick attractive rivals when they are down, no matter how strong the temptation to bury the toe of one's boot into the yielding flesh of their torso may be. Beside the call of my better angels, there was also the consideration that I was currently bare-footed so a hearty, sharp kick at this opportune moment would barely leave a bruise. If one is going to be so unprincipled as to attack a fallen man, one wants the damage to be felt for a good week to come.
So I did not punt the blighter, but pulled his arm over my shoulder and helped Jeeves hoist him up. Unlike Anatole, he didn't stir. There was no cursing, no flailing of the feet; there was only a lifeless form between us, sagging like a Punch puppet with broken strings.
I had a sudden flash of sympathy for the goons in my novel. I mean, getting up the gumption to shoot someone point blank is a tricky business, but having to lug around dead bodies must really take it out of a chap. I couldn't imagine doing it for a living. (Then again, there are few things I could picture doing for a crust, so I'm quite thankful that my crusts come without gainful employment. All credit to the birds that work but I couldn't conceive of anything more tedious than having to do it myself.)
As we got to the back door, two charging footmen nearly ran through us but at the last minute ducked around us, buckets held high. We got outside and the same two came dashing out, buckets empty. They dropped the buckets to the ground, picked up two full ones, and repeated the process. Watching it was enough to tire any spectator.
Jeeves led us to the window of the servants' hall and we placed our charge -- who was as helpful as a bag of concrete-filled potatoes -- to lean against the wall. Jeeves knelt down and started unfastening his collar and the urge to give him -- Facet, clearly, not Jeeves, although I understand how hard it could be for a reader to keep track amongst the dramatic action -- a solid heavy heel to the midsection returned.
I was distracted from my less than charitable desires by Tuppy's angry whine. "Bertie, the kitchen window refuses to budge! Come over here and help."
As I said before, prying that window open from outside was a rarefied skill that I'd honed to perfection by the time I was seventeen. Getting it open now was slightly more complicated as the bars required careful navigation of elbows but it was still the work of a few moments. In the meantime, Tuppy and the energetic footmen had doused the fire to smouldering ashes, and once I slid the window frame open, they started fanning the smoke outside.
Wondering if, our parts done, Jeeves and I should go inside and assist the cavalry, I glanced over and felt my heart drop. While I'm far from an expert in human anatomy, I can attest that the organ formerly located in my chest sank to somewhere between my ankles and the soles of my feet. I'm not sure how it managed to continue beating and performing those vital circulatory feats from its new position, but it did.
Giving no thought for the sanctity of his aunt's gift, Jeeves had both knees on the dirty lawn and even worse, had his hands on Facet: one was wrapped around Facet's wrist -- a simple gesture that could have been interpreted as friendly and nothing more -- but the other grazed the side of Facet's throat and seemed far too intimate for company. I've seen friends do far more with a pretty girl, but when it comes to flouting social rules, the personality of the cove must be considered. School friends and club members who you've seen tight as an owl, pulling off formal costume for an early morning swimming race across the baths, tend not to shock when they pull a girl close and kiss her passionately. For a man like Jeeves, respectable to his core, such a public display of affection would be unheard of. To have him draped over Facet, hands on bare skin, was bordering on lewd. And it was far too telling.
It would not be hyperbole to say that I was shattered. I trust that after reading a few of my exploits, my readers would know I'm not a man prone to despair, but such a sight has a power that can barely be conveyed in words, unless those words were etched into large planks of wood and used to beat you to a jelly. It is demoralising in the extreme and while I am not used to running like a coward, on this occasion I turned on my heel and fled -- it was more of a quick trot, really -- in the opposite direction.
I hadn't thought of where I was aiming. In such cases one tends to focus more on what one is escaping than the precise destination and I ended up at the garage.
When I say that I was not used to fleeing, I was overlooking the summer of my tenth year, when I went through a stage of escaping and exploring. I'd recently read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and was quite certain that pirate treasure could be found amidst the English countryside if vigorously searched out. I developed the ability to sneak away from the house and stalk across the grounds, all the way to Market Snodsbury. For a little chap that's a hardy walk, so once there I'd buy sweets and lounge around the village common, resolving to start the treasure hunt proper in the afternoon.
Most of the time the chauffeur -- a friendly fellow, name of Rudd, with a taste for sweets that could outstrip a whole dormitory of boys and the broad, leathery hands of an orang-utan -- would spot me and offer to drive me back to Brinkley Court for the price of one boiled sweet, butterscotch or peppermint for preference. He was a good chap, the type who'd say 'Master Bertram' with a grin that signalled that, if it were proper, he'd be the first to call me 'Bertie, me lad'. Took corners at a much slower speed than Waterbury does, but he'd let me sit beside him in the front seat and, to a schoolboy, that's positively the larger thrill.
He even helped when my attempt to run away resulted in a far greater journey than expected. This happened years ago, you understand. One night I got the brilliant idea of chivvying out the kitchen window and hiding inside the boot of Uncle Tom's car. I was wily enough to take cheese and bread but hadn't considered the plan's fatal flaw, vis-à-vis that a car's boot is not designed to be opened from the inside. Once ensconced inside and the lid closed, there is no easy catch to unhook and release, no simple button to allow an escape.
Being a stoic sort of chap, willing to roll with the punches and follow the flow of life's stream, I tried to open the boot and then settled down for a nap when the thing wouldn't shift. When the boot opened, I woke up to sunlight and a rather surprised Rudd. He helped me out of the automobile and explained that Uncle Tom had been called into London for the day and, as the trip from Brinkley to London takes a touch longer than a quick spin down to the village, Rudd was supposed to hang around and drive Uncle Tom home, so he couldn't sneak me back into the old homestead unnoticed.
He called Aunt Dahlia so she wouldn't worry, and that aunt of mine laughed so hard I could hear her cackling as I stood beside him in the telephone box, and said that she'd tried the same thing at my age, although it had apparently involved stealing my father's horse and Aunt Agatha's best coat. (I have since asked her about the event and was told firmly not to interest myself in the exploits of my respected elders. Aunt Dahlia, properly soused, would unbend enough to tell me about this, but after a youth of chasing foxes and managing hunting parties Aunt Dahlia has developed a high tolerance to spirits. By the time she is merry enough to tell tales of an undignified youth, I'm either snoring on a couch or so tight I can't remember a word the next day.)
The morning was spent wandering the London streets, getting cakes in a cosy teashop and then drifting towards Piccadilly Circus. I had been nine at the time, so my assumption that there would be a big top, acrobats, elephants and clowns can be forgiven. Although it didn't live up to my specific expectations, it did not disappoint.
It was a pity that I couldn't say the same thing for my current stay at Brinkley Court. I also considered it a pity that, due to the work of time and the wonder of nature, I could no longer curl up in the boot of a car, fall asleep and wake up far away from my troubles. There was nothing to stop me sitting in the two-seater and closing my eyes, but my thoughts kept returning, the image sticking closer than a brother to my imagination. I had looked away quickly, had not wanted to intrude upon a moment shared but I have always possessed a sharp, vivid mind's eye and it had no difficulty seeing the details my actual eyes had missed.
I could see Jeeves' face darkened with concern, his eyes narrowed and his normally cool gaze heated as he looked over the prone form of his beloved. I could picture Jeeves' cool fingers brushing over Facet's flushed brow, the movement slow and imbued with tender consideration, pressing back the untrustworthy waves of brown hair. I could imagine Jeeves' smile -- one of those small, quiet ones that occasionally skate across his features when we are alone, sometimes at the least appropriate times -- when Facet stirred and murmured Jeeves' name as he rose to consciousness.
I pushed my back straight against the seat and resolutely told myself that was enough. There was no need to imagine any further, to envision Gallic declarations of love or passionate embraces. It would be unseemly to think of one's employee in such terms, to speculate on a matter that is not only not any of one's business, but also not even near one's industry or market.
Forbidden or not, the images continued to come. Every affectionate gesture, every brief touch sank my stomach like a stone until I was left feeling that my heart was in my left foot and my stomach was in my right, and that my walk back to the house would squash both organs, leaving them bruised, battered and unfit for any purpose.
Bearing that in mind, it was quite apparent that the best thing for my continued health would be to follow my original urge and spend the night in the garage, far away from attractive tennis coaches and besotted manservants. I pulled my dressing gown around me tightly and stretched my legs across the second seat, and was just settling down -- either to sleep or have my brain conjure up ever more horrible visions of a smitten Jeeves, I'm not sure which -- when Aunt Dahlia thundered in.
She strode haughtily, and I scrambled to make sure I was presentable (in pyjamas and a dressing gown, one can never be certain). Then she gave a firm nod. "Good idea, Bertie. If you head into the village as quick as you can, you might be able to catch up to Waterbury before he gets the rouses the whole bally county."
"I wasn't going into the village, Aunt Dahlia." It was a ridiculous suggestion for a man still in his nightwear. "I don't even have my slippers on."
"Then why are you in your car?"
"Oh. Well." Here imagination failed me. While my mind's eye was exceptional at showing all the ways that Jeeves could demonstrate to the world who he truly treasured, the sight of an aunt in a nightcap was enough to make it stutter to a halt. "I mean, well."
"Stop blithering, Bertie. Considering how Waterbury takes a corner, you'll need every moment if you're to beat him and even then, I wouldn't take odds on you getting there. But at least you can head off the fire engine and let the firemen get back to their beds before daylight."
She stared at me for a long moment. I could have argued, could have scorned, but the weight of an aunt's stare makes me feel as if I'm still in sailor suits, instead of the man of iron will that I have become.
"Yes, Aunt Dahlia."
"You should get the doctor, too. Anatole, bless him, is talking about smoked salmon and bewailing the state of the kitchen, but there's a slight rattling cough that concerns me, Bertie. Better to be safe and all that."
"Yes, Aunt Dahlia," I said, and she stayed to wave me off as I drove the car out of sight.
I ran into Waterbury coming out of the village. Well, not literally ran into him but if he'd taken that left hand turn any quicker, I would have needed the doctor more than either of our injured Frenchmen and my poor two-seater would never have been the same. I relayed news of the doused flames and sent all but Dr Hudson back to their homes. It was a lucky thing the doctor was part of the local volunteers, since it saved Waterbury doing one of his infamous hair-raising turns and meant that by the time I'd walked back to my car and sat down, Dr Hudson was clinging for dear life to the passenger door as Uncle Tom's car blurred into the distance.
I supposed that, in such an emergency, having a chauffeur with a heavy foot and ambitious steering wheel is an advantage, but for my money, I'd choose Jeeves' serene driving style over Waterbury's any day. While death-defying thrills may be exciting, there is a limit to how much excitement a man can take on a daily basis.
The trip back afforded me time to think. Most of my thoughts revolved around my feet; a ten mile drive is a lot easier on the old frame than an eighteen mile bicycle ride but the metal ridges of the pedals were causing me some discomfort. To ignore one discomfort, I concentrated on another.
The question of Jeeves was a tricky one. Part of me wanted to believe that Facet was nothing more than a roving Casanova, a bounder who charmed and vanished, but I could not ignore the possibility that Jeeves -- a man who understood the psychology of the individual in a precise and insightful way -- had recognised something valuable beneath the highly appealing exterior. I would not go so far as to suggest a kindred spirit because I doubt a soul as fine as Jeeves' could ever find an equal, but he might have found a like mind, which was a disturbing, and in some ways terrifying, conclusion.
I could ban the match and act like a disapproving uncle, but on what grounds? And what was to stop Jeeves from mentioning, in a discreet and careful manner, the appeal of country living and the value of a change in employment? It would only take a careful word to Seppings and Aunt Dahlia would snap Jeeves up before the ink had dried on his letter of resignation.
If word should get to the Drones, the clamour for Jeeves would rival a herd of elephants thundering to the last good watering hole. There would be bids for his attention, contending offers of nights off and salary increases, and wild promises of sartorial power. I would be able to hear the din from Worchester.
While I would have the likes of Brinkley. I shuddered at the thought. Brinkley and his ilk of pressed-service servants made it known through word and deed that the sterling pound was their sole motivation. The noble spirit of feudal responsibilities had perished in their breasts -- if it had ever lived within them -- and one is left with the icy knowledge that it is only the thought of a quid that forces them to don bowler hat and play the role of valet.
Jeeves has never had this attitude. He would consider the implication insulting and approaches the topic of monetary gain as he approaches the idea of doorways. I am quite sure he uses both as necessary, but you would have to watch quite closely to catch him at the act, and he would no more discuss remuneration and costs than he would speak on the proper use of a door handle. I am quite sure he is paid a fair amount, but I passed my financial concerns into Jeeves' steady hands some years ago. I always find enough money in my pocket to cover a few meals out and a cab fare home and am quite happy to leave the tiring job of restocking that float to Jeeves.
Jeeves does a marvellous job of it. In fact, some time ago, he mentioned changing rates of interest and returns, and I took his word for the thing, signed where I was told and focused on the more important task of honing my putt for the upcoming Drones' tournament. Without Jeeves, I'm not even sure which bank I'd need to see.
That decided the matter for me. I resolved to keep Jeeves by my side. If that meant pitching in -- as I would for any chum -- and helping the desired happily ever after ending to rumble round, so be it. He was more deserving of that ending than many of the chumps I'd assisted over the years and if I wanted him to forgive my blunder in the garden and continue as both employee, confidant and, dare I say it, friend, I would treat him as one and put a fast stop to any petty jealousy on my part. He would have my utmost support and I would not, under any circumstances, give in to my urge to biff Facet square on the nose.
(The urge was very tempting but we Woosters are battle-hardened and decent to the bone. I would do the right thing by Jeeves if it killed me.)
I arrived back at the house not a minute too soon. The dull ridges had started to bite into the soft soles of my exposed feet and resulted in a most uncoordinated stumble as I trekked up the stairs to my room. Luckily, the halls were empty -- everyone seeing to Facet and Anatole was my guess -- so there were no witnesses to my graceless lurching steps.
I opened my door, intending to crawl between the welcoming sheets, and found Jeeves waiting for me. He was fully dressed, thank heavens -- after such a trip, I doubt I could have borne the added blow of seeing his pyjamas again -- but it was still a shock to see him. I would have assumed he'd be by Facet's side, carefully keeping vigil, possibly with Facet's hand clasped between his own as Facet smiled bravely into his eyes.
Instead of playing the concerned lover, Jeeves led me to the armchair and produced a shallow tub filled with warm water. The first dip of my big toe into the gently steaming water was nothing short of divine. Jeeves has a bit about souls standing ajar and welcoming the ecstatic experience. I've never been sure if my soul was ajar or not, but I welcomed the experience of soaking my bruised and battered feet and ecstasy was forthcoming.
I closed my eyes and let out a sigh. "How did you think of this, Jeeves?"
"When informed of your intentions to fetch a medical professional without appropriate footwear," Jeeves said, and looked over at my slippers, as if blaming them for the entire affair, "the necessity of hot water became apparent, sir."
"Then I thank you, Jeeves. While my whole self is always in your debt, my feet are singing your praises far and wide. If they could sing."
"Yes, sir."
Jeeves placed a warmed towel around my shoulders and made one of those rummy little coughs of his. I now know that it is his way of drawing attention to himself without interrupting, but during our first month together, I found myself searching pockets for a lozenge to offer him. I used to be susceptible to colds, especially in my days back at Eton, and constantly carried lozenges on my person but I’d outgrown both habits by the time Jeeves miraculously appeared at my front door.
When Jeeves feels the need to clear his throat, it is always worth paying attention to him. "Yes, Jeeves?"
Jeeves focused on a spot beside my left ear. "I believe that this might be an appropriate time to discuss the events of this evening, sir."
"Me lead-footing it down to Main Street, you mean?"
"I was thinking of events that occurred earlier in the evening, sir."
I nodded. Clearly, Jeeves had spent part of his time jigsawing the occurrences that led to the exciting drama. To tell the truth, I was more than a little curious as to how the fire had started. "Go on, Jeeves. Explain all."
Jeeves started. He did not do a double-take or swing his head around; he didn't let his jaw drop wide and show the whites of his eyes. But he did raise both eyebrows and allow the muscles of his cheeks to slacken slightly. I wondered what had surprised him so.
"Sir," he said and then cleared his throat again, returning his gaze to the headrest of my chair. "I regret to say that this evening's surprising proceedings caught me at a disadvantage and I behaved in a manner not entirely appropriate to the situation."
There he stopped and I was left gaping like a cod or possibly a halibut. Jeeves would know which fish I more closely resembled. "I'm afraid I don't follow your meaning, Jeeves. Perhaps a whisky and soda would shed some light onto that rather dark and hazy sentence."
"Very good, sir," Jeeves said, sprinkling a touch of relief into his tone.
While Jeeves prepared the w-and-s, I pondered. Contrary to his own assertions, Jeeves had seemed as in control of his faculties as a jockey on a prize-winning gelding. He had not panicked, had not run away and had not, as I had, considered leaving a man to burn.
Aha, I thought to myself as I saw the answer. Though I had glanced away quickly, Jeeves must have seen me notice him with Facet and was now -- in his overly cautious, respectable way -- feeling some shame at acting like that in front of his master.
I took the glass from his tray with a thankful wave. "I see your point, Jeeves, and I implore you to banish it from your mind. I am not the type of employer, nor the type of man, to hold such a thing against you."
"That is gratifying to hear, sir."
The man did not meet my eyes, still smarting at his supposed shame, and I felt a warm glow as I thought of my resolution to help him. A feudal spirit may be a boon to an employer but I suddenly saw, like Sir Drake rounding Cape Horn, that this rare, fine trait was bound to have a detrimental effect on an attempt to woo.
For a moment, I was tempted to share my intentions with Jeeves, to tell him that he could put his mind at rest because B. W. Wooster was about to champion his cause. Then I considered the way that some fellows can be downright ingrates when it comes to a helping hand in the romance area and take offence to a friend's charitable efforts. In this, I would take a leaf from Jeeves' own book and quietly arrange matters without informing him. I wasn't helping him in order to gain his gratitude, so there was no need to announce my objectives. If, being the sharp cove that he is, Jeeves later put the clues together and asked me, I would explain all and accept heartfelt thank-yous then.
I took a moment to imagine the grateful look in his eye when he discovered all. I might find that my next pair of argyle socks stayed in my drawer for more than two weeks. I might even be able to convince him to let me wear my new boater in Hyde Park.
I blinked and realised that Jeeves was once again using his impersonation of a distant sheep with a sore throat to gain my attention. "Yes, Jeeves?"
"Sir, with regard to recent developments--"
I cut him off before he could say any more. The matter did not require an apology and while I was all encouragement and support of the idea, I did not require any details. "I say, Jeeves, could you organise a picnic for tomorrow?"
"A picnic, sir?"
"Yes, a picnic. The idea of spending an afternoon in the forest appeals to me. We could spread cold left-overs across a warm blanket and sit about in dappled sunshine consuming a bot. of wine or two. It really is the weather for it, Jeeves."
"Indeed, sir. I believe we could take some of the chicken served at yesterday's luncheon."
"I think you mean today's luncheon, Jeeves," I said, clearly remembering the taste of that dish.
"Technically, as it is now after midnight, that was yesterday, sir."
"Oh, I see. Very well then."
Now, gentle readers, you may be questioning my new-found resolve to assist the Jeeves-Facet fling. Inviting Jeeves away for an intimate picnic for two is not the action of a graceful and defeated suitor. I agree with this, but during the drive back I had started to formulate a plan and the first step was this invitation. The second step, which I would implement tomorrow -- or today, I wasn't quite sure of which was which, but it would not be for a few more hours -- would be to invite Facet along too and phrase it as an opportunity to show him the countryside and to keep him far from Tuppy and Angela's idle hours. Then I would go for a walk through the trees and make myself scarce, allowing Facet the chance to sweep Jeeves off his feet, away from gossiping servants and curious eyes.
It was bound to work.
I was still convinced of its ability to work the next morning (or later that same morning, I'm still not entirely sure. Waking up in the middle of the night and driving down to the village, returning to change out of one's pyjamas into a soft shirt, as no other pyjamas had been packed, and then go back to bed tends to mess with a fellow's internal time-keeping), when I suggested that Jeeves stop in and check on Facet's health while I breakfasted. I hovered about Aunt Dahlia's study afterwards, helping myself to the books on her shelves for possibly an hour, and then made my way to Jeeves' lair.
He was ironing trousers with a little more flair than usual. Jeeves doesn't wear his heart on his sleeve and only occasionally wears it on his face, but watching him about his scut work gives a firm indication of his mood. An icy silence and restrained motions signal displeasure; an overly focused glance at an object and cautious care of the task show he's attempting to use that large brain of his to wrestle an insurmountable problem to the ground. A softening of the movements and a slow, tender approach to the job, as he was showing now, mark a contentment verging on happiness.
For the first week of Biffy's engagement to the now Mrs. Biffy, the former Mabel and the continuing Jeeves' niece, Jeeves displayed all these signs so I must assume that the match was quite welcomed amongst his kith and kin. Now, after visiting Facet and enquiring about his health on his employer's entreaty, Jeeves was showing those same signs.
It warmed the wotsits of my heart. There is a saying that a good deed is its own reward, and anyone who has felt the satisfied glow of helping a chum find a cheery ending will understand why I pushed the door fully open -- instead of the few inches I had been using to appraise Jeeves' mood -- with a smile. "Good morning, Jeeves."
Jeeves nodded and returned to his ironing board. "Good morning, sir."
"Everything set for this afternoon's excursion? Pics are picked, nics are nicked, all taken care of?"
"The pertinent arrangements have all been finalised, sir."
"Plenty of food, do you think?" I asked, wandering over to the small window. It afforded a view of the orchard and very little else. "Enough for three, Jeeves?"
"The kitchen staff do believe that generosity is only bounded by the limits of what can be packed within a picnic hamper, sir."
"Good, good," I said, staring out at the blue skies and clement weather. It was promising, that's what it was. "I thought that, given last night's escapades, it might be a jolly good idea to invite Facet along, Jeeves."
"Indeed, sir?"
There was a sharpness to Jeeves' tone that made me quite glad I hadn't shared my intended plans with him. Being a subtle creature, discreet to the end, Jeeves would be mortified at the idea of anyone guessing the lay of his affections, and a chap embarrassed is a chap likely to strike out at his nearest and dearest. Luckily, I have sat through many a luncheon with an aunt, and know that the best way to lie is not to meet their eyes.
Accordingly, I didn't turn around. "After a nasty dose of smoke inhalation, a good breath of fresh, country air might do him the world of good, Jeeves. There's also the chance to see the English countryside with someone who's grown up in the area and can share interesting anecdotes, combined with someone else who can interpret said interesting stories. It could make a nice afternoon."
"I am sure M Facet would appreciate your kind thoughts, sir, but there is the potential hazard that his current health may not allow it."
"Oh, balderdash, Jeeves. You said last night that they'd simply gasped a bit too much smoke and would be fine. Besides," I said, turning around to find Jeeves had finished the trousers and was now watching me in the way that a falcon watches a fieldmouse, "what standard of athletic prowess is needed to sit in a car, be driven to the countryside and then sit on a blanket?"
"A long journey can be quite tiring to a recovering body, sir."
"Then we'll make it a short journey, Jeeves. And he can use the blanket to have a nap between trips."
"Still, sir--"
"No, Jeeves," I said, firmly but kindly. One must respect that infatuation can cause the bravest of men to shy from the idea of being left alone with their paramour and will leave them keen to wrestle alligators rather than talk to a certain girl in front of mutual acquaintances, but there are times when the kindest thing is to cruelly force them to be discomfited. Jeeves has this bit about omelettes and eggs, and the same thing is true of self-respect and romance: you cannot have one without damaging the other. "I think this would be best for all. I'll trouble you to ensure Facet is invited."
I would have done it myself but my French is limited to asking for another drink and would not extend to knowing words like 'picnic'. I could have asked Anatole to use his strange combination of proper English and Brooklyn vernacular to interpret, but I doubted Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Tom would allow anyone else access to their treasured chef.
"Yes, sir," Jeeves said in a manner so coldly polite that I nearly stepped down and gave him his way. Were it not for the Wooster courage, and the thought of his grateful manner when he realised how I had aided this match, I would have stammered that he was right and given up my point. Instead, I gave him an encouraging grin.
"That's the spirit, Jeeves." Then, as one who has a sharp sense of knowing to the moment when I have overstayed my welcome, I left.
The standing arrangement was to meet at the garage at noon so I wandered the gardens until the appropriate time. While there, I ran into Tuppy who was eager to explain last night's events to me.
Continued in Part Four
Author: out_there
Fandom: Jeeves and Wooster
Continued from Parts One and Two.
The thing had orange eyes and looked as if it had swapped ears with a bat. It also looked familiar. It wasn't until it let out a low 'woo' that I spotted the resemblance. "It's Aunt Agatha."
"Sir?" Jeeves had raised an eyebrow and if I'd been in his posish instead of mine, I would have been just as surprised.
"I've seen this owl before. During that vile bicycle ride to Kingham, the thing was perched on a signpost. Bally thing nearly gave me a heart attack. I was so rattled at the time and given its almost identical appearance to my Aunt Agatha -- you do see the resemblance, don't you, Jeeves?"
Jeeves nodded and belatedly removed his hand from my arm. "There is a certain familiarity to its features."
"Nearly identical, Jeeves. For a moment, I thought it was Aunt Agatha. Then I realised she does not make a habit of sitting on signposts by country roads."
"Not to my knowledge, sir."
"Well, that and the thing hooted at me. If it had been Aunt Agatha sitting on a signpost, you can be sure the first words out of her mouth would have been asking what in the world I thought I was doing, followed by an urging to press the pedals harder and a reminder that sitting on a bicycle is no excuse for slouching." We stood looking at the thing a few moments more. "I say, Jeeves, is there something else we're supposed to be doing? As birdwatchers, I mean."
"Generally the object of the venture is to observe the bird in its natural habitat, sir."
"You mean you find it, you take a gander at it and call it a successful day?"
"Essentially, sir."
I waited for another two minutes and the only thing the bally bird did was stare back at me, reminding me of Aunt Agatha at last year's Christmas lunch. "The thing looks as if it's planning my next engagement, Jeeves. It's frightfully unnerving."
"Then perhaps we should move on, sir," Jeeves said and we did just that.
"My Aunt Agatha looked precisely like that the last time she introduced me to a girl who could perfectly mould me into a half-decent human being. Her words, Jeeves, not mine."
"I assumed as much."
I stepped over a small ditch and continued, "It's always a terrible experience to be introduced to someone that way. It makes you feel like cattle at a market having your potential future rattled off at auction. And if you talk to the girl in anything but the coldest terms, you can bet the aunt in question will ensure everyone knows of the upcoming nuptials by the following Sunday."
"Having someone intervene in such matters can be uncomfortable at the best of times, sir." Here Jeeves stepped over a furrow that I failed to see.
Consequently, I stumbled for a few steps giving the impression of a man, deathly afraid of heights, suddenly finding himself on stilts.
"It's not the intervention, Jeeves, it's the method of proposing. Proposing by aunt is doomed to failure. A proposal should be from the horse's mouth. It should be heartfelt and genuine and utterly personal."
"Yet so many young men have difficulties when it comes to expulsions of that nature. They can be overcome with shyness or swept away by nerves, and those things they hold most true and wish to say can remain trapped by inelegance."
"The only way to get an elegant proposal, Jeeves, is to write it. I suppose you could then memorise it for best effect, but it's still a chancy thing." I sighed for the problem of a clear, effective proposal is not an easy one to solve. If it was, my friends would have far less worries and there would be fewer girls who could claim the dubious honour of once being my intended. "But the words that come out are generally not the words planned, so even memorising it could still lead to trouble. It would be like reciting poetry in class. After spending hours upon hours learning each verse, when you have to stand there alone and say it, you get it muddled and out of order. That could be quite disastrous when offering to marry someone."
"Perhaps a well-worded letter would be best," Jeeves said thoughtfully.
"That comes with its own setbacks. For one, the matter of grammar. In a spoken declaration, there is a great deal more freedom. If you're writing the thing down, you have to be careful of commas and parentheses and the issue of spelling becomes vital. Imagine if, while concentrating on hitting the right romantic tone, you misspell 'marriage' or, even worse, her name. You would be quite doomed."
"It would be unfortunate."
We continued walking for a few steps, then I stopped as a thought hit me. "There is a greater danger than that in a written appeal, Jeeves."
"Indeed, sir?"
"It is the danger to one's privacy. After gathering one’s courage, one tends to get down on one knee in a quiet, secluded place. If the answer is no, only the two of you knows it. But if the declaration is written and the answer is no, it can become a public affair. You are left hoping that the other party will keep the matter as silent as the grave, but there is always the chance that the fellow will share your earnest and possibly badly written letter, and people will mock you far and wide."
I realised, as the words left my mouth, the blunder I'd made. You can't very well go around talking of romance and trying to soften a chap up, and then imply that they'd be so indiscreet as to share a heartfelt love letter with all and sundry. "I do apologise, Jeeves. I didn't mean that you would be likely to take out a page in the Daily Mail. I'm sure it would be the last thing you'd do, so I guess the debate between written and verbal declarations is quite a moot point. Well, I mean, when it comes to you. A chap would simply have to work up the bally nerve and say the words."
Jeeves was staring at me, his face frozen. When truly upset or stirred, Jeeves is the epitome of that stony British stare Tennyson described so well. He will look dignified and quite untouched while I, if suffering the same u. or s. emotions, would squirm and frown and go all glossy about the brow.
"Although saying those words can be awfully hard," I said, fidgeting under Jeeves' calm gaze. It was one of those moments that stretched horribly. At first I thought Jeeves might be speechless with delight, thinking of the best way to say that he understood and requited.
In the distance, birds twittered in the trees and leaves rustled in the wind, and I was sure that any minute Jeeves would come to life -- or at least raise a brow -- and say something extremely Jeevesian to show he reciprocated.
Then that silent moment extended into a silent few minutes. Jeeves blinked once, but otherwise looked precisely as if I had said nothing more romantic than 'Nice night, what?' and I saw that his tongue was possibly not cleaved to the roof of his mouth in overwhelming emotion but in dawning horror. I had probably stared much the same way when the Basset first thought I wanted to marry her. The nauseous thought of spending decades in her company had fought against years of chivalrous values and I'd been struck dumb, unable to find a way to tell her politely and kindly that the very idea gave me nightmares.
Clearly, Jeeves was caught in the same spot, not wanting to be overly cruel but also quite horrified that the simpering idiot in front of him had decided, without consultation, that they were to spend the foreseeable future together.
In such a situation, one is understandably crushed. Ideally, the object of one's affections should feel the same. But on the other hand, it seems unfair to sulk about the thing and subject said o. to an embarrassing scene of whining or arguing in one's own favour, and it reeks of selfishness to show that you've taken the hit hard. Stiff upper lips are vital on occasions like this.
"Well," I said, looking about at the skyline, "Just a hypothetical. Both ways are heavily flawed, though. Next time I propose, I shall do so by telegram."
Jeeves finally stirred from his harrowing impersonation of a statue. "Telegram, sir?"
"Yes, Jeeves, telegram." I started to walk once more, and Jeeves fell in beside me. "I can picture it now. It would start 'Dear Sarah' -- assuming, of course, that the girl's name is Sarah and not Mabel or Agnes or some such, because even when proposing by telegraph getting the name right is still important -- but, yes, 'Dearest Sarah. Am head over heels for you. Cannot bear life without you. Want you to marry me. Please reply.' It would make the proposal process far less of a feat of endurance."
"Yes, sir."
I picked up my stride, warming to my topic. "Of course, you'd still have the horrendous wait, wouldn't you? You'd send off a nice telegram and every extra minute that passed would make you wonder if you'd done it right, if the girl loved you, if her parents would agree. If she wasn't at home and you had to wait hours for a reply, it could send you mad with worry."
I fumbled in my pocket for a gasper and Jeeves helpfully lit it for me.
"There's no way around it, Jeeves. If one wishes to propose, one must subject oneself to the most humiliating test of waiting and hoping that the rarest of things has happened: that two people have both formed similar attachments. It is enough to make me happy to remain a gay bachelor."
"Romance is frequently strewn with uneasy feelings, sir. I doubt any of us do it well."
Jeeves stopped walking, so I did too. He looked meaningfully at my shoes and cleared his throat. I glanced down to see if I'd accidentally donned a brightly mismatched pair of socks but could see nothing amiss.
"Sir," Jeeves started and then halted.
Luckily for me -- because in the awkwardness of the moment, I had a suspicion that if allowed to continue, Jeeves may have used phrases like 'inappropriate', 'regret' and 'resignation' -- Angela came stalking up the path, treading like a delicate, sweet-natured young woman who has had her heart broken and would love nothing more than to see the heart-breaker impaled upon a pike.
"What ho, Angela," I said, waving her nearer. This earned me a slight smile. From her, I mean, not Jeeves. Jeeves looked on neutrally, his chiselled features once more becoming quite c. in appearance.
"What ho, Bertie," she said in a way that made me suspect she'd been looking for me and not because she wanted to throw roses before me.
"Is everything all right?"
"Tuppy has been making comments about my feet. He has declared them perfectly proportioned."
"That's very sweet of him, Angela."
She crossed her arms. "Clearly you told him that Honoria said I had flat feet, Bertie. I confided in you as a cousin and now I find you are physically incapable of keeping your trap shut for a few measly hours."
"Angela!" I cried, wounded. "I spoke to Tuppy and told him certain things only. I did not betray a confidence; I merely enlightened a friend of particular details so he would be aware that he was acting like a fathead."
"Bertie, I think you have the fattest head of them all," she said, and turned on her supposedly well proportioned feet and stalked back towards the house. Given the option of continuing my stroll with Jeeves or dashing after my irritated cousin and getting an earful, I scampered after her as quick as I could.
I am quite sure Honoria Glossop is wrong because Angela put on a sudden bout of speed -- while wearing Parisian heels, no less -- that would have been impossible if she had been flatfooted. I followed her to the doorway and then decided that tracking a girl to her bedroom when she does not wish to be disturbed goes against the standard of behaviour expected of a gentleman. I would go up to my rooms and if she wished to talk to me, she could find me there.
I undressed quickly and pulled on my heliotrope pyjamas. I took a little care in hanging my clothes back up; normally I would leave that job to Jeeves, but in the current situation I wanted to escape Jeeves' company. It's all well and good being discreet and sensitive to another's possible distress, but even the best of chaps needs the occasional moment alone to mope in disappointment. I'm not enough of a Fink-Nottle type to start threatening to drown myself or anything like that, but there is something very soothing about crawling into bed, turning off all the lights and clutching your pillow. (As any lower schoolboy will tell you, a pillow can be a first-rate substitute for a stuffed bear or some other comforting childhood toy.)
When dealing with a set-back, I find it helps to look on the bright side and consider how much worse it could have been. While Jeeves is not the type prone to sudden bursts of laughter, he could have sneered or smirked, could have looked ridiculously amused by the idea. He might have used his height to look down on me like something stuck to the bottom of a shoe or said in clear, cold tones how little he thought of me as a romantic prospect, how great my flaws are or the number of other terrible, distasteful things he would willingly choose to do rather than agree.
It could have been much worse.
And who knew? Maybe this would be like Florence Craye or Bobbie Wickham, and I would wake in the morning and see my narrow escape. After all, a life with Jeeves would be...
Here, I had to stop and think hard. It would be sartorially boring, I told myself, limited to respectable, understated clothes. I would wear nothing but navy, grey and brown for the rest of my casual hours. I would find myself travelling around the globe, going to places I didn't want to and leaving the metrop. far behind, simply because of Jeeves' Viking streak and his taste for adventure. I would probably be expected to read books of poetry and have serious conversations, to start learning things I was happy to forget at the end of school. And for all I knew, Jeeves snored.
Yes, it had been a narrow, lucky escape and I resolved to think of it in those terms.
My bedroom door slid open, so quietly that I knew it could only have been opened by one man. I did not move, other than to close my eyes and let my mouth droop open slightly. The art to feigning sleep has nothing to do with a convincing snore -- most honest snores do not sound convincing at all, rather they're so preposterous that you know they can only be real -- but with long, relaxed breathing. If you breathe deeply and remain still, there is a very good chance that roving House Masters and interrupting valets will assume you are fast asleep and leave you like that.
The other benefit is that breathing in this way always puts me to sleep. I was out like a light and can only suppose that Jeeves hovered in the doorway for a bare moment, and then closed the door and went his way.
The next thing I was aware of was not, unfortunately, the warm sunshine and possible distant chirping of birds but the sound of Brinkley Court's enormous fire bell. Uncle Tom, a man wary of few things, has a particular fear of burning to death in his bed. I suppose, compared to a fear of frogs or umbrellas, this is not a completely unreasonable fear -- there have been recorded cases of people dying from fire or smoke, while the numbers extinguished by frogs and umbrellas remains so low as to be negligible -- but Uncle Tom's way of dealing with it was to install the largest fire bell in the county.
As a boy staying at Brinkley Court over holidays, it was not unusual to wake to a fire drill, the bell clanging loudly and everyone heading out the front door in an orderly fashion, except for one or two maids who would gasp and swoon, and end up being carried out by footmen. I have a suspicion that Uncle Tom's fire drills were probably responsible for at least half of the inter-servant marriages at Brinkley Court.
Still, my point was this: I had vast experience at being woken in this most unpleasant manner and knew where I should head. The front door, down the main stairs and through the hall, should have been my destination. As a boy, I could have walked there without opening my eyes or really having to go through the necessity of waking up. Yet this time I didn't.
It is quite strange how one reacts to a crisis. Some of the coolest cucumbers can lose their head and struggle in a most underhanded way to save their own skin, occasionally at the cost of women and children. Others, sometimes the most selfish cads you could imagine, are capable of extreme heroics despite their own natures. In times of crisis, regardless of the heat or chill of our most recent interactions, my first instinct is to find Jeeves.
I would like to say it was pure concern for his safety that led to me throwing my legs out of bed and heading straight to his lair when the ear-splitting sound of the fire bell woke me, but I fear it is more true to say that by this stage, after years of having my life saved by one man, I have become accustomed to seeking him in moments of grave personal danger.
I made it through the hallways and down the stairs at a quick trot, pulling my dressing gown around me as I went. I even managed the difficult feat of tying the thing as I rounded the corner to the servants' quarters and saw Jeeves exiting his room.
Now, I would not say I'd spent a great deal of time imagining Jeeves in his nightclothes, as that's not the way to think of one's personal gentleman, but if the thought had crossed my mind, as such random thoughts from time to time do, I would have given even money that he wore a nightshirt to bed or, failing that, a pair of pyjamas in black or navy blue. Like the pyjamas, I would have estimated that his dressing gown would have also been of a dark, sombre shade, again favouring the idea of black or blue. If it was green, I would bet you pound for penny that it would have been the darkest shade of green available, the precise colour of a mighty fir seen at the witching hour of a moonless night.
I would not, for one moment, have considered that the man owned a meadow-green dressing gown covered with sky-blue swirls. If, by some vast stretch of belief, I was convinced that he owned a garment matching that description, I could never have imagined him wearing it.
I pulled up short and blinked a few times in case, without noticing, I'd breathed in a great deal of smoke and had started hallucinating. No matter how many times I blinked, Jeeves still stood there, wearing that satin monstrosity.
As I stepped closer, I noticed the collar of his pyjamas, peeking out between neck and lapels like a timid schoolgirl. The pyjamas not only agreed with the twirling bright green and blue of the gown, but had added their own touch of whimsy to the ensemble through orange piping.
I opened my mouth and made a horrified squeak.
"Yes, sir?" Jeeves ran a hand over his hair, settling the sleep-messed style into something more presentable.
I closed my mouth and stopped staring. "Your pyjamas, Jeeves!"
A man does not like to be woken from sleep -- especially not by a very loud bell ringing in the tranquil hour of night -- and have his pyjamas criticised. Many fellows would have glared and told me to go boil my head. Jeeves managed to contain himself to a cold, offended tone. "They were a gift from my Aunt Annie, sir."
"I take it this is the reason she isn't welcomed at your family occasions."
"One of many reasons, sir."
Once again, I had to tear my gaze from that gown and collar. A sight like that is eye-catching, to say the least. "I understand the power of an aunt and the importance of accepting the gift graciously, but why wear them, Jeeves? Why not hide them in the back of the wardrobe, never to be worn amongst god-fearing company?"
"That would not honour the spirit in which the articles were given, sir."
"I would say that a pair of pyjamas like that," and here I waved to draw his attention to the frightening sight before me, "could only be given in the spirit of extreme cruelty."
"Be that as it may, sir, one does wonder why you are here at this time of night."
"The fire bell went off. Surely you heard it?"
"Yes, sir. But I believe the customary reaction to hearing a fire alarm is to exit the premises as quickly as possible."
"Well, yes," I said, seeing his point, "but I wanted to check on you first."
Given our more recent discussions, I could see why that confession made Jeeves raise a brow. The most basic sense of decency, of human feeling, would dictate that I not bring the subject up. The type of understanding that we now shared, unpleasant though it might be, was not the type open to diplomatic bargaining. Talking about it would bring nothing but humiliation and embarrassment on both sides.
Beside that, there was also the issue of honesty to my words. One could argue quite well that I had gone to Jeeves' lair our of a sense of self-survival -- in that my survival would be more certain if Jeeves was by my side -- than out of misplaced affection.
I tried to add a different meaning to my concern. "The last time that blasted bell rang, I cycled eighteen miles and sat gingerly for a week. I thought it prudent to see if the bell was orchestrated by you, Jeeves, because, if so, I will hide in my room until the event is over. So the relevant question is did you or did you not, either directly or indirectly, cause the fire bell to ring?"
"Most assuredly not, sir," Jeeves said firmly.
"Well," I said, "I suppose anyone dressed like that would rather burn than ring the bell and have to appear before company. Come on. We'd better head out before Aunt Dahlia starts counting heads."
"Yes, sir."
We made our way, with full speed, to the back door and joined the congregation of night-attired yawners. Upon our approach, Aunt Dahlia fixed me with a beady stare and sharp smile. It was the way a vulture would smile at a man dying of thirst.
She spoke in a calm, sweet tone that sent shivers down my spine and left my toes quaking. Or that could have been the effect of standing on the wet grass. In all the excitement, I had forgotten to don my slippers.
"Bertie, dear, you didn't by any chance decide through your singularly unique use of logic, and complete lack of common sense, that sounding the alarm was somehow to the benefit of all?"
"No, Aunt Dahlia." I could see that any minute now she would start to call me Attila and imply that I brought nothing but disaster and heartbreak to all who knew me. It's quite untrue, but aunts do get these ideas. "I had nothing to do with it, old flesh and blood."
"Are you sure, dear?"
"Quite sure, Aunt Dahlia."
"If I find, Attila my darling, that you have reverted to your bell-pulling ways and not owned responsibility of this Hun-like act, I promise you that next time Waterbury drives me somewhere, we will make sure you are tied face-down on the driveway and merrily roll over you as we go."
Understanding my history at Brinkley Court and the one occasion that I did ring the fire alarm -- on the advice and urgings of Jeeves, I must point out -- Aunt Dahlia's assumption and subsequent threat was not entirely unwarranted.
"I assure you, dearest aunt of mine, that I was fast asleep in my bed when the alarm was run. As you can see, I am dressed only for bed and as cold as anyone else here."
She looked me over from head to foot, pausing at my damp and rather chilly bare feet. "Well, if you didn't ring the bell, who did?"
"I did, ma'am." From the back of the crowd of servants, a girl raised her hand. She stepped forward and I recognised her as Jane, the highly-strung housemaid -- Jeeves had called her neurotic -- who tended to jump a foot every time I come round a corner. She looked as if all it would take was one unexpected cough to make her bolt for the bushes. "There was smoke. From the kitchen, ma'am."
"Is everyone accounted for?" Aunt Dahlia asked, taking the attention from the flight-bound Jane and focussing on the relevant issue. She counted us out. "Tom, Angela, Tuppy and Bertie. What of the servants, Seppings?"
I looked over at the throng of domestic staff. Amongst a mass of brown, grey, well-worn white and ever-respectable navy dressing gowns and coats, Jeeves stood out like a tropical butterfly in a collection of cabbage moths. He stepped forward and conferred with Seppings.
"Everyone is accounted for, madam," Seppings said, "except for Messieurs Anatole and Facet."
I looked back at Jane. "You say the fire started in the kitchen?" I asked, a sense of foreboding settling around my midsection.
"Anatole!" Uncle Tom cried.
"Anatole!" Aunt Dahlia echoed, her voice carrying much further. "Quick, everyone, round to the back door. Waterbury, go and fetch the firemen."
Like a colony of ants being ordered by their queen, we followed her in an almost organised line. Apart from Waterbury, of course, who headed to the garage at double time.
In newspapers, house fires always burn across the eaves, flames licking up the curtains and dancing across the roof, trying to leap to the nearest tree and start an uncontrollable blaze. As we walked around the back, I watched for these signs and saw none. Rooms were dark, the occasional hallway was lit by electric bulbs and in a very anti-climatic manner, no flames climbed the building walls.
The only hint of danger came from the kitchen window. Being an old house, certain windows never quite close properly in Brinkley Court and the kitchen window was one of these. The closest it came to being closed was only having an inch gap. It was just wide enough to allow a stealthy entrance, if you grabbed the frame hard, jerked it up and down until the latch gave and then pulled outwards. Before Uncle Tom decided every thief in the area would be overwhelmingly attracted to his silver collection and had every window barred, I'd found it a good entrance to use when one has snuck out of the house and forgotten one's keys. A little bit of pulling, a push up to the ledge and a clown's roll forward over the bench, and you were good as gold.
But now, from between the bars, the window released a dark curl of smoke, like a smoker so tired he barely had the energy to exhale. Through the grimy glass and thick cloud, the fireplace -- or where I was pretty sure it would have been, since I was having trouble making out the corners of the room, let alone the details -- roared in burnished orange.
"Bertie, stop peeking through windows and get over here," Aunt Dahlia called out, voice carrying across the murmur of worried servants and possibly to the next three villages. "Tuppy, take some of the footmen to the garden shed and fetch some buckets. Make sure they'll hold water. Angela, help Seppings organise the servants. We'll need a line of them to the old well."
I have often wondered if Aunt Dahlia was a military general in a previous life. It would explain a great deal.
"And Jeeves and I, Aunt Dahlia? How can we help?"
She patted a maternal hand on my arm. "Be a good boy and go fetch Anatole for me."
"Yes, Aunt D-- Aunt Dahlia!" I exclaimed, seeing the flaw in her plan. "Anatole's in the kitchen."
"Yes, Bertie. I was aware of that."
"I'm not a fireman, Aunt Dahlia. I'm not even wearing slippers."
"I was aware of that, too, Bertie. I wasn't asking you to put the fire out," she said, as if such a suggestion was clearly ridiculous while her idea was completely sane. "I was asking you to pop into the kitchen, have a look, and lead Anatole to safety if you can."
"You're asking me to risk life and limb--"
She now looked like a general who'd been told his favourite regiment of guards had been surrounded by the enemy. Her face, usually hinting at a red tinge, was now screaming the colour clearly. It was not a pretty sight. "If you ever want another of Anatole's meals here, you will do as you're told, Bertie."
"I will not, Aunt Dahlia."
"I thought you were a Wooster!"
There was no cause for that. "I am, but--"
"But you will stand back and let your elderly uncle face down flames? You will let your frail aunt put herself in danger while you stand back worried for your own skin? Or your young cousin, perhaps? I'm ashamed of you, Bertie. I never thought you were such yellow, snivelling coward."
"I'm not, Aunt Dahlia."
"Then you'll do it?"
I sighed. Clearly, I was beaten. "I don't see why Tuppy can't do it."
"Once you've seen that fellow fearlessly charge into a scrum of ten rugby players without breaking his stride, you know that he could carry four wooden buckets up here at a good pace. The same could not be said of you, Bertie."
I thought about this. Tuppy has the solid arms and broad thighs built by years of rugby whereas I have the slimmer frame developed through years of book-reading, piano-playing and slow saunters through London streets. In matters of brawn, Tuppy's the better pick. "You have a point, aunt of mine."
She made a shooing motion with her hand. "Yes, I do. Now hurry up and get in there before the whole room catches fire and the situation becomes dangerous for you, Bertie."
"Very well. But if I end this night as a very crispy, overcooked piece of bacon, I will haunt Brinkley Court for the next thousand years. You will never get a decent night's sleep, Aunt Dahlia."
"Hurry up, Bertie, or I won't get a decent night's sleep tonight."
Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I set my shoulders and walked to the back door. In some houses, the back door leads directly to the kitchen. In Brinkley Court, it actually leads to a corridor that has doors connecting it to the kitchen, to the servants' hall and further up, to the stairs leading to the servants' quarters. I tensed as I opened the door, imagining columns of fire lining the walls, but the corridor looked precisely as it had earlier in the day, albeit a great deal darker.
I hit the switch and the bulb flickered to life -- say what you will for Uncle Tom but he does believe in keeping the house up to modern standards -- weakly illuminating the hallway and the smoke sliding from the bottom of the kitchen door.
I pulled my sleeve down over my hand. A friend of mine had once said that when caught in a fire you should always pull your jacket over your hands and over your head. If you touched something hot or something dropped on you and you caught alight, it was a lot easier to remove your jacket than your head or hands.
Turning the knob, I pushed the door open and was met by a wave of smoke stronger than my own bad breath after Boat Race night, which is not a comparison I make easily. After a good deal of coughing and a quick step back, it cleared enough that I could make out the details, like watching a blurry, damaged film. On the east side of the room, the fireplace glowed brightly and the fire had spread outwards onto the heath rug. The rug was smouldering and looked to be the culprit for the vast amounts of smoke.
The fire had spread as if someone had smashed a bottle of instant flames on the stone floor, but the walls and the furniture seemed untouched, apart from the smoke. Something groaned, and I nearly jumped back again, fearing it was the roof collapsing but a hand on my shoulder stopped me.
"M Anatole, sir," Jeeves said, pointing through the smoke and pulling back the hand on my shoulder. Possibly I should have been surprised at his sudden appearance, but this was Jeeves. Jeeves always appears without a sound and precisely when you need him most.
I squinted through the haze and saw a bundled mass sitting against the bottom of the kitchen bench. It groaned again, and Jeeves and I hastened forward to pick the fellow up by his arms and drag him outside. It sounds much easier to do than it actually is, as Anatole cursed us in a variety of French and disjointed English, calling us several things I couldn't translate and generally digging his heels in.
But between the two of us, we managed to drag him outside and dump him by the house. Aunt Dahlia gave a whoop of joy and I took the deep, satisfied breath of a job well done despite a lack of quality air. Or I was gasping in a satisfied manner until Jeeves turned and headed back in.
Belatedly, I remembered Facet.
For a petty, uncharitable moment, I considered staying outside. It is not the type of thing one wishes to admit about one's own personality, but self-knowledge is a thing to be admired, and in that moment, I knew myself to be a bitter man. Then I considered that it was not only one unreasonably handsome man's life at stake but two, if something should happen to Jeeves, and I went in after him.
Resolving to act more like a Wooster and less like an Iscariot, I stepped through the doorway and strode to the kitchen. It was a great deal like last January -- when that remarkable cold snap and resultant coal-burning left the metrop. covered in a fog so thick that I walked past the Drones' doors three times before finding my way inside -- except an uncomfortable warmth had taken the place of the damp cold. Between the dark haze and the amber firelight, Jeeves was a striking figure amongst the moving shadows, his spine straight, broad shoulders ready and horrendous dressing gown darkened by soot. It was all quite poetic: the valet stood in the burning kitchen, ta-tum ta-tum ta-tum.
He bent over and I dashed to his side, fearing smoke inhalation had got the better of him and fate had conspired to slay the noble figure in his tracks.
When I reached out a hand to steady him, I saw the truth of the matter. He had found Facet, sprawled against the bench much as Anatole had been, and had bent to haul him up. Even in the murky half-light, a wave of Facet's golden brown hair fell rakishly over his forehead and his shapely lips were softly parted. If I had to help rescue the fellow, at least he could have the decency to look a little less attractive in the throes of distress. He should have been grimy and soot-covered, or drooled in his unconsciousness, head lolling back at a buffoonish angle instead of gracefully resting to one side.
We Woosters are men of courage and conscience. We do not kick attractive rivals when they are down, no matter how strong the temptation to bury the toe of one's boot into the yielding flesh of their torso may be. Beside the call of my better angels, there was also the consideration that I was currently bare-footed so a hearty, sharp kick at this opportune moment would barely leave a bruise. If one is going to be so unprincipled as to attack a fallen man, one wants the damage to be felt for a good week to come.
So I did not punt the blighter, but pulled his arm over my shoulder and helped Jeeves hoist him up. Unlike Anatole, he didn't stir. There was no cursing, no flailing of the feet; there was only a lifeless form between us, sagging like a Punch puppet with broken strings.
I had a sudden flash of sympathy for the goons in my novel. I mean, getting up the gumption to shoot someone point blank is a tricky business, but having to lug around dead bodies must really take it out of a chap. I couldn't imagine doing it for a living. (Then again, there are few things I could picture doing for a crust, so I'm quite thankful that my crusts come without gainful employment. All credit to the birds that work but I couldn't conceive of anything more tedious than having to do it myself.)
As we got to the back door, two charging footmen nearly ran through us but at the last minute ducked around us, buckets held high. We got outside and the same two came dashing out, buckets empty. They dropped the buckets to the ground, picked up two full ones, and repeated the process. Watching it was enough to tire any spectator.
Jeeves led us to the window of the servants' hall and we placed our charge -- who was as helpful as a bag of concrete-filled potatoes -- to lean against the wall. Jeeves knelt down and started unfastening his collar and the urge to give him -- Facet, clearly, not Jeeves, although I understand how hard it could be for a reader to keep track amongst the dramatic action -- a solid heavy heel to the midsection returned.
I was distracted from my less than charitable desires by Tuppy's angry whine. "Bertie, the kitchen window refuses to budge! Come over here and help."
As I said before, prying that window open from outside was a rarefied skill that I'd honed to perfection by the time I was seventeen. Getting it open now was slightly more complicated as the bars required careful navigation of elbows but it was still the work of a few moments. In the meantime, Tuppy and the energetic footmen had doused the fire to smouldering ashes, and once I slid the window frame open, they started fanning the smoke outside.
Wondering if, our parts done, Jeeves and I should go inside and assist the cavalry, I glanced over and felt my heart drop. While I'm far from an expert in human anatomy, I can attest that the organ formerly located in my chest sank to somewhere between my ankles and the soles of my feet. I'm not sure how it managed to continue beating and performing those vital circulatory feats from its new position, but it did.
Giving no thought for the sanctity of his aunt's gift, Jeeves had both knees on the dirty lawn and even worse, had his hands on Facet: one was wrapped around Facet's wrist -- a simple gesture that could have been interpreted as friendly and nothing more -- but the other grazed the side of Facet's throat and seemed far too intimate for company. I've seen friends do far more with a pretty girl, but when it comes to flouting social rules, the personality of the cove must be considered. School friends and club members who you've seen tight as an owl, pulling off formal costume for an early morning swimming race across the baths, tend not to shock when they pull a girl close and kiss her passionately. For a man like Jeeves, respectable to his core, such a public display of affection would be unheard of. To have him draped over Facet, hands on bare skin, was bordering on lewd. And it was far too telling.
It would not be hyperbole to say that I was shattered. I trust that after reading a few of my exploits, my readers would know I'm not a man prone to despair, but such a sight has a power that can barely be conveyed in words, unless those words were etched into large planks of wood and used to beat you to a jelly. It is demoralising in the extreme and while I am not used to running like a coward, on this occasion I turned on my heel and fled -- it was more of a quick trot, really -- in the opposite direction.
I hadn't thought of where I was aiming. In such cases one tends to focus more on what one is escaping than the precise destination and I ended up at the garage.
When I say that I was not used to fleeing, I was overlooking the summer of my tenth year, when I went through a stage of escaping and exploring. I'd recently read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and was quite certain that pirate treasure could be found amidst the English countryside if vigorously searched out. I developed the ability to sneak away from the house and stalk across the grounds, all the way to Market Snodsbury. For a little chap that's a hardy walk, so once there I'd buy sweets and lounge around the village common, resolving to start the treasure hunt proper in the afternoon.
Most of the time the chauffeur -- a friendly fellow, name of Rudd, with a taste for sweets that could outstrip a whole dormitory of boys and the broad, leathery hands of an orang-utan -- would spot me and offer to drive me back to Brinkley Court for the price of one boiled sweet, butterscotch or peppermint for preference. He was a good chap, the type who'd say 'Master Bertram' with a grin that signalled that, if it were proper, he'd be the first to call me 'Bertie, me lad'. Took corners at a much slower speed than Waterbury does, but he'd let me sit beside him in the front seat and, to a schoolboy, that's positively the larger thrill.
He even helped when my attempt to run away resulted in a far greater journey than expected. This happened years ago, you understand. One night I got the brilliant idea of chivvying out the kitchen window and hiding inside the boot of Uncle Tom's car. I was wily enough to take cheese and bread but hadn't considered the plan's fatal flaw, vis-à-vis that a car's boot is not designed to be opened from the inside. Once ensconced inside and the lid closed, there is no easy catch to unhook and release, no simple button to allow an escape.
Being a stoic sort of chap, willing to roll with the punches and follow the flow of life's stream, I tried to open the boot and then settled down for a nap when the thing wouldn't shift. When the boot opened, I woke up to sunlight and a rather surprised Rudd. He helped me out of the automobile and explained that Uncle Tom had been called into London for the day and, as the trip from Brinkley to London takes a touch longer than a quick spin down to the village, Rudd was supposed to hang around and drive Uncle Tom home, so he couldn't sneak me back into the old homestead unnoticed.
He called Aunt Dahlia so she wouldn't worry, and that aunt of mine laughed so hard I could hear her cackling as I stood beside him in the telephone box, and said that she'd tried the same thing at my age, although it had apparently involved stealing my father's horse and Aunt Agatha's best coat. (I have since asked her about the event and was told firmly not to interest myself in the exploits of my respected elders. Aunt Dahlia, properly soused, would unbend enough to tell me about this, but after a youth of chasing foxes and managing hunting parties Aunt Dahlia has developed a high tolerance to spirits. By the time she is merry enough to tell tales of an undignified youth, I'm either snoring on a couch or so tight I can't remember a word the next day.)
The morning was spent wandering the London streets, getting cakes in a cosy teashop and then drifting towards Piccadilly Circus. I had been nine at the time, so my assumption that there would be a big top, acrobats, elephants and clowns can be forgiven. Although it didn't live up to my specific expectations, it did not disappoint.
It was a pity that I couldn't say the same thing for my current stay at Brinkley Court. I also considered it a pity that, due to the work of time and the wonder of nature, I could no longer curl up in the boot of a car, fall asleep and wake up far away from my troubles. There was nothing to stop me sitting in the two-seater and closing my eyes, but my thoughts kept returning, the image sticking closer than a brother to my imagination. I had looked away quickly, had not wanted to intrude upon a moment shared but I have always possessed a sharp, vivid mind's eye and it had no difficulty seeing the details my actual eyes had missed.
I could see Jeeves' face darkened with concern, his eyes narrowed and his normally cool gaze heated as he looked over the prone form of his beloved. I could picture Jeeves' cool fingers brushing over Facet's flushed brow, the movement slow and imbued with tender consideration, pressing back the untrustworthy waves of brown hair. I could imagine Jeeves' smile -- one of those small, quiet ones that occasionally skate across his features when we are alone, sometimes at the least appropriate times -- when Facet stirred and murmured Jeeves' name as he rose to consciousness.
I pushed my back straight against the seat and resolutely told myself that was enough. There was no need to imagine any further, to envision Gallic declarations of love or passionate embraces. It would be unseemly to think of one's employee in such terms, to speculate on a matter that is not only not any of one's business, but also not even near one's industry or market.
Forbidden or not, the images continued to come. Every affectionate gesture, every brief touch sank my stomach like a stone until I was left feeling that my heart was in my left foot and my stomach was in my right, and that my walk back to the house would squash both organs, leaving them bruised, battered and unfit for any purpose.
Bearing that in mind, it was quite apparent that the best thing for my continued health would be to follow my original urge and spend the night in the garage, far away from attractive tennis coaches and besotted manservants. I pulled my dressing gown around me tightly and stretched my legs across the second seat, and was just settling down -- either to sleep or have my brain conjure up ever more horrible visions of a smitten Jeeves, I'm not sure which -- when Aunt Dahlia thundered in.
She strode haughtily, and I scrambled to make sure I was presentable (in pyjamas and a dressing gown, one can never be certain). Then she gave a firm nod. "Good idea, Bertie. If you head into the village as quick as you can, you might be able to catch up to Waterbury before he gets the rouses the whole bally county."
"I wasn't going into the village, Aunt Dahlia." It was a ridiculous suggestion for a man still in his nightwear. "I don't even have my slippers on."
"Then why are you in your car?"
"Oh. Well." Here imagination failed me. While my mind's eye was exceptional at showing all the ways that Jeeves could demonstrate to the world who he truly treasured, the sight of an aunt in a nightcap was enough to make it stutter to a halt. "I mean, well."
"Stop blithering, Bertie. Considering how Waterbury takes a corner, you'll need every moment if you're to beat him and even then, I wouldn't take odds on you getting there. But at least you can head off the fire engine and let the firemen get back to their beds before daylight."
She stared at me for a long moment. I could have argued, could have scorned, but the weight of an aunt's stare makes me feel as if I'm still in sailor suits, instead of the man of iron will that I have become.
"Yes, Aunt Dahlia."
"You should get the doctor, too. Anatole, bless him, is talking about smoked salmon and bewailing the state of the kitchen, but there's a slight rattling cough that concerns me, Bertie. Better to be safe and all that."
"Yes, Aunt Dahlia," I said, and she stayed to wave me off as I drove the car out of sight.
I ran into Waterbury coming out of the village. Well, not literally ran into him but if he'd taken that left hand turn any quicker, I would have needed the doctor more than either of our injured Frenchmen and my poor two-seater would never have been the same. I relayed news of the doused flames and sent all but Dr Hudson back to their homes. It was a lucky thing the doctor was part of the local volunteers, since it saved Waterbury doing one of his infamous hair-raising turns and meant that by the time I'd walked back to my car and sat down, Dr Hudson was clinging for dear life to the passenger door as Uncle Tom's car blurred into the distance.
I supposed that, in such an emergency, having a chauffeur with a heavy foot and ambitious steering wheel is an advantage, but for my money, I'd choose Jeeves' serene driving style over Waterbury's any day. While death-defying thrills may be exciting, there is a limit to how much excitement a man can take on a daily basis.
The trip back afforded me time to think. Most of my thoughts revolved around my feet; a ten mile drive is a lot easier on the old frame than an eighteen mile bicycle ride but the metal ridges of the pedals were causing me some discomfort. To ignore one discomfort, I concentrated on another.
The question of Jeeves was a tricky one. Part of me wanted to believe that Facet was nothing more than a roving Casanova, a bounder who charmed and vanished, but I could not ignore the possibility that Jeeves -- a man who understood the psychology of the individual in a precise and insightful way -- had recognised something valuable beneath the highly appealing exterior. I would not go so far as to suggest a kindred spirit because I doubt a soul as fine as Jeeves' could ever find an equal, but he might have found a like mind, which was a disturbing, and in some ways terrifying, conclusion.
I could ban the match and act like a disapproving uncle, but on what grounds? And what was to stop Jeeves from mentioning, in a discreet and careful manner, the appeal of country living and the value of a change in employment? It would only take a careful word to Seppings and Aunt Dahlia would snap Jeeves up before the ink had dried on his letter of resignation.
If word should get to the Drones, the clamour for Jeeves would rival a herd of elephants thundering to the last good watering hole. There would be bids for his attention, contending offers of nights off and salary increases, and wild promises of sartorial power. I would be able to hear the din from Worchester.
While I would have the likes of Brinkley. I shuddered at the thought. Brinkley and his ilk of pressed-service servants made it known through word and deed that the sterling pound was their sole motivation. The noble spirit of feudal responsibilities had perished in their breasts -- if it had ever lived within them -- and one is left with the icy knowledge that it is only the thought of a quid that forces them to don bowler hat and play the role of valet.
Jeeves has never had this attitude. He would consider the implication insulting and approaches the topic of monetary gain as he approaches the idea of doorways. I am quite sure he uses both as necessary, but you would have to watch quite closely to catch him at the act, and he would no more discuss remuneration and costs than he would speak on the proper use of a door handle. I am quite sure he is paid a fair amount, but I passed my financial concerns into Jeeves' steady hands some years ago. I always find enough money in my pocket to cover a few meals out and a cab fare home and am quite happy to leave the tiring job of restocking that float to Jeeves.
Jeeves does a marvellous job of it. In fact, some time ago, he mentioned changing rates of interest and returns, and I took his word for the thing, signed where I was told and focused on the more important task of honing my putt for the upcoming Drones' tournament. Without Jeeves, I'm not even sure which bank I'd need to see.
That decided the matter for me. I resolved to keep Jeeves by my side. If that meant pitching in -- as I would for any chum -- and helping the desired happily ever after ending to rumble round, so be it. He was more deserving of that ending than many of the chumps I'd assisted over the years and if I wanted him to forgive my blunder in the garden and continue as both employee, confidant and, dare I say it, friend, I would treat him as one and put a fast stop to any petty jealousy on my part. He would have my utmost support and I would not, under any circumstances, give in to my urge to biff Facet square on the nose.
(The urge was very tempting but we Woosters are battle-hardened and decent to the bone. I would do the right thing by Jeeves if it killed me.)
I arrived back at the house not a minute too soon. The dull ridges had started to bite into the soft soles of my exposed feet and resulted in a most uncoordinated stumble as I trekked up the stairs to my room. Luckily, the halls were empty -- everyone seeing to Facet and Anatole was my guess -- so there were no witnesses to my graceless lurching steps.
I opened my door, intending to crawl between the welcoming sheets, and found Jeeves waiting for me. He was fully dressed, thank heavens -- after such a trip, I doubt I could have borne the added blow of seeing his pyjamas again -- but it was still a shock to see him. I would have assumed he'd be by Facet's side, carefully keeping vigil, possibly with Facet's hand clasped between his own as Facet smiled bravely into his eyes.
Instead of playing the concerned lover, Jeeves led me to the armchair and produced a shallow tub filled with warm water. The first dip of my big toe into the gently steaming water was nothing short of divine. Jeeves has a bit about souls standing ajar and welcoming the ecstatic experience. I've never been sure if my soul was ajar or not, but I welcomed the experience of soaking my bruised and battered feet and ecstasy was forthcoming.
I closed my eyes and let out a sigh. "How did you think of this, Jeeves?"
"When informed of your intentions to fetch a medical professional without appropriate footwear," Jeeves said, and looked over at my slippers, as if blaming them for the entire affair, "the necessity of hot water became apparent, sir."
"Then I thank you, Jeeves. While my whole self is always in your debt, my feet are singing your praises far and wide. If they could sing."
"Yes, sir."
Jeeves placed a warmed towel around my shoulders and made one of those rummy little coughs of his. I now know that it is his way of drawing attention to himself without interrupting, but during our first month together, I found myself searching pockets for a lozenge to offer him. I used to be susceptible to colds, especially in my days back at Eton, and constantly carried lozenges on my person but I’d outgrown both habits by the time Jeeves miraculously appeared at my front door.
When Jeeves feels the need to clear his throat, it is always worth paying attention to him. "Yes, Jeeves?"
Jeeves focused on a spot beside my left ear. "I believe that this might be an appropriate time to discuss the events of this evening, sir."
"Me lead-footing it down to Main Street, you mean?"
"I was thinking of events that occurred earlier in the evening, sir."
I nodded. Clearly, Jeeves had spent part of his time jigsawing the occurrences that led to the exciting drama. To tell the truth, I was more than a little curious as to how the fire had started. "Go on, Jeeves. Explain all."
Jeeves started. He did not do a double-take or swing his head around; he didn't let his jaw drop wide and show the whites of his eyes. But he did raise both eyebrows and allow the muscles of his cheeks to slacken slightly. I wondered what had surprised him so.
"Sir," he said and then cleared his throat again, returning his gaze to the headrest of my chair. "I regret to say that this evening's surprising proceedings caught me at a disadvantage and I behaved in a manner not entirely appropriate to the situation."
There he stopped and I was left gaping like a cod or possibly a halibut. Jeeves would know which fish I more closely resembled. "I'm afraid I don't follow your meaning, Jeeves. Perhaps a whisky and soda would shed some light onto that rather dark and hazy sentence."
"Very good, sir," Jeeves said, sprinkling a touch of relief into his tone.
While Jeeves prepared the w-and-s, I pondered. Contrary to his own assertions, Jeeves had seemed as in control of his faculties as a jockey on a prize-winning gelding. He had not panicked, had not run away and had not, as I had, considered leaving a man to burn.
Aha, I thought to myself as I saw the answer. Though I had glanced away quickly, Jeeves must have seen me notice him with Facet and was now -- in his overly cautious, respectable way -- feeling some shame at acting like that in front of his master.
I took the glass from his tray with a thankful wave. "I see your point, Jeeves, and I implore you to banish it from your mind. I am not the type of employer, nor the type of man, to hold such a thing against you."
"That is gratifying to hear, sir."
The man did not meet my eyes, still smarting at his supposed shame, and I felt a warm glow as I thought of my resolution to help him. A feudal spirit may be a boon to an employer but I suddenly saw, like Sir Drake rounding Cape Horn, that this rare, fine trait was bound to have a detrimental effect on an attempt to woo.
For a moment, I was tempted to share my intentions with Jeeves, to tell him that he could put his mind at rest because B. W. Wooster was about to champion his cause. Then I considered the way that some fellows can be downright ingrates when it comes to a helping hand in the romance area and take offence to a friend's charitable efforts. In this, I would take a leaf from Jeeves' own book and quietly arrange matters without informing him. I wasn't helping him in order to gain his gratitude, so there was no need to announce my objectives. If, being the sharp cove that he is, Jeeves later put the clues together and asked me, I would explain all and accept heartfelt thank-yous then.
I took a moment to imagine the grateful look in his eye when he discovered all. I might find that my next pair of argyle socks stayed in my drawer for more than two weeks. I might even be able to convince him to let me wear my new boater in Hyde Park.
I blinked and realised that Jeeves was once again using his impersonation of a distant sheep with a sore throat to gain my attention. "Yes, Jeeves?"
"Sir, with regard to recent developments--"
I cut him off before he could say any more. The matter did not require an apology and while I was all encouragement and support of the idea, I did not require any details. "I say, Jeeves, could you organise a picnic for tomorrow?"
"A picnic, sir?"
"Yes, a picnic. The idea of spending an afternoon in the forest appeals to me. We could spread cold left-overs across a warm blanket and sit about in dappled sunshine consuming a bot. of wine or two. It really is the weather for it, Jeeves."
"Indeed, sir. I believe we could take some of the chicken served at yesterday's luncheon."
"I think you mean today's luncheon, Jeeves," I said, clearly remembering the taste of that dish.
"Technically, as it is now after midnight, that was yesterday, sir."
"Oh, I see. Very well then."
Now, gentle readers, you may be questioning my new-found resolve to assist the Jeeves-Facet fling. Inviting Jeeves away for an intimate picnic for two is not the action of a graceful and defeated suitor. I agree with this, but during the drive back I had started to formulate a plan and the first step was this invitation. The second step, which I would implement tomorrow -- or today, I wasn't quite sure of which was which, but it would not be for a few more hours -- would be to invite Facet along too and phrase it as an opportunity to show him the countryside and to keep him far from Tuppy and Angela's idle hours. Then I would go for a walk through the trees and make myself scarce, allowing Facet the chance to sweep Jeeves off his feet, away from gossiping servants and curious eyes.
It was bound to work.
I was still convinced of its ability to work the next morning (or later that same morning, I'm still not entirely sure. Waking up in the middle of the night and driving down to the village, returning to change out of one's pyjamas into a soft shirt, as no other pyjamas had been packed, and then go back to bed tends to mess with a fellow's internal time-keeping), when I suggested that Jeeves stop in and check on Facet's health while I breakfasted. I hovered about Aunt Dahlia's study afterwards, helping myself to the books on her shelves for possibly an hour, and then made my way to Jeeves' lair.
He was ironing trousers with a little more flair than usual. Jeeves doesn't wear his heart on his sleeve and only occasionally wears it on his face, but watching him about his scut work gives a firm indication of his mood. An icy silence and restrained motions signal displeasure; an overly focused glance at an object and cautious care of the task show he's attempting to use that large brain of his to wrestle an insurmountable problem to the ground. A softening of the movements and a slow, tender approach to the job, as he was showing now, mark a contentment verging on happiness.
For the first week of Biffy's engagement to the now Mrs. Biffy, the former Mabel and the continuing Jeeves' niece, Jeeves displayed all these signs so I must assume that the match was quite welcomed amongst his kith and kin. Now, after visiting Facet and enquiring about his health on his employer's entreaty, Jeeves was showing those same signs.
It warmed the wotsits of my heart. There is a saying that a good deed is its own reward, and anyone who has felt the satisfied glow of helping a chum find a cheery ending will understand why I pushed the door fully open -- instead of the few inches I had been using to appraise Jeeves' mood -- with a smile. "Good morning, Jeeves."
Jeeves nodded and returned to his ironing board. "Good morning, sir."
"Everything set for this afternoon's excursion? Pics are picked, nics are nicked, all taken care of?"
"The pertinent arrangements have all been finalised, sir."
"Plenty of food, do you think?" I asked, wandering over to the small window. It afforded a view of the orchard and very little else. "Enough for three, Jeeves?"
"The kitchen staff do believe that generosity is only bounded by the limits of what can be packed within a picnic hamper, sir."
"Good, good," I said, staring out at the blue skies and clement weather. It was promising, that's what it was. "I thought that, given last night's escapades, it might be a jolly good idea to invite Facet along, Jeeves."
"Indeed, sir?"
There was a sharpness to Jeeves' tone that made me quite glad I hadn't shared my intended plans with him. Being a subtle creature, discreet to the end, Jeeves would be mortified at the idea of anyone guessing the lay of his affections, and a chap embarrassed is a chap likely to strike out at his nearest and dearest. Luckily, I have sat through many a luncheon with an aunt, and know that the best way to lie is not to meet their eyes.
Accordingly, I didn't turn around. "After a nasty dose of smoke inhalation, a good breath of fresh, country air might do him the world of good, Jeeves. There's also the chance to see the English countryside with someone who's grown up in the area and can share interesting anecdotes, combined with someone else who can interpret said interesting stories. It could make a nice afternoon."
"I am sure M Facet would appreciate your kind thoughts, sir, but there is the potential hazard that his current health may not allow it."
"Oh, balderdash, Jeeves. You said last night that they'd simply gasped a bit too much smoke and would be fine. Besides," I said, turning around to find Jeeves had finished the trousers and was now watching me in the way that a falcon watches a fieldmouse, "what standard of athletic prowess is needed to sit in a car, be driven to the countryside and then sit on a blanket?"
"A long journey can be quite tiring to a recovering body, sir."
"Then we'll make it a short journey, Jeeves. And he can use the blanket to have a nap between trips."
"Still, sir--"
"No, Jeeves," I said, firmly but kindly. One must respect that infatuation can cause the bravest of men to shy from the idea of being left alone with their paramour and will leave them keen to wrestle alligators rather than talk to a certain girl in front of mutual acquaintances, but there are times when the kindest thing is to cruelly force them to be discomfited. Jeeves has this bit about omelettes and eggs, and the same thing is true of self-respect and romance: you cannot have one without damaging the other. "I think this would be best for all. I'll trouble you to ensure Facet is invited."
I would have done it myself but my French is limited to asking for another drink and would not extend to knowing words like 'picnic'. I could have asked Anatole to use his strange combination of proper English and Brooklyn vernacular to interpret, but I doubted Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Tom would allow anyone else access to their treasured chef.
"Yes, sir," Jeeves said in a manner so coldly polite that I nearly stepped down and gave him his way. Were it not for the Wooster courage, and the thought of his grateful manner when he realised how I had aided this match, I would have stammered that he was right and given up my point. Instead, I gave him an encouraging grin.
"That's the spirit, Jeeves." Then, as one who has a sharp sense of knowing to the moment when I have overstayed my welcome, I left.
The standing arrangement was to meet at the garage at noon so I wandered the gardens until the appropriate time. While there, I ran into Tuppy who was eager to explain last night's events to me.
Continued in Part Four
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-10-19 03:33 am (UTC)With Jeeves pajamas, that is.
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Date: 2007-10-19 06:59 am (UTC)And thank you!
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Date: 2007-10-19 03:57 pm (UTC)I was going to wait to comment till the end, but Bertie's oblique confession and then stiff-upper-lipping and trying to be cheerful and fairminded abobut the rejection has killed me. I want to throw my arms around him and cuddle him endlessly, though this process would doubtlessly horrify him. Jeeves had darn well better make it up to him in the end.
On an entirely different note, Jeeves's pajamas are love. It's so adorable that he's too honorable not to wear them.
*moons over both the boys endlessly*
Seriously, this story is making me so happy. And I must now get back to reading it.
no subject
Date: 2007-10-20 01:06 am (UTC)*laughs* Well, as long as you promised that you didn't want to marry him and weren't using him to get back at your father or fiance, he'd probably let you.
The thing about Bertie is that he's the worlds biggest sweetheart. Seriously, there is nothing that he owuldn't do to try to help other people be happy. Time and time again he acts generously and honorably,a nd doesn't hold a grudge when their happy ending comes at the expense of Bertie's pride and reputation.
On an entirely different note, Jeeves's pajamas are love. It's so adorable that he's too honorable not to wear them.
I adore the idea of Jeeves and his PJs. It's a terrible situation that Jeeves would be mortified to be caught in, but the occasional mortification is good for the soul. Just ask Bertie.
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Date: 2007-10-22 11:49 pm (UTC)As for Jeeves being so dignified in such awful pyjamas - only he could do that. Ah, the mental image! *g*
Such a fantastic story!
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Date: 2007-10-23 12:11 am (UTC)He's such a sweetheart, he really is.
As for Jeeves being so dignified in such awful pyjamas - only he could do that.
*laughs* There is an innate Jeevesness that gives him dignity regardless of the situation or appearance. It's something that Bertie sorely lacks.
no subject
Date: 2007-10-23 04:36 am (UTC)First comment I've left on this story, because the suspense is such that I can't bring myself to stop between chapters. I'm only pausing now because it's late and I'm getting too tired to appreciate the writing. This is fantastic.
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Date: 2007-10-23 04:47 am (UTC)Thank you!
I think "impersonation of a stature" should be "of a statue".
Oh, man. Seriously, I'm not even going to admit how many hours I spent editing this thing (or how many other people have looked at it and not noticed that). I swear, there's always *something* left. (and thanks for pointing it out. I'll fix it now.)
no subject
Date: 2007-10-25 04:31 pm (UTC)"Nearly identical, Jeeves. For a moment, I thought it was Aunt Agatha. Then I realised she does not make a habit of sitting on signposts by country roads."
But then you wrote:
"The thing looks as if it's planning my next engagement, Jeeves. It's frightfully unnerving."
And I died of laughter!! XDDDD
there have been recorded cases of people dying from fire or smoke, while the numbers extinguished by frogs and umbrellas remains so low as to be negligible
Wodehousian through and through, I tell you! XDDD
But my favourite line by far is this one:
Jeeves stood out like a tropical butterfly in a collection of cabbage moths
Your images are so powerful and with the perfect touch of humour!
no subject
Date: 2007-10-25 04:35 pm (UTC)Your images are so powerful and with the perfect touch of humour!
I swear, that is probably my favourite line out of this entire story. It cracks me up and I think it's delightful. So I'm glad it tickles your fancy too.
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Date: 2008-10-02 04:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-02 11:10 pm (UTC)Heh. There are times when dealing with Bertie would require the patience of a saint -- or at least the patience of Jeeves, which I certainly don't have. But given that it's Bertie and he has Jeeves to steer him in the right direction, you know it'll all work out for the best.
Jeeves and the Tennis Coach
Date: 2010-05-11 05:23 am (UTC)*scampers off to read parts 4&5*
Re: Jeeves and the Tennis Coach
Date: 2010-05-12 03:06 am (UTC)Thank you! As long as the angst is about something relatively harmless -- the greatest dangers in Bertie's world are the risk to clothing, friend's happiness and the threat of aunts -- it can work. As long as there are happy endings all round by the time it's all sorted.