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out_thereTitle: Jeeves and the Tennis Coach
Author: out_there
Fandom: Jeeves and Wooster
Continued from Parts One, Two and Three.
"Bertie, it was the wine." Here he gestured, throwing arms wide and I stared, adrift upon a sea of incomprehension. "Anatole and that blasted cousin of his were drinking in the kitchen, and one of them knocked over a wine bottle. It fell near the fireplace."
"Oh," I said, still adrift with no land in sight.
He frowned at me. "You remember at Eton, when Oofy and Barmy played catch with the 1909 Merlot? Oofy missed, the thing smashed into the fire and the back of Oofy's jacket was beyond repair."
"Oofy smelled like smoke for the next week," I said, remember the incident. It was the same smell that had somehow clung to me since last night. I had used a good dose of cologne but beneath that palatable, sophisticated fragrance, the aroma of burnt kitchen remained.
"Same thing happened here," Tuppy said, poking me with a ham-like finger. "The pair were drinking, got tight as owls, knocked over a bottle and then passed out. After that, all it took was one little spark and the floor was suddenly on fire."
"Let me guess. They were too soused to rouse themselves and put the fire out?" This is the precise reason that there is always a servant on the Drones' premises. Otherwise, the place would have burnt down years ago.
"Exactly, Bertie. Imagine what would have happened if that maid hadn't stumbled down there and rung the alarm."
"Uncle Tom's fear of burning to death in his bed might have been realised," I said gravely.
"Oh, forget Uncle Tom," Tuppy replied, grimacing in horror. "We might never have eaten one of Anatole's meals again."
I shuddered at the thought and on that dismal note, we bade our farewells. I approached the garage expecting my two-seater to be out and awaiting my arrival, but for some reason, Waterbury had substituted Uncle Tom's car. I have nothing personal against Uncle Tom's car other than the fact that I have known it since my youth. The seats remain overstuffed and, while the suspension tries its best to compensate for the hard seating, driving along any unpaved road leaves you feeling as shaken as a good martini.
Not to mention that navigating its gears can be trying at the best of times. It would not have been my vehicle of choice.
On the other hand, there would be three of us travelling, and the two-seater would leave me cramped and folded over in the back. Jeeves must have realised this and organised the larger car.
"What ho, Jeeves," I said, spying him around the back. He was lifting something into the boot, presumably our lunch. "Good thought to rustle up Uncle Tom's Jalopy. The back seat will be much more comfortable for me."
"I'm afraid that Jane and M Facet are already sitting in the back seat, sir." Jeeves was hidden behind the car, so I couldn't see if there was a quirk to his lips or not, but judging by the supercilious tone, I'd lay odds of twenty to one that he was looking quite self-satisfied.
I walked behind the car to test my theory. My money would have been safe. "Jane, Jeeves?"
"One of the maids, sir."
"I didn't invite Jane along, Jeeves."
"You did imply that it would be best if M Facet could have amusing and interesting narratives related by a native of the area, sir." Jeeves closed the boot with a firm, sharp push and then gave the car a satisfied pat. "Jane was born in the village and has lived in the surrounding countryside her entire life. I thought she was an extraordinarily appropriate match to your requirements, sir."
"I was talking about me, Jeeves."
"Indeed, sir?"
"I was the one to relate anecdotes. We didn't need a fourth party, Jeeves. I doubt the kitchen would have packed enough food."
"I did inform the kitchen of the number of personages attending your picnic, sir. They were good enough to pack a second hamper for us."
"Still, Jeeves, I had no plan of having a maid tag along."
"I am sorry, sir," Jeeves said, tilting his chin faintly. If I'd ever seen a man less sorry for his actions, I'd eat my hat. "If I'd realised that was not your intention, I would never have invited her."
Dash it; my plan had been quite simple. Now, due to Jeeves and his blasted maid, I'd need to ensure that not only was I far away from the romantic pair, but also that the girl was. The last thing Jeeves needed was a pair of gawking country eyes judging his every action and spreading stories through the servants' hall.
"If you feel strongly that her presence is unwelcome, it would be best that you told her quickly, sir, before her hopes for this afternoon's festivities become too fanciful and excited."
I stared at him balefully. "She's in the dratted car, Jeeves. I can't just go up to a girl and tell her that she was invited by mistake. It would be hurtful."
"It is a conundrum, sir."
"She will simply have to come," I said with a sigh.
"Very good, sir."
We walked around to the front of the car and I was so distracted by the thought of having to entertain a maid -- not any old maid, but Jane, who started if you looked sideways at her -- the entire afternoon, I nearly sat beside Jeeves in the front. I opened the door and stood up. "Oh, no, this isn't right."
Behind the steering wheel, Jeeves looked quite settled. "May I enquire as to what is troubling you, sir?"
I couldn't bally well tell him that the entire purpose of the trip was to force him and Facet together, and that having them sit apart for the journey there would start the entire thing on the wrong foot, so I improvised. "The suspension in this car is terrible, Jeeves. You feel every jolt if you sit up in the front."
Jeeves raised a brow. "You would prefer the back seat, sir?"
"I would, Jeeves. Ask Facet to swap with me."
"As you wish, sir," Jeeves said, and then turned around to ask Facet something in French and got an equally Gallic answer in return. Facet's shaking head told me what I didn't want to know. "M Facet says that he suffers from a form of motion sickness and would be highly uncomfortable in the front of a moving vehicle."
"Tell him that the fresh air will be good for him, Jeeves."
Jeeves did and again Facet's answer was negative. "He would not feel fit to travel, sir. Perhaps Jane would not object to switching places with you."
Jane, mouse that she was, squeaked. "I'd be fine with it, sir."
"Oh," I said, "thank you."
I got out and she got out, and we changed seats. Now, instead of sitting beside Jeeves, I was stuck beside Facet and the two were still parted. It hadn't improved matters.
"Are you ready to go, sir?"
I had to think quickly. "Not yet, Jeeves. I think I'd feel better if I were driving."
"Indeed, sir?" I would never say that Jeeves was scornful of his employer, but there are times when he comes close and this was one of those times.
The reason was simple: Uncle Tom's car may be kept in good condition and far more spacious for a group, but driving it is akin to driving a charging rhinoceros. You need to keep your wits about you or you end up running headlong over and sometimes into ditches, and leaving the road far behind. In matters of steering, it takes a lot of hard effort and the occasional grunt of exertion to force it around a corner.
I avoid driving it for that very reason. "I feel in the mood for a drive, Jeeves. Hop up and we'll switch places."
"If you are sure, sir," Jeeves said doubtfully, not moving from behind the steering wheel.
"I'm jolly sure, Jeeves," I said, climbing out of the back seat and waiting at the drivers' side until Jeeves slowly relinquished his seat. Once he was in the back, beside Facet, we departed.
The moment I pressed my foot to the pedal, I realised the drawback to the current seating arrangements. I had considered the vigilance required by the car's sometimes unresponsive steering wheel but had forgotten the way that my feet -- already abused by pedals less than ten hours earlier -- would object to being used again. The whir of the engine covered my minuscule hiss of pain as I eased the beast forward. In the rear-view mirror, I spotted Jeeves watching me, trying his hardest to mimic the aloof and slightly bored expression of the stuffed moose hanging over the Drones' fireplace. (The stuffed moose, nicknamed Nokes for obvious reasons, was not only a fixture of my club but also provided a bored chap the entertaining opportunity to throw hats, napkin rings and the sporadic pair of sock garters onto his antlers. These efforts were scored according to item, distance and difficulty of the angle.)
Jeeves did not utter a word. But he did so in a way reminiscent of Chuffy's first reaction upon seeing Barmy, after one of Barmy's gags had backfired and left Barmy with bright green eyebrows for a week. It was the silence of a man so full of mirth that he couldn't find words to express it.
Gritting my teeth, I pressed on the accelerator and ignored Jeeves' amusement. While the man himself is far from cruel, Jeeves' sense of humour can be callous at times. I have learnt, of course, that there is no point in reprimanding him for this failing; he may derive hilarity from minor insults to my form but he will always ensure that such embarrassments are borne for a reason and achieve a purpose.
In this case, the payoff was the conversation occurring in the back seat. Jeeves and Facet had bent their heads closer together and were chatting away. There was no such merriment in the front seat. Jane is one of those females who, regardless of her other talents, has not been blessed with the art of conversation. When asked if she's lived here all her life, she's inclined to say, "Yes, sir" and then let a suffocating silence fall. When asked her opinion of the place, she said, "Oh, I like it, sir."
While I consider myself quite the conversationalist, it's singularly hard to foster a chat with such an ungracious subject while gritting one's teeth and trying not to curse whoever decided pedals would be an important part of automobile usage. For me, the journey was tedious but for Jeeves, chitchatting pleasantly behind us, it was a different story.
Tedious was the best way to describe the entire outing, actually. The food was magnificent -- Jeeves and Jane both serving up while I poured wine and Facet did nothing more than hold glasses -- but the conversation dragged. I would remark upon the favourable weather and Jane would oh-yes while Jeeves translated to Facet and then translated Facet's oh-yes back. I tried telling a story I'd heard down at the Drones -- the one about a Frenchman, his daughters and a cow -- but having to wait for Jeeves to interpret every sentence ruined the rhythm of the thing. No one laughed at the end of it and Jeeves spent the next five minutes explaining why the pun was funny.
After the second glass of wine I had had my fill of the stifled conversation and entreated Jane to come for a walk with me. She had been a touch reluctant and Jeeves -- understandably nervous at the idea of being left alone with his inamorato -- had not encouraged the idea, but after using all the Wooster charm I had at my disposal, she assented.
Amongst the gently rustling trees and brindled sunlight, the warm breeze and sweet scent of wildflowers, the conversation flopped like a freshly caught fish and died gasping.
You will remember, dear readers, that my initial problem with the Basset was the way that we would end up echoing each other and standing in awkward silences. The walk with Jane was not much better.
"Nice breeze," said I.
"Yes, sir," she said.
"Very pleasant," I said.
"Very nice," she said, and then we both dropped to stillness.
A wren sat upon a branch, singing in a joyful way that made me wonder if it shared Jeeves' general approach to comedy, and I pointed it out. In times like this, my suave sophistication deserts me. "Oh, look, a wren."
She looked hopelessly at me and then at it, and then back to me. "Yes, sir."
"I guess you'd get a lot of them around here. I mean, living in the country and all."
"They are quite common, sir."
"Very common?" I asked, clutching at conversational straws.
"Reasonably so, sir."
I could transcribe the rest of the horrifyingly dull conversation but pity for my readers stays my pen. It is enough that you understand that these moments were the highlight of our wander and that the interaction deteriorated from there.
I soldiered on as best I could and distracted myself from the damp laconism with the thought of Jeeves and Facet. I imagined them relaxing upon the blanket, Jeeves pouring another glass of wine each and the conversation becoming lazy and jovial. I allowed my mind to gambol further than was proper, thinking of how I would expect Jeeves to act if I was Facet, if you follow my meaning. I was in the middle of picturing Jeeves -- lying on his side, head propped up on one hand, other arm reaching out to brush a stray hair from my cheek -- when I tripped over an inconveniently placed root and twisted my ankle.
In such instances, one's first thought is usually for one's pride. Sprawled across the ground, gaze level with some girl's calves, one's first instinct is to reassure all and sundry that you are perfectly fine and scramble to one's feet. I did this, and then let out an almighty yelp at the pain and ended up tumbling into Jane. Stronger than she looks, Jane was able to support my weight for a moment but then I tried to stand and she tried to step, and we both tumbled to the ground.
There was a slight scuffle as we untangled limbs, leaving both of us a touch messy, and then she stood up, face flaming, and made a beeline for the trees, mumbling something about getting help. A nobler, braver man than myself would have stood up, endured the pain, and walked back to the car. A determined man would have crawled on hands and knees, and have inevitably ruined his suit as he did so. I, on the other hand, sat against a tree trunk and waited for Jeeves.
It wasn't a long wait. Jane and I had been gone an hour, but we'd been walking quite slowly and I'd just managed to drag myself upright -- using the branches of the birch behind me -- when Jeeves arrived. I can now state with absolute assurance that Jeeves can step on twigs and dried leaves, and still not make a sound.
"Ah, Jeeves," I said, pleased to see him but quite aware of the way my foot had started to throb like a bass drum keeping beat. "Perhaps you could lend a hand?"
"Certainly, sir," he said and glinted to my side. "If you were to place your arm around my shoulders, I believe we could make it back to the car."
"As you say, Jeeves."
For all the tediousness of the walk there, the hop back was twice as arduous and twice as long. The dips and bumps of uneven ground are easy to navigate with two legs but when hopping, losing one's balance becomes a constant threat. Jeeves was quite placid about the matter, tightening his arm around my back as needed, but we were only a third of the way back when I was ready to admit defeat.
"Stop, Jeeves," I said, and my man faithfully did so. "It is warm weather, the nights are mild and I am quite sure that if you would be so good as to fetch the picnic blanket and leave me the remains of the picnic for dinner, I could spend the night here."
"I could not advise it, sir."
"Why not?" I said, turning quickly and needing to steady myself with a hand on his arm. Thankfully, Jeeves wrapped his other arm around my waist and helped me stay upright. For a moment, I thought of how this would appear to a casual onlooker -- his arms around my back, mine around his shoulders -- and felt my face start to heat. I glanced down, hoping Jeeves would not notice.
"The most common way of easing the pain and discomfort of a twisted ankle is to apply ice to the swelling, sir. If you were to spend the night in our current surroundings, there would be no reliable way to transport the required ice here or to ensure that the limb remained raised and cooled appropriately. It would be best to return to Brinkley Court and treat the injury as soon as practical." He spoke so evenly that I was sure he had not perceived my momentary self-consciousness and I raised my head as he added, "If the pain is too great to continue in this manner, then perhaps another method should be considered."
"I did consider crawling, Jeeves, but it would ruin these trousers completely. I am quite sure that if you leave me that extra bot. of wine, the pain will not bother me at all. I will sleep like the dead, and in the morning--"
I paused, and Jeeves raised an eyebrow. "Do you intend to walk back to Brinkley Court, sir?"
"Well, no. I thought that you could come and pick me up. I'm sure I could walk to the road, Jeeves." That is the problem with Jeeves' eyebrow raising: it makes quite logical, sensible plans seem rather silly when you stop and think about them. "To be honest, I don't see any other way."
"In the haze of distraction that physical distress inevitably causes, sir, I believe one option may have been overlooked."
"And what's that, Jeeves?"
"That with a damaged leg, the quickest and most effective way to move you from here to the car would be one that did not require you to walk, sir. In this case, the most logical solution would be for me to bear you to the automobile."
I stared at him. "You mean lift me aloft and carry me through the wilderness? Jeeves, I think I would prefer to continue limping."
"If you insist, sir," Jeeves said, his face quite devoid of any agreement. "Judging by our current rate of travel, we will reach the car by sunset if we take the shorter route, which sadly lacks an even plane or a downward slope."
"Oh," I said, not keen on the idea of playing hop-a-long all the way back to the car and part of me far too keen to clamber into Jeeves arms and hold on tight as he saved the day. It occurred to me that a true preux chevalier would have no doubts about this choice, and would selflessly struggle onwards and upwards. While I have always taken great pride in acting like a knight of old, there is something about Jeeves' steady presence that makes it difficult to do what is right and so very tempting to act as I shouldn't. I consoled myself with the thought that at least this way, one of us would still act as a knight saving those weaker than him. "Very well, Jeeves."
"Thank you, sir," Jeeves said, bending at the knees and scooping me up. I have seen Jeeves carry the occasional extremely sozzled acquaintance of mine, and he always does so over one shoulder. I believe it's called a 'Firemen's lift', probably because it leaves a strong man able to descend a ladder. I had expected Jeeves to lift me in the same fashion, but instead he hoisted me in front of him -- an arm beneath my knees, an arm beneath my back, that type of thing -- and I felt like some heavily made up heroine, carried from danger by her sheik.
Except, of course, my sheik was less in the way of flowing white robes and more inclined to bowler hats and sacque suits, and his lines of dialogue had nothing to do with carrying me to my noble steed.
"Perhaps it would be best if you removed your cap and held on to it, sir. Otherwise, we face the risk of a stray branch purloining it as we pass by."
"Very good, Jeeves," I said and tucked the article of headwear between my shirt and sweater vest.
Once I had both arms around his shoulders -- deciding that if Jeeves was determined to play the heroic lead for this rescue, I was entitled to luxuriate in the experience -- and my head tucked against his neck, Jeeves was off at a steady, smooth stroll. I should not have been surprised that Jeeves could carry a man without any noticeable change in stride or respiration, without the occasional jar of a wrongly placed foot or the annoyance of flicking branches. Jeeves aptitude towards stealth served him as well in nature as it did upon carpet.
I won't deny that I took a certain amount of pleasure in the strong warmth of Jeeves' arms and the unyielding press of his starched collar against my cheek. I also found myself noticing the brawn of his shoulders beneath my hands and will even admit to sliding my right hand across an inch in order to rest my thumb upon the exposed skin of his neck.
In this fashion, the jaunt back to the car passed far too quickly for my liking. Jeeves posited me in the front seat -- passenger's side, not driver's for good reason -- and I was loath to release him. Heart pounding in my chest and all that, I forced myself to speak.
"Jeeves," I said, as he was still bent over me and in the process of reclaiming his arms from beneath me.
He paused and pulled his head back enough to spare me a sombre, searching glance. "Sir?"
"Well, I mean--"
There was a rustle behind Jeeves as Jane and Facet stepped out of the trees. This brought several unpleasant facts to mind: firstly, the existence of those other folk, whom I had completely forgotten; secondly, the existence of Facet in particular and his claim to Jeeves' affections; thirdly, that I myself had no such claim and had already been refused; fourthly, had we not been interrupted, I'd been about to be refused again; and finally, that I still had my arms locked around Jeeves. I pulled back the offending limbs and resolved to keep a more careful control over my unrequited infatuation.
If I wanted Jeeves to continue to fish me from the soup, I needed to be far more judicious. I couldn't throw my adoration around like a child throwing pebbles at the beach and expect Jeeves to stand around and submit to being pelted.
Jeeves turned to the rest of our party and confirmed that the picnic had been packed away. Jane, showing a tender practicality that I had not suspected, folded up the blanket and placed it under my left foot -- the one with the sprained ankle -- to cushion it against the shuddering suspension. I thanked her kindly and was greatly appreciative once Jeeves started the car and the juddering vibrated straight up my spine.
In the back seat, Facet and Jane looked as if they were playing an enclosed game of charades, attempting to discuss something about the seasons. Beside me, Jeeves drove with the steady, reassuring care I have come to expect from him, so I settled the cap back on my head, pulled it down over my eyes, and sought sleep.
I was restless at best, but closing my eyes, propping an arm out the window and leaning against the door was similar to the sensation of being upheld by Jeeves -- in the way that holding a seashell to your ear is similar to standing on a warm, sun-drenched beach in the Mediterranean -- and it helped the journey pass.
Back at the house, we found Tuppy and Angela talking on the front steps, so while Jeeves returned the car to the garage and Angela went to fetch Aunt Dahlia, Tuppy helped me up to my room and forced me to hop every one of those stairs. It was a less than delightful experience, but far easier on my self-restraint than having Jeeves carry me to bed.
Aunt Dahlia, a veritable magus when it comes to the subject of bruises and falls, poked, prodded and pronounced it a minor sprain requiring bandages, ice and a good vacation from weight-bearing. Ice was brought, bandages were wrapped and I was confined to my room upon danger of one of Aunt Dahlia's more imaginative threats. Seeing as I enjoyed all four limbs in working order, I complied readily.
I didn't comply so readily to Tuppy telling me -- after Aunt Dahlia left -- to pull my head in.
"I beg your pardon?" I said, with a suitable amount of outrage. When one has been recently injured, threatened by aunts and carried by menservants, one doesn't deserve abuse from friends. "Explain yourself, Tuppy."
"Explain yourself, Bertie," he replied with pique. "Explain inviting a maid to walk with you, all alone, for over an hour and returning to the house with her hair messed and leaves caught on her dress."
It is something quite peculiar about country houses. In the metrop., there are more activities and parties to attend and people have less time for idle gossip. In the more pastoral areas, there are no such distractions so household tittle-tattle travels at the speed of light or sound, whichever is quicker.
"We went for a stroll after the picnic. I tripped and fell on her."
He shook his head as disappointed as a vicar finding the altar boys stealing from the collection plate. "Oh, Bertie. Even Bingo would have a better cover story than that."
"It's not a story, Tuppy, it's what happened."
"Bertie, after all the years we've been friends, to think of you lying so shamelessly." Again he shook his head. If I'd been upright, a good foot taller and of heavier build, I would have shaken that head clean off his shoulders. "We all know what you're like. This isn't fair to her."
I sat up on the bed and tried to glare my displeasure at him, but it's quite hard to be intimidating when surrounded by pillows. "And what am I like, Tuppy?"
"You go through girls the way Boko goes through pens." Boko Fittleworth, a chap described as a colourful character only by those who like him a great deal, had a habit of buying new pens and constantly losing them. I have no idea where the pens went, since Boko spends most of his time at the races or at the club and neither has shown a marked increase in writing implements, but they disappeared nonetheless.
"I do not!"
"You do, Bertie. And while it's fine when it's Honorias and Florences, when it's girls from good families and responsible parents who will put every effort into seeing their daughter better matched, trying to draw the affection of a servant is beyond the pale. It's not cricket."
"Hmph!" I said.
"Angela will have a fit if you get one of the maids in trouble and scupper off before vows are exchanged."
"Tuppy!" I let my voice show how scandalised I was by this underhanded insinuation. "I have never in my life treated a girl in such a way."
"How many girls have you been engaged to, Bertie?" Tuppy asked and before I could answer, he added, "And how many of those have you married as promised?"
"I never once broke my promise," I retorted. "On each occasion, the girl changed her mind."
"And when it comes to a maid marrying into the family, do you think it's likely that she'll change her mind?"
My shoulders slumped at this unforeseen calamity. While there were a good number of bridges I'd be willing to cross for the sake of Jeeves' happiness, marrying a girl who jumped when I entered the room was not one of them. I couldn't recall saying anything that suggested marriage -- and our conversation had not been wordy enough for me to prattle about it and then forget -- but females are strange creatures. Just as you relax and consider them a friend, they're suddenly telling parents about upcoming marital bliss and planning wedding bouquets.
After a horrified moment, I managed, "It would be an advantageous match from her perspective."
"Precisely, Bertie--" but he got no further than that because Angela burst into the room at the speed of gossip in a provincial house.
"Bertie." She looked straight at me, her battle lanterns lit. "Jane is talking of engagements."
"Not to me, I hope." It was not the most charming of answers, but I had been caught off-guard.
"She hasn't announced it yet or stated the name of her betrothed." It was not a sentence that should have held a great deal of threat, but you must imagine it growled -- a little like a Doberman, a little like an Aberdeen Terrier -- with particular menace and then you will understand why I cringed away from my sweet cousin. "Tell me you did not, in your fumbling, accidental way, propose to one of our maids."
"I didn't," I assured her quickly, shifting backwards as far as the bed would let me, which was not far at all. "I swear upon our bonds of cousinly affection that I didn't."
"And I swear," she muttered, advancing upon my recumbent form, "if you have misled the poor girl and intend to withdraw your offer and leave her heartbroken, I will fetch Mummy's shotgun and make her well aware of the facts."
A discreet, quiet cough interrupted.
"Yes, Jeeves?" I asked, overwhelming thankful for his sudden appearance.
"If I may elucidate the current situation, sir?"
"By all means, Jeeves," I replied. Angela nodded and Tuppy made similar 'go on' noises.
"I believe that Mr Glossop and Miss Angela are not acquainted with the full facts of the matter. The engagement that Jane spoke of is not to Mr Wooster but to M Facet, and was only finalised after our return. To ensure both parties were fully aware of the implications and consequences of the proposal, I was enlisted to interpret the proposition and its favourable reply."
"I wondered what kept you," I thought aloud. "It doesn't usually take you so long to park a car, Jeeves."
"I handled the matter in the most timely manner possible, sir," Jeeves said without a hint of apology. "Such triumphs rarely consider the ambling pace of time."
"Oh, Tuppy," Angela said, in that soppy way of engaged girls everywhere. "We should go and congratulate them."
"A charming idea, Miss," Jeeves said, proving that, despite her infrequent urge to threaten me, Angela has retained a fond place in Jeeves' feudal heart. "I'm sure the happy couple will appreciate your thoughtfulness. They were in the rose garden when last I saw them."
"Pip pip, Bertie," Tuppy called out as Angela dragged him from my room and out towards the newly engaged.
"Pip pip," I called back, refusing to hold a grudge over the ungrateful way he had spoken to me earlier. As much as Tuppy reveres the old Etonian spirit, when it comes to Angela, childhood loyalties fly away on the breeze. It's no good holding it against the fellow; you might as well hold the fascination with newts against Gussie.
I glanced across and found Jeeves watching me, looking amazingly serene considering the circumstances.
"I say, is there a secret to your constant equable disposition? You seem to be taking this engagement in a very calm manner, Jeeves."
"It was a resolution most heartily wished for by both parties, sir."
"That's all very selfless and noble, Jeeves, but I must confess I'm at a bit of a loss."
"Indeed, sir?" Jeeves asked, placing a pillow beneath my foot. He shimmered beside me and started arranging pillows behind me as well. "I endeavoured to provide satisfaction and, while it did not occur precisely the way I had anticipated, I believe it has ended in an acceptable way for all involved."
"Well, yes, everyone else seems happy," I admitted. It reeked of injustice and a general rotten deal for Jeeves, and I felt quite indignant on his behalf. I leaned back on the pillows -- high enough that I was caught halfway between sitting upright and lying supine -- and folded my arms. "But I don't like it."
"No, sir?"
"Not one bit, Jeeves."
Jeeves gave me a long look, raising his chin slightly as he is wont to do when something particularly illogical has occurred. "Do you have a specific objection to the match, sir?"
"Not to the match itself, Jeeves, but the circumstances. When did you discover Facet's feelings in the matter?"
"During the second day of our stay here, I walked in the gardens with M Facet and he shared his plight with me. If you recall, sir, I shared the matter with you that afternoon, explaining his attraction towards a member of the household staff, and you implied that the details were already familiar to you."
"Well, yes, but you were talking about--" And here the old Wooster grey matter sprang into action. Jeeves had mentioned a representative of the domestic staff but he'd never stated a specific name. "You were talking about Jane!"
"Yes, sir."
"Oh," I said, seeing the error of my ways. All the time I had spent worrying about Facet's interest in Jeeves -- and vice versa -- had been futile. Facet had never been interested in Jeeves. I felt as though the ingredients to a Bertie Wooster cocktail would be a splash of nin, a touch of com, and a hearty dash of poop.
Jeeves did not frown but there was a touch of tension around the hairline area. "You did indicate your understanding of the matter, sir."
"I did understand, Jeeves. I simply understood incorrectly. I understood all the details other than the identity of Facet's paramour."
The touch of tension increased and the pale shadow of a crease appeared between Jeeves' eyes as he wrinkled his nose. The last time he had looked so confused at my words was when I had tried -- with less than successful results -- to induce him to approve my moustache. "Where did you think his interests lay, sir?"
I considered lying and trying to save my dignity, but it would have been a lost cause. Jeeves' ears are as sensitive as an aunt's when it comes to mistruths and deceptions. I could have lied but I am quite sure he would have discovered the facts eventually and it would probably happen in a far more embarrassing way. Better to have the matter over and done with now.
But that didn't mean I had to meet his eyes when I said it. "You, Jeeves. I thought his interest lay in you."
There was a long moment where Jeeves was quiet, quiet as only Jeeves can be, quiet as a cemetery in the middle of an unnaturally still night. "And my affections?"
"Jeeves?" I queried, not comprehending what the question actually was.
"You assumed that M Facet's affections lay in my direction, sir. What did you assume to be my feelings on the matter?"
I shrugged, then scratched the back of my neck, feeling as though I were standing in front of Mr Thistledown again, having to explain what happened to the class's frog. It was a sensation of impending doom. Quite strange, because Jeeves probably wasn't the sort to tender resignation over something as mild and harmless as an employer's prying, nosy suppositions. At least, I desperately hoped he wasn't.
"I assumed Facet's feelings were reciprocated, Jeeves."
"Indeed, sir?"
"He is frightfully attractive, Jeeves. According to Angela, he's sweet and charming and many other delightful things. It would not surprise me if half the population of Brinkley Court were head over heels for the chap, and--" I winced, trying to explain a not particularly prudent assumption. "And he really is frightfully attractive."
I dared a glance up at Jeeves but the outlook was not promising. Jeeves looked extremely blank, frozen in ice or possibly captured in marble, and the only sign of life was the occasional blink.
"I know they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Jeeves, but a beholder would have to be blind not to see that beauty. And while I admit that my meddling may not have brought the best results -- I should have stepped back and let you orchestrate the entire affair -- it was derived from the best intentions and I truly thought--"
"Sir," Jeeves said in a rummy way, so I stopped, but he didn't continue.
An uncomfortable shroud of silence descended on the scene.
"Let me assure you," Jeeves said, speaking at less than his usual soft, polite volume, "that neither of those supposed affections are, nor have ever been, true."
"Understood, Jeeves," I said quickly.
I wondered if this would be the time to abjectly throw myself on his mercy and apologise earnestly. As I've said before, Jeeves does put a great deal of stock in the psychology of the individual and knows, as much as I do, that I tend to be more comfortable apologising through gestures than through words. Words themselves are quite difficult, especially when you try to talk about the mushier, softer feelings; I tend to get uncomfortable about it all and end up tripping over my tongue and saying things the wrong way around. It's far easier to acknowledge that Jeeves was right, or that I acted badly, through the sacrifice of some beloved liberty -- such as my freedom to remain in London and refuse to travel -- or a cherished article of clothing.
The problem, of course, is that my wardrobe currently meets Jeeves' standards of staid respectability, and Jeeves is not hankering for a holiday to anywhere in particular at the moment.
"Jeeves," I said as dread dragged its icy fingers down my spine, "is there anything I can do to make up for this blunder?"
Jeeves gave a short shake of his head but there was a pause before he spoke. "No, sir."
I slumped back into my pillows and let my expression drop to the level of the cellar. My Aunt Charlotte used to say that I was my own worst enemy, that if I only thought before I acted my life would suffer less calamity and enjoy more contentment. I was beginning to think she was right. This was entirely my own doing. I had been the one to fall for Jeeves and I had been the one to make the situation awkward by mentioning the fact and giving him no choice but to refuse. Then, when the fellow had shown extreme generosity of spirit and had continued to be in my employ, I'd messed the whole thing up by interfering where I had no right. If Jeeves left, it would be no one's fault but my own.
"You must realise, Jeeves, that there was no malicious intent to embarrass or catch you in an unwanted situation. I thought it would be for the best. You deserved to have someone help you for once, and I thought that some distant day you'd be pleased, or grateful, or something else, something completely different from mortified and angry."
"I am not, sir."
"Well, no, Jeeves, I wasn't suggesting that you were but that was how I'd hoped it would finish up," I said, adding hopefully, "I swear I won't interfere again."
"I believe you misunderstood, sir," Jeeves said in that quiet, impassive way. "I was not displeased by your actions."
"Really, Jeeves?"
"There are very few who would have acted so under such a belief."
"Oh," I said, feeling like a singular type of idiot. A singular idiot who could be relied upon to mess things spectacularly, according to Jeeves; to him, I was a well-meaning blunderer who would always do the worse thing and couldn't really be blamed for it. "Well."
Jeeves said nothing, so I contributed another "Well," for good measure.
"Well," I said again, this time paying great attention to the third button of my jacket. Buttons can be jolly interesting things, especially when compared to the current alternative view. "I suppose you'd better mosey downstairs and make sure the kitchen staff know to send dinner up here for the foreseeable future."
"I believe Mrs Travers would, by now, have informed them of your current predicament, sir."
"Still, Jeeves," I said, admiring the precise stitches of my buttonholes, "better to err on the side of caution, what?"
Time stretched like the last stanza of an oft-copied poem and I feared that Jeeves would say something terrible. What, precisely, I'm not sure, but I had an anxious premonition that horrible words would be freed and my last memory of Jeeves would be listening to this dreadful phrase while I sat there, unable to meet his gaze but watching his dark, pinstriped trousers from the corner of my eye.
I held my breath but the rush of the guillotine blade was stayed by Jeeves' cool voice.
"If you insist, sir."
I did not look up until long after Jeeves left the room.
Some might say that my situation had not considerably worsened during the last twenty minutes, but there are some that would describe Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps and Boko Fittleworth as impressive young men. I have always found there to be a certain percentage of the population who will believe, and tell you, utter rot.
The inexperienced, outside observer might find no cause for my blackened outlook but I could find ample reason. Knowing Jeeves preferred a Gallic paragon of comeliness to myself was quite understandable; there was a slightly different meaning inferred when there was no rival. It was no longer a case of Jeeves having found a more suitable paramour.
There was nothing else for it but to admit the truth. It was not that Jeeves yearned for anyone else, not that Jeeves' heart was already tethered to another. It was that Jeeves...
This was the clanger -- the depressing thought undid me -- and here it was: Jeeves did not want me.
Now, now, gentle readers, I can already hear the objections from the penny seats. You are right that neither motive changed the end result. Whether he liked another or disliked me, the conclusion to the tale would be the same: irrespective of how much I longed for him, Jeeves would never be mine. I don't dispute that. But the difference of being disliked in relative or absolute terms is a matter of potential: potentially, given the ideal surroundings, I had thought Jeeves possible to attain. Now I saw it had always been folly.
I'd thought myself outclassed, if you will, in the competition and then found myself ineligible for entry. This sort of thing can hit a chap fairly hard. It was as if Fate had laughingly pushed me off a bridge and it wasn't until the last moment that I realised I wasn't diving into a shock of cold water, but hurtling towards a dry and stony riverbed.
It was not a pleasant sensation. And I wasn't particularly pleasant about it. Normally one to see the ounce of silver in every cloud, I made no such effort that evening. Neither charming nor talkative, when family and friends dared to interrupt my half-hearted reading and wholehearted brooding, I was terse and sullen. Jeeves, regardless of how little he deserved such treatment, bore the brunt of my bad mood by dint of being the one to spend the most time in my room.
Every time I glanced up, he would be hovering. First, near my wardrobe, folding away clean garments; then, in the bathroom, tidying every little item, ensuring everything was in its place and perfectly aligned. I would try to focus on my novel -- death defying heroics usually require less concentration -- and look up, and there he would be, perfectly untouchable and innocuously busy. It's enough to drive a fellow to distraction.
At first, I thought that the over-reaction was my fault entirely, then I saw that despite Jeeves turning his back to me, he was using the mirror to watch my reactions. He looked stern and disapproving, which may have been a fair response to my strong attack of the doldrums, but I was in no mood for speaking glances and silent disapprobation. In a fit of pique, I gave him the night off.
Left with my own company, at least I knew that the only one scowling at me was my reflection. It didn't take me long to douse the light and attempt to sleep.
The next morning I woke up much the same -- with the fatalistic, despairing anger of a caterpillar crawling out of its cocoon to find a robin perched above it, licking its beak in preparation for a well loved delicacy -- yet it is amazing how a few days' absence can reinvigorate those old fond feelings. But I get ahead of myself.
Even in the midst of such bitter sentiments, there remains the tiny voice of reason. This voice, the siren song of one's better angels, pops up at inconvenient times to remind us of our foibles. It was this that told me, despite the hurricane of general bad feeling I bore against all who crossed my path, that I'd regret acting this way towards Jeeves and that if I could not control my bad temper, it would be best to minimise our interactions.
Jeeves, for reasons known only to him, did not show the same sense demonstrated by the rest of the household -- who took their leave of me as speedily as basic decency would allow -- and continued to find tasks in my room that needed to be done. Even suggesting -- or outright stating -- that my sock drawer was under no vital need for rearranging at this particular moment only made him incline his head, mutter "Yes, sir," and start on some other unimportant article.
Well, what was a chap to do but mutter, "Right ho, Jeeves," in a stinging way and retaliate with a proclamation that he would not be dressing for the day?
I am not one to condone such extreme behaviours -- as much as my pal Rocky may be the salt of the earth and an amazingly decent chap, his habit of not dressing for dinner is only barely permissible within the wilderness of his cabin life and would be shameful in company of any kind -- but I wished to be left alone with my grievances.
Jeeves stilled for a moment, and I saw that the shot had hit its mark. I was torn between a regretful urge to apologise for such a brazen statement and the desire to up the ante of disreputable behaviour until Jeeves vacated himself from my presence. It struck me that I was being awfully unfair to a man who had, if judged by his actions and intent, done nothing wrong.
Angela's uncle on her paternal side, a fellow by the name of Cecil Travers, would see nothing wrong with my behaviour. It is the approach that he uses frequently with attractive maids, much to the scandalised gossip of the family. It has got to the stage where Aunt Dahlia has conspired with the fellow's butler to ensure that no maid under twenty-five years of age or with the faintest hint of a pleasing smile is ever again employed. If a fellow known for cornering his staff and suggesting lascivious, lecherous things -- and giving them the old heave-ho if they don't agree to said acts of lascivious lechery -- is the only voice that would agree with the way one is acting, one is acting in a decidedly rotten manner.
"Hold that thought," I said, capitulating. "The situation is not so dire as to necessitate the abandonment of civilised manners, Jeeves."
Barmy used to have a theory that if you spend a great deal of time around one person, you start to sound like them. I always thought this was simply one of Barmy's more balmy ideas, but for a moment I felt as if Jeeves had hovered in my room for so long that I was starting to sound like the cove.
"Very good," Jeeves said, moving to my wardrobe, clearly convinced that haste was needed to ensure the young master did not change his mind and follow the example of certain Long Island poets. "Shall I lay out our grey flannel trousers, sir?"
"I'd say so, but no shoes. Between this ankle and my Aunt Dahlia, I think shoes would be taken as a sign of guilt. The brown vest as well, Jeeves."
"If I may, sir, I believe the navy vest may be better suited to the situation."
"I don't think there's a dress code for spraining one's ankle, Jeeves."
Jeeves inclined his head, admitting my point. "True, sir, but the navy garment is a softer, lighter weave, better suited to the relative warmth of a day spent indoors and likely to be more comfortable."
"As you say, Jeeves. I would simply be happy to be out of Uncle Tom's nightshirt. I have had it up to the neck with the dratted thing."
I had not worn nightshirts since I was a boy and had forgotten the way they can twist around one's legs and attempt to strangle the midsection. For this reason the fashion of wearing pyjamas to bed suits me, but with my pair soot-stained and smoke-scented, I had been forced to borrow from Uncle Tom's wardrobe. I would have preferred an old-fashion set of neck to shin underwear but time, travel and Anatole's cooking have taken their toll on my uncle's physique and rendered it quite dissimilar to my own, so when I tried on the garment, it sagged in the most ludicrous way. I would have been ashamed to wear it, let alone allow Jeeves to see me in it.
There was nothing I could do about the blasted situation until I returned to London and purchased more sleepwear, so it would have to be endured until then. Jeeves, in a way that did not surprise me in the least, did not share my opinions on nightshirts. I have often thought Jeeves would have preferred to have been born a good fifty years earlier when everyone woke up in nightshirts and put on morning coats. His tastes would have been the height of fashion.
This is normally the moment when Jeeves says something as innocuous as "Indeed, sir" or offers an opinion on the day's weather and the state of the household, but Jeeves remained oddly silent. Our conversations, humble and unimportant though they may be, are one of the first things I miss when Jeeves takes his annual sojourns -- those, and the prospect of a good cup of tea at home, always make me glad of Jeeves' return -- but Jeeves had been taciturn last night and continued to be so today. Perhaps he was trying to avoid my dissatisfied spirits, which would understandable given the circs, but his silence grated upon my nerves.
When one is used to discussing the minutiae of one's recent experiences, when one is used to the signs of careful, attentive interest to one's opinions, having that interest withdrawn does leave one with the desire to smash something small and highly fragile. I bit my tongue to ensure I did not bark some contradicting order -- to insist upon the brown vest, perhaps, or demand my grey pinstripe suit for this morning -- and stewed upon the facts.
The facts -- I thought to myself, feeling much like my fictional detective and wishing I still had my black and red trilby to truly play the part -- ran as so: Jeeves, despite his silence, had not acted and was not acting badly whereas I, despite my conscience, had the conflicting compulsion to either throw myself into Jeeves' arms or banish him from my sight. Due to that conflict, I was behaving atrociously and, if I did not correct my ways, Jeeves would vanish from my life and I would regret it. Also, the attempt to be civil left me with an appetite for violent destruction, and I was still wearing Uncle Tom's nightshirt.
That last point was not particularly relevant to the situation I faced re Jeeves, but it was the straw that threatened to shatter my vertebrae. If I had to be standing with one foot in the frying pan and one in the fireplace, I should at least be able to have a decent night's sleep in attire that would not try to choke and tether me.
This was my eureka moment (a phrase, I have found out, that did not come from Shakespeare but some ancient Greek cove, according to Jeeves). The flash of inspiration hit me like a cricket ball to the forehead and I saw the way out of my darkened, Cretan maze.
"Jeeves," I said, perking up, "this nightshirt situation needs to be corrected."
After placing my socks on the chair, beside the rest of the day's clothes, Jeeves glanced up. "Despite the most careful attention, your dressing gown and pyjamas remain irreparably ruined, sir."
"I refuse to spend the next week in Uncle Tom's nightwear, Jeeves. Take the two-seater back to London and buy me another pair of pyjamas and another dressing gown. Oh, also get another pair of slippers. After Tuesday night, I think we should keep a spare pair in the car, in case the need to drive miles in bare feet ever occurs again."
"I am sure the purchase could wait until you returned to the metropolis, sir."
"No, Jeeves, it cannot."
"I understand that celerity may seem necessary, sir, but an item as personal as sleep attire should be selected by the person who intends to wear it. If you remember, your aunt, Mrs Gregson, returned to her abode in London yesterday, so an early return to the capital would not be the most prudent action at this juncture."
"I'm not likely to forget that, Jeeves," I said sharply. "That is why you must go down and buy the items for me. No, buy two of each."
Jeeves raised an eyebrow, a small gesture that had been noticeably missing in our interaction of late. "You foresee a need for two pairs of pyjamas, sir?"
"If mine were wrecked, yours must have been as well."
"The differing quality of the fabric leads me to believe that, with due diligence, my clothing will be salvageable, sir."
"As much as I may applaud your work ethic, Jeeves, given the nature of those pyjamas, I doubt it is a wise decision to devote any time or effort into restoring them to their dubious glory." There was a twitch to Jeeves' lip and I grinned, feeling like a wind-up toy that had just been given a good turning. "Put it on my account, Jeeves. After protecting the family homestead and all that, the least you can do is let me provide replacements."
"Thank you, sir," Jeeves said. Then he excused himself -- to ready for the trip -- and I dressed as I congratulated myself on this corker of a notion. I would be left in peace for the day, Jeeves would be otherwise occupied, and I resolved that by the next time I saw him, I would return to my usual good-natured cheer.
That didn't literally work since the next time I saw him was when Jeeves stopped by to announce his imminent departure and to confirm that I wouldn't see him until tomorrow morning. It only took a quick bit of arithmetic, and a little surreptitious counting on my fingers, to realise that Jeeves would be forced to drive most of the night. It seemed a little much for an errand that was mainly designed to give me moping space.
"Jeeves, I think it would be better if you packed your bags and stayed in the metrop. I'll stay here, lie about for a few days until Aunt Dahlia stops threatening to leash hounds to the hall outside my bedroom door, and then take the first train up on Saturday morning."
The set of Jeeves' shoulders showed his dislike for the idea. "Given your current state of inconvenient infirmity, I believe an expeditious return would be advisable, sir."
"Flapdoodle, Jeeves," I said, waving away his concerns in no uncertain terms. "There are more servants here than I can count and a rabid aunt to keep them in line. I will be perfectly fine left to my own devices for a few days."
"There are forty-one members of staff, including the gardeners and stable hands, sir, and I believe you have overlooked recent changes to the train timetable. There is no longer an early Saturday service and you would be forced to wait until the two-ten train in the afternoon, which would result in you lunching at Brinkley Court before your departure."
"With Honoria, you mean? Oh, we can't have that, Jeeves. I'll take the Friday evening train and hope that Aunt Agatha is firmly ensconced in her dragon's cave."
"Travel by car would be more reliable, sir."
"I will be fine on the train, unless Aunt Agatha spots me." I winced at the horrible thought of being caught by that particular dreadful relative when I was unable to do anything but hobble in the opposite direction. "You will have to send me a telegram before I leave, Jeeves, and let me know if I should board wearing a disguise."
"A disguise, sir?"
"I'm thinking a particularly large hat and dark overcoat. Possibly sunglasses would be a good idea as well."
"They seem to be favoured in Hollywood films, sir."
"Then that settles the matter. Hat, coat and sunglasses. I'll make Waterbury stop at the village on Friday morning and pick them up. As long as you send me a telegram by two-ish, shall we say? As long as you send it and tell me if the coast is clear or if there are stormy clouds on the horizon, all will be fine, Jeeves."
Jeeves gave me a long glance, the type that counts seconds as well as any pocket-watch until I said, "Well, have a good journey and all that, Jeeves. I'll see you Friday night. I'll have the kitchen staff pack me something for the train, so don't worry about fixing dinner. If I'm hungry, I'll stop by the club."
"Yes, sir," Jeeves said, looking for all the world as if I had declared myself one of those futurist chaps and announced my intention to wear my red vest, yellow tie and blue socks at the same time. "I will see you on Friday, sir."
With Jeeves out of the county, I was left to mourn my own foolishness in peace. I sighed and flicked through pages, unable to muster any true interest in the printed word. I stared out the open window, glumly pondering on the possibility of rain. I gazed at the ceiling and thought wistfully on what I would never experience with Jeeves. When served meals, I picked at them and spent more time pushing vegetables around my plate than noticing the flavours (in and of itself almost considered a felony amongst the regular inmates of the place). In short, I let my spirits sink lower than the ill-fated Titanic and indulged my lovesick heart with all the misery it could bear.
The next time a friend tells you he is dying of anguish, yearning for one who will not have him, wasting away for want of the more tender feelings in return, put no faith in his story. It is a queer thing but allowing one's life to blacken and one's days to stretch into endless hours of soul-deep sighs and pained mourning brings its own peculiar satisfaction and comfort. There is something quite uplifting about such extreme unhappiness, giving one's all to the depressed emotions with as little inhibition as a Oxford fellow on Boat Race Night.
It is a method of purging I would recommend everybody to try at least once. If possible, I would say, attempt the feat away from family and friends, since they can -- not understanding the purging process -- interfere dreadfully. A perfect example of my point would be the combined efforts of Tuppy and Angela who nearly ruined my schedule of moping, sulking, and sighing.
First Tuppy stopped in to enquire about my spirits ("Gloomy," said I in funereal strains of woe. He rolled his eyes and muttered something about there being numerous maids in London, and I did not disabuse him of his misconception re the cause of despondency). He then proceeded to share the contents of his latest letter from Pongo Twistleton.
Pongo had written to share the latest misadventures of his uncle, Lord Ickenham. Like many earls, Lord Ickenham considers his peerage proof that he has done well in life and come a long way through his character and brains -- and, one must note, family inheritance -- and believes this has given him the onus of educating his nephew in the ways of life. While Ickenham was generally welcome in the Drones club for a meal -- until his wife declared he could no longer visit London, that is -- due to his ability to tell a rollicking story with gifted timing and accents when necessary, his educational afternoons have resulted in Pongo pretending to be Sir Roderick Glossop's nephew and on one memorable occasion, have had the police remove the pair of them from the dog races. (We had a rip around the club to raise bail money but Lady Ickenham had ponied up the cash, so we'd used the raised funds to buy enough rounds to make Pongo -- a mild-mannered chap if ever you've met one, and one somewhat prone to embarrassment -- forget the entire affair. As Pongo gains a definite chalky look at the mention of greyhounds, I can only conclude that we were not successful.)
There was a story of Blanding's Castle -- a place I've never been but my second cousin Algernon Wooster's cousin, Lord Percy, is a nephew of the chap who lives there, Lord Emsworth, so I'm somehow related to the place -- and it involved stolen pigs, church boys and the frightful combination of a bread roll and a top hat, and I quite forgot my current raison d'etre and almost shared a hearty chuckle over the tale. It was only the thought of Jeeves' reaction to such a story -- the lightening of that noble brow, the glitter of those eyes, the serious moue that only signalled amusement to the keenest Jeeves-watcher -- that reminded me of my current predicament and sobered my mood accordingly.
In the afternoon, Angela visited with fudge from the village and a game of Lexico in the other hand. Angela, as I have mentioned, is a good egg, sweet natured and downright fun in a way that seems highly rare amongst the finer sex. This opinion was reinforced by her decision to allow words such as 'oomph' and 'tinkerty', and not change that verdict when use of the latter word gave me the winning score. It takes a girl of majestic class and overwhelming splendidness to do that.
I will not deny that for a handful of hours, my time was spent in pleasant company thinking of spelling lists of my youth or relatives more devious-minded than my own, but when left alone again, I put every effort into being as morose and melancholic as I could be. If you looked up the words depressing and lovelorn, I am sure the dictionary would tell you to see the entry entitled, 'Wooster, B, Current state of'.
In the midst of such indulgence, when you are feeling vindicated and satisfied, it becomes paradoxically hard to maintain your mournful air of pessimism and disappointment, and so the feelings perish of excess. This is how it went for me, so by the time I badgered Waterbury into taking me to the village -- achieved through polite asking and outright begging of Angela, Tuppy and Aunt Dahlia, and only allowed once I could prove myself capable of navigating the length of the corridor without limping -- I had started to regain my more usual outlook and was almost looking forward to the shopping expedition.
Shopping in a country village -- even a medium sized one like Market Snodsbury -- is always an adventurous affair. Unlike department stores where one expects mass-produced items of factory-born standards or Savile Row where one is assured of an exceptional cut and general quality, a country village survives on a strange combination of the two. There will be ready-to-wear garments that never fit as well as promised; there will be a local tailor and seamstress (sometimes they are one and the same, which rather baffles me, for how can someone trained in female fashion understand the importance of matching check on a suit or allowing for the correct cuff length on a creased pair of trousers?) capable of producing hand-stitched wonders; and there will always be the occasional homemade sweater contributed by village wives with knitting needles and too much spare time.
It makes the shopper feel rather like Aladdin in his cave, picking up old, battered brass lamps in the hope that closer inspection will reveal a magical inscription. Amongst the mundane and everyday, you will find both the occasional horror and godsend.
The horror of that outing was an eye-watering vest. I'm sure you must have heard of that group of Frenchmen calling themselves futurists and simultaneists, walking around the streets of Paris some years ago claiming to be dress reformers. If not, the long and short of it is that they wore the most atrocious, mismatched outfits -- I remember hearing of a red and green tuxedo, the mere idea of which is enough to give a presentable fellow the cold sweats -- and tried to combine as many colours and styles as they could, all in the name of revealing the future of fashion. Thankfully, fashion has never lost its wits enough to declare clashing colours and asymmetrical patterns acceptable wear.
This vest, although quite symmetrical, would have suited that group to the ground. It had diagonal stripes of yellow, red, bottle green, violet and powder blue, and was edged in chartreuse. All of these colours can be worn effectively when taken in small doses, but combined across the breadth of a man's torso will only serve to make women scream and children cry. I could only surmise that it must have been lovingly knitted by someone's colour-blind grandmother because despite the horrid amalgamation of shades, it was well made. Surely anyone capable of seeing the tones and knowing how the finished product would inspire nightmares wouldn't take such care in putting it together.
For a moment, I was tempted to buy the thing -- as truly awful as it was -- to hear the reaction in Jeeves' tone when I unpacked it. (I would have to unpack it. There was no way I could wear such a monstrosity.) I could picture perfectly the offended disgust in Jeeves' eyes, the coldness in his tone as he suggested that I would most likely be considered too old to be accepted as a circus runaway, regardless of my perceptible eagerness to become a clown.
The thought that stayed my hand from purchasing this harlequin item was consideration that Jeeves would not find the joke amusing -- indeed, he might take the shock rather hard -- and a trifling amusement was not worth causing Jeeves genuine distress.
Concluded in Part Five
Author: out_there
Fandom: Jeeves and Wooster
Continued from Parts One, Two and Three.
"Bertie, it was the wine." Here he gestured, throwing arms wide and I stared, adrift upon a sea of incomprehension. "Anatole and that blasted cousin of his were drinking in the kitchen, and one of them knocked over a wine bottle. It fell near the fireplace."
"Oh," I said, still adrift with no land in sight.
He frowned at me. "You remember at Eton, when Oofy and Barmy played catch with the 1909 Merlot? Oofy missed, the thing smashed into the fire and the back of Oofy's jacket was beyond repair."
"Oofy smelled like smoke for the next week," I said, remember the incident. It was the same smell that had somehow clung to me since last night. I had used a good dose of cologne but beneath that palatable, sophisticated fragrance, the aroma of burnt kitchen remained.
"Same thing happened here," Tuppy said, poking me with a ham-like finger. "The pair were drinking, got tight as owls, knocked over a bottle and then passed out. After that, all it took was one little spark and the floor was suddenly on fire."
"Let me guess. They were too soused to rouse themselves and put the fire out?" This is the precise reason that there is always a servant on the Drones' premises. Otherwise, the place would have burnt down years ago.
"Exactly, Bertie. Imagine what would have happened if that maid hadn't stumbled down there and rung the alarm."
"Uncle Tom's fear of burning to death in his bed might have been realised," I said gravely.
"Oh, forget Uncle Tom," Tuppy replied, grimacing in horror. "We might never have eaten one of Anatole's meals again."
I shuddered at the thought and on that dismal note, we bade our farewells. I approached the garage expecting my two-seater to be out and awaiting my arrival, but for some reason, Waterbury had substituted Uncle Tom's car. I have nothing personal against Uncle Tom's car other than the fact that I have known it since my youth. The seats remain overstuffed and, while the suspension tries its best to compensate for the hard seating, driving along any unpaved road leaves you feeling as shaken as a good martini.
Not to mention that navigating its gears can be trying at the best of times. It would not have been my vehicle of choice.
On the other hand, there would be three of us travelling, and the two-seater would leave me cramped and folded over in the back. Jeeves must have realised this and organised the larger car.
"What ho, Jeeves," I said, spying him around the back. He was lifting something into the boot, presumably our lunch. "Good thought to rustle up Uncle Tom's Jalopy. The back seat will be much more comfortable for me."
"I'm afraid that Jane and M Facet are already sitting in the back seat, sir." Jeeves was hidden behind the car, so I couldn't see if there was a quirk to his lips or not, but judging by the supercilious tone, I'd lay odds of twenty to one that he was looking quite self-satisfied.
I walked behind the car to test my theory. My money would have been safe. "Jane, Jeeves?"
"One of the maids, sir."
"I didn't invite Jane along, Jeeves."
"You did imply that it would be best if M Facet could have amusing and interesting narratives related by a native of the area, sir." Jeeves closed the boot with a firm, sharp push and then gave the car a satisfied pat. "Jane was born in the village and has lived in the surrounding countryside her entire life. I thought she was an extraordinarily appropriate match to your requirements, sir."
"I was talking about me, Jeeves."
"Indeed, sir?"
"I was the one to relate anecdotes. We didn't need a fourth party, Jeeves. I doubt the kitchen would have packed enough food."
"I did inform the kitchen of the number of personages attending your picnic, sir. They were good enough to pack a second hamper for us."
"Still, Jeeves, I had no plan of having a maid tag along."
"I am sorry, sir," Jeeves said, tilting his chin faintly. If I'd ever seen a man less sorry for his actions, I'd eat my hat. "If I'd realised that was not your intention, I would never have invited her."
Dash it; my plan had been quite simple. Now, due to Jeeves and his blasted maid, I'd need to ensure that not only was I far away from the romantic pair, but also that the girl was. The last thing Jeeves needed was a pair of gawking country eyes judging his every action and spreading stories through the servants' hall.
"If you feel strongly that her presence is unwelcome, it would be best that you told her quickly, sir, before her hopes for this afternoon's festivities become too fanciful and excited."
I stared at him balefully. "She's in the dratted car, Jeeves. I can't just go up to a girl and tell her that she was invited by mistake. It would be hurtful."
"It is a conundrum, sir."
"She will simply have to come," I said with a sigh.
"Very good, sir."
We walked around to the front of the car and I was so distracted by the thought of having to entertain a maid -- not any old maid, but Jane, who started if you looked sideways at her -- the entire afternoon, I nearly sat beside Jeeves in the front. I opened the door and stood up. "Oh, no, this isn't right."
Behind the steering wheel, Jeeves looked quite settled. "May I enquire as to what is troubling you, sir?"
I couldn't bally well tell him that the entire purpose of the trip was to force him and Facet together, and that having them sit apart for the journey there would start the entire thing on the wrong foot, so I improvised. "The suspension in this car is terrible, Jeeves. You feel every jolt if you sit up in the front."
Jeeves raised a brow. "You would prefer the back seat, sir?"
"I would, Jeeves. Ask Facet to swap with me."
"As you wish, sir," Jeeves said, and then turned around to ask Facet something in French and got an equally Gallic answer in return. Facet's shaking head told me what I didn't want to know. "M Facet says that he suffers from a form of motion sickness and would be highly uncomfortable in the front of a moving vehicle."
"Tell him that the fresh air will be good for him, Jeeves."
Jeeves did and again Facet's answer was negative. "He would not feel fit to travel, sir. Perhaps Jane would not object to switching places with you."
Jane, mouse that she was, squeaked. "I'd be fine with it, sir."
"Oh," I said, "thank you."
I got out and she got out, and we changed seats. Now, instead of sitting beside Jeeves, I was stuck beside Facet and the two were still parted. It hadn't improved matters.
"Are you ready to go, sir?"
I had to think quickly. "Not yet, Jeeves. I think I'd feel better if I were driving."
"Indeed, sir?" I would never say that Jeeves was scornful of his employer, but there are times when he comes close and this was one of those times.
The reason was simple: Uncle Tom's car may be kept in good condition and far more spacious for a group, but driving it is akin to driving a charging rhinoceros. You need to keep your wits about you or you end up running headlong over and sometimes into ditches, and leaving the road far behind. In matters of steering, it takes a lot of hard effort and the occasional grunt of exertion to force it around a corner.
I avoid driving it for that very reason. "I feel in the mood for a drive, Jeeves. Hop up and we'll switch places."
"If you are sure, sir," Jeeves said doubtfully, not moving from behind the steering wheel.
"I'm jolly sure, Jeeves," I said, climbing out of the back seat and waiting at the drivers' side until Jeeves slowly relinquished his seat. Once he was in the back, beside Facet, we departed.
The moment I pressed my foot to the pedal, I realised the drawback to the current seating arrangements. I had considered the vigilance required by the car's sometimes unresponsive steering wheel but had forgotten the way that my feet -- already abused by pedals less than ten hours earlier -- would object to being used again. The whir of the engine covered my minuscule hiss of pain as I eased the beast forward. In the rear-view mirror, I spotted Jeeves watching me, trying his hardest to mimic the aloof and slightly bored expression of the stuffed moose hanging over the Drones' fireplace. (The stuffed moose, nicknamed Nokes for obvious reasons, was not only a fixture of my club but also provided a bored chap the entertaining opportunity to throw hats, napkin rings and the sporadic pair of sock garters onto his antlers. These efforts were scored according to item, distance and difficulty of the angle.)
Jeeves did not utter a word. But he did so in a way reminiscent of Chuffy's first reaction upon seeing Barmy, after one of Barmy's gags had backfired and left Barmy with bright green eyebrows for a week. It was the silence of a man so full of mirth that he couldn't find words to express it.
Gritting my teeth, I pressed on the accelerator and ignored Jeeves' amusement. While the man himself is far from cruel, Jeeves' sense of humour can be callous at times. I have learnt, of course, that there is no point in reprimanding him for this failing; he may derive hilarity from minor insults to my form but he will always ensure that such embarrassments are borne for a reason and achieve a purpose.
In this case, the payoff was the conversation occurring in the back seat. Jeeves and Facet had bent their heads closer together and were chatting away. There was no such merriment in the front seat. Jane is one of those females who, regardless of her other talents, has not been blessed with the art of conversation. When asked if she's lived here all her life, she's inclined to say, "Yes, sir" and then let a suffocating silence fall. When asked her opinion of the place, she said, "Oh, I like it, sir."
While I consider myself quite the conversationalist, it's singularly hard to foster a chat with such an ungracious subject while gritting one's teeth and trying not to curse whoever decided pedals would be an important part of automobile usage. For me, the journey was tedious but for Jeeves, chitchatting pleasantly behind us, it was a different story.
Tedious was the best way to describe the entire outing, actually. The food was magnificent -- Jeeves and Jane both serving up while I poured wine and Facet did nothing more than hold glasses -- but the conversation dragged. I would remark upon the favourable weather and Jane would oh-yes while Jeeves translated to Facet and then translated Facet's oh-yes back. I tried telling a story I'd heard down at the Drones -- the one about a Frenchman, his daughters and a cow -- but having to wait for Jeeves to interpret every sentence ruined the rhythm of the thing. No one laughed at the end of it and Jeeves spent the next five minutes explaining why the pun was funny.
After the second glass of wine I had had my fill of the stifled conversation and entreated Jane to come for a walk with me. She had been a touch reluctant and Jeeves -- understandably nervous at the idea of being left alone with his inamorato -- had not encouraged the idea, but after using all the Wooster charm I had at my disposal, she assented.
Amongst the gently rustling trees and brindled sunlight, the warm breeze and sweet scent of wildflowers, the conversation flopped like a freshly caught fish and died gasping.
You will remember, dear readers, that my initial problem with the Basset was the way that we would end up echoing each other and standing in awkward silences. The walk with Jane was not much better.
"Nice breeze," said I.
"Yes, sir," she said.
"Very pleasant," I said.
"Very nice," she said, and then we both dropped to stillness.
A wren sat upon a branch, singing in a joyful way that made me wonder if it shared Jeeves' general approach to comedy, and I pointed it out. In times like this, my suave sophistication deserts me. "Oh, look, a wren."
She looked hopelessly at me and then at it, and then back to me. "Yes, sir."
"I guess you'd get a lot of them around here. I mean, living in the country and all."
"They are quite common, sir."
"Very common?" I asked, clutching at conversational straws.
"Reasonably so, sir."
I could transcribe the rest of the horrifyingly dull conversation but pity for my readers stays my pen. It is enough that you understand that these moments were the highlight of our wander and that the interaction deteriorated from there.
I soldiered on as best I could and distracted myself from the damp laconism with the thought of Jeeves and Facet. I imagined them relaxing upon the blanket, Jeeves pouring another glass of wine each and the conversation becoming lazy and jovial. I allowed my mind to gambol further than was proper, thinking of how I would expect Jeeves to act if I was Facet, if you follow my meaning. I was in the middle of picturing Jeeves -- lying on his side, head propped up on one hand, other arm reaching out to brush a stray hair from my cheek -- when I tripped over an inconveniently placed root and twisted my ankle.
In such instances, one's first thought is usually for one's pride. Sprawled across the ground, gaze level with some girl's calves, one's first instinct is to reassure all and sundry that you are perfectly fine and scramble to one's feet. I did this, and then let out an almighty yelp at the pain and ended up tumbling into Jane. Stronger than she looks, Jane was able to support my weight for a moment but then I tried to stand and she tried to step, and we both tumbled to the ground.
There was a slight scuffle as we untangled limbs, leaving both of us a touch messy, and then she stood up, face flaming, and made a beeline for the trees, mumbling something about getting help. A nobler, braver man than myself would have stood up, endured the pain, and walked back to the car. A determined man would have crawled on hands and knees, and have inevitably ruined his suit as he did so. I, on the other hand, sat against a tree trunk and waited for Jeeves.
It wasn't a long wait. Jane and I had been gone an hour, but we'd been walking quite slowly and I'd just managed to drag myself upright -- using the branches of the birch behind me -- when Jeeves arrived. I can now state with absolute assurance that Jeeves can step on twigs and dried leaves, and still not make a sound.
"Ah, Jeeves," I said, pleased to see him but quite aware of the way my foot had started to throb like a bass drum keeping beat. "Perhaps you could lend a hand?"
"Certainly, sir," he said and glinted to my side. "If you were to place your arm around my shoulders, I believe we could make it back to the car."
"As you say, Jeeves."
For all the tediousness of the walk there, the hop back was twice as arduous and twice as long. The dips and bumps of uneven ground are easy to navigate with two legs but when hopping, losing one's balance becomes a constant threat. Jeeves was quite placid about the matter, tightening his arm around my back as needed, but we were only a third of the way back when I was ready to admit defeat.
"Stop, Jeeves," I said, and my man faithfully did so. "It is warm weather, the nights are mild and I am quite sure that if you would be so good as to fetch the picnic blanket and leave me the remains of the picnic for dinner, I could spend the night here."
"I could not advise it, sir."
"Why not?" I said, turning quickly and needing to steady myself with a hand on his arm. Thankfully, Jeeves wrapped his other arm around my waist and helped me stay upright. For a moment, I thought of how this would appear to a casual onlooker -- his arms around my back, mine around his shoulders -- and felt my face start to heat. I glanced down, hoping Jeeves would not notice.
"The most common way of easing the pain and discomfort of a twisted ankle is to apply ice to the swelling, sir. If you were to spend the night in our current surroundings, there would be no reliable way to transport the required ice here or to ensure that the limb remained raised and cooled appropriately. It would be best to return to Brinkley Court and treat the injury as soon as practical." He spoke so evenly that I was sure he had not perceived my momentary self-consciousness and I raised my head as he added, "If the pain is too great to continue in this manner, then perhaps another method should be considered."
"I did consider crawling, Jeeves, but it would ruin these trousers completely. I am quite sure that if you leave me that extra bot. of wine, the pain will not bother me at all. I will sleep like the dead, and in the morning--"
I paused, and Jeeves raised an eyebrow. "Do you intend to walk back to Brinkley Court, sir?"
"Well, no. I thought that you could come and pick me up. I'm sure I could walk to the road, Jeeves." That is the problem with Jeeves' eyebrow raising: it makes quite logical, sensible plans seem rather silly when you stop and think about them. "To be honest, I don't see any other way."
"In the haze of distraction that physical distress inevitably causes, sir, I believe one option may have been overlooked."
"And what's that, Jeeves?"
"That with a damaged leg, the quickest and most effective way to move you from here to the car would be one that did not require you to walk, sir. In this case, the most logical solution would be for me to bear you to the automobile."
I stared at him. "You mean lift me aloft and carry me through the wilderness? Jeeves, I think I would prefer to continue limping."
"If you insist, sir," Jeeves said, his face quite devoid of any agreement. "Judging by our current rate of travel, we will reach the car by sunset if we take the shorter route, which sadly lacks an even plane or a downward slope."
"Oh," I said, not keen on the idea of playing hop-a-long all the way back to the car and part of me far too keen to clamber into Jeeves arms and hold on tight as he saved the day. It occurred to me that a true preux chevalier would have no doubts about this choice, and would selflessly struggle onwards and upwards. While I have always taken great pride in acting like a knight of old, there is something about Jeeves' steady presence that makes it difficult to do what is right and so very tempting to act as I shouldn't. I consoled myself with the thought that at least this way, one of us would still act as a knight saving those weaker than him. "Very well, Jeeves."
"Thank you, sir," Jeeves said, bending at the knees and scooping me up. I have seen Jeeves carry the occasional extremely sozzled acquaintance of mine, and he always does so over one shoulder. I believe it's called a 'Firemen's lift', probably because it leaves a strong man able to descend a ladder. I had expected Jeeves to lift me in the same fashion, but instead he hoisted me in front of him -- an arm beneath my knees, an arm beneath my back, that type of thing -- and I felt like some heavily made up heroine, carried from danger by her sheik.
Except, of course, my sheik was less in the way of flowing white robes and more inclined to bowler hats and sacque suits, and his lines of dialogue had nothing to do with carrying me to my noble steed.
"Perhaps it would be best if you removed your cap and held on to it, sir. Otherwise, we face the risk of a stray branch purloining it as we pass by."
"Very good, Jeeves," I said and tucked the article of headwear between my shirt and sweater vest.
Once I had both arms around his shoulders -- deciding that if Jeeves was determined to play the heroic lead for this rescue, I was entitled to luxuriate in the experience -- and my head tucked against his neck, Jeeves was off at a steady, smooth stroll. I should not have been surprised that Jeeves could carry a man without any noticeable change in stride or respiration, without the occasional jar of a wrongly placed foot or the annoyance of flicking branches. Jeeves aptitude towards stealth served him as well in nature as it did upon carpet.
I won't deny that I took a certain amount of pleasure in the strong warmth of Jeeves' arms and the unyielding press of his starched collar against my cheek. I also found myself noticing the brawn of his shoulders beneath my hands and will even admit to sliding my right hand across an inch in order to rest my thumb upon the exposed skin of his neck.
In this fashion, the jaunt back to the car passed far too quickly for my liking. Jeeves posited me in the front seat -- passenger's side, not driver's for good reason -- and I was loath to release him. Heart pounding in my chest and all that, I forced myself to speak.
"Jeeves," I said, as he was still bent over me and in the process of reclaiming his arms from beneath me.
He paused and pulled his head back enough to spare me a sombre, searching glance. "Sir?"
"Well, I mean--"
There was a rustle behind Jeeves as Jane and Facet stepped out of the trees. This brought several unpleasant facts to mind: firstly, the existence of those other folk, whom I had completely forgotten; secondly, the existence of Facet in particular and his claim to Jeeves' affections; thirdly, that I myself had no such claim and had already been refused; fourthly, had we not been interrupted, I'd been about to be refused again; and finally, that I still had my arms locked around Jeeves. I pulled back the offending limbs and resolved to keep a more careful control over my unrequited infatuation.
If I wanted Jeeves to continue to fish me from the soup, I needed to be far more judicious. I couldn't throw my adoration around like a child throwing pebbles at the beach and expect Jeeves to stand around and submit to being pelted.
Jeeves turned to the rest of our party and confirmed that the picnic had been packed away. Jane, showing a tender practicality that I had not suspected, folded up the blanket and placed it under my left foot -- the one with the sprained ankle -- to cushion it against the shuddering suspension. I thanked her kindly and was greatly appreciative once Jeeves started the car and the juddering vibrated straight up my spine.
In the back seat, Facet and Jane looked as if they were playing an enclosed game of charades, attempting to discuss something about the seasons. Beside me, Jeeves drove with the steady, reassuring care I have come to expect from him, so I settled the cap back on my head, pulled it down over my eyes, and sought sleep.
I was restless at best, but closing my eyes, propping an arm out the window and leaning against the door was similar to the sensation of being upheld by Jeeves -- in the way that holding a seashell to your ear is similar to standing on a warm, sun-drenched beach in the Mediterranean -- and it helped the journey pass.
Back at the house, we found Tuppy and Angela talking on the front steps, so while Jeeves returned the car to the garage and Angela went to fetch Aunt Dahlia, Tuppy helped me up to my room and forced me to hop every one of those stairs. It was a less than delightful experience, but far easier on my self-restraint than having Jeeves carry me to bed.
Aunt Dahlia, a veritable magus when it comes to the subject of bruises and falls, poked, prodded and pronounced it a minor sprain requiring bandages, ice and a good vacation from weight-bearing. Ice was brought, bandages were wrapped and I was confined to my room upon danger of one of Aunt Dahlia's more imaginative threats. Seeing as I enjoyed all four limbs in working order, I complied readily.
I didn't comply so readily to Tuppy telling me -- after Aunt Dahlia left -- to pull my head in.
"I beg your pardon?" I said, with a suitable amount of outrage. When one has been recently injured, threatened by aunts and carried by menservants, one doesn't deserve abuse from friends. "Explain yourself, Tuppy."
"Explain yourself, Bertie," he replied with pique. "Explain inviting a maid to walk with you, all alone, for over an hour and returning to the house with her hair messed and leaves caught on her dress."
It is something quite peculiar about country houses. In the metrop., there are more activities and parties to attend and people have less time for idle gossip. In the more pastoral areas, there are no such distractions so household tittle-tattle travels at the speed of light or sound, whichever is quicker.
"We went for a stroll after the picnic. I tripped and fell on her."
He shook his head as disappointed as a vicar finding the altar boys stealing from the collection plate. "Oh, Bertie. Even Bingo would have a better cover story than that."
"It's not a story, Tuppy, it's what happened."
"Bertie, after all the years we've been friends, to think of you lying so shamelessly." Again he shook his head. If I'd been upright, a good foot taller and of heavier build, I would have shaken that head clean off his shoulders. "We all know what you're like. This isn't fair to her."
I sat up on the bed and tried to glare my displeasure at him, but it's quite hard to be intimidating when surrounded by pillows. "And what am I like, Tuppy?"
"You go through girls the way Boko goes through pens." Boko Fittleworth, a chap described as a colourful character only by those who like him a great deal, had a habit of buying new pens and constantly losing them. I have no idea where the pens went, since Boko spends most of his time at the races or at the club and neither has shown a marked increase in writing implements, but they disappeared nonetheless.
"I do not!"
"You do, Bertie. And while it's fine when it's Honorias and Florences, when it's girls from good families and responsible parents who will put every effort into seeing their daughter better matched, trying to draw the affection of a servant is beyond the pale. It's not cricket."
"Hmph!" I said.
"Angela will have a fit if you get one of the maids in trouble and scupper off before vows are exchanged."
"Tuppy!" I let my voice show how scandalised I was by this underhanded insinuation. "I have never in my life treated a girl in such a way."
"How many girls have you been engaged to, Bertie?" Tuppy asked and before I could answer, he added, "And how many of those have you married as promised?"
"I never once broke my promise," I retorted. "On each occasion, the girl changed her mind."
"And when it comes to a maid marrying into the family, do you think it's likely that she'll change her mind?"
My shoulders slumped at this unforeseen calamity. While there were a good number of bridges I'd be willing to cross for the sake of Jeeves' happiness, marrying a girl who jumped when I entered the room was not one of them. I couldn't recall saying anything that suggested marriage -- and our conversation had not been wordy enough for me to prattle about it and then forget -- but females are strange creatures. Just as you relax and consider them a friend, they're suddenly telling parents about upcoming marital bliss and planning wedding bouquets.
After a horrified moment, I managed, "It would be an advantageous match from her perspective."
"Precisely, Bertie--" but he got no further than that because Angela burst into the room at the speed of gossip in a provincial house.
"Bertie." She looked straight at me, her battle lanterns lit. "Jane is talking of engagements."
"Not to me, I hope." It was not the most charming of answers, but I had been caught off-guard.
"She hasn't announced it yet or stated the name of her betrothed." It was not a sentence that should have held a great deal of threat, but you must imagine it growled -- a little like a Doberman, a little like an Aberdeen Terrier -- with particular menace and then you will understand why I cringed away from my sweet cousin. "Tell me you did not, in your fumbling, accidental way, propose to one of our maids."
"I didn't," I assured her quickly, shifting backwards as far as the bed would let me, which was not far at all. "I swear upon our bonds of cousinly affection that I didn't."
"And I swear," she muttered, advancing upon my recumbent form, "if you have misled the poor girl and intend to withdraw your offer and leave her heartbroken, I will fetch Mummy's shotgun and make her well aware of the facts."
A discreet, quiet cough interrupted.
"Yes, Jeeves?" I asked, overwhelming thankful for his sudden appearance.
"If I may elucidate the current situation, sir?"
"By all means, Jeeves," I replied. Angela nodded and Tuppy made similar 'go on' noises.
"I believe that Mr Glossop and Miss Angela are not acquainted with the full facts of the matter. The engagement that Jane spoke of is not to Mr Wooster but to M Facet, and was only finalised after our return. To ensure both parties were fully aware of the implications and consequences of the proposal, I was enlisted to interpret the proposition and its favourable reply."
"I wondered what kept you," I thought aloud. "It doesn't usually take you so long to park a car, Jeeves."
"I handled the matter in the most timely manner possible, sir," Jeeves said without a hint of apology. "Such triumphs rarely consider the ambling pace of time."
"Oh, Tuppy," Angela said, in that soppy way of engaged girls everywhere. "We should go and congratulate them."
"A charming idea, Miss," Jeeves said, proving that, despite her infrequent urge to threaten me, Angela has retained a fond place in Jeeves' feudal heart. "I'm sure the happy couple will appreciate your thoughtfulness. They were in the rose garden when last I saw them."
"Pip pip, Bertie," Tuppy called out as Angela dragged him from my room and out towards the newly engaged.
"Pip pip," I called back, refusing to hold a grudge over the ungrateful way he had spoken to me earlier. As much as Tuppy reveres the old Etonian spirit, when it comes to Angela, childhood loyalties fly away on the breeze. It's no good holding it against the fellow; you might as well hold the fascination with newts against Gussie.
I glanced across and found Jeeves watching me, looking amazingly serene considering the circumstances.
"I say, is there a secret to your constant equable disposition? You seem to be taking this engagement in a very calm manner, Jeeves."
"It was a resolution most heartily wished for by both parties, sir."
"That's all very selfless and noble, Jeeves, but I must confess I'm at a bit of a loss."
"Indeed, sir?" Jeeves asked, placing a pillow beneath my foot. He shimmered beside me and started arranging pillows behind me as well. "I endeavoured to provide satisfaction and, while it did not occur precisely the way I had anticipated, I believe it has ended in an acceptable way for all involved."
"Well, yes, everyone else seems happy," I admitted. It reeked of injustice and a general rotten deal for Jeeves, and I felt quite indignant on his behalf. I leaned back on the pillows -- high enough that I was caught halfway between sitting upright and lying supine -- and folded my arms. "But I don't like it."
"No, sir?"
"Not one bit, Jeeves."
Jeeves gave me a long look, raising his chin slightly as he is wont to do when something particularly illogical has occurred. "Do you have a specific objection to the match, sir?"
"Not to the match itself, Jeeves, but the circumstances. When did you discover Facet's feelings in the matter?"
"During the second day of our stay here, I walked in the gardens with M Facet and he shared his plight with me. If you recall, sir, I shared the matter with you that afternoon, explaining his attraction towards a member of the household staff, and you implied that the details were already familiar to you."
"Well, yes, but you were talking about--" And here the old Wooster grey matter sprang into action. Jeeves had mentioned a representative of the domestic staff but he'd never stated a specific name. "You were talking about Jane!"
"Yes, sir."
"Oh," I said, seeing the error of my ways. All the time I had spent worrying about Facet's interest in Jeeves -- and vice versa -- had been futile. Facet had never been interested in Jeeves. I felt as though the ingredients to a Bertie Wooster cocktail would be a splash of nin, a touch of com, and a hearty dash of poop.
Jeeves did not frown but there was a touch of tension around the hairline area. "You did indicate your understanding of the matter, sir."
"I did understand, Jeeves. I simply understood incorrectly. I understood all the details other than the identity of Facet's paramour."
The touch of tension increased and the pale shadow of a crease appeared between Jeeves' eyes as he wrinkled his nose. The last time he had looked so confused at my words was when I had tried -- with less than successful results -- to induce him to approve my moustache. "Where did you think his interests lay, sir?"
I considered lying and trying to save my dignity, but it would have been a lost cause. Jeeves' ears are as sensitive as an aunt's when it comes to mistruths and deceptions. I could have lied but I am quite sure he would have discovered the facts eventually and it would probably happen in a far more embarrassing way. Better to have the matter over and done with now.
But that didn't mean I had to meet his eyes when I said it. "You, Jeeves. I thought his interest lay in you."
There was a long moment where Jeeves was quiet, quiet as only Jeeves can be, quiet as a cemetery in the middle of an unnaturally still night. "And my affections?"
"Jeeves?" I queried, not comprehending what the question actually was.
"You assumed that M Facet's affections lay in my direction, sir. What did you assume to be my feelings on the matter?"
I shrugged, then scratched the back of my neck, feeling as though I were standing in front of Mr Thistledown again, having to explain what happened to the class's frog. It was a sensation of impending doom. Quite strange, because Jeeves probably wasn't the sort to tender resignation over something as mild and harmless as an employer's prying, nosy suppositions. At least, I desperately hoped he wasn't.
"I assumed Facet's feelings were reciprocated, Jeeves."
"Indeed, sir?"
"He is frightfully attractive, Jeeves. According to Angela, he's sweet and charming and many other delightful things. It would not surprise me if half the population of Brinkley Court were head over heels for the chap, and--" I winced, trying to explain a not particularly prudent assumption. "And he really is frightfully attractive."
I dared a glance up at Jeeves but the outlook was not promising. Jeeves looked extremely blank, frozen in ice or possibly captured in marble, and the only sign of life was the occasional blink.
"I know they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Jeeves, but a beholder would have to be blind not to see that beauty. And while I admit that my meddling may not have brought the best results -- I should have stepped back and let you orchestrate the entire affair -- it was derived from the best intentions and I truly thought--"
"Sir," Jeeves said in a rummy way, so I stopped, but he didn't continue.
An uncomfortable shroud of silence descended on the scene.
"Let me assure you," Jeeves said, speaking at less than his usual soft, polite volume, "that neither of those supposed affections are, nor have ever been, true."
"Understood, Jeeves," I said quickly.
I wondered if this would be the time to abjectly throw myself on his mercy and apologise earnestly. As I've said before, Jeeves does put a great deal of stock in the psychology of the individual and knows, as much as I do, that I tend to be more comfortable apologising through gestures than through words. Words themselves are quite difficult, especially when you try to talk about the mushier, softer feelings; I tend to get uncomfortable about it all and end up tripping over my tongue and saying things the wrong way around. It's far easier to acknowledge that Jeeves was right, or that I acted badly, through the sacrifice of some beloved liberty -- such as my freedom to remain in London and refuse to travel -- or a cherished article of clothing.
The problem, of course, is that my wardrobe currently meets Jeeves' standards of staid respectability, and Jeeves is not hankering for a holiday to anywhere in particular at the moment.
"Jeeves," I said as dread dragged its icy fingers down my spine, "is there anything I can do to make up for this blunder?"
Jeeves gave a short shake of his head but there was a pause before he spoke. "No, sir."
I slumped back into my pillows and let my expression drop to the level of the cellar. My Aunt Charlotte used to say that I was my own worst enemy, that if I only thought before I acted my life would suffer less calamity and enjoy more contentment. I was beginning to think she was right. This was entirely my own doing. I had been the one to fall for Jeeves and I had been the one to make the situation awkward by mentioning the fact and giving him no choice but to refuse. Then, when the fellow had shown extreme generosity of spirit and had continued to be in my employ, I'd messed the whole thing up by interfering where I had no right. If Jeeves left, it would be no one's fault but my own.
"You must realise, Jeeves, that there was no malicious intent to embarrass or catch you in an unwanted situation. I thought it would be for the best. You deserved to have someone help you for once, and I thought that some distant day you'd be pleased, or grateful, or something else, something completely different from mortified and angry."
"I am not, sir."
"Well, no, Jeeves, I wasn't suggesting that you were but that was how I'd hoped it would finish up," I said, adding hopefully, "I swear I won't interfere again."
"I believe you misunderstood, sir," Jeeves said in that quiet, impassive way. "I was not displeased by your actions."
"Really, Jeeves?"
"There are very few who would have acted so under such a belief."
"Oh," I said, feeling like a singular type of idiot. A singular idiot who could be relied upon to mess things spectacularly, according to Jeeves; to him, I was a well-meaning blunderer who would always do the worse thing and couldn't really be blamed for it. "Well."
Jeeves said nothing, so I contributed another "Well," for good measure.
"Well," I said again, this time paying great attention to the third button of my jacket. Buttons can be jolly interesting things, especially when compared to the current alternative view. "I suppose you'd better mosey downstairs and make sure the kitchen staff know to send dinner up here for the foreseeable future."
"I believe Mrs Travers would, by now, have informed them of your current predicament, sir."
"Still, Jeeves," I said, admiring the precise stitches of my buttonholes, "better to err on the side of caution, what?"
Time stretched like the last stanza of an oft-copied poem and I feared that Jeeves would say something terrible. What, precisely, I'm not sure, but I had an anxious premonition that horrible words would be freed and my last memory of Jeeves would be listening to this dreadful phrase while I sat there, unable to meet his gaze but watching his dark, pinstriped trousers from the corner of my eye.
I held my breath but the rush of the guillotine blade was stayed by Jeeves' cool voice.
"If you insist, sir."
I did not look up until long after Jeeves left the room.
Some might say that my situation had not considerably worsened during the last twenty minutes, but there are some that would describe Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps and Boko Fittleworth as impressive young men. I have always found there to be a certain percentage of the population who will believe, and tell you, utter rot.
The inexperienced, outside observer might find no cause for my blackened outlook but I could find ample reason. Knowing Jeeves preferred a Gallic paragon of comeliness to myself was quite understandable; there was a slightly different meaning inferred when there was no rival. It was no longer a case of Jeeves having found a more suitable paramour.
There was nothing else for it but to admit the truth. It was not that Jeeves yearned for anyone else, not that Jeeves' heart was already tethered to another. It was that Jeeves...
This was the clanger -- the depressing thought undid me -- and here it was: Jeeves did not want me.
Now, now, gentle readers, I can already hear the objections from the penny seats. You are right that neither motive changed the end result. Whether he liked another or disliked me, the conclusion to the tale would be the same: irrespective of how much I longed for him, Jeeves would never be mine. I don't dispute that. But the difference of being disliked in relative or absolute terms is a matter of potential: potentially, given the ideal surroundings, I had thought Jeeves possible to attain. Now I saw it had always been folly.
I'd thought myself outclassed, if you will, in the competition and then found myself ineligible for entry. This sort of thing can hit a chap fairly hard. It was as if Fate had laughingly pushed me off a bridge and it wasn't until the last moment that I realised I wasn't diving into a shock of cold water, but hurtling towards a dry and stony riverbed.
It was not a pleasant sensation. And I wasn't particularly pleasant about it. Normally one to see the ounce of silver in every cloud, I made no such effort that evening. Neither charming nor talkative, when family and friends dared to interrupt my half-hearted reading and wholehearted brooding, I was terse and sullen. Jeeves, regardless of how little he deserved such treatment, bore the brunt of my bad mood by dint of being the one to spend the most time in my room.
Every time I glanced up, he would be hovering. First, near my wardrobe, folding away clean garments; then, in the bathroom, tidying every little item, ensuring everything was in its place and perfectly aligned. I would try to focus on my novel -- death defying heroics usually require less concentration -- and look up, and there he would be, perfectly untouchable and innocuously busy. It's enough to drive a fellow to distraction.
At first, I thought that the over-reaction was my fault entirely, then I saw that despite Jeeves turning his back to me, he was using the mirror to watch my reactions. He looked stern and disapproving, which may have been a fair response to my strong attack of the doldrums, but I was in no mood for speaking glances and silent disapprobation. In a fit of pique, I gave him the night off.
Left with my own company, at least I knew that the only one scowling at me was my reflection. It didn't take me long to douse the light and attempt to sleep.
The next morning I woke up much the same -- with the fatalistic, despairing anger of a caterpillar crawling out of its cocoon to find a robin perched above it, licking its beak in preparation for a well loved delicacy -- yet it is amazing how a few days' absence can reinvigorate those old fond feelings. But I get ahead of myself.
Even in the midst of such bitter sentiments, there remains the tiny voice of reason. This voice, the siren song of one's better angels, pops up at inconvenient times to remind us of our foibles. It was this that told me, despite the hurricane of general bad feeling I bore against all who crossed my path, that I'd regret acting this way towards Jeeves and that if I could not control my bad temper, it would be best to minimise our interactions.
Jeeves, for reasons known only to him, did not show the same sense demonstrated by the rest of the household -- who took their leave of me as speedily as basic decency would allow -- and continued to find tasks in my room that needed to be done. Even suggesting -- or outright stating -- that my sock drawer was under no vital need for rearranging at this particular moment only made him incline his head, mutter "Yes, sir," and start on some other unimportant article.
Well, what was a chap to do but mutter, "Right ho, Jeeves," in a stinging way and retaliate with a proclamation that he would not be dressing for the day?
I am not one to condone such extreme behaviours -- as much as my pal Rocky may be the salt of the earth and an amazingly decent chap, his habit of not dressing for dinner is only barely permissible within the wilderness of his cabin life and would be shameful in company of any kind -- but I wished to be left alone with my grievances.
Jeeves stilled for a moment, and I saw that the shot had hit its mark. I was torn between a regretful urge to apologise for such a brazen statement and the desire to up the ante of disreputable behaviour until Jeeves vacated himself from my presence. It struck me that I was being awfully unfair to a man who had, if judged by his actions and intent, done nothing wrong.
Angela's uncle on her paternal side, a fellow by the name of Cecil Travers, would see nothing wrong with my behaviour. It is the approach that he uses frequently with attractive maids, much to the scandalised gossip of the family. It has got to the stage where Aunt Dahlia has conspired with the fellow's butler to ensure that no maid under twenty-five years of age or with the faintest hint of a pleasing smile is ever again employed. If a fellow known for cornering his staff and suggesting lascivious, lecherous things -- and giving them the old heave-ho if they don't agree to said acts of lascivious lechery -- is the only voice that would agree with the way one is acting, one is acting in a decidedly rotten manner.
"Hold that thought," I said, capitulating. "The situation is not so dire as to necessitate the abandonment of civilised manners, Jeeves."
Barmy used to have a theory that if you spend a great deal of time around one person, you start to sound like them. I always thought this was simply one of Barmy's more balmy ideas, but for a moment I felt as if Jeeves had hovered in my room for so long that I was starting to sound like the cove.
"Very good," Jeeves said, moving to my wardrobe, clearly convinced that haste was needed to ensure the young master did not change his mind and follow the example of certain Long Island poets. "Shall I lay out our grey flannel trousers, sir?"
"I'd say so, but no shoes. Between this ankle and my Aunt Dahlia, I think shoes would be taken as a sign of guilt. The brown vest as well, Jeeves."
"If I may, sir, I believe the navy vest may be better suited to the situation."
"I don't think there's a dress code for spraining one's ankle, Jeeves."
Jeeves inclined his head, admitting my point. "True, sir, but the navy garment is a softer, lighter weave, better suited to the relative warmth of a day spent indoors and likely to be more comfortable."
"As you say, Jeeves. I would simply be happy to be out of Uncle Tom's nightshirt. I have had it up to the neck with the dratted thing."
I had not worn nightshirts since I was a boy and had forgotten the way they can twist around one's legs and attempt to strangle the midsection. For this reason the fashion of wearing pyjamas to bed suits me, but with my pair soot-stained and smoke-scented, I had been forced to borrow from Uncle Tom's wardrobe. I would have preferred an old-fashion set of neck to shin underwear but time, travel and Anatole's cooking have taken their toll on my uncle's physique and rendered it quite dissimilar to my own, so when I tried on the garment, it sagged in the most ludicrous way. I would have been ashamed to wear it, let alone allow Jeeves to see me in it.
There was nothing I could do about the blasted situation until I returned to London and purchased more sleepwear, so it would have to be endured until then. Jeeves, in a way that did not surprise me in the least, did not share my opinions on nightshirts. I have often thought Jeeves would have preferred to have been born a good fifty years earlier when everyone woke up in nightshirts and put on morning coats. His tastes would have been the height of fashion.
This is normally the moment when Jeeves says something as innocuous as "Indeed, sir" or offers an opinion on the day's weather and the state of the household, but Jeeves remained oddly silent. Our conversations, humble and unimportant though they may be, are one of the first things I miss when Jeeves takes his annual sojourns -- those, and the prospect of a good cup of tea at home, always make me glad of Jeeves' return -- but Jeeves had been taciturn last night and continued to be so today. Perhaps he was trying to avoid my dissatisfied spirits, which would understandable given the circs, but his silence grated upon my nerves.
When one is used to discussing the minutiae of one's recent experiences, when one is used to the signs of careful, attentive interest to one's opinions, having that interest withdrawn does leave one with the desire to smash something small and highly fragile. I bit my tongue to ensure I did not bark some contradicting order -- to insist upon the brown vest, perhaps, or demand my grey pinstripe suit for this morning -- and stewed upon the facts.
The facts -- I thought to myself, feeling much like my fictional detective and wishing I still had my black and red trilby to truly play the part -- ran as so: Jeeves, despite his silence, had not acted and was not acting badly whereas I, despite my conscience, had the conflicting compulsion to either throw myself into Jeeves' arms or banish him from my sight. Due to that conflict, I was behaving atrociously and, if I did not correct my ways, Jeeves would vanish from my life and I would regret it. Also, the attempt to be civil left me with an appetite for violent destruction, and I was still wearing Uncle Tom's nightshirt.
That last point was not particularly relevant to the situation I faced re Jeeves, but it was the straw that threatened to shatter my vertebrae. If I had to be standing with one foot in the frying pan and one in the fireplace, I should at least be able to have a decent night's sleep in attire that would not try to choke and tether me.
This was my eureka moment (a phrase, I have found out, that did not come from Shakespeare but some ancient Greek cove, according to Jeeves). The flash of inspiration hit me like a cricket ball to the forehead and I saw the way out of my darkened, Cretan maze.
"Jeeves," I said, perking up, "this nightshirt situation needs to be corrected."
After placing my socks on the chair, beside the rest of the day's clothes, Jeeves glanced up. "Despite the most careful attention, your dressing gown and pyjamas remain irreparably ruined, sir."
"I refuse to spend the next week in Uncle Tom's nightwear, Jeeves. Take the two-seater back to London and buy me another pair of pyjamas and another dressing gown. Oh, also get another pair of slippers. After Tuesday night, I think we should keep a spare pair in the car, in case the need to drive miles in bare feet ever occurs again."
"I am sure the purchase could wait until you returned to the metropolis, sir."
"No, Jeeves, it cannot."
"I understand that celerity may seem necessary, sir, but an item as personal as sleep attire should be selected by the person who intends to wear it. If you remember, your aunt, Mrs Gregson, returned to her abode in London yesterday, so an early return to the capital would not be the most prudent action at this juncture."
"I'm not likely to forget that, Jeeves," I said sharply. "That is why you must go down and buy the items for me. No, buy two of each."
Jeeves raised an eyebrow, a small gesture that had been noticeably missing in our interaction of late. "You foresee a need for two pairs of pyjamas, sir?"
"If mine were wrecked, yours must have been as well."
"The differing quality of the fabric leads me to believe that, with due diligence, my clothing will be salvageable, sir."
"As much as I may applaud your work ethic, Jeeves, given the nature of those pyjamas, I doubt it is a wise decision to devote any time or effort into restoring them to their dubious glory." There was a twitch to Jeeves' lip and I grinned, feeling like a wind-up toy that had just been given a good turning. "Put it on my account, Jeeves. After protecting the family homestead and all that, the least you can do is let me provide replacements."
"Thank you, sir," Jeeves said. Then he excused himself -- to ready for the trip -- and I dressed as I congratulated myself on this corker of a notion. I would be left in peace for the day, Jeeves would be otherwise occupied, and I resolved that by the next time I saw him, I would return to my usual good-natured cheer.
That didn't literally work since the next time I saw him was when Jeeves stopped by to announce his imminent departure and to confirm that I wouldn't see him until tomorrow morning. It only took a quick bit of arithmetic, and a little surreptitious counting on my fingers, to realise that Jeeves would be forced to drive most of the night. It seemed a little much for an errand that was mainly designed to give me moping space.
"Jeeves, I think it would be better if you packed your bags and stayed in the metrop. I'll stay here, lie about for a few days until Aunt Dahlia stops threatening to leash hounds to the hall outside my bedroom door, and then take the first train up on Saturday morning."
The set of Jeeves' shoulders showed his dislike for the idea. "Given your current state of inconvenient infirmity, I believe an expeditious return would be advisable, sir."
"Flapdoodle, Jeeves," I said, waving away his concerns in no uncertain terms. "There are more servants here than I can count and a rabid aunt to keep them in line. I will be perfectly fine left to my own devices for a few days."
"There are forty-one members of staff, including the gardeners and stable hands, sir, and I believe you have overlooked recent changes to the train timetable. There is no longer an early Saturday service and you would be forced to wait until the two-ten train in the afternoon, which would result in you lunching at Brinkley Court before your departure."
"With Honoria, you mean? Oh, we can't have that, Jeeves. I'll take the Friday evening train and hope that Aunt Agatha is firmly ensconced in her dragon's cave."
"Travel by car would be more reliable, sir."
"I will be fine on the train, unless Aunt Agatha spots me." I winced at the horrible thought of being caught by that particular dreadful relative when I was unable to do anything but hobble in the opposite direction. "You will have to send me a telegram before I leave, Jeeves, and let me know if I should board wearing a disguise."
"A disguise, sir?"
"I'm thinking a particularly large hat and dark overcoat. Possibly sunglasses would be a good idea as well."
"They seem to be favoured in Hollywood films, sir."
"Then that settles the matter. Hat, coat and sunglasses. I'll make Waterbury stop at the village on Friday morning and pick them up. As long as you send me a telegram by two-ish, shall we say? As long as you send it and tell me if the coast is clear or if there are stormy clouds on the horizon, all will be fine, Jeeves."
Jeeves gave me a long glance, the type that counts seconds as well as any pocket-watch until I said, "Well, have a good journey and all that, Jeeves. I'll see you Friday night. I'll have the kitchen staff pack me something for the train, so don't worry about fixing dinner. If I'm hungry, I'll stop by the club."
"Yes, sir," Jeeves said, looking for all the world as if I had declared myself one of those futurist chaps and announced my intention to wear my red vest, yellow tie and blue socks at the same time. "I will see you on Friday, sir."
With Jeeves out of the county, I was left to mourn my own foolishness in peace. I sighed and flicked through pages, unable to muster any true interest in the printed word. I stared out the open window, glumly pondering on the possibility of rain. I gazed at the ceiling and thought wistfully on what I would never experience with Jeeves. When served meals, I picked at them and spent more time pushing vegetables around my plate than noticing the flavours (in and of itself almost considered a felony amongst the regular inmates of the place). In short, I let my spirits sink lower than the ill-fated Titanic and indulged my lovesick heart with all the misery it could bear.
The next time a friend tells you he is dying of anguish, yearning for one who will not have him, wasting away for want of the more tender feelings in return, put no faith in his story. It is a queer thing but allowing one's life to blacken and one's days to stretch into endless hours of soul-deep sighs and pained mourning brings its own peculiar satisfaction and comfort. There is something quite uplifting about such extreme unhappiness, giving one's all to the depressed emotions with as little inhibition as a Oxford fellow on Boat Race Night.
It is a method of purging I would recommend everybody to try at least once. If possible, I would say, attempt the feat away from family and friends, since they can -- not understanding the purging process -- interfere dreadfully. A perfect example of my point would be the combined efforts of Tuppy and Angela who nearly ruined my schedule of moping, sulking, and sighing.
First Tuppy stopped in to enquire about my spirits ("Gloomy," said I in funereal strains of woe. He rolled his eyes and muttered something about there being numerous maids in London, and I did not disabuse him of his misconception re the cause of despondency). He then proceeded to share the contents of his latest letter from Pongo Twistleton.
Pongo had written to share the latest misadventures of his uncle, Lord Ickenham. Like many earls, Lord Ickenham considers his peerage proof that he has done well in life and come a long way through his character and brains -- and, one must note, family inheritance -- and believes this has given him the onus of educating his nephew in the ways of life. While Ickenham was generally welcome in the Drones club for a meal -- until his wife declared he could no longer visit London, that is -- due to his ability to tell a rollicking story with gifted timing and accents when necessary, his educational afternoons have resulted in Pongo pretending to be Sir Roderick Glossop's nephew and on one memorable occasion, have had the police remove the pair of them from the dog races. (We had a rip around the club to raise bail money but Lady Ickenham had ponied up the cash, so we'd used the raised funds to buy enough rounds to make Pongo -- a mild-mannered chap if ever you've met one, and one somewhat prone to embarrassment -- forget the entire affair. As Pongo gains a definite chalky look at the mention of greyhounds, I can only conclude that we were not successful.)
There was a story of Blanding's Castle -- a place I've never been but my second cousin Algernon Wooster's cousin, Lord Percy, is a nephew of the chap who lives there, Lord Emsworth, so I'm somehow related to the place -- and it involved stolen pigs, church boys and the frightful combination of a bread roll and a top hat, and I quite forgot my current raison d'etre and almost shared a hearty chuckle over the tale. It was only the thought of Jeeves' reaction to such a story -- the lightening of that noble brow, the glitter of those eyes, the serious moue that only signalled amusement to the keenest Jeeves-watcher -- that reminded me of my current predicament and sobered my mood accordingly.
In the afternoon, Angela visited with fudge from the village and a game of Lexico in the other hand. Angela, as I have mentioned, is a good egg, sweet natured and downright fun in a way that seems highly rare amongst the finer sex. This opinion was reinforced by her decision to allow words such as 'oomph' and 'tinkerty', and not change that verdict when use of the latter word gave me the winning score. It takes a girl of majestic class and overwhelming splendidness to do that.
I will not deny that for a handful of hours, my time was spent in pleasant company thinking of spelling lists of my youth or relatives more devious-minded than my own, but when left alone again, I put every effort into being as morose and melancholic as I could be. If you looked up the words depressing and lovelorn, I am sure the dictionary would tell you to see the entry entitled, 'Wooster, B, Current state of'.
In the midst of such indulgence, when you are feeling vindicated and satisfied, it becomes paradoxically hard to maintain your mournful air of pessimism and disappointment, and so the feelings perish of excess. This is how it went for me, so by the time I badgered Waterbury into taking me to the village -- achieved through polite asking and outright begging of Angela, Tuppy and Aunt Dahlia, and only allowed once I could prove myself capable of navigating the length of the corridor without limping -- I had started to regain my more usual outlook and was almost looking forward to the shopping expedition.
Shopping in a country village -- even a medium sized one like Market Snodsbury -- is always an adventurous affair. Unlike department stores where one expects mass-produced items of factory-born standards or Savile Row where one is assured of an exceptional cut and general quality, a country village survives on a strange combination of the two. There will be ready-to-wear garments that never fit as well as promised; there will be a local tailor and seamstress (sometimes they are one and the same, which rather baffles me, for how can someone trained in female fashion understand the importance of matching check on a suit or allowing for the correct cuff length on a creased pair of trousers?) capable of producing hand-stitched wonders; and there will always be the occasional homemade sweater contributed by village wives with knitting needles and too much spare time.
It makes the shopper feel rather like Aladdin in his cave, picking up old, battered brass lamps in the hope that closer inspection will reveal a magical inscription. Amongst the mundane and everyday, you will find both the occasional horror and godsend.
The horror of that outing was an eye-watering vest. I'm sure you must have heard of that group of Frenchmen calling themselves futurists and simultaneists, walking around the streets of Paris some years ago claiming to be dress reformers. If not, the long and short of it is that they wore the most atrocious, mismatched outfits -- I remember hearing of a red and green tuxedo, the mere idea of which is enough to give a presentable fellow the cold sweats -- and tried to combine as many colours and styles as they could, all in the name of revealing the future of fashion. Thankfully, fashion has never lost its wits enough to declare clashing colours and asymmetrical patterns acceptable wear.
This vest, although quite symmetrical, would have suited that group to the ground. It had diagonal stripes of yellow, red, bottle green, violet and powder blue, and was edged in chartreuse. All of these colours can be worn effectively when taken in small doses, but combined across the breadth of a man's torso will only serve to make women scream and children cry. I could only surmise that it must have been lovingly knitted by someone's colour-blind grandmother because despite the horrid amalgamation of shades, it was well made. Surely anyone capable of seeing the tones and knowing how the finished product would inspire nightmares wouldn't take such care in putting it together.
For a moment, I was tempted to buy the thing -- as truly awful as it was -- to hear the reaction in Jeeves' tone when I unpacked it. (I would have to unpack it. There was no way I could wear such a monstrosity.) I could picture perfectly the offended disgust in Jeeves' eyes, the coldness in his tone as he suggested that I would most likely be considered too old to be accepted as a circus runaway, regardless of my perceptible eagerness to become a clown.
The thought that stayed my hand from purchasing this harlequin item was consideration that Jeeves would not find the joke amusing -- indeed, he might take the shock rather hard -- and a trifling amusement was not worth causing Jeeves genuine distress.
Concluded in Part Five
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-10-19 10:00 am (UTC)There was nothing else for it but to admit the truth. It was not that Jeeves yearned for anyone else, not that Jeeves' heart was already tethered to another. It was that Jeeves...
This was the clanger -- the depressing thought undid me -- and here it was: Jeeves did not want me.
Now, now, gentle readers, I can already hear the objections from the penny seats. You are right that neither motive changed the end result. Whether he liked another or disliked me, the conclusion to the tale would be the same: irrespective of how much I longed for him, Jeeves would never be mine. I don't dispute that. But the difference of being disliked in relative or absolute terms is a matter of potential: potentially, given the ideal surroundings, I had thought Jeeves possible to attain. Now I saw it had always been folly.
I'd thought myself outclassed, if you will, in the competition and then found myself ineligible for entry.
That Does makes a difference.
no subject
Date: 2007-10-20 12:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-25 04:40 pm (UTC)A nobler, braver man than myself would have stood up, endured the pain, and walked back to the car. A determined man would have crawled on hands and knees, and have inevitably ruined his suit as he did so. I, on the other hand, sat against a tree trunk and waited for Jeeves.
Of course! XDDDDDD
no subject
Date: 2007-10-25 04:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-19 06:24 pm (UTC)Oh, Bertie! *feels incredibly sappy about this quote, but it's such a brilliant quote*
I love that line, I really love it!
"leaning against the door was similar to the sensation of being upheld by Jeeves -- in the way that holding a seashell to your ear is similar to standing on a warm, sun-drenched beach in the Mediterranean"
Again, beautiful, beautiful, adorable line that makes me sad and happy at the same time. Please cuddle Jeeves more!
My carrying-kink is very happy about Jeeves carrying Bertie to the car. Very!
no subject
Date: 2008-05-19 10:29 pm (UTC)*beams* That is one of my favourite lines, too. There's nothing more thrilling than someone else spotting an dlovign a favourite of yours.
(And thank you!)