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out_thereTitle: Jeeves and the Tennis Coach
Author: out_there
Fandom: Jeeves and Wooster
Continued from Parts One, Two, Three and Four.
So I passed by that item and found my metaphorical genie's lamp. It was a double-breasted overcoat in light grey Harris Tweed. It was slightly too long for me, too wide across the shoulders, too controlled and understated; in short, the perfect disguise. Combined with the dark bowler hat -- a size eleven, large enough to fall across my eyes and adding to the badly fitted, unsophisticated air of the ensemble -- I looked like a country-bred chump trying to appear serious and mature on his first trip alone to the city by wearing his father's trappings. I did not look a thing like the neat, presentable man of fashion that all knew Bertie Wooster to be.
I decided against buying sunglasses. They would have ruined the effect.
As fruitful as my shopping had been, it was for naught. I returned to the house to find a telegram from London stating that the coast appeared clear, so I had the extra garments packed into my suitcase and boarded the train sans disguise.
After a not-too-short train ride spent in the merry company of Mrs. Christie's latest mystery -- another gem found during my spree at the village -- I hailed a cab and got off at Dover Street, giving the driver instructions to take my suitcases home. I ignored the flock of members around the billiards table -- the bi-annual Drones' Golden Cue tournament was coming up in three weeks' time and practice makes perfect, as they say -- and headed to the bar. A quick whisky and soda seemed in order.
I don't want to give the impression that courage was strictly necessary in returning to the flat itself, but the prospect of seeing Jeeves again left me with a cannonball of anxiety weighing down my insides, and courage -- no matter how Dutch its origins -- can be useful in such times.
I had one drink for courage and a second for luck, and was considering a third for the road, when Biffy called my name.
Biffy, Charles Edward Biffen by club register, is one of my oldest confreres, not that he'd remember it. It's not that he's an ungracious, rude type of fellow, prone to ignoring boyhood acquaintances when it suits, but that his memory closely resembles a photographic flash: it needs a good deal of careful work to set up and get going, and then only works for a split-second. He's a good old bean, though.
"Bertie, I was looking for you!" he said, waving an umbrella. I comment upon the umbrella not only because a man waving an umbrella makes a strong first impression but also because it was an unusual sight within the club. Rodgers is usually quite strict about umbrellas and overcoats being placed in their relative stands.
"What ho, Biffy. Be careful with that thing," I said, as he brandished it in my direction.
"It's yours," he said, passing it to me. Then he blinked, crunching up his face as Biffy is wont to do when attempting to remember something as obscure as his name or address. "I had to give it back to you."
I took it and gave it a good going over with my gaze. "I don't think it's mine."
"I'm sure it was..." Again, his face crumpled. "Bertie Wooster, yes. I'm sure I had to give this back to you, Bertie."
"Why, Biffy?"
"Mabel said so," he said.
The umbrella looked vaguely familiar, but for all I knew, the familiarity might have come from seeing it on Biffy's arm once or twice. I'd have asked Biffy for more details but knowing the way his memory works, I thought it best to cut to the chase. "Biffy, is Mabel about anywhere?"
Biffy started checking his pockets and then drew out the smallest notebook I've ever seen. It seem the sort that Poirot would have used to keep detailed notes on the private lives of his suspects -- shoe size and favourite jam, that type of thing -- but Biffy flicked it open and read carefully. "Yes. I'm meeting her outside the Drones' Club at eight o'clock."
"It's five past eight now, Biffy."
"Oh, is it? My watch says seven-twenty, Bertie."
I peered over Biffy's shoulder to see the pocket watch sitting in his palm. He was right in saying that it stated the current time in London as twenty minutes past seven, but close inspection revealed neither hand to be moving. "Biffy, is it possible that you might have forgotten to wind your watch?"
He turned his gaze to the wall-clock, which now proclaimed six minutes past eight, and then frowned at his pocket watch. "I suppose I must have, Bertie. Oh, well. Care for a drink?"
"Biffy," I said gently, not wanting to startle a good chap who happens to be cursed with the worst memory in all of recorded history, which would be a great deal shorter if recorded by birds like Biffy. "Weren't you on your way to meet Mabel outside the club?"
"Oh, yes," he said in the manner of someone suddenly remembering a highly important engagement, "I was."
"Come on, I'll walk you out." I took his arm in mine and, making sure that he collected his coat, led him outside. Mabel, patient saint that she is, was standing at the doors and did not utter a word of rebuke at Biffy's late appearance. "What ho, Mabel."
"Sorry, Mabel," Biffy said. "I forgot to wind my watch."
She shot him a fond smile. How a pretty, bright girl like Mabel -- who certainly seems to have slightly more than her fair share of marbles rattling around that blonde head of hers -- can look at a forgetful bird like Biffy with such fondness escapes me.
"Never mind, Charles," she said to him, then she turned to me. "Bertie, did Charles give you the umbrella?"
"He certainly did," I said, holding the thing aloft but taking care not to wave it. Waving umbrellas on city streets is bound to cause an accident. "But I don't think the thing's mine, Mabel."
"No, it's Uncle Reggie's. He left it at our place yesterday when he visited for tea. We thought you could return it to him," she said.
The code of the Woosters demands that a fellow comes to a lady's assistance, but I was stumped. "I'd be happy to, Mabel, but I don't think I know Biffy's Uncle Reggie."
"Not Biffy's Uncle Reggie, my Uncle Reggie," she said, but I still didn't follow her.
"Sorry, Mabel, I don't think I know your Uncle Reggie either."
"Reginald Jeeves," she said, speaking slowly as if for the hard of thinking. I fancy she uses that calm, quiet tone frequently with Biffy. "Your manservant. He is my Uncle Reggie."
There have been, I must admit, a few occasions during which yours truly, one Bertram W. Wooster, has felt like a complete fatheaded poop. I had never felt it quite so clearly as in that moment. Of course I had known that Mabel was Jeeves' niece -- that fact had been quite relevant to ensuring the Mabel-Biffy romance overthrew the threat of a Biffy-Honoria wedding -- and that Jeeves, like most civilised men, possessed a Christian name. I even, I must admit, knew that it was Reginald and that certain other members of the Young Ganymede Club called him Reggie.
I had known these facts and yet the conclusion had completely slipped my mind. This, I realised, was how Biffy must feel all the time. It left me with a new found sympathy for the chap.
"Oh, of course," I said, still feeling the sting of embarrassment. "I'll return it to him directly. Good night, Biffy. Good night, Mabel."
They each bade me a good night and I trotted home with the umbrella in hand.
I had stopped at my front door, checking my pockets for keys -- which I might have left in my suitcase -- when Jeeves opened the door wide. "Good evening, sir," he said, in a lukewarm way that lightened my anxiety considerably, and I took a moment to soak my senses in the vista.
There was my couch and my rug and my sitting room. There was the coffee table upon which I could prop my feet when reading a good tale and on the far side was my piano with my music sheets still sitting on the stool. There was the doorway to my bedroom, and beyond that, my bathroom. To my immediate left was the door to Jeeves' lair and to my immediate right was Jeeves himself, dark trousers, dark waistcoat, crisp white shirt and collar, and one perfectly tied tie.
It was home, sweet home, a private sanctuary from relatives and friends, nervous maids and French tennis coaches, and the sight filled me with a warm sense of comfort, of belonging, of safety. When a man has such a thing in his life, a place of repose, peace and contentment, it seems quite greedy that he should want for more.
I sighed happily, letting my sense of r., p. and c. bleed into the sound. "Be it ever so humble, Jeeves," I said and stepped inside.
"Indeed, sir."
I let him take umbrella, coat and hat. "It's quite true, Jeeves. There is an easing of the spirits that comes with stepping across one's own threshold and coming home at last."
"That is gratifying to hear, sir. I trust the journey went well?"
"Swimmingly, Jeeves. Not that I actually swam," I pointed out quickly. "I shared my cabin with a second year Eton boy by the name of Edward M-something. He was quite an upright young fellow. I mean, normally, you come across boys of a certain age and they're bound to either be miniature gangsters like my cousin Thos, trying to bully you out of a shilling, or squeaking, yellow-livered custards who threaten to tell their mothers if you so much as glance in their direction."
Jeeves shot me a sympathetic look borne from having my cousin Thos stay overnight. Jeeves had served dinner while Thos complained about the peas and then -- while I was distracted by a phone call and Jeeves was out of the room -- managed to scatter the disliked green items in the most unlikely places around the room. Let me assure you that when placing a hand down on one's sideboard in the early hours of the mid-morning after a late night, the last thing one wishes to feel beneath one's palm is a day-old squashed pea.
"It is certainly an awkward age, sir. Yet many grow to be productive members of society and make their families proud," Jeeves said with utmost authority. Somehow, I couldn't see that ever happening in young Thos' case. "But this young man did not display the more horrific attributes of his age-mates?"
"The young fellow was an absolute corker. Started telling me about his book and asked for my opinion." Nothing makes a chap feel quite so worthy as knowing that his opinion holds weight for his juniors. "It was a rummy tale about a missing school tie. He thought that Charles -- a lively type with a cutting sense of humour -- had taken it as a practical joke but I said, 'Young Edward' -- for that was his name, Jeeves, did I mention that?"
"You did, sir."
"Oh, good. 'Young Edward,' I said, 'You are overlooking the most likely subject. This boy here, this Algernon, he was secreting sweets at the start of the book, and we all know that sweets lead to sticky hands, and sticky hands lead to stained ties.' It's an oft-ignored fact that sometimes an action that appears the ultimate cruelty to another was done without any thought of hurt. Most frequently, it simply springs from desperate need."
"You believe that the tie had not been stolen by a classmate but borrowed without permission by the child, Algernon, sir?"
"Precisely, Jeeves." Feeling vindicated that Jeeves shared my logic, I smiled. "When it comes to schoolboys, it is a sad fact that a desperate friend will do you more damage than any embittered enemy."
"Some would say that depending upon your acquaintances that statement may apply much later in life as well, sir."
"Only if you mingle with the wrong sort," I said with feeling.
"Yes, sir." Jeeves gave a short tip of the head, acknowledging my point. "Were your predictions regarding the culprit correct?"
"I couldn't say, Jeeves. The boy didn't finish the book by the time we pulled in at London." I sighed. "I suppose I shall never know what happened. Meanwhile, I told young Edward about my story and he guessed it was the Colonel. I didn't have a clue of that until I hit the last chapter."
"He sounds very insightful for his age, sir."
"Remarkably bright, if you ask me. Helped the journey pass quickly." Here I paused to glance around my sitting room again. There is a remarkable comfort to being home, to knowing that everything has its place and that you are in yours. That thought brought the issue of my clothes to mind. "Are the bags all unpacked, Jeeves?"
"All but two items, sir. I thought it would be best to confirm that the articles in question actually belonged to you before placing them in our wardrobe."
"Indeed, Jeeves?" I raised my eyebrows. The last time Jeeves had spoken like that had been when I returned from Cannes with a particularly doggy pair of scarlet socks. I thought them utterly eye-catching but they accidentally got washed with two new soft-breasted silk shirts. My shirts -- formerly dove grey and peach -- were streaked with magenta, while my socks looked as if the colour had been sucked right out of them and were now an uneven pink. It had been disappointing at the time, but I have since ceased to try to insert soft-silk shirts into my wardrobe.
"If you will follow me, sir, I placed the items on your bed."
Jeeves led me to the bedroom and I easily recognised the pieces in question. "That's my disguise!"
Jeeves looked at me in a way that was not entirely frosty but far from the warmest expression I'd ever seen on his face. "Your disguise, sir?"
"Yes, Jeeves, my disguise. In case I needed to hide from Aunt Agatha at the train station."
"Indeed, sir?"
Jeeves looked quite doubtful, so I started pulling the items on. First the coat, which sagged a little across my shoulders and hung slightly around my chest, making me look like a man who had managed to lose both weight and height; then the bowler hat, which sat too low and hung over my eyes, covering half my ears. "You see, Jeeves?"
I turned to Jeeves and was met by an expression that hinted -- quite discreetly and in careful, gentle tones -- that I was possibly the most ridiculous and amusing sight Jeeves' gaze had ever absorbed. "Those garments do make it quite difficult to recognise you, sir."
"That is the point of a disguise, Jeeves. I thought it lent me a rather unsophisticated, naïve air."
"If I may say so, sir, your appearance is rather reminiscent of a child caught playing in the clothes of an older sibling."
"That was the very impression I was going for," I said, taking off the hat and trying not to feel too pleased. There was a part of me that wanted to celebrate the fact that I had managed to amuse Jeeves, but I firmly told it that making Jeeves laugh at me was not an accomplishment I wished to aspire to. I looked down at my hat brim, ignoring the minuscule twitch of Jeeves' lip -- if a man did not ignore such a sight it would drive him to distraction -- and found myself staring at the sizing. "You take a size eleven hat, don't you, Jeeves?"
"Yes, sir."
I stepped up to him and placed the thing on his head. On me, it had fallen to just above my eyes and looked likely to tumble off if I should bend over. On Jeeves, it sat the ideal two-thirds of an inch above the eyebrows, a finger-space above the ears and looked as if it had been made specifically to fit this particular noggin.
"As I thought," I said, stepping back so Jeeves could see it in the mirror. "It fits perfectly."
Jeeves made no move to remove the item. "It is a remarkably fortunate fit, sir."
"Oh, wait a minute," I said, shrugging out of the overcoat quickly. From the corner of my eye I saw Jeeves wince slightly at the motion, but such minor things as careful undressing cannot stand in the way of a smashing idea. "You should try it on."
"Sir?"
"Come, come, Jeeves. Arms back, one at a time. I know this grey is a touch lighter than your sartorial tastes usually run but it's a perfectly respectable colour and a fine quality of wool. It would be well suited to a morning walk, say in early spring or a particularly clement winter's day."
I ran out of chatter as I pulled the garment over his shoulders and walked around to fasten the buttons. My flash of inspiration had been right. The shoulders that sagged on my own frame sat comfortably on his. Where it had hung and bagged on me so disgracefully, it seemed to generously fit Jeeves and tactfully imply a well-proportioned silhouette.
The only thing I took umbrage with was the collar, which refused to roll as it should. Stepping closer, I took the wool between my fingers, curling it over to lie correctly, but then the lapels needed to be smoothed, to lie equally flat on both sides. I did this once, twice, laying my palms flat against the material and pulling softly until they had assumed the correct shape.
Then I found myself running my hands across the lapels once more -- one last minor correction -- and realised I could feel Jeeves' every inhalation through my palms, could feel the pressure as he breathed in, the movement as he breathed out. I froze, suddenly aware of the speed of Jeeves' breathing, and wondered if I pressed a little harder -- or concentrated a little more -- if I would be able to feel the thrum of Jeeves' heart through the layers of grey, white and black cloth.
I might have stood there all night -- frozen like a statue, hands stretched flat against Jeeves' chest -- had Jeeves not cleared his throat and gave a slight cough that brought reality crashing against my consciousness like a tidal wave drowning an island shore.
I pulled my hands back sharply and took a good four steps back. I turned to the mirror and assessed Jeeves' reflection, not trusting myself to glance at the real thing. "As I said, Jeeves, perfectly respectable colour and the cut is not altogether unflattering. I don't foresee the need for a disguise in the immediate future so waste not, want not. You're welcome to the items but if they don't take your fancy, I'm sure you can find some other way to dispose of them."
Having said that, I marched briskly out of the bedroom and started making myself a martini. After giving it a good shake -- a more rigorous shake than it strictly needed -- and pouring out a glassful, I sat down at the kitchen table and pondered the whole thing. Clearly, it had been a bad idea to attempt to dress Jeeves myself, but it wasn't an occurrence that happened frequently. If I should depict it truthfully, it was more likely that I would be forced to speak in public (in front of strangers, I mean, not in the Drones' Club or in front of friends and the odd relative), something I rather despise and try to avoid if at all possible, than I would ever again have a need or an opportunity to dress Jeeves. The likelihood of it ever happening again was so small as to be completely negligible, so I put it down to an unfortunate lapse of manners and headed back out to the sitting room.
I had just finished my drink when Jeeves reappeared and whisked the empty glass back to the kitchen.
The most important thing was to continue as normal, so I searched for a safe topic of conversation. "I ran into Biffy and Mabel outside the club. They returned your umbrella, Jeeves."
"I had noticed, sir," Jeeves said calmly, returning to the sitting room and starting to tidy the sideboard. He has a habit of clearing away the mess each night and leaving my flat perfectly clean for every morning. It was a sight so homely and reassuring that I felt sure that Jeeves had not noticed the extent of the bedroom faux pas and had seen my actions as overt enthusiasm for the clothes instead of lecherous groping of my valet.
"Mabel mentioned that you left it there yesterday, Jeeves."
"Yes, sir. After I returned to our flat I noticed that I had forgotten the article but when I telephoned they had already left for the night's festivities, so I could not confirm that the article was there."
"No point heading over if the dratted thing is somewhere else," I said, understanding why the umbrella had been left uncollected.
"My sentiments exactly, sir." Sideboard clear, I thought Jeeves would turn his attentions to the coffee table. But since I'd been gone for days, the coffee table was immaculate.
"It must be contagious. Biffy's memory," I clarified when Jeeves blinked in an uncertain way. "Every time I go over there I seem to forget something or other. Sometimes I wonder if there's something in the walls, some insidious poison that seeps through the skin and turns those little grey cells to the consistency of mashed potatoes."
"Unlikely, sir."
I bobbed my head, thinking it over. "You're probably right. If it was a noxious toxin, it would have affected Mabel by now, too, and she still seems bright as a brass button. It boggles me, Jeeves."
Jeeves raised one haughty brow. "My niece's intelligence, sir?"
"Oh, no, not the girl's intelligence. There's no question that all of her gears are well-greased and turn sharply," I said, quick to reassure the cove that no insult was meant against his kith and kin. "Let us say that it's her choices that baffle me. Here we have Mabel, a bright, pretty, charming lass and there, Biffy, one of the few men to be intellectually bettered by Barmy and able to make a sea cucumber look quick-witted by comparison."
"A somewhat harsh way of looking at facts, sir."
"Harsh or not, Jeeves, it is true. Biffy is the most forgetful poop I know and yet a girl like Mabel, a girl who would be considered a catch by any and all standards, falls for him. If it were simply a case of marrying for money and position I would understand it, Jeeves, but the way she looks at Biffy and the soft way she says his name makes it quite clear that Cupid's arrow has hit the tenderest regions of her heart."
Jeeves gave this matter a moment of serious thought. "They do say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, sir."
"Biffy is a fine chap, but he's not a ribbon-winner. It's not beauty that's blinding Mabel to his faults."
"You misunderstand, sir. I did not mean to imply that physical appearance had won her heart but that there are certain attributes that compensate for specific flaws," Jeeves said, and I waved at him to continue. "There are some traits that can be perceived as more valuable than mere appearance or intellectual potential. These traits can make a person fall heavily in love, despite the other person's flaws. It is a phenomenon that leads to considering the sum of a person's parts, focusing quite strongly on a person's virtues instead of their vices, and will lend an attractive air to the most humble of suitors."
"I suppose so," I allowed, thinking of other uneven matches.
Take Gussie Fink-Nottle: a fellow that looks like an amphibian -- and has a weaker self-survival instinct than one -- who has been engaged to three separate girls, all of whom would rate quite highly in the looks department. Discounting Angela, since her acceptance was the gesture of an irate and angered girl trying to truly get Tuppy's goat, it still left two girls who'd been batty for a fellow as bright and attractive as one of his own newts.
There had to be some sense in Jeeves' theory but it left me lukewarm. "You really think it's the personality that's attractive, Jeeves?"
"As William Shakespeare said, 'I do not love thee with mine eyes, for they in thee a thousand errors note; but 'tis my heart that loves', sir." Jeeves bowed his head in thought and then continued surely. "Love does not spring from appearance but from virtues. The value of a generous soul and a noble spirit cannot be underestimated. A kind, considerate nature and a cheerful disposition can melt the sternest heart. The ability to share open-hearted laughter and make one smile in the direst of circumstances is a rare and unusual gift."
"If you say so, Jeeves," I said, leaning back in my armchair, trying to imagine Biffy through Mabel's eyes. "But I wouldn't personally describe Biffy in those terms."
"It was not Mr Charles Biffen to whom I was specifically referring, sir."
"Oh, you meant universal appealing qualities, Jeeves? The things that would appeal to the masses?"
"Not precisely, sir. As the very phrase intimates, the level of appeal would depend on the individual beholder. One cannot speak for the general masses and their tastes in such matters as any man's knowledge is limited to his own nature and the traits that he values within his own life."
I considered Jeeves' point. "You have a point, Jeeves. For myself, I can't see how anyone could favour a touch of charity over the ability to remember one's own name, but different horses prefer different courses, I suppose."
"That is the primary thrust of the matter, sir."
"For my money, I'd go for brains every time. Well, brains and looks. And a general air of decency. Not a saint, but hopefully not someone who'd hand you over, bound and trussed, to a ravenous horde of aunts." I mused, thinking about Jeeves and my definite fondness in his direction. "It all comes down to a broad sense of rareness, I suppose."
"Rareness, sir?"
I scratched the back of my head, trying to think of a way to describe something that was nebulous, at best, inside my head. "Well, Jeeves, you know there are some girls -- very pretty, delightful, charming girls -- who seem to populate every village and city you visit. Chaps fall for them all the time, but if they fall out with one, there is always another in this town, or the next, to replace her. Whereas I think..."
"Yes, sir?" Jeeves said softly, clearly thinking that sudden noise might startle the idea straight out of my mind. I am not sure that his conclusion was wrong, either.
"There are some," I said after a moment and trying Biffy's trick of crumpling the face to encourage brain activity, "who leave you with a definite sense of rareness. Where you meet them and you know, without a single doubt, that if you travelled to a thousand countries and a thousand towns within each, and introduced yourself to a thousand people within each of those towns, that no matter how many people you met or how far you went, you would never find another quite like--"
I found myself staring at Jeeves and the word 'you' was on the tip of my tongue, but thankfully the rest of my brain intercepted it. "Well, you'd never meet a person quite like that person, I guess. Making the person -- the original person, not all those people that you'd met -- quite rare, in the grand scheme of things. If you catch my meaning."
Jeeves watched me, his eyes dark, and I realised I had been too indiscreet, too obvious.
"Just a general observation, Jeeves. Nothing specific there at all. It seemed quite a pleasant night, earlier. I think I might go out for a quick walk. Apparently it's good for the digestion."
I stood up quite quickly and managed to grab my hat and coat before Jeeves managed a hoarse, "Sir," that threatened a conversation I did not wish to have. I didn't need him to rebuke my behaviour; I was quite aware it was unacceptable.
"Be back in a jiffy, Jeeves. Or an hour. Either one," I called out and fled my abode, disappointed in myself for not managing to last so much as a handful of hours around Jeeves before acting badly. I would simply have to watch my tongue more closely.
I had overlooked one important aspect in my plan to ankle around the city and avoid Jeeves until I could master some rudimentary form of self-control. That aspect was, in fact, my ankle. Days of lying in bed followed by a day of shopping and a train ride had left my minor sprain feeling rather major. The short stroll from the club to my flat had been more of a slow painful trudge earlier this evening and the prospect of walking further -- and turning that dull, tedious ache into something that closely resembled the sensation of being stabbed with a sharpened carving fork -- held no appeal.
The only thing I really wanted was to ditch Jeeves for a handful of minutes, to remind myself of the dire consequences of allowing my insidious infatuation to show. Specifically, these d. c.s would be discomfort for all and would permit Jeeves no option but to resign from my employment, leaving me bereft, empty-hearted and surrounded by badly ironed shirts. In short, I needed to give myself a stern talking to and I could see no reason why this could not be done while sitting propped against the supportive outside wall of Berkeley Mansions.
So, I sat upon the concrete, stretched my legs out before me and dithered over whether apologising to Jeeves -- re: my most recent slip-ups -- would be the acceptable, right thing to do or if gentlemanly manners demanded that I ignore the whole thing. I waved away the doorman when he enquired about my well-being, as if a perfectly healthy chap doesn't have the right to sit outside his domicile for ten minutes if he chooses, and had barely got rid of the fellow when the shadow once more fell across me.
"Browne," I said, for that was the doorman's name, not the most suitable name given his pale skin and grey hair, but his name nonetheless. "As I have already said, I am perfectly fine here and am not at all unwell. I thank you for your concern but it is completely superfluous."
"Sir," the figure above me said, giving me the urge to bury my head in my hands since the voice did not belong to the rather rotund figure of Browns but the elegant figure of Jeeves. I did not bury my head in such a manner for fear of lending credence to Browns' apprehensions vis-à-vis my current physical and mental state, but the urge was there.
"Jeeves," I said, trying to hide my dismay within a tone of cheerful enthusiasm, "were you heading out for the night? If so, don't let me stop you. Go on, have a good time."
"No, sir. The doorman informed me of your unusual behaviour. I came to offer assistance in your return to our flat."
"As we are not in the midst of the countryside, Jeeves, and I am not incapacitated, I think it safe to assume that I can bally well walk up to my own flat." I glared up at him reproachfully but given the angle and the streetlamp lighting, I could only make out a bowler hat and a figure of immense height, and could not judge his reaction. "It is not as if I need you to carry me."
"As you say, sir."
To the casual observer, it would seem that I had won the argument and would be allowed to sit where I pleased but this was not the case. Jeeves continued to stand beside me, the perfect picture of devotion and duty, waiting for the moment that I would rise. You can't tell a chap like Jeeves, standing in such a position of such incorruptible loyalty, to go boil his head because you want to sit on the cold concrete until you trust yourself in his presence once more. I suspect that you can't tell a chap like Jeeves to go boil his head under any circs, no matter how catastrophic, but you especially can't say such words in the current situation.
I was left with no option but to stand and follow him back to the flat, feeling for all the world as if I was eight years old and being sent to Rev. Aubrey's study for a firm discussion on acceptable classroom conduct, to be followed by six of the juiciest.
When we got back to the sitting room, I took my place upon the couch, sitting upright and tense, and decided to grab the livestock by the horns. "Jeeves, I abjectly apologise for my previous actions and I know that I've made it jolly hard for us to continue in the status quo but it has been quite unintentional. If you could simply allow me a little more time to adjust to the truth of current relations -- get my head around it so to speak -- I'm quite sure I can promise an end to this nonsense."
I dared a glance up at Jeeves -- who seemed quite surprised I'd dared to broach the topic so brashly -- and then returned my attention to my tightly folded arms.
"It really is quite simple, Jeeves. You agree to bear with me during this period of adjustment and quid pro quo…" Here, I faltered, my Latin abandoning me. I was stymied for a moment by the idea of what I could offer Jeeves, how I could bribe him to stay despite my unfortunate performance, and then the idea came to me. "How about a holiday, Jeeves? Surely there must be somewhere you're itching to see, some monsters of the deep begging to be caught?"
"Sir," Jeeves said, soundly vaguely offended by the very idea of considering the trivial pastime of travel at such a moment.
"Think about it, Jeeves. All expenses paid, wherever you want, however you want to get there. It would be in addition to your usual holidays, of course, and when you return I promise that all will be back to normal and I will have purged this folly from my system."
There was a long moment of silence and then Jeeves cleared his throat. "I distinctly doubt that your proposed solution of temporarily parting company will solve the situation in a satisfactory way for all concerned, sir."
I had the positive impression that someone had dropped an ice cube down the back of my collar. "Possibly not, Jeeves, but I'd beg you to try it before taking more permanent action."
Jeeves stared down, apparently taking a violent dislike to the colour of my carpet. "I believe discussing the events of causation would prove far more fruitful, sir."
"Oh, no, let's not hear a word about it," I said hastily, dreading what a discussion like that might reveal. "If you would simply allow me further time to act as a decent fellow should in these circs, all would be well, Jeeves."
"If you will allow me, sir, I must confess that I doubt that we share a clear understanding of the events that occurred."
"The matter was settled."
"Sir--"
"There is no need, Jeeves," I said, talking through him. As rude as it was, I believed it necessary to put Jeeves' mind at rest as quickly as possible. "There was no confusion, no misconstruction. A discreet offer was made and was not accepted. You acted in an entirely civil fashion and I assure you that I am attempting do the same. I am simply not succeeding as well as I would like."
"Sir?"
"I'm not like Angela's Uncle Cecil -- Uncle Tom's brother, you understand, not actually my uncle -- who believes that employing someone is synonymous with being accepted as their paramour, if synonymous is the word I want."
"It is, sir."
"But, yes, I am not that type of employer, Jeeves. I would not dream of pressing my suit any further and I certainly would not hold these events against you in any way. The matter was handled with the least amount of embarrassment possible, and--" Here I ran out of steam like a locomotive headed uphill and out of coal. There was a limit to how much one can say in these situations without causing excess harm to either one's own, or the other person's, feelings. "And there is no way to dictate to the heart. If mine feels one way and yours feels another, then that is simply the way of things. We are two men of the world, Jeeves, and I am sure that we can continue in our old ways and speak no more about this."
"But, sir--"
"Oh no!" I cried, waving an authoritative finger in the air. "That is my final word on the matter. There is nothing more to be said."
"Sir," Jeeves said, quite ignoring my authoritative finger-waving, "I must insist."
I allowed myself to slouch back upon the couch and folded my hands across my lap. I had done all I could to make the matter as painless as possible. If Jeeves wished to insist, I couldn't bally well stop him. "Very well, Jeeves, speak on it. But if I hear words of resignation cross your lips, I shall be dreadfully disappointed in you."
"I have no intention of resigning, sir," Jeeves said firmly.
I grinned at that news. That had, since that awkward walk across the rose garden, been my highest concern. It had hung over my head, blocking out sunshine more effectively than the darkest rain cloud.
A fellow like Jeeves can operate well anywhere and for anyone. I doubt there is a single gentleman in England who would not sell aunts and grandmothers alike for the opportunity of having Jeeves as their own manservant. It was quite easy to imagine Jeeves happily employed in some great house in the country, a townhouse in London, or in Buckingham Palace itself.
I, on the other hand, had grown quite dependent upon Jeeves and could not imagine my life without him. But if he was not resigning, I could bear whatever else he said. Even if he turned around, much like an aunt, and started dictating household rules for the rest of my life, I could happily bear it. "Truly, Jeeves? Then the floor is yours."
"Thank you, sir," Jeeves said and that strange stillness -- that statue-like silence from the gardens -- returned.
I held my tongue for a while and then shifted. "Was there something in particular you wished to say, Jeeves?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you intend to say it?"
The fellow did not meet my eyes. "Yes, sir."
He stood stricken, and I admired his profile from my current perspective -- thinking upon the sharp way his hair was brushed back, revealing a hairline that struck me as quite bold and definite, like some French movie star -- until I realised the lay of my thoughts and chided myself for having so little resistance to temptation. I turned my gaze to the end of the couch and pondered.
It was quite impossible to imagine what would have a brilliant cove like Jeeves blocked. A chap who knows the scientific name of everything to flitter, crawl or slither across the earth and can recite a quotation without resorting to books of reference is not easily stymied in conversation.
Then I realised that if he wished to berate me, if he disapproved of my actions at Brinkley Court, his high sense of loyalty and strong feudal spirit might make it hard for him to say the words. That must be it. "Would it be easier if I got you pen and paper, Jeeves? Then you could write it out. If it's particularly censorious of my behaviour, I promise to burn it as soon as I've read it."
"I--" Jeeves said, and then stopped. He took a deep breath and set his shoulders even straighter. "I do not condemn your behaviour, sir."
"You don't?"
"If anything, I would applaud it, sir."
"I think I've missed something, Jeeves. You may need to explain."
"I will try, sir. I would--" He spoke, in short sharp bursts, a word or two at a time like some strange jazz piece full of staccato rhythms. Not the type of thing made for easy listening or dancing, and it would take a bit of effort to hum along to. "I would applaud the courage to talk of one's emotions. I would... I must confess that I lack the same courage."
It was a rummy situation to have Jeeves standing in his stiff collar and pressed trousers, head bowed and completely discombobulated. I tried to chip in and give the fellow a hand. "Jeeves, are you apologising for not speaking freely of how you felt?"
"Yes, sir."
"Am I right in assuming you've been berating yourself for this perceived failure in the gardens of Brinkley Court?"
He raised his head a little, and some of the tension eased from his shoulders. "Yes, sir."
In a flash, I saw the situation: Jeeves fretting that he had not acted in the best possible way. It was quite amazing -- and to me, seemed nothing short of wonderful -- that a bird as brainy, as rare, as all-around toothsome as Jeeves should spend his valuable time and mental powers worrying that he had not handled an unwanted advance in the most correct manner. It was this attention to detail, this awareness of the slightest matters of deportment that made Jeeves the best gentleman's personal gentleman of all the isles.
I could see that he needed to be reassured.
"Oh, that's nonsense, Jeeves. Simply because you didn't turn around and tell me to go jump in a lake, that you'd rather marry an angora sheep than consider yours truly is no reason to beat yourself up. On the other hand, if you were going to say that you were flattered and had circs been different, there is no need. I've received many of those speeches and they never sweeten the blow. At the end of the day, you have exposed yourself to someone who simply cannot see you in that same light. There is nothing that can be said to make it any better, so a comforting silence is left as the superior method of rejection."
"Sir," Jeeves said, sounding as annoyed as if I had gone to Cannes and returned with another white dinner jacket or, in other words, quite piqued. "I had no intention of remaining silent."
"You had no intention of doing anything, Jeeves," I said. If these lines had been played on stage, I would have laughed at such a silly thought. But laughing at Jeeves, when he was clearly struggling against his own modus operandi, was unthinkable. "You had no idea I was going to all but propose in the middle of searching for an owl with long ears. How could you have had an intention of doing anything?"
"I had strong suspicions that you would, sir."
I frowned. "I thought I'd been exceedingly subtle about the whole affair."
"Living in close proximity can make such subterfuge quite difficult, sir."
"Well." I sighed in disappointment. All of those schemes had been for nothing. I should have known Jeeves would be able to see through any less than the most complex plans. "If you'd known I was going to say such a thing, wouldn't it have been a little simpler to say your affections were engaged elsewhere, Jeeves? I know it would have been a lie -- and truth is generally considered the better option -- but it would have saved at least two awkward conversations, counting this one."
"When I imagined what you would say, sir, I never believed that I would be struck mute. I never considered," Jeeves said, his voice dropping lower, "that you would both deem and accept my silence an act of refusal."
That made me sit up straight. I jumped at least an inch in my seat. Possibly two. "You mean to say that it wasn't, Jeeves? The silence, I mean. It wasn't a refusal?"
"No, sir." Jeeves lifted his head, and stared me right in the eye. For a chap that usually shows so little, his gaze was astoundingly intense. Windows to the soul and all that. "It was not."
"By Jeeve, Joves! I mean, you know what I mean," I babbled, the words running quicker than a team of galloping horses. "It was cold feet, nerves, that type of thing? Like when your tongue gets stuck to the roof of your mouth and your hearts starts pounding, and you desperately know what you should be saying, but you can't, because of the stuck tongue and the pounding heart?"
Jeeves gave one of those slight smiles of his, barely more than a quirk of the lips but still capable of turning my insides to jelly. "That would be an accurate description, sir."
"Oh," I said. "I say!"
I grinned quite widely and for lack of anything else to say -- and knowing that Jeeves does not particularly approve of the phrase 'Hot dog!' in times like these, regardless of how appropriate it may be -- I repeated myself. "I say, Jeeves!"
I suddenly understood why so many engagements end up in the social columns of the Daily Mail. When something so wonderful happens to you, you want to announce it to the world, yell it out of windows, telephone every friend you have. It's an amazingly elated moment when you find that the chap -- or girl, since I'm sure the heart works the same way no matter who you find yourself swooning over -- that you love has somehow fallen in love back. It brings the metaphorical sunshine to your face, makes the birds sing in the trees, makes bells ring from on high.
Jeeves, still smiling and looking a little stunned, leaned closer and said, "Should I get that, sir?"
"Get what, Jeeves?" I asked, leaning closer myself.
"The doorbell, sir."
I stopped and listened. The bells from on high very well could have been my doorbell. I considered telling Jeeves to leave it, but that would have been quite rude. "Yes, Jeeves."
I stood up and helped myself to a brandy and soda, as Jeeves moved to the door. It was just as well I'd moved to the decanter and was therefore out of sight from the doorway, because Aunt Agatha's voice rung out clearly.
"Jeeves, where is my wastrel nephew? Bring him out at once."
The shock of it nearly made me drop the glass.
"He is at the Drones Club, madam."
"Tell him when he returns he is to call me immediately. No, Jeeves, that won't do. Knowing Bertie he'll drag himself in at an ungodly hour, soaked with gin and brandy, and completely unfit for company. Tell him I will expect him to visit me tomorrow afternoon and if he is later than four-thirty, he will pay for it dearly."
I cringed, but once more, Jeeves came to my rescue. "I am sorry, madam, but that will not be possible. Mr Wooster is leaving the city tomorrow morning."
"If he thinks he can hightail it back to Brinkley Court and avoid me so obviously, you had better tell your young master that if he does so, he clearly does not value his family or his own reputation in the least."
"Mr Wooster is leaving for Venice tomorrow, madam, quite early in the morning. If he had known of your intention to visit today, I am sure he would have made every attempt to see you before he departed."
My Aunt Agatha left, muttering something about the youth of today who do nothing but seek thrills across the globe, and as soon as the door closed, I stepped away from the sideboard and towards Jeeves. "Jeeves, I have said it before and I will say it again, you are a marvel. The only problem will be getting tickets to Venice at such short notice. But never mind, I have escaped Aunt Agatha for at least two more days, and if I have to swim and bicycle to Venice, I shall do so."
"That will not be necessary, sir." Jeeves stepped closer to me, as if he were about to correct my tie, and placed a hand on the side of my neck. Certainly not the raciest way to be touched, but I can't deny it shortened my breathing considerably. "I have already purchased the tickets."
In such a situation, some fellows are suave and charming, they know how to lean forward and kiss as if they were in the movies. I was clearly not movie material as my hands stayed glued to my sides and for a moment -- only a word, I swear -- my voice decided to try being a soprano instead of a tenor. "That's lucky, Jeeves. I hadn't planned to go to Italy."
"I thought it would be a prudent precaution, sir, in case I found myself once more struck voiceless and unable to correct your false assumption of my feelings." Jeeves stepped closer, and when he spoke, his face, his skin, his lips, were only a hairsbreadth from mine. "Also, it is quite nice this time of year, and Venice has a reputation as a very romantic city."
"I think I've heard that," I managed, suddenly quite aware of the precise amount of space Jeeves took in a room and the warmth of his fingers under my soft collar, sliding quite plainly against my skin. "Venice being romantic. There was a song, wasn't there?"
"That was Vienna, sir."
"Oh."
As I mentioned before, if I had been a silver screen hero, things would have gone quite differently. I would have leaned forward and pulled Jeeves into a strong embrace, kissed him with enough ferocity to make him swoon. But as it was, I was the one who stood there -- heart tangoing around my ribcage, arms glued to the side like a tin soldier -- so Jeeves was the one forced to bend closer and press his lips to mine.
While it was not as graceful or moving as any of those cinematic kisses -- I finally forced my hands to move and flailed for Jeeves' shoulders, and I am quite sure that no screen siren has made the range of embarrassing, muffled moans that I did -- from my point of view, I would say it was every inch as good. After all, none of those filmic smackers feature Jeeves, and I'm sure that without Jeeves it can be nothing more than a substandard variety of kiss.
As you may imagine, these kisses proved a most enjoyable way to whittle away time. Jeeves was as proficient with the application of mouth and hands as he was at preparing the old eggs and b. in the bright and early hours, and I was having a rollicking good time of it -- appreciating Jeeves' rather splendid skills and trying to mimic as best I could -- until Jeeves drew back with a gentle reminder of the next day's early departure.
"It may be a wise decision to retire early," Jeeves said, using his full height to pull that talented mouth out of casual kissing reach. Thankfully he did not remove his hands, but let them rest where they were - one low upon my left hip, the other cupping the nape of my neck, sending the occasional shiver down my spine when he brushed his thumb just so -- but I still let out a disappointed sigh. In such moments, regardless of how wise or prudent the denial of pleasures may be, it is hard not to let out at least a small chuff of dismay.
"I suppose in this particular instance," I said, swallowing down the bitter dregs of fortune, "as in most, you're quite right, Jeeves. A good night's sleep does wonders or so I'm told. Normally by Aunt Dahlia when she wants me to biff upstairs and leave her in peace, but the sentiment has its ounce of truth."
"I was not suggesting the pursuit of slumber, sir."
"Then why suggest the bedroom, Jeeves? What purpose--" I stuttered to a halt as Jeeves' moved his thumb just so and sent the most pleasurable chill down my supportive framework. There was a certain satisfied gleam to Jeeves' expression as he noted my reaction. Like the first caveman to strike flint and use a single spark to ignite a blaze, I saw how the more intimate setting of a bedroom could spark Jeeves' above-standard kisses into far more heated exertions. "Oh!"
Jeeves pressed a warm kiss against the corner of my jaw and then whispered directly into my ear. "If the idea meets with your approval?"
Well, pretty hard for a chap to say no to an offer like that.
I'll not bore you with all of the messy minutiae of the activities that followed. There are some endeavours that, while enjoyable, cannot be appreciated by an observer. Roderick Spode eating asparagus is a prime example of this: while it is quite clear that Spode himself is rejoicing in every mouthful, anyone watching the sight would be torn between horror and amusement. The more carnal proceedings are the same. Quite satisfactory for the two involved parties but a third party would find themselves trying to stifle giggles as they noted the ridiculous stretch of leg or the half-shocked, half-drunk expression that one's face unintentionally pulls.
Suffice it to say that events were quite satisfactory to both parties. If you think of the most romantic film you've ever seen -- something so stirring that come that final kiss your friends gave you a sharp elbow in the ribs in retaliation to your unexpected gasp of vicarious thrill -- and multiply that sense of delight by seventeen and a bit, and you will have a rough approximation of how enjoyable the experience was to me.
While I cannot speak for Jeeves in this matter, I hold no doubts that he found it quite agreeable.
After this, I was left in quite the same frame of mind as the night before my twenty-third birthday. I had stayed at Brinkley Court, eaten the type of meal that should be recorded for posterity, and would be leaving the next day for the metropolis for a birthday lunch at the Drones', which was expected to last for at least six hours. While I knew that the upcoming day would be smashing and that the quicker I fell asleep, the faster tomorrow would arrive, I found myself not wanting the day to end. I had thoroughly enjoyed myself and the prospect of sleep was not in the least appealing. Due to that, I spent most of the night in my armchair, flicking pages of books, appreciating a quiet w-and-s, and generally feeling at one with the world and that all was right.
While I was situated quite differently at the moment, there was that same air of contented wonder, of silent gratitude to my mood. For those of you curious about such things, those readers who like to know the precise layout of the place and details of setting, the situation was thus:
- One bedroom, suitably large, containing two doors (one to my bathroom and one to the rest of the flat), one tall, walnut wardrobe against the east wall, one matching dressing table against the south w., two matching bedside tables against the north w. with one large bed between them.
- Within that bed, beneath sheets only (because the blankets had fallen to the ground halfway through the proceedings), lying just right of centre, was one unclothed R. Jeeves lying supine. To the direct left of him was one similarly disrobed B. Wooster, recumbent and reclining on his side with his left arm and leg draped over the aforementioned Jeeves.
Now that we all know where we are, I'll continue.
It's a strange and little publicised fact that one's inhibitions and doubts tend to be shedded with one's clothing. I had noticed this effect before but always put it down to mitigating factors, such as hot water when in a bath or extreme intoxication when one's had a skinful and decided to cycle naked around the college quadrangle. Instead, I found that the lack of accoutrement itself is the cause. Where I would usually ease into a conversation or apologise for bunging straight to a topic without so much as a by-your-leave, when naked I felt no such compulsions and let my mouth speak as my mind wandered.
I had been contemplating Jeeves' shoulders and the fine musculature displayed by them, and my mind had drifted to other well-muscled shoulders. "Do you really think Angela could beat Honoria?"
Jeeves' hand continued to trail purposelessly along my forearm, a light tingle of sensation that held the same warmth and reassurance as a good cup of tea after a cold walk through a blizzard.
"I believe Miss Angela will try her utmost towards that goal," Jeeves said, prevaricating.
"But this is Honoria we're talking about. It goes without saying that we're all rooting for Angela to win, but to be perfectly honest, I have my doubts. No matter how good Facet is, Honoria is a one woman rugby team."
"Quite true."
"And if Honoria wins, Angela will be sans necklace and then soon sans engagement. It's all quite dismal."
"Not necessarily," Jeeves said in that soft tone that boded well for those in, or about to be neck-deep in, the mulligatawny.
"Indeed, Jeeves?"
"During my return to London to purchase nightwear," Jeeves said, voice dropping a good ten degrees on those last two words, "I took the liberty of making enquiries regarding the necklace. After contacting the jewellers who made the original item, I was able to persuade them to make a duplicate, explaining that the young lady had misplaced the item while travelling and was entirely distraught. I inferred that there may have been some slight negligence in the packing of her suitcases and that obtaining a replica would put the young lady's mind at rest."
"And did they agree to make one?"
"They did, after concurring on a set sum that I assumed you would have no objections to covering."
"No objections at all, Jeeves. Quite the opposite. If parting with a little moolah will ensure a happy cousin, a happy friend and by extension a happy aunt -- for you know how Aunt Dahlia supports the whole Tuppy-Angela affair -- I'm more than happy to share the bread."
"A magnanimous attitude," Jeeves said, turning his head slightly to wish a light kiss against the Wooster b. "With that philosophy in mind, I took the liberty of purchasing M Facet and the future Mme Facet a congratulatory gift on your behalf."
"What did I get them?"
"A set of dictionaries."
I freely admit that I rely upon Jeeves in such matters, and he has never yet let me down. Although in this instance, it looked like he had come rather close. The fellow had probably been a bit distracted at the time, so I mitigated my doubts. "Sounds a touch colourless for a gift celebrating their engagement."
"It was a set of French-to-English and English-to-French dictionaries."
"Well, that's rather insightful. Speaks of great… What do you call it? Starts with a D."
"Discernment?"
"That's the word. Speaks of great discernment on my part."
"A thoughtful souvenir is known to have the ability to mitigate first impressions and negate actual experiences over time."
I pulled myself up on an elbow. "Are you saying that after spending days in my company it is only the giving of a minor trinket that would make the happy couple think well of me, Jeeves?"
Jeeves, for his part, merely raised an eyebrow. He could not have expressed the insouciant air of a stiff "I hardly need to say it," if he had said those very words.
With a sheepish huff, I settled once more upon his shoulder. "Perhaps, from certain perspectives, I seemed an annoying interloper, but I was acting in the best interests of all involved. Or I thought I was. The situation was jolly confusing. Anyone might have acted as I had."
"That is far from true," Jeeves said in a warm, tender tone that made me think of Mabel talking to Biffy. "Very few would have acted so selflessly when they believed their affections had been thwarted."
"That's putting it a bit strong, Jeeves. It was not selfless. I would have received a definite pleasure from seeing you happy. Although," I added quickly, "I'm far happier that things ended this way."
Jeeves gave a general noise of agreement and then kissed me in a way that gave more than general agreement. As I have said -- and have since proven time and again -- kissing Jeeves is an excellent way to spend an idle minute or thirty. Most of the night was spent lying close, sharing languid kisses and ironing out a few misunderstandings here and there. This included my admitting to the short lived existence of my striped flannel trousers and Jeeves acknowledging that my cousin Gussie had asked for Jeeves' advice before hightailing it across the Pacific and proposing to a stage actress.
I am quite sure my more polite readers would be saying -- if they could interrupt me to say such a thing -- "This is a very charming anecdote, Mr Wooster, but I fail to see the relevance to the topic." My more impolite readers would be stamping their feet at the back and yelling, "Get to the point!"
My point is as follows. When asked if I have ever managed to get the upper hand on Jeeves, I must admit that my attempt to smuggle striped flannels into my wardrobe was a bust and trying to keep my feet rooted to the green land of England was likewise unsuccessful. However, in this more intimate tale, my achievement was unbridled and somewhat gained at Jeeves' expense.
I don't speak here of my juvenile schemes, for without them the agreeable outcome would have been achieved far more speedily. Rather, I speak of the terms of our arrangement, making Jeeves a permanent fixture, romantically speaking.
When one is given the opportunity to forsake all others in trade for one R. Jeeves, one jumps, gallops and leaps to consent. It is rather like being given the chance to swap a handful of sand for a galley stacked with pounds sterling. While sand may have its uses -- in the manufacture of glass, so Jeeves tells me -- compared to being remarkably oofy, it holds very little value.
Jeeves, on the other hand, has agreed to forsake all others in favour of one Bertram Wilberforce. The most accurate way to describe such an exchange would be to imagine a fisherman sitting by a robust stream, well populated with various fish. This fisherman catches a small trout -- not bad eating but certainly not the biggest fish there -- and decides that's enough for him; there'll be no more fishing in his future.
The fisherman could have had good reason for packing up the rod -- perhaps he was tired, perhaps he'd already eaten his fill at lunch and only needed a small dinner, perhaps he'd decided that waiting for a bigger, tastier fish was more effort than it was worth -- but one cannot escape the thought that he had turned his back on a great deal of potential.
I'll be the first to admit I'm not the hardest boiled egg in the pot -- according to certain relatives of mine, the contents of this Wooster cranium are decidedly undercooked -- but even I can see that the understanding between Jeeves and me, and the relevant terms agreed by each, is inequitable.
I've not pointed this out to Jeeves. He seems content with the arrangement and I have learnt that it only bodes ill to question Jeeves' reasoning. If Jeeves feels the course is for the best, then that course shall -- eventually -- be adhered to. Mind you, the best of minds have known to be softened by infatuation so I suspect his agreement has more to do with the heart than his massive head. It's like that bit that goes, "The ruling passion, something something will, the ruling passion conquers reason still."
In conclusion, dear reader, having once managed to get the best of Jeeves, I now get the best of Jeeves daily.
Author: out_there
Fandom: Jeeves and Wooster
Continued from Parts One, Two, Three and Four.
So I passed by that item and found my metaphorical genie's lamp. It was a double-breasted overcoat in light grey Harris Tweed. It was slightly too long for me, too wide across the shoulders, too controlled and understated; in short, the perfect disguise. Combined with the dark bowler hat -- a size eleven, large enough to fall across my eyes and adding to the badly fitted, unsophisticated air of the ensemble -- I looked like a country-bred chump trying to appear serious and mature on his first trip alone to the city by wearing his father's trappings. I did not look a thing like the neat, presentable man of fashion that all knew Bertie Wooster to be.
I decided against buying sunglasses. They would have ruined the effect.
As fruitful as my shopping had been, it was for naught. I returned to the house to find a telegram from London stating that the coast appeared clear, so I had the extra garments packed into my suitcase and boarded the train sans disguise.
After a not-too-short train ride spent in the merry company of Mrs. Christie's latest mystery -- another gem found during my spree at the village -- I hailed a cab and got off at Dover Street, giving the driver instructions to take my suitcases home. I ignored the flock of members around the billiards table -- the bi-annual Drones' Golden Cue tournament was coming up in three weeks' time and practice makes perfect, as they say -- and headed to the bar. A quick whisky and soda seemed in order.
I don't want to give the impression that courage was strictly necessary in returning to the flat itself, but the prospect of seeing Jeeves again left me with a cannonball of anxiety weighing down my insides, and courage -- no matter how Dutch its origins -- can be useful in such times.
I had one drink for courage and a second for luck, and was considering a third for the road, when Biffy called my name.
Biffy, Charles Edward Biffen by club register, is one of my oldest confreres, not that he'd remember it. It's not that he's an ungracious, rude type of fellow, prone to ignoring boyhood acquaintances when it suits, but that his memory closely resembles a photographic flash: it needs a good deal of careful work to set up and get going, and then only works for a split-second. He's a good old bean, though.
"Bertie, I was looking for you!" he said, waving an umbrella. I comment upon the umbrella not only because a man waving an umbrella makes a strong first impression but also because it was an unusual sight within the club. Rodgers is usually quite strict about umbrellas and overcoats being placed in their relative stands.
"What ho, Biffy. Be careful with that thing," I said, as he brandished it in my direction.
"It's yours," he said, passing it to me. Then he blinked, crunching up his face as Biffy is wont to do when attempting to remember something as obscure as his name or address. "I had to give it back to you."
I took it and gave it a good going over with my gaze. "I don't think it's mine."
"I'm sure it was..." Again, his face crumpled. "Bertie Wooster, yes. I'm sure I had to give this back to you, Bertie."
"Why, Biffy?"
"Mabel said so," he said.
The umbrella looked vaguely familiar, but for all I knew, the familiarity might have come from seeing it on Biffy's arm once or twice. I'd have asked Biffy for more details but knowing the way his memory works, I thought it best to cut to the chase. "Biffy, is Mabel about anywhere?"
Biffy started checking his pockets and then drew out the smallest notebook I've ever seen. It seem the sort that Poirot would have used to keep detailed notes on the private lives of his suspects -- shoe size and favourite jam, that type of thing -- but Biffy flicked it open and read carefully. "Yes. I'm meeting her outside the Drones' Club at eight o'clock."
"It's five past eight now, Biffy."
"Oh, is it? My watch says seven-twenty, Bertie."
I peered over Biffy's shoulder to see the pocket watch sitting in his palm. He was right in saying that it stated the current time in London as twenty minutes past seven, but close inspection revealed neither hand to be moving. "Biffy, is it possible that you might have forgotten to wind your watch?"
He turned his gaze to the wall-clock, which now proclaimed six minutes past eight, and then frowned at his pocket watch. "I suppose I must have, Bertie. Oh, well. Care for a drink?"
"Biffy," I said gently, not wanting to startle a good chap who happens to be cursed with the worst memory in all of recorded history, which would be a great deal shorter if recorded by birds like Biffy. "Weren't you on your way to meet Mabel outside the club?"
"Oh, yes," he said in the manner of someone suddenly remembering a highly important engagement, "I was."
"Come on, I'll walk you out." I took his arm in mine and, making sure that he collected his coat, led him outside. Mabel, patient saint that she is, was standing at the doors and did not utter a word of rebuke at Biffy's late appearance. "What ho, Mabel."
"Sorry, Mabel," Biffy said. "I forgot to wind my watch."
She shot him a fond smile. How a pretty, bright girl like Mabel -- who certainly seems to have slightly more than her fair share of marbles rattling around that blonde head of hers -- can look at a forgetful bird like Biffy with such fondness escapes me.
"Never mind, Charles," she said to him, then she turned to me. "Bertie, did Charles give you the umbrella?"
"He certainly did," I said, holding the thing aloft but taking care not to wave it. Waving umbrellas on city streets is bound to cause an accident. "But I don't think the thing's mine, Mabel."
"No, it's Uncle Reggie's. He left it at our place yesterday when he visited for tea. We thought you could return it to him," she said.
The code of the Woosters demands that a fellow comes to a lady's assistance, but I was stumped. "I'd be happy to, Mabel, but I don't think I know Biffy's Uncle Reggie."
"Not Biffy's Uncle Reggie, my Uncle Reggie," she said, but I still didn't follow her.
"Sorry, Mabel, I don't think I know your Uncle Reggie either."
"Reginald Jeeves," she said, speaking slowly as if for the hard of thinking. I fancy she uses that calm, quiet tone frequently with Biffy. "Your manservant. He is my Uncle Reggie."
There have been, I must admit, a few occasions during which yours truly, one Bertram W. Wooster, has felt like a complete fatheaded poop. I had never felt it quite so clearly as in that moment. Of course I had known that Mabel was Jeeves' niece -- that fact had been quite relevant to ensuring the Mabel-Biffy romance overthrew the threat of a Biffy-Honoria wedding -- and that Jeeves, like most civilised men, possessed a Christian name. I even, I must admit, knew that it was Reginald and that certain other members of the Young Ganymede Club called him Reggie.
I had known these facts and yet the conclusion had completely slipped my mind. This, I realised, was how Biffy must feel all the time. It left me with a new found sympathy for the chap.
"Oh, of course," I said, still feeling the sting of embarrassment. "I'll return it to him directly. Good night, Biffy. Good night, Mabel."
They each bade me a good night and I trotted home with the umbrella in hand.
I had stopped at my front door, checking my pockets for keys -- which I might have left in my suitcase -- when Jeeves opened the door wide. "Good evening, sir," he said, in a lukewarm way that lightened my anxiety considerably, and I took a moment to soak my senses in the vista.
There was my couch and my rug and my sitting room. There was the coffee table upon which I could prop my feet when reading a good tale and on the far side was my piano with my music sheets still sitting on the stool. There was the doorway to my bedroom, and beyond that, my bathroom. To my immediate left was the door to Jeeves' lair and to my immediate right was Jeeves himself, dark trousers, dark waistcoat, crisp white shirt and collar, and one perfectly tied tie.
It was home, sweet home, a private sanctuary from relatives and friends, nervous maids and French tennis coaches, and the sight filled me with a warm sense of comfort, of belonging, of safety. When a man has such a thing in his life, a place of repose, peace and contentment, it seems quite greedy that he should want for more.
I sighed happily, letting my sense of r., p. and c. bleed into the sound. "Be it ever so humble, Jeeves," I said and stepped inside.
"Indeed, sir."
I let him take umbrella, coat and hat. "It's quite true, Jeeves. There is an easing of the spirits that comes with stepping across one's own threshold and coming home at last."
"That is gratifying to hear, sir. I trust the journey went well?"
"Swimmingly, Jeeves. Not that I actually swam," I pointed out quickly. "I shared my cabin with a second year Eton boy by the name of Edward M-something. He was quite an upright young fellow. I mean, normally, you come across boys of a certain age and they're bound to either be miniature gangsters like my cousin Thos, trying to bully you out of a shilling, or squeaking, yellow-livered custards who threaten to tell their mothers if you so much as glance in their direction."
Jeeves shot me a sympathetic look borne from having my cousin Thos stay overnight. Jeeves had served dinner while Thos complained about the peas and then -- while I was distracted by a phone call and Jeeves was out of the room -- managed to scatter the disliked green items in the most unlikely places around the room. Let me assure you that when placing a hand down on one's sideboard in the early hours of the mid-morning after a late night, the last thing one wishes to feel beneath one's palm is a day-old squashed pea.
"It is certainly an awkward age, sir. Yet many grow to be productive members of society and make their families proud," Jeeves said with utmost authority. Somehow, I couldn't see that ever happening in young Thos' case. "But this young man did not display the more horrific attributes of his age-mates?"
"The young fellow was an absolute corker. Started telling me about his book and asked for my opinion." Nothing makes a chap feel quite so worthy as knowing that his opinion holds weight for his juniors. "It was a rummy tale about a missing school tie. He thought that Charles -- a lively type with a cutting sense of humour -- had taken it as a practical joke but I said, 'Young Edward' -- for that was his name, Jeeves, did I mention that?"
"You did, sir."
"Oh, good. 'Young Edward,' I said, 'You are overlooking the most likely subject. This boy here, this Algernon, he was secreting sweets at the start of the book, and we all know that sweets lead to sticky hands, and sticky hands lead to stained ties.' It's an oft-ignored fact that sometimes an action that appears the ultimate cruelty to another was done without any thought of hurt. Most frequently, it simply springs from desperate need."
"You believe that the tie had not been stolen by a classmate but borrowed without permission by the child, Algernon, sir?"
"Precisely, Jeeves." Feeling vindicated that Jeeves shared my logic, I smiled. "When it comes to schoolboys, it is a sad fact that a desperate friend will do you more damage than any embittered enemy."
"Some would say that depending upon your acquaintances that statement may apply much later in life as well, sir."
"Only if you mingle with the wrong sort," I said with feeling.
"Yes, sir." Jeeves gave a short tip of the head, acknowledging my point. "Were your predictions regarding the culprit correct?"
"I couldn't say, Jeeves. The boy didn't finish the book by the time we pulled in at London." I sighed. "I suppose I shall never know what happened. Meanwhile, I told young Edward about my story and he guessed it was the Colonel. I didn't have a clue of that until I hit the last chapter."
"He sounds very insightful for his age, sir."
"Remarkably bright, if you ask me. Helped the journey pass quickly." Here I paused to glance around my sitting room again. There is a remarkable comfort to being home, to knowing that everything has its place and that you are in yours. That thought brought the issue of my clothes to mind. "Are the bags all unpacked, Jeeves?"
"All but two items, sir. I thought it would be best to confirm that the articles in question actually belonged to you before placing them in our wardrobe."
"Indeed, Jeeves?" I raised my eyebrows. The last time Jeeves had spoken like that had been when I returned from Cannes with a particularly doggy pair of scarlet socks. I thought them utterly eye-catching but they accidentally got washed with two new soft-breasted silk shirts. My shirts -- formerly dove grey and peach -- were streaked with magenta, while my socks looked as if the colour had been sucked right out of them and were now an uneven pink. It had been disappointing at the time, but I have since ceased to try to insert soft-silk shirts into my wardrobe.
"If you will follow me, sir, I placed the items on your bed."
Jeeves led me to the bedroom and I easily recognised the pieces in question. "That's my disguise!"
Jeeves looked at me in a way that was not entirely frosty but far from the warmest expression I'd ever seen on his face. "Your disguise, sir?"
"Yes, Jeeves, my disguise. In case I needed to hide from Aunt Agatha at the train station."
"Indeed, sir?"
Jeeves looked quite doubtful, so I started pulling the items on. First the coat, which sagged a little across my shoulders and hung slightly around my chest, making me look like a man who had managed to lose both weight and height; then the bowler hat, which sat too low and hung over my eyes, covering half my ears. "You see, Jeeves?"
I turned to Jeeves and was met by an expression that hinted -- quite discreetly and in careful, gentle tones -- that I was possibly the most ridiculous and amusing sight Jeeves' gaze had ever absorbed. "Those garments do make it quite difficult to recognise you, sir."
"That is the point of a disguise, Jeeves. I thought it lent me a rather unsophisticated, naïve air."
"If I may say so, sir, your appearance is rather reminiscent of a child caught playing in the clothes of an older sibling."
"That was the very impression I was going for," I said, taking off the hat and trying not to feel too pleased. There was a part of me that wanted to celebrate the fact that I had managed to amuse Jeeves, but I firmly told it that making Jeeves laugh at me was not an accomplishment I wished to aspire to. I looked down at my hat brim, ignoring the minuscule twitch of Jeeves' lip -- if a man did not ignore such a sight it would drive him to distraction -- and found myself staring at the sizing. "You take a size eleven hat, don't you, Jeeves?"
"Yes, sir."
I stepped up to him and placed the thing on his head. On me, it had fallen to just above my eyes and looked likely to tumble off if I should bend over. On Jeeves, it sat the ideal two-thirds of an inch above the eyebrows, a finger-space above the ears and looked as if it had been made specifically to fit this particular noggin.
"As I thought," I said, stepping back so Jeeves could see it in the mirror. "It fits perfectly."
Jeeves made no move to remove the item. "It is a remarkably fortunate fit, sir."
"Oh, wait a minute," I said, shrugging out of the overcoat quickly. From the corner of my eye I saw Jeeves wince slightly at the motion, but such minor things as careful undressing cannot stand in the way of a smashing idea. "You should try it on."
"Sir?"
"Come, come, Jeeves. Arms back, one at a time. I know this grey is a touch lighter than your sartorial tastes usually run but it's a perfectly respectable colour and a fine quality of wool. It would be well suited to a morning walk, say in early spring or a particularly clement winter's day."
I ran out of chatter as I pulled the garment over his shoulders and walked around to fasten the buttons. My flash of inspiration had been right. The shoulders that sagged on my own frame sat comfortably on his. Where it had hung and bagged on me so disgracefully, it seemed to generously fit Jeeves and tactfully imply a well-proportioned silhouette.
The only thing I took umbrage with was the collar, which refused to roll as it should. Stepping closer, I took the wool between my fingers, curling it over to lie correctly, but then the lapels needed to be smoothed, to lie equally flat on both sides. I did this once, twice, laying my palms flat against the material and pulling softly until they had assumed the correct shape.
Then I found myself running my hands across the lapels once more -- one last minor correction -- and realised I could feel Jeeves' every inhalation through my palms, could feel the pressure as he breathed in, the movement as he breathed out. I froze, suddenly aware of the speed of Jeeves' breathing, and wondered if I pressed a little harder -- or concentrated a little more -- if I would be able to feel the thrum of Jeeves' heart through the layers of grey, white and black cloth.
I might have stood there all night -- frozen like a statue, hands stretched flat against Jeeves' chest -- had Jeeves not cleared his throat and gave a slight cough that brought reality crashing against my consciousness like a tidal wave drowning an island shore.
I pulled my hands back sharply and took a good four steps back. I turned to the mirror and assessed Jeeves' reflection, not trusting myself to glance at the real thing. "As I said, Jeeves, perfectly respectable colour and the cut is not altogether unflattering. I don't foresee the need for a disguise in the immediate future so waste not, want not. You're welcome to the items but if they don't take your fancy, I'm sure you can find some other way to dispose of them."
Having said that, I marched briskly out of the bedroom and started making myself a martini. After giving it a good shake -- a more rigorous shake than it strictly needed -- and pouring out a glassful, I sat down at the kitchen table and pondered the whole thing. Clearly, it had been a bad idea to attempt to dress Jeeves myself, but it wasn't an occurrence that happened frequently. If I should depict it truthfully, it was more likely that I would be forced to speak in public (in front of strangers, I mean, not in the Drones' Club or in front of friends and the odd relative), something I rather despise and try to avoid if at all possible, than I would ever again have a need or an opportunity to dress Jeeves. The likelihood of it ever happening again was so small as to be completely negligible, so I put it down to an unfortunate lapse of manners and headed back out to the sitting room.
I had just finished my drink when Jeeves reappeared and whisked the empty glass back to the kitchen.
The most important thing was to continue as normal, so I searched for a safe topic of conversation. "I ran into Biffy and Mabel outside the club. They returned your umbrella, Jeeves."
"I had noticed, sir," Jeeves said calmly, returning to the sitting room and starting to tidy the sideboard. He has a habit of clearing away the mess each night and leaving my flat perfectly clean for every morning. It was a sight so homely and reassuring that I felt sure that Jeeves had not noticed the extent of the bedroom faux pas and had seen my actions as overt enthusiasm for the clothes instead of lecherous groping of my valet.
"Mabel mentioned that you left it there yesterday, Jeeves."
"Yes, sir. After I returned to our flat I noticed that I had forgotten the article but when I telephoned they had already left for the night's festivities, so I could not confirm that the article was there."
"No point heading over if the dratted thing is somewhere else," I said, understanding why the umbrella had been left uncollected.
"My sentiments exactly, sir." Sideboard clear, I thought Jeeves would turn his attentions to the coffee table. But since I'd been gone for days, the coffee table was immaculate.
"It must be contagious. Biffy's memory," I clarified when Jeeves blinked in an uncertain way. "Every time I go over there I seem to forget something or other. Sometimes I wonder if there's something in the walls, some insidious poison that seeps through the skin and turns those little grey cells to the consistency of mashed potatoes."
"Unlikely, sir."
I bobbed my head, thinking it over. "You're probably right. If it was a noxious toxin, it would have affected Mabel by now, too, and she still seems bright as a brass button. It boggles me, Jeeves."
Jeeves raised one haughty brow. "My niece's intelligence, sir?"
"Oh, no, not the girl's intelligence. There's no question that all of her gears are well-greased and turn sharply," I said, quick to reassure the cove that no insult was meant against his kith and kin. "Let us say that it's her choices that baffle me. Here we have Mabel, a bright, pretty, charming lass and there, Biffy, one of the few men to be intellectually bettered by Barmy and able to make a sea cucumber look quick-witted by comparison."
"A somewhat harsh way of looking at facts, sir."
"Harsh or not, Jeeves, it is true. Biffy is the most forgetful poop I know and yet a girl like Mabel, a girl who would be considered a catch by any and all standards, falls for him. If it were simply a case of marrying for money and position I would understand it, Jeeves, but the way she looks at Biffy and the soft way she says his name makes it quite clear that Cupid's arrow has hit the tenderest regions of her heart."
Jeeves gave this matter a moment of serious thought. "They do say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, sir."
"Biffy is a fine chap, but he's not a ribbon-winner. It's not beauty that's blinding Mabel to his faults."
"You misunderstand, sir. I did not mean to imply that physical appearance had won her heart but that there are certain attributes that compensate for specific flaws," Jeeves said, and I waved at him to continue. "There are some traits that can be perceived as more valuable than mere appearance or intellectual potential. These traits can make a person fall heavily in love, despite the other person's flaws. It is a phenomenon that leads to considering the sum of a person's parts, focusing quite strongly on a person's virtues instead of their vices, and will lend an attractive air to the most humble of suitors."
"I suppose so," I allowed, thinking of other uneven matches.
Take Gussie Fink-Nottle: a fellow that looks like an amphibian -- and has a weaker self-survival instinct than one -- who has been engaged to three separate girls, all of whom would rate quite highly in the looks department. Discounting Angela, since her acceptance was the gesture of an irate and angered girl trying to truly get Tuppy's goat, it still left two girls who'd been batty for a fellow as bright and attractive as one of his own newts.
There had to be some sense in Jeeves' theory but it left me lukewarm. "You really think it's the personality that's attractive, Jeeves?"
"As William Shakespeare said, 'I do not love thee with mine eyes, for they in thee a thousand errors note; but 'tis my heart that loves', sir." Jeeves bowed his head in thought and then continued surely. "Love does not spring from appearance but from virtues. The value of a generous soul and a noble spirit cannot be underestimated. A kind, considerate nature and a cheerful disposition can melt the sternest heart. The ability to share open-hearted laughter and make one smile in the direst of circumstances is a rare and unusual gift."
"If you say so, Jeeves," I said, leaning back in my armchair, trying to imagine Biffy through Mabel's eyes. "But I wouldn't personally describe Biffy in those terms."
"It was not Mr Charles Biffen to whom I was specifically referring, sir."
"Oh, you meant universal appealing qualities, Jeeves? The things that would appeal to the masses?"
"Not precisely, sir. As the very phrase intimates, the level of appeal would depend on the individual beholder. One cannot speak for the general masses and their tastes in such matters as any man's knowledge is limited to his own nature and the traits that he values within his own life."
I considered Jeeves' point. "You have a point, Jeeves. For myself, I can't see how anyone could favour a touch of charity over the ability to remember one's own name, but different horses prefer different courses, I suppose."
"That is the primary thrust of the matter, sir."
"For my money, I'd go for brains every time. Well, brains and looks. And a general air of decency. Not a saint, but hopefully not someone who'd hand you over, bound and trussed, to a ravenous horde of aunts." I mused, thinking about Jeeves and my definite fondness in his direction. "It all comes down to a broad sense of rareness, I suppose."
"Rareness, sir?"
I scratched the back of my head, trying to think of a way to describe something that was nebulous, at best, inside my head. "Well, Jeeves, you know there are some girls -- very pretty, delightful, charming girls -- who seem to populate every village and city you visit. Chaps fall for them all the time, but if they fall out with one, there is always another in this town, or the next, to replace her. Whereas I think..."
"Yes, sir?" Jeeves said softly, clearly thinking that sudden noise might startle the idea straight out of my mind. I am not sure that his conclusion was wrong, either.
"There are some," I said after a moment and trying Biffy's trick of crumpling the face to encourage brain activity, "who leave you with a definite sense of rareness. Where you meet them and you know, without a single doubt, that if you travelled to a thousand countries and a thousand towns within each, and introduced yourself to a thousand people within each of those towns, that no matter how many people you met or how far you went, you would never find another quite like--"
I found myself staring at Jeeves and the word 'you' was on the tip of my tongue, but thankfully the rest of my brain intercepted it. "Well, you'd never meet a person quite like that person, I guess. Making the person -- the original person, not all those people that you'd met -- quite rare, in the grand scheme of things. If you catch my meaning."
Jeeves watched me, his eyes dark, and I realised I had been too indiscreet, too obvious.
"Just a general observation, Jeeves. Nothing specific there at all. It seemed quite a pleasant night, earlier. I think I might go out for a quick walk. Apparently it's good for the digestion."
I stood up quite quickly and managed to grab my hat and coat before Jeeves managed a hoarse, "Sir," that threatened a conversation I did not wish to have. I didn't need him to rebuke my behaviour; I was quite aware it was unacceptable.
"Be back in a jiffy, Jeeves. Or an hour. Either one," I called out and fled my abode, disappointed in myself for not managing to last so much as a handful of hours around Jeeves before acting badly. I would simply have to watch my tongue more closely.
I had overlooked one important aspect in my plan to ankle around the city and avoid Jeeves until I could master some rudimentary form of self-control. That aspect was, in fact, my ankle. Days of lying in bed followed by a day of shopping and a train ride had left my minor sprain feeling rather major. The short stroll from the club to my flat had been more of a slow painful trudge earlier this evening and the prospect of walking further -- and turning that dull, tedious ache into something that closely resembled the sensation of being stabbed with a sharpened carving fork -- held no appeal.
The only thing I really wanted was to ditch Jeeves for a handful of minutes, to remind myself of the dire consequences of allowing my insidious infatuation to show. Specifically, these d. c.s would be discomfort for all and would permit Jeeves no option but to resign from my employment, leaving me bereft, empty-hearted and surrounded by badly ironed shirts. In short, I needed to give myself a stern talking to and I could see no reason why this could not be done while sitting propped against the supportive outside wall of Berkeley Mansions.
So, I sat upon the concrete, stretched my legs out before me and dithered over whether apologising to Jeeves -- re: my most recent slip-ups -- would be the acceptable, right thing to do or if gentlemanly manners demanded that I ignore the whole thing. I waved away the doorman when he enquired about my well-being, as if a perfectly healthy chap doesn't have the right to sit outside his domicile for ten minutes if he chooses, and had barely got rid of the fellow when the shadow once more fell across me.
"Browne," I said, for that was the doorman's name, not the most suitable name given his pale skin and grey hair, but his name nonetheless. "As I have already said, I am perfectly fine here and am not at all unwell. I thank you for your concern but it is completely superfluous."
"Sir," the figure above me said, giving me the urge to bury my head in my hands since the voice did not belong to the rather rotund figure of Browns but the elegant figure of Jeeves. I did not bury my head in such a manner for fear of lending credence to Browns' apprehensions vis-à-vis my current physical and mental state, but the urge was there.
"Jeeves," I said, trying to hide my dismay within a tone of cheerful enthusiasm, "were you heading out for the night? If so, don't let me stop you. Go on, have a good time."
"No, sir. The doorman informed me of your unusual behaviour. I came to offer assistance in your return to our flat."
"As we are not in the midst of the countryside, Jeeves, and I am not incapacitated, I think it safe to assume that I can bally well walk up to my own flat." I glared up at him reproachfully but given the angle and the streetlamp lighting, I could only make out a bowler hat and a figure of immense height, and could not judge his reaction. "It is not as if I need you to carry me."
"As you say, sir."
To the casual observer, it would seem that I had won the argument and would be allowed to sit where I pleased but this was not the case. Jeeves continued to stand beside me, the perfect picture of devotion and duty, waiting for the moment that I would rise. You can't tell a chap like Jeeves, standing in such a position of such incorruptible loyalty, to go boil his head because you want to sit on the cold concrete until you trust yourself in his presence once more. I suspect that you can't tell a chap like Jeeves to go boil his head under any circs, no matter how catastrophic, but you especially can't say such words in the current situation.
I was left with no option but to stand and follow him back to the flat, feeling for all the world as if I was eight years old and being sent to Rev. Aubrey's study for a firm discussion on acceptable classroom conduct, to be followed by six of the juiciest.
When we got back to the sitting room, I took my place upon the couch, sitting upright and tense, and decided to grab the livestock by the horns. "Jeeves, I abjectly apologise for my previous actions and I know that I've made it jolly hard for us to continue in the status quo but it has been quite unintentional. If you could simply allow me a little more time to adjust to the truth of current relations -- get my head around it so to speak -- I'm quite sure I can promise an end to this nonsense."
I dared a glance up at Jeeves -- who seemed quite surprised I'd dared to broach the topic so brashly -- and then returned my attention to my tightly folded arms.
"It really is quite simple, Jeeves. You agree to bear with me during this period of adjustment and quid pro quo…" Here, I faltered, my Latin abandoning me. I was stymied for a moment by the idea of what I could offer Jeeves, how I could bribe him to stay despite my unfortunate performance, and then the idea came to me. "How about a holiday, Jeeves? Surely there must be somewhere you're itching to see, some monsters of the deep begging to be caught?"
"Sir," Jeeves said, soundly vaguely offended by the very idea of considering the trivial pastime of travel at such a moment.
"Think about it, Jeeves. All expenses paid, wherever you want, however you want to get there. It would be in addition to your usual holidays, of course, and when you return I promise that all will be back to normal and I will have purged this folly from my system."
There was a long moment of silence and then Jeeves cleared his throat. "I distinctly doubt that your proposed solution of temporarily parting company will solve the situation in a satisfactory way for all concerned, sir."
I had the positive impression that someone had dropped an ice cube down the back of my collar. "Possibly not, Jeeves, but I'd beg you to try it before taking more permanent action."
Jeeves stared down, apparently taking a violent dislike to the colour of my carpet. "I believe discussing the events of causation would prove far more fruitful, sir."
"Oh, no, let's not hear a word about it," I said hastily, dreading what a discussion like that might reveal. "If you would simply allow me further time to act as a decent fellow should in these circs, all would be well, Jeeves."
"If you will allow me, sir, I must confess that I doubt that we share a clear understanding of the events that occurred."
"The matter was settled."
"Sir--"
"There is no need, Jeeves," I said, talking through him. As rude as it was, I believed it necessary to put Jeeves' mind at rest as quickly as possible. "There was no confusion, no misconstruction. A discreet offer was made and was not accepted. You acted in an entirely civil fashion and I assure you that I am attempting do the same. I am simply not succeeding as well as I would like."
"Sir?"
"I'm not like Angela's Uncle Cecil -- Uncle Tom's brother, you understand, not actually my uncle -- who believes that employing someone is synonymous with being accepted as their paramour, if synonymous is the word I want."
"It is, sir."
"But, yes, I am not that type of employer, Jeeves. I would not dream of pressing my suit any further and I certainly would not hold these events against you in any way. The matter was handled with the least amount of embarrassment possible, and--" Here I ran out of steam like a locomotive headed uphill and out of coal. There was a limit to how much one can say in these situations without causing excess harm to either one's own, or the other person's, feelings. "And there is no way to dictate to the heart. If mine feels one way and yours feels another, then that is simply the way of things. We are two men of the world, Jeeves, and I am sure that we can continue in our old ways and speak no more about this."
"But, sir--"
"Oh no!" I cried, waving an authoritative finger in the air. "That is my final word on the matter. There is nothing more to be said."
"Sir," Jeeves said, quite ignoring my authoritative finger-waving, "I must insist."
I allowed myself to slouch back upon the couch and folded my hands across my lap. I had done all I could to make the matter as painless as possible. If Jeeves wished to insist, I couldn't bally well stop him. "Very well, Jeeves, speak on it. But if I hear words of resignation cross your lips, I shall be dreadfully disappointed in you."
"I have no intention of resigning, sir," Jeeves said firmly.
I grinned at that news. That had, since that awkward walk across the rose garden, been my highest concern. It had hung over my head, blocking out sunshine more effectively than the darkest rain cloud.
A fellow like Jeeves can operate well anywhere and for anyone. I doubt there is a single gentleman in England who would not sell aunts and grandmothers alike for the opportunity of having Jeeves as their own manservant. It was quite easy to imagine Jeeves happily employed in some great house in the country, a townhouse in London, or in Buckingham Palace itself.
I, on the other hand, had grown quite dependent upon Jeeves and could not imagine my life without him. But if he was not resigning, I could bear whatever else he said. Even if he turned around, much like an aunt, and started dictating household rules for the rest of my life, I could happily bear it. "Truly, Jeeves? Then the floor is yours."
"Thank you, sir," Jeeves said and that strange stillness -- that statue-like silence from the gardens -- returned.
I held my tongue for a while and then shifted. "Was there something in particular you wished to say, Jeeves?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you intend to say it?"
The fellow did not meet my eyes. "Yes, sir."
He stood stricken, and I admired his profile from my current perspective -- thinking upon the sharp way his hair was brushed back, revealing a hairline that struck me as quite bold and definite, like some French movie star -- until I realised the lay of my thoughts and chided myself for having so little resistance to temptation. I turned my gaze to the end of the couch and pondered.
It was quite impossible to imagine what would have a brilliant cove like Jeeves blocked. A chap who knows the scientific name of everything to flitter, crawl or slither across the earth and can recite a quotation without resorting to books of reference is not easily stymied in conversation.
Then I realised that if he wished to berate me, if he disapproved of my actions at Brinkley Court, his high sense of loyalty and strong feudal spirit might make it hard for him to say the words. That must be it. "Would it be easier if I got you pen and paper, Jeeves? Then you could write it out. If it's particularly censorious of my behaviour, I promise to burn it as soon as I've read it."
"I--" Jeeves said, and then stopped. He took a deep breath and set his shoulders even straighter. "I do not condemn your behaviour, sir."
"You don't?"
"If anything, I would applaud it, sir."
"I think I've missed something, Jeeves. You may need to explain."
"I will try, sir. I would--" He spoke, in short sharp bursts, a word or two at a time like some strange jazz piece full of staccato rhythms. Not the type of thing made for easy listening or dancing, and it would take a bit of effort to hum along to. "I would applaud the courage to talk of one's emotions. I would... I must confess that I lack the same courage."
It was a rummy situation to have Jeeves standing in his stiff collar and pressed trousers, head bowed and completely discombobulated. I tried to chip in and give the fellow a hand. "Jeeves, are you apologising for not speaking freely of how you felt?"
"Yes, sir."
"Am I right in assuming you've been berating yourself for this perceived failure in the gardens of Brinkley Court?"
He raised his head a little, and some of the tension eased from his shoulders. "Yes, sir."
In a flash, I saw the situation: Jeeves fretting that he had not acted in the best possible way. It was quite amazing -- and to me, seemed nothing short of wonderful -- that a bird as brainy, as rare, as all-around toothsome as Jeeves should spend his valuable time and mental powers worrying that he had not handled an unwanted advance in the most correct manner. It was this attention to detail, this awareness of the slightest matters of deportment that made Jeeves the best gentleman's personal gentleman of all the isles.
I could see that he needed to be reassured.
"Oh, that's nonsense, Jeeves. Simply because you didn't turn around and tell me to go jump in a lake, that you'd rather marry an angora sheep than consider yours truly is no reason to beat yourself up. On the other hand, if you were going to say that you were flattered and had circs been different, there is no need. I've received many of those speeches and they never sweeten the blow. At the end of the day, you have exposed yourself to someone who simply cannot see you in that same light. There is nothing that can be said to make it any better, so a comforting silence is left as the superior method of rejection."
"Sir," Jeeves said, sounding as annoyed as if I had gone to Cannes and returned with another white dinner jacket or, in other words, quite piqued. "I had no intention of remaining silent."
"You had no intention of doing anything, Jeeves," I said. If these lines had been played on stage, I would have laughed at such a silly thought. But laughing at Jeeves, when he was clearly struggling against his own modus operandi, was unthinkable. "You had no idea I was going to all but propose in the middle of searching for an owl with long ears. How could you have had an intention of doing anything?"
"I had strong suspicions that you would, sir."
I frowned. "I thought I'd been exceedingly subtle about the whole affair."
"Living in close proximity can make such subterfuge quite difficult, sir."
"Well." I sighed in disappointment. All of those schemes had been for nothing. I should have known Jeeves would be able to see through any less than the most complex plans. "If you'd known I was going to say such a thing, wouldn't it have been a little simpler to say your affections were engaged elsewhere, Jeeves? I know it would have been a lie -- and truth is generally considered the better option -- but it would have saved at least two awkward conversations, counting this one."
"When I imagined what you would say, sir, I never believed that I would be struck mute. I never considered," Jeeves said, his voice dropping lower, "that you would both deem and accept my silence an act of refusal."
That made me sit up straight. I jumped at least an inch in my seat. Possibly two. "You mean to say that it wasn't, Jeeves? The silence, I mean. It wasn't a refusal?"
"No, sir." Jeeves lifted his head, and stared me right in the eye. For a chap that usually shows so little, his gaze was astoundingly intense. Windows to the soul and all that. "It was not."
"By Jeeve, Joves! I mean, you know what I mean," I babbled, the words running quicker than a team of galloping horses. "It was cold feet, nerves, that type of thing? Like when your tongue gets stuck to the roof of your mouth and your hearts starts pounding, and you desperately know what you should be saying, but you can't, because of the stuck tongue and the pounding heart?"
Jeeves gave one of those slight smiles of his, barely more than a quirk of the lips but still capable of turning my insides to jelly. "That would be an accurate description, sir."
"Oh," I said. "I say!"
I grinned quite widely and for lack of anything else to say -- and knowing that Jeeves does not particularly approve of the phrase 'Hot dog!' in times like these, regardless of how appropriate it may be -- I repeated myself. "I say, Jeeves!"
I suddenly understood why so many engagements end up in the social columns of the Daily Mail. When something so wonderful happens to you, you want to announce it to the world, yell it out of windows, telephone every friend you have. It's an amazingly elated moment when you find that the chap -- or girl, since I'm sure the heart works the same way no matter who you find yourself swooning over -- that you love has somehow fallen in love back. It brings the metaphorical sunshine to your face, makes the birds sing in the trees, makes bells ring from on high.
Jeeves, still smiling and looking a little stunned, leaned closer and said, "Should I get that, sir?"
"Get what, Jeeves?" I asked, leaning closer myself.
"The doorbell, sir."
I stopped and listened. The bells from on high very well could have been my doorbell. I considered telling Jeeves to leave it, but that would have been quite rude. "Yes, Jeeves."
I stood up and helped myself to a brandy and soda, as Jeeves moved to the door. It was just as well I'd moved to the decanter and was therefore out of sight from the doorway, because Aunt Agatha's voice rung out clearly.
"Jeeves, where is my wastrel nephew? Bring him out at once."
The shock of it nearly made me drop the glass.
"He is at the Drones Club, madam."
"Tell him when he returns he is to call me immediately. No, Jeeves, that won't do. Knowing Bertie he'll drag himself in at an ungodly hour, soaked with gin and brandy, and completely unfit for company. Tell him I will expect him to visit me tomorrow afternoon and if he is later than four-thirty, he will pay for it dearly."
I cringed, but once more, Jeeves came to my rescue. "I am sorry, madam, but that will not be possible. Mr Wooster is leaving the city tomorrow morning."
"If he thinks he can hightail it back to Brinkley Court and avoid me so obviously, you had better tell your young master that if he does so, he clearly does not value his family or his own reputation in the least."
"Mr Wooster is leaving for Venice tomorrow, madam, quite early in the morning. If he had known of your intention to visit today, I am sure he would have made every attempt to see you before he departed."
My Aunt Agatha left, muttering something about the youth of today who do nothing but seek thrills across the globe, and as soon as the door closed, I stepped away from the sideboard and towards Jeeves. "Jeeves, I have said it before and I will say it again, you are a marvel. The only problem will be getting tickets to Venice at such short notice. But never mind, I have escaped Aunt Agatha for at least two more days, and if I have to swim and bicycle to Venice, I shall do so."
"That will not be necessary, sir." Jeeves stepped closer to me, as if he were about to correct my tie, and placed a hand on the side of my neck. Certainly not the raciest way to be touched, but I can't deny it shortened my breathing considerably. "I have already purchased the tickets."
In such a situation, some fellows are suave and charming, they know how to lean forward and kiss as if they were in the movies. I was clearly not movie material as my hands stayed glued to my sides and for a moment -- only a word, I swear -- my voice decided to try being a soprano instead of a tenor. "That's lucky, Jeeves. I hadn't planned to go to Italy."
"I thought it would be a prudent precaution, sir, in case I found myself once more struck voiceless and unable to correct your false assumption of my feelings." Jeeves stepped closer, and when he spoke, his face, his skin, his lips, were only a hairsbreadth from mine. "Also, it is quite nice this time of year, and Venice has a reputation as a very romantic city."
"I think I've heard that," I managed, suddenly quite aware of the precise amount of space Jeeves took in a room and the warmth of his fingers under my soft collar, sliding quite plainly against my skin. "Venice being romantic. There was a song, wasn't there?"
"That was Vienna, sir."
"Oh."
As I mentioned before, if I had been a silver screen hero, things would have gone quite differently. I would have leaned forward and pulled Jeeves into a strong embrace, kissed him with enough ferocity to make him swoon. But as it was, I was the one who stood there -- heart tangoing around my ribcage, arms glued to the side like a tin soldier -- so Jeeves was the one forced to bend closer and press his lips to mine.
While it was not as graceful or moving as any of those cinematic kisses -- I finally forced my hands to move and flailed for Jeeves' shoulders, and I am quite sure that no screen siren has made the range of embarrassing, muffled moans that I did -- from my point of view, I would say it was every inch as good. After all, none of those filmic smackers feature Jeeves, and I'm sure that without Jeeves it can be nothing more than a substandard variety of kiss.
As you may imagine, these kisses proved a most enjoyable way to whittle away time. Jeeves was as proficient with the application of mouth and hands as he was at preparing the old eggs and b. in the bright and early hours, and I was having a rollicking good time of it -- appreciating Jeeves' rather splendid skills and trying to mimic as best I could -- until Jeeves drew back with a gentle reminder of the next day's early departure.
"It may be a wise decision to retire early," Jeeves said, using his full height to pull that talented mouth out of casual kissing reach. Thankfully he did not remove his hands, but let them rest where they were - one low upon my left hip, the other cupping the nape of my neck, sending the occasional shiver down my spine when he brushed his thumb just so -- but I still let out a disappointed sigh. In such moments, regardless of how wise or prudent the denial of pleasures may be, it is hard not to let out at least a small chuff of dismay.
"I suppose in this particular instance," I said, swallowing down the bitter dregs of fortune, "as in most, you're quite right, Jeeves. A good night's sleep does wonders or so I'm told. Normally by Aunt Dahlia when she wants me to biff upstairs and leave her in peace, but the sentiment has its ounce of truth."
"I was not suggesting the pursuit of slumber, sir."
"Then why suggest the bedroom, Jeeves? What purpose--" I stuttered to a halt as Jeeves' moved his thumb just so and sent the most pleasurable chill down my supportive framework. There was a certain satisfied gleam to Jeeves' expression as he noted my reaction. Like the first caveman to strike flint and use a single spark to ignite a blaze, I saw how the more intimate setting of a bedroom could spark Jeeves' above-standard kisses into far more heated exertions. "Oh!"
Jeeves pressed a warm kiss against the corner of my jaw and then whispered directly into my ear. "If the idea meets with your approval?"
Well, pretty hard for a chap to say no to an offer like that.
I'll not bore you with all of the messy minutiae of the activities that followed. There are some endeavours that, while enjoyable, cannot be appreciated by an observer. Roderick Spode eating asparagus is a prime example of this: while it is quite clear that Spode himself is rejoicing in every mouthful, anyone watching the sight would be torn between horror and amusement. The more carnal proceedings are the same. Quite satisfactory for the two involved parties but a third party would find themselves trying to stifle giggles as they noted the ridiculous stretch of leg or the half-shocked, half-drunk expression that one's face unintentionally pulls.
Suffice it to say that events were quite satisfactory to both parties. If you think of the most romantic film you've ever seen -- something so stirring that come that final kiss your friends gave you a sharp elbow in the ribs in retaliation to your unexpected gasp of vicarious thrill -- and multiply that sense of delight by seventeen and a bit, and you will have a rough approximation of how enjoyable the experience was to me.
While I cannot speak for Jeeves in this matter, I hold no doubts that he found it quite agreeable.
After this, I was left in quite the same frame of mind as the night before my twenty-third birthday. I had stayed at Brinkley Court, eaten the type of meal that should be recorded for posterity, and would be leaving the next day for the metropolis for a birthday lunch at the Drones', which was expected to last for at least six hours. While I knew that the upcoming day would be smashing and that the quicker I fell asleep, the faster tomorrow would arrive, I found myself not wanting the day to end. I had thoroughly enjoyed myself and the prospect of sleep was not in the least appealing. Due to that, I spent most of the night in my armchair, flicking pages of books, appreciating a quiet w-and-s, and generally feeling at one with the world and that all was right.
While I was situated quite differently at the moment, there was that same air of contented wonder, of silent gratitude to my mood. For those of you curious about such things, those readers who like to know the precise layout of the place and details of setting, the situation was thus:
- One bedroom, suitably large, containing two doors (one to my bathroom and one to the rest of the flat), one tall, walnut wardrobe against the east wall, one matching dressing table against the south w., two matching bedside tables against the north w. with one large bed between them.
- Within that bed, beneath sheets only (because the blankets had fallen to the ground halfway through the proceedings), lying just right of centre, was one unclothed R. Jeeves lying supine. To the direct left of him was one similarly disrobed B. Wooster, recumbent and reclining on his side with his left arm and leg draped over the aforementioned Jeeves.
Now that we all know where we are, I'll continue.
It's a strange and little publicised fact that one's inhibitions and doubts tend to be shedded with one's clothing. I had noticed this effect before but always put it down to mitigating factors, such as hot water when in a bath or extreme intoxication when one's had a skinful and decided to cycle naked around the college quadrangle. Instead, I found that the lack of accoutrement itself is the cause. Where I would usually ease into a conversation or apologise for bunging straight to a topic without so much as a by-your-leave, when naked I felt no such compulsions and let my mouth speak as my mind wandered.
I had been contemplating Jeeves' shoulders and the fine musculature displayed by them, and my mind had drifted to other well-muscled shoulders. "Do you really think Angela could beat Honoria?"
Jeeves' hand continued to trail purposelessly along my forearm, a light tingle of sensation that held the same warmth and reassurance as a good cup of tea after a cold walk through a blizzard.
"I believe Miss Angela will try her utmost towards that goal," Jeeves said, prevaricating.
"But this is Honoria we're talking about. It goes without saying that we're all rooting for Angela to win, but to be perfectly honest, I have my doubts. No matter how good Facet is, Honoria is a one woman rugby team."
"Quite true."
"And if Honoria wins, Angela will be sans necklace and then soon sans engagement. It's all quite dismal."
"Not necessarily," Jeeves said in that soft tone that boded well for those in, or about to be neck-deep in, the mulligatawny.
"Indeed, Jeeves?"
"During my return to London to purchase nightwear," Jeeves said, voice dropping a good ten degrees on those last two words, "I took the liberty of making enquiries regarding the necklace. After contacting the jewellers who made the original item, I was able to persuade them to make a duplicate, explaining that the young lady had misplaced the item while travelling and was entirely distraught. I inferred that there may have been some slight negligence in the packing of her suitcases and that obtaining a replica would put the young lady's mind at rest."
"And did they agree to make one?"
"They did, after concurring on a set sum that I assumed you would have no objections to covering."
"No objections at all, Jeeves. Quite the opposite. If parting with a little moolah will ensure a happy cousin, a happy friend and by extension a happy aunt -- for you know how Aunt Dahlia supports the whole Tuppy-Angela affair -- I'm more than happy to share the bread."
"A magnanimous attitude," Jeeves said, turning his head slightly to wish a light kiss against the Wooster b. "With that philosophy in mind, I took the liberty of purchasing M Facet and the future Mme Facet a congratulatory gift on your behalf."
"What did I get them?"
"A set of dictionaries."
I freely admit that I rely upon Jeeves in such matters, and he has never yet let me down. Although in this instance, it looked like he had come rather close. The fellow had probably been a bit distracted at the time, so I mitigated my doubts. "Sounds a touch colourless for a gift celebrating their engagement."
"It was a set of French-to-English and English-to-French dictionaries."
"Well, that's rather insightful. Speaks of great… What do you call it? Starts with a D."
"Discernment?"
"That's the word. Speaks of great discernment on my part."
"A thoughtful souvenir is known to have the ability to mitigate first impressions and negate actual experiences over time."
I pulled myself up on an elbow. "Are you saying that after spending days in my company it is only the giving of a minor trinket that would make the happy couple think well of me, Jeeves?"
Jeeves, for his part, merely raised an eyebrow. He could not have expressed the insouciant air of a stiff "I hardly need to say it," if he had said those very words.
With a sheepish huff, I settled once more upon his shoulder. "Perhaps, from certain perspectives, I seemed an annoying interloper, but I was acting in the best interests of all involved. Or I thought I was. The situation was jolly confusing. Anyone might have acted as I had."
"That is far from true," Jeeves said in a warm, tender tone that made me think of Mabel talking to Biffy. "Very few would have acted so selflessly when they believed their affections had been thwarted."
"That's putting it a bit strong, Jeeves. It was not selfless. I would have received a definite pleasure from seeing you happy. Although," I added quickly, "I'm far happier that things ended this way."
Jeeves gave a general noise of agreement and then kissed me in a way that gave more than general agreement. As I have said -- and have since proven time and again -- kissing Jeeves is an excellent way to spend an idle minute or thirty. Most of the night was spent lying close, sharing languid kisses and ironing out a few misunderstandings here and there. This included my admitting to the short lived existence of my striped flannel trousers and Jeeves acknowledging that my cousin Gussie had asked for Jeeves' advice before hightailing it across the Pacific and proposing to a stage actress.
I am quite sure my more polite readers would be saying -- if they could interrupt me to say such a thing -- "This is a very charming anecdote, Mr Wooster, but I fail to see the relevance to the topic." My more impolite readers would be stamping their feet at the back and yelling, "Get to the point!"
My point is as follows. When asked if I have ever managed to get the upper hand on Jeeves, I must admit that my attempt to smuggle striped flannels into my wardrobe was a bust and trying to keep my feet rooted to the green land of England was likewise unsuccessful. However, in this more intimate tale, my achievement was unbridled and somewhat gained at Jeeves' expense.
I don't speak here of my juvenile schemes, for without them the agreeable outcome would have been achieved far more speedily. Rather, I speak of the terms of our arrangement, making Jeeves a permanent fixture, romantically speaking.
When one is given the opportunity to forsake all others in trade for one R. Jeeves, one jumps, gallops and leaps to consent. It is rather like being given the chance to swap a handful of sand for a galley stacked with pounds sterling. While sand may have its uses -- in the manufacture of glass, so Jeeves tells me -- compared to being remarkably oofy, it holds very little value.
Jeeves, on the other hand, has agreed to forsake all others in favour of one Bertram Wilberforce. The most accurate way to describe such an exchange would be to imagine a fisherman sitting by a robust stream, well populated with various fish. This fisherman catches a small trout -- not bad eating but certainly not the biggest fish there -- and decides that's enough for him; there'll be no more fishing in his future.
The fisherman could have had good reason for packing up the rod -- perhaps he was tired, perhaps he'd already eaten his fill at lunch and only needed a small dinner, perhaps he'd decided that waiting for a bigger, tastier fish was more effort than it was worth -- but one cannot escape the thought that he had turned his back on a great deal of potential.
I'll be the first to admit I'm not the hardest boiled egg in the pot -- according to certain relatives of mine, the contents of this Wooster cranium are decidedly undercooked -- but even I can see that the understanding between Jeeves and me, and the relevant terms agreed by each, is inequitable.
I've not pointed this out to Jeeves. He seems content with the arrangement and I have learnt that it only bodes ill to question Jeeves' reasoning. If Jeeves feels the course is for the best, then that course shall -- eventually -- be adhered to. Mind you, the best of minds have known to be softened by infatuation so I suspect his agreement has more to do with the heart than his massive head. It's like that bit that goes, "The ruling passion, something something will, the ruling passion conquers reason still."
In conclusion, dear reader, having once managed to get the best of Jeeves, I now get the best of Jeeves daily.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2007-10-19 03:36 am (UTC)I feel as though I'm sitting back after one of Anatole's meals. Just... ahhhhh.
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Date: 2007-10-19 06:58 am (UTC)Now that is a high compliment! Thank you very much.
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Date: 2007-10-19 04:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-19 06:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-19 04:57 am (UTC)Utterly charming!
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Date: 2007-10-19 06:57 am (UTC)(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2007-10-19 05:34 am (UTC)Such a satisfying story! Excellent Bertie voice, awesome use of secondary characters, and a slightly flustered Jeeves, essential elements for an awesome J/W fic. I hope you will post more in this fandom!
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Date: 2007-10-19 07:24 am (UTC)Excellent Bertie voice, awesome use of secondary characters, and a slightly flustered Jeeves, essential elements for an awesome J/W fic.
Thank you! It's such a lovely fandom -- the characters are all such fun, and so basically *decent* -- that it's a pleasure to write in, even when the language can be difficult. I'm hoping I will write more in this fandom, but even if I don't, it was a lovely place to wallow for a while.
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Date: 2007-10-19 01:00 pm (UTC)Jeeves and Wooster are a lovely couple and I really hope you write more of their "adventures"!x
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Date: 2007-10-20 12:08 am (UTC)Thank you! I always have a good deal of trouble with physical descriptions, trying to set the scene without boring people (without skipping it, as I frequently do when reading myself), trying to have everyone else understand where they're standing and how they're acting, so I'm thrilled that you mentioned this.
Jeeves and Wooster are a lovely couple and I really hope you write more of their "adventures"!
They really are adorably sweet, although this story took me a good deal of time to do, so it might be a long while before I try another fic.
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Date: 2007-10-19 03:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-20 12:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-19 03:41 pm (UTC)Amazing story! I particularly enjoyed the fact that you didn't make Bertie seem like a *complete* idiot, which some stories seem to do. One could easily see how he reached many of the conclusions he did, while also easily seeing how sadly mistaken he was. Terribly enjoyable. :)
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Date: 2007-10-20 12:17 am (UTC)*bemas*
Bertie is far from stupid. He's not the same level of surprisingly bright that Jeeves is, but part of that is because Jeeves is observant and pays attention to remembering tidbits about other people, and that Bertie spends so much time drinking (how often does he talk to other people without being a little tipsy?) probably contributes too.
I'm firmly of the opinion that anyone who can think as Bertie does -- given that the books are from his POV and use his impressive range of references to popular culture and older quotes -- is far from stupid. However, Bertie tends to be weak-willed and honourable to a fault, and ends up looking like an idiot in his attempts to help others achieve happiness. (The fact that he doesn't hold much of a grudge for being put in terrible situation after terrible situation is adorably sweet.)
I'm glad that the Bertie in this story came to understandable conclusions. It's so much more fun when reading to *know* the character's wrong even while you almost agree with how he sees it.
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Date: 2007-10-19 05:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-20 12:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-19 07:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-20 12:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-20 02:06 am (UTC)I'm sitting here with an exceptionally silly smile on my face. You have Bertie down perfectly. His misplaced efforts, his meandering mind, the songs he is attracted to...and most of all, his absolute, innate sweetness. I just want to pet him, but that's a privilege reserved for Jeeves. :P
Excellently done!
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Date: 2007-10-20 01:01 pm (UTC)*laughs* Metaphors are like that. Sometimes they work, sometimes... they're better left well alone.
His misplaced efforts, his meandering mind, the songs he is attracted to...and most of all, his absolute, innate sweetness.
*happy sigh* Thank you, because that's exactly what I love about Bertie: that he truly is the worlds biggest sweetheart. For all his faults, he's truly trying to act in everyone's best interest, not selfishly, not cruelly, not heartlessly. It's actually something to aspire to.
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Date: 2007-10-20 03:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-20 12:55 pm (UTC)Thank you. And it's Betie and Jeeves, it has to have a happy ending.
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Date: 2007-10-20 03:58 am (UTC)My favourite part is probably when Bertie compares sex to Roderick Spode eating asparagus, because it actually makes sense.
OH MAN THOUGH. LOVE. <3
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Date: 2007-10-20 12:58 pm (UTC)*laugsh* I swear, I wrote that and cracked myself up. Then felt vaguely guilty for equating Jeeves/Bertie sex iwth bad eating... but it's a bit true.
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Date: 2007-10-20 08:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-20 12:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-20 07:27 pm (UTC)*mems*
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Date: 2007-10-21 01:14 am (UTC)*beams* That's a high compliment! Thank you!
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Date: 2007-10-20 09:14 pm (UTC)Okay, I knew I'd only do a bare and pale job of trying to express how good this is.
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Date: 2007-10-21 01:24 am (UTC)I loved the idea of Jeeves, who is talented in all things, being caught out by romance. It's lovely to see him not at the top of his game, to see that while Bertie is quite clear in all of his thoughts about how utterly wonderful Jeeves is, Jeeves is just as moved by Bertie's affection. In a far more quiet, still, statue-like way. *g*
And so much detail! The coat and hat that find their way back into the story as useful props even though Bertie doesn't need them for what he thought he would - cool.
You know, I hadn't even thought of that as I was writing the detail about the coat -- I was just writing it because clothes and details of fashion actually play an important part in Bertie's life and in his relationship with Jeeves -- but I'm going to sit back and pretend it was totally done on purpose.
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Date: 2007-10-20 10:22 pm (UTC)Also, Tuppy is never and can never be good enough for Angela, the fathead.
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Date: 2007-10-21 01:13 am (UTC)Thank you.
Also, Tuppy is never and can never be good enough for Angela, the fathead.
*laughs* Well, for whatever reason, Angela seems quite smitten with him. (Although, yes, he is a total fathead.)
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Date: 2007-10-21 10:54 am (UTC)Instead, I have been engrossed in the most amazing, hilarious, and touching tales of Jooster slash EVER!
This was a MASTERPIECE. Seriously. I even laughed out loud at the "By Jeeve, Joves!" Of course the tension was killing me, so I skipped through some of the "plot" in order to get to the love resolution, but don't worry - I always do that to amazing stories and will go back and read the thing fully again in the morning.
Let me say it again. THIS WAS A MASTERPIECE. Bravo. I'm so happy I could cry. *gives virtual adoration*
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Date: 2007-10-21 10:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-23 10:59 pm (UTC)You've excelled yourself here!
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Date: 2007-10-24 11:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-25 05:22 pm (UTC)Thank you, thank you, thank you for such a long and wonderful reading. I really hope you write more!
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Date: 2007-10-26 03:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-26 02:47 am (UTC)This was fantastic. Bertie-in-love is always wonderfully sweet, but you managed to render Jeeves as getting flustered while still remaining Jeevesian, which is not only ridiculously adorable in itself, but a nearly impossible feat.
I love it. Well done you.
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Date: 2007-10-26 03:43 am (UTC)Thank you!
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Date: 2007-10-28 05:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-29 06:46 am (UTC)Me too, honestly. Thank you for commenting. I'm so glad you liked it.
(And that icon is fantastic!)
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From:no subject
Date: 2007-10-29 03:37 am (UTC)I really only read it because you wrote it. I love J/W as a pair, I just don't trust anyone to get them right. You are so amazing. I loved it so much I even had to read some of it to my husband (who was suitably impressed).
I swear you are channeling Wodehouse. This reads so much like one of the books that at times I forgot that it wasn't.
I was in New York when I started to read this, and there were times when I had to be dragged out to have fun because I wanted to stay in and finish reading this.
And the last line. Wow. *sigh*
I think I am glad you don't write any more than you do, if you did, I would never get anything done.
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Date: 2007-10-29 06:29 am (UTC)Honey, thank you. You made me smile during a day that's been... not so much of the yay.
I think I am glad you don't write any more than you do, if you did, I would never get anything done.
Imust admit that I have sat here and reread that line many, many times. And smiled each and every time.
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Date: 2007-10-29 07:19 pm (UTC)I grinned, giggled, laughed, sighed and was utterly beguiled. And when Bertie thought his love was unrequited, both at the proposal and the conclusion that Jeeves didn't want him, my heart hurt. It physically hurt and I had to cover my mouth and almost stop breathing until things got better.
Also, how can something as simple as Bertie helping Jeeves into a coat be so magnetisingly hot? How?
You are a wonder and should be preserved as a Pan-National Fandom Treasure.
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Date: 2007-10-30 06:53 am (UTC)Oh, honey, it's been... well, not one of *those* weeks, but certain a few of *those* days in a row, and this comment... it truly made me happy. Given the length of time it took me to write, and then the length of time that I sat on the editing process (over 18 months, I'm sure), it's really good to hear that all that effort was worth it.
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Date: 2007-10-30 12:29 am (UTC)And Jeeves! Stiff, inhibited Jeeves, who is so used to controlling himself strictly that even when he wants to, he can't express what he's feeling. The characterizations are really spot on here, and that's to say nothing of the plotting, the details, and the misunderstandings of all the other characters. This really could have been one of the Wodehouse books, and it makes me fall for Jeeves and Bertie all over again.
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Date: 2007-10-30 06:55 am (UTC)The idea of Bertie giving his utmost to being utterly depressed still gives me the giggles. It's so far from his basic nature that it's rather absurd.
The characterizations are really spot on here, and that's to say nothing of the plotting, the details, and the misunderstandings of all the other characters. This really could have been one of the Wodehouse books, and it makes me fall for Jeeves and Bertie all over again.
Thank you!
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Date: 2007-11-01 03:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-01 06:18 am (UTC)