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Oct. 30th, 2005 02:06 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
weaselwoman13.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
indeedsir_backupSo, I done wrote my first Jeeves/Wooster slashfic. I knew it had to happen sometime...
TITLE: Jeeves and the Snapshot
AUTHOR: Me,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
weaselwoman13. Don't tell anyone!
PAIRING: Jeeves/Wooster
RATING: You'd be able to get away with reading it to your kids, but they'd probably ask questions you'd rather not answer.
NOTES: As I said, my first J/W slashfic. And only my second J/W fic, so, voices not quite as flawlessly perfect as I would like them to be. Hope it's not completely rotten! It's a bit fluffy and a bit too long. Guest appearance from a "Vic & Sade" reference. I did not come up with the name "Toots Dellahoyd." It was the name of our sheriff a few years ago. Seriously, isn't that the most awesome name for a sheriff you've ever heard in your life?! Oh, right, the fic.
1
‘I say! Jeeves!’ I said very suddenly, breaking the rather moody silence that was festooning the flat that afternoon. ‘I’ve just had a rather brilliant idea!’
‘Indeed, sir?’ Jeeves’ eyebrows edged upwards precisely ten thousandths of an inch: his manner of registering shock.
A little too much shock, actually. ‘Now, Jeeves, you needn’t sound as if I’d just said something earth-shattering! The Wooster brain is a well-oiled machine quite capable of producing brilliant ideas!’
‘I have no doubt about that, sir. I apologise if I have conveyed the opposite impression.’
He bally well had, but I let it go. I don’t deny that I’m not exactly blessed in the area of the grey matter, and Jeeves has enough of it to nourish a small cannibal village for about a week, so he can’t help feeling a bit superior. Still, I have my occasional moments of genius, and this was one of them. ‘It’s so simple I don’t know why it never occurred to me before. A photograph, Jeeves.’
But hang on, I’ve gone and jumped the gun again. Before any of you shake your heads, toss aside Bertram’s confounding memoir in disgust, and pick up the latest Third Lieutenant Clinton Stanley novel in its stead, let me give you a bit of background.
My man Jeeves, you see, is a valet like none other. His head sticks out at the back and he moves in mysterious ways his wonders to perform. I don’t know what I’d do if he ever left me. But every year, owing, no doubt, to the substantial dosage of Viking blood coursing through his veins, he gets it in his head to clamber aboard some wretched watercraft and let it whisk him off to some wretched seaside resort or another, where he hopes to catch a tarpon – leaving me alone and destitute. Because I’m rather helpless without him, you can imagine how my thoughts blacken when this time of year rolls around. I begin to brood, like what’s-his-name in the Dostoievsky novel mulling over when was the best time to sidle up behind the pawnbroker and biff her.
My thoughts were especially Russian this year because, rather than fleeing to the welcoming bosom of my esteemed Aunt Dahlia at Brinkley Court as I had hoped, I was destined to go to Totleigh Towers. Aunt Dahlia discovered at a crucial moment that she was apparently unable to take me in this year, so she dumped me in Sir Watkyn Basset’s lap like an unwanted dog. The nerve!
‘Why, Bertram,’ you may be wondering, ‘why not simply stay at the flat?’ Not an option, I’m afraid. Besides the issue of the place’s horrible empty feeling when it’s deprived of the pitter-patter of Jeeves’ little feet, I depend on Jeeves to keep quite a slew of convoluted domestic whatnots sorted out and under control, and it’s a whole bally lot more work than it looks like. The man is a genius and a master of efficiency, and I barely know an iron from a kettle.
So here I was, preparing to go to Totleigh Towers, the sort of dwelling hobgoblins and hippogriffs tend to infest in books, without Jeeves at my side to comfort and advise, and feeling completely rotten about the ordeal before me. And then the notion hit me.
‘A photograph, sir?’ Jeeves repeated. He looked startled – well, startled in the vague, subtle way that a sheep subjected to a performance of avant-garde atonal orchestral music looks startled. Jeeves, you must understand, does not wear his heart on his sleeve, but keeps it rolled up in a pair of socks in his bottom drawer somewhere.
‘Yes. Of yourself. You do have one, don’t you?’
‘Yes, sir, but I confess that I do not entirely comprehend your line of reasoning.’
‘Use your head, Jeeves! Here you are, about to go globetrotting and leave me high and dry – I’m not blaming you, Jeeves,’ I quickly added – I can’t very well restrict the man from taking his holiday, lest I resemble the sort of slave-driving brute of a master that pops up in paperback novels from time to time. ‘But I’d like to have a jolly snapshot of you. I don’t have a single one, you know. Something to boost the morale a bit while you’re away. I could have a glance at it during times of sorrow. It’d be quite handy. So you’ve got one?’
He regained control of his wildly careening emotional state and resumed looking like a stuffed frog. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Not one where you’re seventeen and spotty, I hope,’ I quipped, though I’m sceptical that Jeeves was ever seventeen, and I firmly refuse to believe he’d ever had spots.
‘No, sir,’ he said coolly. ‘A recent photograph.’
‘Well, go and fetch it, man!’
‘Yes, sir.’ He faded out like a poorly-tuned programme on the wireless, and crackled back into clarity a few minutes later, a glossy little document in his right hand.
‘Jolly good, Jeeves! Let’s see it!’
He handed Exhibit A over to me and I could not suppress an utterance of awe. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Jeeves look more…well…Jeeves-like. The finely-chiselled features seemed to ooze dignity from the page. It looked like the sort of portrait one might use for a commemorative stamp in his honour.
‘Golly, Jeeves!’ I exclaimed. ‘Where did this come from?’
‘My young nephew aspires to be a professional photographer, sir. He requested to shoot a portrait of me for his portfolio and I obliged.’
‘Golly, Jeeves! He certainly went to the right uncle, what?’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Any blighter who’d turn his nose up at a portfolio with this photo in it is a bally philistine, and you can tell him I said so.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘It’s a work of art.’
‘Thank you, sir. I will pass your kind remarks on to my nephew. I trust that this photograph is adequately suited to your purposes, sir?’
‘And then some, Jeeves!’
‘Very good, sir.’
I tucked the photo away and told him to be sure and remember it when he packed my things, and he Very-good-sirred and oozed out. And any innocent passer-by would have assumed that all was well in the household, but I detected something distinctly rummy about his manner. Frosty, almost. I couldn’t quite put my finger on the nub of the thing. It was almost as if he’d rather not have given me the photograph. Well, I could think of a few reasons for that – it was, after all, his nephew’s heartfelt artistic tribute to him, so certainly the fellow may have attached a bit of sentimental value to the thing. Also, I know I rather like to keep those particularly good shots of the Wooster face close at hand, because, while women hardly shrink from me in the streets, neither am I the sort of chap who’s likely to win the village beauty contest, and so a presentable-looking mug shot is quite a good thing for me to have around.
Whatever were his reasons for being protective of the photo, I decided I’d better go and bolster his spirits a bit, so I popped down to the threshold of his lair and dipped a tentative toe in the waters that lay beyond.
‘Jeeves?’
‘Sir?’
Observing that I wasn’t in danger of vexing the creature within, I entered the pantry with confidence. ‘I couldn’t help but notice that you’re a bit miffed.’
‘Not at all, sir.’
‘Oh, yes, Jeeves; don’t try to hide it from me, because I know! I am attuned to your very psyche. You stare. Your features register apprehension.’
‘I was not aware of it, sir.’
‘Tut, Jeeves. You are as an open book to me. Well, I wanted to let you know that I shall take extra-good care of this photograph. I shall guard it with my being.’
‘Sir?’
‘I gathered from your bearing that you were reluctant to place such a treasured document into the Wooster hands. Never fear! You can rest easy, Jeeves. It shall return unblemished.’
‘Thank you, sir. I am entirely reassured.’
‘Very good, Jeeves, very good. Well…tinkerty-tonk!’ And I biffed off, leaving him to do...whatever it is he gets up to in his lair. I’ve never managed to figure it out, and consider it to be one of those mysteries best left unsolved by mere mortals.
2
The days flew by, and the ‘fare thee wells’ had barely escaped my lips before Jeeves was aboard that ocean liner and temporarily absent from my life. I toddled off to Totleigh in foul spirits to endure what Shakespeare might have called the winter of discontent brought on by Jeeves’ departure. I moped about the place for a while, distracting myself briefly with a rewarding conversation with a passing cat, when I recalled my cunning plan and discovered the photograph placed with care in one of my suitcases. As envisioned, seeing him looking all Jeevesian bucked me up considerably, and it was almost as though he were really here, bearing a silver salver and a comforting word. So it was a cheerful Bertram who joined the usual suspects at dinner that evening.
Well, I say ‘the usual suspects,’ but I can hardly expect you, humble reader, to know exactly who I mean, unless I have a large following of mind-readers – which I’m sure I don’t, so I’ll take inventory. There was me, of course, and Sir Watkyn Bassett (a formidable old dodderer who always looks as though he’s just swallowed a hedgehog), Roderick Spode (big moustachioed chap whose ultimate goal is the reformation of Britain under his amateur fascist dictatorship), Stephanie Byng (Sir Watkyn’s niece), Madeleine Bassett (his daughter; soppier than a loofah floating in a puddle on a humid afternoon), Gussie Fink-Nottle (her fiancée and a poop of the first water – though a dear old friend of mine), and one new face – a chappie with a natty-looking bit of vegetation on the upper lip and a face like a fox. Jeeves taught me a word for fox-faces once – what was it? Started with V. Vulcan? No, that’s not it. It’ll come to me.
This fellow introduced himself as a Mr. Andrew ‘Toots’ Dellahoyd, apparently the son of some big-shot American film man. I wasn’t sure what he was doing there, but thought it impolite to ask. Anyway, he may well have fired back at me with the same question, and where would I be then? Forced into the admission that I’d been dropped off here because neither my
faithful valet nor my favourite aunt was able look after me. Rather embarrassing, really.
Still, I sat through supper with a smile on my lips, until Roderick Spode asked why I was grinning like a damned imbecile and I cut it out so as not to offend him further. As much criticism as one may take for appeasing a fascist dictator, one also wouldn’t deny that it’s a right stupid thing to prod a sleeping rhinoceros, especially one you’ve got to share a living space with for the next couple of weeks.
After supping, I returned to my solitary chambers for a nice post-prandial smoke, and buried myself in the latest
mystery best-seller, ‘Murder at Trowbridge Hall.’ I had only gotten through a couple of fairly juicy chapters before I had an unexpected visitor – one of the ruby-lipped and short-tempered variety. That is to say, Stephanie.
‘What ho, Stiffie,’ I said.
‘Oh, Bertie, it’s simply horrid!’ she said by way of greeting, walking – or, one might say, flouncing into my quarters as if she owned the place. Which her uncle did, of course, but that is neither here nor there.
‘What’s horrid, old thing?’
‘This blasted American, Dellahoyd!’ she said emphatically. ‘Do you know why the beastly fellow is here?’
‘Haven’t a clue. Was wondering about it, though. Do enlighten me.’
‘My uncle is a friend of his father’s and he’s invited him here with marriage in mind!’
‘Good Lord! Can he do that? Is it legal, I mean?!’
‘Oh, for God’s sake. Marriage to me, you ass!’
Well, that explained it. I certainly had been baffled for a moment. ‘Ah, I see. Hang on – what about Stinker Pinker?’
Harold Pinker was a good old school friend of mine who was, or so I had thought, Stephanie’s affianced. They’d always seemed satisfied with the set-up and I couldn’t see why there’d be any reason to scratch the fixture.
‘It’s Uncle Watkyn! He says Harold will never be anything more than a curate. He believes I should marry someone who’s going to make something of himself.’
‘What!? I’m shocked, Stiffie, shocked! What brought on this sudden attack of bad manners on Sir Watkyn’s part?’
‘Nothing! Nothing at all!’
‘Well, honestly!’
‘Except that Harold did knock over one of Uncle Watkyn’s silver cases.’
‘Ah.’
‘He was going to go and ask Uncle Watkyn for my hand in marriage, you see. But as he was born without a spine, he became terribly nervous and tripped on the way.’
‘And took a valuable assortment of antique silver down with him.’
‘Yes.’
‘Poor old Stinker!’ I shook the bean remorsefully.
‘I do wish you’d do something about it, Bertie!’
‘Me? What can I do about Stinker?’ I wasn’t an inner-ear surgeon, after all.
‘Not about Harold! About Dellahoyd! If someone got rid of him, Uncle Watkyn would have to consider Harold again.’
‘Get rid of him? You’re not suggesting I commit murder, Stiffie?’
‘Of course not!’
‘Well, still I must put my foot down. I refuse to be involved in any of your schemes, Stiffie. They are prone to tragic endings for all parties involved.’
‘Is that so?!’ She drew herself up. This is the point when she’d usually resort to threats, but her customary secret weapon (threatening to get me engaged to Madeleine Bassett) was not loaded, as Gussie and Madeleine were still happily betrothed. She had nothing on me and was forced to vanish with a few cold, well-chosen words, and I went back to my reading.
My life at Totleigh afterward was relatively uneventful. I stayed out from beneath the feet of Roderick Spode, and managed not to get myself in any uncomfortable situations on the Madeleine front. I ran into Toots Dellahoyd a couple of times, but the conversations weren’t very stimulating – when one asked him how he was, he heaved a great sigh and said that they could be worse, with the heartsick look of a fox who had just let a particularly plump goose escape him. Well, no wonder Stiffie didn’t want to marry him. He didn’t strike me as someone who you’d call ‘the life of the party’. The life of the funeral, maybe. So thereafter I didn’t make it a point to sit down and while away the long evenings with him.
Only one problem sprang up – I was still pining quite dreadfully for Jeeves. The drinks weren’t nearly as good, and I felt there was no one around with whom I could have a jolly good chat, and if it happened that I couldn’t think of a certain word, there was no one to jump in and restore it to the lexicon. The photograph’s mystical potency seemed to be wearing off and now looking at the blasted thing only made the Wooster soul more wistful. I still had a glance at it every evening, though, because something about its Jeevesy I-don’t-know-what contented me, and in one of my daily mopings about the place I found an empty picture frame which I thought suited it rather nicely. Housing the photograph therein spruced it up considerably. I placed it first on the nightstand, then in the nightstand drawer, still a bit jumpy about anything happening to it – the sunlight might fade it, I reasoned, or Stinker might show up and knock it over.
All went well until it was a mere handful of days until Jeeves’ scheduled arrival, and then Stiffie dropped a bombshell from which I feared I would never recover.
3
She waltzed into my midst again, looking determined. ‘All right,’ she began. ‘If we want to make Andrew’s name
mud with my father, I think the best route is to take is to make him look like a kleptomaniac. It’s non-violent, but -’
‘Wait a minute! Wait a minute! I thought I told you days ago that I wouldn’t take part in any such a nobbling, Stiffie!’
‘Of course you will, Bertie – I mean, you do want to help Harold and me, don’t you?’
‘Well, of course I do, but – whenever I get involved with one of your plans it is always at great personal harm to my – to my person, and I will not have it! The Code of the Woosters does not apply in the event of great bodily risk!’
‘In that case,’ she said coolly, ‘I just might tell a few people about that photograph in your drawer.’
‘Eh?’ I was completely unable to put two and two together. I couldn’t even locate the abacus.
‘People do talk about you, you know,’ she said, gazing at me like an eagle noticing an exceptionally vulnerable and brainless mouse.
‘What?’
One more raptorial glare, and then the talons flashed. ‘About you and Jeeves. And how you’re still not married and how you always find some way of conveniently wriggling out of your engagements.’
‘Oh, now really!’
‘With Jeeves’ willing guidance, of course.’
‘Stiffie, honestly, you can’t mean--!’
‘And how you spend every available moment with him.’
‘Now, that’s – that’s simply not true!’
‘And how much of a fuss you put up whenever he goes away.’
‘Well, there’s no one else like him!’
‘And a million other little things that people have been talking about --’ (she exaggerated, of course) ‘-- and they just might be interested to know that you’ve been gazing at that photo of him every single evening with a look on your face like a young girl at her first ball!’
‘What!?’ I exploded, jumping out of my chair as though it’d just burst into flame. ‘No, no, no, Stiffie, no! You’re all wrong about this! Her first...no, no, no, no, no! The photograph – I – I just wanted to – I needed –’
‘Yes?’
‘I – I thought it would cheer me – hang on! Just how do you know what I get up to in my private quarters?!’
‘Oh, you leave the door open all the time. I just wandered by.’
The fact that someone could come along and openly goggle at me while I – well – while I openly goggled at Jeeves – it frightened the daylights out of me. Was this a place of hospitality or a bally zoo?!
‘Now, look, that photo’s just there to – to remind me of him!’ I said rather feebly – but what on earth can one come up with in a situation like that?! Now that she mentioned it, it did hardly seem like appropriate behaviour for a master towards his valet – but this was different; this was Jeeves!
‘Mmm? Then why are you hiding it in a drawer?’ she fired back.
‘Well, I thought something might happen to it!’
‘Are you sure it’s not because you have something to hide?’
‘Stiffie, really! There’s absolutely nothing to it! I can’t believe you’d even consider such a thing!’
‘Well, it doesn’t matter if there’s anything to it, does it? It only matters if it looks like there’s something to it.’
I floundered and spluttered. A few beads of persp. were springing up on the brow. I didn’t want Stiffie telling every Tom, Dick, and Bernard about these theories of hers – what was I to do? ‘Right, right, Stiffie, I’ll help you, but honestly...espionage? Libel? And blackmail? It’s very low, Stiffie, very low indeed!’
‘Thank you, Bertie. Now, I think the first thing you should do is to steal some of Uncle Watkyn’s silver and plant it in Dellahoyd’s room, and then maybe a few articles of Madeleine’s jewellery...’
I wasn’t listening. I was still floored from this accusation of Stiffie’s. Why, it was perfectly ridiculous! Me and Jeeves...I mean, really! A valet and his employer! And maybe two dashed good friends as well! But it was nothing more! Was it?
No – it was unthinkable, immoral, and wrong! After all, it wasn’t as though I didn’t like girls. I’d had plenty of flings with available pippins, and enjoyable ones, too. Nothing serious, of course, but I’ve never met a girl I wanted to marry. Well, a few, but they’ve all done something or other to muck things up. I’m perfectly content to remain single. It’s like Jeeves said – what did he say? I am ‘essentially one of Nature’s bachelors’.
But, said a small and rather nastily mocking voice in Bertram’s head, what do you suppose he meant by that?
Why was I keeping this bally photo, anyway? Why did it boost the morale? I mean, is it normal for chaps to enjoy looking at pictures of their valets? Well, I didn’t know many people whose valets look like mine. He’s tall, and dark, and...great Scott!
As soon as Stiffie left I frantically dug the photo out of the drawer again. When I laid eyes on it I let out a hollow groan. He looked perfect; that’s why I enjoyed looking at the damned thing so much. The shadows playing across his features looked like somebody who really knew which end was up on a brush had painted them. The eyes were the sort you could get lost in if you forgot to pack a map and compass.
This line of thought was beginning to unnerve me and I quickly zipped to the nearest liquor cabinet to whip myself up a restorative. I downed the stuff and eyed myself in the mirror. Now that Stiffie had put the thought in my head I simply couldn’t concentrate on anything else. The palms sweated. The hands shook. I was genuinely perturbed. I mean to say, this was supposed to be a sort of mental illness. If Stiffie really did spread this around, I had no idea what could happen to me. I imagined crisp white strait-jackets and goggling, fascinated psychology students in my future.
I shut myself up in my room and paced back and forth with a fretful cigarette. And the more I thought about it, the more it seemed…well…to make sense. I’d frequently had the urge to fling my arms round Jeeves’ neck, but I’d always thought that was a normal, manly, chummy instinct speaking. I often felt distinctly tingly when he tidied up my rumpled clothing, his fingertips brushing lightly hither and yon, but I attributed that to the satisfaction that came with a nice-looking ensemble. And I think it is safe to say that when he carefully tucked me in at night, I experienced sentiments deeper and warmer than those of ordinary friendship for him.
By the end of the evening (and my tenth cigarette) I was thoroughly annoyed that Stiffie had figured it out before I had, and also a bit in the dark about why it was such an awful thing to happen to a chap. I could find nothing wrong with the arrangement – on the contrary, it looked on the surface like a perfectly corking way to live. None of this soppy Madeleine Bassett nonsense about stars and baby bunny-rabbits. No underhanded scheming and cold-blooded extortionism like that of Stephanie Byng’s ilk. And, while he was the final authority when it came to my wardrobe, I knew Jeeves wouldn’t try and mould me in the way that, say, Florence Craye or Honoria Glossop (I’ll tell you about them later – I don’t think my nerves could take it right now) would. No, it was perfect.
Then, however, like a jockey noticing that his most trustworthy racing horse is one leg short, I spotted the fatal flaw in the situation: Jeeves. I mean, what were the chances of him being as loopy for me as I was for him? He judged seaside Bathing Belles contests and got engaged to cooks. He was quite devoted to me, of course, but as an employee, and nothing more. How on earth was I to whack up the ginger to bring this topic up with him? I simply couldn’t. If he knew I was deeply dippy about him, he’d surely leave me faster than you can say ‘green carnations’.
‘Dash it all!’ I cried resentfully. And I meant it.
4
With all of this weighing on the conscience, and without Jeeves around to suggest a tactical plan, it was unsurprising that I made a hash of the big heist. I put it off for as long as possible, but my excuses, like an assortment of dog biscuits thrown one-by-one to a hungry wolf (for Stiffie was looking awfully wolfish lately), soon ran out, and I found myself in Sir Watkyn’s silver gallery without the slightest notion about what the devil I was doing there. It was rather an embarrassing moment for Bertram, so I shall condense it to a short dialogue:
RODERICK SPODE: Who’s there?!
BERTRAM: Er – no one!
R.S.: Wooster! What’s that in your hand?!
B.: Er – nothing!
R.S.: You thieving wastrel! I should shoot you right now, but instead I shall be merciful and hand you over to the local authorities. Come with me, Wooster.
R.S.’s RIFLE: You’d better do as he says. He’s crazy.
B.: Right-ho.
I spent a cold and unpleasant evening in the local hoosegow, and a substantial part of the day as well. I was just beginning to despair and wish I had brought a harmonica, when…
‘Good Lord! JEEVES!’
‘Good afternoon, sir.’ There he was, looking bronzed and fit, the sea air and sun having taken a positive effect on him, as always. I stared suspiciously at him and momentarily wondered if I had languished so long in my cell that I had begun to hallucinate. ‘I elected to return from my holiday early, sir, due to a series of heavy thunderstorms along the coast.’
‘Good man! Awfully sorry you were rained out, though.’
‘It would appear that you are in need of assistance, sir.’
‘Er, yes, Jeeves – I can’t seem to set foot in Sir Watkyn’s place without getting thrown in the clink, what?’
‘It does seem that your visits to Totleigh Towers have been beset with bad fortune, sir.’
‘Beset? Practically dripping with it, Jeeves! Still, there you are.’
‘Indeed, sir. I shall endeavour to remedy the situation.’ He floated off. I gazed longingly after him and would have gladly removed the bars and followed him like a lost lamb, had I had a hacksaw. Which I hadn’t. I must remember to pack one next time I visit Totleigh.
He returned not two hours later with a member of the local constabulary, who opened the door and told me I was free to go. I didn’t know how Jeeves worked it but I could have kissed him. We scrambled into my two-seater (me at the wheel), and I pressed the gas pedal to the floor.
‘Jeeves,’ I began, ‘next time you go on holiday, I will take to the streets, napping on park benches and huddling in alcoves, before I go anywhere near Totleigh Towers. Place is unbearable.’
‘I regret to hear it, sir.’
‘Never mind, Jeeves – the ordeal is over and done with and for that, I rejoice. Now, tell me, how on earth did you go about springing me?’
‘Well, sir, your release came rather indirectly. Upon arriving at Totleigh Towers, I first happened to encounter Miss Byng, who attempted to blackmail me.’
‘She’s awfully good at that,’ I said with more than a hint of bitterness. ‘She attempted to blackmail me just a couple of days ago.’
‘Yes, sir, so Miss Byng informed me. She was eager that I devise some method of dispatching of her betrothed, Mr. Dellahoyd. I agreed to assist her.’
‘Fair enough, Jeeves. Continue.’
‘Not long afterward, I chanced to find Mr. Dellahoyd, sir.’
‘Pointy-nosed fellow with the moustache? Oh – Jeeves, that reminds me. I’ve been wondering – what was that word you told me for something that looked like a fox? Started with a V.’
‘Vulpine, sir.’
‘That’s it! Thank you, Jeeves. Sorry to interrupt. Go on.’
‘Upon conversation with Mr. Dellahoyd, I discovered that his sentiments were of a similar nature.’
‘Really, Jeeves? Well, no wonder he was looking so dashed unpleasant the whole time. I never even thought to ask why.’
‘He wishes to marry an aspiring actress who is currently employed at Tastee Todd’s Hollywood Grill in Los Angeles, California, sir, but his father disapproves of the match.’
‘Good lord, Jeeves!’
‘Owing to a gentlemanly sense of honour, however, Mr. Dellahoyd was hesitant to inform Miss Byng that he wished to cease the engagement, and so I suggested that he take the responsibility for the theft of the silver, sir.’
‘What? But, Jeeves, that’s ridiculous! Spode saw me taking it.’
‘He only saw it in your hand, sir. According to Mr. Dellahoyd, you had risen in the evening to fetch a glass of water and discovered him purloining the object. After wrenching it from his hands and seeing him out of the gallery, you were returning it to its case when Mr. Spode arrived.’
‘Jeeves, you are a marvel!’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘And Watkyn and Spode really believed all that?!’
‘They were reluctant, sir, but could conceive of no reason why Mr. Dellahoyd would fabricate such a testimony.’
I gave my surroundings a quick eyeball. ‘Why isn’t old Toots’ – for I was feeling much more affectionate towards him now – ‘here in the pen with me?’
‘Sir Watkyn is not prejudiced towards Mr. Dellahoyd as he is towards you, sir, and merely asked him to leave.’
‘Jeeves, you really are wonderful; do you know that?’
‘Thank you, sir.’
The two-seater fell silent after that, because, despite my joyous reunion with Jeeves, I was beginning to get damned uncomfortable. What was causing this squirminess was the fact that I didn’t know whether I’d be able to carry on in a normal fashion this evening, while he fixed my clothes and ran my bath and brought my towels and tucked me in and so on, now that I thought of him as something other than a loyal employee. When Stiffie – well – flat-out told me what I was, it was as though a pair of floodgates had opened and all these little things about Jeeves I’d stopped myself noticing before were sticking out like injured digits – the way those pinstriped trousers clung to him, for example, and the way his hands looked in his leather gloves. And his rather substantial physique – I don’t mean substantial along the Roderick Spode lines where he appears as though he’s eaten too many sticky buns, of course, but substantial in the way that makes you certain that if he were to wrap his arms around you, Roderick Spode and all of the other threats of the universe would be long-forgotten (if you’ll forgive me for going a bit soppy). I dearly wanted to embrace him, but I didn’t think it’d be all that bright to try it while I was twiddling the steering wheel.
Once we were back at the flat and I was all fixed up in my easy chair with one of Jeeves’ cure-all headache remedies in the hand and he was off in the kitchen fixing up a hot something for me to eat (because they don’t do breakfasts in the jug at Totleigh-on-the-Wold, and, as a result, I felt as hollow as the Grand Canyon), something occurred to me. ‘Jeeves?’
He emerged from the kitchen. ‘Sir?’
‘You mentioned Stiffie trying to blackmail you.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you giving in to her demands.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How did she blackmail you?’
His face fell ever-so-slightly. ‘It is a private matter, sir. I very much doubt that it would interest you at all.’
‘Oh. Very well, Jeeves, very well.’ He returned to his toil in the kitchen. I pretended I’d let the thing go at that, but this was a crafty deception. In truth, the cogs and sprockets and things in the Wooster brain were working, the well-oiled machine having gotten the equivalent of a healthy dose of petrol from the contents of the glass in my hand, and after I’d fortified myself with Jeeves’ cooking, and was lounging around the flat with my after-dinner cigarette, I started in on him again.
‘Jeeves, Stiffie blackmailed me,’ I said. ‘But not with Madeleine.’
‘Really, sir?’
‘Aha, you seem shocked. Yes, Madeleine is her usual method of dealing with Bertram. But not this time. Madeleine and Gussie were as happy as two newts on holiday.’
‘This is most fortunate, sir.’
‘Yes. Thing is, I was dashed surprised at Stiffie’s what-d’you-call-it – Stiffie’s ingenuity, and I was wondering what she possibly could have come up with for you. I mean, there isn’t a blot on your record, is there, Jeeves?’
He cleared his throat in a dignified manner and I was strongly reminded of the startled sheep again. As he declined to answer I prattled on.
‘Actually,’ and here’s the part where I’d have looked a total ass if my plan had gone awry, which is probably why the nerves kicked in and I stood up and began to pace around a bit, ‘the reason she was blackmailing me had – er – had something to do with you, actually, as it were. So the possibility had occurred to me that – er – perhaps she was blackmailing you for the same thing. Two for the price of one, don’t you know.’
Jeeves was eyeing me significantly. ‘Possibly, sir.’
‘Yes. Well – er – without coming right out and saying what the charges were, I shall tell you that what we might refer to as Stiffie’s low treachery actually did me a bit of good – silver lining to the cloud, as it were – and – and I’ve sort of realised something about myself as a result. I believe I’ve figured out why I have so much trouble keeping an engagement to a – to a girl for more than a couple of hours.’
He remained mute. And Jeeves, well, as I examined him I worried that he might have figured out exactly what I meant by all this charade – nothing goes over his head, after all – and not approved of it one jot. He was acting exactly as he did when he gave me that photograph.
‘Sorry, Jeeves; sorry. I suppose it wasn’t the same thing. I won’t push the issue any further. Er, sorry.’ I started to leave, as I was feeling dashed awkward, but he stopped me.
‘No, sir. You were correct in your supposition, sir. I remained silent only because I was initially reluctant to believe it was true.’
‘Really, Jeeves?!’ The old ticker was pounding like a jackhammer now.
‘Yes, sir. If I understand you correctly, Miss Byng did, indeed, threaten both of us with the same fate.’
‘Hang on, Jeeves, hang on!’ I tossed the remains of the coffin-nail into the nearest ashtray and was so excited now that I could have leapt into his arms, but I wasn’t in the clear yet. ‘This could turn out to be damned embarrassing if we don’t clear a few things up. What did Stiffie know about you that you didn’t want spread around?’ He stared at me like a particularly brainy sheep unwilling to follow the beckoning fellow with the meat cleaver behind his back. ‘Come on, Jeeves,’ I coaxed. ‘Whatever it is, I promise I won’t dismiss you.’
He hesitated, clearing his throat again.
‘Oh, dash it all! All right, Jeeves, all right; I’ll say it. Er...ahem.’
Well, now I could see the pickle Jeeves was in. It was no easy thing, baring your soul to your manservant. I opened and closed my mouth a few times, looked at him, noticed something extremely interesting on the floor, and then looked at him again.
Jeeves appeared to have located his diaphragm and replaced it. ‘Sir, I wonder if the adage that “actions speak louder than words” applies in these circumstances?’
He didn’t need to tell me twice, and I sort of leapt at him – clumsily, you know, because I felt rather like I was jumping out of an aeroplane and I wasn’t quite sure whether my parachute was working or not. When one’s nerves are all of a flutter, it’s difficult to be graceful. I flung my arms about his neck and he wrapped his around my waist and I sort of nestled my head into his shoulder and everything was bally perfect. We clutched each other and swayed on the spot for a moment in an awkward sort of waltz.
‘Jeeves,’ I mumbled into his jacket.
‘Sir?...Mr. Wooster?’
‘Er – could you call me “Bertram”? Only it doesn’t seem right, all of this “sir” stuff.’
There was a pause. ‘It will be a difficult habit to break, sir…Bertram.’ Hearing him pronounce my Christian name made me feel as though I’d just drunk twenty glasses of champagne all at once and I tottered, fearing I would swoon. This only caused him to squeeze me a bit more tightly. ‘But I will make an effort.’
‘Can I call you “Reginald”?’
‘No, s...no. I am afraid that I cannot allow that.’
Well, that was all right. I didn’t know that I could get used to calling him anything other than ‘Jeeves’ – I only brought it up in the interest of fair play.
‘Jeeves,’ I addressed his lapel again. ‘I love you.’ He took my chin in a gentle hand, tilted my face upwards, and kissed me – and it was obvious he’d done this before. While I’d never thought of Jeeves as a ladies’ man, I knew then that I could say with complete confidence that he was a gentleman’s gentleman.
5
It’s a very rummy thing when two people share the same flat for years, and they’re completely daffy about one another (I hadn’t realised it until Stiffie waved it in my face, of course, but I expect agile-brained Jeeves didn’t need a blackmailer to figure it out for him), and neither of them does anything about it for all the time they live together, and then they’re suddenly brought together by Fate – well, what I’m trying to say is that we both had quite a lot bottled up. One thing sort of led to another, and I’m not going to go into the grisly details as I expect polite society frowns upon that sort of thing – I already doubt that I can send this memoir to the printing press due to its Wildean subject matter, but some things simply must be recorded for posterity. But by supper time we found ourselves together in my bedchambers, not wearing much of anything and lying like a couple of extremely matey spoons in a drawer, the hair on the back of my head tickling his naked chest. I saw no reason to move in the near future; supper be damned!
‘Jeeves?’
‘Yes?’
‘You know that photograph?’
‘Yes.’
‘I kept my promise about it, you know. Not a scratch. I even put it in a frame.’
‘Yes, I took notice of it when I packed your bags.’
‘Nice, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Jeeves!’
‘I apologise, Bertram.’
‘I’ve been wondering – why did you go all testy after you gave the picture to me? I haven’t been able to figure it out.’
‘My solemnity was caused by disappointment. When you asked me for my photograph I momentarily took leave of my senses and allowed myself to believe that it was because you were attracted to me. Upon realising that this was, by no means, your reasoning, but that the photograph was merely to be functional...’
‘Oh, Jeeves, I am sorry!’
‘The culpability does not fall upon you, Bertram. My discontent was self-inflicted.’
‘Still!...Do you know, none of this would have happened if it weren’t for that photograph? If she hadn’t seen me ogling it nightly, Stiffie would never have put the idea into my head.’
‘Oh, I doubt that. In retrospect, I believe that there was a certain inevitability about the match.’
‘Really, Jeeves?’
‘Yes, s...yes. In fact, I have loved you for quite some time.’
‘Well, dash it, why didn’t you say something earlier?!’
‘I had always assumed that you were interested singularly in members of the opposite sex, and feared that if you were aware of my preference, I would be forced to leave your employ.’
‘Oh, Jeeves, perish the thought. I’d rather marry Honoria Glossop than get rid of you. Though I hope it never comes down to that.
‘The possibility is a remote one.’
‘Speaking of her, it’s funny, you helping me escape all these engagements to various blasted females...Stiffie seemed to think it was cause for suspicion.’
‘I am ashamed to admit it, but the zeal with which I assisted the cessation of your engagements was due primarily to spite.’
‘Jeeves! You bally serpent!’ I peered up at him incredulously, then spun round and planted a kiss on the blighter’s neck.
Nothing had ever felt so wonderful and right as having my various limbs all entangled in his. I probably would have dozed off, had I not suddenly heard the bustle of other tenants in the hallway, remembered the door, and sprung out of bed, throwing a shirt on and making a terrifically mad dash to secure the lock.
‘That was close!’ I remarked to Jeeves, who was dressing, upon returning to our little nest. ‘I mean, anyone could have just wandered in and discovered us!’
‘Indeed, sir.’ (I let it go, this time.) ‘The door had entirely escaped my mind as well. I apologise for my carelessness. We must proceed with extreme caution.’
I came to realise that one can’t go around covering his valet with burning kisses when he has as many blackmailers in his circle of acquaintances as I have. Jeeves gave me quite the lecture about the sort of trouble we could get into if we were caught, and ran down a long list of rules and safety precautions we had to adhere to.
But, really, I was only half-listening, because watching him step back into his perfectly-tailored clothing only made me want to take it off him again.
‘...and, finally, of course,’ he concluded, ‘we must always make certain that the door is securely locked.’
‘Well,’ I sauntered to the unmade bed and flung myself onto it, ‘it’s certainly securely locked right now.’ And before I could say a thing more, he had pinned me to the mattress and locked his lips with mine as I wriggled helplessly beneath him. I never knew that anything could be so dashed pleasant!
Needless to say, Stiffie was rather confused when she got the extremely long thank-you letter that I penned for her the next day. But I firmly believe that she deserved it.
THE END
TITLE: Jeeves and the Snapshot
AUTHOR: Me,
weaselwoman13. Don't tell anyone!PAIRING: Jeeves/Wooster
RATING: You'd be able to get away with reading it to your kids, but they'd probably ask questions you'd rather not answer.
NOTES: As I said, my first J/W slashfic. And only my second J/W fic, so, voices not quite as flawlessly perfect as I would like them to be. Hope it's not completely rotten! It's a bit fluffy and a bit too long. Guest appearance from a "Vic & Sade" reference. I did not come up with the name "Toots Dellahoyd." It was the name of our sheriff a few years ago. Seriously, isn't that the most awesome name for a sheriff you've ever heard in your life?! Oh, right, the fic.
‘I say! Jeeves!’ I said very suddenly, breaking the rather moody silence that was festooning the flat that afternoon. ‘I’ve just had a rather brilliant idea!’
‘Indeed, sir?’ Jeeves’ eyebrows edged upwards precisely ten thousandths of an inch: his manner of registering shock.
A little too much shock, actually. ‘Now, Jeeves, you needn’t sound as if I’d just said something earth-shattering! The Wooster brain is a well-oiled machine quite capable of producing brilliant ideas!’
‘I have no doubt about that, sir. I apologise if I have conveyed the opposite impression.’
He bally well had, but I let it go. I don’t deny that I’m not exactly blessed in the area of the grey matter, and Jeeves has enough of it to nourish a small cannibal village for about a week, so he can’t help feeling a bit superior. Still, I have my occasional moments of genius, and this was one of them. ‘It’s so simple I don’t know why it never occurred to me before. A photograph, Jeeves.’
But hang on, I’ve gone and jumped the gun again. Before any of you shake your heads, toss aside Bertram’s confounding memoir in disgust, and pick up the latest Third Lieutenant Clinton Stanley novel in its stead, let me give you a bit of background.
My man Jeeves, you see, is a valet like none other. His head sticks out at the back and he moves in mysterious ways his wonders to perform. I don’t know what I’d do if he ever left me. But every year, owing, no doubt, to the substantial dosage of Viking blood coursing through his veins, he gets it in his head to clamber aboard some wretched watercraft and let it whisk him off to some wretched seaside resort or another, where he hopes to catch a tarpon – leaving me alone and destitute. Because I’m rather helpless without him, you can imagine how my thoughts blacken when this time of year rolls around. I begin to brood, like what’s-his-name in the Dostoievsky novel mulling over when was the best time to sidle up behind the pawnbroker and biff her.
My thoughts were especially Russian this year because, rather than fleeing to the welcoming bosom of my esteemed Aunt Dahlia at Brinkley Court as I had hoped, I was destined to go to Totleigh Towers. Aunt Dahlia discovered at a crucial moment that she was apparently unable to take me in this year, so she dumped me in Sir Watkyn Basset’s lap like an unwanted dog. The nerve!
‘Why, Bertram,’ you may be wondering, ‘why not simply stay at the flat?’ Not an option, I’m afraid. Besides the issue of the place’s horrible empty feeling when it’s deprived of the pitter-patter of Jeeves’ little feet, I depend on Jeeves to keep quite a slew of convoluted domestic whatnots sorted out and under control, and it’s a whole bally lot more work than it looks like. The man is a genius and a master of efficiency, and I barely know an iron from a kettle.
So here I was, preparing to go to Totleigh Towers, the sort of dwelling hobgoblins and hippogriffs tend to infest in books, without Jeeves at my side to comfort and advise, and feeling completely rotten about the ordeal before me. And then the notion hit me.
‘A photograph, sir?’ Jeeves repeated. He looked startled – well, startled in the vague, subtle way that a sheep subjected to a performance of avant-garde atonal orchestral music looks startled. Jeeves, you must understand, does not wear his heart on his sleeve, but keeps it rolled up in a pair of socks in his bottom drawer somewhere.
‘Yes. Of yourself. You do have one, don’t you?’
‘Yes, sir, but I confess that I do not entirely comprehend your line of reasoning.’
‘Use your head, Jeeves! Here you are, about to go globetrotting and leave me high and dry – I’m not blaming you, Jeeves,’ I quickly added – I can’t very well restrict the man from taking his holiday, lest I resemble the sort of slave-driving brute of a master that pops up in paperback novels from time to time. ‘But I’d like to have a jolly snapshot of you. I don’t have a single one, you know. Something to boost the morale a bit while you’re away. I could have a glance at it during times of sorrow. It’d be quite handy. So you’ve got one?’
He regained control of his wildly careening emotional state and resumed looking like a stuffed frog. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Not one where you’re seventeen and spotty, I hope,’ I quipped, though I’m sceptical that Jeeves was ever seventeen, and I firmly refuse to believe he’d ever had spots.
‘No, sir,’ he said coolly. ‘A recent photograph.’
‘Well, go and fetch it, man!’
‘Yes, sir.’ He faded out like a poorly-tuned programme on the wireless, and crackled back into clarity a few minutes later, a glossy little document in his right hand.
‘Jolly good, Jeeves! Let’s see it!’
He handed Exhibit A over to me and I could not suppress an utterance of awe. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Jeeves look more…well…Jeeves-like. The finely-chiselled features seemed to ooze dignity from the page. It looked like the sort of portrait one might use for a commemorative stamp in his honour.
‘Golly, Jeeves!’ I exclaimed. ‘Where did this come from?’
‘My young nephew aspires to be a professional photographer, sir. He requested to shoot a portrait of me for his portfolio and I obliged.’
‘Golly, Jeeves! He certainly went to the right uncle, what?’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Any blighter who’d turn his nose up at a portfolio with this photo in it is a bally philistine, and you can tell him I said so.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘It’s a work of art.’
‘Thank you, sir. I will pass your kind remarks on to my nephew. I trust that this photograph is adequately suited to your purposes, sir?’
‘And then some, Jeeves!’
‘Very good, sir.’
I tucked the photo away and told him to be sure and remember it when he packed my things, and he Very-good-sirred and oozed out. And any innocent passer-by would have assumed that all was well in the household, but I detected something distinctly rummy about his manner. Frosty, almost. I couldn’t quite put my finger on the nub of the thing. It was almost as if he’d rather not have given me the photograph. Well, I could think of a few reasons for that – it was, after all, his nephew’s heartfelt artistic tribute to him, so certainly the fellow may have attached a bit of sentimental value to the thing. Also, I know I rather like to keep those particularly good shots of the Wooster face close at hand, because, while women hardly shrink from me in the streets, neither am I the sort of chap who’s likely to win the village beauty contest, and so a presentable-looking mug shot is quite a good thing for me to have around.
Whatever were his reasons for being protective of the photo, I decided I’d better go and bolster his spirits a bit, so I popped down to the threshold of his lair and dipped a tentative toe in the waters that lay beyond.
‘Jeeves?’
‘Sir?’
Observing that I wasn’t in danger of vexing the creature within, I entered the pantry with confidence. ‘I couldn’t help but notice that you’re a bit miffed.’
‘Not at all, sir.’
‘Oh, yes, Jeeves; don’t try to hide it from me, because I know! I am attuned to your very psyche. You stare. Your features register apprehension.’
‘I was not aware of it, sir.’
‘Tut, Jeeves. You are as an open book to me. Well, I wanted to let you know that I shall take extra-good care of this photograph. I shall guard it with my being.’
‘Sir?’
‘I gathered from your bearing that you were reluctant to place such a treasured document into the Wooster hands. Never fear! You can rest easy, Jeeves. It shall return unblemished.’
‘Thank you, sir. I am entirely reassured.’
‘Very good, Jeeves, very good. Well…tinkerty-tonk!’ And I biffed off, leaving him to do...whatever it is he gets up to in his lair. I’ve never managed to figure it out, and consider it to be one of those mysteries best left unsolved by mere mortals.
The days flew by, and the ‘fare thee wells’ had barely escaped my lips before Jeeves was aboard that ocean liner and temporarily absent from my life. I toddled off to Totleigh in foul spirits to endure what Shakespeare might have called the winter of discontent brought on by Jeeves’ departure. I moped about the place for a while, distracting myself briefly with a rewarding conversation with a passing cat, when I recalled my cunning plan and discovered the photograph placed with care in one of my suitcases. As envisioned, seeing him looking all Jeevesian bucked me up considerably, and it was almost as though he were really here, bearing a silver salver and a comforting word. So it was a cheerful Bertram who joined the usual suspects at dinner that evening.
Well, I say ‘the usual suspects,’ but I can hardly expect you, humble reader, to know exactly who I mean, unless I have a large following of mind-readers – which I’m sure I don’t, so I’ll take inventory. There was me, of course, and Sir Watkyn Bassett (a formidable old dodderer who always looks as though he’s just swallowed a hedgehog), Roderick Spode (big moustachioed chap whose ultimate goal is the reformation of Britain under his amateur fascist dictatorship), Stephanie Byng (Sir Watkyn’s niece), Madeleine Bassett (his daughter; soppier than a loofah floating in a puddle on a humid afternoon), Gussie Fink-Nottle (her fiancée and a poop of the first water – though a dear old friend of mine), and one new face – a chappie with a natty-looking bit of vegetation on the upper lip and a face like a fox. Jeeves taught me a word for fox-faces once – what was it? Started with V. Vulcan? No, that’s not it. It’ll come to me.
This fellow introduced himself as a Mr. Andrew ‘Toots’ Dellahoyd, apparently the son of some big-shot American film man. I wasn’t sure what he was doing there, but thought it impolite to ask. Anyway, he may well have fired back at me with the same question, and where would I be then? Forced into the admission that I’d been dropped off here because neither my
faithful valet nor my favourite aunt was able look after me. Rather embarrassing, really.
Still, I sat through supper with a smile on my lips, until Roderick Spode asked why I was grinning like a damned imbecile and I cut it out so as not to offend him further. As much criticism as one may take for appeasing a fascist dictator, one also wouldn’t deny that it’s a right stupid thing to prod a sleeping rhinoceros, especially one you’ve got to share a living space with for the next couple of weeks.
After supping, I returned to my solitary chambers for a nice post-prandial smoke, and buried myself in the latest
mystery best-seller, ‘Murder at Trowbridge Hall.’ I had only gotten through a couple of fairly juicy chapters before I had an unexpected visitor – one of the ruby-lipped and short-tempered variety. That is to say, Stephanie.
‘What ho, Stiffie,’ I said.
‘Oh, Bertie, it’s simply horrid!’ she said by way of greeting, walking – or, one might say, flouncing into my quarters as if she owned the place. Which her uncle did, of course, but that is neither here nor there.
‘What’s horrid, old thing?’
‘This blasted American, Dellahoyd!’ she said emphatically. ‘Do you know why the beastly fellow is here?’
‘Haven’t a clue. Was wondering about it, though. Do enlighten me.’
‘My uncle is a friend of his father’s and he’s invited him here with marriage in mind!’
‘Good Lord! Can he do that? Is it legal, I mean?!’
‘Oh, for God’s sake. Marriage to me, you ass!’
Well, that explained it. I certainly had been baffled for a moment. ‘Ah, I see. Hang on – what about Stinker Pinker?’
Harold Pinker was a good old school friend of mine who was, or so I had thought, Stephanie’s affianced. They’d always seemed satisfied with the set-up and I couldn’t see why there’d be any reason to scratch the fixture.
‘It’s Uncle Watkyn! He says Harold will never be anything more than a curate. He believes I should marry someone who’s going to make something of himself.’
‘What!? I’m shocked, Stiffie, shocked! What brought on this sudden attack of bad manners on Sir Watkyn’s part?’
‘Nothing! Nothing at all!’
‘Well, honestly!’
‘Except that Harold did knock over one of Uncle Watkyn’s silver cases.’
‘Ah.’
‘He was going to go and ask Uncle Watkyn for my hand in marriage, you see. But as he was born without a spine, he became terribly nervous and tripped on the way.’
‘And took a valuable assortment of antique silver down with him.’
‘Yes.’
‘Poor old Stinker!’ I shook the bean remorsefully.
‘I do wish you’d do something about it, Bertie!’
‘Me? What can I do about Stinker?’ I wasn’t an inner-ear surgeon, after all.
‘Not about Harold! About Dellahoyd! If someone got rid of him, Uncle Watkyn would have to consider Harold again.’
‘Get rid of him? You’re not suggesting I commit murder, Stiffie?’
‘Of course not!’
‘Well, still I must put my foot down. I refuse to be involved in any of your schemes, Stiffie. They are prone to tragic endings for all parties involved.’
‘Is that so?!’ She drew herself up. This is the point when she’d usually resort to threats, but her customary secret weapon (threatening to get me engaged to Madeleine Bassett) was not loaded, as Gussie and Madeleine were still happily betrothed. She had nothing on me and was forced to vanish with a few cold, well-chosen words, and I went back to my reading.
My life at Totleigh afterward was relatively uneventful. I stayed out from beneath the feet of Roderick Spode, and managed not to get myself in any uncomfortable situations on the Madeleine front. I ran into Toots Dellahoyd a couple of times, but the conversations weren’t very stimulating – when one asked him how he was, he heaved a great sigh and said that they could be worse, with the heartsick look of a fox who had just let a particularly plump goose escape him. Well, no wonder Stiffie didn’t want to marry him. He didn’t strike me as someone who you’d call ‘the life of the party’. The life of the funeral, maybe. So thereafter I didn’t make it a point to sit down and while away the long evenings with him.
Only one problem sprang up – I was still pining quite dreadfully for Jeeves. The drinks weren’t nearly as good, and I felt there was no one around with whom I could have a jolly good chat, and if it happened that I couldn’t think of a certain word, there was no one to jump in and restore it to the lexicon. The photograph’s mystical potency seemed to be wearing off and now looking at the blasted thing only made the Wooster soul more wistful. I still had a glance at it every evening, though, because something about its Jeevesy I-don’t-know-what contented me, and in one of my daily mopings about the place I found an empty picture frame which I thought suited it rather nicely. Housing the photograph therein spruced it up considerably. I placed it first on the nightstand, then in the nightstand drawer, still a bit jumpy about anything happening to it – the sunlight might fade it, I reasoned, or Stinker might show up and knock it over.
All went well until it was a mere handful of days until Jeeves’ scheduled arrival, and then Stiffie dropped a bombshell from which I feared I would never recover.
She waltzed into my midst again, looking determined. ‘All right,’ she began. ‘If we want to make Andrew’s name
mud with my father, I think the best route is to take is to make him look like a kleptomaniac. It’s non-violent, but -’
‘Wait a minute! Wait a minute! I thought I told you days ago that I wouldn’t take part in any such a nobbling, Stiffie!’
‘Of course you will, Bertie – I mean, you do want to help Harold and me, don’t you?’
‘Well, of course I do, but – whenever I get involved with one of your plans it is always at great personal harm to my – to my person, and I will not have it! The Code of the Woosters does not apply in the event of great bodily risk!’
‘In that case,’ she said coolly, ‘I just might tell a few people about that photograph in your drawer.’
‘Eh?’ I was completely unable to put two and two together. I couldn’t even locate the abacus.
‘People do talk about you, you know,’ she said, gazing at me like an eagle noticing an exceptionally vulnerable and brainless mouse.
‘What?’
One more raptorial glare, and then the talons flashed. ‘About you and Jeeves. And how you’re still not married and how you always find some way of conveniently wriggling out of your engagements.’
‘Oh, now really!’
‘With Jeeves’ willing guidance, of course.’
‘Stiffie, honestly, you can’t mean--!’
‘And how you spend every available moment with him.’
‘Now, that’s – that’s simply not true!’
‘And how much of a fuss you put up whenever he goes away.’
‘Well, there’s no one else like him!’
‘And a million other little things that people have been talking about --’ (she exaggerated, of course) ‘-- and they just might be interested to know that you’ve been gazing at that photo of him every single evening with a look on your face like a young girl at her first ball!’
‘What!?’ I exploded, jumping out of my chair as though it’d just burst into flame. ‘No, no, no, Stiffie, no! You’re all wrong about this! Her first...no, no, no, no, no! The photograph – I – I just wanted to – I needed –’
‘Yes?’
‘I – I thought it would cheer me – hang on! Just how do you know what I get up to in my private quarters?!’
‘Oh, you leave the door open all the time. I just wandered by.’
The fact that someone could come along and openly goggle at me while I – well – while I openly goggled at Jeeves – it frightened the daylights out of me. Was this a place of hospitality or a bally zoo?!
‘Now, look, that photo’s just there to – to remind me of him!’ I said rather feebly – but what on earth can one come up with in a situation like that?! Now that she mentioned it, it did hardly seem like appropriate behaviour for a master towards his valet – but this was different; this was Jeeves!
‘Mmm? Then why are you hiding it in a drawer?’ she fired back.
‘Well, I thought something might happen to it!’
‘Are you sure it’s not because you have something to hide?’
‘Stiffie, really! There’s absolutely nothing to it! I can’t believe you’d even consider such a thing!’
‘Well, it doesn’t matter if there’s anything to it, does it? It only matters if it looks like there’s something to it.’
I floundered and spluttered. A few beads of persp. were springing up on the brow. I didn’t want Stiffie telling every Tom, Dick, and Bernard about these theories of hers – what was I to do? ‘Right, right, Stiffie, I’ll help you, but honestly...espionage? Libel? And blackmail? It’s very low, Stiffie, very low indeed!’
‘Thank you, Bertie. Now, I think the first thing you should do is to steal some of Uncle Watkyn’s silver and plant it in Dellahoyd’s room, and then maybe a few articles of Madeleine’s jewellery...’
I wasn’t listening. I was still floored from this accusation of Stiffie’s. Why, it was perfectly ridiculous! Me and Jeeves...I mean, really! A valet and his employer! And maybe two dashed good friends as well! But it was nothing more! Was it?
No – it was unthinkable, immoral, and wrong! After all, it wasn’t as though I didn’t like girls. I’d had plenty of flings with available pippins, and enjoyable ones, too. Nothing serious, of course, but I’ve never met a girl I wanted to marry. Well, a few, but they’ve all done something or other to muck things up. I’m perfectly content to remain single. It’s like Jeeves said – what did he say? I am ‘essentially one of Nature’s bachelors’.
But, said a small and rather nastily mocking voice in Bertram’s head, what do you suppose he meant by that?
Why was I keeping this bally photo, anyway? Why did it boost the morale? I mean, is it normal for chaps to enjoy looking at pictures of their valets? Well, I didn’t know many people whose valets look like mine. He’s tall, and dark, and...great Scott!
As soon as Stiffie left I frantically dug the photo out of the drawer again. When I laid eyes on it I let out a hollow groan. He looked perfect; that’s why I enjoyed looking at the damned thing so much. The shadows playing across his features looked like somebody who really knew which end was up on a brush had painted them. The eyes were the sort you could get lost in if you forgot to pack a map and compass.
This line of thought was beginning to unnerve me and I quickly zipped to the nearest liquor cabinet to whip myself up a restorative. I downed the stuff and eyed myself in the mirror. Now that Stiffie had put the thought in my head I simply couldn’t concentrate on anything else. The palms sweated. The hands shook. I was genuinely perturbed. I mean to say, this was supposed to be a sort of mental illness. If Stiffie really did spread this around, I had no idea what could happen to me. I imagined crisp white strait-jackets and goggling, fascinated psychology students in my future.
I shut myself up in my room and paced back and forth with a fretful cigarette. And the more I thought about it, the more it seemed…well…to make sense. I’d frequently had the urge to fling my arms round Jeeves’ neck, but I’d always thought that was a normal, manly, chummy instinct speaking. I often felt distinctly tingly when he tidied up my rumpled clothing, his fingertips brushing lightly hither and yon, but I attributed that to the satisfaction that came with a nice-looking ensemble. And I think it is safe to say that when he carefully tucked me in at night, I experienced sentiments deeper and warmer than those of ordinary friendship for him.
By the end of the evening (and my tenth cigarette) I was thoroughly annoyed that Stiffie had figured it out before I had, and also a bit in the dark about why it was such an awful thing to happen to a chap. I could find nothing wrong with the arrangement – on the contrary, it looked on the surface like a perfectly corking way to live. None of this soppy Madeleine Bassett nonsense about stars and baby bunny-rabbits. No underhanded scheming and cold-blooded extortionism like that of Stephanie Byng’s ilk. And, while he was the final authority when it came to my wardrobe, I knew Jeeves wouldn’t try and mould me in the way that, say, Florence Craye or Honoria Glossop (I’ll tell you about them later – I don’t think my nerves could take it right now) would. No, it was perfect.
Then, however, like a jockey noticing that his most trustworthy racing horse is one leg short, I spotted the fatal flaw in the situation: Jeeves. I mean, what were the chances of him being as loopy for me as I was for him? He judged seaside Bathing Belles contests and got engaged to cooks. He was quite devoted to me, of course, but as an employee, and nothing more. How on earth was I to whack up the ginger to bring this topic up with him? I simply couldn’t. If he knew I was deeply dippy about him, he’d surely leave me faster than you can say ‘green carnations’.
‘Dash it all!’ I cried resentfully. And I meant it.
With all of this weighing on the conscience, and without Jeeves around to suggest a tactical plan, it was unsurprising that I made a hash of the big heist. I put it off for as long as possible, but my excuses, like an assortment of dog biscuits thrown one-by-one to a hungry wolf (for Stiffie was looking awfully wolfish lately), soon ran out, and I found myself in Sir Watkyn’s silver gallery without the slightest notion about what the devil I was doing there. It was rather an embarrassing moment for Bertram, so I shall condense it to a short dialogue:
RODERICK SPODE: Who’s there?!
BERTRAM: Er – no one!
R.S.: Wooster! What’s that in your hand?!
B.: Er – nothing!
R.S.: You thieving wastrel! I should shoot you right now, but instead I shall be merciful and hand you over to the local authorities. Come with me, Wooster.
R.S.’s RIFLE: You’d better do as he says. He’s crazy.
B.: Right-ho.
I spent a cold and unpleasant evening in the local hoosegow, and a substantial part of the day as well. I was just beginning to despair and wish I had brought a harmonica, when…
‘Good Lord! JEEVES!’
‘Good afternoon, sir.’ There he was, looking bronzed and fit, the sea air and sun having taken a positive effect on him, as always. I stared suspiciously at him and momentarily wondered if I had languished so long in my cell that I had begun to hallucinate. ‘I elected to return from my holiday early, sir, due to a series of heavy thunderstorms along the coast.’
‘Good man! Awfully sorry you were rained out, though.’
‘It would appear that you are in need of assistance, sir.’
‘Er, yes, Jeeves – I can’t seem to set foot in Sir Watkyn’s place without getting thrown in the clink, what?’
‘It does seem that your visits to Totleigh Towers have been beset with bad fortune, sir.’
‘Beset? Practically dripping with it, Jeeves! Still, there you are.’
‘Indeed, sir. I shall endeavour to remedy the situation.’ He floated off. I gazed longingly after him and would have gladly removed the bars and followed him like a lost lamb, had I had a hacksaw. Which I hadn’t. I must remember to pack one next time I visit Totleigh.
He returned not two hours later with a member of the local constabulary, who opened the door and told me I was free to go. I didn’t know how Jeeves worked it but I could have kissed him. We scrambled into my two-seater (me at the wheel), and I pressed the gas pedal to the floor.
‘Jeeves,’ I began, ‘next time you go on holiday, I will take to the streets, napping on park benches and huddling in alcoves, before I go anywhere near Totleigh Towers. Place is unbearable.’
‘I regret to hear it, sir.’
‘Never mind, Jeeves – the ordeal is over and done with and for that, I rejoice. Now, tell me, how on earth did you go about springing me?’
‘Well, sir, your release came rather indirectly. Upon arriving at Totleigh Towers, I first happened to encounter Miss Byng, who attempted to blackmail me.’
‘She’s awfully good at that,’ I said with more than a hint of bitterness. ‘She attempted to blackmail me just a couple of days ago.’
‘Yes, sir, so Miss Byng informed me. She was eager that I devise some method of dispatching of her betrothed, Mr. Dellahoyd. I agreed to assist her.’
‘Fair enough, Jeeves. Continue.’
‘Not long afterward, I chanced to find Mr. Dellahoyd, sir.’
‘Pointy-nosed fellow with the moustache? Oh – Jeeves, that reminds me. I’ve been wondering – what was that word you told me for something that looked like a fox? Started with a V.’
‘Vulpine, sir.’
‘That’s it! Thank you, Jeeves. Sorry to interrupt. Go on.’
‘Upon conversation with Mr. Dellahoyd, I discovered that his sentiments were of a similar nature.’
‘Really, Jeeves? Well, no wonder he was looking so dashed unpleasant the whole time. I never even thought to ask why.’
‘He wishes to marry an aspiring actress who is currently employed at Tastee Todd’s Hollywood Grill in Los Angeles, California, sir, but his father disapproves of the match.’
‘Good lord, Jeeves!’
‘Owing to a gentlemanly sense of honour, however, Mr. Dellahoyd was hesitant to inform Miss Byng that he wished to cease the engagement, and so I suggested that he take the responsibility for the theft of the silver, sir.’
‘What? But, Jeeves, that’s ridiculous! Spode saw me taking it.’
‘He only saw it in your hand, sir. According to Mr. Dellahoyd, you had risen in the evening to fetch a glass of water and discovered him purloining the object. After wrenching it from his hands and seeing him out of the gallery, you were returning it to its case when Mr. Spode arrived.’
‘Jeeves, you are a marvel!’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘And Watkyn and Spode really believed all that?!’
‘They were reluctant, sir, but could conceive of no reason why Mr. Dellahoyd would fabricate such a testimony.’
I gave my surroundings a quick eyeball. ‘Why isn’t old Toots’ – for I was feeling much more affectionate towards him now – ‘here in the pen with me?’
‘Sir Watkyn is not prejudiced towards Mr. Dellahoyd as he is towards you, sir, and merely asked him to leave.’
‘Jeeves, you really are wonderful; do you know that?’
‘Thank you, sir.’
The two-seater fell silent after that, because, despite my joyous reunion with Jeeves, I was beginning to get damned uncomfortable. What was causing this squirminess was the fact that I didn’t know whether I’d be able to carry on in a normal fashion this evening, while he fixed my clothes and ran my bath and brought my towels and tucked me in and so on, now that I thought of him as something other than a loyal employee. When Stiffie – well – flat-out told me what I was, it was as though a pair of floodgates had opened and all these little things about Jeeves I’d stopped myself noticing before were sticking out like injured digits – the way those pinstriped trousers clung to him, for example, and the way his hands looked in his leather gloves. And his rather substantial physique – I don’t mean substantial along the Roderick Spode lines where he appears as though he’s eaten too many sticky buns, of course, but substantial in the way that makes you certain that if he were to wrap his arms around you, Roderick Spode and all of the other threats of the universe would be long-forgotten (if you’ll forgive me for going a bit soppy). I dearly wanted to embrace him, but I didn’t think it’d be all that bright to try it while I was twiddling the steering wheel.
Once we were back at the flat and I was all fixed up in my easy chair with one of Jeeves’ cure-all headache remedies in the hand and he was off in the kitchen fixing up a hot something for me to eat (because they don’t do breakfasts in the jug at Totleigh-on-the-Wold, and, as a result, I felt as hollow as the Grand Canyon), something occurred to me. ‘Jeeves?’
He emerged from the kitchen. ‘Sir?’
‘You mentioned Stiffie trying to blackmail you.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you giving in to her demands.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How did she blackmail you?’
His face fell ever-so-slightly. ‘It is a private matter, sir. I very much doubt that it would interest you at all.’
‘Oh. Very well, Jeeves, very well.’ He returned to his toil in the kitchen. I pretended I’d let the thing go at that, but this was a crafty deception. In truth, the cogs and sprockets and things in the Wooster brain were working, the well-oiled machine having gotten the equivalent of a healthy dose of petrol from the contents of the glass in my hand, and after I’d fortified myself with Jeeves’ cooking, and was lounging around the flat with my after-dinner cigarette, I started in on him again.
‘Jeeves, Stiffie blackmailed me,’ I said. ‘But not with Madeleine.’
‘Really, sir?’
‘Aha, you seem shocked. Yes, Madeleine is her usual method of dealing with Bertram. But not this time. Madeleine and Gussie were as happy as two newts on holiday.’
‘This is most fortunate, sir.’
‘Yes. Thing is, I was dashed surprised at Stiffie’s what-d’you-call-it – Stiffie’s ingenuity, and I was wondering what she possibly could have come up with for you. I mean, there isn’t a blot on your record, is there, Jeeves?’
He cleared his throat in a dignified manner and I was strongly reminded of the startled sheep again. As he declined to answer I prattled on.
‘Actually,’ and here’s the part where I’d have looked a total ass if my plan had gone awry, which is probably why the nerves kicked in and I stood up and began to pace around a bit, ‘the reason she was blackmailing me had – er – had something to do with you, actually, as it were. So the possibility had occurred to me that – er – perhaps she was blackmailing you for the same thing. Two for the price of one, don’t you know.’
Jeeves was eyeing me significantly. ‘Possibly, sir.’
‘Yes. Well – er – without coming right out and saying what the charges were, I shall tell you that what we might refer to as Stiffie’s low treachery actually did me a bit of good – silver lining to the cloud, as it were – and – and I’ve sort of realised something about myself as a result. I believe I’ve figured out why I have so much trouble keeping an engagement to a – to a girl for more than a couple of hours.’
He remained mute. And Jeeves, well, as I examined him I worried that he might have figured out exactly what I meant by all this charade – nothing goes over his head, after all – and not approved of it one jot. He was acting exactly as he did when he gave me that photograph.
‘Sorry, Jeeves; sorry. I suppose it wasn’t the same thing. I won’t push the issue any further. Er, sorry.’ I started to leave, as I was feeling dashed awkward, but he stopped me.
‘No, sir. You were correct in your supposition, sir. I remained silent only because I was initially reluctant to believe it was true.’
‘Really, Jeeves?!’ The old ticker was pounding like a jackhammer now.
‘Yes, sir. If I understand you correctly, Miss Byng did, indeed, threaten both of us with the same fate.’
‘Hang on, Jeeves, hang on!’ I tossed the remains of the coffin-nail into the nearest ashtray and was so excited now that I could have leapt into his arms, but I wasn’t in the clear yet. ‘This could turn out to be damned embarrassing if we don’t clear a few things up. What did Stiffie know about you that you didn’t want spread around?’ He stared at me like a particularly brainy sheep unwilling to follow the beckoning fellow with the meat cleaver behind his back. ‘Come on, Jeeves,’ I coaxed. ‘Whatever it is, I promise I won’t dismiss you.’
He hesitated, clearing his throat again.
‘Oh, dash it all! All right, Jeeves, all right; I’ll say it. Er...ahem.’
Well, now I could see the pickle Jeeves was in. It was no easy thing, baring your soul to your manservant. I opened and closed my mouth a few times, looked at him, noticed something extremely interesting on the floor, and then looked at him again.
Jeeves appeared to have located his diaphragm and replaced it. ‘Sir, I wonder if the adage that “actions speak louder than words” applies in these circumstances?’
He didn’t need to tell me twice, and I sort of leapt at him – clumsily, you know, because I felt rather like I was jumping out of an aeroplane and I wasn’t quite sure whether my parachute was working or not. When one’s nerves are all of a flutter, it’s difficult to be graceful. I flung my arms about his neck and he wrapped his around my waist and I sort of nestled my head into his shoulder and everything was bally perfect. We clutched each other and swayed on the spot for a moment in an awkward sort of waltz.
‘Jeeves,’ I mumbled into his jacket.
‘Sir?...Mr. Wooster?’
‘Er – could you call me “Bertram”? Only it doesn’t seem right, all of this “sir” stuff.’
There was a pause. ‘It will be a difficult habit to break, sir…Bertram.’ Hearing him pronounce my Christian name made me feel as though I’d just drunk twenty glasses of champagne all at once and I tottered, fearing I would swoon. This only caused him to squeeze me a bit more tightly. ‘But I will make an effort.’
‘Can I call you “Reginald”?’
‘No, s...no. I am afraid that I cannot allow that.’
Well, that was all right. I didn’t know that I could get used to calling him anything other than ‘Jeeves’ – I only brought it up in the interest of fair play.
‘Jeeves,’ I addressed his lapel again. ‘I love you.’ He took my chin in a gentle hand, tilted my face upwards, and kissed me – and it was obvious he’d done this before. While I’d never thought of Jeeves as a ladies’ man, I knew then that I could say with complete confidence that he was a gentleman’s gentleman.
It’s a very rummy thing when two people share the same flat for years, and they’re completely daffy about one another (I hadn’t realised it until Stiffie waved it in my face, of course, but I expect agile-brained Jeeves didn’t need a blackmailer to figure it out for him), and neither of them does anything about it for all the time they live together, and then they’re suddenly brought together by Fate – well, what I’m trying to say is that we both had quite a lot bottled up. One thing sort of led to another, and I’m not going to go into the grisly details as I expect polite society frowns upon that sort of thing – I already doubt that I can send this memoir to the printing press due to its Wildean subject matter, but some things simply must be recorded for posterity. But by supper time we found ourselves together in my bedchambers, not wearing much of anything and lying like a couple of extremely matey spoons in a drawer, the hair on the back of my head tickling his naked chest. I saw no reason to move in the near future; supper be damned!
‘Jeeves?’
‘Yes?’
‘You know that photograph?’
‘Yes.’
‘I kept my promise about it, you know. Not a scratch. I even put it in a frame.’
‘Yes, I took notice of it when I packed your bags.’
‘Nice, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Jeeves!’
‘I apologise, Bertram.’
‘I’ve been wondering – why did you go all testy after you gave the picture to me? I haven’t been able to figure it out.’
‘My solemnity was caused by disappointment. When you asked me for my photograph I momentarily took leave of my senses and allowed myself to believe that it was because you were attracted to me. Upon realising that this was, by no means, your reasoning, but that the photograph was merely to be functional...’
‘Oh, Jeeves, I am sorry!’
‘The culpability does not fall upon you, Bertram. My discontent was self-inflicted.’
‘Still!...Do you know, none of this would have happened if it weren’t for that photograph? If she hadn’t seen me ogling it nightly, Stiffie would never have put the idea into my head.’
‘Oh, I doubt that. In retrospect, I believe that there was a certain inevitability about the match.’
‘Really, Jeeves?’
‘Yes, s...yes. In fact, I have loved you for quite some time.’
‘Well, dash it, why didn’t you say something earlier?!’
‘I had always assumed that you were interested singularly in members of the opposite sex, and feared that if you were aware of my preference, I would be forced to leave your employ.’
‘Oh, Jeeves, perish the thought. I’d rather marry Honoria Glossop than get rid of you. Though I hope it never comes down to that.
‘The possibility is a remote one.’
‘Speaking of her, it’s funny, you helping me escape all these engagements to various blasted females...Stiffie seemed to think it was cause for suspicion.’
‘I am ashamed to admit it, but the zeal with which I assisted the cessation of your engagements was due primarily to spite.’
‘Jeeves! You bally serpent!’ I peered up at him incredulously, then spun round and planted a kiss on the blighter’s neck.
Nothing had ever felt so wonderful and right as having my various limbs all entangled in his. I probably would have dozed off, had I not suddenly heard the bustle of other tenants in the hallway, remembered the door, and sprung out of bed, throwing a shirt on and making a terrifically mad dash to secure the lock.
‘That was close!’ I remarked to Jeeves, who was dressing, upon returning to our little nest. ‘I mean, anyone could have just wandered in and discovered us!’
‘Indeed, sir.’ (I let it go, this time.) ‘The door had entirely escaped my mind as well. I apologise for my carelessness. We must proceed with extreme caution.’
I came to realise that one can’t go around covering his valet with burning kisses when he has as many blackmailers in his circle of acquaintances as I have. Jeeves gave me quite the lecture about the sort of trouble we could get into if we were caught, and ran down a long list of rules and safety precautions we had to adhere to.
But, really, I was only half-listening, because watching him step back into his perfectly-tailored clothing only made me want to take it off him again.
‘...and, finally, of course,’ he concluded, ‘we must always make certain that the door is securely locked.’
‘Well,’ I sauntered to the unmade bed and flung myself onto it, ‘it’s certainly securely locked right now.’ And before I could say a thing more, he had pinned me to the mattress and locked his lips with mine as I wriggled helplessly beneath him. I never knew that anything could be so dashed pleasant!
Needless to say, Stiffie was rather confused when she got the extremely long thank-you letter that I penned for her the next day. But I firmly believe that she deserved it.
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no subject
Date: 2005-10-30 09:26 am (UTC)!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Oh. my. god this is good. This is fantastic. *goggles*
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Date: 2005-10-30 04:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-30 12:02 pm (UTC)While I’d never thought of Jeeves as a ladies’ man, I knew then that I could say with complete confidence that he was a gentleman’s gentleman.
I think I'll go die a little now. If you'll excuse me.
no subject
Date: 2005-10-30 03:17 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2005-10-30 01:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-30 04:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-30 02:58 pm (UTC)<:3D~
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Date: 2005-10-30 04:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-30 03:06 pm (UTC)I've still not read any Wodehouse, but I have noticed a certain particular wording about the comm; I enjoy it very, very much.
This was simply, without a doubt, the absolute bestest of the two. Poor dear Bertie so clueless with 'Stiffie's' blackmailing. His reactions to it were perfect, and I couldn't stop reading despite the many things that need doing today. Once I read the first line, I paused only to retrieve a bagel and then I thoroughly digested both the breakfast and this glorious artwork at once.
I am so adding this to memories, my dear. Wonderful, beautiful, and I know I'm repeating earlier compliments, but I cannot stop. I'd shower you with rose petals, if I could, though that might be inconvient with the traveling funds and what not, so I'll simply end by saying this truly is one of the best stories I've ever read, far surpassing the title of fandom.
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Date: 2005-10-30 04:18 pm (UTC)Thank you so very much!
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Date: 2005-10-30 04:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-30 04:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-30 04:25 pm (UTC)Anyhow, point being, I ended up loving the story. :)
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Date: 2005-10-30 04:35 pm (UTC)I don't think Bertie would ever have even thought about taking care of himself. It wouldn't cross his mind.
Ha! Good point!
I'm glad! I hadn't brushed up on the Holy Scriptures lately and so I realized a few of the details were sketchy. Perhaps it could use a brief polish-over in some spots. ^_^
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2005-10-30 05:10 pm (UTC)But every year, owing, no doubt, to the substantial dosage of Viking blood coursing through his veins, he gets it in his head to clamber aboard some wretched watercraft
*giggles* The image I get just thinking about this...
though I'm sceptical that Jeeves was ever seventeen
*snort* I'd love to see a fic about 17-year-old Jeeves.
Forced into the admission that I'd been dropped off here because neither my faithful valet nor my favourite aunt was able look after me. Rather embarrassing, really.
Aww... Seriously though, I'd never thought about how Wooster gets on while Jeeves is away on holiday. Interesting...
I remember in season 4 (I think episode 4 - the one with Bertie's mustache and the cross-dressing) where Jeeves returns from holiday and immediately starts tidying up multiple used teacups and papers on the floor. I don't think there was a replacement valet then. In the books, I'm not sure - still working my way through them.
I gazed longingly after him and would have gladly removed the bars and followed him like a lost lamb, had I had a hacksaw. Which I hadn't. I must remember to pack one next time I visit Totleigh.
*grin*
And his rather substantial physique ... substantial in the way that makes you certain that if he were to wrap his arms around you, Roderick Spode and all of the other threats of the universe would be long-forgotten
Mmm, very nice description.
Definitely a keeper!
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Date: 2005-10-31 03:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-30 05:31 pm (UTC)Excuse me, I'm finding it hard to breathe right now. It was so perfect. Innocent little Bertie, tricksy Stiffy Byng, and wonder of all wonders perfectness-incarnate Jeeves all in love. Oh and the lecture of rules and precaution is so Jeeves. and "green carnation".
Nope, still can't put together a coherent string of words.
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Date: 2005-10-31 03:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-30 06:06 pm (UTC)B.: Right-ho.
That is so perfect ^.^ I love it more than sausages. Lovely lovely stuff ^-^
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Date: 2005-10-31 03:30 am (UTC)(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2005-10-30 06:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-31 03:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-30 07:32 pm (UTC)everything was bally perfect. that about sums it up, really.
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Date: 2005-10-31 03:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-30 08:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-31 03:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-31 08:09 am (UTC)Jeeves, you must understand, does not wear his heart on his sleeve, but keeps it rolled up in a pair of socks in his bottom drawer somewhere.
He regained control of his wildly careening emotional state and resumed looking like a stuffed frog.
If he knew I was deeply dippy about him, he’d surely leave me faster than you can say ‘green carnations’.
Ooh, and I love Stiffy calling Bertie on all that canonical gaiety. *g* Please keep writing -- this is good stuff, man.
R.S.’s RIFLE: You’d better do as he says. He’s crazy.
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Date: 2005-10-31 08:10 am (UTC)(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2005-11-01 10:25 am (UTC)While I’d never thought of Jeeves as a ladies’ man, I knew then that I could say with complete confidence that he was a gentleman’s gentleman.
Very nice to wake up to - thank you!
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Date: 2005-11-10 06:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-01 09:02 pm (UTC)You rock.
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Date: 2005-11-10 06:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-02 12:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-10 06:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-02 09:34 pm (UTC)Jeeves, you must understand, does not wear his heart on his sleeve, but keeps it rolled up in a pair of socks in his bottom drawer somewhere.
He stared at me like a particularly brainy sheep unwilling to follow the beckoning fellow with the meat cleaver behind his back.
Jeeves appeared to have located his diaphragm and replaced it.
ah i want to continue really, but i'll just say the whole thing was brillient and the voices perfect. please write more!
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Date: 2005-11-10 06:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-05 09:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-10 07:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-08 10:24 am (UTC)::tears::
::ADORES::
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Date: 2005-11-10 07:01 pm (UTC)::thanks::
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Date: 2005-11-16 04:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-07 04:03 am (UTC)Hilarious! And the bit about the girl at her first ball was quite nice too.
The love story was expressed nicely through Bertie's mooning, and I liked the way you wrote someone being outed to himself.
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Date: 2007-07-09 12:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-09-06 09:36 pm (UTC)It looked like the sort of portrait one might use for a commemorative stamp in his honour.
LOL!
‘Oh, for God’s sake. Marriage to me, you ass!’
That's Stiffie to a T. And another LOL. :-D
But, really, I was only half-listening, because watching him step back into his perfectly-tailored clothing only made me want to take it off him again.
Mmmm. :-)
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Date: 2009-03-20 01:54 am (UTC)