[I would like to apologize in advance, as the sacred memory of P. J. Woodhouse - not to mention the average level of literary quality on planet Earth - was indeed severely injured in the creation of this fic. Really, my literary license ought to be revoked.]
“So sorry, Aunt Julia.” Bertie Wooster shifted nervously from hoof to hoof, nearly dropping the phone in his uneasy canter. “I mean, I’d truly love to spend three weeks in the no-doubt delightful bogs of Cors Fochno.”
The cascade of ha’s and sputter’s emerging at impressive volume from the phone speaker indicated – even to those at such distance to be deprived of the actual English verbiage, that the excuse was less than acceptable – and indeed was not being accepted.
“Never think that!” Bertie backed up instinctively, almost knocking over a Chinese oat-basin Jeeves had, for some artistic reason, set beside the chaise divan. “Miss Brumby sounds truly fascinating. I mean, who ever imagined young lady studying leaches.”
Actually, Bertie considered it likely that most young ladies of his multiple Aunt’s matrimonial productions had indeed studied leaches, or at least under leaches (ignoring the detail that leaches had no actual feet) given the way that they tended to cling to the Wooster corpus. Studied summa cum laude, given that Jeeves had generally required more than a fresh matchstick to… unmatch… the would-be brides.
“Yes, I’m sure she’s a filly of the first water.” Likely over her head, be it in debt or in domestic squabble, given the eagerness to hitch with Wooster in a paired harness.
“Yes, yes, I’m sure we’d have no end of things in common.” Four legs. A shared enjoyment of fresh oats. Breathing. In a word? All the things he likewise held in common with every centaur trotting the London streets – and not a straw more.
Unfortunately for sundry well curried fillies of his familial acquaintance, and consequentially for the Aunt’s matchmaking ambitions, Bertie had no desire to sign up for a double stall. A fine profile and a glossy tail might be decorative, and worthy of admiration in the general sense, but Bertie’s deeper affections were forever given to what one might call a horse of a different color. Indeed they were attached to one specific dream stallion, dark of mane and glossy of hoof and answering to the name of R. Jeeves – thoroughbred’s thoroughbred.
As the auntly demands cascaded from the speaker, Bertie caught himself chewing nervously on the phone cord. Shocking bad manners – not to mention the risk of just getting shocked. Best, he realized, to cut this short.
“Aunt Julia, while it breaks my heart to decline your company, it can not be. I’m already booked for the Continent, and you know that a Wooster never breaks his word.”
The realization was evidently one sided, as was the idea of obligation, and Bertie was forced to endure another ten minutes of telephonic condemnation before the line charges ramped up to a height even the plusher branch of the family would notice. Eventually, however, the forces of Auntly demand ran out of line time – if not out of lung.
Bertie hung up with a huff of prayer to whatever deity covered the ticketing of the Calais ferry, with a second petition that at least one first-class stall might still be available for the evening departure.
“Paris, sir?” Jeeves trotted in from the kitchen.
“Or a we could rent one of those antique barns on the Riviera, of you prefer.” A flick of tail accented Bertie’s indifference to destination. “Just make it Toot Sweet, as the French would say. You pack the tack while I call for tickets. Time to hoof it. I have a matchmaking Aunt hard on my tail.” Bertie looked back. “Best pack for the month. This latest mare sounded like a real dray.”
“A month?” Jeeves flicked one ear at Bertie’s humor. “Whatever shall we do to pass the time?”
“Nothing special.” Bertie flicked his hindquarters in Jeeves direction. “Just horse around.”
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2013-05-17 01:13 am (UTC)Or
Aunt Julia is a Nag.
[I would like to apologize in advance, as the sacred memory of P. J. Woodhouse - not to mention the average level of literary quality on planet Earth - was indeed severely injured in the creation of this fic. Really, my literary license ought to be revoked.]
“So sorry, Aunt Julia.” Bertie Wooster shifted nervously from hoof to hoof, nearly dropping the phone in his uneasy canter. “I mean, I’d truly love to spend three weeks in the no-doubt delightful bogs of Cors Fochno.”
The cascade of ha’s and sputter’s emerging at impressive volume from the phone speaker indicated – even to those at such distance to be deprived of the actual English verbiage, that the excuse was less than acceptable – and indeed was not being accepted.
“Never think that!” Bertie backed up instinctively, almost knocking over a Chinese oat-basin Jeeves had, for some artistic reason, set beside the chaise divan. “Miss Brumby sounds truly fascinating. I mean, who ever imagined young lady studying leaches.”
Actually, Bertie considered it likely that most young ladies of his multiple Aunt’s matrimonial productions had indeed studied leaches, or at least under leaches (ignoring the detail that leaches had no actual feet) given the way that they tended to cling to the Wooster corpus. Studied summa cum laude, given that Jeeves had generally required more than a fresh matchstick to… unmatch… the would-be brides.
“Yes, I’m sure she’s a filly of the first water.” Likely over her head, be it in debt or in domestic squabble, given the eagerness to hitch with Wooster in a paired harness.
“Yes, yes, I’m sure we’d have no end of things in common.” Four legs. A shared enjoyment of fresh oats. Breathing. In a word? All the things he likewise held in common with every centaur trotting the London streets – and not a straw more.
Unfortunately for sundry well curried fillies of his familial acquaintance, and consequentially for the Aunt’s matchmaking ambitions, Bertie had no desire to sign up for a double stall. A fine profile and a glossy tail might be decorative, and worthy of admiration in the general sense, but Bertie’s deeper affections were forever given to what one might call a horse of a different color. Indeed they were attached to one specific dream stallion, dark of mane and glossy of hoof and answering to the name of R. Jeeves – thoroughbred’s thoroughbred.
As the auntly demands cascaded from the speaker, Bertie caught himself chewing nervously on the phone cord. Shocking bad manners – not to mention the risk of just getting shocked. Best, he realized, to cut this short.
“Aunt Julia, while it breaks my heart to decline your company, it can not be. I’m already booked for the Continent, and you know that a Wooster never breaks his word.”
The realization was evidently one sided, as was the idea of obligation, and Bertie was forced to endure another ten minutes of telephonic condemnation before the line charges ramped up to a height even the plusher branch of the family would notice. Eventually, however, the forces of Auntly demand ran out of line time – if not out of lung.
Bertie hung up with a huff of prayer to whatever deity covered the ticketing of the Calais ferry, with a second petition that at least one first-class stall might still be available for the evening departure.
“Paris, sir?” Jeeves trotted in from the kitchen.
“Or a we could rent one of those antique barns on the Riviera, of you prefer.” A flick of tail accented Bertie’s indifference to destination. “Just make it Toot Sweet, as the French would say. You pack the tack while I call for tickets. Time to hoof it. I have a matchmaking Aunt hard on my tail.” Bertie looked back. “Best pack for the month. This latest mare sounded like a real dray.”
“A month?” Jeeves flicked one ear at Bertie’s humor. “Whatever shall we do to pass the time?”
“Nothing special.” Bertie flicked his hindquarters in Jeeves direction. “Just horse around.”