indeedsir_backup | A Deuced Difficult Dilemma, ch. 10!

Title: A Deuced Difficult Dilemma
Chapter: 10/?
Pairing: Bertie/OFC, Bertie/Jeeves
Summary: Bertie is dismayed to find that he rather likes the latest girl that Aunt Agatha is egging him on to marry.
Rating: G (so far)
Words: 1,183
Disclaimer: None of Wodehouse's characters belong to me. I'm just writing this for fun.

Here's a little more! The whole story so far is posted over on AO3 as well. Sorry if it isn't my most sparkling prose. I've been pretty overwhelmed of late, but I had to get some of this out of my system.

The door thumped shut with an ominous finality, and I hunkered deeper amongst the dust balls. As far as Bertram was concerned, the last trump had sounded and the four horsemen were rolling up their sleeves and preparing to smack into it with all the vigour at their disposal. I could see no hope.

I was so immersed in these dire contemplations that I nearly forgot that two other members of the party were still in the presence. So when Aunt Dahlia piped up in a voice that caused the very foundations of Brinkley Manor to quiver, I nearly brained myself on the underside of the bed.

“Well, Jeeves, you old scalawag,” said the relative, “I’m sure there really must be a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this, but hanged if I know what it might be. Enlighten a poor confused old woman, will you?”

“It is . . . a long story, madam,” said Jeeves, and I sensed a certain whatsit in his voice. I mean to say, it wouldn’t be obvious to the untrained ear, but it was clear to me that the man was deeply stirred.

“I have nothing but time, Jeeves. It seems that dinner is a non-starter. Tom’s digestion is probably ruined for the next two months. Anatole has undoubtedly sunk into a deep depression, knowing that his latest masterpiece has been cruelly banished to the larder. And I will never hear the end of all this from Agatha. So what more do I have to lose? At least entertain your beleaguered hostess, who has nothing else to look forward to in this life.”

“Perhaps another time, madam.”

“Oh, all right, Jeeves. Have it your way. But can you at least tell me where that ridiculous master of yours has gotten off to? He’s not going to come bursting out of that bathroom in the nude as well, is he? I don’t think my nerves could take the strain.”

“Mr. Wooster is—“

“Here, Aunt Dahlia,” I said miserably, poking the bean out from under the bedstead.

The aged relative gazed at me with a sort of pained, quiet dignity. “I should probably be surprised,” she said, “but I just don’t have it in me anymore. I don’t suppose you would care to explain any of this?”

I glanced at Jeeves, who fixed me with what I believe the nibs call a gimlet eye. I laid my cheek on the carpet wearily. The port seemed to have suddenly set in with unusual severity. “To be honest, auntie, I think I’d rather sleep. No, don’t bother to try and move me, Jeeves. Right here should do the job nicely.”

The aunt rolled her eyes heavenward. “Well, I can see that mine is a hopeless cause. Jeeves, take one of his arms, and I’ll take the other – there’s a good man. If you two asses ever decide to avail yourselves of my help, you’ll know where to find me, though goodness knows I ought to spare myself the pain. I’m not getting any younger, you know.”

Her monologue may have continued beyond this point, but that was the last I managed to absorb. The upshot is that somehow I was transferred from the ventral portion of the bed to the dorsal, at which point I drifted into merciful oblivion.

---

I woke to a brutal assault of sunbeams. I was just pulling the coverlet over the throbbing lemon when I discerned that it – the coverlet, I mean, not the coconut – was pinned to the bed by some foreign object. I heaved open an eyelid, and perceived that the f. o. in question was Jeeves, seated on the edge of the bed in the vicinity of my legs.

“Jeeves!” I croaked, rubbing away the fog of sleep. “Last night . . . did I tell you . . . did we . . .”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I wasn’t imagining . . .”

“No, sir.”

We looked at each other with what I suppose was a wild surmise on my side, and merely quiet contemplation on Jeeves’. “You really did . . . kiss me?” I pressed on, a shade timidly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh. Oh, Jeeves . . .”

“If you will recall, sir, I also became betrothed. To the young lady.”

I groaned, one of those hollow ones. It occurred to me that I was well exceeding the adult recommended dosage of groaning and brow clutching on this particular sojourn chez Travers. “Oh, Jeeves,” I said again. “You mean I wasn’t imagining that either?”

“I fear not, sir.”

“And you haven’t figured out a way to oil out yet?”

“I am giving the matter my utmost attention, sir. But I fear that nothing suggests itself yet.”

“Hecken still plans to cooperate in this foul business?”

“So it would seem, sir.”

“I am surprised, Jeeves. Surprised and shocked. I gave her more credit.”

“You are failing to take into account the psychology of the individual, sir. Miss Fernsby fears her own mother even more than she fears Mrs. Gregson. Outside the sphere of Mrs. Fernsby’s influence, the young lady puts on a show of defiance. However, when confronted directly . . .”

I sucked in some air through the teeth. “I see, Jeeves. I suppose she is more to be pitied than censured. I admit there have been times when Aunt Agatha has had more or less the same effect on me.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Have you had a chance to speak to her?”

“Not at any great length, sir.”

I rubbed a brow that was in dire need of a ministering angel and cast an eye about in search of tea. Before I could say a word, Jeeves produced a cup of the restorative as if from thin air. I heaved a grateful s. and shoved a draught of the elixir over the larynx. I decided it was time for another round of Oh Jeevesing.

“Oh, Jeeves,” I sighed, “you are without equal.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You know, we really should do something about all this Jeevesing and sirring. Under the circs, it hardly seems . . .”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you know what I mean, er, Reginald.”

“Indeed, sir. Guv’nor. Mr. Wooster.”

I gave him a look and set my cup aside. “Well, I suppose we can consider it a work in progress for now. In the meantime, we must turn our attention to this business of your engagement.”

“Yes, s—yes.”

“Right ho, Reg.”

“Very good . . . Bertie.”

I gulped two or three times. I’ve always been reasonably fond of the old appellation, but I had never realized it could sound quite so corking. I clutched my man’s hand and pressed it to the lips, overcome. The words “I love you” were just starting to tremulously assemble themselves and were drifting around in the epiglottal region when Jeeves bunged a particularly ripe spanner into the works.

“Sir . . . Bertie,” he said, in an uncharacteristically halting sort of way, “I feel I must tell you that . . . that I have informed Mrs. Travers of the entire situation.”