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indeedsir_backupTitle: Jeeves and the Principle of Cause and Effect
Author: Blackletter
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Aunt Agatha discovers the unusually close relationship between Bertie and Jeeves. There are consequences. (Despite the angst potential of the premise, this is ultimately a light-hearted fic. The Bertie-voice simply couldn’t do angst.) Jooster.
Word Count: ~5500
Disclaimer:My thanks to Wodehouse for creating these characters. He’d probably be aghast if he knew what I was doing to them.
Notes: Dedicated to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mxdp who said “...Come to think of it, why don't they ever get caught? I mean, with consequences?” I swore up and down that I wasn’t going to write Jooster fic, and then you went and said that and gave me ideas that wouldn’t go away. This is all your fault. Also thanks go out to bernie_laraemie, my beta-reader, without whom Bertie would not quite sound like himself. Any remaining flaws are, of course, my own fault.
More Notes: I can’t do anything without doing compulsive research. This story is no different. After doing compulsive research, I ignored half of what I discovered in favor of making the story do what I want. One source, though, I thought might be of interest to others here. A History of Homosexuality in Europe: Berlin, London, Paris 1919-1939
Jeeves and the Principle of Cause and Effect
Dr. Quiller was a small man with receding hair and great bushy eyebrows that formed one unbroken line as if the hair that should have been on his crown had slipped down and lazily settled over his eyes. He sat down on the settee and whipped out a tiny notebook, peering at me from over his wire-rimmed spectacles.
Sorry, you’re probably wondering why I, Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, although in the best of health, was receiving house calls from a doctor. Well, it’s not a pretty story, but I’ll tell you all the same.
It was the worst case of ill luck that caused the door to rebound against the frame rather than close properly as a good door should. And further bad luck that Jeeves and I were too distracted to pay any attention to the crack of the open door. But Lady Fortuna must have been in a bally rotten mood that afternoon because after these two coinciding instances of misfortune, I suffered a triple strike of bad luck in the form of Aunt Agatha coming to that self same not-quite-closed door whilst Jeeves and I were engaged in said distraction.
Aunt Agatha’s cry of horror sent me out of Jeeves’s arms and leaping half way across the room in a jump that would impress an Olympic medalist. She entered quickly and slammed the door behind her. I noted that this time the blasted door did its job and sealed shut. Aunt Agatha drew herself up, and as she seemed to gain in height, I seemed to wither and shrink. I was keenly aware of my reddened lips and my loosened neck-tie and knew that this was a dashed rummy situation to be in. For a painfully long time, nobody spoke.
“I think Jeeves should leave the room,” she said, her voice colder than an icebox in January.
Jeeves stood straight and firm as an oak and did not move or even flinch under Aunt Agatha’s fierce glare. I’m ashamed to say I was less bold, and quailed before her in a way most unbecoming in a Wooster, a disgrace to that courageous ancestor who fought at Agincourt.
“I think you’d better go, Jeeves,” said I.
I don’t know if I imagined hesitation on his part. All he said was, “Very good, sir,” in that placid voice of his. But his eyes were hard as he retreated to his room.
As soon as Jeeves was gone, Aunt Agatha advanced. I was instantly regretful that I had sent Jeeves away, for now there was no one to support me against my aunt’s furious assault.
“How dare you!” she snarled. “Have you no respect for the family name? No concern for your own reputation?”
“Well, I—”
“Be quiet, Bertie, I’m not even close to finished speaking yet.” She stepped towards me with the firm and measured tread of a practiced executioner. “You’ve always been a disappointment, but this is beyond the pale. I would be well within my rights to call the police right now and have you both arrested for indecency.”
I could hardly believe it, my own kith and kin sending me to the hoosegow. “But—”
“I said quiet, Bertie, and I mean it. I’m not going to call the police. The family name still means something to me, even if it clearly does not to you. But you are going to do exactly as I say, do you understand.”
“Yes, Aunt.”
“This is what you are going to do. First, you will dismiss Jeeves.”
Now that was going too far. “But Aunt Agatha, I couldn’t possibly—”
“You will dismiss Jeeves,” she repeated, unrelenting.
Well, if you knew my Aunt Agatha, you’d know that there’s no escaping her orders once she’s given them. Her voice held more force of command than a colonel commandant’s, and I had no doubt that this aunt of mine, who snacked on broken bottles for tea, could make life harsh if she were thwarted. So for my safety and Jeeves’s, I held my tongue.
“Second, I will find a doctor for you, someone discreet, who specializes in mental disturbances. You will cooperate with this doctor in every way. And last, you will marry, as soon as possible. If rumor of this gets out, a nice, respectable marriage might be the only thing that can put such gossip to rest.”
“Marry?” My face twisted in disgust. Then I hit upon an objection that even Aunt Agatha couldn’t ignore. “I can’t get married now. I’m not even engaged to anyone.” Remarkable, you might say, but it was true. Jeeves had managed to keep me in a happily un-affianced state for these last five months.
“I’ll see to that, Bertie. I have just the girl in mind. Miss Gertrude Williams. She’s got a good, no-nonsense attitude and a firm disposition; I’m sure she’ll be able to keep you in line.”
“But—”
“I’ll come back tomorrow with arrangements for the doctor. I expect Jeeves to be gone by then.”
“But—”
“You’ll have to meet the girl to whom you’re getting engaged, as well. Next Monday, I think. Make sure you keep your schedule empty.”
“But—”
“Do stop complaining, Bertie. It’s for your own good.” And with that final word, she swept out.
“But—” I whimpered to the empty space.
Jeeves shimmered into the room. It hurt the Wooster heart to see him looking normal, so properly in place in my domicile. Imagining my rooms without Jeeves was like imagining them without furniture—empty and unlived in.
“Well,” I said, then paused, my mouth hanging open like a fool. I didn’t know how to explain that he’d have to leave. “Well,” I said again. It filled up the awkward silence. “Well.”
Jeeves, wonderful fellow that he is, didn’t leave me on the spot, wondering what to say. He fixed me a whiskey and soda, light on the s. Just holding the drink settled my nerves a bit. I tried again to speak.
“Well…” My throat was tight. I coughed lightly.
“I know, sir.”
“You do? I always suspected that you were omn…omnipresent? Is that the word? Omnipotent? Omniscient? Well, one of those special qualities that’s oft attributed to the Lord. The one that means that you always know everything.”
“I overheard the conversation, sir.”
“I’m sorry, Jeeves. I’ll write you a good reference, not that you’ll need it. Every chap far and wide knows what an amazing valet you are, and I’ve no doubt someone will snatch you up for employment before the ink on the reference has time to dry.”
“Then you wish to acquiesce to Lady Worplesdon’s demands.”
“I don’t wish to Jeeves. I have to. What other choice do I have?”
“You could tell her ‘no’, sir.”
“You don’t know my Aunt Agatha. Well, you do know her, obviously. I mean, you’ve met her. But…dash it all, Jeeves, one can’t disobey a direct command from her. One just can’t.”
Jeeves hesitated. It was a mere fraction of a second, and I suspect no one but I could have noticed it, but where Jeeves is concerned, a fraction of a second might as well be a lapse of hours. “Very good, sir.”
“No, it’s not ‘very good, sir,’ and don’t say ‘very good, sir’ in that tone of voice, which makes it quite clear that you don’t think it’s ‘good’ at all, much less with a ‘very’ sitting in front of it. It’s horrible. Absolutely rotten. But Aunt Agatha is coming back tomorrow, and if you’re still here I don’t know what she’ll do. Something terrible, I’ll bet. No, the only thing for it is to do what she says.”
I tossed back the whiskey and s. “I’m sorry, Jeeves.”
And so that’s how I came to be in this awful, unhappy, Jeeves-less posish. Anyway, back to the doctor. This was his first visit to the Wooster home and I was all nerves.
“Tell me, Mr. Wooster,” he said to me, “was your mother a domineering woman?”
It seemed a strange way to open a conversation, and I was taken aback. Not that I knew what to expect, this being my first time being interviewed by a loony doctor, but in my mind I’d imaged some old bean who looked like Sir Roderick Glossop querying me on how many cats I owned and waiting for me to start cheeping like a parakeet or some such nonsense. This bit about my mother knocked me back like an innocent country heifer who’d unknowingly wandered onto the train tracks and was now wondering what that monstrously noisy thing was that was approaching so quickly. “My mother?” I blinked in befuddlement. Dr. Quiller frowned and scribbled something down in his little notebook.
“Yes, your mother. Was she a domineering woman?”
“No, not that I recall. She died when I was still a young sproutling, so I can’t tell you much. I do remember that she was dashed insistent that I wash behind the ears when I bathed and didn’t eat with my fingers and all that. But as best I can tell, that’s fairly typical of those of the motherly occupation. Hard to tell, of course, given that I only ever had one mother and so can’t rightly compare. She didn’t yell when I—completely unintentionally, I assure you—broke three crystal champagne flutes. And that’s far more indulgence than many mothers would have, I think.”
“Hmmm. And what about your father?”
“What about him?”
“What was he like?”
I really didn’t see what any of this had to do with my supposed mental illness, but it wasn’t often that I got to talk about my parents. No one much asked, and it wasn’t the sort of thing a cove could just spring into a conversation. And so I answered without hesitation. “He died a few years before my mother did, so I never rightly knew him. I have vague memories of a fellow who must have been my father—he matches the pictures I’ve seen—sitting by the fire and playing nursery tunes on the violin. Aunt Dahlia says that Wooster père was as jolly and good-hearted a bird as ever there was. I don’t remember, so I have to take her word on it.”
“Who raised you, then?”
“Oh, I was passed back and forth between Aunt Dahlia and Aunt Agatha. Ha! If you’re looking for domineering, you needn’t look further than old Aunt Agatha.”
“Hmmm. Indeed.” He scratched some more notes in his notebook. For half an hour more, he continued questioning me in this manner, asking me all about my childhood, my schoolyard exploits, and my relationship with Aunt Agatha and Aunt Dahlia. Much to my surprise, he didn’t say a word about Jeeves or my many successful attempts to avoid marriage.
At last, he snapped his notebook shut and tucked it away in his pocket. Steepling his fingers together, he raised his chin in the manner of a man about to give a grand pronouncement. Thus, I sat up straighter and prepared to pay special attendance to his words. After telling him all about what seemed to me a perfectly normal sort of childhood, I fully expected him to declare me as sane as Sophocles…or was it some other Greek chap? So I was very much taken aback, not to mention astonished, astounded, aghast and probably a few other things that begin with ‘a’ when he said something quite to the contrary.
“Well, Mr. Wooster, it’s clear to me that your mental perversion is the result of a lack of a strong, masculine figure in your early life. Lacking such a role model to instill a proper core of male virtue in your psyche, you seek it out in others. Your desire for the company of men is your mind’s subconscious attempt to fill the hole that your fatherless upbringing left in your soul. I think that with a course of aversion therapy and hypnosis to set your mind back on the right path, I can cure you completely.”
“Oh,” I replied, dumbly, not really sure I wanted to be cured. After all, if I were cured, then that might mean that I wouldn’t feel the same tenderness toward Jeeves anymore. “I say, if I’m cured, does that mean I’ll no longer feel tenderness toward my man Jeeves?”
“Mr. Wooster, when I cure you, you’ll never look at another man with desire again. Before you know it, you’ll be walking down the aisle with a fine young lady and raising children like a good English gentleman.”
Well, I didn’t much like that sound of that. I wanted to want Jeeves. I liked wanting Jeeves. I certainly didn’t want to walk down the aisle with any young lady, fine or otherwise. But I could see no way out of it. If I didn’t cooperate with Dr. Quiller, Aunt Agatha would surely hear of it.
It was quickly decided that for the first two weeks I was going to be in intensive therapy. Aunt Agatha believed that there was no time to lose. My mornings were to be spent with Dr. Quiller at his practice, afternoons with Aunt Agatha planning my wedding to the daunting Miss Gertrude Williams, and evenings again with Dr. Quiller, who would come by the Wooster lodging and practice hypnosis on the Wooster brain.
That first morning of therapy, I woke up at the unreasonably early hour of nine o’clock. There was no Jeeves to bring me tea, nor to lay out my clothes for me. I wanted to bury my head under the bedclothes and close my eyes. I half thought, like a child, that if I couldn’t see this Jeeves-less world, then it wouldn’t really exist. It was only the thought of Aunt Agatha’s sure retribution that got me out of bed that morning.
Dr. Quiller’s practice was in an old house in Kensington. The chairs in the waiting room felt like they’d been designed for torture rather than sitting and I was quite eager to get the whole business over with. So when Dr. Quiller came out to call me back into his office, I went with alacrity…if that’s the word I want...yes, alacrity.
The doctor told me to remove my coat and directed me to a chair, one that was fortunately of better comfort than those employed in the waiting room. He had a monstrous contraption all set up upon his desk. I thought it looked a bit like a radio box, except for the wires trailing from it like so many octopus tentacles. These he attached to my person, all along my right arm.
Last, Dr. Quiller took a pile of photographs from his desk drawer and handed me one. It showed a handsome man in a striped swimming suit standing on the beach. “Now, do you find that man attractive?” he asked, his finger brushing a switch on the radio-like box.
I peered at the photograph. The man was broad shouldered and deep chested, his dark hair twisting in the wind. He looked a little bit like Jeeves. Not as handsome as Jeeves, of course, but few mortals could hope to achieve Jeevesian perfection. “He’s…attractive, I suppose.” I ventured.
Dr. Quiller flicked the switch. My arm spasmed and convulsed and a shrill yelp burst from my mouth at the unexpectedness of it all. It lasted only a few seconds, if that, but it was a memorable experience all the same.
“What was that for?” I wailed. My whole right side tingled and felt like it had been beaten with sticks.
“It’s all part of the therapy, Mr. Wooster.”
“It bally well hurts!”
“It’s supposed to hurt. If you experience pain every time you find a man attractive, your mind will, to escape the pain, cease to find men attractive.”
“You mean, like that Pavlovian thingummy Jeeves mentioned once, only in reverse?”
“Conditioned response, yes.” He snatched the picture away and replaced it with a new one. The fellow in this photograph looked like some sort of circus acrobat. He was dressed in tights and his bare chest was well muscled.
“Mr. Wooster, do you find this man attractive?”
I looked again at the picture, as if studying it carefully. In truth, I was trying to decide what to do. I knew that if I answered ‘yes’ I was in for another one of those dashed unpleasant shocks.
“No.”
“No?”
“Not my type. I prefer dark hair.”
“I see.” Dr. Quiller frowned and shuffled through his stack of photographs, removing many from the pile. At last, he passed a new photograph to me, this one was of a dark haired man, fit and youthful and sitting in what appeared to be a Turkish bath, wearing nothing but a white towel draped haphazardly over his lap in a lackadaisical attempt at modesty. “Do you find this man attractive?”
“No,” I answered promptly.
“He has dark hair.”
“Indeed he does.”
“He’s young and lithesome,” Dr. Quiller pointed out.
“Yes, very lithesome, I should imagine.”
“He has a strapping physique.”
Dr. Quiller was starting to sound more interested in the photograph than I was. “Well, Doctor, it sounds like you find him attractive, but I assure you, I do not.”
“Mr. Wooster! Don’t be ridiculous. And stop deflecting. You truly don’t find this man attractive?”
“Not at all. He’s too...” I stared at the photograph, searching for inspiration. The man was sleek and firm and pale as a marble statue and in every way a fine example of the male form. I thought of Jeeves, then, and the man in the photograph dimmed in comparison. “He’s too...short.”
“Too short.”
“That’s right.”
“It’s a photograph! How can he be too short?”
“He just has this shortish sort of look about him.” I shrugged. Then a light came on in the old Wooster noggin. I knew how to put a stop to this treatment. “Or, wait, maybe your therapy worked! That shock you gave me. You’ve cured me! I don’t find any of the men in these photographs attractive anymore.”
Dr. Quiller gave me a flat look. “I don’t think you’re being forthright with me, Mr. Wooster.”
“What? Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Aversion therapy takes time. It doesn’t cure someone after one shock. If you aren’t going to cooperate properly, then you’re just wasting my time. I’ll inform Lady Worplesdon that our sessions are at an end until you’re willing to put in some real effort towards your cure.”
At the mention of Aunt Agatha, I panicked. “No no no, no need to tell Aunt Agatha. I’ll cooperate.” To show my obedience, I picked up the photograph again and looked at it. The man in the picture may not have held a candle to Jeeves, but he was still quite handsome. “Yes, I find him attractive.”
Dr. Quiller’s hand reached for the switch.
* * *
After each session with Dr. Quiller, I was left utterly sore and exhausted. It was exactly one week after I’d begun the therapy when I staggered into my rooms and was met by Jeeves standing by the door, taking my hat and coat. I wondered if I’d passed out and was dreaming. If so, I decided that I’d rather not wake up.
“Jeeves?” I reached out and patted his reassuringly solid arm. “Jeeves!” I clasped him by the shoulders and pressed my body against his in a thankful embrace. “Good Lord, is it wonderful to see you!”
“And I you, sir.”
I drew away—just a bit, mind—enough so that I could gaze at Jeeves’s marvelous features. “You shouldn’t have come, though,” I said with a frown. “Aunt Agatha could arrive at any minute.” Still, I didn’t let him go. If anything I held on even tighter at the thought of him leaving.
My hand slid up his shoulder to curl around the back of his neck; my thumb lightly stroked the dip just under the curve of his head. I leaned against him—I knew from experience that Jeeves could easily support my weight. Jeeves’s left hand smoothed down the back of my waistcoat, his right rested on my hip.
The smell of wool and Jeeves’s particular brand of pomade was perfume to my nose and I tipped my face closer to take in the scent. Jeeves tilted his head in accordance, and at last, after a week apart, our interrupted kiss was completed. My lips, chilled from the wind outside, warmed under his. I opened my mouth at his wordless urging, and before long, more than my lips were starting to warm up, if you get my meaning. But then Jeeves’s lips left mine, and I sighed, keeping us together a few seconds longer with the invisible thread of shared breath.
“Lady Worplesdon, sir,” Jeeves muttered. And if that didn’t kill the mood faster than a gangster with a grudge I don’t know what would. “She’ll be here soon. We don’t have much time.”
Jeeves stepped away, straightening his neck-tie and becoming once again the very image of a perfect, proper valet. He shimmered across the room as cool as ever and gestured towards a folder stuffed full with paper that was resting on the settee. I could swear that it hadn’t been there when I left this morning. Jeeves must have brought it, but it was unlike him to leave things lying about on the furniture. “If I may direct your attention to these papers, sir.”
“What are they, Jeeves?”
“All part of my plan, sir. Now, when Lady Worplesdon comes, make sure you tell her that the papers were left behind by Dr. Quiller. Then, endeavor to take yourself out of the room for a time and leave her alone with them.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes, sir. Good day, sir.” Jeeves tipped his hat and backed towards the door.
“Wait! Can’t you explain?”
“No time, I’m afraid, sir. I must be gone before Lady Worplesdon arrives, or the whole plan will likely fall apart.” His expression softened, just a touch, in the face of my utter bafflement. “Do as I say, and I’m sure you’ll be pleased with the results. If all goes as planned, you can find me at Chequers for dinner. And now, sir, I really must go.”
And off he took himself, and not a moment too soon, since a mere five minutes later, Aunt Agatha came calling for her daily, self-appointed duties in Wooster Management. I ventured to put Jeeves’s plan into action immediately.
“What ho, what ho!” I took Aunt Agatha by the elbow and led her towards the settee, with perhaps excessive enthusiasm. I had no doubt that whatever Jeeves had in mind, it would work perfectly, and I was eager to see it done.
“Bertie! What are you doing?” Aunt Agatha slapped my hand away from her elbow. “Stop dragging me about.”
Fortunately, I’d already got her across the room. “Long day, what? You must be exhausted, aged Aunt. Sit yourself down and put up your feet. Right there.” I waved towards the settee. “On the settee.” Pretending to spot the papers for the first time, I gasped. “Good heavens! Papers. Dr. Quiller must have left those here last night. I’d better make sure he gets them tonight when he makes his house call. Tea?”
I whirled and tripped my way to the kitchen, ignoring Aunt Agatha’s cry of, “Come back here, you lunatic, and stop acting like the frenetic nitwit you undoubtedly are.” The kitchen door cut off whatever else she was going to say, which is just as well, since I’m sure it was unflattering to the Wooster self whatever it was. I put the kettle on the stove. Then remembered to fill the kettle with water first, then put it back on the stove.
As I searched for the tea, I realized that Jeeves never told me how long I was supposed to leave Aunt Agatha alone with the papers. Then, while I was peering into the oven, there was a great cry, which emanated from the sitting room.
“That fraud!”
I tentatively poked my head out the kitchen door to see what was going on. Aunt Agatha was in a towering rage; I half expected her to start ripping apart the furniture with her teeth.
“That ridiculous quack!”
I began to slip back into the kitchen. Aunt Agatha in a towering rage was not something one wanted to get in the middle of. But before I could close the door, Aunt Agatha, like an eagle catching sight of a rabbit dashing for his rabbitty hole, spotted me.
“Bertie! Get in here at once, at once, I say!”
I slinked into the sitting room. “Yes, Aunt Agatha?”
“Do you know what this says?” She shook the papers so violently I thought that they were going to tear.
I shook my head. “No, not at all.” Although now I was dashed curious what could be in them to make Aunt Agatha react so.
“That Quiller man thinks...oh never mind what he thinks. The man’s clearly an incompetent. You’re to stop seeing him at once. Now get me my coat.”
I leapt to obey, saying, “But what about his papers? And this evening’s house call?”
“I will deliver his papers to him. And at the same time I will tell him that there are to be no more house calls, nor will we be requiring any of his services in the future.”
“Whatever you say, Aunt Agatha,” I replied as I helped her shrug into her coat. I feared that my glee at winning a reprieve from the horrid Dr. Quiller and his horrid electric box therapy shone on my features. But fortunately, Aunt Agatha was in too much of a state to notice the wide grin breaking across my face. Whatever it was that Jeeves had done, it worked like a charm, as Jeeves’s plans always do.
Once she was safely gone, I allowed myself a jaunty little whistle. Then, remembering Jeeves’s final instructions, I snatched up my hat and coat and wandered off to Chequers with a new spring in my step.
Jeeves was there, as promised, sitting at a table in the corner and sipping a glass of wine, a bottle and an empty wineglass waiting by the other chair. I rushed across the room and claimed the seat across from him. Jeeves silently took the wine bottle and filled the empty glass.
“How the devil did you do it, Jeeves?” I blurted.
“As Dr. Quiller had never before seen my face, it was simple to gain entrance to his office by posing as a patient. In this manner, I got the ‘lay of the land’ so to speak. Next time I visited his practice, I paid a young man three shillings to simulate an epileptic seizure in the waiting room, to draw Dr. Quiller out of his office. Dr. Quiller keeps a very elegant and tidy filing system, and it was a matter of mere moments to find ‘Wooster, B. W.’
“I suspected that the file would come in useful in forming a plan, and in any case, I wanted to know what sort of ‘treatments’ Dr. Quiller was exposing you to.” Jeeves’s voice grew cold at that last bit. “Once I read the file in full, it was obvious what my course of action should be.”
“But what was it? What did the file say?”
“Dr. Quiller revealed in his notes that he believed that your predilections were the result of Lady Worplesdon’s rearing techniques.”
“You mean...Aunt Agatha made me fancy you? What utter rot!”
“Indeed, sir.”
“If she made me fancy you, then why would she always be trying to make me get rid of you. No, even I can see that the logic does not follow.”
“...Indeed, sir.”
“That Dr. Quiller’s a real loony for sure.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I can’t say I approve of his treatments, either.”
“In that, we are in wholehearted agreement, sir.”
The waitress came and we abandoned our talk of loony doctors and dictatorial aunts to have a pleasant meal. We walked home afterwards, and it was a true pleasure—greater than any that chap Croesus had ever had—to know that Jeeves was once more walking at my side. Still, I couldn’t help but spend the walk thinking, and by the time we arrived at my door I’d come to the conclusion that, satisfactory as things were at this particular moment, it was unlikely that this bliss could last. I shared my fears with Jeeves while he took my hat and coat.
“Well, I am grateful that I won’t have to endure any more visits to Dr. Quiller, with his photographs and his electrodes—don’t think that I’m not grateful—but Aunt Agatha’s not going to just give up. She’s probably looking for a new doctor even as we stand here wagging our tongues.”
“I suggest that a trip to the continent might be in order, sir. Paris is lovely this time of year.”
“Well, yes, we could go to Paris, except for the fact that I’m engaged. I can’t break a contract, no matter how unwillingly made, you know that.”
“Leave that to me, sir. I guarantee that your engagement will be at an end by tomorrow morning.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Jeeves.” I laid one hand over his chest, right where the lapel of his coat touched his waistcoat. He in turn stepped close and brushed his knuckles down my neck-tie, drawing it out from where it was tucked. Recalling the last time I was in this posish, I glanced nervously at the door. It was firmly and thoroughly closed. Jeeves, seeming to read my mind, shimmered over and made sure that it was locked and bolted as well.
The details of what happened then, I’ll leave to your imagination. But suffice it to say that Jeeves was a man of his word and my engagement to Miss Williams was severed just in time for us to leave London and catch the ferry across the channel. Aunt Agatha could never again demand that Jeeves leave my service since, technically, Jeeves was no longer in my service. That is to say, my money still covered his needs, and he still brought me tea in the morning, but there was no more talk of resignations or references or wages and he was no longer obliged to call me “sir”. Although Jeeves bristled when the American chap we met at that cabaret on Boulevard de Clichy called me Jeeves’s “sugar-daddy,” for the most part the arrangement suited us both nicely.
When, after a few months in Paris, we at last returned home, Aunt Agatha immediately descended upon the Wooster domicile with reproaches and demands.
“I’m surprised you had the nerve to come back after you ran off like the coward you’ve always been. Your ancestors would be ashamed. The Wooster line...disgraced. It would have been better if you’d never returned, but simply vanished from memory, remained in exile.” She barely stopped for breath, and I wondered if she’d practiced for this, like an opera diva preparing an aria. Without pause, she moved from one cadenza to the next. “If you’re going to live in this country, I am going to personally see to it that you do not dishonor your family name. Jeeves is to be turned out from your company at once, and if I see him here again I will have him arrested for trespassing. Miss Gertrude Williams is still available and I believe I can convince her to take you back, not that you deserve her forgiveness.”
But I’d not been spending those months merely playing about and seeing the sights. Oh no. Jeeves had been coaching me, grooming me for this very moment. And so I said, “Aunt Agatha...”
“Don’t you dare try to argue with me, you vile young man.”
I quailed for a moment when confronted with Aunt Agatha’s scowling visage, her frown drawing her wrinkled and lined face down like a melting wax bust and her eyes burning. I looked to Jeeves for salvation, but he did not step in to save me from an aunt’s fury. Instead, he nodded at me in encouragement and looked at me with such expectation that I couldn’t bear to let him down. Heartened, I began again. “Aunt Agatha, I know that blood is thicker than water, always respect your elders, honor your father and mother and aunts, and all that. But go boil your head. I’m a grown man and I’ll do whatever I damned well like.”
Aunt Agatha’s jaw dropped and her eyes bulged, bringing to mind the image of a bullfrog catching flies. “Bertram Wooster, you—”
“Don’t interrupt me, Aunt Agatha, I’m not done talking yet. You have bullied me my entire life and I have had enough of it. I will not marry Miss Gertrude Williams and I will not dismiss Jeeves. I will be making my own decisions from now on, and I have decided that Jeeves may stay; you may go. Or I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”
Jeeves settled Aunt Agatha’s wrap about her shoulders and ushered her out the door before she had a chance to lose her bullfrog impression. And that was the end of it.
Author: Blackletter
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Aunt Agatha discovers the unusually close relationship between Bertie and Jeeves. There are consequences. (Despite the angst potential of the premise, this is ultimately a light-hearted fic. The Bertie-voice simply couldn’t do angst.) Jooster.
Word Count: ~5500
Disclaimer:My thanks to Wodehouse for creating these characters. He’d probably be aghast if he knew what I was doing to them.
Notes: Dedicated to
mxdp who said “...Come to think of it, why don't they ever get caught? I mean, with consequences?” I swore up and down that I wasn’t going to write Jooster fic, and then you went and said that and gave me ideas that wouldn’t go away. This is all your fault. Also thanks go out to bernie_laraemie, my beta-reader, without whom Bertie would not quite sound like himself. Any remaining flaws are, of course, my own fault.More Notes: I can’t do anything without doing compulsive research. This story is no different. After doing compulsive research, I ignored half of what I discovered in favor of making the story do what I want. One source, though, I thought might be of interest to others here. A History of Homosexuality in Europe: Berlin, London, Paris 1919-1939
Jeeves and the Principle of Cause and Effect
Dr. Quiller was a small man with receding hair and great bushy eyebrows that formed one unbroken line as if the hair that should have been on his crown had slipped down and lazily settled over his eyes. He sat down on the settee and whipped out a tiny notebook, peering at me from over his wire-rimmed spectacles.
Sorry, you’re probably wondering why I, Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, although in the best of health, was receiving house calls from a doctor. Well, it’s not a pretty story, but I’ll tell you all the same.
It was the worst case of ill luck that caused the door to rebound against the frame rather than close properly as a good door should. And further bad luck that Jeeves and I were too distracted to pay any attention to the crack of the open door. But Lady Fortuna must have been in a bally rotten mood that afternoon because after these two coinciding instances of misfortune, I suffered a triple strike of bad luck in the form of Aunt Agatha coming to that self same not-quite-closed door whilst Jeeves and I were engaged in said distraction.
Aunt Agatha’s cry of horror sent me out of Jeeves’s arms and leaping half way across the room in a jump that would impress an Olympic medalist. She entered quickly and slammed the door behind her. I noted that this time the blasted door did its job and sealed shut. Aunt Agatha drew herself up, and as she seemed to gain in height, I seemed to wither and shrink. I was keenly aware of my reddened lips and my loosened neck-tie and knew that this was a dashed rummy situation to be in. For a painfully long time, nobody spoke.
“I think Jeeves should leave the room,” she said, her voice colder than an icebox in January.
Jeeves stood straight and firm as an oak and did not move or even flinch under Aunt Agatha’s fierce glare. I’m ashamed to say I was less bold, and quailed before her in a way most unbecoming in a Wooster, a disgrace to that courageous ancestor who fought at Agincourt.
“I think you’d better go, Jeeves,” said I.
I don’t know if I imagined hesitation on his part. All he said was, “Very good, sir,” in that placid voice of his. But his eyes were hard as he retreated to his room.
As soon as Jeeves was gone, Aunt Agatha advanced. I was instantly regretful that I had sent Jeeves away, for now there was no one to support me against my aunt’s furious assault.
“How dare you!” she snarled. “Have you no respect for the family name? No concern for your own reputation?”
“Well, I—”
“Be quiet, Bertie, I’m not even close to finished speaking yet.” She stepped towards me with the firm and measured tread of a practiced executioner. “You’ve always been a disappointment, but this is beyond the pale. I would be well within my rights to call the police right now and have you both arrested for indecency.”
I could hardly believe it, my own kith and kin sending me to the hoosegow. “But—”
“I said quiet, Bertie, and I mean it. I’m not going to call the police. The family name still means something to me, even if it clearly does not to you. But you are going to do exactly as I say, do you understand.”
“Yes, Aunt.”
“This is what you are going to do. First, you will dismiss Jeeves.”
Now that was going too far. “But Aunt Agatha, I couldn’t possibly—”
“You will dismiss Jeeves,” she repeated, unrelenting.
Well, if you knew my Aunt Agatha, you’d know that there’s no escaping her orders once she’s given them. Her voice held more force of command than a colonel commandant’s, and I had no doubt that this aunt of mine, who snacked on broken bottles for tea, could make life harsh if she were thwarted. So for my safety and Jeeves’s, I held my tongue.
“Second, I will find a doctor for you, someone discreet, who specializes in mental disturbances. You will cooperate with this doctor in every way. And last, you will marry, as soon as possible. If rumor of this gets out, a nice, respectable marriage might be the only thing that can put such gossip to rest.”
“Marry?” My face twisted in disgust. Then I hit upon an objection that even Aunt Agatha couldn’t ignore. “I can’t get married now. I’m not even engaged to anyone.” Remarkable, you might say, but it was true. Jeeves had managed to keep me in a happily un-affianced state for these last five months.
“I’ll see to that, Bertie. I have just the girl in mind. Miss Gertrude Williams. She’s got a good, no-nonsense attitude and a firm disposition; I’m sure she’ll be able to keep you in line.”
“But—”
“I’ll come back tomorrow with arrangements for the doctor. I expect Jeeves to be gone by then.”
“But—”
“You’ll have to meet the girl to whom you’re getting engaged, as well. Next Monday, I think. Make sure you keep your schedule empty.”
“But—”
“Do stop complaining, Bertie. It’s for your own good.” And with that final word, she swept out.
“But—” I whimpered to the empty space.
Jeeves shimmered into the room. It hurt the Wooster heart to see him looking normal, so properly in place in my domicile. Imagining my rooms without Jeeves was like imagining them without furniture—empty and unlived in.
“Well,” I said, then paused, my mouth hanging open like a fool. I didn’t know how to explain that he’d have to leave. “Well,” I said again. It filled up the awkward silence. “Well.”
Jeeves, wonderful fellow that he is, didn’t leave me on the spot, wondering what to say. He fixed me a whiskey and soda, light on the s. Just holding the drink settled my nerves a bit. I tried again to speak.
“Well…” My throat was tight. I coughed lightly.
“I know, sir.”
“You do? I always suspected that you were omn…omnipresent? Is that the word? Omnipotent? Omniscient? Well, one of those special qualities that’s oft attributed to the Lord. The one that means that you always know everything.”
“I overheard the conversation, sir.”
“I’m sorry, Jeeves. I’ll write you a good reference, not that you’ll need it. Every chap far and wide knows what an amazing valet you are, and I’ve no doubt someone will snatch you up for employment before the ink on the reference has time to dry.”
“Then you wish to acquiesce to Lady Worplesdon’s demands.”
“I don’t wish to Jeeves. I have to. What other choice do I have?”
“You could tell her ‘no’, sir.”
“You don’t know my Aunt Agatha. Well, you do know her, obviously. I mean, you’ve met her. But…dash it all, Jeeves, one can’t disobey a direct command from her. One just can’t.”
Jeeves hesitated. It was a mere fraction of a second, and I suspect no one but I could have noticed it, but where Jeeves is concerned, a fraction of a second might as well be a lapse of hours. “Very good, sir.”
“No, it’s not ‘very good, sir,’ and don’t say ‘very good, sir’ in that tone of voice, which makes it quite clear that you don’t think it’s ‘good’ at all, much less with a ‘very’ sitting in front of it. It’s horrible. Absolutely rotten. But Aunt Agatha is coming back tomorrow, and if you’re still here I don’t know what she’ll do. Something terrible, I’ll bet. No, the only thing for it is to do what she says.”
I tossed back the whiskey and s. “I’m sorry, Jeeves.”
And so that’s how I came to be in this awful, unhappy, Jeeves-less posish. Anyway, back to the doctor. This was his first visit to the Wooster home and I was all nerves.
“Tell me, Mr. Wooster,” he said to me, “was your mother a domineering woman?”
It seemed a strange way to open a conversation, and I was taken aback. Not that I knew what to expect, this being my first time being interviewed by a loony doctor, but in my mind I’d imaged some old bean who looked like Sir Roderick Glossop querying me on how many cats I owned and waiting for me to start cheeping like a parakeet or some such nonsense. This bit about my mother knocked me back like an innocent country heifer who’d unknowingly wandered onto the train tracks and was now wondering what that monstrously noisy thing was that was approaching so quickly. “My mother?” I blinked in befuddlement. Dr. Quiller frowned and scribbled something down in his little notebook.
“Yes, your mother. Was she a domineering woman?”
“No, not that I recall. She died when I was still a young sproutling, so I can’t tell you much. I do remember that she was dashed insistent that I wash behind the ears when I bathed and didn’t eat with my fingers and all that. But as best I can tell, that’s fairly typical of those of the motherly occupation. Hard to tell, of course, given that I only ever had one mother and so can’t rightly compare. She didn’t yell when I—completely unintentionally, I assure you—broke three crystal champagne flutes. And that’s far more indulgence than many mothers would have, I think.”
“Hmmm. And what about your father?”
“What about him?”
“What was he like?”
I really didn’t see what any of this had to do with my supposed mental illness, but it wasn’t often that I got to talk about my parents. No one much asked, and it wasn’t the sort of thing a cove could just spring into a conversation. And so I answered without hesitation. “He died a few years before my mother did, so I never rightly knew him. I have vague memories of a fellow who must have been my father—he matches the pictures I’ve seen—sitting by the fire and playing nursery tunes on the violin. Aunt Dahlia says that Wooster père was as jolly and good-hearted a bird as ever there was. I don’t remember, so I have to take her word on it.”
“Who raised you, then?”
“Oh, I was passed back and forth between Aunt Dahlia and Aunt Agatha. Ha! If you’re looking for domineering, you needn’t look further than old Aunt Agatha.”
“Hmmm. Indeed.” He scratched some more notes in his notebook. For half an hour more, he continued questioning me in this manner, asking me all about my childhood, my schoolyard exploits, and my relationship with Aunt Agatha and Aunt Dahlia. Much to my surprise, he didn’t say a word about Jeeves or my many successful attempts to avoid marriage.
At last, he snapped his notebook shut and tucked it away in his pocket. Steepling his fingers together, he raised his chin in the manner of a man about to give a grand pronouncement. Thus, I sat up straighter and prepared to pay special attendance to his words. After telling him all about what seemed to me a perfectly normal sort of childhood, I fully expected him to declare me as sane as Sophocles…or was it some other Greek chap? So I was very much taken aback, not to mention astonished, astounded, aghast and probably a few other things that begin with ‘a’ when he said something quite to the contrary.
“Well, Mr. Wooster, it’s clear to me that your mental perversion is the result of a lack of a strong, masculine figure in your early life. Lacking such a role model to instill a proper core of male virtue in your psyche, you seek it out in others. Your desire for the company of men is your mind’s subconscious attempt to fill the hole that your fatherless upbringing left in your soul. I think that with a course of aversion therapy and hypnosis to set your mind back on the right path, I can cure you completely.”
“Oh,” I replied, dumbly, not really sure I wanted to be cured. After all, if I were cured, then that might mean that I wouldn’t feel the same tenderness toward Jeeves anymore. “I say, if I’m cured, does that mean I’ll no longer feel tenderness toward my man Jeeves?”
“Mr. Wooster, when I cure you, you’ll never look at another man with desire again. Before you know it, you’ll be walking down the aisle with a fine young lady and raising children like a good English gentleman.”
Well, I didn’t much like that sound of that. I wanted to want Jeeves. I liked wanting Jeeves. I certainly didn’t want to walk down the aisle with any young lady, fine or otherwise. But I could see no way out of it. If I didn’t cooperate with Dr. Quiller, Aunt Agatha would surely hear of it.
It was quickly decided that for the first two weeks I was going to be in intensive therapy. Aunt Agatha believed that there was no time to lose. My mornings were to be spent with Dr. Quiller at his practice, afternoons with Aunt Agatha planning my wedding to the daunting Miss Gertrude Williams, and evenings again with Dr. Quiller, who would come by the Wooster lodging and practice hypnosis on the Wooster brain.
That first morning of therapy, I woke up at the unreasonably early hour of nine o’clock. There was no Jeeves to bring me tea, nor to lay out my clothes for me. I wanted to bury my head under the bedclothes and close my eyes. I half thought, like a child, that if I couldn’t see this Jeeves-less world, then it wouldn’t really exist. It was only the thought of Aunt Agatha’s sure retribution that got me out of bed that morning.
Dr. Quiller’s practice was in an old house in Kensington. The chairs in the waiting room felt like they’d been designed for torture rather than sitting and I was quite eager to get the whole business over with. So when Dr. Quiller came out to call me back into his office, I went with alacrity…if that’s the word I want...yes, alacrity.
The doctor told me to remove my coat and directed me to a chair, one that was fortunately of better comfort than those employed in the waiting room. He had a monstrous contraption all set up upon his desk. I thought it looked a bit like a radio box, except for the wires trailing from it like so many octopus tentacles. These he attached to my person, all along my right arm.
Last, Dr. Quiller took a pile of photographs from his desk drawer and handed me one. It showed a handsome man in a striped swimming suit standing on the beach. “Now, do you find that man attractive?” he asked, his finger brushing a switch on the radio-like box.
I peered at the photograph. The man was broad shouldered and deep chested, his dark hair twisting in the wind. He looked a little bit like Jeeves. Not as handsome as Jeeves, of course, but few mortals could hope to achieve Jeevesian perfection. “He’s…attractive, I suppose.” I ventured.
Dr. Quiller flicked the switch. My arm spasmed and convulsed and a shrill yelp burst from my mouth at the unexpectedness of it all. It lasted only a few seconds, if that, but it was a memorable experience all the same.
“What was that for?” I wailed. My whole right side tingled and felt like it had been beaten with sticks.
“It’s all part of the therapy, Mr. Wooster.”
“It bally well hurts!”
“It’s supposed to hurt. If you experience pain every time you find a man attractive, your mind will, to escape the pain, cease to find men attractive.”
“You mean, like that Pavlovian thingummy Jeeves mentioned once, only in reverse?”
“Conditioned response, yes.” He snatched the picture away and replaced it with a new one. The fellow in this photograph looked like some sort of circus acrobat. He was dressed in tights and his bare chest was well muscled.
“Mr. Wooster, do you find this man attractive?”
I looked again at the picture, as if studying it carefully. In truth, I was trying to decide what to do. I knew that if I answered ‘yes’ I was in for another one of those dashed unpleasant shocks.
“No.”
“No?”
“Not my type. I prefer dark hair.”
“I see.” Dr. Quiller frowned and shuffled through his stack of photographs, removing many from the pile. At last, he passed a new photograph to me, this one was of a dark haired man, fit and youthful and sitting in what appeared to be a Turkish bath, wearing nothing but a white towel draped haphazardly over his lap in a lackadaisical attempt at modesty. “Do you find this man attractive?”
“No,” I answered promptly.
“He has dark hair.”
“Indeed he does.”
“He’s young and lithesome,” Dr. Quiller pointed out.
“Yes, very lithesome, I should imagine.”
“He has a strapping physique.”
Dr. Quiller was starting to sound more interested in the photograph than I was. “Well, Doctor, it sounds like you find him attractive, but I assure you, I do not.”
“Mr. Wooster! Don’t be ridiculous. And stop deflecting. You truly don’t find this man attractive?”
“Not at all. He’s too...” I stared at the photograph, searching for inspiration. The man was sleek and firm and pale as a marble statue and in every way a fine example of the male form. I thought of Jeeves, then, and the man in the photograph dimmed in comparison. “He’s too...short.”
“Too short.”
“That’s right.”
“It’s a photograph! How can he be too short?”
“He just has this shortish sort of look about him.” I shrugged. Then a light came on in the old Wooster noggin. I knew how to put a stop to this treatment. “Or, wait, maybe your therapy worked! That shock you gave me. You’ve cured me! I don’t find any of the men in these photographs attractive anymore.”
Dr. Quiller gave me a flat look. “I don’t think you’re being forthright with me, Mr. Wooster.”
“What? Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Aversion therapy takes time. It doesn’t cure someone after one shock. If you aren’t going to cooperate properly, then you’re just wasting my time. I’ll inform Lady Worplesdon that our sessions are at an end until you’re willing to put in some real effort towards your cure.”
At the mention of Aunt Agatha, I panicked. “No no no, no need to tell Aunt Agatha. I’ll cooperate.” To show my obedience, I picked up the photograph again and looked at it. The man in the picture may not have held a candle to Jeeves, but he was still quite handsome. “Yes, I find him attractive.”
Dr. Quiller’s hand reached for the switch.
* * *
After each session with Dr. Quiller, I was left utterly sore and exhausted. It was exactly one week after I’d begun the therapy when I staggered into my rooms and was met by Jeeves standing by the door, taking my hat and coat. I wondered if I’d passed out and was dreaming. If so, I decided that I’d rather not wake up.
“Jeeves?” I reached out and patted his reassuringly solid arm. “Jeeves!” I clasped him by the shoulders and pressed my body against his in a thankful embrace. “Good Lord, is it wonderful to see you!”
“And I you, sir.”
I drew away—just a bit, mind—enough so that I could gaze at Jeeves’s marvelous features. “You shouldn’t have come, though,” I said with a frown. “Aunt Agatha could arrive at any minute.” Still, I didn’t let him go. If anything I held on even tighter at the thought of him leaving.
My hand slid up his shoulder to curl around the back of his neck; my thumb lightly stroked the dip just under the curve of his head. I leaned against him—I knew from experience that Jeeves could easily support my weight. Jeeves’s left hand smoothed down the back of my waistcoat, his right rested on my hip.
The smell of wool and Jeeves’s particular brand of pomade was perfume to my nose and I tipped my face closer to take in the scent. Jeeves tilted his head in accordance, and at last, after a week apart, our interrupted kiss was completed. My lips, chilled from the wind outside, warmed under his. I opened my mouth at his wordless urging, and before long, more than my lips were starting to warm up, if you get my meaning. But then Jeeves’s lips left mine, and I sighed, keeping us together a few seconds longer with the invisible thread of shared breath.
“Lady Worplesdon, sir,” Jeeves muttered. And if that didn’t kill the mood faster than a gangster with a grudge I don’t know what would. “She’ll be here soon. We don’t have much time.”
Jeeves stepped away, straightening his neck-tie and becoming once again the very image of a perfect, proper valet. He shimmered across the room as cool as ever and gestured towards a folder stuffed full with paper that was resting on the settee. I could swear that it hadn’t been there when I left this morning. Jeeves must have brought it, but it was unlike him to leave things lying about on the furniture. “If I may direct your attention to these papers, sir.”
“What are they, Jeeves?”
“All part of my plan, sir. Now, when Lady Worplesdon comes, make sure you tell her that the papers were left behind by Dr. Quiller. Then, endeavor to take yourself out of the room for a time and leave her alone with them.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes, sir. Good day, sir.” Jeeves tipped his hat and backed towards the door.
“Wait! Can’t you explain?”
“No time, I’m afraid, sir. I must be gone before Lady Worplesdon arrives, or the whole plan will likely fall apart.” His expression softened, just a touch, in the face of my utter bafflement. “Do as I say, and I’m sure you’ll be pleased with the results. If all goes as planned, you can find me at Chequers for dinner. And now, sir, I really must go.”
And off he took himself, and not a moment too soon, since a mere five minutes later, Aunt Agatha came calling for her daily, self-appointed duties in Wooster Management. I ventured to put Jeeves’s plan into action immediately.
“What ho, what ho!” I took Aunt Agatha by the elbow and led her towards the settee, with perhaps excessive enthusiasm. I had no doubt that whatever Jeeves had in mind, it would work perfectly, and I was eager to see it done.
“Bertie! What are you doing?” Aunt Agatha slapped my hand away from her elbow. “Stop dragging me about.”
Fortunately, I’d already got her across the room. “Long day, what? You must be exhausted, aged Aunt. Sit yourself down and put up your feet. Right there.” I waved towards the settee. “On the settee.” Pretending to spot the papers for the first time, I gasped. “Good heavens! Papers. Dr. Quiller must have left those here last night. I’d better make sure he gets them tonight when he makes his house call. Tea?”
I whirled and tripped my way to the kitchen, ignoring Aunt Agatha’s cry of, “Come back here, you lunatic, and stop acting like the frenetic nitwit you undoubtedly are.” The kitchen door cut off whatever else she was going to say, which is just as well, since I’m sure it was unflattering to the Wooster self whatever it was. I put the kettle on the stove. Then remembered to fill the kettle with water first, then put it back on the stove.
As I searched for the tea, I realized that Jeeves never told me how long I was supposed to leave Aunt Agatha alone with the papers. Then, while I was peering into the oven, there was a great cry, which emanated from the sitting room.
“That fraud!”
I tentatively poked my head out the kitchen door to see what was going on. Aunt Agatha was in a towering rage; I half expected her to start ripping apart the furniture with her teeth.
“That ridiculous quack!”
I began to slip back into the kitchen. Aunt Agatha in a towering rage was not something one wanted to get in the middle of. But before I could close the door, Aunt Agatha, like an eagle catching sight of a rabbit dashing for his rabbitty hole, spotted me.
“Bertie! Get in here at once, at once, I say!”
I slinked into the sitting room. “Yes, Aunt Agatha?”
“Do you know what this says?” She shook the papers so violently I thought that they were going to tear.
I shook my head. “No, not at all.” Although now I was dashed curious what could be in them to make Aunt Agatha react so.
“That Quiller man thinks...oh never mind what he thinks. The man’s clearly an incompetent. You’re to stop seeing him at once. Now get me my coat.”
I leapt to obey, saying, “But what about his papers? And this evening’s house call?”
“I will deliver his papers to him. And at the same time I will tell him that there are to be no more house calls, nor will we be requiring any of his services in the future.”
“Whatever you say, Aunt Agatha,” I replied as I helped her shrug into her coat. I feared that my glee at winning a reprieve from the horrid Dr. Quiller and his horrid electric box therapy shone on my features. But fortunately, Aunt Agatha was in too much of a state to notice the wide grin breaking across my face. Whatever it was that Jeeves had done, it worked like a charm, as Jeeves’s plans always do.
Once she was safely gone, I allowed myself a jaunty little whistle. Then, remembering Jeeves’s final instructions, I snatched up my hat and coat and wandered off to Chequers with a new spring in my step.
Jeeves was there, as promised, sitting at a table in the corner and sipping a glass of wine, a bottle and an empty wineglass waiting by the other chair. I rushed across the room and claimed the seat across from him. Jeeves silently took the wine bottle and filled the empty glass.
“How the devil did you do it, Jeeves?” I blurted.
“As Dr. Quiller had never before seen my face, it was simple to gain entrance to his office by posing as a patient. In this manner, I got the ‘lay of the land’ so to speak. Next time I visited his practice, I paid a young man three shillings to simulate an epileptic seizure in the waiting room, to draw Dr. Quiller out of his office. Dr. Quiller keeps a very elegant and tidy filing system, and it was a matter of mere moments to find ‘Wooster, B. W.’
“I suspected that the file would come in useful in forming a plan, and in any case, I wanted to know what sort of ‘treatments’ Dr. Quiller was exposing you to.” Jeeves’s voice grew cold at that last bit. “Once I read the file in full, it was obvious what my course of action should be.”
“But what was it? What did the file say?”
“Dr. Quiller revealed in his notes that he believed that your predilections were the result of Lady Worplesdon’s rearing techniques.”
“You mean...Aunt Agatha made me fancy you? What utter rot!”
“Indeed, sir.”
“If she made me fancy you, then why would she always be trying to make me get rid of you. No, even I can see that the logic does not follow.”
“...Indeed, sir.”
“That Dr. Quiller’s a real loony for sure.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I can’t say I approve of his treatments, either.”
“In that, we are in wholehearted agreement, sir.”
The waitress came and we abandoned our talk of loony doctors and dictatorial aunts to have a pleasant meal. We walked home afterwards, and it was a true pleasure—greater than any that chap Croesus had ever had—to know that Jeeves was once more walking at my side. Still, I couldn’t help but spend the walk thinking, and by the time we arrived at my door I’d come to the conclusion that, satisfactory as things were at this particular moment, it was unlikely that this bliss could last. I shared my fears with Jeeves while he took my hat and coat.
“Well, I am grateful that I won’t have to endure any more visits to Dr. Quiller, with his photographs and his electrodes—don’t think that I’m not grateful—but Aunt Agatha’s not going to just give up. She’s probably looking for a new doctor even as we stand here wagging our tongues.”
“I suggest that a trip to the continent might be in order, sir. Paris is lovely this time of year.”
“Well, yes, we could go to Paris, except for the fact that I’m engaged. I can’t break a contract, no matter how unwillingly made, you know that.”
“Leave that to me, sir. I guarantee that your engagement will be at an end by tomorrow morning.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Jeeves.” I laid one hand over his chest, right where the lapel of his coat touched his waistcoat. He in turn stepped close and brushed his knuckles down my neck-tie, drawing it out from where it was tucked. Recalling the last time I was in this posish, I glanced nervously at the door. It was firmly and thoroughly closed. Jeeves, seeming to read my mind, shimmered over and made sure that it was locked and bolted as well.
The details of what happened then, I’ll leave to your imagination. But suffice it to say that Jeeves was a man of his word and my engagement to Miss Williams was severed just in time for us to leave London and catch the ferry across the channel. Aunt Agatha could never again demand that Jeeves leave my service since, technically, Jeeves was no longer in my service. That is to say, my money still covered his needs, and he still brought me tea in the morning, but there was no more talk of resignations or references or wages and he was no longer obliged to call me “sir”. Although Jeeves bristled when the American chap we met at that cabaret on Boulevard de Clichy called me Jeeves’s “sugar-daddy,” for the most part the arrangement suited us both nicely.
When, after a few months in Paris, we at last returned home, Aunt Agatha immediately descended upon the Wooster domicile with reproaches and demands.
“I’m surprised you had the nerve to come back after you ran off like the coward you’ve always been. Your ancestors would be ashamed. The Wooster line...disgraced. It would have been better if you’d never returned, but simply vanished from memory, remained in exile.” She barely stopped for breath, and I wondered if she’d practiced for this, like an opera diva preparing an aria. Without pause, she moved from one cadenza to the next. “If you’re going to live in this country, I am going to personally see to it that you do not dishonor your family name. Jeeves is to be turned out from your company at once, and if I see him here again I will have him arrested for trespassing. Miss Gertrude Williams is still available and I believe I can convince her to take you back, not that you deserve her forgiveness.”
But I’d not been spending those months merely playing about and seeing the sights. Oh no. Jeeves had been coaching me, grooming me for this very moment. And so I said, “Aunt Agatha...”
“Don’t you dare try to argue with me, you vile young man.”
I quailed for a moment when confronted with Aunt Agatha’s scowling visage, her frown drawing her wrinkled and lined face down like a melting wax bust and her eyes burning. I looked to Jeeves for salvation, but he did not step in to save me from an aunt’s fury. Instead, he nodded at me in encouragement and looked at me with such expectation that I couldn’t bear to let him down. Heartened, I began again. “Aunt Agatha, I know that blood is thicker than water, always respect your elders, honor your father and mother and aunts, and all that. But go boil your head. I’m a grown man and I’ll do whatever I damned well like.”
Aunt Agatha’s jaw dropped and her eyes bulged, bringing to mind the image of a bullfrog catching flies. “Bertram Wooster, you—”
“Don’t interrupt me, Aunt Agatha, I’m not done talking yet. You have bullied me my entire life and I have had enough of it. I will not marry Miss Gertrude Williams and I will not dismiss Jeeves. I will be making my own decisions from now on, and I have decided that Jeeves may stay; you may go. Or I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”
Jeeves settled Aunt Agatha’s wrap about her shoulders and ushered her out the door before she had a chance to lose her bullfrog impression. And that was the end of it.
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Date: 2009-01-14 08:33 am (UTC)Don't get me wrong, it's amazing, but it just feels like it should be so much more...there's all the potential in the plot to be a long fic, with three or four plus chapters, one devoted to the psychotherapy, one devoted to Jeeves' plan, one devoted to the trip to the continent, one devoted to the end...it's fine as it is, it just could be so much more.
I like it, but don't be afraid to jump in with both feet and write this into an epic. (Then again, I'd love to see as much jooster as possible, so...take this with a grain of salt.)
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Date: 2009-01-14 07:35 pm (UTC)The current fic-in-progress is epic. Nine sections. Sherlock Holmes and Jooster cross-over.
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Date: 2009-01-14 11:26 pm (UTC)Looking forward to the the Holmes/Jooster crossover!
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Date: 2009-01-15 07:35 am (UTC)(flaily)
Also nine is the best number ever.
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Date: 2009-01-14 09:35 am (UTC)I read the fic and went: OMGAWD THIS IS THE STORY I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR! Finally! And then, of course, I saw
It's just... well I guess I don't need to tell you that I bally well approve of the story line! And the characters- and I loved the electricity chock thing, and how you made clear how ridiculous it all was!
Also:
I put the kettle on the stove. Then remembered to fill the kettle with water first, then put it back on the stove. Tee-hee, Bertie. <3
And of course, trust Jeeves to save him at the end. Of course.
Conclusion: LOVE IT.
P.S.: I do agree with
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Date: 2009-01-14 07:38 pm (UTC)And thank you for letting loose the plot bunny that drove me into finally truly joining this fandom.
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Date: 2009-01-14 07:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-14 04:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-14 07:40 pm (UTC)Dark humor is a natural go-to of mine when writing, so when I was plotting, the first thing I thought of was, "I'm going to torture Bertie with electro-shock therapy! And I'm going to make it funny!"
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Date: 2009-01-14 04:48 pm (UTC)I agree with one of the previous comments in that this seemed like it had the right stuff for a longer piece, it felt a tiny bit rushed -- mind you, I enjoyed it, nevertheless! -- but I only noticed it at the part with Bertie getting out of the engagement, since I wanted to know what Jeeves did. Overall, I heartily approve and think you did a spiffy job here.
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Date: 2009-01-14 07:43 pm (UTC)My beta also encouraged expansion, but alas, I wanted to get it done before the new semester started. (I feared it would languish on my hard-drive for months if I didn't.)
The current fic-in-progress (a Sherlock Holmes and Jeeves and Wooster cross-over) will be longer. Nine sections plotted.
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Date: 2009-01-14 09:21 pm (UTC)I am a bona fide Sherlock Holmes addict, and now J & W as well. And you're crossing them? Oh....Baby...
I look forward to this, muchly.
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Date: 2009-01-14 05:39 pm (UTC)This was wonderful.
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Date: 2009-01-14 07:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-14 06:30 pm (UTC)I'd have loved to hear what Jeeves' whole scheme was though X D
The Lady 52
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Date: 2009-01-14 07:47 pm (UTC)(Yeah, my beta encouraged me to expand that bit as well, but I felt that I had to finish the fic and get it posted before the new semester started.)
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Date: 2009-01-14 08:50 pm (UTC)The Lady 529
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Date: 2009-01-14 08:54 pm (UTC)I have to admit, I'm an angst or h/c fan, so I wouldn't have minded a bit more comforting from Jeeves regarding the 'treatment' Bertie was subjected to - but sometimes leaving the reader wanting more is what makes a story great.
The main thing is that Bertie always has to regard everything from a positive, light hearted point of view, no matter what the situation - and you did a brilliant job at keeping his tone light while putting him in a really dark situation.
I think, by the way, that it worked fine as a one-off fic. If you're like me (and the fact that you feel compelled to research makes me think that you are) then you'd have laboured over this for months and months and still be working on it. Sometimes it's good to make yourself just get the thing done, even if it does seem like it could be expanded upon later.
ANyway, I loved this. I loved the scene where Jeeves came back and they had that brief little bitter-sweet reunion. Thanks!
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Date: 2009-01-17 09:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-15 01:53 am (UTC)Anyway, it was fantastic to see Bertie finally stand up to the Aged A in the end. I did a little fingertip-clap! I am looking forward to your next bit. Ohhhhh, Holmes and Jeeves! *more fingertip-claps*
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Date: 2009-01-17 09:33 pm (UTC)I'm a bit terrified of the cross-over. Holmes canon is so huge, and the theories numerous, and it feels like there's no way to keep track of it all without becoming a bona fide Sherlockian scholar, and I've got *other* authors to memorize right now (PhD comps coming up). So I eventually had to tell myself, "Screw it. I'm doing this for fun. I'll focus on getting the characterization correct and not worry about keeping every detail of canon and every theory straight. After all, ACD couldn't do it." It hurts my compulsive researcher perfectionist soul, but it was the only way I was ever going to write it.
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Date: 2009-01-15 07:33 am (UTC)I have to go e-mail this to
The shock-therapy and the whole bit with Dr Quiller was...wholly accurate and very chilling. I am so glad you didn't put Bertie in an asylum. That would have been far too scary.
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Date: 2009-01-17 09:35 pm (UTC)I like juxtaposing creepy and silly (it's the goth in me, I think). I'm glad it worked.
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Date: 2009-01-15 09:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-17 09:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-15 01:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-17 09:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-16 06:26 am (UTC)And the fic was great! Can't wait to see more from you. ;)
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Date: 2009-01-17 09:49 pm (UTC)Anyway, I hope the book is as useful to you as it was to me! (I only wish that there weren't parts of the middle missing from the online text. I'm too cheap to buy my own copy.)
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Date: 2009-01-22 10:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-19 09:51 pm (UTC)My first 'proper' J/W. Thankee it was a good 'un! :D
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Date: 2009-01-19 09:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-29 08:27 am (UTC)“Aunt Agatha, I know that blood is thicker than water, always respect your elders, honor your father and mother and aunts, and all that. But go boil your head. I’m a grown man and I’ll do whatever I damned well like.”
Oh how I've yearned for Bertie to say that in canon! I'm so glad he developed enough of a spine to tell off Aunt A. :D
I put the kettle on the stove. Then remembered to fill the kettle with water first, then put it back on the stove.
I've done that a few times, myself. As well as forgetting to put the lid on.
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Date: 2009-02-11 04:26 am (UTC)Anyway...
Thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed it. (I know I greatly enjoyed writing Bertie telling Aunt Agatha off.)
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Date: 2009-02-03 07:31 am (UTC)Great! Laughed out loud for five minutes; fantastic plot and so easy to read.
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Date: 2009-02-05 09:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-11 08:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-06-16 11:54 pm (UTC)Clearly the best method of retribution is reading your old stories and telling you how amazing they are? Like this one, for example. Bloody brilliant! I was so utterly pissed at Bertie for not having enough of a backbone to stand up for Jeeves, which made the ending even more satisfying, and the thing as a whole was so very giggleworthy. Just delicious!
(And now I'm off to read the bit of your fic I'm actually SUPPOSED to be reading tonight...)
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Date: 2009-06-17 05:04 am (UTC)Yes! My clever, dastardly plot has come to fruition! *ahem* I mean, I'm so terribly sorry to have done that to you.
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Date: 2009-08-30 06:08 pm (UTC)