Fic: Oceans, part 2
Aug. 7th, 2009 06:23 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
hazeltea.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
indeedsir_backupPairing: Bertie/Jeeves
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I have no claim on the lovely works of Wodehouse.
Part 1 http://www.livejournal.com/editjournal.bml?journal=indeedsir&itemid=687730
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Travers.” I opened the door with a welcoming gesture. “You didn’t have to come all this way.” Brinkley Court is roughly one hundred miles from London, and I felt a trace of guilt at how frequent her visits had become since Mr. Wooster’s death.
“If you would agree to come to Brinkley Court, I wouldn’t have to.” She retorted, handing me her hat and gloves.
I sighed. “It would be difficult for me.” I replied. Like so many things, we never discuss this outright, but Mrs. Travers seems to understand the awkwardness that would come over Brinkley Court and its servants were I to stay as a guest in Mr. Wooster’s stead, after being a servant for so long. An inheritance is truly a double edged sword.
“Yes, yes, I suppose.” She relented, accepting the brandy and soda that I offered her before taking a seat beside her.
“I trust that you have been well.” I began, courteously.
“I’ve been to see Sir Roderick Glossop.” Before I could voice my concern, she continued. “I told him what a frightful time I’ve had since losing my nephew. I told him I could barely sleep-“ at this point, she produced an amber glass bottle of pills- “and that often, my nerves were in such a state that I could barely function.” With these words, a second bottle of pills was produced, and pushed towards me.
“Mrs. Travers…” I raised my eyes from the neatly labeled bottles to face her.
She leaned back against the cushions of the Chesterfield. “You were good for the little blighter,” she said, firmly, “and judging by the state of you, he was good for you, too. It would ease my mind if you’d just take them.”
“Thank you.” I answered, softly. “It was generous of you to come all the way here because of me, madam. Might I at least give you luncheon?”
“In a moment.” She leaned forward, and gave a thoughtful glance at the open folder of files upon the desk. “I see that you haven’t given that up. Not that I thought you would.” There was a hint of sadness in her tone, but overall, it was one of admiration. I am often rebuked for my stubbornness by those who know me well, but Mrs. Travers seems to encourage it.
“I feel utterly unable to stop.”
“I’m glad of it.” She affirmed. “I think I’ve found something, rather, someone, who might be some help. Milady’s Boudoir has a section called “Modern Mysteries”. Women give accounts of crimes they have witnessed; burglars, kidnappings, extortion, that sort of thing. At the end of their story, a constable or detective explains how they solved the case. It’s mostly sentimental, sensationalist rubbish, but there’s this name that comes up in so many of the accounts- a Mr. Sidney Green. His specialty seems to be locating missing persons- errant husbands, lost children, escaped convicts, that sort of thing.” She paused to take a deep sip of her drink. “I’ve been thinking of how long this has gone on, what its put us all through… and I know that we’re all set on having a proper Christian burial. Surely, it can’t hurt to try.”
“I hate to disappoint you, Mrs. Travers, but I have already employed Mr. Green some months ago. I fear that our case has not been one of his lauded successes, although he is fond of stringing one along optimistically.”
She seemed crestfallen by the revelation. “Surely, you can give him some time. He seemed so sincere and honest when we met.”
I thought of the ever growing piles of papers and photographs the investigation had generated. Once, he had even produced a beautiful boy who answered to the name Bertram, but it was not my love. The false hope had soured my outlook considerably.
“When I was a boy of thirteen, I worked in a country house as a page boy.” I refilled her glass as I spoke. “The hall was adjacent to a village containing a large school. As a servant, I made modest wages, but I longed to socialize with the boys in the village, mixing with them to sample confectioneries and drink ale. I was determined to live this life, so I developed a line of credit with certain noble boys and shop keepers, using the hall as my capital. You see, the girls at the hall were uncommonly pretty, and quite numerous, as the family was a large one, so the demand for invitations was quite high. I bartered invitations to the hall, as I was on good terms with the youngest son, and felt it within my power to arrange. Eventually, I needed something more substantial to sustain my tabs, so I negotiated my food and drink with tickets to a fete at the hall in late Autumn. What I failed to mention was that there was no fete in Autumn, not so much as a single cake.”
“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Travers breathed. “You were running a scheme of that scale at the age of thirteen? For cakes?”
“Essentially, yes.” I felt properly shamed in retrospect, much as I had felt at the time.
“How did it all turn out?”
“Not favorably, I regret. Still, that is what youth is for, to make mistakes to learn from. The reason I bring this rather embarrassing tale to light is to explain my feelings regarding Mr. Green. I feel he is well intentioned, but lies take on lives of their own. By the time October came that fateful year, I had told the story of the fete so many times, embroidering the details ever so slightly each time to add additional allure, that I quite believed that it was going to take place, myself. So it is, I fear, with Mr. Green. If the remarkable accounts he submits to Milady’s Boudoir are true accounts, they are likely the minority of his cases, and very likely embellished. In my experience, he sells hope, not concrete results, but he undoubtedly is sincere. I do think that he honestly believes that he is close to finding Mr. Wooster even now.”
She was silent for a long moment. “You think this in your heart, Jeeves, and yet you still employ him.”
“What else can I do?” I asked, brokenly.
Her eyes darted across the room again, to the file, to the pills, and to my own tired eyes. “Well, then, I shall accept your kind offer to luncheon. Anatole informs me that Abigail’s Vineyard is a reputable establishment.”
“I would be delighted, madam.” I replied, rising to fetch her hat and her gloves.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I have no claim on the lovely works of Wodehouse.
Part 1 http://www.livejournal.com/editjournal.bml?journal=indeedsir&itemid=687730
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Travers.” I opened the door with a welcoming gesture. “You didn’t have to come all this way.” Brinkley Court is roughly one hundred miles from London, and I felt a trace of guilt at how frequent her visits had become since Mr. Wooster’s death.
“If you would agree to come to Brinkley Court, I wouldn’t have to.” She retorted, handing me her hat and gloves.
I sighed. “It would be difficult for me.” I replied. Like so many things, we never discuss this outright, but Mrs. Travers seems to understand the awkwardness that would come over Brinkley Court and its servants were I to stay as a guest in Mr. Wooster’s stead, after being a servant for so long. An inheritance is truly a double edged sword.
“Yes, yes, I suppose.” She relented, accepting the brandy and soda that I offered her before taking a seat beside her.
“I trust that you have been well.” I began, courteously.
“I’ve been to see Sir Roderick Glossop.” Before I could voice my concern, she continued. “I told him what a frightful time I’ve had since losing my nephew. I told him I could barely sleep-“ at this point, she produced an amber glass bottle of pills- “and that often, my nerves were in such a state that I could barely function.” With these words, a second bottle of pills was produced, and pushed towards me.
“Mrs. Travers…” I raised my eyes from the neatly labeled bottles to face her.
She leaned back against the cushions of the Chesterfield. “You were good for the little blighter,” she said, firmly, “and judging by the state of you, he was good for you, too. It would ease my mind if you’d just take them.”
“Thank you.” I answered, softly. “It was generous of you to come all the way here because of me, madam. Might I at least give you luncheon?”
“In a moment.” She leaned forward, and gave a thoughtful glance at the open folder of files upon the desk. “I see that you haven’t given that up. Not that I thought you would.” There was a hint of sadness in her tone, but overall, it was one of admiration. I am often rebuked for my stubbornness by those who know me well, but Mrs. Travers seems to encourage it.
“I feel utterly unable to stop.”
“I’m glad of it.” She affirmed. “I think I’ve found something, rather, someone, who might be some help. Milady’s Boudoir has a section called “Modern Mysteries”. Women give accounts of crimes they have witnessed; burglars, kidnappings, extortion, that sort of thing. At the end of their story, a constable or detective explains how they solved the case. It’s mostly sentimental, sensationalist rubbish, but there’s this name that comes up in so many of the accounts- a Mr. Sidney Green. His specialty seems to be locating missing persons- errant husbands, lost children, escaped convicts, that sort of thing.” She paused to take a deep sip of her drink. “I’ve been thinking of how long this has gone on, what its put us all through… and I know that we’re all set on having a proper Christian burial. Surely, it can’t hurt to try.”
“I hate to disappoint you, Mrs. Travers, but I have already employed Mr. Green some months ago. I fear that our case has not been one of his lauded successes, although he is fond of stringing one along optimistically.”
She seemed crestfallen by the revelation. “Surely, you can give him some time. He seemed so sincere and honest when we met.”
I thought of the ever growing piles of papers and photographs the investigation had generated. Once, he had even produced a beautiful boy who answered to the name Bertram, but it was not my love. The false hope had soured my outlook considerably.
“When I was a boy of thirteen, I worked in a country house as a page boy.” I refilled her glass as I spoke. “The hall was adjacent to a village containing a large school. As a servant, I made modest wages, but I longed to socialize with the boys in the village, mixing with them to sample confectioneries and drink ale. I was determined to live this life, so I developed a line of credit with certain noble boys and shop keepers, using the hall as my capital. You see, the girls at the hall were uncommonly pretty, and quite numerous, as the family was a large one, so the demand for invitations was quite high. I bartered invitations to the hall, as I was on good terms with the youngest son, and felt it within my power to arrange. Eventually, I needed something more substantial to sustain my tabs, so I negotiated my food and drink with tickets to a fete at the hall in late Autumn. What I failed to mention was that there was no fete in Autumn, not so much as a single cake.”
“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Travers breathed. “You were running a scheme of that scale at the age of thirteen? For cakes?”
“Essentially, yes.” I felt properly shamed in retrospect, much as I had felt at the time.
“How did it all turn out?”
“Not favorably, I regret. Still, that is what youth is for, to make mistakes to learn from. The reason I bring this rather embarrassing tale to light is to explain my feelings regarding Mr. Green. I feel he is well intentioned, but lies take on lives of their own. By the time October came that fateful year, I had told the story of the fete so many times, embroidering the details ever so slightly each time to add additional allure, that I quite believed that it was going to take place, myself. So it is, I fear, with Mr. Green. If the remarkable accounts he submits to Milady’s Boudoir are true accounts, they are likely the minority of his cases, and very likely embellished. In my experience, he sells hope, not concrete results, but he undoubtedly is sincere. I do think that he honestly believes that he is close to finding Mr. Wooster even now.”
She was silent for a long moment. “You think this in your heart, Jeeves, and yet you still employ him.”
“What else can I do?” I asked, brokenly.
Her eyes darted across the room again, to the file, to the pills, and to my own tired eyes. “Well, then, I shall accept your kind offer to luncheon. Anatole informs me that Abigail’s Vineyard is a reputable establishment.”
“I would be delighted, madam.” I replied, rising to fetch her hat and her gloves.
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Date: 2009-08-09 08:01 pm (UTC)