Part Three

[toodlepipsigner.livejournal.com]

The third installment of my "Falling Farther In" series.
Title: ...And Shame Sits With Us at Night
Rating: G
Summary: Elizabeth Brooke reflects on the changes in her brother. A decision is made.
Words: 1342
Disclaimer:  A follow-up on “Misery Wakes Us in the Morning”. Characters not mine.

Refresher course?
An hour later, in the middle of the dusty hallway of the drab little house in Manchester, a single, immaculately packed, black valise sat and waited with uncertainty for its owner to budge from his place at the table in his sister’s kitchen. There, Jeeves sat in his shirtsleeves, a half-forgotten gasper between his fingers and his midnight-black jacket hung neatly over the back of his chair. 

In front of the stove, stirring the contents of a medium-sized cooking pot, stood Elizabeth Brooke, née Jeeves, a tallish, broad-shouldered woman with an air of dignity and a gently smile.

The tight black bun at the crown of her head was a way to keep her long sheet of ebony hair out of her way, and doubled as a clever design to better hide the bulge at the back of her head, which her late husband had found immensely unattractive. Even now that he was gone, and all his control over her gone with him, she still out of habit braided her hair each morning, and wrapped in the familiar curl about her crown. To her, it symbolized strength: her ability to move on with or without him. But she used it as an illusion to others, to give the false signal that she was just a woman, who missed her husband, though in actuality she did not.

Such was the bearing of Elizabeth Brooke that everything she did was planned and thoroughly thought-through. Nothing, no matter how seemingly obscure or menial, was without meaning.

And certainly, this ‘phone call to her younger brother from Mrs Travers, was not without meaning. Mrs Travers, she had discovered, was Mr Wooster’s favourite aunt. From what Reggie told her, for she still thought of him as such, Mrs Travers was entertaining her nephew at her estate, Brinkley Court, in Gloucestershire. Reggie had reiterated to her what Mrs Travers had said.

“He just sits there in his room moaning. He won’t play tennis with Angela, nor shoot arrows with that fat Glossop friend of his. He doesn’t rally round to have a drink with Tom, won’t intervene with Basset’s bartering for Tom’s silver, wouldn’t run in terror from that Sidcup menace while Basset bartered for Tom’s silver, and refuses to even come down to the meals that Anatole prepares for him. He hasn’t spoken to me since he got here, and that one incident was a nightmare. He hasn’t cried on my shoulder in such a manner since he was a very small child Jeeves... In fact, the last time I can recall him being so upset as he was upon his arrival was...

But that’s what you must come down for. I never thought, Jeeves, that I would have to explain anything to you, but Heaven knows that you and, to a lesser extent, my young blot of a nephew have sorted out sticky situations for me. Now, I suppose I should do the same. I am not asking you to re-enter his employ, nor to do what is best for him, nor to put his needs before your own as I know you have done the past several years. But I am asking you to understand one or two things that my nephew will never tell you, whether you patch things up or not. Surely a reasonable, intelligent man as yourself would not pass up the opportunity to gain a more pragmatic perspective on his situation. Surely, you’ll come down to Brinkley as soon as you possibly can. I know I can put my trust in the inimitable Jeeves.”

And, saying what she’s had to say, she’d hung up her line, not giving Jeeves the chance to respond in any way, shape or form. He set down the telephone on its stand, and murmured a ‘Very good, miss’, to no one in particular.

 He seemed deeply affected, even disturbed, Elizabeth had thought. This was very uncharacteristic of her brother, who, even in his private and family life, maintained immense dignity and perhaps a little too much formality. All of this Elizabeth had mused and reflected on as she’d overseen her brother packing his things; a heavy, solitary silence had encroached on the dreary little spare room, its thickness and strength manually pinning both of their mouths shut like great, malicious hands. Beth had attempted to break the silence, to get a peek into what her brother was contemplating so heavily upon.

“Reg?” She’d asked him from the doorway.

He had said nothing in response; merely lifted his eyebrows a quarter of an inch, an action he’d mimicked since around age ten.

“Anything I can do?”

Jeeves’ eyebrows returned to their stations, and he shook his head once in the negative.

“You want help packing?”

Once more he shook his head, and Beth took it as a queue for dismissal. She continued her post at the kitchen cutting board, and proceeded with her motherly tasks.

Now here he was, packed, dressed and ready. He’d even changed back into his valet uniform, probably thinking to enter the house as anything but a valet, even though he was no longer employed and was invited to the house as a guest, would be against not only the archaic, unwritten feudal code, but would be a personal insult to his pride.

                Yet, why wasn’t he heading to Brinkley? The next train headed south would be leaving in half an hour, and Jeeves still had to get to the station.

                  

                “Beth?” Jeeves croaked under his breath. He waited a moment for a response, but none was forthcoming.  Beth’s mind was occupied on the meal she was preparing for her daughters and Mr Biffen, who was visiting along with his wife. When she did not answer his summons a second time, he cleared his throat, in an attempt to make it less hoarse from a lack of use.

                This, more than her own name, got her attention. The familiar cough of a sheep on a distant hillside reached Elizabeth’s ear, and she answered, “Yes, Reggie?”

                “Beth... may I bestow a burden you by vociferating a quandary of mine?”

                “Go ahead, Reggie.”

                “...Should I go?”

                Well, there was the answer to all of her questions. He cared about this Wooster, and not so much for his own employment security—as she’d convinced herself—but for him. This man meant something to him. Well, if that was the case, what other option could there be? It was dangerous, it was risky, and risqué, and hardly acceptable as far as society is concerned...

                Yet, she’d rarely seen anyone rouse human emotions in Reggie. Indeed, it had seemed to her thus far that only her own daughters could invoke such a hold over this machine-like, entirely scholarly mind. To find that there was an emotion which actually travelled deeper...

                “You really want to know what I think? Or were you just thinking aloud?”

                “I... would very much appreciate an outsider’s opinion on this matter, if you please.”

                “You’re sure?”

                “It could make all the difference in the world, Beth.”

                “Well... I think if you care about him... you should at least go and see what he has to say. Or what his aunt has to say. Just take a peek over the fence, and if the grass is greener, maybe it’ll be worth the trip.”

Jeeves, of course, would have responded. And he would have thanked her for her hospitality, and her kindness and support. But on this occasion, he had gathered his jacket in one motion off the back of the chair and on to his shoulders, and started down the hall, grabbing his valise in one smooth motion on his way out the front door. His gasper, forgotten, dropped and its gentle embers died away on the cold tile floor. Elizabeth, still at the counter, smiled a wry smile to herself as she continued to stir the pot.

 

                “Didn’t make enough for you anyway, Reg.”  She said affectionately, knowing he was gone, before Charity came rushing into the kitchen and clung to her mother’s dress.

TBC