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indeedsir_backupThe game is afoot and the plan goes into action! Sort of... Not sure if there will be one or two more chapters, but I should hopefully have this here thingummy finished this weekend. Hope you all enjoy!
Title: Jeeves and the Missing Manuscript
Chapter: 14/16
Pairing: Jeeves/Bertie
Rating for Chapter: R
Summary: Bertie meets a young Agatha Christie and hits it off with her at a garden party. She even offers to let him read and comment on her latest manuscript, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, before she posts it to her publisher. Of course, mayhem ensues when the manuscript is stolen and Jeeves and Bertie must find and return it to the rightful owner. Mix in a dash of danger, anger, angst, and unrequited feeling, and it's the perfect storm for 'certain whatsits' to come to light.
Disclaimer: Jeeves, Bertie, and all characters associated with their idyllic world belong to P.G. Wodehouse. Mrs. Christie belongs to herself last I checked.
If you’ve never been woken by a kiss, I can highly recommend it. Floating somewhere between sleep and not-quite-awake, a kiss is one of the more pleasant ways a chap can be drawn from Morpheus’ grasp toward that unfriendly beast known as morning.
“What sort of day is it, Jeeves?” I asked, stretching and rolling over to greet my man with a grin as he pulled away. Then, I caught sight of the clock. “Good Lord! Has it really just gone six, or has the young master gone barmy?”
“It promises to be a pleasant day, sir,” he replied, handing me my tea after I’d propped myself up. “A light breeze from the north should alleviate the humidity that will accompany the afternoon’s warm temperatures. As for the time, I can assure you that the clock is accurate. If you will recall yesterday, you informed me that you would like to fortify your spirits before proceeding downstairs.”
I was already awake and sipping my tea, so any further arguments about the arrangement seemed mute... if that’s the word I want. It’s something those solicitor chaps talk about at university. Moot! There’s the fiend. Further arguments from this Wooster were of the moot variety. “Very well, Jeeves. Would you run my bath?”
“Certainly, sir.” He oiled away, and I watched him go with a careful eye upon the Jeevesian backside. Memories of last night rose to the surface of my mind like the cream rises from the milk, and I savored them as the favored cat within the barnyard. How many hours until we returned to London, and I could see my man in the altogether? It did seem highly unsporting that he’d had five years to practice at undressing me, and the most I’d ever had was a glimpse of him in his shirtsleeves. It couldn’t be helped, though, and even I had to admit that a fully-clothed Jeeves was a thoroughly enjoyable sight. Still, I couldn’t help my thoughts wandering to what I’d be doing with my man in a few short hours.
‘My man.’ That phrase had never meant much other than ‘my valet’, or ‘my manservant’, but now... Now I needed to focus. I set my tea down and grimaced. I’d been about to start waxing on in the most pathetically poetic light about Jeeves. Lady Spodecup would have applauded. Well, if she hadn’t been horrified by the nature of the coves involved in the whatsit.
“Jeeves,” I said as he shimmered in, and I pulled back the covers to rise, “if I start blathering on about how ‘the stars are God’s daisy chain’ or how ‘the moon coaxes the rosebuds into waking’, do the young master a favor and tell him to go and boil his head.”
“Sir?”
“I shouldn’t like to be thought of as one of those fellows who turns into a soppy thingummy just because he’s finally stopped being an absolute chump and wised up to his properly romantic inclinations. We Woosters are made of sterner stuff, rarely given to sop, and most certainly never given to poetry, what?”
His brow rose a few centimeters in bemusement. “As you say, sir. The bath is ready... May I request permission to attend you?”
I blushed as the bemusement disappeared to be replaced by a sort of hungry look that I knew had nothing to do with a lack of breakfast.
“N-no need to ask things like that anymore, old fruit,” I returned as he unbuttoned my pajama top and laid it aside. I couldn’t look him in the eye as I continued, “Bertram is yours to attend as you will, what?”
“Very good, sir.” While he folded my top, I shucked the bottoms and my pants, feeling not a little embarrassed as he watched me with open interest. After setting everything on the bed and removing my bandage – the laci-whatsits I’d endured having scabbed over in the night – I hurried off to the bathroom, unable to stand his careful scrutiny without doing a fair impression of one of the lorries those fiery chaps race about in.
The water was the perfect temperature as I lowered myself in, Jeeves entering seconds later and flitting about, preparing my shaving supplies and toothbrush, straightening towels, wiping the sink off, and generally doing everything except paying the young master any attention. When he’d said he’d wanted to attend me in the bath in That Voice, I’d assumed he’d had other activities in mind... as had the little Wooster.
I squeezed my ducky a few times in consolation, casting a furtive glance at my man every few seconds.
“Was there something you required, sir?” he asked after one of my f.g.’s had lingered a bit too long.
“What? N-no!” I started, quickly grabbing my loofah from the rack across the tub and rubbing it up and down my arm. It took a moment and an amused quirk of my man’s lips for me to notice that it was still dry. I dunked it in the water and continued. “No, Jeeves, nothing at all. I was just... ah... enjoying the scenery, you know?” I winced, realizing I’d used the same unsavory phrase Thumper had to describe Agatha yesterday. “I mean to say you. Watching you do... things. J-jolly interesting.”
“As you say, sir,” he acknowledged in a tone that made me wish I had a pillow on hand to throw at him. Really! When a chap’s new to this inverted business, his man shouldn’t be laughing at him at every turn. Not that Jeeves was laughing, mind you, but he was coming as near to that smug jocularity as he ever did. “Shall I lay out our blue suit for this morning’s repast, sir?”
I gaped at him. “I thought you said you wanted to attend me in the bath, Jeeves!”
“Yes, sir.” He nodded. “I have completed all the necessary tasks... unless there is something else?”
So, that was his game. The smirk he wore, in addition to his posish, which afforded an excellent view of the full Wooster corpus, informed me that he knew exactly what the ‘something else’ I might be wanting was. I’d have to ask for it though, the cheeky devil.
I tried to relax, pushing my rubber d. about with an air of noncha-something-or-other – the one that means a cove’s cool as an iced cucumber. “Oh, well, there might be something else, Jeeves.”
“What would that be, sir?” Jeeves pulled off the chilled vegetable number better than I ever could.
“Ah... well, it’s j-just...” I stuttered a bit now that we’d actually come to the heart of the matter, staring down at my ducky for reassurance. He squeaked encouragingly. “This, erm... when you do... and then the thing... well, a healthy young gentleman, you know? And he’s... Jeeves?”
I looked up when I heard the most peculiar sound emanating from my valet. If it had been any other fellow, I’d have said he snorted, but Jeeves doesn’t snort. I saw his hand moving hastily from his mouth to his side, but there remained a glimmer of laughter in his eyes. “Could it be, sir, that you would like to find your morning release?”
“Yes! Yes... that’s a jolly good way to put it, Jeeves.” I nodded vigorously.
“Very good, sir.” And he just stood there watching me.
I stared back at him for a good five seconds before saying, “Er... Jeeves?”
“You may proceed as you normally would, sir,” he returned. “I should like to observe, if it is not too bold a request to make.”
I thought of last night and his mouth, and how the little Wooster and I had made our pact regarding my hand, and its future in relation to stimulating the little Wooster. But, watching my man as he watched me, I couldn’t help the blood in my face relocating to more southerly portions of the anatomy. “Ob-observe away, old thing.” I swallowed and licked my lips, setting my loofah aside and reaching down to take matters in hand, as it were.
Jeeves moved closer to the tub, then, picking up the metal rack and setting it aside before reclining on the porcelain edge near my mid-section. Given the extra space, I pulled my legs up a bit and spread them apart, feeling not a little ridiculous. That embarrassment diminished to a vague sort of discomfort, though, as the thrill of having my man just watch me took over. Not to mention, any chap has a bit of trouble concentrating on how absolutely daffy he must look when he... well, when he’s otherwise occupied in activities that emphasize athletics over academics.
I had become quite good at stifling the noises related to this particular activity back in public school, so I didn’t have to cover my mouth as I had last night. Instead, I snaked out my free hand and ran it up my man’s pinstripe-bedecked thigh. I felt him shudder as my touch moved closer to the bulge I could see forming in his groin region.
“Sir, you don’t need to–”
“Do you like to watch, Jeeves?” I cut him off, emboldened by the slightly breathy quality of his voice, one hand stroking the little Wooster, and the other teasing as far up his leg as I could comfortably reach.
“Yes, sir.” He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, I could see they had darkened considerably. “You’re so very beautiful, sir.”
And there I faltered. I mean to say, how is a gentleman to respond to such a peculiar compliment? Beautiful? Wooster, B.?
Roguishly handsome? Certainly.
Lithe of frame and thin of form? I couldn’t deny it.
Beautiful, though? Fillies were beautiful. A Monet when caught at the right angle with your eyes half-closed was beautiful. Even a particularly fine specimen of hound might be labeled as such. But Bertram was none of the above.
“Please do not stop, sir.” There was a note of pleading in Jeeves’ tone, and I realized I’d stilled completely.
“S-sorry about that, old thing,” I replied, returning to my stroking of both the little Wooster and nearby the little Jeeves. This was no time for thinking. Jeeves likely had a much more developed definition of the word ‘beautiful’ than I did, having crammed about sixteen different dictionaries into his massive brain. I’d just have to ask him about it later.
He shifted closer, then, and I was able to reach the tent in his trousers. If he had been given to such things, I think Jeeves might just have moaned as I brushed my fingers across his need, feeling the heat through the fabric.
“Not worried about ‘letting go’ in your trousers in this case, Jeeves?” I asked, waggling a brow subjectively – hold on, that’s not the word I want... seductively! There we are.
“Sir...” He leaned down and captured my mouth as I continued to pay the little Jeeves the attention it so rightly deserved. A moment later, though, I felt his hands pushing mine away. I harrumphed my disapproval against his mouth, but then, I felt the most extraordinary thing as he replaced my hand. It was the little Jeeves.
A gentleman doesn’t like to go into details, but I will say that the little Jeeves complemented the big Jeeves in almost every way: It was tall, solid in frame, hard as chiseled marble beneath, but soft on the outside. My man had his eyes closed again, and I could see his chest rising and falling just as quickly as mine was. I sped up my stroking, eager to see my man come undone, and nearing that point myself.
It was but the work of the moment, tugging and twisting with that special flick that always makes the little Wooster jump up like that Jack fellow with his candlesticks. Jeeves let out a sharp hiss and produced a handkerchief, covering himself as I gave one last jerk, and he whispered, “Oh, sir!”
His head went back, his lips parted, and his eyes closed, the most gorgeous expression of ecstasy I’ve ever seen on another human being passing across his map as I felt the little Jeeves pulse beneath my hand.
The sight was enough to push me over the edge, as well, and I’m afraid I was a bit less subtle as I cried, “Jeeves!” into the still air.
I next became aware of my ducky grinning up at me in that friendly way he’s perfected over the years that let’s Bertram know when he’s done a very good job at something. Jeeves was back to his enigmatic self, hands at his sides as he looked to the young master for his next set of instructions.
“Sir, we are running a bit later than I had anticipated after that most pleasurable diversion, if you would continue with your ablutions, I shall see to your suit and ensuring that the brothers Pumphrey-Devereaux are awake and prepared for their part of our plan."
I nodded, grinning at him. “Whatever you’d like, Jeeves. I’ll be done here in the nearish to soonish.”
“Very good, sir.” He inclined his head and biffed off.
It took another ten minutes for me to finish, and once clean, I hopped out of the tub, dried myself off, and took care of shaving and brushing my teeth, before proceeding to the bedroom sans dressing gown. Jeeves had yet to return from his hunt for the young Pumphrey-Devereuxs, so I began gearing myself up for the day in the togs he’d laid out. It was only after I was hooking my braces to the front of my trousers that Jeeves returned, the air of a harried headmaster hanging heavy about his person.
“Trouble, Jeeves?” I asked, brow drawing down in concern as he took over dressing me.
“No, sir. The Pumphrey-Devereauxs were awake and very... enthusiastic when I looked in on them.”
“Why so prickly then, old thing?”
“Prickly, sir?” There was the stuffed frog making his appearance.
“Oh, do just tell me what’s niggling you, Jeeves.” I rolled my eyes as he knotted my tie. “You’ve gone practically porcupine.”
He remained silent for nearly ten seconds, and I began to worry that the young master had well and truly offended his man. “Mr. Warren Pumphrey-Devereux was not yet dressed when Mr. Richard Pumphrey-Devereaux admitted me to the room they were sharing, sir. I offered to assist Mr. Warren Pumphrey-Devereux and shortly discovered that he is a gentleman given to considerable passion.”
“He’s an excitable fellow, certainly,” I agreed, grabbing my brushes from atop the dresser and taking a moment to tame my dried mop of hair.
“Mr. Warren Pumphrey-Devereux was so impressed by the efficiency with which I dressed him, sir, that he offered to double my pay and vacation time should I accompany him back to his home in Herefordshire.”
“Well, of all the bally nerve!” I fairly snarled. “You’re my man!”
“Indeed, sir. I attempted to impress this upon Mr. Warren Pumphrey-Devereux, but he would not be dissuaded. I was only able to extract myself from the room by intimating that I had a profound contempt for foxhounds and would find living on an estate with six hundred of the animals akin to an extended sojourn in the infernal regions.”
“Too right!” I nodded. “I’ll have to give Thumper a talking to once we’re all through. Hmph! Imagine trying to snatch a gentleman’s personal gentleman right out from under his nose. Sticky being enamored of Agatha was bad enough, but this is the absolute bally limit!”
“It is most gratifying to hear you voice your opposition in such a vociferous manner, sir.”
“Well, you’re mine, Jeeves,” I huffed. “I think a chap’s entitled to be a bit possessive when he’s head over spats for another chap.”
“Very true, sir. Shall we proceed to the dining room?” During the conversation, my shoes had found their way to my feet and my jacket to my shoulders, so I agreed readily.
“Oh, but Jeeves, what about the whistle?” I frowned. “You haven’t forgotten it, have you?”
“The item is in the right pocket of your trousers, sir. I took the liberty of placing it there before you donned the garment.” I felt the p. in q. and found the little metal piece tucked inside.
“All set, then, I think.” With this pronouncement, we started downstairs.
Even between the bath and our divertissement, I was still the first guest in the dining room that morning. Jeeves faded away to assist the rest of the staff in setting out the breakfast spread while I procured the regular eggs and b. along with a glass of orange juice.
It was only as I was digging into my second helping of the good stuff that I was joined by Bingo and Rosie.
“What ho, Bertie!” Bingo acknowledged. He and Mrs. Bingo grabbed their own plates of food before joining me at my lonely end of the table. “You’re up awfully early, aren’t you?”
“Oh, well, you know how it is, what?”
“Do tell, Bertie,” Rosie insisted, not looking quite like the jolly authoress all her print ads made her out to be, “how is it? Richard and I were woken by you screaming this morning, so I should be most interested.
“What?” I blanched.
“That’s right,” Bingo joined in. “Sounded like you were yelling for Jeeves.”
“Oh, er...” I fumbled a piece of bacon and had to chase it to the floor, which afforded me an excuse for my face being so red when I popped up a moment later. “More at Jeeves. We... we were having a disagreement about my choice of tie for the day, what? You know how I have to put my foot down when it comes to matters sartorial with Jeeves, Bingo, old fruit.”
He nodded sympathetically, then leaned in to relate in a whisper, “Rosie’s the same way. She won’t let me wear my horseshoe tie or lavender socks anymore.”
I coughed, and turned away before he could see me darkening to an even deeper shade of rouge. Comparing Jeeves to a wife was just a bit much for this Wooster’s nerves so early in the ack emma.
We were joined by a steady trickle of birds and beazels as the hour approached 8:00, though most notably Stiffy and Stinker. Stiffy filled her own plate with food and smirked at me before planting herself and Stinker beside Madeline and across from Lord and Lady Wickhammersley around the middle portion of the table. Cynthia sat down on my right and Angela took up residence beside Rosie at some point. I found my attention drifting as my pretend para-whatsit enthralled Rosie, Bingo, and Angela with a story from a women’s travel guide she’d read that talked about giant blue crabs going absolutely barmy off the coast of Indonesia and attacking the native weasel-type thingummies. I’d had my fill of breakfast by then and was shifting between watching the grandfather clock in the corner and Jeeves as he shimmered to and fro to re-fill glasses and be generally useful and servantish.
“Mr. Bertram Wooster, are you awake in there?” I started at the tap on my shoulder and looked over to see Agatha taking the unoccupied seat to my left.
“Oh!” I blinked at her. “Agatha, old fruit. Sorry, the mind was elsewhere, what?”
“I could see that, Bertie.” She laughed. “How are you this morning, then?”
I felt a grin stretching across my map before I could even begin to contain it. “I’m feeling wonderful, spiffing, absolutely topping!”
“Would you care for more orange juice, sir?” Talking of ‘wonderful, spiffing, and topping’.
“No, thank you, Jeeves. I think I’ll be fine.” I shifted my beam to him, and was delighted to see the briefest quirk of his mouth in return.
“Very good, sir. May I offer you anything else, Mrs. Christie?”
“I’m fine, as well, Mr. Jeeves.” She held up her hand to halt him. “Bertie was just telling me that he’s having a nice morning. I hope you are, too?”
“Indeed, madam. It is most kind of you to inquire.” He inclined his head before gliding off to tend to the other guests. I watched him go, another smile tugging at the young master’s lips. When I turned my gaze back to Agatha, she was studying me with such intensity, I blushed.
“All right, Bertie,” she began, leaning in and lowering her voice so that I had to shift toward her a bit to hear, “which of you boys cracked first?”
“Cracked?” I blinked at her. “Bartholomew bit me, Agatha. No cracking was involved.”
“I mean who jumped who, Bertie?” she insisted with an exasperated sigh.
Cracking? Jumping? I hadn’t the faintest idea of what she was on about. “Agatha, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re on about, but it sounds jolly dangerous. What on God’s green e. are you trying to say?”
She made another small sound of frustration in the back of her throat, then leaned even closer, murmuring directly into my ear. “I mean, did Mr. Jeeves finally snap and snog you silly last night?”
“I say!” I I-sayed her, jerking back and letting my jaw drop to the level of the floor.
“Something the matter, dear heart?” Cynthia inquired.
“I-I... it’s...” I couldn’t even begin to put together an incoherent sentence, let alone an excuse for the outburst that made sense.
Agatha swooped to the rescue. “Oh, I’m afraid that’s my fault. It is a bit of a scandalous joke with two friars being involved, isn’t it, Bertie?”
Bingo demanded to hear the joke immediately, but Agatha covered her face and shook her head saying that it was much too embarrassing, especially after my reaction. Cynthia was eventually able to pull the conversation back to the curious habits of marine whatsits, and the Wooster gray matter rallied ‘round to provide me with enough wherewithal to demand in a whisper, “How did you...?”
“Bertie, I make my living writing about people concealing secrets, most of them terrible, but some of them wonderful,” she said. “I could tell that you and Mr. Jeeves were hiding something from one another along with the rest of the world, but today... it was only the world you were keeping out. I don’t really know a better way to explain it.”
“Y-you won’t tell anyone, will you?” If they still followed the laws from when that Wilde chappie was strolling about in his lavender gloves with a green carnation in his buttonhole, it would be into the chokey with Bertram and Jeeves. “Please, Agatha, you can’t,” I begged. “I know it’s all terribly unnatural and illegal and immoral, but I love Jeeves, and I can’t–”
“Calm down, Bertie.” She placed a hand on my shoulder. “Your secret is safe with me on one condition.”
“Anything! Anything at all, old fruit!” I assured, hardly daring to breathe.
“Tell me what happened.”
I frowned at her. “Why?”
“Because I’ve made a bet with myself, and I should like to know which side’s won.”
“Well... I...” I could feel the blush creeping back. “I kissed Jeeves first. He was just talking about the love that dare not speak its name, and he’d leaned in close, and I just...” I stared down at the empty glass of orange juice in my hands and coughed. “Matters progressed from there.”
I chanced a quick peek at Agatha’s map and was surprised to see a grin spreading from ear-to-ear.
“What are you two muttering about over there, then?” Cynthia demanded good-naturedly. “Not trying to steal my fiancé, I hope, Mrs. Christie.”
Agatha’s smile turned wry, and she winked. “Oh, I hardly think that would be possible, Cynthia. He seems to be quite devoted to the one he loves.”
“Isn’t he j–”
Before she could finish, a maid came tearing into the dining room screeching, “Lady Wickhammersley! Lady Wickhammersley! Oh, it’s ‘orrible! ‘Orrible!”
“Calm down, you silly girl!” Lady Wickhammersley snapped, rising and glaring across the table. I noted Thumper and Sticky sneaking in surreptitiously whilst the attention of the room was focused on the unfortunate servant. “What’s happened that’s so horrible?”
“It’s-it’s the garden, ma’am,” the girl whimpered, and I felt a tug at the Woosterly heartstrings. “We were goin’ to set up the tea tables, b-but...”
“Spit it out already!”
“But your prized begonias is all dug up, ma'am!” the maid cried. “An’ the little monster what done it chased me’n the others back inside afore we could try to fix it.”
Lady Wickhammersley’s eyes went wide, then narrowed as she turned her head to look at Stiffy, slowly balling her hands into fists and flaring her nostrils. “What monster would that be, Gloria?”
“A dog, ma’am.” Gloria sniffled. “A little black dog.”
“Stephanie Ophelia Byng.” I’d only heard such cold fury contained in three words before: when my Aunt Agatha caught me, Stinker, and Tuppy finger-painting a cricket match onto her favorite pastoral scene. I couldn’t sit down without wincing for nearly a week after that, my nanny had been sacked, and Stinker and Tuppy had been banned from setting foot in Aunt Agatha’s house for two years.
“L-Lady Wickhammersley, I don’t know how...” Stiffy stuttered, looking like a rabbit faced with a hungry fox.
“Ms. Byng, you will retrieve that menace and depart from my home this instant!” Lady Wickhammersley screamed, slamming her fist into the table so hard that several plates and glasses rattled.
A sick sensation started in my stomach at the confusion and fear marring Stiffy’s features, but one look over Agatha’s head at Jeeves told me that it could no longer be stopped. The plan was in motion.
Stinker helped Stiffy up and they hurried toward the back of the house. Some three seconds of silence followed before the majority of the party rose and followed - the buzzing noblesse drawn toward the scent of scandal. Cynthia and I struggled to lead the swarm, catching up Stiffy and Stinker as they were pushing open the back doors and running toward the gardens.
“Bartholomew!” Stiffy yelled, seeing George Chilcott in the garden, protecting the last of the begonias from the fuzzy whirlwind of destruction with a chair as he yapped and snarled. “Leave him alone you stuffy old birder! He’s not trying to hurt anything! Oh, Bartholomew, stop!” The rest of the party had spread out to watch the spectacle, myself and Cynthia straying toward one of the few trees on the estate – an oaky affair with several low branches.
“Ready, my dear?” I whispered to Cynthia, catching her hand as Stiffy and Stinker reached the combatants.
“Better now than never,” she mumbled back, tensing.
I reached into my pocket, withdrew the whistle, cupped it in my hand and blew. Bartholomew went silent for a moment, and Stiffy tried to snag his collar. He jerked away with a howl of fury and barreled Wooster and Wickhammersley-ward.
“Good Lord! Bertie! Cynthia! Run!” Bingo advised.
We didn’t need to be told twice. On feet as fleet as that Greek chappie with the winged boots, Cynthia and I legged it for the tree.
“Angela!” I heard someone call and chanced a look behind to see that, beyond Bartholomew’s shining white fangs, Tuppy had grasped my cousin close, ready to defend her from the little hellhound should he change direction without warning. Well, hopefully that was one other conflict resolved.
“Bertie, help!” Cynthia had reached the tree and was struggling upward. I’m afraid I was rather unceremonious about grasping her legs and shoving her onto the nearest branch. “Bertie!”
I followed with Bartholomew snapping at my heels and continued up past her, pulling out the whistle and blowing again. The little chap went wild, yapping and snapping and generally ignoring all of Stiffy’s commands as Cynthia screamed for someone to help us.
“Bertram Wooster! You will get down from that tree and protect my daughter like a man!” Lady Wickhammersley shouted, the crowd drawing as close as it dared around our tenuous haven.
I stopped off blowing on the whistle long enough to shout back, “Lady Wickhammersley, I may be mentally negligible, but I’m not a bally idiot!”
“You coward!” she shrieked. “Someone save her! Someone save my–”
“Stop, George! He’ll tear your leg off!” That was Lord Wickhammersley, but George Chilcott broke free and raced toward Bartholomew. Cynthia was sobbing into her hands by that point, and I was fairly sure she wasn’t just pretending at the hysterics anymore. I felt like screaming and shaking myself, truth be told. Say what you will of this Wooster, but seeing a dog that could send Jeeves scrambling for the nearest high ground lunging at me with teeth bared was enough to drive the iron from the bravest of men’s spines.
“Cynthia!” I looked down in time to see Chilcott tackle Bartholomew, wrestling the brute into submission and clamping a hand over his muzzle until he whimpered his defeat.
Stiffy rushed forward, her makeup in streaks down her face, and hooked a leash to Bartholomew’s collar. Stinker was right by her side, hugging her as she knelt toward the toppled titan and petted his head, apologizing for the nasty man who’d hurt him.
For his part, Chilcott has turned his attention to the tree, holding his arms up for Cynthia. She jumped down, hugging him fiercely around the neck. “Oh, Geo!”
“Cynthia!”
The garden party broke into applause and Lord and Lady Wickhammersley rushed forward to hug and kiss their daughter and thank Chilcott for his heroism. Seemingly forgotten, I pocketed the whistle and climbed carefully down. I was just considering slinking away when Lady Wickhammersley’s voice stopped me.
“What do you have to say for all this, Ms. Byng? That-that creature could have bitten my daughter and infected her with whatever manic disease he’s carrying.”
“He’s never acted like this before!” Stiffy insisted. “I don’t know what happened. He was in my room when I left.”
“Obviously he wasn’t,” Lady Wickhammersley returned. Tears welled up once more in Stiffy’s eyes, and my heart went out to her.
“Er, sorry... I don’t mean to interrupt,” I interjected with a wave. “It’s just, well... about Bartholomew...”
Everyone turned their eyes to me, most curious, Lady Wickhammersley furious, Chilcott and Cynthia confused, and Thumper and Sticky terrified.
“What about him, Mr. Wooster?”
“Ah... well... it’s a rummy thing.” I gulped under her narrowed gaze. In that moment, she bore a striking resemblance to the old nephew-crusher. “You see, Stiffy and I got into a bit of a tiff yesterday, so to get her back, I thought I’d... er... set the old four-legged fiend there free so that he could give her a bit of a scare when he was gone after she’d returned from breakfast. Never thought the little chap would find his way outside.”
“When did you let him out of the room, Mr. Wooster?” Lady Wickhammersley demanded. “You were down at breakfast when Ms. Byng arrived.”
“Oh. I suppose that’s right. Ah.” I began to sweat. “Ah, I paid a chap, one of the staff – can’t remember his name – to do the deed for me. Last night, you know. Cooked up the scheme and all that.”
“Bertie, you-you bounder!” Stiffy snarled. “How could you do something like that over a stupid... ugh!”
Stinker was looking none-too-pleased with me either.
“So,” Lady Wickhammersley began, stalking toward me, gripping my tie, and using it to jerk me forward, “not only are you an insufferable coward, you’re responsible for the destruction of my begonias and putting poor Cynthia in harm’s way.”
“S-sorry?”
She slapped me so hard it left my ears ringing. “Get out of my house, Bertram Wooster. You will never marry my daughter. There are obviously men far more worthy.” And here, she cast an approving eye upon Chilcott. “I shall be sending your aunt a letter with a very detailed account of just what a worthless leech you are. Jeeves!” I spotted my man lurking in the crowd as she did. “Prepare your master’s things. He’s leaving.”
“Very good, madam.” He cast me a significant look, and I let myself breathe a sigh of relief as I stumbled away and back toward the house. At least the manuscript had been retrieved.
“Really, though, Bertram,” I mumbled to myself, rubbing the sting from my cheek, “you couldn’t have just gone with the plan, could you?”
(Back to Chapter 13)
(Onward to Chapter 15)
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no subject
Date: 2010-11-06 05:29 am (UTC)Jeeves wanting to watch Bertie was hot. Those boys. :D
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Date: 2010-11-06 05:55 am (UTC)Glad you liked that bit! Voyeuristic!Jeeves is fun to write. :D
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Date: 2010-11-06 08:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-06 04:52 pm (UTC)your Bertie is unusually adorable.
and I like Rosie joining Jeeves in being the clothes police. she so would.
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Date: 2010-11-06 05:30 pm (UTC)Oh YES!!!
Date: 2010-11-06 05:17 pm (UTC)Re: Oh YES!!!
Date: 2010-11-06 05:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-06 05:19 pm (UTC)A-and now Bertie and Jeeves can get back to London, y/y? :D
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Date: 2010-11-06 05:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-09 09:58 am (UTC)I love this: I stopped off blowing on the whistle long enough to shout back, “Lady Wickhammersley, I may be mentally negligible, but I’m not a bally idiot!”
I think Bertie is very smart.
no subject
Date: 2010-11-09 11:33 am (UTC)