Short Fic: Affectionately, Bertie Wooster

[wotwotleigh.livejournal.com]

Title: Affectionately, Bertie Wooster
Author: Wotwotleigh
Pairing: Bertie/Pauline (but the story is pretty gen)
Rating: G
Words: 740
Summary: Bertie replies to a letter from Jeeves.
Disclaimer: Jeeves, Bertie et al. belong to P. G. Wodehouse. I just wrote this for fun.
Author's Notes: This is the third (and probably final?) installment in my epistolary series that started with Dear Mr. Jeeves. The second part is Jeeves Replies (and there is an awesome remix reply by erynn999  here).

 

Jeeves, you old son-of-a-bachelor,

                Where the devil did you spring up from? Good lord. I mean to say, good lord! You may consider me officially blowed.

                Mind you, I’ve known something rummy was up for some time now.  Rosie had been slinking furtively about the mailbox for almost a month, starting at small noises and pushing away her morning Cheerios untasted. Still, nothing could have prepared me for the shock I got when she slipped your letter to me this morning alongside the eggs and b. I must have beaten the world record for the men’s sitting high jump. How she got hold of you, I still haven’t the foggiest inkling. The little squirt’s been dashed mysterious about the whole thing.

                First off, I want to soundly check all this rot about begging my forgiveness. Pauline told me all about that letter you sent her directly after she got it. I simply took it as read that you were too busy giving it to the Nazis in the seat of the pants or cracking codes in some secret lair on Baker Street to waste time hobnobbing with former employers. Dash it, I’m just jolly well chuffed to finally know you’re still alive and kicking. Pauline cried about five gallons when I showed her your letter this morning, and I don’t mind telling you I might have shed a manly t. or two myself.  

                Of course you may come and visit us.  Good gosh, what a question. In fact, I would venture to say that “must”, rather than “may”, is the mot juste. Sooner rather than later, I should think. We shall roll out the red carpet and slaughter the fatted calf. I won’t stand any guff about you paying your own way, either. As soon as you can possibly disentangle yourself from your duties to king and country, I shall secure your first class accommodations aboard the RMS Queen Elizabeth.

                I’ll say there have been developments since we last spoke. Scads of them, in fact. Of course, you knew about Pauline, but I’m sure having various Rosie Woosters suddenly pop out at you unexpectedly must have been a bit of a shock to your system. It has been to mine. How such a wonderful kid could have issued from such a superlatively goofy parent as Bertram is beyond me. I suppose the credit for that must go entirely to Pauline, who, as far as I am concerned, is an angel in human form. If she hadn’t come along, no doubt I would have managed to tie my shoelaces together or set fire to my flat within a week of being left to my own devices. What is that gag about women and brows? Oh Woman, something something ease . . . It escapes me for the moment, but I’m sure you know the one. What I’m trying to get at is that she’s always on the spot whenever there’s something amiss with the Wooster brow, and she’s not a bad sport in my hours of ease, either.

                I don’t think I could bung in enough superlatives to properly cover my assessment of Rosie, so I’ll just say that she is the a. of my e. and indisputably the best kid ever made. “Could I but teach the hundredth part of what from thee I learn, Rosie old pickle,” I am always saying to her. What a serious-minded little thing she is. Rather reminds me of you.  You know, I’ve told her a goodish number of stories about you over the years, and before your letter surfaced I think she was starting to get the idea that her dear old dad was bursting with bologna. I’ll admit I may have stretched a point or two in the interest of entertainment, but these young squirts nowadays won’t let you get anything past them in the manner of oompus-boompus.  

                Well, I have about a million and one more things I should like to say to you, and at least as many questions to ask you, but I am just going to dig my heels in and wait until you get here in person. We’re long overdue for a tête-à-tête. Sometimes it’s dashed difficult to find the words for how I feel at a moment like this, but, well . . . suffice it to say I’ve bally well missed you, my dear old soul. Do come soon.

                Sincerely  Affectionately, dash it, 
               
                Bertie Wooster