Fic: Meet the Family, Part 1
Jun. 18th, 2011 12:38 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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indeedsir_backupI have an idea for a loosely-related series of "meet the family" fics involving various family members from both the Wooster and the Jeeves clans. I don't really know how many I'll write, but I've had a lot of fun with this one so far. It is, of course, just an excuse to get too many perspectives on our favorite couple. I hope you enjoy it!
Title: Rebecca, part 1
Author: Cucumbermoon
Pairing: Jeeves/Bertie
Rating: G
Words: 5319
Summary: Jeeves and Bertie take a little trip to Kent.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nothing at all. I borrow everything.
Rebecca washed her hands in the kitchen sink, more for something to do than out of any real need. It passed a moment or so, and it had the added benefit of allowing her to stare out of her kitchen window which was, conveniently enough, positioned directly above the sink. From her old, familiar vantage point, Rebecca could see well up the main street of her comfortable little village of Broadstairs. Automobiles seldom passed this way, and for at least twenty five minutes the street had been utterly silent.
Rebecca was a rational woman, not much given to flights of fancy. Nevertheless, as she stood before her window, interminably waiting, she could not help but allow her mind to travel over all the time she had spent standing just here, doing just this. In the modest, narrow front garden that lay before her, she had watched her husband fuss with his vegetables. She had watched her two children tumble about, watched them depart for school, watched them smoke their cigarettes and kiss their sweethearts goodbye. She had watched all of this from her kitchen window, and, from her kitchen window, she had watched it pass her by. Now, of course, the garden was empty, her husband five years dead, her children now all grown and married and moved on. For some time she had spent her days in a sort of haze, playing a few hands of bridge with her neighbors, reading books in the waning sunshine, drinking her tea and waiting for the frequent – but not quite frequent enough – visits from her loving but quite distracted children.
Life, for Rebecca, had settled into a humdrum sort of pattern. It wasn't that she was unhappy; this free, idle time was all that she had dreamed of during her more hectic days. She did love to sit back, with hours of uninterrupted time ahead of her, and begin on a long-anticipated volume of Spinoza, or some other improving book. Still, she missed, to some extent, the excitement of her youth, or rather, the anticipation of future excitement that, as it happened, had never quite come to pass. It seemed odd to her that she should be living the retired life of a bygone matriarch at the young age of forty two, but of course, she had settled into the so-called business of life awfully young. Barely seventeen when her first child was born, widowed by a boating accident twenty years later, her son, Andrew, married three years, and now, most recently, her dear, sweet daughter Mabel married to that good-hearted wealthy half-wit. Life had passed her by, indeed, and so quickly she scarcely knew where it had gone.
But enough is enough, and Rebecca had never permitted herself to slide into self-pity. She had plenty of life left in her, of course, and regardless, today was going to be different. Today her brother was coming for an extended visit.
She wasn't entirely certain why. He had called her not a week before, sounding uncharacteristically exuberant, and informed her that his master (he was valet to some other wealthy nobleman of limited mental capacity) fancied a month by the sea and that they would very much appreciate accommodation. It was certainly out of the ordinary. Rebecca had puzzled over it every day since the initial call, even as she prepared her children's rooms for occupants. Certainly this Mr. Wooster of which her brother spoke so often was wealthy enough to take rooms at any one of the fine hotels that dotted the coast of Kent. She knew from her brother's letters that Mr. Wooster traveled often and thought nothing of throwing away hundreds of pounds on a cottage or a room. However, Reginald had been most unhelpful when she pressed him for information, saying only that Mr. Wooster was desirous of a homey and private place.
Well, Rebecca was happy to oblige; it had been far too long since Reginald had come for a visit. Indeed, she had barely seen him since he had begun in Mr. Wooster's service five years before. He had come to Arthur's funeral, and that was the last she had seen of him. Part of her was resentful, but then she knew her brother well enough not to take his inattentiveness to heart. He was uncomfortable with grief, and, furthermore, he was married, as it were, to his work. It seemed that he was well content in Mr. Wooster's service (quite the relief; it had taken him rather a long time to settle down) and that was that. He rarely called upon anyone whom he did not have a need for. It was simply who he was. For him, it was normal.
However, it was not normal that he should be nearly half an hour late. Rebecca had begun to worry, as she did rather often since Arthur's death. It put her in mind of the day of his accident, when he set off in the morning with a cheery wave and a promise to return by nightfall. She had spent hours waiting for him, staring out this very window into the deep, black night, and he never came. That same sick dread she felt that night had become almost habit to her, and as she stared out the window, waiting for her brother and his master, she could not help but imagine their automobile overturned in a ditch.
However, today her worries proved unnecessary, if worry ever was necessary, for there they were, speeding along down the main road in Mr. Wooster's little two-seater. Her brother sat in the passenger seat, holding his bowler onto his head with one leather-gloved hand. Mr. Wooster drove. She squinted at him as they drew near. She had never seen this man before, but she had long been curious. Her brother spoke of him relentlessly during their telephone conversations, and wrote of him extensively – indeed, almost exclusively – in all of his letters. Reginald's obsession with this young man had quickly cemented itself in her mind as a matter of importance, for though she had seen him infrequently since her marriage, they had been as close as siblings can be in their youth and she knew him at least as well as he knew himself, if not better.
She focused her eyes unwaveringly upon Reginald's master as he deftly parked his car and vaulted himself over the vehicle's closed door. He exchanged a few words with Reginald as the latter carefully extricated himself from his seat, and Rebecca noted how Mr. Wooster beamed benevolently at him all the while. Reginald offered a stiff sort of smile in return and voiced a short word or two. As Reginald fetched their bags from the back of the vehicle, Mr. Wooster placed his hands on his hips and drew in a great breath, surveying Rebecca's humble abode with an oddly proud look upon his countenance. He was a tall fellow, though not much taller than Reginald. He was rail thin, especially through the chest and legs, and thus stood apart from Reginald's somewhat thicker build. His cap sat upon his copper blonde hair at a jaunty angle, perfectly suited to his traveling tweeds. He looked, really, like any other vapid and careless young gentleman, come to the seaside for a month's relaxation. Had she passed him upon the shore, she would have paid him no mind, having seen a thousand such men in her time. Nevertheless, she reminded herself sternly that his appearances were doubtless misleading. This was not – could not be – any ordinary gentleman, for the simple fact that this was the man with whom Reginald had fallen hopelessly in love.
He had not confessed as much to her, but then, Reginald didn't have to. Rebecca had known of her brother's unusual proclivities since... well, since he was old enough to have proclivities. He had always had an eye for a well-formed lad, and if said lad happened to be light-haired, blue eyed, and thin, well, all the better. This Mr. Wooster certainly fit those requirements; he was just Reginald's type.
Someone who did not know Reginald as well as Rebecca did might be surprised to learn that he invariably went for the willowy, carefree sort, the kind who simply refused to take anything seriously. Rebecca's own theory was that Reginald required such a lighthearted soul to offset his own stolid heaviness. She had certainly done the same when she chose Arthur. The Jeeves blood carried intelligence, and a morose, ponderous disposition to match. One such as she, or he, needed some joviality.
She watched as Mr. Wooster made some sort of airy quip to her brother and then barked out a laugh. Reginald smiled again, and though his smile was tight, his eyes were undeniably appreciative.
So Mr. Wooster was young and handsome enough, blithe and blue-eyed. It was easy to see the initial attraction. What worried her, however, was the obvious depth of her brother's attachment, the ardent, almost worshipful timber of his voice when he spoke of this man. Reginald was in deep, and it hurt Rebecca's heart to know it. She had always worried about him, fretted that he was doomed to loneliness, or to brief shameful trysts with unsavory, anonymous men. Her little brother was a natural homebody, someone who wanted nothing more than to live a quiet, respectable life with a dependable companion, and Rebecca could think of no one who deserved it more than he. But if he had fallen as completely as she believed, then heartbreak seemed certain. Always before he had gotten by on minor infatuations that could be easily replaced when he inevitably moved on to a new place of employment, but everything about this Mr. Wooster situation was new and different. Reginald, she knew, had settled for good, as far as he was concerned, and it seemed highly doubtful that this young, spirited gentleman would be willing to settle for anyone, much less a prudish, obstinate manservant. She wondered if perhaps her brother had lost his mind at last. Certainly he could see that there was nothing but air between this admittedly fetching young man's ears. Certainly he knew he was a fool to love him. So why, for Heaven's sake, had he brought this ridiculous fellow to meet her? She knew Reginald well enough to expect him to be ashamed of his folly, but his presence here was proof that, this time, he was proud of it. He must have lost his mind indeed.
With that troubling thought, she left her post at the sink and window and went to open the front door. When she did so, Mr. Wooster leaped into the air like a hart flying before the hounds. When he had recovered himself, he enveloped her in a broad, eager grin.
“Mrs. Anderson!” he cried, as if they were dear old friends, and rushed to her, one hand out. She took it cautiously, and before she could utter a sound the young man had bent over her hand and kissed it soundly. “What ho, what ho, what ho!” he said, straightening his long back and dropping her well-kissed hand. “I say! How good it is to finally meet you. Why, I feel as if I've known you for years, what?”
“Oh?” she asked, honestly surprised. “Does Reginald speak of me?”
“Oh yes, quite. Indeed. Yes! All the time!” the young man blathered. “I say, well... Not terribly often, actually. But he has most certainly mentioned your name, I think. Perhaps in connection with that business with Biffy, what? No, no. But that's not what I meant. I meant only that you're quite like him! Strikingly so. Yes.”
Rebecca's misgiving was growing rapidly. This fellow was an absolute, brainless fool. Reginald certainly had lost his sense as well as his heart, or perhaps he had grown senile early. Regardless, he couldn't have had his wits about him when he allowed this tittering moron to captivate his affection.
Reginald himself came forward now, carrying two suitcases, one in each hand. “Rebecca,” he said cordially, and her heart melted to see how supremely content was his smile.
“Please, come in,” she said, holding the door as her two guests passed. Watching them enter, one spritely, lithe and jittery, the other solid and thick as an ancient oak, she felt rather like she had been taken to the circus.
“I say!” Mr. Wooster said, gawking as if he had entered Buckingham Palace. “What a beautiful little place you have, Mrs. Anderson! A miniature house! It's just like the cottage I took in Chuffnell Regis! That was a charming little place, wasn't it Jeeves? But then, you weren't there with me, were you? Pity it had to burn down. Daresay that wouldn't have happened on your watch. Why, you've a window in your kitchen! Right above your sink! What do you think of that, Jeeves?”
“I have seen it before, sir,” Reginald intoned as he placed their bags upon the floor.
“I quite like that,” Mr. Wooster prattled. “I say. Why don't we have a window put in above our sink, Jeeves? Give you something to look at whilst you're doing the dishes, what?”
“I think, sir, that Mr. Manglehoffer would be quite distressed if we were to undertake such an action. You will also forgive me for pointing out, sir, that the placement of our kitchen is such that the window you speak of would inevitably look out upon our building's hallway.”
“Oh, is that so? Right. Well, at least it would give us a bit of a warning, eh? You could keep an eye out to see who was on their way in! Do me a dashed lot of good when Aunt Agatha comes for a visit.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“If you saw her coming, you could sound the alarum bells like they do in old Mac-whatsit's house–”
“Macbeth, sir.”
“That's the chappie. Then properly alerted, we could make for the hills and be scampering up the gangplank on a transatlantic liner before she reached our door!”
Reginald gave Rebecca a quick glance, half amused, half apologetic. Mr. Wooster, it seemed, noted his look and hurried to reassure her.
“You would understand if you had ever met my aunt. Snakes and wolves flee before her and she eats nails and spikes and such to sharpen her teeth. What are we to stand against her, mere mortals as we are, what?”
It occurred to Rebecca that Mr. Wooster was, for whatever reason, quite nervous. She could feel the tension wafting off of him; it encompassed her like steam, and his constant, mindless chatter smacked of apprehension. Was he always this way? Based on her brother's many descriptions of him, she would be inclined to think not. But then, could Reginald's judgement be trusted?
“Would either of you care for tea?” she asked.
“Heavens, yes!” Mr. Wooster nearly shouted. He bit off the second word and stole another glance at Reginald. Oddly, Reginald raised an eyebrow at him in almost a chiding manner. Rebecca recognized it as the way Reginald used to look at her children when their youthful exuberance got the better of them during a formal Christmas dinner. Rebecca expected, of course, that the young Mr. Wooster was too daft to pick up on such subtle expressions. Certainly her brother would not make them if Mr. Wooster understood; reprimanding his master would certainly earn him a boot out the door. But to Rebecca's everlasting shock, she noted an answering expression on Mr. Wooster's face, one that most certainly indicated contrition.
The entire exchange – and Rebecca's floundering assessment of the same – lasted no more than a second or two, at the end of which Reginald turned to her and said, “Mr. Wooster and I would be most grateful for refreshment.”
“Wonderful,” she said, feeling slightly dazed. “You might both take a seat at the table there while I prepare it, if you like.”
Mr. Wooster gladly complied, but Reginald motioned toward the luggage still standing in the kitchen.
“I'll take our things to our room in the meantime.”
“Oh, yes. I've put Mr. Wooster in Andrew's old room; it's slightly larger. I thought you, Reginald, would be comfortable in Mabel's.”
Again Reginald and Mr. Wooster exchanged a furtive look. Rebecca began to grow suspicious. Something decidedly odd was going on. Reginald glanced sideways at Mr. Wooster, who creased one eyebrow, then raised both. Then Reginald pursed his lips and tilted his head, and carried the bags off without a word. Rebecca had an odd feeling that she had just overheard a conversation in some sort of foreign language she didn't understand. Certainly information had been shared between the two, but how and what she could not begin to fathom.
Rebecca tried to pretend she hadn't noticed, and began to busy herself with the tea.
Once Reginald was out of sight, Mr. Wooster turned his attention entirely upon her.
“I say!” he said, “Dashed good of you to put us up like this. Of course, I know you're always happy to have Jeeves about, no doubt, he being kith and kin and all, and a dashed fine companion in the quiet hours of the evening as well, but I certainly wouldn't expect anyone to put up old Bertram who didn't have to. Well, perhaps Jeeves gave you a false impression, led you to believe I'm worth the trouble. He's been known to do that, you know, don't you know. Do you know, one time he told the mistress of a girl's school that I was a famous orator? She engaged me to give them a speech on life and perseverance or some such rot. I do believe I ended up giving them gambling tips. Well,–” Here, Mr. Wooster loudly and suddenly clapped his hands, “that will probably do them a sight better than any mumbo-jumbo I could have spouted about perseverance or strength of will. I haven't got those things to speak of anyway. Well, I've got the good old Wooster backbone, of course, but it isn't really mine. You see, I inherited it from my father. Oh, Heaven, help me.” He dropped his head into his hands.
“Is something troubling you, Mr. Wooster?” Rebecca asked, trying to sound impartial and unconcerned. Mr. Wooster uncovered his face and gazed up at her in what looked like awe.
“I say!” he cried. “You've got it too!”
“I'm sorry,” Rebecca intoned. “What have I?”
“That Jeevesian stuffed-frog look. That's the way Jeeves always looks at me when I'm being a complete ass. I am being a complete ass, aren't I? I'm terribly sorry. You see, I'm a little nervous. Agitated, you might say. I haven't been to Kent in... Gosh, must be nearly twenty years. I used to go to school here, you see, just a few miles away at Malvern. Not happy memories, those. I was living there when... Well, when I was orphaned, you know. I've always had what Jeeves would call a bad association with this particular county. He has a wonderful way with words, Jeeves. He keeps telling me to write my memoirs, and I keep telling him the only way my memoirs would be any good is if he wrote them. But that's beside the point. I suppose there isn't such bad fishing in some streams and such in the area? Jeeves fancies himself a fisherman. I'm sure you know that. He told me a month in Kent would be just the thing. I don't know what it would be just the thing for. I suppose it's meant to calm my nerves after that Steeple Bumpleigh affair, but then, Jeeves has always had a knack for getting what he wants. Have you noticed that?”
Rebecca, again feeling oddly dazed, said that she had.
“I'll bet you my last penny that he just wanted some fishing and cooked up some half-baked reason to get me here. Of course, you know, the nasty S. B. a. only started in the first place because Jeeves wanted to do some fishing there, as well.”
Rebecca realized with a jolt that she was staring at Mr. Wooster and had completely forgotten that she was supposed to be making tea. Strangely enough, it appeared that Mr. Wooster talked about Reginald precisely as often and as obsessively as Reginald talked about Mr. Wooster. A small, impossible notion began creeping into Rebecca's head. Certainly not, she told herself. Mr. Wooster, meanwhile, continued to prattle.
“Jeeves says that I have a sort of mania about Kent. He insisted that if I spent some time here, I'd see there was nothing to be afraid of. I suppose he has a point; I do rather feel that something absolutely horrid is going to happen to me if I ever go to Kent. But then, I think the same about Hampshire and Worcestershire. All in all, I suppose I only feel safe in about a quarter of England's counties; whichever ones where you can't find any member of the Wooster clan. Of course, there aren't really any members of the Wooster clan in Kent, so far as I can recall. And, of course, I'm certain that having a member or two of the Jeeves clan can only bespeak good and delightful things about a county, what?”
It took Rebecca a minute to realize that the smiling young man had just issued her a compliment. She granted him a small smile in return. “Perhaps. We do mean well, although we are not always easy to live with.”
“No? I should say you are. Well, not you. I don't know about you yet, do I?” He laughed. “But the entire point of this story is that Jeeves wanted me to come to Kent, and he assured me that I would feel far more comfortable if I were staying in a friendly home rather than a rented cottage or hotel or some-such thing. And you know how it is with Jeeves; once he's got a notion in his head, there isn't any stopping him, eh?”
Suddenly, Rebecca realized that she was still smiling, and that her smile had grown to encompass her entire being. She felt supremely happy. “That is most odd,” she said, “because Reginald told me on the telephone that it was you who were insisting on staying in someone's home.”
“Oh, yes, rather. I mean to say, he does that, what? I think it's his way of paving the road, so to speak. It all sounds legitimate if he claims 'the master wants this' and 'Mr. Wooster desires that.' We idle noblesse are all supposed to be forceful and determined to get our way, and Jeeves can keep his dignity by pretending that he is only following orders. I suppose it works out well for both of us. Folks who don't know us well think I've got things well in hand, and we have had some absolutely corking times that we never should have had if Jeeves had listened to me. Of course, anyone who really knows us tends to consider old Bertram to be a sort of an afterthought, don't you know. Jeeves is the star of this show.”
Mr. Wooster spoke without a hint of resentment. Indeed, he seemed quite happy and content that it should be so. Rebecca opened her mouth to speak, but at that moment Reginald reentered the kitchen. She watched in near amazement as Mr. Wooster's entire countenance lit up with joy. She realized, with no little amount of shock, that, in their own way, Reginald and Mr. Wooster were not so unlike Mabel and her husband Charles. In fact, they both seemed absolutely besotted.
Of course, she still wasn't certain if either of them was aware of the fact. How, after all, did such a thing come up, between men? It was terrifying enough to make the first move in normal relationships. In this case, Rebecca couldn't help but think that it would be all but impossible.
Thus, her brief joy was clouded over by doubt. Certainly Mr. Wooster was quite preoccupied with her brother, perhaps even in love with him, but what could ever come of it? And, of course, even if something did come of it, what kind of a life would it be for her brother, tied down to this – admittedly sweet – nitwit? He needed someone he could connect with intellectually. What possibility was there for that? And finally, this aristocratic youth was fascinated with Reginald for certain, but could he respect him? Could he really ever see him as anything more than a servant? It seemed unlikely, from what she knew of master and servant relations, and she knew quite a lot, having been the offspring of a butler and a lady's maid. She had seen how the nobles treated her parents. They gave them some respect, yes, and were generally kind, but at the end of the day, everyone involved knew precisely who was the master and who had to obey.
But then again, hadn't Mr. Wooster just said that he had made a habit of deferring to Reginald? Rebecca pursed her lips and concluded that she did not have enough information to make a judgement.
Betraying none of her thoughts, she brought her guests their tea.
“Mr. Wooster,” she said.
“Oh, thank you! And please, call me Bertie, if you would. Jeeves won't, not in pub–”
Reginald, shockingly, cut off Mr. Wooster's sentence with a sharp snort.
“Um,” Mr. Wooster stammered. “That is to say, call me Bertie. That's what I like my friends to call me.” He smiled sweetly. “And I do hope we'll be friends, um...”
“Rebecca,” she allowed and smiled back. She couldn't help it; she liked this dolt.
“Yes, Rebecca,” Bertie said. “Quite.” He and Reginald exchanged another one of their meaningful looks. Rebecca did her best to ignore it.
She handed Reginald his tea and sat down herself. For a long moment there was silence as all three sipped their tea reverently.
“Did you have a nice trip?” Rebecca asked presently.
“Quite nice,” Reginald answered, “Uneventful.”
“We did have a most fascinating discussion,” Bertie interjected. “Jeeves was telling me all about trees and what makes them change color in Autumn.”
“One wonders what, precisely, you learned at Eton and Oxford,” Reginald said quietly.
“Oh, well, we memorized an awful lot of kings' names. Ethelred the Unready was always a personal favorite of mine. I thought, if I were a monarch, that would certainly be my moniker. Bertram the Unready. But the trees and leaves and all that, it really was absolutely fascinating. Your brother is a fount of information, Rebecca. I feel an absolute fool in his presence. But you know, there's a lot more to him than that. Did he ever tell you about that swan?”
“I'm sorry,” Rebecca said, feeling suddenly lost. “Swan?”
“Yes, swan! He never told you? It's such a dashed wonderful story. You see, I was up on this gazebo, don't you know, and it was simply pouring, buckets of the wet stuff, all down my back, and... Oh, dash it. This isn't going to make any sense if I start there. Here, I'd best start right at the beginning. We were visiting my Aunt Agatha, you know, the one who conducts human sacrifices and eats children?”
And with that, Bertie launched into a twenty minute narrative that culminated, ultimately, in her brother tossing a raincoat over a swan's head. Afterward, Rebecca thought about that story and realized that it really wasn't that amazing what her brother had done; simply common sense, and not all that courageous. But while Bertie was telling it, she was utterly enthralled. It seemed to her, during the telling, that this was one of the finest stories she had ever heard. She could not say exactly why, but she found herself caught up in the emotion of the tale, first suppressing a gasp of shock and then, soon after, laughing out loud at some witty turn of phrase or bizarre predicament.
When at last Bertie had finished his story, Rebecca found that she only wanted to hear more. Fortunately, Bertie seemed more than willing to oblige.
“Oh, yes, well, speaking of Aunt Agatha and her animals, I remember the time, not so far back, when she went off on holiday and left me taking care of her dog, McIntosh.”
Thus, Bertie Wooster told stories for hours, though it did not seem like it. Rebecca looked at her grandfather clock and noted with alarm that it was nearly midnight, well past her usual hour to retire. She could not remember a time in her entire life when she had passed a merrier evening, a time when she had laughed more or felt better, or wished more fervently that it would not end. Mr. Wooster, she realized, had an incredible gift. He was brilliant even, in his own way. He had taken events that were in some cases unpleasant, some uninteresting, some alarming, and some downright terrible and spun them into pure joy, like straw into gold. Rebecca realized, as she made her apologies and rose from her seat, that for the first time since Arthur's death, she felt sincerely happy.
She paused and allowed herself to dwell on that fact for a moment. Then she looked at Mr. Wooster, who, it seemed, was in the middle of another one of his silent conversations with her brother, and said, “You know, Mr. Wooster, my brother is correct. You should write your memoirs. You have a gift. You could make a lot of people laugh. In fact...” she paused, trying to order her thoughts; she was very tired. “I think you could teach people how to enjoy their lives.”
As Mr. Wooster stammered his gratitude, she caught her brother's gaze, and again she saw his pure happiness and contentment shining out at her. She realized with a jolt that she had never seen him truly happy before. In an uncharacteristic moment of sentimentality, she placed one hand on her brother's shoulder and the other on Mr. Wooster's.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, and she earnestly meant it. “Good night.”
She was still somewhat troubled by her brother's predicament. Happy or not, it must certainly be a kind of Hell to love someone you could not have. It worried her so, she could not sleep. After an hour or so of restless turning and fretting, she left her bed with the vague idea that she might pour herself a glass of water. As she passed the bedrooms where her children had spent their nights, she noted with some alarm that Mabel's bedroom door was ajar, and the room was unoccupied. Had her brother still not retired? She hurried on to Arthur's room. This door was closed, but for some reason, she felt an irresistible urge to open it. She did so, just a crack, and then she stood in silent shock at the sight that she beheld.
Her brother had retired, as had Mr. Wooster. They were there together, sleeping soundly. Mr. Wooster lay upon his back, and Reginald on his side, his head nestled upon Mr. Wooster's shoulder, his arm about his waist.
Rebecca stared at them for only a few seconds before silently closing the door. Now, of course, she understood the mysterious silent conversation they had had when she told them their room assignments. They were accustomed, it seemed, to sharing a bed, and they had wordlessly agreed to continue to do so, separate rooms or no.
With a small smile that bespoke contentment and a cessation of worries, Rebecca returned to her room and settled herself back into bed. She closed her eyes and waited for sleep to take her. She simply could not wait for morning.
Title: Rebecca, part 1
Author: Cucumbermoon
Pairing: Jeeves/Bertie
Rating: G
Words: 5319
Summary: Jeeves and Bertie take a little trip to Kent.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nothing at all. I borrow everything.
Rebecca washed her hands in the kitchen sink, more for something to do than out of any real need. It passed a moment or so, and it had the added benefit of allowing her to stare out of her kitchen window which was, conveniently enough, positioned directly above the sink. From her old, familiar vantage point, Rebecca could see well up the main street of her comfortable little village of Broadstairs. Automobiles seldom passed this way, and for at least twenty five minutes the street had been utterly silent.
Rebecca was a rational woman, not much given to flights of fancy. Nevertheless, as she stood before her window, interminably waiting, she could not help but allow her mind to travel over all the time she had spent standing just here, doing just this. In the modest, narrow front garden that lay before her, she had watched her husband fuss with his vegetables. She had watched her two children tumble about, watched them depart for school, watched them smoke their cigarettes and kiss their sweethearts goodbye. She had watched all of this from her kitchen window, and, from her kitchen window, she had watched it pass her by. Now, of course, the garden was empty, her husband five years dead, her children now all grown and married and moved on. For some time she had spent her days in a sort of haze, playing a few hands of bridge with her neighbors, reading books in the waning sunshine, drinking her tea and waiting for the frequent – but not quite frequent enough – visits from her loving but quite distracted children.
Life, for Rebecca, had settled into a humdrum sort of pattern. It wasn't that she was unhappy; this free, idle time was all that she had dreamed of during her more hectic days. She did love to sit back, with hours of uninterrupted time ahead of her, and begin on a long-anticipated volume of Spinoza, or some other improving book. Still, she missed, to some extent, the excitement of her youth, or rather, the anticipation of future excitement that, as it happened, had never quite come to pass. It seemed odd to her that she should be living the retired life of a bygone matriarch at the young age of forty two, but of course, she had settled into the so-called business of life awfully young. Barely seventeen when her first child was born, widowed by a boating accident twenty years later, her son, Andrew, married three years, and now, most recently, her dear, sweet daughter Mabel married to that good-hearted wealthy half-wit. Life had passed her by, indeed, and so quickly she scarcely knew where it had gone.
But enough is enough, and Rebecca had never permitted herself to slide into self-pity. She had plenty of life left in her, of course, and regardless, today was going to be different. Today her brother was coming for an extended visit.
She wasn't entirely certain why. He had called her not a week before, sounding uncharacteristically exuberant, and informed her that his master (he was valet to some other wealthy nobleman of limited mental capacity) fancied a month by the sea and that they would very much appreciate accommodation. It was certainly out of the ordinary. Rebecca had puzzled over it every day since the initial call, even as she prepared her children's rooms for occupants. Certainly this Mr. Wooster of which her brother spoke so often was wealthy enough to take rooms at any one of the fine hotels that dotted the coast of Kent. She knew from her brother's letters that Mr. Wooster traveled often and thought nothing of throwing away hundreds of pounds on a cottage or a room. However, Reginald had been most unhelpful when she pressed him for information, saying only that Mr. Wooster was desirous of a homey and private place.
Well, Rebecca was happy to oblige; it had been far too long since Reginald had come for a visit. Indeed, she had barely seen him since he had begun in Mr. Wooster's service five years before. He had come to Arthur's funeral, and that was the last she had seen of him. Part of her was resentful, but then she knew her brother well enough not to take his inattentiveness to heart. He was uncomfortable with grief, and, furthermore, he was married, as it were, to his work. It seemed that he was well content in Mr. Wooster's service (quite the relief; it had taken him rather a long time to settle down) and that was that. He rarely called upon anyone whom he did not have a need for. It was simply who he was. For him, it was normal.
However, it was not normal that he should be nearly half an hour late. Rebecca had begun to worry, as she did rather often since Arthur's death. It put her in mind of the day of his accident, when he set off in the morning with a cheery wave and a promise to return by nightfall. She had spent hours waiting for him, staring out this very window into the deep, black night, and he never came. That same sick dread she felt that night had become almost habit to her, and as she stared out the window, waiting for her brother and his master, she could not help but imagine their automobile overturned in a ditch.
However, today her worries proved unnecessary, if worry ever was necessary, for there they were, speeding along down the main road in Mr. Wooster's little two-seater. Her brother sat in the passenger seat, holding his bowler onto his head with one leather-gloved hand. Mr. Wooster drove. She squinted at him as they drew near. She had never seen this man before, but she had long been curious. Her brother spoke of him relentlessly during their telephone conversations, and wrote of him extensively – indeed, almost exclusively – in all of his letters. Reginald's obsession with this young man had quickly cemented itself in her mind as a matter of importance, for though she had seen him infrequently since her marriage, they had been as close as siblings can be in their youth and she knew him at least as well as he knew himself, if not better.
She focused her eyes unwaveringly upon Reginald's master as he deftly parked his car and vaulted himself over the vehicle's closed door. He exchanged a few words with Reginald as the latter carefully extricated himself from his seat, and Rebecca noted how Mr. Wooster beamed benevolently at him all the while. Reginald offered a stiff sort of smile in return and voiced a short word or two. As Reginald fetched their bags from the back of the vehicle, Mr. Wooster placed his hands on his hips and drew in a great breath, surveying Rebecca's humble abode with an oddly proud look upon his countenance. He was a tall fellow, though not much taller than Reginald. He was rail thin, especially through the chest and legs, and thus stood apart from Reginald's somewhat thicker build. His cap sat upon his copper blonde hair at a jaunty angle, perfectly suited to his traveling tweeds. He looked, really, like any other vapid and careless young gentleman, come to the seaside for a month's relaxation. Had she passed him upon the shore, she would have paid him no mind, having seen a thousand such men in her time. Nevertheless, she reminded herself sternly that his appearances were doubtless misleading. This was not – could not be – any ordinary gentleman, for the simple fact that this was the man with whom Reginald had fallen hopelessly in love.
He had not confessed as much to her, but then, Reginald didn't have to. Rebecca had known of her brother's unusual proclivities since... well, since he was old enough to have proclivities. He had always had an eye for a well-formed lad, and if said lad happened to be light-haired, blue eyed, and thin, well, all the better. This Mr. Wooster certainly fit those requirements; he was just Reginald's type.
Someone who did not know Reginald as well as Rebecca did might be surprised to learn that he invariably went for the willowy, carefree sort, the kind who simply refused to take anything seriously. Rebecca's own theory was that Reginald required such a lighthearted soul to offset his own stolid heaviness. She had certainly done the same when she chose Arthur. The Jeeves blood carried intelligence, and a morose, ponderous disposition to match. One such as she, or he, needed some joviality.
She watched as Mr. Wooster made some sort of airy quip to her brother and then barked out a laugh. Reginald smiled again, and though his smile was tight, his eyes were undeniably appreciative.
So Mr. Wooster was young and handsome enough, blithe and blue-eyed. It was easy to see the initial attraction. What worried her, however, was the obvious depth of her brother's attachment, the ardent, almost worshipful timber of his voice when he spoke of this man. Reginald was in deep, and it hurt Rebecca's heart to know it. She had always worried about him, fretted that he was doomed to loneliness, or to brief shameful trysts with unsavory, anonymous men. Her little brother was a natural homebody, someone who wanted nothing more than to live a quiet, respectable life with a dependable companion, and Rebecca could think of no one who deserved it more than he. But if he had fallen as completely as she believed, then heartbreak seemed certain. Always before he had gotten by on minor infatuations that could be easily replaced when he inevitably moved on to a new place of employment, but everything about this Mr. Wooster situation was new and different. Reginald, she knew, had settled for good, as far as he was concerned, and it seemed highly doubtful that this young, spirited gentleman would be willing to settle for anyone, much less a prudish, obstinate manservant. She wondered if perhaps her brother had lost his mind at last. Certainly he could see that there was nothing but air between this admittedly fetching young man's ears. Certainly he knew he was a fool to love him. So why, for Heaven's sake, had he brought this ridiculous fellow to meet her? She knew Reginald well enough to expect him to be ashamed of his folly, but his presence here was proof that, this time, he was proud of it. He must have lost his mind indeed.
With that troubling thought, she left her post at the sink and window and went to open the front door. When she did so, Mr. Wooster leaped into the air like a hart flying before the hounds. When he had recovered himself, he enveloped her in a broad, eager grin.
“Mrs. Anderson!” he cried, as if they were dear old friends, and rushed to her, one hand out. She took it cautiously, and before she could utter a sound the young man had bent over her hand and kissed it soundly. “What ho, what ho, what ho!” he said, straightening his long back and dropping her well-kissed hand. “I say! How good it is to finally meet you. Why, I feel as if I've known you for years, what?”
“Oh?” she asked, honestly surprised. “Does Reginald speak of me?”
“Oh yes, quite. Indeed. Yes! All the time!” the young man blathered. “I say, well... Not terribly often, actually. But he has most certainly mentioned your name, I think. Perhaps in connection with that business with Biffy, what? No, no. But that's not what I meant. I meant only that you're quite like him! Strikingly so. Yes.”
Rebecca's misgiving was growing rapidly. This fellow was an absolute, brainless fool. Reginald certainly had lost his sense as well as his heart, or perhaps he had grown senile early. Regardless, he couldn't have had his wits about him when he allowed this tittering moron to captivate his affection.
Reginald himself came forward now, carrying two suitcases, one in each hand. “Rebecca,” he said cordially, and her heart melted to see how supremely content was his smile.
“Please, come in,” she said, holding the door as her two guests passed. Watching them enter, one spritely, lithe and jittery, the other solid and thick as an ancient oak, she felt rather like she had been taken to the circus.
“I say!” Mr. Wooster said, gawking as if he had entered Buckingham Palace. “What a beautiful little place you have, Mrs. Anderson! A miniature house! It's just like the cottage I took in Chuffnell Regis! That was a charming little place, wasn't it Jeeves? But then, you weren't there with me, were you? Pity it had to burn down. Daresay that wouldn't have happened on your watch. Why, you've a window in your kitchen! Right above your sink! What do you think of that, Jeeves?”
“I have seen it before, sir,” Reginald intoned as he placed their bags upon the floor.
“I quite like that,” Mr. Wooster prattled. “I say. Why don't we have a window put in above our sink, Jeeves? Give you something to look at whilst you're doing the dishes, what?”
“I think, sir, that Mr. Manglehoffer would be quite distressed if we were to undertake such an action. You will also forgive me for pointing out, sir, that the placement of our kitchen is such that the window you speak of would inevitably look out upon our building's hallway.”
“Oh, is that so? Right. Well, at least it would give us a bit of a warning, eh? You could keep an eye out to see who was on their way in! Do me a dashed lot of good when Aunt Agatha comes for a visit.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“If you saw her coming, you could sound the alarum bells like they do in old Mac-whatsit's house–”
“Macbeth, sir.”
“That's the chappie. Then properly alerted, we could make for the hills and be scampering up the gangplank on a transatlantic liner before she reached our door!”
Reginald gave Rebecca a quick glance, half amused, half apologetic. Mr. Wooster, it seemed, noted his look and hurried to reassure her.
“You would understand if you had ever met my aunt. Snakes and wolves flee before her and she eats nails and spikes and such to sharpen her teeth. What are we to stand against her, mere mortals as we are, what?”
It occurred to Rebecca that Mr. Wooster was, for whatever reason, quite nervous. She could feel the tension wafting off of him; it encompassed her like steam, and his constant, mindless chatter smacked of apprehension. Was he always this way? Based on her brother's many descriptions of him, she would be inclined to think not. But then, could Reginald's judgement be trusted?
“Would either of you care for tea?” she asked.
“Heavens, yes!” Mr. Wooster nearly shouted. He bit off the second word and stole another glance at Reginald. Oddly, Reginald raised an eyebrow at him in almost a chiding manner. Rebecca recognized it as the way Reginald used to look at her children when their youthful exuberance got the better of them during a formal Christmas dinner. Rebecca expected, of course, that the young Mr. Wooster was too daft to pick up on such subtle expressions. Certainly her brother would not make them if Mr. Wooster understood; reprimanding his master would certainly earn him a boot out the door. But to Rebecca's everlasting shock, she noted an answering expression on Mr. Wooster's face, one that most certainly indicated contrition.
The entire exchange – and Rebecca's floundering assessment of the same – lasted no more than a second or two, at the end of which Reginald turned to her and said, “Mr. Wooster and I would be most grateful for refreshment.”
“Wonderful,” she said, feeling slightly dazed. “You might both take a seat at the table there while I prepare it, if you like.”
Mr. Wooster gladly complied, but Reginald motioned toward the luggage still standing in the kitchen.
“I'll take our things to our room in the meantime.”
“Oh, yes. I've put Mr. Wooster in Andrew's old room; it's slightly larger. I thought you, Reginald, would be comfortable in Mabel's.”
Again Reginald and Mr. Wooster exchanged a furtive look. Rebecca began to grow suspicious. Something decidedly odd was going on. Reginald glanced sideways at Mr. Wooster, who creased one eyebrow, then raised both. Then Reginald pursed his lips and tilted his head, and carried the bags off without a word. Rebecca had an odd feeling that she had just overheard a conversation in some sort of foreign language she didn't understand. Certainly information had been shared between the two, but how and what she could not begin to fathom.
Rebecca tried to pretend she hadn't noticed, and began to busy herself with the tea.
Once Reginald was out of sight, Mr. Wooster turned his attention entirely upon her.
“I say!” he said, “Dashed good of you to put us up like this. Of course, I know you're always happy to have Jeeves about, no doubt, he being kith and kin and all, and a dashed fine companion in the quiet hours of the evening as well, but I certainly wouldn't expect anyone to put up old Bertram who didn't have to. Well, perhaps Jeeves gave you a false impression, led you to believe I'm worth the trouble. He's been known to do that, you know, don't you know. Do you know, one time he told the mistress of a girl's school that I was a famous orator? She engaged me to give them a speech on life and perseverance or some such rot. I do believe I ended up giving them gambling tips. Well,–” Here, Mr. Wooster loudly and suddenly clapped his hands, “that will probably do them a sight better than any mumbo-jumbo I could have spouted about perseverance or strength of will. I haven't got those things to speak of anyway. Well, I've got the good old Wooster backbone, of course, but it isn't really mine. You see, I inherited it from my father. Oh, Heaven, help me.” He dropped his head into his hands.
“Is something troubling you, Mr. Wooster?” Rebecca asked, trying to sound impartial and unconcerned. Mr. Wooster uncovered his face and gazed up at her in what looked like awe.
“I say!” he cried. “You've got it too!”
“I'm sorry,” Rebecca intoned. “What have I?”
“That Jeevesian stuffed-frog look. That's the way Jeeves always looks at me when I'm being a complete ass. I am being a complete ass, aren't I? I'm terribly sorry. You see, I'm a little nervous. Agitated, you might say. I haven't been to Kent in... Gosh, must be nearly twenty years. I used to go to school here, you see, just a few miles away at Malvern. Not happy memories, those. I was living there when... Well, when I was orphaned, you know. I've always had what Jeeves would call a bad association with this particular county. He has a wonderful way with words, Jeeves. He keeps telling me to write my memoirs, and I keep telling him the only way my memoirs would be any good is if he wrote them. But that's beside the point. I suppose there isn't such bad fishing in some streams and such in the area? Jeeves fancies himself a fisherman. I'm sure you know that. He told me a month in Kent would be just the thing. I don't know what it would be just the thing for. I suppose it's meant to calm my nerves after that Steeple Bumpleigh affair, but then, Jeeves has always had a knack for getting what he wants. Have you noticed that?”
Rebecca, again feeling oddly dazed, said that she had.
“I'll bet you my last penny that he just wanted some fishing and cooked up some half-baked reason to get me here. Of course, you know, the nasty S. B. a. only started in the first place because Jeeves wanted to do some fishing there, as well.”
Rebecca realized with a jolt that she was staring at Mr. Wooster and had completely forgotten that she was supposed to be making tea. Strangely enough, it appeared that Mr. Wooster talked about Reginald precisely as often and as obsessively as Reginald talked about Mr. Wooster. A small, impossible notion began creeping into Rebecca's head. Certainly not, she told herself. Mr. Wooster, meanwhile, continued to prattle.
“Jeeves says that I have a sort of mania about Kent. He insisted that if I spent some time here, I'd see there was nothing to be afraid of. I suppose he has a point; I do rather feel that something absolutely horrid is going to happen to me if I ever go to Kent. But then, I think the same about Hampshire and Worcestershire. All in all, I suppose I only feel safe in about a quarter of England's counties; whichever ones where you can't find any member of the Wooster clan. Of course, there aren't really any members of the Wooster clan in Kent, so far as I can recall. And, of course, I'm certain that having a member or two of the Jeeves clan can only bespeak good and delightful things about a county, what?”
It took Rebecca a minute to realize that the smiling young man had just issued her a compliment. She granted him a small smile in return. “Perhaps. We do mean well, although we are not always easy to live with.”
“No? I should say you are. Well, not you. I don't know about you yet, do I?” He laughed. “But the entire point of this story is that Jeeves wanted me to come to Kent, and he assured me that I would feel far more comfortable if I were staying in a friendly home rather than a rented cottage or hotel or some-such thing. And you know how it is with Jeeves; once he's got a notion in his head, there isn't any stopping him, eh?”
Suddenly, Rebecca realized that she was still smiling, and that her smile had grown to encompass her entire being. She felt supremely happy. “That is most odd,” she said, “because Reginald told me on the telephone that it was you who were insisting on staying in someone's home.”
“Oh, yes, rather. I mean to say, he does that, what? I think it's his way of paving the road, so to speak. It all sounds legitimate if he claims 'the master wants this' and 'Mr. Wooster desires that.' We idle noblesse are all supposed to be forceful and determined to get our way, and Jeeves can keep his dignity by pretending that he is only following orders. I suppose it works out well for both of us. Folks who don't know us well think I've got things well in hand, and we have had some absolutely corking times that we never should have had if Jeeves had listened to me. Of course, anyone who really knows us tends to consider old Bertram to be a sort of an afterthought, don't you know. Jeeves is the star of this show.”
Mr. Wooster spoke without a hint of resentment. Indeed, he seemed quite happy and content that it should be so. Rebecca opened her mouth to speak, but at that moment Reginald reentered the kitchen. She watched in near amazement as Mr. Wooster's entire countenance lit up with joy. She realized, with no little amount of shock, that, in their own way, Reginald and Mr. Wooster were not so unlike Mabel and her husband Charles. In fact, they both seemed absolutely besotted.
Of course, she still wasn't certain if either of them was aware of the fact. How, after all, did such a thing come up, between men? It was terrifying enough to make the first move in normal relationships. In this case, Rebecca couldn't help but think that it would be all but impossible.
Thus, her brief joy was clouded over by doubt. Certainly Mr. Wooster was quite preoccupied with her brother, perhaps even in love with him, but what could ever come of it? And, of course, even if something did come of it, what kind of a life would it be for her brother, tied down to this – admittedly sweet – nitwit? He needed someone he could connect with intellectually. What possibility was there for that? And finally, this aristocratic youth was fascinated with Reginald for certain, but could he respect him? Could he really ever see him as anything more than a servant? It seemed unlikely, from what she knew of master and servant relations, and she knew quite a lot, having been the offspring of a butler and a lady's maid. She had seen how the nobles treated her parents. They gave them some respect, yes, and were generally kind, but at the end of the day, everyone involved knew precisely who was the master and who had to obey.
But then again, hadn't Mr. Wooster just said that he had made a habit of deferring to Reginald? Rebecca pursed her lips and concluded that she did not have enough information to make a judgement.
Betraying none of her thoughts, she brought her guests their tea.
“Mr. Wooster,” she said.
“Oh, thank you! And please, call me Bertie, if you would. Jeeves won't, not in pub–”
Reginald, shockingly, cut off Mr. Wooster's sentence with a sharp snort.
“Um,” Mr. Wooster stammered. “That is to say, call me Bertie. That's what I like my friends to call me.” He smiled sweetly. “And I do hope we'll be friends, um...”
“Rebecca,” she allowed and smiled back. She couldn't help it; she liked this dolt.
“Yes, Rebecca,” Bertie said. “Quite.” He and Reginald exchanged another one of their meaningful looks. Rebecca did her best to ignore it.
She handed Reginald his tea and sat down herself. For a long moment there was silence as all three sipped their tea reverently.
“Did you have a nice trip?” Rebecca asked presently.
“Quite nice,” Reginald answered, “Uneventful.”
“We did have a most fascinating discussion,” Bertie interjected. “Jeeves was telling me all about trees and what makes them change color in Autumn.”
“One wonders what, precisely, you learned at Eton and Oxford,” Reginald said quietly.
“Oh, well, we memorized an awful lot of kings' names. Ethelred the Unready was always a personal favorite of mine. I thought, if I were a monarch, that would certainly be my moniker. Bertram the Unready. But the trees and leaves and all that, it really was absolutely fascinating. Your brother is a fount of information, Rebecca. I feel an absolute fool in his presence. But you know, there's a lot more to him than that. Did he ever tell you about that swan?”
“I'm sorry,” Rebecca said, feeling suddenly lost. “Swan?”
“Yes, swan! He never told you? It's such a dashed wonderful story. You see, I was up on this gazebo, don't you know, and it was simply pouring, buckets of the wet stuff, all down my back, and... Oh, dash it. This isn't going to make any sense if I start there. Here, I'd best start right at the beginning. We were visiting my Aunt Agatha, you know, the one who conducts human sacrifices and eats children?”
And with that, Bertie launched into a twenty minute narrative that culminated, ultimately, in her brother tossing a raincoat over a swan's head. Afterward, Rebecca thought about that story and realized that it really wasn't that amazing what her brother had done; simply common sense, and not all that courageous. But while Bertie was telling it, she was utterly enthralled. It seemed to her, during the telling, that this was one of the finest stories she had ever heard. She could not say exactly why, but she found herself caught up in the emotion of the tale, first suppressing a gasp of shock and then, soon after, laughing out loud at some witty turn of phrase or bizarre predicament.
When at last Bertie had finished his story, Rebecca found that she only wanted to hear more. Fortunately, Bertie seemed more than willing to oblige.
“Oh, yes, well, speaking of Aunt Agatha and her animals, I remember the time, not so far back, when she went off on holiday and left me taking care of her dog, McIntosh.”
Thus, Bertie Wooster told stories for hours, though it did not seem like it. Rebecca looked at her grandfather clock and noted with alarm that it was nearly midnight, well past her usual hour to retire. She could not remember a time in her entire life when she had passed a merrier evening, a time when she had laughed more or felt better, or wished more fervently that it would not end. Mr. Wooster, she realized, had an incredible gift. He was brilliant even, in his own way. He had taken events that were in some cases unpleasant, some uninteresting, some alarming, and some downright terrible and spun them into pure joy, like straw into gold. Rebecca realized, as she made her apologies and rose from her seat, that for the first time since Arthur's death, she felt sincerely happy.
She paused and allowed herself to dwell on that fact for a moment. Then she looked at Mr. Wooster, who, it seemed, was in the middle of another one of his silent conversations with her brother, and said, “You know, Mr. Wooster, my brother is correct. You should write your memoirs. You have a gift. You could make a lot of people laugh. In fact...” she paused, trying to order her thoughts; she was very tired. “I think you could teach people how to enjoy their lives.”
As Mr. Wooster stammered his gratitude, she caught her brother's gaze, and again she saw his pure happiness and contentment shining out at her. She realized with a jolt that she had never seen him truly happy before. In an uncharacteristic moment of sentimentality, she placed one hand on her brother's shoulder and the other on Mr. Wooster's.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, and she earnestly meant it. “Good night.”
She was still somewhat troubled by her brother's predicament. Happy or not, it must certainly be a kind of Hell to love someone you could not have. It worried her so, she could not sleep. After an hour or so of restless turning and fretting, she left her bed with the vague idea that she might pour herself a glass of water. As she passed the bedrooms where her children had spent their nights, she noted with some alarm that Mabel's bedroom door was ajar, and the room was unoccupied. Had her brother still not retired? She hurried on to Arthur's room. This door was closed, but for some reason, she felt an irresistible urge to open it. She did so, just a crack, and then she stood in silent shock at the sight that she beheld.
Her brother had retired, as had Mr. Wooster. They were there together, sleeping soundly. Mr. Wooster lay upon his back, and Reginald on his side, his head nestled upon Mr. Wooster's shoulder, his arm about his waist.
Rebecca stared at them for only a few seconds before silently closing the door. Now, of course, she understood the mysterious silent conversation they had had when she told them their room assignments. They were accustomed, it seemed, to sharing a bed, and they had wordlessly agreed to continue to do so, separate rooms or no.
With a small smile that bespoke contentment and a cessation of worries, Rebecca returned to her room and settled herself back into bed. She closed her eyes and waited for sleep to take her. She simply could not wait for morning.
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Date: 2011-06-18 05:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-18 05:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-18 05:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-18 06:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-18 06:18 pm (UTC)At first I thought, oh no, that's it. Bertie is a moron. But I guess I got seduced as well ;)
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Date: 2011-06-18 06:42 pm (UTC)Gotta love 'meet the family' trope. I don't normally read WIPs, but this is going to be a series of one-shots united by the same subject, correct? So I read it right away. And now am eagerly looking forward for as many more stories as possible.
One thing, actually: the way Bertie's not a bit resentful of being 'an afterthought' to many of his close acquaintances, compared to Jeeves. I mean, he is often quite upset by that, and who wouldn't be? Though, he probably chooses not to dwell on any of that post-factum, in his typical sunny manner.
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Date: 2011-06-18 06:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-18 07:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-18 08:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-19 07:47 am (UTC)Thanks for this!
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Date: 2011-06-19 10:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-19 11:06 am (UTC)I had a sense of anticipation as soon as I realised what was happening. The long exposition without dialogue was interesting and made me want to read on. Not every writer can do that. Some pretty brainy Jeevesian thoughts in there as well.
And what a cliffhanger to end on! Please tell us the story will continue in the morning when Rebecca wakes, and not at a later date.
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Date: 2011-06-19 02:38 pm (UTC)Hope to see more in this series. I adore the way you handled Rebecca's slow realization of Bertie's peculiar brand of genius!
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Date: 2011-06-20 06:55 am (UTC)I love that Rebecca at first doesn't get why her brother loves Bertie, and then she comes to see his unique brilliance. Everyone underestimates Bertie, but I tend to think the Jeeveses would be more inclined to appreciate him than his own family. I also loved the secret eyebrow communications; Jeeves gushing to Rebecca about Bertie on the phone/in letters; Jeeves having a "type" like Bertie; their sneakily sharing a bed; and I really liked that Jeeves had been encouraging Bertie to start writing. ♥
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Date: 2011-06-20 09:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-21 11:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-24 09:16 pm (UTC)