Fic - Jeeves and an Excess of Prudence
Oct. 18th, 2005 07:33 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
rowen-r.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
indeedsir_backupHi, I'm new, and recently disovered this community with frantic glee. I also come bearing fic (criticism welcome), having learned the hard way that Wodehouse is harder to rip off than Shakespeare.
TITLE: Jeeves and an Excess of Prudence
AUTHOR:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rowen_r
FANDOM: Jeeves and Wooster
PAIRING: Jeeves/Wooster
RATING: G/PG-ish.
WARNINGS: Slash. Possible anachronisms. A character named "Ducky".
SUMMARY: When fiancée and a remarkable Suit lead to friction in the Wooster household, Jeeves formulates a cunning plan, and Bertie cuts the Gordian knot. Cameo appearances from a goose, Lane from The Importance of Being Earnest, and Aunt Agatha.
DISCLAIMER: Borrowed, not owned. Alas.
Jeeves and an Excess of Prudence
I didn't hear Jeeves come in, but then I never do. Besides, I was in the midst of a rather snappy new number:
"A fine romance, my good fellow
You take romance, I'll take jello
You're calmer than the seals
In the Arctic Ocean
At least they flap their fins
To express emotion..."
"I'm sorry to interrupt, sir."
"Oh, Jeeves. Didn't see you there. Like it?"
"A pleasent melody, sir. A letter has arrived for you."
“Oh. Splendid...Jeeves?”
“Sir?”
"You haven't said what you thought."
"As I said previously, sir the tune is -"
“Not the tune, Jeeves, the girl. Miss Caruthers. What did you make of her?”
“A very pleasant young lady, sir.”
I confess that the heart sunk and the face fell at this, because – though not one of those chaps who would consult their valet’s opinion before picking a fiancée – I’d rather banked on Miss Caruthers meeting Jeeves’ approval. But I shrouded my feelings in darkest something-or-other, and ploughed on:
“You didn’t like her, then?”
“Quite the contrary, sir.”
“Dash it, Jeeves, what on earth can you find wrong with her? Isn’t she pretty?”
“It would be hard to fault Miss Caruthers’ appearance, sir.”
“Then you think she’s lacking in the old cranium? Outwardly alluring but with nothing much going on between the ears?”
“Not at all, sir. Miss Caruthers appeared blessed with no small amount of intelligence.”
“Then you think she has some grave moral failings I ought to steer clear of?”
“As far as I am aware, sir, Miss Caruthers has lived a blameless life.”
“Then what is it?”
“I fear, sir, that you are suffering from a misapprehension. I have no criticism whatsoever to make of Miss Caruthers.”
“It’s her name, isn’t it?”
“No, sir. As a matter of fact, I have a cousin of the same name, who –”
“Blast your cousin, Jeeves. She is irrelevant to the matter in hand. She serves only to –”
“Obfuscate, sir?”
“Yes. So leave her out of it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The crux of the matter, Jeeves, is what you don’t like about Miss Caruthers.”
“It would be hard to find any rational cause for disliking the young lady, sir, even if one wished to.”
“It is her name, isn’t it?”
“Sir –”
“ – Well I’m very hurt to hear it, Jeeves, and let me tell you that I think Prudence Wooster has a very good sort of ring to it, and I intend to ask Miss Caruthers’ opinion on the subject at the earliest opportunity.”
“Very good, sir.”
It occurs to me at this point that my faithful readers may be scratching their heads and wondering what in blazes is going on. “Who is this Miss Caruthers who has so charmed our young hero?” they cry with one voice, whilst one objectionable fellow that the back demands why Jeeves so patently has it in for the goddess in question. So, let me bow to the will of my public, and backtrack a little.
Miss Caruthers was a paragon introduced to me by my Aunt Agatha at one of her periodic social gatherings a while back. Usually said social g.’s tend to resemble a less cheerful version of the Spanish Inquisition, with a touch of a railway waiting room on a wet January evening thrown in for good measure. And this one, until Prudence’s advent, was no exception. A mood of doom prevails at such times. Normally sprightly people are abruptly transformed into grey, thwarted-looking types incapable of doing much more than nodding dismally and saying “ah,” or “terrible weather,” at intervals. Makes conversation dashed difficult.
I was dolefully drinking tea and fighting the urge which always comes over me at Aunt Agatha’s sessions to feign some kind of seizure in a desperate bid to escape, when the esteemed aunt hove into view, accompanied by a vision in green, who looked about as miserable as I felt.
Aunt Agatha introduced the vision as “My dear friend, Miss Caruthers”, but a cursory glance of Miss Caruthers’s map convinced me not to hold it against her. She was blessed with what novels call an aureole of auburn curls, along with big green eyes, and a figure which would have had one of those sculptor chappies weeping with joy.
“Miss Caruthers, this is my nephew, Bertram,” Aunt Agatha intoned, eyeing me with distaste. “I do apologise, there’s no excuse for him.”
“Delighted,” said Miss Caruthers. “Wasn’t that your goose?”
The history of the goose is an interesting one, probably worth a chronicle all to itself - but sadly it is a story for which the world is not yet prepared. Suffice it to say that the bird had been foisted off on Bertram at short notice, and, due to an unfortunate turn of events in which I was utterly blameless, had escaped from the hall cupboard where I had attempted to park it for the duration of the revelry, and run briefly amok in the drawing room before being detained and escorted from the premises by the butler, a man of grim aspect and iron nerve, as befitted a domestic of Aunt Agatha’s.
Anyway, the goose proved worth all the trouble it had caused by breaking the ice considerably, and after soirée had finally reached its death throes, there was an exchanging of addresses and significant looks, and Bertram was left to walk home in a considerably elated state of mind – so elated that I almost got mown down by a car on the way back. That’s love for you, I suppose.
Eventually she had come to tea, and become acquainted with Jeeves, the sorry consequences thereof I have already revealed.
After our exchange Jeeves shimmered out, looking inscrutable but disapproving – like a brick wall with a judgemental turn of mind – and I was left to contemplate this sad rupture in the tranquillity of the Wooster ménage.
It didn’t take me long, however, to realise what had really provoked the man’s forbidding demeanour – though my intelligence is often impugned (if that’s the word I want) by all and sundry, I can be considerably perceptive at a pinch. And it rapidly became clear to me that poor Prudence wasn’t the problem here at all. There was more at stake here than a simple difference of opinion re. fiancées.
It had really begun one afternoon at the Drones, when I happened to be sitting in the vicinity of someone going by the name of Ducky Fitzpatrick-Smith, Bingo’s cousin’s friend’s half-brother, or something of the sort, and additionally the dimmest chap I ever met in my life. Normally I wouldn’t hold that against him – live and let live, say I – but when a chap starts making theatrical gestures with his beverage, and ends in liberally baptising an inoffensive bystander with the drink in question, leading to a ruined suit and the mockery of all those present, I think a certain amount of annoyance is permissible.
Ducky, to do him credit, looked rather consternated by the abrupt drenching of your humble servant, and generously gave me the name of his tailor – a man who, in Ducky’s account, had a way with scissors and thread which was not quite canny. Normally I would have dismissed this with a curt laugh – there may be others in need of being tipped the nudge re attire and the choosing of garments, but Bertram isn’t one of them. Even my enemies would describe me as debonair. But it had already come to my notice that Ducky, though lacking brains enough to open a jar of mustard unsupervised, was attired in costume of distinct spiffiness. Everyone had remarked upon it. Such was the quiet splendour of his jacket that I felt myself weakening. And so, after promising never to tell anyone else about Messers Derby, Doleby and Dunby (for so the tailor’s was called), I shuffled off to the premises, and got fitted for one of their finest.
And when the thing was brought home, I was staggered to discover that this was, in all probability, the best suit I had ever had in my life. I inwardly blessed Ducky, and resolved to buy him a beaker of whatever it was he had doused me in on the next opportunity.
I recall distantly Jeeves mentioning some chap who, wherever he happened to sit at the feast or shindig or whatever sort of revelry they were given to back in the day, would always be seated at the head of the table. The other chaps would cluster, hanging on his every word. People seated higher up got the pip. All due to native magnetism, apparently. Well, in this Suit, I was that man. Women smiled at me in the street. Men clapped me on the back and offered me racing tips. Even Aunt Agatha, who considers a day wasted in which she has not pulverised the spirit of yrs. truly in the manner of a piano being dropped on a boiled egg, seemed to regard me with a new respect whenever the Suit was donned. In the Suit, every eye turned on me was favourable. At least, all save one. For here the plot thickens.
Jeeves disliked the Suit. In fact, I might go so far as to say that he loathed it.
“What do you think?” I demanded, on the first trying-on, eyeing myself with no dissatisfaction in the mirror. “A triumph, wouldn’t you say?”
Jeeves was surveying me with a look of mild alarm. For a moment the chiselled features were overcast with consternation, dismay, even. I realised that the Suit must have offended him to the core.
“Perhaps a little showy, sir.”
“Nonsense, it’s the pinnacle of understated elegance.”
“The fit, sir, may perhaps a little tight.”
“Jeeves, are you accusing me of getting fat?”
“Not at all, sir.”
“Well I’m glad to hear it.”
“But if I might be so bold…”
“What? What’s wrong with it?”
“I simply think that the shade may be ill-advised, sir. Perhaps something in brown tweed, instead…?”
“Blast something in brown tweed instead, Jeeves, I’m keeping this one.”
“Very good, sir.”
We have had such disagreements in the past, of course – with two strong wills in constant proximity, some friction is inevitable. And always it had been my policy to remind Jeeves, with the calm authority at which we Woosters excel, that the last word in the garb of Bertram Wilberforce Wooster would be the man himself, and no other. One must be one’s own master, after all.
Yet to be frank, I was somewhat disappointed. For, whilst the articles we had disagreed over in the past were well-chosen and becoming, it would be hard to deny that they might, conceivably, be a little loud for some tastes. Jeeves being regrettably conservative in such matters.
But this was different. The Suit was such as a man may only be blessed with once in a lifetime. The verdict from Bertram’s admiring circ. of friends and family was unanimous. The mirror was similarly ready in declaring that in the suit, I was an object of magnetism and handsomeness beyond my usual wont. Jeeves’ disapproval was hence rather baffling. Perhaps he was losing his touch.
We had refrained from speaking of the incident, and I had forgiven if not forgotten Jeeves’ words. But his behaviour over Prudence was proof enough that Jeeves had neither forgotten nor forgiven, and it was clear that until I relinquished the Suit, I wasn’t going to get anything resembling a “bless you my son” from Jeeves’ quarter re. Prudence and our marriage.
Having thought all this through, I decided direct action was called for:
“Jeeves!”
“Sir?”
“I need to talk to you. Things must be made clear.”
“Sir?”
“I intend to marry Miss Caruthers.”
“I had inferred as much, sir.” There was enough scepticism in his voice to serve as a dictionary definition of the word “incredulous”, but I pressed on.
“And I am keeping the Suit.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And if you think you can make me change my mind about either, then you are wrong.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And if you think that saying “Very good, sir” in a tone which suggests that if it weren’t for servantly decorum you’d be saying “Get stuffed” instead is going to affect me in the slightest then you’re wrong. Prudence is utterly divine and perfect and so is the Suit. So you can be as unconvinced as you like, because you’re mistaken. In fact you’re utterly wrong. As wrong as … well, as wrong as that king.”
“King, sir?”
“Oh, you know, that king. In the play. You know, he trusted some blighter he should have trusted and there was a plot and some fighting and everyone fell in love or turned out to somebody else and then someone made a speech and everybody died… something like that.”
“Sir?”
“It was Shakespeare, I think. I mean, it sounds like a Shakespeare play, doesn’t it?”
“It sounds like all of them, sir.”
It suddenly occurred to me that we were getting off track a bit. “Well, be that as it may, the matter still stands, Jeeves. I am not to be swayed.”
“No, sir.”
“I have deferred to your judgment in the past, but there are some things a man must be allowed to decide for himself.”
“Very good, sir.”
“You will come to like Prudence. And you will be reconciled to the Suit.”
He looked slightly put out – an unusual occurrence, which is Jeeves’ equivalent of clapping a hand to the fevered brown and expressing a wish for Apollo to lay waste one’s wretched mortal form.
“Yes, sir. Will that be all, sir?”
“Yes. Well. Jeeves?”
“Sir?”
“You don’t really object, do you? Not in a passionate, vehement sort of way? This isn’t going to make life dust and ashes to you?”
He seemed to hesitate. “Miss Caruthers is a most suitable young lady, sir.”
I had actually been talking about the Suit, but decided that any concession was a good sign.
“Well then. That’ll be all, Jeeves.”
“Very good, sir.”
*
After this, an onlooker might have observed a certain froideur in the atmosphere chez Wooster, despite Jeeves’ customary inscrutableness and my own decision to sweep the whole thing under the rug. The camaraderie between us had been put on the back burner, so to speak. Thinks were strained. All was not right with the state of Denmark. Jeeves took to acting as if I was something rather disgusting he would prefer not to have to look at. As time progressed, and the Suit and Prudence continued to hold sway, his “Indeed sir?” began to acquire a tone which would have chilled lemonade.
In short, there were sinister doings afoot.
One evening on Jeeves’ night off, I actually ran into him in a little café near Covent Garden, deep in conversation with a bald, respectable-looking man of some fifty summers. Now I have never known precisely what Jeeves did with his free time, nor have I ever heard him express a dislike for sitting in cafes with a respectable man who was in all probability an old friend (though Jeeves had never mentioned him to me) doubtless enjoying the intelligent banter he was probably starved for at home (he having made his opinion of my own intellect quite clear in the past).
And yet I gawped, slightly. Odd to see Jeeves drinking coffee as if he hadn’t a care in the world. I might have gone away and left them to it, but I had a desperate need for stimulants, because some of the chaps had decided on an all-nighter the previous evening, and an all-nighter with the Drones lot means minor criminal offences and enough alcohol to supply a busy pub for a week. In such a flimsy, new-born-foal sort of state, leaving sans coffee would be sheer madness.
So I traipsed over to where Jeeves and his friend were parked with the congenial expression of a chap who is very glad to see two other chaps, even if one is a stranger and really remarkably bald and talking to one’s valet as if he’s known him all his life.
“And you say that your previous efforts have failed?” the bald stranger was saying.
Jeeves nodded. “Unfortunately so.”
“I see. Well this is not unusual, you know, especially under the circumstances. I myself, at one time…well, be that as it may, I personally would suggest a substitute. If you were to find someone else to –”
At this point they looked up and saw me. “Ah. Hello,” I said, feeling slightly awkward. “What ho, Jeeves.”
For a moment Jeeves looked as if someone had come up behind him and whacked him over the head with a chair (an unpleasant experience, as a painful incident in my youth had taught me). Then the customary placidity returned.
“Mr Wooster,” he said. “Good evening.”
“Hello, Jeeves,” I said. “Don’t get up, I thought I’d just biff over and say hello. Don’t want to disturb you.”
“Not at all, sir. This Mr Lane, sir; he is an old friend of mine.” He turned to Lane. “This is my employer, Mr Wooster.”
We did the nice-to-meet-yous and whatnot. And then there was an awkward pause, the
sort of pause you experience after having driven from Mayfair to the Strand in a taxi, only to discover upon arrival that you’ve forgotten to bring anything to pay the driver.
“Well,” I said. “Nice to see you, and all that.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Erm. Well, don’t want to spoil your night. I’ll see you later, what?”
“Yes, sir. Good evening, sir.”
And so I drifted off, utterly forgetting the coffee in the oddness of it all.
A substitute? The word filled the Wooster heart with a cold and nameless fear. If Jeeves was going about looking for a substitute, then what other substitute could he be thinking of than a substitute employer?
“Well, of all the bally nerve!” I exclaimed, at a volume which caused several passers-by to look askance and increase their speed as if they feared they might be in the presence of one of Sir Roderick Glossop’s prize specimens.
This was intolerable. Jeeves and I had had disagreements before, but never to the extent where he might start looking around for a new post without telling me. I had thought such raw work beneath him. And now here he was smiting the Wooster heel in the manner of a snake in the grass. Villainy, indeed.
I fumed off to the Drones, deciding that tomorrow morning, Jeeves would have to be Talked To.
“Bertie,” said Ducky, as I flung myself into my favourite chair, “whatever’s the matter?” I surveyed him with disfavour. I was not in the mood to be troubled by Ducky. At that moment he seemed the most dismal specimen of humanity imaginable. The way he sat was peculiarly irritating; rarely had I seen a man sit in a manner so calculated to repel and offend.
“What’s the matter with what?”
“With you, old prune. You’re grinding your teeth. You’ll be taking a bite out of that glass in a minute.”
I put said glass down on the table and gave him a withering look. The sort of look which usually crumples strong men like acute indigestion. It bounced off Ducky as all such looks did. “I don’t wish to discuss it,” I said with dignity.
“Ah, domestic trouble, is it?”
“No.”
“Take my advice, my lad, I’ve seen men in your state before, and there’s only one cure: just take her some flowers or something and admit you were wrong, utterly wrong, and that you’re terribly sorry and won’t ever do it again, except at Christmas and on national holidays.”
“You’ve got the wrong end of the stick, you ass. And besides, I wasn’t wrong.”
Ducky shrugged. “With respect, Bertie…”
“Don’t you ‘with respect, Bertie,” me, you fungus.”
Ducky shrugged again, like a man who has been to France and wants to call attention to the fact. “Alright then, let’s talk about something else.”
“Good.” I took a sip of my drink, and began to feel slightly more human.
“So, what exactly did you do to make her angry?” said Ducky, breaking the silence like a priceless vase.
“Make who angry?” called Pongo from across the room.
“Bertie’s had a tiff with the better half,” said Ducky.
“What? Bertie isn’t married, is he?” (Derisive laughs from a few eavesdroppers by the fireplace).
“Isn’t he?” said Ducky.
“No,” said Pongo. He gave snort of amusement. “Though not for want of trying. Eh, Bertie?”
“Then what’s this domestic strife about?” persisted Ducky.
“Oh, that’ll be Jeeves, I expect,” said Pongo, wisely.
“Jeeves? The valet?”
“That’s the one. Paragon amongst gentlemen’s gentlemen. Jeeves is a legend, Ducky. He’s the reason Bertie hasn’t got himself killed before now – he manages him like clockwork. Doesn’t he, Bertie?”
I stood up, betrayed and incensed. I had come seeking comfort and manly sympathy, and instead here I was being subjected to a barrage of unprovoked abuse.
“Goodnight, you blistering gumboils,” I said, in a tone of manly disapprobation, calculated to shame them to their very souls. “I’m going to see Prudence.”
“Jeeves, you mean,” said Ducky helpfully.
I fought down a wish to throttle him with his own impeccable necktie, and went out.
*
Mortimer, Prudence’s butler, opened the door. He was a tall, handsome chap, not exactly Greek god standard, but as near to Greek god as any respectable domestic could be without exciting remark.
“What ho, Mortimer,” said I, as affably as circumstances would allow.
He eyed me with a look of pure loathing, as if I had done something unspeakable to a close relative of his, and done it more than once. I took a step backwards in alarm, wondering if I had wronged him previously and then forgotten all about it. Nothing else (other than the possibility that Prudence was in the habit of hiring dangerous lunatics to work for her) could explain the vindictiveness I saw in the man’s gaze.
“Miss Caruthers is not at home, sir,” he said with grim exultation.
Mortimer being apparently unsure when (or indeed if) Miss Caruthers would ever return home, I shuffled off, crushed and dejected.
It was at this point that a lesser man might have crumpled like a paper bag. When one’s trusted valet is acting in a sinister manner, whilst one’s prospective fiancée goes AWOL and people like Ducky are hanging around making idiotic remarks, anyone might be forgiven for feeling that life is really a bit much, and retiring to bed with a headache and a whiskey and soda.
Not so Bertram. Baulked of Prudence’s company, I determined to return home and wait for Jeeves, and have the whole thing out once and for all. Best to be direct, I think. Fellows like Jeeves may complicate things with elaborate ruses and what not, but I maintain that ten to one you’re much better off going straight for it then dithering around waiting for some confusing scheme to come to fruition.
When I got back I found Jeeves already there, engrossed in some domestic chore which seemed to demand the burning of a quantity of rather tatty looking papers.
“Jeeves,” said I.
“Good evening, sir.” Valets of Jeeves’ calibre aren’t given to looking shifty, but for a moment I got the impression that my appearance was inopportune in the extreme. He tipped the rest of the stuff quickly onto the pyre. “I trust you had a pleasant evening?”
“Not bad, Jeeves, not bad. Having a clear out, are you?”
“Ah. Yes, some waste papers needed destroying.”
“Well. Excellent. Look, Jeeves –”
“Sir?”
“You – you wouldn’t put the bath on, would you? I fancy an early night.”
“Very good, sir.”
I thought the informal setting might dispel the awkwardness which had arisen. And besides, recent events had left me in need of solace and refreshment, and a hot bath seemed at that moment the most tempting prospect imaginable.
It was only when I slid into the piping hot b. some minutes later that it occurred to me that I had made an error of judgement vis-à-vis the venue for my discussion with Jeeves. I had forgotten that whilst in the bath, a man, even one of iron nerve and steely resolve, is liable to be at a bit of a disadvantage. Clothes maketh the man and all that. Still it was too late worry about now. I needed to have this out with Jeeves pronto, and trivial considerations could go hang.
“Jeeves?”
He poked his head round the door.
“Sir?”
“Come in, Jeeves, I need to talk to you.”
“Would it be possible to postpone the discussion briefly, sir? Only I am currently in the midst of –”
“Never mind what you’re in the midst of, Jeeves. Damn the midst. I need to talk to you.”
“Very good, sir,”
“Well, come in. Sit down. Don’t loom like that.”
“Loom, sir?”
“Yes, you do rather loom from this angle. I hadn’t noticed it before. How tall are you exactly, Jeeves, anyway?”
“Is this the matter you wished to discuss, sir?”
“Of course it wasn’t, Jeeves. Don’t be idiotic.”
“No, sir.”
I hummed and ha-ed a bit, and then decided to go straight to the jugular:
“Jeeves, I happened to overhear a bit of what you were saying to that chap at the café tonight. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, you know such things are beneath me, code of the Woosters and all that, but the fact of the matter is I did happen to catch a couple of things, and I think I know what you were driving at, and quite frankly –”
I broke off suddenly, because Jeeves had gone utterly white. He looked suddenly less like a valet than the ghost of one.
“Jeeves! Are you alright?”
“Yes, thank you, sir,” said Jeeves. He was holding the towel rail as if about to collapse like a house of cards in a draught, and was as obviously not alright as I had ever seen him. “If I might be allowed to explain –”
“I think I’d better finish, actually, Jeeves,” said I, with a touch of the majestic.
“Very good, sir.”
“Now you’ve been with me a good long time.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And we’ve had our differences, of course, human nature being what it is and all that. But I never would have thought you would have begun looking for new employment without coming to me first and saying that something was bothering you. I mean, I’d expect as much from a valet, let alone a friend. Which I thought you were.”
Jeeves was still looking slightly peculiar. I thought the guilt must finally be getting to him.
“Am I to assume, sir…?”
“Yes, Jeeves, I know all. I have put two and two together, and delivered the goods. All is now known to me. Your motives are an open book. You can’t stand the Suit and you don’t like Prudence, and you decided to leave without saying anything. Am I right?”
He said nothing for a moment, as if doing a complicated sum in his head. “Quite right, sir,” he said at last. “I apologise most sincerely.”
I unbent somewhat. “You understand that it’s nonsense, then?”
“Sir?”
“You’re not finding a substitute, Jeeves. I forbid it. It’s out of the question. I can’t find a substitute for you, so why should you go beetling around trying to find one for me? Why, I wouldn’t last a week without you around, you know that. If it wasn’t for you I’d have died out long ago. Bertram would be exhibited next to the dodo in the extinct species section. Common humanity alone should persuade you to stay.”
I had got rather into the speech, knocking the soap dish to the floor in a particularly extravagant gesture. Jeeves picked it up and replaced it carefully on the side of the bath before replying,
“Indeed, sir, I had already realised that the idea was…ill-advised. I have no intentions of seeking alternative employment.”
“Well. As long as that’s settled.”
“Quite settled, sir.”
“And there is no more bad blood between us?”
“No indeed, sir.”
But something was still up. You could see it a mile off. The chap wasn’t even looking at me.
“Jeeves?”
“Sir?”
“There’s something on your mind. You have some secret grievance you aren’t telling me. Some grudge festers within you.”
“No, sir.”
“Dash it, Jeeves, you aren’t even looking at me.” Realisation dawned. “In fact, you haven’t looked at me since you came in.”
“I apologise, sir.”
“Look, Jeeves, either you explain what’s so fascinating about the bathmat, or you bally well look at me.”
Well, he looked at me. I’ve probably mentioned in the course of these chronicles that Jeeves resembles nothing so much as one of those statue things people keep press-ganging you into seeing at museums: his face has the same sort of fine-chiselled immobility to it, to the extent where he sometimes manages to look slightly un-human.
But at that moment if he looked like a statue at all then it was one which had been knocked about a bit in transit, so that if you laid a finger on it would crack into tiny pieces, showering you with dust and causing a nasty scene with the museum chaps.
I suddenly had one of those things where you begin to wonder if you haven’t been bally well wrong about almost everything from the word go. Like in the final reel of a film, where the misguided hero realises he's ruining his life and decides to go home to the little missus and make amends. Can’t quite think of the word – sounds like “epicentre”. Jeeves would know.
At this point I may have said something like “Yoicks”, but then again I may have not. Historical opinion is divided on the subject. Anyway, I wasn’t left much time to say anything, “yoicks” or otherwise, because at that moment the doorbell rang.
“The bell, sir,” said Jeeves, faintly. “Shall I –”
“Oh. Yes. You should probably –”
“Very good, sir.”
Jeeves later said this was an example of deus ex machina. Unless deus ex machina happens to mean “a damn nuisance” then I don’t agree with him at all.
A moment later he rematerialised, looking more like himself – more graven image than man, you might say.
“Miss Caruthers to see you, sir.”
“Oh. Bit late, isn’t it?”
“She seems most eager to speak with you, sir.”
“Well, tell her I’ll be along in a moment.”
“Very good, sir.” The blasted fellow still wasn’t looking at me, but there wasn’t time to hash the matter out.
I found Prudence sitting with a neglected cup of tea before her, looking rather emotional. She was a fountain troubled, so to speak. Her expression was lacking in her usual joie de vivre. Regarding her, one might have assumed that there were some pretty hefty goings-on afoot.
“Hello,” I said, aiming for cheery good humour, despite having been interrupted in the middle of a bath and an epi-whatsit.
“Oh, Bertie!” she said, on seeing me (not a phrase that usually bodes well, in the main) and threw herself into my arms. It was at that moment, as I recall, that the plan re Prudence and conjugal bonds was suddenly abandoned. She was a lovely girl, as girls went, but she didn’t say “Indeed, sir?” or rescue me from perils on a nigh-daily basis, or take irrational dislikes to various of my clothes, or manage to look exasperated and affectionate at once, or keep herself so primly neat that your hands itched to ruffle and unravel. She wasn’t Jeeves, in short. You couldn’t hold it against the poor thing, of course. The world is chock-full with poor benighted souls who aren’t Jeeves. But as things stood, marriage was simply no-go.
“Some tea, sir?” interposed Jeeves from the other side of the room. I had a fleeting impression he might have preferred to suggest my immediate suicide instead.
“Thank you, Jeeves,” I said, rather distractedly. For I was somewhat perturbed. Much as I admired Prudence, I found her behaviour in coming her and saying “oh, Bertie!” and throwing herself into my arms to be rather strange and unnerving. “Shall we sit down?” I said to the top of Prudence’s head – the only bit of her I could really get a look at – and fortunately she seemed to agree, so we slithered gracelessly onto the sofa, and gradually I was able to pry her off and give her the once-over.
“Prudence,” I said kindly, “you appear distressed.”
“Of course I’m distressed, you idiot,” she snapped.
“Well, a problem shared is a problem halved, they say. Tell all. Perhaps I shall be able to shed some light on the dilemma.”
“That’s why I came to you. I knew you were the only one who might be able to help me.”
“Really? The only one?” Things seemed to be getting a little thick. It didn’t help that I had a sudden longing for her to take herself off so I could finally sort out whatever was going on with Jeeves.
“Well of course,” said Prudence, looking at me as if I was her wise old uncle, or something. “You’re the only person I know who’s been through what I have.”
“Been through what, exactly?”
She looked slightly amused. “Well, being in love with an employee, of course. How on earth did you manage, Bertie?”
I went through the motions of someone who has unexpectedly swallowed a wasp.
“I what, Prudence? I’m what? What? I? What? What?”
“Of course I realised about you and Jewkes –”
Some things couldn’t be allowed to pass. “Jeeves."
“Jeeves, sorry. I realised about you and Jeeves ages ago, it takes one to know one, I suppose, and you’ve only got to see the way you look at each other to realise...Don’t gawp like that, Bertie, I don’t hold it against you. Live and let live, you know. And Jeeves is very attractive, of course.”
I was going to say “You mistake me, woman, I have no interest in my valet’s attractiveness” or words to that effect, when it dawned upon me that she was right. I didn’t quite like the way she’d apparently given Jeeves the once-over – especially since apparently humble status was no barrier to her affections – but her assessment of the situation was undeniably correct. I made some kind of vague, choking noise, and said nothing.
“And so anyway I thought…well, maybe Bertie could tell me what to do about Mortimer.”
“Mortimer?”
“Our butler, you know. He came here six months ago and I loved him from the beginning. He has such a lofty soul, Bertie. I can’t stop thinking about him and whenever I look at him I just want to –” she glanced up suddenly. “Oh, tea? Excellent. Could I have another cup as well?”
I followed her gaze. Jeeves was standing in the doorway, tea tray in hands, utterly motionless.
“Ah, Jeeves,” I said. I couldn’t think of anything else, so I said “Ah, Jeeves,” again. It didn’t seem to do the trick.
Jeeves made no observation at all, but stood gripping the tray as if his life depended on it.
Prudence looked between the two of us incredulously for a moment.
“Oh, Bertie,” she said softly. “You hadn’t...?”
“No.”
“And he hadn’t…?”
I looked at Jeeves again. “No.”
“And he’s been with you for how long, exactly?”
“A good while, now.”
“And in all that time, it never occurred to either of you to say something?”
I shook my head.
And then, I regret to record, Prudence began to laugh. And not the tearful, hysterical laughter of a girl at her wits’ end, either. No, this was the real deal, a laugh of genuine hilarity which seemed to shake the windows like a gale.
It was a moment or two before Prudence was up to speaking again.
“I think I’d better go,” she said, reaching for her purse.
“I think that would be best,” I said, with as much dignity as could be mustered at such short notice.
“Thanks for your help,” she said, cheerfully. “I’ll invite you to the wedding.”
“I haven’t given you any help.”
“Well, thanks for the cautionary example, then. I'm not going to sit around in silent yearning like you half-wits. I’m off to tell Mortimer I love him, and I don’t care what anyone says.”
“Well, bully for you,” I said, with certain amount of sarcasm.
“Oh, cheer up, Bertie,” she said heartlessly. “I know Jeeves is miles too good for you, but if he doesn’t mind then why should you kick up a fuss about it?”
I was going to say something crushing, but the door had already slammed, and she was gone. I turned slowly to look at Jeeves.
“Some tea, sir?” And he said it almost normally, too. "Or perhaps something stronger?"
I boggled at him in silence.
It suddenly dawned on me that he wasn’t going to do a thing. He'd known how things stood long before I had, and hadn't had the common sense to do anything about it excpet hang around in cafes with bald men and insult my Suit. If I didn’t take matters into my own hands, we wouldn’t get anywhere.
“I take it you heard Prudence’s remarks,” I said slowly.
“Yes, sir.”
The cogs began to whirl. “And I take it she’s not wrong, by any chance?”
He murmured something about decorum, or proper gentleman-valet relations, or tea.
Bertram can be a man of action, when circumstances call for it. And these circumstances called like billy-o. I took him by the shoulders, in the manner of a dashing hero seizing languishing maiden. “Jeeves.”
He sighed, like a chap who’s been carting around a heavy package all day, and has suddenly decided to dump the thing in a taxi and drive home instead. “Not as far as I am concerned, sir.”
Everything seemed suddenly a lot brighter and more reasonable. Even Prudence was agreeable again. “So what was the stuff about a substitute about?”
“I was referring to an amatory substitute, sir, rather than a change of employer. It was Mr Lane’s suggestion, but I found it impracticable.”
“Well, I should hope so too. A substitute, indeed. A preposterous idea. You can put
that out of your head once and for all.”
He did that almost-smile thing which knocks any ordinary smile for six. “I do apologise, sir.”
“And what about the Suit?”
“I admit, sir, I did believe it to be…inconvenient. As you justly observed, it is very becoming. Such distractions may prove disastrous to one in my position.”
“I looked too good in it, you mean?”
“Precisely, sir.”
“A fatal distraction? Bathsheba, or something along those lines? My radiant good looks playing havoc with your equanimity?”
He flushed. “Something…vaguely along those lines, sir.”
“And in the bath…?” The whole thing was a bit rum to contemplate. One isn’t always at one’s best in the bath, after all. There is loud singing, and application of soap, and general sploshing around not calculated to make a good impression.
“The same principle applied, sir.”
“But what were you planning to do, exactly? Considering I was about to shackle myself to Prudence?”
“About, sir?”
“Yes, about, Jeeves. I find that both I and Prudence have prior attachments which make any thought of marriage impossible. A sad discovery, but there it is. These things are sent to try us. So, what strategy did you envisage?”
“I had decided upon a complete destruction of certain effects, sir, along with a course of improving reading and an utter suppression of any sentiment that might have interfered with my duties. Had the sentiment continued, I would have taken further steps, or perhaps left your employment entirely, had it become necessary.”
"And it never occured to you that a sounder scheme might have been to tell me all this, instead?"
"It did not seem advisable, sir."
There were things I was still curious about. The effects, for example, or who Mr Lane was, or how long Jeeves had cherished anything resembling a tender sentiment towards myself – and how long I’d been cherishing one towards him, for that matter. But more pressing matters prevailed.
“Jeeves?”
“Sir?”
“I’m sorry to cause you pain, but it has recently come to my notice that you are an utter idiot.”
“Sir?”
“As I’ve said before, you have a deplorable tendency towards the elaborate. You over-complicate. That brain of yours runs away with you, and before you know it there are plots and counter-plots springing up like mushrooms. You waste valuable time on scheming when what you should be doing is –”
“Is, sir?”
And it seemed impossible to continue without sinking into absolute mushiness, I thought I’d better just put an end to things and kiss him. As conclusions go, it went rather well, I thought.
“I am reminded of Dr Johnson, sir,” he said at last, when we were in a position to speak again.
“Not something most gentlemen like to hear whilst locked in a passionate embrace, Jeeves, but I’m sure you have your reasons. And less of the sir, please.”
“I apologise, s-. I appologise. I was simply thinking of his aphorism that love is the wisdom of the fool –”
“– And the folly of the wise, what?”
“Precisely.”
“I’m not sure I like the direction that quotation is going in, Jeeves. You take liberties, and not in a pleasant way.”
“It was just an idle thought.”
“Was it, indeed?”
At this point I decided that the only methods appropriate for seeing off all thoughts, idle or otherwise, were decidedly non-verbal, and put said methods into practice forthwith. And though both modesty and Jeeves forbid me in no uncertain terms from going into detail, I think it’s only fair to record that in the next few moments all thoughts of Dr Johnson were abandoned completely.
***
A/N: The song at the begining is A Fine Romance, by Dorothy Fields & Jerome Kern:
A fine romance, with no kisses
A fine romance, my friend this is
We should be like a couple of hot tomatoes
But you're as cold as yesterday's mashed potatoes
A fine romance, you won't nestle
A fine romance, you won't wrestle
I might as well play bridge
With my old maid aunt
I haven't got a chance
This is a fine romance
A fine romance, my good fellow
You take romance, I'll take jello
You're calmer than the seals
In the Arctic Ocean
At least they flap their fins
To express emotion
A fine romance with no quarrels
With no insults and all morals
I've never mussed the crease
In your blue serge pants
I never get the chance
This is a fine romance
TITLE: Jeeves and an Excess of Prudence
AUTHOR:
rowen_rFANDOM: Jeeves and Wooster
PAIRING: Jeeves/Wooster
RATING: G/PG-ish.
WARNINGS: Slash. Possible anachronisms. A character named "Ducky".
SUMMARY: When fiancée and a remarkable Suit lead to friction in the Wooster household, Jeeves formulates a cunning plan, and Bertie cuts the Gordian knot. Cameo appearances from a goose, Lane from The Importance of Being Earnest, and Aunt Agatha.
DISCLAIMER: Borrowed, not owned. Alas.
I didn't hear Jeeves come in, but then I never do. Besides, I was in the midst of a rather snappy new number:
"A fine romance, my good fellow
You take romance, I'll take jello
You're calmer than the seals
In the Arctic Ocean
At least they flap their fins
To express emotion..."
"I'm sorry to interrupt, sir."
"Oh, Jeeves. Didn't see you there. Like it?"
"A pleasent melody, sir. A letter has arrived for you."
“Oh. Splendid...Jeeves?”
“Sir?”
"You haven't said what you thought."
"As I said previously, sir the tune is -"
“Not the tune, Jeeves, the girl. Miss Caruthers. What did you make of her?”
“A very pleasant young lady, sir.”
I confess that the heart sunk and the face fell at this, because – though not one of those chaps who would consult their valet’s opinion before picking a fiancée – I’d rather banked on Miss Caruthers meeting Jeeves’ approval. But I shrouded my feelings in darkest something-or-other, and ploughed on:
“You didn’t like her, then?”
“Quite the contrary, sir.”
“Dash it, Jeeves, what on earth can you find wrong with her? Isn’t she pretty?”
“It would be hard to fault Miss Caruthers’ appearance, sir.”
“Then you think she’s lacking in the old cranium? Outwardly alluring but with nothing much going on between the ears?”
“Not at all, sir. Miss Caruthers appeared blessed with no small amount of intelligence.”
“Then you think she has some grave moral failings I ought to steer clear of?”
“As far as I am aware, sir, Miss Caruthers has lived a blameless life.”
“Then what is it?”
“I fear, sir, that you are suffering from a misapprehension. I have no criticism whatsoever to make of Miss Caruthers.”
“It’s her name, isn’t it?”
“No, sir. As a matter of fact, I have a cousin of the same name, who –”
“Blast your cousin, Jeeves. She is irrelevant to the matter in hand. She serves only to –”
“Obfuscate, sir?”
“Yes. So leave her out of it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The crux of the matter, Jeeves, is what you don’t like about Miss Caruthers.”
“It would be hard to find any rational cause for disliking the young lady, sir, even if one wished to.”
“It is her name, isn’t it?”
“Sir –”
“ – Well I’m very hurt to hear it, Jeeves, and let me tell you that I think Prudence Wooster has a very good sort of ring to it, and I intend to ask Miss Caruthers’ opinion on the subject at the earliest opportunity.”
“Very good, sir.”
It occurs to me at this point that my faithful readers may be scratching their heads and wondering what in blazes is going on. “Who is this Miss Caruthers who has so charmed our young hero?” they cry with one voice, whilst one objectionable fellow that the back demands why Jeeves so patently has it in for the goddess in question. So, let me bow to the will of my public, and backtrack a little.
Miss Caruthers was a paragon introduced to me by my Aunt Agatha at one of her periodic social gatherings a while back. Usually said social g.’s tend to resemble a less cheerful version of the Spanish Inquisition, with a touch of a railway waiting room on a wet January evening thrown in for good measure. And this one, until Prudence’s advent, was no exception. A mood of doom prevails at such times. Normally sprightly people are abruptly transformed into grey, thwarted-looking types incapable of doing much more than nodding dismally and saying “ah,” or “terrible weather,” at intervals. Makes conversation dashed difficult.
I was dolefully drinking tea and fighting the urge which always comes over me at Aunt Agatha’s sessions to feign some kind of seizure in a desperate bid to escape, when the esteemed aunt hove into view, accompanied by a vision in green, who looked about as miserable as I felt.
Aunt Agatha introduced the vision as “My dear friend, Miss Caruthers”, but a cursory glance of Miss Caruthers’s map convinced me not to hold it against her. She was blessed with what novels call an aureole of auburn curls, along with big green eyes, and a figure which would have had one of those sculptor chappies weeping with joy.
“Miss Caruthers, this is my nephew, Bertram,” Aunt Agatha intoned, eyeing me with distaste. “I do apologise, there’s no excuse for him.”
“Delighted,” said Miss Caruthers. “Wasn’t that your goose?”
The history of the goose is an interesting one, probably worth a chronicle all to itself - but sadly it is a story for which the world is not yet prepared. Suffice it to say that the bird had been foisted off on Bertram at short notice, and, due to an unfortunate turn of events in which I was utterly blameless, had escaped from the hall cupboard where I had attempted to park it for the duration of the revelry, and run briefly amok in the drawing room before being detained and escorted from the premises by the butler, a man of grim aspect and iron nerve, as befitted a domestic of Aunt Agatha’s.
Anyway, the goose proved worth all the trouble it had caused by breaking the ice considerably, and after soirée had finally reached its death throes, there was an exchanging of addresses and significant looks, and Bertram was left to walk home in a considerably elated state of mind – so elated that I almost got mown down by a car on the way back. That’s love for you, I suppose.
Eventually she had come to tea, and become acquainted with Jeeves, the sorry consequences thereof I have already revealed.
After our exchange Jeeves shimmered out, looking inscrutable but disapproving – like a brick wall with a judgemental turn of mind – and I was left to contemplate this sad rupture in the tranquillity of the Wooster ménage.
It didn’t take me long, however, to realise what had really provoked the man’s forbidding demeanour – though my intelligence is often impugned (if that’s the word I want) by all and sundry, I can be considerably perceptive at a pinch. And it rapidly became clear to me that poor Prudence wasn’t the problem here at all. There was more at stake here than a simple difference of opinion re. fiancées.
It had really begun one afternoon at the Drones, when I happened to be sitting in the vicinity of someone going by the name of Ducky Fitzpatrick-Smith, Bingo’s cousin’s friend’s half-brother, or something of the sort, and additionally the dimmest chap I ever met in my life. Normally I wouldn’t hold that against him – live and let live, say I – but when a chap starts making theatrical gestures with his beverage, and ends in liberally baptising an inoffensive bystander with the drink in question, leading to a ruined suit and the mockery of all those present, I think a certain amount of annoyance is permissible.
Ducky, to do him credit, looked rather consternated by the abrupt drenching of your humble servant, and generously gave me the name of his tailor – a man who, in Ducky’s account, had a way with scissors and thread which was not quite canny. Normally I would have dismissed this with a curt laugh – there may be others in need of being tipped the nudge re attire and the choosing of garments, but Bertram isn’t one of them. Even my enemies would describe me as debonair. But it had already come to my notice that Ducky, though lacking brains enough to open a jar of mustard unsupervised, was attired in costume of distinct spiffiness. Everyone had remarked upon it. Such was the quiet splendour of his jacket that I felt myself weakening. And so, after promising never to tell anyone else about Messers Derby, Doleby and Dunby (for so the tailor’s was called), I shuffled off to the premises, and got fitted for one of their finest.
And when the thing was brought home, I was staggered to discover that this was, in all probability, the best suit I had ever had in my life. I inwardly blessed Ducky, and resolved to buy him a beaker of whatever it was he had doused me in on the next opportunity.
I recall distantly Jeeves mentioning some chap who, wherever he happened to sit at the feast or shindig or whatever sort of revelry they were given to back in the day, would always be seated at the head of the table. The other chaps would cluster, hanging on his every word. People seated higher up got the pip. All due to native magnetism, apparently. Well, in this Suit, I was that man. Women smiled at me in the street. Men clapped me on the back and offered me racing tips. Even Aunt Agatha, who considers a day wasted in which she has not pulverised the spirit of yrs. truly in the manner of a piano being dropped on a boiled egg, seemed to regard me with a new respect whenever the Suit was donned. In the Suit, every eye turned on me was favourable. At least, all save one. For here the plot thickens.
Jeeves disliked the Suit. In fact, I might go so far as to say that he loathed it.
“What do you think?” I demanded, on the first trying-on, eyeing myself with no dissatisfaction in the mirror. “A triumph, wouldn’t you say?”
Jeeves was surveying me with a look of mild alarm. For a moment the chiselled features were overcast with consternation, dismay, even. I realised that the Suit must have offended him to the core.
“Perhaps a little showy, sir.”
“Nonsense, it’s the pinnacle of understated elegance.”
“The fit, sir, may perhaps a little tight.”
“Jeeves, are you accusing me of getting fat?”
“Not at all, sir.”
“Well I’m glad to hear it.”
“But if I might be so bold…”
“What? What’s wrong with it?”
“I simply think that the shade may be ill-advised, sir. Perhaps something in brown tweed, instead…?”
“Blast something in brown tweed instead, Jeeves, I’m keeping this one.”
“Very good, sir.”
We have had such disagreements in the past, of course – with two strong wills in constant proximity, some friction is inevitable. And always it had been my policy to remind Jeeves, with the calm authority at which we Woosters excel, that the last word in the garb of Bertram Wilberforce Wooster would be the man himself, and no other. One must be one’s own master, after all.
Yet to be frank, I was somewhat disappointed. For, whilst the articles we had disagreed over in the past were well-chosen and becoming, it would be hard to deny that they might, conceivably, be a little loud for some tastes. Jeeves being regrettably conservative in such matters.
But this was different. The Suit was such as a man may only be blessed with once in a lifetime. The verdict from Bertram’s admiring circ. of friends and family was unanimous. The mirror was similarly ready in declaring that in the suit, I was an object of magnetism and handsomeness beyond my usual wont. Jeeves’ disapproval was hence rather baffling. Perhaps he was losing his touch.
We had refrained from speaking of the incident, and I had forgiven if not forgotten Jeeves’ words. But his behaviour over Prudence was proof enough that Jeeves had neither forgotten nor forgiven, and it was clear that until I relinquished the Suit, I wasn’t going to get anything resembling a “bless you my son” from Jeeves’ quarter re. Prudence and our marriage.
Having thought all this through, I decided direct action was called for:
“Jeeves!”
“Sir?”
“I need to talk to you. Things must be made clear.”
“Sir?”
“I intend to marry Miss Caruthers.”
“I had inferred as much, sir.” There was enough scepticism in his voice to serve as a dictionary definition of the word “incredulous”, but I pressed on.
“And I am keeping the Suit.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And if you think you can make me change my mind about either, then you are wrong.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And if you think that saying “Very good, sir” in a tone which suggests that if it weren’t for servantly decorum you’d be saying “Get stuffed” instead is going to affect me in the slightest then you’re wrong. Prudence is utterly divine and perfect and so is the Suit. So you can be as unconvinced as you like, because you’re mistaken. In fact you’re utterly wrong. As wrong as … well, as wrong as that king.”
“King, sir?”
“Oh, you know, that king. In the play. You know, he trusted some blighter he should have trusted and there was a plot and some fighting and everyone fell in love or turned out to somebody else and then someone made a speech and everybody died… something like that.”
“Sir?”
“It was Shakespeare, I think. I mean, it sounds like a Shakespeare play, doesn’t it?”
“It sounds like all of them, sir.”
It suddenly occurred to me that we were getting off track a bit. “Well, be that as it may, the matter still stands, Jeeves. I am not to be swayed.”
“No, sir.”
“I have deferred to your judgment in the past, but there are some things a man must be allowed to decide for himself.”
“Very good, sir.”
“You will come to like Prudence. And you will be reconciled to the Suit.”
He looked slightly put out – an unusual occurrence, which is Jeeves’ equivalent of clapping a hand to the fevered brown and expressing a wish for Apollo to lay waste one’s wretched mortal form.
“Yes, sir. Will that be all, sir?”
“Yes. Well. Jeeves?”
“Sir?”
“You don’t really object, do you? Not in a passionate, vehement sort of way? This isn’t going to make life dust and ashes to you?”
He seemed to hesitate. “Miss Caruthers is a most suitable young lady, sir.”
I had actually been talking about the Suit, but decided that any concession was a good sign.
“Well then. That’ll be all, Jeeves.”
“Very good, sir.”
After this, an onlooker might have observed a certain froideur in the atmosphere chez Wooster, despite Jeeves’ customary inscrutableness and my own decision to sweep the whole thing under the rug. The camaraderie between us had been put on the back burner, so to speak. Thinks were strained. All was not right with the state of Denmark. Jeeves took to acting as if I was something rather disgusting he would prefer not to have to look at. As time progressed, and the Suit and Prudence continued to hold sway, his “Indeed sir?” began to acquire a tone which would have chilled lemonade.
In short, there were sinister doings afoot.
One evening on Jeeves’ night off, I actually ran into him in a little café near Covent Garden, deep in conversation with a bald, respectable-looking man of some fifty summers. Now I have never known precisely what Jeeves did with his free time, nor have I ever heard him express a dislike for sitting in cafes with a respectable man who was in all probability an old friend (though Jeeves had never mentioned him to me) doubtless enjoying the intelligent banter he was probably starved for at home (he having made his opinion of my own intellect quite clear in the past).
And yet I gawped, slightly. Odd to see Jeeves drinking coffee as if he hadn’t a care in the world. I might have gone away and left them to it, but I had a desperate need for stimulants, because some of the chaps had decided on an all-nighter the previous evening, and an all-nighter with the Drones lot means minor criminal offences and enough alcohol to supply a busy pub for a week. In such a flimsy, new-born-foal sort of state, leaving sans coffee would be sheer madness.
So I traipsed over to where Jeeves and his friend were parked with the congenial expression of a chap who is very glad to see two other chaps, even if one is a stranger and really remarkably bald and talking to one’s valet as if he’s known him all his life.
“And you say that your previous efforts have failed?” the bald stranger was saying.
Jeeves nodded. “Unfortunately so.”
“I see. Well this is not unusual, you know, especially under the circumstances. I myself, at one time…well, be that as it may, I personally would suggest a substitute. If you were to find someone else to –”
At this point they looked up and saw me. “Ah. Hello,” I said, feeling slightly awkward. “What ho, Jeeves.”
For a moment Jeeves looked as if someone had come up behind him and whacked him over the head with a chair (an unpleasant experience, as a painful incident in my youth had taught me). Then the customary placidity returned.
“Mr Wooster,” he said. “Good evening.”
“Hello, Jeeves,” I said. “Don’t get up, I thought I’d just biff over and say hello. Don’t want to disturb you.”
“Not at all, sir. This Mr Lane, sir; he is an old friend of mine.” He turned to Lane. “This is my employer, Mr Wooster.”
We did the nice-to-meet-yous and whatnot. And then there was an awkward pause, the
sort of pause you experience after having driven from Mayfair to the Strand in a taxi, only to discover upon arrival that you’ve forgotten to bring anything to pay the driver.
“Well,” I said. “Nice to see you, and all that.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Erm. Well, don’t want to spoil your night. I’ll see you later, what?”
“Yes, sir. Good evening, sir.”
And so I drifted off, utterly forgetting the coffee in the oddness of it all.
A substitute? The word filled the Wooster heart with a cold and nameless fear. If Jeeves was going about looking for a substitute, then what other substitute could he be thinking of than a substitute employer?
“Well, of all the bally nerve!” I exclaimed, at a volume which caused several passers-by to look askance and increase their speed as if they feared they might be in the presence of one of Sir Roderick Glossop’s prize specimens.
This was intolerable. Jeeves and I had had disagreements before, but never to the extent where he might start looking around for a new post without telling me. I had thought such raw work beneath him. And now here he was smiting the Wooster heel in the manner of a snake in the grass. Villainy, indeed.
I fumed off to the Drones, deciding that tomorrow morning, Jeeves would have to be Talked To.
“Bertie,” said Ducky, as I flung myself into my favourite chair, “whatever’s the matter?” I surveyed him with disfavour. I was not in the mood to be troubled by Ducky. At that moment he seemed the most dismal specimen of humanity imaginable. The way he sat was peculiarly irritating; rarely had I seen a man sit in a manner so calculated to repel and offend.
“What’s the matter with what?”
“With you, old prune. You’re grinding your teeth. You’ll be taking a bite out of that glass in a minute.”
I put said glass down on the table and gave him a withering look. The sort of look which usually crumples strong men like acute indigestion. It bounced off Ducky as all such looks did. “I don’t wish to discuss it,” I said with dignity.
“Ah, domestic trouble, is it?”
“No.”
“Take my advice, my lad, I’ve seen men in your state before, and there’s only one cure: just take her some flowers or something and admit you were wrong, utterly wrong, and that you’re terribly sorry and won’t ever do it again, except at Christmas and on national holidays.”
“You’ve got the wrong end of the stick, you ass. And besides, I wasn’t wrong.”
Ducky shrugged. “With respect, Bertie…”
“Don’t you ‘with respect, Bertie,” me, you fungus.”
Ducky shrugged again, like a man who has been to France and wants to call attention to the fact. “Alright then, let’s talk about something else.”
“Good.” I took a sip of my drink, and began to feel slightly more human.
“So, what exactly did you do to make her angry?” said Ducky, breaking the silence like a priceless vase.
“Make who angry?” called Pongo from across the room.
“Bertie’s had a tiff with the better half,” said Ducky.
“What? Bertie isn’t married, is he?” (Derisive laughs from a few eavesdroppers by the fireplace).
“Isn’t he?” said Ducky.
“No,” said Pongo. He gave snort of amusement. “Though not for want of trying. Eh, Bertie?”
“Then what’s this domestic strife about?” persisted Ducky.
“Oh, that’ll be Jeeves, I expect,” said Pongo, wisely.
“Jeeves? The valet?”
“That’s the one. Paragon amongst gentlemen’s gentlemen. Jeeves is a legend, Ducky. He’s the reason Bertie hasn’t got himself killed before now – he manages him like clockwork. Doesn’t he, Bertie?”
I stood up, betrayed and incensed. I had come seeking comfort and manly sympathy, and instead here I was being subjected to a barrage of unprovoked abuse.
“Goodnight, you blistering gumboils,” I said, in a tone of manly disapprobation, calculated to shame them to their very souls. “I’m going to see Prudence.”
“Jeeves, you mean,” said Ducky helpfully.
I fought down a wish to throttle him with his own impeccable necktie, and went out.
Mortimer, Prudence’s butler, opened the door. He was a tall, handsome chap, not exactly Greek god standard, but as near to Greek god as any respectable domestic could be without exciting remark.
“What ho, Mortimer,” said I, as affably as circumstances would allow.
He eyed me with a look of pure loathing, as if I had done something unspeakable to a close relative of his, and done it more than once. I took a step backwards in alarm, wondering if I had wronged him previously and then forgotten all about it. Nothing else (other than the possibility that Prudence was in the habit of hiring dangerous lunatics to work for her) could explain the vindictiveness I saw in the man’s gaze.
“Miss Caruthers is not at home, sir,” he said with grim exultation.
Mortimer being apparently unsure when (or indeed if) Miss Caruthers would ever return home, I shuffled off, crushed and dejected.
It was at this point that a lesser man might have crumpled like a paper bag. When one’s trusted valet is acting in a sinister manner, whilst one’s prospective fiancée goes AWOL and people like Ducky are hanging around making idiotic remarks, anyone might be forgiven for feeling that life is really a bit much, and retiring to bed with a headache and a whiskey and soda.
Not so Bertram. Baulked of Prudence’s company, I determined to return home and wait for Jeeves, and have the whole thing out once and for all. Best to be direct, I think. Fellows like Jeeves may complicate things with elaborate ruses and what not, but I maintain that ten to one you’re much better off going straight for it then dithering around waiting for some confusing scheme to come to fruition.
When I got back I found Jeeves already there, engrossed in some domestic chore which seemed to demand the burning of a quantity of rather tatty looking papers.
“Jeeves,” said I.
“Good evening, sir.” Valets of Jeeves’ calibre aren’t given to looking shifty, but for a moment I got the impression that my appearance was inopportune in the extreme. He tipped the rest of the stuff quickly onto the pyre. “I trust you had a pleasant evening?”
“Not bad, Jeeves, not bad. Having a clear out, are you?”
“Ah. Yes, some waste papers needed destroying.”
“Well. Excellent. Look, Jeeves –”
“Sir?”
“You – you wouldn’t put the bath on, would you? I fancy an early night.”
“Very good, sir.”
I thought the informal setting might dispel the awkwardness which had arisen. And besides, recent events had left me in need of solace and refreshment, and a hot bath seemed at that moment the most tempting prospect imaginable.
It was only when I slid into the piping hot b. some minutes later that it occurred to me that I had made an error of judgement vis-à-vis the venue for my discussion with Jeeves. I had forgotten that whilst in the bath, a man, even one of iron nerve and steely resolve, is liable to be at a bit of a disadvantage. Clothes maketh the man and all that. Still it was too late worry about now. I needed to have this out with Jeeves pronto, and trivial considerations could go hang.
“Jeeves?”
He poked his head round the door.
“Sir?”
“Come in, Jeeves, I need to talk to you.”
“Would it be possible to postpone the discussion briefly, sir? Only I am currently in the midst of –”
“Never mind what you’re in the midst of, Jeeves. Damn the midst. I need to talk to you.”
“Very good, sir,”
“Well, come in. Sit down. Don’t loom like that.”
“Loom, sir?”
“Yes, you do rather loom from this angle. I hadn’t noticed it before. How tall are you exactly, Jeeves, anyway?”
“Is this the matter you wished to discuss, sir?”
“Of course it wasn’t, Jeeves. Don’t be idiotic.”
“No, sir.”
I hummed and ha-ed a bit, and then decided to go straight to the jugular:
“Jeeves, I happened to overhear a bit of what you were saying to that chap at the café tonight. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, you know such things are beneath me, code of the Woosters and all that, but the fact of the matter is I did happen to catch a couple of things, and I think I know what you were driving at, and quite frankly –”
I broke off suddenly, because Jeeves had gone utterly white. He looked suddenly less like a valet than the ghost of one.
“Jeeves! Are you alright?”
“Yes, thank you, sir,” said Jeeves. He was holding the towel rail as if about to collapse like a house of cards in a draught, and was as obviously not alright as I had ever seen him. “If I might be allowed to explain –”
“I think I’d better finish, actually, Jeeves,” said I, with a touch of the majestic.
“Very good, sir.”
“Now you’ve been with me a good long time.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And we’ve had our differences, of course, human nature being what it is and all that. But I never would have thought you would have begun looking for new employment without coming to me first and saying that something was bothering you. I mean, I’d expect as much from a valet, let alone a friend. Which I thought you were.”
Jeeves was still looking slightly peculiar. I thought the guilt must finally be getting to him.
“Am I to assume, sir…?”
“Yes, Jeeves, I know all. I have put two and two together, and delivered the goods. All is now known to me. Your motives are an open book. You can’t stand the Suit and you don’t like Prudence, and you decided to leave without saying anything. Am I right?”
He said nothing for a moment, as if doing a complicated sum in his head. “Quite right, sir,” he said at last. “I apologise most sincerely.”
I unbent somewhat. “You understand that it’s nonsense, then?”
“Sir?”
“You’re not finding a substitute, Jeeves. I forbid it. It’s out of the question. I can’t find a substitute for you, so why should you go beetling around trying to find one for me? Why, I wouldn’t last a week without you around, you know that. If it wasn’t for you I’d have died out long ago. Bertram would be exhibited next to the dodo in the extinct species section. Common humanity alone should persuade you to stay.”
I had got rather into the speech, knocking the soap dish to the floor in a particularly extravagant gesture. Jeeves picked it up and replaced it carefully on the side of the bath before replying,
“Indeed, sir, I had already realised that the idea was…ill-advised. I have no intentions of seeking alternative employment.”
“Well. As long as that’s settled.”
“Quite settled, sir.”
“And there is no more bad blood between us?”
“No indeed, sir.”
But something was still up. You could see it a mile off. The chap wasn’t even looking at me.
“Jeeves?”
“Sir?”
“There’s something on your mind. You have some secret grievance you aren’t telling me. Some grudge festers within you.”
“No, sir.”
“Dash it, Jeeves, you aren’t even looking at me.” Realisation dawned. “In fact, you haven’t looked at me since you came in.”
“I apologise, sir.”
“Look, Jeeves, either you explain what’s so fascinating about the bathmat, or you bally well look at me.”
Well, he looked at me. I’ve probably mentioned in the course of these chronicles that Jeeves resembles nothing so much as one of those statue things people keep press-ganging you into seeing at museums: his face has the same sort of fine-chiselled immobility to it, to the extent where he sometimes manages to look slightly un-human.
But at that moment if he looked like a statue at all then it was one which had been knocked about a bit in transit, so that if you laid a finger on it would crack into tiny pieces, showering you with dust and causing a nasty scene with the museum chaps.
I suddenly had one of those things where you begin to wonder if you haven’t been bally well wrong about almost everything from the word go. Like in the final reel of a film, where the misguided hero realises he's ruining his life and decides to go home to the little missus and make amends. Can’t quite think of the word – sounds like “epicentre”. Jeeves would know.
At this point I may have said something like “Yoicks”, but then again I may have not. Historical opinion is divided on the subject. Anyway, I wasn’t left much time to say anything, “yoicks” or otherwise, because at that moment the doorbell rang.
“The bell, sir,” said Jeeves, faintly. “Shall I –”
“Oh. Yes. You should probably –”
“Very good, sir.”
Jeeves later said this was an example of deus ex machina. Unless deus ex machina happens to mean “a damn nuisance” then I don’t agree with him at all.
A moment later he rematerialised, looking more like himself – more graven image than man, you might say.
“Miss Caruthers to see you, sir.”
“Oh. Bit late, isn’t it?”
“She seems most eager to speak with you, sir.”
“Well, tell her I’ll be along in a moment.”
“Very good, sir.” The blasted fellow still wasn’t looking at me, but there wasn’t time to hash the matter out.
I found Prudence sitting with a neglected cup of tea before her, looking rather emotional. She was a fountain troubled, so to speak. Her expression was lacking in her usual joie de vivre. Regarding her, one might have assumed that there were some pretty hefty goings-on afoot.
“Hello,” I said, aiming for cheery good humour, despite having been interrupted in the middle of a bath and an epi-whatsit.
“Oh, Bertie!” she said, on seeing me (not a phrase that usually bodes well, in the main) and threw herself into my arms. It was at that moment, as I recall, that the plan re Prudence and conjugal bonds was suddenly abandoned. She was a lovely girl, as girls went, but she didn’t say “Indeed, sir?” or rescue me from perils on a nigh-daily basis, or take irrational dislikes to various of my clothes, or manage to look exasperated and affectionate at once, or keep herself so primly neat that your hands itched to ruffle and unravel. She wasn’t Jeeves, in short. You couldn’t hold it against the poor thing, of course. The world is chock-full with poor benighted souls who aren’t Jeeves. But as things stood, marriage was simply no-go.
“Some tea, sir?” interposed Jeeves from the other side of the room. I had a fleeting impression he might have preferred to suggest my immediate suicide instead.
“Thank you, Jeeves,” I said, rather distractedly. For I was somewhat perturbed. Much as I admired Prudence, I found her behaviour in coming her and saying “oh, Bertie!” and throwing herself into my arms to be rather strange and unnerving. “Shall we sit down?” I said to the top of Prudence’s head – the only bit of her I could really get a look at – and fortunately she seemed to agree, so we slithered gracelessly onto the sofa, and gradually I was able to pry her off and give her the once-over.
“Prudence,” I said kindly, “you appear distressed.”
“Of course I’m distressed, you idiot,” she snapped.
“Well, a problem shared is a problem halved, they say. Tell all. Perhaps I shall be able to shed some light on the dilemma.”
“That’s why I came to you. I knew you were the only one who might be able to help me.”
“Really? The only one?” Things seemed to be getting a little thick. It didn’t help that I had a sudden longing for her to take herself off so I could finally sort out whatever was going on with Jeeves.
“Well of course,” said Prudence, looking at me as if I was her wise old uncle, or something. “You’re the only person I know who’s been through what I have.”
“Been through what, exactly?”
She looked slightly amused. “Well, being in love with an employee, of course. How on earth did you manage, Bertie?”
I went through the motions of someone who has unexpectedly swallowed a wasp.
“I what, Prudence? I’m what? What? I? What? What?”
“Of course I realised about you and Jewkes –”
Some things couldn’t be allowed to pass. “Jeeves."
“Jeeves, sorry. I realised about you and Jeeves ages ago, it takes one to know one, I suppose, and you’ve only got to see the way you look at each other to realise...Don’t gawp like that, Bertie, I don’t hold it against you. Live and let live, you know. And Jeeves is very attractive, of course.”
I was going to say “You mistake me, woman, I have no interest in my valet’s attractiveness” or words to that effect, when it dawned upon me that she was right. I didn’t quite like the way she’d apparently given Jeeves the once-over – especially since apparently humble status was no barrier to her affections – but her assessment of the situation was undeniably correct. I made some kind of vague, choking noise, and said nothing.
“And so anyway I thought…well, maybe Bertie could tell me what to do about Mortimer.”
“Mortimer?”
“Our butler, you know. He came here six months ago and I loved him from the beginning. He has such a lofty soul, Bertie. I can’t stop thinking about him and whenever I look at him I just want to –” she glanced up suddenly. “Oh, tea? Excellent. Could I have another cup as well?”
I followed her gaze. Jeeves was standing in the doorway, tea tray in hands, utterly motionless.
“Ah, Jeeves,” I said. I couldn’t think of anything else, so I said “Ah, Jeeves,” again. It didn’t seem to do the trick.
Jeeves made no observation at all, but stood gripping the tray as if his life depended on it.
Prudence looked between the two of us incredulously for a moment.
“Oh, Bertie,” she said softly. “You hadn’t...?”
“No.”
“And he hadn’t…?”
I looked at Jeeves again. “No.”
“And he’s been with you for how long, exactly?”
“A good while, now.”
“And in all that time, it never occurred to either of you to say something?”
I shook my head.
And then, I regret to record, Prudence began to laugh. And not the tearful, hysterical laughter of a girl at her wits’ end, either. No, this was the real deal, a laugh of genuine hilarity which seemed to shake the windows like a gale.
It was a moment or two before Prudence was up to speaking again.
“I think I’d better go,” she said, reaching for her purse.
“I think that would be best,” I said, with as much dignity as could be mustered at such short notice.
“Thanks for your help,” she said, cheerfully. “I’ll invite you to the wedding.”
“I haven’t given you any help.”
“Well, thanks for the cautionary example, then. I'm not going to sit around in silent yearning like you half-wits. I’m off to tell Mortimer I love him, and I don’t care what anyone says.”
“Well, bully for you,” I said, with certain amount of sarcasm.
“Oh, cheer up, Bertie,” she said heartlessly. “I know Jeeves is miles too good for you, but if he doesn’t mind then why should you kick up a fuss about it?”
I was going to say something crushing, but the door had already slammed, and she was gone. I turned slowly to look at Jeeves.
“Some tea, sir?” And he said it almost normally, too. "Or perhaps something stronger?"
I boggled at him in silence.
It suddenly dawned on me that he wasn’t going to do a thing. He'd known how things stood long before I had, and hadn't had the common sense to do anything about it excpet hang around in cafes with bald men and insult my Suit. If I didn’t take matters into my own hands, we wouldn’t get anywhere.
“I take it you heard Prudence’s remarks,” I said slowly.
“Yes, sir.”
The cogs began to whirl. “And I take it she’s not wrong, by any chance?”
He murmured something about decorum, or proper gentleman-valet relations, or tea.
Bertram can be a man of action, when circumstances call for it. And these circumstances called like billy-o. I took him by the shoulders, in the manner of a dashing hero seizing languishing maiden. “Jeeves.”
He sighed, like a chap who’s been carting around a heavy package all day, and has suddenly decided to dump the thing in a taxi and drive home instead. “Not as far as I am concerned, sir.”
Everything seemed suddenly a lot brighter and more reasonable. Even Prudence was agreeable again. “So what was the stuff about a substitute about?”
“I was referring to an amatory substitute, sir, rather than a change of employer. It was Mr Lane’s suggestion, but I found it impracticable.”
“Well, I should hope so too. A substitute, indeed. A preposterous idea. You can put
that out of your head once and for all.”
He did that almost-smile thing which knocks any ordinary smile for six. “I do apologise, sir.”
“And what about the Suit?”
“I admit, sir, I did believe it to be…inconvenient. As you justly observed, it is very becoming. Such distractions may prove disastrous to one in my position.”
“I looked too good in it, you mean?”
“Precisely, sir.”
“A fatal distraction? Bathsheba, or something along those lines? My radiant good looks playing havoc with your equanimity?”
He flushed. “Something…vaguely along those lines, sir.”
“And in the bath…?” The whole thing was a bit rum to contemplate. One isn’t always at one’s best in the bath, after all. There is loud singing, and application of soap, and general sploshing around not calculated to make a good impression.
“The same principle applied, sir.”
“But what were you planning to do, exactly? Considering I was about to shackle myself to Prudence?”
“About, sir?”
“Yes, about, Jeeves. I find that both I and Prudence have prior attachments which make any thought of marriage impossible. A sad discovery, but there it is. These things are sent to try us. So, what strategy did you envisage?”
“I had decided upon a complete destruction of certain effects, sir, along with a course of improving reading and an utter suppression of any sentiment that might have interfered with my duties. Had the sentiment continued, I would have taken further steps, or perhaps left your employment entirely, had it become necessary.”
"And it never occured to you that a sounder scheme might have been to tell me all this, instead?"
"It did not seem advisable, sir."
There were things I was still curious about. The effects, for example, or who Mr Lane was, or how long Jeeves had cherished anything resembling a tender sentiment towards myself – and how long I’d been cherishing one towards him, for that matter. But more pressing matters prevailed.
“Jeeves?”
“Sir?”
“I’m sorry to cause you pain, but it has recently come to my notice that you are an utter idiot.”
“Sir?”
“As I’ve said before, you have a deplorable tendency towards the elaborate. You over-complicate. That brain of yours runs away with you, and before you know it there are plots and counter-plots springing up like mushrooms. You waste valuable time on scheming when what you should be doing is –”
“Is, sir?”
And it seemed impossible to continue without sinking into absolute mushiness, I thought I’d better just put an end to things and kiss him. As conclusions go, it went rather well, I thought.
“I am reminded of Dr Johnson, sir,” he said at last, when we were in a position to speak again.
“Not something most gentlemen like to hear whilst locked in a passionate embrace, Jeeves, but I’m sure you have your reasons. And less of the sir, please.”
“I apologise, s-. I appologise. I was simply thinking of his aphorism that love is the wisdom of the fool –”
“– And the folly of the wise, what?”
“Precisely.”
“I’m not sure I like the direction that quotation is going in, Jeeves. You take liberties, and not in a pleasant way.”
“It was just an idle thought.”
“Was it, indeed?”
At this point I decided that the only methods appropriate for seeing off all thoughts, idle or otherwise, were decidedly non-verbal, and put said methods into practice forthwith. And though both modesty and Jeeves forbid me in no uncertain terms from going into detail, I think it’s only fair to record that in the next few moments all thoughts of Dr Johnson were abandoned completely.
A/N: The song at the begining is A Fine Romance, by Dorothy Fields & Jerome Kern:
A fine romance, with no kisses
A fine romance, my friend this is
We should be like a couple of hot tomatoes
But you're as cold as yesterday's mashed potatoes
A fine romance, you won't nestle
A fine romance, you won't wrestle
I might as well play bridge
With my old maid aunt
I haven't got a chance
This is a fine romance
A fine romance, my good fellow
You take romance, I'll take jello
You're calmer than the seals
In the Arctic Ocean
At least they flap their fins
To express emotion
A fine romance with no quarrels
With no insults and all morals
I've never mussed the crease
In your blue serge pants
I never get the chance
This is a fine romance
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-10-18 07:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-19 10:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-18 07:38 pm (UTC)I love it.
Didn't notice any anachronisms- Prudence seems rather clued up and liberal, but the twenties weren't refered to as 'roaring' for nothing, and she's already inclined to overlook social status for love...
no subject
Date: 2005-10-19 10:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-18 07:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-19 10:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-18 08:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-19 10:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-18 08:18 pm (UTC)My legs are numb. And I have class in ten minutes. Curse you for that.
But mostly Bless you for this fic.
no subject
Date: 2005-10-19 10:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-18 08:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-19 10:24 pm (UTC)*falls over*
no subject
Date: 2005-10-18 08:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-19 10:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-18 09:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-19 10:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-18 11:24 pm (UTC)And the Suit. And Mortimer, The Dreamboat Butler. And the fact that everyone knows all about what's going on between our boys except the boys themselves.
And now I must just stop and analyze why I'm boggled by the implication that Lane might be lusting after Algernon. I mean, it's "Importance of Being Earnest;" surely slash is implicit every time a character opens his mouth. Yet still, *boggle*....is it the class difference, maybe? Wilde being much more of a snob than Plum, of course...hmm.
no subject
Date: 2005-10-19 10:32 pm (UTC)I'm sure Oscar would be utterly unimpressed by my suggestion re Lane, but I couldn't resist it - the opening snarkery between him and Algernon is so reminiscent (preminiscent?) of Jeeves/Bertie. Besides, it serves him right for making Algernon/Jack into incest.
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2005-10-18 11:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-19 10:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-19 12:39 am (UTC)“It was Shakespeare, I think. I mean, it sounds like a Shakespeare play, doesn’t it?”
“It sounds like all of them, sir.”
XD
Sorry I can't offer any more coherent praises. But you RULE. Way too much. Like, leave some...rulingness...for the rest of us, honestly.
no subject
Date: 2005-10-19 10:53 am (UTC)(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2005-10-19 07:06 am (UTC)Thanks so much for this story!
no subject
Date: 2005-10-19 10:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-19 10:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-19 10:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-19 10:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-19 10:43 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2005-10-20 09:14 pm (UTC)“It sounds like all of them, sir.”
haha, I like that. This was perfect. Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2005-10-20 09:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-20 09:43 pm (UTC)New to this whole lj world...how do I erase?
no subject
Date: 2005-10-21 08:14 am (UTC)Perfect. That's the word. Perfect.
no subject
Date: 2005-10-23 09:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-04 12:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-04 03:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-04 06:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-04 11:24 pm (UTC)Ducky shrugged again, like a man who has been to France and wants to call attention to the fact. This had me in stiches.
keep herself so primly neat that your hands itched to ruffle and unravel oh my. delectable. and so true.
and the final scene with not meeting eyes in the bathroom and Prudence and slow realisations all around... broke my heart and mended it again. wonderful.
no subject
Date: 2006-05-07 05:37 pm (UTC)Thank you for writing and posting this! It was a lovely story.
no subject
Date: 2006-05-08 12:13 pm (UTC)And this line was perfect- Jeeves shimmered out, looking inscrutable but disapproving – like a brick wall with a judgemental turn of mind
Fantastic!
no subject
Date: 2006-05-09 04:09 pm (UTC)