Chapter Text
We were making good time, or as good time as can be made winding down narrow but familiar roads between rolling pastures, rather more brown than green in the season, but pleasant enough going nonetheless. The company was only Jeeves and I - I can think of no better company for such a jaunt - and the destination was Brinkley Court; the abode of one most deserving aunt, my dear Aunt Dahlia, loud and quite fearless, who in her increasingly distant youth hunted with the Pytchley and the Quorn, and has never stopped speaking as though shouting over fields and through woods. She is a decidedly good egg, to contrast with that formidable Aunt Agatha, who howls at the full moon and sacrifices nephews caught about after midnight. And there is nothing so pleasant as a jaunt out to Brinkley Court, especially when tea is long past and dinner looms upon the horizon.
“There’s nothing so pleasant as a jaunt out to Brinkley Court, what?” I said. “I wonder what Anatole has on the menu for tonight.”
“Indeed, sir,” Jeeves said pleasantly, drawing his eyes away from the rushing scenery to regard the no longer quite so young master - but still in an early, spry middle age. “I believe you will find it a most suitable ‘spread’, sir.”
“You’ve heard from Seppings?” I accused jealously, my mouth already beginning to water at the mere suggestion of such a spread.
Jeeves’s implication - if that’s the word I mean - of a smile took a dashed smirk-like turn. “Yes, sir. I had the pleasure of speaking to him when I telephoned earlier today to portend your arrival and happened to inquire as to the menu for tonight’s dinner, which Mr. Seppings was happy to provide.”
“Jeeves,” I protested, “what’s become of the feudal spirit? You knew all along and yet waited until now to even give the slightest inkling. Spill it, Jeeves.”
“I hope that you will forgive me, sir, I am afraid I have forgotten it.”
I didn’t believe the chap for an instant - the very thought that the man’s memory would fail upon a matter of such import was preposterous. “Pish, Jeeves! Pish, I say!”
“If it is any consolation, sir, it is often that the unexpected pleasure is more pleasing.”
“Pish, Jeeves!” I persisted, but to no avail.
I hazarded a glance at the chap out of the corner of my eye - the rest of my gaze trained on the winding road - and found him looking rather pleased with himself. His e. met mine, glittering in that brainy way of his, and the treacherous Wooster heart leaped a little.
“I say, did you at least put in a word on my behalf?” I asked, trying to keep up something of the masterful, aristocratic air.
“Certainly, sir.”
At that, I unshipped a beam at the fellow. “In that case, I suppose I can find my way to forgiving you forgetting the menu and all that.”
“That is most kind, sir.”
Our eyes met again for a flash and there was something dashed infectious about the chap’s gleam.
“Right ho, Jeeves!” I declared.
“Very good, sir.”
And if our shoulders bumped together as the car jostled along down the road, I say, what of it?
It wasn’t very long after that before we arrived at Brinkley Court at last. Jeeves handled the luggage and I greeted Seppings, Aunt Dahlia’s butler of very many years, with a cheery “What ho!”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Wooster,” Seppings said with something of a smile.
Once I had shed my coat and hat, I ambled into the parlor where at least one contingent of the company had gathered.
“What ho!” I exclaimed to the assembled.
“Bertie, there you are!” My dearest cousin Angela - looking more like her mother every day, though I fear for the chap who tells her as much - rushed to the door for a cousinly embrace. “I was worried you wouldn’t show up until tomorrow.”
“Oh Bertie!” her friend Madeline - or rather Lady Sidcup - gasped, a little ways behind. “You shouldn’t have come!”
I was rather less pleased to see the latter than the former. From just a glance, a chap may wonder what cause I have to complain about the company of a, by all accounts, still attractive dame, but, my friend, I would say that looks can be deceiving. Beneath her, to some, enticing visage, is a girl of the sappiest sort with whom I have ever had the displeasure of conversing.
“Yes, right,” I said, scrambling a bit as the inevitable silence that arises whenever we come tête-a-tête began to sink in.
I cast about and at last I spotted a sight for sore eyes; the final female in attendance, who had remained seated on the couch rather than enter the fray.
“What ho, Em!” I exclaimed.
“Hello, Bertie,” Emerald Fink-Nottle said, a little lacking in her usual pep, but pleased to see me nonetheless.
The astute reader may remember Em, now the wife of my old school chum Gussie Fink-Nottle, as the younger daughter of American magnate J. Washburn Stoker, and sister of my one-time fiancée, Pauline Chuffnell (née Stoker), and a particular pal of mine.
However, Em and I had no time to chew the fat, as Angela insisted, “It’s good you could make it; Hildebrand will have no choice but to finally see sense. You haven’t seen him have you?”
“Tuppy?” I asked just to be sure, glancing around for the chap as though I expected him to pop out of the woodwork. “No, I haven’t seen him. I’ve just hopped out of the car, in fact.”
To tell the truth, I wasn’t all that keen on seeing Hildebrand “Tuppy” Glossop. We’ve have had our differences over the years - a particular instance of being dared to swing over a swimming pool in the fish and soup, only to find that one Glossop had looped back the rings, forcing me to drop into the soup as it were, ruining my evening best, comes to mind. However, that’s all in the past and ever since he married my dearest cousin Angela nearly a decade ago, we’ve been the closest of chums - not quite Damon and Pythias, but reliably amiable company at the least.
But now, ever since I had returned from New York and he from the front, the chap only greeted me with a sneer and I very well knew I deserved it.
Angela, however, was of a different mind. “I know he’s a stubborn blighter, but he’ll come around.”
“Oh, but is it truly worth the pain of seeing that which you know you cannot have?” Madeline asked mournfully, off in a world of her own as is her typical state. “I know how hard it is for you to stay away, but I’m married, Bertie, whatever once could have been between us can be no longer.”
“Er…” I replied, dashed awkward and all that - you can’t very well tell a girl who’s thought you’ve been in love with her for years that it was all just a little misunderstanding, and I wasn’t too keen on confronting Tuppy either. “Well, I suppose there’s nothing to be done for it, what?”
“Bertie,” Madeline said, “you’ve always been such a noble gentleman, trying to conceal your feelings, but I know why you haven’t married after all these years.”
My face flushed a little. My reasons for remaining a bachelor are hardly a topic for discussion. I was grateful that I didn’t have time to mumble some excuse.
Madeline bit her lip and backed away from me. “Oh, I shouldn’t have spoken with you at all. Be careful Bertie, Roderick wouldn’t be pleased to see us like this, you know.” From the way she said it, it sounded like we were locked in a tight embrace rather than halfway across the room.
“Right-o,” I said.
I turned to Angela, but she hardly looked like she was ready to flock round, as it were. Instead, she seemed rather dismayed by my dismissal, and gave me a bit of a glare. Em only shrugged, at as much of a loss of what to make of it all as I was.
“Go on, Bertie,” Angela said with a little more enthusiasm than was rightly encouraging, “Hildebrand should be around wherever Lord Sidcup isn’t.”
“Is Gussie here too?” I asked hopefully.
“He is,” Em said, though she didn’t sound entirely certain about the fact, “couldn’t say where though.”
“Maybe he’s with Hildebrand,” Angela suggested.
“Oh, very well,” I said - a chap knows when he’s not wanted. I bid the ladies “Toodle-pip” and went on my way.
I certainly had no intention of seeking out Tuppy, or letting him find me if he’d put his mind to it, for that matter. Instead I went in search of my fair hostess, the deserving aunt herself. However, fate, like Angela Glossop, had other plans, and on my way, I just about crashed into Tuppy through no intent of my own - or his.
“Pardon me,” I began awkwardly, and he looked like he was about to attempt the same, when he realized who exactly it was he had bumped into.
“You? What are you doing here?” he demanded as though he had caught me breaking in in the dead of night and making off with a sack of Uncle Tom’s silver.
“What ho, don’t mind me,” I said and tried to move past the chap, toward the study door waiting just at the end of the hall.
Tuppy glared at me, looking rather like he had some mind to make it hurt me as much as the sight of me was clearly paining him, but at last he let me pass with something that sounded distinctly like a curse under his breath.
I legged it down the hall and slipped into my Aunt Dahlia’s study.
“Bertie, there you are!” the deserving aunt exclaimed as though she were shouting to me across the fields. “I was worried you wouldn’t make it in time for dinner!”
I greeted her as soon as my ears had ceased to ring. “What ho!”
“It’s a good thing you’re here,” she said, wasting no time in getting down to business as it was. “I was thinking of inviting you round myself when Angela suggested it. I need a word with Jeeves.”
I have mellowed some over the years. I know it is Jeeves who has the brains and that I, though capable of showing some signs of intelligence on occasion, am not anything resembling a match for the chap. However, I confess it still stings to discover that my presence is not desired for its own merits, but only for the chance to consult with my man Jeeves.
And so, I replied with some rancor, “With Jeeves? What for?”
“I need his help, of course. I’m as deep in the soup as you’ve ever been, that’s for sure. If he can’t get me the dirt I don’t know who can-”
I waved the aunt to silence - we Wooster’s have our pride. “Jeeves isn’t the only chap with brains you know. If you want to consult with him then fine, but in that case I don’t want to hear a word of it!”
“Come now, Bertie,” she said as though I were being absurd.
“No, I know when my services aren’t wanted.”
“Good, I can’t afford having you mess this up. What your Uncle Tom would say if he knew - but it won’t come to that. Now, you’d better hurry along and get dressed for dinner; you haven’t fooled me, I know the only reason you’d come all the way out here is for Anatole’s cooking.”
Still stung, I retorted, “I would gladly come to rally round my dearest aunt, but as you have no need for my help, it seems to enjoy Anatole’s cooking is all that I’m here for.”
“Well, you’re in for a treat tonight; Anatole is on the top of his form, even better than at Christmas.”
My pride may have been injured, but I couldn’t help perking up at that. My mouth may have begun to water. “I say!”
“Tom would be devastated if he knew what he was missing. As it is, he’s barely holding on thanks to the promise of what Anatole will whip up when he gets back.”
My Uncle Tom, you see, was away on his usual post-holiday cure. His digestion has always troubled him. The only cook that has ever managed to suit his palate and his stomach is God’s gift to the gastric juices, Anatole, who is without a doubt the tops as far as cooks are concerned.
“Just don’t forget to tell Jeeves I want a word with him after dinner,” Aunt Dahlia insisted.
“Very good,” I said and made tracks back to the room I had been assigned to for my stay.
Thankfully, I bumped into no one on the way, least of all Tuppy.
Jeeves was already present, ready to assist me with the fish and soup.
“What ho, Jeeves,” I said as he helped me out of my suit jacket.
“Good evening, sir.”
“It seems we’ve been lured here on false pretenses,” I remarked as I handed the chap my jacket. “Aunt Dahlia wants to consult - she said it needed the Jeeves touch, that Wooster wasn’t good enough for her; too important - and Angela is trying to set me up with Tuppy again.”
“If I may be so bold, sir,” Jeeves said, “I would advise you not to pay Mr. Glossop any heed.”
I caught the chap’s hand - which was already in the middle of helping me out of my shirt - in my own and shook my head. We’d been this way before and had only found ourselves going in circles, which I had no desire to retread.
“Don’t trouble yourself, Jeeves,” I said. The chap looked just about ready to argue, but I forced a bit of cheer without too much difficulty and asked before he had the chance, “Any word from the kitchens? How’s old Seppings?”
“Do not trouble yourself, sir,” Jeeves replied pointedly, before accepting the change in topic with a little belated grace. “Mr. Seppings is well. I was unfortunately unable to glean much from the kitchens, as they are rather preoccupied at present with all of the guests.”
“Oh, right-o,” I said, shimmying out of my shirt. “And you’re doing all you can to help out, what?”
“I endeavor to provide assistance whenever I have the opportunity to do so, sir.”
“Well, don’t forget to take it easy some too, Jeeves. A walk around the gardens would be just the thing tomorrow - what do you say? Not that I mean to keep you from the Spinoza.”
“I expect that would be a most pleasant diversion, sir,” Jeeves said with that rummy soft smile of his, which gave me an awfully pleasant sort of warm feeling.
I had just tightened my bowtie as the gong sounded to announce that greatly anticipated feast; dinner. My stomach can be a bit touch and go at times, but it took that as a signal to rev into gear.
“Bon appetit, Jeeves,” I declared.
But before I could race from the room like a starving cheetah, Jeeves cautioned, “Your tie, if I may, sir.”
“Very good, Jeeves,” I said with a bit of a wave.
It felt like a trial of my very soul to stand there, like a horse stamping at the gate after the gun had already sounded, but at last, Jeeves’s deft fingers worked their magic and I was free to sally forth.
As it was, I arrived just as everyone was taking their places round the table. To my dismay, I wound up sandwiched between Tuppy Glossop and Roderick Spode - or rather Lord Sidcup as he’s been for the past ten years or so.
It was far from an ideal posish. Tuppy and I exchanged a terse look and I hastily turned to my other side, where I was faced with Spode, who has never been a great friend of mine; an imposing dictator-type who would as soon break a chap in two as look at him - as I believe the expression goes. I hear he gives dreadfully rousing speeches in the House of Lords these days.
But we Woosters are nothing if not gentlemen, so I tried to put all the bad blood behind me and attempted something of a cheery, “What ho!” though I fear it fell rather short of the mark.
I could have sworn the chap growled at me in response, or at the very least groaned. There was certainly a threatening glint in his beady eyes.
The opposite side of the table offered little respite. Directly across from me was Madeline, staring at me with those wide, doey eyes. I am hardly what you would call a stolid chap, but my usual fount of quips and other sundry wit all but dry up in her soupy presence. For her part, she’s hardly inclined to keep a conversation going, adrift in a world of her own, no doubt thinking of how stars are like “God’s daisy chains” and angels’ sneezes giving rise to infants, and that sort of rot. I almost offered her a drink just for something to say, but Seppings was already hovering about around the table, relieving me of my only route of escape from the weighty silence.
I glanced about again, only to find Spode, the least companionable of my dinner companions, glaring at me like a rhinoceros that had charged once already and only just missed its mark, and had no intention of doing so again.
“Wooster,” he said as though there was nothing worse he could think to call a chap, his voice low and threatening besides.
I raised my head with aristocratic pride. “Spode,” I said.
I did not like my chances if I ever happened across the chap in a dark alleyway, but at the table surrounded by, if not friends, at least acquaintances, I was quite safe. If I had Michelin lace cuffs I would have brushed off any invisible specks of dust that dared soil them - though, upon second thought, it seemed not quite a thing to be done at the table, so perhaps it was for the best that I was lacking in lace.
“Or, should I say, Lord Sidcup?” I amended in the same proud tone.
“You better watch your step, Wooster!” Spode growled, but he kept his voice low, and I saw him sneak a few furtive glances across the table at his beloved.
I held my head high and scoffed.
Still, the instant I felt I had made my point clear, I turned away and shot a pleading look at my dear cousin Angela on the other side of the table - seated on Madeline’s right. But the usually delightful blot offered me no consolation and instead merely shrugged, before diving into conversation with Madeline, of all people. I have never been able to fathom how two so different girls can be such great friends.
My deserving Aunt Dahlia was at the head of the table between Angela and Tuppy, putting her unfortunately rather out of my ken for the duration of dinner. Instead, I braved Spode and turned to the other side of the table in hopes of some sympathy. Thankfully Spode is a fickle beast and his attentions had gone from me, to the unfortunate drip directly opposite him; Gussie Fink-Nottle.
Gussie is, as I have said, an unfortunate chap and a bit of a drip, a famous newt fancier, but he’s also a fellow Drone and a friend of mine from our public school days. I would wish the glare of Spode on no man, but my heart went out to Gussie especially, no longer quite the sensitive plant he once was, but still not a man of steel or what not. He certainly didn’t deserve the evil eye for daring to have once or twice been engaged to Madeline in her pre-Sidcup days and to have now wound up seated adjacent to her.
I greeted him with a “What ho!” but he was distracted, as any chap would be, confronted with Spode.
I half expected Em - seated on Gussie’s other side - to take Spode to task for the look he was giving her husband. She looked none too pleased in such a posish. herself. Alas, we were consigned to near opposite ends of the table, too far for idle chit-chat - she would have certainly made better company than my current lot. I gave her a bit of a wave and grin, but like Gussie she was otherwise occupied and I could see her heart wasn’t in it. If only I had been near enough to lend a friendly ear.
To round out the company, at the far end of the table, seemingly engaged in something of a staring contest with my Aunt Dahlia, was the indomitable Stiffy Pinker (née Bing). Like Madeline and Spode, she’s more typically one of the Totleigh Towers lot than Brinkley Court, being the ward of Madeline’s father, Sir Watkyn Bassett. Indomitable may not be a strong enough word to describe her. When Stiffy wants something done she gets it done whatever the cost. The cost more often than not taking the form of sending her poor Harold “Stinker” Pinker - coincidentally a pal of mine from Oxford - or on a few noteworthy occasions myself, out in a ski mask in the middle of the night to stage a robbery or some such, or live to regret it.
All in all, I had to admit that Aunt Dahlia had rather outdone herself in the way of company. It wasn’t quite the crowd I would have called for - rather more of the likes of Spode and Madeline and less of the Drones than to my taste - but it certainly rounded out the table. Given my posish., you may understand why Anatole’s cooking, marvelous as it always was and with a few choice favorites in the mix that I recognized as Jeeves’s hand at work, did not quite manage to hold me spellbound, and my appetite, touchy as it is, quickly waned.
I made some further attempt at drawing Gussie into conversation for both our sakes, but it only succeeded at dividing Spode’s ire between us, and I gave it up as a bad job.
I was picking my way through sylphides a la crème d'écrevisses, wishing I was back at the table in my own flat, with just myself and maybe Jeeves if he consented to join me, when there was a sudden uproar to my right.
Spode leaped to his feet, nearly upsetting the table - I held on to my plate for dear life. There was wine everywhere west of Stinker, who was frantically apologizing to the chap, attempting to no avail to dab the lake of wine away with his napkin.
Spode, his face looking like a particularly lumpy beet, let out a thunderous roar, “PINKER!”
I backed away into Tuppy, who hastily stepped well out of my reach, as though I had the Spanish flu.
“Darling,” Madeline attempted, but to no avail.
Meanwhile, Stiffy turned on Spode in Stinker’s defense.
For an instant all was shouting - I thought I may have even heard Stiffy’s aged hound, Bartholomew, putting in a bark or two from out in the stables.
But Aunt Dahlia was louder; “ENOUGH!”
It had a quite remarkable effect. You could have heard an elderly sheep coughing from upon a distant mountaintop, but none dared make even the slightest sound.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice only a notch quieter. “Seppings,” she began, but the butler was already on hand with the necessaries, so instead she turned on Spode with a quite deadly smile. “Lord Spodecup, why don’t you go get yourself cleaned up.”
The beet had not gone from his face, accentuated by the wine on his suit. He looked rather like a volcano bulging up, ready to blow. I took another step out of the way of his hammer-like fists just to be safe.
But instead of a great explosion, it ended with a bit of an underwhelming phut, and he stamped from the room with only a hearty grumble. Stinker looked ready to chase after him with another word of apology, but Stiffy, for all her faults, had wisdom enough to hold him back.
Only when Spode was gone did the maids dare approach, and in just a few shakes, all evidence that there had been any mishap at all, had just about vanished, and we all sat down to dinner once more, a little lighter for the chap’s absence. It didn’t last long, but there was a pleasant interval of laughter all around the table and I managed to enjoy a few bites, before Spode returned with a glare at Stinker - and a few extra for Gussie and myself for good measure.
Thankfully, there wasn’t much more of dinner left after that. We all finished eating and then the party made something of an exodus to the parlour for drinks and what not.
Angela took my arm as we filtered out of the dining room, holding me back so we were a little behind the pack. “That brute,” she declared in a low voice. “I wish you’d married Madeline, she’s not so bad you know, once you get to know her.”
“No, I daresay she’s worse,” I replied - this was hardly the first time Angela had made such a suggestion and the very thought sent a shiver down my spine every time even though Madeline was safely married off to Spode.
Angela batted my arm. “She’s got enough trouble as it is with Lord Sidcup, you ought to be nicer to her - it’s the least you can do.”
I raised my head in aristocratic pride. “It’s always my aim to be a gentleman. Otherwise, I would’ve simply said I didn’t want to marry her years ago, but it’s hardly preux.”
“You and your preux,” Anglea retorted.
I was just preparing to unleash a scathing reply, but I never had the chance, as at that moment we came into the parlour and Angela skipped off to join Madeline and Em.
I greeted the rest of the chaps with a cheery “What ho!”
“What ho,” Stinker replied, but he was the only one.
As soon as I had come into the room, Tuppy made for the other side as though he’d been stung by a bee - or however the expression goes. Spode was occupied with trying to glare at everyone at once, as though we were all responsible for the dark stain that he may never expunge from his evening best. It reminded me of the time Tuppy had played a practical joke on yours truly that wound up with me falling into the pool in my fish and soup, but it seemed hardly the crowd to appreciate it.
Instead I milled about a bit. I exchanged a word or two with the aged relative, but I was still feeling not entirely kindly toward the aforementioned after she had slighted me just hours previous. Eventually, I elected to call it a bit of an early e. with some thought of finishing the novel I had brought along. I exited the parlour and mounted the stairs with a yawn.
However, I was not destined for peace just yet.
“Wooster!” Spode charged.
I stumbled back into the railing. My feet slipped along the way and I dropped down a couple steps, thankfully managing to remain upright, even as a sharp jolt shuddered up from my heels.
“What is it you want?” I managed to retort after a fashion, though it lacked some of the desired sting.
Spode had stomped - I presume - up the stairs while I had been indisposed and now was just a step away. “You may have everyone else fooled, but I’ve been watching you, Wooster,” he said, his voice low, as not to alert the remainder of the party in the parlour, but in a menacing sort of way - and I’m afraid between the deadly stare and bulging muscles, he managed the desired effect.
“You have?” I asked, not quite casually. I tried to stand firm, but my boots quaked of their own accord.
“I have and I know your lawless ways!”
“Now, now just a moment, there’s nothing-” I attempted frantically.
“I know you’ve been waiting for an opportunity to steal Madeline from under my nose. But if you so much as look at her, Wooster, I’ll snap your spine in half and rip off your head!” As he spoke, Spode loomed ever closer, looking like he was inclined to skip the formalities and go straight to the snapping and ripping.
“Now, see here, it wasn’t very well my idea-”
“You’ve been warned, Wooster!”
Spode raised his hand toward my neck and I flinched back, tipping precariously against the banister.
For an instant I considered my chances if I flung myself over and tried to land on my feet or however it would hurt the least - and then we both looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps. I don’t know if I’ve ever been as happy to see the chap as I was to see Tuppy on that particular occasion.
Spode hastily stepped away and growled down at him, “Nothing to see here, Mr. Glossop, just having a little chat, weren’t we Wooster?”
I didn’t think twice; I bolted straight up the stairs and didn’t look back. I don’t even recall if I thought to throw a hasty excuse behind me.
“Wooster!” Spode shouted after me, but I was already around the corner, and it seems Spode is a fickle beast, for lacking Bertram, he quickly turned on Tuppy, and the last thing I heard was him roaring, “Just a minute, Glossop! I’ve been meaning to have a word with you!”
I felt bad for the fellow of course. My friendship with Tuppy had seen better days, but my heart still went out to the chap, however, Bertram W. may be many things, but I’m not nearly fool enough to take my chances against a rampaging Spode. Instead, I ducked into my room and soundly locked the door behind me.
I was still badly enough rattled that when I heard someone rattling at the door, instead of jumping up to unlock it I called out, “Who is it?”
“Sir?” I heard on the other side.
I hastily admitted Jeeves and locked the door again behind him. I could feel the chap watching me, an eyebrow raised just a fraction of an inch in restrained bewilderment.
“It’s Spode, Jeeves, I don’t know if I’ll be able to last a day in the same house as the bally fellow. He’s already sworn he’ll snap my spine and rip off my head if I so much as look at Madeline, and how can I very well help it being confined to close quarters with the female - by no will of my own, mind you. Next I’ll be sleeping in the shed, if I can catch any dreamless at all, listening for Spode lurking in the gardens.”
“Indeed, sir,” was all Jeeves said in that dashed indifferent way of his.
“This is no trifling matter, Jeeves!” I exclaimed. “I fear Spode’ll be the end of me. I half expect he’ll come after me in the night if he finds out that Madeline so much as talked to me when we arrived!”
“That is most troubling, sir,” Jeeves said, though if he was troubled I don’t think I’d ever seen a calm day in my life. “However, I expect Lord Sidcup, for all of his threatening overtures, is rather more bark than bite, if I may use the expression, sir.”
“You haven’t been at the receiving end of his bark, Jeeves.”
“No, hardly to the same extent, sir. However-”
“No ‘however’, Jeeves! If there was a time that called for flocking round it would be now, unless you intend to leave me to the mercy of the Sidcup.”
“Very good, sir. If I am not mistaken, a locked door will be enough to impede Lord Sidcup tonight, and tomorrow, our promenade in the gardens will put some distance between ourselves and Lord and Lady Sidcup.”
I could still detect more than a note of indifference in the man’s tone. He was hardly all aflutter, but there was reason in what he said.
“There is reason in what you say, Jeeves,” I admitted at last.
“You are too kind, sir,” Jeeves said with a little bow.
“You mock me, Jeeves.”
He righted himself immediately, straightening his posture - though it hardly ever truly needed straightening - and squaring his shoulders. “Not at all, sir.”
I gave the chap a look, but he was irreproachable, stuffed frog mask and all. There was no getting through to him when he was like that.
Finally, I waved it all aside. “Very good, Jeeves.”
The stuffed frog relaxed, if only a smidge. “Shall I prepare your bath, sir?”
I caught the man’s dark eyes with my baby blues, really held his gaze, you know. There’s something downright unfathomable about those inky blacks of his. They may say the eyes are the windows to a chap’s soul, but if that’s the case, then Jeeves’s soul will always be a mystery to me. For all the years I’ve known him, there are still things about the chap I may never truly understand. He plays along well enough, but it’s not so easy to forget that he’s accustomed to sterner stuff that makes my little troubles seem unsubstantial and inconsequential in comparison. But we’d been all over that life and death rot and back again with nothing to show for it. At the very least, there certainly wasn’t anything I could do for it, not for lack of trying, mind.
At last, I gave the chap a bit of a pat on the arm. “Thank you, Jeeves.”
“Very good, sir,” he said and shimmered from the room.