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“Well!” I exclaimed, awestruck. “Will you look at that, Jeeves!”
“I would rather not do so any more than necessary, sir,” Jeeves said, wearing a vaguely pained expression. He was usually not the sort of cove one would expect to have a roving eye - no, all steadfast, unshakeable gazes, is Jeeves - but now, his oculars were flitting this way and that, desperately attempting to avoid what lay right before him.
I could tell this was difficult for him. But we Woosters, brave alumni of Agincourt that we are, cannot always be merciful, but must, on occasion, let the heavy sword fall on the frail neck when the situation demands it.
“No, but really, Jeeves, look!” I implored him again. “Isn’t that the most magnificent parrot costume you ever did see?”
Jeeves, being the most paragonest of valets, looked. A glance upon the Medusean bean could not have made his expression more stony. I did always think his countenance had something dashingly statuesque, but this did seem like a bit much.
“It is certainly the most colourful, sir,” he said, in a tone like a block of granite. “Though I believe it is not, in fact, a parrot costume.”
“No?” I boggled. It certainly had the look of one, feathers of all colours of the rainbow, and quite a few more, adorning it.
“No, sir. This costume appears to depict a character from Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s comedic opera Die Zauberflöte, The Magic Flute. He is a birdcatcher, adorned in the discarded feathers of his captives. Note the plot-relevant pan flute and bells that come with the costume - on the stage, a cage, carried on the back, is customarily also included.”
I noted. “Gosh!”
“The character’s name, Papageno, is derived from the German word Papagei, meaning parrot, and there is a certain… similarity of appearance.” Jeeves winced again. He was rather vulnerable to sartorial extravagances, the poor chap. Preferred the crow over the parrot, one could say. “So one can hardly fault you for your initial misattribution, sir.”
“No harm in that as long as I have a marvel like you to steer me right eventually, Jeeves!” I turned the Wooster smile on him for a moment, before returning it to the currently more pertinent object of my admiration. I could admire Jeeves and his bally brilliance day-in and day-out, after all, and did not need to go to a costume shop to do so. “I’ve made my decision, I believe. Whatever sort of costume it is - it’s the one which Bertram Wooster will wear to the ball!”
Here, it seems necessary to me to interrupt the res that I have begun in media of, and dash off a few explanatory lines for the benefit of the uninformed reader.
The ball in question was the Yule Masquerade, an absolutely smashing evening of rejoicing and revelry in the fanciest of dresses, which my distant uncle Watford Wooster (of the Stipplington-Woosters, corking chaps one and all, though not the closest branch on the family tree) was determined to put on every year anew at Midwinter at Starlington Manor, his ancestral homestead. He throws out invitations to everyone of rank and file in the area and a fair bit beyond it, including of course his own cherished relations, and expects them all to attend so extravagantly adorned that he will never know who is which. It’s a corker of a party, it really is, and wonderfully festive to boot - I attend whenever I can, and on occasion take it as an excuse to beg off from any closer-family Christmas celebrations at Brinkley Court, or, worse, Bumpleigh Hall, if I have reason to fear that my aged aunts may expect mischief or marriage from me.
This auspicious event - meaning, of course, the smashing ball - was now fast approaching, and I felt like the purchase of a new costume was in order. The Drones Club had set up a comical sketch night only two months earlier, and unfortunately, my rather excellent musketeer costume had not survived the experience. New togs were needed, and sharpish. Hence, my visit to London’s foremost salesman of quality costumes, located just on the Piccadilly end of Bond Street, and the selection of the Papageno costume.
Having thus explained the posish, we may return to the present moment, and Jeeves’ reaction to my heartfelt declaration of intent; which was not, I must sadly inform you, altogether favourable.
“Are you quite certain, sir?” Jeeves asked, implying very strongly in the angle of his eyebrows that I ought not be. “It may be a hint too… striking, even for an event such as a costume ball.”
“Oh, pish and tosh. Strike is just what I want the bally thing to do!” Even if what it struck was ‘fear in the hearts of men’, or at least f. in the h. of Jeeveses. “It’s perfect, don’t you see?”
“I do not, sir. I do not believe it would be suitable attire.”
“And why not?”
“The Magic’s Flute’s Papageno is a decidedly low character, sir, in every aspect. Aside from his birth and profession, he is cowardly, inconstant, and foolish, to say nothing of his conduct towards ladies. The role would not flatter you - I might even go so far as to say that it would do you a severe injustice,” Jeeves hastened to explain. “If you were set on a character from this opera, might I suggest Prince Tamino, instead?”
It was a fine explanation, and I might nearly have accepted it, if not for the way Jeeves’s disapproving eye kept flitting to the costume, and each time adopted a look of such contempt one might think the poor old thing had stolen all his worldly possessions and dishonoured various female relations of his. Jeeves was not acting in my best interests; no, he simply despised the colourful togs, and would do and say anything to keep me out of them.
“Jeeves, your concern for the young master does you credit,” I told him, and hoped the sting of guilt would be keen, “but if other guests can appear at this function dressed as pirates, devils, and various animals, I hardly think that an operatic bird, or catcher thereof, will reflect all too badly on me, eh?”
Jeeves made a sound like a particularly displeased sheep. If he were to have his way, I would be wearing a Raffles costume to the ball - a criminal, yes, but also a gentleman, so that would be alright in his book - which consisted of a tastefully-elegant suit, a black mask, and a handful of paste diamonds to wave about. He’d made the suggestion a number of times already, but I would not hear of it - I’d had enough brushes with the law during the pinching of various silver cow creamers or policeman’s helmets to avoid any association of self with the literary criminal element.
“Regardless,” said Jeeves, pointedly, now expressing himself in the language of man rather than woolly baa-lamb, “it is my firm position that this is not the ideal costume for you, sir, and I beg you to reconsider.”
I could tell, then, that I would never sway him. Jeeves’s mind was made up re: Papageno, and he would not budge on the matter. Simply that he made his position known so plainly, instead of making vague remarks and giving me the old frog-look, indicated how fundamentally opposed he was to the costume. There was no hope in that quarter.
And with that realisation, the coming events spread out before me as certainly as if the Cassandra girl had whispered them into my ear: I would put my foot down and purchase the costume against Jeeves’s wishes. Jeeves would be terribly put-out by this, give me the cold shoulder all the while up to the costume ball, and likely as not find some way to bung me into preferable garments on that night, anyway. And I would forgive him this after some service rendered, but would never quite forget.
Ergo, all I was going to get out of it would be a distinct cooling of relations, and a smarting bruise to my pride. I could ride into the valley of death with my six-hundred if I really desired it, but it would do me no bally good at all. Would do me worse, in fact - you must understand, I don’t like Jeeves being cold with me. Not one bit! Makes my old ticker feel rather like some oaf has gone and dropped it, leaving a great big crack along the middle. I didn’t think I would manage to bear it for the fortnight between that day and the Yule Masquerade.
So, if I wanted my Parrotgeno costume and to maintain amicable relations with my valet, it seemed to me like Fate would have to take a distinctly different path than the one laid out in my impromptu prophetic vision.
And I, Bertie Wooster, would have to devise a scheme to that end.
“Well, I suppose I oughtn’t rush into anything,” I said abruptly.
“Sir?” Jeeves’s face naturally did not betray any surprise, but I thought I could see an eyelid twitch in bafflement.
“You’re quite right, Jeeves - the decision-making process is not one to be hurried along,” I told him, very seriously. “And while this costume is just the dickens and I would gladly take it home right here and now, I suppose there’s no harm in sleeping on it for a night or three. I’ll mull it over, and inform you of my decision closer to the event. What do you say to that, my good man?”
“I couldn’t possibly comment, sir,” Jeeves inclined his head, but there was a distinct air of relief in his mien, and a fair share of quiet approval.
And with that, my really quite ingenious and cunning plan had been set in motion.
The very next day, at the Drones Club, I enlisted the aid of two accomplices. The blots upon the map of the world that were my two cousins, Claude and Eustace, were in the metrop again, and while I would not call them reliable if I had almost any other adjective at my disposal, for the matter at hand, and with the judicious application of a tenner each for their troubles, they would serve me better than most of my other, non-cousinly chums.
Thus, on my command, Claude and Eustace went to the fancy dress shop on Bond Street, and purchased the Papageno costume. They further tipped the store clerk handsomely, handing him a note of instructions along with the tip.
The day after, having ascertained that the costume was safely stored in my cousins’ luggage and ready to be transported to Starlington Manor, I took Jeeves along to the shop myself, and made a great production out of my shock when the clerk told me - as instructed, believing this to be a prank between school chums - that another young gentleman had purchased the very outfit I’d had my eye on, and that no replacement could be crafted in the time left until the ball. I would have to content myself with an alternative.
I greatly lamented these circumstances, loudly cursing myself for not having had the foresight to purchase Papageno right away - Jeeves looking rather like the feline who’d received his cream dinner all the while - and finally conceding to the necessity of purchasing a different costume.
I left Jeeves free reign in the choosing, more or less, and we walked out of the shop with a magician’s costume, which differed from a Raffles costume only in the cape and top hat, and featured a set of cards and some colourful handkerchiefs in the paste diamonds’ stead. Underwhelming, all in all, but it would suit its purpose as a decoy splendidly.
A week after this purchase, we took the two-seater up to Starlington Manor, and settled in. Preparations were in full swing, and Uncle Watford could barely spare the time to give me a distracted “what ho, Bertram” before turning away to make some important decision viz. the tinsel lining the doorways or the choice of music. This suited me just fine - I have always firmly believed that an aged relative’s indifference is much preferable to their interest - and I spent a pleasant few days rambling about the grounds and drinking in the wintery atmos, entertaining and being entertained by the other guests also staying at Starlington (which included my cousins), having Jeeves be particularly approving (the relief of having dodged Papageno was still burning in his breast), and just generally having a jolly old time while all the pieces of my plan were slotting into place.
On the day of the masquerade ball itself, I took immense care to appear somewhat wan, wince at loud noises, shield my eyes from the winter sun, and overall give the impression of a fading young poet bravely persevering through an ever-worsening ailment. I pushed my food about my platter - somewhat tricky, that part, as I had built up quite the appetite throughout all the waning and wincing - and begged off any attempts by fellow guests to embroil me in some playing of the piano, or bracing strolls about the grounds.
All this play-acting just so I could exclaim that evening, as Jeeves was just about to procure my magician costume, “oh, it’s no use, Jeeves - I feel utterly rotten, this migraine’s got my bean in a- a bean-pressing machine, if there’s any such thing, and as willing as the spirit is to go and join the festivities, the Wooster flesh is weak and should like to have a lie-down.”
“Very good, sir,” said Jeeves, albeit with a faint shimmer of concern upon his noble brow, which one does appreciate, even under conditions of deceit and subterfuge. “Shall I telephone the doctor?”
“It’s nothing so bad as that.” I smiled, bravely and, if I do say so myself, impeccably tremulous, with another little wince for effect. “No, Jeeves, I’d rather you keep an apple at hand to drive the sawbones away. All I shall require is a quiet rest in a darkened room, and will be good as new in the morning.”
Jeeves still seemed mildly inclined to fuss, so I went on: “in fact, I’ll give you the evening off. Only sensible. After all, I shan’t need you, once you’ve put the ailing y. m. to bed and turned off all the lights - I don’t suppose you could convince the stars to cease their cheery twinkling, too?”
“It is unlikely, sir.”
“Ah well. Every man has his limits. Drawing the curtains will have to suffice.”
“So I hope, sir.”
I let him draw the curtains, and throw me into the sleeping togs, which he did with an expression that bordered dangerously on stuffed amphibians; so I let him procure a cup of tea from the kitchens as well, and dutifully sipped it, which seemed to mollify the feudal ardour somewhat.
It took some more insisting that I wished for perfect peace and quiet, with nobody to disturb said p. and q. at all - and especially not the fretting footsteps of my faithful valet - for him to accept his dismissal for the evening; but accept he did, and at last shimmied out of the darkened room.
And thus, finally, the hour had come for Bertram to make his escape.
I crept out of bed, taking care to arrange a few pillows to create the appearance of myself remaining where I ought - the dormitory masters at school had of course all been familiar with the ruse, and could identify the treacherous lumps of down feathers from a hundred paces with one eye closed, but I was hoping Jeeves would not be quite so keen an observer, if he even chanced to enter my bedroom again at all.
Then onto the balcony, bracing self against the biting cold, which rather gnawed at the tender Wooster skin; therefore, I wasted no time at all in bunging the corpus wrapped in the t. W. s. over the balcony railing.
A risky acrobatic endeavour, certainly, but Claude and Eustace were waiting on the balcony below, and between us three, we had enough lengths of willowy limbs to retrieve me safely from where I was dangling, and bring me inside, into their room. Once there, they produced my marvellous Papageno costume, and helped wrap me in it - and, well, while I have written plenty on the matter of my troublesome cousins and their misadventures, one cannot deny that, when there is mischief to be made, the two blisters are as good as gold.
Attired in my chosen accoutrements, and accompanied by a lion neé Claude, and a tiger neé Eustace, I made my way down to the masquerade, extraordinarily pleased with myself. Jeeves was none the wiser when it came to my little deception and rebellion, and never would be; I intended to clamber back into my room silently, and substitute myself for the pillows, well before morning. My cherished (yet narrow-minded in matters of fashion) valet need never know I had gone out to the costume ball without his knowing.
(Truth be told, I felt rather like the Cinderella beazel, sneaking about like this… though I was somewhat confident that, come midnight, my cousins would not turn any more pumpkin-headed than they already were.)
Uncle Watford’s Yule Masquerade was as much of a spectacle as ever, and if I really had suffered from the migraine I had affected, I would have been jolly sad to miss it.
A great fir had been set up in the middle of the hall and decorated lavishly with baubles and lights, and for a moment I wondered if Jeeves really had found a way to make the stars cease their twinkling overhead, simply by inviting them here and instructing them to decorate the interior with their glowing. Anywhere I looked, I fancied I could see constellations, on the tree, the walls, and the costumes - oh, the costumes! As pleased as I was with my birdcatcher’s attire, it could scarcely hold a candle to some of the other guests. I boggled and gawped, and complimented liberally, as I wound my way through the crowd.
The champagne flowed like bubbling fountains of liquid gold, and I threw down a flute of the stuff, followed by a mountain of really rather delicious hors d'whatsits - after my brave feigning of disinterest in good honest chow, I appreciated more than ever how much Uncle Watford valued a well-catered event.
With my hunger sated, I drifted about the room for a while, letting myself be drawn into conversation and floating on when the mood struck me. It’s a bit of an art, drifting about a social function, and after a decade or two of the stuff, I was something of an expert. Though I fear that one cannot say of me that I displayed the great virtue of humility during my cheerful drift - I was prancing and preening as if I’d showed up as Peacockeno, and soaked up plentiful compliments re: my hard-won costume, which I very nearly considered my due after the pains taken to wear it without valet interference.
(However, somewhat irritatingly, most everyone assumed I’d come dressed as a parrot, and required correction. One fears for the future of the British gentry if not a one of them is able to identify a Papageno at under a hundred paces - I mean to say, that I could not clock the fellow does not come as much of a surprise, but one expects better from the full contingent of The Nation’s Betters, doesn’t one?)
The band eventually struck up a more jaunty tune than the vaguely festive musical accompaniment it had provided previously, and I hastened onto the dance floor, where I danced with a beazel dressed up as a beagle, Titania the Fairy Queen, Joan of Arc, another Titania, and one girl all done up as a butterfly. And best of all, we were not introduced to each other beyond that, and therefore no expectations of marriage could be formed on the basis of a dance or two. It had happened before - I had learned to be cautious about whose dance cards I put myself on, and how often. Full of pitfalls, those un-masked balls. I much preferred them with the veil of anonymity tastefully drawn across them.
And yet, amidst my whirling and twirling, my eye occasionally caught on a strange figure, a blot of monotony in an otherwise absolutely topping affair: there among the dancing couples, I spotted a gentleman who appeared to be wearing no costume whatsoever.
By which I don’t mean to imply he was wearing his birthday suit, an Adam’s costume, or was waltzing about the room in the all-together, naturally - that might have caused quite the stir, though I can’t say I should have minded. At a glance, the fellow appeared to share his physique with various Graeco-Roman statues, and if one has got it, I daresay that one ought to flaunt it, what?
My point being, he was attired in some fashion - only, it was a distinctly non-descript one. A fine enough suit, as any gentleman’s valet should be pleased to see him wear, and a long black cloak that draped down his back as he danced - quite extraordinarily well, I should add, to the obvious delight of his dance partner, yet another Titania I had not previously made the acquaintance of, and the envy of a good number of other girls who might like to have a go next - as well as a pure white mask that covered most of his face.
He might have been dressed as Raffles, or perhaps a magician, though I searched his hands (as he finally opted to take a breather from shaking the wickedest of legs, and chat idly and evidently charmingly with a small group at the edge of the dance floor) and could find no trace of the appropriate props for either character. Very poor show, that, to not even have the false rocks or a rabbit to remove from a hat. I was beginning to think the fellow might be having himself a laugh, and with the effort of my own adornments fresh in my mind, surrounded by all the pomp and circumstance and whatnot my dear uncle had set out so fastidiously, the thought rather offended me.
So irritated was I, that I quietly sidled up to the cove, and intended to give him what for - which, really, he deserved, choosing a dashed boring costume like that at Uncle Watford’s famed Yule Masquerade. If we weren’t careful, he was going to set a precedent, and in five years’ time, nobody would dress up at all - no, not a single inch could be given to chaps like that, lest they take a whole mile or two. I meant to draw a line in the sand, and draw I would!
“I say!” I said, tapping him on the shoulder during a lull in conversation. “And who are you meant to be, then?”
This question I threw before him like a duelling gauntlet, and if the man should have the gall to say ‘nobody specific’ or ‘I did not wish to wear a costume’, it would be pistols at dawn between him and one B. W. Wooster!
The fellow turned. I squared up the Wooster frame, and peered up - yes, up, despite the often-toted willowiness of the Wooster corpus, as he was frightfully tall and stately, his apex at a height that I wagered only Jeeves, who was physically peerless as well as mentally, could rival - into the eye holes of his plain white mask, with the sort of fire I imagine my Agincourted ancestors should have been proud to see in me.
“If you are inquiring after my choice of costume,” he oiled more than rumbled, in a voice more than pleasing (and perhaps a little familiar) to the ear, “tonight, I am Erik, the titular character of Gaston Leroux’s novel Le Fantôme de l'Opéra.”
“Phantom, eh?” I looked at him askance. A likely story! “Rather plain Phantom, if you ask me. Dash it, if that’s the fellow you mean to be, you might’ve thrown yourself into his Red Death costume, and really caused a stir!”
“I should not have liked to chance an outfit so macabre, and particularly not at a masque.” He turned more fully towards me, undeterred by my war-like air. “I take it you’ve read the publication in question?”
“Oh, rather. Corking little mystery.” I struggled to maintain the war-likeness at this juncture - he seemed like a perfectly charming fellow, and surely had meant no ill with his poorly-chosen togs. One couldn’t help being a bit of a sartorial bore, after all - perhaps it had been his own valet’s influence, anyway - and I was increasingly inclined towards clemency. “Though it makes one dashed afraid for the young actresses of today, if that’s the sort of thing they have to contend with in the ingénue profession.”
“I fully trust that Leroux’s account describes an anomaly, rather than the norm.” The chap paused, and tracked his gaze up and down my person. “And you, I see, are dressed as-”
“Now, look here,” I began, ready to fire off my habitual correction as to the nature of my costume, “it’s not-”
“-Papageno,” he concluded.
“...oh. Yes.” I blinked, and blinked hard. “Most people venture a guess more in the realm of ‘parrot’.”
“So did… an acquaintance of mine.” The fellow inclined his head, and I saw his lips tug into a private little smile. “An understandable mistake, you will surely agree.”
“Entirely,” said I, for I sat in the glass house of having bungled that very matter myself, and shan’t dream of throwing stones. “Misidentifications aside - it’s a smashing costume, wouldn’t you say?”
“Forgive me, but I would indeed not. If,” I felt that he had perhaps raised a brow behind his mask, “you should like my honest opinion…”
“My dear man, by all means, let loose!” My spirits had regained their previous buoyancy, and the fellow had earned his right to disparage my costume, considering how uncharitably I had viewed his. “I am braced, and ready to suffer any blow!”
“In that case: the cut is shapeless and unflattering, the feathers sewn on haphazardly, the colours garish and unsuited to your complexion, and the entire ensemble is worse than ostentatious. I do not think it has a place in any venue other than a circus.”
“Gosh!” I gosh’d, stricken, and yet, at the same time, oddly impressed. “You certainly let me have it with both barrels!”
“And furthermore,” he continued, a playful angle to his head, which allowed me to see that it bulged out strongly at the back, evidently containing great heaps of the grey stuff, “I do not think that the costume of-” he cleared his throat, and the sound put me in mind of a sheep grazing on a meadow, “-a low character such as Mozart’s birdcatcher reflects at all well on the wearer.”
“Well, quite,” my mouth agreed, though my brain had come to as abrupt a halt as the time a cat had crossed the street in front of the two-seater, and I had stomped right-sharpish on the breaks; as, in that very moment, two realisations had biffed me quite suddenly ‘round the ears.
One was that the fellow was after all quite thoroughly disguised; for underneath the formal attire of an upper-crusted gentleman was in fact a gentleman's gentleman - and what's more, none other than my man Jeeves himself!
I was shocked. Baffled. Flummoxed, flim-flammed, and flabber-whatsit! I say, one tells the man to stay away from the aching bean and take the evening off, assuming he might retire with a good book - and off he goes to sneak his way into a costume ball, quaffing champagne, cutting a mean rug on the dance floor, and making idle chit-chat to all and sundry. I was jolly impressed, I can tell you. Never knew Jeeves had it in him.
And secondly, judging from the casual way he spoke to me, as one might speak to any other chap of similar age encountered at a function, no “sir”, and frank opinions instead of a cautious “I couldn't say” (that nonetheless suggested he would say if only it were in his power), he had not been struck by the self-same realisation re: Bertram’s person.
So, while I recognised Jeeves, he very plainly did not recognise me.
‘But Bertram!’ You will surely protest - or perhaps ‘but Mr. Wooster!’ if we have not been introduced and you put much stock in such matters, but it would be a bally shame about the alliteration - ‘how impossible! A man of Jeeves’ intellectual calibre, failing to make a matching observation when your own negligible amount of grey matter was itself sufficient to achieve the very task? Preposterous! He has been your servant equally as long as you have been his master, and his peepers have benefitted richly from a diet of fish and carrot, honed as keenly as a knife's edge - he could never have been so blind! This sort of contrived bending of narrative logic to ensure anonymity is to be expected in the flimsiest of Rosie M. Banks romances, or perhaps one of The Bard's more mediocre comedies, but NOT,’ I hear you crying, ‘in one of your impeccable accounts, Bertie Wilberforce Wooster!’
Flattered as I am, I must nonetheless insist that every word I write is the full and honest truth, and that there is, in fact, a rather simple explanation for the alleged contr. bend. of n. l.:
Simply put, there was more than one of me - or of my ilk, at least - about.
To elaborate: While I shall of course fiercely insist that B.W. Wooster is one of a particular singular kind, espousing self's own remarkability, if that is the word I want, as enthusiastically as any proud mother would celebrate her personal snot-nosed brat, the unfortunate fact of the matter is that young men of my willowy corpus and general disposish are a dime a dozen at most large society gatherings, and especially this one. This is owed in part to the really rather outrageous number of relatives in attendance, which may not all carry the Wooster name, but certainly the Wooster blood, which comes out rather strongly - I've got a medium-distant Uncle George which I would identify as my twin before any magistrate, if only we hadn't been delivered into the world by two entirely different parental sets and a good decade apart - and in part to a general similarity of features that the better-bred contingent of my generation all seem to share.
(One doesn't like to bandy about such harsh words as inbreeding, but one must also admit that one at times tells apart two entirely different members of the Drones Club more by their hair and style of dress than any real differences viz. the facial arrangement. The Club recently newly admitted Hobnob Wilkinson without any sort of welcome party at all, as we all believed that he was in fact young Nippy Howard III., who had merely been struck hard by the sudden receding of his hairline. Dashed embarrassing, that. Nippy would not forgive us for a fortnight, until we all put friendship and brotherhood before pride and let him win the monthly darts tournament - and Hobnob, who is a stalwart and understanding fellow, bravely offered to shave his moustache to decrease the similarity. Lucky thing, too. I don’t know if, in the excitement of a darts tournament, I would have been able to tell them apart only by the forehead-to-hair ratio.)
Droll Drones drane- anecdotes aside, in that very moment I would have needed more than one mitt to count on my fingers all the young gentleman in my field of view that one might easily mistake for Bertram bertself, particularly when adorned in smashing costumage and with the distinctive call of the woosterly pipes overshadowed- oversounded? by music and nearby conversations. I had to rather strain the old elephantine appendages to even hear myself, and had no doubt that Jeeves’ hearing apparatus, operating at some additional distance from my speaking implements, had it even worse.
And finally, there was, of course, the logical aspect. Jeeves, as I am sure I have impressed upon my readership before, is the sort of brainy cove that could out-think half the professors of this sceptred isle even with one lobe tied behind his back, with a mind like one of those automaton machines one reads so much about in those spiffing American magazines.
So his marvellous grey matter would have worked through the issue thusly: here was a young man resembling Bertram, decked out in the costume he’d had his eye on - but logic would have been quick to remind him that the young master was abed with a migraine, and that the costume in question had been purchased by persons unknown, to the y. m.’s immense sorrow. He could not have known how far I’d gone in my scheming - and here, I fear I rather used the psychology of the individual against him, as I was not usually in the habit of being secretive around him, and even less likely to outright lie to my paragon of a valet.
I feel quite rotten about it now - the fellow trusted me, and I, an unseemly stain upon the honourable family moniker, used that trust to deceive him! - but at the time, I was merely quite indecently pleased to have been so very clever and prepared for this scheme by being trustworthy all these years. Had you asked me then, I would have laughed in much the same manner all those villain chappies are wont to do in the most corking of detective page-turners, and insisted it had all been in service of this, my masterplan of Moriartine proportions.
And of course, I was pleased as punch (of which there was a great deal on offer for the thirstier contingent of the partygoers) by the general sitch, re: Jeeves speaking to me as if we were peers and equals.
The feudal spirit is nowhere so alive as in the Jeevesian breast, which I should never dream of begrudging him, and of course it is simply the way it is done, but- but, I mean, dash it! If one has been by a fellow’s side for the better part of a decade, and fished him out of various soups, rivers, engagements, and on one rather memorable occasion an underground well, then might one not venture to dispense with the “sir”-this and “sir”-that just once? Might one not, after being outright offered such an intimacy in the privacy of one’s shared home, let a singular “Bertram” - I had no delusions re: the chances of “Bertie” - pass one’s lips?
Jeeves was of the opinion that the answer to these questions was a particularly soupy “no, sir”, and I shan’t argue with him. But it does rather have a somewhat death-like sting-a-ling-a-ling, to be so soundly refused, and never know one’s man in any capacity other than servitude.
Just that morning, he had made me tea, precisely as I liked it, and I felt rather like I’d touched the live wire of an electric lamp as the thought suddenly struck me that I did not know how Jeeves took his tea. And unlike Jeeves, who could with one glance determine your favoured breakfast down to the print on the tablecloth, I had no way of knowing if he would not tell me - and in the feudal servant’s book, chatting to an employer over tea and crumpets was right out, naturally.
Rummy circs, that. Here was my most constant companion, dearer to me than a good number of friends and the vast majority of my blood relations, and we could not even banter vocab back and forth between each other if said v. were found to be too chummy. I shall never speak these words aloud where Jeeves might hear them, but at times I wished a bloody pox on feudality, and dash servantship along with it!
But here, now, was my chance. I was not the young master to Jeeves now - in fact, Jeeves, in his current role, had no y. m. at all. He was a gentleman of means and breeding, and I a rather fantastically attired birdcatcher of presumably Viennese extraction; and two such fellows could hold a conversation without any wayward “sirs” inserting themselves where they were not wanted.
I was immediately determined to jump upon this chance as swiftly as the feline leaps upon its unsuspecting prey, or an aunt upon an idle nephew. It was not entirely preux, to be sleuthing out my man’s personal interests in such circumstances; but then again, we were at a costume ball, which Jeeves had taken great pains to insert himself into despite the received custom viz. the presence of the working class at such gigs. Not that I minded - it has long been my opinion that a marvel like him ought to be allowed free reign of masquerades and parliament sessions and anything else he should bally well like - but Jeeves had knowingly and with malicious forethought set aside his feudal role for an evening, and I convinced myself that I could hardly be blamed for the habitual mingling and chatting he must surely have expected from various others of the young gentlemens and ladies in attendance.
So I mingled and chatted at him with vigour. Uncommon for me, really - let no-one say that Bertie Wooster is not a sociable fellow, but I was not, usually, one for chewing the fat with masked strangers at the Yule Masquerade.
Or, well. Not just one stranger, that is. I tended to flit about, chat lightly with various persons in attendance, and did not focus my conv. on any one individual in particular, for fear of inevitably sticking my foot in it during an extended conversation. It’s the anonymity, you know - I do enjoy the protection from unwanted engagements it affords, but at my first costume ball, I fear I gossiped quite rudely to the very object of said gossip without knowing it. Feathers were ruffled considerably, and I did not yet have a Jeeves to smooth down the ruff. f. posthaste. Dashed unpleasant affair, and not one I should care to repeat.
Tonight, however, I knew exactly who I was talking to, and revelled in our conversation.
Other guests were flitting about at the edges of our communique, listening and occasionally offering a comment, but they did not register. I had eyes for Jeeves alone; looking back, he was the entire Masquerade to me, if not the entire world. I could not have named nor described a single attendant other than him.
And, moreover, he returned my ardour in equal measure - do not think, dear reader, that I was one of those oblivious oafs who dribble their life’s story into some poor girl’s ear, not realising she is entirely disinterested. Jeeves was equally as invested, and did not divert his keen gaze from me for longer than a moment - even gently rebuking a girl or two which approached him with the obvious intent of being asked to dance. One even asked directly - ah, those modern girls - and Jeeves redirected her towards a different gentleman at whose sight the girl positively lit up, which must mean it was all for the best, before returning to our chin-wag.
We spoke of music, of art, of poetry, a little society gossip - not so different from our usual conv., except for the manner in which it was conducted. Jeeves was all abundant charm and ready wit - albeit still a little on the reserved and philosophical side, and unfailingly polite - and it was passing strange, to think that, if Jeeves had not been rather unjustly disadvantaged by the circumstances of his birth, then this nameless gentleman who entranced me so was precisely the sort he would have become, had he been born on the other side of the servants’ entrance, if that is the metaphor I want. I was briefly rather incandescently furious with the world for depriving me of having a better-bred Jeeves as a peer, or even school chum; and at the same time, I was deeply grateful for this chance to encounter him for the duration of a single night’s revelries, at least.
(Much can be said about the Rosie M. Banks novels, but one cannot deny that the woman has a point about the unfairness of distributing one’s station in life at its very beginning. It only creates endless obstacles along the class boundaries for True Love to overcome, and directs a man such as Jeeves into the valeting business, when he could be running whole countries, and still write philosophical manifestos on the side. Bally waste, that.)
But setting all that aside, I should note that I have always considered Jeeves good company, of course; but for the first time, it seemed possible that I might constitute the same to Jeeves, rather than merely an obligation the bally feudal spirit had saddled him with, and which he had grudgingly come to accept as his lot in life. He had his choice of conversation - or dance - partner here, and he chose to remain at Bertram’s side, even without knowing him from Adam! I was mighty chuffed about that, I can tell you.
And remain he did, for a good long while.We spoke for the duration of four, five, six, dances, and then surely another dozen more, conversation flowing as easily as… whatever sort of thing flows. Rivers, I should imagine. Or the alcohol Uncle Watford was providing for his guests in great fountains of the stuff. I quaffed another glass of champers, and felt all a-bubbly when Jeeves set his hand on my arm to steady me, and then kept it there while relaying some amusing anecdote or other.
I am generally a cheerful fellow; and yet, I do not recall ever feeling greater happiness than I did then. God was in his Heaven, and I in mine, and all was righter in the world than it’d ever been - bless that silly parrot costume for leading me to this very moment! I ought to kiss every single one of its feathers in gratitude, I really ought.
However, despite my generall state of utter bliss, God in his Heaven etcetera, a temptation came creeping up, and threatened to overwhelm me: I wished to reveal myself.
In my prideful vanity - which is a sin, don't you know, but I was foolish and the devil had me as good as in his clutches - I wanted to make plain that, just this once, I had truly gotten the better of my near-faultless manservant. That I was not such an absolute fool and rotter as one might be made to think if one asked my Aunt Agatha - and besides, how wonderfully absurd it was that we had both come to attend this ball under slightly false pretences. What a corker! What a romp! The posish tickled me something fierce, and with the heady rush of good champagne and better conversation spurring me on towards recklessness, I felt I could wait no longer to spring the revelation upon poor Jeeves.
All must be revealed; and it must be revealed forthwith.
“Listen, old thing, you wouldn't by any chance be interested in speaking a smidgen more privately, eh?” I slyly suggested to him - for, naturally, I could hardly tear my mask off in the middle of a masquerade. Dashed indecent, to bare one's face and identity like that. Very against the spirit of the thing. Couldn't be done. “It's awfully loud and cramped in here, I should like a breath of fresh air. What do you say, shall we have a stroll about the grounds?”
Jeeves seemed to raise the old brow underneath his mask, in a manner that would usually be followed up with an “I could not advise it, sir” that distinctly sounded like he might stop me bodily if I chanced an attempt.
But, as he was not Jeeves tonight, and I accordingly was not sir - and how jolly glad I was for it! - he said instead “in this weather? We're likely to catch our deaths.”
“Nonsense, my good man!” I beamed, and beamed hard. “A bit nippy, I'll grant you, but we shall not be out long, and nothing keeps one so toasty as the warm embrace of friendship and good company, what?”
Once more, I felt rather like he might have said “very good, sir”, or some soupier variant upon the theme, at this juncture; but instead he merely smiled - smiled! Like any fellow would flash the pearly whites at another, instead of the polite, tight-lipped affair he affected during valeting duties! - and gestured for me to lead the way.
So, lead on I did, and Macduff should have been proud to see it.
We briskly made our way out of the festivities, and unto the grounds of the manor, which had something of a wintery wonderland look about them tonight.
A brisk and icy wind was stirring the barren branches, the meagre moonlight glinted off the frozen surface of the lake, and the unbroken snow crunched pleasantly ‘neath my feet. Not so much under Jeeves’s - he had his way of floating well above the ground, and even if I had not already recognised him by voice, face, and manner, then the softness of his tread surely would have done the trick.
As we walked, Jeeves commented on the surroundings with his usual repository of poetry, noting old December’s bareness everywhere, something about a crow and a dust of snow shaken from a hemlock tree, and a really rather corking set of verses about the cold earth having a lie-in below, which I really did think was his own work, until he informed me it was, in fact, some Shelley fellow I could thank for it.
I might have contributed by informing him that The Frost Was On The Punkin, but decided not to chance it, on account of not knowing what exactly a punkin was - I should not have liked to banter about misinformation, in case the frost was nowhere near any and all of the bally things.
And then there was, of course, the issue of un-freezing myself to even utter as much as a word. Jeeves might have been smack-dab on the money after all viz. catching of terminus in this weather. No wonder various winged beasts migrated South for the winter - it was a bit of a wheeze (and no doubt soon a sniffle, cough, or perhaps even pneumonia) to be standing out in the snow in nothing but featherdress.
Oh well. Nothing for it. I was too far in it to let the cold stop me; and the sooner I revealed myself to Jeeves, the sooner we could bung off back to the manor’s heated confines, and give up all this wonders-of-nature business for a lark.
Jeeves led me into the hedge maze, which was frightfully clever of him - nobody to observe my unsporting de-masking, and somewhat shielded from the wind - and there we stood, then, among the high rows of snow-dusted shrubbery. The time to make my heretofore secret identity known was clearly at hand, and I readied myself to reveal all to Jeeves and shock the man like he’d surely never been shocked before.
I raised the limpid old orbs to meet his, which gazed upon me in the most rummy manner. Made a chap feel quite peculiar, to be observed so intently - though, what intent precisely was forming in Jeeves’s peerless melon, I could naturally never even dream of fathoming.
A blanket of heavy silence settled between us, only very slightly penetrated by the festive clamour of the party we had left behind, and the gentle hooting of a lonely owl. I knew I must speak now, or forever hold my peace.
“It might surprise you to learn,” I spoke, willing my teeth to cease their chattering and allow me to form the necessary vocab., “that I had an ulterior motive in leading you out here, my good fellow.”
“Not quite as surprised as you might think.” Jeeves’s voice was uncommonly… not soupy, for once soupy’s not the term I want. Instead, the quality of his articulation was somewhat syrupy, heavy and a little sweet, as it trickled from his lips. “To tell you the truth, I had been waiting for you to make the suggestion for at least the past half-hour.”
“Ah.” Well, that rather took the wind out of my sails. “Then I suppose the nature of those u. m. is clear to you, as well…?”
“Entirely,” he confirmed, and I thought I could detect a playful glimmer in his eyes. “I’m afraid you were not as subtle as you perhaps thought yourself to be. It was quite obvious.”
“Ah,” I ah-ed again, crestfallen. Of course Jeeves had sniffed me out and merely played along - and what a fool I’d been, thinking I had pulled the whatsit over his eyes! Pride always cometh before the fall, and here I was, inevitably tumbling without a parachute. “Well, I suppose I should have expected you to find me out, what?”
I raised my downcast gaze from the snowy ground, to smile bravely at him. I noted that he was similarly raising one hand towards my countenance, presumably to remove my mask
“After all, nothing gets past you, Je-”
I did not get to utter his name in its entirety. I had barely even made a brave go at the first syllable when his hand cupped the Wooster jaw, and drew me in…
For a kiss.
If you are an avid reader of not only my own humble scribblings, but also Rosie M. Banks’s contributions to the literary market, you may be familiar with the following scene:
The dashing factory worker, or impoverished lord, or faithful servant, or, in one notable case, a young bishop in disguise, cannot contain the burning fire of his passions any longer, and must kiss the heroine, and kiss her now. He puts his paw on her blush-rosied cheek, murmurs a love-word or two, and then locks lips, pressing her to his manly (and, on at least half of the occasions, partially bared and lightly glistening) chest on account of all that burning passion which must needs have an outlet. The girl, utterly overwhelmed by the kiss and the press and the racing of her own lovelorn heart, promptly swoons in his arms. He only presses her harder against him, holding her bird-like weight in his strong, muscular arms, and… well, events proceed onwards from there.
I will admit that I never quite got what is, as they say in America, the big idea. Always sounded like a bit of a wheeze to me. It doesn’t help that my ribcage is on the narrower side, and thus not much suited for pressing a girl against - and if she swoons, well! I mean to say, if I should try this sort of move on the likes of Honoria Glossop, she’d take me right down to the floor with her!
The Wooster physique simply isn’t up to the task, but fortunately, neither is the Wooster heart particularly interested in taking on such a posish, which works out rather neatly in the end.
Now, however, experiencing the whole elaborate affair in the role of the pressed rather than the pressee, I was rapidly starting to see the appeal.
Jeeves was, as ever, a marvel at any task he put his mind - and, on this occasion, his lips - to, and kissed me most thoroughly. His chest was also of ideal pressing-against proportions, and I shan’t speak of his arms, or we’ll be here until well past boxing day. Suffice to say, they were entirely capable of holding up the Wooster corpus when I was, as the Banks heroines had prophesied, utterly overcome by the lip-lock, and lost all structural integrity in my usually so stalwart knees. He pressed me back into the hedge, and a light dusting of snow descended over us as the heavily-laden branches were disturbed; this might have quite literally cooled my ardour, if not for the way his cloak fell to envelop us both and shield me from the frost. So entangled were we, that any passerby might have thought us one being - and that was how it bally well felt. I melted into him, like he was a hearthrug and I a toffee that had been callously left out in front of the fireplace by some snot-nosed brat, and I could not have told you where Jeeves ended and Betram began for the life of me.
It was all… well… rather!
However, as the physical self was half enthusiastically engaged in what must surely have been the first and foremost of all kisses ever shared on planet earth, and half in an advanced state of swoonage, the mental self was reeling, and overflowing with the sort of questions one understandably poses to oneself if one’s valet has unexpectedly chosen to pucker up and press his mouth upon one’s own in any context other than life-saving measures after a near-drowning incident.
The first, and most obvious, was a general inquiry as to the reality of this event, or if the Wooster consciousness had simply biffed off (possibly due to acute-onset hypothermia) and I was merely dreaming. However, the cold pinched my skin far too hard to entertain the latter possibility, so I quickly set it aside.
Most of the remaining questions naturally resided in the vicinity of the why. However, upon brief consideration, this seemed rather obvious - Jeeves had wanted to, and acted accordingly, believing self to have had similar intentions in leading him out here.
So far, so good - but then, of course, I was obliged to ask if I’d had those sort of intentions, if not on the surface of my mind then perhaps below it - I did not put much stock in that Freud fellow, by and large, but some of it, as Jeeves had explained it to me, did seem reasonably compelling if squinted at in the right light - and that alone seemed like the sort of question I would need an entire evening and a few glasses of brandy to get to the bottom of. Tentatively, I ventured that the answer likely would be in the affirmative, considering my general inclination and obvious enthusiasm once the option was so suddenly presented to me, but I really couldn’t be sure without careful study.
Furthermore, I wondered if Jeeves did or did not know who I was, or that I knew who he was. This seemed, in retrospect, unlikely - he still had not addressed me as “sir” yet, I suddenly realised, not even now that there were only the shrubs, the snow, and that one bally owl to bear witness.
So, to review the rummy sitch: Jeeves was of a disposish to sneak into high society balls, a wolf of a valet in gentlesheep’s clothing, and lure winsome young men to secluded locations, where a mutually-desired thorough ravishing would take place. This only engendered more questions. Had this been a one-off undertaking, a series of hastily-sized chances? Or was it a regular scheme, with which Jeeves frequently ensnared a young master or two? Only at functions such as these, where he could remain anonymous, or other occasions as well? Were there any more permanent arrangements with any specific winsome gentleman? Had he a particular taste in the less fair sex, or was he as indiscriminate as most inverts must, by necessity, be? Had anything in my manner or appearance - perhaps the Papageno costume - convinced him that he must poach me that night, and no other?
…and, I was suddenly fiercely compelled to query, why, I mean to say, WHY had he never done so BEFORE!?
This, now, was what sparked outrage in my breast. I was not even remotely put-out by the kiss itself - quite the contrary, to be kissed by Jeeves is a singular honour I would not usually consider myself worthy of, and he is perfectly welcome to make use of the Wooster mouth any time the mood should strike him - but the longer I thought about it, the more incensed was I over the circs of it, and the considerable delay of the event. If Jeeves had some carnal interest in his fellow man, and would at the very least not be opposed to said f. m. taking on an appearance remarkably similar to one Bertie Wilberforce Wooster, why, dash it, he could have declared intentions years ago! I had been ready and willing to kiss him the moment he’d poured the restorative down my throat on the very first day, at least in the Freudian depths of the mind, and a man as chummy with the psychology of the individual as Jeeves surely could have ascertained this easily, and taken polite advantage of it, were he so inclined.
(It would have been safer for him, too. There was always some risk, after all, but considerably less of it if matters were kept within the household, so to speak. I did not doubt that Jeeves would find some way to wriggle out of a blackmailer’s clutches if pressed, but I rather wished he wouldn’t be chancing it by going about in gentleman’s attire and kissing total strangers under the night sky.
The thought of my man endangering himself needlessly made me almost sick with worry, and frankly, if it had been bloody feudality keeping a respectful distance between his and the young master’s lips, then I could not be held responsible for my actions.)
I should have liked to have a stern word with him on the matter; but unfortunately, as established, the relevant exit of my talking apparatus was otherwise occupied. And besides, it seemed a little churlish, to break off an absolutely spiffing kiss just to berate the fellow who’d provided it.
Thus, I promptly decided that bygones were to remain bygones, and merely melted harder into the Jeevesian embrace. He really was jolly good at this kissing lark, and if I had any say in it, then he would be earning medals and accolades for his skill at placing wet ones upon willing lips alone.
We finally parted out of necessity - the old bellows needed to draw air, now more than ever - and Jeeves positively smouldered at me as we both stood regaining our respective breaths, foreheads resting against each other.
His hands - how dearly I suddenly wished to unglove them! - idly ran over my bared arms, and came to rest upon my feathered collar, toying with the adornments there.
“All evening,” he told me, in a slightly roughened voice that would make better men than me shudder and go all weak-kneed, as he pulled the feathers aside to bare my neck to the chill, “I have been entertaining idle thoughts about taking this ghastly costume off you.”
“Golly!” I swallowed, which was a miscalculation; like a cat enticed by the stirring of a mouse, Jeeves went to nip at my bobbing throat, and I daresay I made a rather rodentine sound in response, too. “W-well, dear thing, I shouldn’t object to it! By all means, tear the offending garment off me, and good riddance to it!”
(Considering the seeing-to Jeeves had given me, and which he might continue to provide in the further course of the evening, saying adieu to my colourful costume was really the least I could do for him. Another kiss, and I might let him burn the mauve waistcoat too, while he was at it; two, and I would walk around in muted greys and inoffensive tweeds for the rest of my natural life.)
“I do not think that would be advisable, given the season,” Jeeves demurred, with obvious regret, gesturing to the snow all around us - and, well, he was quite right to do so. Though I had not felt the bite of cold while in his arms, it was starting to gnaw at me again somewhat, and I shook with more than just passion.
“Ah, well,” I had placed my own arms over his shoulders earlier during the proceedings, and now reverently touched the bit of his skull which bulged out at the back. A singular honour, to have the chance to put one’s mittens so close to that fabled brain! “A relocation might be in order then, eh? I have my own four walls in the manor, and a bed to boot - you could divest me of my feathers there.”
“Hm.” Jeeves did not appear entirely convinced, albeit tempted by the offered plucking. “I would not wish to pose a risk to you. There would, under the circumstances, be no innocent explanation for my presence in your chambers. Should I be observed arriving, or leaving…”
I could not help it; I laughed.
“Is that- I say, is that the only obstacle?” Asked I, still chortling.
“Yes, though it is substantial enough on its own,” he replied, with something of the stuffed frog about him, “and I should appreciate it if you took it seriously. The possible repercussions-”
“Oh, hush.” I gave him the cheeriest and most disarming of grins. “On the contrary, I think your presence in my chambers will be quite easy to explain, Jeeves!”
And saying so, I finally removed my mask and let him see who lay beneath.
I got the shocking reveal I’d wanted, after all - Jeeves paled the moment I spoke his name, and reared back at the sight of my face (a reaction that was not entirely flattering, but excusable under the circumstances), a choked “sir!” escaping from his lips.
I was not entirely pleased to have that particular appellation reassert itself in my man’s vocabulary; and even less so at the sight of the terror that so evidently gripped him. I had seen Jeeves regard me with a proper smile for the first time tonight, and had rejoiced over it - but I could certainly have done without this other primum exemplum. After all, I had only wished to surprise him, and not put a hitherto inexperienced Fear of Wooster into him!
My brief flash of triumph and anticipatory delight quickly faded and soured as, at long last, it occurred to me to view the thing from Jeeves’s position. He had committed a terrible breach of protocol simply by attending the ball as a guest, and I should by all rights be sacking him for it; naturally, the sudden realisation that I was aware of his major transgression was a thoroughly unpleasant one, which should inspire only unease in him.
And furthermore, he had been terribly familiar with my person. Had addressed his master as an equal, and dared to press him against the Jeevesian chest; I could see why the feudal spirit would balk at the mere thought - and, once more, fear retribution.
(Besides, I should really have considered that, even if Jeeves was ready and willing to snog any young gentleman of Bertie Wooster’s general looks and temperament, there might still be some other reason that would soundly deter him if the actual label were to be attached to said gent, as much as this hypothetical stung me right in the ticker.)
I had deceived my dear Jeeves, and in letting him take a liberty, I had taken a liberty, and put him into a dashed uncomfortable position - what a dreadful, despicable, self-absorbed cur I was! I could have died of shame right then and there, I honestly could have, and it would be no worse than I deserved.
There was nothing for it, I would have to explain. I would have to vow that no harm should come to him or his reputation, that he was free to remain or leave my service, and then I would fall to my knees on this very spot, snow be damned, and beg his forgiveness. Possibly under tears - we Woosters are, on occasion, not built as far from the water as we would like to pretend.
“Jeeves-” I forced out of the recently-nipped throat, and then could not go on. None of it seemed adequate to the task I had before me viz. explanation, vow, and plea. I could do nothing but oggle him most pitifully, and implore with my eyes alone that he might understand, that he might know in how high an esteem I held him, my regret at the mishandling of the affair, and how I wished… how I hoped, yearned, that he might…
Jeeves’s eyes met my own - and I would swear before any magistrate that, from one breath to the next, I saw him soften, shoulders lowering in relief, and the terror fading from his gaze, as if it had never been there at all.
“Sir,” he repeated as he removed his own mask, with a voice like the sort of treacle only the legendary Anatole could possibly provide (and then name something French), and, to my immense relief, took my face in his hands to kiss me again.
It transpired that Jeeves had not, after all, been performing to the fullest extent of his potential. The kiss he had given to a nameless young quasi-Papageno paled in comparison to the one he gave me.
There was a certain thingness to it - I believe now that I must have felt not only passion but a deeper, truer emotion in it, which naturally existed in spades between heroine and hero of any Banksian page-turners, too.
“Oh, sir,” Jeeves whispered against my lips, and I promptly revised my opinion of the hated three-letter word. It was, perhaps, not as ghastly as all that. “For so long, I have- forgive me, I should not say-”
“Do,” I urged him on, a breath away from begging. “Dear thing, do say!”
He said.
I shall not repeat his words here. They were for me alone, and I shall guard them jealously for as long as I live.
But know, reader, that he said.
I also found that I had not known true overcomeness, if that is the word I want, before that very moment. I was jolly glad for the hedge at my back, and Jeeves’s hands on me, or I might have keeled over into the snow.
And it only worsened when Jeeves decided to follow up by quoting the poet Shelley again, and informed me that “the moon made thy lips pale, beloved; the wind made thy bosom chill” and other such rummy bits of the final verse which he had omitted in his earlier recitation.
I say, what can one respond to that? My scripture knowledge prize failed me; though I believe Jeeves took my stammered assurance that I would never in all my earthly years attempt to grow a moustache again in the spirit in which it was meant.
“I am gratified to hear it, sir,” he said, and “thank you, sir” when I added that no trombone would ever darken my- our doorstep again, either. And he really did seem to appreciate the gesture, so I carried on for a little while longer, assuring him that I would gladly put myself at his disposal for however long he wished it.
“And I- er- oh, I do wish you’d call me Bertram, now and then,” I finally concluded, a little helplessly. “Seems more in the spirit of this thing we’re embarking on, what?”
To my immense surprise, Jeeves did not argue in the slightest, nor did he bring the feudal spirit (a plague upon its house) into it. He merely responded with “I believe we ought to make for your rooms now, Bertram, sir, before you succumb to the cold,” which was a compromise I could live with, and a proposition I was only too happy to accept.
“I say, dear old thing,” I piped up as we trundled back through the snow together, his phantom’s cloak draped gallantly over my shivering shoulders and his hand placed discreetly upon my back, “there’s a question I’ve been meaning to ask you all day…”
(It was not insignificant that I asked; nor was it entirely without weightier meaning that Jeeves did not demur or obfuscate, but simply, with a slightly arched brow, provided me with the answer.)
“How do you take your tea?”
