alivehawk1701 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
alivehawk1701) wrote2020-06-18 04:10 pm
alivehawk1701) wrote2020-06-18 04:10 pm
None the Wooster (more of the bits, but not the end)
Title: None the Wooster
Author: alivehawk1701
Characters: Jeeves and Bertie Wooster
Warnings: I'll say M further on (golly, like most of my fics)
Summary: Jeeve's POV. After a night of heavy drinking Bertie comes home and certain things are said and done that will shape the nature of their professional relationship. The overall story is of yet another match making attempt that goes so terribly astray, even the point of being potentially lethal . . .
I awoke before my alarm had a chance to announce the hour, my own internal clock accustomed and thus set to wake me at the appropriate time without further aid. The small window above my bed was almost lazily letting in the tawny light of morning which served as only another reminder that the day and its inevitable happenings would soon follow.
I sat up in bed, running a hand through my dark hair, letting it fall in front of my still weary eyes before swinging my legs slowly over the side of my cot. Not a drop of spirits I myself had drunk but I was greeted, upon achieving a more upright position, by a steady, painful pounding between my temples.
Taking a few moments, blinking the sleep from my eyes, my mind clumsily grappled after the remnants of a dream I’d had during the night, though when I’d had time to dream it, having only slept for less than three hours, I haven’t a clue.
It had to do with Mr. Wooster, that much was clear. Clear but in no way comforting.
I sighed impatiently, throwing myself into my morning routine with vigor, getting dressed and preened in the comfortingly automatic way void of any futile daydreams or pondering. Concern, of course, was drawing my haste so I could check on Mr. Wooster and make sure he was alright.
Once dressed I walked solemnly across the flat, grasping the cool handle of his bedroom door, careful to not open it too far to the light, and entered his dark room. My eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness, during which time I listening to his breathing that sounded reassuringly steady, a sense of great relief came over me at knowing he had at least survived the night. I quietly set a glass of water next to his bed for him to find if needed and exited with care not to wake him yet.
Once it had almost neared noon, and I’d completed what chores I could, I opened his door again, creeping quietly across the carpeted floor, having done it countless times before, just as I had slowly opened his heavy curtains to let in the already bright daylight countless times as well.
From the bed I heard a moan, its piteous nature in no way unmistakable, followed by the sound of rumpling sheets as he pulled them quickly over his eyes.
"Good morning, sir," I said in my usual calm voice, picking up the tray from the table where I’d left it, "How are we feeling?"
But I received no answer from the seemingly lifeless pile of sheets and covers, in fact there remained no movement or sound for at least ten seconds and even then it was clear this would be a slow process. He emerged from under his covers and was able to drink what I gave him, one of the stronger remedies for this certainly drastic state. Once obtaining an upright position he proceeded to speak.
"What the devil happened last night I can’t ruddy remember," he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, hunching his shoulders with a miserable groan. One blue eye opened, though only a fraction of the way, to look up at me and I received its intentional eye-contact only for a moment before diverting my concentration to his breakfast.
"If I might be pardoned to ask, sir, how much of last night’s frivolities are in your recollection?"
"Well . . ." he said as I turned and busied myself drawing his drapes, straightening his bedsheets, adjusting his pillows, waiting for that very prolonged well to come to an end.
"Gosh, only bits and pieces really . . . that blighter Bingo was in a sorry way, some problem or other, and the only solution apparently was to boldly try and out-best any prior record involving how much drunk and how little remembered on the morrow . . . though, dash it, now I can’t even remember what his dilemma was," Mr. Wooster took a sip of tea, grimacing slightly, "Well, well, must have been something worth it all," he directed bloodshot eyes to the ceiling in a pondering way, "Some very odd memories actually, very odd . . . something about . . ." my heart nearly stopped, "A bicycle? Wait a minute . . . yes, there was a bicycle . . . I rather hope no one was hurt, neither of us was in the right condition to operate on our own two legs let alone two wheels . . . actually . . ." he brought a hand to his right leg, giving a faint ouch, "I’ve been injured," I raised both my eyebrows in a questioning way, he shrugged one shoulder, "No worries, Jeeves, nothing a Wooster can’t handle."
"I’m glad, sir," I said.
"When did I get in?"
"Around two o’clock in the morning, sir."
"That’s not that bad," he said brightly, then winced, bringing a hand to his head, "I don’t even remember getting into bed . . . did I make it myself?" he looked up at me.
"No, sir," I answered, "It was not in your ability to remain vertical for very long, I was forced to assist in your repose," I chose not to mention his rather ill state, figuring it wasn’t a necessary inclusion, nor was I willing to prod anymore, though I desperately wanted to know if he recalled what had happened. Perhaps he would never remember and everyday would begin and end and accumulate as they always have. But my heart ached looking at him. He looked so lost even now and there was nothing I could do. I know he enjoys this life, for the most part, but his intelligence, intelligence he outwardly dismisses and berates, is extraordinary. In fact he is an extraordinarily bright, creative individual, so much so that when not otherwise engaged he can be filled with a listless emptiness. Loneliness had darkened the corners of his mind, somewhere within the alternating shades of blue in his eyes, and he kept it behind a locked door.
"Well, Jeeves," he said, taking a hesitant bite of food, I imagine he could taste the vomit in his mouth but said nothing, "I think I’ll have a quiet night tonight."
"As you wish, sir," I said, finishing laying out his clothes.
"Jeeves. I—" I heard behind me. I turned.
"Yes, sir?"
"I didn’t, I mean, so to say, um . . ." he licked his lips, a clumsy grin befitting his face, "I feel like I should be saying sorry to you, old chap."
"No, sir," I said, standing near the door.
He watched me then, eyes wide and questioning, mouth slightly open, then he shrugged, face relaxing, "Well all right, uh, I’ll be off then to the Drones I think, as soon as I get dressed."
"Of course, sir," I said, "Will that be all, sir?"
"Quite," he said, returning his eyes to his food.
>>>>>
Not two hours later there was a knock on the door. It was Mr. Wooster’s Aunt Agatha.
Aunt Agatha’s hat gave the impression of an unfortunate bird taken to roost, black wings folded across the silvery curls of her head, several of its glossy black feathers sticking straight up in what must have been its dying throws.
The creature curled around her neck gave near the opposite impression, like it would, if given proper motivation, unfurl itself from atop the prestigious woman’s shoulders and frisk away to a better life in the country. Its now lifeless head seemed to stare at me with hollow eyes, resting its weary head upon her breast with the wisdom obtained only after death, its scrupulous gaze boring into me as if possessing knowledge better left unknown.
For a moment, my frantic mind imagined it turning its pointed snout into the unknowing aunt’s ear to reveal the loathsome truth, leaving me to stagger backwards, offering pleads of denial but only receiving reproach and disgust in return. Absurdly, I feared it would seem obvious to her, as if the truth about last night was written somewhere in my face or dress or on the walls or in the air, and it was only a matter of time before she figured it out. She was an extremely shrewd woman after all. And now, confronted with that shrewdness, I felt completely exposed, like she could tell just by looking at me that I’d kissed her nephew last night. Her sometimes hopeless, reckless, haphazard nephew to whom she scolded but with no doubt adored. What she would do if she knew chilled me to the bone.
I was startled from my thoughts almost immediately, taking her coat and hanging it, and the fur, carefully next to the door as she glided into the sitting room. Her often critical gaze seemed to survey the apartment, lips pursed in consideration before finding it acceptable to sit on the couch. I remained standing, as required.
She looked up at me from her seat on the sofa, hands smoothing the folds of her dress,
"Jeeves, do sit down, I’d like a word."
"With me, madam?"
"Yes," she affirmed somewhat sharply, "With you."
I lingered, feet not moving an inch over the carpet, "Mr. Wooster . . ."
"I didn’t come to talk with Bertie, man, if I had I would have said so."
"Of course, madam," I responded with a nod, moving to sit down across from her, the gesture seeming, despite the invitation, a great intrusion.
"He’s out is he?" she asked and I figured it a rhetorical question, allowing her to continue with a remediate fluttering of her eyelashes, "At the Drones, I supposed?"
"So he said, madam."
"In every manner of the word, in every possible dialect, that man is utterly hopeless. If there were someone needing a visual definition all they’d have to do is point at that silly grin and carefree countenance of his and that would be it," her gloved hands wrung together as discreetly as they could in her lap as I listened quietly, "I’ve tried, Lord knows I’ve tried, but in vain—in addition to any other kind of aid or advice he seems impervious to my counsel as well," she heaved a sigh, catching my eyes briefly, "You, Jeeves, out of all his friends, hooligans the lot of them, seem the most and only intelligent choice to inquire after what goes on in Bertram’s mind, I honestly can’t say, and I at least know I can have an engaged, reasonable conversation with you."
"I’m flattered, madam," I offered, hands folded on top of my knees.
"Don’t be," she waved her hand, "You’re a smart chap and should be proud of it, brains are a precious commodity with youth nowadays."
"Such is often the case, madam," I agreed, realizing suddenly I hadn’t offered her anything to drink, the knowledge deeply unsettling for a panicked moment.
Aunt Agatha’s chin raised and she peered at me over rouge red cheeks, thoughtful for a moment before continuing her speech, "Bertie isn’t seeing anyone at the moment is he?"
"Seeing someone, madam?" I asked, attempting to play dumb.
"A young lady perhaps, one he hasn’t told anyone about?" her sculpted eyebrows rose in question, "If he’s hiding some girl, for whatever reason, you’d tell me wouldn’t you?"
"Why is it you believe him to be concealing a relationship, madam?" I asked.
"I haven’t heard from him in weeks. When last I saw him he seemed as distant as an island," her hand played at the string of pearls at her neck, seeming to calm herself, "I did some thinking and it seemed likely, in his scheming mind anyway, that he thought I might disapprove of her, thus hiding her away, explaining, of course, his odd behaviour as of late."
The collar of my shirt had started to seem tighter around my throat and I had to, for a moment, gather a steady breath in my lungs before continuing, "To my knowledge there is no young lady to speak of, madam."
"Have you any idea what’s gotten into him lately, then?" she demanded of me in the same abrasive way she did Mr. Wooster. Now on the receiving end I was more aptly able to understand the apprehension he felt toward his aunt.
"While I am unable to speculate on the current mental status of my employer, and by no means am I an expert at inferring such things, I am able to recognize a notable increase in reclusive—" I almost cleared my throat but remained stoic in my account, "—even self-destructive behaviour. On what grounds this behaviour originates, I’m not certain, madam."
Her eyes fell shut for a moment, an aged hand, ornamented with several glints of shining metal, rose to her temple and I was unable to keep from noting the sudden weariness that greyed her features, counteracting her glamorous, calculated appearance and unraveling the stately woman sitting before me into a desperate, all too human soul, worried for her nephew’s welfare.
Aunt Agatha heaved a slow breath, opening her eyes resiliently against her fatigue, "Yes . . . well, I almost wish it were a girl, Jeeves," she lifted her head, blinking away what might have been tears, "Then I could at least have an explanation," she pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve in an undistinguishable movement, tabbing at her eyes quickly, "Do you know what happened with that girl Madeline?" she asked me.
"It’s not my place to say, madam," I admitted, feeling I’d overstepped my bounds already.
"Enough with the formalities, Jeeves!" she cried suddenly, hand crushing her handkerchief, shaking in anger, "Tell me what happened! I can’t—" she let out a shuddering breath, "I can’t bear it. I’ve worried, I’ve hoped, I’ve done everything I can, I just need to know why Bertie’s . . ." her words fell apart and I watched in concern, feeling the different tone the conversation had now taken on as well as realizing the depth of concern for her nephew Aunt Agatha had, but to which I hadn’t previously known.
When she didn’t continue, I cleared my throat, "I think, with Madeline, as well as with the other young ladies Mr. Wooster has been in association with, he was averse to the necessary commitments and expectations of such a union."
She gave a bitter laugh, "You’re saying he’s afraid of marriage? All men are until they’ve gone and done it."
"Perhaps Mr. Wooster is simply not ready to brave the confines of marriage just yet, madam."
"How much longer is he willing to wait, then?" she asked fiercely, "He doesn’t seem to care, Jeeves. He sees a woman coming in his direction, a perfectly fine young woman who would make a charming wife, and it's a near certainty that he’ll run in the opposite direction, I don’t understand why he does this, why he doesn’t seem to care."
"It is odd, I agree, madam."
Aunt Agatha took a solemn moment, distant and pensive. I was no help to her, as she had perhaps hoped I would be. But I didn’t know what to tell her. Or what I could. Mr. Wooster had managed to evade several engagements since I’d known him but until now I’d not considered another explanation besides the one I had just given his aunt. I’d considered many factors, from his upbringing, pressure from relatives, to the various aspects of his rather unique personality, and though it would never be my place to intervene, I had often sought to understand Mr. Wooster and his reasons not to marry.
Last night is a new factor to consider.
But I couldn’t tell his aunt this. I couldn’t tell her that it was possible that her nephew had no desire to marry a woman. That the constant, and even increasing, pressure from herself and other family members to marry someone was perhaps more painful to him than she was aware, painful and difficult because he was fighting something he couldn’t control or even reveal to anyone. What if it were true? What if he was attracted to men instead of women? Or was last night only an unfortunate drunken mishap in which I might have appeared to the very intoxicated Mr. Wooster to look like a lovely young woman who he wouldn’t hesitate to kiss. I didn’t know. But the risk, to both of us, was too severe.
"Well," Aunt Agatha said, drawing herself straighter in her seat, "I think I’ll come back later, when he’s here," she stood up, straightening her hat, "Would you tell him for me, Jeeves?"
"Of course, madam," I answered standing as well, placing my hands behind my back.
"And thank you," she offered, though not specifying what. I led her to the door and helped her into her coat. She nodded farewell, eyes still somewhat glassy, and was out the door as quickly as she’d entered.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
I didn’t hear the door open or close, so when the kitchen door swung open and Mr. Wooster sauntered in I nearly jumped up in alarm. Mr. Wooster held up a hand to keep me seated then sat in the other chair with a pronounced sigh, slouching at length so the back of his head was almost settled on the back of the chair.
"Should you be breathing in all those fumes, Jeeves?" he asked after a moment, referring to the polishing I was engaged in.
I set down the kettle I was working on, fingers somewhat discolored from the polish though otherwise unmarred, "It rather helps to breathe through the mouth, sir," I explained, though I’m sure it didn’t escape him the same amount of fumes was nonetheless consumed, it was only easier on the nostrils.
He made a wordless response, like a grunt I suppose, and folded his hands across his lap, leaning back even more if it was possible. I took a brief moment to observe his physical wellbeing and found him looking better since this morning at the very least, his face had acquired some colour and a brightness had returned in his eyes, signs, I hoped that he was feeling well enough recovered from last night excursions. He was wearing no jacket, though I guessed he had taken it off at the door, it being a rather warm day in London, and his shirt sleeves were folded all the way to his elbows.
"Your Aunt Agatha was here today requesting to speak with you, sir."
"Oh, really?" he responded, rolling his head slightly to the side to look at me. He’d left the flat so quickly this morning he had done nothing with his hair but let it fall where it may, which indeed it had in a very unruly manner across his brow, like it had been stirred by a great wind, waves of brown and almost blonde sticking nearly straight up in some places, giving him an almost adolescent, dare I say delinquent, appearance, "Any idea what about?"
I paused for a second, reapplying some polish to the rag in my hand, "She actually spoke to me at length, though informed me that she would return at a later time, sir."
"Spoke to you?” he responded, blinking rapidly several times in an irritated way, "She has servants of her own if she needs something done."
"I’m afraid it was not a professional service she was seeking, sir," I said, noting the tension in his voice, "She was concerned about you actually, and desired to consult me on the subject. Apparently she considered my perceptions on a certain matter to be a last recourse, sir."
At that Mr. Wooster pushed himself more into a sitting position, the collar of what was now a rather wrinkled shirt open at the collar, tie hanging loose, waistcoat unbuttoned. My eyes instantly dropped back to the table at the sight of him, his collarbone and several inches of his bare chest visible from under the cream-coloured fabric of his shirt, "Certain matter?" he asked, voice cracking slightly, "About me?" he scoffed, rolling his eyes, "Of course she’d talk to you. Shall we get our alibi straight then?"
"Sir?"
"Well if it’s not one thing I’m doing wrong it’s another, I can’t jolly well keep up with it—nor am I too keen at explaining myself, again," he heaved a sigh, "What was this thing she wanted to talk to you about Jeeves?"
I cleared my throat, "About marriage, sir."
"Whose marriage?"
"Yours, sir."
"I’m getting married?!"
"No, sir, rather I misspoke, I mean the prospect of marriage."
"Is there one?"
"That was what she was trying to ascertain, sir."
"Dash it, not this again," he moaned, leaning his head back once more. I saw his throat swallow and his chest rise as he breathed deeply, "Still," he said, "Why’d she want to speak to you about it?"
"She speculated I was perhaps closest to you, as well as the most . . . credible, sir."
"Thinks you’ve got me all figured out, does she?"
"She had hoped I did, sir."
"And you don’t?"
"It would seem not, sir."
"What’s that supposed to mean, it would seem not?
"No answer would have satisfied her curiosity, sir"
"Ah," he paused, thinking, the only sounds coming from my polishing and a taxi making its way down the uneven road outside, "I have to ask you Jeeves," he started, licking his lips, "I can’t remember a great deal about last night, that blasted Bingo and his woes nearly killed me but, I, uh, I have this memory, or at least I think I have, it’s that or it was a dream, which is rather unlikely because I don’t often dream after a night like that but, uh," he gave a small nervous laugh, I’d stopped polishing, my eyes nonetheless only focused on the numerous forks and knives in front of me, "I remember coming back to the flat, god knows how I made it, and you and I were there, in the bedroom, and someway or other I remember well I, I remember I kissed you . . ." his face was screwed up in a puzzled expression, "T-that’s not true, is it?"
"You were indeed very drunk, sir," I said, the pounding of my heart almost painful against my ribs. He waited, watching me. I licked my lips and swallowed past the tightness in my throat, "Which no doubt caused your bizarre dream, sir."
The expression on his face changed, eyes darkening, mouth closing, "True. Of course, quite true, no doubt," he cleared his throat and a entirely less than full hearted smile flashed across his lips before he caught his lower lip in his teeth for a pondering moment, "It felt so real,"
I could think of nothing to say. Denial seemed the only option.
He seemed to laugh a little, his bright smile was arrestingly sweet in the afternoon sun, "A gentleman doesn’t come home from a late party, stumbling drunk, and kiss his valet, that would be truly a sight to be seen," he laughed "One can only imagine. I mean, really, that sort of thing happens so infrequently, so irregularly, sporadically that one can’t help but edge ever closer to the word never, what." his hand was back to his forehead, rubbing at what I guessed was an aching temple, "One chap carrying on with another chap well that’s just—even in a dream, my my."
"Indeed, sir," I said, returning to my polishing.
Expecting him to dash quickly from the kitchen I was astounded, after a moment, to find him still sitting across from me. I cleared my throat, trying my best to sound as un-astounded as possible, "May I help you with something else, sir?"
The spell broke and he sat up quickly, "No, no, I think not, Jeeves," he stood, slapping his thighs and then rubbing his palms together with nervous zest, "Right! I’ll just . . . " he raised one leg toward the parlor, "Play piano I should think," he lowered his leg and was off, surreptitiously.
I waited to hear the first notes of music meander through the kitchen door. When they did I continued polishing, though little was left to be done, and undeniably my gusto for shining silver had dissipated.
To have gotten so close, to have come so near to threatening what has become a very comfortable and contented life, despite, in fact in spite of my past and all its torment, had left an icy hand of dread upon my heart. Any fantasies I had had no longer seemed harmless. Mr. Wooster would move on and so would I. Yes, there was too much to lose.
Then, like opening a letter worn and brittle from reading and re-reading over the long years, I drew forth from my trembling imagination one of my favourite daydreams, knowing perhaps it would be the last time. In the early morning hours, I’m not lying on the small cot in my corner room, instead I’m waking to the sun pouring through the large windows in Mr. Wooster’s bedroom. And the thoughts greeting my waking mind are not harsh nor dark, as they’re loath to be, they are warm and comforting, slow like the petals of a flower unfurling. I’m not alone, Mr. Wooster is there. Our arms and legs are entwined under the clean white sheets. He is safe and warm and in my arms. I’m needed nowhere. I haven’t forgotten anything. There is nothing that I want. That constant ache of wanting of something I can’t have is gone from my tired heart. His breaths are shallow and warm against the hairs on my chest. I feel love. Love as it was intended to be felt.
Suddenly the kitchen door swung wide open, I hadn’t heard the music stop, and Mr. Wooster stood with hands on hips, "Now Jeeves, I know for certain that what happened last night was entirely not a dream, I demand you tell me the truth, right this very instant."
I cleared my throat and pushed the silver out of the way, scrambling to focus after being ripped so harshly from my thoughts, "You arrived home from your evening, inebriated, I assisted you to bed and, as you so rightly speculated, you had a bizarre dream. That is all."
“Then where does this odd memory come from?”
“I couldn’t say, sir.”
“If it didn’t happen, alright then, but if it did I’d like the chance to explain myself.”
“There is no need, sir.”
"Must you always treat me as a child, Jeeves?" he squared his shoulders and deepened his voice, in an obvious imitation of me, "Don’t breathe sir, drink this sir, your memory is a sorry soppy mess that can’t be trusted, sir," he scoffed, "What you must think of me I shudder to think."
"It grieves me to hear you say such a thing, sir, you couldn’t be further from the truth."
"Go on, placate me, your little clever canary that’s learned to say what ho and good morning, gazing in a little mirror all day while you sprinkle seeds about and clean up all my messes."
"I would never lie to you, sir."
"Oh really?" he stepped closer to me, "I thought I knew you, quite well actually, we’ve been living together all this time, I depend on you for bally well everything, but for the first time I don’t believe you, Jeeves."
"I don’t have a choice, sir. If you do know me and trust me you should trust that my actions are not frivolous nor haphazardous, there is a reason for them and all contingencies have been thoroughly examined. The course I take is for both our benefit," my voice had risen and my hands were curled into fists on the table.
"How could you possibly know what?"
I stood suddenly, choosing retreat, "I beg your pardon, sir, I have laundry."
He stopped me, hands to my chest, gripping the lapels of my jacket with a ferocity I rarely saw in him, "No you don’t! Why are you acting this way?"
His bright blue eyes, wide and pleading, met mine. Like the insistence of eroding salty waves crashing against a boat’s tether, they threatened to snap the line, sending me lost at sea. A question swelled in his eyes like a wave, that same sea where his loneliness spread from horizon to horizon, making mockery of all his carefree antics and blithe attitudes.
"You did kiss me," I said, unsteadily meeting his eyes.
His piercing eyes wavered. Perhaps he’d thought he’d feel relief knowing the truth. Instead he looked near in shock, pupils dilated, fear quickening his breaths, “I did,” he blinked several times, “Well,” his hands dropped from my chest, “I’m sorry, Jeeves.”
“It’s alright, sir,” I said, dropping my gaze.
“God!” he cursed, “Can you stop with the sirs, just for a moment--I’ve got to think.”
I’d clenched my jaw together, ears ringing, feeling trapped and insecure, regardless I attempted to say something, anything, needing to reassure him, somehow, “No harm was done, but,” I looked into his eyes with great effort, how dark they must appear to him, how unworthy I was when facing the very invention of blue, “It can’t happen again.”
“Of course not,” he agreed and seeing my coat lapels wrinkled where he’d clutched them he smoothed them out with his hands. The contact made me nearly shudder, how close he was, how he smelled like the sun and though I remembered, and had forbade, the feel of his lips and body against mine I only wanted to feel it again. It occured to me I was being utterly foolish, indeed reckless even thinking it.
Then after a moment, perhaps he sensed my unease, the tension in his body washed away until all that remained was us in this dim corner of the kitchen. He said softly and with tenderness, “I am very fond of you,” I realized his hands hadn’t left my chest. Could he feel how hard my heart was beating? The moment passed as if accompanied by a great swell of music and something inside me, responding perhaps to the quiet realness of his composure and his need for truth in this one remaining moment made me raise my own shaking hands to his and hold them to my chest.
“And I of you,” I curled my fingers around his, wishing beyond all hope that he would understand the significance, the candor, the vulnerability of the words.
I believe he smiled slightly, “I’m not sure I knew that,” he said, and when I frowned in disbelief he shook his head, “Rather a chap needs to hear it every now and again,” his thumb stroked my hand softly, “I’ve been . . . lost of late. I try to fit in, impress, for whatever reason, all the Drones and so forth, try and . . . be happy, in all that word has to offer, but always end up just short of the destination really,” his eyes lowered briefly, “Makes me worry I'm missing something,” his eyes shone and his voice was almost a whisper, “And the days keep passing by, and the years, and I’m not getting any closer. I’m . . . alone,” the sadness of his words shattered in my heart, “Do you know what that feels like?”
“Yes,” I said, squeezing his hands. Overcome with emotion I lowered my eyes, trying to hide the emotion fighting its way to the surface, cracking my so well calculated semblance of equanimity. He let go of one of my hands and I felt one of them come to rest on my cheek.
“Maybe we’re not,” he said and lifting my chin he brought my lips to his. Long fingers I’d seen dance over the piano countless times in the past stroked my skin, the warm breath from his nostrils was on my face as he leaned into me. The tenderness of this gesture, so different from the night before which had been so full of pain and darkness, caused something to give way inside of me, perhaps the truth spoken and shared emboldened my here before unavowed heart.
I kissed him back.
All I could imagine was in that moment. The softness of his lips, the hunger of our quickened breathes and the unrestrained frantic urge to taste and feel all of each other. I felt him shudder with pure exhilaration as one of my hands ran through the array of soft curls and pulled him into my heaving chest. And maybe he was right, maybe he could be right, maybe we weren’t alone. My eyes rolled closed as his tongue played along the inside of my upper lip and I met his eager tongue with my own, marveling at the proficiency of his kiss.
We broke away as he pulled back with two slow, wet kisses to my lips, breathless, forehead leaning against mine. His eyes are closed. My lips burned with stubble from his unshaven face. We shared a few frantic breaths in an undeniable answer to the unspoken question. No words were necessary. We both knew what this meant, what this was.
To the drumming of my own heart I felt his hands at the button of my tight collar. When it opened his warm mouth found the soft skin there. My shoulders met the wall behind me and I was startled but more so by the feel of his hips pressing into mine, arching in a way to elicit a groan of pleasure as my head fell back. I know he must feel the hardness of my cock as our hips moved in unison because I can most certainly feel his. My hands ran from his hair to his back to his hips, drawing his thin form to my taller body, burying my face in his neck, kissing an ear and the threading at his throat.
I can barely handle the chorus of sensation rising through every nerve of my body when I feel his hands slide slowly downward, delicate fingers stroking the front of my trousers. My breath hitched sharply in my throat and my legs pronounced their utter weakness. Mr. Wooster’s eyes opened and locked with mine even as his hand stopped over my cock which twitched and jerked outside my control, bound behind my many layers. He kissed me again and we writhed and rocked against the wall, one of his legs slid in-between mine. Lord, don’t stop.
"Jeeves," he breathed, gasped, “Please,” moaned in my ear, as his hips rocked into mine with more persistence, his own hardened cock pressed hot and damp into my hip. His breaths are quickening, harder and faster and I dared to slide my hands to his ass, god, pulling him even tighter to me, closer, all I wanted was closer.
Our mouths met again, all wet breaths and gasps. One hand, one courageous hand, aching to feel him, hold him, grasped the pressure that had been building, moved to undo the button of his trousers, lowering the zip, slipping my hand between us to touch the straining cock of Mr Wooster, my Mr. Wooster. And the sound! Oh the sound he made, the begging, pleading from his lips, gasping into my mouth in need of release.
And that’s when the doorbell rang.
>>>>>
Doorbells are surprising and intrusive things. Once a doorbell has been rung there really exists no distance at all between yourself and the prospective caller, none but a door and the time it will take to open it whilst offering a greeting, an invitation, taking part in the grand scheme of fingers poised over buttons and watches set to arrive at the worst possible time imaginable. So imagine my shock, my terror, at realizing that just outside the door, not ten feet from where Mr. Wooster and I were locked together mid and indeed near glorious gratification, was someone with whom observation on the most elementary level would allow them the insight needed to ascertain that there was something, or there had been, something unimaginable going on behind the door.
My reaction was to freeze, eyes darting toward the door hoping to meld into the woodwork, melt into the background, fade into a shadow, lapsing back into the lessons I learned as a child, cringing in expectation of the inevitable punishment.
Mr. Wooster’s reaction was to let out a loud sound like a frightened young dog, jumping clear into the air, hand clamping over his own mouth, eyes wide enough for ships to pass through.
"Bertie?" came the voice from behind the door, shrill and angry at being heard but not seen, declaring next with a rap of knuckles on the wooden door, "I know that yelp—open this door immediately or I’ll disown you!"
"Dear lord, what do we do?!" Mr. Wooster uttered in a panicked whisper. His hand went to the front of his trousers, hiding, wiping vigorously at the wet stain his precum had caused on the pale beige material. If the situation wasn’t so dire the image would have excited me.
Must think quickly. My intelligence is a joke, an utter laugh if I can’t think clearly in times of great need. Must think. Must think. Stop looking at him. God his lips are all swollen. I can still taste him on my lips. The way his cheeks are flushed, breath still labored and heavy, chest visible through his open shirt, oh how I’d like to stroke it—
"Jeeves! She’s breaking down the door!"
I snapped out of it, somehow finding a foothold on this hazardous and ridiculous slope we’d found ourselves upon and took hold of Mr. Wooster’s arm, guiding him hastily into his room, "Sir, put your robe on, turn out your bed—now would be a good time to brush up on any skills you know involving the feigning of illness,"
"Right, right" Mr. Wooster said shakily, quickly, nodding at me, eyes still hopelessly frightened as I closed the door on him, turning directly to the outside door, straightening my hair and my jacket and my collar and everything imaginable and wearable. Checking my own rudely interrupted erection, which had gratefully disappeared rather quickly, I was happy, so to speak, to find the thickness of my own trousers had left no evidence of arousal.
I grasped in ungraceful hands the reins of my panic and pulled back with all my strength on the steeds of my misfortune, grasping the doorknob with my hand that, as of not a minute ago, had been between my employer’s legs and flung the door open.
"Bertie, I’m—oh!" Aunt Agatha’s small gloved hand stopped mid-knock and her scowl persisted all the way through to a full out glare, "Making me wait like that—I know he’s in there now, Jeeves, I heard the blighter a moment ago."
"My apologies, madam, he is indeed here, however he’s not entirely—"
"Aunt Agatha, old tree!" was suddenly exclaimed behind me and Mr. Wooster came bursting forth from his bedroom, wrapped in his rose colored robe, a handkerchief clutched in one hand, "What-ho and all that, lovely to see you."
"Bertram," she said simply and shortly as if his very name were an inexcusable dissatisfaction, letting me take her coat and usher her inside the doorway with not so much as a glance at me, or my appearance, allowing me an overwhelming sense of gratitude, for once, at being so easily disregarded so long as I could dispense with whatever outerwear was necessary, "Didn’t your man tell you I was coming to visit—you could at least have dressed you lazy, foul creature."
"I was going to," Mr. Wooster responded, blue eyes darting to me, covertly using her averted eye-contact as an opportunity to assess my outward appearance, to which I did the same to him, both of us giving the slightest of confirming nods at each other. The briefest of eye contact had sent a surge of electricity through my body, as if we were still tethered together, causing me to turn away as he continued his hasty explanation, "Or rather did, then un-did—seeing as I’m under the weather, weather’s over me, and so forth—I thought it best to take it easy."
"Take it easy?" she retorted hotly, moving into the sitting room, not looking at him but perhaps at the ceiling her chin was up so high, "From what? You never do any work! You don’t so much as lift a radish for yourself and even then I fear the strain would be too much for you," she sneered once at him; he looked wounded, "You’d be a useless heap on the ground and I’d have to live to the end of my days known as the aunt of the poor fool who was outdone by a radish—would you really do that to your poor aunt, Bertie? Heaven help me."
"What radish?" he asked in panic.
"You dull wit," she sighed, settling on the couch, "Sit down before you faint," her grey eyes narrowed scrupulously and she took a moment to look over her nephew, casting her merciless eye from hair-tip to toe-tip, then shook her head, "You do look a bit flushed—are you quite all right?" she turned to look at me and I just avoided jumping in alarm, "Maybe if he wasn’t out to all hours, maybe if he settled down he’d—Jeeves, you’re not looking too well either."
Mr. Wooster was watching every movement of his aunt, eyes fixed and glazed, mouth hanging open, brow furrowed, and as silence suddenly made itself obvious, his mouth quipped into a silly hopeless grin, and he asked in a squeaking voice like he hadn’t heard a word or syllable of his aunt's aggressive speech since she walked in, "Tea?"
"Jeeves’ what’s the matter with him?" his aunt demanded of me, "He looks addled, did he hit his head or something?"
"Not to my knowledge, madam—"
"Never mind—his wellness at the moment is besides the point—it’s the wellness of his future I’m here to talk to him about," she dismissed, pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve.
"Oh I suspect I’ll be feeling loads better by the morrow," he replied with a nod, face near drained of all colour at this point.
"For God’s sake Bertie, the world exists beyond the next day—have you no concept of a year from now? Ten years from now?" Aunt Agatha exclaimed, and as if remembering her dignity gave a dignified sigh and dabbed at a temple with the small bit of lace cloth, expression calmer, yes, but just as resolute.
At this, though privy to his aunt’s scrutiny in the past, Mr. Wooster appeared dejected and discouraged, his aunt’s words acting as almost a slap to his face, leaving him dazed for a moment, resigned in thought. His hands were clasped together, eyes level with the coffee table as if he jagged words of his Aunt that had hit a note and frequency I didn’t think she knew was there, eventually he replied solemnly, "Of course I do."
"And where, exactly, do you see yourself?” Aunt Agatha asked with an impatient chuckle, attempting though it seemed a half-hearted attempt at first, to adopt a more reasonable tone, perhaps to spare her nephew's feelings if she were indeed capable of the empathy necessary to detect his discomfort.
Though tea may help. Tea helps. I excused myself to the kitchen hastily to get some tea for them both.
My legs were still so shaky I didn’t even know if I could make it the short distance. I felt like I’d been unraveled from head to toe. One of my hands found the edge of the counter in the kitchen so I could finally catch my breath. I didn’t fancy leaving him to her. But these are my duties. What would she think, what would anyone think, if I were to sit at his side, clasp a caring hand in his shaking palm, kissing his knuckles reassuringly to let him know I was there, supportive in a way that crossed the line if not the gulf that this society was more than aware existed between master and servant. It’s preposterous.
My hands shook as they scooped out the tea, skin still tingling in places he’d kissed, the area behind my right ear haunted by the ghost of his lips and tongue, the sweet and intoxicating smell of his sweat. Had he left bruises? My hand reached up to my neck, now covered in my collar. I would check later. I found myself suddenly, irrationally wanting bruises, wanting to make it more real than it was at the moment, a moment which seemed as fantastical, as distant, as unimaginable as a Time Machine or Verne’s great journey to the center of the earth, like a novel I’d read long ago, a short story, a fable of which I wasn’t even the main character.
However the sensations remained, no matter how far off a thing it all seemed now, the sensations rang so true and so loudly and so adamantly as if I was reliving them at this very moment, doing the most mundane thing, making tea, so completely contrary to what had just happened. Where does tea stand, how could it possibly compare to sharing his very breath with my own, his heaving chest against my own, his moans in my ear as I stroked him? Oh, this was terrible. Simply awful. The kettle was on though. Should I stay and watch it? Stay and hope that by the time I make it back out there she’d be gone? And we’d be able to continue where we’d left off? Visions of bare skin and sweat and years upon years of repression flying out the window into clean fresh air—no, no, I could hear them. I could blasted hear them.
"I recognize that it’s difficult, Bertie, believe me, my sympathy for today’s youth hasn’t wholly run dry, no, I realize the dilemma and that’s why I’ve done this," Aunt Agatha was saying.
"Done what?" Bertie asked.
"I’ve found you the perfect girl."
"What?" Mr. Wooster gasped, then politely corrected himself, "Aunt Agatha, the gesture is indeed appreciated, but really—I’m quite capable of—"
"Oh tish tosh, you aren’t capable, that’s why I’ve been forced into action."
"Well, I know I may be a little behind on all the matrimonial sentiments but surely that doesn’t mean—"
"It does mean exactly that—and don’t talk back to me while I’m trying to save you from yourself—you’ll be going to the country immediately where you will meet the girl. She is the daughter of a very dear friend, of good breeding, and I expect you to be on your best behaviour Bertie."
The water was just starting to boil, the sound ringing deaf in my ears as I listened to their conversation.
"I say, don’t you think I could have a bit of a warning, some time to think this—"
"There is no more time! Stop asking for time!" she nearly shouted, casting Mr. Wooster again into shocked silence. And though I was in the kitchen, reaching for a towel to lift the kettle from the stove, I could sense the change of atmosphere, like the air before a storm, like the first cold day of autumn where one can almost smell the coming snow.
"Please Bertie," I could barely hear her say gently, "I’ve wound the clock back for you but it will still strike twelve, every move of the second-hand brings it ever closer, you must be aware of it—your life on a clock-face . . . your life, Bertie . . . living means loving. You’re my nephew, I want you to be happy . . . I’m . . . old, I have no more time left—you’re . . . you’re not meant to be alone Bertie, I intend to fix this, fix you—I’ll be expecting you at her estate."
When the tea was ready I brought it out on the usual silver tray and saw Mr. Wooster was alone, his aunt’s exit had been quick and silent. I set the tray down and stood next to him though he was staring at the floor.
"Sir?" I asked.
"You heard all that?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well . . ." he said, looking up and I felt the briefest contact from his eyes then he lowered them again, a small sigh rising in his chest, "One of us is still free."
"I’ll begin packing, sir," I said as he sat back in his chair. Perhaps the tea would make him feel better. Perhaps I could—but no, I have to pack for the journey. But was this journey marking an end of something or the beginning?
Author: alivehawk1701
Characters: Jeeves and Bertie Wooster
Warnings: I'll say M further on (golly, like most of my fics)
Summary: Jeeve's POV. After a night of heavy drinking Bertie comes home and certain things are said and done that will shape the nature of their professional relationship. The overall story is of yet another match making attempt that goes so terribly astray, even the point of being potentially lethal . . .
I awoke before my alarm had a chance to announce the hour, my own internal clock accustomed and thus set to wake me at the appropriate time without further aid. The small window above my bed was almost lazily letting in the tawny light of morning which served as only another reminder that the day and its inevitable happenings would soon follow.
I sat up in bed, running a hand through my dark hair, letting it fall in front of my still weary eyes before swinging my legs slowly over the side of my cot. Not a drop of spirits I myself had drunk but I was greeted, upon achieving a more upright position, by a steady, painful pounding between my temples.
Taking a few moments, blinking the sleep from my eyes, my mind clumsily grappled after the remnants of a dream I’d had during the night, though when I’d had time to dream it, having only slept for less than three hours, I haven’t a clue.
It had to do with Mr. Wooster, that much was clear. Clear but in no way comforting.
I sighed impatiently, throwing myself into my morning routine with vigor, getting dressed and preened in the comfortingly automatic way void of any futile daydreams or pondering. Concern, of course, was drawing my haste so I could check on Mr. Wooster and make sure he was alright.
Once dressed I walked solemnly across the flat, grasping the cool handle of his bedroom door, careful to not open it too far to the light, and entered his dark room. My eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness, during which time I listening to his breathing that sounded reassuringly steady, a sense of great relief came over me at knowing he had at least survived the night. I quietly set a glass of water next to his bed for him to find if needed and exited with care not to wake him yet.
Once it had almost neared noon, and I’d completed what chores I could, I opened his door again, creeping quietly across the carpeted floor, having done it countless times before, just as I had slowly opened his heavy curtains to let in the already bright daylight countless times as well.
From the bed I heard a moan, its piteous nature in no way unmistakable, followed by the sound of rumpling sheets as he pulled them quickly over his eyes.
"Good morning, sir," I said in my usual calm voice, picking up the tray from the table where I’d left it, "How are we feeling?"
But I received no answer from the seemingly lifeless pile of sheets and covers, in fact there remained no movement or sound for at least ten seconds and even then it was clear this would be a slow process. He emerged from under his covers and was able to drink what I gave him, one of the stronger remedies for this certainly drastic state. Once obtaining an upright position he proceeded to speak.
"What the devil happened last night I can’t ruddy remember," he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, hunching his shoulders with a miserable groan. One blue eye opened, though only a fraction of the way, to look up at me and I received its intentional eye-contact only for a moment before diverting my concentration to his breakfast.
"If I might be pardoned to ask, sir, how much of last night’s frivolities are in your recollection?"
"Well . . ." he said as I turned and busied myself drawing his drapes, straightening his bedsheets, adjusting his pillows, waiting for that very prolonged well to come to an end.
"Gosh, only bits and pieces really . . . that blighter Bingo was in a sorry way, some problem or other, and the only solution apparently was to boldly try and out-best any prior record involving how much drunk and how little remembered on the morrow . . . though, dash it, now I can’t even remember what his dilemma was," Mr. Wooster took a sip of tea, grimacing slightly, "Well, well, must have been something worth it all," he directed bloodshot eyes to the ceiling in a pondering way, "Some very odd memories actually, very odd . . . something about . . ." my heart nearly stopped, "A bicycle? Wait a minute . . . yes, there was a bicycle . . . I rather hope no one was hurt, neither of us was in the right condition to operate on our own two legs let alone two wheels . . . actually . . ." he brought a hand to his right leg, giving a faint ouch, "I’ve been injured," I raised both my eyebrows in a questioning way, he shrugged one shoulder, "No worries, Jeeves, nothing a Wooster can’t handle."
"I’m glad, sir," I said.
"When did I get in?"
"Around two o’clock in the morning, sir."
"That’s not that bad," he said brightly, then winced, bringing a hand to his head, "I don’t even remember getting into bed . . . did I make it myself?" he looked up at me.
"No, sir," I answered, "It was not in your ability to remain vertical for very long, I was forced to assist in your repose," I chose not to mention his rather ill state, figuring it wasn’t a necessary inclusion, nor was I willing to prod anymore, though I desperately wanted to know if he recalled what had happened. Perhaps he would never remember and everyday would begin and end and accumulate as they always have. But my heart ached looking at him. He looked so lost even now and there was nothing I could do. I know he enjoys this life, for the most part, but his intelligence, intelligence he outwardly dismisses and berates, is extraordinary. In fact he is an extraordinarily bright, creative individual, so much so that when not otherwise engaged he can be filled with a listless emptiness. Loneliness had darkened the corners of his mind, somewhere within the alternating shades of blue in his eyes, and he kept it behind a locked door.
"Well, Jeeves," he said, taking a hesitant bite of food, I imagine he could taste the vomit in his mouth but said nothing, "I think I’ll have a quiet night tonight."
"As you wish, sir," I said, finishing laying out his clothes.
"Jeeves. I—" I heard behind me. I turned.
"Yes, sir?"
"I didn’t, I mean, so to say, um . . ." he licked his lips, a clumsy grin befitting his face, "I feel like I should be saying sorry to you, old chap."
"No, sir," I said, standing near the door.
He watched me then, eyes wide and questioning, mouth slightly open, then he shrugged, face relaxing, "Well all right, uh, I’ll be off then to the Drones I think, as soon as I get dressed."
"Of course, sir," I said, "Will that be all, sir?"
"Quite," he said, returning his eyes to his food.
>>>>>
Not two hours later there was a knock on the door. It was Mr. Wooster’s Aunt Agatha.
Aunt Agatha’s hat gave the impression of an unfortunate bird taken to roost, black wings folded across the silvery curls of her head, several of its glossy black feathers sticking straight up in what must have been its dying throws.
The creature curled around her neck gave near the opposite impression, like it would, if given proper motivation, unfurl itself from atop the prestigious woman’s shoulders and frisk away to a better life in the country. Its now lifeless head seemed to stare at me with hollow eyes, resting its weary head upon her breast with the wisdom obtained only after death, its scrupulous gaze boring into me as if possessing knowledge better left unknown.
For a moment, my frantic mind imagined it turning its pointed snout into the unknowing aunt’s ear to reveal the loathsome truth, leaving me to stagger backwards, offering pleads of denial but only receiving reproach and disgust in return. Absurdly, I feared it would seem obvious to her, as if the truth about last night was written somewhere in my face or dress or on the walls or in the air, and it was only a matter of time before she figured it out. She was an extremely shrewd woman after all. And now, confronted with that shrewdness, I felt completely exposed, like she could tell just by looking at me that I’d kissed her nephew last night. Her sometimes hopeless, reckless, haphazard nephew to whom she scolded but with no doubt adored. What she would do if she knew chilled me to the bone.
I was startled from my thoughts almost immediately, taking her coat and hanging it, and the fur, carefully next to the door as she glided into the sitting room. Her often critical gaze seemed to survey the apartment, lips pursed in consideration before finding it acceptable to sit on the couch. I remained standing, as required.
She looked up at me from her seat on the sofa, hands smoothing the folds of her dress,
"Jeeves, do sit down, I’d like a word."
"With me, madam?"
"Yes," she affirmed somewhat sharply, "With you."
I lingered, feet not moving an inch over the carpet, "Mr. Wooster . . ."
"I didn’t come to talk with Bertie, man, if I had I would have said so."
"Of course, madam," I responded with a nod, moving to sit down across from her, the gesture seeming, despite the invitation, a great intrusion.
"He’s out is he?" she asked and I figured it a rhetorical question, allowing her to continue with a remediate fluttering of her eyelashes, "At the Drones, I supposed?"
"So he said, madam."
"In every manner of the word, in every possible dialect, that man is utterly hopeless. If there were someone needing a visual definition all they’d have to do is point at that silly grin and carefree countenance of his and that would be it," her gloved hands wrung together as discreetly as they could in her lap as I listened quietly, "I’ve tried, Lord knows I’ve tried, but in vain—in addition to any other kind of aid or advice he seems impervious to my counsel as well," she heaved a sigh, catching my eyes briefly, "You, Jeeves, out of all his friends, hooligans the lot of them, seem the most and only intelligent choice to inquire after what goes on in Bertram’s mind, I honestly can’t say, and I at least know I can have an engaged, reasonable conversation with you."
"I’m flattered, madam," I offered, hands folded on top of my knees.
"Don’t be," she waved her hand, "You’re a smart chap and should be proud of it, brains are a precious commodity with youth nowadays."
"Such is often the case, madam," I agreed, realizing suddenly I hadn’t offered her anything to drink, the knowledge deeply unsettling for a panicked moment.
Aunt Agatha’s chin raised and she peered at me over rouge red cheeks, thoughtful for a moment before continuing her speech, "Bertie isn’t seeing anyone at the moment is he?"
"Seeing someone, madam?" I asked, attempting to play dumb.
"A young lady perhaps, one he hasn’t told anyone about?" her sculpted eyebrows rose in question, "If he’s hiding some girl, for whatever reason, you’d tell me wouldn’t you?"
"Why is it you believe him to be concealing a relationship, madam?" I asked.
"I haven’t heard from him in weeks. When last I saw him he seemed as distant as an island," her hand played at the string of pearls at her neck, seeming to calm herself, "I did some thinking and it seemed likely, in his scheming mind anyway, that he thought I might disapprove of her, thus hiding her away, explaining, of course, his odd behaviour as of late."
The collar of my shirt had started to seem tighter around my throat and I had to, for a moment, gather a steady breath in my lungs before continuing, "To my knowledge there is no young lady to speak of, madam."
"Have you any idea what’s gotten into him lately, then?" she demanded of me in the same abrasive way she did Mr. Wooster. Now on the receiving end I was more aptly able to understand the apprehension he felt toward his aunt.
"While I am unable to speculate on the current mental status of my employer, and by no means am I an expert at inferring such things, I am able to recognize a notable increase in reclusive—" I almost cleared my throat but remained stoic in my account, "—even self-destructive behaviour. On what grounds this behaviour originates, I’m not certain, madam."
Her eyes fell shut for a moment, an aged hand, ornamented with several glints of shining metal, rose to her temple and I was unable to keep from noting the sudden weariness that greyed her features, counteracting her glamorous, calculated appearance and unraveling the stately woman sitting before me into a desperate, all too human soul, worried for her nephew’s welfare.
Aunt Agatha heaved a slow breath, opening her eyes resiliently against her fatigue, "Yes . . . well, I almost wish it were a girl, Jeeves," she lifted her head, blinking away what might have been tears, "Then I could at least have an explanation," she pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve in an undistinguishable movement, tabbing at her eyes quickly, "Do you know what happened with that girl Madeline?" she asked me.
"It’s not my place to say, madam," I admitted, feeling I’d overstepped my bounds already.
"Enough with the formalities, Jeeves!" she cried suddenly, hand crushing her handkerchief, shaking in anger, "Tell me what happened! I can’t—" she let out a shuddering breath, "I can’t bear it. I’ve worried, I’ve hoped, I’ve done everything I can, I just need to know why Bertie’s . . ." her words fell apart and I watched in concern, feeling the different tone the conversation had now taken on as well as realizing the depth of concern for her nephew Aunt Agatha had, but to which I hadn’t previously known.
When she didn’t continue, I cleared my throat, "I think, with Madeline, as well as with the other young ladies Mr. Wooster has been in association with, he was averse to the necessary commitments and expectations of such a union."
She gave a bitter laugh, "You’re saying he’s afraid of marriage? All men are until they’ve gone and done it."
"Perhaps Mr. Wooster is simply not ready to brave the confines of marriage just yet, madam."
"How much longer is he willing to wait, then?" she asked fiercely, "He doesn’t seem to care, Jeeves. He sees a woman coming in his direction, a perfectly fine young woman who would make a charming wife, and it's a near certainty that he’ll run in the opposite direction, I don’t understand why he does this, why he doesn’t seem to care."
"It is odd, I agree, madam."
Aunt Agatha took a solemn moment, distant and pensive. I was no help to her, as she had perhaps hoped I would be. But I didn’t know what to tell her. Or what I could. Mr. Wooster had managed to evade several engagements since I’d known him but until now I’d not considered another explanation besides the one I had just given his aunt. I’d considered many factors, from his upbringing, pressure from relatives, to the various aspects of his rather unique personality, and though it would never be my place to intervene, I had often sought to understand Mr. Wooster and his reasons not to marry.
Last night is a new factor to consider.
But I couldn’t tell his aunt this. I couldn’t tell her that it was possible that her nephew had no desire to marry a woman. That the constant, and even increasing, pressure from herself and other family members to marry someone was perhaps more painful to him than she was aware, painful and difficult because he was fighting something he couldn’t control or even reveal to anyone. What if it were true? What if he was attracted to men instead of women? Or was last night only an unfortunate drunken mishap in which I might have appeared to the very intoxicated Mr. Wooster to look like a lovely young woman who he wouldn’t hesitate to kiss. I didn’t know. But the risk, to both of us, was too severe.
"Well," Aunt Agatha said, drawing herself straighter in her seat, "I think I’ll come back later, when he’s here," she stood up, straightening her hat, "Would you tell him for me, Jeeves?"
"Of course, madam," I answered standing as well, placing my hands behind my back.
"And thank you," she offered, though not specifying what. I led her to the door and helped her into her coat. She nodded farewell, eyes still somewhat glassy, and was out the door as quickly as she’d entered.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
I didn’t hear the door open or close, so when the kitchen door swung open and Mr. Wooster sauntered in I nearly jumped up in alarm. Mr. Wooster held up a hand to keep me seated then sat in the other chair with a pronounced sigh, slouching at length so the back of his head was almost settled on the back of the chair.
"Should you be breathing in all those fumes, Jeeves?" he asked after a moment, referring to the polishing I was engaged in.
I set down the kettle I was working on, fingers somewhat discolored from the polish though otherwise unmarred, "It rather helps to breathe through the mouth, sir," I explained, though I’m sure it didn’t escape him the same amount of fumes was nonetheless consumed, it was only easier on the nostrils.
He made a wordless response, like a grunt I suppose, and folded his hands across his lap, leaning back even more if it was possible. I took a brief moment to observe his physical wellbeing and found him looking better since this morning at the very least, his face had acquired some colour and a brightness had returned in his eyes, signs, I hoped that he was feeling well enough recovered from last night excursions. He was wearing no jacket, though I guessed he had taken it off at the door, it being a rather warm day in London, and his shirt sleeves were folded all the way to his elbows.
"Your Aunt Agatha was here today requesting to speak with you, sir."
"Oh, really?" he responded, rolling his head slightly to the side to look at me. He’d left the flat so quickly this morning he had done nothing with his hair but let it fall where it may, which indeed it had in a very unruly manner across his brow, like it had been stirred by a great wind, waves of brown and almost blonde sticking nearly straight up in some places, giving him an almost adolescent, dare I say delinquent, appearance, "Any idea what about?"
I paused for a second, reapplying some polish to the rag in my hand, "She actually spoke to me at length, though informed me that she would return at a later time, sir."
"Spoke to you?” he responded, blinking rapidly several times in an irritated way, "She has servants of her own if she needs something done."
"I’m afraid it was not a professional service she was seeking, sir," I said, noting the tension in his voice, "She was concerned about you actually, and desired to consult me on the subject. Apparently she considered my perceptions on a certain matter to be a last recourse, sir."
At that Mr. Wooster pushed himself more into a sitting position, the collar of what was now a rather wrinkled shirt open at the collar, tie hanging loose, waistcoat unbuttoned. My eyes instantly dropped back to the table at the sight of him, his collarbone and several inches of his bare chest visible from under the cream-coloured fabric of his shirt, "Certain matter?" he asked, voice cracking slightly, "About me?" he scoffed, rolling his eyes, "Of course she’d talk to you. Shall we get our alibi straight then?"
"Sir?"
"Well if it’s not one thing I’m doing wrong it’s another, I can’t jolly well keep up with it—nor am I too keen at explaining myself, again," he heaved a sigh, "What was this thing she wanted to talk to you about Jeeves?"
I cleared my throat, "About marriage, sir."
"Whose marriage?"
"Yours, sir."
"I’m getting married?!"
"No, sir, rather I misspoke, I mean the prospect of marriage."
"Is there one?"
"That was what she was trying to ascertain, sir."
"Dash it, not this again," he moaned, leaning his head back once more. I saw his throat swallow and his chest rise as he breathed deeply, "Still," he said, "Why’d she want to speak to you about it?"
"She speculated I was perhaps closest to you, as well as the most . . . credible, sir."
"Thinks you’ve got me all figured out, does she?"
"She had hoped I did, sir."
"And you don’t?"
"It would seem not, sir."
"What’s that supposed to mean, it would seem not?
"No answer would have satisfied her curiosity, sir"
"Ah," he paused, thinking, the only sounds coming from my polishing and a taxi making its way down the uneven road outside, "I have to ask you Jeeves," he started, licking his lips, "I can’t remember a great deal about last night, that blasted Bingo and his woes nearly killed me but, I, uh, I have this memory, or at least I think I have, it’s that or it was a dream, which is rather unlikely because I don’t often dream after a night like that but, uh," he gave a small nervous laugh, I’d stopped polishing, my eyes nonetheless only focused on the numerous forks and knives in front of me, "I remember coming back to the flat, god knows how I made it, and you and I were there, in the bedroom, and someway or other I remember well I, I remember I kissed you . . ." his face was screwed up in a puzzled expression, "T-that’s not true, is it?"
"You were indeed very drunk, sir," I said, the pounding of my heart almost painful against my ribs. He waited, watching me. I licked my lips and swallowed past the tightness in my throat, "Which no doubt caused your bizarre dream, sir."
The expression on his face changed, eyes darkening, mouth closing, "True. Of course, quite true, no doubt," he cleared his throat and a entirely less than full hearted smile flashed across his lips before he caught his lower lip in his teeth for a pondering moment, "It felt so real,"
I could think of nothing to say. Denial seemed the only option.
He seemed to laugh a little, his bright smile was arrestingly sweet in the afternoon sun, "A gentleman doesn’t come home from a late party, stumbling drunk, and kiss his valet, that would be truly a sight to be seen," he laughed "One can only imagine. I mean, really, that sort of thing happens so infrequently, so irregularly, sporadically that one can’t help but edge ever closer to the word never, what." his hand was back to his forehead, rubbing at what I guessed was an aching temple, "One chap carrying on with another chap well that’s just—even in a dream, my my."
"Indeed, sir," I said, returning to my polishing.
Expecting him to dash quickly from the kitchen I was astounded, after a moment, to find him still sitting across from me. I cleared my throat, trying my best to sound as un-astounded as possible, "May I help you with something else, sir?"
The spell broke and he sat up quickly, "No, no, I think not, Jeeves," he stood, slapping his thighs and then rubbing his palms together with nervous zest, "Right! I’ll just . . . " he raised one leg toward the parlor, "Play piano I should think," he lowered his leg and was off, surreptitiously.
I waited to hear the first notes of music meander through the kitchen door. When they did I continued polishing, though little was left to be done, and undeniably my gusto for shining silver had dissipated.
To have gotten so close, to have come so near to threatening what has become a very comfortable and contented life, despite, in fact in spite of my past and all its torment, had left an icy hand of dread upon my heart. Any fantasies I had had no longer seemed harmless. Mr. Wooster would move on and so would I. Yes, there was too much to lose.
Then, like opening a letter worn and brittle from reading and re-reading over the long years, I drew forth from my trembling imagination one of my favourite daydreams, knowing perhaps it would be the last time. In the early morning hours, I’m not lying on the small cot in my corner room, instead I’m waking to the sun pouring through the large windows in Mr. Wooster’s bedroom. And the thoughts greeting my waking mind are not harsh nor dark, as they’re loath to be, they are warm and comforting, slow like the petals of a flower unfurling. I’m not alone, Mr. Wooster is there. Our arms and legs are entwined under the clean white sheets. He is safe and warm and in my arms. I’m needed nowhere. I haven’t forgotten anything. There is nothing that I want. That constant ache of wanting of something I can’t have is gone from my tired heart. His breaths are shallow and warm against the hairs on my chest. I feel love. Love as it was intended to be felt.
Suddenly the kitchen door swung wide open, I hadn’t heard the music stop, and Mr. Wooster stood with hands on hips, "Now Jeeves, I know for certain that what happened last night was entirely not a dream, I demand you tell me the truth, right this very instant."
I cleared my throat and pushed the silver out of the way, scrambling to focus after being ripped so harshly from my thoughts, "You arrived home from your evening, inebriated, I assisted you to bed and, as you so rightly speculated, you had a bizarre dream. That is all."
“Then where does this odd memory come from?”
“I couldn’t say, sir.”
“If it didn’t happen, alright then, but if it did I’d like the chance to explain myself.”
“There is no need, sir.”
"Must you always treat me as a child, Jeeves?" he squared his shoulders and deepened his voice, in an obvious imitation of me, "Don’t breathe sir, drink this sir, your memory is a sorry soppy mess that can’t be trusted, sir," he scoffed, "What you must think of me I shudder to think."
"It grieves me to hear you say such a thing, sir, you couldn’t be further from the truth."
"Go on, placate me, your little clever canary that’s learned to say what ho and good morning, gazing in a little mirror all day while you sprinkle seeds about and clean up all my messes."
"I would never lie to you, sir."
"Oh really?" he stepped closer to me, "I thought I knew you, quite well actually, we’ve been living together all this time, I depend on you for bally well everything, but for the first time I don’t believe you, Jeeves."
"I don’t have a choice, sir. If you do know me and trust me you should trust that my actions are not frivolous nor haphazardous, there is a reason for them and all contingencies have been thoroughly examined. The course I take is for both our benefit," my voice had risen and my hands were curled into fists on the table.
"How could you possibly know what?"
I stood suddenly, choosing retreat, "I beg your pardon, sir, I have laundry."
He stopped me, hands to my chest, gripping the lapels of my jacket with a ferocity I rarely saw in him, "No you don’t! Why are you acting this way?"
His bright blue eyes, wide and pleading, met mine. Like the insistence of eroding salty waves crashing against a boat’s tether, they threatened to snap the line, sending me lost at sea. A question swelled in his eyes like a wave, that same sea where his loneliness spread from horizon to horizon, making mockery of all his carefree antics and blithe attitudes.
"You did kiss me," I said, unsteadily meeting his eyes.
His piercing eyes wavered. Perhaps he’d thought he’d feel relief knowing the truth. Instead he looked near in shock, pupils dilated, fear quickening his breaths, “I did,” he blinked several times, “Well,” his hands dropped from my chest, “I’m sorry, Jeeves.”
“It’s alright, sir,” I said, dropping my gaze.
“God!” he cursed, “Can you stop with the sirs, just for a moment--I’ve got to think.”
I’d clenched my jaw together, ears ringing, feeling trapped and insecure, regardless I attempted to say something, anything, needing to reassure him, somehow, “No harm was done, but,” I looked into his eyes with great effort, how dark they must appear to him, how unworthy I was when facing the very invention of blue, “It can’t happen again.”
“Of course not,” he agreed and seeing my coat lapels wrinkled where he’d clutched them he smoothed them out with his hands. The contact made me nearly shudder, how close he was, how he smelled like the sun and though I remembered, and had forbade, the feel of his lips and body against mine I only wanted to feel it again. It occured to me I was being utterly foolish, indeed reckless even thinking it.
Then after a moment, perhaps he sensed my unease, the tension in his body washed away until all that remained was us in this dim corner of the kitchen. He said softly and with tenderness, “I am very fond of you,” I realized his hands hadn’t left my chest. Could he feel how hard my heart was beating? The moment passed as if accompanied by a great swell of music and something inside me, responding perhaps to the quiet realness of his composure and his need for truth in this one remaining moment made me raise my own shaking hands to his and hold them to my chest.
“And I of you,” I curled my fingers around his, wishing beyond all hope that he would understand the significance, the candor, the vulnerability of the words.
I believe he smiled slightly, “I’m not sure I knew that,” he said, and when I frowned in disbelief he shook his head, “Rather a chap needs to hear it every now and again,” his thumb stroked my hand softly, “I’ve been . . . lost of late. I try to fit in, impress, for whatever reason, all the Drones and so forth, try and . . . be happy, in all that word has to offer, but always end up just short of the destination really,” his eyes lowered briefly, “Makes me worry I'm missing something,” his eyes shone and his voice was almost a whisper, “And the days keep passing by, and the years, and I’m not getting any closer. I’m . . . alone,” the sadness of his words shattered in my heart, “Do you know what that feels like?”
“Yes,” I said, squeezing his hands. Overcome with emotion I lowered my eyes, trying to hide the emotion fighting its way to the surface, cracking my so well calculated semblance of equanimity. He let go of one of my hands and I felt one of them come to rest on my cheek.
“Maybe we’re not,” he said and lifting my chin he brought my lips to his. Long fingers I’d seen dance over the piano countless times in the past stroked my skin, the warm breath from his nostrils was on my face as he leaned into me. The tenderness of this gesture, so different from the night before which had been so full of pain and darkness, caused something to give way inside of me, perhaps the truth spoken and shared emboldened my here before unavowed heart.
I kissed him back.
All I could imagine was in that moment. The softness of his lips, the hunger of our quickened breathes and the unrestrained frantic urge to taste and feel all of each other. I felt him shudder with pure exhilaration as one of my hands ran through the array of soft curls and pulled him into my heaving chest. And maybe he was right, maybe he could be right, maybe we weren’t alone. My eyes rolled closed as his tongue played along the inside of my upper lip and I met his eager tongue with my own, marveling at the proficiency of his kiss.
We broke away as he pulled back with two slow, wet kisses to my lips, breathless, forehead leaning against mine. His eyes are closed. My lips burned with stubble from his unshaven face. We shared a few frantic breaths in an undeniable answer to the unspoken question. No words were necessary. We both knew what this meant, what this was.
To the drumming of my own heart I felt his hands at the button of my tight collar. When it opened his warm mouth found the soft skin there. My shoulders met the wall behind me and I was startled but more so by the feel of his hips pressing into mine, arching in a way to elicit a groan of pleasure as my head fell back. I know he must feel the hardness of my cock as our hips moved in unison because I can most certainly feel his. My hands ran from his hair to his back to his hips, drawing his thin form to my taller body, burying my face in his neck, kissing an ear and the threading at his throat.
I can barely handle the chorus of sensation rising through every nerve of my body when I feel his hands slide slowly downward, delicate fingers stroking the front of my trousers. My breath hitched sharply in my throat and my legs pronounced their utter weakness. Mr. Wooster’s eyes opened and locked with mine even as his hand stopped over my cock which twitched and jerked outside my control, bound behind my many layers. He kissed me again and we writhed and rocked against the wall, one of his legs slid in-between mine. Lord, don’t stop.
"Jeeves," he breathed, gasped, “Please,” moaned in my ear, as his hips rocked into mine with more persistence, his own hardened cock pressed hot and damp into my hip. His breaths are quickening, harder and faster and I dared to slide my hands to his ass, god, pulling him even tighter to me, closer, all I wanted was closer.
Our mouths met again, all wet breaths and gasps. One hand, one courageous hand, aching to feel him, hold him, grasped the pressure that had been building, moved to undo the button of his trousers, lowering the zip, slipping my hand between us to touch the straining cock of Mr Wooster, my Mr. Wooster. And the sound! Oh the sound he made, the begging, pleading from his lips, gasping into my mouth in need of release.
And that’s when the doorbell rang.
>>>>>
Doorbells are surprising and intrusive things. Once a doorbell has been rung there really exists no distance at all between yourself and the prospective caller, none but a door and the time it will take to open it whilst offering a greeting, an invitation, taking part in the grand scheme of fingers poised over buttons and watches set to arrive at the worst possible time imaginable. So imagine my shock, my terror, at realizing that just outside the door, not ten feet from where Mr. Wooster and I were locked together mid and indeed near glorious gratification, was someone with whom observation on the most elementary level would allow them the insight needed to ascertain that there was something, or there had been, something unimaginable going on behind the door.
My reaction was to freeze, eyes darting toward the door hoping to meld into the woodwork, melt into the background, fade into a shadow, lapsing back into the lessons I learned as a child, cringing in expectation of the inevitable punishment.
Mr. Wooster’s reaction was to let out a loud sound like a frightened young dog, jumping clear into the air, hand clamping over his own mouth, eyes wide enough for ships to pass through.
"Bertie?" came the voice from behind the door, shrill and angry at being heard but not seen, declaring next with a rap of knuckles on the wooden door, "I know that yelp—open this door immediately or I’ll disown you!"
"Dear lord, what do we do?!" Mr. Wooster uttered in a panicked whisper. His hand went to the front of his trousers, hiding, wiping vigorously at the wet stain his precum had caused on the pale beige material. If the situation wasn’t so dire the image would have excited me.
Must think quickly. My intelligence is a joke, an utter laugh if I can’t think clearly in times of great need. Must think. Must think. Stop looking at him. God his lips are all swollen. I can still taste him on my lips. The way his cheeks are flushed, breath still labored and heavy, chest visible through his open shirt, oh how I’d like to stroke it—
"Jeeves! She’s breaking down the door!"
I snapped out of it, somehow finding a foothold on this hazardous and ridiculous slope we’d found ourselves upon and took hold of Mr. Wooster’s arm, guiding him hastily into his room, "Sir, put your robe on, turn out your bed—now would be a good time to brush up on any skills you know involving the feigning of illness,"
"Right, right" Mr. Wooster said shakily, quickly, nodding at me, eyes still hopelessly frightened as I closed the door on him, turning directly to the outside door, straightening my hair and my jacket and my collar and everything imaginable and wearable. Checking my own rudely interrupted erection, which had gratefully disappeared rather quickly, I was happy, so to speak, to find the thickness of my own trousers had left no evidence of arousal.
I grasped in ungraceful hands the reins of my panic and pulled back with all my strength on the steeds of my misfortune, grasping the doorknob with my hand that, as of not a minute ago, had been between my employer’s legs and flung the door open.
"Bertie, I’m—oh!" Aunt Agatha’s small gloved hand stopped mid-knock and her scowl persisted all the way through to a full out glare, "Making me wait like that—I know he’s in there now, Jeeves, I heard the blighter a moment ago."
"My apologies, madam, he is indeed here, however he’s not entirely—"
"Aunt Agatha, old tree!" was suddenly exclaimed behind me and Mr. Wooster came bursting forth from his bedroom, wrapped in his rose colored robe, a handkerchief clutched in one hand, "What-ho and all that, lovely to see you."
"Bertram," she said simply and shortly as if his very name were an inexcusable dissatisfaction, letting me take her coat and usher her inside the doorway with not so much as a glance at me, or my appearance, allowing me an overwhelming sense of gratitude, for once, at being so easily disregarded so long as I could dispense with whatever outerwear was necessary, "Didn’t your man tell you I was coming to visit—you could at least have dressed you lazy, foul creature."
"I was going to," Mr. Wooster responded, blue eyes darting to me, covertly using her averted eye-contact as an opportunity to assess my outward appearance, to which I did the same to him, both of us giving the slightest of confirming nods at each other. The briefest of eye contact had sent a surge of electricity through my body, as if we were still tethered together, causing me to turn away as he continued his hasty explanation, "Or rather did, then un-did—seeing as I’m under the weather, weather’s over me, and so forth—I thought it best to take it easy."
"Take it easy?" she retorted hotly, moving into the sitting room, not looking at him but perhaps at the ceiling her chin was up so high, "From what? You never do any work! You don’t so much as lift a radish for yourself and even then I fear the strain would be too much for you," she sneered once at him; he looked wounded, "You’d be a useless heap on the ground and I’d have to live to the end of my days known as the aunt of the poor fool who was outdone by a radish—would you really do that to your poor aunt, Bertie? Heaven help me."
"What radish?" he asked in panic.
"You dull wit," she sighed, settling on the couch, "Sit down before you faint," her grey eyes narrowed scrupulously and she took a moment to look over her nephew, casting her merciless eye from hair-tip to toe-tip, then shook her head, "You do look a bit flushed—are you quite all right?" she turned to look at me and I just avoided jumping in alarm, "Maybe if he wasn’t out to all hours, maybe if he settled down he’d—Jeeves, you’re not looking too well either."
Mr. Wooster was watching every movement of his aunt, eyes fixed and glazed, mouth hanging open, brow furrowed, and as silence suddenly made itself obvious, his mouth quipped into a silly hopeless grin, and he asked in a squeaking voice like he hadn’t heard a word or syllable of his aunt's aggressive speech since she walked in, "Tea?"
"Jeeves’ what’s the matter with him?" his aunt demanded of me, "He looks addled, did he hit his head or something?"
"Not to my knowledge, madam—"
"Never mind—his wellness at the moment is besides the point—it’s the wellness of his future I’m here to talk to him about," she dismissed, pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve.
"Oh I suspect I’ll be feeling loads better by the morrow," he replied with a nod, face near drained of all colour at this point.
"For God’s sake Bertie, the world exists beyond the next day—have you no concept of a year from now? Ten years from now?" Aunt Agatha exclaimed, and as if remembering her dignity gave a dignified sigh and dabbed at a temple with the small bit of lace cloth, expression calmer, yes, but just as resolute.
At this, though privy to his aunt’s scrutiny in the past, Mr. Wooster appeared dejected and discouraged, his aunt’s words acting as almost a slap to his face, leaving him dazed for a moment, resigned in thought. His hands were clasped together, eyes level with the coffee table as if he jagged words of his Aunt that had hit a note and frequency I didn’t think she knew was there, eventually he replied solemnly, "Of course I do."
"And where, exactly, do you see yourself?” Aunt Agatha asked with an impatient chuckle, attempting though it seemed a half-hearted attempt at first, to adopt a more reasonable tone, perhaps to spare her nephew's feelings if she were indeed capable of the empathy necessary to detect his discomfort.
Though tea may help. Tea helps. I excused myself to the kitchen hastily to get some tea for them both.
My legs were still so shaky I didn’t even know if I could make it the short distance. I felt like I’d been unraveled from head to toe. One of my hands found the edge of the counter in the kitchen so I could finally catch my breath. I didn’t fancy leaving him to her. But these are my duties. What would she think, what would anyone think, if I were to sit at his side, clasp a caring hand in his shaking palm, kissing his knuckles reassuringly to let him know I was there, supportive in a way that crossed the line if not the gulf that this society was more than aware existed between master and servant. It’s preposterous.
My hands shook as they scooped out the tea, skin still tingling in places he’d kissed, the area behind my right ear haunted by the ghost of his lips and tongue, the sweet and intoxicating smell of his sweat. Had he left bruises? My hand reached up to my neck, now covered in my collar. I would check later. I found myself suddenly, irrationally wanting bruises, wanting to make it more real than it was at the moment, a moment which seemed as fantastical, as distant, as unimaginable as a Time Machine or Verne’s great journey to the center of the earth, like a novel I’d read long ago, a short story, a fable of which I wasn’t even the main character.
However the sensations remained, no matter how far off a thing it all seemed now, the sensations rang so true and so loudly and so adamantly as if I was reliving them at this very moment, doing the most mundane thing, making tea, so completely contrary to what had just happened. Where does tea stand, how could it possibly compare to sharing his very breath with my own, his heaving chest against my own, his moans in my ear as I stroked him? Oh, this was terrible. Simply awful. The kettle was on though. Should I stay and watch it? Stay and hope that by the time I make it back out there she’d be gone? And we’d be able to continue where we’d left off? Visions of bare skin and sweat and years upon years of repression flying out the window into clean fresh air—no, no, I could hear them. I could blasted hear them.
"I recognize that it’s difficult, Bertie, believe me, my sympathy for today’s youth hasn’t wholly run dry, no, I realize the dilemma and that’s why I’ve done this," Aunt Agatha was saying.
"Done what?" Bertie asked.
"I’ve found you the perfect girl."
"What?" Mr. Wooster gasped, then politely corrected himself, "Aunt Agatha, the gesture is indeed appreciated, but really—I’m quite capable of—"
"Oh tish tosh, you aren’t capable, that’s why I’ve been forced into action."
"Well, I know I may be a little behind on all the matrimonial sentiments but surely that doesn’t mean—"
"It does mean exactly that—and don’t talk back to me while I’m trying to save you from yourself—you’ll be going to the country immediately where you will meet the girl. She is the daughter of a very dear friend, of good breeding, and I expect you to be on your best behaviour Bertie."
The water was just starting to boil, the sound ringing deaf in my ears as I listened to their conversation.
"I say, don’t you think I could have a bit of a warning, some time to think this—"
"There is no more time! Stop asking for time!" she nearly shouted, casting Mr. Wooster again into shocked silence. And though I was in the kitchen, reaching for a towel to lift the kettle from the stove, I could sense the change of atmosphere, like the air before a storm, like the first cold day of autumn where one can almost smell the coming snow.
"Please Bertie," I could barely hear her say gently, "I’ve wound the clock back for you but it will still strike twelve, every move of the second-hand brings it ever closer, you must be aware of it—your life on a clock-face . . . your life, Bertie . . . living means loving. You’re my nephew, I want you to be happy . . . I’m . . . old, I have no more time left—you’re . . . you’re not meant to be alone Bertie, I intend to fix this, fix you—I’ll be expecting you at her estate."
When the tea was ready I brought it out on the usual silver tray and saw Mr. Wooster was alone, his aunt’s exit had been quick and silent. I set the tray down and stood next to him though he was staring at the floor.
"Sir?" I asked.
"You heard all that?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well . . ." he said, looking up and I felt the briefest contact from his eyes then he lowered them again, a small sigh rising in his chest, "One of us is still free."
"I’ll begin packing, sir," I said as he sat back in his chair. Perhaps the tea would make him feel better. Perhaps I could—but no, I have to pack for the journey. But was this journey marking an end of something or the beginning?