Archive of Our Own ^beta

I have often been told by those who are not as well-versed in the interpretations of human motivation that I give the impression that I remain in the employ of Mr Wooster for the following reasons: that he is very wealthy, that he is very easy to control in matters large and small, that he is very willing to turn his affairs over to me, and that he has no lack of praise to bestow upon my ego. These reasons, while true enough, are not the sole basis of my continued and contented employment in Mr Wooster's household. To be frank, and fearing that I might appear overly familiar for a moment, I remain so employed because of my master's limitless generosity and kind spirit.

However, one morning in particular revealed to me how this prized generosity could, in fact, result in an uncomfortable situation. It was the morning in question that I opened Mr Wooster's bedroom door to serve him his morning tea when a small, lemon-coloured animal darted from under the bed, ran between my feet, and proceeded to yowl its way through the sitting room, upsetting a small vase of lilies that was perched on an end table.

This, I knew, could not stand.

"Sir?" I said in what he might term a "soupy" tone as I turned back to the bedroom.

My master was already awake though groggy, and sat propped against his mound of down pillows with an unmistakeably guilty look on his face. "Good morning, Jeeves. What sort of day is it? Oh, I say, is that my tea?"

He knew very well that it was his tea, but I lifted my salver and delivered the cup and saucer into his eager hands with nary a murmur. I merely took a step back and awaited his explanation. Somewhere in the distance (the dining room, I suppose), I heard a loud crash and another feline cry. Mr Wooster took a very long sip from his teacup and stared up at me.

"I suppose you're wondering about the cat, Jeeves," he finally said.

"Yes, sir," I said in clipped tones. "I am wondering about the cat."

"It was a stray, you know. Of course they're all over the place, but when I was walking home last night after Boko's big birthday fete, well, I saw this little raggamuffin poking about in the street and," he shrugged helplessly, "the next thing I know I've got him bundled in my overcoat. He's a dear little thing, Jeeves."

I attempted to exercise complete control over my right eyebrow, which was twitching ever higher.

It is not that I dislike animals; on the contrary, as a boy I very much enjoyed caring for the horses, barnyard cats, and hounds that were part and parcel of the hall where my family lived and worked. However, a flat like Mr Wooster's is not the same as a sprawling country estate. For example, there is the odor that not even the most vigilant cleaner can completely eradicate. There is also the additional planning that goes into caring for a pet while away from home. It is my opinion that the keeping of pets is not conducive to a calm and well-kept bachelor household, and the benefits of keeping such an animal in the house do not outweigh the deficits.

My keen displeasure must have shown clearly on my face, or at least clearly enough so that one as well-versed in my moods as Mr Wooster would notice, because he said, quite defensively, "He was all alone, Jeeves, and it was so cold last night."

"Your kindness is certainly admirable, sir." Just as I said so, a loud, discordant racket came from the sitting room; undoubtedly the cat had found the piano. My eyebrow, I'm certain, was now being most forthcoming.

"Jeeves, I promise you, I will take full responsibility for the care and feeding of Mittens," assured my young master. "You needn't worry about a thing."

"Mittens, sir? The cat does not have the white feet that normally adorn the animals that earn that moniker."

"No, I suppose not. But I quite like the name for a cat, don't you?"

"As you say, sir." I set about gathering the day's ensemble.

Mr Wooster must not have liked my response, for he continued, "You don't sound very pleased, Jeeves."

"Well, sir. Have you procured a box for the animal?" I gave him a look as I folded his socks just so on his armchair.

"A box? I'm not planning on mailing Mittens anywhere, what?"

"I referred, sir, to the box that must be filled with sand so that," I took a slow breath as I prepared to say it, "Mittens will have suitable facilities."

"Oh, good Lord." Mr Wooster finished his tea, and I took the empty cup and saucer from him. "Is that really what cats use to, well, to—"

"I'm afraid so, sir. Now if you will excuse me, sir, I believe I detect the sound of a popular magazine being shredded." And I strode from the room to deal with the overturned vase, the upset picture frames, the muddy paw prints on the piano keyboard, and the ruined copy of The Strand that was now strewn across the carpet in bits and pieces.

After this was completed, I ran a bath for Mr Wooster and readied his shaving brush. Then, as he soaked, I went looking for the cat. I found him curled up in a ball on the floor, lounging in a sunbeam. He looked up at the sound of my footsteps and mewled at me as if he had not a care in the world. I scooped him up into my wicker basket, which I often used for marketing, and left the flat with all due speed.

I was not completely without pity for the animal, but I did not relish the thought of a filthy, possibly disease-carrying beast invading my perfectly kept household. The shedding of bright yellow fur on the chesterfield was, in my mind, grounds enough for a quick eviction. So I went as far as Covent Garden, where I poured the cat out of the basket and onto the pavement. The thing took a few careful steps, then turned and looked over its shoulder at me with a questioning air. This was folly to think, of course. Cats can no more question their circumstances than a beetle can philosophise on its existence. The look in its clear blue eyes merely reminded me of something else, I told myself.

I gave the cat a firm nod and turned on my heel. I had marketing to do.

Throughout the two hours it took to complete my shopping excursion, I repeatedly reminded myself that I had done the right thing. Though Mr Wooster had felt a passing sympathy for the stray, he had obviously not anticipated the amount of work that would go into its care. For a young man such as my master, keeping a pet was too restrictive; I had done him a courtesy by disposing of the cat. Besides, it was only a matter of time before the animal bounded back into the street, as that was its natural territory.

I was feeling quite sure of myself as I returned to the flat. I barely had enough time to hang my hat in the coat closet when I became aware of a curious sensation at my feet. I looked down to see the lemon-coloured cat winding itself round my ankle.

"Ah, Jeeves!" Mr Wooster waggled his fingers in his version of a wave. He was enjoying a cigarette on the chesterfield, and he held a book in his lap. "Glad you're home. Mittens seems dashed happy to see you, too."

"Sir, I was not aware that the animal was still in residence," I said sternly.

"Well, it was the rummiest thing, Jeeves. When I got out of the tub, I could find neither hide nor hair of the thing. I say, hide nor hair . . . do you think that saying was originally meant for cats? It fits them awfully well."

"I could not say, sir." I set my basket on the hall table so I could shrug out of my greatcoat. Mr Wooster continued unabated.

"At any rate, Mittens was nowhere to be found. Then I heard him mewing his head off out in the hall! I can't imagine how he got outside, Jeeves, but it was a lucky thing that I was here to receive him." He took another puff of his cigarette. "Oh, I also sent a boy round to the shops for a box and a bag of sand. I have it all set up in the guest room. I suppose that's as good a place as any, what? No one's in there at the mo'; Mittens can do his business in peace."

I repressed a glower. "Very good, sir. Luncheon will be ready at one, sir."

I entered the kitchen to put away the victuals I had just purchased, and the damnable cat followed me, crying in a loud, pitiful whine. I supposed the thing must have been hungry after such a long journey back to the flat, but I was disinclined to pat it on the head and give it a bowl of cream in recognition of its feat.

Mr Wooster poked his head in the kitchen. "Jeeves, do we have any cream? I rather think Mittens would enjoy a bowl."

The eggs that I held in my hands were in danger of being crushed in a spasm of anger, but I managed to place them gently into the icebox. "Certainly, sir." I handed him the bottle he sought and I watched as he cheerfully found a small saucer and poured a generous measure for his newfound charge. The cat lapped at the cream greedily, and Mr Wooster watched with a large smile.

Watching my master take such simple pleasure, my resolve wavered. Perhaps, I thought, if this feline had truly captured Mr Wooster's heart, I could learn to live with the minor inconveniences that such a pet caused. After all, I had learned to live with the minor inconveniences that Mr Wooster's employ brought me: the heated disagreements over a stripe or a tweed, the various uncomfortable situations with young ladies seeking marriage, the endless string of friends and family members who dropped in at a moment's notice. I bore these slight burdens because the reward was so much greater.

These thoughts, of course, came before I discovered the cat had sharpened its claws on Mr Wooster's silk neckties.

I stood before the wardrobe the next morning, taking in the extent of the damage with wide eyes. Every single tie was in tatters, hanging from their hooks like sad party streamers. Each beloved stripe and solid and pattern, even my very favourite dove grey with pink lozenges, had been reduced to scraps. I fear the sight caused me no little emotion, and my hand flew to my lips to stifle any unbecoming sounds of agony that might have otherwise been made known.

"Jeeves?" Mr Wooster was still abed, and he roused slowly. "Is everything all right?"

I had no words. I could only step aside so that my master could see for himself.

"Good Lord!" he cried. "Well, I mean to say!"

I dropped my hand. "Sir." My voice came out as a steely thing. "Where is the cat?"

"Mittens? Surely he didn't—"

I was already making my way to the sitting room, where I quickly found the animal in question on top of the piano, licking himself in unmentionable places. The little beast looked up at me as if he had done no evil, and I could take no more of it. I grabbed the cat by the scruff of his neck and I once again placed him in the wicker basket.

"Jeeves!" By now Mr Wooster was up and had put on his dressing gown; he stood in the hallway, his mouth agape. "You're not going to get rid of him, are you?"

"I will find a deserving home for the cat, sir," I said. "Now if you will excuse me." And I swept out of the flat, nearly forgetting my hat in my enraged state.

To be perfectly frank, I may have actually intended to deliver the cat into a rubbish bin and be done with it, but the longer I walked, the more my anger dissipated and the more the sight of Mr Wooster's broken-hearted expression imprinted itself on my mind. I finally decided, with a sigh, to turn down a quiet lane and enter the butcher's shop. I had been on friendly terms with this butcher for many years, and I presented him with the animal, stating that I believed it might be put to good use in keeping the vermin population in check. I was summarily thanked, and I went on my way.

I arrived back home to find Mr Wooster dressed, though sans necktie of course, and pacing nervously.

"Jeeves! Have you really—? I mean, what have you done with the moggy?"

I told Mr Wooster that I had given the cat to the butcher, who was a very pleasant man and would undoubtedly look after it with all the care possible. I may have intimated that our household was not exactly equipped to do the same for the cat, as evidenced by the destruction of our neckties and vases. Mittens, I promised, would be much happier now.

Mr Wooster seemed glum at this pronouncement, but he agreed in his distracted way. "I suppose you're right, Jeeves," he said as he lowered himself into an armchair. "You always are." He gestured to his naked shirt collar. "Do you think you might go get me a few ties, Jeeves?"

"Expeditiously, sir." And with a tip of my hat, I made my exit.

I was in good spirits as I shopped for Mr Wooster's new neckwear. It always brought me pleasure to procure the best for him, and I was able, in many instances, to find exact replicas of the destroyed ties. I took the opportunity to purchase a few specimens that Mr Wooster might otherwise have not considered, and I made my way back home with plenty of packages.

Imagine my surprise when I opened the front door to find a small, lemon-coloured creature sitting at the threshold. I stared down at it. It mewled at me.

"Jeeves, there you are! Allow me to help you with all that. My word, it looks like you bought every conservative necktie in Blighty." Mr Wooster appeared at my elbow and chattered as he alleviated me of my boxes. "I don't suppose you found another dove grey with the—"

"Sir, I cannot help but notice that the cat is here," I said slowly, still staring down at it.

Mr Wooster looked down as if just noticing the animal. "Oh, that. Yes, well, a very nice cove wearing a blood-spattered apron popped round and do you know what he said, Jeeves?"

"No, sir, I'm afraid you must enlighten me."

"The thing is, he said that he couldn't keep Mittens. Turns out he's not a very accomplished mouse-chaser. Mittens, not the butcher." Mr Wooster moved every last box from my arms to the side table and then took my own hat from my stunned head and hung it on a peg. "Apparently while a dozen mice ran about the place, Mittens settled in to have a nibble of some chicken livers, and the butcher couldn't abide it. So here he is, right back here." He gave me a sunny smile and scooped the cat into his arms, nuzzling it as if it were a child. I heard the animal purr in response.

"Indeed, sir," I murmured.

"I will make sure he doesn't get up to anymore trouble," my master promised. "I will firmly lock the wardrobe at all times, and I will personally supervise the little furball. You can count on me, Jeeves."

"Very good, sir."

"I say, do we have any fish in the house? I'd wager Mittens would enjoy it just as much as you do."

I controlled the twitching of my eye as well as possible. I was already scheming ways in which I could dispose of the feline, but then my master turned to me, cradling the animal in his arms, and said, "Jeeves, thank you for putting up with this. I know pets aren't your idea of a good time, but, well, I can't help but love the thing. Beats children or fiances, what?"

"Yes, sir." I watched him whisk the cat into the kitchen with a grin. Mr Wooster was nearly gone from the room when he turned abruptly and stuck his head through the kitchen doorway.

"I say, Jeeves, tonight's your evening off. Why don't you leave a bit early? Go to your club, have a cigar, unwind and whatnot. I can handle the moggy and everything."

"Thank you, sir. That is very kind." And, as I was still wearing my overcoat, having not moved an inch since stepping into the foyer, I merely turned, took my hat from its peg, and let myself out the front door. Mr Wooster was correct: this new addition to our household has disturbed me. I could almost be said to be in a daze. And yet it seemed I was doomed to share living space with the filthy, destructive cat. Because Mr Wooster loved it, and I couldn't tear away something that brought him joy.

Well, I thought as I walked, I've actually done exactly that. There had been a number of times in the past when Mr Wooster had fancied himself in love with a most unsuitable woman, and I had naturally taken it upon myself to illustrate the lady's unsuitability for his own edification. Women, like their male counterparts, are selfish, self-serving, fickle, and cruel, for the most part. Very little of my powers had to be exerted to reveal these natures to my master.

But this cat. Its fault lay in its messy habits, and Mr Wooster loved the animal despite seeing the consequences firsthand. So what could I do to sway him from his newfound affection? The simple answer was I could not do a thing.

I sat in the Ganymede that night, a dismal spectator to the merriment of my brothers in service. I drank no wine, I smoked no Havanas, I could barely muster the effort it took to nibble a canape. When a friendly club member sat in the armchair opposite me and attempted to engage me in lighthearted conversation, I was found lacking within an instant. After three disappointed friends were summarily pushed away, I decided to take myself home.

I had only been out of the flat for a little over two hours, and when I entered, the quiet made me think that Mr Wooster had also left to dine at his own club. I removed my hat and coat and ventured into the kitchen, where I usually hung my morning coat when I was not actively serving my master. What I found upon entering the kitchen was this: the rubbish bin had been overturned, and wax papers and empty tins were scattered over the tile floor, along with bits of food and other awful-smelling refuse. Some of the paper had been reduced to shreds by what I could only imagine were sharp claws. To confirm my suspicions, there were paw prints visible on the floor, outlined in foul muck from the bin.

I sighed. I hung up my morning coat. And I set about putting the kitchen to rights.

As I scrubbed the last of the mess from the floor, I felt my anger welling up inside me. This house was as much mine as Mr Wooster's; it was I who had to ensure that it was kept spotless. How could I be expected to live in a place where at any moment a disaster could strike? And hadn't Mr Wooster swore that he would keep an eye on the cat? What did he think would happen when we both left the house? The animal should be locked in a box, I seethed inwardly.

I was still scrubbing the floor, head bent down and concentrating on removing the trail of paw prints, when I heard my master's low, pleasant baritone drifting from his bedroom. I am not one to listen at keyholes, but I thought to wait until he was finished speaking to whomever he was entertaining before I interrupted to voice my displeasure about this newest feline destruction.

I approached the slightly open door carefully; I had never known Mr Wooster to have young ladies in his bedroom, but then again, he could do what he pleased when I was out for the evening and I would be none the wiser. But no, I assured myself, I would know. The state of his bedsheets and the flush of his cheeks as I delivered his morning tea would be all I needed to tell me if such illicit liaisons were occurring. It wasn't a woman, I was sure of it. I took a deep breath and peeked into the master bedroom just to be certain.

To my almost shameful relief, Mr Wooster was speaking to the cat. The beast was perched on his lap, purring away in contentment, while my master scratched its ears and rambled in that charming way of his; he spoke as one would to a child, strange coos and chirps. He was propped up against his bed's headboard, still dressed but missing his shoes and suit coat. I nearly stepped forward to inform him of the rubbish bin, but what he said next stopped me in my tracks.

"Now Mittens, you must be good for Jeeves. I have a feeling he doesn't enjoy you one bit, and we must keep Jeeves happy, what?"

He sounded almost sad. I was puzzled. I slowly took a step away from the bedroom door and stood in the hall, listening to his every word.

"It's not easy, Mittens," he continued, "to keep Jeeves happy. I don't think I'll ever do it properly." He sighed. "All it takes is a bad tie or the wrong hat, you know. When he first came here, I told him I would never be a slave to a valet." A small, bitter laugh. "Now I'm a slave in all sorts of ways. What did the poet johnnie say? I'm a slave of the heart, or some thingummy like that."

I confess I had to lean back against the wall, so shaky did my legs feel. What could my master be saying? What was the meaning of this?

The cat gave a loud meow, and Mr Wooster chuckled. "Yes, Mittens. He will never know. That's why I buy all those silly hats, those ridiculous spats. It's such a thrill to see him with his hackles up. I know it's not all sporting to give him a rise like that, but I ask you, how can I help but needle him? My aunts would say I love to bask in the negative attention, I suppose."

My tongue worked itself round in my dry mouth. For a moment I guessed my master knew I was standing in the hallway, eavesdropping like a common page boy, and had chosen to say these things to punish me for my impudence. But he did not call out to me, "Have you heard enough, Jeeves? What are you doing sulking there, anyway?" He did not say anything at all to me, only to the cat.

"But," he said with false cheer, "you must keep your kitty nose out of trouble before Jeeves gets the pip and packs his bags. I couldn't let that stand, Mittens, though I also don't know what I'd do without a confidant like you. Rather awful, I know, babbling like this to a cat, but you are a topping listener and you haven't once called the authorities on me." I heard him bestow a smacking kiss on, one presumes, the feline. "I do hope Jeeves is having a good time at his club. It would be nice to see him more relaxed and . . ."

His voice trailed off as I snuck away from his doorway. I had heard enough. I had to ponder what I now knew.

It was a simple matter to retrieve my coat from the kitchen, silently move to the foyer, don my hat and overcoat once more, and slam the door so that my master would now know of my arrival. He called a greeting in my direction, and he came out to the sitting room with his cat loping behind him. We fell into our usual nightly routine: I mixed him a drink, he sat and asked after my acquaintances at the Ganymede, and we chatted in an idle manner. I do not think he noticed my preoccupation with my thoughts, but then again, I am well-trained in hiding such things. Eventually we bid each other a good night and I went to bed, though I did not sleep so much as stare at the ceiling.

Sleep must have stolen over me at some point, because I was roused from a light doze by a pitiful mewling on the floor. I peered over the edge of my bed to see the little yellow cat sitting on its haunches and crying incessantly. I looked down at it, unimpressed with its imagined plight. I checked my alarm clock and saw it was nearly time for rising anyway. I got out of bed, showered in the second bathroom, and dressed in a fresh uniform. I was just adjusting my tie in my small bureau mirror when I felt the cat winding itself round my ankles, still meowing.

I studied the little creature for a moment and then consulted my pocket watch. I had a few spare moments before my morning chores were scheduled to begin. For whatever reason, I gently picked up the cat and sat on the edge of my bed. The animal curled into a ball in my lap and nudged at my hand with its small head, wordlessly demanding the sort of petting my master bestowed on the thing. I complied and was immediately granted a deep purr.

"I can see why Mr Wooster appreciates this activity," I murmured to my feline companion. "It is strangely soothing."

The cat yawned in response. I thought again of the lonely monologue I had witnessed the night before.

"It grieves me that he does not think he possesses the wherewithal to ensure my happiness," I continued, somehow lulled into voicing the thoughts that had been bouncing round in my head for hours. "Of course I am completely content to remain here in his employ. A thousand wonderful adventures have proven that time and again. He is everything I could want. In an employer," I added hastily. "But when he speaks of his heart, I do not know what to think. Such things are— Well, it is not proper."

The cat's eyes began drifting shut as if in a trance. I allowed myself a small quirk of a smile and continued scratching its ears.

"It is just not proper," I whispered to the cat, to the air, to no one. In the distance, I heard the creak of a door. I was wondering what it could be when suddenly Mr Wooster, swathed in his dressing gown, popped open the door to my room.

"I say, Jeeves!"

The suddenness of the door opening and the relative volume of my master's voice must have startled the cat, for it leapt from my lap with a surprised howl. In its haste to flee, it dug its claws into me, most notably in a long scratch down my forearm. I had time for only a gasp of shocked pain before the animal disappeared, streaking past Mr Wooster and running down the hall.

"Oh my word! Jeeves, I— I only came to— Well, I couldn't sleep and— Good Lord, man, your arm is bleeding like the dickens!" Mr Wooster flew to my side and cradled the injured appendage in his hands. "So sorry, Jeeves. This is my fault. Here, let's get you to the bathroom and wash that arm."

"It is nothing, sir," I said, though in truth, my white shirtsleeve was torn and stained with bright red splotches that seemed to be spreading. "It is but a scratch."

"I'm sure Trafalgar said exactly the same thing. Now come, Jeeves." He pulled me up to a standing position and led me down the hallway to the bath. While he ran the hot tap in the sink, I examined the damage to my shirtsleeve.

"A lost cause, eh?" he asked as he soaked a cloth.

I nodded. "So it appears."

"Well, off with it then. I must have some bandages in the medicine chest. Hold on a mo'." Mr Wooster rummaged in the cabinet while I debated the need for disrobing even the slightest bit. He turned to find me still dressed in my torn and bloodied shirt, clutching at my forearm to stem the bleeding. "Jeeves, are you planning on being buried in it? Take off the rags, man." His expression was a fine mixture of exasperation and good humour, and it was so devoid of nefarious purpose that I felt I had no choice but to shuck my waistcoat and ruined shirt. I was left in just my undervest, my braces dangling from their anchors, and a thin ribbon of blood still trickling down my arm.

"I say, should I be 'phoning the doctor? You might need stitches." My master guided me to sit on the lip on the bathtub.

"I do not think so, sir. The wound is not deep."

He dabbed at the scratch with a clean washcloth, kneeling on the tile floor before me. "What in the world were you doing petting Mittens anyway? I thought you hated the poor blighter."

I swallowed. "I was attempting to endear myself to the animal, sir. I thought it might be a wise course of action if the cat is going to continue living in this household."

"Well, it looks like you're off to a ripping start." Mr Wooster looked up at me for just a brief moment, flashing a boyish grin at me before returning his concentration to my arm. After blotting away the excess blood, he began wrapping my forearm with the bandages he'd discovered. I nearly offered to complete the task for him, but he seemed to be so absorbed that I didn't dare. Soon, my arm was wrapped in a very competent manner.

"Thank you, sir," I said quietly.

"Least I could do, considering it was my fault you were hurt in the first place." Mr Wooster looked up at me once more, his face alight with a satisfied glow. Then, as quickly as it came, the happy smile went, leaving only a furrowed brow and a concerned press of his expressive lips. His eyes darted to the floor, and he would not look up.

I knew instantly: he on his knee, and I sitting before him; this reminded him of a proposal he could never make. And it twisted the smile from his face to think of it. The steadfast servant in me could not allow this. My whole life was dedicated to serving Mr Wooster's needs, to keeping him content, to never letting that smile slip from his lips. I was his loyal valet, and I—

The realisation was sudden. These were not the convictions of a mere valet. I had been a superb valet to many masters, and only Mr Wooster inspired these kinds of feelings in me. I wanted to serve him the perfect cup of tea and cook him the perfect fillet of trout and dress him in the best clothes, yes. But I also wanted him to laugh and smile when he was at my side, and that was a wholly different kind of service.

I cared for him. Deeply. I wanted him. Fervently. I loved him. Obviously.

"Sir?" I raised a hand, tentative, unsure, and touched his jaw. He raised his head again, and the false light of cheer was once more dancing in his eyes.

"What an extraordinarily busy morning we've had, Jeeves. I do believe a bit of breakfast is—" He moved to stand, still chattering away, but my hand rested on his shoulder to stop him. He looked at me, his eyes now wild with fear. I could feel his pulse jumping against my thumb where it was nestled at the base of his neck. "Is something the matter, Jeeves?" he asked, his voice high with feigned nonchalance.

"No, sir, nothing is the matter." How best to express this desire? How does one make such a confession? How sure was I of what I had heard the night before? "I would most certainly say yes, sir," I said slowly, "to whatever you asked of me."

"Asked of you?" Mr Wooster frowned in confusion. "Jeeves, I haven't asked anything of you."

"I wish that you would." I looked into his face, holding his gaze with all my strength. His clear blue eyes blinked up at me; I fancied I saw hidden tears at their corners. A flush came over Mr Wooster's neck and face, and he looked away.

"I'm not sure what you— That is to say—"

I shook my head, unbelievably angry with myself. Of course. This wasn't an order for me to carry out; this wasn't something Mr Wooster would dare take the first step toward. He was a gentleman; how could he? It had to be me who took the leap. So I leaned forward and caressed the side of his face with my fingertips. He jolted as if burned, but did not turn away from me. I watched his eyes as our faces came closer and closer.

"May I kiss you, sir?" My voice was not my own. It was low and soft, as if I were whispering a prayer.

Mr Wooster shook like a leaf in the wind against my hand. "K-kiss, Jeeves?"

"Yes, sir." My steadiness surprised me. I drew my hand down Mr Wooster's flushed temple, smoothing his sleep-rumpled hair into place. I endeavoured to commit every detail of his face to memory: his parted lips, his wide eyes, his flared nostrils. "I would like to. Very much."

His answer was a nod, slow and unsure. I closed the small gap between us and kissed him as gently as possible. I wanted the first press of lips to speak of reassurance and comfort. "Don't be afraid," I whispered against his mouth as I kissed him.

"I'm not," he said between kisses. "I'm dreaming."

"This is no dream." The next kiss was passion-filled, as hard and wanting as I felt. He rose up on both his knees to reach me. I cupped the back of his head in my hand and tipped him back so that I could taste him deeply.

It was he that broke that kiss. He panted as we held each other cheek to cheek. "I'm in love with you," he said. "Oh Lord, I'm so in love with you."

"I know," I said into his ear. "I heard you speaking to the cat."

A near-hysterical laugh bubbled from his lips. "Did you really? How bally embarrassing." He dropped his forehead onto my shoulder as if to hide his shame.

"No, no." I pulled back to look him in the eye. "How fortuitous."

"Oh?" He seemed unconvinced.

I pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I've fallen in love with you as well, sir," I said.

The most perfect smile of all spread over his features, touching not just his lips and eyes but every inch of him. "Jeeves," he said, "please come to bed with me."

"I would be glad to." I stood and helped him to his feet. It was still early and we had the entire day to spend together. An entire week if we wished. If I could persuade Mr Wooster to give up some pressing engagements, perhaps a month. As it was, I was content to begin with a whole morning, afternoon, and evening in bed with him, learning his body as he learned mine. We dozed only to wake up to love each other anew. I suppose night fell and morning followed, for the sun came far too soon, shining through the curtains and announcing a new day.

I looked down at my master, now lover, whom I held cradled in my arms. His radiant face broke into a smile as he looked at me. "Jeeves," he said, "does this mean we can keep him? Mittens, I mean."

"Yes, sir," I said. "I cannot begrudge any animal, no matter how destructive, when it has had such a hand in thawing my heart. How else could I have known, sir, of the depth of my regard for you, if it had not been for your pet?"

"I love you too, Jeeves. If that's what you just said, I mean."

"It is, sir." And I kissed him, listening to Mittens the cat purring at the foot of the bed.

fin.