Archive of Our Own

You will, perhaps, recall a Miss Samson, if you happened to join by way of my memoirs a certain dinner disaster from a few months back. My Aunt Agatha had brought the young lady round to parade before the Wooster eyes in hopes of making a matrimonial mash-up. In the usual spirit of things, Jeeves rallied round at the appropriate moment, fending off the threat, and all was returned to peace and harmony in the household.

It may, however, surprise the reader of sensitive temperament to hear that Miss Samson was not in fact flung straight back into the pond after disgracing herself in front of Aunt Agatha. Despite elimination of any romantic possibilities, the young lady endeared herself readily to my heart by way of a quick wit and a strong appreciation for my inimitable manservant. My safety was also ensured by a quick rebound engagement to a chum of mine, Andrew Daily - her engagement, that is, not mine.

It was a match fabricated by the flaming celestials of heaven, or so it seemed. The poor fellow was so dull, he fairly screamed for a spanking girl like Miss Samson - or Deirdre, as I now knew her. I was counting the whole affair as one more under the belt for the Wooster-Jeeves matchmaking team when the great blow occurred.

It was while strolling benignly to the Drones one late afternoon that I heard a cracking ‘Yoo-hoo!’ echo across the street, startling legions of pigeons into the air. The diminutive form of Deirdre Samson stood on the other side of the street, wrapped in a daring purple coat and clutching a lavender handbag.

‘Oh, Bertie, darling!’ she gushed, darting through traffic and up onto my kerb.

‘What ho, young Deirdre! Fine afternoon for a stroll, what?’ It was only after emitting all this in a jolly manner that I noticed some of the wet stuff streaking down her cheeks.

‘Oh,’ I amended, feeling the preux chevalier spirit wither somewhat.

‘Bertie, I've just had the most horrible morning!’ Her lower lip trembled and I could see more tears were imminent.

‘Oh, my. Rather. Well, it can't have been as bad as all that, can it?’ This was apparently the wrong thing to say, as it immediately caused a new leak in Deirdre's plumbing.

‘It was awful, Bertie! Andrew and I have broken off the engagement!’ she cried.

This was, as you must realise, awful news indeed, as it left one more girl subject to the temptations of enlisting with the Armed Wooster Engagement Forces.

‘Why in heaven's name would you do that?’ I asked.

‘Oh,’ Deirdre sobbed into my surprised shoulder, ‘he’s eloped!’

‘Eloped? But who could possibly upstage such a rare societal gem as you?’

‘His- his valet.’

I confess this is where I became a bit confused. I felt as if I'd asked for my tie and been handed a jar of mustard.

‘What do you mean, his valet?’

‘I mean his valet.’ Here the harbinger straightened up and applied tissue to face. ‘They were having a- a tryst, or some such, and then they ran off! Andrew left a note.’ This she produced from inside the handbag and pushed into my limp hand. It read:

Dearest Deirdre, Truly sorry for any sorrow or inconvenience. Peter - scratch that - Jenkins and self have eloped. I know this may come as a bit of a blow, but please know that it has nothing to do with you. It had been going on for some time. Very best wishes, Andrew.

I fear at the conclusion of reading this epistolary humgumption, I must have resembled a child set before a series of complicated mathematical proofs and told no dinner shall be forthcoming until all are solved.

‘What do you make of it, Bertie?’ Deirdre prompted.

‘Make of it? Why, it's utter nonsense, Deirdre. I don't believe I followed one word of it.’

‘Oh, really, Bertie, you can't be that innocent.’

‘Innocent?’ I asked innocently.

‘Well, yes. You do know about Oscar Wilde, don't you?’

‘Er, yes. The chap who wrote all those silly plays. Jeeves loves them.’

‘Jeeves?’ The girl's eyes took on a menacing glint.

‘Yes, Jeeves. He carries an Oscar Wilde to bed most evenings, I believe. Calls it broadening the horizons or some such nonsense. Did something like this happen in one of his plays?’

‘No, Bertie. The man was a ho- a... ho-,’ she leaned in close and whispered, ‘homosexual.’

‘I confess I have no idea what that means,’ I said, startled.

‘Don't be silly, Bertie. You know about men having relations with women, I'm sure. Just... imagine one having relations with another man.’

‘I will not!’ I shouted, causing several passers-by to leap away in alarm as they passed by.

‘Oh, well, anyway,’ Deirdre conceded. ‘Suffice it to say that Andrew's supposed feelings for me were usurped by affection for the man who dressed him every morning. I suppose proximity and precedence trump devotion and affection in this case. It is sad, though; I really liked Andrew.’

‘Right,’ I said, severely stymied.

‘Oh, well then, I must be getting on,’ she said, dabbing away the remaining watermarks. ‘Ta, Bertie. Do give everyone my love.’

You will understand if after that conversation I was no longer fit for a visit to the club. My mind was in turmoil, one side battling for comprehension, the other for suppression, and it threatened to force me to a battered surrender on the pavement. In this sea of sinking thoughts, I wandered home.

--**--**--**--

Jeeves, no doubt surprised to find his peaceful evening interrupted by my early return, nonetheless rallied round and helped the young master out of coat and hat and onto the sofa. Once an apéritif was parked firmly in hand, I began to let loose a flow of incomprehensible babble.

‘I am sorry, sir, but I'm afraid I did not entirely understand you,’ Jeeves said once I began to trickle off.

‘Oh, rather. Sorry, Jeeves. I'm afraid a sound reconstruction is... a bit out of my league just now.’

‘It is understandable, sir. You are in a distressed state. Why don't you start at the beginning? After you left the flat, you met Miss Samson on your way to the club. Is that not correct, sir?’

'Yes. Yes, I suppose you're right, Jeeves.'

'And she then explained to you that her engagement with Mr. Daily had been terminated?'

'Yes.'

'What reason did she give for this termination, sir?'

'Er. Well. That's the sticky part of the matter, Jeeves.'

'Sticky, sir?'

'Quite, Jeeves. She gave me to understand that- ' At this I succumbed to a wild fit of wheezing, brought on no doubt by a greatly weakened state of overall health. The body is the best picture of the human soul, or so said one of those philosopher birds.

At the close of my explosions, Jeeves remained standing on the battlefield like an armoured tank. I took out the handkerchief and gave a few final blats.

Jeeves coughed quietly into his hand. 'I do apologise, sir, but you have left me in a state of suspense.'

'Oh? So I have, then, Jeeves, so I have.'

We exchanged a glance.

'Sir,' Jeeves continued, 'you were about to inform me of the circumstances involved in the breaking of the Daily-Samson engagement.'

'Oh, right. Quite so. Indeed, Jeeves. It was... er, well, there's no gentle way of putting this, I'm afraid.'

'I am prepared, sir.'

'Are you sure, Jeeves? Hatches battened, seals sealed, and all that?'

'Just so, sir.'

'Er, well, perhaps you'd better sit down then, Jeeves.'

The state of affairs was made rather plain when Jeeves perched upon the divan without complaint. In normal circs, he would have made rather a fuss about decency and proper behaviour and whatnot being violated by a gentleman's gentleman being seated in the presence of the gentleman.

'Sir?' he prompted again.

'If you must know, Jeeves,' I said a bit harshly, 'it was his- ’

Here the telephone rang. Jeeves rose reluctantly to answer. A few sparse words later, he flitted back.

'It was a wrong number, sir,' he announced, alighting again on the edge of his seat.

I eyed him warily, realising there was no further hope for escape. There was, in fact, nothing to do but say it.

'It was his valet, Jeeves.’

‘His valet, sir?’

‘His valet.’

‘What was his valet, sir?’

‘The reason Andrew has broken off his engagement with Deirdre.’

‘And what reason is that, precisely, sir, if I may inquire?’

I felt very well like saying he may not, but now we were in the thick of things, there was nothing else for it.

‘Young Andrew Daily eloped with his valet.'

There. It was said. A lengthy pause fizzled out into the room, choking off continued conversation. I admit various parts of my corpus had become less than steady in the tension of our interchange, and when at last I chanced a look in Jeeves's direction, he was sitting very still, brow furrowed, features pale and harshly chiselled like a statue.

'Jeeves,' I said.

'Sir,' he responded.

'Jeeves.'

'Sir.'

'Oh, really!'

'Sir, I- do I understand you correctly when you say Mr. Daily eloped with his valet?'

'Yes, Jeeves, that is precisely what I said.'

'And what do you mean by "eloped," sir?'

This is where the thing broke down. I had, of course, absorbed all that Deirdre was feeding me. But somewhere along the way, the eyes began to cross and warning sirens began to blare.

‘I confess I am not exactly sure,’ I confessed.

Jeeves regarded me keenly. ‘Elopement is traditionally a means of marriage without parental consent, sir.’

‘Well I hardly think his parents would approve!’

At this juncture, the most incredulous thing happened. Both of Jeeves eyebrows lifted a good half an inch.

‘No, sir,’ he said firmly, as though to indicate one might hardly think he would approve, either.

‘Well then. There you have it.’

‘Am I to understand you believe Mr. Daily has… married… his valet?’

I could see where this was going. 'Dash it, Jeeves. I mean he- they... legged it to be, well... not married, they couldn't do that, but to spend eternity wrapped in the blissful tender pash, or what have you.'

'Together, sir?'

'Of course together, Jeeves! Man and valet, 'til death do us part and all that rot, no toothsome fillies in sight! How can I make myself plainer?'

In all our years together, I had very rarely seen Jeeves come close to losing composure, and it rattled me to the core to see him in such a sorry state of word-stringing.

'Well... Sir. I- I apologise. If… No. I... Well... Sir.’

'Come off it, Jeeves!'

The rope that had been let slip was caught firmly in hand just as the tail end threatened to dive off the pier and into the briny deep. Jeeves sat up a bit straighter and filled his lungs.

'Sir,' he let fly again, a bit more firmly. 'Sir, I am not entirely unfamiliar with such... occurrences. While greatly trying to the moral fibre, they are not entirely uncommon. You see, sir, some young and impressionable gentlemen do find that a life removed from romantic entanglements and in close proximity to one who- '

'Jeeves! Stop! Just... bally well stop!'

We sat again in silence, eying one another. The trains of thought having raced out of the station, leaving us looking at each other from opposite sides of the platform, there was nothing meaningful left to say.

'Sir,' Jeeves said, rising from the divan like a rickety barn being erected. 'If you'll pardon me, as I assume you will be dining in tonight, I must begin preparing a meal.' And with that final note, he oozed out.

--**--**--**--

The Wooster mind was, understandably, given over to no small amount of troubling dreams that night. As I tried to piece together the muddled mess mamboing inside my skull, I kept running up against the same obstacle: I had no idea what was really meant by, 'Andrew Daily eloped with his valet.' I mean to say, when a man elopes with someone, it's usually an eye-catching young filly who just happens to cross from the wrong side of town on the morning commute, or who wakes up at the wrong end of the stairs, and so parental consent, being the hidebound thing that it is, is duly reneged.

However, here was a man, proper and dull in all the appropriately English ways, who had said 'toodle pip!' to just such an eye-catching young filly in order to make lover's advances with the chap who shined his shoes. It didn't make an ounce of sense. Every time I tried to picture the sequence of events, right about the time they got to the passionate embrace, everything got kind of fuzzy and I started seeing images of kittens gambolling about in meadows of dandelions.

After several days of this, things started to wear ragged in the household. I kept forgetting to comb my hair, or repeatedly failed to notice a piece of toast dripping jam onto the bedspread. On the seventh day, Jeeves dug in his heels.

'Sir,' he said one miserably warm afternoon whilst serving a light lunch. 'I can no longer remain silent.'

'Jeeves?' I said, interrupted from a troubling stew of thoughts as the spoon dripped soup onto the tablecloth.

'If you will permit the observation, sir,’ Jeeves said, gently guiding my hand back over the bowl, ‘you have become disturbed.'

'Disturbed, Jeeves?'

'Your mind is not well, sir. I fear it is beginning to take its toll on your health, and I can no longer stand by.'

'Jeeves,' said I, letting the spoon return to its native soup pastures. 'You're talking rot.' I picked up a newspaper on the side table and held it up as a shield against further onslaught.

‘Sir,’ Jeeves said from beyond the veil, meaning, ‘Argument is useless. Give it up.’

'Well, supposing you're right,' I squirmed out from behind the agriculture section. 'Not that I'm saying you are, mind you, but if you were. What do you bally well suppose I ought to do about it?'

His brow softened slightly.

'Sir, I believe you may find relief from the troubling thoughts via a change in scene. I propose a visit to a refreshing venue. Perhaps Roville-sur-mer, or Monte Carlo?'

I immediately sensed the self-serving nature of the request, and while I am usually more than happy to indulge Jeeves in his desire to trot the globe off its axis, this time I held firm.

'Jeeves, you are obviously not aware of the persistent nature of these thoughts. They would follow me doggedly to the ends of the earth! Their teeth are quite firmly planted, and the jaw is locked.'

'I see, sir. Will that be all, sir?'

'Yes, Jeeves.' I sunk back behind the wheat yield predictions, but quickly realised something was missing.

'I say! Jeeves!' I called.

'Sir?' He slid back into the dining room.

'You've forgotten something,' I said, nodding at him.

Jeeves looked down at the unserved plate still balanced on his palm.

'So I have, sir,' he said, amazement radiating from every pore. I felt rather bad for the chap; it’s not every day you find your firm grip on the world has slipped several rungs without your notice. At least, not when you’re a sterling chap like Jeeves.

‘Pay it no mind, Jeeves. A simple mistake. You’re only human, after all,’ I said, not entirely believing it myself.

‘Yes, sir, regrettably so,’ he said as he deposited the fillet in front of me.

‘Oh, come off it, Jeeves. Help yourself to an extra serving of fish this evening, and think no more of it.’

‘Very good, sir,’ he said, and slunk out with tail between legs.

--**--**--**--

It was as I raced the remaining pea around my plate for the seventeenth lap that I realised I had been going about this business all wrong. Trying to escape from the facts, no matter how dangerous to soundness of mind and pureness of thought, wasn't going to get me anywhere, except run into a corner and surrounded. Pride and courage of spirit run deep in the Wooster blood, and this Wooster wasn't about to be an exception. Like the old ancestors at Agincourt, I had to face the enemy head on, grab him by the ears, and try to wrestle him into submission. The first step, as all good students of the psychology of the individual will tell you, was to understand the enemy.

I called for Jeeves.

'Yes, sir,' Jeeves said, materialising.

'I would like to borrow one of your Oscar Wilde plays, Jeeves.'

'Oscar Wilde, sir?'

'Yes, Jeeves. You have his entire works, do you not?'

'I do, sir.'

'Well, bung them out then. I feel a need to broaden my horizons.'

'Very good, sir.' Jeeves drizzled out in a cloud of doubt, returning with a small book entitled The Importance of Being Earnest.

'I think you shall find this a satisfactory means of introduction to Mr. Wilde, sir.'

'Thank you, Jeeves,' I said, and promptly cracked it open.

--**--**--**--

I am not a reader of breathtaking speed, but nor would I lose in a race, being very well practised in zipping through the racy scenes in my detective novels, and by the third day with the Wilde play, I was far enough along to realise I had somehow been misled. There were romantic antics and entanglements aplenty, but nowhere in sight were any men eloping with each other. All tender feelings were reserved exclusively for the common male avec female duo.

As with all troubling things, Jeeves was the fount from which the answer would flow forth. I found him in the kitchen, leaning his face dreamily into a breeze blowing through the curtains.

'Trying to escape the heat, what, Jeeves?'

He turned round, and I noticed the breeze must not have been doing him much good, because the plains of his map were dusted with a rose-coloured hue.

'Just so, sir,' he said, suddenly taken with the shine on his lace-ups.

'Jeeves, I can't help feeling I've been misled,' I said.

'Misled, sir?' He stopped the shoe-gazing and returned full attention to me.

'Misled, Jeeves. This Oscar Wilde fellow is playing his cards rather close to his chest. Either that or you've handed me the wrong volume.'

'Perhaps you could tell me what it is you expected to find, sir.'

'Well, I was rather under the impression that he wrote about men legging it with their valets, if you know what I mean.'

Jeeves blinked. 'I see, sir. From whence did you receive this impression?'

'Why, I suppose it was from Miss Samson. When I expressed confusion at the breaking of the news, she asked if I knew some chappie called Oscar Wilde. Maybe she meant a different Oscar Wilde.'

'I fear not, sir. I believe Miss Samson may not have been referring to Mr. Wilde's works, but rather his regrettable personal crimes.'

'Crimes, Jeeves?'

'Mr. Wilde was an invert, sir.'

'A what?'

'Let us say he... might have eloped with his valet, had someone else not diverted his attentions.'

'Oh. Rather.’ That presented an interesting new angle on the thing. ‘He was bunged in prison, wasn't he, Jeeves?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And it was for... that?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Oh.'

I was beginning to feel as though I needed some time alone with my thoughts, but Jeeves carried on.

'Sir, if I might make a suggestion, I think you would do well to suppress whatever distress these thoughts may be causing you. They need not play any role in your life, and are therefore best hidden away where they will not trouble you.'

'You're saying just forget all about it, Jeeves?'

'Precisely, sir.'

I thought about this for a moment.

'I imagine you're right, Jeeves. You always are.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'But Jeeves?'

'Yes, sir?'

'You don't suppose there would be any harm in my finishing the rest of the play, do you?'

'No, sir.'

'Right ho, then,' I said, and reinstalled myself in the sitting room.

--**--**--**--

At page 133, everything changed.

That is to say, the play went on as it always had, I'm certain, but a small piece of paper drifted out from between the pages and fell into my lap. I picked it up and read the following words scratched upon its grainy vellum surface:

He doesn’t understand and likely never will. I am ensnared by the pain of hoping. Please forgive me.

It looked rather like Jeeves's handwriting, which gave me no small amount of pause. I examined it thoroughly, seeking further clues. The plaintive note wrenched at me, whomever it was from. I tried to console myself with the thought that, if it were Jeeves’s private admission, perhaps it was written before he came into my service, and he had never had occasion to feel so since. However, beneath all of the sadness, a small wiggly feeling of satisfaction was struggling to break to the surface. As it did, I gasped. Pieces of the puzzle were suddenly falling into place, just like the home stretch of a really corking mystery tale.

It all began to make sense, what Jeeves had said about 'hiding things away where they will not trouble you.' He had, it seemed, hid his troubles inside a book, and that was exactly what I planned to do with mine.

--**--**--**--

'Jeeves,' I said that evening as he made to exit the bedroom.

'Sir?'

'A plan is beginning to make itself clear to me.'

'A plan, sir?'

'To rid myself of troubling thoughts.'

'Very good, sir.'

'Would you like to know what it is?'

'Very much, sir.'

'I am going to write a book, Jeeves.'

'A book, sir?'

'Yes, Jeeves. I'm going to write a book about Andrew Daily and his valet, and thereby release all of my concerns and confusions onto the page and then lock them away where they can never bother me again!' I punctuated this last phrase with a fist pounded into the bedclothes.

Jeeves merely looked at me as one does a petulant child.

'I'm afraid you must permit me to disagree, sir. When I suggested liberating yourself from troubling thoughts, I did not mean that you should engross yourself in them for a considerable duration of time in order to produce tangible evidence of their existence.'

'Jeeves,' I said testily, 'I won't hear another word against my idea. Oh, and ring up Deirdre in the morning, if you would. I intend to interview Andrew and his valet for the book, and I need to know their whereabouts.'

'With all due respect, sir, I fear the point of elopement is to conceal one's whereabouts.'

'Oh, well, yes. Quite right, Jeeves. However, I suspect Miss Samson will be able to give you some good leads. If the info is to be had, you're the man to find it!'

The 'very good, sir' with which Jeeves exited was the coldest it had ever been.

--**--**--**--

The next morning, as I was buried beak-first in an absolutely ripping story, wherein the detective was dangling from the rooftop by a leg in the clutches of the suspected butler, I heard the sighing cough of a distant sheep that indicated my man wished a word.

'Yes, Jeeves?'

'Pardon me, sir, but I have just been on the telephone with Miss Samson.'

'Jolly good, Jeeves. What does the delightful young lady have to say about the hideout of her errant fiancé?'

'It would seem, sir, that the only information the young lady wished to divulge was her rather unfortunate opinion of myself.'

'Come now, Jeeves, don't be absurd. Miss Samson thinks the world of you.'

'I fear this is no longer true, sir. She now believes me to be an accomplice in the escapades of Mr. Daily and his valet.'

'Oh, really! How could she think that?'

'I believe, sir, that she came to this conclusion after you informed her of my tendency to read Oscar Wilde before retiring in the evenings.'

'Tchah!' I said, jabbing my book in Jeeves's direction.

'I am sorry, sir, for not retrieving the information you requested. However, if I may say so, I believe it is for the best. I have another solution which will prove far more satisfactory.'

'Eh? What is it, Jeeves?'

'Hypnotism, sir.'

'Hypnotism, Jeeves?'

'Yes, sir. It is often mentioned in modern medical texts as a cure for unwanted or undesirable thoughts. By a most fortunate coincidence, the leading hypnotist Dr. Newman Bartholomew is visiting London this week and offering sessions out of his hotel suite. I have taken the liberty of procuring a ticket for you, sir. They are most hard to come by at this date.'

I glanced at the paper he held out to me. It was covered with lots of little letters, but what it spelled out most clearly was the care with which its procurer looked after yours truly.

'Well,' I relented, 'I haven't got anything to lose, have I, Jeeves?'

'No, I do not believe so, sir.'

'Jolly good then.'

'Jolly good, sir,' Jeeves said, with a rare indulgence.

--**--**--**--

Two days later found me mounting the trottoir outside the Hotel Aurora. I was making my way across the echoing naves of the lobby toward the lifts when I spied with no small shock the person of Andrew Daily sneaking out of the stairwell.

'What ho, Andrew!' I shouted, running up to him.

'Bertie!' He leaped back against the wall like a capering criminal caught in the act.

'What are you doing here?' I began the inquisition. 'I've been turning over stones to find you.'

'Oh, you've heard, then.' His dial slid into desperation.

'Well, yes. I mean to say, Deirdre told me.'

'I expect you'd like to knock me into next week. Well, go on then, let's get it over with.'

'Don't be absurd, old chum. I haven't come to cuff you!'

He looked mildly disappointed. 'Why have you come, then?'

'Well, to be honest, Jeeves sent me here to see some hypno... thingummy.'

'You mean Dr. Bartholomew? I'm here to see him, too!'

'You?'

'Yes. Peter asked that I come. We're staying here at the hotel and I've been having nervous spells, you see, brought on by guilt. The other day I flung a bowl of soup at a waiter who was talking too loudly.'

This was rather alarming behaviour for a dull bird like Andrew Daily, and I concealed my concern behind curiosity.

'Who's Peter?' I asked.

'Oh, rather. Sorry. Jenkins. My er... well, my ex-valet.'

'Ex-valet? He hasn't snuffed it so soon after the... er, well, the thing?'

'No! No, I mean, only he's not my valet anymore. He's my... well, you know, Bertie.'

'Er. Right. Yes. Of course. Listen, Andrew, that's actually just what I wanted to see you about.'

'Not to cuff me?'

'No! I want to conduct an interview. I'm writing a book about you.'

Andrew took a bracing step backwards and clutched at the bark of a potted palm tree for support.

'A book!'

'Yes, a book. A biographical sort of piece. I want the story from your side. Your man, er... Jenkins is welcome to participate, if he wishes.'

'But, Bertie, why? You're not... one of us, are you?'

'One of- oh, dash it, no! Of course not. I only want to, er... broaden my horizons, you see. You know, try to wrap my noodle around the whole thing, thoroughly digest it, and then dump it in an unmarked parcel by the side of the motorway. I've er... been having a bit of trouble dealing with the discovery of your dalliances, I'm afraid. It's left me a bit disturbed, which is why I was headed to see the hypno- thing.'

'Oh. Well, I suppose there's nothing for it but to go and see him, eh?'

'Right ho,' I said with an uncharacteristic absence of enthusiasm.

--**--**--**--

The esteemed Doctor Bartholomew was holding session in the west wing of the hotel, which was occupied almost entirely by the thirteen rooms of his suite. If the palatial accommodations had failed in any way to impress upon me the width and breadth of his reputation, the slack would no doubt have been taken up by the mile-long line outside his door.

'Andrew,' I said, slopping onto a bench along the wall, 'you realise this will take ages.'

'Oh, it is worth it, Bertie! Haven't you ever been hypnotised before?'

'I can't say I've ever had the need up 'til now.'

'You're in for a treat, then. It works miracles on the troubled soul.'

It sounded like just the cure, but I daresay the excitement was not enough to keep me from dozing off during our wait. I had the most rummy dream in which I returned to Berkeley Street and found I could not find my flat. Every time I thought I'd got to the right hall, I would turn the corner and find myself quite a few numbers off from the correct address. As I went on, the lights grew dimmer, until I could hardly see a hand held inches from my eyes. At last I saw light ahead, beaming out from around a very familiar silhouette.

'Jeeves!' I called out in dream-speak, and I had almost reached him when an elbow crashed out of the wall and sent me spinning.

I woke with a snort and found Andrew poking me in the forehead.

'You're up,' he said, lifting my head from his shoulder and dragging me up by an arm. 'Oh, and you were calling for Jeeves in your sleep.' With that, he bunged me into a stately sitting room and shut the door behind me.

I was confronted with the blurry figure of a crusty-looking older gentleman sitting at a desk and scribbling notes on a yellow ledger.

'Sit down, son, and wipe the sleep from your eyes. You ain't allowed to do that until I say so.'

'Right ho,' I said, a bit deferentially, and took a plop in a vacant armchair. There is no arguing with a bristly-moustached American when he tells you to have a seat.

'Now,' said the doctor, for I presume he was the doctor, looking the most doctor-like of anyone in the room - which, admittedly, only contained the two of us. He rose from his chair and came over to attend. 'Make yourself comfortable, son. This will only hurt a bit.' He chuckled with the sort of obscene delight that only chappies who make a living out of causing pain can muster.

'I say!' I said, a bit alarmed. You see, I really wasn't completely in the light about this whole hypnotism business, and for all I knew it involved needles and thumbscrews and a crew of strong-armed men.

Doctor Bartholomew took a seat on the edge of the footstool and gave me a searching look. 'Now, what are you here for anyway? Witness any carnage? Seen a ghost? Lover left you for another man? I get all kinds in here, fella, so don't hold back on me.'

'Well, I….' I confess for a moment I thought I was instantly cured, as I had not the slightest recollection of what I was there for.

'That bad, eh? Well, we'll just have to work it out of you. Make yourself comfortable. Lie back, there you go.' At this, he pulled a piece of chalk on a string from his pocket and began to swing it like a pendulum in front of my eyes. 'Now you just watch this here piece of chalk, got it? Don't look at anything else in the room, not even for a second, and focus on my voice. I'm going to count to six, and when I reach six, you're going to find yourself under my command. You will do whatever I say, and you will answer any questions I might have for you. Alright. Let’s begin. One... You’re feeling very tired now. Focus on the chalk. Two… That’s it, let everything relax. You’re going down, deeper and deeper. Three... Just listen to the sound of my voice and watch the chalk. Four... Let everything else go. Five… Focus on my voice and let yourself relax. Deeper and deeper. Six… That’s it. Watch the chalk. You are now deep down.'

I blinked, but nothing seemed to have happened. I became aware of a clock ticking on the mantelpiece, its beats in time with the swinging chalk. It was enough to put even the most energetic of virile young men to sleep faster than you can say bonne nuit, but before I could doze off again, the doctor's gruff voice cut in.

'Question one. What is troubling you?'

'Er,' I said.

'Yes, keep talking. Just let it all out.'

'Well, I suppose I heard a bit of unsettling news,' I said, feeling an urge to reach out and grab that wretched string before it chalked me one on the nose.

'Very good, wonderful. Question two. Tell me, what was the unsettling news?'

'A chum of mine... er... broke off his engagement to a very decent girl.'

'I see. Question three. Why does this trouble you?'

'Er,' I said again.

'Take it easy, son. Remember, I've heard it all.'

I forced a bit of iron into the blood. 'He broke off the engagement to elope with his manservant of seven years,' I said. 'It has left me a bit disturbed.'

'Well.' The doctor gave a whistle. 'I ain't never heard that one before.' The chalk trembled slightly on its string. 'No, see here, I'm calm. No reason to get upset. Let's continue. Question four. Why did it disturb you?'

I was under the firm impression that any bally ninny could have answered that for himself, and I said as much.

'Mm,' the doctor said, scribbling with his free hand, 'You know, son, I had a case not too long ago that was kind of similar to this. Man came in here saying he had funny feelings about the guy he was valetin' for. Right worse sitcheeayshun to be in, you ask me. But I cured him right up. Little bit of the ol' chalk-swinging does a world of good. Just you wait and see. Question five. How'd you feel about this friend of yours, went and ran off like that?'

'Er, chummy. We went to school together.'

'Ah, good, good. Question six. Do you believe your friend to be a homosexual?'

There was that word again. I clenched my fists.

'I- Er,' I faltered.

'Mm,' the doctor went on. 'Question seven. Do you believe yourself to be a homosexual?'

This took things well out of the green.

'No, I bally well do not, doctor... thingummy!' I batted the offending piece of chalk out of the way and sprang from the chair. The doctor reached for my arm.

'See here now, son. You ain't supposed to do that!'

'Bah!' I said, and shot out of the room.

--**--**--**--

In the hall, Andrew was sprawled in a chair. There was no time for explanations so I grabbed for him, hissing, 'To your room!'

We legged it up the stairs, me taking them two at a time and only prevented from leaping three or more in one bound by the deadweight of Andrew.

'Stop, Bertie, stop, I say!' he cried as we reached the fifth floor landing.

'What?' I said in a panicked haze. My legs were unwilling to stop their escape, and I trotted in place.

'Here,' Andrew gasped. 'It's here, on this floor.'

'What is?'

'My room, you ass.'

'Oh. Right ho. Let's get in it, then, shall we?'

I began to take flight down the corridor, but Andrew steadied me with a hand on the arm.

'Bertie, really, whatever got into you? You shot out of that room like the man was holding a knife to your throat.'

'He jolly well might have been! In fact, I wouldn't be surprised to hear that was exactly his next move. You'd do well not to attend your appointment, Andrew.'

'Oh, Bertie, really. Well, let's just go in and tell Peter what's happened then. He'll pour you a stiff one.'

Andrew tapped smartly on the door of number five eighteen, which sprung open seconds later to reveal a stuffy-looking man with fine features and sandy hair. He wore no trace of the valet's costume, choosing to dress instead in a somewhat old-fashioned suit of sturdy grey serge, but there was something in his carriage and politely neutral mask that immediately called Jeeves to mind.

‘Hullo, Peter,’ Andrew smiled a bit shyly at his man. ‘This is Bertie Wooster, a friend of mine from school. He’s… well, he’s all right, if you know what I mean.’

The p. n. mask fizzled away, and Jenkins was shaking my hand.

‘How do you do, sir. It is a pleasure to meet you.’

‘Oh. Right. Quite,’ I said.

‘Well, do come in, Bertie,’ Andrew said, ushering me into a very cosy little room. I surveyed the domain with a relaxed smile, pleased to note the sparse yet considerate furnishing of two beds and a small table and chairs. I made an optimistic one-eighty.

'Oh!' I said upon realising the scene had shifted.

I was now witnessing my hosts in that p. embrace I had tried so hard but failed to conjure in my imagination. It didn’t last nearly long enough for proper study, its victims rapidly realising they were performing a gesture rather too intimate for the presence of innocent bystanders.

'Er,’ I said, politely.

‘Ah!' barked Andrew, jumping out of the entanglement of arms and adopting a reddish tinge. 'Sorry, Bertie. We still get a bit carried away sometimes, you understand.'

‘Oh, rather,’ I said, not really understanding at all.

Jenkins had the decency to remember his original purpose and apologetically poured me a brandy. As I admired my glass of salvation, Andrew sat first on one bed, then on the other, then took the chair next to mine. Jenkins stood near the drink table, massaging his hands.

'Well,' I said, as a whoozled calm began to slosh in my stomach.

'Well,' Andrew echoed. 'Oh, er, Peter, Bertie was here to see Doctor Bartholomew, too. I’m afraid I’ve missed my appointment, however.'

'I am sorry to hear that, sir.'

'Do you still call him “sir”?' I asked, confused.

'Yes. Well, only sometimes,' Andrew answered.

'When company is present, sir,' Jenkins nodded.

'Oh,' I said. 'There's no need. I wish to see you in your natural state. For the book, you know.'

'Oh, yes, Bertie's writing a book, Peter,' Andrew explained, 'about us.'

'Us, sir?'

'Yes. Tell him, Bertie.'

'Oh. Er. Yes. Well, I wanted to get your side of the story and whatnot, you see, so that I can er... better understand. I wish to clear my mind of all the confusion and doubts that have been plaguing me since I heard the news.'

'A noble sentiment, sir,' Jenkins said. 'I believe I speak for us both when I say thank you, and I wish to help you in whatever way I can.'

'Yes, yes, me too,' Andrew seconded.

‘However,’ Jenkins went on, ‘I must ask for an oath that whatever you write will stay firmly within your possession.’

‘Oh, rather!’ I said. ‘Purely for my own sake, what. It shall be kept clasped firmly to my bosom the entire time. Once I’ve expunged all these thoughts from my head, it shall be kept under lock and key or lobbed into the grate post haste.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

'Jolly good!' I said, then paused. I wasn't entirely certain of how to go about the business, so I asked for the straight scoop from the beginning.

'From the beginning, then,' Andrew began. 'How did it all start, Peter?'

'I believe we were in the drawing room at Lady Marlberra's house and- '

'And you said, "Lovely day for a walk, sir." I remember!' Andrew made an adoringly crumpled face at his ex-valet. 'Oh, do come sit down, darling. I feel so uncomfortable doing this with you standing over there like a servant.'

'A difficult habit to break, I'm afraid, sir. But there are only two chairs.'

'Well, let's not be silly then. Bertie is here to get the straight story.' Andrew stood up. 'Sit down, Peter. I shall sit in your lap.'

Jenkins turned his cool, grey eyes on me. 'You don't mind, sir, do you?'

This was all a bit more than I was expecting, but I managed to emit a small gurgle that must have sounded appreciably like, 'No, not all go. Go right ahead, thank you.'

Jenkins took the chair - a large, sturdy looking thing, fortunately - and Andrew draped himself over the legs of his man with an ease that belied some steady amount of practising. I must have looked like a man who's just received word that England's tea supply would now be grown exclusively in Alaska, but as is often the case between two souls who have recently discovered an undeniable attraction to one another, they took not a whit of notice.

I scribbled distracted lines and circles about on my notepad while Andrew and his man narrated a tale of an amicable woodland walk in the sunshine which soon turned, as many stories taking place in the English countryside will do, into a dreary downpour. The two men had taken no small time in accepting that they were lost, wet, and miserable. Feudal spirit held strong, however, and Jenkins had quickly relinquished his jacket to the shivering Andrew, and soon after, as the story went, the warmth of his person as well. From there on out it was a cornucopia of lingering gazes, fingers brushing together in the exchange of a teacup, and finally, when passions could no longer be reined in, a fateful lip-locking on a starlit terrace.

I confess by this point in the tale, far from feeling horror and disgust, I was rather filled with a sense of diffused sweetness and light that warmed my heart in ways familiar to a young child finding a fluffy kitten with a big red bow under the tree on Christmas morning. I fear that where it would lead me, however, was like the discovery that the kitten was prone to attacks on the unsuspecting hand flung over the edge of the sofa. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

When Andrew and Jenkins finished their joint storytelling, they were looking at one another with stars in their eyes, and I realised I hadn't written a single note on my notepad. Instead, it was filled with tiny hearts and other doodles, and, in one corner, the name 'Jeeves'.

My heart was beating at a startlingly hard rate which threatened to tear it out of my chest and send it lobbing off the walls. I was very near to a somewhat regrettable realisation, and I could feel its presence looming behind and breathing down the collar like an angry bear.

'Dear Bertie, you look ill. Are you all right?' Andrew said, getting up and placing a well-meaning hand on my shoulder.

I could not find the words to respond. Instead, I lurched from the chair and made to bung my head out the window for some of the fresh stuff, but a treacherous foot caught in the rug and landed me face-first in the chest of poor old Jenkins.

'I say!' said Andrew.

'Ah!' said Jenkins.

'Pfft!' said I, removing a button from my mouth.

'That's a nice way to react,' Andrew cried, 'launching yourself at my man!'

'I tripped!' I said, somewhat aghast at the unfairness of the accusation. I mean to say, here I was just getting accustomed to the very idea of this man-cum-valet thing, and already I was accused of trying to stir things up.

'I apologise, sir,' Jenkins said, looking mortified.

'Well,' I breathed. 'I think I have heard enough. I shall send you both autographed copies of the manuscript, I'm sure. Toodle-pip then.'

And before a reply could form itself on either pair of lips, I sloshed out.

--**--**--**--

A direct line for Wooster headquarters seemed out of the question, as I was rather in dire need of air, and so I opted for a morose meander through the streets in lieu of a taxi. My steps grew quicker after some minutes, and I gave rise to a hope that if I just went fast enough, perhaps I might leave my pursuing ponderings wrapped around a lamp post. However, it amounted to a lot of hopeless huffing.

With every fleeing step, insidiously insouciant images flitted across my eyes like dizzied bats. What I mean is, I could not help seeing a series of vignettes wherein my faithful personal gentleman smiled at me in a certain way, or tenderly ruffled my dishevelled mop, or in which I sat with legs draped across his. The thought of such pash-tendered proximity between the persons of self and stately manservant made me come over all faint, and as I approached Berkeley Mansions, I felt the largest lack of nerve that has ever taken control of me.

The walk to the door of number 6A had never been such a rummy ordeal. There were times when certain characters had lurked behind that door that gave me pause in my approach, but never before had I been faced with the prospect of concealing a no longer deniable yet highly undesirable flood of feeling for one of the flat's inhabitants. My legs nearly wiggled out from under me with every step, but I faltered along, one hand on the wall, until I reached that fateful portal. I swallowed deeply and reached for my key.

Jeeves opened the door with his usual sixth sense at my arrival, and I was nearly blasted away by a white-hot surge of emotion. His hair had never shone quite so brilliantly, and his suit had never been so starched and neatly pressed, I am sure of it. I felt quite convinced I was about to cross through the pearly gates into the care of an angel. The angel quickly noted Bertram’s less-than-steady state and took a shaking elbow in hand.

'You are still disturbed, sir,' Jeeves observed, guiding me through the door. He hung hat and whisked away whangee with the unthinking ease of long years of practice.

'As usual, Jeeves,' I said, trembling, 'you've hit the wing nut on the head.'

'I believe it is a nail, sir.'

'Oh, yes. Quite right, as always, Jeeves.'

'Thank you, sir.'

I toddled along to the bedroom in a daze, thinking I would have a lie-down and let the mental machinery continue whirling unhindered. Jeeves followed obediently into the inner sanctum.

‘Jeeves,’ I said.

‘Sir?’

‘I feel unwell. I think I shall spend some time in the horizontal. Wake me for dinner, if you would.’

‘Your suit, sir,’ Jeeves said plaintively.

‘Tchah to the suit, Jeeves. I could not possibly stand the tedium of removing it just now.’

Jeeves frowned and made to take his leave, then thought better of it. I steeled myself for an attack.

'If I might inquire, sir, did your session with the hypnotist not go well?’

‘No, Jeeves,’ I said, near to tears. ‘It bally well did not.’

Now, lest you think this Wooster is a regular waterworks, let me reassure you that this is not the case. After the emotional strain of alarming personal discoveries, coupled with the sight of an obviously unmoved object of affection glaring at self for trifling sartorial offences, I believe it was not unreasonable that the dam may have threatened to leak a few drops.

Jeeves’s normally impenetrable mask was also beginning to show some chinks, likely due to the great wound I had inflicted by suggesting to snooze in my waistcoat and trousers.

‘I am sorry to hear that you did not garner any relief, sir. Perhaps some rest and reflection is the wisest course of action at this point. But if I may suggest, sir, the suit is hardly fitting attire- ’

'Tut, Jeeves,' I said with firm but trembling mouth. 'No more about the suit. It is hardly a matter of importance in the greater scheme of things.'

'Sir,' Jeeves persisted. 'One’s suit is always a matter of importance.'

I envied him his blissful ignorance and dropped resentfully to the mattress, burying my face in a pillow.

'I shall see you at dinner, Jeeves,' I emitted stonily from the depths of the feather-fill.

‘Very well, sir. Until dinner then,’ Jeeves said quietly, but with promise of unfinished business, and he trickled out.

--**--**--**--

I awoke in a darkened room with something tickling my nose. Jeeves had obviously come back in and drawn the curtains, for it was now so black I could scarcely tell the shape from the shadow.

‘Sir,’ the shape whispered from my bedside.

‘Ah!’ I said, leaping clean off the mattress. Jeeves had been bending over me, and I understood of a moment that it was his breath that had tickled my beak. You will understand, if, given the recent changes in Bertram’s most personal thoughts, this gave me rather a fright.

‘Jeeves!’ I said, unnerved by the darkness and his closeness, and the fizzing reaction that resulted from their unfamiliar mixture.

‘I am sorry, sir. I had not meant to startle you. I only wished to wake you, as it is the dinner hour.’

‘Oh. Right. Just so,’ I said, uncrumpling and making to stand.

‘Sir,’ Jeeves said.

‘Yes, Jeeves?’

‘If it is not too much, sir, might I ask what transpired during your session with the hypnotist?'

'Er,' I said. 'He made a lot of funny business with a piece of chalk on a string, asked me some trifling questions, and left me in just as sorry a state as before.' I purposely neglected to mention other, perhaps more pivotal, pieces of the story. Jeeves was an unknown variable in the equation, and I could not risk presenting too much data at once.

'He did not,' Jeeves continued, 'ask you about what it is that disturbs you, sir?'

'Well, yes, Jeeves. I told him about Andrew and the whole business.'

'Did he ask if you had any thoughts as to why it disturbed you, sir?'

'No, not as such.'

'What did he ask, then, sir?'

'He- well....' I was suddenly very glad for the dark and the way it conveniently concealed the flush of my face. 'He asked if I were a homo- whatsit.'

'A homosexual, sir?'

'Yes. Yes, just so, Jeeves.'

'And are you, sir?'

The bluntness of the question shocked me, as if Jeeves had pulled a brick in a sock from behind his back and dosed me one on the mouth. I made a noise like a duck being stepped on.

'Sir?'

'I- I don't know, Jeeves,' I whispered in something approaching horror. 'I'm horribly, terrifyingly confused.'

Jeeves made a small, sympathetic noise in his throat. 'What confuses you, sir?'

'Why, I don't know, Jeeves. I think I'm confused about that, too.' I gave a great sobbing laugh.

'I fear I am taking far too great a liberty, sir,' Jeeves said with the sort of gentleness reserved for handling eggshells and ephemeral summer blossoms. A silence stretched out in the nothingness between us.

‘Go on,’ I said eventually.

‘Sir,’ Jeeves said. ‘I... I believe you may find yourself confused in your feelings toward me.'

'Er. Well.'

'If you were to conjecture as to the nature of that confusion, sir….'

'Eh?'

'How do you... feel... toward me, sir?'

‘I... well.’ There was nothing for it but honesty. ‘Sort of warm and fuzzy, I suppose, Jeeves, like finding a kitten underneath the tree at Christmas.'

I don’t know how it was possible, but I could hear Jeeves smile. Possibly things that so greatly knock the natural order for a loop do make a noise in the dark.

'I- I don't really understand any of this, Jeeves,' I confessed. 'I feel very unstable.'

'Perhaps... you might explore your feelings, sir, to understand their true nature.'

'E-explore, Jeeves?' I stammered.

'Yes, sir. You might... do as you wish... to me... if you wish.'

We stared blindly at each other in the blackness, like two dumbfounded bulls that had been circling for years and only just realised there was a bit more to it.

‘Oh. Ah. Er,’ I said.

I touched a tentative finger to the lapel of his coat, feeling its smooth weave yield under my touch.

The telephone rang and I started, dropping my hand.

Jeeves, full of the feudal even in the thick of it, biffed out to answer the call.

I sat in the dark for a few moments, hearing the soothing timbre of his voice vibrate the air, and I commanded the beating heart to still. I had played at the passions with no unrespectable number of girls, but there was no denying this was an entirely different game. I was terrified to the marrow of my bones. Even if I weren’t juggling sticks of fire by seducing my valet - a well-respected man some notable number of years my senior - this was Jeeves: the paragon of intellect, the bringer of sweetness and light, the hero to half the civilised world, and the finest man to ever wear the tails! What in heaven’s name had possessed me to permit this madness?

‘Sir,’ Jeeves said, returning to the darkness and interrupting my rapidly decaying flow of thought. ‘It was Mr. Daily who rang. He wishes to lunch with you on Friday at three o’clock, and says to inform you that there are no hard feelings, and he understands completely.’

‘Oh,’ I said weakly.

'Sir, I- '

'Jeeves.'

'If you- '

'Er. Well. I mean, that is...'

Jeeves, recognising the dead end we were rapidly approaching, defaulted to his normal manner.

‘Allow me to prepare you a drink, sir.’

‘Oh. Rather. Thank you, Jeeves,' I said, relieved to be back in familiar waters. 'You’ll no doubt need one as well.’

‘No doubt, sir. Thank you.’

--**--**--**--

When we were installed securely in the brightness of the sitting room, drinks in hand, I felt much restored. I sat on the sofa, Jeeves parked in a corner of the loveseat.

I chanced a look at his face. Beyond a rosy glow where there was normally funereal pallour, it remained firmly entombed in its mask. But then an errant eyebrow quirked, and I became aware of the struggle beneath the smooth surface.

'Jeeves, I- would you come... closer?' I ventured.

He opened his mouth, but no words of intellect offering themselves up, he simply stepped over and sat beside me on the sofa. Our knees barely brushed as we continued our sipping in silence.

'Jeeves,' I said again, after a sufficiently somnolent passage of time.

'Sir?'

'I.. er. Well. I am filled near the brink with feelings, but I confess I haven't the slightest idea what to do about them.'

Jeeves looked down at our companioned feet on the floor, conflicting emotion ripe on his map.

'Oh,' he said. 'Oh, sir.'

'You- well...' I whispered, heart pounding. 'You might….'

This was the final cue. He took my drink and set both on the occasional table, then turned to me. Our eyes met for one fateful second, and then he leaned forward and softly touched his mouth to mine. In a sudden, shocking blast, I was reminded of an experiment of some years ago, in which I poked a bit of wire into an electrical socket, and thus it was with some surprise that I found myself not blown across the room when our lips parted.

Jeeves began to speak, but I placed two fingers upon his mouth. There was just one thing I wanted to make perfectly clear.

'Jeeves,' I said softly.

'Sir?'

'This whole eloping business...'

'Yes, sir?'

'Well, it's rather all right with me.'

And all was, as they say, sealed with a k.

Fin