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“Thank you so much for helping me with this, Bertie.”
I shuddered internally as I heard those fateful words as Mrs. Little was departing. I had been in the kitchen for the majority of her brief visit, as I thought it unnecessary to attend to them (and thus subtly prevent anything from being set in motion). Mr. Wooster’s family, friends and acquaintances often pressed him for money or favours, but aside from the circumstances that had lead to her becoming Mrs. Little, she had never asked for anything beyond what you would ask any friend. I had thought it advisable then to continue preparing supper, as I had judged the dangers of a burnt roast were more pressing than the dangers of chicanery. Clearly I had been wrong.
Deciding that I would have to review my assessment of Mrs. Little’s trustworthiness at a later date, I steeled myself and entered the living room.
“Ah, Jeeves! You just missed Rosie. Poor thing, she was in quite a state, and I’m sure she would have appreciated your wise presence even if you could not assist her out of this particular soup.”
“Indeed, sir? If I may take a liberty, sir, what is the situation with which I could not provide assistance?”
“Take away, Jeeves”, I must have slightly raised an eyebrow at that, as he continued, “Liberties, that is. Take as many liberties as you like.” I was drawing in a breath to give what my master calls ‘an ovine-inspired cough’, when he continued, clearly sensing what I was about to ask.
“Well it’s like this, Jeeves. Rosie got a new publisher recently, and from what I can figure from Bingo spending habits at the club, it came with a hefty raise. Well, I have just found out how from the horse’s mouth—she is pretending to be a man!” At this, I despaired. I had of course known that she had switched publisher’s, but this new piece of news made me groan internally. I could already see how this farce would spool out and cursed Mrs. Little for her uncharacteristic lack of good sense. Mr. Wooster would be a terrible choice to impersonate her, as evidenced by the last time he had done it.
“Apparently, she just mails in the pages when they are due, and if they require something to be picked up in person, she just picks them up herself “on behalf of her husband”. The only time Bingo had to go himself and actually pretend to be her was when they signed the contract, and even then, she tagged along and claimed it because she was keen to see the big moment. Of course, this plan makes her seem like the most overbearing and overeager kind of beazel, but overall a bang up scheme.”
This, I admitted privately, was a plan which did much to restore my faith in Mrs. Little’s good sense. It was simple; it was based on her previous knowledge of the publishing industry, namely that they rarely required the author to do anything in person; and finally, Mr. Little, who like all of my master’s friends could introduce an element of chaos into any plan, would be sufficiently motivated by the considerable pay increase to see the plan through.
“The problem is that the baby, the littlest Little as it were, has had an ear infection for the past two weeks and so Rosie is far behind on her pages. I said she should ask for an extension, explain about the extenu-whatsit circumstances, but she said that she couldn’t as men don’t stop working just because their baby is sick, as that is what a wife is for.”
“I said that if that is what a wife is for, I’m well-shot of them, as I have no babies for her to take care of. Anywho, she has asked if I could write 20 pages for her in the next two days. Her sister has come up from Kent to take care of the baby and tidy up the house while she catches up.”
“Sir, while I do understand her predicament, wouldn’t passing someone else's work off as her own be morally questionable?”
“Code of the Woosters, old thing, never let a pal down.”I swallowed my further protests, knowing it was futile to argue against The Code in this circumstance.
That said, of all the schemes that Mr. Wooster has been involved in, this was certainly one of the tamer ones and any negative repercussions would not fall on him. In fact, two days of staying in the house and writing would probably be good for my master, who had been desultorily flitting from home to his club for the past three weeks. He was clearly in the grips of his habitual hibernal ennui and having something to turn his mind to would hopefully rouse his spirits. Alternatively, should he find the task arduous, he would relish the return to his entirely empty days later this week and would cease lounging in the lounge and signing heavily in order to request another brandy-and-soda. Seeing no reason to derail the scheme and, indeed, seeing several reasons to allow it to continue, I set up his typewriter and encouraged him to begin.
Some hours later, Mr. Wooster emerged from the other room looking worn and defeated. Knowing that it was often more effective if I created the conditions for him to speak his mind rather than asking him directly, I silently poured him a brandy-and-soda and set it by his elbow.
My efforts were immediately rewarded.
“I’m starting to have doubts about the viability of this plan, Jeeves.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“I don’t know if I even have the ability to crank out romantic schlock. Now don’t get me wrong,” he said as he thumped a thick sheaf of paper on the coffee table, “Wooster, B.W. can hit a word count, but even I can tell that this is hardly up to snuff for a romance novelist, especially one as prolific as Rosie M. Banks.”
Some might be surprised to find out that he was apparently able to work under such a quick turn-around time, but in fact his ability to “crank out”, as it were, dozens of pages a day was part of why he had been initially hired by a publishing house. He would neglect to write anything longer than a telegraph for weeks on end, but would occasionally fall into fits of near mania and would write several of his short stories at a time, saving them up and doling them out to his editor as needed. Watching him work on his novels, however, was far more painful, as he seemed capable of completing something only at the very last second, with him frequently having to ask for extensions or staying up all night to finish on time. This, needless to say, was why he had published many more short stories compared to novels.
“If I may, sir, in what way is it...not up to snuff as you said?”
“Well...” He trailed off before he even began, rubbing his neck with chagrin, “I’m not sure I can say, it’s not exactly preux.” I resisted comment, and he soon felt obligated to continue.
“It's the kissing!” He continued in a rush. “I have no idea how to write it!”
Mr. Wooster had turned distinctly pink around the edges, whereas I was beginning to wonder if I was about to bring to fruition a situation that I had been pondering for over two years.
“Sir, if I may be so bold, surely you have...some experience in these matters to draw from.”
“If you are trying to inquire in your,” here he waved his hand vaguely, “Jeevesian-way if I’ve kissed before, the answer is obviously yes. A fact that you well know, as I’ve had occasion to do so in front of you.” At this, I allowed myself a visible sign of displeasure, knowing that he would attribute the expression to a distaste for affectionate displays in public and not my jealous (and truthfully, envious) nature.
“Don’t look like that, Jeeves. I told you it wasn’t preux.” I re-schooled my expression and he continued. “Well, as I said, I’ve kissed before, but it was the wrong kind for this kind of thing.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“This story of Rosie’s is told from the perspective of the female of the sex, whereas I, obviously am not.” Here, again, I resisted the urge to comment. “Having read some of her work before while I was trying to impersonate her, I can tell you that young ladies are clearly keener on kissing than men. I chalk this up to being kissed as opposed to having to do the kissing, as it were.”
This was what Mr. Wooster would describe as ‘a hot tamale’ of a tidbit, but I refrained from letting him find out he had just revealed far more than he likely knew. Instead I simply responded with:
“Indeed, sir?”
“Indeed, indeed Jeeves. The women in novels are always sighing and swooning after a passionate embrace, but I practically shudder at the thought of a labial press.”
“Quite right, sir.”
“But, again I attribute this to the fact that unlike me, who has to go around doing the kissing, they just have to be kissed, which must be much more relaxing. You can properly let yourself go under those circumstances. I’ve never felt faint after kissing a girl- though I have on occasion felt woozy- but even if I did, what good would it do me? I would fall over and crush my scene partner, unless it was Honouria, in which case she would probably pick me up and hurl me into the nearest lake.” I had been slowly approaching Mr. Wooster as he rambled on. Once I was close to his seat, he sprung up and lurched towards the bar. “Even with Honouria, it would hardly be sporting to expect her to catch me (that is certainly not behaviour of someone who’s relations fought at the Battle of Hastings). Whereas if I was being embraced by a pair of strong-yet-tender arms, I could swoon and faint as much as I liked and when I regained myself I would find myself safe and sound in said s.-yet-t. arms. That is clearly quite a topping position to be in.” I was grateful that he took this opportunity to belt back two-fingers of whiskey as it meant I could react this revelation without fear of Mr. Wooster’s surprisingly penetrating gaze judging my expression.
Once he had replaced his drink on the sidebar, I had adopted a slightly modified version of my ‘stuffed-frog’ expression and said: “Actually, sir, I would hesitate to describe what you just described as a topping position.”
“Well Jeeves, however you would describe the position I just described, it gets me no closer to describing the position that I need to be describing.” He paused. “I say—that is to say, none of this has gotten me any closer to actually helping Rosie with her novel.” Not letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would', I crossed the room and stood a few paces away from him.
“If I may offer my assistance, sir, perhaps I might take the proverbial man's role?”
“Erm, what, Jeeves?” He replied.
“I could stand-in for Mrs. Little’s Duke of Hollingsworth,’ I said, taking another step closer so that he would have to tilt his head to meet my eyes, “and you could be the heroine.”
“Oh’, he continued breathlessly, “and then we could act out what I think the love plot should do, and after I could just type up what I experienced!” He was beaming up at me in the way he always did when I revealed my solution to one of his problems. I was starting to wonder if I had been missing something rather obvious for years. I decided to gloss over the startling implications of this by saying simply: “Very good, sir.” And gathering him into my arms, I kissed him.
~~~~~~
I honestly don’t know what I was expecting when I agreed to this ‘kissing-Jeeves’ wheeze. Not really much of anything, as we hadn’t discussed it very much before he pulled me into his aforementioned s.-y.-t. a.s. I had just a moment to marvel at his willingness to go above and beyond before my brain started dribbling out of my ears. I had never before speculated as to the cause of the well-documented feminine swooning experienced by so many, but now I’m dashed certain that it’s due to all your grey matter being reduced to so much ambrosial goo (not that I had all that much grey matter to begin with). I had never felt anything comparable while with the fillies and I suddenly understood why they would always be dragging me off to secluded bowers two weeks into our engagements.
Jeeves had put one hand on my waist to support me, the other was un-arranging the hair that he himself had so efficiently arranged that very morning. When we had started, there had been several inches between us, but he had since brought me closer. We were close enough in size that our mouths were basically on the same level. This meant that everything else lined up as well, of course, and after a few minutes I started to suspect that actually we were not that alike in, erhm, size, as I had thought.
I felt one of his legs shift and come between mine. I pushed forwards slightly, but then suddenly leaped back as if I had been burned. If I didn’t stop immediately, I would embarrass myself by doing something unbecoming of the young master. Jeeves had agreed to kissing me to help a friend in need, but thrushing one’s hips into one’s valet certainly fell outside of the purview of kissing. Jeeves’s feudal spirit, though seemingly boundless, definitely did have limits and I certainly didn’t want to push him past them.
Jeeves looked back at me with what would be his traditional stuffed frog had his lips not been decidedly pink and puffy.
“Is something the matter, sir?”
“While I do appreciate you rallying round to the aid of the party, my good man, I fear that we were about to stray from the point of the exercise, and I should probably go type this up while it is still fresh,” I said. I made as if to go, but he gently reeled me back in, like so many doomed fish.
Now, what I am about to say may seem impossible to some, but I was there and I would swear to it in court: Jeeves smirked. I felt a small thrill akin to danger run up my spine. “Sir, the exercise is just beginning.” He pivoted around me, so that he could unbutton my collar as he continued kissing me, this time the side of my neck. “Has sir read any of Ms. Banks’s novels since the occasion of her marriage?” Feeling that words were once again beyond me, as I was having grade-A steam being poured into my ear, I shook my head. “While it is true that in her earlier works, knowledge of osculation would have been sufficient, her more recent work has been decidedly French.” I stared at him in astonishment. “You mean... there are tongues?!” The smirk widened into an all-knowing smile. “In a variety of places.”
Well. The mind boggled. Clearly I was remiss in my education and I would have made an ass of myself had I tried to turn in my pages without having Jeeves’s up-to-the-minute understanding of the Rosie M. Banks oeuvre.
Still, I felt I would be remiss if I didn’t make one more attempt to let cooler heads prevail.
“I wouldn’t want to be taking a liberty, Jeeves...”
“Go on, Bertram, take as many liberties as you like.”
I felt a sudden kinship with those San Francisco chappies in ‘06. That is to say, the earth moved. Luckily, I knew exactly what to do to remedy the situation.
“Jeeves—that is to say, Reg,” here I looked up and saw him give the barest smile that somehow conveyed the greatest warmth, “I place myself entirely in your hands.”
“Very good, sir.”
And that, dear reader, is the story of how Jeeves and I became more than master and man (though I will hope you will forgive me if I say that that mastery still definitely comes into play, if you take my meaning). In fact, Jeeves saw to it that my education in these matters was so thoroughly brought up to date that I in fact did not have time to actually write up anything that he was showing me. Still, Rosie was happy in the end...
“Bertie, you are a life-saver! Or, at least a career-saver! My publisher didn’t like your pages at all, said that it was borderline illegible, so it wasn’t hard to convince him to substitute in my actual chapter,” she said.
“What do you mean, your actual chapter? I thought the whole point of this was that you didn’t have an actual chapter?!”
“Bertie darling, I’m not a plagiarist! I was never going to let them print your words as mine.’ She explained, rather condescendingly for a beazel that I had just hauled out of the consommé. “You know editors are always more generous giving you time for re-writes than they are for first drafts. I gave them your pages to stall them, then hastily wrote up what I had intended to write in the first place.”
I briefly considered puffing up my chest in regards to that ‘didn’t-like-my-work-at-all’ comment, and using my hard work as disposable (I’m not a journalist, after all!) but thought better of it. Jeeves, I think, noted my discretion, and looked at me in a way that promised a reward later. “Yes’, I thought, “much better to keep a stiff upper lip, hey what!”
“No problem, old sport!” I was shaking her hand and ushering her towards the door, as Jeeves’s glance had stirred my blood. “Jeeves and I would be happy to help if you ever need it again. Once we started, I found I had more ideas than I could use!” And with that, Jeeves silently guided Rosie out the door.
A few minutes later, while having myself pressed against that self-same door, I spoke up (before Jeeves had progressed too far in using some of those splendid new ideas that I had mentioned earlier) about something Rosie had said.
“Borderline illegible? I mean, really, Reg.” Despite Jeeves’s clever fingers unbuttoning my jacket and waistcoat, I was still on the verge of pouting.
“I can explain, si- Bertram. As you know, I have always edited your works prior to them being sent to your editors, and corrected any mistakes or omissions I find there. However, on this occasion, due to other, various... activities, I was not able to edit back in the sentences you forgot to include while typing.”
“Damn, I knew I forgot something!”
“Indeed. In point of fact, you forgot several sentences and a whole paragraph.”
Even though I was bare from the waist up by that point, (Jeeves is so bally marvelous he can undress me when carrying on a normal conversation!), I flushed hotly across my face and neck (only some of which could be put down to the aforementioned undressing). I bravely soldiered on, shelving my embarrassment for later and resolving to have a long frank discussion with my editor.
“Well, you have done it again, Reg, and fished another one of our friends out of the soup. Is there anything I can do to reward you? Any awful hats to be disposed of, or a hideous handkerchief you would like to burn?”
“You could begin to pay me back by removing your pants” I was about to protest that he himself had selected these pants when I suddenly caught his drift.
I smiled at him, and one could almost hear the proverbial nightingale singing over Berkeley Square as we drew even closer together.