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“Dreadful luck for Bingham.” The older man – one Andrew Marse - indicated the member mentioned.
Jeeves permitted a mild frown. “I hadn’t heard.”
The man named did, now that Jeeves took note, look rather below the standards expected within the Junior Ganymede. Rather below the water as well, to use the vulgar term. Given the bottle before the man, and the diligence with which he was applying himself, the sinking would evidently continue at some rapid pace.
“Well, I don’t suppose it’s in the papers yet but?”
But it went without comment that the membership would be informed first of any … relevant… events in an employers career. That was the chief advantage – even beyond the peerless reputation and valued companionship – of holding membership in the Junior Ganymede.
“His employer… Mr. Heffington?“ A white eyebrow arched easily on the older man’s face.
Again, it was only a question pro-forma. Jeeves knew all the employers of all the membership via the club book. Even so, Jeeves felt his ears pick up. In this instance he also knew the man by way of a slight acquaintance with his own employer. The two men – Charles Huffington and Bertram Wooster – could not be called close. Huffington habituated the Puffin Club, while Wooster kept membership in the Drones. Still, one might easily allow that they ran in the same circles.
“The man was arrested last night for indecency.” After a pause, the word was repeated meaningfully. “Indecency.”
“Good lord.” Jeeves felt himself stagger, feeling the words as a blow. “Pardon my language.”
“No need.” Marse waited a moment, allowing Jeeves to center himself. “I quite understand.”
“He’s not…” Jeeves glanced back at their unfortunate fellow member.
“No. Bingham’s quite in the clear.” Legally, at any rate, the tone implied. It was understood that socially? Professionally? The man had good reason to seek refuge in the friendly arms of whiskey. He would find few others. “Mr. Heffington was arrested at … they call it a dancing club. The Black Cat.”
Again, a name with which Jeeves had some distant acquaintance – and this time not though the club book.
“Still, he’ll not be finding a place again soon.” The man sighed deeply. “I had warned him months ago, when I first caught the rumors, but he would not believe me. Now look at him.”
Jeeves gave a slight bow, accepting that word of general judgment. “A good reason to be most careful about the sort of man one accepts as one’s employer.”
“Well said, Mr. Jeeves!” A second of the senior membership joined the conversation. “Not that you have anything to fear from your gentleman, now would you?”
“Not in the slightest, Mr. Wallace. Rather too often engaged inappropriately than inappropriately engaged.”
“Still? He is pressing thirty, is he not? No longer a young man. And with no wife in residence?” Marse reclaimed the conversation. “In these times a valet can never be too careful. To quote the old saw, gossip is more destructive than fire.”
Like fire, Jeeves concluded mentally, a dangerous servant but a disastrous master.
~!@!~
“Early shopping, Mr. Jeeves?” The white-aproned woman smiled as she set the fresh raisin buns into their display shelf.
Indeed it was, with the first gray edge of dawn chasing the moon away from the square. Café tables were still stacked inside the bakery, and only the first loafs had made their way from the oven to the cooling shelves. In the back the baker and his assistants bustled about, elbow deep in the batter destined to become tea cakes and deserts.
“A larger than expected breakfast.” Reginald Jeeves returned the greeting. His free hand pointed out two of the just-frosted sweet rolls. “Mr. Wooster attended the theatre last night and?” He let the faintest edge of a smile crease one corner of his lip. “Miss Merritt is quite the charming ingénue.”
The baker’s hand went to her own mouth. “You don’t say.”
“Of course not.” Jeeves made his back as stiff as his voice. “I would never carry tales about my employer.”
Nodding her approbation. The woman went back to boxing the pastries. “Quite proper, Mr. Jeeves.”
~!@!~
“Ah. Mrs. Loveystock.” Jeeves greeted the flower peddler, who in the thin light of dawn stood arranging her stock basket. “Might you have a dozen roses?”
“Roses, eh? She squinted over her armload of fern.
“Red, if you please. Or pink.”
“Not wearing that, I’d wager.” Turning, she sorted though the barrow cart laden with fresh blooms. This early they still wagged on long stocks, not yet trimmed for table arrangements or gentlemen’s boutonnières. “You walking out with a lady friend?”
“For my employer.” Jeeves glare would have stifled a dowager.
“Oh! A LADY lady.” The old Cockney was built of sterner stuff. “Not come full day and he sends you for roses? Lad’s been lucky.”
He took the wrapped roses gingerly, holding the dripping leaves well away from his spotless vest. “It is not my place to comment. Nor yours.”
Her answer was a gin-dry laugh. “Mum as the grave, that’s me.”
~!@!~
“Mr. Trent?” Jeeves paused at the open door of the tailor shop. Inside, the thin-fingered man was busy pulling bolts of cloth from under the counter. Behind him a gap-toothed lad in his teens was arranging the fabric in a display rack.
“Not yet open, but?” The man – evidently Trent - raised an eyebrow in query.
“If I might check your … other stock?”
“Please yourself.” Trent stepped aside, letting Jeeves approach a trio of hanging rods just visible in the rear of the store, tucked between the changing rooms and the stock closet as if they – unlike the better stock – blushed to face the revealing light of day.
Working in an alley off Berkley square, the tailor also carried a stock of gently used clothing. He did a brisk business with the servants and on occasion an indirect one with their employers. Sometimes the shop served as a purchaser of no-longer-fashionable (or now-too-tight) garments gifted to servants from their expanding masters. Sometimes the servants purchased the same garb – suitably retailored or redyed – for their own livery. And sometimes? Sometimes there was a third requirement, which Jakob Trent filled with quiet complacency.
Jeeves quickly picked a pink floral-print day dress from the rack. “This? On Mr. Wooster’s account.”
The dress was just as swiftly wrapped in anonymous brown paper.
“Plus a bag for her evening gown.” Trent produced a green bad with white cord handles - the sort of cheerful yet unmemorable bag used by shops to vend anything from hats to haberdashery.
Jeeves accepted the package. “I’d rather not say.”
The tailor smiled knowingly. “No need to, Mr. Jeeves.”
~!@!~
“Morning Mr. Jeeves. Need some help?” The night porter held open the door. His sharp eyes took in the flowers, the pink bakers box, and the all-too-innocent bag trapped under the valet’s left arm.
Jeeves checked over both shoulders before resting his burdens onto the package table. “You might take a brief stroll while… no one leaves the building.”
The man’s smile grew teeth. “No one is it?”
Jeeves produced a coin. “No one.”
“Now you mention it, Mr. Jeeves, I am feeling the need for a brief constitutional. You’d not mind holding the keys while I step out?” He tossed his livery hat cheerfully before setting in onto his lank curls. “Just to be a sport?”
Jeeves locked the door as the other man stepped though. “Not in the least.”
~!@!~
Ten minutes later the doorman strolled up with comical nonchalance.
The packages were gone.
Jeeves was in the doorway, watching one of London’s innumerable black cabs as it turned the far corner. From his posture it was most evident that this particular cab - and more specifically its departure - had earned his earnest attention.
“Quite the sheik, Mr. Wooster is.” The porter chuckled, low and dirty. “Girls overnight. A man could get a name.”
“As could a porter who slacked in his duties. Or one who spread stories about the tenants he serves.” Jeeve’s tone would have rivaled a panto schoolmaster for it’s warning edge. “I would remind you that you saw no… female visitor.”
“Right ho. Didn’t see a thing.”
Jeeves nodded approvingly. “I know I can trust your discretion.”
“They’ll never hear a word of it from me.”
~!@!~
“Good morning Reggie.” Bertram Wilberforce Wooster smiled at the vision of his man glowing in the morning light. “I’d wondered where you’d scampered off to so early.”
“Necessary errands,” Jeeves answered softly. Sitting on the bed, he passed over the heavy tray. Fresh tea nestled between roses and pastries, the both spread on a fresh cloth of pink-flowered voile.
“For me?” Bertie’s smile was brighter than the morning.
“Always, Bertram.” Jeeves thought back on the tasks of the morning, both those his young lover knew of and those he never would. Leaning down, he placed a tender kiss on the rumpled blond curls. “Everything I do, it’s always for you.”
While love remains this is never THE END. ☺
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©KKR 2013