Chapter Text
What’s that saying about groundhogs and the ground on which they hog? Matter of fact, what even is a groundhog? I can’t recall ever seeing one in my whole life, but my American chums toss that phrase around like a rugby ball on fire.
Anyway, I had a point about the groundhogs. It was related to Jeeves, so maybe I should simply jump in there. Yes, I shall do that, I much prefer Jeeves to some random yankee animals.
Jeeves is constantly solving the problems of yours truly and my bosom friends, whether it’s tricking a greasy bird or breaking and entering in the pursuit of silverware. There is hardly anything the man can’t do, besides open his mind to a few colourful checks.
It was on the evening of another fine success that I began wondering: is Jeeves adequately thanked? I’ve probably chucked over a right packet to him in our time, but it dawned on me that money was somewhat impersonal. What I really wanted was for Jeeves to feel my hearty appreciation for his being in my life, white mess jackets be damned.
“Jeeves, have you anything in the calendar for tonight?” I asked him as he dusted the ivory keys.
“No, sir. I planned to spend the evening with an enlightening book.”
“Jolly-good, you can come with me then!”
“Sir?”
Now, Jeeves may have the mastery on the psychology of the individual, but I have the psychology of Jeeves. If he found out the young master had spent hours hunting for tickets to something he’d genuinely enjoy, the whole bally scheme would come crashing down on me. I knew he’d never just accept this gift, not without a feudal stick-in-the-mud, so this Wooster employed a little touch of finesse, to take the word of my good man.
“Florence dumped these concert tickets on me, something with Golden Variations or what, and I really don’t fancy going alone, you know.”
The end of his eyebrow twitched ever so slightly.
“Indeed, sir?”
“Indeed, indeed. You really must come with, in case old Florence pops out of the wind section and attempts to engage with more than the Bach, if you follow.”
I watched him carefully, the sculpted face unmoving, but that was enough to tell me he had already made up his mind. If Jeeves didn’t want to go, he would already be out of the room and abandoning me to my fate. He makes a habit of that, you’ll find: mysteriously and silently disappearing.
“It would be an honour to accompany you, sir.”
Attempting to maintain my oh-so casual demeanour, I let a grin slip out. I felt a bit like a secret agent, except my undercover operation was breaking past the Jeevesian sang froid and seeing the paragon happy. A more worthwhile job than whatever those chappies at MI5 do, in my opinion.
Despite never outright purring, I noted Jeeves’s pleased attitude all the way from picking my suit to plonking in our seats at the theatre. The music was spiffing, obviously. Top-notch, I dare say, but in reality I was only paying half-attention to it. The real spectacle was Jeeves, next to me, relishing in the grand symphonies.
The near darkness enabled me to stare at him unabashedly, memorising each plane and crinkle that formed his calm bliss. He has delicate lines that surface at the edge of his eyes when the corners of his lips flutter upwards. On his neck, which I really couldn’t help but examine, is a very faint brown freckle, or perhaps a birthmark. Throughout the long hours of the music, I watched it sometimes lift with his pulse. Only sometimes, but not never, not if you keep your eyes close on it. You’d be forgiven for mistaking him for a muse of the great Renaissance artists, what.
By the time I’d really considered what broad shoulders Jeeves had, the concert was winding down and we were on the move.
“Well, old thing, how did you like it?”
I prayed my estimations on his emotions were on target, otherwise I’d have to put myself on a Holmesian training regime, observations and what.
“It was splendid, sir. Thank you for the invitation.”
A lot of effort went into not laughing in delight.
“You know,” I began, trying to stay close to his arm while not whacking right into him as we strolled, “we ought to do this more often. I found myself much more transfixed tonight than usual.”
“Indeed, sir,” he nodded. “It was beautiful.”
“Quite right, my dear Jeeves. Simply beautiful.”
[]
That was that.
Or so I thought, for I believe it was Shakespeare who said that bit about fate sneaking up behind you, tying a blindfold around your map and shoving you off a cliff. Quite rotten, you see.
I am not one to count days, as you can probably tell, but I do know it was exactly eight later when fate’s blindfold came. I noted it in my diary as a perhaps unlucky day, and to avoid any possible fiancées in subsequent years. (You may suspect B. W. Wooster of dramatics. You’d be spot on, what. It ended quite nicely, but I must have some sort of hook here).
“What-ho, Jeeves!” I had just arrived home, handing over my hat and stick to the very fellow I was what-hoing.
“Good afternoon, sir. I trust your lunch went well.”
“Oh, my body has returned unmaimed, so I’d suggest Aunt A was feeling tolerant today. She didn’t even have any prospective matches for me, I suspect her daily dose of baby’s blood expired yesterday.”
Jeeves said nothing, which could have meant he sympathised whole-heartedly, or couldn’t give two figs; the way his hands lingered on my shoulder helping me with my coat, hopefully recommended the former.
“I say, old thing, my aunt – Dahlia, that is, not the hound we were just discussing – mentioned sending us a wire last time we were down at Brinkley, I don’t suppose that came, did it?”
“No, sir,” he replied, calmly as anything.
“Right-ho, never mind then.”
“There was only one visitor while you were out: Miss Craye, sir.”
Dash it all. The blighter gave nothing away – I suspect he revelled in catching me when the shields were down.
“Oh?” I aimed for a relaxed tone and landed somewhere south of sounding like a squeaky door hinge. “Whatever was Florence doing here? How odd. You don’t suppose her and Stilton have unravelled? That would be tragic… very tragic… really, very tragic… what.”
I kept my (no doubt red) face away from Jeeves, but I could sense his smug eyebrows.
“Miss Craye did not leave a message sir, but I do not believe she ended things with Mr Cheesewright.”
“...A cause for celebration, what!”
“She did, however, sir–”
Oh, bloody hell.
“–say something rather intriguing.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, sir. When I thanked Miss Craye for the concert tickets, she professed no knowledge of the matter at all.”
I could stay calm. I could stay collected. We Woosters are made of stern stuff.
“It obviously slipped her mind, don’t you know. Terribly strange how such things occur.”
You do understand my fears, don’t you? Jeeves is perfection incarnate, and that applies to his feudal spirit too. For his fatheaded employer to go beyond the regular rewards of dough and burning ties– well, it doesn’t seem something he’d approve of.
Mentally, I kissed goodbye to all future plans of memorising more than just Jeeves’s countenance and tender neck. Physically, I cowered like a curled up shred of wrapping paper.
But instead of denouncing me as a silly blighter and biffing off to the Viking hills, Jeeves raised his chin, wearing a look of pleasure, or at least not distress.
“The mind is a fickle thing, sir. ‘The advantage of a bad memory is that one enjoys several times the same good things for the first time.’”
“Who’s that? Thoreau?”
“Nietzsche, sir.”
There was a line spreading out before us. Crimson, thin as a tightrope, and awfully tempting. Treading lightly to it, it radiated the sensation of a warm bath.
“Perhaps…” I tentatively put forward, “Florence may forget that she has gifted us concert tickets again.”
“We would be obligated, sir, to enjoy the splendid music once more, for Miss Craye’s sake.”
Yes, the line was very tempting indeed, yet Jeeves wasn’t holding up a hand to stop me.
I smiled. “Yes, yes. We really must enjoy it once more.”