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I believe many of you will be familiar with my authoritative words on ‘What the Well-Dressed Man is Wearing’ for my Aunt Dahlia’s paper. You know, there was a rather nice bit about socks, which even Jeeves approved of with a gentle smile. He never agreed on that line about the soft silk shirts – still doesn’t, despite popular trends proving old Wooster right on this occasion – but on the whole the article was a definitive statement on how fashionable I was, and continue to be, of course.
I admit to certain lapses at times, as can most experts. I’m sure Holmes muddled cigar ash with pipe tobacco when deducing once in a while. What I mean to say is, when I declare that I maintain a particular knowledge on what a well-dressed man wears, I must be forgiven for the odd pair of spats or ill-coloured mess-jacket. If I didn’t rely on a valet with such an archaic view on menswear then I’m certain my endeavours would have scored much higher all around, but I am first and foremost a kept man, if that’s the word I want.
This is a vital preface to the story, though I never know how much of it to bung in, so my dear readers can comprehend my finer feelings when it comes to clothing. I have a certain reputation for bright checks and eye-catching ties, but when the invitation rolled in for Lady Wickham’s annual Christmas do, after having been black-listed for five years for reasons, said bright c. and eye-catching t. were the farthest things from my mind.
“You know, Jeeves,” I said, as I sat quaffing the whiskey and s. with which he had supplied me, “I’m overcome with a remarkable sense of tranquillity and goodwill.”
“Is that so, sir?” He barely glanced up from messing about with holly; he’s always a stickler for the right sort of decorations. I hadn’t yet worked him round to letting me purchase those new electric lights for the tree, to save all that candle wax, but a Wooster knows how to pick his battles. Agincourt, for example.
“It very much is, old thing. Part of me wants to avoid all movement for the whole month, just sequester myself in here with you— if you’d be amenable.”
“I fancy that could be arranged, sir.”
A sigh escaped me, a bit on the maudlin side, and I twirled the ice in my drink to distract from Jeeves’s finely chiselled form across the room.
“Lady Wickham would take it pretty big if I dodged her kind invitation, especially after that whole Tuppy Glossop and hot water bottle debacle.”
The corners of Jeeves lips quirked up, a sparkle in his eyes as he glanced at me. “And she has a direct line to your aunt, sir.”
“How right you are, and how frightening. No, these things have to be met head on, with a careless grin. I can survive one night down there, if I lock my guest-room door. It’s not for a week anyway, I can store up tranquillity and whatsit until then.”
“I presume, sir, you have a festive suit in mind. Perhaps the red and green cravat from last year?”
There was a certain lightness on his countenance, because we both knew very well that he burned that thing the moment it escaped my neck, but his teasing failed to rouse me this time round. Perhaps it was that tranquillity I mused on before.
“You know, Jeeves, I don’t really care.”
A pause. A pregnant pause, if you will. Jeeves put down the holly, and rested a hand upon the hearth, like he was bracing himself. “Pardon, sir?”
I downed the rest of my strengthening fluid. “I really don’t care about the raiments, actually. I mean, it shall have to be proper, if I’m to prove to Lady Wickham, and subsequently my aged a, that I’m in excellent shape, but I can simply pick through the back of my wardrobe the day of.”
Jeeves looked like he had opinions on that.
“You look like you have opinions on that, old thing,” I continued. “You can’t want me to wear something modern and all-the-rage, can you?”
You must understand that Jeeves is a bit of a traditionalist. Well, not a bit– he practically wrote the manual on manoeuvring your well-dressed-in-the-Oxford-crowds employer into classic bags and starched shirts. I sometimes wonder if his vision isn’t entirely in monochrome, but he is fond of the occasional blue twill; his gaze always lingers when I wear that, for reasons probably above me. I think he likes the cut of it.
The fellow shimmied away from the hearth and stopped in front of me, leaning down to lift the glass from my mitten and straighten out my collar all at once. So distracted was I by the brushing of his knuckles on my throat, the soft run of a fingertip on the collar close enough that I could tilt my neck ever so slightly and satisfy something, that I hardly even heard him talking to me.
“I do not wish to see you wear something modern and, as you say, all-the-rage, sir.”
“Hm? I mean– I thought not. Would be quite a change of heart.”
“Indeed.” He paused, lifting his hands away, selfishly I dare say. “May I take a liberty, sir?”
“You can take whatever you want.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He proceeded to take only my glass and disappear into the kitchen. I won’t deceive my public and say I didn’t sulk a little, but I’m accustomed to waiting for him. And I did not have to wait long this time, as he returned moments later with a new whiskey and soda for me, before fiddling with the holly at the hearth again.
We sat in silence for a short while. The room was warm, frost curled at the windows in the December air, and the sounds of Jeeves’s soft movements almost lulled me to sleep. It’s been a long, long time since I memorised each and every one of his sounds: the gentle pull of his jacket sleeve, the near-silent patter of a finger checking for dust, the click of his heel on the wood. Sometimes I exaggerate Jeeves’s quietness, and he does have a rather miraculous ability to appear behind me at any and all times, but I’ve spent many an hour like this, splayed out on the chesterfield with my attention absorbed by his every movement. I’m no longer surprised when he seemingly floats around – I simply know when he’s there.
“Jeeves,” I said, lemon against the back of the sofa and one eye open, “I’m befuddled. Bemused, even. What was the liberty?”
He oiled over, jacket brushing and heels soft, and lifted the whiskey from my half-asleep hand. “I haven’t taken it yet, sir.”
[]
As I carried on with my life as usual, I had rather the feeling you get when your close company is plotting something elaborate behind your back. I can hardly say I’m unfamiliar with this f. in relation to Jeeves, what with his habit of ladling me out of soups sans warning, but this was a distinctly different presentiment. Not so much a fiend with a hatchet, or a Guy Fawkes in the cellar; I hardly felt the need to thwart anything at all, even when Jeeves slipped from my close watch and disappeared into the night. Or, day really. But night sounds much more dramatic, doesn’t it?
The trouble with Jeeves is that, while he is capable of being much too sly for his own good, his smugness often takes centre stage. I knew that all was right with the world, in spite of Jeeves’s absences over the week, because he would cast indulgent smiles and lively quotations to me without cessation, all carrying that intoxicating arrogance that only he is capable of. I can’t remember quite how the line goes, but mine is a blind love and, so long as Jeeves is merry and bright, I can barely see anything but him.
It wasn’t until a warm December morning – the m. of the Wickham party, might I add – that I found out what the harvest was. Bleary-eyed and somewhat-conscious, I was making my way through a cup of tea and the newspaper in the snug embrace of my bed, when Jeeves voiced that distant mountain sheep cough of his.
“I’ll read out the crossword in a minute, old thing,” I said, in between sips. “I’m reading something about a new– or rather, antique silver thingamabobber, causing quite a big stir apparently. Any bets on when Aunt D will ask us to pinch it, what?”
To my surprise, he coughed again. “No, sir. I was merely attempting to inform you that I have prepared your suit for the evening.”
I lowered the newspaper, all agog, but no suit was in sight. Just Jeeves, hovering at the foot of my bed. “You have?”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Well, where is it? I’d like to know I won’t be attending Lady Wickham’s seat dressed like some sort of eighteenth-century vampire.”
Jeeves did not move, did not procure the goods. Instead, he shifted a touch in the shoulders and raised his chin. Very peculiar.
“Do you recall, sir, last week when I–”
“When you asked to take a liberty, yes,” I intervened, conscious of where this was headed. “I presume this is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I thought so.”
“Very good, sir. Your overnight case is packed, I would recommend we leave shortly after noon, sir.”
And thus, leaving me without a possession of the facts, Jeeves oiled out. He often does that, but this time I was far too dazed to resent it. When Jeeves takes a liberty, usually it is for some greater good, like convincing Doctor Glossop that I’m a loony to avoid holy matrimony with his daughter, or booking us cruise tickets before we need to flee from the dragon’s wrath. Whatever it was that he gained from withholding a suit I could hardly comprehend, and I continued to puzzle over it at breakfast, through the morning, during the drive down, and right up until we strolled into the decked halls of Skeldings.
“Bertie!”
A familiar voice cried out, as if the shockingly scarlet hair didn’t give away her identity already. Bobbie’s greeting was cordial – in fact, so cordial that Jeeves paused before biffing off upstairs with the case and shot me a sort of wise, grave look that warned me I better not wind up tangled in another one of her schemes. I nearly reddened at how easy it was to read said look.
“Hallo-allo-allo!” I turned my attention to Bobbie, “Merry Christmas and all that, old girl.”
“I expect you’ve brought me a brilliant present,” she said, smiling.
“Oh, I have found you something that you shall put to good use in many hijinks to come, when I’m not here. What about me?”
“What about you?”
“Am I to receive a wonderful Michaelmas present?”
“Bertie, this invite is your present.”
“Of course!”
You’re probably concerned about my seeming chumminess with old Roberta here. ‘Wooster!’ you shout, ‘be careful! She might snatch you up with a vice-like grip in an engagement!’ And while your nerves are touching, they are about as useless as Tuppy Glossop is as a window. Bobbie married my pal Kipper Herring, if you recall, and willingly too. I was even at the wedding, bedewed with persp. in case she decided to announce that she’d rather marry me instead, again.
“Florence Craye is here,” Bobbie dropped casually, ignoring how my head exploded next to her, “she seems a bit piqued at you– is it true you’re a kleptomaniac?”
There was a horrifying grin on her map. Bobbie, as a general rule of thumb, leans toward that bright, sunny look that gives the impression of always having some delightfully joyous thought running through her cerebellum, like a rainbow in the sky or a tray of shortbread within arm’s reach. This is, of course, utter tosh. Bobbie smiles so often because she’s near constantly plotting to ruin someone’s day with one of her frivolous jokes. I’m sure her victims number in the thousands now.
I ran a hand across my eyes. I won’t go so far as to say I was bewildered that the rumours had spread all the way to Skeldings, but I wasn’t perfectly wildered either. If Bobbie was bringing them up she had a damn reason, and the image of Jeeves’s knowing eyebrow raise flashed across my vision.
“Don’t tell your mother,” I settled on.
Bobbie let me slip away, with stern words that I must be back down in time for the party and to not mortify her in front of Lady Wickham like last time. I refrained from putting a finger on exactly who was to blame for that so-called last time, and slipped away upstairs to find Jeeves.
Which proved a rather simple task, considering he was unpacking the case in my assigned room. He’s so very reliable like that, don’t you know. My gloom lightened manifestly at the sight of him, even if this evening was shaping out to be a bit blue around the edges.
“Jeeves,” I cried, locking the door behind me, “I will eat my hat, old thing, if you can guess who’s in attendance this evening!”
“Is it Miss Craye, sir?”
“What? How did you know?” I boggled at the man. It never bodes well when Jeeves keeps secrets from the young master.
He gave me an apologetic look as I dropped down onto the bed, glancing up at him with moistish eyes. I suppose I resembled some sort of dying baby bird, because Jeeves’s chest deflated nearly imperceptibly, the breath silent.
“I am sorry to say that your hair is in disarray from the drive, sir. Allow me to fix it.”
Well, it wasn’t the answer I was expecting, but I did not argue – few of us can have such godlike command of our pomade-slicked hair. Jeeves settled in front of me, my feet tangled between his ankles for comfort, and he began a slow comb through my hair.
His fingertips were warm as they traced my hairline, thumb lightly brushing my temples; Jeeves always looks like he absorbs and radiates sunlight, even in winter. My stomach tightened and twisted, like I had just drank a brandy with less than equal soda, with a heat crawling along my cheeks. My knees parted and he drew closer, pressing between my legs with his always ramrod posture. I concentrated on not collapsing forward, not resting my head against his person, while he ran his hands through the wind-swept curls, threading each one to some semblance of tidiness.
After a moment of this quiet, Jeeves spoke. “I met Miss Craye’s lady’s maid on the landing, sir.”
I lowered my voice to match his, unsure if I was even capable of speech. “…Right-ho. You don’t– ah, you don’t expect me to chew on a bowler, do you?”
His palms swept over my crown, and he gave a short, quiet hum. “I can forgive this one, sir.”
I smiled, all soothed and distracted. “You’re very good to me. I’ve always wondered what the devil I’d do if you ever took the notion to leave.”
Muffled music began from under the carpet. The headlights of a car swam in the window, rising against the walls, the colour of honey, then snapped out. I stared at Jeeves’s shirt, and he continued to fix my hair.
Jeeves ran his hands down the sides of my face, tucking the hair behind my ears and brushing it off my brow, and finally stood back. “Perfect. Sir.”
While I don’t often doubt Jeeves’s opinion when it comes to appearances, I recognised a specious sentiment in his words. His face was framed with a certain something in the eye, a tension in the jaw. Another set of headlights rolled in, dipping Jeeves in a bright gold. I leaned back, supporting myself on my arms, and simply looked. Looked in a way I don’t often allow myself.
Shadows played upon his finely chiselled features, his tanned skin glowing in the light. His shirt crinkled a little with every breath. I hardly ever get to hear it, but I always know it's there; a bit like the tree in the forest. It felt as if everything else in the world had sort of just vanished, p’fft, and left us to our own. Jeeves was here, and so was I.
The headlights blinked off. Jeeves cleared his throat and spun on his heel, fishing the case from the dresser. It opened with two clicks, and it was as if a radio turned on, the sounds of the music downstairs and car doors outside and my own breathing and everything not Jeeves triumphing through the static.
Jeeves made the little gesture that indicates I should peel the old linen from the Wooster person, so I toed my shoes off and yanked my tie to the floor, fingers a touch too jittery to successfully unbutton my shirt. Contrary to what my sinister species of aunts think, I can in fact dress and undress myself – I don’t rely on Jeeves for the sake of relying on Jeeves, I wouldn’t exploit the poor man like that. Still, I wasn’t putting on a good show for it here. The way in which I fiddled with my shirt buttons and damn near ripped a few off was pretty incriminating.
By the time Jeeves completed his laying and smoothing out of the raiments, I was finally standing in my socks and undershirt, never so abashedly aware of this gentleman and gentleman’s personal gentleman ritual. I shuffled a sensitive foot and trembled like an aspen under Jeeves’s stare, like he was picking apart every inch of my person and stitching me back together to his design.
He began with the trousers. They were dark, practically cut from the midnight they were so black, and made of warm wool for the winter. Jeeves ran his hand down each leg, accentuating the crease and causing goosebumps to leap up on my skin in his trail. I didn’t even entertain the thought that I might’ve already owned these, not for a mo; something told me that, as the suit uncovered itself, my theory would only prevail.
The shirt was white, and crisp as an eggshell. Gold buttons glinted as Jeeves did them up, slowly. Tentatively. Like he didn’t want to reach the top. Ridiculous, of course, and likely the conclusion of my over-active, Jeeves-smitten grey cells. That being said, I think everything blew a fuse when he buttoned my collar, his knuckles brushing my throat when I swallowed, fingertips flattening the edges and meeting at my nape.
As extrapolated, if that’s the word I want, on before, Jeeves is a staunch traditionalist, but I admit to being particularly flustered when he lifted from the case, of all things, a bowtie.
“You want me to wear a bowtie.”
Jeeves’s smile was delicate, his gaze glued to the little piece of fabric in his hands between us. “I do, sir.”
I couldn’t help but let out an amused huff. “You are– I mean, it’s… I shall be quite overdressed.”
You know, he didn’t seem very affected by this. For whatever reason. “If I may say, sir, there is no such thing.”
I was much too convinced I was living through a reverie to argue anymore, and Jeeves lifted my collar to tie the bow, his brief grazes burrowing under my skin, pulling apart my muscles and settling into my bones. God knows when the last time I wore a proper bowtie was – the Drones club doesn’t often call for it, funnily enough. I didn’t wonder at Jeeves picking it out. It was very like him to do so, and it was very like me to want it.
He patted the bow gently once it was tied, as if daring it to fall out of line, and, somehow while I blinked, revealed a jewellery case in his hands. It opened with a creak, and two golden cufflinks glittered under my gaze.
My nausea swam. It was like air trapped outside my lungs, something misplaced. I glanced up at Jeeves, who busied himself with lifting the cufflinks out, chin turned to the floor.
“Cuffs please, sir.”
I did not object. In fact, I think I moved in a sort of blindness, too absorbed with the strange affair on Jeeves’s godlike features. He’s never afraid to stare a beast down, let alone his foolish young master, but there lingered a crease in the brow – the one he develops when he’s musing a particular prob. His mouth settled into a variant of the stuffed frog, and I listened to the bristling of my cuffs in his hands, waiting for the something he wanted to say .
Jeeves slid two fingers against my wrist, catching the cuff at the perfect length and aligning the buttonholes with thumb and forefinger. The first cufflink clicks into place, and he polishes it with his handkerchief while his fingertips still rest against my wrist, probably counting my erratic pulse. “I hope these are to your satisfaction, sir.”
I could hardly breathe, nor think of anything to say until he removed his hand from my cuff. “Well, of course they are,” I smiled. “You picked them out, didn’t you?”
The cufflink shone under Jeeves’s care. A long moment stretched out before he said anything.
“Yes, I did.”
It seems such a ridiculous liberty to take. In all of our time together, ordering me a new suit barely scratches the top twenty things I ought to have squashed under heel. As strong as the Wooster iron will is, in recent years I admit that I roll over on most of Jeeves’s demands, even if I put up the expected defiance at first. We do have our roles to play, of course.
The music rose through the floor like steam as more guests arrived, fogging up the gentle sound of Jeeves’s movements. Of course, I could still feel him as he smoothed my second cuff, the short vibration when the cufflink catches and locks into place, his fingers tightening around my wrist for a moment, and then nothing. I didn’t know you could even feel such a nothing, like my sensation of touch receded from its position when he let go.
He held me at arm’s length for scrutiny, eyes sharpening over my every edge and point. Judging by his tense jaw and odd flicker in the eyebrow, I must have been barely tolerable.
He stood behind me as I slid the jacket on – the same dark, warm wool as the trousers, God knows the pretty penny this cost – and lingered with his hands on my shoulders, flattening and ironing the last creases. It was easier, much easier, to keep him behind me; it gave me the necessary moment to marshal my thoughts and cower from his wolfish visage.
And that is what he looked like: I’ve always known the fellow was passionate about suits, but hearing his breathing – the shallowness and, when I rolled my shoulder, the catch – and feeling his fingers trail down the back of the jacket, I felt a bit like a rabbit in the wolf’s mouth.
“Do I meet your standards, old thing?”
Headlights filled the room again and, turning to face Jeeves, I was blinded by the brightness. Still, I stared at it, knowing Jeeves was in there somewhere without confronting the unfamiliar curl of his lip.
“Yes, sir,” he said. The headlights died. It was just Jeeves and I once again. “You do.”
He stepped closer, raised his hands, almost hesitating in the air around my neck, and tousled with my bowtie like it had insulted his mother to a rather personal degree.
“I think,” I leaned toward his ear, “that the bowtie is fine, you know.”
With a sharp breath, Jeeves pulled back, all strange expressions stamped over with a reliable and subtle smile. It wasn’t faux by any means (trust, I am chummy with his array of masks and facades), and it filled the room with a glow that the headlights could never replicate.
“You should join the company downstairs now, sir. I fancy that you are being missed already.”
I laughed, one of those exasperated and fleeting ones. “Sometimes, dear Jeeves, you miscalculate.”
“Perhaps, sir.”
[]
I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed it, but it’s rummy how nothing in this world ever seems to be absolutely perfect. The beauty of the thing was, you see, that Jeeves never fails with a suit, and gathering from the way Lady Wickham didn’t scowl at the sight of me, I must have looked suitably (hah!) gentleman-ish. However, the drawback to this otherwise singularly merry binge was, for reasons unbeknownst to me, I couldn’t seem to shake certain members of the brigade. I hadn’t set two feet through the festive doors before several birds perched on my person, so to speak. Apart from that there wasn’t a flaw.
Florence Craye was, indeed, in attendance. Herself, not a picture. At risk of bandying a good woman’s name, I wasn’t exactly overflowing with the Christmas spirit at the sight of her, and no amount of hiding behind the tree could put her off from conversation.
“I must say,” she said, glancing me up and down, “your dressing capabilities have improved remarkably since we last met.”
Having only just been left alone by incessant double-takes and not quite firing on all cylinders, I let out a shudder at the memory – you would too, if you recall that specific incident at Brinkley. “Ah, thank you, but I can’t take credit for it. This was all Jeeves!”
She gave me a chilling look. You know how Florence is: steeped to the gills in serious purpose. “If only you dressed like this more often, Bertie, instead of those… frivolous colours– perhaps there was something in what your aunt said.”
“What did my aunt say?”
“This and that, about your potential.” Florence reached out and straightened my bowtie, long nails scratching against the fabric. “Did you know I finished my next book?”
“Well well, congratulations! Is this the one about the…” I waved my hand, hoping to hook whatever it was I vaguely remembered her mentioning before the fuzz broke in, “about the chap?”
Her smile widened and hands moved from my bowtie to my lapels. “Bertie! You’ve read it?”
I absolutely hadn’t, obviously, but I vaguely remembered Jeeves mentioning it in passing. “Oh, well– what, I mean to say, I was getting round to it. I’ve been, uh, perusing other… materials.”
She eyed me narrowly. “Like what?”
“Stuff. Great stuff. Lots of stuff.”
“Like what?”
I blinked for a mo. “Poetry.”
This wasn’t even paltering the truth; Jeeves and I do read our fair share of poetry, we don’t just conjure those quotations on our own. Well, I don’t– I cannot comment on the mystery that is Jeeves.
Unfortunately, Florence lit up like tinsel on the tree. “You’re improving yourself! I can make something of you yet, Bertie! Come, I must show you this delightful collection.”
With one hand still stuck on my lapel, Florence latched the other onto my mittens and dragged me across the room to the bookshelves, fighting through the abundance of silver bells and mulled wine. Never before have I felt so helpless at a Christmas party. I mean, they only really happen once a year so there isn’t much competition, but still, the sentiment prevails. I could hardly tell Florence to biff off and shove her poetry collect. in the roaring fireplace, that wouldn’t be entirely preux of me. No, I had to raise the chin and bear with the paws upon my person, even if it meant Florence reciting, if I had to take an educated guess, frightful intelligentsia bilge.
She propped me onto a little chair as if I were a schoolboy in the principal’s office for a lecture, and fetched a whopper volume that could’ve been used to brick a wall. I mean, it made Types of Ethical Theory look like a book of nursery rhymes.
Things only dampened when she opened it. Dust, mold, and a ghost of Christmas Past flitted out between the pages, the print inside practically requiring a magnifying glass to read. It did not discourage Florence though; she thumbed through and found her desired poem, Fate having decided I didn’t deserve to discover it devoured by bookworms.
“Simply read this,” she shoved it under my nose, and the smell was rotten, quite literally. “Doesn’t this just warm your heart? The narrator is obviously wooing his divine love, realising how their love is spelled out in the natural order surrounding them.”
“Always a nice boost for a chap, I suppose. You ought to post a clipping to Madeline Bassett.”
Florence grinned, a certain glint in her eyes. “Are you engaged, Bertie?”
I didn’t like her look. I didn’t much like her question either, so I sat quaking in every limb. Based on my riper experiences, sometimes girls interpret this petrification, if that’s the word I want, as the nervous excitement of a man looking down the barrel of matrimony. A classic case of mistaken identity, and one with awfully soupy consequences.
No wise idea struck me. As I was searching for some semblance of an answer that would neither upset her nor land me engaged, Florence leaned down with her hands outstretched over my bowtie. I very nearly squawked.
“You know, Jeeves–”
“Yes, sir?”
Heavens knows how he manages to do it, but his sudden appearance startled poor Florence so terribly that she leaped away, releasing my person from her grip both metaphorically and physically. I merely looked up at him, smiling quite indulgently at my saviour. I knew at once that the lark would be on the wing in one quick click.
“There really is something preternatural about you, old thing.”
If I wasn’t convinced it was a very strange trick of the light, I would’ve said Jeeves winked. “I am ashamed to admit, sir, that I failed to decorate your buttonhole.”
I caught on to his idea at once – the sprig of green holly twirling between his fingers being a bit of a giveaway. Before I could say anything in reply, Jeeves bent down and placed the sprig on my lapel, knuckles pressing against my jacket which was practically my shirt which was practically my bare skin. It felt as such, with my thoughts flying out the proverbial window and my chest almost purring at the touch. Why I needed the holly was beyond me, but if Jeeves thought it was necessary then who am I to object?
It was all I could do to not do anything ridiculously rash, like lean a little too closely into his space and press a kiss to his nose, so I stared at the back of his hand instead, the intricate movements of bones and tendons and muscles pulling and twisting and rising against his warm skin. I don’t know when he stopped wearing gloves. I don’t know when I stopped noticing, if I ever did. The novelty of his naked hands hasn’t worn off, I suppose, from the way I trembled like an aspen as they fixed an innocent plant to my jacket. He had three freckles on his knuckles, arranged like dots on a dice, the closest one slightly larger than the others. Three’s a lucky number. I think. Maybe I just want it to be.
The holly was fixed. Jeeves stood back up, his hands disappearing behind his back. The whole thing took not even half a minute, and most of that was spent gazing up at Jeeves before realising, with much mortification, that Florence was still on my other side.
Not that she was hounding for attention, mind you. She stayed quiet, brow furrowed and staring at Jeeves and I as if we were a pair of Gussie’s newts sequestered in a tank. “The poem, Bertie–”
“Sorry, old girl, but I can’t make out anything in this print, it’s far too small.”
“Let me–”
“Sir,” Jeeves rested a hand on my shoulder, “allow me to lend you my glasses.”
I boggled at the man. I damn near fell out of my chair. I emoted every range of surprised expressions as he retrieved his spectacles from his pocket and, very carefully, placed them on me.
He interrupted Florence. He interrupted her! Had I crossed through the looking glass? Jeeves interrupts me all the time, of course, when he thinks the young master is being a silly fathead, but Florence? I couldn’t comprehend the reason. I mean to say, as little interest as I had in reading her poem, she hadn’t done anything so scathing as to warrant an interruption from Jeeves.
He settled his glasses on the bridge of my nose, tucking bits of stray hair back behind my ears. I simply stared at him, half-out of my mind. Florence wasn’t doing much better, mouth parted in an unuttered sentence and eyes widened.
“Well,” I said, “thank you, Jeeves.”
“It is my pleasure, sir.”
His hand remained on my shoulder, thumb resting near my collar, my neck. The glasses did me no good after all – the words all muddled into one ink splodge, it could’ve been anything from A. Tennyson to a telegram from Bingo. I did the only natural thing, and looked back up at Jeeves. Everyone else, like the poem, melted away into a twinkling blur until the only person, the only thing I could see was Jeeves.
“What do you think?” I put it to him, vaguely gesturing to the book in my lap.
The corner of his lip twitched. “What is all this sweet work worth, If thou kiss not me?”
He glowed under the candlelight of December, the moon pouring blue through the window. I noticed how it paled his face. I noticed how that freckle on the tender part of his neck twitched with his pulse. And I noticed the smudge of his fingerprint in the corner of my vision.
“Is that one of yours?”
“Love’s Philosophy, sir. The poem,” he lowered his hand beneath the book, slipping between my palms and the covers, taking it for himself. “By Percy Shelley, sir.”
“The poem?”
Jeeves shut the book, dust billowing off it again, and suddenly everything returned. The carols, chatter, and laughter bounced back to life, and it was a dizzy and flustered Bertram Wooster who met Florence’s dampened brow.
“Well, I mean, lovely poem, what? Absolutely sound. Positively– yes.”
Florence glared at me until I shot out of the chair, like she had planted a flare under it with her pure force of will, and I grabbed onto Jeeves with marzipan legs and a wobbly hand saving his glasses from toppling off my beak.
Apparently this did nothing to appease her, for she only continued to glare at Jeeves now. Really, it’s impossible to keep up with these scholarly boffins and their gripes, and I sensed that rather unpleasant feeling that you get sometimes that there’s one conversation occurring right in front of you, and another flying completely over your onion.
Jeeves stabilised me at the elbow and cleared his throat in that distinct, all-conversation-halting cough. “I believe, sir, Mrs Herring wants your attention.”
“Who?”
“Miss Wickham, sir.”
“Oh, right-ho! Do excuse us, Florence, but it’s terrible form to ignore the hostess!”
Jeeves did not wait for Florence’s reply before guiding me away, effortlessly parting the throngs of guests to find the bright red hair across the room.
Bobbie lurked in the corner, sipping a glass of wine and glancing me up and down as we approached.
“I didn’t know you could clean up so nicely, Bertie. Your tie actually matches your suit. I’d even say the glasses add a certain allure, I wasn’t aware you owned a pair.”
“They belong to Jeeves, actually.”
“Ah. I suppose he’s responsible for your look tonight.”
Bobbie raised her eyebrows, nodding to Jeeves, and I refrained from rolling my peepers. “Please old girl, I’ve heard enough about my appearance till New Years. If we weren’t in such respectable company, I’d shed it all like a snake’s skin.”
“The shock will wear off soon, I’m sure. We just aren’t used to you looking so handsome, silly.”
Jeeves’s hand on my elbow tightened, saving me from collapsing over entirely. “Bobbie, swear that if anyone asks you about me, you’ll tell them I’m a convicted whatsit who’d pinch his own noggin if it wasn’t screwed on properly.”
A tell-tale grin sprouted on her map. “Speaking of kleptomania–”
“Oh, good lord.”
“You remember saying to me once that there wasn’t anything in the world you wouldn’t do for me?”
I paused a trifle warily. It is true that I had expressed myself in some such terms as she had indicated, but in the calmer frame of mind induced in the years since, I wasn’t feeling quite so spacious. You know how it is.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Well, it’s nothing you haven’t done before!”
I didn’t like her tone. “Bobbie, I don’t like your tone. Lay it all out or Jeeves and I shall retire to a bottle of brandy.”
Her grin only widened, which did not bode well for us. I spared a quick glance at Jeeves, who wasn’t looking all that impressed either.
“It’s simple, really. You won’t mind when I explain. My mother bought this really atrocious silver thingamabobber last week–”
“Not the one from the paper!”
“Oh good, you already know what it is! You really are perfect for this request, aren’t you? Anyway, it’s easy, all you have to do is pop into her office, stick it in your pocket or down your trousers or wherever it is that kleptomaniacs hide their goods, and take it home for your aunt.”
I teetered somewhat. “...My aunt? Is that a metaphor?”
“No, Bertie. Your aunt Mrs Travers.”
“My aunt-aunt? My real aunt?”
“Yes, your aunt-aunt.”
“What? Why? What does my aunt-aunt have to do with this?”
Bobbie sighed. “She collects silver, doesn’t she?”
“Her husband does, good old Uncle Tom, but I really don’t see how this connects. Jeeves, do you see how this connects?”
“Regrettably it eludes me, sir.”
“You’ve even stumped Jeeves, old girl.”
Of course, Jeeves has always maintained that Bobbie, though a charming young lady, should be trusted about as far as you can throw her. Which, if you don’t have the athletic pins of Honoria Glossop, isn’t v. far. It was clear to the casual observer that he was not exactly sympathetic to Bobbie’s plight.
“I suppose I shall have to spell it out.” Bobbie crossed her arms. “You see, darling Reggie–”
“Who?”
“Her husband, sir.”
“Oh, Kipper! Carry on.”
“...Reggie has this delightful set of stories that he can’t quite seem to sell, so if I can shimmy my way onto Mrs Travers’s good side then in return she’ll pick up my dearest’s stories for her paper– what’s it called?”
“Milady’s Boudoir, I myself actually featured in it–”
“Yes, that one. My mother won’t even miss it, she only bought it because she likes raising the auction paddle. You see, it’s perfectly foolproof, that’s why I’m asking you.”
I would have reeled and fallen back had Jeeves not been at my elbow. She isn’t great at putting on the old oil, is she? I had to bite my tongue to keep from calling her a fathead in return, or a stinker, perhaps even a congenital chump, since we were in pleasant, highbrow company and not the billiard room at the Drones Club.
“Really! You are trying me very high, Bobbie.”
She grinned and patted my chest like she hadn’t heard me. “I knew you wouldn’t mind!”
“I do!” I cried. “This is me minding!”
“But Bertie, have some good will! It’s Christmas!”
“Oh, Mary and Joseph haven’t even stumbled into Bethlehem yet!”
“Bertie!”
“I really won’t be swayed.”
“Bertie.”
“Stealing from my hostess! What’s to be done about this lax, post-war attitude?”
“Please, Bertie! I thought we were friends!”
She punctuated this with a grasp of my jacket, twisting it in her hands with a pleading countenance. My defences deflated a little, because I can never truly let down a friend and, as she so aptly stated, I count Bobbie among that group for reasons that escape me at the mo. Kipper too would benefit, and we went to school together, you know. There are things which a Wooster positively cannot do, and that includes disappointing two birds with one unthrown stone, if you follow.
There was, of course, a selfish benefit to this. If I agreed to help and biffed off to examine the goods so to speak, it would mean freedom from this hellhole of prying eyes and undeterred advances. I’d be long gone from Florence, and Bobbie would certainly let my jacket out of her grasp, at the very least.
Yes, I was warming up to the scheme the more I debated it. You may argue that, Bertram, it is the season of tranquillity and goodwill! You shouldn’t be thieving at a time like this! And to that I say: balderdash! Or, perhaps, bah humbug. Is the meaning of Christmas even around anymore? If I had to guess, I’d say we left it behind ages and ages ago, probably back in the manger with the frankincense that I really doubt a baby had any interest in. The meaning of Christmas is long since gone, leaving the season completely meaning-less, and that means there wasn’t anything that could really put a cork on the plan.
Except Jeeves. He did not see things as I did. He appeared to be thunderous, actually. I mean, from an outsider’s perspective it probably seemed like he’d felt a miniscule stone in his shoe, but I know my Jeeves. He was glaring at Bobbie, or her hands rather, so it didn’t take a master of psychology to diagnose his feelings on the whole pinching theme.
But the young master has to assert his authority from time to time.
“All right, old girl,” I shrugged with a carefree disposish, “Wooster is on the case.”
Bobbie’s grin nearly met at the back of her head, and she wrapped her arms around my neck with a quick squeeze before hopping back and giggling like a possessed hyena. “I always knew you were an awful good sport! Reggie will be over the moon! Oh, you’re a sweetheart, I could just kiss you!”
“I’d prefer if you didn’t.” And, though it didn’t bear saying, I think Jeeves would have burst into flames had she dared. He was watching her with a rather marked manner, presumably not too chuffed with her espièglerie, as he has often announced in the past. The quicker we parted ways and her volatile red-hair was out of sight, the sooner Jeeves could cool off.
Bobbie had the decency to crack down on her excitement. “Oh, I won’t then. Wouldn’t be fair to Jeeves anyway.”
I might have questioned this, but she was too busy whipping us around and (not so) gently pushing us to the side door. “The silver thingamabobber is in my mother’s office. Good luck, you’re a brave man, and other such sayings like that!”
She slammed the door to the hall, and there Jeeves and I stood, arm-in-arm and witless.
Well, ‘stood’ is putting it loosely. In crises like this we Woosters do not stand. It was abundantly clear that Jeeves’s furtive funniness would not fade while we remained within close proximity of Roberta Wickham, so I made off in a random direction like a jack rabbit in hopes of stumbling upon either the office or some cooking sherry.
Of course, that only made me pick apart my bow tie, suddenly empathising with those sweating johnnies on the gallows. I stuffed the undone thing into my pocket, hoping to avoid upsetting Jeeves any further, and turned to examine the chap himself.
“Well, what’s to be done, old thing?”
It was inconsiderate of me to ask. Jeeves’s finely chiselled features were weighed down by his agony of spirit, his eyes locked upon my tie-less collar. Add that to the whole thievery biz, I consider it miraculous I was still with Jeeves the man and not Jeeves the stuffed-frog.
“...I will give the matter consideration, sir.”
Patting his arm, I realised this was one of those scenarios where B. Wooster must roll up his sleeves and take the lead. I cast the old grey cells back to my last stay here – you know, when I thought love’s flame flickered for Bobbie only for the hot water bottles to douse it right out – and took a vague guess as to where Lady Wickham’s office must be.
You know, Jeeves really ought to waver in his reactionary opinions on soft-shirts for evening wear, because this stiff front threatened to tighten like a medieval torture cage. The corridors curled around each other, then curled around again; Jeeves and I followed through this labyrinth just praying we wouldn’t end up back where we set out, trailing in shadows lit only by the winter moonlight. Pushing the glasses back up my nose as if it would help me see through the darkness, I popped the top button of my shirt and let out a long, weary sigh. It’s not like there was anyone around to gasp at my untidy appearance.
“Jeeves,” I said, “Bobbie has dropped us right into the soup.”
His voice was as quiet as the empty corridor. “Indeed, sir.”
“As much as I hate to admit it, I think we might be quite muddled.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Geographically, I mean.”
“Indeed, sir.”
I narrowed my eyes at the fellow, but he wasn’t even looking at me. Well, he technically was– although I don’t label my open collar as a part of me, the person. His face burned, likely from the shame of his young master ruining his perfect ensemble, and, out of genuine concern, I placed a hand upon his cheek to feel for fever.
“Jeeves? Are you quite correct?”
He blinked. It was as if a firework went off in his cerebellum, the usual Jeeves-shine coming upon his countenance with a bang. “Forgive me, sir. I suspect we have already passed Lady Wickham’s office.”
“We have? Why didn’t you say so?”
“I am merely taking a guess, sir.”
A guess my foot, but I allowed him to guide us backward all the same.
He was right, of course. His chosen double-doors creaked open to reveal the shadow-shrouded office, a silver thingamabobber glittering in the middle of the desk like a film-star under a spotlight.
We slipped inside quietly, but no tripwires sprung nor alarms wailed. Perhaps Fate had finally dropped the lead pipe and let this Wooster away with a little bit of ease. It was the work of a minute to identify that this silver thingamabobber was, in fact, the silver thingamabobber from the newspapers, and Jeeves somehow dug up a receipt out of thin air.
“What’s it actually called, then?” I asked him, furrowing an eyebrow at the elaborate piece. I won’t deceive my audience and say I’m particularly well-versed in the area of antique silver, though I do wish to acknowledge my stellar performances when sneering at cow creamers, and this silver whatsit completely bemused my limited knowledge. It was distinctly un-cow creamer ish.
Jeeves read from the receipt. Or, rather, I thought he was. “I am afraid you are wearing my glasses, sir.”
“Oh! My apologies, here–”
“No, sir, that is not necessary.”
“...Right-ho.”
Part of me wanted to put a finger on why Jeeves thought his ability to see to the correct degree wasn’t as necessary as my ab. to see slightly better than I usually do. The other part of me, the wiser part that was perhaps making up for Jeeves’s current lapse, realised there was a time and place, and Lady Wickham’s office that we had just broke into to pilfer her belongings was neither.
Without the faintest what exactly the thingamabobber was, I could still gather that it was right up Uncle Tom’s alley. It shone under the moonlight and it didn’t look neither Modern nor Dutch. Rather, it seemed like the kind of thing King Arthur would’ve kept around the house in Camelot. Pleasant, of course. Ancient. As much as I loathed to say so, Bobbie was bang-on with her idea about Aunt Dahlia; why, she’s sacrificed me for less signif. silverware, and I’m her least-despised nephew.
Too bulky to hide in a pocket or down my trousers, an idea struck me like a blow from a blunt instrument. I swiftly lifted the holly from my buttonhole, stuck it into Jeeves’s with less delicacy than I would’ve liked, then shook off my jacket and bundled the silver up inside. I do have experience in this regard, viz. swaddling the odd godchild or two when they’re still hot off the press so to speak, and the pinched good was perfectly wrapped up and secure. You could hardly tell the folds hid anything at all. Even if someone spotted us on our escape and questioned my jacketless state, the worst we’d be suspected of was smuggling out a Christmas ham.
I held it up to Jeeves. “Ta-da!”
I may as well have asked him the colour of his socks in French. There, written across his face, was that wolfish visage from before. I didn’t mean what I wished it did, I’m sure, but I wanted to poke it, to see if he’d bare his teeth. It was without grace and without pride that I stumbled the short space between us, raising my chin and wondering if Jeeves, this great wolf, would glut himself, swoop without fear, run gloating with my raw corpse and feed on it alone. All because of this damn suit.
Of course, the universe intervened – a bang emanated from somewhere down the corridor. This was quite a sticky sitch. to explain, and I didn’t intend to wait around to do so. I grabbed Jeeves’s hand and yanked us to the French doors, spilling out into the garden with the parcel tucked safely under my arm.
Birds twittered. The grass swayed in the breeze, turquoise in the night. One of the windows along the wall brightened with gold light, muffled music seeping through the bricks. Jeeves and I wandered the opposite way, which really only led us further into the garden. It wasn’t until we found a stone fountain rather than the exit that I accepted we were well and truly disorientated.
I say we. It was self doing much of the exploring, Jeeves following at the end of my hand. Fair enough, really, since it was my acceptance of Bobbie’s scheme that brought us to this bewildered spot. So, I plonked myself down on a cold stone bench, setting the pilfered parcel carefully at my side, and finally let go of Jeeves’s mitten.
His gaze flicked immediately, from me to the garden. Probably assessing how to ladle his silly ass of an employer out of this conundrum he willingly put himself in. I let him muse, listening to the trickling water of the fountain and looking up at the cogs turning on his finely chiselled features. There might have been stars in the sky around him. I don’t even know if it was cloudy or bright, but I did recognise the blue tint across Jeeves’s person, how it makes the light on his dark hair shine like a wave across the inky ocean.
The breeze picked up and I was made quite aware of sitting sans jacket. I lifted a hand to my collar, debating if I should bother buttoning it without the tie, and paused as Jeeves’s eyes followed the movement.
My fingers rested where his once had; just under the collar, tracing the line from my chest to my neck. “Are you cold, old thing?”
“No, sir.”
“You just shivered.”
“...A mere consequence of the wind, sir.”
I didn’t need his glasses to notice that the line between his brow had returned with vengeance. I would’ve been quite amused if I had even the foggiest what had him in such a sombre mood. My thoughts were gallivanting hither and thither, trying to figure out why that certain something twinkled in Jeeves’s eye, when he stepped closer, knees brushing against mine, and took my hand in his.
He slowly turned my wrist to display the cufflink, now askew from my nervous fiddling. It glinted as he fixed it, flashing white in the moonlight, and he didn’t let go. He didn’t let go of my wrist; he held it, fingers wrapped around my veins, keeping me close as if I’d ever slip away. God knows if we were still in the garden. The world could’ve tilted, could’ve flipped upside down and I wouldn’t have looked away from Jeeves’s soft smile.
“I bought these myself, sir,” he said, thumb brushing over the cufflink, leaving a print. I wanted him to do the same to my skin.
It was natural that Jeeves would pick these; gold, small and square, old-fashioned but in a timeless way – a bit like him in that regard. I could picture him standing in his favourite jewellers, tormenting the poor assistant for every display case, every locked drawer. Most people would say I shouldn’t give him such free reign of my wallet, but Jeeves never takes more than allowed. Not when he should.
I smiled up at him. “And I do like them. Very much.”
Jeeves’s eyebrow twitched in the corner, and he ducked his chin, looking at me through dark eyelashes. “I bought these myself, sir.”
I very nearly cried ‘old hat’ at the man, but his gaze latched onto me, held me there. If my wrist hadn’t been in his hand, tightening around my pulse, I damn well may have fallen straight from the bench and onto the stone-ground like a damsel in a Rosie M. Banks novel.
A short breath escaped me. “You didn’t.”
“I did,” Jeeves said, the beginnings of a smile emerging. “I’m afraid I took more than one liberty, sir.”
He stepped closer, lowering my hand into my lap and pushing his glasses along my nose instead. I mourned the loss of his grip on my wrist, so I returned the gesture by parting my legs and pulling him even closer, holding him there by my thighs.
His eyes, like stars, started from their spheres, and he couldn’t hide those warm feelings beyond the reins of feudality any longer. It was all the assurance I needed to carry on, alight with the knowledge of what all this sweet work was worth. I took his hands and placed them on my shoulders, before resting my chin on his stomach and glancing up at him through glasses that weren’t my own.
“Is that so?” I muttered, feeling my words vibrate through his person. “You should take a few more, you know.”
Jeeves’s mouth fell open ever so slightly, his fingers hesitantly running across my shoulders to cradle my nape. Where, oh where, did my great wolf go? I couldn’t resist grinning, wrapping my arms around him and bunching the fabric of his trousers in my fists lightly. With his hands on my neck and my arms around his thighs, we’d hardly know who had caught who.
I watched his throat work as he swallowed. “There are some things that cannot be forgiven, sir.”
I laughed. A blush of shame mantled me at once, but I still laughed into his waistcoat, pressing my forehead against him so fiercely that I was filled with the fear that I’d snap his glasses. It was such a ridiculous thing to say, given our current posish. Really, I was practically on my knees, looking up at him in prayer.
“Please, my dear.” I tightened my grip on his legs. “I want you to love me.”
His eyebrow rose an entire inch this time, but his sly smile returned. “That is quite a liberty to take.”
“Well, it is the season of tranquillity and goodwill.”
This did the trick. He tilted my head, leaned down, and pressed a kiss into my hair. It was soft, drawn-out, and my body gave in entirely, dropping against him like he invited it. His suit was smooth against my cheek, warm in my embrace. I stayed perfectly still; frightened that if I moved, he’d take away the short breaths above my head, the thumb brushing the curl behind my ear that would never tuck neatly.
When he rose again, he latched onto one of my hands and brought it to his lips – satiating and soothing at the same time. The hunger glimmered in his eyes, his teeth lightly grazing my knuckles, and I was scarcely sensible to the night air. It was only when he kissed along the back of my hand, up my wrist, to the cufflink that a realisation dawned.
Jeeves had draped me in his choice of suit, polished me in cufflinks he had purchased alone, added a sprig to my lapel at his own insistence, and adorned me in his glasses right in front of everyone at the party.
My love really is a blind love. This whole thing was quite unabashed; he was preying upon me like an unclaimed lamb. He didn’t even seem ashamed as he pulled me from my seat and into his arms.
“You’re quite terribly possessive of your things,” I said, kissing the smugness from his smile.
Jeeves let out an amused huff. “You’re not a thing, sir.”
I hummed what might’ve been a question, raising an eyebrow and kissing him again.
“You’re not a thing, Bertram.”
Now, I straightened up quite attentively at that. “But I am yours.”
He met me with an indulgent smile, running his hands along my person to my head and combing them through some stray hairs. It was a long time before he was satisfied, kissing my forehead gently. “Now we have obtained her object, I believe Miss Wickham has no further need for us tonight.”
Wickham be deuced, if I may say so, but I nodded all the same and was rewarded with another kiss. I could very quickly get behind this new mode of discussion, you know.
The sweet work was more than worth it, of course. In the days following, Dahlia received her silver, Bobbie her reward, and myself a little gift that I had bartered off the redhead as payment.
It was only fitting that, on a pleasantly alone December twenty-fifth, Jeeves unwrapped our newest poetry book, and I took a few whispered compliments about my cufflinks in return. Tranquillity and goodwill reigned throughout.