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Dear Jeeves,

I hope you don’t mind my using this name, my dear. Only we never actually discussed what I was to call you if I ever wrote - probably because you told me not to write. I know we have no formal understanding at this point, so it feels as though you’d prefer I use the old surname, what what?

I held off as long as I could in writing to you, trying to remember what you said about all that, but all the other chaps here are writing to their wives and fiancées practically every day, and quite a lot of them have even got letters back already, and here I am with no one but my thoughts and my cigarettes to occupy me. It’s been so long that we’ve been together that I can’t remember what I used to do with myself when I couldn’t have a chat with you whenever the fancy struck me.

I can’t bear the way we left things. I do understand why you were so angry. I know you better than you think I do, and I know that you believed that you could come up with a solution that wouldn’t involve any significant risk to myself. Maybe you would have. But I did hope that you knew me well enough by now to understand that my concern for your well-being eclipses all else, and while I admit that I may have acted rashly, I hope in time that you will come to realize that it was done entirely out of love. You know better than anyone that it is better to fall into line when Aunt A. is on the warpath, and you have to admit she gave me a powerful incentive to accede to her demands. Better to put myself in the line of fire, so to speak, than to endanger the both of us, what?

I do love you, old thing. Maybe you don’t want to hear it anymore and I understand that, too. If you don’t respond to this missive I’ll leave you alone, but I needed to tell you one last time. I know I’ve left you for an awfully long time, perhaps forever, and I won’t hold you to anything that we said before. All of those troths between us were from a different time, and you may consider yourself entirely free of me, if that is what you desire. I wouldn’t want to leave you lonely. You have too much to offer the world, my love. I don’t expect you to wait on me as though we were married. Perhaps you can find someone who wouldn’t go off and leave you this way.

Again, I would understand.

With all my love, my respect, my adoration,

I am,

Yours

Bertie

*

Dear Mr. Wooster,

The reason that I discouraged letters was not because I am displeased with you, but because I consider it folly to consign anything to paper that may add fuel to the fire. You may recall that our courtship has been unconventional, due to circumstances beyond our control.

We do not yet know the nature of the evidence that your Aunt acquired. I have a suspicion, however, that you might have left a note behind on your most recent visit to Steeple Bumpleigh. I am currently considering a plan that may allow me to get my hands on it, but it will be a most complex procedure. Your absence makes it nearly impossible.

Since you appear to require correspondence for the sake of your morale, however, I suggest we lay some ground rules. Please, for the sake of our mutual well being and safety, use only a feminine Christian name for me. You may call me Regina if you like, though it may amuse you to know that when I was very young, my mother sometimes called me Ginnie. It was never frequent and always in jest, but it strikes me as the sort of name you generally prefer to use, and it has the added benefit of being less obviously related to my actual name.

I do believe it would also be best for you to send me my letters care of your manservant, Jeeves, so as to keep my precise location unclear to any unauthorized readers.

While I do believe the likelihood of our missives being intercepted is a slim one for the time being, if or when you are actually sent to the Continent, there is a good chance that letters sent home from abroad will be perused by government employees, in order to prevent soldiers from divulging any privileged information. I cannot stress enough the importance of care and attention to detail that will be required in our communication, should we persist in corresponding at that point. For that reason, I believe it is best if we practice writing as discretely as possible immediately.

Now that I have dispatched with the ‘boiler plate,’ as you would say, let us get ‘down to brass tacks.’

I apologize for telling you that our association could no longer continue. I spoke in anger, and, I admit, no small amount of fear. I think perhaps I hoped that my threats of severing our relations would deter you from enlisting. Obviously, in this case I was mistaken.

You may consider our understanding to be formal, inasmuch as it ever was. As formal as it ever could be.

There is no one else. That was never at issue. It never will be. It is because there is no one else, that there never possibly could be, that your volunteering for service was so difficult for me. I did not at all intend to leave you with the belief that I no longer held you in my regard. I did not intend for any of this to happen.

You are correct that I believed I could spare you this. Had you waited a little longer we might not be in this predicament. We could, perhaps, have purloined your Aunt’s evidence. If not, then other options abound. Your Aunt has lived a long life and the possibility that her character is stainless is a slim one. Given a little time, I feel confident that I could have uncovered information regarding her past that could have been used to encourage her to recant her position.

For example, you might recall that a certain relative of yours on your matrilineal side published a rather scandalous memoir some years past. I recall at the time there there was some discussion with his editor as to whether he should include information concerning the conduct of certain ladies of his acquaintance, and that it was ultimately decided to excise that portion of the memoir in order to remain on the correct side of various laws pertaining to publishing within the United Kingdom. I had some hope that I could scour your late relative’s papers and perhaps uncover an earlier draft of the memoir. That would only have required three or four days at most, and it was most vexing that you refused to allow even that brief amount of time for me to save your life.

That being said, I do know you. I know you as well as I think it is possible to know another person, and I have no doubt whatsoever that your actions were motivated entirely by noble intentions.

I won’t pretend that I am not angry. I also won’t pretend that I don’t love you. Understand that if I did not love you, I would not have reacted the way that I did. The terror of losing you is keener than any blade. Knowing that you are out there, possibly in danger, and there is nothing I can do to save you is more than I think I can bear.

Do not die.

Love,

R.

*

Darling Ginnie,

You beautiful creature, I wept manly tears over your letter. They were manly because I am a man, you understand, but they were piteous and dreadful and all the lads here teased me about it, but I didn’t care a bit. I have spent the last two months thinking all was done between us and that I was to be shipped off to France a single man. It felt like I was missing a leg. A head. Like I was missing everything.

Smashing nickname, by the way. A rose by any other name would still give a dashed pleasant whiff, and the same goes for you, old sport. Old girl, I mean! Ha! I don’t think I have much privileged info to divulge, but all the same, I will try to be cautious. Oh, also, mightn’t it be wise for you to alter your own form of address for yours truly? Dashed odd for a loving paramour to call the object of her desire ‘Mr. Wooster.’ It always made sense for us before, I guess, but I am always in favor of letting the dead past bury its dead, as you know. Times change and we must as well.

Just how formal is this understanding of ours then? If you are indeed a respectable lady, as I have no doubt that you are, then I suppose it’s about time I made an honest woman of you, what? What do you say? Wedding bells upon the daring soldier’s return? I know I’ve always put the old ears back about sauntering down the aisle, but I think I could come around to it for your sake.

Speaking of which, my chum Charlie wants to ask his girl to marry him by letter but he thinks it’s unseemly. Is it? You would know best. He is worried that if he doesn’t ask her now he will never get the chance.

Would you marry me, Ginnie? If you say yes, I’ll buy you a ring in Paris when I get there. I know you love that city. It won’t be the same, for many reasons, but mostly because I won’t be there with you.

As to your little scheme, my dear, though it does sound like an absolute corker as usual, I hope you can see your way to understanding my own position on the matter, vis a vis, the impatience of said Aunt, and the gravity of her tone when she made her threats to yours truly. You say you only needed three or four days. Well, I don’t at all feel certain that we had even that much time. You didn’t see her eyes, old thing. There was not a twinkle to be found. Our jig was up and what was needed was immediate action, not days of research. You might excel at the latter, but leave it to a Wooster to provide the former. She said, “Join up or else!” and old B. Wooster joined up. Perhaps it was foolhardy of me, but then fools do rush in where paragons fear to tread, do they not?

I know we’ve never really gone in for ‘my darlings’ and all of that revolting rot, but I hope you won’t mind my saying that I really am chuffed to hear from you, old prune. Absolutely chuffed.

Love,

Bertie

P.S., please tell me things about you and your life, old thing, as much as you are able given the circs.

P.P.S. I am still in England, you know! No danger yet, so don’t go worrying yourself. They may never actually send me over. It all might be done with in a month. And if it isn’t, and I do go over, don’t forget who you are dealing with. We Woosters have war in our blood! We came over with the Conqueror. We were at Agincourt. What’s a little skirm with some Germs after all that, what what?

*

Dear Bertram,

I should have realized you would latch onto that nickname with alacrity. I almost regret informing you of its existence. When you return home, ‘Ginnie’ will be finished, but I will allow anything that gives you joy under the current circumstances.

There isn’t much I can say, ‘given the circs,’ as you may have surmised. All continues normal, aside from your absence. I clean and I cook, though only for myself. I take walks. I read. I have drinks with friends. I wait for you.

As for the matter of your Aunt, we will agree to disagree. Know that I have not given up. Even if that particular door is closed to us, there are other avenues to explore. There are many ways in which a man may be found ineligible for service, for example, even after he has completed training. I intend to pursue these avenues assiduously.

Your man Jeeves was good enough to lend me some of the books from the case in your bedroom. I hope you don’t mind. I find that it is a distinct comfort to me to read the books that you enjoy, even if they aren’t what I would normally take an interest in. I am halfway through Murder on the Orient Express and I am beginning to wonder if my senses are compromised, because it seems as though almost every character has both motive and opportunity.

As for your friend and his predicament, what is seemly and what is necessary are often at odds in wartime. Your friend Charles should most certainly tell his paramour how he feels, if he hasn’t already. Time is thin, in war. Life must run nearer the surface.

Addressing now your stated plans in Paris, I have a particular fondness for white gold. It is more appropriate for one such as myself, since its status as an alloy renders it both less costly and more durable than pure gold. I don’t know entirely if I should hope for your speedy arrival there, or hope that you are never anywhere near that city. I don’t know which is the safest option. But then, I do know that I don’t actually have any say in any of this, so I will try to hope simply for your safety. Hope, as you know, grows in full freedom despite its surroundings, as Verlaine’s tree grows in the cemetery.

Would you be at all interested in sharing some of the details of your life with me? I find I struggle to imagine you, and what you are doing. It makes me ill at ease to know so little.

Love,

G.

*

Mrs. Blair Eggleston,

It is my sincere hope that this letter finds you and your husband well. My name is Reginald Jeeves. You may recall that we met on several occasions in the years 1924 and ’25, though we never conversed. I was and continue to be employed as Mr. Bertram Wooster’s valet.

I am writing to request a favor. I am mindful of the fact that nothing is owed to me on your part and that you are completely free to refuse. I would I not ask at all if I did not consider the matter to be of the utmost importance.

You may or may not have heard that Mr. Wooster decided to enlist in the armed forces after Britain’s declaration of war against Germany. For reasons which I trust I need not elucidate to you, I fear that he is not suited to this particular lifestyle. No doubt you understand how crucial it is that our army functions as perfectly as possible, since the threat to our nation’s, and indeed, the world’s safety cannot be overstated. To have a man who is unfit for duty serving as an officer at the front could prove a liability to the cause. I am hoping to uncover proof of Mr. Wooster’s unsuitability to the task, that he may receive a discharge before facing any actual conflict.

It is my understanding that at one time your late father, Sir Roderick Glossop, was convinced of Mr. Wooster’s insanity. Is there any chance that he may have recorded his concerns on paper? The incident to which I am referring occurred in the spring of 1924, unless I am much mistaken. If you should happen to find yourself with a moment to spare, I would be most grateful if you would be willing to attempt to locate within your late father’s papers anything pertaining to Mr. Wooster at that time. I have no doubt that a diagnosis of insanity written in your illustrious father’s hand would go a long way toward convincing the British government that Mr. Wooster should not be permitted to serve.

Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,

R. Jeeves

*

Dearest Gin-Gin,

White gold it is, old top. And it really is dashed lovely to see my Christian name written by your hand. I guess I’d better survive this thing, because I’d simply love to hear you actually say it.

My life, old thing? Really? If you insist, but there’s nothing to it. Really just drilling these days. It was all rather alarming and exciting in a dreadful sort of way at first, but now it is dull, dull, dull. We march an awful lot, shoot at things, eat dreadful food at a long table, sleep in the same room as a lot of other chaps. Not so different from Eton, really.

By the by, they’ve made me a captain. What do you think of that? I always imagined (when I thought to imagine such things, which was rarely) that army captains must be quite brainy and brawny types, up to their ears in military experience, but apparently that’s not the case. All it takes is a bit of blue in the old veins and a scrap of sheepskin from Oxford, and you’re in charge! Any advice in being a fearless leader of men, by the by? I’ll take what I can get.

I have enclosed a photograph of yours truly in my uniform, done up properly and without any mud. I double checked, as mud can be sneaky and find its way in when you think you’ve got it all. I won’t subject you to seeing me in my ordinary rags. You’d die of apoplexy and all of this would have been for naught. I think you’ll agree the brass buttons do something for me.

No, you won’t, but there’s nothing you can do about it, is there?

I don’t mind at all that you’ve borrowed my books. I love the image I now have of you reading my mysteries in your dressing gown. I am on the edge of my seat to learn what you think of the conclusion. You might find that your senses are sharper than you think.

I say, don’t fret overmuch on my behalf. If it weren’t me here drilling in the mud, it would be some other chap. I think it’s fair to assume that what’s going on across the Channel needs to be checked, and firmly. I might not have considered joining up if I hadn’t been under duress, but now that I’m here I figure I might as well see this thing through, what? Ours not to question why, ours but to do and whats-it, what, what?

What news of the homefront, then? Have any of my pals joined up, or is it Bertram alone who bears the burdens of the world upon his narrow shoulders?

As for my pal Charlie, the point may be moot now. His girl hasn’t responded to his last two letters and he thinks something he said about something or other may have offended her. He did explain but I wasn’t listening that closely. Any ideas on how he might spread oil on those troubled waters, my dear? I told him my fiancé is an absolute topper with solving love troubles, and he asked me to run it by you. So here we are. I wish I had more information for you, really, but this is what he gave me.

Have a think on it, my love.

Enjoy the books, every one of them.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear R. J.,

In the unlikely event that you ever write to me again, please address me by my maiden name, as Mr. Eggleston and I have parted ways.

You mean that week or two when Bertie and I were engaged and Daddy forbade the bans because Bertie had a dashed lot of cats in his flat, right? Of course I remember that, and you, with absolute clarity. I wanted to marry Bertie, remember. It was a bit of a difficult time for me.

I did hear that Bertie had gone off to war. My cousin Tuppy keeps me up to date. If his joining up at his age wasn’t proof enough of his insanity, then I don’t know what I can do for you!

Anyway, I can’t be of any help anyway because Daddy’s papers were all burned at his request after he died. They contained buckets of information about members from all the noble families that would have been disastrous in the wrong hands.

Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to. It took me a while, I admit, but I think you saw the same thing in Bertie that I did. He always had a ‘wild streak,’ perhaps with an extra ‘e’ tacked on – if you catch my meaning. No doubt you have plenty of proof of your own that could get him evicted from the army at once, but I suppose you’re hoping to find something that won’t also land you in the chokey, what?

Bertie would have suited me well, and we should have had sprigs of lavender at the wedding, but you lacked the foresight for that, didn’t you? Our marriage could have done us all a spot of good. But you wanted him for yourself, and now look at where you’ve landed him.

I do hope you are successful in ruining his reputation sufficiently to warrant a discharge. Lord knows you have plenty of practice.

I have always been fond of Bertie, and I shall keep him in my prayers.

Sincerely,

Honoria

*

To whom it may concern,

I am interested in obtaining court records regarding a crime that occurred in your jurisdiction on the evening of March 28, 1925. The perpetrator was one Mr. Bertram Wilberforce Wooster. It involved the theft of a police constable’s helmet. Mr. Wooster was found guilty and ordered to pay a fine of 5£.

Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,

R. Jeeves

*

Dear Bertram,

Gin-Gin is not acceptable.

There is very little your friend can do when he is so separated from her. I have only one thought, and that is this: he should write to her once more and tell her that he has heard a rumor that he might be sent to the front soon, and he should conclude by expressing his deep and eternal love for her, even if she holds no love for him, and then he should stop sending letters at all for a period of at least three weeks.

If he doesn’t receive a letter from the young lady by the end of those three weeks, I will be very surprised.

I know that this was a simple error, but I do want to point out that you used the male form of the word ‘fiancé.’ If one were marrying a woman, one would write it with an additional ‘e.’ I think it is best if you spell it that way in the future.

As for the Orient Express, I see what you mean. My senses did not let me down, although I somewhat fear that Mrs. Christie did. Nevertheless, I am now thirty pages into Death of a Ghost.

Congratulations on your commission, Bertram. You may not feel qualified for such a position, but your breeding and your education are indeed qualification enough. Having never been a leader myself, I have little advice to give you, but I can say this with certainty: any man would be fortunate to follow you. I have no doubt at all that you will take care of those in your charge, and though you may lack a commanding presence, that is far from crucial. Of much greater importance is the ability to instill loyalty and trust in others, and that is a skill you possess in abundance.

None of your other friends have joined the war effort. As you know, several are above the age of conscription and those who aren’t will be soon. I will let you know if any are called up, but as of now they all appear to remain blessedly untouched. In fact, several of your fellow club members have already absconded to America. Lord Chuffnell and Mr. Fink-Nottle, being married to Americans, are quite capable of remaining there indefinitely, it seems. Likewise, Mrs. Little was offered a job writing musical theater productions for Broadway, and so the Littles have relocated their family to the distant side of the Atlantic for the foreseeable future. Mr. Potter-Pirbright and his wife have gone to California, with an aim of getting him onto the silver screen, although I consider their chances of success to be dubious at best.

Thank you for the photograph. I have to admit, you look striking in your uniform, brass buttons notwithstanding. It is not my preferred style for you, of course, but it is entirely proper given your current station, so I have no strenuous objections. You make a fine looking officer. I have even looked at the picture in the evening, on occasion. It does not come close to the reality of your presence, but it helps a little.

I do not wish you alarm you, but there was a ring on the doorbell today and it was a particular mature woman of my acquaintance whom I was most displeased to see. She was displeased as well. In fact, she seemed shocked to find me here, perhaps having expected me to move on. That she believed I would vanish in the night simply because you were temporarily taken from me is a clear indication of her deep lack of understanding both of myself, and of we two as a united whole. I am not entirely certain what will come of this, but I will keep you apprised.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Ginnie,

Dear God, old thing! I thought we were going to keep these letters clean! Didn’t you tell me that Intelligence might read these?! I am delighted that my image keeps you a kind of company ‘in the evening,’ as you say, but no need to write any more about it, old prune. The lads here saw me turn red all the way up to my ears and Charlie tried to steal the letter to see what salacious material could get the old Captain’s goat. They don’t know what a lightweight I am in these delicate matters, but you do. You most certainly did that on purpose, knowing full well what the result would be. For shame, my dear.

All right, yes, I’ll write the feminine form of the word at your insistence. I still think it’s dashed odd of the French to think that words should have genders at all, but what can we do about it? Perhaps I’ll try to prod them in the right direction when I get over there, what? I might have a bit of clout, waltzing in with the cavalry.

A mature woman of your acquaintance? Do you mean my Aunt Agatha? I hope you threw her out on her ear. Or better yet, you should give her a smack with that old cosh you lifted off of her own son a decade or two back. I’ve met her terms and we require no further contact, compromising info be damned. She can go blackmail the devil if she’s looking for some sport. I’m sure she has plenty of dirt on him, they being such good chums.

Good Lord, it seems London is draining itself entirely of drones! There won’t be a soul left to break bread with when I saunter home, will there?

I have apprised Charlie of your little scheme and he seems game to try. I hope it works. He is absolutely beside himself and it’s heart-rending. You can’t imagine what a lifeline letters are to us, even though we’re still lingering on Blighty’s shores. Once we’re taking our arranged tour of the Continent, well, the imagination boggles, Ginnie. It puts me back in my mind to the utter state I was in at the beginning of all this, just a few weeks back, when we weren’t writing and I wasn’t certain if my dance card had been wiped clean or what.

I can’t for the bally life of me think how Death of a Ghost ends. Don’t tell me! I’ll read it again when I get home and then we can talk about it.

I say, I hope you’re right. About the commanding gag, I mean. Captaining. Whatever I’m supposed to call it. Whether you are or not, it was nice to read, what. It’s nice to read every word you write, so write as many as you can, old crumpet.

Love,

Bertie

*

Mr. Jeeves,

The Bosher Street Court only retains records of petty thefts and similar misdemeanors for a period of ten years. Since the incident in question occurred nearly fifteen years ago, all documentation pertaining to it was likely incinerated some time past.

Sincerely,

H.G. Smith, Bosher Street Court Clerk

*

Dear Bertram,

I betrayed no classified information in my previous letter, so your note of censure was unnecessary. You, however, both identified the person whose name I was attempting to obfuscate, and specifically mentioned blackmail. You also suggested that I should physically assault her, which, considering the sensitive nature of the information she obtained, would be exceedingly unwise. It also might be misconstrued by a third party reading our letters who would undoubtedly be unfamiliar with your sense of humor.

Seeing as your letters have all arrived to me undamaged thus far, I have a reasonable expectation that no one has read them, so the crisis is averted for now. That being said, in growing more comfortable with communicating in this manner, you seem to have forgotten the unique challenges of our situation. I strongly urge you to be more careful, as we are unlikely to go the entire length of your service without having our letters be intercepted, particularly once you are no longer on English soil.

Sincerely,

G.

*

Jeeves,

No, your eyes do not deceive you. This is indeed addressed to you, my good man. I don’t quite know how to express this, but I’m growing just a little tired of darling Ginnie. She’s a wonderful woman, of course, but I do rather miss my bachelor days, when it was simply my man and myself, getting into (or should I say out of?) all kinds of mischief. I miss simpler days, Jeeves. I miss home.

I rather wish I could just write to you from now on.

Sincerely,

Bertram W. Wooster

*

Mr. Wooster,

I appreciate the high regard in which you have always held me. I endeavor at all times to be an ideal servant to you, sir. I do miss your presence in the flat, and I hope you are soon able to return, sound of mind and body.

Miss Ginnie may not be perfect, sir, but I attest that she sincerely cares for you. If you were to cease writing to her, and instead begin a regular correspondence with me, not only would you miss the flower of her adoration, of which she is no doubt able to write freely and without censure, but you would also run the risk of losing her entirely, as you well know, considering the unusual circumstances of your courtship with her.

It would be a pity to endure all the hardships of war and then to come home to hardships anew.

Though Miss Ginnie is not entirely satisfactory to you, I very much doubt that taking up a correspondence with myself would be satisfactory, either. I have very little to relate to you other than details of the household budget, or perhaps some gossip from the Ganymede. I doubt either would prove thrilling reading, nor would they be in any way a balm to you in your sojourn at the Front.

Respectfully,

Jeeves

*

Dear Ginnie,

Sorry for the lapse in correspondence, old girl. I needed to write to my man, just once. Housekeeping, what what. I hope you understand.

Apologies all around for the gaffs I’ve made recently. You’re absolutely right, as always, about everything. I shall reform, post-haste.

It looks as though old Monty may have finally whacked up the ginger to take a shot at defending France, and the word is we’re going to be sent out soon. Everything is getting tense around here in a way I’ve never experienced before. Men just staring at their hands, tempers on a hair-trigger. Some of the other lads and I have requested a bit of leave first, but it’s been denied. Not enough time to spare, apparently. I did rather hope to hold you in my arms one last time before the gavel falls, but it is not to be. Ah well. We shall meet at Philippi, eh, old prune?

Sometimes you are all that I can think about. No, most times. I lie in here on my cot and I think of you, the way you float about like an angel without a sound, the way dim lights brighten when you enter a room. The beautiful scent of you, the feel of your dark hair between my fingers, the way I feel as though I could conquer the whole bally world whenever you smile at me. You’re so stingy with your smiles, my dear. I know when I get one, I’ve earned it.

If I don’t make it, I want you to know one thing. I want you to know that it was worth it. I wouldn’t change a thing, not one. Even if it kills me, it was worth it to keep you safe.

With all of my love forever, I am

Yours,

Bertie

*

Dear Ginnie,

I hope I didn’t say anything to upset you. I didn’t mean for my last missive to get so weighty; it just came out that way. I meant every word, but I know you’re not accustomed to hearing me talk so seriously, so I understand if you’re spooked. We rather kept things light in the old days, didn’t we? Now it feels like anything light just floats away right out of my head.

I will try to make you smile, all the same. My friend Charlie tried the letter-withholding wheeze and it worked like a charm. It only took one week of radio silence on his end for him to receive a frantic letter from the girl. Quick as lightning he wrote and asked if she would be his wife and she wrote right back in the affirmative so everything is oojah-cum-spiff on that front, thanks to you. He told me he’ll buy you a new dress as a thank you when we’re all done with this, and I told him there was no need, but he insists.

I may have made a mistake in talking about you to him so much, old thing. If we both make it out of here, he’s going to want to meet you and I have no idea what we’re going to do about that. Should I begin to sprinkle in a hint or two, to see how he reacts? I recall that was how we played it with Aunt Dahlia, and that whole thing worked out like billy-oh. Or is the risk too great, given the circs?

I suppose we’ll just cross that particular Rubicon when we come to it, what?

Please write soon. I know you’re all right, but I seem to be nothing but anxieties these days and I keep picturing you dead in a ditch somewhere.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Ginnie,

I say, you’re not trying out the whole letter-withholding wheeze on me, are you? If so, I’m dashed if I can think why you would. I write to you pretty much as often as I can.

Or is it because I wrote to Jeeves instead of you, right after you read me the riot act about being careful and all that? I suppose that could be it. I know you’re one to wear the mask and to withdraw into a haughty silence when affronted, but I did hope you would make an exception during wartime.

We’re being sent to France. It’s official, from the top down. Three more days on this lovely old Island and then off we go. We are headed to Dover and thence to France by some sort of dreadful military transport ship at dusk, I suppose to hide us. Darkness settles on roofs and walls, but the sea, sea in the darkness calls, what? Then we traipse via Paris to belly up to the Marginal Line and keep the world safe for democracy and all that.

I don’t suppose you still want that ring? Perhaps I’ll pick one up just for laughs. I suppose it was always just for laughs, all things considered. I know you’d never actually wear it. What would the neighbors think and all that.

Please write. If I don’t hear from you before I go I’ll write again to tell you how you can reach me over there.

Please be all right. This whole war gag is entirely pointless if you aren’t.

Love,

Bertie

*

Jeeves,

Enclosed is my current address should you need to contact me. Do pass it on to Ginnie if you think she still wants it. I will update you as necessary.

France isn’t much like I remember it. A lot less baccarat and hydroplaning, a lot more concrete and barbed wire. I daresay Aunt Agatha would feel right at home here these days.

I purchased a little trinket for Ginnie in Paris. I’ll keep it on my person for now.

Sincerely.
B.W. Wooster

*

Dear Ginnie,

This feels like an exercise in futility at this point but I don’t know how to stop talking to you. Every bally thought I have I want to speak out loud to you. Every fear, every hope, every dashed thing that happens to me, the first thing I think is, ‘I’ve got to tell Ginnie about this.’

I’ve seen some action, as they say. It’s about as much fun as you’d think. It made my head feel as though it were filled with that dreadful sound you get when you leave the wireless between two stations. All kinds of noises and frightful sights. I’m all right. Everyone I know is all right. There were losses, but none that I’m personally acquainted with. We’re still holding strong along the Marginal Line, but France is not at all as it once was. It rather makes a fellow want to sit down and cry in despair, what? I don’t really understand any of this, Ginnie. None of it makes a lick of sense and I wish I had you here with me to explain it all. You always knew how to make things make sense.

Although I doubt even you could explain why this has happened.

And I don’t want you here, not really, not at all. I want you where you are, wherever that is. I want you far from here and safe.

Are you safe, my love? You don’t need to write a word more than that. Just a single page with the word ‘safe’ written on it will be enough for me. I admit to being rather curious, but I won’t press you for answers. Old Bertram knows well enough not to butt in where he isn’t wanted.

I am sorry if I have disappointed you somehow. I always knew I’d do something fatheaded that would put you off, and honestly I hope that’s what has happened. I hope you’re simply finished with me, and not finished entirely. And if you are – finished with me, I mean, I do want you to know that it’s perfectly spiffing for you to remain in your current place of residence. I wouldn’t put you out, my dear, not after everything you’ve done for me. So if you’re delaying breaking the bad news on that account, delay no more.

I’m running around in circles in my mind, old top. Tell me you’re safe and then never speak to me again, and I will be all right.

Love (if love is still welcome, that is),

Bertie

Chapter Text

My dear Bertram,

I cannot hope to apologize sufficiently to make up for the suffering I have caused you, however unintentionally. I will apologize once every morning and once every evening for the rest of our lives, if that will be satisfactory to you.

I will start by saying that I am safe, for now. I was not precisely safe for several weeks, though I was not in mortal peril as you are. I will must also stress to you most urgently that you have not aroused any anger or resentment within me. I was concerned for our safety, but my ardour for you was unmarred. Is unmarred.

The unfortunate facts are these: a certain mature woman of my acquaintance, who happens to be the aunt of someone quite dear to me, contrived a lie to the local constabulary and had them evict me from my place of residence. She informed them that I do not legally reside in that place and that I have no right to live there, that it belongs to a soldier who is at the front and I have taken advantage of the situation to move in and take free lodging, as it were. Since my name does not appear on the lease agreement, nor the insurance statements, nor any of the bank accounts from which expenses for the flat are paid, they believed her.

In the moment that they arrived, it so happened that I was out, so upon my return to the flat, I found them there, and I was barred from entry. As such, I was unable to go to my room and find the letters that are addressed to me at that location, which could have at least proven to them that I had some legitimacy. I was evicted without the opportunity to gather any belongings. My key was confiscated and given over to the woman, and I was rendered homeless, having only the few bills in my pockets to see me through. I was told that I was fortunate not to be arrested.

I have spent the last few weeks staying at a Ladies’ Club whose name is known to you. The woman who was the cause of all of my troubles had left her son in the flat in order to protect it, so I have been watching it, waiting for my chance to enter. I knew the doorman would let me in with his spare key when I asked, but I was disinclined to risk encountering the young man, for reasons which I believe are known to you.

He has a temper, for one thing. He also has a known tendency to carry weapons, as you recall.

Fortunately, I was able to gain entry to the flat yesterday, at which point I quickly gathered all the proof I could find of my legitimate right to reside there. I proceeded to the police station where I showed them the proof, and I informed them that as I do have written permission to access the funds in the accounts and to act on behalf of the legal owner of said accounts during his extended absence, there would be no barrier to me hiring counsel, should the issue proceed to trial. They agreed that I was within my rights to continue residing at the residence in question, and two officers accompanied me to the flat. Upon entry, we found the young man once again present, and the officers encouraged him to leave without making a scene, and he acquiesced. I doubt very much that this issue is concluded, but for the moment, at least, I am home and I am safe.

It should also please you to know that I keep your letters well-hidden, and the gentleman who occupied the flat in my absence did not find them, so all is well in that regard. The letters that arrived during my absence were mostly untouched. He only opened the one that you addressed to Jeeves. I am grateful indeed that you only sent once such letter, and that it was written with impeccable discretion.

I am deeply sorry that I could not write to you during your first weeks abroad, and that the suffering you experienced was compounded by my lack of correspondence. Please be cognizant of the fact that this is not at all the way I would have chosen for these last weeks to go. I cannot begin to fathom how it will ever be possible for me to make it up to you.

I do not understand entirely why things are as they are. Much of it lies in recent history, no doubt, as the damage caused by the Great War sowed the seeds of distrust and resentment amongst the various peoples of Europe. Why such seeds must bloom into times of such unfathomable terror as these is difficult for a mere man to comprehend.

Spinoza would say that things could not have been produced by God in any other way or in any other order than that which they are, that all events are laid out in a strict delineation from the beginning and are thus immutable. There was a time when I found a distinct comfort in his conclusion. I believed that if there were no accidents, then that must mean that I myself could not be an aberration from whatever divine intention may exist, regardless of all ample evidence to the contrary. My connection with you helped to cement that conviction, as I viewed the marriage of our two minds as categorical evidence that all had been placed into a correct and inexorable order, divinely appointed; in short, that God was in his Heaven and all was right with the world. To me, you have always seemed inevitable.

As I have attempted to take solace in that thought recently in connection with our current predicament, however, I have found that this particular philosophy can eventually wear thin. I simply cannot bring myself to believe that this is what God planned for you. I apologize that I am unable to give you greater philosophical alleviation.

Before I close my missive, however, I feel compelled to point out – if you will forgive me – that you appear to be under a certain misapprehension. The fortification between France and Germany where you currently find yourself is not called the Marginal Line, but is in fact the Maginot Line. It acquired its name from the French Minister of War André Maginot, who was instrumental in convincing the French Parliament to allocate funds for its construction in the year 1926, I believe. Though he did not survive to see construction on the fortifications completed, his influence was highly regarded and the people of France Christened the line the Maginot in recognition of his efforts.

Under no circumstances are you to ‘sprinkle hints’ regarding our understanding to anyone. On this point I must be exceedingly firm.

With all of my love, unabated,

G.

*

Dear Ginnie,

I say, I am appalled. I say, absolutely appalled. You have nothing to apologize for. If anything, I should be apologizing to you for the sin of being related to someone who combs her hair with a devil’s pitchfork and uses kittens for target practice. I shall write to her at once and inform her that I will absolutely use legal force should she attempt to commandeer my home again.

Also, do remember that you are not without friends and allies, old prune. Aunt Dahlia has expressed a willingness to take you in on numerous occasions. She is fully apprised of our circumstances, as you know, and has no qualms. She has also banned Aunt Agatha and her progeny from setting foot on her property, ever since Bonzo and Thomas got into that fist fight over some beazel a few years back. Please do not hesitate for a mo. if you feel that you might be in danger! Lock the old flat up and move to Brinkley for the duration of the war. Aunt Dahlia would love the company, now that Uncle Tom has shuffled off the mortal whatsit. She likes you more than she likes me anyway.

You have a sister as well, if memory serves, and a niece, and a Biffy. Allies abound! I know that you are accustomed to being the cavalry yourself, rather than calling for it, but there is no need for you to weather any of these storms alone, even if I cannot be by your side.

All that being said, I’m thrilled to hear from you, thrilled to know you’re alive, thrilled to know the old fire still burns within your breast for Bertram, thrilled to know that no later light has lightened up your heaven. Thrilled, absolutely. Tickled pink, really. I shall positively float through the rest of the war.

I have to admit that I look askance at your Spinoza’s assertion that all is as intended and that God makes no mistakes. What rot, honestly. One need only read about ten pages of the scripture to conclude that God does in fact make mistakes. Barrels of them. And not just little oopsies, either but absolute bloomers! Why, he had to drown the whole jolly lot of us once and start over nearly from scratch. Far be it from me to comment on the visage of the Almighty, but I’d wager his face was a bit red when he called the rains down that day.

All that being said, I don’t see a bit what God’s mistakes, or lack thereof, could possibly have to do with you, old prune. If there has ever been a clearer contender for the title of God’s Perfect Creation, I can’t think of one. God makes fumbles and blunders left and right but he erred not a jot when he made you.

There was a skirmish last night. I can’t give you too many specifics, both for security reasons and because I bally well forgot a lot of it – it can all get quite confusing, let me tell you – but we’re still lined up at the border fortifications (the Maginot Line, as you informed me, thank you), nervous as a row of schoolboys at their first mixed dance, though the number of boys in our line is a bit diminished.

It is also just about Christmas, I think, and it is damned cold out here, and the snow is up to my knees at every step. I suppose that’s pretty much the way of it with this war nonsense. I can’t say I’m much of a fan. I’d much rather be spending the Yuletide at Montecristo with you, like the old days. I’d even take a Christmas meal at Totleigh Towers over this, though I might still prefer this to any engagements to Bassets or Crayes.

What are your plans for the Yuletide celebration, old prune? Visiting the aforementioned sister, perhaps? A rollicking evening with friends from the Club? Perhaps my Aunt Dahlia would have you for dinner. I know it’s not what it was under dear old Anatole, but the chap he trained in his waning years holds up his end of things all right.

I say, I know it won’t be a surprise, but I’d be chuffed all the same if you got yourself a little something at the bookstore. Using my checkbook, of course. If you’re off  of the old Spinoza, as it seems you are, perhaps you could dabble in some other philosophizing chappie. I’ve heard good things about Socrates, I think. The sky’s the limit, old thing. There’s got to be some brainy cove out there who has figured things like this out.

With all my love and then some,

Bertie

*

Dear Bertram,

I specifically avoided suggesting that it was a relative of yours who evicted me. I also specifically avoided using any names. Please, you must remember to be more careful. Do recall the Light Brigade, with cannon to the right of them, cannon to the left of them, cannon behind them. Their predicament was not entirely unlike our own.

Have you no shelter? I admit I have little knowledge of the conditions under which you are currently serving, but if my brother’s experience of the previous conflict is any comparison, I fear they are poor indeed.

I am concerned for your health. It is my understanding that continuous exposure to cold weakens the immune system. It is also my recollection that severe illness is rampant in army camps. Though my brother was spared any lengthy time in trenches by nature of his position in the quartermaster’s retinue, the discomfort and illness of the soldiers that he witnessed during his infrequent visits to the Front have haunted him. Or so he informs me.

I will visit the Museum Reading Room to learn more about illness in army camps and how to avoid illness under such conditions.

I have no intention of quitting the city, or of availing myself of the generosity of others. I am perfectly capable of managing my own concerns, as you well know. I do appreciate the consideration you have expressed for me. I assure you that now that I am aware of the risks, I am taking every precaution. For example, I have changed the locks and had new keys made. I was somewhat concerned that copies of the old key might be in undesirable hands, and now that apprehension no longer exists.

I feel that it goes without saying that seeing the word ‘skirmish’ in your recent letter was deeply distressful to me. It is my fervent hope that such events are few and far between.

I have no specific plans for Christmas, I’m afraid.

As for the ring that you purchased in Paris for me, you are correct that I will not wear it. I will, however, keep it on my person at all times, after you have had the opportunity to present it to me. And do please know that I would wear it proudly if it were wise and safe to do so.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Aunt Dahlia,

What ho, what ho, what ho? I hope you had a very happy Christmas! How does the world treat my favorite relative? Your nephew Bertram remains unscathed thus far, so that’s all to the good, what?

I’m writing to crave a boon, as Reggie would say. He’s got to get out of London for a bit – Reggie, I mean. There are some bad goings on there that he can inform you of himself. All I can tell you through text is that it is really rotten. Ripe stuff! And someone we both know and loathe is at the bottom of it.

I was wondering if you wouldn’t put him up? He’s insisting that he needn’t trouble anyone and all that rot, you know, but if you were to ring him up and ask him to stay for an extended visit, I’m certain he would agree. Tell him you’re lonely, or that you’re worried about me and you need bucking up. He won’t do a dashed thing if it’s for his own good but he’d hop on a train in an instant if he thought you needed him.

I wouldn’t ask this of you, except that my absence has really left him in a tight spot, if you know what I mean. I really should have foreseen this, but I suppose there wasn’t much time for foreseeing much of anything when wicked old Aunt A. came huffing and puffing at my door and told me the jig was up. Had I been thinking properly, I should have put his name on the old accounts or something, so that the money could be construed to be rightfully his. It really ought to have been for years now, but I just never thought of it because he always carries the checkbook anyway. But since it isn’t – the money, I mean – his, I mean – and neither is the flat, well, he’s rather stuck, I’m afraid, what, what. Anyone claiming to be my next of kin could shove him out at any moment. And certain relatives of ours are rather more equipped with brawn than with brain; you know of whom I speak.

I’m rambling a bit, but I’m pipped, Aunt Dahlia, I mean to say, absolutely pipped. Do call him, won’t you? Make up some terrible row between Tuppy and Angela if you have to, but get him out of London. I don’t know if I’ll get back to Blighty anytime soon, but the instant I do I’ll make my way straight to the bank and put everything to rights. Until then, he requires our protection.

At least I had the wisdom to write up a will some time back. Reggie gets the lot. Don’t tell him; he’d object strenuously. He doesn’t think he deserves it. Ha! Can you imagine?

I know Ethel will be put out. She probably thinks I should leave it all to the horde of nieces she produced, but dash it – I bought them that house, didn’t I? When they returned from India? And I put the girls through school. Sent them gifts and all. Saw them through until they reached a woman’s estate? The Scholfield contingent is doing fine, wouldn’t you say? Only we were never that close, really, the old sister and I, and I did do my best to be a good Uncle, but they lived so far away at first and then they were all off at school. And it isn’t as though Uncle Willoughby left them nothing. He just left me more because I lived with him between terms after all that, you know, with the Mater and the Pater, and I fancy he rather saw me as the son he’d never had, what? It isn’t my fault that Ethel lived with Aunt A. and then hied it to India with Frank the moment she came of age.

Claude and Eustace will steam from their ears! They’re delighted that I never made any little Woosters because they think that means they’ll get the whole heap, but if there are a couple of blighters who absolutely don’t deserve to feast on the fatted calf at my expense, well, they are them. Or they. They are they. Or them?  Claude and Eustace, I mean.

Not-so-little Harold is all right, but he does well enough for himself. Besides, not a one of them knew my Uncle Willoughby, not so much as a how-do-you-do, so it never felt right to leave it to any of them anyway.

I’m rambling a bit. Reggie would call it ‘justifying.’ Well, I am justifying, because it’s justified. The money isn’t Wooster money, not really, it being from Uncle Willoughby and all, and if this world were a place that made a lick of sense, not a soul in it would think a thing about my leaving it to the person who

I mean, about my leaving it to someone like Reggie, don’t you know, who has been such a good friend for such a long time. If nothing else, if it were nothing else at all, I couldn’t bear the thought of him having to go off and serve some other cove in order to put food on the table, so to speak, whilst still in mourning attire for yours truly. If he hadn’t spent the last fifteen years seeing to my every little need, he probably would have made his own fortune ten times over. It’s the least I could do, what?

Anyway, right-ho, sorry for the detour into the murky mind of B. Wooster. I try to stay out of there myself if I can help it!

Thank you, aged R. I know you shan’t let me down. I know you shan’t let Reggie down. You still owe him for the cow creamer, after all.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Ginnie,

Oh yes, my dear, I have excellent shelter. Whatever your brother or whoever-you-say-it-was saw in the Great War, our circumstances are worlds away. No worries there! I sleep in a warm bed in a warm underground bunker each night and it is only occasionally that I am called upon to monitor the men as they man the fortifications.

The French have been nothing but accommodating, whatever their reputation, and every day I am plied with slops as fine as anything Anatole used to dish out. No illness to speak of, and I’m nearly never out in the cold for long, so spare yourself the anxiety.

It really is a marvel, the Maginot sitch! They’ve practically dug out a city under the ground for us! It goes down for miles. We’ve even got our own underground rail system that they used to ship us in. We like to joke that we’ve joined ranks with the moles now. Nearly all of our time is spent beneath the dirt. Whenever they drop bombs on us we’re safe as tots in the nursery down here.

Don’t worry yourself about the skirmish, either, old top. All is quiet on the Western Front! Or is this the Eastern Front? Western, certainly, I think. Although, we’re all facing East, I think, so does that make it Eastern? Actually, I suppose we’re angled rather more in a Northeasterly direction at the mo. I shall ask Charlie first thing. You know he’s my Lieutenant? He knows an awful lot, I’ll tell you. Real brainy cove! I rather think he dines regularly on fish, when he’s not on bleak soldier’s rations. Well, regardless whether this front where I find myself is the Eastern or the Western, or the Northeastern, the fact remains that it is very, very quiet, and it really wasn’t fair of me to even call it a skirmish. Tussle would be the mot juste, I think. I shall be much more careful with my terminology in future so as to avoid disturbing you unduly.

As for your determination to remain in London, that is to be lauded, of course, as all great acts of courage should be. So long as no one needs you keenly elsewhere, then London is where you should remain. I know better than anyone how very abundantly equipped you are for managing affairs of all types, yours and mine and everyone else’s too.

I say, have you read any more of my books lately? Keep me abreast! I’ve enjoyed remembering some of my old favorites with you. I say, do you recall that time I told you about when I was reading one of my spine tinglers and I heard a ghostly voice calling my name? It was only Gussie hiding from Spode under my bed of course, but that was a dashed good read! Truly inversive. Or do I mean immersive? Immersive! Put me right into the mind frame where a ghostly voice emanating from beneath one’s bed would just about put one right out of one’s skin, what? You don’t happen to remember what book that was, do you? This would have been at Totleigh Towers, around the time of the cow creamer incident. I carried the thing about with me all week. If you do recall the title, I recommend it!

Tell me, did you ever buy yourself anything on my behalf for Christmas? A fine crisp copy of Plato’s latest effort, perhaps? Some fresh new confessions from Rousseau?

Oh, this is a jolly thing! One of our fine French hosts let me into the farmhouse play their piano a few days ago. I hadn’t laid finger on an ivory since the day I left home and it was dashed fine.

All is well here.

Love,

Bertie

*

My dear Bertie,

I called Reggie yesterday, as you requested, and though I did my best to concoct a convincing story about Tuppy and Angela’s marriage being on the rocks, he gave me the pip. All he had to say was, ‘That is most unfortunate.’ Then he said he was quite busy and had no time to visit Brinkley Court until a month hence at the earliest. You’re absolutely right that whatever’s going on has got him rattled. I assure you I shall press him again.

I am delighted to hear that you are well. You know all of us here at Brinkley are worried sick about you. I can’t stop listening to every broadcast. Thank Heaven Germany has made no move toward invading France with any real gusto. I can only hope that old ass in Berlin decides to give the whole thing up as a bad job and everything can go back to normal.

You don’t need to justify a thing to me, Bertie darling. I’d leave the lot to Reggie myself if I didn’t have Angela and Bonzo to fuss about.

Love,

Aunt Dahlia

*

Bertie,

You must be quite proud of yourself. That degenerate man of yours has taken it. I hope you know that breaking and entering is a serious criminal offense, and the moment  I can find evidence that confirms my suspicions as to the identity of the thief, I shall have the authorities onto him.

I am shocked and aghast that after he has dragged you down into base depravity, you still permit him to inhabit your property and function on your behalf.

Agatha Craye, Lady Worplesdon

*

Dear Ginnie,

I received some rum missives from two mature women of my acquaintance, as you like to say, and not a word from you in some time. What are you up to?

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Bertram,

First allow me to apologize for failing to reply for so long a time.

I am gratified to hear that your accommodations are sufficient. I did take the liberty of informing myself more deeply about the Maginot fortifications and I am sufficiently satisfied that you are not suffering as the men my brother witnessed in the trenches did.

I am confused somewhat, however, as to the quality of your nourishment. In one paragraph you wrote that you are plied with toothsome fare, and in another you mentioned ‘bleak soldier’s rations.’ Which, exactly, are you consuming?

How often are bombs dropped upon you, precisely?

While news reports from your region are not entirely dire, I am not certain that I would describe it as being ‘all quiet.’ Though I am loathe to insinuate that you are being anything other than truthful with me, there is a part of me that wonders if, in your natural tendency to be considerate of my feelings, you haven’t attempted to mislead me into believing your conditions are better than they are.

Unfortunately I have had little time for shopping or for philosophy lately, so I have not yet purchased the gift for myself that you so generously offered. While I did say that I would remain in London, I have in fact done some light traveling. The thought came to me as I was reading one of your mystery novels, in fact. You might recall the one in which the thief made off with certain priceless gems from a lady’s boudoir, having gained access to the interior of the house by disguising himself as a representative from the telephone company, investigating a fault in the phone line? It is a most diverting tale, and I thought it was just the sort of thing I should enjoy reading on a brief excursion to the country. Getting away from the hustle and bustle of the city with a good book was just what I needed to buoy my spirits. I am sorry indeed that I gave so little credence to your books in previous years. They can be quite enlightening in their own way.

Incidentally, I have recently recovered an old letter that I wrote to you some years ago while I was away on holiday. It was particularly passionate. More so than is advisable, I fear. It is the one that you used to carry with you in your breast pocket until you unfortunately misplaced it last March. I intend to destroy it.

Also, I am given to understand that a certain mature woman of our acquaintance no longer has any tangible reason challenge your presence at home, should circumstances align in such a way that you are able to return.

Love,

Ginnie

*

Dear Ginnie,

Words fail me. You continue to astound. I mean to say, I am astounded.

I know exactly the letter you mean, and if you destroy it I will not be held responsible for my actions. Under no circumstances are you to destroy it. If you have already destroyed it, then I expect you to rewrite it, as accurately as your memory will allow. I do not give a flying fig if it is advisable. I have every faith in your ability to conceal it somewhere where it shall remain virtually invisible. I swear on the grave of the old Mater herself that I will not carry it about with me ever again, only don’t destroy it!

Now that you have returned from your jaunt to the country, I absolutely demand that you purchase yourself a gift. Buy yourself the whole bally bookstore, you beautiful thing.

Love,

Bertie

P.S. I can’t stop thinking about tea. Your tea, specifically. The moment you read the old Victory headline in the papers, I want you to put the kettle on, what? I’ll be at your side by the time it boils.

P.P.S. I feel dashed sorry to ask this of you, but please do stop asking after my circs. It’s really not so bad as wars go, or so I am informed, but it is a war, old thing. I don’t relish misleading you, but the details will only distress you, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Go ahead and look at my picture in the evening, as it pleases you, and carry on with things. I hope you will have peace there, for peace comes dripping slow, and noon a purple glow and all that, as the fellow said. And something something about a bee-loud glade, what? I mean to say, be calm in thy soul, old fruit. You can’t outsmart a war.

I say, I rather wish I could have a photograph of you, but I suppose that would not be advisable, what?

*

My Dear Aunt A.,

I have no idea what you are nattering about. What exactly is he supposed to have taken? Are you missing anything of legitimate value? Something you rightfully purchased and owned? Did anyone see him on the premises? Is there any evidence at all that something was taken other than your word? I fear you are allowing your notoriously overactive imagination to run away with you, Aged A. This is the Pearl Incident all over again. Or don’t you recall that you have a well-established history of tossing baseless accusations of thievery at innocent staff?

Have you seen a doctor lately?

And what on Earth do you mean by base depravity? I should hope that you have some robust evidence to back up an accusation of that sort against an upstanding gentleman and esteemed officer of the BEF who is, at this very moment, in the field, defending king and country from the forces of evil.

It is my understanding that you have no evidence.

This worries me, dear Aunt. You sound unwell. Again, I must urge you most strenuously to see a doctor. A nerve specialist. You must recall how loony Uncle Henry became in his later years. I would hate to see you travel such a sorrowful path, what? For one thing, the rabbits deserve better.

Tinkerty-Tonk,

Captain Bertram W. Wooster

Chapter Text

To Major Archibald Evans,

You do not know me, but it has come to my attention that a gentleman of my acquaintance, a Captain Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, is currently serving as your second-in-command. No doubt you are aware by now of his abilities in this particular field, and his complete lack of experience, but I am writing to inform you of a much graver matter.

I have reason to believe that Captain Wooster has Bolshevik sympathies. In fact, I was present at an event that he hosted in his flat in the year 1925 at which no fewer than four prominent members of the Communist Party’s London Chapter were present. While it is no crime, certainly, to be a member of the Communist Party, my belief is that it is far from ideal for an officer of the British Army to hold divided loyalties. Would it not be best, given the circumstances, to dismiss him from service? I ask out of genuine apprehension for the security of the nation in this time of crisis.

Sincerely,

A Concerned Citizen

*

Dear Bertram,

Enclosed you will find a package of your preferred oolong, and a small case of sugar mixed with powdered milk. I have also included a card with detailed instructions as to the proper preparation of tea. I don’t know precisely what your facilities are, but if there is a pan, water, and a source of heat, then you should be able to achieve something not entirely unlike the tea you enjoy at home. Do tell me when you have run through your supply and I will send you another. I haven’t a great amount of it, imports being scarce presently, but I have been reserving it all for you regardless. Should the war run long, it will be unusable by the time of your return, so you might as well have it now.

I feel that I should inform you that your Aunt, Mrs. Travers, has been ringing me regularly. It seems that the marriage between your cousins Mr. and Mrs. Hildebrand Glossop is in some peril. I cannot say that this development is surprising to me, considering how prone their relationship has always been to rupture. Mrs. Travers is requesting that I come for an extended stay in order to see if I might be able to affect a reconciliation between them. I have resisted, but she is most insistent, and of course I am loathe to refuse her in her hour of need.

I am currently waiting for a response from a rather important letter, however. Once I have received it, then, depending on its contents, I may acquiesce to your aunt’s request, in which case you will need to address your letters to me at Brinkley Court instead. I shall inform you of my decision as soon as it is made.

If you truly desire that I resist asking after your well-being, then I will attempt to comply. I have no wish whatsoever to cause you greater distress than that which you already bear. I can well appreciate the desire, under the circumstances, to keep our communications more felicitous and less serious in tone, and I shall endeavor to do so for your sake.

I have finally purchased myself a book, as you requested some time ago. After much thought and care, I chose multi-volume compendium of the works of David Hume, whose philosophy is largely unknown to me.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Dahlia,

I know that relations have cooled between us, but I have a most disturbing story to relate to you.

Last month, while my husband and I were away for an extended period visiting a friend in Berkshire, our electricity went out. Due to the ongoing war, we have been obliged to dismiss nearly all of our staff and replace them with women from the village, who come only for the day and return home at night. It was one of these who discovered the outage when she arrived to do her dusting one morning. She completed her work, then phoned the electric company from her home after returning there for the evening. When she returned the next morning, a man was waiting outside the door to our house. She described him as being tall and broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and wearing a beard. He had what she believed to be a cockney accent, but I have reason to believe that this was affected.

He told her that he was an electrician, and that he required unfettered access to the home in order to put the electricity to rights. Like the fool that she is, she let him in and did not monitor his movements within the house, choosing instead to attend to her cleaning. After roughly an hour, the electricity was restored, and the man departed.

All of that may sound perfectly ordinary, but the trouble is this: two hours later, another electrician appeared, saying that the company had sent him to restore power. She explained that an electrician had already come and gone, and that the power had been restored, to which the new man expressed disbelief. Apparently he was the only electrician who had been sent out by the company that day, and for that reason, he was suspicious that the first man must have been a thief in disguise. The cleaning woman did  call the police, and they conducted a thorough search of the house to determine if anything was missing and concluded that everything was precisely where I had left it.

When I returned home, however, I found that while no valuables had been a taken, I was in fact missing a personal letter containing sensitive information.

I believe that it was Bertie’s man who came in purporting to be an electrician, and that he has made off with the letter for reasons that are known only to him. I would never dream of bringing you into a situation so rife with low intrigue, except that I am aware that you are in the habit of hosting this criminal under your roof. Should he appear at your door anytime soon, I strongly advise you to call the police and have him apprehended. I have faith that my cleaning woman can identify him, should they come face to face.

Sincerely,

Agatha

*

My dear Agatha,

I assure you that I harbor no criminals under my roof. Nobody who inhabits my rooms and breaks my bread has ever been arrested or charged with a crime, save Bertie, of course, who hasn’t pinched a policeman’s helmet in over a decade and is currently in good standing with the law, and has even volunteered to serve our nation in its time of crisis, despite being so near the age of exemption that he was practically in the clear. Why he would choose to do such a thing has been a mystery to all of us here at Brinkley, but we suppose it must be down to his great love for others and his hero’s heart. Truly, a great man was lurking inside that fat head all along, wouldn’t you say?

Should anyone staying here at any point happen to resemble a bearded cockney electrician, then that is certainly not a crime. Plenty of people resemble plenty of other people, and that is hardly grounds to be carted off to the chokey.

It sounds to me as if your electric company erred and sent two electricians without marking one down. It happens all the time. Why just last month I was sent a plumber on Friday and then another on Monday, both to repair the same issue. It is the war, Agatha, my dear. All of the experienced secretaries and such are overseas now, and everyone taking up the work here has no idea what they’re about. After all, the alleged thief did, in fact, restore your electricity, so who’s to say he wasn’t an electrician?

As for the missing letter, if it was a personal letter of your own, then I am sincerely grieved to learn that it is missing. Rum luck. If, however, it was a letter addressed to and clearly belonging to someone else – someone who, perhaps, may have stayed as a guest beneath your roof sometime early last year, then I think its disappearance is all to the good. The only possible reason for retaining a personal letter belonging to someone else is to engage in blackmail, and I know for certain that you are too well-bred to ever consider walking such a low road as that. I would hate to think that word could get out that you are in the habit of stealing your guests’ personal letters in order to threaten them with sensitive information. It could severely damage your reputation in all the best circles, for one thing. Besides all that, it is a very severe crime, and I know your opinion of criminals. It would be terrible for you to be mistaken for a common blackmailer when you are so fond of presenting yourself as the absolute model of respectability.

I say all of this with a deep sense of sisterly care and concern.

Besides, it couldn’t possibly have been Bertie’s man who came to your home last month, because I was stopping with him in Bertie’s flat at the time. I am prepared to say so to anyone who should ask, even if it be a Beak with a gavel.

Love,

Dahlia

*

Dear Ginnie,

Smashing! Consume that Hume old top, and tell me all.

I apologize that my reply was delayed. We’ve had to shift a bit. I’m not supposed to wag the lips too much, but apparently there was more to be done in a different part of the country, so we’ve relocated. It’s not exactly hopping here, either, but I trust the fellows up top know what they’re doing. Old Gorty’s done all right for us so far.

The tea is a delight, old thing. A true delight. It pales in comparison to yours, of course, but with an old pot that Charlie found, placed carefully on a log fire, and a close scrutiny of your instructions, Charlie and I managed to bang together a couple of cups of something that was almost fine. I only burned myself twice. We’ve already made plans to meet for tea again in three days’ time, which is the next instant that we shall both be free from responsibilities at once, barring any unexpected events.

I am delighted to hear that old Aunt D. has been jangling the phone off the hook. I think you absolutely must hie thee to Brinkley, if the aged A. is bellowing. And while you’re there you could give me a bit of an update on the lives and times of all of my relatives. How is Aunt Dahlia? How is Angela? How is Tuppy? How are the young Glossop lads doing in their studies? Have either of them been sent down yet? If not, I’m certain it’s only a matter of time. They have their mother’s flare for the dramatic and their father’s bulldogged tenacity, and that’s just about the worst combination of traits that I can think of. Tell me all on this front as well.

It might surprise you to know that I have not had a word written from a one of them, save a single missive from Aunt Dahlia. I suppose that isn’t all that surprising, since we never were ones for letter writing before, but when a man is at war, he rather expects to get a line or two now and then, what? Perhaps you could chivvy Angela at least to send her regards to the old cuz?

I say, old fruit, you haven’t been writing to my Major, have you? I almost hate to mention it, only Archie asked me a couple of rummy questions yesterday about Communists in my flat and so forth, and at first I hadn’t the haziest smattering of a thought as to what he could be going on about. Then I remembered Bingo’s brief dalliance with the Rowbotham woman and the light switched on. I mean to say, all became clear to me. I explained the whole sitch to him, trying not to topple over in laughter, and by the end he was laughing fairly heartily himself, what what? It was all rather topping actually; he told me he hasn’t laughed so hard since the war began and it felt grand to smile again. We haven’t really got on so well before now and it was good to shatter the old glacier at last.

I did find my way around to asking how he found out about the ordeal, and he said he’d received an anonymous letter. He assumed it was from one of the Communists themselves, trying to sabotage me, and I admit I allowed him to continue in that belief. I mean, what was I to say?

‘Oh no, old man, it’s just my fiancée trying to get me kicked out of the army so that I don’t get killed!”

I spelled that right, didn’t I? Two E’s, yes?

I suppose I could have explained that, but then he’d probably want to know more about us and our history, and honestly I don’t know how long I can keep talking about you before I slip up. Or choke up, to be frank.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the effort, old prune. Your heart’s in the right place. Still, this really must stop. I don’t know what other schemes you’ve already tried and abandoned for you to stoop to tarnishing my good name to my superior officers, but I really do think it’s about time you gave it up. The British Army isn’t some fatheaded school chum of mine that you can trick into discharging me. I think you must know that, if you take a mo. to think it over. Besides, even if you did manage to spring me from my sentence in the old armed f., I don’t know that I should be grateful. I’m rather needed here, you know. I don’t know that I’m exactly what they’d call a whiz with stratagems and so forth, but the young men here have become rather dependent on me for bucking up purposes, when necessary, and I shouldn’t like to leave them at this juncture. We’ve a long way to go, I fear, before this thing is through and I don’t know that I have ever felt quite so necessary before. Does that make sense to you, my dear?

You should give it up for your own sake, as well, I think. What was that wheeze you told me about the psychology of grief back when old Uncle Tom kicked the bucket and Aunt Dahlia wouldn’t stop talking about him as though he were just in the next room? Is it denial, old thing?

You might be in denial. You need to step back. Go to Brinkley. Do some fishing in some stream there. Fix Tuppy and Angela’s marriage for a lark. Read your Hume.

You can’t save me this time, old prune, and though I know that isn’t easy to swallow, we must all take the good with the bad, what? You’ve got me out of a great many scrapes in the past; there’s no danger of me forgetting all that I owe you. This time it’s my turn, do you see?

Love,

Bertie

P.S. I do have one question though. How did you even learn the Major’s name? I’m absolutely certain I have never mentioned him to you before this letter. I really only mention Charlie, I think, who has been my pal since day one.

*

Dear Bertram,

Am I correct in supposing that you are mobilizing toward Belgium?

I am not in denial. I am perfectly aware of our circumstances.

The letter that Major Evans received was from an anonymous source, and I see no reason why you should immediately conclude that it was I who sent it.

I have decided to go to Brinkley Court, so please contact me there until I inform you otherwise. I will most certainly relay what information I can as to the current status of all your relatives as soon as I arrive. I must to admit that fishing does sound pleasant, particularly as Spring is burgeoning, so I may take your advice on that front, at least.

It is raining today, heavily. I cannot help but think of times past when you would have stayed home on a day like this, playing the piano all morning. I would have polished the silver perhaps, or caught up on my ironing, all those seemingly endless litanies of hours of cosy contentment. All the world seemed safe and certain, did it not? The hiss of the iron and the gentle tinkle of the piano – Earth had attained to Heaven, so it is said. I did not know how fragile it was.

You have always been entirely necessary.

I am pleased that the tea was acceptable to you. You know I endeavor to give satisfaction however I might.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Ginnie,

We’re certainly mobilizing somewhere, although I’m not quite certain if I am supposed to tell you where. Nobody seems to have read the letter I received from you; I mean to say, it appeared untampered with, so perhaps I am safe to say that your guess is as good as some men’s facts. Does that resonate, my love?

And there’s no assuming about it, you fathead. Only Bingo and the Whats-its of the Red Whats-it themselves knew about that luncheon at my flat, and I doubt very much any of them gave me a second’s thought after the meal wrapped. And Bingo doesn’t give a fly’s tail feather about divided loyalties. He probably doesn’t even remember that he ever knew a girl named Charlotte Rowbotham. Also, you've gone and called him Major Evans just there in your last letter, and I am certain I never mentioned his surname. And what’s more, Archie – who is a good pal of mine now, so thank you for that – showed me the letter after a bit of convincing and it’s your bally handwriting.

I probably should have led with that bit, actually.

So all that is to say that I’m chuffed to hear you’re at Brinkley and I hope this letter finds you there. You're clearly getting desperate, which is not a state I am comfortable seeing you in. You aren't usually sloppy. Get some rest. Fish your fool head off, Concerned Citizen, and stop writing to my Major.

I say, it is raining here, as well. Could we have caught two ends of the same rainstorm? I don’t have any dashed idea how rain clouds shove themselves about. If I were a soft-headed chap – someone who wrote poetry or something, which obviously I would never do, but you follow me – I might say that it is a nice thought to think that all that wet stuff that soaks me might be the same jolly bucket of H2O that drenched your back when you wrote to me, what? If you went out in it, that is, which I’m not certain if you did. I certainly went out in it, I can tell you, and it’s no w. in the p., though it’s a dashed sight better than all the snow I had dumped on me about a month or two back.

I say, Charlie told me quite the tale the other day while we were promenading the line, surveying the digging and whatnot. Apparently he knew a fellow somewhere or other – I forget exactly how – who owned a pet moose that used to get quite roaringly drunk at parties. It reminded me of your former employer and his drunken parrot. I told Charlie about the parrot and of course that lead to a recounting of Gussie’s prize-giving at Market Snodsbury. It was about as fine an afternoon as I have passed since I’ve been here. It’s a pity you can’t meet Charlie; I think the two of you would get on.

The weather is a bit better these days – when it isn’t raining c.’s and d.’s – and I am beginning to think that Spring is not so far off. I always get a bit uplifted by Spring’s arrival, don’t you know, and though the livelier iris may not yet gleam, I have no doubt that it will get itself together to do some gleaming before too much time has passed.

I have been in a rum mood lately, to be honest. I suppose nothing gives one the pip quite like mucking about in the mud waiting for the enemy to strike, and then ducking underground for a mite of bomb-weathering, and then popping up like the dogs of the prairie from their mounds to give a feeble smattering of fire back, and then doing it all again, ad nauseam, what what? And then packing it all up and tromping across about a hundred miles of mud, bouncing along in awful military vehicles, all to dig more trenches in different mud.

And then to have about a hundred young chaps hanging about all the time who think I’m some sort of fatherly fount of wisdom because I’ve got some years on them and some stars on my shoulders – why, it’s a bit thick, wouldn’t you say? These lads ask me for advice, Ginnie. Can you fathom it? They’re all of about twelve years old to look at them and they haven’t the sense God gave a newt, so there’s an endless stream of them these days knocking at my door, bringing me every little complaint and argument between them or their girlfriends back home that you can possibly imagine. I know I said it made me feel necessary, and it does, but it’s a bit thick all the same.

I can’t help but think of my chums and I at that age. What imbeciles we were. And then I do find the old mind settling back a bit, into times that were and which never may be again, and then can I drown an eye, unused to flow. Was it Donne who wrote that bit?

Whoever it was, he also said something along the lines of this: ‘But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, all losses are restored and sorrows end.’

I can scarcely believe it has been half a year since I have laid eyes upon you. Can you, my dear? After all these years, I didn’t think I had the stuffing to knock about for six entire months without the old A. O.

I was thinking today of a time when you had gone off on one of your shrimping holidays to Bognor Regis, and you must have shuffled back home while I was at the Drones, because I came in tight as an owl from some party and I saw a crack of light shining from your bedroom door. You know I always tried to leave your lair unmarred, a haven for yourself alone, but that night, dash it, it had been two weeks since I’d clapped the old irises upon you, and as I mentioned I was at least five or six sheets to the wind, and I rather think I opened a bashful door and stumbled right in.

You were sitting up in bed reading something. A book, most likely, and you looked up, and though your two eyes did not quite start from their spheres, you were certainly a bit taken aback. I suppose you’d imagined I’d just ankle on to bed and greet you in the morning. But two weeks, old prune! I mean to say, what? And I tripped on myself, or on nothing, or perhaps on something or other, and I came crashing down upon you amidships, and you did the most remarkable thing. You jettisoned the book onto the floor as though it were a filthy rag and took me into your arms. I remember your knees up around me, one on each side, and the way you stared at me like I was the Mona Lisa, and not a rather homely drunken fathead who had just disturbed your pleasant evening.

We’d had our little arrangement going for a year or two by that point, but I don’t know if I quite comprehended just what I’d got myself into until that instant. I mean to say, I always knew what I felt. I think I didn’t really understand your point of view until then.

In a way, I still don’t. Don’t you know, I used to just watch you sometimes as you oiled hither and thither doing whatever it is you do. I would watch you and worry myself sick about what I would do when you decided to give the whole thing up as a bad job and biff off to greener pastures. I was certain you would eventually. I never could begin to understand why you decided to spend your life making my tea when you could have been Prime Minister. Have I deprived you of all the great things you could have done in this world? Worse yet, have I deprived the world of you, my dear?

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear R. J.,

Please accept my apologies for the way I wrote to you before. I admit that I never cared much for you, but that is no excuse for my actions. I am concerned, concerned about many things, and Bertie being away at war was rather the last straw, I suppose. It was wrong of me to say that you are at fault for this. I do know from the family grape vine something of what occurred between Bertie and his aunt, and there was a part of me that thought – ah, if only we had simply married each other, then everything would be easier for all of us!

I did tell Bertie, when we were engaged, that he should dismiss you. It was because I saw in you precisely what I knew to be within myself, and at the time it seemed too dangerous to contemplate, just as Daphne became too dangerous to contemplate. I think there has been a part of me that resented the way you simply took what you wanted, when that seemed so far beyond my own powers for myself.

But war changes things, I think. I think it is changing me. And now that I have no parents to disappoint, and no spouse to betray, well, that changes things as well.

Daphne lives in Yorkshire now, quite alone, so I understand, and has invited me to visit, like old times.

My apologies, again. I hope you are able to bring him home. Perhaps we’ll have you both to tea sometime, if all goes well with us, and with you.

Sincerely,

H. G.

*

Dear Bertram,

If my supposition regarding your current position is correct, then I am most concerned that your experience may become significantly less quiet presently.

Yes, I suppose by now it is obvious that I wrote the letter. Perhaps you are correct about my state of mind. Perhaps it is for the best that I have come to the country. Forgive me.

I told you some months ago that I had great faith in your ability to inspire loyalty in whomever might follow you, and I see that my belief in you is now strongly supported by indisputable evidence. If the young men ask you for advice, it is certain that they respect you. I can readily imagine that it could feel burdensome at times, but it is a clear indication of those admirable qualities that you have always possessed, which at times I have felt that I alone was able to perceive. No longer are you as the flower that was born to blush unseen, and waste its sweetness on the desert air. Though I would have you here with me above all else, nevertheless it is gratifying to learn that your unique generosity of spirit and your kindness have endeared you to your men.

Concerning the story that your friend told you, either he is mistaken or you misheard him. The drunken moose of which you speak was certainly not owned by anyone he knew. It was, in fact, quiet famously owned by the renowned Danish Astronomer Tycho Brahe, who lived in the late Sixteenth Century. Unfortunately, the moose in question lost its life to its drunken revelries, after suffering a fall on some castle stairs during a particularly raucous party. Mr. Brahe was a talented astronomer to be certain, but his abilities in the area of animal husbandry left much to be desired.

I remember the night you described with extreme clarity. Indeed, my heart is cast down in the flood of remembrance for many such evenings. I too can drown an eye, unused to flow, as Shakespeare wrote, if I allow myself to dwell too long.

Please allow me to be quite clear on this subject, Bertram: you have deprived me of nothing. I want for nothing, I long for nothing, I desire nothing, save you. I cannot conceive of pastures greener than ours have been. You believe erroneously that there might have been some greater purpose for me and my life, but I assure you that I have had no greater desire than that the meed of all my toils might be to have a home, and thee.

Vain repetition! Home and Thou are one.

If it were within my power, I would be by your side even now, at the precipice of war’s oblivion. Every moment that I am here and you are there is agony.

Love,

G.

*

To Lieutenant Smith, Office of Army Recruitment,

I have several questions regarding service in the British Army. My first question is this: while I am aware that the age of conscription caps at forty one, would a man of more mature years be welcome to serve voluntarily? And if so, would he have any choice as to which unit he would be assigned? If said man had ample experience as a servant, could he request to serve as a particular officer’s batman, as I believe was customary in the previous war?

I do have some military experience, though none of direct combat, having served in a quartermaster’s retinue during the Great War. Since that time I have been employed as a gentleman’s personal gentleman. My employer volunteered for service in September and has since been sent to France to man the Maginot Line, holding the rank of Captain. I have little to occupy my time as a result of his absence and I am interested in serving in some capacity. Though I am now fifty years of age, I am in good health and I believe I could be of service to the King, to our nation, and to my employer if I were to become his batman.

Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,

R. Jeeves

*

Dear Ginnie,

Oh, what ho, old thing! How is Brinkley treating you? I’m dashed glad to know you’re there and well out of the city, what what? Stay long. As long as you can.

This is just a quick scribble to let you know that you might not hear from me for a few weeks, and that it’s all right. Don’t bother replying yourself just yet, as I’m due to be on the move again soon and I’m not certain where or when I’ll land. Not to worry; we’re just busy, busy as bees!

Archie has lent me a book of poems by an American poet johnny. Since I’ll be so dashed busy, and shan’t be able to write for some time, you recall, I thought I’d share a lovely little stanza I read last night:

‘The one I love most lay sleeping by me,

under the same cover in the cool night,

In the stillness in the autumn moonbeams

his face was inclined toward me,

And his arm lay lightly around my breast -

and that night I was happy.’

I know it’s not our usual style, but it’s quite nice all the same, and it made me think of, well, I say, I mean to say – it reminded me of times when I was happy, what?

Right-ho, much to do.

Fear not, my fretful porpentine.

Love,

Bertie

Chapter Text

Mr. Jeeves,

Your desire to serve your country and your employer is admirable. However, we have no need for soldiers of such an advanced age as yourself, and the position of batman no longer exists.

Might I recommend that you join your chapter of the Local Defense Volunteers? Mature men such as yourself are in great demand there.

Respectfully,

Lieutenant Smith

*

Dear Rebecca,

Forgive me for the long lapse in communication. I am aware that it has been several months since I last wrote to you, but I have been quite distracted. I don’t know if you are aware that Mr. W. – Captain W., now – volunteered for service at the outset of open hostilities and has been serving overseas for some time. He did so under duress. What I mean is that he was encouraged by a relative, who threatened to release certain information concerning his personal life if he refused. No doubt you comprehend what I am saying, you being one of only two people that we have intentionally apprised.

Until recently, the Captain and I were in regular communication. Two weeks ago, however, he informed me that his unit was mobilizing and that he would contact me when it became possible, and I have not heard from him since.

I hope you are well. I am currently out of London, staying with the Captain’s aunt in Worcestershire, as you no doubt deduced from the return address. I am doing my best to relax here.

Inhabiting the flat alone was beginning to unravel me. I have never lived alone before, and I have lived with him for so long that his absence there was like a wound. For a decade and a half, I could take comfort in the fact that I would return home to the sound of his voice singing some merry song, often with the piano accompanying. He would follow me throughout the flat, announcing his every thought. He would put on music and dance whenever the fancy struck him. He would induce me to dance with him. He would embrace me with rejuvenating spontaneity as I went about my work. He would read me passages from his mystery novels. He would tell me jokes and stories, and laugh as freely as a child. He would bring life to every room he inhabited.

The flat is a barren place without him. Every footfall seems to echo. The silence rings in my ears. I felt a duty to stay, to maintain his home and his belongings, but his aunt requested that I help her with a small task, and I admit it was a relief to acquiesce.

Indeed, this experience has given me greater appreciation for your circumstances since Arthur’s death. How you have persisted in your solitude for so long, I cannot fathom.

I am also increasingly cognizant of the other ways that you must have suffered after losing him. I have not been in the habit of considering myself in any way dependent on anyone else, aside from financial necessity, but the Captain’s absence has revealed to me a deep error in my own assumptions about myself.

I have always been aware that I enjoyed his company. I have always known that I valued him. That I loved him.

I did not understand how deeply I require him. I am so diminished in my fortitude and my abilities, I feel as though I am but half a man. I think that we have become so thoroughly enmeshed with one another over the years, our forced separation was like rending a shirt at the seam. I did not realize that we were so interwoven until I was reduced to tatters.

Forgive me, dear sister. I did not know what it meant to lose someone who is so crucial. I did not know that losing his light could extinguish the sun itself. I felt for you when Arthur died, but I was not there for you as I should have been. I didn’t understand that when your husband is gone, a part of your own soul is gone as well.

The Captain is not even lost – so far as I know – and it is agony. Should he

Should he

Should the worst occur, I do not know if I will survive.

How did you manage, Rebecca? How did you carry on? I require your wisdom. I  am realizing now that I have none of my own.

Love,

R.

*

Dear Reginald,

I am deeply grieved to hear that Bertie is in such peril. I did not know. I am accustomed to hearing from you infrequently; I also think of you as a person who requires little from others. Is it wrong of me to feel some relief at your confession? If you  feel that you are half a man without him, then you have known love, and that is something to be grateful for.

You ask how I persisted after Arthur died. In a way, I did not. I am not who I was before I lost him, just as I am not who I was before I knew him. You do not entangle yourself with the soul of another and come out whole. You leave pieces of yourself behind; they die with him. But there is another side to this heavy truth: he leaves pieces of himself behind as well, and they live with you.

Should Bertie die – and I know you couldn’t bring yourself to write it, so I hope that you will forgive me for doing so – but should he die, you might find that there are facets of him that have reflected so strongly onto you that you have incorporated them into yourself. No doubt he has done the same.

I don’t know Bertie well, but from the dozen or so times that the two of you have visited over the years, I can say for certain that he has grown from your influence. He is a stronger, more thoughtful man than he used to be. He speaks more eloquently. He considers things more deeply.

As for yourself, you have become gentler, more apt to smile or even laugh. You speak with more care for the feelings of others. You do not flutter from place to place, unfettered as a butterfly, coming and going on petty whims. When you are suffering, you do not isolate yourself so intensely. You visit your in-laws. You write to your sister.

You apologize.

You are not half a man now, Reginald. You are twice the man you were. So is he. A union of this kind, a marriage of true minds as you have, as Arthur and I had, it does not diminish you, even when you are sundered by death. It builds you into something better.

If, when you leave Worcestershire, you are not comfortable in solitude, please come stay with me. There will always be a place for you in my home.

Love,

Rebecca

*

To Madam Glossop,

I accept your apology with gratitude. I understand you completely.

I wish you good fortune in Yorkshire. If you find half the treasure there that I uncovered in Berkeley Square, you shall be fortunate indeed.

Sincerely,

R.J.

*

Dear Rebecca,

I do not think I can do your letter justice in my current state of mind, so I will simply say thank you. You have given me much to consider.

No doubt by now you have heard the rumors, how the invasion of France by the German army is nearly complete, and that Paris is almost certain to fall. How the French and British soldiers are retreating, many cut off, their numbers decimated, the survivors stranded on the shore, awaiting emergency evacuation. What is this nightmare, Rebecca? How did our paradise collapse so swiftly?

I feel it must be foolish to hold out hope for him. It may be months before we learn how he perished. We may never learn at all. Surely it is folly to hold myself in suspense? To prop myself up with vain, ungrounded hope?

I cannot put my thoughts in order, so beset am I by doubts and regrets. Was I sufficient? Did I let him down? Was I too rigid, too tempestuous, too controlling? Was I too distant? Was I supremely selfish to take him for my own? Have I killed him? How could I have so entirely failed to protect him?

I have never questioned myself so deeply.

His aunt and cousin here are desperate. They listen to the wireless without cessation. They speak of him constantly, speculating on his location, the likelihood of his survival, and I can scarcely stand it. I want to dash the sound of his name from their lips. I want to hurl their radio into the pond.

Instead I simply sit and listen. They ask for my opinion and I have none to give. If I try to imagine what he is doing and how he is faring, I am seized by a blind panic.

Before his letters ceased, Bertram entreated me to fish and to read. I am attempting both, and neither are the simple, satisfying activities that they once were. My eyes drift across the page without making any sense of the words. The pole hangs in my distracted hands. You say I am twice the man I was but I feel as though I am but a shadow. Not even a shadow, but a memory of one, for the man from whose form I am cast has vanished.

What pieces of himself did Arthur leave you, Rebecca? How have you perpetuated his existence for yourself?

Thank you for your offer to come and visit. I will consider it.

Love,

R.

*

Dear Reginald,

I have heard the rumors. I have neighbors who have already fled. They fear that we here in Kent will be the first to fall to the invasion, when it comes. For myself, I am choosing to wait and see. I don’t know if that is wise, but having no precedence for this experience, I am forced to operate by instinct.

Arthur loved flowers. Do you recall our garden, when he lived? I always thought them frivolous, and without purpose. I thought he spent too much time and money on them, both resources we lacked in abundance. Sometimes I would lose my temper when he’d been in the garden too long, pruning and mulching, watering and removing pests. Sometimes I wished the garden would go up in flames.

But don’t you know, I can’t see a particularly lovely flower now without a touch of joy. He had an eye for beauty, Arthur did, and when he died, I suppose I inherited it. I’m no gardener, but I can keep some daisies alive, and I do so, and I adore them. And when I have a few pence to spare I buy some flowers at the market, and they do lighten up a room. I couldn’t appreciate it when he was alive, but now any bouquet seems so redolent of him and all that he was that I am drawn to them.

There are other things he gave me, but I will leave you with the flowers for now.

Hope is never foolish, Reg. It sings the tune without the word, as the poet said, and never stops at all. I do not believe that Bertie would allow himself to be swallowed by despair. Perhaps his indefatigable spirit is something you could learn to emulate. In the absence of information, it is not necessarily an act of wisdom to assume the worst.

Please do update me.

Love,

Rebecca

*

Dear Ginnie,

What-ho!

No, you did not read my return address incorrectly! Margate it is! I am, in fact, back on English soil for the time being. Home is the sailor, home from the sea, and the hunter home from the hill, what what?

And please don’t let the word ‘hospital’ in the address alarm you. It is but a little nick and they say I’ll be out in no time. I’ve received worse from the dog Bartholomew, in his day.

How has Brinkley been treating you? I hope you’re still there. I’m sorry it’s been such a dashed long time since I was last able to write, but I was simply charging all about France for what felt like years and there never was a moment to spare.

How are Angela and Tuppy? Did you put them to rights? I’m certain you did, and I am agog to learn the details. What did Tuppy do to her? Did he insult her croquet form? Did he sneak the boys out of school to watch a rugger match? Tell all, old top!

How does Hume strike you? Is he a brainy enough cove to keep your interest? Does he know why wars happen?

How is Aunt Dahlia? Still surprisingly spry, considering?

I apologize for the third degree, my dear, but I’ve been wondering how all of you were getting on for weeks. Please do tell me all, dear thing. I’m awfully chuffed to finally have a moment to put pen to paper and I’m holding my breath until the old response rolls in.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Bertram,

It need hardly be mentioned that receiving your letter was as a breath of fresh air  released into a stale tomb. I have done nothing but fear for you. I have missed you in the weeping of the rain. I have missed you in the shrinking of the tide. When the postman handed the envelope to me, and I saw that it bore your penmanship, it was the closest I have come in all my life to fainting. The shock I received from Mr. Little’s false beard  so long ago was nothing in comparison.

I have heard some news of the disaster in France. They say that Paris will fall, that  nearly all of France is overrun by Nazis. They say that they will come to Britain next, that our army was so devastated that there is no hope for us. News has been sparse, and none could say what had become of the BEF, how many of you survived, how you were to be recovered. I had so little hope for you.

I can understand that you are not desirous of questions concerning your general circumstances of existence while you are overseas, but it is completely unacceptable that you should be wounded and fail to give me full and complete information, both as to the precise nature and severity of the wound, and the circumstances that lead to your acquiring it. This is a line upon which I stand most firmly. You will inform me at once.

I also need to know whether visitors are permitted at your hospital.

The more I dwell on this subject the more convinced I become that our agreement is unsustainable on my part. I must know how you are faring, wherever you are. I must feel that I can trust what you tell me. You have never given me reason to doubt your sincerity before. At this most crucial juncture, let us not allow mistrust to seep into the cracks, for they shall only wear away and widen, chasm-like, until we are no longer what we once were. You do not need to protect me from what is factual. That will serve neither of us.

To address your questions, your aunt is well. Brinkley is pleasant. I have had little time to read Hume. Mr. and Mrs. Glossop are blissful in their union once more.

The entire matter was so inconsequential one can scarcely believe it was enough to put asunder a marriage that has endured for fifteen years, but I suppose not all can be as steady in their habits and steadfast in their devotions as is ideal.

The facts of the matter are hardly worth recounting. Mrs. Glossop purchased a dress, and Mr. Glossop said it made her look like a scarecrow. That was it. Even as I worked to reconcile them, I was tempted to simply knock their heads together and take my leave of them. They do not comprehend the immensity of their good fortune, that they should be together, that there is breath in their lungs, that no forces assail them or their marriage save their own petty disagreements.

In some way I think they knew it. They only perpetuated their feud for a day or two after my arrival, and reconciled after a simple contrivance found them both tumbling into the pond. The combination of the shock of the water and the humor in seeing each other muddied and in disarray was all that was necessary to bring them together. I need hardly have been present. Indeed, I do not understand why your aunt begged me so strenuously to attend to the matter.

If I were of a more suspicious nature, I might suspect that subterfuge was at play.

And speaking of subterfuge Bertram, do tell me, how severely are you wounded? Will you be sent home? It might not be too late to flee to New York. They say that some liners are traversing the Atlantic still. Give the word and we will fly.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Rebecca,

I have just now received word that he is back in England, and that he is, in fact, convalescing from a wound in a hospital in Margate.

I have already telephoned the hospital, but I was told that no trains are currently running to that region of Kent, and they are requesting that civilians limit the use of motor cars in the area in order to better allow the evacuated troops to mobilize. In short, I was strongly discouraged from traveling there, with the implication being that any additional traffic on the roads will impede the war effort.

With this in mind, I was hoping that I could request a favor from you. As you reside in Broadstairs, less than three miles from the hospital where Captain Wooster is currently housed, I was wondering if you might be able to walk there and visit him. I would not ask this of you if I did not have some concern that his wounds may be more serious than he is admitting. He has a tendency to downplay the severity of his circumstances in order to spare me anxiety.

I have enclosed the hospital’s address.

Love,

Reginald

*

Dear Ginnie,

I think you have fretted, despite my admonition. No matter. All things considered I suppose I can appreciate your point of view. There goes the beloved o., biffing off to who knows where for a month without a word, all the while news of doom and gloom filters over from the Gallic regions. I can certainly see why you feel that you deserve a full accounting of my actions. I do chafe somewhat at the thought of you worrying for me. I am not accustomed to causing you emotional strife if I can avoid it. I believed it best  for all and sundry if I were to keep the upper lip stiff, but if it causes you consternation, then I shall do my best to be forthright from this time forward, old thing.

First, I will state outright that I am not grievously wounded. I took one shot that glanced off my left hip with hardly a chip, and another grazed the flesh of my upper left arm. They barely slowed me down. I know because I was running my bally legs off and I scarcely even noticed when the sand turned into tide, let alone that a spare wound or two had hitched along for a ride.

But there, I suppose I am getting ahead of myself in this narrative, aren’t I? I need to go back a few days, I think.

When I wrote you last, we had just received word that the Nazis were growing weary of the stalemate and had decided to punch through the Netherlands and Belgium to get into France along its unprotected border. Turns out they’ve got dashed good tanks and such, much better than ours, and they were making a frightful skedaddle for it, and so though we dropped everything and ran like girls in an egg and spoon race to meet them, there simply wasn’t time. The border had fallen by the time we arrived and there was nothing to do but take a few feeble shots and turn tail. Old Gorty gave the order that we should make for the coast at Dunkirk. Everyone was gassing on about ‘living to fight another day,’ though I’d just as soon live to dance another day, or live to take a good long bath another day if it were up to me, but it isn’t, is it? Anyway, we got out of there at a pace that would do the Quorn proud.

We were positioned fairly close to Lille at the time that the evacuation order came. Do you recall Lille? We stopped there once on our way home from that little holiday we took in the south of France about ten years back. They had that shop with the natty red spats you wouldn’t let me buy. Nice place! Or it used to be, what?

Where was I? Oh, yes. It was decided that we should all make our way to the coast, and Dunkirk was selected as the best place to flee to, so there we fled. A rather goodish number of Germans had got in right around us to the south and kept firing at us here and there, but it was only about fifty miles we had to go and we did it in three days. I know, a better man could have got his men through in half that time, but we were rather exhausted from the first, and we hadn’t a thing to eat and barely any water, so I’m excusing myself.

We did lose a good number of the lads, I’m sorry to say. We were rather like fish in a barrel at one point. But the bulk of us made it through and by the time we reached the beach I think I counted about eighty of my men still with me, so I consider that a triumph, really. Archie and Charlie made it through all right, too, which is really quite a thing, really, what, because they say that the Germans were aiming for stars and crowns, and relatively few officers got out. Some luck that the three of us made it, what?

Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned that last bit. Sorry. Although, now with the mistrust seeping in at the cracks and all that, I suppose you want me to tell you unpleasant things like that, don’t you?

Well, we got ourselves to the beach, more or less, guided by a rather convenient plume of black smoke. Not too long after our arrival, the luft-whatsits strafed the beach a bit, making the most God-awful racket you’ve ever heard in your puff, and I legged it into the water. It was the second time in my life I’ve gone into the water fully clothed, and this time was even more unpleasant than the Drones Club Pool Incident, in no small part because it was then that I caught it in the hip and the left wing. It was no real matter though; the planes all biffed off after a few minutes and it wasn’t more than a few hours after that a lot of us were able to line up on a breakwater or somesuch thing and climb aboard a bally big navy boat that took us home.

It seems we were fortunate enough to be some the earlier arrivals; I understand there were lads back there being hauled onto cockle boats and the like for days after I made my departure, but aside from the aforementioned run-in with that little Nazi strafing run, my time on the beach was relatively uneventful. So all’s well that ends well for old Bertram, what what?

Visitors are allowed, I think, judging by the near constant stream of young coves who have been bickering about my bedside like a lot of chicks about their mother’s roost, but I’m not entirely certain if they’ll open the doors to civilians. Everybody’s so dashed busy, I hate to bother anyone with my questions.

I assure you I am well-cared for. They’ve stitched me up as neat as a well-tailored suit, and they’ve got me full of medication of various sorts, and the nurses are all confident I’ll be on my feet in a day or two.

And that’s the whole story for good or ill, old top. I hope it satisfies you; I do endeavor to give satisfaction whenever possible.

I’m chuffed to hear that Tuppy and Angela are reunited. Though I suppose in the interest of being forthright, as I have just promised to be, I feel I must admit that their feud was contrived at my behest. I asked Aunt Dahlia to get you out of London. I’m relieved to reveal this fact, actually, because it never does feel right to mislead you. I do hope you won’t high-tail it back to the old metrop now that the no-longer-young master’s crafty plan has been revealed. Your safety is as crucial to me as mine is to you.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Reginald,

I have just returned home after visiting Bertie, as you requested. The walk was not strenuous, but rather longer than I am accustomed to at this point in my life. It took me over an hour each way, and everywhere I looked there were soldiers of every description, British and French. It was most unsettling.

I also had some difficulty in entering the hospital upon my arrival. They seemed disinclined to admit civilian visitors who were not relatives. I took the liberty of informing the young man guarding the door that I was Captain Wooster’s sister-in-law. It is a half-truth, and not without some risk, I am aware. No doubt his official records list him as being unmarried, but I gambled on the likelihood that said records might not be immediately available for confirmation of my claim, and it seems the odds were in my favor.

Regardless, the ruse was successful, especially once I explained that I was visiting on behalf of the Captain’s wife, who was unable to make the journey but was most anxious as to his well-being. They were quite sympathetic to the plight of that poor, benighted, semi-fictitious person, and I was admitted.

Bertie is doing well. He does not seem to have been wounded too severely. He received a glancing blow to one hip and a flesh wound in one arm, and both are healing well. He is not to be discharged from the army, but will remain in active service to be deployed again whenever feasible.

He was most surprised to see me. The first thing he said was: ‘Ah, so he sends his sister as emissary without so much as a word. I suppose Reggie can seep whats-it into those cracks but I dashed well can’t,’ but when I asked for clarification on this statement, he refused to elaborate. Other than that, we had a pleasant visit. He asked copious questions about me and my children, and Mabel’s husband, and their children. He was thin and weary but still very much himself. He did ask me to send his love, should I see you. Since I am not certain when or if I shall see you, consider his love sent.

Love,

Rebecca

*

Dear Ginnie,

I say, old thing, why send the sister and not the God-Made-Flesh itself? Not that I minded the visit, of course. Any sister of yours is a sister of mine and all that, but still, what?

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Bertram,

If my mother were alive, she would advise me to be angry with you. To mislead me as you have done, and not only that, but to conspire with compatriots in order to mislead me, could be construed as a mistrustful act, and a humiliation. I think the man I was ten years ago would be angry indeed.

The man I am now is merely sunken into relief at the news that you are relatively well and healthy, that for the moment, danger’s unslaked jaws are held at bay. Yes, you sent me to Brinkley under false pretenses, and yes, I sent my sister to confirm your claim that your wounds were superficial. I would have come myself, but it was not possible.

We are, I suppose, evenly matched at this game, after so many years of practice.

Perhaps it is time to retire the game board. Perhaps we have both become too accustomed to treasons, stratagems, and spoils. Our life together has been fraught with peril from the first. It has made us devious and sly. I think it might be best to listen instead to the music in ourselves. I have little, but you have an abundance.

I am not certain if I am being clear. Let us be true to one another, in every possible interpretation of the word.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Ginnie,

What-ho, old fruit! I have topping news! I’ve been granted leave to convalesce at home for three weeks. They’re packing me onto a train tomorrow morning. If you’d like to stay on at Brinkley, I will meet you there. I’d love to clap eyes on the ancient relative and dear Angela again. I do have a spot of business I need to take care of in London, but we can see to that in a week or so.

Put the kettle on! I’ll see you tomorrow, my dear.

Love,

Bertie

Chapter Text

Dear Tom,

How’s the great hereafter treating you, you old layabout? Cured your insomnia at last, I suppose. You’re sleeping through the whole war, lazybones!

I don’t know why I keep writing you these letters. You never answered my letters when you were alive, due to that blasted hand cramp of yours.

Bertie’s here, at Brinkley! You always had a soft spot for the boy, so I know you’d like to hear that he’s made it through his first foray to the front with relatively little scathing. Not unscathed, unfortunately. Lightly scathed. Not scathed enough for them to give him the boot, unfortunately, but he’s got some time off to recuperate and he’s come here for the first week of it.

I know I’ve mentioned in previous letters that his man has been here for quite some time already, at my behest, and it’s been a fine time, reading and rambling and reminiscing together. Of course, he being who he is, most of the reminiscing has been about Bertie, but I’m a tough old bird and I can stick it out.

I’ve been thinking lately about what an odd thing it is to be married to someone. How I trusted you implicitly in some ways, but somehow felt I had to hide so much from you. Take Bertie and his man Jeeves, for instance. I know a thing or two about them that I never would have dreamed of telling you when you were knocking about. I don’t know at all what you would have had to say about it all. I don’t think you ever even spoke to Jeeves, other than to tell him where to bring Bertie’s bags – which he didn’t need you to tell him, by the way. Not after the first visit.

But you would like him, I think, if you could have looked past his status. He’s a good sort. I’ve always thought so.

I admit I wasn’t entirely on board with their arrangement when they first laid it all out to me. I couldn’t get my head around it.

I don’t care a jot for whatever the law has to say, of course, not about practically anything, but there’s something to be said for propriety and good manners, and holding the line for civilization. Or at least, that’s what I thought at first. But then, of course, I saw how dashed happy the boy was about it all, happier than I’d seen him since his parents died, and I thought, ‘Civilization can go to Hell.’ As far as I can make out, it’s headed there anyway. Why not let the boys enjoy their time together, eh?

But I digress, my darling. I was trying to talk about us, and the way I never could quite trust you – not because I didn’t love you, but perhaps because I loved you too much. It was too dire – the secrets I kept, the way I lived, the wilder parts of myself – and there’s something of me in Bertie, I think, which might be why you and I both love him so. Something in us is not quite up to snuff, somehow. Something that does exactly as it pleases. You were always such a stalwart sort. I rather thought you wouldn’t love me if I let you peer into what you might call the backstage portions of my life.

Now I’m not so certain that’s true. Bertie’s a bit of an ‘anything goes’ sort of chap, and Reggie’s as stalwart as they come, or so he seemed at first. Over the years they’ve rather melded into one another, and it makes me wonder if we couldn’t have had that ourselves, had I been brave enough to let you in.

I know I’m not prone to musing this way about what might have been, but it all came to a head in my mind when Bertie came home yesterday. He had sent word that the would be at the station around eleven, so Reggie and I drove to meet him. He was so oddly quiet – Reggie, I mean – that I almost thought he was dreading the reunion. He didn’t speak a word to me for half the drive, and the other half he only spoke sparingly.

‘It’ll be nice to see Bertie again, eh?’ I said.

‘Certainly, madam.’

He still insists on calling me madam.

‘Do you two have any big plans for the next few weeks?’

‘Captain Wooster has, I believe, some business in London to attend to, madam. Other than that we are unscheduled.’

And so on. He just drove with his eyes fixed on the road like it might get up and run away if he didn’t watch it closely, and it wasn’t until we were nearly at the station that it hit me square in the head like a horse’s hoof – I should have let Reggie pick Bertie up alone!

It isn’t that I don’t understand these things, but it’s just so different when it’s two men, isn’t it? They’re not at all like all the young couples I’ve known before, giggling and canoodling in corners and such. I’ve never even seen them so much as lay a hand on one another’s shoulder. I suppose they can’t do that sort of thing in public, can they? So though I do understand, in theory, it’s awfully difficult to get my head around it. I felt an absolute ass, anyway, but there was nothing to be done about it.

We pulled up in front of the station, but the train hadn’t arrived yet, so we just rather milled about on the platform. Or I milled about. Reggie stood still as a board with that expressionless look he gets on his face, staring at the empty track. I had a few more stabs at engaging him in conversation, but by then he was only capable of saying, ‘Yes, madam,’ or ‘No, madam,’ so I gave it up. Five or six other people were also milling about, most notably a young woman in a cornflower blue dress, who seemed just as anxious as Reggie.

At last the old train hove into sight, and somehow Reggie was even more ramrod straight and even more expressionless. When the great thing roared up to the platform and the doors opened up, the first thing we saw was a young man in a uniform. It wasn’t our young man, however, as the shriek and the subsequent streak of cornflower blue attested. The young couple hurtled into each other’s arms with the gusto one only expects to see in particularly dramatic films and remained clinging to one another off right center for some time.

A few more passengers disembarked, both of the soldier and the civilian variety, and then at last, Bertie made an appearance, though not before we heard his bright voice cordially calling, ‘Oh, no. After you, of course!’ about thirty times to everyone who could have possibly been on board the train. When he emerged at last from the confines of the locomotive, I was struck by his appearance. Somehow, I hadn’t thought he’d be so lean, thinner than he’d ever been before. And in his brown uniform, with the great brass buttons, and the military cap, and a white cloth sling holding his left arm across his chest, I felt as though I were seeing some alternative version of the boy. I couldn’t make it real in my mind; it was as though he were wearing a particularly detailed costume for a fancy dress party. It didn’t add up, to see my bright-eyed lad got up like an injured army captain.

He also wore a moustache, which I hadn’t seen him attempt in over a decade.

‘What-ho!’ he cried, cheerfully. He was carrying a formless sort of sack in his right hand with straps and a drawstring, and as he slowly climbed down the steps onto the platform, I couldn’t help but notice a limp. I was grounded by the sight of him, but Reggie stepped forward almost as quickly as the cornflower blue girl had done – without the shriek, of course.

Bertie’s eyes met his and his face ignited with unabashed joy.

‘What-ho, Gin– uh, Jeeves,’ he said, his cheeks burning suddenly red. Reggie didn’t say a word, but his hands rose up, and for a moment I thought they might actually embrace, but instead Reggie reached out and dusted Bertie’s shoulders lightly, moved his cap into a more perfectly correct position, and adjusted his tan tie with the sort of intense focus one usually gives to a troublesome splinter that one is attempting to remove. His hands then traveled to the sling, carefully smoothing its strap across Bertie’s shoulder.

‘There you are, sir,’ he said, and reached for Bertie’s bag. ‘Is this all of your luggage, sir?’

‘Hm?’ Bertie had been staring at him, grinning like a fool. ‘Oh! Yes, rather. I mean to say, I only have the two uniforms, what? So one is on the person and the other’s in the bag, and all that.’

Reggie tugged the bag gently from Bertie’s hand and frowned down at it. ‘Are you permitted to wear civilian clothing while on leave, sir?’

‘Yes, yes, but I don’t have any on me, do I?”

‘We will be at Brinkley Court for a full week, sir. I will bring you there and then proceed to London to gather the necessary items for your stay.’

‘What? No, no, old thing!’ Bertie said, his fluttering hands nearly brushing Reggie’s arms before retreating. ‘The necessary items aren’t, well, necessary, what? I’ve gone nine months with two uniforms; I can dashed well do it for another week. Let’s just – oh, you know. Stay together for the time being. Feel free to launder the army togs daily, if it pleases you. I know it will.’

Reggie was frowning deeply down at the bag in his hand, but Bertie turned toward me now and held his good arm wide, his bright smile restored.

‘Old flesh and blood, in the flesh!’ he cried, and wrapped me into a half-embrace.

We left the younger soldier and his blue-clad girl still clasping each other desperately on the platform and proceeded thus to the motor, myself chewing bitterly on some rather complicated feelings.

The whole thing rather reminded me of the way we used to get when you’d go off to Hong Kong for a few months to manage things. You’d go do your stint as a FILTH and when you came home it was like I’d never seen you before. Like falling in love all over again. We weren’t so young as the couple we’d witnessed, but I believe we behaved similarly. Running to one another, clasping each other in our desperate arms, peppering the beloved face with kisses and all that. I was trying to imagine how our reunions would have felt if we could not have touched each other.

We used to carry on so, didn’t we? Holding hands and canoodling in corners without a thought or care as to whether anyone might see us. You were my absolute light, dear Tom, and I still couldn’t trust you, not really. And then there’s Bertie and his man, and the way they can’t truly trust anyone but one another. They can’t even clasp hands in public without fear that someone will call in the old gendarme to cart them away to chokey. I couldn’t stop thinking how deep their trust must be, how entirely you would have to place your confidence in someone in order to form and perpetuate a relationship like theirs. It made me feel I might have bungled the whole marriage.

I know you’d try to reassure me, were you here. But I was shaken, Tom.

When we reached the vehicle, I took a seat in the back, leaving Reggie and Bertie together in the front. Reggie was silent as he started the car, but as we pulled away from the station, he murmured, ‘Sir…’

‘Let me guess,’ Bertie said, cutting him off. ‘The moustache, correct? I know you’re not a heartfelt supporter of such things, my dear, but, well, it’s rather the done thing on the front these days. Especially in the early months of the thing, I felt it leant me a sort of military, Captainish-quality that I rather lacked otherwise. Does that make sense?’

There was a rather meaty pause, after which Reggie replied, ‘Of course, sir.’

‘Oh, dash it,’ Bertie said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. ‘You’re not going to call me ‘“sir” this entire time, are you? Even with just Aunt Dahlia here? Surely you know that the cat is out of the bag as far as she’s concerned. Besides, everybody and his dashed grandmother calls me “sir” these days and I’m just about done with it.’

‘The cat is most certainly out of the bag,’ I added helpfully, ‘and as far as I’m concerned, you should both just try and pretend I’m not here. I do realize now that I really shouldn’t be. Here, I mean.’

For a moment, Reggie didn’t reply, but at last he said, ‘Forgive me.’

‘Think nothing of it, old sport,’ Bertie said.

‘No, I mean… forgive me, for all of this. It is my fault.’

‘What?’ Bertie cried. ‘No, no, no, it’s Aunt Agatha’s!’

‘Had I never written that letter,’ Reggie began to say, but Bertie interjected forcefully.

‘Had I never left that bally letter behind at Aunt Agatha’s house like the absolute king of fatheads that I am– I mean to say, my love, that letter is my pride and joy. Had you never written it, my life would be far bleaker indeed. Don’t ever apologize for that letter. I say, whatever did you do with it? Did you consign it to the flames, as threatened?’

‘I did,’ Reggie replied, and Bertie nodded glumly and ‘quite righted’.

‘But before I burned it, I transcribed it, replacing all identifiable information with pseudonymous decoys. It should be safe for you to carry with you again, if you so desire.’

‘I dashed do so desire!’ Bertie exclaimed, and the force of his joy was so powerful, it compelled him to lean over and kiss Reggie firmly on the cheek.

Reggie’s face flushed pink at once, but his expression remained stoically neutral.

I don’t know what you would think about all this. I don’t know what my dear brother would think, or his darling wife. All of you gone so soon, or so it seems, like a flash of lightning, here and gone, and we never really spoke of anything meaningful – did we? It always seems like there will be time for all of that later, until later has come and then it’s much too late.

But Bertie isn’t gone, my dear, not yet. By some miracle he has made it through this far, and I don’t want to leave anything else unsaid, not anymore. So when we got back to the house I pulled him aside and told him sotto voce that as much as I had missed him, Reggie had missed him more, and I thought they might just nip upstairs and get settled in. I told them to skip luncheon altogether, and that I would reacquaint myself with the young gumboil over the dinner trough later on.

Bertie smiled at me, bright as ever, God bless him, and said, ‘Thank you, old Aunt of my Heart.’ And off he went: Exit, Pursued By Valet.

They missed luncheon, and dinner, too.

Dear Tom, I really might have underestimated you. You were such a sturdy companion, and I needed that so desperately. It never occurred to me that you might also have been a partner in crime, as it were. Bertie’s got two for one. Why couldn’t I have? But I suppose it’s always easy to muse about what might have been once what was is over and done with, isn’t it? We had a good run, old thing.

Good night, my dear. I’ll write again soon. No need to reply; I know how your hand cramps when you write too much.

Love,

Dahlia

*

Dear Bertie,

I hope I’ve got the address right. I couldn’t quite remember for certain if you said you’d be at Brinkley Court or Bingley Court, but Brinkley seemed a bit closer, so I’ve gone with that.

I know you’re only on leave for three weeks and it shan’t be long at all until we’re back in the yoke together, pulling this man’s army toward victory and all that, but I  am positively bursting and I simply had to write you and tell you the good news!

Just two days after you took your leave – and took your leave of us – I was granted a weekend off (not being so fortunate as to get three weeks for a clip on the wing), so I fairly well galloped back home to Stoke-on-Trent and found Helen at her sewing. I practically tossed her over my shoulder and off we went straight to the courthouse and got ourselves married!

Oh dear, I might have written that poorly. She wanted to go herself, you know. I merely mentioned tossing her over my shoulder in order to illustrate the gusto with which the marriage occurred. I could just as well have said that she tossed me over her shoulder.

Anyway, the whole thing was done by mid-afternoon, and now I am proud to say that I am a married man at last. I am sorry for interrupting your own much-anticipated reunion with your dream girl, but I simply couldn’t wait to give you the glad tidings. I also thought you might like to let Ginnie know that her machinations on my behalf have reached their full, satisfactory fruition.

I do recall my promise to buy your girl a new dress by way of a thank you, and I searched around a bit in the local shops, but what with all this rationing, there’s hardly anything about that a man of ordinary means could afford, and you neglected to tell me her size, anyway. Perhaps the next time we are able to set foot on England’s green and pleasant land, you can come round with me and help me pick something she’d approve of. I know from your tales that her sartorial opinions are notoriously strict. I’d hate to spend my weekly stipend and have the whole thing end up mere ashes in the fireplace.

What news of yourself, old sport? Have the wedding bells peeled for thee as well? What did she think of the ring? Awfully plain, I thought, but I trust you know her better than I do. Surely you will need to have it resized. I still can’t believe you bought such a gargantuan thing for your lady’s delicate finger. Do tell Ginnie I did my best to dissuade you, but no doubt she’s fully aware by now that you’ve got mutton between your ears.

Anyway, all’s well on my end, and I hope for all the best on yours. Do say hello to Ginnie for me. I feel as though I know her better than I know you.

Your pal,

Charlie

*

Dear Charlie,

Smashing news, old chap! A most hearty congratulations to my dearest comrade-in-arms! I told Ginnie and she is most pleased. I don’t think there’s anything that gives her greater satisfaction than uniting two sundered hearts.

I must stress again, there is no need whatsoever for you to buy her a gift at all, but if you absolutely must, get her a book. That would please her to no end. I think I’ve mentioned before that she enjoys Dostoevsky and Tolstoy and all of those dreadful Russian blighters who write about misery and despair and such. Get her something about a peasant whose barn burns down with the only milk cow inside it and she’ll eat it up with a spoon and ask for more. That being said, you know I’m packed to the gills with the good stuff and she really doesn’t want for a thing – if it’s a thing that money can buy, that is.

I did give her the ring and she was delighted, as she indicated by the slightest upward twist of her lips. If it needs to be resized, she is more than up to the task of arranging such things. Much more so than I.

No saunter down the aisle for this Wooster as of yet; I think if Ginnie ever were to marry, she’d want the thing done properly, so it will have to wait until further notice, what? So the ring is more along the lines of a token, as a true preux chevalier would bestow upon his lady. She has expressed an intention to wear it on a chain about her neck, where it will be known by herself alone, which I think is dashed Romantic. Perhaps a shade too Romantic for my taste, but she has always leaned further in that direction than I, and if it pleases her, then I am all for it. She has asked if I wouldn’t like to do the same, but I think it would make me feel rather an ass. What do you think?

I’m sorry you won’t get more in the way of a honeymoon. A weekend isn’t much, is it? Even three weeks feels like the merest drop in the bucket, but ours not to question why.

I’ll see you back at the old camp in fifteen days or so, and I suppose we’ll go on and take another shot at defeating the forces of Evil. Congratulations again on attaining the state of holy matrimony.

Toodle-pip!

Bertie

P.S. You might recall that I was a touch concerned about how Ginnie would receive me, since I took the liberty of sprouting a bit of fungus on the old upper lip during our sojourn in France. In the past she has taken a fairly dark view of such developments, but this time she barely even glanced at it. I told her it made me look more Captain-ish, and she seemed to accept that explanation, though she did intimate that she expected it to last no longer than the war itself, which I can respect.

*

Dear Captain Wooster,

I’m sorry indeed to bother you on your leave. We all know how keenly you were looking forward to seeing Ginnie. I wouldn’t write except that I can’t think of anyone else who could help me.

As you know I was wounded during evac and they gave me recuperative leave as well, so I’ve gone home. The trouble is, I’ve gone and forgotten how to talk like a normal person or something, because when I met up with my girl Lucy, I used some pretty ripe language and now she won’t speak to me. She says the army’s made me into a beast, but I was only trying to tell a funny story. You know the one that made its way through the unit a few months back, about the fellow in the closet who is waiting for the tram? It made everyone roar with laughter and I just wanted to cheer her up.

I realized now what a stupid thing it was to do, but she won’t even answer my calls. How do I get her back? I only have two more weeks.

Private Hodges

*

Dear Rebecca,

I apologize that I have allowed over a fortnight to pass without answering your previous letter. I am deeply grateful to you for visiting the Captain in the hospital and for giving me an accounting of his health. I am less grateful that you failed to mention the moustache, as a warning would have been appreciated, but all things considered, I suppose it is not something to perturb myself over too strenuously. I should have suspected that such a thing would occur. It is not the first time he has acted out in this manner, and one must admit that, when paired with the uniform, it does lend him an air of authoritative military legitimacy, which he felt he lacked otherwise.

I realize that you are likely confused by my letter thus far, so I shall explain that the Captain has been granted three weeks of leave in order to recuperate from his injuries in the comfort of his own home. We spent the first week together with his family at Brinkley Court and have now been ensconced in our residence in London for a little more than eight days. I will not overindulge in unnecessary detail, but the Captain’s wounds are minor enough to allow him to partake in all of the activities that he has previously enjoyed, and thus the reunion has been most pleasant and satisfactory.

An unexpected development has transpired that I think may interest you. The day after our arrival in London, the Captain told me he had some business to attend to at his bank. I was disturbed by this, since he has very rarely ever conducted any sort of financial business without questioning me thoroughly beforehand as to my opinion on the matter. After a few minutes’ circumspect interrogation, however, I was able to learn that he intended to add my name to the account as co-owner. I objected most strenuously, of course, but, to my surprise, he held his ground.

He is of the opinion, foremost, that his absence leaves me vulnerable to usurpation by his less-accepting relatives. This is undeniably true, as I have already experienced an attempted coup, as it were, carried out by his aunt and cousin. He believes that if I am listed as co-owner of his account, then no legal barrier can be made to my accessing it, which is factually sound, if not entirely wise.

I argued that I had done nothing to earn such wealth, and he replied that I had done ‘a dashed sight more’ to earn it than he ever had, to use his own terminology.

I stated also that he was opening himself up to the possibility that I might plunder his accounts and leave him penniless. To this he merely said, ‘tcha,’ and would respond no further.

Next, I expressed my concern that his banker and accountants might find it unusual, perhaps suspiciously unusual. Again, he said, ‘Tcha,’ but this time he did choose to elucidate.

‘They won’t think anything of the kind,’ he explained. ‘I’ve got it all figured out. I’ll simply tell them that since I am so unfortunate as to have never successfully married, I have no one to take care of my financial affairs while I am away. I’ll explain that you have served me faithfully for the better part of two decades and that I have complicit trust in you.’ I believe he was attempting to say that he trusted me explicitly, and I said so. He agreed that was what he meant, and continued, saying that no one would question the need of a soldier to have someone back home who could manage things.

I attempted to argue further, but he informed me that he had been mulling this over for months and there would be no dissuading him.

He then grew more serious and stated that his friend Charlie recently married his fiancée, and it had got him to thinking about the nature of marriage.

‘When you thrash the whole thing out,’ he said, ‘marriage is composed of two essential elements, is it not? One is a legal contract of sorts, a binding agreement that person A and person B will remain together indefinitely, for b. or for w., in s. or in h. Well, we’ve done that bit already, haven’t we? When you tore my pages from the club book, what? Didn’t that action include some proviso vis a vis the Junior Ganymede rules that you must stick by this Wooster’s side until the bitter end?

‘And the other essential element relates to the pooling of resources. The chap marries the lass and then they share their money. It’s a lot of legal mumbo-jumbo that essentially amounts to the idea that “what’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine,” so why can’t we have that ourselves? There’s no law against two coves sharing a bank account. Claude and Eustace have shared an account for decades and nobody bats an eye. And if you ask me, the war has given us the perfect excuse.’

I had to admit that he had a point. Though I still felt a certain amount of trepidation at the idea, he nevertheless asked me to accompany him to his bank in the City where we spent several hours meeting with the banker, emerging in the late afternoon as co-owners of a joint account. Apparently the Captain’s idea is not at all an unusual one amongst unmarried soldiers, and there was no serious objection once it had been established that I am a citizen in good standing, with no history of arrests or convictions for any crimes.

All of this is to say that the Captain and I are now engaged in an equal financial partnership.

He also gave me a ring, which he purchased for me in Paris. He had mentioned it in his letters, but there was a part of me that did not believe it was real. I will not openly wear it for obvious reasons, but the symbolism is unmistakable.

An old acquaintance of mine wrote to me not too long ago, musing on the way in which war changes one’s priorities. Had you asked us twelve months ago, I do not think either the Captain nor myself would have considered what we’ve done this week to be feasible or advisable, but after all that we have suffered in the past year, it suddenly seemed most reasonable and attractive to us.

I suppose I am as susceptible as any to the wartime rush to the altar. Were that an option for us, I have little doubt we would have done it. Since this is the closest we are ever to come, I find myself to be quite impressed by this development.

I do not feel entirely stable on my feet. I feel a thrill of exhilaration when my eyes meet his. When he smiles at me, my face feels warm and my heart hammers within my chest. I have not felt this way since our early days together, when our understanding was new. I can scarcely believe that I am still capable of feeling such emotions, being a man of fifty summers.

Indeed, we have spent our time in London as though we were still young and carefree, attending theater productions, eating fine meals, even dancing together in those clubs where such things are not deemed remarkable. I cannot recall a more beautiful time.

It is most difficult to acclimate myself to the knowledge that he will leave me again in less than a week, and that there is every possibility that we will never see each other again. I am doing my best not to dwell on this.

Love,

R.

*

Dear Hoggie,

Good Lord, man. What? The tram gag? That made me blush as crimson as the sunset sky when I heard it. I wouldn’t repeat it to my Uncle George, let alone a girl I was trying to woo. What possessed you, man?

Well, anyway, I’ve discussed the matter with Ginnie – who taught me everything I know about this kind of thing – and she thinks that your only possible recourse is to be seen about town attending high-brow entertainments. Perhaps a chamber music concert or a fine art museum. If the trouble is that Lucy thinks you’re an uncouth beast – and I don’t blame her at all for thinking so; if you ask me, rem acu tetigit eam, which is a Latin wheeze meaning, roughly, that she has hit the nail square on the head! – then you’ve got to visibly improve your social stock a bit, what what?

Based on your return address, you’re Liverpool-based, which is all to the good! That’s a goodly-sized city so you should find plenty to interest a discerning gentleman of culture and refinement. I have it on good authority (Ginnie’s) that the Lady Lever Art Gallery is still open and well worth the visit. No doubt they have removed some of their more precious works to a safer location, but there should still be something diverting in residence there. Invite Lucy to go with you, but research it first so you don’t look like a complete fathead amongst the finery. If she won’t come, invite some people she knows along with you so that they can pass the story along to her.

Do keep me posted. If it doesn’t work out, we’ll try to think up something else.

Good luck, me boy.

Captain Wooster

*

Dear Bertie,

Good Lord man, if Ginnie wants you to wear a ring soldered into the center of your forehead, you do it! I’ve only been married a fortnight but I know that much. Whatever your particular allergy to Romantic gestures might be, you hold your nose and go through with the thing. A ring on a chain about your neck? That’s nothing. No one will even see it there. And if they did, I don’t think a man amongst us would hold it against you, not in times like these.

Anyhow, chuffed to hear all is well. Thank you for your congratulations, old man. I’m settled back at the base and missing Helen like the dickens. No word yet on where we’ll be sent next. I think the whole dashed army is still licking its wounds.

Your pal,

Charlie

*

Dear Aunt Dahlia,

What-ho, aged A! I’ve gone and done the thing I told you about. You know, the thing with the bank and all that. I didn’t really think about it before, but Reggie and I have discussed it and I suppose this makes me about as close to being a married man as I am ever likely to get. Just thought I’d run that up the old flagpole and gauge your reaction.

Do you bless this union, old flesh and blood? I’d like to think my parents would, but there’s no way to know what they’d think of any of the things I’ve got up to over the years. They’re probably spinning in their graves, what what? I know I’m not precisely what a man imagines when he dreams of his future son, but what can be done about it, I say?

I do so appreciate that I can confide in you. I can see why people like to have big weddings. You do rather want to shout it from the rooftops when you get hitched to the absolute ideal in human form, do you not? Well, I’ll shout it out to you, at least.

There really isn’t anyone like him, is there? I think if I lived to be one hundred, I would never be able to figure out how I got to be so dashed lucky.

Thank you for putting him up all this time. He seems to want to remain in London for a time after my departure, but I’ve made him promise me that he’ll return to your fold whenever he feels the need.

Love,

Bertie

P.S. Please do take care of him, won’t you? If I don’t come home again, I mean.

*

Dear Bertie,

Consider my blessings showered upon you both! I only wish I were in London with you so that we could crack open a bottle of bubbly and drink ourselves sick.

I wish I could tell you what your parents would say, my darling, but I’m afraid we never broached any topics as unconventional as this in our conversations. I do know that they loved you sincerely and delighted in your joy. I think that whatever remains of them must be pleased to know that you are loved.

And you are. Loved, I mean. That man is fixated on you to a rather alarming degree. I always thought so, but after spending these last two months in his company with your notable absence, and then one week in his company with your notable presence – well, let’s just say that’s a little lamb that won’t be straying any time soon.

And of course, young reptile. I will always take care of my two favorite nephews.

Do enjoy the rest of your time together, and all the luck in the world to you when you go. It was a balm to my aged heart to see you again last week.

Love,

Aunt Dahlia

*

Captain Wooster,

Lucy wouldn’t go to the museum with me, but her cousin would. We went and had a beautiful day together, actually. I had read up a bit on some of the paintings in the library beforehand, as you suggested, and it turns out Margaret is actually quite the artist! She was most impressed by me, and it felt awfully good to actually feel as though I knew something for once. It’s all rather interesting on its own, as well, isn’t it? Maybe I’ll give some painting a go when I get home.

Anyway, I have been wondering if maybe Lucy and I have simply grown apart a bit. We were all right for each other in the old days, but war changes a man. I told the tram joke to Margaret at the museum cafe and she laughed so hard she nearly choked on her soup. By the end of the day I’d asked her to marry me and she’d agreed! So that’s all sorted.

Thanks awfully!

Private Hodges

*

Dear Reginald,

Your last letter brought a tear to my eye. You know that for so many years I feared you would never find happiness. I know it isn’t easy for people like you.

I would love to write more but I’m actually heading out the door. Mabel and Charles have offered to let me stay at their place in Gloucestershire, since the threat of invasion is so high. I don’t know if it’s worth the trouble, but I suppose at least I’ll last a bit longer there than I would in Kent, and I’ll be with family. Do come stay with us at the Biffen estate, if you ever desire company. The house in Kent will be closed until I tell you otherwise.

Love,

Rebecca

*

Dear Charlie,

Fine, fine, you win. You and Ginnie win. I’ve got the bally thing on a chain around the Wooster neck as we speak, and it feels like the sort of thing a man would do in a Rosie M. Banks novel. I once heard about a fellow who carried around his girls’ glove and would press it to his lips for emotional fortitude or whatever it’s called, and the thought of it made me sick to my stomach.

Don’t tell anyone else.

Sincerely,

Bertie

*

Dear Bertie,

How’s your leave going? I know you’re due back soon now, but I have rather missed your stories. I just wanted you to know you were on my mind.

I am writing to inform you that we’ve relocated to the Severn Valley for re-equipping, further orders to follow. It would have meant a shorter journey for you, had you remained with your relatives in Worcestershire! You’re to travel by train to Wolverhampton in three days, there to be collected by one of the lads.

See you soon, old man.

Archie

*

Dear Hoggie,

My Lord, you young chaps work quickly, don’t you?

I admit your tale took a twist I didn’t see coming, even after three decades of devotion to mystery novels! But if you’ve found a girl who laughs out loud when you tell her the tram gag, rather than knocking you on the side of the head as any reasonable person would, then I suppose it’s in your best interest to tie that knot as soon as possible.

All the best and all that,

Captain Wooster

*

Dear Archie,

What-ho, Major-of-mine! Severn Valley, you say? Ginnie tells me it would be best to catch the 10.4 to Wolverhampton.

Yes, perhaps it would have made more sense to remain at the aged relation’s homestead, but I had a bit of business to conduct in London that really couldn’t wait. I’ve had a dashed fine time here, actually. The old ball and chain and I have been living it up like the world is ending.

Toodle-pip!

Bertie

Chapter Text

Dear Ginnie,

Two weeks gone since I left you, and yet each day has counted as ten years, so the poet johnny said. France has tumbled down like a bally H. of C.s, they say, and only our lonely island left standing. I suppose all that happened whilst I was on my leave, but I didn’t read a paper so I hadn’t the faintest clue.

Supposedly we’re being reequipped here, but at the mo., there’s about one rifle per ten men, all the rest having been tossed in the mad rush somewhere between Lille and Dunkirk. I haven’t a bally clue where I chucked mine, but it was gone long before I touched sand, I can tell you. Someone heard we might get some from Australia, but others say no, that the Australians need them, but why they’d need all those guns all the way down there I haven’t the foggiest. You’d think the one benefit of living so blasted far from everything would be that no one would bother you, what? I mean to say, why go to all the trouble of being an Australian just to get yourself mixed up in Europe’s affairs!

I don’t care much either way. A rifle’s no use to me, anyway. You know I could never bring myself to shoot the thing. The second I pointed toward anything human-shaped, my hands would start shaking and the whole thing would slide right out of my fingers like a flopping fish. It’s a wonder I kept track of it as long as I did. I’m not much of a soldier, I fear, but I doubt that revelation would be shocking to any of my most intimate friends or family.

Speaking of which, I must say, I’m awfully chuffed I was shot, what? What a fine time we had, thanks to my wounds. It was the best damned disguise I’ve ever seen a blessing don!

I didn’t realize it, old thing, but we’d rather got ourselves into a bit of a rut before this whole war wheeze, hadn’t we? Hadn’t gone dancing in donkey’s years. I felt like the old Bertram again - or should I say the young Bertram? - swinging an ankle while dodging yours. I’d nearly forgotten what a spritely form you are on the dance floor, though I suppose all that noiseless floating you do must have its uses. I’m only sorry that my hip kept me from cutting the proverbial rug all night long like I used to.

Then again, there is plenty to be said for spending nights at home, isn’t there?

That one night in particular, after we had our appointment at the bank– I mean to say, I can’t even think about it without blushing from the hairline to the toes. Acorns for the winter, what what? I can’t think what I would need acorns for, precisely, but you certainly sent me off with a sackful.

Good Lord.

I mean to say, good Lord! You wouldn’t think it to look at you, you know. People take you for a mild-mannered sort.

Good Lord.

I do wear the ring, I promise. I’m probably not meant to, but if I have the chain beneath the blouse, the collar obscures it sufficiently. Sometimes I think about just popping it onto my finger, but I know it’s not proper, is it? You wouldn’t approve.

At least I do have The Letter, transcribed expertly by yourself. I keep it in the old breast pocket and it’s like having an old friend by my side. The Letter has seen me through some awfully thick times, what? It is as familiar with the soup as I am. Just today I was

I say.

I mean, I say.

I say, forgive me if my hand is a touch shaky. I’ve just now had a rather rummy encounter with someone that has left me reeling. I’m absolutely cudgeling my brains trying to think how I can explain it to you. Part of me thinks I shouldn’t even mention it, our lines of communication being as breachable as they are, but the rest of me rather strenuously insists that you have a right to know. I think if I were a more craven sort I’d let the dead past bury its dead and all that, but the Code of the Woosters compels me to honesty. We’re on English soil now anyway, so surely the risks of interception are not so great as they were?

I’ll do my best to describe the sitch without betraying any trusts. It won’t be easy, so forgive me if you are rather lost at sea.

We’re occupying some goodish-sized house here in the Valley, and we officers have our own bedrooms for the time being. So here I was, writing to you and thinking about getting ready for a bout of the old dreamless afterward, thinking about how it would be when on my bed the moonlight falls, as the fellow said, when there was a knock on my door and a familiar pumpkin popped in and asked if it couldn’t have a chat. Figuring that my acquaintance must surely have thoughts or concerns about some training maneuvre we’ve planned for the morrow, I gave the assent, and the entire form slipped in.

No sooner had the door clicked to behind him, however, but I was locked into a rather surprisingly passionate embrace. The person in question even applied direct mouth-to-mouth contact – in a manner I would describe as uncomfortably French – to which I issued a strict nolle prosequi in no uncertain terms. I swear it was over and done with in an instant, and I can’t begin to think of any way I could have possibly encouraged such an action.

I pushed the person away, as much as the confines of a modest country bedroom  allow for such pushing, reminding him with some heat that I am very happily engaged to a wonderful woman named Ginnie, and asking, furthermore, how he possibly could have forgotten that fact, since I speak of my fiancée with what must most assuredly be a maddening frequency.

To this, the offending party replied that he would be in his cold grave before he believed that I was happily engaged to any woman, and that I did speak of Ginnie with great frequency – so great, in fact, that it was suspicious and he was certain that either my love for her was a sham or I had invented her entirely, and either way the sheer volume of my discussion of her was so excessive that it could only possibly be overcompensation in an attempt to convince myself of my own lies. Not only do I speak of Ginnie assiduously, he said, but the things I say about her are so outlandishly reverent and adoring that it belies belief; that no such person could possibly exist. Then he went on to say that if this Ginnie were real, and if I loved her so much, and had loved her so deeply for so many years, then why on Earth hadn’t I gone and married her when I was on leave?

To this, I admit, I had no ready reply. I think it was the Poetess of Lesbos who put it best when she said, ‘I have two minds, I know not what to do.’ The one mind in my poor split head suggested that I could simply insist that I was true in my troth to the woman Ginnie, and that whatever my acquaintance thought I had indicated to him through word or action was merely wishful thinking on his part.

The other thought that, given the rather unusual circs we now found ourselves in, perhaps it was an opportunity to unburden the soul, so to speak, and to explain in real depth precisely why I have not married you, and thus, perhaps, acquire a confidante of like-mind, who, as you know, are exceedingly rare in life.

Since I could not decide on a proper course of action, I merely gaped at the man for some time before finally asking if he wouldn’t mind vacating the place and leaving me to my kit. The person in question, fortunately, assented to this, with a hushed request that I speak of it to no one. I agreed emphatically, if emphatically is the word I want.

And now, of course, I’ve immediately spoken of it to you. Or rather, written of it. But I suppose, all things considered, you’re practically no one.

That came out wrong, forgive me. I mean only that you are so essentially bound to me that speaking to you about it is not fundamentally different from keeping silent.

I hope you are not too deeply disturbed by these tidings, old thing. I most strenuously desire to assure you that I had no inkling that these thoughts were stirring in the old bean of my acquaintance, and that I never did a thing to actively encourage such an event. And now, of course, I’ve got myself quite the rum situation that is going to make the rest of this bally war bally uncomfortable.

Have you any advice for me? Perhaps it would be best if I went and got myself shot somewhere rather vital during the next round of hostilities. That would be preferable, I think, to the embarrassment that the two of us will be forced to endure from this point forward.

Don’t be cross with me, Ginnie. You know, certainly, that for me, all that’s best of dark and bright meet in your aspect and your eyes, and not in any other bally aspects or eyes. I also know that you have a jealous streak and I have no desire to stir that beast from its slumber any time soon. I have seen what destruction it can wreak.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Bertram,

I know precisely who it was that entered your room. Indeed, I have had my suspicions regarding this person for some months. There were far greater concerns at the time, but it did not escape my notice that, while you were still in France, he leant you an apparently unabridged version of the works of Walt Whitman, an author whose ouvre is currently banned in Britain, aside from a few selected poems that are considered inoffensive and thus not subject to the Obscene Publications Act. His status as a notoriously indecent writer of a particular type makes his work both difficult to obtain and quite coveted by the discerning gentleman, also of that same particular type.

I hope that I am not being too oblique in my terminology. You are correct that the likelihood of interception is low, but not non-existent.

He also wrote you an unnecessarily familiar letter when he informed you of your unit’s relocation to the Severn Valley. Since you seemed unaware of the letter’s overly intimate tone, and read it aloud to me without any obvious reservation, I elected to keep my peace. I believed, at the time, that it was merely harmless flirtation on his part – and I could hardly blame him. I have admonished you before about the dangers of moustaches, for one thing. It is perpetually challenging to dissuade other parties of both sexes from taking an interest in you that strays from what one might call platonic, or brotherly, but when you wear a moustache it becomes nearly impossible.

I see now that I have erred, and that you did, in fact, require an alert as to the possible dangers of the situation. My apologies, Bertram, for not warning you so that you could take measures to break his fascination with you before it got out of hand.

I advise you to shave your moustache immediately.

At the moment I have no further advice for you. I understand your desire to ‘come clean,’ as you would say, and tell all, but even though he has played his hand and thus rendered himself vulnerable to you, that does not necessarily make him trustworthy. Do recall that you have a tendency to trust too easily, and this particular cat is not one that willingly reenters the bag.

I will consider your predicament carefully. If nothing else, I do believe that your immediate rejection of him should at least buy you some time. No doubt he is just as concerned for his own safety as we are of ours.

I have complete confidence in your sincerity to me. Yes, I can be jealous, but never of you or your actions. If, perhaps, I might indulge in the fantasy of bludgeoning the other party involved in your misunderstanding, perhaps with the cosh that I have taken to keeping on my person, do believe that it in no way reflects upon my faith in you. I have known you long enough to be certain that you did not encourage this.

As for myself, I am strangely listless. I would not say that I am in despair, for though the threat of invasion still looms, it gives me distinct comfort to know both that you are currently on English soil, and that the RAF is quite successfully holding the German forces at bay.

It is only a sense of uselessness that I am battling. I am not accustomed to being idle. For all of the previous year my mind was bent on freeing you from service, and then from freeing us from the influence of your Aunt Agatha. Now that the one goal has been proven impossible, and the other is satisfactorily attained, at least for now, I find that I have no purpose.

And yes, the memory of the night after our meeting at the bank is a particular favorite of mine as well. My mind returns to it almost every time I am unoccupied, which is often, these days.

The metaphor of these recollections serving as acorns for the winter is an apt one. I fear we face a long winter indeed. It is well that we amassed such excellent reserves while they were ripe on the tree.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Ginnie,

Well, you have tagisti-ed the rem with a finely-honed acu, as usual, old thing. It was Archie, all right, and I simply am amazed that you worked it out with nothing but a snippet of poetry and a four line letter.

Relations have been suitably icy between the Major and myself since the incident, and that’s probably for the best. I have mentioned before, I think, that we were not on the best of terms for the first few months of the war,  he being a career military man full of salt and pepper – or is it vinegar, I mean? – and I being, well, what I am. I think he quite rightfully considered himself to have drawn the short straw in the great Captain raffle. It was only after I related to him the Tale of Bingo and the Communists and summarily reduced him to helpless laughter that he began to warm to me, so I suppose this is all your fault! Out of the soup pot and into the, well, soup. Although, not even out of the soup pot, actually. Still simmering away in there.

After that we were chummy enough in a distant way, breaking a bit of bread together now and then. Since the event of my previous letter, however, he has not spoken a single unofficial word to me, and even official words are hard to come by, which could prove to be rather a problem in a combat scenario. No doubt he thinks that I may attempt to harm him in some way, and I can’t think at all how to convince him otherwise aside from coming clean, despite your protestations. I acknowledge that this is thick – thick as treacle! But I don’t see another way. I will hold off until your next reply, but if you have no other option for me by then, I feel I shall have to tell him. I simply do not see how we can safely enter the field of battle whilst we are not on speaking terms.

I am sorry indeed to hear of your listlessness, old thing. I should love dearly to help you find your lists again, or what have you. I know you well enough to know that you are never happier than when you have a chance to work hard at work worth doing, as I’ve heard it put. It’s a strange mix-up of fate that I’m here rising while dusk is still dript in gray, and toiling daily whilst you are as the lilies of the field.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Bertram,

I see your reasoning and I understand. It is indeed a grave risk to tell him the truth. That being said, I comprehend the difficulty presented by the rift that now exists between you. Perhaps there is no reasonable alternative at this juncture.

If you do inform him, and it seems that you will, I strongly recommend that you continue to use the name you have been using for me. The less he knows about specific details, the better, at least until we know how trustworthy he is. You recall how we conducted ourselves ten years ago when we went about informing your Aunt Dahlia? It will need to be similarly subtle.

I would begin by asking him to accompany you on a walk away from the house. Say that you wish to discuss sensitive information and detach him from any possible ears. Speaking within the confines of the house, even in your room with the door locked, is not advisable.

For the same reason, do attempt to walk through an open field, if one is available. Trees and bushes are a danger as well. A soldier could be taking a nap in a bush and overhear far too much.

I reiterate: tell him as little as possible. Tell him only the most basic facts. Continue to call me Ginnie, and do not inform him that it is a pseudonym. Do not tell him about the bank. Do not tell him about the Club Book. Do not tell him about my career, or how we met, or when. Yours is a warm and open disposition, and if he receives your explanation with equanimity, I know that it will be your immediate instinct to open yourself further to him, but you must resist that urge. Remember that every person who knows is another leak in the barrel, and everything they know widens the chink. We can  only open so many before the structure of the barrel itself buckles and collapses.

I am sorry that I cannot conduct this business in your stead. Always before I have been the one to take these matters in hand when necessary. But you are not a fool, despite what you may think of yourself. If you can overpower your friendliness, then it will be all right.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Ginnie,

Well, it’s done.

I did as you recommended, and invited him for a walk in the cow pasture nearby when we were both off duty. We call it a cow pasture because it is understood that there once were cows in it, but now it is merely an empty expanse of grass and wildflowers.

He accepted more easily than I expected him to. In retrospect, I think he took my invitation in a very different nature than that which I intended, but ah well. Regardless, he assented at once and we set off. We walked some way while only chit-chatting about the weather and the flowers and the Nazis and all that. It was a lovely day altogether, with bees charging about and the snail on the wing, and the birds all a-twitter. Calm was the even and clear was the sky when all alone went, well, you-know-who and I. It was just the sort of walk through a summer field that I should have liked to take with you, old top, but I made do with the company I was granted. Anyhow, when we had come far enough that I considered our conversation uneavesdroppable, I commenced.

This is how it happened.

I cleared my throat.

I cleared it again.

I said, ‘I say.’

He said, ‘Yes?’ rather expectantly.

I said, ‘I say,’ again. He ‘yesed’ again.

I cleared my throat and said, ‘I say, old chap.’

He leaned toward me and tried to kiss me.

I stepped back and said, ‘I say!’

He covered his face and turned to go.

I said, ‘I say, old chap!’ and stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. By now I could tell I had thoroughly loused the whole thing up, so I added a, ‘Frightfully sorry, old thing,’ for good measure. I mean, I could see his reasoning. When the beloved O. asks one out for an idyllic stroll through a field of summer flowers, far from prying eyes and listening ears, one tends to get ideas. He turned back to face me, and at last I scraped together the courage and plunged on.

I told him that he wasn’t wrong about me, that Ginnie was a fiction, but not quite as complete a fiction as he believed. I told him, as you suggested, that Ginnie does exist, and that I am indeed quite frightfully in love and thoroughly spoken for, but that Ginnie is, in fact, a member of the, shall we say, less deadly sex, rather than the deadlier, and that was why marriage is obviously impossible.

I put it to him more plainly than that, but I am attempting discretion in the written word. Clever, eh?

I then pulled the ring out from under my collar and showed it to him. I’m not sure why; I suppose I thought it would serve as evidence, perhaps.

Anyway, he listened carefully, a look of dawning realization upon his map. When I’d finished my little speech he was silent for a moment, staring into the distance, much like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes he star’d at the Pacific. Finally, he stirred and drew a breath, and spoke.

‘I hope Ginnie knows how lucky he is,’ was all he said, and then he turned and left. I didn’t quite know what to make of that; anyone with an ounce of sense could see that I’m the lucky one in this exchange, but there you go. He hasn’t met you, after all, so I can’t blame him for getting the wrong idea. Anyone who has had the opportunity to compare us side-by-side would see fairly clearly that I am coming out ahead, and not just by a nose, either. By the whole bally field.

Overall I suppose it went as well as could be expected, considering I carried the thing out by myself, without you whispering the lines into my ear like Cyrano. He still hasn’t spoken to me since, but I have hope that he will at least come to understand that I am not a danger to him.

Love,

Your Love (I am leaving this letter unsigned, just in case)

*

Ginnie,

Or whatever your name is. I snuck a peek at Bertie’s last letter to you when he put  it out to be collected and jotted down the address. I don’t know why letters addressed to you are sent ‘care of R. Jeeves,’ but I have my suspicions. Bertie is many things, but he isn’t a master of covert operations.

I am not proud of myself for writing this letter. I want you to know that I did sincerely battle within myself, but the temptation was too great. It was all I could think about during mess. It kept me awake long after lights out. The fact is, I needed to know the truth. I know what Bertie told me. I have no reason to think he would lie, but there is something in me that cannot rest until I have the confirmation from your pen.

Do you care for him sincerely?

I am aware that I have known him for less than a year, and for the first several months of our acquaintance, my opinion of him was rather low. He does not make a good first impression. However, my opinion changed after our arrival in France. Mine has been a lonely life, for reasons that are likely obvious to you. There is a quality in him that made me feel that I was no longer alone.

He is not a traditionally talented soldier. All the same, at the front, he has proven himself incalculably valuable, to all of us. There were nights in France when the thermometer was plunged to the well, when the only light was the intermittent flash of the artillery, when no warmth or comfort or solace could be found, and yet we were laughing and merry as though we were holding up a pub back home. There were men among us – boys – who had never left their own villages, never left their mothers, and in any other unit they would have been miserable, but their Captain kept them smiling, kept them at ease, made them feel as though no wind was too wild and no battle too fierce that they could not face it and come through.

I am no stranger to conflict; I have lived my adult life in uniform. I have served in the Near East and in Egypt, and seen some action there. I have never served under such dire circumstances, and yet neither have I had such a jolly grand time while doing it. When I tell you that he practically carried me to Dunkirk on the strength of his bright nature, I mean it entirely. I credit him with my life.

There was a day after Belgium fell, when we were scrambling for the shore, when we had nearly all lost our arms, our vehicles, even our boots, when our canteens were dry and had been for a day, when we hadn’t eaten a single bite of food in three days, when the Huns were at every side, their bullets rattling off the trees about us as we ran with our heads ducked low, and on that day, I said to him that I thought we were fairly well done for.

Do you know what he did?

He laughed. He said that it was just when things were at their toughest that the Woosters pull out that sterner stuff from which they’re made and set about it.

‘All you have to do is keep putting one foot in front of the other,’ he said. ‘Easiest thing in the world. You’ve been doing it since you were a tot. Just one more step and then just one more, and I will tell you all about the time my old pal Gussie wrote down everything he hated about his prospective father-in-law in a little book and then lost the dashed thing in the man’s house!’

He told me the story, Ginnie. He told me and all the men who could hear him, and I firmly believe that men who would have collapsed from exhaustion otherwise kept walking so that they could hear the end. He told the story for hours, and by the time he’d finally finished, we could see the Channel, and almost all of us had made it.

I am telling you this story so that you will understand that I believe he is the most singularly remarkable person I have ever met.

I am telling you this story because it is my desire to know for certain that his ‘fiancée’ knows precisely what kind of a treasure he is.

I know very well what he thinks of you. To hear him tell it, he believes that you created the Earth and the sun and hung them both in the sky, and never even thought to rest on the Seventh Day, being above all that. No mere mortal could hope to compete, in his eyes.

Do you return the sentiment?

Tell me so that I may sleep.

A. E.

*

Major Evans,

Thank you for your letter. I had not heard those particular details of your retreat to Dunkirk. It might not surprise you to know that Captain Wooster does not routinely discuss his own merits. Tragically, he does not seem to believe he has any.

I understand entirely your regard for him. I too consider him to be a remarkable person. I do not usually write with such openness to strangers, but for the sake of what I know that you have suffered, I will tell you plainly that I have loved him with every atom of my being for fifteen years, and I will continue to love him with everything that is in me until I am dead and gone. If what you need to find some relief is to know that he is in good hands, I assure you that there has been no greater honor in my life than that of caring for Captain Wooster.

I am gratified to hear that you and your colleagues appreciate him. Few have seen his value, I am afraid. Do take care of him for me. You know as well as I do that such light shines but rarely on this Earth.

Sincerely,

G.

*

Dear Bertram,

He wrote to me. While I am somewhat concerned by this, his letter was not threatening in tone. I have reason to believe that he will harass you no longer.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Ginnie,

Thank you. Your words have given me some comfort. Please forgive my intrusion.

I will do my best to see him through, and to send him back to you unharmed.

Sincerely,

Archie

*

Dear Ginnie,

He did what? What? I say. What? How on Earth? Why? For what reason? And in what manner was this accomplished?

I mean to say, what?

Can a man give his superior officer a stern talking-to? Is that acceptable given our particular situation?

I mean to say, good Lord.

Not threatening in tone, you say? That’s all to the good. Jolly good, what. All right, then. But how in the Hell did he get your address? And why?

Why, dash it?

I say, can a man strike his superior officer in the head with a stout stick if it’s understood that said superior officer has been secretly writing to his fiancée? What does the old army manual say about that? I never read it. Have you read it? Is there a manual?

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Bertram,

I am not aware of a manual, specifically, but I would highly recommend against striking your superior officer. If I recall correctly, you have never enjoyed any of the nights you have spent in jail.

Please do not concern yourself. He merely desired clarification on a few points. I have great faith that he is satisfied and will no longer be a problem for you.

As for myself, you might recall that I wrote recently of feeling listless and without purpose. That was superseded briefly by other concerns, but now that those are resolved, I have decided to join the Local Defense Volunteers. Being of reasonable strength and health, and having very little else to occupy my time and energy, I am precisely the sort of person that is needed there.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Ginnie,

All right, I won’t strike him. You know best, old thing. He’s been nearly his old chummy self lately anyway, which is all to the good since we’ve had a bit of news.

No doubt you’ve read the papers: Italy invading Egypt and all that. Well, with that news comes even better news: Bertram invading Egypt.

Well, not invading, precisely. Defending. Bertram defending Egypt.

We’re going to Egypt, is what I’m trying to say. Apparently there are some British units already there who have been there for ages, and a great many Australians are rushing up to join in the fray, and some chaps from India as well, but they’re sending us and a few other British units to hold the Italians at bay before the others arrive. At the moment the loose plan is to extract us and return us to defend the homeland once Egypt is properly flooded with Australians, but I gather that they have rather a long way to travel. Australia is quite far, I take it? I mean, I knew it was far, everyone knows that. But it is really very far, isn’t it?

Did you know that Egypt is part of the Empire? I hadn’t the foggiest. Apparently that’s where that Suet Canal is that everyone was all a-titter about some decades back.  I remember my Uncle Henry had some sort of strong opinion about it when I was lad, though whether it was pro- or anti- I couldn’t hope to say. Bally important either way, what? We’re to ‘hold the canal at all costs,’ apparently, which I don’t like the sound of at all. There are some costs that are, well, rather costly, wouldn’t you say?

I say, do you remember that Round the World cruise we took some time back? Did we stop in Egypt, do you recall? I seem to remember some sort of desert-ish place with sand and palm trees. It was near the end of the thing and I was exhausted, so the memory is hazy, but I think there was a river. I might have fallen asleep on a deck chair while you went ashore to see some ancient and incredible site of some kind. What would it be? It was all rather warm, I think, too warm for me, though I do quite vividly recall you returning to the old ship looking like a burnished god of antiquity – speaking of incredible sights, what?

I think your plan has merit, old fruit. It isn’t dangerous at all, I suppose? So long as you aren’t put in any risk it’s all fine to me. Volunteer to defend the locals all you like, I say.

I am leaving tomorrow, first thing, so I shan’t write again until I am once again on solid ground. I will contact you at the earliest possibility.

Fret not again. After all, have you not prayed in solemn Heaven? On Earth, have I not prayed? Are not two prayers a perfect strength? We shall not feel afraid.

Who said that? Tennyson?

Love,

Bertie

P.S. All things considered, I suppose it’s all right if I keep the moustache, wouldn’t you say? Archie’s taken care of, and I rather enjoy it. You did initially grant me permission to keep it until the end of hostilities, remember.

Chapter Text

Dear Bertie,

I hope this letter finds you well. I apologize that I have failed to write to you for so long, but I have been so frightfully busy, you see. My fifth novel is set to be published practically any day, but it has been so awfully complicated. It seems my publisher is short-staffed at the moment, having lost quite a few of his editors and other staff to the military, which is so inconvenient. Honestly, Bertie, is nothing sacred? You would think that the British government would spare their nation’s publishers at least. They’re training a great lot of women now, and while I’m all for it, of course, I wish they wouldn’t allow them to practice on my novel. Something of that caliber really deserves a professional touch, don’t you think?

Anyway, I am writing to see how you’re getting on. Imagine you, signing up to be a dashing soldier! You remind me of Anthony, the protagonist of Evermore, my third novel. Joining up in his nation’s hour of need, but secretly motivated by a sense of hopeless loss due to his irreparably broken heart. I must admit, ever since Mother told me that you’d joined up, I have felt just a little responsible. I know we don’t speak much these days, but I keep my ear to the ground, Bertie dear, and I know you have never married, or even so much as been seen dancing with another woman for years.

You have been the Petrarch to my Laura all this time, haven’t you, Bertie? No doubt you went to war in the vain hope that your life of bitter torment and tears could end at last. What a fool I was to refuse you so many times! If I could go back and do it all again, I’d marry you and make something of you. I always thought that there must surely be something better for me, a man who could be my intellectual equal, but I see now that in pursuing that, I failed to see the value of a simple, honest man such as yourself.

It’s no use weeping for what might have been, dear Bertie. We have only the present and the future, and as for that, I want you to know that I am prepared to make you happy at last. Should you survive your trials at the front, I will be waiting for you. You may consider our engagement official.

Love,

Florence

*

Lord Yaxley,

It is with great sorrow that I write to inform you of the passing of your uncle George Wooster, Fifth Earl of Yaxley. He died peacefully in his home in London yesterday morning after a brief illness. At his bedside were his wife, his sisters – your Aunt Dahlia and Aunt Agatha – as well as his step-niece, Lady Florence Craye, who attended her step-mother in her grief.

Arrangements are being made for a small private funeral at St. James’s, Piccadilly, to be held this Monday, my Lord.

I am aware that you have been transferred to Cairo, my Lord, and as such it might be difficult for you to attend the services, but your family has requested that you make every effort to be present, for the sake of appearances if nothing else. Your Aunt Agatha in particular considers it to be your responsibility as the current head of the family.

I am merely passing on her message, and I am currently writing this under her direct observation.

I also have a message from your fiancée, Miss Ginnie Smith, my Lord, who wishes me to tell you that the poet you quoted in your previous letter was, in fact, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and not Tennyson. Your fiancée also wishes me to inform you that the canal in Egypt is called the Suez, not the Suet, and that is because its terminal point to the south opens into the Gulf of Suez, so named from the Arabic as-suways, originally from the Egyptian suan, meaning ‘beginning,’ due to its position at the head - and thus the beginning, by ancient reckoning - of the Red Sea. She hopes that this information is enlightening and helpful to you. She also hopes that you are safe and well.

My condolences, my Lord.

Sincerely,

Jeeves

*

Dear Ginnie,

I must say, I’m awfully pipped. I wouldn’t call myself a bosom companion of old Uncle George, per se, but he was an all right chap and we got on well enough when he wasn’t dragging me to Bath or Harrogate for the cure. I know he was getting up there but it always takes the wind out of one’s sails to lose a family member of long standing, what? Still, all flesh is grass and all that, and all things considered he lasted a damn sight longer than I thought he would.

I must try to remember to write a letter of condolence to Aunt Maudie. She’s always been a good egg, in her own particular way.

I say, why precisely is Aunt Agatha breathing down your neck again? I thought you dispatched her. If she observed the crafting of your most recent letter, then that means she must be aware our engagement, which is not a thing I considered informing her of, but if you have done so then I suppose it’s for the best. What, precisely, is your plan there? Has she pressed you for further information? I see you have chosen a surname, which is probably wise.

Also, I don’t mean to embarrass you, old top, but you’ve gone and called me Lord Yaxley in your letter! I think Uncle George’s passing has confused you a bit. You’ve got Lord Yaxleys on the brain, what? That will be something to laugh over on a wet afternoon sometime, once the tears of grief have dissipated of course.

Speaking of tears of grief, and speaking also of engagements, I’ve had a letter from Florence Craye! It appears I’m engaged to her, somehow? She has promised to marry me when I return from the war. Can you fathom it? After all this time, and while I’m off fighting a war, of all things! I ask you, when does it end? And what possessed her? And what is to be done? I got the bally thing the day I landed in Cairo, and my initial instinct was to toss it into the Nile to be swept away forever, but I’ve retained it for my records.

I haven’t had a moment to write to anyone since I arrived, being harried from one boat to another, and then to some rickety, sand-blasted vehicles to some other place, and then to some train that lurched along for about forty hours, and then another vehicle, and another train, and now we’ve been dumped somewhere entirely barren and miserable with a name I can’t recall with nothing to sleep under but a tent. It’s quite hot.

Cairo was all right. Hot. The locals seemed friendly enough, considering they’ve got to accommodate a great army roaring in at them with no notice. A man’s got to feel for them, having some war that’s got nothing to do with them spilling into their country for no good reason. I gather from what little conversation I had in the city that the people of North Africa are quite accustomed to Europeans having wars in their back gardens, which just seems like dirty pool to me. I don’t think the English people would be so pleased if the Egyptians and the Libyans decided to have a war in Somerset, would they? There would be much public outcry against it, I should think. It’s not sporting in the least.

We have yet to face the mighty Italians in battle, but it’s not far off, so I understand. The old garrison here seems unfazed; apparently the Italians aren’t really much to worry about, they say, and they all think this is a fine opportunity to push right over the border and take Libya, assuming the Australians arrive in time. We do have some rather spiffing coves from India trickling in now, which bolsters our numbers a bit.

Why we should take Libya, or whether Libya wants to be taken both seem to be questions no one is asking. This was all so much simpler when we were in France and we knew the French wanted us there.

Do think over my Florence trouble, will you, old thing? I’m at a complete loss.

Oh, and I asked Archie about my chances of attending the funeral and apparently that’s right out. It’s a shame of course, but it seems one can’t simply dash in and out of a war zone on a whim.

You’re a bit confused again as to my own importance, old thing. Perhaps the stress of the war is getting to you. I’m hardly the head of the family. More the afterthought of the family. I doubt anyone will notice my absence.

Oh, and Rossetti, and Suez. Noted!

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Lord Yaxley,

I was not confused or mistaken in my previous letter, but it does appear that you may be. I referred to you as the head of the family, and addressed you as Lord Yaxley because, with your uncle’s passing, the family title has fallen to you. You might recall that your Uncle George had no children, having married so late in life, and that your own late father was the next youngest brother. You are now the Sixth Earl of Yaxley, my Lord.

Had I realized that this eventuality had slipped your mind, I would have mentioned it earlier. My apologies. It never occurred to me that such a thing could possibly be forgotten, but you do surprise me at times. I would go so far as to say that it speaks to your uniquely beautiful character that your inevitable accession to power of this magnitude would be so irrelevant to you. Indeed, I do not believe a man of your caliber has ever before walked upon this Earth, my Lord.

Your Aunt Agatha and your cousin Lady Florence were both in your flat at the time that I wrote my last letter to you, in order to be certain that their precise message be correctly conveyed to you. Your aunt believes that you would not read a letter if it was sent by her.

I permitted them entry in order to avoid unpleasantness, but they were never out of my sight. They do not trust me, which is not surprising, though I gather that your aunt has kept much information regarding the two of us to herself. Lady Florence appears unaware of anything outside her own designs.

Lady Florence did mention her engagement to you, my Lord, which I was expecting, and your aunt was most encouraging to her, no doubt seeing it as a way to keep your behavior in check should you survive the war. At that point I judged it necessary to inform them that you are engaged already. However, neither of them believed me and both have demanded proof. I assured them that proof was attainable. I am currently considering my options.

As for why Lady Florence has taken a sudden interest in rekindling your long-dormant romance, I have little doubt that it is related to the fact that by marrying you she could now attain the title of Countess. That would be no small accomplishment and her ambition is such that she appears to consider it worth the price of marriage to a man who is not entirely her ideal. No doubt once I have contrived a method of convincing her of the validity of your engagement to another, her entanglement with you will resolve itself.

I have been keeping abreast of the news, and I am aware that you are mustering on the Libyan border, in preparation for the forthcoming Italian invasion. Know that all of my love and all of my hopes lie with you in your desert tent. I would I were so tranced, my Lord, so rapt in ecstasies, to stand apart and to adore, gazing on thee for evermore.

I am sorry that I could not save you from all of this, my Lord.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Ginnie,

What?

I mean to say, what?

You can’t be serious. I mean, I know you are; you always are. But somehow it never crossed old Bertram’s mind that he was so thoroughly in for it. I mean to say, is this why Aunt Agatha was so determined to marry me off? So that I could be a respectable head of the family? So that I could sow a strong crop of future Earls? Good Lord! I say, I always wondered why she kept trying to push me down the aisle when Claude and Eustace got off so easy just being sent to South Africa.

Now think about it, I really should have pieced this one together, what? I mean to say, I always knew that the Earldom outlasts the Earl, but Uncle George has been Lord Yaxley since I was so high! By the time I was old enough to understand such things, it just seemed like the title was his and his alone!

You say it speaks to my uniquely beautiful character. I say that it speaks to my uniquely fat head.

What does this mean, precisely, old fruit? What do I do? Is there a ceremony? Do I have to sit in the House of Lords? What exactly do they do in the House of Lords? I take it it’s not actually a house and that I don’t have to live there. It’s something to do with laws or something, isn’t it? I don’t know a thing about laws. Why on Earth is someone like me supposed to muddle about with laws, just because my uncle didn’t have children?

How can I do all that anyway if I’m in some desert in Egypt?

Does everyone have to go about touching their caps and calling me ‘milord,’ now? Dear God, does Archie have to call me that, on top of everything else we’ve been through? How does it work when the superior officer is a common man and his inferior is a Lord of the Realm? I never mentioned my family to Archie and he doesn’t know a thing about it. This is going to be dashed awkward. War is right barmy Hell sometimes.

And of course Aunt Agatha is whispering in Florence’s ear to secure the title of Countess. I know how an Aunt’s mind works, old thing, and to her this would seem to be the perfect solution for both Florence and Bertram. I certainly hope you can find a path to freedom for me, my dear. I should hate to come through all of this and wind up slinking down the aisle at the end of it. Prison might have been kinder after all! At least Bertram the Disgraced Felon would have significantly lower matrimonial prospects, what?

Libyan border, yes! Lots of heat and sand and rocks, you know, and not a lot else. Lots of lying about on the ground staring at the patterns in the sand. Lots of betting ration biscuits on whenever the next cloud will appear; we see one every several days. Lots of card-playing amongst the fellows. Lots of perspiration without so much inspiration, if you will tolerate the repugnant image. Forgive me for saying so, but I don’t think British battle dress is quite suited to the Saharan climate. The locals look much more comfortable in their loose robes and such. I suppose they would have a fairly good idea of proper wear for such weather, wouldn’t they? It rather makes me wish I still had my old T. E. Lawrence costume. Wherever did that end up?

The Italians are coming, certainly, but very much on their own peculiar schedule, which is all to the good because the Australians are yet en route as well. We may be proud, but we are few at the mo., even with the Indians bolstering our numbers, and we won’t be much more than wheat for the Italians’ scythes if we were to meet today. Or do I mean sickles? Which is the thing with which one cuts wheat? Whichever it is, that is what they will be. The Italians, I mean. Or rather, their guns. You understand, what? Lots of Italians, you know, and not so many of us.

I hope this doesn’t distress you overmuch, only we did agree to be more open with one another, did we not? You do actually want me to tell you about such things?

Love,

Bertie

P.S. Before I sent this off I thought I’d break the news to Charlie. What with your being Ginnie all this time (and not in my employ, obviously) and I being somewhat vague about my lifestyle back on Blighty, he never quite got the picture regarding the veritable flood of blue flowing in old Bertram’s veins, so I knew it would be a bit of a shock.

We were making some of your wonderful oolong (along with a generous portion of sand, courtesy of the incessant desert wind) on a little campfire, which is our custom of an afternoon these days. We were chatting of this and that when I said, ‘Oh by the by, my Uncle’s gone and died and now I’m an earl.’ Charlie laughed for a mo., and then said he didn’t quite understand the joke and asked me to explain it.

I realized I’d gone about it the wrong way so I said, ‘No, no, old comrade-in-arms, it’s not a wheeze; I’m Lord Yaxley now, but I’d prefer if you kept it to yourself.’

Then he got all red in the face and said he had to run a drill, which I bally well know he doesn’t because we drilled the men for about three hours earlier and it was bally teatime!

Had I known this earldom gag was imminent, I would have eased him into the idea. He’s a middle-class chap from the Midlands, you see, and hasn’t met so much as a baronet before, so I suppose it was rather a rum play for me to spring it on him like this.

I don’t have to tell Archie, do I?

Unless Charlie already has. Good Lord! Charlie doesn’t know a thing about what happened with Archie, of course. How could I tell him? So it would never occur to him how dashed uncomfortable everything already is between us. He’s noticed, of course, but he just thinks Archie’s back to disliking me generally, as he did when we were first acquainted. What sort of impact might this sort of news make on a fellow, do you think? A sigh of relief for a bullet dodged, that he won’t be tangled up with a Noble Lord? I think that’s how I would take it, but then you never can tell with some chaps.

I say, you’re not put off by this, are you, Ginnie? Would you marry someone with this kind of yoke about his neck? It all seems a tad ostentatious for you. I don’t think I’m legally permitted to shuck it off onto some other chump, but I can try and sort that out if you’d prefer it. Perhaps Claude would interested in the post. Or young Thos. He’s got the temperament for an earl, I think.

P.P.S. Charlie told Archie. I know because Archie is sitting about fifty feet off pretending to stare at the horizon but actually flicking his saucer-like eyes in my direction, like stout Cortez if he wanted to make the Pacific think he was staring at some other ocean. I don’t know precisely what it means but it’s dashed uncomfortable. I do wish old Uncle George could have held off at least until the end of hostilities.

I’m drinking your lovely tea, but it’s not as good without company.

What I really wish is that Uncle George and Aunt Maudie had married back in the 90’s like they wanted to and raised up a brood of hearty, healthy children to take on the mantel in my stead! Yet another curse to lay upon Aunt Agatha’s head, what?

P.P.P.S Don’t think I didn’t notice you calling me ‘my Lord’ about eighty dashed times in your last two letters. Cut that out.

*

Dear Florence,

So good to hear from you, old thing. I received a letter from Jeeves, which I think you know, informing me that you were at the old Uncle’s bedside when his time came. How is Aunt Maudie holding up? Uncle George was the apple of her eye, for some reason I never could quite fathom. Still, they seemed well-matched and they had a jolly good time together. What more can one really ask for, what?

Speaking of which, I really am most flattered, of course, that you would offer to be my wife. Really awfully good of you, and all that. Only there is a small problem, and that is that it is quite impossible, really, because I’m just a bit engaged to someone else at the moment and it wouldn’t be preux chevalier to let her down, would it? Especially at a time like this when I’ve just gone and become an Earl – well, it wouldn’t look too good for any of us, would it? Wouldn’t do to drag the Wooster name down in the mud and make us all look a bunch of butterflies who toy with a woman’s heart and then leave her the second something better comes along, what?

Certainly any man could see that you are marvelous, of course, the cream of the crop as far as women go, I think, absolutely! So you see how it would look if I gave the old girl her marching orders at this juncture.

Anyway, I do hope that clears it up. Do say hello to your father and your brother for me, and best of luck getting that book of yours off the ground.

Sincerely,

Bertie

*

Dear Aunt Maudie,

I’m dashed sorry to hear about Uncle George. I know you were quite the ‘whither thou goest I will go’ sort of couple, and I can only imagine how bally difficult it must be for you to carry on.

Give your sorrow words. The grief that does not speak knits up the o’er wrought heart and bids it break. I don’t know what that means, but I heard Jeeves say it to his sister once and she seemed to appreciate it.

Anyway, toodle-pip, old relative. I only wanted you to know you were on my mind.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Bertram,

I have seen the news. At your earliest convenience, please write and tell me how you are faring.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Rebecca,

Are you reading newspapers? I remember that you told me that during the previous war, when Arthur was at the front and I was serving in somewhat less perilous circumstances, that you would often shelter yourself from overexposure to news so that you could continue to function in your day to day life. If you are reverting to that tendency again, then you may not be aware that the Italian forces have begun their advance upon the Egyptian border. I told you on the telephone two weeks ago that Bertram is in Egypt, so no doubt you are aware of my current emotional state.

Being unable to sleep, I sat up all night and read Hume’s Treatise on Human Nature. It may have been an error.

His primary preoccupation is with human passions, to which I have given little merit or attention thus far in my life. Indeed, I have experienced little in the way of passion in my time, being concerned primarily with competence and satisfaction. However, I am stirred into passion by one person, and always have been, and thus I find it impossible to read Hume without thinking of him.

Hume states that the four motivating passions of humanity are pride, humility, love, and hate. I experienced so little of any of those passions before Bertram, and now I feel tormented by them: my love for him, my hatred for those who would do him harm, my pride in my position in his life, my humility at having failed him.

It is pride that troubles me now. I took great pride in a great many things, and all of it is rubble.

What I did not tell you is that Bertram’s uncle died recently, and he has ascended to the family title. When I informed him he was shocked. Somehow he had forgotten that  the earldom was to be his. Can you even comprehend the kind of person you would have to be to forget such a thing?

I have the most terrible confession to make, Rebecca. From the moment that he engaged me, I have anticipated this event. When we reached our particular understanding, my anticipation increased exponentially. There were times when my pride knew no limits, that I was beloved by a man who would be an Earl. Imagine my humility then when the moment came at last, and he was so far, and not only distant but so careless of the honor.

I was prideful. I was proud to serve a man as noble as he. Proud to uphold the standards of our society. Proud to stand as a bastion between culture and chaos. And I was ashamed as well, knowing that I fell short of the ideal. Knowing that a better man would not have fallen prey to those baser instincts that have, ultimately, lead us here.  Lead him to Egypt.

Hume says that a man cannot experience pride and humility at once, that one passion invariably obliterates the other, but I believe he is incorrect. I believe that my pride and my humility are so bound with one another that there is no extricating the two.

I have never been worthy of him. By my birth I am beneath him. By my pride I am worse. I am tortured now by the thought that perhaps another could have loved him better, that my own ambition overpowered my rational mind. That I may not have loved him purely, as perhaps some other might have. There are those who would love him even if he were a common man. Would I? Did I desire him for the wrong reasons?

Perhaps worse is the knowledge that I have withheld information from him, after we both agreed to an increased level of sincerity and truthfulness. I have told him nothing of my conditions here.

The air raid sirens blare at all hours now. Blackout orders are continuous. No bombs have yet fallen upon us, but I fear it is only a matter of time. I am remaining here, in London. He would want me to leave, but I cannot bring myself to go. If I tell him of the danger he will insist, and it will be most difficult to find a way to reasonably refuse him. However, this is my home, and, perhaps more crucially, it is his home, and I have no desire to abandon it. There is nearly nothing that I can do for him. At the very least I can maintain his household.

I am in an even greater crisis than this however, because I do believe that I should have told him when he was here that his cousin Thomas appears on Berkeley Street with some frequency, and though he has not yet approached me, his manner is menacing. I do not know his purpose.

I keep an old cosh in my pocket when I go out. I am scheduled to begin training for the Local Defense Volunteers next week. It is my hope that the training I receive will allow me to better defend myself. You know that I have never quailed those few times it has been necessary to use physical force, but I have had no formal training since the last war, some two decades past now, and I am a young man no longer.

I am a secretive person, Rebecca. It is another way in which I fall short of the ideal.

He is and has always been so very nearly perfect. The love that he inspires and the hate as well– the utter hatred for the world itself that it could form him and dispatch him so carelessly, that there is a force powerful enough to create Bertram Wooster, of all things, and that it could just as easily toss him into he maelstrom of war, to destroy him so unceremoniously–

The fact is that there is every likelihood that he is already dead. It would be the end of every passion. Where would there be place for love or hate, or pride, or humility? I would have to dispense with Hume entirely.

Love,

R.

*

Dear Reginald,

I am reading the papers. The last war was different entirely, with small children to raise and my husband at the front. I am stronger than I was and less vulnerable. Bertie has been on my mind since I heard of the initial border skirmishes. I did hope that you had heard from him since then, but it seems that you have not.

You need to be kinder to yourself.

We all must be kinder to ourselves, especially in times like these. We are only animals, frightened things shivering in our burrows. We are afraid.

We love what we love and we rarely understand why.

I will not pretend that I am not aware of the allure that nobility has always held for you. When as children we played, and you were always a prince – and when we were older and you chose to go into service, when a man of your gifts could potentially have done many different things. Money was a concern, certainly. You needed to work for all of our sakes. But I thought even then you chose service because of the proximity it granted you to nobility, to opulence, to power. You have romanticized the noble families from the first.

But that is not the end of the story, is it? For you served many Lords in your time, and never remained in service to one or another for longer than a year or two, always growing disillusioned, always resigning in a huff if they fell short of your expectations, if they so much as dressed improperly once. Didn’t you exit an Earl’s employ once simply because he wore a hunting jacket to breakfast?

And then came Bertie. And yes, his lineage was ancient and his future was an Earldom, and that might be what initially drew you to him, but that is not what made you stay, because I have seen him wear striped spats, and Alpine hats, and crimson handkerchiefs, and you have not wavered. Noble blood is an accident of birth like any other; one might notice a man for the color of his eyes or the way that he walks, but you marry a man because his soul ignites yours.

If Bertie is dead, you will not grieve an Earl. You will grieve his merry laugh and his sincerity. You will grieve the half of yourself that you found when you found him.

No one could have loved him better. No one would have had a chance to, because he wouldn’t have had another. Be kinder to yourself, Reggie. Be as kind as Bertie would be.

If Bertie is alive, then do speak honestly to him. If you demand it of him you cannot deny it yourself. Tell him about his cousin. Tell him of the sirens, and the bombs, if they fall. Permit him to share your life as well as he can.

Do not give in to despair. I believe I have told you before that hope is paramount. There is much to anticipate, there is much to love in life even after devastating loss. Think of Bertie and the way he persists. He would persist in you for as long as you carry him.

I am well, not that you asked. Gloucestershire is quiet. The pigs are comical in their way. The land is lovely, though I miss the sea. Mabel and Charles and the children are delightful. Normally they would be at school but Mabel thinks it best to keep them home for now.

I have a small confession of my own to make. I have told Mabel about you and Bertie. I know it isn’t wise to spread it, but she asked me outright and I am not gifted at subterfuge. I have never lied to my daughter. I cannot lie to my daughter, and I cannot hold all of my sorrow and my worry within myself. You told me once yourself that giving grief a voice will crack its strength. I think you lifted the sentiment from Shakespeare, but it was worthy advice nonetheless.

I hope you will understand, and take comfort in the knowledge that Mabel has had her suspicions for some time and was not surprised.

Love,

Rebecca

*

Dear Reginald,

I have heard about London. I tried to ring you but the telephone lines are down. Please answer soon and tell me you are all right. I know you wanted to stay in London, but if this has weakened your resolve, Mabel and Charles assure me that there is a place for you here.

Love,

Rebecca

*

Dear Reggie,

If this letter reaches you, I want you to come to Brinkley at once. No arguments. Bertie told me to take care of you, and I won’t let him down. If the Huns are dropping bombs on London then you are leaving. Maudie is already here, but it won’t be crowded because Angela and Tuppy have gone with their boys to visit Tuppy’s divorced cousin Honoria, who has just purchased a new house in Yorkshire with an old friend of hers.

Love,

Aunt Dahlia

Chapter Text

Dear Rebecca,

I am all right. I apologize for my delay in replying. Life in London has been hectic. My training began two weeks ago, just as the bombs began to fall, and in an instant, it seems, all of reality was upended. We exist now in a different universe, alien entirely to that which we knew before. The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned.

The bombs only fall at night, so the daylight hours are relatively calm, but the pall of smoke hangs over the city perpetually. A strange air as ignited the inhabitants of London. I don’t know how to describe it other than a sort of of hushed excitement, almost a giddiness, as each morning that dawns is another night that we survived – those of us who did survive – and thus it carries with it a kind of heady promise that we did not previously know.

My training was accelerated and I am already working five nights a week. My primary duty is to patrol Mayfair with a small unit of other men so that we can respond swiftly to any bombings that occur within the boundaries of our assigned area. We are equipped with basic firefighting equipment, as well as gas masks, axes, and shovels, which allows us to excavate wreckage and pull entrapped victims to safety. So far nearly all the bombing has been on the East End near the docks, thus quite far from me. I have responded to only one bomb site, three nights ago, and there was minimal damage as the shell failed to explode. In that instance, my colleagues and I evacuated the building and called the bomb removal squad, who arrived after an hour and carried out their delicate task.

I have become almost entirely nocturnal, by necessity. Even if I were not employed during the evening hours, sleeping during an air raid is essentially impossible, so it is wisest to find repose instead after dawn. I am fortunate indeed that I have no daytime occupation, as many of my colleagues do.

I have encountered Lord Yaxley’s cousin. He took me by the elbow on the street last night as I was walking to my rendezvous with my unit and hissed into my ear something to the effect that he knows that I have manipulated Lord Yaxley into trusting me, that I have connived to steal Lord Yaxley’s fortune, and if I do not leave London I will be sorry.

I informed him that if he approached me again, it was he who would be sorry, but I do not believe he took my statement seriously. I wish I could say the same for myself, for there is a part of me that takes his meaning too much to heart.

Lord Yaxley does trust me, perhaps overmuch. Indeed, he has entrusted me with the entirety of his fortune, which is not my birthright. From the first I have made it my business to become indispensable to him, because I did not want to entertain the possibility of losing him, and the result has been an incredible overstepping of bounds on my part.

Regardless, I will not leave London for more than a brief respite now and then; if nothing else, Lord Yaxley’s property is still in my care. I cannot defend it from bombs, but I can protect it from looting, which abounds these days. As bold as some looters have grown, it is yet rare for them to trespass on property that is clearly occupied. Their repast they find instead in bomb sites, and those places that have been abandoned by their occupants. So long as the flat is obviously inhabited much of the time, Lord Yaxley’s possessions will be relatively safe.

It is the least that I can do for him.

Rather, it is the most that I can do for him.

It is all that I can do.

I have not heard from Lord Yaxley since I last wrote to you. I am attempting to maintain optimism, as I know that he would do, but it does not come naturally to me. I realise now that I have always depended on him to bolster my spirits in difficult times. As Emily Brontë wrote, all my life’s bliss from his dear life was given. Without him, I function only with purpose.

One fact that plagues me now is that his legal next of kin would be his sister, with whom I do not communicate. I do not know if she would be the one informed of any news, or if he designated someone else in his papers. Perhaps his aunt. In any case, it would not be myself. I would have to hear it second hand, or third hand if indeed it is Mrs. Scholfield who receives the message. While a soldier’s wife can take comfort that no fateful telegram has arrived, I have not the same reassurance. It could be that his sister was already informed and never thought to pass the message on. It is a thought that haunts me when I attempt to sleep, and that combined with the straggling rays of sunlight that the blackout curtains cannot block has resulted in a prolonged state of insomnia.

I have finished Hume, which is likely for the best, and I am now reading Lord Yaxley’s collection of Sherlock Holmes stories. At times they distract me enough that I am able to eke out some small semblance of sleep. I find a strange kind of comfort in the bond between Watson and Holmes. It is almost romantic, if one reads it with a certain slant. I would not say this to anyone but you, or Lord Yaxley himself.

Another secret that I will admit to you is this: each night when I dress to go out, I put his ring upon my finger. I know that I said I would not wear it openly, but there is so little in the way of indulgence these days, and I see almost no one that I knew before. The Junior Ganymede is closed. All of the wealthy gentlemen who employ my friends have left the city and my friends with them. I associate only with the Defense Volunteers, the firefighters, the bomb squad. Thus there is little risk in wearing it, I think, and the sight of its pale gleam in the dark is a balm to my soul. I think if he is gone, I will simply continue to wear it. A widower is rarely questioned closely, as most prefer to avoid unpleasantness in casual conversation.

I have a small request to make of you. Should you receive any letters addressed to  a Ginnie Biffen, would you please forward them to me? I can offer explanation at a future date but I would prefer not to put it into writing.

Though I am not entirely delighted that you have informed Mabel of our situation, I do understand why you felt it was imperative. As a matter of fact, there is a chance that her knowledge could actually prove useful to me. Tell her that she may receive a letter from me, if what I am considering becomes necessary.

I am pleased to hear that life is pleasant in Gloucestershire. Perhaps when I get leave I will visit you there, briefly.

Love,

R.

*

Dear Mrs. Travers,

Thank you most sincerely for your concern on my behalf. I do not intend to leave London any time soon.

I do wonder, however, if I might crave a boon. You may recall that when I last came to stay with you, I brought with me a sheaf of papers, which I requested you to keep in your old jewelry safe. I told you at the time that I did not know if I would need it, but I fear I may require it soon. Perhaps next month I will come down for a day and collect those papers, if that meets with your approval.

Thank you.

Sincerely,

Jeeves

*

Dear Lady Florence,

It has come to my attention that you recently wrote to my fiancé, Lord Yaxley, offering him your hand in marriage. Unfortunately, no such marriage will be possible between you, since we have been engaged since last November.

I have in my possession copious letters written by his hand that will attest to our understanding, including the one in which he asked me to marry him. Since his man Jeeves informed me that you expressed doubt as to the veracity of his statement regarding our engagement, I would be happy to meet with you in person and show you the letters so that you may inspect them. You will doubtless recognise Lord Yaxley’s penmanship, as well as his distinctive manner of expressing himself.

Please write to me at my enclosed address in Gloucestershire if you are interested in settling this matter.

Sincerely,

Ginnie Biffen

*

Dear Reggie,

The papers are where you left them, and my home is open to you whenever you would like to avail yourself of it. I do wish you would reconsider. If it gets much worse I might walk up to London and carry you out on my shoulder like a toddler.

Heaven bless me, but I do find grown boys are even harder to look after than little ones.

Love,

Aunt Dahlia

P.S. Don’t call me Mrs. Travers!

*

Dear Reginald,

I don’t know if I have ever read a letter that has alarmed me so deeply as your most recent effort.

If you are truly sleeping so little, then perhaps you should visit a doctor. You will come apart at the seams. Believe me; I have done my years of sleeplessness when the children were small and it is a kind of torture I could not appreciate without first-hand experience. Take a sleeping draught and knock yourself out.

I don’t like the sound of the bombings, I don’t like the sound of the looters, and I don’t like the sound of Bertie’s cousin one bit. I don’t see why you should put yourself in peril from so many damned directions merely to protect a few trinkets and a piano. Bertie can buy a new piano. He can’t buy a new you, and I’m certain he’d say so himself if he had any idea what you were up to. Are you simply appeasing your guilt complex? Do you think it’s a crime to take care of the man you love? To want to be needed by him?

I suppose it is technically a crime. But laws are made by people; they are not a true indicator of right or wrong. And I’ve seen you pouring over Rosie M. Banks novels enough to know that for all your love of rank and nobility, you are not inherently against the co-mingling of classes, and Bertie doesn’t care a lick for that sort of thing.

Mabel awaits your letter with curiosity, and I have in fact received a letter for ‘Ginnie Biffen,’ which is enclosed.

You know I never cared for the way you plot your schemes with such secrecy. I rather hoped you’d outgrown that tendency.

I think it’s lovely that you’re feeling brave enough to wear the ring. I still wear mine, you know. It isn’t much, but it’s something.

Love,

Rebecca

*

Dear Miss Biffen,

I admit that I was dubious when Bertie’s man told me that he was engaged, but you must know that Bertie’s been engaged so very many times that it hardly matters, really.

Or perhaps you don’t know? Bertie was always quite the notorious ladies’ man in his prime, and everybody talked about it. ‘Who’s Bertie’s newest flame?’ they’d say.  One girl this week, another the next. That’s our Bertie.

What they didn’t know is that he philanders about in order to mask his broken heart. He loved me first, you see, and I wasn’t ready for him yet. I had a lot of life to live and valuable lessons to learn before it was time for the two of us to come together.

You’re welcome to show me your letters anyway, if it pleases you. I’ll be in the area next month and I’ll pay you a call.

Lady Florence Craye

*

Dear Ginnie,

What-ho, what-ho, what-ho! Greetings from the Baggush Box, which is what we call our desert home here in Egypt! It’s a jolly lot of trenches and holes and things with canvas stretched over them, all dug out under sand dunes. I say, there is absolutely nothing more maddening than digging a great bally hole in a sand dune! You haven’t known frustration until you’ve shoveled out a trench in a sand dune with nothing but a hand shovel and a prayer for a windless hour! I’m beginning to know what Ozy-whats-it’s shattered visage felt, what? Half sunk in sand for eons; I shouldn’t wonder that his map held a frown and a wrinkled lip! I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that I’ve acquired a sneer of cold command myself these days.

We’ve had a bit of trouble with Italians, but not too much. They made a push to invade Egypt and made a bit of headway, but once the Australians showed up the tide turned, as I’ve heard it put, because it turns out Australia must have sent practically every man they had. For every Englishman here there’s about fifteen Australians, and they are quite something, I must say. They’re jolly fun, actually, though I don’t know if you would approve of their manner of speaking, or their manner of dress. I think I’ll spare you the sartorial details, but let’s just say they aren’t perspiring in the desert heat quite so much as old Bertram does.

They fight like the dickens though, and when we came at the Italians with the full force of what good old Australia had to offer we stopped them dead in their tracks. We did lose a few lads, I’m sorry to say, and Archie took one in the shoulder, but it looks as though he’ll be able to recuperate at the field hospital here in the Box. That leaves Bertram, Lord Yaxley himself in charge of the unit until he’s back on his feet, which doesn’t please his Lordship one bit, but there you are. Ours not to tum tee tum and all that.

I would have written sooner but there was no mail service until now, and no paper to write on, either. I know you have probably been beside yourself with worry, having not heard from me for more than a month. I was writing all the time in my mind, old thing. Only it’s dashed difficult to put a stamp on one’s thoughts and send them across the Mediterranean.

I know there was talk of pulling us back to England after the Australians arrived, but it seems the brass have got a new plan. Now that we’ve shown a bit of gumption against the Italian forces, old Churchie wants us to stay put, so I’m here until further notice, I’m afraid. I was a bit crestfallen at that news, I admit. The fellows back home get to take occasional leave with family and so on, and I was rather looking forward to a weekend in London with you, now and then.

It is no matter though, old top, for the widest land doom takes to part us leaves thy heart in mine with pulses that beat double. Or something like that. Did I get it right? And then there’s a bit later about how the wine must taste of its own grapes, or something, and so on, and that God sees within my eyes the tears of two, what what? I don’t quite recall the wheeze I’m afraid, but it’s one of those ones by that Portuguese beazel. I’ve got a book of her gags in my chamber. Go and read it and you’ll know what I’m trying to say.

Not much in the way of nightlife in the Box. Lots of cards. Lots of drilling! We’ve been pretending to attack fake camps in various parts of the desert for quite some time. It’s not much fun when it’s ninety degrees, but it’s better than sitting about staring at the dunes. They were beautiful in their strange way at first, but now I think I’ve had just about all the dunes that I can stomach. I’m full up with dunes, old thing.

By the by, everyone seems to have forgiven me for the transgression of nobility. It was an awkward couple of days, you know, don’t you know, because the news made its way through the entire unit and probably to Australia by now, but Charlie at least came round after a bit and was willing to share a sandy cup of tea with me.

‘Don’t think my mother would believe it,’ was the first thing he said, after accepting the healing beverage.

‘Believe what?’ I asked.

‘Believe me drinking tea with an Earl,’ he said, and his face was red as the desert sky at dawn, Ginnie. My Lord! I mean to say, good Heavens. I never gave much thought about who was an Earl and who was a Baron and who was a Duke or what-have-you, but then I was always jolly well surrounded with Lords and Ladies, generally speaking, so it all seemed quite natural to me. Tedious, even. I suppose if you’d never seen a mule before you’d be dashed chuffed to drink tea with one, too.

I didn’t really know what to say to that so at last I said something along the lines of how Earls aren’t really all they’re cracked up to be, and that I knew an Earl once who used to stomp around in black shorts and play at being a fascist dictator, but then he also designed women’s underclothing, and he used to pinch policeman’s helmets at Oxford, and he had a nasty temper to boot. Charlie didn’t believe me, so then I reminded him that I’ve most certainly told him about Spode before. Apparently I had neglected to mention that Spode later became Lord Sidcup, so I was obliged to tell that sorry tale as well, and by the end of it we were laughing together like old times.

After that he told me I’d have to come visit his mother after the war so that she could say she’d had an Earl in her parlour and I agreed, so jot that down in the diary, won’t you, old thing?

It so happened that that was about the final day of peace, because the Italians began their surge the next evening, and we had to jump into a lot of bally trucks to meet them, all while the Australians were charging along on the train to back us up. We joined up together before the real conflict began, which was a dashed lucky thing, as I’ve mentioned. After that it was a lot of tough fighting, which I’d rather not discuss if it’s all the same to you, with the result being what I’ve already described: the idyllic life in sandy holes that I now lead.

Archie’s warmed back up to me a bit, as well. He’d been avoiding me even more since the news broke, you see, and the one time I tried to make friendly conversation with him before all hell broke loose, he gave me the brush-off and said something about how he was amazed that a Noble Lord of the Realm would deign to speak to a common chap like him. I must say, I felt rather wronged by his sentiment, having never done a thing to deserve this honor aside from being born in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I tried to tell him so, but he wouldn’t hear a word of it.

I tried not to think too much of it; relations were strained already, of course, and considering how shocked I was by my accession, I suppose it is only fair that he should be rather put off by the whole thing. In fact, I got the distinct impression that he was embarrassed. I had half a mind to tell him that he had nothing to be embarrassed about; he’s a decorated army Major, after all, while I just rather stumbled into the Earldom backwards. I also thought of telling him of your own humble background, so that he could know that my rebuffing of him had nothing to do with class, but then I realized that might actually make things worse.

Perhaps it is better to despise the former flame and think him an elitist ass than to think there is something lacking in oneself, what? Not that there’s anything lacking in Archie; he’s a spiffing chap and anyone would be lucky to have him, provided that  particular anyone didn’t already have you.

In the end I let that particular sleeping dog lie.

Well, it so happened that Archie was immediately to my left in the heat of battle  a few weeks later when an Italian got lucky and took him down, and I pulled him out of further harm’s way behind a goodish sized boulder that I had earmarked for just such an occasion earlier in the day, and as I was laying him there he grabbed my hand with his undamaged one and started calling my name rather keenly.

‘Yes?’ I said. I was admittedly distracted by the whining of bullets and screaming of shells and so forth, but I did my best to listen in all the same. It’s only polite, really.

‘Bertie, old man, I’m sorry,’ was all he was able to say at that particular juncture, but once all the hurly burly was done and the battle was lost and won and all that, a couple of the lads and I were tipping him up onto his pins – he’d been bleeding pretty well for a while by then, so he wasn’t entirely himself; you know how it is  – and he said something like, ‘It doesn’t mean a damn thing who your father was.’

I said, ‘What?’

He said, ‘Your father. It doesn’t matter that he was an Earl.’

To which I replied, ‘Uncle.’

He said, ‘What?’

And I said, ‘Who my uncle was. My father wasn’t anybody. The title was my uncle’s.’

To which he said, ‘Whoever the bloody hell it was, he doesn’t matter. Earl or not, you’re one of us, old man.’

I thanked him, and then his head lolled over and his eyes shut and he didn’t say much else for quite a while. He’s awake now though, and has been rather merrily occupying the big hospital tent, getting stronger every day. I’ve seen him kidding around with an Australian doctor there so he seems to be more cheerful all around than he has been since our little incident back in the Midlands.

I say, speaking of unpleasant incidents, have you concocted a plan to get me out of the Florence Situation yet? I did write her a letter attempting to slip out of it but she’s never replied. Or if she did, it didn’t get to me. Things were rather hectic around here for a while, as I said. No mail service and all that. So it may well be that her reply will roll in once they’ve got the kinks sorted out and the backlog worked through.

How are you faring, old fruit? I have thought of you practically every moment. Yesterday, when we were attacking some empty tents in the dunes a bit south of here, I was remembering that time in New York when we went up in that jolly big building, the one with the observation deck. I remember I got rather dizzy looking down and you helped me back inside and got me a drink from somewhere. I didn’t even think to ask how you got me that drink; it was perfectly ordinary to me that you should do it, even though it was illegal there at the time, what what?

It’s a dead cert that if you were here with me, you would concoct a method of brewing tea that is entirely free of sand. I haven’t a clue how you’d do it, but you would.

I can’t begin to think what I could have done to deserve you, old thing. Do you know, I’ve dashed well gotten through all of this entirely on the strength of your memory. Every awful moment, every instant of terror, it is bearable because I know you’re out there, and any world that could create a miracle like you has got to be at least a bit all right.

By the way, I wear the ring on my finger now. The chain chafed a bit and nobody out here gives a damn if we’re legally married or not. I like to see it. It gives one a bit of a boost when things seem bleak, what? And hopefully it will stop any other fellows from getting ideas about my eligibility.

I hope you are well. I don’t hear much news of home out here, but no news must be good news, what?

Love,

Bertie

*

My Dear Lord Yaxley,

The pleasure I felt at receiving your letter was immeasurable, my Lord. Though I do understand entirely why you have not written, your silence for the last month has been as a stone in my heart. I could not even open your letter for nearly half an hour after it arrived, due to the shaking of my hands.

I am pleased to hear that you are unharmed, and that the violence has abated, at least for now. I am pleased also to hear that the Australian forces are so great in number, as that drastically decreases the danger to yourself. I find I care very little about their manner of dress. Even if they wear their sleeves shorn at the elbow, they have my gratitude.

I am most grieved to hear of Major Evans’s wound, although I am glad to know that he is recovering well.

I am afraid that your assumption regarding news from home is fundamentally flawed, my Lord. I would not correct you, except that we did make a mutual vow to be more honest with one another for the duration of this conflict, and so I am honor bound to inform you that London, and indeed, nearly every city in the United Kingdom has been the recipient of a constant barrage of bombings by the German air force for the last month. Great swaths of London are leveled completely. The bombs fall nightly, without cessation even for a day. There is no current accounting for the lives lost, but it is doubtless in the thousands.

Our neighborhood has been largely spared, however the apartment building at the corner of Hay Hill was mostly destroyed last week.

When I am off duty, I have taken to spending the night in the Green Park Underground Station, and thus on those nights danger to my person is minimal. Nights when I am on duty I patrol the Mayfair area with five other volunteers of my vintage. We are equipped with gas masks and axes, and it is our responsibility to respond to bomb sites as quickly as possible in order to help extricate anyone who might be trapped within, or to transport wounded victims to hospital.

I fear I must also inform you, my Lord, that your cousin Mr. Gregson attacked me last week when I was exiting our building one evening on the way to my assigned posting for the night, shortly after the destruction of the building on our street. He had a knife, and I believe his plan was to attempt to incapacitate me and then stow me in the rubble.

I was fortunate in that I had been expecting such a development for some time, and thus I was prepared. I had upon my person the cosh that I took off of Mr. Gregson when he was young, and I had recently received basic combat training as part of my work with the Local Defense Volunteers. When he approached me, therefore, I was able to dispatch him swiftly, while his knife gave me only a glancing blow on one arm.

Due to the sensitive nature of our situation, I elected not to inform the police, and instead waited until Mr. Gregson was revived enough to comprehend speech, at which point I informed him that he was most fortunate that I had not killed him and he would be wise to avoid interacting with me further. He did not respond, but instead stood and tottered away on unstable legs.

I do not know his current whereabouts.

My wound was superficial, and I received four stitches from one of my colleagues in the Volunteers who is trained in field medicine. When questioned, I told him that I did not know the identity of my assailant.

It is healing nicely.

I was able to repair the sleeve of my overcoat to a satisfactory degree. I darned it using the matching thread you purchased for me when the same overcoat lost a button last year. The shirt, unfortunately, was a complete loss, as I was unable to remove the blood stain sufficiently, even after applying vinegar and scrubbing with cold water. I was much grieved by this, since it was one of the shirts you gave me for my birthday three years ago, and as such it was one of the few that I own that was of high quality and well-tailored, such items being a rare commodity these days.

I have bent my thoughts toward your issue with Lady Florence and I believe I have arrived at a reasonable solution. I am not yet prepared to commit the details to paper.

I must admit, my Lord, that it troubles me to hear that you have lost comrades in battle, but you speak of it so briefly. I have noted your habit in the past of ceasing to speak of people who have died. After fifteen years by your side, for example, I have heard you mention your mother only twice, and your father exactly once. I did hope that our promise to be more forthcoming with one another would extend to expressing those emotions that are less than bright. Who have you lost, my Lord? Can you state their names? I can do so little for you. May I at least be permitted to be the recipient of your expressions of grief?

I am wearing your ring on my finger, as well. The synchronicity of this is intoxicating. You are intoxicating, even two thousand miles distant.

Love,

G.

*

Agatha Craye,

You have gone too far.

You will recall your goon at once. By ‘goon,’ I mean your miserable excuse for progeny. He is fortunate indeed that Jeeves did not have him arrested. Should he ever lay a hand upon Jeeves again I will not be responsible for my actions. The wrath of an Earl shall be upon him, and upon you, and you will be excluded from all polite society.

I am not the rubber-spined lad you used to bully over the consommé, Old Relation.  Don’t forget, you sent me to war, and I have learned to fight.

Toodle-pip.

Bertram, Lord Yaxley

*

Dear Ginnie,

I have written to Aunt Agatha and ticked her off in no uncertain terms. I would write to Thos. himself but I haven’t the foggiest idea where he lives. Though from the sound of it, I’m beginning to suspect that I could easily send him a message in Hell, C. O. Satan himself.

I am aghast, entirely. What have I dragged you into, old thing? I ought never to have kissed you, dash it. I have always been so obliviously selfish. Now there’s a madman out there wanting to do you in and it is entirely my fault. You should have gone and stayed with Chuffy, and then you’d be safe in America with no bombs and no Wooster relations.

And as for bombs and bomb squads and all of that other nonsense, I think it’s bally fatheaded of you to stick around for it. You’ve got country houses all about that would take you in, both of the Travers and the Biffen variety, and the fact that you have chosen to put yourself at risk for no discernible reason is, well, bally maddening. I say, what’s the use in my doing-and-dying and not-question-whying if you’re going to get yourself blown up?

I order you to leave London at once.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Reggie,

I do hope you’ll forgive me for officially dropping the ruse, only I’m a straightforward chap and I’ve rather been through it lately. Besides, Bertie isn’t the most discreet fellow, I’m sorry to say, and his ‘dear pal Reggie’ has popped up in almost as many stories as his ‘fiancée Ginnie,’ and they do an awful lot of awfully similar things. I found it beggared belief when I heard his swan story for the third time, only it was Reggie throwing a raincoat over the thing’s head and not Ginnie this time. Unless, of course, both of you have saved him from angry swans on separate occasions – which, knowing Bertie, seems at least a little possible.

But I am not writing to you about swans today. Perhaps another day. Today I am writing about Bertie. I’m concerned for him, you see. He’s been down lately. Morose. Far from the bright, cheery chap we all fell in love with. If he were any other man, I’d chalk it up to a touch of battle fatigue and cart him back to Cairo for treatment. I’m still open to the possibility that it’s that. The fighting was quite rough over here for a bit, and I don’t say that lightly. Bertie saved my life again, by the by, but that’s rather becoming routine for him.

Anyway, I just wanted to sit at your knee for a moment and gather your wisdom, as one well-schooled in the ways of Bertram Wooster. I have known him only a year, as you know, and up until quite recently he has been a kind of angelic power upon the Earth, scarcely letting a single thing knock him down for longer than an hour or two. But now, as I said, he is lackluster and quiet. No jolly stories, no merry songs as he goes about his work. Again, I would ordinarily think it was battle fatigue, but the trouble began several weeks after the fighting ended. Only last week, in fact.

He got a letter from you, which always sends him bouncing off the walls with exhilaration. In fact, Ginnie Letter Days have become something of a holiday amongst the lads of the unit, since Bertie’s mood elevates us all so highly that we end up having a bit of a party by nightfall. We all expected this particular Ginnie Letter Day to be even better than average since it has been rather a long time since any mail came to us, but it was not to be. He went off to read the thing and when he came back, he wasn’t singing ‘Roll Out the Barrel’ or ‘Forty-Seven Ginger-Headed Sailors’ as we all had anticipated. He was dull and cheerless, angry and brooding. He actually ticked off one of the lads who came to him with some problem with his girl back home, which is most unusual. Ordinarily he loves nothing more than to offer sage advice to one of the young chaps. He’s like a broody hen with a hundred chicks.

The whole camp went to bed glumly that night, and it’s been the same dour grey ever since.

I’m not asking you to tell me what was in the letter. I only want to know if this is unusual for him, this type of mood, and if there’s anything you know that can get him back to rights. In a hurry, if possible. I’m not asking entirely for Bertie’s sake, you understand, though I do care for him. It’s that we haven’t any idea how long it will be before we get back into the thick of things, war-wise, and he’s become somewhat necessary for morale around here. If the next few months is going to be as difficult as I think, we are going to need all the morale boosting we can get.

Do answer quickly, friend.

Sincerely,

Archie

Chapter Text

Dear Rebecca,

I have made a discovery.

As you are no doubt aware, Lord Yaxley has always been effusive in his praise of me, but there has been a part of me that believed his words were hyperbolic. He is a kind man, generous with praise, and I believed his compliments to be at least in part a form of charity.

There is a dark recess within me where I have always believed that what I have, I do not deserve; that I gained it by subterfuge and manipulation, and though I do have some gifts and some talents that have carried me thus far, they can never compensate for the humbleness of my birth, and my lack of formal education. No matter what he told me, I could never truly accept the idea of myself being the deserving recipient of true passion.

I am shaken, Rebecca. So shaken that I was required to start this missive three times before my hand was steady enough to complete it.

This is what happened.

I was searching Lord Yaxley’s personal bookcase for his copy of Sonnets From the Portuguese when I happened upon his late uncle’s memoir. This memoir has been much on my mind recently, so I decided to peruse it. However, when I took it from the shelf, a great sheaf of loose paper fell out of from the binding, covered almost entirely in freehand. Upon closer inspection, I found that the original contents of the book had been excised with some sharp blade and disposed of. I gathered the papers from where they fell, and recognized the writing at once as being Lord Yaxley’s penmanship.

The work was entitled, ‘My Man Jeeves.’ I don’t know if I have ever had the breath knocked from my lungs so forcefully as it was when I read that title.

Though I do not approve of snooping, of listening at keyholes, or of purloining diaries, this book had the air of something more formal than a journal. And of course, in Lord Yaxley’s absence, I felt a keen desire to have however much of him I could. Letters are understandably sparse, and his last correspondence was unsettling to the point that I have elected to take a few days of reflection before responding.

Therefore, I read it.

It is a memoir, Rebecca, of Lord Yaxley’s life, but it begins the day he hired me. His memoir begins with me.

It is clear by the contents that this is not intended for publication. It would require heavy editing in order to pass content laws, for one thing, for he makes no attempt to mask the nature of our relationship, or the manner with which it began. So it must mean that it was intended for his own eyes only; that these are his true, uninhibited thoughts.

His praise of me within this volume is every bit as effusive as it is in our daily interactions. Even in those passages when he is recounting our occasional disagreements, his disparagement of me is mild, and his praise persists.

It forced me to admit to myself that he does not hyperbolize. He does not speak to me thus out of kindness or charity. He does not hold private reservations due to my humble origins. He simply adores me.

The joy of this revelation is so intense it borders upon horror. I feel as though I am a great ocean liner whose course was long set, but who has suddenly struck some submarine boulder and been knocked askew. I was set for the Arctic all my life, Rebecca. Lord Yaxley would steer me to the tropics.

Most horrifying of all is the fact that he has been telling me these things to my face for more than a decade, and I have failed to believe him. For some reason I cannot truly fathom, I have resisted him. I have resisted believing that his affection for me is as intense as mine is for him.

I do not understand why.

Yet even through the horror, the joy pervades my being. Since the beginning of this war I have held anger, anger that he would be so foolhardy, so careless with himself and his safety, for only my account. I couldn’t understand it. I resented it. I felt as though I were the recipient of a kind of knightly good deed that I had no desire for. The Noble Lord has sacrificed himself for his lowly charge, and thus he is the very picture of the preux chevalier of old, just as he has always imagined himself to be. The servant has erred, and the master must pay.

But if his love for me is as true and as deep as his memoir indicates, then I have been mistaken, deeply so.

I would have gone to war for him, because he is the sun and the light, my purpose and my meaning. Because caring for him has been my deepest, truest honor. Because I would consider it a death worth dying, would he be spared by it.

My error, my very grave error, was in failing to ascribe those same motivations to his actions. He did not go to war because he is a gallant, if foolhardy knight. It was not the action of a Quixotic hero.

He went because he loves me. He said so directly and I did not believe him.

It should have been obvious from the start. It is only my own perception of myself and my place in this world that blinded me to what was so clear.

If I am so fortunate as to regain him, I think things will be different between us. Things are certainly different within myself.

No need to reply to this, as I am on recuperative leave and will soon come to visit you. I will be at the Biffen estate in approximately one week.

Love,

R.

*

My dearest Bertram,

I am sincerely sorry that my letter disturbed you so deeply. I will address each of your points individually, as you deserve no less.

First, I am grateful to you that you wrote to your aunt on my behalf. However, I have an idea that I believe will effectively neutralize both her and Mr. Gregson for the foreseeable future. It is still in its planning stages, so I hope you will forgive me if I do not elaborate at present. What I will tell you is that last year I recovered the first draft of your late Uncle Willoughby’s memoir, the one that was rejected by the publisher for being too scandalous. It has been in safe keeping at Aunt Dahlia’s house. I also managed to locate the Junior Ganymede Club Book, as it is being kept in a house in Staffordshire by a friend of mine whose master chose to wait out the war in his country estate. As I have been given recuperative leave from my duties due to the wound on my arm, I am going to spend the next week visiting friends and family, while also amassing these particular objects. I hope that I have your trust and faith in me in my endeavor, even if I am not prepared to reveal it entirely?

Secondly, you have dragged me into nothing. If you hadn’t kissed me that evening I would have kissed you. I was aching for you and nothing else could have assuaged me. I had been tortured for so long I was as near to breaking as an overtightened violin string. As Thomas Moore once wrote, we saw it in each other’s eye, and wished in every broken sigh to speak, but did not.

I did not know how to speak it, though I longed, and longed desperately. The moment I first felt your lips’ impassioned touch, I came to life as I never had before. Do not say that you regret it, Bertram. Do not entertain such blasphemy within your heart. I have said before that I consider you inevitable. Whatever gods may be, I feel certain entirely that we were created for this. Banish all thoughts of other masters I could have had, as I did long ago. Lord Chuffnell was never truly an option for me; I would have faded away to nothing. I was yours all the time that I was his. I have always been yours. You have always been mine. Our burr has been a treasure-trove, and whatever consequences we must suffer as a result are well worthwhile.

Finally, with all due love and respect, my darling, you forfeited the right to order me about when you made me your financial equal. I am not a servant any longer. I am not bound by feudal devotion. I am bound only by my love for you, and as true and powerful as that is, it does not require obedience.

I require work. I find idleness to be a kind of death, and idleness in the face of evil is an evil all its own. There is important work to be done and I am capable of doing it. If you love me, and I know that you do, then grant me the dignity to choose my own peril for the sake of greater good, just as you have done.

Now that the tables are somewhat turned, please accept my sincere apologies for the manner with which I reacted to you when you enlisted last year. I understand why you did what you did, and I love you all the more for it. We both must go, still like the thistle-ball, no bar, onward whenever light winds blow, fixed by no friendly star.

I cannot save you from this. You cannot save me. All that we can do is love one another, and do our our small part to combat the evil that has befallen us, and await the day when we can be together again, our two hearts beating, each to each.

You also have work to do, my love, and I know from Archie’s letters that you do it well. You are required by others, and that is a blessing. As much as we belong to one another, we belong also to the world, and the world has called upon us. It is as it should be.

I do need to ask you again, since you did not respond to this query previously, if you would be willing to discuss with me some of the people you have lost. And any other details of your life in Baggush, positive or negative, I would be most interested to read.

I would that you were all to me. What say you? Let us, oh my dove, let us be unashamed of soul, as Earth lies bare to Heaven above.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Ginnie,

Good Lord. Right ho. What came over you, old thing? You’re always a bit more Romantically-minded than I am, but, I mean to say. Good Lord. What? Are you feverish, perhaps?

Good to know you don’t regret signing on with old Bertram and chucking Chuffy. Or chucking Stoker. I know I would have gone about the rest of my life wondering about you, had the rift in the lute we suffered at that juncture proved permanent. I don’t mind telling you I’d like to give my cousin a good biff in the eye, and a lot more besides, so whatever you’ve got planned to put a stop to him, I am all for it. You have my complete endorsement, old top.

Thanks awfully for dropping the ‘my Lord’ bit. ‘My dearest Bertram’ is a much pleasanter start to a letter than ‘Lord Yaxley.’ I’m coming round to the old title a bit, but every time I hear it I still look around for Uncle George and wonder for a mo. why he doesn’t answer.

I say, did you say ‘letters’? ‘Archie’s letters’? Plural? Do I need to have a stern word with the man?

I don’t feel exactly chuffed to talk about losses, as you know, but if you insist, I’ll give it the old college try. We lost seven of our young chaps. Of course, quite a few more went down, but seven of those specifically in my charge. Their names won’t mean much to you but I’ll list them: Aggie, Smith, Hoggie, Spiffy, Rosy, Williams, Acton.

Oh, I say! You might remember Hoggie, actually! You helped him out a bit while I was on leave, I think. He’s the one that married that girl after a day at a museum. I’ve just written the widow a letter, actually. One of my duties, to write to widows, in and around all of the absolutely endless reports. I’d say I’ve gotten fairly good at it, but then I don’t get actual feedback, understandably. The widows rarely reply. If they do it’s very brief: thank you for writing, he spoke highly of you, etc. etc.

I’ve been thinking a bit about all that, actually. Were I married, it would be Archie’s job to write my widow. Since I won’t technically have a widow, he doesn’t technically have to write at all, but it seems awfully rum that you shouldn’t get word somehow. The thought of it has kept me up nights. I’d hate for you to read it in the papers, or something.

I’ve been thinking of asking Archie if he would write to you, but now that I know he’s sending you a near constant stream of missive, I’m not so certain. I ought not to encourage this, surely?

I could ask Charlie. He’d do it, but he hasn’t a clue who you are, not really, so the letter would be a bit odd. Not really addressed to you, if you know what I mean, and whatnot.

I seem paralyzed by this. I can’t think what to do. Can you tell me what to do?

I seem paralyzed all the time, actually.

Not very clear-headed these days. Not sleeping, really, or if I do I have the most dreadful dreams. I used to have dreams like this when I was a lad, after all that unpleasantness with my parents and whatnot, don’t you know. But they went away after a while and with all the bother about school exams and the Rev. Upjohn’s personal vendetta against me, I rather forgot about them. But now it’s all night long again, seeing faces of loved ones covered all over in blood, and all that, don’t you know. Hearing screams and not being able to find the person who’s doing the screaming, and so forth. You know how it is. Aw well, can’t be helped, what what?

You want to know details of my life, eh? Well, the most interesting thing going right now would be the Australians.

Here’s the trouble with the Australians, old thing. They do occasionally wear their shirts shorn to their elbows, as you guessed they might. The reason it is only occasional, however, is because it is much more likely that they are not wearing shirts at all.

My apologies. I should have warned you to be seated before I said that last bit. You might as well be seated now, if you have not already reeled and fallen prone upon the hearthrug. If you are yet conscious, I need to dispel a likely misconception. When I say that they do not wear shirts, I meant to say that they wear no shirts whatsoever, not even an undershirt. Chests bear to the wind and the sky, my dear. It is all I can do not to blush and avert the old e’s. They all give me quite the ribbing about it, too, calling me Lord Blushington or His Royal Shyness.

It’s all in good fun!

For all their boisterousness, I find them dashed hard to read, actually. If they were English chaps then this would certainly be chummy stuff, but there’s a strange edge to it that I can’t get my head around. They’re all smiling at me quite a bit, so I think it’s all right, what?

There’s rather a bet on actually to see who can get me to blush the most florid shade of red. I’m not meant to know about it, but they aren’t exactly quiet. I suppose that gives me excellent odds, but I can’t for the life of me figure out how to get in on the action.

Apparently there’s no formal peerage in Australia, so they all think it’s absolutely hilarious that I’m an Earl. They like to bow to me when I’m just shambling out of bed in the morning. It’s getting rather old, actually, but if I try to tell them to stop they just say, ‘Of course my Lord, anything for you my Lord,’ and bow more and then they all roar with laughter. I say, old thing, nothing gives a cove the pip quite like shuffling out of the  old sack without so much as a hard biscuit or a cup of tea inside him to see a horde of shirtless Australians all bowing to him like he’s sat up on a throne in imperial regalia!

I’m awfully chuffed that you at least have dropped the ‘my Lord’ business because I am just about at my wit’s end with it all. I mean to say, I’m pipped. Dashed pipped, what?

I’m also just about the only chap in the unit who hasn’t taken to using, shall we say, barracks-level language. You honestly wouldn’t believe the words these coves say. I had to ask Charlie for the definition of a few choice verbs I have overheard, and the explanation was more than my system could handle. My own lads have always accepted that I prefer to keep my mouth as clean as my bunk, but the Australians seem to think it’s some sort of ruse on my part to put myself above them.

Again, all in good fun, what what? It’s all right. I suppose, in a way, they’re somewhat right about it all. It just doesn’t seem fitting for a fellow of the noblesse to go about cursing like a sailor, what? I don’t think I have the voice for it anyway; I couldn’t put the kind of heft behind it that these lads do. It would sound ridiculous. But it does rather separate me from the rest of them in a way, which isn’t ideal in camp life.

I’m rambling, I know, only all of this is starting to eat at me a bit, I think. Archie says I’m one of them, but I’m rather beginning to feel as though I’m not, really. The longer this thing drags on the worse it gets. I keep thinking that what I really would rather do is go home and keep you safe. Keeping you safe was the whole bally point of this and it’s starting to feel, well, pointless. Everything is pointless without you.

Hoggie died right in front of me. I tried to pull him out of harm’s way, but it was pretty clear it was too late. I won’t get graphic for your sake, my dear, but it was obvious he was gone practically at once. No one could have survived it, not for an instant. At least, I hope not. It rather sends a shiver up the old s. to think about it.

My head is swirling about like the dickens. I keep thinking about his wife, don’t you know. I thought first how glad I was that he had that one fine day with her at least, and then I thought, oh, but if we hadn’t advised him to go to that museum, then she never would have married him, and she wouldn’t be a widow now. And then I thought how dashed young they both are, and how I hadn’t even met you yet when I was that young, which is madness, truly, because that means my life hadn’t really begun yet at that age, but his is already over.

He crops up in my dreams, old thing, looking like he did in his last moment when I tried to save him, but still alive, which he really shouldn’t be – no one should be alive looking like that – and he’s telling me that dreadful tram joke again and again, and I can’t stand it, Reggie. Reggie, I can’t stand it.

I’m going to end this letter now because my hands are shaking a bit, and perhaps some sand has got in my eyes or something. I’m blotting the paper. I’m sorry.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Major Evans,

I do mind, in fact. You will address me by the name that I choose to use and no other. Whatever tales Lord Yaxley tells are his affair and have little or nothing to do with me, and I would appreciate it if you made no further assumptions regarding my or Lord Yaxley’s private life, particularly if you are inclined to put said assumptions to paper. I apprehend that you are perhaps not gifted in the realm of social niceties, but in polite society we respect privacy, particularly the privacy of Lords of the Realm. You are not familiar with the burden of nobility, but the fact is that an Earl exists simultaneously as a private citizen and a public figure, and as such he cannot function if his personal life becomes the subject of open conjecture.

To address your specific question, Lord Yaxley is not typically prone to moods of this kind. Though I am no medical expert, I would not be surprised if whatever treatment there is for combat fatigue were warranted in his case. I do believe that it was exacerbated by some unfortunate news I shared in my letter, the nature of which is entirely private, but he requires help beyond that which I can supply.

There is no need to contact me further unless there is crucial information regarding Lord Yaxley’s well-being.

Thank you.

Ginnie

*

Dear Mabel,

I have a favor to ask of you. My employer, whose name is familiar to you, has entered into an undesirable engagement, and requires aid in ending it without scandal. Would you be so good as to pose as his fiancée and persuade the other woman to release him? I recall that your talents upon the stage were impressive, and your ability to handle the unexpected is unparalleled. If you would be so kind as you do this for us, I will come by your estate next week and explain in greater detail what is required.

Love,

Uncle R.

*

Dear Uncle Reginald,

Sounds like a scream. Count me in.

Love,

Mabel

*

Dear Ginnie,

I say, sorry about my last letter, what? I don’t blame you for not replying.

I almost tossed it into the campfire, but then I thought about cracks and water and distrust seeping in like same and so forth, don’t you know, and I thought you’d just as soon have the thing as-written.

I hope I haven’t erred too greatly. I’m not so bad as all that, really, and I think I gave you the wrong impression about the Australians, altogether. They do rag one mercilessly, but they’re all right. They have some jolly good songs that they have been teaching me that I simply can’t wait to sing to you. Oh, and Robbie, one of the Australian Lieutenants, has been showing me how to play the harmonica. Dashed fine instrument, the harmonica! You can make a sound like a country dance and carry it right in your shirt pocket! If you have a shirt pocket, which, of course, the Australians don’t. But I do still, despite their best efforts, and it’s awfully convenient, what? One need never again be caught high and dry without an instrument to play.

Yes, it’s all done shirtless, which is still dashed difficult to get used to, and they’re trying to coax Bertram himself out of his blouse nearly every day, but I am holding the line, worry not! What I didn’t tell you before, and I’m not certain it’s wise even now – but cracks and distrust and seeping and all that – is that they also wear shorts. Nearly everyone of them is adorned with great blasted boots, shorts, and a helmet, and not a stitch more. They have complete uniforms, but not one of them seems to consider it necessary, not even the officers. Archie’s doctor friend John was lounging about outside the hospital tent the other day in his shorts and a wide-brimmed hat, and he’s a Major!

Dashed odd.

And before you go getting jealous, I’ve told you a thousand times I’d rather get an eyeful of you in all your fine raiment than a hundred others in the altogether. There’s not another human in the world who can compare to you, and Bertram’s eye does not wander.

Speaking of which, I did have a rather odd encounter yesterday, which ultimately resulted in what really should be the primary subject of this letter, now that I think about it.

I had got word that one of the lads (name withheld for reasons which shall presently become obv.) had not reported to sentry duty, so I, feeling the old legs could use a bit of a stretch, decided to oil over to his particular hole myself to see what he was about. I gave the old tarp a rap and then popped open a corner, and what should I see but two occupants, rather than the usual one. These occupants were occupied, shall we say, and were quite startled by the unexpected entrance into the equation the local Captain-cum-Earl.

I made a swift exit, absolutely mortified, obviously, which was followed by a similarly swift exeunt, with much buttoning and zipping and exclamations of, ‘It wasn’t how it looked, Captain Wooster. We were wrestling,’ or some such rot.

I said, ‘Yes, wrestling as the Greeks did, what what?’ which seemed to still their tongues for a moment. I was rather inclined to find some humor in the thing, once I’d gotten over my horror, of course, but then I saw the terror in the poor chaps’ eyes, and I realized that they were probably rather concerned that I would have them court martialed. So I reassured the fellows, as best I could without tipping my own hand, so to speak.

‘Now gentlemen,’ I told them, trying to sound Captainish, you know, ‘it is no concern of mine what you get up to in your own personal time. The only trouble is that it isn’t your own personal time just now, because one of you happens to be late for sentry duty.’

At which point, the cove in question jumped like a snake had bit him, issued a curse that would make your hair curl, and dashed off.

I gave the remaining fellow what I hoped was a reassuring smile and told him he could go about his business, though I suppose that wasn’t really possible anymore, considering what his business had been.

The whole thing left me a bit rattled, to be honest. Here I was all this time, first thinking that I was unique amongst my comrades, and then learning that there are Archies about, and now I learn that I am actually in good company, what? I went to talk to Archie about the whole thing, and he said it’s rather the way it is in remote war camps like these, and that brass of all sorts tend to look the other way as much as possible since it helps with morale.

I was astounded. I mean to say, I was shocked. Who’d have thought it?

So I asked him why on Earth he’d been so dashed lonely then, and he just rather stared at me for a moment before he said, ‘It’s a wartime concession and it won’t last. Besides, I’m a bit of a Romantic, Bertie. I don’t go in for that sort of thing unless my heart’s involved.’

Then I said, ‘Oh, rather! I’m in the same boat as you, old fruit, what what?’

And that was the wrong thing to say because he went a bit red and looked down at his feet. Dashed awkward, I can tell you. I tried to break the tension by asking if he’d ever heard the one about the priest and the chorus girl, but apparently he’s heard it from me five hundred times, or so he claims. Frankly speaking, ‘five hundred’ seems like an improbably high number, but what do I know?

After that he looked moody and thoughtful, as though he were trying to decide whether to get a thing off his chest or not, like the cat in the adage, and when I said, ‘Got something on your mind, Archie?’ he sighed like a bellows and let it out.

Apparently he thinks I’m off my rocker from combat fatigue, whatever that is. I had him say it two or three times before I’d got it. He says I’m not my bright self and that we’ll need everyone in tip top shape when the surge comes, whenever that might be, so he’s recommending to the upper echelons that I be recalled to Cairo for treatment.

I said, ‘What treatment?’

And he told me that they give you some dashed great dose of drugs of some kind – sodium something-or-other – I mean to say, that’s just salt, isn’t it? – and it knocks you out cold for two days, and when you wake up you feel better. It’s the newest thing out of America, and the top doctors back in London are raging about it.

It all sounds rather rummy to me, but Archie’s in charge and he ordered it, and his Australian doctor friend is backing him up, so off I go.

Nightmares and shaking and irritability are symptoms of this thing, and I’ve certainly had my fair share of all that, lately. I guess I’ve been shouting a bit in the night as well, which I wasn’t aware of, but Charlie and Archie both swear it’s so.

I’m not the only one. Fifteen of the young fellows are going with me for the same treatment. We’re all off first thing tomorrow. If all goes well, I should be back in the Box within the week.

The whole thing made me rethink a bit of what I wrote to you before, you see, particularly about the Australians. They’re great fun, really, and the teasing is not constant. It’s only that I’ve been feeling so bally miserable that it’s eating at me. Maybe when I wake up from my coma it won’t be so bad, what what?

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Bertram,

I will address this letter to your camp site, since you did not provide an address for the hospital in Cairo. If, as you say, the treatment is effective, then this should arrive back in Baggush at roughly the same time that you do. All of my hopes are with you.

All of my prayers are long spent and fruitless.

Please forgive me for failing to reply to your previous letter in a timely manner. I was otherwise occupied. I did not without a response purposefully.

I do have some felicitous tidings, which I hope will be a boon to you in your recovery. As you know, I was granted medical leave from my responsibilities in London, due to the wound I recently received, and decided to use that time to take care of some pressing business with affects us both. First, I called upon my friend in Staffordshire, who permitted me to borrow the Club Book. I then contacted three other fellows of my acquaintance for reasons which I will elucidate presently.

Afterward, I visited Aunt Dahlia for three days. I did not mention to you before that I organized with her to house some of the people displaced by the destruction of the block of flats on the corner of our street. Her once lonely home is now as busy as a London train hub, with four families occupying those rooms that have previously stood empty. She seems to be in her element, and with your Aunt Maude at her side, they are living excellently. Her spirits are much raised.

After visiting with her, I took a few days more to journey to the Biffen Estate in Gloucestershire to see my sister, my niece, and, as you would put it, my Biffy. All are well. Mr. Biffen is officially too old for the draft as of last month, so Mabel’s spirits are also lifted, and she was in a bright and buoyant mood during my visit. She was bright and buoyant enough that she was quite ready and willing to participate in a piece of subterfuge that I have been planning. You might recall that Mabel has some experience on the stage, and though she did give up her career upon marriage to Mr. Biffen, she retains great skill in that area.

You might also recall that Lady Florence expressed doubt as the validity of your engagement, and knowing that she would consider me to be an unconvincing fiancée, I enlisted the aid of my niece to play the part of Ginnie Biffen, the cousin of the estate’s owner, and your future wife.

I had already arranged with Lady Florence to meet her at the Biffen estate. I provided Mabel with a rough script, with plenty of leeway for ad-libbing, for which she possesses great talent, and handed her a stack of carefully selected (and in some cases, censored) letters written in your hand.

When Lady Florence arrived, she was unexpected accompanied by your Aunt Agatha. Fortunately, I had kept Mabel and my sister abreast of all of your relations, so Mabel was able to adapt the script to include your aunt.

I kept myself out of sight in an adjoining room so that I could hear the proceedings without influencing them.

I will provide for you as accurate a transcription of the event as possible:

Mabel: Welcome! So good to finally meet Bertie’s dear aunt and cousin. He has told me ever so much about you.

Lady Agatha: He’s told me very little about you. Wherever did you crop up?

Mabel: Oh, we met on a liner coming back from New York two years ago.

Lady Florence: Oh? And what were you doing in New York?

Mabel: I adore travel. I find it broaden’s one’s mind, don’t you?

Lady Florence: I wouldn’t know. I’ve been far too busy with my writing to worry about travel.

Lady Agatha: So I understand that you and Bertie are getting married?

Mabel: Oh yes, after the war, of course.

Lady Florence: Of course.

Mabel: He asked me in a letter while he was in training, and he gave me this ring when he was home on leave this past summer. (At this point, I assume she presented the ring that I had lent her; your mother’s second-best diamond. I would have preferred to the use the best, but of course, your sister inherited it. Regardless, it had the desired affect, as I heard a sharp intake of breath from Lady Agatha, no doubt in recognition.)

Lady Agatha: He gave you that, did he?

Mabel: Yes, he said it was his mother’s.

Lady Florence: (Much agitated) It was?

Lady Agatha: It was.

Lady Florence: You said he proposed by letter. Isn’t that improper? I shouldn’t consider marrying a man who proposed in that manner. Haven’t you any self-respect?

Mabel: Time is thin in war, Lady Florence. Life must run nearer the surface.

Lady Agatha: Let me see the letter. (I heard then a shuffling of paper, and there was a moment’s silence as both women read your proposal to me. I admit, it was galling, to know their undeserving eyes were roving over your sacred words, but needs must.)

Lady Florence: That’s certainly Bertie’s handwriting, isn’t it, Mother?

Lady Agatha: It says in this letter that he wanted to buy you a ring in Paris. Why didn’t he?

Mabel: Oh, he did, but it was the wrong size, so he gave me his mother’s as a placeholder until the war ends and we’re able to resize it.

Lady Agatha: The wrong size. Hm. That certainly sounds like something he’d do. (At this point, Mabel giggled girlishly, which I considered to be a most appropriate improvisation.)

Mabel: Oh yes, he’s a silly goose, isn’t he? But such a love. An absolute lamb. I simply cannot wait to be Mrs. Wooster.

Lady Florence: You mean you cannot wait to be Lady Yaxley.

Mabel: (Pausing briefly, sounding perfectly taken aback) I was unaware, when I accepted his proposal, that he would inherit a title. I admit it gives me some trepidation, but for Bertie, I would do anything.

Lady Agatha: What precisely is your background, girl?

Mabel: I am the cousin of Mr. Charles Biffen, who owns this estate. We are not a noble family, but we are a wealthy one, as you can see.

Lady Florence: Where did you go to school?

Mabel: I don’t see how that is really your concern, but it was in Canada. I spent much of my youth in Canada.

At this point your Aunt Agatha snorted derisively and muttered, ‘Canada.’

Lady Florence murmured something to her that I could not hear, and the two stood from their chairs as if to go. It was at this moment that Mabel delivered the final blow. She begged them tarry for just one moment longer, at which point she handed your aunt a sheaf of papers that I had previously kept in Aunt Dahlia’s safe, and said, ‘Have a quick look at this, would you? Bertie wanted you to read it.’

There was a moment of silence, and then a gasp, and the sound of a rather considerable body collapsing back into a chair that it had recently vacated.

‘What is it, Mother?’ Lady Florence asked. I heard no reply, but I did hear the sound of papers rustling, as if being transferred from one hand to another. Another silent moment passed, followed by another gasp.

‘Where did this come from?’ Lady Florence asked.

‘Bertie said that his Uncle Willoughby left them to him for safe keeping, and that I was free to use them should I ever feel the need.’

‘Use them how?’ Lady Agatha asked, breathlessly.

‘They could most certainly be published, I think,’ Mabel continued. ‘A posthumous addendum to Willoughby’s already successful, if somewhat scandalous, memoir. At the time that the original was published, his editor suggested that this passage was perhaps too scandalous, that it wasn’t proper to publish such things about a prominent lady such as yourself, Lady Agatha. But times have changed, haven’t they? I think the modern reading public would be most fascinated in the story of a young woman from a noble family who had brazen dalliances with three different male nightclub singers in the 90’s, all three of whom very swiftly left the country under mysterious circumstances. Wouldn’t that be just the sort of thing that people would adore, Lady Agatha?’

‘What do you want from me?’ Lady Agatha asked.

‘Oh, it’s very simple,’ Mabel replied. ‘Practically nothing, really. You are both to leave me and Bertie alone. Leave his man Jeeves alone. Oh, and have your son Thomas join up. A young man like him really ought to be out defending his country in her time of need, don’t you think?’

‘That is out of the question,’ Lady Agatha growled.

‘Oh, I don’t think it is,’ Mabel said, ‘because I also happen to have in my possession written accounts by three of Thomas’s previous servants who all say that he struck them on multiple occasions. They even have medical documentation of their most serious injuries. They were too frightened to come forward at the time, but war changes things, doesn’t it? And with an Earl backing them up, and the knife wound still healing on Jeeves’s arm, they’ve all said they’d willingly take the stand, if it comes to that. But it doesn’t have to come to that. They’ve agreed that all can be forgiven if it turns out that Thomas has a hero’s heart, and decides that he is willing to heed his nation’s call. And, of course, provided he never harms another person outside of the battlefield again.’

That last bit of information I owe to the Junior Ganymede Club Book. The three valets in question I reached by telephone over the last week, and as all had harbored a desire for vengeance for some time, they agreed to my plan wholeheartedly. I did not have time to seek your approval, but I have little doubt that you would stand by them should legal action be necessary.

The visit wound itself down rather swiftly after that, your relatives taking their leave in a grim silence, until they were just at the door, at which point Lady Florence said, ‘If Bertie is willing to participate in bringing legal action against his own cousin in order to curry favor with a few upstart servants, then he’s not the man I thought he was. I hope you two will be very happy together.’

To this your aunt feebly agreed; she seemed to have lost the power to speak clearly by that point. The door slammed, and it was done. I believe that they are both sufficiently cowed, at least for the foreseeable future.

I hope that this pleases you.

I hope that your treatment was tolerable. I hope that it gave you relief from your suffering. I hope that you awoke from your medicated slumber feeling strong and ‘braced,’ as you would put it. I hope that my efforts here in England have eased your mind sufficiently that you can better face the trials that lie ahead.

As for your question about letters to widows, I think I would like such a letter to come from Charlie. I have had enough correspondence with Major Evans, and any such letter from him would be most uncomfortable for both of us.

Furthermore, I wonder if you might just ask your friend Charlie what he thinks about those things that happen in army camps, those things that officers tend to overlook for the sake of morale. If you can learn his feelings on the matter, it could be valuable to us. Should he take a sympathetic viewpoint, then it might be possible for you to reveal to him my actual name.

I would not normally advise such a course of action, but since we are discussing the possibility of his informing me of your death, it changes things. I believe that I should prefer such a letter, should I be unfortunate enough to receive one, to bear my true name. In the event of your death, the subterfuge would be useless, as you would be beyond protection, and at least I could have an account of you and your final actions that was truthful and sincere, as would be befitting a gentleman of such beauty.

Love,

G.

Chapter Text

Dear Ginnie,

Our Lord, it is said, rose from death after three long days. Well, he has got me beat by a mere twenty-two hours. Although it wasn’t continuous death, as it happens. I’m told I was under for about eight hours at a time, four times total. It’s the oddest dashed thing, my dear, but when I try to think about those days I spent under the influence of sodium whats-it – amytal, it’s amytal; I know because when the doctor said it, I said, ‘More like sodium damn-it-all, what what?’ which would have made Robbie, my Australian chum with the harmonica, laugh his head off, but the doctor didn’t crack a smile. A twenty-minute egg, that doctor. You’d have liked him.

Anyway, I mean that when I think about the last few days, I have the dizzying impression that no time passed at all, but that it was also approximately three centuries. It’s as though I can remember a kind of empty space that stretched for eternity, but it is so empty, it is also timeless. I don’t know how to make h. nor t. of it, but there we are.

It was a memorable experience, certainly. Except for the all the bits I can’t remember. Laid out on a hospital bed, people bustling all about, doctors and nurses tossing their inscrutable words at one another, bright lights making short work of my pupils. A doctor gave me five capsules and a glass of water and told me to swallow them all – and then everything was dark, nobody was about, quiet as the grave, and I was so dashed weak. I could hardly lift my hand at first, and all the old limbs felt as though they were almost disconnected from me. I could move them but I couldn’t feel myself moving them, if that makes sense. Though that rather faded away after a time and then I was suddenly aware of how dreadfully hollow my midsection felt. I don’t know that I’ve ever been so hungry.

Dickens of a headache, too. Absolute dickens, I say. Apparently that’s to be expected, nothing to concern us and so on, but I’ve heard those statements so many times they’re starting to sound a bit suspect. They neglected to mention precisely how long the headache was meant to last, post-coma, and to me, three days seems like a rather long time, what? I feel as though I’ve just woken up after a particularly good bash at the Drones, and I wish to God I had you here to whip together one of your pick-me-ups.

I don’t know if the coma did me a lick of good, but I’ll tell you what did cause me to rise up on the stepping stones of my dead self, and that was a good, hot bath. The hospital in Cairo had a bathtub! Odd’s bodkins, old thing, it was absolute magic! I haven’t had a bath since I left the good old metrop last summer, and what’s more, it was a large tub, my dear, so large that I was able to lay the old bean back against the rim and allow the eyes to drift their sweet way shut. For a moment I could almost believe I was back home with you, doing my morning ablutions, and you messing about with ties or socks or something in the offing, and it was the sweetest moment I’ve had in ages. Absolute ages.

But then some orderly or doctor or some other such fathead started walking by down the hall and I knew for sure I was far far off, because you never go clomping around with steps that would break a man’s reverie in his bath. Anytime I can hear bally footsteps I know I am not where I am meant to be, old top. In my Heaven, the angels move silently, as though floating in the ether.

Not angels. Angel. Only one, of course, but then, only one is needed, what?

Oh, I say! I spoke to a psychiatrist! I thought you would like to hear about that. I did tell him that my fiancée is absolutely dippy about psychology and he rather condescendingly said that many young, unmarried ladies work as nurses in mental wards these days. Ha! I told him I’d pass the message on to you, for what it’s worth.

So that bit of nonsense aside, I thought you’d be interested in hearing the advice he gave me. He told me that successful soldiers are the ones who can take their feelings and put them in a box. Apparently fear and grief and all that can be closed up and put away for a certain amount of time and let out later, at what he called a ‘more appropriate moment.’ Now, that all sounded like a lot of rot to me, but I’m no expert on psychology. What do you say, old thing?

The whole thing did get me thinking about you, by the way. This psychiatrist was all right, I guess, but his head didn’t bulge out in the back, I can tell you. He did not have that gleam of intelligence in his eye. I’d wager ten to one that his hat was about a size seven. So what’s to stop someone like you from going to university and becoming a psychiatrist, really? Really put your knowledge of psychology to use! If money was a barrier for you before, it isn’t now, what?

Something to think about, eh?

Anyway, I’m headed back to the Box tomorrow morning, along with a truckload of lads who took the treatment with me. I got a bit of a briefing from Archie by telegram, you see. Apparently trouble is brewing back at the front, but I’m not meant to go into detail, so I’ll leave it at that.

I hope you’re well, old thing. It’s been ever so long since I’ve heard from you. I do hope you haven’t got yourself blown up, or something. Or was I too morose in that letter a few weeks back? When I told you about Hoggie? I could understand that. Laugh and the world laughs with you, weep and you weep alone! That’s what my mother always used to say. She swore by that philosophy and I’ve tried to stick to it, but I’m faltering a bit, what? I do hope the treatment knocked that unpleasantness out of me. I know it must have been rather unattractive.

I say, I hope you’re well. Do tell me a bit of your life, my dear. Is the bombing still severe? Are you as safe as possible, given that the world is exploding all about us?

The hospital’s all right. Clean, cool – cooler than my tarp-covered hole in the sand dune, where I have rested my weary bones these last months, anyway, though I daresay Hell itself would be like a balmy afternoon in late Spring to me now. As I said, the bath was wonderful. I jolly well wish I could have another before I go, but apparently there’s no time for that.

Ah well, dulce et decorum est, and all that, what what?

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Ginnie,

Oh, I say. You did write to me! I got a hold of your letter right after I arrived back at the Box this evening. Charlie had been keeping it for me. What a delight, I say!

I say. I mean to say, I say! You’ve handled the old Wooster relations with a touch of the ancient aplomb, what what? Aunt Agatha and nightclub singers, you say? I mean to say, what? I wish I could ask old Uncle Willoughby more about that! What would Uncle Spencer have said? Or Uncle Percy! Although, I daresay Uncle Percy had little to no leg to stand on, having featured prominently in Uncle Willoughby’s published work himself! I used to think it was rather big of Aunt Agatha to take him on knowing what we all know about the old lad, but now I see it is more of a case of birds of a feather choosing to go ahead and flock together, what?

Sending young Thos. to war is a bit rough though, old thing. Prison would have been kinder. Perhaps. I don’t know, actually, never having spent more than a night at a time in the chokey. But I’ve seen a bit of war, as I think you're aware, and I hate to think of anyone going off who doesn’t need to. Not that I’m necessarily advocating kindness toward him, considering he made an attempt at your life. And striking valets, well, that’s hardly preux chevalier, is it?  I can hardly believe such a thing could go on in this day and age. I thought we left all that sort of thing behind in the Dark Ages! All the same, prison might be kinder. You might reconsider, my dear, if it isn’t too late.

Do thank old Mabel for me. She’s always been a good sort. Of course she is! She’s a Jeeves, after all. And a Biffen.

I have my doubts about coming clean to Charlie. He took the Earldom hard enough. Still, it may be worth the risk to avoid your getting the bad news from the papers or something. I’ll test the waters this evening.

Dickens of a headache still, and I can’t seem to get my thoughts quite straight. There’s a kind of fog behind my eyes, like I'm not quite here, somehow. I don’t know what to make of it. But I have been sleeping again, so there’s that. I only hope the headache fades before we’re back to grappling with the enemy. I generally find my head clears up a bit under the gun, as it were. You know we Woosters are always at our best when events are at their ripest! All the same, if I’ve got a melon like this, I think it might take more than a few whistling mortars to blast it clear.

I say, I have some rum news for you to chew on! I went to the camp’s top doc this morning for help with the old pumpkin, telling a tale of woe as to the state of things above the old ears, and he gave me some awful stuff that made my head feel as waterlogged as my full evening wear was that one night it spent at the bottom of the Drones Club pool. It did cut the ache, so that’s all to the good, I suppose, but I shan't take it again. But I am getting away from myself. I meant to tell you that the doctor was asking me a bit about myself, – he’s Australian, you see – and his questions became oddly personal oddly quickly, though not actually personal about me, per se. He started asking me how I get along with Archie, and what sorts of things we do for fun, Archie and I, and whether Archie and I are quite close, and all that, and finally I held up a finger and broke his interrogation.

‘I say,’ I said, ‘what’s all this about Archie? If you want to know about the man, ask him yourself.’ And I’ll be absolutely dashed if the man didn’t blush. He blushed! Well, old Bertram is nobody’s fool, as you well know, and I can recognize the divine pash when I see it.

The doctor – John, his name is – muttered something about how, ‘The Major is far too busy to chat with someone he hardly knows,’ so I gave him one of the famous Wooster Level Looks.

‘Listen, John,’ I told him, ‘If you’re scoping out the competish, I’ve got mixed news for you, old top. Archie and I are chums of the sort one acquires in war, we few, we band of brothers, and so forth, etc., etc., but I am well and fully claimed by another, as is represented by this fine circle of gold adorning my southern mitten. Archie has expressed an interest in the past, but he has been thoroughly rejected not once but twice, and thus he is a prize that might technically be called winnable.’

Old John didn’t have much to say to me at that point. I think he was rather shocked that I spoke so plainly.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have, come to think of it! Good Lord! Am I a choice fool?

Anyway, I thought we might do old Archie a good turn and see if we can’t get this thing off the ground, what what? Put some thought into it, my dear. He could do worse than a doctor from Down Under, I think. No fear that this one will turn out to be a secret Earl, so that's something.

On more serious concerns, the camp is all astir. Word is that the Italians are mobilizing. Even with the Australians and some stalwart chaps from India bolstering our forces, we’re quite outnumbered. It gives one pause, in briefing, to hear the old Colonel lay it out. We are seasoned, though. All good chaps, here. I’m probably the weakest link.

I notice you didn’t address what I said about the sartorial choices of my Australian friends. I was rather concerned as to what your reaction would be, but there was none at all!

Not certain if I’ll be able to write again, or if I’ll receive any letters any time soon. It was awfully nice to arrive at camp and find your letter, old thing. Good news all around about Florence and Aunt Agatha, really. Well done. If it were the old days I’d give you a fiver, but I suppose I’ve already given you all of them. Buy yourself something nice, then. A new suit. A nice suit. You’re a gentleman now. I’m sorry, I meant lady, and dress, a new dress, what what? You’re a Countess now. Not sure what I was thinking! Blame it on the amytal. Perhaps I can blame everything on the amytal from now on. Ha! Don’t mind the Earl; he’s gone dotty from the amytal. He’d be lost without the Countess. Not sure what she sees in him.

Anyway, buy whatever you like. You deserve it.

Love,

Bertie

P.S. It’s almost Christmas again, isn’t it? Is it? Yes. It’s so dashed hot here I plum forgot. I would have guessed August, but damn if December hasn’t crept up on us again. You never did tell me how you enjoyed the Hume! I think if I were home I’d pick up a new watch for you. Yours gets the job done but it’s not much to look at. I’d get you a new set of clothes and a dashed fine watch. Get them for yourself in my honor, what? Happy Christmas, when it comes! I shan’t be able to write until the blessed day has passed, I fear.

*

Dear Ethel,

What-ho!

I know it has been years since we’ve so much as sent a telegram, but I’ve been thinking of you lately, what? How are you? How are the girls?

I don’t know if you’re aware that I’m fighting the good fight, as it were. I mean to say, you’ve probably heard, what what? You talk to Aunt Agatha a bit, don’t you? And Aunt Emily, too?

Don’t bother answering this, actually. I don’t even know where I’ll be tomorrow, or the day after that. In fact, I shall probably be quite mobile for several weeks at least. I should have sent this months ago, but I am a fathead, as you know all too well.

I just wanted you to know you’re on my mind. I know we’ve never been close, and it’s not really anyone’s fault. All the same, if I make it home, I would rather like to see you, and the nieces.

I’ve been thinking of Ma and Pa lately, you see, which I do try not to do. But when I do, I think of you as well. It is a shame we lost each other when we lost them. It might not always need to be so, what what?

Anyway, toodle-pip. My best to you and the girls. Happy Christmas, and all that. I now it’s a few weeks off yet, but as I said, I won’t have a chance to write at the appropriate moment so this will have to do.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Aunt Dahlia,

How are you, Aged A.? I miss you like the dickens.

I’m all right. I heard from Reggie that you’ve taken in a few families from my neighborhood, and that the house is bustling as it did in the days of yore. Have you been teaching those sheltered children of the metrop how to ride and shoot? I would expect no less. At the very least you must put them out on a punt and see how long it takes them to tumble in. Stand by, though. City children don’t know how to swim.

Don’t bother replying. I shan’t be in one place to receive letters any time soon. I just wanted you to know I was thinking of you! And Aunt Maudie, too, of course. Tell her her husband’s title doesn’t fit me near as well as it fit him. It’s still his in Bertram’s heart.

I’ve just come from a little R. and R. in Cairo and I had a lovely time. I won’t bore you with the details but I’m well-rested.

Check in on Reggie, won’t you? Don’t let him spend Christmas by himself if you can help it.

Happy Christmas, you know. When it comes.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Bertram,

Prison may be kinder for the gentleman in question, but anything that puts someone with his particular knowledge on the stand could prove perilous. It is not unheard of for certain trials to uncover information regarding the victim that not only influences the judge to take pity on the actions of the defendant, but also leads to the arrest and conviction of said victim. It is unfortunate that this is the case, but I see no alternative. Mr. Gregson needs to be removed, and a trial would be too risky.

It speaks well, certainly, of your sweet nature that you are concerned for the well-being of a man who would as soon see you dead in a gutter. Who, in fact, took direct action to end the lives of you and myself. I hope you can appreciate the fact that protecting you is of paramount importance to me, and that I cannot continue to see to your best interests if I am not alive.

It is all of no matter, however, since I have learned from Aunt Dahlia that Mr. Gregson did indeed enlist early last week, apparently with very little resistance.

Thank you for passing on the psychiatrist's message. It was most amusing.

It is kind of you as well to encourage me to go to university. Though you are certainly correct that money is no longer a barrier to me, that does not mean that no barriers remain. You are aware, I believe, that my formal education ended when I was ten years of age, when I went to work. As such I hold no degree from a lower school that would make me eligible for admission to a university.

It is of no concern. There was a time when I longed to be a scholar, but that time has passed. You are my work. You are my calling. I am content as long as you draw breath. Continue to do so. You know that long only to be, for ever now together, I and thee. Do all you can to come home to me and I will consider all of my dreams fulfilled, my prayers answered, my life complete.

You are likely unaware of the stringent rationing that is being enforced here, in order to help fund the war. Unfortunately, new clothing and fine watches are not easily available, even to one with ample funds. I do appreciate the sentiment. In happier times we will indulge ourselves thus, hopefully together.

Though I am not noble, and never will be, since we will not legally wed, and as such it would be inappropriate for me to don the raiment of nobility. I do, as I said, appreciate the sentiment.

I do not recall that anything was communicated to me concerning Australians and clothing. Perhaps you are mistaken. I am certain that they dress appropriately for the circumstances and we need spend no more time discussing such a trivial matter.

I do not know if you will receive this letter any time soon, or if it will be held until there is once again a break in the hostilities, so I will wish you a happy Christmas, wherever you are when that day dawns.

I will be in London, where I am once again, now that my arm is healed. The bombs still fall nightly. My colleagues are good people and I am slowly becoming friendly with them. I have purpose, and I am not isolated. I am as well as could be expected.

I have become Rossetti’s watcher of the skies. I walk the night like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite, hearing first the whistles of the bombs overhead, the great thunder of their fall, the deep breath of the conflagration, the tinkling of shattered glass, gleaming in the firelight like diamonds arrayed upon a bride’s gown. The hose and the bucket, the axe, the breathless gasp, the bellow. The shovel, grasping hands, gloved and heavy, the charred wood, the cracked and blackened brick, the smoke of the fire and the smoke of my breath, intermingled in the sky above the night’s cruel work.

Wherever you are, I like to think that we are toiling together, or at least toward one another, across the vast desert and the sea. My love was warm, so Stevenson wrote. How could I count any endeavor lost which brings my love to me? The bombs overhead, the fire, the bullets, the blade, all the great maelstrom about us, we can cut through it all, and all I can think is that, when the work is done, we will rest together with a sleep well-earned.

As you said once before, have we not prayed? You have, in my mind, three lilies in your hand, my Lord, and the stars in your hair are seven.

I hope that you are well. I hope that the coming combat will not last so long as you fear, but having less information than you, I am aware that your estimate is likely accurate.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Reggie,

I recently received a letter from Bertie. He wanted me to check up on you, and make sure you aren’t spending Christmas alone. You know you are always welcome here. I know the house is more bustling and noisy than it has been in recent years, but we’re all looking forward to Christmas! We’re doing all we can to make it special for the children. I only wish Bertie were here to play some merry tunes on the piano! A few of us here can play, but no one has his flair.

Anyway, I would have rung you but your phone line is down again. Can’t you have a word with the Germans about it? I should think you’d be able to sort this whole thing out in a jif.

Love,

Aunt Dahlia

*

Dear Aunt Dahlia,

That was kind of you, and kind of Bertram – though that goes without saying. I do not have leave from my duties, so I will be remaining in London for the foreseeable future. That being said, I shall not spend Christmas alone. I am, in fact, hosting an early afternoon Christmas party at the flat for my colleagues from the Volunteers and their wives.

Worry not; I have already implied that I am a widower, so questions should be minimal. Should anyone probe, I have decided to tell them that I prefer not to discuss it. They are all aware that I am a valet for a gentleman who is serving at the front, so there should be no questions concerning the value of the flat itself. I have already hidden anything valuable. I do trust my colleagues, but I am also aware that in all echelons, there are always those who seem trustworthy but are hiding their true natures.

I hope you give the children a very happy Christmas. As it is their first since losing their home, may I offer my services? I am aware that, for young children, sweets are a necessary component for a happy Christmas. As such things are in short supply and rather brutally rationed, I thought I could give aid. I have in my possession no small amount of chocolate, which Bertram used to buy for me almost continuously. Before the war it was impossible for me to consume it at the rate which he purchased it, and since he left, I have been rationing it carefully. It is only a little over a year old and well worth consuming, if one is capable of ignoring some discolouration. On my next free morning, I will come on the early train and bring a box for each child. I would drive, but petrol is hard to come by, currently.

I have also three bottles of champagne that have been awaiting a good use. Bertram purchased them shortly before the war for us to share on our anniversary, but of course, that came after he left. They have been properly stored. I will bring these also, so that you and the adults of the families you are hosting may have some joy as well. And before you question me on this matter, worry not. I am well-prepared for hosting my colleagues. Bertram always had plenty of spirits stocked, and I drink lightly on my own. The champagne will not be missed.

Speaking of Bertram, it appears that he is again engaged in conflict. If the papers are accurate, then the British and Commonwealth campaign against the Italian forces is faring somewhat better than expected, which gives me hope. I have been following the news closely, of course, and it appears that our men have gained some ground into Libya. Apparently, if reports are to be believed, quite a few Libyan men have joined the British forces in order to help expel the Italians from their homeland.

I will see you soon with my gifts, and if you are amenable, I will gladly stay for tea.

Love,

R.

*

Dear Rebecca,

I wish to thank you for your hospitality, and that of your daughter and son-in-law. My visit to the Biffen residence was enjoyable and satisfactory. I am most grateful indeed to Mabel for the excellent work she did with Lord Yaxley’s relatives. I received word recently that Mr. Gregson has enlisted, and is currently in training somewhere in the Midlands.

Bertram has again gone to ground, as it were. The Italians are mobilizing, and the British forces are responding. He couldn’t give me specifics but it sounds as though he will be unreachable until January at the earliest.

I want you to know that I am not descending into despair as I have done in the past. I have become accustomed to this, I suppose. As much as anyone can be. And I have work to occupy me now, and people who seem to be friends.

I also have Bertram’s book, which I had read four times now. I have even begun editing it for publication. I don’t precisely know why I am doing this. I suppose there is a part of me that would like to share him with the world. He is a treasure, and while I have long been content to keep him my own secret, our common crisis has brought about a change in me. He is no longer wasting his sweetness on desert air. He is respected and cherished by others than myself, and though I still feel within me some of those old stirrings of jealousy, I find a kind of pride in it as well. I want all the world to know my Bertram. I want all the world to love him. Should he die, this part of him will yet survive, and people centuries from now could meet him and love him as I do.

I have not told him. He doesn’t even know that I found it. I think he would be much chagrined to learn of it. I think it is a conversation for a future time. For now, I am keeping it for myself, and preparing it for the world.

Love,

R.

Chapter Text

Mr. Jeeves,

I received a letter from my brother Bertram recently. He included no return address, but said that he was ‘fighting the good fight,’ and that he would be ‘mobile’ for the next month. The way he was writing, it seemed as though he was away from home. He said something about how he doesn’t know where he’ll be tomorrow. He seemed to think I’d know exactly what he meant, and asked if I have spoken to Aunt Agatha lately. I don’t communicate with Aunt Agatha at all, or anyone in the family, really. I haven’t for some time.

Is he quite all right? I know that, shall we say, eccentricity does rather run down the Wooster family line, but I thought even Bertie had a few years to go before goofiness claimed him.

I would have written him directly, but he told me not to reply.

Please respond promptly. I am most concerned for his well-being.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Ethel Scholfield

*

Dear Mrs. Scholfield,

Lord Yaxley’s mental state is relatively stable, considering the circumstances. He is, in fact, in Egypt – or perhaps in Libya, if the news reports are accurate. He joined the army at the beginning of the war and has been fighting on the front lines for much of the past year, holding the rank of Captain. He was in France initially, and was wounded at Dunkirk.

Please accept my sincere apologies for the lack of information. Though I am aware that you and Lord Yaxley do not communicate regularly, I was not apprised of the severing of ties that you have experienced with the rest of the family. It has long been our understanding that you and Lady Agatha were rather close.

If it is not an imposition, may I inquire as to the circumstances that led to the severing of your relations with Lady Agatha? Lord Yaxley would be most interested to learn of this, I think.

If you are interested in writing him directly, I would be happy to provide you with his address, as soon as his unit has settled in one place long enough for him to provide me with one.

Sincerely,

Jeeves

*

Dear Jeeves,

Oh, that’s right. I did hear from the papers that old Uncle George had kicked it. I didn’t recall that that made Bertie Lord Yaxley. Ha! This world is a funny old place.

Aunt Agatha talked to me about you with some frequency. Whenever Bertie’s name came up, she insisted that his wasted life was to be attributed to your poor influence. I always thought Bertie was a waste of good air from the first breath, but you know it’s no good arguing with Aunt Agatha.

One thing that she despised about you particularly was the manner with which you insinuated yourself into his personal life. Having only ever interacted with you that one day, so many years ago, I rather doubted it was as bad as all that. Now I see that she was correct. It is the rare servant who would write to his master’s sister this way.

You would like me to tell you why I stopped speaking to Aunt Agatha? If you had asked me this exact question with such impunity even two years ago I would have told you off sharply.

‘Just who exactly are you?’ I might have asked, knowing full well that you are nobody.

But times change, and they change us with them. I am like a piece of sea glass these days, all the sharp edges worn dull.

I shall tell you precisely what happened.

My eldest daughter Margaret married a chauffeur. Not my chauffeur; you know better than most that my finances do not allow for full-time servants. She went to stay at a school friend’s estate a about four years ago and fell in love with a dashing young man who picked her up at the train station. I dismissed it at first as schoolgirl nonsense, but the pash persisted. With Aunt Agatha’s advice, I forbade her to see him. They wrote secretly.

The summer after she finished school they eloped.

With Aunt Agatha whispering in my ear like a snake in the Garden, I told Margaret that she was no longer my daughter. They scraped together some wretched little life together in Manchester, he driving cabs, and she waitressing in a tea shop.

They had a daughter.

When I learned that I had a granddaughter, my heart leapt up within me. Somehow, I think I had convinced myself that this would all simply pass, that Margaret would see sense and come home to me. But when Lilian was born, I realized I’d been a fool, that I had lost something beautiful for nothing but pride.

I remember thinking how dreadful it was that Frank would never meet the child, just as Mother and Father never knew my children; that death was cruel enough, and that I needn’t make life cruel, too.

So I went to Manchester, and I met my granddaughter, met my son-in-law, and begged them for forgiveness. And for a year, it was beautiful. Richie was a lovely man, devoted to Margaret and doting on Lilian. He worked hard to support them. Margaret was so happy. Aunt Agatha told me I had made a mistake, that Margaret had put the family to shame and should be cut out, but I ignored her. In fact, I distanced myself significantly from her. I was happy, and I didn’t want her judgement to cloud the joy.

Then the war began and Richie was drafted. He went to France, and fell somewhere in the rush to Dunkirk.

I called Aunt Agatha. She was the closest thing I had to a mother, you know. It was she who took me in when our parents died. Bertie was always divided between Uncle Willoughby and Aunt Dahlia, and I had Aunt Agatha. I needed to weep upon some shoulder. I needed my mother. So I called Aunt Agatha.

She told me to dry my eyes and smile, because Margaret was now free to make a good marriage without the shame of divorce. She said it was the best possible outcome.

So that was enough of Aunt Agatha. Enough of Woosters and Wooster-relations. Enough of the whole damn lot of them – until Bertie sent me his letter.

I brought Margaret home to live with me, and we’re raising Lilian together.

I’m sorry to hear that Bertie has gone to war. I hope he makes it through all right. I do hope that he knows how grateful I am – how grateful we all are. I was not kind to him. I know that now. I have too much Wooster pride, and his naive optimism always disturbed me. But without the house he bought us, and without the money he sent for the girls’ school fees, we would have been either destitute, or entirely at the mercy of Aunt Agatha.

I thought it only my due. I was envious of his literal good fortune, that Uncle Willoughby left it all to him. But of course, he was the closest thing the old man had to a son, and Bertie is so like our mother, really, I have no doubt that Uncle Willoughby saw his sister in him. I hardly said two words to the man in my youth, and then I was off to India with Frank, of course, and never sent to much as a letter, so I understand. I do. I understand why Willoughby left it all to Bertie. And I am grateful that Bertie shared as much as he did. I hope I have a chance to tell him, but if I don’t, then perhaps telling you is the next best thing.

Please do send me Bertie’s address, when he has one.

Sincerely,

Ethel

P.S. This letter was sealed and stamped and ready to fly when a thought occurred to me that I simply had to jot down. I think I saw Bertie recently. Not in person, of course, but at the cinema. It was one of those reels they show before the film about the war. It’s all propaganda; I don’t pay much attention to it. This one was about our chaps fighting in the desert somewhere. I suppose it could have been Egypt, what? But there was a moment where there was this officer fellow inspecting some troops or something, wearing one of those officer’s hats and a moustache, and I said to myself, ‘If that fellow weren’t so aggressively moustachioed, and if he weren’t so old, and if he weren’t some blasted army Lieutenant or whatever he is, he could almost be Bertie.’

Of course, I didn’t stop to think that it’s been ten years or so since I last set eyes on him, so naturally he’s gotten older, hasn’t he? And now that I know he is an officer, well, then I rather think it might have been him.

I didn’t look all that closely at him, to be honest, because there were three or four chaps in the same reel who hadn’t any shirts on and I was rather preoccupied by that.

*

Dear Reginald,

I have a bit of news for you. I feel a bit silly writing this, but I simply must tell someone, and I’m not ready to share it with Mabel. Not yet.

I’ve met someone. I’ve met a man, I mean.

I’m beside myself, like a schoolgirl really, which is quite unseemly at my age. He owns a farm nearby; not the next, but the next after that. He keeps cows.

His name is Roger.

It’s nothing really. Not yet. We met in the village when I went to buy milk and flour. He was bringing the milk in as I was showing the grocer my ration book. He nudged me in the ribs – most indecent, really – and whispered, ‘I keep an extra bottle in my cart just in case I meet a beautiful woman. Come round back when you’re done and it’s yours.’

An extra bottle of milk, Reggie.

I blushed. I can’t believe myself, honestly. I am attempting to fathom how I could explain such an encounter to my younger self. He wears a beard, for Heaven’s sake, and has a face as red as a tomato from laboring outdoors all his life. His hands are large and rough, and all I can think is how firm and strong they would feel if I held them.

So a bottle of black-market milk bought my foolish old heart. I went to the cart and he was there, holding the bottle like it was a string of pearls, and I took it in the same spirit. What strange times these are.

He asked where I was staying, said he’d seen me around, but only recently. Asked if I had come ‘from away.’

I told him everything, my heart pounding away. I told him how I have a house in Kent but that I came to stay with my daughter, who is mistress of the Biffen estate.

He has soft brown eyes.

I told him about Arthur, Reggie, and he told me about his wife Mary, who died four years ago. And then he asked if I would like some tea. I said I’d better get the milk home before it spoiled, but that I’d love to get tea or dinner perhaps another time.

And who do you think was loitering about the front gate the next evening?

I know what you meant now, back when you and Bertie did what you did last summer. I know what you meant about feeling such feelings at this age. It is disorienting, is it not? All the madness of being an adolescent again, only in this strange old body.

I feel foolish, Reginald. I feel sad as well, as though I’m dishonoring Arthur, somehow. But I feel such joy and anticipation as well, a kind of opening, like a flower in the sun after a long dark night. I feel too many things at once, after years and years of allowing myself almost nothing.

He has asked me to go for a walk tomorrow morning. I think I will kiss him.

I feel insane. Am I insane?

Love,

Rebecca

PS. I despise post-scripts, but I can’t help it. I’ve written entirely of myself. Bertie is in active combat, and how are you? I didn’t even think to ask after you, my dear, and I apologize. How are you, Reggie? Reginald? How are you?

*

Dear Rebecca,

You are insane.

I know you are insane because I too am insane. Love is a madness all its own.

I know that by the time this letter reaches you, you will already have taken your walk with Roger.

I hope you kissed him.

There is so little, really, that life gives us. True happiness is so rare. You know that as well as anyone.

You do not dishonor Arthur. He would not have you live your entire life without joy.

I am well; don’t concern yourself with me.

Tomorrow, of course, is Christmas Eve, and I will host a small gathering at home during daylight hours. I am anticipating an enjoyable afternoon. The party must end before sunset, due to blackout orders, and our responsibilities that come with the fall of night.

Love,

Reginald

*

Dear Mrs. Scholfield,

I had an evening free this past week and I decided to take in a film. The war reel entitled, ‘Our Brave Boys in the Desert’ was playing before the main feature, so I kept an eye open for Lord Yaxley. You were correct, indeed. He does, in fact, make an appearance. It is somewhat brief, but it is undoubtedly him. Thank you for informing me of the reel’s existence. I think he will be most amused to learn that his visage has appeared on the ‘silver screen,’ as he would call it.

Please accept my sincere condolences for the loss of your son-in-law. As you are now aware, even we nobodies are somebody to those who love us.

Lord Yaxley will also be pleased to learn that you are no longer associating with Lady Agatha. They have always had a tempestuous relationship, and your close association with her was a contributing factor to his decision to remain somewhat distant from you.

If you are interested in forming a bond with a more understanding relative, may I take the liberty of recommending Mrs. Dahlia Travers? I am aware that Lady Agatha may have spoken disparagingly of her to you over the years, but I have found her to be a kind and supportive person.

I will forward Lord Yaxley’s address to you as soon as one is available.

Sincerely,

Jeeves

*

Dear Aunt Dahlia,

I hope you are well. It was lovely taking tea with you last week. I will be certain to return for another visit soon. I hope the children enjoy the chocolate on Christmas, and the rest of you, the champagne.

I feel I must speak to you regarding a matter of great concern to me. I hope you will forgive this liberty that I am taking. I am not accustomed to writing this way to anyone but close family. However, my sister has recently fallen in love, and is currently so elevated by her joy that I feel it would be a grave imposition to lay my feelings upon her. Nevertheless, I must speak to someone, someone who is aware of my particular situation, and of course, there are extremely few such people in this world.

You insist that I should consider you family, and so I am attempting to do so. I hope you do not regret entreating me thus.

I saw Bertram in a war reel that played before a film this week. In fact, I have seen it six times now. Every day I tell myself I will not go again, but that afternoon, there I am, my eyes fixed upon the screen with a steely resolve.

I will describe the reel. It is entitled ‘Our Brave Boys in the Desert,’ and it contains various scenes of soldiers firing guns and loading weapons, as well as what I might describe as excessive marching. There is a scene approximately three minutes into the reel in which an officer is inspecting a line of soldiers. The officer is Bertram. He takes five steps, points to one soldier’s helmet, which the soldier adjusts, and then nods sharply. That is the entirety of the footage in which he features, but it has rendered me somewhat ill at ease.

I have been gripped by wild surmise concerning Bertram, particularly the manner with which I have written to him lately, and how protracted our separation has been.

In our most recent exchange, I entreated him to share with me everything in his life, good or ill, and he obliged, which is against his nature. As you know, he prefers to make light of his suffering, so I have no doubt that it was a challenge for him to enumerate his difficulties with me.

My dilemma is that I realize now that did not respond appropriately. He told me how he suffers, how he struggles, how he grieves, and I could not reply to it. In my response, I failed entirely to address his suffering.

At first, I did not dwell on my own silence overmuch, but seeing him in the reel, seeing his authoritative bearing, his brisk nod, the way the soldier he spoke to obeyed his command – it disturbed me. I have been perturbed from the moment he joined the army by the possibility that he would not come home alive, but now I find myself preoccupied by a new fear: that even if he does come home, the Bertram I loved might be gone already.

I have known for some time that his men respect him, but this was the first time I actually witnessed him interacting with them. His manner was not the easy-going, carefree tenderness that I have long cherished. He was sturdy and firm, direct and composed. I should have known that war would change him. I suppose that I was conscious of this possibility, intellectually, but so concerned was I with the reality of the immediate physical danger he was in, I failed to consider what that might mean.

Who is he now? My Bertram was not made to suffer this way. He was meant to lead a gentle life, suitable for a gentle man, and a gentleman. I have attempted to expunge from my mind the belief that I have failed him, that I have wronged him, that it is my fault that he suffers, but every word he writes that is anything but carefree cuts into my heart.

I understand that he does not regret me.

I understand that he would not have considered his life complete without me. I understand, but nonetheless, I cannot rectify it within my mind. I cannot justify the liberties I have taken. He would be home now, if not for me. Or in Worcestershire, with with you perhaps, safe from the front, safe even from the bombs that fall on London.

He has expressed to me in multitudinous ways that he does not regret this, so why can I not support him as he so clearly requires? Why do I shrink from addressing his suffering? It is guilt, I think, and fear. Guilt that my love for him has brought him here. Guilt that I found a beautiful young nobleman and transformed him into a battered soldier.

Fear that it is already too late to save him, that even should he return, he will never again be the golden youth who so enchanted me, but will instead be a man whose heart has been made heavy by the burdens of what he has suffered.

It was never my intention. I desired only to serve him.

I am trapped here. I can rise out of it, briefly. I can talk myself into a kind of emotionless haze where the work I do supersedes all else, but the reel has disturbed me deeply.

He told me he has nightmares. He told me that the bloodied face of a friend who fell in battle haunts him incessantly. I did not say a word to him. What I did do was write to his commanding officer to say that he requires treatment. He was recalled to Cairo for said treatment, and seemed to have suffered further from it. He was told by a psychiatrist that he should simply put his feelings away for another time. He asked what I thought and I could not reply. I could not reply to any of it. I could not address a word of it. I asked him to bare his soul to me and then I ignored it.

My mind is consumed with the thought that I must write to him again, to apologize, to support him the way that he requires, but he is gone. He is gone in more ways than one, and every interminable day that drags on without him is as a year, a year whose days are long.

There is another factor that contributes to my consternation as well – this rather more petty, but nearly as concerning to me. There is someone with him whom one might characterize as a rival. Someone who cares for him and has expressed interest in him on multiple occasions. I do trust Bertram. I trust him entirely. At least, I trust the man he was when he left, but the man he is now may be a stranger to me. He has experienced things I cannot fathom. He has changed in ways I cannot comprehend. There is someone who knows exactly what he has gone through, who has taken every desperate step beside him, and I cannot quite expunge from my mind the thought that he may soon conclude that he would prefer to be with someone who understands what he has suffered.

I am a petty man, Aunt Dahlia. I have lived a small life. Bertram may have outgrown me.

Love,

R. J.

*

Dear Reggie,

I do not regret it. On the contrary, I am delighted that you have finally decided to trust me. Only took two decades! You’re a bit of a tough nut, eh? But I cracked you in the end.

Don’t talk such rot. Bertie could never outgrow you. You started out about seven sizes larger than him, both in brain and brawn, and it would take an act of God to expand him to such an extent that he would be beyond you. Besides, he’s batty about you, absolutely batty, and that’s not such an easy thing to keep up for as long as he has. If he hasn’t gone off you yet, I daresay he never will.

Snap yourself out of this, Reggie. If Bertie’s alive, then he’s yours, all the way. And if he has changed a bit, well, so what? Life changes us all. No need to fret about it!

And cease all this tiresome guilting about. He’s a grown man who made his own choice. He’s a bit of an ass, and the choice might have been foolish, but it was his to make and he did it. He loves you, you old fool! Take it for the gift that it is and don’t taint it with penitence and self-reproach. Bertie may think you are a God-made-flesh, but I happen to know that you’re just a man, a man who fell in love, and to float about thinking you should have been above all that is just silly.

Things happen. Sometimes they’re lovely and sometimes they’re dreadful, and eventually one of those things will kill you. So as long as you aren’t dead, just enjoy what comes along, all right?

And if Bertie isn’t dead, then you damned well better write to him and tell him how damned sorry you are that his pal died and that you love him and wish you could be there and make it better. It’s not hard, for God’s sake. Just get out of your own way and do it.

The next time you go to see that reel (because I know you’ll go again, you obsessive old wart), try to enjoy it. I think it’s smashing that Bertie has men who respect him, and that he isn’t just a bumbling idiot over there, tripping over his feet and accidentally shooting himself. It’s about time there was a Lord Yaxley with a bit of presence and aplomb. It has been severely lacking in the last several Yaxleys, let me tell you. My father was a right old ass, and his father wasn’t much better. Of course, you knew my brother George, God rest his soul, who was a goodish sort overall, but not precisely redolent of poise and dignity.

Oh, and yes! I’m writing to you on Boxing Day, and the children adored the chocolate. The adults enjoyed the champagne a trifle too much and we all have tender heads this morning. I say, you couldn’t swing by and whip up some of those pick-me-ups of yours, could you?

Toodle-oo for now, dear nephew. See you soon!

Love,

Aunt Dahlia

PS. I don’t for a moment believe that this other person you’re concerned about is actually a rival, but if he is, then why don’t you do what you always do and get rid of him?

Chapter Text

Dear Reggie,

How are you? I assume you have seen the headlines. In the paper, first thing this morning, all in bold, ‘Lord Yaxley Missing in Action in Libyan Desert.’ The ensuing article is rather sparse on the details, but it seems he became separated from his unit or company or whatever it is they call it?

Do tell me if you have any news of him. It’s an awful jar to learn it from the papers, isn’t it?

Anyway, write back as quick as ever you can.

Love,

Aunt Dahlia

*

Dear Jeeves,

Just so you know, I received a telegram yesterday saying that Bertie is missing in action. It’s probably nothing to to be concerned about; my neighbor’s husband has been MIA three times since the war began and they always find him after a day or two.

They send these telegrams out rather prematurely, in my opinion. A man should be missing for at least three days before they worry the family about it.

Out of curiosity, what are your plans for employment should Bertie fail to return? I don’t mean to be nosy, but I suppose you have been a faithful servant to my brother for some years and the family owes you something, what? If you need a reference or something, do let me know. Least I can do.

Sincerely,

Ethel

*

Dear Aunt Dahlia,

No word from Bertram.

Have you spoken to Mrs. Scholfield lately? She receives the telegrams.

Sincerely,

Reginald

*

Dear Reggie,

I hope you had a happy Christmas.

I wasn’t certain if I should even write this thing yet, considering we don’t actually know anything, but then I remembered what Bertie said about how you always like to know everything, and I thought I’d better. He said something in Latin that I didn’t understand, something-something-est, and he told me it means ‘Knowledge is power,’ and that you would want to hear as soon as there was anything to hear, so here it is.

I’m sorry. I’m a bit out of sorts, actually, and I’m not writing well at all. Not much of a writer, really. I’ll just lay it out plainly, shall I?

Bertie is missing.

Let me go back a bit. No letters have gone out lately, so you probably don’t know a thing, do you? We’ve been fighting the Italians for about a month now, I think, and we’ve beat them back across the Libyan border. It’s been a damned hard fight, considering we’re about 36,000 strong and the Italians were closer to 150,000, but we’ve done all right for ourselves. The 7th Armoured have taken Fort Capuzzo, which is a sturdy foothold in Libya.

We’ve dug ourselves in here a bit further West, while the bulk of the Australian forces have gone ahead and surrounded Tobruk. I can’t tell you about the plan obviously, but we have reason to think we’ll take Tobruk by the end of January, so that’s all right, eh? We’ll have a bit of breathing room then, and we might even get a chance to live indoors again, which is getting everyone’s spirits up.

Anyway, about Bertie. Captains don’t usually lead night patrols, but you know Bertie; he never asks a man to do a thing he wouldn’t do, and in times like these, when we’ve all been fighting hard for so long, he likes to give some of us chaps lower down the ranks a night off now and then. So he took twenty men out on patrol last night himself at 0100, and they hit a company of Italians about a mile and a half west of camp, apparently on their way to attempt a strike at us. Our men fought a bit, enough to deter the Italians, and then fell back, crawling into our perimeter just around sunrise, but Bertie and an a private named Walter weren’t with them. Apparently they were cut off from the rest in the firefight. If Bertie’s smart, and we all know that he is, he found a place to hide from the enemy and the sun for the day, and he’ll be back first thing after nightfall. Chances are everything’s all right.

The fact is, I’m struggling a bit, because Bertie’s been the best damned friend a man could ask for in times like these, and I’ve not been so good to him. Not lately. First the thing about the Earldom, and then, you know. The other thing.

I never knew much about all that, you know. It’s not talked about, except in whispers here and there. What little I did know made it sound awfully bad, and I admit it scared me. I started to think I didn’t really know Bertie as I thought I had. I haven’t talked to him much, since he told me about you a few weeks back. I’ve rather kept my distance from the chap lately.

But then this day dawned and he was nowhere to be seen, and all I could think was that if I’m lucky enough to get him back I’ll be done with all that. I don’t pretend to understand it, but the longer I live the more convinced I become that we’re not really meant to understand what goes on in another man’s head, or heart.

It’s hard to change the way you were brought up to think. God says something is a sin and it’s a sin, right? But then His first commandment was Thou Shalt Not Kill, and here I am

I mean to say, here I am.

Back home most of what I’ve done here would land me in jail, and rightly so. None of it makes a lick of sense and it was crazy of me to think I could really understand anything, or judge anyone.

So I’m done with all that. All of it. Bertie’s a good man, and a good friend. By everything I’ve heard about you, you appear to be the greatest person who has ever walked the Earth. So it’s all right.

It’s all right, and I’m sorry. I’ll say it to you now, and I’ll say it again to Bertie when I find him.

I have orders from Major Evans to take out a search party as soon as the sun goes down. I’ll get him back, I swear. I don’t know what state he’ll be in, but I’ll find him and bring him back. And if we’re all lucky enough to make it out of this thing in one piece, then I’d love to come by your place in London and hear your side of some of Bertie’s stories, because sometimes I can’t believe the things he tells me.

If nothing else, Bertie has to be all right because he owes my mother a Noble Visitation. I wrote to her about it and she told me she’s got grandmother’s teapot down, the one we were never allowed to touch, and cleaned it! Apparently this is the only occasion special enough for Grandmother’s teapot: tea with an Earl, once, and then up it goes, back on the highest mantel for the rest of eternity. Maybe with a plaque that says, ‘An Earl drank from me.’

And I owe you, of course, for the part you played in bringing Helen and I together. I’ll owe you forever for that one. So I’ll get him back, Reggie. I swear it.

Sincerely,

Charlie

*

Dear Reginald,

I did kiss him. I’ve kissed him quite a few times now, actually, and it’s so extraordinarily odd. Very different from Arthur in just about every way, but it’s lovely.

He leaves us milk on his way to the village every morning, and now that I’ve confessed to Mabel, I’ve been given leave by Biffy to sneak Roger a bit of bacon when he visits. The war pervades everything, doesn’t it? Our entire courtship has been centered around rationing. He says that when Spring comes he will teach me how to grow vegetables for the household.

He doesn’t care for flowers at all. He says they’re a waste of good garden space. When he told me that, it was the closest I’ve come to doubting all of this. It was so odd, really, but the thought came to mind that Arthur wouldn’t like him.

But of course, why should it matter if Arthur would like him?

I like him.

How are you? Any word from Bertie? I admit I’ve been rather distracted. Not keeping up with the news so much, but I think I recall hearing that the Italians have fallen back a bit in Libya? That must be a relief for you.

All is well with me. I don’t know where this Roger business is headed, but I’ve decided to stop worrying and simply enjoy it. That’s what Arthur would do.

Love,

Rebecca

*

Mrs. Scholfield,

No reference will be necessary. Thank you for the offer, but Lord Yaxley, in his infinite kindness and generosity of spirit, has seen to it that I will be well provided for in the event of his death.

Please do kindly inform me if you hear any news of him.

Jeeves

*

Dear Reggie,

It took me about fifteen minutes to remember who in the blazes Mrs. Scholfield is. Can’t you ever use a Christian name for anyone you aren’t shacked up with?

No, I haven’t spoken to ‘Mrs. Scholfield’ in absolute bloody ages and that’s perfectly fine with me. Why in the devil does she receive the blasted telegrams? Blood may be thicker than water, but Bertie’s head is thicker still if he didn’t think to specify that crucial information should not automatically go to the estranged sister. Did he just fill out the ‘next of kin’ paperwork without a single thought in his silly head? It probably never even occurred to him to think why they would request such information. He’s always been a hopeless reptile.

I’m worried half to death over him. I’ll keep an eye on the papers, I suppose.

Love,

Aunt Dahlia

*

Dear Ginnie,

I’m all right, old thing. Not even wounded. Just a bit knackered, and dehydrated. Forgive me if my hand is a bit shaky; I’ve had a bit of a rough time.

I’m desperately sorry that it took me so long to write, my darling. I was only officially MIA for about thirty hours, but I’ve been in and out of consciousness for three days from the aforementioned dehydration, complicated by a rather untimely run-in with dysentery. If any run-in with dysentery could be considered timely. Not precisely the sort of visitor one welcomes with open arms even at the best of times, what?

Old Charlie jumped the gun, I’m afraid. I should have known this would be too great a task for him. I’m dashing this thing off as quickly as I can while still relating the whole sorry tale, because Archie ordered a telegram to my N. of K. immediately, and Charlie says he sent a letter to you that same day, and nobody thought to mention it to me until now! Archie says he didn’t want to send a telegram saying I’d been found until they knew for certain I’d ‘pull through.’ The ass.

Charlie says he simply forgot, he was so worried about me, which is utter rot.  He’s not had a thing to do with me for weeks, you know, so I don’t know what’s got him so tangled up now.

Regardless, I feel I damned well better get this off today, and hopefully you won’t have to go about thinking I’m gone for good for a single second longer than necessary, what?

I can tell you what happened. I know you’d like to know. I took a brace of chaps out for a late night jaunt, as is our wont in these parts. Now that things have quieted down a bit and we have a fairly solid base of operations, we like to stroll about under the starlight of an evening and see what our Italian friends are up to. Oftentimes we don’t actually catch sight of them at all, but this time one of the lads had a bit of a cough suddenly and made some ruckus with his dusty lungs and the next thing we knew the whole blasted night was lit up by enemy fire. Just great bally bangs and booms all about, don’t you know. The bombs bursting in air, and all that. Well, not really bombs, obviously, it being infantry we faced, but you know what I mean. It turns out a company of Italians were on their way to our camp to try and give us Hell, so we did rather save some British and Commonwealth lives, which is all to the good.

As usual I was useless with my damned gun (it’s largely decorative, don’t you know), but I recalled that there were three bombed-out Italian army vehicles a bit off to the West, which I had made note of on a previous evening stroll and kept in the back of my mind. They seemed to be just what the doctor ordered. I directed my men to that point post-haste and ordered a return of fire, which they did with admirable skill, as always.

It took some few moments to plot out in my mind a safe route for retreat, but when I’d got it I relayed it to Sergeant Engleby. I told him to take off while I provided covering fire, which is something I can do, so long as I’m aiming at the sand near the feet of the enemy and not right at them, God help me. I truly am the most useless ass who ever held a rifle, Ginnie, I swear it.

So they all set off in single file as quiet as dammit while I made a lot of noise with my rifle, and at last it was only me and Private Walter left, and just as he turned to go I heard the unmistakable thump of a hand grenade landing in soft sand nearby. I called for him to stop and fall to the ground, and he did so, but it seems he was just a bit too close to the blasted thing and when it went off it put a goodly amount of shrapnel in him. I saw then that there was nothing for it but to drag him under one of the vehicles and lie as silently as possible, since there was no possible way that I could safely pull him to camp myself while still under enemy fire.

It being a dark night with only a sliver of moon, I knew that if we laid still and silent enough, there was a reasonable chance that they’d miss us. Nobody goes about with torches round here, you see, since any light at all might easily bring the wrath of some blasted air force or other down upon you, so we all flounder around blind as bats at night.

So under the nearest vehicle we went, myself pressing a palm to his mouth to keep him from screaming. He’s a good sort and managed to understand our situation despite his pain, so I didn’t have to stifle him for long before he ceased his noise. We listened as the Italians gave up on their shooting, having ascertained that their targets had fled. It took them some time to gather up their wounded and dead and what have you, and then the made themselves scarce. I suppose they’d decided that was enough fun for one evening, and the surprise was spoiled to boot, so they toddled off home.

By then there was an ominous glow on the Eastern horizon, and I realized that there was nothing for it but to wait out the day. One absolutely mustn’t get oneself caught out in the open desert during daylight hours, especially when wounded and thus moving slowly. Any passing plane would make short work of you, for one thing, and the desert sun itself isn’t much better.

I saw to poor Walter’s wounds as best I could with our two med kits, topped off his canteen with my own, and once he’d had a good long drink, I gave him a dose of morphine so he could sleep.

Do you know, old thing, that hiding beneath a blasted car in the middle of the blasted desert for an entire day gave me rather a lot of time to think, which isn’t something I tend to do very often, if I can help it, and sitting beside Walter as he dwindled, peaked, and pined put me in mind of my mother, and all those long hours I spent at her bedside near the end. She became so thin, don’t you know, and so still, and so quiet, it was like she was only half there. It terrified me, I think, more than her death did. That jolly odd half-life of hers. It’s not something a chap likes to dwell on, but then I do find that eventually one has so many thoughts that one doesn’t like to dwell on that it becomes rather a problem to figure out precisely where one can rest one’s weary mind. At some point, a fellow simply must dwell on something or other, because he’s run out of places to hide, what?

So I thought about my mother. And don’t you know, I began to cry. The last time I was actually reduced to tears of such magnitude was at her funeral, when old Uncle Spencer gave me a thrashing with his cane and told me I’d shamed the Wooster family name with the way I was carrying on.

I rather saw his point, what? It doesn’t do for a fellow of what you might call a certain social position to go about streaming tears from his eyes and wailing. Mother herself always put great stock in a sunny disposish. So all that being what it is, I was rather shocked to find the old throat closing up and the eyes burning and tearing up. I was only relieved that old Walter was asleep and didn’t witness the Captain’s Lament.

I kept thinking of her, of all the things I never let myself think, don’t you know. The way she used to smile with one side of her mouth higher than the other. The way the curls in her hair bounced when she ran – which she was always doing; always running, always pointing at something and crying, ‘Oh Bertie, look!’

She loved birds, old fruit. Never saw a robin or a sparrow pecking about without pointing at the thing. She liked flowers too, I think, and used to go about Uncle Willoughby’s place picking them and making arrangements and telling me all about marigolds and lilies and such.

I couldn’t stop thinking of her, and weeping, and it was jolly foolish really, because I gave Walter the last of my water by midday and the old canteen was bone dry, so spending it all on fruitless tears was dashed foolish.

Don’t you know, once I’d wept long and hard until I was choking on the desert dust and blinking my scratchy eyes in the slanted light of the late afternoon, I felt oddly light, as though there had been a weight in my chest that I’d been carrying about with me and which had suddenly oiled off. If anyone had taken a mo. to tell me that weeping makes you feel better, I’d have been doing it all the dashed time!

After I knocked off thinking about my mother, the old mind drifted back to you, as it often does. You know, old thing, I don’t often say this – perhaps I’ve never said it! I wouldn’t be surprised. I think sometimes, for all the talking I do, I actually don’t say all that much. I mean to say, I don’t say much that means anything, really.

And I’m doing it again, aren’t I? Skipping around the point rather than getting to it.

Let me start again. I don’t believe I was ever truly happy from the moment that my mother died until the moment that I fell in love with you. Hang me for an old sentimentalist, I know. Jolly shameful, don’t tell the lads and all that, but here we are.

Do you know when that was, by the way? Have we ever talked about this? I can’t recall if we have. We always talked a dashed lot, you and I, about our friends and our families and the news, and poetry, and fish, and horses, and all that rot. Ham, I think, entered into it fairly often. Tea. We’d talk ourselves blue, wouldn’t we, all day long, and then in the evening you’d give me the old rugby tackle straight into bed and there we didn’t talk at all.

We never did talk about us, did we? Not much. Not face to face. Too embarrassing, what? These letters of ours have been red hot stuff compared to our usual reserved fare.

Anyway, I couldn’t stop thinking about how I might very well never see you again, my darling, and I simply kept running through every little scrap of memory I could uncover, and I realized that I never told you that I fell in love with you in France. It was the way you handled Soapy Sid and those pearls.

I didn’t realize it at the time, you see.

I don’t think I’d ever been properly in love before, what? I never really went in for that sort of thing. Every now and then a girl would catch my eye, and I’d think, oh, hello, this must be that love thing everyone’s always going on about. But then she’d hand me some odious tome to read, if odious is the word I want, and love would recede like a wave on the strand.

I think I might have a bit of a pash now and then for a lad in school, but you know what boys are like. Terrible oafs, the lot of them, and even if you might fancy the idea of a fellow for a time, then you see him shoving a biscuit in his mouth with his whole fist all covered in mud from a rugger match and the love-light goes out of your eyes.

And then there was you! Sailing about as though you needn’t be bothered with such trivial forces as gravity. Always in the right place, with the right stuff, saying the right things. Never a hair out of place. Always bailing me out of the soup and never demanding a thing from me, aside from the sacrifice of a few offensive articles of clothing. And then lifting the bloody pearls from a con-man’s pocket right before his eyes, and he none the wiser! A dashed marvel you are, old thing. None like you, anywhere.

You handed me that string of pearls, and suddenly I my heart was twittering along in a sharp staccato. As I say, I didn’t put it together right away; I never felt that way for anyone before. I knew I wanted to be around you. I knew I was rather bereft in your absence. I knew when I heard your cough, like a sheep in the fog, my heart leapt up within me like I’d beheld a rainbow in the sky.

It wasn’t until that evening in the garden about a year later – you know the night I mean. It wasn’t until then that I realized I wanted to kiss you. I’d never actually wanted to kiss anyone until that night. I doubt I shall ever want to kiss anyone else. What would be the point? Sometimes I remember the other times I’ve kissed someone and I shudder in my boots. I never understood the appeal of the thing, not until that night. Not until you.

Of course, you recall what happened then; Bertram Wooster is a man of action, after all. No cat i’ the adage am I. When ‘I will’ comes knocking, ‘I dare not’ packs his bags and leaves, what what?

I thought of that evening for hours under that burned-out car, old thing. I found it kept me alert. There was always the danger, you know, that I wouldn’t be able to keep myself awake, and I knew that if I fell asleep, well, then Walter and I were pretty much for it. Myself out of water, poor Walter delirious, still bleeding through his bandages, and the heat edging up toward temperatures that better suited the inside of an oven than the world at large.

I thought of you that night in the garden, the way your breath came short when I touched your elbow, like you’d just won the Goodwood by seven lengths on foot. I’d never heard you breathe like that before and it made me wild. There were years behind us already, years when I would have sworn that nothing could ruffle you, excepting perhaps a scarlet cummerbund or an alpine hat, but the way your entire body seemed to come alive when I kissed you – that is a memory that can get me shaky in the limbs to this day.

I started thinking that if I did die there, hiding under a scorched Italian army vehicle in the Libyan desert, well then I would die about as happily as a man hiding under  a scorched Italian army vehicle in the Libyan desert possibly could.

But I didn’t die. Obviously. Else I wouldn’t be writing you this letter, what?

I do have a confession to make. I would never have considered it under ordinary circs, you understand, but I suppose there’s nothing ordinary about any of these circs that either of us have found ourselves in recently, is there? But as the temperature climbed, and I started to worry that I might start roasting like Anatole’s chateaubriand, I began to wonder if the Australians aren’t on to something after all. I mean to say, a shirt, a blouse, and a coat altogether are an awful lot of layers to wear when it’s five hundred degrees out, what? And it was a matter of life and death, you see. It really was.

I wouldn’t tell you this bit, remember, but you did implore me to share all, so this is your fault, really.

You can probably guess what I’m getting at, eh? That’s right. I took them off.

Do tell me you prefer me alive and shirtless to dead and well-dressed? In all honesty I am not entirely certain. No doubt you’ll simply experience a timely amnesia whilst reading this portion and all will be well. Aunt Dahlia always said that a good marriage is sustained by a healthy helping of willful ignorance.

Anyway, those drastic measures kept me viable during the remainder of the scorching day, and as soon as the sun went down, on went the clothes. I don’t know what it is about the bally desert, old thing, but the moment the sun slips down behind the old horiz., suddenly all the bally heat goes with it.

As luck would have it, it was just about that time that the dysentery made itself known. I had a pretty good idea right off the bat what was happening, because that accursed scourge has been tearing its way through all the chaps in these parts for some weeks now. I thank whatever gods may be that Walter was unconscious at the time, and that I was able to drag myself over to a different crater before the worst occurred.

I say, perhaps we should rethink this tell-all wheeze, what what? I rather wish I hadn’t mentioned the dysentery, old top. Not the sort of thing a refined cove such as yourself needs to bend his brain about. I'm terribly sorry. I might scratch that bit out. But then, if you don't know about the dysentery, then you won't understand why I failed to write for so long, what? I suppose I'll leave it in. My apologies again, dear thing.

Where was I?

Oh yes!

Moving on, after a few hours of that particular torture, I said to myself, ‘Bertram, this is all well and good, but if you keep this up much longer, you’re going to expire from dehydration, and then no one will be able to bring that poor lad there back to camp and he will succumb to his wounds.’

Up I got, using what must have been the strength of Hercules himself, and slouched off toward Bethlehem – one awfully rough beast, I can tell you – half-dragging poor old Walter along with me. It was then that our fortune changed at last, because we hadn’t gone twenty yards before I caught sight of dark shapes looming about. I don’t mind telling you my heart was in my throat for an instant, but then I heard Charlie’s voice hissing my name and I knew all was well. A couple of lads took Walter off my hands, and then a couple of other lads surmised that I was in some rather dire straights myself and hoisted me up between them, and back to camp we strolled, merry as anything, with no further incursions by the Italian inhabitants of the area.

All of this is to say that I’m perfectly well off. Now that I’m through the worst I’m fit as a fiddle, though why fiddles are considered to be the picture of health I can’t say. John did tell me that Walter’s going to pull through, so it was worth the trouble!

So that is the sorry tale of Bertram’s time spent MIA. Once again, I am frightfully sorry that Charlie dashed off a letter to you nearly four days ago now, and I hope this isn’t delayed. All is well for the time being, and we don’t have any plans in the works for any more action for nearly another week. Can’t share any details, of course, but if it goes as well as the rest of this campaign has gone perhaps I’ll be writing you from quite a different locale ere much time has passed.

I say, how was your Christmas, my darling? I hope you weren’t alone. I certainly wasn’t! We had a bit of bash here, actually, which was awfully pleasant. I’ve never been much for Italian wine, but there was rather a lovely stock of it at the Fort when we breezed through, and Archie thought it would be all right for most of us to have a taste of it, with just a few staying sober for sentry purposes. Don’t worry, old thing. The sentries got their own bottle the next day. We were all so dashed happy to be out of the sand and under a roof for a night, we didn’t need much to get our spirits up.

I say, living in holes and tents and things for so long really does give one some sympathy for those poor blighters one sees about London who don’t have a home, what? Never put much thought into it before, but it must be jolly dreadful. What can be done, do you think?

By Jove, this letter dragged on, didn’t it? I suppose I had a bit to talk about after a month or what have you.

I want to thank you, old thing. Thank you for getting me through it. When I try to think how I would have fared if I hadn’t you to rest my weary thoughts upon, well, I say. The imagination boggles. I jolly well do hope that your wish comes true and we can rest together at the end of all our trials and tribulations. From that day forth, old fruit, whither thou goest, I will go.

Love,

Bertie

*

Jeeves,

‘Well provided for?’ Is he leaving you a lot of money, then?

Oh, and I did receive a telegram a day or two ago informing me that he’s been found and he’s all right, just as I suspected. My apologies! I meant to send word to you and it simply slipped my mind. Having an infant dashing about the house really does distract one. I’d forgotten the chaos of it all.

Ethel

Chapter Text

Dear Bertram,

I do not know how to write this. I believe you made a most salient point in your recent letter, alluding as you did to the fact that you and I have never before made it a practice to discuss matters of a deeply intimate or emotional nature. Before the present crisis, I was content to express my feelings for you in a largely non-verbal manner. I have long been accustomed to limiting myself to service, and then, when our relationship progressed, to physical expressions of passion. It always seemed, somehow, that verbal declarations were beyond me, beyond us, that what we had between us was somehow unspeakable. It was my belief that there were things better left unsaid.

However, scio me nihil scire. We are all of us lost in the darkness. We emerge by increments, if we emerge at all.

What sufficed before is no longer possible. I cannot serve you. I cannot hold you. Words are all that are left to us, and I am cognizant of the fact that I have deprived you of my words for egotistical reasons. I am attempting to rectify this. It will not be perfect, but I will do my best. I always strive to do my best for you.

The moment that I learned that you were missing was, by far, the most devastating of my life. I wish that I could say that it was your friend Charlie, or even your sister who told me first (for I have begun something of a correspondence with Mrs. Scholfield in recent weeks), but unfortunately the newspapers reported it before either missive reached me.

No doubt you are aware that there are war reporters in your midst. Are you also aware that footage of you is currently available for viewing before nearly every film in the London? That is not a relevant detail, but I think that it will amuse you to know it. You made it to the silver screen before Mr. Pirbright did.

As I said, I learned the news from the morning paper. Presumably you were already found by the time I read it, but there was no way for me to learn that. There was a photo of you in your uniform on the front page, and I saw it before I was able to organize my mind sufficiently to be able to read the headline. I thought at first that you must certainly be dead. The shock of it obliterated me. I felt as though I had left my corporeal form behind. I don’t know how long I stood in the doorway staring at your image before I was able to force myself to read the words. I do admit that in the moment, it was a comfort to read the word ‘Missing,’ rather than ‘Killed.’

Not an immense comfort, you understand, since missing often does mean killed, but I chose in the moment to cling to the possibility that you were only temporarily lost and not permanently so.

As I am now largely nocturnal, it was incumbent upon me to rest as thoroughly as possible in order to be prepared to perform my duties that evening with the resumption of the bombing. I placed the paper on the end table, changed into my sleeping clothes, secured the blackout curtains, and laid myself in my bed.

I would like you to understand that thus far I have successfully resisted the urge to sleep in your bed. Though the thought has come to my mind often as being an action that could bring me some comfort, it seemed immature and undignified, something a frightened child would do. After an hour lying starkly awake with my mind racing that morning, however, I decided that dignity could go and hang itself.

In your bed, where I have not lain since your leave last summer, the familiar scent and gentle warmth of your blankets lulled me into a fitful sleep.

I am sorry. More than that. I am so deeply apologetic, I do not know how to continue. The fact is, Bertram, that I have wronged you. I realize that. I have permitted guilt and an overinflated sense of my own importance and ability to cause you greater suffering at a time when you are already suffering. When you told me that Private Hodges had perished, I was sincerely bereft on your behalf, and yet I failed to express either my own distress or my deep condolences for your loss of him. For all of your losses. I do not know how to support you this way. Words are thin, it seems.

Were you here I would take you in my arms. I would press you to me and kiss your darling face and stroke your hair. I would make you tea and eggs and draw you a bath. I would pour you a whiskey and soda. I would take you to the races, or to a show, or to America. I would do a thousand things that would bring you comfort, and I would say nothing at all.

Forgive me. I am not made for letters. I am not made for distance. I am made to be at your side. I am failing you.

I am sorry that Hoggie died. I am so very sorry that all of those young men died. I am sorry that you live a life of grief and strife. I am sorry that I am helpless to shelter you as I once did.

I am sorry that I wrote you that letter, the one that you left at your Aunt’s house. I am sorry that I love you, and that I could not love you selflessly enough to keep you unencumbered by the dangers that are inherent in a love like ours.

I am sorry that you were forced to endure that treatment in Cairo. I have been concerned for weeks over your condition, wondering if you have improved at all, if your headache dissipated. I was most concerned by the thought that you might be obligated to go into battle without your full faculties.

I am sorry also that you have been so alone. It was my suggestion that you tell Charles about me. I suggested it entirely for my own benefit, but it was you who suffered. If his letter to me is accurate, I can at least have hope that the rift in the lute has been mended, provided you are generous enough to forgive him.

To forgive me.

I know you do not always find it easy to forget when you have been wronged, nor should you. I can accept that you may not feel as you once did for me. As you did that night in the garden, which, like you, is a night that I remember with perfect clarity.

I remember that the moon was very nearly full, and that the fountain was playing about nearby, creating its own unique music. I remember the summer air, heavy with the final lingering vestiges of the day’s heat, and the thrum of the night insects. I remember the flowers, pale and silver in the moonlight, stirring gently all about us, their faint perfume adorning the air.

I remember you, smoking your cigarette with such trepidation. I remember how my own hand shook as I lit you another. I remember how you glanced at me, looked away, glanced back again.

You took my arm and we strolled. You quoted Verlaine. I wanted to kiss you then, and I think you knew it. The glint in your eye as you looked me up and down– I wanted to kiss you but I could not. I could not function at all; I was stuck like a butterfly in a collection, transfixed into dumb stillness by you. How could I move? I wanted only one thing in all the great world, and I knew could not have it, not really – I knew it then, but now, ah, scio me nihil scire. Scio, scio, scio.

I remember how your eyes flickered up once, then down, then how you tossed your cigarette to the flagstones and came to me, that last trail of smoke streaming from your nostrils. I remember thinking you were the Saint and the Dragon, all in one, and then you were there, flush against me, your arms enfolding me, your lips on mine. I remember how I stood thunderstruck and motionless for a second, thinking perhaps I’d had an apoplectic fit, and then some primal beast took me over completely and I was entwined in you, pulling you closer, a lifetime’s practice in control cast off in an instant. I was devouring you like a man who had been starving all his life.

I had been starving, my love. I was so accustomed to that hunger I did not know it was possible to be sated.

I remember that night in the garden, my Lord, my Lord, as I remember each and every day that followed, each somehow more precious than the last. I remember that night, and I cannot believe that we have failed so entirely to ever speak of it, that we have somehow failed to speak of anything, it seems.

I require you to know that my life is but a pale imitation of existence without you. You ask how I enjoyed my Christmas? I can say that it was pleasant. I had some colleagues and their wives for dinner and drinks. They admired the flat. One knew how to play the piano and he treated us to some carols; I resented his fingers upon your keys. When they had gone the flat was empty, but it had been nearly as empty with them there. There is a tattered hole in the tapestry of the universe, Bertram, when you are not beside me. If you die it will never be mended, and that is that.

When you were missing I felt the hole tearing larger, large enough to engulf all of creation. I fulfilled my obligations and I ate and slept enough to maintain my health, but all the time my mind was locked into a kind of rigid prison of unutterable horror. I did not feel free to grieve, because you were not dead, and yet I could not find relief, because you were not alive. You existed, for me, in a space outside of those two extremes, some nebulous middle place that afforded me no stability, no opportunity for progress. I dared not hope, but I was determined not to despair, and in times like these there is precious little else.

I realize that I have not specifically confessed this to you. I believe I thought it best to leave you unburdened, considering all you are already suffering, but now I think that my reticence is a burden all its own, so here we are.

I am terrified.

I am determined to be strong, to carry on however I must, but the prospect of life without you is unfathomably bleak. You say that you were never happy until you fell in love with me, well– the sentiment is returned, shared, amplified. I did not know the meaning of joy before you.

When I saw that newsreel that contained footage of you inspecting your men, it terrified me all the more, because your bearing was entirely unfamiliar to me. You moved like a military officer, not like the Bertram Wooster I long have loved.

I am terrified. I am terrified that you will die. I am terrified that you survive, but that you will be so changed by your experiences that you will no longer be the man I loved. Most shameful of all, I am terrified that in our protracted absence from one another, your affections will become engaged elsewhere.

When I received word that you were missing, however, I found that all my various compunctions vanished. I no longer cared if you were changed, or if you were intrigued by the charms of some other person. I cared only for you, for your life, your precious life, and each night before I left the flat, I prayed upon my knees, as fervently as I prayed in childhood, begging through tears that you would be saved.

And you were. And for that I am grateful. I must be grateful, for even if we never meet again, even if cruel fate snatches one or both of us away before we are reunited, at least there is yet time to say what I should have said before.

I am sorry that I did not address your previous concern that your admission of suffering was somehow unattractive. I am sorry that you felt the need to ask if I would prefer that you died rather than dress inappropriately. I am sorry that I spared myself discomfort in discussing your colleagues from the Antipodes, and thus lead to you believe that my disgust was intense enough that I would value your appearance over your survival. My silence on these topics was due far more to my own prejudices than to any fault of yours. Yes, the knowledge that there are men in this world who go about shirtless is disturbing to me. It is even more disturbing that these men are in your immediate vicinity, and that I am not. I can be hidebound and jealous. I know this. You know this.

That being said, I have never needed to survive without real shelter in a desert for months on end. It stands to reason that what is right and proper in a certain climate would be inappropriate in another. It is not something I considered previously.

If concerns for my judgement are in any way hampering your ability to care for yourself, then I implore you to read my following statement with full credulity: I will steadfastly approve of any and all methods that you employ in order to keep yourself alive. Even shirtlessness, if necessary.

I am sorry for your mother, for your father, for your uncle, and your aunt, and your sister. I am sorry for every person you have lost, and for every person who has been blessed by entering your life without appreciating the gift that you are.

I am so deeply sorry for the loss of your men, for Hoggie especially, whom you loved. If we ever again inhabit the same physical space, I will hold you and bid you weep upon my shoulder for however long the tears will come. There will be no censure from me for tears. Your love for your men could never bring shame upon yourself or your family. Nor could your love for your mother. It is far more shameful to live a life so devoid of love and care for others that you do not weep at their loss.

Furthermore, I wish to express my deep admiration for your quick wit and strength, that you were able to persist under such circumstances, and that you were able to save the life of Private Walter. I did not know that it was possible to be more proud of you than I already was, but, as always, you defy all expectations.

Do whatever is necessary to come home to me, my beloved husband, and when you are home, I will keep you, I will serve you, I will learn who you have become, and I will learn better how to be the person you will require.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Aunt Dahlia,

I hear my embarrassing episode in the Libyan desert was reported in the local rag, what what? Terribly sorry to have put you to any trouble or concern, Aged A. I’m perfectly spiffing and was never in any real danger. Just got stuck a bit, for a bit, don’t you know.

How are you? How is Aunt Maudie? How are all the charges in your care? Did you have a good Christmas? And what of Angela and Tuppy? I haven’t heard a thing about them in ages!

I am going to update my paperwork post-haste, as soon as I am back in England. Can’t be done here, apparently. Telegrams should go to Reggie, I think, and he can ring you if there’s anything you need to know. Apparently it’s all right to do that; Archie has his emergency telegrams sent to a woman who pretends to be his fiancée when necessary. An old chum from his neighborhood, apparently. He doesn’t speak to his family at all, poor thing.

I suppose, now that I think of it, that it was dashed silly of me to put Ethel down when they asked for N. of K., but I don’t think I had my head on straight at the time, it being my first day on an army base and all. They said ‘next of kin,’ and I said, ‘Oh, yes, well that would be my sister, what?’

Anyway, I will fix it all up when I am home again. I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up, but there’s a chance my turn at the front won’t last too much longer.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Ginnie,

I know you told me not to write to you again, but I feel I owe you an apology.

When Bertie went missing, I wasn’t thinking straight. I ordered the telegram be sent out in a bit of a fugue state, and never thought to check who the recipient might be. The fact is that I believed that he would have his telegrams sent to you. It wasn’t until he was well enough to speak coherently that I learned they are sent to his sister, which surprised me, in no small part because I hadn’t any idea he even had a sister.

Had I realized, I would have written you personally. I ought never to have allowed him to go on patrol; I will not allow it in future. It is the purview of Lieutenants and non-coms to do such things, and he knows it. He lets his compassion get the better of him sometimes. I let my affection for him get the better of me.

Knowing Bertie as I do, I am certain he made light of his ordeal when he wrote to you. The fact is that we very nearly lost him. Dysentery is no laughing matter under ideal conditions, but when a man is already severely dehydrated it is extremely dangerous. Major Benton, the top doctor in our field hospital, had very grave concerns on the second day after he was recovered, and suggested that I begin to draft a letter of condolence to his family so that it could be sent promptly. I delayed, due to my own emotional state, and fortunately he took a turn for the better on the third day.

Bertie insisted on writing to you at once. He could barely hold the pen. Even now, nearly four days later, he is unable to stand without assistance. He’s quite cheerful, of course. Lieutenant Kelly, one of the Australian officers, left Bertie his harmonica when he was moved out toward Tobruk last week, and Bertie has become most proficient. He only knows Australian songs so far, but he assures me that he will learn something recognizable presently.

I will not contact you again unless it is strictly necessary. I simply wanted to apologize for failing to inform you as you deserved.

Sincerely,

Archie

*

Dear Ginnie,

Oh, right-ho! Bertram is gracing the silver screen, you say? All right then! Tell me: did you enjoy the performance, old thing? You said it seemed unlike me, so it sounds as though I pulled the thing off!

This film crew came and dragged this camera out and balanced it atop these long legs, which took some doing in the sand, I can tell you, and then they lined us all up as though we were back in England doing maneuvres, and not languishing in a blasted desert losing our innards to dysentery, and told me to inspect the troops ‘as usual.’ Now, I never go about inspecting any damned troops these days; who cares if their buttons are polished when we’re all living in holes in the ground and a great lot of planes might swoop in and shoot us to pieces at any moment? But they said it was for the morale of the people back home, so we gave it the old college try, what what?

I tried to put on a bit of a Captainish swagger, and it made all the lads start laughing so hard we had to break for tea and try again later. We did much better on the second round and I understand we managed about a solid minute of footage before young Billy Ascot lost it and guffawed in old Lord Yaxley’s face, which set the whole lot of them off for a good twenty minutes.

They didn’t think to tell us that the film is actually running! I shall have to inform the men. They’d love for their wives and girlfriends and so forth to have a look.

Oh, and you say you learned of my absence in the paper? Good Lord, my dear, why on Earth should the newspapers report on it? Fellows go missing in action all the time. The papers must have nothing but MIA headlines running through every issue! Now a name jotted in the regular casualty list is one thing, but a headline and a photograph? That is shocking. I mean to say, I’m shocked.

You know, old thing, the thought occurs that you might have got the thing the wrong way round. I think, perhaps, that it isn’t that words are too thin, but that they are too weighty, too ponderous, if ponderous is the word I want, and that there is a part of me that is concerned at all times that I might come out and say the wrong thing, or the right thing but in the wrong way, and that it might be better to say nothing at all than to utter an absolute bloomer that might spoil everything.

In fact, I think that is why I treasure that one letter so very much; the one that I keep in my breast pocket, the one that I left at Aunt Agatha’s and thus was the cause of all this. Never apologize for that letter; I have had to speak to you about this before. The fault was not yours for writing it, but mine for forgetting it in the worst possible place like the complete ass that I am. I am reaping precisely what I have sown. Sewn? Sown. Or is it sewn? No. Sown.

Sown.

It doesn’t even look like a word anymore, what?

Sown.

Where was I? Oh, right, the letter!

I treasure that letter because it was just about the only time before the war that you wrote to me with passionate words. I could tell by the slovenly script – I mean, slovenly by your standards, old thing! – that you were tight as an owl when you wrote it, and to me that made it all the more precious. In vino veritas, as they say, and it touched me deeply to know that your veritas was so ripe. Your replica is very nice, but it doesn’t have that scrawled, drunken charm of the original. Ah well. All is grass, what?

I also have found that it is easier, in some ways, to write what I mean than it is to say it to someone’s face. Something about meeting a person’s eyes while I speak a deep truth makes my face go hot and my throat close up. There have been times that I have wanted to tell you things, but I went the coward’s route and wrote them instead. I say, perhaps someday I can show you some of the things I have written! The thought terrifies one to the quick, as it were, but then I’ve got a rather lot of experience dealing with things that terrify me these days, so I might just be able to pull the thing off. Provided I don’t have to watch you read it.

Do you realize that before this whole war wheeze started, I never even dared to end a letter to you with the word ‘love?’ It was always ‘sincerely,’ this, and ‘regards,’ that. Never until the worst had happened, and I knew we might never meet again did I have the courage to end a letter with, ‘love, Bertie.’ And then to receive your reply with ‘love,’ etc. written back, well. That was a feeling I didn’t know how to express. I believe I told you that I wept manly tears, what what? So I did. Not full-tilt, robust grief as I did for my mother, you understand, but tears all the same.

In some ways, I am almost grateful for all of this. I know it’s a dreadful thing to say, because of how many people have died and all that, don’t you know, but if this war hadn’t sprung up, we might well have gone on that way forever, never saying ‘love,’ only writing one good, meaty letter a decade, and even that only when we’re sailing nine sheets to the wind, with every one of them assembled akimbo. Just holding ourselves back like two great blowing steeds in harness. It’s properly British and all that rot, but by Jove, it is a bit bleak, isn’t it?

I am still thinking of my mother, you know. I am thinking about how she and Father never parted without saying ‘I love you.’ That was at my mother’s insistence. All of the Woosters made a good bit of fun of her about it, but she always said that it shouldn’t go unsaid. She was never a person to hold herself back, you know. She dove into life headfirst. She loved wildly and I loved her wildly back.

Do you know, I think that might be the trouble, really; that I loved her so and lost her, and the cut of her loss was so keen I thought it might not be worth the trouble to love so deeply again. And then I had all the Woosters about me, whispering in my ear how a gentleman ought to behave, and then you, of course, always so composed and unruffled. Not that I’m blaming you, old fruit! We’re cast in the same mould, is all that I mean.

I think I have believed from the moment she vanished that the Beloved Object, should I ever acquire one, was certain to grow weary of me and leave eventually. That it wouldn’t be prudent to give myself over too entirely to love. But then, of course, there’s a great bit of difference between willful abandonment and death, isn’t there? As a man, I can understand that my mother would not have left me of her own volition. I think a child’s grasp of death is paltry at best; it is too vast a concept for so small a brain.

Hell, it’s too vast a concept for my grown brain, if I am entirely honest. How often do we men here have to remind ourselves and one another that so-and-so is dead? How often do a hear one of my Australian pals tell a repulsive joke, and find myself saying, ‘Oh, you must tell old Hoggie that one!’

We all do it. We all forget, and then remember, and the remembering is like losing them anew.

But despite it all, I am grateful. I am grateful that our stodgy status quo was shaken to such a degree that I can write you this way even while stone cold sober. That I can finally tell you that I love you, in those precise words. Because I do love you, old top.  And just as I do finally understand that my mother did not leave me, I realize that you won’t, either. I am sorry that I have only had the courage to love you halfway. When I am home, I will show you the love that you deserve.

Oh, and yes, the headache cleared up ages ago, old thing. How good of you to remember. I asked a few of the lads who went through the ordeal with me and they all agreed that it was a bit rum, all in all. Though it was awfully nice to spend a few nights indoors, and that bath was the stuff of legends. If anything helped at all, it was that bath. Good Lord. And being away from the front for a bit. Getting to go off high-alert, as it were.

I do still have nightmares, though perhaps not quite so frequently. Sometimes I wake up very suddenly from the dreamless and my heart is racing. Sometimes I see their faces, all of them, all those poor boys.

I was dashed blessed, wasn’t I, to have spent a youth in careless frivolity. I have no desire to shuffle off this mortal coil, I assure you, but I do realize that I’ve had a better run than most. What rotten luck it is to be twenty years old when a great blasted war breaks out. What rotten luck so many people have!

I am glad you had friends at Christmas. You could tell me something about them, if you like. And for the record, I approve of people coming in and playing the piano. A piano needs to be played, and songs need to be sung. Have them by again and enjoy it this time, dash it!

And what of the Wooster sister, eh? Is she as rotten as I remember? Dashed sorry to have gotten you mixed up with her, my love. I wrote to her in what one might accurately term a moment of weakness. We were chums a bit, long ago, and my imminent demise made me nos-something. What’s the word I mean? The thingummy that means you miss the old days, and all that. I think I really miss my parents more than I miss Ethel. Perhaps I miss who she used to be, before Aunt Agatha took her under her withered, batlike wing. She was jolly good fun, once upon a time. A bit like Bobbie Wickham, actually.

I say, where is young Bobbie these days? You should know, what?

Oh, and I don’t mean that my demise is actually imminent, precisely. You know what I mean. Only it does rather hang over one, does it not? Perhaps all of those bombs that are dropping all about you every evening have made you yearn for what was? Those quiet evenings, perchance, when you would read your Spinoza and I would read my spine-tinglers and sometimes I’d put my head on your lap? But then my book would get in the way of your book and I’d shuffle about trying to make the damned arrangement work, and you’d say something silly like, ‘I can cease my reading, sir, if it is troublesome to you,’ and I’d say, ‘No, no, I’ll just sit up,’ and you’d say, ‘Perhaps you would prefer to have the Chesterfield to yourself, sir,’ and I’d say, ‘Oh, no, it’s all right, carry on.’ And what I wanted to say was that my only desire was to be wrapped up all about you and I didn’t give a damn about my book, really, but that the whole reading gag was a ruse to get you to sit beside me for once.

It won’t be like that anymore, will it, old thing? When I am home again? We’ll just say what we mean, won’t we? I will come home of an evening to find you reading, like I used to, only this time I won’t say, ‘Oh yes, it’s a fine night for a book, what?’ Instead I’ll say, ‘I’m going to lay the old Wooster corpus down and put my head on your lap, if that’s all right. You go on reading, my love. I just want to be near you.’

I’ve a bit of good news, by the by. No details permitted, of course, but we’re going to be on the move again in a bit, and if all goes according to plan then we have reason to think that we’ll be fairly secure here. There has been a rumor that once we secure Libya, we’ll be replaced and recalled to Blighty. How’s that, what what? I could take a weekend leave in London now and then! It all sounds too good to be true, but then, so are you. Miracles happen, old thing.

I will write again as soon as I can to update you.

Love,

Bertie

P.S. I say, do stop right now with all this self-doubt, what what. When have I ever wavered? When have I strayed? You sent me eighteen miles on a bicycle in the rain, and still I was constant in my devotion. Good Lord! I have never known a more jealous person who had less cause to be jealous! Strike from your mind o. and f. a. the craven thought that I will ever cease to be entirely yours, you silly ass.

Chapter Text

Dear Bertie,

What the Hell do you mean you ‘just got stuck a bit, for a bit’? Didn’t it occur to you for one second that the newspapers might report every blasted detail? In bleak times like these everyone’s scrambling about for a hero, or at least a good story for the wet afternoons. Or the bombed-out evenings. Now we’ve got an Earl who risked his life for a poor boy from Woking, so it’s the top story in every paper – at least for the moment.

You can’t lie to me anymore, you useless dolt. The entire country is keeping tabs on you.

Also, what the dickens do you mean about your pal Archie and some fake fiancée? I thought all of you and your lot left those childish plots and schemes behind in your thirties – oh, no, I see. He’s one of your sort, isn’t he?

Good God, yes. Now I remember. Reggie told me about that one.

I’m surprised Archie is still alive and hasn’t been met with some mysterious accident. Reggie must be losing his touch in his old age; it seems easy enough to arrange a mysterious death in the middle of a war.

I’m glad all the same that you aren’t a stain on the desert sand, young blot, and even more pleased to hear that you might soon be on the choppy seas sailing homeward. I don’t want to swell your head, but I’ve grown rather fond of you over the years. I’d much prefer that you should attend my funeral than vice versa, if it’s all the same to you. I’ve had enough of the things, personally speaking.

Christmas was fine! Reggie came by a few days beforehand and gave us all a jolly lot of chocolate and champagne. Apparently you lavish him with such enormous quantities of the stuff that no mere mortal could possibly hope to consume them in the brief time God has granted us upon this Earth.

Some chaps have all the luck. My old Tom was a good egg, as you know, but he kept his purse strings tied with a sailor’s knot. I should have known you’d be the ‘sugar daddy’ type, if I’m using the term correctly. Though, unless I’m mistaken, doesn’t the word ‘daddy’ imply that the object of your affection is rather younger than yourself? Can’t even get that bit right, eh?

All are well, all are fine, all are functioning as well as possible in catastrophic times such as these. Angela and Tuppy are Angela and Tuppy. You know how that is. Consider yourself fortunate that you get a break from it all.

Keep out of trouble, nephew mine.

Love,

Aunt Dahlia

*

Dear Bertram,

The newspapers report when you are missing, not when every soldier in the entire war goes missing. You are an Earl, my dear. There are not many Lords fighting on the frontlines. You are inherently notable.

The word is indeed, ‘sown,’ as one ‘sows’ seeds, while one ‘sews’ with thread. You are reaping the produce from the seeds that you have sown. The two words, while nearly homophones in our current dialect, are in fact quite divergent in their etymological roots.

I admit to a certain amount of chagrin at hearing your description of filming the reel. Were I sleeping well, and were I not subjected to constant bomb raids, and were I not so deeply concerned for your well-fare, I likely would have intuited that your performance was simply that – a performance. I will indeed do what I can to strike the craven thought from my mind, as you so aptly put it. I see now that my self-doubt is providing unnecessary distress to us both. Forgive me.

I am cautiously optimistic concerning your fortuitous news. However, it is my understanding that you are not entirely recovered from your ordeal. Will you be included in this next maneuvre? Or will you remain in hospital longer?

I will endeavor to speak plainly and with honesty when we are again reunited. You know well that it is not what I am accustomed to. A lifetime of service has given me many skills, and one which I have always valued most highly is tact. Diplomacy. I do, however, begin to comprehend with greater clarity that tact is not always the most valuable skill for marriage. In fact, I think I am only now coming to understand that marriage is not the same beast as service whatsoever.

For all of our years together, it has always seemed to me that the matter was fairly simple. I served you. I loved you. I expressed love through exemplary service of every kind. But there is no intimacy in service, and I do desire intimacy.

I would not precisely use the word ‘rotten’ to describe your sister, my dear, but she is most certainly an acquired taste. I do believe there is some potential, however, which might be worth cultivating. She has severed relations with your Aunt Agatha, for one thing, which can only be positive. She has made attempts at generosity toward me, and though they were misguided, they were not without merit, especially considering she does not know of our understanding.

She also is currently helping her eldest daughter Margaret raise her young child, a girl called Lilian. Margaret’s husband was a chauffeur who died at Dunkirk. The experience of having her daughter marry and produce a child with a man of a distinctly lower class seems to have shaken her out of her serene tower, ever so slightly.

She has asked for your address in order to write you directly. Would you be amenable to that? I have also been considering the possibility of sending some small sum of money for the child’s future, if that is acceptable to you.

I am afraid I must end this letter now. I know that time is scarce for you, if you are indeed to be involved in this final push to take Libya, so I dare not keep this letter an extra day in order to lengthen it.

My shift begins in thirty minutes, and already I hear the sirens. When you are safely back in England, as I hope and pray that you will be soon, perhaps you will have the opportunity to meet some of my colleagues. It will have to be as my employer, of course. They all understand that I am widowed, which I why I wear a wedding ring.

Before I go, I did want to mention that I have been putting some thought into the Australian doctor’s conundrum; the one that you presented to me some months ago. It occurs to me that we have a fairly robust blueprint, if you will, for the sort of person that Major Evans could develop tender feelings for. Would it be at all possible for your medical friend from the Antipodes to emulate or even cultivate some of the characteristics that are known to attract the object of his affection? Perhaps you could play Cyrano to the doctor’s Christian? It would be a most deliciously fitting role for you, my Lord.

All the luck in the world to you, my darling. Take Libya for England and then come home to me. I await you always. I cry your mercy, one-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love. Oh, let me have thee whole; all, all be mine.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Ginnie,

I say! I mean to say, I say! Cyrano? Is that a snide crack at my appearance, old thing? I say, I do know we Woosters are more than usually gifted, nasally-speaking, but surely I’m no Cyrano?

All jests aside, I follow your thinking, Holmes, and I like it. We do, in fact, have a rough idea of the sort of person that gets the local Archies up and running, don’t we? And Doctor J. and I have gotten awfully chummy of late, what with my nearly dying in his charge and all that.

He’s in a terrible way, old thing, honestly. He’s as bad as Madeline Bassett ever was. Do you know, when I was lying helpless in the damned cot, shivering cold in the desert heat, Archie came to see me and J. was mooning about upstage left like a Greek Chorus in one of Sophocles’s meatiest tragedies. Archie’s completely oblivious, of course, but then he would be. He’s oblivious to just about everything but military strategy and Bertram Wooster, don’t you know. I wouldn’t mind a bit if we could shift his attention elsewhere. I’ll address the matter with J. when I go before him for inspection on the morrow.

Speaking of which, it is that very inspection which will determine whether I am, in fact, intended to be included in the push. I must admit it is not looking good for old Bertram. Or rather, it is looking very good, in that I am recovering nicely at last, and I am now fully capable of perambulating without assistance. That seems to be the only necessary requirement for battle-readiness in this man’s army, so it is expected that I will be given the all-clear. If that is so, then I shall be off the following day, I fear. We intend to put this whole bally business behind us forthwith. If forthwith is the word I want.

Do keep safe, old thing. Dodge those bombs as best you can. We must both of us come through this intact so that we can read together on the Chesterfield without pretending that we are merely reading. That is a thought that gets me out of my sand hole every morning.

Oh, and certainly, after the push, I’ll tell you where you can reach me, and you can tell Ethel. I’ll give it a try, anyway, for Mother’s sake. And yes, do send the little tot something. It’s rum luck to lose a father so young. Rum luck.

I shan’t write again until the thing is done, my love. I shall attempt the old Cyrano wheeze betwixt battles, as it suits me – assuming J. is amenable, what what? And as for yourself, watch the papers. I suppose that’s one advantage to loving an Earl, don’t you know, and all that. You’ll know I’ve kicked it before I do!

Oh, and I see your Keats and raise you another, old thing: When through the old oak forest I am gone, let me not wander in a barren dream, but when I am consumed in the fire, give me new Phoenix wings to fly at my desire!

My desire being you yourself, old top, of course. If that wasn’t clear, I mean, don’t you know.

Oh, I say. There’s one more little thing. Can’t believe I almost forgot! Since you went out of your way to mention that it’s Verlaine that gets the hearts of all true Ginnies to rise up as though they’ve seen a rainbow in the wild blue yonder, I’ll leave you with this: Toi le souvenir, moi l’absence. Du moins, dis, je vis dans ton coeur?

Did I get that right? My public school French was a bit improved by my time loitering about at the border last year, but it’s rusty still, and I spent about three nights trying to remember the blasted thing. I wasn’t sleeping much anyway; too many ghastly visions greet me behind the old eyelids. You know how it is! I hoped to remember more, but that’s all I’ve got, I’m afraid. Well, no doubt you got the idea, and all that, don’t you know.

Love,

Bertie

P.S. Not that I intend to kick it, mind you. I mean, what I wrote up there about the papers, and all that. That was meant to be a joke, what?

*

Dear Aunt Dahlia,

Damn and blast it, old R! I’ve put my foot in it, completely. I really shouldn’t have said what I said about Archie. Sometimes I forget who knows what about whom. Do me a favor and erase Archie from your mind, would you?

And I am shocked to hear that Reggie told you about him. I mean to say, shocked. The fellow has opened up to you about personal matters, has he? Well, then he isn’t the Reggie I knew before the war, what what? And he has the gall to go about thinking I’ve changed, when he’s writing of intimate p. m.’s to aunts that aren’t even his!

Not that I mind. In fact, I’m delighted to hear it. But still! I mean to say, what? Some nerve, I must say.

I am rather pipped, however, to hear you use such vulgar terms to describe the arrangement I have with, well, our mutual friend. I would go so far as to say that I am, in fact, quite pipped. I mean to say, is it not proper for a husband of sufficient means to bestow gifts upon the O. of his A.? Would you use such coarse terms to describe yourself and old Uncle Tom? Don’t forget, as tight-fisted as he most certainly was, you were nearly always able to wrest a few doubloons from the chest to fund your rag, and he gave you that dashed pearl necklace that cost us all such trial and tribulation once upon a time, what?

I am wounded, Aunt D.

Well, not wounded, per se. But pipped. Most certainly pipped.

I am deeply gratified to hear that my gifts – lavished upon my better half out of the kindness of my heart and out of deep affection and sincere gratitude for all the support and strength that said B. H. has given me over the years – were able to bolster the Yuletide celebrations at the old Travers homestead. One would think the recipient of such a generous gift in such lean times would show more appreciation and fewer opinions.

I see what you mean about Tuppy and Angela. Perhaps it’s just as well that they’re both too self-centered to write old Bertram a single letter while he toils away defending their lives at the front, what? It is a pleasant break, after all. With a little luck this war could last three or four more years and then I shall be quite well-rested.

I’ll write again when I can, old, thicker-than-water. Not certain when that will be, but then you’ll probably read of my triumphant arrival on Britain’s shores before I set foot off the boat, so that’s all right.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Mrs. Scholfield,

As I trust you are aware, a gentleman’s finances are a private matter. Suffice it to say that Lord Yaxley is quite capable of making his own financial decisions, over which I have no influence. Not that I was inferring that you meant anything untoward in your question. No doubt it was an entirely innocent inquiry inspired by pure curiosity. Suffice it to say that men of a true noble nature, such as Lord Yaxley, will always ensure that their most faithful servants are not forgotten. This is customary, honorable, and perfectly correct.

If you are still interested in acquiring Lord Yaxley’s current mailing address, I have it on good authority that the address I have enclosed here will be usable in short order. Keep your eye on the papers, and if there is a report that Tobruk has been successfully taken by our troops, then you will able to reach him there directly. Assuming, of course, that his Lordship survives the current campaign.

As you can see, I have also enclosed a cheque for the sum of £100 from Lord Yaxley’s personal account, with the intention that it be used to establish an education fund for your granddaughter. Should you require any other pecuniary assistance for more immediate needs, please inform me.

Thank you again for your kind consideration in offering me a letter of reference. The sentiment, however unnecessary, is appreciated.

Sincerely,

Jeeves

*

Dear Lieutenant Charles Vernon,

Thank you for writing to inform me of Lord Yaxley’s disappearance. Obviously, that particular episode eventually reached a satisfactory conclusion, but if his Lordship himself has castigated you for acting rashly and writing to me too swiftly, please do not take it to heart. His impulse is to protect me from unpleasantness when possible, even though he is intellectually aware that I prefer complete information at all times. I was most grateful for your thoughtful composition, and I am sincerely pleased to hear that you are once again on friendly terms with him.

I have it from his own account that he values your friendship highly, and that he respects you as an officer and a man. It pained me to hear that there was some strife between you, but I am experienced enough in this world to understand the source of it, and to be particularly appreciative of your own sensibilities that you were able to overcome your personal reservations in this matter.

You are correct that it is most difficult to surmount those prejudices with which we were raised. It may surprise you to learn that I myself struggled in the past with those exact prejudices, despite my own personal circumstances that may cause that to appear unlikely. Even now I am occasionally prone toward a certain amount of self-condemnation, for which I have generally relied upon Lord Yaxley to relieve. In his absence I have struggled with guilt, but I am attempting to learn to support myself, and to rely on a few trusted family members who are aware of the difficulties that I face.

Again, thank you for writing me. There are many men in this world who would not have done so. Thank you also for keeping my last letter to him safe in your possession until he was able to read it. It speaks to Lord Yaxley’s good judgement, I think, that he ultimately chose to trust you.

Please do write again, at any time. I would be delighted to answer any specific questions you have concerning Lord Yaxley’s stories, and once you are again on British soil I would gladly welcome you into my home.

Sincerely,

R. J.

*

Dear Reginald,

Are you all right? I saw the headline that Bertie was found – I hadn’t known he was missing!

I know I’ve been distracted of late, but you can still write when you need me. Don’t recede from me. I might have fallen in love, and I think I have, but I am still your sister and I still want to be there for you. I still need you to be there for me.

It is no simple thing for a longtime widow to suddenly find herself besotted.

My daughter cannot help me navigate these rough waters. She so desperately wants to see her mother happy, all she can say to me is that I shouldn’t fret and I should enjoy my time with Roger. Do you remember how it felt to see our mother sad? How it was like a shadow over the sun? How we would have moved mountains to make her smile? Mabel means well, but she is too biased; her judgement is compromised by her childish need to repair all of my wounds. She is not old enough yet to understand that the wounds we acquire are their own kind of comfort, if they are wounds from love. She cannot yet comprehend how a widow might almost prefer to mourn he whom she lost over forming a new bond.

I think, perhaps, you can.

So do write. You are not a burden to me, anymore than I am a burden to you. Help me through this, and I will help you.

I weep for Arthur every evening as I try to drift to sleep. I had not truly wept for him in years, but my feelings for Roger have cut me open, somehow. Roger is a remarkable man, but the more I feel for him, the more the dark recesses of my mind yearn for what is gone. I wonder now if it is possible for so seasoned a woman as myself to know that burnished joy as I once did, unmarred by sorrow.

I am sorry that you felt you could not lean on me in your time of need. Let us lean on one another, dear brother. I think it would make our mother happy, if nothing else.

Love,

Rebecca

*

Dear Rebecca,

Please accept my apologies. You are correct in your assessment that I ceased writing to you because I did not want to burden you. I, like Mabel, wanted to keep your happiness untarnished, but I understand now that that is not the reality of the situation.

If you loved your husband with half the passion I feel for mine, then I can readily understand your predicament. The thought of losing Bertram is unfathomable. The thought of loving someone else after he is gone is, in all sincerity, repulsive. Physically repulsive. I suppose, in a logical sense, one can see that life goes on, but every fiber of my being rejects the concept with impressive violence.

It it too easy for me to look at your circumstances from a distance and say, ‘Arthur has been gone for many years. It is only natural that you should find someone new.’ I should have considered your feelings more deeply. I of all people should be aware of the complexities that lie below a seemingly calm surface.

I wish that I had advice for you. Unfortunately, nothing comes to mind. All that I can offer for now is my sincerest sympathy. Untarnished joy is hard to come by when one is of mature years, as gorgeous, vapory, silent hues cover the evening sky.

Would it be possible for you to arrange a meeting between Mr. Bishop and myself? I am most interested in meeting him.

Yes, Bertram was missing. He was only actually missing for one day, but he was very ill when they found him, ill enough that there was concern over whether he would survive, and so updates were delayed on that account. Fortunately, he is well on the road to recovery. In fact, it appears that he has recovered sufficiently, by the army’s standards, that he likely can return to duty, just in time – as luck would have it – to lead his men toward Tobruk. Should Tobruk fall to us, there is little doubt that the rest of Libya will follow, and then, rumor has it that those forces that have been at the front in the Desert since September will be replaced and returned to Britain.

We live in hope.

Love,

R.

*

Dear Reginald,

How the Hell do you know his last name is Bishop? Explain immediately.

Rebecca

*

Dear Rebecca,

All land ownership is a matter of public record. You mentioned that he lives on the farm next to Mr. Biffen’s but one, and so it was a simple matter of locating the record book for Gloucestershire, which is not difficult. The farm two properties to the West of Mr. Biffen’s estate is owned by a family called Nash, the ownership of which appears to have transferred ten years ago as the entire estate was sold at that time. I found it unlikely that your paramour was new to the area, based on your description of him. Therefore, I located the records for the farm two properties to the East and found one Mr. Roger Bishop listed as the sole owner.

It was no trouble at all.

Love,

Reginald

*

Dear Reginald,

It would have been even less trouble to ask, but then I suppose there’s no fun in that for you, is there? You should have been a spy.

Let me know when you can visit next and I would be delighted to arrange a meeting. Roger has been powerfully curious about you, and it’s only fair since I have met all four of his brothers and it was rather an ordeal.

Love,

Rebecca

*

Dear Ginnie,

What-ho, what-ho, what-ho! Much have I traveled in the realms of gold, what what? No doubt you yourself have felt like some watcher of the skies, what with all the krieg and blitz about and all that. I do hope you’re all right.

You’ll never guess, old thing, but we’ve clinched it. Absolutely clinched it! I shouldn’t say we, really, because it was the Australians and the 7th Armoured who had the whole thing tied up in a bow for us when we arrived, but it’s done. We jolly coves were just waltzing along in their wake through the desert gathering up abandoned Italian supplies as we went like merrymakers picking flowers in the Spring. It was like old times in France! Actually, it was the exact opposite of old times in France because we were the ones doing the pursuing and the Italians were the ones doing the old skedaddle. It’s a lot more fun being the pursuers than the retreaters, I can tell you.

But anyway, as I said, when we arrived at Tobruk, the whole bally port was already ours, and the Navy were sweeping for mines in the waters to make it safe for supply runs and all that.

I gather it was quite the place to be if you were Italian or Libyan up until a few weeks ago, what with all the well-kept shrubbery and fine houses and such, but now it’s an awful lot of bomb craters and abandoned guns and burning vehicles. Dashed lot of barbed wire, too. And land mines! Land mines abound, much to the consternation of all and sundry. By all accounts the Italians are quite fond of land mines. I can’t say I’m all that batty about them, especially considering there are children living here. We’re all doing our best to find the damned things and dispose of them before some poor civilian gets blown up. Quite a lot of Libyans stayed, you see, though all the Italians set off for greener pastures. I mean, aside from those Italian soldiers we took prisoner, of course. They’re still here, because, well, I suppose they’re not exactly allowed to leave, are they? Poor blighters.

Lovely climate, I must say. The coast here isn’t as scorching as the high desert, though it’s still practically summer by English standards – not bad for January – and the wind from the old Mediterranean gives one a refreshing reprieve from the sun.

I spent the night in a house, old top. In a bed. A bed! The house was owned by some prominent Italian family who slipped out of town when the winds changed, and now we officers have rooms. It’s like we’re back in the Severn Valley.

The beach is nice, and the Australians all think it’s the absolute final word in fun to jump about in the waves in the altogether. Even Doctor John, as respectable a chappie as you will ever meet, stripped off every last stitch and legged it into the briny surf with all the enthusiasm of an overly-excited infant. If I had been twenty years younger I might have been induced to join in, but as it was I merely stood upon the strand and enjoyed the cool sea breeze.

Oddly, I felt as though I were rather in the wrong there, standing fully upright in full uniform. A relic of a lost time, ready to be buried up in sand like Ozy-what-have-you.

After a moment, Archie came up and stood beside me, decked out in full uniform as I was. That gave me pause, because the sight of Doctor John tossing about in the waves without so much as a thread upon him, and then old Archie fully dressed in perfect order made me wonder if we aren’t rather doomed in our efforts to unite these particular sundered hearts, what?

Oh, I say, I haven't mentioned that in this letter yet, have I? I did tell John your idea, the old Cyrano bit, and he rather likes it! I taught him my joke about the priest and the chorus girl, the one Archie says I tell too much, and John pranced right off to ask Archie if he's ever heard it. I haven't thought of anything else to coach the poor fellow on, but it's a start, what?

That’s a different matter, though. I’m sorry. Let me get on with it, because I haven’t even told you the best bit yet!

Where was I? Oh, yes! Standing on the shore with Archie.

‘Penny for your thoughts, old man,’ said he.

‘I was thinking that if I were twenty years younger, I might be tumbling about in the sea,’ I told him. ‘As it is, I am standing about getting buried in sand like Ozy-what’s-it. You know who I mean.’

The silence and the set of his lips told me that he didn’t, in fact, know who I meant, and it made me miss you even more than usual. You would have told me that I meant Ozymandias, and you would have explained that Ozymandias was the Greek name for the Egyptian Pharaoh Ramesses, and that Ramesses was a great conqueror and a mighty king, but that Shelley, in writing this thing, was doing his damnedest to show that even the greatest of us are but thralls to the aging sands of time that will inevitably wear us down to nothing, and so forth, etc. etc. I know this because you have explained this to me on four separate occasions.

Good Lord, I love you.

Anyway, after a moment of silence, he rather shifted about as though he had something to say, and then he finally came out with it.

‘I’ve got a surprise for you, Bertie.’

I don’t mind admitting that I felt just a shade of discomfort at those words, for, as you well know, Archie’s previous surprises for me have sometimes been a touch more, well, surprising than one would like. I felt even greater apprehension when he slipped his hand into the crook of my elbow and dragged me off the beach. I went along, of course; one must be polite.

He took me down three or four streets until we came to a largish building that was set up a bit by itself in a kind of square. He told me it was something akin to a town hall, and that he and John and a few of the other medical staff had examined it earlier in the day with the aim of turning it into the infirmary.

‘Come inside,’ he said, his hand still hooked about the elbow.

I obliged.

We went through a pair of white double doors and entered a small sort of anteroom, which he pulled me through because I was blind as a bat in the sudden darkness and would have stumbled straight into a wall without his guidance. Once through the next set of doors, I had a strange feeling that I was standing in a large room, as wide as the building itself, which surprised me. When at last my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw that I was correct; it was a good-sized hall, with a wide open floor, and a bit  of a platform at the far end that could almost have been a sort of low stage. I followed Archie’s pointing finger and beheld my surprise. I admit, I let out an audible gasp, for upon the stage stood a battered but perfectly serviceable upright piano.

A piano, Ginnie. I haven’t laid fingers on keys since I left you in London, oh, I don’t know how long ago. Too long. I don’t mind telling you that I dashed right up onto that stage and took a seat, and the first thing I played was a rousing round of Forty-Seven Ginger-Headed Sailors. By the time I’d finished, there was a bit of a crowd of chaps in the hall, and they all started bellowing out requests until I felt like a pianist at a nightclub. I must have played for an hour. You’d have thought I was a virtuoso at Carnegie Hall, for the enthusiastic reception my hammering got.

It was jolly fun, I must say.

No word yet on when exactly they’ll bring us home, but I feel it must certainly be soon. We’ve done what they asked, what?

Perhaps I’ll see you soon, old thing!

What news from home?

Love,

Bertie

Chapter Text

Dear Bertram,

I am much gratified to hear that hostilities appear to have abated for the time being, and that you are in a location that affords both shelter and recreation. After so long without both staples, I have no doubt that it is a great relief to you. It is a great relief to me. I am particularly pleased that you have access to a piano, for however long you are in Tobruk. Obviously we are all hopeful that your time there will be brief, and that you will soon be back in England’s green and pleasant land.

I must regretfully inform you, however, that we have suffered a most tragic loss. Last night, there was a direct hit on Berkeley Square. Our own building is not excessively damaged, but the building next door was destroyed completely. I was not at home when the blast occurred; as the rate of bombings in our region of the city has increased of late, I have taken to spending my free nights in the Green Street underground station. That location provides some relief both from the constant noise of the bombardment and from the incessant anxiety one inevitably experiences when aboveground during such times. Lighting is also permitted when one is below ground, so it is easier to read.

As it is, the damage to our flat is not extensive, as I previously stated, but neither is it not without complication. The North-facing window in your bedroom was blown out, leaving glass and minor shrapnel strewn about the room. Your headboard is scarred, and your bedclothes are ruined. The mattress will also need to be replaced. Your wardrobe, I am most grieved to say, was turned onto its side by the force of the blast, and much of the clothing within was torn and soiled.

With the assistance of neighbors, I boarded the window shut, and afterward I spent the majority of the day cleaning the room, removing every speck of glass and shrapnel that I could find. I then turned my attention to our evening dress, which I triaged with keen grief. Fully one dozen of our evening shirts were beyond repair, as well as three of our white waistcoats. One dinner jacket was destroyed, and one pair of trousers. Our shoes were, fortunately, in good order, and the ties appear to have been spared by virtue of the shelter of their drawers.

The rest I was able to clean and iron sufficiently that they will be presentable whenever you next require them. I did not have time to ascertain the state of your casual clothing before night fell and I was obligated to extinguish all but the feeblest of light, by which I am now writing to you. Presently I must report for the evening’s duty. Tomorrow morning I will attempt to sleep for three or four hours, and then I will take a full account of the state of your remaining clothing.

I apologize deeply, my Lord, for allowing this terrible event to occur. Such a loss is incalculable, particularly in this time of rationing. Had I been present in the flat at the time rather than hiding beneath the ground like a rodent, I would have been able to save more of the shirts, as much of the damage to them was a result of being exposed to the  rather grimy sleet that began to fall later in the night and thus blew in through the broken window. Rest assured I will not make this mistake again.

Oh, and there were seventeen casualties in the building that was destroyed, or so I have heard.

I must end this letter now, for I already I can hear the hum of the approaching planes.

I have one minor request before I go. Would it be at all possible for you to refrain from standing upon the beach at times when other soldiers are swimming? Particularly if they persist in swimming sans vêtements. It is not befitting a Lord of the Realm to be privy to such occurrences. I am certain you can appreciate this.

Actually, I have two requests. I would be most grateful if you would not allow Major Evans to hold you by the arm. It shows a lack of dignity and regard for your respective ranks.

Otherwise, please do enjoy yourself as much as you can for as long as you are able, bearing in mind the extreme danger posed by land mines, of course.

Tu vis dans mon coeur, mon amour. Je me souviens du bon vieux temps et je pleure.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Ginnie,

By jove, you say seventeen casualties next door? Who were they? Any friends of ours? Any children? What can be done for their families, old thing?

I say, as sorry as I am to hear of the loss of one dozen fine, upstanding soldiers from your own personal war against the soft-fronted evening shirt, I feel it behooves me to mention that there is a very good chance that I will get by just fine for the rest of this other, less crucial war with only two dozen of the stalwart chaps at my disposal. You may recall, my darling, that I am something like one thousand miles distant, and I have not, it may shock you to learn, attended a single fine dinner since my arrival here. Fret not; whatever invitations I have received, I have found my uniform to be quite appropriate for the company and occasion.

Furthermore, I shall not rest, assured or otherwise, until you promise me that you will indeed continue to spend your free nights below the ground. I know a little something about bombs myself, and I happen to believe that when bombs are falling, underground is the place to be. Call me an extremist, and perhaps you’re right, but I am one of those chaps who thinks it is better to avoid becoming dismembered by an explosion than it is to sacrifice one’s life in an effort to protect a few articles of evening wear. While I appreciate that you find the loss of these beloved shirts and things to be too vast to be conceivable, I want to state for the record that I would throw every last bally dinner jacket and white waistcoat in England on a bonfire before I would sacrifice you.

As for Archie’s arm-wrangling of B. Wooster, I assure you that there will be no more of that. I have issued a firm nolle prosequi on all unnecessary grabbing and dragging. He apologized and explained that he was merely overcome, both by relief for the relative ease of our conquest here, and by the discovery of the piano. It may amuse you to hear that he and John have spent several happy hours together in the building, planning out the hospital, whilst I played lively music for them. They do get on fairly well, so it seems, and John has been putting on a reasonably good show with his Bertram impression, albeit with a decidedly Australian twist that is really most charming. I don’t know how long Archie could hope to resist it. No movement of the needle yet, it seems, but surely it is only a matter of time, what what?

The land mines are most certainly a problem. We’ve lost three Australian lads, and a very fine fellow from India just this week. Not at all a pleasant way to go!

I’ve been doing my best to describe the things to the local children so that they can avoid them as best they can, but of course nobody knows the same language and it’s all a jolly mess. The locals speak Arabic mostly, but they all have a bit of Italian, so it’s rather like the Tower of Babel here with everyone speaking what languages they know and doing their damnedest to translate for one another. I make do with my Latin and my French, both of which are terribly poor, as you know, but share enough similarities with Italian that I can rather make myself understood at times.

My neighbor next door appears to have four or five children herself and I am most disturbed by the thought that they should come to harm, so I took her and the infants out to see a mine we discovered last week, and pointed the thing out to the children and shouted, ‘Bomb! Bombe! Bomba!’ at them. I felt like an absolute ass, but I think the children got the message because it took us three days to dig the thing up safely and no children were seen cavorting in the vicinity during that time.

What a ghastly nightmare this is, old thing.

Even with all the landmines about, I think it is the flies that trouble me most. Great black things that swarm all over. I am not in tip-top shape since my run-in with dysentery, and it exhausts me to no end to be constantly waving the little chaps away.

I truly am most terribly sorry for your loss, old top. I know how you love those shirts, and if they can’t be replaced just yet, then that will most certainly put a damper on your life for the time being. Of course you know that all the funds are at your disposal, and all that, don’t you know.

Oh, and worry not. I have no interest in subjecting myself to the image of unclothed chaps in the surf. Our first day here had a jubilant sort of air that made all of us to a man desire to cast off our earthly burdens and so forth, and it was that spirit which induced me to stand upon the shore. We are far more sober now, as it is becoming increasingly clear that certain promises that were made to us may not, in fact, be kept.

Apparently something new and equally delightful has been brewing, and the upper echelons who decide such things have come to the conclusion that it might not be the better part of valour to remove us from North Africa just yet. There also is some talk that we may be divided, and some of us might be sent elsewhere – though where, precisely, I am afraid I am not at liberty to divulge in a letter, for fear of interception; no doubt you understand. Regardless of whether I remain here, or if I am sent there – which, in all honesty sounds like a terrific mess that I’d rather not involve myself in, if it’s all the same to Churchill – the fact is that none of us are heading to England any time soon. I am sorry that I raised your hopes, old thing. I wouldn’t have done it for the world, except that my own were raised so high.

As soon as I know what is to be done with me, I will tell you. For now, I remain Captain Bertram, Lord Yaxley of Tobruk.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Bertie,

Let me begin by saying that I am sorry I have not written before. You know that I have always been quite fond of you, but you will no doubt agree that though we enjoy one another’s company when we are together, our relationship has not included correspondence. Therefore it did not feel appropriate to write you, though I have thought of you often since you left and have been most concerned for your well-being.

I am writing to you now to inform you of something regarding my brother and his well-being. I apologize again, this time for intruding upon you with such concerns when you are in such dire conditions, but I do not know how honest he is with you, and it is my belief that you deserve to know the truth.

The facts are these:

My brother showed up at our door unannounced yesterday afternoon, which is obviously quite out of character for him. He was bearing four large suitcases. I don’t even know how he dragged them all from the station; it is nearly a mile away. He had a strange look in his eye, one I did not know how to place, and he told me that the suitcases contained ‘precious items’ that required protection. London, he informed me, is no longer safe. I began to ask him exactly when he thought London had been safe, but he ignored me.

He asked Mabel and Charles if he could store the things in their house, which of course they permitted with great warmth. When we asked what had occurred, for we could tell by his demeanor that he had suffered something terrible, he only tightened his lips to an expressionless line and gave his head a single, resolute shake. I offered to help him move the things to the attic but he requested a wardrobe, which surprised me since I had assumed the things were of great value. It so happens that they were, in fact, articles of men’s clothing, dinner things and casual suits. Quite a lot of it. As I said, they filled four large suitcases.

I attempted to help him fold and hang the things, but he refused all aid, saying only he knew the correct way to care for them. I had the feeling that he did not even want me in the room, but as I also had the feeling that he ought not to be left alone, I lingered,  palpably unwelcome. He was blinking far more than usual as he did his work, and each article of clothing was gently held in trembling hands, as though he were a priest handling the fragile, sacred bones of a saint.

When all the clothes had been ensconced within the wardrobe, he attempted to leave the premises. He said he had to return to London, but it was already nightfall, and no trains run at night these days, which ordinarily he would know. I told him this and he said he would ‘borrow a bicycle.’ I reminded him that we are one hundred miles from London, that it would take a young man in the prime of health the entire night to ride a bicycle to London, and that he is in his fifties and not precisely vigorous in his habits. Furthermore, I reminded him that a lamp would violate blackout laws, and so he would be obliged to carry out the entire journey without light of any kind. Still, he appeared determined, so I told him I would have my son-in-law tie him to a radiator if he attempted to leave.

To this, he stated that he could ‘lay Mr. Biffen out upon the floor with little issue,’ which I do not doubt, but when I reminded him that Mabel was quite fond of Mr. Biffen, he seemed to reconsider. I then reminded him that you, too, are rather fond of Mr. Biffen, which seemed to affect him considerably. At that point I took the risk of telling Reginald that you are also quite fond of him, and that you would be most put out if I allowed him to injure himself unnecessarily with hundred-mile nighttime bicycle excursions. That cracked him to pieces – as much as anything ever has – and he sat heavily upon the guest bed and laid his face in his hands.

I can honestly say that I have never seen him in such a state. He did not weep, but he came as near to it as I have ever personally witnessed. Not even at our mother’s funeral have I seen him so distraught. But you recall that day, of course. I suppose having you beside him made the funeral bearable. He has always drawn his strength from you like a great oak does from the sun.

I asked him again what had occurred, but again he merely shook his head. I let the matter rest, knowing well that there is no power on Earth that can force my brother to speak when he has decided not to, and instead brought him a whiskey and soda, which he drank with the desperation of a man who has crawled across a desert. Then Mabel came up and read to him from her copy of The Count of Monte Cristo, which seemed to relax him, and at last he agreed to spend the night.

I expected him to change, but it so happens that not a single stitch of the clothing he’d brought could hope to fit him. He’d nothing for himself, and as you know Charles is not exactly his size. I was baffled entirely to learn that none of the clothing was his. Obviously I was able to hypothesize that the owner of the articles was, in fact, yourself.  Why he should suddenly need to preserve your clothing when you are not even in the country, I could not and still cannot comprehend.

In desperation I called upon a friend of mine who lives nearby, and who is of a similar physical size to Reginald, and asked if he wouldn’t bring some pyjamas by for my brother’s use. Fortunately, my friend was delighted to be of service and made the dark journey without delay. I was not able to convince my brother to wear the things that my friend offered, but Mabel eventually succeeded, and once he was changed and in his bed he fell asleep so swiftly I wondered if he was ill. My brother has never slept quickly, you see, having a tendency to keep himself awake with over-thinking. Perhaps you are aware of that. Nevertheless, he was out in an instant, and as I write this letter, he sleeps still. It is nearly nine o’clock in the morning, and I have never known him to sleep past six. Perhaps his custom has changed in recent years? You would know that better than I.

After much debate, Mabel and I have elected to allow him to sleep as long as he needs to. When he awakes I will do my best to feed him, and to question him further about what he has experienced that has so unmoored him. Knowing him as I do, however, I feel there is a significant chance that he will not be forthcoming. He has been more open with me of late than he ever has before, but his current stone-faced restraint gives me pause.

I believe the strain of living under constant bombardment in London is cracking him. It is my hope that I can convince him to stop with me here, but if he is determined to return to London I do not think I can physically stop him. I doubt any of us could, save perhaps my friend with the pyjamas, though I am reluctant to employ said friend in this manner. I would much prefer that he and Reginald are on friendly terms in the future, and I know that Reginald can hold a grudge against those he feels have wronged him.

I know there is little to nothing that you can do, being so far away, but I also know that if I were in your shoes, I would want to know.

Love,

Rebecca

*

Dear Becky,

What-ho, old fruit! Good of you to write, and all that. Dashed good. I do hope you convinced the man to stay, though God knows – and I know better than God does, most likely – he’s about as stubborn as they come. I will say that illness of any kind, though rare in that particularly robust constitution, is entirely unbearable to him and he will be as the weakest of kittens if he is so much as slightly feverish. I know, difficult to believe when you are accustomed to seeing him at his best – his best being his usual modus operandi and all that – but I have seen him ill precisely two times, and both instances reduced the great mountain to absolute rubble.

If he is not actually ill, I have no doubt that bombardment is knackering his famed equilibrium. He is not sleeping much, and has been occupying himself by pulling the wounded and the dead from obliterated buildings. That pass-time is all right for a while but I have found that it wears on one. You’re spot-on when you say that he generally sleeps poorly anyway; the man is a thinker, not a rester. You can take that as gospel from me, a world-class rester who rarely thinks. As you say, I am rather helpless here, what with the sea and rather a lot of Axis-occupied land lying between us, so I have contented myself with simply bucking him up with my letters as best I can. It isn’t much, but it’s all we’ve got. I have written him something that should arrive along with this note. Just nudge it through the bars of his enclosure, if he’s there. Don’t concern yourself with the name scrawled upon the envelope. It’s for him.

If he isn’t there, worry not. Just send it on to London and he’ll get it on the morrow. He’ll get it either way and I daresay it will help him a bit. Don’t blame yourself if you couldn’t keep him contained; he moves in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform. The hopes and dreams of mere mortals such as we have little bearing on his decisions. He is like a great flood, old girl, and he surges along his path without obstacle. To stand against him is to be swept away.

As for the clothing, it is indeed mine. The block of flats beside ours was destroyed by a bomb last week, you see, and some of my shirts and things were damaged when my bedroom window shattered from the blast. He is most protective of my shirts and things; they’re like children to him. The loss hit him hard. He cannot be expected to be himself for quite some time, I think.

You may be underestimating the impact of your mother’s death upon him, however. You’re right that he was his usual stoic self whilst out and about, but when I tell you that he did not polish the silver for over a week, perhaps you’ll understand. You might also recall that we took one of our little trips to New York shortly thereafter, and stayed some months. There’s something about America that invigorates him. Or perhaps it is simply travel that he requires. His is a pilgrim soul. All this hanging about in London without cessation is not ideal, even if there weren’t bombs and things screaming from the Heavens at all hours of the night.

I do hope you managed to keep him; he requires a change of scenery, and nights unmarred by the screeching of shells and the tumult of collapsing buildings. But again, if you failed in your endeavor and he is indeed returned to London, you cannot hold yourself accountable.

Oh, and don’t think I missed your oblique reference to your obvious paramour. You are quite correct to refrain from siccing him onto Reggie like some attack dog; Reggie will never approve of the marriage if your husband-to-be has engaged him in fisticuffs.

Congratulations, old girl! I hadn’t heard; no doubt your brother considers it private information, which, being only your brother-(not-so)-in-law, I am entirely unentitled to, what? I say, he probably would have told me once the banns were read. We can comfort ourselves with that thought, at the very least.

Anyway, congratulations all the same. Any cove who’s willing to go out into the frigid February night, bearing a gift of pyjamas for his beloved’s brother, is likely a good egg. Do let me know when it is time to don the old sponge-bag trousers and grey topper, what what? Assuming they weren’t destroyed in the blast, that is! If so, you might have to make do with Bertram in his dress uniform, which is actually quite striking, if I do say so myself. You’ll probably have to go with without Wooster’s signature mustache, however, as I have just recently dispensed with it.

Write any time! I only really get mail from Reggie, and as lovely as it is to correspond with him, I could do with a different perspective now and then.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Ginnie,

Do you like the photograph? I only just realized that I haven’t sent you a fresh one in about a year, so here you are. There’s a corking chap here named Mustafa who has four cameras, and he’s set up a bit of a business taking soldier’s photos so that we can send them home. As you can see, I shaved the old lip fungus for the occasion; I know how you feel about it, and it has done its duty. I think I’m about as respected as I’m ever likely to be at this point.

Robbie had a grand time pretending he had no idea who I was when I emerged from the bathroom clean-shaven. When he first clapped eyes upon me, he pulled out his Italian stiletto and shouted, ‘Halt, stranger! Why are you here?’

I told him that I’d been drawn by his dreadful harmonica playing and I’d come to put him out of his misery. He seemed to accept that as a reasonable response and pocketed the knife, then invited me for a round with the other Australian officers who were off duty. Now that we’ve taken Benghazi, we have access to the beer they brew there, which the Australians say is the best to be had in North Africa. Of course, I’ve always been more of a w. and s. man, but any port in a storm, what what? I had a few with the lads and it was all right!

Oh, I say! I do believe I’ve solved our little shirt deficit! I was chatting a bit with Marwa, my neighbor who lives just next door to me, and she mentioned that she’d been a seamstress before she married, and that she is an expert in the latest Italian styles! At least, that’s the gist I got; she doesn’t speak any English, as I think I’ve mentioned before, and I don’t speak any Arabic, so we have to get by with the Italian she knows and the Latin and French that I haven’t forgotten. It works out all right, actually.

She’s told me quite a bit about her family and her four young children – darling infants, as far as children go, what? Apparently her husband is in Egypt, so far as I can make out. He was some sort of activist against Italian rule before the war. She has a great deal to say about Libyan independence, but, as I said, I only really catch about a third of what she says.

Anyway, when we invaded, her husband crossed the border into Egypt and volunteered, so now he’s part of the British Arab Force, doing his training in Cairo. She’s trying to scrape together enough money to join him there; apparently she’s rather concerned that Libya might fall to the Italians again! I can’t think why it should; it was such a rout I’d imagine Italy as a whole is rather embarrassed. I should think that if I were Mussolini, I’d give the whole thing up as a bad job, what? Concerned she is, however, and should that occur she thinks she and her family would not be particularly popular. I can’t say I disagree. As grateful as we British and Commonwealth types are for the aid of the Libyans, I shouldn’t think the Italians would share our sunny view of the sitch.

Anyway, after hearing her tale of woe I tried to give her the money I had on me and she told me she prefers to work for a living, and it was then that I asked her what it is she does for work. I was actually only asking to be polite, not thinking for a mo. that she’d actually be able to deliver such goods as stiff-fronted dinner shirts and the like, but apparently this was no trouble at all! The Italian tailor down the road took off with the fleeing army and left all of his material behind. She availed herself of some good wool and cotton in his absence and has been rather hoping that an officer with a bit of oof would hire her to slap something together. I gave her the commish on the spot. Obviously I can’t really keep the things here but I’ll have them sent to London as soon as they’re all ready.

She told me she’ll make me shirts that will make my wife swoon and I told her she didn’t know the half of it. So swoon away, wife!

I say, old thing, I was thinking – dangerous, I know – and I wondered if you wouldn’t like to take a trip to Florida when all of this is done. I know we went about a dozen years ago or so and I think you had a jolly good time. You wanted to hunt some dashed great fish there, but I was reluctant to subject myself to the heat, and I rather think I put a bit of a damper on things while we were there and swore never to return, much to your consternation. Well, I’m jolly well used to the heat now, so I daresay Florida can be considered to be back on the table, if you like. Or if there is some other locale that has caught your eye, do inform me! Anywhere you like. I’ll hunt Great Whites off the coast of Labrador with you, if that’s what your heart desires.

I say, don’t you know, do you know what else I was thinking about? The first time we went dancing together. It was in that little club on Frith Street; you know the one. They used to serve those cocktails with the distasteful names. It was knocked down maybe ten years back,  first by the police and then by the wrecking ball, what? But it was quite the place to be in those days, or so you informed me. I’d never gone anywhere quite like it, but you told me it had been a usual haunt of yours in your single days, and I could see why when we arrived. Such fascinating couples, for one thing!

As you know, I fancy that I can out-Fred the nimblest Astaire on any decent dancefloor, but I was as nervous as a stripling lad at his first cotillion that night. You offered to get me a drink, I recall, no doubt noting the tremulous shake of the Y. M.’s hand, but after squinting at the board I was blushing too much to order any of the dreadful things. Fortunately you knew the drinks and their contents and ordered me something that was quite reminiscent of a Green Swizzle, which, of course, has always been a winner in B. Wooster’s book (do not, for my sake, remind me of the drink’s name). Once I was outside of one of those, the world became a bit brighter.

We were still rather new, weren’t we? I shouldn’t wonder that I was nervous. I felt like a complete ass at the time, but the years have given me a kindlier view of my younger self. I’d landed a prize catch, surely outstripping anything the whatever the waters of Florida could produce, and there I was, out on the town with a glowing paragon who clearly outclassed me in every facet – save class, of course, but that’s but the penny-farthing and all that, what. It’s enough to put a bit of ice down the most stalwart fellow’s spine.

So I drank the bally thing, whatever it was called, and you were drinking something clear, I recall, and we finished our drinks as one and our eyes locked across the table, and I knew it was the gentlemanly thing to ask the shimmering image of perfect beauty before me to dance.

‘Of course, sir,’ you said, your face a perfect mask of unfeeling serenity. I don’t know how you did it; I was stumbling over my feet and tangling them in the chair legs whilst you rose from your throne like Aphrodite from Zeus’s skull.

You took my hand. I had to swallow my heart back down to its proper place. You led me to the floor and pulled me close. My hand found your waist. Oh, my darling, if there are truly sublime moments in this world, then that, most certainly, was one of them.

I’d danced with a lot of girls, you know. Who hasn’t? Corking girls. Like Corky, for one! But I’d never understood what it was that chaps got out of dancing with a girl until I had an armful of you.

Our hips just a little too close for decorum, our chests grazing with each deep breath, the music elevating us into some other state of being – by Jove, if a man could bottle such a feeling he’d make a fortune!

You were smiling. We’re both good dancers, as it happens – are we not? – and we had a bit of an audience after a nonce. It was so strange to hold you in my arms with a jolly lot of people watching and egging us on, so to speak, what? It was so strange, so intoxicating, and you were smiling; I could see your teeth. I’d never seen you smile that way before. I wanted to see your teeth every single day for the rest of time.

Do you know what else I recall? There was a chap there who was clearly waiting his turn with you. Who could blame him? He was hovering about in the periphery like a humming bird trying to decide whether he could get his beak into a particularly striking flower, and when I retired from the floor to have another Imitation Swizzle, he buzzed in.

‘May I have the next dance?’ he said, cool as some cucumbers, as Anatole would say, and I was ready to wave you off; you clearly loved to dance and I didn’t want to hold you back if I was winded and your legs still had some spring in them. Besides, it wouldn’t do for a gentleman to hide a light such as yours under his own bushel, what? But do you know what you said?

You said, ‘I am spoken for. Permanently.’

I say! It was the ‘permanently’ that got me. There I was thinking you were giving me a try and I was lucky for it, however brief it was, and there you were announcing to all and sundry that the thing was settled and the wedding bells had apparently already rung out. Not that I minded! Not one jot! It only surprised me, what?

I don’t know why you chose me. I am simply grateful for the honour.

I’ll have you know that I have not permitted anyone to drag me about by the arm again. Nor have I loitered upon the beach.

So, think about Florida, my love. Or elsewhere. Anywhere. Plan us a lovely getaway wherever your fancy strikes, and we’ll away the second this thing is done. Remember, we are in blood step'd awfully far, what? Can't be too much longer, love.

Love,

Bertie

Chapter Text

Dear Ginnie (if you prefer this name, generally),

Thank you for writing. It was a little surreal, I’ll be honest, to get a letter from you. You’re rather a mythological figure for the entire unit at this point, and particularly so for me since you have changed sexes and names in my mind.

I’m sorry it took me a bit to reply. We are in an odd state here; half battle, half peace. I don’t know quite how to describe it. No enemy infantry for hundreds of miles, but mines still everywhere, blowing unlucky pedestrians to bits here and there, and every few days planes come by and pepper us with bullets. We’ve a great lot of Italian anti-aircraft guns and ammunition that were abandoned here, so we have been having a grand time ack-acking back. It’s the best stocked we’ve been since Dunkirk, so that’s a lark. A couple of the boys took a plane down yesterday and it spun all the way down out into the bay. A man could get used to victory, I must say. It’s our first taste of it in this bloody war and it’s fine.

I’ll be honest and say that Bertie is not palling about with me quite as he used to. Sometime during our estrangement he rather blended in with a cohort of Australian officers and he spends most of his time with them. They used to ridicule him mercilessly but he’s one of their own now, and that’s all right. A man needs friends in times like these. Bertie knew that better than I did. I do hope I’ll be forgiven, but it is what it is.

In your letter you told me you would answer questions I might have. I do have questions for you, if you don’t mind. Buckets of questions. But my foremost question is this: what in the bloody Hell is Bertie doing here? Surely he wouldn’t have been drafted. And he certainly isn’t the type who revels in this kind of thing, is he? When we shot that plane down, all the lads were cheering and he looked away like he couldn’t bear to see it.  I told him the pilot of that plane would shoot him as soon as look at him. He said, ‘I suppose that’s true, old top,’ and took a drink.

He spends all his time trying to chat with locals and singing silly songs to the children to make them laugh. When he’s not doing that, he’s playing the piano in the hospital, or gathering flowers in the field by the Western well for no discernible reason at all, or something like that. He can’t shoot a man to save his life, literally, and he clearly hates being called ‘sir.’ He winces whenever anyone says it, even now.

I don’t understand it. It’s one thing if you’re drafted, like a great lot of us are, but he volunteered. And it’s another thing if you’re simply a military type and get it in your head that a war is something worth your time, or if you like the rigor and the structure, or the glory of it, or something. Or if you need the money, eh? That’s what got a lot of us stuck here. But Bertie’s none of those things.

Do you know he refused a medal? Major Evans wanted to recommend him for a Military Cross after his actions last month. I overheard them discussing it while Bertie was still in hospital. Major Evans said he was going to put the paperwork in and Bertie snorted.

‘Please don’t, old chap,’ he said. ‘Walter’s the one who was wounded. All I did was lie about in the shade for a day.’

Apparently Major Evans relented, because we heard no more about it.

He’s an odd duck, Bertie is. I’m not quite sure where he belongs, but it isn’t here. Not that anyone really belongs here, honestly, but some of us make a bit more sense, at least.

How’s London faring? We hear a bit about the bombs and all, but not much. I can’t say I really envy you there. As hard as it is to be in dodging bombs overseas, I think it would almost be worse to do it in your own neighborhood. Helen tells me there have been a few strikes in Staffordshire, what with the steelworks and all, but not quite the level the London is facing. It’s a wonder you’re still there. Bertie tells me you’ve got family in the country. I think I’d be riding the thing out in Gloucestershire or what have you, given the choice.

Anyway, thank you for writing. Letters are just about the best thing going for a soldier away from home. The more, the merrier.

Sincerely,

Charlie

*

Dear Bertie,

Reggie went back to London when he awoke late that morning. There was no convincing him otherwise.

However, he appeared again at our door the next day, this time carrying a suitcase that contained his own clothing. He asked Mabel and Charles if he could possibly stay a while, and they agreed. Since then, he has remained with us, mostly in his own room, doing little but sleeping and reading. He brought with him a stack of mystery novels, and another stack of books by someone called Rosie M. Banks, and he reads both frequently. He still has not spoken of his ordeal, but I have hope that it will come in time.

When he received your letter, he did indeed appear lightened by it. I am aware that he has not replied to you, but I want to assure you that it is not due to lack of care. He put your photograph in a frame in his room, and he carries the letter in his breast pocket. He pulls it out to reread it when he thinks I do not see him. I don’t know what you wrote to him, but thank you all the same. I did ask him yesterday if he didn’t think he should write you back, but all he said was, ‘Not just yet.’

I think more letters would be helpful. As many as you can send. They needn’t be long. Anything from you at all will help him.

As for my friend Roger, well, rem acu tetigisti. I suppose I should have known better than to think that I could slip that one by you.

No banns as yet. Perhaps none at all; who can say? However, I am enjoying my time with him, and you are correct: any man who would go out into a winter night without notice to help a fellow human in need is most certainly someone worth considering. I do hope Reggie likes him, when they meet. So far Reggie has been upstairs, and Roger has remained downstairs, and I think it’s best that the twain does not meet until the former is more himself.

Love,

Becky

*

Dear Becky,

Message received, old thing. I am delighted to know that he is with you, and I will write fruitfully and often. I endeavor to give satisfaction, and all that, don’t you know. Do not pressure him to reply to me; I can get by all right just knowing he’s taken care of.

I must say, I’m awfully chuffed to hear he came to you, what? All this time I’ve been thinking he’d die before he surrendered. I’m pleased to be wrong.

You can thank Roger for me, in re. the pyjamas. I’ve never known Reggie to sleep in his day things, even when he’s had a few more than he should. I can tell that he is in good hands with you. All of you. Nothing quite like family, what? When that family is worth the name, that is. Not all families are, in my experience.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Bertie,

Your man told me that I could reach you at this address. Hopefully this is the right place, what? I haven’t done this before, you know.

How’s tricks, old man? I saw you in a war reel a month or two back, and you looked like a real man for a change! Love the moustache.

I do have a question, brother mine. It’s nothing much. Only your man sent me a cheque from your account for my granddaughter Lillian, and it was signed by him. Is that odd? It seemed dashed odd, I must say. Still, gift horses and all that, what? Thank you, sincerely. It will make a dashed lot of difference, really.

Is it awfully dreadful there, Bertie? It looks dreadful. Hot, for one thing. And I shouldn’t enjoy the fighting, I don’t think. Do you? What on Earth are you doing there, anyway?

We’re well enough here. I have a granddaughter, as I mentioned, but I assume that Jeeves told you, since he must have asked your permission to send the money. Margaret’s child, you know. Her husband fell at Dunkirk, unfortunately. Rotten luck, that. Nearly a year later and Margaret’s still sick over it. Not that I can blame her. I was sick over Frank for years. Absolute years!

It’s a pity you never found anyone, Bertie. It isn’t right for a man to be on his own! I do have a few widowed friends who could suit you to a T, if you’d like. Whatever a T is. I doubt any of them would turn up her nose to an Earl. I could send you some addresses, what? Strike up some correspondence, and maybe come home to someone? Least I can do for you.

I am sorry that we lost track of one another over the years. I do rather feel I let you down. You were a darling mite, when you were young, but it’s hard, isn’t it, when they split you up like that? I was still quite young myself, and Aunt Agatha told me it was better to focus on the future, my eduction, finding a husband, all that. When we were so far apart and both so busy with school and so forth. And of course, you reminded me of Mother, when I did see you, and that was hard to take. I thought it better to move forward, as Aunt Agatha said. Let the dead past bury its dead, and so on, don’t you know. But you weren’t dead, Bertie. You needn’t have been in my past. I understand that now.

Anyway, just say the word and a bevy of eligible women will be writing you. There are a great lot of lonesome people in this world. Plenty to pick from.

Love,

Ethel

*

Dear Ginnie,

I understand you’ve been to the wars a bit, what? That’s all right. Darkest before the dawn and all that.

Weather is fine here! Warm and breezy. Much better than the desert. And Marwa is becoming a good friend, which is corking. I’ve rather missed women, don’t you know. There’s a different quality to a friendship with a woman. Especially a woman who is happily married and thus represents no grave peril for Bertram!

I’ll tell you something marvelous, that hopefully won’t ignite the fires of your jealous nature: she makes excellent tea! Not as good as yours, of course, but still smashing stuff. She’s good enough to have me over most afternoons and we chat about this and that with our cobbled-together Italian-French-Latin bastard language. It’s a spiffing good time, I must say.

I love you desperately, my dear. I truly am most distressed to hear that you are poorly, and I long every moment to be with you. Most nights all that I can think of is how absolutely smashing it would be to take you into the old arms and have again that small portion of paradise which still lives on Earth.

That’s all for today, old thing. I’ll write again tomorrow. No need to reply if you aren’t currently inclined to write. I know all too well that sometimes it is all one can do to put one foot in front of the other.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Ethel,

No worries at all! None whatsoever. I am what some might call one of Nature’s bachelors, and the single life is no strife for me. I am certain that all of your widowed friends are absolute corkers, but they aren’t for me. Thanks all the same.

Oh, and yes, Jeeves has the right to sign checks for me in my absence. How else would the bills be paid? Not as though I can be on top of it from Africa, what?

Congratulations on the grandchild! I’d love to meet the infant when I get the chance! I was always fond of young Margaret. Or at least, that one day we spent together, she was a pleasant child. Dashed bad luck about her husband, of course. A pity to be sure. Please pass on my condolences.

Things aren’t too bad here at the mo. We’ve had sticky times and times when we were tossed right into the soup, I can tell you, but we’re rather between conflicts for the time being, so it’s all right. And yes, I’d heard about the reel! I understand I cut quite a dashing figure in the thing. I hope I get a chance to see my debut on the silver screen someday.

Thanks ever so much for writing. It isn’t your fault at all that we lost touch. It happens, don’t you know, and all that.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Aunt Dahlia,

What-ho, ancient A! Body and soul still one and the same?

I say, I’ve got a bit of a boon to crave. You could say that now’s the time for all good Aunts to rally round their nephews, if you would be so kind. Would you give old Reggie a call? He had a bit of a close shave with the sharp end of a Luftwaffe bomb recently, and though the body is sound, the mind took a blow, I think.

He’s at our niece’s place in Gloucestershire. Biffy’s place, I mean. My old pal Biffy? Mind like a steel sieve? You know the fellow. I’ve jotted the number down for you.

Reggie might not talk much; he gets withdrawn and silent when he’s having a bad time, but I know he thinks awfully highly of you and I think a friendly chat would give him a bit of a boost.

Give my best to Aunt Maudie, and Tuppy and Angela and the boys.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Ginnie,

Another day, another lovely cup of tea with Marwa. Oh, I say, also, I went ahead and brought Charlie along with me. We haven’t seen so much of one another lately, what with this and that, but he did ask if we could chew the fat, so to speak, and I thought tea-time with Marwa would be just the thing. Of course, poor Charlie doesn’t even have any Latin, so I ended up being a bit of a go-between, translator sort of chappie for them, but it was all right.

I’ll be honest and say I didn’t quite feel up to seeing Charlie one-on-one, so to speak. I don’t think I’ve gotten round to mentioning it to you, but we had a little bit of a tiff some months back. He seems keen to make amends, but I am rather hovering about the old ‘once burned, twice shy’ arena of thought. Although, now that I think of it, I’m really technically in the ‘twice burned’ category when it comes to Charlie, what? First he was spooked when he learned I’m an Earl, and then, horrors, he learned that there are worst beasts even than Earls in this world!

Oh, and I know what you’re thinking, but don’t worry: tea seems to be one thing that everyone has in grand supply in these parts. I offered Marwa money the first time she gave me a cup and she was most offended, so I learned my lesson there.

The shirts are coming along nicely.

I’ll write again on the morrow, old thing.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Ginnie,

A bit of good news here! Our local explosives specialist thinks we might have got the last of the land mines within the city proper. He took me for a drive around the perimeter to show me the latest excavations, and it was quite the time, I’ll tell you. He’s stolen some fine Italian vehicle that no army man has any business driving, and the whole back seat was jouncing and bouncing about with bombs and things.

I asked him at one point if it wouldn’t be safer to keep the things somewhere stationary and he spent a mo. looking for more contemplative than I liked, as though the thought hadn’t ever occurred to him. At last he said, ‘I think it’s all right,’ which did little to calm my nerves. Fortunately, I survived the Grand Tour of Land Mine Sites, and I shall be sure to never accept a ride from an explosives specialist ever again.

I love you, old top. I’ll write again tomorrow.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Ginnie,

We had a splendid sunset last night! I wish you could have seen it. It reminded me of the one we saw in Cuba that time; do you remember? You’d been out on some bally boat all day and I’d stayed behind to catch up on my sleep, and when you came home to the cottage you smelled like the sea, and a bit like fish, which I rather liked.

I always rather liked it when you weren’t perfectly resplendent. I was chuffed that you let me near you when you smelled like fish, because you wouldn’t have allowed that at all for the first five years or so.

But that’s beside the point, what what? I was talking about that sunset, how I was slumbering on the deck chair sort of thing on the patio in front of that beach cottage we’d taken, and you came up, silent as a gentle breeze. I was roused by the fishy smell, and a superior sort of sense that I was in the presence of greatness. Sure enough, there you were, clad in denim trousers, of all things, with a button-down shirt that wasn’t quite buttoned-up, your hair an absolute mess, and the sky behind you was all a riot of jubilant colours, reflecting in the sea so that all the world seemed alight with it. What a sight that was! I wanted to tackle you there and make wild love to you in the dunes, but of course that simply isn’t done, is it? Made good use of the old bed that night, though. As I recall.

I promise you I did not watch last night’s sunset from the beach. I have steered well clear; fret not, porpentine. My bedroom window gives me ample views of such things. It was marvelous; one might go so far as to say that all the air a solemn stillness held, what?

I wish you were here. Well, not really, because this is a war zone, isn’t it? I wish that this wasn’t a war zone, and that you were here.

I’ll write again instanter.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Ginnie,

Marwa has finished two shirts. I’ll send them to you at the Biffen place when I’ve scraped together the oof. I think they’re absolutely smashing.

She’s making me one in sky blue. I promise I’ll never wear it. Still, I couldn’t resist when I saw the fabric.

Please don’t burn it.

The rest are white, I swear.

Got to be off now, there’s a bit of business to attend to. I’m sorry this is so brief.

I’ll write again tomorrow.

Love,

Bertie.

*

Dear Ginnie,

Here’s a photo of me and Charlie, courtesy of our friend Mustafa. We had two made; Charlie’s sending the other to his mother. We’re mending our fences a bit. He says the sundering of our friendship was entirely his fault and he has apologised profusely.

I’m wary still, but I do think he means it. He was a good pal before. I think perhaps he could be again. Time will tell, my love.

Oh, I say! Robbie and I have arranged a sort of regular entertainment for the soldiers and the locals in the big room at the hospital. Every Saturday and Wednesday I play the piano and sing a bit, and Robbie does a few rounds with the harmonica, and then we have a sort of open-stage sort of thingummy where anyone who has a talent can hop aboard and attempt to dazzle. It’s been dashed fun! We play to a full house, generally speaking. Of course, quite a few of the people there are bed-bound and thus forced to attend, but they seem to appreciate the break in the monotony of recuperation. And plenty of non-wounded audience members come along.

Oh dear. This needs to be abridged again, I fear. Bit of action out there I’d better see to.

Expect another letter tomorrow.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Bertie,

I know what ‘one of Nature’s bachelors’ means. I wasn’t born yesterday. If you ask me, that’s all the more reason for you to marry at once. I’m only thinking of your well-being. My friend Francine Forsythe will be writing you soon.

Love,

Ethel

*

Dear Ginnie,

Archie’s been shot again! Very nearly the same damn spot, too. The Italians seem to have a specific grudge against his left shoulder. It’s not so bad this time, fortunately. A passing plane grazed him before he could dive for cover, and then the lads shot it down so they were all very pleased about that. They generally miss the things.

Archie’s got his arm in a sling, but he doesn’t need to be in hospital. John says it will only be a month or so before he’s back to fighting standard, which is all right, since it might be about that time that we’ll need to do a bit of fighting, if my information is correct.

Dressing the wound did give John a bit of an opportunity to try and tell Archie a humorous story from his life, which I have informed John is something Archie appreciates. I was noodling about on the piano in the hospital at the time, preparing for this evening’s performance, and happened to overhear it. I fear it did not go over all that well, unfortunately, because the poor cove has no flair. His story had some points of interest, but he told it with no life, no joie de vivre. I despair of my student, Ginnie, I really do. I begin to fear he may not click, poor sod.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Ethel,

Good Lord, no. Have you no mercy? Haven’t I enough to contend with, you blighter? You’re as bad as Aunt Agatha.

I will speak to no Forsythes, Francines or otherwise, thank you.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Ginnie,

I haven’t offended you, have I? I do tend to put my foot in it. I don’t really know how to talk to your sort yet, but I’m trying. I didn’t mean that Bertie’s not valued here. I don’t know how I’d have gotten this far without him, to be honest. He just isn’t the sort of bloke you’d expect to be fighting in the frontlines if he didn’t have to be.

He seems to have very nearly forgiven me, so that’s all to the good. He takes me round to his seamstress’s house now and then to check on his dinner shirts. Can you imagine? It would be an Earl who managed to have a seamstress in his employ making him fine clothes in a war zone. It’s just the sort of thing one reads about in old novels. Brandy and card games on the Titanic, or some such thing.

I suppose you can imagine it, can’t you? You’ve been mixed up with this hoity-toity lot for years. You could probably write a book.

Anyway, dreadfully sorry if I caused offense. I make an ass of myself everywhere I turn, it seems.

Sincerely,

Charlie

*

Dear Ginnie,

I say, old thing. Do you remember my pal Marwa I’ve mentioned once or twice? The one who’s knocking together those absolutely spiffing shirts for me? I’ve been wringing the old grey matter frightfully over her troubles, don’t you know. She misses her husband most keenly; she wears a mask, but I am a skilled interpreter of masks – am I not? – and I can see clearly the pain that she hides beneath.

You know old Bertram; he can’t stand to see two loving hearts sundered unnecessarily. I see no reason, personally, that she should be kept from him when he is merely training in Egypt and all that she requires is the train fare for herself and her brood. I pay her for the shirts, of course, but she will only accept payment upon completion, and with all the rum news I’ve been hearing, I’m beginning to suspect that her fears may be realized ere long. Not trying to be alarmist, old thing. It’s only a hunch, and all that, don’t you know. But I’d really like to get her out of here sooner rather than later. I tried to give her some more money this morning and she said she would not accept the hard-earned wages of an honest soldier.

I told her there’s no hard-earned about it, and besides, I’m as oofy as a sultan so it hardly matters. Well, I didn’t say that, exactly, of course, what with the language difficulty. First I said, ‘Multam pecunium,’ which didn’t mean a thing to her. Then I said, ‘Beaucoup d’argent,’ which was also senseless. Then I recalled an Italian prisoner who held out his hands and asked for ‘soldi,’ a few days back and gave ‘Multam soldi,’ a try, which seemed to click.

Even so, it didn’t work, because she simply shook her head and said, ‘Non qui,’ which is similar enough to the Latin that I could surmise that she meant that while I might have barrels of the stuff, none of it is here. She has a point. I don’t actually have access to the ready. All I’ve got here is the cash they toss at me in the monthly line-up. All the same, it isn’t as though there’s a dreadful lot for me to spend it on, and I needn’t save it or send it home to feed my hungry children, as a lot of these chaps here do, so I could spare it, or most of it.

Short of speeding by her house on a motorcycle and tossing a handful of the stuff through an open window, I’m stumped. Ah well. No doubt the keen Wooster mind will find the solution presently. I shouldn’t like you to exert yourself overmuch, old thing. You’ve got enough on as it is.

I satisfied myself with asking her if she could possibly take on a comish for a couple more shirtings, and she agreed.

I have heard a rumor that there’s a small bookshop in the city. Odd to think of something as peaceful as a bookshop persisting throughout this Hell, but then I suppose life does struggle on, what? Head bloody but unbowed, and all that. Anyway, I’m going to oil on down there tomorrow and see if they have an Arabic-English dictionary, because this whole ‘conversing through our second and third languages’ lark is for the birds. It’s a wonder we’ve understood each other as well as we have thus far.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Bertie,

As bad as Aunt Agatha? Truly?

Don’t fret, dear brother. Francine is no longer interested anyway. Not after this morning’s paper.

I say, old man. I suppose I misunderstood you, didn’t I? I never knew you got up such things. You think you know a fellow.

Love,

Ethel

*

Dear Bertram,

Forgive the delay in my response. I have not been well. Though, I understand that my sister has informed you of this already.

Your frequent letters were appreciated. I will attempt to address many of the specific points you mentioned in a later missive; however, one point must be made without delay. It is the matter of the denim trousers. In your letter you expressed a sense of bafflement at my wearing them. I distinctly recall explaining to you as I dressed that morning that though I would never ordinarily don such apparel, denim trousers are, in fact, considered the appropriate clothing for sailing and for deep sea fishing, as they are more durable than the usual cotton, or indeed even woolen options. You acknowledged the wisdom of my decision to wear them and gave me your unreserved permission and encouragement. It is my desire to belabor this point no further.

The photographs were appreciated as well. They are framed in my room here – I mean, of course, my room in the Biffen household.

Charlie looks kind. I am pleased to hear that you are on the road to reconciliation. I admit that I feel no little sense of responsibility for the rift in the lute, as it were.

It is quiet here. There are no servants; they are all gone, either to war, or to more lucrative positions in the cities that were vacated by the draft. Mabel, Rebecca, and I have been teaching Mr. Biffen how to help us care for the household, and to his credit he is trying, gamely. I have written instructions for him to make tea, similar to those I sent to you when you were in France, and he has now successfully made drinkable tea three out of the ten times he has attempted it. His downfall is the uniting of tea with hot water. He frequently forgets that the tea leaves are the most crucial element, and rarely adds them to the pot. We have all become accustomed to drinking hot, sweetened water with cream. It reminds me of my childhood.

I am currently writing instructions for ironing shirts, although I admit I have some trepidation on this score. I fear Mabel will be ironing his shirts generally, in order to avoid a disastrous conflagration.

I have resigned from the Defense Volunteers. I cited injury from the blast in our neighborhood, and it was simple. It was a volunteer position, of course, and I have always been free to leave at any time for any reason. Nevertheless, I resisted this at first; it was at Rebecca’s suggestion, and while I generally trust her judgment, I felt as though I were giving false information. However, Rebecca insists that there can be injuries of the mind as well as the body, and that such injuries require every bit as much care as physical ones.

Life is quiet here, as I said, in more ways than one. There are no planes, no bombs. Winter has been fierce, but it is gradually releasing its stranglehold, and all about us there are brief glimpses of the Spring to come. The sows are all growing fat with piglets. Small, red buds are appearing on the trees, blunting their skeletal sharpness. The snow is melting, leaving great patches of muddy ground bare, like islands in a white sea.

I went for a walk yesterday. I wore Roger’s rubber boots, owning no such objects myself. It was cold, but bearable. It is all bearable, I think. I think it is.

I believe I spent my entire life relying only upon myself. In service, so little stands between a person and their ruin. My tact, my dependability, my resource, my intelligence: all were necessary, all were crucial. I knew from the first how precarious life can be. When my father died, we were turned out of the house. I was eleven years old, and I went to work. You know that; but what you may not know, what I think no man in your position could ever truly comprehend, was the way in which that early desperation shaped me. There was no space for grief, no quarter for weakness of any kind, no room for error. There could be only strength and determination and skill. Perfection on the one hand, and on the other, starvation. My service was my shield, my intelligence my sword. All the world was my enemy.

Even in the war – the previous war – I was in service, a batman to a quartermaster. Never in any true peril, due entirely to my expertise in servitude.

I was not alone, not truly, but I was not able to avail myself of any support from those that I loved, as I perceived their well-being to be my responsibility. A man without a father must step into his father’s place. My mother needed money, so I sent her mine. My sister had young children, and then was widowed, and both circumstances caused her to seem needful of care, of attention. I could not draw from that well; the waters seemed too low to spare. I was always roaming with a hungry heart.

Literature and philosophy became my solace. Spinoza taught me that all was as it must be, that there was no purpose to railing against the world, that it was only possible to flourish – or indeed survive – within those constraints that God had placed. Disorder and chaos were danger. Only perfect service would preserve me.

When I came into your service, I thought I changed. I thought your kindness and sweet nature broadened me, opened my heart, gave me peace. I realize now that I merely exchanged my singular mindset with a partnership. When you became my charge, I bound us in my mind with iron ties and told myself that the eternal precipice was evaded at last; that so long as we two were together, nothing could stand in our way. I saw your preservation as my own. My service became my passion, and you became my shield.

However, even as I came to see you as the harbor I had longed for in all of my voyages, I saw new dangers. Even as our most tremulous love began to take its first unsteady steps, I saw it teetering toward an even greater plunge. You were my savior and my ruin in one intoxicating form. I required you but I stood in terror of that requirement, of what it could cost us both. It was no longer me against the world, but us. We two against it all.

But we two are not enough, are we, my love? A two-legged thing topples to the ground when one leg is removed. And so I toppled. I toppled long before I realized it. I believed that my old strength would get me through, but that strength was built on a desperation that is ultimately unsustainable, and it is doubly so when one has experienced a respite from it, such as I found with you.

I have tried to depend upon my sister. I have tried to depend upon your aunt. I have tried to open myself to you, to them. I have occasionally succeeded, but always I pull back, like a turtle withdrawing into its shell. It is not my usual manner to require anyone but myself, and you.

Sir Anthony and his wife perished in the blast next door. I did not tell you that, and I apologize. I know you were on good terms with them. Sir Anthony’s valet died also. Kirby. Sam Kirby. We were friends, you recall, though I have seen little of him since the war began, being so preoccupied with other matters.

He is the first friend that I have lost in this war. Some acquaintances are gone – younger men from the Junior Ganymede who were subject to the draft. But Sam was the first real friend. I know that you have lost many friends, and so I am nonplussed by my own reaction. I have lost one, and it was so dreadful a thing that I could not face it. I put it away. I wept over your shirts and I put Sam away.

I lost my father, Bertram, and my mother, and those are ordinary experiences. Everyone expects to bury their parents. But I did not expect to find myself so bereft by so commonplace an experience in either instance, and to lose a friend so suddenly, when we had come so far through this thing – far enough that we were, all of us survivors, beginning to feel invincible – it was not something that I could face.

Nor could I face another night of pulling bodies from the wreckage. I could not face the screams, the fire, the thundering calamity of falling buildings. I could not put those bodies into the anonymous corner where I once kept them, because that night, the body I recovered was Sam. In that instant, all I could think was that it was only a matter of time before another body would be familiar, and another, and another. I was fortunate to process only strangers until that night, but the second that a body transformed from an anonymous corpse to a friend, I was broken.

And then, there were your shirts. Your clothing, your wardrobe, your bed where I slept when I could not bear the loneliness. I wept. I wept as a child weeps. The world we knew is gone forever, I think. It seemed eternal, did it not? But everything ends. Even mountains wash out to the sea, in time. Your friend may make us new shirts, and I am certain they will be beautiful, but our time has ended all the same. There will be no fine dinners to wear them to.

I cannot be in London. I cannot be alone any longer. I am cracked down the middle.

I cannot be of service.

My greatest nightmare has come true. I cannot be of service. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, to rust unburnished, not to shine in use!

And yet, I do think I can bear it, because you do not demand it. You will not cast me out if I am flawed; I understand that now. Your relentless letters, with no requirement for reply; your steady support, at a time when you yourself are so enveloped in peril… I must accept that to love is also to be loved, and to be loved is to draw upon those that love you when your own strength is broken.

I can bear it also because my sister will take me in. My niece and nephew. Even Roger will lend me his rubber boots so that I may take a walk in the mud if I so desire. The precipice is evaded.

Or perhaps I have succumbed to it. Perhaps I have careened at last from the  dreaded edge and landed, unexpectedly, somewhere soft.

Though much is taken, Tennyson once wrote, much abides. Though we are not now that strength that, in old days, moved Heaven and Earth, that which we are, we are. I am still the man that I was, only older, I hope wiser.

There can never truly be peace for people such as we. Life is a war. All of existence is a quiet espionage. Every face is a mask. But there can be respite. There can be moments in the shade of the apple trees. There can be merry homes filled with laughter, with people who truly know us. There can be sandy shores, and joy in the wild surf, and piano music, and laughing friends who know exactly what you’ve been through.  We both require more than what we previously had, more from one another, more from those around us, more from the world itself.

I think that you should swim, Bertram. I think you should throw your cares and your clothes to the wind and dive into the sea. The war will churn you back again in its great, gory gears, and you should swim while you can.

I think that I will sleep gently here in the country for a time, with no great work to do. Perhaps Roger and I will grow carrots. Perhaps I will watch the flowers bloom and the piglets grow. Perhaps these wounds in my mind will begin to heal. Perhaps, when you are again in my arms, I will be strong enough to hold you.

Love,

G.

Chapter Text

Dear Bertie,

You will find enclosed an article that appeared in the paper this morning. It seems that someone involved in the postal system has unlawfully disseminated information lifted from one of your letters.

All things considered, the information that was stolen is not truly disastrous, but it is troubling.

I have managed to keep this a secret from certain parties who might find it disturbing, particularly in this delicate time, but I cannot guarantee that those certain parties will not catch wind of it eventually.

I am sorry to the one to send this to you. It galls me, honestly, but I did think it was crucial that you have this information.

Love,

Becky

*

Lord Yaxley’s Secret Love Affair

Captain Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, Sixth Earl of Yaxley, has recently become a household name due to his heroism in the North African Desert. Considering his impressive military career, his considerable fortune, his recent acquisition of the lauded title he now bears, and the fact that he has never married, he is universally considered to be one of the most eligible bachelors in the country.

However, hopeful ladies may now be advised that he appears to be off the market, as he has been writing passionate love letters to a mysterious woman he calls ‘Ginnie.’ It is not known how a transcribed copy of the Earl’s personal letter came into the possession of our anonymous informant, but this reporter has vowed to keep our informant’s identity a secret in the interest of journalistic integrity.

Nobody can yet ascertain the woman’s identity. Known only as ‘Ginnie,’ with no surname and no direct address, Lord Yaxley has been careful to hide his paramour’s identity by having her letters delivered via his longtime manservant, Reginald Jeeves. When this reporter attempted to speak to Mr. Jeeves at the flat that he shares with the Earl in Berkeley Square, the doorman informed this reporter that the valet is currently staying at a relative’s home somewhere in the Midlands, recuperating after being wounded in the Blitz attack on Berkeley earlier this month. The doorman was unable or unwilling to provide further information regarding Mr. Jeeves’s current location.

Whoever Miss Ginnie is, certain of Lord Yaxley’s intimate friends have indicated to this reporter that she may have reason to be concerned. Major Cheesewright, currently serving with the Anti-aircraft Division on the Brompton Road, informed this reporter that he and Lord Yaxley have been close friends since public school. He went on to say that Lord Yaxley has long been renowned in his social circle for being a most profligate womanizer.

‘He has always been a butterfly,’ Major Cheesewright is quoted as saying. ‘And what is worse, he would nearly always go after women who were already spoken for. It was sport for him, to steal his pals’ fiancées, then flitter away after toying with the poor creatures’ hearts.’

Major Cheesewright went on to say that he was concerned for the well-being of Lord Yaxley’s current inamorata.

‘I would caution Miss Ginnie, whoever she is, to tread carefully. Knowing Lord Yaxley as I do, I wouldn’t be surprised in the least if this woman is terribly unsuitable in some way, perhaps already engaged or even married to another man. It is his way. Rest assured, Miss Ginnie, that he will be rid of you as soon as another pretty face catches his eye. I can only hope for your sake that your rightful husband will take you back when Lord Yaxley has cast you off.’

The contents of the letter itself do seem to bear out the claims. In the brief missive, Lord Yaxley mentions that he has missed women, especially married ones, even as he writes honeyed words of love to his enigmatic sweetheart. He even goes so far as to suggest that his developing ‘friendship’ with a local woman in Libya might ‘ignite the fires of (Ginnie’s) jealousy.’

While Lord Yaxley has never been married, he has been engaged at least fifteen times to multiple women, according to our sources, most of whom did indeed go on to marry close friends of his.

His most recent engagement was to Lady Florence Craye, the noted novelist. The pair were previously engaged at least three times, between Lady Florence’s engagements to several other men, including Major Cheesewright himself. Their long-dormant romance was recently rekindled by letter whilst Lord Yaxley was already serving in the North African Desert, and was also ended by letter shortly thereafter. When questioned on this topic, Lady Florence had little to say. She did confirm that her engagement to Lord Yaxley was ended in favor of a person named Ginnie, but she went on to say that she had no desire to speak further on the topic and wished to be left alone.

As for Ginnie herself, there is no way as yet to determine either her true identity, or the reason why Lord Yaxley has not married her, or if, indeed, he plans to at all.

*

Dear Becky,

Good Lord! I mean to say, good Lord! What the deuce? The mind boggles, old thing. This is a nightmare. I mean to say, I say, what? What?

Good Lord.

By Jove. Eligible bachelor? Where do they get such drivel? I might be one of the least eligible bachelors who ever bacheled.

I suppose if they had to choose a letter to steal, it could have been worse, as you said. Thinking back, I’m not certain that Ginnie and I have been as careful recently as we ought to have been with our wording. All the same, I suppose it’s time to do something or other about this, wouldn’t you say?

As for your keeping this from certain parties, I do appreciate the thought, but it won’t do. Certain parties are going to find out eventually, for one thing, for certain parties are impossible to keep in the dark for any length of time about anything. Moreover, certain parties and I have officially agreed to keep each other’s eyes entirely wool-free. There is to be no wool-pulling whatsoever, Earl’s honor, and I am personally determined to uphold my end of the bargain, however distressing it may be for both of us. Lastly, if there is any hope at all of my finding a way out of this nightmare, then certain parties must be on hand to rally round and give sage advice. The thing simply cannot be done without certain parties and their fish-fed, size ten brains. Besides, certain parties are much stronger and more resourceful than you are giving them credit for. This is precisely the sort of thing that  puts the spark of interest and the gleam of fiendish intelligence into certain parties’ eye.

It will be all right. We must simply put our faith to a higher power. My guiding star has never let me down before.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Jeeves,

I am awfully chuffed to hear from you, old chap. Of course I know that ignus aurum probat, and all that, don’t you know, and that you would pull through, but one does worry all the same when a faithful servant of many years standing is suffering so. I am pleased indeed that you fell back into the supporting arms of your family. You are correct, as always, that two people alone are not enough to stand against the vile blows and buffets of outrageous fortune, or however the old gag goes. No man is an island, and no couple is either, what? And what with your unfortunate loss of your wife, and the absence of your Master, you have been much more on your own lately than you are used to.

I say, I am absolutely pipped to hear that old Tony and his good wife Betsy got it. Kirby too. Sturdy fellow, I always thought. Awfully bad luck that you were the one to pull the old chap out of it. I thought you said you were off-duty that night, though? Reading Seneca or something equally brainy in a Tube Station, and all that?

I’ll consider your stance re. Bertram’s maritime activities. I do want to state outright that there was never any question of actually getting down to the altogether for this particular binge! You were quite right to point out that it would be most unbecoming for an Earl to engage in such shenanigans. The Australians may have induced me to remove my shirtings in true life-or-death imbroglios, but the no-longer-young master has not actually slipped so far that he would ever consider baring the Wooster frame entirely outside of home, or, under certain circumstances, a particularly well-regarded Turkish Bath. For one thing, the local populace has done nothing so egregious as to deserve such punishment. Were I to quite literally take the plunge, I would most certainly do so in shorts.

I say, old fruit, speaking of shirtings (for I did mention such garments, upwards just a tick), please keep your keen eye peeled for a package from me presently. I hear tell that the packages take a bit longer to travel the seas and deserts and so forth that stand between us, so though I am sending these simultaneously, this may arrive before that. Contained you will find the fruits of good Marwa’s efforts, or at least a few of them. There may, in fact, be something surprising contained therein as well. Do tell me what you think.

I will have to wait until payday to send you any more letters after this, as the postage for the package is stiffish. Gosh, what a dashed nuisance it is to have to think about money, and spending it, and not spending it, and whether you’ve got it or not! Is this how the rest of the world lives? It’s ghastly. How do they get on?

Oh, and one little thing. Did you happen to peruse the paper anytime recently? Perhaps your sister mentioned something to you? Apparently one of my letters to Ginnie was intercepted by a sinister postal employee, who then sold a copied transcript of same off to the highest bidder under strict anonymity. Fortunately the letter that was stolen was really rather tame, but all the same, it gives one pause, what? I feel rather as though I ought not to write to Ginnie so much anymore, for the sake of her privacy, safety, and emotional well-being and all that, don’t you know. They’ve also made a bit of sport out of my rather storied love-life, I’m sorry to say, and even interviewed Florence and Stilton, God help me. I do not come off well at all, and while Bertram Wooster is no stranger to a bit of bad press, it would be spiffing if he could come out of this looking a little less roguish. After all, one must live with these allegations all of one’s (hopefully) long days, what what?

I do hate to bother you with this when you’re still so early in your recovery, but it seems rather a crisis, what? Any thoughts? Legal action, perhaps, for the sullying of the good Wooster name?

You’ve always gotten me out of the soup before, and I’ll be damned if this doesn’t appear to be just about the largest tureen I’ve ever tumbled into. It seems an awful bally accident of fate that I should be under public scrutiny when always before the public viewed me with the same sort of reverence one gives to the dog mess on one’s shoe.

Right-ho, back to work then. Again, awfully chuffed to hear you’re on the mend, old top. Were I in your presence I’d give you a hearty, congratulatory handshake, if you follow me.

Sincerely,

Bertram, Lord Yaxley

*

Dear Bertie,

I wanted to tell you that I did indeed call Reggie, as you requested, and he did indeed speak less than usual, as you indicated he might. He promised to visit soon, however, and has confirmed his plans to remain in the country for some time in order to recuperate, so that’s all to the good.

I also wanted to say that I happened to see a headline with your name on it yesterday morning. Normally when that sort of thing pops up it means you’re dead or blown up or something like that, so I took a breather before delving in. Imagine my surprise when it turned out to be some sort of gossip tripe mucking about in your love-life! Maudie read it and said to me, ‘What love-life? Bertie’s got no love-life. I wish he did, poor sod!’ with which I agreed – what else could I do?

I admit, once I’d recovered I had a bit of a laugh at the thought of you being a profligate womanizer. I do hope you’ll forgive me. If ever we needed levity, it is now, wouldn’t you say?

Are you going to sue, young stain-on-the-family-name? I’d support you; there’s certainly grounds for it. Of course, lawsuits to tend to bring up other things that are best left buried, don’t they? I can think of an historical incident or two when the wronged party might have been better off keeping mum.

Perhaps, all things considered, a reputation as a womanizer isn’t such a bad thing to have. It might fend off some of the more matrimonially-minded, eh? It’s the rare woman who would knowingly sign up to be the long-suffering wife of a known philanderer, regardless of his pedigree. And you have to admit, the claim is not without merit. The article cited fifteen engagements, but I’d be blown if there weren’t rather a few more than that. Weren’t you once engaged to Angela, of all people? You do get about, Bertie, it must be said.

It isn’t as though you’re not in good company. I’d be hard-pressed to name an Earl I’ve known who didn’t carry on a bit too far where the fairer sex is concerned. Even Baronets get up to all kinds of things, and that’s barely a peerage at all.

If you’d take my advice, I’d embrace it. There are worse things in this world than being known as a libertine.

Love,

Aunt Dahlia

*

Dear Bertie,

Point taken. I have informed Reggie, and his gears are grinding. He went fishing this morning, and he has been mooning about the East pig pen with his lips pursed in thought for about two hours.

You were correct that he was much less distressed than I imagined he would be. In fact, a strange light came into his eyes at the revelation, just as you said it would, which made me think that perhaps he is in his element. It seems that you were right; what he required was a solvable problem.

There are far too many unsolvable ones these days.

Love,

Becky

*

Lord Yaxley,

It was most kind of your Lordship to write to me in my convalescence. Ignus aurum probat, indeed, as your Lordship knows all too well.

If I may, your Lordship has conflated two quotes from Shakespeare and portmanteaued them into a single phrase. ‘Outrageous fortune’ is from Hamlet. Specifically, it is one of the most renowned lines from quite possibly the most well-known and oft-quoted passage ever written in the English language. Meanwhile the provenance of the line ‘vile blows and buffets’ is MacBeth, a lesser-known portion spoken by a very minor character; one of Banquo’s murderers, in fact. Altogether, it was a worthy effort, my Lord, but not precisely correct.

Thank you also for your Lordship’s words of sympathy and concern for the loss of my friend. I was indeed off duty that night, reading not Seneca, but Banks in the Underground station, when I felt the unmistakable tremble in the earth about me that told me bombs were falling quite near. I know well from experience that as many hands as possible are needed at a bomb site in the immediate aftermath in order to increase the likelihood that survivors may be recovered, and so while I was not obligated to report to the scene, nevertheless, I did feel that it was necessary, being so near and not otherwise occupied.

Harking back to a previous letter of your Lordship’s that I have not yet addressed, I find your Lordship’s concerns for your Lordship’s new acquaintance to be most laudable. If the Germans do indeed send reinforcements to their Italian allies in North Africa, as it appears they are considering, there is a significant chance that we will lose ground there, and Tobruk may be imperiled. If that fear becomes reality, it would be most prudent of your Lordship’s friend to remove herself and her children from the vicinity with great expediency.

Fortunately, I do have a solution, and it is a simple one. It would be no trouble at all for me to send sufficient funds from your Lordship’s account by post. Since her concern is in taking a soldier’s hard-earned money, then I see no reason why she should refuse a trifling sum from a Lord’s large inheritance. I will see to it immediately.

I have indeed only lately been informed of your Lordship’s unfortunate experience with what our American cousins might term ‘yellow journalism.’ First, please allow me to express my sincerest sympathy to your Lordship for the consternation and disconcertion that this most deplorable event must engender within both your Lordship’s and Miss Ginnie’s hearts. To have a personal letter of such an intimate nature copied and disseminated for the amusement of the general public is no doubt a mortifying experience for both parties.

Personally, I would advise against legal action, my Lord. It rarely creates sympathy with the public, and it could cause unpleasant complications in your Lordship’s already enormously complicated life.

I have given some thought to your Lordship’s trouble, and a possible solution does present itself. I believe it may behoove us to take what I might a term a two-pronged approach.

For the first prong: your Lordship might recall that your Lordship penned a most remarkable memoir some years ago, recounting in great detail precisely the manner in which each and every one of your Lordship’s engagements ended. In your absence, I have taken the liberty of editing the volume, removing certain passages that would perhaps be of less interest to the general public, and typing it in a more publishable format. Were your Lordship amenable, I have no doubt that such a book would be considered a valuable commodity to most publishers.

With your Lordship’s kind permission, I will submit the book for consideration. If your Lordship will forgive me the liberty of saying so, I feel that the book speaks very positively to your Lordship’s good character and kindness, your consideration for your friends and family, and your desire to respect the ladies with whom your Lordship has become entangled, whilst also maintaining a simple and understandable desire to remain unmarried so long as you are not specifically attached to a lady who matches your Lordship’s specific requirements.

The second prong involves Miss Ginnie herself. Again, with your Lordship’s permission, I might entreat her to write a letter to the editor on your behalf, explaining – without undue attention to private detail, of course – the sincerity of your regard for her, as well as the constraining circumstances of your courtship that have made it impossible for you to actually marry. I have little doubt that the public will consider her letter most sympathetic. While the initial article concerning your relationship is scandalous and thrilling, the tragic love of star-crossed paramours is, perhaps, even more arresting to the general public’s attention. If my belief proves true, then this should allow your Lordship continue to write to Miss Ginnie without further trespass.

This is particularly desirable, as I have reason to believe that Miss Ginnie would be most bereft if your Lordship were to cease writing to her for the duration of this war. She has intimated to me that she relies upon your letters, and may not be able to stand the strain of separation if communication does not persist. She is improved in her mental and emotional state, but not entirely free of those burdens that have lately plagued her.

Incidentally, when I last spoke to Miss Ginnie, she informed me that your Lordship requested a photograph of her last year. She chose to ignore that request for reasons which are known to you both, but I thought that you might instead enjoy a photograph of yourself from a happier time in your Lordship’s life.

I have included in this letter a photograph from the Drones Club Squash Handicap. This was taken in 1929, as I recall, and it marked the occasion of your Lordship’s second time achieving the status of ‘runner up,’ as I believe your Lordship termed it.

I also happen to appear in the photograph, as your Lordship can see, standing directly to your Lordship’s right. Incidentally, I believe that I am correct in thinking that this is in fact the only photograph in which we both appear together. I hope that it brings your Lordship some pleasant memories of a time when life was not quite so rife with peril of every description.

Sincerely,

R. Jeeves

*

Dear Charlie,

You did not offend me. I was merely recuperating after a wound sustained in a recent Blitz bombing. And yes, the name ‘Ginnie’ will do for now. It is simply another mask. I have worn many.

Regarding your question concerning Lord Yaxley, I hope that it will suffice for me to say that his Lordship was compelled to enlist by a powerful sense of duty and love. Whatever faults his Lordship’s detractors may see in him, his Lordship is undeniably devoted to the happiness and well-being of all who are fortunate enough to be considered his friends, and there is no limit to the lengths to which his Lordship will go to ensure that happiness. It was his Lordship’s opinion that serving would protect those dearest to him, and so there was no further question in his Lordship’s mind.

Considering recent events, of which you may or may not be aware, I do not feel comfortable to explain in greater detail in written form. Perhaps Lord Yaxley himself will tell you precisely how he came to be there, particularly if you inform his Lordship that I have personally suggested that he do so. I do believe that he requires a confidant. I believe that we all do.

I was wondering also if I might request a small favor from you. You have noted that I have become something of a legendary figure to the men of your unit. Knowing Lord Yaxley as I do, I cannot say that I am surprised. While much of what his Lordship has to say about me is exaggerated both out of affection, and for the sake of entertainment, I do believe that it can serve a useful purpose.

As I intimated earlier, there has been an unfortunate incident that has caused Lord Yaxley and myself great distress. A letter he sent me a few weeks ago was copied out, presumably by a postal employee, and its contents were given to a national newspaper. Given Lord Yaxley’s rather speckled history with women, our correspondence is being used to fuel the flame of rumor that we would prefer to have quashed. Currently, the leading theory is that he is some sort of dreadful philanderer, which could not be further from the truth.

Lord Yaxley has spent his life caring for those that he loves, and all that he has ever seemed to receive in return is censure, judgement, disregard, and even bodily injury.  In the past, we have both accepted a certain amount of reputational tarnishing in order to protect him from graver fates, and to buy ourselves some momentary peace. However, I have grown weary of this. It is my opinion that it is time for the world as a whole to see him for who he truly is.

Would you or any other men in your unit be willing to write to the paper, expressing their support and admiration for him, as well as attesting to his devotion to his fiancée? While I would generally prefer to keep our relationship out of the national conversation, since it has now become a topic of popular speculation, I feel we must meet it aggressively. I have a plan to write a letter myself, but it would be far more legitimate were it reinforced by the words of multiple respectable soldiers.

I am requesting this myself because I do not believe Lord Yaxley would feel comfortable to do so. Generally speaking, Lord Yaxley prefers to be the knight, and not the damsel – unless it is myself who is knighting on his behalf.

Sincerely,

Ginnie

*

Dear Madam Glossop,

I hope you are well. I heard that you purchased a new home last year with a friend of yours, and I was most pleased to hear that you were getting on so well after your divorce.

I have a boon to crave, if you would be so generous. It involves a certain news item regarding a person with whom we are both familiar. I have an idea that might help him, and I daresay there’s a chance it could do a bit of good for you as well. If you are interested in hearing me out, please do call me at the number provided below, and I will travel to you by the morning train the day after I receive your call. I am currently in Gloucestershire, as you can see by my return address, so it is a long journey, but one that I believe will be well worth the trouble.

I do recall you saying that your life would be easier had you married the man I am referring to. While I cannot offer you that option, perhaps I can give you the next best thing.

Sincerely,

R.

*

Dear Aunt Dahlia,

I do see your point about there being worse things. I have personally experienced a few worse things. In fact, I daresay I'm experiencing one now. All the same, one does rather tire of being the family embarrassment, does one not? And now to be a national embarrassment as well? It's a bit thick, old A. A bit too thick.

Not to worry. Jeeves is on it, and all shall be well.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Jeeves,

Good Lord, man. You cannot know what a delight it is for me to have this photograph. You simply cannot know. A memory of happier times, indeed! The happiest of times. I say, nothing gets the wind into a man’s sails quite like… being runner-up in a squash competish, what? I could stare at this photograph all the live-long day. I could kiss it. I have kissed it. Heavens above, but I do love – squash! By Jove! I swear, no man has ever loved squash as deeply and devotedly as I do. You do know that, don’t you? To simply be able to hold in my trembling hands and gaze upon a photograph of, let us say, a squash court, is a transcendent experience. Thank you, old sport. You’re unparalleled.  There is none other like you. I’ve always said so.

Speaking of things I’ve said, I do admit to feeling a flutter of chagrin at acquiring the knowledge that you have apparently read my memoir. I suppose it was foolish of me to think you wouldn’t find it, eh? I should have known nothing could escape your fell clutch. Although I do recall a certain conversation we had once involving distrust like water seeping into cracks and so forth, so I’m not entirely certain how you go about squaring your secrecy on the subject with that. Rules for me and not for thee, old egg?

I suppose that’s how it is with the help these days, what what? The Master must show his hand and the Man plays his cards close to his chest. If I’m not careful you’ll start to think you run the place! Heaven forbid!

So you’ve been editing the thing, what? Cutting out all the bits and bobs that aren’t safe for public consumption? You must tell me sometime what you thought of some of those bits. The bobs too, while you’re at it. You clearly already know what I think of them.

All of your schemes and machinations sound fine, old top. Just fine. Do whatever you must. You know I trust you implicitly. Or is it explicitly? Complicitly? Did we ever settle that one, old fruit? Ah well, no matter. I trust you every-dashed-icitly there is. I don’t exactly know how Ginnie is going to explain our circs in a way that the people en masse will understand and sympathise, but, as I said, icitly.

I say, I did manage to get ahold of an Arabic phrasebook, by the by! The trouble is, it looks like Arabic is written in some entirely different fashion. They don’t use the same letters as us at all! Can you imagine? Exactly how many alphabets are there? So anyway, I have to look up the phrase I want and then just hold out the book to Marwa and jab a finger at the line for her to read. I feel like an ass, but it works better than the three-language tango we used to play at.

Tomorrow I will try to find a phrase in the book that is something like, ‘My man is sending me oodles of oof from my vast stores so that you can rush your darling children to safety, reunite with your rebel husband, and also spare yourself from wounding your pride in the process.’ Shouldn’t be too hard, what? After all, the back of the book says it ‘contains all necessary phrases for all eventualities.’

Thank you again for your sterling service, my good man. Once again I thank whatever gods may be for your unconquerable soul. And that you came into my service. Where would I be without you, what?

My thanks again for the photograph. I shall dream of squash tonight, I daresay.

Sincerely,

Lord Yaxley

*

To the Editor,

I was most disturbed and disgusted to read the recent ‘article’ concerning the private life of my nephew, Lord Yaxley. It is a loathsome indication of the degenerate times in which we are living that such gossip-rag tripe is being peddled to the general public under the guise of news.

Lord Yaxley is an Earl. More than that, he is a national hero who is currently risking his life fighting overseas to defend our island home from the evil ravages of the Nazi regime. The thought that the good name and reputation of a nobleman from an ancient and respected family should be dragged through the mud is abhorrent to me, as it should be to all right-thinking people. The British are an honourable race, or we used to be, and this sort of muck-raking is beneath us.

As for Lord Yaxley himself, he is a respectable man and my darling nephew, whom I helped to raise up to a man’s estate after the unfortunate early demise of his parents. He attended both Eton and Oxford, and now holds the rank of Captain in the British Army. It is utterly deplorable that a man of his standing, who is currently serving overseas for his country should have his personal letters rifled through and purloined for the financial gain of an undeserving postal worker. Whoever this ‘anonymous informant’ is, he should be rousted out of his anonymity and fired immediately, as should the reporter who accepted his stolen information, and you, the editor of this once-fine newspaper, for allowing such swill to disgrace your pages.

While it is true that Lord Yaxley was engaged a great number of times in the past, I can say with authority that he did not enter into those engagements for unsavory purposes. I myself arranged several of the engagements in question, and Lord Yaxley undertook the betrothals with sincerity, fully intending to marry the lady each time. It was the women themselves who ended the engagements, either due to an immature infatuation to a lesser man, or to a realization that they simply did not have the required skills and poise required of a countess.

Regarding Lord Yaxley’s current fiancée, I have met her and I can personally vouch for her as being a strong and healthy young woman from a good family.

My own son is serving as well, also holding the rank of Captain, and though he is currently stationed in Wales, it chills me to think that if he does go abroad, his own letters home might be so ruthlessly plundered for the amusement of the masses. It should chill any loving mother, or aunt.

If you do not issue a formal apology and an official redaction, I shall have no choice but to pursue legal action against this paper for defamation of a public figure. All of the resources of the Wooster family will be behind me. We will not stand for the reputation of our ancient house to be tarnished.

Agatha, Dowager Countess of Worplesdon

*

Dear Bertie,

I have fixed things for you again, as I always do. I know you don’t care to hear from me, but when it becomes a matter of family honour I have no choice but to insert myself.

I have to admit that you’ve done good work over there. You did initially balk at my suggestion that you enlist, as did Thomas, but look how well it has worked for all of us. The Wooster family can hold our heads up high in society when this war is over, provided you keep your head down and don't do anything foolish.

Love,

Aunt Agatha

Chapter Text

To Captain the Earl of Yaxley,

It has come to my attention that a postal worker has stolen and disseminated a personal letter of Your Lordship’s. Rest assured that this behavior is a capital crime, and the perpetrator will be discovered and properly dealt with.

It is deplorable that your Lordship has suffered such an indignity whilst you are serving our nation.

The Office of the Postmaster General

*

To the Office of the Postmaster General,

Yes! Smashing. I mean, capital, and all that. Yes. Thank you. Pleased to hear it will be dealt with, don’t you know. Don’t go beating yourself up about it, old chap. Not your fault at all. I’m certain you run a tight ship, what? Or, a tight postal service, rather. Quite.

Tinkerty-Tonk!

Yaxley

*

Dear Jeeves,

Aunt Agatha, old fruit! The loathsome beast herself, scrabbling on many-jointed legs from out of the shadows, baring her glittering fangs, squeezing her unclean outlines into our lives once more! I had thought my wine-dark Hercules had her vanquished at last!

What’s to be done, blast it? Must I honestly sue? Is a man legally bound by the Hell-bellowed words of Satan, if that particular Satan is his Aunt?

Dash it!

And do you know what else is chafing the old soul these days, old sport? That blasted Stilton, and Florence, both agreeing to speak to a reporter about me without a second’s thought! Isn’t it a pity they never married? It would have served them both right. There’s scarcely a graver fate that I can imagine than being eternally shackled to either one of them. How they tortured each other, Jeeves! It was a sight to behold.

Oh, I say, I went swimming today. I wore Robbie’s shorts. It was just what the doctor ordered, and when I say that I mean it literally, because John saw me pacing about like, oh, that woman in that play who paced about, you know the one I mean, wringing her hands and saying, ‘Hey nonny, nonny.’ Anyway, he said that I simply must find a way to relax before it all starts up again, and why don’t I go for a dip in the sea, it does wonders, don’t you know, and all that. He went on to say that if I didn’t do something, Archie was going to send me back to Cairo for another treatment, and I dashed well didn’t want that!

I did take a moment to ask, if it’s all the same to the army to send Bertram Wooster to Cairo, couldn’t they send along Marwa and her children, and he didn’t seem to think so for some reason, so I’ll have to wait for your package, I suppose.

I was going to refuse the order to swim all the same, but then I remembered what dear Ginnie said to me in her last letter and I thought that maybe I ought to follow her advice, if nothing else. She’s never led me astray before, what? So anyway, I borrowed a pair of those remarkable shorts that all the Australians seem to have off of Robbie and took a turn in the azure waves of the Mediterranean, and thought of Sophocles, long ago, and the turbid ebb and flow of human misery – as one does – and I must say it was fine!

I looked like a right ass, I’m certain, but there is something absolutely lovely about floating about in warm waves. If nothing else, I do think it reminds one of how little control one has, really, and how that’s all right, what, because the great old world is a lot jolly bigger than any one of us, and so I shouldn’t think anyone should concern themselves with trying to be master of his own fate, and all that. The waves will carry us as they see fit.

No doubt I sound like an idiot, and that’s because I am. An idiot, I mean. But you know that by now and you’ve stuck around anyway, so that’s fine.

And I know what you mean about Ginnie. I should be rather distraught myself should our correspondence cease. She’s gotten me through a lot and I can’t really see how I’d get through the rest of all this bally war nonsense without her. Not that I don’t enjoy writing to you, old chap, but of course it isn’t quite the same, is it?

Sincerely,

Lord Yaxley

P.S. Did you know that no one has won the bally Blush Pot yet? The one all the Australians started some months back? I’m sure you’ve forgotten. I jolly well had. They all thought it was delightful that I am not partial to ribald humor, and put in a load of money to be won by whichever man could get me to blush the deepest shade. Apparently Robbie’s got a particular vermillion hue in mind and no one has yet achieved it, so he’s got the pot hidden away somewhere. I only learned this when the article made its way to the men, and everyone was crowding about trying to be the first to inform me of it, thinking they’d win the thing for sure. They didn’t know I’d been tipped off!

*

Dear Aunt Dahlia,

I say, there’s something to what you’ve said. All the same, I’m rather weary of being a stain on the family name, as you so aptly entitled me. I’ve just got this Earl gag off the ground and running, and I’m trying my hand at being a not-entirely-terrible soldier, and now this? I mean, really. What’s a man supposed to do, just say, ‘Right-ho, jolly good, run my name through the mud, that’s fine’? I have my pride, old A.

Anyway, no real need to worry; I’ve got Reggie on it. He’s sunk his teeth into it like the dog Bartholomew settling down to a particularly meaty policeman’s leg. Give him a ring, why don’t you, and let him explain it a bit. He always loves to show off his brilliant plans. Be sure to praise him properly. He shall surely wilt if you don’t.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Agatha,

What in the bloody Hell do you think you’re playing at? Are you sincerely threatening to sue the bloody newspaper? Haven’t you an ounce of sense rattling about in your blasted melon? Bertie’s gone and done a Hell of a lot better over there than anyone could have possibly anticipated and made the Wooster name one to be proud of again, and now you want to blow it all up? Tom was right about you. Good Lord.

If you have the brains God gave a sea snail, you’ll keep your big mouth shut from now on and let Bertie’s man handle this. If you don’t, I’ll come over there and kick you halfway to Piccadilly.

Love,

Dahlia

*

Dear Bertie,

I say, old chap, now dear Auntie Aggie has come to your defense, and the old plot thickens, what? Everyone is simply eating this up, by the by. Half the people I talk to think you’re an absolute dog, and the other half think the entire postal service and all the newspaper editors in the country should be thrown in gaol for stealing your mail whilst you’re off heroing about in Africa.

There’s a certain subset of woman who thinks she can be the one to finally change you, as well, which is a delight! And of course they all want my take on it, which has been smashing, I must say. It’s quite a gas to be in the center of a national scandal and not just one of the nameless onlookers as one usually is. I say, it really is a shame that you’re not here to join in the fun.

It has really taken everyone’s minds off the bombs, which is lovely. The papers are selling like hotcakes, as they say, though why on Earth hotcakes should sell any better than any other sort of cake, I haven’t the faintest. I’ve always been partial to a fine slice of Victoria Sponge at room temperature, myself. If it were hot, the cream would run, wouldn’t you think?

I’m sorry, I’m onto cakes now, aren’t I? I meant to say that if old Agatha herself thinks you’re A1, then who am I to judge? I mean to say, I learned to judge at the expert’s knee.

I can see if I can talk old Francine round. Between you and me, she’s no prize herself. I once saw her out at the shops with her hair still in curlers. Can you imagine it? I nearly fainted on the spot. So perhaps, on second thought, she might not make a first-rate countess, what? Wouldn’t pass Aunt Agatha’s muster.

Who is Ginnie, anyway? Are you serious about this one, or is your old pal Cheesewright on the money? Aunt Agatha says she’s met her? Why put the poor girl through that ordeal and not marry her? I know, I know, you’re one of Nature’s Bachelors, or something like that, but I shouldn’t think Nature’s Bachelors should be off writing passionate letters to young ladies, so what exactly are you, you gargoyle?

This has all been most distracting. How are you?

Ta!

Love,

Ethel

*

Dear Ethel,

Well, I am awfully chuffed to hear what fun you’re all having back in Blighty at poor old Yaxley’s expense! I say, I suppose the whole bally lot of you were simply dying for a meaty scandal to masticate, weren’t you? Jolly glad to be of use, old thing. Jolly glad.

If you must know (and it seems that all of England must know), Ginnie is my fiancée, and I have a truly excellent reason as to why we have not yet married, which you will most certainly learn instanter. Rest assured, it is such a corking reason that everyone will nod their heads in understanding and say, ‘Oh yes, of course, course, poor things,’ and move on with their wretched little lives. I would tell you the reason, of course, only I’m waiting for Ginnie to spill the beans herself. It’s rather her story to tell, I think, and all that, don’t you know.

And yes, Aunt Agatha has met her, and the meeting went splendidly, and Aunt departed without a single word she could possibly say in protest to the match, so don’t concern yourself with Francine and her curlers. It’s for the best, I think. My man Jeeves would not survive it were she to try and leave the house in such disarray and would no doubt tender his resignation on the spot. We couldn’t possibly have that, could we? I’d be lost without the man.

Anyway, all’s well here, just silly war nonsense, nothing worth noting, not when there’s an Earl somewhere who might or might not marry someone, what?

My best to the girls, and all that.

Love,

Bertie

*

The Right Honourable Dowager Countess of Worplesdon,

Lord Yaxley would like to extend his gratitude for Your Ladyship’s words of support that were recently published in the paper. His Lordship is most regrettably occupied with concerns at the Front, and is unable to take the time to write, but is most heartened to hear that his family is so firmly behind him.

Lord Yaxley’s fiancée has written her own explanation for the affair, which will also soon be published. Your Ladyship may be somewhat surprised by the content of the letter, as well as its provenance. It was His Lordship’s wish that the true identity of his fiancée be kept a secret from all who did not require the knowledge, as the letter’s content will make clear. Lord Yaxley trusts that Your Ladyship will recall how very crucial it is that Your Ladyship does not make a scene. His Lordship would lament any loss of decorum and respect that Your Ladyship might suffer should Your Ladyship yield to any regrettable impulses.

Do pass this message on to Lady Florence as well, along with Lord Yaxley’s  compliments. His Lordship also wishes to express a certain level of surprise that Major Cheesewright appears never to have married. Perhaps his embittered words against Lord Yaxley’s character bespeaks a heart that pines for what he thought was lost long ago.

Jeeves

*

Dear Bertie,

I say, old chap, I feel I owe you an apology. I suppose this mustn’t be a walk in the park for you, is it? Come to think of it, it does give one a rather dirty feeling, to think of their private letters being rifled through and sold to the highest bidder. Rotten luck, old sport, really.

Another thing. Another apology, I suppose. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve rather let you down. As a big sister, I mean, don’t you know. Had I been around more, I could have given you a spot of advice and maybe saved you from all this mess, what?

I would have told you to do what I did. It was clear from the moment the starting pistol went off that Aunt Agatha wouldn’t rest until I was safely married, so I tripped down the aisle with the third chap she betrothed me to. It doesn’t do to be too picky, you know. There’s no perfect man, is there? So I sailed off into the sunset (and to India, as it happened) with Frank Scholfield because he was nice enough and good looking and he didn’t breathe too loudly or wear brown shoes with black trousers, and he had a decent job, and, don’t you know, we had a dashed jolly time together! Until he died, of course, but roughs and smooths and all that, what? Or is it lumps and smooths? Frank would know! Too late the ask the chap though; more’s the pity.

If you’d only married the least offensive girl back at the start, all would be well, wouldn’t it? You can come to love a person in bits and pieces, you know, just by going through life beside one another. Close quarters can breed contempt, but it can breed nicer things as well.

Ah well. Advice for a long-gone lad named Bertie. I am sorry, old thing. For all of it.

Love,

Ethel

*

Dear Ethel,

I appreciate the sentiment, but I would not have taken the advice, so it is just as well that you saved your breath, old girl. I’ve always been an ass in more ways than one, and it’s Bertram’s modus operandi to put his ears back and firm up his hooves in the soil and stand strong against the ebbs and flows of relatives’ opinions. My man Jeeves could tell you a story or two about Bertram’s famed stubbornness. I’m much better now, you understand, but in my prime I was as stubborn as, well, as I said, an ass.

At any rate, I think you’re wrong. There is a perfect man. There are perfect people, I mean. I mean, there is a perfect person, or there is one for me – a perfect person for me, don’t you know, and it wouldn’t have done me a lick of good to go along with some second-string understudy and leave the Prima Donna running lines in the green room. I’d much rather cancel the show altogether, if my metaphor is holding well enough for you to get my meaning.

So thanks all the same, and I am awfully chuffed to hear that you and Frank had a good time of it while it lasted; honestly I am. Pity I never knew the old Brother-in-Law so well, what with you living in India and all that. You’ll have to tell me about him when next we meet.

Love,

Bertie

*

My Lord,

The package Your Lordship sent me has arrived safely. I am most grateful indeed for the evening shirts, which, while of a more Continental style than that to which we are accustomed, will most assuredly do at any future events which Your Lordship might attend.

I am also particularly grateful for the other three shirts that Your Lordship appears to have commissioned in my size. No doubt Your Lordship recalls that one of my shirts was damaged beyond repair during an unfortunate incident last Autumn. As quality fabric is currently quite difficult to acquire, I had resigned myself to persisting with an incomplete wardrobe, but now, to my immense relief, I am once again beautifully supplied.

Your Lordship is too kind.

I have also sent the package which I promised Your Lordship and it should arrive within two weeks. I understand that the extra care that is required for such cargo will delay it somewhat, but please inform your friend that her deliverance is imminent.

As for Your Lordship’s old acquaintances Lady Florence and Major Cheesewright, there is something undeniably poetic in Your Lordship’s summation of them and their frustrated nuptial intentions. Your Lordship makes an excellent point regarding their compatibility. Your Lordship and I are of one mind; it is indeed a pity that they did not marry.

I am gratified to hear that the photograph of Your Lordship at the Squash Handicap was pleasing. It is my desire that the photograph satisfies Your Lordship sufficiently until such time as you can again engage in that pastime to which Your Lordship is so very devoted. No doubt, due to the long lapse in Your Lordship’s practice of squash, much vigorous training will be necessary immediately upon Your Lordship’s return in order to restore Your Lordship to proper form.

Not to imply, of course, that Your Lordship’s current form is in anyway lacking. I would go so far as to say that any expert on the topic would consider your Lorship’s form to be exceptional.

I have just returned from a brief visit to Miss Ginnie at her home. With my help, she has crafted a letter that I think will turn the tide of public opinion. It should run within the next few days. I have enclosed a copy for your Lordship’s perusal.

Miss Ginnie assures me that she means every word.

Please do swim every day that Your Lordship is able, if Your Lordship finds it calming.

Sincerely,

Jeeves

*

To the Editor,

Thanks to you and your paper, the English public now knows me as Ginnie. Due to the blatantly unlawful deeds of certain unknown persons, my pet name given to me by an intimate friend in an effort to keep our private lives private has become renowned.

I was engaged to Lord Yaxley on two separate occasions when we were both younger. I very much desired to marry him, but at the time, my father had doubts about him, and Lord Yaxley himself had doubts as well, doubts that are well-recorded in his upcoming memoir, and we parted ways amicably. I married another, and for a time, I believed that all was well.

Periodically, however, Lord Yaxley and I would happen upon one another, and in time we both began to realize what an awfully lovely thing we had missed out on.

I came to realize that I loved him. There was no single moment; he grew up around me, grain by windborne grain, until I was as helplessly entrenched in his dune as Ozymandias. A smile here, a light laugh there, an anguished gaze in my direction – as though he were sinking in violent waters and I was a life boat just out of reach. I came, gradually, to realize that I wanted him to know that he could, in fact, reach me. That my status as a married woman need not be impenetrable. In this modern age, when so many of the strong old ways have worn away, anything can seem possible, even a union between people who could never before have been permitted to express their love for one another.

Though Lord Yaxley was ever a gentleman, nevertheless I realized that I had no choice but to leave my husband.

Divorce was necessary, as much as it is an anathema to the general public, because, though I was never unfaithful to my husband, yet I could not pledge him my true fidelity in my heart. I loved another. One that I could not have. So rather than carry on the charade, I chose to release my husband, so that he could find someone who would be able to love him completely, as I could not.

It was only after my divorce was final that Bertie and I began our romance. It is not my desire to reveal any private information in so public a format, but suffice it to say that when he decided to join up, he asked me to marry him by letter, and I accepted, gladly.

Unfortunately, it is not to be. It is, quite frankly, impossible, no matter how desperately our love for one another makes us dream of other realities. Perhaps, had he been lower born, no one would ever have noticed or cared what we did, but Bertie has now become an Earl, and thus a very important personage. When he takes his seat in the House of Lords, he will be one of the foremost leaders of our country, and a bastion upholding the ancient, sacred laws of our land. Given the lamentably memorable events in the Royal family only a few years ago, Bertie was deeply concerned by the fact that, as a divorced woman, I could not marry him in the church, and as such, our marriage could never be officially recognized.

Bertie is a deeply reverent man. He always has been, even back in his school days when he won the much coveted school prize for Scripture Knowledge. Furthermore, he did not desire a scandal. Nor did he find the idea of subjecting me to the scrutiny and judgement of the world at large. Remembering that other notorious public figure who suffered greatly on the chair of public judgment due to a crime of love that was perilously similar to ours, he decided to spare me the discomfort of making our relationship known to any but our most intimate family. So it was that we decided to carry on our relationship in secret, to never marry, and to present ourselves to the world at large as unattached.

His engagement to Lady Florence was a misunderstanding.

I myself have retired to Yorkshire with a friend, also currently unmarried, and it is my intention to live a quiet life tragically separated from the man that I adore, carrying on our love affair through passionate but chaste letters only. I hope that all of my family, friends, and acquaintances will now cease to ask me when I shall find a new man, for the questions have been relentless. I have no choice but to live in maiden seclusion. We will continue to exchange letters, provided we can be assured that no more of them will be stolen, but we shall not meet.

Though I cannot marry the one that I love, nevertheless I want it publicly known that I am married in my heart. There will be no other for me. Nor will there be any other for him. We intend to remain eternally devoted, despite the lack of legal documents and holy blessings.

We beg that the world allow us privacy and respect, especially at this most trying time. It is a cruel world that makes a crime out of a love as pure as ours. I pray that my fellow countrymen and women can find it in their hearts to turn away from cruelty.

Honoria Glossop

*

Dear D’Arcy,

Do you know, I have been thinking of you lately. There’s a character in my latest novel who is just a little bit inspired by you. So imagine my surprise when your name popped up in that dreadful article about Bertie. To think you’ve been stationed right on the Brompton Road all this time and I hadn’t a clue! So funny to see our two names in print practically side-by-side, after all this time. It reminded me of our engagement announcement.

I say, old friend, I am sorry to hear (as one does hear these things through the grapevine) that things with Ms. Morehead went bust. She was such a dear little thing. I really thought you two might just last!

For what it’s worth, I wasn’t really ever engaged to Bertie. Not this time, anyway. It was just a bit of flirting; I admit I have a rather pedestrian and embarrassing penchant for a man in uniform. Not a policeman’s uniform, you understand, but an officer in the army– well, that’s another matter entirely. Quite dashing and romantic, isn’t it?

Do you know, I’ll be in London soon to discuss my book with my editor. Wouldn’t it be a laugh to get a bit of tea together and catch up?

Do let me know what you think.

Love,

Florence

*

Dear Florence,

Yes, it was a dashed disappointment about Daphne; she just didn’t have the gusto to go the distance with a vigorous fellow. Too soft, I think. I’ve always thought I could do better with a tougher woman.

You were inspired by me, you say? That’s fine.

Of course you weren’t really engaged to Bertie. You’re a decent woman with a good head on her shoulders.
Tea would be fine.

D’Arcy

*

To the Editor,

I read the recent article concerning Captain the Earl of Yaxley’s private life with extreme disgust. The fact is that I have commanded Captain the Earl of Yaxley (heretofore referred to as Captain Wooster for brevity’s sake) since his initial training eighteen months ago, at the war’s outset, and he has proven himself to be a stalwart, enterprising, and courageous soldier. He saved my life both at Dunkirk and at Sidi Barrani. He saved the entire unit in a nighttime maneuvre two months ago in the Libyan Desert. He has been wounded in action and returned to fight with unsullied spirit – and throughout all of it, his devotion to his fiancée Ginnie has been so tirelessly consistent that it has become a thing of legend for all of us who serve beside him.

It is a sorry fact of war that some soldiers stray from their wives and fiancées while away. Captain Wooster does not.

Captain Wooster is no butterfly. Whatever he may have been when Major Cheesewright knew him decades ago, he has undeniably matured into a man of unassailable honour. I consider it my very great privilege to command a man of his caliber, and I am grateful every day that I have a comrade of his inestimable gifts beside me when I face the enemy. I consider him to be one of the finest men I have ever known.

Major Archibald Evans

*

Captain the Earl of Yaxley,

It is my pleasure to inform you that after a thorough investigation, the person responsible for the theft and unlawful dissemination of your letter has been found, and is currently being prosecuted for his crime. Rupert Steggles has been employed by the Gloucestershire postal service for nearly a decade, and has recently been made postmaster of his area. Our recent investigation has uncovered multiple past instances of mail fraud committed under his watch, all of which were well hidden. He also appears to have been running an illegal gambling ring from his post office in the evenings. Rest assured, he is no longer employed by the Royal Mail Service.

Office of the Postmaster General

Chapter Text

A Note From the Editor concerning the recent trouble with Lord Yaxley:

It is clear that we have erred. Our goal is ever to enlighten, not to titillate for the sake of idle curiosity. While the lives and actions of our leaders are certainly within our purview, as the whims and moods of the mighty affect the very fabric of existence for those below, it is, nevertheless, a bridge too far to trade in petty personal rumor. Particularly now that it has come to light that the letter that was quoted was stolen and not lawfully obtained, as the perpetrator claimed. We will watch the Steggles trial with much interest.

In addition to those letters of protest that we published, most notably from the Dowager Countess of Worplesdon, Mrs. Honoria Eccleston nee Glossop, and Major Archibald Evans, we received no fewer than twenty notes of varying length and legibility from those enlisted men who are currently serving with Lord Yaxley, all speaking strongly to his Lordship’s strength of character, nobility, and nearly maniacal devotion to his Lordship’s beloved ‘Ginnie.’

Therefore, it is my responsibility to offer an apology, both to Lord Yaxley himself, and to the nation as a whole for this unfortunate error.

*

Dear Ginnie,

By Jove, it feels good to write you again, my dear! All that, and a formal apology from the editor as well, what? Twenty letters received from my company. I mean to say, good Lord! Well done, as always. I told Becky to trust in you and all would be well, and here we are: all well! I’ve always said it; you stand alone, my love.

And it was a chap named Steggles who stole the letter, apparently. I say, doesn’t that name have a bit of a familiar ring to it? Did we run afoul of some Steggles or other at some blasted hunting party at Steeple Bumpleigh one year? Or was it an end-of-term dinner at Totleigh-in-the-Wold or something? I swear I’ve heard the name before.

Ah well.

I say, old thing, I haven’t received that package yet. I know it’s not your fault; shipping is understandably fallible these days, what? All the same, I do hope it oils in sometime in the near future. Marwa is getting awfully antsy, and I don’t blame her one bit. I tried again to give her the cash I had on me, and this time I could tell she was considering it. Things are getting a bit thick, I must say.

Tobruk is getting a bit emptied out lately you see; they’ve taken half of the Australians and moved them out. Some go East, and some go West. I daresay some might even go over the cuckoo’s nest. Those of us who are left are feeling rather unsettled; we think our time of relative peace my be winding down, alas. All evidence points to the increasing likelihood that the goodly number of German chaps congregating with the remnants of the Italian force aren’t just milling about for the pleasure of their company, but are, in fact, preparing to retake Libya. I suppose I’ve known it all along, but hope is the thing with feathers, as the poet said.

So you understand why I was rather urging Marwa on to take what I had and just go. By my figuring, between what I’ve just received from the paymaster yesterday, and what I’ve paid her for the shirts over the last month or so, it should have been just enough. When I tried to explain that, however, she shook her head and grabbed the translation book, and after a few minutes she was able to say, ‘Not only us.’

‘Not only us?’ I queried. A few more minutes with the book, and she gradually explained that she is doing her damnedest to get a friend out, too. A friend I haven’t met. A widow down the street with two children of her own.

I said, with help from the book, of course, ‘Why didn’t you say so? I’d have given her my money weeks ago. Another revolutionary, is she?’

‘No, not the same problem,’ she replied.

‘Oh? What problem, then?’

It took her a good three minutes to put her response together to this one, and I rather think she was doubting whether she should all the while, since her ultimate response was merely a single word. That single word, which she said very quietly, was ‘Jewish.’

‘Ah,’ I said. Bertram may not know much, but he understands that Jewish is not the thing to be when the Germans come rolling in, what? ‘That is quite a problem! But why didn’t you tell me before?’

‘I thought Christians didn’t like them,’ said she.

I must admit, that gave me pause. I can’t say that I’ve personally ever thought one way or the other about it. Never knew many folks of that stripe growing up, so it never came to mind. We knew a few Jewish chaps in New York, didn’t we? Not a bad lot that I recall. And I can’t remember anything against them in the Bible, what? Though I admit I’m a bit rusty on my knowledge of scripture, these days.

‘Can’t speak for Christians en masse,’ I said, ‘but I’m all for sparing any neck that is imperiled.’

I didn’t say it with such style, mind you. It was much more stilted, certainly, and probably terribly pronounced in my faltering Arabic, if Marwa’s grimace was any indication. I fear she will never truly know the patented Wooster lingual finesse, but ah well. I suppose I’ll never know hers either, what? Dashed lucky we were able to strike up a friendship at all, under the circs.

So after all that, I simply assured her that buckets of cash were on their way and that she and her friend, and all their children would be well on their way to Cairo before they could say ‘tra-la-la.’ Well, no, I didn’t say that, actually. What I really said was something more like, ‘Money come soon, your friend go too.’ But I got my point across.

On a brighter note, many thanks again for the photograph, and for the promise of future happiness. Squash is a many-splendored thing, is it not? It does a body good to have a hopeful future to ruminate upon, whether we are able to attain it or not.

Oh, and do tell Jeeves I’m awfully chuffed that he enjoyed the shirts. Marwa was asking. She thought it rather generous of me to send shirts to a servant whilst away at war. Funny how all this mess makes me come out looking simultaneously worse and better than I actually am, eh? What an enigma this wartime Wooster is.

Good Lord all of this is exhausting. I’m exhausted! Are you?

I think the hardest part of all this has been keeping track of who knows exactly what. Now, at least, it’s a bit easier that every single person in the entire universe knows that we can’t marry. That’s one bit of information that I was getting dashed tired of side-stepping. All in all, a pretty good wheeze.

Oh, I say, do tell me a bit about your impressions of Roger soon, what? You rascal! You never mentioned him to me, but young Becky seems to be quite taken with the chap. Is he as ruggedly handsome as I imagine? With the strong hands one can only attain from a lifetime of work? Did his rough ways sweep the refined Rebecca from her feet? Are there wedding bells in the offing? Do tell all!

Oh, and by the by, I might be sent elsewhere rather soon, I fear. East or West I can’t say, but there’s plenty to do in either direction, as I understand it. I’ll keep you informed of my comings and goings as best I can.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Bertram,

It is indeed a welcome relief to again feel free to write to you this way. With Steggles detained and no longer trusted with the nation’s mail, and with the tide of public opinion turning most gratifyingly in your favor, I feel more secure than I have in weeks.

Steggles, by the way, was the young gentleman who was reading for his exams with your cousins Masters Eustace and Claude, during the occasion of the Sermon Handicap, and the school treat. I recall that you considered him a ‘bad man,’ and it seems you were correct in your impression of him.

It is most concerning to hear that your friend Marwa is delaying her departure from Tobruk, but her reasons are undeniably admirable. I have no idea why the money that I sent you has not yet arrived, as it has been several weeks since I posted it. I do hope that no other unsavory persons have availed themselves of our mail. Barring any such reprehensible lapses in postal security, I see no reason why the package should not arrive within a day or two, and then Marwa, and her friend, and all of their children, should be safely on their way to Cairo without further delay.

The shirts are perfect. Simply perfect. Do thank her; she does fine work.

Spring is gathering its feeble strength now, with winter fading, along with the last vestiges of snow. The little red buds on the tree are leafing out with that delicate, newborn green one only sees in the earliest weeks. Rebecca took me for a walk through the various cow and sheep fields that abound in this region and pointed out all the flowers that are beginning their festive bloom. Yellows abound, with daffodils leading the brave charge, but smatterings of blue and purple can be seen as grape hyacinth peeks meekly up from the pastures. Alas, the livelier iris does not yet bloom, you would no doubt note, but it cannot be more than a few weeks away.

I wish that you were here to see it. I recall with great affection the way your step always gains a bit of extra bounce in springtime. The ebullience in your body and your spirit at this time of year is even more beautiful than the flowers. Indeed, it is not really spring without you.

I must admit that my feelings concerning my sister’s suitor are unclear. He is undeniably a solid, dependable man, of reasonable means and a stalwart disposition, and generous with his possessions. His conversation, however, is unenlightened. He speaks mostly of cows and weather. He wears a beard, which is most unfortunate. Perhaps he can be persuaded to surrender it. If so, then there is a possibility that his features could harbour some points of interest. For now, lamentably, it is impossible to say.

Rebecca does appear to be quite taken with him, for whatever reason. Their courtship seems to be almost entirely transactional, arranged along the lines of circumventing certain scarcities in their respective pantries.

I was induced to spend an evening recently with he and his brothers, and the experience was abhorrent. They all drank heavily from a cask of home-brewed beer, sang loudly, and told stories of bovine-related mishaps. Apparently it is quite common for one’s arm to become lodged inside a cow’s hindquarters whilst performing necessary tasks related to the birth of calves, and this is a source of seemingly endless amusement for the Brothers Bishop. There was one occurrence when Roger was dragged a quarter of a mile behind a cow in this manner, and the tale of this great day was told to me in exquisite detail.

The humor of the situation was, I fear, lost on me.

It is rather difficult to say whether Roger’s intentions with my sister are matrimonial. It is difficult to say whether she desires that outcome herself. All she will tell me is that she enjoys being with him, and that that enjoyment does cause her some grief and guilt, for Arthur’s sake. I am considering the possibility that this may not be an ideal match, and that I may be required to find a way to bring about a satisfactory conclusion for all involved. I desire my sister’s happiness, of course, but I have grave misgivings regarding the likelihood that this person can bring her said happiness.

Please keep me apprised of your orders, as best you can. I know that you always do, but in the absence of any tangible work to be done to assure your safety, asking gives me some comfort.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Ginnie,

I hope we did all right for you. I didn’t write a letter myself. I’m not a writer. But a lot of the lads had a go, and it seems to have done some good. Major Evans went ahead of his own volition; didn’t know he’d done the thing until his fiancée back home sent us the paper.

I must say, I was a bit taken aback by that first bit of news, the one that started all this nonsense. It was the bit about his manservant that stuck out to me. You know well that I’ve heard Bertie mention that name a time or two in the past, but I always imagined it must be some pal he made at Oxford or something, especially considering that Bertie makes him sound as though he’s the brainiest chap who ever graced the Earth. I must admit it puts a bit of a different spin on some of the tales I’ve heard about the fellow. I do wonder if this Jeeves bloke and I wouldn’t have more in common than I thought; my father was in service, in his youth, and I might have gone that way myself if I hadn’t  been lucky enough to get that scholarship. And then the war, of course.

Something to discuss over a pot of tea one day, I should think, if we’re all so fortunate to come through.

Lord, but it’s tricky to talk about all this, isn’t it? I’ve reread this letter five times already to make sure it’s all right. I do hope it’s all right. Is it?

I did ask Bertie about the thing you mentioned, about why he joined up, and he got a haunted sort of look on his face and asked why I was asking, and I said Ginnie told me it was all right, and he muttered under his breath that Ginnie thought all kinds of things were all right that might not be quite so all right, but then he sighed and said, ‘All right.’

Then he looked all about as though there might be spies. We were standing about near the hospital at this point, and it’s a busy spot with markets and vegetable stands and such, so he nodded toward the street to the harbour and I followed him down. When we came out to the semi-circle of sand and scrub brush, he stood for a moment staring out at the blue harbour itself, dotted all about with the rusting hulks of bombed out Italian ships, and the tail of that one bomber that never quite sank all the way after we shot it down.

‘This could be a lovely little spot,’ he said, ‘you know, without all the sea mines and warships. One could do a spot of hydroplaning just there and make a jolly time of it.’

I agreed and waited. I know he doesn’t really trust me, and I don’t blame him.

At last he sighed again and said that his aunt forced him to join after learning about the two of you. That he joined up to keep you from suffering any consequences, and that it had seemed the right choice at the time.

‘Truth is, Ginnie probably could have solved this issue for us, had I not acted so quickly,’ he concluded, ‘but what’s done is done, what?’

I hadn’t the faintest idea what I could say. I was drafted, wasn’t I? Even lifers like Major Evans don’t want to be here. But it made me think of Helen, and whether I’d have joined up voluntarily for her sake, given the same circumstances. I tell you, I love that woman, but do I love her more than my own skin?

I like to think that I do. I hope that she thinks I do.

It’s a funny thing, I think, because it’s rather easy to know when you want to spend your life with a person. It’s harder to say if you’d die for them.

You don’t have to wonder about that, though, do you, Ginnie? You know what Bertie would do for you and that’s a fine thing, really. Whatever happens, you shouldn’t ever need to wonder about him. A lot of good men will die over here for a lot less reason. Mainly because they didn’t have the money or the status to get out of it.

I don’t pretend to understand all this, and you know that. I’m trying. I can see it isn’t a bit how I always thought it was, though, when I dared think about it. In all honesty, I think it’s damned beautiful.

There’s a lot more beauty in this world than I ever knew. Did you ever see a mosque? Not so many beautiful ones right here, not anymore, but there are mosques in Cairo that will knock the air right out of your lungs. An Egyptian pal I made when we were there brought me inside one and I just about fainted. All the gold, and the lights, and the designs inside the domes, and the inscriptions. It brought tears to my eyes, and I don’t mind saying it. First time in my life I ever wished I was an artist or a poet or something like that.

All you ever hear back home is how these places are uncivilized, how they need our influence to bring them into the modern world, but I can’t think of a thing more carefully, lovingly built than that mosque. What makes St. Paul’s more civilized than the mosque of Muhammad-what-have-you? And now we’ve gone and brought them our damned war. What about this war is civilized?

Makes me wish I could go about and see things some time when we aren’t all bombing each other to bits.

I’m babbling I bit, and I’m sorry. We’re being moved out soon, you know. Can’t tell you where, of course, but it’s not going to be pretty. I just keep thinking that I’d really like to see Cairo one more time. I’d like to bring Helen to see it. I don’t think I can tell her what it’s like. Do you think it could be possible, some day? Bertie tells me the two of you took a cruise all the way around the world once. I never had the ready to take the train to London, let alone the entire world. What a life you two have led.

I saw that photograph of the two of you, by the way. He keeps it in his breast pocket. He took it out and let me see it when we were standing there by the harbour. He seemed a bit sheepish, but I think he wanted to show it to somebody.

All of us are always passing around photos of our girls. They all tease him a bit that he won’t. He always said it was because you were too beautiful, and if we all got an eyeful we’d run back to England to try and steal you away. He says he’s been worried from day one that you’re too good for him and that someone would steal you.

I suppose he’s got a point. You could get stolen, couldn’t you? That’s why he’s here, so that you won’t be stolen. I think this world is a good lot sadder than I ever understood.

It’s a nice photo. You both look happy. I told him so and he just closed his eyes for a while, then tucked the photo away.

‘We were,’ he said. ‘Transcendently so.’

I hope we’re all happy again someday. I don’t really see how, but I hope it all the same.

Sincerely,

Charlie

*

Jeeves,

I have little doubt that you are surprised to receive a letter from me. As repulsive as I find both you, and this situation, nevertheless circumstances require that I make contact. In short, I have a favor to ask of you. I have long heard of your reputation for achieving things that seem impossible, and not so long ago I was on the receiving end of some of your work, so I understand first hand how capable you are. Those who reside in society’s underbelly often are, so I am informed.

Here is my trouble: my son Thomas is being sent to to the front. They won’t tell me where he is headed. It is, apparently, a matter of national security. Though why they believe that security is so crucial that they can’t even trust a countess, I can’t begin to imagine.

I would like you to find some information about someone. Anyone, really. Anyone who can make decisions about troop movements or what have you. Something good and damning so that we can convince them to allow Thomas to stay home. He is such a bright, capable young man, with a degree from Oxford, no less. Surely they could find a better use for him somewhere closer to home, rather than waste him on some Godforsaken battlefield.

I don’t know why I’m going on this way. I needn’t justify my actions to you. I suppose it is the natural desperation of a mother that makes me prattle.

Regardless, I will see to it that you are richly compensated for your trouble.

Get this done immediately. We do not have much time to spare.

A.

*

Dowager Countess of Worplesdon,

I thank your Ladyship for considering me for this opportunity, and I deeply regret that I am unable to be of service. I feel that I must apologize for any misunderstanding that may have arisen between us. I am merely a valet, and have been employed as such for many years. I do not know what your Ladyship is referring to, as I have always kept myself far from any of the untoward places that one might consider anything close to an ‘underbelly.’

Please allow me to express my deep admiration and respect for Mr. Gregson. It takes a courageous man indeed to volunteer so selflessly to serve his country.

From what I have seen of him, I believe he is particularly well suited to life on the front. His talent for physical combat is notable, as is affinity for weapons, both blunt and bladed. No doubt he will take just as quickly to projectiles, and will perform admirably in the field of battle.

I will, of course, keep the letter that your Ladyship sent me for my records. Should any further unpleasantness arise between us, I have little doubt that the letter will prove fascinating reading for all manner of people in legal and law-enforcement careers.

Sincerely,

Jeeves

*

Dear Ginnie,

It’s done, old thing. Tobruk is behind me, and I’m writing this from the back of a three-tonne truck jouncing along the coastal road. To the one side of me is the great Mediterranean and to the other, the trackless desert, studded here and there with the burned-out carcasses of planes and abandoned machine guns.

Do forgive the penmanship; the roads aren’t bad, really, considering, but still.

I simply must tell you what became of Marwa. I was having a farewell tea with her, trying to urge her to take what oof I had to spare, and she said, ‘Non abbastanza,’ which was clear enough, i.e., that the bread I’d supplied is in insufficient supply for her purposes.

I said, ‘melius di niente,’ which, in the bastard conglomeration of Italian and Latin we have started to speak together, means something like, ‘better than nothing.’

She just shook her head at that, and for the very first blasted time I saw a bit of a tear in her eye. Well, I know I don’t need to tell you the effect that a crying woman has on Bertram Wooster. I drew myself up and said, rather desperately, that I could try and shake the other officers down, but all their extra money was tied up in the Blush Pot.

At this she got very still in a rummy sort of way, and then she leaned in close and said, ‘Cosa è Blush Pot?’

I explained the thing as best I could with my Latin and my Arabic phrasebook, and she seemed to catch on. She then asked if someone would need give money to the officers in order to participate, which I confirmed.

There was another moment’s pause, wherein she looked at me with wild surmise. A kind of resolute assurance overtook her then, and she placed a hand upon my cheek and said, ‘Posso farti de male?’ which was close enough to the French for me to gather that she was asking if I would allow her to hurt me.

I didn’t quite know what she meant by that, but I had faith that she would only act by necessity, so all I could think to say was, ‘If you need to,’ which I expressed to her in my own broken Arabic, recalled in bits and pieces from our trusty book.

At that she smiled a trifle sadly, took her hand from the Wooster face, held it out, palm up, and said, ‘Money, please,’ – in English! Heavens, what we’ve learned from each other!

Well, what preux chevalier would turn his back on such a request? I slapped the bills down onto her palm, and she snatched the old translation book from its customary spot on the table and took about three long silent minutes leafing through the it and scribbling things down on a bit of paper. Once finished with that, she said, ‘Come, please,’ and marched out the door, leaving poor Bertram as baffled as he’s ever been.

I legged it after her, of course, followed by three or four of her children, who are ever in raucous tow, and saw that she was headed with a determined bent over to the beach where she knew as well as I did that Robbie and his pals were lounging, as they do whenever possible.

I don’t mind telling you that I felt a goodly bit of persp. bedewing the old bean at this juncture. Still, I could see it was my time to rally round, if there ever was one, so rally I did.

When she reached them, she cleared her throat for their attention. This achieved, she held up the money and said, ‘Blush pot.’

This was met with a roar of jovial favor, and Robbie pocketed the cash with the sure swiftness of a swooping swallow. Once done, Marwa held up her paper and slowly read in phonetically-spelled English, ‘Lord Yaxley plays squash with Ginnie.’

Obviously this should have been the most innocent statement in the world, but as I have shown her the picture you so kindly sent, of my Valet Jeeves and myself at the Squash Handicap, and talked a bit about squash – just explaining the rules and all that – no doubt she has noticed the way that particular word influences me, even if she doesn’t quite know why.

It had the desired affect. Or at least, it had Marwa’s desired affect, because my face was burning with the heat of a Guy Fawkes bonfire, all the way to my ears.

The Australians began roaring with laughter, and then Robbie came up and scrutinized the Wooster map. After some discussion, they all agreed that Marwa had won the blush pot by a large margin, and Robbie went and handed the stuff right over to her!

Altogether it was more than enough for the necessary tickets, so Marwa, her friend, and all the children were packed off the very next morning – next stop, Cairo. Well, there are actually quite a lot of stops between here and Cairo, but you follow.

So all’s well that ends well with Marwa; at least, a man can hope. So long as we can hold a good bit of Libya, she should be well enough in Cairo, I think. She does still owe me three shirts, but I told her I’d pick them up the next time I happen to be poking around Egypt, so that’s all right.

I am now required to endure the occasional Australian chap shouting ‘Care for a round of squash, my Lord?’ at me as I oil by, but ’tis a small price to pay, I think. Wouldn’t you agree? None of them have the faintest idea why that word tomatoes me, and I’ve managed to keep my mouth as tight on the subject as Fort Knox, so here’s hoping it will simply pass with time.

As for old Lord Yaxley himself, he’s headed off to new horizons. Specifically, beautiful Benghazi, which you will see from the return address – if I do, in fact, get a chance to shoot this off to you upon my arrival. My understanding is that things are a bit hot in those parts – and I don’t mean the weather. All things considered, I think I’m rather pleased to be headed West, rather than the alternative. Whatever’s lining up the other way looks to be a bit of a mess, what with the Germans invading Greece and all that. Not that I wouldn’t like another tour of Greece sometime, but preferably without getting shot at. It does make one wonder precisely how many fronts we can fight this thing on, what? Are we up to three, now? We must already have every Australian there is in Africa. We’ve got a good lot of Indian chaps and New Zealanders milling about here as well. Who exactly are we sending to Greece? The exiled French?

I know, I know, ‘ours not to tum-tee-tum,’ and all that.

If you would take my advice, old thing, try not to scuttle your sister’s relationship with old Roger. I can well comprehend why he is not the companion you would personally desire to wile away long winter evenings with, but chacun à son goût, as our Gallic friends say. Didn’t Becky have her own reservations regarding one B. Wooster’s suitability for her own sibling, once upon a time? I believe I heard the word ‘frivolous’ thrown about.

In fact, I recall an instant when you yourself referred to me as ‘mentally negligible.’ While I have little doubt as to the accuracy of that statement, I do wonder whether the person who summed me up so dismissively would have given credence to any passing time traveler who might have told them that they would one day be madly in love with that mentally negligible ass.

I’m getting all mixed up, I’m afraid, and far too unclear in my meaning, aren’t I? I only mean to say that Becky likes him, and he seems a goodly sort. He did, you recall, bring you pyjamas one winter’s evening when you needed them most, without a second’s thought – so he’s good in my book.

What was it you said to me that time when Aunt Maudie was first initiated into the Clan of the Woosters? You said she was a ‘much-needed injection of fresh blood.’ Well, you were right, and I daresay Roger could prove to be a good squirt of f. b. in the – well, let’s say the Glossop clan, what? Yes, he may have an unfortunate tendency to stick his arms into cows’ hindquarters, and yes, he may drink home-brewed beer, and, most damning of all, he may even – God help us – wear a beard, but surely those minor issues can be overlooked if he brings a twinkle of joy to the old sister’s eye?

Leave well-enough alone, my love. Let not the perfect be the enemy of the good, as the fellow said. Your sister knows what she’s about, and don’t forget the chap lets you borrow his boots. In my recent experience, a fellow who lets you borrow his boots is worth his weight in gold.

The sun is setting and I’ll have to cease my writing soon; we drive without lights of any kind in these parts, not even headlights, else the German planes come and put an end to us. Trouble is, I don’t want to stop writing. I don’t know when I shall have the chance again, you see, and I simply can’t make my poor neurons compose something that’s worthy of a last line to you.

I don’t know about you, but I’m getting dashed tired of writing these goodbye letters. Last year, when all of this was still new, I’d try to be oblique about it all and say things like, ‘Oh, I’ll be busy for a time and shan’t have a moment to write, but don’t fret,’ but I’ve rather lost my taste for such sidestepping dishonesty.

The fact is, I don’t know if I’ll be alive this time tomorrow. As the evening draws in, I can see the near constant flashing of bombs and machine-gun fire on the horizon. The Nazis have begun their push, and we are going to meet them with every scrap of nerve and sinew we have left. If these are the last words I write to you, I’d like to make them good ones.

I could say that I love you, which you know, but it doesn’t seem sufficient, what?

I could say that I dream of dancing with you again, though I have an odd feeling that I never shall.

I could say that whatever becomes of me, I shall be with you always – but who can say if that’s true? I know that I should like to be with you, but I don’t get the idea that a dashed lot of it is up to us.

I think, perhaps, that what I must say is thank you. Thank you for giving me the best bally life a chap could hope for. Don’t go blaming yourself for anything. It would have been half a life without you, and I’d do it again in a blink. Every bit of it.

Love,

Bertie

P.S. There is one thing I should mention. I honestly can’t think why I’ve kept it from you until now, as it really is something you should know. I had my will written up before I left, and it all goes to you, the lot of it. I’m sure that’s no surprise, considering everything, but you should know, particularly because it is likely to put my family on the warpath and you should be prepared for that.

Aunt Dahlia is apprised already, and she will give you shelter, should you need it. She can stick you in the old priest-hole at Brinkley. Rumour has it that Charles II hid there once, after the Battle of What’s-It, the bad one when he had to zip out of the country in a goodly fashion. I figure if it’s good enough for a king, then it might just be nearly good enough for you.

Chapter Text

Dear Jeeves,

It’s been a bit since we last corresponded, I know, but I’m rather concerned, to be honest. I sent a letter to Bertie last week, and it returned three days later marked ‘undeliverable.’ Is he quite all right, do you know?

It’s silly, I know. We’ve only been writing a few months now, after a lifetime of having nothing much to do with one another, but suddenly I find I’m really growing rather fond of the blister. He’s a bit of a pip to be sure, but I have really quite enjoyed writing him. I would hate to think that I’ve finally started getting to know the fellow only to lose him.

I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be writing all this nonsense to a servant. It crosses the line, I know. It’s bad enough you have to launder our clothes and cook our meals and all that without having to bear our emotional burdens as well. I really am simply wondering if you happen to have any more information about the chap than I’ve got. Perhaps he’s communicated with you about his bank accounts or some other sort of business, what?

I know I should expect a telegram if anything truly dreadful happens, but I can’t help but wonder if such things could be delayed, what with all the muck and mess that seems to be going on in Libya and Greece all of the sudden.

Thanks awfully.

Ethel

*

Dear Mrs. Scholfield,

I apologize for the delay in my response. I have not been in London lately, and only returned yesterday evening to check on the flat.

Unfortunately I have no real information regarding Lord Yaxley’s current status. I know that he was sent to Benghazi three weeks ago, and that was the last I heard from him. Everything else I know, I know from the papers. No doubt you are aware of the current situation in North Africa, but in case you are not, I will provide a brief explanation of recent events.

The German Africa Korps invaded Libya, beginning on the 24th of March with a successful attack on the city of El Agheila. They then progressed swiftly across Libya, retaking Mersa Brega the following week. It was at roughly this time that Lord Yaxley traveled with his unit to Benghazi, in order to bolster the defensive line against the looming Nazi advance.

We know from news reports that Benghazi fell to the Germans four days later. While many British and Australian soldiers successfully retreated, there were were also many casualties, and many others who were captured. Since that time, German and Italian forces have successfully retaken much of Libya, forcing the British and Commonwealth armies back against the Egyptian border, and the fighting remains fierce. That is all the information I currently have.

It is no doubt difficult for communication to be carried out between soldiers and their loved ones at this time, and that certainly quite distressing. However, a person I very much admire once told me that in the absence of information, it is not necessarily an act of wisdom to assume the worst. Indeed, when one has nothing but hope, hope must prevail. Lord Yaxley has come through many grave dangers in his time at the front, and I have hope that he has come through this as well. He will send word when he is able.

Please do not apologize for describing your distress. As I know you are aware, I have been with Lord Yaxley for over fifteen years, and in that time I have grown quite fond of him. I am heartened to know that others in this world are anxious on his behalf.

Since I have your attention, I wonder if I might request your assistance. Since you are intimately familiar with a particular aunt, whose name I am choosing not to state outright, I was hoping that you might be able to share some insight with me regarding her personal life. I only ask because I have reason to fear that she might wish Lord Yaxley harm due to a personal conflict. If so, I might take the train to visit you soon, if you have no objections.

Sincerely,

Jeeves

*

Dear Reginald,

How are you? I read in the paper this morning that last night’s raid was the heaviest London has sustained so far, with the Shaftesbury Theatre and the London Necropolis Railway Station both destroyed, along with hundreds of other buildings. They say that nearly two thousand people were killed. Would it be too demonstrative of me to say that I hope you weren’t one of them?

If you are still alive, I hope that you will return soon. You know I didn’t approve of your going to London, even briefly, but you will do what you will do, won’t you? I only wish you’d tell me why. I mean to say, I can imagine it is something to do with all the bad news in Libya, but I thought we’d gotten past the silent, stoic portion of our relationship.

Don’t forget you promised Roger that you’d help with the Spring sowing. He’s already put the peas and the radishes in. And he wants me to tell you that Friday night at the pub simply wasn’t the same without you. All the lads asked after you.

Is your very important business in the active war zone going well? Is the flat all right? Bertie’s bedroom still protected from the elements? The piano tuned? The tables clean and the rugs well-beaten? I do hope you’ve returned the silver to a proper shine; we wouldn’t want the luftwaffe to think you’ve gotten sloppy.

I don’t actually give a fig about any of those things. Just send me a letter as soon as you can so that I can stop roving the fields in helpless desperation.

Love,

Rebecca

*

Dear Rebecca,

It was rather noisy that evening. Most of the destruction was leveled upon Chelsea and Westminster, while Mayfair was largely spared. I did remain underground for the duration of the seven-hour raid, in the station near our flat. Oddly, I do not actually recall very much of it; shortly after the first bombs fell, I entered a kind of fugue state that I do not quite know how to describe. It felt as though my brain had been tuned to a space between wireless stations. I was consumed by a kind of noiseless static and lost my sense of time. Bizarre, I know. Perhaps I will speak to a doctor about it, when I have the chance. It may have been a touch of indigestion, perhaps.

To answer those questions that you asked, despite caring not at all, I am sorry to inform you that the flat is not well. At some point within the last month, someone broke in and made off with all of the silverware. Fortunately, that appears to be all that was taken; the thief was what Bertram would call ‘small time,’ and as I made sure to remove all items of real value or importance that could be easily moved before relocating to Gloucestershire, there were no great losses.

Nevertheless, it was most disturbing to arrive home after an extended absence and find the door prized and ajar. There was a moment when I feared my greatest dread had been realized, and Bertram’s aunt had sent someone to find, well, let us say, whatever one might find in our shared living quarters. However, having taken careful stock of every object on the premises, I am confident that it is the silverware only that is missing. As I stated earlier, I did, of course, make provisions for those things that I did not want anyone entering to encounter, but nevertheless, the fear remained.

I am aware that you did not want me to come to London. Nevertheless, my presence was required in order to meet with the editor for Bertram’s book, which I believe I informed you.

No, I am being unfair. Bertram would tell me that I am being unfair, and you are right to be cross with me. I left so suddenly and with so little explanation, I can well apprehend your distress after all that we have endured together of late. After all that you have done for me.

The fact is that Bertram’s final letter to me was so dire in tone, and the news each  ensuing morning so dire itself, that I found I could not bear a single moment longer in the quiet country. The stillness and the calm is healing to the wounded mind, no doubt, but it is maddening to the mind that still awaits the blow. The noise, the business, the crowds, and, indeed, even the bombs are a welcome distraction from the unrelenting maelstrom of my own tumultuous thoughts.

Furthermore, I had assurance from his commanding officer some months ago that I will receive a telegram here should anything happen to him, so it feels best to wait here for any news. I would very much appreciate it if you would forward any letters you receive for me.

Finally, there is some concern that certain members of his family may be planning some sort of retaliation against us. I made what might be considered an injudicious choice recently when his aunt requested my aid with a small matter, and knowing her as I do, there is reason to be concerned.

Do tell Roger that I apologize for reneging on my promise. In all honesty, I doubt I would have been of much use, never having had any experience with the land. I don’t know how to explain to him the cause of my distress. You may need to craft a reasonable excuse for my behavior yourself; I am not at my best.

I promise that I will keep myself as safe as possible whilst I am in the city. I promise that I will return once I have received the information that I need regarding Bertram’s status.

I know my promises have not been infallible of late, but I request that you attempt to keep your faith in me. I am not lost; only wandering for now.

Love,

Reginald

*

Dear Reginald,

I can understand, of course. I’m sorry for my tone. I think I had grown accustomed to the idea that you might remain with us until the war’s end, and that our time together would be a kind of renaissance, a return to the carefree days that we spent together as children, before father died. I had visions of us tending the gardens together, laughing, perhaps, over some nearly-forgotten incident of our youth. I wanted to watch you and Roger become close friends.

I am blinded somewhat. I should have known that there could be nothing that could make you free of care, not so long as Bertie is at war.

Do you remember Mabel’s thirtieth birthday? How we all went to Mother’s for the day, and Bertie played all of his ridiculous tunes on Mother’s old upright? The children were still small, and Bertie sat Auggie on the bench beside him and taught him to play ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb.’

Poor Mother was so confused. She was confused by nearly everything at that point. She kept asking if that young man at the piano was Arthur’s brother. I kept explaining that he was your employer Mr. Wooster, and she would shake her head and say, ‘No, no, I know he’s family. I just can’t remember how.’

I don’t know why I’m thinking of that day. I suppose I’m thinking of Bertie, as we all are. Thinking of you. Thinking of all of us, together.

Do let me know if you hear anything. And please keep safe.

Love,

Rebecca

*

DOWAGER COUNTESS OF WORPLESDON

DEEPLY REGRET TO ADVISE YOU THAT YOUR SON CAPTAIN THOMAS GREGSON LOST HIS LIFE IN ACTION AT VEVI IN GREECE ON ELEVENTH APRIL STOP ALLOW US TO EXPRESS OUR PROFOUND SYMPATHY FOR YOUR LOSS STOP LETTER TO FOLLOW STOP

*

Dear Jeeves,

I say. I mean to say, I say. It’s the oddest thing, really. I mean, I don’t know what to say, so I’ll just say it, what? You were asking me a bit about Aunt Agatha, don’t you know, and, don’t you know it, dashed funny thing – she’s dead.

The doctors say she had a heart attack in the night. I said to Margaret that it was rather fitting, as all of her attacks were always from the heart, what? Funny thing is – and I know funny isn’t the word I ought to be using for all this but I can’t seem to make my mind work properly – funny thing is, young Thos. appears to be dead, too. Seems he was killed in action a week or two back, in Greece or something, and old Aunt Agatha died the evening before the damned telegram arrived. So I suppose that’s a blessing, what? She never knew.

It’s odd, isn’t it? Dashed odd, really, because I while I suppose I knew she was ambling up there in years, it never really occurred to me that she would die. Or that Thomas would, for that matter. They were both such forces of nature; you might as well tell me that a tornado could have a heart event, or a volcano could be KIA at Vevi whilst attempting to retreat from an army of Nazis.

I don’t know what to think about this. I really don’t. It’s funny – there’s that word again, not funny at all, is it? – but it’s funny that I can’t seem to make up my mind as to whether I’m sad or relieved. Is that dreadful of me?

I’m beginning to suspect that there’s a damned lot that’s dreadful about me, actually. Frank always said I was an acquired taste – like a good cognac, he’d say.

But he didn’t drink cognac, you see. I’d always point that out and he’d just smile at me. There were times I wanted to claw that smile off of his face, but ah, not the done thing, is it? It was a rather nice face anyway, would have been a pity to claw it up, I suppose, and when I wasn’t so cross with him I couldn’t think straight, I had a good time with him.

I’m sorry, where was I? Oh, right. How dreadful I am.

Terribly sorry to lay this on you, good fellow. I know you’re just a servant and we don’t know one another, but I suppose, in a way, you’re the closest thing I have to family at the mo., other than my daughters, and one doesn’t like to lay one’s grief – or dizzying elation – too heavily upon one’s children, does one? Even if they’re grown? Because they’re really babies forever, aren’t they, don’t you know?

You wouldn’t know, dash it. No children, unless I’m mistaken. I’m sorry.

And I’m sorry to call you family; I know that’s not at all proper, not at all, only you’ve been at my brother’s side for eons, it seems, and if there’s anyone who knows the Woosters better after all this time, then I can’t think of him. I do know how these things go sometimes. I mean to say, I know how one’s servants can become almost like family, really, when you live together and weather all of life’s travails and all that rot. When I was a girl I knew my nanny better than I knew my father, what?

Anyway, you were suggesting a visit to discuss the wicked auntie, and obviously you needn’t worry about that now. Although, I suppose, if you’d like a bit of sea air, you could always take a long weekend or what have you and come by. You remember where I am, don’t you? Of course you do; Bertie pays the bills, and you sign the checks, it seems, so the address must be familiar to you.

I wouldn’t suggest it, not for the world, only I feel as though I’m going to go mad, and I haven’t a soul to turn to, and I thought, well, if Bertie holds him in such high regard, then he might be a good chap to have about in times of crisis, what?

I am babbling. Am I babbling? Only I just found out this morning and I feel as though I’m spinning in circles. I think I rather thought Auntie A. and I would reconcile at some point, don’t you know? Not that I precisely wanted to, because I’ve been a dashed lot happier since I shook off her influence, but all the same.

Don’t come, my good man. Not unless you fancy a visit to the sea. But do come if you’d like. We don’t get many air raids here. They much prefer to bomb Cardiff just across the bay.

I don’t trust a soul, but Bertie trusts you, so that’s almost as good.

Sincerely,

Ethel

PS. You haven’t heard from Bertie, have you? I haven’t had a telegram, so that’s something, what? No news is good news, so they say.

*

Dear Mrs. Scholfield,

Please allow me to express my deepest sympathy for the loss of your aunt and cousin.

I do indeed know the address of your home and I would be delighted to join you in Chuffnell Regis for a few days. I have been staying in London in order to receive any information about Lord Yaxley that may arrive there, but since you are likely to receive such news just as swiftly, it would be perfectly logical for me to stop with you for a short time, if you sincerely believe that you would find it beneficial to have me there.

The sensation of simultaneous grief and elation at the loss people who are so complex is a common one. It is not dreadful at all. We reap what we sow, as Lord Yaxley would say, and if I may take the liberty of saying so, your aunt and cousin sowed seeds of bitter fruit.

I will send a telegram with more details shortly.

Jeeves

*

Dear Aunt Dahlia,

Please allow me to express my deepest sympathy for the loss of your sister and nephew.

I will soon be taking a short holiday to the seaside, and if it is amenable to you, I would like to stop at Brinkley for a few nights on my journey home afterward.

Love,

Reginald

*

Dear Rebecca,

It appears that a great deal has suddenly changed. Lord Yaxley’s cousin, who once attacked me, and his aunt, who was the cause of all our recent distress, have both died.

I feel as though I were running up a great staircase and tripped on the final step. For so long these people have occupied a permanent space in my mind. For so long I have worried over what I might do to keep them contained, keep their ability to influence our lives as limited as possible. I was only just recently beginning to work on a new plan, fearing that what we worked out with them last Autumn might be weakening, may require reinforcement– and now, nothing.

It almost feels as though it is some kind of ruse, though I know that cannot be. Still, my restless mind requires that I see the thing in writing for myself, so I am traveling to Bertram’s sister’s home in Chuffnell Regis in a few days in order to see the letter she received and to gather clarifying detail. I will also be stopping at Brinkley afterward for one night, for the same purpose. Afterward I will return to London and remain there until  the telegram arrives. If such a telegram is necessary.

I do indeed recall Mabel’s thirtieth birthday. Mabel and her husband persisted in calling out requests to him and dancing with the children, and thus encouraged him far more than is advisable. Though I urged him to cease his clatter, he said that he could not disappoint his public.

I also remember meeting Mother in her little kitchen as she was pouring drinks. She smiled up at me, and I could see by her expression that she was experiencing a moment of mental clarity, which was rare by that point in time. She reached up and patted my cheek, and she said, ‘Your gentleman is a darling, Ginnie.’

I was too frightened to ask what she meant by that, and of course, moments later she was again enveloped in that cloud of disorientation that clung to her at the end. The rational explanation is that she meant it merely as stated: my employer was a good man. The childhood nickname needn’t have meant a thing.

There are times, however, that I have chosen to interpret her words differently, despite the knowledge that it is probably merely a hopeful sophistry on my part.

One does want to believe that his mother would approve of him, whether it would be possible or not. I suppose it is only human to delude ourselves a little.

I am so relieved by the death of Bertram’s relatives that I keep laughing aloud. I am like a child on a carnival ride. It is most unbecoming. Mother would never approve, not of this. Nor, most likely, of anything else. But once a person is gone, I suppose it no longer matters what they would have thought. I can be free to imagine that she would be laughing right along with me.

I am going to go swimming in the sea. It is only April, but I think I shall swim anyway – for a moment or two. Bertram found some comfort in the sea of late. I will join him.

Love,

Reginald

*

Dear Reggie,

Oh, please. As if you have an ounce of sympathy to spare for that lot – and little could I blame you. Yes, go ahead to the seaside in blasted April if you must, you odd little bird, and come whenever you like. I shan’t send you the funeral details as I don’t particularly want you to burn the church down whilst we’re all inside doing our bit of public grieving.

All the same, it is odd to think I’ll never see the old bat again. We’ve been sparring with one another since the day I was born.

No word from Bertie lately, I suppose? Libya is a complete mess, as I understand it. No chance you could just pop down there and clean it up for us, I suppose? Get our blue-eyed boy back?

I know you would if you could, darling.

Love,

Aunt Dahlia

Chapter Text

Dear Rebecca,

I am not certain how long I can remain in Chuffnell Regis. I know that it is quite melodramatic for me to say so, considering that I only arrived yesterday evening, but I fear that I have underestimated the effect that returning to this place and encountering Bertram’s sister after so long would have on me.

The town itself is distressing. I don’t know if you recall that I once severed my relations with Bertram and gave my notice. It was long ago now, only a short time after, let us say, our circumstances transformed from what they were to what they are. He had taken up the banjolele, a most deplorable instrument, and I could not eradicate from my mind the notion that I was losing control, not only of him, but of myself. My madness for him was overwhelming; a state I know you are familiar with. It almost caused me to permit the instrument in question.

It is a long, tiresome story and I will not relate it all here, but suffice it to say that I took temporary employment with another gentleman who lived in this region. It is, therefore, the final place that I resided without Bertram. Until the war, of course.

So it stands to reason that it is a poignant experience to return here, even without the complicating factor of Mrs. S.

As I have stated before, I did meet Mrs. S. on one previous occasion, when she first returned from India after the death of her husband. We met at the dock, as was Bertram’s wish, and accompanied her and her young daughters to Chuffnell Regis, where Bertram had purchased a small home for them to reside in. At the time he saw it as a ‘two-birds-one-stone sitch,’ as he put it, for his friend Lord Chuffnell was suffering from some financial distress at the time. He concocted the most characteristically generous idea that he could purchase one of the cottages that Lord Chuffnell owned, and give it to his sister, thus aiding his friend financially in a small way, and providing a much-needed abode for his sister and her children.

At the time of this event, I was overly preoccupied with Bertram himself, and paid little attention to his sister. Now, however, without his distracting influence, I find the reality of her to be rather strenuous.

When I arrived a few days ago, she met me at the train station. She has her hair short, as is the style, and were she not clad in skirts instead of trousers I could have taken her for him as my eyes caught sight of her upon the platform. My heart was in my throat at the vision, and I dismounted the train with little of the sangfroid that I prefer to maintain with those I with whom I am not well-acquainted. As you no doubt recall, my hands have taken to shaking some, when I am disturbed, and the tremor was visible as I lifted my luggage down. I saw her eyes take it in, then pass to my face with a strange, inscrutable look.

‘Jeeves?’ she said.

I bowed my head and replied, ‘Madam.’

‘Are you quite all right?’

‘Merely a tremor, Madam. It is common for me, since the blitz began. Nerve trouble.’

She seemed to accept that explanation, and did not offer to help me, as Bertram undoubtedly would have. Not that I would have accepted help from either of them, but even so.

Instead she lead the way to her car, and proceeded to vault herself into the driver’s seat with the precise lithe leap that I always considered unique to Bertram. It gave me pause, quite literally, and I stood frozen upon the pavement for a moment, my bag trembling in my traitorous hand.

The ways in which she reminds me of him are profoundly disturbing.

To see his eyes, his hair, his lively movements, but to see them twisted into something so unlike him – I feel as though I am interacting with some kind of golem or changeling, something sickening and cruelly made for my own torture. It would be hard enough to be here even if I knew that he were alive, but under the current circumstances – I do not think I can remain here.

She drove me to her cottage and spoke in a near constant stream. She told me about her daughters and where they are and what they are doing. The middle child is a nurse, she tells me, working at a soldier’s hospital in Dorset. The youngest is a stenographer and does a brisk business in Liverpool. I admit it is strange for me to hear of these young women working this way, not just in jobs at shops and cafes, but with trained careers. The times have changed indeed.

Her eldest, Margaret, continues to reside with her in the cottage, and her young child Lillian. The three of them live off the wages that Margaret earns from her part-time work in a stationary store in town, which is feasible because Bertram pays – and has always paid – all of the necessary bills relating to the house itself.

She is unabashedly concerned for their financial standing should he die.

She regaled me also with tales of the late Dowager Countess. She had less to say of the late Captain Gregson, who was born only a few years before she left for India, but she did make a point to say that he was a fat and hearty baby who liked to bite.

‘No errant hand was safe,’ she told me. ‘He’d bite any finger that strayed too close.’

By the time we arrived at her cottage, she was in tears. She apologized profusely for breaking down, and I did my best to give what comfort I could without actually touching her. She made no move to leave the vehicle, electing instead to bury her face into her narrow hands and weep like a child.

‘For what, precisely, are you grieving, madam?’ I asked at last.

She shook her head and did not reply for a moment. When she had recovered some small increment of self-control, she said, ‘Potential, more than reality, I suppose. I think I rather thought that Aunt Agatha would come round, what? That she would meet Lillian. I know that Mother and Father would have loved her. Mother in particular. So I did hope that someday Aunt Agatha would put aside her prejudices and embrace my family, such as it is.’ After a moment of silence she continued, ‘It was easier in India, I think. I didn’t have to think about anyone who was dead, because I could pretend they were simply very, very far away. I hardly heard from anyone living, anyway, whilst I was gone, so to me it wasn’t so very different. Bertie sent no letters, and Aunt Agatha sent only her Christmas cards, so it was all the same. Mother in the grave and Bertie in England – pshaw. All simply far. Far off and preserved in the amber of distance.’

We sat together in that thought for a time.

Presently I said, ‘It is more difficult, certainly, to face the empty house where once the beloved footfall rang across the floorboards than it is to consider the small gap in the horizon.’

She nodded, and lifted her head from her hands at last to regard me.

‘Who have you lost then, Jeeves?’ she asked. ‘Who is your silenced footfall?’

I choked on my reply. Her eyes regarding me were so very like his, so open and so blue, so guileless. I wanted to tell her. I wanted to tell her how Bertram’s tread upon the floor is like a staccato tympani, how the mere sound of it brings an electric jolt of joy through the entirety of my person. I wanted to tell her how he would come home in the evening singing, how I would hear him coming down the hall before he rapped upon the door, how his entrance was a burst of sunlight into an enveloping gloom. I wanted to tell her how he would kiss me at the door, as soon as it was shut, with the intensity of an eager dog leaping upon his master. How he would smile and demand to know what I’d been up to all day. How he would listen to my often dull reply with an enthusiasm that made me feel interesting, for the first time in my life. How he would throw himself upon me when I rested on a sofa with a book, his head upon my lap, or his legs entangled with mine. I wanted to tell her how his existence was as a magnetic pull upon me, body and soul. How I revolved around him, and how, in his absence, I was a sort of rogue planet, plummeting through trackless eons of empty space.

I wanted to tell her all of these things, but I do not trust her. I could not say those words. I merely wanted to pour myself out to someone – to him. But she is not him. She only wears his eyes, his hair, his sudden, disjointed movements.

So I told her about Mother and Father instead, and I swallowed the catch in my throat at the longing I felt to speak of Bertram.

In the house, I met Margaret and Lillian. Both perfectly fine young people, whom I suspect take after their fathers more than their mothers, much to my relief. I can take only one grotesque Bertram mask – if I can take even that.

I have acquired that which I required. I have seen the letter, seen the coroner’s report, seen the telegram regarding Captain Gregson’s fate. I have aided Mrs. S. in choosing a proper dress for the Dowager Countess’s funeral, which was no small task considering the number of incredibly inappropriate objects she preferred to wear.

I have cleaned the house for her. I have made meals. She and her offspring are most grateful. I don’t know what else to do for a grieving household. I am simply doing what I think Bertram would think is best. I am following his code, as it were.

I have been meditating on your words to me, you see. What you said last year, about the way we carry our husbands’ spirits when they are gone. I have been thinking about how I would carry Bertram. I think he would want me to care for his family. He took care of everyone he knew, without a thought. It was as natural as breath to him.

The funeral itself will take place this Friday morning in Steeple Bumpleigh. I have promised to accompany her, her daughter, and her granddaughter on the train that day, though I will not attend the funeral myself. Afterward I plan to progress to Brinkley Court with Mrs. Travers and stop with her for a short time, before returning to London to await news of Bertram.

I did submerge myself in the ocean on two separate occasions since my arrival here. It is quite frigid, but invigorating. To my dismay, however, it did not make me feel closer to him, as I hoped it would. Instead I found myself thinking of Coleridge, and his tortured exclamation that he was alone, alone, all, all alone, alone on a wide, wide sea. I think because I know that his waters are warm where he swims, the fact that mine are so cold only broadens the distance.

I am exhausted now, in mind and soul, so I will close this letter. I hope that you are well, that Mabel and Charles are well, the children are well. I hope that Roger is well. Do tell him that I will return at the earliest possible moment. As soon as I my business is complete. Tell him I will learn all there is to know about growing vegetables. I did promise him, after all. Bertram would want me to keep my promises.

Love,

R.

*

Dear Aunt Dahlia,

How are you? Dashed silly question to ask, I know. Your sister died. And your nephew. How are you, all the same? I’m a mess, myself. I’ve actually got Bertie’s man here with me to help pick up the pieces, so to speak. I must say, he’s dashed efficient, what? I can see why Bertie has kept him around so long. Aunt Agatha had all kinds of dreadful ideas about him, but he seems a very solid sort. Dependable.

It was he who suggested I write you. He suggested it months ago, actually, but I ignored it then. We never got on much, you and I, and that’s probably my fault. Only Aunt Agatha always said that you were a bad influence and all that, and I believed her. I believed her about a great many things. I was so lost, don’t you know. So frightened. And then of course I went off to India and thought I’d left the whole Wooster mess behind for good. But that’s all ancient history, isn’t it? As ancient as the Greeks and the Egyptians and the whats-its. The Phoenicians.

Even Frank is ancient history now. Gosh! How long it’s been since he died! You’d think I’d get over a thing like that, after all these years, but I just can’t seem to. Margaret tells me I should go out and meet a man, and I told her I will when she does. And she says, ‘Oh no, it’s not the same, you see, because my husband only just died.’

And then I say, ‘So did mine.’

And she says, ‘Nearly twenty years ago.’

And I say, ‘Surely not!’

And then I haven’t the foggiest clue what to say.

I think it’s something about leaving India. The moment he was cold I jumped on a ship and went back to merry old England, and I can’t help but feel there’s a part of me that believes he’s still out there, back home, and that whenever I get myself together to return he’ll be waiting at the dock. I seem to do that sort of thing, don’t you know. Just dash off when it gets tough and hope things are better elsewhere. Sometimes they are a bit better. Sometimes a bit worse. Sometimes a bit of both. But either way, I’m starting to think it might not be the way to get things done, what?

I mean to say, Frank is most certainly gone for good, and shan’t be waiting for me in Bombay, or at any port in the world I could possibly sail to, so obviously I haven’t done myself much good by running off and pretending all was well. Margaret might be right. About moving on, I mean. Only, I haven’t spent much time around men, you see. Aside from my friends’ husbands.

Anyway, that’s a lot of rot, I know, and you’ve lost your husband yourself, so you don’t need to hear more of it from me, do you? Actually, you’ve lost two husbands, come to think of it. I always forget about the first one, somehow. I was so young.

I say. This Jeeves fellow. You know him rather well, I gather? He doesn’t speak much, but when he does he seems to think highly of you. As I said, it was he who recommended that I reach out to you, feeling as alone as I am at the mo., and all that. I’ve been sobbing upon his shoulder quite a lot lately, don’t you know, and I think I might be getting a bit attached. He’s got a good shoulder, I must admit. A good set of shoulders. Sturdy.

All the same, I’ve got some questions about the chap.

He wears a wedding ring. What? He’s mentioned that he’s widowed, just once. When I asked about the ring. He seemed so dashed uncomfortable that I didn’t dare to press. But what sort of woman was the wife, then?

I’ll be honest and say he doesn’t seem all that attached to the woman, for all that he still sports her band of gold and all that. I asked him some days ago about whom he has lost in his life, and he hesitated for a moment, and then went off about his father and his mother, and didn’t even mention the wife.

Oh, and what sort of arrangement was that, by the by? Did he and the wife share digs with Bertie? Isn’t that a bit odd?

He’s a good cook, by the way. Better than me. And he cleans and washes and irons. Obviously it’s his job and all that rot, I know. I’m not a fool. But there’s something about the way he goes about it that is rather, well, charming. He makes the place feel like home in a way that I had almost forgotten was possible.

He has a corking profile. And sometimes, I think he’s looking at me. Sort of staring, like he can’t get enough of the sight of me. He always looks away if I glance his direction. Makes me blush, to be honest. I feel like a girl.

Am I mad to think this way? I feel as though I’m going a bit mad.

Would Bertie mind, do you think?

Aunt Agatha’s gone, after all. The world is changing. I say, the world is on fire, is it not? Are not all the old ways burned to ground, like Rome? Our Rome has burned, Aunt Dahlia. My own daughter married a chauffeur. Am I mad?

I feel mad. I feel off-kilter like I’ve been taking continuous turns on the tilt-a-whirl. Nothing feels real. Aunt Agatha is gone. Thomas is gone. Frank is gone. The whole bally world I built my life upon is gone, melted away like sugar in the rain. I feel reckless. I feel wild.

What do you say, Aunt of mine? I know we aren’t close. I know we’re dashed well the opposite of whatever close is. All the same, I feel as though you’re all I’ve got and I need a mother sort of person to give me just a bit of advice.

See you at the funeral, either way.

Love,

Ethel

*

Dear Ethel,

You’re right that we’re not close, young mote-in-my-eye. All the same, I can’t blame you. Agatha was many things, but she was not one to promote charity between others. If anything, it should have been up to me to build a relationship between us, but you seemed to be hers, and Bertie was mine, and that was that, so I left it.

I admit that I am somewhat disturbed by what you have hinted at in your letter. Times may have changed, but that doesn’t mean you can poach your brother’s valet while he’s away at war. You must know that Bertie depends on that man.

As for the wife, well, that’s a whole other kettle of fish. One that I don’t quite know how to explain. Suffice it to say that I don’t believe that Jeeves is eagerly looking for a replacement to that particular post. If he fails to speak of her, it is because it is too painful for him, I think. He has not been parted from his spouse for long, and, in his heart, he is still quite firmly married. Likely will be forever.

Since you asked for Motherly advice, I will give it to you the same way I’d give it to Angela: keep your hands to yourself, you clod!

Jeeves is a good man, and he is entirely devoted to the person he loves, whether that person is here or not. No doubt you can understand that, having spent twenty years a widow yourself. Admire his corking profile all you like, but leave it at that. Your clumsy advances would not be welcome, I can assure you. Find some other chump with sturdy shoulders and cry on those. The world is not exactly perishing for a lack of shoulders.

I am delighted to be in touch with you, dear child.

I will see you at the funeral.

Love,

Aunt Dahlia

*

Dear Reggie,

I am just a bit concerned about our Ethel. It’s not something I like to put into writing, but do be cautious of her, won’t you? I’ll fill you in when you visit after the funeral. For now, keep your distance a bit. Don’t let her cry on your shoulder.

Love,

Dahlia

*

Dear Reginald,

This letter arrived for you this morning. I rushed to forward it to you by the evening post because I could see that it was from Libya, but not from Bertie.

Please tell me if it’s all right. Come here at once if you need to.

Love,

Rebecca

*

Dear Reggie,

I’ll start by saying that Bertie is fine. Nearly fine. He has a minor shrapnel wound in his right hand and can’t write, that’s all, but I thought maybe because this letter was regarding his well-being, you’d like me to use this name. Is that right? Bertie wasn’t sure himself. He thought a ‘dear Reggie’ letter might give you a dizzy spell, and if so, I’m sorry.

We’re back in Tobruk, I’m afraid. Didn’t make it to Egypt before we were cut off. When Bertie’s healed up he’ll want to tell you the whole story himself, so I won’t intrude.  We’re technically under siege but we still have a fairly good handle on the water here so ships can come by now and then. Letters might not be frequent, but they are feasible.

I offered to take dictation, but he didn’t like the idea of that. Said it would make him feel like a ‘bally jute man sitting on his jute throne,’ whatever that means.

But anyway, we’re alive for the moment, and not too badly off, all things considered. Bertie will write soon, no doubt. I hope you’re well.

Charlie

*

Dear Bertram,

I received the letter from Lieutenant Vernon informing me of your wound, as well as your current location and status.

No doubt you are perfectly cognizant of the manner of distress that I have experienced daily since your final letter to me last month. I do not say this in order to burden you, but only as a frail and stuttering attempt to explain the depth of my love for you. My mind is utterly overwhelmed by the knowledge of your survival.

I have been existing as though you were lost; something about the calamitous nature of the recent news from Libya made it seem judicious to me to adjust myself to a world without you in it. I could not stand to circle in uncertainty as I have before. With so very many men, so beautiful, all lying dead, it seemed like magical thinking to me that you should be spared.

Do note that I am writing from Chuffnell Regis. I have been visiting your sister for reasons that I will elucidate at a later time. Please continue to write to me at my own sister’s address, since I intend to return to that location soon.

For now, I am, quite simply, overcome. It is rare that words escape me, but escape they have. Please, for now, accept this most humble assertion: your life is a miracle. To hear that you yet live, when I had believed that hope was lost, returns God to his Heaven. The snail is on the wing, my love. The bee on the thorn. All is right with the world.

No need to reply until you are healed. I can subsist for an eon on the mere fact of your continued existence.

I love you, Bertram.

Love,

Ginnie

*

Dear Ginnie,

What-ho, old bean! Been a while, what? I’m awfully chuffed to be writing you! I don’t quite know when I’ll actually send this off because the ships only come when they feel it’s safe to sneak in, so I fear we’ll have longer gaps in our correspondence than we are used to.

I hope all is well with the old sis. My sis, I mean. Yours too, of course! But I am most curious to hear what brought you to Chez Scholfield. Spill!

Forgive the handwriting, old thing. I know the last letter I wrote you was sloppy as a St. Bernard who got into the barrel, but now I’m writing the thing left-handed due to an errant bit of shrapnel that got itself a bit too friendly with the inner workings of the right side of the equation – as I believe Charlie has informed you.

Truth is, I could have written a bit sooner if it weren’t for that, but I thought I’d wait a week and see if it healed enough. John told me it wouldn’t and dash it – he was right. I suppose a man learns a thing or two in medical school, even in Australia.

Not to worry, old thing, and I mean that with complete conviction, not one of my old ‘don’t worry old thing because I am soon to die and it gives me the pip to have to tell you so,’ statements, but in the sense that there really isn’t anything to worry about here, because it was really quite small and John got it out quick as a hare and he says it didn’t seriously damage any tendons, so the old mitten should be back in top form in another few weeks or so.

He said, ‘Don’t write with it, don’t play piano, and don’t shoot with it until I say you can.’ How’s that for a laugh? Being an actual doctor and not a medic, he never faces down the long line of foes with Bertram at his side, so he doesn’t realize I don’t shoot anyway.

I say, we’ve had quite the time of it over here. No doubt you’ve heard the news, at least a bit. Libya lost, so soon after being won. A real shame, I must say. And as for myself, I found I was out of the frying pan and then, well, right back in the bally frying pan again! That is to say, Tobruk. Back in Tobruk. There was a damned lot of discussion at one point about whether we should aim for Tobruk in the retreat or keep going straight for the Egyptian border, and it was settled that Tobruk was far enough, that surely our forces could hold the line at least that far, and all that, but of course I imagine you’ve got an idea of how that turned out. Siege and all that.

Although, it’s not precisely a siege, is it? It was my understanding that a city under siege doesn’t get supplies, or get to send their letters out, but so long as we’re quite careful, we still get an Allied ship in our port every once in a while. Apparently they’re hoping that since we can technically be resupplied, that means that we can have the odd distinction of being the first besieged city that ever starved the siegers themselves out, rather than vice versa. Is ‘siegers’ the word I want? It doesn’t sound quite right, somehow.

We still have the port, you see, as I think I mentioned, whilst the Nazis have about five hundred miles of desert behind them to their nearest safe harbour. So the idea is that we just sit tight here for a month or two and see if we can outlast them.

I’m sorry, old top, but I’ve rather jumped ahead of myself, haven’t I? I’ve got to the ‘besieged’ portion of the tale and completely skipped the ‘battle and retreat’ bit that landed me here.

I think when I last wrote you I was nearly to Benghazi, what? With the night falling and the bombs bursting in air and all that? Awfully dramatic, I know, but sometimes you get a moment in your puff that’s just as sensationally thrilling as anything those Hollywood types can throw up on a screen, so what are we to do?

That night ended up fairly uneventful, as it happened. We rolled into town about one in the ack emma, and all the shooting was still a bit off, so Archie thought we’d do better with a bit of a rest. At his word we all went about finding spare spots in holes and things where we could lay our weary bones. I ambled my way over to a cohort of Australian chaps I didn’t know who were residing under a propped up slab of granite. Or marble. Well, I think it was some sort of stone, anyway. Whatever it was, it looked rather sturdy and unobtrusive, which I thought was just the ticket for a fellow who would like to avoid being bombed in his repose, what?

I sidled up to the coves and said something like, ‘What ho!’

And the fellow nearest me said, ‘Hello, sir. Do you need something?’ They were non-coms, you see.

‘Oh, just a slab upon which to lay myself, and all that, don’t you know.’

And the one in the middle said, ‘Do you have fleas, sir?’

And I said, ‘Oh! No, I don’t.’

And the third chap said, ‘You will.’

Then they all scooted over a bit and I tucked the old Wooster corpus into the vacated space and fell into a fitful dreamless, though I rather think I fell short of the standard forty winks. What with the fleas and all.

In fulfillment of the prophecy, I have fleas now. Do you think I might be the only Earl who can claim such an honor? At least, this side of the Fourteenth C.?

It wasn’t until the following morning that things started off, when I awoke before sunrise was quite properly established – and after, as I say, approximately seventeen winks, at best – to the sound of men shouting and running about in a panic. I staggered off myself at a pretty goodish pace, not knowing where I was legging it to. There was a good-sized clump of birds milling about behind a thickish garden wall about thirty feet from my position, all staring up at the sky, so I oiled over to them, leapt over the wall with all the grace of a one-legged kangaroo, and then turned about and had a gander myself.

It was the oddest sight I have ever seen. Slowly floating down into our midst was a long metal cylinder, about the size of a coffin, supported by a parachute.

I said, ‘Egad, what in the devil is that?’

The fellow closest to me, an Indian chap, whispered to me that it was a sea mine! Apparently the Germans think it’s an absolute wheeze to take a mine designed to sink a battleship and simply toss it out of a plane into a sleeping town! The thing that’s particularly fun about it is that it goes off with such terrific force that it can take out an entire city block. It is meant to deliver its deadly blow under water, after all, so with so little in the way of resistance, I mean to say, in the open air, the thing goes off like billy-oh!

The other charming aspect of the sea-mine delivered par avon is that no one can say just when the thing will blow. Sometimes they’re set with a timer, and sometimes they just stand there waiting for a gust of wind or an unlucky landing bird to set them off. This particular baby landed gently, stood for just a moment, and then went off like a particularly enthusiastic brass section sinking its teeth into Tchaikovsky’s latest. Do I mean Tchaikovsky? My new chums and I all ducked down behind our wall for the duration of the fun, and when we popped back up, the other side of the wall was half gone, along with my lovely granite slab! Ah well, cest la vie, what what?

So welcome to bally Benghazi, what?

Life was quiet as a poet’s idyll for a day or two after that, but then the Germans cried havoc and let slipped the what’s-its of war. Full air raid, to which I know you’re no stranger, old thing, and then a great line of blasted panzers! Whilst we were occupied attempting to deflect the tanks, infantry came at our southern flank and we were done for. We fell back along the coastal road to Derna, which gave me some rather unpleasant deja vu; couldn’t help but think of Dunkirk, what? Although at least we had some trucks to ride in this time, which was a nice change of pace, really, particularly given the desert climate we were facing, and all that.

In Derna all we stars and crowns and the like gathered together and tried to decide the best way to go when we inevitably retreated again. I personally thought it might be the better part of valour, as they say, to make straight for Capuzzo and the Egyptian border without dilly-dallying or lolly-gagging, or any other goofy nonsense words, but a great lot of the other officers thought that sounded a bit yellow-bellied, as our American friends would say.

I said, ‘I’d take a yellow belly over a red one any day,’ which did not get the chuckle I was aiming for, but rather a lot of blank stares, particularly from the chaps from other divisions whom I did not know so well. ‘I mean to say, yellow, meaning cowardly, is better than red. Like blood, don’t you know.’

At that point some Major from Poland went on a bit of a tirade about cowardice, and then good old Archie jumped in saying something about how ‘Captain the Earl of Yaxley is the bravest man I have ever had the honour of serving with,’ which I thought was a bit much, really, and then and Australian Captain said he thought any man with a title should be barred from service, considering they’re all inbred and useless, which got Archie quite upset, and rather hurt my feelings, though I tried not to show it. Soon all the chaps were arguing to the point that I rather felt as though I’d stumbled into an International Aunt Convention rather than the relatively subdued and pacifistic army contingent.

It was at that point that an Australian private came running up with an order from HQ saying we were to stand our ground until the last possible moment, which rather but a damper on the whole proceedings.

As it happened, the last possible moment came rather sooner than expected, as the Nazis came at us that evening with what must have been every man, woman, and child that Germany had to spare, along with every tank ever made and every plane built since the Wright Brothers took wing (which was a dashed awful idea, if I may say so; I don’t approve of aeroplanes in the least) and we took off from Derna in the dead of night with about two minute’s notice.

We traveled sans light entirely, as one must when there are blasted planes about, and it was along the cliff road, of course, because why wouldn’t it be? So we were going about ten miles an hour, a dashed long line of us in jeeps and trucks and on foot, whatever we had available. Every couple of hours, a couple of planes would swoop over and drop a speculative bit of Hell upon us and we’d all leap out of the trucks and hide as best we could, and then continue on with whatever vehicles hadn’t been incinerated.

It was not the most enjoyable evening I’ve had, I can tell you.

It was one of these delightful smatterings of bombs and such that gave me my little shrapnel wound. The tiniest bit of metal you ever saw in your puff went slicing right into the back of my hand, and good Lord, it bit. As bad as Bartholomew in his prime!

And then, because jolly old God decided we hadn’t had a tough enough time of it, just before dawn a sandstorm kicked up, and I had to jump out of my truck and walk in front of the damned thing all the way back to Tobruk to make sure we didn’t trundle off into the trackless desert or topple sideways into the sea. Couldn’t see more than five feet ahead of us! I kept my good hand waving about so the driver could see me and took my tentative steps about three feet ahead all the rest of the way, every second fearing that my foot would meet open air instead of desert sand and over the edge I’d go.

Never have I been more pleased to see a barbed-wire fence than I was that evening! I knew that fence for Tobruk’s perimeter, and when I called out my manly ‘What-ho!’ to the chaps guarding the place, they came and welcomed us home with such warmth it brought a t. to the old e.

We slipped in just before dawn and simply tossed our beaten bodies down on any open space and slept like the dead, fleas be damned.

By the time we woke, we were told we were surrounded, that all escape by land was cut off, and that the only two ways out of Tobruk were the Mediterranean, or Heaven. I said I’d jolly well like to give the Mediterranean a try, if it was all the same to Churchill, and most of the chaps seemed to agree, but it so happened that the Mediterranean was rather lost to us as well, since the good old war office decided they’d rather like to keep Tobruk, if possible, as a ‘foothold’ in Libya. So even though we dashed well could hop on a ship and sail for England’s green and pleasant land, they’ve decided not to allow it, and here we are.

At that point I decided that it might be a good idea to get the bit of metal out of the old Northern Paw, and I paid John a visit in his hospital. He popped the thing out with a tiny knife and a pair of tweezers, and that’s when he issued his indictment against writing and shooting. Piano playing too, as I said, so the old upright sits silent as a sailor’s widow on the shore, awaiting my return.

It’s all right, really. The hand, I mean. It’s healing up jolly well and it shouldn’t be too much longer before I’m back to rights.

I’m afraid we’ve got an even bigger problem, however, that I learned about after my little surgery.

I had ankled out to the bay for a breath of bracing sea air, and I happened upon Archie there, who was staring out at a few of the picturesque shipwrecks we have dotted in our lovely harbour. I thought it was a good chance for me to put in a word for old John, so I said, ‘Good old John just nipped that shrapnel from the mitten with unparalleled finesse!’

To my great dismay, Archie rolled his eyes and said, ‘John is an ass.’

‘Perhaps you don’t know who I mean,’ I clarified, hoping for the best, as one does. ‘I mean our good doctor John Angel, that paragon of the scalpel and gauze.’

‘John Angel, the ass,’ Archie said. ‘That’s the one.’ And he stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. For a moment, I was taken aback. I had thought they’d been so chummy, you see.

I decided to press the matter.

‘I say, old chap,’ I said, ‘has something happened between you two? You used to be so chummy, as I recall. The absolute best of friends.’

To this, Archie gave a snort and said, ‘He was all right at first, but when I got my second shot to the shoulder a couple months back, he turned into some sort of idiot. He started telling me ghastly stories about his life back home and then laughing like a hyena as though they were funny. Then he tried singing me some songs, for some reason, and the man can’t hold a tune for the life of him. It got to the point where I considered pulling the stitches out on my own so that I wouldn’t have to have another conversation with him. I can’t account for it, Bertie. He was a sober, sound fellow at first, but he’s become some kind of buffoon. Perhaps the war has made him lose his mind.’

Well, it took me a moment, but we Woosters are sharp chaps, as you know, and soon I saw all. It was my Cyrano bit, backfiring like billy-oh! I think I told you before that I feared good old John didn’t quite have the Wooster flair for story-telling, and I have never been so sorry to be right. I can’t begin to think what to do to salvage the sitch. Have a thought on it, won’t you? I should have known better than to take this on by myself, with so little input from you.

I seem to having nothing but time these days, whenever we aren’t being attacked. So far we’ve managed to deflect two bitz-thingummies, which is a bit of all right, what? Apparently the trick is to just let the tanks roll right on through and focus on the infantry instead. The Australian commander came up with that; bright fellow. They captured a jolly lot of tanks that way.

Apparently Rommell’s never failed with that tactic before and he’s absolutely steaming from the ears about it and doing his best to explain himself to the higher-ups like a schoolboy caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. Or so our informants tell us.

Oh, by the by, do you know that the Sparta was foundered right here in Tobruk Harbour? That was the ship we went round the world on, wasn’t it? Or am I much mistaken? She looks quite similar. Apparently all the nice cruise ships have been pressed into service by the navy, and the good old Sparta was serving as a supply transport, and she caught the wrong end of a sea mine on her supply run last week and went part of the way down just over yonder. I say part of the way down, because no ships seem to go all the way down around here. They all stick out a bit, hither and thither. It’s dashed sobering, I can tell you, to be able to see the very ship we passed such a merry six months on sitting gutted and half-sunk in the surf.

By Jove, this writing with the southerly mit is for the birds, old top. I’d place the odds at two to one that you can barely make out my scrawl at this juncture, and the minor appendages are aching to the Heavens. It’s worth it though. Every bit of it. I’d write you a hundred pages with my left hand if I thought it would make you smile. You make me work so hard for your smiles anyway; this is hardly anything compared to some of the theatrics I’ve composed to crack your legendary composure.

Had we but world enough and time, I should write you a scrivener’s screed with my feet!

World enough and time, indeed! No doubt you can see that I am feeling rather bucked, actually. I was so certain that I would not live, dear Ginnie, just, as it seems, you were. I was so certain that that was the last letter I would write to you. You cannot know, I don’t think, how very truly bad it all looked. Not that it looks all that much better now, mind you, but, well, dash it, I lived! I can’t sleep worth a damn anymore, not without screaming myself awake, and there’s a dull kind of emptiness in my head that I can’t quite explain, but I lived through that, and now I suppose there’s no reason to think that I couldn’t, quite possibly, live through the rest of this. Eh? I feel like the chappie from that old poem who is thrown to the Earth and came up with a smiling face. Nothing against us to fall down flat - but to lie there, that’s disgrace.

So perhaps we shall have world enough and time, and I can indeed spend a hundred years in praise of thine eyes and on thy what’s-it tum-te-tum, and all that. Not that you proved quite so coy as some, in the end. It certainly didn’t take thirty thousand years to roll your sweetness up into a ball, or however the damned thing goes. You follow. You always do.

I love you, old fruit. We’ll get through this.

Love,

Bertie

Chapter Text

Dear Rebecca,

Bertram is all right. He was wounded only slightly and was unable to write for a few weeks, but he is in Tobruk, alive and well. Thank you for forwarding the message.

Tell Roger I will be back next week. Whatever help he requires in the garden, I will readily provide. Tell him I have missed the Fridays at the pub as well.

Bertram’s sister is proving troublesome. More troublesome than before, if possible. She is not so unpleasant, really, when one becomes accustomed to her, but she has become infatuated with me and it is most distasteful. I have attempted to explain that I am entirely devoted to the memory of my late wife, but she does not seem to accept that explanation. Evidently, since she has finally moved on from her own departed spouse, that means that all the widowed people of the world must be prepared to move on as well.

As I said, it is most disturbing. Last night she attempted to take my hand whilst we were walking and it made my stomach turn quite sickeningly. I have not been touched in such a manner by any person save one for over a decade and a half, and it revolted me.

As I said, I will be back soon. I do hope I have not missed all of the Spring sowing. I know that I have much to learn.

Love,

R.

*

Dear Aunt Dahlia,

I thank you for your concern. Worry not. I am aware of the situation and I assure you, she shall not be permitted to weep upon my shoulder ever again.

In case you are not aware, I have received a letter from Bertram. He is alive and well, having sustained only a minor wound to his hand. He is, unfortunately, back in Tobruk and seems likely to remain there for some time.

Love,

Reginald

*

Dear Bertram,

I read your account with no small amount of fascination. I was aware of all the events you have recounted, due to my close scrutiny of the newspapers, but it is vastly different to read them in your words.

I am gratified to hear that you are feeling less desolate than you did previously. I think I know something of what you are feeling, in fact. It sounds not so divergent from the sort of elation I and many others in London have felt in the morning after a particularly violent air raid. Surviving destruction on such an extreme level makes one feel invulnerable, at least for a time. I remember several mornings when I awoke to smoke and rubble, and an almost drunken sense of elation.

Speaking of which, I am, in fact, quite familiar with parachute bombs. They are an old favorite of German airmen, and quite a few have been dropped upon London, as well as many other locations throughout the Kingdom. As you stated, their unpredictability, near silence, and unprecedented destructive force have made them the scourge of the blitz. It is my understanding that no other bomb exists with quite so much potential for raw annihilation. It troubles me deeply to know that you will no doubt be subject to their frequent usage, now that Germans are assailing you instead of Italian forces.

The word you were searching for is, quite simply, besieger. You are the besieged, and they the besiegers. The word, interestingly enough, has its origins in a rather whimsical combination of a vulgar Latin root – namely the word sedicum, meaning ‘seat’ – with the Middle English prefix ‘be,’ meaning ‘all about, or surrounding.’ To lay siege comes from the Latin, in the sense that the offending army seats itself comfortably, and the prefix was added to the word sometime in the 16th Century in order to convert it into a verb more closely resembling the manner which was popular at the time. I hope that explanation illuminates the situation for you.

Indeed, your current circumstances, while far from ideal, are certainly preferable to most of the besieged cities in history. So long as the British Navy can maintain control of the Mediterranean, you will be in no danger of starvation.

The Sparta was a fine ship, and I shall mourn her. Indeed, our half-year sojourn on board that fine ship is one of my most cherished memories. I know we have never discussed it as such, but, privately, I have always considered it to be our honeymoon. Or at least, the closest to such an event that we are likely to experience.

Concerning your sister, I have been staying with her at her behest. She has suffered from some emotional strife of late and felt that she could use some help about her house.

In your last letter – or rather, in that letter which I am so very relieved was not your last – you mentioned, in passing, the time that I referred to you as being mentally negligible. I confess that I feel no little consternation at this. I was unaware that you had overheard me until I read your memoir. Learning that you think of it still gives me significant pain. I do hope that you understand that I did not know you so well at that time, and that my use of those words was provoked only by that veneer of simplicity which you tend you display to the world. I could not yet appreciate the depth of care you hold within your heart for all whom you love, and even those you do not know, and my only interpretation of intelligence was of the sort one gains by reading and study. I have since learned that there are other methods by which one may measure intelligence, and that if I can be so patient and attentive as to learn to recognize the ways in which intelligence can manifest itself, then I can find brilliance in minds I would once have dismissed as entirely without depth.

All that is to say, I was wrong. I was wrong about you, and I was wrong about Roger. You were entirely correct to caution me against coming between him and my sister. He is a good man, as far as I can tell, and he has a depth of knowledge on subjects about which I know nothing. If his particular kind of wisdom is centered on those things one learns on a farm, it does not make it any less laudable than the kind of wisdom one learns from reading Spinoza.

I am grieved to hear that your nightmares have not ceased. I suffer from them as well. I wonder, when this is over, if there will be a living soul left in the world who does not cry out in terror in the night. I can only hope that some day, when those horrors wake us, we will awake together.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Bertie,

How are you, young eyesore? I hear you’ve hurt your hand. Hopefully it all heals up nicely and you’re back to irritating everyone within a stone’s throw of a piano in no time.

Awfully pleased to hear you made it through all of the recent mess down there, my boy. No doubt you are aware by now that not everyone is so fortunate, even if they do carry within them a streak of the lucky Wooster blood.

It has been a strange time in these parts, as you can imagine. Obviously we’ve all been on tenterhooks waiting to hear from you, and then with all the other semi-tragic events in the family of late, I hardly know what to do with myself. Woosters seem to be dropping like flies, and I’m just relieved to know you’re still buzzing along. There’s only so much this old heart of mine can take.

By the way, there’s another way in which Woosters have been dropping, only in this case it’s due to a too-heavy helping of the divine passion, as the fellow said. I don’t want to go into too much detail at the moment, but let’s just say when it comes to prospective mates, the general trend in this family seems to be ‘like brother, like sister.’ Do you follow me? I’ll puzzle a bit as to how I can be clearer without being too clear.

For the moment, I’m keeping my eye on the situation. I’ve rallied round as best as I can, considering I barely know the blighted girl. Reggie’s been warned; I’m rather hoping that’s all it takes.

Keep safe, my lad.

Love,

Aunt Dahlia

*

Dear Bertie,

What ho, old thing? Awfully chuffed to hear that you are all right. Or at least, nearly all right.

I say. I have a question to ask. Advice, I suppose. Information. All sorts of things.

It’s about Jeeves, you see.

I say. I hate to trouble you about this, but the thing is, I did try to ask Aunt Dahlia, but she was no help at all. She simply spoke in riddles that no one could decipher. Has she always been that way, or is she losing her mind in her dotage?

But Jeeves. He stayed with me for a bit recently, just to help out after all of the, well, you know. I was a bit adrift, emotionally, after everything, and he very generously offered to come by and help out a bit. Quite decent of him, what?

Anyway, Jeeves. What of him? I mean to say, what is he about? I’m not being clear. That wife of his. What of her? That was one of the things I tried to ask Aunt Dahlia and she wouldn’t give me a straight answer.

What I’m trying to ask is, what sort of a woman was she? You don’t suppose there’s any chance that he’d be attracted to someone of my type, do you? I know, I know, it’s ghastly, isn’t it? Me doting upon a servant this way. Like something out of one of those dreadful Rosie M. Banks novels. Deplorable. But the fact is, he’s actually quite a marvel, and he has rather charmed me. He’s a very sturdy, comforting presence, for one thing.

I know it must be awfully odd to hear someone speaking of your man this way, what? Servants are almost like wallpaper, aren’t they? Well, they used to be, but everything is different now.

Margaret has rather opened my eyes to this situation, you see, and I have recently come to realize what a dreadful state of affairs it is to treat human beings as though they are merely furnishings or something. It makes me want to sift through my past encounters and toss a pound or two to every poor blighter I ever snapped my fingers at.

But that’s beside the point, really. My point is Jeeves. I doubt you’ve ever noticed, but in addition to being most efficient and talented about the house, he’s really quite striking. He’s got lovely eyes, and a regal sort of nose and chin that look awfully fine from the side. Strong hands, too. Skillful.

Forgive me. I’m getting a bit carried away, and I’m certain you’re not at all interested in hearing about the attractive aspects of a man, much less your own man! I know for a moment there I rather thought you might be inclined that way, but after all this Ginnie business, I know better.

Awfully sorry about that, by the by. Rotten luck, to love a divorcée in your  so very public position.

So my point is, do you think I have a chance with the fellow? Should I give it a shot, as the kids say? Or is it utterly outrageous? Tell me straight, my man. You know him better than I do.

Love,

Ethel

*

Dear Ethel,

I say. I mean to say, I think you’re a corking girl, of course, and you could have your pick of men, what? Certainly. All the same, I don’t quite know that you would be wise to pick that particular man. After all, this family’s had enough scandal for now, hasn’t it? What would the neighbors think, and all that, if you eloped with a manservant? You’d look jolly silly taking up with someone of that sort, I think, and all that rot, what?

Oh, and yes. The wife. Jeeves’s wife, who died, you mean? That one? Yes. I could tell you all about her. All about her! She was, I mean to say, very serious and stern. That’s his type, I think. Strong-willed and serious, and well-read, and so forth. Dour even. So no, I’m not certain he’d be so interested in you – though you are, as I say, a corking girl, absolutely.

I mean, far be it from me to tell you what to do. You’re a free agent and oh, obviously so is Jeeves, being widowed and all that. Good Lord. So I suppose I can’t actually tell you not to try, if you’ve set your cap for him. I don’t exactly have a good reason to discourage you, do I? I mean, other than the reasons I’ve given, about the scandal and the neighbors and the dour dead wife.

I suppose, all things considered, it would be rather odd for me to issue the nolle prosequi on his behalf, wouldn’t it? It would look like the lord of the manor forbidding his peasants to have personal lives, and we shouldn’t want that, not in this enlightened age.

So, yes, to reiterate, the neighbors, the scandal, the wife, and so on, but of course, I can’t actually order you to stand down, what? Can I?

Anyway, yes. Think about what I’ve said.

Love,

Bertie

P.S. Just do your good brother a favor and don’t kiss him, what? It’s dashed difficult to explain why, but I’d just prefer that you didn’t, if it’s all the same to you. I mean to say, it’s not the done thing to just kiss a chap, is it? Wouldn’t he think you awfully forward? You wouldn’t want that. He’s a traditional sort of fellow. Much better to give subtle hints like the ladies of old and let him take the lead, so to speak, if he is so inclined. Yes.

*

Dear R. (We’re going first initials only this time, my good fellow. You’ll soon see why),

I’ve had a letter from my sister. Good God, man! What have you been doing to the girl? She’s head over heels for you, you great bloody ass! Mothers, lock up your Woosters! Not a one of us is safe when you’re on the loose.

What did you do? You didn’t quote Lorzeno on a starlit night, did you? You did, didn’t you? Of course you bloody did. I know you. You can’t help yourself. The second stars heave into your view you go spouting off lines from The Merchant of Venice until someone gives you a well-deserved sock in the mandible.

She’s going to give you something in the mandible, and I rather fancy you’ll enjoy it even less than a sock. A kiss, man. I’m talking about a kiss. She’s going to kiss you the next time your paths cross, and I daresay you deserve it. Just what exactly are you going to do about it?

Oh, and by the by, when exactly were you, or indeed anyone, planning on informing me that Aunt Agatha is no longer a corporeal menace to all living things? And that young Thomas has also gone on to his reward? Was it really necessary for you and all about you to leave it to Robbie, waving an English newspaper in my face and laughingly asking me if the late Lady Worplesdon was a relative of mine? And then to be treated to peals of Sub-Equatorial laughter when I responded in the affirmative?

It’s a great lark for all of them, you see. Every time they read any news about any Lord or Lady What’s-It or What-Have-You, they ask if that’s a pal or a cousin or a former fiancée of mine, and of course, it usually is, and they all think it’s the height of comedy, the way all the good British families know one another. It only makes it worse when I say I only really know the chaps who went to Oxford, while the Cambridge coves might as well be Adam, excepting the ones I'm related to, of course. Or whose sisters I nearly married.

But that’s all beside the point. The point is, you should have told me. I shouldn’t be hearing of the death of family members from laughing Australians. Laughing Australians are a smashing source of happy news, I assure you, quite possibly the best there is, but not news of the hang-your-head-and-gnash-your-teeth variety. I should be hearing of it from you.

I don’t often show the velvet fist within the iron glove these days – or rather, the other way round, don’t you know. The iron fist, I mean. It’s the glove that’s velvet. But today I feel it is warranted. I understand that you have been under great stress, and I’m sorry for it, but that doesn’t mean you can go off seducing my sisters and neglecting to inform me of all the family flesh that has lately become as grass, what?

Love,

B.

*

Dear Aunt Dahlia,

By other semi-tragic events, I assume you are alluding to the deaths of Aunt Agatha and Cousin Thos.? Those events? The ones I learned about from the paper? I can tell by your tone that you assumed Reggie told me, but he didn’t. I don’t know why he didn’t, but the fact is that he kept that vital information from me.

He also kept close the information regarding one E. Scholfield, née Wooster, and her wayward heart, which is what I assume you were attempting to discuss in your last letter. I’m jolly glad that you’ve warned the lock-jawed blister, but you might need to do a damn sight more than that because that unbalanced boll weevil of a sister of mine has written me what essentially amounts to a declaration of love undying for the ass and doesn’t seem to have taken whatever words of caution you lobbed her direction to heart in the least. You get in there, old mastiff, and keep them apart with a barge pole if necessary. Reggie may have wronged me, and wronged me he has, but he still doesn’t deserve to do the old 'exit, pursued by female' bit that we both have long eschewed.

If I were there myself, I’d push the louse off a dock, and give her a kick on the way down, but I’m not there, so you’ll have to do it for me. Honestly, what possessed me to open a correspondence with her? We were both perfectly happy pretending the other didn’t exist.

Oh, and thanks awfully for the kind words. The old right claw is nearly healed up now. I’ve already been given clearance to write with it again, as you can see, and I’ll be hammering the ivories any day, much to my numerous fans’ delight, and only a few dour souls’ irritation.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Ginnie,

I do apologize for the tone of my last letter, old thing, only you must understand what a great round of unpleasant shocks I’d had. Of course, I only wrote the thing yesterday, and the supply ship shan’t arrive for another few days, so I’m sending both of these off simultaneously. But you will understand from the dates, won’t you, that I’ve written upon them, as one does, what I mean when I say ‘my last letter,’ even should you receive them in one fell swoop?

I suppose, as sorry as I am, I’m not sorry enough to spare you. I could simply burn the other letter and rewrite it with a more charitable tone. Perhaps a better man would. I don’t know. I’d have to find one and ask him. I am not a better man myself, you see, because I think you do deserve – if not a sock in the mandible – at least a slap on the wrist.

I don’t blame you really, concerning the female of the Wooster species. I suppose she simply knows a good thing when she sees it, what? Even if you did wander about ‘neath a night of wondrous stars and say something like, ‘In such a night stood Dido with a willow in her hand, tum-tee-tum-tee-tum, etc., etc.,’ it isn’t really your fault if the spark of the divine pash catches and blooms into inferno in a nearby heart, what? You can’t help it that you’re a wonder to match anything the Heavens could dream up. In fact, now that I think about it, it’s rather odd that I haven’t had to deal with this sort of thing more often. I should think stricken hearts would be falling about you as thick as Autumn leaves, crunching beneath your weary boots, and all that. Perhaps they have, and you’ve simply hidden it from me? I wouldn’t put it past you.

I do blame you a bit for the Aunt A. and Cousin T. gag, though. Not their deaths, of course – though I suppose a bit of responsibility must be said to rest upon your impressively sturdy shoulders, considering Thomas only joined up because you, shall we say, suggested it. And I am also assuming that you aren’t directly responsible for Aunt Agatha’s death. Correct? Don’t answer that. The newspaper said, ‘Natural causes,’ and you may be a force of nature, but you are practically supernatural, so I don’t think that it applies. If you were the cause of it, I should expect the report to read, ‘Act of God.’

What I am getting at is that you really ought to have told me as soon as ever you could. I do realize I was not precisely a ‘phone call away, but once you knew I was alive in Tobruk, old thing. I mean to say, honestly.

Need I bring cracks and seeping into this? I hope not.

The fact is, I am entirely uncertain as to how I feel about all this. Thos. and Agatha being lost and gone forever, I mean. I rather feel as though I should be pleased, particularly considering the fact that Young Thomas attempted to snuff you out not too long ago. I think you are likely quite pleased. It certainly takes a bit of pressure off, assuming we both come through this thing in one piece. Or, rather, two pieces. Meaning you being one piece, and I the other. No more of Aunt Agatha’s schemes to contend with. No more danger of her finding new ways to complicate our cosy little life.

All the same, I’ve actually been rather down about it. I feel a bit of a traitor for it, but there it is. I am rather beginning to feel like the fellow who does that bit on the stage, or used to anyway. The one we saw in New York that time. You know who I mean. He used to balance spinning plates and things all over himself until he was absolutely covered in rotating objects. Well, if you were to replace that fellow with one B. Wooster, and replace the spinning things with the deaths of people he is really rather quite close to, then I think you get the picture. One or two more of these deaths and I might just drop all of them.

I fear I’m rather dropping the simile, actually. My point is just that it’s all a bit much, don’t you think? In ordinary times, old Aunt Agatha would shuffle off and I’d take the suitable amount time to mourn and perhaps a bit more than the suitable amount of time to breathe a breath of free air for the first time in my puff and dance a bit of a jig, and then shove off to better and brighter things. But these days I can’t seem to keep up with it all. Like standing in the ocean when there’s a bally great hurricane out at sea, and the waves just keep hitting you right square in the map again and again so that you can’t even get a breath in and you’re drowning even when you’re standing on your feet. I mean to say, dash it, just exactly how much is a man expected to bear? Especially a man such as myself, who has no experience at all with bearing things, ere now?

Oh, my dear, all I want in the world is to be back at our little flat, chit-chatting with you about the latest gos. from the Drones, and drifting off to sleep with my arms about you, and waking up to find your spot beside me empty, but the tea tray floating in as if suspended by angels – but ah, no, it is suspended by you, old thing, you and your soundless tread, surely all we know of Heaven. I want to wall us off from everything and everyone and crystalize that perfect sight.

Can you believe that it has been nearly a year since we last stood in the same room together? How have we survived this? So many haven’t. So many men, so beautiful, as you said, all dead did lie; and a thousand thousand slimy things live on, and so do I.

A year. A year of ghastly, interminable days, my darling. And for all that I should be pleased – I really should – that I shall never face down Aunt Agatha again, nor disarm an irate Thomas, I cannot help but grieve them. I hope that you will forgive me. I don’t understand it myself – only Thomas was a jolly fat child once, who loved to throw a ball, and Aunt Agatha looked just a bit like my father at times, when her eyebrows were up and her head tilted just so, and I always did rather enjoy seeing that shadow of him, living on, and I never meant for any of this to happen the way it did, Reggie. It is all my fault, every bit of it.

I’ll tell you something about Tobruk, by the way. It is far emptier now than it used to be. Not of soldiers; if anything, there seem to be more of us about. But the children are gone. The women. Even many of the men who aren’t in uniform. They must have sensed the change in the wind and fled, and good for them. I hope they made it to Egypt.

When I first arrived, this place was a city at war. Now it is simply an army camp. And a prison camp, what with all the German and Italian prisoners we’ve got milling about. And a dog camp. Gosh, there are a jolly lot of dogs. More dogs than I remember.

But the streets are empty; this time last month there were vegetable stalls and open businesses. There were children running and shrieking. There were women chatting over garden walls. Now it is only us, and row upon row of empty buildings, pockmarked with bullet holes, and here and there a pile of rubble where once there was a home.

Do you know what it reminds me of? Those – what were they called? Those towns out in the Western bit of America, where they used to find all kinds of gold and things and now they’re just empty buildings and those, you know, those rummy weeds that tumble about, whatever they’re called. Do you recall visiting one such place during our tour of the West? When we went out to visit Boko and Nobby in Hollywood? Gosh, I wonder how they’re getting on!

When was that, anyway? Must have been seven or eight years ago or so, if I’m not mistaken. Just after your mother’s funeral, wasn’t it? I say! I do wish you’d let me buy you that stetson you tried at the shop in Arizona! You were a sight to behold in that  particular head covering. You could have turned a lot more heads than just my sister’s if you’d taken to sporting that bit of felt about!

Where was I? Oh yes! The strange emptiness of Tobruk. Honestly, what a dashed nuisance this war is shaping up to be. This was a perfectly nice city once, and now it’s devoid of life.

I miss Marwa. I do hope she made it.

Oh! Speaking of which, I had a little note delivered to me a few days ago. It said that the postal service has determined that a package intended for me was sent aboard a transport ship that struck a mine and sank off the coast of Gibraltar last month! So that’s why the blasted money never came. It’s taking a long dip in the Mediterranean! I don’t suppose we shall be getting that back. Not unless you’d like to take a year to learn deep diving from pearlers, what?

Do tell me if you’ve come up with a solution for my Archie problem, old thing. I really thought I had it in the bag with the Cyrano bit, but I seem to have made an awful mess of it. You should see old John, moping around like all the joy’s gone out of wartime medicine for him. It’s a pity to behold.

Oh, and our time on the Sparta was our honeymoon, was it? By Jove. If I had known that I might have made a bit more of an effort with the thing, and not taken quite so many naps in deck chairs. Perhaps we’ll try a round two of the experience when this is through, and I’ll heave-to with more of the characteristic Wooster spirit, what? What a dashed useful thing this truth-telling wheeze is, eh? No more guessing and hinting and moping when we’ve made a mess of things. Or at least, not so much of all that. The next time we’re doing something together, and you fancy it’s a special thing, tip me off and I’ll pay attention.

And no worries at all about the old ‘mentally negligible’ gag. I am mentally negligible. I just didn’t want to hear that you thought so because I was taking a shine to you and I rather assumed you’d like brainy coves. How was I to know it was fatheaded asses without two pennies’ worth of sense to knock together that turn your knees to jelly? Awful bit of luck for me there.

Oh, dash it. There’s the air raid racket going off again. Toodle-pip, my love. I’ll not be able to send you another letter for at least a week, maybe two. Supply ships are a bit iffy these days.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Bertram,

You may not know me as well as you think you do. You must understand that, due to the very nature of our own existence, as it is, you have never seen me when I was not with you, so you cannot know me except by the manner in which I am changed by your presence.

It is not the stars that induce me to quote the Swan of Avon, dear Bertram. It is you. The night that Lorenzo’s panegyric to Jessica sprang to my lips, that night in the garden at Bumpleigh Hall, after the incineration of Wee Nooke, it was not the stars that inspired me so; it was rounding a shrubbery in the belief that I was alone and stumbling, quite unexpectedly, upon you. You, bathed in starlight, will bring Shakespeare pouring forth from me like an unstanched spring. Without your cherished features to ignite, the stars are merely setting.

Therefore I can confidently attest that though I did walk with Mrs. S in the evening a time or two, at her request, I was not moved to share any flowered words penned by long-dead masters. I merely walked.

Fortunately, I am quite cognizant of the effect that I appear to have on her. She believes that she is subtle, but, rather like another person of my close acquaintance, she has no ability whatsoever to hide the feelings that pass across her face.

I have caught her staring. Indeed, every time I am in her presence and busying myself with some task or other, her gaze is fixated upon my profile. Furthermore, on our second (and final) evening stroll, she attempted, rather clumsily, to take my hand. I was able to avoid this while still feigning ignorance by suddenly noticing that my shoe had come untied, and stooping to reunite the strands. She has also asked about my supposed late spouse with far more interest than one would expect under any other circumstances.

She also laid her head upon my shoulder on the train on our way to your Aunt’s funeral. I admit I found no ready solution to that particular complication and was forced to endure it for some time. It was most distressing. I am only grateful that all of this occurred after I learned that you were alive and relatively safe. Had she begun her campaign of seduction any earlier, it would have been too much to bear.

However, we have since parted company, likely for good, and I foresee no further attempts on her part, since I failed to respond favorably to any of her advances. I trust that embarrassment will do more good here than any intervention possibly could.

You know too well that I have a tendency toward jealousy, and so I cannot fault you for your own feelings in this matter. I will simply assure you that at every moment of every day and every night, I am as Troilus, mounting the Trojan walls, sighing his soul toward the Grecian tents where Cressid lies.

I am thinking about the failure of the Cyrano gambit continuously, and as yet I have no tangible solution. Not all love stories are happy ones, I fear. Nevertheless, I shall continue to exercise my mind on the subject in the hopes of affecting a satisfactory outcome.

That is hard news, concerning the loss of the money. I was beginning to suspect that something of that nature had occurred. It was no small sum. Not that it will imperil your fortune, but it is, as you would say, rum luck all the same. I am, nevertheless, simply relieved that your friend was able to escape after all, even though we were not able to help her so directly.

As for our round the world cruise aboard the Sparta, fret not. It was the realization of the sort of dream I never even permitted myself to imagine. You were perfect as you were. You always have been. Change nothing, regret nothing. Although I certainly wouldn't refuse an encore to that journey, should the world ever again be safe enough to undertake one. To see you sleeping upon a deck chair again may be my heart's fondest wish.

You were referring to the Ghost Towns of the old American West, and to tumbleweeds, as they are so aptly named. While I had no desire whatsoever to own the stetson in Arizona, should we ever manage to make our way together to that region of the world again, I will allow you to buy it and I will wear it for one entire day. Only one. You have my word.

Your Aunts Dahlia and Maude are well. I have only just completed my brief visit with them, and I am writing this on the train back to London. Before you are ignited into outrage at the information that I am returning to London, please allow me to stress that I am going there only briefly, and will then return to my sister’s home, where I intend to remain for some time. The sorry fact is that I need to secure the flat with extra locks, as it has been subject to looting in my absence. While I was careful to remove all items of true value that could be easily carried, I neglected to confiscate the silverware, and it has been absconded with. I most humbly apologise for the oversight, my Lord. I was not in a state of equilibrium when I left London two months ago, but I am now much improved.

As for the information regarding the deaths of your Aunt Agatha and cousin Thomas, I must also apologise for that. In all honesty, I was uncertain how to break the news to you, as it were, since you had experienced so much in the previous month. I had no desire to add to your distress, particularly since I felt some small flutter of guilt in my own response to the news. You see, I am not grieved in the slightest at the deaths of your two relatives. In fact, I am quite elated by the development, and while I personally consider my reaction to be justified, I am nevertheless aware that you are a gentleman of tender feeling and generosity of spirit, who would not appreciate the thought of anyone delighting in the death of any other person, no matter how vile or deserving of that fate said person may be. I had hoped that one of your relatives would write you and inform you of the news, but it seems that they all assumed that I would undertake that grim task.

I did attempt to include the information in the initial draft of my previous letter, but I could not bring myself to pen the words. More than anything in this world, I desire that you should think well of me, and I am aware that in my satisfaction at their passing, I have fallen short of the mark, as you would so succinctly put it.

You beg my forgiveness for grieving them, and I beg yours for failing to grieve. Not a bit of this is your fault, Bertram. Perhaps it isn’t even mine. Perhaps it is all simply too vast and complicated to be attributable to any of us. I am beginning to see how small we are, each one of us. How little we are capable of controlling. It is a strange lesson to learn so late in life, but, I think, a good one.

I love you to distraction, Bertram. Indeed, it has been a year, and though I have felt every single second of that year they each were a year themselves, know that I would live ten or twenty more years like it, every agonizing moment, so long as I knew that you and I could reunite at the conclusion. We endured this year, and we shall endure what is to come. A century’s hard weather could not wear away the place you hold in my heart.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Phyllis,

How goes the nursing gag, my love? Is it awfully dreadful patching all those blown-up soldiers back together all day long? Keep an eye out for your Uncle Bertie; you know he might just need patching up at any moment, and wouldn’t it be a wheeze if you were the one to do it? He might put a bit extra for you into his will!

I kid, but I do have a serious subject to address with you, young strop. I know you’d want to know about this because you’re always going on and on about how it’s high time I met someone so that I can stop spending all of my energy on you three girls. Well, I have. Met someone, I mean.

I was a bit hesitant to say anything at first. You know how reticent I am, what? You see, he isn’t precisely of the correct class, but he’s a good sort despite all that, I think. And now that Aunt Agatha’s gone, I doubt she’d have much to say on the subj.

His name is–

Actually, I never quite got wind of his Christian name, come to think of it, so I’ll just leave that bit out. But he came and did some work at the house for a while before Aunt Agatha and Cousin Thomas’s funerals, and I rather fell for him. He’s quite the gentleman, despite not being a gentleman, you know; never made a move, and even evaded me, quite civilly, when I made my own. He’s widowed, and shy, I think, but I know he’s amenable because he kept glancing at me, and when I tried to pay him for the work he’d done he said it had been his pleasure. He also let me put my head on his shoulder on the train, so as far as I can tell, the runway is clear. It has been an awfully long time since I was courted, but I think I remember fairly well how it all goes.

He’s rather close by, actually, as fate would have it. He’s usually in London, but he mentioned that he’ll be staying at his sister’s place in Gloucestershire for a while, so he’s only about fifty miles away. He gave me his address there, ostensibly so that I could share news of Uncle Bertie with him (they are acquainted), but I think I know the real reason. I rather think I’ll drop by sometime soon and surprise him.

Anyway, toodle-pip for now, little dove. Come home any time the wartime nursing gets to be too much, all right? You needn’t prove anything.

Love,

Mother

Chapter Text

Dear Ginnie,

I know we have not had what one might call a close friendship for reasons which are well understood by us both. No doubt you would prefer to never hear from me again, but I have become concerned by a recent development to such an extent that I fear I must reach out to you.

The fact is, I am increasingly concerned that your fiancé may be straying from you. I am terribly sorry to be the bearer of such news. I am disappointed in him. Perhaps even devastated, though I know that my own sorrow can be no match to yours. Though, as you are aware, my feelings are complicated, nevertheless, I was always certain that he was a truly shining example of that rarest gem the Earth has to offer: a good man. Even though I have obviously been frustrated and even wounded in my dealings with him for some time, I drew such hope for humanity from his apparent goodness that it seemed very nearly worthwhile. Unfortunately, such hopes are now dashed.

I will attempt to be clear. As clear as I can be, given the circumstances. There is a medical officer here who has, quite recently, begun spending an enormous amount of time with your fiancé, much more than they previously spent together. This particular person is one that I have long suspected to be, let us say, amenable to a certain kind of companionship.

They share breakfast every morning and take long walks through the city each evening when they are off duty. Though I make it a point to never be so close as to actually eavesdrop, the evident intensity of their conversation makes it clear to me that they are discussing matters of a deeply emotional nature.

Please understand that I never intended to spy. Our lives are lived atop one another in this place. We are like bees in a hive.

I have spoken to your fiancé directly. Obviously I could I not be entirely clear, but I did my best to allude to my concerns about his spending so much time with this particular person. He seemed to understand me in the moment, nodding and smiling and suggesting with a raised brow and wink that other people might easily become jealous of their friendship. To this I agreed strenuously, and I believed that I had achieved my goal, though I was dismayed by his apparent lack of concern.

However, after mess last night I witnessed them embracing one another on the shore, and I felt it was my duty to inform you, and to ask you if there is anything I might do to be of assistance in this trying time. Again, though I know my heartbreak cannot come close to yours, I am nevertheless shaken to my core by this development. I have known so little hope in my life, seen so little of men that was truly good, I feel like a fool that I allowed myself to believe that Bertie was somehow different.

I will not lie. This has been a hard war. As I have noted, I was not entirely unused to combat, having been in both India and the Arab Peninsula during the conflicts there. Neither of those small wars persisted with such strength for so long, and neither left me stranded in a place of ever increasing hostility and instability, as is our current predicament. Every day the planes dive lower, the bombing intensifies, and the German attacks on our perimeter escalate. We are now completely surrounded, and even the Mediterranean is so treacherous that our only means of escape would appear to be capture, or Heaven itself.

The Germans have been targeting our water supply, bombing three of our seven usable wells. The ocean water distillery, which is our only supply of water that is certain to be free of amoebic dysentery, has been targeted so heavily we fear for its structural integrity. Our supply ships are under constant attack; indeed, three of the last four were foundered before they reached us. We have been making do with the well-water, but we are all ill from it, every one of us.

The men have taken to keeping a set of clean clothes aside, to carry along should they be taken prisoner.

All of these facts considered, it feels foolish and childish of me to focus my attention on the personal lives of my men, such as they are. Such as any of us can manage. Perhaps it is petty jealousy. Perhaps it is as I said: that Bertie has been a beacon in the darkness, and it crushes me to see it extinguished before my eyes.

I do regret to bear such hard news. That being said, I hope that I have, in fact, done you a service, freeing you from your endless, faithful state of waiting for a man who cannot do you the same honor.

Sincerely,

Archie

*

Dear Ginnie,

You’ll wear a stetson for an entire day! Well, then I jolly well better survive this war, what? For an opportunity as golden as this one, it would be well worth it. I shall hold you to it, old thing. I am cherishing the image even as we speak. I mean to say, I am giddy; expectation whirls me round, as the fellow said. The imaginary something is so sweet that it something-something, tum-tee-tum. I wonder if it’s too much to hope that my own reaction to said headwear may possibly induce you to don it again, now and then, once you see the results.

And if witnessing myself sleeping on a deck chair is your fondest wish, I daresay we could make that particular wish come true with little effort. I’m far from perfect, my love, but I appreciate the sentiment all the same.

Good Lord! Dr. John has been sobbing on my shoulder nearly every morning and every night, old thing! Whatever am I to do? He begs for my company at all hours. I mean to say, every dashed instant that we aren’t dodging bombs, I am dodging the doctor! He spends all of his time lamenting his terrible heartbreak. He’s as bad as Gussie Fink-Nottle was at his peak! And you know I do not say that lightly, for I believed Gussie Fink-Nottle to be the absolute pinnacle of pathetic fatheads.

I cannot stand it, old top. He is so destitute in spirit that I went so far as to offer him a brotherly embrace last night, into which he heaved to with far more enthusiasm than I was prepared to receive.

I mean to say, honestly. This war was troublesome enough without all this moaning and wailing, and now to throw embraces into the mix, well, it’s all a bit thick, what? You know I’ve never been one for unnecessary touching and all that, and it’s making me want to jump right out of the Wooster skin like that, oh, what is it? That legendary beast that removes its skin. Only not like that, I think, because, if I recall correctly, that creature removes its skin to signal contentment in its lot. Oh, never mind. You understand me.

The point is, I should like to be embracing you, and not some dashed fool man who can somehow sew entire human bodies back together whilst bombs explode all about him without flinching once, but who quakes beneath heartache like a shivering leaf. I suppose it goes to show that there are all sorts, what what? I may be a coward on the battlefield but I can keep the old upper lip as stiff as a board when it’s merely the Wooster heart on the line.

All the same, I think it must be doing a spot of good, actually, because a certain person, who we might, for security’s sake, call ‘Roxane,’ stumped up to me a day or two ago and fretted about how I have been spending too much time with the good doctor. I suggested that perhaps it might make someone jealous and he agreed, so that’s a good sign, what?

Even so, you’d better get cogitating and quickly. Fry up some fish tonight, my love, and eat three helpings. I simply must get this man out of my hair before he makes me mad. A bit of jealousy might not be enough to get Roxane going, I’m afraid, even if I have caught that particular person watching us and scowling on more than one occassion.

As for the Wooster relatives who are no more, I do understand you entirely. Your concern that I might think less of you is charming, I admit, but also laughable. It is a weakness of my own feeble heart and feeble head that I spare such care and thought for those who would happily have seen us both rotting in Reading Gaol.

I hear a lot about it from the other officers here, actually. How it’s a bit of a liability that I can’t bring myself to shoot another chappie, even if he’s a Nazi. I never could quite bring myself to shoot much of anything. Even a fox was a bridge too far for poor Bertram, back when I was trying to go in for all that hunting that gentlemen are supposed to relish. I get a bit queazy at the sight of blood, don’t you know, and even queazier when I’m the one who caused the blood to be outside of the body it’s meant to be in.

I’m trailing off topic here, of course, but all I mean to say is that you are perfectly correct to consider their deaths to be an overall benefit to society. Besides, I am so hopelessly entangled with you that I daresay there’s absolutely nothing you could do that would wrest these bonds of love from my heart. I am Ariadne to your Theseus, old fruit. You could drop me on a desert island and sail away with a smile and I’d simply stand on the shore and wait for you.

Oh, by the by, wouldn’t you say, at this particular juncture, that I am more the Troilus? Was he not besieged, as is your Bertram? Shall I vow to weep seas, live in fire, eat rocks, tame tigers? Is that not the monstruosity in love, my dear, that the will is infinite and the execution confined?

Did I get that part right? I admit, I never much cared for that particular play. Not a fan of war, and all that, what?

Also, you fall a bit more into the Cressida description as you are currently being pursued by an unwanted paramour, eh? I do hope you’re right and she’s given the whole thing up as a bad job. Facing a shoulder as cold as yours can be can give one freezer-burn; I know it first-hand. Hopefully she’ll apply the old ointment and shove off to greener horizons, what?

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Major Evans,

I am most distressed to hear of the state of things in Tobruk. Lord Yaxley, while most definitely a man of integrity, does sometimes struggle with complete sincerity regarding his conditions. It is a natural reflex of his to attempt to spare me worry, and as such he has neglected to mention most of what you have described.

If the medical officer you referred to in your previous letter is one Dr. John Angel, then there is no concern. In fact, there is no concern regardless. I am pleased to be able to assure you that Lord Yaxley is the man you believed him to be, entirely. More so, in fact.

Dr. Angel, you see, has recently suffered a deep disappointment in love, and it is Lord Yaxley’s habit to care for and comfort any friend, family member, or, indeed, even slight acquaintance who is suffering from a broken heart.

Lord Yaxley has written to me in great detail concerning the doctor’s predicament,  even as he failed to mention his own, and has repeatedly asked my advice in aiding him. I am even specifically aware of the embrace you witnessed, and rest assured that it was made entirely as a balm to the grieving doctor’s broken heart.

Please do allow me to offer my sincere gratitude that you chose to share this information with me. Of course, I am well aware of your own feelings in this matter, and I appreciate the selflessness which you have displayed.

Please also allow me to offer my belated thanks for the letter you wrote to the paper on Lord Yaxley’s behalf. You have proven yourself a true friend to him, for which I am grateful. It may surprise you to know that he has had relatively few friends whom I would call true.

You have also proven yourself to be an honest and honorable man.

I submit that you need not despair even had Lord Yaxley’s recent conduct proven less than honorable. Lord Yaxley is a truly good man, yes, but he is far from the only man of substance in the world, or, indeed, within your own unit. You yourself are a fine example of that goodness you fear is lacking in the world.

Might I make a suggestion? I recommend that you ask to accompany Lord Yaxley and Dr. Angel on their next evening stroll. It is my understanding that the good doctor, though somewhat eccentric, is a solid and stalwart man of good character who may, in fact, give you even greater hope for the future of humanity, and yourself.

Sincerely,

Ginnie

*

Dear Bertram,

I have been in contact with Major Evans, and I have advised him to accompany you and your heartbroken acquaintance on one of your strolls. I can also confidently say that while he does not yet appear interested in this person, he does seem to be cognizant of this particular person’s general interests and proclivities, which could help in opening the door, so to speak. It is my hope that, with the abandonment of the Cyrano ruse, Major Evans will again see this person’s true characteristics that he once enjoyed.

And, as you said, jealousy is indeed a powerful motivator.

I do have another concern to address with you. I understand from my correspondence with Major Evans that you are under near constant bombardment, and that your supplies are dwindling. You have failed to mention this to me in your letters. Is this another attempt at sparing me concern? I know that the realm of complete transparency is new for us, but nevertheless, I consider it valuable. I believed that we were of one mind in this matter.

You did indeed quote that portion correctly, although, oddly, you have jumped from one of the great Bard’s plays to another. No matter.

Earlier in your previous letter you attempted to quote a different passage from Troilus and Cressida, which I will write out correctly for you here: ‘I am giddy; expectation whirls me round. The imaginary relish is so sweet that it enchants my sense.’

It is a sentiment I can well appreciate. I feel the same whenever I imagine that future day when you return to me.

I have a confession to make. Since my return to Gloucestershire, and the fulfillment my previously-mentioned promise to help Roger sow his spring seeds, I have taken to wearing a wide-brimmed hat in order to protect myself from the ever-strengthening sun. It is not a stetson, but it is not so entirely different, either. Were it safe to do so, I would send you a photograph, but as it is, your imagination will have to suffice.

Every day it grows more beautiful here. Rebecca has been tending the flowers about the entryways, and down the old path to the fountain, and everywhere where the soil is not conducive to vegetable-rearing. The affect is most spectacular. Every morning when I step out of the door, I am greeted by their joyous colour, their heady perfume, their merry bobbing heads, drooping with bees, and every morning I wish more ardently that you could be here with me.

I can see in my mind’s eye precisely how you would bend to smell the roses, how you would deftly pop the head from one for your buttonhole, smiling tenderly to yourself as you tucked it into place, how you would straighten and stand with your hands on your hips as your fair eyes shifted from bush to plant to tree. I can hear how you would hum, how you would trip down the front path with a touch of a skip in your step. I can scarcely endure contemplating how wondrous it would be to take your arm and walk with you here, to enfold you in a discrete copse of trees, to press my lips against yours and draw your gentle, spritely warmth into myself.

It was, after all, within this very garden that you kissed me first, during that beautiful sojourn we spent here shortly after Mabel’s wedding. How sublime it would be to return together, after all this time, and feel your long-absent hands in mine as we reaffirm that promise we made so long ago. The thought is sweet. Too sweet; it burns within my heart like a sugared spear, piercing me through.

It is raining as I write this. How long has it been since you felt rain? Do you recall a time last year, when you were in France, when it was raining on us both? At the time we agreed, I believe, that our shared deluge made us feel closer. Today it makes you seem so far.

The fact is, Bertram, that my sin is greater than merely reveling in your aunt’s death. I regret it also. I regret that it was not more gruesome, more violent, more terrible. I regret that she suffered so little for her sins, that she was merely snuffed out and did not persist through a prolonged agony, as you do.

So you see, I am worse than you think. And that, I believe, is the true monstruosity in love, or at least in my love for you. It has made me a demon, thirsty for blood, even as it has tamed me, and made me long to be better.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Ginnie,

Thank you for your kind words. I do not deserve them, especially not from you, but thank you all the same. I have investigated further, and you are correct. Bertie is helping John overcome heartbreak of some sort.

I must admit, the world seems a bit of a brighter place, knowing Bertie is not what I  have lately feared he was. Could I but hold one quarter of that light in my hands –

But I will spare you, my friend. I forgot who I was writing to, and it was disrespectful.

Thank you again. It helps to know you think well of me. I have done my best. I always strive to.

Sincerely,

Archie

*

Dear Ginnie,

Oh no, old thing. No, not at all. Not a demon, you silly ass. Merely a human, I suppose, though you still hold about you something of the divine, methinks. We are all of us given to vengeful thoughts at times, and there is no crime in thinking them.

Whoever loved who loved not fiercely? And thou, the fiercest of all, my falcon. Think not unkind thoughts of yourself, for my sake.

And do believe me, my imagination serves me the most delightful image of yourself as a farmer. Those immaculate hands stained with dirt. That mighty back bent in fruitful toil. That Adonis-cum-Insitor!

All jests aside, I am delighted that you have returned to the bosom of your family, and that you are giving good Roger a chance. You may learn you have a green thumb yet, and upon my return, you’ll fill the flat with pots of tomatoes and trellises heavy with cucumber!

In re. the unmentioned circs. of yours truly, please accept my apologies. It was not my intention at all to leave out any crucial information. Indeed, the blasted blasts are nearly constant, but I believe that they have so completely infiltrated my subconscious – if subconscious is the word I want – that I can scarcely imagine what it would be like for it to be any other way. I suppose, in a way, I assumed that the din of it would exude from my letters and thus writing of it would be redundant. But yes, the planes are constant, the bombs are constant, etc., etc. I should say, until further notice, assume conditions continue same.

And yes, the dashed supply ships keep getting torpedoed and dive bombed and sinking before they reach us. It does make one feel awfully bad for those sailor coves, what? All the poor blighters are trying to do is bring us a bit of feed, and the odd bar of soap where they can find it, and then they go and get drowned for their trouble. It’s enough to make me wish we weren’t even here! Thinking of all those chaps in the briny depths who might have lived good long lives had they not attempted to resupply us. All those stately ships, on to their haven under the hill.

We’re doing all right, really, in the food department. We have absolute mountains of tins of bully beef, which, if you don’t know what that is, well, perhaps that’s for the best, old thing. We have hard biscuits, too, which make a nice enough gruel sort of stuff when mashed up with water. We have Italian wheat, and we have a good set of chaps who have taken over the old bakery, and they trot out hundreds of loaves a day for all the soldiers marching about on their stomachs, as the old saying goes. We’ll be absolutely corking for the next few weeks, I should think, and hopefully by the time the bully beef gives out, they’ll have figured out a way to get ships in a bit more often.

I do hope I haven’t lost any letters from you, come to think of it. It absolutely chills one, doesn’t it, to think of a fine screed in his beloved’s own hand slowly withering to nothing at the bottom of the cold, black sea! O, for the touch of a vanish’d hand indeed!

I must say, now that you mention it, I can see why it looks like obfuscation, but in actuality I am simply attempting to put into practice that bit of advice I got from that psychologist chappie back in Cairo. The gag about putting one’s feelings away in a box for later. I recall he said something along the lines of how a man’s feelings have no place in war, and I believe there’s something to it. I certainly don’t enjoy feeling the feelings I’ve felt in recent months, so it seems expeditious – or do I mean expedient? – for me to put them away.

I’m rather basing my method on your example, actually. The way you always wear that mask of perfect sang froid when surrounded by what would most inaccurately be called your betters. Even when insulted, even when threatened, you mastered that strict, emotionless visage, and it has always served you well. So I thought, dash it, if Ginnie can do it whilst bombarded by the Roderick Spodes and Aunts Agatha and dogs Bartholomew of the world, then I can do it whilst, well, bombarded. What?

Oh, but there has been a bit of good news over here, actually, and that’s that they’ve decided to do away with the air raid siren. It made the most dreadful noise; I can’t tell you. It was like rising in the night to take a quick visit to the larder with nothing but peaceful, meditative images of cold steak and kidney pie on the mind and suddenly treading upon a cat. The scream of the thing was worse than the bombs themselves, and since the bally bombs are flying about almost as thick as the mosquitoes, it hardly helped anyway! Robbie has said for weeks we’d save everyone time and trouble by sounding the alarm only to signal those times when the Germans aren’t dropping anything explosive on us, since that is the rarer state of affairs at this juncture. So we’re done with the blasted thing and life is much more pleasant these days.

By the by, Archie has, indeed, followed your advice. John, Archie, and I have taken three evening strolls (amongst the May flowers and the May bombs, don’t you know; most festive). I have acted as a sort of go-between, attempting to facilitate good conversation between them. It is not yet going abundantly well, I’m afraid, but at least the two fatheads are talking again. There’s been no more discussion of jealousy or anything, so I’m not certain what that’s about.

To stroll again with you in Biffy’s garden is indeed my fondest wish. It was by the fountain, was it not, where I took you in hand and bestowed upon you one of Wooster’s best? Ah, distinctly I remember; it was in the summer or something, what? Awful lot of flowers about, I recall. Nice night. Smashing night.

But not half so fine as the day I come home to you at last, and you, your face burnished by the sun, can take me by the hand and show me the mighty crops that you have planted. The wheat blocking out the sun. The peppers heavy on the vine – if peppers grow on a vine, that is. And then I’ll drag you behind the golden columns of wheat and kiss you silly.

Good lord. That last one shook the foundations of my home. Not that it’s a home, really. More of a hole with a lot of rocks stacked about it. Bombs, by the way. I mean the last bomb struck so close it made the whole bally cave shudder.

This is an awfully rummy situation we’ve got ourselves in. And by we, I suppose I mean the world. The entire bally world.

Night is drawing in, and we’re under a strict no-lights of any kind policy. And I mean, any kind. A private lit a cigarette after dark last week and four other privates shot him. I wish that were a joke, but it happened, old thing. So I’ll have to close this letter, since I can scarcely see to write it.

I miss you, darling. Even more than I miss smoking cigarettes at night.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Bertie,

I will begin by saying that Reginald knows I am sending this to you. He has expressed his gratitude to me for writing, as he himself does not yet feel prepared to inform you of what has lately occurred.

I am going to relate these events to you as completely as I am able. Yesterday evening, a woman came to my door who rather resembled you. I was busy cooking our evening meal whilst the men worked in the fields (such an oddly classic circumstance I find myself in these days) and didn’t hear her knock, apparently. At least, she informed me that she had been knocking for some time when I turned with a boiling pot of potatoes in my hands and very nearly dropped it at the sight of a strange woman standing in my kitchen.

She was dressed in fine clothes, and stood rather taller than the average woman, though not much taller than myself. She was thin as a rail and had pale blue eyes and copper blond hair, and no hat at all.

‘I’m looking for Jeeves,’ she said.

Somewhat confused, I answered, ‘That’s me.’

It has been many years since I went by Jeeves, but it is still my name in my heart.

She blanched at this news, as if it were most unwelcome, and cried, ‘But he said you were dead! Is there no shame in any man living on this wretched Earth?’ Or something similarly dramatic.

I did suspect, at this point, that the woman was your sister due to her appearance, but I was not able to speak before she burst into tears and wilted onto the floor. She was sobbing so strenuously that I began to fear that she was unbalanced, and I stepped about her practically prone figure in order to drain my potatoes in the sink while attempting to plan a course of action.

That task completed, she still seemed entirely possessed by grief, and so I made my way back to the stove where I proceeded to mash the potatoes, with her sobs as a kind of musical interlude. I was thinking, as I worked, that she quite likely was unbalanced, as grief upsets us all. I am aware of her recent losses – and of yours, of course – and, being no stranger to the stony path of mourning, I found that I pitied her.

Reggie has told me something of her, you see, and I am aware of what transpired between them during his time at her residence. Or, perhaps I should say that I am aware of what she seems to believe transpired between them. I decided that it was best to let the intensity of her feeling wane, as it always does with time, as I continued preparing our repast.

Presently, I perceived that the frequency of her cries were lessening, as was their volume. It was at this time that I at last turned my attention toward her and said, ‘I’m his sister, not his wife. But he has not been entirely honest with you all the same.’

At this, she sat up, her face red and streaked with tears.

‘His sister?’ she said, dumbly, as though that was the only part of my statement she’d heard.

‘His sister.’

She began to laugh.

‘How stupid of me!’ she cried. ‘He even told me he was staying with his sister! Only it went out of my head entirely on the journey. I was so consumed with the thought of seeing him again, I forgot that there would be anybody else here.’

She began to rise and dust herself off, as though there were any dust upon my immaculately kept floor to remove from herself. I chose not to indulge in the slight, and returned to my work.

‘Is he out, then?’ she asked.

I told her that he was, and would return soon, and that he had mislead her, and that she would not be welcome.

To this she laughed again and said, ‘I’ll just wait here for him then, shall I? And I’ll have a bit of whatever you’re cooking. No rush. Though I am awfully famished from the journey, what? All I thought to bring with me was a roll with butter on it, and I ate that on the platform before I boarded! So a bit of a rush, really, if it’s all the same to you.’

I considered telling her that this was not the way to win over the sister of the man you were pursuing, but as I knew her heart was destined to experience a terrible rending shortly, I spared her the admonition.

I was still uncertain as to the best way to handle her. Obviously, her eyes required descaling, but she seemed impervious to anything I might say to her on the subject. I considered simply telling her outright that my brother’s heart belongs to another, but then I wasn’t quite sure how to proceed should she demand further information. I knew from Reginald’s report on his stay with her that he had assured her numerous times that he still loves his late wife, but since that was clearly not convincing enough, some new love interest would need to be introduced. I briefly considered dear Mabel, but that would have been excruciating for the both of them. He has always been such a fond uncle to her, and she has always looked up to him so brightly. I hated to even think of suggesting that they attempt to play at being in love, even in such a disastrous moment as this.

The trouble was, there were no other women available. It was then that I realized that I should have said that I was his wife after all, but that ship had sailed.

Instead, I did what I always do, which was make conversation on other topics, hoping to find an actionable solution through more roundabout means.

I made her tea, and placed a plate of potatoes and bacon before her, which she ate and drank unrestrainedly. As she progressed across her plate, I asked, ‘How are you faring after the recent deaths in your family?’

She choked a bit on her bacon, but recovered presently and said, ‘Oh, fine! Jolly good. It’s all for the best really, what, and all that.’

Then she began to weep again. This time she attempted to hide it, but poorly. The tears welled in her eyes as she spooned potatoes into her mouth and tried to blink them away.

‘When my mother died,’ I said to her, ‘I found I missed my husband more than I ever had before.’

It was a precision strike and it had the desired affect. Her spoon clattered to the table and she covered her face in her hands.

I am not accustomed to embracing strangers, so I patted her gently on an elbow. The act did not seem to penetrate her miasma of grief, so I ceased and began to eat my own meal. Roger and Reginald were due to arrive at any moment, and I had little left in my arsenal.

At last, her piteous cries subsided again, and she murmured through her fingers something that nearly sounded like, ‘I just don’t want to be so dashed lonesome all the time. There’s a great gaping hole in me and it hurts like billy-oh.’

At that very instant, the door opened, and in came Roger and Reginald from their day of sowing the late summer beans. She started and stared at them, no doubt shocked - as I perennially am - by the sight of Reginald in his farming attire, all beiges and browns, complete with a wide-brimmed hat and knees that, while clearly wiped, still bore the telltale sign of having recently been caked in dirt.

‘Jeeves!’ she cried, as though the Lord Almighty himself had entered the room, and flew into his arms.

Rarely have I ever seen him stunned. He stood like a scarecrow, his arms held awkwardly away from her, and after an instant of dumb dismay, his gaze met mine in a round-eyed panic.

‘Mrs. Scholfield,’ he said at last. ‘What brings you to Gloucestershire, madam?’

‘Why, you, of course, you silly ass,’ she said. And, even more alarming, she continued, ‘I’ve come to tell you that I’ll be your wife.’

Roger, bless him, knows nothing of this situation, and clapped Reginald on the back with resounding force.

‘Why Reggie, you old hound, congratulations!’ he cried. ‘I think this calls for a night of revelry with all the lads at the pub! I’ll ring Billy!’ And out he went for the telephone as quick as lightning. Meanwhile, your sister was still wrapped about Reginald, and he was rigid with shock.

‘Oh,’ she said, stepping back from him at last. ‘You didn’t think I’d be so bold, did you? I know, when I asked my brother about you he said you’re quite traditional and would expect a woman to drop coy hints and wait for you to pick them up. But I’m a modern woman, my man, and you are going to have to expect different things from me than what you’re used to.’

‘Of that I have no doubt, madam,’ he said.

She smiled up at him. ‘I’m tempted to tell you to drop the honorifics, considering, but I have to admit I rather like them.’

At that, she spun away, all of her tears forgotten, it seems, and addressed me.

‘Where are your guest accommodations? I should like to stay for some time while we hammer out the wedding details.’

Wordlessly, I nodded toward the hall and the staircase therein. A good hostess would show her the way, but I have not been a regular hostess in years. At last, it was Reginald who, having located her bag by the door, hefted it into his field-stained hands and led her up the stairs.

When he returned to me in the kitchen, blessedly Ethel-less, he sat heavily upon a chair at the table and placed his palms down flat upon the smooth surface.

‘Mrs. Scholfield is changing from her traveling attire,’ he said.

‘Hm,’ I replied. I took a seat across from him, ignoring the plate she’d abandoned.

After a sizable pause, he said, ‘I have been engaged to women twice previously. It has been many years, but I believe I can work out a reasonable solution, given a little time.’

‘It doesn’t sound like you have much,’ I said.

‘I have already informed her that I desire an Autumn wedding,’ he said. To this I let out a guffaw, which startled him, though only slightly.

‘Why can’t you just tell her no?’ I asked. ‘You’re no knight errant; there’s no honor to be lost when a common man turns a woman down.’

At this, he surveyed me soberly.

‘Bertram has a code,’ he said, ‘and though I am not a Wooster myself, I am trying my best to adhere to it. He would never break a woman’s heart and I will not either.’

It was then that Roger returned, announcing with great joviality that he’d better eat up because all of the lads were informed of the joyous news and would soon be descending upon the pub to wish Reginald all the best.

They ate and went out, returned late, and I, unable to sleep, wrote this out early this morning with a similarly restless brother at my side.

I don’t know how long it will take this letter to reach you, or if it will at all. I understand that there have been difficulties with the supply ships. Reginald says that fewer are arriving at your port than is desirable. With that in mind, I have copied out this letter three times and will send it separately, first by both posts today and then by the morning post tomorrow.

Reginald wanted me to assure you that he is using all of his mental abilities in creating a solution to this problem.

Love,

Becky

P.S. I am writing this addendum without my brother’s knowledge. It might do a bit of good for you to break with your code just this once and simply forbid this marriage. It would save all of us a great deal of trouble. You hold her purse strings, do you not? She might listen to you.

I would not ask this of you, but Reginald’s demeanor disturbs me. He has not been entirely sound since the blast that damaged your flat in February, and though he has been steadily improving, I do not think that this latest development will help matters. He is behaving as though he has no concerns, but I can see through his stoic mask and, well, let us just say that the sooner this issue is resolved, the better.

Chapter Text

Dear Ethel,

What-ho, old F. and B! I understand congratulations are in order!

I cannot help but recall, however, that I was rather against this endeavor of yours. Was I not? I seem to recollect a bit about what the neighbors might think, and all that, what?

While we’re at it, perhaps you should take a mo. and think what Aunt Agatha would make of all this. Not only was she never precisely fanatic about the mixing of the classes, but she rather specifically took a what one might characterise as being a strong dislike to Jeeves in particular. You’ll have the old girl spinning in her grave at such a rate she could power a grist mill! Assuming, of course, one could devise a device to harness such energy.

It seems to me that if you consider her perspective, this is just the sort of thing that would induce a right-thinking woman such as herself to pop out of the grave for a bit and do a little turn at haunting her ungrateful niece. Never having been eager to meet her in a room when we were both flesh, I should think the experience would be even more upsetting now that she is ethereal, what?

Anyhow, think it over. It really doesn’t do to make an enemy of relatives, particularly dead ones. As heartbreaking as it no doubt will be – for you and, obviously, for Jeeves – I do think it’s best to call the whole thing off before any major announcements are made.

Toodle-pip, sister mine.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Ginnie,

Egad! Good Lord! What the dickens? To Hell with the Code of the Woosters, old thing! You are not a Wooster, but you are in imminent danger of becoming one! Eject her at once! Honestly, this is most disturbing, all of it.

I have already written the foul louse and told her where she can get off (which is right here, I should think; no need to wait for a station, simply push her into the heath). I am prepared to threaten to cut her allowance entirely should she not listen to reason. Of course, if you have a better plan, then I am composed entirely of ears, my dear. Those that haven’t been deafened by explosions, that is. If I do not hear from you within two weeks, I will issue the nolle prosequi and she will have to lump it.

Oh, and the supply ships are more reliable now, so you know. They only come in on moonless nights these days, navigating without lights themselves, the clever blighters, so even though the Germans know it, there’s not much they can do.

We know they know it because there’s a German prisoner chappie living here who has a torch and sends messages to them by code with it; you know the one. The dashes and the dots and all that. Anyway, we all see him doing it from his window whenever planes are going overhead at night, and those educated coves like Archie, who know the code and also know German, have told me that he’s telling them all kinds of things about us. Apparently, he makes quite the silent row whenever a supply ship comes in, but it’s all for nought. Awfully hard to strike a moving target when it is essentially invisible, what?

Nobody makes a fuss about his light because the Germans know he’s one of theirs, so they actually avoid bombing his building. You know, those poor chaps who are manning the outer line, taking the brunt of it for king and country? Well, we pull them back into town every couple of weeks for a few days’ R. and R., or at least, what passes for R. and R. when you’re under siege, and all the fellows on leave fight to stay in the house with the spy because they know it won’t get blown up!

Anyway, fill me in, re. Ethel, or I shall strike myself. Lord Yaxley is drawing himself up to his full height, you know, which is not something he is fond of doing. Ere long I may even toss my head back and fix my opponent with a steely, defiant eye if she’s not careful. I can be chilled steel you know.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Aunt Dahlia,

Mayday, mayday, old F. and B! That blasted sister of mine has gone and gotten herself engaged to Reggie, and I need it undone instanter. Didn’t I ask you to rally round? Did I not light the beacons? Did I not call the cavalry?

I am bombed constantly and cannot take up one more burden. I need him freed, and I need him freed now. What can you do to assist? Hie thee to Gloucestershire, ancient R., and pry Ethel off of him at once!

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Bertram,

I have made several attempts to disengage her, but she is tenacious. Indeed, the Woosters are a fascinating family. You all seem somewhat frivolous, but when you are determined in an endeavor, you adhere to it with admirable resolution.

I have introduced her to seven eligible men and she has disliked them all. I have attempted to make myself less appealing in various ways, but she is apparently unaffected. More dire tactics must be employed.

I do have a plan beginning to form itself in the back of my mind, but I think it would be wise for you to attempt to forbid the banns on the basis of your own disapproval. It is worth the effort to see how she reacts to being financially cut off. She certainly puts great stock in your remunerative support.

Rest assured that I have no intention of marrying her, but neither do I have any intention of breaking your code. Should you perish in the war, it is my desire to do my utmost to carry on your spirit. I need to know that your beautiful nature will be perpetuated in some form, and though I am but a poor substitute, nevertheless I shall endeavor to maintain it myself. I want you to know that you have changed me, and I will carry those changes with me.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Bertie,

I don’t give a fig what Aunt Agatha would think. Don’t you understand, the whole bally point of death is to make a bit more breathing room for those still living, what? At least, that’s how it looks from my perspective. Certainly, were Frank still kicking about, I’d be the best wife I could be to him, and were Aunt Agatha still drawing breath, well, then I’d consider her perspective on this matter, as the proper pseudo-daughter I was to her. But they’re both gone. They shan’t return, not in the flesh or otherwise, and it is up to those who remain to pick up the pieces and make of our lives what we will.

I say! A great lot of the fun of the thing is knowing how bally furious the old girl would be, actually. I’ve never done a thing she didn’t approve of until Margaret’s marriage, and I’m rather developing a taste for rebellion.

Reggie and I are in love, and that’s that. No, Aunt Agatha wouldn’t approve, but she can’t say ‘boo’ about it now. How did you like that, for wordplay? Honestly, what do you take me for? Some sort of simpleton? Do you sincerely believe that I would reconsider my life choices on account of the possibility of a haunting?

A haunting, Bertie? Really? I think it’s about time you got off your high horse and told me what you really think. Obviously you’re against the match, but you ought to tell me why. And please don’t tell me that you are so old-fashioned that you actually believe that it’s unsuitable for a member of the nobility to marry an ordinary fellow? In this day and age? I honestly can’t believe this of you. I knew Aunt Agatha was a hidebound reactionary in terms of class, but even our late parents were more advanced in their thinking than this. Why, I recall when Uncle George had his first run-in with the barmaid, I overheard Father telling Aunt Agatha that he should be allowed to marry whom he liked!

Besides, he’s a good man, not that you’ve ever bothered to notice, and if there were ever a commoner who deserved to form a matrimonial alliance with one of the noblesse, then I think it is he. I daresay Father, as enlightened as he was, would adore Reggie, and would find him to be an admirable match for his offspring. It’s a damned shame that you are so closed-minded.

He says he wants an Autumn wedding, so be prepared to send us a congratulatory note and a generous gift come October.

Love,

Ethel

*

Dear Ethel,

Oh, all right then, you abominable fugitive from hell. If you insist, then I shall tell you exactly why I disapprove.

As a matter of fact, I have noticed that he is a good man. I have noticed because he is my man. He has been my man for fifteen years and you cannot have him.

I was going to tiptoe around this, old thing. I was going to take another whack at talking about society and propriety and all the other ‘ieties that we all must kowtow to. I was even going to threaten to cut you off financially if you failed to comply, but dammit, I’m through.

I’m through with living my life in bits and pieces. I’m through with hiding in the shadows, getting by on the crumbs that my so-called family and friends flippantly forget to snatch from me. And most of all, I’m through with entitled women who flit about thinking they can marry any old chap who catches their eye, chap’s feelings be damned.

Even more most of all, I’m through with pretending that what’s mine is not, in fact, mine.

Why, the paupest pauper can, at the very least, lay claim to his wife, even if he owns not a single copper penny. A man’s right to call his beloved his own is considered sacrosanct, when nothing else is. How is it then that I may be – as by all accounts I am – one of the most powerful men in the kingdom, and yet I cannot, with any legal or social authority, forbid some blasted interloper from making off with my dearest companion,  my light at night, my shade at noon?

I say, I would cast off every gold doubloon to my name and paup with the meanest of them if it meant that I could keep him. There is no wealth of any material to me without him. Take my kingdom, as the fellow said, but leave me the one that I love.

I will say this once, dear relative, and be done with it: cease and desist. The person whom you have chosen has been chosen already. Were there any justice in this sorry world, that person would be married to me. Drop said person like a hot potato forthwith and remove yourself from our lives at once.

As I said at the opening, I shall repeat at the close: he is my man. You cannot have him.

–B.

*

Dear Ethel,

If you have a single ounce of decency left in you that wasn’t knocked out by Aunt Agatha and her retinue, you will burn that last letter once you’ve read it.

–B.

*

Dear Ginnie,

I’ve gone and done something dreadful, old top. I’ve told Ethel. I’ve told her about us, and we might well be finished. I’m awfully sorry, old thing. Dreadfully sorry. I’m certain you must have had a frightfully brainy scheme cooked up to get us out of this, and I’ve gone and stove the whole thing in. The whole bally thing. It was like a madness overtook me.

You see, Robbie was killed yesterday, and wouldn’t you know it, but the dashed supply ship came in that night – no moon, and all that – and he’d finally got a letter from his girl Kathleen, back in Australia, which he’d been looking forward to for absolute ages. It takes so long for any mail to come from the Antipodes; it’s simply dreadful. One must feel for the poor coves.

Can you believe it? I mean, honestly. The thing couldn’t come one day earlier, for poor old Robbie’s sake? And on the same bally boat came Ethel’s bally letter, all about how you two are in love and nothing I can say can sway her and all that rot, and something inside me snapped like a twig. I dashed off a few paragraphs with a shaking hand, hiding in a blacked-out cellar with a lighter so no one would shoot me, and sent it right back on the same bally boat just before it pushed off, and it wasn’t until the thing had disappeared into the inky blackness that I realized what I’d done.

Next day I wrote a quick line urging her to burn the thing, but I haven’t the foggiest when another ship will slide her way in. Whenever it comes, that note and this will be aboard as quick as, well, something that moves quite quickly. I’m not at my best at the mo.

So now I’m dashing this off and hoping to high heaven that a ship comes in ere long so that I can warn you before too much time has passed. Fingers crossed, old thing. Of course, you shan’t receive the instruction to cross said appendages until the matter is resolved, come to think of it, so go ahead and uncross them.

I’m so dreadfully sorry again, my darling. I always knew you’d made a grade A error in hitching your wagon to me and now I’ve proven it.

I say, take whatever amount of the ready you can stuff in your pockets and make for America, old thing. If the ships are still sailing, that is. That’s all I can think of. I’ll follow when I can. Change your name, I suppose, but leave all pertinent information with Rocky so that I can find you when the time comes. He wouldn’t let us down.

Don’t forget the accounts in New York. Of course you wouldn’t; you set them up. But you’ve got the relevant checkbooks, what? Or you can get your hands on them?

I wish I could extend this, but the damned light is failing again, wouldn’t you know it, and I’ve still got to write to Kathleen. I promised Robbie, you see, that I’d take on the duty of writing her in this instance, and I mustn’t let the chap down. He left me his harmonica, after all. And his shorts.

Good night, my love. We shall meet at Phillippi, what? How did the rest of that bit go? If we do meet again, then we’ll be jolly well gruntled, and all that.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Bertie,

You called the cavalry and the cavalry came, young drain-upon-my-resources. I am in Gloucestershire. It isn’t easy to travel at my age.

When I arrived yesterday afternoon, Reggie picked me up at the train station and informed me of the latest development, i.e., that you apparently decided to throw all caution to the wind and tell the blasted girl where she could get off. Not that I don’t sympathize. If Agatha had tried to steal Tom from me she’d have met her end a good deal earlier than she did. Not that Tom would have been taken quietly; he was never particularly partial to her.

Anyway, Reggie was most disturbed, understandably, for when Ethel received your letter, she locked herself up in her room and could be heard sobbing and moaning for an entire night. She allowed no one to enter until my arrival, and I suppose she must have been longing for a motherly figure because she permitted me to enter at once.

The first thing she said to me was, ‘You knew, didn’t you? That’s what your codes and ciphers were all about!’

To which I, understandably, replied, ‘What damned codes and ciphers? I told you to keep away from him in no uncertain terms!’

We bickered a bit like that for a time but then she was weeping again and I judged that it was high time to take a gentle hand with so fragile a bird.

I put an arm about her – for which you owe me tremendously, you crocodile – and sat her on the bed, and explained that there is right and wrong, and there is law, and those two things have practically nothing to do with one another. And, in fact, there are a great many laws that are quite wrong, and which force otherwise decent people to behave in ways that are less than right in order to protect their lives and the lives of those they love. I told her that in a better world, chaps like Reggie would never mislead her. He could have been plain from the beginning that he wasn’t really a widower, and that his spouse, is, in fact, quite alive and well, at least for the moment, and all of this unpleasantness could have been avoided.

I went on to say that she was quite thoroughly warned, in the plainest language any of us felt safe to use.

She seemed to understand. She wasn’t entirely unaware of the concept, you see,  but it stung that her own heart had mislead her.

She has agreed to go to Brinkley with me and help me keep house. Margaret and the granddaughter are coming too; when I rang her up, she was awfully delighted by the idea that several our wartime guests had young children with whom young Lillian could play. I believe the whole thing should buck her up, because she seems to be a bit of a social butterfly who has missed lively society. She’s been knocked off-kilter by the family deaths, as well, and oughtn’t be too much alone, if it can be helped.

She shan’t alert the authorities about anything, if you were concerned about that. She simply needs to put this whole mess behind her.

You’re welcome, of course, and I will spend a bit of time thinking how you can make this up to me when you are again returned to the bosom of your family. For now, please do keep safe.

Love,

Aunt Dahlia

*

Dear Bertram,

If it is not too distressing for you, I would deeply appreciate an account from you regarding the circumstances of Robbie’s death. Whether you are capable of relating the events to me or not, I am deeply cognizant of the level of distress you must be experiencing at this time, and I hope that you know that you are more than welcome to write anything at all that comes into your mind. I long to know all of your thoughts.

It was my intention, when your sister received the letter in question, to write to you sternly. I was also considering leaving the country, as you ultimately suggested, though it is scarcely a simple matter these days to do so. However, your Aunt arrived that very evening and took Mrs. Scholfield in hand. Much to my relief, Mrs. Scholfield has indicated to me that she has no intention of making life in any way to difficult for either of us, and, for my part, I trust her. Though she is not entirely stable in many ways, she has not proven herself to be in any way dishonest thus far.

She even went so far as to give me your letter. She told me that you ordered her to burn it, but she said, and I quote, ‘If my husband had ever written such a strident letter in my defense, I think I should like to see it.’

She was correct. I have read and reread it numerous times. Though I have in my possession countless letters overflowing with countless affirmations of your steadfast affection, there is a particular allure to such affirmations written so passionately to someone other than myself. It is not dissimilar to the state of euphoria I entered for a time after discovering and reading your manuscript. I suppose, in a way, one never knows if the words of love are entirely honest, or if they are sometimes written merely to appease, and though I ought to know better by now – ought to know you better, I mean – the old doubts resurface still. It is hard, I think, not to feel unworthy of an Earl’s love, even if that Earl is you.

All the same, all of these sentiments fade in the harsh light of reality. Our petty problems here are pale beside the brutality that you are facing every moment.

I have never corresponded with Robbie. I do not know his surname. I did not even know that he had a lady to whom he was attached. I admit, there were times when I felt flickers of jealousy in regards to him, and other times when I experienced grave misgivings regarding your taking up the harmonica under his influence. At the same time, however, I was pleased that you had found a kindred soul to help you through your strife and struggle, particularly when Lieutenant Vernon was distancing himself from you, and so it seemed prudent to refrain from commenting on him or his existence at all.

I am sorry, so deeply sorry, to hear of his passing. It is a reminder to me of that grave danger with which you exist perpetually. Again, I am all to aware of the ways in which our own small troubles overwhelm us, to the point that we can almost forget the great tragedy that is unfolding the whole world over.

My heart is with you, my darling. Would that I could take you in my arms and hold you in your grief. After a year’s separation, I am more convinced than ever that my place is at your side, at all times, in all conditions, but most keenly at times like these, when mere words on a page are entirely insufficient to the task at hand.

Thank you for freeing me of her. Concern yourself with it no more. Though I personally would have applied the surgeon’s scalpel, there are, undeniably, times when the sledge hammer can be even more effective. Regardless, it is done, all is well that ends well, and your well-being is my entire concern.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Ginnie,

Oh, I suppose I could tell you about Robbie, but it’s not that interesting, really. It began on the beach, where I was reclining on the sand with a couple of the other lads,  scratching the odd flea bite and smoking a contemplative cigarette. We’d had rather less than the usual planes and bombs and so forth that day, and Robbie and the other Australian officers were all fretting about it, wondering if it meant we were in for another push, or something. I wasn’t involving myself; everybody knows I’m no good for that kind of talk, so they just let me be.

I had just taken a goodish pull at the old gasper and let it out through the beezer, and I was rather idly thinking how the smoke from the Wooster snoot and the smoke from the previous evening’s downed Messerschmitt, still bobbing in the surf, were rather a fascinating mirror of one another, when we heard a great and terrible rumble in the sky from a decidedly nor’nor’easterly sort of heading. We all sprang up, as one does when one hears a great and terrible rumble in the sky, but it turned out to be a good-sized cohort of British Hurricanes blasting off to destinations unknown, which was all to the good, as it greatly decreased the likelihood that they would take it in their loafs to bomb us. However, it is also a bit of a concern, is it not, to see a dashed lot of Hurricanes all headed off together? Makes one think perhaps there’s trouble brewing.

So Robbie said he was due to take a turn around the perimeter anyway, to see if the frontline chaps were all right, and asked, if I hadn’t anything pressing, would I like to ride along and see if we could catch sight of a good dogfight.

Now, I’ve never been much for dogfighting, whether it’s dogs or planes in the scuffle, but he seemed on edge, as though he’d rather like a pal along, so I snuffed out the cig in the sand and legged it over to his trusty set of wheels, awaiting us in the offing.

We trundled and bumped along the five or six miles distance that stands between the harbour and the barbed wire, chatting of this and that. Mostly I think we were discussing that night’s planned entertainment; which songs I’d do on the piano, which he’d tackle with the harmonica, that sort of thing.

He was doing his damnedest to convince me that I should perform The Drover’s Dream, since all the Australians would get a real kick out of hearing it in my accent, and I was trying to tell him that I had only learned about three lines of the damned thing and could barely pick my way through the first verse without getting lost. His solution, naturally, was to sing the blasted noise at full blast as we trounced along, and he’d just gotten to the bit where the emu was standing near with his claw up to his ear when we heard an awful cry ahead of us, and then that most dreaded of sounds - the growl of the panzer tank.

He swerved us off course and snuck his vehicle behind a rather helpful pile of burned and twisted metal that had once been a supply truck, and we made our way to the perimeter on foot, where, just as we feared, three tanks had just torn a dashed great hole in the wire and were bearing down upon us. We danced off stage left at a good clip, naturally, and ensconced ourselves in a series of caves where the frontlines coves make their homes. They were all crouching in the shadows, guns in hand, and seemed awfully glad to see some officers.

We had a bit of a to-do deciding which of us was in charge, since they’re technically his people, but I had the higher rank, and ultimately it came down to me, which I suppose made sense, though I wasn’t pleased.

It’s the Australian protocol, as I may have mentioned, to let the panzers roll right in without contest, and to focus instead on the infantry that inevitably follows. We’ve had a great bit of success this way, so I was all for it, despite being British and technically not beholden to the Australian approach.

It wasn’t a problem really, and I shouldn’t have made a fuss taking command, because we’ve all had the blitzkrieg response drilled into us. The fellows hardly needed more than a word from me – that word being, ‘Blitzkrieg’ – before they were putting themselves into formation. By now the tanks were rolling along quite happily right past us, so I had the closest radioman call in to HQ back in the city to let them know and see if they couldn’t get the ack-acks on them.

They’re good chaps and well-seasoned at this point, so it wasn’t much to direct them. I simply signaled for them to split up and take cover in the rocks on either side of the breach, and ordered them to hold fire until the infantry had made a bit of an entrance. I needn’t have been there at all, really; they know what to do as well as I do, but they seemed to feel better being directed. I suppose that’s human nature in rough patches, what?

So we hunkered for a bit, and Robbie started hissing the next verse of the song into my ear, but before he could get to the bit where the alligator danced ‘The Soldier’s Joy,’ a unit of Germans came bounding up from the sheltering dunes without and dashed in. I signaled to fire when the first few were level with my eye-line, and, well, it’s not a pretty sight, any of it, so I shan’t describe it, but if I cared to be crass, the words ‘fish in a barrel’ might come into it.

I hadn’t even thought to bring my weapon with me, of course, and I’m hopeless with it anyway, so it’s just as well. Robbie was laying covering fire for me so that I could signal to the chaps across the way that there was another wave coming and it was time to reload, when I heard him shout behind me, ‘Get down, Bertie!’

Well, I got down, but Robbie didn’t, and a German fellow we’d missed gave him two good shots right in the chest. Down went Robbie, right on top of me, though not before our lads had taken out the offending party.

For some reason I can’t quite explain, I hadn’t yet got it in my head that he was gone. I remember sort of rolling him off of me and laying him on his back, and then I told him, ‘That’s all right, Robbie. You catch your breath.’ Not noticing, fathead that I am, that he had no breath to catch. No one ever accused me of being one of the sharper knives in the pantry, did they?

Anyway, the men had all reloaded in time, and the second push came through and we dispatched them in much the same manner. At that point, I suppose, the upper echelons of the German side decided they’d tossed enough bodies at us and called the thing off.

I radioed back to HQ at that point and they assured me that they’d got the warning in plenty of time and the tanks were taken care of. I asked for ground transport for wounded and the dead, as one does, and all was oojah-cum-spiff.

Of course, at that point we were all in for a bit of cleaning up, and that took a good while. First order of business is to secure the prisoners and all that; never a pleasant exercise, really, but so long as a few of them can speak English then we can explain fairly well that they’ll be treated well and all that and that they can still write home, which they’re always awfully concerned about. Apparently they don’t always do the same for us when the roles are reversed, but I suppose that’s what makes us the good guys, what what?

Anyway, once a good number of chaps were marching prisoners back, and the trucks had arrived to triage and cart off the wounded, we fixed up the fence as best we could with what we had on hand.

It wasn’t until that point, by which time the sun was just about setting, that I looked about for Robbie and realized I’d lost track of him. Of course, that was when the whole thing hit me like steam train, right in the sternum, and I realised he might very well be done for.

I dashed off to where I’d left him, and there he was, just as he’d been. I never know what to say at times like these, old thing. Never a clue. But he seemed dreadfully lonely there, quiet as the grave with all the hustle and bustle about. He’d never been one to be quiet when there was noise to make, don’t you know, so I sat down beside him and I did my best to stumble through that dashed song of his. He’d been so keen to hear me sing it I figured it was the least I could do.

I couldn’t remember what the parrot green and blue got up to in the thing, but by some miracle I recalled the last few lines, so I blew a bit of the tune on his harmonica (retrieved, undamaged, from his breast pocket where it always lived) and sang, ‘I was dreaming, I suppose, of these entertaining shows, but it never crossed my mind I was asleep, till the boss beneath the cart woke me up with such a start, yelling, “Dreamy, where the hell are all the sheep?”’

At this point a couple of privates came up and said it was time to put him in the truck. I said that was all right, but asked them to hold up for just a mo. whilst I grabbed his keys from his trouser pocket. I knew he wouldn’t want his old car left to be swept beneath a sand dune.

It was a bit of a lonely drive back to base, I’ll admit. As much as his singing had annoyed me on the journey out, I found myself longing for it as the night rolled in. For a bit I was thinking how we were supposed to have one of our entertainments that night, and how I should have been stumbling through The Drover’s Dream in front of about a hundred laughing Australians with Robbie clapping beside me to keep the beat and occasionally shouting out a line I’d missed, but I simply couldn’t think about that much because it was simply too dashed awful.

It being dark, I was going at a turtle’s pace, and the drive dragged on and on, and I found myself stewing over Ethel, of all things, and how she seemed to think she could just waltz in and take you from me, and I found myself getting so dashed angry I could barely keep my hands steady on the wheel.

And, well, the rest of the story you know, my dear. The supply ship, the letter from Kathleen, the other letter from Ethel, my furious manifesto scribbled in the darkness.

It’s been weeks now, of course, since Robbie took his leave, and this place is deathly dull without him.

As I said, not the most interesting story, really. Rather a lot like all the other stories in these parts these days. But I suppose, since it’s Robbie’s story, it deserves to be told. It did do some good to the old Wooster heart to talk about him a bit.

As for Ethel and that particular fiasco, all’s well that ends well, I suppose, just as you said. I am sorry, old thing, that I lost my mind for a moment.

Charlie’s been a good support through it. I suppose I’ve gotten rather closer to Robbie these past few months, but Charlie has been a pal since the beginning. I am doing my best to remember that I am fortunate to have him.

Oh, and I did write to Kathleen, as I’d promised I would. I lied a bit to her; I told her that her letter arrived a night before it did, and that Robbie read it and loved every word. Was that wrong of me? It felt right at the time. You know I do my best to strive toward honesty in all things, but there are some lies that make the world a bit better than it really is, and it’s dashed difficult not to indulge in those.

Anyway, I told her that he was always good for a laugh, which was God’s own truth, and that he kept all of our spirits up, and that we were all worse off now without him. It wasn’t enough, of course, but I kept thinking what I’d like Charlie to say to you, if he ever needs to write you that way, and I thought I’d really rather like him to make you feel as though you weren’t the only person grieving, what?

And what’s more, there’s a bit of something that’s been niggling at the back of my mind, actually. You mentioned that, should I meet my maker anytime soon, you would like to carry on my spirit, or some such rot, and that is why you wouldn’t tell Ethel to go kick rocks. Well, phooey to that, old thing. If there’s one message I’d like to get through your thick skull ‘ere I shove off to whatever awaits me in the hereafter, it would be this: the greatest monument you could erect to the memory of Bertram, Lord Yaxley, would be to continue inhabiting the world as your own sublimely perfect and inimitable self. I have no desire to take a gander down from Heaven and see you galavanting about as some sort of Mock-Wooster. I want to see you, dear thing, just as you are.

Love,

Bertie

Chapter Text

Dear Ethel,

What ho, old b. of my veins. How is B. C. treating you? Are Aunts D. and M. making you feel at home? They’re welcoming and accepting souls, if nothing else, what? And you must admit, the surroundings couldn’t be better; absolutely dripping with atmosphere, I always say. No place like B. C. to restore the weary tissues and buck up the expiring ganglions.

I’m sorry. This is dashed uncomfortable, is it not? All the same, I am grateful to you. Grateful that you’ve done the decent thing when you had, as it were, a dagger before you, handle toward your hand, with which you could have easily slain me. I am well aware of what our dear departed Aunt would have done with such a document. It was, in fact, a damning letter from, let us say, the other party, that she used to induce me to join up in the first place, though that’s practically ancient history at this point. Perhaps you’ve been informed of that, and if so, I’m sorry to retread old ground.

And I needn’t have been so harsh. Or perhaps I did need to, since you jolly well weren’t listening otherwise. All the same, as sorely as you needed to be set straight, it never sits well with one, does it, to speak so harshly? It never sits well with me, anyway, and perhaps it sits even less comfortably upon its seat these days than it used to, now that I face my own mortality at such tediously regular intervals. One doesn’t wish to leave behind grievances, what?

I hope that you are well. And by that I mean, I hope that you are not too deeply heartbroken. He was never going to marry you; I hope you understand that. He was going to find a way to slip out of it like a fish slips off the line at the last instant, and while it might have been gentler, in a way, than the dressing down I gave you, I don’t know that it would have hurt you any less. If it were done when ’tis done, as the fellow said, then ’tis well it were done quickly, or something like that.

Not that I wrote to you out of charity, of course. It was pure pig-headed self interest that drove my pen that night, and I’ll cop to it, but all the same.

I feel for you, old fruit. I do. There was an awfully rummy year or two in there, far back, when he and I were sharing quarters, as it were, and I was absolutely overwhelmed by the divine p. for the fellow, but was entirely certain that there could never be anything in the way of reciprocation. I was practically perishing, you see. All I could think of was him. He was so entwined in my thoughts I began to write about him. Every little thing he did. Everything he said. The way he moved. The way he spoke. The way he wandered silent as a cloud. The turn of his head, the tilt of a raised brow. Even the way he prepared the tea; it was magic and it was torture.

I wasn’t ever in love before, you see. I thought I was, once or twice. I’d see someone with a smashing profile and feel a bit of a flitter in the tum and think, ‘Ah, hallo. This must be that love thing everyone’s always gassing on about.’ But it always fizzled out, and it was all dashed disappointing, really, until – well, I say. I say! I shan’t subject you to the excruciating details of the thing, but long story short, he pinched hot pearls straight from a conman’s pocket and handed them to me, cool as some cucumbers, and the old heart went tumbling. No mere flitter in the tum, this; it felt as though Guy Fawkes himself had lined up about thirty powder kegs within me and ignited them all at once. I could have lit up the night sky to the delighted shrieks of onlookers.

And then I had to go on, day in day out, wanting desperately to be his, all the while firmly believing there could never be any hope. It was all right, really. As the poet Burns once said, in this star crossed world, fate drives us all to find our chiefest good in what we can, and not in what we would.

Oh, that might have been Shaw actually. It sounds a bit more Shaw-ish than Burns-ish. I’ll have to ask Reggie.

What was I on about?

Oh, yes, the heartbreak.

So I made the best of it. We chatted. We took drives. We traveled. We took walks in the park. I paid him compliments. I gave him money and let him choose what clothes I wore, because it did make him come close to nearly smiling. Sometimes, whilst strolling  our shoulders would bump together, or, when reaching for a cup of tea, I would brush the back of his hand with the tips of my fingers. Sometimes his eyes would meet mine with a kind of quiet assurance, and I could almost believe that we were of one united mind. A team. It was all right. It was enough.

Sometimes I’d get engaged to someone, but he always found a way to sever my relations. Heaven help me, I’m as dense as you are, I suppose, because it never occurred to me in those days that he had a selfish motive for keeping me out of the spongebag trousers and topper. I thought he was simply doing the y. m. a good turn.

There were so many reasons why I knew it could not be, aside from the most obvious and glaring one, which I will omit. His intelligence, for one thing, beside my general pumpkin-headedness, definitely put me at a distinct disadvantage. Or so I believed at the time. My goofiness. My entire demeanor, which, while pleasant enough for an afternoon, wears quite thin for most people after a day or two. Our relative social positions. Our professional arrangement.

His brilliance. His tact. His resourcefulness. His confidence. His strength of will. His beauty.

His godliness.

I kept waiting for the day that he would leave me. I knew it was coming; I knew it with everything that was in me. There was no possible reason that he should stay, and every reason that he should go. I knew, for example, that he’d gone from house to house to house before mine, always leaving due to some small annoyance – and I present so many abundant annoyances, well! It seemed a sure thing that he would shove off eventually.

It was all right. I counted every day he remained with me to be a blessing. A bally great gift horse whose mouth I would never dream of perusing. A miracle, beyond measure. I told myself, ‘Old thing, this the best it’s ever going to get, so you’d dashed well better enjoy it.’ And I did!

I did, but it was also so bally awful I can barely stand to think of it.

And then, one day, well. I mean to say, well. Well! What?

I mean to say, one day, well, it changed, and I won’t subject you to the details there, old thing, but the point is that I have had a taste of the old unrequited l. and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

And I do hope we aren’t enemies, Ethel. That wasn’t my intention. It’s only that I’ve been under a dashed lot of strain lately, and I wouldn’t mention it, you know, but I do think that it contributed to my lashing out at you like that.

You see, it’s been rather

Oh, hold on a mo. I’ve got a radio call from the perimeter. Two shakes.

Oh, Lord love a duck! It’s the bally tanks again. When will the Germans learn? Be back instanter.

All right, sorry about that. All things considered it didn’t take me too long, since we’ve got the ack-acks here. Sorry, I mean anti-aircraft guns. A. A., you see. Ack ack. You follow me.

It’s a bit of genius really; the chaps have rigged some of the ack-acks to point off to the side instead of straight up, don’t you know, and if they’re aimed right there’s basically no hope for a tank that takes a missile straight up the snoot at close range. If they had any sense at all they’d stop sending them in here! We’ve taken every tank they’ve thrown at us, but still they send them.

Anyway, where was I?

I’ve absolutely lost the thread, but my point is that I’m sorry for speaking so harshly, old fruit. It isn’t the manner with which I prefer to conduct myself, and you didn’t know, did you? About him and me? No way you could have.

Although, if nothing else, it may behoove you to remember in future that a chap who does not give you an enthusiastic ‘yes’ is essentially giving you a polite ‘no.’ Believe me. I’ve given enough polite ‘no’s’ for a lifetime, and the number of times they were assumed to be coy ‘yeses’ is frankly shocking.

I hope Brinkley is treating you well. Do write if you’d like. Don’t if you wouldn’t.

Love,

Ephraim

P.S. I hope you understand why the return address lists Ephraim Gadsby, and why I’ve kept names and places a bit unspecific. It really is best if any letters that contain any specifics along these lines are anonymous in some way. You might recall that my mail is particularly prone to slipping into postal workers’ pockets. Even if one R. S. is no longer employed by the Royal Mail, I’d prefer a touch of subterfuge for security’s sake.

P.P.S. I’m terribly sorry to ask you this, considering, but it is absolutely bally killing me. Did you mean what you said, about Father? Do you think he would like R. J.? I don’t remember him as well as you do, and, well, I admit I’ve always wondered.

*

Dear Bertram,

This morning I was out with Roger. That is not unusual. I am out with Roger every morning these days. After reading your most recent letter, however, a heavy cloud of grief was over me. I was surveying the peas, which are about six inches high and creeping higher by the day, their frail green fronds shivering toward the sun with such strangely timid determination. As I said, I was surveying them, and somehow their mosaic of vulnerability and strength lead my mind to ruminate upon you.

I thought of how simple it would be for an errant boot to stamp the little vines into the dust, and how all our care and labor, and all of our future aspirations and ambitions for their burgeoning fruition could be so carelessly obliterated, and subsequently I could not help but think how different this day could be, had Robbie not told you to get down in time. How careless it all is, all of it. Spinoza held that reality is immutable, that it cannot be any other way than it is, but he was incorrect. It could have, with the same chance as a whimsical flip of a coin, become a reality without you. It could still, at any moment. The frail fabric of the universe could be rent in two.

The tears came to my eyes in that instant with such force that they could not be immured. Roger put his hand upon my shoulder, and in my ungovernable distress, I placed my hand over his, and stood there in the open field, weeping in the morning sunlight.

Roger has been most solicitous of me since the departure of Mrs. Scholfield.  He has asked me nothing at all about the severance of my engagement, but appears to have positioned himself as a silent supporter. I suppose he believes that I am heartbroken.

I suppose he is correct.

It felt dishonest, in a way, to take comfort from him, but there is no doubt that I required it.

He didn’t say a word, but his hand upon my shoulder was unwavering for the duration. I wished, in that moment, that I could tell him of the gentle and courageous man I was weeping for. He scarcely knows of your existence, and I find it impossible to comprehend how a person could know me without also knowing you. Should you die, then he shall never know me, as no one ever truly has who did not also know that I am yours.

The humiliation was most palpable, at least on my part. Roger seemed to think nothing of it, but he is a man who holds his own council on matters of emotion, so I cannot be certain as to his thoughts. I do know that he has not withdrawn from me as a result of the vulnerability he has perceived in me; if anything, he seems more determined than ever that we should become bosom companions. He begs my presence whenever his brothers gather. He keeps me up nights telling stories of his childhood on the farm. He asks probing questions about my own life, about Rebecca, about our parents, our aunts, our cousins.

He has gone so far as to inquire if I would take the time to instruct him on the finer points of fly fishing. The limestone streams of the Coln, I understand, are well-populated with trout this time of year, which has long interested me. It could be a most useful practice, in fact, as it could supplement our rather bleak meat ration.

Forgive me. It seems that I cannot bring myself to address the subject of your previous letter directly. I am aware, of course, that good men are killed in Libya nearly every day, but to hear of the death of one so close to you, and to hear how near you yourself came to that same fate appears to be more than I can countenance.

I admit that I have been sleeping poorly again. Each time I extinguish the lamp and lie in silence, I feel as though I can hear Robbie’s final words echoing about the room, and my tortured mind forces me to endure manufactured images of those two shots striking you instead of him.

My hands are shaking almost continuously. I cannot fold a shirt. I spill the tea when I pour. Any sudden sound of great volume brings me back to London: walking the streets at night, with the bombs exploding about me, buildings falling, flames bellowing, broken glass cracking beneath my shoes. The bodies – uncountable, anonymous, until suddenly, I recognize a face.

It has only been three months, I must recall. Only three months since I pulled Sam’s body from the rubble. Only two since you were sent to Benghazi and I spent so many long weeks believing you were lost, struggling to understand how I could possibly carry on, or if I even should.

You say that you would hope to look down from Heaven and see me, as I have always been, but Bertram, I am already far from what I was. Giving myself the mission of carrying on your sweet spirit has given me a purpose I cannot seem to find otherwise. I was made to care for you. It has been a year since I have had the honour, and it may yet prove to be eternity. I have been barred from maintaining your home, as all unnecessary personages have been asked to remain away from London. I have your clothing and your valuables, but they require precious little maintenance when they are not worn or used. I had no recourse but to leave your piano, and it is a near constant anxiety to me to know that it could, at any moment, be destroyed. Should you perish, the care of such things will inevitably become hollow. I will become, not your caretaker, but rather a docent in the museum of your memory.

I pray, do not require me to relinquish that sole service that I can perform. Your Code can have a kind of life with me, as your clothing and your cigarette case and your hats cannot. Your Code and your book.

I am sorry. I grieve with you for the loss of your friend. I grieve. I grieve. I have no other words for this. I grieve.

Forgive me. I have other news that you deserve to receive, news beyond my own fragile emotional state. Though I do not relish being the bearer of unpleasant information, do I feel that I must inform you that the Palace of Westminster was bombed last night. It has been damaged on numerous occasions since the war began, but last night’s incendiary attack did significant damage that will take a great many months or even years to repair. Tragically, I have heard the entire House of Commons has been reduced to ash. The House of Lords was also damaged, though not so significantly. Fortunately, the clock tower remains, so I hear, with only a few broken windows.

It is getting to the point that I am beginning to fear that not a single building of historical significance will remain standing when this war is over. Already the London we knew is irretrievably lost.

There was a time in my life when I did not believe in evil. I believed that there were proper ways of doing things and improper ways, and that all else was so much noise. I did not know that evil could take hold of so many so quickly. I feel now that I never understood anything at all, and all that I thought I knew is false.

All save yourself, my dear Lord Yaxley. From the depths, I have cried out for you, my Lord. I wait for you, my Lord. My soul doth wait, and in your word do I hope.

To close, I almost hesitate to mention this at all, and I hesitate even further to include it in this particular letter, but a message came for you this morning. It is a transatlantic telegram from Mr. Little. Before leaving London the last time I arranged to have all of our mail forwarded here, and so it has arrived. It is shockingly long, considering the medium, and it must have been exorbitantly expensive, which is most concerning, particularly since the primary thrust of the missive is that he requires pecuniary remittance.

Knowing your general stance on such matters, particularly when it involves your close friends from school days, I have taken the liberty of sending him the capital in the amount that he requires. I did so by means of a brief message to your bank in New York. I do hope that I have not overstepped in this matter.

You will find Mr. Little’s message enclosed.

Love,

G.

*

BERTRAM WOOSTER

I say Bertie old man what ho old man. How is England treating you these days. All is well in Casa Little forgive me that’s my American coming out. That’s American for the Little House. Not little as in the adjective you understand Bertie old man but Little as in the surname. Specifically mine. I say Bertie old man I have a bit of a favor to ask. Rosie’s gone on tour with the play she wrote and she left me enough of the right stuff to see me through till she gets back but don’t you know it was the Derby last week the Kentucky Derby I mean and it had been ever so long since I’d seen a good Derby so I oiled on down to Kentucky for a few days and had a bit of a flutter but wouldn’t you know it I didn’t click. There was a horse running called Little Beans and it seemed like a sign don’t you know. Little, you see, and Beans, as in oof, what? So I put it all on Little Beans and he choked and came in fifth, with some blasted beast called Whirlaway taking the whole thing. I say apparently Whirlaway was sired by Blenheim. Didn’t he win at Epsom back in ’29 or ’30 or so. You remember, he came from behind in the final furlong and won by a length with 18/1 odds. He was Henry’s horse wasn’t he. Carnarvon, I mean. Anyway if I’d known Blenheim was his sire I’d have put my dough on him but I hadn’t heard blast it. Oh I say Bertie old man I am in ever so dire a bind you see I put it all on the horse and the horse didn’t come through and now I’ve no money to pay the rent on the apartment. Forgive me again that’s American for flat. I really can’t tell Rosie. I hate to upset her so could you possibly wire me $300 whenever you get the chance but before the first of the month. Thanks awfully. Oh and  a few hundred of those special cigarettes from the tobacco shop on Bond Street if you’ve got a moment would be very appreciated. Can’t get them like that over here dash it. Obviously you can’t wire those but just ship them and I’ll get them eventually I think.

–Bingo

*

Dear Ginnie,

I say. I do hope you take old Roger up on the offer and go fishing, old thing. You deserve it.

I am not sleeping so well myself, as you might imagine. Obviously there’s a frightful lot of noise all the bally time with the planes and the bombs and all that, but even when there’s quiet, well, it’s not so quiet inside the old bean. It’s funny you should mention Robbie’s last words, because the bally things echo about in my head, too. I can’t stop thinking about the way he said, ‘Get down, Bertie!’ but didn’t get down himself. If he were here I’d ask him what he jolly well meant by doing something so fatheaded as that, but, obviously, no luck there.

I suppose we all do something goofy now and then. It’s only that, when one is safe at home, those silly bloomers make you blush and stammer. When you’re at war, they make you dead.

It’s all right. You don’t have to spend an entire letter telling me how dashed dreadful it is that Robbie’s gone. We all know what this is. We all know that gaping hole that death creates. I was with you, you recall, when the telegram came from Rebecca about your mother. What was it you said to me that day? It was dashed good. ‘We will grieve not,’ I think, ‘but rather find strength in what remains behind.’

I remember you held my hand as you said that, awfully tight, too. And then you put your forehead upon my shoulder, and I hadn’t a clue what to do, as I never do, so I simply stayed put. I wanted to say something that would give you comfort, but nothing came to mind. We didn’t talk about things like that in those days.

What I wouldn’t give to feel the weight of your forehead upon my shoulder tonight, my darling. What I wouldn’t give to have the entire weight of you upon me, head to toe. Your body was always like the mighty walls of a castle keep, my love. Impregnable. I’ve never felt truly secure anywhere else.

I’m sorry, now that I think of it, that I said you weren’t a Wooster, that you needn’t observe the Code. I think of you as something better than a mere man such as myself – no doubt you are aware of this by now – but you if there is something of myself that you value enough to make your own, then I am honoured. I daresay after all this time, we’ve earned the right to think of each other as family. You can be a Wooster if you like. I don’t know that I’ve yet attained the rank of Jeeves.

And speaking of family, and those that might become family, Old Roger needn’t know me to know you, not really, because you’re the very best part of me anyway. Res ipsa loquitur, old fruit. You speak for yourself. Knowing me would only reinforce the majesty that is you by way of direct comparison.

Do you know what I’d jolly well enjoy? I mean, if there’s something you’d like to do for me, if you were made to care for me as you suggest, do you know what I’d like? I’d like to hear about Roger and Becky and what the dickens is happening there. It sounds as if they’ve skipped the wedding bit and jumped straight to being long-married. She is cooking him meals? He is farming the Biffen land? He has you out with his brothers all night every night as though you were one of them?

Has he no manners? Shouldn’t he lug a ring at her before he carries on this way? Heavens, man!

Terrible news about Westminster. Still, strength in what remains behind, what what? We English are renowned for carrying on, and carry on we shall. They can scarcely destroy everything, can they? If nothing else I’d wager that St. James will stand; the thing’s nearly as impregnable as yourself.

Thanks awfully for sending on Bingo’s telegram. You’re right, it must have cost the equivalent of the GDP of a small country, but that’s Bingo for you. That’s why Rosie keeps the checquebook. And good Lord, I should think you’d know by now that you needn’t beg forgiveness for spending the money any way you see fit! Haven’t I made it clear that it’s just as much yours as it is mine? Really, probably more yours than mine at this point, since you’re the one who set it up that spiffing way that makes it make more of itself. Confounding interest, was that the term? That doesn’t sound quite right. Regardless, it certainly confounded my interest when you explained it to me; I recall a lack of focus in the Wooster eyes and a slackening of the Wooster jaw. I’ll be dashed if it didn’t work out beautifully, however, so by all means, send whatever oof you like to any dashed person for whatever reason.

I say, it’s awfully spiffing to hear from Bingo after all this time. He seems unchanged by the years, as if preserved in amber! Rather delightful, after all we’ve been through, what? It’s a shame I never had the chance to get Bingo and Robbie in the same room; they would have got on like a house on fire.

Do go fishing, my dear. You know I’ve not got the stomach for it really, but those few times I’ve accompanied you, I have always been struck by the serenity which the activity appears to engender in you. If engender is the word I want. I’d like to think of you fishing. It gives me a calm, contented sort of feeling. The year’s at the spring, after all, and the day’s at the morn, and the snail’s on the wing – no, that’s not it. You understand me, though. Knowing you’re fishing, well, it will make it feel as though God’s at least sometimes visiting His heaven, now and then.

Love,

Bertie

P.S. And no worries about spilling the tea, old thing. When I am home, I shall pour it for you. As for the unfortunate incident with poor Sam, well, I’m afraid there’s no tonic or cure man has yet discovered for what that does to a chap. You and I may simply have to resign ourselves to reality of being scarred.

*

Dear Bingo,

So good to hear from you, Bingo! It’s been far too long since we chewed the fat. Awfully pipped to hear your horse didn’t win. Rum luck, old chap, rum luck. Of course whatever’s mine is yours, old man, you know that. Jeeves knows that too, and he’s already had the necessary supplies sent your way. Well, supplies meaning the do-re-mi, as it were, not the cigs, which I couldn’t possibly get to you and neither could he, neither of us being anywhere near Bond Street at the mo. The oil of palm is no problem, however, as I’ve actually got accounts in New York that need only be given the word. Which, as I say, Jeeves has given.

I’m actually in Libya, as it happens, don’t you know. Little city on the Mediterranean called Tobruk. Been here nearly half a year. All that is to say that England isn’t actually treating me all that well, really, but what’s to be done, eh? Not as though England had all that much choice in the matter, what?

Do tell me, old prune, how are you faring? Aside from your typical luck with the horses, that is. How’s Rosie? You say she’s on tour? Dashed fun a tour can be, at first, though it does drain one after a bit.

How are the children? I suppose they’re frightfully grown now. Not really children at all anymore, I should think. Gawky adolescents by now, all knees and elbows and spots and all those other delightful things. How do they find New York? Bit of a different world over there, but Jeeves and I always had a good time.

Sincerely,

Bertie

*

Dear ‘Ephraim,’

Oh, I say. You certainly can raise those hackles when pushed, can’t you, old top? Almost makes me want to call you ‘my Lord’ and give you a curtsey, should we ever meet again. Most authoritative and stern, almost like Father, when he got the bit between his teeth. Good show.

I won’t pretend that I wasn’t a bit shaken up by the whole ordeal, old man, but I really can’t say that I blame you, all things considered. As you said yourself, if any damned floozy had sidled up to Frank when he was alive and announced her intention to marry him, I would have dealt with her in no uncertain terms. Most likely with a hammer.  Obviously I’m not exactly chuffed. I would go so far as to admit that I am a bit sad. And abashed. And, well, rather humiliated to my very core, what?

At least I understand now why you’ve been so set against this little engagement of mine. The scales have fallen from the Scholfield eyes, and all that. At first I thought I was playing the role of Juliet, and it was all quite thrilling, don’t you know, but now I see that I am, oh, you know. Who is the poor chap in that one play who keeps falling in love with all the wrong women? And they keep tricking him, and all that? And everyone laughs behind his back all through the thing?

After I learned the shocking truth of it all, I went back in my mind through all sorts of things, and how Reggie told me in a letter he’d been with you for fifteen years – not employed by you, but with you. Well, that was a jolly good clue, what? One I chose to ignore. And there was the notorious incident when you referred to yourself as one of Nature’s Bachelors, which I jolly well know the meaning of and said so at the time. Good Lord, but I am an absolute fathead. Oh, no your mysterious paramour is a divorcée, ha ha! Just goes to show you shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers, what?

Oh, and Reggie mentioned a ‘personal conflict’ between you and Aunt A. as well. I didn’t think a thing of it, of course, because if there’s one thing old Aunt A. excelled at it was personal conflicts, but sending you to war, well, I say! That’s practically murder, what?

Not that you’ve died yet, of course. I mean to say, not that you will. You know what I mean. I only mean that the worst thing she ever did to me was make me marry a man who lived in India. Didn’t she send Claude and Eustace off somewhere dreadfully far away as well? When they were sent down from Oxford? Goodness. She did have her methods.

Again, can’t say I blame you, really, not a bit. Not about any of it. Reggie is one in a million, as they say, and the better man has won, and all that rot. I should have known I was deluding myself, eh? Not many spritely chaps out there just waiting to scoop up a lonely grandmother. I should be grateful I had what I had with Frank.

I am. Grateful, I mean. Not many of us strike gold twice in one lifetime.

I think my head was turned by grief, don’t you know. There’s just been too dashed many deaths about lately and I still haven’t quite gotten over the one. The husband, I mean. Or those other two – the parents, I mean. And I mean to say, really, the way the bodies just stack up over the course of one’s lifetime, it’s a bit thick, wouldn’t you say? I was happy just grieving Frank all my life, and now I’ve got to grieve all these other blighters, too. And grieving someone while learning to despise them is a dashed baffling experience, I must say.

I think I just rather thought that something good ought to come along, and Reggie’s such a catch, really, and Aunt A. would have despised the match, and it all seemed perfect, like a romance novel.

Anyway, sorry about all that. About stealing your, well, your person. Frightfully embarrassing and it shan’t happen again.

Oh, and about Father? I don’t know, honestly. I don’t really remember him that well, you know. Just snatches here and there. That conversation about Uncle George and Aunt Maudie, I’m pretty certain that was real. I remember him saying something about how love outranks rank, which I thought was a pretty neat line at the time and I used to say it to my school chums a bit whenever they flirted with a footman or made eyes at a handsome handyman. So there’s that.

I do think Father enjoyed a well-read chap. He was an Oxford man himself, obviously, and took it rather seriously in his time. I did once overhear him lamenting to Uncle Spencer that you and I took after Mother more and that neither of us had much of a head for academics or business. Uncle Spencer said, ‘That’s what you get for marrying a woman with cotton fluff where her gray cells ought to be,’ and Father biffed him in the guts! But that was the aughts, for you. Coves were always biffing each other back then and then laughing it off. Men were wilder in those days. I rather liked it.

So I do think Father would like Reggie. I do. Can’t say whether he’d be delighted by your particular attachment to him of course, though Aunt Dahlia seems fine with it, so who can say? I’d always figured it was only us enlightened folk from the newer generation who could be so open-minded, but life always ends up surprising me.

I do understand what you mean, old thing. I always wondered if the Mater and Pater would have approved of Frank. Aunt Agatha liked him, and that was good enough for me at first, although later I started to wonder if that weren’t more a mark against him than for. Still, he was a good egg overall and we had a fine time. And, as I say, I owned him so selfishly, I would never have allowed another woman to go sniffing around him for a second, so honestly, I believe you showed admirable restraint.

Oh, and yes. Brinkley is lovely. I had nearly forgotten. The Aunts are all right. I have wept upon Maudie’s shoulder more evenings than not, and it’s been a great help. Love outranks rank indeed! There isn’t another Aunt among them who would allow me to dampen her blouse with tears, so good for Uncle George! The barmaid-cum-Dowager Countess is an asset to the Wooster clan, says I.

Angela and Tuppy are great fun, actually. It’s dashed odd to wander into this place after all these years and to suddenly recall that I do, in fact, have a family. A family beyond Agatha, I mean, and the girls.

I wonder at her, honestly. Aunt A., I mean. She sent you to war for reasons which are obvious. She sent me to India. I wonder why?

Anyway, I hope you have a jolly good rest of your war and you get home instanter.  All those tanks and things do sound jolly troublesome.

I know someone who is missing you frightfully.

Love,

Ethel

P.S. Oh, and I’ve sent you a little something, as you can see. It’s a photograph I had taken of us in town after our engagement. I can’t stand to look at the thing anymore. You’ll notice it’s torn in half; I ripped myself out of it. Well, actually I ripped Reggie out of it, but when one ends with two equal pieces, I suppose it's six of one, what?

I was going to burn the thing but then I thought, oh, it’s an absolutely smashing photo of Reggie, and maybe you’d like it. Least I can do, after all I put you through.

Forgive me for saying so, but I thought he was a dream in his farming clothes. He’s a dream no matter what he’s wearing, but I admit I like a man who has been working the land. That’s why he’s got those funny togs.

Perhaps I should find myself a real farmer, like what Rebecca’s got. No subterfuge about Roger. He's on the square!

Chapter Text

Dear Mother,

Oh Lord, you’ve fallen in love again, have you? Please do me a favor and don’t get engaged to this one until you’re certain he’s not a conman, or a drunkard, or an undercover newspaper man trying to infiltrate a noble family for an explosive exposé he’s working on, all right? Honestly. I leave you for a few months and you’re flitting off to Gloucestershire. Contain yourself. And for the record, when I say it’s high time you met someone, I mean that it’s time you actually met someone worth your energy, and not some workman whose name you don’t even know. But I suppose I might as well ask the sun not to shine.

Oh, and dreadfully sorry for the delay in my reply. Wartime nursing is just a bit time-consuming, even if one is only doing it to prove a point, as you seem to believe.

And should Uncle Bertie come through my ward, please understand that I will treat him with perfect professionalism, as I do all my patients, and not merely to ingratiate myself to the perennially distant, obscenely wealthy head of the family who doesn’t even know what I look like.

How are you, otherwise? Keeping healthy? Eating vegetables? No horse races, I hope. I’ve got my own expenses now and I can’t be bailing you out quite so often.

When this love affair of yours goes kablooey, let me know. I’ve got a bit of leave and I could stay with you for a bit, buck you up, don’t you know.

All my love, Mother. All my best to Margaret and the baby. Not really a baby anymore, is she? It’s really rather good timing, actually; I’d love to see the little mite. It’s nearly her birthday, isn’t it?

Toodle-oo.

Love,

Phyllis

*

Dear Bertie,

Thanks awfully as I said I was dreadfully hard up what. The cabbage came through in plenty of time and Rosie will never know a thing bless her.

The children are fine. Algy is looking into University if you can believe it. I assumed he’d go to Oxford of course but apparently he’d like to do his stretch in America no accounting for taste.

I say old man what the devil are you doing in Libya anyway. You and Jeeves on some sort of extended holiday? I haven’t kept up too much with the news but I thought I heard there was a bit of unpleasantness going on in Africa somewhere. Maybe you’d better get yourself home before you get caught up in it Bertie old man. Though now that I think of it I think the war’s really in Europe what, so what would Africa have to do with it. Ah well maybe you’re better off then. That’s why we left England when we had the chance.

Oh and yes Rosie’s written a musical adaptation of ‘Only a Factory Girl.’ They’ve shortened the title to just ‘Factory Girl,’ and it’s proving quite popular over here. I didn’t think Americans would go in for stuff about English Lords falling in love with commoners having no Lords themselves but apparently they eat it up.

Anyway toodle-pip old man. Rosie doesn’t think its safe to cross the pond just yet but maybe when you’re back from your holiday and the war’s over you could come for a visit what.

Bingo

P.S. Whirlaway’s gone and won the Preakness now too! What a race Bertie. I wish you could have been there old man. The blasted beast was dead last for half the race and then simply waltzed straight to the front of the line easy as you please and won by lengths!  Damndest thing I ever saw. I’d put a bit down on King Cole thinking he had a spritely step and odds that got me giddy. He lead the pack for half the run and I thought it was in the bag but alas it was not to be Bertie old man. I didn’t put so much down as to ruin me this time old man don’t worry. Jeeves needn’t alert the bank this time.

*

Dear Phyllis,

I’d thank you not to speak to me as though I were some errant child that you were charged with minding. Attempt to recall, if your grey matter can exert itself sufficiently, that I am your mother.

I have not ‘fallen in love again.’ I have always maintained that I have not been in love since your father died, and I stand by that. All of those previous entanglements were misunderstandings. Or mere flutters. Flights of fancy. Or nothing at all. A blip, what? A few little blips. And, for the record, I was never engaged to the reporter. I caught a whiff of something distinctly rodential about him the moment he took me for that stroll along the wharf and spent nearly the entire time asking me about Uncle Bertie and whether I thought he was an eccentric, and whether his future tenure as the Earl of Yaxley would be sound. That is not the conversation of a lover, I can tell you.

As for this particular chap, I admit I was just a little hasty. He was quite handsome, in an older, reassuring way, you see, and you know I have an eye for a well-formed gent. That’s not a crime, is it, child of mine? And, what is more, he has a calming way about him that makes one feel secure, and I realize now that it has been far too long since I felt secure.

So worry not. No need to purchase the fish slice just yet. I shan’t marry the workman, and neither am I so entirely bereft that I require your presence to drag my sorry self through the blows and buffets of outrageous grief. Although, of course, your presence is always welcome. To that end, I feel it necessary to point out that I am currently ensconced in your Great Aunt Dahlia’s house in Worcestershire, as the return address on this letter will no doubt inform you. I should have told you earlier so as to avoid the rigamarole of having the post office at home forward your letter to me, but it simply slipped my mind. Margaret and Lillian are here as well, and yes, Lillian’s birthday is fast approaching and she would love nothing more than to have her dear Aunt Phyllis present for the festivities.

And no, no horse races. This family’s had controversy enough lately without a prominent daughter of the house showing her face at a horse race during wartime. Besides, you know as well as I do that any gathering of significant size is a magnet for the bombers these days, so I’d hardly take my life into my hands simply to watch the horses.

As for Uncle Bertie, I was merely thinking of your future, my child. All that being said, I suppose you’re right, really, that we don’t know the chap all that well, even if he is my brother. You call him perennially distant, and there’s something to that, but, do you know, I do believe there was a time when he intended to be more in our lives than he ended up being. There are more reasons for keeping distant than one might suppose, and when I think back on that day when he and his man met us at the dock – you know, the day we arrived from India – I think perhaps there were words exchanged between him and myself that may have lead him to believe he was better off not being bosom companions with the old sis. I was a hard person, you know. Certainly you know. Grieving your father, of course, and moving halfway across the world with you three so small still. And your Great Aunt Agatha’s influence, which so nearly cost me Margaret and Lillian! Which may still have cost me you, dear child, since you ran off as soon as ever you could, what?

I know I’m talking in circles a bit here, Phyllie, but my point is that, for all that I spent years telling you that Uncle Bertie was only paying for our house so that we wouldn’t pester him, well, I am beginning to think that my estimation of the circs. left a bit to be desired.

Do you know what I think? I think I jolly well scared him.

I’ve been writing him recently, as it happens, and he’s really not a bad sort, I don’t think. Just a man of secrets and concerns, if you understand me. Vulnerable, a bit, and correct to be cautious.

All that is to say that should dear Uncle Bertie come into your care, then do treat him well, and not just so that he’ll do you a good turn. Not that I need to say that, as you’ve already indicated that you would conduct yourself thus, but all the same.

Anyway, do come for Lillian’s birthday. Your Great Aunts Dahlia and Maudie would love to see you and get to know you. I know you think you can’t stick Great Aunts at any price, but these are a rather different breed from old Aunt Agatha, I promise you. Maudie was a barmaid before she married your Great Uncle George, so the two of you might really have quite a bit in common, both being working women.

Tinkerty-tonk, my dear.

Love,

Mother

*

Dear Young Bingo,

You ass. I can’t leave Libya because I’m fighting the dashed war. I’m a bally Captain in the Bally army, you fathead. Honestly. I thought even you could pick up the hints I’d laid down. If you’d been with Theseus in the Labyrinth, you’d get the string all tangled up in your beastly legs and never find your way out. It was Theseus in the Labyrinth, wasn’t it? Or was he the chap with the ship, the one with all new wood? Jeeves would know, dash it. Perhaps my pal Charlie could tell me.

Anyway, I joined up at the outset of hostilities and I’ve been at the front for more or less most of the past year and a half, old man. Wounded a couple of times, and everything, just like a real soldier, what? It’s all been dashed odd. Positively surreal.

It was awfully good to hear from you, really. A reminder that not all the world is bullets and bombs, what? Still running horse races out there and everything! I tell you, should Jeeves and I both make it out of this, we will absolutely come visit. I don’t know that I’d be entirely agog to see Factory Girl to be p. h., as I don’t go in for romantic plots, generally speaking, but I fancy Jeeves would be interested. He’ll pretend not to be but he’ll make a show of going out of feudal piety if I insist, and I daresay he’ll enjoy it tremendously. He might even smile at the denouement when Lord Whatever-it-is takes the girl in his arms and says– well, whatever it is he says. Jeeves has referred to that passage in the book as being ‘distinctly moving,’ which is the equivalent of an ordinary man hurling himself to the floor, wailing, and tearing at his hair in a fit of passionate madness.

Congratulations to Rosie! Do give her my love.

Bully for Algy. I know a lot of our old pals would look askance at his choice, but America’s a perfectly fine place to pursue an education if you ask me. No need to be an Oxford man in this day and age. I daresay a fairly established place such as Harvard would serve him nearly as well, even if it’s a bit unconventional. Jeeves has told me for years that he believes America is poised to become a great world power, and though I don’t actually understand the ins and outs of what it means to be a great world power, and how a country goes about becoming one, he’s generally right about these things. If it proves to be the case, then it might even do Algy a bit of good to have some American connexions down the line, what?

Anyway, got to go, old man, and don’t bother writing back. I shan’t receive any letters for a while, but if you need anything, Jeeves is staying with Biffy, so you can reach him there.

Until next time, old sport.

Bertie

P.S. I do wish I’d seen that race. Do us all a favor and put your money on Whirlaway in the Belmont, what? The return won’t be much, but it’s a sure thing, and Lord knows there are few enough of those in this life. Put a tenner on him for me too, if you get this in time. There’s a good lad.

*

Dear Becky,

Thank you so very much for informing me of the situation with my sister some weeks back. I was rather too overwrought to reply for a bit, for various reasons, but I do appreciate it. I’d like you to know that I consider you to be every bit as much a sister to me as Ethel. Perhaps moreso, recent events considered.

I won’t be sending letters after today, I’m afraid. Not for some time. So that’s radio silent on Bertram’s end, which is all right, but I do have a favor to ask: do look after Reggie, won’t you? He’s the strong silent type, as you know, unless you get him going on the subject of jewelry making or fishing or the poet Burns or something along those lines,  but he appears to be rather more silent than usual at the mo. I mean to say, I haven’t had a letter from him in quite a while, which is all right, I know chaps can get busy, what? But he’s been through an awful lot lately and I can’t help but worry. Used to be I could undertake to cheer him up when he started to go dark, as it were, but obviously my hands are a bit tied, especially now that I shan’t even be able to write him.

See that he fishes, if possible, and reads good books. You’d be a better judge of what’s good in the realm of literature than I. And I know no one can safely go overseas these days, but he does enjoy a change of scenery when things are bleak, so if there’s any way you could arrange some sort of holiday, even to Scotland or something, that might do a bit of good. If things seem bleak, I mean, during the letter blackout, however long it lasts.

You know, at some family party or other some years ago, your mother pulled me aside and said, ‘I do hope you’ll take good care of him.’

I never mentioned it to him because I knew, of course, that she wasn’t all that clear-headed by then, and I thought he’d dismiss it as nonsense. Still, I assured her that I would, which seemed to make her happy, and now it feels like a knight’s sacred charge that I’m fumbling completely. So if you would be so good as to pick up Bertram’s slack, I would be forever grateful. Oh, and my coffers are free for your use in these matters, of course. Don’t sally up to Scotland on your own dime, as the Americans would say.

Same goes for any family weddings that may or may not be approaching. I understand good clothes are rationed and hard to come by, but if my funds can aid anyone in acquiring coverings befitting such an event, then they, whomever they may be, should consider it a wedding gift. Reggie’s got the chequebooks.

Oh, and that offer persists even should old Bertram meet his end any time soon. I won’t get too specific, but let’s just say the old oak chest won’t be shipped off to any distant shores when I am gone. It stays ‘in the family,’ if you understand me.

Goodbye for now, then.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Ethel,

Thanks awfully for the photo. It is a delight, and I can jolly well understand why its presence in your life would be sharper than a serpent’s tooth.

I shan’t be able to write for a while, but I do hope you’re well, and that you find yourself a proper farmer who could love you and keep you in the manner to which you are accustomed, what?

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Aunt Dahlia,

Thank you ever so much for rallying round. I was wrong to have doubted you. I do hope that under your (and Aunt Maudie’s) careful tutelage, something can be made of our Ethel.

I do want to let you know that it’s going to be jolly difficult getting letters out for a bit, so try not to fret overmuch if you don’t get a line from young Bertram. I wish I had the time to write more but time is at a premium at the mo., and I’ve got to prioritize.

I do hope you have a lovely summer. Give my love to Aunt Maudie, and to Angela, and even Tuppy, if he can stand it. Absence truly does make the h. grow f., what?

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Ginnie,

Generally speaking, after sending out the smoke signal I await an answering billow before loosing another puff, but as it seems to be taking rather longer than the us., and as there appears to be little time to wait on my end, I figured I’d fire up the, ah, well, fire, I suppose, and get billowing.

The fact is, we’re in a bit of a bind, old thing. I mean to say, the Grimsby and the Helka were sunk by Italian dive bombers last week, you see, and we haven’t gotten much through since. The Helka was our trusty tanker and we’re nearly out of oil now, which is rather a problem, if I understand Archie correctly. Not entirely certain what it’s used for, but I suppose there’s no end of uses for a good bit of crude, what?

What’s more, the Australian forces on the perimeter were ordered to make a bit of a push last week into the Italian line, and a good lot of them were killed and wounded, to the point that they’ve been rather filling up our free space and time, what with all the graves we’ve got to dig.

Also, as I understand it, a lot of the ships that used to supply us have been redirected to Crete in order to evacuate our forces there, so between the lost ships and those that are serving other purposes, we’re rather poorly provided for at the mo. Orders are to prioritize the evacuation of wounded, and letters are being taken only sparingly. They’re going to take letters tomorrow tonight, they told us, and then there shall be a bit of an embargo, so don’t expect to hear from me after this.

Oh, Ginnie. We had a small convoy in last night, just a sloop and two what’s-its. Bertram isn’t at his best with ships. Not even sure if the first was a sloop, except that I think I heard Archie say the word. But that’s beside the point.

I was at the dock, you see. Nothing for me to do for a bit. I was watching the evac of wounded from the perimeter. Just sort of waiting about, thinking perhaps they might need a hand. Since I can’t sleep worth a damn anyway, why not? It was a moonless night, and everyone was dashed quiet, all whispering and stepping almost as silently as you. I could hear the water lapping the ships’ hulls, and the occasional splash of the odd leaping fish or something who somehow still hasn’t got the message that this isn’t precisely the place to be and moved on to calmer waters.

I could hear my heart beating, and the air inside my chest, rushing like a bellows. I watched the privates load the last stretcher and then trip lightly back onto the dock the way only young chaps can, and something caught me in the heart, old thing. Not anything real or solid, but it bit like a bullet, I fancy. All I could think for a mo. was that I could just jump aboard as she pulled away. It was so dark, Ginnie. I could just jump that little strip of empty space and slip off into the black. My little gray cells were aflame, mapping the whole binge. I could lie down and moan a bit; in the dark they’d never know I wasn’t wounded. In Alexandria, come morn, I could simply roll into the water near shore; just another mysterious splash, what?

Swim to the shore and blend in. There’s bound to be buckets of army types about. I’d only need to bide my time until night fell again, and I could pull the whole bally ruse again, this time with a ship headed home. Maybe I could bluff my way on board, somehow. Say I was an intelligence officer with urgent news for London; no, no papers, in case I was intercepted, what? Then just disappear when we docked and slip down to Gloucestershire on the milk train.

I saw myself creeping into your room in the predawn glow and putting a hand across your mouth to keep you from shouting. I could see it, the way your eyes would open and land on me, first unfocused and confused with sleep, but then brightening with intelligent comprehension. You would know without speech, wouldn’t you, that I’d deserted and that we would need to fly.

You would know just what to do. We would fly. Fetch up on some unpopulated island somewhere. Spend all the rest of our days surrounded by the roaring surf, far from the vexing hand of humanity.

All of this played out like a moving picture in my mind, my dear. My legs were taut; I think I almost did it. Almost stepped across that open space between here and there, from the solid dock to the gently rocking deck. I almost did it.

The ships three pulled out. I stood on the dock in the impenetrable night and watched them fade into nothing, and Ginnie, I couldn’t move, couldn’t tear myself away from what I’d almost done. What I wished I’d done.

A Wooster wouldn’t run that way, would he, Ginnie? Even if every nerve and sinew said to him, ‘Get going, fathead!’ A Wooster does his duty.

I said this to myself, and it comforted me a little. Still, the empty darkness where the ships had vanished pressed against me, hemmed me in like prison walls. That bullet’s bite was in my heart. I thought of you, old thing, and for the first time in my puff, I wished I weren’t a bally Wooster.

We are all here, though, aren’t we? All doing our duty. I must remember that. It’s not the Code that kept me on the dock, but that most basic decency that all the chaps about me have. That same selfless care that lead old Robbie to shout, ‘Get down, Bertie!’

But we needn’t go down that road again. Robbie did what he did and it saved my life, and ended his, and somehow I’ve got to live with that.

As the poet johnny said, fate drives us all to find our chiefest good in what we can, and not in what we would. Which poet was that, by the by? It wasn’t Tennyson, was it? I think I only know the gag from your divine lips, old top. For all I know, it could be a Ginnie original.

Well, wouldn’t you know it, as I was standing there aching for you, I heard that low, awful rumble in the distance that meant we were bally well in for it, and I was required to end my reverie, if reverie is the word I want, and oil over to roust the ack-ack chappies and warn them of the impending doom. Once they were up at and at their posts, there wasn’t much for old Bertram to do, so I found myself slithering back to the dock to watch the show.

It wasn’t so bad as air raids go, really, and in a way they can be almost beautiful at night, what with the glowing red and green of the machine gun tracer bullets arcing across the sky, and the lightning flash of the explosions turning night to day for the space of a single breath.

Do you know, it’s the oddest thing, but I seem to have lost my fear of them entirely. In the old days, I never would have said that Bertram Wooster was a courageous chap. Loyal, certainly. Steadfast. A friend to all and sundry. But when a local Spode, say, was on the warpath, Bertram made himself scarce. And so it used to be with these dashed air raids. I would leg it to a shelter like a flying fox and cower there, nearly weeping with terror, but these days, if I am not too near a building, I don’t fret myself overmuch about finding shelter. I just watch the bombs and the bullets fly. I suppose it’s hard to maintain a heightened level of terror after one has been through this one thousand bally times, what? This Captain Lord Yaxley is made of sterner stuff, I suppose. Absolute chilled steel.

Except when there’s a ship pushing off, of course, and he suddenly gets the idea that if he simply deserted, there’s a chance he could see his Ginnie again before he’s unceremoniously erased from existence. I tell you, it was a dashed odd feeling to be standing there, with all the mayhem and madness about, feeling so poetically rummy about everything. One of the ack-acks got a Messerschmitt right above me and I watched it spiral down into the water, flaming and billowing smoke, and even as it exploded into the sea with a great screaming hiss, all I could think of was that time you came home late from some binge with your pals in New York and found me dozing on the settee with a book across my face. I remembered the way you smiled in the low lamplight as you lifted the pages from the Wooster map. I think you thought I was still sleeping because I hadn’t quite opened my eyes all the way and the lights were low, as I said. You wouldn’t have smiled that way if you’d known I could see you. You’d probably pushed a few past the larynx at that point, too, come to think of it, which couldn’t have hurt.

You looked so fond of me and I couldn’t help but wonder why. I was positively aching for you at the time, but we weren’t of one mind as yet. We didn’t talk about things like that – we didn’t dare, did we? – and of course I went and got engaged to Pauline Stoker about three days later, as a sort of gesture, I suppose, and then we were traveling home, and then I kissed you in the garden, and then just a few weeks later came the business with the banjolele and all that, and I’d rather forgotten that little moment in New York.

I have absolute oodles of questions I’d like to ask you about all that – the garden, the banjolele, Chuffy and Pop Stoker, and Pauline, all of that, I mean – now that we’re finally discussing such things. Questions that have boiled away inside the Wooster bean for eons, but which I could never quite whack up the ginger to push past the old lips. I can’t help but feel that it’s rather too late now, however, as I am yet again facing the distinct possibility that this may be the last letter I send to you. Not because things are heating up over here – not that they bally well could, as it’s already well over one hundred degrees every dashed day, and Robbie’s shorts have become a necessary component of the Captain Lord Yaxley’s uniform, I’m sorry to say – but only that each day is so perilous in these parts, and it may be weeks or months before I can send you another missive, old thing. So I’m rambling a bit and stretching it out and delaying the end, and it’s no good asking you why you left me then, of all times, and if it really was just the banjolele or if it was something else, because I shan’t receive a response from you anyway. I’ve lived with the uncertainty for this long and I suppose I can live with it for a few more months, or weeks, or days, or however long it ends up being, just as I live with Robbie’s last words.

Speaking of which, I’m going to the cemetery to visit Robbie tomorrow. I’ve made him a headstone of sorts; just a bit of rock that I’ve carved with a hammer and a bayonet, containing his name and rank and all the relevant dates. I’ll bring it over in my car, which used to be Robbie’s car, on my way to inspect the bush guns by the Bardia road. Charlie’s coming with me.

I say, they call them bush guns, don’t you know, but there aren’t any bushes about. They’re really sand pile guns, what? Not that the sand piles stay put long enough to offer cover, really, but we do our best.

Should this be my final letter to you, my darling, I thought I would say thank you again. Thank you for taking such exemplary care of me. Thank you for loving me, and for welcoming my love. Whatever happens to him in future, this weary old soldier knew true happiness once, and that’s all due to you. And it’s all right, really, that you left that time. Now I’m worried that you’ll fret about it, since I’ve gone and brought it up. I really wish you wouldn’t. I won’t say that I wasn’t devastated but it’s all water under the bridge now, even if the bridge took a bit of damage from the initial flood, it was ever so long ago and it’s mostly been patched up. Besides, I have no doubt that the fault was entirely mine, whether it was the banjolele or not. I should have chucked the thing the moment you said it displeased you.

Ta for now, my love. I’ll write again when I can.

Love,

Bertie

P.S. I’ve got Ethel’s photo of you in your farm clothes, and it’s everything I dreamed it would be. I don’t know how you do it. You are resplendent in every garment. Simply can’t wait for the stetson, old thing.

Chapter Text

Siege Journal of Bertram, Captain Lord Yax

Siege Journal of Captain Wooster, the Earl of

Siege Journal of Captain Wooster, Bertram, Lord Yaxley

Siege Journal of Bertie Wooster (Note, check with Jeeves about correct personal title)

(Second Note: in the event of my death, please forward this to R. Jeeves of Berkeley Mansions, Berkeley Square, London W1)

Don’t worry old thing, I keep this well-hidden! Only Charlie and Archie know where it is.

What ho, old top! Is ‘old top’ the appropriate name for a journal? Couldn’t say, as I’ve never kept one before. It doesn’t feel quite right, but then nothing feels quite right when I wake each morning in a tunnel, on a bit of sack with some straw stuffed into it, to the sound of roaring engines and screaming bombs, and without the heady aroma of fresh-brewed tea anywhere to be found. Without Reggie.

I did write some memoirs once, but that was rather a different process, what? Just sort of jotting down whatever I thought sounded fun, rather than an exhaustive catalogue of my daily pursuits.

I’ve also gotten much more comfortable with writing letters in recent years, until that option was recently removed from me, so I thought this journal wheeze would be just the thing to fill the void, as it were, but it seems there’s a bit of acclimatizing to get through. Is acclimatizing the right word? Acc-something. I’d ask Reggie if I could.

Let me know when you read this, old thing. If you’re able to. Able to let me know, I mean. Or able to read it. If you aren’t able to read it, then I suppose we can forget about it, what?

Anyway, Charlie and I brought Robbie his gravestone today. I was dashed glad for the help. I used one of the stones that he used to line his little sleep trough. I picked out one of the smaller ones but it’s still a task worthy of Sisyphus himself for me to haul the blasted thing into and out of the car.

I can’t say that it looks very good. I did my best Michelangelo – if Michelangelo is the chap I mean – with a rusty old bayonet and a rock, but the overall effect now that it’s finished is something more akin to what a cat would scratch onto a bit of soft wood. Still, if one squints hard and uses one’s imagination, you can just about make out Robbie’s name and rank and appropriate dates and all that. Maybe when all of this is done I’ll come back with a real stone carved by a professional and replace my own not-so-handy work.

I had to go out to the bush guns on the Bardia road, you see, and give them a good looking-over. Some big hullaballoo is being cooked up for next week, and they want all the guns in tip-top shape with plenty of ammo. The cemetery’s right on the way, of course, and Archie gave me permission, so it was all topping.

I think it’s only about five miles from the city, so with good roads it would have taken less than half an hour to get there, but of course our roads are half-dunes and bombed all to Hell, so it was closer to an hour and a half before we made it. Old Charlie and I passed the time telling each other stories from old times. He told me about a time early in his courtship with Helen when her mother had forbidden them to see each other – apparently she didn’t care to have the son of a servant for a son-in-law; I hadn’t the foggiest idea that people without any money or titles or anything could still be snobs! – and she tried to sneak out her window and got her stocking caught on a nail that was sticking out of the frame. It was dark as pitch, he explained, and he was waiting by the road for her and couldn’t understand what the hold-up was. Finally he crept up to her room and saw her there, desperately trying to free herself without destroying the garment. I told him I didn’t understand why she didn’t just rip herself free and buy a new set, but Charlie says they are frightfully expensive and one can’t simply buy a new set, especially not without alerting one’s mother to the fact that the previous set was destroyed. That was a thought that had never occurred to me! It rather made me reflect thoughtfully upon all the things I bought over the years, fully knowing that Jeeves would eventually burn them or hurl them into the Thames or eviscerate them with kitchen shears, or what have you.

Anyway, she was trying to extricate herself silently and without causing further damage, but it was dashed difficult with one foot on the ground and the other still inside her bedroom. When Charlie finally came along, he had the idea that the best way to do the thing was to lift her up in his arms as high as he could and hopefully dislodge the stockings with a swift upward movement.

That did the trick, apparently, and he was rewarded for his very manly effort with the first kiss she had ever been brave enough to give him.

‘Never felt like a real man before,’ he told me as we jounced and trundled and rolled along. ‘I was a boy until that moment.’

Before I could stop myself, I told him I jolly well understood, having experienced the same rather rummy transformation once myself. I shut the old mouth at that point, though not before apologizing. I never know quite how much talk of Reggie is too much, you see, before he’ll get the pip and rescind his friendship with Bertram again.

I should have known better than to doubt the stout fellow, though, because he really has been what the Americans would call ‘true blue’ since the initial incident, and has even written to Reggie a few times himself, as I understand it.

To his great credit he asked me to tell the tale. To be entirely honest, the complete event is a story all its own, one I might undertake to write for my own sake some time in future, but which would take far too long to explain now. Suffice it to say, it was just after our third trip to New York, when I got myself engaged to Pauline Stoker, don’t you know. We’d spent Springtime in New York, which is a dashed fine time to visit that particular metrop, let me tell you, and had just returned to London for the summer when we received a telegram inviting us to visit the Biffen household for a few days. The male of the Biffen species being a dear friend of mine, and the female being Reggie’s much-beloved niece, we agreed at once, and it was during our sojourn there – a most picturesque location amongst the pig and cow farms of Gloucestershire – that he confessed to me that he had developed a touch of the divine p. for the young master himself.

That evening we arranged to take a stroll in the garden, after the rest of the household had retired, and as we strolled I detected a most rummy reticence in the man. After all, he had, only hours before, confessed his love to me, to which I had been abundantly receptive and encouraging, having suggested this particular strolling-binge myself, so I was all confusion as to why he couldn’t seem to bring himself to do anything but walk about and smoke gasper after fretful gasper. At last, I decided to take matters into my own hands. We Woosters are, after all, men of action. We were at Agincourt, remember, and Hastings as well, unless I’m mistaken. We were certainly at Dunkirk and Tobruk, if nothing else, so that’s something to add to the family record books.

So, I, being the man of action, took the man of thought and contemplation into my not-so-brawny arms and placed a kiss upon his lips of the sort that thad often elicited murmurs of appreciation from beazels like Florence Craye and Bobby Wickham, and most recently Pauline Stoker. The thing is, while those previously named had always seemed quite keen on such forms of recreation, I had always found it a bit of a bore, and rather unpleasantly wet, and unsanitary, and thus had never been abundantly fond of it. Still, I knew enough to understand that a kiss is the customary action to undertake when one wishes to confirm the reality of one’s tender feelings for another, so it seemed the thing to do, what?

To my surprise and delight, I found myself to be quite affected by it in a way that I never had been before. The old heart began to pound, and the persp. bedewed the brow almost at once. I found I did not waste a single second thinking to myself how I would need to thoroughly wash my face afterward, as I generally did whilst kissing. I was forced to conclude that it wasn’t kissing that I disliked, but rather, kissing anyone but Reggie.

Equally surprising and delightful was the effect it had upon him. He seemed to hang still for a mo., before being struck through by some electric current, and then he was a wild thing, his arms about me, his breath short and hard, his entire body shaking like he’d caught a chill. The way his fingers trailed from my hips to my hair, entangling themselves there briefly, and then traveling downward again, as though he felt he needed to feel every inch of me as quickly as possible. As though he thought he might never have another chance.

I say.

Still leaves old Bertram breathless to think of it.

Anyway, I left some of the more intimate bits of that story out when I told Charlie, but I did inform him that the overall result was that I walked into that garden a gormless lad with nothing worth noting in his bean, and I walked out of it a man of meaning and purpose.

It was just about that time that we jounced up to the cemetery at last. I hadn’t been to the old burying grounds in a few weeks and it gave me a bit of a pause to see how much it’s grown just since I helped to dig Robbie’s grave. When Charlie and I pulled up, we both stared in silence at the long, straight rows of sandy mounds, some with marking stones, some with crosses made of sticks. Every one of them a man we’d lived and worked with. Every one of them could easily be us instead.

After our unplanned moment of silence, we decanted ourselves and located Robbie’s place of rest. His little plot still had the cross I’d made of two sticks and a broken lace from his boot. I pulled it out, and we carried the stone between us from the car to the place of honour above the good chap’s head.

After that I played him ‘The Drover’s Dream,’ flawlessly, I might add, and, having nothing left to say, we continued on to the bush guns in silence.

I still feel rather rum about sharing that story with Charlie. I feel rum speaking of Reggie to anyone, really. It was a secret from all but two people for years, don’t you know. So great a secret we scarcely spoke of it even to them, or to each other, for fear of being overheard. For fear of hearing ourselves. It still feels wrong, somehow, in any form but the written word.

I have always longed to speak of Reggie the way that I think of him and write of him. It is good to have a pal like Charlie, now that he has acclimated – acclimated! That’s the word I meant before! I shall try to remember to go back and fix it!

What was I saying? Oh yes, how good it is to have a pal that I can actually talk to freely. I can thank Reggie for that.

I suppose I can thank Charlie as well. Old Robbie was a great deal of fun, but he went to his grave thinking I was engaged to a woman named Ginnie, and it’s dashed hard to feel truly close to a chap who thinks something like that about you.

*

I say. An awfully rummy thing happened today.

We were having one our meetings – the stars and crowns, I mean – in the HQ. You know the one I mean: the jolly big underground cave sort of room that the Italians dug out before we arrived. Anyway, all of us Captains and Majors and upper rankers were at our desks shuffling our papers about rather seriously and discussing something or other related to Operation What-do-you-call-it. They all have such dashed odd names, I cannot keep them in the old bean for the life of me. It’s the one that they’re planning for a week or two from now, when all the chaps in Egypt are going to make a run for it to try and break through to us and end the siege. Sounds a bit rum to me, to be honest. I mean to say, if the full force of us couldn’t defeat Hitler’s soldiers when they’d just arrived, still dusty from travel, then I don’t see how they expect the remnants to hold up against that same force now that it’s dug in, but what do I know?

Anyway, we were discussing plans for how to best facilitate things on our end, and all that; I’m not certain exactly, as it can get rather technical, don’t you know, and Archie usually gives me the main points afterward as the Wooster mind sometimes tends to wander during lectures. Ask any of my dons at Oxford, what? So the rest of them were discussing plans for Operation What’s-it, and Bertram was scribbling a bit of a picture on his paper. We were just wrapping things up, I suspect, because that Australian lieutenant general or whatever he is who does not particularly care for me was starting in with his favorite finishing gag of, ‘That’s all I suppose, unless of course the illustrious Captain the Earl of Yaxley has anything crucial to add.’ I was preparing my customary placid smile and hand wave in response when we heard the most incredible din from aboveground.

It sounded as though every last man in the city were bellowing in shock. They are brave lads to a man, and haven’t made such a dreadful noise once, not under any kind of fire or raid, so we all took it rather seriously, as you might imagine, and dashed up through the exit tunnel to have a look.

Every man was standing in the open, filling the streets, and pointing at the sky and chattering to one another in evident excitement. I squinted, and all I could see were clouds. I squinted harder, and saw that the space below the clouds was strangely blurred, almost foggy-looking. I asked Archie what it meant, but before he could answer, an Australian private nearby said, ‘It’s rain, sir.’

Rain! I say.

‘How do you know?’ I asked.

‘Oh, sir,’ he said, ‘that’s how it looks, right? When the rain is coming from a long way off, it always looks like that, sir.’

Well, I explained that I don’t know how they do rain in Australia, or Libya, for that matter, but where I’m from you don’t tend to see rain coming from a long way off. It’s simply on top of you.

Too many hills and buildings, I suppose.

Anyway, he proved to be correct. It was a great drenching rain, and we watched it creep closer and closer until it was upon us. It was the damnedest thing, really, because back home everyone always rushes for cover when it rains, but in Tobruk we all stood out in it and laughed with joy as it soaked us. I swear to God I could see steam rising from the old shoulders as the first  rain drops splattered down on them.

Do you know, I never properly appreciated rain when I was whiling away the time in old Blighty, but now I don’t think I shall ever catch a raindrop on my snoot without thanking whatever gods may be for the blessing of it.

In all it lasted about fifteen minutes before the clouds had shoved on, and then the sun returned with its customary intensity and all of us were steamed dry within minutes. Still a jolly good time while it lasted. One of the few pleasant surprises I’ve had since my arrival.

I wish I could tell Reggie. He’d like to know that it rained.

*

Hurricanes have been passing overhead all day, which has been a lovely deterrent against air raids. Rather nice, really.

Oddly enough, we’ve had rather fewer German raids lately. The last three were Italian-lead, and I find that dashed rummy. Rather makes one wonder if the Germans aren’t rather losing interest in playing in the sand, what? I can’t imagine they’re having a much better time of it than we are, what with their own closest supply port being something like five hundred miles away. They might actually be faring worse than we, for while we are merely besieged by Germans and Italians, they are besieged by the open desert.

I mentioned as much to Archie, and he seemed to agree with me. I went ahead and let him bring it up in meeting today; I know most of the chaps there have taken to ignoring Bertram’s musings, and I can’t say I blame them. When he said that the Germans seemed to be cooling in their affections, so to speak, there were some odd glances back and forth amongst the top brass, and finally one fellow murmured that there was just a touch of evidence from Intelligence suggesting that Germany might indeed be looking to greener pastures, but it was not confirmed so they did not want to spread word to the people.

Then, naturally enough, conversation turned to the upcoming event, which we all have been in a dither planning for some time. It has occupied our every thought; it is nearly as consuming to as a fancy dress ball, even considering that our own part is actually fairly straightforward, and entirely contingent upon what the other chaps manage to get done on the day of. Perhaps I mentioned it already? Operation Battle-something. Axe. Battleaxe.

Normally, were I affixing a stamp to this and sending it off to Reggie post-haste, I wouldn’t be able to discuss this with such candor, but as this is for Lord Captain Yaxley’s own private letters – should the illustrious Captain Earl ever take it in his fool head to write a serious memoir, which is an affliction I understand elder gentlemen are quite unfortunately prone to – I can write in detail about the plan, its purpose and Lord Yaxley’s own thoughts and concerns regarding it.

The idea, apparently, is to break the siege. On the face of it, I can confidently say that I an ardent supporter of the idea. Not that Tobruk, on the whole, is entirely without its charms (I’d go so far as to say that I’ve hardly ever encountered a finer place to swim, for example, and back when there was tea to be had, it rivaled the best even Jeeves could make), but, all things being equal, I’d just as soon be home.

Obviously we few within the walls and barbed-wire are ill-equipped to break ourselves out. We attempted it a few weeks back and were turned about promptly, with sizable losses for our trouble. So now, Churchie and his chums have devised a plan to hurl all the available men in Egypt at us, and see if they can’t punch through the German and Italian forces, by way of Fort Capuzzo, as I understand it.

Ah! For Capuzzo. I spent last Christmas there, drinking abandoned Italian wine. I say. Things are dire enough that I shouldn’t mind stopping there again. It would be like going up to Oxford for a day of nostalgic remembrance!

‘Ah, remember this, old man?’ I might say to Charlie, ‘The night we got ourselves tight as a brace of particularly thirsty owls and sang Australian folk songs until dawn? The way Robbie danced upon the table until he fell off backwards and was only spared a broken neck because five privates were already unconscious beneath him and broke his fall?’

And then Charlie would probably remind me that he doesn’t remember that bit because he was already deep in the dreamless on a straw mattress beneath a lean-to made of half a wall with an old door propped up against it, a half-empty bottle of vile wine clutched so firmly in his fist that not one of us could wrest it from his grasp.

Fine times! A damned sight better than the Christmas before, when we were shivering in the snows of Eastern France without a single snootful between us to dull the ache of our frozen appendages, what?

By Jove, I’ve derailed my own train of thought, haven’t I? The point is, that should this little operation snatch the brass, then there’s a bit of a chance that I might just spend next Christmas in England’s green and pleasant land, perhaps even on leave from duty.

Perhaps even in a bed.

Perhaps even my own.

Perhaps even with Reggie.

But again, I am losing sight of the goal, what what? The first order of business is to actually get the Hell out of here, and then we can wax poetic about the wonders of England, of beds, of demi-gods in human form.

More to the point, it was at this juncture in the meeting that I was informed, with no little touch of pepper, I might add, that I was to take my unit this very evening out to the perimeter in order to offer reinforcement to all the Australian chappies who have been blistering out there since the onset. The idea, I suppose, is that should the old battleaxe cut deep enough through enemy lines that we have a chance to meet them, we should, upon sighting the whites of their eyes or so, cut through our own defenses and rush to their side, slicing through the enemy forces at their thinnest point, like cinching up a drawstring bag.

That’s the idea, anyway, and while Bertram is all in favor of breaking the siege in theory, I can’t say that he’s particularly fond of this aspect of the plan. Put it to Jeeves, I say, and I imagine he’d concoct a better one. But Churchill and his cronies don’t listen to manservants, unfortunately, which is why I still maintain that the good fellow really did waste himself upon me and should have gone into world-domination, where I daresay, he’d have made quite a splash.

Ah well.

That’s the plan, as it is, and so all the lads are packing up their meager things and getting ready to trundle along over the sandy stretches to the Bardia road, where we’ll all camp out in bally caves and tunnels and holes in the sand with rocks piled about them and wait in exquisite boredom for the opportunity to get ourselves blown to bits.

At least it’s something to do, I suppose, and they always say a change is as good as a rest, what? At least Archie said I can bring my harmonica.

*

The perimeter is bally awful.

I don’t know how all these jolly Australian chaps have stood it for two months. Good Lord! I mean to say, good Lord! I didn’t know how good I had it back in the city proper, minding the big ack-acks and only coming out to the desert for a day or two at a time for inspections and so forth.

I shall lay out a list of issues that I take with the accommodations below:

1. The fleas! I admit I am no stranger to the springing little blighters at this juncture, but out in the open desert they seem to come in forces stronger than even the Nazis can produce. I suppose it’s owing to the fact that there is absolutely nothing else worth getting one’s mouth around – if you’re a flea, I mean. A chap’s blood is all there is for miles to sate the thirst, and that makes the fleas belly up like fresh-faced lads of eighteen on their first boat race night. I mean to say, I’m bally well covered in the things every time I attempt to take rest. It’s enough turn a solid, dependable sort of cove into the kind of fellow who believes he’s a parrot and steals his guests’ crackers right out their hands. If old Roderick Glossop were still Earthside, I’d have to consign myself to his care.

2. The beds! My primary issue with them is that there are none. Not that my bed back in Tobruk really deserves the name; it’s a sack stuffed with straw and fleas – though rather fewer fleas, as previously mentioned, than are available here. Still, I’d take a sack stuffed with broken bottles and rusty nails over the options that exist at the perimeter, which are, to list them, bare sand and stone. At least the sack itself would offer a bit of cushioning, what? As it is, I lay the Wooster Corpus down – in stark daylight, as all the work is done at night in these confounded regions – upon a bed of sand in a shallow trough that I must dig myself every night. Again, I am no stranger to such circs, what? I slept much the same in my pre-Tobruk days, when we were drilling in the Egyptian desert in preparation for the Libyan invasion. Still, at least in Egypt we could sleep at night, and the danger of being bombed whilst attempting to sleep on a hard surface, in mind-crushing heat, with fleas biting you all over was decidedly lower.

3. The rats! Rats, I say. Great blasted, blighted rats that run all over you every time you lie down. Rats that sneak up behind you and snatch your bully beef away if you put your can on the ground for a mo. to light your gasper. Rats that take a nip at your blasted fingers as you sleep, hoping to find a chap so inebriated that he can be partially ingested before coming to. All the chaps here shoot at the rats as their primary pass time, and when I first arrived I thought it awfully cruel, but Lord help me, I’d shoot a few of the blighters myself if I had the stomach for it.

4. The heat! It’s bally hot in the city, understand, but at least we’ve the breeze from the sea – and the sea itself to jump into if it all gets too dashed much. Here there’s nothing at all to break the onslaught of the heat save whatever rocks can be piled in such a way that you can sort of shove yourself beneath them a bit. Any obvious human structures get bombed at once, so we all must simply live in holes and piles of rocks, much like those bally rats themselves.

5. John! The upper crust of the army sort decided it would be best to have a surgeon on hand in case the old cinch maneuvre proves to be as ghastly as experience tells me it will be, so they ordered John and his retinue to join us. Blessed be, he is no longer weeping tears of unrequited, miserable love upon the Wooster shoulder. Instead he has become a stark, stoic man of mystery and that is bally well worse. Reggie’s idea to have Archie gad about with us seemed to start out all right but then they had a falling out over the peerage, of all things! Archie, who, if memory serves, spent a jolly good couple of weeks recoiling from me as though I were a viper with a particularly unpleasant temperament every time he remembered I’d had the word ‘Earl’ stamped before my name, suddenly became a knight defender of the peerage when John suggested it was a foolish way to go about things. As much as I did appreciate the old chevalier act in my defense, I was rather interested in hearing John’s point of view on the matter, since I rather agree that any system that pops Bertram Wooster straight into the upper echelons of society, complete with the ability to write and change the laws of the nation, simply because his old Uncle George finally got around to kicking the bucket is a system that might just be in need to review, what? It’s only a fancy, really, but worth a moment’s thought, I should think?

But of course, Archie’s been staunchly in my corner for a year now, even when I wish he wouldn’t be, so there we are. Rah for Bertram, says he, for some reason I still can’t fathom, and so now they speak only civilly when they must, and things are worse than they’ve ever been. It’s a bit thick, honestly. It’s times like these that tiddly-pum men’s tum-ty-tums, or whatever it is. Jeeves would know.

Isn’t it just the way of things that when I’m in the bally worst soup I’ve ever simmered in, there’s no hope at all for the old chap to fish me out of it? Then again, was it Shakespeare who had that wheeze about how the worst is not, so long as we can say, ‘this is the worst’? Well, I bally well can say this is the worst, so I suppose, by Shakespeare’s logic, it could be worse, what?

We’ll see what I can say after the old cinch. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down.

I suppose Reggie, if he heard me say that, would reply, ‘Or it may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, sir.’

Oh no, dash it. He wouldn’t say ‘sir,’ anymore, would he? He would say, ‘my Lord,’ so that’s another blasted thing we’ve lost.

All the same, I do so hope to touch the Happy Isles with you again, old thing. Whatever that means. I’ll put a bit of starch in this wilting upper lip of mine, and with any luck we’ll be at Fort Capuzzo in four days, Cairo in fifteen, and home by August.

Chapter Text

Dear Bertram,

I apologize that I did not respond to your previous letter with due punctuality. I am cognizant of the fact that you rely upon correspondence, as anyone in your situation would, and I have failed in my duty to you. I have no excuse, but I do have something of an explanation.

The fact is that something you said troubled me.

Forgive me. It is evident that much of what you said troubled me, as nearly everything regarding the current state of the world is troubling. However, when you requested that I describe to you the progress of Roger and Rebecca’s courtship, it occurred to me that there has, in fact, been suspiciously little progress on that front, and that realization preoccupied me exorbitantly. You were correct entirely in your observation that they appear to have bypassed much of the courtship process, opting instead to behave – as you so brilliantly pointed out – as though they are already long married, but without cohabitating.

Now whether that is due simply to their age and experience, or if something darker and more complex is unfolding, I cannot yet say, but I have been gathering evidence that I consider to be concerning.

I would like to thank you for your apt assessment of the situation, even from so great a distance. You have always had a keen mind in the realm of human relationships, which I admire greatly.

I was mulling over your letter the day that I received it when Roger himself knocked upon my bedroom door and rather loudly asked me if I would be interested in purchasing a ticket to a subscription dance, to be held the following Thursday in the town hall. The cause, he said, was to support wounded soldiers, and as such I did not feel that it was reasonable for me to refuse. I purchased the ticket, and he informed me that he and Rebecca would be attending as well.

For the moment, I attempted to allow that information to quell my concerns.

When the day arrived, the three of us took his horse and cart into town for the event. It was a typical country dance of the sort I would normally never allow myself to partake of: a small band consisting of two violins being played in a distinctly fiddlelike fashion, a flute, and a rather obtuse drum of uncertain design. They attempted all of the old rural standbys, and were occasionally nearly successful in achieving something recognizable.

I wore one of the shirts your friend Marwa made for me. It was the first event I have attended since its arrival that came anywhere close to being appropriate for such attire. She did excellent work. If we are ever able to locate her again I would not hesitate to hire her in future.

In addition, I dressed myself in sober brown, with the brown leather shoes and a tan tie. I chose this hoping to land somewhere between formal enough and overly formal, and I believe I was successful. Altogether the effect was striking without being overwhelming, and while I was the most well-dressed attendee, I did not stand out as outlandishly opulent.

If it were possible for me to replace the photograph you have attained of me in farming attire with an image of myself as I was dressed at the dance, I would do so without hesitation. You and your sister share a bizarre and frankly unsettling preoccupation with garish and low forms of dress. I suppose it comforts me to some extent to learn that the fascination is apparently heritable and familial. At least I now understand that you had no choice but to be the way that you are, anymore than you could choose the precise brilliance of your bright blue eyes, or the particular shade of copper in your burnished hair. So much of what I love in you is mysteriously inherent. Sometimes, in thinking of you, I wonder if Spinoza weren’t correct after all; you could never have been anything but what you are.

Once the dance began, it was my intention to acquire an appropriate beverage and drink it on the periphery of the proceedings, but Roger appeared to have other plans. I will spare you the details, but, in short, he attached himself to me and introduced me, over the course of the evening, to no fewer than twelve women, all of whom were age appropriate and, either through choice or misfortune, unmarried.

Rebecca, to her credit, attempted to dissuade him from his personal mission on multiple occasions throughout the night, but he could not be impeded.

I was obliged to dance with each one of them, and since I am, as you are aware, fairly accomplished in this particular area, I received multiple requests from most of the women throughout the evening. I scarcely rested for a moment, and with every arduous step I wished that it was your spritely form that I held in my arms. By the time the dance came to a close at midnight, I was quite exhausted, and I had in my possession either the telephone numbers or home addresses of seven ladies.

I did not ask for any of these. They were simply offered and it appeared to me that it would be most ungracious to refuse them. Obviously I have no intention of using any of these numbers or addresses – in fact, all were consigned to the confines of the rubbish bin upon my return to the Biffen house – and I came home that evening feeling rather more resentment toward Roger than perhaps he deserved. No doubt he believed he was doing me a favor; aiding me in the reparations of my broken heart after the failure of my engagement. Though he was acting in innocence, however, I could not help but seethe in annoyance when he greeted me the next morning in the pea field for our weekly weeding.

So I am forced to admit that it was this resentment in addition to the observation you provided in your previous letter that lead me to consider the possibility that Roger was not all that he seemed. I began, as the days unfolded, to believe that I may have detected strange looks on the faces of some of the guests at the dance: glances in Roger’s direction, perhaps. Whispers behind shielding hands as he and Rebecca swung through the throng in one another’s arms. As the days passed by I became increasingly convinced that Roger was regarded with some level of suspicion amongst the locals. That he pursued my sister because she is not local and does not know what others know. The thought consumed me.

I should have written you regardless. I realize that. Only you are aware, more than anyone else in the world, the way that when a resentment or a suspicion – or both – have possessed me, I find it nearly impossible to put my mind to anything else. It is as though time ceases to pass.

I became increasingly convinced that Roger was hiding something.

I was in no position to confirm my suspicions for over a week, as we had so much work on both of the farms, I could not be spared for a day. However, the following Tuesday it rained tumultuously, and I was able to go into town. Returning to the same town hall where I had endured the dance, I requested the death records for the county from 1937.

I recalled, you see, that when they first met, Roger informed Rebecca that his wife had died four years previously and that her name was Mary. Once the records were in my possession, I scoured the entries for a woman named Mary Bishop. Though I found three Marys who died that year, none had the surname Bishop. Furthermore, one was a child, one was ninety years old, and the third had no spouse listed.

This was not conclusive, of course. It is possible that his wife died in a different county, whilst on holiday, perhaps, or visiting relatives elsewhere. However, I cannot ignore the fact that it is now within the realm of possibility that she did not die at all.

After this, I took it upon myself to take daily walks in the local cemeteries in order to see if I could locate her name on any gravestone, but in this endeavor too, I failed to obtain conclusive information, as no grave bears her name. If Mary Bishop is dead, then she is not buried here.

I was several days into the deep contemplation of this mystery when I received your letter and realized with a horrific jolt of guilt that I had not yet replied to you.

This is the first time since you left that I have not thought of you ceaselessly. It is not that you were not on my mind, but only that my concern with uncovering the truth of Roger’s past consumed me so entirely that you, temporarily, became a side concern.

This explanation does not absolve me, I know. I do not seek absolution for this transgression. The fact that you have continued to be in near constant mortal peril whilst I allowed my mind to drift to other matters is abhorrent to me. You are the sole charge of both my professional and personal lives, and I have failed in both.

Now, of course, it is too late. This letter is written senselessly and without purpose, as it cannot be sent to you. You cannot read it. I wish that you could, not so that you could forgive me, because forgiveness is not warranted, but because I know that such social mysteries are always of interest to you. I also know of your fondness for my sister, and I have no doubt that your large and generous nature would cause you to encourage me in my investigation, even if it does detract from my ability to write to you. However, as fate itself has intervened and forced our hand, we must, as Shaw wrote, seek to find our chiefest good in what we can.

I do not believe that I am capable of ceasing my communication with you entirely. Once, more than a year and a half ago, you told me that you think you are so used to discussing all of your thoughts with me that you don’t know what to do with yourself if you cannot. We are of one mind – quite literally; my thoughts feel formless and only half-cogitated if I cannot express them to you. My plans and designs are frustrated without you to help me implement them. Therefore I shall continue to write to you, even if the letters cannot be sent. I will keep them together somewhere safe, and send them all to you whenever it again becomes possible.

I am doing my best not to ‘fret,’ as you put it, concerning the excavation of the Banjolele Incident. I do not know if I have a reasonable explanation for what occurred between us at that time. In fact, I have considered discussing it in more depth with Rebecca, in order to gain outside insight. I have mentioned it to her once in the past, but never quite felt prepared to delve deeper, somehow. However, now that you have raised the question, I feel obligated to explore it.

As such, you will find my response is pending. Which, considering our current circumstances, is most likely not a problem.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Bertram,

I attempted to speak to Rebecca regarding the Banjolele Incident today, but was, surprisingly, rebuffed. I informed her and Mabel over breakfast that I desired to discuss a matter that was causing me great consternation, and that it was in regards to the time that I tendered my resignation from your employment, ostensibly due to your taking up practice of that instrument, but before I could proceed, the two of them exchanged a strangely knowing look, and Rebecca put what I assume was intended to be a comforting hand upon my own.

‘You shouldn’t torture yourself with this,’ she said.

I inquired as to her meaning, as I did not feel tortured so much as distressed and confused, in some regard, by my own past actions. She and Mabel exchanged another look, which I found most disagreeable.

‘You aren’t yourself, Uncle Reg,’ Mabel said. ‘And it will not help Uncle Bertie one bit if you twist yourself in knots over arguments you had ages ago. You ought to go fishing or something. Take Roger with you and teach him a thing or two.’

‘I am not twisting myself into knots,’ I replied, but Rebecca interrupted.

‘There are always going to be arguments and fights, words said in anger that you wish you could unsay. This is not the time to agonize over every imperfect thing you’ve done. Please, just go fishing with Roger. He’s keen to learn, and you need it.’

You might recall that I was considering the matter with some gravity a few weeks ago, but after the incident at the dance, and what I have uncovered – or rather failed to uncover – regarding Roger’s wife, I no longer consider it feasible to fish with him. For obvious reasons I could explain to Rebecca the precise nature of my reticence on the subject, so I was obligated to fabricate an excuse.

‘I fear my overexertion in the fields has rendered me far too fatigued for fishing,’ I said.

Distressingly, they appeared unfazed.

Mabel said, ‘You require rest of some sort, clearly and if that cannot be in the form of angling in the Coln, then it must be reading in bed.’

‘Yes,’ Rebecca urged. ‘Read in bed for an entire day. Every book you’ve longed to dive into.’

This also I eschewed, due to the evident abundance of work that is required, both upon the Biffen farm and the neighboring Bishop establishment, to which I have already promised my labour. At this point they yet again exchanged looks, and seemed to agree  without spoken words that it was time to let the matter rest. I fear, however, that this is only temporary.

I cannot account for their strange insistence on the matter. Rebecca has always cared for me, certainly, but she has never before taken so direct and, dare I say, meddling an approach to my well-being. If she persists, I may be forced to speak sternly to her, which I do not relish.

As for Mabel, her treatment of me was far more familiar than I am accustomed to. I fear that our sharing a roof for so long is beginning to break down social barriers that may best be left firmly built.

I did my best to forget the incident as I worked, but I found my thoughts were  unusually errant.

The weather was fair. Some cirrocumulus clouds formed briefly in the East this morning, but dissipated swiftly. After that the skies were clear, and I could not help but think of you. I always do, but in this instance, I was pondering the empty sky, and wondering if perhaps the skies above you are often empty of clouds, or nearly so. When it rains here I feel more distant from you, but when it is hot and cloudless, the space between us seems to dwindle.

All the same, the sky can offer little comfort, for the reason that it is the primary manner by which humanity has always measured time, is it not? The sun itself, which makes times, as they pass, is elder by a year now than it was when thou and I last one another saw, and thus its presence above me is a cruel reminder of all the time that has gone by, as empty as the cloudless skies.

A cruel reminder in more ways than one, my dear, for you were as the sun to me; all heat and light and cheer that permeated those shadowed corners of my heart that were hidden even from myself. It can be thin solace only, to think that the same sun that scorches the back of my neck as I work also scorches yours. It is not enough to be merely upon the same vast orb, eking our lives away on separate continents. Those old poets who took consolation in the thought that their eyes were caressing the same moon as their beloved’s, well, they were talking utter rot. You should be with me. There is no respite in rest, no pleasure in fishing, no interest in the empty words scrawled by ancient men who never knew you. There is nothing, really, until you are returned to me.

Your aunt is dead.

I remind myself of this fact regularly, and though it still delivers a small thrill of satisfaction, it is not enough. She should have suffered more. I should have seen to it. It was not enough to silence her, to take her son, to send her into embarrassed seclusion. It is not enough that she is dead.

Nothing is enough.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Bertram,

The matter has escalated.

Concluding that document-based research alone could not produce satisfactory results, I decided to ask Roger directly about his wife. It was early this morning, the June dawn only just burgeoning upon the horizon, and the evening’s chill still hung in misty clouds upon our breath. We were bringing the cows in for milking, and their gentle, sturdy presence following us steadily as we guided them into the shed seemed to give me a kind of resolve.

I decided to be forthright.

‘Tell me about your late wife,’ I said.

He stumbled and drew in a sharp breath. I felt vindicated by his reaction.

After a pause that was certainly longer than necessary, he said, ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Who she was,’ I replied. ‘Was she much like my sister?’

He seemed to relax at that question, as I intended him to.

‘Oh, not much, no,’ he replied. He brought Tulip in to her place in the shed and I tied her up as he positioned his stool at her side. He rubbed his hands to warm them – a kind concession he always makes for his heifers – and began to milk her. I did not interject. I could tell that he intended to continue. He hovers on the border of reticence, but generally will elaborate if he is given space to do so.

My patience was soon rewarded.

‘Mary was a hard woman in many ways,’ he said. ‘I loved her! Don’t think I didn’t. She was a good worker. Quick with a joke to brighten the spirits in difficult times – and Lord knows we had plenty of those. But she was exacting, wasn’t she? I was never up to her standard. She wasn’t…’ he trailed off for a moment, and extruded a thoughtful stream of milk from Tulip’s teat. ‘She wasn’t interested in understanding people. Your Rebecca is a miracle, you know that? She pays attention to people. She tries to understand them.’

I told him I did know, that Rebecca’s insights had long been invaluable to me, and that I was pleased to hear that he was aware of her gifts and appreciative of them. To this he simply smiled and nodded, and continued to milk the cow.

After a moment’s silence, save for the the rhythmic singing hiss of the milk, I said, ‘How did she die, if I may ask?’

To this, he started again, sending a stream of steaming milk into the hay at his feet. He swore quietly, then said, in a strangely offhand way, ‘Heart attack. One day she was here and the next, she was gone.’

I considered asking him where she was buried, but feared he would become suspicious if I questioned him too closely on such matters. Instead, I elected to obfuscate my purpose by turning the conversation toward Rebecca.

‘Have you any particular question you should care to ask me?’ I said, in what I designed to be a hopeful timbre. ‘About my sister, perhaps?’

He looked up at me then, his eyes just slightly widened, before he turned back to his work and said, ‘Aren’t you going to milk Rosehip? She must be bursting, poor thing.’

I could tell that that particular line of conversation was now closed, at least for the time being. I nodded and agreed that poor Rosehip was indeed ‘bursting,’ and went to work. We milked back to back without a word shared between us for some time. It wasn’t until the milking was nearly done that Roger said, softly so that I could barely hear, ‘Rebecca deserves more than I can give her.’

‘Rebecca’s daughter is quite wealthy,’ I told him, ‘and she will want for nothing, even if you are not financially stable yourself.

To this he merely chuckled and shook his head; a most tedious habit of his. He frequently declines to speak in the midst of conversation, thus ending the exchange abruptly.

I have become too used to you, my dear, who would speak so freely on so many topics and at such zealous length. I have been spoiled, I suppose. I am easily frustrated by reticent men. I long to speak to you again, the way we would in the old days, when we had nowhere to be, nothing to do for anyone. Your ankles crossed upon my knees, your head thrown carelessly back against the arm of the Chesterfield, a cigarette dangling, nearly forgotten, from your lithe fingers. The sound of your voice, rising first in excitement, then dropping to an almost conspiratorial tone as you regaled me with the latest gossip about Mr. Prosser’s Aunt Emily, perhaps, or which of your fellow Drones you suspected was cheating at billiards.

There were times, I admit, when the topics would sometimes become tiresome to me. There were times when I wished that we could speak of higher things, or deeper things. Times when I wished I could tell you a quote of Spinoza’s without it being met by a flippant joke.

All that is nothing to me now. I can speak to Rebecca of deeper things. I can speak to her of Spinoza, or Hume, or the Swan of Avon. We can talk the night away with theories and history and literature. In fact, we have done so many times since I came to stay.

What she cannot give me – what no one else in the world can give me – is that  perpetual sense of late-spring sunlight, that which is not yet too warm for comfort, nor too harsh. That sense that God, as you so love to say, is truly in His kingdom. That all is right with the world.

What wouldn’t I give to hear your jaunty step disturb my quiet reading tonight? To feel the mattress beside me dip down beneath your weight, followed swiftly by that birdlike peck of a kiss upon my cheek? To feel you settle in, lean languidly against me, your bright hair brushing my ear as your head tips onto my shoulder? To hear you say, ‘I say, old thing! You’ll never guess what Barmy did today.’

There were times when I would be perturbed at the disturbance, when I wished that you would notice that I was not yet finished with my reading, but there were also many other times when I fully fathomed, down to the depths of my soul, the great honour that God had bestowed upon me when He brought me into your service, and into your heart. Yes, there were times when I would sternly continue to read until you noticed, apologized, removed yourself – but there were more times, weren’t there, when I closed the book and cast it aside?

I would cast it aside tonight, my darling. I would cast it into the fire. There is no pleasure in reading, now that it cannot be disturbed by you.

Perhaps Mabel and Rebecca were correct in their assertion after all, for the thought that I once threw all of it away – threw you away – over so trivial a thing as a musical instrument is torturing me.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Bertram,

I read an article in the newspaper today about Tobruk. There is, apparently, grave concern that our loss of Crete may have given Germany such a robust foothold in the Mediterranean that the British navy could be forced to abandon the garrison in Libya. Losses of naval ships attempting to bring supplies to Tobruk are, evidence suggests, becoming too great to bear. At the same time, Germany’s newfound control of Crete and Greece gives them a far superior base from which to launch airstrikes upon Tobruk than that which they had previously.

All in all, the situation appears to be becoming rather dire. However, since the site is so important to the allied governments, there is no plan in place to evacuate the soldiers who are, quite literally, holding the fort. Therefore, if the British and Commonwealth armies are not able to break the siege within the next two weeks or so, it could very well last indefinitely, until the nearly inevitable fall to axis forces.

No doubt you are already aware of this.

After reading the paper with my breakfast, I decided to postpone my duties in the field and see instead to certain household tasks that have lately lapsed. Most crucial to me was the state of your clothing. None are dirty, obviously, as they have not been worn in over a year, and I cleaned them thoroughly after our flat was bombed in February. However, they have been hanging or in storage for so long, I feared that they would begin to acquire the stale must of disuse that is so very difficult to eradicate, once it establishes itself. Therefore I felt it was most important that I spend the entirety of the next several days laundering and ironing every article of your clothing. I really should have been doing so at least once a month, and I will be sure to take better care of your possessions going forward.

Rebecca attempted to stop me after I had been working for five hours or so. She was concerned that my maintenance of your raiment was evidence of some sort of emotional breakdown, but I was able to convince her that the work is entirely necessary and she left.

Some time later, however, she returned and wrested the hot iron from my grasp, going so far as to threaten to burn the shirt I was seeing to if I did not stop for dinner. Though she was being most uncharacteristically troublesome, I acquiesced for the sake of your evening shirt.

I am beginning to worry that she is not entirely well. She was nearly hysterical with tears in her eyes, which is not a state I am accustomed to seeing her in. Perhaps it is the strain of maintaining so large a household without servants.

I must determine the most effective method of providing her with relief.

Love,

  G.

*

Dear Bertram,

Rebecca presented your letter to me this morning. I am referring, of course, to the last letter you sent her, before you were obligated to cut off all communication. She explained that while it is not her usual practice to share private correspondence with unintended recipients, she believed that were I to become informed that it was, in fact, on your orders that she was attempting to coerce me into relaxation, I might become more receptive to the idea.

Her hypothesis proved correct. Since you personally requested that I go fishing and read good books, I have little recourse but to do so. As for your most generous offer to fund a journey for us, we have both taken it under advisement. It may do Rebecca some good. As I have mentioned, I believe she is suffering from excessive strain. I have recently become particularly interested in visiting Alnwick, which I understand is a lovely town. Not so dire as Scotland, of course, but still a reasonable distance if one desires a change in scenery. I may discuss the matter with Rebecca. Once your shoes have been properly polished, of course, and your collars starched.

I did not know that my mother spoke to you that day. She was so far gone by that time, it never occurred to me that she would even notice you, let alone make such a peculiar request. You say that she asked you to take good care of me, or at least suggested that she hoped you would. I admit this information has caused me no little consternation, for I have often wondered

Forgive me. It does no good to speculate on the motivations of those who have departed. I am pleased that she had a moment of clarity that day of sufficient length that she could speak to you. I have often regretted that you did not have the opportunity to meet her when she was as she used to be. I have regretted that you never met my father at all. I have regretted that I was never able to meet your parents. All of these myriad fragments of ourselves, buried in various graves, are lost to one another.

As for your even more generous offer to offer pecuniary assistance to my sister so that she may purchase fine clothing in the event that she is soon married, you now know that there are serious doubts on that score. Or you would know this, had you read any of these letters that I have written to you, which you have not, and may never will.

In fact, the trouble with Roger has escalated even further, due to a chance encounter I had in town yesterday afternoon whilst I was going about my shopping for the household pantry. On the street outside the bakery, I happened upon one Miss Jane Starkweather, with whom I danced three times at the recent subscription event. She is a slight woman of roughly my own age, never married, though, if one’s personal experience may be taken into account, not for lack of trying. She chided me for failing to call upon her after the dance, whereupon I was forced to inform her that I had lost her address. I did not inform her that her address was in fact lost in the rubbish bin.

To this she shoved me in an alarmingly familiar manner and said, ‘Well, you’re Roger’s friend, aren’t you? He knows where I live.’

I have made few acquaintances in this area, never having intended to stay as long as I have, and I saw an opportunity to glean a smattering of information regarding Roger and his history.

‘Do you know him well?’ I asked.

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes, that I do. We grew up together, didn’t we? I’ve seen him about with that woman from the big house. Is she a relative of yours?’

I confirmed that the woman from the big house was my sister. That seemed to bring a light of cheer to Jane’s features, which I fear may have been a blossom of opportunism.

‘I knew you must be a gentleman,’ she said, with rather too much enthusiasm. ‘You dress and talk so well.’

‘I am not,’ I said, and she laughed, shoving me in the shoulder again with even greater familiarity.

‘So old Roger’s sniffing around the Biffen family, eh?’ she said. I refrained from drawing attention to the fact that she was also ‘sniffing around the Biffen family,’ and merely smiled politely. Tact, as you know, is everything.

‘He and my sister have certainly come to enjoy one another’s company on occasion,’ I said. ‘Just as I have enjoyed your company.’

To this, she blushed and laughed again.

‘I’ll say they are!’ she said, most inappropriately. ‘The way they danced! I never saw him fling Mary around a dance floor like that.’

‘Mary?’ I said, feigning ignorance of her entirely.

At this, Jane’s eyes widened.

‘Oh, he’s not mentioned her yet, eh? Not to worry. Not to worry at all. She was from away anyway, so it was no wonder to any of us that she decided Gloucestershire wasn’t to her liking. I suppose Roger likes an exotic woman, eh? Where’s your sister from? Kent, by her accent? Mary was from Northumberland! A long way from home, she was. No wonder at all. Still, the way she went! Here one day, gone the next. You’d think, having lived amongst us over ten years, she’d have a bit more to say to us on her departure, but we didn’t even know she’d gone until she went. How do you like that?’

‘Was he married to her?’ I asked, my ruse of ignorance clearly working perfectly.

‘Oh, yes. Right in the church down there, wasn’t it? Still, you know divorces are like weeds in a flower bed these days; it’s getting so you wonder if they’ll bother keeping the “till death do you part” bit of the ceremony, or if they’ll just scratch that part out.’

‘Hm,’ I said, expressing mild amusement as best I could.

‘I shouldn’t be talking about that though, should I? Not at all proper for a woman of my standing, is it? Time was a woman like myself wouldn’t even know the word ‘divorce,’ let alone gossip like a schoolgirl about a fellow I’ve know my whole life. Erase this from your mind, there’s a good lad. Roger’s a good sort, even if he can’t be married in the church.’

‘Consider it erased,’ I said, though obviously, I did no such thing.

No doubt you will consider this a fascinating development. I think I can see precisely how your eyes would brighten, how you would lean forward with your mouth slightly open and say, ‘Good Lord, Jeeves! This Roger cove is as slippery as a surfeit of lampreys! What else has he got up the old sleeve, do you think?’

Were we together, I would, at this juncture, point out that Roger is not quite as slippery as one might believe, since the initial lie he told Rebecca concerning his wife’s death was almost laughably easy to uncover. Indeed, one wonders if there were any feasible way that we could continue to reside in this town without eventually learning that she was not, in fact, dead.

Then, I suppose, you would lift your right eyebrow and turn your head just slightly to the side, in the manner that you always take when you are about to suggest something sinister has occurred.

‘Ah,’ you would say, snapping your fingers, perhaps, ‘but didn’t Miss Starkweather say that Mary flew without so much as a fare-thee-well? That no one saw her go, she simply upped anchor and sailed for bluer horizons?’

I would say, ‘The detail did not escape me, sir.’

‘How do we know Roger didn’t do the old Rascal-what’s-it?’ you would continue. ‘You know, Jeeves. The Russian murderer chappie from that dreadful book you love.’

‘Raskolnikov, sir,’ I would reply, and then I would say something similar to: ‘The thought did occur to me, sir.’

Although, now that it is all over and done with, perhaps I can admit here, in this letter that will never be sent, that, on occasion, the thought had not occurred to me. There were times when I could not see the entirety of the situation until we had ‘hashed it out’ together, my dear. Times when I required your perspective in order to draw the connexion that would suddenly become clear as you spoke.

So it is today. I thank you for your insight.

What did become of Mary, then?

More research is required. I shall keep you fully apprised, of course.

No, I will not, because you will not read this. Somehow, that fact occasionally escapes me lately.

Good night, my dear.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Bertram,

Today I went fishing with Roger, as you ordered me to do. I admit, it was relaxing to some extent, though the possibility that he murdered his wife did cloud the experience to some degree, at least for the first few hours.

I was not concerned for my own safety, of course. I still keep Mr. Thomas Gregson’s old cosh in my pocket, and as Roger and I are fairly evenly matched in size and strength otherwise, I feel that the cosh lends me sufficient advantage, should a physical altercation arise.

No such contingency came to be, however, and we passed a pleasant day in quiet reverie upon the river. By the end of the day, with eight splendid trout between us, I found that I had nearly forgotten the suspicions that have plagued me, and the weight of the maintenance of your near-derelict wardrobe.

We even spoke of Rebecca, briefly. Roger spoke first, telling me that he cared for her deeply and would consider marriage, and I quote, ‘once I can tie up a few loose ends.’

While that raised flags of a decidedly vermillion hue, nevertheless I returned home with a calmer disposition than that which I had upon my departure this morning. I found myself reasoning with my own inner thoughts, convincing myself that it is not necessarily the most likely scenario that Roger is a murderer, simply because my sleep-deprived, anxiety-ridden mind concocted the possibility whilst in imaginary discussion with you. In fact, when written out this way, I would go so far as to say that it appears to be a decidedly unlikely scenario. It is far more likely that they had a falling out, and she returned home.

All together, I found myself much more in possession of my senses than I believe I have been recently. The frantic laundering of your clothing, to the detriment of sleep and the regular consumption of food, has clearly been excessive. I find I am viewing my  recent interactions with Rebecca in a different light; her tearing the iron from my hand with tears in her eyes was, in fact, a perfectly rational act, if I myself was behaving as irrationally as I now suspect that I was.

I should have realized that you would know the way to calm me. You are, of course, entirely correct that fishing restores me to myself in times of stress. I will attempt to remember this.

I should also remember that you are aware of my affection for you, and that the many joyous years that we have passed together since the Banjolele Incident have doubtless made a deeper and more sustained impression upon you than a few weeks’ separation ever could, and that even if we are never again able to discuss this matter, or any other matter, there is no reason for me to dwell upon it.

We had a beautiful life together, Bertram.

I will also attempt to remember those words of wisdom that Rebecca shared with me last year: in the absence of information, it is not necessarily an act of wisdom to assume the worst. It serves me better to assume that you are alive and relatively unscathed, regardless of your current circumstances, than to assume that you are not. After all, most soldiers survive, even in wars such as this.

Thank you, my dear. My Lord, thank you. I served the trout with garlic and lemon,  with a side of braised greens from our garden and it was exquisite. I wish you could have partaken of the meal with us. When this is over, I shall cook you the finest meal you have ever tasted. Better than Anatole’s. I swear it. It is the least that you deserve.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Bertram,

The headline of today’s paper was of the complete failure of the British and Commonwealth armies’ attempt to end the siege in Tobruk. The report suggests that there was fierce fighting in Bardia, and in the Halfaya Pass for three days, but that almost no advancement was made and British forces suffered heavy losses before retreating.

Reports also indicate that German forces have begun shelling Tobruk to an extreme degree, as we feared they may, and that casualties within the city are expected to be quite high. Of course, actual information from inside Tobruk is difficult to obtain at this time, so the actual numbers will be forthcoming indefinitely.

Once again, you are likely quite aware of these developments.

Once again, I am informing you of nothing, since these letters will not be mailed.

I suggested to Rebecca over tea and the paper this morning that we take a holiday to Alnwick. She stared at me, unspeaking for several breaths, before asking, ‘Are you quite all right?’

I replied that I was feeling perfectly healthy and that a holiday might do us both a bit of good.

‘Don’t you need to polish all of Bertie’s buttons first?’ she asked, in a manner which you would no doubt describe as ‘rummy.’

I laughed and told her that I had already polished the buttons, and that all that was necessary for now was the boot and shoe polish, the collar starching, and the airing and dusting of your hats. All of that should take no more than two or three days, if done entirely properly, and then we shall be free as the proverbial bird.

She stared at me again for a moment before finally nodding.

‘I don’t know why Alnwick has got your attention,’ she said, ‘but I daresay we could use a bit of time away regardless. Wherever you’d like to go, I shall accompany you.’

That done, I took the liberty of acquiring lodging for Rebecca and myself at the Hotel Olympic in Alnwick. It is comfortable, but not lavish. I know that you have already given your permission for the use of your money in this manner, but nevertheless, I feel I must at least go through the motions of informing you.

We will depart tomorrow morning on the 9.10 train, and we will be away for seven days. I hope it will prove both restful and informative, for both of us.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Mr. Jeeves,

This article appeared in the Daily Chronicle last week. To be clear, Daphne and I do not subscribe to the Daily Chronicle. About forty of my friends and acquaintances mailed me copies, however, assuming that I would desperately need to see it.

As much as I did enjoy reading it, it doesn’t mean quite as much to me as I suspect it will mean to you, so I thought I’d do the decent thing and forward it to the person it was actually intended to reach.

Please don’t tell me what a banjolele is.

Sincerely,

Honoria

P.S. By the way, our little gambit payed off beautifully. Not a single aunt or distant cousin has attempted to marry me off since. I think they’re all crossing their fingers and knocking upon every wooden surface hoping that the Church changes its stance on divorce so that we can have an earl in the family. It’s marvelous!

Siege of Tobruk Persists After Failure of Operation Battleaxe

Captain the Earl of Yaxley Gives Brief Interview

by Hector Weston

Rations may be low in Tobruk, but the spirits are not. After unprecedented pummeling by Axis forces both before and during the recent operations on the Egyptian border, the besieged forces, consisting of roughly 14,000 Australian, 5,000 British, and 500 Indian soldiers have continued their work undaunted by missiles and shells, bullets and bombs, fleas and rats, and extreme food and water rationing.

Perhaps the most prominent personage caught in the siege, other than the Australian General Morshead, is the Earl of Yaxley, who holds the rank of Captain, and who fearlessly led a unit at the front lines for three straight days of conflict during the recent attempt to break the siege. This reporter encountered His Lordship quite by chance the day after the British units were returned to Tobruk proper from the perimeter. The earl was lounging upon the beach in Tobruk harbour, leaning against the burned-out skeleton of a downed Messerschmitt, and playing Australian folk tunes – rather well – on a harmonica.

When asked for an interview, His Lordship appeared startled and confused by the request, asking multiple times who I was exactly and if I was quite certain that His Lordship was the person I meant to ask. When I explained that I am a war correspondent, recently arrived in order to give the people back home a clearer idea of the daily lives and experiences of the soldiers on the front, His Lordship went so far as to offer to ‘run up the street and see if I can find you someone who knows something about all of this.’

I thoroughly assured His Lordship that his insights would be most fascinating to the public back home, particularly since His Lordship’s name has gained such prominence following the unfortunate incident with the mail earlier in the year.

At this His Lordship shrugged and said, ‘All right then, I suppose you know what you’re about.’ Pocketing the harmonica, His Lordship asked, ‘What do you want to know, then, old fruit?’

Like all the men currently imprisoned in Tobruk, His Lordship is lean – excessively so – and tanned nearly as dark as belt leather. Also similarly to other longtime residents of the area, His Lordship lost or discarded his standard-issue uniform trousers at some point and now wears Australian short trousers, and no shirt at all when off-duty. His Lordship’s hair, bleached bright blond by the endless intensity of the unclouded sun, is rough, unkempt, and perpetually peppered with sand – but then, so is my own, and I have been here only two weeks. The Captain the Earl of Yaxley has been a resident of the North African desert for some nine months as of this writing, after spending the winter and spring of ’39 and ’40 in France.

All the men in Tobruk are heroes now, whether they like to admit it or not, and Lord Yaxley is no exception. I was struck at once by His Lordship’s affable good will and unguarded nature.

I asked Lord Yaxley first about his role in Operation Battleaxe. His Lordship’s initial reply was a rueful chuckle.

‘I can tell you what my role was meant to be,’ His Lordship said, ‘and that was to  cut the perimeter fence and lead all the chaps out to meet the incoming British forces the instant they were visible to us on the horizon. Dashed difficult to accomplish when the horizon remains stubbornly British-free, what? As it was we simply made like rats and stuffed ourselves into caves and tenches and holes and things whilst the German bombers indulged themselves in a bit of target practice. Not much to say about the whole thing, really.’

‘I understand,’ I said, ‘that the shelling before and during the operation was of unprecedented intensity, seemingly intended specifically to prevent any escape from the perimeter. Were you at any point tempted to surrender?’

‘Surrender?’ Lord Yaxley said, then laughed aloud. ‘Oh, well, that’s not an option anyway, is it? You need a white rag for that, and with the lack of washing water we’ve got, all of our rags are brown these days!’ His Lordship’s laugh echoed from the walls and wreckage that surrounded us, but faltered when I offered only a mild smile in response. I am not yet accustomed to a soldier’s stark humour. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, that was a wheeze we all bandied about during the battle, don’t you know, but no, of course we didn’t. All the birds here are quite determined to stick this thing out to the b. e. [sic].”

At this, His Lordship reached a hand into the trouser pocket that contained His Lordship’s harmonica, apparently believing our interview to be over. I begged His Lordship’s patience for merely another minute or two, to which the earl replied, ‘Oh, all right, jolly good,’ in a somewhat weary sigh.

It was at this time that I asked the question I know is dear to many British citizens, the one that has been on all of our minds ever since we learned of the Earl’s tragically star-crossed love affair with Mrs. Honoria Eggleston, née Glossop, some months ago.

‘How is Mrs. Eggleston taking the strain of your continued separation?’ I asked.

At first, His Lordship merely stared at me as though I had spoken some foreign language he could not comprehend, but after a moment His Lordship started and said, ‘Oh! You mean Ginnie, don’t you? Gosh, I haven’t the foggiest, honestly, you see, because, well, the dashed letters aren’t going out at the mo. [sic], are they? Haven’t had a word from the faithful – I mean, from Ginnie – in weeks. I say, if any of this ends up making the cut, so to speak, and is officially ruled to be “news fit to print,” then I suppose it would give old Ginnie a bit of relief to hear that Bertram is alive and kicking, wouldn’t you say? The old bean is, pardon me, bloody but unbowed, as the poet johnny said. Not that the bean is actually that – bloody, I mean, I beg your pardon again, but that’s what the poem says, I’m fairly certain – because I wasn’t wounded, as luck would have it. So don’t say that bit. Just unbowed, what? Ginnie would like that. No wincing here, nor crying aloud, or anything.

‘Oh, and one more thing, if you could, old top. I’ve got a bit of a message to send.  Something like: “Don’t fret yourself over the banjolele. All’s well that ends well, what?” Ginnie should know what I mean, I think.’

I promised His Lordship that I would encourage the paper back home to print the message faithfully, and took my leave.

Chapter Text

Do you know, the more I think about it, the more I believe that John and Archie were placed upon this Earth in order to plague me. Honestly. They disagree on every topic. Every one! The peerage was what started them off, but during our recent foray to the perimeter, they got into it over the best way to prepare bully beef (as if there’s any good way), the benefits and drawbacks of the Marquess of Queensbury Rules (whatever the jolly Hell those are; something to do with chaps who like to punch each other, I gather, which was never particularly charming or fascinating to Bertram, I can tell you), and the works of Charles Dickens (one believes he was a genius, the other thinks his work was warmed-over tripe barely fit to be fed to swine; I can’t hope to tell you which because I was doing my best to listen to the shells and bullets, which were far more interesting than the argument). I tell you, I rue the day I ever took pity on Dr. John! If this is the way he goes about romancing his prospective life mate, then there is no hope for him. None at all. I find that I am bending all the Wooster genius toward rifting the lute, and it hasn’t even been strung yet!

The trouble, you see, is that I actually think the thing is coming off. Yes, they argue incessantly, like a couple of buffalo ramming their heads together over a puddle of mud, but the trouble is, Archie seems to be seeking John out specifically to argue. I mean to say, if a couple of buffalo, say, to borrow my previous simile, ram their heads together once or twice, then an impartial observer would think it perfectly natural. However, if those same two buffalo, having already established the correct ownership of the original mud puddle and moved on with their lives, suddenly come into direct conflict again over an entirely different mud puddle, whilst the first lies entirely unoccupied just over there, well, then one begins to wonder, doesn’t one? I mean to say, one starts to suppose that, just perhaps, those two buffalo rather enjoy ramming their heads together, what?

All the same, one must also wonder if it is for the best, wouldn’t one? If, say, a third buffalo, such as myself, was directly responsible for encouraging those two original buffalo to do just a bit of ramming and see how it goes, and then they acquired so strong a taste for it that they began to ram themselves silly over every patch of mud in the vicinity, well then that third chap – third buffalo, I mean – might begin to wonder if he hadn’t done the entire prairie a bit of a disservice.

It puts one in mind of Chuffy and Pauline, God help us! The way they fought and bickered over every damned thing. Reggie assured me at the time that there are couples who enjoy that way of life, but not me. Give me a quiet, peaceful home, a good stiff drink, and a companion who actually enjoys my company, eh? Far better to be alone than to be arguing your life away.

Angela and Tuppy are the same way, come to think of it. Heavens! Isn’t there strife enough in life without engineering it for yourself?

I say, there were moments during that whole Battleaxe fiasco when I found myself rooting for the Germans. I mean to say, having the whole lot of us get blown up would have been rather more enjoyable than watching John stitch a chap’s body back together whilst shouting over the whine of the shells that the boxing glove was the end of true prizefighting and that nothing that happens in a ring today could rightfully be called boxing.

It was really all quite thick.

What a relief it was to be told that the whole bally thing had failed and we were to return to the city. At least in Tobruk I can get away from them. I mean to say, it wasn’t really a relief, exactly, because I was rather hoping to go home, but since that can’t be accomplished, at least my customary posting is a bit of a step-up.

If I could, I would ask Reggie’s advice in re. John and Archie. About how to sever that which God hath joined, I mean. Not that He hath. Joined them, don’t you know. But I’d like to see to it that He thinks better of the whole thing and decides not to join them in the first place, and I can’t think of anyone better equipped to get the Almighty to change His mind than Reggie.

Oh, I say, speaking of Reggie, a news reporter accosted me on the beach the other day and asked me a rum lot of questions. I didn’t even know we had any news reporters here! He seemed to think I’d have something interesting to say, but anyone who knows me knows I haven’t ever had anything interesting to say. I tried to dissuade him, but I suppose the old title got him all in a dither and he simply had to have Lord Yaxley’s take on things. I did my best, and I did attempt to use the opportunity to send a bit of a message to my man, but I doubt a word of it will make it to print.

Honestly, it seems that if they can get newspaper articles out, they should be able to sneak a personal letter through, what? Ah well. Ours not to tum-tee-tum and all that.

It is a pity, rather, that the thing didn’t work. The battle, I mean. I did have a smidgeon of hope that we could go home.

All the same, it could have been worse. We may have failed to escape, but the Germans also failed to breach the perimeter, yet again. Poland falls, France falls, Greece falls, the rest of bally Libya falls, but Tobruk stands. And Britain stands, so I understand it. Word is the air raids on Blighty have tapered off in recent weeks, if the news is to be trusted. No bombs have fallen upon London in over two weeks, I hear! I wonder if Reggie has returned to the old Metrop, trailing clouds of glory, as he is wont to do. I can’t imagine he’d like to fuss about in the country for a moment longer than he must – unless, of course, the trout in the Coln are biting with unmatched ferocity, in which case I may never lure him home again, and the entire Wooster household will be forced to subsist upon nothing but trout, whilst living in a tent upon a riverbank.

Ah well, no matter. Bertram has learned to live rough. A riverside tent with Reggie would be as a palace to me now.

It rather gives one pause, doesn’t it? The Germans, I mean, not the tent by the river. What with the weakening of the German forces here in the desert, and the abandonment of the attempt to conquer the British Isles, I can’t help but wonder what exactly the Nazis are planning next. I suppose it’s too much to hope that they’ve simply seen the error of their ways, what? From what I know of fascists – and I only really knew the one, mind you, but Spode was plenty for one lifetime – they only give up their great mission when they’re good and scared for their own safety. No appeals for compassion or common decency can sway them. So one must really assume that either things are not so rosy at home, or they’re planning something even more villainous. It really does give one the pip.

I’ve been thinking a bit about the banjolele mess. I shouldn’t have brought it up; it was what my American pals would call a rookie mistake. I’ve been tangled up with Reggie for long enough that I know better than to pull on certain strings, lest the entire web come crashing down upon me like a shrimper’s net! He is ever so strong and stable, one must acknowledge that, until he begins to doubt himself, and then he is like a Hawaiian volcano, burning and smoldering away in his innards until he erupts. It was absolute madness. I can’t think why I wrote it, and, having written it, sent it. It doesn’t matter anyway; the good fellow came back and stayed and all was Heavenly perfection for fifteen years, barring the odd argument here and there concerning magenta ties and flashy new hairstyles atop the Wooster head and all that.

All the same, I suppose it would be dishonest of me to say that it hasn’t niggled, just a bit, in the dusty backrooms of the mind. Why it happened, could it ever happen again – that sort of thing.

This harmonica of mine, for one thing. It’s rather become one of my most cherished possessions, don’t you know. I love it like a son, and not only because the jaunty little tunes it cranks out can turn a whole room of down-faced soldiers into merry lads when necessary, but also because it was Robbie’s. If Reggie takes a dislike to it upon my triumphant return, I don’t know if I shall be able to relinquish the thing, what? And he will. Reggie, I mean. Take a dislike. A strong one. There is no universe in which Reggie would enjoy the sound of a harmonica resounding off the walls of his castle.

I don’t think he would leave me over it, not now. But one never does know what another man will do, does he? We all think we know one another backward, and then a chap goes and does something like bludgeon a police officer unconscious from behind without flinching, and one must reassess.

The thing that I can’t wrap my head around is the timing of the thing. Not a month after our fateful rendezvous in the garden. Not a week since I had whacked up the ginger to permit certain intimacies which I have never quite permitted before. If there were ever a time in his life when Bertram was feeling more confident, and more full of chipper, easy appreciation for all the good in the world, then I cannot recall it. Why, even the confidence to take up a new instrument, for which I had no previous experience of any kind, was a clear sign that I was feeling generally braced with things in general. Of course, old Shakespeare acu tetigistied that rem to perfection when he noted that that is precisely when life is most likely to come along and give it to you in the neck.

I suppose it’s really my fault, though. When the worthy chap came to me and told me that he could not abide the banjolele, I should have chucked it off instanter. There is a world of difference, after all, between one’s servant asking for a favour, and one’s beloved swain, and I suppose I had not yet digested all the myriad ways in which our dynamics would necessarily transform themselves. I was foolish enough to think that nothing need change at all, beyond the addition of certain activities we had not previously practiced.

It has been said (by Bingo) that my heart is devoid of romantic feeling, and while I don’t know that I would go so far as that, it would seem that I am rather naturally lacking in that department. I can adore a chap with the fire of the sun itself, but to act the lover does not come to me without concentrated effort.

Reggie is a romantic. It is a language that Bertram does not speak natively. It took me years to learn, under expert tutelage, and I forget it easily. All things considered, perhaps old Reggie was right to leave the Y. M. when he would not so much as sacrifice a stringed instrument for his comfort. Perhaps he was wrong to return.

Either way, I shouldn’t have brought it up in the very last letter I might ever send him.

Good Lord, I am an ass.

*

A bally miracle occurred today.

I like to quote that jolly wheeze about how life always comes along with a cricket bat right when you’re most chuffed about things, but I often forget its antithesis – if antithesis is the word I want – which is that it is often at that point when one is most deeply and desperately pipped that good old life comes and pops a silver lining about the old storm cloud.

In my case, the first inkling of a silver lining, which the Wooster heart is always searching for, even in these dark times, came in the form of the tried and mostly-true pal Charlie. I was sitting on the beach, which has become my usual haunt at all times of day or night when I am neither wanted nor needed elsewhere, smoking a gloomy cigarette and watching the small group of stalwart Australian privates in the surf doing God’s work, or attempting to.

Oh, what I mean by that is that these chaps, deeply deprived of a good drink, as we all have been since Benghazi fell, have been contriving a plan for some days now to dive down to the wreck of the Helka, which is close enough to shore that we can see her nose or whatever it’s called at low-tide, and see if they can’t excavate some rum or whiskey or something from the captain’s quarters. The captain of the Helka, you see, was renowned for enjoying a good drink and always having plenty of the right stuff on board, so we know it’s down there. It’s just a matter of getting in, springing the goods, and getting back out before drowning. It’s no job for Bertram, I can tell you, although I will gladly drink to the health of the chap who accomplishes it (drink being the operative word), and perhaps even name my first-born son after him. Not that a first- or any other-born son is that likely at this point, but the offer would stand.

Anyway, I was observing the proceedings when Charlie oozed up behind me and asked if he couldn’t have a seat and bum a smoke – not that he used that precise phrasing, of course, as that is an American term and Charlie has never had the pleasure of crossing the pond. Reggie would want me to point that out.

Anyway, no Wooster shies away from aiding a chum in need, so the seat was granted and the smoke was thoroughly bummed. We sat smoking in matey silence for a bit – although, when I say silence, I mean it more in the sense that we were not speaking. If I recall correctly, I did manage to sing about half of ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy,’ (an absolutely smashing new hit that we get to listen to on the hospital radio sometimes after Lord Haw-Haw has his say) before it quite naturally transformed itself into the ending of ‘Beat Me Daddy, Eight to the Bar.’ I was just putting the finishing touches on the bit when the cats all holler ‘hooray!’ when Charlie cleared his throat, for all the world like Reggie does when he wants my attention but doesn’t want to make a show of it or overstep when we’re in mixed company.

‘Something swirling about the bean, old sport?’ I said.

‘Well, rather,’ he replied, being every bit as evasive as Reggie. Fortunately I am an old hand at this kind of thing and I know the best way to shake the reticence is to be as direct as possible.

‘Something is troubling you, Charlie, and I would appreciate it most deeply if you would inform your poor old Cap so that he doesn’t need to spend all the live-long day attempting to guess at the thing, what?’

He sighed and said, ‘All right then. It’s about Major Evans.’

‘Ah,’ I said, by way of informing him that I was privy to his meaning.

‘He is not acting himself,’ Charlie said.

‘No, I would say that is the case,’ I replied, and then, thinking it might suit me to be generous, continued, ‘although there’s hardly a man among us who is just as he was before all of this, what?’

‘Oh, that’s true enough,’ Charlie said. ‘But I’ve never known him to be quarrelsome. Or at least, not to this degree, and up until now I’d have said the same of Major Angel.’

‘Who?’ I said, but then it clicked, ‘Oh, Doctor John! Yes. True, true. Always an amiable chap, until recently.’

‘Precisely. They are both most disagreeable, but only with one another,’ he said, and at that he seemed content to say no more. I knew better, however, and pressed him to continue with a strategic raising of the brow. ‘All right, all right. Lord, this is strange to say, but, well, I couldn’t think of anyone else I could possibly suggest this to who wouldn’t think me absolutely loathsome.’

‘Because I am so loathsome myself?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he said, then choked upon his cigarette and coughed for a bit. ‘No, not because you’re loathsome, but because you wouldn’t find this particular question to be as dreadful as many would.’

I threw my hands in the air and cried, ‘Out with it, man!’

‘All right! What I’m trying to say is…’ he trailed off, his eyes darting about the beach, then resting briefly on the privates in the surf taking practice dives toward the Helka. He lowered his voice. ‘Is it possible they’re… involved?’

To this I burst out laughing.

‘Oh, if only!’ I said. Only Charlie didn’t seem to see the humour of the thing, so I tamped it down. ‘What I mean to say is, I think you’re right on the money, Charlie old fruit. They are not “involved,” but they dashed well should be and they need some sort of push to get them there. Now I can’t promise that the bickering will cease, but there might at least be some relief from the constant onslaught once certain frustrations are eased, what? We must be optimistic, after all.’

To this, Charlie turned as red as a beet and I rather regretted my choice of words. I forget, sometimes, with all the ribald talk that goes on here that the average fellow is still quite likely to be chagrined if the ribaldry involves chaps only rather than one person of each variety – that being the arrangement most people, I must remind myself, are accustomed to.

‘Well, if that’s the case,’ he said when he’d recovered, ‘then why all the trouble? Why not simply… you know.’

‘Reggie would say that it all comes down to the psychology of the individual,’ I said, releasing a confident puff of smoke. ‘John is a man much in love. Has been for ages, and with no progress on the matter. Archie, meanwhile, might be aware that a certain attraction exists, but he has not yet come to understand that there are more tender feelings at play. And Archie, for the record, is a man for whom tender feelings are a prerequisite. John knows the way things are generally done between men, and he has been conducting himself thus, but that is not quite so gentle and kindly an approach as a soulful cove like Archie requires. I have attempted to educate John, but it is of no use. He simply is not smooth. Meanwhile, Archie’s affections have long been engaged elsewhere, and he is loathe to drop an attachment he has spent so long cultivating, even if it is, to put it bluntly, a dead end.’

‘Major Evans has another…’ Charlie paused, clearly uncertain what word he could possibly use.

‘Major Evans does not have another,’ I said sternly. ‘There is a person for whom he holds a hopeless candle. A person he is most unreasonably devoted to and who will never love him back. It is high time he shoves off to bluer pastures, but he can’t quite seem to take the leap.’

‘I see,’ Charlie said. Then, clearly unable to contain his fascination, said, ‘who’s the other… the other man, then?’

I considered my options. I could lie, and tell him I didn’t know, or say it was some chap back home or something like that, but I don’t much care for misleading a pal when I don’t absolutely need to. For one thing, once the lies start stacking up, I find I begin confusing them and I can’t ever quite recall who believes that I was once a horse trainer for Carnarvon, and who thinks I am a famous lady novelist, and who thinks my name Ephraim, and all that, so I find it’s best to stick to honesty. As I said, unless absolutely necessary, as in the case of Ginnie’s true identity (who knows he’s a he, who thinks he’s a she, who amongst the he-knowers also knows his actual name and all that), which is bally difficult enough to keep straight, thank you very much. I opted to tell all.

‘Me,’ I said.

The all I had to tell was relatively brief, as it happened.

‘Oh!’ Charlie gasped. ‘But what about Reggie?’

‘Well, all about Reggie forever, of course!’ I snapped, feeling rather offended. ‘That’s the whole bally nub of it! Archie has developed the tender pash for yours truly, and I am taken, entirely. Thus, the hopeless candle. That bit about the love being forever unrequited. Listen, man!’

‘Oh, right,’ he said, somehow redder still. What is redder than a beet? A tomato? No, I rather think they’re a bit less vermillion than their subterranean chums. ‘So, what is to be done about it?’ he said.

‘Eh?’ I asked. ‘Done? Are you proposing to do something?’

‘Well, honestly Bertie, something must done, don’t you think?’ he said. ‘I mean to say, the siege is bad enough, old man. They must either be separated or united, and since separation seems impossible, given that we’re all rather stuck here, then I propose we do something to unite them.’

‘Oh, I say!’ I said, and I meant every word. ‘Don’t you know, I was doing my damnedest to get Reggie to help with this precise task before the letters stopped running, but he wouldn’t ever give me a solid answer. I don’t think he cared particularly much about it, being distracted by what he considered to be more pressing matters. In the old days, he’d have the whole thing tied up with a bow within the confines of a weekend, but, as I said, none of us are quite what we were.’

To my surprise, Charlie snapped his fingers.

‘Got it!’ he said.

I gaped at the man.

‘So soon, just like that?’ I said. ‘Good Lord, man, you could give Reggie a run for his money!’

‘Well,’ he said, his face acquiring a distinctly ovine cast, ‘it’s really his idea. Reggie’s, I mean. I just thought, hello, why don’t we fix it up for them the same way Reggie fixed it for me and Helen?’

‘What was that, then?’ I asked. The old memory isn’t what it once was. Something about a lack of the necessary dreamless. Something about far too much dreaming.

‘Back at the beginning of the war. He suggested to me, through you, that I tell Helen I was being sent to the front, and then stop writing. The idea being that her mixed feelings about me that she was having at the time might resolve themselves once she knew I was in mortal peril, or perhaps even lost. It worked like a charm! We were engaged not two weeks later.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I think I follow, old top. You propose that we put dear Doctor John into some sort of manufactured peril, then inform Archie of same, and see if he flies to the rescue of the beloved object?’

‘Precisely.’

I nodded. ‘Yes, that’s a wheeze that has served us well once or twice in the past. Did I ever tell you about my old pal Sippy, and the rather lovely China vase I found–’

‘Yes, Bertie, several times.’

At this point we heard a roar in the distance, which quickly became less distant, and we were forced to briefly abort the tongue wag until we could hear one another again. Three messerschmitts thundered over the beach, one of which dropped a shell as near the clump of diving privates as it could. The good chaps knew what they were about and all tossed themselves underwater; the thing impacted upon the shore. Charlie and I laid down flat and covered our faces as sand and dust and little bits of shredded metal scattered all over us. Nothing to worry about, mind you. We were far enough from the actual blast that shrapnel was of low concern. Still, the ringing in one’s ears after a relatively close brush with a shell does get dashed tiresome.

The planes roared on, dropping their gifts across the city, and Charlie and I sat back up and dusted ourselves off. I rather indelicately spat a mouthful of dust and metal bits onto the ground. Charlie rather delicately ignored it. This done, I lit another gasper; my last had been extinguished by a clump of sand.

‘What sort of peril, do you think?’ I said, rather loudly to be heard over the din of the planes and the ack-ack guns behind us, as well as the church’s Sunday best going full-tilt inside our own ears.

‘Not sure,’ he replied, combing the worst of the sand from his hair with his broad fingers. ‘We’ll have to think about that one.’

‘It would have to be convincingly dangerous, without being so deadly that there is no hope of survival.’

‘Right. We want Archie to spring into heroics, not simply despair.’

And this, dear reader – if any reader there be – is when the miracle occurred. Even as we were speaking of it, one of the dashed German planes dropped a bally great bomb right on top of the hospital.

‘Oh, I say!’ I said.

‘Let’s find Major Evans!’ Charlie cried.

Now, I know what you’re thinking.

‘Bertie!’ you are no doubt exclaiming, indignantly, perhaps allowing your monocle to drop from your eye in astonishment, if monocles are de rigueur in whatever time or place you may be reading this, ‘a hospital full of wounded comrades has just been bombed before your eyes! Have you no heart? No soul? Are you ne’er stirred by the passionate cry of the sparrow, or some such rot?’

To which I must reply that, while I do see your point, you must understand the psychology of the thing. I mean to say, when a chap is bombed every day, sometimes several times a day, for months on end without let-up, and when he is rather more accustomed to seeing comrades being smitten from the Earth by the fury from above than he wishes he were, there is only so much caring and heart-stirring one can stand. I’m not proud of it. Who would be? But the fact remains that when a chap finds himself in a particular sitch such as this, he has two choices, and that is either to fall to pieces and lose his mind entirely, or get a bit of distance from the thing and learn not to feel it so much.

Not that it actually seems to be a choice, really, as far as I can tell. I don’t know if it’s one’s upbringing, or something inherent in his DNA, but there seems to be no guessing whatsoever which cove will go the detached, heartless route, and which will go to pieces and need to be dragged off to Colney Hatch. If you had asked me at the outset of the thing, I’d have given you the odds of a dead cert that I would be in the latter category, and not the former, but here we are.

Perhaps it was that treatment I received in Cairo, what? At the time all it seemed to do for me was give me a nasty headache fit to rival the hanger-on of the ripest night out, but there’s a chance, I suppose, that sodium what’s-it actually did the trick.

Besides, it isn’t as though I sail through unassaulted entirely. I can switch it off whilst awake, but the dreams catch up with me, and like as not when the night rolls in, I’m to be found wandering about the beach or swimming in the moonlight rather than remaining properly racked as a good soldier must. So there it is. I do hope that subdues your sharper-than-a-serpent’s tongue.

Anyway, off we popped to find Archie and tell him the dreadful news of John’s possible destruction.

Archie wasn’t hard to find. He never is during an air raid. He likes to position himself near one of the three largest guns in the city center and shout orders at the chaps manning them. Sometimes he gets hold of a machine gun and fires it up into the air. A few times he’s even winged a plane as it roared overhead.

One can hardly blame the old fellow. I know as well as any how helpless one feels in an air raid if one doesn’t have custody of an ack-ack, and those hefty chaps are always manned by non-coms, so we officers are pretty well useless when the planes are looping about. As far as air-raid hobbies go, firing a machine gun into the sky isn’t so bad, really, if one has the stomach for it. I myself, as I believe I’ve mentioned, tend to simply make my way to the beach and enjoy the show. Maybe pass the time in a healing tete-a-tete with a weary cigarette.

Anyway, Charlie and I caught up with him at the gun by the old post office (now, sadly, a ruin inhabited only by the rats and the ack-ack gunners). He didn’t have a machine gun this time, so he was contenting himself with pointing at the sky and shouting things like, ‘Thirty degrees nor’norwest, boys! Catch ‘em as they bank!’ and so on. I could never make head nor tails of it.

‘Major Evans!’ Charlie cried, just as I was shouting, ‘Archie, old man!’

He turned to us, displaying at first only mild annoyance at being so disturbed, but when he caught sight of Bertram, his expression softened – as it always does, maddeningly – and he said, ‘What is it, Bertie? Are you all right?’

‘I’m all right, old man, but I’m no so sure about our friend John,’ I said.

To my satisfaction, Archie’s eyes widened ever so slightly. He even stopped pointing at the sky. In that instant, a Messerchmitt bellowed overhead, turning as it went, one wing dipped down so low I could feel the wind of it rustle in my hair. The men on the gun, presumably having successfully turned thirty degrees as ordered, let off a skull-shaking blow that caught the plane in the tail, and we were all treated to that particular whining din that accompanies a damaged plane in its egress from the sky.

The gunners cheered. A plume of filthy black smoke belched from the wound in the plane’s tail. We all ducked instinctively, although rationally we knew that even mortally injured Messers don’t simply drop upon you like a stone. It coasted off, wobbling and listing, disgorging smoke and debris like a parade float litters sweets, until it finally hammered itself home somewhere in the vicinity of the saltwater distillation plant.

‘What happened to John?’ Archie asked, as soon as his voice could be heard again. The gunners were still hoorah-ing, but they weren’t so loud as a plane engine.

‘The hospital’s had a direct hit, sir,’ Charlie explained, and, Heaven bless us, off Archie went, running full-tilt like Hercules setting off to defeat the, well, whatever it was he defeated.

Charlie and I took only a moment to glance at one another, and then we set off in pursuit.

The hospital was in a state. I suppose that’s only to be expected, considering, but it was still quite the sight to behold. Half the roof of the south ward had caved in, and the air all about was still liberally plumed with dust and smoke. A few odd fires burned here and there, and we were obliged to scramble over chunks of concrete rubble that had not previously bedecked this particular path.

Archie seemed single-minded. He plunged into the murky clouds of dust and smoke without hesitation. I cannot say the same for Charlie and me. We hesitated like billy-oh. I’ve never been a great enthusiast of breathing in fumes and smoke and dust and all that. It plays merry Hell with one’s singing voice, for one thing.

I hadn’t a shirt on at the time, unfortunately, but Charlie was in his undershirt, so we ended up ripping that in half and binding it across our mouths and noses. We saved a scrap for Archie, too, assuming we encountered him, and in we went.

I don’t know if you’ve ever run into a building shortly after it was blown up by a German bomber. If you have, then you might have an idea of the kind of chaos that met us within. Smog to rival London at its smoggiest. Screams of the wounded, men shouting orders, the clatter of debris still falling all about. Not at all pleasant, is it? All things considered, one would much prefer a fine snifter of the best in an overstuffed armchair by a fire – preferably a fire that is properly contained within a grated fireplace, and not running about unchecked along the corridor.

It is dashed difficult to find one’s way in a freshly-bombed building, so we trailed our hands along the walls to guide us. I had a fairly good idea of where we were headed, which was toward the main hall where the bulk of the wounded reside. I had a sudden heart-rending realization, which was that my trusty piano stood in that room, and if it were damaged, then our little evening entertainments would be much curtailed in future.

We made our way to ward in question, and found rather more daylight peeking in than usual, through the aforementioned gaping hole in the ceiling. In the ruined side of the room we found many beds crushed and scorched, some still burning, but, strangely enough, no bodies. This was a relief, to be sure, but rather puzzling as well. It wasn’t until the dust had settled just a little bit more that we realized what had happened.

All of the inmates of the ward were gathered, oddly, in the far corner of the room, which, by chance, had been largely undamaged. They were clustered close together, hunkered down in place where they had previously stood or reclined, and in the middle of the group was a small open space, occupied only by two Australian pennies.

‘Ha!’ I cried. ‘To think we discourage gambling, and here we have an entire ward of wounded saved by a game of two-up!’

I don’t know if you know the game I mean. I wasn’t familiar with it myself until Tobruk. It’s an Australian preoccupation. Perhaps the official national pass time, if the soldiers’ devotion to it is anything to go by. The game is simple enough: one chap, called the spinner, throws two pennies and everyone makes bets on how they will land. There aren’t many variations, really. Either one up, one down, two down, or two up. Two up, and the spinner wins, takes the money, and gets to toss again. Two down, he loses and his turn is over. One and the other, nothing much happens really, and the spinner tries again.

I have indulged in the game myself on occasion, (though, as I said, officially it is my responsibility to shut such games down when I encounter them), and despite the rather uninteresting description, it really is a rather jolly time, and it has the decidedly useful attraction of being playable practically anywhere, and at any time, since one only requires two pennies – and whatever other money one has on one’s person.

Money is a funny thing in Tobruk these days. They do still manage to pay us with some frequency, so everyone has buckets of the stuff, but there’s absolutely nothing to buy. The only actual use is gambling, so now good hard silver embossed with the image of the King has been reduced to the same importance as the wooden poker chips one encounters in children’s street games in America. They all toss it about like the oofiest of landed Dukes here, and I gather it’s the first time in most of these chaps’ lives that they’ve been free to be so, well, free with their cabbage, so they’re enjoying it to no end.

Anyway, after we and the hospital chaps all had a good laugh over it, Charlie and I set to helping the more grievously wounded exit the ruined ward. Once all were safe and accounted for, I returned to the gloom to check on the ivories. The good piano stood proudly upon her stage, dusty, but undamaged.

When I told you, then, that this particular bombing was a miracle, I think you might begin to agree with me, what? No casualties so far, not even the piano!

It was only after all of that that Charlie and I recalled our original mission, which was to find Archie and see if he had successfully rescued John.

As luck would have it (and we were awfully lucky today, as you must no doubt agree), we found Archie and John almost immediately after reentering the ruins. They were in the corridor that lead from the bombed ward to the surgery. It had taken Archie some time to find him, apparently, because John was lying on the ground still partially covered in debris. Fortunately, he was conscious and seemed well enough, though perhaps a bit confused. Archie was kneeling beside him, hoisting the last few chunks of ceiling off his legs, and speaking, rather heatedly.

‘You mean to say that you didn’t even attempt to find your way to the hospital shelter when the raid began?’

‘For God’s sake, Archie, how is a surgeon to get anything done in this place if he is obligated to run off and hide in some underground rat hole every single time the Germans get it in their heads to give us a swoop-over?’ John retorted.

‘You’ll get a lot less work done if you’re dead,’ Archie snapped, and slipped his arms about John’s waist. Charlie and I, still about ten feet distant and cloaked in swirling dust, suppressed gasps.

John, apparently caught up in the spirit of the thing, kissed Archie roughly.

Archie froze in apparent shock. He did not reciprocate, and when John receded Archie murmured, ‘What the hell was that?’

‘You know what it was.’

‘Yes, but damn it man, I’ve told you. Bertie.’

‘To Hell with Bertie,’ John spat, which I thought rather unnecessary, considering all the effort I’ve put into helping him these past months. ‘There’s nothing going with Bertie, not a jot. I know you’ve got it in your head that he’s some sort of perfect example of humanity, but I’ll tell you know that the man’s a silly dolt who stumbled into a life of privilege and never had a second’s strife until the war. It’s easy to be a genial, upbeat man when you’ve never suffered.’

I nearly broke in with an indignant, ‘I say!’ but Charlie clapped a hand over my mouth, which was absolutely the correct move. I’d rather forgotten myself. All in the aid of two hearts being united, what?

‘Listen,’ John continued, and, oddly, Archie did. ‘Whenever this damned siege ends, we’ll be out of here. I’ll go somewhere, you’ll go somewhere else, and there’s a good chance we’ll never see each other again. If there’s even a shade of affection in you for me, anywhere, however deep, then I believe we owe it to ourselves to give this thing a chance. That’s my two cents. It’s up to you.’

Archie, I want to note, still had his arms about John’s waist. I think he’d originally done it simply to hoist John to his feet, but he seemed frozen now in a half-embrace.

‘I think…’ he said softly, then coughed. Not surprising. The dust, you know. ‘I think it has always seemed safer to love a man I secretly knew I could not have. Knowing that I could actually have you–’ He coughed again. John patted his back, not untenderly.

‘I know,’ John said. ‘Don’t think I don’t. But listen, Archie. We’re not safe anyway. We’re about as entirely unsafe as any men have ever been. Any minute we could both be blown to bits, so what’s the point in dilly-dallying over safety?’

Archie did not reply. Perhaps he couldn’t, so choked with dust were his lungs, but he did nod somberly. And then, bally miracle of miracles, he kissed John back.

At this, I began to realise that I was being quite rude, really. War does a number on one’s manners, I find. Charlie seemed to realise it in the same instant, and the two of us receded back the way we’d come.

Once again in unclouded daylight, Charlie and I could hardly contain our giddiness.

‘It’s done!’ he said. ‘And so easily! As if Fate decreed it should be!’

‘Don’t forget our part,’ I said. ‘Fate may have dropped a timely bomb on top of John, but it was you and I who tossed Archie into the mix.’

All in all, a good day’s work, what?

I think Reggie would be proud.

Chapter Text

Dear Bertram,

Rebecca and I have arrived in Alnwick. Roger was most distressed to see us go. He took me by the sleeve at the station and asked, ‘But why Alnwick?’

To which I replied, with complete conviction, ‘To see the castle, of course.’

‘Oh,’ he said, both taken aback and obviously relieved. ‘I didn’t know that you enjoyed castles.’

‘Oh, yes, very much so,’ I said, ‘and so many in this country were destroyed by the Usurper Cromwell that I consider it well worth the journey to see one that is intact.’

‘Oh, excellent,’ he said, and kissed Rebecca upon the cheek. I wonder how she can stand it, he possessing such profligate whiskers, but it brought a blush to her often pale features, so I assume she does not find it objectionable. He entreated us both to enjoy ourselves, to which we both responded in confirmation, and promised that he would ‘hold down the fort,’ which I felt was just a shade insensitive considering you are currently engaged in such an effort in a much more literal and life-threatening sense, and said farewell.

The train journey was unremarkable. At Rebecca’s insistence, I brought a book. I haven’t read a word other than the newspapers in some time, but I had in my possession The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, another Christie attempt, from your bookcase at home. I brought it, along with a small collection of other books belonging to the both of us, when I visited the city in April. At the time I believed that I could distract myself with low fiction, but obviously it has not proved to be the case.

The book in question also failed to hold my interest for long. I was not ten pages in before I had strong suspicions as to the identity of the murderer. As I do not, as a rule, skip to the end of a novel whilst reading it, I was forced to endure the entirety of the work before it was agonizingly revealed at the very end that the murderer was precisely who I thought it was from the first.

It was, at least, a short book, and I had completed it well before the end of our nearly nine hour journey. In fact, it was done with before our change at York.

I have not often traveled so far north in our country, as you are, of course, aware. I admit that the scenery is striking. I was far more diverted by gazing out of the train’s window than I was by Mrs. Christie’s ‘mystery.’

All the same, it was not an entirely wasted effort, because I do recall the joy and relish with which you consumed that same volume only two years ago. Found myself wondering, as I read, whether this particular passage or that was one of those that had made you gasp aloud one rainy April afternoon, so shortly before we had any knowledge of what was to befall us. I recall you gasping at least three times that day, and one time you clapped your hand to your mouth and widened your eyes. I was cleaning the carpet at that particular moment, not so far from where you were ensconced in your armchair, and I found myself quite distracted by you.

There was a sort of joy inherent in watching you read a book, my love. You immersed yourself in them so completely, I sometimes felt as though I could read the novel entirely in your expressions alone.

As for Rebeca, she passed the journey in reading, in watching the scenery, and, very occasionally, in attempting to engage me in conversation. Each attempt was stilted, however, and strangely heavy, as though she feared that any word she uttered might be a grave mistake. I wanted to reassure her, to tell her firmly that I am well and sound and that she need not worry, but I could not. I could not, because I have never wanted to lie to my sister.

As I was dusting your hats, as I was polishing your buttons, as I was ironing shirts that have not been worn in a year and may never be worn again, I knew. I could not face it, could not admit it, could not even entirely name it, but I knew. There is only so far a mind can bend before it breaks. I cannot say for certain whether I am bending still, or already broken.

We have always shared an uncommon bond, my sister and I. Our conversation flowed like the Severn, swift, wide, far-reaching. Never have we spent so long in one another’s company and struggled to speak.

After we changed trains in York, she took my hand. She did not speak again until we reached our destination, but we held hands all the while. It was strange, to touch another person for so long. I have not done so since your leave last June.

Now, this June is nearly over. A year. A year since you and I have shared the same air, a year since we have spoken, a year since I have touched you. I cannot fathom it. It is unthinkable. A year of bombs and death, of shattering glass and billowing smoke. Screaming engines. Bodies. The stench of flames consuming curtains, carpets, dolls, bodies. A year of exile for us both. How have we withstood a year? And nearly a year before that as well, when you were in France. A year and nine months since all of this began, and no end in sight. No relief. No quarter. No nearer to peace, only further, incrementally further and further, with each tiny sandlike grain of hope slipping helplessly from our trembling fingers.

As I held her hand, I struggled not to weep. There was a time when weeping openly upon a public train would have been an absurd impossibility for me, but we are none of us was we were. We can only bend so far.

Alnwick is a pleasant town. There is a tea shop across from our hotel, and tomorrow Rebecca and I will take tea there. I am anticipating it highly. I have heard intriguing things regarding this particular tea shop.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Roger,

I don’t understand. You told me Mary was dead. She is very much alive and working at a tea shop in Alnwick. Are you somehow unaware of this? She was shocked to hear that you were saying she was no longer amongst the living. She also told me that you are a monstrous man. She would not elaborate further, and presently became too distressed to continue speaking to us, at which point we left the tea shop.

I am rather inclined to leave Alnwick entirely. Reginald still desires a visit to the castle, but I have lost my taste for sightseeing. I was considering returning home on the first train tomorrow, though Reginald has convinced me to remain for the entire week. He says that time and distance are necessary for regaining rational thought. I am lost. I do not know which way to turn.

I do not want to be hasty, Roger. I have had no reason until now to doubt you, and every reason to have faith in that image that you have presented of yourself. I am aware that sometimes circumstances are not as they appear, but it is nearly impossible for me to fathom how any of this could be salvaged.

I expect an explanation from you as quickly as possible. I am attempting to withhold judgement. The only thing that has prevented me from severing ties with you completely is that Mary said that you were not cruel to her. Though, again, she refused to explain the nature of your alleged monstrosity.

You may explain.

Rebecca

*

Dear Rebecca,

No, Mary isn’t dead. Obviously, since you’ve met her. I feared you might when Reg suggested you visit Alnwick, but I allowed myself to believe that, it being a town of a good size, there was no reason to think the two of you would cross paths. I should have known better. I should have known that God would not forgive me.

The lie – that Mary was dead – was a foolish, love-struck idiot’s attempt to erase his past. But some things cannot and should not be erased.

I have no excuse. I do not deserve you.

I will continue to help with your land if you want me to. If not, I hope you can find help somehow.

Love (for the last time),

Roger

*

Dear Roger,

That was not an explanation. You have admitted only to the lie, and while that was unsettling on its own, I require fuller information.

Rebecca

*

Dear Rebecca,

You will return in two day’s time. Do not make me put this into writing. In fact, I beg you not to force me to explain at all. It is better if I simply stay out of your life. No good will come from any of this.

Roger

*

Dear Bertram,

We are traveling back to Gloucestershire now from our week in Alnwick. It was not a pleasant time, unfortunately. I did not even see the castle.

That is not all it is, however. I have a confession I must make, even though I am confessing to nothing but the paper upon which this is written. I went to Alnwick because I knew that Mary was there. I took Jane Starkweather to dinner, which I did not admit to before, and over the aperitif she had already informed me of Mary’s hometown, her age, a basic description of her appearance, her previous occupation as a tea shop waitress, and her maiden name. From there it was simplicity itself; I obtained a telephone directory from Alnwick, and spent a few idle hours calling all the tea shops pretending to be a cousin of Mary Satterlee. At each establishment, I told them that I was trying to organize a family reunion, but that I had forgotten which tea shop she worked at. The fifth place I called immediately confirmed that Mary Satterlee, aged forty seven, with chestnut hair and brown eyes, worked for them. With that information in hand, I arranged for Rebecca and I to dine at the correct location, and all went according to plan.

I knew immediately upon entering that the waitress was she; she was of the correct age and description, and had a touch of Gloucestershire in her accent. When she came to take our order, I feigned surprise and said she reminded me of someone I had seen in a photograph at a friend’s house. She asked which friend, and I said, ‘Roger Bishop.’

That was all that was necessary to set the proceedings off. At once she gasped, as though I’d said I’d seen her photograph in Hell, in the devil’s very grasp. Then she said, ‘He is my husband!’

To this, poor Rebecca started like a hot-blood horse at a backfire and said, ‘Are you Mary?’

When Mary confirmed that she was, in fact, Mary, Rebecca said, ‘He told me you were dead.’

‘He did what?’ cried she, and covered her face. ‘Perhaps he wishes I was. He is a monstrous man.’

‘Are you divorced?’ poor Rebecca asked, and the distress in her voice seemed to break me out of myself. Up until this point I had felt only satisfaction for a job well done, but to hear the tremble of unshed tears in my sister’s words –

Roger is in good company with me. I am a monstrous man myself. If I could have stopped it, frozen time and gone back and undone it all, I would have, but I could not. All I could do was sit and watch in horror as the foul fruits of my fell labour ripened before me.

‘Divorced!’ she cried. ‘I may be but a poor sinner, and he may be a beast, but I could not sin so flagrantly. No. Besides, I had no legal grounds, did I? He did not desert me, nor was he cruel, nor was he unfaithful. The law is very clear.’

‘If he was not cruel, then why do you say that he is monstrous?’ Rebecca asked, her good sense prevailing, as it always does, even in her state of shock and dismay.

‘There are other monsters in this world than those who thirst for blood,’ Mary said. ‘Some have a thirst too wicked to be spoken of.’

At this, she covered her face again, and I suggested to my sister that it might be best to leave. Rebecca lingered for a moment, but it was clear that Mary would speak to us no more.

‘I am sorry to have disturbed you so,’ she said to the waitress, who did not respond.

Already I was harbouring a budding thought, what one mine characterise as a half-formed suspicion, but I was not able to meditate on it sufficiently to bring it to flower, as Rebecca turned upon me in fury the moment the tea shop’s door creaked shut behind us.

‘This is your doing,’ she said. Her voice was quiet; she does not shout, but her eyes were sharp slits of well-honed rage, and she leveled a trembling finger toward my chest. ‘This is your doing, Reginald, I know it is. I have told you before that I do not care for your stratagems, that I do not want them employed against me or mine. No doubt you believed you were helping me, but I will not have it. I will not. I am going home on the next train and I do not want you with me.’

I had no defence. I had no excuse. She was right, entirely. It was my doing, and to what end, precisely? What had I accomplished here that I could not have simply told her? Such habits as these are not for family; they are for those social betters who will not listen to a servant’s words. All of my skills and all of my resources are unsuitable here, in the bosom of a loving family. I am new, still, to family life, or perhaps fundamentally unsuited.

‘Forgive me,’ I said.

‘Ha,’ she laughed without a trace of mirth.

‘Don’t go,’ I attempted. ‘You are right. I should have simply told you. My methods are too blunt for family, and for that I do apologise. But certainly, this is something you must know. If you are contemplating marriage–’

‘No one has mentioned marriage,’ she said. ‘No one except for Bertie.’

‘As you say, but if, anywhere within your heart you were even considering it, then you needed to know.’

‘I still don’t actually know anything,’ she said. ‘She says that he is “monstrous” but will go no further.’

‘You know that he is dishonest,’ I replied. Her mouth turned down, the lips hard and tight, as though she were fighting tears.

‘I suppose that’s something,’ she said.

‘Regardless of your feelings regarding myself at the moment,’ I said, ‘I must most ardently advise you not to return to Gloucestershire just yet. I believe that you require distance to consider the information you have learned, and to strengthen your resolve. Your feelings for Roger have been most tender, I am aware, and there is grave danger that if you see him again too soon, he will be able to convince you of more untruths that could convince you to remain with him. Spend some days here, with sufficient distance, I implore you. Propinquity at this delicate juncture may lead to disaster.’

She surveyed me coolly then, her momentary overwhelm disbanded.

‘That makes some sense,’ she said. ‘But I think I shall see the sights by myself, if it’s all the same to you.’

‘Of course,’ I said, ‘though you could join me at the castle tomorrow, if you like.’ She turned upon the spot and marched away without reply.

I did not see her again for two days. How I passed that time is hardly worth noting; I brooded. I read the papers – all dreadful news of the war in North Africa, and now Hitler is invading Russia, which seems to explain why he suddenly stopped bombing Britain – and walked the streets of the town, taking sustenance when necessary. I could not eradicate from my tormented mind the knowledge that I had erred, and greatly. I spent my professional life honing this particular skill; that of confronting a person with precisely what they required, either to end a venture doomed to folly or to reunite them with a future they had foolishly tossed aside. With your praise and encouragement, my dear, I advanced these skills to new heights. I prided myself on my abilities, and their value to you in particular, but also to their efficacy in cases where satisfactory conclusions could not be reached by mere communication. I did not stop to consider how unwelcome it would be to someone such as my sister, who values sincerity, who has made it her life’s work to be open to discussing every matter. Who trusted me to treat her well.

Furthermore, my suspicions regarding Roger’s unspecified transgressions grew. I had seen no evidence in my interactions with him, but then – well! – I had not been looking. I had never looked at him too closely, I realised. His country accent, his rough manners, his reticence, his beard, his farmyard masculinity – all those traits had closed my mind to the possibility that the waters could possibly run to any notable depth.

Even the broadness of his lie was despicable to me; it is not dishonesty that I abhor, but unskilled dishonesty. Lies that can be so easily found out are hardly worth the breath they cost to speak.

Between these dour thoughts and those other, even darker murmurations that perpetually cloud my mind (that you are dead, that you are wounded, that you are deathly ill, that even if you are sound of body your mind may yet be warped by suffering, et cetera, eternally), it was not at all the pleasant holiday I imagine you hoped that I would have.

It was on the evening of our third day in Alnwick that Rebecca appeared before me, standing beside my table at a small restaurant on Bondgate Within, with a sort of resigned acceptance gracing her regal countenance.

‘Reginald,’ she said.

‘Rebecca,’ I replied.

There was a moment’s silence, and then she pulled the chair opposite me at that table and sat.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

‘You are not well,’ she told me. ‘I don’t know if it is even right to hold you accountable for your actions. Mabel and I have been ill over you. Even Roger has noticed it, and brought it to my attention, only he thinks it’s because of Ethel.’ She smiled at me, somewhat wanly. ‘So you see, we have been dishonest to him as well, haven’t we?’

‘There are circumstances that require artifice,’ I said. I thought of you.

A wave of sorrow seemed to wash across her features for a moment. Perhaps she thought of you as well.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘And who are we to say that Roger’s circumstances are not of that sort?’

I had no choice but to concede her point. We did not know Roger’s crime, nor did we know his reasons.

It is so simple a thing to consider one’s own actions to be inherently justified, whilst condemning the actions of another. I could scarcely believe that I had fallen prey to that failing. Perhaps, if you were here, you might have prevented this. You have always had a stronger sense of what is right and kind than I can claim.

I hope that you are well. I hope the old adage holds true, that no news is good news. Every day I hope for a letter from you, and every day I dread a letter in another hand informing me that you are gone. I suppose, if nothing else, there is a comfort in knowing that I can still hope, and dread. I am not so hopelessly broken yet.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Jeeves,

What ho old man! Bertie told me I could catch you at this address. How are you? Long time eh? The Littles are all fine as hens teeth or whatever the hell it is. Here! I’ve sent a cheque for Bertie. It’s not much. Two dollars and fifty cents. He asked me to put a tenner on Whirlaway in the Belmont and wouldn’t you know it the dashed horse pulled it out. A triple crown I say! Bertie called it all the way from Africa what what. Anyway Whirlaway was the favourite with absolutely dreadful odds so the return for the tenner was two dollars fifty so that’s all of Bertie’s winnings included. Do let him know when you get a chance all right old man?

Oh and Bertie said you’d like to see Rosie’s new play. I mentioned it to her and she said she thought you might and that you’d have a free ticket any night you show. I understand that might be difficult what with the war and the ocean and all that but it’s the thought that counts eh. It’s called Factory Girl and Bertie thought he’d take you to it next time you’re on this side of the pond. Anyway toodle-pip my good fellow.

Bingo

*

Dear Bertram,

Upon returning to the Biffen residence, I discovered two letters addressed to me. I receive little in the post, so the sense of shock upon my receipt of them can perhaps be excused. Neither address was written in your hand, so, briefly in my desperation, I convinced myself that they must have been sent by one of your comrades-in-arms and were thus either informing me of your death, or of another wound, or that you had gone missing again.

It was none of these, of course, to my intense relief. The first was from Mr. Little, and it enclosed a cheque for two dollars and fifty cents – dollars, I would like to stress, not pounds. Apparently these are your winnings from the recent Belmont Stakes in America. I am gratified to hear that even in such dire straits as you currently find yourself, you are able to maintain your most cherished pass times.

As I am planning on returning to London soon anyway, I shall save the cheque until I arrive in the city. I suspect that a small-town branch may be less prepared to convert the currency than a larger London establishment.

The other was from a mutual acquaintance of ours, who had sent me a newspaper clipping from the Chronicle, which we have not, traditionally, received at the Biffen residence.

It was an article about you. Specifically, an interview. While there was much in the content of the piece that I found distressing, even the frank description of your apparent pathological shirtlessness and sandiness could not dampen the elation I felt at simply receiving indisputable confirmation that you survived the recent hostilities, and without injury, no less.

I was also relieved to note that the reporter made no mention of a moustache. I know you shaved it some time ago, but there is always the concern that it will reappear.

I do, of course, desire strongly that I could somehow place myself beside you, even briefly, in order to trim and wash your hair, and launder your clothing, and make your outward presentation as resplendent as the soul that resides within. My hands are itching for it. I found myself polishing your evening shoes today, when obviously they have not been worn since I polished them last week. Some dreadful maniac inhabits me, my dear, and he appears to believe that if he can only make your things completely perfect, then you will somehow feel the effect and become perfect again yourself.

I cannot entirely account for this mania of mine. Always before, I have been easily able to ascertain the psychological cause of my actions, and conclude that they were generally logical and appropriate. At this point in time, however, while I do usually possess the ability to examine my behavior and take issue with its rationality, I seem incapable of curbing it. It is most distressing.

There is a part of me that is concerned that I may be falling prey to that same disease that took my mother. She also exhibited symptoms of this kind, before we knew the cause of it. Rising in the night to scrub floors that she had washed that very day, attempting to go to the vegetable market in town on a Sunday, that sort of thing. I remember discussing the matter with Rebecca before it occurred to us that the issue could be medical, wondering if she had gone mad or simply eccentric with age.

The fact is that I have not been well for quite some time. You questioned me repeatedly for months regarding your two friends and their unsuccessful liaison amoureuse, and no matter how I tried I could not force my mind to concoct a reasonable course of action. The same occurred with my engagement to your sister. Where once I know I could have extracted myself from that condition with the finesse of a chess master, my brain was blank.

And as for this situation with Roger, well, though it was carried out in a manner that was technically successful, I cannot help but feel that the man I was two years ago would not have done it at all. I would have known from the outset the effect that it would have on Rebecca. I would have found a gentler means.

In short, there is something wrong with me.

That is one of the reasons I will soon be returning to London. I have arranged a meeting with a brain specialist on Harley Street. It will be quite expensive, but as I cannot serve you properly in the state I currently find myself, I consider the cost to be warranted. If you disagree, whenever this information reaches you, then I will do my best to repay you, but as of now I am simply taking the money from your account, which you so generously gave me complete access to last year.

There are other matters that draw me to the city. Your book, for example, has achieved manuscript stage, and the editor has asked if I would send it on to you for examination and approval. Obviously that is not possible, but I have allowed him to believe that it is. I will review the manuscript and approve it myself.

Our flat is also in dire need of repair, as you no doubt recall. The temporary covers over your bedroom window will not last much longer, and now that the blitz appears to be over, at least for the time being, it seems most expedient to me that it gets done before the Germans decide to return.

Finally, though Rebecca has officially forgiven me for what I did in Alnwick, we have both agreed that it is best for me to spend some time away.

Before I go, however, I have agreed to aid Rebecca in one final task. I must confront Roger with the information that we acquired in Alnwick and attempt to convince him to confess the salient details. Rebecca has already tried, but he will not speak to her. When she went to see him this morning, she said that he had visible tears in his eyes but would only tell her that she was right to be finished with him and there was nothing to say.

Rebecca, as you know, is a sound woman. She is not fond of mistruths but understands that sometimes they are necessary. She feels that if Roger’s reasoning is sound, and if the secret he is keeping from her is not too loathsome to be borne, then she need not sever her relations with him.

As I have said, I have my own suspicions as to what the matter could be, and if correct then it may well render the entire venture nonviable. However, it is always possible that I have misinterpreted the evidence. Therefore, I will go to Roger’s house tomorrow morning and meet him in the milking barn to discuss it.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Bertram,

When I set out toward Roger’s farm this morning, I could not help but feel that there was a fell portent in the air. The clouds were dense and a thin rain fell. Normally I would have brought an umbrella, but I am disconcertingly forgetful of late, and the  drizzle quietly soaked my shoulders as I strode. As always, the rain made me feel farther from you. A sandstorm would be more to my liking. A tormenting desert sun to bleach my hair. A heat so oppressive it leads me to wild extremes of thought, such as donning short trousers, or unbuttoning the collar. To bury myself in an infernal pit of sand and find you there beside me – Heaven. Instead, I have only England and its cold rain.

The walk to Roger’s farm is not long, but each step was arduous. I dreaded the confrontation.

It is July. It was early July when first I woke to find you in my arms, my darling. The scent of the lilies is heavy in the air, sickly sweet and emanating a kind of joy I no longer know how to touch. The lilies always return me to that time, and it is bittersweet, for it was also July when I left you.

Sixteen years. Last year the anniversary passed us by without mention; the war was still new. You were safe in England after the fall of France. I dared hope, at the time, that you might not leave our shores again. It was August before I even remembered that July had come.

The year before that, we went to that particular restaurant in Soho, the one with such discrete and discerning staff. How proud I was to share a table with you that night. I thought that anyone could tell at a glance how noble a lineage you carried. The flash of your bright eye, the tilt of your head, the music of your polished conversation. Even a decade and a half could not dampen my awe, that you should have chosen me. I remember promising myself anew that I would redouble my efforts to keep your house in perfect order, to keep your person immaculate in every aspect, so that the outer form would reflect the inner. I wanted all the world to look upon you and know you for the diamond that you are.

Now, all the world has read the Chronicle.

We always celebrated the beginning of July. We always ignored the ides. Over the years, I allowed myself to believe you did not think of it. I’ve been accustomed – too accustomed, I now realise – to self-deception of a sort. To believing that because do not speak of a thing, that means it is not an issue. Now I am beginning to understand that it is the things of which we do not speak that are of the greatest concern.

I was considering this even as I made my way to Roger’s barn, but it was the revelations I found therein that forced me to face all that I have permitted myself to ignore and forget.

I found him where I expected him; he is a creature of habit, as, I suppose, all successful farmers must be. He was in the barn, perched upon the milking stool with his forehead buried in Daffodil’s coarse flank. The milk was singing into the pail even though his eyes were covered by the cow’s side. He can do nearly all of these things by instinct.

I admit, my heart melted just a little as I surveyed him. Even though he had mislead my sister, I could not help but feel some glimmer of that affection that has grown between us in recent months, until the incident at the subscription dance.

I cleared my throat. He is not, as a rule, jumpy, but he jumped nonetheless.

Turning his whiskered head toward me he said, unnecessarily, ‘Oh! You’re back.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

For a moment, neither of us said a word.

‘You saw Mary, I gather,’ he said at last, and resumed his milking with faux-nonchalance. ‘Is she healthy? All right?’

‘She certainly isn’t dead,’ I said.

To this he merely nodded.

Another moment of silence passed, broken only by the hiss of the milk into the pail. I had no intention of speaking first. I considered it his responsibility.

‘So what brings you here, Reg?’ he asked. ‘If Rebecca’s done with me anyway, what’s the issue?’

‘The issue, as you put it, is that she may not be done with you.’ He looked up at me, his eyes alight with a heart-breaking flash of hope. ‘If you can give proper accounting for your actions.’

The light of hope died and his face turned again to the cow’s warm flank.

‘Can’t,’ he said.

I couldn’t stand it any longer. In the old days I could have patiently out-waited him. I could have tortured him to speech with my well-honed silence. But these are not the old days, and I am not what I once was. I was overwhelmed, suddenly, by a keen desire to end the discussion, to leave Gloucestershire, to hide in London where no one spent so long peering into one another’s lives and hearts.

‘Was it a man?’ I said.

His hands froze in their milking. Daffodil lowed askance. Obligingly, he resumed relieving her, but kept his eyes firmly turned away from me.

‘We don’t need to do this,’ he said.

‘Oh, yes we do,’ I said, feeling ruthless.

‘You’ll find no proof,’ he answered. ‘I burned all of his letters after Mary left. Every line is ash. You can go to the police and you’ll have no evidence; only a slick big-city man’s word against mine. Or if you think you might try your hand at blackmail, you might as well give that up, too. All I’ve got is this farm and it’s barely worth the money it costs to keep.’

‘I have no intention of harming you,’ I said, my ruthlessness already paling into remorse. After all, there but for the Grace of–

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘All right.’

‘Who was he?’ I asked, suddenly needing to speak of this with someone who would actually understand, and not merely tolerate. Not merely accept.

‘Please,’ he said, and there was such anguish in his request that I was cowed.

‘I’m sorry, Roger,’ I said. ‘I do not mean to pry. It is only that–’

‘He died in the War,’ Roger said. ‘The other war, I mean. But who didn’t? By the end, it seemed as though nearly every man our age was gone. Bill was just one of them. One of the millions.’ He swept a hand across his eyes. ‘He went to France and I was here, part of the home defence. We kept in touch for two years by letter, and then–’ he sighed. ‘Then the letters stopped.’

‘I don’t understand,’ I interjected, perhaps more hastily than was required. I could not bear to consider the weight of his last statement. There are numerous possible reasons that letters might stop, I reminded myself. Our circumstances were not comparable. ‘If he died during the War then who was the man who ended your marriage five years ago?’

‘Bill!’ Roger said. ‘Mary found the letters! It was stupid of me to keep them. I knew it, but I couldn’t ever quite bear to part with them.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, the confusion clarifying now into complete understanding. ‘I assumed there was infidelity involved.’

‘What?’ he said, looking up at me again. ‘I loved Mary.’

The utter lack of guile in his gaze struck pity into my heart.

‘So,’ I said, ‘she left you because you loved a man twenty years ago.’

‘I am not natural,’ he said, so quietly I could scarcely hear him. ‘I cannot account for it. I love women as a man should, but… not only women.’

‘Oh,’ I said, feeling bemused anew. ‘Then you were not entirely misleading my sister?’

‘I love her,’ he said. ‘I would marry her today were I free, but I am married still. Besides, even if Mary had divorced me, I still would never be free. No woman could be expected to attach herself permanently to a man like me. No woman could understand it, nor should she. She deserves a man who is untainted with this madness.’

I felt my features soften. My affection for him grew, as well as my pity.

‘No man upon this Earth is entirely untainted by madness,’ I said. ‘And I think you underestimate my sister’s capacity for comprehension and sympathy.’

He guffawed. There is no other word for it. Daffodil gave her own bovine version of a guffaw in return.

‘And how exactly can you be so confident that Rebecca would be capable of forgiving sins like mine?’ he asked, in a tone so deeply rueful I wondered that I had not detected this tinge of cynicism about him before. He now seemed redolent with it.

‘Because,’ I said, dropping my voice to a whisper and stepping nearer to him so that he could hear, ‘Lord Yaxley is not merely my employer. His Lordship is much more to me than that, and Rebecca has been fully aware and entirely in favour for over a decade.’

The progression of expression across his face was beautiful to watch.

‘I…’ he said, but seemed unable to speak further. His hands were slack upon the teat, his mouth slightly open. He was regarding me with a kind of rigid disbelief that I have seen before in the faces of men whose horse has dropped to the back of the race and is rapidly being outpaced by lengths.

‘How,’ he said, then swallowed. He dropped his limp hands to his lap. Daffodil stamped an impatient hoof, but she was ignored. ‘Is this some trick?’ he asked, at last. ‘To coerce me into telling you even more than I should? I assure you, I was not bluffing. The letters are gone. I never told another living soul about them, or about Bill. Everything was in complete secrecy until Mary discovered the loose floorboard where I kept the damn things. So she, I, and now you are the only living people who know. I wouldn’t have told you, except that you guessed it somehow and shocked me so deeply that I lost my sense.’

‘It is no trick.’ I could tell that he was not prepared to believe me. His secrecy and solitude in this matter had been so complete for so long, it was nearly impenetrable. ‘I have proof,’ I said, almost regretting it even as I spoke. Nevertheless, I knew that it was imperative that I put an end to his turmoil. After all that I had done to him, however unwittingly, he deserved this much. I reached into my breast pocket. He flinched, as though fearing I would produce some weapon. Daffodil, sensing her master’s alarm, swung her head as far as the rope would allow and fixed me with a white-ringed eye.

‘Here,’ I said, and pulled out the letter – the letter that you sent to your sister that ended my engagement to her. I keep it with me, you see. ‘We were corresponding all this time,’ I told him. ‘Until the letters stopped.’

I handed him the folded paper, and he opened it with trembling fingers. His eyes roved across the page. I closed my own. I knew every word he was reading; I had read it over so many times it was as firmly ensconced within my memory as the finest Wordsworth. It may not be a work of great poetic genius, but in my opinion, it is the most romantic document in existence.

I opened my eyes to find Roger gazing at Daffodil’s warm flank, the paper loose in his hands.

‘May I?’ I said, reaching out for it.

‘What?’ he asked, then, ‘Oh! Yes.’ He handed it back and I returned it to its proper place, in the pocket nearest my heart.

Now, at last, he looked at me, and his smile was the old warm, unguarded grin I was accustomed to seeing upon his face. ‘Fifteen years, eh? That’s some impressive for fellows like us. Did your wife know?’

Now it was my turn to stare at him. In all the emotional turbulence of the last few moments’ revelations, I had forgotten that I was meant to be a grieving widower. When I recalled that little necessary fiction, suddenly the absurdity of the entire situation presented itself to me, unfurling within my mind like a vast flag, and I laughed.

‘Oh no,’ I said, still laughing, ‘I am afraid we have misled you just as you have misled us. When once there were meant to be two dead wives between us, the fact is that there are none. I do not have a wife, dead or otherwise. I never have. While you are able to appreciate the charms of men and women alike, I find that my own interest lies entirely on one side. The ring that I wear is Lord Yaxley’s.’

‘I see,’ he said. ‘Please forgive me. I am shocked. I have not ever– What I mean is, it never occurred to me that something like this could be so straightforward, if you understand me. With me and Bill it was… I don’t know. It didn’t last all that long before he went away to war, and we were young, and I was so ashamed. I accepted his letters and answered them because I was not strong enough to resist, but I always knew it was an awful mistake. I never imagined…’ he trailed away. His eyes drifted to the ring upon my finger. ‘I never imagined,’ he said again, with more finality.

‘And Rebecca?’ I said.

‘Rebecca,’ he said, ‘would honour me beyond measure if she would ever consider becoming my wife. I would, of course, need to be divorced first.’

‘That can be arranged fairly easily,’ I said.

‘It can?’

‘If you desire it.’

‘I do!’

I nodded. ‘Leave it to me, Roger. I must depart, I’m afraid, as I am returning to London on business today. Obviously, it is your decision entirely whether you decide to entrust my sister with this information, but if you do, I firmly believe that you will not regret it. Good day.’

‘Hey Reg!’ he called just as I reached the barn door. I turned to him, and he was standing beside the cow, his palms turned upward in a gesture of hapless bemusement. ‘Sorry about all the women at the dance. I thought you liked them.’

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘I don’t.’ I turned to go, then thought suddenly how you would react. How you would want him to feel as though his actions were appreciated, even though they were not. How your concern for his comfort would supersede the truth. I glanced back at him and offered a small smile. ‘But thank you for the thought, all the same.’

He smiled, but then an expression of sudden panic darkened his features and he said, ‘Oh, Reg! Don’t tell my brothers.’

‘I won’t tell a soul,’ I promised him, and since this letter remains unsent, technically I have not broken said promise.

Upon returning to the Biffen household, I informed Rebecca that while I was not at liberty to reveal the precise nature of Roger’s secret, I was confident that it was not something that would cause her great concern.

‘It is his choice, of course, to inform you,’ I said, ‘but I fancy he may.’

The look of relief and hope upon her face was recompense enough for my trouble, and, with a brief embrace, I left her in the kitchen to pack my things.

And so to London, to see what remains of it.

Love,

G.

Chapter Text

The other night, a goodly group of us were gathered in the empty ammunition cave listening to Lord Haw-Haw, our beloved Nazi propagandist, on the radio as we like to do on a quiet evening. Now, generally speaking, he’s been dealing in Crete and all that mess quite a bit lately, and we weren’t so used to hearing ourselves mentioned until the failed Operation Battleaxe, which he had a rousing good time teasing us over. Still, he’s been silent on we current citizens of Tobruk lately, focusing instead on the beautiful progress his pals are apparently making in Russia.

Nevertheless, today we got a mention! He very fondly referred to the lot of us as ‘the poor desert rats of Tobruk, who live like rats and will die like rats.’

Now, I rather had a mind to take a certain amount of umbrage at the comparison. I would never, myself, even under the direst of circs, wait for a chap to fall asleep and then take an experimental nibble at his finger to see if I could possibly devour him in his slumber as the actual rats of the region seem all too inclined to do. As such, it was Bertram’s first instinct to say, ‘Steady on, Haw-haw!’

However, my viewpoint was far from universal. I’ve never heard such a happy roar of appreciation as that I heard rising from the Australian chaps in that instant! They’re all quite taken with the idea, and have even started embroidering rats upon their uniform shirts, and making rat badges for one another. It’s quite the thing. Never thought I’d see the day when a chap would call me a rat and mean it in a good way, but here we are. It’s really bucked the spirits up around here. Australians are a funny sort, what?

Of course, it’s been the arc of things from the first broadcast we caught that poor Lord Yaxley drew unfair comparison to Lord Haw-Haw. I didn’t like to focus on it overmuch because it gets me rather hot under the collar, even when I haven’t a collar, or a shirt, and as things stand, I’m hot enough these days without letting myself get pipped over a bit of bally teasing. Besides, we’re all just a bit high-strung recently and I try not to begrudge the chaps a laugh where they can get it. I am, after all, the only lord most of these birds have met, and it’s no good my telling them that Lord Haw-Haw’s accent is clearly an affectation and far from accurate – that I strongly suspect that he isn’t even English at all – because to them we sound exactly the same.

So it wasn’t entirely unexpected when a group of Australian Lieutenants asked me if I wouldn’t do an impression during our little musical performance last night. They all loved hearing a refined British voice telling them they were going to die like rats so dearly that they wanted another go. I admit I gave it a bit of thought, but in the end I stoically demurred. It wouldn’t do, I decided, to have one’s commanding officer spouting Nazi propaganda at one, even in jest, and besides, I’d really rather not encourage the comparison between yours truly and some blasted ass who puts on a posh accent and tries to get everybody down whilst talking up the Führer, if I’ve spelt that correctly.

They were all so dejected and disappointed at my refusal that I felt I simply had to make another suggestion, so I said, ‘I say, old fruits, why don’t we have a crack at a real concert? Now that we’ve moved the old ivories down to the depleted ammunition cave,’ – which was absolute bally Hell, by the way; I never hope to move a piano out of a bombed hospital, down seven cracked and pitted streets, across an expanse of open sand, and then down a bally staircase into an underground cave again, all in ninety degree heat, no less– ‘why don’t we try and roust up all the chaps we can find who have instruments and put on a real show for some of the fellows at the perimeter? When they come off the perimeter for their leave, I mean.’

That went over rather well, if I may say so myself, and before the day was out I had seven coves all reporting to me about their skill with song, and various instruments. We’ve got a saxophone, a wood and skin drum that looks like it was handmade, a chap who claims he can get his hands on an accordion as soon as his mate on the perimeter returns with it, and of course, me with my piano and my harmonica. One fellow even has a violin he brought all the way from Melbourne, and which he has restrung now with STG wire. He played me a few bars of something that might almost have passed for ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’ if one were fairly well behind on his recommended eight hours and suffering a bit from tinnitus – which, fortunately, all of us are. I shook his hand and welcomed him aboard.

Now all seven of them are meeting regularly to rehearse, and the concert date is set for three weeks from today. We’ve got some privates rigging up spotlights inside the cave. They’re knocking them together out of old truck headlights and bully beef cans. Everyone is quite beside themselves with excitement, which is jolly nice to see.

I suppose, now that all hope of rescue has passed and the air raids aren’t quite so constant, we’re all in need of something pleasant to occupy our time. I know I am. I’m writing my little journal, and that’s all right, but it pales in comparison to writing letters to Reggie, and of course, with no hope of receiving so much as a word from him back, well, I mean to say, it’s all a bit thick.

I wonder where he is. I said before that I rather imagine he’d return to London as soon as it was safe, and according to the Tobruk Truth, our little local rag, there hasn’t been so much as a leaflet dropped on London in weeks. There is always the possibility, however, that he’s getting on so well with dear Becky that he’s decided to stay on there, and I have to admit there’s a bit of me that hopes that’s the case. He likes to think he’s a lone-wolf type who requires no one, but he’s not at all. Even wolves aren’t, come to think of it. Don’t they live in jolly big packs? Not that Reggie’s a jolly big pack sort, either, but he likes his friends and his club and his nights on the town when he’s feeling vigorous, and I can’t imagine there’s a lot of that about in London at the mo., not whilst everything is still smoking and crumbling, as I imagine it must be. Then again, we’re having a jolly big concert here in Tobruk, so I suppose anything’s possible.

*

Dear Mr. Little,

Please permit me to thank you on Lord Yaxley’s behalf for the remuneration of his Lordship’s winnings that you so thoughtfully posted. His Lordship will be most pleased to know that that keen horse sense that his Lordship has always prided himself on has not paled nor faded during his time in France and North Africa.

I am also personally grateful for your continued friendship with his Lordship, as very few of his Lordship’s friends have attempted to maintain contact since the war’s advent. As soon as Lord Yaxley is again able to receive letters I have no doubt that his Lordship will find a continued correspondence with you to be most enjoyable.

As for myself, I must offer my own gratitude for the kind offer of free tickets to Mrs. Little’s play. I am indeed quite interested in the production. However, circumstances being what they are, I feel I must beg your forgiveness and set my hopes for a future production to be held in either a more clement time, or a more accessible location. Please do offer Mrs. Little my heartfelt congratulations on her success.

Should you, for any reason, desire to contact me further, I have returned to our London address, with which you are familiar. I intend to stay here until further notice.

Sincerely,

Jeeves

*

PATIENT R. JEEVES, SESSION ONE

As transcribed from the recording by T. Folsom, secretary to Dr. G. S. Rainford

RAINFORD: Ah, welcome. Please, take a seat, Mr. Jeeves. I have been expecting you. Oh, and I should mention before you say a thing that I record my sessions on this spiffing device right here. Saves me having to take notes throughout.

JEEVES: I understand. Thank you, Doctor Rainford.

RAINFORD: Oh, no. Doctor Rainford is my father! Please, call me Griffy. (Seven seconds of silence) Mr. Jeeves, are you all right?

JEEVES: I was under the impression, sir, that I was to meet with the noted brain specialist Doctor Griffith Rainford.

RAINFORD: Yes! That’s me. Griffy.

JEEVES: I see. Forgive me, sir, but I fear I have over scheduled myself this afternoon.

RAINFORD:  No, no, no, Mr. Jeeves, please remain seated. Most of my patients are quite anxious at their first appointment, what? I wouldn’t be much of a doctor if I let them all leg it the minute I’d got them in my grasp! Would I, Mr. Jeeves?

JEEVES: I suppose you would not, Doctor Rainford.

RAINFORD: Griffy.

JEEVES: As you say, sir.

RAINFORD: You needn’t call me ‘sir.’ I’m your doctor, not your master.

JEEVES: As you say, doctor.

RAINFORD: Oh, all right, dash it. We’re getting off to a bit of a bad start, aren’t we? Why don’t you get things going, what? What’s troubling you?

JEEVES: As I informed your secretary, doctor, I have been increasingly concerned about my mental state. My mother developed a common degenerative disease of the brain in her elderhood, and I am here to ascertain whether I am suffering from the same illness.

RAINFORD: Alzheimer’s?

JEEVES: Yes, doctor. At the time of her diagnosis I read every text available to me concerning the primary symptoms, prognosis, and treatment of the disease. My research helped me to understand what was happening to my mother but it did not offer much hope. Since her death some seven years ago, I have lapsed in my research on the subject, and as of now I am currently unaware of any recent developments.

RAINFORD: Oh, impressive, Mr. Jeeves. What texts did you read, if you’ll pardon my insatiable curiosity?

JEEVES: Jones, Ranson, Weschler–

RAINFORD: Weschler!

JEEVES: Yes, doctor.

RAINFORD: That’s an American text, isn’t it? I’ve never gotten my hands on it!

JEEVES: I am fortunate to be employed in a field that allows me to travel extensively, doctor. Or it used to. I acquired the volume in New York.

RAINFORD: Really? Are you a medical man yourself? I did read my secretary’s notes, but I can’t quite recall…

JEEVES: No, doctor, I am not medically trained. While I do have a layman’s interest in psychology, my research in neurology was motivated entirely by my desire to help my mother.

RAINFORD: A scholar, then? A touring lecturer?

JEEVES: A valet, doctor.

RAINFORD: Oh, I say! That’s something, what? My old Pa used to have one. Hardly ever see them anymore. Whom do you work for?

JEEVES: My employer is the Earl of Yaxley, doctor. Perhaps you have heard of his Lordship.

RAINFORD: I’ll say I’ve bally heard of him! He’s Bertie Wooster, isn’t he? We were at Oxford together! By Jove, I hear he’s off fighting the war!

JEEVES: That is correct, doctor.

RAINFORD: Where is he? Egypt or something? I only just read something in the paper about the chap. Good Heavens! Do you know, I told old Polly when I saw that interview that Bertie was just about the last bird in Christendom I’d expect to have gone on to have a bally military career! Oh, is it true he stole Gussie Fink-Nottle’s fiancée and then didn’t even marry her? Beefy told me that once. Said he heard it from Oofy who heard it from Barmy who heard it from Tuppy who heard it from Gussie himself! I couldn’t believe it. Bertie never seemed the type, if you know what I mean. I suppose you never can tell about a fellow, can you? I’d love to get old Bertie in here and have a poke around that brain.

JEEVES: With all due respect, doctor, I am not here to discuss my employer’s private life.

RAINFORD: Oh! Oh, yes. Quite right, quite right. A valet’s duty is rather like a doctor’s, I expect, what? Confidentiality and all that? Still, I wouldn’t have thought you’d make enough of the cabbage to afford so many medical textbooks at the drop of a hat.

JEEVES: My compensation is more than adequate. That being said, Lord Yaxley was kind enough to make a gift of them to me. His Lordship is most generous.

RAINFORD: Not surprised to hear that much, at least!

JEEVES: Doctor.

RAINFORD: Yes, yes, the Alzheimer’s. Well, we can dismiss that right off, I think.

JEEVES: I– I beg your pardon, doctor?

RAINFORD: You don’t have it. Not yet anyway! No promises about what the future may hold; that’s a fortune-teller’s purview, not a doctor’s. Nevertheless, I feel I can quite confidently assure you that you are not currently suffering from any form of dementia.

JEEVES: How can you be so sure? Shouldn’t you run a test of some sort, doctor?

RAINFORD: Oh, there aren’t any tests. Not yet. Again, consult an augur or a soothsayer for further information in re. actual tests for such things. I understand they’re in the works. All we’ve got at the moment is what our eyes and ears and experience can tell us, and all three of the chaps are positively screaming that what I’ve got before me is a man who is not suffering from degeneration of the grey matter.

JEEVES: That is certainly a distinct relief, doctor. Thank you. I suppose I should take my leave–

RAINFORD: Oh, not so fast, if you please. I think it quite likely that you do have battle fatigue.

JEEVES: Battle fatigue?

RAINFORD: Oh, you know. Nostalgia. Soldier’s Heart. Shell Shock. People have called it a hundred things since wars began, but it’s all the same.

JEEVES: I believe you are mistaken, doctor. I have not been to war.

(Laughter - Doctor Rainford’s)

RAINFORD: Oh, you’re serious? Heavens, man. You didn’t need to go to war. You were in London, weren’t you? I sure as Hell was. The war came to us! It’s pretty simple, my good chap. Bombs fall, buildings explode, people die, and the people who don’t die get battle fatigue. We’re a nation that is, on the whole, quite fatigued, old sport.

JEEVES: But surely not all-

RAINFORD: No, not all. Not sure why, honestly. But take yourself. What was it you were concerned about? Lack of sharpness where once you were as the proverbial tack? Nightmares? Compulsive behavior? And when I mentioned the war a few moments back – in connexion with your master being off fighting and all that – your hands began trembling. You didn’t even glance at them, and balled them into fists reflexively, as though it’s a common occurrence. You’re textbook, my good man. Honestly, I’m surprised that you’re surprised. All those books on neurology and you never thought to have a peek at what happens to a brain after it gets nearly blown up every night for months on end?

JEEVES: I understand. What is the course of treatment that you would recommend for such an affliction, doctor?

RAINFORD: Oh, well, there’s been some promising research on the use of barbiturates, such as sodium amytal, but it’s really in the testing stages.

JEEVES: Testing stages?

RAINFORD: Yes, they’ve been testing it on soldiers, don’t you know. Excellent research opportunity, what? Just about the best you could ask for! I wouldn’t recommend it for private citizens as yet, however. Too many unknowns.

JEEVES: I see. And how have the test subjects fared with the treatment, in your opinion?

RAINFORD: Oh, awfully hard to say at this early time. Certainly some nasty side effects. Severe headaches and all that. They do seem to be able to send the chaps they’ve treated back to the front awfully quickly, so that’s promising! This is a bally hard war, I have to say. Do you know, Mr. Jeeves, that since the outbreak of hostilities, nearly fifty percent of soldiers discharged from active service have been rendered unfit for duty due entirely to combat fatigue? It’s frankly unimaginable!

JEEVES: Yes, the human cost of this catastrophe is staggering, doctor.

RAINFORD: No, I mean the opportunity, Mr. Jeeves! Unprecedented opportunity for research. I’m already putting together plans for a longitudinal study on longterm outcomes for soldiers who were treated with sodium amytal versus those who–

JEEVES: Doctor.

RAINFORD: Hello?

JEEVES: If you do not recommend the stated treatment for– for battle fatigue, then what do you recommend, if you don’t mind my asking?

RAINFORD: Oh, yes! Psychotherapy, my good man. Now that is a bit of fun, I can tell you! Still rather in its infancy, I admit, but loads to look forward to, what?

JEEVES: No thank you, doctor.

RAINFORD: In fact, I daresay the field of– I’m sorry, did you say no?

JEEVES: I said, ‘No thank you, doctor.’

RAINFORD: Why? Didn’t you say you had an interest in psychotherapy?

JEEVES: I do, which means that I have read enough on the subject to be able to conclude that this particular approach will not be useful for me. I believe I will take my leave now, doctor. Thank you for your time. I do very much appreciate the information that you have given me. As distressing as it is to consider the possibility that I am suffering from battle fatigue, it is preferable, I think, to Alzheimer’s. Good afternoon, Doctor Rainford.

RAINFORD: Ought you really to just jog out halfway through, old chap? Mightn’t your wife be rather put out at your giving up so quickly?

JEEVES: My wife?

RAINFORD: Pardon me. I assumed, from the ring on your finger–

JEEVES: Oh, yes. I have no wife to put out. I am a widower.

RAINFORD: I’m terribly sorry to hear that, Mr. Jeeves! How long have you been so bereaved?

JEEVES: It will be two years next month, Doctor. Thank you for your time.

RAINFORD: Well, I can’t force you. Not unless you attack someone, that is. Then I could have you institutionalized! Ha! But until that happy day, I have no choice but to let you walk away and prolong your suffering. It was good to meet you, Mr. Jeeves. Please, do give old Bertie my best, if you ever see him again, what?

JEEVES: I most certainly will, Doctor Rainford. Good afternoon.

END OF SESSION

*

What was it that poet Johnny said about wishing – or was it hoping? – and how one should be absolutely gingerly as to precisely what one goes about doing it for? Well. I know what he meant, even if I don’t quite know what he said.

Not six days had gone by after the Great Hospital Explosion when Archie, damn him, came up to me at my usual roost on the beach and asked if I couldn’t have a brief word. Well, I had managed to avoid the beastly fellow for the last few days because I’d been as busy as a one-armed what’s-it hauling rubble about in wheelbarrows and shoveling and dragging beds about and all that. All the things one must do when one’s hospital gets bombed during a war, don’t you know. Digging trenches, too. You wouldn’t think there was any space left for another trench in all of Tobruk, but we found the space, by golly, and dug the bally trenches, and covered them up with tarps, and covered the tarps up with sand and rocks so that they would look like any other unobtrusive stretch of desert, and plunked wounded chaps down in them. It’s been a lot of work, actually. Fair toil, and all that rot.

Anyway, as I said, I’d managed to avoid Archie since, well, you know, and all was oojah-cum-spiff on that front, as far as I was concerned, but then I made the dreadful mistake of indulging in a contemplative cigarette on the beach and eking out a song or two on the old harmonica, and dammit if he didn’t track me down.

‘Bertie,’ he said, all somber as a funeral director who is hoping to nudge the grieving widow toward one of the pricier coffins in the front, ‘I wonder if I might have a word.’

‘By all means, old chap!’ I said, in a tone much more spritely than I felt. ‘Why, have two words. Have three, even!’

He sat down beside me – always a bad sign, what? – and said, even more somberly, ‘I don’t quite know how to tell you this.’

‘Ah! I can solve that for you, Archie. Just don’t!’

‘Oh, Bertie. I do appreciate your levity, but I am serious. Something has happened. Something between me and John.’

‘Oh, lovely,’ I said, feeling distinctly hot beneath the collar. Or rather, hot where my collar would have been, had I been wearing a shirt at the time.

He looked at me as though he were Anna Karenina or whatever her name was and I was a particularly bulky train going the full forty knots. Or whatever it is trains go at.

‘You do not disapprove?’

‘Oh, no, old fruit! John is a sterling fellow! You are a sterling fellow! Who could possibly disapprove? I mean, aside from most people, I suppose, don’t you know, due to the, ah, lack of women involved. But as far as Bertram is concerned, it sounds like a match made in Heaven. Go for it, says I!’

Archie’s expression became distinctly relieved.

‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Then you’ll understand why I’ve simply got to send you to the perimeter for a few weeks.’

I choked on my cigarette.

‘I mean, it isn’t as though it isn’t necessary, old man,’ Archie continued. ‘The chaps at the Carrier Hill bush guns have been out there without relief for nearly two months. I have to send someone to relieve them, and up until now I’ve rather made a point to avoid sending your unit, even when I really should have sent you. The fact is, you’ve done no time at the perimeter at all, aside from Battleaxe, and that was due entirely to selfishness on my part. I didn’t want to risk you. I let personal attachment override my judgement, and it was unacceptable. Now that I’ve come out of the cloud a bit, as it were, I realise what an ass I’ve been. It was wrong of me to give you special treatment from the first, but now that I’ve– I mean to say, now that things have changed, it is absolutely crucial that I begin to treat you like any other soldier. You’re to take your unit to the line at Carrier Hill tonight, about 2400, I should think. Should be dark enough by then, old sport.’

And then he simply left! I mean to say, really! No good deed shall go unpunished, what? To think I laboured for his benefit all this time, and this is my reward. Pretty thick!

*

Dear Reginald,

How are you? How is London? Terribly battered and destroyed, I imagine. I know that you have only been gone for a week, and that we both agreed that distance was for the best, after all that happened in Alnwick, but I find that I miss you. Rather terribly, as it happens. And I worry for you. If I recall correctly, then your appointment with the doctor should have taken place yesterday afternoon, as of this writing. I do hope it went well. I hope you received good news. If you didn’t, I hope you know that I will be here for you, all the way.

Roger did explain things to me, the day after you left. I admit, I was somewhat taken aback. It is not that I consider his, shall we say, previous entanglement to be anything harmful or shameful, but only that, at first, I found it ever so slightly puzzling that he should be sincerely interested in me.

Forgive me. I am attempting to be discrete.

What I am trying to say is that your own personal interests are well-known to me, and it was my understanding that there are some men who share your interests, and some who do not. I was not previously aware of men who seem to have what you might call multiple interests.

I have now written the word ‘interest’ so many times in so many forms that I can’t bear to write it again. I think you most likely understand me.

The point is, I am realising more and more that humanity is even more fascinating than I ever dreamed. It becomes increasingly clear to me that there are as many ways to be a person as there are people on the Earth.

I think it’s lovely.

Roger assures me that he would marry me this instant and be happy all his days, if he were free. I believe him. I cannot help but believe him, when he is holding my gaze with his, and when his rough, warm hands are enveloping mine.

It wasn’t precisely a proposal, you understand. More of an attempt to convince me. Nevertheless, I told him that I would gladly marry him, if he were free. He seemed pleased enough, but as it was morning and he had a full day’s hard toil ahead, he simply kissed my cheek and departed.

That evening, he came running to the house after dark, pounding on the door in his exuberance, in order to ask me if I really meant what I said, and if he could call me his fiancée. I told him yes, and that he could – knowing, as I do, that you have already offered to free him.

I am still not pleased with your actions in Alnwick, but you are thoroughly aware of that. All that being said, I am content with the result. More importantly, dear brother, I love you. I do hope you are aware of that. It would take more than that to end my affection for you permanently.

Please do tell me the results of your visit to the doctor. I am most anxious to hear.

Love,

Rebecca

*

To think that there was a time in my life when I considered Totleigh Towers to be the most unpleasant place I had ever had the misfortune of visiting. Or perhaps it was Steeple Bumpleigh. Both rough places, mind you, populated by Spodes and Crayes and Bassetts and entirely unsafe for Democracy. Regardless, it is laughable to me now. I could spend forty straight days and nights happily idling my way through the grounds of Steeple Bumpleigh, with Stiffy, Spode, Pop Bassett, Madeline, and even Bartholomew hounding me at every turn, and I’d keep a serene smile upon the map and a merry tune upon the lips.

‘But how has this come to pass, Bertram?’ I imagine you might be asking.

Ah, you see, because I have now spent four days with my unit manning the bush guns at Carrier Hill, on the perimeter fence surrounding Tobruk. There is no Hell like Carrier Hill.

One cannot go about in daylight here. I do not speak speciously. Or facetiously. Which word do I mean? Reggie would know.

Ah well.

What I mean to say is, I do not exaggerate. One cannot go about in daylight. The instant so much as a British or Australian finger appears outside, an Italian or German bullet appears to blow it off. They’re everywhere, dash it. If one gets the gumption together to take a glance at the horizon, one cannot help but note the way the floor of the desert is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold; but these are no stars, quiring to the young-eyed cherubins. It is merely the reflection of the blazing sun as it rebounds across line upon line of readied Axis guns. The dunes bristle with guns.

The result of this is that there is absolutely nothing for a chap to do during the day but lie about in his little rat hole, baking in one hundred degree heat, and stare at the ceiling, which hovers about two feet above the tip of his nose.

There are a few books about. I got my hands on one of them on day two and read the entire dashed thing in a day and a half. It was by an Australian chappie, of course, and it was called The Mystery of Swordfish Reef. It’s about a boat that goes missing off the coast of New South Wales, wherever the bally Hell that is. I didn’t even know there was an old South Wales. It was book seven in a series, apparently, and while it was merely sufficient, I can’t tell you what a princely sum I’d pay for books one through six, if they could be delivered to me here, in my rat hole, this very instant.

Other than the book, which I very nearly began again the instant I’d finished it, the only entertainment one can muster is writing one’s journal, playing one’s harmonica, and chatting with whatever chap happens to be holed up with you.

Generally I’m stuck lying next to old Charlie, which is all right. The only trouble is, he’s pining terribly these days for Helen and I’m having the devil of a time not plunging into the same pitiful terrain. Yesterday it was all about how Helen’s hair smells after she washes it. Good Lord. Roses, apparently, and lavender, and about a hundred other bally smells that would just about make a chap gag if he were hit full force in the snoot with half of them at once. This morning he was talking about how she dances. She’s light on her feet, apparently, and likes to be lifted up in the air, and he feels like a king when he does it, or some such rot.

So then, of course, I couldn’t help but talk about Reggie, and how you’d never think a cove as solid and stately as he could swing a shoe so efficiently. I’ve never been able to lift him in the air, obviously, so I don’t know about that, but when he gets a strong hand upon the Wooster hip and whips me about and then pulls me in close so we’re flush against one another, well, I don’t know how it feels to be a king, but it can’t be half as spiffing as that.

Charlie fell silent for a bit after I said that, and after giving him a moment’s grace to respond, I put the old harmonica to the lips and had a go at playing ‘I’ll Never Smile Again.’ It’s not the best song for a harmonica, I must admit. A bit slow. Reggie would call it ‘ponderous,’ I think. All the same, it seemed to do a number on old Charlie because first he started to sing along and then he started to weep, and before I knew it he’d put his bally head right into my bally shoulder and was sobbing upon me as though I were his nanny and he’d just scraped his knee.

At first I simply lay there, trying to play my song and pretend I hadn’t a hardened soldier drenching my shoulder with tears, but then the bally cove had to go and say, in the most broken tone that has ever been croaked, ‘Do you think we’ll ever see them again, Bertie?’

I say.

I put a lot of stock in a stiff upper lip, what? It can bear all things, or so I was taught in my youth, and I’ve been in the soup often enough in my life to know that a proper amount of starch about the northern rim of the mouth certainly can float a chap through some rummy circs. The trouble with a stiff upper lip, you see, is that it is merely a palliative – if palliative is the word I want. What I mean to say is, it’s rather cosmetic. It’s not meant to be load-bearing, if you gather my meaning. Under too great a weight, the damned thing will crack.

Something about playing a dashed sad song, thinking about Reggie, trapped in a bally rat hole in the desert with the only real pal I’ve got left weeping piteously upon my shoulder, well, that stove the thing in. The upper lip failed, and spectacularly.

I’ve never been much for the glad embrace. Reggie’s one thing, you understand. It took a little getting used to but by the time we were well and truly in it, it got so I could scarcely attain the necessary state of dreamless at all if Reggie weren’t wrapped about me like a thirteen-stone mink stole. It’s just all those other people who insist on walking all over this green (and not-so-green) little Earth of ours that make me recoil a bit at the touch. Still, as I said, there is something about being entirely broken that rather makes one reexamine one’s stances.

All of this is to say that in that moment, I gave the harmonica up for a bit in favour of turning rather desperately to Charlie and clinging to him like he was the last bit of floating debris from a sunken ship. I don’t really know how long we held each other. Our weeping wasn’t all that protracted, since our water ration has been low of late. Actual tears were understandably sparse, as a result. Still, even when we were no longer actively sobbing like children, neither of us seemed interested in releasing the other, so we lay rather entangled for a goodly bit of time, I daresay. Neither of us was inclined to talk. I think we both sensed, the way one does in a time like that, that to speak at all would render the entire sitch. too uncomfortable.

I must admit, it felt jolly fine, as though, for the first time in Heaven knows how long, I wasn’t all alone.

It was so jolly fine, in fact, that we actually both fell asleep, which really is something, because I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this in my little record-book-journal-thingummy before, but I’ve been having the Devil of a time sleeping for months now, even before I was obliged to take my nightly rest in the middle of the day, inside of a flea-infested bread oven made of sand.

When we awoke, it was nearly dark, which was absolutely ripping because once it’s dark out, we are permitted to exist again. Unfortunately, it also means we have to go out on a raid more times than not, but at least this P.M. we could do it well-rested.

The raids themselves are a bally nightmare, just like they were back when I used to lead them from the Baggush Box in Egypt. Slipping out of the barbed-wire fence under the cloak of darkness, sneaking across near-endless tracts of sand, scrambling up one dune and then down the dune and then up another and down again, all the while feeling one’s boots fill up to the brim with sand still hot from the day’s relentless sun, and then what? Either you don’t find a dashed thing, and you turn about and head home before daylight to lie about in your rat hole again, or you do find an enemy encampment, and then you have to shoot the blasted chaps whilst they’re eating their midnight meal, and drag a lot of them back as prisoners.

The only things I’ve got on my mind that give me even an ounce of pleasure are Reggie, my harmonica, and the concert – assuming, of course, that I’m permitted back from the perimeter in order to participate.

I must admit, I am feeling just a touch of chagrin about the whole Charlie business. It isn’t as though anything untoward happened, what? Were I questioned directly by a Nazi tribunal, I could confidently state that our embrace was brotherly. All the same, I know exactly what Reggie would think if he ever got wind of it.

He’d summon lightning from the sky and strike Charlie dead on the spot, and then where should I be?

Chapter Text

Absolutely disastrous raid last night. I mean, if one wants to get technical, I suppose every raid is a disaster to some extent, either for one side or the other, and if one wants to get philosophical, then every raid is a disaster merely by its existence. However, I have no true desire to delve into either philosophy or technicality, for one overriding reason – I have run out of blasted cigarettes.

Obviously I’m not allowed to smoke whilst on a raid anyway. A floating orb of orangish flame bobbing about in the black swaths night-clothed desert would likely draw a bit of unwanted attention. Nevertheless, this Earl has always found it a distinct comfort to have one of the little paper and tobacco chaps nestled within his breast pocket, with the knowledge that it is to be enjoyed immediately upon the hero’s return, once he, the hero, I mean – and by that I mean myself, don’t you know – is tucked safely back inside the concealing confines of his little rat castle.

The trouble, as I believe you have likely divined, is that I smoked my last dashed one yesterday evening. At the time I was given to understand that there was a new shipment due in that day anyway, so there was nothing to worry about, but apparently the damned ship was dive-bombed right in the bally harbour and went to its watery rest with a full contingent of gaspers still aboard.

So here I am, lying in my hole, trying to write in my bally journal that no one will ever even read, doing my damnedest to drown out Charlie’s monologue about the precise  yet elusive colour of Helen’s eyes, and wanting a cigarette more than I have bally well wanted anything in my puff.

I actually had a sort of waking fever-dream not one hour ago, although I haven’t a fever, you understand. Anyway, I was melding into the fabric of endless time as one does when one spends one’s days staring at a wall made of stones and sand in the blazing heat, when I rather fancied I was back home again, sitting in the old arm chair with the end table beside it. The one that Reggie always shoves the old glassful down on at five o’clock. It was so real I almost believed I was there. I reached into the old breast pocket and found my silver cigarette case, the one given me as a birthday gift by Uncle Tom when I was twenty. I lost the thing somewhere between Belgium and Dunkirk, I’m afraid, but in my fantasy or dream or hallucination or whatever it was, I had it right in my grasp, and it was filled to the brim with the finest Turkish Bond Street has to offer. Or had to offer. I remember popping it open, slipping a cigarette into the mouth, and looking up to find dear Reggie standing by, reaching into the pocket where he keeps the lighter with a rather playful tilt in one perfectly sculpted eyebrow–

And then Charlie sneezed like the dickens and I was back in the blasted hole.

It’s not Charlie’s fault. I know that. The poor cove is just as trapped as I am. It isn’t even Archie’s fault, though I do enjoy the odd fantasy of ticking him off properly. He was right, really. I should have been doing my stint on the perimeter ages ago. It wasn’t cricket to hang about back in the city when other chaps were facing the guns at the fence, so it’s tickety-boo.

Oh, dash it. I wasn’t trying to record the bit about the cigarettes. Not really. I was trying to tell you about the raid. The cigarettes have nothing to do with it, except that I spent the whole bally thing thinking to myself, ‘All this and I can’t even have a smoke after!’

We went out about midnight, just me and twenty chaps who were due for a turn. That’s a little early for a raid, but we like to keep our foes on their toes, what? The moon was but a sliver – waning crescent, Reggie would say. The stars were out in full force, which is always a sight to behold in these parts. There really isn’t much to stick on desert life in my opinion, but the stars are really something. All bright and cheery and swirling about like billy-oh. I’m sure Reggie would have something dashed fine to say about it. Orbs like angels singing such as the tum-tee-tum of mortal whats-its, or something like that.

Anyway, we were skirting round Carrier Hill, having reason to think that there might be a goodly number of Italians camped out behind it. There was a rum sort of feeling in the air; I couldn’t quite place it. Felt like being watched, don’t you know. I think the lads all felt it, too, and I was just trying to decide what sort of bracing bit of faff I could say to them to get their spirits up when I heard the deafening rat-a-tat of machine gun fire behind us.

For a second, I swear to God I heard Robbie’s voice. He was crying out, ‘Get down, Bertie!’

Now, I’m not one of old Glossop’s barmy chaps. Not yet, anyway. I know it wasn’t real. I heard it all the same, and dash it if I didn’t shout back, ‘Not this time, Robbie!’

I’ll admit it wasn’t the most regular thing a cove is expecting to hear his commanding officer shout whilst under enemy fire, but my men have all been in Tobruk as long as I have and at this point, I don’t think a one of us thinks much about a touch of mad nonsense now and then. Besides, when an invisible assailant has a machine gun trained upon you, you don’t spend a great lot of time wondering what the dickens the old Cap was going on about just then, do you?

We all turned at once, of course, gazing out with wild surmise, and I even made a show of brandishing my side arm, for all the good it ever does us. The trouble was that Tippy was already down, thrashing about in the sand like a grounded racehorse, and I hadn’t the foggiest idea where the blister had shot us from. After the initial burst of fire, our antagonist apparently decided that was enough for one evening and settled down for a snooze.

I ordered Engleby and Minty to do what they could for poor Tippy and get him back through the fence, and then hied the rest of us toward our best estimation of the gunner’s location. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to find a mysterious gunman in a desert during a night that is black as the bally pit from pole to bally pole, but I can tell you it is no stroll through Regent’s Park. Four times we were obliged to toss ourselves onto the ground as messerschmitts roared low overhead, searchlights flailing; no doubt the mysterious gunman alerted his comrades that we were on the prowl and every plane in the area was hoping to blast us to bits. We never saw the chap, and then when we returned to our original mission, we found the Italian camp abandoned. Perhaps they were alerted by the gunman as well, dash it.

Wasted everybody’s bally time, failed the mission, and to top it off, we crawled back under the wire at dawn to the news that Tippy had died. So now I’ve got Robbie’s ghost shouting at me, a damned letter to write to a couple of parents, a body to transport to the cemetery, a phantom gunner somewhere in the dunes to the North West, and not even a single blasted cigarette.

This war thingummy is a rum business, what? I can’t stick it any price.

But no matter, Bertie, old man. It’s all right. You know what they say, don’t you? Put your thumbs up, isn’t it, and say ‘It’s tickety-boo,’ because tickety-boo means everything will be fine.

It’s tickety-boo, old fruit.

I say! Perhaps I’ll play that one at the concert.

*

Dear Rebecca,

Thank you for writing to me. I miss you, as well.

I am most gratified to hear that you and Roger spoke, and that you are now betrothed. It is my belief that very little lies in the way of Roger’s divorce from Mary; there is ample support both in the letter of the law and in precedent that any man whose wife has abandoned him for five years, as Mary has done, should have grounds to be granted a divorce, so long as his wife does not contest. The only concern would be that, precisely: that Mary will contest due to her religious convictions. I am currently in the process of contriving a way to convince her to stand down without protestation.

The other concern would be financial. Legal fees can be considerable. However, since Bertram has given me full access to his accounts, and since I have no doubt whatsoever that he would happily insist, were he present, on giving you whatever pecuniary aid you should require, I think we can consider the monetary portion of the situation to be a non-issue. I will, of course, confirm with him the moment he is available, but until such time as he is able to send and receive correspondence, I am completely free to act on his behalf.

As for myself, I believe you would consider my news from the doctor to be positive. He does not believe that I am suffering from the same illness that took Mother. He does believe that I have shell shock. Or battle fatigue, as it is currently known. He informed me that I likely acquired this affliction during the Blitz.

The doctor suggested psychotherapy, and I demurred. I have read enough of the process to know that it is far too likely to uncover certain facts about myself that must remain buried, for my sake, and for Bertram’s. A doctor’s requirement for confidentiality does not extend to matters of gross illegality. Thus, it is best that I remain untreated, since the treatment poses so great a risk.

It is a pity, though. I would have found the process interesting, with the right doctor.

At any rate, as least I have an idea of what, precisely, I am contending with. I still have the medical books that Bertram gave me when Mother was diagnosed. It is my intention to read as much as I can on the subject of battle fatigue and attempt to treat myself.

London is indeed a shattered remnant of what it was. Everywhere I go, I see the jagged outlines of once sleek structures, or tumbled-down piles of rubble where there used to stand a restaurant I enjoyed, or a bookshop I used to frequent, or an irreplaceable historic site, or a discreet dance hall where I loved to go. The streets are mounded with rubble. The wind still carries the fell stench of death, on occasion.

I am doing my best to make the flat pleasant. I have hired workmen to completely replace the wall and windows in Bertram’s bedroom, and I have also taken the liberty of purchasing new bed linens to replace those that were torn by shrapnel. They were difficult to find and enormously expensive, but I considered it necessary. Bertram’s clothes remain packed until the windows are complete, but I am keenly anticipating the process of hanging and organising them. Perhaps most crucially, I have successfully contacted our old piano tuner, and he has promised to come by next week.

I also recently treated myself to a trip to the record shop on Jermyn Street, which fortuitously still stands, and purchased an album by Eddie Kelly’s Washboard Band entitled ‘Goin’ Back to Alabama.’

It is not my usual musical fare, I admit, but whilst examining the album, I noted that it features the music of the harmonica quite prominently, and I felt that, for whatever reason, I was in the perfect state of mind to appreciate the sound of that particular instrument. I feel it is incumbent upon me to broaden my tastes. There was a time when I would have dismissed the harmonica outright as an inferior instrument, but I am determined to acquire cognizance of its charms.

The music is quite spritely. If one allows oneself to simply enjoy it, I find that it increases the merriment of cleaning a bombed out and long-vacant flat exponentially. I think, with time and effort, I could become accustomed to hearing a harmonica about the flat.

It is good to be home.

The solitude has been conducive to deep reflection. My thoughts are still clouded and strangely thick, sluggish with the weight of whatever damage has been done to me, but I find that long hours of uninterrupted time has enabled me to make sense of some of the conflicting jumble within my mind.

It is also most enjoyable to be able to walk freely through London’s streets in the evening without fear of bombardment, to hear snatches of music drift from restaurants as doors open and close, to catch a sweet scent of baked goods upon the air, and not the overwhelming stench of smoke and melted rubber and charred bodies. I admit, the fear does linger; an unusually cacophonous motorcar can snap me instantly back into the Blitz, sending me searching for cover. The relief when I realise that there is nothing to fear is incalculable. I sincerely hope that I shall never again take peace for granted, should be ever be fortunate enough to attain it. For now, I shall treasure each peaceful moment, so long as it lasts.

Love,

R.

*

Dash it!

I’m not one to hold grudges. Really, I’m not. Why, ask old Tuppy! He’ll tell you that despite doing me dirty in the worst possible way by looping the last ring over the pole so that I was dumped into the Drones Club pool in full evening dress, I still aided and abetted him in all manner of ways without so much as a moment’s hesitation. The ego, as Reggie would say, may have seethed, but the outer man was calm and generous, as befits a gentleman of my description.

Nevertheless, there are times that try men’s egos, and beastly coves that try them even harder, and I am finding it hard as the dickens to keep the old ego in check when there are menaces such as Major Archie Evans gamboling about.

Now, don’t get me wrong; Archie is all right, as chaps go. We’ve had a bit of a laugh together now and then, what, and I swear to etc. that I am not blaming him one jot for sending me to the perimeter. As I’ve stated before in this journal, he was justified to do so, and it is a British Officer’s duty to take on whatever task is handed him, and all that. The trouble is, I had rather hoped that I would be yanked out in order to participate in our little concert, but it seems that old Archie has other plans. Says I’ve only been here for two weeks, and that’s not long enough to justify removal, or some such rot.

I have half a mind to go over his head and see what the Colonel thinks of all this.

Who’s going to play the bally piano, I ask you? Thompson? Thompson can barely string a melody together with just the right hand. It will be a disaster, I tell you.

*

Oh, I say. A bit of luck, as it happens. We received a message here from HQ that we’ve reached a rather dubious milestone: the one thousandth air raid upon our defences since the start of the siege! Good Lord. One thousand air raids in just over three months. I say, that is something, what?

Now, I understand that that might not sound all that lucky to you, dear reader, whoever you may be, but here’s where the luck comes in: Lord Haw-Haw gloated about it on his radio programme last night, and made a point to reiterate his previous point that we here in Tobruk are all filthy rats who shall die in the fire of the Führer’s bombs or some such nonsense, and it renewed the troops’ enthusiasm to have yours truly as the MC of our little concert.

Apparently, when word went round that I wasn’t to be recalled from the perimeter in time, the general consensus all throughout our battalion was that there simply couldn’t be a concert without Captain the Earl of Yaxley to chummily remind them that they’re rats and all that, and the decision was made that I should be pulled back for two days, just long enough to host the festivities, which are now officially in honour of the one thousandth raid.

*

Dear Bertram,

I have returned to London and I am currently deeply occupied by the work of rehabilitating our damaged and neglected home. I will see to it that it is worthy of your presence, should you return.

I have also been to see a doctor. I will not explain what he said to me, as I have been processing the news continuously for days, and you will not read this anyway.

On a related note, I have decided to cease writing letters to you that cannot be sent. It is an exercise in madness, I now realise. This will be the last.

There is not much, ultimately, that is left to say. July is turning the tide toward its completion. We have not stood in the same room for thirteen months, and though I long for you, and doubtless will forever, the cut is not so keen as it was. It is an aching scar, rather than a seething wound. I think that it is best that I make what I can of my life without you, for so long as I must.

There is but one issue that we had not the time to resolve, and I will put it to rest tonight, for my own sake.

Sixteen years ago, I left your service. I did so swiftly, without prior warning, and it was particularly cruel, as we had only recently embarked upon the earliest exploration of intimacy. I cannot undo what has been done. Perhaps I no longer even care to. I love you too deeply to change even one minuscule facet of what we were, and I have come to understand that it was by leaving you at that time that I was able to force myself to acknowledge the extent to which I require you.

You see, all of my life I adhered to a strict set of rules. It kept the world in order. It kept my work in order. It kept me in order. It was necessary to one such as myself, who had been so tossed by the tempestuous whims of the world, who had struggled so desperately for stability, who had longed so fervently for a place to call my own, that I should maintain those standards I set for myself in my boyhood, that I should follow my rules to the letter. It was by those rules that I defined myself, and protected myself. I knew what I was; that had never been a secret to me, but nevertheless, I had always determined that I should keep myself at a distance from any man who impressed me too deeply. I left the service of several gentlemen in order to avoid acknowledging my own inclinations toward either them, or other servants in the household. It was the most paramount of rules. It was essential, I knew, for my safety.

And then, one day, I threw the rulebook away.

You were there, of course. You remember it as well as I, but what you do not remember – what you could not possibly recall, because I kept it hidden from you – was the sort of disembodied horror with which I watched myself betray every single principle upon which the structure of my life had stood. I could not resist you. As Roger said of his Bill, I was not strong enough. Every other temptation of my life, I had successfully resisted. I had believed myself as unassailable as a fortress – ah, but even a fortress is susceptible to dynamite.

I considered myself a failure, as a valet, and as a man. There was still about me that old tendency to despise all that was not perfect; it is a tendency that your gentle regard has eroded and relieved somewhat, in the intervening years, but in those days it was as fierce as it had been in my boyhood, when, freshly fatherless, I first took up the yoke of honest toil and set myself toward achieving the kind of manhood that would make my mother proud.

Falling into my employer’s bed, I felt, did not adhere to that sterling standard. As I said, I could not resist so long as you were before me. All the steel went out of my spine the instant your bright eyes gleamed up at me – and, which was worse, I could not, regardless of your words and your actions, convince myself that our feeling for one another was mutual. It did not fit my ordered understanding of God’s universe that you should love me. You, your noble bearing, your lauded lineage, your golden hair, your luminosity and grace of spirit–

I could not make it fit. It was something out of a romantic novel, not reality. I was consumed by the belief that I was threatening all that I had built for myself on the strength of a fantasy. You were – forgive me, darling – so fickle in your passions, that even in that first moment when you engulfed me, when I was consumed by you, when my dearest, most precious desire had been bountifully fulfilled, I could not escape the fear that I would soon be cast upon the ash-heap of your past interests. You had, after all, only recently been preoccupied with a brief, abortive ardour for Miss Pauline Stoker, whom you adored for three weeks and then forgot without comment upon the cessation of your engagement. I could not prevent myself from musing: if a young woman of exceptional beauty and even more exceptional wealth was unable to arrest your infatuation for longer than a week, then what hope had I?

When you took up the banjolele at almost the precise moment that you took up myself, and took it up with every bit as much absorption in the day as you devoted to me in the night, I could not help but feel it was my rival. Or worse, that the both of us would be discarded in a month or two, when you found yourself in the grip of some new enthusiasm.

It was not your fault, my dear. I do understand that now, with so many years between that day and this. You are as you are, and I would not change you if I could, but in that tempestuous hour, when I was so wholly consumed by my passion for you that I could scarcely think, to see you so very content to strum the banjolele for hours at a time without a glance in my direction seemed to me to be a confirmation of my deepest fear; namely, that I loved you, but you merely enjoyed me.

Now I know. Could I somehow lean back through time and insert into myself the understanding I know possess, I could have simply surveyed your interest in the instrument with a gentle affection. I did not understand then that you are a man of  brief  but consuming enthusiasms, and also a man of robust and enduring devotion. I did not know, and I did not yet have the ability to differentiate between them. I could not erase from my mind the growing concern that I had abandoned all of my convictions for nothing.

So I left you. I left you, but you did not leave me. When our paths crossed again in Chuffnell Regis, you gazed upon me with such naked devastation that I nearly melted there and then. You had been in deep conversation with Miss Stoker herself, the previous object of your fascination, and the nonchalance with which you surveyed her, coupled with the anguish evident in your expression upon catching sight of myself was enough to make me doubt all of my fears, and all of my decisions.

Nevertheless, I am a man of duty, and though it was my dearest wish to throw off the responsibility I then bore to Lord Chuffnell, I told myself that it was for the best. Nevertheless, my certainty deteriorated as day after day you sought me out for counsel, for company, for comfort. In the end, when your banjolele was, quite literally, upon the ash heap, and still you came to me, smiled at me, expressed your deep need for me, then it was that all my resolution crumbled to nothing, as formless as the strewn ruins of once great cities, Roman villas lost in scrub and rubble.

I came back to you. I came back to you entirely, eternally, and I have not regretted even a single moment since that day. Whatever is to become of us now, I can at least progress through the years and even unto my grave, satisfied in the knowledge that when the opportunity arose to right my wrongs, I made the correct choice and came back to you.

You may never read these words, and that is all right. I choose to put this matter to rest, to consign it to the dust of history, and to remember instead all of those years that we spent in happiness together. It is my wish that the good of what we were shall live after us, whilst the evil is interred with our bones.

Goodbye, Bertram.

Love,

Reggie

*

Well, that was something!

The concert has come and the concert has gone, and if I may say so myself, it was a bit of all right.

I came back to the city just before dawn on the day of, transported in a jeep with five other chaps who are all due for a rest. Inspecting the ammunition cave made me quail just a bit; the chaps about here had set up seating in the form of camp chairs, chunks of wood, and piles of broken roof-tile sufficient to support four hundred men. I knew it was a goodly-sized cave, but I never imagined the audience would be so very extensive. Still, ours not to tum-tee-tum and all that, so I stiffened the upper lip, strained as it is by recent events, and did my damndest not to think about it.

We had the concert set to begin at noon. This was a bit of a blow to me, as I’ve been nocturnal for the past two weeks and rather hoped I’d get a chance for a bit of shut-eye, but needs must. Apparently it was the best time for the chaps came off the perimeter last week, as they are intending to sack out at two in the pip emma upon the culmination of the festivities and then rise at sunset to be transported back to the fence.

I suppose, all things considered, it was for the best. It only gave me about six hours of horror before I faced my sorry fate. In those moments, as I entered the relative cool of the crowded cave, thundering and echoing with the raucous jibes of four hundred soldiers, most of whom were Australian, I admit I began to curse myself. To think, I thought, that I actually bally pushed to be here! What was I thinking?

I’ve never been fond of public speaking, particularly when I’ve not had my full complement of the dreamless. I’m all right with jumping up on a little stage for a small group of chaps to bang out a tune or two on a handy piano, but to actually address the masses with tuneless words, well, that is another matter entirely.

Fortunately the audience was composed merely of war-hardened, heavily armed soldiers and not, God help me, school girls, so it was less daunting than some previous public speaking engagements of mine have been.

The only trouble really came right at the start. Reggie has told me before that I lack presence. This was not intended to be an insult; it is simply fact. I am not the stately type who can hold an audience spellbound from the first syllable merely by the force of my personality. I have a tendency to dither, get sidetracked, and say, ‘Ah…’ and ‘What was I saying?’ a lot. This was never a particular problem in my previous life as a private gentleman of means sufficient enough to allow me to generally avoid unpleasantries such as public speaking, but now as a Captain, and, I suppose, for the rest of my life as a blasted Earl, I have had to get used to putting on a sort of mask of cool command. I’m not saying I’ve learned it well, or that I always remember to don the thing at the perfect time, but it is a bit more accessible to me than it used to be.

So when I initially stood before the cavefull of jolly chaps, every one of them holding a gun either over a shoulder or across his lap, and said, ‘What ho!’ and was instantly met with an appalling sort of roar which I presently determined was laughter, I was able to find within myself a certain amount of steel with which I was able to compose a rudimentary spine. I stayed planted, I mean to say, and did not flee the stage as I so sorely longed to do.

I waited for the tumult to die down, which it did after about fifteen or twenty hours, and then I said, ‘I suppose when you’ve been on the perimeter as long as you chaps have, anything is funny, what?’

They all roared with laughter again, and while I couldn’t be entirely certain whether the laughter was to my credit or at my expense, I told myself that the point of the thing was to bring a little frivolity to the poor saps’ lives, so I was actually quite successful.

When the laughter had died down again enough for a single voice to break through, break through it did – although not mine. Some cove in the audience who I couldn’t single out shouted, ‘Tell us to die like rats, Lord Haw-Haw!’

And at that, I realized precisely what the mirth was all about. These fellows didn’t, for the most part, know me, and so they presumed that I was doing an impression of their favorite radio personality. Now, of course, I had already specifically turned down several requests to voice some of the notorious Nazi’s more quotable lines, on moral grounds, what, but I did see what one might call an opportunity.

‘I say,’ I said, and that got them going again. Presently I judged that I could be heard, and continued, ‘I say, I really must protest. I am not Lord Haw-Haw. I am Lord Yaxley. There is a world of difference between the two of us, really, the first being that while he is a fascist fathead who likes to put on an accent, I am actually a lord, and I actually speak this way all the time, Heaven help me.’

There was a roar of a different kind at that point, more conversation than laughter, but it certainly caused a bit of commotion.

‘The second point of diversion between us is that he is a fellow who lives in comfort in Berlin and who thinks it’s an insult to call us all rats because we live in holes and caves and things, while I myself have been here long enough to know that a rat is just about the best thing you can call a man in wartime, what what?’

That got them just as I thought it would. They’re all jolly proud of being rats these days.

‘After all,’ I continued, once the world was safe for the Wooster voice again, ‘the rat is an awfully hearty fellow, what? Sturdy. One might go so far as to say solid. While the average chap might be content to compare himself to, say, a stallion, when one really looks at the facts, one has no choice but to concede that, in any honest competition which requires craftiness, fortitude, and a general cussed refusal to die, the rat will win out every time. Who survives every single bomb and shell and bullet his enemy throws at him?’

To my surprise, the crowd, apparently much more with me than I realised, shouted to a man, ‘The rat!’

Much bolstered, I pushed on.

’Who can subsist on scraps and dust and still fight ferociously when his back is to the wall?’

‘The rat!’ the men bellowed.

Here, I admit, I stalled a bit. I’ll be dashed, but I couldn’t think of another thing to say about rats that wasn’t completely derogatory. Who eats garbage and has a dreadful flea problem? Who is filthy and spreads illness wherever he goes?

Fortunately, the spirit of the thing had caught on, and some other voice from the crowd yelled, ‘Who can fight off an animal three times his size?’

‘The rat!’ the men all bellowed.

Elsewhere, another chap cried, ‘Who strikes fear into grown men’s hearts with a mere glint of an eye?’

‘The rat!’ they cried, and so on, etc.

It was all rather splendid, I admit. After another round or two I held up my hand, and dash it, the crowd fell silent! What? Absolutely silent. It was rather intoxicating, I have to admit. I began to see what those actor chappies and the great orators of the age get out of the deal, besides a strained larynx and spotlight-induced blindness.

‘And so, my fellow rats,’ I said, which received a hearty applause, ‘let me begin the festivities by playing for you a song that was a particular favourite of my dear friend, Lieutenant Robbie Kelly.’

There was quite a commotion at this, which I later came to learn was due to the fact that Robbie’s unit was actually in attendance. Another bit of goose, what?

Anyway, I sat down at the old ivories and gave the best performance of ‘The Drover’s Dream’ that I think I’ve ever accomplished. I didn’t forget a single word. It received a resounding bit of applause, made all the more thunderous by the fact that an air raid began right in the middle of it. That was no matter, of course. We were safe as children in their nursery in the subterranean cave. If you ask me, it added to the atmosphere.

Feeling my oats a bit, I took the opportunity to point upwards and say, ‘Observe, gentlemen! The one thousand and first air raid! And here we are, safe as ratlings in their nest, what?’

After fielding an appreciative laugh from the throng, I thought it was time to go just a bit maudlin, so I took a stab at ‘Pale Hands I Loved Beside the Shalimar,’ which was always a regular horse in the Wooster stable in the old days when Reggie went on his annual holiday.

After that, I decided to turn things round a bit and performed ‘Put up Your Thumbs and Say it’s Tickety-Boo.’ Both songs were punctuated by the occasional explosion from above, which, I feel, gave it that particular Tobruk ambience that nothing else could have captured. At that point, fearing I might overstay my welcome, I ceded the stage to my fellow musicians, and faded into the background, relieved as billy-oh and cool, as Anatole (God rest his soul) would say, as some cucumbers.

I’m back now in my little hole, listening to Charlie talk about Helen (God rest my soul), and trying to decide whether it’s better to eat the last can of bully beef now, or to sleep hungry and eat it before tonight’s raid.

Even so, I am jolly well floating. God’s not quite in his Heaven at the mo., but there may yet be a lark on the wing, if you know where to look for the chap.

Chapter Text

Successful raid last night. Located the ack-ack the Italians had hidden behind a bit of rocky outcropping that’s been troubling our birds for weeks. Tossed a grenade down the barrel to pop it open, toppled it on its side, and three Italian prisoners taken. Only one minor wound on our side (Barfy, A.K.A. Private Bartholomew, who was grazed on the left hip by a single bullet, flesh only, requiring six stitches and two day’s rack, then two week’s light duty for recovery).

By Jove! I’ve written so many bally raid reports lately that my blasted personal journal is starting to read like one. This shan’t do. Not at all.

We scampered home a bit early last night, what with all the resounding success we’d had outside, and I had time to line the unit up and give them a bit of a pep talk. We’ve only just recently heard, you see, that another plan to break the siege has been aborted without even a direct attempt, due to low fuel supply in Cairo. Not enough petrol to get the trucks to Tobruk, apparently. Cairo was most apologetic in their message; said they’re petitioning the War Office to institute stricter petrol rations back home so that it can be spared, but it’s looking as though the folks back home have already been rationed as far as they can bear. So the lads have all taken it rather hard, which is understandable.  I did my best to remind them that we are the only surviving hope for the continuance for the English-Speaking world and all that, which bucked them up a bit. Gave them the old ‘If we fall, then Britain falls’ line that never fails to put a bit of colour into their sunburnt and sand-blasted cheeks. It worked, I think, but not as much as it used to.

Still a bit thick, all this. One hundred and nine days we’ve held the fortress, as it were; one thousand twenty seven air raids weathered, and over sixty days since any of us has had a single letter from home. It wears on one, I must admit. I see a rather lot of dull eyes and sunken cheeks, and the whole lot of them shaking like a grove of Aspens when the engines begin sounding off in the distance.

All this and still not a cigarette to be seen.

My unit missed the concert, too, of course, and they’re all awfully glum about it, so I’ve gone and promised them another in three week’s time, a few days after we’re scheduled to be cycled back to the city. That seemed to buck them up a touch, but we are far from the merry band of stalwart chaps that began this endeavor.

After the pep talk, which, as I say, rather lacked sufficient pep, I got it in my head to radio Archie just before sack. Ask him how’s tricks and all that. He couldn’t be too specific, of course, but he gave me to understand that everything is oojah-cum-spiff on his end. When I asked if there was any word on when the post would run again, he seemed surprised. Apparently he hadn’t really noticed that it wasn’t running already.

‘Nobody worth writing to,’ he said. ‘Got all I need here in Tobruk, you know.’

‘Yes,’ I said, as patiently as I could manage. ‘I know. But the trouble, you see, is that rather a lot of us don’t have what we need. Not by a long shot.’ After a brief pause, I remembered myself and tacked on what I hope was a respectful, ‘Sir.’

‘Right, Yaxley,’ he said. ‘Right. I’ll see what I can do, old man.’

So there it is, what?

I’d best leave off writing at this point, I think, as I’m rapidly running out of paper. Only one sheet left after this, and no word on when they’ll get us more. I suppose it’s all right that the post isn’t running, really, considering. It would be worse to get word that we could finally write to our families again but to have no paper with which to do it.

By Jove, I am an ass. I should have thought of this before I started my blasted journal! I shall end the thing instanter, so as to preserve the last precious piece of paper. Should Archie’s campaign win out, I cannot stand the thought that I should be forced to delay writing to Reggie for even a second.

*

Dear Reginald,

Battle fatigue. I see. I know little about it. I remember, of course, when Arthur was away during the Great War, that there was much talk of shell shock. It was supposed to be rare, they said, and evidence of a defect of character.

I won’t say that your character is entirely without defect. You are a man, after all. Nevertheless, I pride myself on possessing relatives of unusual strength of character and intelligence, both of which I do sincerely believe that you possess. Therefore, I must conclude that popularly-held views on shell shock are inaccurate. In all honesty, having experienced the little of war that I have, it seems to me that it is remarkable that anyone who has endured the rigours of warfare should not be somewhat damaged in his mind.

I am most relieved to hear that you are not suffering from Mother’s ailment. Whatever comes of your battle fatigue, I may at least hope that it is not so cruel in quite the same way as what we witnessed with her.

To speak plainly, you have not been entirely yourself. Not for some time. I would by lying if I tried to pretend that I did not fear that Mother’s fate was claiming you. Your obsessive maintenance of Bertie’s clothing disturbed me far more than perhaps it would have, had I not had Mother’s example haunting me. If battle fatigue is a kind of heightened anxiety, which I perceive that it may be, then I think I can understand how your actions could seem justified to you, at least in your less lucid moments. You have always receded into physical order at times when your thoughts and your feelings were particularly disordered. I remember when Father died, finding you in his room the next morning, a lad of eleven, lining up his shoes and polishing them.

You require control, Reginald, and when you cannot have it, you will manufacture it, and there is nothing that wrests control from a man’s hands as surely as war.

I do hope that you will consider psychotherapy at some point, if it is indeed proven to help. You know it is the poor doctor who is his own patient. That being said, I can understand your reservations. What a damned frustrating world this can be.

I have spoken to Roger, incidentally, at some length regarding his experience with Bill, with his loss in the Great War. He may have insights to offer you, if either of you can bring yourselves to discuss matters of such a personal nature. Perhaps another day’s fishing on the Coln is called for, when you find yourself in Gloucestershire again.

In regards to your allusions toward mischief on Roger’s behalf, I have stated before, on multiple occasions, that I do not care for your webs and schemes. It was my understanding that you were attempting to reform this particular eccentricity, after the incident in Alnwick. Was I mistaken?

As far as the divorce itself is concerned, it is my understanding that Roger has ample grounds to sue for divorce by virtue of her desertion. It has been five years since she left the marital home and established provable residence in a different part of the country. It would be no challenge to prove that she has deserted him. Her address and employment status in a distant city are both public record and thus proof enough.

It seems to me that the primary concern is not that she should contest the divorce itself, but that she could bypass her desertion, which would be the necessary grounds upon which Roger’s suit would be based, by offering to return to the marriage. We must only concern ourselves with the possibility that her religious convictions outweigh her desire to be as far from Roger as possible. Should she, however, decide that returning to the marriage would be the lesser of two evils, then we would have no leg to stand upon.

Love,

Rebecca

*

Dear R.,

You are mistaken. We would have one leg to stand upon, and it is most robust.

You are correct entirely that I am a man who is in the process of reformation. I swear upon whatever would hold moral value to you that I shall not use my particular skills against you or any other trusted person again. However, these talents of mine were not originally honed for the sake of trusted people, but untrusted ones. M. has already given us ample opportunity to question her character, in the desertion of her marriage, and in her antiquated views, and in her refusal to grant a divorce to the man whom she abandoned. People such as this require careful handling, tact, and resourcefulness. Rarely can they be spoken to rationally.

I have spent my time here in deep brooding, as B. would say, and I feel that I have come to a serviceable conclusion. When one considers the psychology of the individual, it is my opinion that the best course of action becomes clear. In my experience, the particular variety of religiously-minded person that we are likely dealing with finds a sense of martyrdom to be most attractive, and nearly any action can be sanctioned in their mind if it brings about that state of perceived persecution which they most desire.

Recall that desertion is only considered a legal justification for divorce if said desertion occurred without reason. I consider it quite likely that she would contest the divorce were your fiancé to bring suit for desertion against her, for she would consider her desertion to be justified, and thus inadmissible. Should she take that likely course, not only would the divorce fail to go through, but there is grave danger that she would feel obligated to publicly state the reason for her desertion, to Roger’s great detriment. The possibility that she would choose to return to the marriage rather than end it is also worth considering, for this would also feed her sense of saintly persecution.

Desertion, however, is not the only card we have to play. Do recall that adultery is also a legal justification for the dissolution of a marriage. If we are able to cast her in the role of the wronged wife, who fled the marital home due to infidelity, then she may be convinced to bring her own suit against him. The trouble, of course, would be in proving that adultery occurred, and in spurring her toward the decision to press her suit.

My question here is, what precisely are you prepared to do for your fiancé’s sake? While adultery is a serious issue, socially speaking, it is far more commonplace than certain other transgressions, and it has the distinct benefit of being perfectly legal.

At this juncture, I do have a particular request to make. Should we continue in this line of thought, which is entirely your decision, would you be willing to refrain from explaining the details to B., should we ever speak to him again? He is a gentleman in the truest sense of the word, you understand. He would be most scandalized by the idea of infidelity, even under these circumstances. While I strive to be as honest with him as I am able to be, nevertheless there remains the fact that he must, at times, be protected from the harsher realities of life, in order to preserve his noble innocence.

I, however, have no such qualms regarding adultery and would be happy to assist you in this matter. I have, as you can see, switched to using initials only, in the chance that these letters are intercepted. For legal reasons.

Love,

R.

*

Dear R.,

I doubt that B.’s noble innocence is well-protected on the front lines, but I shall do as you ask.

I admit, I placed your letter at my bedside and slept a fitful night before crafting my response. My initial instinct was to refuse your offer and to simply hire representation to help us file for divorce on grounds of desertion, but your concern that M. would make public her reasons for abandoning her marriage is disturbing indeed.

I believe that I can fairly confidently say that I would do nearly anything for my fiancé. For the safety and wellbeing of the man that I love, I will do what is necessary.

How does one go about documenting and proving adultery?

Love,

R.

*

Dear R.,

Proof is simplicity itself. I believe it would be prudent to take a brief holiday with him, perhaps to celebrate the engagement. One night should be sufficient, so long as you stay in a single room at a reputable hotel that requires a signature upon check-in. The dances that you have already attended together will add fuel to the fire. It should be no trouble at all to prove infidelity, should this matter make it to court.

The real difficulty will be in spurring M. to sue in the first place, but you can leave that to me.
In personal news, the windows are repaired satisfactorily. B.’s room is restored to its former splendour. The shirts and coats and trousers and shoes are all laundered, pressed, polished, starched, and placed precisely where they belong. One can almost imagine, upon viewing the scene, that God might soon saunter cheerily back into His Heaven at any moment, perhaps tossing His hat onto a chair and calling out a merry, ‘What-ho.’ There is much to find unsettling in life at this time. It is helpful to have one small corner of this Earth put into its proper order at last.

I suppose you are correct. Upon reflection, I have no choice but to concede that I do, in fact, require control.

Love,

R.

*

Dear Aunt Dahlia,

I know it has been quite some time. How are you? I am curious as to whether you were fortunate enough to listen to last night’s news broadcast? If not, then you might not be aware that the war correspondent in Tobruk, one Mr. Hector Weston, sent, by air mail, a recording of a concert that was apparently held recently in a subterranean cave by the besieged soldiers.

Bertram was featured prominently, both speaking and singing. It was such a shock to me to hear his voice emanating from my radio set that I unfortunately was not immediately able to comprehend what he was saying, but I recovered sufficiently by the time he was singing to enjoy his performance fully.

I admit I indulged in a bit of fantasy. I turned the volume as high as it would go, and went into the kitchen to prepare my dinner. It was a small balm to my soul to hear Bertram singing and playing the piano in the next room for the few moments that it lasted.

Of course, the illusion was not perfect. The grainy static of the broadcast, the tinny thinness of his voice, and the fact that the piano he played was clearly tuneless and desert-parched to the point of warping all served to dislodge the illusion somewhat, particularly since I have only this week had his resplendent baby grand tuned to perfection. Nevertheless, I practiced a breathing technique which I have recently been researching that allowed me to let go of these imperfections and instead enjoy what was.

When it was over, and other men began to sing, I was somewhat aggrieved, but not entirely bereft. It was so good to hear his voice for the first time in over a year, and, what is more, so excellent to hear him in apparent good spirits, so very much still himself, as he always was, that I am cognizant of a certain lightening of spirit in myself. I only wish that I could obtain a copy of the broadcast.

Has Mrs. Scholfield settled in well? I have been considering a brief visit to Brinkley Court, but I hesitate, due to her presence there. If, however, you can assure me that she is well in hand and not likely to be obstreperous or unruly, then I should very much like to stop with you and the Dowager Countess for a few days.

I have in my possession a copy of the manuscript of Bertram’s book. I should like very much for you to read it and offer your opinion. Obviously, it would ideal for Bertram himself to peruse it, but as you know, that is not currently possible.

Please do inform me of the current situation regarding Mrs. Scholfield, and whether you believe it would be possible for me to make a visit sometime in the next few weeks.

Love,

Reginald

*

My dear ex-fiancé,

What ho, old fruit! I have to admit I was not all that eager to write you after everything that happened a few months back, but Aunt Dahlia fairly well insisted. Said I had to make amends for my idiocy, then went on to say that there were no true amends possible for idiocy such as mine. I think it likely that she meant to say that bit under her breath, but, well, you know how Aunt Dahlia’s breath bellows like most strong men’s heartiest roar, what?

Anyway, I am to write you and assure you that no further advances will be made should you decide to honour us with a visit. As a matter of fact, there’s a chap here who has rather caught the Scholfield eye. I fancy he is far more suited to me than you ever were anyway. You know me well enough to know that I’m a cautious woman when it comes to love, but I may have finally found the one.

Oh, by the bye, you haven’t heard from Bertie, have you? Is he still cut off and all that? Dreadful business, isn’t it? One really does feel a touch of pity for the poor fellows. I can’t think why they don’t simply bring them home!

Anyway, toodle-pip, old former love of my life! Stop by anytime. I swear upon any grave you’d like to name that I shall never kiss you again.

Love (but not that kind of love, what),

Ethel

*

Dear Reggie,

I am devastated to hear that I missed such a remarkable broadcast! It is good to know that Bertie’s finding ways to entertain himself and keep the old spirits up. Those were always his most special talents, weren’t they? His only talents, really. Still, never knew a lad more adept at locating the slightest touch of silver round the edge of the darkest storm cloud.

I told Ethel to write to you herself. Hopefully she’s done so; she isn’t so bad, really, when you get used to her. She’s got an eye for the gents, I can tell you. I fancy she could use an occupation of some sort to distract her from the charms of the local fauna. She’s fallen in love three times since she arrived, and Margaret tells me it’s quite the common affliction. Apparently she was entirely devoted to her husband when he lived but since then she’s had her head turned by just about anybody in trousers. Terribly sorry to inform you that you aren’t special. Not to my niece anyway.

Now it’s some impossible fellow who works at the grocer’s in town. He’s handsome enough but hasn’t a thought between his ears.

Come to think of it, they might be perfect for each other.

Anyway, come down whenever it pleases you, young blighter. Aunt Maude is beside herself with enthusiasm for your visit. She says everyone here is far too posh for her and she needs to talk to somebody who knows the worth of a hard-earned guinea for a change. I told her she hasn’t worked to earn a guinea in twenty years, but apparently her years as a barmaid far outweigh her second life as a countess in her estimation, at least as far as the shaping of her character and the lining of her stomach are concerned.

Anyway, please do come, and take Maudie off of my hands for an afternoon or two. I’ll even read Bertie’s blasted book if it will buy me an afternoon of peace.

Good to hear from you, young blot on the landscape. Darken my door at your convenience.

Love,

Aunt Dahlia

*

Dear Helen,

No, your eyes do not deceive you! It’s old Charlie, writing to you at last. I can’t believe I finally get to write your beautiful name again, my dear.

The word is that Major Evans gave a fantastic speech at a meeting with the brass, going on about how it isn’t right to keep men gaoled here without so much as a word from home to bolster their spirits. A chap told me that he heard that Major Evans said if more damned tins of bully beef can be carted in, then so can letters. The boys need letters more than they need food, he said. And, so I hear, he then talked at length about how love is the most beautiful thing in the world and once a man has tasted it, it is the deepest cruelty to deprive him of it, and that no one can be expected to go on forever without it, that morale will crumble away as dust or some such thing, and without morale an army crumbles too, and if this army goes the entire English-speaking world will go with it.

It’s all a bit out of character for the old chap, honestly, but I do believe he’s had a bit of a transformative experience here in the siege.

Anyway, the nub of the thing is that they’re taking letters again. Won’t be too often, as the ships only run at night when there’s no moon. Still, a letter or two a month is better than none at all! We’re all most grateful to Major Evans around here.

How are you? How is old Stoke? As drab and plain as always? How I’d love to be there, to sit with you beside the Trent, take in a film, perhaps. I used to think I wanted to get away, you know, but now I’d give the rest of my life to be there with you for an hour.

Have you looked in on my mother, as I asked? Please bring her this letter, if you can. I only have this one sheet of paper, I’m afraid, so I can’t write to her just yet. Even this one I have on the charity of my pal Bertie. The Captain, I mean. When Major Evans radioed and said the post was going to run tonight, and to write our letters quick, I was devastated to find that the rats had eaten up the five sheets of paper I’d been saving in an old flour sack. I should have kept them in a metal box, like Bertie does. Anyway, the Captain was kind enough to spare me one of his; claims he’s got plenty, somehow, though I can’t think how since he writes all the time.

Anyway, enough about that. Please, how are you? Tell me you haven’t changed your shampoo. I have been thinking continuously about your hair and how splendid it smells. I have been thinking continuously about every bit of you.

I am all right. Still entirely uninjured, by some strange luck. We’re on the perimeter for the next few weeks, so we’re doing raids nightly. The Captain lets me take the night off now and then, but I see plenty of action. The air raids have eased off a little, but we’re still bombed once or twice a day. It’s all right. I’ve lasted this long, haven’t I?

I wish I’d had more time to think of what to say. The truck is coming by the collect our letters in an hour and I can’t get my head straight. I’m sorry, pet. Your first letter after so long should be a masterpiece but I’m fresh out of masterpieces, so you’ll have to make do with this. Nothing interesting happens out here, really. I mostly just lie about and think of you.

I love you, my darling. Write as soon as you can. Ask my mother to write. Ask your mother to write. Ask Jim and Tom to write. Ask the bloody postman to write. Anything.

Love,

Charlie

*

Dear Bertram,

I attempting to remain calm. I have been studying methods of remaining calm. I am using all of them to the best of my limited ability, and they are only working slightly; but then, I suppose, slightly is better than not at all.

Today, after several months of communication blackout, I received from you a  disheveled and begrimed cloth flour sack, with a poorly-mended hole in one corner, containing three even dirtier and quite worn uniform shirts. Inside of those shirts was concealed a packet of fifteen papers, crumpled together into a ball. They are covered entirely in your hand, though written in much smaller and more cramped letters than those I am used to, without so much as a breath of a margin, front and back. The packet is headed ‘Siege Journal,’ multiple times, each line followed by a different and increasingly inaccurate attempt at your own name and title. Afterward, it states, quite plainly, that it is to be forwarded to me in the event of your death.

However, as the writing scrawled upon the bag itself bears not only my name and address, written in what appears to be tar paint, but also the words, ‘Not dead, old thing, just sending some laundry, what?’ then I must presume that, for some reason, you were alive and at least somewhat mentally capable at the time that you crafted this… message.

I will launder, repair, and return the shirts, of course. I will also read the journal at once. However, I felt the need to send this letter first in order to ascertain whether you are entirely well. I must conclude from this strange event that you are capable of sending and receiving post. If that is the case, then I am at a loss to understand why you have chosen not to write, but to instead send laundry and a journal.

Are you well?

I heard a broadcast of your concert only last week, and it brightened my spirits considerably. I find it a particular talent of yours, that you are able to bring such joy to me even from the front lines.

Please do respond as quickly as possible. I know that you were not dead when this was sent, but there is a dark corner in the back of my heart that fears that perhaps you were unwell and feared the worst.

If you are able to respond, then please send your letter to Brinkley Court. I am stopping with your aunts for a few weeks, and scheduled to depart London the day after tomorrow. I will post the shirts before I leave, along with a box of your favorite Turkish cigarettes. I don’t know what you smoke there, but I doubt they are as fine as what you are used to at home. These that I am sending you are not easy to obtain, currently, but I have managed to amass a good number.

Whether you are able to reply or not, please do know that receiving anything from you, even soiled laundry, was a delight to rival the finest moments of my life. I shall wash  and mend your shirts with relish, my Lord. There is no pleasure on this Earth more agreeable to me than the opportunity to do you a small service at last.

Perhaps you would even consider wearing the shirts, once they are again in your possession – provided, of course, it is not too inconvenient for you to fasten the buttons.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Ginnie,

They broadcast the bally concert? Really? You astound me. I knew that journalist chappie was skulking around with some sort of odd equipment, but it never entered my mind to think he would go so far as that.

I am most sorry that you were obliged to wait two weeks for a reply. We can only send or receive letters on moonless nights. Sorry also for the confusion. I was all out of paper, you see. Hadn’t a scrap to my name, other than the journal, and as you can see there isn’t a bit of space to write a personal message there.

I’m actually still out of paper. You’ll notice that this particular bit is smaller than the us., and has a bit of nasty typeface on the opposite side. Don’t mind it; it’s just a bit of Italian propaganda. They like to fly over and litter us with it from time to time, and when I saw it flittering down from the sky, well, I had one of those lightning moments when everything is made clear and I thought, ‘Hallo! Why shouldn’t I write old Ginnie on the back of one of these chappies?’

So don’t mind the missive on the back. Nobody here pays it any mind.

Glad to know my guess was correct, and you’re back in London, at least for the nonce! I almost send the bally bag to Gloucestershire but something told me that you’d be back in the old Metrop to celebrate the end of the air raids there. Good to know I haven’t lost the touch – my special skill in divining Ginnian moods and whims, I mean.

I’ll let old Charlie know that his stitchwork on the corner of the bag was unsatisfactory! It was a damn sight better than my own attempt, I can tell you.

You didn’t actually need to wash the shirts, old thing. They were merely a brilliant ruse in order to slip my rather scandalous journal into your hands. Still, it is much appreciated, and the spritely sprig of lavender you packaged with them was a boost to the old spirits!

Praise you unto the end of time for the cigarettes, my dear. I haven’t had so much as a puff in weeks, Heaven help me. Send more, any time it is convenient for you. Send more and I shall wear the bally shirts, for all the good they do me out here. I’d be daft not to, actually, for I can smell you on them and it makes me positively dizzy. Didn’t even know you had a smell, or that I would recognise it at a whiff, but apparently you do, and I can, and it’s enough to restore the faith of a battered old soldier in a world that once seemed irredeemable, what? I’m beginning to understand Charlie’s obsession with the scent of Helen’s hair, which frightens me more than it comforts, but there you are.

But enough about old Bertram! How are you, my love? Did you take a lovely holiday? Are wedding bells ringing upon the horizon for our dear sister? Is our other, rather less dear sister behaving herself? Tell all! I am absolutely nothing but ears, old thing. It’s been bally awful getting along over here without a single word written in your exquisite hand.

Do say ‘What-ho’ to the aunts for me, old thing. Wish I could stop by for a visit myself. I daresay we could use a stroll in the idyllic gardens of Brinkley Court, eh? Perhaps at night, old thing. You could tell me all about what the poets of old had to say about the stars. I’d listen this time.

Blast it, here I am at the bottom of the bally page. I’m sorry if this wasn’t all that legible. I simply can’t believe I’m writing to you again and the old mitts are shaking with the excitement of the thing.

Love,

Bertie

(Text on reverse side)

Aussies, your troops are being slaughtered everywhere they meet us. The offensive to relieve you has been totally smashed. You cannot escape. Our dive-bombers wait for your transports.

Think of your family and sweethearts back home and come out with white flags. Remember how she kissed you when you left her. Don’t let that kiss be your last. You will never see her again if you continue to resist us.

You have no hope but surrender.

Chapter Text

Dear Bertram,

I have read your journal. I have read it four times. I have given it to your Aunt Dahlia as well, and she has read it.

I believe an apology is in order.

No, not an apology – an expression of sincere gratitude, for I realise now, with no little chagrin, that I have never thanked you for enlisting.

You went to war for me. Everything you have suffered was to protect me, and though I have been aware of that fact from the beginning, I have somehow failed to acknowledge that noble truth in word or letter. My guilt was too great, my sense of responsibility, my frustrated desire to control the world about me; all of that noise surrounded me as the swirling snow in a wild blizzard, obscuring from me the simple, beautiful fact that I am, to put it simply, damn lucky.

As I read your words, clearly written without express expectation that I should ever peruse them, and thus unfiltered in a way that your ordinary letters never are, I was struck repeatedly by the understanding that you have been protecting me from the moment that we met. I have protected you; that has been my privilege, my work, my mission. My guardianship of you and your wellbeing has been my livelihood as well as my honour. It has earned me your respect, your regard, your praise, and your love. However, in my overwhelming desire to be your champion, I somehow failed to notice that you are also mine.

I have not been accustomed to protection. I have long seen myself as a solitary bastion of my own construction. When you volunteered in order to protect me, I saw it only as a deep and dreadful personal failure. I could not see your own agency in this matter. I could not see how it was your own honour, as a man, as a nobleman, and as a lover, to take this grave risk on my behalf.

Reading now your unmasked experience, and thus understanding how your reticence in these matters has been for my own care, I am humbled. My sister told me lately that I require control. I have meditated upon this matter at some length – meditation, in the Buddhist sense, and also in the Western philosophical sense, as both are useful tools for the improvement of battle fatigue, or so I have read – and in my meditations, I have come to find that she is entirely correct. I am what I am and I do not expect to fundamentally alter myself; Spinoza would call any such endeavor to be childish folly, and in this we are agreement. However, I do find that awareness of such limitations as we all possess can be useful in mitigating them to some small extent.

When you joined the army, it transgressed against my need to control your life and your health and your safety. I saw only my own failure, and not your courage, nor that noble sense of self-sacrifice which has always been your chiefest facet.

Please accept my gratitude at this late date. I have never been so fortunate before to be loved by a man who would so swiftly sacrifice himself for my sake. I have never dared to believe that it could be possible.

Thank you, for everything.

Now that I have taken care of that, I need to inform you that I am entirely willing to destroy Major Evans should you desire it. Obviously I have in my possession ample evidence of illegal activity on his part, in your journal, your letters, and even in the letters he himself has written to me. It would be no trouble at all.

In the old days, I might have simply done it and informed you of it afterward. However, seeing the expression of horror and disgust upon my sister’s face in Alnwick has given me some cause for reflection, and I have decided to allow you to act as my moral compass, in times when I am not entirely certain of my own competency.

What do you desire? I will comply.

My visit with your aunts has been most congenial. They are, in their own individual ways, most engaging companions. The Dowager Countess, as always, has much to discuss, and Mrs. Travers is full of high spirits. I have taken the liberty of allowing your Aunt Dahlia to read your manuscript, which I have for approval from the publisher. I admit I am somewhat dismayed; the editing process has taken quite some time, and I have found several errors, most of which appear to be in the transcription, as I do not believe they were present in the document I initially submitted. I wonder if the publisher requires aid in editing.

Your sister is, as you asked, behaving herself. She is engaged, as it happens, to a grocer in Market Snodsbury, a man by the name of Andrew Parkhurst, who appears, at least on the surface, to be unobjectionable. I met him only yesterday, whilst out walking with your aunts, and as he appeared in our view, the Dowager Countess tugged at my sleeve and hissed in my ear, ‘That’s Ethel’s young man. Or not so young man. Don’t tell him you used to be engaged. Ethel’s got her entire previous life hidden, so she has.’

We crossed paths, nodded, and were summarily introduced. Provided that research proves him to be of good moral standing, I will do all that is in my power to bring about a successful union – with your permission, of course.

It will please you to know that my sister is also engaged. She and Roger are planning a small wedding next September. It cannot be sooner, due to certain complicating factors, which I will elucidate soon.

I am pleased that you enjoy the cigarettes and the shirts. I am even more pleased to hear that you will actually wear them, because I have seen most disturbing reports concerning your personal state of dress and your general hygiene, and when I say ‘reports,’ I mean that word quite literally. It was in the newspaper. All of Great Britain now knows that you go about shirtless and have sand perpetually in your hair. It is an instant reflex on my part to ingest failure as Crane’s strange creature ingested its own  bitter heart in the desert, but I have meditated at great length to relieve myself of this. It has helped, though only a minuscule amount.

Please find enclosed fifty more cigarettes, a bag of your preferred oolong, and fifteen sheets of blank writing paper. It is most expensive to ship such a package, but I consider it entirely necessary. Please write.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Ginnie,

I am absolutely delighted to hear that Becky and Roger are officially drawing the disparate rope-ends nearer to entanglement! Even more pleased to hear that the nuptials are delayed by a year, as that may mean that yours truly could quite possibly be in attendance, assuming this bally siege has ended by then. But what in God’s name did you do to poor Rebecca in Alnwick? You write as though I know of this event, but I am entirely at sea.

As for dear Ethel’s current engagement, I am a little less enthused, for reasons which are no doubt clear to you. Not that I prefer that she turn her ever-roving eye elsewhere, mind you, but her apparently abundant appreciation for the Male is downright disturbing. Perhaps you’d best pull the thing off, and quickly, else the poor blighter find herself engaged to everything in trousers within a hundred miles’ distance. So yes, I suppose the Young Master gives his permission. Or, rather, the not-so-young master, to borrow your phrase.

And re. Archie and his destruction, I say Heavens, no! I am grateful indeed that you are permitting me to guide the great barque of your questionable morality to safer shoals, ere the gulfs wash us down, old thing. Archie has done nothing wrong, however you might disagree. If anything, his transgression was in keeping me away from the perimeter for so long, when better men have suffered and died by the wire for months even as I was living comfortably in the city. Or relatively comfortably, anyway.

And as for all of that gratitude nonsense, well, think nothing of it, old fruit. To quote Doctor Watson, it was worth a wound – it was worth many wounds – to something tiddly pum something or other. You understand me. Or perhaps you don’t? You never were much of a Sherlock Holmes chappie, were you? Well, anyway, it was a marvelous bit of writing to the effect that Watson didn’t mind getting shot so long as Holmes loved him and all that rot. Well, I have been shot a bit, don’t you know, and while I wouldn’t exactly call it my idea of a large evening, it was certainly worth it for you.

So old Hector put of a description of me in his interview? That’s a bit thick, if you ask me. He isn’t so much to look at himself, now that he’s been here a while. He’s in his shirtsleeves at best, and he’s got a full beard now that’s more fleas than hair. At least I manage to keep the Prospector’s Whiskers at bay, what? Though I could use a new razor, my dear.

Thanks awfully for the cigarettes. I admit I gave a good number of the first batch out to all the lads in the unit. They only got about one a piece, but they were most grateful all the same, we having exhausted our supply weeks ago. I might just be a bit selfish and keep a few of this load for myself. And the paper is absolutely smashing! I shall do my best to conserve it a bit, but it is good to know that I shan’t have to wait for another propaganda drop to write again, as those can be quite unpredictable. Not nearly as regular as the bombing raids!

And what’s all this about Buddhist meditation? I remember old Stilton sitting under a tree at Oxford with his legs crossed and his eyes closed, claiming he was attempting to attain nervousness or something. Not nervousness. Nerve-something. I told him he’d better look into attaining a nerve-specialist, and, true to form, he found no humour in the thing at all, and in fact attempted to give me a clout on the ear as though I were a child and he a nanny who caught me sneaking into the larder at midnight, though I made good my escape, being rather more lithely built than he. Come to find out later that he’d become a Buddhist and he was practicing his new religion.

Are you a Buddhist now, old top? I wouldn’t think any less of you, you know; though I never went in for that sort of thing myself, it was quite de rigueur amongst a certain set at Oxford in my day. Still, I am rather surprised. You never gave me any reason to suppose you were anything other than the standard, semi-lapsed C. of E. sort who attends services for his mother’s sake and prays only when most deeply distressed. Still, if this meditation-thing you’ve got on is helping even a smidge, I daresay it’s worth the price of admission, what?

Not surprised you’ve got a touch of the old B.F., what with all the bombs falling upon London and yanking bodies out of the rubble and all that. Every man here is a gibbering shell of his former self, with a few tattered strips of the old stoic mask all that stands betwixt us and utter collapse.

As for your need for control, I don’t see that that is an issue at all, what? You’re excellent at controlling things and I don’t see why you shouldn’t go right ahead. Speaking as someone who lived a life that was rather uncontrolled before your entrance, I am entirely in favour of being reined and directed as you see fit.

I say, my finely laundered and perfectly mended uniform shirts are the envy of the Rats! Everywhere this Captain goes he is assaulted by questions.

‘Who’s your launderer?’ they ask me. ‘I thought your seamstress fled the country!’ and all that sort of thing. They can hardly believe it when I tell them I mailed the bally things to the old fiancée and that good old Ginnie made short work of them. They all want to mail you their things too, but I told them, ‘Get your own human-shaped spark of divinity. This one’s spoken for.’

I do have a bit of good news. I’m coming off the perimeter the day after tomorrow. I’ve rather lost track of how long we’ve been out here, but I am absolutely chuffed, to say the least. I simply can’t wait to take a seat on the sandy beach once more and maybe dip the Wooster corpus into the briny deep for a refresher. And to sleep at night again! That will be dashed marvelous.

Has dear Maudie talked your ear off about the cares and concerns of the Common Man? I know she cherishes a chance to have a moot with a fellow honest toiler. Whether you feel the same is, of course, up for debate.

I say, do you remember Mabel’s thirtieth birthday party? Of course you do. You remember everything. It’s been on my mind a bit lately.

I remember it particularly well because I had the distinct honour of meeting your mother that day. It was the only time I met her. Odd to think, isn’t it, that between us we had only one functioning parent by adulthood? And that I met her only once? Do you think, if we were what you might call a more traditional couple, I might have met her frequently? Perhaps had her to tea, or taken her for a stroll now and then. Gone over to clip her hedges, or kill a particularly rotund spider in her kitchen. All those things one hears of chaps doing for their mothers-in-law, what?

Sometimes, if I let myself think too deeply on what has been stolen from us in the name of propriety, well, it rather gives me the pip. But that’s not my point, is it?

My point is that the day I met your mother, I recall that you were supremely disturbed. If you were any other person in this world I’d say you were sweating bullets, but of course you’re subtler than that. I remember that the very edges of your lips were turned down as I drove us over. Even more damning was the fact that when I asked just who it was that the poet Burns thought should be the bally rightful king of Scotland anyway, and why he should go to Ireland about it, you answered, ‘I am not certain, sir.’

Pshaw, Ginnie. You were certain. Or you would have been any other day, and I know that because I heard you sternly lecture Gussie on the ins and outs of the Glorious Revolution and the manner in which it differed distinctly from the Civil War not three weeks earlier when he made the mistake of saying that it was awfully silly to cut off King William’s head just to put his brother James on the throne right after.

In his defense, Gussie was always more of a man of science than a history-minded chap. Specifically a man of newt-science. Newtology, I suppose they call it.

All that is to say that you were distinctly preoccupied, and I couldn’t understand why it was that my pal’s wife’s birthday – and your niece’s birthday, of course – should be such a bally bother to you. Not until the place you directed me to turned out to be your mother’s house, that is.

There wasn’t any mistaking her, old thing. She had your nose and your dark hair. I remember how she stood in the doorway smiling rather vaguely at us as we walked up. I came directly within her presence and said, ‘What-ho Mrs. Jeeves!’

She said, ‘Thank Heavens you’re here, Billy. The stove’s not working.’

Well then, I rather understood the sitch at that point. I’m no stranger to aged relations who have grown rather, shall we say, out of touch, what? Recall Uncle Henry and his rabbits. It wasn’t any bother to me at all; in fact, it always seemed to me to be perfectly respectable and, indeed, one’s right to lose one’s mind in elderhood, but you seemed entirely beside yourself.

I was happy enough to play the part of the mysterious Billy if it set her at ease, but you staunchly insisted on correcting her.

‘No, Mother,’ you said, or something like that anyway. ‘This is my employer, Mr. Wooster.’

I admit, it felt dashed odd to be introduced to your mother as merely your employer, considering all that we’d gotten up to the evening before, and uncountable evenings previously, but there you are. The nature of the b., as it were.

She fixed me with a touch of fear, which pained me to see, and said, ‘Can he fix stoves?’

‘No,’ you said, much to my relief, ‘but that is of no matter because your stove is not broken. If you recall, I purchased a new stove for you not six months ago and it is in perfect functioning order.’

I was about to say that it wouldn’t surprise me if the dear old lady didn’t recall, but you ushered me in with such stony reservation that I elected to hold the tongue.

Can’t blame you, really. I know how it is to see your Mother get ill and become, well, a bit different than she used to be.

I didn’t think much more of it after that, as the party was well underway, and I  was greeting old Becky forthwith. And Biffy was there of course, it being his wife’s birthday and all that, so we had a fine time chewing the what’s-it, and all the little  Biffen children were round the table going, and that was a jolly good time, so long as the children didn’t get too boisterous, of course. Then someone suggested the piano, so we all sang for a bit, and I remember you biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing when I got Mabel and Biffy and their tiny brood to sing and dance along to ‘Minnie the Moocher.’ I swear on my father’s grave, I saw your toe tap three or even four times. Yes, you castigated the young master thoroughly afterward for behaving with so little decorum, but it was worth every sharp word you leveled in my direction to see that immovable toe tapping.

It wasn’t until after the singing and the meal, when I slipped away for a moment’s calm, that I encountered your mother in the aft hallway. She had been in the room for much of the proceedings, but appeared to want a moment to herself as well. We rather started one another. She stared at me as though she’d never seen me before.

I said, ‘Terribly sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Jeeves,’ and she smiled, which put me more at my ease.

It was at this point that she took me by the elbow and said, ‘I do hope you’ll take good care of him.’

Of course, I wasn’t entirely certain who she meant, or what she meant, but her gaze seemed so level and clear, I rather thought she had an inkling of the thing.

‘Oh yes,’ I said to her. ‘To the best of my ability. I promise.’

Her smile grew, and she gave the old elbow a maternal sort of squeeze that very nearly brought a yearning t. to the old e. Made me wish I’d met her years before, old thing. Made me wish she’d been my mother-in-law truly and properly.

Of course, she died just a few months later, which you well know. I do hope I haven’t disappointed her. I didn’t ever tell you this, I know. I didn’t know how, honestly. I’m not entirely certain why I’m telling you now.

I say. Speaking of disappointing people, I only just remembered that there’s a bit of rather rum stuff in that journal I sent you, isn’t there? I was so desperate to communicate with you, old thing, I simply sent it without further thought when the idea presented itself, forgetting that you might not enjoy reading the bit about me and Charlie. You know the bit. Charlie’s all right, you know. Absolutely devoted to Helen. Not that it should matter, really, because my own devotion to you teeters rather past the us. and dangerously close to religious fervor. I can’t help but noticed that you didn’t mention it, which one could interpret positively. Or, if one knows you as well as I do, one could also feel some minor trepidation at the fact. The thing is, we’re in rather dire straits here, old thing, and sometimes a brotherly embrace from a fellow soldier is about the only thing we’ve got. We can’t even drink, you see. Not so much as a drop of the right stuff for absolute months.

Anyway, I know this is anathema to you, old thing, if anathema is the word I want, but do your best to think nothing of it, would you? It’s only that I don’t sleep these days, not a wink, unless I can hear a man’s heartbeat beneath the old ear. I can’t explain it.

Ideally, the heartbeat would be yours, but Ginnian heartbeats are hard to come by in the Libyan desert, as are Helenian, so we make due. Please don’t be cross, old thing.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Bertie,

I hear you can get post now, young burden of my elder years! I would have written to you earlier but the old mitts don’t quite behave as they should these days. All knotted and curled with age and all that rot. It’s a rum business getting old, Bertie. I don’t recommend it.

Your man has been here for some time. Maudie’s talking his ear off every day  about this and that. Today it was her niece and her niece’s husband, who apparently is an old pal of Reggie’s. They live somewhere, apparently, and have some manner of children or something. I try not to take in too much of it but a bit gets through. Reggie is the picture of polite interest, of course, but the minute Maudie nods off – a thing she does quite frequently these days – he’s up and out of the room, flitting off to Ethel’s side, of all things.

They’ve been thick as thieves, those two. You could knock me down with a feather, until I figured out what was happening. Nothing untoward, of course, because Ethel’s engaged again and Reggie is, well, Reggie, if you understand me, but they’ve been taking walks every evening and chatting incessantly, always out of earshot, and whenever I, however innocently, wander a bit too close, Reggie shoots me a look from across the expanse and I stop in my tracks.

I know that look, young reptile. I daresay you would recognise it, too. Reggie’s plotting something. I have a sneaking suspicion it has something to do with that sister of his, who is, so he tells me, planning to marry a man who is divorcing his first wife. Whether he is attempting to end the relationship or hurry the divorce I can’t say, but he’s doing something about it, of that I have no doubt.

Perhaps you know something of it?

Oh, I’ve been reading your work, by the way. I always knew you had a bit of a literary bent, else I should never have commissioned that article about, well, whatever it was. The little bit of nonsense you wrote for Milady’s Boudoir that time when a real writer had to scratch his entry at the post. Something about dancing or carpets or something, wasn’t it? Well anyway, your stories are rather spiffing! Gave me a laugh here and there. When you’re a famous author, don’t forget who it was who hired you for your first professional writing job, young scribbler!

All’s well on the home front as of this writing. No more bombings, so I hear, and many of our guests have been trickling back to London. Only two families left here, and soon they’ll be gone. I don’t know what I shall do with myself when it’s just me and Maudie and Angela and Tuppy. And the boys, between terms. And blasted Ethel and her entourage, who seem to have settled in for good, despite having a perfectly good house by the seaside, so I understand it.

I hope you are well, Bertie. I did read your journal. Reggie seemed to think you wouldn’t mind. I didn’t care a bit to hear how you’ve been living, my boy. If I ever meet Archie I’m going to kick him down the street.

Love,

Aunt Dahlia

*

Dear Aunt Dahlia,

The article I so generously provided for your periodical was a highly rated and reviewed piece on ‘What the Well-Dressed Man is Wearing.’ I’ll have you know that even Reggie had nearly nothing to say against it, and I am aghast that you have forgotten. I daresay it was the most carefully crafted chunk of writing that ever graced your little rag, old F. and B.

Reggie has already offered to pulverise Archie into dust, and I have called him off as best I can. I don’t see how you all seem to think that a commanding officer’s duty is to shelter your nephew from harm at the front. I am as good as any other chap here, and there’s no reason I shouldn’t serve my term in the rat caves of the perimeter.

As for whatever Reggie and Ethel are plotting together, I’m as mystified as you, aged A. Last I heard, Roger (that’s Becky’s intended) was widowed. It sounds to me as though there have been some developments during my absence, which I suppose is not too surprising. If Roger is married, and in need of a divorce, it wouldn’t be outside the realm of possibility that Reggie would conspire to give him one, for his sister’s sake.

That being the case, I think it’s best that you say no more about it to me. If there is a touch of unsanitary scandal about the thing, Reggie wouldn’t want me to know about it, so feel free to keep me in the dark. Obviously adultery is a cherished tradition of the British upper classes, and Reggie is as aware of that as I, so why he thinks I am somehow unburdened by the knowledge of such things is beyond me. He likes to think that I am one of the Earth’s true innocents, I suppose, and I hardly care to contradict him. He gets such satisfaction from protecting me.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Bertram,

I am not a Buddhist. I do not care for the thought that I might be obligated to live a different life after this, in a different station. As far as I am concerned, I have already created for myself as perfect a life as anyone could conceive. There could be no decent second act.

I am, however, intrigued by recent scientific studies indicating that Buddhist-style meditation has restorative properties for overtaxed neurons. I am attempting to practice the act itself, if not the religion that inspired it.

Mabel’s birthday party was indeed a difficult day for me. It was difficult to bear witness to my mother’s deterioration, of course, but looking back, I believe that it was even more difficult to see you treating her with such kind acceptance.

You did not know my mother as she was before, of course. She would never have accepted anything other than perfection in herself. Her every act was one of studied excellence. She had been a woman to admire, not accommodate. I knew that it would be your instinct to be gentle and lenient, seeing her in the state that she was at that time, but there was a time not so long before that you would have beheld her with the same impressed awe which you have always reserved for my uncle, Charles Silversmith. My mother was quite like her brother, in her prime: exacting, precise. In that moment, I wanted to see you gaze at her with respect, not smile with kindly clemency. I wanted the man I loved to know my real mother, not the pale wraith that she had faded into.

I should have introduced you years earlier; I know that now, but things without all remedy should be without regard. What’s done is done.

The fact that she pressed you to take care of me – if it was, indeed, me to whom she referred, which we will never know for certain – is a fact that Rebecca shared some months ago. She showed me the letter that you sent her, before the post went dark.

I need to make it abundantly clear to you that you have never disappointed. I am not a person who needs to be cared for; all the same, you have cared for me exquisitely, more so than anyone else could possibly hope to approach. Your presence in Tobruk is evidence of that.

I would be dealing in falsehoods if I purported to suffer no twinge of jealously over what occurred with your friend Charlie. However, that, like my need for control, my tendency toward jealousy must be arrested, at least for the duration of the war. I cannot, in good conscience, deny you the comfort of a friends’ embrace, when it is quite literally the only comfort available to you.

You asked about Rebecca in Alnwick. I confess I am not entirely prepared to explain what took place in that particular location. I violated her trust in a manner that was beneath the quality of the relationship we have with one another. This tendency toward deceit is another that I am attempting to correct.

It is my sincere desire that when you return home, you will find me improved.

Please find enclosed a new razor. It is of fundamental importance that you shave, and shave closely. Perhaps, if it is not too inconvenient, you could send more laundry as well. Send it to London, as I will soon be returning.

Love,

G.

Chapter Text

Dear Reverend Pinker,

I hope that you are well. In case you do not recall, I am Bertram, Lord Yaxley’s valet, and I have had the honour to do you some small services in the past. Though it pains me to make any request of you, Reverend, I was wondering if you would perhaps be able to do me a small favour.

My nephew has been invited to a fancy dress party next week. He is keen to attend, particularly since he is scheduled to move out with his unit next month, but he cannot afford a costume; the fabric rations have raised prices so precipitously. If it would not inconvenience you, sir, would you possibly be able to spare a set of proper clerical clothing for him? He is roughly your size. You could post the clothing to Lord Yaxley’s flat in London, and I will see that it is returned to you within two weeks, laundered and pressed.

Please accept my humble gratitude for your time, Reverend.

Sincerely,

Mr. R. Jeeves

*

Dear Jeeves,

Of course I remember you, my good man!

Normally I wouldn’t lend out such things, but after all you and Bertie have done for me, I’d be delighted to help. As it happens, I’ve a set that I haven’t worn in weeks. I’ll pop it in the post today. I hope the young chap enjoys his party! Glad to know there are still a few fellows having a bit of fun before they go off to defend king and country.

Give my best to Bertie! It’s been ages since I’ve made it to London. Stiffy says it’s far too dangerous even now.

Sincerely,

Rev. Pinker

*

What-ho, Bertie!

I say, good to hear you’re back in rotation again, brother mine. I mean to say, rotation in the sense that you are again reachable by missive, what? I really can’t write long; Parky and I are headed off on holiday at the crack of what’s-it!

Oh, you don’t know who Parky is, do you? He’s my betrothed, if you must know. Good chap. Doesn’t tense up like a stunned hare when I kiss him, like certain other fiancés I’ve had. In fact, he rather gives me the idea that he enjoys it, which is jolly good.

Speaking of the shedded fiancés of yesteryear, your man Jeeves has been galavanting around the old Aunts’ establishment for some time now. Swanning, one might say. He feels quite at home here, doesn’t he? More than I do, I daresay. It’s been absolutely spiffing catching up with the old chap. He is a bit old, isn’t he? Parky’s actually three years my junior, but don’t let that get out. I wouldn’t want to cause a scandal. You create enough of those for the both of us!

It is topping to feel like an ingénue again, rather than the matronly grandmother the world would make me, for no good reason other than that I happen to be in possession of a grandchild.

Anyway, toodle-pip, old fruit! I really must be packing. Your man was generous enough to pay for our tickets, and our hotel at the destination – two rooms, of course! No scandal here, as I said. Your man really is a solid chappie, though how he has so much of the ready on a servant’s salary I can’t even imagine. Perhaps he’s seduced a millionaire, what? Ha! He did once tell me something about money that seemed awfully fishy at the time. All makes sense now, though, you old sugar-daddy, you.

Oh, and I took the liberty of pinching that book of yours; the one Jeeves was letting everyone in the world read except for me. I’ll need something to entertain me on the journey, won’t I?

Love,

Ethel

*

Dear Ginnie,

Ethel’s stolen the book. My book. Just thought you ought to know, in case you’ve been missing it. Not that it matters particularly to me; this is your pet project, my dear, not mine. Hasn’t been mine since you struck out all the good bits on the grounds that they were unfit to print. That’s all right. I wrote those bits for myself, anyway. Hopefully I’ll be able to write a good deal more before too much time has passed.

Awfully good of you to fund Ethel’s elopement, which is what this gag is certain to turn into, unless I’m much mistaken. Where have you packed them off to, pray tell?

There’s a bit of good news, old thing. The Aussie General has complained to HQ back home, explaining how we’re all mere vestiges of the men we once were and all that. ‘Living ghosts’ was a term that was thrown about a bit, so I hear. Anyway, the nub of the thing is that he seems to have made it quite clear to all those fellows who decide things that we are crumbling as the very sand beneath our feet, and that if they hope to carry the English-Speaking world through the next several months of this dratted war, they’d best bolster our numbers a bit and maybe pull a few of the worst of us off the front altogether.

Apparently there are regulations about how long a fellow’s supposed to be under constant barrage before he’s cycled out for a breather, and we’ve all surpassed that mark threefold at least. So now they’ve put plans to break the siege on hold, since they weren’t making any progress there anyway, and they’re hatching a new plan to sort of cuckoo-bird us out of here, bit by bit.

Apparently there are a goodly number of British soldiers who have been mooning about Blighty ever since Dunkirk, and they’re all eager to get back into the fray, for some reason. And, what’s more, there are a good number of Polish soldiers, exiled from their own homeland since it fell, who are champing at the bit to stick it to the Huns. They’ve all volunteered to take our place, if the thing can be finessed, that is. It will take some time, I gather, to get all the ducks in a row, but we might just be getting out of here!

Another bit of good news: I’m back in Tobruk proper! Good afternoon Tobruk, you city of a million bombs and craters!

I went swimming in the sea last night, and aside from a single bombing raid about ten minutes in, it was the loveliest swim of my life. I only wished old Robbie could have been there to enjoy it. Not you, of course, because I’d honestly rather die than have you here.

Oh, I say. Don’t take that the wrong way. I only mean that I want you to be somewhere much better than this. You deserve only the best, old thing.

Oh, so this is just a bit of a wheeze I thought you might like. The Italian bombers seem to have gotten the idea lately that it’s no good simply killing us one by one, and that they’d be better served by killing us all by dehydration. You might be aware (I can’t recall if I’ve mentioned) that we had to close a good number of the wells due to dysentery and typhus outbreaks, so we’ve been quite reliant upon the old desalination plant on the bay.

I suppose the Italians noticed that we were all queuing up there every day for our daily ration of water, so they’ve started bombing the Hell out of the thing every chance they get. We were all most despondent for a time until an Australian unit came up with the idea to sneak out in the night and paint the whole bally thing all over with big black splotches of tar paint to make it look as though it had gone down in flames, and the gag worked! Not a single Italian bomb has been dropped upon the desalination plant since! It’s dashed genius, what? I could almost believe it was one your brilliant schemes, my love. These Australians are quite clever when they need to be.

Of course, now we all must get our water rations at night without light, else the Italians catch on to our cunning ruse, but it’s a damn sight better than dying of thirst.

Do tell me how the meditation plan works for you. I don’t give a fig if you are ‘improved,’ whatever that could possibly mean. Seems to me that if you improved yourself even one iota you’d instantly ascend to Heaven, being suddenly too perfect for the sorry world, and that simply wouldn’t do. I still have need of you.

I mean to say, would make my tea? God would have to send down one of the lesser angels, and I just know he’d make a mess of it.

Still, if it brings you relief from suffering, then it’s all to the good. I’d try anything to get this damn fog-miasma-whatever-it-is out of the old grey matter and get the ganglions operating correctly again. It’s not all the time, understand, but when the planes come and the bombs start whining down about me, it’s as though it all is buried in kind of radio-static. You know what I mean: that awful racket when you’ve got the needle between stations. The whole bean fills with that heavy static, and the world seems distant somehow, as though I am merely watching it on a movie screen.

Dashed odd.

The only positive aspect I can see is that I am not frightened of the bombs anymore, which I may have mentioned before. When the pumpkin goes fuzzy, it all seems unreal, so there’s nothing to fear.

I mean, there bally well is something to fear, what? I just, well, don’t. Damnedest thing. I wonder if old William Wooster (or whatever his name was) felt that way on the battlefield at Agincourt? Perhaps that was why he was able to cut down all those poor Frenchmen and help lead the English army to victory. Perhaps his neurons were so mushed up by cannon fire that he forgot it was all real.

Send you more laundry, you say? How the dickens can I? As much as I would absolutely adore more properly cleaned and pressed clothing, I have nothing left in which to send it. You’ve remained in possession of Charlie’s poorly-mended flour sack. I suppose you most likely tossed it into the rubbish heap, which is understandable, you being a civilised man existing in a part of the world where tattered flour sacks are not rare and cherished commodities. As it is, I haven’t enough paper or cloth to spare of any sort with which to ship clothing to you. I suppose I could attempt to slip down to the harbour at night and make off with a handful of sacking from one of the ammunition crates, but there’s a rather significant chance that I’d be shot for my trouble, and while I certainly consider it worth many wounds to save you, it’s not exactly worth a wound to merely get a clean shirt, what? Especially considering what it would do to the shirt I’m currently wearing.

I am wearing them again, by the way. As requested. And I shaved most frightfully well this morning. I daresay I’m the only chap in the vicinity with a sharp razor. You’ve managed to reach your long arm all the way across continents and seas to make me into something that nearly resembles the Lord I’m meant to be. I hope that satisfies you. I know I rather let myself go for a bit there, but I’m scrabbling my way back to being the perfect picture of prim sophistication that I once was, all thanks to your long-distance ministrations.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Ethel,

Can’t tell you how absolutely chuffed I am to hear you’ve got a new chap on the line. Truss him up and push him down the aisle instanter. Don’t forget there’s a war on, old flesh and b. Never know what might happen, so carpe that diem without delay. Faint heart never won fair lady, after all. Or striking gent, as the case may be. I should know! I’ve won more than my fair share, in more ways than one, and while there is much that my detractors might say about Bertram Wooster, not a one would tell you that I am faint of heart. Faint of brain? Certainly. But never heart.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Bertram,

I am aware that Ethel is in possession of your book. It is not ideal, but there is little that I can do about it now. One can only hope that she does not misplace it.

I have a small confession to make. When you referenced Sherlock Holmes, I did, in fact, recognise it. Some months ago, I read through the entirety of your Sherlock Holmes collection. You might recall that I was reading some of your mystery novels last year, and though I doubt I shall ever be a true enthusiast for mysteries in general, I did rather enjoy the efforts of Mr. Doyle. Perhaps, upon your return, we could read your favourites together. I should very much enjoy reading aloud to you as you rest your head upon my lap. I admit that I have been rather preoccupied with this particular fantasy of late.

Your sister is also preoccupied with fantasy. Hers involves marrying a common grocer and transforming him into a gentleman via Pygmalianesque methods, which are questionable at best. Mr. Parkhurst appears to be much enthused by the idea, so that, I suppose, is fortunate. He even consented to the decidedly Oxfordian sobriquet ‘Parky,’ after a lifetime of being known generally as ‘Andrew.’ It was the least I could do to offer them a small holiday up north, before the weather turns and that beautiful country becomes unpleasant. Should said holiday – in a particularly luxurious hotel within sight of a castle, during wartime, with, perhaps, a small, shared adventure with just a tinge of danger and intrigue to bring them closer together – transform itself into an elopement, then I suppose there is nothing I can do to prevent it.

I do hope that you do not object to my use of the funds which you so generously granted me access to last summer. If you have any concerns whatsoever, please do inform me.

Speaking of marriage, I have a little news for you. I saw in this morning’s paper a wedding announcement. It seems that Lady Florence and Major Cheesewright have officially married, at long last. It was a sedate ceremony for family only, as befitting wartime austerity measures, so I shouldn’t worry that you weren’t invited.

There is nothing quite like a war, I find, to tip vacillating people into certain decision. Indeed, war upsets everything, to the very base of society.

I have observed a most shocking transformation in London’s culture since the Blitz. People behave with far more public depravity than I have ever before observed. It disturbs me even to write of it, particularly to one so refined as yourself, however I do believe you deserve fair warning, for if you returned to London and found it as it is, it would most likely shock you deeply.

Where once a young man would not so much as kiss his sweetheart on the cheek in public, I frequently encounter couples engaged in far more rigorous embraces on benches, against walls, on lawns in the park. There seems to be nearly no restraint at all. It is as if the extreme danger and disturbance of the bombs, and the horrors that we all personally witnessed, upset the previous decades’ decorum to the point of total collapse. ‘Carpe diem’ was a phrase that I heard frequently during the Blitz. It seems that people are, as I imagine you might say, ‘carping’ the ‘diem’ with great alacrity, even in its wake.

Worse still, very few dress for the evening these days. I can scarcely recall the last top hat or stiff-fronted shirt I saw whilst out at night. More and more young men are wearing soft, unstarched collars as well. Even gentlemen are wearing the same clothing from day’s advent to its end, which I find most unsettling, and day clothes are growing sparser and less formal. I often see men out and about with no waistcoat at all, and sometimes hatless. French cuffs are a thing of the past entirely.

Ties are no longer silk, for all the silk is claimed for military use, presumably to allow Mr. Churchill to create the troop of parachuting soldiers of whom he speaks so fondly. Everywhere I go I see wool ties and cotton ties, far too often printed with whimsical patterns such as checks and swirls and vivid stripes. It is all most unsightly. Fabric rationing is responsible for much of this, but I cannot help my growing concern that these particular floodgates may be difficult to close. The young men are growing far too fond of comfort over style, and it does not bode well for the future.

As for your own appearance, I am immensely relieved to hear that you have been wearing shirts and shaving well.

I have not relegated the flour sack to the rubbish heap. I am preserving it. It was, after all, my first communication from you after several months of silence, rendering it a very rare and very cherished object indeed. It is for this reason that I have taken the liberty of including in this envelope a new sack. Feel free to send as many shirts, socks, trousers, and underthings that you can fit within its confines. It would be a true pleasure to launder them for you.

I have been unable to acquire more cigarettes, unfortunately. They are increasingly difficult to locate.

Do not believe for an instant that your possible rescue evaded my notice. I simply have not found the proper words to formulate a response to such news. If by ‘cuckoo-bird,’ you mean that their intention is to surreptitiously replace the garrison at Tobruk with fresh soldiers, via supply ship at night, then I admit to no little concern and consternation. Are not your supply ships particularly prone to getting bombed in the harbour and sinking with all hands? Is it possible that you are, in fact, safer in the city than you would be on the water?

It is not that I do not desire to see you rescued from the siege, and perhaps even returned to England to ride out the rest of the war in the Home Defence, which would only be your due after all you have suffered. Indeed, there is no keener desire in my heart. It is only that the peril of the rescue may outweigh the peril of your current circumstance. It is, after all, the Devil we know.

I suppose all of this prevarication is pointless, is it not? You are a soldier, and you will do what is ordered. How difficult it is to remember, even after all this time.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Jeeves,

We’ve made contact with the target, old top. Easy as anything.

Parky went in first, just like we planned, all decked-out in the Vicar’s getup. He looked absolutely spiffing, I must say. Didn’t think I enjoyed men of the cloth so much, but I think a case could be made.

Anyway, Parky went in and acted the visiting vicar, and I sashayed in a few minutes later, sat myself at the counter nearby, asked for tea, and struck up a conversation with the waitress to make her sympathetic to us, as you advised.

Once I had chatted a bit with Mary, whom I recognised from your description. I was brilliant enough to introduce myself, thus inducing her to confirm to me that her name was, in fact, Mary. Not bad, eh?

After that, I turned to look at Parky, acted entirely shocked to see a vicar dining beside me, and rather loudly asked if he minded a chat.

I must say, Parky did a marvelous job playing the part of a put-upon vicar attempting to enjoy a tea that a nosy woman was interrupting. Marvelous. I could have eaten him up.

I invented a smashing couple called ‘the Andersons,’ who are going through a simply dreadful divorce, and I asked his spiritual advice. I pretended that Mrs. Anderson, a dear friend of mine, had learned that her husband had been unfaithful to her and she desired a divorce.

‘The only trouble is, she is a pious woman,’ I said, with deathly seriousness, ‘who would simply die rather than commit a sin. Can she divorce her husband without a stain upon her character?’

I could not help but notice that dear Mary was spending an awfully long time polishing the counter beside me as I spoke. Her face was a perfect mask if indifference, which is the most damning thing of all. Anyone who had no stake in the game would be brimming with interest, what?

Parky heaved a heavy sigh – marvelous, as I said – and spoke in solemn tones.

‘Normally I would say that divorce is a sin,’ he said. ‘However, in the face of so grave a transgression as adultery, my convictions are somewhat swayed. Do recall Matthew, who said that divorce for reasons of sexual immorality can be justified, and Corinthians, where it is stated that if one is married to an unbeliever who leaves or strays, then the believer must let the unbeliever go. God would not make his children slaves to impious spouses. And surely, if a man commits so terrible a sin as adultery, there can no doubt in any mind that he is, in his heart, impious. Is it not so?’

I tell you, it was delicious. Mary was listening so closely, and trying so desperately to appear that she was not. It simply could not have gone better. I wouldn’t be surprised at all if she were pounding on Roger’s door demanding a divorce within the week.

Excellent work finding the relevant Bible passages. I know you had to scrounge awfully hard to find anything in the book that supported divorce at all, and you did it! Anyway, that’s done, and thus our debt is paid, and now there’s nothing left but to enjoy the fine hotel, the scenery, the restaurants, and the castle.

In fact, we might just stay on a bit longer than we initially thought; make a real holiday of the thing. So if you would just send along the necessary cabbage, we’d be awfully grateful, old fruit. Oh, and do check in on Parky’s shop, won’t you? Or send someone? He thinks very highly of the clerk he left in charge, but he’s anxious all the same. Not used to the high life, you see. We’ll get him there.

Love, if that’s not too strong a word,

Ethel

P.S. I’ve read Bertie’s book. It’s a bit of a mess, isn’t it? I mean, the bones are solid, I think, and it’s awfully jolly. Made me laugh out loud several times on the train, which was lovely. Still, there are rather more typographical errors than one would expect in an edited manuscript. Whatever is that editor of yours up to?

Also, I can’t help but think it’s just a little on the nose. I mean to say, perhaps it’s only because I know the both of you, and know a bit too much about you to boot, but I can’t help but think the average chappie picking this thing up is going to come away from their foray into Bertie’s book thinking, ‘Hallo, is it just me, or is this bimbo in love with his valet?’ I’ve taken the liberty of cutting a bit here and there. Of the seven or eight passages where he essentially calls you his wife, for example, I went ahead and cut all but one. I didn’t want to gut the thing, but honestly, it was a bit thick.

Remind me never to write a book about Parky.

Anyway, I’ll show you what I’ve done when we come back through London. I trust it will meet with your approval.

*

Dear Reginald,

Roger and I have just returned from our one-night holiday to Gloucester. Roger wouldn’t stay away a single extra night for fear that the farm would catch fire, explode, and sink deep into the Earth in his absence. We were certain to mention it to as many people as possible so that there is no doubt at all that there will be talk.

We both signed the register. Single room.

It was a lovely time.

Love,

Rebecca

*

Dear Mrs. Scholfield,

Thank you for your excellent work. Please do thank Mr. Parkhurst as well. My sister and her fiancé are most grateful. I have checked in at Mr. Parkhurst’s shop, and all seems to be well.

I am also most grateful that you have put your eye toward improving Lord Yaxley’s manuscript. It was my understanding that you have little experience in this area.

By all means, extend your holiday. I will make arrangements with your hotel for two extra weeks, if that is sufficient.

Sincerely,

Jeeves

*

Dear Rebecca,

I am pleased that you have accomplished it. That fact is all that is necessary for me to know, thank you.

Love,

Reginald

*

Dear Phyllis,

Mummy’s got a bit of news, my pet. I’ve been on a lovely holiday for the last week with my new beau Parky. Have I mentioned him? No matter. He’s a lamb. You’ll love him. Anyway, we’ve been on a smashing holiday courtesy of your uncle, and things were just chugging along so beautifully, you see.

I say. Don’t be cross, Phyllis. I haven’t the energy for it, for one thing.

Where was I? Oh, yes. The holiday! Anyway, Parky and I had a little bit of an adventure, don’t you know, and we were feeling our oats a bit afterward. I can’t go into detail but it was high-stakes espionage for a pal of mine. Buckets of fun, really. And then I said to Parky, ‘You know what would make this holiday even more perfect?’

And he said, ‘A picnic?’

And I said, ‘No, you ass. If we got hitched!’

He looked a bit surprised at first, but he took to it like a– oh, like a whatever it is takes to whatever it takes to. You follow me. So, well, you know. Bob’s your uncle and all that. No, I mean, obviously Bertie’s your uncle, but what I mean is that we’re married. Parky and me, I mean. We had to wait seven bally days, so we extended the trip a bit, but it’s all settled now.

I’m Mrs. Andrew Parkhurst now. Feels awfully strange, after so very much of life spent being Mrs. Frank Scholfield, what? It’s jolly good though. I missed being married. And this time shall be so much easier now that I am older and I can’t have any blasted babies!

Not that I mean anything by that, you understand. You and your sisters were a scream! Only, an awful lot of work, don’t you know, and all that.

I didn’t even tell you the best part, my dear. He’s a grocer! Can you imagine? Wouldn’t Aunt Agatha simply keel over dead at the thought! I think I shall rather like being married to a grocer. He knows ever so much about produce and milk and so forth. A practical chap. And I shan’t be expected to revise, edit, and type up reports for him like your father always needed me to do. Your father was a good cove, don’t get me wrong, but he couldn’t spell or type to save his life, and in his line of work, typing was about half of it! We essentially shared the job, don’t you know. Only he was the one who earned a salary.

Anyway, ancient history and all that. Do me a favour, my dear, and don’t answer this at all unless it is to congratulate me. I am ever so chuffed and I don’t need a single drop of rain on this particular parade, thank you very much.

I do hope you’re doing all right with all the shot and blown-up lads you’re healing. It was lovely to see you for Lillian’s birthday. We simply must get together again sometime soon, and you can meet Parky.

Love,

Mother

*

Dear Jeeves,

Oh, I say, old chap. We’re married. Not you and I, of course. Me and Parky. I doubt you’re concerned other than to breathe a sigh of relief, but I thought as my former (if unwilling) paramour, you deserved to know.

Love (in a sisterly way, you understand; wouldn’t want to get Bertie on the warpath again),

Ethel

*

Dear Mother,

Congratulations.

The blown-up lads are lovely, thank you.

Love,

Phyllis

*

Dear Mrs. Parkhurst,

Please permit me to offer my sincere congratulations. I trust that Mr. Parkhurst will make an admirable addition to the family. I am indeed relieved, for a woman of your innumerable qualities deserves to be cherished by a man who is properly equipped to appreciate them.

Love,

R.

*

Dear Ginnie,

Dash it, old thing, that bank account wheeze wasn’t generosity, that was marriage! Honestly, that great brain of yours and all its magnificent powers, and you still can’t quite comprehend that I actually adore you. What is required, old top? Semifore flags, perhaps? A message scrawled in fire upon the sky itself? Spend every penny on the ponies if it pleases you. It’s yours.

That being said, one of the reasons I do admire you so very much is that I know you would never even consider spending every penny on the ponies. Money in your hands seems to repopulate itself, rather than deplete. Likewise, I know that you are never going to consider it yours, no matter what I say.

Ah well. I will put it this way instead: your master trusts you implicitly – or is it explicitly? I never can seem to recall – and you may use the old coffers however you see fit.

I say, old thing! Imagine you a Holmes man, at last! We most certainly will read my favourites together. There’s that one about the orange pips that always gets me. Brilliant stuff! Almost as brilliant as the thought of the Wooster melon cradled upon your firm yet yielding lap.

Heavens. We might not get much reading done, come to think of it.

I’m awfully sorry to hear about the ties and the hats and the shirts and so forth, old thing. It must be agony for you. Turns the streets of London into an absolute minefield for the more sartorially-minded. Close your eyes and think of stiff-fronted evening shirts, my darling. Or better yet, bolster yourself with Ovid’s old gag. How does it go? The one you always trot out when I am complaining about women who speak too loosely of livers and other unpleasant organs that are best kept unmentioned, as we all did in our grandfathers’ day. Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis! That’s the baby.

If nothing else, I solemnly swear to dress properly for the rest of my life, once I am out of this blasted desert. I needn’t mutamur with the tempora quite so swiftly as many seem to, if that gives you comfort in a distressing time.

Oh, I say, we’re having another concert next week. Hector says he’ll send the recording back to Blighty. Apparently it was excellent for morale over there. I shan’t be the Master of Ceremonies this time, I’m afraid; an Australian major will be doing the honours, but I’ll play a song or two. Any requests?

I say, speaking of which, how are the streets of London these days? Blown to bits, are they? Is anything saved? Been a bit afraid to ask, honestly. I have a pretty good idea of what nine months of bombing can do to a city, and it’s not pleasant, I must say. Tell me, if you would be so kind, what remains untouched, if anything?

Silly of me to ask, I know. It’s beginning to look as if nothing in the entire world shall remain untouched by this bally war.

And yes, that’s precisely what I meant by ‘cuckoo-birding.’ The matter is still being discussed, so I understand. And yes, we wouldn’t exactly be safe upon these particular high seas, I fear, should we ever actually make it aboard a ship, but I seriously doubt your supposition that I am safer where I am. Perhaps you are lulled into a false s. of s. due to my lack of graphic detail in these letters, but you’ve read the journal, old thing. It really hasn’t let up, you understand, and we’re nearly out of ammo.

Why do you think we’re able to have bally concerts in the bally ammunition cave, my dear? The thing’s empty. We’re empty. We are assaulted at all hours without cessation. We are dropping like flies and losing our minds. We are ill and starved, parched and burned. Charlie and I cling to each other in the long night like wretched orphans in the street, shaking with the tears we haven’t the spare water to shed.

I do apologise. I do. I don’t mean to mislead you. It is only that these letters are intended to be a thing of beauty, to paraphrase Keats, and I mean them to be a joy to you forever, whatever happens to me. Were they an endless recitation of the horrors of war, then they should be no comfort to you in the long years ahead. Please, do trust me when I say that I am not safer here. Getting out is worth the risk. Now let’s say no more about it, all right?

Love,

Bertie

P.S. Oh, and thanks awfully for the sack! I have posted it to you already, filled to the brim with terribly filthy things. I hope you enjoy them.

Chapter Text

Dear Bertram,

The fact that the ammunition cave is empty was not lost on me. I did, perhaps naively, maintain hope that perhaps there were many others all filled to the brim. It is easy – too easy, I find – to believe that because you do not hear of the strife and struggles of others, that means that they do not suffer them. It is attractive, I think, to allow such concerns to fade out of one’s consciousness. Sometimes I find myself wondering if all of human civilisation is balanced precariously upon the tower of man’s ability to delude himself.

Your letters are  indeed beautiful to me. Your efforts are not in vain.

Forgive me. We will, as you requested, say no more about it.

I lunched with your sister and her new husband yesterday. Did she inform you that they did, indeed, marry? They stopped in London on their way back to Brinkley Court. Her plan is to pack her things and move herself into Mr. Parkhurst’s home, which occupies a few rooms above his grocery. Her eldest daughter Margaret and the baby are, apparently, intending to stay on at Brinkley Court for the foreseeable future. Margaret gets on quite well with Angela, it seems.

The house in Chuffnell Regis is thus permanently unoccupied, and as it is in your possession, I am to ask you what you would like to do with it. Mrs. Parkhurst  informed me that she believes it would be ‘only right’ for you to sell it and then give the proceeds to her as a wedding present. I attempted to remind her that it is an inopportune time to sell, but she insists that she requires more money to live in her accustomed style than Mr. Parkhurst alone can provide. While I have no doubt of this, I fail to see how she feels this entitles her to your wealth now that she is married.

In the interest of maintaining my proper place, I did not remind her that she has subsisted and, indeed prospered on your generosity these many years, and that there is no scenario from any reasonable perspective that would indicate to anyone that you have any further responsibility toward her.

On a more interesting note, she took the liberty of editing the manuscript of her book whilst she was on her holiday. I must admit, I was rather impressed. She informed me, after relinquishing it, that she served as an editor and typist for her first husband, in his work for the British government in India, and that she quite enjoyed herself. I hadn’t any idea that she was accomplished in this area.

Indeed, she has done superior work on this piece than did the actual publisher, who, I understand, is suffering for lack of staff. I questioned him today when I returned the manuscript, and he informed me that nearly all of his experienced editors have been drafted, and he has been obliged to do the work of five men by himself for several months. I asked him if he was willing to hire women, and he admitted that he is, but that  it is difficult to come by truly experienced female typists and editors who are not already employed.

It has given me an idea, which no doubt is clear to you.

I believe a woman of your sister’s energy and fiduciary requirements might benefit from having a profession. While she is of the noblesse and thus unaccustomed to regular work, her financial concerns may be allayed if she also had her own income. Additionally, formal occupation, coupled with marriage, may aid in keeping her, as you would put it, ‘out of the soup.’ If you have no objection, I intend to broach the subject of a possible contract between your publisher and Mrs. Parkhurst.

After all, as you so wisely reminded me, tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis. Within reason, of course. Waistcoats are, naturally, non-negotiable, but you are well aware of that already.

I am most eager to hear another of your concerts. As it happens, I do have a request. I was most deeply moved by your performance of ‘Pale Hands.’ I do not believe that I have ever heard you sing it before, and I found, when you had completed your recitation, that I longed to hear it again at once.

London, I fear, is quite changed. The shattered remnants of buildings cut haphazardly through every street, some still disgorging great litanies of rubble outward onto the sidewalks and roads. There hasn’t been sufficient time nor manpower as yet to tidy dishevelment of this magnitude. The Palace of Westminster is still a gutted wreck, dotted here and there with half-hearted scaffolding. The medieval Guildhall is gone forever, as are seven of my favourite bookshops. I believe I mentioned before the loss of the Necropolis Railway, which you and I used to take to visit our parents’ graves. The Great Synagogue in Aldgate, the Carlton Club, and Holland House are all gone as well. It is estimated that one million buildings were damaged or destroyed in London alone, and another million across the other cities of the British Isles. Though I must admit, when I think back to those dark days of the Blitz, I wonder that anything was spared at all.

Spared we were, in many ways. St. Paul’s Cathedral stands, with only a single hole in its iconic dome. Every Royal palace remains. Our own street is largely unscathed, save for two buildings. There are entire streets one can walk, if one knows where to find them, where it would seem that no Blitz occurred at all. Something nearly like normality is returning to the city; restaurants reopening, dance halls blaring music into the cool night air as you pass, publishing houses putting out new books. Still, it is a far cry from what it used to be. The gaiety of previous years has been quashed. There is a somber, lean feeling to life in this city, which is hardly relieved by the stringent rationing to which we are subject. I fear it will never be what it was.

I have laundered and mended those articles of clothing that I considered salvageable, my Lord. Some, such as the tubes of wool with equally-sized holes at both ends, which I can only presume were once socks, I discarded and replaced.

I also could not help but notice that there is a curious blemish on two of the shirts you sent, both upon the front left, just below the shoulder. At first I believed it to be a smear of tar paint, but on closer inspection I discovered that it was sewn of thread, and depicted an image of a dreadful rodent, sitting back upon its haunches, atop a rather rustic banner bearing the words, ‘No Surrender.’ I strongly considered picking the unpleasant image out with a seam ripper, but ultimately concluded that it must be there because you desired it for some reason, and instead washed it gently so as to not damage it further. I hope this meets with your approval, my Lord.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Reverend Pinker,

Please find enclosed those articles of clothing that you so generously lended. My nephew had a superb evening and he thanks you profusely.

As for Lord Yaxley, perhaps you have not heard that he is currently fighting in Tobruk. It is not entirely convenient for me to give him your regards, as letters are infrequent.

Sincerely,

R. Jeeves

*

Dear Reginald,

I suppose I have you to thank for this?

Roger received a notice from a solicitor in Alnwick. Mary is suing him for divorce. Apparently Miss Jane Starkweather heard from an unnamed friend of hers where Mary was living, and, what is more, she heard through the grapevine that Roger had spent a night in a hotel in Gloucester with ‘the strange woman he’s been seeing.’

Jane Starkweather, Reginald? The local gossip-monger? The woman who accosted you so forcefully at the subscription dance and demanded your attention for nearly half the night? That Jane Starkweather?

This could hardly be a coincidence.

You are a dangerous weapon, aren’t you, dear brother? I hate to think what you could be, wielded by the wrong hands. I suppose we must all be grateful that it was Bertie that claimed you. I imagine the worst he’s ever demanded of you was to free him from an uncomfortable social obligation. Had he a tyrant’s heart and a manic’s drive, he could have conquered the world with you.

Still, I am grateful, all the same. Your plan has succeeded, at least so far. Roger’s solicitor is quite confident that he shall have his divorce eventually. Between five years’ abandonment on one side, and provable adultery on the other, it appears to be an ‘open and shut case.’

Roger has asked me to ask you if you intend to return for the Autumn harvest. The season of mists and mellow fruitfulness is closing in upon us, after all, and there is a great deal of work to do. A great deal of work, and not so many men left to do it.

Love,

Rebecca

*

Dear Lord Yaxley,

You do not know me, my Lord, but I have recently married your sister. I suppose that makes me your brother-in-law. I didn’t realise, you see, when Ethel first started coming into my shop, that she was from a noble family. She didn’t even tell me she had a brother! And while I certainly knew, as we all do, that the Dowager Countess is in residence at Brinkley Court, I did not connect Ethel with the estate until a month after our initial meeting, and by then she had enchanted me so thoroughly that I could not see my way toward extricating myself without deep regret.

I apologise, my Lord. I am rambling. I think I am nervous. I have never so much as seen an Earl before, let alone write a personal letter to one.

I say all this merely to explain that I had no machinations nor ulterior motives whatsoever with dear Ethel. I knew her only as a fascinating woman, unlike any other I had known. Imagine my shock, then, when, having already begged her to be mine forever, I was informed by her cousin that not only is she a Wooster, but the sister of the famous rake and soldier, Lord Yaxley!

Forgive the intrusion, my Lord, but I felt it my duty as an honest man to plainly state that I have every intention to be a true husband to your sister, without any design for social or financial gain by the association. Indeed, such a thought had not even occurred to me until our recent marriage made the papers and I began to overhear unveiled speculation regarding my motives in pubs and on the street.

I hope that you are well, my Lord, and I hope that if you had any concerns that they are now allayed. I hope also that I have addressed you correctly; as I said, I have no experience with Earls. I attempted to ask Ethel for help in crafting this letter, but when I asked her the correct form of address and so forth, she laughed at me and said, in her typical, charmingly careless way, ‘It doesn’t matter. Bertie doesn’t know any better than you do.’

Forgive my familiarity, my Lord. I am merely attempting to explain my errors, whatever they may be. I have thus far lived an unassuming life.

Sincerely,

Andrew Parkhurst

*

Dear Rebecca,

I am most gratified to hear that Mrs. Bishop has had such an unexpected change of heart. As a very wise man once said, fate’s happenstance may oft win more than toil. As for Jane Starkweather, who can say how local gossips obtain their information? They have methods that are unknown to we ordinary folk.

I have already taken the liberty of retaining a barrister in Roger’s name. I have enclosed his business card. Do not concern yourself with the expense; Lord Yaxley has given his blanket permission for me to use whatever funds I need as I see fit in his  Lordship’s absence. It will take a few months, but it should not be a difficult process. Divorce is practically routine these days.

Tell Roger that I hope to return for the harvest next week, if you will have me. I have put the flat entirely in order, and it is ready for Lord Yaxley’s return, which, if my information is correct, may be sooner than we dared hope. As there is nothing else to occupy my time in the Metropolis until his Lordship’s arrival, I see no reason why I cannot spend a few weeks in Gloucestershire.

‘All this is when he comes,’ to quote Rossetti. I am treading water until that day, whenever it may dawn.

Love,

Reginald

*

Dear Reg,

I want to thank you. First, for Mary. I don’t know what you did, but it worked. Rebecca told me you have a way of making people do what they should, and I don’t understand really, but that’s all right. I’ve never been a man who knew how to make things happen. Maybe that comes of being a farmer; the sun and the frost and the rain, they decide your fate. All a man can do is hedge his bets. Save up when things are good, hope he doesn’t run out when things are bad. Pray for mercy.

I was running out, Reg. When I married Mary I thought I’d gotten away from all the bad I’d done. Didn’t think for a minute it wasn’t bad, you know. Bill has always been a kind of shadow over my life. The mistake of my youth. The sin I have to pay for, again and again. And when Mary left, then there you are. The old sin, catching up to me again.

Do you know something? All this time I thought everyone in the world could go either way. They just didn’t go the wrong way because they’re stronger than me. It honestly never occurred to me that a great lot of fellows only lean one direction, if you understand me. Hard to imagine, I have to say. All sorts of people are awfully interesting. I didn’t understand it until you told me, without a hint of shame, that you only like the one sort. What I would have called ‘the wrong sort.’

I’m sorry, I’m trying to be discreet. I hope you understand me. It opened my eyes, my friend. That’s all I’m trying to say. I’ve talked to Rebecca about the whole thing an awful lot lately. I can’t tell you how it feels to actually discuss this with someone who seems to think it’s all perfectly fine. I think God must have sent me this woman, and then I can’t help but think – if God sent her to me, then He must not hate me.

This is a new thought for me, Reg. I was raised to think that God hates sin, that it was right that I was suffering. The secrecy of my life, I never questioned it. Mary left when she learned what I was, and that was how it should be. Never questioned it.

So thank you, Reg. Thank you for being a man who is unashamed, who believes he should get what he wants and what he needs. A man who makes it happen. I didn’t know it was an option. I hope this doesn’t sound strange, but I think of you as a bit of a hero, you know, and I can’t believe my luck; first, that a woman as marvelous as Rebecca should love me, and second that I should have a brother-in-law like you.

And I’m sorry, certainly sorry, that you’re in the same bad spot I was in with Bill. Your gentleman away at war all this time. I didn’t have any idea what you were suffering. I’m grateful to his Lordship, too, for that letter he wrote that you showed me. His Lordship sounds like a good sort and I sincerely hope I get to meet him someday. If I don’t, then you should have to tell me all about him. Maybe I’ll tell you a bit about Bill.

I’m glad to hear you’ll be coming for the harvest.

Sincerely,

Roger

*

Dear Ginnie,

There is nothing to forgive. Only one of your divine caliber would request forgiveness for failing to recall a thing that I have purposefully withheld from you. Before we are both struck from this Earth, one or the other of us must surely come to accept that you are not truly omnivorous.

Oh, blast. Is that the word I want? It doesn’t sound quite right somehow. The baby that means you know all and see all, like God in His Heaven. Never mind. You know what I mean; I’m certain of it.

‘Pale Hands,’ it is, my dear! You are entirely correct that you have not heard me sing that particular little ditty. Do you know why? Because I only bally sang it when you were away on your annual holiday! It’s not a song for a happy man to sing when his darling is in the very next room polishing the teapot, or whatever it is you do.

The cottage in Chuffnell Regis is to remain vacated, eh? Are we entirely certain that Aunt Dahlia is prepared to permanently house the great-niece and even-greater-niece? Perhaps we’d better just hold on to that cottage for a bit, what? Might be a good place for me to recede whenever the mood to practice the harmonica overtakes me. Don’t worry; you could remain in London with ears unassaulted!

As for the sister and her Parky – no. Ethel did not see fit to inform me that she had married, but, in a fascinating twist, Parky did! He seems a solid sort. Am I justified in my concern that he may, in fact, be too solid for Ethel? Who can say. I suppose plenty would say the same of you and me, what? Like a kite tied to a boulder. Personally speaking, this kite is most grateful for the boulder; I should have been swept out to see eons ago without it. I only hope that the boulder does not tire of the arrangement!

Anyway, I am delighted to provide the customary fishslice for the happy couple. Paired with your own most ingenious plan to get her employed, I do not see how she could possibly object. You can inform her that I would never dream of selling her darling little house away from her, and that it will remain as a site of refuge and reflection for any wearied member of the Wooster clan who desires it for a week or two. Provided I do not require it for my own purposes at that time.

I simply cannot tell you what an absolute bally dream it is to wear freshly laundered trousers and new socks, old thing. You have pleased your Lord immensely, my good man. The only trouble is that I may now be in grave danger of not-so-friendly fire. Things are desperate enough in these parts that a chap might well kill for a pair of socks with only the one customary hole!

Oh, dear. That was meant to be a joke, my dear. I assure you I am quite the beloved old codger of a Cap in these parts, and anyone who turned his gun on me would be surrounded by a prickling quiverful of guns as quick as you can say ‘tickety-boo.’ I’ve even had a couple of the lads tell me I’m a bit of a father figure to them. I told them it’s dashed easy to be a father when your children start out fully grown, but I appreciate the sentiment all the same.

Oh, and yes. I suppose I should have warned you about the Rat Badge, old fruit. It’s quite popular amongst the Australians especially these days. Some of Robbie’s men took the liberty of doing a bit of needlework on my uniform shirts as a way of saying ‘thank you’ for my taking over during that nasty tank attack a few months back, the one when Robbie caught it, don’t you know. I’m afraid my other two shirts are also thus adorned now, so don’t be alarmed, all right? I know it’s frightfully hideous, but it really is an honour, my dear. Absolutely everyone is dying for a Rat Badge at the mo.

‘No Surrender’ has become our little motto. Bit of a greeting, really. We all tend to shout it at each other when passing in the streets, don’t you know. Bit of fun, I suppose. Heart within and God o’erhead, as the fellow said.

Anyway, listen out for ‘Pale Hands.’ I have never once sung it without thinking of you, old thing.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Parky,

You can bid a fond farewell to your erstwhile unassuming life now that you’ve signed on to do the lifelong egg and spoon race with Ethel, old fruit.

No worries in the least, in re. the proper form of address and all that. Ethel is entirely correct. I have been away at war for the entirety of my term as Earl of Yaxley and as such I have had little opportunity to enjoy the benefits of the position. Furthermore, I am surrounded by Australians, who couldn’t possibly give less of a fig about Earls and would never call me Lord Anything if their very lives depended upon it. Even ‘sir’ is pushing it, honestly. They mostly call me ‘Cap,’ and it’s so frequently my sobriquet in these parts that I am beginning to forget I’ve ever had any other name.

Names are a funny business, are they not, Parky? A name seems to be an intrinsic part of a man until you stop and consider all the different names and titles and such that one acquires and loses as one rolls along. Sometimes it seems to me as though nearly every circumstance requires a different name! One could say that my name is Bertie, and that’s very accurate, but that’s only really my name if I’m amongst those who are comfortable to address me thus, or who are permitted to by rank, or who do not disdain me too much to use that name. I’ve had many pals who called me Bertie, enemies who called me Wooster, servants who tacked a ‘Mr.’ onto the beginning of the surname, an uncle who only ever called me Wilberforce, due to his having known a Bertie at school whom he despised, numerous soldiers who call me either ‘sir’ or ‘Captain,’ or ‘Cap,’ and a most intimate friend who insists upon calling me Bertram, if he concedes to use my first name at all, and would be more likely to toss himself into the frigid waters of the North Sea than ever use an affectionate diminutive. Toss in all the possible permutations of Earl and Lord and so forth, and I can hardly keep the thing straight.

I understand you weren’t Parky until Ethel decided it should be so. I need to warn you, if you don’t already know, that she’s going to try and make you into a gentleman. ‘Parky’ is only the first stage. I do hope you’ve thought this thing through; Ethel is a bit of a stitch, but she’s an absolute bally menace as well. Though I suppose that’s true of all women, is it not? I, fortunately, managed to evade marriage.

Anyway, you’re family now, for all the good it will do you, and even the stodgiest amongst us don’t go around calling our brothers-in-law ‘my Lord,’ so I think it’s best you stick to Bertie, that’s provided you don’t eventually come round to calling me ‘Fathead,’ as so many of my relatives seem to do.

Anyway, congratulations and all that rot.

Sincerely,

Bertie

*

Dear Bertram,

The word for which you were grasping was ‘omniscient,’ and I find I must agree. If the last two years has taught me anything, it is that my powers are far more limited than I once believed.

I listened to the concert last evening. You played ‘Pale Hands’ most beautifully. It was all I could do to blink back the tears as the sweet notes spilled from the wireless. It felt almost as though you were here with me. The ache in my heart at the sound of your voice was overwhelming.

I would that my tongue could utter the thoughts that arise in me. Your voice is not still, praise God, but it has been still for me, and your hand, though not truly vanish’d, is as a phantom’s – so distant for so long, I can scarcely recall the feel of it upon my skin.  Your bright eyes, your impish smile, the peculiar lilt of your laugh – all are fading from my memory. Should fate grant me the opportunity to hold your hand in mine once more, I do not think that I shall ever be able to let it go.

Your rendition of ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’ was somewhat less inspiring. Still, I would listen to it one thousand times if that were my penance for having you here. In fact, I have no doubt that that is precisely what my penance would be. It would be well worth it. I feel almost trepidatious at the admission that I am becoming hopeful for a reunion. I am not a superstitious man, but even so, it feels dangerous to believe that you could indeed be presently returned.

Have we not prayed, my dear? Are not two prayers a perfect strength?

And shall I feel afraid?

And yet, I do.

I was most sorry indeed that you played only two songs and gave no speech, but I suppose there are many men of talent sequestered in Tobruk, and it would not befit your generous nature to occupy more space than is your due.

I have passed on your message concerning the cottage. Though I do enjoy the idea of a cottage in the country, do not feel that you must flee to it in order to play the harmonica. I have grown quite fond of that particular instrument of late.

I haven’t much time to write today, I’m afraid. I am returning your manuscript to the publisher. I shall write again soon, my dear.

Love,

G.

*

Dear Mrs. Parkhurst,

I hope you are well. Thank you again carrying out that small favour for me. I hope you will be pleased to know that the desired resolution does appear to be nearing fruition. Do thank your charming husband for me as well.

I have spoken to Lord Yaxley, and he has decided to retain ownership of the cottage in Chuffnell Regis for private and family use. I know that this must come as a disappointment to you, as you were hoping for some financial renumeration from the sale of the cottage, but his Lordship wished me to remind you that you have lived in said cottage for nearly twenty years without expense. Now that you have a husband who owns a rather lucrative business, you no longer require support.

Furthermore, I have a proposition for you that you may find intriguing. I have spoken to Bertram’s publisher, and he was most pleased with the edits to made to the manuscript. As it happens, he is almost entirely without help in that department, due to the war, and he is most interested in hiring you as a long-distance editor, if you are interested.

It appears that there is already a robust demand for memoirs written by soldiers in the field, and he has multiple accounts of the war in France and the evacuation at Dunkirk that require immediate editing. I have been assured that the compensation will be ample. You could come to London to collect and return manuscripts once a month. If you are interested, I have taken the liberty of arranging an appointment between the two of you for Friday next. I have included his card so that you may conduct a correspondence with him directly.

Sincerely,

Jeeves

*

Dear Jeeves,

All right, then. If Bertie won’t cough up the cabbage then I suppose I’ve no choice but to support myself. I can certainly see that editing memoirs could have certain points of interest. I’ll look into it.

Thanks, old man.

Love,

Ethel

*

Dear Rebecca,

I am afraid that I may need to delay my visit to Gloucestershire. A most urgent matter has arisen and I fear that I must remain in the city until it is resolved. I will offer further information once I have it myself.

Please tell Roger that I received his letter. I cannot reply as yet, but it was much appreciated.

Love,

Reginald

*

Dear Bertram,

When I received the package today, I expected it to contain more laundry. I was most dismayed by its actual contents. In fact, I would go so far as to say that I was  deeply disturbed. Please write at once and tell me that you are well, if at all possible.

Love,

Reggie

*

Dear Reginald,

Is it Bertie? Has something happened to him?

Love,

Rebecca

*

Dear Rebecca,

I fear so.

Love,

Reginald

*

Dear Charlie,

I wrote to Bertram about this but I have received no reply. I hope that you might be able to shed some light.

Some days ago, I received a small package containing two photographs of myself, a transcript of a letter I wrote to Bertram over ten years ago, and a dented harmonica. No  return address or explanation accompanied these items. I recognise them as being Bertram’s particular keepsakes, which, I happen to know, customarily reside within his breast pocket. I feel it goes without saying that the reception of these items was most disturbing to me, and while I understand that your circumstances are quite distressing, I would appreciate elucidation at your earliest convenience.

I understand that paper is scarce in Tobruk, so I have taken the liberty of including in this letter a few sheets of blank paper in order to facilitate your reply, which I hope will be thorough.

If you haven’t the time to write a lengthy response, however, I would appreciate it deeply if you could simply answer one query.

Is he gone?

Reginald

Chapter Text

Dear Ginnie,

I’m not the chap you’re hoping to hear from, and I know it. I’m not even the second chap you’re hoping to hear from, but I hope I’ll do. I’ve taken your letter to Charlie and read it. I know it’s not the done thing and all that, as John rather testily reminded me this morning, but needs must. My mother used to say that.

Thank you for the paper. I know you meant it for Charlie, but he’s not likely to write any letters anytime soon, I’m afraid, so I’m going to go ahead and make use of the paper you sent to try and explain it all.

It was I who sent you the things from Bertie’s breast pocket. I thought it best. Really, John thought it best. He’s the one who found the things when he had Bertie on the table, and he said it would be a good idea to get rid of them somehow before anyone else found them, the world being what it is, so we packed them off to you. I hadn’t any paper to write, and no time to write it anyway, as we’ve been under near constant bombardment up until this morning. There’s concern that our enemies may have caught wind of a possible plan to relieve us. We know they monitor our radio transmissions, and we have suspected for some time that they may have cracked some of our codes. They certainly seemed to be aware of Operation Battleaxe before we could get it off the ground. Anyway, that’s all beside the point, isn’t it?

I wasn’t there, myself. What I know is that Bertie was leading a raid when it happened. He, Charlie, and twenty enlisted were attempting to locate the machine gun that has been targeting our raids near Carrier Hill for the past few months. There’s a bit of a phantom gunner, you see. He strikes and then he’s gone. He’s killed ten men so far, but the first was one of Bertie’s unit back in early August, so when the brass called for volunteers for this particular mission, Bertie was the first to stand up. I felt uneasy letting him go; I always do, even now. But Bertie’s a man of conviction, when he wants to be, and he was certainly experienced enough in the field for this sort of thing, so I could hardly turn him down.

They left the perimeter sometime around 0100, and traveled East for roughly one and a half miles before veering North to follow the ridge. They were using proper stealth, and evaded attack for several hours.

At this point the reports from the men are a bit confused. A Messershmitt flew overhead and dropped her payload. A direct hit from whatever a plane of that description might throw at you is a fairly confusing experience, so we are uncertain precisely what sort of device it was. It impacted directly upon the team and killed three men instantly. Five more were severely wounded to the point that they were incapable of removing themselves from the scene. Bertie, being in the lead and thus farther from the impact than some, initially appeared to have only minor shrapnel wounds, primarily on the right leg, upper right torso, and right arm.

Almost immediately following the bomb, the phantom machine gunner opened fire from a place of concealment. He took out two privates right away, then shot Charlie in the leg and chest. Bertie ordered the remaining men to retreat to a place of safety which he had previously scouted: a small convoy of burned-out German tanks beyond a nearby sandbank.

What followed was an act of courage that I have rarely seen rivaled. Once seeing that his remaining men had attained relative safety, he ordered that they lay covering fire. Discarding his own weapon entirely so that he should have the full use of his hands, he returned to the scene of the explosion, under constant enemy fire, six separate times in order to rescue each one of the wounded. Some were able to walk with assistance, but two, including Charlie, needed to be dragged.

This so admirably accomplished, Bertie then ordered all the men who were capable to continue laying covering fire while he and three other men crawled on their bellies through the sand in two arcs to the gunner’s location, whereupon they were able to coordinate a surprise attack on him from both sides. He was successfully taken prisoner without further casualties.

It was not until after all of this was accomplished that Bertie fainted and collapsed, presumably due to a combination of blood loss, extreme pain, and exhaustion. He did not regain consciousness, and his remaining unit was obligated to leave him and the other two men who were too severely wounded to walk, in order to transport the Italian prisoner and the more mobile wounded back to the perimeter. Another team of ten privates and two medics returned approximately one hour later, shortly before dawn, and were able to retrieve Bertie, Charlie, and the other immobile wounded.

Once within the perimeter, Bertie was transported to the hospital by Sergeant Engleby in his car, a journey of roughly six miles. John was notified of his approach and was able to begin surgery immediately. John worked tirelessly on him for six hours, even as the bombardment began. I was at his side for the first few moments, and even amidst the shaking of the building and the peppering of plaster loosened from the ceiling by the blasts, he kept a steady hand and performed beautifully. I do hope you know that Bertie could have been under no greater care.

Unfortunately, as the raid progressed I was obligated to leave the hospital and take up a defence position outside. We are desperately low on ack-ack ammunition, so it has been my habit of late to do my best with a machine gun. Not ideal, but any port in a storm. I was able to protect the hospital itself from a direct hit, as I successfully took down the messer that was headed in its direction by means of a generous smattering along the starboard fuselage, which ignited the plane’s fuel tank and sent it spiraling into the bay with a most satisfactory whine.

John informs me that he removed over one hundred fragments of shrapnel, and discovered that Bertie’s right femur was broken. According to John, it appears that Bertie may have suffered a minor fracture to the bone in the initial blast, the pain of which was likely masked for some time by adrenaline, as is common in these circumstances. However, the extreme strain of dragging wounded men to safety, and in conducting the successful capture of the Italian gunner, severely exacerbated the fracture to the point that it was necessary to set the bone surgically.

The good news is that there appears to have been no damage to any major organ. The shrapnel wounds, though numerous, were mostly superficial. The leg itself would also have been a relatively minor concern had he not overextended himself in order to save his men. However, you and I both know that such a selfish decision would never have been an option for Bertie.

The bad news is that a bombed-out field hospital is not an ideal location for so invasive a surgery as his leg required, and Bertie appears to have developed an infection.  He is delirious and periodically unresponsive. He’s being treated with sulfanilimide, and it is currently keeping him stable, but John is concerned that it may not be sufficient to eradicate the infection. He believes that the only certain hope for Bertie would be to get him back to England.

John tells me that there are a group of doctors in Oxford who have developed some sort of miracle drug to combat serious infection, but it is not yet in great enough supply to be shipped to the front lines. He isn’t even certain if it is attainable outside of a lab in England, but that may be our only hope. It’s called Penicillin. Not sure if I’ve got the spelling right; John wrote it down for me, so I think so.

Apparently the head of the team is an Australian himself. John attended a lecture on infectious disease that the chap gave in Melbourne once and has been following his career ever since.

I do not yet know if I will be able to send Bertie home, as our usual supply ship was recently sunk off the coast of Alexandria, but I am doing my best. I swear to you I’ll pull whatever strings I can to get Bertie on the next transport out.

So that’s where we are, I’m afraid. So far I’ve managed to convince Hector Weston to refrain from reporting it. He was all afire to get the big article written. It was a bit unseemly, how eager he was to get the news out. Apparently Bertie’s become a bit of a media darling, which doesn’t surprise me, though I daresay it would surprise Bertie.

I hope you know how truly saddened I am to be the bearer of this heavy news. You know of the great affection I have for Bertie, and of the numerous debts that I owe him. The whole world would be a darker place, were his light extinguished. I am not a praying man, as a rule, but I am praying for Bertie. John and I both are.

Oh, and I thought you’d like to know this. I’ve been sitting at his bedside, when I’ve a had a moment, just so he knows he’s not alone, you know. I’ve seen many men in such a state before, and in my experience, most, in their delirium, call out for their mother. Not Bertie. He calls for ‘Jeeves.’

Sincerely,

Archie

P.S. I forgot to mention that Charlie is expected to recover from his wounds. The hit to his chest will likely mean the end of the war for him, but not the end of his life. Or so John  believes. We are doing our best to get him out as well.

*

Dear Major Evans,

Thank you for the information. I understand. Please do all that you can to deliver his Lordship to me, and I will see to the rest.

Oh, and do allow Mr. Weston to release the article. It may help.

Sincerely,

R. Jeeves

*

Dear Aunt Dahlia,

I am writing to inform you that Bertram has been wounded in action. I do not, at present, feel capable of relating the details of the event to you. However, I have reason to believe that shortly a news article will be published that should give full and complete information.

Suffice it to say that his wounds are serious but not life-threatening, so long as the infection he has developed can be eradicated. I may have means to do so, and I will be much preoccupied with securing said means for the foreseeable future. It would, of course, require that he be transported to England, which is not easy. I understand Prime Minister Churchill believes that able-bodied men should be evacuated first, due to their continued ability to be of use in the war effort. If only he could be made to see reason.

I believe Mrs. Parkhurst is scheduled to meet with her employer in London tomorrow morning. Would you be so kind as to ask her to meet me at the flat afterward? I will gladly give her lunch.

Thank you.

Love,

Reginald

*

PATIENT R. JEEVES, SESSION TWO

As transcribed from the recording by T. Folsom, secretary to Dr. G. S. Rainford

RAINFORD: Ah! Mr. Jeeves! I’m absolutely pleased as punch to have you in my office again. Had a change of heart, have we? Found the going a bit too rough? That’s fine! Just fine! Everybody needs a bit of help now and then, old fruit. And you’ve brought a lady friend! That’s wonderful that you’ve decided to move on, old man! We may revere the honoured dead, but they can’t warm your bed at night, what?

JEEVES: (Pause. Jeeves coughs.) I’m afraid I have scheduled this appointment under false pretenses, Dr. Rainford.

RAINFORD: Eh? What? Oh, and do call me Griffy, old sport.

JEEVES: It is not myself that I am seeking treatment for, Doctor.

RAINFORD: Oh, so it is the lady who is suffering? I shouldn’t wonder. The Blitz did a number on us all.

MRS. PARKHURST: No, I’m fit as a fiddle, thank you. Never so much as smelled a bomb. I was tucked safely away in Chuffnell Regis for the duration of the unpleasantness. More’s the pity; I think a real bombing raid would be an absolute scream. Something to tell the grandchildren, don’t you think?

RAINFORD: Eh?

JEEVES: It is the Lady’s brother who requires your ministrations, Doctor.

RAINFORD: Her brother? Where is he? Can I treat a man by proxy? Ha! Over the Wire, perhaps? Now that would be quite the thing, what what? Long-distance psychoanalysis! Why, I could–

JEEVES: Mrs. Parkhurst is the sister of Lord Yaxley, Dr. Rainford. He is still currently in Tobruk, but he is quite likely to be transported to England for recuperation after sustaining several wounds in action.

RAINFORD: Is he, by Jove! Poor old Bertie!

MRS. PARKHURST: There is just one problem, Griffy. He has a dreadful infection and might not survive. We were rather hoping that you could help.

RAINFORD: Oh, my dear, alas. I am a doctor of the mind, not of brutish infection. Surely the–

JEEVES: There are some doctors at Oxford who are developing a treatment for infection. It is currently in the development stage, and they are looking for test cases. We were hoping that you might have some influence with them. Perhaps you are on friendly terms with one or two of the doctors in question, and might steer them in Lord Yaxley’s direction.

RAINFORD: Oh? I suppose. I know a great many doctors at Oxford, of course. I’m not certain it would be within my purview, however…

MRS. PARKHURST: Bertie was treated with sodium amytal earlier in the war, Griffy.

RAINFORD: What? Oh, I say! That’s smashing!

JEEVES: If you were so good as to save his life, he might find it useful to be under the watchful eye of a doctor who has a particular interest in Battle Fatigue and its treatments.

RAINFORD: Well, that’s something! I say, did you know that I’m planning a longitudinal study on longterm outcomes for soldiers who were treated with sodium amytal versus those who–

MRS. PARKHURST: Are you really, Doctor! What a delightful coincidence!

RAINFORD: (Claps his hands.) I say, what luck! My first test subject!

JEEVES: Though I fear he will be unable to participate in the study if he has passed on, Doctor.

RAINFORD: Oh Heavens, that’s true. Mustn’t have that, what? All right, tell me those doctor chappies’ names and I’ll ring them up at once. Oh, I say. They shall need permission to treat him with an experimental drug. Is he capable, currently, to give his consent?

JEEVES: Unfortunately he is kept continuously sedated at this time for his own comfort and safety, but Mrs. Parkhurst here is his next of kin.

MRS. PARKHURST: I have the legal right to give the old right-ho, Griffy.

RAINFORD: Marvelous! Then let’s get this underway! What are the coves’ names?

JEEVES: There are three. One is a Doctor Harrison Storey–

RAINFORD: Oh, topping! Australian chap, right?

JEEVES: That would appear to be the case, Doctor.

RAINFORD: Yes, yes, Harry Storey! big Australian bimbo, black hair, wire-rimmed specs, and a face like a brick! Couldn’t miss him in a lineup, old thing! He was at Magdalen with us. Very serious. We didn’t get on terribly well, honestly. He didn’t find anything humourous about upsetting all the inkpots in old Sherrington’s office! But he’s got a good head on his shoulders. Who are the other chaps?

JEEVES: Doctor Franz Bruch and Doctor Norbert Healey.

RAINFORD: Hm. Can’t say I know a Healey. As for Bruch, I don’t know him by sight but I’ve heard of him. Jewish refugee from Berlin, unless I’m mistaken. He’s made quite a splash at Oxford in his short time here. Something about snake venom, I think? I don’t know. Anyway, sounds like we’d better go to old Harry. He and Bertie didn’t cross paths much at Magdalen, I daresay. Bertie read English Literature, I think. Ha! Always one for poetry, that chap. Picked a lot of flowers, too. I always thought Bertie was a bit, you know. Not that I minded; we were a worldly bunch at Oxford in those days! Besides, Bertie was a Rackets Blue, so he couldn’t be all soft. Oh, and a soldier now, what? Funny old world. Anyway, no matter, an Earl’s an Earl and we were at Oxford together, so that’s got to count for something, eh?

JEEVES: Undoubtedly, Doctor.

RAINFORD: Very well, very well! Scurry along, little mice, and I’ll put in a call to old Harry.

MRS. PARKHURST: Thank you, Griffy.

RAINFORD: Oh, no bother at all. None at all. Not for old Bertie. Sodium amytal, you say? Smashing. Absolutely smashing!

END TRANSCRIPTION

*

Dear Reggie,

Dashed if you weren’t right! The very day your letter arrived, I had only just finished reading the great big article spread across the entire front page entitled, if I recall, ‘LORD YAXLEY GRAVELY WOUNDED IN ACTION IN TOBRUK; Hero Earl Risked Life and Limb to Rescue Other Wounded; Renowned Peer’s Fate Uncertain As Government Balks at Emergency Evacuation,’ or something like that. Good Lord! Bertie always was a right old ass, wasn’t he? Isn’t he, I mean? Dragging damned bodies about with a broken leg.

I hope Ethel found you all right. She was most surprised that you wanted to lunch with her, but I told her you’ve simply got to have some sort of fruity scheme that she’s needed for, because no one would want to share a lunch table with her otherwise, and she seemed to see the wisdom in that.

I say, honourary nephew, that was an awfully good idea getting her a job! She’s been much less irritating now that she has something to do. Although, one does have to endure her near-constant prattle.

‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly come to dine, dear Auntie! I have Colonel Bledsoe’s account of the Battle of Crete to finish up by tomorrow tea-time, and then dear Parky is simply perishing for the lack of me, don’t you know,’ and similar rot. Still, far superior to having her moping about the place, sighing heavily and lolling about on my good upholstery.

To speak seriously for a moment, my dear, I do hope Bertie comes through all right. I’ve half a mind to write to that ass Winnie Churchill and tell him to bring Bertie home! I remember him when he was in short pants with grime on his face, spitting pear drops off his granny’s balcony onto the finer sort whilst we were attempting to have tea on the lawn! I might just go to London myself and give him a good kick in the seat. I did it once when he was ten or so. I don’t quite recall why, but I’m certain that he deserved it then just as he deserves it now.

Love,

Aunt Dahlia

*

Dear Reginald,

I saw the article. We all read it together in the kitchen – Mabel, Biffy, Roger, and I. Please do tell me if there’s anything we can do. And please, if it comes to it, know that you have a home with us. You needn’t live alone.

Love,

Rebecca

*

Dear Winnie,

Blast it, you ass. My boy Bertie’s been left to die in Tobruk and you won’t send a damned ship to get him? What is this world coming to, when a Lord of the Realm is left to waste away in some blasted desert? I’ve put my boot into your hindquarters once before, young blot, and don’t think I wouldn’t do it again.

How’s Clemmie?

Love,

Dahlia

*

Dear Dahlia,

Clemmie’s fine. Your lad Bertie is only one of about twenty thousand men who are supposed to evacuate that particular region soon, and being wounded he’ll take up more space than he’s due. The ships that can safely slip in and out of Tobruk’s harbour these days have got to be small, you understand, and they’re typically standing-room-only, as far as Alexandria. That being said, we’ve received about fifty letters from a great lot of nobodies who all want me to bring him home as well. Apparently they’ve all found his star-crossed love story quite compelling, and his performances in those damned concerts has only increased the romantic intensity for the poor sods, so there you have it.

You might be aware that I’ve got a bit on my plate at the moment, but I’ll do what I can for the boy, even if he is an Old Etonian. If enough able-bodied men are willing to give up their spot on the first evacuation transport, then he might slip on. He does seem to be a bit of a boost for morale on the home front, and God knows we need that.

As for the rest of the war, I’ll attend to it myself if it’s all the same to you, you old gumboil.

Love,

Winston

*

Dear Ginnie,

Bertie’s gone.

Oh, no. I’m sorry, I mean to say, he’s on the ship. So, I mean, gone from Tobruk. They didn’t want to take any wounded at first; it was meant to be a relief effort for able-bodied men, but damn it if Hector’s little article didn’t do the trick. Apparently all of England is clamouring to bring the brave Earl of Yaxley home, or so the transport crew informed me. Petitioning the government and all that. Rumour has it Bertie’s aunt is an old friend of the Prime Minister’s or something, so that couldn’t hurt. It pays to be a Peer, I suppose.

So when the transport came, and after they had divested themselves of a goodish number of Polish soldiers, whom we were all delighted to see, to say the least, they told us they were authorised to take Bertie so long as three able-bodied men were willing to give up their spots for him. They seemed to think that would be a hard sell! Ha! They don’t know the kind of spine one grows as a Rat. I might have been the first to sacrifice my spot, but it wasn’t long before the whole damn unit offered to stay so long as they took Bertie, Charlie, and all the rest of the wounded, so it was arranged. We’ll be all right. We’ve lasted this long, haven’t we?

I don’t know where he’ll end up, but so long as the ship doesn’t sink, he’ll be in England in a few days. Perhaps even before this letter reaches you. There was talk of air-lifting him from Alexandria, so we shall see. John is quite confident that the sulfanilimide will keep the infection from killing him for a bit longer.

My prayers are with you, for what they’re worth. Take good care of him when you’ve got him. Silly of me to say that. I know you will.

And if he pulls through, do be so good as to give him my best. We may not meet again on this Earth. You see, if I do make it through all this, and survive to the end of my required service, I’ll be resigning my commission and emigrating to Australia. I feel that I am finished with this old corner of the world.

Sincerely,

Archie

*

Dear Mrs. Parkhurst,

We’re in luck! Harry has only just returned from America. He had a bit of help over there growing his penicillin stuff. Apparently corn’s the thing. I’d explain it but it’s probably too complicated for you. Anyway, he’s able to produce enough of the stuff now that he’d love to have a difficult case to stretch his legs on. He says the trouble with the stuff is that it does kill bacteria, but you need a dashed lot of it. The last chap they tried it on died because they couldn’t produce enough, but now Harry’s got his corn-slop to grow it in and we’re all set for another trial!

Oh, and as luck would have it, he does remember Bertie! Apparently he and Bertie played rackets once or twice and he’s happy to do the old chap a good turn. Small world, what? Anyway, do let me know when Bertie’s back in England and we’ll see what we can do.

Sincerely,

Griffy

*

Dear Mother,

Well, I don’t know how you swung it, but here we are. I began my shift today with the information that a goodish number of wounded were coming in direct from Libya. They’d been air-lifted direct from Alexandria, which is awfully odd, I must say. But then everyone was whispering and murmuring and all that nonsense that people simply insist upon whenever anyone with a pedigree turns up, and all was made clear. Every damned nurse in the place was a-twitter about the Earl coming, God help me.

Up until now I’ve rather managed to keep it quiet, my being a part of that clan. I allowed myself to believe, briefly, that it might be some other damned Earl, but of course it wasn’t. There aren’t any other Earls in North Africa, dash it. I think there’s a Baron in Alexandria or something, but you know, wars are typically fought by what one might bluntly categorise as ‘lesser men.’ At least, the ugly, dangerous bits are. I understand the underground War Rooms in London are lousy with Earls.

Anyway, they all prattled about the Earl this and the Earl that, and I was doing my dashed best to keep my lips sealed. After all, I told myself, Uncle Bertie hasn’t set eyes upon me since I was so high, so there’s always the chance he wouldn’t know me and my cover would be safe, what? But I blew it myself by my lack of excitement, because Jessie, my good friend, happened to notice that I wasn’t buzzing about the blasted Earl and asked me why on Earth I wasn’t simply beside myself.

So I had no choice but to tell her that the damned Earl was my damned Uncle and aren’t exactly close, and now everybody knows, dammit!

Anyway, Uncle Bertie’s here. He looks an awful lot like you, actually. It’s rather odd, walking past him one hundred times a day, that immobile profile of his for all the world like a male version of my mother. We’re keeping him sedated while the doctors decide what to do about his leg, you see. It just seems kinder, all things considered.

Of course, with him being sequestered in dreamland, there’s no danger of him knowing me anyway. If only I could have pretended that Uncle Bertie was Marlene Dietrich and gotten myself antsy and eager by self-deception, all would be well!

I suppose you might like to see him, what? While you still can.

I say, who gets the bally title if he goes? Uncle Claude? Heaven help us.

Love,

Phyllis

*

REGINALD JEEVES

JUST RECEIVED LETTER FROM PHYLLIS STOP SHE SAYS BERTIE IS AT HER HOSPITAL IN BOURNEMOUTH STOP HIE THEE HITHER OLD TOP STOP ALREADY PHONED GRIFFY STOP HE SAYS HARRY SHALL BE THERE INSTANTER STOP NOT TO WORRY ABOUT SELF STOP WILL BE DOWN TO HAVE A BIT OF A PEAK AT THE OLD CHAP PRESENTLY STOP PERHAPS ONCE YOU HAVE GOT HIM CLEANED UP A BIT STOP MAJOR ARNOLDS ACCOUNT OF DUNKIRK SIMPLY CANNOT WAIT STOP SURELY YOU UNDERSTAND STOP  AFTER ALL ONE HAS A CERTAIN RESPONSIBILITY TO THE PUBLIC WHEN ONE IS IN SO CRITICAL A BUSINESS AS PUBLISHING STOP THE WORLD NEEDS TO KEEP INFORMED AND ALL THAT DONT YOU KNOW STOP TOODLE PIP OLD FRUIT STOP OH AND GIVE MY LOVE TO PHYLLIS OF COURSE STOP THERES A GOOD CHAP STOP

ETHEL

*

Dear Rebecca,

All is well. I have him.

Love,

Reginald

Chapter Text

Dear Rebecca,

Please accept my sincere apologies for the brevity of my previous correspondence. I was rather somnolent and distracted last evening. I will now, having successfully slept for nearly seven hours, endeavor to give you a full and complete account of all that has transpired over the past two days, both for your information, and for my own future reminiscence.

On Tuesday I received an unnecessarily verbose telegram from Bertram’s sister informing me that he was in a military hospital in Bournemouth. As I had already packed all of the items required for travel and filled the car with petrol some days earlier so as to be prepared for such an eventuality, I was able to immediately summon the vehicle and make the drive with very little delay. Unfortunately I arrived too late to enter the premises, it being nearly five o’clock in the evening and thus after visiting hours, but my time was not wasted.

Upon first locating the hospital building itself, I took a moment to survey it. I believe my sentimentality can be forgiven; it has, after all, been nearly a year and a half since Bertram and I have been together, and the knowledge that he was merely separated from me by the distance of a wall was overwhelming.

After I had gathered myself, I took a stroll around the perimeter of a building. Presently I felt the desire for a cigarette and leaned, as luck would have it, directly beside an open window where I could hear the voices of various medical professionals at their break. I admit I took an unusually long time in savouring my cigarette, and was able to learn many things about many of the patients held within the hospital’s walls, though most of it was of little interest. It so happened, however, that after an hour or two, two male voices began to discuss Bertram. They were in disagreement, apparently, about the best course of action to take. They were both quite concerned that he would not survive his infection, but one thought it best to simply continue administering sulfanilimide and hope that the, as he put it, ‘Aussie chap who phoned from from Oxford’ truly did possess a substance that would cure him, while the other felt that amputation of the affected limb was the only sensible course. The first argued that, in Lord Yaxley’s weakened state, the surgery might, as he put it, ‘finish him off right on the table.’

The other, to my chagrin, suggested that that might be a mercy, given the circumstances, and it was all I could do not to leap through the window and throttle the man. I am not often moved by such violent passions and I required a moment to collect myself. Therefore another gasper was in order.

Fortunately, the first doctor argued that they were not in the business of mercy, but of healing, and that any such methods were akin to murder, and that any treatment, however experimental, should be tried. That seemed to settle the matter.

At this point, with the discussion of Bertram’s leg seemingly at an end, I moved on to my next task, and that was to meet the train from Oxford that was due, according to my timetable, at 7:10.

I was fairly certain that a gentleman I desired to meet would be aboard that particular train. He is, in fact, the aforementioned medical researcher from Australia who has been working for some time on a medication that will combat severe infection. I knew that he was heading to Bournemouth to test his new drug on Bertram because I had arranged that it should be so, and it seemed most likely to me that he would be aboard the 7:10, as he should only have received word of Bertram’s arrival an hour or two before I.

Fortunately, my hypothesis proved correct, and amongst the fifteen or so passengers who disembarked at the Bournemouth station, Dr. Harrison Storey was among them. I knew him from a newspaper article I located in the British Library a few days ago. I took the liberty of stepping forward, tipping my hat, and greeting him by name, which seemed to surprise him.

‘Gah!’ he cried, ‘who the Hell are you?’

‘I am Jeeves. Lord Yaxley’s valet, sir,’ I said.

‘His what? Oh, right. Heavens,’ he replied, somewhat wearily. I noted that he carried a medical bag in both hands, quite gingerly. ‘Are you to drive me to the hospital, then, Jeeves?’

‘I am, sir, if that is acceptable to you.’

‘I should say that it is. This substance is not robust, I fear, so time is of the essence.’

‘Very good, sir,’ I said, and ushered him toward the car. I drove him directly to the hospital, and feared that I would be obligated to leave him at the door, but to my relief, he swept me in with him.

We were greeted, in a sort of anteroom, by an orderly who said, ‘Visiting hours are over.’

‘No matter,’ Dr. Storey said, ‘I’m a doctor, here to treat a patient. Would you be so kind?’

That was all it took, which is not surprising. I have often noted that any man who is dressed well and comports himself with confidence can easily gain admission to nearly any building. The orderly pushed open a set of swinging doors, and we were in the ward.

There were quite likely two hundred beds in the ward, which was a large, otherwise empty room with white walls and white floors and a white ceiling, all redolent of the sharp scent of antiseptic and the metallic tang of blood, tinged with other even less pleasant scents upon which I will not elaborate.

Many of the men lay still, seemingly unconscious. Many others sat propped up in their beds, some reading, some playing cards and chatting with their neighbors. A few were writhing and moaning in apparent agony. I had, perhaps foolishly, believed that I would locate Bertram instantly, but such was not the case. The sea of wounded soldiers shocked me. To think of Bertram as merely one in a morass of misused and damaged humanity such as this was more than I could process in the moment.

‘I say!’ Dr. Storey said, waving at a white-coated gentleman across the ward. ‘A word, if you please.’

I did not bother to listen, for I knew that he would simply be explaining himself and his business, perhaps showing his credentials and Ethel’s signed form permitting Bertram’s new treatment. Instead, I occupied myself with attempting to locate Bertram. I ignored all conscious men, knowing that he would be sedated, but before I could make a complete study of the faces that surrounded me, a hoarse voice called out.

‘Gin– I mean, Reggie! Is that you?’

I reeled toward the sound, my heart leaping within my chest. It was not Bertram’s voice as I had known it, but still–

A stranger’s face greeted me from a nearby bed. It was one of the propped-up card-players; a young man, certainly younger than thirty. He was shirtless and wrapped about the chest with thick gauze. Something about the shape of his nose and his unkempt dark brown hair seemed familiar, but I could not place him. Nevertheless, he was smiling weakly at me, raising one hand only slightly from his lap.

‘That is you, isn’t it?’ he said. His accent was distinctly Midlands. A dawning realisation slowly crept through my mind. ‘God above, but you are something! We only arrived yesterday. I guess I should have known you’d be here already. Helen’s not coming for three more days! Says she can’t figure out the trains and needs to wait for her father to bring her.’

‘Charlie,’ I said, my suspicions suddenly confirmed. Bertram’s closest surviving friend, whom he has known since training. I have a photograph of him, so I had seen him before – although Bertram is also in the picture so though I have gazed upon it often, I have spent very little time examining Charlie’s features.

‘Oh, right,’ he said. He laughed once, then winced and pressed a hand to his upper left chest, just below the shoulder. ‘Sorry, should have introduced myself. Bertie always says I’ve got the manners of an Aberdeen terrier, whatever that means.’

‘Where is he?’ I said, forgetting my own manners in my desperation.

Charlie turned his head toward the western corner of the room. ‘Down that way. I haven’t been able to see him myself; can’t walk yet, you see. But I know he’s over by the canteen because the nurses are all talking about sneaking looks at him when they go for their meals.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ I said, and set off in the indicated direction. I think Charlie may have shouted something after me, but I did not take the time to listen. I stalked past three columns of beds and up another row, and then–

There he was.

On his back in a narrow hospital cot, just as all the others, clad in cheap white and blue striped pyjamas, a thin blanket drawn up to his midsection, his fine hands limp at his sides.

At first, I found that I could not quite believe it was him. He is so lively, generally, even in his sleep. He never lies straight upon his back with his hands at his side; no indeed, he is generally curled to the right, one leg hooked across the bed, the other rather straighter. Or sometimes, he is sideways entirely, his feet hanging in the air, his head cradled upon my abdomen. Always he has a high colour in his cheeks, and he moves  and murmurs frequently, especially when dreaming.

Now, however, he was as still as death, and though he was deeply tanned (unbidden, one Major Plank came to my mind), yet he was still somehow pale. Only the shallow rising and falling of his chest showed that he lived at all.

I blinked sharply, for there were tears in my eyes that I could not afford to shed. I stepped silently to his bedside and, observing that none of the two hundred pairs of eyes in the room were turned directly at me, save Charlie’s, I reached out and placed the tips of my fingers upon his hand.

It was shockingly warm. I should have realised, of course, as he has been battling a severe infection, but it surprised me all the same. I think I was in so heightened a state of emotion that anything at all would have surprised me.

I noted also that his hand bore a light scar, just below the middle knuckle: the shrapnel wound he’d suffered in the retreat to Tobruk in April. A sharp pang struck my heart at the sight of it. It was clearly minor, almost invisible to any eye but mine, certainly. Nevertheless, the knowledge that his skin was indelibly marked in any way at all by his ordeal seemed, in that moment, somehow unfathomable.

Of course, I knew, rationally, that a mosaic of such wounds lay hidden beneath the paltry layers of fabric on his body, and that forever from this time, should he even survive, they would always be with us. How, I found myself wondering, bemused by emotion, does one let the dead past bury its dead when the past is written upon one’s skin?

I wanted to take his hand in mine, but of course that was not possible. Not with so very many witnesses. I wanted to press my lips to his, but that was, obviously, even less possible. In the end, all I was able to accomplish was that single brush of my fingers upon him, and a murmured, ‘I am here, my Lord.’

He did not respond to either, which should not have devastated me as it did. I knew that he would not, and yet there was a wild, irrational part of myself that thought perhaps he would spring to life at the sound of my voice. Foolish, I know.

At that moment, Dr. Storey appeared at my side and said, ‘All right, Jeeves, get those blankets off his leg and let’s see what we’re dealing with.’

I did as I was ordered, mechanically, and holding back the tears by sheer force of will. I stolidly refused to look at his leg once it was uncovered. I do not consider myself sensitive, by any means, but I have never relished the sight of injury, and Bertram’s most grievous wound seemed beyond my ability to face at that precise moment.

‘And the bandages, Jeeves.’

I felt a rushing in my head. Minuscule black spots began to dance across my vision, and I experienced the strangest sense that I was beginning to float upwards from the ground. My hands remained where they were, hovering helplessly in the air.

I knew what I should do. I have been studying methods of calming myself when such a crisis occurs, but somehow, in that moment, I could not remember anything.

Fortunately, a nurse came just then and asked me to move aside. She set to removing his bandages with cool professionalism, and I was relieved to be forgotten. I focused upon what I could make out of Bertram’s profile through the black haze as the doctor and the nurse consulted one another, she pointing out the various wounds and sutures, as well as the point of greatest infection, he asking relevant questions regarding Bertram’s height and weight. Slowly I recalled the breathing techniques, the grounding methods. The sense of weightlessness faded. My feet again became firmly fixed upon the floor. My vision cleared.

Though my heart rate was still abnormally high and my hands were trembling, Bertram’s face shimmered back into perfect focus.

Despite the lack of colour, and the simultaneous additional colour, Bertram’s face was not so different. Thinner, certainly, than when last I set eyes upon it, and I thought perhaps he had more grey hairs than before at his temples. Otherwise, he was just as I had always known him. Lined a bit more deeply, but unscarred. I was overcome by a desire to sit upon his bed and take his head into my lap, to comb his hair – which, I saw with dismay, was still sprinkled with reddish sand.

‘All right, then,’ Dr. Storey said. ‘Let’s see if this does the trick.’

He raised a hand, and a sharp implement flashed in the light. I averted my eyes entirely, focusing upon the blank white wall to my left. This had been a community centre, I thought, oak paneled in a finer time, intended for civilised gatherings, chamber music, ice cream socials – now clumsily white-washed for easy sterilization. Even these lesser monuments to a better age were carelessly diminished, and Bertram would never be whole again.

I swallowed, my eyes still firmly upon the wall.

‘There we are,’ Dr. Storey said, and straightened, snapping his leather bag shut with a satisfied click. ‘I’ll be back in the morning for a second dose. We shall be doing this dosage three times a day for ten days. It was the six day mark where I went wrong with the last chap, you see.’ He was speaking to the nurse, who met his gaze with keen professional interest. ‘Ran out. The trouble with this substance is that it seems to work too well too quickly, so you think you’re out of the woods by day three or four, but it takes a bit longer, it seems, for the bacteria to be eradicated completely, and if you fall down on the job before you see the thing through, it comes back full force and finishes the patient. For a time we were only testing on children, because we simply couldn’t produce enough of the substance to cure an adult, but I rather think I’ve worked that bit out now. Anyway, see you in the morning, nurse. Jeeves?’

He was facing me now, clearly expecting me to drive him to wherever it was he intended to go. I admit I hesitated; the thought of leaving Bertram, helpless and unconscious, mere moments after regaining him was appalling. Nevertheless, I had offered my service to Dr. Storey for Bertram’s sake, and, rationally, I knew there was nothing that I could actually do for him. I could not even touch him, and since visiting hours were well over, there was no possibility that I would be allowed to remain anyway.

I bowed my head and said, ‘Good night, my Lord.’

As we wound our way through the labyrinth of beds, I heard again that hoarse voice calling my name.

‘Reggie!’ Charlie said. I paused at his side after a nod from Dr. Storey, and he reached out a hand to lightly pluck my sleeve. ‘How does Bertie look?’

I faltered in my response.

‘His Lordship is quite unwell, Lieutenant Vernon,’ I said. ‘However, Dr. Storey here has devised an experimental treatment that may well see his Lordship through.’

Charlie smiled. It was an endearing smile, with a small, almost childish gap between his front teeth.

‘That’s wonderful, Reggie,’ he said. ‘I don’t mind saying I’ve been terribly worried. He still owes my mother a visit, you know. She’d be absolutely devastated if he let her down.’

I assured him that I did know, and then bid him good night.

‘See you tomorrow, I bet,’ Charlie said, and settled himself, slowly and painfully, back into his thin pillow.

‘See you tomorrow, Lieutenant Vernon,’ I said.

I drove Dr. Storey to a nearby hotel, so nearby, in fact, that driving was unnecessary. There, we each secured a room for two weeks. He retired to his at once without a word to me, which was just as well, as I had no desire for company nor conversation.

I attempted to find sustenance, as I had not eaten since I broke my fast that morning, but, being a coastal city, Bournemouth abides by strict blackout regulations and no restaurants were available. Therefore, that particular night, one might say that repose was my repast. Or one could say that, had I managed sufficient repose, which I did not. Instead I lay awake for most of the night, my heart hammering within its confines, my body electric. Bertram, though almost like a waxwork figure of himself, was near, alive, and possibly going to continue that way. Awaiting my return to the hospital was nearly unbearable, but then, at one time or another, we are each called upon to bear that which cannot be borne.

With the dawn I rose, and sought out a meal. Places were open, food was found, and I can hardly remember more than that. As our hotel was within easy walking distance of the hospital, Dr. Storey did not require my services, and I found myself loitering outside the hospital like common idle riff-raff, with nothing to do and nowhere to be. The Doctor came, nodded to me, and swept in without holding the door. I followed, as confidently as I could, knowing that while visiting hours were still twenty minutes away, I would likely be permitted in his wake.

I guessed correctly, and not a single soul questioned my presence there.

This time Charlie was asleep, and I slipped past him with haste. I had no interest in engaging in conversation with him at that time. Doctor Storey was already at Bertram’s bedside, and the same nurse from the previous night was changing the bandages on Bertram’s leg.

‘His fever’s gone down a bit today,’ the nurse was saying when I arrived.

‘Excellent, excellent,’ Dr. Storey said, and then, a bit louder: ‘We’ll get you back to the rackets yet, eh, Bertie?’

‘Do you know him, Doctor?’ the nurse asked.

‘Oh, a bit, a bit. We were up at Oxford together for a time.’

To my surprise, the nurse gave a derisive snort. This response so befuddled me I turned to observe her more closely, and nearly at once a thought occurred to me of which I could not divest myself – that the nurse rather resembled Mrs. Parkhurst, if Mrs. Parkhurst had dark hair instead of fair, and I realised with a jolt that this must be Phyllis Scholfield, Bertram’s second niece.

I did not know quite what to make of this revelation, and so I put it aside for another time and turned my attention to Bertram, which was where it longed to be.

I could not help but notice the change. He had a touch of colour in his cheeks, and his slumber, though still impenetrable, appeared to have a shade more life in it than it had the night before. His breath was not so shallow, for one thing, and at times I felt that I could see his eyes flicking to and fro beneath the lids. Once, as Doctor Storey was administering the second dose with whatever dreadful instrument he used, Bertram’s brow furrowed, and his head turned slightly to the left, as though, somewhere through the mists, he could feel the sting of it.

‘All right!’ Dr. Storey said. ‘That’s done, then. I’ll pop back in about lunchtime. Cheerio.’ And out he swept. The nurse – Phyllis – remained behind, and so did I. She finished with Bertram’s fresh bandages, and flicked the rough blanket back over his leg, then, turning toward her next charge, she caught sight of me and jumped.

‘Oh Hell,’ she said, then narrowed her eyes, peering up at me in a manner most reminiscent of Bertram’s old friend Mrs. Pinker, née Byng. ‘What are you doing here? Aren’t you the doctor’s man?’

‘No, indeed miss,’ I said, bowing my head. ‘I am your uncle’s man, Jeeves.’

She let out a sharp laugh. ‘Damn! You’re the one my mother tried to marry, until Uncle Bertie ticked her off.’

‘That is correct, miss.’

‘Margaret told me all about it. Funniest damned thing I’ve heard in ages! You dodged a full missile barrage there, my man,’ she said.

‘I do not doubt it, miss,’ I said, and she laughed again. ‘Your mother sends her love, miss.’

‘Yes, I suppose she does. All right, I’ve got about five hundred bandages to change, so I’d best be off. Are you planning to stay for a bit? I’ll have an orderly bring you a chair. I have to warn you; it won’t be very entertaining. Old Uncle Bertie seems perfectly content to sleep his life away, the lazy git. Although I suppose the fever and the morphine may play a role. The doctor has dialed back the morphine for today, though, so we’ll see what comes of it! Toodle-pip, Mr. Jeeves.’

True to her word, an orderly appeared only moments later with a rickety pinewood chair, the sort a schoolboy might tilt precariously back in during a particularly tedious mathematics lesson. I settled myself at Bertram’s head and indulged myself in his unmitigated presence.

As I noted before, his breath was deep and steady, no longer the frail, shallow wheeze of the previous day. I took a great chance and placed a hand upon his. Unwise, I know, but I could not resist the urge to touch him. Had we been alone, I might well have climbed into the narrow bed beside him; indeed, it was all that I could think about, but I contented myself with the touch of a hand upon his, no longer vanish’d, but materialised, firm and real, and tantalisingly within my grasp.

It was warm, but not disturbingly so. His fever, as Nurse Scholfield had said, was waning. For the first time since I learned of his misfortune, I permitted myself a flicker of hope. Moved, I spoke without thought.

‘He rode all unarmed,’ I found myself reciting, my voice unusually tremulous, ‘and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, there never was a knight like the young–’

‘Would you like some tea, then?’ Nurse Scholfield asked, stomping by me, her arms full of soiled bandages.

‘I would, miss. Thank you.’

She nodded.

‘I’ll get someone to send some over.’

I took a moment to bask in my relief that she was not proposing to bring it herself after disposing of the bandages, and then returned my attention to Bertram.

There has been much that I have longed to say to him over the past two years. Some of it I have written, and some of what I have written he has read, but during his absence I told myself that there are things that can only be said correctly when we are face to face – and yet, in that moment, I found that my voice faltered. My mind failed me. There were no words of my own that I could possibly put into coherent order. He had been gone for so long, and was, even still, not quite returned. I have heard that men who are in a coma can still hear, but I do not know if I believe it. Furthermore, I do not know if Bertram’s state would constitute a coma.

I am a self-taught man, Rebecca. All the knowledge I possess is stolen, pilfered in scraps during brief spare moments, torn from Masters’ books, from the odd wet afternoon in the library of a great house whilst the family is out for the day, here and there, pieced together like a beggar’s ragged cloak. I have done my best to acquire the sort of education that I always desired, but it has been a poor, paltry affair. The longer I live and the more I learn, the less, I realise, do I actually understand.

I could not actually speak to him anyway, even had I found the words. There were men to the left of us, men to the right of us, wounded soldiers groaning, or sleeping, or tossing ribald jokes at one another over cards. There were nurses and orderlies, doctors, visiting wives and mothers and sisters. The wives, embracing their wounded husbands, kissing them fervently, drew my eye and my resentment – not, I must admit, that I would be interested in kissing him within the public eye, even were it a possibility. I have never conducted myself so flagrantly, and neither is Bertram generally given to public expressions of ardour.

What I did have at my disposal was a book. Specifically, The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, which I had brought with me thinking Bertram might enjoy reading it after visiting hours. Instead, I opened myself, gently so as not to crease the spine, and began to read aloud.

‘“I am afraid, Watson, that I shall have to go,” said Holmes, as we sat down together to our breakfast one morning.’

I read to him quietly for some time before the promised orderly arrived with a pallid cup of lukewarm tea, which I dispensed with quickly, more out of courtesy than desire.

As I drank, however, a small miracle occurred. Bertram stirred in his drug-induced slumber, turning his head from side to side and murmuring wordlessly. I froze as a hart on a hill, when the huntsman’s rifle as just caught the gleam of a moonbeam, and indulged myself in complete absorption. Briefly, his eyelids parted, and I saw for the first time in fifteen months that flash of perfect blue. His eyes could not focus, however, and his brow furrowed as if in pain, and nearly at once his eyelids fell shut and he passed again into what appeared to be deep repose.

I took up the book, and continued.

‘We all sprang out with the exception of Holmes, who continued to lean back with his eyes fixed upon the sky in front,’ I read. ‘It was only when I touched his arm that he roused himself with a violent start and stepped out of the carriage.’

‘Oh, hullo Jeeves!’

So startled was I by this unexpected salutation that I nearly jumped. I looked up and saw that Dr. Storey had returned. Ordinarily I am deeply aware of the precise passage of time, but in this instance I had lost track of it entirely.

‘Still here, are you? Faithful fellow,’ he said, and set his leather bag down upon the edge of Bertram’s bed. Nurse Scholfield reappeared, and without preamble, she flicked the blanket back from the damaged appendage and began to remove the bandages.

I, having stood reflexively at the doctor’s arrival, remained standing in the offing, awaiting the interlopers’ departure. Dr. Storey was describing, in some detail, the manner  with which he had learned to grow penicillin in corn syrup, when Bertram again began to murmur and shift.

‘Robbie?’ Bertram said, opening his eyes once more. ‘That you, old top?’

‘I haven’t a clue who Robbie is, Bertie,’ Dr. Storey said.

‘A friend of his Lordship’s,’ I said, though I had not been spoken to. My throat was aching with emotion so that it was difficult to enunciate. ‘Also Australian. No doubt his Lordship mistook your voice for his, Dr. Storey.’

Dr. Storey raised an eyebrow but did not reply to me, which was understandable given that I had spoken entirely out of turn.

‘No, not Robbie,’ he said to Bertram. ‘It’s Harry, from Oxford, actually. Remember the rackets, old chum? You’ve got a nasty infection, Bertie. I’m giving you a bit of medicine to get you better.’

But Bertram was not paying Dr. Storey any mind, for upon my statement his half-closed eyes had widened and snapped in my direction, and there they firmly remained.

I gazed back at him, my blood thundering in my ears. I was a mere two feet from him, and yet impossibly far.

‘Jeeves?’ he said.

‘My Lord,’ I replied, a trifle softly, for my breath was coming short. I had nearly forgotten his beauty, the intensity of his open face like the kiss of an early summer sun. I was enraptured by it; overcome, to my dismay, with desire.

His eyes slid closed, and he raised a shaking hand to cover them, and it was is though a cloud had obscured the brilliant sky.

‘No,’ he said, in a tone so like despair it broke my heart to hear it.

‘My Lord?’ I said again, a nameless fear clutching at my throat.

‘No, no,’ he said, with strong conviction this time. ‘Jeeves isn’t here. You’re dreaming, you ass. Jeeves is safe in England.’

It was at this instant that Dr. Storey delivered the next dose in his customary manner, and Bertram gave out a throaty cry of pain.

‘Dash it, John, that’s dreadful,’ he said.

‘It’s Harry,’ Dr. Storey said firmly. ‘And you’re welcome. All right, that’s done, nurse. I’ll return after dinner. If he is as improved by tomorrow morning as I believe he will be, then I shall leave sufficient dosage for the next four days in your capable hands. I should like to return to my lab to produce a greater quantity and to record these results.’

‘Very good, Doctor,’ she said, and set to replacing Bertram’s bandages.

The doctor packed his things, nodded at me, and left. All this time Bertram laid silent, his heavy hand having slid from his closed eyes to lie limply beside his head, palm up beneath loosely curled fingers. Scarcely knowing what I was doing, I took his hand in mine and gently returned it to his side. He did not resist, nor did he stir. Nurse Scholfield shot me a quizzical glance.

‘I would not like for his Lordship’s arm to ache,’ I said.

‘You’re very…’ she frowned at me, as if uncertain what she meant to say. I regarded her with what I hoped was complete dispassion. I was as a storm-churned sea beneath my surface, but I have extensive experience in the schooling of my expression. ‘Loyal,’ she said at last, but was still frowning. She returned to her work.

‘Thank you, miss,’ I said.

‘I don’t really know him,’ she said.

‘I am aware, miss.’

At this she briefly glanced in my direction, but, as I say, only briefly.

‘It was you, wasn’t it? I rather assumed it must have been some other chap, the day we landed in London and Uncle Bertie met us, and brought us to that house he’d bought for us. You’re the same valet he had then.’

‘Yes, miss.’

‘Practically a marriage, what?’ she said. I did not respond. Fortunately, she did not seem to require a response, and continued. ‘I remember how he introduced you, now that I think about it. He told me that he was Uncle Bertie, and then he pointed at you and said, “And this is Uncle Jeeves!” And you sort of coughed and said, “It would be inappropriate, sir, for the young ladies to call me ‘Uncle.’ ‘Mr. Jeeves’ would be the proper form of address.” And Uncle Bertie got a bit miffed I think and asked what the harm could be, and you said something about how the harm would be in giving us a false impression, that you were not our uncle, and never would be. And then Uncle Bertie said, “All right girls, I’m Uncle Bertie, and that over there is Mr. Jeeves, who is not your uncle, and never will be.”’

I had forgotten this exchange entirely; little wonder as it had been so very many years.

‘Your memory is most impressive, miss,’ I said.

‘I remember it because it was dashed odd,’ she snapped. ‘And because it was my first day in England, and everything was dashed odd. So cold, for one thing, and drizzly. I can’t ever seem to get past it, the constant cold ache in one’s bones any time it isn’t high summer.’

‘I do not feel the cold so keenly, miss,’ I said.

She tugged the blanket back over Bertram’s leg and straightened, pressing her hands to the small of her back with a soft groan.

‘You needn’t “miss” me, Mr. Jeeves,’ she said. ‘No one else does. Ha! That was a little joke. Although, like most jokes, there’s a shade of truth in it.’

‘Lord Yaxley missed you, miss,’ I said. ‘Although his Lordship knew little of children, especially girls, and your mother was so deeply under the influence of the late Lady Worplesdon that his Lordship feared too close an association.’

‘Oh, I say,’ she said. ‘Not of fan of Lady Agatha, eh? Perhaps I like Uncle Bertie more than I thought I did. I became a nurse specifically to disappoint her, although the joke was on me because it turns out I have a knack for it. And then of course she went and died without raising hardly any fuss at all. It was all about Margaret and her chauffeur husband. She always did know how to get all of the attention on herself! Dreadful shame. Anyway, lots to do. Best be off. I don’t know much about this substance Dr. Storey is peddling, but so far as I can see, Uncle Bertie might well be awake tomorrow. Absolutely fascinating, really. Enjoy your doglike vigil, Mr. Jeeves.’

‘I shall, miss,’ I said. And then, feeling strangely bold in a manner almost akin to a mania, I said, ‘After so long a separation, it is a pleasure to be again at his side, even if he is not aware of it, miss. I have never felt quite complete otherwise.’

She raised an eyebrow at me, glanced at Bertram, and said, with a disconcerting wink, ‘Or perhaps you were wrong, all those years ago. Perhaps I should call you Uncle Jeeves!’

She barked out a sharp laugh and left without further word.

I do not know why I spoke to plainly to her. There is something about her, I suppose, that invites confidence. It is a trait she shares with her uncle, though clearly she is not aware of it.

The rest of that day was largely unremarkable. Bertram did not wake again, and I left when I was told to, which was before Dr. Storey arrived for the third dose of the day. I was as exhausted as I have ever been, and permitting myself some small hope that all was indeed well, I wrote my brief message to you, and swiftly fell into a deep sleep upon reaching my lodging.

As of this writing, that is all that I know. He may well have awakened, and I cannot know until the doors are unlocked in an hour’s time. I suppose my writing this  unusually lengthy letter has been an attempt on my part to distract myself from the interminable wait. Thank you for providing such an outlet for me. Having risen with the dawn, as is my custom, I may have gone entirely mad otherwise.

Love,

R.

Chapter Text

Dear Ginnie,

Oh, I say. Do I need to call you that now that I am once more restored to England’s green and pleasant land? Let me know. Dash it! I fear I shall miss the old girl when she’s gone. Ginnie, I mean, not England! Though I did miss England, for what it’s worth, and I missed you most terribly, old thing, so if Ginnie is done for then it’s an acceptable sacrifice.

Anyway, I’m home! Well, not quite home, really. I’m in Bournemouth, apparently, though I haven’t seen much of the seaside. Or much of anything outside of a bally big room stocked to the brim with bedfulls of wounded men.

Heavens, I’ve done it again. I’ve gone and started in the middle of the thing, when I should have started a bit earlier. Did anyone happen to mention to you that I’ve just recently been blown up? I mean to say, the luck of the Woosters ran out! I finally met the wrong end of a bomb or something that fell out of a plane and had a crack-up, and by crack-up I mean that my leg is broken, and I’m cut up a bit as well. It’s not bad, really. They tell me I shall lie abed for a few more weeks, then hop about on crutches for a time, and then I shall hobble about with a cane for a bit after that, and then I shall be right as rain.

Do you know, I always wondered what the dickens was meant to be so right about rain when all it does is ruin otherwise perfectly good golfing days, but then I went the better part of a year with only one hour of rain for the lot of it and I do believe I’ve come about. Rain is jolly good for making the aforementioned green and pleasant land so dashed green and pleasant, what? And there’s nothing quite like a rainy day holed up in the old HQ, perhaps hammering a bit of a tune out on the ivories whilst the Object of one’s Affection is just in the other room, messing about with shoes or ties or something.

Where was I?

Oh, yes. I’ve been blown up. It’s all right, old thing. Jolly good, in fact, because now I appear to have been transported by the magic of the fairies of old or some damn thing, all the way from Tobruk to Bournemouth. They tell me I was ill, and I suppose I must have been because all I can remember is a bomb, a bally lot of gunfire, an Italian prisoner, and then the sort of swirling nightmares one dreams up when one’s down with fever from measles or flu or something. Next thing I knew, I opened my eyes, and some Australian chap who wasn’t John at all was doing something unspeakable to my leg. I told him to get his hands off of me and he said, ‘Stiff upper lip, Bertie,’ as if we knew one another, and then biffed off without another word.

I think I can be forgiven for believing that I must be in Africa still. I didn’t know there were any bally Australian doctors in England, you know, but then all of the sudden, my niece Phyllis, of all people, was staring down at me with her hands on her hips saying, ‘Seen fit to grace us with the presence at last, my Lord?’

I didn’t know it was her at first, you see, but there was a certain thingness about her that forced me to ask if we were acquainted, and then I felt a right old ass indeed. I did explain to her that I’ve been rather blown up, and didn’t quite know where I was, and she conceded that that would be sufficient to put anyone out of sorts for a day or two.

It was she who took the moment to inform me what the trouble was with the Wooster limb, and that I was not in Cairo, which was my guess, but rather in Bournemouth. That seemed a bit unlikely to me, and she started to say something else, I think, but then about eighty nine doctors and nurses and I-don’t-know-whats gathered round me with various metal instruments and notebooks and other things, and they were all exclaiming about how terribly extraordinary I am, which, while flattering certainly, doesn’t entirely match the information I’ve received from the general public on the whole throughout the rest of my lifetime. Up until that instant, I’d rather gotten the impression that the world could have done just as well without me, so this was a twist surprising enough to merit a place of honour in any Rex West novel.

I attempted to ask the group en masse what, precisely, is so incredibly wonderful about B. Wooster, Lord Y, Captain in His Majesty’s etc., etc., but no response was forthcoming. They were all much too taken with discussing medical terms that I have never heard before, and prodding at the old leg, oblivious to my repeated expletives on the matter, but after careful consideration of what I heard about me, I concluded that the nub of the thing was that I had been treated with some experimental drug (another, by Jove!) that had snatched me from the very jaws of death.

I admit, I was a little disappointed, but also relieved. A world in which your old master is, in himself, considered extraordinary might be a fascinating one to inhabit, but it would also be fundamentally unsound, as I believe the expression has it.

I decided, ultimately, that as I was a specimen more than a man at the mo., this sort of attention was something simply to be borne rather than to be enjoyed, and I waited them out. I was fortunate enough to find that some forgetful reptile had left a Sherlock Holmes book upon a chair beside my bed, so I determined it would be best to take it up and peruse it for a bit until the crowd thinned out. I’m afraid I became a bit absorbed in the tale, however, and when I looked up from the page I found that I was quite alone – or as alone as one gets in a large room stuffed to the gills with wounded soldiers.

The crux of the thing is that I don’t quite know how long it’s been, I’m afraid, since I was blown up, and I don’t know how everyone else who was tangled up with the bomb that night made out, which does concern me, but I suppose all of that will be illuminated with time. If it has been a bit of a stretch, then I am sorry indeed for the lapse in letters. No doubt you were beside yourself.

I did happen to find a bag beside my bed with some of my things in it, including this rather rumpled paper and my trusty old stub of pencil that has seen me through so much of this conflict, with a little help from Robbie’s Italian stiletto or my bayonet, when dullness necessitated sharpening action. I am a bit concerned that I can’t seem to find all of my things, such as your letter, and your photographs, and Robbie’s harmonica. You know I kept those particular artefacts in my breast pocket, and now I fear they may have fallen into the sand when I fell, and are likely gone forever, alas.

Anyway, as usual I’ve wandered away from the point, which is this: I am somewhere in Bournemouth, my dear, and I would be most deeply grateful if you would come and

*

Dear Rebecca,

Bertram was awake and sitting upright when I arrived this morning. What is more, he was actively engaged in writing a letter to inform me of his whereabouts, apparently unaware that I was already in Bournemouth and have been for days.

The sight of him, alert and writing in his narrow bed, will be a memory that I cherish for the rest of my days. I admit I did not expect it. When Nurse Scholfield told me that he might wake today, I never imagined that meant that he would be so fully himself. I expected much more incremental improvement after all that he has suffered, but I suppose that is precisely what Dr. Storey means when he says that the substance he has created works with almost miraculous speed. I can indeed understand why it would be tempting to cease treatment at this juncture and preserve the remaining supply, but that would evidently be potentially fatal.

He was writing with deep concentration and did not notice me at first. I took advantage of this to study him, to appreciate and enjoy the evident vigour of his movements, so vastly improved from yesterday. After a few moments passed, however, I judged that it was unfair for me to maintain my presence without alerting him of the fact, and I coughed gently.

The response was rather amusing. He looked up from his sheet of paper and beheld me. His eyes grew wide with shock, and he cried out wordlessly. The paper and the small pencil he’d been clutching between his thumb and two fingers both flew into the air, the pencil clattering upon the floor somewhere in the distance, and the paper wafting down to land upon my feet. I saw at the top the heading, ‘Dear Ginnie,’ and my heart grew warm within my chest.

I bent and lifted the letter from its resting place and said, ‘Shall I post this for you, my Lord?’

‘No, no, Jeeves,’ he replied, a bright smile adorning his face. ‘I shan’t be needing it now. I suppose I should have known you’d be here already, old thing. Performing your wonders, and all that.’

‘Nevertheless,’ I said, folding it and slipping it into my breast pocket, ‘I shall see to it that it reaches its intended recipient.’

He was still smiling. He was thin, sunburned, sandy. He was trembling slightly with weakness from his illness and his injury, from his months of deprivation – but he was smiling.

‘This was all your doing, wasn’t it?’ he said, that familiar canny gleam in his eye. ‘I can’t begin to imagine how you did it, but you got me home and fixed me up with that experimental what’s-it. Don’t deny it, Jeeves. I know a satisfied arch of the Jeevesian eyebrow when I see it.’

‘I was merely doing my duty, my Lord,’ I said. ‘Is there anything else that you require?’

‘I should think that there is, Jeeves. First, I require that you knock off calling me “My Lord” as though I’m some manner of Spode or Worplesdon or some similar slithering beast of the underworld. It doesn’t sound at all as though you are addressing the O.M. and I find it distasteful. And secondly, I require that you sit down as close beside me as you can and never leave my side again, even for an instant, if that is convenient to you.’

‘Your second command is easily and eagerly obeyed, my Lord, but to the first I must issue a regretful nolle prosequi, I am afraid. It would be highly improper for me to address you in any other manner, particularly when we are so very surrounded by humanity. My Lord.’

‘Yes, yes, all right, all right, just pull up the old chair and sit, my dear,’ he said,  with a touch more volume than I would have preferred, and I did so.

The very moment that I was seated, dizzyingly close, Bertram lunged forward in his bed and kissed me, directly upon the mouth.

It was brief, no more than an instant of contact, but the effect that it had upon me was immense. Had we been alone I might have wept. I might have thrown myself upon him and trailed frantic kisses across his face, pale and wan though it was from the ravages of his recent illness. I might have cradled him in my arms and sworn upon my mother’s grave to never let him go again.

We were not alone, however, not by a wide margin, and the horror of that moment, the terror, but the overwhelming desire that swamped me as well – one tantalising touch of he whom had occupied my dreams and my nightmares alike over years of solitude – it was more than a mere mortal should be expected to bear.

‘That was extraordinarily unwise, my Lord,’ I murmured over the thunder of my pounding heart. Surreptitiously, I gauged the expressions of those near us for reaction. Miraculously, it appeared that no nurses were in the vicinity, and all of the beds about us were occupied by men who were, for the moment, asleep, or reading, or otherwise entirely consumed with their own concerns.

‘Yes, well, you can’t go falling in love with God’s most cherished idiot and then gasp in shock when he does something stupid,’ he replied, with far less chagrin than I felt his recent action warranted. ‘If you ask me, this one’s on you, old top. Besides, no healthy, red-blooded – or blue-blooded, for that matter – man who has been at the front for two years could possibly be expected to suddenly come athwart – if athwart is the word I want – of the Adored Object after so long a separation and be expected to behave himself entirely, what? I say, old thing, did you know that you’ve got a touch more grey about the temples than you had before? Dashed charming, I must say. I have the most dreadful urge to stroke them. Your temples, I mean. Though perhaps not merely your temples. Oh, I say. I do apologise. I am not entirely myself, I think.’

‘You have been most gravely ill, my Lord,’ I said, struggling to maintain my sangfroid. ‘And no doubt there is still a significant amount of morphine in your system.’

‘So what you’re saying is that I’m fried to the gills on the hardest stuff the British government can supply? Yes, that rings true, I fear, based on the condish of the old melon. Perhaps you’d better scoot that little chair of yours a bit farther away, Jeeves, else I cannot be held responsible for my actions.’

I did as he requested, despite the ache in my heart at the increased distance.

When I looked up, I found that he was staring at me, that radiant smile alighting upon his lips again.

‘Do you know, you’re awfully nice to look at, and all that. I’d almost forgotten.’

‘As had I, my Lord.’

‘I say, when are we going home, Jeeves?’

‘I cannot say, my Lord.’

‘Because I’d really rather enjoy the opportunity to get you to myself for a couple of ticks, what? Drop the old master and servant act, what what?’

‘Indeed, that would be most pleasant, my Lord. Once you are healed sufficiently, my Lord.’

‘No chance of your dropping the “my Lord” business?’

‘I am afraid not, my Lord.’

‘You couldn’t go back to “sir,” just for a bit?’

‘It would be most inappropriate, my Lord, in mixed company.’

‘Oh, right-ho then. You know best.’ A pained look came across his face. ‘Oh, I say.  Not to cast a pall over our much-anticipated reunion, my dear, but I don’t suppose you heard – of course you didn’t, why would you? But all the same, I don’t suppose you heard whether old Charlie made it or not? Only, I wasn’t quite certain, when I got hold of him back there – in the desert, I mean, by Carrier Hill; did you hear about that? You did? Oh, right-ho then. I only mean that I couldn’t quite tell if he was breathing when I was pulling him back, and I hadn’t time, really, what with the gunner and all–’

‘Lieutenant Vernon is alive, recovering well, and currently occupying a bed in this very ward, not thirty feet from you, my Lord,’ I said. ‘Thanks, of course, to your gallant efforts, my Lord. You were, to paraphrase the poet Longfellow, a hero in the strife.’

He gaped at me.

‘Well, that’s marvelous, old thing! Absolutely bally brilliant!’ He craned his head past me, and I admit I felt a touch of jealousy. We had only just reunited, and he was searching the room for someone else.

I stamped it down. There was no justification for such emotion and I knew it.

‘I would be delighted, my Lord, to inquire from an informed party whether either you or Lieutenant Vernon are recovered enough to be moved a short distance, perhaps in a wheelchair, in order to visit one another.’

‘Oh, Jeeves, could you?’ he said. ‘I would be grateful indeed.’

I bowed my head and did so, taking the counsel of the better angels of my nature, most notably that particular angel who has so sweetly guided me these last fifteen years, and who has never, in all our time together, made a single comment of censure on my choice of activity to occupy myself, nor on the company I keep when we are parted.

I found a doctor, white-coated and distracted, and addressed him with as much respect as the circumstances allowed.

‘Doctor,’ I began, with a bow of my head.

His gaze swept swiftly over me and he said, ‘You’re the Earl of Yaxley’s man.’

‘Yes, Doctor. The Captain the Earl of Yaxley would like to know if it would be possible for Lieutenant Vernon to be brought to his Lordship’s bedside in a wheelchair. I would provide the labour necessary, Doctor.’

The doctor frowned for a moment. ‘Lieutenant Vernon? Oh, yes. That’s the chap from Tobruk with the leg and the chest, right? Yes, I think that would be all right, provided he can be moved most gently. It’s about time he gets a bit of exertion anyway. We don’t want bedsores. Tell me, man, are you planning to stay here for the duration of the Earl’s recovery? You haven’t anything better to do with your time?’

‘Caring for Lord Yaxley is my profession,’ I said.

‘All right, then. I suppose you know what you’re about. It would be a bit of a relief if you would, honestly. We’re perpetually short on staff and a patient of Yaxley’s position requires more attention than we’re capable of sparing.’

‘I would be delighted to serve his Lordship in any manner possible, Doctor,’ I said.

‘Right. Excellent. We’ve got three wheelchairs in the alcove by the canteen over there. Grab one and see what you can do with Vernon. If it works out, you might give him an airing in the back garden as well. There’s a good chap. Can’t move Yaxley yet, I’m afraid. Maybe tomorrow. I say, that substance of Storey’s is remarkable, isn’t it? Not that you’d understand it, of course, but take my word for it. It’s remarkable.’

‘I’m certain it is, Doctor,’ I said, and bowed myself from his presence.

As Bertram would say, to then acquire a wheelchair and bring it to Charles Vernon’s bedside was for me the work of a moment. He was playing solitaire on his lap with a very worn deck when I approached him, and he looked up to my quiet cough with gentle confusion.

‘Reggie!’ he said. ‘I didn’t see you come in! How’s Bertie? Rumour has it he’s awake.’

‘The Captain the Earl of Yaxley is indeed awake, sir,’ I said.

Lieutenant Vernon grimaced slightly. ‘You’re not one of my men, Reggie. We’re pals, aren’t we?’

‘Not here, sir.’ To his answering frown I said, ‘For the time being it would be best if you referred to me as “Jeeves.” Now, sir, if you feel strong enough, Captain the Earl of Yaxley has requested your presence. His Lordship would like to visit with you, but his Lordship is not yet capable of rising from the bed. Would you be amenable to vacating your own bed and placing yourself in this wheelchair, with my assistance, sir?’

‘What? Oh! Yes, that would be wonderful, Reggie!’ He tidied up his cards with haste and tossed the blankets from his pyjama-clad legs. ‘I mean Jeeves. Ha. If you would be so kind as to put your arm about me, I think I can heave myself over with support, all right?’

‘Of course, sir.’

We managed with little difficulty, and I wheeled Lieutenant Vernon to Bertram’s side.

Once again, I must admit that what I witnessed at the moment of their reunion cut me, for the instant they were within reach, they fell upon each other like brothers, in a full and hearty embrace that lasted some moments.

‘I thought for certain you were dead, old top,’ Bertram said.

‘I thought you were done for, Bertie,’ Vernon said. ‘You saved my life, old man.’

‘You’d have done the same for me, what?’

I stood in the offing, forgotten. The camaraderie of their shared ordeal was palpable. I felt in that moment that I had no hope of penetrating it. That, after all that we had suffered, I had lost him anyway.

Then their embrace broke at last, and Bertram looked up at me, his smile unwavering, childlike in its sincerity, as it always has been, and he said, ‘Jeeves! You’ve met Charlie? Does he pass muster, old thing? Charlie, this is Jeeves.’ Bertram dropped his voice and continued, ‘My light at night, my shade at noon, and all that, don’t you know.’ His eyes upon mine were alight with a gleam of adoration.

‘Oh, yes,’ Charlie said, flashing a grin at me from his chair. ‘We met days ago. He’s been here every waking moment and then some. You’ve got a right one there, Bertie, even if he isn’t so beautiful as Helen!’

Bertram’s sunken cheeks burned crimson for a moment and he said, with some evident indignation, ‘Forgive me, old chap, but I do not bandy Jeeves about that way. Please forgive Charlie, Jeeves. He has the manners of an Aberdeen terrier. He’s been in an army camp for too long, but I daresay Helen will set him straight once she gets hold of him. Isn’t that right, Charlie?’

‘You don’t know the half of it, Reggie,’ he said, sheepishly.

Bertram then turned the conversation then toward the absent Helen, and when she would appear, and then to Libya, and what news there might be, and when their friends might evacuate, and would they meet again. They chatted easily, as ever Bertram had with any of his young, carefree friends from Oxford, before all of this.

As I observed their conversation, the miracle of our existence impressed itself upon me, and the ugly sliver of jealousy slipped from my heart. If I could have wept, or fallen to my knees, I might have done so, but instead I simply stood, and listened. Much is taken, to quote Tennyson, but much abides, and though Bertram may never be whole again – though neither of us might, after all that we have suffered, yet we persist, and whatever we are now will, I believe, be greater for the struggle.

I do not know how long we shall be in Bournemouth. I do not know what we shall do when we are released from hospital. I do not know if Bertram will be discharged from service, if his wound is severe enough, or if he will again be required to serve when he has recovered.

Scio me nihil scire. I know that I know nothing. I know nothing, and all is well.

Love,

R.

*

Dear Aunt Dahlia,

What-ho, aged A! Much have I traveled in the Realms of Gold, and now it seems I have bid adieu to the bonny shores of Libya and returned to England at last, trailing clouds of – well, I’m not certain what, exactly. Certainly not glory, what? Sand, I suppose. Trailing clouds of sand. I’m certainly prepared to fill my lap with pleasures of my own, or however the bally thing goes. I say! Reggie is right here, regal in his bearing and his eyes gleaming with intelligence. I shall ask him at once.

He says I’ve got it right! And he goes on to say that he considers ‘clouds of glory’ to be entirely accurate, but we may agree to disagree, for the sake of peace in the Wooster home.

I feel dashed awful, I don’t mind telling you. Weak as a newborn kitten. I’ve already had to take three breathers just in the writing of these few lines. Long gone is the strong man in his prime who dashed off those jaunty lines on ‘What the Well-Dressed Man is Wearing’ in a matter of hours! Or days, perhaps. Who can say. We are not now that strength that timty-tommed and tiddly-pommed, as as the fellow said.

‘Which in the old days moved Earth and Heaven, my Lord,’ Reggie says. He’s reading this over my shoulder as I write it. Whatever did I do without him?

I gather that I have been quite ill, actually. I don’t remember a blasted thing, I’m afraid, after the raid on the gunner’s posish by Carrier Hill. Jeeves says you know all about it. Apparently everyone in the British Isles knows, thanks to Hector and his trusty typewriter! I’ll give him a piece of my mind when I get a chance. Which will probably be quite a long time, now that I think of it.

Dash it, I’m so very used to all of those chaps simply being about, don’t you know. Old Charlie oiling around the Post Office, and Hector heckling the lads by the ack-acks at the water distillation plant, Robbie having a long lie-down in the cemetery, and Archie in the hospital arguing with John – when he wasn’t letting a passing messerschmitt have it with his blasted machine gun, and none of us having a single thing to do other than to dodge the bombs and write letters and ooze about. It was a rather small world for a time there, Aged A. Odd to think it’s over now, without so much as a farewell drink.

Anyway, I remember dragging some wounded coves back to safety and capturing the gunner, which was easy as anything, really, because he hadn’t a side arm and the second he saw us all about him he threw up his hands and said, ‘Is my war over?’ with rather too much enthusiasm for a chap who had just been taken prisoner by the enemy.

Although, I suppose I can see the sense in it. There were times when all of us thought it might just be nicer to sit out the rest of the hostilities in a POW camp somewhere far from the front lines, though of course, the feeling always passed.

Where was I?

Jeeves, peering over my shoulder whilst I write, says, ‘You were, my Lord, at the moment when, with all your banners bravely spread, and all your armour flashing high, Saint George himself might have wakened from the dead to see fair England’s standards fly,’ but I think it’s more along the lines of the moment when I sneaked up on the gunner chap and spooked him. I hadn’t any banners for one thing, or armour, now that I think of it, as I’m pretty sure the old helmet popped off when the bomb hit. Must have forgotten to fasten the chin strap, fathead that I am. Probably half-buried in some dune now, blast it.

So we’d done that, and Jeeves says it was something called adrena-something that kept me from noticing my bally leg until then, but all of the sudden it ached like the dickens and I thought I rather wanted a rest. Somewhere, hazily in the distant portions of my mind, I knew that I still had quite a distance to go before I was home safe, as it were, but I simply couldn’t be reasoned with, and I lay the Wooster corpus down upon the cooling desert sand and let the eyes fall shut, not a care in the world, save the dreadful fury of my mangled limb.

Then there follows a good lot of confusion that I can’t even begin to make sense of. Swirling darkness and bombs going off all about and monsters, I think. Or planes? Monsters and planes and dashed big guns and a lot of nonsense. Once the old bean stopped swirling at last, I came to learn that I had been air-lifted straight from Egypt and treated with some sort of experimental potion or something that Reggie arranged, and now I guess I’m home!

Dashed odd to fall asleep in a desert in Libya and wake up in a converted social-hall in Bournemouth, what? Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I’ve never been a complaining sort, and I certainly don’t plan to start now that I’m well out of the fell clutch of circumstance that I previously found myself in.

Please don’t worry a bit about me, old relative. I’m in England, which I still can’t believe, well on the road to recovery, and I’ve got my man with me. If ever God were in his bally kingdom, then he certainly must be now.

Reggie himself seems almost delirious with joy. You wouldn’t know it to look at him, of course, but I have not lost the knack of reading his subtle expressions, and I cannot help but note that both eyebrows sit an eighth of an inch higher than is their customary resting place, and that both corners of his mouth are set at an angle of approximately 170 degrees, which is really saying something.

Now he is arguing – quite strenuously – that he is far from delirious, but so far this morning he has quoted, by my count, every single poem about brave knights and heroic soldiers that has ever been written in the English language. Or the Scots. It’s enough to make me regret going to war entirely. Had I known Reggie would get it into his oversized, fish-fed head that I’m some sort of blasted hero, I never would have done it in the first place.

Anyway, I’ll be holed up here for another two weeks, it seems, and then I’ll be turned out to pasture. Not permanently, I fear. I get three month’s leave, which is sufficient, so they say, for this wound.

The old army’s not done with me yet, so I hear, though they haven’t quite decided what to do with me. Certainly not the front lines again, I gather, so that’s something. I’m too mangled for combat, but not too mangled for general use.

Oh, and I’m a Major now! Although I suppose I’ve been a major for some time, haven’t I? A major thorn in your side, what?

Not certain when I’ll make it to Brinkley, but trust I shall be there with bells on the moment I am reasonably mobile.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Reginald,

I will not write at length. I do not wish to distract you from your reunion. I will say only that I am delighted to hear that he is home, and recovering. Roger wishes me to tell you that he and his brothers can manage the harvest without you. He says that he feels stronger than he has in years, and that he can work from dawn to dusk without tiring, so light is his heart. I have my doubts, but I appreciate the sentiment.

Please give Bertie my love. We will meet again when he is able.

Love,

Rebecca

*

Dear Bertie,

It does these old bones good to hear that you’re home and well on the road and all that. I was planning to take the train down to London soon to kick Winnie in the pants, but it seems that I can cancel those plans, which is just as well, since I don’t travel so well at my age.

I mean to say, honestly; the people they get to run the country these days!

Do come to Brinkley whenever you’re able. Your sister lives in town now and while it’s grand to have her out from underfoot, she really isn’t so bad when you get used to her. She is full of high talk about reforming Parky but it’s rather going the other way, if you ask me. He’s almost made a normal person out of her; it’s remarkable to witness.

It would be like old times to see the two of you together. I think it would please your old parents to no end.

Oh, and Maudie wants me to mention that, as the Dowager, she deserves to inspect the new Lord Yaxley, whenever you’ve got a moment to spare. Make sure you aren’t letting the side down and all that. I tactfully refrained from telling her that you’ve already done more to honour the Yaxley name in your few months with the title than old George did in thirty years, God rest his soul.

Love,

Aunt Dahlia

*

Dear Reggie,

Ethel told me what you did for Bertie. I always said he’d picked a good one – or I thought it, at least. Bertie never had an ounce of sense in his life and I despaired for the boy, honestly, but he showed rare discernment when he attached himself to you, and if it’s the only wise thing he does in all his years, I think it’s enough.

Well done, thou good and faithful servant. Well done. An Aunt’s blessing be upon you, my dear boy.

Love,

Aunt Dahlia

*

Dear Jessie,

I know you’re absolutely knackered from your night shift, so I shan’t wake you, but I am bursting with news and I simply must tell you. I had hoped you’d still be up when I woke this morning, but since you aren’t, I suppose this note will have to suffice.

All of the suspicions we’ve concocted regarding the Old Gent and His Man over the past several weeks are spot on! It all happened round about four in the P.M. yesterday, when I slipped out for my afternoon gasper. You know Dr. Bridge’s opinions on nurses smoking, so I thought I’d tuck myself away into the old hiding spot in the garden – you know the one, you saucy wench. Well, I was just edging myself around the privet when I heard an odd sound, like a sort of a gasp, and then what should I behold but the Old Gent and His Man, well-ensconced in our favourite place of concealment, and locked in the most passionate embrace I have ever had the misfortune of stumbling upon. I mean to say, Jessie. You wouldn’t think the old dears had it in them, to look at them, but apparently they do.

It was nothing indecent, mind you, but the Old Gent’s crutches were discarded against the trunk of a tree and both hats were flung carelessly upon the ground. The Man seemed to be supporting the Old Gent’s weight entirely, which is good, since he really mustn’t be putting strain on that leg just yet. I mean to say, a bit of exercise is certainly beneficial at this stage of the recovery process, but

Sorry, I know. No shop talk, what?

Don’t worry – I backed out instantly, and took it upon myself to stand a bit away,  safely out of earshot, as a sort of guard, don’t you know, whilst I had my smoke. I was rather surprised they found the spot so swiftly; it took you and I a few weeks, didn’t it? But then, I suppose when you’ve been engaged in a top-secret affaire de coeur for as long as they have, you get rather good at zeroing in on secret spots, don’t you? One does feel for these old chaps, doesn’t one?

I hadn’t even finished the thing when they ambled out, perfectly put together, not a hair out of place. You’d never know. They’re old hands, Jessie. We could learn a thing or two.

Now The Gent had his crutches back and was hobbling along rather clumsily, and The Man had one hand on The Gent’s waist and one on his elbow, and it was all rather sweet, honestly. When they caught sight of me, The Man tipped his (spotless) hat at me and said, ‘Good afternoon, miss. The Doctor suggested that I take his Lordship out for a walk in the garden. It was conveyed to me that it would help improve his Lordship’s circulation.’

Well, you know what a dreadful mouth I’ve got, and I came within a hair’s breadth of saying, ‘Oh, yes, I suppose you’re an expert at getting his Lordship’s blood to pump,’ but I bit it off  – you’d be proud – and instead I simply smiled and said, ‘Yes, non-strenuous exercise is invaluable at this point in the recovery process.’ Quite professional, don’t you think?

They both smiled, the very picture of polite old men, and toddled off. I wanted to run straight home and tell you all about it at once, and when you came in at eight I tried to find a moment to talk, but then that chap with the head wound arrested so it was all off. And then, of course, I was sleeping when you got home, and you’re sleeping now that I’m off. Honestly, these night shifts are the very devil, my dear, and you’ve got to knock it off.

I suppose we know for certain why the Old Gent was so irate when Mother tried to marry The Man! Had I a brother, forsooth, and he attempted to marry you, I’d lay him out.

Have a lovely day off, my darling. I’ll see you this evening and we’ll dish whilst we spoon, what?

Love,

Phyllis

*

Dear Archie,

What-ho, old man! Just snapping off a quick missive to let you and all the other lads know that I’m safe in England and well on the road to recovery – thanks, in no small part, to all of your efforts. Reggie has filled me in on everything you and John and our good chaps did to get me and Charlie and the rest of the wounded out safely. Thank you sincerely, old man. And do give my deepest thanks to the rest of the company, and to John for putting the old body back together whilst being bombed. Of course we all knew he was capable; steadiest hands in North Africa, what?

I’m dashed delighted to be posting this little note to Cairo, old thing! I cannot express my relief at the news that you’ve all been successfully evacuated. The question, I suppose, is what’s next? I doubt they’ll let you go anytime soon, and I suppose it would be too much to ask that they move John’s medical unit along to wherever you end up. You’ll likely have to make due with letters from here on out and I’m sorry for it. You know that I know what a dashed lot of bother it is to be separated. Still, perhaps it will do you a bit of good; awfully difficult to argue by post. Reggie and I did manage it a bit, but with the time between letters, hot feelings do tend to cool, and all those things that seemed so dreadfully important before begin to fade, and one begins to recall what actually matters.

Reggie tells me you mean to retire to Australia and I’m all for it, old top. I haven’t been there myself, but I’ve knocked around enough corners of this old world to know that wherever one’s heart rests can easily become one’s home. Perhaps Reggie and I will come for a visit sometime when all this is done; I gather there’s prime fishing to be had off the coast, and there’s nothing that gets the hearts of the Jeeves’s pounding quite like pitting oneself against the bones and sinews of a mighty shark or shrimp, or something. Not my cup of tea, precisely, but you know how it is.

As for myself, I’ve been promoted to Major, I’m afraid, and I’m going to be posted to some sort of training camp up north once I’m back on my feet. Desert warfare for new recruits. Jolly fun, it sounds. Apparently I’m one of Britain’s foremost experts on the subject now, which is enough to chill one’s very bones, what what? And since I’m no good for the frontlines, my body being already ground up and thus no longer suitable for the old meat grinder, I suppose this is the best thing they can think to do with me. I did ask, on Reggie’s rec., and apparently it’s A-OK for me in this instance to bring a manservant along, which is a bally relief I can tell you. They were a little on the fence, as it were, about a civilian but I informed them that he is a requirement, due to my newly acquired limitations, and they conceded the point.

Anyway, tinkerty-tonk, old man. Do let me know if they cycle you back home any time. Reggie and I will take you out to lunch. And thank you again, Archie. For everything. We might have had a choppy time of it, but when all is s. and d., it was an honour to be your right-hand man.

Love,

Bertie

*

Dear Bertie,

It is certainly a relief to be out of Tobruk, I can tell you. Our time in Cairo has been one big party, and to be honest, the boys are looking worse now than they did in Libya. All’s well, though, and we’re all going back to England soon. I myself have been made Lieutenant Colonel, and will, as it happens, be commanding a training camp for desert warfare somewhere outside of York. I imagine that this is no coincidence. It seems the upper echelons have decided that we work well together, Bertie, so you shan’t be getting rid of me just yet.

John is headed to Syria next, I’m afraid, after an additional month of leave in Cairo, though if Japan makes a move against us, as it seems they might, there’s a good chance he’ll be needed back in Australia, since they may have a front of their own at some point in the near future.

We haven’t discussed it, really. Not much to say. But I will heed your words, old man. I know you understand, perhaps better than I do, what lies before us.

I will most certainly take you up on lunch. I know you and Reggie are good for it.

No need to respond. I’ll see you soon, old man. And Reggie too, of course.

Love,

Archie

*

Dear Rebecca,

Yesterday morning I brought Bertram home. He cannot yet walk without crutches, but he improves daily. I was finally able to wash the sand out of his hair and trim it properly, though we still must avoid wetting his wounded leg, which created quite a challenge, but a challenge I was honoured to meet.

Afterward, I dressed him in the blue suit with the thin white line that is, in my opinion, his best. Far superior to the blue suit with the thin red line that he used to cherish, to my dismay. That, I informed him when he inquired, was most unfortunately lost in the blast which damaged our flat in February, along with the scarlet braces and the pink and lavender tie. He accepted that explanation without further comment, and all is well.

Once bathed and dressed, he was able to sit at his piano and play ‘Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy’ seven times. I was also treated to fourteen Australian folk songs on his harmonica. He is most proficient with the instrument. This completed, I gave him dinner, and then we retired to the sitting room where he fell asleep with his head upon my lap. It was my intention to rise and see to the ironing while he slept, but I found that I could not. It was the first time in more than two years that I felt at peace. I spent my time caressing his light hair – bleached bright by the strong desert sun, and peppered throughout with a gentle seasoning of grey.

I wept, Rebecca. With his dear head upon my lap, I wept for joy. After so many years of tearlessness, I seem to weep continuously now.

In time he opened his bright eyes and, without speaking, reached up and laid a hand across my cheek, and I wept all the more. As I have said before, there was so much that I longed to say to him when at last we were face to face, but I had forgotten, in our long separation, that sometimes words are merely air.

We retired instead, with much labour and struggle, to his bedroom, where we lay entwined, and though we both were troubled in the night by dreadful dreams and fitful sleep, our constant nocturnal companions, the relief at finding each other at every waking was a balm to sooth the most troubled hearts.

I have so long ached for him, I had forgotten that the ache is not an intrinsic fibre in my very fabric. It is merely a sliver, lost in the weave, but easily plucked out by his deft hand.

I am pleased that matters have resolved themselves so satisfactorily for you and for Roger. I am gratified indeed to hear that his heart is lightened. When the divorce is finalised, as it will be in time, Bertram and I will celebrate with you, and we will celebrate again at your wedding.

Thank you, dear sister, for all that you have done for me. I do not know what I should have done without you these last two years. It was wrong for me to believe, as for so many years I did, that I had no one I could depend on, save Bertram.

We may never be whole again, any of us. Perhaps we never were. Perhaps we are merely fragments of what we should be, or what we could have been if only we had not suffered so, but I must concede that I am a fortunate man, to be so loved despite my tattered edges. Fate’s happenstance may oft win more than toil, as a wise man once said, and fate was kind indeed when it granted me such a gentleman, and such a sister.

Love,

Reginald

Chapter Text

Dear Tom,

How goes it, old lazy bones? Haven’t you had enough of the long rest yet, old chap? Wouldn’t you care to shake the dirt from your shoulders and have one more stroll in the garden?

Not that it’s much of a garden at this point. It’s January, for one thing, and it’s all solid ice and snow; not so inviting for the elder set such as we are, eh? Besides, it’s all gone to vegetables these last two years, all of our lovely flowers gone, and one entire corner of it has been fenced in and run round with metal mesh for chickens! It was Margaret’s idea to keep chickens, and we all made a bit of fun of her for it, but weren’t we grateful when the meat ration was cut last summer! Little Lillian loves to gather the eggs, when we have them, which isn’t often now that it’s winter, but in the summer we were overrun with the things and poor Angela had to learn to make quiche.

Speaking of poor Angela, she’s absolutely beside herself these days. When this blasted war began two years ago we all had some hope that it would end quickly, but even now that the Yanks have finally jumped into the fray after that dreadful business in Hawaii, there seems no sign of abatement. She’s desperately hoping it ends less than three years from now, because Hildebrand Jr., that fathead eldest grandson of ours, is determined to join up the instant he’s of age.

Bonzo’s doing all right. Still pushing a pencil in some war office in London. Something to do with codes or something.

But the real news of the week is that Bertie and Reggie stopped with us for a few days on their way to Yorkshire. We all had a smashing dinner together the first night. Nothing like what good old Anatole is probably dishing up for you in the Great Hereafter, but fine enough for us war-starved creatures. Margaret killed the oldest rooster, so we had a bit of roast chicken, and a great mound of potatoes and carrots left from the garden.

Reggie tried to eat down in the kitchen, but I told him I’d have none of it. There aren’t any servants anymore, for one thing, so the poor sod would have been eating alone.  I told him in no uncertain terms that no nephew of mine, honourary or otherwise, would eat alone in a kitchen whilst under my roof, and though his previous pallor was suffused  by a darker hue and he cast his eyes about furtively to see if we were overheard, he accepted my word and sat at the dining room table with all the other guests. Nobody batted an eye, whether they were in the know or not. I rather think a lot of the old ways are gone for good, my dear. Perhaps it’s for the best, eh?

Perhaps it’s for the best that you are also gone for good. This entire ordeal would have played merry Hell with your digestion.

So we all ate together. Let me see. It was me, of course, and Maudie, who seems content to live with me forever, and Bertie and Reggie, and Margaret and Lillian, Angela and Tuppy (not the boys; Hilary Term began last week), Ethel and her new husband Parky, who is an all right sort, I think. So we made a good little party, and it was a jolly fine time.

Bertie had more humourous stories from the war than you’d think, and he kept us all in stitches, as always. Something about a bomb specialist who gave him a ride with a good lot of bombs simply rolling about in the back seat, and some Australian pals of his taking bets on who could make Bertie blush the deepest shade of red, and another bit about painting the water distillation plant black so that the bombers thought it had burned down. Even Reggie permitted himself a smile now and then.

It was good to see Bertie, so very good, and particularly seeing him and Ethel laughing together like they did when they were children, well, I don’t mind telling you it put a bit of a tear in my tough old eye. My brother would have been glad to see it. He always loved to see his little children play together – when he looked up from the racing pages long enough to notice it, anyway.

It was wonderful indeed to know that there are no plans to send Bertie overseas again. Not that they damned well should, considering he can scarcely drag himself out of a chair with his cane and all, but still. You never know what Winnie is capable of, do you?

I don’t think I’ve slept a good full night since Bertie went to war, you know, and I didn’t even realise it until I laid myself down after that dinner and slept like an absolute log for ten hours. But I’m getting ahead of myself!

After dinner I got Bertie to sit with me and have a bit of a snootful. It was almost like old times. With everyone else out in the library playing cards and chatting, Bertie got a bit serious and told me a bit about his time at the front that he wouldn’t share in mixed company.

‘It’s like a dream being home again, Aged A.,’ he told me. ‘I don’t think I believed it would happen. I didn’t dare believe it. The way they bombed us, day in, day out, it didn’t seem possible that any of us should get out of it. I was terrified every day that he’d have to go on without me.’

Bertie didn’t say who ‘he’ was, but he didn’t really need to. I knew who he meant.

I wouldn’t tell another soul in the entire world what I’m telling you now, dear Tom, but Bertie put his head on my shoulder and wept like a child after he said that last bit. I didn’t know what to do with my hands! I sort of patted him on a shoulder, I think, and said something like, ‘It’s all right,’ or something, which is a damned stupid thing to say because of course it’s not all right.

I’m not used to such displays from Bertie, but I suppose that’s the sort of thing that war does to a chap.

When he’d finally got himself together, there was a soft knock at the door, and Reggie came in. I suspect he’d been lingering just outside for a time; he had the look of a man who knows exactly what’s going on. Then again, he always has that look, so what do I know? Anyway, he glided in with a whiskey and soda in one hand and a clean handkerchief in the other, and Bertie took both. He dried his eyes with the handkerchief, downed the w. and s. in one fell gulp, and handed both back to Reggie who made them disappear instanter. That done, Bertie held out his hands and Reggie helped him to his feet with practiced grace, and Reggie set to putting Bertie right. He fixed his hair, straightened his tie, tugged his pocket square just so, and Bertie was smiling at him so warmly I rather began to feel as though I ought not to be there, so I made myself scarce.

I tell you, Tom, nothing makes me miss you quite so much as seeing Reggie dote on Bertie. Not that you ever doted on me that way! I wouldn’t have had it. But I can’t help but think of the way you’d wander into my room of an evening and ask if I was all right, if I was off my feed, if my digestion was tip top, if I fancied a walk in the garden, all that.

I tell you, old man, I’d love a walk in the garden just now. I’d absolutely love it. I could kick myself when I think of all those nights you invited me out and I told you to buzz off.

I did go for a walk that evening to clear my head, after the house was asleep, but as I said, the garden isn’t what it used to be. Nothing is, and the one blessing in your being gone is that I don’t have to hear you bellyaching about it, you old goat!

It was bitterly cold – of course! It’s January, for God’s sake, and no one in their right mind goes out for a walk in the garden at ten o’clock at night in January, but then no one ever said we Woosters were in our right minds now, did they? And who do you suppose I stumbled upon, also taking an ill-advised frigid constitutional?

It was Reggie. I caught him by the fountain, empty and glazed over with ice as it is, staring into its nonexistent depths. He hadn’t even a winter hat upon his fool head, and was dressed in his ordinary dinner clothes. I didn’t know what to make of it.

‘I don’t know what to make of this, you old refugee from Bedlam!’ I said when I caught sight of him, and he jumped like a cat with a garden hose turned on him.

‘Aunt Dahlia,’ he said when he’d managed to work his heart back down into his chest. ‘I am merely taking an evening stroll.’

‘Oh, yes? As am I. Perfectly ordinary thing for perfectly contented people to do, eh?’

For a moment he simply looked at me, and it wasn’t until I drew near enough that the moon’s light could illuminate him a bit that I saw, in the cold blue gleam, a touch of a tear in his eye.

Good Heavens. I mean to say, two nephews weeping in one night? How much is an old Aunt expected to handle? But I pulled up my belt and set to, as a Wooster does.

‘What’s all this then, Reggie?’

‘I’m not entirely certain, I’m afraid. Since Bertram’s return I cannot seem to control myself. I am unfit for polite society, and certainly unfit for a military training camp. I am beginning to fear that I may be required to leave his service.’

I laughed. Was it the right thing to do? Probably not, but I’ve never been overly preoccupied with what is right, have I? And when someone goes and says something as stupid as that, what can one do but laugh?

He did not respond, he being the sort to draw himself up to his full height in indignation when an old Aunt guffaws in his face, but that didn’t deter me.

‘Do you know what you need, my boy?’ I said. ‘A slap in the face. I’d do it myself if I didn’t think Bertie would hunt me down and do me in. Where’s your manly fortitude, old thing?’

‘It must be clear to you that I have none.’

‘Oh, please. It’s only these modern men who think they can’t shed a tear now and then. Look at Lord Nelson, weeping manfully beside his fallen comrade! Think of Alexander and Hephaestion! Look at Odysseus! All wailing away in public, pulling out their hair, rending their clothing, not a single thought in their heads that it wasn’t within the purview of a strong man to do such a thing.’

He still didn’t speak, but elected to pull a cigarette from his pocket instead. He put it between his lips with a trembling hand, but did not light it. Whether he was shaking from the cold or from the depth of his feeling I could not say, but neither thought put my heart at ease.

‘The fact is, Reggie,’ I said, feeling entirely out of my depth, you know, ‘that you and Bertie have simply gone through too much to come out of it just as you were. Don’t forget I had ringside seats to this affair from the nonce. You aren’t simply some factory-boy from a Rosie M. Banks novel who’s been swept off his feet by a dashing nobleman anymore. You’re a weatherbeaten, gray-haired, oak tree of a war husband now, and let me tell you – a tough old husband and a fond young lover are different beasts entirely. And what’s more, Bertie isn’t the willowy, helpless damsel-in-distress he was when you met him, either – in no small part due to your efforts, mind you. He’s a soldier, a leader. He’s a man who surveys disaster with a cool eye and  fearlessly takes command. He doesn’t need you to be the unshifting bastion of strength that you used to be. He simply needs you. It’s a long, long business to be someone’s spouse, Reggie. Circumstances change and you need to change with them. Sometimes that damned man even dies, and then you really have to adjust!’

‘Tempora mutantur,’ he said softly around the cigarette, still clasped lifelessly between his lips.

‘If you say so,’ I replied. ‘In Bertie’s letter to me that he wrote when he was in hospital, he quoted that old Tennyson gag, the one about no longer being the strength that moved mountains or whatever it was, and I can see how it might look that way to you. I can see that you might feel broken by all of this, but that’s not what I see, Reggie. I see two men who have come through every single dreadful thing the world could possibly throw at them. I see two heads that are bloodied, but unbowed. Right here, before me now, I see a man who survived. You didn’t survive unscathed, but no one does. You are wounded, somewhere inside, where it’s not so easy to see as, say, a lot of shrapnel cuts and a broken leg, but wounded nonetheless. It will take time to heal. Some wounds never do, entirely, but that doesn’t have to be a tragedy. It’s just a part of life. Do you follow me, Reggie?’

He produced a lighter from somewhere and sparked it. The tiny flash of orange-hot light cast a lively glow upon his previously pallid features as he held it before his mouth. The cigarette caught and gleamed in the dark. I shivered; the cold was creeping in through my layers, nestling its long fingers in the cracks and crevices of the cloth. Reggie let out a long, smoky breath, then offered the cigarette to me. I took it and filled my own lungs with the acrid warmth of it. A small comfort in the chill darkness.

‘Thank you,’ he said at last. ‘I suppose I believed that it would all be better when he was home. I thought the damage would simply be undone. I can’t think why I was so foolish.’

‘Don’t feel too bad about yourself, you old blighter. All men are idiots.’ He laughed. My hackles rose just a bit. ‘Well, it’s true. War is the proof.’

‘That’s true enough, I suppose,’ he said, and took the cigarette as I handed it back to him. We smoked a bit in chummy silence after that, and presently we decided without speaking that it was high time we got in from the cold.

We had a lovely few days together, after all that, and now Reggie and Bertie are off to Yorkshire for Bertie’s new post. I tell you, it’s still dashed odd to see Bertie in a uniform – with medals, no less! Not that Bertie will actually wear the medals for longer than a moment or two (he says their clinking about sets his teeth on edge), but he’s got them. I tell you Tom, you’ve never seen a prouder hen than Reggie polishing and affixing Bertie’s medals. It’s almost sickening. And Bertie, when he’s got the whole get-up all perfectly arranged, well! I don’t know how to describe it. You know he was always a darling, but not much more than a darling, wouldn’t you say? He’s still the same good boy he always was. He’s just something else now, too.

Well, that’s all the old fingers have in them for tonight, you old lump of clay. I’ll write again soon, dear Tom. Enjoy your rest, and forgive me if I don’t rush off to join you just yet. I’ve simply got to see how this war works out. I hope we lick the bastards.

Love,

Dahlia

*

Dear Lt. Colonel Evans,

Major the Earl of Yaxley will be arriving at the Port Runsgrave Garrison on Sunday evening, as directed. His Lordship intended to write to you, but I thought it might be best, in the interest of mutual understanding, if I wrote to you myself.

I believe that we have developed a pleasant rapport, sir, after some intermittent conflict. It is my intention to inform you that I harbour no resentments at this time. I trust you are aware of my capabilities, should resentments arise, but I consider this contingent to be quite remote.

I am most interested to make your acquaintance in person after our correspondence. It is my sincere hope that we will become friends.

Sincerely,

R. J.

*

Dear Reggie,

I am well aware of your capabilities. One can hardly spend a day – let alone two years – in Bertie’s company without becoming aware of them. I know nearly as much about your capabilities as I know of the particular scent of Helen Vernon’s hair, which is to say, far too much. I assure you, the deep awareness of all of your capabilities, and their near-constant discussion throughout our time at the front, was nothing short of torture for me for a great length of time. I am all too happy, therefore, to inform you that I am no longer subject to that particular vulnerability, and as such, I am confident that no resentments will arise, to borrow your phrasing.

I am all eagerness to work again at Bertie’s side, and I cannot wait to meet you. It will be like meeting Achilles himself.

Do tell his Lordship the Major the Earl of Whatever-it-is that the Port Runsgrave Garrison is in shipshape condition. The recruits are another matter entirely, and they are desperately awaiting his particular presence.

Sincerely,

Your friend,

Archie

*

Dear Filly,

Thank you ever so much for all of your excellent care of self and friends during our confinement in your fine establishment. Your dear old Uncle Reg sends his thanks as well, though he is glowering censoriously at me for using the word ‘uncle.’ It may have taken fifteen some-odd years, but I finally got my way with that, what? Besides, the cat is fairly well out of the bag as far as you’re concerned, unless I’m much mistaken.

It was jolly good of you to let us take you and your lovely flatmate out for dinner upon our departure. One does feel that one has rather let the side down as an uncle, don’t you know. I oughtn’t to have let Aunt Agatha and your mother scare me off so easily, but anyone will tell you I’ve always been the type to get along beautifully, don’t you know, and the sorry result is that I give conflict a rather wide berth. Or birth? No, it couldn’t be birth, certainly. Ah! Reggie confirms that it is indeed ‘berth.’

‘The term is a nautical one, my Lord,’ he’s telling me now. ‘A berth, my Lord, is the term for a ship’s allotted space at a dock, and thus the phrase itself originates from the requirement that large ships would obviously have for a berth of ample size to accommodate them for safe mooring.’

Got that? Good.

All that is to say that I should have been a real uncle to you. I meant to be, don’t you know, but it always seemed like something I could see to a little later.

Anyway, all’s well up Yorkshire way. As I told all the bally journalists who have hounded me hither and thither, the absolute best bit is that I shall be jolly close to my dear Ginnie! The journalists, fatheads that they are, take that to mean that the training camp is in the same county as Honoria Glossop, which so happens to be true, despite the fact that we have both made it known to all and sundry that we have elected to end our affair and remain friends. Though I suppose, since we are friends, I shall be seeing a bit more of Honoria, and her charming housemate Daphne.

Speaking of which, that Jessie is a good egg, I think. That trick she did at dinner with the cloth napkin was first rate. I could tell you thought so, too. You had that gleam in your eye, young sprout.

I say. Uncle Reg and I were having a bit of a chat about the two of you, and I just thought I’d let you know that your mother isn’t all that bad, really. We’ve just recently seen her, you see, and I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but our cat is out of that bag as well, if you understand me. I mean to say, there are a jolly lot of people in this world who would not look so kindly upon the arrangement we’ve got, but to your mother it’s oojah-cum-spiff. Do you follow me, young blot?

I should have just said this to you face to face but, dash it, I’m not precisely skillful in the art of deep conversation. I’m better with a pen, don’t you know. Though I’m not so dashed marvelous at that, either, whatever your Uncle Reggie thinks.

What I’m trying to say is this: Reggie and I buried our mothers without ever daring to wonder what, precisely, they would have thought of us. We can guess. We can put little clues together here and there, but we can’t ever actually know, you understand. Which, in all honesty, is probably for the best. Despite the war, this is a rather more enlightened age than the one our parents presided over. Not that it’s all that bally enlightened, don’t you know, but humanity crawls forward inch by bloody inch.

I’m getting myself entirely confused here, so I can’t even imagine what you’re dealing with on your end. All I want to say is that your mother seems a good sort, really, despite all of her – well, her nonsense, and if you’d ever like to let her get a pit of a peek at the cat in your own bag, it might be just fine. And if that all sounds like a lot of bother you’d rather avoid, you’ve still got Uncle Reggie and me, for what that’s worth.

Anyway, I hope you made heads and tails of that. Or one head, at the very least.  Visit anytime. Toodle-pip, young eyesore.

Love,

Uncle Bertie

*

Dear Mother,

Uncle Bertie’s not a bad sort. I should have known, really. Anyone that Lady Agatha spoke so scathingly of must be a sterling fellow.

He gave me to understand that perhaps you would not be so disturbed were I to inform you that Jessie is not quite a friend. Or not only a friend. I am not stating this clearly enough, but perhaps you understand anyway?

It’s all right if you don’t. I’m getting a bit sick to my stomach even bringing it up. Perhaps we’ll forget I said anything, what?

I hope all is well with the career and the husband and all that.

Love,

Phyllis

*

Dear Phyllis,

All is smashing with the career and the husband and all that, thank you. And as for dear Uncle Bertie, you can tell him he’s absolutely correct. I am quite a sophisticated woman, you know, rubbing elbows with literary types and so forth, and any ‘not-quite-or-perhaps-more-than-friend’ of my dear daughter’s is a friend of mine.

You know it’s my birthday soon, don’t you? I hope you know you’re expected to make an appearance, war or no war. Bring Jessie for maternal inspection.

Love,

Mother

*

Dear Betty,

How are you? How’s Cliff? Still troubled with the gout, is he? All’s well here. Charlie’s been home for a month now and it’s absolutely lovely, though his left arm’s not quite right still. The doctors say some ligament in his chest or something, I don’t really know. He might not ever have the full use of it again, but he’s home for good, discharged and all, even walking a bit with a cane. Helen’s moved in with us, and the two of them are such sweet, little lovebirds!

I do have some news! Do you remember when you came for Christmas, and I told you that Charlie had made friends with an Earl? Charlie wrote and told me ages ago that the Earl would come to tea once they were both home. I didn’t believe him, but I’ll be dashed if he didn’t ring last week saying he’d be passing through town on his way to his new assignment and he’d love to stop for tea!

I got down Mother’s old teapot, the one for special occasions. I cleaned it up months ago, on a whim, you know, so it was spick and span and ready to go. I had a few day’s notice, so Helen and I went without tea so that we could save up enough to fill the pot and enough sugar for the Earl to have as much as he likes. We also decided not to bake bread on Saturday, and used the week’s flour ration to make a small sponge sweetened with a bit of honey I’d been saving. I don’t know what an Earl takes with his tea, but I thought it would hardly do for me to put out plain bread for him.

He pulled up at three o’clock in a beautiful Sunbeam, polished like anything. He wasn’t driving; he brought his valet along, you see, and the sight of the man in his bowler and pinstripes melted my heart a bit, got me thinking of my dear Charlie – my husband Charlie, I mean, God rest his soul. Do you remember he was in service when we met? Ran away from the big house to marry me, and always swore he never regretted it.

He’s rather a handsome devil in a queer way – the Earl’s valet, I mean! Though he didn’t have a moment to spare for an old woman, with all his buzzing about the Earl.

You’ll want to hear about the Earl, of course, won’t you? Lord Yaxley. He’s the one who was in all the papers a few months back, for having that sad love affair with that divorcée, and then again for rescuing Charlie. I was awfully eager to get a look at him, as you can well imagine! It’s not every day a woman gets to thank the man who saved her son’s life.

He’s a tall fellow, quite thin, with blond hair with a touch of grey, and a rather beaky nose. He was dressed ever so smartly, his uniform perfectly pressed and his  colourful ribbons all arranged just so, everything fine, just as you’d imagine a lord to be. He walks with a cane and a limp – but then, so does Charlie – and he needed to hold his valet’s hand to get out of the car.

Charlie went out to meet him first, going as fast as he could with his own cane, and I was shocked to see them toss their arms about each other like boys in a football match. I guess war does that to men, doesn’t it? Charlie went and hugged the valet, too, and I thought that was a bit odd, but then, Charlie has been a bit odd since he came home. I guess war does that to men too.

After that the valet came over and took Lord Yaxley’s arm, I suppose to help him to the door. With the valet on one side and the cane on the other he made a pretty brisk pace. Helen and I met the Earl at the door, and he smiled ever so sweetly at me.

‘What-ho, Mrs. Vernon, how’s tricks?’ he said, as though I were simply his pal’s mum and he were any lad from school. ‘And the fair Helen, I presume, who may not have launched a thousand ships – lacking only the opportunity, not the means, you understand – but whose beautiful memory certainly kept our good Charlie afloat during his time at the front!’

Helen blushed and curtsied, and murmured, ‘Thank you, m’lord,’ which got the Earl blushing himself.

‘Now, we’ll have none of that, if it’s all the same to you,’ he said. ‘Charlie’s my chum and in this house I’m Bertie, what? Oh, and this is my man, Jeeves.’

Jeeves inclined his head, but did not speak. He kept holding tight to the Earl’s elbow as though he feared the fellow might keel over.

I didn’t curtsy myself, but I bowed my head and said, ‘Thank you so much for saving my Charlie, my Lord.’

‘Oh, think nothing of it. I hardly knew what I was doing.’

I ushered them in and pointed the Earl to the best armchair. I’d darned up the hole in the back as best I could. I don’t think he noticed it. Jeeves walked him over and helped to lower him down.

‘Lovely home this, isn’t it, Jeeves?’ the Earl said as he sat.

‘Indeed, my Lord, most inviting.’

Charlie and Helen took Aunt Emily’s sofa, and I was just heading toward the kitchen when Jeeves overtook me and said, ‘If you would allow me, madam.’

Honestly! I hadn’t a clue, really, what he meant, but I wanted to be a good hostess so I just said something like, ‘Oh, of course!’ and he went into the kitchen ahead of me, where he absolutely dominated the space. I’m not complaining, mind you, as I can’t recall the last time another person made me tea. What’s more, he had his little bag with him, you see, and he placed it on the old scrubbed wood table in the middle of the room there and took out a satchel of beautiful tea.

‘Please forgive the imposition, madam, but his Lordship is most particular.’

I wasn’t going to turn my nose up at anything that saved me my week’s tea ration, was I? And as it happened, he’d brought his own sugar, and a fresh bottle of cream, and a loaf of bread.

‘We would be most appreciative, madam, if you would be so kind as to take these items for us. We were given them by his Lordship’s aunt on our departure from her home this morning, and I fear that the journey to Yorkshire will be too lengthy. The cream will most certainly spoil, and the bread will not be fresh for his Lordship’s toast tomorrow. It would be a great service to us if you would so kind as to relieve us of them.’

I knew what he was doing, and in the old days I’d have turned my nose up at charity, but needs must, and he did it so nicely it hardly felt like charity at all.

I accepted the bread and cream, and put my own tea ration away, awfully bucked at the idea that I might in fact get to squeeze in two cups in the morning.

I brought Jeeves the teapot then, and do you know what he said?

‘This is a most handsome teapot, madam. It is most assuredly an antique of this most lauded region. All of my life I have heard breathtaking tales of the ceramics of the Staffordshire Potteries. It is an honour indeed to serve his Lordship in such a charming vessel.’

Well, you know how I cherish Mother’s teapot! If I weren’t such a reserved woman I might have kissed the man.

‘Please do retire to the sitting room, madam,’ he said then, whilst I was considering a proposal of marriage. ‘Enjoy the company of your guest. I can manage perfectly well, if it pleases you.’

‘Oh!’ I said, and I admit I blushed. ‘Very well.’

Can you imagine? Sitting in a chair whilst a man prepares my tea! I’ve never heard the like.

I went, somewhat sheepishly, into the sitting room and took a seat in Grandmother’s rocking chair. Lord Yaxley was talking – regaling is really the word. I found myself listening with rapt attention almost at once.

‘Oh, yes,’ he was saying as I entered. ‘We had this problem, you see, and it was that there wasn’t a dashed ounce of the good stuff to be had, not for any price. But then a tanker was sunk just off the coast; you could see the bally thing hovering about under the water, if you swam out far enough, and the captain of the ship was known far and wide as  a chap who enjoyed a whiskey. So we all knew he must have a good lot of it aboard, in his quarters. A number of Australian privates tried for weeks to dive for it, but nothing doing. No one could hold his breath long enough, you see. Well then one day, Old Charlie here was coiling up this rubber tubing stuff. I don’t know what it was.’

‘Insulation for copper wires,’ Charlie said.

‘Yes, yes, all right,’ the Earl responded. ‘But the point is that it was a long rubber tube. And this genius among men got it in his melon that it could be used as a sort of breathing apparatus!’

‘Wouldn’t the pressure collapse the tube?’ Helen asked.

‘Yes, but only after a certain depth,’ Charlie said. ‘The ship was shallow, you see. We didn’t need to go too deep, we only needed to stay under rather longer than was comfortable.’

‘So Charlie took the tubing to the Australian lads and explained it, and they were beside themselves!’ the Earl said. ‘One of them took the tubing and jumped right into the bally water and came up ten minutes later with three bottles of the finest whiskey any of us had ever tasted, and from then on all we needed to do if we wanted a snifter was to grab a bit of tube and go for a quick swim.’

It was then that Jeeves brought in the tea, and served it, one by one to each of us. I felt as though I were living in one of those movies you see about the Upperclass types. It was surreal, honestly. I’m not entirely certain if I liked it, to be sure. After all, the fellow really was my own sort and it didn’t feel right. But then we all had a big surprise, because once Jeeves finished, he turned to head back off into the kitchen and Charlie called out, ‘Oy, Reggie!’

I didn’t know who he was addressing, but it turned out that it was Jeeves. Charlie had hugged the man earlier, so I suppose I should have put it together that he at least knew the man from Adam, but still.

Jeeves stiffened a bit, then turned slowly, and said, ‘Sir?’

‘I’m not “sir” to you, Reggie, not in my own home,’ Charlie said. ‘And what’s more, in the Vernon house, all guests are treated equally. So come. There’s a bit of room here on the sofa next to Helen. I’ll pour you a cup.’

Jeeves lingered in the doorway, his face expressionless. He glanced at Lord Yaxley, who raised both eyebrows just a bit in response, and somehow that seemed to reassure the man. He returned to the room and sat beside Helen, slowly and gingerly, as though he feared the sofa might bite him.

Charlie, true to his word, poured him a cup of tea – which was something indeed, as I’ve poured Charlie every cup he’s had in his life, until he went off to war!

‘Reggie and I struck up a bit of a correspondence while I was away,’ Charlie said. ‘Didn’t we, Reg? I told him Dad was in service, before you got married.’

‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘He was a footman at the Big House. Before it was demolished, I mean.’

‘The Duke of Sutherland’s estate,’ Jeeves said.

‘That’s right!,’ I said. ‘Charlie – my husband Charlie, I mean – used to tell me all sorts of stories about the Duke and his family. I never got a chance to see them, myself.’

‘I never had the pleasure of serving in the Duke of Sutherland’s house, but I have heard from colleagues who did that it was most grand.’

‘Old George S.L.G., do you mean, Jeeves?’ Lord Yaxley interjected. ‘Oh yes, I thought this place was a bit familiar! He was a pal of my late Father’s. Grand, did you say, Jeeves? Trentham Hall smelled to high heaven. I was only so high the last time I visited but by Jove, the stench of the river sticks with one! I was absolutely chuffed when I heard they’d knocked the old place down and I’d never have to spend another summer there. Oh, I say, Mrs. Vernon! Spiffing tea! Just like home, isn’t it, Jeeves?’

‘Yes, my Lord. Exactly like home.’

I did not mention to the Earl that he was, in fact, drinking his own tea that Jeeves had brought. I didn’t want to embarrass the man.

‘Oh, I say, Charlie, old top!’ he said. ‘Do you remember that pot of tea we made in France, during that dreadful winter?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Charlie said, a smile lighting up his face. I don’t mind saying our Charlie has been a bit down since his return. I do think his limp and his bad arm bother him more than he wants to let on. It was so good to see him smile so.

‘We had a dented can or pot or something we’d found,’ the Earl was saying, ‘and we filled it with a lot of snow that we put over a fire we managed to hack together somehow, and we cooked it up crouching behind the wall. Jeeves had sent me a packet of the best stuff he could manage and we boiled it half to Hell, didn’t we?’

‘It was dreadful,’ Charlie said. ‘We didn’t have a single sip of tea worth drinking  during the entire war until Bertie made friends with Marwa in Tobruk.’

‘My Lord,’ Jeeves said, speaking for the first time since he took his uncomfortable place on the sofa, ‘as I recall, you informed me that the tea you made in France was almost as good as mine.’

‘Oh,’ Lord Yaxley said, looking astonished. ‘Did I? Oh. Right-ho. It wasn’t all that terrible, I suppose.’

‘It was terrible,’ Charlie said. ‘But terrible tea is better than no tea, and Bertie always does want to put a good face on things, especially when he’s writing home.’

‘I see,’ Jeeves said, and sipped his tea without further comment.

Helen, strangely, seemed a bit alarmed, and looked from the man to his master quickly before saying, rather loudly, ‘Charlie always tried to make things sound better when he wrote to me, didn’t you, Charlie? No one wants to be pitied or worried about or cause a fuss, especially when they’re writing to their sweetheart.’

‘Absolutely,’ Charlie confirmed.

Jeeves did not reply, but his eyes did travel to Lord Yaxley, who smiled but did not reply.

I could not account for the strange atmosphere in the room, so I did my best to cut it.

‘Speaking of sweethearts,’ I said, ‘how is your dear Ginnie, my Lord? Did she visit you when you were in hospital?’

I suppose he was not expecting my questions to be so personal, and perhaps I overstepped, or it may be that my question was poorly timed, as he had just raised his cup to his lips. Regardless, he choked on his tea and coughed helplessly for some time.

‘Lord Yaxley’s much-publicised relationship with Honoria Glossop had a toll, I’m afraid,’ Jeeves said, over the Earl’s spluttering coughs. ‘They have elected to remain friends, but no more. It is for the best.’

‘Oh, I am sorry to hear that, my Lord,’ I said, though in truth I was feeling far more sorry that I had asked.

‘Oh, no, no, no,’ Lord Yaxley replied, having recovered at last. ‘Just as Jeeves said, it’s for the best. We’re private people, Ginnie and me. We don’t need everyone in the world knowing our business, so we’re happier this way, really. Besides, the right kind of love doesn’t weaken you by its loss, wouldn’t you say, Jeeves?’

‘My Lord?’ the man said, still expressionless.

‘I mean to say, the end is the inevitable conclusion of any beginning, isn’t it? All those bally love stories that finish up with the two lovebirds traipsing off into the sunset, well, that’s just a bit of theatre. The real stuff happens after that. The daily grind, the little jokes you share, the spats – the spats about spats, which are always rather fruity, what? And, ultimately, the end. The loss of one another. It comes with a crawl or it comes with a pounce, but it comes all the same, and if it was a love worth knowing, well, then I like to think it makes you strong enough to bear it. It certainly did me. I was a puff of nothing when I met Ginnie and I couldn’t have done a dashed thing I’ve done these last two years if I hadn’t spent so long with someone who took such sterling care of me and taught me so very much. The only reason I could bear to leave Ginnie in the first place is because I’d known her, if that makes any sense. Heart within and Ginnie o’erhead, what?’

I don’t mind telling you that I teared up a bit, thinking of my old Charlie. I’d never thought of it quite that way before, but I think the Earl was perfectly right. I was going to say so, but before I could speak a word, Jeeves rose up from the sofa and said, ‘Please excuse me, my Lord. The tea,’ and floated off into the kitchen.

‘Oh, I say, Jeeves, dash it!’ Lord Yaxley said, and attempted to rise. Unfortunately, the good armchair is so deep he couldn’t manage it, not even with his cane.

Charlie couldn’t get to his feet to help, either, so Helen and I went to the Earl and we each took an arm and helped him up. I don’t quite know why he felt he needed to pursue his manservant into the kitchen, but he was most determined, so I let him go. I did stand just outside the door, in case they needed my help.

‘Jeeves,’ the Earl said as soon as the door had closed behind him. ‘Are you quite all right?’

‘Yes, my Lord,’ he said, his voice oddly shaky. ‘Forgive me, I am seeing to a second pot of tea, my Lord. And the cake that our hostess so kindly baked for the occasion.’

‘Are you certain, old thing?’

Jeeves, strangely, sighed and said, ‘I am somewhat compromised, my Lord. I fear I may not have been strengthened, as you say you were.’

‘Oh, that’s utter rot, Jeeves. I won’t hear it. You were an absolute bally pillar of strength every moment, and you continue to be.’

At this, Jeeves dropped his voice so that I had to strain to hear. In order that I could help, if necessary, you understand.

‘I weep at every provocation, my Lord. You must have noticed. You must be noticing now. I know what you will say, but I cannot escape the feeling that I can be of little use to you in this state. When you require my strength in your recovery, I have none to give.’

‘Oh, pish posh,’ the Earl said, his voice, if anything, more carrying than it was before. ‘You are of inconsolable use to me. If inconsolable is the word I mean.’

‘I believe “incalculable” is the word for which you are reaching, my Lord, although I cannot help but mention that “inconsolable” is also quite accurate.’

‘Just the one, Jeeves. The just-est mot. Incalculable. Not inconsolable. If anything, I’ve found you rather too consolable, considering what you’ve suffered. Don’t you remember what Griffy said, at my initial evaluation for the study thing he’s fiddling about with? Oh, no, I suppose you weren’t there. He was doing this sort of checklist of symptoms, and when he got to “frequent incidents of uncontrollable weeping,” and I said, “Oh yes, that one, certainly,” he told me that it’s one of the most common what’s-it’s that chaps get. He doesn’t know why, precisely, but he says he’s awfully keen to find out, and seemed absolutely delighted that I now often drown an eye that was previously unused to flow. I tell you, these brain specialists, Jeeves. Am I wrong in thinking that every brain specialist is a heartless ghoul?’

‘I have made a similar observation, my Lord,’ Jeeves replied, his voice more steady now.

‘It seems we’ve a bit further to go before we attain those brooding and blissful halcyon days, what?’

‘Indeed, my Lord. I suppose you do have a point. The Bard of Avon may have been somewhat mistaken when he stated that journeys end in lovers’ meeting.’

‘Yes, I suppose even old Shakespeare had to come up a stinker now and then, eh? But what does that say for the rest of us?’

I was rather mystified by this exchange, which seemed to have turned rather suddenly to literary analysis rather than personal conversation, and I longed to hear more, but Helen appeared at my shoulder and said, ‘Why don’t you sit? I think they can manage.’

So sit I did, marveling a bit at what a very attentive employer the Earl was. Not at all what I expect from a Peer, you know. When Charlie wrote last year to tell me his good friend had inherited a title and was now an Earl, I wondered what on Earth had possessed the boy to try and make a friend of that sort, but I certainly understand it better now.

The Earl and his man appeared just a few moments later, with Jeeves carrying the cake, all serenity once more. He served us all, his face a perfect mask of non-expression, and then sat beside Helen again.

‘So Charlie, what are you doing with yourself these days, now that you’ve been drummed out of the service?’ the Earl asked.

Charlie sighed and said he wasn’t certain, but that he might try and get an office job somewhere, and the conversation hummed long from there. I did not pay too much attention, I admit, because I was thinking of Charlie. My late husband Charlie, I mean, and the way he used to leave the room suddenly, for years, after he returned home from the Great War. The way he would go out into the back garden to smoke, or into the attic to ‘look for something,’ or for a walk along the river, always suddenly, without warning.

I always thought perhaps he simply needed a moment to clear his head, but now I can’t help but wonder if he was weeping, and too frightened to let me know. He never spoke of the War, Betty. I thought it was for the best, but what do I know?

How many men hide their tears, I wonder? How many women do, for that matter? How many of us live out our days believing that we are truly admirable only in our invulnerability?

I must speak to Helen about this. It might do our boy Charlie a bit of good. And Helen too, come to think of it.

Our little visit from the Earl ended shortly thereafter; he and Jeeves had a long journey still ahead of them. I can tell you, it touched this old mother’s heart to see the way that Lord Yaxley embraced my Charlie when they parted. It brings a grateful tear to my eye to know that he had such a good friend through all that.

Well, that’s it for today, Betty. Do give my love to Cliff, and when you come for Christmas next year, I’ll let you drink from the same pot that the Earl used. Just once, mind.

Love,

Alice

*

Dear Ginnie,

Fear not, my fretful porpentine! I know it always distresses you greatly to wake and find me gone, but I assure you, your knight has not made himself air into which he vanished. I have simply gone for a walk. A hobble might be the more accurate term, actually.

I am one of the wretched whom sleep forsakes, you see. The dreams were a bit too much tonight, and as you were sleeping rather well for once, I elected to abstract myself without disturbing you. Shockingly, I seem to have succeeded!

I must say, it was a treat indeed to watch you sleep so peacefully; I stood some minutes to drink it in. It is not a sight that I often behold, you know. Before the war, it was always Bertram sleeping the sleep of the innocent whilst you bustled about doing Heaven knows what. This world has unexpected gifts for us all, if we are patient.

Have we not been patient, my dear? Have we not prayed? Unlike the blessed damozel, our prayers have been answered, for the sight of you sleeping so beautifully in my bed was one that was well worth a thousand years of war, old thing.

Do you know what else was worth a war, or two, my dear? The fact that when we fell asleep last night, entangled in our exhaustion after our first week on duty training up the recruits, you pressed your nose into the hollow of my throat and said, aloud so that anybody might hear, ‘I love you.’

Believe me, old thing, I know very well the astronomical cost of such a statement for a man such as yourself. We have never been ones to bandy such words about, have we? Not until all of those bally letters we wrote when I was away. I don’t know that it shall ever be our style to let this love of ours speak its name with any great frequency, but even a crusty old soldier such as myself must admit – it’s rather nice to hear, now and then.

Mother always held that love should never go unsaid. Her final words to me were those – I love you. And then never again did Bertram hear those words uttered in his direction, just that way. Never again until last night, old thing. I was too overcome, I fear, to express myself sufficiently in response. I fear I let you down. I shan’t again. When you wake in the morning I shall say it in spades. I love you, old thing, so why shouldn’t I say it? I’ve put it to paper often enough now. I can put it to air, as well.

Oh, and I say, do you know what else was worth the bally war and then some? That dashed letter. The one you wrote me years ago, when you were on holiday. The one  that started all this bally business. The one you claimed you burned, and rewrote so that I could carry its poor facsimile on my person in place of the real thing. Well, do you know what I found in your bookcase back at the flat before we left, nestled between a volume of Hume and the annotated Spinoza? I mean to say, old thing. First you tell me that the Blitz incinerated all of my favourite pieces from my wardrobe, as I though I were an infant taking its first trembling steps, and then you tell me that the fire claimed these passionate, drunken words of yours that I so treasured. Water seeping through the cracks, my dear, what what?

I jest, of course. I was only too delighted to find the letter in all its glory. It is back in its place of honour, breast pocket, as it was always meant to be. I promise I shall never mislay it again.

By Jove, I’ve rather strayed from the purpose of this little note, haven’t I?

What I am trying to tell you is that I am going for a leisurely amble down to the pier to watch the boats knock about in the black water. It always calmed the vibrating ganglions back in Tobruk to ooze about the harbour. No doubt the same will prove to be true here in Port Runsgrave, for however long we tarry.

An hour will do; you know the old leg doesn’t stand much use just yet. Hopefully, I shall hear the call of tired nature’s sweet restorer soon, and I shall be curled up beside you before you begin to stir at your usual ungodly hour. With any luck, you shall never even know that I was gone.

Love,

Bertie

***

Dear Mr. Wooster,

Shrimping at Bognor Regis is not quite so enjoyable this year as it has been on previous occasions, sir. Though I have long held my annual holiday to be nearly sacrosanct, tonight I can find no pleasure in it.

I long for you, sir. From this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, as if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, all the world about me seems to boil and churn, so great is my need for you. I can scarcely believe that already twelve days have passed since last I lay with you, drunk on the milk of Paradise.

I love you to the level of every day’s quiet need, sir. My soul yearns for yours, even across such distance – nay, not even, but particularly, as if the greater the distance that stretches between us, the more taut grows the tie that binds me to you. I am disgorged of my soul in your absence, sir. I am pulled from myself, twisted outward from within like some eviscerated game. How can I keep my soul in me, so that it doesn’t touch your soul? Outwardly I am shrimping in Bognor Regis but within I am a hollowed thing, all tumult and empty roar, as the wind that bellows eternally across the vast and trackless desert.

I do not know what I am doing here, sir. I desire only you, only your touch, your voice, your careless laugh. I desire your eyes upon mine, your hands upon mine, your mouth, your body, all of you. A net overflowing with shrimp means nothing to me now, grants no satisfaction, for I have known you, sir, and having known you, all else is pale. My only desire is to lie with you once again, enfolded within you, entrapped, entombed, enraptured.

Twelve days is too great a time to be so separated from you, sir. I am leaving Bognor Regis tomorrow, and when I again am in your arms, that blessed hour shall atone for all the lonesome years that passed before, and all that may follow.

Sincerely,

Jeeves