Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It is always hard to pinpoint the exact moment or occasion that causes a person to change when nothing in their environment or private circle has undergone slightest alteration.

The same waking time, same breakfast, same hours at the Drones, same discussions of the evening garments, same visits to family members and same troubles which come from friends and said family. The style of this otherwise quiet life, only occasionally animated by little adventures, had remained precisely one and the same, and yet, alas.

Be it due to the close association with the gentleman or to the excellent understanding of the psychology of the individual, or perhaps it was plainly because of the attentiveness which high-standard valets are required to possess, it was, in any case, Jeeves, who had first become aware of the increasingly odd behavior of his gentleman. It was in Mr Wooster’s eyes, always so carefree and, it must be admitted, belying his mentally negligible nature, that the fire of his characteristical cheerfulness had begun to die down. Though certainly, one must not be alarmed right away — it was autumn, after all, the very beginning of September which opens way to the months famous for their distinct inclination towards melancholy; everyone tends to be a trifle more pensive this time of year. And Mr Wooster, in turn, is known for not remaining bad-tempered for more than a week.

Yet that week passed, and so did another, and the one after it, and the symptoms on the young man had only worsened. The same waking time, yet less welcome for the coming day, same breakfast, yet not finished, same hours at the Drones, yet no signs of uplifted spirits that the club sessions always brought upon him.

The worst of it was, he wouldn’t talk.

“Will you dine in, sir?” “No, Jeeves, I’ll dine out. You may take the evening off.”

“I trust you had a pleasant stay at Mr Little’s, sir?” “Yes, thank you, Jeeves.”

“Will you dine in, sir?” “No, I’ll dine out today.”

“There are three telegrams for you, sir.” “Thank you, Jeeves. If they imply the need of your assistance, feel free to respond in my name.”

“Will you dine in, sir?” “No, I’ll dine out.”

“I’ll dine out.” “I’ll dine out.”

I’ll dine out…

For the first time in all the years of their relationship, Jeeves had found himself asking for conversation. Not directly, of course, but even so the amount of remarks intended to nudge the gentleman into usual chit-chat stood out, so unlike the habitually reserved valet who hadn’t ever any need for anything of the sort due to Mr Wooster’s loquacious nature.

But after another couple of weeks, even those had lost their effect. One-word replies with Jeeves’ name attached to them, they inevitably called to mind a comparison between himself and Mr Wooster which would have been humorous in any other circumstances.

“Are you ill, sir?”

He didn’t look back at him when he asked, and the question hung in the air for some disconcerting couple of moments before the man replied: “No, Jeeves.”

And that was the only time Jeeves asked. It would be taking liberty to address the matter directly.

His voice was the last to change, the merriness and lightness clinging to it, it now seemed, merely by virtue of habit, but eventually, only remnants of the jolly self that the gentleman had always displayed remained. It stung the heart to hear him speak at home, stung to hear the nonchalant tone coming up only as a means of politeness. Indeed, Mr Wooster appeared only slightly less merry in public than the demeanor one was acquainted with, so it was unsurprising that most of his surroundings hadn’t taken notice.

Although the exceptions, thankfully, did not constitute solely of Jeeves.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Jeeves.”

Truly a queer scene. Anyone knowing Mr Wooster would assume that the two of them had a quarrel recently, but that was not the case. On the contrary, the young man had shown rather stunning acceptance of his valet’s corrections regarding his appearance, although Jeeves had quickly grown to suspect it not to be approval but mere absence of the opposite.

“Was that the telephone I heard just now?”

“Yes, sir, that was Mrs Travers. She expressed a desire for you to return the call at your earliest convenience.”

“Right.”

Breakfasts went mutely nowadays, and it was in fact so silent in the flat as of late that Jeeves could hear the quiet sigh that the gentleman let out before picking up the receiver.

“...What-ho, Aunt Dahlia. Jeeves said you wanted to speak to me… I see. Right. I’ll get to it right away. Quite. I understand… Pardon? No, everything’s jolly good, of course, why wouldn’t it be..? Right-ho.”

And there was another sigh after he hung up.

It was a couple of days later that his gentleman could learn more about the matter of that conversation.

“Jeeves,” Mr Wooster said, entering his kitchen.

“Sir?”

“No-no, don’t stand up…” drying cups and plates, Jeeves threw a careful glance at his master who was looking somewhere past the stove before bringing his gaze to him. “There is something I want to ask you to do for me.”

“Anything, sir,” Good heavens.

“Aunt Dahlia called a couple of days ago, she wants me to write another piece for the Boudoir named Country Fashion Of A Gentleman... My attempts have proven to be rather unsuccessful, so I wondered if you could jot down a couple of lines on the topic for me. You know my costumes better than I do.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Right-ho, Jeeves.”

He was just about to leave when heard a quiet noise — something between clearing one’s throat and trying to subdue a hasty breath.

“If you don’t mind my asking, sir,” said the valet, bringing his young master to halt at the doorway. “What length is required for the article?”

He glanced aside, the slightly furrowed brow suggesting recollection. If the question appeared as unnecessary for him as it did for Jeeves, he didn’t show it, and if there was a barely audible note of desperation in the valet’s voice, the other likely didn’t hear it.

“About the same as What the Well-Dressed Man is Wearing, I suppose, but she made no mention of it.”

There was a pause that, it seemed, only felt a trifle uncomfortable for Jeeves who found himself at loss for other possible inquiries but one and was now gazed at expectantly by the deep blue eyes, deprived of interest.

“Very good, sir. Will you dine in?”

“No, I’ll dine out. Have the evening for yourself.”

“Thank you, sir.”

As the door swung back and forth after the man’s disappearing figure, Jeeves, whose hands kept on drying the dishes in some sort of automatic way, now lowered them slowly on the table and gazed at the white cup broodingly.

Had he not observed the progressive alteration first hand, he would have not recognized his Mr Wooster at all.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The serene air of Curzon Street comforted with its familiarity. The dinner passed in the most pleasant spirits, and the smoke of cigars quickly filled the room as conversations arose between men of all ages in impeccable evening suits. The company of the equally-minded individuals certainly had its positive impact on one’s frame of mind, yet still, Jeeves’ half-absent involvement did not go unnoticed.

“You’ve spoken little today, Jeeves,” said Mr Langton, one of the oldest valets of the Junior Ganymede Club who sat across the table from the man. “I trust your gentleman’s behaving well?”

“Most satisfactory,” said Jeeves. “Indeed, he heeds more and more of my judgement in garments and seems to seldom fall victim to unfortunate affairs nowadays.”

An approving mutter spread over those who were listening, but the other valet kept an attentive look on the other.

“And yet you do not appear too pleased.”

It was one of the few moments when Jeeves had to steel himself in the otherwise easy company of fellow colleagues.

He glanced down, tipping ashes off his cigar.

“The gentleman appears to be weighted by some disturbance, one which he does not confide in me nor I can ascertain from his environment. No alteration had taken place, not to my knowledge, and yet his demeanor displays… despondency.”

There was a pause from the company.

“Surely, it must be nothing more than a seasonal whim,” someone suggested, and another wave of agreement washed over their half of the table. “We all know how wealthy idle gentlemen are.”

“So I thought, too,” said Jeeves. “However, it seems to last significantly longer than the brief changes of mind I had observed in him before. I had tried suggesting engagements to bring him into brighter spirits, yet he declined them. In fact… He appears to refuse more of the habitual arrangements that used to fill his schedule. I confess that I am worried for his well-being.”

His gaze sunk again as the valets and butlers began exchanging wordless glances or slight alarm. The silence that settled attracted the attention of the other half of the table who had grown curious about the sudden stillness.

Mr Langton fixed a meaningful look on Jeeves.

“I must warn you, as a colleague… and as a friend,” he began slowly, and Jeeves looked up. “not to let the circumstances affect you too much. If the gentleman isn’t ill, his affairs do not require your involvement until he says so… I realise that you are young, but do heed my words when I say that not one gentleman, however admirable an employer… and a gentleman, is worth actions that may arouse suspicion. Not one.”

Jeeves did not speak at first, but after a short while, a barely audible sigh came from him.

“Haven’t we duty to look after our gentleman?”

“Not at the cost of freedom.”

It was after another pause, filled with stares from all sides of the table, pitiful and concerned and even sympathetic, that Jeeves replies:

“Certainly. I thank you for your kind advice.”

He saw in the corner of his eye one of the butlers, whose hair was rather white than grey by now, shaking his head slowly.

“You are doubtlessly one of the most intelligent members of the Ganymede, Jeeves,” he said gravely, as the thick cigar smoke was rising in waves between their gazes. “But it was most unwise to continue your service to this gentleman. You should have resigned years ago.”

There were no mutters of agreement this time, but the mute silence expressed exactly the same sentiment.

“Be it as it may,” said Mr Langton. “We can but merely advise, and we only hope you will tread carefully. Should your reputation be destroyed, it would most definitely cast shade on all members.”

“Of course,” said Jeeves, looking back at his colleagues reassuringly. “I quite understand.”

Chapter Text

“Mr Little called, sir. He communicated with great urgency about a difficult situation that had arisen between himself and Mrs Little, and expressed his intention to call in at lunchtime.”

“Sounds rather like your department, doesn’t it, Jeeves?”

“Sir?”

“Oh, come now. Surely, you do not expect him to barge in seeking my advice?”

His rather detached gaze met Jeeves’s composed but visibly bewildered one.

“Your company has been a source of great comfort for your friends in times of need, sir.”

Mr Wooster chuckled, reaching for his hat and cane before Jeeves could hasten to hand them to him.

“But it’s your brainy schemes they want to hear. Sorry to leave him all on you, but I don’t think my presence is needed.”

“...As you say, sir.”

“Give him some cordial hospitality for me, will you?”

“Very good, sir.”

Of course Mr Little was seeking Jeeves’s advice. The guest wasn’t through half of his cup of coffee before the valet thought of an easy solution that would satisfy all sides of the conflict. Like many of Mr Wooster’s friends who had rushed to his home when comparable predicaments aroused, the young gentleman leaped, if one could use the idiom, to the ceiling. Disregarding everything else in this animation inspired by relief, he charged to leave in the highest of spirits, and it took a brief intentional delay at the front door on the valet’s part to get a chance at catching his attention for the last time.

“Mr Wooster regrets not being able to be present but sends warmest regards.”

“Oh?” said Mr Little as if coming out of a reverie or just now happening to remember his friend’s existence at all. “Oh. Right… Right! Barely see this Mr Wooster in the club these days. What’s Bertie up to?”

“...He did not confide in me, sir.”

“Did not confide in you?” He laughed. “That’s new. Well, toodle-oo, Jeeves! Thanks again muchly!”

As the door closed behind the young man, Jeeves stood there for some few brooding moments before remembering himself and proceeding with the clean-up after the visit. His every movement, trained to the extent it was most likely engraved in his very genes, was performed in such a mechanized way that allowed the mind to wander off, and his thoughts were swarming around the mystery of Mr Wooster’s mood like a hundred bees around the only flower in sight. The thought of him not departing to the Drones club every day was frankly most frightening, suggesting that the odd change in the young man was affecting multiple branches of his life. 

And not knowing what his gentleman was up to was indeed most disturbing. It was a state Jeeves never found himself in, always being able to masterfully read him like an open book and not so much guessing as practically knowing his psychology. This time, his every assumption appeared unlikely, and Jeeves found himself, seldom as that occurs, in shortage of guesses. Mr Wooster didn’t seem to wish to move out of town, take on a new musical instrument, try on another of those novelty fashion garments, consider matrimonial unity or adopting children or, as a matter of fact, any other of his ideas that he had ventured to undergo already when the craving for novelty had dimmed his spirits.

And he wouldn’t talk.

“Good afternoon, sir,” said Jeeves with warmth in his tone and an amiable expression on his countenance. The gloomy air about his young master had inclined him to unconsciously attempt balancing out the mood in the flat, and at any other time he would have considered it a laughable endeavor.

“Good afternoon,” murmured Mr Wooster as his hat and cane were taken off him. He began to take off the coat, promptly finding himself assisted with that lightness of his valet that often rendered his movements difficult to notice. “How are things?”

“Rather quiet, sir. Mr Little has called in.”

“Right,” he said, pacing towards the sofa, where on the coffee table there was already steaming tea in a cup glistening clean, waiting for him. “And how is old Bingo?”

“The gentleman appeared very troubled by the unfortunate state of affairs he found himself in, sir, yet was ultimately very good as to accept the suggestion I had put forward to resolve the issue.”

“Well, that’s very gratifying, isn’t it, Jeeves?” said Mr Wooster, bringing the cup to his lips and briefly closing his eyes as the warmth of the steam washed over his face. “I’m sure you have surpassed yourself with the scheme.”

“That is very kind of you to say, sir,” said Jeeves, observing him attentively as he wasn’t looking back.

It took a pause, during which he expected the gentleman to show bigger curiosity in the affair, for the valet to take the liberty of disturbing the silence.

“Your company was missed, sir.”

There was a sort of smile on the young gentleman’s face that resembled a laugh, except no sound escaped him, and the dispiritedness had not left the blues of his eyes, rendering the sight of him bittersweet.

“Was it, by Jove?” there was a certain oddness to the lightness of his tone.

Irony.

“Yes, sir. Mr Little expressed his concern about your absence at the club lately.”

“Oh…” a short quietness hung over the room, as the man was still looking somewhere past everything. “Yes, funny thing, that. I keep forgetting.”

It stung Jeeves like a needle, and if not for the excellent hold of himself, he may have let it show. Because, however uncertain he might have felt about his gentleman currently, he was most confident that the last utterance was a lie.

He must have stood there, moveless, for long enough.

“That will be all, thank you, Jeeves.”

· ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Older relatives, as Mr Wooster himself would readily support, even if only in secret, were not people who were most welcomed in the peace of his home. Civil though the gentleman was to all of them, there was always the slight feeling of anxiety that filled the room the moment a telegram, a telephone call or, worst of all, a visit of Mr Wooster’s aunts were announced. Hardly any of them reached their nephew desirous for social calls, habitually having a sort of assignment they ordered him to complete for them instead, and Jeeves had not little empathy for his young master, frankly not being overjoyous to receive them himself. One would easily see, therefore, the extent of the abnormality that had been ruining the usual light-hearted coziness of the household, were one to learn that Jeeves welcomed the telephone calls that came from Mrs Travers, as she, he suspected – or hoped, rather – was the only one who too, became aware of Mr Wooster’s alteration.

“Yes, Aunt Dahlia. Quite. The article? Uh, yes, it’s-” the young man turned to the kitchen, and Jeeves made a silent gesture from the doorway. “-It’s nearly done, dear old relative, it’ll be ready in-” he glanced at the valet again. “-In a couple of days, yes, in- Or, rather, next week, I should think. Yes… No, I’m not ill. No, I’m just- I haven’t fully woken up yet. Yes,” at this point, Jeeves had taken a careful, respectful step towards the man who was absently gazing out of the window. “No, I’m not giving the bally ‘phone to Jeeves,” At which the valet stepped back. “No! I am perfectly fine, dear flesh and blood, I assure you there’s no cause for concern… Exactly. No, I’m not planning anything. Yes, I swear. Dashed decent of you to worry, though. Yes… Yes. Right. Pip-pip.”

There were a couple such calls from Mrs Travers, and Jeeves couldn’t help eaves-dropping on the conversations, feeling it’s the closest thing he can allow himself before losing his mind and gathering the audacity to address the issue.

He wouldn’t do that, no, of course he wouldn’t, but good Lord, sometimes he really wished he could.

One would have never thought that being helpless could jar a man so much.

· ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It was the beginning of November, and Mr Wooster began refusing, though expressing utmost regret, visits to the friends’. Referencing some ‘other, uncancellable engagements’, he mostly remained in London, declining even the family invitations if he could help it. The wet autumn afternoons that used to feel so tranquil and pleasant in the warmly lit drawing room turned colourless and dreary, as the silences, once so comfortable and peaceful, became somber, as if there was death in the family. Though it must be admitted that the deep grey clouds looming over the city, accompanied by the raindrops flowing down the window glass like slim rivers and the quiet thrum of them tapping on the roofs and roads and street lights, which Jeeves had occasionally regarded as rather unfitting, now seemed to suit the atmosphere in the apartment perfectly.

“Yes, Jeeves..?” said Mr Wooster, lowering the book on his lap.

“Pardon me for interrupting, sir, I merely wished to inform you that the article you wished me to write for Mrs Travers is ready.”

“Oh. Very good, Jeeves.”

“I thought you might want to glance at it and give your approval.”

“I don’t think it’s necessary,” replied Mr Wooster, shaking his head and raising the book again. “You know I trust your judgement. Send it first thing tomorrow, will you?”

There was a respectful cough, bringing the other to look at the valet sideways.

“Was there something else?”

“Yes, sir. Mrs Travers had called while you were in repose, sir. She asked me to inform you that she wishes the article delivered to her by yourself personally.”

He cocked an eyebrow.

“What the dickens for?”

“I could not say, sir.”

“She didn’t say why?”

“No, sir.”

“Nothing at all?”

“No, sir.”

He turned away, expression furrowed.

“What could she possibly want?”

“It is difficult to say, sir.”

Jeeves watched him sigh.

“Well, I guess there’s nothing to be done about it, is there? Very well. Place it on the table, Jeeves, I’ll grab it on my way out tomorrow.”

“Very good, sir.”

Indeed, he did. The next morning, as the young gentleman took the hat out of his valet’s hands, he gazed thoughtfully at the folder which Jeeves handed him last.

“I did forget to thank you, didn’t I, Jeeves? I’m sorry.”

“Oh, not at all, sir,” replied the man with a dangerously soft note in the voice.

Mr Wooster didn’t seem to notice.

“No,” he shook his head slowly and reached for his wallet. “You’ve saved me a lot of trouble and effort with this one. A fiver could be of any use to you, I hope?”

Accepting the note felt strangely awkward this time.

“Thank you very much, sir.”

Mr Wooster raised his eyes to meet his.

“Thank you, Jeeves.”

Once again, Jeeves found himself remaining idly in one place as if rooted after being left alone in the flat. It was the most unusual thing, and certainly something not to be uttered aloud in a million years, but he realised then what ought to have been noticed much earlier — that Mr Wooster wasn’t looking him in the eyes as often.

Ridiculous, really, considering their relationship and the lack of any expectations it could possibly account for, and perhaps it was for this reason that it took him a month to notice or, rather, to admit. How silly. Oh, how silly.

Hastily, Jeeves retreated to the kitchen, banishing the thoughts.

· ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It was late in the afternoon that Mr Wooster returned, and it alarmed Jeeves to see him more brooding than ever, as if he were in the process of making a difficult decision.

“Aunt Dahlia sends her regards,” he said, nonetheless, with a light bounce to the tone. “I couldn’t not mention your involvement, of course, and she said that you are a marvel.”

“I am glad to have given satisfaction, sir.”

It wasn’t a few minutes after that Mr Wooster spoke again.

“I need you to start packing, Jeeves. Throw some warmer suits and coats in there… But no dark ones. Apparently that’s important.”

“Very good, sir,” the man responded with readiness. It was likely that a change of surroundings might brighten the young gentleman’s spirits. “Might I enquire about the destination, sir? It would help me prepare appropriate necessities.”

“Lancashire.”

For a brief moment, the man halted in his movements, though came to his senses very promptly, resuming.

“Quite a distantance, sir.”

“It is,” agreed Mr Wooster, gazing out of the window.

“...Forgive my asking, sir, but is it an assignment that Mrs Travers wishes you to carry out in the town?”

“No. She sends me to visit my Aunt Emily who I hadn’t seen in forever… Do you recall my cousins, Claude and Eustace?”

“Very vividly, sir.”

“Their very mother.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“The poor widow of my late uncle Henry who, I might have told you, kept rabbits in his bedroom.”

“I do recall, sir… Are the young gentlemen currently residing in Lancashire?”

“No, they’re still in London. So yes, it does look like I’m going to be bored to death, if that’s what you’re driving at.”

“The change of scenery tends to open new perspectives on life.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

Having folded the suits, Jeeves looked up for a moment, asking, as customary:

“Do you wish me to accompany you, sir?”

The gentleman’s pause was unsettling as he looked the valet in the eyes again. In them, he saw that the decision was finally made.

“No, Jeeves.”

Chapter Text

Thick clouds of deep graphite grey loomed over the north of the English west coast, almost hiding the pale greens of the hills and the darkened blues of the waters in their shadow. In the cab which was making its way from the train station to the Wooster’s mansion, Bertie, leaning his chin on a fist, was gazing out at Morecambe Bay with as much interest as a chap who expected exactly this. You know how it is: you’re sent to the lands of colder winds and darker skies and what not, and you arrive to be welcomed by the poorest weather you’ve ever seen; it’s only fair you’d shrug your shoulders and sigh Well, well, well… And Bertie was exactly in the Well, well, well… kind of mood.

Now, it wasn’t that bad, really. He thought the sight of the sea would make him sick, especially since the memories of that world cruise were still more or less fresh, but, driving along the empty roads with the entirety of Morecambe spreading as far as the eye can see and framed by the black waters, he came to realise that he actually missed the waves. And the funny way the foam ran over them made them look like stripes.

Bertie turned away with the abruptness of someone having been blinded with a lamp in the middle of the night.

Nevermind. The sea did indeed make him sick.

“Are we arriving soon?”

“About half an hour, sir.”

He was right. About thirty minutes later the taxi made a turn, rolling down the neatly scattered stones towards a building that diverted Bertie’s attention from all the skies and seas and their stripey foam. The ornamental metal gates welcomed him into one of the largest pieces of land the young man has ever seen that wasn’t covered with mere grass but actually tended to with striking detail: the lines of short bushes, cut with precision, outlined the paths which led to stone statues, little fountains, with the largest one encircled in the centre, and sitting spaces with benches and modest tables. Flower pots gave a touch of sweetness to the whole composition, and yet this green front captured Bertie’s look only for a few fleeting moments as they were making it up the drive, because very promptly, it was drawn by the mansion itself as if with a magnet and consumed entirely.

If you’re familiar with the Wooster’s Lancashire mansion, you know it is a considerable two-stories abode built with stone of such a depressive shade of grey it might as well have been painted by the sky itself; a place that had a vague air of good old familiarity dating back to childhood, but not the one you’d be eager to come back to if you can help it. What Bertie beheld right now, however, was something completely unrecognizable. It was still two stories all right, except there was now a layer of light-colored paint on the walls, the not a few windows appeared to be much bigger, looking odd as they almost took up entire walls; the roofs seemed a trifle lighter, too, and on the right, there was a new construction that had a glass dome hovering over it. Although the sun didn’t seem to do much work today, this manor could easily take over its shift for a bit, so much it beamed.

He didn’t notice how the car was parked at the front, as he was still staring gapingly up at this architectural unit, stunned.

“We’re here, sir.”

“...We’re here?”

“Yes.”

“At the Woosters’ mansion?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure this is the Woosters’ mansion?”

“It is.”

If there was an air of slight irritation about the driver, it was completely wasted on Bertie who was still gazing up at the impressive facade. And he wouldn’t have had the chance to notice the manner anyway, because moments later, while he was climbing out, the front doors opened, introducing a woman and a butler into the scene.

“Ah!” she said, clasping her hands together as she descended down the steps. “Hullo, Bertie, dear. Welcome!”

Having tipped the driver, the young gentleman turned to greet the old relative. “What ho, Aunt Emily.”

This old bird, an aunt by marriage, was in the most cheerful spirits he ever remembered. She didn’t look her age, probably because of that wide smile of affection which, Bertie thought, would have been dashed hard to maintain in a place with Lancashire’s weather. Still, there she was, her dress fitting well with the house as far as lightness of color was concerned. Bertie wondered whether it came along with the gallons of beige paint.

“Good heavens, haven’t you grown?” she said, holding him softly by the shoulders after they hugged and taking a good look at him in a way that a little girl that had received a long promised doll on Christmas would: full of joy and fondness but also keen attentiveness as she checked whether it was actually the good stuff she’d been promised.

Ultimately, she seemed pleased with the article.

“Quite a gentleman you’ve turned out to be, my dear. I bet you’re quite a ladies’ man in the metropolis,” it looked like she winked for a moment. “When did we last see each other?”

About then astonishment unclenched Bertie, who, having not yet completely recovered from the view of the house, in the first place, was dumbstruck at the revelation that an aunt species was able to exhibit such amiability (must be exclusive to aunts by marriage), and granted him speech again. He chuckled softly.

“Uh- Well- Eight years ago, isn’t it? At Uncle Henry’s?”

“That’s right,” she replied, the agitation cooling off for just a moment. There was a solemn pause. “Well,” she spoke again, smiling at him and taking him by the arm. “I would never have recognised you if I didn’t know you were coming.”

“I wouldn’t have recognised the house,” said Bertie courteously as he was being led up the steps and into the mansion. “What have you been doing to it?”

“Oh, I just wanted brighter spirits in this place. After Henry’s passing I felt a desperate need to cheer it up.”

“Well, you’ve managed that all right.”

“Do you like it?”

“Quite. Used to never understand why there was a sudden boom of balls and whatnot here at some point — now I do.”

“Yes, the ballroom was renovated as well,” she nodded with a maternally proud smile, glancing dreamily at the facade. “Though I think it’s the windows that did the job.”

“Oh, absolutely...” throwing a brief gaze at the butler who passed them with his bearings, he remembered the civilities. “Dashed decent of you to invite me.”

“Of course, dear. It’s my pleasure.”

The hallways were broad and as full of light as the open air was. Old paintings on the walls with dreamy landscapes and well-dressed nobles, foreign vases and statues, sparkly chandeliers on the ceilings — all of this was nothing like any of Bertie’s memories of the mansion. He admitted that it did the house a jolly bit of good.

Passing the study, the doors of which were half open, Aunt Emily softly guided her young nephew to peek in.

“Audrey, darling, Bertie’s here.”

Audrey — now that’s a name he hadn’t heard in a while. Audrey, you see, was merely three years younger than himself, but of all his cousins she was always the one of limitless energy and a broad outlook on life, seeking to get most of it, and since she was so high she dreamed of going to France to study music. The last time Bertie saw her she was thirteen, but in the Wooster family everyone knows everything about everyone, and he knew well that as soon as she turned eighteen, she practically moved to Paris and started her studies. The happiest letters came from her, they said.

So you may picture the gentleman’s surprise to see lightless eyes rise up to him from a book.

Her otherwise expressionless face softened for a couple of instants as she recognised him, but the eyes, they remained the same. And what caused him a bit of a start wasn’t that they differed so much from those younger wide-opened ones full of joie de vivre, no.

It was the fact that the look she had in her eyes was exactly the same as his own.

For just a moment that the two of them shared that look, it almost felt like what was behind it was acknowledged, but, of course, nothing was said aloud.

“Hullo, Bertie,” she said in a low voice and a genuine smile, however faint.

“Hullo, old thing,” replied the young man, putting his hands in the pockets and unpacking as much cordiality as he had the energy to display after such a long journey. He did use to be fond of her when they were little, after all, and he unquestionably still was. “Good to see you after all this time. You’ve grown quite a bit.”

“So did you.”

“Yes. Looks like we’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

“Quite.”

Aunt Emily took him by the elbow again.

“You two will have all the time in the world after dinner. Let’s get Bertie settled in for a start.”

“Right.”

“Of course.”

Of the five bedrooms, three were already occupied, with Aunt Emily’s friends popping in on a short visit, so the young gentleman had a choice between two. He didn’t quite have sufficient care, to speak plainly, and the aunt accommodated him in the one in the West wing the windows of which faced North and consequently the back garden and the park which turned out to be thrice as big as the front lawn. If you went out to the balcony, you’d have quite a view on the Morecambe Bay to your left, and Bertie fancied that the seascape was optional. The bedroom itself wasn’t any different in style than the rest of the mansion’s interior, and with the size of it you could have held horse races in it, but, again, none of it mattered much for the man.

His room was assigned a manservant, and Aunt Emily gave her nephew a tour of the house which felt ridiculously long even though they combined it with some surface family catching up. Apart from the usual package necessary to satisfy basic human needs, the mansion had a parlour, a drawing and a sitting room, a library, a gallery, a music room (“Do you have a trombone?” “I fear not.” “A banjolette, perhaps?” “No. Do you want me to arrange it?” “No-no… No, I was just curious. The piano would do just fine.”), a sizable ballroom, a study, enough hallways and a green room that had that glass dome that he saw from outside over it. Although he didn’t look into the kitchens and servants’ rooms, Bertie was certain that they too were living their best lives, and Aunt Emily confirmed it, bringing to attention the fact that usually, she resided here with comfortable solitude, ridding the servants of any demanding circumstances and, indeed, saw no reason to deprive the honest people of entertainments like the Servant’s Balls or deny them boons or additional evenings off. As a matter of fact, she asked Rosenfeld, the butler, as well as the house maids, to teach her the basics of self-preservation, including clothing repair skills and even elementary-level cooking, so service in the mansion was rather loosely defined. Bertie realized how she came to be looked askance at by the other members of the family.

“But of course,” she continued. “What good is having such a house if you don’t have visitors..? I try, on occasion, to arrange engagements. That’s why you started hearing of the balls so often. And the family has an unexpiring invitation to the mansion at any time. I’m glad Audrey finally accepted hers after three years.”

“She’s on a break from her studies, I assume?”

She nodded to the side slightly, in a way that suggested complications.

“An extended one, I’m given to understand.”

“Something happened?”

“She wouldn’t tell me… However,” she added, brightening up slightly as she gave him a soft look. “Perhaps the two of you will find comfort in each other, sharing sorrows you won’t speak of.”

A sort of uneasiness stiffened Bertie’s shoulders. “Sorrows?”

“Yes. But I shouldn’t worry, Bertie, dear. Two minuses make a plus, after all. And I’m sure the quiet life by the sea will perk you up in no time.”

“...Perk me up?”

“Dahlia thinks you could use some. She’s been quite worried about you. So has Agatha.”

At that, he laughed quiet, hollow laugh, but the civility didn’t allow him to voice his doubts about the statement.

She got the gist anyway, of course.

“Well, they do,” she insisted. Pausing on the stairs and taking another observant look at him, she noted in a soft voice: “And even if they didn’t say anything, I would have concluded the same myself just by glancing at you once. I remember you as a much more joyous child, you know.”

Her look was gentle, devoid of any judgement, and yet he averted his eyes as if feeling nude without his zest and sanguineness.

A tender hand laid on his shoulder.

“But, be it as may, you can take it from me, my dear, that there isn’t anything that a couple of weeks at sea won’t console. You’ll see. It’ll be all right.”

He wanted to dispute her. Say he never felt better, that Aunt Dahlia and Aunt Agatha had got it all wrong and there was nothing to concern themselves about. There was, after all, the Woosters’ pride still in him, as well as a sense of composure. And yet, as the sky had cleared a little towards the evening and warm rays were now passing through the large windows, coloring the hall in gentle gold, and the freshness of the breeze was just airing the long, quiet, inviting, comforting rooms… he didn’t find it in himself to contradict.

“Right-ho, Aunt Emily.”

She smiled. “That’s my little man.”

Before he knew it, the dinner gong sounded. Aunt Emily’s guests had turned out to be a couple of her old friends with rather forgettable names but very respectable titles, and the evening meal went amiably, enjoyable even despite the young gentleman’s frame of mind. Audrey didn’t speak a word throughout the dinner, yet it wasn’t disinterest that she had the air of, but rather… Melancholy. Although, that is only how Bertie perceived her when the two of them occasionally, if not accidentally, exchanged brief glances.

Gentlemanly staying for one piano piece in the drawing room, the young man excused himself with fatigue from the road and retired to his room, leaving the company to enjoy cocktails.

There was paper on the table and a pen which he was eyeing frequently while preparing for sleep, even making a couple of steps in their direction before dismissing whatever plan he had. The furthest he got was just before settling finally in the bed, as he sat at the table and took the pen in his hand. Its tip, having hovered in the air for a space, had already drawn the word “Dear” in a hasty handwriting, when the young man paused, sighed sharply, dropped the pen negligently and headed for the bed.

Chapter Text

The morning was slow.

As his eyes fluttered open, Bertie’s gaze escaped out into the heavens beyond his balcony doors where cotton clouds hovered over the country, moving ever so slowly by the will of a barely perceivable breeze.

He heard birds despite the closed windows, and the chirpy melody of the little feathered creatures reminded him that there, after all, were reasons to favor the country.

The pillow underneath his head lied most softly against his cheek, white sheets fitting well with the light tones of the room, highlighted, it seemed, by the bright daylight. Bertie gazed at it all in a sleepy haze, remaining motionless in his bed.

Maybe it was only now that he truly realised where he was, along with the fact that he actually did go all the way to Northern England. There was a sort of uneasiness that always accompanied every unfamiliar horizon he had opened for himself. It was a new place, even though he knew well that it was the good old Uncle Henry’s mansion where he had once or twice been sent to by his parents for summer break when he was too young to understand the dullness of the North. It was a new room, new colors, new meetings with old relatives. His glance darted up to a picture hanging over the commode that Bertie was sure he saw before yet couldn’t quite place in the old mansion. Indeed, there was so much novelty about all this, but then on the other hand, there was just enough feeling of familiarity not to cause him discomfort. This was still family, and the bedsheets were still as warm as he remembered them.

The view outside drew his gaze again, and he skimmed over the clouds, finding what he thought was a spot of trees that grew far uphill.

Far. The thought was just sinking in, when a cloud passed, uncovering the sun whose ray fell just on the edge of Bertie’s bed.

He was so far from London. Its surroundings too. Its people. Its life. Gosh! Far from the two-seaters outside his window every hour of the day. Far from the blood-related aunts. Far from friends who all needed one thing or another. Far from the Drones club. From the entertaining engagements of late evenings. Far from the flat. Far from —

Jeeves.

Far from everything.

Surely, it was different. Whether that was good or bad, Bertie was yet to determine.

Slowly and groaning quietly, he turned in his bed and didn’t bother sitting upright before his hand reached blindly for the bell on his bedside table, which chimed upon ringing.

About five or ten minutes later, Moore, the manservant, entered with good stuff on the tray. 

“Good morning, Mr Wooster.”

“Good morning, Moore.”

The teapot was still steaming, its vapor following him in a thin ribbon as he placed it on the table and poured the restorative into a cup.

“Have you had a good night’s sleep, sir?”

“Quite, thank you,” said Bertie, shifting up lazily and accepting the cup from the manservant. “What’s the time?”

“It is ten minutes to twelve, sir.”

The young man furrowed.

“Ten to twelve?”

“Yes, sir.”

He winced once more. Twice in a row, actually, because, while he was thinking the room couldn’t possibly get any brighter, Moore proved him wrong by opening the curtains with a sharp movement.

“You should have woken me. I missed breakfast, didn’t I?”

“Yes, sir. It was, however, Mrs Wooster’s instructions that your sleep not be disturbed.”

Bertie paused thoughtfully, sighing.

“Is lunch soon?”

“In about two hours, sir.”

Unhurriedly, he got dressed, subsequently pacing in the hall that would lead him to the green room where according to Moore he would find Aunt Emily.

And the man didn’t err. She was fiddling with some plants at some table, dressed in protective garments and equipped with a pair of dark gloves and a number of special instruments Bertie was sure were all terribly necessary to the concept of gardening.

She eyed him with motherly sentiment.

“Morning, my dear. How was your sleep?”

“Good morning… Or, afternoon, rather. Quite well, thank you. Sorry I didn’t show up for breakfast.”

She waved him off with a light and easy gesture of hand.

“Not at all. This place is so far from the measured city life that you can consider it timeless if you want to. And,” she stressed in a way that suggested to be of bigger interest. “you can ask for something in the kitchen anytime.”

He nodded, not finding anything to reply.

But it was only moments later when his glance dropped to a little flower pot that she balanced in her hand.

“Didn’t know you took on gardening.”

“Oh, I took a lot of new interests after Henry passed. Your uncle was so energetic, it was the only way that I should make myself busy.”

“You’re not bored, then, when all the guests are gone?”

“Not in the slightest. I take frequent walks to the town, and everyone knows me by now, so I always have a lot of people around me. I suppose in that regard my lifestyle isn’t that far from that of a Londoner,” she winked.

Bertie couldn’t help smiling.

“No, rather not.”

For a bit, he merely stood there, shuffling his feet awkwardly before saying, with as much casualness as he could gather:

“I say, Aunt Emily, your hospitality is one of the warmest I ever received.”

“How nice of you to say so! Well, you know us Woosters.”

“True… I was only wondering: didn’t Aunt Agatha and Aunt Dahlia tell you anything about me?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, Aunt Agatha… doesn’t seem to think much of me. I thought they would certainly tell you.”

“Oh, they did.”

“Did they?”

“They told me plenty. But,” she leaned in a little over the table, lowering her voice and giving him a meaningful look. “Can I trust you with a secret, Bertie?”

“Certainly.”

“I’m not particularly inclined to believe all Agatha says. I have met her, after all.”

At this moment, Bertie stood frozen, highly aware that there was no reply — no honest reply, let it be admitted — that wouldn’t fall out of bounds of civility. There was no contingency in the world which would bring him to support those words out loud, however right they might be.

“And do you know what?” Aunt Emily said, reaching for soil with the trowel she held.

“No.”

“She didn’t approve of me at first either.”

“No!”

“It was terrible. The engagement was broken three times because he kept sticking her oar into it, and it took me about five lunches, not to mention the tremendous work of softening from Dahlia, George, Cuthbert, Julia, Willoughby… every one of your aunts and uncles, as a matter of fact, to change her mind. And, as you no doubt are aware, Henry and I were the happiest together every day until his last… So naturally I’m, well, a little sceptical of your aunt’s judgement. Especially because I can see for myself what a darling you are, and that’s enough for me. So run along, my dear, and fear no conspiracy behind your back.”

“...Thanks, Aunt Emily.”

She glanced at him with a smile and another brief wink.

He wasn’t really hungry, yet well out of any ideas where to put the spare one and a half hours before lunch, his head feeling as if it was washed and fluttered now on the string of the clothesline: rather fresh, but quite uncertain of where it is. Like a veil before his eyes, the kind he never got after any long night out, this feeling of slight confusion accompanied him as he ultimately decided to take on a stroll around the house, and if you think that the time that was at Bertie’s disposal allowed for five such walks, you’re mistaken greatly, forgetting the absolutely baffling size of this whole unit; he wasn’t sure there weren’t any secret passages and hidden rooms to add to it.

After about half an hour — although admittedly, his pace was nowhere near the usual vigor, the impression of which the bounce in his step lent — he crossed the central hall, and from that moment on, his promenade was brightened with feeble melodic sounds of a piano echoing in the large spaces of the mansion. Instinctively, his legs guided him to the source of the music, passing another thousand rooms to the increasing volume of the sound until bringing him to the opened doors of the music room.

Distant chirping of the country fawn was coming through the large open windows, beyond which Bertie saw a gardener fiddling about this plant and that. The curtains were barely touched by the breeze, though all four walls seemed to be vibrating gently to the music as the only significant disturbance of the country’s tranquility, bouncing off of them and seeping through them at the same time. The melody was neither sad nor happy, giving an impression of a quiet serenity, but only at the first glance. It was simple and quite worth directing your ear to, yet the longer you listen, the more aware you become of some longing between the staff lines. Something you’d rather play closer to eventide, he thought.

The carpet would have muffled the sound of steps, but Bertie remained at the doorway, leaning on its frame with his shoulder and hiding his hands in pockets.

Audrey was sitting with her back to the only audience, hair draping on her back and fingers gliding over the keys in such an elegant fashion that, Bertie was certain, ought to draw young monsieurs in line for her with all the gifts that France could provide. Wooster’s pride sparkled once more in him for his young cousin, whom he always regarded as one of the soundest eggs. And his heart bled, as it always was, over the sight of a sound egg dear to him visibly going through it.

It was only when the melody came to its finish when he took a step into the room.

“What-ho, Audrey.”

She turned around, and the young man thought he even saw the tiniest brightening-up in her.

“Oh, hullo, Bertie. Slept well?”

“Too well, it seems. I came really close to missing lunch as well.”

For a moment, there were two polite but faint smiles on their faces.

“Care for a go at the instrument?” she asked.

“Oh, no-no. I… became aware that we had skipped the customary pip-pippings yesterday, so I merely popped in to check up.”

“Very decent of you.”

Bertie had a strong feeling that if he hesitated at this very moment, for whatever reason, then they would be sitting in silence until lunch.

“Well, first, it’s very nice to see you after all this time.”

“It’s good to see you too, Bertie. But didn’t we do this one yesterday?”

“So we did, well… How have you been?”

“Quite good, thank you. And how are you?”

“I’m fine, too. Still doing your studies?”

“Yes, we’re on a break just now.”

“Paris, was it?”

“Yes.”

“Something with music, if I’m not mistaken?”

“You aren’t. It’s musicology. I’m also part of our university’s philharmonic orchestra.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes.”

“What do you play?”

“I’m the first violin.”

“Way to go, Audrey! You make the Woosters proud.”

“You’re very kind.”

“Only saying what’s true. Do you like it?”

“Pardon?”

“Well,” he shrugged. “Do you like it all? Paris, university… et cetera .”

“...Yes.”

“Was that a tiny hesitation I just heard?”

“No, no, I like it, really, I do. All of it. It’s just…” she didn’t exactly sigh, but her eyes kept glancing away more often. “I’m sure you know how it’s never all smooth and velvet.”

“Oh, rather.”

“Well, there’s that.”

“Quite.”

That brief conversation they just had only showed Bertie that that jolly leaping girl he knew was still well inside that shade of a person, which allowed him to assume that she had not given up hope entirely. However low-spirited she was right now, she remained, nevertheless, the little Audrey who loved life. And the thought of that brought him no little delight.

She asked him if he was still in London, and he replied in affirmative. A small chit-chat of this and that followed close, in a rather pleasant, casual manner. It all felt rather soothing, the lightness of surface-level conversation which wasn’t burdened with any consequence combined with the comfort of exchange with family, and what’s more, with one that not only not considered him society’s parasite but also apparently not judging him at all, in whatever regard, even though he was sure that the view of their other aunts about him couldn’t have missed her ear, so widely it was held among their relatives. Perhaps it was this seeming lack of scorn that sourced most of Bertie’s bewilderment about this new unusual situation which he found himself in.

“I’m going on a stroll to the beach after lunch and some drawing,” Audrey said. “Would you like to join?”

“I’d love to. Aunt Emily spoke a lot of the sea’s impression.”

“Yes, that’s what she tells me as well. I try to go to the sea about twice a day to make her happy.”

“Well, time there’s ample, I suppose.”

“That’s true.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

In the late afternoon, the two Woosters set out to the shore under the silently approving gaze of the older relative. Clouds had just begun gathering on the horizon where the heavens touch the water’s surface, reflecting on the tips of the moderate waves which gurgled against the pale sands. The stroll turned out to be surprisingly agreeable, and Bertie thought that he could see it actually becoming a temporary habit, but then wiser councils prevailed, telling him to think it over and wait a dreamless out before making such a serious decision. There still remained a danger of it quickly turning out dull.

This first one wasn’t, however. And the rummy thing about it was, it felt all right. Meaning to say, everyone knowing Bertram Wooster would know that he wasn’t too keen on long pauses or silences when in company — much easier was it to fill the air conversing about nothing in particular, as it gave flavor to the whole interaction. So if those people ever heard about that stroll that he took with little Audrey, where only occasional chatting sparkled, they would no doubt have thought that dear old Bertie was sending silent S.O.S. into the heavens, begging whoever was in charge to get him out of this tedious position. But he didn’t. In fact, there was a certain peace inside him, as if all that weighed him had been lulled to sleep by the rhythmic murmuring of the sea. Well, maybe not exactly to sleep. But at least to a nap.

On the way back, they realised there was still some time before dinner, and Audrey led them into an obscure little piece of the mansion’s land that you’d think doesn’t even belong to its grounds, so far-away it was. Yet it was a quiet, secluded spot a bit uphill with a rather impressive view of the sea, and if you glanced down, you’d even see rooftops peeking out at the beach. There was an old but well tended bench, and it was right there that the two perched themselves on.

After a bit of general Nice-view-ing and Very-lovely-ing, silence ensued again, and Bertie’s unfocused gaze was tossed into the distance near the skyline when he heard Audrey sigh at his right as she turned to him with the same weariness in her eyes.

“So,” she said. “What were you sent here for?”

It took a bit of blinking and brief brow-frowning before Bertie responded:

“How do you mean it, old thing?”

“Well, I’m not going to pretend like I don’t know what’s happening. Mother and our aunts aren’t, anyway. They think we’re ill,” she paused, turning to the waves. “That’s why they send us to sea .”

“Oh, ah.”

Well, there was that. Bertie wasn’t as blunt as to think the topic wouldn’t ever be brought up, but he was sort of hoping it wouldn’t. And he knew that when it would, the oh, ah-ing certainly wouldn’t suffice as an answer.

Still, unprepared to be faced with it so soon, he took some time to think of the way he wanted to put it. For only a moment, he entertained an idea of edging out of it gracefully, employing the ancient strategy of lying, but then, if he was asked directly — which, it must be stressed, only happened to him in London from Aunt Dahlia — maybe it wouldn’t hurt sharing.

“Well,” he breathed out, glancing everywhere else but her as he tried mustering casualness in his voice. “I used to think of it as a seasonal whim. I mean, with all the days becoming shorter and the weather worsening and what have you… And maybe it’s still a whim, don’t you know, maybe it just lasts longer, but…” he hesitated, struggling to get the words out, and when he did, it was with another tired breath: “I suppose I’m simply a little disappointed. In everything.”

“In everything?” he caught an empathetic note in her voice.

“In everything,” he echoed. “Friends, family…” in the pause, there was place for something else, but he didn’t fill it, leaving the sentence rather broken off.

She mused for a bit.

“Well, then perhaps it actually is seasonal and you just need a change of surroundings. Like this.”

She spoke it with gentle yet noticeable encouragement, and Bertie would have smirked, recognizing that Wooster selflessness he was proud of possessing himself. You must know it well by now, too: when it comes to a friend or family, especially a dear one, exhibiting what is known as defeatism, the Woosters naturally leapt to every opportunity to cheer them up and find the silver lining.

How ironic it was, then, that the method which brought so many of Bertie’s friends into brighter spirits was now failing to uplift him.

Although he didn’t dismiss it altogether.

“Maybe,” he conceded. “But even so, it wouldn’t diminish the fact that I’m beginning to get very tired of everybody.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s not true.”

“It is. Did you know, dear young Audrey,” he turned to her with what you might call some animation, compared, of course, to his latest demeanor. “That my aunts are ceaselessly trying to marry me off?”

“I did not,” she answered with genuine surprise in her eyes.

“Well, they do. And it doesn’t help that yours truly is regularly getting himself into engagements because there’s always some girl or other out there thinking I’m madly in love with her. And if my own love life suffers no intrusions, then it’s that of my friends that throw me into schemes of theirs so that they can get out of soup. And you know, of course, more than anyone that we Woosters are first to rush to a friend in need. We mourn in spirits and don’t rest until our pals are at peace and all is well, but there are limits. There are times that we must be firm. And I think that if I hear one more “We were at school together” or “Is this Bertie Wooster speaking?”, I’ll move to Iceland.”

Having spoken, he found himself a couple of breaths short, and in the stillness that followed, during which he restored the oxygen, he realised that he may have spoken too much.

“Sorry, old thing,” he added in a lower voice, lighting a cigarette. “Didn’t mean to pour it all out like that.”

“No-no,” she replied, and it is after glancing at her eyes that he noticed that during his speech she had listened most carefully and tactfully. She pursed her lips, looking at him. “I was just thinking how hard that must have been for you. I’m so sorry, Bertie.”

“Oh, it’s quite alright. It’s rather funny, now that I think of it,” he said, and a brief hollow chuckle escaped him. “You see, it has been like this for a very long time… So I don’t know why it got me now exactly. Again, it probably is just seasonal.”

He dropped his gaze to the cigarette, turning away from her to let out the smoke, which dissolved into the already greying evening. They sat like that for a while, and oddly, Bertie could feel the sympathy that his cousin was seemingly beaming with, or maybe he was just imagining it. But the little bean was visibly affected by his words, and that must be urgently attended to by slightly redirecting her attention.

“Well,” he said. “If we’re already at it, you might as well share your story.”

He noticed the change in her the very moment he said it. It wasn’t exactly in her expression but, as he had had now multiple occasions to observe, in the eyes, even though Bertie couldn’t see a lot of them now that she turned to the scenery again. But that first glance that he could, he caught it: a pained one, as if he poked into a weakly sewn wound.

Lone seagulls passed across the sky, slightly illuminated by the last rays of the setting sun, and the evening coolness was just starting to reach his collar.

It took her much longer than it did him to gather herself before she spoke.

“A year after I moved to Paris and started my studies, my university announced the formation of a musical theatre of sorts that anyone could join. They wanted to give people a stage to try themselves in different artistic branches, I take it. I was already in the orchestra by that time, and some of us were called to play at the rehearsals. That’s where I met her… Her name is Jacqueline Arquette, and everybody knew she was the rising star of the opera and would achieve great heights… You could have knocked me down with a feather, Bertie, after I first saw her, and after I heard her sing, I was never the same again. I joined the ensemble just to be by her side more, have her eyes on me, however briefly... My friends knew, of course, and not a few of them had been fortunate to find requited love — those things are much more different in France, you know — so they encouraged me, and… I decided to confess.”

There she paused, hanging the lemon as her fingers fiddled with the folds of her dress, and she hesitated long enough for the young man, who until now had come very nearly to being completely stupefied, to gather his senses.

“Sorry, old thing, I… I don’t think I understand you correctly.”

She froze for a split second, and when she turned her eyes to him, he saw that whatever had been in them while she spoke was all banished, replaced by horror.

Then, she dropped her gaze.

“Oh, good Lord…” she said, nearly whispering. “I was sure you knew. Oh…”

Bertie drew in breath, but nothing came out, and it would have been wasted anyway, because she rose abruptly, the frame stiffer than an iron gate.

“Well,” she brought her eyes to fix on his, stained with cold restraint. “I can only beg you not to call the police on your own cousin. For mother’s sake.”

She took off, and he had plenty of chances to put a word in, yet he sat there, blinking gapingly.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Like yesterday, the dinner went with only the older parts of the society speaking. Aunt Emily spoke of the tea she had at a friend’s house, while the guest couple retold their experience at the stony area of the beach. At this point the old flesh and blood seemed to become struck with a reminder, and she asked with apparent interest how the stroll had been. Bertie replied in a few brief, civil words that it was quite enjoyable, and, graced with another one of the aunt’s tender smiles, was glad to find the conversation taken over by the older couple again. The lady turned out to be rather fond of chatting, much to his relief.

He glanced frequently at the little Audrey, but the girl had not raised her eyes once during the meal.

It seemed like no one noticed her departure after the conclusion, so quickly and suddenly she went. The society was about to come over to the drawing room for the evening drinks, but Bertie declined once again. Aunt Emily merely inclined her head in assent.

He left with two glasses of port — mind you, it took enormous power of will not to ask for a whole bottle at the kitchen — and headed towards the gates, crunching on the gravel as he paced across the front garden. With the weight on his heart and the deep darkness of the sky, only a couple of stars peeking out, it might have as well been two in the morning.

As Bertie was assuming, he found her on the same bench, on the same side of it, too, resting her back in a remarkably calm but simultaneously eerily moveless way. The grass silenced the young man’s steps, but upon closer distances, it made enough noise for her to throw a glance over her shoulder. It took her less than an instant to turn away again, pretending to be immersed in the sight of the sea, and Bertie remained standing near the bench for a long, hesitant instant.

But then, he extended her one of the glasses.

“What is she like?”

It was plain she was surprised. With slightly raised eyebrows she looked at him and at the glass with visible puzzlement, and his hand hung in the air for a bit.

Then, she sighed and took the glass. Bertie sat down.

Audrey turned back to the sea.

“She is the most beautiful girl I have ever met. Breath-taking. Her eyes are like ember stones, and when the stage light fell on them, I could have sworn they turned golden. Those eyes…” she said with a trifle of tremble in the voice, so full of emotion she had to lower it. She took a sip. “They are so gentle, so warm. When she looked at you, you suddenly felt like your very soul had found its true home at last… She was always most kind and inspiring, and had a habit of holding your hand when she saw you were nervous. And when she touched mine, I didn’t feel like there were butterflies in my stomach, but that my whole body was made of butterflies, kept in shape only by restraints of civility. She was intelligent, charming and absolutely striking in every respect. I’m sure that’s what true love feels like.”

Having listened to dozens of friends pour their souls out about girls, Bertie tended to cut their stories short, all this “I worship her” and “She’s like a tender goddess” having grown quite old and mundane, but right now, his attention was wholly devoted to the story. It may have been the way Audrey spoke of this girl, but it felt different.

“Tell me all, dear cousin. What happened?”

She took another modest sip and drowned her gaze in the glass.

“We had a show in July. I played a very minor role of a fairy, had tons of fabric and make-up on me. We sang in a little fairy choir in a couple of scenes.”

“I trust it, she was the queen?”

“Oh, much more than that — she was the princess of the whole kingdom… It was a story written by some modern French dramaturg. Well, she sang, and the audience loved it, of course. The show was a success. Then…”

He could see it took effort for her not to gulp the whole glass in one go.

“Then we had an after-show party. We had a few drinks, and my courage was the highest it’s ever been: I was very moved by her performance, you see… She showed up late, and when she did, I practically ran up to her and, well, said it all.”

An anxious suspicion was already creeping up Bertie’s neck.

“What did she say?”

“...She laughed.”

He was dumbstruck for a moment.

“She didn’t!”

“She did. She said she thought it the most ridiculous of ideas and that she trusted I was just so soaked it made me talk nonsense. That for my sake, she would pretend she never heard anything, but it sure was dashed silly of me to suppose there ever were any affections of that kind on her part.”

“Good Lord!” she didn’t say anything. “I meant to say, good Lord!”

That Wooster heart, it bled, more so than ever, at the story. The embarrassment that she must have gone through was unimaginable, and Bertie knew he couldn’t even begin to grasp the whole gravity of the situation, but as it was, it sounded tough, especially for such a tender girl like Audrey. 

“What did you do?” he asked.

“I fled,” she responded simply.

He paused thoughtfully, nodding.

“Here.”

“Yes.”

Another, longer silence hung in the air as the two of them sat, with her glass almost empty and his barely touched. He mourned for her, feeling her woes as if they were his own and wishing there was something he could do to brighten her up and soothe her broken — crushed! — heart.

And then, it came to him naturally.

“Awfully sorry for you, old thing. But, I’m actually glad it didn’t go well,” he said, and before she could say anything, he continued: “Because such a cold-hearted, harsh girl like her never deserved such a good egg like you, and she never will.”

Her eyes softened on him.

“You’re a great comfort, Bertie.”

“I try to be.”

“Thank you.”

“Not at all.”

He might have even placed a supportive hand on her shoulder; sounded like something he would do at a time like this, in any case.

“You will find better, Audrey, old fruit.”

She sighed.

“I think I've had quite enough for the moment.”

“Right. Quite. When do you have to go back?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“Well, see it for yourself. They don’t usually hunt people like me with the gendarmerie, but there are laws about public morality and order which I would doubtlessly fall under. With a disaster like mine, they have probably already expelled me from the orchestra, if not from the school altogether. And if I go back, I have to face everyone who saw it with their own eyes, and if not, then definitely heard it from the newspapers… No, Bertie, I don’t think I’m ready to bear any of it.”

Bertie nodded absently. Of course, he understood.

“Of course, I understand.”

She glanced at him from under weary eyelids again.

“You’re very kind, Bertie.”

“Ah, well…”

“I knew the cousinly relation wouldn’t allow you to actually hand me to the police, but I never expected compassion.”

“...Well, you know how we Woosters are.”

For a fleeting moment, she smiled faintly.

“That’s right.”

They fell quiet after that, gazing far into the same scenery, except the late evening had obscured the line between the sky and the water, and more and more tiny specks of stars popped up across the heavens. Remembering a couple of things he had been told about the stars, Bertie lowered the eyes to his own glass, where the darkened liquid was swaying as he turned it in his hands, half-absently and slowly. You could even see it glistening in the dull moonlight if you wanted to.

“It’s… actually more than mere compassion, I’d say,” Bertie said meaningfully, having cleared his throat quietly, and chuckled mirthlessly. “Rummy, it is, but… we’re actually in, um, quite similar positions, you and I.”

“Oh, yes?” she asked with a reserved kind of tone that doubted whether that could truly be the case. “What’s her name?”

Bertie fell silent. Perhaps it was because of being so affected by the reopening of her own wound, she didn’t notice it at first, but after enough time had passed, she seemed to realize that and ask herself whether Bertie didn’t fall asleep in the meantime. She turned to face him with a confused sort of frown, expectation in her eyes, but the young man responded to her look only with one of his own — the look of the surfacing weariness with which they had first greeted each other.

She recognized it. Soon enough, her features relaxed, as they do when you’re struck with amazement. She stared at him for a bit longer, searching for something in his eyes, but then his gaze sunk into the glass again, and she raised the brows slowly.

“What’s… his name?”

She asked it carefully, softly, as if not fully believing it that she did, but after a much shorter hesitation, Bertie answered:

“Reginald Jeeves.”

“...Who is he?”

Bertie stared straight forward where he thought the horizon was as he brought the glass to his lips.

“My valet.”

And drowned half the port.

He didn’t look back at her for a space, and she didn’t speak, still gazing at him, except this time with another kind of disbelief.

For, well, what can you say to that, really?

“Oh, gosh…” whispered Audrey. One way to put it, of course.

“That about sums it up,” Bertie replied, a trifle dryly.

“I’m sorry, Bertie.”

“Don’t be, dear cousin. I’m the one who brought it on myself… Should have given him the sack a long time ago.”

She inclined her head slightly to the side.

“What’s he like?”

He chuckled softly and took his time.

His glance shot up to the stars which by this time multiplied significantly. A delightful sight.

“He is… breath-taking,” Bertie said, and the two of them exchanged bittersweet kind of smiles. “A most extraordinary cove. He is courteous, attentive, has an infallible judgement in clothes, psychology of the individual and pretty much everything, and the way he carries himself would make you think he is some sort of an ethereal being rather than a man, if ethereal’s the word I want. A bastion of composure. Heaven-sent, I’m convinced, though why, is beyond me... And you’ll have to stop me once I start talking about this chap’s intelligence, because when I do, I get carried away easily. The short of it is, he had got me and my friends out of dozens of soups, and in a way, mind you, that hardly left an aftertaste of dissatisfaction on any of the parties involved. In fact, when my friends come to me, they want his society, not mine. But I’m not complaining. He is the most brilliant man I have ever met.”

By the time he finished, his gaze got mindlessly lost in the starry heavens again. Audrey pursed her lips, watching him talk.

“I have to ask,” she said, and when he looked at her, he could see, even in the dimmest light, how the edge of her lips had curled up ever so slightly. She gave him a meaningful look. “Is he handsome?”

“Oh,” Bertie breathed out with another hollow chuckle, dropping his glance timidly. “Most.”

“Is he taller than you?”

“Noticeably.”

“Oh.”

“Exactly.”

“How long has it been like this?”

Bertie paused, unfocusing his eyes in the distance while performing calculations by the end of which he merely took another considerable sip from his glass, and Audrey said “I see.”

“But,” she continued, puzzled. “Why didn’t you bring him along? I thought valets are supposed to follow their masters everywhere.”

The young man smirked another one of the bittersweet.

“Here we come to the point I made earlier, my dear young Audrey. The reason I said that our situations are oddly similar is that Jeeves thinks I’m an imbecile.”

She gasped. “Surely not!”

“All right, maybe not, but he does think that mentally I am quite negligible.”

“How do you know that?”

“I heard him say the very words himself twice while he thought I wasn’t in the room, and once it had been told to me by a third party whom he told it to.”

Again, strong compassion seemed to overcome her.

“Oh, Bertie.”

“And, well, you of all people know how it feels to be offended by someone whose words you take straight to the heart.”

“Of course.”

“That was when I realised that, as a matter of that, everyone thinks so.”

“Bertie…”

“No, but it’s true. Should I tell you why?”

“Do.”

“Because they’re right.”

She blinked at him with bewilderment, and he explained.

“I’ve always known. I’m fed up with education, I’m forgetful, and I don’t know where I would have been if Jeeves didn’t take care of me. Anyone, if you ask them, would testify to this. Aunt Agatha, Uncle Percy, the Drones lads — everyone of my nearest, I should think… But to tell you the truth, Audrey, old thing, I didn’t mind. Hardly ever. I laughed it off and went on with my life, until…”

He broke off, and she nodded.

“Until it came from him.”

Not finding the words, he nodded back at her silently.

She thought about it, seeking positives in the characteristic Wooster fashion.

“Perhaps he didn’t mean it like that,” she suggested. “And perhaps he too cares for you deeply. You don’t know.”

Bertie sighed.

“He is a valet, Audrey. There already was an episode when he left my service because of a habit of mine that irritated him… I suppose it’s this nature of our relations that puts the lid on any possibilities.”

“Did you say he left you?”

“I did. I wanted to learn a banjolette, and he said it was not an instrument for a gentleman.”

“But then he came back?”

“That’s right.”

“To you.”

“To yours truly.”

“Well, don’t you think he wouldn’t have come back to you if he didn’t care for you?”

“...I think it must be dashed convenient to have a mentally negligible employer.”

She pursed her lips again and let out a quiet sigh. It was plain she appreciated the gravity of the situation.

“I don’t think you’re mentally negligible, Bertie.”

“Thanks, old thing.”

“I really don’t.”

“I know. And it’s very decent of you to say so.”

It seemed like there was something more she was about to say, though decided against it at the very last moment. Instead, she raised her glass with the very little that was left in it.

“To disappointments in love.”

They exchanged a look of deep appreciation, and Bertie raised his own glass.

“To disappointments in love.”

Chapter Text

There is nothing that brings people closer than shared heartbreaks and a threat of legal persecution. In his experienced life as a gentleman, Bertie had befriended many kindred spirits, often over a bottle or two of some strong fluid; within mere hours, he became close pals with many young gentlemen. Never once had he gained an indisputably strong friendship over half a glass of port, one cigarette and thirty minutes of chat, about twenty of which were spent in somber silence. Ever since, he had proudly counted Audrey as one of his best friends, and she reciprocated the sentiment cordially. In fact, one week later, the two of them were seldom seen apart.

The walks to the sea and back, the commitment to which Bertie originally felt a certain hesitancy about, were done twice a day, sometimes thrice, as if by the clock. They played duets after dinner; it turned out that apart from masterful playing, Audrey was also engaged in composing, and Bertie had to admit that she was dashed good at it. After lunch, they read together, taking on literary discussions and realizing their tastes are not only very different, but also mutually disliked. Yet, disregarding the differences, they told each other the book events nevertheless, and if you think it a terrible idea then you must stand corrected, for there was nothing, Bertie would stress, nothing that two individuals in highly emotional states, united by solidarity, couldn’t make work. Dash it, it didn’t matter one bit what the books were about. What mattered was good company.

And on stormy days, which apparently weren’t so rare in Morecambe Bay, they spent their time in the study, exchanging stories about their beloved ones in hushed voices over tea, gazing out in the back gardens, which were assaulted by the heavy rains.

The hearts still bled for each other’s sorrows, of course, and Bertie thought it was such a shame that he couldn’t put Audrey’s troubles out for Jeeves, as he would no doubt come up with a solution in no time. Although he offered it, she declined. It was bad enough already that the whole Paris had seen her embarrassment — textualizing it on the British grounds would not only create danger for her own freedom, but also throw suspicion on her cousin, should his valet not be as broad-minded and sympathetic enough as to be informed of a felony and not report it. The young man pursed his lips and nodded understandingly, because there was, of course, sense in that. And after remembering the Junior Ganymede Club Book, he ditched the prospect altogether. After a lot of intense thinking and talking, it was agreed that time, the great healer, must mend the broken parts of the cardiac organ sooner or later, and so they set out to merely wait it out.

Two weeks later, Aunt Emily hosted a party, and Bertie was introduced to far too many people, wondering whether his dear aunt-by-msarriage had invited the whole Morecambe to the gathering, which wasn’t that implausible when you considered the size of the town. At the earliest convenience, the two cousins scattered, meeting on the uninhabited balcony of the ballroom, drinking cocktails and gazing down on all those happy people enjoying themselves greatly like two wet crows on a wire looking down on a market street.

Audrey stood supportively by his side as he wrote a letter to Jeeves, which he should have sent days ago but was desperately in need of external approval. Having skimmed through the first draft, she cocked her eyebrow, asking if he meant it to be the length of a telegram, and shook her lemon at the second one, patting him gently on the shoulder but pointing out that two thirds of the contents were a one-way ticket to prison.

Three weeks later, Bertie was walking around in white and light beige suits, suggested by Aunt Emily, and thus automatically became native to the Woosters’ Morecambe mansion, practically indistinguishable from the statues or tablecloths. Audrey said he looked good in them.

Their spirits weren’t exactly uplifted by each other’s society, but it made the heavy weight of heartbreak slightly easier to bear. Two minuses and all that, don’t you know.

And so the days, colder and shorter, went on.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

At King’s Cross was animated as usual. The workers rushed about their duties, the passengers were watching their valuables and frequently glancing up at the clock, and the long chains of railroad cars huffed and puffed into the air. The cool morning light filtered through the large arched windows. It was ten to nine.

Just as Jeeves was pocketing his watch back into the long winter coat, he noticed another train approach, heading for the very platform he was waiting on. He watched its slow measured movements patiently, the way sunshine highlighted some of its parts and obscured others, flickering slightly on the glass of its small windows. Eventually, it came to a stop, and it wasn’t before long that passengers were spilling out of it like rivers, looking around in attempts to ascertain their location as well as that of the exit. The man squinted his searching eyes.

He noticed her before she did him. She remained very much the same despite her career in New York, so different in many respects from the English customs. The same blonde hair, curling neatly around her charming face, the slim figure and an innocent, beaming expression that rendered her so easily spotted in crowded places, despite an average height. Jeeves made his way towards her, amused by the sight of her spinning around in attempts to see him, and they were mere steps apart when she finally made a turn that directed her towards him.

Her equally squinted eyes now gaped widely, almost sparkling, as a big smile bloomed on her lips.

“Uncle Reggie!”

He found himself in her embrace before he knew it, yet welcomed it cordially. Slightly bending to answer the gesture, he could not help but smile himself, influenced by her radiant geniality.

“Good morning, Mabel.”

“Thanks awfully for picking me up!”

“Not at all, my dear.”

“Biffy is still in Manchester, you see. It’s about that show they want us to do in March.”

Jeeves took her luggage, and she grabbed him by the arm on his other side, beginning to chirp like an early bird, determinedly and ceaselessly as they left the station. Occasionally, she got distracted, admiring the sight of London she missed dearly and breathing in the fresh air of the old homeland, melting with gentleness on her face, but then resumed with the conversation, though it was a trifle incoherent and, as far as the topics were concerned, rather insignificant. She did this, he knew: talked about trivial matters to keep significant ones for more undisturbed contexts.

He brought her to a cafe he knew, small and inexpensive, yet famous in narrower circles for its delicious breakfasts and an atmosphere of tranquility. She appeared immediately fond of the establishment, gasping about it and wondering with a sigh how she never knew about such a lovely place.

They seated themselves by the window. It was after having placed the order that Mabel began telling of how life was treating her since the last time they had seen each other. Her marriage with Mr Biffen had had a visible improvement on her general demeanor, despite her being bright-eyed by nature already. She was happy, truly happy, and Jeeves listened with no false curiosity but warmth in his eyes to the stories she told, gesticulating energetically and having to be occasionally informed of the need to reduce the volume of her voice, however pleasant, a little. She told about the Miller Girls’ American Tour, giving detail about each city; about the challenge of barely having any pause before that one and the voyage to Spain and then back to Britain; how enjoyable it was to travel with her fellow singers and how delightful to have Mr Biffen by her side; about their short visit to Mr Biffen’s friends up North and a slightly longer one at Aunt Annie on their way to London. About the upcoming spring tour in France. It melted Jeeves’s heart to hear the joy in her voice, to know she was living a life full of pleasures and fulfilling herself professionally, loving her occupation sincerely.

The breakfast had been served, and the man already finished his when she completed her narration. He smiled.

“I am very glad that you are succeeding in your endeavors. You are truly deserving of every success.”

“Thanks, Uncle Reggie!” she answered with a smile, hers thrice as big as his. For the first time, she picked up the cutlery. “But it’s your turn now. Have you been well?”

“Quite, thank you.”

She glanced up at him for a moment: a meaningful, knowing glance and an odd smirk.

“How does it feel to have a huge flat all for yourself for so long?”

He raised his brows.

“And how do you happen to know that?”

“We met Mr Wooster in Morecambe!”

There was a brief pause that she, occupied with her eggs, didn’t notice.

“Did you indeed?”

“Yes. Biffy’s friends are at Blackpool, but he took me to Morecambe for a day, and while we were on a stroll in the town, we met Mr Wooster. He was strolling too, with his cousin Audrey. I told him I was going to see you, and he sent his regards.”

“That… is very kind of him,” Jeeves said pensively. “I do not happen to remember him mentioning that his aunt had a daughter.”

“Oh, yes, and she is so pretty, too! But apparently she’s at some school in Paris, and it’s the first time she came back here since she turned eighteen.”

“You appear to have learned quite a lot about the young miss.”

“Not really, just that. It’s just that it was so nice to see Mr Wooster again, and he seemed to be surprised too, so we talked for a bit. But he looked so sad, they both did. Why was he so sad?”

It was one of those helpless, clueless moments that Jeeves despised greatly.

“He did not confide in me, I fear.”

“Why didn’t you go with him?”

“He did not wish me to.”

“Did you quarrel?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

She hummed.

“Very strange. Such a pity! He was always such a dear… But at least you have his place for yourself. You’re practically on vacation.”

“My duties remain. The apartment needs maintenance regardless,” he did not mention Mr Wooster’s friends, whose habit of seeking him in times of difficulty did not change with his master’s absence. “And I anticipate Mr Wooster’s approaching return. He mentioned to me upon his departure that his visit isn’t estimated to last long.”

“Well, he didn’t seem so sure when we met him.”

Jeeves cast her a glance she didn’t see.

“How was that?”

“I asked him. I was hoping he might catch our show in London in two weeks, but he said he didn’t know when he would come back. And if you ask me, he didn’t look all that keen on coming back.”

The man gave it a quick thought, and his calculation of the duration of Mr Wooster’s absence resulted in a number that was too high for a gentleman of his class.

“In that case,” he said collectedly. “I expect him to summon me to Morecambe sometime soon.”

She nodded.

“Probably,” she said. “So, did you eat at the fancy table?”

“No.”

“Had a bath in the luxury bathtub?”

“No.”

“Slept in the big bed?”

“Mabel.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Behind the tall windows of the study, a true wintery spirit was making itself comfortable on the premises. With fluffy snowflakes and what’s-it-called.

“Couldn’t you call on him to come here? I could look and tell you if he loves you or not.”

“Absolutely-”

“Don’t move, Bertie!”

“Well, how am I to talk then?”

“Talk without moving your lips.”

“A- Oa- It’s dashed hard, you know.”

“Oh, all right. What were you saying?”

Bertie was about to start counting all the snowflakes for the lack of anything better to do apart from the conversation. Sitting in one spot and being forbidden to move is a dickens of a challenge, you should know, even though it wasn’t the first time he had a portrait made of himself. The window was his only sight, along with some bookshelves that squeezed themselves into his view and the colours of whose covers Bertie had counted thrice out of boredom, coming to a different number each time and giving it up. Audrey was seated at her easel with a moderately sized canvas and lots of painting supplies sprinkled around her, looking just like all those artistic chaps Bertie met all over New York.

“I was saying that it’s absolutely out of the question. There is still a fluttering sensation at the pit of my stomach, if you know what I mean.”

“I do, I’m afraid,” she sighed. “I felt it, too. Like a gentle flock of butterflies.”

“Well, I feel more like I’ve swallowed a spoonful of mice.”

“And you couldn’t give him notice?”

“Even further out of the question.”

“I was just worrying,” she said softly. “What if time the great healer could only heal if you let go? I mean, you can’t be expected to get over your heartbreak if you see the source of your sorrows every day. That’s why I went here.”

Bertie was quiet for a space, then sighed. She was right, of course.

“You’re right, of course. Too bad that I quite literally cannot live without this man.”

“But there are plenty of good valets in London, I’m sure.”

“Maybe… But he takes me out of the bouillon so often that I’m afraid the moment he leaves me, I’m going to get engaged to five girls at once by three different aunts.”

“Well,” she said, trying to give a livelier ring to her voice. “It seems that when I go back to France, you have to come with me,” he raised his brows. “Bertie!”

“Sorry,” he murmured, assuming the agreed expression again, and added: “I thought you didn’t want to go back.”

“But I can’t stay here forever, either. And we don’t have to go to Paris. It’s lovely everywhere in France.”

“Oh, I know.”

“There’s Lyon.”

“Right.”

“And Toulouse.”

“Marseille.”

“O-o-oh, Marseille. I hear it’s very nice there in April.”

“I bet it is. So, we’re moving to our French neighbours then?”

“At the latest in June.”

“Very well, dear cousin.”

Faint little smiles had crept onto their worn faces by now. With the light tone of the conversation, both of them knew well their discussed plan was happening neither in April nor in June. Nor ever, for that matter. And yet, Bertie toyed with the idea of moving to a place uninhabited by Bingos, Fink-Nottles, Glossops, Potter-Pirbrights and every other reminder of his life in the metropolis. It seemed very appealing to him, however far-fetched.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Mr Wooster did not summon him.

Not that week, not the next, and not the one after. The letters Jeeves received from his gentleman were disappointingly short, limited in topics to weather reports and the consistent wellbeing of the Wooster mansion. Not even mentioning young Ms Wooster. It was difficult to answer them, and despite Jeeves’s stealthy inquiries, masked into neutral affirmative sentences, he did not receive any definitive information regarding Mr Wooster’s return, nor whether he had any instructions for his valet during his absence.

Jeeves found himself serving in an empty household.

It was a mistake to inform the members of the Junior Ganymede Club about his master’s departure, although it was doubtlessly a judicious idea at the time. As expected, the news had very much pleased his fellow colleagues, them deeming it a very fortunate opportunity for Jeeves to gather himself and have time and space to give deep thought and very careful consideration to his own position, as well as its looming risks. Jeeves was delighted to see reassurance on their faces, and for a while, all was well.

For, heartless as it may appear, the man found himself sighing in relief after Mr Wooster’s leaving. A very close society of a gentleman whose eyes seemed to have lost all lightheartedness and the ability to see beauty in the world, a gentleman who grew distant and disconsolate, a gentleman whose suave and endearing demeanor, the reason their connection had been so pleasant, had withered like freshness of a once vibrant flower, without any possible solace in sight — a close society with such a gentleman was bound to influence the bearing of his valet, granted that this valet cared for his gentleman beyond the contract.

And Jeeves did care.

So very much.

After six weeks, his colleagues expressed mild surprise at the gentleman’s indefinite absence, only deepened by Jeeves’s inability to explain it. From January on, the surprise was irreversibly replaced with doubt, suspicion and words of warning. It was with increasing anxiety that Jeeves watched hearsay spread through the club, but the disaster of it lied in the heart of the trouble: that he had nothing to disprove it. The two leading assumptions were that Mr Wooster did not value his valet much or that Jeeves was, as the expression goes, edged out, possibly on the brink of dismissal. There were also far less supported theories which have been put on the table merely for the sake of thoroughness, such as Jeeves’s services having lost favor, but no one spoke of them seriously, as many of the members had had a chance to work alongside him during earlier employments as well as Mr Wooster’s visits to friends or family where they were employed, therefore the high standards which Jeeves adhered to in his duties could be corroborated by nearly every second member.

After every look at Jeeves turned to be a pitying one, he had reduced the frequency of his visits to the club, appearing now only at the necessary gatherings.

If only Mr Wooster would summon him. If only Mr Wooster would make known the date of his return. If only he would inform, however briefly, of the reasons for his absence or… No.

If only Mr Wooster would reveal the reason for leaving him behind.

Jeeves’s concerns were, much to his own surprise and to the disapproval of his fellow colleagues, far from the prestige and professional aspects of his position. Which, considering the type of relationship he and Mr Wooster had, couldn’t ever be entirely true, but the preoccupations that weighed on the man’s mind were indeed less focused on his employment as such. Instead, they were about every change that occurred in Mr Wooster’s residence, including himself. What if his colleagues were right, one way or another? What if he was no longer trusted, less valued? The voice of reason was telling him the improbability of such a possibility, as Mr Wooster still entrusted him with as much as he used to before: his fashion, his affairs, the affairs of his friends and family members. The only respect he had exhibited discretion about, for the first time since their long association, was the distress which caused him so much suffering. Though, if the core of the trouble wasn’t something connected to Jeeves, why would he not speak of it? Yet, again, it could not be him, for the gentleman hardly changed his way of addressing or expressing gratitude. Could it truly be dissatisfaction with him?

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“A letter for you, Mr Wooster.”

The two cousins were in the music room, trying out Audrey’s new piece for the piano. She had recently finished one for four hands and was eager to try it out, meeting Bertie’s unfaltering support and readiness. It was one of those rather warmer winter days, yet both of them exchanged a few silent looks in the late morning and realised wordlessly that they both had no desire to go to the beach whatsoever. Staying in, they walked in the gallery, ridiculing funny faces in the paintings and making up stories about them as they went past, and after lunch, Audrey suggested music. The piece she wrote, Bertie couldn’t help but notice, was a trifle cheerier than her previous ones, which brought him considerable relief.

It was a couple of moments after they had played the last note and let the aftertaste hang in the room, when Rosenfeld entered with the tray.

Over his shoulder, Bertie threw a hesitant glance at it, but got up to take it still, thanking the butler in a murmur, sending him away.

One glance at the envelope revealed its origin, and Audrey knew as soon as she saw the look on his face, but asked anyway while he was opening it:

“Who is it from?”

“Jeeves.”

“I see…” she paused, watching him skim through it. “The usual?”

“Pretty much,” Bertie said and handed her the letter, something that by now has grown into a habit.

Her eyes flew over the lines as she held the paper like a piece of jewelry. Jeeves wrote about his Christmas most satisfactory spent in the circle of his family, mentioning Mabel again, about the members of the Drones Club who enquired about Mr Wooster’s whereabouts and estimated return, about the adequate state of the apartment, and about the weather in London, particularly the picturesque colors in which the sky dressed itself at the sunsets as well as the stars which could be seen late in the evening that reminded him of Steeple Bumpleig, if Mr Wooster would forgive him mentioning the place. In every other respect, everything has remained in order.

She gave him back the letter and watched him lean on the piano with his eyes diving into it again.

“He’s quite a romantic.”

“Oh, yes...”

“Why shouldn’t he have mentioned Steeple Bumpleig?”

“Ghastly place,” Bertie said, shuddering. “All curses of the world have accumulated in that patch of land.”

“I’ve never been to Steeple Bumpleig.”

“And you should count your blessings.”

“Why would Jeeves mention it if he knows it would bring memories?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

She considered it odd, thinking about it.

“Was it that bad at Steeple Bumpleig?”

“You bet it was.”

“Nothing good ever happened?”

“No- Well, except for the fact that Jeeves solved everything at the end and we had a happily married couple and a successful business deal for Uncle Percy, but that barely diminishes the horrors.”

She caught him thinking of something and stayed quiet, waiting.

Bertie’s eyes fixed on something in the letter.

“Except… I think he’s alluding to that one time that we ran into each other in the small hours when I got myself into helping a friend stage a burglary and he was on his way from London. He said something about perfect conditions for a nocturnal ramble. Something about stars too. Had to stop him before he started talking until sunrise.”

Audrey, who had been gazing past him in a sort of dreamy way, suddenly blinked in surprise. “Why would you stop him?”

“Because I was on the brink of a breakdown from all the madness of the Steeple Bumpleig. Makes you rather dismissive towards any starry ramblings and what not.”

“That’s a pity. It would have been such a sweet moment.”

“...It would have,” Bertie said quietly. “Can’t tell a feller to just start talking about those things when the time is convenient, what?”

“I suppose not.”

There was a pause that stretched across minutes. Audrey raised her hands to the keys once more, introducing a simple, tender melody, one of her older compositions. Bertie kept gazing at the sheet, eyes slowly moving along the dark lines as if studying the handwriting, picturing him writing it.

Noticing his gaze fade into a sort of half-absentmindedness as it fixed at one of the upper corners, she asked:

“What’s on your mind, Bertie?”

Weakly, his lips curled up into one of those bittersweet smiles.

“Dear Mr Wooster…”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It was a seemingly endless circle of thoughts that made him go out on more frequent walks. Yet, much as he favored aimless promenades in his evenings off, those ones tasted bitterly like escape, disgraceful flight. Worse of it all was the way he kept unintentionally returning to the Berkley Mansions when his mind sunk into deep thought which made him navigate the streets on unconscious intuition. Realising that he had yet again approached the building, Jeeves sighed. His gaze rose to the familiar windows, dimmed and empty. The only residence he ever felt a true deep connection to, a place he wouldn’t dare calling home yet would most certainly whisper it. Turning away, Jeeves headed the opposite direction, instructing himself to walk straight ahead without any turn. Perhaps, supplied with enough time and distractions from his own mind, he could reach Lancashire on foot.

Approaching the London Central Railway, he came out of the reverie, and his fingers, although shielded with gloves, curled on their own as if touched by some other kind of cold.

“When may I expect your return, sir?”

“In a couple of weeks, I imagine. I’ll wire you to meet me.”

“Very good, sir.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

In the beginning of March, the days were still shorter, and evenings came quicker, urging the residents and guests to remain indoors, save for some romantic strolls in the gardens. It was warm in the drawing room, the orange light from the fireplace merging with that from the lamps and flickering on the windows cozily, the crackling logs supplying with the tranquil background melody.

Four people sat at the table, each holding a deck in their hands at which they glanced occasionally. The main action was happening at the central stage.

Aunt Emily was fond of Bridge. Her friends’ departure didn’t seem to present any inconvenience, but Bertie felt uneasy the first time he saw Rosenfeld joining the game. As it turned out, his aunt saw no reason why the servants should be treated differently in terms of entertainment, should they not oppose taking part in it, and it was far from the first time that Rosenfeld sat at the same table. In fact, he and Aunt Emily were apparently strong players, often becoming the declaring team, and even though the butler couldn’t allow himself to display emotions openly, Bertie saw a certain glow about him. Not to mention the aunt herself who, although innocently, made her smugness show quite openly, amusing herself with the younger ones’ play.

Bertie wasn’t a bad player, although it did take him a few different games to get used to seeing Rosenfeld, the maids Morgan, Pearce and Simmons or the cook Riley at the tables. What was so distracting was their restfulness. There was no pressure in the air, no awkwardness. Those people enjoyed themselves, laughing modestly in moments of amusement, participating in conversations and remarkably not letting their inferior status be an obstacle on the way to victory; the matches were fair and well-played. It is then that Bertie started giving more weight to the lightness of tone with which Aunt Emily spoke to the domestic staff and the cordial way in which her people responded. Unwillingly and despite all his efforts, Bertie’s mind dashed back to all the times that he and Jeeves shared drinks at the races, played duets back at the Berkeley Manor and simply chatted of this and that as they strolled along less familiar roads during Bertie’s vacations. Had his relationship with Jeeves the same cordiality as Aunt Emily had with her staff? It was, perhaps, somewhat closer than the conventional relations between a gentleman and his valet, what with him assisting Bertie in his social affairs and all… But did Jeeves reciprocate the ease which Bertie felt with him in moments like those? Did he feel about them as something in between his contract and private life? Would he, too, suggest a game of chess to him like Rosenfeld did to Aunt Emily on dull wet afternoons, and would he play effortlessly, without thinking of his obligations and position in relation to him like Rosenfeld seemed to?

Bertie couldn’t play chess, but you get the idea.

For, thinking of it all, the young man came slowly and still quite unexpectedly that he might have been at times too severe with Jeeves, especially when burdened with difficulties, his own or that of his nearest. Of course, his valet’s natural reserve didn’t give much inspiration for such ideas, but longer reflection revealed that Jeeves was, in fact, hardly ever dismissive of a joint go at the piano nor averse to a chitter-chatter of any kind. Or was it, perhaps, the feudal spirit, devoid of any personal sentiment, that fueled his readiness?

Bertie sighed, placing the wrong card.

Probably the latter.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The apartment had never felt so lifeless.

Despite knowing Mr Wooster quite some time now, Jeeves had never given careful consideration to the fact that he was the heart and soul of it. For the past two and a half months, however, he had scarcely been thinking about anything else. With utmost regret, it must be admitted that it was Mr Wooster who lent colours to the place.

Oversentimental, undoubtedly, in a way unacceptable for a personal gentleman’s gentleman to even think, but it was true. Jeeves found himself in a disturbing frame of mind where he at times could not force himself out of the apartment and yet loathing at the same time everything about the place, the very walls which seemed to be soaked with his gentleman’s old spirit. The furniture that seemed to still reflect the vibrations of his once lively voice, the floors that his step bounced on, the glasses and cups that had his lips on their rims, the chairs and sofas that carried his weight, all the suits and hats and gloves he wore, still, it seemed, holding fractions of his warmth. Jeeves loved every part of the flat, loved like a moon loved the sky, like a flower loved the meadow — and still, he couldn’t stand the sight of it all, not only for it cried of absence, so acute and thirstful, but because in it, he recognized his very self.

Forsaken.

He had never felt this close to a place as he did now.

The cleaning cloth glided upon perfectly polished surfaces, the glasses put under water once a month merely for the sake of washing dust off of them, and at some point the man started switching lamps and vases so that as to pretend there was some change instigating. In his deep contemplations, he sometimes became aware of the embarrassing tactility. His fingers slid along the covers of the many volumes on Mr Wooster’s shelves, slipped under the lapels of his perfectly ironed out jackets, felt the smooth wooden parts of the back of the sofa, carefully tapped the piano’s closed lid.

The piano. Good heavens.

He couldn’t look at it without Mr Wooster’s voice ringing in his ears with another one of his invigorating though questionable songs he used to pick up. The songs Jeeves did not miss, the majority of them most certainly not, but the comforting homey sound of Mr Wooster’s singing, one of the first habits of his to wither, he would admit to wish hearing once more. It was perhaps this piano that had become the most striking reminder of the faded atmosphere in the apartment, of the entire pleasant domestic arrangement that Jeeves and Mr Wooster once had. And nevertheless, there came time when the valet finally raised the lid, seated himself at the instrument and started a piece that first came to mind without much thought, performing with trained heedlessness as the coldness of the keys brought him to relive the first time he felt Mr Wooster’s hand fleetingly brush against his own while playing a duet.

The weeks went on, long and quiet, agonizing in their unawareness. The theatre, the evening drinks, the more frequent family visits, for which Jeeves now finally had sufficient time, had proven to be a feeble distraction. If anything, they only stirred deeper anxiety in him, instigating disturbing thoughts of having missed a telegram or letter every time he went out. Speaking sincerely, the solution to his distress was miserably simple: ask Mr Wooster whether he was allowed to serve another gentleman in his absence as a lend-lease, as he had done not a few times in the past. Mr Wooster would undoubtedly have no objection to such a suggestion, and Jeeves’s entire conflict would have been resolved, satisfying nearly every part of it and soothing the inflamed aches.

Except… Jeeves didn’t want to serve another gentleman.

He wanted his gentleman to return to him.

Return home.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“Bertie, we have to stop somewhere.”

“Yes, but don’t you think this part right there could have been done better?”

“I gave you three different formulations half an hour ago and you said this one is the best one!”

“True, but you see, those things are like art — there is seldom any end to it.”

“Bertie-”

“Especially in matters of such delicacy, don’t you know.”

“Bertie.”

“Hullo?”

“We’ve been working on this for the last three days, you have five drafts in front of you, and this one in particular is the most cordial and warmest of them all. This is a dream, Bertie. A peak. I can’t imagine a better one. You have to send it.”

There was a pause.

“Bertie?”

“...I really, really don’t want to.”

“I know. But you have to. You mustn’t suffer forever.”

There was one of those hollow, mirthless laughs, so unsuitable for the circumstances.

“You’re right, dear flesh and blood, of course you are. Certainly.”

“...Do you want me to send it?”

“Please. Take it away before I catch sight of it again.”

“All right… Oh, Bertie…” she brought him close softly, and he leaned his head on her shoulder. “My heart bleeds for you, poor lamb… But you’ll be all right.”

“Thanks, old fruit.”

Chapter Text

Dear Jeeves,

I am glad to hear that the musical was a success, and I am sure Mabel had given her very best and was most dashing. Do send her my regards when you see her again. I wish there was similar entertainment in Morecambe, but I need hardly tell you that the options here look rather dull. There is a small theatre in Lancashire — although not a bad one, I might add — and a concert hall at Morecambe, but apart from that there are only bookshops and cafes to hang around in. There is a club or two, they say, but I hadn’t got around to it.

Speaking of Morecambe, the only disturbance of this otherwise charming country is the storms. The coming of spring, as I’m told, is only perceptible when it snows less and automatically rains more. The warmer it gets, the more frequent are the storms which I have been glad to have forgotten over winter yet must be reminded are still monstrous and frightful. You will no doubt have a geographical explanation for the peculiarities of this meteorology up your sleeve, but until I am fortunate to hear it I will remain staring out of the window in amazement at this severity of weather which lends flavor to the boring, pretty laid-back showers which we at the metropolis tend to call rain. 

Apart from that, the beaches are still windy, the seagulls are still busting their throats screaming, and the sea and the sky remain exactly where they were all winter. As I mentioned before, the life of this town isn’t much to write home about.

That leaves me, however, enough paper to touch on something that’s been brought to my attention by my dearest aunt, something that I, to tell the truth, had overlooked entirely, and that concerns your current position. I now realise that your previous comments about my assumed return were most likely motivated by exactly that.

What I am told is that among the high-class valets and butlers, to which you no doubt belong, it is looked down upon if you’re left in an empty flat serving no one for too long. You must correct me if I’m wrong, but Aunt Emily says she met valets for whom such a situation meant a loss in status, and they were mocked among their fellow colleagues. A professional embarrassment was, I think, how they put it. And by Jove, am I the last person who would wish anything of the kind on you. Although it must be admitted that I expected to return after just a couple of weeks, if I did stain your reputation with such indecisiveness, I apologise cordially. I hastily assure you that my appreciation of your efforts, skills and overall outstanding service had but strengthened over the years, never faltered, and I wish you but the very best in your professional life.

It is for that very wish that I present you with a choice. Should your own view differ from that of your peers, which, considering your high rank, I feel confident to doubt, then the posish may remain as it is. But of course, I am not so insensitive as to fail to grasp the situation, and so I understand it wholly that you would want to give notice. As a matter of fact, I encourage you wholeheartedly to find better employment, and I know for certain that any of the Drones lads, the ones that spring to mind on first thought, would be thrilled to have you just as I had been for all those years, and I am certain you will find yourself a more pleasant home before you know it.

But I must stress that there is no pressure from my side. I find it unnecessary to set any final day, so you may have all the time in the world, although I’m sure you’ve been on a look-out for quite a while now. And I would also like to mention that, even though you had no need for it the previous times you left my service, you may apply to me for reference any time. It will be an excellent one.

I am grateful for your faithful service during your time with me and shall watch your future progress with considerable interest.

As I intend to leave London indefinitely and take up residence in Morecambe Bay, I’d like you to send the rest of my wardrobe over as your last task. I’ll have the flat taken care of.

Yours sincerely,

B. Wooster

Chapter Text

If you, dear reader, had followed Bertie’s previous invigorating adventures, you would no doubt remember the time when he attended a school for aristocracy. Worried about the societal changes which were looming threateningly on the horizon and unsettled by the potentiality of losing his comfortable wealth, he undertook the ordeal of attending an establishment which taught the idle rich how to fend for themselves, from bed-making up to the annoyingly intricate performance of sock-darning. Proud though as we all are of our brave fellow, or were at the time, at least, we cannot, in connection to this, avoid also remembering his scandalous and devastating expulsion due to plain cheating. Though the other side of this shining coin named truth was the fact that if it weren’t for the cheating, it would certainly be for the rather unsatisfactory progress. Very much resembling a Greek tragedy, the whole affair.

But the Morecambe Bay, as it had numerous times before, had yet again shown its knack to bring out one new side of a man after another. In recent days, Bertie got himself engaged to the brim, not having a single second to heave a long sigh and say he was bored. Apart from agreeing to Audrey’s every suggestion concerning passtime, he also accompanied Aunt Emily during her trips to the town: bookshops, bakeries, social visits to the markets — you name it, Bertie’s already hurrying to grab his hat and cane. And should he remain in solitude for whatever reason, down he went to nag the domestic staff in the servants’ hall, asking them time after time to spare him a moment and teach him some skill. ‘Surprised’ hardly begins to describe the faces of the good people when that happened the first time, but after he had made it a habit, they got used to it as well, exchanging quietly among themselves about how endearing they found his efforts, though still clueless as to what on God’s green Earth could have induced the young gentleman to take such frankly concerningly burning curiosity in the domestic maintenance. And here’s the odd thing: it turned out that with enough persistence on his side, a considerable amount of patience on that of the servants, and a total absence of any grading system or assessments, Bertie managed to succeed in acquiring those practical skills. Rosenfeld himself — a very high-ranked butler, Aunt Emily informed him — inclined the coconut in fatherly approval of his tea-making, and it felt rewarding to sip it in his company and find that the good stuff came out to be actually good. For jokes and giggles, he occasionally volunteered to make some for the afternoon tea, and even though he still needed assistance when it came to sandwiches, the party along with the servants were united in compliments for those praise-worthy undertakings.

And when the house was still, there hung a distant echo in the walls of the servants’ hall whispering that Mr Wooster seemed yet again to have sneaked into the kitchen in the small hours last night to make himself a cup of tea.

Only gardening remained an area which Bertie pretty much gave up upon. Too tedious. You must really take a liking to those little fellows to hunch and hop around them for hours. Luckily, Aunt Emily seemed to have single-handedly taken over this entire branch of household upkeep, and mind you, with quite a virtuoso competence.

Audrey knew what was happening, of course, and she possessed that knowledge alone. Not exactly because she was unusually perceptive, but rather because Bertie wouldn’t keep quiet about it the moment they were by themselves.

“I just can’t wrap my mind around it!” he kept chirping, and Audrey sighed.

“I think you should slow down a little, dear cousin,” she said, glancing at the weariness that accumulated itself under his eyes.

“Why didn’t the blighter reply anything?” he went on. “What am I supposed to be thinking? Is it so hard to put the bally pen on the bally paper and jot down the bally ‘Very good, sir’ and send it as a bally telegram?”

“Maybe he sent a letter and so takes longer.”

“Do you think he loathes me?”

“No.”

“Do you think he didn’t even bother answering, knowing there are hundreds of places where he will be treated better?”

“No.”

“Should I wire him asking if he got the letter?”

“No.”

“Gosh, I knew I shouldn’t have done it via the blasted letter. So uncivil! I should have driven to London and done it in person.”

“We discussed that already, Bertie. Do you think you would have the heart to say it to his face?”

“No, of course not, you’re absolutely right. Dash it all!” a lesser man would have certainly howled like a wolf at the sight of a moon or with its paw in a beartrap. But not Bertie Wooster. A gentleman must remember his manners.

She took him by the elbow, patting his arm gently.

“You’re going to be alright.”

“Good Lord, Audrey, what if he’s ill? What if he’s been knocked down by an influenza attack or whatever, and now I’ve thrown him out while he isn’t even in good health?”

“I think he would have mentioned it if he felt unwell.”

“Probably… Then why didn’t he reply, blast it?!”

It surprised her to discover her cousin capable of such intensity, much as it did to watch the way his face kept changing colours fourteen times a day. From a downhearted sheep with glass eyes that only sighed and shuffled its hooves along the pathed way to the sea and back, he turned into a restless chorusboy who’s got a beetle under his collar, unable to sit still for a minute. She understood it, of course. It wasn’t merely idle time that devoured him. It was such a time spent in silence. And silence, she knew well, builds a perfect, if not solely required, condition for a distressed mind to start conjuring all kinds of conclusions, and it goes on speculating until a dinner gong or some other distraction yanks it out of the downward spiral of anxiety.

It took two weeks of her determined and tireless efforts, consisting mostly of keeping him busy and repeating the same truths, to cool off his uneasiness. That and a shot of cognac every morning for five days straight. On the sixth, which was also the last of the fourteen in total, he pushed away the soothing liquid and admitted that whatever shall happen next, he shall be ready to face it with bravery and decency, as the code of the Woosters compels, and she patted him on the back.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Jeeves had not left the apartment for four days.

By the end of the first two the place was sparkling as it never did after the biggest deep cleaning: ceilings, corners, wall hangings, books, mirrors, pictures, lamps, the piano — dusted; windows, plates, cups, glasses, cutlery, bedsheets, pillows — washed; couch, chairs, wardrobe, cupboards, tables, window sills, picture frames, various souvenirs from abroad — polished; floors — vacuumed; every task thinkable for a valet to maintain a household was done within those forty eight hours with sickly fervor one never saw him display. It was on the morning of the third day when, having slept merely a couple of hours, with quivering hands clutching a cleaning cloth, Jeeves halted in front of a wardrobe, and his eyes fell close as he leaned his forehead against its wooden door.

The following two days, he either paced noiselessly around the apartment like a specter or sat down in its different rooms with motionlessness and paleness of a statue. He hadn’t uttered a word since he read the letter, had not seen a single person. The sight of stars and beautiful evening sunlight meant nothing for his unseeing eyes, food turned to ashes in his mouth, as Mr Wooster often put it, and, with the turmoil that clutched him in its steel grip and deprived him of proper sleep, the awareness of time escaped him. He did not drink, no. Was it one of his gentlemen that faced a difficulty of the same gravity as his, he would have no doubt remained collected, remarking something on the lines of “A somewhat sharp crisis in our affairs would appear to have been precipitated”. Yet in the current moment, remarks of such length were half-forming in his mind, getting tangled with every other thought that was storming in his mind at the same time like a thousand voices attempting to take the word at once. Though lengthy expressions were not needed in these circumstances, not at all. For the truth was plain and brief:

This was a disaster.

On the third day he went outside, and the freedom from the confining walls along with the fresh spring air, even in the metropolis, had a sobering effect on him. His gaze grew seeing once again, though as he silently directed it at the beautiful sunsets and vivid sunrises, it was with a conscious desperation, as if trying to hold on to those rich colours as the last emotions he would feel this deeply, the last days of his life in Mr Wooster’s association. He was looking at those touching scenic views and seeing inevitability, sudden and harsh and horrifying.

He excused himself from every attendance of all the clubs he belonged to, and after Mr Jarvis, the concierge of the Berkeley Mansions, had repeatedly voiced his concern regarding his appearance, had mixed himself his own restorative, designed originally for the consequences of a long night out.

As a matter of fact, he was forced to do it twice in the last two weeks, for the monthly luncheon in the Junior Ganymede Club he was unable to refuse, having done so the last two times. There was, however, another reason.

According to his knowledge which was last updated in December, April was the month of Colonel Mainwaring-Smith’s return to England after a visit to the United States which lasted six months. His personal attendant, Smethurst, had already sent a courteous postcard promising to take part in April’s luncheon, and Jeeves too was looking forward to the young fellow’s return. Was it wise to undergo the piercing judging gazes of concerned, disapproving colleagues merely to see one friendly face? Most unlikely. But unfortunately, Jeeves was not in a frame of mind for judicious decisions even after two restoratives.

The luncheon was fairly agreeable. Certainly, Jeeves felt gazes on himself throughout the afternoon, yet his reasoning did not fail him when he suspected that the attention of the company would be focused on Smethurst. Younger than himself by a couple of years, the fellow was the one speaking most, and his manner of retelling showed how much enjoyment this trip to the United States brought him and the Colonel as he described it using plenty of superlatives. This was among other pleasant aspects due to the fact that the Colonel went with his nephew, whose personal gentleman Smethurst had an intimate relationship with for some several years now.

Murmurs of approval he received throughout the meal. It was evident, though no one would ever say it out loud, that Smethurst was looked at by the other members of the Junior Ganymede not only with genial smiles but also dreamy envy. Without any resentment, certainly, yet still with quiet unnoticeable sighs. The young fellow was one of the few members of the club who had luck in their love life. Colonel Mainwaring-Smith was very close with his nephew, living in the same country, and the two valets had ample time together, as their gentleman kept them close by when making visits. He was happy, Smethurst, having it so much easier than most of them, yet none of them were grudging, cheering sincerely for the young man’s fortune instead.

As the effects of the restorative had worn out by the invigorating luncheon, Jeeves retired into the quiet room where the members would read or quietly murmur among themselves. A glass of a long forgotten wine still in his hand, he gazed at a bookshelf, and the expression on his countenance would have no doubt made a satisfactory impression of him thoughtfully choosing his reading.

He was brought out of his thoughts by the feeling of a hand on his back. Turning, he saw Smethurst beaming with the same merry smile of his with which he told all the stories.

“There you are, Jeeves, I was looking everywhere for you,” he said relatively quietly, receiving a modest smile from the other. “You were the only one who hadn’t said a word when everyone was telling their news. How have you been, my friend?”

His composure trained to perfection, Jeeves remained collected, yet in the current state, it tested his powers to the utmost.

“I assume you have already been informed about the state of my affairs,” he said in a low voice, though without bitterness.

The smile melted on Smethurst’s expression. He pursed his lips, and the merry sparkle in his eyes was instantly replaced by a quiet commiseration.

“I have,” he admitted, lowering his voice as well. “Yet I was also informed that you have not shown up to the luncheons the last two months, so I wondered whether there was any news.”

Jeeves wavered. Having looked forward to meeting this fellow colleague, he found himself in an odd state of exhaustion which made any attempt at receiving consolation meaningless, but simultaneously, he knew how desperately he needed a kind word.

There was, however, no need to conceal his feelings in front of this man. Noticing anxiety in the eyes of the other, Smethurst took a casual brief look around and, not seeing any attention on them from other members, drew Jeeves away towards the window in the farther corner of the room, creating a semblance of privacy.

He then looked at Jeeves with concern and expectation, and Jeeves, delaying the moment for a couple of instants longer, dropped his own gaze in the glass and eventually whispered:

“I was given notice.”

Smethurst did not gasp, though judging by the effort it took him to restrain his reaction, he was very close to.

“Good heavens…” he said, reducing his voice to a whisper as well. As the wave of amazement passed, he furrowed in visible confusion. “Just like that?”

“Well, not precisely,” Jeeves nodded to the side, his look escaping to the still cold roofs outside the window. “He gave me a choice, to stay or to give my notice, yet the rest of the letter heavily suggested his certainty in my desire to leave his service.”

“I am very sorry, Jeeves. I hope you will find true happiness in other employment.”

The man was conscious of a pang, hearing words similar to those he read.

“I fear I have already found it in his.”

He didn’t see the way Smethurst’s look changed, as if a drop of paint tinted water ever so slightly.

“Then I suppose it’s rather fortunate that he gave you a choice.”

It brought Jeeves’s gaze back to him, and his optimistic look met the other’s bewildered one.

“I’m sure we both know that it is, in truth, nothing of the sort.”

“But it was not written as such, apparently.”

“It is but mere courtesy of a gentleman.”

“Yet you could take it literally.”

“I will not. My services are clearly unwanted.”

“Why would he offer you a choice then?” Jeeves paused, and Smethurst continued: “Why would he show himself ready to keep you in employment if he didn’t intend on coming back?”

“He does not. As a matter of fact,” he said, and for the first time this afternoon, his armor cracked for a moment. His voice quivered. “he intends to retire to Morecambe Bay indefinitely, selling his apartment in London. Him not summoning me over the course of those nearly six months is evidence of him having no need of my presence.”

He looked out of the window once more, pursing his lips and clutching the stem of his glass between his fingers with such strength it nearly trembled in his hands.

Smethurst was silent, and he added negligently:

“It is rather ironic… All this time I was so conscious of his need for me that I never fully appreciated how much I needed him.”

It was quiet for a while, with only the sounds of distant soft murmurs, the rustling of pages and the cracking of fire filling the room. Orange flames threw long shadows on chairs and tables, reaching the two valets only feebly.

Suddenly, Smethurst spoke:

“Why don’t you go to him?”

Jeeves’s eyes fell close as he heaved a sigh.

“Oh, good heavens, Smethurst, I beg you not to feed my mind with more ideas non compos mentis than there already is.”

“It is not beyond the scope of possibilities.”

“I have not been summoned.”

“You could take your yearly vacation. My view is this: if it is truly the same Mr Wooster that you introduced to us when he stopped for a quick drink, Mr Wooster who was looking at you with bigger gentleness than I’ve seen happily married men look at their ladies, then I believe that there may have been some sort of a misunderstanding-”

“Smethurst-”

“Please do just hear me. Whatever there may have happened, you will never know if you keep courteously quiet. And with a contradictory letter, you have every reason to reach out to him personally.”

Jeeves blinked at him with uncertainty, but then drowned his glance in the glass once more.

“You know those are fragile grounds to base such drastic measures on.”

“Jeeves.”

Looking up, he found another confused frown on the other’s face.

“Do you love this man?”

He felt another pang, one deep inside his chest slightly on the left.

“I do.”

Smethurst inclined his head to the side, his eyes studying his fellow colleague.

“Think carefully, my friend. I don’t mean fondness that develops as a result of constant proximity with a gentleman. I don’t mean a desire to look after and protect him because he is so helpless without your care. I mean simple affection, the one you felt when you first realised you fancied men and the one that makes you realise you are in love. Now I’d like to ask you again. Do you love this man, Jeeves?”

Through all the fatigue there shone a glimmer of softness in the man’s look. Had he been in any higher spirits, he would have smiled.

“You can rest assured that I gave this very matter considerable thought… I do.”

Studying the look in the other’s eyes a bit longer, Smethurst nodded.

“Then you must fight for it,” Jeeves sighed, and he hurried to continue, lowering his voice until it was barely audible: “In cases where there is half a chance, a smallest of “Maybe”s, I am willing to stand by it regardless of circumstance. Do you want to end up like our fellow clubmen? Withered by heartbreak, defeated in a battle they never entered? I can recite every word they told me when I was in love with Lord Emsworth, words they have no doubt told you too, but I dare say that employment and reputation aren’t worth a loveless life. You can move, start over. But can you live every day wondering whether that one man loved you back, thinking that maybe he did, after all?” he paused, thinking for a moment. “Men like us weren’t born to be happy, Jeeves. That’s why we must fight for our love, fight for our happiness. In the end you will always regret not attempting something rather than failing to achieve it.”

Jeeves couldn’t look away from his colleague’s eyes that were quietly burning with resolution. The impact of his words was not in the slightest lessened by the whisper in which he uttered them. They spoke to his deepest feelings, the remnants of optimism that were buried in his heart, and perhaps it is for that very reason he was infected with that strong-willed determination so easily.

After a rather prolonged thoughtful silence Jeeves glanced aside before returning his gaze to the other.

“Where there is life, there’s hope, isn’t it?”

“Precisely,” said Smethurst firmly, pausing before continuing: “You need to talk to him, clear up this uncertainty and confusion… Morecambe Bay, you said?”

“I did.”

“My aunt and uncle live there, and they are so bored in that little place that I am certain they will happily have you for a couple of weeks.”

Almost unnoticeably, but Jeeves’s eyes brightened before falling into somber reflection once more.

“I doubt I will be able to conceal the true reason for my absence from the club for such a long period of time.”

“Say you’ve been summoned. And I will confirm that I saw first-hand the letter in which Mr Wooster did so.”

For a short while, Jeeves could not help but stare.

“...I am much obliged to you, Smethurst.”

The man’s look softened. He held out his hand.

“Childish though it may be,” he said. “But do promise me you will fight until the end.”

Jeeves shook it.

“I will.”

Chapter Text

Jeeves planned everything.

Having an entire day of a train journey at his disposal, he was seated at the window, looking out to the English sceneries that speeded by, and thought. It was not quiet in the carriage, far from it; yet everything — people’s figures, movements, noises, the shaking of the train, the daylight’s travels over the course of the day — all had been obscured by his senses, rather unintentionally. He could not remember a single thing after his ticket had been controlled, which was so unlike his usual attentive self. And so Jeeves, completely immersed in reflection, remained on his seat with the motionlessness of a stone statue for nearly twenty four hours, unaware of other passengers throwing concerned side glances in his direction.

Upon his arrival he would, having given himself a moment of rest, proceed to the Wooster mansion or, alternatively, write to Mr Wooster requesting an audience. When seeing him and exchanging brief civilities, he would begin by saying that his arrival was motivated by the concerns about Mr Wooster’s wellbeing, for, as he displayed an alarming demeanor for his last months in the metropolis, he felt the necessity to ascertain that the words from his latest letter were intended the way they were laid on the paper. Then, depending on Mr Wooster’s reply which, Jeeves was distressed to realise, he could not this time foresee, he would use his trained savoir-faire to softly persuade him to abandon the idea of leaving London or, in the ideal scenario, be relieved to hear that the decision was overly hasty and not well thought-of, and that in reality he did not wish to make such drastic changes in his life, certainly not. Because, however glum the prospects may have appeared based on the recent developments, Jeeves still nurtured hope in his heart that, despite everything, Mr Wooster would return home. There was a possibility, not a groundless one, that, seeing the face of his valet again, the man who he spent years in close relations with, whom he entrusted his secrets and depended on to save him from his unfortunate circumstances, the man with whom he conversed on colder winter evenings as if they were old friends — seeing that man’s face again would speak of the homey familiarity, the warmth of their domestic arrangement, and incline him come to his senses. He merely had to see him again, listen to his voice and hear the comforting tenderness in it, and he would wish to reunite with his personal gentleman at last. He would.

About thirteen similar courses of action he thought of during the long ride. So much so that all the words he wanted to say were neatly and flawlessly put into very well-articulated sentences and still echoing in his mind when he got off the train at Lancashire. He was ready for anything even before he reached Morecambe.

Mr and Mrs Dayton, the uncle and aunt of Smethurst, received him with most cordiality. Fascinated by his manners and education, they expressed their happiness at finally having someone to bore with their stories and take part in their afternoon games, and Jeeves smiled mildly, receiving a charming impression of the older couple. Over dinner, he gladly spoke about Smethurst’s contented life and of the state of affairs in London, and they informed him of all the engagements Morecambe had to offer. Which, as Mr Wooster had rightly mentioned on multiple occasions, were not many. Most fortunately he also obtained knowledge about the way to the Wooster mansion, which the couple affectionately called “the Castle” for its size and beauty, without even asking for it. Mrs Wooster, they said, was the heart and the soul of the town, bringing livelier spirits to it in times of depressing weather. He should meet her, they said, and as he politely inclined his head when realising himself unable to find a response, Mrs Dayton waved a carefree hand and added that he would probably meet her on the very first stroll in the town.

Jeeves hoped he would meet her in the comfort of her home, introduced by her nephew.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

How surprised were Mr and Mrs Dayton upon finding him reluctant to leave the house. It was in the most pleasant closeness to the beach, too, an excellent location from where one could reach the town centre in fifteen minutes of a leisure walk, the sea in ten. And still, Jeeves found the most unusual of reasons to stay indoors.

On the third day, Mrs Dayton insisted on him exploring the town properly, and over a time period that would last longer than accompanying her to the market and back. Jeeves listened to her, telling himself that if he went out to the other side of the town, he would undoubtedly find it in himself to reach the Wooster mansion.

He did not.

The next few days, he was seldom seen within the confinement of four walls, every street of the town discovered and every patch of sand stepped on. Yet the moment the paths lead up to the Castle, he averted his eyes as if from a blinding beam of light. His heart was heavy, suddenly too weakened for such a courageous act — how effortless it was to think of it all in the train.

Yet there was only so much of Morecambe Bay.

The man was carefully pacing on the uneven sands, as the murmuring of other people on the beach blended in with the soft surging of waves, and the shapes of the scenery blurred in his vision. His legs were carrying him on some kind of automation, the one he completely relied on ever since the letter and that has not yet betrayed his trust. The afternoon, slowly approaching the evening, was cloudy in a way that smeared the borders of the sky and the sea. Everything sank in greyness, and yet there was too much light for it to feel bleak. It was one of those days that looked helpless yet felt hopeful.

He kept walking, step unhurried and eyes unseeing.

Until finally, he saw.

Two shapes of the lightest cream color, two graceful silhouettes walking arm in arm in some distance.

A young lady.

And a young gentleman.

Walking towards him.

Jeeves froze, unable to stop himself from staring. Those two people, they hadn't noticed him, engaged in seemingly casual conversation. There was something about their bearing that belied tiredness, the one that one suffered not from a lack of sleep.

Slowly but surely, they were approaching, bound soon to see him, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything at all, waiting in a kind of stupor that must be seizing a sailor as he beheld a deadly wave, understanding its inevitability. But Jeeves knew how to maintain his sang-froid.

Suddenly, the white lady’s glance escaped to the side, and she tugged lightly on the gentleman’s sleeve, attracting his attention to something in the distance away from the sea. Following her pointing arm, Jeeves spotted a biscuit vendor’s stand at the edge of the road that framed the sand. He saw as the gentleman nodded with a soft smile, and the two of them exchanged a couple of words as took her hand and drew it towards the stand, himself remaining in place. She asked a question, he shook his head, and she took her leave, cautiously lifting the hem of her dress to keep its folds from the sands and thus herself from falling.

The gentleman watched her go.

Jeeves remained unable to look away. Mr Wooster never wore suits that were so completely light in color. Cream trousers and a deep blue jacket, green trousers and a white blazer - the options were plentiful in their diversity, and monochromaticity was usually reserved for the colors such as gray and brown. Yet now, beholding him in this new style, the man couldn’t help himself from thinking how well it suited him. Perhaps, were he in his usual unperturbed frame of mind, he would have considered such concentration of cream excessive, but at this very moment, nothing of the sort crossed his mind. For Mr Wooster looked most elegant, compelling and breath-taking.

Mr Wooster looked like an angel.

Moments passed, they felt too painfully like ages when they were hardly a few instants, and Jeeves was washed with a feeling of urgency that inspired courage in men.

He walked towards the gentleman with a moderate, respectful step.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

The equanimity vanished from Mr Wooster’s countenance, calmness replaced by what seemed like alarm in a blink of an eye.

He leaped, his startled, wide eyes dashing to the man, mouth slightly opened as it tended in moments of great surprise.

Except it wasn't a mere surprise alone. Behind his gaze, Jeeves read something akin to fear.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said in his customary even voice. “I did not intend to give you a start.”

“Jeeves,” Mr Wooster breathed, the man’s name falling from his lips like a prayer, and Jeeves felt his stomach tie itself into knots again.

An odd silence fell between them after that. It couldn’t have lasted long, but the uneasiness of it made an impression of them standing like this for hours. Like a tide coming gradually but insistently, so did a thought keep coming to Jeeves’s mind, impossible to ignore or dismiss, that the two of them were now contrasting each other more than they ever did: Mr Wooster, nearly all white, and himself, nearly all black.

“Well, we meet again, it seems,” said Mr Wooster at last, the bounce of his voice audibly effortful, just like his gaze that he struggled to keep on Jeeves, constantly glancing away.

“Yes, sir.”

“I thought you were in London.”

“...I decided to take my annual vacation, sir.”

“Huh. Don’t you usually go in July?”

Jeeves paused for just a moment, for the first time glancing away himself.

“It was an unusual year, sir.”

“Of course,” Mr Wooster spoke softly, nodding more to himself. “So it was…”

It was quiet again. Jeeves was nearly ashamed of his own lack of proper conduct. The tact which used to be with him a sine qua non, the light-hearted casual conversations, the cool bearing that he tended to carry himself with – all the customary civilities he was so effortless with had left him, requiring suddenly so much more of his powers, the ones he did not at the moment possess. He desired most to address the letter, yet simply could not, and speaking of anything else seemed meaningless. Much as he hoped Mr Wooster would allude to the issue in one manner or another, he saw by the way he was avoiding his look that it was unlikely he would. Everything, it appeared, contributed to the embarrassment that laid was the undertone of this reunion, how wrong it felt.

He did not give much meaning to the way Mr Wooster cast a thoughtful gaze in the direction of the young lady, until the gentleman cleared his throat.

“I say, Jeeves,” he said, not actually touching him but moving his hands with intention in the way that encouraged the valet to step aside. His voice gained a glimmer of the old animation, as it often did when someone else’s troubles were at stake, although there remained a note of restraint in it. “I wondered if I might have a word with you for a moment. There is something that I’d be glad to hear your views on.”

“Certainly, sir.”

They paced a bit, slowly and absentmindedly, until Mr Wooster came to a stop and turned to face him. There was unusual determination and seriousness in his eyes.

“Jeeves,” he said. “Before I begin, I must let you know that the issue is a most delicate one.”

“I quite understand, sir.”

“I’m afraid you don’t,” said Mr Wooster gravely. “It requires a broad mind and readiness to face matters beyond the scope of legal conduct. I will need you to keep it dark, be the silent tomb no matter what. Can I trust you with such a thing in the strictest confidence?”

Jeeves blinked, not knowing what surprised him more: the gentleman’s striking seriousness, which seemed to not have any connection with his melancholy, or the fact that he hesitated to confide in him.

Truth be told, had he approached him with such a warning under the normal circumstances, Jeeves would very likely have refrained from such risks, as he had already done in the past.

But not today.

“I assure you, sir, that I will treat the matter with the appropriate caution.”

Mr Wooster, who had been watching his eyes closely, appeared to be satisfied with this assurance. He glanced over his shoulder and, with a sigh that seemed to indicate giving up on a challenge, lighted a cigarette. He offered Jeeves one, which he respectfully declined.

Since he began, his eyes seemed to look everywhere but Jeeves, mostly staying on the surface of the water near the horizon.

“Did you see the young lady that was strolling with me just now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“My cousin. Daughter of Aunt Emily who was sent to France for a conservatory. Her name is Audrey, she returned from Paris about half a year ago. You follow me so far?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well,” continued Mr Wooster. “She fell in love with one of the singers, and decided to confess. A little unlucky, I’d say, because she chose to do so at some party where their little bunch was gathered, and after she had a drink or two, as well. You know how it is with all this confessing business — you have to listen to yourself saying things which, if spoken on a silver screen, would cause you to dash to the box-office and demand your money back — and attempts to do it on the wagon can only lead to ruin,” he paused, as if waiting for another to make an agreeing comment, but it did not come. “What I’m driving at is, she threw her heart to the girl’s feet in front of everybody, but she rejected her, and quite harshly, I might add. Now the poor soul can hardly go back, what with the whole Paris having heard her revelation, and she is likely to have been expelled from the conservatory, too… I’m not going to be as blindly hopeful as to be sure even your outstanding capabilities can save the day, but I was wondering whether you had any advice regarding the posish. Maybe you’ll see some glimmer of a chance that can save Audrey’s reputation. I mean, I’d wholeheartedly wish for the happiness of her love life as well, and I know you have saved many relationships, but I doubt that we’ll have any luck with that blasted lady. She laughed at the poor heart.”

The last sentence was spoken with a tinge of bitterness to it, and after that, Mr Wooster fell silent, taking another drag of his cigarette. Over the course of his retelling, his face darkened into a frown, and as he exhaled the smoke, it sounded somewhat like a nervous sigh. He was still facing away when Jeeves asked, hesitantly, after a prolonged pause:

“The lady, sir?”

Mr Wooster turned, and the look in his eyes appalled Jeeves. It was firm and daring, challenging, borderline stern.

“The lady, Jeeves,” he replied evenly.

The valet stared back at him, his own eyes filled with nothing but simple surprise, though to endure such a gaze from the other for long he was unable to.

He glanced away, otherwise maintaining his composure.

“I quite appreciate the difficulty, sir,” he said in such a usual tone as if the two of them were discussing yet another of Mr Little’s love affairs or Mr Fink-Nottle’s crisis with Ms Basset. “Though I must confess that the circumstances are quite complex, particularly due to the geographical distance. I fear I should need some time to think the problem over.”

“By all means, Jeeves,” replied Mr Wooster, softening his gaze. “Take all the time you need.”

It was about then that the sounds of steps, muffled by the sands and stones, reached them from behind. The two men turned, and Jeeves saw the young lady that was walking with the gentleman not long ago. She was very attractive, despite the sorrows that weighed her heart, and held two biscuits in paper sleeves in her hands.

“Ah, there you are, dear cousin,” said Mr Wooster with an increased degree of amiability.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt you,” her voice was soft and gentle, though somewhat reserved. She glanced at Jeeves with curiosity, the two of them exchanging small civil smiles, the valet raising his bowler hat with a courteous nod.

“Not at all,” said Mr Wooster. “We were merely catching up. What a coincidence, you wouldn’t believe it,” he chuckled hollowly. “Audrey, this is Jeeves. Jeeves, this is my cousin Audrey.”

The look on the young lady changed. She regarded him in a way that suggested the name was not unfamiliar to her, in fact, that there was a lot connected to it, and he just spotted her briefly glancing at Mr Wooster, concealing some emotion. Notwithstanding this fleeting instance which ignited all sorts of suspicion and questions in the man, she was most civil, smiling at him once more and nodding slowly.

“It is nice to meet you, Mr Jeeves.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Ms Wooster,” replied the valet with equal politeness.

Mr Wooster seemed uneasy, shifting in one place.

“Jeeves is m- he- well, I told you about Jeeves.”

“Right,” said Ms Wooster. She handed him one of the paper bags she was carrying, which he accepted with a nod, and carefully took his arm. It appeared to have a steadying effect on the gentleman. “I assumed you were in London.”

“I am merely here for my annual vacation, miss.”

“I see… I hope Morecambe Bay is to your liking.”

“Oh, yes, miss. Everything has been most pleasant.”

“You grow fond of this place after a while,” nodded Mr Wooster. “And surely, being free of duty must feel invigorating.”

Jeeves gazed at him, and as their eyes met, neither looked away. The customary ‘Yes, sir’ was almost falling out of the man’s lips, battling for superiority with the long due correction of Mr Wooster’s false assumption that he left his service, yet no sound escaped him, because Mr Wooster was smiling at him.

Was he pleased, truly happy that Jeeves no longer stood by his side..?

The thought of it felt like a shower of cold water, rendering him speechless.

All while Mr Wooster met his gaze, lingering as if too expecting the confirming ‘Yes, sir’ which never came.

They must have stood like that for a while.

“I fear we must be going,” the voice of Ms Wooster brought him back out the swarm of sudden anxieties. She was looking at him, but Jeeves couldn’t not notice the way she softly, barely noticeably, pulled Mr Wooster’s arm closer. “Mother expects us for tea soon.”

Mr Wooster turned to her with a light expression of a confused frown, but she looked at him unblinkingly, and he hurried to nod.

“So she does, right. Of course.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Jeeves.”

“Likewise, Ms Wooster,” Jeeves heard himself saying.

“Right-ho. Toodle-loo, Jeeves.”

“Good afternoon, sir. Good afternoon, miss.”

They turned away from each other, pacing in different directions, but Jeeves found himself looking back, finding two light figures distancing with a distinctly hurried step.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It sounded like a bison invasion in the main hall, drowning Rosenfeld’s greetings to the couple, before the ruckus faded into the drawing room. Audrey was closing the doors behind herself while Bertie was already pouring himself a drink with shaking hands, quickly downing the whole glass in one go and draping himself weakly on the little round table.

Audrey turned around swiftly, leaning back against the door as if the two of them were about to be raided in this room. Her eyes were wide.

“What on Earth is he doing here?!” she asked, quietly as she could, but the emotion was evident. It was like she caught Bertie’s panic on the way home like a cold.

“I don’t know!” the young man nearly whined.

“A vacation?” she shook her head, trying to explain it to herself. “Nobody comes here for a vacation!”

“I thought exactly the same!” he threw his head back with another glass.

“Did he bring your things?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“He didn’t mention it.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Oh, you know, this and that.”

“Did you talk about the letter at all?”

“No.”

She sighed loudly, casting her gaze aside in thought.

“I don’t understand it. I would think the only reason for him to come personally was to bring the rest of your things over. Perhaps also to confirm the resignation, but-”

“Oh, Audrey, old fruit.”

She turned, finding him sunk to his knees on the floor, leaning his forehead against the rim of the table.

“I’m never leaving this house ever again,” he groaned.

She quickly made her way over, lowering beside him and taking his hands in hers.

“My dear cousin,” she started, but the young man’s eyes were closed, and she said: “Bertie, look at me.”

He rolled the lemon over, leaning on the table with his temple. His features screamed of exhaustion, but his eyes were wild. There was a red mark left on his forehead where it leaned against the wood.

“Now you listen to me,” she began again, stroking the back of his hand slowly. “It’s nothing. Even if what he said was true, a vacation can’t last more than a couple of weeks. You probably won’t even meet again. You will be alright.”

“What if we run into him again?”

“I’ll be with you. We’ll just exchange civilities and be done with it. Like today.”

“What if he comes to the house?”

“He has no reason to come to our house.”

“What if he wants to talk to me?”

She paused, then looked meaningfully into his eyes.

“Then we’ll make sure you’re ready.”

Bertie sighed, his eyes falling close again. His hands grabbed hers tighter, and she thumbed his fingers soothingly.

They sat like that for a space.

“Come now, let’s take a walk in the gardens.”

He opened his eyes, fixing his gaze on her, yet didn’t move.

“What did you think of him?”

A soft smile appeared on her lips. She nodded in assent.

“He is quite a gentleman.”

His glance wandered to the side for a few moments before returning to her again.

“And what would you say?”

The smile faded away. She looked at him closely.

“Do you want honesty?”

“I’m sure I don’t, but please do carry on.”

“There is something about the way he looks at you.”

“You’re speaking in riddles, old thing.”

She nodded to the side.

“That’s because I’m not quite sure myself. It’s like there is something more than the usual employer-employee-exchange.”

His head rolled again to lean the forehead against the wood.

“Oh, he can’t stand me.”

“Bertie!”

“I can feel it-”

“We’re absolutely not starting this again. Up you get!”

Chapter Text

The rows of masterfully cut bushes framed straight pathways in the most elegant fashion. Flowers bloomed among them in colorful spots on the lavish greens, catching one’s eye. Distant chirping of birds mingled with the soft noises of the running fountains, a background to the stones crunching under a respectful step. It was truly a beautiful afternoon, exposing the romantics of spring most flatteringly.

Jeeves was uneasily aware of how the darkness of his garments rendered him unsuitable in such a light-hearted scene. It was the biggest front garden he ever had the fortune of seeing, and the nearer he drew to the mansion, standing tall before it, the more he appreciated the sentiment that people put into the affectionate nickname The Castle. The man mused briefly about the peculiarity of such unusually large windows, remembering late Henry Wooster being accused of appalling eccentricity, but concluded in the end that it wasn’t oddness that caught the eye, but the novelty of such a decision. The lightness of the house’s colors threw a veil of dreaminess over it, softening any potential harsh evaluations. One would hardly have the heart to judge a house’s compliance with the traditions of architecture when it looked this overwordly.

His path was long, not exactly due to the immense size of the gardens, but rather to the unbearably slow pace with which he traversed them. Everything about his surroundings inspired tranquility, gentleness and affection, yet none of it managed to get to Jeeves’s heart. His mind was far from peace, at which only the way he was fidgeting with his fingers hinted, and he used the long walk to steel his nerves and compose himself, endeavoring with effort to banish the feeling of guilt and wrongness that washed over him with every glance at one of the windows. Lately, it had grown much more wearisome to conceal his distress.

Finally, he reached the staircase, so clean it appeared nearly white in the direct sunlight, and ascended it with the same terrible slowness. He was reaching the last couple of steps when the sounds of opening doors made him look up, hearing another pair of clicking heels. He froze.

A tall man stood before him, a tinge of greyness on his temples contrasting the glint of vigor behind his otherwise serene, calm eyes. He held his hands behind his back, nodding respectfully.

“Good afternoon, Mr Jeeves.”

The valet wavered in surprise, failing to reply right away. His gaze studied the man attentively.

“Mr-”

“Rosenfeld,” the butler inserted abruptly, pursing his lips for a moment in some fleeting grieving emotion, though it was quickly over. There was a pause, in which a slight frown passed on Jeeves’s features, a frown of confusion, and the butler continued, voice measured and soft. “It is Rosenfeld now. It is nice to meet you again, Mr Jeeves.”

“Likewise,” the valet heard himself echoing faintly as he ascended the rest of the steps.

There was a moment of stillness between the two men who regarded each other, and Jeeves had already parted his lips to speak when suddenly, Mr Rosenfeld stepped aside, opening him the way.

“Please, do come in.”

Jeeves nodded, following him inside, and they entered an interior which was just as ethereal, if not more so, than the outside of the mansion. They paced a long hall, reaching one of the rooms, and the butler stopped, turning to the other man.

“Mrs Wooster will be with you shortly,” he said. There was an air of peacefulness about him, as if his face was only a moment away from smiling. He gestured inside the room. “She instructed me to encourage you to make yourself comfortable in the drawing room. Madam needs a moment to change from her drawing session.”

Jeeves nodded, though the look in his eyes never changed as he regarded him.

“Thank you, Mr Rosenfeld.”

The man smiled at him with modest, restrained amiability, bowing slightly, and had already taken a step to leave, when Jeeves turned, following his direction. He was within reach of taking his arm.

“Mr Rosenfeld?”

The butler stopped, facing the man’s look openly.

Jeeves hesitated, glancing down as he asked:

“Would you permit me to inquire about your well-being?”

The question was uttered in a very low voice, almost a whisper. The man gazed at him thoughtfully, but then smiled again, lowering his own voice as well as he responded gently:

“I am well, thank you.”

The valet paused. They shared another heavy look before Jeeves dropped his, barely audibly saying:

“I am deeply sorry, Mr Rosenfeld.”

“You needn’t be,” replied the man with lightness, and Jeeves looked up at him again, finding a soft gaze of the other upon himself. “I assure you, the state of my affairs is most satisfactory.”

Jeeves believed him, the gentleness about him strongly suggesting calmness of soul. And yet, compassionate concern never left his eyes, his breath hitching in his throat to ask another question, the one which his own sense of propriety deemed too inquisitive to voice.

Mr Rosenfeld, however, seemed to have recognised it. He sighed softly, and when he spoke, it was so quiet that the words did not echo in the spacious hall, fading into the room with nothing more than an unintelligible murmur.

“The circumstances of my expulsion from the Ganymede and forced exile were devastating,” he said, looking closely at Jeeves who found himself pursing his lips. “However, I now realise they were imperative to my meeting Mrs Wooster and starting the life I could have hardly dreamt of.”

The valet nodded slowly.

“The most agreeable lady.”

“Indeed she is,” said Rosenfeld reverently, and his glance trailed to the side, as if in recollection. “I will be forever indebted to her for salvation. I had nearly sailed to the United States, with nothing to my name, when I met her. She appeared to have been apprised of my professional reputation and showed an appalling disregard toward the scandal that shattered my person… She assisted me greatly in changing my name and starting a new life in Morecambe, and I am honored to have such a cordial connection that hers and mine has been.”

Jeeves felt warmth in his chest, watching the other man’s voice grow more devoted and loving the more he spoke.

“I am very gratified to hear that,” he said with matching softness, adding: “I hope you have found your happiness at last.”

A different kind of smile passed briefly over the butler’s lips. He glanced away.

“I have,” he said, bringing his eyes back to Jeeves to find him also having a faint smile on his face. “For which, too, I am grateful to Mrs Wooster who is impressively tolerant regarding my occasional absences in the house. It’s been quite a while since I felt like a schoolboy.”

Jeeves nodded, and the two servants exchanged quiet smiles and warm gazes.

“It sounds wonderful,” the valet spoke eventually, with a treacherous note of dreaminess in his voice.

“It is,” said Mr Rosenfeld.

They remained silent for another short while, before the older man spoke again:

“You are visiting Morecambe for your vacation, I hear.”

The light-heartedness vanished from Jeeves’s face. He averted his eyes.

“I am.”

Mr Rosenfeld looked at him through slightly squinted eyes, gaze thoughtful, studious.

“I must confess it surprised me to receive an impression that Mrs Wooster is not apprised of your position.”

Jeeves allowed himself a heavy sigh, darting a look at the other.

“Have you informed her?”

“No,” said the man. “I was held back by the confusion that finding Mr Wooster arriving alone caused me. It only deepened with each month that passed without summoning you.”

Jeeves’s gaze dropped to the floor.

“The gentleman is well, I trust?”

Mr Rosenfeld regarded him with a mild frown and slight distrust in his look, as if finding the other’s feigned ignorance unsuitable for their year-long acquaintanceship.

Yet he did not comment upon it.

“He is heartbroken,” he said, and Jeeves’s eyes dashed to him again.

“Has he given an impression of possible reasons?”

“No, he did not. In fact, he and the young lady have been successfully discrete about their woes, growing silent in our presence. One can hazard a conjecture, of course, but it would be merely speculation.”

“What would your conjecture be?”

“That there is love involved. In both of their cases, curiously. They appear disappointed and offended, in a way that suggests their feelings being bruised by people which are of great importance to them. But again, it is only an impression.”

Jeeves’s look was cast aside. He dived into deep thoughts which drew his brows together in a concern frown, being pulled out of them only by the butler speaking again.

“If you don’t mind my asking, have your sentiments for the gentleman remained where they were last time we saw each other?”

The valet sighed.

“I fear they have.”

Mr Rosenfeld hummed.

“Has there been a revelation of any kind?”

“No… Not to my knowledge.”

“And he did not confide in you about meeting anyone of potential interest?”

“He did not.”

The butler looked thoughtful.

“Then I can only advise you to tread lightly. I saw his eyes upon receiving your letters,” he said, and just when Jeeves was about to ask him to elaborate, the man turned his ear to the muffled sound of steps echoing distantly from the stairs. “And now I must leave you, old friend. That will be Mr Wooster now.”

Jeeves felt himself paling slightly. Mr Rosenfeld was always exceptionally skillful at recognising people by the sounds of their steps.

He watched him take leave, following him with his gaze as if about to plead for him not to go, though turned around sharply upon hearing a ringing “Ah, what-ho, Jeeves!” behind his back.

Mr Wooster had just descended the staircase from the second floor and was making his way over to him, still looking most charming in his light suit as he did two days ago at their accidental reunion.

“Fancy running into you here,” he said with a polite smile.

But Jeeves was washed with the same guilt and anxiety that burdened him on the way here, him struggling to maintain professional bearing.

“I am deeply sorry, sir,” he began, more earnest than he would have liked. “I never meant to intrude in such manner-”

“Nonesense,” waved the gentleman off. “Only too glad to see you again. Aunt Emily tells me you’ve met at a bookshop?”

“Yes, sir. Mrs Wooster and I appear to share preferences in philosophical thoughts.”

“Well, that’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

“Sir…” Jeeves started, pausing and glancing down for a moment. Mr Wooster was brushing it off, but he knew he was thinking it. “I beg your pardon, sir. In that brief encounter with Mrs Wooster, as she honored me with her invitation, I inadvertently failed to apprise her of my position.”

“Oh, I don’t think you should worry yourself with that,” he said, his look dissolving in the distance of the hall thoughtfully. “Aunt Emily has very liberal views on class distinctions. You should have seen her and Rosenfeld annihilating Audrey and me in Bridge… So believe me, she won’t think any differently of you.”

Jeeves cleared his throat.

“What I meant, sir,” he said with uneasiness. “is me omitting to mention to Mrs Wooster my relation to yourself.”

Mr Wooster gazed at him. It was visible he attempted to curve his lips into a sunny smile, but the look in his eyes betrayed some mild bitterness.

“Well, that hardly matters now, does it?”

“Ah, Mr Jeeves, good afternoon!”

Only now had the valet grown aware of another clicking of heels approaching them, and as he turned, he beheld Mrs Wooster, beaming like the sun and looking most delightful in her long cream dress.

“Good afternoon, Mrs Wooster.”

“Awfully sorry for the wait. Those big old-fashioned dresses — you need to protect them with equally big aprons if you want to get any work done, and it’s such an endeavor to then free yourself from them,” she smiled widely and sighed to herself light-heartedly. “But those are the sacrifices we make for staying beautiful.”

The valet reciprocated her smile with a small and timid one of his own, infected by her radiation of amiability.

She looked at Mr Wooster.

“But I trust you weren’t kept in boredom long. I see you’ve already made an acquaintance with my nephew.”

Jeeves grew tense again, hesitating as he glanced at the gentleman, but the latter was quicker to respond than himself.

“You know, it’s a striking coincidence, dear Auntie. Jeeves and I have known each other before.”

“Have you now?” she raised her eyebrows, looking at both of them.

“Yes, wouldn’t you believe it… Jeeves is an old pal of mine,” Mr Wooster said, ignoring the look of shock that the valet darted at him. “We met some years ago.”

“Well-well-well. It’s a small world, isn’t it?” said Mrs Wooster, receiving an awkward chuckle from the gentleman in return. “Oh, then you simply must join us for tea, Bertie dear.”

“Oh- ah- Um, sorry, old flesh and blood, am unable,” Mrs Wooster shifted in place. “I promised to join Audrey in the gardens just now, and I really must be going. Besides, our tastes in books are too different for me to be an adequate part of the discussion.”

“Oh, darling, don’t say that. But fine, have it your way,” she waved at him, and Mr Wooster was visibly anxious to leave promptly.

The valet and the lady were already on their way to enter the drawing room, Mrs Wooster attending to the tea, when Jeeves heard the gentleman’s ringing voice echoing to him from some distance.

“Oh, um, Jeeves?”

The man turned, the usual “Sir?” almost escaping him by force of habit, and two halves of him battled over whether to say it or not, causing him great pain.

But Mr Wooster did not wait for a reply.

“When you’re finished, come see me for a moment, will you? I should be in my room by then.”

Jeeves had already parted his lips, yet the young gentleman, once again, did not appear to have expected an answer, dashing out of the doors before the man could make a sound.

He stood there, taking a second to compose himself, before walking into the drawing room.

Chapter Text

The tea was most agreeable. The company of such a charming host as Mrs Wooster, radiant with contagious merriment as she was, had briefly rid Jeeves of concerns which were burdening him so. With their shared taste in philosophical works, the conversation had no chance of being less than satisfactory, and as one topic flowed harmoniously into another, coming to fictional literature and general views on the poetry of nature, the man’s admiration of the older lady had only grown, as had respect, for his knowledge of her loss of a beloved husband made it apparent that such amiability must have come from considerable inner strength.

The room too, he must confess, contributed to the peacefulness of the mood. Jeeves had never been particularly fond of light colors, not to mention in such an excess, for their impracticability when it came to wearing and tending them, and yet he found himself admitting it a major factor in calming one’s aching soul. Truly, it felt like a fairytale. Perhaps it was for this reason that his concerns seemed so distant during the engaging conversation.

The tea was gradually and unhurriedly drawing to a close, there being nothing left in their second pot, hours slowly approaching the dinner time and their talk simmering down from specifics to nothing in particular.

“Thank you for the most kind reception, Mrs Wooster,” Jeeves said cordially after one of the comfortable pauses that grew more frequent towards the end. He placed his cup noiselessly on the plate. “Though our conversation was most pleasant, I wouldn’t want to be so imprudent as to take more of your time.”

“Oh, not at all, dear Mr Jeeves,” said the lady, smiling. “In my age and with my position, I have all the time in the world. And it’s always such a pleasure to meet a person appreciative of valuable philosophical thought.”

Jeeves smiled back with one of his mild smiles of politeness, yet it faded as the sounds of the front door reached them, along with the rather hasty firm steps which grew louder as they passed the room and then quieter when distancing. The man felt a fleeting tightness in his chest.

“Ah, that must be our darling Bertie,” said Mrs Wooster, glancing at the closed door. She turned to the valet. “Haven’t I heard he wanted you to see him?”

“Yes, Mrs Wooster… I think it best I do so now, lest I be in the way when dinner starts.”

“Be in the way!” exclaimed the lady with a little laugh of endearment. “My dear Mr Jeeves, you cannot possibly think me such an uncivil hostess as to send you on your way in that weather,” The man darted a glance at the window, beyond which the rain streamed in thin rivers down the glass. “Oh, you mustn’t worry, it will stop in a few hours. But you must certainly stay for dinner!”

Jeeves’s eyes widened slightly before he composed himself.

“It is most kind of you, Mrs Wooster, but-”

“No-no, Mr Jeeves, I won’t have it. Have you urgent engagements in the near future?”

The man paused for a second, finding no heart to lie to the woman.

The second was all she needed.

“Very well, then.”

“...I fear, madam, that I am not appropriately dressed.”

“We do not keep strict dress codes,” she said gently, another warm smile on her lips. “It is only the company that truly matters.”

Jeeves found it very challenging to refuse her.

She chuckled lightly.

“Do not feel as if you were imposing, my dear sir. We’re all only too glad… Now off you go chat with my nephew.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Rushing along the corridors like the wind along the narrow streets, Bertie hesitated before entering his room, staring at the handle. All the good that the stroll to the beach with Audrey did to calm his heart was wasted completely as he stood before his own door, panting slightly. Poor Audrey – his cousin spent so much time talking sense into him, desirous to make him see the posish with clear eyes, and yet all that sense vanished in one brief moment, no trace of reason lingering in his mind.

And yet, Betram was no weak man. Bertram would not let "I dare not" wait upon "I would”.

He entered the room.

Even with all the hardships he had to endure up till now, including the most notorious Totleigh Towers, this right now must have been the loudest groan of relief that ever escaped Bertie, because Jeeves wasn’t there.

Then he gathered some composure and checked himself. Like him and Audrey established during the walk, such utter dread was utterly ridiculous. Jeeves was Bertie’s valet — Bertie’s late valet, mind you — and if you put Bertie’s feelings for the man outside the brackets, there was really nothing to it all. They would talk, like thousands of times they did before. They have, after all, been through worse than this: you must remember the purple socks and the alpine hat. And besides, Bertie had it all planned, bless Audrey’s kind and selfless soul.

He approached his table slowly, and opened one of the drawers. Wrong one, and yet the young man started, as the sight of heart-wrenching drafts leaped at him from the papers. Staring at them dumbly for a bit, he reached with a light hand to pick the sheets so carefully as if they were alive and hurt. His eyes skimmed over the beginning of one draft, then jumped to the middle of another one, and eventually unfocused into the paper wearily. He shouldn’t read it, not now of all times.

When there was a knock on the door, he leaped five feet, sending the papers flying. Hastening to gather them — blast them, fluttering around in all directions — mid-air and picking them up from the floor, he stuffed them in not quite non-chalant manner, loudly responding:

“Yes?”

“This is Jeeves, sir,” came from behind the door. “You wished to see me after your return.”

Finally getting the drawer to close, Bertie turned around and leaned against it as if the papers would try to break out of their confinements and have another go at flight.

“Ah, Jeeves, yes, of course, come in.”

The valet entered, closing the door noiselessly behind himself and only taking a few small steps into the room. He stood tall in the respectful silence, as he always did, and oh, all their efforts were wasted, so wasted, so wasted!

Bertie exhaled sharply, knowing the man wouldn’t ever begin a conversation himself under the current circumstances, and breathed “Right…”, not exactly knowing where to put his hands. Jeeves was smart, having his behind his back. That’s what fish does for you.

Then, he looked the man in the eyes. There was only one rule for the success of this enterprise: No shilly-shally.

“You had a good time with Aunt Emily, I hope.”

“Most satisfactory, sir.”

“Exchanged some literature gossip?”

“Mrs Wooster and I do appear to have similar views on the latest philosophical developments, sir.”

“Very good, very good…” nodded Bertie and caught himself again. No shilly-shally! “Well, you being here, I thought I would ask if you’ve any solution to my cousin’s French problems.”

“The predicament has certain complications due to being abroad, but I am making inquiries. In order to find a suitable solution, I thought it best to first become an understanding of Mrs Wooster’s precise standing in Paris.”

“I see. Clever, of course, most… Have you got any reply yet?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Right… Well,” Bertie said, turning to the drawers again and opening another one, paper rustling under his hands again. “I don’t want to hold you off any longer, let me only get this…”

Taking an unsealed envelope, the young gentleman held it in his still hand for a split second, but then turned around and, approaching the valet, extended it to him.

“Your reference. I know, you didn’t ask for it, but I’ve already written it, so you might as well have it,” he said, even managing an amiable smile, however effortful.

Jeeves stared down at the envelope, not moving an inch. There was a pause that grew more and more unbearable with each passing moment, and Bertie’s hand began trembling ever so slightly, him still looking the other man in the eyes in the hope of pretending the moment didn’t drag for so impossibly long.

But then Jeeves spoke.

“Sir…” he said softly, not raising his eyes, and there was another pause, blast it, and Bertie was too occupied with keeping himself together to realize he had never seen Jeeves hesitate like this. When the man’s eyes finally rose to his own, he unwillingly clutched the envelope tighter. “I fear a misunderstanding has taken place regarding my position. I have not left your service.”

Already having been stiff as a tree, Bertie turned completely moveless like a tree that had frozen to death. He couldn’t help his eyebrows shooting up and stared at the man unblinkingly for a space. His hand still hung with the reference.

Suddenly, he chuckled in a shaky exhale.

“Sorry, Jeeves, I’m afraid you’ll have to say it again. I must have gotten too much wind in my ears at the beach just now, because I thought you said you have not left my service.”

“That is true, sir.”

Again, Bertie gaped at him. Terribly long seconds have passed before he lowered his hand, and now it was clutching the envelope so tightly it would certainly leave hideous creases on it. But not from nervousness, not quite.

From vexation.

Surely, you must understand. Meaning to say, if you spend five bally days trying to give your bally valet the bally sack, you’d most likely expect the bally sack to be given successfully. And now you have your bally valet waltzing in your — your aunt’s, but we must not dwell on it — bally house on the other side of the bally country, telling you the sack you gave he did not take. So much effort, for nothing! Why, you’d feel driven up the wall too.

There was a steely glint in his gaze, but he remained civil.

“I thought there was little room for misinterpretation.”

“There was indeed, sir,” agreed Jeeves, sharing a tense look with the gentleman. “If I do not err, sir, you have given me a choice.”

Bertie frowned in confusion.

“A choice?”

“Yes, sir,” said the man and reached for his inner breast pocket.

Seeing a familiar folded sheet of paper emerge from it, Bertie turned his head away in such a flinching motion as if a firework had exploded into his face. He sighed, while Jeeves opened it carefully.

“It is for that very wish that I present you with a choice. Should your own view differ from that-”

“You don’t have to read it, Jeeves,” Bertie cut him off rather sharply, turning away all together and pacing towards the table.

“No, sir.”

“I am perfectly familiar with the contents of my own letter.”

“Just so, sir.”

The young gentleman sighed again, tossing the envelope which slid across the surface of the table and bumped into a lying pen.

He leaned his hands against the edge, remaining with his back to the man when saying, voice stiffer than stone:

“I do not see how this would work, with me here and you in London.”

“I was given to understand earlier, sir, that you intended to eventually return to the metropolis.”

“There is nothing for me in the metropolis. The engagements exhausted me at last, and there I am only an easier prey to my aunts’ schemes of marrying me off or pressing me to give lunch or dinner or take care of their offspring. I have no one in the metropolis.”

“...Many of your friends have made frequent inquiries about the date of your return, sir.”

“My friends think me a fat-head.”

“You have been acting very shrewdly on occasion, sir.”

“Yes, well, it doesn’t seem to make me less mentally negligible in your eyes, does it now?”

He still stared down the polished surface of the table when the silence fell abruptly, and so dense it was you could have cut it with a knife.

“Sir..?” Jeeves spoke gently, yet the piercing gaze that Bertie directed at him when turning around to face him again silenced him.

The truth was, that much as Bertie would like to joke about the differences of their opinions on fashion items being the hardest test of their otherwise cordial relations, nothing was ever as hurtful as those words.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m alluding to,” said Bertie coldly. “And there is no good denying it either. Twice I heard it from your own lips, and once this view on me that you seem to entertain was said to me by a third party whom you told it to.”

Jeeves remained still, but his eyes betrayed astonishment and perplexity. It was near impossible to catch him unsuspecting or unaware, and at any other occasion Bertie would have marked this moment as a great achievement, encircling the date in the calendar in red ink. Not now. Because Jeeves said nothing, and he couldn’t help but purse his lips at that. How awkward it must be for him. He was known not to recede views he held to be right, and this wavering between a servant’s feudal spirit and a man’s conviction was frankly saddening to watch.

All the more saddening since it showed, most clearly, that there were no gentler sentiments on his side; not even care that he had bruised another human’s feelings. Only calculations of a way to save himself out of this inconvenience with least damage for his professional reputation.

Bertie sighed, reaching for the envelope again.

“You know me well, Jeeves,” he said softly. As he continued, he watched his fingers half-absently straighten the creases on the paper, going over each one over and over. To no avail. “You know I do not mind a few harsh words. Since I was so high, I’ve been told I was a chump, a fool, a fat-head. An idiot. But I knew better. Such insults were mostly thrown in anger or other strong emotion, and even if they were not, I couldn’t bother taking them to heart. All the more ironic, then, that the heaviest blow should have come from the one whose opinion actually mattered.”

His fingers stopped mid-motion, his whole frame stiffening as he caught himself saying words that should have never left his mouth, not in such painful and humiliating sincerity. He glanced up, seeing Jeeves’s eyes widen slightly more, in a different kind of way, and knew only quick thinking would rescue him from embarrassment.

God knows how, yet he straightened, raised his chin and composed himself to the point that his voice sounded even more rigid than he intended to.

“That’s right,” he said, looking at the man. “It was not without an unmanly sentiment that I expressed on several occasions the depths of my trust in your judgement. This had not changed over the years, not even after that absolute bally insult.”

Jeeves still only looked at him, not even trying to speak, and Bertie felt sudden tiredness get hold of him again. He said enough.

“In any case, the option of your resignation remains on the table,” he said, demonstratively placing the envelope, still creased on one side, on the edge of the table beside himself, folding arms on his chest and directing a bold gaze at the other. “Trying to view it with your eyes, I see no reason for you to stay. Unless, of course, having a loony employer has benefits that I, mentally negligible as I am, fail to grasp.”

And Jeeves still stared. Oh, blast this, blast this man!

Snatching the envelope, Bertie quickly paced towards him, appearing a trifle too close as he held the paper out before him, with it almost touching the valet’s tie. His hand trembled.

“Take the bally reference.”

Once again, there was silence, yet this time, Bertie was ready to wait however long he bally well liked to linger, for there was no way out of this. Heavens know he never wanted to part with Jeeves — his Jeeves — like that, and yet this insufferable display of heartlessness left no other option. Only the gentleman’s sense of propriety restrained him from grabbing this man by the lapels of his coat and shake out of him the words of care and bigger devotion than that of a personal attendant, and maybe after the silence that would come inevitably use the good grip to throw him out of the mansion and move to blasted Iceland!

“Sir,” said Jeeves, silencing all of Bertie’s thoughts instantly. He was looking down at the envelope again, the treacherously fluttering piece of worthless paper. Then, once again, he looked up into the young gentleman’s eyes. “I do not deny referring to your person in this abusive fashion. I am extremely sorry to have been the cause of your discomfort, and I sincerely beg for your forgiveness,” Bertie dropped the hand with the envelope, turning away with a loud exhale, and Jeeves hurried to continue: “But if I may be so bold as to defend myself, I confess to having assumed a certain degree of acceptance regarding expressions of belittling effect, with the assumption derived from the occasions you referred to me in similar manner in the events of my not immediately able to present solutions to the crisis yourself or one of your connections were confronted with. One of the expressions you have employed in reference to my brain was, if I may be allowed a quote, unstuck at the edges… I realise our two positions are incomparable, considering the difference of social status between us-”

“That was never-”

“-However, I do earnestly hope to soothe the cruelty of my remarks by saying I have long ceased to consider scarceness of outstanding intelligence a person’s defining feature.”

A glint of anger dashed across Bertie’s eyes again.

“Have you, by Jove?”

“Yes, sir. It was yourself, sir, who made me see it. Your endless benevolence, your kindness, consideration, your never-ending compassion and generosity and selflessness, all so unbelievably effortless. I have never met another person whose heart could contain so much warmth and affection… And I have not realised before, sir, how much those qualities truly meant, not until the time spent in your service, during which I have grown to seek them in every person; seek humanity in people, of which, it seems, there remains so little nowadays. Yet you, sir… You possess it with an ease which does not cease to fascinate me, and I…” he glanced down briefly, as if something else was about to escape him, but ultimately cleared his throat softly, saying: “I would never wish to sever a connection so pleasant in every respect as yours and mine has been.”

It was Bertie who now stared at the other speechlessly, intoxicated by the tenderly-spoken words, so alien, and smitten by the tinge of blue in Jeeves’s grey eyes that had never been brighter. The look Jeeves gave him — the slow revelation of some strong, deep emotion that surfaced more and more he spoke — it was unbearable, most unbearable, and Bertie’s knees were the closest to giving in as they were since his arrival in Morecambe. He could not read this look, or rather didn’t even think of having a dash at it; it scared him, outright frightened, and at the same time he wished Jeeves would never look at him in any other way than this.

He felt a tinge of dizziness, barely able to still look at the man.

But, seasoned by the past, he did not let himself be carried away. The fact of the matter was: none of Jeeves’s words crossed the borders of a generally acceptable cordiality, despite perhaps stretching them a trifle, and Bertie must not treat them as anything but.

Their eyes remained locked for a few seconds after the echo of the dinner gong reached the room faintly. Bertie was the first to look away, as he turned to lower the envelope on the nearby standing dresser.

“Come, Jeeves,” he said, barely above whisper, as his eyes remained sunk to the floor. “We must not be late.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Dinner… Dinner went tolerably well. All its coziness was completely wasted on Bertie, of course, and naturally, food turned to ashes in his mouth, but were he able to drag his eyes away from his plate and make the slightest effort to notice other parties, he would have had a much easier time surviving those madly long forty two minutes.

Audrey glanced at him a couple of times throughout the dinner with a sentiment of a nurse checking whether her patient was still kicking about while she went out for a smoke; Aunt Emily gave much longer looks as if aiming to get his attention, but you have to give her credit, because without prying too much she let it go, and, as usual, did not need a co-host to arrange an agreeable dinner.

Jeeves was quiet by his side, in the way that he always was back at home. If he sent occasional looks Bertie’s way, he didn’t see them. For forty two minutes, his world reduced to the round outlines of his plates.

He must have lost himself a little, for the dinner ended, and he somehow appeared to be exiting the room last, walking into the hall unusually animated with conversation. Aunt Emily was persuading Jeeves to stay for the cocktails and a round of bridge, while the latter unpacked his full arsenal of polite expressions to refuse. Audrey didn’t take her eyes off Bertie as he approached.

“...with utmost reluctance, Mrs Wooster,” Jeeves kept saying tirelessly, seeming suddenly less eager to speak when Bertie drew near.

“Oh, alright, have it your way,” chuckled Aunt Emily, waving her hand in defeat. “But pray do not mistake my invitations for mere civility.”

“No, madam. Thank you, madam.”

“Bertie, could I speak to you for a minute?” Audrey said, just as Jeeves was expressing his thanks for today and wishing the company good night.

“Yes, um, well, actually-” mumbled Bertie, not paying attention as he turned to catch the valet’s look. “I’d like to see Jeeves out at the gates. It’s a long and lonely walk, after all.”

“Very true,” agreed Aunt Emily. “Of course, my dear, you see your friend out. We’ll begin with the cocktails in the meantime.”

Bertie exchanged glances with Audrey, the tiredness in his meeting alarm in hers, and he smiled at her faintly in weak reassurance. She didn’t insist.

The stroll was completely silent. The two men walked beside each other without having uttered a single word or sigh or any other sound, and as a matter of fact the stones crunching under their shoes were so uncomfortably loud that each step sounded like an explosion. It may be safely assumed that even if one of them did speak, it wouldn’t reach the other in this impossible noise anyway. And since when were crickets so loud too?

They reached the gates, and Jeeves had already stepped over, turning around and touching his bowler hat at the young gentleman.

“Good night, sir,” he said softly.

For a few moments, Bertie was merely looking at him, his expression pensive.

And burdened.

“Jeeves.”

“Sir?”

“Did I offend you with remarks which you mentioned before dinner?”

“No, sir,” the man replied right away, but then his glance escaped to the side briefly. “Well, only the first time, perhaps, in the earlier stages of our acquaintanceship when I did not yet know you as I do now. I very soon grew to realise you did not intend to hurt me.”

There was a fleeting pause.

“Good. Because I didn’t.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, good night, Jeeves.”

“Good night, sir.”

Bertie turned around without skipping a bit and began pacing back to the mansion.

And a shiver ran down the back of his neck as he became aware of hearing no similar crunching of gravel behind himself.