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I must confess at the outset that, although subject to a moderately classical upbringing, I am not particularly known for my appreciation of the arts. Oh, I enjoy a spot of theatre and can tickle the ivory in a frivolous manner, but some acquaintances – one of the Drone regulars, say – may well have raised a sceptical eyebrow at hearing that I had chosen to spend my evening at an art gallery.
But this was not just any art gallery; oh, no.
The grand opening of the Nouvelle Artiste was the culmination of the years of hopes, dreams and sheer hard graft of my dear cousin Angela Travers, so of course I had turned out in support; be-dinner-jacketed, shiny-shoed, and fresh-faced with an enthusiasm which was only half-feigned.
Angela had been toiling away at an art school for some time but none of us expected her to take the brave step of opening her own gallery. Still, the evening event was quite an illustrious gathering of the great and the good – and Yours Truly, of course – so one could only hope that it would get her new venture off to a roaring start.
A faint cough sounded at my left shoulder and I held out a hand into which Jeeves kindly deposited a fully laden champagne flute. My gentleman’s gentleman had also brushed-up for the occasion. Though the man rarely has a hair out of place, his appearance immaculate under even the most trying of circumstances, he seemed to be particularly shimmering this evening. I opened my mouth to say as much – and then, upon reflection, decided that discretion was the better part of valour, and held my tongue. Though our rapport had recently developed a soupcon of longed-for tendresse, there were certain things which one could not speak of openly in polite company.
I took a large swig of champagne instead and - once I had finished coughing and gasping for air, and Jeeves had reassured nearby guests that I was, contrary to appearances, perfectly well – gazed around at the art on display.
I had come braced to part with the contents of my wallet on some daub or other to help Angela’s coffers, fully expecting to have to hide it away in the guest water closet, but as I gazed around I started to think that actually she wasn’t half-bad, as the Americans say.
There were some small landscapes and some still-life paintings of flowers and fruit bowls and whatnot – not really to my taste, but even I could see that they were well executed – and some animals including a hideous painting of my Aunt Agatha’s Pekinese (the dog, not the painting – although one could equally apply the sobriquet to my Aunt Agatha).
‘Gosh, Jeeves – Angela is rather talented, isn't she?’
‘Indeed sir; I think the lady does possess quite the artistic eye.’
I nodded towards one of the canvases. ‘Do you think that one would go in the hall, Jeeves?’
‘I take it you are not referring to the dog, sir..?’
I shuddered. ‘Lord, no. Perhaps the sweetpeas? Or the one with the bridge and the canal?.....Jeeves?’
Discombobulated at the lack of response, I turned to look at him and saw that the man had gone decidedly pale.
‘I say, old chap, are you quite oojar-cum-spiff?’
He was staring fixedly and ashen-faced at the far wall – quite put me in mind of the Lady of Shalott - and I followed his gaze to see a group of various portraits hung around one large full-length portrait of a nude male figure, back to the artist, head half-turned.
Head half-turned revealing an unmistakable profile.
My mouth fell open.
I whipped around to face him.
‘Jeeves!’
My usually unflappable valet had collected himself and seemed once more unperturbed.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Is that…?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What…?...When…?’
I caught the slightest tremor of a smooth cheek as he considered his reply.
‘When the lady was first mastering the human form, sir. It was a year or two ago, and her usual model was sadly incommoded.’
‘Well!’ I found myself rather at a loss for more words, so I took a closer look at the painting.
The setting appeared to be a conservatory or orangery somewhere – possibly at Brinkley Court – and the figure had just enough heliotrope fabric draped across his nether-regions to preserve his modesty. His face was slightly cast in shadow but the angle of the nose, wonky as a result of an adolescent break, was achingly familiar.
It was really rather good.
I peered closer.
‘Is that – is that my dressing gown, Jeeves?’
He cleared his throat in a vaguely apologetic fashion.
‘It fitted the lady’s request for a colour contrast, sir.’
‘I see. Well. Right.’ I threw back the last of my champagne, managing not to choke on it this time, and set the glass aside.
‘Sir?’
I glanced around to check that we were not being overheard.
‘Fine figure of a man though you are, Jeeves, I’d just as soon not have you gracing someone else’s wall. I’m off to find Angela to buy a painting!’
And although his lips scarcely moved, something about his visage lit up like the sun emerging from behind a cloud, warming me immeasurably, and the note of pleasure in his voice was as balm to my soul.
‘Very good, sir.’