Chapter Text
“My dear Jeeves,” Mr Wooster said to me this morning, his voice suffused with a warmth that made me ache, “do you know what the first step in getting rid of a dozen newts one suddenly and unexpectedly finds in one’s bed is?”
To call for me, sir? But I knew that answer would not please him, so I ventured instead,
“To ascertain the whereabouts of Mr Fink-Nottle?”
Sentences were—are—still incomplete without the sir that had always punctuated them at the end. It felt viscerally incorrect that I should lounge on the master bed with my master in my arms at mid-morning, and a hundred other worries preyed on my mind besides. Yet Mr Wooster laughed, and I felt the sound travel from his chest to his shoulder to my arm and my chest, rumbling pleasantly as thunder might over grateful hills at dusk after a draught.
“No, Jeeves,” he said, “that is the second step.”
I could not help an “indeed, sir?” then – a far too versatile and dear turn of phrase to give up entirely. He was not put out by it.
“Yes, indeed, dearest, the first step” –he endeavoured to turn his face towards me as much as he was able, which was only by a little, but the smile I could not see I could hear with perfect clarity in his voice– ‘is to acknowledge that there are indeed a dozen newts in one’s bed.”
Even as he may be blind to it himself, I am often taken aback by how astute and perceptive Mr Wooster—Bertie—can be. He is right and therefore I will start with the smallest newt of the dozen and tell you about the Dream of the Agatha Beast.
*
Readers—should I somehow fail to burn these pages and they be discovered one day—are no doubt familiar with the recent dream-sharing epidemic that blighted our kingdom, for how strange, inexplicable and disturbing the experience has been, and by now surely the less is said about it, the better. I will however note that at the time of the first dream featuring Mrs Gregson in her much altered form, Mr Wooster and I were still labouring under the belief that while a valet may appear as a captive guest in his master’s dreams (for his master may have need of him yet during the hours of slumber) the reverse was not possible, and neither were we yet fully aware of the dangers a staunch refusal to follow the dream’s usual plot posed to its participants.
Of course, this dream was a rare specimen of its kind in that it required no direction on the part of the host—at least not in its beginning or middle.
I was in a large cavern.
In hindsight, I suppose I always knew that I was dreaming—dreams, especially those of others—have a certain unmistakable quality that set them apart from the consciousness of waking. At the time, however, no sooner had I opened my eyes (as it were), than I heard a bloodcurdling scream. The voice belonged to none other than my master; he was in grave danger, and that knowledge ousted all thought from my mind, including where I was, how I had gotten there, or for that matter, even a complete comprehension of the fearsome, dragon-like beast that had him cornered.
“Jeeves!”
Mr Wooster spotted me. He was utterly terrified, his back pressed firmly against the wall of the cave, with no further possibility of retreat, yet attempting to clamber further back still, as if he wished to crawl into the hard stone of the wall itself, a plaintive, desperate look in his blue eyes.
I did not blame him, given the foe he faced, yet neither did I hesitate to throw myself between it and Mr Wooster. The beast, I now saw, had three heads, all of which bore the countenance of Mr Wooster’s aunt, Mrs Gregson. However, her curls had been transformed into slithering grey snakes and the tongue that darted in between razor sharp teeth as she promised to enact unspeakable horrors upon Mr Wooster was a forked one. I shudder to put down the insults and threats the creature spewed from its mouths for how vile they were, although a servant with less impeccable manners than myself might note that a similar sentiment equally applies to certain utterances Mrs Gregson has made towards Mr Wooster in the waking world.
Unfortunately for the creature, today she would feast on no nephews, let alone on my master. I would not allow it.
“Sir!” I called, not daring to turn behind but needing him to hear me just the same. “Run! Save yourself!”
In the time since—and even before Mr Wooster’s first memorable appearance in my most unfortunate recurring dream—I have often thought about the significance of his refusal to do so despite his bone-deep terror, and about those truths Mr Wooster’s dream might hint at when taken as a whole. I can admit that now.
At the time however, if Mr Wooster made reply, I did not hear it. Neither did I have further time to dedicate to the matter, for the beast now had myself in her sights and it lunged forward with remarkable fury. Luckily it was at this point that I looked down and noticed the flaming sword I appeared to be holding in my hand—a most useful weapon in the fierce and violent fight that ensued. I would like to claim that I do not fear death, which having fought in the Great War, I know is not true; yet, in that cave—as would later be the case in London and in my dream-cottage in Devon—the only bodily harm I feared was that which could befall Mr Wooster.
There was a moment in the battle when a blow I failed to duck swept me to the floor, knocking the wind out of my lungs, that I indeed believed all to be lost. In my disoriented state, the cave throbbed around me, and I saw one of the heads descend towards my person with great speed, the dark mouth open to display the awful, lurid teeth.
Just in this moment of despair, however, Mr Wooster called out to me once more. I turned to him and in doing so managed to roll away from the oncoming attack by the skin of my teeth. I made haste to clamber back to my feet and caught the waylaid sword he threw at me as if he had done so a hundred, a thousand times. That act of unspoken understanding became the creature’s end: with Mr Wooster’s sword in my hand, I was able to leap forward and drive the blade into its chest, dealing it the fatal blow.
When it collapsed onto its side with a terrible, final screech, time seemed to stop for a second; a thick silence fell over the cave all of a sudden, extinguishing all sound like a blanket thrown over fire.
“Mr Wooster,” I called when I was able to move, swivelling around with great speed, just as he called “Jeeves!”
“Mr Wooster, are you harmed?”
He was white as a bone, his fair face streaked with dirt and eyes blown wide. Though I could see no spots of red in his shirt, I knew full well the extent of injuries that clothing such as his can hide from the naked eye. But to my great relief he said, “no, Jeeves,” then closing what distance remained between us, called again like a plea or a hymn, “Jeeves.”
Perhaps it was the immediacy in his voice, or else now that the beast was slain, I was able to begin to take stock of my surroundings and the fantastical battle we had just fought, that I let out an aborted “I–”. I shook my head, suddenly feeling a little dazed and aware of the unseemly rhythm of my breathing.
“Your arm,” Mr Wooster said with grave concern, “you have been hurt.”
I followed his gaze and spotted a sizable tear in the chainmail (for that, alongside a few plates of armour, was indeed what I was wearing) which gleamed a bright crimson even in the low light. As soon as I noticed it, the wound started to throb as would be expected of a gash of its size and nature. The fact still remained however that I had just slain a three-headed dragon which bore the countenance of Mr Wooster’s stern aunt thrice over.
“Sir,” I asked, already puzzling through to the undeniable answer myself, “are we dreaming?”
“Oh.” For a second, Mr Wooster looked as stunned as I felt. Then he rose and fell on his heels like a child who had spotted a particularly remarkable bird circling overhead, and replied with a wave of his hand as if he was addressing the matter of a misplaced tea cup, “yes, terribly sorry about that, old thing.”
I composed my expression, and drew myself up to my full height, exerting considerable force to regulate my breathing.
“Not to worry, sir, it is not every day one gets to slay a dragon.”
Now that I knew we had not been in any real danger—and regardless, even if it had once been real, the said danger now lay dead on the damp cave floor—there was no excuse for slovenliness. A gentleman’s gentleman is put together at all times: he does not slouch, he is not rattled or overcome; he betrays no emotion except through the subtlest inflection of his voice, rather anticipating problems before they arise and devising elegant solutions before they can irritate—or God forbid—harm his master, through a meticulous attention to detail and an unwavering commitment to duty. It is said that trees that refuse to bend will be broken in the storm; yet no truth is more self-evident to me: we each have well defined parts to play in the tapestry of life and the wellbeing of our great society rises or falls by our commitment to upholding our part with utmost diligence. It is of course precisely for this reason that Devon had been such a thorn in my side for so long and that I now find myself struggling to return the infinite and infinitely generous affection Mr Wooster bestows upon me in kind.
But I digress.
“Yes!” Mr Wooster agreed heartily, clapping his hands together as he moved away from the wall around me and towards the slain creature with easy steps. “And such a rummy one, too. Good riddance is what I say and you will not be missed.”
“Indeed, sir.”
Now once again sure of my footing, I found myself joining him to inspect our fallen foe. My armour clinked together as I walked, and to my infinite gratitude and relief, my wounded arm gave a sharp twinge just then, before I could engage with what the appearance of the said armour on my person in our present setting might signify. Despite the sudden pain, I do not believe that I allowed any cracks to show in my expression but over the years Mr Wooster has developed a rather uncanny ability to read its minutest shifts, and besides, we were currently in his dream.
Accordingly, “Jeeves,” he soon remarked again, “your arm”, gesturing towards it.
I afforded it another cursory glance.
“Only a scratch, sir, pay it no mind.”
“We bally well should, Jeeves. I will not have my knight in shining armour bleed to death because we couldn’t be bothered to tend to his injuries.”
Ah, I thought, having to confront at Mr Wooster’s utterance the very description I had taken pains to avoid dwelling on. Mr Wooster had regular nightmares featuring his aunt as a three-headed dragon and I was his knight (in shining armour).
“Sir–” I started prohibitively only for him to cut in.
“Do not sir me, I am jolly well refusing to wake up to a minstrel band playing in my head because you were too stubborn to see sense.”
Ah, I thought yet again then. Offered the choice between even severe pain and taking off my armour in front of Mr Wooster—little needs to be said about where my instincts lie, for better or for worse. However, the fact still remained that he was my gentleman, I would not be the only one afflicted with a headache come the morning should we deviate from the dream’s script, and despite an occasional scheme which may cause Mr Wooster a temporary inconvenience for his ultimate good, when all is said and done his comfort must come before mine.
“Very well, sir,” I thus replied with only a slight touch of frost, and began to look for the clasps of the plates of armour.
“You needn’t trouble yourself with that old fruit.” Mr Wooster gave a sharp smile all too common among dream-hosts, in which the mouth stretches up in the corners with considerable force even as the eyes indicate a profound desire to shrivel up into dust. “No, allow the y. m. with his deft hands to help—besides such twisting and turning on your part might jar your injury and we would not want that. I mean who would make me tea when I wake up if you were killed in action? Or press my suits or polish the silver.”
In the span of a second my heart jumped to my throat, then plummeted to my feet at his words. He meant to undress me himself. This being a recurring dream, he had been undressing me himself, with regularity.
“Very well, sir,” I said, clenching my jaw and clinging onto that thin lie we have all been forced to tell ourselves and one another time and again to save our blushes, that dreams follow no rhyme or reason and neither do they reflect in any way on their host.
He has the hands of a pianist and true to his word he undid the clasps and removed the plates that covered by chest and right shoulder with elegant ease. I flinched when he moved onto the chainmail (which, rather unusually for its kind, appeared to be held in place with buttons). I noticed him notice it, but it was a reaction entirely involuntary: while I may dress and undress him every day, the reverse felt as viscerally wrong—to use an example Mr Wooster might favour—as a superfluity of nuns giving a too lively rendition of Minnie the Moocher in a music hall. He in fact did laugh when I offered the simile to him in a conversation earlier this week.
‘My dear Jeeves,’ he had asked moments earlier, ‘I must ask—do you find it terribly unpleasant when I liberate you of your clothes at the end of the day, before we turn in for the night?’
‘No [sir, unspoken], I enjoy it considerably.’
‘Jolly good. Jolly good, I say.’ A beat, then– ‘Do you really?’
He looked unsure of his footing. It was my fault entirely and not for the first time I wondered whether he would not be better off with someone who shared the easy and abundant zest he had for life rather than my taciturn and reserved self.
‘Yes—I am only . . . less adept at expressing the said joy than yourself. And–’
I stopped myself short, opting to swallow discreetly instead. Mr Wooster would not have it.
‘And–?’ he asked not unkindly with his warm blue eyes fixed on me.
Very well, I thought, though I could not help but glance at our collective shoes as I continued.
‘And, I am afraid that a master undressing his valet still feels as out of place to me as a superfluity of nuns giving a too lively rendition of Minnie the Moocher in a music hall, no matter what the terms of their relationship may be.’
He laughed then, heartily, and I sympathised anew with the stream of young women who seem unable to stop falling in love with him. I have always hidden behind elaborate words. Instead of scorning me, he laughed heartily, and I fell in love with him anew, falling deeper and deeper with each day, each morning, each breath.
In the cave, our eyes met for the briefest second before skittering away. He liberated me of the chainmail; I appeared to be wearing a white undershirt underneath—I was relieved and disappointed in equal measure when he stopped short of attempting to remove it as well. The wound, now that I could see it in full, did appear to be serious, bleeding rather freely, but the most I could muster towards it was derision for inconveniencing both Mr Wooster and myself thus.
“Now, Jeeves, sit,” Mr Wooster said, gesturing towards the high-backed chair placed most conveniently for an injured—and rather unprincipled—valet to sit upon. With an admonishment at myself for the carelessness I displayed in getting hurt and for deviating from decorum by allowing myself to shirk my duties to sit (to be tended to by the very man I was meant to attend) no matter how forced my hand may be, I did as I was told.
I felt my heart rip alongside the fabric when Mr Wooster turned to his own shirt to fashion a bandage for the wound.
“Please, sir, do not–” I could not help the appalled outburst that spilled from my lips.
Mr Wooster only gave me a chuckle and a look of unguarded fondness, which I would come to privately revisit and treasure in the weeks that followed, in moments of weakness in which my own guard slipped against my will (such is I suppose the experience of falling in love, as limited as my personal wisdom may be in the matter), and said, “you always say that.”
I gained a hold of myself and stiffened my upper lip.
“It is only right that well-made clothes should have an advocate, sir, whether in bedroom or cavern.”
He took me by surprise (as he is wont to do). “This may hurt a little”, he said; then the makeshift bandage was being tied around my arm. The tips of his fingers brushed my bare skin; they were hot as brands. I recoiled from the touch bodily, remembering only a full second later to let out a pained hiss—inappropriate as such an exaggerated display of discomfort may be, it was less so than the notion that a master’s action in a dream he has little control over should openly disgust his valet. Disgust was of course the furthest thing from my heart; yet, faced with a hundred brands and a hundred dragons, I could not have explained that a wretch who has spent his life entire in a dark cave may recoil and clutch at his eyes when exposed to even the most golden of mornings. Neither do I believe that I fully understood the true nature of my reaction at the time myself.
He pressed his hand firmly over the bandage and I endured it with unblemished perseverance, keeping my gaze fixed on the opposing wall. The wound must have hurt, but all I knew was his hand, the pressure it applied, the warmth it spread onto my skin, the universe being born in that tiny expanse of space with all the urgency and discomfort such a cosmic labour must entail. My heart had taken flight, split into two and settled in my ears, where it was now hammering furiously. When I glanced to my side without meaning to, I saw that his cheeks were touched with colour. Our eyes met; he opened his mouth but like lightning sound only followed a moment later.
“I’m sorry old thing, that must hurt terribly.”
“Not at all, sir.” How had I managed to form a complete sentence with a mouth that was as dry as the Sahara? But I continued. “You appear to have considerable skill in wound tending.”
My answer pleased Mr Wooster and he made no effort to hide his pleasure.
“Oh, would you say so, then?”
“Yes, sir, I would go as far as to posit that you appear to be an expert in the field.” And thus we carried on, as we always have.
I was puzzled when I awoke with a hollow ache in my chest. I wondered whether the corresponding ache I felt in my head was because I had failed to fight the dragon quite as I meant to, or of course, whether it was the performance I had given afterwards that had been unsatisfactory. Mr Wooster was quick to dismiss any gentle enquiries I made as to whether I followed the dream’s script adequately, and it would be weeks before I discovered our joint headaches’ true cause. But that is a story for another time.
Notes:
It's a real shame--I fell headfirst into the show, and man, I would have loved to write a hundred fics for it. Hell, I would have loved to make this story a 10k+ fic as I had intended to. Alas, when I posted a good chunk of this onto tumblr as a teaser, it was met with nothing but absolute silence. There is little point in striving to write what is for me a fairly long and involved fic when there is evidently no demand for it - but this is nonetheless a story that inspired me so I finished this particular installment and figured I'd post while I was at it, too.
EDIT: thank you everyone for your kind words -- it seems the tumblr experience might not be representative for this fandom after all 💖
Chapter 2
Notes:
This story did not fall into a cold and uncaring void and neither will it leave my brain alone, so here we are I suppose with a multi-chapter.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The challenge that confronted Mr Wooster—and indeed nearly claimed his life—in the epidemic was that too many people dreamt of him.
He is a remarkable man who makes an impact on each life he touches. He is kind, amiable and generous as well as a self-professed “city bird”—qualities that have earned him a large circle of friends, most of whom live in London. He has also—and here I must take responsibility, for the schemes we hatched to get him out of unwanted marital engagements were usually my ideas—garnered the ire of more than a few parents of one-time fiancées.
Furthermore, the impact these factors, which ensured that Mr Wooster appeared in significantly more dreams than the average Englishman, had on his health were greatly amplified by his social class. Those who populate the bottom layers of society are by and large unconcerned with propriety or manners, and I hear, happily enact the most humiliating dream-scenarios without a modicum of shame even with those they would only consider distant acquaintances. Accordingly, throughout the epidemic, factory workers, farmhands and the like have displayed the lowest prevalence of dream-related strokes, brain bleeds and deaths among the population of our great kingdom.
Not so for the likes of us, however; parrot as we may to ourselves that dreams reveal nothing about the desires and the character of the dreamer, we all too well know this to be little more than a convenient fiction and care what others may think of us. I am ashamed to say that the first time Mr Wooster appeared in mind in Devon even I braved the headache I would cause us both and prevaricated about the certain key elements of the dream.
‘What-ho, Jeeves!’ Mr Wooster greeted on that memorable instance, looking about himself in the sun-soaked front yard of our cottage. ‘Am I in your dream, what!’
It was only years of practice that allowed me to maintain a neutral expression as I replied, ‘that indeed appears to be the case, sir.’
It should not have been possible, yet there it was. Mr Wooster’s reaction speaks to the nobleness of his character—there are not many employers who would react to the imposition of appearing in a servant’s dream without profound irritation at the very least.
Yet in quick order and with utter delight Mr Wooster turned his face to the sun and closed his eyes; he took a deep and happy breath, then turned to me with eyes I would not be out of place to describe as sparkling.
‘Topping dream old chap, I must say. The sun is shining, birds are a-twitter, the grass ruffles mellowly in the breeze. I say!’
Of course, at the time I was not at a place to ruminate on the nature of Mr Wooster’s reaction or the unlikeliness of it—so crushing the shame this dream has always caused me in my waking hours, so profound my horror at finding him there in mind. Still, impervious to my anguish, the sun brought out the pale blue of his eyes and cast his curls in a golden hue—a sight to behold for any man or woman with eyes to see.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Is that the sea I spy on the horizon?’
Interest piqued, he was moving towards the small ornamental gate that served as the border between the World on one side and the Home we had built on the other.
‘Yes, sir,’ I replied mechanically. ‘We are in Devon.’
‘Oh, jolly good! Jolly good, Jeeves.’
As he walked away from me, I wondered with impossible hope—is it possible that he hasn’t noticed? But sure enough, once the initial surprise of finding himself in the perfect summer afternoon in February had abated, he turned to me and said,
‘I say Jeeves, you are not wearing your valeting uniform.’
A remark uttered without any malice, born out of the same sincere curiosity Mr Wooster has in spades towards all things he encounters. I prevaricated.
‘Yes, sir. It appears this dream takes place on a day I am not actively working.’
‘Ah! Like an afternoon off, you mean?’
I could claim—and did think at the time—that when I replied ‘that would be one such example, sir, yes,’ that I was not lying in a strict sense of the word. However, even at the time I knew that the brain does not necessarily care for such technicalities when determining whether the course of a dream has been followed to an adequate degree.
But how could I have told him the truth? One may think that the risk of immediate dismissal with a black mark on my record would comprise the gravest reason for the lie of omission. In truth, however, it paled in comparison to what Mr Wooster would think of me after I left, for the rest of his days—the impossibility of persuading him that this perverted dream that made a mockery of all I held dear said nothing of my private thoughts or my character. In my more rational moments, I reason with myself that Mrs Gregson’s actions must have stemmed from a need not too dissimilar to my own to maintain one’s dignity, even at a cost.
Of course, that Mr Wooster is an avid dreamer and has nearly a dozen recurring dreams, often involving a large cast of characters from his social circle, could not have helped the matters in itself. (In contrast, I only have two such sets, and my father, who when I telegrammed to enquire after his health informed me that the epidemic was a ‘fool’s disease’, has none.)
Yet to my shame, I paid little mind to any one of these factors at the time, opting to witness and dismiss his suffering even as the dreams built and preyed on Mr Wooster’s brain with every passing night.
He complained of headaches. Bruises formed and deepened under his eyes. Trips to the Drones became ‘not worth the dashed trouble’ and even the piano too loud if played at length.
And, perhaps most alarmingly of it all, one morning he shuffled into the kitchen as I was about to sit down to breakfast.
‘What-ho, Jeeves!’ he greeted, though in a fashion so muted it nearly did not warrant the exclamation mark.
‘Sir!’ Mine on the other hand was completely warranted, pronounced as my shock was at finding him awake, of his own volition, at 7 a.m., not to mention in my kitchen. ‘Are you quite well?’
He waved his hand dismissively – ‘yes, yes,’ – before running it over his face with a sigh, ‘apart from the bally headache.’
‘Yes, sir, a most disturbing state of affairs,’ I was in the process of uttering, for (perhaps with the expression of the afore-mentioned menial labourers), there was hardly a soul in London not afflicted with dream-induced aches, when Bertram interrupted.
‘I say, you truly are a marvel!’
I am not remotely humble enough to be impervious to praise—especially when accompanied by a sunrise-like grin from him—and therefore I could not help but preen a little, despite lacking the first clue as to what had moved Mr Wooster to bestow it. At least not until he added, ‘how could you possibly have known that I would wake up at this ungodly hour—it is still night outside, what—this precise morning of all precise mornings?’
He was referring to the eggs and bacon I had just finished transferring to a plate. Had such a request come from any other employer I worked for, I would have baulked and seriously considered finding another position—despite my father’s thoughts on the subject, I believe I am conscientious as a valet and do not abuse my position; in return I expect any employer to treat me with respect and not to infringe on a scheduled quiet evening or meal. With Mr Wooster, however, I only smiled and said, ‘a marvel never reveals his secrets, sir,’ already beckoning him to sit.
A lesser man would have stumbled to his knees at the adoration he directed at me from behind his eyelashes that framed a pair of beautiful and still sleepy eyes.
‘Do you get headaches, Jeeves,’ he asked, as he sat down. ‘Only, I never hear you complain.’
I placed the plate in front of him.
‘One tries to keep a stiff upper lip, sir, but I have been troubled by a dream or two, myself.’
Such as during the previous night—when yet again I had found myself in a dream of Lady Blennerhassett’s, who occupied the flat below ours. I appeared in her dreams as her childhood cat, Mr Mittens, that nonetheless had the form of a man, and although she with her apologies only ever asked me to sit in the corner of her drawing room and mewl as a cat would, the consistent headaches I woke up to afterwards led me to believe that she was withholding a significant piece of further instruction indeed—not that I could very well ask. (And of course, at that time, I had not yet discovered that a guest himself can intuit a dream’s plot if he pays enough attention.)
‘Huh,’ Mr Wooster replied somewhat morosely. ‘I suppose I have not been doing much of that—keeping a stiff upper lip, I mean.’
I regretted my words. The general perception at the Junior Ganymede was that our masters were naturally delicate, and there was thus an unspoken point of pride among us regarding the quiet strength we in contrast must possess. I am reminded of the tale of Icarus.
Mr Wooster changed the subject before I had the chance to make reply, however.
‘Impressive as your psychic abilities are, old fruit, why use the old porcelain?’
He was staring at his plate in puzzlement. While I am hardly in the habit of contenting myself with porridge and scraps from the master table, I do often opt for simpler crockery, especially for breakfast, and while I replied, ‘allow me to correct the oversight, sir,’ betraying nothing, Mr Wooster nonetheless came to the realisation on his own.
‘Oh, Jeeves!’ he exclaimed in the next instant, springing to his feet as if the chair he’d been sitting on had turned into a hot stove and burnt him. ‘I have requisitioned your breakfast. The Wooster intellect leaves much to be desired on a good day but even so—how ghastly of me.’
His eyes were wide and his face drained of colour.
‘You needn’t trouble yourself, sir,’ I said, even if a swift change of course then became necessary—I could hardly complete the thought with I’d given it to you willingly. ‘As it happens,’ I thus continued, ‘I have awoken with a much reduced appetite this morning, and although I prepared a usual breakfast, I worried that I would be unable to finish it, the food then going to waste. Therefore, in essence, your appearance has been a most welcome blessing.’
‘Rot.’ Mr Wooster challenged, not moving an inch from his spot.
I held his defiant gaze.
‘I speak the truth, sir. Please return to–’
‘No, Jeeves, I will not hear it. Cease your futile attempts to rescue the injured Wooster feelings at once.’
Perhaps I did think of dragons and flaming swords then, however briefly. But it was evident that a change of tack was necessary, and execute it, I did.
‘If you return to your breakfast sir, it shall not take me more than a handful of minutes to prepare a second one—for myself—after which I could join you at the table.’
Bertram hesitated, his blue eyes still fixed on mine. I could see another objection forming on his lips, and therefore added with a fractional raise of an eyebrow, ‘unless, of course, you would find it objectionable to break bread with a servant in your own home, sir—as would be well within your rights.’
The intervention had the desired effect. ‘No, no, gosh, not at all,’ he stammered and I wasted no time in dealing the blow that would put the matter to rest.
‘Very well sir, then I shall join you presently.’
We were—for obvious reasons—not in the habit of eating together, and although I would be hard-pressed to deny that I enjoyed the occasional meal we shared whilst travelling (or whilst in New York), I expected to find the present deviation from our norm less than satisfactory. For the benefit of all involved, it is imperative that a servant refrains from engendering overfamiliarity with his master, my father—himself a butler of some renown—is fond of saying, and although we differ in our definitions of what constitutes ‘overfamiliarity’ I do find some wisdom in the sentiment.
Yet, once I sat down to eat, any such doubts I had dissolved into air in quick order. Mr Wooster, though tired and in pain, made wonderfully pleasant conversation, chattering about the dream that had given him trouble an hour previous, his friends, reminisces from his youth, both seeking and cherishing my opinion in the process, with his characteristic unassuming brightness—and in the intimacy of our small kitchen, I found myself unable not to be warmed by his company.
Once breakfast had concluded, I wondered whether to dress him for the day, and ultimately I was glad that I did not. After breakfast, he sat curled on the chesterfield with a book, however, before twenty minutes had passed, I heard him announce that he was returning to bed—from which he would not stir until the early afternoon.
We shall not repeat that, I thought to myself rather sternly as I went about my morning chores. Yet–
I suppose the point of this journalling exercise is precisely to admit certain uncomfortable truths, if only to myself, such that we are not burdened by them as we sail into our new life. Therefore, I must write that I was—in my heart of hearts—nonetheless pleased when Bertram shuffled into the kitchen early in the morning again (a week after the first breakfast, if memory serves?) and again.
In retrospect I in fact wonder whether how much I came to enjoy our early morning breakfasts was not a reason, and a hideously self-centred one at that, for why I failed to recognise the extent of Mr Wooster’s suffering before it was almost too late.
But in those early mornings we talked. I wondered whether I could get away with stealing some of Bertram’s bacon and found that I could. It was a heady feeling—to eat together ensconced in the narrow confines of our kitchen with not even dawn daring to intrude on us as our neighbours slumbered on.
It could be noted that we tried to ‘escape’ to Brinkley Court, as it soon became widely known that the physical proximity of subjects influenced how likely they were to appear in one another’s dreams, but at the time nearly everyone at the very least entertained a vague plan of leaving the city, given the impact of the density of its population on its inhabitants’ sleeping worlds, the trip was an abject failure, given that a great majority of Mrs Travers’ relations and friends had the same thought and having more than twenty people who knew each other well under the same roof had the opposite of the desired effect on the number and severity of dreams, and finally, the idea was Mr Wooster’s, not mine.
I was likewise lulled into a false sense of security as reports of adverse events from dreams not adequately followed seemed to come only from those who were advanced in years or otherwise in poor health, when Mr Wooster was anything but.
No. I will not succumb to the temptation to make excuses for myself or my hubris. If Bertram and I are to build a life together–
Perhaps a break is in order before I continue recounting this tale.
*
It is now 11 p.m. Bertram is asleep, and I neither like letting him do so alone nor possess the strength to put any more of the events from the past weeks onto paper tonight. I will however briefly note the following before I turn in myself:
When he returned from his walk, he found me staring glumly into the fire—so lost in thought was I that I did not hear him come in. His brows knitting together, he asked what was wrong—a conclusion that must have been obvious from my expression alone—and when, I not quite able bring myself to tell him the complete truth nor wishing to lie said ‘forgive me, sir, I was lost in certain unhappy memories,’ Bertram sat on my lap, hooking his arm around my shoulder. (He takes inspiration from Devon, I’ve noticed, and well, yes, I am glad.)
‘Reginald, my dearest,’ he said, his blue eyes locked with mine, as warm and unguarded as always, if betraying a hint of impatience, ‘unless you were plotting to burn the cottage down with me in it come the morning, there is not a single thing which I can forgive you for.’ He paused briefly to narrow an eye and wet his lips—an unconscious gesture I am enamoured by—then added, ‘Er, not because you have done something bally unforgivable, mind, but in fact the opposite?’
It is a quality that sets Mr Wooster apart from his peers—including myself. Despite the guilt I feel, which like a barely scabbed over wound bleeds at the lightest touch, and the general sense of doom that will descend upon me with little warning these days, in that moment all I felt was gratitude, and an immense love. We kissed—he kissed me, slowly and with single-minded intent, like one who would not know peace unless he succeeded in dragging my mind out of the cold and dark confines it had wandered into. Later, when we were sated and I was indeed basking in the warm glow of his being, my burdens eased, he sat at the piano and serenaded me with a popular love song that—to be frank—makes me weak at the knees to hear from him.
Into my heart, querida, you came unknowing, the lyrics go.
Perhaps all that needs to be said further about those weeks before Mr Wooster’s fateful dream is that one afternoon, I’d returned from a bit of grocery shopping to find him at the piano, playing this very song. I’d heard him play it before, alongside other popular tunes I later discovered were love songs as well, but he’d only ever hummed the lyrics then, claiming not to remember what they were.
Not that day, when he had not heard me come in.
Into my heart, querida
You came unknowing
Into my heart, querida
With love light glowing
Close to my breast forever, I long to hold you
Your tender eyes remind me of stars above
Into my heart, querida
You came to me with love!
So he sang with what I—with no disrespect to my beloved—still refuse to shorten to ‘tender pash’. He did sound like a man who was irrevocably in love, however, and all the happier for it. I remember standing at the door, unable to move and feeling my heart squeeze in my chest, like it meant to fold itself away into nothing, if only so it would know peace.
Notes:
This is the sappy song Bertie sings at the end.