Another slightly larger something
Title: Jeeves makes a mistake
Author: Cuvalwen
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: Wodehouse created them, and for that I thank him.
Length: ~6400 words
Summary: The title says it all, really. A mistake is made, and the consequences are faced.
Warning: Things do not look good for young master Bertram at one point.
Notes: I wrote this fic, The Marrying Kind some time ago, and always planned to do a sequel.
This isn't it.
This is an alternate ending to that one, so at the risk of being dreadfully vulgar and pimping my own fic out, it might be as well if people read that one first. But I don't believe that it's vital to have read 'The Marrying Kind' first, so it's up to you!
Many thanks to m31andy for betaing this one as well, and for putting up with me pulling this one out of the files occasionally, casting an eye over it then putting it away again for several months when she wanted to know how it finished!
So without further ado,
Jeeves makes a mistake
A luncheon engagement between my employer and his aunt Mrs Gregson will never, in my experience, result in a truly felicitous outcome. That day’s occasion, I fear, was no exception. As I had anticipated, Mr Wooster had called in at his club after the lunch and was now slightly inebriated- a perfectly natural response, I thought, to the stresses of making conversation with a relative who holds a more-than-usually low regard for Mr Wooster’s capabilities.
He informed me that he wished to speak to me regarding a matter that had arisen at lunch.
I anticipated another attempt by Mrs Gregson to introduce Mr Wooster to the institution of holy matrimony. I did not anticipate his words.
“I… um… seem to have fallen for you. Hook, line and sinker, as they say.”
I was still. I could not move. I have to admit, despite Mr Wooster’s claims on my behalf of omniscience; I had not had any idea that this was the situation.
A thud shook me out of my stupor, and I turned to see him striking the wall with no little force- in anger, I suspected, at himself, for having revealed his feelings to me so baldly. There was only one thing to do. I cleared my throat, and began.
“Sir, may I say firstly that I am… gratified… that you have done me the courtesy of explaining yourself so clearly and directly, however-“
“However, you do not feel the same way.”
“…. That is, indeed, the situation, Sir.”
Mr Wooster closed his eyes, leant back against the wall. Disappointment and sorrow fought to show on a face that had become almost as blank as a mask. He swallowed hard, then spoke.
“Are you… angry?”
“No Sir. I am, in fact, sensible of the honour you do me, and somewhat regret my inability to reciprocate your feelings; the fact is, however…”
“That you don’t. Or can’t. Which one….?”
“Cannot. Sir.”
He nodded.
“I suppose, then, that you will be leaving.”
“I fear that that would be advisable, Sir. Do you wish me to serve out my notice?”
“Whatever…. Whatever would be best for you, old man. If you feel that you can’t stay, we’ll do the whole ‘in lieu of notice’ thing….”
“I would be prepared to remain for the duration of the notice period, Sir, if it would not disturb you.”
“Never mind me, Jeeves, I’m not the one put in a dashed awkward posish.”
“Furthermore, Sir, I fear that unfortunate deductions may be drawn if I were to leave your employment immediately after your lunch with Mrs Gregson. Might I assume that such deductions are, in fact, already being drawn?”
Mr Wooster’s eyes flew open, and he stared at me in amazement
“By golly, Jeeves, a few hundred years ago you’d have been burned as a witch if anyone had heard that! How did you work that one out?”
“I have observed that Mrs Gregson’s sole motive in requiring your company for lunch is to connect you with some daughter of the gentry, with a view towards matrimony. For a decade, however, her plans have failed to reach fruition. There cannot be a single girl remaining of a suitable class who has not been mooted as a possible bride for yourself, thanks to her efforts, and I fear that this fact has not been overlooked by others in her social circle. I suspect that her pleas towards marriage for you are now inclining towards the necessity of marriage, rather than its advisability.”
“She told me that people are starting to say that I am ‘not the marrying kind’. Jolly perspicacious- is that the word?”
“Indeed it is, Sir”
“Perspicacious of them. Rather wish they could have dropped me the wink sooner, though.”
“Might I suggest, sir, that, given the current legal standing of such a situation, a lack of knowledge of this matter would be advisable? If I were to leave your household too precipitously, some might connect these events, leaving you in a distinctly awkward position.”
“Good old Jeeves. Even after making a pass at you, and a complete chump of myself in the process, you’re still looking out for me. What do you suggest, then?”
“I require an unexceptional and unremarkable reason to leave your employ.”
Here Mr Wooster winced slightly, which I pretended not to notice.
“If I were to seek alternative employment in the countryside, then any who expressed curiosity could be informed that I was suffering from some illness of the chest, and that London air was not advisable.”
“And of course, I’m such a self-centred ass that I don’t particularly want to leave London. Brilliant, Jeeves- no-one would ever think that I was forming an attachment to you if I’m not prepared to leave London for a spell.”
“Indeed, Sir.”
The next two weeks were awkward and unpleasant. It is a testament to Mr Wooster’s gentlemanly nature that they were not more awkward and unpleasant. He refrained from any reference to the conversation in the kitchen, from an act or word that would have served to remind us of the reason for my incipient departure. I found myself missing the camaraderie of previous evenings, but for obvious reasons that level of slight intimacy could not be continued. Instead, he would leave the flat for most of the day and evening, retiring directly to bed upon his return. This lessened the chances of uncomfortable encounters; still, I found myself missing his company. He is, as you know, quite an accomplished pianist, and had been taking steps to improve his mind. In retrospect, it is possible that he misinterpreted my suggestions with regard to reading matter as subtle overtures of interest.
I quickly secured for myself employment with Sir William Burrows, who resided in Oxfordshire. Unexceptional in terms of dress, he was however in other ways something of an eccentric. This first became apparent when I arrived at his residence. Wealth and a romantic fascination for the Middle Ages had manifested in the construction of a castle, which owed rather more to a child’s fairy tale illustration than to accurate historical detail. Whilst the exterior was solid stone, with rather more gargoyles than were strictly required, the interior was mostly wood, for reasons of weight. A lighter internal structure enabled the castle to be built rather higher than authenticity would suggest- five floors, all told.
Inside, the medieval décor was continued- vast tapestries and candles in sconces were hanging on the walls. Fortunately, Sir William’s eccentricity was not all consuming, and the candles were only lit for special occasions. The castle was fitted with
electricity for daily use.
I would hesitate to say that there was any gentleman who did not require a valet to assist him in matters of dress, but, in truth, my duties in Sir William's employ were light. With a full staff to clean his clothes and shoes and to cook, most of my usual tasks were accounted for. As a consequence I found myself with rather a lot of free time on my hands. Fortunately, Sir William kept a well-stocked library, to which I was granted full access.
“Never been much of a one for books myself” my new employer had informed me. “But I like the look of ‘em, and what self respecting country seat don’t have a library, eh?”
And so, I settled in to a new pattern of existence. At first I welcomed the stillness and calm of my new employ, telling myself that the incessant dramas of Mr Wooster’s life were little more than childish games. But this stillness led to a habit I had long thought abandoned- that of introspection. I had always believed that a tendency towards introspection was the hallmark of an egotistical mind, and hardly suitable for one in my walk of life, and attempted to bury myself in the books. I wished to fill my mind with so many external ideas that there would be no room for internal thoughts.
Yet as the weeks turned into months I found myself drifting more and more into strange reveries, gazing out at the park as the advancing autumn stripped the trees of their colour and cloaked the land in mist and fog. These still, grey days seemed to match my new moods too well as I saw the shrivelled leaves fall and be crushed underfoot. “So falls and is destroyed my heart” I found myself thinking, without knowing why or from whence the thought came. I chided myself internally for such causeless self-pity, and betook myself to find some task to occupy my mind.
I believe it was the unaccustomed silence that disturbed me so much. The Piccadilly flat was rarely so silent. Except, of course, in those last two weeks…
I had rather grown to enjoy Mr Wooster’s playing- show tunes are not normally to my taste, but there was something about the blend of care and enjoyment that he brought to his playing that raised them above the mundane. Many people are required to learn to play the piano as children, and a few maintain the skill as a party piece, but Mr Wooster continued playing for the love of it. He sang and played, not because he had to, or to raise his social standing as a party man, but because he enjoyed it. And it was almost as if the challenge of learning a new piece surpassed the pleasure of having mastered it. At the piano, with a new score in front of him, he is in a world apart and all his being is concentrated upon his task.
I had not truly realised how much I was growing to miss the piano playing until one day I heard some familiar notes drifting into the library, where I was engaged in reading Plutarch.
I rose, and followed the sound to the large drawing room, where I discovered my employer standing over a clearly new gramophone.
“Ah, Jeeves, just the man” he boomed. “What do you think of this, eh? Just delivered this morning. Thought it was getting a bit quiet round here.”
I nodded. I couldn’t speak. The song was one that I’d heard Mr Wooster sing often,
‘You’re the cream in my coffee’, I believed, was the title. I could hear clearly Mr Wooster’s intonation, especially on the last two lines, “You will always be my necessity, I’d be lost without you’. He would grin and me, and I would bow back- a slight incline of the head. I was thanking him for acknowledging my role. I do not believe that he had meant it in any other way. But I could see him now, hear him, clearly… This recording sounded nothing like him. It sounded wrong.
“I say, Jeeves, are you quite all right?” Sir William was looking at me with some concern. I will say this, that he was by no means a thoughtless or inconsiderate employer.
“I- I apologise, Sir. I fear that I am developing something of a headache.”
“It’s those books, you know. Good in small doses, I don’t doubt, but not in large quantities. While you’re here, something to tell you. I’m planning on moving. Emigrating, rather. To America. Rather had it with the castle, fancy living in a skyscraper. What do you think of that, eh?”
This was a further shock.
“Very good, Sir. Will you be wishing for me to accompany you?”
“Well, that’s the thing. I know you’ve got family here, don’t really want to drag you away from them if you don’t want to. Don’t really need a valet anyway, got enough people to see to me anyway. But there you go, let me know. Won’t be until the new year anyway- one last Christmas here. Going to make it a good one, what?”
“…Very good, Sir…”
He peered closely at me.
“I say, you do look rum. Fresh air, that’s the ticket. Go for a walk. Much better than sitting inside in that library. Off you go!”
I bowed and complied.
Autumn had now given way to winter and my breath hung before my face like smoke as I walked through the park. The empty trees stood stark against the sky like skeletal hands. I might have been the only living being for miles around.
I reached the top of a small hill and stood there for a while, pondering the events in the drawing room. The music, and the proposed move to America… While it was true that I had family here in England they could not truly be said to need me. And I rather enjoyed my previous visits to the States… of course, that was with…
It was not as if Sir William required my services either, of course. I rather prefer to be somewhere I’m needed. To be honest, it suits my vanity. And I knew where I was needed. With the one who sang that I was the starch in his collar and the lace in his shoe.
“I rather fear,” I breathed aloud to myself “that I may have made a mistake…”
Preparations for the Christmas House Party, that was to last from the 21st to the 3rd, we now well under way. Yet still I had few duties with which to occupy my mind, and my attention would inexorably return to my realisation out in the park. I was aware that my place was with Mr Wooster, but in what capacity? I was not… unsympathetic towards those with Grecian urges, but had never numbered myself among them. I certainly enjoyed Mr Wooster’s company and regretted its loss, but was equally aware that what he required; what he desired, was almost certainly beyond my capacity. And I believed that it would be unfair of me to offer only my presence when his wishes were for more. Better, by far, that I left this country and removed myself from his consciousness. Yet there still remained one last glimmer of doubt that prevented me from going to Sir William and confirming my intent to travel with him to America.
I was very glad when the guests started to arrive and my duties increased; instructing each valet as to the routine of the household in order that their gentleman’s routine should not be disturbed, and assisting with buttling. Moreover, the décor of Christmas created an atmosphere to lighten almost any heart. The candles in their sconces were lit, the warm colours of the tapestries glowed with life. A giant tree in the great hall infused the air with the scent of pine, and holly branches festooned the walls. Even below stairs was included, and the many sprigs of mistletoe that were hung over every door was the cause of much good natured laughter and shrieks on the part of the younger maids and footmen, until they were brought to heel by the frowns of Parsons, the butler.
So it was that, one afternoon, my thoughts were firmly focused on my duties- Lady Featherleigh’s terrier had absconded from its place by her side and was believed to be in pursuit of Lady Worthington’s Siamese. As I passed by the music room, however, I heard the piano being played. Not a fluent performance, clearly the musician was very new to the piece, but there was something about it that made me pause. After a few moments I identified the piece as Faure’s ‘Elegie’; a duet with cello, but this was not the reason for my fascination. Then it struck me- it was not that the piece was familiar, but the playing style! I steeled myself, and gently pushed open the door. As I had anticipated, sat at the piano was my erstwhile employer. Why, then, if I was expecting this, did the sight of him take me almost by surprise? Everything was so familiar; the long slender back curved forward in intense concentration, the delicate fingers moving with a dexterity that even unfamiliarity with the music could not reduce, the slight frown and tightening of the lips as he studied the notes on the page and drew them out into life. Everything that I remembered from happier days in his flat- so why did this vision strike me with such force?
So unexpected was this that I could not completely stifle a gasp. Mr Wooster, snapping out of his own world of music looked up almost in alarm, then saw me and smiled.
Then the smile faltered and faded.
I recovered myself, bowed slightly, and said
“I’m very sorry to have disturbed you, sir. If you will excuse me…” and turned to leave.
“No, dash it, wait!” he called after me, and I turned back to see him leap up from the piano seat, almost stumbling over it in his haste.
“Sir?”
“You- ah, you don’t have to leave- unless you do?”
“I am not upon an urgent errand, no, Sir.” Something of a lie. There was still much to be done.
“Ah! Jolly good.” He stood there, gazing at me with eager but uncertain eyes.
“So,” he tried again “How are things with you?” Then remembering that I would have some difficulty in framing a suitable response to some of his more… colloquial constructions, he clarified “Are you well?”
“Very well, thank you, Sir. And yourself?”
He waved a hand as if to brush away the question.
“Oh, yes, yes, I’m fine.”
I nodded, but truth to tell he did not look- entirely himself. Not ill, but maybe… tired. A hint of dark circles under his eyes, a slight downwards turn of his normally mobile and expressive mouth… he had also lost weight. I cleared my throat.
“Might I ask if your new valet is proving satisfactory?” I could already tell that the new man was not satisfactory. Mr Wooster’s tie was incorrect for his shirt and was still wearing a town jacket.
“Hickson? Oh, yes, he’s… perfectly… acceptable. But not… not a patch on you, though…” His voice trailed off, and then he looked up into my eyes and whispered “I miss you, Jeeves.”
That much was readily apparent. I opened my mouth to try and reply, but my throat seemed paralysed- which may have been as well, for I realised that I had no idea as to what I was to say. I swallowed hard and was about to try again when Mr Wooster blinked, rubbed his hand over his face and cut me off.
“I’m sorry, old man, I shouldn’t have said that… I know it’s going to be dashed awkward me being here and I shouldn’t have come- I’d just heard that Sir William was planning on upping sticks over the pond, you see and- and I just wanted to see you again, if it was for the last time… I’m sorry. Really. I’ll leave- tomorrow. And I’ll keep out of your way.”
He turned and fairly fled through the side door that connected the music room with the library- from whence he must have taken the musical score. I slowly crossed to the piano and stood looking at the sheet for a few moments, then picked it up and closed it. At last I found my voice.
“Sir,” I murmured into the stillness “I miss you, too.”
Once again true to his word, Mr Wooster was not at dinner that evening but instead sent a message to the effect that he had developed a bad headache, and requested some light refreshment in his room, prior to an early night.
A maid was despatched with the tray.
I assisted at table.
The ladies had retired to the drawing room and I was refilling the port glasses prior to leaving the gentlemen to their discussions when Parsons entered, his usual aplomb showing signs of disturbance. He crossed to his employer and spoke low into Sir William’s ear.
“Is it, by Jove!” he exclaimed in response.
“What is it, old man?” Lord Silverborough asked.
“There’s a fire up on the fourth floor! Must have been that dashed dog and cat rushing around like fools- candle knocked over, caught a tapestry and the woodwork’s burning. Well, a boy’s been sent to summon the fire brigade, and it appears that we had best get ourselves out! We’ll tell the ladies. Eh, what was that?” This last was to Parsons, who repeated, rather louder, that the whole fourth floor corridor was ablaze and showing signs of spreading.
“Well, no-one’s up there, we’re all down here for dinner- Oh, of course, young Wooster- ah, has he been told?”
I realised, with cold clarity, that if Mr Wooster had not been told of the fire, it would now be redundant to do so, and suicidal to make the attempt. The first and second floors, with their larger rooms, had been given over to married couples. Single ladies and their maids were accommodated on the third floor- single gentlemen and their manservants had been assigned the fourth floor. If the whole level- with its wooden floors and walls- were ablaze, and he had not realised the danger in time- his means of escape via the single grand staircase would be entirely cut off.
As the guests flooded out onto the lawn I hunted around, anxiously searching for Mr Wooster but without any result until I heard a cry, and turned to see a guest pointing upwards. I followed the line of his outstretched arm and my heart seemed to stop as I saw Mr Wooster’s unmistakable form silhouetted against the light from his room- a rapidly dimming light as clouds of smoke also poured out of the window. He seemed to be shouting down, but no one could make out his words. Then he disappeared for a few moments, only to return dragging something large and heavy which he managed to push through the window to fall below. It was the mattress from his bed, which was followed in short order by the sheets and pillows. I realised what he intended and called for people to grab things- any things, that could help cushion a fall. Then I heard a crash, and looked up again to see, to my horror, that the ceiling of the room must have fallen in. Flames danced out of the open window like mocking imps, and of Mr Wooster there was no sign.
He was dead. I was certain of it. It was impossible that any living being could continue to exist in that furnace. I closed my eyes and prayed to the heavens that at least it had been quick.
And with that certainly came another certainty, as cold and hard as a diamond; not only that I had made a mistake, but of the nature of the mistake.
I should have tried.
I could have tried.
I could indeed have been for him what he wanted.
Because I loved him as he loved me.
But instead surprise, and fear, and my own mental inflexibility had brought us here, to his death and my epiphany- too late, now, to even let him know.
And then something happened which will support my belief in a benevolent providence until the day I die- he rose from beneath the line of the windowsill, holding a tightly wrapped bundle in his arms. He had not turned back into the room, and so was not below the falling ceiling.
Tucking the bundle under one arm, he turned and started to carefully climb out of the window, feeling his way down with bare feet (for he was dressed for bed) and using the half-occupied arm to support himself when he changed grips with the free one. The superfluous gargoyles and the other bits of decoration that adorned the stone walls made the descent somewhat more challenging than a ladder, but not as difficult as it might have been. However, all through that long, slow climb down I do not believe that I drew breath once.
He had just reached the first floor when, strangely, the bundle under his arm started wriggling.
“Hi! Stop that!” I heard him exclaim, startled; but the bundle ignored him and continued writhing until a small, furry canine head poked out from the fabric, shook its ears, and then with a last mighty spasm wrenched itself free and leapt, rather heavily, to the blanket-strewn ground, from whence it trotted off in search of its mistress.
This action, however, disturbed Mr Wooster’s balance, causing him to loose his grip on the wall. He fell the last of the distance, some 10 feet, onto the same blankets.
I dashed forwards, almost past caring as to whether or not my action would be read as merely the natural response of a servant to a guest’s need. He had fallen hard, but seemed to be little more than winded. Still, though, I had to know for myself that he was unharmed. And I so very desperately wanted him to know that I needed to know…
So many words, but I could not find a single one to suit my needs.
Mr Wooster shook his head, and blinked.
“Whew! Rather a rum go there, eh?” He looked around, and seemed to notice my presence at his side for the first time. He stared at me- what he saw in my face I could not say, but he seemed to see something as he frowned slightly and seemed to be about to speak-
“My boy, my boy, that was remarkable. Quite, quite remarkable. What a climb! One handed! Parsons, get Mr Wooster a brandy. If I hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t have believed it. Saving the dog! Wonderful, wonderful.”
Sir William had appeared at my elbow. It appeared that all the guests were astounded by Mr Wooster’s feat- even more so since he had succeeded in rescuing a dog, as well.
“Oh, well, you know, after Magdalen College’s boundary wall that was a bit of a walk in the park, don’t you know..”
“Ha! Yes, I used to scale that thing, every night, avoiding the porters- Marvellous, marvellous. Grand times, grand!”
Sir William might have continued in this vein for some time had not Mr Wooster, having been helped to his feet by this point, suddenly swayed, staggered, and would clearly have fallen if I had not been there to catch his elbow.
“But why am I keeping you talking like this!” Sir William demanded rhetorically. “You need to see the doctor. Samuels!” he called over his shoulder to one of the dinner guests “would you mind awfully having a quick look over Wooster here?”
The aforementioned doctor examined Mr Wooster’s eyes and throat, interrogated him regarding any possible blows to the head and listened carefully to his chest, before declaring that the patient had suffered no harm from his adventure that sleep and food could not remedy. I requested leave to drive Mr Wooster down to the village and establish him in the old coaching inn for the night. This was readily agreed to, with an added proviso that I was not to leave Mr Wooster unattended, in case of unforeseen complications.
The brief drive afforded no opportunity for me to attempt to discuss the matters that were now pressing on my mind, and no little time was spent in the procurement of hot water, food and drink for Mr Wooster. A boy was dispatched to the Manor to obtain some clothing for the morning- Mr Wooster’s clothes were doubtlessly destroyed in the blaze but Hickson should, at the very least, be able to arrange a loan of some basic items. The innkeeper was placed under strict instructions not to try to bring them up but to keep them until I came for them in the morning- Mr Wooster required uninterrupted sleep, I impressed upon him, and followed this through with a sizable pecuniary incentive to avoid disturbing us- that is to say, him.
Finally the maid left with the empty plates, I shut and bolted the door, and turned to face Mr Wooster. At last, we were alone and I could speak. However, it was Mr Wooster who spoke first.
“Jeeves- you don’t have to stay here, if you’d rather not. I’ll be fine alone, really.”
“I would be very happy to remain, Sir.”
“But if you’d prefer- don’t what to put you in an awkward posish again-“
“I would prefer to stay.”
Mr Wooster blinked, taken aback, and I pressed on.
“I would also like to take the opportunity to… to inform you that… that I…”
What I wanted to say was how devastated I had been when I believed him dead. I wanted to tell him that I wanted to apologise- that I was sorry. I wanted to tell him that I had made a mistake; that I should never have left him and that I never would again. But once again I could not find the words. All my reading, all my command of language, and I couldn’t express that most basic of emotions.
So instead I seized him by the shoulders, pulled him towards me, and kissed him.
For a moment he was frozen with surprise, then relaxed as his head tilted and his mouth opened beneath mine. His arms snaked around my neck as mine wrapped around his back, pulling him closer to me, holding him tight. Uncertain, my lips parted as his tongue caressed them and then dove in to meet mine. He pressed even closer to me, hands ruffling my hair as my hands in their turn caressed the warm flesh beneath the thin cotton.
We broke at last and stared at each other, breathing heavily. He was flushed, his eyes a darker blue than I had ever seen them.
He raised a hand to his mouth, brushing his lips unconsciously, and spoke:
“Are you sure?”
I nodded.
“As soon as I thought you were dead, I was sure.”
Mr Wooster blinked, then shook his head slightly.
“Look, I know that you’re rather fond of me- I wouldn’t have risked saying what I did if you weren’t, but are you sure that it’s, well, love? That sort of love?”
“The love that dare not speak its name, Sir?”
“Actually, I’d be rather obliged if it could see its way to speaking its name, as I’m blowed if I know what to call it. But whatever it is, can you do that? Because if you try, and you can’t, then… I don’t want you to be unhappy.”
“As would you be, Sir.”
“I don’t care about that. It’s you that I’m…” He broke off, turned away, ran his hands through his hair in distraction. Then turned back.
“Look, Jeeves, I have an idea. A plan. Let me know what you think?”
“Of course, Sir.”
“And please knock off the ‘Sirs’; in the circs I’m not sure that they’re needed. It’s the matter of, um, physical intimacy that’s the sticking point, isn’t it? I mean, you had already dedicated yourself to my side.”
I thought back to the occasion upon which I had removed the pages that dealt with Mr Wooster’s exploits from the Junior Ganymede club book, and my words to him afterwards, and nodded.
“So, we should… try… intimacy.”
Truth to tell, I had suspected that suggestion, and glanced instinctively towards the bed, but Mr Wooster shook his head.
“That might be a bridge too far for this. Too much. And, um, maybe a bit complicated. But- Jeeves, you do trust me, don’t you?”
Again I nodded.
“Then, will you trust me now? And if this doesn’t work, if you can’t… then, we’ll part, you go to America- or I will, I don’t care, and you’ll never have to see me again.”
I swallowed. Mr Wooster’s analysis was unnervingly accurate.
“Very good, S- very good.”
He indicated the large wing chair in the corner of the room.
“Sit down.”
I did so, and Mr Wooster knelt before me. He rested his hands upon my legs, and I tensed slightly at the contact. He frowned slightly in concern and, staring up at me, spoke.
“While this is happening, Jeeves, I want you to look at me. Don’t close your eyes, don’t pretend that it’s anything or anyone else. Look at me, know that it’s me doing this. Do you understand?”
I still was not entirely sure as to what he intended, but I understood his instructions clearly, and indicated as much. He smiled slightly, nervously, and moved his hands up to the waistband of my trousers. As he undid the buttons, I suddenly understood his intent clearly. With some surprise, I realised that I liked the idea. I could feel myself growing harder as Mr Wooster now released the buttons on my shorts, freeing the now erect length. He looked up again, still smiling yet more relaxed;
“That’s a good sign, eh?” He then reached out and held me in his hand, and squeezed gently. I gasped, shutting my eyes, then remember Mr Wooster’s instructions and opened them again, and meet his gaze. I was still growing harder.
Without breaking eye contact, he lowered his head slightly and parted his lips; his tongue lapped gently at the underside of the tip. I jerked as if shocked by electricity and gasped again, my hands gripping the arms of the chair. He sighed in relief and bent his head lower; his mouth opened wider and enveloped me, the full length, until I could feel the head against the back of his throat. Even without Mr Wooster’s eyes holding mine I now couldn’t look away and I gazed, rapt, at the vision of him, his light hair, in my lap, his hands on my thighs. He raised up slightly, the lips caressing the length as they withdrew up to the head, then plunged back down again. And again. And again. I shuddered, my hips bucked up involuntarily to meet his warm mouth and he moved his hands to grip them to hold me steady. His tongue licked around the shaft, caressed the underside, lapped at the head, now gently, now hard, as I gasped and moaned with desperation
All these sensations mixed, melted, melded into one, crowned with the certainty and joy of knowing who it was who worshiped me so with lips and tongue, with mouth and breath, Mr Wooster, my employer, my master, my-
“Bertie!” I cried out, shuddering with the force of climax; it felt as if every part of me was exploding in ecstasy as he gripped my hips even harder, pulling me still closer to him as he hungrily devoured all I had to offer. Slowly the shudders subsided, my hands unclenched. I could see again, and I looked down at him gazing up at me, with hope and love shining out of his eyes.
Suddenly I could no longer bear that there should be any physical distance between us. I slid from the chair to my knees, clasping Bertie to me, pulling him close in the tightest embrace I had ever given.
Until what I can only describe as a muffled squawk reminded me that Mr Wooster was not, maybe, at quite his full strength as yet.
I released him, sheepishly, embarrassed at having forgotten myself so violently, and was relieved to see Bertie grinning back at me. His hair was really quite delightfully tousled. There was, of course, no question of him being seen by anyone else in that state, but I rather enjoyed the private showing, and told him so.
His grin only widened and he kissed me again.
As his body pressed against mine I realised that the enjoyment of a few moments ago was not one-sided, but that his had not reached a conclusion.
I slid my hand down his side to the waistband of his pyjamas and gently released the cord. Reaching between the fabric and the flesh I found him waiting for my hand. As my fingers wrapped around his length he gasped slightly, then moaned against my lips as I started to move, caressing him.
I started slowly, watching his face. His eyes were shut, his lips parted, and he drew in deep, shuddering breaths. As his head fell back slightly, I could see that his face was now flushed, and I fancied I could feel heat pouring off him. His features were relaxed, with such an air of openness and, indeed, innocence, that my own breath caught in my throat as I gazed at him. I had never seen anything quite so beautiful.
But I somehow knew that there was still more to see, to experience. I moved my hand faster and faster, speeding up the rhythm to match the pounding of the blood in my ears; which itself sped up in response.
My young master’s breathing also changed and responded- now faster and shallower gasps and under my other hand, which now supported the back of his neck, I felt his pulse race and throb. Blood and breath both set the beat for my work.
His hands now gripped desperately at my shoulders to steady himself, and his eyes were tight closed.
“Look at me!” I murmured into his ear, and his eyes flew open. His gaze locked with
mine, a gaze full of joy and wonder beyond reason or words. But I had words, words for him that I could not have stopped myself from saying if my life had depended on it.
“I love you.” I whispered gently, and saw his mouth, through the ecstatic gasps, turn up into the beginnings of a smile when the tremours of climax shook through him.
His whole body jerked against me, and from his throat came desperate little cries that could have been either pleasure or pain, unless one could see the sublime joy on his face. He pulled me even closer, wrapped his arms around me and buried his face in my neck to stifle the sound of his passion. Gradually the tremours slowed, stilled, and he relaxed again, still holding me as close as before. Now I could embrace him again with both arms and I did so, holding him and supporting him. We stayed like that for no small while, simply revelling in the presence of the other, while our breathing steadied and returned to something closer to normal. Finally he laughed shakily and pulled away just enough to look up at me again.
“I say, I rather think we can call that little experiment a success, eh?”
I attempted to keep my accustomed impassive demeanour, but could feel despite myself my face breaking into a broad grin as I replied
“Absolutely, Sir.”
Author: Cuvalwen
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: Wodehouse created them, and for that I thank him.
Length: ~6400 words
Summary: The title says it all, really. A mistake is made, and the consequences are faced.
Warning: Things do not look good for young master Bertram at one point.
Notes: I wrote this fic, The Marrying Kind some time ago, and always planned to do a sequel.
This isn't it.
This is an alternate ending to that one, so at the risk of being dreadfully vulgar and pimping my own fic out, it might be as well if people read that one first. But I don't believe that it's vital to have read 'The Marrying Kind' first, so it's up to you!
Many thanks to m31andy for betaing this one as well, and for putting up with me pulling this one out of the files occasionally, casting an eye over it then putting it away again for several months when she wanted to know how it finished!
So without further ado,
Jeeves makes a mistake
A luncheon engagement between my employer and his aunt Mrs Gregson will never, in my experience, result in a truly felicitous outcome. That day’s occasion, I fear, was no exception. As I had anticipated, Mr Wooster had called in at his club after the lunch and was now slightly inebriated- a perfectly natural response, I thought, to the stresses of making conversation with a relative who holds a more-than-usually low regard for Mr Wooster’s capabilities.
He informed me that he wished to speak to me regarding a matter that had arisen at lunch.
I anticipated another attempt by Mrs Gregson to introduce Mr Wooster to the institution of holy matrimony. I did not anticipate his words.
“I… um… seem to have fallen for you. Hook, line and sinker, as they say.”
I was still. I could not move. I have to admit, despite Mr Wooster’s claims on my behalf of omniscience; I had not had any idea that this was the situation.
A thud shook me out of my stupor, and I turned to see him striking the wall with no little force- in anger, I suspected, at himself, for having revealed his feelings to me so baldly. There was only one thing to do. I cleared my throat, and began.
“Sir, may I say firstly that I am… gratified… that you have done me the courtesy of explaining yourself so clearly and directly, however-“
“However, you do not feel the same way.”
“…. That is, indeed, the situation, Sir.”
Mr Wooster closed his eyes, leant back against the wall. Disappointment and sorrow fought to show on a face that had become almost as blank as a mask. He swallowed hard, then spoke.
“Are you… angry?”
“No Sir. I am, in fact, sensible of the honour you do me, and somewhat regret my inability to reciprocate your feelings; the fact is, however…”
“That you don’t. Or can’t. Which one….?”
“Cannot. Sir.”
He nodded.
“I suppose, then, that you will be leaving.”
“I fear that that would be advisable, Sir. Do you wish me to serve out my notice?”
“Whatever…. Whatever would be best for you, old man. If you feel that you can’t stay, we’ll do the whole ‘in lieu of notice’ thing….”
“I would be prepared to remain for the duration of the notice period, Sir, if it would not disturb you.”
“Never mind me, Jeeves, I’m not the one put in a dashed awkward posish.”
“Furthermore, Sir, I fear that unfortunate deductions may be drawn if I were to leave your employment immediately after your lunch with Mrs Gregson. Might I assume that such deductions are, in fact, already being drawn?”
Mr Wooster’s eyes flew open, and he stared at me in amazement
“By golly, Jeeves, a few hundred years ago you’d have been burned as a witch if anyone had heard that! How did you work that one out?”
“I have observed that Mrs Gregson’s sole motive in requiring your company for lunch is to connect you with some daughter of the gentry, with a view towards matrimony. For a decade, however, her plans have failed to reach fruition. There cannot be a single girl remaining of a suitable class who has not been mooted as a possible bride for yourself, thanks to her efforts, and I fear that this fact has not been overlooked by others in her social circle. I suspect that her pleas towards marriage for you are now inclining towards the necessity of marriage, rather than its advisability.”
“She told me that people are starting to say that I am ‘not the marrying kind’. Jolly perspicacious- is that the word?”
“Indeed it is, Sir”
“Perspicacious of them. Rather wish they could have dropped me the wink sooner, though.”
“Might I suggest, sir, that, given the current legal standing of such a situation, a lack of knowledge of this matter would be advisable? If I were to leave your household too precipitously, some might connect these events, leaving you in a distinctly awkward position.”
“Good old Jeeves. Even after making a pass at you, and a complete chump of myself in the process, you’re still looking out for me. What do you suggest, then?”
“I require an unexceptional and unremarkable reason to leave your employ.”
Here Mr Wooster winced slightly, which I pretended not to notice.
“If I were to seek alternative employment in the countryside, then any who expressed curiosity could be informed that I was suffering from some illness of the chest, and that London air was not advisable.”
“And of course, I’m such a self-centred ass that I don’t particularly want to leave London. Brilliant, Jeeves- no-one would ever think that I was forming an attachment to you if I’m not prepared to leave London for a spell.”
“Indeed, Sir.”
The next two weeks were awkward and unpleasant. It is a testament to Mr Wooster’s gentlemanly nature that they were not more awkward and unpleasant. He refrained from any reference to the conversation in the kitchen, from an act or word that would have served to remind us of the reason for my incipient departure. I found myself missing the camaraderie of previous evenings, but for obvious reasons that level of slight intimacy could not be continued. Instead, he would leave the flat for most of the day and evening, retiring directly to bed upon his return. This lessened the chances of uncomfortable encounters; still, I found myself missing his company. He is, as you know, quite an accomplished pianist, and had been taking steps to improve his mind. In retrospect, it is possible that he misinterpreted my suggestions with regard to reading matter as subtle overtures of interest.
I quickly secured for myself employment with Sir William Burrows, who resided in Oxfordshire. Unexceptional in terms of dress, he was however in other ways something of an eccentric. This first became apparent when I arrived at his residence. Wealth and a romantic fascination for the Middle Ages had manifested in the construction of a castle, which owed rather more to a child’s fairy tale illustration than to accurate historical detail. Whilst the exterior was solid stone, with rather more gargoyles than were strictly required, the interior was mostly wood, for reasons of weight. A lighter internal structure enabled the castle to be built rather higher than authenticity would suggest- five floors, all told.
Inside, the medieval décor was continued- vast tapestries and candles in sconces were hanging on the walls. Fortunately, Sir William’s eccentricity was not all consuming, and the candles were only lit for special occasions. The castle was fitted with
electricity for daily use.
I would hesitate to say that there was any gentleman who did not require a valet to assist him in matters of dress, but, in truth, my duties in Sir William's employ were light. With a full staff to clean his clothes and shoes and to cook, most of my usual tasks were accounted for. As a consequence I found myself with rather a lot of free time on my hands. Fortunately, Sir William kept a well-stocked library, to which I was granted full access.
“Never been much of a one for books myself” my new employer had informed me. “But I like the look of ‘em, and what self respecting country seat don’t have a library, eh?”
And so, I settled in to a new pattern of existence. At first I welcomed the stillness and calm of my new employ, telling myself that the incessant dramas of Mr Wooster’s life were little more than childish games. But this stillness led to a habit I had long thought abandoned- that of introspection. I had always believed that a tendency towards introspection was the hallmark of an egotistical mind, and hardly suitable for one in my walk of life, and attempted to bury myself in the books. I wished to fill my mind with so many external ideas that there would be no room for internal thoughts.
Yet as the weeks turned into months I found myself drifting more and more into strange reveries, gazing out at the park as the advancing autumn stripped the trees of their colour and cloaked the land in mist and fog. These still, grey days seemed to match my new moods too well as I saw the shrivelled leaves fall and be crushed underfoot. “So falls and is destroyed my heart” I found myself thinking, without knowing why or from whence the thought came. I chided myself internally for such causeless self-pity, and betook myself to find some task to occupy my mind.
I believe it was the unaccustomed silence that disturbed me so much. The Piccadilly flat was rarely so silent. Except, of course, in those last two weeks…
I had rather grown to enjoy Mr Wooster’s playing- show tunes are not normally to my taste, but there was something about the blend of care and enjoyment that he brought to his playing that raised them above the mundane. Many people are required to learn to play the piano as children, and a few maintain the skill as a party piece, but Mr Wooster continued playing for the love of it. He sang and played, not because he had to, or to raise his social standing as a party man, but because he enjoyed it. And it was almost as if the challenge of learning a new piece surpassed the pleasure of having mastered it. At the piano, with a new score in front of him, he is in a world apart and all his being is concentrated upon his task.
I had not truly realised how much I was growing to miss the piano playing until one day I heard some familiar notes drifting into the library, where I was engaged in reading Plutarch.
I rose, and followed the sound to the large drawing room, where I discovered my employer standing over a clearly new gramophone.
“Ah, Jeeves, just the man” he boomed. “What do you think of this, eh? Just delivered this morning. Thought it was getting a bit quiet round here.”
I nodded. I couldn’t speak. The song was one that I’d heard Mr Wooster sing often,
‘You’re the cream in my coffee’, I believed, was the title. I could hear clearly Mr Wooster’s intonation, especially on the last two lines, “You will always be my necessity, I’d be lost without you’. He would grin and me, and I would bow back- a slight incline of the head. I was thanking him for acknowledging my role. I do not believe that he had meant it in any other way. But I could see him now, hear him, clearly… This recording sounded nothing like him. It sounded wrong.
“I say, Jeeves, are you quite all right?” Sir William was looking at me with some concern. I will say this, that he was by no means a thoughtless or inconsiderate employer.
“I- I apologise, Sir. I fear that I am developing something of a headache.”
“It’s those books, you know. Good in small doses, I don’t doubt, but not in large quantities. While you’re here, something to tell you. I’m planning on moving. Emigrating, rather. To America. Rather had it with the castle, fancy living in a skyscraper. What do you think of that, eh?”
This was a further shock.
“Very good, Sir. Will you be wishing for me to accompany you?”
“Well, that’s the thing. I know you’ve got family here, don’t really want to drag you away from them if you don’t want to. Don’t really need a valet anyway, got enough people to see to me anyway. But there you go, let me know. Won’t be until the new year anyway- one last Christmas here. Going to make it a good one, what?”
“…Very good, Sir…”
He peered closely at me.
“I say, you do look rum. Fresh air, that’s the ticket. Go for a walk. Much better than sitting inside in that library. Off you go!”
I bowed and complied.
Autumn had now given way to winter and my breath hung before my face like smoke as I walked through the park. The empty trees stood stark against the sky like skeletal hands. I might have been the only living being for miles around.
I reached the top of a small hill and stood there for a while, pondering the events in the drawing room. The music, and the proposed move to America… While it was true that I had family here in England they could not truly be said to need me. And I rather enjoyed my previous visits to the States… of course, that was with…
It was not as if Sir William required my services either, of course. I rather prefer to be somewhere I’m needed. To be honest, it suits my vanity. And I knew where I was needed. With the one who sang that I was the starch in his collar and the lace in his shoe.
“I rather fear,” I breathed aloud to myself “that I may have made a mistake…”
Preparations for the Christmas House Party, that was to last from the 21st to the 3rd, we now well under way. Yet still I had few duties with which to occupy my mind, and my attention would inexorably return to my realisation out in the park. I was aware that my place was with Mr Wooster, but in what capacity? I was not… unsympathetic towards those with Grecian urges, but had never numbered myself among them. I certainly enjoyed Mr Wooster’s company and regretted its loss, but was equally aware that what he required; what he desired, was almost certainly beyond my capacity. And I believed that it would be unfair of me to offer only my presence when his wishes were for more. Better, by far, that I left this country and removed myself from his consciousness. Yet there still remained one last glimmer of doubt that prevented me from going to Sir William and confirming my intent to travel with him to America.
I was very glad when the guests started to arrive and my duties increased; instructing each valet as to the routine of the household in order that their gentleman’s routine should not be disturbed, and assisting with buttling. Moreover, the décor of Christmas created an atmosphere to lighten almost any heart. The candles in their sconces were lit, the warm colours of the tapestries glowed with life. A giant tree in the great hall infused the air with the scent of pine, and holly branches festooned the walls. Even below stairs was included, and the many sprigs of mistletoe that were hung over every door was the cause of much good natured laughter and shrieks on the part of the younger maids and footmen, until they were brought to heel by the frowns of Parsons, the butler.
So it was that, one afternoon, my thoughts were firmly focused on my duties- Lady Featherleigh’s terrier had absconded from its place by her side and was believed to be in pursuit of Lady Worthington’s Siamese. As I passed by the music room, however, I heard the piano being played. Not a fluent performance, clearly the musician was very new to the piece, but there was something about it that made me pause. After a few moments I identified the piece as Faure’s ‘Elegie’; a duet with cello, but this was not the reason for my fascination. Then it struck me- it was not that the piece was familiar, but the playing style! I steeled myself, and gently pushed open the door. As I had anticipated, sat at the piano was my erstwhile employer. Why, then, if I was expecting this, did the sight of him take me almost by surprise? Everything was so familiar; the long slender back curved forward in intense concentration, the delicate fingers moving with a dexterity that even unfamiliarity with the music could not reduce, the slight frown and tightening of the lips as he studied the notes on the page and drew them out into life. Everything that I remembered from happier days in his flat- so why did this vision strike me with such force?
So unexpected was this that I could not completely stifle a gasp. Mr Wooster, snapping out of his own world of music looked up almost in alarm, then saw me and smiled.
Then the smile faltered and faded.
I recovered myself, bowed slightly, and said
“I’m very sorry to have disturbed you, sir. If you will excuse me…” and turned to leave.
“No, dash it, wait!” he called after me, and I turned back to see him leap up from the piano seat, almost stumbling over it in his haste.
“Sir?”
“You- ah, you don’t have to leave- unless you do?”
“I am not upon an urgent errand, no, Sir.” Something of a lie. There was still much to be done.
“Ah! Jolly good.” He stood there, gazing at me with eager but uncertain eyes.
“So,” he tried again “How are things with you?” Then remembering that I would have some difficulty in framing a suitable response to some of his more… colloquial constructions, he clarified “Are you well?”
“Very well, thank you, Sir. And yourself?”
He waved a hand as if to brush away the question.
“Oh, yes, yes, I’m fine.”
I nodded, but truth to tell he did not look- entirely himself. Not ill, but maybe… tired. A hint of dark circles under his eyes, a slight downwards turn of his normally mobile and expressive mouth… he had also lost weight. I cleared my throat.
“Might I ask if your new valet is proving satisfactory?” I could already tell that the new man was not satisfactory. Mr Wooster’s tie was incorrect for his shirt and was still wearing a town jacket.
“Hickson? Oh, yes, he’s… perfectly… acceptable. But not… not a patch on you, though…” His voice trailed off, and then he looked up into my eyes and whispered “I miss you, Jeeves.”
That much was readily apparent. I opened my mouth to try and reply, but my throat seemed paralysed- which may have been as well, for I realised that I had no idea as to what I was to say. I swallowed hard and was about to try again when Mr Wooster blinked, rubbed his hand over his face and cut me off.
“I’m sorry, old man, I shouldn’t have said that… I know it’s going to be dashed awkward me being here and I shouldn’t have come- I’d just heard that Sir William was planning on upping sticks over the pond, you see and- and I just wanted to see you again, if it was for the last time… I’m sorry. Really. I’ll leave- tomorrow. And I’ll keep out of your way.”
He turned and fairly fled through the side door that connected the music room with the library- from whence he must have taken the musical score. I slowly crossed to the piano and stood looking at the sheet for a few moments, then picked it up and closed it. At last I found my voice.
“Sir,” I murmured into the stillness “I miss you, too.”
Once again true to his word, Mr Wooster was not at dinner that evening but instead sent a message to the effect that he had developed a bad headache, and requested some light refreshment in his room, prior to an early night.
A maid was despatched with the tray.
I assisted at table.
The ladies had retired to the drawing room and I was refilling the port glasses prior to leaving the gentlemen to their discussions when Parsons entered, his usual aplomb showing signs of disturbance. He crossed to his employer and spoke low into Sir William’s ear.
“Is it, by Jove!” he exclaimed in response.
“What is it, old man?” Lord Silverborough asked.
“There’s a fire up on the fourth floor! Must have been that dashed dog and cat rushing around like fools- candle knocked over, caught a tapestry and the woodwork’s burning. Well, a boy’s been sent to summon the fire brigade, and it appears that we had best get ourselves out! We’ll tell the ladies. Eh, what was that?” This last was to Parsons, who repeated, rather louder, that the whole fourth floor corridor was ablaze and showing signs of spreading.
“Well, no-one’s up there, we’re all down here for dinner- Oh, of course, young Wooster- ah, has he been told?”
I realised, with cold clarity, that if Mr Wooster had not been told of the fire, it would now be redundant to do so, and suicidal to make the attempt. The first and second floors, with their larger rooms, had been given over to married couples. Single ladies and their maids were accommodated on the third floor- single gentlemen and their manservants had been assigned the fourth floor. If the whole level- with its wooden floors and walls- were ablaze, and he had not realised the danger in time- his means of escape via the single grand staircase would be entirely cut off.
As the guests flooded out onto the lawn I hunted around, anxiously searching for Mr Wooster but without any result until I heard a cry, and turned to see a guest pointing upwards. I followed the line of his outstretched arm and my heart seemed to stop as I saw Mr Wooster’s unmistakable form silhouetted against the light from his room- a rapidly dimming light as clouds of smoke also poured out of the window. He seemed to be shouting down, but no one could make out his words. Then he disappeared for a few moments, only to return dragging something large and heavy which he managed to push through the window to fall below. It was the mattress from his bed, which was followed in short order by the sheets and pillows. I realised what he intended and called for people to grab things- any things, that could help cushion a fall. Then I heard a crash, and looked up again to see, to my horror, that the ceiling of the room must have fallen in. Flames danced out of the open window like mocking imps, and of Mr Wooster there was no sign.
He was dead. I was certain of it. It was impossible that any living being could continue to exist in that furnace. I closed my eyes and prayed to the heavens that at least it had been quick.
And with that certainly came another certainty, as cold and hard as a diamond; not only that I had made a mistake, but of the nature of the mistake.
I should have tried.
I could have tried.
I could indeed have been for him what he wanted.
Because I loved him as he loved me.
But instead surprise, and fear, and my own mental inflexibility had brought us here, to his death and my epiphany- too late, now, to even let him know.
And then something happened which will support my belief in a benevolent providence until the day I die- he rose from beneath the line of the windowsill, holding a tightly wrapped bundle in his arms. He had not turned back into the room, and so was not below the falling ceiling.
Tucking the bundle under one arm, he turned and started to carefully climb out of the window, feeling his way down with bare feet (for he was dressed for bed) and using the half-occupied arm to support himself when he changed grips with the free one. The superfluous gargoyles and the other bits of decoration that adorned the stone walls made the descent somewhat more challenging than a ladder, but not as difficult as it might have been. However, all through that long, slow climb down I do not believe that I drew breath once.
He had just reached the first floor when, strangely, the bundle under his arm started wriggling.
“Hi! Stop that!” I heard him exclaim, startled; but the bundle ignored him and continued writhing until a small, furry canine head poked out from the fabric, shook its ears, and then with a last mighty spasm wrenched itself free and leapt, rather heavily, to the blanket-strewn ground, from whence it trotted off in search of its mistress.
This action, however, disturbed Mr Wooster’s balance, causing him to loose his grip on the wall. He fell the last of the distance, some 10 feet, onto the same blankets.
I dashed forwards, almost past caring as to whether or not my action would be read as merely the natural response of a servant to a guest’s need. He had fallen hard, but seemed to be little more than winded. Still, though, I had to know for myself that he was unharmed. And I so very desperately wanted him to know that I needed to know…
So many words, but I could not find a single one to suit my needs.
Mr Wooster shook his head, and blinked.
“Whew! Rather a rum go there, eh?” He looked around, and seemed to notice my presence at his side for the first time. He stared at me- what he saw in my face I could not say, but he seemed to see something as he frowned slightly and seemed to be about to speak-
“My boy, my boy, that was remarkable. Quite, quite remarkable. What a climb! One handed! Parsons, get Mr Wooster a brandy. If I hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t have believed it. Saving the dog! Wonderful, wonderful.”
Sir William had appeared at my elbow. It appeared that all the guests were astounded by Mr Wooster’s feat- even more so since he had succeeded in rescuing a dog, as well.
“Oh, well, you know, after Magdalen College’s boundary wall that was a bit of a walk in the park, don’t you know..”
“Ha! Yes, I used to scale that thing, every night, avoiding the porters- Marvellous, marvellous. Grand times, grand!”
Sir William might have continued in this vein for some time had not Mr Wooster, having been helped to his feet by this point, suddenly swayed, staggered, and would clearly have fallen if I had not been there to catch his elbow.
“But why am I keeping you talking like this!” Sir William demanded rhetorically. “You need to see the doctor. Samuels!” he called over his shoulder to one of the dinner guests “would you mind awfully having a quick look over Wooster here?”
The aforementioned doctor examined Mr Wooster’s eyes and throat, interrogated him regarding any possible blows to the head and listened carefully to his chest, before declaring that the patient had suffered no harm from his adventure that sleep and food could not remedy. I requested leave to drive Mr Wooster down to the village and establish him in the old coaching inn for the night. This was readily agreed to, with an added proviso that I was not to leave Mr Wooster unattended, in case of unforeseen complications.
The brief drive afforded no opportunity for me to attempt to discuss the matters that were now pressing on my mind, and no little time was spent in the procurement of hot water, food and drink for Mr Wooster. A boy was dispatched to the Manor to obtain some clothing for the morning- Mr Wooster’s clothes were doubtlessly destroyed in the blaze but Hickson should, at the very least, be able to arrange a loan of some basic items. The innkeeper was placed under strict instructions not to try to bring them up but to keep them until I came for them in the morning- Mr Wooster required uninterrupted sleep, I impressed upon him, and followed this through with a sizable pecuniary incentive to avoid disturbing us- that is to say, him.
Finally the maid left with the empty plates, I shut and bolted the door, and turned to face Mr Wooster. At last, we were alone and I could speak. However, it was Mr Wooster who spoke first.
“Jeeves- you don’t have to stay here, if you’d rather not. I’ll be fine alone, really.”
“I would be very happy to remain, Sir.”
“But if you’d prefer- don’t what to put you in an awkward posish again-“
“I would prefer to stay.”
Mr Wooster blinked, taken aback, and I pressed on.
“I would also like to take the opportunity to… to inform you that… that I…”
What I wanted to say was how devastated I had been when I believed him dead. I wanted to tell him that I wanted to apologise- that I was sorry. I wanted to tell him that I had made a mistake; that I should never have left him and that I never would again. But once again I could not find the words. All my reading, all my command of language, and I couldn’t express that most basic of emotions.
So instead I seized him by the shoulders, pulled him towards me, and kissed him.
For a moment he was frozen with surprise, then relaxed as his head tilted and his mouth opened beneath mine. His arms snaked around my neck as mine wrapped around his back, pulling him closer to me, holding him tight. Uncertain, my lips parted as his tongue caressed them and then dove in to meet mine. He pressed even closer to me, hands ruffling my hair as my hands in their turn caressed the warm flesh beneath the thin cotton.
We broke at last and stared at each other, breathing heavily. He was flushed, his eyes a darker blue than I had ever seen them.
He raised a hand to his mouth, brushing his lips unconsciously, and spoke:
“Are you sure?”
I nodded.
“As soon as I thought you were dead, I was sure.”
Mr Wooster blinked, then shook his head slightly.
“Look, I know that you’re rather fond of me- I wouldn’t have risked saying what I did if you weren’t, but are you sure that it’s, well, love? That sort of love?”
“The love that dare not speak its name, Sir?”
“Actually, I’d be rather obliged if it could see its way to speaking its name, as I’m blowed if I know what to call it. But whatever it is, can you do that? Because if you try, and you can’t, then… I don’t want you to be unhappy.”
“As would you be, Sir.”
“I don’t care about that. It’s you that I’m…” He broke off, turned away, ran his hands through his hair in distraction. Then turned back.
“Look, Jeeves, I have an idea. A plan. Let me know what you think?”
“Of course, Sir.”
“And please knock off the ‘Sirs’; in the circs I’m not sure that they’re needed. It’s the matter of, um, physical intimacy that’s the sticking point, isn’t it? I mean, you had already dedicated yourself to my side.”
I thought back to the occasion upon which I had removed the pages that dealt with Mr Wooster’s exploits from the Junior Ganymede club book, and my words to him afterwards, and nodded.
“So, we should… try… intimacy.”
Truth to tell, I had suspected that suggestion, and glanced instinctively towards the bed, but Mr Wooster shook his head.
“That might be a bridge too far for this. Too much. And, um, maybe a bit complicated. But- Jeeves, you do trust me, don’t you?”
Again I nodded.
“Then, will you trust me now? And if this doesn’t work, if you can’t… then, we’ll part, you go to America- or I will, I don’t care, and you’ll never have to see me again.”
I swallowed. Mr Wooster’s analysis was unnervingly accurate.
“Very good, S- very good.”
He indicated the large wing chair in the corner of the room.
“Sit down.”
I did so, and Mr Wooster knelt before me. He rested his hands upon my legs, and I tensed slightly at the contact. He frowned slightly in concern and, staring up at me, spoke.
“While this is happening, Jeeves, I want you to look at me. Don’t close your eyes, don’t pretend that it’s anything or anyone else. Look at me, know that it’s me doing this. Do you understand?”
I still was not entirely sure as to what he intended, but I understood his instructions clearly, and indicated as much. He smiled slightly, nervously, and moved his hands up to the waistband of my trousers. As he undid the buttons, I suddenly understood his intent clearly. With some surprise, I realised that I liked the idea. I could feel myself growing harder as Mr Wooster now released the buttons on my shorts, freeing the now erect length. He looked up again, still smiling yet more relaxed;
“That’s a good sign, eh?” He then reached out and held me in his hand, and squeezed gently. I gasped, shutting my eyes, then remember Mr Wooster’s instructions and opened them again, and meet his gaze. I was still growing harder.
Without breaking eye contact, he lowered his head slightly and parted his lips; his tongue lapped gently at the underside of the tip. I jerked as if shocked by electricity and gasped again, my hands gripping the arms of the chair. He sighed in relief and bent his head lower; his mouth opened wider and enveloped me, the full length, until I could feel the head against the back of his throat. Even without Mr Wooster’s eyes holding mine I now couldn’t look away and I gazed, rapt, at the vision of him, his light hair, in my lap, his hands on my thighs. He raised up slightly, the lips caressing the length as they withdrew up to the head, then plunged back down again. And again. And again. I shuddered, my hips bucked up involuntarily to meet his warm mouth and he moved his hands to grip them to hold me steady. His tongue licked around the shaft, caressed the underside, lapped at the head, now gently, now hard, as I gasped and moaned with desperation
All these sensations mixed, melted, melded into one, crowned with the certainty and joy of knowing who it was who worshiped me so with lips and tongue, with mouth and breath, Mr Wooster, my employer, my master, my-
“Bertie!” I cried out, shuddering with the force of climax; it felt as if every part of me was exploding in ecstasy as he gripped my hips even harder, pulling me still closer to him as he hungrily devoured all I had to offer. Slowly the shudders subsided, my hands unclenched. I could see again, and I looked down at him gazing up at me, with hope and love shining out of his eyes.
Suddenly I could no longer bear that there should be any physical distance between us. I slid from the chair to my knees, clasping Bertie to me, pulling him close in the tightest embrace I had ever given.
Until what I can only describe as a muffled squawk reminded me that Mr Wooster was not, maybe, at quite his full strength as yet.
I released him, sheepishly, embarrassed at having forgotten myself so violently, and was relieved to see Bertie grinning back at me. His hair was really quite delightfully tousled. There was, of course, no question of him being seen by anyone else in that state, but I rather enjoyed the private showing, and told him so.
His grin only widened and he kissed me again.
As his body pressed against mine I realised that the enjoyment of a few moments ago was not one-sided, but that his had not reached a conclusion.
I slid my hand down his side to the waistband of his pyjamas and gently released the cord. Reaching between the fabric and the flesh I found him waiting for my hand. As my fingers wrapped around his length he gasped slightly, then moaned against my lips as I started to move, caressing him.
I started slowly, watching his face. His eyes were shut, his lips parted, and he drew in deep, shuddering breaths. As his head fell back slightly, I could see that his face was now flushed, and I fancied I could feel heat pouring off him. His features were relaxed, with such an air of openness and, indeed, innocence, that my own breath caught in my throat as I gazed at him. I had never seen anything quite so beautiful.
But I somehow knew that there was still more to see, to experience. I moved my hand faster and faster, speeding up the rhythm to match the pounding of the blood in my ears; which itself sped up in response.
My young master’s breathing also changed and responded- now faster and shallower gasps and under my other hand, which now supported the back of his neck, I felt his pulse race and throb. Blood and breath both set the beat for my work.
His hands now gripped desperately at my shoulders to steady himself, and his eyes were tight closed.
“Look at me!” I murmured into his ear, and his eyes flew open. His gaze locked with
mine, a gaze full of joy and wonder beyond reason or words. But I had words, words for him that I could not have stopped myself from saying if my life had depended on it.
“I love you.” I whispered gently, and saw his mouth, through the ecstatic gasps, turn up into the beginnings of a smile when the tremours of climax shook through him.
His whole body jerked against me, and from his throat came desperate little cries that could have been either pleasure or pain, unless one could see the sublime joy on his face. He pulled me even closer, wrapped his arms around me and buried his face in my neck to stifle the sound of his passion. Gradually the tremours slowed, stilled, and he relaxed again, still holding me as close as before. Now I could embrace him again with both arms and I did so, holding him and supporting him. We stayed like that for no small while, simply revelling in the presence of the other, while our breathing steadied and returned to something closer to normal. Finally he laughed shakily and pulled away just enough to look up at me again.
“I say, I rather think we can call that little experiment a success, eh?”
I attempted to keep my accustomed impassive demeanour, but could feel despite myself my face breaking into a broad grin as I replied
“Absolutely, Sir.”