Jooster Fic: Jeeves and the Thorny Problem (Part 1)

[triedunture]

Title: Jeeves and the Thorny Problem
Pairings: Bertie/OMC, Bertie/Jeeves
Rating: NC17
Warnings: dark themes, angst, hurt/comfort, voyeurism/exhibitionism, Jeeves POV
Length: 21,000 words total
Summary: Bertie starts seeing someone. And that someone is not Jeeves. Rummy circs.


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The life of a valet is one of varied hours, with additional tasks supplementing the daily chores of a home's upkeep in no small measure. One must be prepared to conform to a new schedule should one's gentleman take a sudden whim to travel or have exotic and difficult-to-obtain fruits for luncheon, for example. I have been exceedingly fortunate in finding a post as Mr Wooster's valet, as he has never requested the latter and has only announced the former with enough time for readying the luggage.

At any rate, this is my explanation for what happened: though I endeavour to keep a regular schedule for Mr Wooster's convenience, a dozen menial errands called my attention away from the flat in Berkeley Square that afternoon. If I had not decided to go to the post office, the bakery, and the tea shop that day, perhaps the unpleasantness might have been avoided altogether. However, as the Bard wrote, we defy augury: even I could have had no inkling of the consequences.

I returned to the flat at about three-thirty, balancing a few small parcels from the shops in my hand as I unlocked the front door. Upon entering, I removed my hat and proceeded down the hall with my intended goal being the kitchen, where the freshly baked bread and boxes of tea could be stored.

This was a very normal course of action. I feel a great need to impress this upon whosoever might read these pages. It is the only way that I can explain the extreme shock that came over me as I silently opened the swinging kitchen door. I pride myself on my ability to maintain a calm façade, what Mr Wooster has fondly termed my 'stuffed frog' expression. The sight that greeted me in that room, however, threatened to break that mask completely.

I see now that I am delaying the inevitable description of what exactly occurred; even now, months later, the experience pains me and I do not wish to relive it. I will endeavour to be as clear and straightforward as possible from this point onward, as there can be no peace in my soul until such things are confronted.

That afternoon, I saw Mr Wooster and another gentleman in the kitchen.

Though that might not appear to be so strange in and of itself, please allow me to elaborate. Mr Wooster and this gentleman were—

The only phrase I can conjure that encompasses the situation is in flagrante delicto.

Mr Wooster was seated on the kitchen table, and the gentleman (who was a stranger to me; I remember grasping onto this piece of information almost immediately) was standing, with his back to me, between Mr Wooster's spread legs. Those legs, bare and quite lithe, were wrapped round the stranger's still-clothed hips. In fact, it appeared that the unknown gentleman was wearing his entire well-cut ensemble while Mr Wooster, if the naked arms and legs that clung to this man were any indication, was completely nude. The movements of the two men, primal and rhythmic, combined with the cries that tumbled from my employer's lips left no question as to what they were doing. Mr Wooster's eyes were shut in what might have been rapture, his cheek on his companion's shoulder in a fashion that afforded me a view of his face.

I stood frozen in the doorway, one hand on the doorplate and the other still occupied with the wrapped parcels. My entrance was not noticed by Mr Wooster's guest, though my stare must have been felt by Mr Wooster himself, for his eyes fluttered open to settle on me, standing there dumbly.

I should have withdrawn. I should have shut the door. I should have done a million things, but I just stood there like an imbecile.

Mr Wooster's eyes widened, and his mouth formed my name soundlessly, his entire demeanor broadcasting palpable fear. We stared at each other, he over the shoulder of his (can there be another word for it?) lover as the latter continued rutting and grunting in his animal way against his body. Mr Wooster, helpless in this man's hold, crushed his eyes shut again; whether to avoid my gaze or due to a wave of ecstasy that marks the end of such relations, I will never know for certain. I found my feet at last, and I made a swift exit.

When my senses returned to me, I was in my private quarters, flushed and panting with my parcels still clutched in my numb hands. You might expect me to be disturbed and disgusted at such a sight as the one I've detailed here, and you would be correct, but perhaps not in the way you are expecting.

Divining my employer's individual psychology was a task on which I had prided myself; indeed, I had believed myself an expert on Mr Wooster, his emotions, and his moods. And yet here was something I should have noticed, should have known to be true, not only in my capacity as a valet but as a man.

A man who loved.

I was not disturbed to see Mr Wooster in the throes of passion; I was disturbed that those throes came at the hands of another. I was not disgusted that Mr Wooster was involved in an inverted relationship; I was disgusted that he had apparently been in such a relationship without my notice. My anger was directed inward, and I cursed myself for letting this intelligence pass me by.

The facts, if I am to be plain about it, were these: I had loved Mr Wooster in silence for years and had believed the object of my affections was not in a position, nor possessed the temperament, to return the sentiment. In short, I kept my lips sealed on the matter, thinking Mr Wooster was a lover of women, if not a very successful or interested one.

Now I knew differently and...

I dropped the packages on my dressing table, unmindful of the bottle of hair tonic that was subsequently knocked over, and sat heavily on the edge of my thin bed with my head in my hands. The ramifications of what I had seen became clear to me. Now that Mr Wooster knew that I knew, I had no idea what might occur. Would he dismiss me from his service with a hefty sum to keep my knowledge to myself? Would he make plans to move abroad with this gentleman, as so many other men in his position have done in order to escape possible scandal? Would he leave England, and me, forever?

Should I even hope to remain at his side when the pain of seeing his love affair blossom would surely destroy me?

I have no way of knowing how long I sat in silent despair, but after what might have been minutes or hours, a gentle knock sounded on my door. I couldn't find the voice to answer, but the handle turned and Mr Wooster, now clothed if a bit rumpled, stood there before me, his face flushed a brilliant scarlet.

'I say, Jeeves,' he began, and then took an extraordinary interest in the tips of his shoes and the grain of the floorboards. 'I say...' he tried again, only to trail off ineffectually.

His fingers trembled where they rested on the doorknob, and as I bent slightly to study his downward-gazing face, I saw that he was quite overcome: his throat worked as he swallowed, and his temples were damp with fresh sweat. He was terrified, and I hated myself ever more for it. I had selfishly been preoccupied with my own fears when I should have been thinking of how best to ease those of my young master.

I stood belatedly, knowing I should have stood at his entrance, and spoke. 'Sir,' I said, my own voice rough after having been lost. I cleared my throat. 'It is all right, sir.'

His wild blue eyes, red with strife, snapped up to meet my gaze. 'You mean— Jeeves, you won't be calling the police or informing my relatives of, of, well, I mean to say—' he stammered.

I resisted the urge to take him into my arms and soothe him. To tell him I would protect him at any cost. To let him know he could trust me because I loved him more than life. But these words were beyond my ken. I could only stand straighter with my arms at my sides and say, 'No, sir. I have no plans to do so.'

Mr Wooster seemed to accept this promise of mine very quickly, and without questioning me on it, apologies began flooding from his lips. 'Dash it, I am so sorry, Jeeves! I thought you wouldn't return until this evening and, well, I just wasn't thinking clearly, I suppose.' He fidgeted with his shirt cuff, his eyes returning to the ground. 'I never meant for this to happen. Bally uncomfortable circs., what?'

'Indeed, sir.' I glanced in a discreet fashion over his bowed head, but could not ascertain the presence of the other gentleman I had seen. 'If I may inquire, sir, has your guest taken his leave?'

'Who, Thorny?' Mr Wooster quirked his lips as he often does when my meaning is obscure to him. 'Yes, he had a dinner engagement, and, well, I told him he might not want to hang about while I got all the facts straight with you, Jeeves.'

At my reserved silence, Mr Wooster continued. 'I had to tell him you'd walked in, of course. He offered to settle things with you himself, but I told him I knew my Jeeves, and I'm dashed if you didn't let the whole unpleasant business roll off your back like— What kind of backs does water roll off so well? Dogs'? Ah, yes, ducks!'

I coughed softly to curtail this train of thought. 'Am I to understand the gentleman in question is Mr Thornton Wrexton, of the Southampton Wrextons?'

While I had never come into contact with the young man, Mr Wrexton was a well-known figure among the members of the Junior Ganymede, infamous for his inability to keep a valet much longer than a handful of months. The club book had several pages dedicated to the youngest Wrexton, and almost every recorded incident was one of high tempers and fiery moods. Given the moniker Mr Wooster had used to describe his companion, and using my own knowledge of Mr Wrexton's approximate age, it was easy enough to deduce his identity.

Mr Wooster nodded brightly. 'You bally well are informed, Jeeves. That was Thorny, all right.' His face fell again. 'I say, Jeeves, things could get very bad for Thorny if he were found out. He's a good chap, you know. And, well, I mean to say, as his secret and mine intersect the way they do—'

I could see Mr Wooster was becoming agitated again, and I suggested we adjourn to the sitting room, where I prepared him a small afternoon refreshment. As he sat in his favourite armchair, I gently inquired about the circumstances that led Mr Wooster into Mr Wrexton's circle, hoping to absorb as many facts as possible before I formulated my own plan, for I had no intention of allowing the relations to stand as they did.

'It must have been two, no, three weeks ago,' Mr Wooster said as he sipped at his cocktail, 'that I met Thorny at one of those big blow-outs at the Stanton-Lacy place in Russell Square. Quinton S-L was at Eton with me, though I daresay I wouldn't know him from Adam now. But we bumped into each other in the Strand one afternoon and he told me I must attend his family's springtime gala; you remember, Jeeves? You had me wear the dove grey cummerbund instead of the red.'

'I recall the event, sir.'

'Well, I showed up to what was by all accounts a rather dull affair, but as I haunted the back rooms in order to avoid further dancing with the brood of Stanton-Lacy sisters, I was introduced to Thorny by way of a shared decanter.' Mr Wooster lit himself a cigarette and watched the smoke curl upwards with a dreamy blue gaze. 'You should have seen him, Jeeves. You might not have approved of the bright emerald cummerbund, but you would've been forced to admit,' he smiled to himself, 'he cuts a wonderful figure.'

I shifted on my feet beside Mr Wooster's chair. The light in his expressive eyes gave me an uneasy feeling in my midsection.

'We got to talking, as two chaps do at a tedious ball, you know,' Mr Wooster continued. 'The subject of repellent females arose and, though I am loath to speak ill of any lady (you know this, Jeeves), I found myself spilling all the facts about my unwanted engagements. Thorny had some similar tales and we commiserated in a very chummy manner.' He relieved his cigarette of some of its ash, tapping it against the crystal ash tray I had placed at his elbow. 'I, erm, don't wish to trouble you with what happened next, Jeeves. Probably don't want to hear what you already have, what? I don't wish to rankle your sense of feudal propriety.'

He spoke as if he were disappointed that his story could progress no further. Realisation struck me: this was his first and only opportunity to share his experiences with another, as even Mr Wooster's closest friends would not have been trusted with such intimate details. I weighed my words carefully before delivering them: 'I assure you, sir, that your tale does not disturb me in that manner. I cannot judge your actions, sir, and you should have no fear from that corner in regards to myself. Please, if telling this story would unburden you, I invite you to continue.'

What would become a familiar feeling of being divided overcame me once more; on the one hand, I did not relish hearing how my young master had fallen under the spell of this Wrexton, but on the other, I needed to know the details of these unfortunate circumstances so that I might move forward accordingly.

Mr Wooster smoked while he spoke. I perceived a faint blush painting his cheek. 'Thorny is much more well-versed in this sort of, erm, thing, you see. Two coves, that is. He hit upon it quite quickly, what I was. I mean to say, he stated it so bally plainly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. I admit I felt a dashed fool, and sputtered in no small measure.'

'Am I given to understand, sir, that you had no previous inkling as to your nature before the conversation in question?' I asked.

Mr Wooster placed a fingertip on his nose. 'You've got it in one, Jeeves. Anyway, Thorny offered, in a very subtle and genteel way, to educate me in such matters, as I had no experience myself. Very white of him.' He crushed his gasper in the ash tray. 'I must say, things became clearer for me after that. I'd had no notion— That is to say, no one had ever told me about the option— Well, less of an option, mind you, and more of a—' My master paused, giving up this truncated line of thinking. 'I don't mind telling you, Jeeves, I'm greatly indebted to old Thorny.' A gentle smile played upon his lips and his fingertips trailed dreamily along his own neck as if tracing a path that had been travelled earlier in the day by another. 'Greatly indebted indeed,' he murmured.

I stood by stiffly, wondering if I dared ask Mr Wooster the question that clawed its way through my mind: was this a passing fancy on both their parts or was it more serious?

Mr Wooster answered before I could find my tongue. 'I love him a great deal, Jeeves,' he said with all the conviction of a young man with a ready heart.

I watched my employer sip at the last drops of his cocktail and attempted to appear unlike a man who had been dealt a blow to the tender and unguarded gastro-intestinal area.

'Very good, sir,' I might have said.

'I say,' Mr Wooster barrelled onwards, 'it's nice to get this off my chest, Jeeves. You can imagine how it's been for me, without a soul to speak to about this thingummy with Thorny.'

'Yes, sir,' I recall answering faintly.

'Oh, you must be properly introduced to him, Jeeves,' he declared. 'I'm sure you'll be quite taken with him. I've been having him over when you're out, as I wasn't certain it would be prudent to take you into our confidence just yet, you see; but now that it's all out of the box, might I invite Thorny for luncheon tomorrow?'

I worked my tongue in my dry mouth, mustering up all my control in order to answer: 'I will be sure to open a bottle of the '89 for the occasion, sir.'

And so the next day saw the young Mr Wrexton breeze into our Berkeley flat around one o'clock. There was not a blush on his cheek as he handed his hat and walking stick to me.

'Jeeves, I presume! Bertie speaks of you constantly. Holds you up as the valet to end all valets. So sorry about the circumstances of our first meeting, though I wasn't aware of it at the time. Too busy, of course!' He threw his head back and indulged in a hearty laugh.

The young gentleman was just as tall as Mr Wooster, though he was broader in the shoulders. His figure was pleasing to the eye, I had to admit, and his face left nothing aesthetic to be desired. Where Mr Wooster is fair, Mr Wrexton was dark, his shining brown locks curling rebelliously round his ears. His eyes, too, were dark though they sparkled with intelligence and humour. His mode of dress, like many young men of Mr Wooster's set who are perhaps not fortunate enough to have a capable valet to choose suitable cuts and fabrics, was as ostentatious as it was expensive. His waistcoat in particular was a most ill-advised paisley. I could see why Mr Wrexton had caught my young master's eye; it seemed all the clothing which I had banished from Mr Wooster's wardrobe had ended up on the form of this young Adonis.

Before I could announce him, the gentleman bounded past me with a holler and caught up Mr Wooster, who had peeked into the entryway at the sound of the bell, in an energetic embrace.

'Bertie, darling!' Mr Wrexton kissed him in the continental fashion on both cheeks, which immediately flushed. 'You're looking wonderful today, pet. Much improved since I left you yesterday. I felt like a cad running off like that, but that engagement couldn't be missed, you know.'

Mr Wooster caught my eye over his paramour's shoulder and cleared his throat. 'Have you met Jeeves, then?'

The guest extricated himself from my master and spun to shake my hand in a most forward manner. 'Yes, yes, I was just laying my apologies at his doorstep. Really, though, Jeeves, incredibly white of you to cast the matter to the side. Bertie speaks of you as the wise old uncle that he must turn to in all his scrapes, and it eases my heart to know that you remain true to him. If there is any remonstrance I might make—'

I do believe the man was actually reaching into his suit coat as if to fling a spare crown in my direction; Mr Wooster, seeing this, interrupted with an entreaty that Mr Wrexton take a seat in the parlour.

I was left in the vestibule, holding Mr Wrexton's hat and stick and turning the phrase 'wise old uncle' over in my mind.

It is true that I am older than Mr Wooster's five-and-twenty years, but I would not count myself as old. I had neither grey hairs nor a long shaggy beard, the hirsute markers of both 'wise' and 'old' in my mind. I had only just that month celebrated my thirty-second birthday; Mr Wooster had given me a new copy of Spinoza wrapped in brown paper and inscribed: To Jeeves, a paragon if ever one was. If anything, certainly the small disparity in our ages made Mr Wooster a more likely brother than a nephew to me.

I placed Mr Wrexton's hat and stick in their appropriate stands. That man's words had shaken me, for I knew if they reflected the feelings of my young master, then I had little hope of ever rising in his eyes to the level of a potential suitor. I endeavoured to put the comment out of my mind and devote myself to an afternoon of observing the two men together so that I could better scheme how to break them apart.

The couple was ensconced in the sitting room, sharing the chesterfield in a very familiar way. Mr Wrexton was sprawled bonelessly on its cushions with his tousled head resting in Mr Wooster's lap. My employer was raking his fingers through those soft locks in a tender manner, while Mr Wrexton, as he seemed wont to do, prattled on with barely a stop for breath. I watched the two lovers curled together like that until Mr Wooster raised his eyes to mine.

The look of pure happiness I saw there, unadulterated and beautiful, broke what I suppose I had left of my heart. So peaceful did he look, so without care and so full of joy, that I was immediately filled with shame. This was the man I purported to love and care for; how could I possibly wish to wrench this from his grasp? And for what purpose? To place myself, a man nowhere near his station, in Wrexton's stead? It was selfish folly, I could see that now.

However, I was determined to watch this Wrexton; if he held the key to Mr Wooster's happiness, I would ensure he took care not to squander that sacred task.

Mr Wooster tipped his head in the direction of the drinks cabinet, his expressive eyebrow communicating the request for two brandy-and-sodas without words so as not to interrupt the flow of chatter from the man resting in his lap. I gave a curt nod in reply and mixed the drinks with hands steadied from years of professional life. Mr Wrexton was still waxing poetic on some small, amusing piece of gossip when I delivered the glasses on a salver.

'—and Lady Brampton was aghast, of course, but what does she know of— Ah! Just what I required, Jeeves. I say, Bertie, you are absolutely right; your man is one in a million. Do you imagine we should bring him with us to Cannes?'

'Cannes?' Mr Wooster asked, taking his own glass with a whisper of thanks to me.

'Yes, I always go round this time of year. Did I not mention it? Well, at any rate, I desire you to come with me, if you have no pressing engagements. Do you not like Cannes? It can be very vulgar. Perhaps we should holiday elsewhere. Venice? Morocco? Only name your place, dear boy.' Mr Wrexton deigned to sit up in order to sip at his drink. I busied myself in setting out Mr Wooster's special box of cigarettes and a pair of ash trays, so as to hear the conversation.

'Jeeves, would you like to see Morocco?' Mr Wooster asked me, his blue eyes giddy and dancing with pleasure.

'I'm sure I don't know, sir.' I swept a modicum of dust from the mantelpiece.

My master ignored this lukewarm response, instead turning to address his companion. 'Jeeves loves to travel. Why, just the other day he was prodding me to take a look at all these brochures for round-the-world cruises. He also has the pash for Cuba, if I remember. Enjoys his fishing and shrimping, Jeeves does.'

'Perhaps you'd enjoy Rabat, Jeeves,' Mr Wrexton drawled as he lit himself a cigarette. 'I have half a mind to take a cottage there on the water. Oh, but it would be grand.'

'It sounds very pleasant, Mr Wrexton, thank you,' I managed to say. 'If you would excuse me, gentlemen.' And I bowed out to complete the luncheon preparations.

The meal was served without incident, though Mr Wooster and Mr Wrexton took the unorthodox approach of feeding each other most of the courses. For some reason, witnessing Mr Wrexton drop plump grapes onto Mr Wooster's waiting tongue wounded me more deeply than their most intimate lovemaking had. This was followed by a lazy hour spent at the piano, as Mr Wooster regaled his guest with his fine singing and song-playing before Mr Wrexton took up a place beside him on the piano bench to play several duets. They then returned to the chesterfield to lounge against each other, with Mr Wrexton periodically taking Mr Wooster's hand in his and brushing his lips over his knuckles.

I waited upon the gentlemen for much of this time, finding excuses to bring cocktails, light cigarettes, start a fire in the grate, answer the telephone, and any number of small tasks that I could find to occupy myself. However, when it became clear that all of my offices were seen to and Mr Wrexton was making no move to leave the flat for the evening, I was forced to trickle from the room with an unnecessary remark to Mr Wooster that he should ring if he needed me.

I sat in the kitchen and mechanically polished the silver while listening to the quiet murmurs of conversation and hushed laughter from the occupants of the sitting room. I do not recall ever feeling more alone as I did at that moment, with the happy couple on one side of the wall and I on the other. How foolish I felt for supposing I could ever supplant Mr Wrexton. What arrogance that I was convinced of my victory before the man had even crossed the threshold. As surely as I wanted to hate Thornton Wrexton, I had to admit that he appeared to be as enamoured of Mr Wooster as Mr Wooster was of him; that his infamous temper had not once shown itself that afternoon; that he treated my employer with all the affection and tenderness one would wish for; that his talk, idle though it may be, of future travels spoke of a longterm arrangement and not a flight of fancy; that he was, as far as I could tell, a very charming and affable young man, with a temperament very like my master's. In addition, he was a man of breeding with a sizable fortune at his disposal.

Indeed, as I tallied Mr Wrexton's positive traits alongside my own defects, I could not help but be cast into a black pit of self-loathing. I was certainly not able to measure up to the required standard when it came to Mr Wooster's heart, and the realisation caused me, I fear, some little emotion. A single silent tear fell on my cheek, tracking its way hotly down to the sweep of my jaw. I wiped it away hurriedly and continued buffing the silver serving dish in my hands.

I pretended with great resolution not to notice when the whispering voices moved from the sitting room to the master bedroom, as well as the sound of the door shutting.

The next morning I rose, as was my custom, at five o'clock to begin the day's chores. I was surprised to find Mr Wrexton already dressed and collecting his hat in the entry hall. I had guessed that his sleeping habits, like my employer's, would lean toward the languid side, and I had not expected to find him awake until well after sunrise. Nevertheless, I bid him good morning and offered to procure breakfast for him, but the gentleman demurred.

'Wish I had time, my good man,' Mr Wrexton said as he fished his walking stick from its stand, 'but I have an appointment at some ungodly hour this morning. Do tell Bertie I am sorry I had to go. I will see him this evening, of course; taking him to that new show at the Old Vic. Do you think he'll enjoy it? It's not the lightest entertainment, but he'd already seen all the West End musicals. I mean, what's a chap to do?'

I assured Mr Wrexton that Mr Wooster would undoubtedly appreciate the gesture, though in truth, the Shakespearean masterpiece currently playing at that theatre would probably not appeal to him. However, Mr Wrexton would never need know, as I was certain Mr Wooster would never mention it.

Mr Wrexton showed himself out and I continued in my usual morning routine, appearing at ten minutes past ten o'clock at Mr Wooster's bedside with a cup of Darjeeling.

Mr Wooster had not availed himself of his pyjamas the previous night, I saw. His bare shoulder, white and unblemished, sloped from the tops of the bedclothes, followed by an immaculate arm. If I cared to notice, the barest hint of his nude flank could be seen as well. I swallowed my baser impulses and coughed softly in my normal mode of waking him.

Mr Wooster is always a study in careless beauty upon waking, but this morning was perhaps made exceptional, as the langour from his previous night's activities made him especially wonderful to behold. His eyes opened by degrees before focusing on my face, and a soft smile lit his features. He stretched luxuriously, and when I suppose he noticed he was still naked beneath the sheets, memory dawned on him slowly; he turned to the now-empty side of his bed and frowned in a way that meant he was attempting to remember all the facts.

'Mr Wrexton left earlier this morning, sir,' I informed him. 'He sends his regrets.'

'Ah,' was Mr Wooster's reply, and he took the tea from my serving tray and inquired about the day's weather. He seemed unmoved, though I imagined I detected a small trace of disappointment that waking to find one's lover gone normally brings.

Over the course of the next few weeks, our flat was often graced with the presence of Mr Wrexton. He was constantly treating my master to theatre shows, dinners at the Ritz, and drives in the country. However, several occasions demanded that these plans be changed, as Mr Wrexton was at times unavailable or the victim of a sudden appointment. Mr Wooster never confided in me, but Mr Wrexton's own tone implied that he was wrapped up in some sort of complex business dealing. Indeed, I once couldn't help but overhear the tail end of a conversation alluding to such as I poured martinis in the parlour.

'—and then the capital must be managed in such a way that the interest is profitable, or there is no point at all! So you see, dear Bertie, it is all very subtle and delicate, and I must be present at that meeting with my banker and solicitor tomorrow afternoon.'

'I suppose so,' Mr Wooster, who was seated almost in his guest's lap, answered. 'But Thorny, I must say, I give all those problems over to my financial magician so I don't have to worry about it. He's an upstanding cove on Bond Street. My uncle used him for years and years and he's never steered me amiss.'

'Yes, darling, I know you have no head for business.' Mr Wrexton laid a kiss on the crown of this aforementioned head. 'And really, there's no reason you should ever worry about money. But I have my siblings depending on me, you see, and I really must put forth all my effort.'

Mr Wooster seemed to stiffen at this slight towards his intelligence, but he caught my eye across the room and instantly wilted. 'You're right, of course, Thorny. I'm sure I'll never understand all the ins-and-outs of this business you do. Jeeves has said I'm quite mentally negligible, and I'm sure he's right too.'

I nearly dropped the shaker. It is true I had once characterised Mr Wooster as 'mentally negligible' when describing him to another valet that was to replace me during my annual vacation, but I had only done so in an attempt to dissuade the man from seeking a permanent position while I was gone. That Mr Wooster had overheard this comment and taken it to heart had never been my intention. I opened my mouth to say so, but was cut short by Mr Wrexton's loud shout of laughter.

'You are quite a specimen, Jeeves!' he chortled. 'Why, I've handed my valets the mitten over smaller things than that. It's a wonder Bertie's kept you around what with you so boldly stating facts in such a manner. I hope you will never change. I need someone to keep this angel in line.' And he kissed Mr Wooster playfully on the neck while my master squirmed in delight.

I left the martinis unpoured and excused myself from the room.


Continue to Part 2.

Comments

[cerublu02.livejournal.com]

EEK! I just was about to go to bed and, on a whim, checked for new posts. EEK. Bed? NOW? HA! CANNOT WAIT TO READ. *BOUNCEBOUNCE*

four parts!
*off to read*

[muhsilisk.livejournal.com]

What a great thing to wake up and find this waiting for me.

I like Thorny. Am I supposed to like the enemy? D:

[mxdp.livejournal.com]

Just about to start studying and then - damn blast and double damn - WHAT DO MY EYES SEE?

*flail*

Is it Christmas again? :D

[mxdp.livejournal.com]

OMG WOMAN WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO JEEVES?

That said, I love it. It seems to me we both get a kick out of hurt Jeeves. Poor man. *hugs him*

[emeraldreeve.livejournal.com]

Great start! I love your descriptions of Bertie-especially the morning after one. I feel for Jeeves!

[bernie-laraemie.livejournal.com]

OMGGGGGGGGGG

SUDDDENLY

AWESOME FIC




COHERENT THOUGHTS LATER

[(Anonymous)]

...I was supposed to go to bed! I am very tired! Now I will be in pain tomorrow because I have to stay up and read this!

No love from this random person!

[wild-shadowfire.livejournal.com]

I don't like that Wrexton guy. Especially not with the way he's stated Bertie being "mentally negligible" (Jeeves, you arse) as "fact". Also, there's just something... fishy about him.
Going to read part 2 now.

[almostlifesized.livejournal.com]

Just popping in to say: JEEEEEEEVES! *hugs him*

[mithrel.livejournal.com]

OK, we all know Jeeves is gonna get rid of him (good thing too; he's irritating). So they only thing to wonder about is how. And knowing Jeeves, it'll be something fiendishly clever and subtle.

[ayamemishi.livejournal.com]

Ooh, I just finished this part and I'm looking forward to the rest, but I just had to comment because I love you explaining the infamous 'mentally negligible' comment.