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trieduntureTitle: Jeeves and the Female Doubles
Pairings: Jeeves/Wooster, OFC/OFC, and a smattering of het
Rating: PG-13
Beta: the always wonderful![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hwshipper
Warnings: Erm, a smattering of het? 3rd Person POV
Length: 20,900
Summary: Bertie's aunts are trying to get him hitched to a girl who is an awful lot like him. Also, Jeeves gets drunk, Claude and Eustace get blackmailed, and Seppings is on a mission to stamp out illicit liaisons.
<><><>
It was a rummy sitch any way you looked at it, literally every way you looked. What I mean to say is, one could look at Bertram W. Wooster and then glance over idly to the female getting out of the car, and one would have to do a sort of double-take, soda water-spitting jolt of shock that comes with seeing double. The girl looked too much like him, was the problem. Not to mention her maid was cut from exactly the same cloth as his valet. It was like holding up a mirror that somehow added skirts, and that just isn't cricket!
Hold on a moment.
You don't have the faintest idea what I'm babbling on about, do you? Well, isn't this just typical. I'm handed third person narration duties (instead of said duties going to the first person as usual, that is to say, B.W. Wooster) and I make a hash of it just as he usually does. You see, Bertie often makes the grave error of beginning a story in the middle and then doubling back to the beginning so it all makes sense. I promised myself I wouldn't do the same, but you know how these things are. You're a clever, omniscient being, flitting from one person's thoughts to the next when suddenly you get a bit excited and skip all the important parts of the story you're supposed to be telling. I promise I won't let it happen again. Forget all that guff about Bertie and Jeeves and their female doppelgangers, and I'll go directly to where it all started.
It began, as most disastrous things do, with a telephone call between two aunts.
The sisters Dahlia and Agatha were not what one would term 'close'. The siblings lived far apart, Agatha in London and Dahlia in the country. They saw each other during Christmastime; otherwise, their social calendars did not often brush shoulders. One of the reasons being that Dahlia considered her older sister to be a sour busybody, and Agatha thought her younger sister a loud-mouthed loony.
However, the sisters née Wooster could agree on one thing: their nephew needed all the help he could get.
Bertie was Dahlia's favourite nephew, as she had no taste for Agatha's twin sons, who were as big a boatload of trouble as you could squash into two people. No, it was Bertie whom Dahlia looked upon fondly, inviting him to her home at Brinkley Court for a small dose of his somewhat amusing company. It didn't hurt, of course, that his man Jeeves often smoothed over any dire predicaments in which Dahlia might find herself. At any rate, Dahlia had felt protective of young Bertie ever since his father had passed on. Bertie always had her ear, if not her complete sympathy, as he was sometimes just the most hopeless blighter who'd ever lived, in her opinion.
Agatha, on the other hand, chose to show her concern in a different manner. She saw in Bertie an opportunity that was fast slipping away, an idle boy contributing nothing to society in general or his family in particular. Agatha knew that, if it weren't for the meddling valet Jeeves, Bertie would have been married twenty times over, and perhaps would not weigh on her mind so much. But as it stood, Bertie remained wife-less and completely unmanageable. It was only because she loved the foul idiot in her own way that she pushed the matter. Agatha shuddered to think what would happen to him after his elder relations were gone.
It was in this environment of auntly worry that the telephone call took place.
Dahlia was the one to pick up the receiver and place the request with the operator. After an interminable wait for the connection, the butler's answering greeting, and the ensuing tracking down of the house's mistress, Dahlia finally found herself speaking to Agatha.
'Hullo, you great big frowning wrinkle,' Dahlia hailed her sister. It was a term of affection that she had used all through their shared childhood, a phrase which Agatha had never liked and still continued to sniff at.
Agatha, in fact, sniffed now. 'Dahlia, so you have made it back from Cannes in one piece, though perhaps your pocketbook has not been so lucky?'
'Never mind my pocketbook,' Dahlia snapped, who was in truth still smarting from a bad round at the roulette wheel. 'I wanted to discuss Bertie with you.'
'Bertie? What has the blasted young sponge done this time?'
'Nothing so far. However--'
'Yes, I agree,' Agatha riposted dryly. 'He has done absolutely nothing. His life is a meaningless pit of excess and--'
'Will you sew your trap shut for one bally moment? I'm trying to tell you something here, Aggie!' Though such an exchange might have offended the sensibilities of the man who was the centre of their conversation, it was a usual occurrence for the two sisters. They had never been very good at speaking to each other without such jabs entering into the dialogue.
Agatha bade her sister to continue with none of the grace in the world. Dahlia plunged ahead. 'I made the acquaintance of a young lady while in Cannes,' she began with a coy note building in the back of her booming voice.
'Who is she?' Agatha demanded, never one to beat round the bush. 'Who are her people?'
And so Dahlia related the tale of young Beatrice Wemble, of the Shropshire Wembles, who were of course related to the Shropshire Skoldding-Tipps. The poor thing, Dahlia sighed, was an orphan from a very young age, much like their nephew Bertram. And also like Bertram, Miss Wemble was possessed of a sunny disposition and a keen sense of humour. She had accompanied Dahlia on her many turns round the casino, and even when Dahlia had lost her entire purse on black 17 (a detail which she did not disclose to Agatha), Miss Wemble had been perfectly brilliant at cheering her up once more.
'I hardly ever do this, Agatha; I know you're the one who's always shoving girls onto poor Bertie; but I think this Wemble child could be just the ticket,' Dahlia concluded.
Agatha did not share her sister's enthusiasm. 'From your description, the girl does not sound at all suitable. Bertie's love of frivolity is too great. Think of how awful it would be if he were paired with a female just as irresponsible as he is,' she intoned. 'No, Bertie needs a wife that will provide a balance to his foolish nature. Someone firm and serious.'
Dahlia snorted. 'All the serious girls you've picked for Bertie have proved to be pills of the worst kind! It's no wonder he runs the other way when they appear bearing your label of approval.'
'How dare you say--'
'I'll say anything I damn well--'
And the two sisters began a bellowing match over the line until it crackled in protest and they needed to stop for air. Finally, when the last of the insults had been flung, Dahlia returned to her original line of thought.
'Aggie,' she tried sweetly, 'I'm on your side. I want to see Bertie happy and taken care of just as you do. But your tactics have not worked thus far, dear sister. Perhaps it's now time to try something wholly different.'
'I can only envision this plot ending in the most horrible failure,' Agatha said, sticking to her guns like a jam-covered Napoleon. 'I refuse to help you in any way.'
'May I remind you,' Dahlia added, 'that the Wemble fortune is quite extensive? And that the young Beatrice will be granted full access to it upon her marriage to a suitable gentleman?'
There was a short silence on Agatha's end of the line. 'Quite extensive, you say?'
'Incredibly so.'
'When you say "incredibly . . ."'
'Let's put it this way,' Dahlia said. 'If she ever got it into her head to steal Anatole from me, I don't think I could match the salary she would offer.'
'Oh. I see.' Agatha cleared her throat. 'I suppose that, at this late stage, with Bertie approaching his thirtieth year--'
'He's only twenty-five, Aggie!'
'That is still approaching,' the older sister snapped. 'And in light of that fact, Miss Wemble would be better than nothing. What would you have me do to usher along this union?'
'That's the spirit!' Dahlia chortled. 'First, whatever you do, don't tell him you approve of the match! That would be the iceberg that sinks this plan before it even gets out of port.'
'What else might I do?' Agatha asked icily.
'Claude and Eustace are on holiday from Oxford, correct?' At Agatha's affirmative, Dahlia ordered, 'Send them to Brinkley.'
And here is where Dahlia's cunning differed from that of her sister. Whereas Agatha had always exerted her will like a piano smashing through the floor after being dropped from a goodish height, Dahlia was content to set a trap for their little fox and wait. Claude and Eustace would provide a nice camouflage. That is to say, Dahlia knew that any aunt, even as one as beloved to Bertie as she, could not slap him on the back and say, 'What-ho, Bertie, I've found a girl I'm positive you'll go ga-ga for!' That way led only to ruin. No, Dahlia knew she couldn't be the one to plant the idea in Bertram's head. He would kick if she tried.
So when the twins arrived, she explained all to them over breakfast.
'And you two will be the ones to spring the idea on him,' she said at the conclusion of her speech. 'He won't listen to his wiser relations, but he might listen to you dunderheads, though the Lord only knows why.'
'Wait a moment,' Claude protested, 'why in the world would we want Bertie to get married?'
'Yes, he's corking fun just as he is!' Eustace broke in. 'If he got himself a wife, we wouldn't be able to drop in at his flat with fish and cats and stove-pipes all the bally time. And would a wife let Bertie float us a fiver every so often with the cousinly love he's so known for? No, I should say not.'
'Consider us on the anti-Wemble front,' Claude said with a firm nod as he took another kipper from the serving tray.
Dahlia's eyes flashed. 'You are about to switch fronts,' she said, 'unless, of course, you want your mother to find out about the loan from last term. What was the name of that horse? Pineapple Tart? She would be awfully disappointed that your allowances had been squandered so.'
'Blackmail!' shrieked Claude.
'Complete and utter blackmail!' Eustace agreed.
'Look, stay and eat my salt, by all means. I only ask you, foul nephews of mine, to do this one simple thing for me.'
What could the brothers Gregson do but agree?
Now, hold onto your travelling caps, gentle readers, because you're about to be inundated with the cast of characters that I was rushing to describe to you at the beginning bit. If you were Tom Travers, that is, Dahlia's husband, you'd no doubt be clutching your chest and bemoaning the fate of your house, beset like it was with blasted visitors. Tom Travers didn't much care for company, you see, so at the faintest hint from his good and deserving wife that several specimens were descending on the place, he legged it to Bath to take the cure.
So that's one less chap you'll need to be acquainted with, I suppose. Here are the rest of the lot.
Bertie and his man Jeeves pulled up in the two-seater a few hours prior to the dinner hour. Jeeves somehow managed to both retrieve the luggage from the back of the motorcar and open the driver's side door for Bertie. The last of the Woosters emerged in an understated and dashing tweed, shaking the metaphorical dust of the journey from his heels with a successful cigarette, which Jeeves lit before Bertie could find a match. Bertie inhaled deeply and looked up at the looming pile of bricks that was Brinkley Court before delivering his verdict to his faithful valet.
'Jeeves,' Bertie said, 'I daresay this is just what the doctor ordered for the young master. The company of my loving Aunt Dahlia, a belly full of Anatole's cooking, and two lungs pumped up with sweet, clean country air. I'm not afraid to tell you, Jeeves, just the sight of this homestead makes me feel boomps-a-daisy.'
'Indeed, sir,' Jeeves answered, but he wasn't facing Bertie as he responded. He was, instead, squinting down the long and winding drive to watch the progress of a dapper little self-starter as it trundled up. Bertie, who had heard the note of the preoccupied in his man's voice, turned as well. The footmen came and went with the baggage, and still the two men stood watching the approaching vehicle.
'Aunt Dahlia didn't mention any other guests, what?' Bertie asked, his nose scrunched in thought. 'Who do you suppose that is, Jeeves?'
'It's difficult to say, sir,' Jeeves replied in that lofty tone of his, 'as the vehicle is not familiar to me.'
The car gave a cheery toot of its horn before barrelling into the space next to Bertie's two-seater in a cloud of dust. The sleek green door was flung open on the driver's side, and a young woman emerged, laughing and unwrapping a scarf from her hair.
'I told you it was excellent weather for driving, Jane!' said the girl. 'Not a hair over two hours, what?'
Bertie exchanged a look with Jeeves. It wasn't that Bertie or Jeeves disapproved of female drivers; in fact, nearly all of Bertie's female acquaintances drove themselves when in town. It was just that Bertie wasn't too keen on any of them driving so fast. Women, on the whole, often hit things metaphorically even when on foot, like the Wooster pride and the Wooster spirit. On wheels, they could only be ten times as dangerous.
Still, a gentleman was required to make certain introductions. 'What ho, there.' Bertie stepped forward and extended a hand. 'Wooster, B.W. Eldest and most loved nephew of Travers, D.'
'Ah, Mr Wooster. Good to meet you, of course. Mrs Travers has told me ever so much--' The girl had reached her own slim, gloved hand forward at the same time she'd completed the mess of untangling her scarf from her hair. That task done, she was able to look Bertie fully in the face, and that was when her voice died.
Because it was very obvious to everyone present that they might have been siblings.
'Beatrice Wemble,' she finished with a little cough, taking Bertie's hand in hers.
Beatrice and Bertie shared the same pale skin and straw-coloured hair, the same wide blue eyes, even the same looks of dumb confusion as they sized up one another. Same considerable height, same willowy frame. Even their clothing ensembles seemed to match: Bertie's a dark brown travelling suit and Beatrice's a brown tweed skirt and jacket.
'My friends call me Bee,' she offered as they continued shaking hands for an awkward length of time. 'As in buzz.'
'Bertie,' the young man blurted. 'That's what my friends call me, of course, not you. They call you Bee, what?'
They actually even laughed the same nervous, trilling laugh.
As said laugh was exchanged, Jeeves looked on impassively. He might have been chastised for not following the footmen with the heavy baggage to ensure it was properly seen to, but he and Mr Wooster had been guests at Brinkley dozens of times now, and Jeeves was confident the men would put the bags in the usual room. It was this new development that worried him far more.
They even dabbed at their eyes after a hearty laugh in the same manner.
A new shape hove into view, rising from the passenger side of the Wemble automobile like a black storm cloud. It was the lady's maid, dressed in a starched uniform of stiff black cotton and a simple collar. Her face was inscrutable as she watched her mistress chat with Bertie Wooster, then surveyed the surrounding environment. She wore her jet black hair in a neat bun at her nape, and her head was topped with a small black travelling cap. Her eyes, serious and grey, stopped on Jeeves.
Jeeves shared her gaze for only a moment before deciding the gentlemanly thing to do would be to make his own introductions. He glided over to the maid and tipped his bowler hat. 'My name is Jeeves, ' he said.
The maid touched the brim of her own hat, a strange gesture, but still proper in its way. 'Roberts,' she replied. 'You appear familiar with this house, Mr Jeeves.'
'Yes, Miss Roberts. I would be happy to explain its inner workings to you, if you wish.' Jeeves knew, as all good valets did, that the visiting valet or lady's maid were often at a disadvantage in a large house, where the staff might choose to treat them with contempt for their airs and freedoms. Jeeves was lucky in that the Travers' staff were gracious on the whole, and he had a pleasant friendship with Seppings the butler.
'I shall keep your offer in mind if any quandaries arise, Mr Jeeves, thank you.' But Jane Roberts was not focused on her conversation partner; her sharp eyes were fastened on Beatrice and Bertie, who were currently comparing the sleek chrome bodies of their automobiles and arguing in a good-natured way about the other car's defects. Both seemed to be car enthusiasts of the artistic kind instead of the mechanical, Jane noted.
'You simply cannot tell me this isn't the most beautiful headlamp you've ever seen. Just look at it!' Bertie cajoled, drawing Beatrice's attention to his two-seater's eye pieces.
'But does it work, Mr Wooster? The '23 has always had a problem with shorts in the electrical. That's why you really must consider my '25 here.' And Beatrice dragged Bertie back to her self-starter.
'Yes, but I just can't abide what they did to the bonnet. I mean, really.' It was like watching a tennis match with two over-eager balls in play.
At that moment, the footmen returned for the lady's baggage, and Seppings strode forth with a few grooms to usher Jeeves and Roberts in one direction. Jeeves introduced Miss Roberts to Seppings, and the butler welcomed her with a stern warning under his breath: 'We've been having some problems lately with some of the younger servants breaking the rules of fraternisation after hours. I know I have nothing to fear from you, Mr Jeeves, and I do hope you will respect the rules of the house, Miss Roberts.' Jane assured him she would, and Jeeves voiced his own affirmation.
Dahila also made an appearance, her eyes unusually bright in Bertie's opinion.
'Ah, the young blot. You've arrived early for once. And Beatrice, how do you do? You've also cut some minutes from the trip, I suppose.' Dahila pressed kisses to several cheeks and then, not waiting for anyone to argue, said, 'Bertie, you will take Miss Wemble to see the gardens for me, won't you? I'm up to my ears right now in trouble. The twins are here, you know.'
'Claude and Eustace? Whatever for?' Bertie gaped, having never known his cousins to be welcome at Brinkley since they had smashed Uncle Tom's silver display case when they were still in short trousers.
'Never you mind, young Bertie. I'll see you both at dinner. Toddles!' And with that, Dahlia legged it. The grooms drove off with the cars to park them in the garage; the footmen exited with the baggage, and Roberts and Jeeves trailed behind Seppings.
Bertie and Beatrice were left very much alone in the drive.
Bertie cursed inwardly; the last thing he needed was another dratted beazel on his heels, especially one who favoured the '25 model.
Beatrice cursed inwardly; the last thing she needed was another dratted bird panting after her, especially one who favoured the '23.
But they met each other's eyes with quick smiles. 'Shall we?' Bertie asked, offering his arm like the preux chevalier he was.
'Yes, how delightful,' Bee answered and grasped his elbow like the charming lady she was.
<><><><>
From the window of the third floor Lavender Room, the one usually given to visiting single ladies, Jane Roberts watched her mistress walking below in the garden with Bertie Wooster. Jane's hands were occupied with hanging dresses and skirts in the wardrobe, but her eyes and mind were fastened on the movements of the two young people traipsing among the flowers and marble statuary. Though she couldn't hear their conversation, Jane could clearly imagine Beatrice's laugh that accompanied her thrown-back head and squeezed-shut eyes.
Jane's eyes narrowed. What was that Wooster boy saying that was so amusing, anyway?
'Miss Roberts?' a deep voice called softly from the open doorway.
Jane turned to find Wooster's valet standing there. He was very tall, she thought idly. 'Yes, Mr Jeeves?'
'I thought it prudent to see if you required any direction as to the household's layout,' Jeeves said, politely keeping to the hallway instead of stepping in uninvited. 'Are you in need of anything?'
'Actually, I would like to know if I might switch this bottle of Madeira with some whiskey.' Jane put away the silk stockings she was folding and motioned to the sidebar. 'Miss Wemble prefers it.'
'Does she?' Jeeves raised an impassive eyebrow.
Jane answered with one of her own. 'Indeed, she does.'
Jeeves coughed into his fist. 'I believe Mrs Travers might share your mistress' preference and stocks the ladies' rooms accordingly. If I may?' And with a permissive nod from Jane, Jeeves glided into the bedroom and opened the cupboard under the side table to retrieve a rather dusty bottle of scotch, its yellowed label peeling at the edges. 'Would this serve?'
'Thank you, yes.' Jane took the bottle and reached into her white apron for a clean cloth. She wiped the glass sides of the bottle as Jeeves glanced in a seemingly off-hand manner out the window. But Jane saw his gaze dart to where his master was strolling along with Beatrice. For a moment, seeing him was like looking into a mirror that reflected inside feelings, but it was just a fleeting moment, and then the valet was back to stone-faced nothingness.
'If other matters arise with which I might provide assistance, please do not hesitate to seek me out, Miss Roberts,' Jeeves said as he made his exit.
'Likewise, Mr Jeeves.' And Jane returned to unpacking.
<><><><>
At this exact moment, two identical lanky forms were lounging against the low garden wall. The two coves in question were Claude and Eustace Gregson , and they were smoking sullen cigarettes and awaiting the appearance of their cousin Bertie, who, their Aunt Dahlia had informed them, would be hoofing it into view momentarily along with the Wemble filly. Aunt Dahlia had ordered the twins to make Miss Wemble's acquaintance, shoo her indoors away from Bertie, and then plant the seed in Bertie's mind that the girl was hot stuff.
'I want you to pitch it strong,' their aunt had thundered. 'When you're done with him, I want no doubts left in Bertie's pea-brain. In fact, he should be wondering why he hasn't married the girl years ago. Got it, you two blisters?'
Claude and Eustace had nodded; what else could they do with Aunt Dahlia blackmailing them so unfairly?
'What shall we say to him if the beazel's an unmitigated wreck?' Eustace asked his brother. 'She might be as wide as she is tall, or have spots.'
Claude threw away the end of his gasper and blew the last mouthful of smoke to the sky. 'We'll lie through our teeth, I suppose. Call her Ruben-whatsit.'
A twig cracked somewhere, and the twins heard the high, twittering notes of Bertie's voice coming closer. They straightened themselves for their mission and waited for Bertie and Beatrice to turn the final corner.
Imagine their surprise when, instead of a dog-faced girl like they were expecting, they found that Bertie, too, had a twin of a sort. The Wemble was unmistakeably built in the same mould. She shared Bertie's frame and hair colour, even his laugh. It was downright strange, and the brothers shared a look that expressed their mutual distaste at such a pairing. Nevertheless, they had a job to do, and so they did it, ushering Beatrice indoors with a friendly greeting before taking their cousin aside for a word.
'That Wemble girl, Bertie.' Claude made a ring with his thumb and forefinger, nodding gravely. 'That's a keeper if ever I saw one.'
'Oh?' Bertie riposted.
'Certainly, old man,' Eustace jumped in. 'Why, it was obvious she's smitten. Did you not see the love-light burning in her eyes?'
'Well, we were only talking about Jeeves.' Bertie gestured to the garden path behind as if he could draw their attention to the past conversation. 'Did you know that Beatrice has a lady's maid that's a paragon of problem-solving just like him? It's really uncanny how--'
'Right! But!' Claude shot his brother a pleading look. 'She's a looker, isn't she?'
'The real Tabasco,' Eustace added.
'That hair. Those legs. You agree, Eustace?'
'Of course. Lips like an angel. Wouldn't you say, Claude?'
'Unreservedly. Couple that with the fact she's got a metric ton of money waiting for her wedding day, and you've got a real winner.'
Bertie sighed. He had watched his cousins fight over the same woman in the past and it never ended well. 'Look, if you two are over the moon for her, maybe I can say something to put you in her good graces. We're quite chummy now, I think.'
'Oh, no! Not us, Bertie.'
'No, we're too . . .'
'Unworthy!'
'Yes! Completely unfit to even wash her feet.'
'But she's ripe for you, old fruit.'
'It's patently clear.'
Bertie scrunched his face up in disbelief. 'Really?'
Claude and Eustace nodded in unison.
'Pardon me, sir.' Jeeves shimmered into view by the open french doors. 'Will you require a bath before dinner?'
'Erm, yes, thank you, Jeeves. Toodle-pip, you two. I'll strap on the nosebag with you later.' And Bertie left his cousins with a cheerful wave and a churning mind. Beatrice? In love with him? He'd only just met the girl. Bertie walked along the corridors and up the grand staircase with Jeeves silently slithering behind him.
'Jeeves, what do you make of Miss Wemble?' he asked suddenly as they ascended.
'A charming young lady, sir, though I have only just made her acquaintance.'
'Do you think she might be a bit mad?'
'I did not receive the impression of madness from Miss Wemble, sir.'
Bertie gave a thoughtful hum as he continued up the stairs. Jeeves waited a short beat before asking, 'Has the lady given you some indication to doubt her mental stability, sir?'
'No, not as such. Except Claude and Eustace assure me that she's absolutely potty about me.' Bertie shrugged and continued onward, unaware of Jeeves' growing frown.
In Bertie's assigned guest room, Jeeves relieved his master of his travelling jacket and shoes before excusing himself to run the water in the attached bath. Though Jeeves showed no outward sign that he desired to know more about this odd development, he merely waited for the rumblings in Bertie's head to be expressed vocally. It came as he was shaking the bath salts into the tub.
'Did you detect the light of love in her eyes as they landed on me, Jeeves?' Bertie demanded as he shucked his waistcoat.
'I could not say, sir.' Jeeves floated from the salle de bain, picking up Bertie's discarded clothing as the young master slid into the vacated bath.
Bertie continued the conversation through the cracked door. 'She seems to be a fine sort, do you think, Jeeves?' Bertie asked. 'That is to say, there are worse women to marry.'
Jeeves, though Bertie couldn't see him, restrained his eyebrow from raising wildly in worry. 'As you say, sir,' he said in a soupy manner.
'And Claude and Eustace assure me she is as toothsome as they come. Though, between us, Jeeves, I wasn't struck by Miss Wemble's singular beauty. Were you?' Bertie called through as he soaped up his chest.
Jeeves' brow furrowed at the question. If he were honest with his master, he would be forced to say he had noted Miss Wemble's physical loveliness, but that was only because she so closely resembled that which Jeeves found beautiful: Mr Wooster himself. Obviously, Jeeves was not able to speak his mind on the matter. Instead, he only murmured, 'Not particularly, sir.'
Bertie began to tick things off on his fingers. 'Beatrice is lively, has a sense of humour, enjoys cars and gardens, she hasn't tried to mould me, she hasn't forced me to read philosophy or modern literature, and she's possessed of a passable figure. Dash it, I've attempted to tie my fate to specimens a sight worse than that!'
Jeeves pursed his lips together as he laid out Bertie's white tie. He hadn't been asked a direct question, so he couldn't voice his opinion: that Miss Wemble would, in fact, not be a suitable wife for Mr Wooster, because no woman would ever be a suitable wife for Mr Wooster. He merely coughed in agitation.
'Jeeves, I--I think I will go have a chat with Miss Wemble before the gong is rung,' Bertie said in that dazed sort of voice he often developed when it became clear to him that he was about to get engaged again. 'Ensure that the shoes are shined, what?'
'Yes, sir. Very good, sir.' The frost in Jeeves' voice could have frozen the dinner roast.
<><><><>
Meanwhile, in Miss Wemble's room, Jane Roberts was busy choosing an appropriate gown for her mistress. Beatrice lounged on the bedspread in her dressing gown, not quite ready to bathe for dinner just yet.
'Oh, really, Jane. Must it be the white? I rather fancied the new green one for this evening.'
'The white is very becoming for one of your colouring, Miss Wemble,' Jane said placidly as she unpacked the regal gown and hung it to air. 'The green would not have been suitable, if you pardon my saying so.'
'You just don't like how it plunges in the back. I saw you eyeballing it with distaste when it arrived from the shop; don't try to deny it.' Beatrice stood and sauntered over to where Jane was folding a shawl into a neat square to place in the cedar wardrobe. She pressed herself against her maid's back and giggled into her ear. 'You haven't even packed the green one, have you?'
A sly smile crossed Jane's lips for only a moment. She replied in a light tone, 'I apologise, miss. It would appear to have slipped my mind.'
'All the girls are wearing backless gowns these days, Jane. Would you really deprive me so?' Beatrice wound her arms round Jane's slim waist, nosing her way into the fine black hairs that escaped the bun at the base of her neck. 'We can make a bargain. I'll forgive you the green dress if you allow me a spot of fun now.'
A firm hand rested on Beatrice's arms in a warning fashion. 'We are guests in an unfamiliar house, miss. I would not advise such a breach at the current--' Jane sucked in a quick breath as Beatrice nibbled on her right earlobe.
Those of you who don't know enough to read the label on the tin are no doubt shocked. 'Ladies!' you might gasp. 'Nibbling earlobes! Of other ladies, to boot!' Yes, I know, it's all very topsy turvey . But honestly, things would go much quicker if you closed your flapping mouths and let me narrate. Suffice to say that some ladies enjoy nibbling the earlobes of the more feminine aural organs. And furthermore, it would appear that Beatrice Wemble and her maid Jane were a pair of such ladies, and had been for some time. Only the ease of familiarity would have allowed a servant as staunch and proper as Jane to relax into her mistress' embrace, which she did with no real protest.
Now, in Jane's mind, several variables had to be weighed. On the one hand, there was a certain danger of being overheard by the house's inhabitants, but no more than in a hotel, and they had bally well done worse in hotels in the years they'd known each other as more than mistress and maid. Why, their recent trip to Cannes had been especially given to romps. On the other hand, Jane had cleverly foreseen that Miss Wemble would try to instigate such a bold manoeuvre, and she had locked the bedroom door while tidying just in case. So the matter, on her part, was settled, and she turned her head to return her mistress' kiss.
Unfortunately, Beatrice had also thought herself very clever and had 'locked' the door as well. Except she had really unlocked the door that Jane had previously locked. But when one is being kissed byone's incredibly capable maid, and guided to the large and fluffy bed, and generally being ravished, one doesn't always think of things like locking mechanisms. Needless to say there was an enthusiastic unfastening of clothing, interspersed with not a little mouthplay, with no thought being given to the door.
'You are swayed, then?' Beatrice asked with an impish grin as she rucked her maid's stiff black skirts up her smooth thighs.
'I would be, miss, if you wish it. There is some time yet before the dinner gong is rung.' Jane returned her lady's grin with a slightly raised ebony eyebrow and lowered them both to a more horizontal position. Quick hands went to work on silk stockings and their suspenders; dancing fingers traipsed over the belt of a dressing gown.
'Oh, Jane, I shall be able to think of nothing but this while sitting at the table,' the blonde girl murmured into Jane's coal-coloured hair, which was released from its strict bun to fall about her shoulders. 'Someone will comment on the weather, and I will have to stumble through a reply as I wrest my mind away from your wonderful mouth.'
'Really, miss?' Jane blinked her eyes in false innocence. 'Perhaps I should cease my ministrations so you do not undergo such deep embarrassment later this evening.' Her hand, however, belied her words, as it crept up her mistress' calf and tickled behind her knee. 'It would not do if Mr Wooster engaged you,' she said with a weighty pause, 'in conversation with your mental state being so far from normal.'
Beatrice propped herself up on her elbows. 'Jane, I don't like that soupy tone. I daresay I sense a tinge of jealousy in your voice.'
'Oh, no, miss. You must be mistaken.' That cheeky eyebrow was back in full force as Jane trailed her hand along Beatrice's sensitive, shaking-a-bit thigh. 'I merely fear for your well-being.'
Beatrice's dressing gown was now fully opened, and Jane's delicate fingers were skimming along the shimmering silks and laces of her myriad underthings. 'Jane, if you truly cared for my well-being, you'd be bending yourself to a more important task at the mo', don't you agree?'
Dark eyes flashed. 'Certainly, miss.' And Jane bent her dark head low, pushing aside the last few layers of clothing that separated her from Beatrice's womanhood. She tongued at the tiny nub of flesh directly above the opening there, a little button nestled in her curly hair. Beatrice hooked her legs round Jane's shoulders and arched into her touch like a wanton. Jane grinned into the soft skin of her mistress' thigh and listened to her singular purr.
'More, Jane. If you would?' Bee moaned softly.
'Indeed, miss.' Jane kissed at the crease where Beatrice's thigh met her hip. 'It would be my pleasure.'
It was about that time that Bertie Wooster burst into the room, saying, 'Beatrice, there's something I'd like to--OH GOOD LORD!'
Several things happened in rapid succession: Beatrice yelped and made an ungainly leaping roll, thumping onto the floor on the far side of the bed, where she was hidden from Bertie's gaze. Bertie gaped. Jane watched her mistress' retreat with a slight wince, but managed to yank the duvet free from the bed and wrap it about her frame much like a toga. Bertie continued to gape.
Jane stood as smoothly as one can when wearing a duvet. 'Mr Wooster,' she hissed, 'would you please close the door!'
'Er, right-ho, right-ho,' Bertie babbled, shutting the door with all his haste.
Beatrice's ruffled head of blonde hair appeared over the edge of the mattress. 'Bertie, you idiot, close the door with you on the other side of it!'
Bertie's eyes took on yet another layer of shock, and he struggled with the strangely slippery doorknob. 'Yes, of course! Dreadfully sorry, I mean to say. That is, yes, of course.'
'Just go!' Beatrice wailed, and Bertie finally got the bally door open and slipped through, slamming it shut behind him.
On one side of the door, a Wooster leaned heavily against the wood, panting like the dickens.
On the other side, Beatrice was sobbing into the duvet that was draped round her maid's shoulder. Jane rubbed her mistress' back and whispered assurances in her ear, but her steely gaze was fixed on the door and her mind was occupied with the consequences of this new development.
<><><><>
In truth, Jeeves had no real reason to remain in Mr Wooster's bedroom; he should have actually headed below stairs to perhaps lend a hand with the dinner service, as he usually did as a favour to Seppings, but he had lingered in order to ascertain the outcome of his master's proposal.
Jeeves was busying himself with a few minor tasks when Mr Wooster returned, looking pale and shaken. From the looks of Bertie's sweat-dotted brow, things had not gone smoothly.
'You have missed the cocktail hour, sir. Would you care for some refreshment before the gong is rung?' Jeeves asked, already pouring the brandy into a snifter.
Bertie took the glass from the offered salver without a word, his unblinking eyes still staring at the rug underfoot. The spirit was belted down as if it were a life-saving elixir, and Bertie finally addressed his valet: 'Jeeves. Women.'
'Yes, sir?'
'I mean to say, women, Jeeves.'
'Very true, sir.' Jeeves glided across the room and straightened his master's tie, which had drooped from its perfect butterfly shape since it had last been straightened only minutes before. 'If I may say so, sir, I agree with your sentiments.'
'No, Jeeves. I mean, you may. But, well, what I'm trying to ask here, Jeeves, is--' Bertie looked up sharply as Jeeves completed the perfecting of his tie. He suddenly realised that it might not be the preux thing to do, bandying about gossip about what a lady might get up to with her maid in the comfort of the bedroom. Bertie was certain that the act, whatever it was, had not been for prying eyes, and it probably wasn't his place at all to tell anyone about it, even Jeeves.
'Sir?' Jeeves prompted.
But before more could be said, the dinner gong rang out through the house, and Bertie had to hand his snifter over with a sigh.
Dinner was a stilted affair. Bertie was seated next to Beatrice, who was clad in a lovely white gown which only served to highlight her new beet red complexion. The twins were across the table, and Bertie had a suspicion that they were kicking him on purpose. Aunt Dahlia reigned from the head of the table, and Angela and Tuppy Glossop completed the little party.
Conversation between Bertie and Beatrice went something like this that evening:
'Quite nice soup,' Bertie mumbled into his soup bowl.
'Yes, very nice.' Beatrice reached convulsively for her wine glass, her eyes never meeting Bertie's.
Dahlia would attempt to use her power to force more chatter. 'Miss Wemble was such a talented card player in Cannes, Bertie,' she bellowed down the table. 'You've always enjoyed card games, haven't you?'
'Oh, yes.' Bertie pushed a pearl onion across his plate with the tines of his fork.
Dahlia glowered. 'Well, perhaps if you asked her nicely, Miss Wemble would consent to play a hand or two with you later.'
Without actually sharing eye contact with the girl, Bertie turned towards her and said haltingly, 'Would that be amenable to you, Miss Wemble?'
'Certainly, Mr Wooster,' Beatrice said to the air past Bertie's shoulder. She motioned to one of the underbutlers to refill her glass. Bertie soon followed her lead.
After the dishes were cleared away, the ladies were supposed to adjourn to the parlour for a bit of music or whatever ladies got up to after dinner (which Bertie was not inclined to think about at the moment) and the gentlemen were supposed to stay for the port, but Bertie and Beatrice both stood and said:
'I'm afraid I have--'
'--rather a terrible headache and--'
Which was only drawing more attention to their strangeness. But there was nothing for it, and the two legged it as quick as they could, not even looking at each other as they sped up the staircase.
<><><><>
Normally, Jeeves and Jane would have both come to their respective master and mistress at about the time of retiring for the night; nightclothes needed setting out, nightcaps had to be poured, and instructions for the next day's plans had to be received. However, in light of the day's developments, both Jeeves and Jane thought it prudent to instead spend their energies on gathering information and plotting the course they would take next. Independent of each other, the two servants laid out the nightclothes and left notes in their master's and mistress's bedrooms, stating that they were unable to aid them in their usual nighttime toilette, but that they would be there in the morning with the breakfast tray as normal.
And then, independently, Jane and Jeeves headed below stairs to seek out their most intelligent and resourceful ally: each other.
So when Bertie returned to his bedroom and found that he could not expect Jeeves' wise words that night, and when Beatrice saw she would not have Jane's sympathetic and reassuring presence, both were understandably miffed. So they, independent of each other as well, decided that they would wait until everyone was in bed and then sneak below stairs to find their respective servants.
Unfortunately for our two protagonists, Dahlia had other plans. Plans that included Eustace and Claude.
'It's time for the two of you to divide and conquer,' she told the brothers Gregson as an aside before the ladies were ushered from the dining room. 'I want you to go upstairs. Claude, you take Bertie. Eustace will take Beatrice. Stay on message: I want those young hearts entwined by week's end.'
'But Aunt Dahlia, can't we have some port first?' Claude begged.
'Tuppy will feel awfully lonely if we buzz off so soon,' Eustace pointed out.
Dahlia huffed. 'One drink. And then upstairs!'
So while Bertie and Beatrice were locked away in their bedrooms, planning how and when to best go below stairs and find Jeeves and Jane, Claude and Eustace were clomping up the stairs amid their dual grumbles.
'One glass of port was not nearly enough,' Eustace told his brother. 'This is a three glass job, in my opinion.'
'I don't mind telling you, dear sibling of mine, how wrong this all feels,' Claude muttered as they made the turn on the grand staircase.
'Like I said, Claude, it's a three glass--'
'No, you buffoon. I mean it feels wrong to be trying to tie old Bertie to this Wemble girl. Don't you think they're a bit too, well, alike?' Eustace asked.
'It is a bit eerie, I will admit. They even sneeze in the same horse-like manner.' Claude shuddered. 'But we have no choice. Bertie must get hitched if Aunt Dahlia is to be appeased.'
'I still think it's a rotten deal. And why do I have to take the girl? Won't that be awkward, me waltzing into her room?'
'Her maid will be there. It'll be like having a chaperon.' Claude clapped his twin on the shoulder. 'This is her floor. Godspeed.'
'Yes, same to you, you codfish,' Eustace growled as he stormed off to Miss Wemble's door. Claude plodded on to Bertie's floor.
Of course, when Eustace knocked on Beatrice Wemble's door, she flung it open eagerly, thinking it was Jane, returning at last despite her note saying otherwise. But when she saw it was only one of Bertie's cousins, the look of relief slid from her face, replaced by a dissatisfied frown. 'Oh,erm, Eustace, wasn't it? How may I help you?' she asked.
'Just come for a small chat, Miss Wemble. If you have a moment?'
Beatrice didn't see what else she could do; she was still wearing her gown from dinner, having not wanted to change into her nightclothes before she snuck downstairs, so she couldn't even feign that she was about to go to sleep. She opened her door wider and beckoned Eustace inside. The young man entered with hearty thanks, but faltered when he saw they were alone. 'Oh, is your maid not in?'
'She went on some errand or other. Can I get you a whiskey?' Beatrice began pouring herself one.
'Please. Listen, Miss Wemble, I've come here as a sort of agent for my cousin Bertie.' Eustace seated himself in one of the plush chairs by the empty fireplace. The ladies really did get the most posh rooms, he thought, looking round the place.
The bottle nearly slipped from Beatrice's hand. 'Bertie sent you?' she asked in a shaky voice.
'The thing is, he thinks you're hot stuff, you see.' Eustace examined his fingernails and noted that he would need a manicure soon. 'He's really quite taken with you.'
Beatrice turned, her face creased in confusion and her hands clutching the two glasses of w. and s. Her eyes were clouded. 'When did he tell you this, if you don't mind me asking?'
'Why, just before he sprinted from the dining room,' Eustace answered, giving himself a mental pat on the back for his quick thinking. 'That's why he excused himself, you know. Says you give him the butterflies.'
'The butterflies?' Beatrice repeated.
'Absolutely.' One half of the Gregson twins took a glass from Beatrice's slack hand and sipped at it. 'Won't talk about anything else. I only thought to mention it because, well, Bertie sometimes has a difficult time speaking to beautiful women. Perhaps you could do us a favour and go easy on him? If he sticks his foot in his mouth, understand it's not his fault?'
'And--and he didn't mention anything else to you? About me?' the young lady stuttered.
Eustace blinked at her. 'Just that he's completely potty for you. How about yourself? I know Bertie's a hopeless case, but he's not a bad sort. Could you possibly see yourself, you know, with the big lout?'
'Well, I, that is, I'm sure I don't know.' Beatrice's mind was all in a whirl. How could Bertie want her after what he'd seen that evening? Was he actually intrigued by the thought of what she and Jane were? Did he think he could cure her, as some men had tried in the past? Her stomach churned at the idea, and the drink she was draining didn't seem to be helping at all.
'No need to come to a decision just now, of course,' Eustace said, breaking into her train of thought. 'Only wanted to prepare you for the blow. I mean, the surprise.' He chuckled nervously and belted back the rest of his whiskey. 'I should be going, I think. Thank you for the drink.'
And he beat a hasty retreat, confident that his task had been seen to.
Meanwhile, Claude was having a harder time capturing Bertie's attention. 'Bertie, I have something important to tell you! It's about Miss--'
'Really, Claude, I don't have a spare moment right now,' Bertie hissed from the slit of space that he allowed in his door opening. He was too preoccupied with trying to remember where Jeeves' room might be below stairs; he had no time for cousins.
'But honestly, old thing, I must tell you--'
'My head is just pounding. You can tell me in the morning.' And Bertie slammed the door on him.
The twins met up once again on the landing of the staircase.
'I think I made some good progress with the Wemble girl,' Eustace reported. 'How did you get on?'
Claude lit a guilty cigarette. 'Fairly well, I reckon. Let's go see if Tuppy still has control of the port, shall we?' And as far as the twins were concerned, their job was done.
<><><><>
At that same time, Jeeves had just ducked into the room that was set aside for visiting maids and found it empty. He cursed to himself and turned to leave again, but caught sight of Seppings striding down the hall. Knowing he would have no way to explain why he was in a female's room, Jeeves shut the door and stayed within; hiding in the empty room was the better tactic, he reasoned. Who knew how long Seppings would be wandering the halls, searching out immoral stable boys and scullery maids? It was best, Jeeves decided, to stay in Miss Roberts' room and await her return.
Besides, he mused as he glanced at the stack of books on her dressing table, he would not be averse to re-reading Plato's Republic.
Jane Roberts, meanwhile, was in much the same quandary. She had infiltrated the room for visiting valets in the men's wing only to find Jeeves missing. However, she did not have the luxury of staying to wait for him, as Tuppy Glossop's valet was also sharing the room as evidenced by the valise on the second bed. Jane peeked into the hall to see Seppings bustling by on his rounds, and she knew she would have to time her escape to miss the butler and the other male servants in the halls. Jane watched at the cracked open door, waiting for the right moment to make her move.
In time, Dahlia and the rest of the guests retired to their rooms, and the servants made preparations for their own day's end. Bertie waited in his dark room, still in his shirtsleeves, coiled like a spring and listening for the last door on his floor to close for the night. Beatrice did much the same, throwing her dressing gown over her white dress, since she didn't think that was a good colour for midnight espionage.
Bertie was the first to creep downstairs and through the red baize door. He didn't have a clue in which direction he might find Jeeves, so he took a right on chance. Beatrice was pushing through the baize door only a few moments later, and she took a left. At the same time, Jane was forced to leave Jeeves' room; Glossop's valet could be heard down the hallway and she was certain he would barge in the room soon.
And so it happened that Jane Roberts ran into Bertie Wooster in the darkened hallway. 'Oh, dear me, I am awfully sorry. It's Miss Roberts, isn't it?' Bertie said, peering at her face in the dim light.
'Mr Wooster, could you please keep your voice down?' Jane murmured.
A few yards down the hall, Jeeves lifted his head from the book he was reading. He knew his master's voice anywhere, and this was the last place it should have been. He crept into the hall as well, moving with all due stealth towards the sound.
Beatrice, to her credit, was moving so carefully down the hall in the opposite direction that she was able to spot Seppings heading her way and was able to reverse course quite speedily.
'Really, Jane,' Bertie continued chatting, 'I'm only looking for Jeeves. Do you have any idea which way I might find him? I haven't a bally clue.'
'You're not supposed to be down here, sir,' Jane warned. Her face flamed as she recalled what this gentleman had witnessed earlier. 'And you're certainly not supposed to be in the female staff's wing.'
It was then that Jeeves hovered onto the scene. 'Sir? Are you in need of some assistance?' he asked. 'You really should not be here, sir.'
'Oh, Jeeves! Are you in the female wing too? I was just looking for--'
'Oi!' a whispered shout came from behind them. All three turned to see Beatrice rushing towards them like the hounds of Hades were on her heels. 'Seppings! He's right behind me.'
Both Jane and Jeeves surveyed the surrounding area and quickly came to the same conclusion: there was only one available hiding place.
'Into the cupboard,' Jeeves ordered. 'Ladies first, of course.'
He held the door for Beatrice and Jane, and then hurried Bertie inside as well before squeezing his own frame into the small space and shutting the door behind him. It was a very tight fit in the cupboard. All four inhabitants held their breath as the measured tread of the butler came closer and closer.
Beatrice, unable to stop herself from shaking, curled her fingers round her maid's thigh. Jane stiffened and gave her mistress a stern swat of her hand, but unfortunately she hit Bertie in the ribs as well. Bertie had to muffle his cry by clapping a hand over his mouth, and Jeeves' hand joined his over his lips just to be safe.
The four of them froze as Seppings stopped outside the cupboard. His shadow flickered under the door, and they heard him cough right on the other side. There was a snick of a lighter and the faint smell of cigarette smoke.
Bally hell, Bertie thought with a roll of his eyes. What a place for a smoke break.
Jeeves was pressed rather close against his back, and Beatrice was wedged rather unpleasantly across his front. Bertie attempted to wriggle into a more comfortable position, but apparently he brushed against something rather delicate, because Beatrice gave a sharp gasp and Jane's hand was immediately wrapped round his wrist and crushing it in a dashed powerful grip. Bertie tried to remedy the situation by backing away as much as he could, but this put him in even more contact with Jeeves' front, and he could feel the valet sucking in a large quantity of air at the touch.
'Sorry,' Bertie said as quietly as he could beneath his and Jeeves' hands, which were still clamped over his mouth. Jeeves must have felt the movement of his lips, because he nodded a bit against his shoulder.
Jane finally dropped Bertie's pained wrist and the four of them struggled to remain still and silent. Seppings' shadow moved right, then left, but did not disappear completely. They watched it carefully, but it remained right there.
Bertie was beginning to feel a bit faint. The close quarters, combined with the strong scents from Beatrice's perfume and Jeeves' own spicy masculine aftershave were beginning to go to his head. He closed his eyes to try and get his bearings, but his knees wobbled and he swayed a little. Jeeves caught him about the waist and held him tight.
Jane gazed knowingly at Jeeves in the dark cupboard. The valet returned her stare with a glare of his own. Beatrice remained impervious to the eye-beams and patted Bertie's cheek to comfort him. Bertie gave her a watery yet reassuring smile.
More glares were shared on the servant end of things, and blushes began painting the cheeks of the lady and gentleman.
Finally, Seppings began to shove off, his shoes clicking a military beat into the distance. After a few moments of breathless silence, the whole lot stumbled out of the cupboard and into the empty hallway.
'I believe I should escort you back to your room, Miss Wemble,' Jane said.
Jeeves raised an eyebrow. 'And I shall do the same for you, Mr Wooster,' he said in an icy tone.
Continue to Part 2.
Pairings: Jeeves/Wooster, OFC/OFC, and a smattering of het
Rating: PG-13
Beta: the always wonderful
hwshipperWarnings: Erm, a smattering of het? 3rd Person POV
Length: 20,900
Summary: Bertie's aunts are trying to get him hitched to a girl who is an awful lot like him. Also, Jeeves gets drunk, Claude and Eustace get blackmailed, and Seppings is on a mission to stamp out illicit liaisons.
<><><>
It was a rummy sitch any way you looked at it, literally every way you looked. What I mean to say is, one could look at Bertram W. Wooster and then glance over idly to the female getting out of the car, and one would have to do a sort of double-take, soda water-spitting jolt of shock that comes with seeing double. The girl looked too much like him, was the problem. Not to mention her maid was cut from exactly the same cloth as his valet. It was like holding up a mirror that somehow added skirts, and that just isn't cricket!
Hold on a moment.
You don't have the faintest idea what I'm babbling on about, do you? Well, isn't this just typical. I'm handed third person narration duties (instead of said duties going to the first person as usual, that is to say, B.W. Wooster) and I make a hash of it just as he usually does. You see, Bertie often makes the grave error of beginning a story in the middle and then doubling back to the beginning so it all makes sense. I promised myself I wouldn't do the same, but you know how these things are. You're a clever, omniscient being, flitting from one person's thoughts to the next when suddenly you get a bit excited and skip all the important parts of the story you're supposed to be telling. I promise I won't let it happen again. Forget all that guff about Bertie and Jeeves and their female doppelgangers, and I'll go directly to where it all started.
It began, as most disastrous things do, with a telephone call between two aunts.
The sisters Dahlia and Agatha were not what one would term 'close'. The siblings lived far apart, Agatha in London and Dahlia in the country. They saw each other during Christmastime; otherwise, their social calendars did not often brush shoulders. One of the reasons being that Dahlia considered her older sister to be a sour busybody, and Agatha thought her younger sister a loud-mouthed loony.
However, the sisters née Wooster could agree on one thing: their nephew needed all the help he could get.
Bertie was Dahlia's favourite nephew, as she had no taste for Agatha's twin sons, who were as big a boatload of trouble as you could squash into two people. No, it was Bertie whom Dahlia looked upon fondly, inviting him to her home at Brinkley Court for a small dose of his somewhat amusing company. It didn't hurt, of course, that his man Jeeves often smoothed over any dire predicaments in which Dahlia might find herself. At any rate, Dahlia had felt protective of young Bertie ever since his father had passed on. Bertie always had her ear, if not her complete sympathy, as he was sometimes just the most hopeless blighter who'd ever lived, in her opinion.
Agatha, on the other hand, chose to show her concern in a different manner. She saw in Bertie an opportunity that was fast slipping away, an idle boy contributing nothing to society in general or his family in particular. Agatha knew that, if it weren't for the meddling valet Jeeves, Bertie would have been married twenty times over, and perhaps would not weigh on her mind so much. But as it stood, Bertie remained wife-less and completely unmanageable. It was only because she loved the foul idiot in her own way that she pushed the matter. Agatha shuddered to think what would happen to him after his elder relations were gone.
It was in this environment of auntly worry that the telephone call took place.
Dahlia was the one to pick up the receiver and place the request with the operator. After an interminable wait for the connection, the butler's answering greeting, and the ensuing tracking down of the house's mistress, Dahlia finally found herself speaking to Agatha.
'Hullo, you great big frowning wrinkle,' Dahlia hailed her sister. It was a term of affection that she had used all through their shared childhood, a phrase which Agatha had never liked and still continued to sniff at.
Agatha, in fact, sniffed now. 'Dahlia, so you have made it back from Cannes in one piece, though perhaps your pocketbook has not been so lucky?'
'Never mind my pocketbook,' Dahlia snapped, who was in truth still smarting from a bad round at the roulette wheel. 'I wanted to discuss Bertie with you.'
'Bertie? What has the blasted young sponge done this time?'
'Nothing so far. However--'
'Yes, I agree,' Agatha riposted dryly. 'He has done absolutely nothing. His life is a meaningless pit of excess and--'
'Will you sew your trap shut for one bally moment? I'm trying to tell you something here, Aggie!' Though such an exchange might have offended the sensibilities of the man who was the centre of their conversation, it was a usual occurrence for the two sisters. They had never been very good at speaking to each other without such jabs entering into the dialogue.
Agatha bade her sister to continue with none of the grace in the world. Dahlia plunged ahead. 'I made the acquaintance of a young lady while in Cannes,' she began with a coy note building in the back of her booming voice.
'Who is she?' Agatha demanded, never one to beat round the bush. 'Who are her people?'
And so Dahlia related the tale of young Beatrice Wemble, of the Shropshire Wembles, who were of course related to the Shropshire Skoldding-Tipps. The poor thing, Dahlia sighed, was an orphan from a very young age, much like their nephew Bertram. And also like Bertram, Miss Wemble was possessed of a sunny disposition and a keen sense of humour. She had accompanied Dahlia on her many turns round the casino, and even when Dahlia had lost her entire purse on black 17 (a detail which she did not disclose to Agatha), Miss Wemble had been perfectly brilliant at cheering her up once more.
'I hardly ever do this, Agatha; I know you're the one who's always shoving girls onto poor Bertie; but I think this Wemble child could be just the ticket,' Dahlia concluded.
Agatha did not share her sister's enthusiasm. 'From your description, the girl does not sound at all suitable. Bertie's love of frivolity is too great. Think of how awful it would be if he were paired with a female just as irresponsible as he is,' she intoned. 'No, Bertie needs a wife that will provide a balance to his foolish nature. Someone firm and serious.'
Dahlia snorted. 'All the serious girls you've picked for Bertie have proved to be pills of the worst kind! It's no wonder he runs the other way when they appear bearing your label of approval.'
'How dare you say--'
'I'll say anything I damn well--'
And the two sisters began a bellowing match over the line until it crackled in protest and they needed to stop for air. Finally, when the last of the insults had been flung, Dahlia returned to her original line of thought.
'Aggie,' she tried sweetly, 'I'm on your side. I want to see Bertie happy and taken care of just as you do. But your tactics have not worked thus far, dear sister. Perhaps it's now time to try something wholly different.'
'I can only envision this plot ending in the most horrible failure,' Agatha said, sticking to her guns like a jam-covered Napoleon. 'I refuse to help you in any way.'
'May I remind you,' Dahlia added, 'that the Wemble fortune is quite extensive? And that the young Beatrice will be granted full access to it upon her marriage to a suitable gentleman?'
There was a short silence on Agatha's end of the line. 'Quite extensive, you say?'
'Incredibly so.'
'When you say "incredibly . . ."'
'Let's put it this way,' Dahlia said. 'If she ever got it into her head to steal Anatole from me, I don't think I could match the salary she would offer.'
'Oh. I see.' Agatha cleared her throat. 'I suppose that, at this late stage, with Bertie approaching his thirtieth year--'
'He's only twenty-five, Aggie!'
'That is still approaching,' the older sister snapped. 'And in light of that fact, Miss Wemble would be better than nothing. What would you have me do to usher along this union?'
'That's the spirit!' Dahlia chortled. 'First, whatever you do, don't tell him you approve of the match! That would be the iceberg that sinks this plan before it even gets out of port.'
'What else might I do?' Agatha asked icily.
'Claude and Eustace are on holiday from Oxford, correct?' At Agatha's affirmative, Dahlia ordered, 'Send them to Brinkley.'
And here is where Dahlia's cunning differed from that of her sister. Whereas Agatha had always exerted her will like a piano smashing through the floor after being dropped from a goodish height, Dahlia was content to set a trap for their little fox and wait. Claude and Eustace would provide a nice camouflage. That is to say, Dahlia knew that any aunt, even as one as beloved to Bertie as she, could not slap him on the back and say, 'What-ho, Bertie, I've found a girl I'm positive you'll go ga-ga for!' That way led only to ruin. No, Dahlia knew she couldn't be the one to plant the idea in Bertram's head. He would kick if she tried.
So when the twins arrived, she explained all to them over breakfast.
'And you two will be the ones to spring the idea on him,' she said at the conclusion of her speech. 'He won't listen to his wiser relations, but he might listen to you dunderheads, though the Lord only knows why.'
'Wait a moment,' Claude protested, 'why in the world would we want Bertie to get married?'
'Yes, he's corking fun just as he is!' Eustace broke in. 'If he got himself a wife, we wouldn't be able to drop in at his flat with fish and cats and stove-pipes all the bally time. And would a wife let Bertie float us a fiver every so often with the cousinly love he's so known for? No, I should say not.'
'Consider us on the anti-Wemble front,' Claude said with a firm nod as he took another kipper from the serving tray.
Dahlia's eyes flashed. 'You are about to switch fronts,' she said, 'unless, of course, you want your mother to find out about the loan from last term. What was the name of that horse? Pineapple Tart? She would be awfully disappointed that your allowances had been squandered so.'
'Blackmail!' shrieked Claude.
'Complete and utter blackmail!' Eustace agreed.
'Look, stay and eat my salt, by all means. I only ask you, foul nephews of mine, to do this one simple thing for me.'
What could the brothers Gregson do but agree?
Now, hold onto your travelling caps, gentle readers, because you're about to be inundated with the cast of characters that I was rushing to describe to you at the beginning bit. If you were Tom Travers, that is, Dahlia's husband, you'd no doubt be clutching your chest and bemoaning the fate of your house, beset like it was with blasted visitors. Tom Travers didn't much care for company, you see, so at the faintest hint from his good and deserving wife that several specimens were descending on the place, he legged it to Bath to take the cure.
So that's one less chap you'll need to be acquainted with, I suppose. Here are the rest of the lot.
Bertie and his man Jeeves pulled up in the two-seater a few hours prior to the dinner hour. Jeeves somehow managed to both retrieve the luggage from the back of the motorcar and open the driver's side door for Bertie. The last of the Woosters emerged in an understated and dashing tweed, shaking the metaphorical dust of the journey from his heels with a successful cigarette, which Jeeves lit before Bertie could find a match. Bertie inhaled deeply and looked up at the looming pile of bricks that was Brinkley Court before delivering his verdict to his faithful valet.
'Jeeves,' Bertie said, 'I daresay this is just what the doctor ordered for the young master. The company of my loving Aunt Dahlia, a belly full of Anatole's cooking, and two lungs pumped up with sweet, clean country air. I'm not afraid to tell you, Jeeves, just the sight of this homestead makes me feel boomps-a-daisy.'
'Indeed, sir,' Jeeves answered, but he wasn't facing Bertie as he responded. He was, instead, squinting down the long and winding drive to watch the progress of a dapper little self-starter as it trundled up. Bertie, who had heard the note of the preoccupied in his man's voice, turned as well. The footmen came and went with the baggage, and still the two men stood watching the approaching vehicle.
'Aunt Dahlia didn't mention any other guests, what?' Bertie asked, his nose scrunched in thought. 'Who do you suppose that is, Jeeves?'
'It's difficult to say, sir,' Jeeves replied in that lofty tone of his, 'as the vehicle is not familiar to me.'
The car gave a cheery toot of its horn before barrelling into the space next to Bertie's two-seater in a cloud of dust. The sleek green door was flung open on the driver's side, and a young woman emerged, laughing and unwrapping a scarf from her hair.
'I told you it was excellent weather for driving, Jane!' said the girl. 'Not a hair over two hours, what?'
Bertie exchanged a look with Jeeves. It wasn't that Bertie or Jeeves disapproved of female drivers; in fact, nearly all of Bertie's female acquaintances drove themselves when in town. It was just that Bertie wasn't too keen on any of them driving so fast. Women, on the whole, often hit things metaphorically even when on foot, like the Wooster pride and the Wooster spirit. On wheels, they could only be ten times as dangerous.
Still, a gentleman was required to make certain introductions. 'What ho, there.' Bertie stepped forward and extended a hand. 'Wooster, B.W. Eldest and most loved nephew of Travers, D.'
'Ah, Mr Wooster. Good to meet you, of course. Mrs Travers has told me ever so much--' The girl had reached her own slim, gloved hand forward at the same time she'd completed the mess of untangling her scarf from her hair. That task done, she was able to look Bertie fully in the face, and that was when her voice died.
Because it was very obvious to everyone present that they might have been siblings.
'Beatrice Wemble,' she finished with a little cough, taking Bertie's hand in hers.
Beatrice and Bertie shared the same pale skin and straw-coloured hair, the same wide blue eyes, even the same looks of dumb confusion as they sized up one another. Same considerable height, same willowy frame. Even their clothing ensembles seemed to match: Bertie's a dark brown travelling suit and Beatrice's a brown tweed skirt and jacket.
'My friends call me Bee,' she offered as they continued shaking hands for an awkward length of time. 'As in buzz.'
'Bertie,' the young man blurted. 'That's what my friends call me, of course, not you. They call you Bee, what?'
They actually even laughed the same nervous, trilling laugh.
As said laugh was exchanged, Jeeves looked on impassively. He might have been chastised for not following the footmen with the heavy baggage to ensure it was properly seen to, but he and Mr Wooster had been guests at Brinkley dozens of times now, and Jeeves was confident the men would put the bags in the usual room. It was this new development that worried him far more.
They even dabbed at their eyes after a hearty laugh in the same manner.
A new shape hove into view, rising from the passenger side of the Wemble automobile like a black storm cloud. It was the lady's maid, dressed in a starched uniform of stiff black cotton and a simple collar. Her face was inscrutable as she watched her mistress chat with Bertie Wooster, then surveyed the surrounding environment. She wore her jet black hair in a neat bun at her nape, and her head was topped with a small black travelling cap. Her eyes, serious and grey, stopped on Jeeves.
Jeeves shared her gaze for only a moment before deciding the gentlemanly thing to do would be to make his own introductions. He glided over to the maid and tipped his bowler hat. 'My name is Jeeves, ' he said.
The maid touched the brim of her own hat, a strange gesture, but still proper in its way. 'Roberts,' she replied. 'You appear familiar with this house, Mr Jeeves.'
'Yes, Miss Roberts. I would be happy to explain its inner workings to you, if you wish.' Jeeves knew, as all good valets did, that the visiting valet or lady's maid were often at a disadvantage in a large house, where the staff might choose to treat them with contempt for their airs and freedoms. Jeeves was lucky in that the Travers' staff were gracious on the whole, and he had a pleasant friendship with Seppings the butler.
'I shall keep your offer in mind if any quandaries arise, Mr Jeeves, thank you.' But Jane Roberts was not focused on her conversation partner; her sharp eyes were fastened on Beatrice and Bertie, who were currently comparing the sleek chrome bodies of their automobiles and arguing in a good-natured way about the other car's defects. Both seemed to be car enthusiasts of the artistic kind instead of the mechanical, Jane noted.
'You simply cannot tell me this isn't the most beautiful headlamp you've ever seen. Just look at it!' Bertie cajoled, drawing Beatrice's attention to his two-seater's eye pieces.
'But does it work, Mr Wooster? The '23 has always had a problem with shorts in the electrical. That's why you really must consider my '25 here.' And Beatrice dragged Bertie back to her self-starter.
'Yes, but I just can't abide what they did to the bonnet. I mean, really.' It was like watching a tennis match with two over-eager balls in play.
At that moment, the footmen returned for the lady's baggage, and Seppings strode forth with a few grooms to usher Jeeves and Roberts in one direction. Jeeves introduced Miss Roberts to Seppings, and the butler welcomed her with a stern warning under his breath: 'We've been having some problems lately with some of the younger servants breaking the rules of fraternisation after hours. I know I have nothing to fear from you, Mr Jeeves, and I do hope you will respect the rules of the house, Miss Roberts.' Jane assured him she would, and Jeeves voiced his own affirmation.
Dahila also made an appearance, her eyes unusually bright in Bertie's opinion.
'Ah, the young blot. You've arrived early for once. And Beatrice, how do you do? You've also cut some minutes from the trip, I suppose.' Dahila pressed kisses to several cheeks and then, not waiting for anyone to argue, said, 'Bertie, you will take Miss Wemble to see the gardens for me, won't you? I'm up to my ears right now in trouble. The twins are here, you know.'
'Claude and Eustace? Whatever for?' Bertie gaped, having never known his cousins to be welcome at Brinkley since they had smashed Uncle Tom's silver display case when they were still in short trousers.
'Never you mind, young Bertie. I'll see you both at dinner. Toddles!' And with that, Dahlia legged it. The grooms drove off with the cars to park them in the garage; the footmen exited with the baggage, and Roberts and Jeeves trailed behind Seppings.
Bertie and Beatrice were left very much alone in the drive.
Bertie cursed inwardly; the last thing he needed was another dratted beazel on his heels, especially one who favoured the '25 model.
Beatrice cursed inwardly; the last thing she needed was another dratted bird panting after her, especially one who favoured the '23.
But they met each other's eyes with quick smiles. 'Shall we?' Bertie asked, offering his arm like the preux chevalier he was.
'Yes, how delightful,' Bee answered and grasped his elbow like the charming lady she was.
<><><><>
From the window of the third floor Lavender Room, the one usually given to visiting single ladies, Jane Roberts watched her mistress walking below in the garden with Bertie Wooster. Jane's hands were occupied with hanging dresses and skirts in the wardrobe, but her eyes and mind were fastened on the movements of the two young people traipsing among the flowers and marble statuary. Though she couldn't hear their conversation, Jane could clearly imagine Beatrice's laugh that accompanied her thrown-back head and squeezed-shut eyes.
Jane's eyes narrowed. What was that Wooster boy saying that was so amusing, anyway?
'Miss Roberts?' a deep voice called softly from the open doorway.
Jane turned to find Wooster's valet standing there. He was very tall, she thought idly. 'Yes, Mr Jeeves?'
'I thought it prudent to see if you required any direction as to the household's layout,' Jeeves said, politely keeping to the hallway instead of stepping in uninvited. 'Are you in need of anything?'
'Actually, I would like to know if I might switch this bottle of Madeira with some whiskey.' Jane put away the silk stockings she was folding and motioned to the sidebar. 'Miss Wemble prefers it.'
'Does she?' Jeeves raised an impassive eyebrow.
Jane answered with one of her own. 'Indeed, she does.'
Jeeves coughed into his fist. 'I believe Mrs Travers might share your mistress' preference and stocks the ladies' rooms accordingly. If I may?' And with a permissive nod from Jane, Jeeves glided into the bedroom and opened the cupboard under the side table to retrieve a rather dusty bottle of scotch, its yellowed label peeling at the edges. 'Would this serve?'
'Thank you, yes.' Jane took the bottle and reached into her white apron for a clean cloth. She wiped the glass sides of the bottle as Jeeves glanced in a seemingly off-hand manner out the window. But Jane saw his gaze dart to where his master was strolling along with Beatrice. For a moment, seeing him was like looking into a mirror that reflected inside feelings, but it was just a fleeting moment, and then the valet was back to stone-faced nothingness.
'If other matters arise with which I might provide assistance, please do not hesitate to seek me out, Miss Roberts,' Jeeves said as he made his exit.
'Likewise, Mr Jeeves.' And Jane returned to unpacking.
<><><><>
At this exact moment, two identical lanky forms were lounging against the low garden wall. The two coves in question were Claude and Eustace Gregson , and they were smoking sullen cigarettes and awaiting the appearance of their cousin Bertie, who, their Aunt Dahlia had informed them, would be hoofing it into view momentarily along with the Wemble filly. Aunt Dahlia had ordered the twins to make Miss Wemble's acquaintance, shoo her indoors away from Bertie, and then plant the seed in Bertie's mind that the girl was hot stuff.
'I want you to pitch it strong,' their aunt had thundered. 'When you're done with him, I want no doubts left in Bertie's pea-brain. In fact, he should be wondering why he hasn't married the girl years ago. Got it, you two blisters?'
Claude and Eustace had nodded; what else could they do with Aunt Dahlia blackmailing them so unfairly?
'What shall we say to him if the beazel's an unmitigated wreck?' Eustace asked his brother. 'She might be as wide as she is tall, or have spots.'
Claude threw away the end of his gasper and blew the last mouthful of smoke to the sky. 'We'll lie through our teeth, I suppose. Call her Ruben-whatsit.'
A twig cracked somewhere, and the twins heard the high, twittering notes of Bertie's voice coming closer. They straightened themselves for their mission and waited for Bertie and Beatrice to turn the final corner.
Imagine their surprise when, instead of a dog-faced girl like they were expecting, they found that Bertie, too, had a twin of a sort. The Wemble was unmistakeably built in the same mould. She shared Bertie's frame and hair colour, even his laugh. It was downright strange, and the brothers shared a look that expressed their mutual distaste at such a pairing. Nevertheless, they had a job to do, and so they did it, ushering Beatrice indoors with a friendly greeting before taking their cousin aside for a word.
'That Wemble girl, Bertie.' Claude made a ring with his thumb and forefinger, nodding gravely. 'That's a keeper if ever I saw one.'
'Oh?' Bertie riposted.
'Certainly, old man,' Eustace jumped in. 'Why, it was obvious she's smitten. Did you not see the love-light burning in her eyes?'
'Well, we were only talking about Jeeves.' Bertie gestured to the garden path behind as if he could draw their attention to the past conversation. 'Did you know that Beatrice has a lady's maid that's a paragon of problem-solving just like him? It's really uncanny how--'
'Right! But!' Claude shot his brother a pleading look. 'She's a looker, isn't she?'
'The real Tabasco,' Eustace added.
'That hair. Those legs. You agree, Eustace?'
'Of course. Lips like an angel. Wouldn't you say, Claude?'
'Unreservedly. Couple that with the fact she's got a metric ton of money waiting for her wedding day, and you've got a real winner.'
Bertie sighed. He had watched his cousins fight over the same woman in the past and it never ended well. 'Look, if you two are over the moon for her, maybe I can say something to put you in her good graces. We're quite chummy now, I think.'
'Oh, no! Not us, Bertie.'
'No, we're too . . .'
'Unworthy!'
'Yes! Completely unfit to even wash her feet.'
'But she's ripe for you, old fruit.'
'It's patently clear.'
Bertie scrunched his face up in disbelief. 'Really?'
Claude and Eustace nodded in unison.
'Pardon me, sir.' Jeeves shimmered into view by the open french doors. 'Will you require a bath before dinner?'
'Erm, yes, thank you, Jeeves. Toodle-pip, you two. I'll strap on the nosebag with you later.' And Bertie left his cousins with a cheerful wave and a churning mind. Beatrice? In love with him? He'd only just met the girl. Bertie walked along the corridors and up the grand staircase with Jeeves silently slithering behind him.
'Jeeves, what do you make of Miss Wemble?' he asked suddenly as they ascended.
'A charming young lady, sir, though I have only just made her acquaintance.'
'Do you think she might be a bit mad?'
'I did not receive the impression of madness from Miss Wemble, sir.'
Bertie gave a thoughtful hum as he continued up the stairs. Jeeves waited a short beat before asking, 'Has the lady given you some indication to doubt her mental stability, sir?'
'No, not as such. Except Claude and Eustace assure me that she's absolutely potty about me.' Bertie shrugged and continued onward, unaware of Jeeves' growing frown.
In Bertie's assigned guest room, Jeeves relieved his master of his travelling jacket and shoes before excusing himself to run the water in the attached bath. Though Jeeves showed no outward sign that he desired to know more about this odd development, he merely waited for the rumblings in Bertie's head to be expressed vocally. It came as he was shaking the bath salts into the tub.
'Did you detect the light of love in her eyes as they landed on me, Jeeves?' Bertie demanded as he shucked his waistcoat.
'I could not say, sir.' Jeeves floated from the salle de bain, picking up Bertie's discarded clothing as the young master slid into the vacated bath.
Bertie continued the conversation through the cracked door. 'She seems to be a fine sort, do you think, Jeeves?' Bertie asked. 'That is to say, there are worse women to marry.'
Jeeves, though Bertie couldn't see him, restrained his eyebrow from raising wildly in worry. 'As you say, sir,' he said in a soupy manner.
'And Claude and Eustace assure me she is as toothsome as they come. Though, between us, Jeeves, I wasn't struck by Miss Wemble's singular beauty. Were you?' Bertie called through as he soaped up his chest.
Jeeves' brow furrowed at the question. If he were honest with his master, he would be forced to say he had noted Miss Wemble's physical loveliness, but that was only because she so closely resembled that which Jeeves found beautiful: Mr Wooster himself. Obviously, Jeeves was not able to speak his mind on the matter. Instead, he only murmured, 'Not particularly, sir.'
Bertie began to tick things off on his fingers. 'Beatrice is lively, has a sense of humour, enjoys cars and gardens, she hasn't tried to mould me, she hasn't forced me to read philosophy or modern literature, and she's possessed of a passable figure. Dash it, I've attempted to tie my fate to specimens a sight worse than that!'
Jeeves pursed his lips together as he laid out Bertie's white tie. He hadn't been asked a direct question, so he couldn't voice his opinion: that Miss Wemble would, in fact, not be a suitable wife for Mr Wooster, because no woman would ever be a suitable wife for Mr Wooster. He merely coughed in agitation.
'Jeeves, I--I think I will go have a chat with Miss Wemble before the gong is rung,' Bertie said in that dazed sort of voice he often developed when it became clear to him that he was about to get engaged again. 'Ensure that the shoes are shined, what?'
'Yes, sir. Very good, sir.' The frost in Jeeves' voice could have frozen the dinner roast.
<><><><>
Meanwhile, in Miss Wemble's room, Jane Roberts was busy choosing an appropriate gown for her mistress. Beatrice lounged on the bedspread in her dressing gown, not quite ready to bathe for dinner just yet.
'Oh, really, Jane. Must it be the white? I rather fancied the new green one for this evening.'
'The white is very becoming for one of your colouring, Miss Wemble,' Jane said placidly as she unpacked the regal gown and hung it to air. 'The green would not have been suitable, if you pardon my saying so.'
'You just don't like how it plunges in the back. I saw you eyeballing it with distaste when it arrived from the shop; don't try to deny it.' Beatrice stood and sauntered over to where Jane was folding a shawl into a neat square to place in the cedar wardrobe. She pressed herself against her maid's back and giggled into her ear. 'You haven't even packed the green one, have you?'
A sly smile crossed Jane's lips for only a moment. She replied in a light tone, 'I apologise, miss. It would appear to have slipped my mind.'
'All the girls are wearing backless gowns these days, Jane. Would you really deprive me so?' Beatrice wound her arms round Jane's slim waist, nosing her way into the fine black hairs that escaped the bun at the base of her neck. 'We can make a bargain. I'll forgive you the green dress if you allow me a spot of fun now.'
A firm hand rested on Beatrice's arms in a warning fashion. 'We are guests in an unfamiliar house, miss. I would not advise such a breach at the current--' Jane sucked in a quick breath as Beatrice nibbled on her right earlobe.
Those of you who don't know enough to read the label on the tin are no doubt shocked. 'Ladies!' you might gasp. 'Nibbling earlobes! Of other ladies, to boot!' Yes, I know, it's all very topsy turvey . But honestly, things would go much quicker if you closed your flapping mouths and let me narrate. Suffice to say that some ladies enjoy nibbling the earlobes of the more feminine aural organs. And furthermore, it would appear that Beatrice Wemble and her maid Jane were a pair of such ladies, and had been for some time. Only the ease of familiarity would have allowed a servant as staunch and proper as Jane to relax into her mistress' embrace, which she did with no real protest.
Now, in Jane's mind, several variables had to be weighed. On the one hand, there was a certain danger of being overheard by the house's inhabitants, but no more than in a hotel, and they had bally well done worse in hotels in the years they'd known each other as more than mistress and maid. Why, their recent trip to Cannes had been especially given to romps. On the other hand, Jane had cleverly foreseen that Miss Wemble would try to instigate such a bold manoeuvre, and she had locked the bedroom door while tidying just in case. So the matter, on her part, was settled, and she turned her head to return her mistress' kiss.
Unfortunately, Beatrice had also thought herself very clever and had 'locked' the door as well. Except she had really unlocked the door that Jane had previously locked. But when one is being kissed byone's incredibly capable maid, and guided to the large and fluffy bed, and generally being ravished, one doesn't always think of things like locking mechanisms. Needless to say there was an enthusiastic unfastening of clothing, interspersed with not a little mouthplay, with no thought being given to the door.
'You are swayed, then?' Beatrice asked with an impish grin as she rucked her maid's stiff black skirts up her smooth thighs.
'I would be, miss, if you wish it. There is some time yet before the dinner gong is rung.' Jane returned her lady's grin with a slightly raised ebony eyebrow and lowered them both to a more horizontal position. Quick hands went to work on silk stockings and their suspenders; dancing fingers traipsed over the belt of a dressing gown.
'Oh, Jane, I shall be able to think of nothing but this while sitting at the table,' the blonde girl murmured into Jane's coal-coloured hair, which was released from its strict bun to fall about her shoulders. 'Someone will comment on the weather, and I will have to stumble through a reply as I wrest my mind away from your wonderful mouth.'
'Really, miss?' Jane blinked her eyes in false innocence. 'Perhaps I should cease my ministrations so you do not undergo such deep embarrassment later this evening.' Her hand, however, belied her words, as it crept up her mistress' calf and tickled behind her knee. 'It would not do if Mr Wooster engaged you,' she said with a weighty pause, 'in conversation with your mental state being so far from normal.'
Beatrice propped herself up on her elbows. 'Jane, I don't like that soupy tone. I daresay I sense a tinge of jealousy in your voice.'
'Oh, no, miss. You must be mistaken.' That cheeky eyebrow was back in full force as Jane trailed her hand along Beatrice's sensitive, shaking-a-bit thigh. 'I merely fear for your well-being.'
Beatrice's dressing gown was now fully opened, and Jane's delicate fingers were skimming along the shimmering silks and laces of her myriad underthings. 'Jane, if you truly cared for my well-being, you'd be bending yourself to a more important task at the mo', don't you agree?'
Dark eyes flashed. 'Certainly, miss.' And Jane bent her dark head low, pushing aside the last few layers of clothing that separated her from Beatrice's womanhood. She tongued at the tiny nub of flesh directly above the opening there, a little button nestled in her curly hair. Beatrice hooked her legs round Jane's shoulders and arched into her touch like a wanton. Jane grinned into the soft skin of her mistress' thigh and listened to her singular purr.
'More, Jane. If you would?' Bee moaned softly.
'Indeed, miss.' Jane kissed at the crease where Beatrice's thigh met her hip. 'It would be my pleasure.'
It was about that time that Bertie Wooster burst into the room, saying, 'Beatrice, there's something I'd like to--OH GOOD LORD!'
Several things happened in rapid succession: Beatrice yelped and made an ungainly leaping roll, thumping onto the floor on the far side of the bed, where she was hidden from Bertie's gaze. Bertie gaped. Jane watched her mistress' retreat with a slight wince, but managed to yank the duvet free from the bed and wrap it about her frame much like a toga. Bertie continued to gape.
Jane stood as smoothly as one can when wearing a duvet. 'Mr Wooster,' she hissed, 'would you please close the door!'
'Er, right-ho, right-ho,' Bertie babbled, shutting the door with all his haste.
Beatrice's ruffled head of blonde hair appeared over the edge of the mattress. 'Bertie, you idiot, close the door with you on the other side of it!'
Bertie's eyes took on yet another layer of shock, and he struggled with the strangely slippery doorknob. 'Yes, of course! Dreadfully sorry, I mean to say. That is, yes, of course.'
'Just go!' Beatrice wailed, and Bertie finally got the bally door open and slipped through, slamming it shut behind him.
On one side of the door, a Wooster leaned heavily against the wood, panting like the dickens.
On the other side, Beatrice was sobbing into the duvet that was draped round her maid's shoulder. Jane rubbed her mistress' back and whispered assurances in her ear, but her steely gaze was fixed on the door and her mind was occupied with the consequences of this new development.
<><><><>
In truth, Jeeves had no real reason to remain in Mr Wooster's bedroom; he should have actually headed below stairs to perhaps lend a hand with the dinner service, as he usually did as a favour to Seppings, but he had lingered in order to ascertain the outcome of his master's proposal.
Jeeves was busying himself with a few minor tasks when Mr Wooster returned, looking pale and shaken. From the looks of Bertie's sweat-dotted brow, things had not gone smoothly.
'You have missed the cocktail hour, sir. Would you care for some refreshment before the gong is rung?' Jeeves asked, already pouring the brandy into a snifter.
Bertie took the glass from the offered salver without a word, his unblinking eyes still staring at the rug underfoot. The spirit was belted down as if it were a life-saving elixir, and Bertie finally addressed his valet: 'Jeeves. Women.'
'Yes, sir?'
'I mean to say, women, Jeeves.'
'Very true, sir.' Jeeves glided across the room and straightened his master's tie, which had drooped from its perfect butterfly shape since it had last been straightened only minutes before. 'If I may say so, sir, I agree with your sentiments.'
'No, Jeeves. I mean, you may. But, well, what I'm trying to ask here, Jeeves, is--' Bertie looked up sharply as Jeeves completed the perfecting of his tie. He suddenly realised that it might not be the preux thing to do, bandying about gossip about what a lady might get up to with her maid in the comfort of the bedroom. Bertie was certain that the act, whatever it was, had not been for prying eyes, and it probably wasn't his place at all to tell anyone about it, even Jeeves.
'Sir?' Jeeves prompted.
But before more could be said, the dinner gong rang out through the house, and Bertie had to hand his snifter over with a sigh.
Dinner was a stilted affair. Bertie was seated next to Beatrice, who was clad in a lovely white gown which only served to highlight her new beet red complexion. The twins were across the table, and Bertie had a suspicion that they were kicking him on purpose. Aunt Dahlia reigned from the head of the table, and Angela and Tuppy Glossop completed the little party.
Conversation between Bertie and Beatrice went something like this that evening:
'Quite nice soup,' Bertie mumbled into his soup bowl.
'Yes, very nice.' Beatrice reached convulsively for her wine glass, her eyes never meeting Bertie's.
Dahlia would attempt to use her power to force more chatter. 'Miss Wemble was such a talented card player in Cannes, Bertie,' she bellowed down the table. 'You've always enjoyed card games, haven't you?'
'Oh, yes.' Bertie pushed a pearl onion across his plate with the tines of his fork.
Dahlia glowered. 'Well, perhaps if you asked her nicely, Miss Wemble would consent to play a hand or two with you later.'
Without actually sharing eye contact with the girl, Bertie turned towards her and said haltingly, 'Would that be amenable to you, Miss Wemble?'
'Certainly, Mr Wooster,' Beatrice said to the air past Bertie's shoulder. She motioned to one of the underbutlers to refill her glass. Bertie soon followed her lead.
After the dishes were cleared away, the ladies were supposed to adjourn to the parlour for a bit of music or whatever ladies got up to after dinner (which Bertie was not inclined to think about at the moment) and the gentlemen were supposed to stay for the port, but Bertie and Beatrice both stood and said:
'I'm afraid I have--'
'--rather a terrible headache and--'
Which was only drawing more attention to their strangeness. But there was nothing for it, and the two legged it as quick as they could, not even looking at each other as they sped up the staircase.
<><><><>
Normally, Jeeves and Jane would have both come to their respective master and mistress at about the time of retiring for the night; nightclothes needed setting out, nightcaps had to be poured, and instructions for the next day's plans had to be received. However, in light of the day's developments, both Jeeves and Jane thought it prudent to instead spend their energies on gathering information and plotting the course they would take next. Independent of each other, the two servants laid out the nightclothes and left notes in their master's and mistress's bedrooms, stating that they were unable to aid them in their usual nighttime toilette, but that they would be there in the morning with the breakfast tray as normal.
And then, independently, Jane and Jeeves headed below stairs to seek out their most intelligent and resourceful ally: each other.
So when Bertie returned to his bedroom and found that he could not expect Jeeves' wise words that night, and when Beatrice saw she would not have Jane's sympathetic and reassuring presence, both were understandably miffed. So they, independent of each other as well, decided that they would wait until everyone was in bed and then sneak below stairs to find their respective servants.
Unfortunately for our two protagonists, Dahlia had other plans. Plans that included Eustace and Claude.
'It's time for the two of you to divide and conquer,' she told the brothers Gregson as an aside before the ladies were ushered from the dining room. 'I want you to go upstairs. Claude, you take Bertie. Eustace will take Beatrice. Stay on message: I want those young hearts entwined by week's end.'
'But Aunt Dahlia, can't we have some port first?' Claude begged.
'Tuppy will feel awfully lonely if we buzz off so soon,' Eustace pointed out.
Dahlia huffed. 'One drink. And then upstairs!'
So while Bertie and Beatrice were locked away in their bedrooms, planning how and when to best go below stairs and find Jeeves and Jane, Claude and Eustace were clomping up the stairs amid their dual grumbles.
'One glass of port was not nearly enough,' Eustace told his brother. 'This is a three glass job, in my opinion.'
'I don't mind telling you, dear sibling of mine, how wrong this all feels,' Claude muttered as they made the turn on the grand staircase.
'Like I said, Claude, it's a three glass--'
'No, you buffoon. I mean it feels wrong to be trying to tie old Bertie to this Wemble girl. Don't you think they're a bit too, well, alike?' Eustace asked.
'It is a bit eerie, I will admit. They even sneeze in the same horse-like manner.' Claude shuddered. 'But we have no choice. Bertie must get hitched if Aunt Dahlia is to be appeased.'
'I still think it's a rotten deal. And why do I have to take the girl? Won't that be awkward, me waltzing into her room?'
'Her maid will be there. It'll be like having a chaperon.' Claude clapped his twin on the shoulder. 'This is her floor. Godspeed.'
'Yes, same to you, you codfish,' Eustace growled as he stormed off to Miss Wemble's door. Claude plodded on to Bertie's floor.
Of course, when Eustace knocked on Beatrice Wemble's door, she flung it open eagerly, thinking it was Jane, returning at last despite her note saying otherwise. But when she saw it was only one of Bertie's cousins, the look of relief slid from her face, replaced by a dissatisfied frown. 'Oh,erm, Eustace, wasn't it? How may I help you?' she asked.
'Just come for a small chat, Miss Wemble. If you have a moment?'
Beatrice didn't see what else she could do; she was still wearing her gown from dinner, having not wanted to change into her nightclothes before she snuck downstairs, so she couldn't even feign that she was about to go to sleep. She opened her door wider and beckoned Eustace inside. The young man entered with hearty thanks, but faltered when he saw they were alone. 'Oh, is your maid not in?'
'She went on some errand or other. Can I get you a whiskey?' Beatrice began pouring herself one.
'Please. Listen, Miss Wemble, I've come here as a sort of agent for my cousin Bertie.' Eustace seated himself in one of the plush chairs by the empty fireplace. The ladies really did get the most posh rooms, he thought, looking round the place.
The bottle nearly slipped from Beatrice's hand. 'Bertie sent you?' she asked in a shaky voice.
'The thing is, he thinks you're hot stuff, you see.' Eustace examined his fingernails and noted that he would need a manicure soon. 'He's really quite taken with you.'
Beatrice turned, her face creased in confusion and her hands clutching the two glasses of w. and s. Her eyes were clouded. 'When did he tell you this, if you don't mind me asking?'
'Why, just before he sprinted from the dining room,' Eustace answered, giving himself a mental pat on the back for his quick thinking. 'That's why he excused himself, you know. Says you give him the butterflies.'
'The butterflies?' Beatrice repeated.
'Absolutely.' One half of the Gregson twins took a glass from Beatrice's slack hand and sipped at it. 'Won't talk about anything else. I only thought to mention it because, well, Bertie sometimes has a difficult time speaking to beautiful women. Perhaps you could do us a favour and go easy on him? If he sticks his foot in his mouth, understand it's not his fault?'
'And--and he didn't mention anything else to you? About me?' the young lady stuttered.
Eustace blinked at her. 'Just that he's completely potty for you. How about yourself? I know Bertie's a hopeless case, but he's not a bad sort. Could you possibly see yourself, you know, with the big lout?'
'Well, I, that is, I'm sure I don't know.' Beatrice's mind was all in a whirl. How could Bertie want her after what he'd seen that evening? Was he actually intrigued by the thought of what she and Jane were? Did he think he could cure her, as some men had tried in the past? Her stomach churned at the idea, and the drink she was draining didn't seem to be helping at all.
'No need to come to a decision just now, of course,' Eustace said, breaking into her train of thought. 'Only wanted to prepare you for the blow. I mean, the surprise.' He chuckled nervously and belted back the rest of his whiskey. 'I should be going, I think. Thank you for the drink.'
And he beat a hasty retreat, confident that his task had been seen to.
Meanwhile, Claude was having a harder time capturing Bertie's attention. 'Bertie, I have something important to tell you! It's about Miss--'
'Really, Claude, I don't have a spare moment right now,' Bertie hissed from the slit of space that he allowed in his door opening. He was too preoccupied with trying to remember where Jeeves' room might be below stairs; he had no time for cousins.
'But honestly, old thing, I must tell you--'
'My head is just pounding. You can tell me in the morning.' And Bertie slammed the door on him.
The twins met up once again on the landing of the staircase.
'I think I made some good progress with the Wemble girl,' Eustace reported. 'How did you get on?'
Claude lit a guilty cigarette. 'Fairly well, I reckon. Let's go see if Tuppy still has control of the port, shall we?' And as far as the twins were concerned, their job was done.
<><><><>
At that same time, Jeeves had just ducked into the room that was set aside for visiting maids and found it empty. He cursed to himself and turned to leave again, but caught sight of Seppings striding down the hall. Knowing he would have no way to explain why he was in a female's room, Jeeves shut the door and stayed within; hiding in the empty room was the better tactic, he reasoned. Who knew how long Seppings would be wandering the halls, searching out immoral stable boys and scullery maids? It was best, Jeeves decided, to stay in Miss Roberts' room and await her return.
Besides, he mused as he glanced at the stack of books on her dressing table, he would not be averse to re-reading Plato's Republic.
Jane Roberts, meanwhile, was in much the same quandary. She had infiltrated the room for visiting valets in the men's wing only to find Jeeves missing. However, she did not have the luxury of staying to wait for him, as Tuppy Glossop's valet was also sharing the room as evidenced by the valise on the second bed. Jane peeked into the hall to see Seppings bustling by on his rounds, and she knew she would have to time her escape to miss the butler and the other male servants in the halls. Jane watched at the cracked open door, waiting for the right moment to make her move.
In time, Dahlia and the rest of the guests retired to their rooms, and the servants made preparations for their own day's end. Bertie waited in his dark room, still in his shirtsleeves, coiled like a spring and listening for the last door on his floor to close for the night. Beatrice did much the same, throwing her dressing gown over her white dress, since she didn't think that was a good colour for midnight espionage.
Bertie was the first to creep downstairs and through the red baize door. He didn't have a clue in which direction he might find Jeeves, so he took a right on chance. Beatrice was pushing through the baize door only a few moments later, and she took a left. At the same time, Jane was forced to leave Jeeves' room; Glossop's valet could be heard down the hallway and she was certain he would barge in the room soon.
And so it happened that Jane Roberts ran into Bertie Wooster in the darkened hallway. 'Oh, dear me, I am awfully sorry. It's Miss Roberts, isn't it?' Bertie said, peering at her face in the dim light.
'Mr Wooster, could you please keep your voice down?' Jane murmured.
A few yards down the hall, Jeeves lifted his head from the book he was reading. He knew his master's voice anywhere, and this was the last place it should have been. He crept into the hall as well, moving with all due stealth towards the sound.
Beatrice, to her credit, was moving so carefully down the hall in the opposite direction that she was able to spot Seppings heading her way and was able to reverse course quite speedily.
'Really, Jane,' Bertie continued chatting, 'I'm only looking for Jeeves. Do you have any idea which way I might find him? I haven't a bally clue.'
'You're not supposed to be down here, sir,' Jane warned. Her face flamed as she recalled what this gentleman had witnessed earlier. 'And you're certainly not supposed to be in the female staff's wing.'
It was then that Jeeves hovered onto the scene. 'Sir? Are you in need of some assistance?' he asked. 'You really should not be here, sir.'
'Oh, Jeeves! Are you in the female wing too? I was just looking for--'
'Oi!' a whispered shout came from behind them. All three turned to see Beatrice rushing towards them like the hounds of Hades were on her heels. 'Seppings! He's right behind me.'
Both Jane and Jeeves surveyed the surrounding area and quickly came to the same conclusion: there was only one available hiding place.
'Into the cupboard,' Jeeves ordered. 'Ladies first, of course.'
He held the door for Beatrice and Jane, and then hurried Bertie inside as well before squeezing his own frame into the small space and shutting the door behind him. It was a very tight fit in the cupboard. All four inhabitants held their breath as the measured tread of the butler came closer and closer.
Beatrice, unable to stop herself from shaking, curled her fingers round her maid's thigh. Jane stiffened and gave her mistress a stern swat of her hand, but unfortunately she hit Bertie in the ribs as well. Bertie had to muffle his cry by clapping a hand over his mouth, and Jeeves' hand joined his over his lips just to be safe.
The four of them froze as Seppings stopped outside the cupboard. His shadow flickered under the door, and they heard him cough right on the other side. There was a snick of a lighter and the faint smell of cigarette smoke.
Bally hell, Bertie thought with a roll of his eyes. What a place for a smoke break.
Jeeves was pressed rather close against his back, and Beatrice was wedged rather unpleasantly across his front. Bertie attempted to wriggle into a more comfortable position, but apparently he brushed against something rather delicate, because Beatrice gave a sharp gasp and Jane's hand was immediately wrapped round his wrist and crushing it in a dashed powerful grip. Bertie tried to remedy the situation by backing away as much as he could, but this put him in even more contact with Jeeves' front, and he could feel the valet sucking in a large quantity of air at the touch.
'Sorry,' Bertie said as quietly as he could beneath his and Jeeves' hands, which were still clamped over his mouth. Jeeves must have felt the movement of his lips, because he nodded a bit against his shoulder.
Jane finally dropped Bertie's pained wrist and the four of them struggled to remain still and silent. Seppings' shadow moved right, then left, but did not disappear completely. They watched it carefully, but it remained right there.
Bertie was beginning to feel a bit faint. The close quarters, combined with the strong scents from Beatrice's perfume and Jeeves' own spicy masculine aftershave were beginning to go to his head. He closed his eyes to try and get his bearings, but his knees wobbled and he swayed a little. Jeeves caught him about the waist and held him tight.
Jane gazed knowingly at Jeeves in the dark cupboard. The valet returned her stare with a glare of his own. Beatrice remained impervious to the eye-beams and patted Bertie's cheek to comfort him. Bertie gave her a watery yet reassuring smile.
More glares were shared on the servant end of things, and blushes began painting the cheeks of the lady and gentleman.
Finally, Seppings began to shove off, his shoes clicking a military beat into the distance. After a few moments of breathless silence, the whole lot stumbled out of the cupboard and into the empty hallway.
'I believe I should escort you back to your room, Miss Wemble,' Jane said.
Jeeves raised an eyebrow. 'And I shall do the same for you, Mr Wooster,' he said in an icy tone.
Continue to Part 2.