Archive of Our Own

The weather was doing something between a drizzle and fog. London was like that sometimes in the autumn, never knowing quite what to do with itself. If it just picked one thing and went with it, the day would be much better, mused Bertram W. Wooster from the window of his flat at 3A Berkeley Mansion, Berkeley Square, London W1. A real rain, or a real snowstorm, or a real anything was preferable to this middling nonsense.

"Jeeves," he called to his valet, who was never out of hearing distance.

"Yes, sir?" Jeeves stood ramrod straight, his reflection wavering not an inch upon the windowpane in front of Bertie's face. Bertie had not seen him walk into view; Jeeves was above that sort of thing, preferring to manifest spiritlike into a room.

Bertie lit a cigarette. "What do you make of this weather?" he asked.

A puff of Turkish smoke obscured Jeeves' reflection for only a moment, after which the valet answered, "A dismal affair, sir. Will you be lunching at home today?"

Bertie made a middling noise. "I suppose so. Nothing due at the Drones today, as far as I remember."

"Very good, sir." The soft voice was accompanied by the even softer delivery of an ash tray at Bertie's elbow at the precise moment he needed it. Jeeves set it in place with a delicate hand, then adjusted it just so, placing it at a right angle on the little table by the window.

"Thank you, Jeeves," Bertie murmured.

"My pleasure, sir." The backs of their hands brushed briefly as Jeeves glided away in the direction of the kitchen. After the door swung shut behind Jeeves, Bertie lifted his hand and studied it, then cradled it against his chest and continued staring out over the dim and dreary square.

A messenger boy in the telltale brass-buttoned uniform was making his way across the lane. He had no umbrella and was instead using a sheaf of telegrams to shield his too-large cap. Bertie sighed, his breath fogging the glass for a bit before fading slowly away.

"If any telegrams come, Jeeves, take care of them for me, will you?" he called toward the kitchen. "I'm not in to messengers today." He stubbed out his unfinished cigarette and headed for the master bedroom, grabbing his mystery novel from the side table on the way.

"Certainly, sir," Jeeves' answer carried into the bedroom moments before the door bell rang.

__________________________________________

Pondicherry was beginning to cool, the heat of the blazing summer giving way grudgingly to the afternoon showers of the monsoon season. Mrs Lucille Pertwee was seated on the veranda, doing the delicate work of knitting lace. Ginnie, Edna, and baby Louise were at her feet; the older girls were bouncing a rubber ball back and forth between them while the baby looked on from her swaddle-nest of bassinet linens.

Ginnie's giggles rose to a fever pitch as Edna chucked the blue rubber ball ever harder against the wooden floorboards of the veranda, causing the ball to sail high into the air.

"Girls," Mrs Pertwee said sharply, not looking up from her handiwork.

The ball stopped its bouncing, caught in Edna's deft little hand. "Yes, mama?"

"I do not want your toys flying in the baby's face and giving her a bloody nose. If you can't play nicely I shall have to take it away from you." Still her light blue eyes did not flit from her tiny knitting needles.

"Yes, mama," dual voices droned.

Their silent non-playing might have continued indefinitely if not for the arrival of the postman, a rare event fraught with excitement.

"Letter for you, Missus," the Indian postman called as he approached the veranda on the stone garden path. His accent was more than slightly French, and Mrs Pertwee anxiously sniffed at the sound of it.

She took the letter, ignoring the quiet pleas of her daughters to tell them where the letter was from, who had sent such a thing, and why it might have come to them. They had good reason to wonder; their estate (if such a small tract of land could be called such) was quite in the middle of nowhere, far enough from the city to feel very isolated.

Mrs Pertwee swept inside the house with the letter, leaving the postman and her children to confer on the veranda in tones of wonder. In the relative silence of the sitting room, she opened the envelope, noting her brother's sloping handwriting on its face. Her eyes scanned the short, black-bordered page, and she dropped the missive to her lap, pursing her lips in thought.

Outside, the postman was calling farewell to the girls, who returned the sentiment with boisterous cries. In her mind, Lucille was already calculating the travel costs of a passenger with three small children. She rang the brass bell on the mantle, and the maid came in to receive orders to pack the trunks.

"And Mr Pertwee?" Lucille asked.

"Still abed," the maid confirmed. Small favours, thought Lucille.

__________________________________________

Jeeves handled almost everything. Bertie needed a new black suit, mourning band, and black gloves, as the last funeral he had attended was his Uncle Willoughby's years and years before. In addition, an undertaker had to be found, the funeral planned, and the cars hired for the family.

Bonzo, Thos., Edwin, Claude, Eustace, and Bertie were roped in as pall-bearers. All the sons and all the nephews, carrying her down those wretchedly steep steps. Just as Aunt Agatha would have wanted, remarked Claude.

Bertie stood stock-still in the church, attempting to listen to the bishop (a family friend of Lord Worplesdon) giving his send-off. But Bertie's thoughts wandered to all the other funerals he'd attended in his twenty-seven-and-change years. He thought especially of the time when he was eight, and his parents had been found dead, and for the "acceptable period" Aunt Agatha refused to let him wear anything but black, black, black. The year he spent in mourning clothes. He didn't like to dwell on it.

Bertie's eyes swept down the pew, past his cousins, past his Aunt Dahlia (her face ruddy and pinched), past his sister (whom Bertie had not seen in over ten years), his nieces, Florence Craye and Stilton Cheesewright, Florence's father (Aunt Agatha's widower), Angela and Tuppy, the rest of the Glossop family, and other assorted old eggs and beans. It was a good turnout. Aunt Agatha would have been pleased, Bertie thought.

Bertie's eyes finally rested on the dark figure standing in a shadowed alcove along the edge of the church. Jeeves stood watching the proceedings like a chef overseeing dinner service. He wore a black armband round his bicep. Bertie stared at it perhaps a little too long; Jeeves looked up, sensing his gaze.

Bertie looked away. He tried to focus on the coffin at the altar, and he thought of how heavy it had been to drag it up there, and how dashed heavier it would feel lugging it away.

__________________________________________

"I didn't think you'd make it, Lucy."

Mrs Pertwee turned to face her little brother, who had grown quite tall and lanky since she'd last seen him. They were outside the church, waiting for the hired cars to be brought round. The sun was bright, and all the old gentlemen were milling about as if unhappy to leave the scene of such great excitement.

"Yes, we barely had time to take the luggage to the Sheraton before the service. I hope the girls don't look too dreadful." Lucille glanced down at the children, itching in their starched dresses. The baby in her arms began to fuss, and she handed her off to the waiting lady's maid.

"Well, they look all right to me." Bertie waggled his fingers at Ginnie and Edna. "Hullo."

The girls ignored him, too absorbed in the workings of the London traffic speeding by them to pay him any mind.

"Ah. Quite right." Bertie dropped his hand and smiled thinly at his sister. "I suppose it's a good thing you got here when you did."

"Yes, thank you for planning the funeral so late in the month. I wish we could have been here for the wake, but what with the steamers the way they are these days--"

"Of course. Understandable." Bertie toed his gleaming black shoe against the pavement. This was the longest conversation he and his sister had shared in over a decade. And that included letters. (Merry Christmas, old thing; Happy birthday and many more; Cheers on your anniversary.) Their relationship was one of the merest pleasantries. And so an awkward silence persisted for many minutes.

"What exactly are we in for, Bertie?" Lucille finally asked. "Aunt Agatha hadn't seen me in years, or the girls ever. What's all this business about her estate? And why do I have to be here?"

"Yes, well, you see--" Bertie heaved a sigh. "I don't rightly know either."

Lucille growled under her breath.

"All I know," Bertie continued in a defensive tone, "is exactly what I put down in my letter. I was advised by Aunt Agatha's solicitor that we couldn't read her will without all the affected parties present. And, erm, you are one of the party, I suppose."

"I suppose I am." She flicked her small black lace veil from her eyes, folding it back over her hat.

"Lucy, you can't be too worked up about all this, what?" Bertie shrugged. "You're here, aren't you? You came as fast as lightning. So you must not have needed too much time to think it over."

Lucille stared at her brother, her upper lip twitching first to the left, and then down.

"Your car, Mrs Pertwee." Jeeves materialised into existence beside Bertie just as a sleek black Aston rolled up to the kerb. The valet held the door for Lucille and her brood.

"Toodle pip," Bertie called to them as the door shut.

"Your vehicle will be here momentarily, sir," Jeeves said.

Bertie nodded absent-mindedly. An uncomfortable meal with the family at Claridge's, and then it was off to the solicitor's office.

And all the parties would be there.

__________________________________________

There was quite a crowd by the time Bertie arrived, having walked to the solicitor's office in The Strand instead of waiting for the car to arrive. ("I hate being driven, Jeeves, I'm just not the type." "Very good, sir. The driver will be dismissed.") As the secretary led him into the cramped room, Bertie saw not only his sister, but also Angela, Claude & Eustace, and Bonzo. The whole clan turned to watch his entrance, and Bertie felt not a little cheesy under their heavy glares.

"Ah. Terribly sorry. I thought--" Bertie caught sight of the man who must have been the solicitor, as he was sitting behind the solicitor's desk. Large chap, built like a boxer, and with a bottle-brush mustache. "--actually, I don't know what I thought. Terribly sorry."

Bertie took a seat on the last empty chair in the room, a spindly wooden number next to Angela. She nodded at him, her face still pale from crying.

"Now that we're all here," the boxer-solicitor boomed, "we may begin. I am Mr Jameson Tolby, executor of Lady Worplesdon's last will and testament. She requested you all be here while I read this section, which pertains to you, aloud for your benefit."

Near the back of the room, Eustace raised his hand slowly.

Tolby sighed, his mustache whistling. "Yes, Mr Eustace Wooster, is it?"

"Does this mean Aunt Agatha has left us a pile?"

His twin elbowed him in the side. "Don't be a dolt!" Claude hissed. "Look round the room. It's just the nephews and nieces here. If The Crusher were to leave a pile, she'd leave it to her son and that Lord Rumpled-Down."

"Claude!" Angela gasped.

"A little respect, if you please," Lucille said in her steely tones. "Surely you can manage to refrain from using Aunt Agatha's pet name until some time has passed, hm?"

Bertie glanced between his kin apprehensively. It was little wonder why the family gathered together so infrequently, he thought, as ill-tempered as they could be when you shut them all in
a room.

Claude, to his credit, blushed and mumbled an apology without any more prodding. Tolby cleared his throat and regained the attention of the room.

"I was directed to read the following letter, written by Lady Worplesdon," he said, unraveling a large page of foolscap. "‘To all assembled,'" he began (and Bertie was dashed if it didn't somehow sound like Aunt Agatha was right there in the room with them, booming voice and all), "‘I suppose the brighter among you might have guessed you have been brought here today because I have included you in my will as recipients. Allow me to say this is true."

Claude and Eustace exchanged a meaningful glance, and Bonzo rolled his eyes at their antics.

"‘However,'" Tolby continued, "‘you have probably also noticed this is a private gathering of my nephews and nieces. My close relations, including my beloved son and husband, have already been provided for. They have been a great source of joy in my life, and they deserve every bit of wealth I was able to leave for them.'"

Bertie suppressed a sigh. Of course Thos., the little worm who could do no wrong, would earn such praise from his aunt. It only took a moment for guilt to flood into Bertie's chest: the poor boy had lost his mother; how could he hold a grudge against Thos. at a time like this? Bertie rubbed his tired eyes and kept his eyes riveted to his lap.

"‘You all, on the other hand,'" Tolby said in a fair imitation of Aunt Agatha, "‘have given me nothing but disappointment.'"

"Oh!" Angela's hand flew to her mouth, and the twins' faces fell as one. Bonzo's eyes bugged out of his head. Bertie shifted uncomfortably; not sporting to say such things in a letter like that. One can't defend oneself against a woman who has passed on, after all.

He glanced at his sister. Lucy was the only one who had given no outward sign at the pronouncement. Mr Tolby had paused at the room's outburst, and now Lucy bade him to continue reading.

"‘I have worked closely with Mr Tolby to ensure that I have one final chance to help mould your lives in the proper way. Here are the terms of my will. Benjamin Travers!'"

Bertie frowned, wondering who the devil Benjamin Travers was and why the deceased was introducing him all of a sudden. But then Bonzo piped up, saying, "Yes?" And Bertie belatedly remembered his young cousin's true name.

"‘Benjamin, you will receive ten thousand pounds on your twenty-third birthday provided you complete your schooling and receive your university degree without any black marks on your record,'" Tolby read.

"Coo!" Bonzo cried.

"‘Angela Travers,'" Tolby continued, "‘I have set aside ten thousand pounds for you, to be paid on your wedding day.'"

Angela nodded, and her little brother clapped her on the shoulder in congratulations.

"‘Claude and Eustace Wooster.'"

The twins perked up.

"‘You will each receive ten thousand pounds on the condition that you return to South Africa and continue your employment with the Muttafred trading company. A small portion of the money will be given to you every year you remain in your posts, with the remainder being paid upon your first promotion.'"

Bertie watched their faces go through various stages of distaste, confusion, and a weighing of options.

"‘Lucille Pertwee, I will provide you and your children with ten thousand pounds, provided you remain in England and give the girls the proper education they have heretofore lacked.'"

Lucy did not budge or flinch, and Bertie marvelled at the idea that his sister might now be returning home after all these years.

"‘Bertram Wilburforce Wooster.'"

Bertie restrained himself from jumping in his chair; this Tolby's voice was almost as keen and sharp as Aunt A's.

"‘Bertie, you useless lump,'" Tolby read dispassionately, "‘I am fully aware that idiot Willoughby has left you more money than you know what to do with, and no amount of cash from me will cause you to change your ways. So I will not be leaving you anything.'"

Bertie nearly slumped in relief. But then--

"‘However,'" Tolby cleared his throat, "‘I place this stipulation on all persons named in this section of the will: payments will not be made to anyone unless all parties have fulfilled the conditions. And I give you, Bertram, this condition: you must marry within the month.'"

"Good Lord!" Bertie shot to his feet. "That is-- Why, that's-- Good Lord!"

With the entire room now staring at him, Bertie got a fairly decent view of Bonzo whispering to Angela out of the corner of his mouth: "What's it all mean, then?"

"It means," Angela returned, "that unless we all do what Aunt Agatha wants us to do, none of us get any money at all."

As Bertie stood there open-mouthed, Tolby kept reading, acting for all the world as if he wasn't destroying the lives of upstanding citizens.

"‘I have one final beneficiary...to...name here,'" Tolby said with his first hint of uncertainty. "‘I ask that the valet Jeeves be brought forward.' Does anyone know where the deuce this valet Jeeves is?" the solicitor asked.

The room was eerily silent until Lucy spoke up. "He's Bertie's man."

"There must be some mistake," Bertie said. He laced his fingers together again and again. "Aunt Agatha couldn't have named Jeeves in her will. Could she?"

Tolby consulted the document he held with a creased brow. "Wait a moment: ‘If I am correct, and I rarely am not, the man should be standing directly without in the corridor.' Is this Jeeves in the corridor, Mr Wooster?"

Bertie turned to look at the door as if it would give him the answer. "He walked with me from Claridge's," he said faintly.

The solicitor came from behind his desk and picked his way through the minefield of chairs to the door. He swung it open and there, standing in the hall as advertised, was Jeeves.

"Have you been listening, or will I have to start from the beginning?" Tolby muttered.

"When a voice carries so, one cannot help but overhear the more salient points," Jeeves said, and glided into the room. He stood at the back wall, his gaze fixed on some place in the distance. Bertie gaped; everyone gaped. The solicitor at last shook his head and returned to his spot.

"Now, where was I? Oh yes. ‘To the man Jeeves I leave thirty thousand pounds.'"

Now the room was in an uproar. The twins were shouting about the large difference between their inheritance and Jeeves', Bonzo and Angela were chattering away in confusion, and even Lucille couldn't help the small gasp of surprise from escaping her lips. Bertie stared at Jeeves, looking for an answer for this strange turn of events, but the man didn't offer an explanation. He caught Bertie's gaze and, well, he looked every bit as shocked as he had the day Bertie had brought home the Tyrolean hat. His eyes, normally the very soul of calm, were blown wide open.

The solicitor kept speaking over the noise. "‘The terms of the arrangement are as follows: you must leave the employ of my nephew Bertie forever. I am well aware your machinations have kept him a bachelor all this time, and your presence will no longer be required. As with the rest of the recipients, if you do not comply, no one will receive their payment. Mr Tolby will provide you with copies of my will, as I'm sure you all want to look over the terms in greater detail. You all have three days to decide if you agree to this arrangement. It's all or nothing, so think it over very carefully. Yours, Agatha.'"

There was a long period of silence, followed by Angela's quiet voice: "Well, it's certainly Aunt Agatha's style, isn't it?"

"This is madness," Bertie blurted out. "We can't do this, what? We can't let her-- I mean to say, me marry!"

"You'd better marry, you toad," Bonzo shot back. "I want that ten thousand when I get out of Oxford!"

"If I may." Jeeves' voice cut through the hum of disagreement. All eyes turned on him. "I suggest we collect the copies of the document so that we may take some time for further examination."

Bertie shot Jeeves an imploring look. "You don't mean to say you're even considering this?" He turned round to speak to the room at large. "We're not actually considering this, are we?"

"Easy for you to throw away ten thousand quid," Claude grumbled. "You're rolling in it, Bertie. But the rest of us sods--"

"He's not getting ten thousand; he's not getting anything," Eustace remarked.

"Even so, easy for him to say what a chap should do when it comes to the folding ready!"

"Gentlemen." Lucille stood. "I'll take that copy now, Mr Tolby." She held out her hand for the thick manila folder, then turned to Jeeves. "Today is Thursday. We shall meet back here on Sunday?" Her piercing eyes swept the room, and no one said otherwise.

"Till Sunday then," Lucy said, and swept out of the office.

__________________________________________

The Sheraton does a good tea, and Angela dropped by to meet Lucille there the next day. The three Pertwee daughters sat quietly in the tea-room, staring open-mouthed at the steady flow of Lords and Ladies in their late afternoon finery. Angela cooed at the children for a bit, then turned her attention to Lucille.

"So. Would it be overly gauche to get down to business and chat about this mad will of Aunt Agatha's?" she asked.

Lucy sipped her tea (honey, no milk, no sugar) and said, "We shall all have to adhere to her wishes, of course."

"Yes, well. Ten thousand pounds is a lot of money." Angela nibbled at a cream cheese sandwich. "But how would we convince everyone to go through with it? Bertie will never--"

"Bertie will do what he must to keep everyone from fighting," Lucy cut in smoothly. "My brother's motivation has always been his, shall we say, social cowardice. Agatha knew what she was doing."

"And Jeeves?"

Lucy frowned behind the rim of her teacup. "The valet? What about him?"

"What will make him to agree to the scheme?" Angela clarified.

"My dear," Lucy scoffed. "Thirty thousand pounds is plenty of justification."

Angela shook her head. "You don't know Jeeves. He and Bertie-- He's as loyal as a Saint Bernard."

"Surely he will see reason." Lucy focused on her plate, her fork meandering about.

"But what if he won't--"

"He will have to!" Lucy slammed her fork down on the table, rattling her teacup in its saucer. Her daughters spun in their chairs, gaping. A waiter paused near the table, narrowed his eyes at the women, then continued floating through the dining room. The echo of the noise died away, and Lucy tightened her lips into a thin line. "Eat your cakes, darlings," she said to the children. Ginnie did as she was told, and the other girls followed suit.

Angela cleared her throat. "I see you're rather desperate for the money, aren't you?" Her voice was low enough to combat eavesdropping, for which the Sheraton staff was famous.

Lucy shot her a look and selected a toast point from the tiered tray. "It certainly would make life easier. You can't deny that."

"Will Francis be joining you in London, then, when this is all sorted?"

"Mr Pertwee's presence is needed in India. The company has stated that fact on numerous occasions," Lucy said as she applied butter to her toast. "He will remain in Pondicherry while the girls and I settle in here."

Angela frowned. "You seem awfully unfazed about that. Won't you miss your husband?"

Lucy chewed and swallowed. "Aunt Agatha was correct: the girls need the sort of schooling only England can offer. Francis will understand." She dabbed her mouth with the serviette. "And you, Angela? Will this turn of events finally cause you and the Glossop fellow to set a wedding date?"

"Hildebrand and I wanted a long engagement," Angela said, her face flushing, "but I suppose this changes things." Her laugh was high-pitched and brittle.

"Yes." Lucy took another delicate bite. "This certainly changes things."

__________________________________________

Meanwhile, things at the Wooster residence were strained at best. After the reading of the cursed will, Bertie had been beside himself. He didn't speak a word to Jeeves during the taxi ride back to Berkeley Square, and the remainder of the evening had been spent with the young master shut in his study. That morning was no better; Jeeves had arrived with the breakfast tray as usual, but Bertie was only managing monosyllabic responses to his valet's innocuous queries.

"Will you be lunching at your club today, sir?" Jeeves asked.

"Yes, Jeeves."

"Shall I set out our grey check, sir?"

"No, Jeeves."

"The pale blue, perhaps, sir?"

"All right, Jeeves."

"Will you be needing anything further, sir, or shall I run the bath now?"

"That's fine, Jeeves."

And so it went. Bertie stayed at The Drones most of the afternoon, returning in an even fouler mood, which Jeeves had not thought possible. Eye contact was no longer on the table, it seemed. The conciliatory cocktail Jeeves offered was accepted begrudgingly. Finally, at the limit of his patience, Jeeves stood by Bertie's armchair and coughed lightly.

Bertie roused himself from what appeared to be a heavy meditation and swung his gaze upwards to his valet. "Something caught in your throat, Jeeves?"

"No, sir. I would like to touch upon a delicate subject, if I may."

"Oh, do you mean the subject re: my late aunt leaving you a pot of money in her will, causing you to immediately up sticks with not so much as a hat-tip in this Wooster's direction? That subject, Jeeves?"

Jeeves seemed to suppress a sigh. "You will notice, sir, that I remain here at the moment."

"Yes, at the moment," Bertie said. "But you-- You're going to just pack your bags and--" His frustrated tongue searched for the correct words. "You told me you'd never leave!" he exploded. He gestured suddenly with his arm, a flail straight from the playbook of the desperate, and inadvertently knocked over his glass of whiskey and soda. It thudded to the carpet despite Jeeves' best attempts to lunge for it, spilling but not breaking on the shag pile.

Well, after an outburst like that, the mood in the room is bound to become downright awkward. Bertie quieted, embarrassed, and sunk back into the cushions while Jeeves tidied up the mess. After a tense silence punctuated only by the efficient scrubbing of the carpet, Jeeves cleared his throat and said, "I am sorry mere consideration of the will is an affront to you, sir. If it is any consolation, I find myself--" He looked up from the brown stain on the floor and held Bertie's eyes. "--very torn on the matter."

Jeeves went back to dabbing at the mark on the carpet. Bertie slid to his knees on the floor as if he possessed no bones and laid a hand on Jeeves' elbow. The scrubbing ceased.

"If it's a matter of money," Bertie said quietly, "name your price, Jeeves."

Jeeves shut his eyes. "I have had ample opportunity to study your financial records, sir, in a professional capacity. And though your offer is generous, it is not tenable."

"Why ever not?"

"You would be unable to pay such a sum and still maintain the lifestyle to which you are accustomed."

Bertie clutched the morning-coated elbow tighter. "Couldn't I cut a few corners here and there? Perhaps I could do away with the annual trip to Cannes. That must be a few thousand right there, what? And if I only bought one new suit every season instead of--"

"Sir."

"Yes, Jeeves."

"This decision is a difficult one." Jeeves lifted a hand to touch his brow, effectively shaking off Bertie's pleading grasp. "Please allow me time to think."

Bertie stood in a rush, red spots of colour appearing in the middle of his cheeks. "Think all you like!" he shouted. "You don't get tuppence unless I agree to get married, and I won't get married. But if my employ is such horrid a state for you, go! Leave! I--I hope you--" He thought to say I hope you choke on it, but he realised that didn't make much sense, so instead Bertie just howled in anger and stormed out, grabbing his hat and coat as he left with a loud door-slam.

Bertie was not often given to dramatic exits, so when he found himself in the hallway holding his hat and coat and breathing heavily, he wondered what one usually does next. He decided the door-slammer usually goes for a long, thoughtful walk to cool down, if the talking pictures were to be believed. So Bertie shrugged on his coat and tugged on his hat, thinking he'd ankle round Hyde Park for an hour or so. Then he could come back home and confront Jeeves.

But just the thought of confronting Jeeves again sapped all of Bertie's strength. He'd uttered some fairly harsh words, harsher than almost anything he'd ever said to his valet. Oh, once or twice there had been a misunderstanding between them and Bertie had told Jeeves he was sacked, but the miscommunication never lasted more than a moment, and all was quickly forgiven.

There were a number of little wooden benches in the centre of Berkeley Square, spindly green-painted things, and it was on one of these benches that Bertie slumped. He considered the matter:

1. Jeeves had a chance to get his paws on a great deal of the green and folding.
2. Bertie stood in his way, so Jeeves could put that in his pipe and smoke it.
3. Jeeves would most likely hate Bertie with the power of a million suns, if he didn't already.
4. So even if Jeeves never got the money due to Bertie's stubbornness, he'd probably leave anyway.

Damn Aunt Agatha, Bertie thought. She was certainly a crafty old beazel.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Bertie spied a black shape walking across the square. It was Jeeves, his bowler hat atop his head, striding purposefully down the lane. Bertie watched him until he turned the corner and was gone. Where could he be headed, Bertie wondered. Perhaps he was going to visit The Agency to enquire about a new master, a back-up as they say. Perhaps he was going to pop into his own solicitor's office to go over all the facts.

Bertie mustered up the spirit to rise to his feet and set off after his valet.

A lifelong fan of mystery stories, Bertie felt the stirrings of excitement within his breast at the thought of following Jeeves unseen. This was the first time he'd "tailed" a fellow before, and he was rather pleased with his progress. The streets were crowded in the hours between tea and dinner, and Bertie weaved among the passersby, keeping Jeeves in sight at all times. His height, along with the distinctive shape of his bowler, made this a snap.

At last, after about thirty minutes of walking, Jeeves mounted the front steps of a small row of flats and entered. Bertie was stumped about what to do next; this wasn't The Agency and it wasn't an office. It took a moment for him to put the pieces together: this was Marylebone, and Jeeves once mentioned a sister who lived in Marylebone on the ground floor of a tidy building. (The ground floor business had been mentioned due to Bertie once wondering aloud how people living on ground floors dealt with people peering in their windows; Jeeves had informed him that his sister hung curtains.)

It was but the work of a moment for Bertie to sidle down the alley next to the building and find a window covered with some tasteful lace. The smells of food and tea wafted through, telling Bertie that this was a kitchen window. And the Jeevesian voices amongst the clinking of china only supported his thesis. Bertie leaned back against the brick facade of the building, trying to make himself invisible, and listened closely.

"--no choice, Reginald. Why the vacillation? This is exactly what we've been praying for, isn't it?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

The second player in the scene was Jeeves; Bertie would recognise that voice anywhere. Which meant the first player must be the Heretofore Unnamed Jeeves Sister.

"So what's the problem, Reg?" said Sister.

"Under the conditions of the will, I would have to leave Mr Wooster's employ."

Bertie swallowed, suddenly finding it difficult to see clearly. If he didn't know any better, Jeeves sounded, well, very sorrowful indeed.

There was a soft sound of a chair moving along the floor, and Bertie imagined the sister leaning forward in her seat to place a hand on her brother's forearm. "Do you want me to tell you not to bother taking the old woman's money? If you've come here to be absolved of your duty, well, you will be disappointed, I think."

"There must be some other way, Rachel," Jeeves said, giving Bertie the sister's name along with the glowing hope that Jeeves really didn't want to leave.

"You're so selfish, Reg!" Rachel cried. "You want things to go exactly the way you want them to go, but you can't fix this up! You're not clever enough to fix this up, nobody is!"

Bertie heard the unmistakable sound of a teacup being set down in its saucer with dignity.

"Would you kindly refrain from hysterics?" Jeeves intoned.

"Would you kindly remember that our father is in dire need?" Rachel shot back.

Bertie froze against the brick wall, not moving, not breathing, not even blinking. The kitchen was silent for some time, then:

"I have not forgotten," Jeeves said, his voice raw and awful. "But it's not as simple as all that. There are conditions which...."

Their conversation continued on, their voices rising and falling behind the lace curtain. But Bertie was no longer listening. He walked round to the front stoop, took a seat on the stairs, and lit a cigarette. He thought a little about his chronic self-absorption, but could think of no quick remedy. So, a heel this Wooster would remain. Bertie watched the taxis squawk by in the street.

Some fifteen or so minutes later, the front door opened and shut, and Jeeves joined him on the steps. He seated himself very carefully on the stone stair, a good few inches between himself and the young master.

"Cigarette?" Bertie asked.

"No, thank you, sir."

Bertie puffed anew. "So. Your pater, Jeeves?"

Jeeves nodded.

"What's happened to him?"

Jeeves' black-gloved hands flexed in his lap. "My father has served as butler at a country estate for a long time, sir," he began. "This last year, he began to go deaf."

"Ah," Bertie said. He very nearly added "most disturbing" just to see how Jeeves liked it when such a phrase was introduced in a moment of crisis. But one look at Jeeves' face, and he could tell now was not the time to press the issue.

"I'm sorry," Bertie said. "I listened at the window."

"So I surmised, sir."

"Not very pruex, of course."

Jeeves took a deep, sobering breath. "On second thought, sir," he said, "I would like a cigarette if you can spare one."

Bertie handed over one of his Turkish and offered a light. They smoked awhile together on the stoop. After a long silence, and with no prodding, Jeeves spoke.

"My sister and I have been trying to amass enough money to allow our father to retire. He needs a home and someone to care for him, and enough capital to support him for his remaining years. I've saved all I could, but..." Jeeves stared ahead at the traffic. Bertie stared at him. "But it's not nearly enough," Jeeves said.

"And now comes your windfall, just in time," Bertie said softly. He smoked a little more. "Why didn't you tell me, Jeeves?"

"How, sir?" Jeeves asked. "How could I tell you such a thing?"

Bertie had no answer, and so he didn't say anything.

__________________________________________

Dinner with Tuppy Glossop was, in short, some kind of torture. Angela was quite sure that if international spies needed to be deprived of top-secret information, ten minutes watching Tuppy eat oysters would be all the reason they needed to spill the beans. The other diners in the restaurant were beginning to perk up their heads at the slurping and chomping noises.

"Hildebrand," Angela managed, poking at her warm salad of poached pears and bleu cheese, "I have some news."

Tuppy made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a hum; this was generally his sound of acknowledgment.

"Something very odd happened after the funeral yesterday," Angela said.

A waiter walked by their table, bearing a rack of lamb destined for an elderly couple seated near the piano player, and Tuppy's attention was wrested from his own plate. He watched the lamb travel away, his eyes wide and unblinking.

Angela refrained from spitting in anger. "Hildebrand?"

He turned to her. "Hm? Yes? What was that?"

Angela looked at Tuppy's round face (round as a serving platter) and thought about marriage. From observing her own mother and father, she knew the bans were no cake walk. Nobody's perfect, her father always said, and rifts were bound to happen even between the most suited of hearts. Still, Angela was having a difficult time picturing this scene with the oysters repeating every month or so for the rest of her life.

Tuppy was still staring, chewing his bread roll. "I said, what is it?"

Angela smiled. "Nothing, really. Never you mind."

"I don't want to marry," Bertie said to Jeeves when they arrived home. "I want to help you and your father, Jeeves, I do. But I just can't stick this whole marriage business."

"Nor do I expect you to acquiesce to such a condition for my benefit, sir." Jeeves hung their coats and hats in the hall closet. He moved to the sideboard, but Bertie waved away the silent offer of a cocktail.

"You're sure I can't just give you--?"

"Thirty thousand pounds is more than even you can spare, sir."

Bertie took a seat at the piano, but didn't bother folding back the keyboard cover. He looked at the piano, the chesterfield, the sideboard, the mantle that Jeeves was currently running a feather duster over. A light bulb popped.

"What if I sold the flat?" Bertie said.

"Sir?"

The young master rose to his feet and began to pace. "What if I sold the flat and purchased a cottage somewhere on the sea shore? Good air and good fishing and all that. We could live as cheaply as poets, Jeeves. Your father would be comfortable--"

"‘We,' sir?"

Bertie stopped pacing in front of his man, looking up into his crisp blue eyes. "Yes. ‘We.'" He felt now would be the time to do something, to clasp Jeeves' hand in his, to rest a hand on his stalwart shoulder. But he couldn't bring himself to do it, not when Jeeves' face was that inscrutable mask. "That is, if you don't mind the young master tagging along, seeing as I'll need a home as well," he said instead.

Jeeves' brow furrowed. "You love London, sir."

"Not as much as I love--" Bertie stopped. He dropped his eyes and fumbled for his cigarette case. "Doing a good turn," he finished, popping the Turkish between his lips.

Before he could light it, Bertie's cigarette was removed by Jeeves' nimble fingers. Bertie stared up at him, cheeks hot. Jeeves' eyes were like cool lake in springtime, reflecting everything.

"Sir," he said, "we would be leaving your sister and cousins in quite the lurch if we do not agree to the terms of the will."

"They'll be all right. They don't need this money the way you need it. Bonzo wants to spend it all at the joke shop, probably. Lord knows the twins have probably spent it all already on gambling and awful shoes. Angela and Lucy are in no dire straits. You're the only one who has a real problem, Jeeves, and I can take care of you." Bertie blanched. "Take care of it. For you. I mean to say."

Jeeves seemed momentarily, impossibly speechless. "Sir, I--"

The doorbell rang. Doorbells have a knack for such interruptions.

Jeeves floated away to answer it, and Bertie released the breath he'd been holding. He looked for the cig. Jeeves had snatched from his lips and found it sitting unharmed in the sideboard ashtray. Back to its home it went.

"Mrs Pertwee is here to see you, sir," Jeeves announced, followed closely by Bertie's sibling.

"Lucy, old thing," Bertie greeted.

"I don't have time for pleasantries, Bertie," she said. Bertie had always thought Lucy was an aunt-in-training in many respects, not that he ever planned on making her an aunt. "I need to know for certain: will you or will you not go ahead with the agreement outlined in Aunt Agatha's will?"

Bertie glanced at Jeeves, who was making himself useful in disposing of Lucille's furs. Jeeves gave a tip of his head, and Bertie answered his sister: "I will not, sister-mine."

"What!"

"I'm terribly sorry, you know, but the fact is I don't want to marry. You and the cousins don't really need the money that much, what?"

"Of course I don't need the money, you idiot!" Lucy shouted.

"Lucille, my word. This isn't India, you shouldn't speak so loudly."

At that, Lucy sat heavily on the chesterfield and proceeded to cry. Bertie was stupefied. He had only seen his sister cry once that he could recall, when she was nine and had gotten her fingers caught in the stable door. She wept then as she did now: very openly, with no attempt made to dry her eyes. Tears streamed down her pink face in great torrents and dropped onto the front of her green silk dress, forming unsightly dark splotches.

Bertie looked wildly at Jeeves. Jeeves shimmered out of the room without looking back. The blighter, Bertie seethed. Leaving a chap to a crying woman like that. Just not cricket.

Bertie seated himself beside his sister and gave her shuddering knee a pat. "There, there," he tried.

"Oh, do shut up, Bertie! I would like to cry for just a moment, if you don't mind!"

"But why are you crying?"

"Because I cannot go back to India!"

"Tea, sir? Madam?" Jeeves had materialised back in the sitting room with a steaming pot and a whole stack of handkerchiefs on his salver. Bertie felt a bit guilty for thinking the man had legged it in the face of danger.

"Yes, thank you." Lucy helped herself to a fortifying swig of tea and a swath of handkerchief, which she pressed against her eyes like bandages.

"Luce," Bertie said carefully, "why can't you go back to India?" She peered at him from under her wad of handkerchief, and Bertie was reminded of how she used to hide behind the bedskirts when they were children. Except she never looked so frightened when they were children, not even when their parents were killed.

Bertie's brain was not an excellent specimen by any means; he could admit it readily. And yet even his cranial mechanism soldiered onward through the morass of the mystery. What was in India that Lucy wouldn't want to face?

"Francis?" he asked, his voice low and cold.

Lucy shut her eyes, another tear rolling down her cheek.

Bertie had met Francis a grand total of three times: once when Bertie was fifteen and the blighter was visiting Brinkley during his and Lucy's courtship, once the day before their wedding, and once on the happy day itself. The man had reminded Bertie of cold, thick gravy with his unhealthy complexion and lackluster hair. Francis had not been given to smiles or laughter or banter, and for those reasons Bertie always assumed he was a good match for Lucy. But how is a brother to know, when time and distance conspire against him, what is happening to his older sister?

"Does he hurt you?" Bertie asked, and there was that note again in his voice, that metallic, brittle sound. Jeeves flitted in and out of the corner of his eye; Bertie knew the man was probably torn between staying and offering assistance, or exiting and giving his master some privacy. Bertie decided to make it easy for him. "Stay, Jeeves," he barked. "I want a witness so that when I wring this animal's neck with my bare hands, the magistrate will know why."

Jeeves stayed put in the corner. Lucy sniffed deeply. "Oh, Bertie, you shan't strangle him. I--I just want to be rid of him. This was Aunt Agatha's way of freeing me without any scandal." Her eyes fell to the carpet at that last word.

Bertie could feel his teeth grinding away against each other in his mouth. "Aunt Agatha knew?"

Lucy dabbed at her nose. "I used to write to her often, when I first left for India. Francis was perfectly normal at the start, but when he began drinking...." She sighed. "I wrote to her, told her what a beast he could be. I said I'd made a grave mistake." Another tear worked its way down to her chin. "She replied, saying I had to keep a stiff upper lip, that plenty of other wives had it worse than I did. She said if I could just keep my head above water and avoid a messy severance, it would all work out in the end." Lucy shrugged. "I was so furious at her. I tore up her letter and never wrote to her again. For years I sent back all her post unopened. And then, when the solicitor read her will to us--" She smiled through her tears. "--I knew it was her way of saying ‘you can come home now, Lucy. You can be rid of that man at last.'"

All three of them sat (or stood, in Jeeves' case) in silence for a beat or two. Lucy added, "I suppose Aunt Agatha wasn't completely heartless."

Bertie held his tongue, which took effort, and Jeeves held his out of practice.

"So you see, dear Bertie, we must all agree to this will. If I have a monetary excuse to remain in London, Francis won't be bothered. He's a miserly man, and he'll appreciate not having to pay for the girls' schooling out of his own pocket," she said.

Bertie and Jeeves exchanged charged glances. "But we have a fly in the proverbial medical salve, Lucy," Bertie said. "Jeeves and I were just discussing ways to wriggle out of said agreement."

"If I may, sir?" Jeeves interjected. "Perhaps you and I might discuss the situation in light of this new variable in the kitchen."

"Quite right, Jeeves. Be back in two ticks of the clock hands, Lucy."

Lucy seemed a bit taken aback by this sudden introduction of the valet motif. Her eyes widened and her face flushed. Bertie forgave her, for she had been secluded in India this whole time and had no idea what she was in for, re: Jeeves' great brain.

As it was, Bertie needed little prodding into the kitchen to conference with Jeeves. "Things are getting rather muddled, Jeeves," he said, leaning against the cabinetry. "One minute we have a jolly nice plan ironed out, and then sisters in desperate need of succor are thrown into the mix. Dash it. Poor Luce." Bertie nibbled on his thumbnail. "Can't quite wrap my head round it, you know. She's as tough as aunts, always has been. How the devil could someone like Francis bully her?"

"Even very headstrong, forceful women may find themselves in the unfortunate situation of being the target of a violent alcoholic, sir. Your sister's self-assured character may have even served to provoke these reactions from the man in question," Jeeves said. Then, after lifting a finger to his lips and pondering a moment, he added, "A conjecture could be made that the lady cultivated such a personality for this express purpose, if only to draw the blows to herself, thereby shielding the children."

Bertie's mouth fell open. "But that's-- Good Lord, how horrible!"

"My sentiments as well, sir."

"I could have him killed!"

"I fear assassins are very expensive, sir."

"Would be worth every bit of it!" Bertie snarled, a sharp gleam in his eye. Then the gleam faded, and he slumped back, his arms leaning on the counter-top. "Oh, what am I saying? I haven't got it in me, do I, Jeeves?"

Jeeves stepped a bit closer, offering some of his spiritual support. "Thankfully no, sir."

"It's strange; Lucy and I were never what you would call close. But she is my only sister. I could spit nails, I'm so furious at this Francis blighter. I feel he's offended me on many levels, as a Wooster and as a man. Do you follow, Jeeves?"

"Closely, sir."

"I don't suppose I have enough cash to keep you, your father, my sister, my nieces, and myself afloat in that hypothermia, no dash it, what's the baby, hypothetical cottage?" Bertie lifted his eyes hopefully to Jeeves.

Jeeves' face took on a pained look. "My father may yet live a decade or more, and the cost of care and schooling for three girls is considerable." His brow furrowed as he conducted a swift mental calculation. "I'm afraid it would be untenable, sir."

Bertie nodded. That was the Wooster anger dealt with, then. "We still have the problem of what to do now, Jeeves. Lucille wishes to avoid India at all costs, and it seems the only way to do that is accept Aunt Agatha's offer. But before she can accept, I have to accept too."

Bertie chewed lower lip in thought. Jeeves watched in respectful silence.

"If I go through with this," Bertie said slowly, "everyone will be happy, what?"

"Everyone with the exception of yourself, sir," Jeeves said.

"Well." Bertie shrugged. He tried to think of something heroic to say. Nothing came, so he said, "We Woosters are made of sterner stuff, you know."

"Oh, sir," Jeeves breathed, and Bertie thought he sounded like he had in his sister's kitchen that afternoon. Rather sad. Bertie saw how close they were now standing, nearly buttonhole-to-buttonhole. He looked at Jeeves' lips. Jeeves' looked at his.

The doorbell rang. You will remember it does that at moments like this one.

Jeeves turned to vapour and went to answer its call. Bertie stiffened his upper lip and strode out into the sitting room. His sister was on the chesterfield, composed. He opened his mouth to declare he would go along with Aunt Agatha's will when Jeeves shimmered back.

"Miss Angela Tr--" he tried to announce.

"Bertie!" Angela shouted, racing past Jeeves. "I'm not going to play along with Aunt Agatha's scheme! I refuse to marry Hildebrand!"

"--avers," Jeeves finished into the echoing void.

Now, a lot happened in the next few seconds. General chaos and what have you. A dutiful narrator would spell it all out for you in a self-satisfied omniscient fashion, but not all omniscient coves go in for that sort of thing. That is to say, one might hope you, the reader, can imagine a bally good chunk of it without any handholding.

However, for those of you who wish for your h.'s held, here is a bulleted list that might make things clearer. The next few minutes in the Wooster sitting room contained, in non-chronological and scatterbrained order:

* A cry of despair from B.W. Wooster
* A cry mixing triumph and determination from Angela
* A subtle and ignored cough from Jeeves
* A cry of indeterminate allegiance from Lucille
* A thump of something on the carpet, either gloves, a handkerchief, a cigarette case, or possibly all three
* A gasp of recognition on Angela's part at the sight of Lucille
* A quick rotation in seating arrangement on the part of Lucille (to better see Angela's entrance)
* Another, more forceful cough from Jeeves
* An "I say!"
* A "What the devil!"
* A "You!"
* Assorted blanching and flushing of embarrassed faces

 

Now that we've covered that unpleasant business, let us move on to the meat of the encounter, wherein Bertie and Angela get down to brass tacks.

"You can't not marry Tuppy!" Bertie cried. "We've all agreed to go ahead with the settlement, and we must all agree or else Lucy can't stay here in London, and Lucy must stay here in London!" It was all so very clear to Bertie, and very annoying that Angela wasn't grasping the facts as quickly as she should.

"I don't care where Lucy stays! I'm not marrying Tuppy and there's not a soul who can convince me otherwise." Angela crossed her arms over her chest, her handbag clutched in her fingers as if she planned on using it as a weapon.

"What's wrong with Tuppy?" Bertie wanted to know. "He's a great pal of mine, you know!"

"Didn't he once loop a gymnastics ring back, causing you to plop into the swimming pool in full eveningwear?" Angela parried.

"Tosh! I say again, tosh! Such grievances are forgotten between bosom friends."

"You moaned about it for months."

"I did no such thing!"

"You did."

"I'm the very soul of forgiveness!"

"At any rate, I can't stand to see him eat another oyster as long as I live." Angela flopped to the chesterfield beside Lucille. "I thought Tuppy would be an all right sort; he isn't perfect, but who is? But the fact is we're just not suited." She looked up at her cousin with watering eyes. "There would be nothing worse than being married to a man I didn't truly love, nothing."

Bertie could think of a few things that would be worse, and apparently so could Lucille, for she shifted away from Angela with an angry sniff. Angela didn't seem to notice.

"I thought you would understand, Bertie; you said you'd never bend to Aunt Agatha's will on this," she said.

Bertie felt embarrassed for Angela, but at the same time, sympathetic. It was all well and fine for Bertie to throw himself on the grenade of marriage, after all, but it wasn't fair to ask a filly to do likewise. At least, not without explaining why.

He turned to Lucille. "Shall I tell her?" he asked.

Lucy didn't bother looking at either of them, just waved her hand through the air. And so Bertie told all. Haltingly at first, and then once he'd warmed to his subject, with more gusto. By the end of it, Angela was red-faced and wide-eyed.

"Oh my word," she said.

"Yes, quite," Lucy said imperiously.

"But you must be joking!" Angela cried. "Francis wouldn't dare!"

Lucy stared down the long bridge of her nose at her in a way Bertie would have thought reserved for insects.

Angela shut her trap on the subject after that. She turned both the conversation and her attention to Bertie. "Well, what are we to do now? I want to help, of course, but...Hildebrand." She shuddered.

"Oh, go ahead and refuse the will!" Lucy snapped. "I don't need your kind of help!"

"Actually," Bertie said, "you do. Calm yourself, sister-mine." He laid a hand on her shoulder and sat at her side. "Angela's trying to wrap her head round this; we all are. All right?"

"Sir?"

Jeeves' voice was like a jolt of electricity through the chesterfield. All three sitters-on jumped an inch in the air at the sound. Jeeves had been quiet as a church mouse, and even Bertie had more or less forgotten the valet lurking in the dark corner of the room, absorbing the little drama.

"Yes, Jeeves?" Bertie said once his heart had stopped hammering.

"I have read the particulars of the legal agreement many times, sir, and I believe I know a way for Miss Travers to fulfill her part of the arrangement without becoming Mr Glossop's wife."

"Really?" Angela beamed. "I knew you'd come up with a corker, Jeeves! Let's have it!"

"Well, Miss," Jeeves said rather carefully, "it might be in the best interests of all parties if you were to marry Mr Wooster."

Bertie froze. He had been accused in the past--by Tuppy, no less--of having designs on his favourite cousin, but he had rebuffed these untruths as well he could. And now, most ironic of ironies, he found himself in the position of her prospective fiance.

"Sir, you will need to find a lady amenable to marriage in order to fulfill your part of the agreement," Jeeves reminded him. "Perhaps Miss Travers will be more understanding than most candidates."

Bertie leaned forward and across his sister to look at Angela. She appeared to be fighting the same mixture of dread and dawning logic that he felt. "Would you mind terribly, old thing?" he asked. It wasn't the best proposal he'd ever made, but it was heartfelt.

Angela gestured helplessly, her hands like birds. "Jeeves is right. It makes sense. Everyone would get their money, and I wouldn't have to marry Hildebrand."

Lucy glanced quickly to her right and left again and again, sizing up her sibling and cousin. "Well? What do you think?"

Angela nodded. Bertie nodded. Jeeves nodded. There was an air of agreement, that is to say.

Lucy left the flat in high spirits. "Thank you, both of you, for doing this," she said as Jeeves helped her with her coat. "It means the world to me and the girls."

"Think nothing of it," said Bertie.

"A mere trifle," said Angela, though her voice was tinged with whatsit.

When Jeeves was busy showing Lucille to the door, Bertie turned to his cousin and said in a confidential whisper, "Angela, I must tell you, before you agree to this mad scheme, that any marriage I have a part in, that is to say, our marriage, if you agree to this scheme, which is mad but good--"

"Yes?"

"Well, that marriage will be in name only, don't you know." Bertie manfully inspected his balled hands, which were certainly not partaking in hand-wringing. "No, erm, children or anything, I mean to say. I'm awfully fond of you, of course, and please don't take this the wrong way, but--"

"Bertie." Angela laid her hand atop his wringing ones. "I see perfectly clearly. And I quite agree."

"Ah." Bertie dropped his hands with a whoosh of relief. "Thank you."

"Thank you for bearing the brunt of Tuppy's anger when I call off the engagement."

Bertie's face fell. "He'll be awfully sore at me, won't he? And I won't be able to tell him it's all just for show; wouldn't soothe his wounded pride, would it?"

"No, best not say anything." Angela smiled and pecked him on the cheek.

Bertie looked up to find Jeeves standing in the offing, at the foyer's entrance, and he wondered how much Jeeves had heard. And inferred.

The next day was Saturday, which meant, of course, the following day was Sunday. Normally these facts would not perturb Bertie, except this Sunday marked the day he would be forced, in one fell swoop, to become affianced to a woman and be cleaved from his stalwart valet. It was more than one nervous system could be expected to take.

Jeeves came in with the morning tea at the usual time. Bertie was awake and had been for hours; sleep had eluded him. He had been too busy thinking that Sunday morning would be the last time Jeeves would be bringing him tea. Then he realised that following the last tea would be the last time Jeeves would run his bath, the last time Jeeves reported on the day's weather, the last time Jeeves would dress him, and the last time he would serve breakfast.

"Good morning, sir," Jeeves said as he always did, delivering the teacup to the bedside table with quiet efficiency. As Bertie watched him do this, he desperately wished he could tell him everything he wanted to say. But one cannot just blurt out to one's valet "I will miss you." It would be embarrassing for both parties to speak so plainly, and besides, "I will miss you" only covered a smidgen of what Bertie actually felt. "I will miss you" in this situation was the equivalent of someone telling the captain of the Titanic "I say, it's looking a bit damp below-deck." It was nowhere near enough.

And so Bertie moved through this morning as a shadow of his former self. The knowledge that this day was the last full day he'd be in Jeeves' presence was too painful. At times the heartache became very fierce indeed, such as when Jeeves laid out the sea-foam green tie, the one Bertie had bought last week and loved like a brother, the one Jeeves had initially sniffed at.

"This tie today, Jeeves?" Bertie asked, running the neckwear through his fingers.

Jeeves nodded. "Unless you'd prefer another, sir?"

"No, no, this is-- I cherish this tie, Jeeves." Bertie looped it round his neck. "It's perfect."

Jeeves stepped forward to do the honors. He arranged the tie in a perfect Windsor knot. Bertie usually went in for the half-W. but perhaps, he thought, Jeeves was also feeling the weight of this final day on his shoulders and wanted to commemorate it accordingly.

"Thank you, Jeeves," Bertie whispered, fingering the finished knot.

"My pleasure, sir," Jeeves answered with a gravity befitting the moment. "As it has always been."

Bertie's resolve nearly crumbled then. He thought he might just throw his arms round Jeeves' neck; he might cry into Jeeves' chest and ruin the black silk of his waistcoat; he might sink to his knees on the floor and beg him to stay.

"I--I feel I should warn you, Jeeves, my resolve is near to crumbling," Bertie said, tamping down as well he could on the waver in his voice. He wrapped his arms round himself to keep them from latching on to his valet.

"Mine as well, sir." Jeeves turned and fussed with some rolled socks. Bertie fancied he saw a hint of something in his man's face just before he turned away. "However, I cannot abandon my father, just as you cannot abandon your sister."

"No, I suppose not." Bertie dropped his eyes to the carpet, ashamed the idea of turning his back on the whole bally mess had even crossed his mind.

Jeeves turned back to Bertie, and it was nobody's imagination that had put the redness in his eyes. "Will you be lunching at your club today, sir?"

"Dash it, Jeeves! Of course not!" Bertie released his death-grip on himself and threw his hands skyward. "You can't pretend this is a day like any other! This is The Final Day. You won't be in my service by this time tomorrow, and I don't know how you feel on the subject, Jeeves, but I for one wish to-- Well, to--"

"Make the most of this time as possible, sir?" Jeeves suggested.

"Yes!" Bertie felt the desperation welling up inside him, and he knew it was making him a bit hysterical, but he didn't care. If there was ever a time to go mad, the time was now. "I'd like to bask in your Jeevesness, if I may, so that next month when Angela and I are eating breakfast across the table from each other and you're nowhere in sight, I might be able to conjure up an image of you in my brain. It frightens me to think I might someday forget what you look like gliding across a room, or what you sound like when you expound on poetry, or the smell of your aftershave, or the way your eyebrows--"

Jeeves took hold of Bertie's hands. Bertie stared down at their joined sets of fingers and palms. This was unexpected; Jeeves, like most valets, kept personal contact to a minimum. An accidental brush was the most one could hope for. Snatching the cigarette from Bertie's lips (was that only yesterday?) had been, up to this point, the most intimate gesture Jeeves had ever bestowed upon his master's person.

"Sir." Jeeves spoke in a low voice, quieter even than his morning voice. "I promise you, everything you're feeling at this moment is shared."

Bertie was close to weeping. "Not everything, Jeeves. You know it's not everything, god damn you."

Jeeves nodded in his fine, assured way. "I hesitate to correct you, sir, but: yes, everything." His hand rose to cup Bertie's flushed cheek.

"Don't," Bertie croaked, but it was a false directive, weak and soft, so it was ignored. Jeeves' thumb brushed against his cheekbone with a touch as soft as silk.

"I'm so very sorry, sir. I wrongly assumed we had time enough. Now we have none, and I have only my hubris to blame."

Bertie's eyes slid shut, and he turned his face into the warmth of Jeeves' rough hand. "I sometimes wondered, when your arm would brush mine. I thought, Jeeves doesn't brush on accident. Everything he does is on purpose," Bertie whispered. "Dash it, you never said a word to me."

"No, sir, I did not." His voice was hollow. A deep sigh was accompanied by his fingertips tracing down Bertie's freshly shaven face. "I should prepare my valise for my departure. I will be in my quarters should you require anything." Jeeves dropped his hands from Bertie and turned suddenly to leave.

Bertie blinked at the empty space before his eyes, then quickly pinpointed the last bit of coattail floating from the bedroom. "Jeeves!" He reached out and grasped his man by the elbow. "Stop this nonsense," Bertie said in a near-growl. He spun Jeeves back round to face him, and his voice rose to a good approximation of Aunt Dahlia's hunting cry. "We've wasted too much time as it is! I refuse to spend the final 24 hours with you sulking in your lair. You say my feelings for you are returned, Jeeves; if that's so, then why aren't you falling to pieces? Because the thought of never seeing you again--! It's driving me mad!"

"What would you have me do?" Jeeves asked. "Spend the day in your bed, in your arms, knowing it's never to be again?" His voice, which had been loud enough to drown out Bertie's, dropped to a pained whisper. "What would be the point of torturing ourselves even more?"

And with that, Jeeves left, shutting the bedroom door softly behind him.

Bertie spent the remainder of the day in bed, fully clothes, his sea-foam green tie an angry S splayed out on the bedclothes. He thought of Jeeves ghosting through the flat, arranging everything one last time, and his blood boiled. He was well rid of Jeeves, who had to be a liar. Only a liar would declare his tendre and then have the wherewithal to leave the object of his a. behind to do the dusting. A liar, or possibly a coward.

The tears did not come. They built and built behind Bertie's eyes, but he didn't let them fall. Perhaps, he reasoned, Aunt Agatha had been right about everything all along, and now she could finally get her way.

The next morning was met with stony silence. Jeeves attempted to conduct himself as usual, but Bertie rebuffed him just as he had the previous day's offers of luncheon and dinner. Bertie didn't say a word, merely turned away and faced the far wall when Jeeves entered with the teacup. When Jeeves announced the bath was ready, Bertie didn't remove himself from the bedclothes. He continued to give Jeeves his back until finally the valet left the bedroom with a small, sad, "Very well, sir."

Bertie bathed in silence and without his man's usual assistance or company. When he returned to the master bedroom in his undershorts and vest, Jeeves was waiting with the day's ensemble. He held open the soft white shirt, but Bertie hesitated, giving it the evil eye.

Jeeves lowered the shirt, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "My heart is already breaking, sir," he said. "However, if causing me further pain brings you comfort, continue as you wish."

"I needed comfort yesterday," Bertie said, the words like nails falling rusty from his lips. "Now you'd rather we both be cruel to each other? Give me the shirt, Jeeves." Bertie ripped the garment from his valet's hands and shoved his arms into the sleeves.

"Sir, I am sorry you find my actions callous; my only intention was to spare you the--"

"Consider me spared, Jeeves." Bertie buttoned his shirt furiously. "Spared from a lifetime of slavish devotion to a cold, dead heart."

"Sir!"

Bertie's fingers tore at the final stud, freeing it from the fabric. It fell to the carpet with a small thud. "What, Jeeves!?"

"I--I am not certain you are aware how deeply your words wound me," Jeeves said. He knelt and retrieved the mother-of-pearl stud from the floor. Bertie snatched it from his hand and fixed it back into place.

"Bring your valise with you to the solicitor's office," Bertie said. "You may depart directly after the proceedings." He kept his eyes firmly on his shirtfront and not on Jeeves' upturned face.

"I am sorry, sir," Jeeves continued, still not rising to his feet. "I was attempting to act in your best interests."

"Well, you won't have to any longer. It won't be your job after today," Bertie murmured, grabbing his trousers and dragging them onto his legs. "That will be all, Jeeves. Go, prepare for our departure."

Jeeves regained his feet, but did not turn them toward the door. He tried once more: "Sir, please--"

"That will be all, Jeeves."

Jeeves stood in silence and watched his master shrug into his waistcoat. He studied him for a long moment, then turned to go. He paused in the doorway; his tall, lean form swayed a little, and his hand rested on the doorjamb as if for support. Bertie watched all this in his full-length mirror as he fixed his tie. His fingers wavered on the knot, and his heart clenched at the sight of Jeeves in the doorway. His own Jeeves, whom he cherished and cared for so deeply. How easily they had hurt each other, Bertie thought. It didn't seem right, not right at all. Bertie opened his mouth, unsure of what he would say, but Jeeves spoke instead.

"I will procure a taxi, sir. It will be waiting outside. Whenever you're ready, sir." And then he was gone.

A completely silent taxi ride. The stillness of the marble lobby as they entered. The odd quiet during the lift ride. Bertie had never endured such an extended time in his valet's presence without someone speaking.

Jeeves opened the door to the solicitor's office for Bertie, and though they entered together, they took up posts on opposite sides of the room. The cousins were already in residence. Claude eyed Jeeves' valise.

"There's a chap, Jeeves! We knew you'd come through!" he cried. "Only a fool would say no to thirty thousand quid, what?"

Jeeves did not reply. He set his bag on the floor and took his place in one of the wooden chairs. Angela watched this, then turned to greet Bertie.

"Everything all right?" she asked as he sat in a seat beside her.

"Yes, yes, everything is in place. Tuppy?" Bertie inquired.

"Livid," was the response.

"Ah."

Lucille entered and removed her hat. Bertie nodded to her, and she nodded back. Everyone shifted uncomfortably.

At last Tolby entered, looking sweaty and massive. He mopped his forehead with a large, tablecloth-sized handkerchief. "Ah, good! Fine! Everyone is present." He placed himself on his throne behind the desk and rifled through some papers. "From the expectant looks on your faces, I see you're all ready to agree to the terms, yes?"

"Absolutely!" Bonzo said. He turned to Bertie. "Very clever idea, marrying Angela. Was it Jeeves'?"

Bertie didn't plan on answering, but Tolby prevented the conversation anyway. The solicitor cleared his throat in Bonzo's direction ("EH-he-hem.") and attention was rerouted accordingly.

"Now then." Tolby flourished a stack of papers as thick as a thumb is long. "Everyone will have to sign this document, which says each recipient will carry out his or her conditions as stated. You can look through it if you like, but it's the same copy I had made up for each of--"

"Excuse me," a voice piped up.

The room turned to look at Eustace. "Yes?" Tolby barked, clearly unhappy to be interrupted again.

"Well, it's just, oh, dash it." Eustace ducked his head and scratched the back of his flushed neck. "I wanted to say, before everything got well and truly underway, that I won't be signing the thingummy."

"What!" Bonzo shouted.

"No!" Lucille cried.

"Have you gone mad?" Claude grabbed his twin's arm and shook him rather roughly. "We need this cash, Eustace! We agreed!"

"No, you agreed," Eustace shot back. "You didn't even ask me what I thought. I hate South Africa, and I hate the import-export business, and I don't want to go back to that wretched place and work for that wretched company for another five or ten years."

"Don't be stupid," Claude snarled. "We have to stick together."

"No, we don't. I'm my own person, you know. We aren't Siamese!" He stood, grabbing his umbrella. "I want to stay in London. I want to find work I don't loathe with all my being. If doing that means I'm out ten thousand pounds, well, I'm bally well happy with that."

"Eustace!" Claude shouted, but his brother was already out the door. The other Wooster twin pursued, leaving the rest of the party sitting in stunned silence for several minutes. Claude and Eustace did not return.

"Dear me," Tolby sighed. He looked at his pocket watch, then back at his documents. "I'm afraid that's it, then. The offer is now null."

Bonzo looked to his sister. She gave his knee a loving pat. Lucy leaned her face into her hands. Bertie felt he should do something, so he went to her side and put his arm round her shoulders. She shook, holding back silent sobs.

"Don't worry, Luce. We'll be all right. It's going to be okay," Bertie said quietly. He looked up, instinctively seeking out Jeeves, and he caught sight of him as he slipped out the door, valise in hand. "I'll be right back, Lucy. Just stay here a mo'."

Bertie dashed into the hall. "Jeeves!" He spotted the man heading for the staircase. "Jeeves, where are you off to?" Bertie asked, jogging over to him.

"I believe I was told to leave directly after the proceedings, sir." The valet's voice spoke of a cold and unforgiving territory, but Bertie pressed on.

"Yes, but didn't you hear? The deal's off. Everything can go back to normal now." Bertie smiled, a bit lop-sided, but it was the thought that counted. "Why don't we take Lucy back to Berkeley Square? She looks like she needs one of your specials."

Jeeves raised his head and looked at Bertie. It was a staggering sight, his dark eyes. There was a pain there that Bertie couldn't fathom; Jeeves was a master at hiding the barest hint of emotion, and this display cut him to the quick. Jeeves wordlessly placed his bowler hat on his head and made his way down the staircase.

Bertie followed, stumbling a bit on the narrow steps. "Jeeves, please! Look, I--I'm sorry about what I said this morning! I was just so chafed about this whole business. Jeeves, will you please listen!" Bertie grabbed him by the arm just as they reached the small landing. "Maybe I thought that acting like the worst kind of pill would make it easier for the ties between us to be severed. It was a horrid thing to do, but there it is."

Jeeves regarded his erstwhile employer with his steady, piercing gaze. "So you did not actually mean what you said? Not even a small part of you?"

Bertie's hesitation was answer enough. He looked down at the tips of his well-shined shoes and groped for words that wouldn't come.

Jeeves seemed to fold a little bit inside himself. "Goodbye, sir," he said, and continued down the staircase. Bertie watched him go, his legs helpless to follow.

__________________________________________

A week later.

Rachel was mending an apron when she heard the knock at the door. She opened it to find a well-dressed gentleman with dark blond hair and very blue eyes holding his hat on the stoop.

"Hullo," he said. "Are you Rachel? I'm looking for Jeeves."

"Reginald?" Rachel asked, because there were quite a few Jeeveses in her life, but she judged this young man as a likely former employer of her brother's.

Bertie nodded. "Yes, my name is Bertram W. Wooster."

"I know who you are," Rachel said. "Reg is not home at the moment."

Bertie shuffled his feet. Actually shuffled them. Rachel had thought that sort of thing was only done in stage plays. "Erm, please, this is rather important," he said.

Rachel folded her arms over her ample chest. "I'm sorry, but he's still not home."

"Is it just that he'd rather not see me? It's all right, if that's the case," he added. "I only wanted to give him something."

A reply was about to be repeated, but Rachel's eyes lifted to something over Bertie's shoulder. Bertie turned to find Jeeves standing on the pavement, still wearing his valeting togs and bowler hat. It was almost like seeing a ghost.

"Jeeves," Bertie breathed. He steeled himself. "Did you get my telegrams? I'm terribly sorry, showing up at your sister's like this, but as I was just telling your excellent and deserving sibling, I have a matter of great importance to discuss with you."

"To answer your question, sir, yes, I received your telegrams. I have not had sufficient time, however, to open them." Jeeves tilted his head. "The search for a new position makes one very busy."

Bertie glanced back at Rachel, who was still standing in the doorway like a gladiator. He guessed she had a working knowledge of the circs. and so spoke a bit freely.

"Things were said, Jeeves, and I am ashamed of them. But what I have to tell you today has nothing to do with that, or with your employ, or any favours you might do for me and mine. This is a wholly separate state of affairs, and trust me when I say I wouldn't be hounding you like this if it weren't a matter of life and death." He stepped down the stairs and sighed. "Please, come back to the flat with me. It will only take a few minutes."

Jeeves seemed to commune mentally with his sister, who nodded at him before he finally acquiesced. He followed Bertie back to the flat in Berkeley Square in a tense silence. When they arrived, Lucille was seated in an armchair by the piano, sipping a cocktail.

"Ah, you finally found him," Lucy said. "Now will you please tell me, brother-mine, what this secret of yours is?"

At the mention of secrets, Jeeves froze in his tracks. Bertie glanced over to him and gave a shake of his head, which said both "not that at all" and "how can you think such a thing?"

"I wanted you both here for this," Bertie said, crossing the room to his writing desk. "It seemed appropriate. This one is for you, Lucy." He removed a thick envelope from a drawer. "And here is yours, Jeeves." Bertie distributed the packets and stepped back. "Well, go ahead. Open them."

Jeeves and Lucy removed some documents from their respective envelopes and read for a minute or so in silence. Bertie took the opportunity to smoke a cigarette.

After a few moments of reading, Jeeves looked up sharply. "Sir? What...what is the meaning of this?"

Lucy was slower to react, her eyes scanning the same lines over and over. "Deed of sale, deed of sale.... What is this all about Bertie? Something about Hertfordshire?" Her head snapped up. "Bertie! You didn't! Tell me you didn't sell the family estate!"

Bertie stubbed out his cig. with trembling fingers. "I did. Most of it, anyway. It took a few days for the papers to get all worked out. Nice chap from America bought it; made a packet in tinned goods, apparently."

Lucy rose to her feet and stalked across the sitting room. When she was within distance, she smashed her hand across Bertie's face. A loud crack echoed through the room, and Bertie staggered backward, saved only by a hand on the sideboard.

"That was all that was left of papa and mama!" Lucy screamed. "How could you!"

Bertie touched his fingertips to his mouth gingerly, checking his hand for blood. "Good Lord, Luce, read the blasted papers, would you? I sold it for you and the girls!" He looked over at his stone-faced ex-valet. "And for Jeeves as well."

Lucy blinked. "I don't understand."

Jeeves spoke up while still studying the contents of his envelope. "It appears Mr Wooster has retained two plots of land from the former estate, each containing a guest cottage. One of them has been deeded in my name," he said softly.

Bertie nodded. "And the other is for you, Lucy. There should also be a cheque in there for each of you. It isn't thirty thousand pounds, but it's what I could get out of the sale, divided between you two." He touched his lip again, checking for swelling. "So you see, you'll be neighbors. A few acres between you, but still. Thought you might like to know."

Lucy and Jeeves couldn't seem to say anything, so Bertie rambled on. "I checked with Aunt Agatha's alma mater, Pritchett's School for Young Ladies, I think, and they agreed to accept the girls at a reduced fee, since Aunt A. had given to the school so generously in the past. So that's that taken care of." He turned to Jeeves. "The grounds are rather pleasing, if your father is a fan of birds. There's no sea fishing, unfortunately, but I recall a goodish sized lake not too far from where your cottage stands. Might have some trout or what have you. Should be suitable."

Lucy felt blindly for a chair behind her and then fell into it. "I--I thought I would have to return to India next week," she said. Then, suddenly, "Oh, Bertie, I'm sorry I slapped you! I was just so enraged. I had no idea what I was doing."

"It's all right, sister-mine. We all make mistakes of that sort." Bertie lifted his gaze to Jeeves'. The valet's face was a total blank. Bertie deflated at the sight. "Do you not like it, Jeeves? I just, well, wanted to fix things. For your father. And this was the only way I could think to try."

Jeeves turned to Lucille. "Madam, shall I get your coat?"

Lucy furrowed her brow. "My coat? Why should I--?"

"You've received a great deal of exciting news, and I'm sure there is much work to be done in preparing your children and nanny. Please, allow me." Jeeves helped the lady out of the chair and led her to the foyer.

"Yes, yes, I suppose I should absorb the shock and just get right down to business. Can't stay at that hotel forever," Lucille murmured.

"Very good, madam," Jeeves said, coating her and seeing her out the door. He shut the front door and then turned to Bertie. "I felt our discussion should be in private, sir," he explained.

Bertie shifted nervously. His hand rose to prod his tender cheek once more, and his eyes were full of mistrust. "You're not going to whack me too, are you?"

"Allow me to ice that for you, sir." He ushered Bertie into the kitchen and into a chair, where Bertie could sit comfortably while Jeeves applied a handful of ice wrapped in a tea towel to the injury.

"Thank you, Jeeves," Bertie said. He winced as the cold touched his sore skin, then relaxed as the numbness settled in.

"Sir, your offer is extremely generous," Jeeves said as he dabbed at Bertie's face, "so much so that I dare not accept it."

Bertie sighed. He had been afraid of this. "It took a lot of finagling to get this worked out, Jeeves. Please, just take the house and the money, will you?"

"I'm sorry, but I cannot."

Bertie shut his eyes, fighting tears once more. "There is so much I wish I could give you, Jeeves, but every time I try to hand it over, you hand it right back."

"Oh, sir...."

"My heart is one thing; I can't hold it against you if you don't want it for yourself." Bertie sniffed. "But this money, this cottage, it's just stuff, Jeeves. No strings attached; you won't owe me a dime. And please don't think this is my way of forcing myself on you!" Bertie's eyes flew open, plagued by this new thought. "You'll never have to see me again if you don't want to! Just take the money for your father's sake. I swear I'll never darken your door."

Bertie was close to fainting, he just knew it. The room was spinning and the lights were glaring. Then everything stopped. Jeeves was kneeling on the floor, and he had placed his head in Bertie's lap. His arms had wound round Bertie's waist, and he seemed to be shaking. The ice pack had fallen to the ground.

"Jeeves?" Bertie touched his fingertips to the glossy back hair at the back of Jeeves' head. It was soft and slick with hair tonic. "Jeeves, is something wrong?"

"How can I put this right?" Jeeves murmured into Bertie's thigh. "Please, please, sir, just tell me how. I cannot bear to see you this way. My heart has cracked into a million more pieces, listening to you." His arms clutched round Bertie like vines round a tree. "You truly believe I feel nothing for you, and yet you've sold your family's ancestral home to ease my own strain. I don't understand, sir. Please, make me understand."

Bertie raked his fingers through Jeeves' hair in earnest, soothing him as one would soothe an animal. "It's just the way I'm built, I suppose. I had to help you if I could, no matter what had happened. It's not your fault, Jeeves, that you don't want me the way I want you."

Jeeves lifted his head and grasped Bertie by the lapels of his jacket. "But I do want you! I love you with all my soul and all my strength, and I've dreamt about you a hundred times! And if you don't allow me to kiss you right now--"

Bertie bent his head, and though his mouth was still sore from Lucy's blow, he kissed Jeeves very thoroughly. When he was done and out of breath, he pulled away from those sweet lips and leaned his forehead against Jeeves'.

"You don't need my permission, Jeeves. Ever," he said.

Jeeves nodded, his eyes still squeezed shut as if savouring the memory of their first kiss.

"I love you, Jeeves. You know this, don't you?"

Another nod.

They kissed again and again until Bertie hissed in pain; his sister had quite the right hook, it appeared.

"Come, sir. You should rest in bed. I will apply some soothing cream to your injury." Jeeves rose to his feet and helped Bertie stand.

"Jeeves, do you think, while I'm in bed--" Bertie bit his lip. "Nothing too untoward, I assure you! I just thought, well...."

Jeeves gathered Bertie's hands in his own. "Shall I sleep beside you, sir, listening to you breathe and holding you close to me?"

Bertie flushed and smiled. "Do you know, Jeeves, that's all I really wanted that day we had our big row? The way you reacted, I thought that you thought that I was thinking of something very salacious indeed; perhaps that hurt me more than anything, because I assumed you were disgusted by the idea."

Jeeves kissed the side of his neck. "Perhaps in the morning, when we are well-rested and less worn, I will prove to you exactly how that idea strikes me."

"Oh. I like the sound of that." Bertie frowned. "And also we will have to discuss your father, and how much time you'll need to care for him, and whether or not I should reside here or with you or near you; what will your father think about the young master hanging about? I hate to sound callous, but perhaps his deafness will be a great asset to us. I--I mean, for the speaking of secrets and such, not, erm, other, more inappropriate--"

Another kiss landed gently on his lips. "Come lay down beside me," Jeeves said softly. "Our worries can wait until morning."

Outside, London finally decided which way it would go. A rainstorm began in earnest. Bertie didn't pay it any mind, and neither did Jeeves.