Jeeves and the Wedding Bells (10 page)

‘Are you feeling all right?’

‘Absolutely topping, thanks. Never felt better. But not half as good as you look. An absolute picture.’

‘I really must be—’

With every sally, Amelia took a step further away from me. I tried to remember exactly what it was that she had complained of with Woody and the village girls. Sleeve-stroking, I seemed to recall.

When matters come to a head, we Woosters act decisively. I took a step closer. I reached out … I stroked.

‘Lovely material, this. Now, can I give you a tip on the forehand I had from an Oxford blue?’

So saying, I moved in behind and laid my hand over hers on
the racket handle, swung it back and followed through with plenty of elan. Even Big Bill Tilden might have had to grant that this was one forehand drive that wasn’t coming back.

Amelia extracted herself from my embrace, somewhat red in the face. I hoped this was the first sign of the flush of forgiveness she was determined to extend to poor old Woody. I wasn’t putting a lot of money on it, though.

Straightening her sleeve, she said, ‘Who are you?’

I felt a slackening in the jaw muscles. I hadn’t quite prepared for that one, and I wobbled a bit between Wooster and Wilberforce. Unable to plump for one or the other, I decided to take speech out of the equation altogether. I leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. I clung on for a moment, long enough to hear her say, ‘Georgiana!’

Releasing my grip like a Boys’ Brigade lightweight at the sound of the bell, I sprang back to see the above-named, also kitted out for tennis, standing a few feet away.

It was as though Amelia ceased to exist. The limbs that a moment ago had seemed the acme of elegance now reminded me of a chap Jeeves knows called something like Ozzy Manders, whose vast and trunkless legs of stone stand in the desert. Not that Amelia’s were trunkless, obviously, but you get the gist.

As the gaze travelled northwards up Georgiana’s outline, it came to rest on the face, which was pale, with the eye clouded. To say she looked disappointed would be undercooking it a bit; she looked like a child on Boxing Day who has just been told that Father Christmas is only Uncle Arthur in a cotton-wool beard.

Then a little colour returned, and her face took on the look it had had when she referred to herself as that character in Tolstoy. Sonya Something. Her jaw set bravely.

‘Come on, Ambo,’ she said. ‘Time for the weekly thrashing. I’ll see if I can get at least two games off you today.’

‘Hang on, Georgie. Tell me something. Do you know this man? Have you ever met him?’

Georgiana looked me slowly up and down. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen him before in my life.’

So saying, she turned her back and strode off to the tennis court.

The Bertram who slunk back up the servants’ staircase to his quarters, there to bury his head beneath the pillow, was far from the gay boulevardier of song and story. No. This was a diminished, a deflated Wooster, whom his friends would have struggled to recognise. Where, they would have asked, was the thumping heartbeat of the Drones Amateur Dramatic Society? Where the man who, for a trifling bet, would swing himself across the swimming pool, suspended from the wooden rings above, in full evening dress? Where was the pep-filled fear-nothing who laughed at tyrants and cocked a snook at fate?

The odd thing is that I couldn’t really have told them. Furthermore, I had no idea why I was heaving up and down like a merchantman that’s been holed below the Plimsoll Line. Things could have been an awful lot worse. True, I had failed with Plan A: I had not yet been able to put two sundered
hearts back together. But there was plenty in the demeanour of this Amelia to give one hope for Woody; I didn’t believe she was moping simply because the tennis pro had failed to show up. No, there was a lovesickness there for sure. True also, Georgiana Meadowes now thought I was a cad for making eyes at some other chap’s fiancée. Moreover, I had the strong impression that she enjoyed denying knowledge of me. It was not just that she was sticking to the scheme that we’d agreed on; she spoke with a relish that wasn’t in the script. But if she now thought less of me, where was the harm in that? She was another man’s intended and her feelings towards B. Wooster – supposing that she even had any – were of no consequence.

I had lost a battle, not a war. So, steady the Buffs, I thought – or may even have said out loud, as I rose from the truckle bed and changed back into clothing more fitted to my menial duties. Yet even as I donned the spongebag trousering, I suddenly remembered an afternoon at private school when I was about eleven and had been laid low by an attack of measles. The other chaps were off in a charabanc to play cricket against a nearby rival with a slap-up tea thrown in, while I was left perspiring beneath the blankets like the greater spotted toad.

At dusk the matron came in with a letter from home. As well as the usual stuff about the asparagus bed, Grandpa’s gout and the Glossops’ summer ball, it contained the news that Horace, the family hound, had, at the admittedly splendid age of fourteen, handed in his dinner pail and would bark no more in Woosterland. I had confided more in this beast than any living creature thus far in my life, and my trust had been well
founded. As Matron closed the sickbay curtain, I wondered whether life could get much gloomier.

Why on earth this childish memory should have chosen that moment to ambush me, I had not the faintest idea. So straightening the dull blue tie, I checked that the hair was in place, the shoes shining and set off to find Lord Etringham.

My first port of call was the housekeeper’s sitting room, though for once Mrs Tilman was unable to help. She had not heard whether the sporting duo was back from Dorchester, but perhaps a look in the garages beyond the stable block, this excellent woman pointed out, would establish whether the two-seater was still absent.

The advantage of this plan was that it kept me in a part of the estate where I was unlikely to come across any of the increasingly large number of people I did not wish to clap eyes on me. In addition to Hackwoods, Puxleys, Venableses and other rough customers, this list, to my chagrin, now contained Amelia and Georgiana.

If there was something furtive in my manner as I skirted past the thoroughbreds in their stabling, perhaps it can be forgiven in the circs. The Wooster sports model was neatly parked alongside what I took to be Sir Henry’s somewhat battered four-door chariot, so I made another longish loop on my way back to the first-floor corner room.

I had never really considered before how little of a house like Melbury Hall is used by the family and its guests. Less
than a third, I would have guessed, as I panted over a cobbled yard, through a battered side door, up a linoleum-covered stair, down a dim corridor, past maids’ rooms and half-shut store cupboards from which mysterious mops and brushes poked their heads. I had almost despaired of reaching civilisation, when I spotted a passage that led to a distant baize-upholstered door.

This opening gave on to the main house and the huge right-angled oak landing that hung above the main hall. I looked from side to side, like a dowager afraid to cross at Piccadilly Circus. I took a chance. I scooted, skidded, halted, knocked.

‘Come in,’ said a welcome voice.

His lordship was seated in an armchair by the window that overlooked the deer park.

‘I didn’t know you wore glasses, Jeeves,’ I panted.

‘Only for reading, sir.’

‘Eye strain, is it? Too many of those triple-decker Russian novels? I can’t say I’m surprised.’

‘It is normal for people in their middle years to require reading spectacles. The condition is known as presbyopia. It derives from the Greek word “presbys” meaning an elder or—’

‘Does it, by Jove?’

‘A weakening of the ciliary muscles is unable to compensate for a loss of elasticity in the crystalline lens, which—’

‘Jeeves?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Enough. I’ve got some bad news. An absolute wagonload of it.’

Jeeves laid down the hefty book and removed the specs. ‘I am sorry to hear that, sir.’

‘Plan A laid an egg. And I thought it was going to be the goose that … But it was a turkey. Do you catch my drift?’

‘The poultry metaphors are painting a lively picture, sir. Am I to take it that you were out for a duck?’

‘Enough, Jeeves. This is an absolute snookeroo. Amelia was appalled by my behaviour and, what’s worse, by some utter fluke Georgiana witnessed the whole thing and now thinks I’m the biggest cad this side of Newton Abbot.’

‘Most distressing for you, sir.’

‘I mean, dash it, I came down here to try to put Woody back on track with Amelia and now Georgiana thinks I’m trying to steal old Woody’s girl. It’s a disaster.’

‘So it would appear, sir.’

‘Jeeves, you’re not helping. You don’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation.’

‘The plan or expedient was one about which, as I recall, I did express grave reservations, sir.’

‘If you’re trying to say “I told you so”, you’d better just come out and say it.’

‘On the contrary, sir. It merely occurred to me that Miss Hackwood is too much preoccupied with her feelings for Mr Beeching to be able to extrapolate any general rule about the behaviour of the male sex from a chance encounter with an over-friendly stranger, let alone to apply such an axiom to her particular situation.’

There was a longish silence in Sir Henry Hackwood’s
favoured guest room as I slowly decoded what Jeeves had said. I got there in the end and I had to admit that the chap had a point. I could see that now.

I slid a cigarette from my case and sucked in a pensive lungful.

‘What next, Jeeves?’

‘I would suggest doing nothing, sir.’

‘Nothing? Have you taken leave of your senses?’

‘I trust not, sir. However, my observation of Miss Hackwood leads me to suppose that she is very much struck by the charms of Mr Beeching. I believe her coldness to be temporary. If Mr Beeching can remember to contain his friendly impulse towards any member of the fairer sex to a point of simple civility in future, then I am confident that—’

‘But what about Amelia? Do you think Woody can point out to her that he can’t spend the rest of his life being dashed chilly to anything in a skirt?’

‘Miss Hackwood is young, sir, but she is not unintelligent. And her character is not yet set. I see no reason why each party should not learn from his unfortunate
froideur
.’

‘You may be right, Jeeves, but don’t forget that whether they get hitched or not still depends on keeping Sir Henry sweet. Which reminds me, how did you get on at the bookies’ in Dorchester?’

‘It was Gold Cup day at Ascot, sir. I am happy to say that Sir Henry followed my lead and backed Solario.’

‘So he’s in a pretty good mood?’

‘Indeed, sir, though it would be even better had he taken
my advice and backed Pons Asinorum for a place.’

‘Pond’s What?’

‘Pons Asinorum, sir. Sir Henry was deterred by the Latin name which he described as “fancy nonsense”.’

‘But you weren’t put off?’

‘Not at all, sir. The phrase was familiar to me from the fifth proposition of Euclid.’

‘Eh?’

‘I beg your pardon, sir. It means the asses’ bridge. It is the beginners’ hurdle – or first point of a proof that the novice must somehow get across.’

‘And this nag did well?’

‘It ran on strongly to finish third, sir.’

‘And you trousered a second bagful of silver?’

‘A quite satisfactory sum, thank you, sir.’

I bunged the cigarette end into the fireplace. ‘I’m very happy for you, Jeeves. But what am I to do about Georgiana? She’s going to tell Woody that I’ve been making up to his fiancée.’

‘I somehow doubt it, sir.’

‘Why?’

‘I can think of two reasons, sir.’

‘I’m all ears, Jeeves.’

‘Miss Meadowes is a good-hearted young lady, sir. She is disposed to think well of people. She is also quick-witted and may suspect there was an ulterior motive in your behaviour. Furthermore, she is devoted to her cousin, Miss Hackwood. She would do nothing to threaten her happiness.’

‘Even though Amelia regularly gives her a pummelling on the tennis court.’

‘Indeed, sir. I believe she is most sporting about it.’

‘Well, that’s one reason. I take it that it
was
just one, wasn’t it? Even if it had half a dozen subclauses?’

‘Indeed, sir, it was intended as a single entity.’

‘Right ho. So what’s reason number two? And any chance it might dash the Dorsetshire Bounder of the Year cup from my unwilling grasp?’

Jeeves cleared his throat and looked out of the window as though he had spotted something. I followed his gaze but could see nothing of moment beyond the railing of the park and a few contented deer cropping the verdure.

‘The second reason is a delicate one, sir. It raises questions of feelings contingent on your own person.’

‘Would it be possible to speak in plain English, Jeeves? I’m in a spot of bother here.’

‘I shall endeavour, sir, to …’ Jeeves coughed.

‘Would you like a glass or water?’ I asked.

‘No, sir, I … Forgive me if this appears in some way
ultra vires
but—’

‘You’re at it again.’

‘Very good, sir.’ After one final throat clearance and wistful glance towards the grazing herbivores, he finally gave voice. ‘Had it occurred to you, sir, that Miss Meadowes may entertain certain feelings for you?’

‘Feelings? What sort of … Good heavens, Jeeves, you don’t mean … Surely not … Not
that
sort of feeling?’

I sat down heavily on the end of the bed. My emotions at this moment can best be described as confused. There was a bit of exhilaration, a hefty dose of doubt, a worry about Jeeves’s mental stability and the usual unease about bandying a woman’s name. When the roiling waters of the Wooster mind had calmed a fraction, however, there was only one thing visible: disbelief.

I chose my words with care. ‘What on earth makes you think that a woman who edits books and shoots the breeze with you about … what was that chap’s name … Something-hour?’