Jeeves and the Misconstrued Love Light

Chapter 1

Author Notes: A big thank you to beatrice_otter who fixed my punctuation issues, and to elliemorris, to whom credit is due for the title, a couple of the more corking lines, and endless buckets of support and encouragement; without her, I would never have found the courage to post : )

It is no secret to my regular readers that girls usually tend to get Wooster, B. in trouble. In this, at least, this tale is no different from the others, for I can safely say that the events were ignited by a girl, this time one Olivia Smythe-Garland, who happened to come along during a family vacation to Cannes as a friend of my cousin Angela. Said O. S-G. did not look especially menacing, at first; she was fairly different from the girl who had come with us the year before, one of those soppy, doe-eyed blighters who sigh wistfully at the moon and write poetry full of weeping willows and fluffy bunnies.

No, this Livvie was a genuinely good egg who, despite having easily ten times my intelligence, didn't seem to feel the urge to mould Bertram. But most of all, what endeared her to me was her admiration of Jeeves: quite unlike several other ladies whom I shall not name, she thought me most wise to keep such a marvel in my employment, and often included him in our conversations, much to my delight.

Now, during the better part of the vacation she had, quite sensibly, refrained from setting her sights on yours truly; therefore you can imagine my dismay, dear reader, when, during one of our friendly moonlit strolls she said:

"Bertie dear, I must confess I am in love"

"Err… indeed, old thing?"

"Yes! You can't possibly imagine how I feel—can't you, even now, hear my heart beating like a crazy stallion?"

I assured her I didn't, and I stuttered something about being flattered and all that but, when she interrupted me with the most delightful sound for a man in my position: she laughed soundly.

"Oh Bertie, you fathead! You can't possibly think I mean you!"

I puffed my chest, slightly hurt—I mean to say, what? Surely fancying me couldn't be too absurd; after all, many a Bassett and Glossop have often gathered round with the love light in their eyes, hounding in on this Wooster like a wolf at mealtime—and replied. "Well, my dear, you sort of gave me that impression; but let's not talk about it. Tell me then, who's the lucky chap?" And here she came and stomped over my newly born relief like a Spode crushing a communist's cranium.

"Well, it's Jeeves."

"What! Surely you don't mean Jeeves!"

"But I do."

"My Jeeves?"

"Yes! Have you ever noticed, Bertie, the noble shape of his head? How it bulges so proudly at the back?"

Well, the nerve of it! Of course I noticed! Some small part of the Wooster mind cried righteously; but it drowned in the vast majority of the brain intent to absorb the shock of Livvie's announcement. Surely such a thing couldn't be possible: she was a lady, after all, and Jeeves was…

… The best man I knew. Certainly much better than tons of Sirs and Lords and whatnot, what with his marvellous intellect and the way he shimmered silently and seemingly appeared out of nowhere just when I needed him; not to mention his strong sense of property and general paragon-ness. Many a time had this Wooster wondered why he remained by my side instead of biffing off to be Prime Minister. Indeed, were I a lady instead of a virile gentleman, I admitted grudgingly to myself, I would most assuredly set my sights on Jeeves too, for no one couldn't possibly do better than him.

"… So will you do it for me, Bertie?"

"...Eh?"

She sighed, annoyed "Do try to focus, Bertie! I said, could you please mention the matter to Jeeves for me?"

"I… you want me to… what? Of course I won't! Of all the bally nerve! Not only do you try to steal Jeeves from me, you want me to help you do it!"

"Now, don't be selfish. Do you honestly expect a man like Jeeves to spend the better part of his life taking care of a wastrel like you? Just think about everything he could do if he had the means, instead of wasting away in your service!"

I deflated. My shoulders sagged miserably, the Wooster pride stung vividly in its most sensible spot. I couldn't deny her point—Livvie's family was the oofy sort, and I could just see Jeeves as the munificent philanthropy, helping out artists and writers and whatnot (not that he didn't do that already, only with his admirable intellect) and most probably running for Parliament and bettering England with a flicker of the old eyebrow. Really, who was I to stand in his way?

"All right," I grumbled "But I don't see why you can't tell him yourself."

"Well, I would, but he's such a traditional bird, he might think I'm too forward if I propose to him—it 's not the done thing, after all. So, Bertie, will you speak to him?"

"I..."

"Please! If not for me, do it for Jeeves."

Well, what was there to do? I reluctantly agreed, and gave her my word I would speak with Jeeves.

I have to tell you, the whole matter stung not a little; the heart was heavy, so to speak, and the brow wrinkled in deep sorrow. To be frank, most of the time there's nothing that rouses the Wooster spirit like the chance to do a friend a good turn, but it pains me to see that, more often than not, the g.t. in question seems to demand some rather sticky sacrifices yours truly. That is, when the course of True Love does not run smooth, it always comes down to 'Be a dear and pretend to be a female romance novelist, Bertie' or 'Would you wear this stolen policeman's uniform, Bertie, old chum?' Bally annoying is what it is. However, I felt than in this situation, the sacrifice required was much greater: to part from Jeeves, no less! A Jeevesless life—a prospect too horrid I could scarcely bear to think about it. I mean to say, this Wooster has gone to great lengths to help many young lovers, and I suppose that, with some effort, I could learn to get along without Jeeves' help, if that was absolutely necessary. I mean to say, I could probably wrangle my way out of most matrimonial entanglements; I have been known to think up the odd scheme or two, when the occasion required. Also, to be honest, I don't really need Jeeves's help to realise that, when the enraged aunt marches forth, ravenous for a spot of Wooster blood, it's time for a quick dash to New York. No, the true tragedy would simply be that Jeeves-shaped empty space in my flat. Not seeing him when I first open the peepers in the morning, not having him around to gently slide a rose in my buttonhole, or to adjust my tie, or light me a cigarette? Unthinkable! Some people might say that I would still have some sort of valet on hand to do it all, but Tchah! Say I. I'm firmly convinced, to this day, that no one could even open a door quite the same way Jeeves does, and inferior specimens need not apply.

In short, it pained me, but a Wooster is a man of his word.

It's a rummy thing, how time passes quickly when one has to do something he truly doesn't want to. Before I knew it I was in my room, readying myself for bed while Jeeves shimmered around my room willing everything in its proper place, having (Jeeves, that is) a marked distrust of hotel staff in re. Bertram's personal possession. As I watched him float effortlessly here and there and possibly folding socks with the power of his mind, I felt a stab of pain at the thought that I was probably soon to lose the tender care of this paragon of paragons, but a Wooster stands by his word. Having previously fortified myself with a couple of stiff ones at the bar I cleared my throat and addressed him.

"Jeeves, old thing, do you ever thing about love?" The effect of my words was immediate: he stood straight and fixed me with the sort of intense gaze that says his fish-fed brain is calling forth all of his considerable resources.

"Sir?"

"Well, you know, love," I repeated, slightly unnerved by his tense stance "The old ticker beating like a rabid stallion and all that. I, that is to say, err… Dash it, it's bally difficult to get it out, you know, and not a little embarrassing but… I mean to say, you are loved, Jeeves. Passionately, in fact. Why, you probably know it all already, being the marvel that you are, you must have noticed the tender sighs and amorous glances cast in your direction, even if Bertram was unaware at the time, and you undoubtedly knew when a seemingly innocent compliment to your intelligence hid within a sweetest sentiment, as it were..."

Here I trailed off for a mo., taking in Jeeves's expression. Though he was attempting his usually unreadable valet facade, I could see that his eyes were a fragment wider than usual, and he was standing to attention in the rummiest way, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing and wanted to be absolutely certain that he understood correctly. I don't mind saying, his plain hopefulness shattered the Wooster heart, but I bravely went on:

"...And I truly hope you will consider the offer, that is, and that you know I should be heartbroken to let you go, although if you really want to leave my service I won't stand in your way—wouldn't be preux, what?"

"Sir" He said quietly "Sir, I never dared hope."

I was opening my mouth to reassure him and offer my more or less sincere congratulations, but he prevented me by crossing the space between us in three resolute steps and planting a smacker right on the young master's lips.

Quite the shock, what? Now, I know, the gentlemanly thing to do would have been to push him gently but firmly away, and immediately explain that I was terribly flattered but there had been one titanic misunderstanding in re. the identity of Jeeves's admirer, and if he thought the young master to harbour certain inclinations well, he was sorely mistaken; but I have to admit I didn't quite follow this sensible course of action, for I was distracted, as it were, by the kiss itself.

My affectionate readers are well acquainted with my man's superior skill in every conceivable field, and it shouldn't be a surprise to hear that he's a bally exceptional kisser. Trust me on this: he enfolds you in his strong arms, one hand holding the back of your neck in a thrilling masterly way so he can guide you right where he wants you; and I can't even begin to describe the utterly marvellous things he does with his tongue. What I mean to say is, I got caught in the moment and didn't push him away at all. When we parted for air I was quite dizzy and light-headed and didn't even remember my own name—I knew there were a lot of W's and possibly a B, but that was all.

While I slowly regained my senses, he held me and caressed my back, lavishing my face with tender little kisses, and told me quite extensively about his most secret feelings in re. yours truly; he quoted several poets and possibly an old Greek johnnie. The gist of it was that he had harboured tender feelings for the young master for years, and he was terribly in love with me, and he had never thought it possible that his feelings could be reciprocated—for, you see, he now believed Bertram to be in love with him as well.

Though this is not an entirely unusual posish for this Wooster, I couldn't think of anything to say. Dashed uncomfortable, what? I never believed Jeeves to be subject to this kind of misunderstanding, especially having witnessed many a girl fall prey to the Wooster charm this way, but there we were.

He had apparently misconstrued my dumbstruck silence for loving assent, for he resumed the dashed capable assault to my mouth and then moved to nuzzle my neck in a most interesting way. I mean to say, I had never imagined I would feel like this again, having finished school years before, but I could feel a distinct stirring in my lower portions, and by the way his hands tightened on me and slowly slid downwards he had realized my predicament. The old good sense kicked in at this point, and I wriggled free of his embrace and leapt on the bed, slamming the Wooster corpus under the sheets and firmly drawing said s. under my chin. Jeeves let out an embarrassed chuckle, a sound I had never heard from him. I looked at him and saw that the most surprising metamorphwhatsit had taken place: Jeeves was, my word, openly smiling, and a touch of red tinged his cheeks in a most endearing way.

"I'm sorry, Sir," he breathed, eyes shining; he didn't look sorry at all, I must add, but at least this was normal. "I have waited for years, but I suppose it's too soon for you, isn't it?"

"Er… way too soon, old thing." I managed to say.

"Don't worry, we will have time," he whispered lovingly, and then bent to give me a goodnight kiss, which made my toes curl on the mattress and sent shivers down my spine.