21 July, 19XX
My dear Sissie,
I write to extend you my regrets, most sincerely, and excuse myself from attendance of the upcoming and annual brief holiday with the Family: this coming week-end? It is with great sorrow, and such short notice, but I find I am quite completely unable to vacate Mr Wooster's side at this time; he can not be left safely alone in his time of travail.
In some small form of a very discreet explanation, almost an aside, and to your sympathetic ears from my lips, please allow me to simply report that my dearest young Master is sorely afflicted in his spirits, and has been existing thusly for a considerable period, lasting now weeks upon endless end: four at the least; and I have yet to divine either the cause nor the exact nature of his ailment. I am, Sissie, overwrought, plainly.
Indeed, it has become my overweening desire to do so, discovering this uncommon ailment, and then naturally to take any steps necessary to provide Mr Wooster cure and succour, but—to my utter frustration—I have yet to achieve the slightest glimpse of success in my endeavours. Worse yet, all my observations and enquiries into the matter have proved fruitless. His so-called 'friends' and Family—even my fellow servants and acquaintances via my Club, Ganymede—have provided scant data; further, his own dear lips remain completely sealed, moreover, against all my subtle hinting and even my outright questioning.
My dear Sissie, I can hardly bear to see it, Mr Wooster's obvious decline! And yet…and yet, he will not speak. I am rendered quite helpless, you see?
As you are aware, dearest Sissie, Mr Wooster is of the most highest value, at least in my view; a sterling young gentleman, and deserving of his usual bon vivant attitude towards the vagaries of this vale of tears we ironically term 'Life'. Though some may decry my Mr Wooster's high spirits, I personally find them delightful and uplifting. His disposition is such that he encourages others to take on a sense of cheer and blatant positivity. It is, in a word, 'hopeful'. Thus, and rather naturally, it pains me to an enormous degree that he has fallen all but deathly silent, his normal chatter and verve muted, his daily activities set aside in favour of decidedly more sedate pursuits. Why, it has been nearly a month since Mr Wooster has brought home (or rather, should say I 'snuck' home?) any offensive accessories, policemen's helmets or garb! More than that, two full weeks have passed since he last was needful of being collected by either me, his valet, or our intrepid doorman, Mr Jarvis, from his Club. I am, as you might imagine, rather floored by these events. They were not what I was expecting.
Sissie, I confess I know not what to do at this juncture, nor where to look next for enlightenment. Classically, all signs indicate that my Mr Wooster is clearly heart-sick, but I know not over whom, nor even when it may have occurred. He is not recently engaged (willingly or no), nor enamoured of anyone, (not even of someone desperately Unsuitable, which he would likely attempt to keep hidden from until such a time as he was in requirement of last-minute, shame-faced assistance with extraction; all forgivable, all expected!)
Sissie, my dear, there are no indications He has been tricked into keeping poor company, or been fleeced, or roped into some unsavoury scheme. Indeed, and most refreshingly, there has been a marked decrease in the demands made upon him by his 'friends' and his Family. It is rather terrifyingly peaceful, actually, here at our flat; no hi-jinks at all and I've not been required to extricate either Mr Wooster, nor his friends, relations, and or even passing acquaintances from a single snare in all this last fortnight. I am a total loss to explain it, but it certainly vastly odd. I find, I admit, the lack thereof unsettling. I find His quietude, unaccustomed, more so. It is not like Him, and I miss my own Mr Wooster, very much.
Sissie, I am at loss. I repeat!
The only other anomaly I've observed is that Mr Wooster has been taking tea regularly with his cousins, the younger elder set. My connections via my own Club have provided me some insight into what takes place during these small Family confabulations: Mr Wooster spends a great deal of his time sipping improperly prepared tea and inhaling cakes and puddings at various commercial centres and tea shoppes and his assortment of cousins browbeat his poor ears with their frivolous tales of their 'private feelings', all throughout. It is as though my Master has been somehow transformed into a sort of 'Agony Uncle', Sissie—a role which I would've stridently proclaimed previously he was entirely unsuited for.
And yet…and yet. My dear Sissie, Mr Wooster appears to be doling out some manner of sound advice to these young relations of his. Case in point: not more than a few days ago he received a highly surprising and unsolicited telegram from one of his school-year's intimates, a young gentleman graced with the unfortunate nickname of 'Tuppy', who is, not coincidentally (and on an on-again, off-again basis, may I add!) affianced to Mr Wooster's cousin, Miss Angela. This 'Tuppy' had sent it as a matter of thanking my Master, as a polite man will do, and an as old school-mate, and for a job well done, in not only healing a rift between himself (Mr 'Tuppy') and his official beloved (Miss Angela), but by further suggesting that 'Tuppy' and Miss Angela cement their proposed union by way of a 'swift and permanent' method! My ingenious young Master evidently had urged Mr 'Tuppy' to take 'swift, manly' action, probably in hopes of impressing Miss Angela, and had apparently gone so far as to encourage the young couple to elope to the Highlands together.
The Highlands! Damp, wet, and beset by numerous lot of Scots, oh my! I wonder, I do, what possessed Him, my sweet, unsuspecting Mr Wooster, suggesting this? Perhaps a brain fever, brought on by poorly brewed tea? I blame Harrod's, truly I do.
Nonetheless, now, Sissie, you must be made to understand that Miss Angela, though not the veriest Soul of Propriety, is still quite the conventional young lady and generally comports herself in a way suitable to her Class. I can only surmise that Mr Wooster somehow managed to, shall we say? 'Set the stage', as it were, thus enabling Mr 'Tuppy' to overcome all prior obstacles and take up in firm fist his own heart's desire. 'Swift, sure, manly action' occurred, indeed. They are married, and one obstacle is, in effect, settled nicely, sans the necessary behind-the-scenes activities of your younger brother. Pardon me, Sissie, if I dare inhale a relived sigh?
What ho, my delightful young Master? What have you wrought, all unknowing...or knowing? And in this precarious state? I fret, Sissie, I do.
If this is so, I can only applaud Him. Him, being my young Master. It is well past time to set these young people to rights, and I must, perforce, be happy that this course has been set. Set apparently by my very dear Mr Wooster…But I fear, I fear, Sissie. I have a certain trembling in the breast area, a certain chill. This is not the Mr Wooster I am grown accustomed to, and I feel the great lack. He did not consult me; he never spoke a word to me, Sissie. And I would have gone down on my knees to solve this, this simple issue, and gone down on my knees again, simply grateful for his smile, once it was accomplished. It wouldn't have necessarily required the Scots anvil, though I admit that was rather a rum touch.
There are times when Mr Wooster absolutely sets me rocking back on my heels; that was one. I was all over admiration; speechless. That day. And could not express it, alas, alack. Not acceptable, naturally. Not 'done'. I would've dared…I don't what I would dared, dearest Sissie, but it cannot have been acceptable. Not by anyone's Standards, certainly not mine own.
Or yours, Sissie. I know how you feel, of course, about men like me. I only thank Mama (and the Lord) that you've not cast me forth, and be rid of me, as you ought. Truly a Christian, dearest Sissie, that is what you are. In the Classic sense.
Speaking of Classical, you know—and have known—how much and how far I would go, for him, Mr Wooster. There are no limits, Sissie mine. I am…nothing. But nothing, in the end. I am but a simple servant, but I know Quality. And Mr Wooster is all that is Quality. There is no logical break in my care for him; it is his due, I believe. I would give my all for him, I would do such more…I am hopeless. But happy, being so. Do not trouble yourself to worry for me, Sissie. I have all that I require and more. In Him. And I shall not speak of it, shall mention it only briefly, for I know it disturbs you, but only to you and very few others may I speak at all, at all, and not fear instant retribution, or the clasping on of cuffs and the inevitable hard labour.
That aside, (foul thought!) it is gratuitously apparent, what I feel for Him, what emotions I am prey to, all for Him, and all unsuitable and incorrect as they may be. I am not so unawares, dear Sissie; I know the dangers. But He, Mr Wooster? He is mine, you see, to care for. For the moment, and for these last five years. For these next five to come, if I am so fortunate to experience it. I would care for him, my dear Sister, to the best of my poor ability. For all my life, and beyond...far more than 'five'. I cannot enumerate the days I would care, really. They are countless.
As you do with your Hugh, I imagine, and with our sweet Mabel, and then dearest young Roderick. Days endless, and full of sweet care, freely given.
You have expressed your deep emotion regarding your husband, the good Hugh, and similar. At the time I confess I did not understand, fresh from schooling and service. No heart had ever stuck me in that way, that manner. I had thought, ridiculously, that no heart ever would, that such emotion was best left to the ones who best dealt with it…and I was not one of those. A cold fish, Sissie. I was a very cold fish.
But no longer. I feel this way, Sissie. For Him, for Mr Wooster, for my love. And I've not the recourse of marriage or official bond to make it so, nor even any hope He feels as I do. Indeed, far from it. I would think, more like, He would be appalled. By me, and what I hide in my heart. If I were him I'd shrink away, every chance. I've no want to offer Him the chance to do so; I am the parfait gentleman's gentleman, always. I shall not slip, so no fear, Sissie. It's hopeless, but it's also all right. I hide it, and He doesn't know. He only knows his man is 'his' and will always be.
As it should be.
I know you fret, Sissie, but gaol time and hard labour would not suit me—nor Him! I shall never risk it, not allow Him to, my Mr Wooster. But burn this missive, Sissie, after you've read it? Let's not. Let's not, shall we? Let us not. Papa, in all his dire anger, would not approve, and Mama would experience another of her 'fits'. I should not like to trouble their memories. I should not like to leave you with a scarlet trail of evidence, either. You are innocent, Sissie, and have always been. It isn't your fault I am the way I am—it is solely mine burden to bear. I only thank you for being willing to listen.
It is only pen to paper, but I must confess: this is a situation sorely trying, Mr Wooster's. It pains my heart, something awfully.
But I do hide it, steadfastly, and the young Master does not know, cannot know. He'll never know, not from these lips. You need not be concerned. I am discreet, as always. But left lorn, and aching, and I would so sorely wish to help him, my lovely Bertie.
As such, Sissie, I would so very much like to solve this conundrum. I would so very much wish to provide Mr Wooster some relief. It clearly taxes him and yet he remains silent and does not ask of me for any aid. I would give my aid to him at the drop of a cravat, at the clink of a tea cup, at the sonorous howling of one of Mr Wooster's Aunts. As you are aware, dear Sissie. As you have become aware, after Mother's passing. I missed him, sorely, then. And he was kind enough to drove me down. Sissie. A better gentleman you'll never find, trust me.
If you would…if you would just cast an eye to this, this plea, and provide me any advice, any counsel, I would. I would be most appreciative. For I cannot leave him, I dare not leave him. I will not leave him until he (or his wife, whomever that may be, this Great Unknown) sends me away. I will not go.
Sissie, I rely upon you. To keep my secrets, to balance my lack. I'm well aware I am woefully lacking for all my accomplishments. I may be a gentleman's gentleman, but I am also human. Sissie, you have the wisdom, same as Mother had. What shall I do? What shall I do, now? For I cannot do nothing, or I will run mad.
With fond regards,
Reg