Chapter 3
Well, there you are. I was quite chuffed to have sorted the sitch. with no casualties, as it were, but as the days went by, I could see that things hadn't exactly returned up to snuff. I mean to say, Jeeves's service was impeccable as ever, not a wrinkle to be seen on the young master's clothing and perfectly mixed b. and s.'s finding their way to my hand just when I needed them, but there was a sort of tension between us. What with Jeeves's unusually sedate manners and my determination to avoid talking about anything remotely related to tender feelings and such—no need to rub that in a fellow's face, what? It all put quite the damper to our conversation, which was very sad.
To see my Jeeves, a man who in usual conditions doesn't hesitate to make his opinion on every possible subject known to all and sundry, and who in fact relishes any excuse to waggle his jaw at leisure, so quiet and withdrawn, pained my heart not a little. I found it deuced difficult to go by without our friendly chatter, which I had always found delish. It was a bit like quarrelling with a bosom chum, only we hadn't quarrelled and I couldn't just swallow my pride and offer the Wooster hand in reconciliation. Beside babbling away about everything that crossed my all-too-empty noggin, trying to coax a response out of him, and act like I had forgotten the whole sorry occurrence, I was at loss for what to do.
I must say, despite my known tendency to forget about sensitive issues and making the deuce of a faux pas spurting them out at the least convenient moment, I held myself in check quite well, if I may say so. I only slipped once; that is to say, not at all, because it was on purpose: although I had promised to keep mum on the subj., in fact, I felt I had the right to know what had become of the whole Olivia/Jeeves thingummy.
"I say, Jeeves," I said to him one night "I say, what of Livvie?"
"What of her, sir?"
"I mean, last I heard she looked upon you with a tender e. and a keen predilection for matrimonial alliances of the inter-class variety. What happened of it, if I may ask?" Here he stiffened a bit, but answered blithely as if I had asked him what he thought of the last cricket match.
"I informed Miss Smythe-Garland that, although her interest flattered me immensely, my heart is already taken."
"Good show, by Jove! I wish I could have thought of this wheeze every time a girl took in her head to marry me!" I wasn't thinking, of course, but I didn't miss the blankness that came upon his face, nor the soupy tone he employed in his response.
"As you say, sir. Will you need anything else?" and he shimmered off without even waiting for an answer—an unheard-of breach of protocol, which goes to show how distressed he'd been by my callous attitude. For, you know, as I gaped to the Jeeves shaped emptiness next to my bed it occurred to me that his answer hadn't been a wheeze at all: his heart was, in fact, taken by this unworthy Wooster. I felt the worst sort of cad to have dismissed his affections in this manner, and I resolved never to breathe a word about it again, and that I was to double my efforts to treat him like the peerless wonder he was.
Eventually, the vacation ended and we returned to the old metrop., if a little worse for wear. To my satisfaction, once Jeeves wrapped his massive brain around the fact that his just sleep would not be interrupted by a stampede of policemen, and that the young master was truly willing to let the matter drop, the good man started to relax a bit. That is to say, if I started to quote any stray poet that came to mind, he would gleefully rearrange the sentence in its native form, give it a brush with the old feather-duster and respectfully lecture me on the author's life, habits, general appearance and favourite beverage. In other words, all was well chez Wooster, except it was not.
I couldn't quite put my finger on it, at first. I mean, all seemed to be going on rather steadily, what? Yet sometimes I would toddle over to Jeeves in need of reassurance about some small matter of aunts or friends, and he would answer with a polite, impersonal word or with an imaginative, but equally impersonal, scheme (depending from the current state of my wardrobe, I believe). All rather acceptable if you're a valet; I just couldn't help but remember the way he'd looked with the love light in his eyes, and thinking that, in some occasions, said l.l. is called forth. I mean, surely a bit of the fond glance and a gentle, reassuring hand on the shoulder couldn't hurt a soul, I thought. That is to say, I rather missed it.
Of course Jeeves, being Jeeves, would never stand for it, and I had better not disturb his feudal spirit by suggesting inappropriate shoulder-patting or anything of the sort, which felt dashed unfair: it felt as if, after having sampled Anatole's mouth-watering meals, I was told in no uncertain terms never to darken the grounds of Brinkley Court again. I mean to say, I distinctly remember that there was a time when I hadn't met God's gift to gastronomy, and I am sure that I used to consider my usual fare more than perfectly adequate. Yet today I would weep bitter tears if I was denied access to his ambrosial meals, and the sole mention of his name is enough to make me answer the call of the aunt in distress, with no thoughts for my own safety.
Much in the same way, I found that I couldn't stand the polite, natural distance between me and my man anymore that I could have sworn off Anatole's meals for the time being. Knowing the veritable depths of affection that lurked beneath my man's calm demeanour, I found it intolerable that we should maintain that dashed formal distance between us. In short, even though the lark was on the nail and the status was very much quo, I didn't really care for the continuing state of affairs. A little less of the starched politeness and more of the good old embrace was what I wanted. I'm not terribly sure when the realization hit me—possibly somewhere between sulking over a morose b. and s. at the Drones and sneaking a peek of Jeeves ironing in shirtsleeves, but I assure you: this Wooster might be slow on the uptake as you please, but he isn't a complete idiot. Eventually, I had to realize that I was hopelessly in love with Jeeves.
'But, Wooster,' I imagine someone saying when they got to this twist in the plot, 'How did you reach such a momentous conclusion? You've made quite the big production of rejecting Jeeves's love; true, why anybody would reject such a paragon is beyond my comprehension, but there's no getting around it: you did it, B. W. Why, then, the heel-face turn?' They would ask.
Well, it wasn't easy, I'll give you that. The Woosters are not known for being thinkers—we are, in fact, men of action. Give a Wooster a sword on the battlefield, and he'll charge the enemy with nary a thought for his safety. In those less bloodthirsty times, give me a tennis raquet or a golf club, and I'll defend the family honour with the best of them. When it comes to intellectual challenges, however, I'm stumped. While I think it's unfair that some people, i.e. my Aunt Agatha, refer to me as 'Useless Blot' and 'Blithering Idiot', I admit that it took me a deuced long time to work out that little tidbit of information—namely, that I was in love with Jeeves too.