Chapter Text
I spurred on the old two-seater to take me speedily back to my flat, with an air of joy and, I’d go so far as to say, a tra-la-la on the tip of my tongue. The sun shined unimpeded, the clouds seeming to have taken their well earned two-weeks and left the whole of England, yet that wasn’t what had given me the pip of my career. Aunt Agatha, likely seeking a break from gnashing glass and howling at the full moon, had gone to inflict her presence on the good people of the Continent and had left Bertram well alone. The worst of my ex-fiancees were safely paired up—not to each other, that is, but to their choice of chums, pals, and acquaintances of mine. All of those factors were negligible when compared to what was buoying the Wooster heart. I closed my eyes, sighed, reopened the e., toodled the wheel jauntily to avoid the chappie on a bicycle that had jumped most inconsiderately into my path, and reflected that, of all days, today was the day that God was most certainly in his h.
Having started in media res, as I’ve heard Jeeves call it, I might have confused. I may have befuddled. I suppose to fully impart on the reader the cause for the aforementioned pip I’d have to go back to the beginning, as it were. I’m speaking of course of the tale of the gnat, the cat, the overly familiar guest, the poetry recital, and the extensively dire straits in which a monthly magazine for the lady of refinement can find itself.
When I press the hand to the brow and attempt to throw back my mind, out of shape as the thing is, to the beginning of the thing, it directs me to a particular phone call with one Dahlia Travers, beloved aunt. Unlike the Aunt Agatha I have already brought up, who crushes innocent nephews beneath her heel with relish, the other sister of my late father is good and deserving, though a little hard on the eardrums. You see, she is a former protege of Pytchley, Quorn, et. al., and her voice had irreversibly taken on the qualities of an irascible foghorn, or perhaps an avalanche. But I - what’s the word...starts with a d...digress, that’s the one. I digress from the substance of my story. The story that began with one Jeeves, paragon of gentlemen’s personal gentlemen, handing me the phone with a “Mrs. Travers, sir” and one Bertram Wooster holding the receiver an arms length away in anticipation of the vocal explosion on the other end.
“Bertie, you dear young blot! How soon can you come to Brinkley Court? I need a favor.”
So far, so good.
***
For newcomers to the Wooster archives, Milady’s Boudoir would likely be a phrase without much meaning. I urge those new hats to delve into the past volumes, but suffice to say that my Aunt Dahlia’s duties as the financier, publisher, and editorial board for this lady’s magazine caused enough interest in her day-to-day to keep her busy and, in a manner of speaking, happy, even in as sleepy a hamlet as Market Snodsbury. Having once contributed an article titled “What the Well-Dressed Man is Wearing”, I was quite attached to the old rag. Despite the fact that said article caused not some little chilliness between Jeeves and self over the subject of soft fronted shirts for evening wear, when the call to rally round goes up for Milady’s Boudoir Bertram is the first to respond.
And the call had come. The last financial shot in the arm, administered, unwillingly no doubt, by my Uncle Tom, had almost run out three months earlier than the aged ancestor had anticipated. She had a prominent female cartoonist Minnie Collins nibbling at the hook to contribute a titillating serial, so said dear aged a. was desperate to soften the beazel with good food and company. She also said something about serial rights, but the details are irrelevant. The crux was, she needed that serial of funnies and soon, to spur along those sales enough to get the Boudoir through till the next biannual injection of her husband’s oof.
I poured myself from the car with no little effort, as one does after a long ride, while Jeeves shimmered to the trunk and began showing the luggage who was boss.
“Well Jeeves, here we are. Beautiful day, what?” I looked at my valet and saw him pause in his suitcase wrangling to evaluate the skyline with a careful eye.
“Indeed, sir. Though I’m disinclined to believe it will remain so. For ‘my sun one early morn did shine with all-triumphant splendor on my brow; but, out, alack! he was but one hour mine, the region cloud hath mask’d him from me now.’”
“Shakespeare?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A bit dreary that. Makes me worry about more than just the change of rain, if you follow. It always seems these simple favors of my dear old aunt begin with the sun and end with the storm,” I brooded, though I was secretly pleased I had guessed right.
He twitched his lip in a knowing manner and inclined his head, probably thinking, as I was, of the many scrapes he had gotten me out of (and, on occasion, into, though I try not to mention it. One doesn’t like to hold a grudge). Somehow just knowing he was beside me, come what may, reassured me.
“Jeeves, somehow just knowing you’re beside me, come what may, reassures me,” I said, observing with pleasure the way his head bulged at the back and the ease with which he handled the bags.
“That’s very kind of you to say, sir. I believe Mrs. Travers’s issue is a straightforward one, and you may enjoy a pleasant visit.”
“You think Jeeves? That’s a relief. I was worried with all of that Bard talk,” I said, as we legged it court-ward. Well, I legged it, and Jeeves did his mysterious floating act with his usual grace, despite the luggage. “Well, seeing as we have a few hours before the dinner bell rings, I might hie to thither gardens. Why don’t you enjoy your Spinoza or Shakespeare or what have you after shoving the garments in their proper place? Get your great mind warmed up for helping any waylaid aunts.”
“Very good sir, enjoy the gardens, sir.” And he biffed his way while I biffed my way.
I kept to my word and hied to the gardens to stretch the old limbs. A walk in Brinkley’s gardens upon arrival was my custom, for the g.'s are some of my favorites in a lifetime of considerable experience with country g.'s. One doesn’t grow to adulthood, passed among aunts and other concerned parties of the landed gentry like a hot potato, without developing a taste in gardens and grounds. They're a good respite from displeased parties when they turn their eye on a young lad with intentions of punishing or improving him.
I was beginning my ramble, sniffing a flower here, observing a squirrel there, when I got the sense I was not alone. And, indeed, I wasn’t. Popping out from some topiary or other was one ‘Corky’ Corcoran, the portrait artist-turned-cartoonist, who greeted me with considerably less surprise than I felt myself. I what ho-ed, he hey there-d (American, you see), and I soon brought matters to the question on my mind re his presence.
“Corky old thing, I’m dashed glad to have your company here, but am rather surprised by it. Don’t the American newspaper moguls generally prefer their employees to stay in the general vicinity of their offices?”
“Didn’t Mrs. Travers tell you? I told her you were a pal of mine, so I thought she would have let you know when she gave out the invitation.”
“No, I’m afraid not, Corky. Your presence is a complete, though pleasant, surprise. Welcome to old Blighty, and all that,” I said, wanting to strike the friendly note. “But returning to the point, old fruit...are you supposed to even be on this side of the Atlantic?” You see, I was still somewhat concerned that Corky, never a very pecunious chap, had lost his only steady source of income. He couldn’t exactly go back to touching that oofy uncle of his for a living.
He laughed airily, and this reassured me. Chaps in desperate straights tend to laugh with strain, not airily.
“Oh, don’t worry Bertie, my agent’s just negotiated a new series for me: ‘an American in England’. Working title. It’ll be my take on English customs and aristocracy. Since Minnie had the same agent before moving back to England, he put me in touch with her so that I could do some research in an old country house. Pretty swell deal, isn’t it?”
“Swell indeed Corky, though I’m still surprised we ended up in the same country estate of all places. But after all, small world and all that, what?” I added, able to see both sides of the matter. “So, you know this Minnie Collins, eh? I didn't know she was American too. What’s your read on her?”
At this, Corky notably stiffened. He even sniffed with some hauteur .
“Yes I know her, but she isn't American. She just lived in New York for a while, but apparently has decided to move back. She’s decent with a nib and inkpot, I’ll grant you. I used to be a big admirer of her work, even went so far as to consider us colleagues...,” he said stiffly. And not only was his manner stiff, but his eyes flashed some great pain.
I was about to enquire more on this subj., for Corky was clearly not all in on Collins and I was concerned my task was going to be much harder than anticipated, but was called away by the sound of a booming voice calling my name. Clearly my dearest aunt had heard tales of my arrival.