Work Text:
A sense of unease and disquiet overcame me as the dinner gong rang out. While it was not uncommon for Mr. Wooster to be late to dress for dinner, he had never before failed to arrive at all. As the minutes continued to pass and his presence failed to manifest, I found myself growing increasingly concerned. This concern was heightened by the fact that Mr. Wooster and I were currently suffering a most ill-advised visit to Totleigh Towers on the behest of his aunt, and the misfortunes that could have befallen Mr. Wooster were vast and manifold.
It was with a heavy heart and sense of impending doom that I left Mr. Wooster’s chambers in search of him. I was quite certain that I would shortly be called upon to “pull him out of the soup,” as Mr. Wooster so frequently and colorfully phrased it. I only hoped that no serious harm would come to him before I could locate him.
I chanced upon Miss Madeline Basset in the hallway outside Mr. Wooster’s rooms. I inquired if she had any knowledge of Mr. Wooster’s whereabouts.
“Oh, I imagine he’s out rejoicing in the twilight, the poor sensitive lamb,” Miss Basset remarked, a misty quality overtaking her eyes.
Having the intimate knowledge of Mr. Wooster’s individual psychology, I very much doubted her assertion. Mr. Wooster was not one for careful study of nature’s beauty, especially at the expense of his dinner.
Nevertheless, I thanked Miss Bassett for her views and went on my way. I encountered Mr. Spode on the stair and put to him the same question. At the mention of Mr. Wooster, the gentleman’s brow furrowed and his disposition became markedly darker and more cloudy. A thunderstorm appeared ready to break across his countenance. In lieu of answering my query, Mr. Spode muttered a series of violent threats and curses against Mr. Wooster’s person before continuing onwards to dinner.
I considered this a positive outcome. If Mr. Spode had been able to enact any of his threats against Mr. Wooster, his demeanor would have been decidedly more smug and self-satisfied, meaning Mr. Wooster had once more escaped his grasp. There were only so many instances where one could threaten to dance upon a man in hobnailed boots before deciding to enact the venture, and the effects of such an act would not suit Mr. Wooster at all.
It was apparent that for any real and valuable information, I would have to go to that treasured wellspring, the only place such information can be reliably sought at a country estate. I made my way below stairs and located the butler. He relayed to me within a moment that one of the maids had last seen Mr. Wooster in the vicinity of the entrance to the hedge maze.
It was immediately clear to me what had happened. The Totleigh Towers hedge maze was considered a marvel of the local countryside. It was particularly renowned for its extensive labyrinth of winding corridors and the difficulties visitors were faced with in attempting to find its center, which was boasted to contain a beautiful work of sculpture only worthy to be viewed by those able to solve the maze’s trials. Mr. Wooster had, of course, gotten lost within it.
There was no other course of action than to rescue Mr. Wooster from the confines of greenery. As I entered the maze, I carefully marked my path, ensuring I could easily find our way to the exit once more. I made a left, a right, a second left, another right, right once more, and so on. I had a general trajectory as the chorus of ‘Sonny Boy’ was carrying across the alleys. The soft, lilting voice could only belong to Mr. Wooster. It was a tune I had heard him sing many times in his bath, and I surmised he was singing it now as a means of entertainment or to shore up his own waning morale.
I turned a corner (another right) and encountered Mr. Wooster wilting against the hedge. He appeared unharmed, if somewhat faded from the afternoon sun. I admit I was deeply relieved to find him so.
I uttered a modest cough. Mr. Wooster started, his feet leaving the ground in an approximation of a balletic pirouette as he turned to face the source of the noise. I was graced with a wide grin as Mr. Wooster took in my presence, his face lighting up as if from within. He gazed at me with all the relief of a man who had been lost for forty days and forty nights, instead of at most forty minutes.
“Jeeves!” Mr. Wooster yelped.
He darted towards me with all the speed and grace of a gazelle. He grasped my shoulders, whirling me around in a joyous circle, as if he was a child on May Day and myself the maypole. Or, considering that I was also revolving with him, perhaps we most closely resembled some sort of overly energetic waltz.
“My hero! My savior! My guardian angel! My... my Jeeves!” Mr. Wooster exclaimed with glee.
“I am indeed here, sir,” I replied. His blue eyes shone up at me with awe as if I was indeed some sort of divine being.
“I knew you’d come along and save me eventually. Put your faith in a higher power, they say, and I put mine in Jeeves. It has never once been misplaced. I say, you’re like a gift from heaven. Divine intervention in solid form.”
“That is very kind of you to say, sir.”
“Now which is the way out of this godforsaken wilderness?” Mr. Wooster asked, placing his hands on his hips and craning his neck this way and that.
We were at the intersection of four different identical corridors. My heart sunk as I looked between them. Due to Mr. Wooster’s vigorous spiraling of our figures earlier, I could no longer tell from which direction I had come.
I did not permit any of my trepidation to appear on my visage. I would not allow Mr. Wooster to see any marks of my failure. I could not afford to lose any of my standing in Mr. Wooster’s eyes. The fear of what would happen if I were to fail to present myself as the all-knowing, near omnipotent intelligence that Mr. Wooster thought me haunted my every step. If I fell from the pedestal Mr. Wooster had placed me upon, I may very well crumble to dust and be cast off with as little thought as the refuse from the day’s sweeping.
I chose a direction, outwardly displaying complete strength of conviction for Mr. Wooster’s benefit, while feeling none of said conviction for myself. It was clear to me within several turns that I had chosen incorrectly. I could only hope that by a certain degree of chance and perseverance that I could once more find the exit without alerting Mr. Wooster to my folly.
No matter how many turnings we took, Mr. Wooster was as content to follow me as a young lamb bounding behind its shepherd. I did not let any of my uncertainty regarding the direction show, upholding the façade that each successive turning was intentional and part of a larger plan. Even as the evening light faded to be replaced with the pale blue and purple shades of dusk, Mr. Wooster’s easygoing manner and enthusiasm did not dim.
My spirits rose as the path before us appear to widen out, freed from the narrow confines of the seemingly endless passages, only to plummet upon a moment’s closer inspection. We had arrived at a small, square clearing with an ornate piece of statuary in the center. We were still encircled by hedgerows on all sides.
“Great Scott! I know where we are!” Mr. Wooster yelped as we entered the clearing.
I arched a questioning eyebrow in Mr. Wooster’s direction. “Indeed, sir?”
“We’re in the bally center!” Mr. Wooster paced towards the statue, which depicted an angelic figure in flight. He gave it an inquisitive prod with his finger. “Can’t say I understand what all the fuss is about.”
The lavender hues of dusk had given way to night. Darkness had fallen. The first stars of the evening were materializing in the firmament. My only consolation was that the waxing moon provided sufficient light by which to see.
The evening meal had most assuredly been concluded by this hour, and Mr. Wooster had missed it. I had failed him utterly. He was no nearer to escaping the maze than when I had come to his aid, and in fact I had only driven him further into the labyrinth. Like Icarus, I had flown too close to the sun and had only my inevitable plunge into the storm-tossed sea awaiting me. Mr. Wooster, seeing my faults, my melted wings of wax, would tire of me and find another more worthy of his praise and ardor.
I leaned back against the shrubbery with the weight of these realizations. I found myself sliding downwards until I was seated with my back against the hedge.
Mr. Wooster gasped. The sound rang out through the quiet hush of the hedgerows. “Jeeves! Gosh, you know I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sit down before.”
“My apologies, sir. I was inordinately lax in a way unbefitting of my station. I shall be up again promptly.” I made to stand, but Mr. Wooster waved an airy hand that made me take pause.
“Don’t trouble yourself. This bally place wreaks absolute havoc on the feet, eh what?”
Mr. Wooster slid down the hedge to sit beside me, his long legs sprawled out before him. Mr. Wooster pulled out his cigarette case, removing one for himself and offering another to me. I took it gratefully.
“This is merely a detour, I trust? You wanted to take the scenic route and pop by to see the sights? Not that I don’t appreciate it, Jeeves, I’d never have found this place on my own of course, but I’m rather looking forward to the comforts of my own dressing gown and perhaps a stiff b. and s.”
I took a long drag on the cigarette. I could deny the fact that we were lost, but I was responsible for our path to the outside, and the truth would inevitably reveal itself as we wandered lost once more through the labyrinth. There was no use delaying the inevitable.
“I am afraid not, sir. I must confess that I have lost our way. The path to freedom eludes me.”
Mr. Wooster stared at me with wide eyes. He searched my face, looking for any signs of jest or good humor. When he found no such signs, his jaw fell open and hung there.
“Lord love a duck! I never thought I’d see the day when something came around that you couldn’t solve. I mean to say, I didn’t think there was such a thing under the sun.”
“I regret that I was unable to provide satisfaction, sir,” I replied. I braced myself for Mr. Wooster’s next words. Surely after his initial shock he would see fit to dismiss me.
He stared off into the distance for some time, puffing thoughtfully on his cigarette. His gaze was fixed on the angelic statue and he appeared lost in a reverie. I longed to know the subject of his musings, and as he began to speak once more I realized I had been holding my breath.
“Quite the contrary. You know, Jeeves, I used to see you like that statue over yonder. Something completely above my reach, like one of those divine hero chappies one reads about in the old myths. Corking fellows, but if I was asked to skewer a lion or some snake-haired filly, I daresay I would be found lacking. But I would have ranked you right up among them. Hercules, Perseus, Jeeves. Now, though, I know you are just a man. Er, you are just a man, aren’t you, Jeeves?”
Mr. Wooster glanced at me with concern, as if I might suddenly sprout wings or begin glowing with divine light.
“Indeed, sir. If you prick me, I do bleed.”
“Oh, rather,” Mr. Wooster replied. The look upon his face was one of relief.
I confess my confusion at his reaction. I could not fathom why, out of all possible responses, he would be relieved.
“I am sorry to disappoint you, sir.”
“No, no! Not at all, Jeeves. It’s a good thing. I mean to say, do you remember the case of my dear old pal Sippy?”
“Yes, indeed, sir.” Mr. Sipperley, ‘Sippy’ to his friends, had been one of Mr. Wooster’s many acquaintances whom with our help had secured a successful proposal with the object of his affections, a certain Miss Moon.
Mr. Wooster looked at me expectantly. Due to the length of time I had spent in Mr. Wooster’s service, we were, on occasion, able to communicate silently through looks and gestures. This was not one such occasion. I was at a loss to contrive how the episode of Mr. Sipperley correlated to our present situation. My memories of the incident primarily revolved around Mr. Wooster navigating the Covent Garden vegetable market covered head to toe in flour. I was unsure how this scenario was relevant to our present situation.
“Would you be so kind as to remind me of the pertinent details, sir?”
Mr. Wooster started, nearly dropping his cigarette. A sheepish look came over his visage, as if embarrassed to provide an explanation to the topic he himself had introduced. I once more felt stung by my inability to anticipate his needs.
“Sippy had an inferiority complex, you remember. He thought the filly of his dreams was too far above him, completely out of his reach. He was so in awe of her, he daren’t speak a word of his true feelings. And, well, truth be told and all that, that’s rather how I feel about you.”
It was as if Mr. Wooster’s words had caused my brain to briefly cease operations. I could not parse them into something understandable, no matter from which angle I viewed them.
“The key difference, sir, being the romantic nature of Mr. Sipperley's feelings?”
“Erm. Well. Not so much a difference as the main point of similarity, if that's the word I want?”
“Is it the word you want, sir?”
“Is it? You tell me, Jeeves.”
“A similarity, sir, is something that resembles another, often only with minor changes between the objects.”
In that moment, it was imperative to ascertain the exact nature of Mr. Wooster’s feelings. If he did indeed feel towards me -- well. It would not do to count proverbial chickens before they are hatched.
“Ah,” Mr. Wooster said, taking a pensive puff of his cigarette, “so, not as much a similarity as an exact match. Really more of a one-to-one situation. Not so much comparing apples to oranges as comparing oranges to oranges. From the same tree, the same bushel, really, and all that.”
Mr. Wooster avoided my eye as he spoke these words. A pink tinge blossomed across his cheeks and along the tips of his ears, so vibrant it was visible even in the dim evening light.
Mr. Wooster’s hand lay on the grass between us. I lay my own hand next to his, our little fingers barely brushing together. In that brief touch, it felt as if a roaring blaze had sparked between us.
“When did these feelings arise, sir?” Presently, Mr. Wooster appeared utterly convinced in the strength of his affections. However, I had witnessed him enter into many engagements that he had later cause to regret, and it would not do for our happy establishment to be upheaved by a passing delirium brought on by overexposure to sun and a lack of food.
“Erm, well, it’s rather like a bout of influenza, eh what? I mean to say, the symptoms come on slowly for some time before you realize what it is truly is. You have some sniffles or a cough for a bit, and then wake up one day later absolutely out of commission with a stuffed up nose and a head full of cotton. Only in this case it’s rummy dreams and missing you awfully every time you leave and suddenly you wake up one day and realize you’re afflicted with love’s young dream, an absolutely incurable case of the divine pash and all the tender sorts of yearnings that come along with it. So it’s hard to say exactly, but if I had to pin it down, probably somewhere around the third time you saved me from donning the spongebag trousers and moseying down the aisle with Florence Craye.”
I had prevented Mr. Wooster from engaging in such a union some time ago. These feelings, then, were not new; they were not some idle fancy of a sun-addled mind. I cast my remembrances back over the intervening period with a focus on Mr. Wooster’s attentions towards me. The signs, I realized, had been there in lingering glances, in fond words, in desiring of my time and counsel. I had wrongly interpreted them as something else.
Mr. Wooster had continued to avoid my eye during his speech and was now gazing fixedly at the stars glimmering through the faint haze of cigarette smoke.
“It appears I have been in denial about the nature of your feelings, sir. I did not wish to see them for what they truly were.”
Mr. Wooster finally met my gaze, his eyes widening with concern and alarm. He balked like a spooked horse at my pronouncement.
“Oh, Jeeves, dash it all, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable!”
“Sir, please allow me to elaborate. I had interpreted your feelings as mere admiration. I believed they could be nothing more due to the pedestal that you had placed me upon. I thought that falling from said pedestal in your eyes could only bring destruction, would leave me broken and crumbled in pieces, but instead my removal from such a plinth has resurrected me as a living, breathing man.”
I thought I had made my feelings on the subject clear, but Mr. Wooster was staring at me with pursed lips and furrowed brow that spoke of utter confusion. His blue eyes were wide and completely devoid of comprehension. I saw that further elaboration would be necessary.
“Like the sculptor Pygmalion, sir, your love has made me flesh.”
“What? I say, what?” Mr. Wooster continued to stare at me with furrowed brow. If anything, the blank look devoid of comprehension had worsened.
“To lay it plain, sir, I had feared that if you failed to see me as a figure of near omnipotent intelligence, you would cease to have any interest towards me. But I see now that theory falters against the events that have transpired this evening. Sir, are you really….”
I faltered to find the words. I could not bring myself to speak such an idea into existence. Luckily, I did not have to. Understanding had dawned in Mr. Wooster’s eyes.
“I’m absolutely loony about you, Jeeves.”
I placed my hand over Mr. Wooster’s and gave it a gentle squeeze. Mr. Wooster glanced down at our now entwined hands and a soft smile played across his lips. The smile broadened into a grin as he looked up at me. He was glowing against the evening hues, putting the stars to shame with the warmth of his visage.
“Even if we never get out of this hedge maze, I think we could make quite a cozy home for ourselves here,” Mr. Wooster beamed.
He squeezed my hand in return. I felt with absolute conviction that I would never let go.
“That is, er, if you feel the same,” Mr. Wooster said, doubt creeping into his tone like a worm eating its way into the heart of an apple.
“I feel for you, sir, all the tender yearnings of the divine passion, love’s young dream, or however you wish to name it.”
“Oh, ah,” Mr. Wooster murmured.
Mr. Wooster’s gaze dropped to my lips. I leaned towards him, narrowing the space between us. Our shoulders brushed together and I reveled in the warmth of him against the cool night air. He was a safe harbor, a lighthouse against a dark and glassy sea. Mr. Wooster tilted closer and closed the gap, his lips meeting mine as if they had always been meant to do so. A shiver trickled down my spine and in that moment I felt as close to divinity as I ever had been.
The kiss broke, but we did not break apart. Our foreheads stayed pressed together, his auburn curls spilling out across my dark crown. I squeezed his hand, still clutched in my own between us.
“The stars quiring above, sir, turn in a pure harmony unknown to our mortal vessels. But I believe we may have something altogether more precious, if only due to its fragile earthly nature.”
“Jeeves?” Mr. Wooster whispered. I could feel his warm breath hanging in the air, the flutter of his eyelashes against my skin.
“Yes, sir?”
“I’m not quite in the mood for conversation. There are times when one isn’t.”
“Of course, sir,” I replied, leaning in to kiss him once more.
It was some time before we returned to the house. Most of that time was spent in happy communion amongst the hedgerows, with only the stars as witness to the joys below.