mercyrobot (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mercyrobot) wrote2009-12-29 09:32 pm
mercyrobot) wrote2009-12-29 09:32 pm
Entry tags:
Merry (late) Joostermas, triedunture!
This is a late little giftie for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
triedunture! I sort of feel like I'm offering a macaroni picture to Rembrandt here, but it's got scarves and gloves (hats are only implied, sorry) like you wanted and it was made with love.
Blue Wool
In the course of washing up after tea, I was forced to hastily abandon the pursuit and change out of my apron by a commotion in the sitting room.
"Bertie!" The voice of Eustace Wooster exclaimed, notably not preceded by the doorbell but followed by a slam.
"Good lord! Eustace! Don't you knock?"
"No time for that!" As I emerged from the kitchen, so did Mr Eustace from the front closet, throwing a coat, hat and scarf at a bewildered Mr Wooster. "Claude's been bunged in chokey and you've got to bail him out in time for us to get the five-fifteen or Aunt Agatha will have our heads! I managed to escape, but--what ho, Jeeves!--never mind, I'll tell you on the way! Not a moment to lose!"
Mr Wooster gave a helpless squawk, only half into the coat as Mr Eustace pushed him out the door before I could cross the room to see that he was properly outfitted.
Such was the precipitous nature of the gentlemen's departure that I only realised Mr Wooster was indeed improperly outfitted went to put the closet back in order and saw Mr Wooster's winter scarf still hanging from its peg. Mr Eustace had, in haste and ignorance, supplied Mr Wooster with my scarf. As it happened, the two were nearly identical shades of navy blue, but Mr Wooster's was of fine imported Merino wool and my own had been knitted by my cousin Queenie.
I should not have been so troubled by the mistake, had my need to visit the bank before closing not been absolute, and had it not been so bitterly cold that to venture out with no scarf would have been unwise and possibly detrimental to my health. I admit there were other courses of action available. I could have taken a cab to the bank and minimised my exposure to the elements. My formal white scarf would have served the purpose tolerably, as would the somewhat ragged dark green one that my sister had made for me nearly a decade previous and which I now kept for sentimental reasons.
But the Merino was soft in my fingers, and even as I remembered an incident form my days as a young footman, scolding the housemaids I'd caught in the act of dressing themselves in the absent mistress's finery and roundly censured, the temptation was too great to resist. It was not the quality of the article that drew me, but its owner. As I wound the scarf about my neck, I was embraced by the scent of my secretly beloved employer: the mingling of indecisive cologne choices, Turkish tobacco, the simple clean essence that I imagined would fill my senses if I dared to press my lips to the bare skin of his neck while presenting his towel after a bath.
I thrilled to think of Mr Wooster covering his mouth and nose against the cold with my own scarf, of him perhaps inhaling a deep wistful breath as I was now doing. But there would be little to remind him of me, should he do so; there is nothing so distasteful, I was long ago taught, as a servant who smells of anything at all, as he then becomes impossible to ignore.
In my mimicked embrace, I completed my banking errand (to pay in a cheque to my cousin Randolph's account before the one he had written to the grocer, who would give no more credit, was presented and dishonoured) and made guilty haste back to the flat to remove Mr Wooster's scarf before he could see me wearing it.
But as I waited for a break in traffic to cross into Berkeley Square, one of the cars screeched to a halt alongside me. It was Mr Wooster's saloon car, he at the wheel and Messrs Claude and Eustace in the back seats. "Get in, Jeeves, and drive like the very dickens!" Mr Wooster called, throwing open the door and sliding across to the passenger seat.
I assumed the twins had missed their train and that we were now to overtake it, which Mr Wooster informed me was the case. "Thank heavens we ran across you, Jeeves! Relations between Bertram and this car are not of the chummiest nature."
"The clutch requires a certain finesse, sir, that--"
"I say, Bertie," interrupted Mr Claude, leaning through the partition, "haven't you got anything to drink back here? The whole ordeal's left me dreadfully--"
"You're lucky you'll be getting anything but bread and water for the next two years as it is," Mr Wooster snapped, and slid the glass shut on his cousin's protests. "I mean to say, Jeeves!" he huffed as he settled back into his seat. "With cousins like these, one scarcely needs aunts."
"Might I take the liberty of enquiring as to Mr Claude's transgression?" I feared the matter might not be closed and would require further exertion on my part to placate Lady Worplesdon.
Mr Wooster fingered the end of his (my) scarf and sighed. "Bally sordid business, Jeeves," he said. "I managed to escape the fruitiest of the details, but it appears there was a bit of a misunderstanding concerning Claude's...dancing partner, who, as it turned out, was not as female as she appeared to be and was expecting payment for, er, services rendered."
I was not, nor from his hesitation before choosing the word 'dancing,' did I think Mr Wooster naive enough to believe that mere dancing had been the cause of the trouble. "That is serious indeed, sir."
"She--or he, I suppose--apparently thought Claude knew what he'd signed on for, and wasn't inclined to accept a mere apology for the mix-up. He thought to give a false name, thank goodness, and I managed to convince the beak that poor old Claude was just a babe in the woods who'd wandered through the wrong door. Orville Crumple was fined ten pounds, kindly paid by his cousin B. Whitney Crumple, and no more's to come of it."
"Relieving to learn, sir."
Though disturbed by the turn of events and the narrowly averted scandal, I was heartened that Mr Wooster did not seem disgusted other than by his cousin's drunken recklessness.
"If he'd simply paid the blighter," Mr Wooster grumbled. "An arctic country drive was not what I'd envisioned as my afternoon's entertainment."
"No, sir. There should be a rug beneath the seat if you are cold."
"I spoke in the abstract, but thank you, Jeeves." Mr Wooster fell silent for a time, and proved to be viewing the scenery out the window with an oddly contemplative expression whenever I cast a furtive gaze in his direction. I hoped that he was merely weary from his exertions on his cousins' behalf and not pondering weightier problems. When he did speak, it was only to request a cigarette from me, having left his own at home in the hasty departure, and later to assert that his cousins could spend the rest of their days picking oakum for all that he cared if another crisis of this sort were to occur.
I was forced to strain the automobile to its very limits in order to deposit Mr Wooster's cousins at the East Wibley station ahead of the train they should have been on, and I judged that the engine needed time to cool before we could begin our return journey to London. I stopped in a lay-by a safe distance down the road and offered my explanation and apology to Mr Wooster.
"No matter, Jeeves," he said, still with a troublingly distracted air. "I don't suppose we have got anything to drink, have we?"
"It is my habit to keep both cars stocked with emergency supplies in anticipation of such eventualities, sir," I assured him, and descended to retrieve the portable bar from its compartment in the back.
Mr Wooster exited the car as well, stretching with a groan and rubbing the back of his neck. "Bally frigid out here. Pour yourself one, Jeeves. I'm sure you could use it."
"Thank you, sir." My handling of the bottles and glasses was not as adroit as I might have liked, owing to my gloves, but I poured Mr Wooster a generous measure and a smaller one for myself.
He toasted me with a smile and downed his glass in a single draught, shivering slightly as he did so.
"It would be warmer inside the car, sir."
"And I shall be in it momentarily," Mr Wooster replied, hunching deeper into his coat. "Just need to un-kink the old pins first." I froze in place when he pulled the scarf over his nose as I had imagined him doing. Surely he would notice the inferior wool, if he had not before, and would find it difficult to believe that I would not have known his scarf from mine. He closed his eyes and appeared to inhale deeply, or perhaps he simply sighed. Then he opened his eyes, which looked as though he was smiling, and uncovered his mouth, which proved it true. His cheeks were rosy, and though it would be hyperbole to claim that he had never looked more beautiful, as I had an exact catalogue of the moments at which I had found him to be exceptionally so, this would be ever amongst their ranks. "I think we've got our scarves swapped, Jeeves," he said, his colour heightening. "This one I'm wearing doesn't smell so much of the Drones Club as it does of home."
Mr Wooster took a step towards me, his smile widening but his eyes turning shy, and took the glass from my hand and finished the whiskey I had left. I was struck speechless at the simple intimacy of the action. He looked one way down the road, then the other, and clasped his gloved fingers around mine.
"Sir," I breathed out unbidden in a puff of steam.
"Surely the engine's cooled off, as cold as it is," he said, now beaming brilliantly up at me with an unmistakeable light in his eyes.
"Most likely, sir," I managed.
He took up my other hand and squeezed both. "Take us home, then, Jeeves." He tilted up on his toes and brushed cold lips lightly across mine, and it was from the warmth that suddenly filled me that I shivered.
triedunture! I sort of feel like I'm offering a macaroni picture to Rembrandt here, but it's got scarves and gloves (hats are only implied, sorry) like you wanted and it was made with love. Blue Wool
In the course of washing up after tea, I was forced to hastily abandon the pursuit and change out of my apron by a commotion in the sitting room.
"Bertie!" The voice of Eustace Wooster exclaimed, notably not preceded by the doorbell but followed by a slam.
"Good lord! Eustace! Don't you knock?"
"No time for that!" As I emerged from the kitchen, so did Mr Eustace from the front closet, throwing a coat, hat and scarf at a bewildered Mr Wooster. "Claude's been bunged in chokey and you've got to bail him out in time for us to get the five-fifteen or Aunt Agatha will have our heads! I managed to escape, but--what ho, Jeeves!--never mind, I'll tell you on the way! Not a moment to lose!"
Mr Wooster gave a helpless squawk, only half into the coat as Mr Eustace pushed him out the door before I could cross the room to see that he was properly outfitted.
Such was the precipitous nature of the gentlemen's departure that I only realised Mr Wooster was indeed improperly outfitted went to put the closet back in order and saw Mr Wooster's winter scarf still hanging from its peg. Mr Eustace had, in haste and ignorance, supplied Mr Wooster with my scarf. As it happened, the two were nearly identical shades of navy blue, but Mr Wooster's was of fine imported Merino wool and my own had been knitted by my cousin Queenie.
I should not have been so troubled by the mistake, had my need to visit the bank before closing not been absolute, and had it not been so bitterly cold that to venture out with no scarf would have been unwise and possibly detrimental to my health. I admit there were other courses of action available. I could have taken a cab to the bank and minimised my exposure to the elements. My formal white scarf would have served the purpose tolerably, as would the somewhat ragged dark green one that my sister had made for me nearly a decade previous and which I now kept for sentimental reasons.
But the Merino was soft in my fingers, and even as I remembered an incident form my days as a young footman, scolding the housemaids I'd caught in the act of dressing themselves in the absent mistress's finery and roundly censured, the temptation was too great to resist. It was not the quality of the article that drew me, but its owner. As I wound the scarf about my neck, I was embraced by the scent of my secretly beloved employer: the mingling of indecisive cologne choices, Turkish tobacco, the simple clean essence that I imagined would fill my senses if I dared to press my lips to the bare skin of his neck while presenting his towel after a bath.
I thrilled to think of Mr Wooster covering his mouth and nose against the cold with my own scarf, of him perhaps inhaling a deep wistful breath as I was now doing. But there would be little to remind him of me, should he do so; there is nothing so distasteful, I was long ago taught, as a servant who smells of anything at all, as he then becomes impossible to ignore.
In my mimicked embrace, I completed my banking errand (to pay in a cheque to my cousin Randolph's account before the one he had written to the grocer, who would give no more credit, was presented and dishonoured) and made guilty haste back to the flat to remove Mr Wooster's scarf before he could see me wearing it.
But as I waited for a break in traffic to cross into Berkeley Square, one of the cars screeched to a halt alongside me. It was Mr Wooster's saloon car, he at the wheel and Messrs Claude and Eustace in the back seats. "Get in, Jeeves, and drive like the very dickens!" Mr Wooster called, throwing open the door and sliding across to the passenger seat.
I assumed the twins had missed their train and that we were now to overtake it, which Mr Wooster informed me was the case. "Thank heavens we ran across you, Jeeves! Relations between Bertram and this car are not of the chummiest nature."
"The clutch requires a certain finesse, sir, that--"
"I say, Bertie," interrupted Mr Claude, leaning through the partition, "haven't you got anything to drink back here? The whole ordeal's left me dreadfully--"
"You're lucky you'll be getting anything but bread and water for the next two years as it is," Mr Wooster snapped, and slid the glass shut on his cousin's protests. "I mean to say, Jeeves!" he huffed as he settled back into his seat. "With cousins like these, one scarcely needs aunts."
"Might I take the liberty of enquiring as to Mr Claude's transgression?" I feared the matter might not be closed and would require further exertion on my part to placate Lady Worplesdon.
Mr Wooster fingered the end of his (my) scarf and sighed. "Bally sordid business, Jeeves," he said. "I managed to escape the fruitiest of the details, but it appears there was a bit of a misunderstanding concerning Claude's...dancing partner, who, as it turned out, was not as female as she appeared to be and was expecting payment for, er, services rendered."
I was not, nor from his hesitation before choosing the word 'dancing,' did I think Mr Wooster naive enough to believe that mere dancing had been the cause of the trouble. "That is serious indeed, sir."
"She--or he, I suppose--apparently thought Claude knew what he'd signed on for, and wasn't inclined to accept a mere apology for the mix-up. He thought to give a false name, thank goodness, and I managed to convince the beak that poor old Claude was just a babe in the woods who'd wandered through the wrong door. Orville Crumple was fined ten pounds, kindly paid by his cousin B. Whitney Crumple, and no more's to come of it."
"Relieving to learn, sir."
Though disturbed by the turn of events and the narrowly averted scandal, I was heartened that Mr Wooster did not seem disgusted other than by his cousin's drunken recklessness.
"If he'd simply paid the blighter," Mr Wooster grumbled. "An arctic country drive was not what I'd envisioned as my afternoon's entertainment."
"No, sir. There should be a rug beneath the seat if you are cold."
"I spoke in the abstract, but thank you, Jeeves." Mr Wooster fell silent for a time, and proved to be viewing the scenery out the window with an oddly contemplative expression whenever I cast a furtive gaze in his direction. I hoped that he was merely weary from his exertions on his cousins' behalf and not pondering weightier problems. When he did speak, it was only to request a cigarette from me, having left his own at home in the hasty departure, and later to assert that his cousins could spend the rest of their days picking oakum for all that he cared if another crisis of this sort were to occur.
I was forced to strain the automobile to its very limits in order to deposit Mr Wooster's cousins at the East Wibley station ahead of the train they should have been on, and I judged that the engine needed time to cool before we could begin our return journey to London. I stopped in a lay-by a safe distance down the road and offered my explanation and apology to Mr Wooster.
"No matter, Jeeves," he said, still with a troublingly distracted air. "I don't suppose we have got anything to drink, have we?"
"It is my habit to keep both cars stocked with emergency supplies in anticipation of such eventualities, sir," I assured him, and descended to retrieve the portable bar from its compartment in the back.
Mr Wooster exited the car as well, stretching with a groan and rubbing the back of his neck. "Bally frigid out here. Pour yourself one, Jeeves. I'm sure you could use it."
"Thank you, sir." My handling of the bottles and glasses was not as adroit as I might have liked, owing to my gloves, but I poured Mr Wooster a generous measure and a smaller one for myself.
He toasted me with a smile and downed his glass in a single draught, shivering slightly as he did so.
"It would be warmer inside the car, sir."
"And I shall be in it momentarily," Mr Wooster replied, hunching deeper into his coat. "Just need to un-kink the old pins first." I froze in place when he pulled the scarf over his nose as I had imagined him doing. Surely he would notice the inferior wool, if he had not before, and would find it difficult to believe that I would not have known his scarf from mine. He closed his eyes and appeared to inhale deeply, or perhaps he simply sighed. Then he opened his eyes, which looked as though he was smiling, and uncovered his mouth, which proved it true. His cheeks were rosy, and though it would be hyperbole to claim that he had never looked more beautiful, as I had an exact catalogue of the moments at which I had found him to be exceptionally so, this would be ever amongst their ranks. "I think we've got our scarves swapped, Jeeves," he said, his colour heightening. "This one I'm wearing doesn't smell so much of the Drones Club as it does of home."
Mr Wooster took a step towards me, his smile widening but his eyes turning shy, and took the glass from my hand and finished the whiskey I had left. I was struck speechless at the simple intimacy of the action. He looked one way down the road, then the other, and clasped his gloved fingers around mine.
"Sir," I breathed out unbidden in a puff of steam.
"Surely the engine's cooled off, as cold as it is," he said, now beaming brilliantly up at me with an unmistakeable light in his eyes.
"Most likely, sir," I managed.
He took up my other hand and squeezed both. "Take us home, then, Jeeves." He tilted up on his toes and brushed cold lips lightly across mine, and it was from the warmth that suddenly filled me that I shivered.