Chapter Text
Bertie
Harrods had seen better days, but the tatty old decorations still lit the eyes of the young fry at the festive Yuletide season. They had never seen the nicer bits before the war. My young cousin, Daisy Glossop, grabbed my hand and dragged me toward the area to see Father Christmas. The queue stretched a bally unmerciful length as it was Christmas Eve. “I say!” The old wound ached sometimes when I stood for too long, but the look in the child’s e. nearly undid me and there was nothing else on the agenda.
A tall, dark man, now a bit grey at the temples turned suddenly at my voice and the laughing expression on his face flashed into a mask of profound sorrow before resolving itself into a rather rusty-looking stuffed frog. “Mr. Wooster.” He froze uncomfortably and then recovered himself. “That is, Lord Yaxley. It is good to see you. I trust your family and friends are well?”
It was not the passionate embrace I rather longed for, but far better than nothing, Bertram supposed. “Yes, Jeeves. Splendid, of course. Splendid, splendid. And yours?”
“Most satisfactory. I thank you for asking, Lord Yaxley.” He said this as though he was trying the taste of my new name out in his mouth like a fine port, and finding it surprisingly pleasing over the tongue. Odd, I thought, how they’d biffed the old title on Bertram, but apparently there were no more appropriate heirs than self.
“Uncle Bertie!” Daisy yanked at the coat sleeve and hopped about like a baby bunny rabbit. “When will we see Father Christmas?”
“Ah, well, we have to wait in this queue, my lovely Daisy-bell. And see, my very good friend Mr. Jeeves is here with his niece, who looks to be just about your age. Perhaps you two can become friends and while away a careless hour?”
“Is she exactly four?” asked the young lady in a commanding tone. With an effort, I did not start. Daisy, while golden-haired and angelic looking, had inherited a certain whatsit from her Great-Uncle Roderick, the eminent loony doctor, who was still alive and kicking, tending to the shell shocked and wounded in a selfless way when he ought to have been retired.
“I’m five,” piped up the pipsqueak balanced on a Jeevesian arm. “And my Uncle Reggie is bigger than your Uncle Bertie.” This young lady had dark curls and a certain sharpness of eye, but she was none other than Elisabeth, youngest of the Biffen brood. A tear started in the e. Poor Biffy had not made it back from France.
“Betsy,” said Jeeves in his schoolmarm tone. “Please address Lord Yaxley properly.” He carefully lowered that young lady to the floor so that she and Daisy could compare frocks and Christmas lists. They became instant chums as Daisy’s frock, although patched up a bit, was rather the nicer, but Betsy was older and had been to see Father Christmas before and therefore could provide full and exact information on the nature of the encounter before them. I dug in the pockets and produced two peppermints from a battered tin, which eased matters along. Sweets had been rationed since before they were born. Soon they were holding hands and chatting confidentially, sticking their tongues out at intervals to compare their progress on the candies.
“Well, well, well,” I said, to Jeeves, struggling against the urge to throw myself into his arms and cover his face with kisses. We’d had an understanding, a nice, good, long and positively scrumptious understanding, and then we’d been called up to the war. At first, we’d been in to serve together, which was simply horrible. The fright on his behalf had nearly killed me, the more so as he was bent on protecting the no-longer-young master.
Then Wooster was injured and allocated to play pianos and sing comic songs at officer’s clubs, while Jeeves was attached to Chuffy Chuffnell’s retinue and went on to make quite a mark for himself in the areas of valiant bravery and espionage. It had been years since I last saw him and the old ticker had never been quite right in all that time. He had been back in London—we both had—for several months, but he’d sent a curt reply when I asked him to come back as my valet. We had never been soppy with each other, I knew, but I had always believed he cared for me as much I had cared for him and our understanding had been more, much more, than a mere convenience. He’d left his things with me, even.
I felt such a bally idiot.
Jeeves
I returned from the war a celebrated but solitary figure, and my injuries pained me in every possible way. I could no longer hold a tray or carry a bag of golf clubs, and therefore could not return to Mr. Wooster’s service. An injury to my head had damaged my memory. I had forgotten so very many things. My heart felt sore whenever I thought of a previous, most enjoyable, romantic understanding with Mr. Wooster, but I had no recollection of the tender words of love that might have betokened more than an arrangement of convenience.
The small consolation of being able to help him in financial matters had become much less over the course of several months. I longed to see him with every fiber of my being.
My bookkeeping skills had earned me a position with Sir Roderick Glossop, who spent his declining years tending to the many psychological problems of the veterans. The columns of numbers soothed me and I had occasion to see many friends in the course of my duties.
I had been slowly recovering my former powers. One day, I was engaged in auditing some bills, when I overheard a conversation between Sir Roderick Glossop and Lord Chuffnell, who was leaving after his appointment. “You’re meeting Lord Yaxley? Yes, I saw him at my daughter’s house. The war seems to have made a man of him, finally. He has been a thoughtful member of the house these last months. It is a mercy that he was spared. Give him my regards.” Sir Roderick then mentioned Mr. Wooster’s plan of entertaining his youngest niece at Harrod's with some gratitude. There were so few children of that age that each one was especially precious.
Then the eminent physicians saw Mr. Wooster’s name on a letter I had written regarding his investments. “I am glad you still see young Lord Yaxley, Jeeves. At one time I thought him quite eccentric, but he is very good to my nephew and the children during these dismal times. I understand that he spoke out quite intelligently in the House last week.” He fumbled with another envelope and gave me a sudden, penetrating look. “I am surprised he has not asked you to return to his service before now. A man of his age and responsibilities could do with a secretary of your skills, although he perhaps has not considered it.” He thought this over and seemed satisfied. “Yes. You could still help me, of course. I could not get on without you.” I smiled to myself at his kind and flattering selfishness.
It was weak, I knew, but I simply had to see Mr. Wooster. Mabel had suffered greatly, losing both her sons and a husband to the war, and she and the remaining child had taken refuge with her parents. She refused my financial help, but never denied Betsy anything. It was easy, therefore, to take the child for the day as a treat.
Even though I had plotted to see him, it was a shock to hear that much-adored voice. Dear Mr. Wooster had changed so little in five years. I surely would have run to him and clasped him in my arms had I been physically able.
Bertie
“A welcome meeting, indeed, sir,” said Jeeves benevolently. I tried not to flutter too obviously. “Most especially at this festive season.”
I tapped my somewhat scuffed shoes with a slightly battered whangee. “Yes, yes. I hear you are keeping busy these days?”
“I have been employed as a bookkeeper to Sir Roderick Glossop, at his London clinic.”
“And you enjoy it, do you?”
“It is satisfactory,” he said. I watched his eyes as they hopped from the little fray at my collar to the threadbare spot on my scarf and the missing button on the coat. I’d popped that off in the omnibus and then carefully found it and put it in my pocket to be fumblingly reattached by self. We kept the best togs for official visits. “And your affairs, I trust, are in good order?”
I shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, thanks to you.” Jeeves had helped make me heaps and heaps of oof before the stock market crash in the 20’s. No one had ever learned quite how much, as it would not do to speak of it. We’d been careful not to spend even the interest, squirreling it away in Swiss accounts in case our relationship were discovered. I’d inherited when Uncle George died. Auntie Maude refused to take a cent, insisting on going back to her old house in East Dulwich. The late Mr. Wilberforce had left her more than enough to get by. I had to content myself with sending her anything pink I could find, to help her keep cheerful. Too bad there was so little to buy even with recourse to the black market, except turnips and parsnips.
Under Jeeves’s original directions, Easby turned a tidy profit, as did the old London house, which was now a block of flats I rented out at rates I thought shocking but Jeeves insisted were in fact quite liberal. They had miraculously survived the Blitz. Aside from Angela, the cousins had little to do with Bertram, tending to their own tangled affairs. Claude and Eustace had fallen into the soup during the war and not come back. At least they’d been together at the end, poor noble souls. Aunt Agatha lived with Florence and Percy and their remaining issue in a sizable cottage built on the ruins of Wee Nooke as the big house had been volunteered to the war effort some years back. I had sent Florence money on the sly rather than let the aged r. pawn her pearls, and they smuggled me eggs and butter when they could.
I felt so dashed humbled by my shabby clothes. I cheated a bit with the food—there was Daisy to consider, after all, as long as I could smuggle the items in without Tuppy seeing—but it seemed somehow unsporting to cheat in other ways now that I was no longer an impossible bounder. Of course, seeing Jeeves again, the urge to look handsome reasserted itself most forcefully. “You know how it is, Jeeves.”
“Indeed.” He shifted and nearly toppled over on a gammy leg. I caught his arm and held him up without thinking. Yes, he’d been leaning on the wall while holding little Betsy Biffen. I took in the sturdy cane for the first time. The eyes met and I could see the deep shame behind his dead fish look and he, no doubt, saw the puzzled hurt that flashed on the Wooster dial. Good lord. Had he refused to even see me because he could not carry a tray?
And suddenly, we righted ourselves like a rowboat tipped by overexcited swans under the influence of insidious boy scouts. We chatted of this and that, and this old story and that old story and I felt as though an iron band had been released from about the breast.
Jeeves
My mind was awhirl. I had not expected to feel so much embarrassment at my condition, but the knowledge that Mr. Wooster saw me as anything less than perfect cut me absolutely to the quick. I cursed my pride when I saw the bewildered and injured look on his dear, kind face. He had not known about my injuries, not understood why I could not serve him.
How I wished we were in Paris so I could take his arm again in the old way.
Bertie
Finally, we saw Father Christmas. The little things shamed me, they honestly did. Daisy asked for candy to share with her granny Dahlia, and Betsy asked for a warm coat for her mother. I would have to work on that last one. Biffy would never forgive me if his Mabel caught cold when I could have prevented it on his behalf.
Then Jeeves and I took the two girls for tea and ice cream with some ration coupons I had hoarded for the occasion. Jeeves wanted to refuse, but he hadn’t the heart to deny his niece her share in the pleasure. The look on her face would have been worth a greater sacrifice on my part than a few potatoes and a plate of ice cream. The girls were sweet and appreciative and thankful, rather like Bobbie Wickham’s niece Clementina before I learned that she had left school without permission.
Jeeves and I shared a pot of tea and then a great deal of hot water strained back through the old leaves. “I cannot thank you enough for this kindness, Lord Yaxley.” I pished at him.
We ankled round to deposit the nieces with their respective sets of keepers and some candies—American—to be shared with the older siblings and cousins. I’d bought them on the black market and thought to keep the small packet to give Aunt Dahlia myself, but I rather pressed it on Mabel Biffen, who came to meet Jeeves and retrieve her daughter.
I heaved a relived sigh when Jeeves followed me onto the omnibus. Angela frowned when she saw the remnants of Daisy’s sticky mouth and stared when she saw Jeeves. We sat to wait a few moments in case the aged r. returned. Angela grabbed at the willowy arm with a clawlike hand and hissed like a cobra that had just punctured a balloon. “How did you convince him to meet you?”
“I didn’t. I found him in the queue at the Harrods Christmas grotto.”
Angela had become such a skilled and devoted nurse, dear heart, when Tuppy had been badly wounded early on and sent home. That’s how we ended up with little Daisy-bell. His health had been undependable since then, but he’d insisted on doing his bit. “He hurt you, Bertie darling. I saw the look on your face when he would not see you. You’ve never been quite the same, and I will not forgive him until he makes you all better. You should hire a secretary.”
“My dear old fruit, he couldn’t be my valet with his gammy leg. I ought to have just invited him round. And none of us are quite the same. You can’t blame him.” We both took in the horrid scar that pulled at the side of Tuppy’s face. Neither of us mentioned the fine sons, nephews and cousins killed overseas. Tuppy had even grown too proud to accept hampers from me and had come to appreciate bubble and squeak, mashed swedes, and parsnips quite as much as steak-and-kidney pie.
Angela smiled sadly. “You should see the wistful look on your face, little sweetheart. Just…invite him for tea, Bertie. Perhaps there has been some misunderstanding and he does want to work for you again after all.” It was getting to be time for their meal and it would not do to intrude. Angela asked if I could stop in for tea on Boxing Day as they were expected to Sir Roderick’s house for Christmas. I looked up and saw Jeeves admiring some contraption of Tuppy’s.
“Not until you’re all better,” said Angela firmly as I left. Jeeves’s leg was hurting him, I could see. He would not limp, but I could see his lips tighten. He had not had to accompany me, I realized, but I was glad he had.
Jeeves
Mabel, who had come to meet me at the Brompton Road in order to save me a walk, refused the present of candy until she saw the look of profound hurt on Mr. Wooster’s kind, generous face. Mr. Wooster seemed to assume I would accompany him and I followed him onto an omnibus without thinking. His path lay only a short distance out of my way.
Our visit with the Glossops was somewhat more protracted. Young Mr. Glossop had taken to constructing devices to ease the suffering of those who had lost limbs during the war. One day, I hoped to be able to purchase a specialized brace for my leg. I had ended the war only with my savings from my army wages and the uniform I stood up in. It still puzzled me, but I was too ashamed of my mental lapses to inquire.
Mrs. Glossop looked at me disapprovingly. I had not understood, not remembered, that my absence would harm my former master. Her look reminded me how very much he had always relied on me. Could he ever forgive me?
Angela
Angela passed to the telephone as soon as the door swung shut. “Hello? I’d like to speak with Mrs. Biffen, please, if she is returned home. It’s Angela Glossop, Lord Yaxley’s cousin.”
Mabel Biffen, now widowed and rather poor, was uncertain how to approach the Glossops and opted for formality. “Mrs. Glossop, thank-you for phoning me back. My Betsy was very taken with Miss Margaret. Was my Uncle Reggie there?”
“Yes. Do call me Angela. We Drones wives must all stick together. Thank-you again for phoning to warn me that they were together. I would have fainted otherwise.”
Mabel sighed. “I am sure Uncle Reggie would love to go back to Lord Yaxley. Neither of them has anyone else, really. Did they leave together? I felt terrible not inviting him for Christmas tea.”
“Yes, thank heavens, they did. I’ll phone Bertie tomorrow and let you know if your uncle is on his own and needs cheering.”
“I cannot thank you enough, Angela. Uncle Reggie makes it terribly difficult to look after him.”
“So does Bertie. He’d already gotten so much smarter spending time with Jeeves and the war has given him a sort of… presence. We can’t bully him as we used to do. You must come to tea next week. It will be turnips and swedes, of course, and hot water with only a hint of tea in it, but we have plenty of those to go around. Do come, please, and bring your Betsy?”
“We would be delighted.”
Angela replaced the receiver just as her mother entered the room from a society meeting. “Did I hear you mention Bertie, only daughter?”
“Yes, mama. He was here to take Daisy to Harrods. With Jeeves.”
“Jeeves? Thank heavens. Is he working for our young blot again? Bertie can take him on as a secretary, I imagine.”
“I hope so, mama.”
“Good. Will they be to tea on Boxing Day? I have a problem to put to Jeeves.”
“I hope so.”