Archive of Our Own

“I say, Jeeves.”

“Yes, sir?” Jeeves turned to me with a somewhat expectant air. Eyebrows lifted with an expression of considering attention, and all that, as though I was soon to impart some sort of breathless wisdom, and he eagerly awaited the pronouncement.

And wasn’t that just trouble with the whole bally thing, wasn’t it. I certainly have my own set of qualities worth something-or-other, but I’m not enough of a fool to consider myself a philosopher for the ages, or what have you. And Jeeves, you understand, even after having been with me for some years, and even after having conducted himself, you will admit, at some times, in a manner not entirely in keeping with the proper feudal spirit, has never fallen so far as to not at least put on a good show of deferring to the young master’s whims and inclinations in all things. Rather, his typical modus operandi falls more under the heading of would prefer not to than it does under that of open rebellion, if you c. my d.; which can make trying times in our household of those instances when the young master in question, namely: Bertram, finds his train of thought with a distressing tendency to depart rather violently from the rails.

I jiggled the ice in my glass about a bit. “I have just been thinking,” I said, at last, “that it’s nearly April.”

“Indeed, sir,” Jeeves said.

I must say, I did appreciate him acknowledging the truth of the thing, but must he do it in that horrifically diffident manner? We had been in Havana for just shy of the prescribed four weeks, given over after that unfortunate incident involving Madeline Bassett, Stiffy Bing, and the Earl of Sidcup—or, perhaps it would be better to say, the most recent unfortunate incident involving Madeline Bassett, Stiffy Bing, and the Earl of Sidcup, since each of the three—or, perhaps I ought to say four, given the Earl of Sidcup’s former life as Roderick Spode, menacer of Woosters—or, no, since I don’t fancy that an elevation truly qualifies as a death, no matter what the Black Shorts might think of—but, there. I seem to have meandered rather some considerable way down the garden path, and the heart of the matter was this: Madeline Bassett, Stiffy Bing, and the Earl of Sidcup each have a distressing tendency to incite chaos in their immediate vicinity, and while I—and I fancy, Jeeves—couldn’t help but consider that the combination of the three ought to be banned under some sort of international treaty, they weren’t, which had led some months ago to some considerable distress on the part of the party of the first (namely: me), from which I had been rescued only by the timely efforts on the party of the second (namely: Jeeves), in gratitude for which I found myself conceding to his long-held and oft-suggested desire to buzz off to Cuba and catch a tarpon. Which, if you’ve never had the pleasure: I can’t say I’d advise it.

“I just couldn’t help but thinking on it, Jeeves,” I said, and then added, in a manner that even I must acknowledge inclined rather towards the sickly, “The twentieth, you know.”

Jeeves, ever discreet, replied, “I confess that I hadn’t noticed the date, sir.”

“Well, yes,” I said. “It’s the twentieth. And what with boats pending for the end of the week and so forth, I couldn’t help but think of what must be going on back home, that, you know, first day of, and so on, the whatsit, spring arising in gardens fair, et cetera.”

I stopped, briefly; and Jeeves once again proved his worth.

“I fancy that the term you may be searching for may be the vernal equinox, sir.” He coughed, delicately. “Though of course, it is certainly less immediately apparent in our current tropical environs that it might perhaps be at home in London.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” I said. “Not that said current environs haven’t been dashed pleasant ever since we turned up, but it seems to me that in London, up until March the Twentieth, it rains nearly every bally day, and after March the Twentieth, it continues on just as it’d done before, what?”

“Very true, sir.”

“And I couldn’t help but think,” I said, somewhat desperately, and then stopped, rather at a loss as to how to continue.

After some more cocktail-jiggling on my part and a general quantity of pause that brought about a dashed unpleasant sort of sinking-swallowing feeling in my inner regions, as well as a creeping sort of heat on the back of my neck, though that of course could’ve just been the sunburn, Jeeves supplied, “If you’ll permit the liberty, sir, I fancy that the poet may’ve hit upon your problem in the next line, wherein he refers to the Spirit of Love felt everywhere, which I have observed does occasionally seem to manifest in London around this general season, even in the face of continuing inclement weather.”

“Yes,” I said gratefully. “That’s the very thing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Females everywhere, what?”

“Yes, sir,” he agreed.

“And inclined to be in possession of any number of ambitions, viz. matrimony, and particularly with regard to Bertram.”

“I have observed, sir,” Jeeves said, quite gravely, “that this is true with quite distressing frequency.”

“So what I mean to say,” I said, much encouraged, “is—perhaps we might… stay on, a bit.”

Jeeves’s eyebrows gave a very little bit of a hop, but his voice was entirely placid when he replied, “I would be amenable to such a course of action, should you so desire it.”

“Well, then, excellent,” I said, much cheered.

“Very good, sir.”

“While the Madeline Bassetts and Honoria Glossops and Florence Crays of the world are certainly welcome to feel things arising in gardens fair, for one spring, they can dashed well do it without me.”

At the prospect of all three of them at once, even Jeeves seemed very faintly alarmed. “Quite so, sir.”

“So we can just keep on here until the Spirit of Love gets tired of lurking about the English countryside and buzzes off back home, what?”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Excellent,” I said, and tossed back the last of my drink; “I know I can entirely trust you to arrange it,” just as he shimmered directly beside me, fresh glass in hand.

“I say, Jeeves,” I said, admiringly, “you do always know just what to do.”

He gave me the cocktail, and the slightest hint of a bow. “Your faith is, as always,” he said, “most gratifying.”