Chapter Text
Bertram privileged me by falling asleep quickly, allowing me, when his body finally eased into the mattress, to slip out unnoticed. I fell to rest with an aching throat from that terribly pitched voice I was forced to put on all day. When I awoke, my limbs too were sore from the Dianthus barbatus covered love seat, which I had decided was preferred. The way my form bent and sunk into the chair with its small solitude left me to contrast a softly rising sun. Next to me, Wooster's favourite Brinkley Court company– the cat– sat adjacent, alleviating before it perturbed. I sincerely hoped he had wandered in the previous evening, rather than having sneaked in alongside someone’s curious midnight escapade. I thought through the night as I dressed and couldn’t recall an interruption.
Having opened the window for song and smoke to travel, the rich garden horizon grinned before my unease. One wished they could converse with nature on mornings such as those; with cats bathing in fresh country sunlight. I’d ask them what they’d seen of the night before and what new days held. But life was not a fairytale, and I instead lit my long awaited cigarette, absent-mindedly flitting from thoughts of my employer's brand of gaspers and his “conversations” with Gus. It was these daydreams, his lips and fool’s gold voice, that soothed more than puerile tobacco ads promised. Sludge coated my overworked throat, filling me with false assurance nonetheless.
As the cherry tip burned, I felt eyes dragging up my form, pulling my heart like taffy; a sickly twisting shame. I did not wonder why he would stare. Morbid curiosity compels even the most gentle natured, compels us to view the two-headed calf or, more aptly, Frankenstein's monster, a little too long before fleeing. My wears, for precaution’s sake, were half up in women's tennis garments. Wooster gawked at the skin, unbecoming of me.
Silently, I prayed to whatever fictional God breathed life into Victor’s daemon and turned.
“Morning,” he said.
“Good morning, sir,” I began. “I apologize if I woke you.”
Our conversation continued routinely, prayer granted. In spite of a pointedly different environment and physical appearances, the morning dialogue seemed so insistently normal it almost slipped my mind a game of tennis was to be played at all.
Once around the rest of the party, the feeling (to take a page from my employer's book of metaphors) of being a “well-behaved worm surrounded by birds of a various feather” did not evaporate. The weather was however merciful as it blew in from the bay windows at breakfast and I hoped it would stay that way. Tennis was never my strong suit– it being a sport more suited for spry aristocrats rather than a stout page boy.
I did not, as I predicted, enjoy the activity, but it was captivating seeing Mr. Wooster perform. One could believe he achieved that blue ribbon in Oxford fair and square, with the way his lithe form like hyacinths moved; mortal but more than enough to be worthy of Gods better than me or what women had “loved” him before. Still, we did not win, and I did not win but one match playing with Ms. Glossop. Being faithful and competitive in nature, Wooster’s frustrated face touched me like the sweat on my brow.
In all, the matches ended being what one would simply call: disagreeable. My employer did additionally make a near slip-up and his immediate “correction” humiliated me greatly. Despite the emotion resulting in his saying, the morning was nothing worse than disagreeable and nothing better than mixed. What human reaction I couldn’t control would serve well to secure our roles, if anything. It was on the matches and Wooster's behaviour which I lingered before being pulled out by a graceful hand on my bare arm.
“Ramona, dear.” My man said as I instinctually shuddered at the touch. Its removal occurred at once. “It is not necessary to keep up the act, sir. I believe we are far enough behind for the other’s not to hear.” Laces pressed against the tops of my swollen feet.
“Apologies, Jeeves. You're just such a convincing bird, what? You sure no one can hear us? Might as well get some practice in either way.” He grinned up at me.
“As you say, sir.”
“It's uh not really practice if it's just me, Jeeves.” My master nudged me in a friendly way normally reserved for his drunken moods. I simply nodded, at a loss for what else to say; the afternoon heat had come, and its welcome was overstayed. “Spiffing work at tennis today. Are you ready for the picnic?”
“I must get changed.” My fingers knotted themselves atop the back of my skirt. The tall grass swayed youthfully with Wooster as he scuffed expensive shoes kicking up gravel.
“Naturally, naturally. I was referring to your, oh what is it Jeeves– Ramona– proverbial readiness? Preparedness? What I mean to ask: are the juices flowing alright today? I will try better not to embarrass you at lunch now the Wooster brain is relatively awake.” He suddenly looked theatrically pitiful, his supple arms mimicked mine.
“Thank you, sir. If you could restrain from the… nickname used earlier.”
“Certainly, certainly. A smart-ish save, though, don't you think? All things considered.”
“All things considered, indubitably, sir– only, the traditional American meaning, when used as an adjective or “pet name,” is one I would suggest not using. Having been the male character in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s short story as well as a term adjacent to a dandy, the use in our perceived context is, well, objectionable, sir.”
“No wonder,” He mumbled in that soft tone that let me know memoirs were being written in his head. “Is there a thing you do not know? You remind me of a pal of mine, Ramona doll.”
“Sir?”
Wooster simply grabbed my hand and ran to catch up with the group, leaving me to feel as a piece of yarn unravelling in a cat's paw. “And Jeeves,” he whispered with a craned neck and golden brown hair becoming mussed in the breeze, “I think I should like to go swimming before luncheon.”
It was a curious thing, sitting on the grass watching my Master swim. In the usual circumstances I would not dare to but lean on a tree and still Mr. Wooster raised his eyebrows upon viewing my position on the beach towel. I wondered if it was my posture or stature that to him was not satisfactory. As I thought, sir shivered dipping a tentative toe in the lake, my insistence for him not to swim “in the nude” had cooled down his worked up body to a mere pale pink.
My dress was tight against me, I pulled back, away and down at the thighs, then up at the chest. Soon a splash sounded out. My eyes darted to the water to find a laughing, chattering man who, running his hands through lustrous hair, yelled out. “A bit cold! B-but it feels nice, really.” Before I could ask if he would like his towel, the man was under again, ticking my heart up a beat till I caught sight of him treading water.
“Thank you, J- Ramona. Ramona, Ramona,” He repeated, taking the towel to a freckled nose and cheeks. “I’ll get it eventually.”
He plopped next to me, sand sticking to his suit and suit sticking to him. I fanned myself with a large, ornate thing I’d bought, and wished such a fan was able to be equipped by men too– as it was the first device that proved practical in addition to decorative.
“A hot one, what?”
“Indeed, sir. Perhaps you should move to the shade so you do not get burnt.”
“A topping idea. Though it feels alright now after being in the water. I think I’ll sit for a bit.” For a moment it was the bugs that talked and buzzed about while Wooster quietly stretched out in the sun. He was as gorgeous in stillness as in motion. I felt renewed knowledge in why women would marry him just to alter his personhood and why his “family code,” which seemed much more individual than anything, also gained him admirers. I thought of the rumours of him and their varying sources. Again, he broke me from my meandering mind.
“Have you got a gasper, Jeeves? Stiffy and Honoria thought it’d be fun to slip mine from my case.”
In opening my clutch, I succeeded in getting a curious Wooster into the shade. “Here, sir.”
“None for you?” He looked away, breathing in, as the match touched.
“It is my last one.” What selfishness compelled me to lie I do not know, but it slipped out my mouth like smoke rings.
“Jeeves!” My employer coughed. “We must share, then! I can’t have you giving the last one to a chap like me.” The young man passed the gasper over to me, carefully avoiding my dress.
“Thank you very much, sir.” I blew a ring of smoke, which made his eyes light up like none other. He pointed out its ease in smoking, to which I replied with spiel regarding it being a suitable cigarette for my person at the moment as it is a new brand advertised towards women, particular for its filter. He gave the impression of listening intently, as he did with most ladies, as his code induced. I could only point his behaviour, present and past, to a sort of instinct– a simple input and output, a following of a pattern.
Which would be worse I wondered; Wooster’s heart knowing my true identity but his brain omitting it or his mind knowing and his heart disregarding? For what benefit I could not predict. The apparent seriousness my employer seemed to be taking on this role concerned me. It uneased me; being unravelled bit by bit by a single saying, look, or hand and one long “Wooster Code.” For what reason a grin appeared on my face, looking over at the man and catching his glance, I did not wish to linger.