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“Dash it all, Jeeves! What the deuce do you mean?”
“I mean, sir, that I am afraid I have fallen quite in love with you.”
***
I would, in normal circumstances, never write about my life in such an account, nor would I start a story in its middle. However, I suppose that, when one spends a lot of time with another, especially when that other is someone they love, they both start to become rather alike, and I would say that that’s the situation with me and Mr Wooster.
The situation that we were currently in was nothing if not my fault. I should’ve waited. I should’ve been more careful. This, by no means, is to say that I had regretted what I did, for I felt anything but regret. After all, it was this “rummy”, as Mr Wooster would say, circumstance that got me closer to my beloved.
I had been, at that point, in Mr Wooster’s employ for eight years, which were full of several events that Mr Wooster relays in his short stories and books, where he paints me in a much better light than my reality, I fear. He’s been in several “soupy”, he would say, situations which he required me to fish him out of. We have travelled together plenty, both to escape his aunts and to visit places that we had both dreamed of.
He’s an awfully kind gentleman (something which has led to a variety of the rather unfortunate situations that we had been in) and I was, and still am, grateful beyond words to be in his valet. We may have our clashes, but I believe that it was these that led to our rather playful banter currently; we no longer had something to prove to the other and any semblance of an argument was just for the sake of amusement.
Even though it is technically correct to refer to Mr Wooster as my employer, I feel it to be an injustice towards our current, and rather new, arrangement; Mr Wooster and I, although not in the eyes of others aside from a very selected number of friends, are lovers.
Despite it being the cause of this whole affair, I think that, had I not confessed, the truth would’ve been revealed regardless.
It was a normal evening, for once. No troubles, brought on by idiotic friends, that Mr Wooster was too kind to refuse. No engagements that Mr Wooster didn’t desire that were forced upon him by his aunts or by his fiancé-to-be. It was peaceful in Berkeley Mansions.
Mr Wooster was sprawled across the chesterfield, starting another one of his, rather ghastly, mystery novels. This particular one, I recall, wasn’t as ghastly as the usual lot, for it was one of Mrs Christie’s works. Her newest, I believe, and Mr Wooster was rather eager to get a copy. It was when I brought him his usual brandy-and-soda that I made the mistake of speaking.
I would usually say, after carrying my duties out, “would that be all, sir?” and then I would retire to my room to spend the rest of my night with an improving book. That wasn’t what I did that night, however.
I handed Mr Wooster his brandy-and-soda, and he looked up at me with a smile. The man’s smiles were somehow some of the brightest things I had seen. I never considered myself much of a romantic, but I now understood what poets meant when they would describe their love as sunlight. I felt myself an Icarus, and my master the Sun. Unattainable. Warm. Bright. Beautiful. Let it be known that I am not a man who wanted much in the world, but the thing I most desired was the thing that I could never have; my master’s affections.
I always thought that Mr Wooster was the epitome of beauty. Everything about him proves it. His soft golden curls, which I have always dreamed of threading my fingers through, playing with them and feeling their softness. His big sea blue eyes and how expressive they are, how they can make a man melt on the spot with how pretty they are. His soft-looking porcelain skin. His slightly tanned complexion, I, quite literally, pale in comparison. His beautiful figure, which he may describe as “willowy”, with negative connotations, but I cannot help but disagree.
It is not only his physical attributes that are beautiful, but it’s also his personality. How humorous and amusing his method of story-telling is. How his kindness and sweetness never seems to end. How his loyalty is so undoubtedly strong, making him the best friend a man could ask for. How talented and creative he is when it comes to writing and musical works.
Due to the above, It physically pains me when I see Mr Wooster feeling lowly about himself. How could he not see his brilliance? How could he not see his brightness? How could he not realise that he is the Sun? That it’s his presence that makes this world as warm and bright as it is?
When he gets those episodes where his sense of self is remarkably low, I cannot help but feel terrible as well. Mr Wooster may paint me as a paragon, but I am horribly human and I have faults; it makes me miserable to admit that one of them is hurting the wonder that is my master. I have, admittedly, contributed to his terrible self-esteem that my master has, and it is one of my biggest regrets. I wish I could fix it. I wish I could hold his face gently between my work-hardened hands and kiss him softly all over his face while telling him how incredible he is. How he, too, is a marvel.
I think it’s the most logical thing; falling in love with Bertram Wooster. How could one not?
Although I am grateful, endlessly so, to be Mr Wooster’s valet, with how I got to know him and how close we have grown over the years, I sometimes regret being in Mr Wooster’s employ. I wish we met under better circumstances. I wish we met in a place where I could freely confess my unending love for him. I wish-
I thought, foolishly, that I could content myself with lingering and unneeded touches. Ones that happen when I fix Mr Wooster’s tie. Ones when I pretend to remove dust and lint off of his shoulders, just so I could touch him once more. Ones when I would hand him anything.
I could not, however, as it all made me wish for more. I wanted to kiss the man senseless. I wanted to hold him tightly in my embrace. I wanted to shelter him from the cruelties of the world. I wanted more. I kept wanting more until I, truthfully, couldn’t take it anymore. I had to tell him.
Even though I engage in rather sappy daydreams about my master and I being in love, as I am a shameful romantic, I have never imagined how the scene of confession would go. It was definitely not this. However, I cannot find it in me to wish for something else, for how else would we do it?
“Sir, there is something of importance that I have to inform you of.”
“Oh. Well,” Mr Wooster replied, putting the opened book down in his lap and looking rather disappointed. I almost felt bad for doing this, but I knew that, had I not confessed then, I will never get the courage to tell him again. “Go ahead, Jeeves.”
“I would like to change our arrangement, sir. I wish for an alteration and I hope that you wouldn’t mind it.”
“Change our arrangement? Jeeves, are you going to be leaving me?” he frowned and I felt my heart drop. His beautiful blue eyes started getting glassy. “I- I don’t think I could survive without you leaving me, Jeeves. I-”
“Mr Wooster, you misunderstand. I am not leaving your employment, sir, and I wouldn’t wish to do so.”
“Then dash it all, Jeeves. What the deuce do you mean?”
“I mean, sir, that I am afraid I have fallen quite in love with you.”
Mr Wooster gaped. I do not think I have ever seen the man so surprised in our eight years together. I, rather foolishly, interpreted that as a rejection.
“I understand, sir,” I spoke, turning my face to the floor, away from the beautiful, still gaping, man. “If you want me to hand in my resignation, I completely understand, sir.”
“No!” a scream was ripped from my master’s throat. “I- You leaving would be the end of me, Jeeves. I just- I love you too, old thing, but I- We cannot be lovers. I- There’s something I need to tell you, old fruit.”
I looked back up at him and, although I would normally never do so, I moved and sat down next to him. He rested his head against my shoulder, a comforting weight, and started speaking.
“I- I’m not a man, Jeeves. I never have been and I never will be. This name, Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, was never mine, even though I made it so. I made it my home. Bertram was my brother. My elder brother. He passed away from pneumonia when he was five years old, long before I was born,” he paused, momentarily. “When my parents, uh, passed-” he spoke those words with an immense amount of pain, and I did the only thing I could do; I moved my arm and encompassed him in an awkward hug, which made him look up at me with his watery eyes, giving me a rather poor attempt at a smile.
“When my parents passed, Aunt Dahlia was the one to take me in. She raised me as she raised my cousin Angela. Dresses, frilly, colourful ones and all the other whatsits. Dolls that eerily look like humans. The works, you know. I should’ve been grateful for it all, and I was, but it felt so wrong. All of it felt so wrong. I did the only thing I could; I told Aunt Dahlia. The aged, much beloved, relation worked it out. She told me that I could go by the name of Bertram and, since the Woosters weren’t quite known, it was all going to be right.”
“I couldn’t imagine how the other, much less beloved, aged relations took it, but they accepted it over time. All except from one that you know well, to our regret, old fruit, my Aunt Agatha. She said that I was going to grow out of it. That it was just a phase. That I should be a proper woman and all that- well- drivel. When she accepted that I won’t change, that this is the way I am, she made it her goal to get me married. I don’t know what made her think that it would be a good idea considering all, but she believes that it’s best for me, if I’m going to carry on living as a young man, and I can’t really refuse her. Who knows what she’ll do with my past.”
“I love you, old fruit. I’m positively dippy about you. But I understand if you would like a real man more than I. You deserve better, old thing,” he said, with a self-deprecating smile that I was, unfortunately, well-acquainted with.
Although my master loves to sing praises of my brain and my intelligence, my reaction was contrary to what you would expect a man of my capabilities to be. It all made sense now, and I couldn’t see how it didn’t dawn upon me before, though I believe it best that I didn’t know previously.
Mr Wooster, unlike most masters, never let me dress him, which I found rather queer at the beginning of my employment, but I did not question it as he might be uncomfortable with that, and I understood and respected his wishes. Additionally, Mr Wooster would experience severe, rather alarming, pains almost monthly; they concerned me greatly, but he would always shake it off, saying that it’s nothing. Mr Wooster also filled the bath, constantly, with an astounding amount of bubbles, which completely covered the body that laid beneath, which was another thing I found to be odd, but I chalked it up to his enjoyment of their feeling. Mr Wooster would rarely shave as well, and it took him a considerable amount of time to grow that god-awful moustache of his.
It all made sense now, and it didn’t change anything about how I felt. I still loved the pretty man sitting beside me more than I could ever describe.
“If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, this is where you are incorrect.”
“What do you mean incorrect, Jeeves?”
“You are more of a man than the vast majority of the men I have known. It’s not your body that makes you a man. It’s your loyalty. Your braveness. Your respect to others. Your endless kindness. You, sir, are all a man ought to be, and I am honoured to be in love with you.”
I am afraid to admit that, by the end of my rather short speech, Mr Wooster was crying.
“Oh, Jeeves. You’re awfully kind, old fruit. I-”
“May I interrupt you, sir?”
He nodded.
“May I, sir?”
I leaned in and kissed him. I have always dreamed of how soft his lips would be, and I was rather glad that my dreams were not even close to reality. I don’t think that anything else could make me more content.
“You are beautiful, sir-”
“Hang the “sir”, Reggie. We’re lovers now.”
I frowned at the use of the nickname. “I would prefer you call me Reginald, Bertram.”
“Reginald.”
“Yes, dear?”
His complexion turned pink at the endearment, and it was too adorable for me to handle that I grabbed (softly, might I add) his face and started kissing him all over it.
“You’re so handsome, Bertram. I have never seen someone as beautiful, magnificent, and glorious as you are. You’re incredible, my dear boy, and I hope that you never think of yourself as anything but.”
His blush was heightened and he was giggling a little from the kisses, a sweet sound that I wish to store in my mind permanently and constantly hear.
“I love you, Reginald.”
“And I you, Bertam.”
We slept in Bertram’s bed that night, intertwined in a loving embrace, much like how I believe our souls are.