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CHAPTER 1: Georgie Caffyn's Drag Ball
“Mr George Caffyn to see you, sir.”
I emerged from the bedclothes in a huff.
“Jeeves,” I said, already peeved at the world in general. “It is at least two hours before breakfast. My feet have not touched the floor. My lips have not touched my tea. And yet you introduce Caffyns into my boudoir.”
“I apologise, sir. Mr Caffyn was most insistent.”
Now then. I think most would agree Bertram Wooster is an amenable type of chappie, but when it comes to intrusions into the bedroom first thing in the ack emma, I reserve the right to be a little miffed. Still, a friend is a friend, and so I threw on my dressing gown and went to greet the blighter.
Said blighter was pacing about my living room like a fretful lion. As soon as he clapped eyes on me, he grasped my hands in desperation. He’s the theatrical sort, don’t you know.
“Bertie!” he exclaimed. “Bertie, you’ve got to help me.”
“Georgie,” I sighed. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
You might remember George, who writes plays and such. He’s the bird responsible for the production known as Ask Dad, which I had the pleasure of viewing six million and two times on tour. George - who looks both ways before crossing the street, if you get my drift - had recently come into possession of a small club called the Black Cat. It’s rather a broad church, so to speak, by which I mean you get all sorts in there.
“It’s Carmella,” he wailed. “I’m throwing a ball at the club this Saturday, and my star performer has only gone and twisted her ankle. It’s swollen to the size of a Christmas ham. She can’t even get her heels on, let alone walk in them. Doctor says she’s out of commission for the foreseeable future, maybe even six weeks. Six weeks!” George cried in despair. “I’m sunk, Bertie. My reputation is on the line.”
I’d met Carmella before, the Black Cat’s resident songbird. A handsome woman, with a lovely baritone and a handshake like a docker.
Rummy circs, indeed. Jeeves handed me a cup of reviving oolong. I sipped as I pondered said r. c., while George resumed wearing down the living room rug with his pacing.
“I don’t see how I can help with that, old thing. I’m not an ankle specialist, after all.”
“It’s simple, Bertie. You’ll be the entertainment. You can play the piano and sing, can’t you? It’s better than nothing.”
It wasn’t like I hadn’t agreed to similar things before. I’d once sung at Beefy Bingham’s entertainment for the local toughs. At least the patrons of the Black Cat were far less likely to hurl vegetation at yours truly.
“Just the once, then?” I asked, with another sigh, this time of resignation.
“Just once,” promised George. “Oh Bertie, you’re a lifesaver. Come along to rehearsal with me, and then I’ll take you to the club after.”
The Black Cat turned out to be up in Harlem. George took me through a rather peculiarly furnished ballroom. If I had to describe it in a few words, I might employ the phrase ‘Bohemian aunt’s sitting room’. It was gilded to within an inch of its life, but in a quaint sort of a way, instead of being gaudy. Puts you in mind of a fortune teller’s tent, with a mystical sort of air about it. The stage was barely several inches high, and already a few brass instruments were set up on it. In other words, an intimate sort of a venue. Rather cosy, I thought.
It was only until I’d set foot in the dressing room that I realised Bertram had once again dived headfirst into Nanny’s own cock-a-leekie.
George held up the frock and wig.
“Just once,” he pleaded.
I put my foot down, and meant it to be firm.
“Absolutely not, Georgie. I’ll look a frightful ass, and then where will we be?”
“Nonsense. You have the cheekbones for it. Doesn’t he, Fran?”
George’s assistant nodded. I recognised her as the lead chorus girl of Ask Dad.
“Beautiful cheekbones,” she chimed in. Her accent was pure Queens - that is to say, charmingly grating. “We could have you looking like Greta Garbo in mere hours.”
“Fran here is a genius at hair and makeup,” George carried on, with misplaced enthusiasm. “You’ll be the belle of the ball!”
I stared at George and his assistant, incredulous.
“You don’t mean you want me to perform as a female impersonator.”
“It is a drag ball, Bertie. Please? I swear, I’ll never ask anything else of you, ever again. I’ll be in your debt forever.”
I could feel my resolve withering and abandoning me altogether. Under these conditions, issuing a nolle prosequi was impossible. Such was the power of George’s puppy-dog eyes.
Rehearsals went fine, although progress was hampered by the fact that I couldn't practice such risque songs at home, if the stuffed-frog expression Jeeves likes to wear when I sing ditties like ‘Nagasaki’ is anything to go by. Were I to start belting tunes like ‘Find Me a Primitive Man’, he would no doubt turn cyanotic in the face and pack his bags.
On top of it, I was expected to entertain the masses in a dress and heels! The shoes, thankfully, were less of an ordeal than expected. George suggested I practise walking around during rehearsals. At first I clung to Fran, legs as awkward as a newborn foal’s, until I’d gotten the hang of it. Fran had insisted on four inches in the heel at least, but compromised on two when I pointed out I needed my feet to operate the pedals of the piano. I thought they looked rather natty in combination with the heather-mixture suit, truth be told. It’s a shame it isn’t standard for a gentleman to ankle about town in heeled footwear.
“Jeeves,” I announced, on the fateful evening in question. “I shall be late in returning.”
“Very good, sir.”
“In fact, take the night off.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Invite the fellows round for a game of poker, if you wish.”
“Very kind of you, sir, but I shall enjoy a quiet evening with an improving book.”
Jeeves presented me with my whangee. I took it with hands quivering from nerves.
“Once more unto the breach and whatnot, eh Jeeves?”
It might have been a trick of the light, but I thought I saw a muscular twitch crooking the corners of his lips up. It's the closest the man ever gets to smiling.
“No doubt your performance will be a successful one, sir.”
“Close your eyes,” ordered Fran, as she daubed more powdered paints onto my eyelids with an army of tiny brushes. “You gotta have a stage name, you know. What about Bettie?”
“I say, that’s rather clever. Not far off from the usual. Easy to remember.”
“You need a last name, too.”
“Gadsby would about meet the case,” I said, drawing from the usual pseudonym I pulled out of the hat whenever I was pinched during nightclub raids, or otherwise brought up in front of police court magistrates.
“Bettie Gadsby,” she proclaimed. “I like it. Has a nice ring to it. Makes you sound like a socialite.”
“As long as you make me look like one as well,” I muttered under my breath.
“You’ll be fine,” she assured me, gesturing at me up and down. “You got a figure to die for. You know how many girls would kill to be this slim?”
I had not realised how svelte or otherwise the Wooster physique was. My burgeoning womanhood was all aflutter at the compliment.
“You’re forgetting one very pertinent thing, my dear,” I objected, glancing down at my chest. It was flatter than an ironing board once Jeeves had been through with it. “Well, two very pertinent things.”
Fran patted my shoulder. “You just leave all that to me. And close your mouth a little - not all the way - perfect.”
She began swabbing my bottom lip with rouge, and I was silenced momentarily.
Then came the matter of a lady’s undergarments. A struggle ensued, but we Woosters are a tenacious lot. As I did battle with a specialised girdle, I shuddered to think what my ancestors at Agincourt would say if they could witness this. Just when the worst was over, Fran began cramming strategic bits of sponge padding around my person.
“I say!” I yelped, as her small hands shoved the foam right down my unmentionables. I don’t think I’d ever felt quite so violated in my life. Certainly it had been a long time since someone had laid hands on me there.
After that, she bunged me into an emerald green, off-the-shoulder evening gown. To her credit, it did wonders to accentuate the flat bits and disguised the not-so-flat bits, as it were.
“I don’t think Jeeves has ever dressed me quite so forcefully,” I mused, as she straightened my newly formed bosoms with an expert eye. Wouldn’t do to have them lopsided, I suppose.
“Who?”
“My manservant,” I explained.
She looked up at me with a cocked eyebrow. “Your what now?”
“Gentleman’s personal gentleman, don’t you know. An absolute gem of a valet. I would be lost without him.”
She snorted. “Sounds pretty fruity to me.” Her tone suggested that the adjective meant something rather different here than it did in England. “Give us a twirl, doll.”
I obeyed. After my figure was deemed shapely enough for her exacting standards, Fran pushed me back down into her makeup chair and fetched a wig. Then she plopped it onto the Wooster dome, and something quite magical happened.
There she was. Bettie Gadsby, indeed. I goggled at the mirror in a sort of stupor for a good minute or five. A funny feeling washed over me, like all was right and boomps-a-daisy within the Wooster soul. I turned my head this way and that, admiring my corking profile.
“I say,” I breathed. “Well, I mean to say… Good Lord.”
Fran giggled with girlish glee and clapped her hands together. “You like?”
Fran was, as George had proclaimed, a genius. She had contoured my masculine features with light and dark stage makeup into something approaching gentle femininity. Deep auburn waves framed my face, softening the edges further, the ends brushing my bare shoulders. I pursed my lips, now full and ruby red, into an inviting pout.
“I say, I look rather good as a redhead, what?”
“Just like Ginger Rogers,” Fran declared. She stepped back, admiring her handiwork as she brandished a bottle of spirit gum. “Now let me fix it to your head - this stuff’ll stay on in a hurricane.”
There was a rap at the door, and then George poked his head into the dressing room.
“You ladies ready?” he asked, then did a double take. “Sweet Jesus, Bertie. Is that you under there?”
“That’s Bettie to you,” I answered breezily as I stood, and managed not to wobble.
“Fran, you’ve done it again.” George, agog, marvelled at her latest masterpiece. “Oh, I could kiss you!”
“Save it,” was Fran’s snappy retort, but grinned anyway.
A final finishing touch, as she draped a gauzy, bejewelled shawl around my shoulders. Then George offered me his arm. I gulped.
“Bertie, I can’t thank you enough.”
“Thank me when it’s over and only if I haven’t made a prat of myself, Georgie old bird.”
“You’ll be fine,” Fran coaxed. “Break a leg, gorgeous!”
“Righto,” I said, with another nervous gulp, and made a mental note to retrieve a stiff b. and s. from the barman.
“Ladies and gentlemen and those too interesting to pick either,” George hollered into the microphone, “all the way from the music halls of London, I give you… Miss Bettie Gadsby!”
The first set, if I’m honest, went by in a blur. Performing to a crowd always makes the old nervous system vibrate with adrenaline. I needn’t have worried, for they seemed to lap up Drones Club favourites like ‘47 Ginger-headed Sailors’. Anything from across the pond, George explained, the natives found exotic. I gave them a couple of old classics - ‘I Wanna Be Loved By You’ went down rather well, I thought. In the end, I managed not to make a hash of it, and the band accompanied me impeccably throughout.
After the final flourish of piano keys, I tottered off-stage on unsteady legs and made a beeline for the bar, in search of a drink. Tiny Tim, the barman - so named as he had been a heavyweight boxer in his prime - already had one waiting for me.
“Tim, you are a lifesaver,” I informed him, as I proceeded to lubricate the throat. George had me singing in a higher register than usual, and it took a toll on the old larynx.
Tim chuckled as he took my empty glass from me. “You sure knocked ‘em dead, Miss Bettie.”
“Thank you, Tim.”
George was grinning like a madman when he found me. “Bertie, you were sensational!” he raved. “The crowd ate it right up. People love that stuff from Old Blighty. We might have to have you back soon.”
I let out an un-ladylike snort. “My Aunt Agatha’s always saying I should get a job.”
The thought of what the aged a. would say if she found out said job was performing as a female impersonator, however, was more than enough to chill my bones. Aunt Agatha, you see, makes a habit of breakfasting on broken glass and feasting on errant nephews for her supper.
In between sets, Fran had emerged in gent’s black tie, doing her best Marlene Dietrich impression. I danced with her - Fran leading, of course - and I must say, that girl swings a dashed efficient shoe.
“Don’t look now,” Fran hissed in my ear as she tugged me closer, “but there’s a guy who’s been eyeing you since the first set.”
I smirked. “I’m sure there’s been more than one, darling.”
“Not like that, ya moron. Over in that corner.”
Fran gave me a twirl, and I attempted to spot the cove, to no avail. It was far too crowded on the dance floor.
“Tall fella. Dark-haired. He’s got a serious case of the googly-eyes.”
“Lucky me,” I mused out loud.
She clicked her tongue impatiently. “Just be careful, alright? He’s almost as big as Tiny Tim. I just hope he’s not a cop.”
Soon, I returned to the stage for the second set of the night, and any thoughts of this mysterious chappie I had were swept away by the sheer thrill of performing. It was safe to say that Bertram had taken to this female impersonating business like a duck to a substantial amount of the wet and wobbly. The funny thing was, the longer I spent as Bettie, the easier it was to be her. I sauntered about the club with a spring in my dainty step and not a care in the world.
The Black Cat was packed with revellers as the night wore on. It was shaping up to be the fruitiest binge I’d ever attended in my life, though Pongo Twistleton’s twenty-fifth birthday was a close second. Coves dancing with other coves, fillies dancing with other fillies, and others of indeterminate gender dancing with both. Alas, all too soon, the ball was over, and still I hadn’t caught sight of the mystery admirer Fran had warned me about.
“He can’t be good news, I’m telling ya,” Fran insisted, as she removed my makeup with Pond’s cold cream after closing time.
“So Bertie has a secret admirer.” George waved his gasper about lazily, lounging about the dressing room with his shoes off. “You’ll be fine. That’s what we’ve got Tiny Tim for.”
“To protect my virtue, apparently,” I mumbled through the damp cloth Fran was rubbing my face with. Stage makeup, as it turned out, had quite some staying power. “Careful you don’t get any makeup on my clothes. Jeeves will kick.”
I was rather wistful, I admit, as the last traces of Bettie Gadsby were magicked away. I felt rather like Cinderella must have, as she trudged home after a night on the royal tiles. In the mirror once again was Bertram Wooster, his boyish face scrubbed pink and clean as a whistle. My garments and I returned home unscathed, without a single trace of makeup, and Jeeves was none the wiser.
CHAPTER 2: Jeeves in the Old Soup and Fish
It will come as no surprise, then, that when George asked me to return as Carmella’s stand-in for the next few weeks, I acquiesced. I did have a rather ripe old time at the Black Cat, after all. As long as there was a steady stream of whiskey and soda, Bertram - or rather, Bettie - would be there.
A surprise awaited me in the dressing room the following Saturday, however. Fran and I entered, ready to don battle raiments for the evening’s festivities, only to find a hefty bouquet of red roses on the table. Dashed mysterious, how it got there in the first place.
I frowned. “You don’t think…”
“That chump from the ball?” Fran finished. “I don’t see how he would know you were on tonight. Unless he worked for the Black Cat?”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” I agreed.
“Just couldn’t stay away, huh?” Fran said, her eyeliner pencil dangerously close to the baby blues. She was, once again, in charge of applying war paint to the Wooster visage. I lay back and let her work her magic.
“I must say, old girl, it’s rather fascinating. How the other half lives, and all that sort of thing.”
“Well, be glad you can take it off at the end of the night.”
This time, Fran had procured a beaded, champagne-coloured evening dress. She had to lace my girdle tighter than ever to get me into it, and if you ask me, I’m not sure my squashed internal organs escaped permanent damage. Once again I felt a great stirring of sympathy for those who had to tolerate such medieval torture on a daily basis, though the results could not be argued with. You could have found a picture of me in the dictionary next to the definition of the word ‘slender’.
I had no sooner been shoved into the outer crust of a society lady before George came and pointed me in the direction of the nearest piano, with instructions to play something up-tempo and saucy. The crowd scoffed it down and clamoured for second helpings.
After yet another encore, I staggered off for a pick-me-up. Tim had my usual waiting for me, though on more than one occasion I was waylaid by zealous patrons wishing to shake my hand on my way to the bar. In need of some fresh air and peace, I snagged my drink and a gasper, then tooled off to the balcony. There, it was just me and a couple of indifferent pigeons.
The thing about lady’s evening wear, as everyone who has to endure it will know, is that there isn’t really any room to house important things. Like a lighter, for instance. I was left idly patting myself down in a futile search for a way to light my gasper. It never occurred to me before how ladies were meant to transport their personal belongings about. Fran hadn’t furnished me with a sensible purse, either. Why didn’t women’s gowns have pockets? Bally large oversight, if you ask me.
Just then, a soft cough, like an elderly sheep on a distant moor, came from behind me.
I froze. I’d know that throat-clearing anywhere.
Jeeves stepped forward. I’d only seen him dressed to the nines once before, when he’d been out painting the town red on Rocky’s behalf. We’d just so happened to come up in the lift together at some ungodly hour one morning, making small talk while Mr. Coneybear gave us the rummiest of looks. I’d hardly gotten an eyeful before he biffed off to his lair, but the little I’d managed to glimpse was magnificent.
I was getting rather more than an eyeful, now. In full soup and fish, he looked more like a moving picture star straight out of Hollywood than an English valet. The man and his chiselled features were giving Rudolph Valentino a run for his bally money.
“Allow me, miss.”
He produced a match from somewhere, and struck it in one practised motion. Then he leaned in, close enough that I caught the scent of his aftershave, smoky and spicy and woody all at once. So deeply engaged in pop-eyed staring was I, that I’d hardly noticed the gasper in my hand was alight. I quickly stuck it in my mouth and inhaled. It’s always good to have a bit of business to futz about with when you’re at a loss for words.
Meanwhile, my heart thumped from my throat down to my stomach and back up again. It’s a deuced hard thing for a chap to explain to his valet, why he’s all tarted up in women’s evening costume. I was convinced Jeeves would hand in his portfolio instanter. Surely he wouldn’t tolerate an employer with such extreme sartorial eccentricities. I mean, the man is positively hidebound when it comes to soft-bosomed shirts, let alone silk brassieres. Eventually, I managed to stammer something coherent in response.
“Ah, yes. Much obliged, old thing.”
“Not at all, miss.”
Just as I was about to throw my hands up and cry ‘Oh dash it, the cat is out of the bag, what?’, Jeeves continued to speak.
“A most energetic performance, miss. I particularly enjoyed your spirited rendition of ‘I’m On A Diet Of Love’.”
There was something so different about him tonight, even in the way he held his gasper between his fingers. One might go so far as to describe him as debonair. It was, to say the least, highly unusual for Jeeves.
Slowly, it dawned on me. Two could play at this game, I thought.
“Oh, well, thank you,” I said, and tried not to simper. “One does one’s best. I’m just filling in, really.”
My nerves ratcheted my voice up an octave or two. Not altogether a bad thing, really, as it lent verisimilitude and whatnot.
“Hardly, miss. You have a gift, one that solaces and refreshes the hearts of the sick and weary.”
“I say, that’s lovely. One of yours?”
He smiled. An actual, honest-to-goodness smile! Not something I’d ever seen on my man’s map before, and for good reason. The rest of us would never get anything done, if Jeeves went about smiling like that. Traffic would halt, for one thing.
“No, miss, that would be Martin Luther.”
Behind us, the band decided just then that a lively waltz was in order. Jeeves must have caught my distracted glance toward the dance floor.
“Would you care to cut a rug, as they say?”
I mean, how is any filly - or chap, for that matter - meant to say no to that?
I abandoned my gasper and extended a hand without further thought. He abandoned his gasper and took my hand in his. Even through the elbow-length opera gloves Fran insisted I wear, I could feel the heat of his fingers against mine. I trembled like a soufflé caught in a gale.
The throng of awed partygoers seemed to cleave in two like the Red Sea as we approached the dance floor. I couldn’t tell exactly what they were gawping at, but I’d give decent odds on it being Jeeves. I gulped and prayed I wouldn’t trip over my own feet, but I needn’t have worried, really. All I had to do was follow the man’s lead, and by Jove, the man could dance. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Jeeves does shimmy around the flat without a single noise every day, after all. Indeed, I’d had some advance knowledge of this kind of form - Bingo had once spotted Jeeves at a subscription dance in Camberwell and reported as much. I hadn’t quite believed Bingo at the time, but suffice to say I was eating my words now.
The band slowed things down after a spell, resulting in less actual dancing and more swaying together on the spot. Around us, many others were doing much the same. Jeeves held me close, and I got an even better whiff of his delicious aftershave at such close quarters. It did make things rather more comfortable, us being round about the same height. I shouldn’t think there was even an inch of difference, what with me being in heels. All in all, it was absolutely topping, and I found myself wishing we could stay like that all night.
I grinned at Jeeves, delighted like a child enjoying the contents of a honey jar with his sticky hands.
“I say, wherever did you learn to dance like this?”
“One picks these things up as one moves through life, my dear,” was his enigmatic answer.
“Well, as rugs go, you cut a dashed fine one.”
“It’s very kind of you to say so, miss.”
More pleasant swaying ensued, before I decided to broach a tricky subject. I understood the current posish, but I couldn’t very well call him what I usually did. Rather shattered the illusion, don’t you know.
“If we’re going to be treading the measure in such close proximity, I should probably learn your name, what?” I said, with a nervous chuckle.
It seemed to be the right thing to hit upon, for he gave me a rakish smile and replied, “You may call me Reginald, miss.”
I mean to say, good Heavens! I was beginning to get the strangest sensation that I was being wooed.
We spent a goodish bit of time like this, me in his arms, until I spied someone waving at me out of the corner of my eye. It was George, gesticulating towards the stage in a pointed sort of manner. I’d completely forgotten I had a second set to perform still. I sighed.
“Duty calls, I’m afraid.”
Reginald employed a gentle release and I was disengaged from his hold, to my utmost disappointment.
“Perhaps we could resume this later?” I asked, possibly a tad too hopeful.
Reginald retrieved my hand once again, and then, if you can believe it, pressed a soft kiss to the back of it! You could have knocked me over with an f.! I was almost too busy gaping like a demented goldfish to notice his smile had gone a shade more rueful than before.
“Perhaps,” was all he would say on the matter. “Goodnight, miss.”
Then he shimmered off to parts unknown, leaving me staring at his broad back until it hove out of view.
There was no time to mull over this rather rummy turn of events. I hotfooted it over to George, who chivvied me onto stage, and the band kicked into high gear.
“So what’s the scoop?”
Fran accosted me the second I departed from my post at the piano. I was in need of a solid b. and s., and I was seriously considering leaving off the s. altogether.
“What do you mean?”
Fran slapped me on the arm. I winced.
“Oh, don’t play dumb! That’s the guy from last week. The one you were dancing with.”
Tim handed me my usual. I tipped it down my throat without delay.
“Oh, him.”
“Yes, him! Well? What’s the deal? Is he from the mob?”
I snorted. The idea of Jeeves as an Italian gangster tickled me briefly. Although the pinstripes would suit him, come to think of it.
“No, it’s all right, Fran. I know him.”
“You don’t mean you know this guy?”
“He’s my man, Jeeves.”
She scrunched her little button nose at me. “Moving pretty fast, don’t ya think?”
“No, no, no. I mean he’s my valet.”
Her eyes were in danger of abandoning their sockets and making a break for it.
“Him? You mean… he’s a pansy too? He’s one of us?”
“It would seem so, my fine young troutling.”
All at once, the glow of enlightenment seemed to shine in her eyes. I, on the other hand, was not so blessed. She clutched her chest, sighing in a most forlorn manner.
“Oh, Bertie. Oh, Bertie.”
“What?” I said, disconcerted. There was something eerily Bassett-ish about her demeanour just then. Soppy, I mean to say.
“You like him, don’t you, Bertie.”
She said it with such conviction, as though it were fact and not wild postulation. I started and shied away like a spooked foal.
“Oh, don’t talk rot, old girl.”
“You do! I saw the way you two were making eyes at each other while you were slow-dancing. You can’t fool me. A girl knows.”
“Alright, alright,” I conceded. “You don’t have to announce it in the Sunday broadsheets.”
“I won’t tell a soul, Bertie, I promise. Oh, but it’s so romantic, though.”
“Rot,” I reiterated, swilling my second drink in a minute flat. “Utter applesauce.”
“Good morning, sir.”
I groaned.
“It is a fine, clement day, with possible showers in the late afternoon.”
I groaned again. This time, I even went so far as to drag the covers over my head.
“Your tea, sir.”
I poked my head out of the duvet just a fraction. Then I reached forth a hand to receive the healing Darjeeling, and set about moistening the interior with haste. My tissues were in dire need of restoration after the night I’d had.
“Mr Caffyn has me working like a dog, Jeeves. That is to say, actual honest work. If only my aunts could see me. They’d never believe it.” I inhaled a thoughtful sip. “On second thought, probably not. Aunt Agatha would keel over clutching her pearls if she ever set foot into the Black Cat. Although Aunt Dahlia might think it was rather a gas. You know how bacchanalian these Quorn get-togethers can be.”
“Indeed, sir.”
I peered up at Jeeves, now that my eyes had focused once more, watching him potter about the young master’s bedchamber setting things to rights. There was a startling difference between the man before me and the Reginald I had encountered last night. The dashing white tie had given way to the staid grey pinstriped trousers. Jeeves was back to being as deferential as he ever was, designed to fade into the background as all in service are meant to do. Yet, the dapper cove I’d met on the dance floor could hold an entire crowd spellbound with the way he moved.
That’s the game, I pondered as I drained the cup of its life-giving essence. You bunged yourself into this particular bisque, Wooster, I reminded myself, so you’ll just have to buck up.
CHAPTER 3: The Wooing of Reginald Jeeves
There was a quick cursory knock on the dressing room door. Fran, halfway through painting the Wooster mug, got up to answer, and a veritable whirlwind of style swept in.
“Carmella!” she squealed. Cheek kisses, multiple and noisy, were exchanged.
“Hi, darling. I brought the slinky black number you asked for.”
Carmella - or Maurice, as they introduced themselves - was dressed in the spiffiest of gentlemen’s fashion, although Jeeves would have a thing or two to say about their selection. That fruity heliotrope cravat, for one. I found myself coveting it enormously.
“I’m off duty,” they explained, handing Fran the goods, then turned to me. “So this is the spring chicken George has brought in to replace me?”
“What ho, Maurice. Just temporarily,” I hastened to explain. “Georgie was awfully persistent.”
The club’s principal diva eyed me up and down in an appraising sort of a way that was a smidge too auntly for my taste.
“Hmm... the dress will fit, but you’ll have to pad her a little extra in the derrière,” they said with a sniff. “She looks like she could use a sandwich or two. And God help you if you ruin this garment - it’s my third-best dress.”
“Mee-ow.” Fran stage-whispered to me, “Don’t mind her. She’s always like this with new people. She’s actually really sweet once you get to know her.”
“Yes, don’t mind this bitter old queen,” Maurice gamely agreed, before settling down and retrieving a cigarette holder. “Be a dear and light this for me, Fran.”
“Are you coming to the club tonight?” Fran asked.
“I must,” Maurice sighed, exhaling a great plume of smoke. “I’ve been wasting away at home! I haven’t been idling though, I’ve got a new song I’ve been practising for my grand return.”
“Shouldn’t you be resting that ankle of yours?”
“The doctor says no dancing, but he never said I couldn’t socialise. I wish to be among my people.”
Maurice punctuated this last statement with a dramatic sweep of their arm. Fran had just picked up her brushes, ready to renew her assault on the old mazzard once more, when they interjected.
“No no no, more black. The eyes need to be much darker. Think Theda Bara.”
Fran rolled her eyes at me, but in a good-natured sort of manner. “You got it, boss.”
Normally I enjoyed my appointment as chief ivory-tickler, but my mind was elsewhere tonight. I kept gazing out over the crowd, waiting for him. I imagined that Reginald would cause a stir when he arrived.
I was right, though a stir would be an understatement. A scene would have been more accurate. Possibly even a commotion.
Reginald sauntered in, suave as anything, one hand in his pocket, gasper in the other, heedless of the multitude going gaga over his appearance. The old glad rags were tailored to within an inch of their lives, possibly even less. It was pure magic, how it hugged his impressive figure in all the right places. For one thing, I had somehow never paid attention to Reginald’s billowy portions before, though I most certainly was doing so now. I don’t mean to put too fine a point on it, but they billowed like the dickens.
This time, instead of watching from afar, Reginald sauntered over to the piano, his firm, dark gaze fixed on me. I never thought I’d ever see Jeeves give anyone the glad eye, let alone that it would be yours truly. Roderick Spode could beat me into a jelly, but Reginald could turn me into one with a single smoulder. The man could smoulder with the best of them.
Time to up the ante, I thought.
I had a cunning plan, you see. Reginald wasn’t the only one who could execute this wooing business. I segued into something more sedate, then turned back at the boys in the horn section and gave them the signal.
Then I looked the blighter straight in the eye, and began to sing.
Why do I do just as you say
Why must I just give you your way
Why do I sigh, why don't I try to forget
I thought I saw Reginald’s eyes widen, and I knew I had him then. Behind him, couples were pairing off and slow-dancing, while making the most ovine of eyes at each other. Reginald stood rooted to the spot, however. I grinned back and carried on.
It had to be you, it had to be you
I wandered around, and finally found
The somebody who could make me be true
Could make me be blue
And even be glad, just to be sad
Thinking of you
It was just the stuff to give the troops. The average observer wouldn’t have noticed it, for Reginald usually has such masterful control of his composure, but I could tell the chap was thoroughly discomposed. One picks up these things through prolonged contact with him. It was in the slight furrow of his brow, and the more frequent drags of his cigarette.
The song drew to a neat close. I hopped off the piano bench, curtsied to very appreciative applause, and scampered off in the larkiest of moods. Reginald had already left his post, but I knew where I would find him.
I snatched a gasper from Tim, then stole away to the balcony. There was nothing there but an unseasonably chilly breeze, which was rather a letdown. Involuntary shivers reverberated throughout the Wooster corpus. In my eagerness, I had forgotten my shawl, and it was starting to feel a bit nippy around my exposed clavicles.
“If you’ll allow me, miss.”
Something warm and fragrant draped itself over my shoulders just then. I turned back and discovered Reginald wrapping his jacket about me in a breathtaking act of gallantry. I was positively steeped in the scent of his rather intoxicating aftershave. I had scarcely recovered from swooning when he had the bally nerve to lean even closer and light my cigarette for me. I tossed my hair back, like the girls in Rosie M. Banks novels do. Or at least, that’s what I’ve heard they do.
“I could get used to this. Handsome men lighting my gaspers.”
Reginald let off a sort of subdued huff - a flutter of mirth, if you will - which on a regular man might have been a hearty guffaw. I don’t think I’d ever heard Jeeves laugh the entire time I’d known him. It boggled the mind.
“I imagine there must be a queue from here to the Hippodrome for that privilege.”
I couldn’t help but throw my head back and chortle. I’d never quite appreciated how dashed funny the man was before. In fairness, the feudal spirit probably stamped out most opportunities for comedic quips.
We couldn’t keep our feet off the dance floor for long. This time, as we took several turns about it, I had the distinct impression that I was receiving envious looks from the other patrons.
“Everyone’s watching us,” I whispered to him.
“Then let us give them something to look at,” was his cool answer.
And before I could guess what he was up to, Reginald led me through some very fancy footwork with no small amount of panache. To my credit, I was able to keep up with him. Then, he rested a hand squarely between my shoulderblades, and sank me into a dip with such expert precision I could’ve sworn I heard a few members of the audience gasp.
We were face-to-face, pressed tight to each other. My heart ground to a sudden halt in my chest. There was a beat of silence thundering in my ears. The crowd could have vanished and I would have been none the wiser. Of all the things to pay attention to in that moment, I found myself making a note of what a stunning shade of blue his eyes were. Somehow, I’d never noticed before. Then again, I didn’t usually make a habit of gazing upon Jeeves from an inch away.
Gently, he restored me to an upright position, and I found myself giggling like a giddy schoolgirl. Quite uncontrollable, I assure you. We fell right back into the same rhythm as if we’d been doing it for years.
“Oh my sainted aunt, that was brilliant,” I said, quite breathless, and not just from exertion.
“Thank you, miss.”
He smiled back, and it was a corker of a smile. I was sufficiently dazzled.
The music wound down, and we returned to that swaying on the spot business I’d enjoyed so much last time. His hand was glued to my lower back in a rather comforting manner as we danced, cheek-to-damask cheek.
“You look ravishing tonight, my dear.”
I don’t know where Reginald picked up this habit of murmuring things into my ear, but I was not complaining in the slightest. It made my spine tingle like billy-o. My hand, which had been idling on his shoulder, performed a cheeky slide up to his neck.
“You’re rather a dreamboat yourself, old fruit,” was my inspired comeback.
He chuckled again, but then sighed and pulled away.
“I believe Mr Caffyn’s assistant is endeavouring to get your attention, miss.”
I looked over my shoulder. Fran was indeed waving at me. I let loose a couple of rather colourful expressions a lady ought not employ in mixed company.
“The blasted stage calls my name once again.” I turned back to him, thoroughly put out. “Will you stay?”
His gaze was a little softer just then, which on a normal fellow would have been full to the brim with sorrow.
“I’m afraid I cannot.”
“Then next week?”
My hand was still in his. Reginald bent at the waist and pressed a kiss to the back of it before he let it go.
“Next week,” he promised, solemn as a grave.
Then he oiled out of the Black Cat, and with one last smoulder at me, he was gone.
I trickled off into the dressing room with a stiffish drink in hand after my set, determined to get in some brooding for at least a good quarter of an hour or so. The party atmosphere held little appeal to me just then, for I had a good deal on the old bean. I wanted nothing more than to get to the cold-creaming of my face and biff off home.
It didn’t occur to me, however, that the dressing room might have been occupied. I entered to find Carmella on the chaise longue with her feet up, cigarette holder in hand, her beaded slippers kicked off. She had been holding court for most of the night at the bar, dressed in all her glittering finery.
Carmella waved an imperious hand at me to sit, fixing me with a stern eye.
“Come on,” she said. “Out with it.”
I fired off a questioning look in her direction.
“You look like a dying duck in a thunderstorm, honey. What's eating you? I'll bet my best feather boa it's got something to do with that hot hunk of man you were waltzing about with earlier.”
“Rem acu teti-whatnot, old girl,” I answered, not a little dejected.
“I've seen him around here before, you know.” She seemed amused at my shock. “Oh yes, many times. You wouldn't forget a face like that. Or a body.”
The wink she gave me was definitely on the salacious side.
“But he wouldn't dance with anyone,” she continued, a thoughtful look traipsing across her face. “Never seen him do it, until tonight. I always knew he'd be fabulous at it. It’s no wonder you’re mooning over him like this.”
You could have tread on my jaw if you'd happened to walk past at that moment. Carmella patted me on the shoulder.
“Mazel tov, my little chickadee. You're in love.”
The rummy thing was, I couldn't bring myself to object at all. She was right. If there ever was a time for burying my face in my hands, it was now. I desperately wanted to give my head a good clutching, but I couldn't just then, for fear of disturbing the carefully coiffed wig atop it.
I opted instead to rest my chin on my hands, elbows upon my knees, and let out a despondent sigh. I wasn’t sure I could stick this double life sitch much longer. For one thing, I was going through more pots of cold cream than I’d ever used in my life.
“This is getting a bit thick,” I admitted. “Verging on glutinous, if anything.”
Carmella carried on, smoke billowing around her and making her look for all the world like the Delphic Oracle.
“There's two things you can do,” she said. “You either tell all and take it on the chin, whatever happens. Or, you can regret not making a peep for the rest of your days. Your choice.”
There was something in what she said that left me feeling pretty bucked. Put a decent bit of steel in my backbone, you know.
“I’ll do it,” I declared. “By George, I’ll do it!”
“You better get a move on, sweetheart,” she said, with a mischievous smile. “Or the rest of us might have a crack at it.”
CHAPTER 4: The Cat Is Out of the Bag, What
“Jeeves,” I announced again. “I’m off to the Black Cat.”
“Very good, sir.”
“This will be my swan song. My services will no longer be needed after tonight.” I sighed, with feeling. “I shall miss it, I think.”
There was the faintest of smiles playing at his mouth as Jeeves decked me out in the necessaries. “No doubt the patrons of the club shall as well, sir.”
“Have the night off, if you wish,” I said, then gave him a rather pointed sort of look.
“That’s very generous of you, sir.”
I gave him another look, pointier than the last. “Backgammon with the fellows this time, perhaps.”
“Thank you, sir, but I shall be quite content with an improving book.”
Well! I had no choice but to give him one last look, this one the pointiest of all.
“Well, then. Tinkerty tonk.”
I had told Jeeves a mild fib. I was not, in fact, performing that night. Carmella’s ankle was robust enough for her to gad about in heels again, which meant Bertram would not be cramming his girlish figure into a dress to serenade the congregation. Still, I tacked down to the Black Cat all the same.
I met Fran in the dressing room and brought her up to speed. “Oh, Bertie,” was all she would say for a good minute or so. I felt my steel backbone begin to flag a little.
“What if he doesn’t fancy me, you know, dressed like this?”
“You mean if he only likes you as a dame?”
“Precisely.”
“Well, his loss then! You’re pretty lovable either way.” She seized my hand and gave it an encouraging squeeze. “Listen, Bertie. You’re a great guy - and gal, for that matter. If he’s the one for you, then he better love you. All of you.”
I managed a small smile and squeezed back. “Cheers, old girl.”
“Us broads got to stick together, right?” With an impish grin she added, “Besides, I saw the way he looks at you. We all did. He’s mad about you, Bertie. So go for it.”
Fran’s advice had injected a goodish amount of zip into me. I sallied forth to the balcony with renewed vigour. I had to figure out how to profess my feelings, and I always find a gasper or two helps the old grey matter along. This time, I had my lighter in my pocket, and soon I was puffing away like a bally chimney and devoting a sizable quantity of serious thought to the matter.
Out of the bisque and into the bouillabaisse, indeed. I had never revealed the tender pash to another before, least of all to another cove. It occurred to me then that it wasn’t very long ago that I was coaching poor old Gussie on how to do just this sort of thing. Unfortunately, the stuff I gave him was meant to work on rather soppy girls like Madeline Bassett, and most certainly would go down like a lead balloon on stalwart specimens like Reginald Jeeves. It would be a real blunder if I started telling him how twilight always made me sad. No, a completely different tack was in order.
I was hard at work, exercising the ganglions and such, when a familiar cough made me jump.
“Ah, Jeeves,” I said, rather weakly. “There you are.”
Jeeves approached me in cautious, measured steps, as if I were a wild fox he couldn’t determine was rabid or not. I was just wondering how to begin my dratted confession, when he spoke first.
“Pardon me, sir. I did not know you would be here.”
I was struck for a moment by the dashed fine figure he was cutting this evening. That, combined with his expression, which was most definitely in the territory of taxidermied amphibian, had quite a devastating effect on the Wooster morale. In the cold light of the moon, he looked so remote. Rather took all the heart out of a chappie, don’t you know.
I gazed dumbly at him for a second too long, for he started to say, “If you’ll excuse me, sir…”
“No, wait!” I cried.
He had been turning to go, but paused. All serious thought I’d curated up until then was flung clean out of my cranium, like rats abandoning a sinking ship. My heart was doing the jitterbug somewhere behind my third waistcoat button.
“I’ve come to speak to you,” I blurted out.
“Indeed, sir?” was his aloof response. Another blow to the old morale.
“Not ‘sir’, please. Not now. Not here.”
His demeanour melted, just a tad. “Very well.”
“The thing is… dash it, Reginald, I want to dance with you.”
His eyes widened just a touch as he peered at me in confusion. I could see had him stymied for the moment. It was time to press my advantage.
“But I don’t want to do it only when I’m in a frock and heels. And I don’t want to do it just once a week at a club for inverts.”
For a long, stilted moment, he did not respond. He simply stared at me, standing there unmoving, like a marble statue of a Greek god. Apollo perhaps, you know, one of those chappies. Or is he Roman? Either way, he was as inert as such, and I was beginning to think he would never answer me.
In one last fit of desperation, I stretched a hand out to him in a pleading sort of a motion and asked, “Will you dance with me again, Reginald?”
This seemed to spur him into action. He glided over and took my hand in his, just like before. Then he lifted it to his lips and kissed it, never taking his eyes off me.
“It would be the utmost pleasure, my dear,” he told me, and I felt my knees go gelatinous. It is a phenomenon that occurs rather frequently around Reginald Jeeves. I’ve often wondered if he has such an effect on the populace at large, or if it is confined to one Bertram Wooster. Experience has suggested the former. The man is a dasher with all sexes, fairer or otherwise.
“Then, you want me as well? Just like this?”
“Just, as you say, like this.” His eyes were smouldering like the dickens now. “You are still as ravishing as ever.”
I suddenly came over all bashful. No doubt my cheeks were at least a bit pinkish.
“Why, Reginald. You old smoothie.”
A welcoming swell of music rose up behind us. We both shot keen glances at the dance floor. No words were exchanged - none needed to be. Reginald simply led me back inside, and we took up position in the centre of the floor. His hand on my back, mine along his shoulder, our fingers interlaced.
Masculine women, feminine men
Which is the rooster, which is the hen?
It's hard to tell 'em apart today! And say
On stage, Carmella had resumed her rightful place and was warbling away. She shot me a cheeky wink.
Since the Prince of Wales in ladies' dresses was seen
What does he intend to be, the King or the Queen?
Reginald and I chuckled as we cut a rug or two. It was lovely, being here just as ourselves, now that God was in His Heaven and all was hotsy-totsy in the world. Yet again, I had the distinct sensation that I was being watched, and realised that more than a few onlookers had their eye on us. I had the sudden urge to show off, having bagged the most eligible bachelor in the room.
“Probably wondering where that suspiciously tall woman you were dancing with before has got to,” I said. “They never could keep their eyes off you, Reginald.”
“I think you’ll find that it is you they are captivated by.”
He did that murmuring-in-my-ear wheeze again. This time, I tossed propriety right out of the bally window and did it back.
“Well, too bad for them. You’re mine.”
He tugged me closer, and I felt more than heard a deep rumble in his chest. After a moment I realised he had released a contented growl, as though he were a sated tiger who’d just managed to get itself outside the largest wild pig it could lay its paws on.
I passed a wonderful minute or so in his embrace with a silly smile plastered to my mug. Still, there were things that had been niggling at the mind, and I decided to make inquiries.
“Reginald, there’s something I should like to clarify, for the sake of my own curiosity. A couple of somethings, really.”
“Indeed?”
“How did you come upon the Black Cat? Georgie gave me to understand it was quite new, and not very well known.”
“I had the pleasure of happening upon it one evening when I was gathering notes about New York’s nightlife for Mr Rockmeteller Todd. There is always a demand for the newest, hottest attraction, and I was kindly invited along to its opening night by Mr Irving Kaufman. I have been a regular patron since.”
“I say, Reginald. That must have been an enlightening few weeks you had, going about the town for Rocky.”
“Quite. While smaller in size than other clubs catering to this particular clientele, I enjoy the atmosphere here. It is most inclusive.”
I looked around the Black Cat with a fond eye, where people of all shades talked and laughed and danced together, and couldn’t agree more. Like I said, you get all sorts in here, it being Harlem and all. But there was one more thing I hadn’t quite understood.
“Reginald, there’s one more thing I haven’t quite understood. Why did you always leave before my second set?”
“I had to depart early to ensure that the flat would be in readiness for when you returned.”
I felt like such a fathead. Of course he would have had to. He was tidying up, while the young master was pushing the boat out ‘til the small hours.
“Well, there’ll be no more of that tonight. You’ll stay right here, if that’s consistent with your wishes.”
The corners of his mouth quirked up. “Very much so.”
“What a funny old world it is, Reginald,” I sighed. “To think, if I’d never agreed to squeeze into a dress and perform at Georgie’s nightclub, we wouldn’t be here.”
“Ducunt volentem fata, nolentem trahunt, as they say. Fate guides the willing; the unwilling, it drags.”
I pondered this for a moment. “Reginald! Do you mean to say you knew all along that I would be performing as Miss Gadsby? And you worked this whole wheeze to woo me?”
He flashed me a rather scintillating grin. “I had heard of Madam Carmella’s injury, and that a replacement had been found. Since Mr Caffyn had visited and requested your services, I surmised that you were to be the replacement. Thus, I attended the first night of your performance.”
“That was you Fran saw, watching me.”
“Indeed. You are enchanting when you sing, my dear,” he told me, in a low voice.
“Oh, pish and tosh, Reginald,” I said, blushing. Then, trying to play coy, I asked, “Have you fancied me ever since then?”
“I had harboured tender feelings for you before that day. Indeed, I have done so for quite some time, possibly longer than I have been conscious of.”
I would have stumbled back if he hadn’t had a firm hold on my person. It was no wonder such a revelation didn’t blow the old coconut clean off my neck.
“Oh, Reginald! And here was poor oblivious Bertram, none the wiser.”
“The road to self-discovery is not always an easy one. At times, a drastic shift in perspective is required.”
“Like me dressing up as a socialite and cavorting about a queer nightclub?”
“Precisely.”
I chewed on this further. He was right, of course, as he always is. If I had been in attendance as the young master rather than Miss Gadsby, we wouldn’t have been on an even playing field, so to speak. And if we hadn’t been on an even playing field, we might never have spoken man to man - or rather, man to woman, that is. And I might never have discovered I was h. over h. in love with Reginald. Perhaps I’d been mooning over him for longer than I’d realised.
Over Reginald’s shoulder, I saw Carmella aim a knowing look at me, before the band launched into a familiar tune. I don’t think I could hear it without thinking of my man, now. We swayed together, like a couple of happy jellyfish at high tide. As Reginald rotated us a quarter of a turn, I caught Carmella’s eye and mouthed ‘thank you’ at her. She returned it with a graceful curtsy, then continued crooning.
It must have been that something lovers call fate
Kept me saying I have to wait
I saw them all, just couldn't fall, 'til we met
There was another thing on my mind, and I thought now would be the time to give voice to it.
“I say, Reginald, for a moment there, I thought you might hand in your portfolio.”
The notion must have affected him quite a bit, for he took a long moment to respond to me.
“For a brief moment, I feared you would not wish to acknowledge me outside of our arrangement, that we should only ever remain master and servant. I should not have doubted your strength of character.” Then he let out a heavy sigh, and drew me closer to him. “In fact, it is I who ought to be ashamed. I was resigned to only meeting you under such circumstances. I did not dare dream for more than already had been afforded to me. I had not your bravery.”
I leaned my head on his shoulder. “I don’t blame you one bit, Reginald,” I said, and meant it.
He seemed in a pensive sort of a mood as he mused, “Of all forms of caution, caution in love is perhaps the most fatal to true happiness.”
“Good thing I threw that to the bally wind, what?” I said, and cupped a hand to his cheek in an affectionate sort of way. He placed his own over it, and managed a smallish smile. “Dwell on it no further, my good man.”
Just then, a bolt of realisation walloped me out of the blue. I gasped.
“You were the one who left the flowers in the dressing room!”
“You do so enjoy red roses,” was Reginald’s defence, and as defences go, it was a faultless one. There wasn’t a beak in the country who could say otherwise.
Then another b. of r. came in for wallop number two. They seemed to be coming thick and fast.
“So that’s why Carmella said you never danced with anyone else.”
“No, my dear. My attentions were otherwise occupied.”
“As in, reserved for yours truly.”
“And no other,” he assured me.
As if to hammer the point home, the blighter leaned down and applied a long, slow, passionate kiss to the Wooster lips. Well, I mean to say! In front of God and every patron of the Black Cat, no less! It rather put the fizz into my spirit, don’t you know, and I daresay I gave back as good as I got.
For nobody else gave me a thrill
With all your faults, I love you still
It had to be you, wonderful you
It had to be you
As the band played on, Reginald’s hand drifted lower and lower down my back. I’m sure such a gesture would be far from scandalous in a place like the Black Cat, but still. The last person to have their hands on me in that particular spot was Fran, and even then, she hadn’t given it a jolly good squeeze.
I beamed like a fully operational lighthouse. “Oh, I say. Later, Reginald.”
EPILOGUE
“I am putting out the royal purple silk gown, dear.”
I popped my head out of the bathwater. I had been readying myself with a good soak in the salle de bain. There was to be another drag ball at the Black Cat that night, and this time, we were going as a couple. It promised to be the fruitiest binge of the season.
“Oh, rather. I ought to wear the fuchsia opera gloves as well.”
“Not the fuchsia opera gloves, dear.”
“But they’re so very spiffy, Reginald.”
“Not with the royal purple silk gown, dear.”
“Oh, all right,” I conceded. “You know best.”
“Thank you, dear.”
He leaned down and kissed the top of my head. I mean, you couldn’t argue with such logic, what?