Chapter Text
Prologue
The evening that lay before us promised to be rather sticky in a literal as well as thingummy sense. I was supposed to begin having ‘intimate relations,’ as we had agreed to call it, under the direction of Sir Roderick Glossop. How mortifying.
How does Wooster, B constantly tumble into these tureens of bullion?
The rummy circs, as such r. c.s often are in the life of Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, had been caused by the intercession of my fire-breathing Aunt Agatha, the a. who demands human sacrifice under the light of the full moon and routinely partakes of ground glass and razor blades.
She had taken it into her head that nephew Bertie was a sodomite. As I had avoided assidu-thingummy any such experience of that nature, the sitch was dashed unfair.
But sometimes unfairness has its consolations.
Some weeks earlier
I was at Brinkley Court having been yanked from the arms of Morpheus in a most brutal fashion. The bottle-eating Aunt A had swelled to three times her usual girth with the wrath of a dragon-eating thing and bellowed like a mammoth in a primeval bedroom.
“You should be breeding children! We have flung so many eligible girls at you… Honoria Glossop, Madeline Bassett, Roberta Wickham, Lady Florence, that American girl Stoker… the list is endless. You have proven to be nothing but an idle drone, and now this!”
‘This’ was the most unwelcome discovery in the Wooster sleeping chamber of a nude Gussie Fink-Nottle. He had been borrowing my bathtub since his own was full of newts. Bertram was abed sleeping during this incursion, and Aunt A. had biffed into the s.c. just as Gussie was lifting the covers to ascertain the location of his prized newt, Eric.
The resulting explosion propelled Bertram from the bed in an instant.
Explanations and protestations were for naught. Aunt Agatha was not to be appeased. Gussie, lucky sod, was wrapped back into his toweling robe and then turned over to his wife. Emerald Fink-Nottle looked stern as billy-o in front of Aunt A. but commenced lavishing Gussie with concerned affection as soon as they were out of her line of vision. This left Bertram all alone, quailing before an Aunt A too furious to shout. “This is enough, Bertie," she hissed. "You will marry by the end of the year, or I will send you to Sir Roderick Glossop for his sodomite cure.”
The icy horror that coursed through the willowy frame is not to be described. Words just cannot capture it. It was as if an army of battle penguins had poured down the spine, throwing little daggers of ice throughout the slender corpus.
I clenched the teeth to keep them from chattering and managed to stiffen the upper lip just long enough for her to sweep from the room.
It was the work of a moment to rush into the mercifully Fink-Nottle-free bath and expel the contents of the Wooster stomach, the bean buzzing like a hive of hysterical bees. Whatever was I going to do? The insides curled up at the thought of touching a beazel in that way, let alone having to give up my piano, Rex Stout and all my friends.
I had heaved past the point of extreme discomfort and curled up in a ball of misery when a gentle sound, like a sheep coughing discreetly on a distant hillside, marked the most welcome entry of my man, Jeeves.
“If I may, sir?” He shimmered over, levering the corpus up, and helped me rinse the unpleasant taste from my mouth. In a moment, I was in the easy chair, equipped with robe, slippers, lap blanket, and a b. and s.
“Did you hear, Jeeves?” The voice wobbled tremulo-thingy.
“Not distinctly, sir. I have taken the liberty of packing.” He indicated his suitcase, and mine. “The car will be out front in a few minutes.”
I sucked down the b and s. but there was no comfort to be had in it. As I unburdened self of the grim and sordid tale of Fink-Nottle and the escaped newt, Eric, the Jeevesian visage went grey. “Oh, sir,” he gasped. Everyone had heard the stories about what they did to sodomites, I supposed. I could have wailed, but stiffened the u. l. instead. One must appear worthy of the Eton and Oxford heritage.
Normally Wooster attempts to approach these little things with aplomb and dignity, but suddenly the a. and d. were sadly absent. “I cannot possibly marry…. Oh, Jeeves, whatever am I going to do?” The voice wobbled precariously.
The J. v. relaxed from its usual professional expression and adopted a look of kind concern. “I will make some inquiries, sir. Will you trust to my discretion in this matter?”