Jeeves and the Wedding Bells (15 page)

‘And what if someone puts a huge bet on?’

‘Well, then you lay it off by changing the odds on other runners. So if Boko Fittleworth has a fiver on Bingo Little and I stand to lose fifty, then I’ll lengthen the odds on Oofy Prosser and make Bingo odds-on.’

‘You’ve lost me, Bertie. But has it always worked out?’

‘So far. Honest Sid Wooster. But I bet you were top of the class in everything, weren’t you?’

‘Not at all.’ She let out a rich, tinkling one. ‘The only prize I won was for baking!’

I couldn’t think of anything to say and I felt another silence coming down. It was a jolly odd thing with Georgiana: you were either at it hammer and tongs like a Pat and Mike crosstalk act, or you were pushing through a treacly sort of pause, like the ones actors bung into
Hamlet
when they want to give you time to ponder.

‘About Woody and Amelia,’ I said. ‘Do you think it would help if she could see him resisting the advances of some girl? Then she’d know for sure that he doesn’t have a roving eye and is entirely devoted to her.’

‘I suppose it might. She’s a funny girl, Amelia. I love her like a sister, but she’s headstrong. And sometimes she’s just plain stubborn.’

‘But if she could see some gorgeous girl running her hands up and down his sleeve and telling him what a splendid chap he is, and then him giving her the brush-off, then—’

‘Are you suggesting we get those two girls from the village back for tea?’

Georgiana did a bit of the arranging-a-fold-of-cotton-dress-over-endless-limb routine that I’d seen before at Seaview Cottage. Meanwhile I sprang from the bench like the fellow in his bath when inspiration suddenly struck him.

‘Bazooka!’ I cried.

‘What?’

‘It’s what that Greek chap said when—’

‘You mean “Eureka!”’

‘Do I? Anyway. I’ve had a brainwave. You do the canoodling, Georgie. You sidle up to old Woody. Don’t do anything too extreme. Just a gentle hand on the sleeve, a few sweet nothings … And Woody says, “Listen, Georgie, old thing, I’m fond of you, but my heart is taken.” At that moment, Amelia comes on to the scene and sees Woody giving you the old elbow and she thinks, “He’s not a flirt at all. He’s the one for me. If he can resist Georgiana, he can resist anyone.” And then the wedding bells are on again and we all live happily ever after.’

‘Bertie, if Amelia sees me making up to Woody she’ll tear me limb from limb. It won’t just be the straight-sets spanking on the tennis court, she’ll grind my bones to powder.’

‘But you can explain later. Anyway, you’re marrying Venables, so that’ll put an end to any lingering doubts.’

Georgiana stood up. ‘Yes, that’ll put an end to all doubts.’

‘So will you do it?’

There had been more silences now than at a Trappist convention – if they have such things – so another one at this juncture didn’t much surprise me.

‘Bertie,’ Georgiana said eventually, ‘I have to go back to work next week in London. We’ve been moving offices, which is why I’ve been able to have a few days down here. I’ve been working in my room.’

‘Have you by Jove? What on? Another potboiler from the intended?’

‘No, it’s a novel. It’s rather good, as a matter of fact. I’ll ask them to send you a copy. It’s a love story, but written by a man.’

‘Golly, that sounds unusual.’

‘Very.’

Georgiana was poised to go, with basket and secateurs aligned and ready for the off, but for some reason she hesitated.

She looked at me in a puzzled way. ‘You’re very kind, aren’t you?’

‘Am I?’

‘Yes. All this malarkey just to help an old friend. And I’ve seen the way you talk to the servants. Mrs Tilman told me they think the world of you. “A proper gentleman is Mr Wilberforce,” she said.’

‘She seems a thoroughly good egg herself.’

Still she hesitated. The length of limb, the wooden basket over the arm, the melancholy look … I wondered where the old Georgiana with the sparkle and appetite for crustacea had gone; the Mark Two version had a hint of the Lady of the Shalott, if that’s the girl I mean.

Then an odd thing happened. The big eyes filled and, all in a moment, overflowed.

She put a hand to her face and turned quickly, saying, ‘I’d better go back to work’, then vanished across the lawn.

I stilled an impulse to run after and console. It took some stilling, I admit; the Wooster code does not allow us to see a girl in tears without at least offering a shoulder and a pat on the back.

I hadn’t the faintest idea what had caused her to spring a leak, but some instinct told me to mind my own business as,
with a plod like that of a ploughman on his homeward way, I took up the picnic basket and headed for the servants’ entrance.

My mood improved considerably when an hour or so later I had a cup of tea with Mrs Tilman in the kitchen.

‘You’re not needed at dinner tonight, Mr Wilberforce. Mr Hoad’s recovered from his funny turn.’

‘That’s exceptionally good news, Mrs T. I don’t think I was really cut out for waiting at table. It takes it out of a chap.’

‘Mr Bicknell had to drive Dame Judith’s dress to the cleaners in Dorchester. Lord Etringham told me he volunteered to pay the bill, seeing as it was his man who—’

‘Quite right too.’ I made a mental note to reimburse his lordship. ‘What’s Mrs Padgett cooking tonight?’

‘It’s a rack of lamb, come up from the butcher’s this morning. And then a tart with some strawberries.’

‘Sounds safe enough. Not too much fluid.’

‘And Lord Etringham says you’re to go up with him and Mr Beeching for a cricket practice at six o’clock.’

‘Right ho. You seem to bump into Lord Etringham rather a lot in the space of a single day.’

Mrs Tilman flushed a little. ‘It’s the housekeeper’s job to make sure everyone’s happy. Another cup, Mr W?’

The cricket pitch at Melbury Hall was a goodish walk from the house, at the far end of the estate. A five-bar gate beyond
the boundary gave on to a lane leading down to the village; through this entrance the local yeomen had come and gone on a hundred years of Sundays, to play out their historic rivalries with Melbury Tetchett, Magnum in Parvo, Kingston St Jude and all points west.

It was a balmy evening as I sauntered up with Woody and Jeeves – or Lord Etringham as he remained until we were well down the crazy paving, through the Pineapple Gates and out of earshot of the house. To keep the charade intact, I was carrying Woody’s leather cricket bag, while he and Jeeves walked a few paces ahead.

A stout net stood beside the pitch, with three stumps at the batting end and a single one for the bowlers. To say that I was out of practice at our national game would be a … What’s the word? Li-something. Jeeves would know. Undershooting by a fair whack, anyway. I had once opened the bowling at private school when some plague had laid low the brightest and best; at Eton I had been a wet bob, though an ineffectual one, we Woosters tending to the willowy and the prejudice in the boat running to avoirdupois, and plenty of it. All in all, it had been more than a decade since the cream flannel had graced the limbs and it was with no small trepidation that I donned the protective gear beside the net while Jeeves and Woody windmilled their arms in somewhat menacing fashion.

I entered the net, made a mark in front of the stumps and prepared to take my medicine. Woody ambled in like a thoroughbred going up to the start. A second later, a red pill whipped past my groping bat. Jeeves, with his sleeves rolled
up, came off a shorter run-up, with the dignified tread one would have expected. The ball, however, as it approached, hissed and buzzed like a hornet whose siesta has been interrupted. I made a stab at where it pitched, but it was no longer there, having made off sideways.

Woody let out a roar of delight. ‘I say, well bowled, Jeeves. I might have guessed you’d be a spinner.’

‘Thank you, sir. I fear I am a little rusty. It is a long time since I have had the opportunity.’

Cantering in again, Woody let rip another snorter that I failed to see, though I fancy I smelt the leather as it whipped past the proboscis. I wondered if he was getting a bit of Amelia business off his chest. When Jeeves came in for a second go, I cunningly took a swing – not at where the ball bounced but at where it had finished last time; unfortunately this one zipped off the other way.

Hands on knees, Woody continued his heartless cackling. ‘I say, have you ever played professionally? Wasn’t there a Jeeves who played for Worcestershire?’

‘Warwickshire, sir. A distant relation. I believe he took four wickets for the Players against the Gentlemen at Lord’s in 1914. Alas, it was to be his swansong.’

‘What a shame. Retire, did he?’

‘No, sir, he volunteered.’

‘I see. And … That was it, was it?’

‘The Battle of the Somme, sir. He was in C Company of the 15th Royal Warwicks. The assault on High Wood.’

‘Bad show,’ said Woody.

It was quiet for a moment; you could hear the rooks chattering in the elms and cedars.

‘You ready, Bertie?’ called out Woody. ‘Slower one coming up.’

For the first time, there was a brief meeting of willow and leather, the ball scraping along the side of the netting and back to the feet of the bowler.

‘Good shot, sir,’ said Jeeves.

‘Keep your left elbow up, Bertie,’ said Woody. ‘Lead with the left. The right hand’s just there for a bit of guidance and punch if you need it.’

‘Right ho.’

I doubt whether I connected with more than half a dozen of Woody’s languid whizzers, though one of them connected most definitely with the Wooster soft tissues, causing some vigorous rubbing of the affected area and a rather insincere apology, I thought, from the bowler.

‘Must you chuck it down so bally fast?’ I said.

‘Part of your preparation for tomorrow, old chap.’

‘Who are these Dorset Gentlemen? Old alumni of the local Dotheboys, I suppose. Sherborne, is it?’

‘No, no,’ said Woody. ‘They’re a load of the most fearful toughs, Jeeves tells me. The match against Blandford Forum last year had to be abandoned.’

‘Can this be true, Jeeves?’

‘I have done some research into the players who comprise the team, sir. It seems that few of them are from Dorset and none of them are gentlemen.’

‘So this is how they’ll go after you, Bertie,’ said Woody, sending down another nasty lifter.

As for Jeeves’s bamboozling slower deliveries, they remained untouched by human bat, as it were. When Woody took his turn with pads and willow, even he treated them with respect, getting his nose right over the top and more or less smothering the wretched thing as it spat and fizzled on the turf.

Jeeves assured us that Sir Henry was placing him far enough down the order that he would be unlikely to bat, so when Woody felt he had got the old juices running again, we called it a day and set off across the grounds towards where cooling waters and preprandial drink would be awaiting the privileged pair, while more sweated labour was doubtless planned for Bertram.

THE FIRST PLAYER
arrived soon after the church clock had struck noon. It was Esmond Haddock, and the time that had passed since I last saw him had done nothing to lessen his resemblance to a classical deity whose noble brow ought to be worth twenty runs to us, I reckoned, before he even faced a ball.

Bicknell was stationed in the porch when Esmond’s roadster hove alongside. The trusty butler made for the steps, but I beat him to it and managed to alert Esmond to my new status as I opened his car door.

‘Ah well, the first time we met, Bertie, you were pretending to be Gussie Fink-Nottle,’ he said. ‘So I suppose this is a slight improvement.’

Esmond was escorted by Bicknell into the long room, where he stood before the fireplace in a blazer of startling colours, sipping a gin cup with a fistful of herbiage in it. At ease, with no aunt or dowager in sight, he held forth to Sir
Henry and Lord Etringham with tales from the Hampshire hunt. Things could hardly have got off to a juicier start, I felt. Sir Henry’s face was all ruddy delight as he eyed up the Apollo of Andover.

Before I could congratulate myself further, I was distracted by what sounded like a pack of foxhounds in the hall.

Was it possible that all this racket could issue from the lungs of a single dog? Yes, it was – if that dog was the terrier Bartholomew. And if so, then Stephanie Pinker, née Byng, could not be far behind. By the time I got into the hall, the creature was halfway up the main staircase with Stiffy about three steps behind and losing ground fast. ‘Come here, you naughty boy!’ she was shrieking. ‘Stinker’ Pinker was at the foot of the stairs in clerical garb and linen jacket, gesturing weakly.

‘What ho, Stinker,’ I said, sotto voce. ‘Don’t forget you don’t know who I really am. I’m pretending to be Jeeves’s valet. And he’s Lord Etringham. It’s a long story. And I thought I quite clearly said No Dog.’

‘Stiffy said she wouldn’t miss the cricket for the world. And she said everyone loves Bartholomew. I tried to reason with her, but you know what she’s like.’

At this point, Stiffy returned to ground level, with the yapping Bartholomew cradled to her bosom. ‘Hello, Bertie,’ she said, planting a smacker on my cheek.