Work Text:
The War had a devastating effect on the man that I loved. Gone now was the carefree wastrel whose worries revolved around threats of marriage, for gone was the aunt that applied herself to this end. Gone, also, were many of his friends, perished in the war or married and living family lives far removed from the Metropolis. London was also gone, in many respects; bombed and bleak. He loved London, and I ache when I see the heartbreak in his eyes on a daily basis as he surveys the city that he stubbornly refuses to leave. His club, now bereft of members and boarded up against bomb raids of years past, casts a shadow of sorrow on his sweet features. Homes of dead and distant friends puzzle him when their new inhabitants stream out of the front doors. London is not the same, but it is a constant in his life, as am I. I hold him close at night, and he sighs contentedly, willing to forgive the injustices piled upon us until morning.
I must confess that the changes in the world sadden me, as well. Now that the adrenaline of war has receded, it is with a grim heart that I view the dystopian landscape that is our home. I have seen war before, though. I know that we are capable of moving past this. I was envisioning a second golden age, but what I found waiting was a social revolution, undermining my life’s work. I was born to servants. It is a noble calling, and I have always taken pride in my duties. It is a situation equally difficult to describe to the working masses and to the nobility alike. There is tradition in what we do. There is pride. There is honor.
There are little of such virtues in the servants of this generation. Hired help is the theme of the day, untrained, unreliable, and utterly unsuitable. Mr. Wooster watched in fear and confusion as his friends and relatives lost their fortunes and their servants deserted them, and not long after he handed the finances over to my complete control, beyond the household needs. Money has no context in Mr. Wooster’s brain. Once he began to see his friends grow destitute, he grew apprehensive, not spending a pence in a shop until I would take the item from his hand and purchase it for him. Only then would relief and certainty register in his expression and stance. I assured him time and again that he was in no danger of losing his prosperity. He had enough that he would never need to work, even without my oversight, yet he remained pensive.
I soon realized that it wasn’t concern over money causing the distress, but the looming shadow of the social revolution. He was convinced that he would lose me. He would comment that I might get ideas above my station and become Prime Minister or some such nonsense. I say this with some dry humor, but it was very real to him. Even if I stayed with him, as I promised him constantly and adamantly, perhaps the revolution would eventually pressure me to leave and take up another calling, and then we couldn’t live our lives together. Once again, nonsense, but nonsense that troubled him so much that I began to fear for him. I reassured him of my love and loyalty daily, and I began to form a plan to enable him to regain his coltish confidence.
I had heard about the school from an associate of mine, whose wife was instrumental in its administration. The idea of such a school was quite clever, and the short, informative course was something light and distracting that might make Mr. Wooster feel more able in his everyday life. I left a brochure in the morning paper and dropped a casual comment to be sure that the seed was planted in his mind. Within the hour, he had written a check to the proprietress.
13 May, 1951
It’s been nearly forty eight hours, Jeeves, and I feel the tension building. Your suggestion that making me more self reliant would ease my nerves seemed to be the goods at the time, coming from your lips, but in reality it’s put a strain on the old Wooster ticker. It’s a bit of a surreal experience, this, a dorm with men of all ages living like we were at a public school. I felt like an ass with all of these young things until I saw two men about a hundred years older than me trying to figure out the delicate art of boiling eggs.
I just wish you were here, love. Eight weeks is so bally long to be away from you. Not to mention that you’d know what to do with all of the things they are trying to show us. The instructors are all women, and they have eyes like hawks. I suspect they are experienced aunts. Today I jammed a bedspread under the mattress without folding it, and the beastly woman hit me! Smacked me right on the hand.
Aunt Agony says it’s time to set the table, so I’ll pop this off in the mailbox straight away.
Love, Bertie
20 May, 1951
My dearest Bertram,
I must confess that I was perplexed and worried by the post date on your letter, assuming you had gotten into a world of trouble before properly settling in. I am relieved and delighted that this proves to be a baseless worry, although it would be worth your while to mind the details that the schoolmistress stresses. So little work is in the details, and yet that is often where much of the worth lies. Soon you will find that what is difficult today may not be such tomorrow. In the words of Ovid, “Endure and persist; this pain will turn to good by and by.”
My life at Rowcester Abbey is thus far agreeable. His Lordship has a number of guests at the moment. One, Sir Roderick Carmoyle, says that he has made your acquaintance. His Lordship Rowcester, as you know, intends to marry a young lady by the name of Jill Wyvern, a girl of some extraordinary means. His Lordship has requested my assistance in organizing and preparing the household in such a way that will make the young woman feel welcome, and this has been occupying much of my time. I am still able to spend most evenings with an improving book, or, on evenings such as this, to correspond with you.
I miss you dearly as well, yet the weeks will pass with speed and ease if you occupy yourself and remain productive. I look forward to seeing what progress you have made, and await your next letter with love in my heart.
Yours,
RJ
26 May, 1951
I say, it’s true what they say about this being a small world, don’t you think? Do give old Rory my regards. I’m glad to hear he’s doing well.
I wonder if you ever had to go though this sort of training? It’s dashed strenuous, but you somehow make it all look so effortless, like the films of those Olympic chappies pole vaulting. I imagine you were born with your extensive knowledge and formidable skills, or you were at least at the head of your class.
I think the worst thing about this course is the fact that we have to eat our own cooking. Last night was a roast prepared by on older cove named Henry, the one I share a dormitory with. His wife has begun a full time shift at Selfridges and he’s to be left fending for himself much of the time. It wasn’t all that bad, and according to Henry, it was even better than his Maggie’s, although it couldn’t hold a candle to my Reggie’s meals. I especially miss that thing that you do with the chicken and the bacon. I’m a fair hand at tea and toast so far, but my eggs are a disaster. No matter how I cook them, they come out scrambled.
I miss you frightfully, old love. I miss your arms around me, your voice in my ear, even your snores, and you do snore, no matter what you have to say about it. I miss other things that I don’t dare brood on out of courtesy for poor old Henry, who’d hear me. Suffice it to say, you’ll be returning home to a starving man, in more ways than one.
I love you, always.
Bertie
PS- I have included a bit of my work to show you my progress.
The last page was blank, save for rows of uneven stitches in red cotton thread. Occasionally the paper was scarred with pin pricks, where he had undone a stitch gone awry. I found myself laughing at the absurdity of it all. My heart brimmed with warmth and fondness as I took up my pen, for he was eager to hear from me.
30 May, 1951
My dearest Bertram,
I have received your rather unique handiwork. In the future, you should take care to practice your stitches only on fabric, as paper will dull your needle.
I looked askance at my writing, and back to the sampler that looked as though it had been created by a bedlamite. Contemplating the number of times he was likely to sew cloth in the future, let alone paper, I was quite certain that it would be very a small number indeed. My heart softened, and I crumpled the stationary paper, tossing it onto the fire.
May, 1951
My dearest Bertram,
You have obviously put a good deal of effort into this particular study, and contemplating your sample, I am exceedingly proud of you…