Whatever dramas may have arisen from time to time in life, Jeeves' grip on the morning saucer has always remained firm and unshaken. Whether conveying news of political friction in the Balkans or of irrupting aunts on the doorstep the man has always carried a beautiful cup of tea. So when I heard the ominous clink of crockery I knew the world's foundations were quivering even before I opened my eyes.
"What ho, Jeeves. Nice morning, what?"
A fairly safe opening, I thought, given that the newly drawn curtains were admitting a whole treasury of golden rays to brighten the interior of the Wooster bedroom with their cheerful glow. Yet the springing sun's touch was clearly failing to pluck at Jeeves' manly heartstrings. Framed in the halo of sunlight he loomed over me like Jehovah about to inflict a plague of pyramid scheme salesmen on both the upper and lower Nile. Any valet displaying an irate eyebrow in that openly disapproving manner was clearly as impervious to polite chit chat as Vlad the Impaler in the grip of a hangover.
The thing was, I couldn't imagine what could have caught the man so fully on what was clearly the rawest of raw spots. I'd never seen him in such a state before, not even when a gang of red revolutionaries had turned up at the apartment at five o'clock in the afternoon for an anticipated feast of scrambled eggs and sardines. Although, to be fair, on that occasion it had been the sight of Bingo Little's false beard which had unmanned Jeeves to the extent of forcing him to clutch at a table for support. But the premises were currently pest free and without trace of either Bingo, any of his many fiancées, or even revolutionaries of any hue. The only thing visible which might have been described as slightly irregular was the decidedly well shaped leg which had somehow escaped from underneath my rather disordered bed clothes -- a female leg, in point of fact, if you see what I'm driving at.
Yet there was nothing in that which should have been responsible for poor old Bertie getting his hot tea handed to him in a frozen mitt. Jeeves knows very well there are some services which even the best of gentlemen's gentlemen cannot provide for the young master and none of my modest domestic debaucheries has ever drawn a hint of disapproval from the great man before. Indeed, whereas we have frequently failed to see eye to eye in the matter of floral cummerbunds or purple socks, Jeeves has uniformly approved my choice of women. I like females who laugh a lot -- well, what other sort would consort with a certified half wit like Bertram? But whatever their shape, size or inclination to lots of giggles after generous doses of champagne, Jeeves has always greeted each and every one of them into the apartment as warmly as if they the proverbial flowers in May.
I daresay that may be because the relationships are always of a transient nature. A pair of spats in old Etonian colors I'll wear as often as Jeeves will let me get away with, but no girl need expect an invitation to linger in Abernathy Mansions once the trysting's done and completed to everybody's satisfaction. Truth to tell, ever since Cynthia Wickhammersley nearly sank one of her floating ribs laughing at my tentative offer of a joint canter to the alter rail I've decided that the life of a bachelor gay is what suits Bertie Wooster best. It's true that I've been greatly scorned by many of my contemporaries who've boldly set off along the tempting highway of marital life, but I'm also duty bound to record that several of them have since ended up with their offside wheels very deep in the ditch. Enough at least for Bertie to reflect that there are worse fates than being stupid and single, provided one has -- as I have -- a considerable private income and Jeeves' unparalleled problem solving abilities to keep us both in our present happy state.
So, to labor the point, why was I waking up to find myself underneath eyes of terrible aspect, prying through the portage of Jeeves' head like brass cannon? Where was the usual feudal spirit of goodwill between master and man, between valet and valeted? It suddenly occurred to me that I might gain an insight into the developing plotline by asking him that very question.
"Something wrong, Jeeves?" I asked lightly, pretending not to be aware of the storm clouds gathering in a black line on the horizon.
"Might one inquire as to where you happened to meet the young lady, sir?"
This was a decidedly rum question, a blatant expression of curiosity as far distant from Jeeves' usual disinterested behavior as it was possible to imagine: I felt as if I was watching an Old Bailey Judge enter his courtroom with his face blacked up and playing a banjo -- the senses reeled, as you might say. But I rallied and responded.
"It happened to be at Goodwood. In the private enclosure, if it matters."
There was some emphasis on the last words, a firmly implied measure of rebuke. After all, where does one get off if the domestic staff feel entitled to an full explanation of their employer's activities? Apart from anything else it was dashed embarrassing to have somebody else listening to one being cross examined by one's manservant as to one's doings, if one gets one's drift. Fortunately, apart from the eye-catching leg, the only other thing visible from underneath the bedding was a tangle of blonde hair and the only noise coming from the night's partner was a regular series of snores. And, don't you know, I felt quite bucked up: there's nothing like a love sated girl as compensation for the fact that Bertram's life had been singularly free of any kind of formal prizes since my collection of pressed flowers was judged best in class at infant school.
"And may I assume that the lady was wearing her travelling coat at the time you met and kept it on until you returned home? And may I further assume that she disrobed in the dark?"
By Jove, that collapsed my self confidence in short order. No one has more respect for the raw horsepower residing in Jeeves' fish fed cerebral cells than Bertie, but even I had never suspected that his intellect was of positively Sherlockian caliber.
"Good Lord, Jeeves, how did you know that?"
I'm sure that for a second he was on the point of saying, 'Elementary, my dear Wooster' but even the most insidious temptation has always found it hard going with a personage of Jeeves' strong character. Instead of speaking he simply pointed to a set of nether garments thrown over the back of a chair and revealed to a disbelieving world by the rising sun.
"Good God," I choked, "Trousers!"
"Or slacks," Jeeves suggested icily.
"She's an American -- pants," I adjudicated, and then seized the cup of tea with fingers that trembled a great deal more than Jeeves had. "I've escorted a woman wearing pants around the private enclosure of Goodwood. If anybody ever finds out about this I'll be the laughing stock of London -- no, but wait, she was wearing a skirt underneath her coat. She must have been, because I could see her ankles and calves. I'm sure of that because I remember admiring them an awful lot."
