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"Your tea, Lord Etringham," I said.
"Thank you. Please be so good as to leave it by the bed," replied
Jeeves—for it was he and no bona fide member of the aristocracy
who reclined among the crisp linens of the four-poster.
"I trust you slept well," I said, with a fair bit of topspin.
"Exceedingly well, thank you, sir."
But hold on a minute. I see I've done it again: set off like
the electric hare at the local dog track while the paying customers
have only the foggiest idea of what's going on. Steady
on, Wooster, they're saying: no prize for finishing first. What's
this buttling business, and why the assumed names? Are we
at some fancy-dress ball? Put us in the picture, pray, murky
though it be...
Very well. Let me marshal my facts.
In the month of May, about four weeks before this hard
kitchen labour, I had taken a spring break in the South of
France. You know how it is. It seemed an age since the ten days
in January I had spent at the Grand Hotel des Bains up in the
Alps and the pace of life in the old metrop had become a trifle
wearing. So I instructed Jeeves to book two rooms in a modest
hotel or pension on the Promenade des Anglais and off we went
one Friday night from Paris on the Train Bleu.
I envisaged a Spartan régime of walking in the hills, a dip
in the sea if warm enough, some good books and early nights
with plenty of Vichy water for good measure. And so it was
for a couple of days, until a misunderstanding of swing-door
etiquette as I re-entered my hotel early one evening caused a
fellow-guest to go sprawling across the marble floor of the lobby.
When I had helped her to reassemble her belongings, I found
myself staring into the eyes of perhaps the most beautiful girl I
had ever seen. It seemed only gallant to invite her into the Bar
Croisette for something to restore the bruised tissues while I
continued my apologising.
Georgiana Meadowes was the poor girl's name. She worked
for a publisher in London and had come south for a few
days to labour away on the latest typescript from their bestselling
performer. I had only the faintest idea of what this
entailed, but held my end up with a few "indeed"s and "well I
never"s.
"Do you do a lot of this editing stuff on the Côte d'Azur?" I
asked.
She laughed—and it made the sound of a frisky brook going
over the strings of a particularly well-tuned harp. "No, no,
not at all. I usually sit in the corner of a small office in Bedford
Square working by electric light. But my boss is very understanding
and he thought it would do me good—help clear my
mind or something."
We Woosters are pretty quick on the uptake, and from
this short speech I deduced two things, viz.: one, that this G.
Meadowes had a dilemma of a personal nature and, two, that
her employer prized her services pretty highly. But one doesn't
pry—at least not on first acquaintance with a girl one has
just sent an absolute purler on a marble surface, so I moved the
subject on to that of dinner.
And so it was that a couple of hours later, bathed and changed,
we found ourselves in a seaside restaurant ten minutes' drive
down the Croisette tête-à- tête over a pile of crustacea. After two
nights of Vichy water, I thought it right to continue the restorative
theme of the evening with a cocktail followed by a bottle
of something chilled and white.
Those familiar with what I have heard Jeeves refer to as
my oeuvre will know that over the years I have been fortunate
enough to have hobnobbed with some prize specimens of the
opposite sex— and to have been engaged to more of them than
was probably wise. One does not bandy a woman's name, though
since the facts are in the public domain I fear the bandying has
been done and it may therefore be permissible to mention Cora
"Corky" Pirbright and Zenobia "Nobby" Hopwood as strong
contenders for the podium in the race for most attractive
prospect ever to pitch over the Wooster horizon. I should also
mention Pauline Stoker, whose beauty so maddened me that I
proposed to her in the Oak Room of the Plaza Hotel in New
York. Even Madeline Bassett was no slouch as far as looks
were concerned, though her admirers tended to dwindle in
number pretty rapidly once she gave voice.
Excerpted from Jeeves and the Wedding Bells by Sebastian Faulks. Copyright © 2013 by Sebastian Faulks. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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