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Jeeves and the Wedding Bells: An Homage to P.G. Wodehouse
Jeeves and the Wedding Bells: An Homage to P.G. Wodehouse
Jeeves and the Wedding Bells: An Homage to P.G. Wodehouse
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Jeeves and the Wedding Bells: An Homage to P.G. Wodehouse

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Bertie Wooster (a young man about town) and his butler Jeeves (the very model of the modern manservant)—return in their first new novel in nearly forty years: Jeeves and the Wedding Bells by Sebastian Faulks.

P.G. Wodehouse documented the lives of the inimitable Jeeves and Wooster for nearly sixty years, from their first appearance in 1915 ("Extricating Young Gussie") to his final completed novel (Aunts Aren't Gentlemen) in 1974. These two were the finest creations of a novelist widely proclaimed to be the finest comic English writer by critics and fans alike.

Now, forty years later, Bertie and Jeeves return in a hilarious affair of mix-ups and mishaps. With the approval of the Wodehouse estate, acclaimed novelist Sebastian Faulks brings these two back to life for their legion of fans. Bertie, nursing a bit of heartbreak over the recent engagement of one Georgina Meadowes to someone not named Wooster, agrees to "help" his old friend Peregrine "Woody" Beeching, whose own romance is foundering. That this means an outing to Dorset, away from an impending visit from Aunt Agatha, is merely an extra benefit. Almost immediately, things go awry and the simple plan quickly becomes complicated. Jeeves ends up impersonating one Lord Etringham, while Bertie pretends to be Jeeves' manservant "Wilberforce,"—and this all happens under the same roof as the now affianced Ms. Meadowes. From there the plot becomes even more hilarious and convoluted, in a brilliantly conceived, seamlessly written comic work worthy of the master himself.


A Kirkus Reviews Best Fiction Book of 2013

LanguageEnglish
Release dateNov 5, 2013
ISBN9781250047588
Author

Sebastian Faulks

Sebastian Faulks is the author of ten novels. They include the UK number one bestseller A Week in December; Charlotte Gray, which was made into a film starring Cate Blanchett; and the classic Birdsong, which was recently adapted for television. In 2008, he was invited to write a James Bond novel, Devil May Care, to mark the centenary of Ian Fleming. He lives in London with his wife and their three children.

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Rating: 3.779850746268657 out of 5 stars
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  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    My initial impression of this book was unfavorable. The book opens in a Wooster-Jeeves role reversal. I had a hard time accepting this, but read on. It took a bit, but the book did pick up.This doesn't quite have the same feel of Woodhouse, but it is a respectable homage. Faulks is making his own style apparent, and is adding his own twist, with what I suspect is a promise of more books to come. Bertie is up to his usual antics, trying to help his friends in their affairs and everything goes south. In this story, Jeeves seemed a bit less than his usual on-top-of-everything-and-in-control self, but in the end, he manages everything for the best. Any fan of Woodhouse's Jeeves will recognize and enjoy this story.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    This is a homage to PG Wodehouse as the author, Sabastian Faulks, revives his most famous characters Jeeves and Wooster in a fun filled narrative.Wooster in an attempt to help out his friend, Woody Beeching, to win back his love goes to Melbury Hall, the home of Sir Henry Hackwood, in the guise of a gentleman's gentleman to his valet Jeeves who is acting as Lord Etringham. Here he discovers his own admiration for Georgina, the niece of Sir Henry, while he fulfills his duties as a footman, a cricketer and an actor in an enactment of a play. Will this admiration be converted into wedding bells? Read and be entertained a la Wodehouse style.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    This was a more than passable attempt at bringing back to life Jeeves and Wooster. While at times it felt repetitious, or like the Woosterisms were being laid on pretty thickly, it was greatly enjoyable. Makes me want to go back and read more of the originals.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Well done Sebastian Faulks! ! How brave, to attempt Bertie and Jeeves. The result s slightly manic account of the usual blunders and farce. Bertie is possibly more human, shown with weaknesses as usual, but a little of his strengths are pointed out too, and that's not a bad thing at all. A very enjoyable read, don't miss the opportunity to follow new adventures with these two beloved characters.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Bertie Wooster has met (another) woman of his dreams, Georgiana Meadowes, but she’s engaged to someone else – someone who can save the manor house of her uncle/guardian, Sir Henry Hackwood. By chance, Georgiana’s cousin Amelia Hackwood is the love interest of Bertie’s friend Woody Beeching—and if Georgiana’s engagement doesn’t work out, Amelia will have to find another wealthier fiance to save the manse. After all, Sir Henry must be bailed out. Through a convoluted set of circumstances, Bertie and his manservant Jeeves find themselves at Sir Henry’s digs, but they’ve changed roles. Presto/change-o, Bertie is Jeeves’s manservant … and the two of them are working to make sure that true love wins out. All this maneuvering is common in stories by P.G. Wodehouse. Seeing that Wodehouse died almost forty years ago, Sebastian Faulks has been designated as the man to produce another Jeeves story. I’ve read more than a few Wodehouse stories – and, of course, was a fan of the PBS series. I’m also a member of the The Wodehouse Society and entitled to add the initials TWS after my name. That doesn’t mean I’m a Wodehouse expert, only that I have paid my dues to the society. In my opinion, Mr. Faulks is to be congratulated for taking on the mantle and the voice of “Plum” as he is known to his intimates. Let’s have some more stories, please!
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Like hearing your favorite song performed by a middle school band.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I was raised in a family of staunch Wodehouse fans and have a deep affection for Jeeves and Bertie Wooster. When I learned that a new Jeeves novel was coming out, authorized by the Wodehouse estate, I signed up to read it immediately. I worried that it wouldn't have the same flavor as Wodehouse's earlier novels.In this new adventure, Jeeves and the Wedding Bells, we have Sebastian Faulks' homage to the original. We find the same level of absurd twists that characterize Bertie Wooster's adventures. There is the search for deep pockets to help bolster failing estates, references to old beloved characters such as Aunt Agatha and her tartars of friends as well as many of the women of Bertie's past and his fellow Drones men.Jeeves is called upon by Bertie's aristocratic friends to help them find a way out of their dilemmas. Bertie gamely takes on all sorts of challenges and comes upon unexpected obstacles - all with good humor and all sorts of bad luck.I wish I could say that Jeeves and the Wedding Bells was just like coming across a hidden Wodehouse manuscript. There were all sorts of obscure British expressions that while similar to Wodehouse's turns of phrase somehow didn't have the same humor or clarity. It may be that I'm sufficiently well versed in British witticisms and cricket, but these didn't bring out the chuckle that accompanies Bertie Wooster's strange expressions.Also, Jeeves and the Wedding Bells gives us a Jeeves that seems more flawed than the old Jeeves. He comes across as less respected, less certain, a little pompous, and makes mistakes which I never remembered Jeeves doing in the past. The depiction of a flawed Jeeves, however small the flaws, kept me from fully losing myself in Jeeves and the Wedding Bells. If you're reading this review, you're likely a fan of Wodehouse and of Jeeves and Bertie Wooster, I'm sure that you'll take the time to revisit these old friends. I hope that you enjoy the escape - a Jeeves story is a rare treat. Congratulations to Sebastian Faulks for bringing the old characters back, even if in slightly different form.ISBN-10: 1250047595 - Hardcover $14.94Publisher: St. Martin's Press (November 5, 2013), 256 pages.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I somehow knew that Sebastian Faulks' 'homage' to Jeeves and Wooster wouldn't pan out but I couldn't resist, so I borrowed a copy from the library to prove myself right. There are some authors, or some fictional narrators at least, whose words should remain sacrosanct: Austen (sure, borrow her characters, but don't attempt to mimic her wit); Rex Stout's Nero Wolfe series (looking at you, Robert Goldsborough); and P.G. Wodehouse. Each possessed some imitable quality, perhaps related to the era in which they were writing, which cannot be reproduced.That said. There are a couple of points I can appreciate, if not admire, about Faulks' little moneyspinner: he does get the humour right on odd occasions, but seemingly more by accident than design; and he throws in a couple of twists not to be found in the original, whether for ill or good. I liked the role reversal, but the denouement is lame.Wodehouse, and I haven't read any J+W stories in a while so I might be generalising, is more about telling the tale than the story itself. Faulks, I fear, misses the mark so completely with both Jeeves and Wooster, particularly Wooster as narrator, that not even humour can mask the tired plot. Yet another engagement mix-up in a country house setting falls under the 'homage' tag, but the cricket match and rustic village masque bored me to tears. Also, quotations and Latin ad nauseum do not a successful Wodehouse pastiche make.One final note of praise for the author: reading this has made me want to re-read the original novels all over again!
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    A quick look at my book collection will show, at even date, no less that 60 Wodehouse books. I started with Jeeves, branched out to Blandings, dined on Eggs, Beans and Crumpets, met Mr Mulliner, learned how to spell Psmith, and generally reveled in a prose style unlike any I had ever seen before. When I hear that Faulks proposed to resurrect Wodehouse's best known comedy duo, I had the same reservations that many others did. I am pleased to say that most of those reservations were unfounded.To be clear, this is not a counterfeit Wodehouse, at least not a counterfeit that could pass muster. Nor, I believe, was it intended to be. The closest thing I can relate to it would be one of the style parodies sung by Weird Al Yankovic, in which that illustrious parodist sets out to represent, in a single song, the style of a given musician. That is what Faulks has done here.Wodehouse fans know the difference between the more slang-intensive, careless boulevardier of early Wodehouse, the hapless country house guest of middle Wodehouse, and the more courageous, more intelligent, but still inept Wooster of later Wodehouse. Which of these did Faulks set out to mimic? All of them, and none. The closest voice would be Wooster in "The Mating Season," but certain turns of phrase hearkened back to the earlier days.Faulks was best where he could take Wodehouse's own prose as his model. The description of the cricket match (which reached far back in the Wodehouse peuvre), the Wooster Plans A and B, the interaction between Jeeves as peer and Wodehouse as valet, all of these could have been lifted straight from any novel in the canon. Where Faulks was at his weakest was where he tried to break new ground. Bertie's deceased parents came up as a topic more than once, a subject that was never more than obliquely mentioned before, and the voice did not ring true. Ditto during the cameo appearances of Esmond Haddock, Stiffy Byng, and many others. They felt shoehorned in, mere fan service, and they distracted from the already vivid characters we had.Faulks did not manage to accomplish a sense of terror for the reader in the Aunt figures of the story, nor was there any physical harm threatened in the form of a Spode analogue. In fact, there was really no stick or carrot motivating Bertie through the plot, no threat of impending marriage or any real consequence if his subterfuge were discovered. As a result, the plot simply moved along the well-worn Wodehousian plot track, rather than being propelled along it.That being said, when the book ended I wanted more. I would love to see where Faulks goes next, if he chooses to. He created worthy characters and made a fitting tribute to a great writer. Above all, he afforded me joy as a reader, and Wodehouse himself never asked for more.Recommended for Wodehouse fans with an open mind.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I recently read Sebastian Faulks's novel "Devil May Care" which represented his contribution to the "official" James Bond canon and was generally unimpressed. This homage to P. G. Wodehouse is far more impressive though I felt it still fell rather flat, and failed to capture the magic of the original.Bertie is on good form throughout though Jeeves makes relatively little contribution to the proceedings, and the plot, such as it was, seemed very weak. I worry that anyone reading this without having read the originals (classics such as "Right Ho, Jeeves" and "The Code of the Woosters" leap to mind) might be put off trying them.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Mr. Faulks, I feel confident that, upon reading this volume, the muscles at the corners of Jeeves' mouth would faintly twitch.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    This was meant as an homage to PG Wodehouse and while it lacks the lightness of touch of Wodehouse, Faulks manages to evoke his presence well in many places. Not quite as convoluted as a Wodehouse plot, in the end it showed itself rather more twisted than it appeared initially.3.5 stars
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    Sebastian Faulks does P.G. Wodehouse no favors in J"eeves and the Weddings Bells." Intended as an homage to Wodehouse, the first Jeeves and Wooster novel since Wodehouse's last, "Aunts Aren't Gentlemen" (or "The Cat-Nappers"), in 1974, seems more like an insult. It lacks the ridiculously complicated plot Wodehouse was known for. More seriously, it lacks the wit.Sometimes Faulks finds a word or a phrase that sounds authentic, as when he writes "Jeeves shimmied in with the tea tray," but rarely a paragraph or even a complete sentence. As for his chapters, they are too long and never seem to end with any incentive to begin the next one. Jeeves and Wooster novels were never dull, until now.The early premise of the story is actually quite good. Circumstances oddly call for Jeeves, the manservant, to pretend to be an English lord, while poor Bertie Wooster must play his servant, a wonderful changing of roles that, unfortunately, Faulks never manages to milk for all of its potential humor. The plot, such as it is, involves Bertie trying to aid one of his chums in winning the love of his life and, of course, making a mess of it. Leave it to Jeeves to sort things out in the end, although the resolution seems like something Wodehouse would have never concocted had he written a hundred Jeeves and Wooster novels.As I've written before, Faulks did a nice job when he paid a similar homage to Ian Fleming in his James Bond novel "Devil May Care." His latest tribute novel fails to deliver. But perhaps this is really an homage to Wodehouse after all. It demonstrates that not just anyone, not even a writer as gifted as Sebastian Faulks, can do what he did.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Faulks says this is a tribute to Wodehouse, but it seems like it might be more of a challenge set for himself, either to slow down the pace of his output or prove he can match Wodehouse’s. It’s fairly well done, in any case, even if in the end it’s well-cut glass and not diamond. Go ahead and read it, unless, of course, you haven’t yet read the best half of what Wodehouse himself wrote. In that case, you have no business reading this novel yet.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    This "homage" to PG Wodehouse by Sebastian Faulks was only partially successful. The plot is convoluted, of course, with Jeeves playing a major role in the mistaken identity trope. The language is amusing, and good old Bertie manages to get himself into some fine scrapes. There's just something a little "off" about it. Perhaps it's missing a sweetness that was always present in Wodehouse's Bertie books. It was just a little unsatisfying to me. Now I need to go back and read a real Wodehouse to see if I can put my finger on the missing piece!
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    The joy of reading Wodehouse comes from his brilliant writing. Having read Ben Schott's recent Jeeves book—which did an excellent job at recreating the Wodehouse style, with a few modern twists in the plotting—I decided to give this one a try. It falls utterly flat. The writing is terrible. Faulks can't get the style right. He tries; crudely, obviously, blundering around. He fails. For one thing, he misses the cadence. He'll spoil a phrase by clonking it into a wall two syllables early. So clunky and artificial. In the second half of the novel, he seems hardly even to try. And the plot? The plot is bizarre. There is a hashed-up romance that builds from nowhere and is then wrapped up in ten pages. Faulks has a big reveal at the end, like in a whodunnit mystery novel. Instead of saving these details till the end, maybe it would have been more fun to put them in during the story, so that it made some sense?
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    This is a book about comic resolution. Faulks captures the Wooster voice and Jeeves's mannerisms very well. He also extends these with a literary patina that draws on Shakespeare and the Romantics. The story is nicely structured and entertaining. The ending, while not a surprise, is satisfying. For me, from time to time, it was easy to forget that this was not Wodehouse.

    1 person found this helpful

  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    A good homage to Wodehouse. Bertie and Jeeves were up to their usual antics. If you like Wodehouse, I'm sure you will like this book also.

    1 person found this helpful

  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Was pleasantly surprised by this installment of the adventures of Bertie and Jeeves - especially given that it was written by a new author. While being true to the original, the story had some flair of its own. Got me wondering what will happen next to the pair.

    1 person found this helpful

Book preview

Jeeves and the Wedding Bells - Sebastian Faulks

CHAPTER ONE

I was woken in the middle of the night by what sounded like a dozen metal dustbins being chucked down a flight of stone steps. After a moment of floundering in the darkness I put my hand on the source of the infernal noise: the twin copper bells on top of a large alarm clock. There followed a brief no-holds-barred wrestling bout before I was able to shove the wretched thing beneath the mattress.

It was a panting and lightly perspiring B. Wooster who then consulted his wristwatch to find that it was in fact six o’clock—the appointed hour at which I was to throw off the bonds of slumber and rise to tackle my new duties.

This was a dashed sight harder than it sounds. Easing the person to an even semi-recumbent position caused pains to shoot across the small of the back. Whoever had designed the palliasse on which I had lain these seven hours had clearly been of the opinion that nature’s sweet restorer, as I have heard Jeeves call it, can get the job done in five-minute bursts. It required a steadying grip on the bedstead before I could cross the bare boards and don the dressing gown. It’s possible that a sharp-eared observer might have heard a few groans as, sponge bag in hand, I headed down the passageway towards the servants’ bathroom.

Mercifully, I seemed to be the first to the ablutions. Hot water came from a geyser in a boiling trickle over the bath, but in the basin the H and C taps might more accurately have been labelled Cold and Frozen. It was a haggard Bertram who stared back from the glass as he plied the morning steel and sponged the outlying portions. I dried off with a strip of material less like a towel than a yard of well-used sandpaper.

It’s funny how quickly one gets used to certain things in life. At school we had been compelled, on pain of six of the juiciest, to keep a keen eye on our kit and know at all times where the socks (grey, six pairs) and footer bags (navy blue, two pairs) were to be found. The services of Tucker, my accommodating scout at Oxford, however, and several years of Jeeves’s care had left me rather vague in such matters. To say it was something of a trial to dress myself in the uniform of a gentleman’s personal gentleman would be an understatement. Eventually, after several attempts and some pretty fruity language, the shirt, collar stud and tie achieved some sort of coming-together, after which the outer garments were a breeze. Pausing only to rub the shoe on the back of the trouser, I went gingerly out on to the landing and down the back staircase, which gave off a powerful whiff of lime wood.

There was a lengthy passageway that led to the kitchens. I pushed at the double doors and entered the cook’s domain with as near as I could manage to a spring in the step. To fill the kettle and bung it on the range was the work of an instant; the problems began with an attempt to locate pot, tea leaves, milk and so forth. I had never previously paused to think just how many items go into the making of the morning cupful. I opened a hopeful-looking cupboard to be confronted by a variety of what may have been fish kettles.

I pushed off into the scullery, where I spied a bottle of milk with a paper twist. A quick sniff established that it was not of recent origin and I was beginning to feel that I was not cut out for this sort of thing when I heard footsteps outside.

Fearing the cook, Mrs. Padgett, would not take kindly to an intruder, I made as if to exit towards the dining room, but to my surprise it was the housekeeper, Mrs. Tilman.

Mr. Wilberforce! Goodness, you are the early bird!

Yes, what-ho! A lot of worms to catch, don’t you know. I was just looking for the tea leaves.

Are you taking up tea for Lord Etringham? Isn’t it a bit early?

Seven o’clock was what he told me.

I think seven thirty’s quite soon enough. Why don’t you get on with some shoe-cleaning and let me make the tea in a moment. Goodness me, you’ve put enough water in the kettle for a regiment of soldiers. Off you go down to the butler’s pantry. You’ll find polish in the cupboard. And you brought down Lord Etringham’s shoes last night, didn’t you?

I did indeed. Two pairs of them.

I left the tea-making in the hands of this excellent woman and got down to some spit and polish work on the black Oxfords and the brown brogues, size eight, that I had scooped up the night before. In my experience, the butler’s pantry, in addition to corkscrews, candles and other odd bits of chandlery, often holds a bottle or two of the right stuff, but it was too early in the morning even for a constitution as strong as mine. The thought, however, bucked me up a little. I wouldn’t say that a song rose to the Wooster lips as I worked, but I went about the buffing and shining with a certain gusto.

When I returned to the kitchen, I found that Mrs. Tilman had laid a tray with all the fixings.

Oh dear, look at you, Mr. Wilberforce. You didn’t put on your apron, did you? You’ve got polish on your shirt. Here. Let me.

With a cloth, she removed most of a black smear from the affected area; and, with the coat re-buttoned, she seemed to think I was ready for action.

I turned to the waiting tray and attempted to raise it to a carrying position.

You’re all fingers and thumbs, aren’t you, dear? Nothing to be nervous of. Come on now, this way.

So saying, the housekeeper waved me down the corridor towards the green baize door, which was I obliged to open with an undignified nudge from the rear end.

Things stayed on a fairly even keel as I crossed the main hall to the oak staircase and began my ascent. There was a square half-landing before a shorter flight to the first floor. My destination was a corner room of dual aspect that overlooked the rose garden and the deer park. Most of the tea was still in the pot when I lowered the tray to the floor and knocked.

Come in, said a familiar voice.

I’ve seen the insides of a few country house bedrooms in my time, but I must say Lord Etringham had really landed seat-first in the butter. I found him sitting up in bed in a burgundy dressing-gown with a light paisley pattern that I recognised as one of my own and reading a book whose title, if I remember right, was The Critique of Pure Reason by one Immanuel Kant.

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 best-selling performer. I had only the faintest idea of what this entailed, but held my end up with a few indeeds and well I nevers.

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.

I can honestly say that where these paragons of their sex left off, Georgiana Meadowes began. One rather wondered whether she should be allowed out at all, such a hazard did she pose to male shipping. She was on the tall side, slim, with darkish hair in waves and eyes about as deep as the Bermuda Triangle. Her skin was pale, though frequent laughter caused small variations of colour to play across it. The poor old wine waiter sloshed a good glass and a half onto the tablecloth and I noticed other fellows gathering and whispering behind their hands at the door to the kitchen. The girl herself seemed quite unaware of the havoc she was wreaking.

My task was to keep this vision entertained, and I pushed on manfully, even when it became clear that I was well out of my class—a selling-plater panting along upsides a Guineas winner. But the odd thing was that, although I hadn’t a clue what she was talking about half the time, it didn’t seem to matter. Perhaps this is what they mean by a light touch, but the long and short of it is by the time the coffee came we were the firmest of friends and had agreed to meet for luncheon the following day in the garden of the hotel, where she could take an hour off from her editing labours. It was a pretty elated Bertram who, twenty minutes later, went for a stroll on the seafront, looking up at a bucketful of stars and hearing the natter of tree frogs in the pines.

Jeeves, once I had put him in the picture, made himself scarce in the days that followed, taking off in the hired car with rod, net and line, a picnic lunch packed by the hotel and doubtless a bracing volume or two of Kant. This left the coast clear, as it were, for the young master, and I found myself reluctant to stray too far from the vicinity of our hotel. There was hardly anyone to be found in town, the French having, it seemed, very little interest in the beach or in bathing or in lawn tennis—or in anything at all very much beyond the preparation of a series of exquisite plats, beginning with the strong coffee and fresh croissant at nine-ish and giving the system small respite till roughly ten at night.

Once Jeeves had returned from his fishing, Georgiana and I set off in the car. On the second evening, she persuaded me to let her drive. Go on, it can’t be that difficult. Please, Bertie. I’ve driven hundreds of cars before.

To say she drove in the French fashion would be to cast a slur on that fine people. The pedestrians leapt like lemmings over the sea wall; the roadsters swerved into the dust; the goods lorries blew their claxons. But in all their evasive actions, you felt, there was a measure of respect; they recognised one of their own. The fifteen-minute journey was achieved in half that time, with only a minor scrape along the passenger door as we swept into the restaurant car park.

Despite being put together in the most streamlined fashion, Georgiana took a keen interest in matters of the table. "Perhaps we could just share a few langoustines, Bertie," she’d suggest after the main order had been bunged in. The days and the evenings passed in a sort of rush, with the air blowing through the old open-top as we drove home, Wooster now firmly at the wheel, and the sound of Georgiana’s laughter playing over the drone of six cylinders in top gear.

On the night before her departure, she confided in me the nature of her problem. Meadowes père had been a surgeon of some repute, working in London but with a base in the Vale of Evesham, where Georgiana had passed a sunny childhood, mostly on the back of a pony or horse. A German U-boat had deprived her of both parents at the age of fourteen when it sank the SS Lusitania, and though they had left her considerable means, it was held in a trust until she reached the age of thirty—a point still some years distant. Her uncle-cum-guardian, who had taken in the orphan girl and to whom she consequently felt an enormous debt, was now so strapped for cash that he was on the point of having to sell his family house, complete with substantial acreage. The one daughter had fallen for some handsome but penniless fellow, so the only solution was for Georgiana to marry a man with readily available means—and such a suitor had been found.

A proper tact had made her tell this story without actually naming any of the dramatis personae.

The problem is, Bertie, that I don’t love him, she said, spooning up the last of a strawberry meringue.

She was looking deep into my eyes as she spoke, which made it difficult for me to think of anything sensible to

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