Jeeves and the Wedding Bells(35)

‘And how did that all go down, then?’ asked the proud cook. ‘Any nice comments?’

‘No one said anything,’ I replied truthfully, but then thought better of it. ‘Mr Venables senior enjoyed himself. He came back for more.’

‘And Miss Georgiana?’

‘She didn’t seem to have much appetite.’

‘Oh dear. That’s not like her!’

‘I know.’

Mrs Padgett gave me an odd look, like a miner’s wife who’d found a ferret in the coal – or whatever passed for odd in her native parts.

‘I mean, she looks like a healthy girl who’d enjoy one of your excellent dinners, Mrs P,’ I embroidered.

‘Any road,’ the stout woman sighed, ‘we’re almost done now. Just the gooseberry fool to go, and then we can all put our feet up. I’ll make you a nice cup of tea then.’

So saying, she pointed me towards a tray of glassware and I elbowed my way back through the swing door into the lions’ den – a Daniel, if ever there was one, come to judgement.

Bicknell helped distribute the cut-glass receptacles, leaving me to lug round the heavy crystal bowl with Mrs P’s finest fool on board.

Say what you like about Sir Henry Hackwood’s guests, they didn’t let themselves get stuck for long on one topic. As I held the bowl out to Lady H, Rupert Venables made a polite inquiry about whether his future aunt-in-law, if that’s the term, had any travel plans for later in the summer.

The reply was brief and discouraging. ‘Our current situation will not permit us to travel beyond Wareham.’

‘Such a shame,’ said young Venables, warming to his moment in the spotlight. ‘The Mediterranean in late September is at its most charming. That’s the time of year I famously travelled by schooner to Sardinia.’

‘That’s my favourite of Roo’s books,’ purred Mrs Venables to her neighbours.

I thought I heard a sound of teeth grinding, but I supposed it was only Sir Henry pushing back his chair.

‘Yes, I like that one very much, too,’ said Georgiana.

‘Do you, my dear?’ said Rupert.

‘Yes, I do. Why?’

‘I thought you rather preferred the month of May for your travels in the Mediterranean.’

Young Venables smiled at the company, like an old vaudevillian who has just produced his catchphrase. The response was coolish.

‘The promenade at Nice,’ he went on regardless, ‘the seafront at Cannes … I thought you found them especially seductive in the spring.’

Well, I could have told him the old one about what to do when in a hole. As to what to do when in said orifice while being scrutinised by Dame Judith Puxley through her lorgnette … The maxim has yet to be coined, but in addition to a halt to all excavation, it would almost certainly recommend a change of subject.

Like his father, however, Venables the younger seemed a stranger to embarrassment. ‘You didn’t tell us, my dear,’ he went on languidly, if that’s the word I want, ‘the full story of your springtime adventure.’

Georgiana flushed an angry red, but said nothing.

‘Guinevere!’ called out Dame Judith, and I looked towards the door, wondering if we’d be joined by some new harridan, bringing the number of Weird Sisters to the optimum three. ‘What on earth is the young man talking about?’

‘He’s talking about a week Georgiana spent in France,’ said Lady Hackwood, answering to her Christian name, as I now gathered. ‘She was apparently pursued by some lunatic called Gloucester or Worcester.’

‘Good heavens,’ said Dame Judith. ‘Not Bertie Wooster, Agatha Worplesdon’s nephew? I thought Agatha had had him put away.’

Quite a number of things happened at that moment, and I suppose the exact order of them is unimportant, but I like to keep the record straight. A small matter you may say, but we authors have our pride.

The crystal bowl of gooseberry fool, into which Dame Judith was dipping for a second time, jerked violently forwards, as though it had taken on an independent life.

Georgiana Meadowes flung down her napkin, pushed back her chair and stormed out of the dining room.

Rupert Venables followed her with his eyes, simpered and looked about the company.

For the umpteenth time, Bicknell refilled his master’s glass.

Back at Puxley Central, a desperate attempt was made to retrieve the situation. However, continued dippings into the fool had rendered the surface of the bowl slippery, while Jeeves’s reading glasses blurred my focus. It was perhaps a mistake to remove one hand and try to steady the bowl from beneath, as it may have been this manoeuvre that caused the wretched thing to flip over. It was certainly, on reflection, an error of judgement to attempt to remove approximately five helpings of gooseberry fool from Dame Judith Puxley’s lap with a Georgian tablespoon.