Norbert and Smedley
Smedley had to admit that the warm bath felt good; he’d been a great deal more chilled than he’d realized. Once he could feel his fingers and toes again and the last of the mud was gone, he stepped out of the tub and dried himself with a towel four times thicker than any he’d used before and decided he quite liked that part of being Lord of Nilpaster Manor. Then, stepping from the bathroom, he found Jonesy waiting for him with fresh clothes laid out upon the bed.
“I can dress myself, Jonesy,” he said. “I’ve been doing it all my life.”
“No, sir, you cannot. Not anymore. That’s what you’ve got me for.” Jonesy held Smedley’s trousers up for him to step into. “Steady yourself on my shoulder, sir. There you go.”
Smedley felt his face flush with embarrassment when Jonesy pulled up the zipper, though Jonesy didn’t notice, having already turned round to reach for Smedley’s shirt. Smedley allowed Jonesy to pull the sleeves up over his arms, adjust the collar around his neck and do up the buttons without argument, but stopped short when Jonesy tried to pull an Argyle sweater over his head. “Say what? That’s not mine. Where’d you find that?”
“Ms. Maple said you should wear it. She said it was the late Lord’s.”
Smedley fingered the wool. “I see. Willy Nilly’s, eh? Rather scratchy, I say.”
“Wool often is, sir. I daresay you’ll get used to it.”
“Why should I?”
“She gave me others.”
Smedley had no time to register this latest bit of information, because Jonesy was placing a matching silk tie around his neck. “Oh, no. I’ll not be wearing a chokehold!”
Jonesy paused, a mystified look on his face. “A what, sir?”
“A chokehold. That’s what Norbert calls them, and I rather like the word. It’s how I feel wearing them. Wore one to propose, or intended to, anyway. And I’ll wear one at my wedding, but other than that, I can only think of five or six good reasons for them.”
“And one of them, I hope,” said Ms. Maple, who appeared in the doorway, “is that you are now Lord of this manor, and propriety requires it.” She looked down at Smedley through the lower part of her glasses, as if she were studying the intricacies of his character or an insect she’d mounted on a pin. Smedley squirmed. “You’ll be wearing one, or you’ll be dining in your room. Alone.” Ms. Maple nodded at Jonesy, then continued about her business.
Jonesy merely shrugged and continued with the Windsor knot he’d been working; his face remained impassive.
“Do you suppose after tea we can search for Woofington?” asked Smedley. “It doesn’t seem right not having the old boy about.”
Jonesy refused to meet Smedley’s gaze.
“Jonesy, I asked you a question.”
Jonesy tapped his toes and cleared his throat. He looked away. He didn’t speak.
“Jonesy?”
“No, sir. I doubt it. Ms. Maple means to send you directly to bed.”
“To bed! Does she think we’re children?”
“I wouldn’t presume—”
“But she can’t… Why it’s preposterous… You’ll have to—”
“Sir, if I may. Ms. Maple is my colleague,” said Jonesy quietly. “I cannot tell her what she can and cannot do. As Lord of the manor, you may try, if you wish. Perhaps you should humor her. Jeeves and I, however, remain in her good graces. We can look for the dog while you and the rest of the group are abed.”
“But—”
“Or you could speak to her yourself.”
Smedley looked at Jonesy’s earnest face and thought about Ms. Maple’s severe countenance. Sooner or later, he would have to stand up to her, but he wasn’t certain he was prepared for sooner. He thought he might like to know a bit more about her first, or at least that was as good an excuse as any for taking Jonesy’s advice. “Quite right, Jonesy,” he said. “Look hard, will you? We need that dog back.”
62: Old Wives' Tales
Once Smedley was dressed, he joined Norbert, Margaret and Penelope in the drawing room. Norbert, he noticed, was similarly attired in an Argyle sweater and tie—and was none too happy about it. Norbert pulled at the neck of his fully-buttoned shirt and looked as if he’d like to undo his tie, but a glance at Jeeves, who looked upon the group sternly from his position in the corner, seemed to change his mind. The girls wore shawls about their shoulders.
“Well, I say,” said Norbert. “Maple’s fixed us right up, hasn’t she? Can’t say that I wanted fixing, though.”
“I think it’s sweet,” said Margaret. “We might have caught our death, it was so cold.”
“Oh, phooey. That’s just an old wives’ tale,” said Penelope.
“Well, she’s an old wife,” said Margaret, “and there’s probably some truth to it.”
“No,” said Smedley. “I believe she’s a widow. I’ve never heard of a Mr. Maple, not in all my years of coming to Nilpaster Manor. But she may have had a daughter. Come to think of it, I’m downright sure of it, but I can’t remember much except the daughter was perhaps five or ten years older than me. Blonde, I think she was, and pretty, from what little I saw of her. Ms. Maple kept her to the kitchen, because she was easily embarrassed and rather clumsy, as I recall.”
Silence fell at the disclosure of that bit of information. Smedley attended to his tea, enjoying the warmth of the cup in his hands and the rich fragrance of the beverage—Earl Grey, if he wasn’t mistaken. He couldn’t say he was much enamored with the cookies, however—digestive biscuits, not the scones he’d hoped for, but he suspected his health had something to do with the substitution. The chill and all.
“So what do we do about Woofington?” asked Norbert. He’d finished his tea and gone to stand by the fire. “We need to find him.”
“That we do,” agreed Smedley. “But, we’re confined to house, Ms. Maple’s orders—that’s not to be overlooked. It makes the searching a bit difficult, creates a bit of a problem.”
“Dammit, Smedley. She’s your employee! Tell her you’re going out, whether she likes it or not.”
“Norbert, you’ve met her. How am I supposed to do that? She’s the most formidable woman I’ve ever seen. Frankly, I haven’t the nerve. If you’re so all fired keen on going against her, you tell her. If you come out of the confrontation alive, then I shall be happy to follow you.” Smedley turned matter-of-factly towards Norbert and waited for a response. He had no intention of letting Norbert push him into anything, nor did he feel guilty for refusing to stand up to Ms. Maple. Smedley wasn’t sure what it was about the woman, but regardless, he felt instinctively that she was a force to be reckoned with.
“Oh, right then. Well. Perhaps we should send out Jonesy and Jeeves then?” Norbert looked back at Smedley, chagrined, while Jonesy caught Smedley’s eye and winked.
“My thoughts exactly,” answered Smedley. “Now, where do you suppose we should have them start looking?”
“Oh, I know,” said Margaret. “Send them to my family. They’ll put them on the right path.”
“Send them unannounced?” Penelope’s jaw dropped open. “My mother would faint dead away.”
“Have you got a better idea?” asked Margaret.
63: Ms. Maple in the Library with a Book
Margaret scribbled her parents’ address on a scrap of paper and handed it to Jonesy. “Here. If you tell them about Woofington, I’m sure they’ll sort it out for you. Only you must be certain to tell them I’m properly supervised here and leave off the part about Norbert or Mummy will be here straight away. She still thinks I’m engaged to Fitzhugh William, and I don’t think any of us are quite prepared for one of her tempers—she’d even scare the likes of Ms. Maple!”
“Certainly, Miss,” said Jonesy. He bowed. “As you wish.”
“Are you sure?” asked Norbert. “Perhaps Ms. Maple could use a good scare.”
“The thing is,” said Margaret darkly, “I don’t think she’d leave off with Maple. I need to handle her myself, which I’ll do when we go to visit her.”
Jonesy and Jeeves agreed to leave directly after tea. Smedley, Penelope, Norbert and Margaret turned their attention towards the afternoon that stretched before them.
“Smedley, old chap, when was the last time you played billiards?” asked Norbert.
“I couldn’t say.” Smedley rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I learned at Willy Nilly’s knee in this very house, though, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“If he were, it wouldn’t be doing him a bit of good,” said Ms. Maple from the doorway.
“What? Why not?” asked Norbert.
“Because you’ll all be resting in your rooms.”
“Resting! But we’re not the slightest bit tired,” protested Penelope.
“That may be, but you will be resting all the same.”
“That’s okay, Penelope,” whispered Margaret. “I have some cards in my suitcase. We’ll play a game—”
“You’ll go to your separate rooms,” said Ms. Maple perfunctorily.
Margaret and Penlope turned to Ms. Maple, their faces filled with dislike. In some small way, Smedley was relieved they would be retiring to their separate rooms, if for no other reason than that he wouldn’t have to face his friends’ calls to reprimand the housekeeper. He turned to look at Ms. Maple, too, but the hood of her cloak was pulled forward, hiding her face in darkness. He realized he hadn’t seen her face since they’d arrived. Was it borne out of habit, the result of an elderly woman’s desire to protect herself from taking a chill in the manor’s many drafts? Or did it hide a disfigurement, a stroke perhaps? He wanted to pull the hood back out of curiosity, to expose Ms. Maple, but he didn’t have the courage. “If we’re not to sleep,” he said, “and we’re not to see each other, then what are we to do?”
“You may stop by the library and choose one book each.”
“A book?” Smedley was stunned.
Norbert jabbed Smedley in the ribs. “Yes. Those things that open, with pictures on the pages.” He motioned with his hands.
“Smedley, I’m afraid, has progressed past picture books,” said Ms. Maple. “Lord Nilpaster demanded it; you won’t find any here. I hope you have, too, or you’ll be sorely disappointed.”
Penelope and Margaret giggled.
“Come, follow me.”
The library was an octagonally-shaped room, lined floor to ceiling with book shelves, except in the spaces cut out for the windows. Here and there, books were piled on the floor, as well. “I should think you’ll find something to suit you in here,” said Ms. Maple. “Choose something and then return to your rooms. A fire will be waiting for you. I have also sent hot water, should you desire more tea.”
The girls walked among the shelves, reading the titles, and had no trouble finding books. Within moments, Penelope chose Jane Eyre, and Margaret chose Pride and Prejudice.
Smedley also had an easy time—he went straight to Lord Jim.
“Lord Jim?” snorted Norbert. “Who wants to read anything about a Lord. I want to read a good fiction, but this looks like it’s all politics, history and sissy girl stuff.”
Smedley laughed. “Lord Jim is a good fiction. It’s a sea tale, and a court tale, and a sea tale. It’s Conrad. Hey, here’s a Tolstoy for you.” He pulled out War and Peace.
“Too long.”
“Anna Karennina?”
“Sounds girly.”
“Ah, a Dickens. Great Expectations, Oliver Twist or David Copperfield.”
“Perhaps I shall have great expectations of Great Expectations.”
“Indeed,” said Smedley, handing him the book. “Though I think you might prefer Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment.”
Norbert glared. “I told you, no politics.”
64: Punish Norbert
"Crime and Punishment isn't politics--"
Penelope didn't allow Smedley to finish. "I think we'd better get upstairs, dear. Ms. Maple's got that 'look' about her. Norbert isn't going to listen to you anyway."
"Yes, Snow, you're right." He tucked Lord Jim under his arm and headed off towards his room. "I guess I'll see you later. I do hope Jonesy and Jeeves find Woofington."
"I'm sure they will," said Penelope. "They're resourceful. It's Ms. Maple I'm worried about."
65: Number Seven
Jonesy looked at the address Margaret had scribbled and scratched his head. “It certainly looks like a seven to me,” he said, “but this can’t be right.”
“It can’t?” said Jeeves. “Why not?”
“Because all I see is a bloody driveway beyond the gate.”
“And what, exactly, is wrong with that?”
“If a girl comes from family like this, then I’ve just got a few questions for you. One, what’s she doing living in a building like Miss Penelope’s? I mean, it’s nice and respectable enough, but it’s certainly not fancy. From the looks of this place, I should think the family would have set her up in her own place in town, wouldn’t you?”
“No,” said Jeeves. He stared at his brother, stone-faced. “But go on, you said you had a few questions. What are the others?”
“Okay, what’s she doing with a bloke like our Norbert? Why hasn’t she got a Sir Somebody-Or-Other hanging about and interested in the family name?”
Jeeves stared at Jonesy in silence, eyes narrowed, lips pursed—it was a behavior Jonesy found most discomfiting. When they were children, Jeeves had usually followed the stare with something along the lines of how Jonesy was a dim-witted, snot-nosed git, and that if their mother had had a lick of sense, she’d have run for the hills when Jeeves’ father passed instead of marrying the first drunkard that crossed her path, so she wouldn’t have gotten pregnant with the addle-pated likes of Jonesy. Jeeves had had those words beaten out of him, though—not by Jonesy, who’d never grown as tall or as strong as Jeeves, but by their mother, who made up for her lack of height and strength with a good strong rod and the will to use it. She seemed to have a sixth sense regarding her oldest son, and would pop out of nowhere to catch him picking on Jonesy; Jonesy half-expected her to appear just then to tell Jeeves to lay off the theatrics and just explain to Jonesy what he had on his mind.
“You don’t agree?” asked Jonesy.
“Well, take our Norbert, for example. His flat isn’t so special, but we’ve quite a place in the country, haven’t we? And while he’s not a Sir, his family is quite respectable. Things aren’t always what they seem. And there’s another possibility you haven’t considered.”
“What’s that?”
“Perhaps,” said Jeeves ominously, “perhaps she’s one of us.”
Jonesy paled visibly. “You don’t think?”
“You never know. I know some valets as would send their daughters to London if they could. Don’t you?”
“Oh, but… the Missus.” Jonesy swallowed hard. “No,” he said firmly. “They talked of croquet, and common acquaintances.”
“Ah, but was it a ruse?”
“I guess we’ll see.” Jonesy’s knees were shaking as he stepped from the Bentley to open the gate. “Shall we?” And so they headed down the driveway, towards an uncertain destination, for all they saw was a line of trees to their right and another to their left, converging in the distance; no dwellings, large or small, were in sight.