Wimsey-fic
Jul. 30th, 2007 08:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nineveh_ukBunter’s POV, the end of Gaudy Night and guaranteed free of mpreg and lolcats. I’m also working on a bit of Peter/Harriet post-Gaudy Night fluff in which the characters, unusually for me, get their hands on one another. Although not too much. Alas, I have to do Other Things first - and really ought to have been doing them instead of posting this. I've never been any good at prioritisation. Never mind, at least I now understand my new version of Word.
*
Bunter was not worried when half-an-hour after the expected close of the Balliol concert, his lordship had yet to return to the Mitre. It was a beautiful evening – Bunter himself had enjoyed an evening constitutional in the University Parks – and it would be only natural for a man and woman to take a stroll along the river together, although Bunter suspected that given the other party involved in the affair, the stroll was unlikely to turn into a lengthy pause in a secluded corner to enjoy the comforts of accommodating female company. An evening spent attending a concert in the company of Miss Vane was not the evening Bunter would have prescribed before an early start and a long journey, but at least with Miss Vane in sight his lordship would not be pacing the room until the small hours afraid she had been knocked on the head. Bunter was not worried, and he told himself so quite firmly, but it was hard to keep a corner of the mind from being concerned. It was probable, of course, that the evening would end as most other evenings of its kind, with Lord Peter returning to a thoughtful brandy and session staring into the fire, but something in his lordship’s mood had suggested even before recent events and that nightmare drive from Warwickshire that change, perhaps irrevocable change, might be afoot. In that case, the evening might have gone either very, very well, or very, very badly, and Bunter was glad that having dressed his lordship he knew exactly what he was carrying in his pockets. Worried or not, there was nothing he could do about it and at midnight, having checked again that his lordship had not taken the Daimler, Bunter went to bed and the blue-striped pyjama clad sleep of the just.
Bunter, waking early to dress, complete his preparations for departure, and if necessary comb the town for his lordship, stuck his head round the door and observed the tousled hair on the pillow with affection that spoke of relief. Quite what his lordship had been doing with himself remained open to question – there had certainly not been flakes of greenery in his hair when he had left the previous evening – but he was there, and the plane would not need to be held at Croydon. He dropped an extra handful of bath salts in the water for the benefit of any hangover – although most men might have found a drink hard to come by late on a Sunday night, Bunter suspected his lordship of being more than capable of charming the average landlord into a lock-in – and ordered breakfast.
‘Good morning, my lord.’ He flung back the curtains ruthlessly and suppressed a smile at the groan behind him. Like all wives and servants who hope to be there for the innings, Bunter knew that smart remarks about late nights do not go down well with a headache.
‘Mornin’ Bunter. Bath ready?’
‘Yes, my lord.’ The eyes were clear after all. Not a late night in a pub, then.
‘You’d better shave me, too. Not sure I want to wave a razor over my throat on three hours sleep.’
‘Most understandable, my lord. The grey suit today, my lord?’
‘Why not. And, Bunter, I’ve, er, there’s a note somewhere,’ he located it beneath a stray sheet of blotting paper, ‘See that it’s taken round to Shrewsbury pronto, would you?’
‘Very good, my lord.’
Bunter returned to find a pair of primrose-coloured pyjamas abandoned on the bed, and the strains of “Pale Hands I Loved Beside the Shalimar” floating through the bathroom door. He shook out the badly-crumpled academic gown, and set to work rescuing his lordship’s jacket; the face powder brushed off the lapel quite nicely, but the faint smell of river water suggested a need for the attentions of the hotel laundry. The hand that had waved the note – to Miss Vane – had lacked the flash of a signet ring in the morning sunshine. Bunter folded shirt, underclothes, pyjamas, picked up books and a stray sock, located fountain pen in pocket, and stowed everything for departure on time at seven o’clock. In the bathroom, the singing was muffled by the vigorous towelling of hair, and his lordship re-appeared in a cloud of steam.
‘Ah, Bunter. Do I smell eggs-and-bacon?’
‘Indeed, my lord.’ He received the towel, returning to lift the silver dish as his lordship sat down. ‘The wireless promises clement weather with a light south-westerly breeze. I trust your lordship will permit me to offer my congratulations. I have placed a call to her Grace from Croydon at nine o’clock.’
His lordship looked slightly stunned, and very pink.
‘Good lord, Bunter,’ he said, buttering toast as if it took all his concentration. ‘I always said those inferences of yours were dangerous things. Can’t a man have any secrets?’
‘Seldom from his valet, my lord.’
‘It appears not. Look here,' he said, his voice gone slightly husky, 'I mean to say, thanks.’ He looked up. ‘Yes. Thank you, Bunter.’ The fork hesitated over the eggs. Bunter forestalled him.
‘I believe I observed to your lordship on a previous occasion that it is not unusual on the occasion of a gentleman’s marriage for the lady to desire a say in the selection of the gentleman’s personal attendant, and – ’
‘For God’s sake, Bunter! Spare me the noble heart; mine’s had as much excitement as it can take this month. Of course Harriet won’t want you to go, and I certainly don’t. The week’s notice is most certainly not given – nor accepted, I hope?’
‘No, my lord.’
‘Then that’s that. We leave for Italy, and I need a house, staff, furniture, a new will, anythin’ else I’ve forgotten?’
‘A ring, my lord?’
‘No, that’s booked. Leaving us with a present for the bride, some new shirts, and the governments of Europe to hold off on wholesale slaughter for couple of years.’
‘A prospect devoutly to be wished, my lord.’
‘You can say that again.’
‘It might be better not, my lord; it is five minutes to the hour.’
‘Well, here’s to the road, and one last summer of bachelor freedom. I shall miss the eleven o’clock breakfasts, but otherwise I must say I think marriage really is going to be an awfully big adventure.’
*
Bunter was not worried when half-an-hour after the expected close of the Balliol concert, his lordship had yet to return to the Mitre. It was a beautiful evening – Bunter himself had enjoyed an evening constitutional in the University Parks – and it would be only natural for a man and woman to take a stroll along the river together, although Bunter suspected that given the other party involved in the affair, the stroll was unlikely to turn into a lengthy pause in a secluded corner to enjoy the comforts of accommodating female company. An evening spent attending a concert in the company of Miss Vane was not the evening Bunter would have prescribed before an early start and a long journey, but at least with Miss Vane in sight his lordship would not be pacing the room until the small hours afraid she had been knocked on the head. Bunter was not worried, and he told himself so quite firmly, but it was hard to keep a corner of the mind from being concerned. It was probable, of course, that the evening would end as most other evenings of its kind, with Lord Peter returning to a thoughtful brandy and session staring into the fire, but something in his lordship’s mood had suggested even before recent events and that nightmare drive from Warwickshire that change, perhaps irrevocable change, might be afoot. In that case, the evening might have gone either very, very well, or very, very badly, and Bunter was glad that having dressed his lordship he knew exactly what he was carrying in his pockets. Worried or not, there was nothing he could do about it and at midnight, having checked again that his lordship had not taken the Daimler, Bunter went to bed and the blue-striped pyjama clad sleep of the just.
Bunter, waking early to dress, complete his preparations for departure, and if necessary comb the town for his lordship, stuck his head round the door and observed the tousled hair on the pillow with affection that spoke of relief. Quite what his lordship had been doing with himself remained open to question – there had certainly not been flakes of greenery in his hair when he had left the previous evening – but he was there, and the plane would not need to be held at Croydon. He dropped an extra handful of bath salts in the water for the benefit of any hangover – although most men might have found a drink hard to come by late on a Sunday night, Bunter suspected his lordship of being more than capable of charming the average landlord into a lock-in – and ordered breakfast.
‘Good morning, my lord.’ He flung back the curtains ruthlessly and suppressed a smile at the groan behind him. Like all wives and servants who hope to be there for the innings, Bunter knew that smart remarks about late nights do not go down well with a headache.
‘Mornin’ Bunter. Bath ready?’
‘Yes, my lord.’ The eyes were clear after all. Not a late night in a pub, then.
‘You’d better shave me, too. Not sure I want to wave a razor over my throat on three hours sleep.’
‘Most understandable, my lord. The grey suit today, my lord?’
‘Why not. And, Bunter, I’ve, er, there’s a note somewhere,’ he located it beneath a stray sheet of blotting paper, ‘See that it’s taken round to Shrewsbury pronto, would you?’
‘Very good, my lord.’
Bunter returned to find a pair of primrose-coloured pyjamas abandoned on the bed, and the strains of “Pale Hands I Loved Beside the Shalimar” floating through the bathroom door. He shook out the badly-crumpled academic gown, and set to work rescuing his lordship’s jacket; the face powder brushed off the lapel quite nicely, but the faint smell of river water suggested a need for the attentions of the hotel laundry. The hand that had waved the note – to Miss Vane – had lacked the flash of a signet ring in the morning sunshine. Bunter folded shirt, underclothes, pyjamas, picked up books and a stray sock, located fountain pen in pocket, and stowed everything for departure on time at seven o’clock. In the bathroom, the singing was muffled by the vigorous towelling of hair, and his lordship re-appeared in a cloud of steam.
‘Ah, Bunter. Do I smell eggs-and-bacon?’
‘Indeed, my lord.’ He received the towel, returning to lift the silver dish as his lordship sat down. ‘The wireless promises clement weather with a light south-westerly breeze. I trust your lordship will permit me to offer my congratulations. I have placed a call to her Grace from Croydon at nine o’clock.’
His lordship looked slightly stunned, and very pink.
‘Good lord, Bunter,’ he said, buttering toast as if it took all his concentration. ‘I always said those inferences of yours were dangerous things. Can’t a man have any secrets?’
‘Seldom from his valet, my lord.’
‘It appears not. Look here,' he said, his voice gone slightly husky, 'I mean to say, thanks.’ He looked up. ‘Yes. Thank you, Bunter.’ The fork hesitated over the eggs. Bunter forestalled him.
‘I believe I observed to your lordship on a previous occasion that it is not unusual on the occasion of a gentleman’s marriage for the lady to desire a say in the selection of the gentleman’s personal attendant, and – ’
‘For God’s sake, Bunter! Spare me the noble heart; mine’s had as much excitement as it can take this month. Of course Harriet won’t want you to go, and I certainly don’t. The week’s notice is most certainly not given – nor accepted, I hope?’
‘No, my lord.’
‘Then that’s that. We leave for Italy, and I need a house, staff, furniture, a new will, anythin’ else I’ve forgotten?’
‘A ring, my lord?’
‘No, that’s booked. Leaving us with a present for the bride, some new shirts, and the governments of Europe to hold off on wholesale slaughter for couple of years.’
‘A prospect devoutly to be wished, my lord.’
‘You can say that again.’
‘It might be better not, my lord; it is five minutes to the hour.’
‘Well, here’s to the road, and one last summer of bachelor freedom. I shall miss the eleven o’clock breakfasts, but otherwise I must say I think marriage really is going to be an awfully big adventure.’
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-31 08:44 pm (UTC)And it's not that soppy - or at least the soppiness is kept well-contained behind suitable reserve (one day I'm going to write the Busman's Honeymoon scene that DLS, blast her, only gives in Bunter's letter, of Peter's pre-wedding thanks and B's response).
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-01 10:26 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-01 01:07 pm (UTC)Peter’s phone call to his mother, on the other hand, might not be so hard, (and limited to three minutes, less the odd “Yes, dear”, “Of course, dear”, and “That’s wonderful, dear, but what about your plane?”):
“Mother,Harrietsaidyes,we’reengagedfromyesterdayandit’sallwonderfulandshereallylovesmeandwewentontheriverandIgavehermysignetringandshereallyandtrulyisn’tgoingtochangehermind,onlynowIhavetogotoItalyandshe’sallonheownandyou’vegottowriteatoneceandtellheryou’repleasedbecauseIknowshe’sworryingaboutitandHelenmustn’tgetinfirst,andyoumustmakesuresheknowsshe’swelcomeandnotletherthinkthatshe’llbemakingyouunhappy,becauseIcan’tlethergonow,butI’mnotgoingtobehereandIreallycan’tnotgotoRomeanditisn’tfairnowshe’ssaidyesnottobethere,butthewretchedForeignOfficeinsistsoyoumustmakeituptoherandnotletthefamilybullyher,andshe’ssomarvellousandwonderfulandcleverandIlovehersomuchandshereallywashappyanditsallgoingtoworkatlastand -”
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-01 05:56 pm (UTC)Hmm... I did manage 300 words of DD diary but I'm not sure her letter writing style would be quite as distracted. There might be some 18th century governessy training that would take over. But it must have been some letter to get Harriet turning up on the doorstep uninvited.
Darn, I'm now wondering about Harriet's letter to her on honeymoon day 1 which probably didn't go "Dear Mother-in-law, Peter is great in bed but we've found a dead body in the cellar" and the DD's reply. And the exchange about dealing with Peter's post-conviction trauma. There's a whole missing epistolatory novel in there.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-01 09:37 pm (UTC)probably didn't go "Dear Mother-in-law, Peter is great in bed but we've found a dead body in the cellar"
Not in so those very words perhaps, but surely in implication. It all depends on the context of saying how happy Peter is making her! Even goosefeather beds can be mentioned in the context of the mixture of furniture in the place “... dreadful Whatnot and a host of aspidistras, but at least he’d left the good old settles, and a real goosefeather bed right out of a ballad.”
The missing stuff adds to the charm of the book for fic - there’s so many moments where a different POV would be fascinating, or where the reader can tease out of the text all the significant stuff that’s been happening off-page (I am convinced, and one day going to write an account, that we are intended to deduce that it is Bunter who tells the DD at Denver that Harriet doesn’t know about Peter’s shell-shock and really, really needs to Right Now).
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-02 09:10 am (UTC)Oh that's brilliant! It would have to be very subtle, but then of course he is.
Given that Sayers wasn't intending to provide fic-opportunities, it is a pity that the only letters she does include mid-book are the Uncle Paul ones.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-07 09:17 am (UTC)is a pity that the only letters she does include mid-book are the Uncle Paul ones
Especially as the other letters in BH and mid-book in the other novels are such fun (I like the contrast between Parker and Bunter's letters in HHC).
Mind you, if the immediately post-wedding letter was tricky, what would an Epithalamion one say
Dear Mother-in-Law, We're having a bit of a bad time. What with the nightmares and the meaningless sex, neither of us has had a good night's sleep in weeks.