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.’
(no subject)
Date: 2009-12-04 01:15 am (UTC)Much as I love Peter and Harriet, Bunter has been my hero since I was at junior school and was allowed to stay up and watch the Ian Carmichael adaptations. You really managed to get the Essence of Bunter here. If it weren't for a ticket to a concert and a weekend with Ma, I'd be trawling back through your LJ for more of the same.
Bunter, waking early to dress, complete his preparations for departure, and if necessary comb the town for his lordship
He's just so damn efficient and I love him! Thank you :-)
(For want of a P/H icon, I had to go with the next best thing. I think the sentiment is about right)
(no subject)
Date: 2010-03-22 10:07 pm (UTC)