DISCLAIMER: There are many things I don't own in this. The first and most tragic is, of course, Jeeves & Wooster itself. The others are the rights to these madrigals used in my piece, Adieu, Sweet Amaryllis and L'Accesso ("I Behold Your Beauty"), and a little snippet from my luve, Oscar Wilde. OH! And a tiny bit of Bard paraphrase, too.

NO, I did NOT do research into whether or not this music I mention was around at that time, and it probably wasn't, since these were both just pieces that I sang in my school's Madrigal Choir last year that I loved, and wanted to correlate to my favourite book series.

So, this isn't composed terribly well, because it really is just my obsession with music coming into my obsession with writing, as I plan to go forth in both for college next year.

I hope that you enjoy this. I know it's a bit stumbling, this being one of my first fics that deals with expressing love and all, but... one tries.

Kindly read and review. It is much appreciated, as always. =3

Caring for others is my life. One might think it a "waste", - and one can imagine that this dread is exacerbated by my master's massive kindness about me, - with my ability to glean and relay information as I do... but being didactic does not make a teacher. Simply offering a certain level of comfort that eases the mind to those who deserve something of extravagance is enough for me, especially when he who I serve can be a friend of sorts as well as a master. I think it is to do with giving honestly of oneself... though I am compensated well for my services, there is still a frank joy to be had in offering a kindness, and the daily smattering of advice dispensed into quiet evenings with the cigarettes and glasses of brandy.

This latter point makes me grateful- eternally- to have been sent to the company of Mister Wooster. He is so big-hearted that I have even come so far in my current employ as to be quite candid without so much as a coldness from the lips of my master- at the most, I am simply chided for being dour or doubting, but still considered with the sober contemplation of a worried, often-childlike mind. He allows me to serve him with a level of emotion within myself that I feel I would find peculiar, myself, if I were to encounter another valet very similar to me in his manner. Mister Wooster doesn't see it, but, undoubtedly, as he has come to be so adept at reading me, he could see if I began to restrain myself even more distantly beyond the obliterating mask.

I know this last, unfortunately, because he has seen it recently.

You mustn't imagine that my master has done anything offensive, as you must never think anything of that kind from him. He never acts cruelly with intention, and never could- only out-of-turn without noticing that he has done so. Whatever my words may indicate, you must bear these facts in mind. I fear that, in my solitude, laments may become quickly bitter entirely because of my own framing… it is my weakness as a corruptible man. Not Mister Wooster's.

Another thing you must understand, if you do not yet by my excessively potent speech, is my unfortunate level of care for Mister Wooster. I had never thought that I was one to fall into the sinful weakness of consuming negative emotion before I first became jealous of Miss Wickham for being the spark in my young master's eye. It was disturbing to me, frankly, - after having been under the distinct impression that it was my place to be good and adequately subservient at all times in my life, - that I could chance to look across the green before a golfing match to see them whispering and laughing in what my entire essence perceived as a suggestive manner, and feel that I could contort my face into one of bitter disgust with the words, "How shall I murder her, Iago?" flitting across my lips. One does not have such thoughts as this with any sincerity for action, - nor to paraphrase the Bard to fit the feelings of a lowly valet, - but the passion of jealous moments is frighteningly enlightening of nature. As the Moor realized how easily his faith in one could be undermined by too much faith in another, so I realized a pained concupiscence (if I dare use so bold a word) for Mister Wooster that could just as soon lead to my hamartia as Othello's wife unwittingly led to his. Instead of working these into a ridiculous flame that would eventually have to be put out by my own hands' stifling it, I promptly chose to simply be rid of such feeling, by becoming the steel-hearted man one expects to, - and too often will, - meet at the Junior Ganymede Club.

Thus, Mister Wooster saw. He practically grew to upset when I refused to allow myself even hints of smiles in his presence, and was continually telling me to "buck up", or some other endearing command to be my 'old self' around him. The difficulty in my scheme was this one factor I should have considered well before I began... that Mister Wooster would show his magnificent level of graciousness and care for my newly darkened position. He offered me all manner of consolation and favors concerning his dress and sojourns to the continent... each offering made it yet more necessary to stay away, and, soon, I was caught in a completely unnecessary paradox. If I were truly lord over my emotions, as I should be, none of it would have produced an effect upon my person... simply telling myself that such a love is not only morally but legally inappropriate should have been enough for anyone.

Ah, there is the word "love" upon my page... I had wondered on beginning this when I would begin using romanticized notions and all-implying words about what I feel for Mister Wooster, to lift it into the same kind of glory that young wedded couples share for the first several months of their union. I had hoped my constitution strong enough to be able to last for one thousand words before that strain would issue from my chorded passage. It worries me, not, perhaps, for his discovery... but over the thought that without such cloying romantics, I might well be despairing my very existence. One cannot say if this is merely an excuse, to allow an otherwise wrong level of feeling, or because I might actually prove to do something untoward to my person if I had no more imagined hope for myself and Mister Wooster. In my mind, still, I am thinking towards allowing myself to consider the situation more joyfully, in some way, to improve my relations with my master, and because I have already lost a vast proportion of my self-control to this "love". This comes more easily with the addition of a song, as peculiar as the fact must sound. It seems that my master's passion for music has come to bring similar echoes of tune ringing through my head, making themselves appropriate to my life as they are played over and over again. This I've found in a madrigal I heard in an impromptu concert on the golf course when Mister Wooster was at the refreshment tent chatting to Miss Wickham once more. A quintet of vocalists who met in the lodge had chanced to come together, and, in the pleasure of meeting unexpectedly, they managed to pull together some music in a wonderfully proficient way. A selection from a little book of English madrigals the Bass-Baritone drew enthusiastically from his coat, called Adieu, Sweet Amaryllis. Certainly this is preposterous to you- but, then, that only means that you've not been in love so that you find yourself desiring a singing voice like you haven't since you were the lad who couldn't sing in tune with the church choir- just to be able to provide that same level of praise, and infinitely higher level of expression than one can give in words, to the object of one's veneration. Mister Wooster deserves a song... but I can only give him this one recited daily in my mind:

"Adieu, Adieu...
Adieu, Sweet Amaryllis..."

Thus he is the tall, brightly colored flower that my dreams inevitably center around. Surely, there are differences in certain symbols, such as the Amaryllis belladonna's ability to grow well in the dark, while my master must be eternally bathed in light. Still, the repetition of this piece obsessively through the back passages of my mind informs me of a new and beautiful similarity each time I come into a room with him. They share an elegant grace procured by height and a slight structure; both have a certain disposition to give a show of vivid coloring; both are easy to keep well in conditions that might not always prove the most favorable for growth. Hearty, bright and beautiful, to make a few words out of it. When I do so, I feel that I am vastly oversimplifying everything that my master has over this flower, and here must chide myself for the thought that he could be compared to something that lives and dies in months, anyway.

I am taking the relation to the flower with much too seriousness, as it is. The term in the song, as madrigals so often do, is merely a charmingly natural name given to a young woman. This is not at all surprising, when one considers the rather crass nickname given to the Amaryllis. I must say that, although I appreciate the relation to love, and am attempting to use it to mold to my own means, I find some resentment in imagining the song being sung to a woman. But that is merely something of my nature acting out, as it does whenever I take the time to make some self-pitying thoughts on the 'injustice' of my situation.

You must forgive me- I have gone vastly off-topic. Allow me to continue with my piece, in this case.

"Adieu, Sweet Amaryllis...
For since to part your will is..."

I recall this line having practically terrified me when it reached my ears, so involved as I had become with the vocalists' work, and at the same time I could see my master laughing with the fiery-haired Miss Wickham with great amiability, a hand sitting on the back of the young lady's chair in an unnerved gesture of affection. What can one do, but be horrified at what seems the world's insistence that one will soon lose everything embodied by that one, wondrous person? It was such a shock that I fairly stared at Mister Wooster for a time until the young people had reason to look in my direction, and it was back to what Mister Wooster cheerfully refers to as my "stuffed frog" face.

It felt even more like I was being pushed forward towards an end when, the next day, Mister Wooster sang the piece under his breath as I dressed him. I could voice nothing, but, in his endearing way of expression, my master quickly had words to accompany his small musical display.

"You know, Jeeves... that song yesterday by the five madrigal singers. It's the first old piece that's ever really spoken to me." He was smiling expectantly at me, looking like a puppy searching for approval after performing a trick on command, which made me return him with a controlled twitch of a smile.

"Really, sir? I am glad to hear it. The Old English Madrigals, with their natural imagery, and colorful allusions-"

"Never mind that, Jeeves, nor the poet Burns, or anyone else you could talk about with these songs. It's the bally business about love I care about. Now, I know that you're something of a marvel about these affairs of the heart, but this is one instance of wooing which I am pretty sure you won't approve of. The song's been giving me courage, as it were."

"That is a very fortunate contingency, sir." And the same was true for myself. I hardly know of any other time in which Mister Wooster and I have had such strongly mutual feelings.

"I should find something to sing for this courtship. That pretty song has been with me since yesterday- and what could be better for an acceptance than to be thought of with a lovely bit of music? Don't you find that to be a corking idea, Jeeves?" I stepped back from my master with none of my past shoulder-brushing or tie adjustment and stifled a sigh in my throat.

"Ingenious, sir. That would seem to be an ideal plan." He grinned toothily at me,

"Isn't it, Jeeves?" He began sweeping his pale-paletted, willowy figure from the room, and I was obligated to follow. "I'm going to the music store, now. Toodle-pip!"

I was left alone to do my work for the day, and couldn't prevent myself obsessing over Mister Wooster's last words, for, able to consider things by myself, my mind in love began weaving ridiculous veils of hope over my eyes. Thinking, wrongly, that it was working in a logical progression, my mind began to surmise the following:

Mister Wooster could not have been speaking of Miss Wickham, because he alluded to an entirely new romantic prospect. And it was already utterly certain that I disapproved of the frivolous girl. The difficulty being, of course, that frivolity seems to be something of an initially attractive force for Mister Wooster due to his being of a bright and larkish nature. (But, then, I am under the impression that there is no woman for Mister Wooster- not only due to my admitted inclinations, but also because they are always much too soft, - "soppy", or with wills much too simply swayed, - or of a disposition to attempt to change my master into something he is not, a hard-working man with his "nose to the grindstone", as it were. I could not tolerate anyone who would consider doing the latter to him. There is none who can contain within herself equal parts kindness and consideration to be a proper wife for him.) Because of this assumption, I could go on to suppose other things- or, at least make hopeful guesses. Had he ever even said that he was to speak to a female in this way during our passed dualogue? I noted quickly that he had not, as his speech came through my mind in its entirety in the way his words always do. One in love could only way that this was for a reason. Why should he have neglected to use the phrase "courtship of a young lady" as opposed to the first word by itself? Assuming, then, that he was seeking to charm a man, I told myself to think of those closest to him, and pleased myself to say that I could think my own position near to the top of the order. All that impeded me were my appearance and my social class, but the latter couldn't matter if he were already willing to face breaking the law for his new love. My minimal physical attractiveness, then, was the final barrier- but what could be less important in a virgin love?

My mind surmised much, piling assumptions upon assumptions and finding love in everything that was a kindness towards me from my master. When he arrived home, I fairly jumped from my table- I had been caught in a reverie of thought, still. None of the mending I'd sat at my table to do had managed to perform itself during my hour or so of contemplation. My embarrassing physical reaction of highly-sensitive nerves was raised to a yet higher power by Mister Wooster's asking me to come into the sitting-room, in which, with a sweetened flush brightening his pale face, he passed me the sheets to a little Frottola called L'Accesso.


"I- wondered..." His eyes moved pleasingly with distraction from my face to the floor, "I wondered if you might... translate this in rhythm for me. I know you can play the piano- you just have to put this into English, maybe add a beat here and there, but it's got to sound like the original tune. Is that all right, Jeeves?" He started again after a moment of silence, nearly stuttering with some peculiar case of nerves, "I'll give you any sum you demand for it, within reason, old thing. I know it's a job..." I could tell that I shocked him by the half-smile I felt upon my lips that must have seemed to him the equivalent of my jumping about and screaming with joy.

"That is not necessary, sir. The romance languages have always been a passion of mine. With the aid of books, I am sure that something adequate will result." He beamed at me, and stood back with his hands in his pockets.

"Thank-you, Jeeves."

That phrase had me started on the translation immediately. Each time I had some other task to perform, I found that tune could find itself in my thoughts; pushing itself to the forefront of my mind even past that other piece about my graceful amaryllis- still... the latter drew itself forward, in periods, and does, now...

"Oh, heavy tiding..."

A day had me with a translation. Not the most eloquent, perhaps, and a bit modern for a tune with such age to its name, but one that would, I imagined, serve to charm. Each moment spent in translation told me that this was a delightful piece of work he put me to, to figure out our own romance that had come blooming through me for some inappropriately long measure of time. He was using it as a sort of litmus test, and I was quite prepared to be as basic as I could.

"Ah, Jeeves," he sighed upon the next afternoon, gazing from the sheet music to the typed page of English to me. He paused before he sat gracefully at the piano and eyed the arrangement as though he would swallow the lot in his joy. "You're a marvel."

"I always endeavor to give satisfaction, sir," I returned, setting my scene beautifully in my thoughts already by feigning a desire to leave the room. "Will there be anything else, sir?"

My imaginations were working, as I could only have imagined they would. He stopped me with a word, "Yes, Jeeves. I want you to stay and listen to my song before I go off and start making a fool of myself before the one I love." Exactly as it came through my mind. He would tell me to stay, and sing, and then, in his majestic way, subtly explain why he was so nervous and so delicate about having me translate the piece...

His nimble fingers made an F Major chord bubble cheerfully from the depths of the piano, and I nodded for him to begin. His smile before beginning could well have been the undoing of any reasonable, loving man.

"I behold your beauty
When your love surrounds me-
Hear the song I sing before thee!

I behold your beauty
When your love surrounds me-
Hear the song I sing before thee!

Open your heart and listen,
And keep me from despair!
For I see your face so lovely,
My singing fills the air!
Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la, Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la!

For I see your face so lovely,
My singing fills the air!
Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la, Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la!

I behold your beauty
When your love surrounds me-
Hear the song I sing before thee!

I behold your beauty
When your love surrounds me-
Hear the song I sing before thee!

It was, frankly, beautiful in his light baritone as I hoped it would be, sweet and delightfully masculine, so that I very nearly closed my eyes at the third refrain, and was halfway surprised out of a moment of quiet ecstasy by his words. I had worded the piece in a way as to work to my personal advantage, as can be seen, and as selfish as that sounds- partly disregarding physical qualities until love is found to be true. It is the attitude that I found in myself with Mister Wooster, and prayed for it to be present in his actions with me.

"How would you feel if that song were meant for you, Jeeves?" That voice questioned, and its absolute innocence deceived me, all due to my present condition. I assumed, - as I had too many times before, since the day prior, - that I was making the world move in the way of my desires because I was deserving of some recompense from the unfortunate life I've had before coming into Mister Wooster's employ- and even then, once love came secretly to life. The phrase was perfect, and, so, I believed entirely in myself and abilities that I never would have even considered myself to have, in normalcy.

I see, now, that the ideal of a universal equation is incorrect, precisely for this situation. The words... to use the phrases of my master, I was knocked clear off my feet, head-over-heels and bathing in the stew of my obsessive love until my brain recovered itself, and offered its feelings forth in a line of my famously all-encompassing words, taken from the poet who was, at the time, closest to the surface of my mind.

I would like to say that I had no idea what I was doing when I sat beside my master and took his hands, but this is not true. I am not a man to simply follow an impulse without realizing it- I know that I took this chance, deliberately, to show myself at my worst, and most loving.

"Here is for me no biding..."

"'It is a wonder that your lips were made as much for the madness of music as the madness of kisses,'" I breathed in full voice, prepared for my poetic and perfect reception, gazing over that perfectly-featured face as I would take it in the way he did my music... until the moment following, in which Mister Wooster dropped us into silence like a too-heavy stone, and I looked to see him staring away from me to the piano, his throat working in a difficult swallow. My hands leaped to my sides, and I took a step back practically before I had stood, quite torn apart by the one word that escaped his throat.

"What?" he questioned softly, and with a baffled note that had no place in my dreams. So... it was no perfection, or return for some goodness or for suffering in the past. Just another tic added to my growing count of despairs. I could not say how long it was, waiting to respond to that word- nor how much it affected me, a simple question that, to a normal valet, may have been something so very simple as having mis-heard what the dinner menu was, that had been spoken with such deliberation that there was no way in which to defend against it. I had veritably done what one hears of sometimes in the newspaper, of men coming under the influence of heavy alcohol or absinthe and thinking that he can walk out of a window without falling to his death. The exception being that he would likely not wake again to regret it, and, if he did, the injury would not remain for the rest of his life.

I had nothing else but to prevent my shoulders shaking as I collected my thoughts to speak again, although I could not perform the same controlling spell over my voice.

"I shall begin packing my things forthwith, sir," I promised him in an undertone, my hands clasped behind my back and my eyes trained on the globe light in the ceiling above the piano.

"Yes... yes. That'd be spiffing, Jeeves." That richly saccharine timbre shook just as much as my voice had, if not more- and one could see why. Once one could see any physical acts of kindness as acts between friends- when an element of love was added, one could not prevent oneself coming to imagine malicious or sexual intent. It was an eye opening that would have been avoided by his acceptance, which I had banked on, but this was not to be. I moved to go dutifully, and Mister Wooster stopped me with a quick word, and a shaking smile, "One of yours, Jeeves?" I smiled ruefully at his ability to come back around so quickly, and shook my head,

"No, sir. A paraphrase of Wilde."

"Ah, yes... good." His new pause gave me half a mind to ask him to reconsider my fate, but he waved me off after I stood staring for another moment.

"Yet once again,
Yet once again,
Again ere that I part with you."

I wish that I could have explained to him how his releasing me with the same care he had when I left him for his obnoxious banjolele playing was only something to make me love him and his capacity for compassion even more... but I could not. I appeared to have alienated him in a way that would have pushed him to acting against his nature if I attempted to express any more.

"Amaryllis, Amaryllis..."

"Mister Wooster." I can see it now, in my memory, how I lift my bowler and clutch my bags to my sides; how he smiles with tight lips and bounces impulsively on his heels, those strikingly bright blue eyes fixed on a spot before my feet. There is no move whatever to shake hands, or any such companionable gesture.

While I know there is no equation for happiness in the world... I have found the one for the punishment of insufferable hubris.


"Sweet adieu."

A/N: ...Eh?

I've tried, here. And I'm sorry for that fact, that that is all I could do. BUT, even though it was to be the first time, this is not going to be the end of the story. I guess that it will probably be reasonably long, if I have any promotion. But, here's the bit: I NEED promotion. If you don't like this, and don't respond at all, well... I'm likely to stop.

But, then, you wouldn't care, would you, if you don't like this? XP If you DO like this at all, I respectfully request some sort of comment or any positive remark you can give to me, for the encouragement I will undoubtedly need to continue. I've most of my next chapter (featuring Bertie!), but, still, require some further community support.

Thanks for reading, whatever your feelings are. Much appreciated. X3