Lesandra had been employed at Berkeley Mansions for one month, and she was growing increasingly miserable.
She didn't know if it was his eyes or his mouth she liked more. Somedays she wondered about his nose while polishing the silver, or daydreamed about his ears as she ironed the pillowslips. His face as a whole, oddly beautiful in its design, held a continuous passivity- the definition of unflappable. Which was not to say that Jeeves was unfeeling; he simply chose to wear his emotions as an undergarment, close to the skin rather than messily available on the proverbial sleeve. Even the sight of his black service uniform was enough to make her knees weak; it enhanced the constant capable air he projected, and the very fabric seemed inured with a lingering presence.
Jeeves was the definition, the stamp, practically the hallmark of his trade- the consummate British gentleman's gentleman. Even if he did happen to serve one of the silliest men in all of London, the "great" Bertie Wooster. But who would or could spare more than a passing thought for that upper-crusted buffoon when Jeeves was near?
Oh, the sensual wonder that was Jeeves. Thick dark hair lay in perfect submission atop his head, shielding the brilliant organ that lay within. Deep unreadable pools for eyes that absorbed the light around them and reflected it elsewhere. A firm mouth that rarely smiled, in fact rarely did anything but quirk slightly and spout the inventive edicts of his brain. The no-man's-land between that was his nose bore the unmistakable wiggle of a former break, probably a souvenir from some dashing tale of youthful misdeeds; it was one of several things she knew she would never get him to reveal. Still, she thought it gave his face character, and liked the way it served as an anchor for the rest of him.
When pondering the best way to extricate his master from whichever miasmic situation he had been too silly to avoid, Jeeves had a habit of momentarily pursing his lips in a flexible scission. The first time she had witnessed the gesture, and the effect it had on the rest of his physiognomy, her mouth had dropped open like a gasping goldfish, and she had found the floor suddenly destabilizing beneath her feet. Her world was a sandbar being slowly but surely eroded by his presence.
It was torturous at night knowing his room was a mere twenty feet from hers (she'd measured with a tape from the sewing room), that a few gently padded footsteps would bring her to his door... or him to hers. His countenance suffused her dreams, filling them up until there was no room to breathe or move without thinking of him. Her heart squeezed whenever she thought of how much she cared. It broke slightly when she thought that he might never know the extent of her longing, or worse still that he might not care.
Some other day would be the time to deal with all that. At the moment it was time to pack the pieces away with the rest of her dreams, clear the mending off the table and put the kettle on. He would be joining her for tea in exactly 18 minutes, and she wanted everything to be perfect. It was a little something that helped, this quiet time together, 40 minutes every third workday spent sipping the national libation in a silence only seldom broken by chatter. A temporary oasis for two before they resumed being awash in an ocean of crazy civilization. Some day it might be more; for now, it would have to do.
Author's Note: Stephen Fry as Jeeves is a thing of understated beauty. R&R. Enjoy!