Chapter Text
Pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag,
And smile, smile, smile,
While you've a lucifer to light your fag,
Smile, boys, that's the style.
What's the use of worrying?
It never was worth while, so
Pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag,
And smile, smile, smile...
The party was kickin’ up nicely, in Bert’s estimation, and the extra cases of French champagne that Guy Stanley had ordered weren’t going to waste. Bert didn’t think much of Mr. Guy (he didn’t think over-much of the old lady either, but at least old birds like her had the excuse of being stuck in their ways, and anyhow it was easy to see that Mrs. Stanley and Miss Fisher were two peas in a pod, just fifty years apart, an’ apart from which, Bert wasn’t about to stand for suggestive winks and attempts at back-corner gropes from rich boy who’d gotten no closer to the Front than the staff offices) but he was forced to admit, Guy’s taste in grog was good.
He was heading back from the kitchen to the over-heated ballroom with a bottle of champagne in each hand, when he saw a bare-headed Jack Robinson standing in the grand foyer, looking underdressed in his blue wool suit and tie and very out of place among all the fancy costumes, and very, very lost.
In that same moment, out of the corner of his eye, Bert saw Miss Fisher, decked to the nines in not very much. He didn’t know the specifics of whatever was going on between his boss and the inspector (though he was pretty sure she knew the particulars of what was going on between himself and the inspector, and had been for a few hot hurried months), but he knew in his guy just by looking at Robinson that whatever Miss Fisher had planned, Robinson was not up for it.
Sorry, Miss, Bert thought. I know you’re havin’ a rough time right now, but this fella’s got to have some breathin’ room.
He threaded his way through the crush – the tux did wonders for that – shifted the bottles into one hand, and with the other, grabbed Robinson by the arm. “C’mon, let’s find you someplace quiet.”
Jack made no protest, and nobody paid them any mind as Bert led him away from the party and through the tight drab corridors of the servants’ quarters. The guests were too busy enjoying themselves to take notice and the skeleton crew of staff were too busy actually working (for which they were getting substantial extra wages that Mrs. Stanley thought were ruinously high but that Bert considered merely fair). Finally Bert reached the small bedroom that he and Cec had been allotted for changing and for storing their clothes. “Here. This’ll give you a chance t’ catch your breath.”
Jack blinked once or twice at his escorts and then at his surroundings. “I think Miss Fisher’s expecting me…”
“She’s busy with her hostessin’,” Bert said, setting down the champagne bottles on the bureau and taking the opportunity to undo his black bow tie and peel off the suit’s stiff high collar. “An’ Cec is keepin’ an eye on Jane.”
“And what are you doing?” Jack asked, with a bit of a smile.
Bert spread his arms and flashed a debonair grin. “I’m here t’ class up the joint, of course.”
“I don’t doubt it. You clean up well, Albert.”
Those words sent an uncomfortable thrill dancing over Bert’s skin. “It doesn’t fit bad, for a monkey suit. So,” he asked, reaching for a bottle and beginning to peel the foil from the neck, “what’s eatin’ you?”
“Nothing. I had some… personal business that I had to take care of before I could get here…” Jack dropped his overcoat onto a chair and dropped his face into his hands, only for a second. He took a deep breath and straightened up, and suddenly looked old and very tired. “My wife divorced me today, Albert.”