Punch's Cousin, Chapter 10

Doubled over in his aubergine chair, Julian gripped his head in his hands. His stomach churned like the waves of the angry ocean and he could feel the dry toast and tea he had taken for breakfast rising in his throat.


“Lost, lost, lost, lost, lost.” Julian repeated as drops of sweat fell from his pale brow and darkened his gray trousers in spots along his knees. With shaking hands, Julian smoothed his hair, over and over again.

Arthur skittered about, carrying trunks and bags from the room. Though the footman was moving quickly, Julian perceived his motion through a slow, sticky murkiness—all yellow and hot.

Julian swallowed hard. Beneath his waistcoat and coat, his shirt stuck to his back. His stiff collar and cravat burned his throat where the two bruises from the night before screamed in puce protest. He leaned even farther forward so that his chest touched his knees. He could feel his sternum against his legs. “Lost, lost, lost, lost.” With every beat of his heart—“lost, lost, lost, lost.”

“The carriage is ready, Lord Fallbridge.” Arthur said from somewhere in the room.

Julian sat upright.

“Yes, fine. Thank you, Arthur.”

“Her Grace will be wanting to see you before we depart.” Arthur continued.

“Of course.” Julian drew in a hot breath, taking a handkerchief from his pocket in the futile act of dabbing the flow of perspiration from his brow.

Julian clutched the arms of the chair.

“Shall I inform Her Grace that you’ll be down presently?” Arthur asked, his voice dripping with the bitter honey of his false obsequiousness.

Julian swallowed hard, “Yes.”

When the footman had left the room, Julian rose unsteadily and caught the sight of his own reflection in the shimmering mirror above the mantelpiece.

He felt top-heavy, and gripped the back of the chair to keep himself from toppling over. The room spun. Julian’s reflection gazed back at himself, an ashen specter—the soul of one who had died in utter torment.

“This is the last time that mirror will offer me back my own reflection,” Julian thought.

He looked around the room which swirled around him.

“Lost in the sugar cane.”

“The Duchess is ready to see you, Sir.” Arthur said.

When had he returned? Where was he standing? Julian couldn’t see the man reflected in the glass. When he turned to look at Arthur, the man had already gone.

Julian pressed his left hand against his stomach. The moistness from beneath his arms was cold and stung him.

Julian swallowed hard again. It was no use.

He rushed into his bedroom and vomited in the basin.

Wiping his mouth, Julian moaned. He hated the idea of poor Mary having to clean that up. But, the duchess was waiting for him. Waiting…

Julian walked through his study and out into the passage.

His hands left a wet trail behind them on the thick wood of the banister.

On either side of the Great Hall, his ancestors stared out at him, piercing his skin with the malice in their flat, painted eyes.

He heard a cry. Was it his own?

No. It was the sound of cats fighting, a sound that pricked his ears with the daggers of its terrible sadness.

Julian remembered when his sister had been born. He’d heard the same sound when she took her first breath. It had echoed throughout the house.

The cry rose again from deep within the bowels of the house.

Julian paused outside the morning room door where, invariably, Arthur was waiting for him.

“Whatever was that sound?’ Julian asked.

“What sound, Sir?” Arthur smiled as he opened the door.

His mother sat in her deep-red leather chair. In the cool light of the morning, she was almost beautiful. Were it not for the cruelty in her eyes and the thin crease of hatred on her brow, she’d have looked quite young.

“Come here, Julian.”

He did as instructed. His mother pressed a leather purse of coins into his hand.

“Do try not to lose them.” She grumbled. “And, for Heaven’s sake, don’t manage to kill yourself as you stumble about in that place. That won’t return Barbara to me.”

Julian felt again as though he might unswallow.

“You’re an intelligent man beneath your thin, cowardly skin. At least let your sense guide you. You will one day be the Duke of Fallbridge. Try to remember that.” His mother continued. She looked at him with eyes of coal.

Julian nodded.

“Good Lord,” She spat. “You do disgust me so. Now, be on your way.” She waved a dismissive hand at him.

“Goodbye, Mother.” Julian said for lack of any other thought.

“Yes, yes.” The duchess grunted, looking at her hands.

Julian left the room.

Arthur waited for him in the Great Hall.

“You’re perspiring, Sir.” Arthur said.

“I am.” Julian nodded.

“Are you feverish?” Arthur asked.

“No more so than usual.” Julian answered softly.

Again, the lamentable cry drilled through the floor.

Arthur smiled.

“Lost, lost, lost.” Julian thought.

Arthur took Julian by the elbow and led him out of Fallbridge Hall to the carriage.

Julian reached into his pocket and fingered Punch’s brass bell. It made no sound.

“My head is wax and papier mache,” Julian thought as he stepped into the carriage. “My arms are powered by the fingers of another and my movement is not my own. I have no mind and no heart.”

The carriage door closed.

“And, now, I too, am in a cabinet.”

Did you miss Chapters 1-9.  If so, you can read them here.