Punch's Cousin, Chapter 8

With every step he took, the sweaty grip of anxiety clenched Julian’s soul tighter and tighter. With each click of his shoes on the marble tiles, his thoughts floated above him so that he could see himself walking. The closer he came to the dining room, the more his body stooped as if the weight of his own head and torso were too much for his legs to hold. From above, he looked for all the world like a marionette in search of its strings. A lost puppet. How apt.


Part of Julian continued to watch his slow, painful journey to the dining room. He was a man on his way to the executioner’s ax. But, instead of his throat on a stone, it would be severed and served on the table with the quail. Julian chuckled at the thought of Jackson removing—with considerable flourish—a great silver cloche to reveal Julian’s glazed, head…white daisies and violets on his eyes, his mouth stuffed with a compote of peaches and apple.

“How delightful. Do tell Mrs. Foster how pleased I am.” His mother would hiss while Jackson carved.

Julian laughed. The portraits laughed with him—those portraits that lined the great hall. Chestnut-haired, wide-eyed ancestors with Julian’s face—his mother’s face—all gazed at him. No, they weren’t laughing. Not those long-dead Dukes and Duchesses of Fallbridge. No, they wouldn’t laugh—not from amusement, at least. No, they were smirking with narrowed, deep eyes. Julian glanced above him to see if he could spot himself watching—some grim spectre, some shade—surveying his own journey. Sadly, he could not. Julian could never see himself watching. He left the watching to others.

“Sugar cane, sugar cane, sugar cane. I am lost in the sugar cane. I am lost.” Julian’s thoughts chanted with the rhythm of each step. “I am lost. I am lost. I am lost.” Click…click…click…

No portraits of Molliners lined the great hall. His father’s family was not in evidence. Though greedy and brash, the Molliners were slightly more agreeable than his mother’s family. Well, slightly more agreeable than his mother. She was the last of the line.

Well, no, Julian was the last of the line. Wasn’t he? And, Barbara. “Sugar cane, sugar cane, sugar cane…”

A bell chimed.

Julian looked for Punch as he turned the corner toward the grand, columned doors to the dining room—deep, dark wood, the color of his mother’s eyes…his own eyes.

But, Punch wasn’t to be found. He was lost. “Lost. Lost. Lost.” Another chime.

The clock…

Arthur opened the door to the dining room as the clock struck its last.

“Oh, well, Lord Fallbridge is punctual for dinner with his poor, sad mother.” The Duchess growled from her chair.

“Yes, Mother.”

“Arthur!” The Duchess spat.

“Your Grace?” Arthur cooed.

“Go prepare Lord Fallbridge’s things for your trip. Then, pack your own.” She commanded.

Arthur looked to Jackson who stood in attention by the sideboard.

“Don’t look to him. I’ve given you an order.”

Jackson nodded.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Arthur bowed his head and retreated from the room.

Julian sat across from his mother—the length of the gleaming mahogany table comfortably separating them. The pendants of the chandelier sparked against the sheen of the wood. Julian was reminded of his diamonds and, for a fleeting second, felt at ease. Only just that fleeting second…

“Julian!” his mother bellowed.

“Yes, Mother.”

“You leave on the Hyperion tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“You’ll be accompanied by Arthur who has the unenviable task of seeing that you don’t wander off and drown.” His mother said sharply as signaled for Jackson and William, the Under Footman, to begin serving.

“Yes, Mother.”

“Do stop yes-ing me!” The duchess commanded.

“How you will ever be able to survive amongst the American savages is beyond me.” The duchess sighed. “However, you will return triumphant with Barbara.”

“I will.” Julian said.

“I hear that this New Orleans is a very crowded place.” The Duchess smiled—no, she smirked like the portraits.

“It’ll do you good.” She continued. “You know, they throw madmen into pits of serpents.”

“I’ve heard.”

“Consider yourself thrown, my dear.” The duchess narrowed her eyes.

“Lost, lost, lost, lost, lost.” Julian thought. Or did he?

“What are you mumbling now?” the duchess groaned.

“I wasn’t aware I was mumbling.” Julian replied.

“Well, you were!”

Silence rose up and filled the room like a violet mist. Julian liked it.

Sadly, the duchess’ voice turned the mist to a stinging rain.

“I had a letter from your father today. The fool is still in Paris. Looking for artifacts…” She sighed loudly. “He’s wasting my money.”

Julian nodded.

“You people with Molliner blood and your quests for beauty.” She visibly shuddered. “Such waste.”

Julian watched his mother lift a crystal goblet of wine to her lips—it shimmered in the light like rubies, scarlet against the alabaster of her skin.

She put the goblet on the table.

“You’re gaping again!”

“Only admiring you, Mother.” Julian answered.

“You’re an odd man.” His mother hissed. “You are aware what will happen if you don’t manage to return Barbara home?”

“I have my suspicions.” Julian replied, leaning back in his chair as Jackson placed a serving of swede on his plate. The man smelled of lemons and astringent as though his touch would burn one’s flesh.

“Take your suspicions and magnify them to their utmost worst.” His mother took a forkful of quail. “And, then, perhaps you’ll be a thousandth away from the reality of your fate.”

They continued their dinner in utter silence. Julian forced himself to eat. He was too distracted by the tenuous quiet in the room—almost comfortable, but too dangerous to be so.

When she had finished her meal, the Duchess signaled to Jackson to help her with her chair. She left the room without a word.

Julian sat alone in the enormous dining room—alone save for the staff who cleared up around him.

“Lost, lost, lost, lost…” Julian chanted in his head.

The clock chimed again. Only this time, it sounded like a ship’s bells. The room was awash in fog as Julian bid the staff goodnight.

On his way back to his rooms, he felt the floor sway beneath him. The whole of Fallbridge Hall seemed to creak and groan under his footsteps. The scent of grass and mud scratched at his nose and Julian had the faint sensation of sinking into the earth.

A sharpness stung his head.

Once inside, Julian collapsed into his velvet chair and sobbed. He did not care that Arthur looked on.




Did you miss Chapters 1-7? If so, you can read them here.