A Recipe for Punch, Chapter 1

Chapter 1:
One More For Luck

Servant:  I'll teach you to ring your nasty, noisy bell near the gentleman's house.

Punch:  Two can play at that.

Servant:  Oh, my head!

Punch:  And your tail, too!  How do you like that, and that, and that?  Do you like that music better than the other?  This is my bell!  This my organ!  This my fiddle!  This my drum!  And, this my trumpet!  There!  A whole concert for you!

Servant:  No more!  I'm dead!

Punch:  Quite dead?

Servant:  Yes, quite.

Punch:  Then, here's one more for luck.

Robert laughed as Mr. Punch read aloud.  "Oh, dear Punch, wherever did you find that?"

"Oddly, 'nough," Punch replied to his companion, "it were a gift from Matthew.  Found it in a toy shop, he did.  Said it was amongst a collection of scripts from puppet shows.  He thought it might distract me from the clatter, clatter, clatter of the carriages as we made our way to Yorkshire."

Lennie, Punch's sister who joined the two men in one carriage--along with Punch's terrier, Dog Toby--squealed with laughter at the thought of her fiance, the rather bland, but kind Earl of Cleaversworth purchasing such a book.  "I should think it a good thing that Matthew decided to join us at Fallbridge Hall later.  I think he'd quite shrink upon hearing such an exchange."

"Oh, I dunno."  Punch shrugged.  "Our Matthew's relaxed a bit since his regular visits to No. 65."  He glanced out the window, thinking just how far away London and their beautiful house at No. 65 Belgrave Square had become over the days which had passed.

"Dear Punch?"  Robert asked.

"I'm fine and well, my love.  I think maybe that tryin' to read in the bounce of the carriage 'as hurt me 'ead a bit."  Punch replied.  "Here, but I hope that our Colin's not bothered by the bouncin'."

"Gamilla said our son is enjoying the journey and, even more so, being fussed over by Gerard and Ethel."  Robert replied.

"Rightly so."  Punch nodded, happy at the thought of his son (really his adopted nephew from  another, less-agreeable, sister) enjoying the long carriage ride with his nanny, Gamilla.  Gamilla was a beautiful young woman of African-descent who had recently married Robert's Australian valet, Gerard Gurney.  They occupied a carriage with Ethel, Gamilla's nursery maid--a bright, outspoken and scrappy lass who had started in the employ of Mr. Punch as a scullery maid.

Theirs was a proper caravan with Punch, Robert and Lennie leading the way to Yorkshire and Fallbridge Hall.  Behind them was the carriage containing Gamilla, Gerard, Ethel and, of course, Colin.  Next followed the carriage which was half-filled with trunks and half-filled with Violet, Lennie's loyal, blonde Lady's Maid; and Charles Iantosca, who served as Punch's valet.  

Two more carriages trailed the first three.  The next held Mrs. Pepper--their beloved cook, her son, George Pepper, who served as a general footman, and Maudie, the wide-eyed kitchen maid.  A final burden of trunks, and cases was the end of their horse-drawn train.

"We're near the Hall now,"  Punch sighed.  "In just a moment, you'll be able to see the towers over the trees ahead, you will."

Robert studied Punch's face.  He knew that his companion was worried, much more so than Punch let on.  After all, Punch hadn't returned to Fallbridge Hall in nearly two years--ever since he was summoned to fetch his lost sister, Barbara.  Punch didn't return to England with Barbara--she preferred to stay behind and live the life of a prostitute, a sad end for the former Lady Fallbridge.  No, Punch didn't return to England with Barbara.  He did return with her son, whom he named Colin and adopted.  He also returned with a loyal lover--Dr. Robert Halifax, who had newly been created by Queen Victoria as Baron Colinshire.  And, most complicated of all, he returned as Mr. Punch.

In 1853, not much was known about mental illness.  In fact, Robert had closed his practice to study such "afflictions."  Mr. Punch hadn't been born as such.  He was born, Julian Molliner.  Upon the (rather sordid) death of his mother, Julian became the Duke of Fallbridge, and lived two lives, in essence.  In one life, with those he was not familiar, he acted and spoke in the manner in which the Duke of Fallbridge should act.  After all, within the peerage of England in the mid-Nineteenth Century, the Duke of Fallbridge was the next closest rank to a Royal Duke.

However, with those he knew well:  Robert, of course, Lennie, Matthew, and the servants from their Belgravia townhouse, Punch was free to act as he wished--as Mr. Punch.  That person (as Punch believed his body was occupied by more than one person, led by Mr. Punch himself) was the strongest of the lot.  He had taken his name from the puppet-show Punchinello and had grown within young Julian as a means of coping with a far-too-difficult life.

By being Mr. Punch, he had beaten the devil many times over, he had found a mate, been a devoted father, assisted Robert in adopting another child (a troubled girl called Fern), found a lost half-sister in Lennie, and, even made life-long friends in the form of the servants.  

Julian would never have been able to do that.  Julian, the "true" Duke of Fallbridge, was timid, frightened, impotent.  But, Punch, using Julian's body from within, was able to create a life for himself and his family.  Furthermore, he was able to use his vast wealth to help others as well as enjoy a deep and abiding friendship with Queen Victoria and Prince Albert who adored Punch--as he was, without pretense--as a delightful friend as well as a talented jeweler.

It was Julian who had left Fallbridge Hall--the revered family seat--but, it was Punch who was returning.  And, though he'd brought most of the servants from his opulent Belgravia townhouse--those who were used to him as he was--Fallbridge Hall was filled with dozens of other servants who would not be as accepting.  He loathed having to pretend.  He hated each pretentious moment of having to mimic "Julian," but he knew that--at least for awhile, to avoid scandal--he'd have to.

It hadn't been so bad when he had taken Colin, Robert and the lot to Grange Molliner, the family's Scottish estate.  The Scots weren't as judgmental as the small minds he'd face in Yorkshire.  Besides, Punch thought, had it not been for the trip to Aberdeenshire, he'd never have found Lennie.  And, it was for Lennie that he made the trip to Fallbridge Hall.

Lennie--Punch adored her.  She was the illegitimate child of the late Duchess of Fallbridge and Johnny Donnan, a groundskeeper at Grange Molliner.  As an infant, she'd been passed off to relatives and raised as Ellen Barrett--essentially a nurse to ailing kin.  

Punch knew how Lennie had suffered throughout her life, and, as one who had also suffered, he wanted her to know fine things--all of the remarkable things which his wealth and title could afford her.  He wished for Lennie to know from whence she came, even if most of it wasn't as beautiful as the massive stone walls of Fallbridge Hall would imply.  Furthermore, Lennie's fiance was eager to marry whereas Lennie was enjoying her first taste of freedom.  The trip to Yorkshire served as a stalling tactic.

Yes, he was willing to give all of that to Lennie, his beloved sister who had been so kind to her new nephew, who had offered unfailing love and support to Punch's union with Robert (a phenomenon which, despite the support of the Queen herself, was one which was not the stuff of polite society), and who deserved to have as much joy as possible.  

Even if it meant returning to the very place where young Julian had endured the torture which had necessitated the invention of Mr. Punch within their shared body in the first place.

"There they are,"  Lennie said brightly, pointing to the carriage window.  "The towers!  Just as you said, brother dear."

Punch forced a smile and nodded, catching sight of Robert's affection glance of sympathy.

"It won't be long now."  Lennie continued.  "Oh, I know I shouldn't be so excited, but..."

"No, no."  Punch shook his head.  "You should be.  I want you to be."

"I imagine Jackson will have the entire staff assembled to great their Duke."  Robert commented.

"I s'pose."  Punch nodded.  "I'd best start speaking properly now just so I don't slip up."

"Do you really think you need to?"  Lennie asked.

"Yes, my dear."  Punch replied.  "For awhile anyway.  Remember, they've not seen me since Mother's death.  It'll be shocking enough to answer to a new master.  Imagine if I came bounding out of the carriage with a 'Hullo!  Hullo!  Rooty-toot-toot!'"

Lennie smiled.  "I just hate that..."

Punch waved his hand.  "I do it without complaint."

"You're wonderful."  Lennie sighed.

"Look, Lennie--there's the full view of the Hall."  Punch pointed.

"It's magnificent."  Lennie shook her head.  "I can't fathom it."

"You will soon enough."  Punch answered, recalling his/Julian's youth within the sprawling estate.

"I trust Jackson is scrambling to get all of the servants together just about now.  I'm sure he had a look-out."  Robert nodded.

"He'd best have them out to greet us or I will bound into the great Hall as me-self and start an orchestra like the one I just read about.  And, don't you think I'll give Jackson one extra for luck."  Punch laughed.


Come back tomorrow for A Recipe for Punch, Chapter 2.  Just as I had done with the other two novels, there will be a Chapter Archive for this one.  I'll be finalizing the archive for Mr. Punch of Belgrave Square this week.

Mr. Punch of Belgrave Square, Chapter 1

Chapter One:
The Idol's Gossip


Rumors of the Duke of Fallbridge’s strange behavior had flooded London Society since he had returned from his long, mysterious voyage to America.  Reports of the Duke’s peculiarities clung to the lips of lords and ladies, dukes and duchesses, viscounts, barons and even a princess or two.  New information was shared daily and the topic of Julian, Duke of Fallbridge and his family remained a fashionable pursuit throughout the spring of 1853. 

Few people, however, were eager to admit that they had neither seen nor spoken to the Duke themselves since his return to his luxurious townhouse at No. 65 Belgrave Square.  To be sure, most of the tales spread about the Duke—though somewhat based on fact, at first, at least (even if most of the information came from the overeager mouths of servants)—were exaggerated and pure hearsay.  Still, a lack of solid proof never prevented a baron from badmouthing a Duke and it certainly never kept a baroness from gossiping about one of London’ most prominent households. 

Even Their Majesties Queen Victoria and Prince Albert were keen to learn of the odd conduct of the Duke of Fallbridge.  When still just Lord Fallbridge, Julian, had been a favorite of the Prince and his regal wife.  Prince Albert considered Julian to be one of the most talented jewelers in Britain and often sought out Fallbridge to collaborate on projects.  Lord Fallbridge had, after all, created a good many of the garter stars for the court, and, then, there was the stunning parure which he had created with the Cambridge emeralds and some of the most perfect diamonds that the Royal Couple had ever seen.  Of course he was a favorite.  And, of course, Their Majesties were interested to know if the Duke would be able to continue to serve them.

Prince Albert had no interest in baseless gossip.  While the Sovereign was more accepting of scandalous chatter, the Prince had no room for it.  He wanted facts, and, certainly these facts were provided to him.  Perhaps because of this, the Prince Consort was one of the few people in London to know only the truth (or what the Duke claimed was the truth) of the Duke’s return.

As reported to the Prince Consort, Julian, Lord Fallbridge explained his lengthy absence by stating that he had gone to New Orleans, in America, to look for his sister, Lady Barbara, who had fled England to avoid marrying a less-than-interesting baron.  Lord Fallbridge’s mother, the Duchess of Fallbridge (always a thorn in Prince Albert’s side) had followed.  There, Fallbridge claimed, the Duchess and Lady Barbara were felled by the virulent fever epidemic which had caused havoc across the southern part of America.  Fallbridge inherited his mother’s title and the newly created Duke returned to Britain with a child that he had adopted (the son of a family who had also been lost to the Yellow Fever) and a man called Dr. Robert Halifax with whom the Duke had set up residence in Belgrave Square.  With them came two valets and, several weeks later, an African woman whom the Duke and the Doctor employed as a parlor maid.  That was all that Prince Albert needed or wanted to know.

Queen Victoria, however, when the Prince was out of earshot, didn’t mind hearing the Baroness Lehzan speak animatedly about the rumors that the Duke’s adopted son was really the illegitimate child of Lady Barbara and the Duke’s late valet.  The Queen gasped to learn that some believed that the Duchess of Fallbridge had ordered the murder of her own husband, Sir Colin Molliner, and that the Duchess herself had been murdered, and not lost to fever as the Duke reported.  Victoria blushed at the whispers that the Duke and his new companion, Dr. Halifax, were more than just friends, and she giggled nervously upon learning that it was suspected that the Duke’s sister had not died at all,  but was actually living in America where she had become a prostitute.

Nevertheless, The Queen, like much of London society, took these tidbits of gossip as being just that—bits of fluff which served to entertain them in ballrooms and theatre boxes.  What was more troubling, at least to the Queen, were the rumors of the Duke’s changed demeanor. 

Before he’d left for America, the last that anyone had seen of the newly created Duke, he had fled from his London townhouse to return to Fallbridge Hall.  His exodus had taken place after being attacked by thieves.  The Duke had always been a shy and nervous sort who loathed loud talking and groups of more than two people.  He’d always been quiet and reclusive, but after being attacked, it was said that he never left his rooms at Fallbridge Hall.  That’s what made the news of his journey to America all the more surprising.  Everyone who knew of the trip wondered how in the world the man would ever function in such a wild place as America.  Perhaps that accounted for the change in the man.  Perhaps he had to adapt in order to survive.

To be sure,  after returning, the Duke looked better than he ever had.  Somehow the journey had agreed with him physically.  He was more robust and broad than he had ever been.  His face, still angular and pale, had a more relaxed look to it—framed by reddish, chestnut hair.  And, many reported that the Duke’s almond-shaped brown eyes—which had long been without any spark of life—once again flickered and shined.

 

Gone, however, was the quiet manner in which he spoke—replaced with an excited, chattering voice, peppered with bad grammar and a roughness  which had never been there before.  In many ways, he was said to act more like a servant than a Duke and, certainly, more like a child than a man of nearly forty years.

Then, there was the strange bond with the doctor.  Many believed that few would object to their relationship had Dr. Halifax been born into the upper class.  But, the man was of middle class origins (and the son of a woman who is said to have died in an asylum).  Certainly, he was not the choicest companion for the Duke of Fallbridge.

No one could recall the origins of the story.  It had been told to ladies by their maids since the Duke returned.  From whom the first maid had learned it, no one can be sure, but the rumor was that this Dr. Halifax—when they were home, alone—referred to the Duke not as “Your Grace” or “Fallbridge,” as would have been fitting, but as “Mr. Punch” or “Dear Punch.”  Punch?  Mr. Punch—as in the red-nosed, hunch-backed puppet with the crimson suit and scarlet cap?  Mr. Punch—Judy’s husband?  Mr. Punch who killed his own baby?  That Mr. Punch?  Why on earth would this man call a Duke by such a name?

And, yet, if the tales were true, wasn’t the Duke’s behavior—the rough speech, the exclamations of joy, the curious and child-like nature, the quickness to anger—rather like that of the famed puppet of Covent Garden?

Queen Victoria, like many, was intrigued by the thought.  However, there were others who were made nervous by it—by the whole thing!

One of those sat in the front hallway of No. 65 Belgrave Square—three months to the day that the Duke and the Doctor had opened up the grand mansion again.  Ellen Barrett studied her surroundings.  The house was assuredly elegant—perfectly-kept and handsomely decorated in shades of turquoise , coral, gold and pale green.  The black and white marble floor gleamed so much so that its intricate pattern seemed to vibrate.  The dramatic staircase which rose majestically in loose curves through the center of the house was illuminated from above by a glass dome.  Daylight streamed down the steps, making the imported Persian runner seem to come alive with color: sienna, rust, salmon, crimson, indigo, purple, azure, emerald…

Yes, it was a handsome house.  Ellen ran her fingers along the gilt arm of the comfortable chair in which she sat, waiting for her interview.  The young man who had opened the door and ushered her in was good-looking and charming.  He had introduced himself as Charles, the first footman and valet to His Grace, the Duke.  When Charles had disappeared behind the door which led downstairs to the servants’ hall, Ellen wished to follow him.  She could see herself being happy in that house.  Well, thus far at least.

Footsteps—a man’s footsteps—on the stairs made Ellen stand.  She adjusted her black skirts and fidgeted with the folded references she held in her hands.  She stood as stiffly and regally as she could and forced herself to smile.

“I’m terribly sorry to have kept you waiting,”  a man smiled at her as he came down the stairs.  He was tremendously handsome with bright blue eyes and ebony hair which curled around his long, strong neck.  Thin and trim, he wore a beautifully tailored suit of dove gray which framed his broad shoulders.  He smiled genuinely.

“Your Grace?”  Ellen bowed her head.

“No.”  The man smiled. “I am Dr. Robert Halifax.”

“I see.”  Ellen nodded.

“And you are?”

“Miss Ellen Barrett.”

“Have you your references?”  The doctor asked.

“I have, Sir.”  Ellen nodded.  She handed the folded pages to the man. 

“Would  you please follow me?”  Robert asked, pointing to the staircase.  “His Grace is waiting for you in the library.”

“Yes.”  Ellen nodded.

“I know he’s eager to see you.”  Robert smiled again, climbing the stairs.  “We’ve had such a time finding a governess for little Colin.  Our parlor maid, Gamilla, has been watching the boy since she arrived.  However, it’s not fair to her to ask her to continue to do so.”

“A child should have a proper governess.”

“I agree.”  Dr. Halifax nodded.  They paused at the landing and Robert gestured toward a tall, cream-painted door adorned with applied gilt moldings.  “He’s waiting.  Shall we?”

Ellen took a deep breath and nodded.  She was finally going to see the man about whom all of London had been buzzing for weeks. 

Come back tomorrow for Chapter 2 of Mr. Punch of Belgrave Square.  You will always be able to read all chapters of this story in the Mr. Punch of Belgrave Square, Chapter Archive.  

Punch's Cousin, Chapter 1

Unblinking eyes, pink where they should be white, wide and dry with the arched brows of permanent bemusement stared at Julian over a bulbous ruddy nose and gin-blossomed cheeks. Julian looked back. He couldn’t help but press his own eyes shut for a second. As the fading orange light of the evening chinked through the leaded glass panes of the tall casement windows of his room, Julian shivered—certain that those eyes which had always been still had finally blinked at him. No, not blinked. It was just one eye. It was a wink. Did those painted red lips—those lips perennially affixed in a grin—pull back into a grimace for just the tick of a clock? No, it couldn’t be.

Julian looked away. Glancing at his writing slope, he flicked his fingers at the stack of correspondence which awaited his reply. The top letter hadn’t even been opened. Sealed with red wax—the red of those lips—and stamped with the Molliner “M,” Julian knew what the letter said without opening it. No doubt, it was a request for money from his uncle. With Julian’s father in France, all of the Molliners in England had silently appointed Julian the financial head of the family. Their requests for funds would have to be addressed to Julian. After all, no one dared write his mother. The Duchess of Fallbridge would never offer her support to anyone outside of the peerage, especially her husband’s family.

Julian’s heart pounded. He fiddled nervously with the diamond ring he always wore on his left index finger. Dealing with people—even via a letter—was too much for him to stomach. When had he become so fearful? At first, staying tucked away in his rooms at Fallbridge Hall seemed like a natural break from the nervous bustle of London. He had come to the country for the air and the bucolic landscapes. That was all—wasn’t it? He’d return to the city one day. He used to interact with people—not comfortably, no—but, he could do it. Now, even the idea of writing a letter upset him.

Again, Julian felt the eyes on him.

“It’s just a puppet.” Julian sided, looking up again at Punch’s large, waxy head. The puppet grinned at Julian from beneath the arc of his puffy, tasseled red hat.

“Good evening, Punch.” Julian mumbled at the figure.

The puppet continued to stare as a shadow passed over it—surely from the play of some cloud over the dimming sun. Its stubby, empty hands seemed lost without the little club it had once used to bludgeon Judy.

Julian sighed. Without even looking at it, he tore open the letter from his uncle. He forced himself to read it.

“You may be Lord Fallbridge, but you are a Molliner first.” Julian read. He could hear his uncle’s voice.

Julian opened the writing slope and put the letter, along with the others which sat unopened, inside. He closed the slope with a loud click.

“Tomorrow.” Julian thought.

Did the puppet move?

His head darting up, Julian once again looked to the thing that always sat in the curio at the far end of the chamber.

“A trick of the light…” Julian thought, drawing in a breath.

A knock at the door startled Julian, causing him to jump in his seat, almost upsetting the writing slope.

Surely, it was one of the housemaids come to tend to the grate. The fire was dying. Or, perhaps, it was the footman come to trim the lamps. Tea wouldn’t be for another half an hour.

The door opened.

“Yes, Jackson.” Julian said, trying to mask his surprise at seeing the butler.

“Lord Fallbridge,” Jackson said in his gentle way, “Her Grace wishes you to take tea with her in the drawing room.”

Julian nodded slowly.

“Shall I come for you?” Jackson asked, awaiting a response.

“No, thank you, Jackson.” Julian forced himself to smile. “I know the way,” he joked.

“Very good, sir.” Jackson replied before retreating from the room.

Julian rose and walked toward the window. As he did, he passed the curio—filled with his many artifacts and prizes…and Punch.

His mother never took tea with him. Never. She preferred to be alone or, on occasion, to take tea with Barbara.

Julian shivered again.

He glanced over his shoulder. There was Punch—grinning, not blinking.

“It’s merely a puppet.” Julian muttered again. He recalled the day—thirty years before—when his father made such a show of purchasing the puppet from that toy shop in Covent Garden after Julian had been so enchanted with the puppet show they’d seen earlier that morning. “Just a memento from my youth.”

Julian walked to the bell-pull to ring for Arthur—the footman, Julian’s valet.

“Her Grace wishes…” Julian muttered.

If his mother wanted him to take tea with her, how could he argue? No one argued with Pauline, the Duchess of Fallbridge. But, if he was to take tea with his mother, he’d have to go down looking his best.

Julian had a feeling his mother was already displeased. He didn’t want to risk further upset by appearing less than perfect.

Julian suddenly thought he’d heard someone laugh. He looked at Punch. Was the smile different? Could it have laughed? No, it was just the scraping of the door as Arthur entered.

Surely, that’s all it was.