A Recipe for Punch, Chapter 10

Chapter 10:

Orders

"There were several of them."  Punch explained, holding the enamel, gold and diamond-covered notebook in his lap.  "Pretty, ain't they?"

"Very."  Robert nodded.

"Ought to be.  I designed 'em."  Punch sighed.  "Or...I should say Julian did."  Punch looked up at Maudie.  "Julian's me, Maudie.  Or...I'm Julian.  Or, we're part o' each other."

"I know, Your Grace.  Gamilla and Charles and Gerard explained to me how it all works."  Maudie smiled.

Charles blushed.  "I hope you don't mind, Your Grace."

"No."  Punch shook his head.  "I'm glad you did.  Maybe you can 'xplain it to me one day."

Charles smiled.

Punch continued.  "See, Mother ordered Julian to have several of these made.  There were five.  One was used to send orders from Mother to Mrs. Foster.  One to the cook.  One to Jackson.  One to Ivy.  One to Hargrave.  And, one to Quick."

"I know that Hargrave is the Land Agent and Quick is the Parson.  Ivy was your mother's maid, but who is Mrs. Foster?"  Robert asked.

"Mrs. Foster was the housekeeper.  She died while you and me was on our way to America.  I never mentioned it to ya, Chum, I don't think.  At time, it didn't seem to matter what with all we had goin' in Louisiana.  She were a beast o' a woman was Mrs. Foster--well-matched in temperament to Mother in many ways.  They loved one another, they did.  Got some kind o' fever.  Gave it to one o' the footman, too.  An older lad what were also called William only he weren't near as pleasant as our new William seems.  Though Jackson had most o' the power downstairs already, with Mrs. Foster gone, he 'ad it all, do, she weren't never replaced.  Especially since Mother 'erself were gone, and I stayed in London.  Weren't no one to press 'im to replace 'er."

"Our mother thought it necessary to have such elaborate books made for the staff?"  Lennie asked.  "At such an expense?"

"Well...not for them.  They were for her.  She never much liked the feel of card, see.  She liked cold things.  So, when somethin' were returned to her with a message or such, she preferred it be cold.  All the better for her to be presented with a notebook covered in diamonds than one with a cover o' card and leather."  Punch shrugged.  "See, when we was a boy, the book she used with Nanny Rittenhouse, it was leather and just the touch of it made her feel all the angrier it did...I remember the one time when Nanny'd just finished lashin'..." Punch paused.

He shook his head.  "That ain't for 'ere and now."

Lennie sniffed.

Mrs. Pepper cleared her throat uncomfortably, sensing the Duke's pain.  "So, Your Grace, what Maudie found must've been the book what your late mum used to send messages to Cook."

"That's right."  Punch opened the book.  "Right, yes.  It's menus and such.  Cook would send 'em up each mornin' for Mother's approval.  Mother would sign it if she approved, or, if not, make changes and go through a whole kerfuffle.  I rather like our way better where you come upstairs or I go down and we talk 'bout what we're gonna eat."

"I do, too, Your Grace."  Mrs. Pepper grinned.

"Where did you say you found this, Maudie?"  Punch asked.

"In the larder, Your Grace."  Maude answered.

"That makes sense."  Robert nodded.

"Go on, Maudie."  Charles nodded.  "Tell His Grace the rest."

"Yes, dearie."  Mrs. Pepper said.  

"Maudie, there ain't nothin' you can say you seen in this house what'll surprise me."  Punch smiled.

"See, Your Grace, there's an alcove in the larder--kinda hidden-like.  I went lookin' for more rosemary for them sandwiches what His Lordship and Miss Lennie like so, I mean Her Ladyship...and I found...well, there's spot in a cupboard filled with burned-down candles and all these small paintings, little round ones all o' this dark-haired lady with pale eyes.  Well..."  Maudie pointed.  "That lady right there."  She indicated to the portrait above the hearth-piece.

"Ah."  Punch nodded.  "That would be our Mother."

"Oh."  Maude replied softly.

"In the larder?"  Robert squinted.

"How peculiar."  Lennie wrinkled her nose.

"Not really, my dears."  Punch shook his head.  "They truly worshipped her downstairs."

"Whatever for?"  Robert scowled.

"Chum..."  Punch smiled, reminding him that they were going to let Lennie draw her own conclusions about the late Duchess without coloring her thoughts.

"Maudie,"  Punch stood up.  "You did well to return this to me, you did.  And, in just the right room.  I'll put this just here on this shelf with Mother's other books.  If you come across other things what she'd written, we'll add them to the collection, too.  They're part of the family history whether they mean something to me or not.  Who knows what they'll mean to someone else?"

"We'd best get back downstairs and let these gentlefolk get to their tea before it gets cold."  Mrs. Pepper replied.

"And before Mr. Jackson 'as a fit."  Maudie laughed.

"Would serve 'im right if he did."  Mrs. Pepper whispered.

"Would you see the ladies downstairs, Charles?"  Robert asked.

"I thought, I'd serve, Your Lordship."  Charles replied.

"I'll play mother, Charles."  Lennie smiled.  "Go on."

"Very well."  Charles nodded.

"Thank you all."  Robert said.

Once the servants had left, Lennie began poring the tea.  "Oh, brother dear, chopped egg.  Would you like one? Or three?"

"Just tea for now, Lennie."  Punch answered, joining Robert on the sofa.

"Oh?"  Lennie raised her eyebrows.  "But, they're your favorite."

Punch shook his head.

"That book unsettled you."  Lennie sighed.  "I'm so sorry."  She took a deep breath.  "What did you begin to say about lashes?"

"You know, I think I will have a sandwich."  Punch spoke up.  "And one o' them chicken ones, too.  What 'bout you, Chum?"

"Yes, I will, too."  Robert nodded.

"Punch Molliner,"  Lennie interrupted.  "I asked you a question."

"I know you did, my dear.  Only, it's just our first day.  Let's just relax.  There's time 'nough for the house to introduce itself to us and for all the ghosts within to reach out their hands and give us their orders.  Tonight, let's celebrate bein' together, and Matthew comin' soon, and all the wonderful things what we got to look forward to.  Let's not look back.  Let's eat chopped egg and chicken and talk 'bout how handsome Robert looks in  his green velvet and how pretty you look in your violet silk."

"As you like it, brother dear."  Lennie nodded.

"Look!"  Punch smiled.  "Scones!"

Did you miss Chapters 1-9 of A Recipe for Punch?  If so, you can read them here.  Come back tomorrow for Chapter 11.  

Mr. Punch of Belgrave Square, Chapter 10

Chapter 10:

Dressing a Duke

“I won’t do it!” Mr. Punch/the Duke of Fallbridge shouted from beneath the writing desk in his lavishly appointed bedroom suite. 

Charles, the Duke’s valet, leaned patiently against a glossy white , fluted pilaster and studied the paintings of other, past Dukes of Fallbridge which lined the turquoise walls. 

Mr. Punch peaked from beneath the table and smiled wildly.  “I said ‘I won’t do it!’”

“I know, Your Grace, I heard you.”  Charles nodded calmly.  He made eye contact with the Duke and couldn’t help but smile.  It was, partially, a game to Mr. Punch—though he genuinely did not want to take his bath nor did he wish to get dressed.

Punch, too, knew that Charles was in on the joke and burrowed deeper under the desk, his legs—lightly covered with auburn hair—sticking out from both the desk and the thin nightshirt that he refused to remove.

Charles bit his cheeks so he wouldn’t chuckle.  He wondered when the Duke had taken to hiding under furniture.  It was something which seemed to come with their return to England.  Charles suspected that it was an invention of Mr. Punch who had spied Dog Toby doing the same while they were aboard the ship and concluded that it was an enjoyable enterprise.

Charles sighed pleasantly and sat on the floor, cross-legged, facing the Duke who, like a child, peaked out from behind the legs of the writing table.  Punch’s brown eyes flickered with a combination of utter glee and resolution.

“You may wish to pull your nightshirt down a bit, Sir.”  Charles began.

“Oh!”  Mr. Punch blushed.  “Is me bum out?”

“Not quite yet, but it’s working on it.”

“That wouldn’t be good, now, would it?”

“It wouldn’t bother me, Your Grace.  After all, I share a room with Gerard.  You have no idea the things I’ve seen.  However, it’s not  behavior fitting a Duke.”

“Probably not,” His Grace replied rationally, arranging the folds of his nightshirt to ensure that his ducal posterior was not exposed.

“It’s nothing to me, of course, Sir,” Charles began, “however, I can’t imagine that the Prince Consort would be too thrilled if you arrived at Buck House in your nightshirt with your hair unwashed.”

“I don’t care.”  Mr. Punch giggled.

“Most people would be overjoyed to receive a command invitation from His Majesty Prince Albert.”

“I ain’t most people.”  Mr. Punch snorted.

Charles nodded—unable to refute the Duke’s assertion.  He was not, in fact, anything like most people.  Charles took a deep breath and recalled a time, not too long before, when such a scene would have made him terribly uncomfortable.  To be sure, he once found the Duke/Mr. Punch rather difficult to take.  However, his feelings for his employer had mellowed after the kindness that the man had shown to Charles, and, by the time they arrived in England, he had even developed a certain protective affection for His Grace—not as madly devoted as Dr. Halifax, but protective nonetheless.

“Where’s me chum?”  Mr. Punch asked, still under the table.

“Sir, as I’ve already explained, Dr. Halifax received a note that one of his patients needed him.  He promised he’d be back well before you’d need to leave for the palace.”

“Well, when he gets back, then I’ll come out, I will.”

“I wouldn’t like to think that you’d be late for your appointment with the Prince.”  Charles continued.

“Coo…”  Punch considered the thought.  “He is German, ain’t he?  They do care a great lot ‘bout punctuality.”

“That they do.”  Charles nodded. He stretched out his legs.

“It’s comfortable, the floor is.”  Mr. Punch smiled.

“Yes, it is.  The carpet is very plush.”

Punch turned around, still under the writing table, and stared at Charles for a moment.  “I ain’t entirely mad, you know.”

“I know.”  Charles nodded. 

“It’s just I don’t wanna go.”

“I can appreciate that you’d be anxious, Sir.  I know that I was nervous just delivering the letter to the palace the other day.”

“So, you understand?”

“I do, certainly.”  Charles smiled.

“Well, good.”  Punch sniffed.  “Here, I didn’t like you at first, Charles…”

“I am aware of it.”  Charles laughed.

“But, I like you now.”

“I’m glad, Your Grace.”  Charles said.  He rolled to his knees and stood. “Now, perhaps, we could start with your bath.”

“No!”  Punch shouted, somewhat playful, but nonetheless resolute.

“You like a good bath.”

“Not today I don’t!”

“You’ll feel better.”  Charles answered, coming a little closer.

“Here, if you come any nearer, I’ll…I’ll hit you with me stick.”

“You don’t do that any longer, Sir.”  Charles chuckled.  “Even if you did, there’s no stick in here with which to hit me.”

“I don’t need a stick.”  Mr. Punch pouted.  “I’ve hit folk with other things.  Oil lamps and wee bronzes.  Remember when I hit that policeman in New Orleans what tried to take Colin from me.  Got him good, right in the crown with a statue, I did.  Knocked him right out.”

“I recall very well.”  Charles couldn’t help but laugh.  “However, I’m not trying to take Colin, I’m only trying to get you to take a bath.”

“Coo, ain’t you ‘fraid o’ me at all no more?”  Punch sighed.

“No.”  Charles shook his head.  “I am not, Sir.”

“Fine,”  Mr. Punch/the Duke grumbled, crawling out from under the desk.  “I’ll take me bath only I ain’t getting’ dressed ‘til me chum comes home.”

“That’ll do.”  Charles replied.  “I’ll go ready the bath for you.”  He turned cautiously.  “You aren’t going to…”

“Run off?”  Mr. Punch grinned.  “Nah.  There’s ladies in the house.  Wouldn’t be right for me to run ‘bout in me nightshirt.”

“Very true.”  Charles replied.  “I will return presently.”  With that, he slipped into the attached, marble tiled bath chamber.

Alone in his room, Mr. Punch began to pace frantically in front of the porch.  “Damn the Prince.”  He muttered repeatedly.  “Ain’t even a nice bloke, he ain’t.  Gonna be sharp with Ol’ Red Nose.”

Mr. Punch paused in front of the long glass which stood in the corner of the room.  He studied his face.  “Only I ain’t got a red nose.  Nor no hunch even.”  He touched his face and sighed.  “I’m a man, and a Duke, too.  Bugger!”

Punch chirped nervously as the door to the room scraped open and let out a long whoop when Robert entered.

“Where ya been?”  Punch shouted.

“I had to attend to a patient.”  Robert answered, scooping Mr. Punch into a hug.  “I told Charles to tell you.”

“He did.”  Mr. Punch pouted.

“You’re not dressed,” Robert smiled releasing Punch from his embrace.

“I told Charles I wasn’t gettin’ dressed ‘til you got back.”  Punch grumbled. 

“Well, here I am.”  Robert grinned patiently.

Mr. Punch sighed.  “I don’t wanna do this.”

“But, you must.”  Robert answered affectionately.  “Dear Punch, Julian has entrusted you not only with his life, but also his business.  If you’re to properly honor his trust, you must also honor the relationships which have made him the success that he is.  Similarly, the relationships we keep  now will only help our Colin later.  His father should have a friendship with the Crown, yes?”

“I ‘spose.”  Punch sniffed.

“After all, one day Colin will not only inherit your property and title, but also your business.  And, should he wish to continue in your footsteps, an easy rapport with the Crown would be beneficial.”

“You mean that one day Colin might work with wee Prince Bertie as I do with his mum and pa?”

“He might.  Prince Albert Edward will be King one day.  He would most likely wish to employ the crown jewelers favored by Their Majesties, his parents.”

“Well, if it’s for Colin, I gotta do it.”  Punch said excitedly.

“My dear, I must say that I’m very proud of you.”

“Here, what for?”  Punch tilted his head to one side.  “I ain’t done nothin’ good.  In fact, I been hidin’ under the table.  And, as enjoyable as it was, I know it weren’t a good thing to do.”

“Are you still under the table?”

“Can’t you see I ain’t?”  Punch squinted.

“Well, yes.” Robert laughed.  “I’m being…I don’t know…I’m being coy…and adorable.”

“You usually are…”  Punch chuckled.

Robert continued, “I am proud of you because you’re no longer under the table.  You’re standing here—like a man—about to ready yourself to do business.  For that, and many other reasons, I’m very proud of you.  And, tomorrow I’ll be prouder still.”

Mr. Punch blushed, smiling.  “Thank you, chum.”

Charles returned to the Duke’s room and looked with palpable relief at the doctor. 

“Yes, I’ve returned.”

Charles nodded emphatically.

“I’m ready for me bath, Charles.”  Mr. Punch nodded, pulling his nightshirt quickly over his head and running—naked—into the other room.

Alone with Charles, Dr. Halifax sighed cheerfully.  “I hope he wasn’t too difficult.”

“No, Sir.”

“Thank you for humoring him.”  The doctor continued.

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for His Grace.”  Charles said firmly.  “In my life, there’s no one who—well, except for you, Sir—who has been kinder to me.”

The doctor nodded once in thanks.

“I’d best go see that he doesn’t splash too much.”  Charles said quickly, hurrying into the other room.

Robert grinned, shaking his head.  He flopped upon the bed comfortably and waited—content with his world.

Little did he know that Hortence, the under-house maid, was listening at the door.

Did you miss Chapters 1-9 of Mr. Punch of Belgrave Square?  If so, you can read them here.  Come back tomorrow for Chapter 11.  

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.