Mr. Punch of Belgrave Square, Chapter 142

Chapter 142: 

Sparks of Something 

Scaramouche grinned, his neck extending slightly upward. “Don’t you remember, Your Grace?”

“No.” Mr. Punch frowned. “And, I don’t want to neither!”

“I think he was referring to me, Mr. Punch.” Julian said softly from the misty corner where he lurked.

“Oh.” Mr. Punch blushed. “Course he was. It’s just…well, I got used to…”

“You see, he’s taken over your life!” Scaramouche gloated.

“I gave him control of my life.” Julian replied dryly.

“When?” Scaramouche asked pointedly.

“In America.” Julian responded.

“Not sooner?”

“Over these many years, there have been many moments where, for my own safety and protection, Mr. Punch took control so that I might be spared.”

“When was the first time?” Scaramouche asked.

“Who could say?” Julian replied. “It’s been over three decades.”

“When was the first time that Mr. Punch took complete control of your body?” Scaramouche badgered Julian. “The first time that he walked with your legs, and…”

“I’ve told you, Mr. Scaramouche, that I don’t recall specifically. I can think of many times from my boyhood where Mr. Punch lived for me. He would often take charge when I was forced to deal with Nanny Rittenhouse or…”

“Brief moments.” Scaramouche interrupted. “When was the first moment when he lived your life for any length of time?”

“Clearly,” Julian sighed, “You’ve something to say.”

“Ne le laissez pas!” Guignol wailed.

“Quiet, you!” Kasperl growled. “Go on, Mr. Scaramouche.”

“Thank you, Kasperl.” Scaramouche bowed. “I can tell you, Your Grace, the first time that Punch wriggled out to use your body for days at a time. It was here, in Scotland. You’d gone up to the turrets as you liked to do. You liked the safety of it. Do you recall?”

“Yes.”

“You liked to be able to stand atop the great tower and see from all angles who was approaching.”

“Mr. Scaramouche…” Julian began.

“I’m not finished, Your Grace.”

“Very well.”

“One day, you went to your usual spot, climbing the stairs with your shaking, sticks of legs. And, you came upon two men in what, at first, seemed an embrace. One was a man with dark hair. He was older than the other man—a freckle-faced country lad with reddish curls. You saw that they were not embracing, but struggling. The older boy pushed the younger one and he fell. You rushed to the side, screaming and, then, you saw him—crushed on the stones below, his blood…”

“Arrêtez-le! Arrêtez ce cas. Vous n'avez pas de cœur, salaud!” Guignol screamed.

“I shall not stop.” Scaramouche laughed.

“And, then?” Julian asked.

“Don’t listen to him, Master.” Punch pleaded.

“Then, Punch took over, Your Grace. And, it was at that moment you realized that all men, all humans were truly, inherently bad. That all men existed only to be cruel. Until that point, you’d always secretly hoped that one day you would come upon someone different, but that day you knew you would not!”

“You’re an awful thing, Scaramouche.” Punch yelled. “You can’t torture the Duke this way!”

“Who’s to stop me?” Scaramouche chuckled.

“If you were a man of flesh and blood, I’d hit ya with me stick, I would. That would stop ya well ‘nough, it would.” Punch screamed. He paused. “Only ya ain’t. You’re nothin’. Sure, I can see ya in here, but you’re not a man. You’re just a thought. You’re an idea. You’re a voice with no…”

“With no what?” Scaramouche growled.

“With no nothin’.” Mr. Punch smiled.

“What are you grinning at, Hunchback?” Scaramouche demanded.

“Nothin’.” Punch laughed happily. “That’s just it. You’re nothin’. We’re all nothin’. We’re thoughts. We’re words and deeds and sparks of somethin’ what I don’t understand, but that’s it. And, if we’re thoughts, someone thought us up. Just like you thought up Kasperl, someone thought you up.”

“Qui, Mr. Punch? Qui est responsable de ces pensées?” Guignol asked.

“Dunno, ‘xactly, Guignol. Don’t know who thought us up. I guess His Grace done so since he’s the first of all of us. Ain’t it true?”

“I’d not considered it, Mr. Punch.” Julian whispered.

“Ridiculous!” Scaramouche belched.

“No, it ain’t.” Punch shook his head. “Inside all men is what? When you get past all the blood and muscle and bone and guts and such. What’s left? Thoughts. A man’s identity is his thoughts. Them thoughts live in his body. Like we do. It’s his personality, his demeanor, his way of being—it’s all in us thoughts.”

“Qu'en est-il de l'esprit?” Guignol asked.

“Well, Guignol. That, too. But, I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout the spirit and all that. Me chum Marjani—she knows. And, Gamilla. They know ‘bout that sort of thing. But, not me. All I know is what I seen. And what I seen is that we’re all—me included—ideas of the Duke of Fallbridge. I’m the idea what the Duke most likes, the easy one what allows him happiness and love. Guignol, you’re all them things what trouble His Grace, and Scaramouche is all them unhappy thoughts. If we’re ideas, then the Duke made us. And, if the Duke made us, he can unmake us.”

“You’re a fool, Red Nose.” Scaramouche howled.

“Ain’t foolish to make somethin’ bad go away. If he made ya, he can make ya go away.”

“Mr. Punch, you’re quite correct. Why had I never thought of it?” Julian asked.

“Dunno.” Punch shrugged. “All, I know, Master chum, is that Robert and Colin and our friends is out there waitin’ for one of us. Not for Scaramouche nor for Kasperl. Not for more pain, but for love and help and support.”

“I want you to return to our family, dear Punch.” Julian said, his face becoming slightly clearer.

“That’s what I want, too.” Punch smiled.

“You’ve brought such happiness. Not just to me, but…” Julian said with pride. “I’m grateful. I don’t want your work to stop.”

“Ain’t work.” Punch replied.

“It would be work for me.” Julian answered. “A terrible chore. I’m selfish. I want the benefit without the effort.”

“It’s the way all men are.” Punch shrugged.

“Have you finished?” Scaramouche demanded.

“No.” Julian replied. “But, you have.”

“Bien fait, Votre Grâce, le duc!” Guignol cheered.

“Go away, Scaramouche, and take your Kasperl with you.” Julian said loudly.

“I’m stronger than that.” Scramouche snorted. “You can send me away, but I’ll return. No man can control all of his thoughts all of the time.”

“Maybe so.” Julian sighed. “But, now—just now—I can. Be gone.”

The Duke’s body spasmed for a moment, and, then, his eyes opened to look adoringly up at a very troubled Robert Halifax.

“Dear Punch.” Robert gasped. “You’ve come back to me.”

“Course I have, Chum.” Punch smiled though his jaw hurt him. “I always will.”



Did you miss Chapters 1-141 of Mr. Punch of Belgrave Square? If so, you can read them here. Come back tomorrow for Chapter 143. 

Punch's Cousin, Chapter 142

Corliss and Edward Cage stood at the entrance to the ballroom to receive their guests. Many false smiles traded faces on that New Year’s Eve, and a good many hands were shaken by people who held little more than weak contempt for one another.


“Who’s this, then?” Edward bellowed at Robert and Mr. Punch as they entered. “Brilliant costumes! Wait don’t tell me. Corliss, what do you think?”

Corliss shrugged meekly, “I couldn’t say.”

Edward rubbed his hands together. “That chin. I know.”

“Do you?” Robert asked.

“Dr. Halfiax,” Edward Cage smiled broadly—giving him the appearance of having eaten something which disagreed with him. “Corliss, you, of course, remember Dr. Halifax. He’s Cecil’s brother.”

“Yes, of course.” Corliss Cage nodded politely.

“And, he’s brought his wild man with him. You’re the fellow I met that night in my fields, yes?”

Mr. Punch nodded, feeling his mask rub against his Julian’s cheekbones. He bristled. Speaking in Julian’s voice, Mr. Punch said. “I am. However, while my title may mean very little to the people in this country, I should be addressed as…” He paused and glanced quickly at Robert who immediately realized the thought that had occurred to Mr. Punch. Robert blushed for not having thought of it, too.

“I shall be addressed as ‘Your Grace,’ and referred to as ‘His Grace.’ I am the Duke of Fallbridge.” Punch continued, still affecting Julian’s voice.

“Certainly, Your Grace.” Mr. Cage bowed dramatically. “Do enjoy your evening.”

“Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Cage,” Robert nodded.

“Are your brother and his wife on their way?” Corliss asked in her crackling, dry voice.

“Yes, they are.” Robert nodded. “They were delayed, but are on their way presently.” Of course, this wasn’t true, Cecil and Adrienne were waiting in the carriage behind the museum, but Edward Cage needn’t have known that.

“I should hope so,” Edward smiled—this time, an almost sincere smile, “After all, tonight is his triumph as well. He’s done a fine job with the new figures. Very fine, indeed. I’d reckon I’m quite fortunate to have such a talented sculptor in my stable. Even if he is a bit headstrong and sticks his nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Robert adjusted his mask so as not to lash out against Edward’s disparaging comments about Cecil. “My brother is most exceptionally talented. “ Robert said. “And, you are most certainly fortunate. Good evening.”

“Good evening, Dr. Halifax,” Edward nodded with a slight tint of mocking in his voice. “And, to you, Your Grace.” He bowed exaggeratedly again.

Corliss absent-mindedly curtsied.

Robert led Mr. Punch to a corner of the already crowded ballroom.

“Dear Punch, and dear Julian, I am so sorry that it didn’t occur to me that—since your mother’s passing—you’ve inherited her title.”

“Only just happened half an hour ago.” Mr. Punch sighed. “Only realized it me-self just now. But, that’s the way it works, isn’t it? Now that the Duchess of Fallbridge is dead, me master is the Duke of Fallbridge.”

“Yes,” Robert nodded, placing a reassuring hand on Julian’s shoulder. “Yes, Mr. Punch. Julian’s title is inherited. Now, he is the Duke and should, respectfully, be addressed as ‘Your Grace.’”

“Ain’t no sense in ever callin’ me that. You can use it on Julian only I ain’t a man what’s deservin’ of a title. I’ll wager that me master’d trade that title forever were it to bring his mum back to life—awful and cruel as she was. She didn’t deserve to die in so painful a way. No one does, and I…” Mr. Punch gasped for air. “I done it.”

“Iolanthe murdered Her Grace,” Robert shook his head. “You had nothing to do with it.”

“I might as well have killed her me-self. Leavin’ her there in that terrible house…”

“Mr. Punch,” Robert began softly. “You can’t continue to think that. It’s simply not true. You said yourself that the Duchess didn’t want to be saved and that you couldn’t save someone who didn’t want it. Even if you had carried her off and brought her home with you, she’d have gone back. I don’t mean to sound like Naasir, but what happened was what was meant to happen.”

“I don’t know,” Mr. Punch grunted, scratching Julian’s ear. “It just seems to me that someone ought to pay for it.”

“And she shall,” Robert smiled. “That’s why we’re here. We’ll bring Iolanthe to justice—finally. Now, let’s see if she’s here, shall we?”

“I meant me-self.” Mr. Punch mumbled faintly—so low that Robert couldn’t hear him over the buzz in the ballroom as people milled about, drinking and looking at the exhibits which lined the walls.

“Do you see anyone in violet feathers?” Robert asked.

“No.” Mr. Punch answered, searching the room for any woman who could have been Iolanthe Evangeline beneath her costume. “Here,” Mr. Punch began, “this is a masquerade, yes?”

“Yes,” Robert chuckled. “I should hope so. I don’t think I’d have worn this mask and wig otherwise.”

“Well, then, why weren’t the Cages in fancy dress?”

“Cecil mentioned something to me about his employer never wearing fancy dress at these events. He always wears his evening clothes. While he doesn’t mind the rest of us looking foolish, I suppose he thinks he’s above it himself.”

“I don’t think we look foolish.” Mr. Punch frowned. “I think we look right sweet, we do. Reminds me of bein’ a puppet.”

“Well, of course, you and I are the exception.” Robert winked. “We always look dashing, no matter what we’re wearing.”

For the first time that evening, Mr. Punch smiled.

“There it is.” Robert nodded.

Mr. Punch shrugged. “Couldn’t help me-self. The idea! Why, I never though anyone’d think I was handsome. But, I keep forgettin’ that I don’t look like Mr. Punch no more. I got Julian’s face, and he’s a fine enough lookin’ fella, even if he is a bit pale.”

“I wouldn’t wish to change either of you.” Robert said softly.

A man in a plain white mask which covered his entire face bumped into Robert.

“Pardon me,” the man coughed as he hurried off.

“Huh.” Mr. Punch grunted.

“I see some people have started their celebration earlier than others,” Robert sighed.

Mr. Punch squinted behind his mask.

“What is it, Punch?” Robert asked.

“Nothin’,” Punch shook Julian’s head. “Only that fella…did you smell him?”

“I can’t say that I did.” Robert smiled, “And, by your expression, I count myself lucky that I didn’t.”

“He smelled familiar, that one. Like lemons and honey over spirits.”

“I’m sure that describes most of the people here.” Robert chuckled. He craned his neck. “I see no sign of Iolanthe. Unless she’s been very clever with her costume, I don’t think she’s here.”

“Let’s go to the window, then.” Mr. Punch nodded.

Robert and Mr. Punch walked to the rear wall of the ballroom which featured three grand archways of startling height. On the massive sill of the central arch, a candelabra flickered brightly. As was their signal, Robert moved the candelabra from the center of the sill to the right. Cecil had agreed that that was how Robert would let him know if Iolanthe had not arrived.

“When we see her, we move it to the left? Is that it?” Mr. Punch asked.

“Yes,” Robert nodded.

“And, they can see it from where they are?”

“Look,” Robert motioned with his chin. “The carriage just beyond the fountain. That’s they.”

“What do we do now?” Mr. Punch asked.

“We attempt to look as if we want to be here, and we try to remain inconspicuous.”

Meanwhile, in one of the museum’s exhibit wings, Arthur rushed to meet Ulrika. He sweated beneath his stiff white mask. He spotted Ulrika amongst a Biblical scene. She was standing next to a figure of Mary Magdalene.

“He’s here.” Arthur panted. “With the doctor.”

“Well done, Arthur,” Ulrika grinned. “Now, off to work with you.”

“Now?” Arthur asked.

“Yes.” Ulrika spat. “Won’t it be tragic, really, when Lord Fallbridge, pardon me—the Duke of Fallbridge, commits suicide right here at the masquerade ball? That ought to make an interesting start to 1853. And, certainly, a most profitable one for us.”

Did you miss Chapters 1-141?  If so, you can read them here.