A Recipe for Punch, Chapter 22

Chapter 22:
A Crime




"Insolent boy, little twit."  Jackson growled as he stormed past George and into his pantry, slamming the door behind him.  "Unsuprising," he continued to mutter.  "The whole lot 'His Grace' carried with him are insolent."  The words, 'His Grace' dripped with acid.

"How dare he?  Barmy Julian." the old man creakily paced his room.  "I've stood at that table for thirty-five years.  Suddenly, I'm not good enough to serve him, his margery, and the bastard girl."

Suddenly, he dropped to his knees.  "Oh, forgive me, Your Grace.  Forgive me!  Your pardon!  Your Grace's pardon!  I know you loathed your mandrake son, but you never knew the girl.  She's part of you, and I should not have said that of her.  Your Grace herself declared Master Julian lost when he was a boy, my contempt for him is just and right, but I should give the girl a fair chance.  Oh, please, please forgive me!"

Without shame, he wept--loudly and sloppily.

From within the silver cupboard where they'd hidden when they heard Mr. Jackson's bony fingers scratching at the door to his pantry, Charles grabbed Violet's trembling hand.  She slowly turned her head and looked at him with wide, frightened eyes.

Violet shook her head, wondering how anyone could dare call the Duke of Fallbridge mad when people such as Jackson existed.

Through the division of the cupboard doors, Charles could see Jackson, still on the floor in an undulating, sobbing heap.

"Oh, Your Grace!"  Jackson looked up.  "It's shameful!  Your son has taken a man into his bed!  Right here in Fallbridge Hall!  They act as if they're married.  Your grandchild is being raised by two midnight spiders, Your Grace.  I saw the child.  He looks like his mother.  I knew at once when I saw him.  He has Lady Barbara's eyes--your eyes.  The Duke calls him his own son, he and his nancy man.  They call him their son.  It sickens me.  It's a crime in the eyes of God!  I've spoken to Mr. Quick about this.  He and I have a scheme.  We'll see to it that God exacts his punishment on those mandrakes, and your will, My Grace, will be done.  How you loathed him--since the moment he opened his mad, little eyes.  He'll suffer for his madness.  I'll see to it."

Within the cupboard, Charles and Violet exchanged looks.  Violet appeared as if she might burst out of the cupboard and grab the old man by the throat, Charles grasped her hand tighter and pulled her backward a bit.  As he did, he brushed against a long, white robe which was hanging on a hook on the back of the cupboard door.  The cloak made a swishing sound as it gently swayed.

Violet gasped.

Mr. Jackson shuddered and heaved, standing up. 

Charles and Violet held their breath, hoping he hadn't heard the noise. 

Brushing the dust from his knees and elbows, he then wiped his face with the backs of his wrinkled hands.  "I don't have  much time, but I must look at you..."  

He walked toward the cupboard.  "But, first, I must make myself presentable."

A knock on the pantry door startled all three of them.

"What is it?"  Jackson barked.

"If you please, Mr. Jackson."  Ivy hissed through the door.

"What is it, Miss Blessum?"  Jackson growled.

"Their cook won't make up the tray."  Ivy whispered.

"What?"  Jackson opened the door.

"I asked her to make up the tray and she won't do it, that Mrs. Pepper."

"Why not?"  Jackson demanded.

"She wanted to know who it was for."  Ivy replied.

"It's not her concern."  Jackson snapped.

"That's what I told her."  Ivy shrugged.  "She said that every morsel of food eaten in this house is her concern and that she doesn't mind making up a tray as long as she knows who it's for.  But, I couldn't very well tell her that it's for..."

"No."  Jackson interrupted quickly.  "You could not."  He shook his head.  "I'll take care of it."

"You've got some dust on you."  Ivy smirked.

"Dust?"  Jackson squinted.

"Dust."  Ivy nodded.  "Got yourself tossed out o' the dining room, did ya?"

"That's enough from you, Miss Blessum.  Return to your duties.  You've things to do while Lady Fallbridge is occupied.  Where's her blonde maid?"

"Dunno.  Probably off with that Italian footman o' the Duke's."  Ivy shrugged.

"Debauched--the whole lot of them."

"You're one to talk."  Ivy laughed.

"Be gone."  Jackson howled.

"Yes, Mr. Jackson.  But, I'll tell you this.  If I don't have a tray to bring to...to her...then it'll be the first night since we brought her home and it'll be on your head."

"Have I ever failed?"

Ivy scowled.  "Just see that you get the tray, Mr. Jackson."


Did you miss Chapters 1-21 of A Recipe for Punch?  If so, you can read them here.  Come back tomorrow for Chapter 23.

Mr. Punch of Belgrave Square, Chapter 22

Chapter 22:

A Way to Ruin

Speaight volunteered to go downstairs to the morning room to offer Lady Constance refreshment while the Duke readied himself for his visitors.  On his way from the Duke’s bedchamber, Speaight narrowed his eyes at Charles, letting the Duke’s valet know that his superior disapproved of the overly-familiar way in which the man had spoken to the master of the house.

Nevertheless, Charles and Gerard stayed behind after Speaight had left.  The two men could sense their master’s panic and, for a moment, both dispensed with the usual protocol and addressed the Duke as their friend.

“I don’t know if this is a good idea for you,” Gerard warned, adding, “Your Grace” to the end of the statement.

Mr. Punch shook his head, glad to be able to speak as himself instead of as Julian, if only for a moment.

“What choice have I got?” he shrugged.

“We could just send them both away.”  Charles suggested.  “That had been your first instinct, Sir.”

“When it was just the man,” Punch nodded.  “He’s an un-titled stranger what just barged into me house, he is.  It’s easy ‘nough to dismiss him, it is.  Only the woman—she’s a lady, the daughter of a Countess, and part of Society.  I know that Countess Hamish, I do.  She’s a talker, that one.  If I send her daughter away without receiving her, that’s all the countess will need to say terrible things ‘bout me—if she ain’t already.  I know they’re talkin’ all over the City of Westminster.  Even Prince Albert himself has heard it.  And, don’t you know, Countess Hamish has spoken a lot of what’s been said?  How can I tell Speaight to send Lady Constance home without her bein’ all hurt and offended and runnin’ to her mum?  Then, won’t she talk?  And, not jus’ ‘bout me, but ‘bout Robert and Colin, too.  We don’t need people wonderin’ where I got Colin.  It’s gonna be hard ‘nough when he grows up and folk start noticin’ he looks an awful lot like a Fallbridge for bein’ adopted.  Don’t you think they already think he’s me sister’s son?  I can’t give folk anymore chances than they already got to gossip by what goes on in this house.”

“But, Sir,” Gerard urged.  “We can simply tell her you’re not able to receive her now and that she could come back another time.  That way, Dr. Halifax can be there, too.”

“Or, we could wake the doctor,” Charles suggested.

“No.”  Mr. Punch sighed.  “Poor man watched ol’ Lord Glencaron breathe his last but a few hours ago.  Let the poor fella sleep.”

“But, sir.”

“I ‘preciate it.  I really do.”  Mr. Punch interrupted.  “Only there’s things what you don’t know.  See, yesterday I got a letter I did—unsigned, it was—statin’ that someone was gonna go to the papers and the Crown and tell ‘em I’m mad.  We can’t ‘ford no more ill words ‘bout this household.  Not now.”

“All the more reason not to see this woman, Your Grace.  And, especially that Victor Geddes.  Maybe he’s the bloke what sent the letter.”

“Dr. Halifax thinks it was Hortence what sent it.”  Mr. Punch whispered.

“She can’t read, Sir.”  Gerard groaned.  “How could she send a letter?”

“With the help of that bloke in the vestibule.”  Charles frowned.  “I’ll throw him out on his ear.”

Mr. Punch smiled at the thought.  But, then, he shook his head.  “I gotta see him.  If he’s gonna threaten me and me family, I gotta see him.  ‘Sides, maybe he’s just some fella what’s come for charity or some such…  We don’t know.”

“Please let me awaken the doctor,” Charles urged again.  “At least let him talk to this Geddes man while you chat with Lady Constance, Your Grace.”

Mr. Punch sighed.  “I can’t.  I’m a man.  I ain’t a puppet no more.  And, what’s more I’m a Duke.  If I can make jewels for the Queen and run a household, I can do this.  I’m the head of this household, I am—whether I want to be or not—and as such, I gotta take care of things what’s difficult.”

“You won’t be convinced otherwise, Sir?”  Gerard asked.

“No.” Mr. Punch smiled.  “But, I truly do ‘preciate that you two fellas is so loyal to me.”

“We owe you everything, Your Grace,” Gerard said softly.

“And, I owe you two a lot, too.” Mr. Punch replied.  “Now, Gerry, how ‘bout you go down and take the Geddes fella into the library less Speaight gets on ya.”

“Yes, Sir.”  Gerard nodded.  “I’ll stay with him until you come down.”

“And, I’ll stand just outside the library door.”  Charles offered.

“Good of ya.  Speaight’s gonna want ya to carry, he is, only, tell ‘im I asked you to guard the door if he asks.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Now, go on, I’ll be down in a tick.”  Punch said.

The two footmen scurried downstairs.

Mr. Punch took a deep breath and studied his reflection in the mirror.

“Look at that chap in the glass, then.” He muttered to himself.  “Looks like a Duke.”  He grunted.  “Feels like a puppet.”  He wandered over to his writing desk and picked up the small porcelain figure of Harlequin which sat on the corner.

“You got a fine life, don’t ya?”  He said to the colorful figurine.  “Just sittin’ there on  your wee porcelain stump—smilin’.  Ain’t got to worry ‘bout nothin’ do ya?  Well, I gotta go talk to folk, I do.  And, I gotta pretend to be me master when all I want to do is…”

Punch grinned, feeling the weight of the figurine in his hand.  “Could just knock ‘em both on the head with ya.”  He snorted.  “Ah—you’d break. Porcelain ain’t no good for hittin’.” Frowning, Mr. Punch set down the figurine.  “Wouldn’t solve nothin’ anyway.”

Exhaling, Punch made his way down the stairs, passing the library door where he waved at Charles who had taken his post.  Down the last remaining flight to the morning room, Punch muttered softly to himself.  “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.”

He paused at the morning room door, fixing his face into his “Julian expression,” and, then, slowly opened it.

Lady Constance stood in the middle of the morning room—dressed in a frothy day gown of pink lace which Punch thought rather clashed with the color of her dull blonde curls.  He disliked her immediately.

“Well, Your Grace, good morning,” Lady Constance cooed.  “I’m terribly sorry to come unannounced, but I was just passing by and I thought, ‘I’m simply dying to see the Duke and what he’s done with Fallbridge House.”

“Good morning, Lady Constance,” Mr. Punch answered with as much enthusiasm as he could muster while still maintaining Julian’s manner of speaking.  “I actually call it Molliner House after my late father, Sir Colin Molliner.”

“Oh, how…loyal.”  She smirked.  “This room is just charming.” Lady Constance continued.

“Thank you,” Punch replied dryly.  “Please, make yourself comfortable.” He gestured as regally as possible to the settee in the center of the room.

“Who did you contract as your decorator?”  Lady Constance asked.

“I did not employ a decorator.”  Punch answered.

“You devised this scheme on your own?”

“Yes.” Mr. Punch nodded, still mimicking Julian.

“How unusual for a man, but your kind are very clever with these things.” 

“My kind, Lady Constance?” Mr. Punch raised an eyebrow, trying his best to maintain his composure.

“Well, I mean, of course, because you’re a jeweler…and artist.  And, then, there’s your people.  As I recall, your late mother, the Duchess, was always so clever with interiors.”  She said quickly.

“Of course,” Mr. Punch answered.

“I do hope I’m not keeping you from anything,” Lady Constance continued.

“Breakfast,” Punch muttered.

“Pardon me?”

“Of course not.” Mr. Punch quickly covered, returning to his Julian voice.  “To what do I owe the honor of your visit, Lady Constance?  Surely you didn’t come just to see the house when your own home must, certainly, be similar.”

“If only it were.  Our house is so drab compared to yours.  I love this scheme.  I may copy it.”

Mr. Punch nodded.

Lady Constance looked slightly pained and terribly uncomfortable.  She took a deep breath. “Well, I do have something I’d like to discuss with you, Your Grace.”

“Yes?”

“Is your…well, I understand that you have a companion.  Is he about?”

“He is not receiving at the moment.”

“Pity. I’d like to meet him.  I hear he’s a very good physician.”

“Yes, he is.  Thank you.”

“You see, I’ve come on something of a mission.”

“Yes, Lady Constance.”

“You and your…friend…have not been to any events this Season.  In fact, no one has hardly seen you at all since you’ve returned.  When we read that you’d visited the Prince Consort, Mother said to me that we should really extend a neighborly invitation to you and Dr. Halifax.  So, we concocted a little scheme, Mother and I.”

“Oh?”

“At the end of this month, we’d like to host a dinner party in your honor.”

“How kind,” Mr. Punch replied.  He glanced around the room quickly and took inventory of all of the things with which he could strike Lady Constance across the skull.  No, he wasn’t actually going to do it, but the idea both comforted and pleased him.  “We’d be delighted.”

“Of course, you’ll receive an official invitation, but as I said, I was passing by and thought I would just love to ask you in person.”

“Certainly.  Thank you, Lady Constance.”

“I must say, you’re looking very well.  I thought, since we hadn’t seen you, that perhaps you were ill.”

“I’m not ill at all.”

“Clearly, though I must say you look different than I remember you.”

“How so?”

“I can’t really say,” Lady Constance responded, looking over the sharp edge of the long, pointed nose which sat crookedly in the center of her pinched, equestrian face.  “You just look different.”

“Time abroad will do that.” Mr. Punch nodded.

“I suppose.”  She rose.  “Well, I won’t keep you any longer.  I’m sure you must have dozens of important duties ahead of you today.  Knowing that you’re so eager to come to our little dinner, Mother and I will finish the guest list today.”

“How wonderful,” Punch replied, rising as well and walking to the bell push, eager to be rid of the woman.  He rang quickly.

“I think we’ll also invite the Baron and Baroness Lensdown.  Do you remember them, Your Grace?”

“I can’t say that I do.” Mr. Punch stopped in his tracks, looking sideways at Lady Constance.  “Not well.”

“I understand that you’ve just taken on their old governess.”  Lady Constance said slyly.

“Ah, yes, of course.”  Mr. Punch nodded, again growing uncomfortable, but trying his best to maintain his impersonation of Julian.

“I’m sure you and the baron will have much to discuss.”

“I have no doubt.” Mr. Punch forced a smile.

He nearly chirped with excitement when Speaight appeared at the door.

“Speaight, will you escort Lady Constance to the door, please?”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Speaight nodded.

Lady Constance looked a little miffed to have had her line of questioning cut short.

“Good day, Lady Constance.  Thank you so much for your visit.” Mr. Punch smiled, this time genuinely relieved.

“Yes.  Good day to you, Your Grace.” The woman responded tersely as Speaight showed her out.

Mr. Punch lingered behind the open morning room door for a moment after glancing up the stairs to the library door where Charles still stood at attention.

“Bugger,” He muttered in his own voice.  “Now I gotta go to a dinner in someone else’s house.  What a queer way to ruin such a fine thing as eating.”

He snorted, shaking his head. 

“Well, that’s done.” He grumbled.  “Now, on to the fella.”

Did you miss Chapters 1-21 of Mr. Punch of Belgrave Square?  If so, you can read them here.  Come back tomorrow for Chapter 23.  

Punch's Cousin, Chapter 22

Julian pressed his lips together and shook his head quickly from side to side. He grunted at Arthur who continued to hold the spoon full of malodorous syrup near Julian’s mouth.


“It won’t be so bad, Sir.” Arthur hissed. “Just a quick couple of swallows and I’ll go and fetch you some chocolates from the dining hall. You like chocolates don’t you, Sir? All nice and sweet…”

“Don’t speak to me as if I were a child.” Julian said, turning abruptly to the wall.

Arthur grabbed Julian by the shoulder and turned him around. The sharpness of the motion frightened Julian and he lost his footing staggering toward the bed.

Julian caught himself on the narrow bed and sat down.

“That’s right, Sir.” Arthur grinned with his bile-yellow teeth. His eyes flashed. “You get some rest. If you don’t want chocolates, I’ve no doubt I can find something else to take the taste out of your mouth.”

The room spun around Julian’s head as Arthur approached. The deep wood of the cabin walls—ebony and maple—twirled into a gentle blackness which bled into Julian’s thoughts. His muscles went limp as the dark flooded into him, absorbing into every fiber of his soul like coffee into bread.

Suddenly, Julian’s body rose. “You won’t get me, Devil.”

“Lord Fallbridge?” Arthur said, stepping backward.

“No, you won’t. I know how you are. You’re one of them devils what eats little boys. I won’t be eaten.” Mr. Punch spoke through Julian.

“Sir?” Arthur said.

Punch made Julian’s arms grab the oil lamp from the table near the bed. He raised it above his head.

“I’ll take the taste from your mouth, footman.” Punch laughed. “All you’ll taste is blood.”

Arthur dropped the spoon which clattered to the floor, sending oily droplets of the fetid mixture to the floor.

The cabin door rattled as Robert Halifax opened it with his key.

“Here!” Robert said, startled. “What is this?”

“This man,” Punch said, “He’s trying to give us some medicine. Something he says you told him to do.”

“I did no such thing.” Robert growled.

“Musta done.” Punch narrowed Julian’s eyes.

“No.” Robert said firmly.

“But, you did, Sir.” Arthur pleaded. “In the passage. You did.”

“Arthur, please leave. I’ll speak with you later.” Robert ordered the man.

Arthur skittered from the cabin like a rat caught in the scullery.

Alone with Julian, and Punch, Robert spoke gently.

“Trying to poison us?” Punch said, still holding the lamp above his head.

“No. I am not.” Robert said, kneeling down to study the unctuous mixture which had splattered on the floor. He put his index finger into its slickness and, then, smelled it. “I’ve no idea what this is.”

“I’m sure that you don’t.” Punch laughed sarcastically.

“Mr. Punch, do put the lamp down. I mean you no harm.” Robert said, taking a step toward the writing desk and sitting in its chair. He picked up a napkin from the tray and wiped his hand. “Let’s have some sandwiches. Shall we?”

Punch put the lamp down on the table by the bed. “You expect me to believe that you and that man aren’t thick? Trying to hurt us.”

“I have no intention of harming you or Julian. Or, anyone else.”

“Why, then, are you here? Why have you made us your mission? For all of your mystery and your tales of murderous whores, you’ve yet to say what has brought you to this ship. Have you come to mislead us? To mistreat us? Perhaps you, Doctor, are the murderous whore. Some ‘Elegant Ogre.’”

“I recognized you on deck. I knew of your sister and her plans. I wanted to help you.” Robert explained calmly.

“So you followed us on the ship?”

“No, Punch. I was making the journey already. My brother, Cecil, lives in New Orleans. His wife just bore him a son. They call him ‘Fuller.’ I am on my way to see my nephew. Our meeting was pure chance. I saw an opportunity to assist you, and I seized it.”

“Your brother.” Punch grumbled. “I suppose he’s a physician, too?”

“No. He’s a sculptor. He creates figures of wax. Effigies such that Madame Tussaud makes. You’ve been to the Baker Street Bazaar, haven’t you? You know the sort of sculptures I mean.”

Punch squinted at the doctor.

“Cecil creates these wax tableaus for an exhibition in New Orleans run by a man named Cage—some pompous oaf from a small town called Marionneaux.” Robert continued.

Punch sat Julian’s body on the bed.

“Hollow men of wax. Men with empty heads like mine once was.” Punch said softly. “My head’s been split, you know. The agony is something horrible.”

“Perhaps my brother can help you.” Robert responded in a gentle voice.

“Pass me one of them sandwiches, will you?” Punch asked.

Robert handed a plate to Punch. “Good. Lord Fallbridge needs his strength.”

“I’m doin’ it for me-self.” Punch said with a mouthful of chopped egg and dark bread.

“I don’t suppose you can send Lord Julian back to me, now?” Robert asked cautiously.

“This isn’t some parlor trick to be brought about at your will!” Punch spat.

“My apologies.” Robert nodded.

“’Sides, you need me right now. Julian isn’t in a way that he can be good to anyone.” Punch continued. “My master is weary. He needs for me to take up the fight.”

“Would you have harmed Arthur?” Robert asked.

“Wouldn’t he have deserved it?” Punch grinned.

“Perhaps.” Robert sighed.

“Presently, that odious valet isn’t our concern.” Punch said, still munching on sandwiches.

“What is?” Robert raised an eyebrow.

“That woman. She’s the one what wants silencing.”

“Which woman?” Mr. Halifax asked.

“The one what caused me to come about in the first place. I guess you could call her my mother.” Punch laughed. “She’s aboard this ship. And, I mean to ensure that her breast fills with the sea.”


Did you miss Chapters 1-21?  If so, you can read them here.