A Recipe for Punch, Chapter 41

Chapter 41

Friends

"Honey,"  Gamilla took Gerard's arm, "I just need a little air.  Can you walk Ethel back to the nursery?"

"What's wrong, Love?"  Gerard leaned in.

"Are you feelin' flutters, Gamilla?"  Ethel asked.

"Just a bit."  Gamilla smiled.  "I only wanna walk the passage and open a window for some air."

"You can do that in the nursery."  Gerard said.

"And, chill the baby?"  Gamilla shook her head.

"I'll go with ya, then, Love."  Gerard said.

"No, Honey."  Gamilla shook her head.  "I'd rather ya walk Ethel back.  After all, she's carryin' some valuable treasure."  She patted Colin's head.  "And you can warm the bed for me.  I won't be long."

"I just don't like the idea o' ya bein' alone."  Gerard began.

"Ain't no harm gonna come to me, Honey."  Gamilla smiled.

"I 'spose she would know, Gerry."  Ethel laughed.  "What with her gift an' all."

Gerard shot Ethel a warning look.

"Oh,"  Ethel teased.  "Mr. Gurney, let the missus get some air.  You heard His Grace.  Mr. Jackson ain't even in the house.  Miss Morgana's gone to bed, and she's not meant to be any harm to us, we're told.  The rest o' the staff 'ere is strange, but, I don't think they'd hurt a body."

"Very well."  Gerard nodded.  "Be quick, Love.  I don't like bein' 'way from ya, Love."

"I'll be as quick as the wind, Honey."  Gamilla nodded.

"Come, Ethel."  Gerard inhaled.  "Let's get Master Colin to his bed and see if Dog Toby's not too worried."  He turned to Gamilla.  "Do hurry, Love."

"Just want to calm my stomach, Gerry.  Won't be long."  Gamilla nodded.

With that, Gamilla walked to the end of the passage, cranking open a portion of the tall, stained glass window.  The section which opened contained a painted panel of a fool in a diamond.  Gamilla shook her head and inhaled deeply of the cool air.  Looking over her shoulder to see that Gerard and Ethel had gone into the nursery, she took another deep breath and hurried around the corner.

"Oh, this damn house."  She grumbled as she followed the angled maze of marble passages.  "Where is the Vermillion Room?  I got Malachite whatever that is, and Lapis and Topaz...damn, damn house."

Thankfully, some former Duke of Duchess of Fallbridge had thoughtfully had small bronze plaques with the name of each suite placed on the upon the ornate cornice of each entrance.  Certainly it hadn't been Pauline, she'd never have thought of something so convenient.

Gamilla followed her senses and stopped at a heavily-carved archway.  She looked up.  "The Vermillion Suite."

She took a deep breath and then exhaled, knowing that she had to see what sort of spirits surrounded the poor, deformed woman.

Knocking softly, she whispered.  "Miss Morgana."

"Who...who...is it?"  Morgana's frightened voice answered.

"Miss Morgana, it is I, Mrs. Gurney, the governess."

"Mrs. Gurney?"  Morgana answered.

"May I come in?"  Gamilla asked.

"Why?"

"I want for to meet ya."  Gamilla replied.

"Why?"

"Because I care for His Grace, His Lordship and Her Ladyship and I look after young Master Colin.  I known His Grace for a long time and though he's my employer, he's my friend as are his companion and his sister.  When I was married to Mr. Gurney, it was the family what gave us the wedding.  His Grace walked me down the aisle to my groom.  You're His Grace's kin and I wish to welcome ya proper."  Gamilla answered.

There was a long silence.

"Miss Morgana?"

"You...you may come in."

Gamilla slowly entered the room.

Morgana sat in the middle of the bed, covered in crimson silk sheets and pillows.  She gasped upon seeing Gamilla.  "You...you're...you're so beautiful.  Your skin...your skin...is...so beautiful...so pretty.  Like wet mud...fresh, wet mud...right after the rain."  She paused.  "I mean that to be nice."

"I know you do."  Gamilla smiled.

"There was a...there was an...African man...in the curiosities show.  Only, only, he had no legs.  You're the first beautiful one I ever saw."  Morgana continued.  "You...you are married?"

"I am.  To Mr. Gurney.  You met him.  He is His Lordship's valet.  He's the blond man from Australia."

"Oh, he is very nice."  Morgana nodded.  "He carried The Jar of Heads for me."

"He is very nice, thank you."

"You are so pretty."  Morgana repeated.  "Thank you for coming to see me."

"Miss Morgana, if you ever need help with anything, or have questions, you can find me in the nursery.  I hope you will come and talk with me."

"The nursery is where...is where...where the baby is?"

"Yes."

"How did two men have a baby?"

"They adopted him."  Gamilla smiled.

"Oh, yes...they said that."  Morgana nodded.  "Will they let me see the baby?"

"You should ask His Grace, but I think he would say that you can.  Still, if you need me, come to the nursery and I will come out to speak with you."

"You are kind."  Morgana nodded.  She looked down.  "Do...do you know what's under the pillows?"

"Your body."

Morgana nodded.  She shuffled off the pillows and held up her pincers.

Gamilla smiled.

"Do...do...they...scare  you."

"No."  Gamilla shook her head.

"No?"

"Why should they?"

"You're pretty in other ways, too.  You're pretty all around you.  Inside and out.  Some people are...pretty outside, but not pretty in their heart."  Morgana smiled.

"Thank you."  Gamilla smiled.  "I can think of a woman who was like that.  A woman who was pretty on the outside, but inside was very mean and cruel."

"Who?"

Gamilla pointed to a portrait on the wall.  "Do you know who that is?"

"The woman with my face."  Morgana nodded.  "My sister."

"Did you know her, Miss Morgana?"

"No."  Morgana shook her head.  "Will you tell me of her?  Miss Blessum has told me of her, as has Mr. Jackson, but...but...but their tales stink of lies."

"I will tell you."  Gamilla replied.  "And, I will tell you the truth of her.  What I know if it.  Then, I will tell you something which you and I must face together--as friends."

"Friends?"

"We are friends, Miss Morgana."  Gamilla nodded.

"I'm so glad."

"I am, too."  Gamilla smiled.

Did you miss Chapters 1-42 of A Recipe for Punch?  If so, you can read them here.  Come back tomorrow for Chapter 43.

Mr. Punch of Belgrave Square, Chapter 41

Chapter 41:

Gone to Ice

“It’s still cold in here.  Feel like my blood has gone to ice.” Mr. Punch whispered to Robert, alone with his companion in the Red and Blue Chinese Luncheon Room of Buckingham Palace.  “I’ll say that Mr. Blore’s new East façade is a sight better than what it was, but I thought Prince Albert had solved the problems in the state rooms.”

“Clearly not,” Robert replied softly, also shivering.  “The smell is a bit overpowering, too.”

Mr. Punch frowned.  “I remember the first time I came here.”

“Oh?”  Robert whispered.

“Sure,” Punch nodded, letting his “Julian” voice fade for a moment since they were alone.  “It weren’t me, of course.  It were still Julian.  Only I remember this room being cold, then, too.  It were just when Mr. Cubitt were finishin’ the central quadrangle and Mr. Blore were plunderin’ Brighton Pavilion—draggin’ all them oriental fittin’s from over there to here.  I remember Julian thinkin’ that it were odd that Her Majesty would wish for anything what reminded her of George IV in this place, but here it is—this room.  It’s straight from Brighton, it is.”

“It doesn’t really match anything else.” Robert replied softly, grinning.

“Oh.  Look ‘round.  There’s bits of Brighton all over this place.”

“It’s not an unattractive room, but it does rather put me in mind of George IV.”

“That’s because it’s all his things in here.  Even the walls, I think.” Punch pointed to the ceiling.  “And, them queer shallow domes.  Smelled like the inside of a chamber pot when I…well, Julian…were here that first time, and it does a bit now.”

“You’re correct,”  Robert looked around.  “We’ve been waiting an awfully long time.” Robert sighed.  “I thought Germans were meant to be punctual.”

“Aw, who knows what His Majesty is about?”  Punch studied his companion.  “How are you?”

“Much better than yesterday.”  Robert grinned.  “Thank you.  And, again, I’m terribly sorry that I spent all of that time shouting.”

“You was angry, you were.  And, I don’t blame you a lick.  Were awful what the William Stover bloke done to ya.  But, I know he won’t do it ‘gain.  He won’t be botherin’ us.”

“How can you be so sure?” Robert sighed.

“Just sure, I am.” Punch winked.

Suddenly, the main entrance swung open and a footman in very fine livery entered.  “His Majesty, Prince Albert.”

Punch and Robert rose.  Making sure he looked the part, Punch stiffened his back and arranged his face into an expression which almost resembled the look of cautious detachment that Julian was known to wear.

“Fallbridge,” Prince Albert barked.  “Dr. Halifax.  Pardon my tardiness.”

“Your Majesty,” Punch bowed his head.  “We are at your service.”

“Sit.” Prince Albert pointed to the round, cloth-covered table in the center of the room.

Robert and Punch waited for Prince Albert to sit before taking to their own chairs. 

Prince Albert snapped his fingers and as if from nowhere, half a dozen footmen appeared carrying domed trays. 

“Have you my drawings?” The Prince Consort asked.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Mr. Punch nodded, removing a leather folder—bound in ribbon—from the inside pocket of his court coat.

Prince Albert took the parcel and tossed it onto an empty chair.  “Fine.  I shall look when I have time and send you my thoughts.”

“Very good, Your Majesty.”

Robert noticed that his hands were shaking as he reached for a capered bit of some kind of fish which had been offered him from a tray by one of the footmen.

“Doctor?” Prince Albert smiled.  “You seem nervous.”

“No, Your Majesty.”  Robert smiled.

“Your hands always shake, then?  Not what one wants from a physician!”

“Oh, no, Sir.”  Robert replied in an even voice.  “You see, this being only my second time in the palace, I am not so much nervous as excited.  Hence, my shaking hands.  I am overwhelmed by the beauty of this magnificent palace and by the generosity of Your Majesty.”

“A fitting answer.” Prince Albert smirked.  “You’re well-suited to the always-politic Fallbridge here.”  He narrowed his eyes at Robert.  “You don’t suppose your shaking hands have anything to do with the fact that it’s terribly cold in this room?”

“No, Your Majesty,” Robert replied as cheerfully as possible, not quite sure why Prince Albert appeared to be picking on him.

“You needn’t omit the truth.  The room is cold.  I’m told nothing can be done about it.”

“What a pity,” Mr. Punch said, still speaking as Julian.  “The room is so handsome.”

“This room?  Dear God, Fallbridge, I hope this isn’t your taste.  I’d hate to see what you’ve designed for me if it is.  This abomination stinks of the Queen’s uncle.  It’s all from Brighton, you know?  You can’t imagine what atrocities these walls have seen.”

“Your Majesties will erase anything untoward with your mere presence.”  Punch replied.

“See?  Politic.  Politic as always.”  Prince Albert smirked.  “Now, we eat.”

They consumed their meal—which was, at least, warm—in relative silence.

Finally, Robert found the nerve to speak.  “How is Her Majesty?”

“Heavy with child and quite unhappy about it.” Prince Albert grunted.  “I doubt the skills of her physicians.”

“I’m terribly sorry to hear it, Your Majesty.”  Robert answered.

“Perhaps you should like to have a look at Her Majesty?” Prince Albert asked flatly.  “I am told you’ve experience in birthing.”

“I have, Sir.” Robert nodded.  “If it would please Your Majesties, I would be honored to consult.”

“Yes.” The Prince Consort nodded.  “Perhaps.  We shall see.”

Again, they ate in silence.

“Now,” Prince Albert rose after about twenty minutes.  “Forgive me, but I must take my leave.”

Punch and Robert rose as Prince Albert retrieved the leather-bound drawings from the empty chair.

“Thank you for such a fine meal, Your Majesty.” Mr. Punch said.  “And, also for the extremely fine gift that you sent to me for the anniversary of my birth.”

“We received your letter of thanks.  No further mention is needed.”  Prince Albert nodded.  “Good day, Fallbridge…Doctor.”

“Your Majesty,” Robert bowed.

With that, Prince Albert walked briskly from the room.

And, once again, Robert and Punch were alone in the luncheon room.

“What do we do now?”  Robert asked.  “I haven’t finished.”

“If a footman comes, we leave.  If we’re left alone, we eat.” Punch smiled.

They both sat down again, but not for long as a footman—one that they had not seen before—arrived to escort them from the room.

Silently, Punch and Robert walked to their carriage, climbing inside.

Once Huchinson had steered them through the gates of the palace, Punch and Robert both burst into wild laughter.

“What was that fish?”  Robert asked.

“I got no idea,” Punch howled.  “It smelled of the Thames.  The sauce was good.”

“I barely had three bites.” Robert chuckled.

“We’ll get Mrs. Pepper to make somethin’ for us when we get home, we will.”

“I think we’d best.” Robert nodded.  He paused.  “Dear Punch, you were brilliant again.”

“Eh.” Punch shrugged.

“Do you think His Majesty was serious in having me examine the Queen?”

“Could be.” Punch sighed.  “Who knows what that one thinks?”

The rose in silence for a few moments.  Robert, after awhile, finally spoke, “Thank you, dear Punch.”

“For what?”

“For listening to me all last evening and for introducing me to all of these new things, and…well…”

“Chum, if we thanked one another for all we did, we’d never say nothin’ else.”

Robert grinned as the carriage pulled up the No. 65 Belgrave Square.

“Here,” Punch squinted, looking out the window.  “What’s that on the steps?”

“Pardon?” Robert shook his head, peering out the window.

There, on the steps of their townhouse was what appeared to be a large sack of ruddy rags.

“Bugger!” Punch shouted.

As Punch howled, Robert realized at what they were looking.  It was not a parcel of rags, it was a man—lying on his stomach across several steps.

“It’s a bloke!” Punch snorted, climbing out of the carriage. 

The two hurried to the side of the man.

“He’s dead.” Robert whispered, checking for the man’s pulse.

Punch reached over and turned the man’s head to see William Stover’s face—barely recognizable beneath repeated bloody blows.

Did you miss Chapters 1-40 of Mr. Punch of Belgrave Square?  If so, you can read them here.  Come back on Monday for Chapter 42. 

Punch's Cousin, Chapter 41

Mr. Punch whooped with glee as the cold December rain stung Julian’s face.


“Isn’t it something?” He cheered.

“What’s that, Sir?” Naasir asked, wiping his face as they walked down Royal Street.

“The way these humans feel things.” Punch grinned. “I don’t feel nothin’ like this when I’m on me own. Wicked lot of trouble these bodies, but I gotta say, it’s somethin’ they way they feel.”

“We should take care that His Lordship doesn’t catch cold in this dampness.” Naasir said.

“Don’t you worry,” Punch laughed. “I’m not gonna let anythin’ happen to me master’s body.”

“I hope not, Sir.” Naasir answered.

Punch spun around to look at Naasir, “You wouldn’t be challenging me? Would you?”

“No,” Naasir smiled. “I’m only trying to look after both of you.”

“Well that’s fine, then.” Punch grinned, propelling Julian’s body to walk again.

“Where are we going, Mr. Punch?” Naasir trotted to catch up.

“Thirty-eight Jouet Street.” Punch answered. “That’s what me master and that bugger Arthur found back home. Me master’s sister wrote it in her own hand. That’s where the ‘ogress’ lives.”

“I see.” Naasir said.

“Do you know where that is?” Punch asked.

“No, Sir.” Naasir smiled.

“Well, we’ll find it!” Punch whooted happily. “We’re on an adventure, us two, walking on our legs and such.”

“Yes.” Naasir smiled.

“Never had legs afore I took up residence in Lord Julian.” Punch continued. “Didn’t like ‘em at first. Only know I’m used to ‘em and I must say that they’re right handy things.”

“They can be.” Naasir agreed.

They hurried toward the French Quarter—soaked to the skin.

Naasir shivered.

The Vieux Carré, despite the rain, was a bustle of people—some stumbling, unaware of the downpour and the chill. Others skittered past under umbrellas. A group of Creole men were singing at the top of their lungs, sheltered by a wrought iron balcony lit by gas lamps.

“What a place!” Punch cheered. “Listen to ‘em sing!”

“Let the good times roll.” Naasir smiled. “The Quarter is always alive with gaiety.”

“We can sing better ‘n’ them!” Punch shouted to Naasir, rain drops falling into Julian’s mouth. “Come on! Sing!”

“You begin, Sir.” Naasir laughed.

“In Scarlet Town, where I was born, there was a fair maid dwellin’! Made many a youth cry well-a-day, her name, it was Barbara Allen!” Punch sang with considerable gusto. “Come on, man, sing along!”

“Don’t know the words, Sir.” Naasir chuckled.

“Lot of good you are.” Punch grumbled. “Then, just make some noise! Hum along or somethin’!”

Naasir hummed loudly as Punch sang. “All in the merry month of May when green buds they were swellin', young Jemmye Grove on his deathbed lay for love of Barbara Allen.”

Punch whooped with joy again.

“Here,” he paused, “Them blokes look like they know what’s what. Come on, let’s ask ‘em.” Punch pointed Julian’s finger toward a group of gentleman standing beneath the overhang of a public house.

Punch sauntered up to them with Naasir following quickly behind.

“Evenin’ gents,” Punch grinned.

“Good evening.” One of them responded.

“My man and I are looking for a woman.” Punch continued.

“Who isn’t?” The man laughed, his friends chimed in loudly.

“A particular woman.” Punch laughed, too.

“Where does this lady live, Sir?” The obvious leader of the group asked cheerfully.

“She ain’t no lady, if you know what I’m sayin’.” Punch answered.

“I do, Sir. I do.” The man winked.

The other men guffawed.

“The address is Thirty-Eight Jouet Street.” Punch smiled.

“I should say you’re not looking for a lady.” The man leaned forward. “I see what you’re after. Just over there on the other side of the shops.” He pointed. “Just be careful sure to get out once you’ve had your fun. Never know when one of them witches will stab you in the heart and take your purse!” The laughter of the other men swelled. “All things considered, it’s worth the danger!”

“You’re a lot of help,” Punch nodded happily. “I’m in your debt.”

“Say nothin’ of it.” The man grinned. “If we don’t see you in two hours, we’ll assume you done got your guts spilled.”

“No one’s gonna spill me guts.” Punch laughed. “I ain’t got guts!”

“Son, you got your nose wide open.” The man chuckled. “Best to ya!”

“Good night,” Punch said. “Come, Naasir.”

“I don’t wish to be disagreeable, Sir.” Naasir panted, again, wiping the rainwater from his face. “However, this might not be the kind of place we’d want His Lordship to go.”

“Ah, Julian’s in there doin’ whatever it is he does.” Punch thumped Julian’s chest. “He won’t know what we done or where we been.”

“As you say, Mr. Punch.” Naasir answered nervously.

Punch stopped and opened Julian’s coat. “Look at what I got.” Punch said with considerable pleasure. He withdrew a long knife.

“Where did you get that, Mr. Punch?” Naasir asked, wide-eyed.

“From the sideboard in the dining room.” Punch smiled. “No, it ain’t me master’s guts that are gonna be spilled.

At that very moment, back on Royal Street, Robert grunted awake, coughing, as Meridian entered Lord Julian’s room.

“Julian?” Robert muttered.

“No, Dr. Halifax. It’s jus’ me.” Meridian said merrily

“Ah.” Robert nodded slowly. “Do you know where His Lordship is?”

“Not rightly.” Meridian shook her head as she stirred the fire in the hearth. “He done went out with his man nigh on half an hour ago.”

Robert squinted at the window. “In this rain?”

“Guess they be wantin’ some adventure.” Meridian laughed. “You know how folk get when they come to New Orleans. Ain’t no skin off my back.”

Robert sighed and rose cautiously off the settee. “Do you happen to know of a woman called ‘The Elegant Ogress?’”

“What you wantin’ to know ‘bout her for?” Meridian said sternly, her eyes wide.

“I’m just curious.”

“You don’t want to be messin’ with that one. No, Sir. She’s got that place on Jouet Street where men go in, but sometimes they don’t come out. No, Sir, you don’t want no part of that.”

“Thank you, Meridian.” Robert answered.

He waited for the woman to leave before returning to his room to fetch his coat. “Punch, Punch, Punch, what are you doing?” He muttered as he searched for his boots. “Please, God, let Naasir have the sense to keep that poor man out of harm’s way.”



Did you miss Chapters 1-40? If so, you can read them here.