A Recipe for Punch, Chapter 7

Chapter 7
Take it Down




"Your Grace,"  Charles knocked, "Pardon me, however, we thought you might like to change from your walking clothes for tea."

"Right,"  Mr. Punch nodded.

Gerard followed Charles into the suite of rooms which Punch and Robert shared.

"You've come for me, too, I see."  Robert smiled.

"Yes, Your Lordship."  Gerard nodded.

"Very well."  Robert obliged.

"It were Mr. Jackson what told us we should come and do this."  Gerard confessed.  "I told 'im at home the masters dress for dinner, but wear whatever they're wearin' for tea, bit he said..."

"I know what he said, Gerry."  Punch sighed.  

"It does seem a little unnecessary to change for tea."  Robert laughed.  "I've become accustomed to our many changes of clothes throughout the day, but adding one more seems just a tad superfluous, especially in the country."

"We may be in the country, Chum,"  Punch shook his head as he loosened his cravat, "but, Fallbridge Hall is not the usual country house.  Jackson is still operating under the guidelines of the Duchess of Fallbridge, he is."

"Only, it's your house, Your Grace."  Gerard smiled.

Punch looked across the room at a portrait of the late Duchess.  "Because I got breath in me lungs, it is.  But, only then, just barely."

"We'll oblige Jackson this once just to show him we're not completely savage, but I don't see..."  Robert paused, noticing a grimace pass across Gerard's face.

"What is it, Gerard?"  Robert asked.

"It's nothin', Your Lordship."

"No, no."  Punch stepped forward.  "Somethin's troublin' you?"

"Go on, Gerry."  Charles said.

"I don't know if I 'eard 'im right."  Gerard replied.  "If I could be sure, I'd 'ave wrung his neck."

"Who?"

"Gregory."  Gerard answered.

"Who is that?"  Robert shook his head.

"One of the footmen."  Punch answered.  "The bulky one what looks better suited to workin'  at the docks."

"Ah."  Robert nodded.  "What did he say?"

"When we passed through the servants' hall earlier and Mr. Jackson 'suggested' that we come up here, Gregory seemed to make some wisecrack to that brittle, old lady's maid about Gerard and Gamilla."  Charles answered.

"What did he say?"

"We didn't quite hear 'em, but if it's what it sounded like, I'd care not to repeat it."  Gerard replied.

"This won't do at all."  Robert said angrily.

"I'm tryin' to give 'em the benefit o' the doubt."  Gerard answered.  "Your Lordship, you know me--I got a quick temper, and it's taken me a long time to tame it.  I can't afford to let me-self go back to them ways o' actin' rash."

"Quite right."  Robert replied thoughtfully.

"It's best you told us."  Punch nodded.  "If you hear anything like it again, or anything you think might be like it, ya come to me or Lord Colinshire, please.  Understand?"

"Yes, Your Grace."  Gerard said.

Punch glanced up again at the portrait of the late Duchess.  He snorted and pointed at it.  "Charlie, can you reach that?"

"The painting, Your Grace?"

"Yes."

"I can."  Charles nodded.

"Take it down, please."


Did you miss Chapters 1-6 of A Recipe for Punch?  If so, you can read them here.  Come back tomorrow for Chapter 8.  

Mr. Punch of Belgrave Square, Chapter 7

Chapter 7:

An Inevitable Invitation

Dr. Halifax paused in the corridor outside of the Drawing Room.  Leaning on the banister, he peered over the edge at the soft curve of the monumental staircase which elegantly wound up through the center of the Belgrave Square mansion.  He took a deep breath, and from his coat pocket, removed the letter that he had received from his brother in Louisiana.

To be sure, the letter was intended both for Robert as well as Mr. Punch/The Duke.  However, tucked within the envelope was a separate note from the doctor’s brother, Cecil.  In it, Cecil compelled Robert to think about what they had discussed before he and the Duke departed for England.

Robert sniffed, blinking his eyes rapidly, he recalled the private moment that he and Cecil had shared—two brothers, trying to find the words to properly convey their emotions.  Amidst the usual uncomfortable grunts and declarations that it was “too, too bad that they’d be separated yet again,” Cecil had suggested that Robert write the book he’d always discussed.

As a physician, Robert had longed to write a tome which would somehow prove helpful to other people.  However, he’d always believed that the book should have a specific subject.  He’d always planned to pen such a manuscript—some great researched work which might allow him to have a permanent place in the pantheon of medical geniuses.  Yet, the subject had always eluded him.

“Why not write about Mr. Punch?”  Cecil had suggested.

At first, Robert was annoyed by his brother’s suggestion and ended the conversation abruptly.  “Cecil, we’re about to part again—perhaps forever—I don’t wish you argue with you, but you know very well that I cannot betray the intimacy that His Grace and I share by exposing his…his…situation in such a way.”

“Situation?”  Cecil had grinned.  “It’s an illness.  There’s no harm in saying so.  It’s an illness like any other.  The man—as much as we love him—isn’t the same as the rest of us.  He’s ill.  You could truly help others like him by chronicling his experience.”

“I can help others without exposing him so.”  Robert had replied.

“Do you remember what we endured when Mother was ill?”  Cecil had asked plainly.

“How could you possibly ask me that?  Of course, I remember!”  Robert snapped.  “I was the one who cared for her while…”

“While I was off working?  Trying to repay our blackguard father’s monumental debts?”  Cecil frowned.

“I’m not criticizing you.”  Robert had answered.

“I know.”  Cecil shook his head.  “However, had we had some sort of idea what troubled mother, what caused her to plunge into such fits of melancholy, to rise into such episodes of mad behavior, we might have been able to help her.  Had there been a book, some information which could have helped…”

“Mr. Punch doesn’t suffer from the same affliction that mother did.”  Robert had grunted.

“No.”  Cecil sighed.  “He does not.  However, do you think he’s alone in this?  Do you think he’s the only man or woman in the world who has another entity or entities living inside of him?  Certainly not!  Punch is fortunate.  You love him for what he is.  But, what of the others like him—those who don’t have the luxury and wealth that the Duke has.  Those who are forced to go into the world in order to survive, those who have no one like you to look after them.”

“You make him sound as if he’s an invalid.  He’s not.”

“I know that!”  Cecil had snapped.  “I’ve lived with the man lo these many weeks.  Haven’t I?  But, he’s quite lucky to have had us to help him.  This isn’t only about His Grace regardless.  It’s about the others who are less fortunate.  Through research, you could help them.  By writing of the Duke’s struggle you could possibly aid thousands.”

Robert had nodded.  “I understand.”

“Dear brother, I don’t wish to part on this note.”  Cecil smiled.

“Nor do I…”  Robert had smiled, embracing his brother.

During their voyage, Robert had neatly tucked the memory away , however, Cecil’s letters reminded him.  Robert knew that, in many ways, his brother was correct.  However, he hesitated to mention it to Mr. Punch.  Their return to England had gone surprisingly smoothly.  With the help of Jackson, the butler at Fallbridge Hall, the house at No. 65 Belgrave Square had been opened and staffed without a hitch.  Mr. Punch/The Duke had settled in with their son without too much turmoil and the man seemed quite content.  Robert didn’t dare disturb the peace of the household—especially since it was the first quiet and content they had shared in months.  Their time in New Orleans had been heavy with one despair after another.  Robert couldn’t take away their newfound happiness with such a suggestion.

And, yet…the thought preyed upon him each day.

Folding the letter again, Robert tucked it into his pocket.  He peered over the banister once more.  On the floor below, he could see Gerard carrying a newly polished set of candelabra into the library.  Gerard looked up and noticed the doctor.  He smiled.

“Good morning, Gerard.”  Robert retuned the smile.

Taking another deep breath, Robert shook his head.   “No,” he thought to himself.  “I cannot disturb our comfort for this.”

He headed for the door to the Drawing Room, and just as his hand touched the ornate bronze door handle, he heard the familiar, light voice of Speaight.

“Sir,” Speaight nodded, extending a small silver salver.  “Today’s post.”

“Thank you,”  Robert smiled, talking the small stack of letters. 

“Will you or His Grace require anything?”  Speaight asked.

“No, I don’t think so.”  Robert shook his head.  “Master Colin is upstairs with Miss Barrett.  His Grace is here with Dog Toby.  I think we should be just fine for awhile.”

Speaight nodded and silently retreated as Robert entered the Drawing Room.

“Chum!”  Mr. Punch chirped happily.

Dressed in a fine deep blue suit, cream-colored silk waistcoat and  emerald green cravat fastened with a peridot pin, the Duke sat on the floor beneath the japanned center table.  Dog Toby was with him—the canine flat on his back with his legs extended into the air.  Mr. Punch vigorously scratched the dog’s belly—much to Dog Toby’s delight.

“Good morning, dear Punch,” Robert smiled.

“I didn’t hear you this morning.  You got up terrible early.  Couldn’t you sleep, chum?”

“I slept quite well.”  Robert winked.  “However, I had a patient to attend to this morning.”

“You already been out, have ya?”  Punch nodded.  “Coo!  I’d not want to be a doctor if I’d have to get up with the pigs.”  He paused and squinted.  “Is that somethin’ people say?”

“More or less.”  Robert chuckled.

“Are there pigs in the City of Westminster?”

“A good many, I’d guess.”  Robert laughed.  “But, mostly in Parliament.”

“Ha!”  Punch guffawed.  “Funny.”  He rolled over and came out from beneath the table.  

“What ya got there?  Presents?”

“Not exactly.  It’s the morning post.  Speaight gave it to me as I came in.”

“Oh,” Mr. Punch frowned.  “And, here I was hopin’ for presents.”

“Well,”  Robert winked again, reaching into his pocket.  “I did stop at a barrow in Covent Garden this morning.”  From his pocket, he removed a small tin, wind-up toy in the shape of Mr. Punch—the famed puppet, not the Duke himself.

Punch’s eyes widened with palpable delight.  “For me?”

“For you.”  Robert smiled affectionately.  “But, perhaps you’ll share it with Colin.”

“Course!”  Punch whopped.  “Oh, ain’t he wonderful?  Thank you so much!”

“My pleasure,” Robert nodded, patting Punch’s shoulder.

Mr. Punch wound up the toy and watched its clockwork mechanism scoot the thing across the highly polished floor of the Drawing Room.  He giggled wildly.

Robert flipped through the post.

“Anythin’ good?”  Mr. Punch asked, looking up for a moment from his happy enterprise.

“Mostly bills.”  Robert sighed.  “Haberdasher, milliner, uniforms for the staff…oh…” He paused.

“What is it?”

“A letter for you.”  Robert answered slowly.

“From America?”  Punch asked eagerly and hopefully, standing up and placing his new toy gently on the table.  “Here, you never did show me the letter what we got from Cecil yesterday.”

“Oh…”  Robert mumbled.  “This isn’t from America.  This is from the palace.”

Mr. Punch’s face went pale.  “The palace?  Which palace?”

“You know which palace.”  Robert smiled.

“There’s a lot of ‘em ‘round these parts.”  Punch muttered.

“Buckingham Palace.”  Robert replied, handing the letter to Mr. Punch.

“Think maybe it’s just a ‘how are things on Belgrave Square’ letter from Queen Victoria?”  Punch asked cautiously.

“I doubt it.  It’s from the desk of the Prince Consort.  And, as we know, Prince Albert is not given to random inquiries about our general well-being.”

“Didn’t think so,”  Punch sighed.  He handed the letter back to Robert.  “You open it.”

Robert took a paper knife from the center table and sliced open the letter, carefully preserving the wax seal since he knew that Punch liked to collect them.

“Go on…”  Punch nodded.

Robert read the missive.

“Well?”  Punch asked nervously.

“The Prince Consort has requested that you meet with him at the palace tomorrow morning.”

“Here, what for?”  Mr. Punch asked.

“It doesn’t say.  However, I’m sure he wishes for you to begin on a new project for him.”

Mr. Punch shook his head nervously.  “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can, dear Punch.  And, furthermore, you must.  This is not an optional request.  When Prince Albert calls for you, you must attend.”

“But…”

“Now,” Robert held up his hand.  “I know what you’re going to say, but, I can’t agree.  I’ve seen the drawings you’ve been working on.”

“You have?”  Punch’s eyes widened.

“Well, of course, I have.  You should know by now that I’ve been looking over your shoulder.  Dear Punch, you’ve somehow absorbed Julian’s talent.  Your designs are brilliant.  You may be Mr. Punch, but you have the Duke of Fallbridge’s knack for design.  Should any of those sketches be produced by any of Julian’s goldsmith’s, the result would be some truly exceptional jewels.”

“You think so?  Really?”

“I assure you, they’re exquisite.”

“Coo!”  Mr. Punch chirped.  “Who knew I had it in me?”

“I did.”  Robert put his arm around Punch’s shoulders.  “And, furthermore, Julian did.  Though he may not be willing to come out and live with the rest of us, he’s been guiding you from within.  I see it in your work.  It’s as good or better than the pieces of the Duke’s which I saw displayed at the 1851 Exhibition.”

“Thank you.”  Punch blushed.

“My dear, Julian trusts you to live life for him, and he’s right to do so.  You are very capable of anything you put your mind toward.”

“I’m scared.”  Mr. Punch shook his head.  “Prince Albert—he’s gonna know I ain’t the same fella what he saw last year.”

“You can do it.”  Robert replied.

“I can if you come with me.”  Mr. Punch’s eyes widened. 

“The invitation was only for you.  Not for me.”

“You’ve gotta come!”  Punch said quickly.  “I can’t see him without you!”

Did you miss Chapters 1-6?  If so, you can read them here.  Come back Tuesday, for Chapter 8 of Mr. Punch of Belgrave Square. 

Punch's Cousin, Chapter 7

Comfortably guarded once again by the familiar fortress of his own rooms, free of his wet clothes and even more blissfully liberated from Arthur, Julian sat in the purple velvet chair by the fireplace in his study. He hadn’t bothered to ask Arthur to light any of the lamps, nor had the footman volunteered to do so. Julian didn’t mind. The light of the fire was enough for him.


In his left hand he held up the little brass bell. The firelight flickered and ricocheted against both the bell and the diamond ring on Julian’s index finger. One pleased Julian, the other did not. Julian tinkled the little bell. The motion sent flashes of color darting from the diamond. Julian remembered his lost dream. Not too much time had passed since he had been seated at his table in his townhouse in Belgrave Square—diamonds, all shapes and sizes, spread out in front of him on an aubergine velvet cloth. Perhaps again…one day…

Julian let his hand fall into his lap—the sound of the bell muffled in the folds of his sapphire blue silk dressing gown.

“Punch, old friend, how did you do it?” Julian mumbled. “How did you find the courage to be free?”

Julian chuckled to himself. A puppet—cloth and papier mache and wax, legless, no breath, no heart, no…

“No.” Julian shook his head. “Yet, it is far freer than I.”

Julian felt dizzy. He knew he’d best change for dinner. The Duchess of Fallbridge would not look kindly on tardiness to yet another meal. Besides, she’d expect an update on the search for Barbara. Would she be pleased that he had already planned to sail for America? No doubt she already knew of his intentions. If Jackson hadn’t mentioned that Julian had requested the schedule for RMS Hyperion—the new Cunard ship—then certainly Arthur had already reported all that they’d discovered.

Julian was startled by the chiming of the clock on the mantle. He had an hour before dinner. He rose and walked into his bedroom. Pausing in front of the gilt pier mirror he studied himself, using his fingers to brush his chestnut hair over the welt on his forehead. He tilted his head upward to study his throat. Two small plum-sized bruises were beginning to rise on either side of his neck, bruises the size of punch’s club-like, cold, little hands.

Walking to his wardrobe to select a cravat, an idea settled in Julian’s brain and he turned quickly on his heel. Walking quickly, his dressing gown fluttering around the legs of his trousers, Julian hurried into the passage and stealthily made his way toward his sister’s room. He entered without knocking, thinking that surely the room would be empty.

It, however, wasn’t.

“Mary,” Julian began, “I’m terribly sorry.”

“S’all right, Sir.” Mary answered quickly, rising from where she sat on Barbara’s bed. The young housemaid—who also served as Barbara’s lady’s maid—swiped at her face with her pink hands, leaving shining wet patches on her ruddy skin where just seconds before tears had stung her young expression.

“Please don’t tell Her Grace you caught me here. No use having her think me idle, if you’ll pardon my asking, Sir.” Mary said in a whisper.

“No matter, Mary.” Julian responded gently.

“We’re all, I think, quite distraught at Lady Barbara’s unexpected departure.”

“Yes, Sir.” Mary said.

“It was unexpected, wasn’t it?” Julian asked softly.

“Yes.”

“She didn’t mention her plans to you?” Julian asked.

“No, Sir. Only…”

“Only?”

“Well, sir, she did tell me not to lay out her tea dress for her and she dismissed me ever so…” The girl’s voice trailed off.

“I understand.” Julian said. “Listen, Mary, perhaps you can assist me. I came here hoping to get a sense of what Barbara might have taken with her.”

“Nothing is out of place, Sir.” Mary said. “I was just looking myself. All her clothes and things are just where they ought to be.”

“Peculiar.” Julian nodded. “Though I’m sure she’s made arrangements for other articles. I can’t imagine my sister not having a full wardrobe at her disposal. I can’t imagine that she’d have been able to carry a trunk and baggage out of the Hall on her own especially with any discretion.”

“No, Sir.” Mary sniffed.

“So, you say nothing is missing?”

“Well, Sir…your Lordship…” The tears began to swell in Mary’s eyes again.

“Her jewel casket…”

“I see.” Julian nodded.

“I didn’t take it, Sir.” Mary sobbed.

“No one said you did.” Julian answered soothingly.

“Only Her Grace will think that maybe I…”

“No.” Julian shook his head. “Don’t fret, girl. The Duchess will think no such thing. It only makes sense that Lady Barbara would take her jewels.”

Mary sighed. “I’d best go tend to the grates in Her Grace’s chambers less Mrs. Foster find out that I’m not keeping to the schedule, Sir.”

“We wouldn’t want that. Run along and don’t worry about a thing. We’ll find Lady Barbara and bring her home.” Julian smiled.

“Thank you ever so much, Lord Fallbridge. I suspect you’re about the only person in the ‘ouse who’s so understanding, Sir.”

“Not at all.”

Mary flitted toward the chamber door.

“Sir,” She paused, “You won’t mention to Mrs. Foster, either?”

“No, Mary.” Julian shook his head.

“Oh, thank you, Sir.” Mary bowed her head, and, then, exited quickly.

“I have no more desire to speak to Mrs. Foster than I do anyone else.” Julian muttered to himself.

In fact, he could only think of two occasions in the last year that he’d said a word to the Mrs. Foster, the Housekeeper. She was nearly, but not quite, as disagreeable as his mother. Perhaps that’s why the two got along so well. They shared some mutual dyspepsia that knew no borders of class or station.

Julian spent a good quarter of an hour looking around his sister’s room. He found nothing out of the ordinary except, as Mary had reported, Barbara’s jewel case had been removed.

As he exited his sister’s chamber, he was not surprised to find Arthur lurking outside the door.

“Lord Fallbridge,” Arthur grinned.

“Her Grace wishes to see me before dinner. Isn’t that right, Arthur?” Julian said with no expression.

Arthur smiled broadly. “Yes, sir. And, Jackson left the schedule for the Hyperion on your desk.”

“Thank you.” Julian nodded, heading up the passage.

“I’ll help you dress, Sir.” Arthur followed.

“Not necessary.” Julian shook his head as he walked. “Thank you.”

Once inside his study, Julian leaned against the door for a moment and breathed deeply to try to calm the racing of his heart.

On his desk, he saw papers that hadn’t been there when he left. Most likely, Jackson’s report on the sailing of the Hyperion, Julian thought.

He was partially correct. There was one other page…a pink-hued leaf. A bold, deliberate hand of blood-red ink which made Julian gulp.

Master,


Bells sound out her pain.


Find me now or I’ll be lost,


In the sugar cane.


--Punch

“Perhaps, you’re not as free as I thought,” Julian mumbled, his hand shaking. “Perhaps no one really is…”



Did you miss Chapters 1-6? If so, you can read them here.