Chapter 82:
Grooming
Mr. Punch smiled as the morning sunlight hit his back and shoulders. The Grange’s cheerful morning room was adorned with the bright, sentimental genre paintings that Sir Colin Molliner had collected throughout his lifetime. Scenes of cherubic maids engaged in domestic tasks, young men wooing their loves, children at play with their canine friends and farm wives preparing luscious meals lined each wall. Sir Colin systematically had replaced the ponderous Flemish still-lives of rotting fruit and rancid game which had long been displayed in that room, and Punch was glad of it.
He sat on the blue, gold and red plaid carpet of the room—cross-legged. Dog Toby lay in front of his master—his fuzzy stomach toward the ceiling and feet extended—as Punch groomed the dog with a stiff brush. This had been their morning routine for quite some time and both master and dog enjoyed the time together. As he brushed the dog, Mr. Punch chattered gaily, describing the paintings in the room for his four-footed chum.
“And, over there is a painting of a lady.” Punch continued. “She’s waitin’ for a letter, she is, and she don’t look so very happy ‘bout havin’ to wait. But, see, in the corner, you can notice her maid. Her maid’s got the letter already and she’s readin’ it her own self. Ain’t very loyal of her.” Mr. Punch smiled. “We’re lucky, we are. We got a loyal staff.”
Punch paused as the door to the room opened. He looked up brightly with wide eyes hoping that it was Robert who was coming in, or, perhaps Gamilla with young Colin. Seeing that it was Finlay who had entered, Punch fixed his face into a more noble expression—the slight smile and wise eyes which he affected whenever trying to imitate Julian. He nodded at the man in the manner which he thought befitted a Duke.
“Good morning, Your Grace.” Finlay nodded as he came into the room.
“Good morning, Finlay.” Punch responded in his finest “Julian” voice.
“If you don’t mind, Sir, I’ve come to start to set the sideboard for breakfast.”
“I don’t mind at all,” Punch smiled.
“I trust Dr. Halifax will be down soon,” Finlay replied, arranging the silver serving pieces.
“Yes. He’s just with Gerard now.” Mr. Punch answered.
Finlay paused. “Sir, I can do that for you.” He pointed to the brush which Punch was using.
“That won’t be necessary, Finlay.” Mr. Punch shook his head.
“Still, Sir. It’s rather beneath your station.”
Mr. Punch squinted. “I don’t think so. Dog Toby and I enjoy the time together.” He wished that it had been Charles or Speaight who had entered—someone who already knew of his “Mr. Punch” side, someone with whom he did not have to pretend.
“As you wish, Sir.” Finlay nodded. “He does seem to be enamored of Your Grace.”
“We’re chums…” Punch chirped. He caught himself and added more seriously. “The dog and I have been very close for quite some time now.”
“How old is he?” Finlay asked.
“I can’t be sure.” Mr. Punch answered. “He’s been with me for a year. He was a gift.”
“From the doctor, Sir?”
“No.” Mr. Punch shook his head. “From a friend that we met in America.”
“Oh?” Finlay smiled.
“A very kind African lady.”
“Gamilla?” Finlay continued.
“Not Gamilla, but someone well known to Gamilla. Her name is Marjani and she’s a very fine lady. She was very good to us. She found Dog Toby and gave him to me.”
“How kind, Sir.” Finlay nodded. “Obviously, the dog is quite content with you.”
“And, I with him.”
“And, if you’ll pardon me sayin’ it, Sir, he’s a most lucky dog.” Finlay grinned.
Mr. Punch blinked rapidly for a moment, narrowing one eye. “Uh…thank you, Finlay.”
“Your Grace?” Finlay began. “Mrs. North told me that you and she had a talk this morning, very early.”
“That’s right.” Punch smiled. “Speaight as well.”
“I’m told that you’ve decided to resurrect the Servants’ Ball.”
“That’s correct. I hope to host the ball next week.” Punch answered.
“How very exciting.” Finlay grinned. “Will it be fancy dress?”
“Yes. That’s what I was thinking.”
“As what will you dress, Sir? No doubt some great handsome figure from history?”
Punch squinted again. “I don’t know that Dr. Halifax and I will don fancy dress. As hosts, I think we’ll come as we are. However, that’s not to say that the rest of you shouldn’t.”
“Oh, Sir. Think of it.” Finlay winked, stepping forward. “You could be anything you wish. Adonis, or Adam, or Bonnie Prince Charlie, or, even Beau Brummell.”
“I think not.” Mr. Punch shook his head. He didn’t wish to look up at Finlay, and, instead focused on brushing the happy dog. “I’ve only worn a costume once. At the end of 1852--at a similar fete while in New Orleans. I don’t care to dress so again.”
“As whom did you dress, Sir?” Finlay asked. “Someone quite dashing, I’m sure.”
“I was Punchinello.” Punch replied plainly. “Dr. Halifax was ‘the Doctor’—you know, from the puppet show.”
“How clever, Sir.” Finlay stepped even closer. “But why would you hide your face behind such grotesquerie?”
“Because, Finlay, grotesquerie is part of life. Every man is inhabited by something grotesque. There’s beauty in it, actually. I am not ashamed to admit that within me is something as magnificently flawed as Punchinello with his hump and great nose and chin. When we allow ourselves to be grotesque, then, and only, then can we be our most attractive.”
“It just seems a shame to me to place perfection in shadow.” Finlay grinned.
“Finlay, no man is perfect—especially not I.” Mr. Punch sighed.
“You are most wise, Your Grace.”
Mr. Punch shrugged. “More so than anything, Finlay, I’m hungry. I trust the doctor will be down momentarily. Perhaps you can see about the progress of breakfast?”
“Certainly, Your Grace.” Finlay nodded.
After Finlay had left the room, Mr. Punch looked at Dog Toby, scratching his belly. “Ain’t that odd? What a strange bloke. What’d you think, Chum?”
The dog rolled over on to his stomach and, lifting his hind quarters in the air, wagged his tail.
“You’re hungry, too, then.” Mr. Punch smiled, forgetting all about Finlay. “Here, let’s go find our chum, then. Maybe we can stop and see Colin on the way. By then, breakfast will be ready.”
Together, Punch and the dog bounded from the room.
From around the corner, Finlay watched as the Duke and Dog Toby sprinted up the monumental staircase.
“Poor, barmy fella.” Finlay muttered. “Thank God you’re as handsome as you are. I don’t think that doctor is takin’ care of you proper. That’s why you need your Finlay.”
Did you miss Chapters 1-81? If so, you can read them here. Come back tomorrow for Chapter 83 of Mr. Punch of Belgrave Square.
Mr. Punch smiled as the morning sunlight hit his back and shoulders. The Grange’s cheerful morning room was adorned with the bright, sentimental genre paintings that Sir Colin Molliner had collected throughout his lifetime. Scenes of cherubic maids engaged in domestic tasks, young men wooing their loves, children at play with their canine friends and farm wives preparing luscious meals lined each wall. Sir Colin systematically had replaced the ponderous Flemish still-lives of rotting fruit and rancid game which had long been displayed in that room, and Punch was glad of it.
He sat on the blue, gold and red plaid carpet of the room—cross-legged. Dog Toby lay in front of his master—his fuzzy stomach toward the ceiling and feet extended—as Punch groomed the dog with a stiff brush. This had been their morning routine for quite some time and both master and dog enjoyed the time together. As he brushed the dog, Mr. Punch chattered gaily, describing the paintings in the room for his four-footed chum.
“And, over there is a painting of a lady.” Punch continued. “She’s waitin’ for a letter, she is, and she don’t look so very happy ‘bout havin’ to wait. But, see, in the corner, you can notice her maid. Her maid’s got the letter already and she’s readin’ it her own self. Ain’t very loyal of her.” Mr. Punch smiled. “We’re lucky, we are. We got a loyal staff.”
Punch paused as the door to the room opened. He looked up brightly with wide eyes hoping that it was Robert who was coming in, or, perhaps Gamilla with young Colin. Seeing that it was Finlay who had entered, Punch fixed his face into a more noble expression—the slight smile and wise eyes which he affected whenever trying to imitate Julian. He nodded at the man in the manner which he thought befitted a Duke.
“Good morning, Your Grace.” Finlay nodded as he came into the room.
“Good morning, Finlay.” Punch responded in his finest “Julian” voice.
“If you don’t mind, Sir, I’ve come to start to set the sideboard for breakfast.”
“I don’t mind at all,” Punch smiled.
“I trust Dr. Halifax will be down soon,” Finlay replied, arranging the silver serving pieces.
“Yes. He’s just with Gerard now.” Mr. Punch answered.
Finlay paused. “Sir, I can do that for you.” He pointed to the brush which Punch was using.
“That won’t be necessary, Finlay.” Mr. Punch shook his head.
“Still, Sir. It’s rather beneath your station.”
Mr. Punch squinted. “I don’t think so. Dog Toby and I enjoy the time together.” He wished that it had been Charles or Speaight who had entered—someone who already knew of his “Mr. Punch” side, someone with whom he did not have to pretend.
“As you wish, Sir.” Finlay nodded. “He does seem to be enamored of Your Grace.”
“We’re chums…” Punch chirped. He caught himself and added more seriously. “The dog and I have been very close for quite some time now.”
“How old is he?” Finlay asked.
“I can’t be sure.” Mr. Punch answered. “He’s been with me for a year. He was a gift.”
“From the doctor, Sir?”
“No.” Mr. Punch shook his head. “From a friend that we met in America.”
“Oh?” Finlay smiled.
“A very kind African lady.”
“Gamilla?” Finlay continued.
“Not Gamilla, but someone well known to Gamilla. Her name is Marjani and she’s a very fine lady. She was very good to us. She found Dog Toby and gave him to me.”
“How kind, Sir.” Finlay nodded. “Obviously, the dog is quite content with you.”
“And, I with him.”
“And, if you’ll pardon me sayin’ it, Sir, he’s a most lucky dog.” Finlay grinned.
Mr. Punch blinked rapidly for a moment, narrowing one eye. “Uh…thank you, Finlay.”
“Your Grace?” Finlay began. “Mrs. North told me that you and she had a talk this morning, very early.”
“That’s right.” Punch smiled. “Speaight as well.”
“I’m told that you’ve decided to resurrect the Servants’ Ball.”
“That’s correct. I hope to host the ball next week.” Punch answered.
“How very exciting.” Finlay grinned. “Will it be fancy dress?”
“Yes. That’s what I was thinking.”
“As what will you dress, Sir? No doubt some great handsome figure from history?”
Punch squinted again. “I don’t know that Dr. Halifax and I will don fancy dress. As hosts, I think we’ll come as we are. However, that’s not to say that the rest of you shouldn’t.”
“Oh, Sir. Think of it.” Finlay winked, stepping forward. “You could be anything you wish. Adonis, or Adam, or Bonnie Prince Charlie, or, even Beau Brummell.”
“I think not.” Mr. Punch shook his head. He didn’t wish to look up at Finlay, and, instead focused on brushing the happy dog. “I’ve only worn a costume once. At the end of 1852--at a similar fete while in New Orleans. I don’t care to dress so again.”
“As whom did you dress, Sir?” Finlay asked. “Someone quite dashing, I’m sure.”
“I was Punchinello.” Punch replied plainly. “Dr. Halifax was ‘the Doctor’—you know, from the puppet show.”
“How clever, Sir.” Finlay stepped even closer. “But why would you hide your face behind such grotesquerie?”
“Because, Finlay, grotesquerie is part of life. Every man is inhabited by something grotesque. There’s beauty in it, actually. I am not ashamed to admit that within me is something as magnificently flawed as Punchinello with his hump and great nose and chin. When we allow ourselves to be grotesque, then, and only, then can we be our most attractive.”
“It just seems a shame to me to place perfection in shadow.” Finlay grinned.
“Finlay, no man is perfect—especially not I.” Mr. Punch sighed.
“You are most wise, Your Grace.”
Mr. Punch shrugged. “More so than anything, Finlay, I’m hungry. I trust the doctor will be down momentarily. Perhaps you can see about the progress of breakfast?”
“Certainly, Your Grace.” Finlay nodded.
After Finlay had left the room, Mr. Punch looked at Dog Toby, scratching his belly. “Ain’t that odd? What a strange bloke. What’d you think, Chum?”
The dog rolled over on to his stomach and, lifting his hind quarters in the air, wagged his tail.
“You’re hungry, too, then.” Mr. Punch smiled, forgetting all about Finlay. “Here, let’s go find our chum, then. Maybe we can stop and see Colin on the way. By then, breakfast will be ready.”
Together, Punch and the dog bounded from the room.
From around the corner, Finlay watched as the Duke and Dog Toby sprinted up the monumental staircase.
“Poor, barmy fella.” Finlay muttered. “Thank God you’re as handsome as you are. I don’t think that doctor is takin’ care of you proper. That’s why you need your Finlay.”
Did you miss Chapters 1-81? If so, you can read them here. Come back tomorrow for Chapter 83 of Mr. Punch of Belgrave Square.
4 comments:
Damn Finlay! He's as much of a bitch as his sister. I thought he was nice but now I hate him too. He'd better keep away from Punch or Robert may really have to kill someone.
Well said, Marsha.
I want Charles to shoot Finlay between the eyes.
That's very specific, Book Gurl.
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