A Recipe for Punch, Chapter 14

Chapter 14:
The Past



With Robert finally napping, Punch sat up and quietly lowered himself from the bed.  He slipped on the soft leather shoes that he typically wore around the house, and secured his velvet dressing gown over his shirt and breeches.

As silently as he could, Punch crept out of the Turquoise Suite and into the labyrinthian passage which, like the rest of the great house, was lined with portraits of Fallbridges past.  He tried not to look at them as he made his way to an all-too-familiar door.

Pausing for a moment, Mr. Punch wondered if he was making the right decision.  What could possibly lie beyond that tall archway which he'd not seen before?  After all, hadn't he already observed--either from Julian's point of view or his own--each corner of those rooms?

Yet, he knew he had to see them again--if only one last time.  They were, as Punch recalled, the only spot in all of Fallbridge Hall, in which he ever, well, in which Julian ever, felt even remotely safe.  Remotely--if at all.  

Inhaling deeply, Punch grasped the tremendous door handle and with a determined push, opened the door whose hinges emitted a pained moan.

Grabbing a candle from one of the torcheres which lined the passage, Punch tensed his shoulders and entered the suite which once had been his home.

Directly in front of him, the monumental fireplace with its pedimented mantel welcomed him.  To its right sat the well-worn aubergine velvet chair in which Julian had lost many unhappy hours.  Just beyond that, in the massive bay of pointed arches was nestled the gilt-wood cabinet.

Ah, the cabinet.

The reliquary which once housed the puppet.

The puppet, Mr. Punch.  From that puppet had grown the Mr. Punch which now lived life for Julian, in Julian's body.

Punch sighed.

The room had been untouched since the day Julian had packed and hurried to The Hyperion to sail for America in search of his sister, Lady Barbara.  The day that his mother, the Duchess sat in the aubergine chair and mocked him for being weak and mad.

What would she say to him now?

What would she say to Lennie?

Or Robert?

How would she react to Colin?

Shaking his head, Punch set the candle down and sat in the chair, scanning the room with his eyes.

It was time, he thought, to bury the past.


Did you miss Chapters 1-13 of A Recipe for Punch?  If so, you can read them here.  Come back on Monday for Chapter 15.

Mr. Punch of Belgrave Square, Chapter 14

Chapter 14:

The Rest of the Stag

Mr. Punch tried very carefully to ensure that he didn’t open his eyes too widely.  After all, Robert had always told him that it was his typical wide-eyed gaze which usually gave him away.  Julian, as Robert explained, didn’t open his eyes that much.  And, so, Mr. Punch attempted to keep his eyelids in a position which would neither give him a countenance of surprise nor, conversely, one of drowsiness.

The two men sat, rather uncomfortably, in a long, narrow corridor in Buckingham Palace.  Mr. Punch didn’t much like the upholstery which lined the soaring walls, but he didn’t dare say anything about it to Robert.  He looked over to his companion mischievously.  Robert stifled a small smile and the two nodded at one another, silently deciding between them to discuss the appointments of the palace’s little-seen, somewhat damp and drafty, apartments privately once they arrived home.

Robert looked around.  For a moment, he couldn’t contain his excitement and a childish grin crept over his face as he considered the reality that he, Robert Halifax of Wimbledon,  was seated not only in Buck House, but in the passage which led to the private rooms of the Prince Consort.  He itched to laugh out loud.  Still, he  knew that Punch’s composure hinged on his own, so, he kept silent, tapping his knees with the palms of his hands in order to steady himself.

A rather stiff, disgruntled-looking footman appeared from an unseen corridor around a heavily plastered corner.  The footman was followed by an older gentleman who looked quite exhausted.

The footman paused in front of Robert and Punch/The Duke and asked softly.  “Do you require anything, Your Grace?  Sir?”

“No, thank you,”  Punch replied in his best impersonation of Julian, the Duke of Fallbridge.  Afterwards, he looked sideways at Robert and winked quickly.

“No.”  Robert nodded.

As the footman scurried off, the older man approached.

“His Majesty will see you now, Your Grace.”

Mr. Punch rose.  “Thank you.”

“This way,”  the man began.  He paused and turned around, looking at Robert.  “Does he know how to address the Prince?”

“Yes.”  Mr. Punch replied curtly.

“Of course, Your Grace.”  The man nodded.

Mr. Punch wondered who this man was.  He didn’t remember seeing the baggy-eyed bloke the last time he’d been at the palace—well, the last time he’d been there and watched from within the body he shared with the Duke.  Mr. Punch clenched his hands into fists, overcome with a desire to belt the old man across the back of the head.  He knew that he couldn’t, but…oh, it would have felt so very nice.

Robert and Punch followed the old gentleman to a gilt and heavily carved door.  The man paused, bowing his head before opening the door.

“Your Majesty?”  The man said softly.

“Come!”  A very German, but surprisingly quiet voice responded.

“His Grace, Julian, Duke of Fallbridge and Doctor Robert Halifax.”  The man said, bowing and allowing Punch, first, and, then, Robert to pass.

“Your Majesty,”  Mr. Punch smiled, imitating Julian.  He bowed his head quickly and only slightly.  Robert, however, staying silent, bowed longer and more deeply—perhaps a little too deeply, but it didn’t matter since Prince Albert was only focused on the Duke.

“Sit.”  Prince Albert said sharply.

Punch sat, indicating to Robert to sit next to him on the long settee in front of the fireplace at the farthest end of the Prince’s study.  Mr. Punch raised his eyebrows slightly to remind Robert not to sit until the Prince Consort did.  Once the two other men were seated—the Prince in a rather rigid, highly ornamented armchair adjacent to the settee—Robert joined his companion.

“Fallbridge--who is this man?”  Prince Albert asked.

Mr. Punch smiled politely wishing he could shout, “He’s me chum!”  Instead, he answered in an even, mannered voice, “This, Your Majesty, is Dr. Robert Halifax—my companion.”

“Are you ill?”  Prince Albert growled.

“No, Sir.”  Punch replied, forcing himself not to frown.

“Why, then, do you require a physician companion?”

“I do not require him, Your Majesty. I enjoy his company.”  Mr. Punch replied as coolly as he could.

“Ah.”  Prince Albert narrowed his eyes.  “It is said, Fallbridge, that you are mad.  Are you?”

Mr. Punch took a deep breath and continued smiling.  He could feel Robert’s discomfort and wanted to shout at the Prince Consort.  “It is said that you think the Queen will allow you to rule the Empire!  Which one of us, then, is mad?”

He didn’t, however.

Instead, Mr. Punch replied simply, “It is said that many a great man is mad.  Those who are beneath us wish to discredit us.  I suspect that I should be thankful that those who gossip still think me important enough to manufacture rumors against me.  Otherwise, I should worry that I had no place in Society at all.”

Robert drew in air audibly—terribly impressed with his companion’s response.

“Good show, Fallbridge.  You’re as sharp as ever.”  The Prince answered.  He looked over at Robert.  “Your companion, Fallbridge,” the Prince continued, speaking to Punch, though looking at Robert, “is very handsome.  Very handsome indeed.”

“He is, Sir.”

“He appears as if he has stepped from a work of an Italian Master. Botticelli, I think.”

Mr. Punch felt that itch in his hands and wished he could grab the small parian bust of the Queen from off of the gilt table next to the settee and smash it across the Prince’s head. 

Instead, he only nodded.  “Dr. Halifax is more handsome than that, I think.”

“Perhaps,”  Prince Albert sniffed.  “I imagine he’s popular with the ladies in court.”

With this, Mr. Punch could not resist chuckling aloud.  Robert blushed. 

Punch forced himself to sober up by rubbing his palms quickly against his velvet breeches.  “The doctor has no time for such things.  He is dedicated to his life as a healer as well as to keeping me company.”

“A loyal man, then.”  Prince Albert nodded approvingly.  “Not distracted by sinful pursuits.”

Mr. Punch glanced at Robert who was doing his best to not look as miserable as he felt.  “You could say that,” Punch replied slyly.  He seized that opportunity to change the subject by trotting out the little speech he had so diligently rehearsed. 

He began, “We were ever-so overjoyed by your invitation.  I must confess, I was quite pleased at the chance to see you again, Your Majesty, and, more so, to introduce my companion to you as I suspect that you share similar sensibilities.  Like you, Sir, Dr. Halifax is a man of both the arts and sciences.  His influence has aided me tremendously, allowing me to serve you all the better.”

“Fine,”  Prince Albert replied dryly.  He looked again at Robert—this time finally speaking to him directly, “I am pleased to know you.”

“I am honored, Your Majesty,” Robert replied, opening his mouth for the first time since they entered the Prince’s chamber.

Prince Albert cleared his throat.  “As you know, Fallbridge, the anniversary of Her Majesty’s birth is coming in May.  The twenty-fourth to be exact.  I wish to make a special gift to her.  It must be very special.”

“How may I help you, Sir?”  Mr. Punch asked.

Robert gazed affectionately at Punch, so proud of the way the man was carrying himself in that terribly stressful encounter.

“I want for you to make her a lovely jewel.”

“I would be delighted, Your Majesty,”  Punch replied, still speaking as Julian might.  “Have you something in mind?”

“Of course!”  Prince Albert spat.  “I want a pin.  A lovely pin of golden oak leaves.”

“That would be brilliant.”  Punch smiled.  “I should be thrilled to show you several designs.”

“Not just gold, mind…”  Prince Albert warned.

“Certainly not.”  Mr. Punch nodded.  “I know how Her Majesty loves diamonds.  Perhaps with emeralds and lovely Persian turquoise.  Or blue sapphires to sparkle in Her Majesty’s eyes.”

“No!”  Prince Albert growled.  “None of those.”

“Do you have a certain stone you’d prefer?”

“Yes!”

“Will you provide them to me, or shall I purloin them for Your Majesty?”  Mr. Punch asked.

“These,”  Prince Albert frowned, reaching into his coat pocket and removing a small, red velvet pouch.  He tossed the pouch to the Duke/Mr. Punch who caught it deftly before it hit his lap.

“Open it.”  Prince Albert nodded.

Mr. Punch carefully opened the pouch and poured the contents into his hand.

For all the world, poor, poor Punch wished he could cry out and laugh—“Bloody hell!  It’s a sack of teeth!”  But, he didn’t.

Punch could feel Robert’s eyes widening.

Mr. Punch inhaled and forced another smile.  “How very interesting, Your Majesty.  Teeth.  And, what lovely…large…teeth they are.”

“Stag’s teeth!”  Prince Albert barked.  “From my own kills.  My own trophies.  All of them from Balmoral.  The Queen loves reminders of my skill.”

“I think that these will make a very...interesting...brooch, Sir.”  Punch continued.

“How will you do it?”

“I think, perhaps, the teeth would be displayed as acorns amongst golden oak leaves.”

“Fine,”  The Prince replied. 

Mr. Punch carefully returned the teeth to their pouch.  He wished desperately to wipe his hands on his stockings, but he refrained.

“It is settled.  I wish to see sketches in one week.  Thank you for your time.  You are dismissed.”

Mr. Punch and Robert exchanged glances as Prince Albert rose and returned to his desk.

Bowing slightly, Mr. Punch grinned.  “Good day, Your Majesty.”

Robert did the same.  Together, they backed out of the room.  The footman closed the door behind them.

Walking slowly down the  corridor, they waited until they were a safe distance from the Prince’s door before Punch chuckled long and low.  “Coo!”  He whispered.  “It’s a bloody sack of teeth.”

“I wonder what he did with the rest of the stag.”  Robert whispered.

“Probably gnawed it to pieces with his own teeth.”  Mr. Punch teased quietly.  “’Spose I should be bloody grateful he didn’t give me a sack of antlers and hooves.”

Robert giggled softly.

“You did real good, chum.”  Punch whispered.

“Thank you,”  Robert replied.  “My dear Punch, you have no idea how brilliant you were.  I could not be more impressed.”

“Here, I were pretty brilliant, weren’t I?”  Punch whispered.  “Now, come on, chum, let’s go make a terrible ugly brooch.”

Did you miss Chapters 1-13?  If so, you can read them here.  Come back tomorrow for Chapter 15 of Mr. Punch of Belgrave Square.

"So, stag teeth, Joseph?" you ask.  "Yes," I respond.  It was a Prince Albert thing.

Punch's Cousin, Chapter 14

Arthur led Julian through passageways and down a narrow flight of metal stairs which vibrated slightly under their footsteps. The footman grasped Julian’s arm a little too tightly and Julian was reminded of a trip to London taken thirty years before when his governess held is arm with such ferocity that she left a bruise on his tender young flesh.


“Master Julian,” She had said in her sharp voice, “London is no place for a little boy. It’s dirty and angry. You must stay close.”

“But, you’re hurting me,” Young Julian had protested.

“Would you rather be snatched up and eaten alive by these people? Look at them, Master Julian! Look at them! Those hungry, hungry eyes!” She retorted, clutching him tighter. “Not a one of them would think twice about eating a little boy.”

As he and Arthur walked across the wide expanse of the Hyperion’s deck, Julian studied the eyes of those around him. They did look hungry. Perhaps “Nanny” had been correct. Everyone seemed to be staring at Julian and Arthur. Likely, they were wondering why a grown man—a man clearly a member of the peerage—was being guided by his valet like a child.

“You’re hurting me,” Julian said—partly from truth, partly from memory.

“Am I, Lord Fallbridge?” Arthur cooed, not relaxing his grip. “Only I want to see you safely to breakfast.”

Julian began to perspire despite the cool sea air and felt a cloying dampness rising under his waistcoat.

Several yards away from them on the deck, a performer had set up a portable puppet theater which immediately grabbed Julian’s attention.

“Punch.” Julian cried out.

But, no, it wasn’t Punch. The puppet’s nose was not bulbous. His costume was wrong. Children and adults all laughed and clapped—gathered in a crescent around the theater of thin wood and paper. A bright, cheerful crescent centered around the buzzing and nattering of the puppets.

Julian tugged at Arthur.

“I’d like to see the show.” Julian said softly.

“You’ll need to see Mr. Halifax, Your Lordship.” Arthur answered in a growl.

“No worries, man.” A voice said from behind them. “I’ll take His Lordship to see the program.”

Julian didn’t turn around. He knew who it was.

“As you wish, Mr. Halifax.” Arthur answered, releasing Julian from his grip.

Julian paused to tell Arthur to meet him on the deck in an hour, but the man had already gone.

“I trust I don’t need to hold on to you, Lord Fallbridge.” Robert Halifax patted Julian on his back.

“I’d prefer if you didn’t.” Julian nodded, still fixated on the puppet theater.

“You enjoy puppets?” Mr. Halifax asked.

“Most profoundly.” Julian mumbled. “I know one quite intimately.”

“This isn’t Punch, you know?” Robert said as they walked to the show.

Julian raised an eyebrow. What did that man know of Punch?

As they drew closer, Julian realized that the language being spoken was French.

“You see, this is…” Robert Halifax began.

“Guignol.” Julian interrupted. “Yes. He’s Guignol. The other is Gnafron.”

“That’s right.” Mr. Halifax nodded. “These performers are no doubt on their way to New Orleans where they’ll perform on the streets. They set up on the decks here to get some coins to supplement their passage money. Greedy buggers these street performers.”

“Not so greedy.” Julian shook his head. “Just trying to survive.”

“Shall we go closer?” Mr. Halifax asked.

“No.” Julian answered quietly. “This will do.”

They watched the show in silence for a few moments.

“Punch’s cousin.” Julian muttered.

“Pardon me, Lord Fallbridge?”

“Guignol. He’s Punch’s cousin. From France.” Julian mumbled. “My father is in France.”

“I know.” Mr. Halifax said gently. He slipped his arm into Julian’s.

As if awake for the first time, Julian looked at Mr. Halifax with shock.

“You’re not well, Lord Fallbridge.” Mr. Halifax smiled—a peculiar smile to which Julian was not accustomed, one of sympathy.

“No.”

“Shall we go in to breakfast? We’ll have other opportunities to see the show.”

“Yes.”

“Follow me.” Mr. Halifax said, taking his arm from Julian’s.

Julian did as instructed, glad to be away from the prickling light of the sun reflected off the sea.

The dining room was opulently decorated with frescoes of rose, azure and gold which blended into bucolic scenes of ruddy-cheeked young women in diaphanous gowns. They reclined peacefully on pillows and fed bright green grapes to one another.

Julian sat in a comfortable chair upholstered in pale green damask. On the golden table cloth, a bowl of sugar cubes glistened softly.

Julian felt his bowels turn to liquid. “Master, I am lost, lost, lost, lost…in the sugar cane.”

“Pardon me?” Robert Halifax asked.

“Oh, nothing.” Julian shook his head.

“I was quite pleased that you agreed to join me this morning, Lord Fallbridge.”

“I didn’t.” Julian narrowed his eyes.

“But, I received your note.”

“My note.” Julian’s heart raced.

“Would you prefer to go somewhere more private?”

Julian didn’t answer. Yes, he would prefer to go somewhere more private, but not with Mr. Halifax.

“No. I’m quite fine.” Julian answered.

“Your blue becomes you.” Mr. Halifax smiled again. “Much more so than your usual gray. And, that ring is most handsome. It’s not a sapphire.”

“No.” Julian shook his head. He swallowed hard.

“Your Lordship, Lady Barbara is in danger.” Mr. Halifax said in a hushed voice.

“How do you know this?” Julian said. “What do you know about this woman…this Iolanthe Evangeline. You say she’s called ‘The Elegant Ogress.’ Do you know her?”

“I do.”

“How?”

“I’d rather not say just yet.”

“Well, then, how do you hope to help me?” Julian felt the sweat trickle down his neck.

“I can tell you that she seeks out the most beautiful women in the world to work in her…establishment. She has people in every country who, shall we say, procure for her. She was told of your sister’s beauty and, oh, her passionate spirit. Of course, Iolanthe wanted Lady Barbara for her own.”

“Why?” Julian swallowed again. “Why would Barbara agree to such a thing? She’s a Lady. She was set to make a suitable marriage. She…”

“She’s a ruined woman, Sir.” Mr. Halifax answered. “I delivered her child myself.”

“Her…child?” The room spun around Julian. “You’re mistaken.”

“A boy. She calls him Caleb.”

“My sister was not with child. She couldn’t have been!”

“Yes, Lord Fallbridge. She was.”

Julian laughed a cold and hollow chortle though he wasn’t sure why.

“Who is the father?” He asked.

“That I do not know.” Mr. Halifax responded.

“How? How could she have hidden it?” Julian’s mind flooded with pictures of Barbara from the last few weeks. He’d seen so little of her, having so infrequently left his rooms.

Picture after picture burst into Julian’s thoughts—colors upon colors until they bled into black…a sweet, welcome blackness like a cozy blanket.

Some power inside Julian made him rise from the table. He opened his mouth and allowed words that were not his own to pour forth.

"If on your deathbed you do lie
What needs the tale you're tellin'?
I cannot keep you from your death.
Farewell," said Barbara Allen.

The others in the dining room turned to look at Julian.

“Lord Fallbridge?” Mr. Halifax rose. “Please, be seated. Let’s take breakfast.”

“No.” Julian shook his head. “I want to see Guignol. I want to see my cousin.”



Did you miss Chapters 1-13?  If so, you can read them here.