A Recipe for Punch, Chapter 8

Chapter 8
She Ain't Here


"Stupid girl!"  Jackson snapped.

"Pardon me?"  Maudie looked up from her work.

"What are you doing?"

"Makin' the sandwiches for upstairs tea."  Maudie frowned.

"Egg?  Chopped boiled egg?"  Jackson growled.

"His Grace always has chopped egg and streaky bacon sandwiches at tea.  Them and chicken with rosemary and stilton.  That's what he likes.  His Grace and His Lordship and His Ladyship.  Them's the savories they like for tea."

"You little idiot.  That's not what we serve here!"  Jackson continued.

"I'll thank you not to speak to my assistant that way!"  Mrs. Pepper shouted as she entered the kitchens carrying a rack of freshly-baked scones.  

"This is my household, Mrs. Pepper.  I'll address the staff as I wish."  Jackson answered.

"You may be in charge of your staff, Mr. Jackson.  But, these are my kitchens and Maude is my responsibility.  Furthermore, this is the household of the Duke of Fallbridge, not the household of bleedin' Mr. Jackson.  I believe I heard His Grace remind you of that very fact just his mornin' when we all arrived.  In these kitchens, I am the authority, and I take my orders from His Grace, not from you.  I know the masters will not be happy to learn that you've spoken to Maude so harshly."

"I am only trying to communicate that egg sandwiches are unacceptable.  We do not serve such things here."  Jackson continued.

"His Grace likes them, so, we do."  Mrs. Pepper replied.  "It's as simple as that."

"The Duchess of Fallbridge would never allow..."

"She don't gotta eat them, does she?"  Mrs. Pepper smiled.  "She's dead."

"How dare you?"  Jackson sputtered.

"She is dead, ain't she?"  Mrs. Pepper shrugged.  "Best you all here start to realize that.  And, best you remember to stay outta my kitchen."

"I am the butler..."

"That's fine."  Mrs. Pepper nodded.  "We got one at home, too.  He's also full o' bluster, our Mr. Speaight, but he's a kind man who wouldn't dream o' an unkind word.  He also knows his place.  Knows when he should keep his nose outta somethin'.   Maybe you been here alone for too long, so, let me tell ya how a household what's got a master works.  What the Duke, His Lordship and Lady Fallbridge eat is my business.  Their well-bein' is the business of Mr. Iantosca, Mr. Gurney and Violet.  Mrs. Gurney and Ethel look after the baby.  My son is the support for all of them and the master's dog.  Maudie looks after me.  You, Mr. Jackson can carry on as you always do and pay us no mind.  I'm sure you got plenty to do lookin' after this place.  So, I'll thank you to go on 'bout your business and we won't bother you as long as you don't bother us.  And, you get the added benefit o' the fact that I'm here to feed you and your staff, too.  So, looks to me like you're gettin' the better end o' the bargain.  Only if I ever 'ear you speakin' harshly to my Maudie or any o' us from London again, I'd take careful bites o' your supper, I would."

"Are you threatening me?"  Jackson growled.

"I wouldn't dream of it."  Mrs. Pepper smiled.  "Now, if you'll pardon me, we got egg sandwiches to finish.  No use havin' His Grace and them lovely gentlefolk wait for their tea--'specially after that long walk they took earlier.  Besides, if their tea is late, so will be downstairs tea, and that'd be a terrible shame what with this bein' the first day you've got a proper cook here again."

Defeated, Jackson snorted and left the kitchens.

"Cor!"  Maudie grinned.  "You told him proper."

Mrs. Pepper winked.  "He had it comin'."  She surveyed the sandwiches Maudie had made.  "Fine job, Love.  Maybe a few more with the stilton, you know how His Lordship tends to wold 'em down."

"Right."  Maudie nodded.

"Oh, I'd love to add some more rosemary to this chicken."  Mrs. Pepper sighed.  "Only there wasn't any more.  Terrible to think a house like this would have such a poor larder."

"You know,"  Maudie began.  "There's a queer sort of angle back in the larder--in the dark there.  Spotted some shelves and such back there.  And cupboards.  Maybe they got some herbs dryin' back there."

"Be a lamb and go look, would ya?"  Mrs. Pepper said.  "I'll finish up with the stilton."

Maudie hurried off.

After a few minutes without Maudie returning, Mrs. Pepper wiped her hands on her apron and walked toward the larder.  

"Maudie?"  Mrs. Pepper called.  "Did ya get lost in there?"

"No."  Maudie answered, coming out.  Her hands were shaking, and she held something in her apron.

"No herbs?"

"No.  Candles and some things..."

"What things?"

"Little...pictures.  Like little paintings of a lady.  And this..."  Maudie opened her apron to reveal a glittering notebook with a hard cover of enamel and gold, inlaid with diamonds in the shape of an "F" surmounted by a coronet.

"Blimey."  Mrs. Pepper exclaimed.

"What is it, Mrs. P.?"

"Dunno."  Mrs. Pepper shook her head.

"Should we oughta bring to His Grace?"  Maude asked.

"I think we'd best."  Mrs. Pepper nodded.



Did you miss chapters 1-7 of A Recipe for Punch?  If so, you can read them here.  Come back tomorrow for Chapter 9.  

Mr. Punch of Belgrave Square, Chapter 8

 Chapter 8:

Questions Above and Below

Mr. Punch looked into Dr. Halifax’s blue eyes, pleading.  “You gotta come with me.”

“Dear Punch, I cannot.”  Robert replied softly.  “The invitation was only extended to you.  You know as well as I that I can’t just walk into Buckingham Palace without an invitation.”

“You can come as me guest,” Punch/The Duke suggested.

“That’s not…”  Robert began.  He paused and smiled at his companion—that gentle, infectious smile that was unique to him.  The doctor’s smile was unlike any other that either of the men living in the Duke’s body had ever known.  The man’s face, handsome and angular, suddenly became  a series of pleasing, curving planes which lead up to his affectionately twinkling eyes.  It was a smile that was reserved only for Mr. Punch and Punch knew it.  Punch whooped with pleasure.

“I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”  Robert clucked his tongue—the sparkle in his eyes belying the annoyance in his voice.

“Yes, yes you did.  You smiled.  I saw it. I know what that means.”  Mr. Punch chirped.

“Very well,”  Robert chuckled.  He took Mr. Punch by the hand and led him to the japanned writing desk in the corner of the Drawing Room.  From the central drawer he removed a sheet of the Duke’s embossed stationary and, sitting at the desk, he began to write.

“What’s this?”  Punch asked.

“I’m responding to the Prince Consort’s invitation.”

“What ya sayin’?”

“I’m stating that you would be thrilled to meet the Prince tomorrow and that you would very much like to bring your…”

Punch smiled.

“I don’t know what to call myself.”  Robert shrugged.

“Chum!”  Punch exclaimed.

“I can’t write to the Prince Consort and tell him that you wish to bring your chum.”  Robert shook his head.

“Oh.”  Mr. Punch grumbled.  “See, that’s why I need ya to come with me.”

“I could say, ‘companion.’”

“How ‘bout ‘associate’?”  Mr. Punch suggested.

“Ah…”  Robert grinned.  “Brilliant.  Dear Punch, you don’t need me aid as much as you think you do.”

“Here, that ain’t true, Chum.”  Mr. Punch disagreed.  “Don’t say that ‘gain.”  He narrowed his brows.

“You’re right.” Robert winked, lightening Punch’s mood.

Robert quickly finished the letter, reading it aloud to Mr. Punch.

“I think that’s just fine.”  Punch grinned.

“Now,  you need to sign it.”  Robert pointed to the bottom of the letter.

“Should I sign, ‘Mr. Punch.’”  he teased.

“Of course.  I’m sure that Prince Albert will completely understand.”  Robert responded dryly.

“He might.”  Punch answered playfully.

“He’s German.”  Robert raised one eyebrow.

“Fine.”  Mr. Punch grumbled, signing the letter.  “Julian, Duke of Fallbridge.”

“Well done.”  Robert nodded, sealing the letter and rising to ring the bell.

Within seconds, Charles hurried into the room.  “Yes, Your Grace.”

Punch pointed to Robert.

“I rang.”  Robert chuckled.

“Yes, Sir.”  Charles blushed.

“We have a letter which needs to be delivered to Buck House right away.  It’s for Prince Albert.  Don’t send Tom as you usually would.  I’d prefer that Gerard or you attend to it.”

“I’ll take it myself, Sir.”  Charles smiled proudly.

“Excellent.  Make sure it gets to the Prince’s secretary.”

“I will.”  Charles nodded.  Without another word, he left the room.

“Well, that’s done.”  Robert sighed, sitting in front of the fire in one of the toile-covered armchairs.

Mr. Punch walked over to him, standing behind the chair.  He put his hands on Robert’s shoulders.

“Thank you for doin’ it, Chum.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

“With you there, I know I can do it.”

“I just hope that I can.”  Robert replied softly.

“Course you can!”  Punch chirped.  “You can do anything.”

“I’ve never been to court.  At least you’ve met the Queen and Prince Consort before.  You’ve been the palace.”

“I ‘spose.”  Punch squinted thoughtfully.  “Only it weren’t me ‘xactly.  It were Julian.  Still, it were the same body, I ‘spose what was in the palace.”

“That’s a step closer than I’ve been.  I’ve never even seen the Queen or her husband in person.  Well, not close-up.  I did spot them at the Crystal Palace during the Great Exhibition.”

“You did?”

“Yes.”  Robert answered, reaching above his head to pull Punch by his arm.  “Sit across from me.”

Punch did as instructed.  “If you was at the Crystal Palace when Queen Victoria and Prince Albert was there, then…”

“Yes, that’s when I saw you the first time.  Well, it was the first time I saw Julian.”

“Sure, it were Julian what was there.  I was there, too, I was, only I were inside—inside out body—watchin’ the whole thing.  Me master, Julian, he were braver then.  But, that day was…”

“I know.”  Robert sighed.  “The day didn’t end as you had intended.”

“Julian went ‘cause Their Majesties asked him to go.  See, his jewels was on display and the Prince were terrible proud since he thought himself the one what discovered Julian.  So nervous as he was, Julian went.  I watched.  I talked to him to make him feel better—from inside, you know.  He weren’t aware of me then like he is now.  But, I know he heard me.  We was livin’ here at Belgrave Square then.  We’d been here ‘bout a year.  But, that was the last time Julian went out—until we went to America.”

“I know.”  Robert said.  “Of course, I didn’t know about you then either, dear Punch.  But, I did spy Julian with Their Majesties.  I had gone to look at the jewelry exhibition and I spotted you…well, you and Julian…across the floor of the Crystal Palace.  You were standing with their Majesties near the display of Julian’s work.”

“You noticed me…us?”  Punch smiled.  “You never mentioned that.”

Robert shrugged.  “I couldn’t help but notice you.  The sunlight was coming in through that magnificent glass ceiling.  It fell upon your hair—lighting it auburn, and bathed your shoulders.  You wore a grey suit and a sapphire blue cravat.  I was immediately drawn to you.  I couldn’t stop staring.  I asked someone—I don’t remember who it was—who you were.”

“What’d he tell ya?”  Punch joked.

Robert laughed.  “He said you were Lord Fallbridge, the son of The Duchess of Fallbridge and Sir Colin Molliner.”

Mr. Punch’s eyelids drooped as he remembered Julian’s parents—one pure evil, the other pure kindness.  He sniffed and looked up.  “You shoulda come to talk to him…me…us.”  He snorted.

“I wish I had.”

“But, you ended up seein’ me soon enough, didn’t ya?”

“Later that day.  And, it was you that I met—not Julian.”

“Sure, that were the day we was attacked in Covent Garden.  Beaten terrible bad we were.  I had to take over the body.  Julian were too scared.  I found your practice…saw the sign and brought our body to ya.  It were just chance, I ‘spose.  Or maybe fate, as they say.  You helped us.  And, then, Julian was too frightened to stay in London so we went back to Fallbridge Hall.”

“Who knew we’d meet again on the ship to America?”  Robert smiled.

“Glad we did.”  Punch nodded.  “Don’t think I’d want to live if you weren’t with us.  Sure, but I can’t remember life so well before you were  here.”

“Nor can I.”

They sat in silence for awhile.  The quiet was broken when Robert sneezed. 

“Goodness!  That were a big noise!”  Punch laughed.  He always laughed at sneezes.

“A nose noise.”  Robert replied, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief.  As he did, the letter from Cecil fell from his pocket.  He didn’t notice.

“Maybe you been smellin’ pepper,”  Punch nodded, biting his cheeks to keep from laughing.  “Mrs. Pepper!”  He, then, howled with laughter.

Robert laughed. “I assure you I have not been close enough to Mrs. Pepper to smell her.”

“Here,”  Punch pointed to the floor, his laughter subsiding.  “You dropped somethin’.”

“Did I?” Robert looked over the side of the chair.  He spotted the letter and blushed slightly.

“Is that the letter from Cecil and Adrienne what we got yesterday?”

“It is,” Robert answered honestly.

“Can I see it?”  Punch asked eagerly.

“Of course,”  Robert nodded, picking up the letter and deftly removing the small, folded additional note from Cecil—the note which had implored him to write his book.  He handed the letter—minus the note—to the Duke/Mr. Punch.

“Don’t I get to read the whole thing?”

“You are.”  Robert nodded.

“What’s that wee bit you kept to yourself?” Punch smiled.  “Keepin’ secrets?”

“No.”  Robert shook his head.  “It’s just…it’s something from Cecil for me.”

Punch nodded.  “Brother-stuff, then?”

“That’s it.” Robert responded. He quickly changed the subject.  “Dear Punch, have you had breakfast?”

“Have I had breakfast?”  Punch snorted, reading the letter.

“I suppose that’s a silly question.”  Robert grinned.  “Well, I haven’t.  I’d left before Mrs. Pepper set up the sideboard in the Morning Room.”

“Ring for somethin’.”  Punch nodded, not looking up from the letter.

“I think I shall.”  Robert rose.

Meanwhile, downstairs, Speaight looked up as the bell for the Drawing Room rang.  “Drawing Room.” He called out.

“I’ll go.”  Vi nodded.

“No.”  Speaight shook his head.  “Gerard—you go since Charles has gone out.”

“Where’d Charles go, then?” Vi asked.

“Mind your business!” Mrs. Pepper shouted, not turning away from her steaming range. “Gerard!  I’m guessin’ it’s the doctor wantin’ somethin’ to eat.  Tell ‘im I got some lovely boiled eggs and a nice bit of brioche for him.”

“Yes, Mrs. Pepper.”  Gerard smiled, trotting upstairs.

“Don’t know why I can’t know where Charles went.”  Vi mumbled.

Hortence, who was seated next to her at the kitchen table, scowled.  “Because, we don’t matter in this house, to be sure.  Ain’t it a fact that only the boys matter?”

“That is not a fact, Hortence.  Do stop being so sour.”  Speaight snapped.  “We are all valued by His Grace and Dr. Halifax.  From Miss Barrett all the way to Tom.”

“That is true,”  Ellen nodded, coming into the servants’ hall.

“Course you’d think so.”  Hortence grumbled.  “You bein’ the new favorite, Miss Barrett.”

“That’s enough of that,” Speaight snarled.  “You’re being impertinent.”  He turned to Vi.  “Now, Violet, to answer your question…”

“Don’t give ‘em the satisfaction!”  Mrs. Pepper called out from her range.

“There’s no harm in it, Mrs. Pepper,”  Speaight replied.  “Charles has gone to deliver a letter.”

“They need the first footman to do that!  Ain’t Tom good enough?  He’s the page, in’t he?”  Hortence barked.

“In this instance, Charles was required.  The letter was for His Majesty Prince Albert.”

“Oh,” Violet’s eyes widened.  “Ain’t that excitin’.  I never worked in a household so close to the Crown.  My last place—the closest thing to Royalty we ever knew was when my master presented flowers to Princess Mary of Cambridge at a parade.”

“Fat Mary!” Hortence howled.

“That’s enough of that foolishness, Hortence.”  Speaight warned.  "The Duchess of Teck is a lovely person."

Hortence scowled again.  “What’s the Duke got to do with the Prince, then?”

“His Grace and His Majesty often work together,” Vi responded.  “You know that.”

“Can’t see how,” Hortence grumbled.  “What with the master bein’ mad and all.”

“Hortence!” Speaight rose from his chair.  “You are walking a very fine line.  You will not speak so of the master!”

“It’s true, ain’t it?”  Hortence cried.  She pointed to Gamilla who was seated by the fire, mending a pair of the doctor’s socks.  “They know—the African and Charles and Gerard.  They know!”

“Hortence, how could you say such a thing about His Grace?  I’ll have you know he’s not mad at all.  He’s a very kind and fair man.  If that’s madness, we should all be so mad.  You have no right to condemn a man for being slightly different.  He is as sane as any of us and I won’t hear otherwise.”  Ellen responded.

“Oh…”  Hortence nodded.  “I see how it is.”

“What does that mean?”  Ellen asked, narrowing her eyes.

“You’re in on it, too, then.”  Hortence spat.

Ellen and Gamilla exchanged quick glances.  The questions in Gamilla’s eyes were palpable.  Ellen blushed.

“Hortence, unless you wish to be dismissed today, you’d best keep your mouth closed and go about your business.”

“Oh, I will.”  Hortence smirked.  “But, don’t think that I’m forgettin’ any of this.”  With that she waddled out of the servants’ hall.

“Cheeky cow,”  Mrs. Pepper mumbled.

“If I didn’t agree with you, Mrs. Pepper,” Speaight responded, “I’d ask you to not make such comments.”

He looked around the hall.  “Gamilla, you get back to your work.  You, too, Vi.”

Vi nodded and scurried away.

“Were you wanting something, Miss Barrett?”  Speaight added.

“No.”  Ellen mumbled.  She cleared her throat.  “Would you mind if I spoke with Gamilla for a few moments.”

“No, but make it brief,”  Speaight frowned.  “She has her duties.”

“I will.”  Ellen nodded.  “This shouldn’t take long at all.”

Did you miss Chapters 1-7 of Mr. Punch of Belgrave Square?  If so, you can read them here.  Come back tomorrow for Chapter 9.  

Punch's Cousin, Chapter 8

With every step he took, the sweaty grip of anxiety clenched Julian’s soul tighter and tighter. With each click of his shoes on the marble tiles, his thoughts floated above him so that he could see himself walking. The closer he came to the dining room, the more his body stooped as if the weight of his own head and torso were too much for his legs to hold. From above, he looked for all the world like a marionette in search of its strings. A lost puppet. How apt.


Part of Julian continued to watch his slow, painful journey to the dining room. He was a man on his way to the executioner’s ax. But, instead of his throat on a stone, it would be severed and served on the table with the quail. Julian chuckled at the thought of Jackson removing—with considerable flourish—a great silver cloche to reveal Julian’s glazed, head…white daisies and violets on his eyes, his mouth stuffed with a compote of peaches and apple.

“How delightful. Do tell Mrs. Foster how pleased I am.” His mother would hiss while Jackson carved.

Julian laughed. The portraits laughed with him—those portraits that lined the great hall. Chestnut-haired, wide-eyed ancestors with Julian’s face—his mother’s face—all gazed at him. No, they weren’t laughing. Not those long-dead Dukes and Duchesses of Fallbridge. No, they wouldn’t laugh—not from amusement, at least. No, they were smirking with narrowed, deep eyes. Julian glanced above him to see if he could spot himself watching—some grim spectre, some shade—surveying his own journey. Sadly, he could not. Julian could never see himself watching. He left the watching to others.

“Sugar cane, sugar cane, sugar cane. I am lost in the sugar cane. I am lost.” Julian’s thoughts chanted with the rhythm of each step. “I am lost. I am lost. I am lost.” Click…click…click…

No portraits of Molliners lined the great hall. His father’s family was not in evidence. Though greedy and brash, the Molliners were slightly more agreeable than his mother’s family. Well, slightly more agreeable than his mother. She was the last of the line.

Well, no, Julian was the last of the line. Wasn’t he? And, Barbara. “Sugar cane, sugar cane, sugar cane…”

A bell chimed.

Julian looked for Punch as he turned the corner toward the grand, columned doors to the dining room—deep, dark wood, the color of his mother’s eyes…his own eyes.

But, Punch wasn’t to be found. He was lost. “Lost. Lost. Lost.” Another chime.

The clock…

Arthur opened the door to the dining room as the clock struck its last.

“Oh, well, Lord Fallbridge is punctual for dinner with his poor, sad mother.” The Duchess growled from her chair.

“Yes, Mother.”

“Arthur!” The Duchess spat.

“Your Grace?” Arthur cooed.

“Go prepare Lord Fallbridge’s things for your trip. Then, pack your own.” She commanded.

Arthur looked to Jackson who stood in attention by the sideboard.

“Don’t look to him. I’ve given you an order.”

Jackson nodded.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Arthur bowed his head and retreated from the room.

Julian sat across from his mother—the length of the gleaming mahogany table comfortably separating them. The pendants of the chandelier sparked against the sheen of the wood. Julian was reminded of his diamonds and, for a fleeting second, felt at ease. Only just that fleeting second…

“Julian!” his mother bellowed.

“Yes, Mother.”

“You leave on the Hyperion tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“You’ll be accompanied by Arthur who has the unenviable task of seeing that you don’t wander off and drown.” His mother said sharply as signaled for Jackson and William, the Under Footman, to begin serving.

“Yes, Mother.”

“Do stop yes-ing me!” The duchess commanded.

“How you will ever be able to survive amongst the American savages is beyond me.” The duchess sighed. “However, you will return triumphant with Barbara.”

“I will.” Julian said.

“I hear that this New Orleans is a very crowded place.” The Duchess smiled—no, she smirked like the portraits.

“It’ll do you good.” She continued. “You know, they throw madmen into pits of serpents.”

“I’ve heard.”

“Consider yourself thrown, my dear.” The duchess narrowed her eyes.

“Lost, lost, lost, lost, lost.” Julian thought. Or did he?

“What are you mumbling now?” the duchess groaned.

“I wasn’t aware I was mumbling.” Julian replied.

“Well, you were!”

Silence rose up and filled the room like a violet mist. Julian liked it.

Sadly, the duchess’ voice turned the mist to a stinging rain.

“I had a letter from your father today. The fool is still in Paris. Looking for artifacts…” She sighed loudly. “He’s wasting my money.”

Julian nodded.

“You people with Molliner blood and your quests for beauty.” She visibly shuddered. “Such waste.”

Julian watched his mother lift a crystal goblet of wine to her lips—it shimmered in the light like rubies, scarlet against the alabaster of her skin.

She put the goblet on the table.

“You’re gaping again!”

“Only admiring you, Mother.” Julian answered.

“You’re an odd man.” His mother hissed. “You are aware what will happen if you don’t manage to return Barbara home?”

“I have my suspicions.” Julian replied, leaning back in his chair as Jackson placed a serving of swede on his plate. The man smelled of lemons and astringent as though his touch would burn one’s flesh.

“Take your suspicions and magnify them to their utmost worst.” His mother took a forkful of quail. “And, then, perhaps you’ll be a thousandth away from the reality of your fate.”

They continued their dinner in utter silence. Julian forced himself to eat. He was too distracted by the tenuous quiet in the room—almost comfortable, but too dangerous to be so.

When she had finished her meal, the Duchess signaled to Jackson to help her with her chair. She left the room without a word.

Julian sat alone in the enormous dining room—alone save for the staff who cleared up around him.

“Lost, lost, lost, lost…” Julian chanted in his head.

The clock chimed again. Only this time, it sounded like a ship’s bells. The room was awash in fog as Julian bid the staff goodnight.

On his way back to his rooms, he felt the floor sway beneath him. The whole of Fallbridge Hall seemed to creak and groan under his footsteps. The scent of grass and mud scratched at his nose and Julian had the faint sensation of sinking into the earth.

A sharpness stung his head.

Once inside, Julian collapsed into his velvet chair and sobbed. He did not care that Arthur looked on.




Did you miss Chapters 1-7? If so, you can read them here.