The Barefoot Bride

by Paisley, Rebecca

  It was the kitchen, and it was filled with smoke. Something was burning to a crisp, and no one was doing the slightest thing about it. Chickadee raced inside. "What are you-uns a-doin'?" she shouted at the three men who were sitting at a table in the far corner. All she got in reply was a wave and two silly grins.

  Her eyes watering, Chickadee tore around the kitchen until she found the source of all the smoke—an oven. She grabbed a thick cloth and tried to remove the sizzling pot, but it was too hot to handle even with the cloth. Not knowing what else to do, she picked up a large bucket of water and tossed it into the blazing oven.

  After fanning the air, she bent and saw a huge, black piece of meat as well as several other hunks of charred food. Then she saw that the other pots and kettles in the kitchen were smoking also. Lord o' mercy, the whole meal is burnin'! She splashed water everywhere, and when she had no more to throw, she began to beat frantically at the ever-growing flames that came from all four hearths.

  When the blaze burned no longer, Chickadee stormed toward the three men who still sat there, smiling happily. "What the hell's the matter with you-uns a-lettin' me put out them fars withouten nary a bit o' hep?"

  They seemed not to hear her, but only lifted their cups and downed the contents with great slurping sounds.

  Snockered! They were as drunk as boiled owls, she realized. So dang pickled, they would have let the whole house burn down around their ears! She gasped. There was only one kind of whiskey in the world that could make a man that senseless.

  George Franklin's.

  She snatched a cup from one of the men. "Mademoiselle!" he shrieked at her, standing and swaying.

  "Don't you be a-callin' me no names!" she blasted and pushed him back into the chair. Shakily, she took a sip of the fiery brew and knew it was none other than mountain corn liquor. But how had these men gotten hold of it?

  "Sweet Mary above, what has happened in me kitchen!" a woman yelled from the doorway as she scanned the horrible mess in her once immaculate workplace.

  "Who are you?" Chickadee asked, unconsciously wiping her greasy hands on the front of her gown.

  The woman began to cry. "I'm Mrs. Preston's cook. She gave me the night off, that she did, sayin' those chefs were to prepare the dinner. And look what's happened, lass! Ach, dearest mother o' God, me kitchen! 'Tis destroyed!"

  Chickadee tried to soothe the distraught woman. "Whar'd them men git that likker?"

  "Liquor?" The woman looked baffled.

  But Chickadee's confusion was dissipating rapidly. "Yore Irish, ain't you?"

  "Aye. Bridget Rafferty's me name."

  "Rafferty? You kin to Killian?"

  "He's me brother. Do ye know him?"

  Chickadee nodded and looked at the three chefs again. "And I got me a feelin' them men over thar do too."

  Bridget glanced at the Frenchmen and saw the jug they were still passing around. She blanched. "Faith, 'tis Killian's whiskey, to be sure! A fine nerve he has to be bringin' it here!"

  "He didn't bring it," said a voice from the doorway. Chickadee turned to see a young lad whose coloring proclaimed his Irish heritage. "'Twas meself who brought it. I've seen Mrs. Preston sippin' wine, Bridget, and ye said yerself Killian's whiskey is the finest ye've tasted. I only thought to gift the good Mrs. Preston with it."

  Bridget's pale face turned red. "Gift her with homemade whiskey, Nevin? Saints preserve us! Do ye have any idea what yer gift has done tonight?"

  "He yore brother too?" Chickadee smiled at the boy.

  "Aye. Mrs. Preston hired him on as a stableboy a few weeks ago. Nevin, do ye have any idea what ye've done, lad?" Bridget repeated and began to weep again.

  Nevin too started to cry. Chickadee watched for a few moments and then laughed. "You-uns is somethin' else," she said merrily, pushing up her satin sleeves as far as they would go. "A-cryin' over somethin' as silly as this."

  Bridget looked at her with wide, red eyes. "But 'tis furious Mrs. Preston will be! The people out there, they'll be wantin' their dinner, and we've naught to give them!"

  "Miz Preston ain't gwine be riled at you, Bridget. You didn't have nothin' to do with this. And a-seein' as how Nevin over thar's jist a young-un, she cain't fault him none neither. It's them furriners who's to blame. They didn't have to drank whilst they was a-cookin'. But they did, and now thur so dang wet that iffen you was to go over thar and blow on 'em, they'd ripple."

  "But the dinner—'tis ruined, miss..."

  "Chickadee Blackwell. Now, 'pears to me that you and me orter quit a-geein' and a-hawin' and commence a-cookin'!"

  "But there's nae enough time! Nae plannin' has been—"

  "You aimin' ter let Miz Preston down? You want her to be embarrassed over all this?"

  "No, but—"

  "Then let's git to work. We can still git supper iffen we commence a-makin' it right now. Now, show me what other kinds o' vittles you got 'round here."

  *

  "Linguistics," Lord Cavendish said. "When my wife died, I was already an old man, Mr. Blackwell. Too old to become accustomed to another woman. And so I took the passion I had left and gave it to linguistics, the study of speech."

  "Linguistics?" Saxon repeated and looked over his shoulder again. Where the hell had Chickadee run off to? She'd been missing for an eternity! "Uh, will you excuse me, Lord—"

  "Languages, dialects... I've been studying them for years," the duke informed him, so engrossed in his own conversation he never heard Saxon's plea for release. "My favorite is Elizabethan English. Extraordinarily interesting. I find it so pure, so picturesque."

  "What? English, you say?" Saxon asked, his gaze sweeping every inch of the ballroom for his wayward spitfire.

  "Dinner is served," a stone-faced butler announced loudly and gestured toward the dining room doors.

  "Saxon," Eugenia said as she joined him and the duke, "where is Chickadee? She's not gone, is she?"

  "I'm sure she'll be along any moment, Mrs. Preston," he tried to reassure his hostess and himself. "She's probably off in some far corner mingling with the guests." Yes, that's it, he told himself firmly. She's a grand success, and her time is being monopolized by all the people she's impressed.

  But if that were true, why was he so worried?

  Eugenia glanced around the room. "Well, I suppose that could be so. Or perhaps she's already in the dining room. Shall we go see?" She took the duke's proffered arm and Saxon followed.

  But much to his dismay, Chickadee was not in the dining room. "Mrs. Preston, will you excuse me for a few minutes? It could be that Keely is exploring your gardens. I realize it's cold outside, but she has this need for air, you see."

  "By all means go and look for her, Saxon," Eugenia agreed. "Without her. Lord Cavendish will be denied a very entertaining dinner partner: she's to sit next to him."

  Gilford wondered just how boring this Mrs. Blackwell would be. He stifled the urge to look at his watch again.

  "Git yore hands offen me!"

  Hester refused to relinquish her hold on Chickadee's arm. "Shhh! Keep your voice down! You're a fright, and the duke is over there! You simply cannot—"

  "I can do anythang iffen it dang well pleasures me to do it! And iffen you don't git yore hands offen me, I'm gwine give you a pain so deep, you ain't even gwine be able to figger out whar it is, lady!"

  One sight of Chickadee was all Saxon needed to know his plan had gone awry.

  Her hair was one hopeless copper tangle. Her emerald tiara hung from one side of her head. From bodice to hem, her gold satin gown was blotched with black smudges, and one of her sleeves seemed to be scorched. There was some kind of white powder all over her face.

  A painful lump leaped into his throat, but he did his best to swallow it down. If there was any way to do it, he had to try to save the situation. To accept defeat now would mean sending her home. Surely she had a good reason for being so disheveled, he rationalized desperately. People simply did not get into that kind of mess without cause. />
  Of course, Chickadee was not just any person. He grimaced at that thought and started for her, his mind reeling with possible ways to smooth things over.

  Lord Cavendish caught his arm. "Who is that girl, Mr. Blackwell?"

  Saxon smiled a bittersweet smile. "That's my wife. The most beautiful, unpredictable girl God ever created."

  "Saxon, this heifer says I cain't be here no more!" Chickadee exclaimed when he'd reached her. "She don't got no right ter tell me that, huh? I mean, it ain't her ball, it's Miz Preston's."

  "It's your ball, little one," he said quietly and gave Hester such a glare that she shrank back. "And you've every right to be here. But what have you been doing? Rolling in the dirt?"

  "What?"

  "You're a tad filthy. Come, I'll take you upstairs where you can clean up." Ignoring the staring guests, he started to lead her away, determined to find out what she'd been doing so he could think of a way to mend things.

  "Dang it, Saxon, wait! I ain't met the duke yet!"

  "Go and calm her down, Saxon," Hester commanded.

  "I don't need no calmin' down, Hester. Yore the one who's so dang fitified."

  Hester lifted her chin. "I only sought to—"

  "Oh hesh up, lady. I ain't gwine argufy with you about it. You was a-takin' on like all git out. A-shakin' yore head like some dog a-killin' snakes when I tried to—"

  "Merciful heavens, what is this?" Sarah Bancroft twittered, panic-stricken as she saw the many platters the servants were uncovering. "Where is the stuffed trout? The chilled oysters! The roast—"

  "Burnt up," Chickadee announced. "Well, them orsters warn't burnt, but me and Bridget tuk'em and maked soup outen 'em. And them furrin cooks had some sorter bread a-bakin', but it warn't fittin' to eat. So we made biscuit-breads. Bridget was a-wantin' to use butter in 'em, but I tole her thur ain't nothin' like pure hog lard fer the God-burnin'est best biscuit-breads thur is."

  Sarah clutched at her bosom. "Hog? My chefs—"

  "And me and Bridget cut offen the burnt part o' the meat and used the middle part of it," Chickadee continued. "Made a stew outen it. That fish was a mite done too, but we saved it by a-makin' fish cakes outen it. They ain't real fancy, but they eat good. And thur's tater pie too. We made duck and dumplin's outen the roast ducks. I ain't never et duck with dumplin's, but the way I see it, it prob'ly don't differ too much from chicken. Fried up a mess o' apple rangs too."

  Sarah's eyes were so wide it seemed they would fly out of her head any moment. "What have you done to my chefs!"

  Eugenia rushed to Sarah and put her arm around the hysterical woman's shoulder. "Sarah, you are shouting, my dear. Creating a scene. Please take your seat, and we will proceed with dinner."

  "But... but what has happened to my chefs?"

  "They been a-drankin'," Chickadee answered.

  Sarah gasped and swayed. "They're intoxicated?"

  "Lady, thur so snockered that iffen mosquiters was to bite 'em the mosquiters'd need a chaser."

  Before anyone was able to rise from their chairs, Sarah had fainted dead away, her form a silken lump on the floor. At Eugenia's request, a few of the men carried her to a bedroom upstairs.

  Saxon watched the men carry Sarah away, then looked at Chickadee, unsure whether he should thank her or upbraid her; whether he should enfold her in his arms or strangle her. He understood clearly she'd only been trying to help, but he was also aware that despite her good intentions, she'd lost points with the unyielding members of society. Her success tonight was now hanging by a thread.

  At his obvious dismay, Eugenia cleared her throat loudly. "Everything looks and smells simply delicious. We all owe you a tremendous debt of gratitude, Chickadee. It's obvious you and Bridget worked very hard preparing this meal for us. Come now, my dear. I've placed you and Saxon over here with Lord Cavendish."

  Chickadee allowed Eugenia to take her hand but stopped when she saw Max at a nearby table. He was sitting next to Cynthia, and Bunny was at another table, seated between two old grandsires. "Miz Preston, I know this is yer ball-party and all, but would it ill you iffen I was to change this here settin' arrangement?"

  "But don't you want to sit by Lord Cavendish?"

  "Oh shore. I'll set by him," Chickadee returned, wondering which of the many men staring at her was the Englishman. "That ain't the change I want to make."

  "It's not your place to change anything," Hester flared. "Eugenia has already—"

  "Nonsense," Eugenia cut her off. "I owe Chickadee thanks for saving the dinner. The very least I can do is allow her to make whatever changes she wishes."

  Having been given permission, Chickadee smiled smugly at Hester and then went to Max's table. "Git up, Cynthia."

  Cynthia withered in her chair. "But... but I don't want to change seats with anyone." She smiled up at Max, her eyes begging him to assist her.

  But Max was grinning at Chickadee and wondering what she was up to. He'd been glad to have been seated by the lovely Cynthia, but the green twinkle in Chickadee's eyes made her plans for him seem much more amusing.

  "You ain't a-settin' by Max, Cynthia. Yore cousin Bunny's gwine set here with him." She looked up and caught her friend's surprised gaze. "Bunny, come on over here."

  Bunny blushed deeply, but realizing it would do little good to argue with Chickadee, she went to Max's table.

  "Now git up, Cynthia," Chickadee repeated. "Git up or I'll—"

  "I'll see you after dinner, Max," Cynthia blurted, her ivory complexion splotched with fiery red as she went to the chair Bunny had vacated.

  Once Bunny was seated beside Max, Chickadee proceeded to her own chair. "You the duke?" she asked the man who was standing by Saxon. "The feller all this frolickin's gwine on fer?" When he nodded, she picked up his hand, pumping it vigorously. And then, remembering Saxon's instructions to be extra polite to Lord Cavendish, she reached out and slapped the duke's back as good friends often do.

  A loud, horrified gasp rose from the crowd, many people shaking their heads, others covering their faces with their napkins. Some even slithered from their chairs as if they wanted nothing more than to hide beneath the table, embarrassed no end that the duke was being treated in such a fashion.

  "I heared yore a lord, but you ain't my Lord," Chickadee continued. "I'll be nice to you and all that, but I ain't s'posed to bow to you or nothin', am I? Cain't do that, y'know, Mr. Duke. Cain't do it on account o' I don't bow to nobody but God, and you ain't Him."

  Lord Cavendish frowned fiercely. The ripple of whispers in the room gave way to an ominous hush as Time itself seemed suspended.

  Then, his deep brown eyes closing, his lips twitching, the Duke of Amherst threw back his head and laughed out loud.

  Chapter 21

  After a dessert of warm oatmeal cookies, the guests returned to the ballroom. Araminta, however, lingered in the dining room, Thelma, Hester, Eleanor, and Millicent circled around her. The four matrons were still chilly toward her, but as Araminta unfolded her seemingly infallible plan, they all listened avidly.

  "Queen Eugenia has lost her crown tonight, ladies," she said. "Society cannot, must not ever forgive her for condoning that mountain twit's behavior."

  Thelma fiddled with her ruby ring. "But the duke—"

  "His grace's exquisite manners are the sole reason for his congeniality to that girl," Araminta injected smoothly. "He cannot very well show his real feelings if he believes that hill person is accepted here."

  "True," Hester whispered thoughtfully.

  Araminta slid her cane through her fingers. "And even if he were drawn to her for some ridiculous reason, Lord Cavendish does not live here. He will be departing for England soon."

  "We, unfortunately, must stay and endure her," Millicent hissed. "For though she seems to have changed in some subtle ways, she remains as uncivilized as she was the day she arrived. When she slapped the duke's back... well, I almost died! And Saxon doesn't appear to be the least ruffled over—"

  "Saxo
n," Araminta broke in, "believes he has made a lady of her. He has spent hours trying to educate her. He sees this night as her debut or some such nonsense, and hopes it will mean her acceptance into society. I'm sure none of you want that to happen."

  "But how can we prevent it?" Thelma asked.

  "There really are people besides Eugenia who seem to be warming toward her," Eleanor whined. "I heard several guests talking about her beauty and grace. And many people enjoyed that crude meal she made."

  "We will bring about her failure ourselves and prove to everyone she is unworthy of their approval," Araminta announced. "And we will use Saxon to do it."

  The women frowned in confusion.

  "What is the one thing that girl has expressly forbidden us to do?" Araminta slyly asked.

  The matrons frowned again.

  "Hasn't she threatened to... meller each of us if we dare blacken Saxon's name?" Araminta reminded them and smiled when the women nodded. "Then we shall goad her into it. We shall—"

  "You mean let her hit us?" Eleanor asked, shocked.

  "I doubt it will come to that," Araminta said and tapped her brooch. "I believe all she will do is abuse us verbally. And we will push her into losing her temper by slandering Saxon. Oh, I realize it will take some time to do since he has drilled all those manners into her, but I cannot believe he has changed her through and through. She became aggravated with you at dinner, didn't she, Hester?"

  Hester raised her chin. "That little heathen—"

  "Exactly my point," Araminta said. "Beneath her elegant exterior, there still lies a heathen. Her natural tendencies will overpower her newly learned social graces, and once people witness the fit she'll throw, they'll realize she is unworthy of—"

  "But Araminta," Millicent interrupted, "if people hear us trying to annoy her, they won't blame her for her reaction. Why, they may defend her right to be angry!"

  "Not if our insults are for her ears only," Araminta explained. "You see, we must whisper them to her in passing. We can catch her when she's alone for a moment, or when she's walking by. Any time will do as long as there is no one else around to hear. And once we've planted the seeds of wrath in her mind, we'll rush away before she has time to retaliate. If we can keep her simmering throughout the evening, I am certain she will explode before the night is over. No one will understand her sudden rage, and all will condemn her violent behavior!"