Diamonds and Dreams

by Rebecca Paisley

  “Miss Mae, I have heard that you were able to interview our Prime Minister,” Lord Chittingdon said for the benefit of the twelve other curious guests, many of whom gazed respectfully at Goldie upon hearing the announcement. “Word of it filtered my way from Her Majesty’s court, no less! When I heard that the girl who had spoken to him was a lovely and petite American, I knew she could be none other than you. Tell me, my dear, what did our John Russell have to say to you?”

  Glad to be able to turn her attention away from the rude woman across from her, Goldie smiled at her host. “Well,” she began, patting her mouth with her napkin, “we talked about all he likes to eat, mostly. I was real interested in that. Uh, folks in America want to know what kinds of food dukish people like.”

  “Indeed,” Jillian commented in a syrupy voice. “And what was his reaction to you?”

  Goldie stiffened, irritated by the mean way the woman had asked the question. She raised a brow. “He liked me so much he told me to call him Johnny.”

  Lady Chittingdon laughed at what she suspected was a bald-faced lie. She couldn’t condemn Goldie, however, for she had witnessed Jillian Somerset’s animosity during the meal and knew full well it was jealousy that prompted it. She found the situation highly amusing. “Actually, Jillian,” Lady Chittingdon said, “he was quite taken with Goldie. He related the story many times, and on each occasion, he became so amused that he laughed uproariously. It’s my opinion that he would welcome another opportunity to see her again.”

  “Humph!” Horatio Alders growled. “He’s supposed to be looking after the best interests of our country, and he wastes his time laughing over useless anecdotes!”

  Lady Chittingdon gave the sour man a despairing look. “Ladies,” she said, rising, “shall we retire to the drawing room and allow the men to enjoy their cigars and port before we begin dancing?”

  All the women, save Goldie, rose, gathering around Lady Chittingdon. “I’m stayin’ in here with the men,” she announced, picking up her notepad and pencil from her lap. “I have a lot of questions to ask ’em. Y’all sit back down,” she told the men, who had all risen out of their chairs in deference to the ladies’ departure.

  “Oh, they’ll be along shortly, my dear,” Lady Chittingdon assured her. “Come with us, Miss Mae. I’m sure I’m not the only one who would like to hear the story of how you and Marion Tremayne came to meet.”

  “Well, all right,” Goldie acquiesced. “But y’all men come on purty soon,” she told them. She allowed the butler to pull out her chair for her, smiling graciously at him.

  Once in the elegant drawing room, the ladies’ inquisition began immediately.

  “Where did you meet Marion Tremayne, Miss Mae?” Lady Ainsworth asked.

  “Where?” Goldie repeated. She pulled at a ringlet.

  “Was it in Scotland?” Lady Baldwin queried.

  “Uh... Yeah. It was in Scotland,” Goldie said, relieved. “I saw him in a little town there. He was doin’ one of those Scottish jigs. Had on one of those skirts and everything.”

  “Marion was dancing a jig?” Lady Chittingdon asked. “My! I would like to have seen that. Tell us more, Miss Mae.”

  “I wish y’all’d call me Goldie. Miss Mae sounds so fancy.”

  Lady Roth smiled. “But you are quite...fancy, my dear. Your gown is simply gorgeous.”

  Goldie smoothed her satin skirts. “And do I have it on right? Fern and I had us a real time tryin’ to understand which was the front side and which was the back. They both looked the same. ‘Course the back usually has buttons, but Fern said she’d seen some dresses with buttons in the front. We finally put it on like this because it didn’t make much difference. And I have on eight slips, too. I’m not really talkin’ about underwear, though. I’m just sorta lettin’ y’all know in a real casual way that I have some on over my you-know-whats.”

  Lady Ainsworth frowned. “Your you-know-whats?”

  Goldie leaned forward in her chair and whispered. “My legs.” Straightening, she sipped the champagne a maid had offered her, wrinkling her nose as the bubbles tickled the back of her throat. “Yeah, I like this dress, but I’m not used to showin’ this much of my other you-know-whats. This gown shows nearly everything I’ve got. I don’t have much as you can plainly see, but I usually cover up what little I’ve got. Fern said it’s all right to show your you-know-whats at night, though.” At the look of confusion on the women’s faces, she leaned forward again. “My ninnies.”

  “Oh, my!” Lady Baldwin exclaimed, whipping out her fan. “Oh, my goodness gracious!”

  Goldie patted the woman’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t have said the word if y’all had known what I was talkin’ about. It’s a mystery to me how y’all can discuss stuff without sayin’ what it is you’re discussin’. What do y’do? Point?”

  Lady Chittingdon smothered laughter. “Why, Goldie, it’s very simple. We don’t discuss it at all,” she explained gently.

  Goldie nodded. “Do you talk about chicken parts? I was wonderin’ about that the other day. Myself, I like the thighs. ‘Course then there’s chicken legs, too. What do all y’all dukish folks do when you want a chicken part? Can you ask for a breast at the supper table?”

  Jillian sneered. “Tell us, Goldie. What does Marion have to say about the way you act?”

  “The way I act?” Goldie echoed in a very tiny voice. “What’s the matter with the way I act?”

  Jillian refrained from answering, but merely gave Goldie a horrible look.

  “Goldie, my dear,” Lady Chittingdon said, realizing a change of subject was most definitely in order, “have you heard about our newest project? I’m sure you will want to include it in the book you are writing. We’ve recently begun adopting street urchins. We bring the waifs into our homes, where we begin teaching and grooming them. They will stay with us until we are satisfied that they have become properly educated in all respects. When that time comes, we will use our influence to find them honest, well-paying jobs.”

  Lady Roth smiled excitedly. “We call the undertaking our mission of mercy, and we are sponsoring only the most pitiful and ignorant girls we can find. My girl’s name is Elsa, and she’s seventeen years old. Not all of our waifs are necessarily children. Some are young women. After Elsa was cleaned up and dressed, I discovered her to be quite pretty. She was very frightened when she first arrived at my home, but my husband and I have showered her with lovely things, and now she is much more confident with us. She’s making splendid progress, too.”

  Lady Ainsworth smoothed her hair. “My girl’s name is Faye. She is eighteen. One of my servants found her selling dog meat! Well, I was absolutely horrified to say the very least. I took the poor child in immediately.”

  “And my little urchin,” Lady Alders began, “is fifteen. Her name is Netty. She’s only been with my husband, Horatio, and me for a week and is still quite shy. But yesterday she succeeded in reciting the entire alphabet! I was so proud of her that I bought her a gold hand mirror. She’s never had a mirror of her own and was quite happy to receive it.”

  “And how is Horatio taking to the idea of having Netty in his home?” Lady Chittingdon asked, feeling rather sorry for the street urchin who had to live under the same roof as the belligerent Horatio Alders. Why, the man was the stiffest, most cantankerous man in all of England!

  Lady Alders’ face fell. “Not very well, I’m afraid. I take great care to keep Netty out of his way.”

  Goldie sat back in her chair, listening to other women describe their waifs. When the last one had finished, she smiled. “Y’all are sure compassionate folks. I think this new project of yours is real nice. Y’know, maybe y’all could even find noble husbands for those girls. I bet any one of ’em would be tickled pink to be able to marry a dukish man.”

  “Oh, but that would never do,” Jillian said. She fondled the huge emerald on her necklace. “It would be quite unseemly for a titled gentleman to marry such a girl. Take Marion Tremayne for example. As the
Duke of Ravenhurst, it would be in very poor taste for him to actually wed a girl so far beneath him. He may dally with such a girl, but marry her? Never.”

  “Jillian,” Lady Chittingdon began, struggling with anger, “please—”

  “And what are you beautiful ladies discussing, may I ask?” Lord Chittingdon asked as he entered the drawing room. “Whatever the conversation, I hope you don’t mind if the gentleman and I join in. We missed the pleasure of your company so much, we decided not to linger over our port.”

  Goldie grinned at the cluster of men, some of whom were elderly, and some of whom were as young as Saber. “Y’all pull up a chair. We’re talkin’ about how it’s not right for dukish men to marry poor, ignorant girls. Before that we were talkin’ about chicken parts, and before that we were—”

  “We have been discussing many things,” Lady Chittingdon finished for her. “Do be seated, gentleman.”

  As the men accepted Lady Chittingdon’s invitation, Goldie noticed one of them frowning into empty space. Great day Miss Agnes, the man looked angry with the whole world. “What’s your name again?” she asked him. “I forgot.”

  Horatio snapped out of his irritable daze. “I am Horatio Alders, and I do not want to be included in your book.”

  Goldie wondered if the man had ever been happy in his entire life. What an ill-box, she mused with a tiny grin. “Well, that’s just a shame. You look like just the fella who could have answered a very important question for me.”

  Horatio lifted his chin. “And what question is that?”

  “There’s no use in askin’ it if you aren’t gonna answer.”

  “Nevertheless, I would like to know the question.”

  “Well, all right. What was your favorite thing to do when you were a little boy?”

  Horatio frowned. “What bearing would that possibly have on anything?”

  “I’m not real sure yet. But I’m gonna tie it in somehow. Maybe I’ll have a chapter called ‘Dukish Young-uns.’”

  Horatio turned away, but Goldie noticed his scowl had turned into a thoughtful look. She grinned again.

  Lord Baldwin cleared his throat. “I’m very disappointed that Marion was unable to join us tonight, Miss Mae. The last time I saw him was at Angelica Sheridan’s funeral. He—”

  “You know, now that you ask, Miss Mae,” Horatio interrupted, leaning over with his elbows on his knees, “I did enjoy making paper boats.”

  “Can you still make ’em?” she asked.

  Horatio saw that all eyes were upon him. “I have no idea and no wish to find out,” he flared.

  Jillian turned her glacial blue gaze to Lord Baldwin. “What a pity you haven’t seen Marion in so long,” she said, casting a swift and hateful glance at Goldie. “I have seen him on countless occasions since the funeral.”

  “I don’t imagine one forgets how to make paper boats,” Horatio commented. “If you will be good enough to give me a sheet of your paper, Miss Mae, I will endeavor to show you how.”

  She smiled and gave him the paper.

  “Horatio,” Lady Alders said to her husband. “What in the world are you doing?”

  Horatio grunted an answer no one could comprehend, and remained busy folding the paper.

  “Goldie, my dear,” Lord Chittingdon said warmly, “are you enjoying our gathering?”

  “Oh, Duke Chittin’don, you just can’t know what bein’ here means to me. And I’m ready to start takin’ notes on y’all. I only need stuff about dukish men,” she explained to the women. “I’ve enjoyed y’all’s company and all, but I mostly came for the men.”

  “Indeed,” Lady Baldwin murmured, eyeing the delighted look on her husband’s face.

  “It’s all the folding, you must understand,” Horatio mumbled as he continued to fashion the paper toy. “If the creases aren’t exactly right, the boat will sink.”

  Goldie grinned at him, and picked up her pencil. “All right, y’all. There’s really just a few things I want to know. For one, what do dukish men talk about? Since I had to leave the dinin’ room while y’all were in there, I didn’t get to hear. I’m purty sure y’all talk about different stuff than the men I know in America.”

  “What do they talk about?” Lord Roth queried.

  “Well,” Goldie said, trying to remember as much as she could, “the young ones usually talk about how great it’d be to get a woman, and the old ones talk about how great it’d be to get away from the ones they got.”

  Horatio Alders’ lips twitched.

  “Ole Cecil Bean down in Squattin’ Junction, Kentucky, didn’t ever talk about anything but the rattlesnake bite that cost him his arm. Yeah, they had to cut his arm off back in 1833. Cecil had everybody carve their names into his wooden arm. He even had President Andrew Jackson’s name carved on it. He told everybody he’d met that president, but anybody who’d had a speck of schoolin’ knew he was lyin’. We knew because the name was spelled A-N-D-R-O-O J-A-K-S-I-N. Ole Cecil carved that name himself. No one ever accused him of lyin’ about it though. We all figured that a man with one arm deserved whatever pride his wooden one could give him.”

  Horatio Alders smiled.

  “And ole Vern Odle back in Willy Wally Way, North Carolina? Now, he was a character if you ever wanted to meet one. All he ever talked about was how bossy his wife, Mabelle Ann, was. But he did everything she told him to. Yeah, Mabelle Ann’d say ‘Frog,’ and Vern’d leap. I’ll swannee if she’d have said ‘Cloud,’ he’d have tried to rain. You didn’t ever meet up with ole Vern when he didn’t tell you about how mean Mabelle Ann was. Y’know, Vern didn’t even have a job. He stayed home almost all the time because leavin’ would’ve meant he’d have to kiss Mabelle Ann good-bye.”

  Horatio’s shoulders began to quake.

  “And I remember a man by the name of Able Poots, back in Babbitsboro, Alabama. He—Y’know, folks there were always fightin’ over the name of that town. Some, said it was Babbitsboro, and others insisted it was Rabbitsboro. Y’see, the town’s papers weren’t written too clear. You couldn’t really tell if the first letter of the town’s name was a ‘B’ or an ‘R.’ There was even bloodshed over it. Yeah, Barnaby Babbit shot Lem Smedley in the foot. Barnaby claimed it was his grandfather, Fadey Babbit, who established the town. Lem said anybody with an ounce of brains knew the town was Rabbitsboro because of all the rabbits that were there.

  “Anyway, ole Able Poots? Well, he was the chitchattin’est man God ever made. He didn’t talk about any one thing, but any subject could get him off on another one. If you told him it was gonna rain, it’d make him think of water, y’see. So then he’d tell you about the time he almost drowned when he was seven. One time I told him how purty the crepe myrtles in yard his were? Well, in the space of less than a minute, he went from crepe myrtles to the story of why his beard only grew on one side of his face.

  “Y’want to know how he did it? Crepe myrtles reminded him of this girl he knew once. Her name was Myrtle, and she made the best collard greens Able ever tasted. Collards reminded him of the time he broke his collarbone when a tree branch fell on him. The branch reminded him of what he was doin’ by that tree at the time. He was gonna cut it down to get some wood to fix the leakin’ church roof. Church reminded him of the time when he was kneelin’ by his bed, sayin’ his prayers. He was prayin’ so hard, he didn’t notice how close his lighted candle was to the curtains. They caught on fire, and Able burned one side of his face tryin’ to beat out the flames. Never could grow a beard on that side of his face again.”

  Horatio could contain his laughter no longer. In a great loud burst, it exploded from him. He doubled over, his body shaking violently. His paper boat floated to the floor.

  His wife, Lady Alders, jumped from her chair, frantically fanning her husband. “Oh, my! He’s having an attack!”

  “Looks to me like he’s laughin’,” Goldie commented.

  “Send for a doctor!” Lord Chittingdon barked at a young maid.

  “He’s just
laughin’,” Goldie said again. “He must’ve really liked the story about Able Poots.”

  Lady Roth shook her head. “Horatio Alders never even smiles, much less laughs, Goldie! There is something definitely wrong with the poor man!”

  Goldie cocked her head, watching the guests fuss over Horatio. Bending at the waist, she looked at his face, which was almost between his knees. She saw tears clinging to his whiskered cheeks, and a huge smile on his thick lips.

  “Look what you did to Lord Alders with your ridiculous stories,” Jillian hissed. “You’ve shocked him to such an extent that he is suffering some sort of terrible seizure!”

  Goldie glanced at all the other guests. When she saw no one but Jillian was looking at her, she stuck her tongue out at the catty woman, giggling at the horrified expression on Jillian’s face.

  “Horatio!” Lady Alders cried, kneeling and pushing at his shoulders. “Speak to me, husband! Horatio, tell me what—”

  “Barnaby Babbit,” Horatio sputtered, “shot Lem Smedley in the foot! All because of the name of the town!” His face reddened as more laughter rumbled through him. “And Poots! Able Poots! I’ve—I’ve never heard a funnier name in all my life!”

  Lady Alders stood, still staring down at her husband. “He’s laughing,” she murmured, her face a mask of pure disbelief.

  All heads turned toward Goldie.

  “Lord Marion Tremayne,” the butler announced from the doorway.

  As Saber stepped into the room, his eyes widened at the sight before him. Horatio Alders was leaning over his knees, and the other people in the room were staring at Goldie. His first thought was that she’d said something that so upset Lord Alders, the man had died.

  “Marion!” Jillian exclaimed, rising. Disregarding the fact that he’d ended his relationship with her, she smiled and started for him.