The Barefoot Bride (40 page)

Still, the night wasn't over yet, and she was behaving quite nicely, he reminded himself as he watched her fuss over Desdemona. His plan could still end in victory.

"Desi's gwine be jist fine, Saxon. But she don't need to dance no more. You jist set right here and watch me and yore big brother, Desi, hear?" She patted Desdemona's shoulder and then grabbed Saxon's hand.

She began to waltz before they'd reached the dance floor, and Saxon was hard-pressed to keep from jostling people as Chickadee swirled him into the midst of the other dancers. "Keely, you're supposed to let me lead."

"Why do menfolks allus git to do ever'thang and women jist got to set by and let 'em? I can lead jist as good as you can."

"But the man is the one—" Saxon laughed down at her and then pulled her closer. She wore no perfume, he noticed, but her scent was sweeter than any in the room.

"Mr. Duke! Mr. Duke!" Chickadee yelled, her voice so loud it overwhelmed the music. "I ain't danced with the duke yet, Saxon." She left his arms and rushed toward Lord Cavendish.

Heads turned to stare at her. Saxon felt that lump in his throat again as he followed and promptly lost her.

"Your gown is gorgeous, Chickadee," Eleanor said when Chickadee was near her.

Chickadee stopped and looked at the woman.

"Or it least it
was,"
Eleanor added softly. "Now it's nothing more than a rag, soiled and scorched. Saxon was stupid not to take you home. I cannot imagine why he is allowing you to remain at the ball looking as you do. It is apparent to me he has lost what little wits he used to have before marrying you."

Chickadee panted with outrage, then shuddered with her attempt to subdue it.

"Did I hear you calling me, Mrs. Blackwell?" Lord Cavendish asked as the crowd parted to make way for him.

Anger boiling inside her, Chickadee watched Eleanor escape. With a sigh, she turned her attention to Lord Cavendish. "Mr. Duke, you and me ain't danced yet. Saxon larnt me with a tablecloth, and I don't hardly never step on toes. Ain't that right, Saxon?" she asked her husband, who had finally caught up with her.

Lord Cavendish chuckled. "Mr. Blackwell, will you do me the honor of allowing me to dance with your wife?"

"I will indeed, your grace. There is no greater honor I could do you." After giving Chickadee a silent look of warning, he bowed and left the floor.

"Yore a right common man, Mr. Duke," Chickadee told Lord Cavendish as he whirled her away. "I know yore somebody important back thar acrost the ocean-sea whar you come from, but you shore don't put on the dog about nothin'."

"Put on the dog," the duke repeated thoughtfully and then winced when she stepped on his foot. "Am I correct in assuming that expression means I don't put on airs?"

"Call it whatever strikes yore fancy, but yore a real nice man, and I'm God-proud to know you."

"As I am to know you. You are exactly what I thought all Americans were like, and you've brought zest to an affair I would otherwise have found boring and tedious."

"You don't like these ball-parties?"

"I detest them."

"It's this slow music, ain't it? Don't got much of a beat to it like the fiddle music my neighbor George Franklin plays at home in the Blue Ridge. You ever hear good fiddle music, Mr. Duke? Do you-uns play it over thar in Angland?"

He smiled at the way she pronounced the name of his country. "I've heard violin music like what these musicians here are playing, but I seriously doubt it's anything like what your George Franklin plays. It's a real shame he's not here to play for us. I would have enjoyed that immensely."

Chickadee looked at the musicians, for the first time noticing their violins did indeed resemble George Franklin's fiddles. But could they be made to sound like fiddles too?

There was only way she knew of to find but.

"You want to hear fiddle music, I'll make shore you hear it, Mr. Duke. Them
violins
them musicianers is a-playin' ain't nothin' but fancified fiddles, the way I see it. Go grab yoresef a woman and git set to hear the toe-tappin'est music you ever did hear!" With that, she left the duke and walked quickly toward the orchestra.

"Yes, I agree with you, Thelma," Millicent said when Chickadee was within hearing distance. Swiftly, she moved away from the other guests, closer to Chickadee. "Saxon was quite the fool to believe he could make that hill person into a lady."

"Well, he was
always
a fool, Millicent," Thelma agreed quietly. "That yokel he married simply made him
more
of one!"

Wrath rumbled through Chickadee. She turned toward the two women behind her, only to discover they'd vanished. Her gaze swept the ballroom in search of them, but it found Lord Cavendish instead. The sight of him reminded her of what she'd told him she'd do, and she waved her arms in front of the musicians, gesturing for them to cease playing.

Lord Cavendish went to Eugenia Preston and whispered into her ear. She laughed into her hands. "Ladies and gentlemen," she called loudly. "Chickadee Blackwell is going to entertain us with the music she enjoys in her mountains. Please select a dance partner!"

Many guests shook their heads at Eugenia's unseemly behavior. Nevertheless, there was soon a large crowd of couples on the dance floor. It would never do to disobey their hostess, even if it appeared she
had
tossed her wits to the wind.

Araminta and her cronies were delighted their scheme had begun so smoothly and that Chickadee herself was unknowingly helping them with it. Imagine a guest taking over the orchestra! they exclaimed to each other. Surely this was but the start of the mountain girl's ill-mannered antics!

Saxon, as he watched Chickadee take a violin from one of the musicians, pulled at his suddenly strangling collar. "During all the long hours I tutored her, he murmured to Desdemona, "I... well, I never thought to tell her not to rob the orchestra of its job!"

Eugenia came up behind him in time to hear his words. "I think it's perfectly delightful, Saxon."

He clasped her hand warmly. "Would you care to dance, Mrs. Preston?"

"Why, I would adore it! But I will have to wait for the next song, my dear. I hate to miss a single note of Chickadee's music, but one of my maids just informed me that poor Sarah Bancroft is completely beside herself. I'm on my way upstairs to bring her a whiskey. She does drink whiskey, you know. On the sly, of course."

Saxon laughed as she hurried away, but his grin became a scowl when Araminta joined him. "You married a moron, Saxon. Look at her up there with the musicians!"

He forced himself to face her malevolent glare, the one that had always frightened him as a boy and still brought back the horrible memory of those years. "Grandmother," he seethed, his hands aching to choke her withered neck, "one more word, and—"

"Saxon!" Cynthia exclaimed, slipping her arm around his waist when she arrived at his side.

Saxon's eyes widened at the strong odor coming from her. It wasn't champagne, he knew. It was bourbon. She smelled as if she'd bathed in the stuff.

"You haven't danced with me at all, you devil!" she admonished him. "Come, let's join the others. This dance, I imagine, will be most interesting." She pulled him toward the dance floor. Saxon did not object, knowing if he didn't leave Araminta, he would soon be arrested for murder.

From the platform, Chickadee observed the way Cynthia was pressing herself against Saxon, but his obvious irritation told her he wasn't enjoying Cynthia hanging all over him. She smiled at her audience, brought the bow to the violin, tapped her foot three times, and began to play.

She closed her eyes and let her music fill her. She remembered George Franklin instructing her to feel the music, to let her emotions and instincts play rather than her fingers. The violin seemed to come alive in her hands, the Scotch-Irish melody she played twisting and changing in rhythm. It sang slowly, sweetly, and hauntingly, and then switched to a sound so happy, so overwhelmingly joyful, Max and Bunny began to clap their hands.

Cynthia's hands, however, were otherwise occupied. When Chickadee opened her eyes again, the first thing she saw was Cynthia's cloud-white fingers curling into Saxon's black hair. Instantly, she stopped playing. The guests looked at her, baffled by her angry expression, then followed her line of vision to Cynthia.

Cynthia shrank back as Chickadee bolted from the platform and stormed toward her. "Saxon, for God's sake, don't let her touch me! Look at her! She's going to—"

"I been a-watchin' you tonight, Cynthia," Chickadee hissed, all memory of proper etiquette disappearing beneath the weight of her tremendous fury.

"You commenced with Max, and when you couldn't git him, you went to ever' other man here. You been on more laps than a napkin, and now yore a-tryin' to git Saxon! You better git them twitchy breeches o' yores away—"

"Keely," Saxon intervened gently. "Please—"

"I ain't afeared o' you, Cynthia. You touch Saxon one more time, and I'll meller you so bad, you'll look like you been a-chawin' bakker and a-spittin' in the wind!"

Cynthia angrily looked to Araminta and the other influential matrons for support but saw only slow-spreading smiles on their powdered faces. Why, the bitches were actually
enjoying
her embarrassing predicament! No longer able to control her hatred and jealousy of Chickadee, and bolstered by the strong liquor still flowing through her, she lunged toward her rival.

But the mountain girl, who could have easily subdued Cynthia, merely stepped aside, grabbing the top of Cynthia's elaborate hairdo. To Cynthia's utter horror, her hairpiece came off in Chickadee's hand. Cynthia covered the sparse, mousy-brown strings of hair that straggled around her scarlet face as best she could and raced from the room, stumbling over her own feet in her haste to disappear.

When she was gone, Chickadee looked at the wig in her hand and then glanced up at Saxon. "I swear I didn't mean to snatch her bald, outlander."

"I know, Keely," he said quietly.

The sadness in his voice almost killed her. She'd made a terrible mistake. She shouldn't have gotten so riled at Cynthia. It was just that when it came to anything concerning Saxon, she could barely control her temper.

The duke, who had been resisting the urge to laugh, clapped to break the tense silence. "An unfortunate occurrence, but what's done is done, is it not? Please, Mrs. Blackwell, let us continue with the dancing, shall we?" He took the wig from her and deposited it in the hands of a passing waiter.

She regarded him with grateful eyes. "Why don't you commence a-callin' me Chickadee?"

"I'd be honored."

"And what's yore first name?"

The duke entertained an expression of surprise. No one other than old acquaintances had ever presumed they could call him by his first name. "My name is Gilford."

Chickadee's lips twitched merrily. "Gilford? Gilly fits you better. Is Gilly all right with you?"

Araminta smiled when she heard the gasp that rose from the multitude of guests. She watched the men shuffle uneasily, the women fan themselves frantically. She saw Saxon loosen his neckcloth, and knew everyone, most especially her grandson, was dreading the duke's reaction.

"Gilly?" his grace asked and hid his grin while rubbing his chin. "Gilly. Well..." His voice trailed off as he repeated the name to himself.

Araminta quickly turned to her four friends. "We've made sure every person here has heard about what that girl has done since her arrival to Boston," she whispered hurriedly. "While we were spreading that gossip round, she took over the orchestra. Then there was the little scene with Cynthia, the wig and Chickadee's hot-tempered threats. I suspect it is no longer necessary for our plan to continue in secret. Everyone in this room has heard about and witnessed her crude behavior. Now, in defense of Lord Cavendish, our guest of honor, don't you think someone should... explain to the girl that nicknaming a duke is simply not done?"

Millicent smiled spitefully and rushed forward. "Forgive her, your grace," she said to Lord Cavendish. "As I'm sure you already know, she is not from here and is unfamiliar with our way of life." Turning to Chickadee, she said, "You will call him my lord, your grace, or Lord Cavendish."

Saxon raised an ebony eyebrow at the malice in Millicent's eyes. "Mrs. Ashbury, Keely is quite fond of nicknames and means no insult. On the contrary, it has been my observation she only shortens the names of those for whom she feels affection," he said to Millicent, hoping the duke would understand.

Millicent's eyebrow rose higher than his. Lord Cavendish, sensing an argument was brewing, started to intervene, but stopped when Chickadee held up her hand to him. "Millicent—"

"It's Mrs. Ashbury to you," Millicent said stiffly.

"I think you'd rather hear me call you Millicent than what I'd
really
like to call you."

Millicent gasped and looked at the shocked crowd. "Did you hear what she said to me?" she asked the guests, gratified that many of them looked sympathetic.

"Keely," Saxon whispered directly into her ear. "Please calm down."

Before Chickadee had time to reply, Thelma, nudged onward by Araminta, stepped forward. "I heard what she said, Millicent! Surely she deserves a piece of your mind!"

"Thelma, she cain't spare it," Chickadee retorted and swallowed the rest of what she wanted to say.

Eleanor decided to take her turn and went straight to Saxon. "Saxon, why—"

"Eleanor," Chickadee broke in quickly. "I'm a-warnin'—"

"Keely," Saxon began, "please—"

"Saxon!" Eleanor repeated. "How can you just stand there and let her say these things to us?"

Chickadee had had enough. Her anger raged like a swollen river inside her, and she could no longer keep the flood behind the dam. "Eleanor, I can take whatever sass you flang at me, but you say one ill word to Saxon, and I'll lay you so low yore socks is gwine blindfold you! You and them other snooty sows been a-starin' at me and Saxon all night. I been a-turnin' a blind eye to it so fur, but—"