The Barefoot Bride (38 page)

She glanced at the line and saw Bunny in it. How beautiful Bunny was tonight! It was quite obvious she'd lost weight. And there was Max too, grinning crookedly and looking as handsome as ever. But... but he was with Cynthia, of all people! Chickadee seethed but managed to control herself. The evening was young yet, she remembered mischievously. There was still plenty of time to set things right for Bunny.

She allowed Saxon to escort her to a chair. As he walked away in search of that drink he said she'd like, she watched how easy and elegant his stride was. The thought of his tender concern warmed her all over. Oh, what a wonderful feeling it was to know he cared about her feelings and that it infuriated him when people scorned her. He'd done everything possible to keep that from happening to her tonight, and she would not let him down. She would remember everything he taught her.

Smiling, she bent to sniff the huge flower arrangement beside her, but as she savored its perfume, she became aware of another odor. Her nostrils quivered. It wasn't an unpleasant scent, but what on earth was it?

Smoke.
Law, is the house on fire?
She stood quickly and followed her nose. When she was out of the ballroom, she closed the doors to it to keep the odor from disturbing the other guests. After walking down a long corridor, she turned a corner and came to another hallway. She continued down it until the smell became stronger and led her to another door. She flung it open, and her eyes widened at the sight before her.

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—"