The Barefoot Bride (41 page)

Saxon took her arm. "Keely," he whispered. "Remember yourself."

She took a deep breath and held it, hoping it would smother her fury.

"We have not been
staring
at you," Hester chimed in. "We've merely been
observing
you. We all had high hopes when we heard that Saxon was trying to teach you social graces. But after what we have all witnessed tonight, it is apparent that he has—"

The duke cleared his throat loudly. "If I may—"

"Hesh up, Gilly," Chickadee flared, her eyes still fixed on Hester's face, oblivious to the horrified gasps from Eugenia's guests.

"Saxon," Millicent said calmly and confidently, bolstered by the crowd's response. "Your wife's conduct is deplorable, her appearance slovenly, her manner of speech utterly disgusting. You have failed miserably in your efforts with her, and she has succeeded in turning this ball into a circus. Please take her home."

He drew himself up to his full height, his blue eyes flashing. "Mrs. Ashbury—"

"Millicent, yore tongue's so long and sharp you could cut yore own throat with it!" Chickadee shouted. "And you done gone too fur with it now, lady. Either you take back that slur on Saxon, or yer gwine git embrangled with my fists!"

"You wouldn't dare!" Millicent exclaimed, but backed away as Chickadee advanced.

Again, Saxon caught her arm. "All right, Saxon," she said to him sweetly. "I won't bang her up none. Her face already looks like somebody done hit her with a bagful of pennies, and I ain't a-lookin' to make her any uglier'n she already is!"

Eleanor shook her finger at Saxon. "This disastrous evening, what is left of it, is on your head. Look at that person you married! Listen to her! How could you bring such a woman to our peaceful city? How—"

"And as fer you, Eleanor," Chickadee said, the green volcanoes in her eyes erupting at this latest slander of Saxon, "you ain't much better lookin' than Millicent!
Yore
face is so creased, 'pears to me somebody plowed it! The onliest thang on yore face that ain't wrankled is yore mouth, on accounta it's allus stretched open so wide it don't never get no chance to
git
no creases. Now, use it to say yore sorry to Saxon, or I'll find a way to make shore you cain't never open it again!"

Thelma rushed to defend Eleanor. "Now see here—"

"And here we have Thelma," Chickadee interjected smoothly, yanking her aim from Saxon's grasp. "I reckon you thank I ain't fine-haired enough to be around you Boston folks neither. You-uns is allus a-makin more noise'n a mule in a tin barn about ever'body's looks and a-doin's. You say Bunny's fat, you say another lady's got on the wrong color, you say so-and-so's a-showin' off with her jewries, and you say Saxon's mizzled fer a-marryin' me! But you don't never take no looks at yoresefs, huh?"

She walked closer to Thelma, so close they were eye to eye. "Thelma, yore eyes is so cross-eyed, I reckon when you cry, yore tears run down yore back! But it don't differ nary a jag that thur messed up, huh, Thelma? Crossed or not, you still see ever' dang-blasted gwine-on you
want
to see. Why, I reckon ever'body's doin's tickle you more'n they do anybody else on accounta you git to see 'em
double!
"

Saxon, as dejected as he was at seeing Chickadee's debut end this way, couldn't help but smile. His plan had failed, and there was nothing he could do about it now. These snooty sows were getting exactly what they so richly deserved, and though this night would mean Chickadee's return to the Appalachia, he was sadly comforted by the fact that she would be leaving a city that, try as it might, had never beaten her.

Hester noticed his smile and took full advantage of it. "Saxon, are you as idiotic as this wife of yours, allowing her to insult us like this? Good heavens! Has being with her for so long made you as savage as she?"

Whatever answer he might have given her was lost as Chickadee whirled on Hester. Hester melted into the crowd when she saw Chickadee stalking her.

"Afeared, Hester?" Chickadee taunted. "Well you been a-askin' fer the rope I'm a-fixin' to hang you with all evenin'. Yore nasty enough to vomit a buzzard, lady. A God-burn stampede cain't run down as many people as you do. And even though yore a-actin' skeered o' this back-cussin' I'm a-givin' you, you ain't really got no reason a'tall to worry. After all, the onliest thang that gits the last word when yore around is yore echo!"

Exhausted, she panted with fury at all the people who had maligned Saxon's name, who had forced her to forget all the things Saxon had tried to teach her, who continued to hate her despite his best efforts to change their opinions. She was never going to be accepted by these people no matter what Saxon did. All his efforts had been for naught. And the glimmer of melancholy she saw in his azure eyes echoed that sentiment. She'd let him down. He'd had such high hopes for this night, and those hopes had disappeared like stars falling from the sky. Biting back her tears, she lifted her skirts and left the room with the regal stride of a true princess.

Saxon turned to the silent crowd. "I thought I could make her one of us. I now thank God I failed in such a ridiculous undertaking. My wife is already perfection. I will not apologize for a thing she said or did. In fact, I think I will applaud her," he said and clapped, the noise bouncing off the marble walls for several moments before he went to Desdemona and helped her up. "With or without your leave, I bid you all farewell."

"Saxon, where are you going?" Eugenia queried loudly as she entered the ballroom and saw him leaving. "Where is Chickadee? My goodness, what has happened here?"

He gestured toward the crowd. "Ask them. I'm sure they'll relate every word of the tale as soon as I am gone. Goodbye, and thank you for a lovely—thank you for the invitation."

"Mr. Blackwell, please wait," Lord Cavendish called. "I would like to say a few things I believe you will enjoy hearing." He clasped his hands behind his back and walked among the guests, soon stopping in front of Millicent.

"Mrs. Ashbury," he said in his most imperial tone, "you believe Chickadee's manner of speech to be utterly disgusting? That
is
what you said, is it not?"

His blank expression told her nothing. Was he agreeing with her? "Her grammar is not correct, your grace," she said shakily. "I realize I am not a linguist as you are, but I am educated enough to know—"

"And you, Mrs. Rush." The duke cut off Millicent and went to Thelma. "Do you agree with Mrs. Ashbury?"

Thelma twisted her ruby ring. "I do. The girl has no idea what proper grammar is. She uses double, triple,
quadruple
negatives in one sentence, and—"

"Yes, she is rather fond of negatives isn't she?" Lord Cavendish walked to Hester, his mahogany eyes searing into her. "Mrs. Eliot, what have you to say about Chickadee's speech? Do you feel the same as your friends?"

"Oh, most assuredly, your lordship! The way she speaks—why, it hurts my ears! Her habit of adding
a
in front of some words—like
a-dancing, a-walking—
it is most regrettable you were forced to—"

"My dear lady, I do not allow anyone, save royalty, to
force
me to do anything," the duke snapped.

Saxon watched Hester's face fall, and observed that Araminta, Millicent, Eleanor, and Thelma looked disturbed also. In fact, the whole assemblage seemed to be apprehensive. He felt the lash of hope whip through him. The duke was going to defend Chickadee, he realized, but would his defense sway society's opinion? Would it mend the damage done?

Lord Cavendish accepted a glass of champagne from a servant, went to a chair, and sat down. "'Thou hast spoken no word all this while, nor understood none neither.'" He sipped at his champagne, giving his words time to sink in.

His audience was baffled. Why was his lordship speaking in such a fashion? people whispered to one another.

"A line written by Shakespeare," the duke announced. "A line containing no less than four negatives, if my counting is correct. Our dear Chickadee would say the same line like this—'You ain't said nothin' in a right long spell, and you ain't understood nothin' neither.'"

No one in the crowd spoke. Saxon knew everyone was waiting for the duke to finish his point, but he himself had already realized what it would be. He smiled broadly.

Araminta looked on with apprehension. Lord Cavendish was standing up for the mountain chit!

Already many guests were gathering around him with great interest, and if the duke succeeded in swaying society's opinion... Damn the heathen to hell and back!

"'Now might I do it pat, now he is a-praying,'" the duke continued. "That was a line from
Hamlet.
Shakespeare, it would seem, spoke much like Chickadee. Is it right for us to condemn speech so closely related to Shakespeare's? Speech, my learned listeners, that is the closest to Elizabethan English I have come across in all my years of studying dialect?"

Max, thoroughly intrigued, stepped forward. "And what of her trouble with diphthongs, your lordship? She cannot seem to say
going
but always says
gwine."

"Ah, yes," the duke said, nodding his head and smiling. "Let me see if I can think of an example to give you of that." He closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them, their gleam rivaling the lights in the room. "Alexander Pope. I'm sure many of you have read his works. For those of you who have not, let me assure you his poetry is fine indeed.

"One couplet in particular comes to mind," he continued. "It is from 'Essay on Man,' written by Mr. Pope in 1732. It goes: 'In praise so just let every man be joined and fill the general chorus of mankind.'"

He set his glass on the floor and leaned forward. "When I recited that, it didn't rhyme, did it?"

Max shook his head.

The duke smiled. "But Mr. Pope
meant
for it to rhyme, Mr. Jennings. Thus, we must think about the diphthong in
joined,
wouldn't you agree?"

Max nodded.

Again, the duke grinned. "Therefore, we must say
jined'
in order for the couplet to rhyme.
Jined
rhymes with
mankind,
and that is how Mr. Pope meant for the words to be pronounced. So you see? Again, we can compare Chickadee's speech patterns to another great writer."

He scanned the doubtful faces in the crowd and saw that many of the guests were still unwilling to give credit where credit was due. But he wasn't through yet. Before he left Boston, he would do all he could for the marvelous mountain girl who had been ridiculed so unjustly.

"I heard Chickadee say the word
argufy,"
he pressed on firmly. "That word is archaic. And the word
afeared
dates back to Middle English—the English of about seven hundred years ago. Chickadee's habit of using compound descriptive words such as
biscuit-bread, ball-party
and
ocean-sea
is characteristic of Anglo-Saxon English. Chaucer himself used these self-explanatory words. Indeed, in his narrative poem
Beowulf,
you will find the word
un-living
for dead and
bone-box
for body. Do those words not sound like those Chickadee might use?

"And what of her
you-uns?"
he went on relentlessly. "Wouldn't you all agree that
you-uns
sounds suspiciously like the
ye ones
of Chaucer's time? It is apparent to me, as it should be to all of you, that Chickadee's English is purer than that of anyone here, myself included."

He stood and looked at all the faces around him. "I am the Duke of Amherst, as you all know. You have all treated me royally, going out of your way to show me the respect you deem I deserve. I am grateful to you all for such. However, though it may be quite rude of me to say this, when I return to my estate in England, it is not this glittering ballroom I will remember. The sophisticated chitchat as well as the elegant music the orchestra performed tonight will all be forgotten."

He smiled. "Instead, I will recall toe-tappin' fiddle songs. And when I remember them, they will bring to mind the beautiful music of mountain speech. A melodic dialect so picturesque, I will carry its sound with me forever. I will always cherish my memories of this night, and never will I forget the Appalachian girl who created them for me."

Chapter 22

As Chickadee left the Preston mansion, she turned, fully expecting to see Saxon behind her. But he was nowhere to be seen. Was he trying to put together the broken pieces of the fairy tale? The question stung her eyes with tears she refused to let fall.

"Chickadee!" Gallagher hurried toward her and kissed her cheek. "'Twas hoping we'd see ye tonight, we were! And ye look like a princess, aye that ye do, lass!"

"We came to take Bridget and Nevin home, but they're nae ready to leave yet," Killian said, bending to embrace her. "Bridget told us about all ye did with the meal. 'Twould seem yer quick thinkin' saved the night."