The Barefoot Bride (37 page)

Maybe he'd begun to care for her.

*

Saxon drilled Chickadee day and night; Desdemona was their quiet audience. Unless they were practicing table manners, they rarely even took time out to eat. He showed Chickadee how to sit like a lady, rise like a lady, curtsy like a lady. He demonstrated how a lady holds her glass and even ex tended his pinky finger in a very feminine manner. To show her what a lady should look like when dancing, he wrapped a large tablecloth around his waist, picked up a bit of it in his fingers, and waltzed around the room, careful to hold the fabric in such a way that it flowed and swirled around his legs. He showed her the way a lady fans herself, and even peeked over the fan and batted his eyelashes at her. He was a lady in every sense of the word while giving her lessons, and on more than one occasion, Chickadee laughed herself into fits. Even Desdemona giggled silently.

Saxon joined them in their mirth. He was well aware of how ridiculous he looked pretending to be a lady and realized he could have had Bunny come to demonstrate all the ladylike gestures and ways, but he'd never had as much fun in all his life. He felt like a little boy again and surprised even himself at his silliness. He was "climbin' fool's hill", as Chickadee put it, and she was his willing partner on the climb.

He only hoped his plan would make it possible for them to scale it together forever.

*

The long-awaited night had finally arrived, Saxon mused as the coach rumbled toward Eugenia Preston's estate. His eyes rested lovingly on his Appalachian Cinderella. In a matter of minutes she would attend her first ball. She would meet an English duke. She would face her enemies. She would remember everything he'd taught her, or she would forget it all. But whatever happened,
he
was her Prince Charming tonight.

She was a vision, a flame-haired angel swathed in a cloud of gold satin. The emeralds he'd bought her glittered from a tiara in her hair, her ears, her throat, her arms, and her hands. How he loved those emeralds on her.

As he continued to observe her she snapped open her fan with perfect execution, but how strange it looked in her hand, he thought. She'd had no need for fans in her hills. The cool mountain wind had been her fan. And then she slipped her hands into her gloves. Hands that had already done more hard work than most Boston ladies did in a lifetime.

He watched as she peered out the window. He knew she was seeing mansions, well-kept gardens, and clean lanes, lit by the streetlamps. Her nights in the Blue Ridge had been lit only by the sheen of the moon. Her mansion had been a small cabin, her garden the most beautiful nature had to offer, her avenues rocky paths lined with dense tangles of laurel.

And though she was dressed as elegantly as he'd ever seen her, her rich clothing and sumptuous jewels could not disguise her earthy looks. Yes, she could be a princess sitting there in all her gleaming finery, but encased in that costly gown was an Appalachian mountain girl. An unaffected rustic who would either succeed gloriously or fail miserably.

Whatever the outcome of this night, he knew it would decide both their futures.

Chapter 20

Eugenia poked her head into the doorway of the huge Preston kitchen and watched the three French chefs at work. Eugenia rolled her eyes.

They were Sarah Bancroft's chefs. For weeks before the ball, Sarah had begged Eugenia to allow them to create their culinary masterpieces for the duke, proclaiming the chefs were famous throughout Europe. She'd badgered her so incessantly that Eugenia had acquiesced just to silence Sarah's hysterical pleas.

But the Frenchmen
did
seem to know exactly what they were doing, Eugenia admitted as she watched them. No doubt the meal they created would be excellent indeed. Satisfied, she left the kitchen to inspect the sparkling ballroom.

Accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, she thought of the many years she'd played the part of Boston's grande dame, its matron of society. Ah, the things money and an honored family name could do. How she'd enjoyed her status among the elite!

But the diversion had quickly worn off.

She'd grown tired of the strict rules, the stifling decorum. Alas, no one else in Boston could uphold the standards of society as she could, and Boston trusted her judgment implicitly.

Tonight, though, she would betray that trust, and love doing it. Sipping her champagne, she pondered her reasons for anticipating this night with such excitement.

No one had ever dared defy her. No rule had ever been broken, no gathering had ever been disrupted in any untoward manner. For years Boston had been caressed by the breeze of elegant propriety.

Until a refreshing Appalachian wind had blown into it.

During the months since the sewing circle meeting, Eugenia had listened to all the horrendous gossip concerning that mountain tornado and had not laughed so hard or so long in years. Even now, it made her smile and chuckle. Yes, society had had a good, strong dose of some wonderful medicine, and just as she'd suspected would happen, Boston was completely cured of that malady called boredom.

She suspected society would not forgive her for inviting the girl it shunned to tonight's festivities. But she cared not one whit about stepping down from the throne that had become too hard and cold for her liking, about relinquishing society's scepter.

"I don't envy the next queen in the least," she told a young maid who was scurrying into the ballroom with an arrangement of flowers.

The maid stopped, a poinsettia petal poking her nose. "Ma'am?"

"That little mountain marvel," Eugenia said more to herself than the maid, "has opened my eyes. I almost wish I were more like her."

She waved the maid away and surveyed the luxurious ballroom once again. It was gorgeous. But it was a chilly room—despite the hundreds of candles and the blazing fires, it lacked warmth. And though the music the orchestra played was beautiful, there was still something missing. The very atmosphere was wanting. True, the room was opulent, but it was so conventionally elegant, it was boring.

But not for long, she reminded herself. Soon this room would change. It would echo with laughter and be heated with a special feeling that was hard to describe.

Because soon, very soon, Chickadee Blackwell would be arriving.

*

Gilford Cavendish, duke of Amherst, stifled a yawn and looked at the silly women chattering beside him. They were talking among themselves as if he were invisible. Why did people do that? Why did they seem almost
afraid
of him? Did they think he'd bite them? Order their heads to be chopped off?

What a disappointment his tour of Boston had been, thus far. He'd heard these Americans were different than the English. That they were less stuffy and more open and unconventional. He'd looked forward to being with them and learning about their different way of life.

But from the second he'd set foot in Boston, the red carpet was rolled out for him, and everyone he met bent over backward for him. If he didn't know better, he'd think he was still in his own country. These Bostonians were exact replicas of the people who made up the ton in England. Wealthy, sophisticated snobs—the same sort of people he took great pains to avoid. He had no patience with their incessant gossiping and lofty airs. Was there no place in the world where things were simple and unaffected? He sighed and looked at his watch. He'd only been here a half hour. It seemed like hours already.

"Oh dear God," Sarah, the woman beside him, whispered loudly.
"She's
here!"

Millicent's mouth popped open. "What utter gall she has coming here uninvited!"

"But Millicent, Saxon is with her!" Evelyn pointed out. "Granted, he's shown an extreme lack of good judgment since wedding that girl, but
no one
would attend the grand ball uninvited. Not even Saxon!"

"Oh heavens, this is just terrible," Sarah whispered. "I can't imagine why Eugenia invited her! What on earth shall we do now?"

Hester frowned. "Well, what
can
we do? As Evelyn said, she
must
have an invitation. Obviously Eugenia wants her here!"

"Surely there must be some mistake," Thelma argued and twisted her ruby ring. "And if there's not—oh my! I suggest we go find Araminta immediately. Perhaps she knows more about this."

Gilford ran his finger over his gray moustache and watched with detached interest as the group of women scurried away. Briefly, he tried to find the woman about whom they were speaking but soon decided he didn't care who it was. The lady in question was more than likely someone of whom the catty women were jealous. Women were like that. They worked themselves into fits over the most trivial of things, some of them even fainting to the floor! How predictable the female sex was.

He looked at his watch again.

From across the room a voice announced the names of the arriving couple. The crowd parted as the handsome man led his beautiful lady down the steps. She seemed to float on them, like a swan on quiet waters.

"Who... That isn't Saxon's wife, is it?" someone asked.

"That couldn't be her."

"No. Couldn't possibly be. He must be slipping out on her. That must be is new mistress!"

"You're wrong. It's her all right. Look at that hair!"

"But—why, she's positively
graceful!"

As they descended the last step, Saxon took his lady's hand, squeezed it reassuringly, and dazzled her with his sweet, mocking grin. "Welcome to your first ball, Cinderella."

She realized with a rush of happiness that her situation was, indeed, a fairy tale. And the man she loved had made it all come true for her. She looked up at him, the emeralds in her eyes lost in the diamonds of her tears.

He had never seen such unmitigated joy on anyone's face. He prayed he would be able to give her a whole lifetime more of it.

"Good evenin', sir," Chickadee said when a man stopped to stare at her. Gracefully, she gave him her hand and waited for him to kiss it. When he hesitated, her eyebrow rose. "Sir, ain't you gwine kiss my hand? It's what yore s'posed ter do, y'know."

The man snapped out of his daze. "Of course," he said and pressed his lips to the top of her hand. "How rude of me to forget. But your loveliness disarmed me. I assume this beautiful girl is your wife, Saxon? The famous Chickadee?"

Saxon's smile was afire with pride. "She is indeed, Professor Stover. Keely, Professor Stover was my mathematics teacher long ago. Uh, he taught me how to work with numbers," he added in case she didn't understand.

"Numbers, huh? T. J. Howe larnt me numbers. He don't know a lot about figgerin', but he knows enough. I larnt real good too. When I go to sell galax and sang back home, them buyers is allus a-tryin' to cheat me. But I don't never let'em."

Professor Stover had no idea what sang was. He chuckled. "I'm sure you don't. I'm surprised your buyers would even have the nerve to try!"

Chickadee smiled, batted her lashes a few times, and then raised her silk fan so that it covered her chin. "Yore very kind, kind sir."

"And you are kind too, kind lady," the professor said and winked at Saxon.

They chatted for a short while, and when the professor left them, Saxon kissed Chickadee's nose. "You're doing splendidly, little one. Professor Stover was quite impressed."

Encouraged by his compliment, Chickadee was anxious to meet more people. She was congenial with each person she met and pleased when her friendliness was returned. Saxon saw no need to inform her that the people he was introducing to her lived too far out of Boston to have heard the gossip about her, and only hoped their acceptance of her would lead the rest of society to do likewise.

"Saxon!" Eugenia gushed as she hurried toward them.

Saxon bent and kissed her cheek. "You're looking well, Mrs. Preston. You've met my wife, Keely, have you not?"

"It's a pleasure to see you again, my dear," she said to Chickadee. "I was unable to come to your sled race. As for the other assemblies you attended... why, you popped in and out of them so quickly, I could never quite catch up with you! You've no idea how I've been looking forward to this night and the chance to know you better."

Chickadee's eyes widened.
This
was Eugenia Preston? Why, this was the woman she'd threatened at the sewing get-together! The same woman Saxon said ran everything in Boston. Well, maybe it wasn't too late to mend things.

"Mighty obliged fer the invite, Miz Preston. Real thoughty o' you to thank of us. I ain't never been to no party like this one, and I'm sartin, withouten nary a doubt I'm gwine have a larripin' good time."

"We all will," Eugenia replied, her gray eyes glowing with excitement. "Now, if you will excuse me, I must see to the receiving line. The Duke of Amherst is here, as I'm sure you know. Saxon, Chickadee must meet him. The line will be over there." She gestured toward a long marble wall and scurried away, her step light and happy.

Saxon watched as the throng of guests rushed to get in line, everyone anxious to be formally introduced to the duke. "Keely, the line of people waiting to meet Lord Cavendish is very long, and it'll be a while before it's our turn. Why don't you sit down for a few minutes, and I'll bring you your first taste of champagne?"