Lady Chadwick's Soiree

On my other blog, Word of the Day, I started a crazy trend. I should begin by explaining that on Word of the Day I take dictionary.com's word of the day and use it in a sentence or two as a vocabulary-building exercise. One day the word was "soiree," and I came up with a silly sentence, and some of my readers joined in until we had a little story. I thank everyone who played along, either with the Lady Chadwick story or with sentences of their own. I especially give props to Alisa, who came up with the name Lady Chadwick. I decided to take all of November's words (or a form of them) and combine them into one story. I've linked each of the words to its own entry for Word of the Day, so you can read the original post and comments for each word (side note: I invite anyone who wants to join in to post a comment using the daily words--it's really a lot of fun, guys!) Additionally, each Word of the Day post should have a link to dictionary.com's definition, which includes a pronunciation service. I tried to create original sentences for this one, so hopefully I didn't rehash an older sentence by accident. Enjoy!

Lady Chadwick's Soiree
It all started one day when I received an invitation to Lady Chadwick’s soiree. I was addled, thinking this guerdon must have been sent in error. Lady Chadwick is such a powerful aristocrat—everyone knows she is the eminence grise behind her husband, Lord Chadwick.

I envisioned Lady Chadwick ensconced in her resplendent gown. Such a beautiful nabob—it is unfortunate that the one flaw that adulterates her beauty is an aquiline nose. The nose, I’m certain, is the one factor that has kept Lord Chadwick from expressing his amatory affection toward his wife in public.

Having never been to a soiree before, I strolled into the party with a smooth cadence. The Chadwick escutcheon loomed impressively before me. The epicure in me recognized scents of wonderment to the olfactory system wafting from the kitchen into the dining area. What a Lucullan feast!

I took a seat near BJ and Alisa. We were admiring Lady Chadwick’s eminent figure as she leaned on the balustrade, smiling on her beloved guests. Alisa was explaining that according to her sidereal astrology, people like me did not generally appear at such grand parties. I couldn’t understand what she meant.

Suddenly, the merriment abated. Someone noticed that I was wearing a red hoodie and blue jeans. Horripilation formed on my freshly-lotioned arms. “Reprobate!” Lady Chadwick boomed. Reprobate was the mot juste for the occasion, it seemed.

“But I wore the special emollient you sent me, Lady Chadwick,” I protested, intimating that I had done nothing wrong. Though I tried to adduce evidence of my innocence, insisting that my removal was based on footless claims, looking back I realized that my choice of attire was a bit frowzy.
I see now that my affectations toward the upper crust citizens had gotten me nowhere. My presence at the soiree was nothing but an unwanted incursion. I paid my last respects to my high society life with proper obsequies. Wearing my jeans and red hoodie, I picked up what was left of my pride, and became a writer.