Scarlett

1

This will be over soon, and then I can go home to Tara.

Scarlett O’Hara Hamilton Kennedy Butler stood alone, a few steps away from the other mourners at Melanie Wilkes’ burial. It was raining, and the black-clad men and women held black umbrellas over their heads. They leaned on one another, the women weeping, sharing shelter and grief.

Scarlett shared her umbrella with no one, nor her grief. The gusts of wind within the rain blew stinging cold wet rivulets under the umbrella, down her neck, but she was unaware of them. She felt nothing, she was numbed by loss. She would mourn later, when she could stand the pain. She held it away from her, all pain, all feeling, all thinking. Except for the words that repeated again and again in her mind, the words that promised healing from the pain to come and strength to survive until she was healed.

This will be over soon, and then I can go home to Tara.

“. . . ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . .”

The minister’s voice penetrated the shell of numbness, the words registered. No! Scarlett cried silently. Not Melly. That’s not Melly’s grave, it’s too big, she’s so tiny, her bones no bigger than a bird’s. No! She can’t be dead, she can’t be.

Scarlett’s head jerked to one side, denying the open grave, the plain pine box being lowered into it. There were small half circle sunk into the soft wood, marks of the hammers that had driven the nails to close the lid above Melanie’s gentle, loving, heart-shape face.

No! You can’t, you mustn’t do this, it’s raining, you can’t put her there where the rain will fall on her. She feels the cold so, she mustn’t be left in the cold rain. I can’t watch, I can’t bear it, I won’t believe she’s gone. She loves me, she is my friend, my only true friend. Melly loves me, she wouldn’t leave me now just when I need her most.

Scarlett looked at the people surrounding the grave, and anger surged through her. None of them care as much as I do, nor of them have lost as much as I have. No one knows how much I love her. Melly knows, though, doesn’t she? She knows, I’ve got to believe she knows.

They’ll never believe it, though. Not Mrs. Merriwether, or the Meades or the Whitings or the Elsings. Look at them, bunched around India Wilkes and Ashley, like a flock of wet crows in mourning clothes. They’re comforting Aunt Pittypat, all right, though everybody knows she takes on and cries her eyes out over every little thing, down to a piece of toast that gets burnt. It wouldn’t enter their heads that maybe I might be needing some comforting, I was closer to Melanie than any of them. They act as if I wasn’t even here. Nobody has paid any attention to me at all. Not even Ashley. He knew I was there those awful two days after Melly died, when he needed me to manage things. They all did, even India, bleating like a goat. What shall we do about the funeral, Scarlett? About the food for the callers? About the coffin? The pallbearers? The cemetery plot? The inscription on the headstone? The notice in the paper? Now they’re leaning all over each other, weeping and wailing. Well, I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry all by myself wit nobody to lean on. I mustn’t cry. Not here. Not yet. If I start, I might never be able to stop. When I get to Tara, I can cry.

Scarlett lifted her chin, her teeth clenched to stop their chattering from the cold, to hold back the choking in her throat. This will be over soon, and then I can go home to Tara.

The jagged pieces of Scarlett’s shattered life were all around there in Atlanta’s Oakland Cemetery. A tall spire of granite, gray stone streaked with gray rain, was somber memorial to the world that was gone forever, the carefree world of her youth before the War. It was the Confederate Memorial, symbol of the proud, heedless courage that had plunged the South with bright banners flying into destruction. It stood for so many lives lost, the friends of her childhood, the gallants who had begged for waltzes and kisses in the days when she had no problems greater than which wide-skirted ballgown to wear. It stood for her first husband, Charles Hamilton, Melanie’s brother. It stood for the sons, brothers, husbands, fathers of all the rain-wet mourners on the small knoll where Melanie was being buried.

There were other graves, other markers. Frank Kennedy, Scarlett’s second husband. And the small, terribly small, grave with the headstone that read EUGENIE VICTORIA BUTLER, and under it BONNIE. Her last child, and the most loved.

The living, as well as the dead, were all round her, but she stood apart. Half of Atlanta was there, it seemed. The crowd had overflowed the church and now it spread in a wide, uneven dark circle around the bitter slash of color in the gray rain, the open grave dug from Georgia’s red clay for the body of Melanie Wilkes.

The front row of mourners held those who’d been closest to her. White and black, their faces all streaked with tears, except Scarlett’s. The old coachman Uncle Peter stood with Dilcey and Cookie in a protective black triangle around Beau, Melanie’s bewildered little boy.

The older generation of Atlanta were there, with the tragically few descendants that remained to them. The Meades, the Whitings, the Merriwethers, the Elsings, their daughters and sons-in-law, Hugh Elsing the only living son; Aunt Pittypat Hamilton and her brother, Uncle Henry Hamilton, their ages-old feud forgotten in mutual grief for their niece. Younger, but looking as old as the others, India Wilkes sheltered herself within the group and watched her brother, Ashley, from grief- and guilt-shadowed eyes. He stood alone, like Scarlett. He was bare-headed in the rain, unaware of the proffered shelter of umbrellas, unconscious of the cold wetness, unable to accept the finality of the minister’s words or the narrow coffin being lowered into the muddy red grave.

Ashley. Tall and thin and colorless, his pale gilt hair now almost gray, his pale stricken face as empty as his staring, unseeing gray eyes. He stood erect, his stance a salute, the inheritance of his ears as a gray-uniformed officer. He stood motionless, without sensation or comprehension.

Ashley. He was the center and the symbol of Scarlett’s ruined life. For love of him she’d ignored the happiness that had been hers for the taking. She’d turned her back on her husband, not seeing his love for her, not admitting her love for him, because wanting Ashley was always in the way. And now Rhett was gone, his only presence here a spray of warm golden autumn flowers among all the others. She’d betrayed her only friend, scorned Melanie’s stubborn loyalty and love. And now Melanie was gone. And even Scarlett’s love for Ashley was gone, for she’d realized—too late—that the habit of loving him had long since replaced love itself.

She did not love him, and she never would again. But now, when she didn’t want him, Ashley was hers, her legacy from Melanie. She had promised Melly she’d take care of him and of Beau, their child.

Ashley was the cause of her life’s destruction. And the only thing left to her from it.

Scarlett stood apart and alone. There was only cold gray space between her and the people she knew in Atlanta, space that once Melanie had filled, keeping her from isolation and ostracism. There was only the cold wet wind beneath the umbrella in the place where Rhett should have been to shelter her with his strong broad shoulders and his love.

She held her chin high, into the wind, accepting its assault without feeling it. All her senses were concentrated on the words that were her strength and her hope.

This will be over soon, and then I can go home to Tara.

“Look at her,” whispered a black-veiled lady to the companion sharing her umbrella. “Hard as nails. I heard that the whole time she was handling the funeral arrangements, she didn’t even shed a tear. All business, that’s Scarlett. And no heart at all.”

“You know what folks say,” was the answering whisper. “She has heart aplenty for Ashley Wilkes. Do you think they really did—”

The people nearby hushed them, but they were thinking the same thing. Everyone was.

The awful hollow thud of earth on wood made Scarlett clench her fists. She wanted to clap her hands over her ears, to scream, to shout anything to shut out the terrible sound of the grave closing over Melanie. Her teeth closed painfully on her lip. She wouldn’t scream, she wouldn’t.

The cry that shattered the solemnity was Ashley’s. “Melly . . . Mell—eee!” And again, “Mell—eee.” It was the cry of a soul in torment, filled with loneliness and fear.

He stumbled towards the deep muddy pit like a man newly struck blind, his hands searching for the small, quiet creature who was all his strength. But there was nothing to hold, only the streaming silver streaks of cold rain.

Scarlett looked at Dr. Meade, India, Henry Hamilton. Why don’t they do something? Why don’t they stop him? He’s got to be stopped!

“Mell—eee . . .”

For the love of God! He’s going to break his neck, and they’re all just standing there watching, gawping at him teetering on the edge of the grave.

“Ashley, stop!” she shouted. “Ashley!” She began to run, slipping and sliding on the wet grass. The umbrella she had thrown aside scudded across the ground, pushed by the wind until it was trapped in the mounds of flowers. She grabbed Ashley around the waist, tried to pull him away from the danger. He fought her.

“Ashley, don’t!” Scarlett struggled against his strength. “Melly can’t help you now.” Her voice was harsh, to cut through Ashley’s unhearing, demented grief.

He halted, and his arms dropped to his sides. He moaned softly, and then his whole body crumpled in Scarlett’s supporting arms. Just when her grasp was breaking from the weight of him, Dr. Meade and India caught Ashley’s limp arms to lift him erect.

“You can go now, Scarlett,” said Dr. Meade. “There’s no more damage left for you to do.”

“But, I—” She looked at the faces around her, the eyes avid for more sensation. Then she turned and walked away through the rain. The crowd drew back as if a brush of her skirts might soil them.

They must not know that she cared, she wouldn’t let them see that they could hurt her. Scarlett raised her chin defiantly, letting the rain pour down over her face and neck. Her back was straight, her shoulders square until she reached the gates of the cemetery and was out of sight. Then she grabbed one of the iron pilings. She felt dizzy from exhaustion, unsteady on her feet.

Her coachman Elias ran to her, opening his umbrella to above her bent head. Scarlett walked to her carriage, ignoring the hand held out to help her. Inside the plush-upholstered box, she sank into a corner and pulled up the woolen lap robe. She was chilled to the bone, horrified by what she had done. How could she have shamed Ashley like that in front of everybody, when only a few nights ago she had promised Melanie that she would take care of him, protect him as Melly had always done? But what else could she have done? Let him throw himself into the grave? She had to stop him.

The carriage jolted from side to side, its high wheels sinking into the deep ruts of clay mud. Scarlett nearly fell to the floor. Her elbow hit the window frame, and a sharp pain ran up and down her arm.

It was only physical pain, she could stand that. It was the other pain—the postponed, delayed, denied shadowy pain—that she couldn’t bear. Not yet, not here, not when she was all alone. She had to get to Tara, she had to. Mammy was there. Mammy would put her brown arms around her, Mammy would hold her close, cradle her head on the breast where she’d sobbed out all her childhood hurts. She could cry in Mammy’s arms, cry herself empty of pain; she could rest her head on Mammy’s breast, rest her wounded heart on Mammy’s love. Mammy would hold her and love her, would share her pain and help her bear it.

“Hurry, Elias,” said Scarlett, “hurry.”

“Help me out of these wet things, Pansy,” Scarlett ordered her maid. “Hurry.” Her face was ghostly pale, it made her green eyes look darker, brighter, more frightening. The young black girl was clumsy with nervousness. “Hurry, I said. If you make me miss my train, I’ll take a strap to you.”

She couldn’t do it, Pansy knew she couldn’t do it. The slavery days were over, Miss Scarlett didn’t own her, she could quit any time she wanted to. But the desperate, feverish glint in Scarlett’s green eyes made Pansy doubt her own knowledge. Scarlett looked capable of anything.

“Pack the black wool merino, it’s going to be colder,” said Scarlett. She stared at the open wardrobe. Black wool, black silk, black cotton, black twill, black velvet. She could go on mourning for the rest of her days. Mourning for Bonnie still, and now mourning for Melanie. I should find something darker than black, something more mournful to wear to mourn for myself.

I won’t think about that, not now. I’ll go mad if I do. I’ll think about it when I get to Tara. I can bear it there.

“Put on your things, Pansy. Elias is waiting. And don’t you dare forget the crape armband. This is a house of mourning.”

The streets that met at Five Points were a quagmire. Wagons and buggies and carriages were sunk in mud. Their drivers cursed the rain, the streets, their horses, the other drivers in their way. There was shouting and the sound of whips cracking, and the noise of people. There were always crowds of people at Five Points, people hurrying, arguing, complaining, laughing. Five Points was turbulent with life, with push, with energy. Five Points was the Atlanta Scarlett loved.

But not today. Today Five Points was in her way, Atlanta was holding her back. I’ve got to make that train, I’ll die if I miss it, I’ve got to get to Mammy and Tara or I’ll break down. “Elias,” she yelled, “I don’t care if you whip the horses to death, I don’t care if you run over every single person on the street. You get to the depot.” Her horses were the strongest, her coachman the most skillful, her carriage the best that money could buy. Nothing better get in her way, nothing.

She made the train with time to spare.

There was a loud burst of steam. Scarlett held her breath, listening for the first clunking revolution of the wheels that meant the train was moving. There it was. Then another. And another. And the rattling, shaking of the car. She was on her way at last.

Everything was going to be all right. She was going home to Tara. She pictured it, sunny and bright, the white house gleaming, glistening green leaves of cape jasmine bushes studded with perfect, waxen white blossoms.

Heavy dark rain sluiced down the window beside her when the train left the station, but no matter. At Tara there’d be a fire in the living room, crackling from pine cones thrown onto the logs, and the curtains would be drawn, shutting out the rain and the darkness and the world. She’d lay her head on Mammy’s soft broad bosom and tell her all the horrible things that had happened. Then she’d be able to think, to work everything out . . .

Hissing steam and squealing wheels jerked Scarlett’s head upright.

Was this Jonesboro already? She must have dozed off, and no wonder, as tired as she was. She hadn’t been able to sleep for two nights, even with the brandy to calm her nerves. No, the station was Rough and Ready. Still an hour to Jonesboro. At least the rain had stopped; there was even a patch of blue sky up ahead. Maybe the sun was shining at Tara. She imagined the entrance rive, the dark cedars that bordered it, then the wide green lawn and the beloved house on top of the low hill.

Scarlett sighed heavily. Her sister Suellen was the lady of the house at Tara now. Ha! Cry-baby of the house was more like it. All Suellen ever did was whine, it was all she’d ever done, ever since they were children. And she had her own children now, whiny little girls just like she used to be.

Scarlett’s children were at Tara, too. Wade and Ella. She’d sent them with Prissy, their nursemaid, when she got the news that Melanie was dying. Probably she should have had them with her at Melanie’s funeral. That gave all the old cats in Atlanta one more thing to gossip about, what an unnatural mother she was. Let them talk all they liked. She couldn’t have gotten through those terrible days and nights after Melly’s death if she’d had Wade and Ella to cope with too.

She wouldn’t think about them, that’s all. She was going home, to Tara and to Mammy, and she simply wouldn’t let herself think about things that would upset her. Lord knows, I’ve got more than enough to upset me without dragging them in, too. And I’m so tired . . . Her head drooped and her eyes closed.

“Jonesboro, ma’am,” said the conductor. Scarlett blinked, sat straight.

“Thank you.”

She looked around the car for Pansy and her valises. I’ll skin that girl alive if she’s wandered off to another car. Oh, if only a lady didn’t have to have a companion every single time she put her foot outside her own house. I’d do so much better by myself. There she is. “Pansy. Get those valises off the rack. We’re here.”

Only five miles to Tara now. Soon I’ll be home. Home!

Will Benteen, Suellen’s husband, was waiting on the platform. It was a shock to see Will; the first few seconds were always a shock. Scarlett genuinely loved and respected Will. If she could have had a brother, like she’d always wanted, she’d wish he could be just like Will. Except for the wooden pegleg, and of course not a Cracker. It was just there was no mistaking Will for a gentleman; he was unmistakably lower class. She forgot it when she was away from him, and she forgot it after she was with him for a minute, because he was such a good, kind man. Even Mammy thought a lot of Will, and Mammy was the hardest judge in the world when it came to who was a lady or a gentleman.

“Will!” He walked toward her, in his special swinging gait. She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him fiercely.

“Oh, Will, I’m so glad to see you that I’m practically crying for joy.”

Will accepted her embrace without emotion. “I’m glad to see you, too, Scarlett. It’s been a long time.”

“Too long. It’s shameful. Almost a year.”

“More like two.”

Scarlett was dumbfounded. Had it been that long? No wonder her life had come to such a sorry state. Tara had always given her new life, new strength when she needed it. How could she have gone so long without it?

Will gestured to Pansy and walked toward the wagon outside the station. “We’d better get moving if we’re going to beat the dark,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind riding rough, Scarlett. As long as I was coming to town, I figured I might as well get some supplies.” The wagon was piled high with sacks and parcels.

“I don’t mind at all,” said Scarlett truthfully. She was going home, and anything that would take her there was fine. “Climb up on those feed sacks, Pansy.”

She was as silent as Will on the long drive to Tara, drinking in the remembered quiet of the countryside, refreshing herself with it. The air was new-washed, and the afternoon sun was warm on her shoulders. She’d been right to come home. Tara would give her the sanctuary she needed, and with Mammy she’d be able to find a way to repair her ruined world. She leaned forward as they turned onto the familiar drive, smiling in anticipation.

But when the house came in sight, she let out a cry of despair. “Will, what happened?” The front of Tara was covered by vines, ugly cords hung with dead leaves; four windows had sagging shutters, two had no shutters at all.

“Nothing happened except summer, Scarlett. I do the fixing up for the house in winter when there’s no crops to tend. I’ll be starting on those shutters in a few more weeks. It’s not October yet.”

“Oh, Will, why on earth won’t you let me give you some money? You could hire some help. Why, you can see the brick through the whitewash. It looks downright trashy.”

Will’s reply was patient. “There’s no help to be had for love nor money. Those that wants work has plenty of it, and those that don’t wouldn’t do me no good. We make out all right, Big Sam and me. Your money ain’t needed.”

Scarlett bit her lip and swallowed the words she wanted to say. She had run up against Will’s pride often before, and she knew that he was unbendable. He was right that the crops and the stock had to come first. Their demands couldn’t be put off; a fresh coat of whitewash could. She could see the fields now, stretching out behind the house. They were weedless, newly harrowed, and there was a faint, rich smell of the manure tilled in to prepare them for the next planting. The red earth looked warm and fertile, and she relaxed. This was the heart of Tara, the soul.

“You’re right,” she said to Will.

The door to the house flew open, and the porch filled with people. Suellen stood in front, holding her youngest child in her arms above the swollen belly that strained the seams of her faded cotton dress. Her shawl had fallen down over one arm. Scarlett forced a gaiety she didn’t feel. “Good Lord, Will, is Suellen having another baby? You’re going to have to build on some more rooms.”

Will chuckled. “We’re still trying for a boy.” He lifted a hand in greeting to his wife and three daughters.

Scarlett waved too, wishing she’d thought to buy some toys to bring the children. Oh, Lord, look at all of them. Suellen was scowling. Scarlett’s eyes ran over the other faces, searching out the black ones . . . Prissy was there; Wade and Ella were hiding behind her skirts . . . and Big Sam’s wife, Delilah, holding the spoon she must have been stirring with . . . There was—what was her name?—oh, yes, Lutie, the Tara children’s mammy. But where was Mammy? Scarlett called out to her children. “Hello, darlings, Mother’s here.” Then she turned back to Will, put a hand on his arm.

“Where’s Mammy, Will? She’s not so old that she can’t come to meet me.” Fear pinched the words in Scarlett’s throat.

“She’s sick in bed, Scarlett.”

Scarlett jumped down from the still-moving wagon, stumbled, caught herself and ran to the house. “Where’s Mammy?” she said to Suellen, deaf to the excited greetings of the children.

“A fine hello that is, Scarlett, but no worse than I’d expect from you. What did you think you were doing, sending Prissy and your children here without so much as a by your leave, when you know that I’ve got my hands full and then some?”

Scarlett raised her hand, ready to slap her sister. “Suellen, if you don’t tell me where Mammy is, I’ll scream.”

Prissy pulled on Scarlett’s sleeve. “I knows where Mammy is, Miss Scarlett, I knows. She’s powerful sick, so we fixed up that little room next the kitchen for her, the one what used to be where all the hams was hung when there was a lot of hams. It’s nice and warm there, next to the chimney. She was already there when I come, so I can’t exactly say we fixed up the room altogether, but I brung in a chair so as there’d be a place to sit if she wanted to get up or if there was a visitor . . .”

Prissy was talking to air. Scarlett was at the door to Mammy’s sickroom, holding on to the framework for support.

That . . . that . . . thing in the bed wasn’t her Mammy. Mammy was a big woman, strong and fleshy, with warm brown skin. It had been hardly more than six months since Mammy left Atlanta, not long enough to have wasted away like this. It couldn’t be. Scarlett couldn’t bear it. This wasn’t Mammy, she wouldn’t believe it. This creature was gray and shrivelled, hardly making a rise under the faded patchwork quilts that covered it, twisted fingers moving weakly across the folds. Scarlett’s skin crawled.

Then she heard Mammy’s voice. Thin and halting, but Mammy’s beloved, loving voice. “Now, Missy, ain’t I done tole you and tole you not to set foot outside without you wears a bonnet and carries a sunshade . . . Tole you and tole you . . .”

“Mammy!” Scarlett fell to her knees beside the bed. “Mammy, it’s Scarlett. Your Scarlett. Please don’t be sick, Mammy, I can’t bear it, not you.” She put her head down on the bed beside the bony thin shoulders and wept stormily, like a child.

A weightless hand smoothed her bent head. “Don’t cry, chile. Ain’t nothing so bad that it can’t be fixed.”

“Everything,” Scarlett wailed. “Everything’s gone wrong, Mammy.”

“Hush, now, it’s only one cup. And you got another tea set anyhow, just as pretty. You kin still have your tea party just like Mammy promised you.”

Scarlett drew back, horrified. She stared at Mammy’s face and saw the shining love in the sunken eyes, eyes that did not see her.

“No,” she whispered. She couldn’t stand it. First Melanie, then Rhett, and now Mammy; everyone she loved had left her. It was too cruel. It couldn’t be.

“Mammy,” she said loudly, “Mammy, listen to me. It’s Scarlett.” She grabbed the edge of the mattress and tried to shake it. “Look at me,” she sobbed, “me, my face. You’ve got to know me, Mammy. It’s me, Scarlett.”

Will’s big hands closed around her wrists. “You don’t want to do that,” he said. His voice was soft, but his grip was like iron. “She’s happy when she’s like that, Scarlett. She’s back in Savannah taking care of your mother when she was a little girl. Those were happy times for her. She was young; she was strong; she wasn’t in pain. Let her be.”

Scarlett struggled to get free. “But I want her to know me, Will. I never told her how much she means to me. I have to tell her.”

“You’ll have your chance. Lots of times she’s different, knows everybody. Knows she’s dying, too. These times are better. Now you come on with me. Everybody’s waiting for you. Delilah listens out for Mammy from the kitchen.”

Scarlett allowed Will to help her to her feet. She was numb all over, even her heart. She followed him silently to the living room. Suellen started immediately to berate her, taking up her complaints where she had left off, but Will hushed her. “Scarlett’s suffered a deep blow, Sue, leave her alone.” He poured whiskey into a glass and placed it in Scarlett’s hand.

The whiskey helped. It burned the familiar path through her body, dulling her pain. She held out her empty glass to Will, and he poured some more whiskey into it.

“Hello, darlings,” she said to her children, “come give Mother a hug.” Scarlett heard her own voice; it sounded as if it belonged to someone else, but at least it was saying the right thing.

She spent all the time she could in Mammy’s room, at Mammy’s side. She had fastened all her hopes on the comfort of Mammy’s arms around her, but now it was her strong young arms that held the dying old black woman. Scarlett lifted the wasted form to bathe Mammy, to change Mammy’s linen, to help her when breathing was too hard, to coax a few spoonfuls of broth between her lips. She sang the lullabies Mammy had so often sung to her, and when Mammy talked in delirium to Scarlett’s dead mother, Scarlett answered with the words she thought her mother might have said.

Sometimes Mammy’s rheumy eyes recognized her, and the old woman’s cracked lips smiled at the sight of her favorite. Then her quavering voice would scold Scarlett, as she had scolded her since Scarlett was a baby. “Your hair looks purely a mess, Miss Scarlett, now you go brush a hundred strokes like Mammy taught you.” Or, “You ain’t got no call to be wearing a frock all crumpled up like that. Go put on something fresh before folks see you.” Or, “You looks pale as a ghost, Miss Scarlett. Is you putting powder on your face? Wash it off this minute.”

Whatever Mammy commanded, Scarlett promised to do. There was never time enough to obey before Mammy slid back into unconsciousness, or that other world where Scarlett did not exist.

During the day and evening Suellen or Lutie or even Will would share the work of the sickroom, and Scarlett could snatch a half hour’s sleep, curled in the sagging rocking chair. But at night Scarlett kept solitary vigil. She lowered the flame in the oil lamp and held Mammy’s thin dry hand in hers. While the house slept and Mammy slept, she was able at last to cry, and her heartbroken tears eased her pain a little.

Once, in the small quiet hour before dawn, Mammy woke. “What for is you weeping, honey?” she whispered. “Old Mammy is ready to lay down her load and rest in the arms of the Lord. There ain’t no call to take on so.” Her hand stirred in Scarlett’s, freed itself, stroked Scarlett’s bent head. “Hush, now. Nothing’s so bad as you think.”

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed, “I just can’t stop crying.”

Mammy’s bent fingers pushed Scarlett’s tangled hair away from her face. “Tell old Mammy what’s troubling her lamb.”

Scarlett looked into the old, wise, loving eyes and felt the most profound pain she had ever known. “I’ve done everything wrong, Mammy. I don’t know how I could have made so many mistakes. I don’t understand.”

“Miss Scarlett, you done what you had to do. Can’t nobody do more than that. The good Lord sent you some heavy burdens, and you carried them. No sense asking why they was laid on you or what it took out of you to tote them. What’s done is done. Don’t fret yourself now.” Mammy’s heavy eyelids closed over tears that glistened in the dim light, and her ragged breathing slowed in sleep.

How can I not fret? Scarlett wanted to shout. My life is ruined, and I don’t know what to do. I need Rhett, and he’s gone. I need you, and you’re leaving me, too.

She lifted her head, wiped her tears away on her sleeve and straightened her aching shoulders. The coals in the pot-bellied stove were nearly used up, and the bucket was empty. She had to refill it, she had to feed the fire. The room was beginning to chill, and Mammy must be kept warm. Scarlett pulled the faded patchwork quilts up over Mammy’s frail form, then she took the bucket out into the cold darkness of the yard. She hurried toward the coal bin, wishing she’d thought to put on a shawl.

There was no moon, only a crescent sliver lost behind a cloud. The air was heavy with night’s moisture, and the few stars not hidden by clouds looked very far away and icy-brilliant. Scarlett shivered. The blackness around her seemed formless, infinite. She had rushed blindly into the center of the yard, and now she couldn’t make out the familiar shapes of smoke-house and barn that should be nearby. She turned in sudden panic, looking for the white bulk of the house she’d just left. But it, too, was dark and formless. No light showed anywhere. It was as if she were lost in a bleak and unknown and silent world. Nothing was stirring in the night, not a leaf not a feather on a bird’s wing. Terror plucked at her taut nerves, and she wanted to run. But where to? Everywhere was alien darkness.

Scarlett clenched her teeth. What kind of foolishness was this? I’m at home, at Tara, and the dark cold will be gone as soon as the sun’s up. She forced a laugh; the shrill unnatural sound made her jump.

They do say it’s always darkest before the dawn, she thought. I reckon this is proof of it. I’ve got the megrims, that’s all. I just won’t give in to them, there’s no time for that, the stove needs feeding. She put a hand out before her into the blackness and walked toward where the coal bin should be, next to the woodpile. A sunken spot made her stumble, and she fell. The bucket clattered loudly, then was lost.

Every exhausted, frightened part of her body cried out that she should give up, stay where she was, hugging the safety of the unseen ground beneath her until day came and she could see. But Mammy needed warmth. And the cheering yellow light of the flames through the isinglass windows of the stove.

Scarlett brought herself slowly to her knees and felt around her for the coal bucket. Surely there’d never been such pitch darkness before in the world. Or such wet cold night air. She was gasping for breath. Where was the bucket? Where was the dawn?

Her fingers brushed across cold metal. Scarlett scrabbled along on her knees toward it, then both hands were clasping the ridged sides of the tin coal scuttle. She sat back on her heels, holding it to her breast in a desperate embrace.

Oh Lord, I’m all turned around now. I don’t even know where the house is, much less the coal bin. I’m lost in the night. She looked up frantically, searching for any light at all, but the sky was black. Even the cold distant stars had disappeared.

For a moment she wanted to cry out, to scream and scream until she woke someone in the house, someone who would light a lamp, who’d come find her and lead her home.

Her pride forbid it. Lost in her own backyard, only a few steps from the kitchen door! She’d never live down the shame of it.

She looped the bail of the scuttle over her arm and began to crawl clumsily on hands and knees across the dark earth. Sooner or later she’d run into something—the house, the woodpile, the barn, the well—and she’d get her bearings. It would be quicker to get up and walk. She wouldn’t feel like such a fool, either. But she might fall again, and this time twist her ankle or something. Then she’d be helpless until someone found her. No matter what she had to do, anything was better than lying alone and helpless and lost.

Where was a wall? There had to be one here someplace, she felt as if she’d crawled halfway to Jonesboro. Panic brushed past her. Suppose the darkness never lifted, suppose she just kept on crawling and crawling forever without reaching anything?

Stop it! she told herself, stop it right now. Her throat was making strangled noises.

She struggled to her feet, made herself breathe slowly, made her mind take command of her racing heart. She was Scarlett O’Hara, she told herself. She was at Tara, and she knew every foot of the place better than she knew her own hand. So what if she couldn’t see four inches in front of her? She knew what was there; all she had to do was find it.

And she’d do it on her feet, not on all fours like a baby or a dog. She lifted her chin and squared her thin shoulders. Thank God no one had seen her sprawled in the dirt or inching along over it, afraid to get up. Never in all her life had she been beaten, not by old Sherman’s army, not by the worst the carpetbaggers could do. Nobody, nothing could beat her unless she let them, and then she’d deserve it. The very idea of being afraid of the dark, like some cowardly cry-baby!

I guess I let things get me down as far as a person can go, she thought with disgust, and her own scorn warmed her. I won’t let it happen again, ever, no matter what comes. Once you get down all the way, the road can only go up. If I messed up my life, I’ll clean up the mess. I won’t lie in it.

With the coal scuttle held in front of her Scarlett walked forward with firm steps. Almost at once the tin bucket clanged against something. She laughed aloud when she smelled the sharp resinous odor of fresh cut pine. She was at the woodpile, with the coal bin immediately beside it. It was exactly where she’d set out to go.

The iron door of the stove closed on the renewed flames with a loud noise that made Mammy stir in her bed. Scarlett hurried across to pull the quilts up again. The room was cold.

Mammy squinted through her pain at Scarlett. “You got a dirty face—and hands, too,” she grumbled in a weak voice.

“I know,” said Scarlett, “I’ll wash them right this minute.” Before the old woman drifted away, Scarlett kissed her forehead. “I love you, Mammy.”

“No need to tell me what I knows already.” Mammy slid into sleep, escaping from pain.

“Yes, there is a need,” Scarlett told her. She knew Mammy couldn’t hear her, but she spoke aloud anyhow, half to herself. “There’s all kinds of need. I never told Melanie, and I didn’t tell Rhett until it was too late. I never took the time to know I loved them, or you either. At least with you I won’t make the mistake I did with them.”

Scarlett stared down at the skull-like face of the dying old woman. “I love you, Mammy,” she whispered. “What’s going to become of me when I don’t have you to love me?”

2

Prissy’s head poked sideways around the cracked-open door to the sickroom. “Miss Scarlett, Mister Will he say for me to come sit with Mammy whilst you eat some breakfast. Delilah say you going wear yourself out with all the nursing, and she done fix you a fine big slice of ham with gravy for your grits.”

“Where’s the beef broth for Mammy?” Scarlett asked urgently. “Delilah knows she’s supposed to bring warm broth first thing in the morning.”

“I got it right here in my hand.” Prissy elbowed the door open, a tray in front of her. “But Mammy’s sleeping, Miss Scarlett. Do you want to shake her awake to drink her broth?”

“Just keep it covered and set the tray near the stove. I’ll feed her when I get back.”

Scarlett felt ravenously hungry. The rich aroma of the steaming broth made her stomach cramp from emptiness.

She washed her face and hands hastily in the kitchen. Her frock was dirty, too, but it would have to do. She’d put on a clean one after she ate.

Will was just getting up from the table when Scarlett entered the dining room. Farmers couldn’t waste time, especially on a day as bright and warm as the one promised by the golden early sun outside the window.

“Can I help you, Uncle Will?” Wade asked hopefully. He jumped up, almost knocking over his chair. Then he saw his mother and his face lost its eagerness. He’d have to stay at table and use his best manners, or she’d be cross. He walked slowly to hold Scarlett’s chair for her.

“What lovely manners you have, Wade,” Suellen cooed. “Good morning, Scarlett. Aren’t you proud of your young gentleman?”

Scarlett looked blankly at Suellen, then at Wade. Good heavens, he was just a child, what on earth was Suellen being so simpering sweet about? The way she was carrying on you’d think Wade was a dancing partner to flirt with.

He was a nice-looking boy, she realized with surprise. Big for his age, too, he looked more like thirteen than not yet twelve. But Suellen wouldn’t think that was so wonderful if she had to buy the clothes he kept growing out of so fast.

Good heavens! What am I going to do about Wade’s clothes? Rhett always does whatever needs doing; I don’t know what boys wear, or even where to shop. His wrists are hanging out of his sleeves, he probably has to have everything in a bigger size. In a hurry, too. School must be starting soon. If it hasn’t already; I don’t even know what the date of today is.

Scarlett sat with a thump in the chair Wade was holding. She hoped he’d be able to tell her what she needed to know. But first she’d eat breakfast. My mouth’s watering so, I feel like I’m gargling. “Thank you, Wade Hampton,” she said absently. The ham looked perfect, richly pink and juicy with crisply browned fat rimming it. She dropped her napkin in her lap without bothering to unfold it and picked up her knife and fork.

“Mother?” Wade said cautiously.

“Um?” Scarlett cut into the ham.

“May I please go help Uncle Will in the fields?”

Scarlett broke a cardinal rule of table manners and talked with food in her mouth. The ham was delicious. “Yes, yes, go on.” Her hands were busy cutting another bite.

“Me, too,” Ella piped up.

“Me, too,” echoed Suellen’s Susie.

“You’re not invited,” said Wade. “Fields are man’s business. Girls stay in the house.”

Susie began to cry.

“Now look what you’ve done!” Suellen said to Scarlett.

“Me? It’s not my child making all that noise.” Scarlett always meant to avoid quarrels with Suellen when she came to Tara, but the habits of a lifetime were too strong. They had begun fighting as babies and had never really stopped.

But I’m not going to let her ruin the first meal I’ve been hungry for in who knows how long, Scarlett said to herself, and she concentrated on swirling butter evenly through the gleaming white mound of grits on her plate. She didn’t even lift her eyes when Wade followed Will out the door and Ella’s wails joined Susie’s.

“Hush up, both of you,” Suellen said loudly.

Scarlett poured ham gravy over her grits, piled grits on a piece of ham, and speared the arrangement with her fork.

“Uncle Rhett would let me go, too,” Ella sobbed.

I won’t listen, thought Scarlett, I’ll just close my ears and enjoy my breakfast. She put ham and grits and gravy in her mouth.

“Mother . . . Mother, when is Uncle Rhett coming to Tara?” Ella’s voice was sharply piercing. Scarlett heard the words in spite of herself, and the rich food turned to sawdust in her mouth. What could she say, how could she answer Ella’s question? “Never.” Was that the answer? She couldn’t, wouldn’t believe it herself. She looked at her red-faced daughter with loathing. Ella had ruined everything. Couldn’t she have left me alone at least long enough to eat my breakfast?

Ella had the ginger-colored curly hair of her father, Frank Kennedy. It stuck out around her tear-blotched face like rusted coils of wire, always escaping from the tight braids Prissy plaited, no matter how much she slicked it down with water. Ella’s body was like wire, too, skinny and angular. She was older than Susie, almost seven compared to Susie’s six and a half, but Susie was half a head taller already and so much heftier that she could bully Ella with impunity.

No wonder Ella wants Rhett to come, Scarlett thought. He really cares for her, and I don’t. She gets on my nerves just like Frank did, and no matter how hard I try I just can’t love her.

“When’s Uncle Rhett coming, Mother?” Ella asked again. Scarlett pushed her chair away from the table and stood up.

“That’s grown-ups’ business,” she said. “I’m going to see to Mammy.” She couldn’t bear to think about Rhett now, she’d think about all that later, when she wasn’t so upset. It was more important—much more—to coax Mammy into swallowing her broth.

“Just one more little spoonful, Mammy darling, it’ll make me happy.”

The old woman turned her head away from the spoon. “Tired,” she sighed.

“I know,” said Scarlett, “I know. Go to sleep, then, I won’t pester you any more.” She looked down at the almost full bowl. Mammy was eating less and less every day.

“Miss Ellen . . .” Mammy called weakly.

“I’m here, Mammy,” Scarlett replied. It always hurt when Mammy didn’t know her, when she thought the hands that tended her so lovingly were the hands of Scarlett’s mother. I shouldn’t let it bother me, Scarlett told herself every time. It was always Mother who took care of the sick, not me. Mother was kind to everyone, she was an angel, she was a perfect lady. I should take it as praise to be mistook for her. I expect I’ll go to hell for being jealous that Mammy loved her best . . . except that I don’t much believe in hell any more . . . or heaven either.

“Miss Ellen . . .”

“I’m here, Mammy.”

The old, old eyes opened half way. “You ain’t Miss Ellen.”

“It’s Scarlett, Mammy, your very own Scarlett.”

“Miss Scarlett . . . I wants Mist’ Rhett. Something to say . . .”

Scarlett’s teeth cut into her lip. I want him, too, she was crying silently. So much. But he’s gone, Mammy. I can’t give you what you want.

She saw that Mammy had slipped into a near-coma again, and she was fiercely grateful. At least Mammy was free of pain. Her own heart was aching as if it were full of knives. How she needed Rhett, especially now, with Mammy sliding ever faster down the slope to death. If he could just be here, with me, feeling the same sorrow I feel. For Rhett loved Mammy, too, and Mammy loved him. He’d never worked so hard to win anyone over in his life, Rhett said, and he’d never cared as much for anyone’s opinion as he did Mammy’s. He’d be broken-hearted when he learned that she was gone, he’d wish so much that he’d been able to say goodbye to her . . .

Scarlett’s head lifted, her eyes widened. Of course. What a fool she was being. She looked at the wizened old woman, so small and weightless under the quilts. “Oh, Mammy, darling, thank you,” she breathed. “I came to you for help, for you to make everything all right again, and you will, just the way you always did.”

She found Will in the stable rubbing down the horse.

“Oh, I’m so glad to find you, Will,” Scarlett said. Her green eyes were sparkling, her cheeks flushed with natural color instead of the rouge she usually wore. “Can I use the horse and buggy? I need to go to Jonesboro. Unless maybe— You weren’t fixing to go to Jonesboro yourself for anything, were you?” She held her breath while she waited for his answer.

Will looked at her calmly. He understood Scarlett better than she realized. “Is there something I can do for you? If I was planning to go to Jonesboro, that is.”

“Oh, Will, you are a dear, sweet thing. I’d so much rather stay with Mammy, yet still I really need to let Rhett know about her. She’s asking for him, and he’s always been so fond of her, he’d never forgive himself if he let her down.” She fiddled with the horse’s mane. “He’s in Charleston on family business; his mother can barely draw breath without asking Rhett’s advice.”

Scarlett looked up, saw Will’s expressionless face, then looked away. She began to braid pieces of the mane, staring at her work as if it were of vital importance. “So if you’ll just send a telegram, I’ll give you the address. And you’d better make it from you, Will. Rhett knows how I adore Mammy. He’s liable to think I was exaggerating how sick she is.” She lifted her head and smiled brilliantly. “He thinks I haven’t any more sense than a June bug.”

Will knew that was the biggest lie of all. “I think you’re right,” he said slowly. “Rhett should come as soon as he can. I’ll ride over right away; horseback’s quicker than a rig.”

Scarlett’s hands relaxed. “Thank you,” she said. “I have the address in my pocket.”

“I’ll be back in time for dinner,” said Will. He lifted the saddle down from its stand. Scarlett helped him with it. She felt full of energy. She was sure Rhett would come. He could be at Tara in two days if he left Charleston as soon as he got the wire.

But Rhett didn’t come in two days. Or three or four or five. Scarlett stopped listening for the sound of wheels or hoof beats on the drive. She had worn herself ragged, straining to hear. And now there was another sound that took all her attention, the horrible rasping noise that was Mammy’s effort to breathe. It seemed impossible that the frail, wasted body could summon the strength needed to draw air into her lungs, push it out again. But she did, time after time, the cords on her wrinkled neck thick and quivering.

Suellen joined Scarlett’s vigil. “She’s my Mammy, too, Scarlett.” The life-long jealousies and cruelties between them were forgotten in their joint need to help the old black woman. They brought down all the pillows in the house to prop her up, and kept the croup kettle steaming constantly. They spread butter on her cracked lips, spooned sips of water between them.

But nothing eased Mammy’s struggles. She looked at them with pity. “Don’t wear yo’selves out,” she gasped. “Nothin’ you kin do.”

Scarlett put her fingers across Mammy’s lips. “Hush,” she begged. “Don’t try to talk. Save your strength.” Why, oh why, she raged silently to God, why couldn’t You let her die easy, when she was wandering in the past? Why did You have to wake her up and let her suffer so? She was good all her life, always doing for other people, never anything for herself. She deserves better than this, I’ll never bow my head to You again as long as I live.

But she read aloud to Mammy from the worn old Bible on the nightstand by the bed. She read the psalms, and her voice gave no sign of the pain and impious anger in her heart. When night came, Suellen lit the lamp and took over from Scarlett, reading, turning the thin pages, reading. Then Scarlett took her place. And again Suellen, until Will sent her to get some rest. “You, too, Scarlett,” he said. “I’ll sit with Mammy. I’m not much of a reader, but I know a lot of the Bible by heart.”

“You recite then. But I’m not leaving Mammy. I can’t.” She sat on the floor and leaned her tired back against the wall, listening to the terrifying sounds of death.

When the first thin light of day showed at the windows, the sounds suddenly became different, each breath more noisy, longer silences between them. Scarlett scrambled to her feet. Will rose from the chair. “I’ll get Suellen,” he said.

Scarlett took his place beside the bed. “Do you want me to hold your hand, Mammy? Let me hold your hand.”

Mammy’s forehead creased with effort. “So . . . tired.”

“I know, I know. Don’t tire yourself more by talking.”

“Wanted . . . to wait for . . . Mist’ Rhett.”

Scarlett swallowed. She couldn’t weep now. “You don’t need to hang on, Mammy. You can rest. He couldn’t come.” She heard hurried footsteps in the kitchen. “Suellen’s on her way. And Mister Will. We’ll all be here with you, darling. We all love you.”

A shadow fell across the bed, and Mammy smiled.

“She wants me,” said Rhett. Scarlett looked up at him, unbelieving. “Move over,” he said gently. “Let me get near Mammy.”

Scarlett stood, feeling the nearness of him, the bigness, the strength, the maleness, and her knees were weak. Rhett pushed past her and knelt by Mammy.

He had come. Everything was going to be all right. Scarlett knelt beside him, her shoulder touching his arm, and she was happy in the midst of her heartbreak about Mammy. He came, Rhett’s here. What a fool I was to give up hope like that.

“I wants you to do something for me,” Mammy was saying. Her voice sounded strong, as if she had saved her strength for this moment. Her breathing was shallow and fast, almost panting.

“Anything, Mammy,” Rhett said. “I’ll do anything you want.”

“Bury me in my fine red silk petticoat what you gived me. See to it. I know that Lutie got her eye on it.”

Rhett laughed. Scarlett was shocked. Laughter at a deathbed. Then she realized that Mammy was laughing, too, without sound.

Rhett put his hand on his shirt. “I swear to you that Lutie won’t even get a look at it, Mammy. I’ll make sure it goes with you to Heaven.”

Mammy’s hand reached for him, gesturing his ear closer to her lips. “You take care of Miss Scarlett,” she said. “She needs caring, and I can’t do no more.”

Scarlett held her breath.

“I will, Mammy,” Rhett said.

“You swear it.” The command was faint, but stern.

“I swear it,” said Rhett. Mammy sighed quietly.

Scarlett let her breath out with a sob. “Oh, Mammy darling, thank you,” she cried. “Mammy—”

“She can’t hear you, Scarlett, she’s gone.” Rhett’s big hand moved gently across Mammy’s face, closing her eyes. “That’s a whole world gone, an era ended,” he said softly. “May she rest in peace.”

“Amen,” said Will from the doorway.

Rhett stood, turned. “Hello, Will, Suellen.”

“Her last thought was for you, Scarlett,” Suellen cried. “You were always her favorite.” She began to weep loudly. Will took her in his arms, patting her back, letting his wife wail against his chest.

Scarlett ran to Rhett and held her arms up to embrace him. “I’ve missed you so,” she said.

Rhett circled her wrists with his hands and lowered her arms to her sides. “Don’t, Scarlett,” he said. “Nothing’s changed.” His voice was quiet.

Scarlett was incapable of such restraint. “What do you mean?” she cried loudly.

Rhett winced. “Don’t force me to say it again, Scarlett. You know full well what I mean.”

“I don’t know. I don’t believe you. You can’t be leaving me, not really. Not when I love you and need you so awfully. Oh, Rhett, don’t just look at me that way. Why don’t you put your arms around me and comfort me? You promised Mammy.”

Rhett shook his head, a faint smile on his lips. “You are such a child, Scarlett. You’ve known me all these years, and yet, when you want to, you can forget all you’ve learned. It was a lie. I lied to make a dear old woman’s last moments happy. Remember, my pet, I’m a scoundrel, not a gentleman.”

He walked toward the door.

“Don’t go, Rhett, please,” Scarlett sobbed. Then she put both hands over her mouth to stop herself. She’d never be able to respect herself if she begged him again. She turned her head sharply, unable to bear the sight of him leaving. She saw the triumph in Suellen’s eyes and the pity in Will’s.

“He’ll be back,” she said, holding her head high. “He always comes back.” If I say it often enough, she thought, maybe I’ll believe it. Maybe it will be true.

“Always,” she said. She took a deep breath. “Where’s Mammy’s petticoat, Suellen? I intend to see to it that she’s buried in it.”

Scarlett was able to stay in control of herself until the dreadful work of bathing and dressing Mammy’s corpse was done. But when Will brought in the coffin, she began to shake. Without a word she fled.

She poured a half glass of whiskey from the decanter in the dining room and drank it in three burning gulps. The warmth of it ran through her exhausted body, and the shaking stopped.

I need air, she thought. I need to get out of this house, away from all of them. She could hear the frightened voices of the children in the kitchen. Her skin felt raw with nerves. She picked up her skirts and ran.

Outside the morning air was fresh and cool. Scarlett breathed deeply, tasting the freshness. A light breeze lifted the hair that clung to her sweaty neck. When had she last done her hundred strokes with the hairbrush? She couldn’t remember. Mammy would be furious. Oh— She put the knuckles of her right hand into her mouth to contain her grief and stumbled through the tall grasses of the pasture, down the hill to the woods that bordered the river. The high-topped pines smelled sharply sweet; they shaded a soft thick mat of bleached needles, shed over hundreds of years. Within their shelter, Scarlett was alone, invisible from the house. She crumpled wearily onto the cushioned ground, then settled herself in a sitting position with a tree trunk at her back. She had to think; there must be some way to salvage her life from the ruins; she refused to believe different.

But she couldn’t keep her mind from jumping around. She was so confused, so tired.

She’d been tired before. Worse tired than this. When she had to get to Tara from Atlanta, with the Yankee army on all sides, she hadn’t let tired stop her. When she had to forage for food all over the countryside, she hadn’t given up because her legs and arms felt like dead weights pulling on her. When she picked cotton until her hands were raw, when she hitched herself to the plow like she was a mule, when she had to find strength to keep going in spite of everything, she hadn’t given up because she was tired. She wasn’t going to give up now. It wasn’t in her to give up.

She stared ahead, facing all her demons. Melanie’s death . . . Mammy’s death . . . Rhett’s leaving her, saying that their marriage was dead.

That was the worst. Rhett going away. That was what she had to meet head-on. She heard his voice: “Nothing’s changed.”

It couldn’t be true! But it was.

She had to find a way to get him back. She’d always been able to get any man she wanted, and Rhett was a man like any other man, wasn’t he?

No, he wasn’t like any other man, and that’s why she wanted him. She shivered, suddenly afraid. Suppose that this time she didn’t win? She had always won, one way or another. She’d always gotten what she wanted, somehow. Until now.

Above her head a bluejay cried raucously. Scarlett looked up, heard a second jeering cry. “Leave me alone,” she shouted. The bird flew away, a whirr of gaudy blue.

She had to think, to remember what Rhett had said. Not this morning or last night or whenever it was that Mammy died. What did he say at our house, the night he left Atlanta? He talked on and on, explaining things. He was so calm, so horribly patient, the way you can be with people you don’t care enough about to get mad at them.

Her mind seized on an almost-forgotten sentence, and she forgot her exhaustion. She had found what she needed. Yes, yes, she remembered it clearly. Rhett had offered her a divorce. Then, after her furious rejection of the offer, he had said it. Scarlett closed her eyes, hearing his voice in her head. “I’ll come back often enough to keep gossip down.” She smiled. She hadn’t won yet, but there was a chance. A chance was enough to go on with. She stood up and picked the pine needles off her frock, out of her hair. She must look a mess.

The muddy yellow Flint River ran slowly and deeply below the ledge that held the pine woods. Scarlett looked down and threw in the handful of pine needles. They swirled away in the current. “Moving on,” she murmured. “Just like me. Don’t look back, what’s done is done. Move on.” She squinted up at the bright sky. A line of brilliant white clouds was rushing across it. They looked full of wind. It’s going to get colder, she thought automatically. I’d better find something warm to wear this afternoon at the burial. She turned toward home. The sloping pasture looked steeper than she remembered. No matter. She had to get back to the house and tidy herself. She owed it to Mammy to look neat. Mammy had always fussed when she looked messy.

3

Scarlett swayed on her feet. She must have been as tired as this sometime before in her life, but she couldn’t remember. She was too tired to remember.

I’m tired of funerals, I’m tired of death, I’m tired of my life falling away, a piece at a time, and leaving me all alone.

The graveyard at Tara was not very large. Mammy’s grave looked big, ever so much bigger than Melly’s, Scarlett thought disjointedly, but Mammy had shrivelled up so that she probably wasn’t any bigger at all. She didn’t need such a big grave.

The wind had a bite in it, for all that the sky was so blue and the sun so bright. Yellowed leaves skittered across the burial ground, blown by the wind. Autumn’s coming, if it’s not here already, she thought. I used to love the fall in the country, riding through the woods. The ground looked like it had gold on it, and the air tasted like cider. So long ago. There hasn’t been a proper riding horse at Tara since Pa died.

She looked at the gravestones. Gerald O’Hara, born County Meath, Ireland. Ellen Robillard O’Hara, born Savannah, Georgia. Gerald O’Hara, Jr.—three tiny stones, all alike. The brothers she’d never known. At least Mammy was being buried here, next to “Miss Ellen,” her first love, and not in the slaves’ burial plot. Suellen screamed to high heaven, but I won that fight, soon as Will came in on my side. When Will puts his foot down, it stays put. Too bad he’s so stiff-necked about letting me give him some money. The house looks terrible.

So does the graveyard, for that matter. Weeds all over the place, it’s downright shabby. This whole funeral is downright shabby, Mammy would have hated it. That black preacher is going on and on, and he didn’t even know her, I’ll bet. Mammy wouldn’t give the time of day to the likes of him, she was a Roman Catholic, everybody in the Robillard house was, except Grandfather, and he didn’t have much say about anything, to hear Mammy tell it. We should have gotten a priest, but the closest one is in Atlanta, it would have taken days. Poor Mammy. Poor Mother, too. She died and was buried without a priest. Pa, too, but likely it didn’t matter so much to him. He used to doze through the Devotions Mother led every night.

Scarlett looked at the unkempt graveyard, then over at the shabby front of the house. I’m glad Mother isn’t here to see this, she thought with sudden fierce anger and pain. It would break her heart. Scarlett could—for a moment—see the tall, graceful form of her mother as clearly as if Ellen O’Hara were there among the mourners at the burial. Always impeccably groomed, her white hands busy with needlework or gloved to go out on one of her errands of mercy, always soft-voiced, always occupied with the perpetual work required to produce the orderly perfection that was life at Tara under her guidance. How did she do it? Scarlett cried silently. How did she make the world so wonderful as long as she was there? We were all so happy then. No matter what happened, Mother could make it all right. How I wish she was still here! She’d hold me close to her, and all the troubles would go away.

No, no, I don’t want her to be here. It would make her so sad to see what’s happened to Tara, what’s happened to me. She’d be disappointed in me, and I couldn’t bear that. Anything but that. I won’t think about it, I mustn’t. I’ll think about something else—I wonder if Delilah had sense enough to fix something to feed people after the burial. Suellen wouldn’t think of it, and she’s too mean to spend money on a collation anyhow.

Not that it would set her back all that much—there’s hardly anybody here. That black preacher looks like he could eat enough for twenty, though. If he doesn’t stop going on about resting in Abraham’s bosom and crossing the River Jordan, I’m going to scream. Those three scrawny women he calls a choir are the only people here who don’t look twitchy from embarrassment. Some choir! Tambourines and spirituals! Mammy should have something solemn in Latin, not “Climbing Jacob’s Ladder.” Oh, it’s all so tacky. A good thing there’s almost nobody here, just Suellen and Will and me and the children and the servants. At least we all really loved Mammy and care that she’s gone. Big Sam’s eyes are red from crying. Look at poor old Pork, crying his eyes out, too. Why, his share’s almost white; I never think of him as old. Dilcey sure doesn’t look her age, whatever that might be, she hasn’t changed a bit since she first came to Tara . . .

Scarlett’s exhausted, rambling mind suddenly sharpened. What were Pork and Dilcey doing here at all? They hadn’t worked at Tara for years. Not since Pork became Rhett’s valet and Dilcey, Pork’s wife, went to Melanie’s house, as Beau’s mammy. How did they come to be here, at Tara? There was no way they could have learned about Mammy’s death. Unless Rhett told them.

Scarlett looked over her shoulder. Had Rhett come back? There was no sign of him. As soon as the service was over, she made a beeline for Pork. Let Will and Suellen deal with the long-winded preacher.

“It’s a sad day, Miss Scarlett,” Pork’s eyes were still welling with tears.

“Yes, it is, Pork,” she said. Mustn’t rush him, she knew, or she’d never find out what she wanted to know.

Scarlett walked slowly beside the old black servant, listening to his reminiscences of “Mist’ Gerald” and Mammy and the early days at Tara. She’d forgotten Pork had been with her father come to Tara with Gerald when there was nothing there except a burned-out old building and fields gone to brush. Why, Pork must be seventy or more.

Little by little, she extracted the information she wanted. Rhett had gone back to Charleston, to stay. Pork had packed all of Rhett’s clothes and sent them to the depot for shipping. It was his final duty as Rhett’s valet, he was retired now, with a parting bonus that was big enough for him to have a place of his own anywhere he liked. “I can do for my family, too,” Pork said proudly. Dilcey would never need to work again, and Prissy would have something to offer any man who wanted to marry her. “Prissy ain’t no beauty, Miss Scarlett, and she’s going on twenty-five years old, but with a ’heritance behind her, she can catch herself a husband easy as a young pretty girl what got no money.”

Scarlett smiled and smiled and agreed with Pork that “Mist’ Rhett” was a fine gentleman. Inside she was raging. That fine gentleman’s generosity was making a real hash of things for her. Who was going to take care of Wade and Ella, with Prissy gone? And how the devil was she going to manage to find a good nursemaid for Beau? He’d just lost his mother, and his father was half crazy with grief, and now the only one in that house with any sense was leaving, too. She wished she could pick up and leave, too, just leave everything and everybody behind. Mother of God! I came to Tara to get some rest, to straighten out my life, and all I found was more problems to take care of. Can’t I ever get any peace?

Will quietly and firmly provided Scarlett with that respite. He sent her to bed and gave orders that she wasn’t to be disturbed. She slept for almost eighteen hours, and she woke with a clear plan of where to begin.

“I hope you slept well,” said Suellen when Scarlett came down for breakfast. Her voice was sickeningly honeyed. “You must have been awfully tired, after all you’ve been through.” The truce was over, now that Mammy was dead.

Scarlett’s eyes glittered dangerously. She knew Suellen was thinking of the disgraceful scene she’d made, begging Rhett not to leave her. But when she answered, her words were equally sweet. “I hardly felt my head touch the pillow, and I was gone. The country air is so soothing and refreshing.” You nasty thing, she added in her head. The bedroom that she still thought of as hers now belonged to Susie, Suellen’s oldest child, and Scarlett had felt like a stranger. Suellen knew it, too, Scarlett was sure. But it didn’t matter. She needed to stay on good terms with Suellen if she was going to carry out her plan. She smiled at her sister.

“What’s so funny, Scarlett? Do I have a spot on my nose or something?”

Suellen’s voice set Scarlett’s teeth on edge, but she held on to her smile. “I’m sorry, Sue. I was just remembering a silly dream I had last night. I dreamt we were all children again, and that Mammy was switching my legs with a switch from the peach tree. Do you remember how much those switches stung?”

Suellen laughed. “I sure do. Lutie uses them on the girls. I can almost feel the sting on my own legs when she does.”

Scarlett watched her sister’s face. “I’m surprised I don’t have a million scars to this day,” she said. “I was such a horrid little girl. I don’t know how you and Carreen could put up with me.” She buttered a biscuit as if it were her only concern.

Suellen looked suspicious. “You did torment us, Scarlett. And somehow you managed to make the fights come out looking like our fault.”

“I know. I was horrid. Even when we got older. I drove you and Carreen like mules when we had to pick the cotton after the Yankees stole everything.”

“You nearly killed us. There we were, half dead from the typhoid, and you dragged us out of bed and sent us out in the hot sun . . .” Suellen became more animated and more vehement as she repeated grievances that she had nursed for years.

Scarlett nodded encouragement, making little noises of contrition. How Suellen does love to complain, she thought. It’s meat and drink to her. She waited until Suellen began to run down before she spoke:

“I feel so mean, and there’s just nothing I can do to make up for all the bad times I put you through. I do think Will is wicked not to let me give you all any money. After all, it is for Tara.”

“I’ve told him the same thing a hundred times,” Suellen said.

I’ll just bet you have, thought Scarlett. “Men are so bullheaded,” she said. Then, “Oh, Suellen, I just thought of something. Do say yes, it would be such a blessing to me if you did. And Will couldn’t possibly fuss about it. What if I left Ella and Wade here and sent money to you for their keep? They’re so peaked from living in the city, and the country air would do them a world of good.”

“I don’t know, Scarlett. We’re going to be awfully crowded when the baby comes.” Suellen’s expression was greedy, but still wary.

“I know,” Scarlett crooned sympathetically. “Wade Hampton eats like a horse, too. But it would be so good for them, poor city creatures. I guess it would run about a hundred dollars a month just to feed them and buy them shoes.”

She doubted that Will had a hundred dollars a year in cash money from his hard work at Tara. Suellen was speechless, she noted with satisfaction. She was sure her sister’s voice would return in time to accept. I’ll write a nice fat bank draft after breakfast, she thought. “These are the best biscuits I ever tasted,” Scarlett said. “Could I have another?”

She was beginning to feel much better with a good sleep behind her, a good meal in her stomach, and the children taken care of. She knew she should go back to Atlanta—she still had to do something about Beau. Ashley, too; she’d promised Melanie. But she’d think about that later. She’d come to Tara for country peace and quiet, she was determined to have some before she left.

After breakfast Suellen went out to the kitchen. Probably to complain about something, Scarlett thought uncharitably. No matter. It gave her a chance to be alone and peaceful . . .

The house is so quiet. The children must be having their breakfast in the kitchen, and of course Will’s long gone to the fields with Wade dogging his footsteps, just the way he used to when Will first came to Tara. Wade’ll be much happier here than in Atlanta, especially with Rhett gone— No, I won’t think about that now, I’ll go crazy if I do. I’ll just enjoy the peace and quiet, it’s what I came for.

She poured herself another cup of coffee, not caring that it was only lukewarm. Sunlight through the window behind her illuminated the painting on the wall opposite, above the scarred sideboard. Will had done a grand job repairing the furniture that the Yankee soldiers had broken up, but even he couldn’t remove the deep gouges they’d made with their swords. Or the bayonet wound in Grandma Robillard’s portrait.

Whatever soldier had stabbed her must have been drunk, Scarlett figured, because he’d missed both the arrogant almost-sneer on Grandma’s thin-nosed face and the bosoms that rounded up over her low cut gown. All he’d done was jab through her left earring, and now she looked even more interesting wearing just one.

Her mother’s mother was the only ancestor who really interested Scarlett, and it frustrated her that nobody would ever tell her enough about her grandmother. Married three times, she had learned that much from her mother, but no details. And Mammy always cut off tales of life in Savannah just when they started getting interesting. There had been duels fought over Grandma, and the fashions of her day had been scandalous, with ladies deliberately wetting their thin muslin gowns so that they’d cling to their legs. And the rest of them, too, from the look of things in the portrait . . .

I should blush just from thinking the kind of things I’m thinking, Scarlett told herself. But she looked back over her shoulder at the portrait as she left the dining room. I wonder what she was really like?

The sitting room showed the signs of poverty and constant use by a young family; Scarlett could hardly recognize the velvet-covered settee where she had posed herself prettily when beaux proposed. And everything had been rearranged, too. She had to admit that Suellen had the right to fix the house to suit herself, but it rankled all the same. It wasn’t really Tara this way.

She grew more and more despondent as she went from room to room. Nothing was the same. Every time she came home there were more changes, and more shabbiness. Oh, why did Will have to be so stubborn! All the furniture needed recovering, the curtains were practically rags, and you could see the floor right through the carpets. She could get new things for Tara if Will would let her. Then she wouldn’t have the heartsickness of seeing the things she remembered looking so pitifully worn.

It should be mine! I’d take better care of it. Pa always said he’d leave Tara to me. But he never made a will. That’s just like Pa, he never thought of tomorrow. Scarlett frowned, but she couldn’t really be angry at her father. No one had ever stayed angry at Gerald O’Hara; he was like a lovable naughty child even when he was in his sixties.

The one I’m mad at—still—is Carreen. Baby sister or not, she was wrong to do what she did, and I’ll never forgive her, never. She was stubborn as a mule when she made up her mind to go into the convent, and I accepted it finally. But she never told me she was going to use her one-third share of Tara as her dowry for the convent.

She should have told me! I would have found the money somehow. Then I’d have two-thirds ownership. Not the whole thing, like it should be, but at least clear control. Then I’d have some say so. Instead, I have to bite my tongue and watch while everything goes downhill and let Suellen queen it over me. It’s not fair. I’m the one who saved Tara from the Yankees and the carpetbaggers. It is mine, no matter what the law says, and it’ll be Wade’s some day, I’ll see to that, no matter what it takes.

Scarlett rested her head against the split leather covering on the old sofa in the small room from which Ellen O’Hara had quietly ruled the plantation. There seemed to be a lingering trace of her mother’s lemon verbena toilet water, even after all these years. This was the peacefulness she had come to find. Never mind the changes, the shabbiness. Tara was still Tara, still home. And the heart of it was here, in Ellen’s room.

A slamming door shattered the quiet.

Scarlett heard Ella and Susie coming through the hall, quarrelling about something. She had to get away, she couldn’t face noise and conflict. She hurried outside. She wanted to see the fields anyhow. They were all healed, rich and red the way they’d always been.

She walked quickly across the weedy lawn and past the cow shed. She’d never get over her aversion to cows, not if she lived to be a hundred. Nasty sharp-horned things. At the edge of the first field she leaned on the fence and breathed in the rich ammonia odor of newly turned earth and manure. Funny how in the city manure was so smelly and messy, while in the country it was a farmer’s perfume.

Will sure is a good farmer. He’s the best thing that ever happened to Tara. No matter what I might have done, we’d never have made it if he hadn’t stopped on his way home to Florida and decided to stay. He fell in love with this land the way other men fall in love with a woman. And he’s not even Irish! Until Will came along I always thought only a brogue-talking Irishman like Pa could get so worked up about the land.

On the far side of the field Scarlett saw Wade helping Will and Big Sam mend a downed piece of fence. Good for him to be learning, she thought. It’s his heritage. She watched the boy and the men working together for several minutes. I’d better scoot back to the house, she thought. I forgot to write that bank draft for Suellen.

Her signature on the check was characteristic of Scarlett. Clear and unembellished, with no blots, or wavering lines, like tentative writers. It was businesslike and straightforward. She looked at it for a moment before she blotted it dry, then she looked at it again.

Scarlett O’Hara Butler.

When she wrote personal notes or invitations, Scarlett followed the fashion of the day, adding complicated loops to every capital letter and finishing off with a parabola of swirls beneath her name. She did it now, on a scrap of brown wrapping paper. Then she looked back at the check she’d just written. It was dated—she’d had to ask Suellen what day it was, and she was shocked by the answer—October 11, 1873. More than three weeks since Melly’s death. She’d been at Tara for twenty-two days, taking care of Mammy.

The date had other meanings, too. It was more than six months ago now that Bonnie died. Scarlett could leave off the unrelieved dull black of deep mourning. She could accept social invitations, invite people to her house. She could reenter the world.

I want to go back to Atlanta, she thought. I want some gaiety. There’s been too much grieving, too much death. I need life.

She folded the check for Suellen. I miss the store, too. The account books are most likely in a fearful mess.

And Rhett will be coming to Atlanta “to keep gossip down.” I’ve got to be there.

The only sound she could hear was the slow ticking of the clock in the hall beyond the closed door. The quiet that she’d longed for so much was now, suddenly, driving her crazy. She stood up abruptly.

I’ll give Suellen her check after dinner, soon as Will goes back to the fields. Then I’ll take the buggy and make a quick visit to the folks at Fairhill and Mimosa. They’d never forgive me if I didn’t come by to say hello. Then tonight I’ll pack my things, and tomorrow I’ll take the morning train.

Home to Atlanta. Tara’s not home for me any more, no matter how much I love it. It’s time for me to go.

The road to Fairhill was rutted and weed grown. Scarlett remembered when it was scraped every week and sprinkled with water to keep the dust down. Time was, she thought sadly, there were at least ten plantations in visiting distance, and people coming and going all the time. Now there’s only Tara left, and the Tarletons and the Fontaines. All the rest are just burnt chimneys or fallen-in walls. I really have to get back to the city. Everything in the County makes me sad. The slow old horse and the buggy’s springs were almost as bad as the roads. She thought of her upholstered carriage and matched team, with Elias to drive them. She needed to go home to Atlanta.

The noisy cheerfulness at Fairhill snapped her out of her mood. As usual Beatrice Tarleton was full of talk about her horses, and interested in nothing else. The stables, Scarlett noticed, had a new roof. The house roof had fresh patches. Jim Tarleton looked old, his share was white, but he’d brought in a good cotton crop with the help of his one-armed son-in-law, Hetty’s husband. The other three girls were frankly old maids. “Of course we’re miserably depressed about it day and night,” said Miranda, and they all laughed. Scarlett didn’t understand them at all. The Tarletons could laugh about anything. Maybe it was connected in some way with having red hair.

The twinge of envy she felt was nothing new. She’d always wished that she could be part of a family that was as affectionate and teasing as the Tarletons, but she stifled the envy. It was disloyal to her mother. She stayed too long—being with them was so much fun—she’d have to visit the Fontaines tomorrow. It was nearly dark when she got back to Tara. She could hear Suellen’s youngest wailing for something even before she got the door open. It was definitely time to go back to Atlanta.

But there was news that changed her mind at once. Suellen scooped up the squalling child and shushed it just as Scarlett walked through the door. In spite of her bedraggled hair and misshapen body Suellen looked prettier than she ever had as a girl.

“Oh, Scarlett,” she exclaimed. “There’s such excitement, you’ll never guess . . . Hush, now, honey, you’ll have a nice piece of bone with your supper and you can chew that mean old tooth right through so it won’t hurt any more.”

If a new tooth is the exciting news, I don’t want to even try and guess, Scarlett felt like saying. But Suellen didn’t give her a chance. “Tony’s home!” Suellen said. “Sally Fontaine rode over to tell us; you just missed her. Tony’s back! Safe and sound. We’re going over to the Fontaine place for supper tomorrow night, just as soon as Will finishes with the cows. Oh, isn’t it wonderful, Scarlett?” Suellen’s smile was radiant. “The County’s filling back up again.”

Scarlett felt like hugging her sister, an impulse she’d never had before. Suellen was right. It was wonderful to have Tony back. She’d been afraid that no one would ever see him again. Now that awful memory of the last sight of him could be forgotten forever. He’d been so worn and worried—soaked to the skin, too, and shivering. Who wouldn’t be cold and scared? The Yankees were right behind him and he was running for his life after he killed the black man who was mauling Sally and then the scallywag who’d egged the black fool on to go after a white woman.

Tony back home! She could hardly wait for the next afternoon. The County was returning to life.

4

The Fontaine plantation was named Mimosa, for the grove of trees that surrounded the faded yellow stucco house. The trees’ feathery pink flowers had fallen at summer’s end, but the fern-like leaves were still vivid green on the boughs. They swayed like dancers in the light wind, making shifting patterns of shadow on the mottled walls of the butter-colored house. It looked warm and welcoming in the low, slanting sunlight.

Oh, I hope Tony hasn’t changed too much, Scarlett thought nervously. Seven years is such a long time. Her feet dragged when Will lifted her down from the buggy. Suppose Tony looked old and tired and—well—defeated, like Ashley. It would be more than she could bear. She lagged behind Will and Suellen on the path to the door.

Then the door swung open with a bang and all her apprehension vanished. “Who’s that strolling up like they were going to church? Don’t you know enough to rush in and welcome a hero when he comes home?” Tony’s voice was full of laughter, just the way it had always been, his share and eyes as black as ever, his wide grin as bright and mischievous.

“Tony!” Scarlett cried. “You look just the same.”

“Is that you, Scarlett? Come and give me a kiss. You, too, Suellen. You weren’t generous with kisses like Scarlett in the old days, but Will must have taught you a few things after you married. I intend to kiss every female over six years old in the whole state of Georgia now that I’m back.”

Suellen giggled nervously and looked at Will. A slight smile on his placid thin face granted her permission, but Tony hadn’t bothered to wait for it. He grabbed her around her thickened waist and planted a smacking kiss on her lips. She was pink with confusion and pleasure when he released her. The dashing Fontaine brothers had paid Suellen little attention in the pre-War years of beaux and belles. Will put a warm, steadying arm around her shoulders.

“Scarlett, honey,” Tony shouted, his arms held wide. Scarlett stepped into his embrace, hugged him tight around the neck.

“You got a lot taller in Texas,” she exclaimed. Tony was laughing as he kissed her offered lips. Then he lifted his trouser leg to show them all the high-heeled boots he was wearing. Everyone got taller in Texas, he said; he wouldn’t be surprised if it was a law there.

Alex Fontaine smiled over Tony’s shoulder. “You’ll hear more about Texas than anybody rightly needs to know,” he drawled, “that is, if Tony lets you come in the house. He’s forgotten about things like that. In Texas they all live around campfires under the stars instead of having walls and a roof.” Alex was glowing with happiness. He looks like he’d like to hug and kiss Tony himself, thought Scarlett, and why not? They were close as two fingers on a hand the whole time they were growing up. Alex must have missed him something awful. Sudden tears pricked her eyes. Tony’s exuberant return home was the first joyful event in the County since Sherman’s troops had devastated the land and the lives of its people. She hardly knew how to respond to such a rush of happiness.

Alex’s wife, Sally, took her by the hand when she entered the shabby living room. “I know just how you feel, Scarlett,” she whispered. “We’d nearly forgot how to have fun. There’s been more laughing in this house today than in the past ten years put together. We’ll make the rafters ring tonight.” Sally’s eyes were full of tears, too.

Then the rafters began to ring. The Tarletons had arrived. “Thank heaven you’re back in one piece, boy,” Beatrice Tarleton greeted Tony. “You can have the pick of any one of my three girls. I’ve only got one grandchild, and I’m not getting any younger.

“Oh, Ma!” moaned Hetty and Camilla and Miranda Tarleton in chorus. Then they laughed. Their mother’s preoccupation with breeding horses and people was too well-known in the County for them to pretend embarrassment. But Tony was blushing crimson.

Scarlett and Sally hooted.

Before the light ebbed, Beatrice Tarleton insisted on seeing the horses Tony had brought with him from Texas, and the argument about the merits of Eastern thoroughbreds versus Western mustangs raged until everyone else begged for a truce.

“And a drink,” said Alex. “I’ve even found some real whiskey for the celebration instead of ’shine.”

Scarlett wished—not for the first time—that taking a drink was not a pleasure from which ladies were automatically excluded. She would have enjoyed one. Even more, she would have enjoyed talking with the men instead of being exiled to the other side of the room for women’s talk of babies and household management. She had never understood or accepted the traditional segregation of the sexes. But it was the way things were done, always had been done, and she resigned herself to it. At least she could amuse herself by watching the Tarleton girls pretend that they weren’t thinking along exactly the same lines as their mother: If only Tony would look their way instead of being so wrapped up in whatever the men were talking about!

“Little Joe must be thrilled half to death to have his uncle home,” Hetty Tarleton was saying to Sally. Hetty could afford to ignore the men. Her fat one-armed husband was one of them.

Sally replied with details about her little boy that bored Scarlett silly. She wondered how soon they’d have supper. It couldn’t be too very long; all the men were farmers and would have to be up the next morning at dawn. That meant an early end to the evening’s festivities.

She was right about an early supper; the men announced that they were ready for it after only one drink. But she was wrong about the early close to the party. Everyone was enjoying it too much to let it end. Tony fascinated them with stories of his adventures. “It was hardly a week before I hooked up with the Texas Rangers,” he said with a roar of laughter. “The state was under Yankee military rule, like every place else in the South, but hell—apologies, ladies—those bluecoats didn’t have the first idea what to do about the Indians. The Rangers had been fighting ’em all along, and the only hope the ranchers had was that the Rangers would keep on protecting them. So that’s what they did. I knew right off that I’d found my kind of people, and I joined up. It was glorious! No uniforms, no marching on an empty stomach to where some fool general wants you to go, no drilling, no sir! You jump on your horse and head out with a bunch of your fellows and go find the fighting.”

Tony’s black eyes sparkled with excitement. Alex’s matched them. The Fontaines had always loved a good fight. And hated discipline.

“What are the Indians like?” asked one of the Tarleton girls. “Do they really torture people?”

“You don’t want to hear about that,” said Tony, his laughing eyes suddenly dull. Then he smiled. “They’re smart as paint when it comes to fighting. The Rangers learned early on that if they were going to beat the red devils, they’d have to learn their way of doing things. Why, we can track a man or an animal across bare rock or even water, better than any hound dog. And live on spit and bleached bones if that’s all there is. There’s nothing can beat a Texas Ranger or get away from him.”

“Show everybody your six-shooters, Tony,” urged Alex.

“Aw, not now. Tomorrow, maybe, or the next day. Sally don’t want me putting holes in her walls.”

“I didn’t say shoot them, I said show them.” Alex grinned at his friends. “They’ve got carved ivory handles,” he boasted, “and just wait till my little brother rides over to visit you on the big old Western saddle of his. It’s got so much silver on it you’ll half go blind from the shine of it.”

Scarlett smiled. She might have known. Tony and Alex had always been the most dandified men in all North Georgia. Tony obviously hadn’t changed a bit. High heels on fancy boots and silver on his saddle. She’d be willing to bet he came home with his pockets as empty as when he left on the run from the hangman. It was major foolishness to have silver saddles when the house at Mimosa really needed a new roof. But for Tony it was right. It meant that he was still Tony. And Alex was as proud of him as if he’d come with a wagon-load of gold. How she loved them, both of them! They might be left with nothing but a farm that they had to work themselves, but the Yankees hadn’t beaten the Fontaines, they hadn’t even been able to put a dent in them.

“Lord, wouldn’t the boys have loved to prance around tall as a tree and polish silver with their bottoms,” said Beatrice Tarleton. “I can see the twins now, they’d just eat it up.”

Scarlett caught her breath. Why did Mrs. Tarleton have to ruin everything that way? Why ruin such a happy time by reminding everybody that almost all of their old friends were dead?

But nothing was ruined. “They wouldn’t be able to keep their saddles for a week, Miss Beatrice, you know that,” Alex said. “They’d either lose them in a poker game or sell them to buy champagne for a party that was running out of steam. Remember when Brent sold all the furniture in his room at the University and bought dollar cigars for all the boys who’d never tried smoking?”

“And when Stuart lost his dress suit cutting cards and had to skulk away from that cotillion wrapped in a rug?” Tony added.

“Remember when they pawned Boyd’s law books?” said Jim Tarleton. “I thought you’d skin them alive, Beatrice.”

“They always grew back the skin,” Mrs. Tarleton said, smiling. “I tried to break their legs when they set the ice house on fire, but they ran too fast for me to catch them.”

“That was the time they came over to Lovejoy and hid in our barn,” said Sally. “The cows went dry for a week when the twins tried to get themselves a pail of milk to drink.”

Everyone had a story about the Tarleton twins, and those stories led to others about their friends and older brothers—Lafe Munroe, Cade and Raiford Calvert, Tom and Boyd Tarleton, Joe Fontaine—all the boys who’d never come home. The stories were the shared wealth of memory and of love, and as they were told the shadows in the corners of the room became populated with the smiling, shining youth of those who were dead but now—at last—no longer lost because they could be remembered with fond laughter instead of desperate bitterness.

The older generation wasn’t forgotten, either. All those around the table had rich memories of Old Miss Fontaine, Alex and Tony’s sharp-tongued, soft-hearted grandmother. And of their mother, called Young Miss until the day she died on her sixtieth birthday. Scarlett discovered that she could even share the affectionate chuckling about her father’s tell-tale habit of singing Irish songs of rebellion when he had, as he put it, “taken a drop or two,” and even hear her mother’s kindness spoken of without the heartbreak that had always before been her immediate response to the mention of Ellen O’Hara’s name.

Hour after hour, long after plates were empty and the fire only embers on the hearth, still the talk went on, and the dozen survivors brought back to life all those loved ones who could not be there to welcome Tony home. It was a happy time, a healing time. The dim, flickering light of the oil lamp in the center of the table showed none of the scars of Sherman’s men in the smoke-stained room and its mended furniture. The faces around the table were without lines, the clothes without patches. For these sweet moments of illusion, it was as if Mimosa was transported to a timeless place and hour where there was no pain and there had never been a War.

Many years before, Scarlett had vowed to herself that she would never look back. Remembering the halcyon pre-War days, mourning them, yearning for them would only hurt and weaken her, and she needed all her strength and determination to survive and to protect her family. But the shared memories in the dining room at Mimosa were not at all a source of weakness. They gave her courage; they were proof that good people could suffer every kind of loss and still retain the capacity for love and laughter. She was proud to be included in their number, proud to call them her friends, proud that they were what they were.

Will walked in front of the buggy on the way home, carrying a pitch pine torch and leading the horse. It was a dark night, and it was very late. Overhead the stars were bright in a cloudless sky, so bright that the quarter-moon looked almost transparently pale. The only sound was the slow clop-clop of the horse’s hooves.

Suellen dozed olf, but Scarlett fought her sleepiness. She didn’t want the evening to end, she wanted the warm comfort and happiness of it to last forever. How strong Tony looked! And so full of life, so pleased with his funny boots, with himself, with everything. The Tarleton girls acted like a bunch of red-haired tabby kittens looking at a bowl of cream. I wonder which one will catch him. Beatrice Tarleton’s sure going to see to it that one of them does!

An owl in the woods beside the road said “whoo, whoo?” and Scarlett giggled to herself.

They were more than halfway to Tara before she realized that she hadn’t thought about Rhett for hours. Then melancholy and worry clamped down on her like lead weights, and she noticed for the first time that the night air was cold and her body was chilled. She pulled her shawl close around her and silently urged Will to hurry.

I don’t want to think about anything, not tonight. I don’t want to spoil the good time I had. Hurry, Will, it’s cold and it’s dark.

The next morning Scarlett and Suellen drove the children over in the wagon to Mimosa. Wade was shiny-eyed with hero worship when Tony showed off his six-guns. Even Scarlett’s jaw dropped in astounded delight when Tony twirled them around his fingers in unison, sent them circling in the air, then caught them and dropped them in the holsters that hung low on his hips from a fancy silvertrimmed leather belt.

“Do they shoot, too?” Wade asked.

“Yes, sir, they, do. And when you get a little older I’ll teach you how to use them.”

“Spin them like you do?”

“Well, sure. No sense having a six-shooter if you’re not going to put it through all its tricks.” Tony ruffled Wade’s hair with a man-to-man rough hand. “I’ll let you learn to ride Western, too, Wade Hampton. I reckon you’ll be the only boy in these parts that’ll know what a real saddle ought to be. But we can’t start today. My brother’s going to be giving me lessons in farming. See how it is—everybody’s got to learn new things all the time.”

Tony planted quick kisses on Suellen’s and Scarlett’s cheeks—the little girls got theirs on the top of their head—and then he said goodbye. “Alex is waiting for me down by the creek. Why don’t you go find Sally? I think she’s hanging up the wash out behind the house.”

Sally acted glad to see them, but Suellen refused her invitation to stop in for a cup of coffee. “I’ve got to get home and do just what you’re doing, Sally, we can’t stay. We just didn’t want to leave without saying hello.” And she hurried Scarlett back to the wagon.

“I don’t see why you were so rude to Sally, Suellen. Your wash could have waited while we had a cup of coffee and talked about the party.”

“Scarlett, you don’t know anything about keeping a farm going. If Sally got behind on her wash, she’d be behind on everything else all day. We can’t get a bunch of servants way out here in the country the way you can in Atlanta. We’ve got to do plenty of the work ourselves.”

Scarlett bridled at the tone of her sister’s voice. “I might just as well go back to Atlanta on this afternoon’s train,” she said crossly.

“It would make things a lot easier for all of us if you did,” Suellen retorted. “You just make more work, and I need that bedroom for Susie and Ella.”

Scarlett opened her mouth to argue. Then she closed it. She’d rather be in Atlanta anyhow. If Tony hadn’t come home, she’d be there by now. People would be glad to see her, too. She had plenty of friends in Atlanta who had time for coffee or a game of whist or a party. She forced a smile for her children, turning her back on Suellen.

“Wade Hampton, Ella, Mother’s got to go to Atlanta after dinner today. I want you to promise you’ll be good and not give your Aunt Suellen any trouble, now.”

Scarlett waited for the protests and the tears. But the children were too busy talking about Tony’s flashing six-shooters to pay any attention to her. As soon as they reached Tara, Scarlett told Pansy to get her valise packed. That was when Ella began to cry. “Prissy’s gone, and I don’t know anybody here to braid my hair,” she sobbed.

Scarlett resisted the impulse to slap her little girl. She couldn’t stay at Tara now that she’d made up her mind to leave, she’d go crazy with nothing to do and no one to talk to. But she couldn’t go without Pansy; it was unheard of for a lady to travel alone. What was she going to do? Ella wanted Pansy to stay with her. It might take days and days for Ella to get used to Lutie, little Susie’s mammy. And if Ella carried on day and night, Suellen might change her mind about keeping the children at Tara.

“All right, then,” Scarlett said sharply. “Stop that awful noise, Ella. I’ll leave Pansy here for the rest of the week. She can teach Lutie about fixing your hair.” I’ll just have to hook up with some woman at the Jonesboro depot. There’s bound to be somebody respectable going to Atlanta that I can share a seat with.

I’m going home on the afternoon train, and that’s all there is to it. Will can drive me over and be back in plenty of time to milk his nasty old cows.

Halfway to Jonesboro, Scarlett stopped chattering brightly about Tony Fontaine’s return. She was silent for a moment, then she blurted out what was preying on her mind. “Will—about Rhett—the way he left so fast, I mean—I hope Suellen’s not going to go blabbing all over the County.”

Will looked at her with his pale blue eyes. “Now, Scarlett, you know better than that. Family don’t bad mouth family. I always figured it was a pity you couldn’t seem to see the good in Suellen. It’s there, but somehow it don’t show itself when you come ’round. You’ll just have to take my word on it. Never mind how she looks to you, Suellen’ll never tell your private troubles to anybody. She don’t want folks talking loose about the O’Haras any more than you do.”

Scarlet relaxed a little. She trusted Will completely. His word was more certain than money in the bank. And he was wise, too. She’d never known Will to be wrong about anything-except maybe Suellen.

“You do believe he’ll be back, don’t you, Will?”

Will didn’t have to ask who she meant. He heard the anxiety beneath her words, and he chewed quietly on the straw in the corner of his mouth while he decided how to reply. At last he said slowly, “I can’t say I do, Scarlett, but I ain’t the one to know. I never seen him above four or five times in my life.”

She felt as if he had struck her. Then quick anger erased the pain. “You just don’t understand anything at all, Will Benteen! Rhett’s upset right now, but he’ll get over it. He’d never do anything as low as go off and leave his wife stranded.”

Will nodded. Scarlett could take it for agreement if she wanted to. But he hadn’t forgotten Rhett’s sardonic description of himself. He was a scoundrel. According to everything folks said, he always had been and likely always would be.

Scarlett stared at the familiar red clay road in front of her. Her jaw was set, her mind working furiously. Rhett would come back. He had to, because she wanted him to, and she always got what she wanted. All she had to do was set her mind to it.

5

The noise and push at Five Points was a tonic to Scarlett’s spirit. So was the disorder on her desk at the house. She needed life and action around her after the numbing succession of deaths, and she needed work to do.

There were stacks of newspapers to be read, piles of daily business accounts from the general store she owned in the very center of Five Points, mounds of bills to be paid, and circulars to tear up and throw away. Scarlett sighed with pleasure and pulled her chair up close to the desk.

She checked the freshness of the ink in its stand and the supply of nibs for her pen. Then she lit the lamp. It would be dark long before she finished all this; maybe she’d even have her supper on a tray tonight while she worked. She reached eagerly for the store accounts, then her hands stopped in midair when a large square envelope on top of the newspapers caught her eye. It was addressed simply “Scarlett,” and the handwriting was Rhett’s.

I won’t read it now, she thought at once, it’ll just get in the way of all the things I’ve got to do. I’m not worried about what’s in it—not a bit—I just don’t want to look at it now. I’ll save it, she told herself, like for dessert. And she picked up a handful of ledger sheets. But she kept losing track of the arithmetic she was doing in her and finally she threw the accounts down. Her fingers tore the sealed envelope open.

Believe me, Rhett’s letter began, when I say that you have my deepest sympathy in your bereavement. Mammy’s death is a great loss. I am grateful that you notified me in time for me to see her before she went.

Scarlett looked up in a rage from the thick black pen strokes and spoke aloud. “ ‘Grateful,’ my foot! So you could lie to her and to me, you varmint.” She wished she could burn the letter and throw the ashes in Rhett’s face, shouting the words at him. Oh, she’d get even with him for shaming her in front of Suellen and Will. No matter how long she had to wait and plan, she’d find a way somehow. He had no right to treat her that way, to treat Mammy that way, to make a sham out of her last wishes like that.

I’ll burn it now, I won’t even read the rest, I don’t have to put my eyes to any more of his lies! Her hand fumbled for the box of matches, but when she held it, she dropped it at once. I’ll die of wondering what was in it, she admitted to herself, and she lowered her head to read on.

She would find her life unaltered, Rhett stated. The household bills would be paid by his lawyers, an arrangement he had made years before, and all moneys drawn from Scarlett’s bank account by check would be replaced automatically. She might want to instruct any new shops where she opened accounts about the procedure all her current shopping places used: they sent their bills directly to Rhett’s lawyers. Alternatively, she could pay her bills by check, the amount being replaced in her bank.

Scarlett read all this with fascination. Anything that had to do with money always interested her, always had, since the day when she was forced by the Union Army to discover what poverty was. Money was safety, she believed. She hoarded the money she earned herself, and now, viewing Rhett’s open-handed generosity, she was shocked.

What a fool he is, I could rob him blind if I wanted to. Probably his lawyers have been cooking those account books for ages, too.

Then—Rhett must be powerfully rich if he can spend without caring where it goes. I always knew he was rich. But not this rich. I wonder how much money he’s got.

Then—he does still love me, this proves it. No man would ever spoil a woman the way Rhett spoiled me all these years unless he loved her to distraction, and he’s going to keep on giving me every thing and anything I want. He must still feel the same, or he’d rein in. Oh, I knew it! I knew it. He didn’t mean all those things he said. He just didn’t believe me when I told him I know now that I love him.

Scarlett held Rhett’s letter to her cheek as if she were holding the hand that had written it. She’d prove it to him, prove she loved him with all her heart, and then they’d be so happy—the happiest people in the whole world!

She covered the letter with kisses before she put it carefully away in a drawer. Then she set to work on the store accounts with enthusiasm. Doing business invigorated her. When a maid tapped on the door and timidly asked about supper, Scarlett barely glanced up. “Bring me something on a tray,” she said, “and light the fire in the grate.” It was chilly with darkness falling, and she was hungry as a wolf.

She slept extremely well that night. The store had done well in her absence, and the supper was satisfying in her stomach. It was good to be home, especially with Rhett’s letter resting safely under her pillow.

She woke and stretched luxuriously. The crackle of paper beneath her pillow made her smile. After she rang for her breakfast tray, she began to plan her day. First to the store. It must be low on stock of a lot of things; Kershaw kept the books well enough, but he didn’t have the sense of a pea hen. He’d run right out of flour and sugar before he thought about refilling the kegs, and he probably hadn’t ordered a speck of kerosene or so much as a stick of kindling even though it was getting colder every day.

She hadn’t gotten around to the newspapers last night, either, and going to the store would save her all that boring reading. Anything worth knowing about in Atlanta she’d pick up from Kershaw and the clerks. There was nothing like a general store for collecting all the stories that were going around. People loved to talk while they were waiting for their goods to be wrapped. Why, half the time she already knew what was on the front page before the paper ever got printed; she could probably throw away the whole batch on her desk and not miss a thing.

Scarlett’s smile disappeared. No, she couldn’t. There’d be a piece about Melanie’s burial, and she wanted to see it.

Melanie . . .

Ashley . . .

The store would have to wait. She had other obligations to see to first.

Whatever possessed me to promise Melly that I’d take care of Ashley and Beau?

But I promised. I’d best go there first. And I’d better take Pansy to make everything proper. Tongues must be wagging all over town after that scene at the graveyard. No sense adding to the gossip by seeing Ashley alone. Scarlett hurried across the thick carpet to the embroidered bell pull and jerked it savagely. Where was her breakfast?

Oh, no, Pansy was still at Tara. She’d have to take one of the other servants; that new girl, Rebecca, would do. She hoped Rebecca could help her dress without making too big a mess of it. She wanted to hurry, now, to get going and get her duty over with.

When her carriage pulled up in front of Ashley and Melanie’s tiny house on Ivy Street, Scarlett saw that the mourning wreath was gone from the door, and the windows were all shuttered.

India, she thought at once. Of course. She’s taken Ashley and Beau to live at Aunt Pittypat’s. She must be mighty pleased with herself.

Ashley’s sister India was, and always had been, Scarlett’s implacable enemy. Scarlett bit her lip and considered her dilemma. She was sure that Ashley must have moved to Aunt Pitty’s with Beau; it was the most sensible thing for him to do. Without Melanie, and now with Dilcey gone, there was no one to run Ashley’s house or mother his son. At Pittypat’s there was comfort, an orderly household, and constant affection for the little boy from women who had loved him all his life.

Two old maids, thought Scarlett with disdain. They’re ready to worship anything in pants, even short pants. If only India didn’t live with Aunt Pitty. Scarlett could manage Aunt Pitty. The timid old lady wouldn’t dare talk back to a kitten, let alone Scarlett.

But Ashley’s sister was another matter. India would just love to have a confrontation, to say nasty things in her cold, spitting voice, to show Scarlett the door.

If only she hadn’t promised Melanie—but she had. “Drive me to Miss Pittypat Hamilton’s,” she ordered Elias. “Rebecca, you go on home. You can walk.”

There would be chaperones enough at Pitty’s.

India answered her knock. She looked at Scarlett’s fashionable fur-trimmed mourning costume, and a tight, satisfied smile moved her lips.

Smile all you like, you old crow, thought Scarlett. India’s mourning gown was unrelieved dull black crape, without so much as a button to decorate it. “I’ve come to see how Ashley is,” she said.

“You’re not welcome here,” India said. She began to close the door.

Scarlett pushed against it. “India Wilkes, don’t you dare slam that door in my face. I made a promise to Melly, and I’ll keep it if I have to kill you to do it.”

India answered by putting her shoulder to the door and resisting the pressure of Scarlett’s two hands. The undignified struggle lasted for only a few seconds. Then Scarlett heard Ashley’s voice.

“Is that Scarlett, India? I’d like to talk with her.”

The door swung open, and Scarlett marched in, noting with pleasure that India’s face was mottled with red splotches of anger.

Ashley came forward into the hallway to greet her, and Scarlett’s brisk steps faltered. He looked desperately ill. Dark circles ringed his pale eyes, and deep lines ran from his nostrils to his chin. His clothes looked too big for him; his coat hung from his sagging frame like broken wings on a black bird.

Scarlett’s heart turned over. She no longer loved Ashley the way she had for all those years, but he was still part of her life. There were so many shared memories, over so much time. She couldn’t bear to see him in such pain. “Dear Ashley,” she said gently, “come and sit down. You look tired.”

They sat on a settee in Aunt Pitty’s small, fussy, cluttered parlor for more than an hour. Scarlett spoke seldom. She listened while Ashley talked, repeating and interrupting himself in a confused zigzag of memories. He recounted stories of his dead wife’s kindness, unselfishness, nobility, her love for Scarlett, for Beau, and for him. His voice was low and without expression, bleached by grief and hopelessness. His hand groped blindly for Scarlett’s, and he grasped it with such despairing strength that her bones rubbed together painfully. She compressed her lips and let him hold on to her.

India stood in the arched doorway, a dark, still spectator.

Finally Ashley interrupted himself and turned his head from side side like a man blinded and lost. “Scarlett, I can’t go on without her,” he groaned. “I can’t.”

Scarlett pulled her hand away. She had to break through the shell of despair that bound him, or it would kill him, she was sure. She stood and leaned down over him. “Listen to me, Ashley Wilkes,” she said. “I’ve been listening to you pick over your sorrows all this time, and now you listen to mine. Do you think you’re the only person who loved Melly and depended on her? I did, more than I knew, more than anybody knew. I expect a lot of other people did, too. But we’re not going to curl up and die for it. That’s what you’re doing. And I’m ashamed of you.

“Melly is, too, if she’s looking down from heaven. Do you have any idea what she went through to have Beau? Well, I know what she suffered, and I’m telling you it would have killed the strongest man God ever made. Now you’re all he’s got. Is that what you want Melly to see? That her boy is all alone, practically an orphan, because his Pa feels too sorry for himself to care about him? Do you want to break her heart, Ashley Wilkes? Because that’s what you’re doing.” She caught his chin in her hand and forced him to look at her.

“You pull yourself together, do you hear me, Ashley? You march yourself out to the kitchen and tell the cook to fix you a hot meal. And you eat it. If it makes you throw up, eat another one. And you find your boy and take him in your arms and tell him not to be scared, that he has a father to take care of him. Then do it. Think about somebody besides yourself.”

Scarlett wiped her hand on her skirt as if it were soiled by Ashley’s grip. Then she walked from the room, pushing India out of the way.

As she opened the door to the porch, she could hear India: “My poor, darling Ashley. Don’t pay any attention to the horrible things Scarlett said. She’s a monster.”

Scarlett stopped, turned. She withdrew a calling card from her purse and dropped it on a table. “I’m leaving my card for you, Aunt Pitty,” she shouted, “since you’re afraid to see me in person.”

She slammed the door behind her.

“Just drive, Elias,” she told her coachman. “Anywhere at all.” She couldn’t stand to stay in that house one single minute more. What was she going to do? Had she gotten through to Ashley? She’d been so mean—well, she had to be, he was being drowned in sympathy and pity—but had it done any good? Ashley adored his son, maybe he’d pull himself together for Beau’s sake. “Maybe” wasn’t good enough. He had to. She had to make him do it.

“Take me to Mr. Henry Hamilton’s law office,” she told Elias.

“Uncle Henry” was terrifying to most women, but not to Scarlett. She could understand that growing up in the same house with Aunt Pittypat had made him a misogynist. And she knew he rather liked her. He said she wasn’t as silly as most women. He was her lawyer and knew how shrewd she was in her business dealings.

When she walked into his office without waiting to be announced, he put down the letter he was reading and chuckled. “Do come in, Scarlett,” he said, rising to his feet. “Are you in a hurry to sue somebody?”

She paced forward and back, ignoring the chair beside his desk. “I’d like to shoot somebody,” she said, “but I don’t know that it would help. Isn’t it true that when Charles died, he left me all his property?”

“You know it is. Stop that fidgeting and sit down. He left the warehouses near the depot that the Yankees burned. And he left some farmland outside of town that will be in town before too long, the way Atlanta has been growing.”

Scarlett perched on the edge of the chair, her eyes fixed on his. “And half of Aunt Pitty’s house on Peachtree Street,” she said distinctly. “Didn’t he leave me that, too?”

“My God, Scarlett, don’t tell me you want to move in there.”

“Of course not. But I want Ashley out of there. India and Aunt Pitty are going to sympathize him into his grave. He can go back to his own house. I’ll find him a housekeeper.”

Henry Hamilton looked at her with expressionless probing eyes. “Are you sure that’s why you want him back in his own house, because he’s suffering from too much sympathy?”

Scarlett bridled. “God’s nightgown, Uncle Henry!” she said. “Are you turning into a scandal monger in your old age?”

“Don’t show your claws to me, young lady. Settle back in that chair and listen to some hard truths. You’ve got maybe the best business head I ever met, but otherwise you’re about as dimwitted as the village idiot.”

Scarlett scowled, but she did as she was told.

“Now, about Ashley’s house,” said the old lawyer slowly, “it’s already been sold. I drew up the papers yesterday.” He held up his hand to stop Scarlett before she could speak. “I advised him to move into Pitty’s and sell it. Not because of the pain of associations and memories in the house, and not because I was concerned about who was going to take care of him and the boy, although both are valid considerations. I advised him to move because he needed the money from the sale to keep his lumber business from going under.”

“What do you mean? Ashley doesn’t know tootle about making money, but he can’t possibly go under. Builders always need lumber.”

“If they’re building. Just you get down off your high horse for a minute and listen, Scarlett. I know you’re not interested in anything that happens in the world unless it concerns you, but there was a big financial scandal in New York a couple or three weeks ago. A speculator named Jay Cooke miscalculated, and he crashed. He took his railroad down with him, an outfit called the Northern Pacific. He took a bunch of other speculators with him, too, fellows who were in on his railroad deal and some of his other deals. When they went with him, they took down a lot of other deals they were in on, outside of Cooke’s. Then the fellows who were in on their deals went down, tumbling still more deals and more fellows. Just like a house of cards. In New York they’re calling it ‘the Panic.’ It’s already spreading. I expect it’ll run through the whole country before it’s done.”

Scarlett felt a stab of terror. “What about my store?” she cried. “And my money? Are the banks safe?”

“The one you bank in is. I’ve got my money there, too, so I made sure. Fact is, Atlanta’s not likely to get hurt much. We’re not big enough yet for any big deals, and it’s the big ones that are crumbling. But business is at a standstill everywhere. People are afraid to invest in anything. That means building, too. And if nobody’s building, nobody needs lumber.”

Scarlett frowned. “So Ashley won’t be making any money from the sawmills. I can see that. But if nobody’s investing, why did his house sell so fast? Seems to me, if there’s a panic, real estate prices should be the first thing to fall.”

Uncle Henry grinned. “Like a stone. You’re a smart one, Scarlett. That’s why I told Ashley to sell while he could. Atlanta hasn’t felt the Panic yet, but it’ll get here soon. We’ve been booming for the past eight years—hell, there are more than twenty thousand people living here now—but you can’t boom without bucks.” He laughed mightily at his own wit.

Scarlett laughed with him, although she didn’t think there was anything funny about economic collapse. She knew men like to be appreciated.

Uncle Henry’s laughter stopped abruptly, like water turned off at a faucet. “So. Now Ashley’s with his sister and his aunt, for good and proper reasons and according to my advice. And that doesn’t suit you.”

“No, sir, it doesn’t suit at all. He looks awful, and they’re making him worse. He’s like a dead man walking. I gave him a good talking-to; tried to snap him out of the state he’s in by hollering at him. But I don’t know if it did any good. I know it won’t stick even if it did. Not as long as he’s in that house.”

She looked at Uncle Henry’s skeptical expression. Anger reddened her face. “I don’t care what you heard or what you think, Uncle Henry. I’m not after Ashley. I made a deathbed promise to Melanie that I’d take care of him and Beau. I wish to God I hadn’t, but I did.”

Her outburst made Henry uncomfortable. He didn’t like emotion, especially in women. “If you start crying, Scarlett, I’ll have you put out.”

“I’m not going to cry. I’m mad. I’ve got to do something, and you’re no help.”

Henry Hamilton leaned back in his chair. He touched his fingertips together, resting his arms on his ample stomach. It was his lawyerly look, almost judicial.

“You’re the last person who can help Ashley right now, Scarlett. I told you I was going to deliver some hard truths, and that’s one of them. Right or wrong—and I don’t care to know which—there was a lot of speculation about you and Ashley at one time. Miss Melly stood up for you, and most people followed her lead—for love of her, mind you, not because they were especially fond of you.

“India thought the worst and said it. She put together her own little band of believers. It wasn’t a pretty situation, but folks accommodated themselves, like they always do. Things could have rocked on like that forever, even after Melanie’s death. Nobody really likes disruption and changes. But you couldn’t leave well enough alone. Oh, no. You had to go make a spectacle of yourself at Melanie’s very graveside. Throwing your arms around her husband, hauling him away from his dead wife, who a lot of people thought close to a saint.”

He held up one hand. “I know what you’re about to say, so don’t bother to say it, Scarlett.” His fingertips touched again. “Ashley was about to throw himself in the grave, maybe break his neck. I was there. I saw it. That’s not the point. For such a smart girl, you don’t understand the world at all.

“If Ashley had pitched himself onto the coffin, everybody would have called it ‘touching.’ If he killed himself doing it, they would have been real sorry, but there are rules for handling sorrow. Society needs rules, Scarlett, to hold itself together. What you did broke all the rules. You made a scene in public. You laid hands on a man who wasn’t your husband. In public. You raised a ruckus that interrupted a burial, a ceremony that everybody knows the rules to. You broke up the last rites of a saint.

“There’s not a lady in this town that isn’t lined up on India’s side right now. That means against you. You don’t have a friend to your name, Scarlett. And if you have anything at all to do with Ashley, you’ll fix it so that he’s just as outcast as you.

“The ladies are against you. God help you, Scarlett, because I can’t. When Christian ladies turn on you, you’d better not hope for Christian charity or forgiveness. It’s not in them. They won’t allow it in anybody else, either, especially not their menfolk. They own their men, body and soul. That’s why I’ve always kept my distance from the misnamed ‘gentle sex.’

“I wish you well, Scarlett. You know I’ve always liked you. That’s about all I can offer, good wishes. You’ve made a mess of things, and I don’t know how you can ever put it right.”

The old lawyer stood up. “Leave Ashley where he is. Some sweet-talking little lady will come along one of these days and snap him up. Then she’ll take care of him. You leave Pittypat’s house the way it is, including your half. And don’t stop sending money through me to pay the bills for its upkeep, the way you’ve always done. That’ll satisfy your promise to Melanie.

“Come on. I’ll escort you to your carriage.”

Scarlett took his arm and walked meekly beside him. But inside, she was seething. She might have known that she’d get no help from Uncle Henry.

She had to find out for herself if what Uncle Henry said was true, if there was a financial panic, most of all, if her money was safe.

6

“Panic,” Henry Hamilton called it. The financial crisis that had begun on Wall Street in New York was spreading throughout America. Scarlett was terrified that she’d lose the money she had earned and hoarded. When she left the old lawyer’s office, she went immediately to her bank. She was shaking internally when she reached the bank manager’s office.

“I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Butler,” he said, but Scarlett could see that he didn’t at all. He resented her questioning the security of the bank, and in particular the security of the bank under his management. The longer he talked, and the more reassuring he sounded, the less Scarlett believed him.

Then, inadvertently, he set all her fears at rest. “Why, we’ll not only be paying our usual dividend to stockholders,” he said, “it’s actually going to be a bit higher than usual.” He looked at her from the corners of his eyes. “I didn’t get that information until this morning myself,” he said angrily. “I’d certainly like to know how your husband reached his decision to add to his stock holdings a month ago.”

Scarlett felt that she might float right out of her chair with relief. If Rhett was buying bank shares, this must be the safest bank in America. He always made money when the rest of the world was falling to pieces. She didn’t know how he’d found out about the bank’s position, and she didn’t care. It was enough for her that Rhett had confidence in it.

“He has this darling little crystal ball,” she said with a giddy laugh that infuriated the manager. She felt a little drunk.

But not too light-headed to remember to convert all the cash in her lock box to gold. She could still see the elegantly engraved, worthless Confederate bonds her father had depended on. She had no faith at all in paper.

As she left the bank, she paused on the steps to enjoy the warm autumn sun and the thronged busyness of the streets in the business district. Look at all those folks rushing around—they’re in a hurry because there’s money to be made, not because they’re afraid of anything. Uncle Henry’s crazy as an old coot. There’s no panic at all.

Her next stop was her store. KENNEDY’S EMPORIUM said the big gilt-lettered sign across the front of the building. It was her inheritance from her brief marriage to Frank Kennedy. That and Ella. Her pleasure in the store more than offset her disappointment in the child. The window was sparkling clean, with a satisfyingly crowded display of merchandise. Everything from shiny new axes down to shiny new dressmaker pins. She’d have to get those lengths of calico out of there, though. They’d be sun-streaked in no time at all, and then she’d have to reduce the price. Scarlett burst through the door, ready to take the hide off Willie Kershaw, the head clerk.

But in the end, there was little reason to find fault. The calico on display had arrived water-damaged in shipment and was already marked down. The mill that made it had agreed to knock two-thirds off the cost because of the damage. Kershaw had placed the orders for new stock, too, without being told, and the square heavy iron safe in the back room held neatly banded and precisely tallied stacks of bagged coins and greenbacks, the daily receipts. “I paid the underclerks, Mrs. Butler,” Kershaw said nervously. “I hope that’s all right. The notation is on the Saturday tallies. The boys said they couldn’t manage without their week’s packets. I didn’t take mine out, not knowing how you wanted me to do, but I’d be mighty grateful if you could see your way clear to—”

“Of course, Willie,” said Scarlett graciously, “as soon as I match the money to the account books.” Kershaw had done a lot better than she expected, but that didn’t mean she’d allow him to take her for a fool. When the cash balanced to the penny, she counted out his twelve dollars and seventy-five cents pay for the three weeks. She’d add an extra dollar when she paid him tomorrow for this week, she decided. He deserved a bonus for managing so well when she was away.

Also, she was planning to add to his duties. “Willie,” she told him privately, “I want you to open a credit.”

Kershaw’s protuberant eyes bulged. There had never been credit extended in the store after Scarlett took over its management. He listened carefully to her instructions. When she made him swear he wouldn’t tell a living soul about it, he placed his hand over his heart and swore. He’d better stick to his oath, too, he thought, or Mrs. Butler would find out somehow. He was convinced Scarlett had eyes in the back of her head and could read people’s minds.

Scarlett went home for dinner when she left the store. After she washed her face and hands, she started on the pile of newspapers. The account of Melanie’s funeral was just what she should have expected—a minimum number of words, giving Melanie’s name, birthplace, and date of death. A lady’s name could be in the news three times only: at her birth, her marriage, and her death. And there must never be any details. Scarlett had written out the notice herself, and she’d added what she thought was a suitably dignified line about how tragic it was for Melanie to have died so young and how much she would be missed by her grieving family and all her friends in Atlanta. India must have taken it out, Scarlett thought irritably. If only Ashley’s household was in anybody’s hands except India’s, life would be a lot easier.

The very next issue of the newspaper made Scarlett’s palms wet with fear-sweat. The next, and the next, and the next—she turned through the pages rapidly, with mounting alarm. “Leave it on the table,” she said when the maid announced dinner. The chicken breast was stuck in congealed gravy by the time she got to the table, but it didn’t matter. She was too upset to eat. Uncle Henry had been right. There was a panic, and rightly so. The world of business was in desperate turmoil, even collapse. The stock market in New York had been closed for ten days after the day the reporters were calling “Black Friday,” when stock prices plunged downward because everyone was selling and no one was buying. In major American cities banks were closing because their customers wanted their money, and their money was gone-invested by the banks in “safe” stocks that had become nearly worthless. Factories in industrial areas were closing at the rate of almost one every day, leaving thousands of workers without work and without money.

Uncle Henry said it couldn’t happen in Atlanta, Scarlett told herself again and again. But she had to restrain her impulse to go to the bank and bring home her lock box of gold. If Rhett hadn’t bought bank shares, she would have done it.

She thought about the errand she’d planned for the afternoon, wished fervently that the idea had never crossed her mind, decided that it had to be done. Even though the country was in a panic. Even more so, in fact.

Maybe she should have a tiny glass of brandy to settle her churning stomach. The decanter was right there on the sideboard. It would keep her nerves from jumping half out of her skin, too . . . No—it could be smelt on her breath, even if she ate parsley or mint leaves afterwards. She took a deep breath and got up from the table. “Run out to the carriage house and tell Elias I’m going out,” she told the maid who came in response to the bell.

There was no answer to her ring at Aunt Pittypat’s front door. Scarlett was sure she saw one of the lace curtains twitch at a parlor window. She twisted the bell again. There was the sound of the bell in the hall beyond the door, and a muffled sound of movement. Scarlett rang again. All was silence when the ringing faded. She waited for a count of twenty. A horse and buggy passed along the street behind her.

If anybody saw me standing here locked out, I’d never be able to look them in the face without perishing of shame, she thought. She could feel her cheeks flaming. Uncle Henry was right the whole way. She wasn’t being received. All her life she had heard of people who were so scandalous that no decent person would open the door to them, but in her wildest imagination she’d never thought it could happen to her. She was Scarlett O’Hara, daughter of Ellen Robillard, of the Savannah Robillards. This couldn’t be happening to her.

I’m here to do good, too, she thought with hurt bewilderment. Her eyes felt hot, a warning of tears. Then, as so often happened, she was swept by a tide of anger and outrage. Damn it all, half this house belonged to her! How dare anybody lock the door against her?

She banged on the door with her fist and rattled the doorknob, but the door was securely bolted. “I know you’re in there, India Wilkes,” Scarlett shouted through the keyhole. There! I hope she had her ear to it and goes deaf.

“I came to talk to you, India, and I’m not leaving until I do. I’m going to sit on the porch steps until you open that door or until Ashley comes home with his key, take your pick.”

Scarlett turned and gathered up the train of her skirts. She heard the rattle of bolts behind her as she took a step, then the squeak of the hinges.

“For the love of heaven, come in,” India whispered hoarsely. “You’ll make us the talk of the neighborhood.”

Scarlett surveyed India coolly over her shoulder. “Maybe you should come out and sit on the steps with me, India. A blind tramp might stumble by and marry you in exchange for room and board.”

As soon as it was said, she wished she’d bit her tongue instead. She hadn’t come to fight with India. But Ashley’s sister had always been like a burr under a saddle to her, and her humiliation at the locked door rankled.

India pushed the door to. Scarlett spun and raced to stop it closing. “I apologize,” she said through clenched teeth. Her angry gaze locked with India’s. Finally India stepped back.

How Rhett would love this! Scarlett thought all of a sudden. In the good days of their marriage she had always told him about her triumphs in business and in the small social world of Atlanta. It made him laugh long and loud and call her his “neverending source of delight.” Maybe he’d laugh again when she told him how India was puffing like a dragon that had to back down.

“What do you want?” India’s voice was icy, although she was trembling with rage.

“It’s mighty gracious of you to invite me to sit and take a cup of tea,” Scarlett said in her best airy manner. “But I’ve just barely finished dinner.” In fact she was hungry now. The zest for battle had pushed panic away. She hoped her stomach wouldn’t make a noise, it felt as empty as a dry well.

India stationed herself against the door to the parlor. “Aunt Pitty is resting,” she said.

Having the vapors is more like it, Scarlett said to herself, but this time she held her tongue. She wasn’t mad at Pittypat. Besides, she’d better get on with what she’d come for. She wanted to be gone before Ashley came home.

“I don’t know if you’re aware of it, India, but Melly asked me on her deathbed to promise that I’d watch out for Beau and Ashley.”

India’s body jerked as if she’d been shot.

“Don’t say a word,” Scarlett warned her, “because there’s nothing you can say that means anything next to Melly’s practically last words.”

“You’ll ruin Ashley’s name just like you’ve ruined your own. I won’t have you hanging around here after him, bringing disgrace down on all of us.”

“The last thing on God’s green earth I want to do, India Wilkes, is spend one more minute in this house than I have to. I came to tell you that I’ve made arrangements at my store for you to get anything you need.”

“The Wilkeses don’t take charity, Scarlett.”

“You simpleton, I’m not talking charity, I’m talking my promise to Melanie. You don’t have any idea how quick a boy Beau’s age goes through breeches and outgrows shoes. Or how much they cost. Do you want Ashley to be burdened with little worries like that when he’s broken-hearted about bigger things? Or do you want Beau to be a laughingstock at school?

“I know just how much income Aunt Pitty gets. I used to live here, remember? It’s just enough to keep Uncle Peter and the carriage, put a little food on the table, and pay for her smelling salts. There’s a little thing called ‘the Panic,’ too. Half the businesses in the country are folding. Ashley’s likely going to have less money coming in than ever.

“If I can swallow my pride and beat on the front door like a crazy woman, you can swallow yours and take what I’m giving. It’s not your place to turn it down, because if it was only you, I’d let you starve without blinking an eye. I’m talking about Beau. And Ashley. And Melly, because I promised her what she asked.

“ ‘Take care of Ashley, but don’t let him know it,’ she said. I can’t not let him know it if you won’t help, India.”

“How do I know that’s what Melanie said?”

“Because I say so, and my word’s as good as gold. No matter what you may think of me, India, you’ll never find anybody to say that I ever backed down on a promise or broke my word.”

India hesitated, and Scarlett knew she was winning. “You don’t have to go to the store yourself,” she said. “You can send a list by somebody else.”

India took a deep breath. “Only for Beau’s school clothes,” she said grudgingly.

Scarlett kept herself from smiling. Once India saw how pleasant it was to get things for free, she’d do a lot more shopping than that. Scarlett was sure of it.

“I’ll say good day, then, India. Mr. Kershaw, the head clerk, is the only one knows about this, and he won’t run off at the mouth to anybody. Put his name on the outside of your list, and he’ll take care of everything.”

When she settled back in her carriage, Scarlett’s stomach gave out an audible rumble. She smiled from ear to ear. Thank heaven it had waited.

Back home she ordered the cook to heat up her dinner and serve it again. While she waited to be called to the table she looked through the other pages of the newspapers, avoiding the stories about the Panic. There was a column she’d never bothered with before that was fascinating to her now. It contained news and gossip from Charleston, and Rhett or his mother or sister or brother might be mentioned.

They weren’t, but she hadn’t really expected anything. If there was anything really exciting going on in Charleston she’d learn about it from Rhett next time he came home. Being interested in his folks and the place he’d grown up would be a proof to him that she loved him, no matter what he might believe. How often, she wondered, was “often enough to keep down gossip”?

Scarlett couldn’t get to sleep that night. Every time she closed her eyes she saw the wide front door of Aunt Pitty’s house, closed and bolted against her. It was India’s doing, she told herself. Uncle Henry couldn’t possibly be right that every door in Atlanta was going to be closed.

But she hadn’t thought he was right about the Panic, either. Not until she read the newspapers, and then she discovered it was even worse than he’d told her.

Insomnia was no stranger to her; she’d learned years before that two or three brandies would calm her down and help her sleep. She padded silently downstairs and to the dining room sideboard. The cut-glass decanter flashed rainbows from the light of the lamp she held in her hand.

The next morning she slept later than usual. Not because of the brandy but because, even with its aid, she’d been unable to sleep until just before dawn. She couldn’t stop worrying about what Uncle Henry had said.

On her way down to the store she stopped in at Mrs. Merriwether’s bakery. The clerk behind the counter looked through her and turned a deaf ear when she spoke.

She treated me like I didn’t even exist, she realized with horror. As she crossed the sidewalk from the shop to her carriage, she saw Mrs. Elsing and her daughter approaching on foot. Scarlett paused, ready to smile and say hello. The two Elsing ladies stopped dead when they saw her, then, without a word or a second look, turned and walked away. Scarlett was paralyzed for a moment. Then she scurried into her carriage and hid her face in the shadowy corner of the deep enclosure. For one horrible instant she was afraid she was going to be sick all over the floor.

When Elias stopped the carriage in front of the store, Scarlett stayed in the sanctuary of her carriage. She sent Elias inside with the clerks’ pay envelopes. If she got out, she might see someone she knew, someone who would cut her dead. It was unbearable even to think of it.

India Wilkes must be behind this. And after I was so generous with her, too! I won’t let her get away with it, I won’t. Nobody can treat me this way and get away with it.

“Go to the lumberyard,” she ordered Elias when he returned. She’d tell Ashley. He’d have to do something to stop India’s poison. Ashley wouldn’t stand for it, he’d make India behave, and all India’s friends, too.

Her already heavy heart sank even lower when she saw the lumberyard. It was too full. Stacks and stacks of pine boards were golden and sweetly resinous in the autumn sun. There wasn’t a wagon to be seen, or a loader. Nobody was buying.

Scarlett wanted to cry. Uncle Henry said this would happen, but I never thought it could be this bad. How could people not want that beautiful clean lumber? She inhaled deeply. Fresh-cut pine was the sweetest perfume in the world to her. Oh, how she missed the lumber business, she would never understand how she’d let Rhett trick her into selling it to Ashley. If she was still running it, this would never have happened. She would have sold the lumber somehow to someone. Panic touched the edge of her mind and she pushed it away. Things were awful all around, but she mustn’t fuss at Ashley. She wanted him to help her.

“The yard looks wonderful!” she said brightly. “You must have the sawmill running day and night to keep such a good stock up, Ashley.”

He looked up from the account books on his desk and Scarlett knew that all the cheerfulness in the world would be wasted on him. He looked no better than when she’d given him the talking-to.

He stood, tried to smile. His ingrained courtesy was stronger than his exhaustion, but his despair was greater than both.

I can’t tell him anything about India, Scarlett thought, or about the business either. He’s got all he can bear just making himself draw the next breath. It’s like there’s nothing holding him together but his clothes.

“Scarlett, dear, how kind of you to stop by. Won’t you sit down?”

“Kind,” is it? God’s nightgown! Ashley sounds like a wind-up music box of polite things to say. No, he doesn’t. He sounds like he doesn’t know what’s coming out of his mouth, and I reckon that’s closer to the truth. Why should he care that I’m chancing whatever’s left of my reputation by coming here without a chaperone? He doesn’t care anything about himself—any fool could see that—why should he care anything about me? I can’t sit down and make polite conversation, I can’t stand it. But I have to.

“Thank you, Ashley,” she said, and sat on the chair he was holding. She would force herself to stay for fifteen minutes and make empty, lively remarks about the weather, tell amusing stories about what a good time she’d had at Tara. She couldn’t tell him about Mammy, it would upset him too much. Tony coming home, though, that was different. It was good news. Scarlett started to speak.

“I’ve been down to Tara—”

“Why did you stop me, Scarlett?” said Ashley. His voice was flat, lifeless, devoid of real questioning. Scarlett couldn’t think what to say.

“Why did you stop me?” he asked again, and this time there was emotion in the words, anger, betrayal, pain. “I wanted to be in the grave. Any grave, not just Melanie’s. It’s the only thing I’m fit for . . . No, don’t say whatever you were going to say, Scarlett. I’ve been comforted and boosted up by so many well-meaning people that I’ve heard it all a hundred times over. I expect better of you than the usual platitudes. I’ll be grateful if you’ll say what you must be thinking, that I’m letting the lumber business die. Your lumber business that you invested all your heart in. I’m a miserable failure, Scarlett. You know it. I know it. The whole world knows it. Why do we all have to act as though it isn’t so? Blame me, why don’t you? You can’t possibly find any words harsher than those I say to myself, you can’t ‘hurt my feelings.’ God, how I hate that phrase! As if I had any feelings left to hurt. As if I could feel anything at all.”

Ashley shook his head with slow, heavy swings from side to side. He was like a mortally wounded animal brought down by a pack of predators. From his throat burst one tearing sob, and he turned away. “Forgive me, Scarlett, I beg of you. I had no right to burden you with my troubles. Now I have the shame of this outburst to add to my other shames. Be merciful, my dear, and leave me. I will be grateful if you will go now.”

Scarlett fled without a word.

Later she sat at her desk with all her legal records neatly stacked in front of her. It was going to be even harder to keep her promise to Melly than she’d expected. Clothing and household goods weren’t nearly enough.

Ashley wouldn’t lift a finger to help himself. She was going to have to make him successful whether he cooperated or not. She’d promised Melanie.

And she couldn’t bear to see the business she had built go under.

Scarlett made a list of her assets.

The store, building and trade. It produced nearly a hundred a month in profits, but that would almost certainly go down some when the Panic got to Atlanta and people had no money to spend. She made a note to order more cheap goods and stop replacing luxury items like wide velvet ribbon.

The saloon on her lot near the depot. She didn’t actually own it, she leased the land and building to the man who did, for thirty dollars a month. People would likely be drinking more than ever when times got hard, maybe she should raise the rent. But a few more dollars a month wouldn’t be enough to bail out Ashley. She needed real money.

The gold in her safe box. She had real money, more than twenty-five thousand dollars of real money. She was a wealthy woman in her own right by most people’s reckoning. But not by hers. She still didn’t feel safe.

I could buy the business back from Ashley, she thought, and for a moment her mind hummed with excitement, with possibilities. Then she sighed. That wouldn’t solve anything. Ashley was such a fool he’d insist on taking only what he could get on the open market, and that was hardly anything. Then, when she made a success of the business he’d feel like more of a failure than ever. No, no matter how much she would love to get her hands on that lumberyard and the sawmills, she had to make Ashley successful at it.

I just don’t believe that there’s no market for lumber. Panic or no Panic, people have got to be building something, if it’s only a shed for a cow or a horse.

Scarlett riffled through the stack of books and papers. She’d had an idea.

There it was, the plot of the farmland Charles Hamilton left her. The farms produced almost no income at all. What good did a couple of baskets of corn and a single bale of seedy cotton do her? Sharecropping was a waste of good land unless you had about a thousand acres and a dozen good farmers. But her hundred acres were right on the edge of Atlanta now, the way things were growing. If she could find a good builder—and they must all be feeling mighty hungry for work—she could put up a hundred gim-crack houses, maybe two hundred. Everybody who was losing money was going to have to draw in their horns and live closer to the bone. Their big houses would be the first thing to go, and they’d have to find someplace they could afford to live.

I won’t make any money, but at least I won’t be losing much. And I’ll see to it that the builder uses only lumber from Ashley, and the best he’s got, too. He’ll be making money—not a fortune, but good steady income—and he’ll never know it came from me. I can manage that somehow. All I need is a builder who can keep his mouth shut. And not steal too much.

The following day Scarlett drove out to give the sharecropping farmers notice to vacate.

7

“Yes, ma’am, Mrs. Butler, I’m hungry for work all right,” said Joe Colleton. The builder was a short, lean man in his forties; he looked much older because his big hair was snow white, and his face was leathered by long exposure to the sun and the weather. He was frowning, and the deep creases in his brow shadowed his dark eyes. “I need work, but not bad enough to work for you.”

Scarlett almost turned on her heel to leave; she didn’t have to swallow insults from some jumped-up poor white. But she needed Colleton. He was the only honest-to-the-bone builder in Atlanta; she’d learned that when she was selling lumber to them all in the boom years of rebuilding after the War. She felt like stamping her foot. It was all Melly’s fault. If it hadn’t been for that silly condition that Ashley mustn’t know she was helping him, she could have used any builder at all because she would watch him like a hawk and oversee every part of the work herself. How she’d love to do it, too.

But she couldn’t be seen to be involved. And she couldn’t trust anyone except Colleton. He had to agree to take the job, she had to make him agree. She put her small hand on his arm. It looked very delicate in its tight kid glove. “Mr. Colleton, it’ll break my heart if you say no to me. I need somebody very special to help me.” She looked at him with appealing helplessness in her eyes. Too bad he wasn’t taller. It was hard to be a frail little lady with somebody your own size. Still, it was often these banty rooster little men who were most protective of women. “I don’t know what I’ll do if you turn me down.”

Colleton’s arm stiffened. “Mrs. Butler, you sold me green lumber once, after you told me it was cured. I don’t do business twice with somebody that cheats me once.”

“That must have been a mistake, Mr. Colleton. I was green myself, just learning the lumber business. You remember how it was those days. The Yankees were breathing down our necks every waking minute. I was scared to death all the time.” Her eyes swam in unshed tears, and her very lightly rouged lips trembled. She was a small forlorn figure. “My husband, Mr. Kennedy, was killed when the Yankees broke up a Klan meeting.”

Colleton’s direct, knowing gaze was disconcerting. His eyes were on a level with hers, and they were as hard as marble. Scarlett took her hand off his sleeve. What was she going to do? She couldn’t fail, not in this. He had to take the job. “I made a deathbed promise to my dearest friend, Mr. Colleton.” Her tears were unplanned now. “Mrs. Wilkes asked me to help, and now I’m asking you.” The whole story tumbled out—how Melanie had always sheltered Ashley . . . Ashley’s ineptness as a businessman . . . his attempt to bury himself with his wife . . . the stacks of unsold lumber . . . the need for secrecy . . .

Colleton held up his hand to stop her. “All right, Mrs. Butler. If it’s for Mrs. Wilkes, I’ll take the job.” His hand dropped, extended. “I’ll shake on it, you’ll get the best-built houses with the best materials in them.”

Scarlett put her hand in his. “Thank you,” she said. She felt as if she’d scored the triumph of her life.

It was only some hours later that she remembered that she hadn’t intended to use the best of everything, only the best lumber. The miserable houses were going to cost her a fortune, and out of her own hard-earned money, too. She wouldn’t get any credit for helping Ashley, either. Everybody would still slam their doors in her face.

Not really everybody. I’ve got plenty of my own friends, and they’re a lot more fun than those frumpy old Atlanta people.

Scarlett put aside the sketch Joe Colleton had made on a paper sack for her to study and approve. She’d be a lot more interested when he gave her the numbers for his estimate; what difference did it make what the houses looked like or where he put the stairs?

She took her velvet-covered visiting book from a drawer and again to make a list. She was going to give a party. A big one, with musicians and rivers of champagne and huge amounts of the best, most expensive food. Now that she was done with deep mourning, it was time to let her friends know that she could be invited to their parties, and the best way to do it was to invite them to a party of her own.

Her eye skimmed quickly past the names of Atlanta’s old families. They all think I should be in deep mourning for Melly, no sense asking them. And there’s no need to wrap myself in crape, either. She wasn’t my sister, only my sister-in-law, and I’m not even sure that counts since Charles Hamilton was my first husband and there’ve been two since him.

Scarlett’s shoulders slumped. Charles Hamilton had nothing to do with anything, nor did wearing crape. She was in the truest kind of mourning for Melanie; it was a perpetual weight and worry in her heart. She missed the gentle, loving friend who had been so much more important to her than she had ever realized; the world was colder and darker without Melanie. And so lonely. Scarlett had been back from the country for only two days, but she had known enough loneliness in the two nights to strike fear deep into her heart.

She could have told Melanie about Rhett leaving; Melanie was the only person she could ever confide in about such a disgraceful thing. Melly would have told her what she needed to hear, too. “Of course he’ll be back,” she would have said, “he loves you so.” Those were her very words, right before she died. “Be kind to Captain Butler, he loves you so.”

Just the thought of Melanie’s words made Scarlett feel better. If Melly said that Rhett loved her, then he did, it wasn’t only her own wishful thinking. Scarlett shook off her gloominess, straightened her spine. She didn’t have to be lonely at all. And it didn’t matter if Atlanta’s Old Guard never spoke to her again ever. She had plenty of friends. Why, the party list was already two pages long, and she was only up to letter L in her book.

The friends Scarlett was planning to entertain were the most flamboyant and most successful of the horde of scavengers that had descended on Georgia in the days of the Reconstruction government. Many of the original group had left when the government was ousted in 1871, but a large number stayed, to enjoy their big houses and the tremendous fortunes they had made picking the bones of the dead Confederacy. They had no temptation to go “home.” Their origins were better forgotten.

Rhett had always despised them. He dubbed them “the dregs” and left the house when Scarlett gave her lavish parties. Scarlett thought he was silly, and told him so. “Rich people are ever so much more fun than poor people. Their clothes and carriages and jewels are better, and they give you better things to eat and drink when you go to their houses.”

But nothing at the houses of any of her friends was nearly as elegant as the refreshments at Scarlett’s parties. This one, she was determined, would be the best reception of all. She started a second list headed “Things to Remember” with a note to order ice swans for the cold foods and ten new cases of champagne. A new gown, too. She’d have to go to her dressmaker’s place immediately after she left the order for the invitations at the engraver’s.

Scarlett tilted her head to admire the crisp white ruffles of the Mary Stuart style cap. The point on the forehead was really very becoming. It emphasized the black arch of her eyebrows and the shining green of her eyes. Her hair looked like black silk where it tumbled in curls on each side of the ruffles. Who would ever have thought that mourning garb could be so flattering?

She turned from side to side, looking over her shoulders at her reflection in the pier glass. The jet bead trim and tassels on her black gown glittered in a very satisfactory way.

“Ordinary” mourning wasn’t awful like deep mourning, there was plenty of leeway in it if you had magnolia-white skin to show in a low-cut black gown.

She walked quickly to her dressing table and touched her shoulders and throat with perfume. She’d better hurry, her guests would be arriving any minute. She could hear the musicians tuning up downstairs. Her eyes feasted on the disorderly pile of thick white cards among her silver-backed brushes and hand mirrors. Invitations had started pouring in as soon as her friends knew that she was reentering the social whirl; she was going to be busy for weeks and weeks to come. And then there’d be more invitations, and then she’d give another reception. Or maybe a dance during the Christmas season. Yes, things were going to be just fine. She was as excited as a girl who’d never been to a party before. Well, it was no wonder. It had been more than seven months since she’d been to one.

Except for Tony Fontaine’s coming-home. She smiled, remembering. Darling Tony, with his shy-heeled boots and silver saddle. She wished he could be at her party tonight. Wouldn’t people’s eyes pop right out of their heads if he did his trick of twirling his six-shooters!

She had to go—the musicians were playing in tune, it must be late.

Scarlett hurried down the red-carpeted stairs, sniffing appreciatively when she reached the scent of the hot-house flowers that filled huge vases in every room. Her eyes glowed with pleasure when she moved from room to room to check that everything was ready. All was perfection. Thank heaven Pansy was back from Tara. She was very good at making the other servants do their jobs, much better than the new butler hired to replace Pork. Scarlett took a glass of champagne from the tray the new man held out to her. At least he was good at serving, quite stylish in fact, and Scarlett did so like for things to be stylish.

Just then the doorbell sounded. She startled the manservant by smiling happily, then she moved towards the entrance hall to greet her friends.

They arrived in a steady stream for almost an hour and the house filled with the sound of loud voices, the overpowering smell of perfume and powder, the brilliant colors of silks and satins, rubies and sapphires.

Scarlett moved through the melée smiling and laughing, flirting idly with the men, accepting the fulsome compliments of the women. They were so happy to see her again, they’d missed her so much, no one’s parties were as exciting as hers, no one’s home as beautiful, no one’s gown as fashionable, no one’s hair as glossy, no one’s figure as youthful, no one’s complexion so perfect and creamy.

I’m having a good time. It’s a wonderful party.

She glanced over the silver dishes and trays on the long polished table to see that the servants were keeping them all replenished. Quantities of food—excesses of food—were important to her, for she would never forget completely what it had been like to come so near to starvation at the end of the War. Her friend Mamie Bart caught her eye and smiled. A streak of buttery sauce from the half-eaten oyster patty in Mamie’s hand had dribbled from the corner of her mouth down onto the diamond necklace around her fat neck. Scarlett turned away in disgust. Mamie was going to be big as an elephant one of these days. Thank goodness, I can eat all I want and never gain a pound.

She smiled entrancingly at Harry Connington, her friend Sylvia’s husband. “You must have found some elixir, Harry, you look ten years younger than you did last time I saw you.” She watched with malicious amusement as Harry sucked in his stomach. His face turned red, then faintly purple before he abandoned the effort to hold it in. Scarlett laughed aloud, then moved away.

A burst of laughter caught her attention, and she drifted towards the trio of men who were its source. She’d like very much to hear something funny, even if it was one of those jokes that ladies had to pretend not to understand.

“. . . so I says to myself, ‘Bill, one man’s panic is another man’s profit, and I know which one of those men old Bill’s going to be.’ ”

Scarlett started to turn away. She wanted to have a good time tonight, and talking about the Panic wasn’t her idea of fun. Still, maybe she’d learn something. She was smarter when she was sound asleep than Bill Weller was on his best day, she was sure of that. If he was making money out of the Panic, she wanted to know how he was doing it. Quietly she stepped closer.

“. . . these dumb Southerners, they been a problem for me ever since I come down here,” Bill was confessing. “You just can’t do nothing with a man who don’t have natural human greed, so all the triple-your-money bond deals and certificates for gold mines that I turned loose on them laid a big egg. They was working harder than any nigger ever did and putting by every nickel they earned for the next rainy day. Turned out that plenty of ’em had a boxful of bonds and such already. From the Confederate government.” Bill’s booming laugh led the laughter of the other men.

Scarlett was fuming. “Dumb Southerners” indeed! Her own darling Pa had a boxful of Confederate bonds. So did all the good people in Clayton County. She tried to walk away, but she was hemmed in by people behind her who’d also been attracted by the laughter in the group around Bill Weller. “I got the picture after a while,” Weller went on. “They just didn’t put much trust in paper. Nor nothing else that I tried, neither. I sent out medicine shows and lightning rods and all the sure-fire money-makers, but none of them so much as struck a spark. I tell you, boys, it hurt my pride.” He made a lugubrious face, then grinned widely, showing three large gold molars.

“I don’t have to tell you that me and Lula wasn’t exactly going to go wanting if I didn’t come up with something. In the good, fat days when the Republicans had Georgia in hand, I piled up enough from those railroad contracts the boys voted me so that we could have lived high on the hog even if I’d been fool enough to actually go out and build the railroads. But I like to keep my hand in, and Lula was starting to fret because I was around the house too much, not having any business to tend to. Then—glory be—along come the Panic, and all the Rebs grabbed their savings out of the banks and put the money in their mattresses. Every house—even the shacks—was a golden opportunity I just couldn’t let pass me by.”

“Stop your gassing, Bill, what did you come up with? I’m getting thirsty waiting for you to finish patting yourself on the back and get to the point.” Amos Bart punctuated his impatience with a practiced spit that fell short of its targeted spittoon.

Scarlett was feeling impatient, too. Impatient to get away.

“Keep your shirt on, Amos, I’m coming to it. What was the way to get in those mattresses? I ain’t the revival-preacher kind, I like to sit behind my desk and let my employees do the hustling. That’s just what I was doing, sitting in my leather swivel chair, when I looked out my window and saw a funeral going by. It was like lightning striking. There ain’t a roof in Georgia that don’t have some dearly departed once lived under it.”

Scarlett stared with horror at Bill Weller as he described the fraud that was adding to his riches. “The mothers and widows are the easiest, and there’s more of them than anything else. They don’t blink an eye when my boys tell them that the Confederate Veterans are putting up monuments on all the battlefields, and they empty out those mattresses quicker than you can say ‘Abe Lincoln’ to pay for their boy’s name to be carved in the marble.” It was worse than Scarlett could have imagined.

“You sly old fox, Bill, that’s pure genius!” Amos exclaimed, and the men in the group laughed more loudly than before. Scarlett felt as if she were going to be sick. Nonexistent railroads and gold mines had never concerned her, but the mothers and widows Bill Weller was cheating were her own people. He might be sending his men right now to Beatrice Tarleton, or Cathleen Calvert, or Dimity Munroe, or any other woman in Clayton County who had lost a son or a brother or a husband.

Her voice cut through the laughter like a knife. “That’s the most low-down, filthy story I ever heard in my life. You disgust me, Bill Weller. All of you disgust me. What do you know about Southerners—about decent people anywhere? You’ve never had a decent thought or done a decent thing in all your lives!” She pushed with hands outstretched through the thunderstruck men and women who had gathered around Weller, then ran, rubbing her hands on her skirts to wipe off the stain of having touched them.

The dining room and the glittering silver dishes of elaborate food were in front of her; her gorge rose at the mixed smells of rich, greasy sauces and spattered spittoons. She saw in her mind the lamplit table at the Fontaines’, the simple meal of home-cured ham and home-made corn bread and home-grown greens. She belonged with them; they were her people, not these vulgar, trashy, flashy women and men.

Scarlett turned to face Weller and his group. “Dregs!” she yelled. “That’s what you are. Dregs. Get out of my house, get out of my sight, you make me sick!”

Mamie Bart made the mistake of trying to soothe her. “Come on, honey—” she said, holding out her jewelled hand.

Scarlett recoiled before she could be touched. “Especially you, you greasy sow.”

“Well, I never,” Mamie Bart’s voice quavered. “I’m damn well not going to put up with being talked to like this. I wouldn’t stay if you begged me on your knees, Scarlett Butler.”

A shoving, angry stampede began, and in less than ten minutes the rooms were empty of everything except the debris left behind. Scarlett made her way through spilled food and champagne, broken plates and glasses, without looking down. She must keep her head high, the way her mother had taught her. She imagined that she was back at Tara, with a heavy volume of the Waverley novels balanced on her head, and she climbed the stairs with her back as straight as a tree, her chin perfectly perpendicular to her shoulders.

Like a lady. The way her mother had taught her. Her head was swimming and her legs trembled, but she climbed without pausing. A lady never let it show when she was tired or upset.

“High time she did that, and then some,” said the cornetist. The octet had played waltzes from behind the palms for many of Scarlett’s receptions.

One of the violinists spat accurately into a potted palm. “Too late, I say. Lie down with dogs, get up with fleas.”

Above their heads Scarlett was lying face down on her silkcovered bed, sobbing as if her heart was broken. She had thought she was going to have such a good time.

Later that night, when the house was quiet and dark, Scarlett went downstairs for a drink to help her sleep. All evidence of the party was gone, except for the elaborate flower arrangements and the half-burned candles in the six-armed candelabra on the bare dining room table.

Scarlett lit the candles and blew out her lamp. Why should she skulk around in near-darkness like some kind of thief? It was her house, her brandy, and she could do as she pleased.

She selected a glass, took it and the decanter to the table, sat in the armchair at the head. It was her table, too.

The brandy sent a relaxing warmth through her body. Scarlett sighed. Thank God. Another drink, and my nerves should stop jumping around like they’re doing. She filled the elegant little cordial glass again, tossed the brandy down her throat with a deft twist of the wrist. Mustn’t hurry, she thought, pouring. It’s not ladylike.

She sipped her third drink. How pretty the candlelight was, lovely golden flames reflected in the polished tabletop. The empty glass was pretty, too. Its cut facets made rainbows when she turned it in her fingers.

It was as quiet as the grave. The clink of glass against glass made her jump when she poured the brandy. That proved she needed the drink, didn’t it? She was still too jumpy to sleep.

The candles burned low and the decanter slowly emptied and Scarlett’s usual control over her mind and memory was loosened. This was the room where it had all begun. The table had been bare like this with only candles on it and the silver tray that held brandy decanter and glasses. Rhett was drunk. She’d never seen him really drunk like that, he could always hold his liquor. He was drunk that night, though, and cruel. He said such horrible hurting things to her, and he twisted her arm so that she cried out in pain.

But then . . . then he carried her up to her room and forced himself on her. Except that he didn’t have to force her to accept him. She came alive when he handled her, when he kissed her lips and throat and body. She burned at his touch and she cried out for more and her body arched and strained to meet his again and again . . .

It couldn’t be true. She must have dreamed it, but how could she have dreamed such things when she’d never dreamed they existed?

No lady would ever feel the wild wanting she had felt, no lady would do the things she had done. Scarlett tried to push her thoughts back into the crowded dark corner of her mind where she kept the unbearable and unthinkable. But she’d had too much to drink.

It did happen, her heart cried, it did. I didn’t make it up.

And her mind, so carefully taught by her mother that ladies did not have animal impulses, could not control the passionate demands of her body to feel rapture and surrender again.

Scarlett’s hands held her aching breasts, but hers were not the hands her body longed for. She dropped her arms onto the table in front of her, her head onto her arms. And she abandoned herself to the waves of desire and pain that made her writhe, made her call out brokenly into the empty, silent, candlelit room.

“Rhett, oh Rhett, I need you.”

8

Winter was approaching, and Scarlett grew more frantic with every passing day. Joe Colleton had dug the hole for the cellar of the first house, but repeated rains made it impossible to pour the concrete foundations. “Mr. Wilkes would smell a rat if I bought lumber before I’m ready to frame,” he said reasonably, and Scarlett knew he was right. But it made the delay no less frustrating.

Maybe the whole building idea was a mistake. Day after day the newspaper reported more disasters in the business world. There were soup kitchens and bread lines now in America’s big cities because thousands more people lost their jobs every week when companies went bankrupt. Why was she risking her money now, at the worst possible time? Why had she made that fool promise to Melly? If only the cold rain would stop . . .

And the days would stop getting shorter. She could keep busy in the daytime, but darkness closed her in the empty house with only her thoughts for companions. And she didn’t want to think, because she could find no answers to anything. How had she gotten into this mess? She’d never deliberately done anything to turn people against her, why were they all being so hateful? Why was it taking Rhett so long to come home? What could she do to make things better? There had to be something, she couldn’t go on forever walking from room to room in the big house like a pea rattling around in an empty washtub.

She’d be glad to have Wade and Ella come home to keep her company, but Suellen had written that they were all under quarantine while one child after another went through the long itchy torture of chicken pox.

She could take up with the Barts and all their friends again. It didn’t matter that she’d called Mamie a sow, her skin was as thick as a brick wall. One reason Scarlett had enjoyed having “the dregs” for friends was that she could use the rough side of her tongue on them any time she liked and they’d always come crawling back for more. I haven’t sunk to that level, thank God. I’m not going to go crawling back to them now that I know what low things they are.

It’s just that it gets dark so early and the nights are so long and I can’t sleep like I ought. Things will get better when the rain stops . . . when winter’s over . . . when Rhett comes home . . .

At last the weather turned to bright, cold, sunny days with high wisps of cloud in brilliant blue skies. Colleton pumped the standing water out of the hole he’d dug, and the sharp wind dried the red Georgia clay to the hardness of brick. He ordered concrete then, and lumber to make the forms for casting the footings.

Scarlett plunged into a celebration of shopping for gifts. It was nearly Christmas. She bought dolls for Ella and each of Suellen’s girls. Baby dolls for the younger ones with soft sawdust-stuffed bodies and chubby porcelain faces and hands and feet. Susie and Ella had nearly identical lady dolls with cunning leather trunks full of beautiful clothes. Wade was a problem; Scarlett never knew what to do about him. Then she remembered Tony Fontaine’s promise to teach him how to twirl his six-shooters, and she bought Wade his own pair, with his initials carved in their ivory-inlaid handles. Suellen was easy—a beaded silk reticule that was too fancy to use in the country, with a twenty dollar gold piece inside it good anywhere. Will was impossible. Scarlett searched high and low before she gave up and bought him another sheepskin jacket like the one she’d given him the year before, and the year before that. It’s the thought that counts, she told herself firmly.

She debated for a long time before she decided not to get a present for Beau. She wouldn’t put it past India to send it back unopened. Besides, Beau wasn’t lacking for anything, she thought bitterly. The Wilkes account at her store was mounting up every week.

She bought a gold cigar-cutter for Rhett, but she lacked the nerve to send it. Instead, she made her gifts to her two aunts in much nicer than usual. They might tell Rhett’s mother how thoughtful she was, and Mrs. Butler might tell Rhett.

I wonder if he’ll send me anything? Or bring me something? Maybe he’ll come home for Christmas to keep gossip down.

The possibility was real enough to send Scarlett into a happy frenzy of decorating the house. When it was a bower of pine branches, holly, and ivy, she took the leftovers down to the store.

“We’ve always had the tinsel garland in the window, Mrs. Butler. No need for more than that,” said Willie Kershaw.

“Don’t tell me what’s needed and what’s not. I say wrap this pine roping around all the counters and put the holly wreath on the door. It’ll make people feel Christmassy, and they’ll spend more money on presents. We don’t have enough little pretties for gifts. Where’s that big box of oiled paper fans?”

“You told me to get it out of the way. Said we shouldn’t use good shelf space for fripperies, when what people wanted was nails and washboards.”

“You fool, that was then and this is now. Get it out.”

“Well, I ain’t exactly sure where I put it. That was a long time ago.”

“Mother of God! Go see what that man over there wants. I’ll find it myself.” Scarlett stormed into the stockroom behind the selling area.

She was up on a ladder looking through the dusty piles on a top shelf when she heard the familiar voices of Mrs. Merriwether and her daughter Maybelle.

“I thought you said you’d never set foot across the threshold of Scarlett’s store, Mother.”

“Hush, the clerk might hear you. We’ve looked every place in town, and there’s not a length of black velvet to be found. I can’t finish my costume without it. Who ever heard of Queen Victoria wearing a colored cape?”

Scarlett frowned. What on earth were they talking about? She quietly descended the ladder and walked on tiptoe to press her ear against the wall.

“No, ma’am,” she heard the clerk say. “We don’t get much call for velvet.”

“Just what I should have expected. Come on, Maybelle.”

“As long as we’re here, maybe I can find the feathers I need for my Pocahontas,” Maybelle was saying.

“Nonsense. Come on. We should never have come here. Suppose someone saw us.” Mrs. Merriwether’s tread was heavy but rapid. She slammed the door behind her.

Scarlett climbed up the ladder again. All her Christmas spirit was gone. Someone was having a costume party, and she wasn’t invited. She wished she’d let Ashley break his neck in Melanie’s grave! She found the box she was looking for and threw it down to the floor, where it burst, scattering the brightly colored fans in a wide arc.

“Now you pick them up and dust off every single one of them,” she ordered. “I’m going home.” She’d rather die than start boohooing in front of her own clerks.

The day’s newspaper was on the seat of her carriage. She’d been too busy with the decorations to read it as yet. And she didn’t much care about reading it now, but it would hide her face from any nosybody looking in at her. Scarlett straightened out the bend in it and opened it to the center page for “Our Charleston Letter.” It was all about the Washington Race Course, newly reopened, and the upcoming Race Day in January. Scarlett skimmed over the rapturous descriptions of Race Weeks before the War, the customary Charleston claims to have had the finest, most elaborate everything, and the predictions that the races to come would equal their predecessors if not surpass them. According to the correspondent, there would be parties all day every day and a ball every night for weeks.

“And Rhett Butler at every one of them, I’ll bet,” Scarlett muttered. She threw the newspaper on the floor.

A front-page headline caught her eye. CARNIVAL TO CONCLUDE WITH MASQUERADE BALL. That must be what the old dragon and Maybelle were talking about, she thought. Everyone in the world except me is going to wonderful parties. She snatched the paper up again to read the article:

“Damn!” said Scarlett.

Then desolation took hold of her, and she began to cry like a child. It wasn’t fair for Rhett to be dancing and laughing in Charleston and all her enemies in Atlanta to be having a good time while she was stuck by herself in her huge silent house. She’d never done anything bad enough to deserve such punishment.

You’ve never been so lily-livered that you let them make you cry, either, she told herself angrily.

Scarlett rubbed the tears away with the backs of her wrists. She wasn’t going to wallow in misery. She was going to go after what she wanted. She’d go to the Ball; somehow she’d find a way.

It was not impossible to get an invitation to the Ball, it wasn’t even difficult. Scarlett learned that the vaunted parade would be made up largely of decorated wagons advertising products and stores. There was a fee for participants, of course, as well as the cost of decorating the “float,” but all those businesses in the parade received two invitations to the Ball. She sent Willie Kershaw with the money to enter Kennedy’s Emporium in the parade.

It reinforced her belief that just about anything could be bought. Money could do anything.

“How will you decorate the wagon, Mrs. Butler?” asked Kershaw.

The question opened up a hundred possibilities.

“I’ll think about it, Willie.” Why, she could spend hours and hours—fill up lots of evenings—thinking about how to make all the other floats look pitiful next to hers.

She had to think about her costume for the Ball, too. What a lot of time it was going to take! She’d have to go through all her fashion magazines again, have to find out what people were wearing, have to select fabric, schedule fittings, choose a hairstyle . . .

Oh, no! She was still in ordinary mourning. Surely that didn’t mean she had to wear black for a masquerade ball. She’d never been to one, she didn’t know what the rules were. But the whole idea was to fool people, wasn’t it? Not to look like you usually did, to be disguised. Then she definitely should not wear black. The Ball was sounding better every minute.

Scarlett hastened through her routines at the store and hurried to her dressmaker, Mrs. Marie.

The corpulent, wheezing Mrs. Marie took a sheaf of pins out of her mouth so that she could report that ladies had ordered costumes to represent Rosebud—pink ballgown trimmed with silk roses—Snowflake—white ballgown trimmed with stiffened and sequined white lace—Night—deep blue velvet with embroidered silver stars—Dawn—pink over darker pink skirted silk—Shepherdess—striped gown with lace-edged white apron—

“All right, all right,” said Scarlett impatiently. “I see what they’re doing. I’ll let you know tomorrow what I will be.”

Mrs. Marie threw up her hands. “But I won’t have time to make your gown, Mrs. Butler. I’ve had to find two extra seamstresses as it is, and I still don’t see how I’m going to finish in time . . . There’s just no way on earth I can add another costume to the ones I’ve already promised.”

Scarlett dismissed the woman’s refusal with a wave of her hand. She knew she could bully her into doing what she wanted. The hard part was deciding what that was.

The answer came to her when she was playing Patience while she waited for dinnertime. She peeked ahead into the deck of cards to see if she was going to get the King she needed for an empty place. No, there were two Queens before the next King. The game was not going to come out right.

A queen! Of course. She’d be able to wear a wonderful costume with a long train trimmed with white fur. And all the jewelry she wanted.

She spilled the remaining cards on the table and ran upstairs to look in her jewel case. Why, oh why had Rhett been so stingy about buying her jewelry? He bought her anything else she wanted, but the only jewelry he approved was pearls. She pulled out rope after rope, piled them on the bureau. There! Her diamond earbobs. She’d definitely wear them. And she could wear pearls in her hair as well as around her throat and wrists. What a pity that she couldn’t risk wearing her emerald and diamond engagement ring. Too many people would recognize it, and if they knew who she was, they might cut her. She was counting on her costume and mask to protect her from Mrs. Merriwether and India Wilkes and the other women. She intended to have a wonderful time, to dance every dance, to be part of things again.

By January fifth, the day before Carnival, all Atlanta was gala with preparation. The mayor’s office had ordered that all businesses be closed on the sixth and that all buildings on the parade route be decorated with red and white, the colors of Rex, the King of Carnival.

Scarlett thought it a terrible waste to close the store on a day when the city would be jammed with people from the country, in for the celebrations. But she hung big rosettes of ribbon in the store window and on the iron fence in front of her house, and just like everyone else she goggled at the transformation of Whitehall and Marietta streets. Banners and flags bedecked every lamp standard and building front, making a virtual tunnel of bright, fluttering red and white for the final leg of Rex’s parade to his throne.

I should have brought Wade and Ella in from Tara for the parade, she thought. But they’re probably still puny from the chicken pox, her mind quickly added. And I don’t have ball tickets for Suellen and Will. Besides, I sent great piles of Christmas presents to them.

The incessant rain on the day of Carnival soothed any vestige of compunction about the children. They couldn’t have stood out in the wet and cold to see the parade anyway.

But she could. She wrapped herself in a warm shawl and stood on the stone bench near the gate under a big umbrella, with a clear view over the heads and umbrellas of the spectators on the sidewalk outside.

As promised, the parade was more than a mile long. It was a brave and sorry spectacle. The rain had all but destroyed the medieval-court-type costumes. Red dye had run, ostrich plumes dropped, once-dashing velvet hats sagged over faces like dead lettuce. The marching heralds and pages looked cold and wet, but determined; the mounted knights struggled grim-faced with their bespattered horses to keep moving through the sucking, slick mud. Scarlett joined in the crowd’s applause for the Earl Marshal. It was Uncle Henry Hamilton, who seemed to be the only one having a good time. He squelched along in bare feet, carrying his shoes in one hand and his bedraggled hat in the other, waving first one hand then the other at the crowd and grinning from ear to ear.

She grinned herself when the Ladies of the Court rolled slowly past in open carriages. The leaders of Atlanta society wore masks, but stoic misery showed clearly on their faces. Maybelle Merriwether’s Pocahontas was sporting dejected feathers in her hair that dribbled water down her cheeks and neck. Mrs. Elsing and Mrs. Whiting were easily recognized as sodden, shivering Betsy Ross and Florence Nightingale. Mrs. Meade was a sneezing representation of The Good Old Days in a billow of hoop-skirted wet taffeta. Only Mrs. Merriwether was unaffected by the rain. Queen Victoria held a wide black umbrella over her dry regal head. Her velvet cape was unspotted.

When the ladies were past, there was a long hiatus, and the spectators began to leave. But then there was the distant sound of “Dixie.” Within a minute the crowd was cheering itself hoarse, and it kept cheering until the band came before them, when silence fell.

It was a small band, only two drummers and two men playing pennywhistles and one man playing a sweet, high-pitched cornet. But they were dressed in gray, with gold sashes and bright brass buttons. And in front of them a man with one arm was holding the staff of the Confederate flag in his remaining hand. The Stars and Bars was honorably tattered, and it was being paraded again through Peachtree Street. Throats were too choked with emotion to utter cheers.

Scarlett felt tears on her cheeks, but they were not tears of defeat, they were tears of pride. Sherman’s men had burned Atlanta, the Yankees had pillaged Georgia, but they hadn’t been able to destroy the South. She saw tears like hers on the faces of the women, and the men, in front of her. Everyone had lowered umbrellas to stand bare-headed to honor the flag.

They stood tall and proud, exposed to the cold rain, for a long time. The band was followed by a column of Confederate veterans in the ragged butternut homespun uniforms they’d come home in. They marched to “Dixie” as if they were young men again, and the rain-soaked Southerners watching them found their voices to cheer and whistle and let out the chilling, rousing cry that was the Rebel Yell.

The cheering lasted until the veterans were out of sight. Then umbrellas swung upward and people began to leave. They’d forgot ten Rex, and Twelfth Night. The high point of the parade had come and gone, leaving them wet and chilled but exalted. “Wonderful.” Scarlett heard it from dozens of smiling mouths as people passed her gate.

“There’s more parade to come,” she said to some of them.

“Can’t top ‘Dixie,’ can it?” they replied.

She shook her head. Even she didn’t feel interested in seeing the floats, and she’d worked very hard on hers. Spent a lot of money, too, on crepe paper and tinsel that the rain must have ruined. At least she could sit down to watch now, that was something. She didn’t want to tire herself out when tonight was the Masquerade Ball.

Ten endless minutes dragged by before the first float appeared. Scarlett could see why when it got near. The wagon’s wheels kept getting stuck in the churned red clay mud of the street. She sighed and pulled her shawl more closely around her. Looks like I’m in for a long wait.

It took over an hour for the decorated wagons to make their way past her; her teeth were chattering before it was over. But at least hers was the best. The bright crepe paper flowers around the wagon’s sides were soggy, but still bright. And “Kennedy’s Emporium” in silver gilt tinsel shone clearly through the rain drops caught in it. The big barrels labelled “flour,” “sugar,” “cornmeal,” “molasses,” “coffee,” “salt” were empty, she knew, so no damage was done there. And the tin washtubs and washboards wouldn’t rust. The iron kettles were damaged anyhow; she’d glued paper flowers over the dents. The only dead loss was the wooden-handled tools. Even the lengths of fabric that she’d draped so artistically over a stretch of chicken wire could be salvaged for the penny bargain bin.

If only anybody had waited around to see her float, she was sure they’d have been impressed.

She hunched her shoulders and made a face at the last wagon. It was surrounded by dozens of shouting, capering children. A man in a parti-colored elf costume was throwing candy right and left. Scarlett peered at the name on the sign above his head. “Rich’s.” Willie kept talking about this new store at Five Points. He was worried because prices were lower there and Kennedy’s was losing some customers. Fiddle-dee-dee, Scarlett thought with contempt. Rich’s won’t stay in business long enough to do me any harm. Cutting prices and throwing away merchandise is not any way to be successful in business. I’m mighty glad I saw this. Now I can tell Willie Kershaw not to be such a fool.

She was even gladder to see the Grand Finale float behind Rich’s. It was Rex’s throne. There was a leak in the red-and-white striped canopy above it, and water was pouring steadily on the giltcrowned head and cotton-batting-ermined shoulders of Dr. Meade. He looked thoroughly miserable.

“And I hope you catch double pneumonia and die,” Scarlett said under her breath. Then she ran to the house for a hot bath.

Scarlett was costumed as the Queen of Hearts. She would have preferred to be the Queen of Diamonds, with a glittering paste crown and dog collar and brooches. However, then she wouldn’t have been able to wear her pearls, which the jeweller had told her were “fine enough for the Queen herself.” And besides she had found nice big imitation rubies to sew all around the low neck of her red velvet gown. It was so good to be wearing color!

The train of her dress was bordered with white fox. It would be ruined before the Ball was over, but no matter; it looked elegant draped over her arm to dance. She had a mysterious red satin eye mask that covered her face down to the tip of her nose, and her lips were reddened to match it. She felt very daring, and quite safe. Tonight she could dance to her heart’s content without anyone knowing who she was so they could insult her. What a wonderful idea it was to have a masquerade!

Even with her mask in place Scarlett was nervous about entering the ballroom without an escort, but she needn’t have been. A large group of masked revellers was entering the lobby when she stepped out of her carriage, and she joined them without comment from anyone. Once inside, she looked around her with astonishment. DeGives Opera House had been transformed almost beyond recognition. The handsome theater was now truly a convincing King’s palace.

A dance floor had been built over the lower half of the auditorium, extending the large stage into a mammoth ballroom. At the far end Dr. Meade as Rex was seated on his throne, with uniformed attendants on each side, including a Royal Cup Bearer. In the center of the Dress Circle was the biggest orchestra Scarlett had ever seen, and on the floor were masses of dancers, watchers, wanderers. There was a tangible feeling of heightened gaiety, a recklessness that arose from the anonymity of being masked and disguised. As soon as she entered the room, a man in Chinese robes and a long pigtail put his silken arm around her waist and whirled her onto the dance floor. He might be a perfect stranger. It was dangerous and exciting.

The tune was a waltz, her partner a dizzying dancer. As they spun, Scarlett caught glimpses of masked Hindus, clowns, Harlequins, Pierrettes, nuns, bears, pirates, nymphs, and cardinals, all dancing as madly as she. When the music stopped, she was breathless. “Wonderful,” she gasped, “it’s wonderful. So many people. All Georgia must be here dancing.”

“Not quite,” said her partner. “Some had no invitations.” He gestured upward with his thumb. Scarlett saw that the galleries were full of spectators in ordinary dress. Some were not so ordinary. Mamie Bart was there, wearing all her diamonds, surrounded by other dregs. What a good thing I didn’t take up with that bunch again. They’re too trashy to be invited anywhere. Scarlett had managed to forget the origin of her invitation.

The presence of an audience made the Ball seem even more desirable. She tossed her head and laughed. Her diamond earrings flashed; she could see them reflected in the Mandarin’s eyes through the holes in his mask. Then he was gone. Elbowed aside by a monk with his cowl pulled forward to shadow his masked face. Without a word, he took Scarlett’s hand, then circled her waist with his arm when the orchestra struck up a lively polka.

She danced as she hadn’t danced in years. She was giddy, infected by the thrilling madness of masquerade, intoxicated by the strangeness of it all, by the champagne offered on silver trays held by satin-clad pages, by the delight of being at a party again, by her unquestionable success. She was a success, and she believed she was unknown, invulnerable.

She recognized the Old Guard dowagers. They had on the same costumes they’d worn in the parade. Ashley was masked, but she knew him as soon as she saw him. He wore a mourning band around the sleeve of his black-and-white Harlequin outfit. India must have dragged him here so she’d have an escort, Scarlett thought, how mean of her. Of course she doesn’t care if it’s mean or not, as long as it’s proper, and a man in mourning doesn’t have to give up going out the way a woman does. He can put an armband on his best suit and start courting his next love before his wife’s hardly cold in her grave. But anybody could tell poor Ashley hates being here. Look at the way he’s all droopy in his fancy dress. Well, never you mind, dear. There’ll be plenty more houses like the one Joe Colleton’s building now. Come spring you’ll be so busy delivering lumber that you won’t have time to be sad.

As the evening wore on, the masquerade mood became even more pronounced. Some of Scarlett’s admirers asked her name; one even tried to lift her mask. She deflected them with no trouble. I haven’t forgotten how to handle rambunctious boys, she thought, smiling. And boys is what they are, no matter what age they might be. They’re even sneaking over to the corner for a little something stronger than champagne. Next thing you know, they’ll start giving the Rebel Yell.

“What are you smiling at, my Queen of Mystery?” asked the portly Cavalier who was, it seemed, doing his best to step on her feet while they danced.

“Why, at you, of course,” Scarlett replied, smiling. No, she hadn’t forgotten a thing.

When the Cavalier released her hand to the eager Mandarin who was back for the third time, Scarlett begged prettily for a chair and a glass of champagne. The Cavalier had badly bruised one of her toes.

But when her escort led her towards the sitting-out side of the room, she suddenly declared that the orchestra was playing her favorite song, and she couldn’t bear not to dance.

She had seen Aunt Pittypat and Mrs. Elsing in her path. Could they have recognized her?

A mix of anger and fear dimmed the happy excitement she was feeling. She was painfully aware of her injured foot and the whiskey breath of the Mandarin.

I won’t think about it now, not about Mrs. Elsing and not about my sore toe. I won’t let anything spoil my fun. She tried to push the thoughts aside and gave herself over to enjoyment.

But, against her will, her eyes looked often at the sides of the ballroom and the men and women sitting or standing there.

Her eyes brushed a tall, bearded pirate who was leaning against a doorjamb, and he bowed to her. Scarlett’s breath caught in her throat. She turned her head to look again. There was something . . . the air of insolence . . .

The pirate was wearing a white dress shirt and dark evening trousers. Not a costume at all, except for the wide red silk sash tied around his waist, with two pistols tucked into it. And blue bows tied to the ends of his big beard. His mask was a simple black one over his eyes. He wasn’t anyone she knew, was he? So few men wore thick beards these days. Still, the way he was standing. And the way he seemed to be staring at her, right through the mask.

When Scarlett looked at him for the third time, he smiled, his teeth very white against his dark beard and swarthy skin. Scarlett felt faint. It was Rhett.

It couldn’t be . . . she must be imagining things . . . No, she wasn’t; she wouldn’t feel this way if it was anyone else. Wasn’t that just like him? Showing up at a ball that most people couldn’t get invited to . . . Rhett could do anything!

“Excuse me, I must go. No, really, I mean it.” She pushed away from the Mandarin and ran to her husband.

Rhett bowed again. “Edward Teach at your service, ma’am.”

“Who?” Did he think she hadn’t recognized him?

“Edward Teach, commonly known as Blackbeard, the greatest villain that ever plowed the waters of the Atlantic.” Rhett twirled a ribboned lock of the beard.

Scarlett’s heart leapt. He’s having fun, she thought, making those jokes of his that he knows I hardly ever understand. Just the way he used to before . . . before things went bad. I mustn’t put my foot wrong now. I mustn’t. What would I have said, before I loved him so much?

“I’m surprised that you’d come to a ball in Atlanta when there are such big doings in your precious Charleston,” she said.

There. That was just right. Not exactly mean, but not too loving, either.

Rhett’s eyebrows rose in black crescents above his mask, Scarlett held her breath. He’d always done that when he was amused. She was acting just right.

“How do you come to be so informed about Charleston’s social life, Scarlett?”

“I read the paper. Some silly woman keeps going on and on about some horserace.”

Damn that beard. She thought he was smiling, but she couldn’t really see his lips.

“I read the newspaper, too”, said Rhett. “Even in Charleston it’s news when an upstart country town like Atlanta decides to pretend that it’s New Orleans.”

New Orleans. He had taken her there for their honeymoon. Take me there again, she wanted to say, we’ll start over, and everything will be different. But she mustn’t say that. Not yet. Her mind leapt quickly from one memory to another. Narrow cobbled streets, tall shadowy rooms with great mirrors framed in dull gold, strange and marvelous foods . . .

“I’ll admit the refreshments aren’t as fancy,” she said grudgingly.

Rhett chuckled. “A powerful understatement.”

I’m making him laugh. I haven’t heard him laugh for ages . . . too long. He must have seen the men flocking to dance with me.

“How did you know it was me?” she said. “I have a mask on.”

“I only had to look for the most ostentatiously dressed woman, Scarlett. It was bound to be you.”

“Oh, you . . . you skunk.” She forgot that she was trying to amuse him. “You don’t look exactly handsome, Rhett Butler, with that foolish beard. Might as well stick a bearskin over your face.”

“It was the fullest disguise I could think of. There are a number of people in Atlanta that I’m not anxious to have recognize me too easily.”

“Then why did you come? Not just to insult me, I don’t suppose.”

“I promised you I’d make myself visible often enough to keep down gossip, Scarlett. This was a perfect occasion.”

“What good does a masked ball do? Nobody knows who anybody is.”

“At midnight the masks come off. That’s about four minutes from now. We’ll waltz to visibility, then leave.” Rhett took her in his arms, and Scarlett forgot her anger, forgot the peril of unmasking before her enemies, forgot the world. Nothing was important but that he was here and holding her.

Scarlett lay awake most of the night, struggling to understand what had happened. Everything was fine at the Ball . . . When twelve o’clock came, Dr. Meade said that everyone should take off their masks, and Rhett was laughing when he yanked off his beard, too. I’d take an oath he was enjoying himself. He kind of saluted the doctor and bowed to Mrs. Meade and then he whisked me out of there as easy as a greased pig. He didn’t even notice the way people turned their backs on me, at least he didn’t let on if he did. He was grinning from ear to ear.

And in the carriage coming home it was too dark to see his face but his voice sounded fine. I didn’t know what to say, but I hardly even had to think about it. He asked how things were at Tara and if his lawyer was paying my bills on time, and by the time I answered, we were home. That’s when it happened. He was here, right downstairs in the hallway. Then he just said good night, he was tired, and went up to his dressing room.

He wasn’t hateful or cold, he just said good night and went upstairs. What does that mean? Why did he bother to come all this way? Not just to go to a party when it’s party time in Charleston. Not because it was a masquerade—he could go to Mardi Gras if he wanted to. After all, he has lots of friends in New Orleans.

He said “to keep down gossip.” In a pig’s eye. He started it, if anything, snatching off that silly beard the way he did.

Her mind circled back, went over the evening again and again until her head ached. Her sleep, when it came, was brief and restless. Nevertheless, she woke in good time to go down to breakfast in her most becoming dressing gown. She’d have no tray brought to her room today. Rhett always had his breakfast in the dining room.

“Up so early, my dear?” he said. “How thoughtful of you. I won’t have to write a note of farewell.” He tossed his napkin onto the table. “I’ve packed some things Pork overlooked. I’ll be by for them later, on my way to the train.”

Don’t leave me, Scarlett’s heart begged. She looked away lest he see the pleading in her eyes. “For heaven’s sake finish your coffee, Rhett,” she said. “I’m not going to make a scene.” She went to the sideboard and poured herself some coffee, watching him in the mirror. She must be calm. Maybe then he’d stay.

He was standing, his watch open in his hand. “No time,” he said. “There are some people I have to see while I’m here. I’m going to be very busy until summer, so I’ll drop the word that I’m going to South America on business. No one will gossip about my absence for so long. Most people in Atlanta don’t even know where South America is. You see, my dear, I’m keeping my promise to preserve the purity of your reputation.” Rhett grinned malevolently, closed the watch and tucked it in its pocket. “Goodbye, Scarlett.”

“Why don’t you go on to South America and get lost there forever!”

When the door closed behind him, Scarlett’s hand reached for the decanter of brandy. Why had she carried on like that? That wasn’t how she felt at all. He’d always done that to her, goaded her into saying things she didn’t mean. She should have known better than to fly off the handle that way. But he shouldn’t have taunted me about my reputation. How could he have found out that I’m outcast?

She’d never been so unhappy in her whole life.

9

Later Scarlett was ashamed of herself. Drinking in the morning! Only low-life drunks did such a thing. Things weren’t so bad, really, she told herself. At least she knew now when Rhett would be coming back. It was much too far in the future, but it was definite. Now she wouldn’t waste time wondering if today might be the day . . . or tomorrow . . . or the day after that.

February opened with a surprising warm spell that called forth premature leaves on trees and filled the air with the scent of waking earth. “Open all the windows,” Scarlett told the servants, “and let the mustiness out.” The breeze lifting the loose tendrils of hair at her temples was delicious. Suddenly she was gripped by a terrible longing for Tara. She’d be able to sleep there with the spring-laden wind, bringing the smell of the warming earth into her bedroom.

But I can’t go. Colleton will be able to start at least three more houses once this weather gets the frost out of the ground, but he’ll never do it unless I nag him into it. I’ve never known such a picky man in all my life. Everything has to be just so. He’ll wait till the ground’s warm enough to dig to China and find no frost.

Suppose she went for just a few days? A few days wouldn’t make that much difference, would it? Scarlett remembered Ashley’s pallor and dejected slump at the Carnival Ball, and she made a small sound of disappointment.

She wouldn’t be able to relax at Tara if she did go.

She sent Pansy with a message to Elias to bring the carriage around. She had to go find Joe Colleton.

That evening, as if to reward her for doing her duty, the doorbell sounded just after darkness fell. “Scarlett, honey,” Tony Fontaine called out when the butler let him in, “an old friend needs a room for the night, will you be merciful?”

“Tony!” Scarlett ran from the sitting room to embrace him.

He dropped his luggage, caught her in his arms for a hug. “Great God Almighty, Scarlett, you’ve done real well for yourself,” he said. “I thought some fool had given me directions to a hotel when I saw this big place.” He looked at the ornate chandelier, flocked velvet wallpaper, and massive gilt mirrors in the entrance hall, then grinned at her. “No wonder you married that Charlestonian instead of waiting for me. Where is Rhett? I’d like to meet the man who got my girl.”

Cold fingers of fear traced Scarlett’s spine. Had Suellen told the Fontaines anything? “Rhett’s in South America,” she said brightly, “can you imagine such a thing? Gracious peace, I thought missionaries were the only people who ever went to such an outlandish place!”

Tony laughed. “Me, too. I’m sorry to miss seeing him, but it’s good luck for me. I’ll have you all to myself. How about a drink for a thirsty man?”

He didn’t know Rhett had left, she was sure of it. “I think a visit from you calls for champagne.”

Tony said he’d welcome champagne later, but for now he wanted a good old bourbon whiskey and a bath. He could still smell cow manure on himself, he was sure.

Scarlett fixed his drink herself, then sent him upstairs with the butler as his guide to one of the extra bedrooms for guests. Thank heaven the servants lived in the house; there’d be no scandal about Tony staying as long as he liked. And she’d have a friend to talk to.

They had champagne with their supper, and Scarlett wore her pearls. Tony ate four big pieces of the chocolate cake that the cook had hurriedly made for dessert.

“Tell them to wrap up whatever’s left for me to take with me,” he begged. “The only thing I get hankerings for is cake with thick icing like that. I always did have a sweet tooth.”

Scarlett laughed and sent the message to the kitchen. “Are you telling tales on Sally, Tony? Can’t she do fancy cooking?”

“Sally? Whatever gave you that idea? She fixed a bang-up dessert every night, just for me. Alex don’t have my weakness, so she can stop now.”

Scarlett looked puzzled.

“You mean you didn’t know?” said Tony. “I figured Suellen would have put it in a letter. I’m going back to Texas, Scarlett. I made up my mind ’round about Christmas.”

They talked for hours. At first she begged him to stay, until Tony’s awkward embarrassment changed into the famous Fontaine temper. “Dammit, Scarlett, be quiet! I tried, God knows I tried, but I can’t stick it. So you’d better quit nagging me.” His loud voice made the prisms on the chandelier sway and tinkle.

“You could think about Alex,” she persisted.

The expression on Tony’s face made her stop.

His voice was quiet when he spoke. “I really did try,” he said.

“I’m sorry, Tony.”

“Me, too, honey. Why don’t you get your fancy butler to open up another bottle, and we’ll talk about something else.”

“Tell me about Texas.”

Tony’s black eyes lit up. “There’s not a fence in a hundred miles.” He laughed and added, “That’s because there’s not much worth fencing in, unless you like dust and dried-up scrub. But you know who you are when you’re on your own out there in all that emptiness. There’s no past, no holding on to the scraps that are all you’ve got left. Everything is this minute, or maybe tomorrow, not yesterday.”

He lifted his glass to her. “You’re looking as pretty as a picture, Scarlett. Rhett can’t be too smart, or he wouldn’t leave you behind. I would make advances if I thought I could get away with it.”

Scarlett tossed her head like a coquette. It was fun to play the old games. “You’d make advances at my grandmother if she was the only female around, Tony Fontaine. No lady’s safe in the same room with you when you flash those black eyes and that white smile.”

“Now, honey, you know that’s not so. I’m the most gentlemanly fellow in the world . . . as long as the lady’s not so beautiful that she makes me forget how to behave.”

They bantered with skill, and delight in their skills, until the butler brought in the bottle of champagne; then they toasted each other. Scarlett was giddy enough from pleasure; she was content for Tony to finish the bottle. While he did, he told tall tales of Texas that made her laugh until her sides hurt.

“Tony, I do wish you’d stay over a while,” she said when he announced he was about to fall asleep on her table. “I haven’t had so much fun in ages.”

“I wish I could. I like drinking and eating high on the hog with a pretty girl laughing beside me. But I’ve got to use this break in the weather. I’m taking the train west tomorrow, before things ice up. It leaves pretty early. Will you have coffee with me before I go?”

“You couldn’t stop me if you tried.”

Elias drove them to the station in the gray light before dawn, and Scarlett waved goodbye with her handkerchief while Tony boarded the train. He was carrying a small leather satchel and a huge canvas bag with his saddle in it. When he’d thrown them up onto the platform of the coach, he turned and flourished his big Texas hat with the rattlesnakeskin band. The gesture pulled his coat open, and she could see his gunbelt and six-shooters.

At least he stuck around long enough to teach Wade how to twirl his, she thought. I hope he doesn’t shoot his foot off. She blew a kiss to Tony. He held his hat like a bowl to catch it, reached in, took it out, put it in the watch pocket of his vest. Scarlett was still laughing when the train pulled out.

“Drive out to that land of mine where Mr. Colleton is working,” she said to Elias. The sun would be up before they got there, and the work gang better be digging or she’d have something to say about it. Tony was right. You had to use the break in the weather.

Joe Colleton was unshakeable. “I come out like I said I would, Mrs. Butler, but it’s just like I expected. The thaw don’t go near deep enough to dig a cellar. It’ll be another month before I can get started.”

Scarlett cajoled, then she raged, but it did no good. She was still fuming with frustration a month later when Colleton’s message brought her back out to the site.

She didn’t see Ashley until it was too late to turn back. What am I going to tell him? I’ve got no call to be here, and Ashley’s so smart he’d see right through any lie I might try. She was sure the hasty smile on her face looked as ghastly as she felt.

If it did, Ashley didn’t seem to notice. He handed her down from her carriage with his usual ingrained courtesy. “I’m happy I didn’t miss you, Scarlett; it’s so good to see you. Mr. Colleton told me you might be coming, so I dallied as long as I could.” He smiled ruefully. “We both know I’m not much of a businessman, my dear, so my advice isn’t worth much, but I do want to say that if you do, in fact, build another store out here, you can’t possibly go wrong.”

What is he going on about? Oh . . . of course, I see. How clever Joe Colleton is, he’s made my excuse for being here already. She turned her attention back to Ashley.

“. . . and I’ve heard that the city’s very likely to run a trolley line out here to the edge of town. It’s amazing, isn’t it, the way Atlanta is growing?”

Ashley looked stronger. Very tired by the effort of living, but more capable of it. Scarlett wished urgently that it meant the lumber business was better. She wouldn’t be able to bear it if the mills and yard died, too. And she’d never be able to forgive Ashley.

He took her hand in his and looked down at her with a worried expression on his drawn face. “You look tired, my dear. Is everything quite all right?”

She wanted to lay her head against his chest and wail that everything was awful. But she smiled. “Oh, fiddle-dee-dee, Ashley, don’t be a silly. I was up too late last night at a party, that’s all. You should know better than to hint to a lady that she’s not looking her best.” And let that get back to India and all her mean old friends, Scarlett added silently.

Ashley accepted her explanation without question. He began to tell her about Joe Colleton’s houses. As if she didn’t know all that, right down to the number of nails needed for each one. “They are quality construction,” said Ashley. “For once, the less fortunate will be treated as well as the rich. It’s something I never thought I’d see in these days of blatant opportunism. It seems that all the old values weren’t lost after all. I’m honored to have a part in this. You see, Scarlett, Mr. Colleton wants me to supply the lumber.”

She made an astonished face. “Why Ashley—that’s wonderful!”

And it was. She was truly happy that her scheme to help Ashley was working so well. But, Scarlett thought after she talked privately with Colleton, it wasn’t supposed to turn into some kind of fixation. Ashley intended to spend time at the site every day, Joe told her. She’d meant to provide Ashley with some income, not a hobby, for heaven’s sake! Now she wouldn’t be able to go out there at all.

Except on Sundays, when there was no work going on. The weekly trip became almost an obsession for her. She no longer thought about Ashley when she saw the clean strong lumber in the frame and rafters, then the walls and floors, as the house went up. She walked through the neat piles of materials and debris with a longing heart. How she’d love to be a part of it all, to hear the hammering, watch the shavings curl away from the planes, see the daily progress. Be busy.

I only have to hold out until summer—the words were her litany and her lifeline—then Rhett will come. I can tell him, Rhett’s the only one I can tell, he’s the only one who cares about me. He won’t make me live like this, outcast and unhappy, once he knows how awful everything is. What went wrong? I was so sure that if I could just have enough money, I’d be safe. Now I’m rich, and I feel more afraid than ever before in my whole life.

But when summer came there was no visit by Rhett, no word from him. Scarlett hurried home from the store every morning so she’d be there if he was on the midday train. In the evening she wore her most becoming gown and her pearls for supper, in case he was coming some other way. The long table stretched before her gleaming with silver and heavy damask starched to a shine. It was then that she began to drink steadily—to shut out the silence while she listened for his footsteps.

She didn’t think anything of it when she began having sherry in the afternoon—after all, taking a glass or two of sherry was a ladylike thing to do. And she hardly noticed when she changed from sherry to whiskey . . . or when she first needed a drink to do the store accounts because it depressed her that business was falling off so . . . or when she began leaving the food on her plate because alcohol satisfied her hunger better . . . or when she began to take a glass of brandy as soon as she got up in the morning . . .

She hardly even noticed when summer became fall.

Pansy brought the afternoon mail to the bedroom on a tray. Lately Scarlett had tried sleeping for a while after dinner. It filled up part of the empty afternoon, and it gave her some rest, a relief denied to her at night.

“You want I should bring you a pot of coffee or something, Miss Scarlett?”

“No. You go on, Pansy.” Scarlett took the topmost letter and opened it. She stole quick glances on Pansy, who was picking up the clothes she had thrown on the floor. Why didn’t the stupid girl get out of her room?

The letter was from Suellen. Scarlett didn’t bother to take the folded pages from the envelope. She knew what it would say. More complaints about Ella’s naughtiness, as if Suellen’s own little girls were some kind of saints. Most of all, nasty little hints about the cost of everything and how little money Tara was making and how rich Scarlett was. Scarlett threw the letter to the floor. She couldn’t stand to read it now. She’ll do it tomorrow . . . Oh, thank God. Pansy was gone.

I need a drink. It’s almost dark, there’s nothing wrong with a drink in the evening. I’ll just sip a small brandy very slowly while I finish reading the mail.

The bottle hidden behind the hatboxes was almost empty. Scarlett fumed. Damn that Pansy. If she wasn’t so clever with my hair, I’d fire her tomorrow. It must have been Pansy who drank it. Or one of the other maids. I couldn’t be drinking that much. I just hid the bottle there a few days ago. No matter. I’ll take the letters down to the dining room. After all, what does it matter if the servants watch the level in the decanter? It’s my house and my decanter and my brandy, and I can do what I choose. Where is my wrapper? There it is. Why are the buttons so stiff? It’s taking forever to get it on.

Scarlett hurried downstairs and to the dining room, where she tossed her mail onto the table in a heap. She poured brandy into a glass and drank a reviving swallow at the sideboard before carrying the glass to the table and sitting in her chair. Now she’d just sip her drink while she calmly read her letters . . .

A circular for a newly arrived dentist. Pooh. Her teeth were just fine, thank you very much. Another one for milk delivery. An announcement of a new play at DeGives. Scarlett sorted irritably through the envelopes. Wasn’t there any real mail? Her hand stopped when it touched a thin crackling onionskin envelope addressed in a spidery script. Aunt Eulalie. She downed the remainder of her brandy and ripped open the letter. She always hated the preachy, prissy missives from her dead mother’s sister. But Aunt Eulalie lived in Charleston. She might mention Rhett. His mother was her closest friend.

Scarlett’s eyes moved rapidly, squinting to make out the words. Aunt Eulalie always wrote on both sides of the thin paper, and often she “crossed” the letter, writing on the page then turning it to a right angle and writing across the previous lines. All to say a great deal about precious little.

The unseasonably warm autumn . . . she said that every year . . . Aunt Pauline having trouble with her knee . . . she’d had trouble with her knee as long as Scarlett could remember . . . a visit to Sister Mary Joseph . . . Scarlett made a face. She couldn’t think of her baby sister Carreen by her religious name, even though she’d been in the convent in Charleston for eight years . . . the bake sale for the Cathedral building fund was far behind schedule because contributions were not coming in, and couldn’t Scarlett—great balls of fire! She kept the roof over her aunts’ heads, did she have to roof a cathedral, too? She turned the page over, frowning.

Rhett’s name leapt from the tangle of criss-crossed words.

Scarlett threw the letter onto the table. So that was the story that Rhett was handing out! That she wouldn’t leave the store and go to Charleston with him. What a blackhearted liar he was! She’d begged him to take her with him when he left. How dare he spread such slander? She’d have some choice words to say to Mister Rhett Butler when he came home.

She strode to the sideboard, splashed brandy into her glass. Some fell onto the gleaming wooden surface. A swipe with her sleeve mopped it up. He’d probably deny it, the skunk. Well, she’d shake Aunt Eulalie’s letter in his face. Let’s see him call his mother’s best friend a liar!

Suddenly her rage left her, and she felt cold. She knew what he’d say: “Would you rather I told the truth? That I left you because living with you was intolerable?”

The shame of it. Anything was better than that. Even the loneliness while she waited for him to come home. Her hand lifted the glass to her lips, and she drank deep.

The movement caught her eye, reflected in the mirror above the sideboard. Slowly Scarlett lowered her hand and set the glass down. She looked into her own eyes. They widened in shock at what they saw. She hadn’t really looked at herself for months, and she couldn believe that pale, thin, sunken-eyed woman had anything to do with her. Why, her hair looked as if it hadn’t been washed for weeks!

What had happened to her?

Her hand reached automatically for the decanter, providing the answer. Scarlett pulled her hand away, and she saw that it was shaking.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered. She clutched the edge of the sideboard for support and stared at her reflection. “Fool!” she said. Her eyes closed and tears slid slowly down her cheeks, but she brushed them away with quivering fingers.

She wanted a drink more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life. Her tongue darted across her lips. Her right hand moved on its own volition, closed around the neck of the glittering diamondcut glass. Scarlett looked at her hand as if it belonged to a stranger, at the beautiful heavy crystal decanter and the promise of escape that lay within it. Slowly, watching her movements in the mirror, she lifted the decanter and backed away from her frightening reflection.

Then she drew in a long breath and swung her arm with all the strength she could find. The decanter sparkled blue and red and violet in the sunlight as it crashed into the huge mirror. For an instant Scarlett saw her face cracking into pieces, saw her twisted smile of victory. Then the silvered glass fragmented, and tiny shards spattered onto the sideboard. The top of the mirror seemed to lean forward from its frame, and huge jagged pieces fell crashing with a sound like cannon fire onto the sideboard, the floor, the pieces that had fallen first.

Scarlett was crying, and laughing, and shouting at the destruction of her own image. “Coward! Coward! Coward!”

She didn’t feel the tiny cuts that flying bits of glass made on her arms and neck and face. Her tongue tasted salt; she touched the trickle of blood on her cheek and looked in surprise at her reddened fingers.

She stared at the place where her reflection had been, but it was gone. She laughed unevenly. Good riddance.

The servants had rushed to the door when they heard the noise. They stood very close to one another, afraid to enter the room, looking fearfully at Scarlett’s rigid figure. She turned her head suddenly towards them, and Pansy let out a little cry of terror at the sight of her blood-smeared face.

“Go away,” Scarlett said calmly. “I am perfectly all right. Go away. I want to be by myself.” They obeyed without a word.

She was by herself whether she wanted to be or not, and no amount of brandy would make it any different. Rhett wasn’t coming home, this house wasn’t home to him any more. She’d known that for a long time but she’d refused to face it. She’d been a coward and a fool. No wonder she hadn’t known that woman in the mirror. That cowardly fool wasn’t Scarlett O’Hara. Scarlett O’Hara didn’t—what did they call it?—drown her sorrows. Scarlett O’Hara didn’t hide and hope. She faced the worst the world could hand her. And she went out into the danger to take what she wanted.

Scarlett shuddered. She had come so close to defeating herself.

No more. It was time—long past time—to take her life in her own hands. No more brandy. She had flung away that crutch.

Her whole body was crying out for a drink, but she refused to listen. She’d done harder things in her life, she could do this. She had to.

She shook her fist at the broken mirror. “Bring on your seven years bad luck, damn you.” Her defiant laugh was ragged.

She leaned against the table for a moment while she gathered her strength. She had so much to do.

Then she walked over the destruction around her, her heels breaking the mirror into bits. “Pansy!” she called from the doorway. “I want you to wash my hair.”

Scarlett was trembling from head to toe, but she made her legs carry her to the staircase and climb the long flight of stairs. “My skin must be like corduroy,” she said aloud, concentrating her mind away from the cravings of her body. “I’ll need to use quarts of rosewater and glycerine. And I have to get all new clothes. Mrs. Marie can hire extra sewing help.”

It shouldn’t take more than a few weeks to get over her weakness and get back to looking her best. She wouldn’t let it.

She had to be strong and beautiful, and she had no time to waste. She’d lost too much of it already.

Rhett hadn’t come back to her, so she’d have to go to him.

To Charleston.