Scarlett

10

Once her mind was made up, Scarlett’s life changed radically. She had a goal, now, and all her energy poured into achieving it. She’d think later about exactly how she was going to get Rhett back, after she arrived in Charleston. For now, she had to get ready to go.

Mrs. Marie threw up her hands and declared it impossible to make a complete new wardrobe in only a few weeks; Uncle Henry Hamilton put his fingertips together and expressed his disapproval when Scarlett told him what she needed him to do. Their opposition made Scarlett’s eyes gleam with the joy of battle, and in the end she won. By the beginning of November Uncle Henry had taken over the financial management of the store and saloon with a guarantee that the money would go to Joe Colleton. And Scarlett’s bedroom was a chaos of color and laces—her new clothes laid out to be packed for the trip.

She was still thin, and there were faint bruise-like shadows under her eyes, because the nights had been torments of sleeplessness and fierce efforts of will to resist the rest promised by the decanter of brandy. But she had won that battle, too, and her normal appetite for food had returned. Her face was already filled out enough so that a dimple flickered when she smiled, and her bosom was enticingly plump. With a skillful application of rouge on her lips and cheeks, she looked almost like a girl again, she was sure.

It was time to go.

Goodbye, Atlanta, Scarlett said silently when the train pulled out of the station. You tried to beat me down, but I wouldn’t let you. I don’t care if you approve of me or not.

She told herself that the chill she felt must be from a draft. She wasn’t afraid, not a bit. She was going to have a wonderful time in Charleston. Didn’t people always say that it was the partyingest town in the whole South? And there was no question at all about being invited everywhere; Aunt Pauline and Aunt Eulalie knew everybody. They’d know all about Rhett, where he was living, what he was doing. All she’d have to do was . . .

No sense thinking about that now. She’d decide when she got there. If she thought about it now, she might feel nervous about going, and she had made up her mind to go.

Gracious! It was silly even to imagine being nervous. It wasn’t as if Charleston was the end of the world. Why, Tony Fontaine went off to Texas, a million miles away, just as easy as if it was no more than a ride over to Decatur. She’d been to Charleston before, too. She knew where she was going . . .

It didn’t mean a thing that she had hated it. After all, she’d been so young then, only seventeen, and a new widow with a baby, besides. Wade Hampton hadn’t even cut his teeth yet. That was over twelve years ago. Everything would be completely different now. It was all going to work out just fine, just the way she wanted.

“Pansy, go tell the conductor to move our things, I want to sit closer to the stove. There’s a draft from this window.”

Scarlett sent a telegram to her aunts from the station in Augusta where she changed to the South Carolina railroad line:

She had thought it all out. Exactly ten words, and there was no risk that her aunts would wire back some excuse to keep her from coming, because she was already on her way. Not that they’d be likely to. Eulalie was forever begging her to come see them, and hospitality was still the unwritten law of the land in the South. But no sense gambling when you could have a sure thing, and she had to have her aunts’ house and protection to begin with. Charleston was a mighty stuck-up, proud place, and Rhett was obviously trying to turn people against her.

No, she wouldn’t think about that. She was going to love Charleston this time. She was determined. Everything was going to be different. Her whole life was going to be different. Don’t look back, she’d always told herself. Now she truly meant it. Her whole life was behind her, further behind with each turn of the wheels. All the demands of her businesses were in Uncle Henry’s hands, her responsibilities to Melanie were taken care of, her children were settled at Tara. For the first time in her adult life she was free to do anything she wanted to do, and she knew what that was. She’d prove to Rhett that he was wrong when he refused to believe that she loved him. She’d show him that she did. He’d see. And then he’d be sorry he’d left her. He’d put his arms around her and kiss her, and they’d be happy forever after . . . Even in Charleston if he insisted on staying there.

Lost in her daydream, Scarlett didn’t notice the man who got onto the train at Ridgeville until he lurched against the arm of her seat. Then she recoiled as if he had struck her. He was in the blue uniform of the Union Army.

A Yankee! What was he doing here? Those days were done, and she wanted to forget them forever, but the sight of the uniform brought them all back. The fear when Atlanta was under siege, the brutality of the soldiers when they stripped Tara of its pitiful store of food and set fire to the house, the explosion of blood when she shot the straggler before he could rape her . . . Scarlett felt her heart pounding with terror all over again, and she almost cried out. Damn them, damn them all for destroying the South. Damn them most of all for making her feel helpless and afraid. She hated the feeling, and she hated them!

I won’t let it upset me, I won’t. I can’t let anything bother me now, not when I need to be at my best, ready for Charleston and Rhett. I won’t look at the Yankee, and I won’t think about the past. Only the future counts now. Scarlett stared resolutely out the window at the hilly countryside, so similar to the land around Atlanta. Red clay roads through stands of dark pine woods and fields of frostdarkened crop stubble. She’d been travelling for more than a day, and she might as well have never left home. Hurry, she urged the engine, do hurry.

“What’s Charleston like, Miss Scarlett?” Pansy asked for the hundredth time just as the light was beginning to fade outside the window.

“Very pretty, you’ll like it fine,” Scarlett answered for the hundredth time. “There!” She pointed at the landscape. “See that tree with the stuff hanging off it? That’s the Spanish moss I told you about.”

Pansy pressed her nose to the sooty pane. “Oooh,” she whimpered. “It looks like ghosts moving. I’m scared of ghosts, Miss Scarlett.”

“Don’t be a ninny!” But Scarlett shivered. The long, swaying, gray wisps of moss were eerie in the gray light, and she didn’t like the way it looked either. It meant that they were moving into the low-country, though, close to the sea and to Charleston. Scarlett peered at her lapel watch. Five-thirty. The train was over two hours late. Her aunts would have waited, she was sure. But even so, she wished she wouldn’t be arriving after dark. There was something so unfriendly about the dark.

The cavernous station in Charleston was poorly lit. Scarlett craned her neck, searching for her aunts or for a coachman who might be their servant, looking for her. What she saw instead were a half dozen more soldiers in blue uniform, carrying guns slung over their shoulders.

“Miss Scarlett—” Pansy tugged on her sleeve. “There’s soldiers everywhere.” The young maid’s voice was quavering.

Her fear forced Scarlett to appear brave. “Just act like they’re not here at all, Pansy. They can’t hurt you, the War’s been over for practically ten years. Come on.” She gestured to the porter who was pushing the cart with her luggage. “Where would I find the carriage that’s meeting me?” she asked haughtily.

He led the way outside, but the only vehicle there was a ramshackle buggy with a swaybacked horse and a dishevelled black driver. Scarlett’s heart sank. Suppose her aunts were out of town? They went to Savannah to visit their father, she knew. Suppose her telegram was just sitting on the front stoop of a dark, empty house?

She drew in a long breath. She didn’t care what the story was, she had to get away from the station and the Yankee soldiers. I’ll break a window to get into the house if I have to. Why shouldn’t I? I’ll just pay to get it fixed the same way I paid to fix the roof for them and everything else. She’d been sending her aunts money to live on ever since they lost all of theirs during the War.

“Put my things in that hack,” she ordered the porter, “and tell the driver to get down and help you. I’m going to the Battery.”

The magic word “Battery” had exactly the effect she hoped for. Both driver and porter became respectful and eager to be of service. So it’s still the most fashionable address in Charleston, Scarlett thought with relief. Thank goodness. It would be too awful if Rhett heard I was living in a slum.

Pauline and Eulalie threw open the door of their house the moment the buggy stopped. Golden light streamed out onto the path from the sidewalk, and Scarlett ran through it to the sanctuary it promised.

But they looked so old! she thought when she was close to her aunts. I don’t remember Aunt Pauline being skinny as a stick and all wrinkled like that. And when did Aunt Eulalie get so fat? She looks like a balloon with gray hair on top.

“Look at you!” Eulalie exclaimed. “You’ve changed so, Scarlett, why I’d hardly know you.”

Scarlett quailed. Surely she hadn’t got old, too, had she? She accepted her aunts’ embraces and forced a smile.

“Look at Scarlett, Sister,” Eulalie burbled. “She’s grown up to be the image of Ellen.”

Pauline sniffed. “Ellen was never this thin, Sister, you know that.” She took Scarlett’s arm and pulled her away from Eulalie. “There is a clear resemblance, though, I will say that.”

Scarlett smiled, this time happily. There was no greater compliment in the world that anyone could pay her.

The aunts fluttered and argued about the business of settling Pansy in the servants’ quarters and getting the trunks and valises carried upstairs to Scarlett’s bedroom. “Don’t you lift a finger, honey,” Eulalie said to Scarlett. “You must be worn out after that long trip.” Scarlett settled herself gratefully on a settee in the drawing room, away from the fuss. Now that she was finally here, the feverish energy that had gotten her through the preparations seemed to have evaporated, and she realized that her aunt was right. She was worn out.

She all but dozed off during supper. Both her aunts had soft voices, with the characteristic low-country accent that elongated vowels and blurred consonants. Even though their conversation consisted largely of politely expressed disagreement on everything, the sound of it was lulling. Also, they weren’t saying anything that interested her at all. She’d learned what she wanted to know almost as soon as she stepped across the threshold. Rhett was living at his mother’s house, but he was out of town.

“Gone North,” Pauline said, with a sour expression.

“But for good reason, Sister,” Eulalie reminded her. “He’s in Philadelphia buying back some of the family silver that the Yankees stole.”

Pauline relented. “It’s a joy to see how devoted he is to his mother’s happiness, finding all the things that she lost.”

This time Eulalie was the critic. “He could have shown some of that devotion a lot sooner, if you ask me.”

Scarlett didn’t ask. She was busy with her own thoughts, which were concentrated on wondering how soon she could go up to bed. No sleeplessness would plague her tonight, she was sure of it.

And she was right. Now that she’d taken her life in her own hands and was on her way to getting what she wanted, she could sleep like a baby. She woke in the morning with a sense of wellbeing that she hadn’t felt for years. She was welcome at her aunts’, not shunned and lonely like in Atlanta, and she didn’t even have to think yet about what she’d say to Rhett when she saw him. She could relax and be spoiled a little while she waited for him to get back from Philadelphia.

Her aunt Eulalie punctured Scarlett’s bubble before she’d finished her first cup of breakfast coffee. “I know how anxious you must be to see Carreen, honey, but she only has visitors on Tuesdays and Saturdays, so we’ve planned something else for today.”

Carreen! Scarlett’s lips tightened. She didn’t want to see her at all, the traitor. Giving her share of Tara away as if it meant nothing at all . . . But what was she going to say to the aunts? They’d never understand that a sister wouldn’t be just dying to see another sister. Why, they even live together, they’re so close. I’ll have to pretend I want to see Carreen more than anything in the world and get a headache when it’s time to go.

Suddenly she realized what Pauline was saying, and her head did begin to throb painfully at the temples.

“. . . so we sent our maid Susie with a note to Eleanor Butler. We’ll call on her this morning.” She reached for the bowl of butter. “Would you please pass the syrup, Scarlett?”

Scarlett’s hand reached out automatically, but she knocked over the pitcher, spilling the syrup. Rhett’s mother. She wasn’t ready to see Rhett’s mother yet. She’d only met Eleanor Butler once, at Bonnie’s funeral, and she had almost no memory of her, except that Mrs. Butler was very tall and dignified and imposingly silent. I know I’ll have to see her, Scarlett thought, but not now, not yet. I’m not ready. Her heart pounded and she dabbed clumsily with her napkin at the spreading stickiness on the tablecloth.

“Scarlett, dear, don’t rub the stain into the cloth like that.” Pauline put her hand on Scarlett’s wrist. Scarlett jerked her hand away. How could anyone worry about some silly old tablecloth at a time like this?

“I’m sorry, Auntie,” she managed to say.

“That’s all right, dear. It’s just that you’re practically putting a hole through it, and we have so few of our nice things left . . .” Eulalie’s voice faded mournfully.

Scarlett clenched her teeth. She wanted to scream. What did a tablecloth matter when she had to face the mother Rhett practically worshipped? Suppose he’d told her the truth about why he’d left Atlanta, that he had walked out on the marriage? “I’d better go look at my clothes,” Scarlett said through the constriction in her throat. “Pansy’ll have to press the wrinkles out of whatever I’m going to wear.” She had to get away from Pauline and Eulalie, she had to pull herself together.

“I’ll tell Susie to start heating the irons,” Eulalie offered. She rang the silver bell near her plate.

“She’d better wash out this cloth before she starts on anything else,” Pauline said. “Once a stain sets—”

“You might observe, Sister, that I have not yet finished my breakfast. Surely you don’t expect me to let it get cold while Susie clears everything off the table.”

Scarlett fled to her room.

“You won’t need that heavy fur cape, Scarlett,” said Pauline.

“Indeed not,” said Eulalie. “We have a typical Charleston winter day today. Why, I wouldn’t even wear this shawl if I didn’t have a cold.”

Scarlett unhooked the cape and handed it to Pansy. If Eulalie wanted everyone else to have a cold, too, she’d be glad to oblige her. Her aunts must take her for a fool. She knew why they didn’t want her to wear her cape. They were just like the Old Guard in Atlanta. A person had to be shabby like them to be respectable. She noticed Eulalie eyeing the fashionable feather-trimmed hat she was wearing, and her jaw hardened belligerently. If she had to face Rhett’s mother, at least she would do it in style.

“Let’s be off, then,” said Eulalie, capitulating. Susie pulled the big door open, and Scarlett followed her aunts out into the bright day. She gasped when she stepped down from the entrance. It was like May, not November. Sun reflected warmth from the white crushed shell of the path and settled on her shoulders like a weightless blanket. She tilted her chin up to feel it on her face and her eyes closed in sensuous pleasure. “Oh, Aunties, this feels wonderful,” she said. “I hope your carriage has a fold-down top.”

The aunts laughed. “Dear child,” Eulalie said, “there’s not a living soul in Charleston with a carriage any more, except for Sally Brewton. We’ll walk. Everyone does.”

“There are carriages, Sister,” Pauline corrected. “The carpetbaggers have them.”

“You could hardly call the carpetbaggers ‘living souls,’ Sister. Soulless is what they are, else they couldn’t be carpetbaggers.”

“Vultures,” Pauline agreed with a sniff.

“Buzzards,” said Eulalie. The sisters laughed again. Scarlett laughed with them. The beautiful day was making her feel almost giddy with delight. Nothing could possibly go wrong on a day like this. Suddenly she felt a great fondness for her aunts, even for their harmless quarreling. She followed them across the wide empty street in front of the house and up the short stairway on the other side of it. As she reached the top of it, a breeze fluttered the feathers on her hat and touched her lips with a taste of salt.

“Oh my goodness,” she said. On the far side of the elevated promenade, the green-brown waters of Charleston’s harbor stretched before her to the horizon. To her left, flags fluttered on the tall masts of ships along the wharves. To her right the trees of a long low island glowed a bright green. The sunlight glittered on the tips of tiny pointed wavelets, like diamonds scattered across the water. A trio of brilliantly white birds soared in the cloudless blue sky then swooped down to skim the tops of the waves. They looked as if they were playing a game, a weightless, carefree kind of follow-the-leader. The salt-sweet light breeze caressed her neck.

She’d been right to come, she was sure of it now. She turned to her aunts. “It’s a wonderful day,” Scarlett said.

The promenade was so wide, they walked three abreast along it. Twice they met other people, first an elderly gentleman in an oldfashioned frock coat and beaver hat, then a lady accompanied by a thin boy who blushed when he was spoken to. Each time, they stopped, and the aunts introduced Scarlett. “. . . our niece from Atlanta. Her mother was our sister Ellen, and she’s married to Eleanor Butler’s boy, Rhett.” The old gentleman bowed and kissed Scarlett’s hand, the lady introduced her grandson, who gazed at Scarlett as if he had been struck by lightning. For Scarlett the day was getting better with every passing minute. Then she saw that the next walkers approaching them were men in blue uniforms.

Her step faltered, she grabbed Pauline’s arm.

“Auntie,” she whispered, “there are Yankee soldiers coming at us.”

“Keep walking,” said Pauline clearly. “They’ll have to get out of our way.”

Scarlett looked at Pauline with shock. Who would have thought that her skinny old aunt could be so brave? Her own heart was thumping so loud that she was sure the Yankee soldiers would hear it, but she willed her feet to move.

When only three paces separated them, the soldiers drew aside, pressing their bodies against the railings of metal pipe that lined the edge of the walkway along the water. Pauline and Eulalie sailed past them as if they were not there. Scarlett lifted her chin to equal the tilt of her aunts’ and kept pace.

Somewhere ahead of them a band began to play “Oh! Susanna.” The rollicking, merry tune was as bright and sunny as the day. Eulalie and Pauline walked more quickly, keeping time with the music, but Scarlett’s feet felt like lead. Coward! she berated herself. But inside she couldn’t stop trembling.

“Why are there so many damned Yankees in Charleston?” she asked angrily. “I saw some at the depot, too.”

“My goodness, Scarlett,” said Eulalie, “didn’t you know? Charleston is still under military occupation. They’ll likely never leave us alone. They hate us because we threw them out of Fort Sumter and then held it against their whole fleet.”

“And heaven only knows how many regiments,” Pauline added. The sisters’ faces were glowing with pride.

“Mother of God,” Scarlett whispered. What had she done? Walked right into the arms of the enemy. She knew what military government meant: the helplessness and the rage, the constant fear that they’d confiscate your house or put you in jail or shoot you if you broke one of their laws. Military government was all-powerful. She had lived under its capricious rule for five harsh years. How could she have been such a fool as to stumble back into it again?

“They do have a pleasant band,” said Pauline. “Come along, Scarlett, we cross here. The Butler house is the one with the fresh paint.”

“Lucky Eleanor,” said Eulalie, “to have such a devoted son. Rhett positively worships his mother.”

Scarlett stared at the house. Not a house, a mansion. Shining white columns soared a hundred feet to support the roof overhang above the deep porches along the side of the tall, imposing brick house. Scarlett’s knees felt weak. She couldn’t go in, she couldn’t. She’d never seen any place as grand, as impressive. How would she ever find anything to say to the woman who lived in such magnificence? Who could destroy all her hopes with one word to Rhett.

Pauline had her by the arm, hurrying her across the street. “ ‘. . . with a banjo on my knee,” she was singing in a low off-key murmur. Scarlett allowed herself to be led like a sleepwalker. In time, she found herself standing inside a door, looking at a tall elegant woman with shining white hair crowning a lined lovely face.

“Dear Eleanor,” said Eulalie.

“You’ve brought Scarlett,” said Mrs. Butler. “My dear child,” she said to Scarlett, “you look so pale.” She put her hands lightly on Scarlett’s shoulders and bent to kiss her cheek.

Scarlett closed her eyes. The faint scent of lemon verbena surrounded her, floating gently from Eleanor Butler’s silk gown and silken hair. It was the fragrance that had always been part of Ellen O’Hara, the scent for Scarlett of comfort, of safety, of love, of life before the War.

Scarlett felt her eyes spilling uncontrollable tears.

“There, there,” Rhett’s mother said. “It’s all right, my dear. Whatever it is, it’s all right now. You’ve come home at last. I’ve been longing for you to come.” She put her arms around her daughter-in-law and held her close.

11

Eleanor Butler was a Southern lady. Her slow, soft voice and indolent, graceful movements disguised a formidable energy and efficiency. Ladies were trained from birth to be decorative, to be sympathetic and fascinated listeners, to be appealingly helpless and empty-headed and admiring. They were also trained to manage the intricate and demanding responsibilities of huge houses and large, often warring, staffs of servants—while always making it seem that the house, the garden, the kitchen, the servants ran themselves flawlessly while the lady of the house concentrated on matching colors of silk for her delicate embroidery.

When the deprivations of war reduced the staffs of thirty or forty to one or two, the demands on women increased exponentially, but the expectations remained the same. The battered houses must continue to welcome guests, shelter families, sparkle with clean windows and shining brass, and have a well-groomed, imperturbable, accomplished mistress at leisure in the drawing room. Somehow the ladies of the South did it.

Eleanor soothed Scarlett with gentle words and fragrant tea, flattered Pauline by asking her opinion of the desk recently installed in the drawing room, diverted Eulalie with a plea to taste the pound cake and judge if the extract of vanilla bean was strong enough. She also murmured to Manigo, her manservant, that her maid Celie would help him and Scarlett’s maid transfer Scarlett’s things from her aunts’ house to the big bedroom overlooking the garden where Mr. Rhett slept.

In under ten minutes, everything had been accomplished to move Scarlett without opposition, or injured feelings, or interruption to the even rhythm of the tranquil life under Eleanor Butler’s roof. Scarlett felt like a girl again, safe from all harm, sheltered by a mother’s all-powerful love.

She gazed at Eleanor through misted, admiring eyes. This was what she wanted to be, had always meant to be, a lady like her mother, like Eleanor Butler. Ellen O’Hara had instructed her to be a lady, had planned for it and wanted it. I can do it now, Scarlett told herself. I can make up for all the mistakes I made. I can make Mother proud of me.

When she was a child, Mammy had described heaven to her as a land of clouds like big feather mattresses where angels rested, amusing themselves by looking down at the goings-on below through cracks in the sky. Ever since her mother died, Scarlett had had an uncomfortable childish conviction that Ellen was watching her with unhappy concern.

I’ll make it all better now, she promised her mother. Eleanor’s affectionate welcome had, for the moment, erased all the fears and memories that filled her heart and mind when she saw the Yankee soldiers. It had even wiped out Scarlett’s unacknowledged anxiety about her decision to follow Rhett to Charleston. She felt safe and loved and invincible. She could do anything, everything. And she would. She would win Rhett’s love again. She would be the lady Ellen always meant for her to be. She would be admired and respected and adored by everyone. And she would never, ever, be lonely again.

When Pauline closed the last tiny, ivory-inlaid drawer of the rosewood desk and Eulalie hurriedly swallowed the last slice of cake, Eleanor Butler stood, pulling Scarlett up with her. “I have to pick up my boots from the cobbler this morning,” she said, “so I’ll take Scarlett along and introduce her to King Street. No woman can possibly feel at home until she knows where the shops are. Will you all join us?”

To Scarlett’s immense relief, her aunts declined. She wanted Mrs. Butler all to herself.

The walk to Charleston’s shops was pure pleasure in the warm bright winter sunlight. King Street was a revelation and a delight. Stores lined it for block after block; dry goods, hardware, boots, tobacco and cigars, hats, jewelry, china, seeds, medicines, wines, books, gloves, candies—it seemed that everything and anything could be bought on King Street. There were crowds of shoppers, too, and dozens of smart buggies and open carriages, with liveried drivers and fashionably dressed occupants. Charleston was nowhere near as dreary as she had remembered it and feared it to be. It was much bigger and busier than Atlanta. And no sign of the Panic at all.

Unfortunately, Rhett’s mother behaved as if none of the color and excitement and busyness existed. She walked past windows full of ostrich plumes and painted fans without looking at them, crossed the street without so much as a thank you to the women in the buggy that had stopped to avoid hitting her. Scarlett remembered what her aunts had told her: there wasn’t a carriage to he had in Charleston except those owned by Yankees, carpetbaggers and scallywags. She felt a rush of white-hot rage at the vultures that were fattening on the defeated South. When she followed Mrs. Butler into one of the boot shops it did her heart good to see the proprietor turn over his richly dressed customer to a young assistant so that he could hurry forward to Rhett’s mother. It was a pleasure to be with a member of the Old Guard in Charleston. She wished fervently that Mrs. Merriwether or Mrs. Elsing were there to see her.

“I left some boots to be resoled, Mr. Braxton,” Eleanor said, “and I also want my daughter-in-law to know where to come for the finest footwear and the most agreeable service. Scarlett, dear, Mr. Braxton will take the same good care of you that he has of me for all these years.”

“It will be my privilege, ma’am.” Mr. Braxton bowed elegantly.

“How do you do, Mr. Braxton, and I thank you,” Scarlett replied, with great refinement. “I believe I’ll get a pair of boots today myself.” She raised her skirt a few inches to display her fragile, thin leather shoes. “Something more suitable for city walking,” she said proudly. No one was going to take her for a carriage-riding scallywag.

Mr. Braxton took an immaculate white handkerchief from his pocket and brushed off the spotless upholstery on two chairs. “If you ladies please . . .”

When he disappeared behind a curtain in the rear of the shop, Eleanor leaned close to Scarlett and whispered in her ear. “Look closely at his hair when he kneels to fit your boots. He colors it with boot polish.”

It took all of Scarlett’s self-control not to laugh when she saw that Mrs. Butler was right, especially when Eleanor was looking at her with such a conspiratorial twinkle in her dark eyes. When they left the shop, she began to giggle. “You shouldn’t have told me that, Miss Eleanor. I nearly made a spectacle of myself in there.”

Mrs. Butler smiled serenely. “You’ll recognize him easily in the future,” she said. “Now let’s go to Onslow’s for a dish of ice cream. One of the waiters there makes the best moonshine in all of South Carolina, and I want to order a few quarts for soaking the fruitcakes. The ice cream is excellent, too.”

“Miss Eleanor!”

“My dear, brandy’s not available for love nor money. We all have to make do the best we can, do we not? And there’s something quite exciting about black-market dealings, don’t you think?”

What Scarlett thought was that she didn’t blame Rhett one bit for adoring his mother.

Eleanor Butler continued to initiate Scarlett into the inner life of Charleston by going to the fancy goods draper for a spool of white cotton (the woman behind the counter had killed her husband with a sharpened knitting needle through the heart, but the judge ruled that he had fallen on it when he was drunk, because everyone had seen the bruises on her arms and face for years) and to the pharmacist for some witch hazel (poor man, he was so nearsighted he once paid a small fortune for a peculiar tropical fish preserved in alcohol that he was convinced was a small mermaid—for real medicine, always go to the shop on Broad Street that I’ll show you).

Scarlett was sorely disappointed when Eleanor said it was time to go home. She couldn’t remember ever having had such fun, and she almost begged for visits to a few more shops. But, “I think perhaps we’ll take the horsecar back downtown,” Mrs. Butler said. “I’m feeling a little tired.” And Scarlett immediately began to worry. Was Eleanor’s pallor a sign of illness instead of the pale skin so prized by ladies? She held her mother-in-law’s elbow when they stepped up into the brightly painted green and yellow tram and hovered over her until Eleanor settled into the wicker-covered seat. Rhett would never forgive her if she let something awful happen to his mother. She’d never forgive hersell, either.

She looked from the corner of her eye at Mrs. Butler as the horsecar moved slowly along its tracks, but she couldn’t see any outward sign of trouble. Eleanor was talking cheerfully about more shopping they would do together. “We’ll go to the Market tomorrow, you’ll meet everyone you should know there. It’s the traditional place to learn all the news, too. The paper never prints the really interesting things.”

The car jolted and turned to the left, then moved a block and stopped at an intersection. Scarlett gasped. Immediately outside the open window next to Eleanor she saw a soldier in blue, rifle on his shoulder, marching in the shadows of a tall colonnade. “Yankees,” she whispered.

Mrs. Butler’s gaze followed Scarlett’s eyes. “That’s right, Georgia’s been rid of them for some time, hasn’t it? We’ve been occupied so long that we hardly even notice them any more. Ten years next February. One gets accustomed to almost anything in ten years.”

“I’ll never get used to them,” Scarlett whispered. “Never.”

A sudden noise made her jump. Then she realized that it was the chime of a great clock somewhere above them. The horsecar moved into the intersection, turning to the right.

“One o’clock,” said Mrs. Butler. “No wonder I’m tired; it was a long morning.” Behind them the chimes ended their quartet of notes. A single bell rang once. “That’s every Charlestonian’s timekeeper,” Eleanor Butler said, “the bells in Saint Michael’s steeple. They record our births and our passings.”

Scarlett was looking at the tall houses and walled gardens they were passing. Without exception they bore the scars of war. Pockholes of shelling marred every surface, and poverty was visible on all sides: peeling paint, boards nailed over shattered windows that could not be replaced, gaps and rust disfiguring elaborate, lace-like wrought iron balconies and gates. The trees lining the street had thin trunks; they were youthful replacements for the giants broken by shelling. Damn the Yankees.

And yet the sun gleamed on brightly polished brass door knobs, and there was the scent of flowers blooming behind the garden walls. They’ve got gumption, these Charleston folks, she thought. They don’t give in.

She helped Mrs. Butler down at the last stop, the end of Meeting Street. In front of them was a park, with neatly clipped grass and gleaming white paths that converged on and circled a freshly painted round bandstand with a shiny pagoda-like roof. Beyond it was the harbor. She could smell the water and the salt. A breeze rattled the sword-shaped fronds of palm trees in the park and swayed the long airy clumps of Spanish moss on the scarred limbs of liveoaks. Small children were running, rolling hoops, tossing balls on the grass under the watchful eyes of turbanned black nursemaids sitting on benches.

“Scarlett, I hope you’ll forgive me; I know I shouldn’t, but I have to ask.” Mrs. Butler’s cheeks had splotches of bright color.

“What is it, Miss Eleanor? Are you feeling bad? Do you want me to run get you something? Come sit down.”

“No, no, I’m perfectly well. I just can’t stand not knowing . . . Have you and Rhett ever thought of another child? I understand that you’d be afraid to repeat the heartbreak you felt when Bonnie died . . .”

“A baby . . .” Scarlett’s voice trailed off. Had Mrs. Butler read her mind? She was counting on getting pregnant as soon as possible. Rhett would never send her away then. He was crazy about children, and he’d love her forever if she gave him one. Her voice rang with sincerity when she spoke.

“Miss Eleanor, I want a baby more than anything else in the whole world.”

“Thank God,” said Mrs. Butler. “I do so long to be a grandmother again. When Rhett brought Bonnie to visit me, I could hardly keep from smothering her with hugging. You see, Margaret—that’s my other son’s wife, you’ll meet her today—poor Margaret is barren. And Rosemary . . . Rhett’s sister . . . I’m very much afraid that there’ll never be anyone for Rosemary to marry.”

Scarlett’s mind worked furiously, fitting together the pieces of Rhett’s family and what they meant to her. Rosemary could be a problem. Old maids were so nasty. But the brother what was his name anyhow? Oh, yes, Ross, that was it. Ross was a man, and she’d never had any trouble charming men. Babyless Margaret wasn’t worth bothering about. It wasn’t likely she’d have any influence on Rhett. Fiddle-dee-dee, what did any of them matter? It was his mother that Rhett loved so much, and his mother wanted them together, with a baby, two babies, a dozen. Rhett had to take her back.

She kissed Mrs. Butler quickly on her cheek. “I’m just longing for a baby, Miss Eleanor. We’ll convince Rhett, the two of us.”

“You’ve made me very happy, Scarlett. Let’s go home now, it’s only around the corner there. Then I think I’ll have a little rest before dinner. My committee is meeting at the house this afternoon, and I need to have my wits about me. I hope you’ll join us, if only for tea. Margaret will be there. I don’t want to pressure you to work, but of course if you were interested, I’d be pleased. We raise money with cake sales and bazaars of handcrafts and such for the Confederate Home for Widows and Orphans.”

God’s nightgown, were they all the same, these Southern ladies? It was just like Atlanta. Always Confederate this and Confederate that. Couldn’t they admit the War was over and get on with their lives? She’d have a headache. Scarlett’s step faltered, then resumed its steady pace, matching Mrs. Butler’s. No, she’d go to the committee meeting, she’d even work on the committee if they asked her. She was never going to make the mistakes here she’d made in Atlanta. She was never going to be shut out and lonely again, not even if she had to wear the Stars and Bars embroidered on her corsets.

“That sounds mighty nice,” she said. “I was always a little sad that I never had time for extra work in Atlanta. My former husband, Frank Kennedy, left a fine business as an inheritance for our little girl. I felt it was my duty to watch over it for her.”

That should take care of that story Rhett was telling.

Eleanor Butler nodded comprehension. Scarlett lowered her lashes to hide the delight in her eyes.

While Mrs. Butler was resting, Scarlett wandered through the house. She hurried down the stairs to see what Rhett was so busy buying back from the Yankees for his mother.

The place looked mighty bare to her. Scarlett’s eye wasn’t educated to appreciate the perfection of what he had done. On the second floor, the magnificent double drawing rooms held exquisite sofas, tables, and chairs, placed so that each could be appreciated as well as used. Scarlett admired the obvious quality of the silk upholstery and the well-polished gleam of the wood, but the beauty of the space surrounding the furniture escaped her completely. She liked the small card room much better. The table and chairs filled it more, and besides, she loved to play cards.

The ground floor dining room was only a dining room to her; she’d never heard of Hepplewhite. And the library was just a place full of books, therefore boring. What pleased her most were the deep porches, because the day was so warm, and the view over the harbor included wheeling gulls and small sailboats that looked as if they might themselves soar into the air at any moment. Landlocked all her life, Scarlett found the broad expanse of water incredibly exotic. And the air smelled so good! It gave her an appetite, too. She’d be glad when Miss Eleanor finished her rest and they could eat dinner.

“Would you like to take coffee on the piazza, Scarlett?” asked Eleanor Butler when she and Scarlett were finishing their dessert. “It might be our last chance for a while. It looks as if weather is coming in.”

“Oh, yes, I’d like that very much.” The dinner had been very good, but she still felt restless, almost confined. Outside would be nice.

She followed Mrs. Butler to the second floor porch. My grief, it’s turned chilly since I was here before dinner, was her first thought. Hot coffee’s going to taste good.

She drank the first cup quickly and was about to ask for another when Eleanor Butler laughed and gestured toward the street. “Here comes my committee,” she said. “I’d recognize that sound anywhere.”

Scarlett heard it, too, a tinkling of tiny bells. She ran to the railing above the street to look.

A pair of horses was racing toward her, pulling a handsome dark green brougham with yellow-spoked wheels. The wheels gave off silver flashes of light and also the merry jingling sound. The carriage slowed, then stopped in front of the house. Scarlett could see the bells then, sleigh bells attached to a leather strap that was woven around and through the yellow spokes. She’d never seen such a thing. Nor had she ever seen anyone like the driver on the high seat on the front of the carriage. It was a woman, wearing a dark brown riding habit and yellow gloves. She was half standing, pulling on the traces with all her might, her ugly face screwed up with determination; she looked for all the world like a dressed-up monkey.

The brougham’s door opened and a laughing young man stepped out onto the mounting block before the house. He held out his hand. A stout lady took it and stepped from the carriage. She, too, was laughing. The young man helped her down from the carriage block, then handed down a younger woman with a broad smile on her face. “Come inside, dear,” Mrs. Butler said, “and help me with the tea things.” Scarlett followed her eagerly, seething with curiosity. What a peculiar turnout of people. Miss Eleanor’s committee sure is different from the bunches of old cats who run everything in Atlanta. Where did they find that monkey-woman driver? And who could the man be? Men didn’t bake cakes for charity. He looked rather handsome, too. Scarlett paused to smooth her windblown hair at a mirror.

“You look a bit shaken, Emma,” Mrs. Butler was saying. She and the stout woman touched cheeks, one side then the other. “Have a restful cup of tea, but first let me present Rhett’s wife, Scarlett.”

“It’ll take more than a cup of tea to repair my nerves after that little ride, Eleanor,” said the woman. She held out her hand. “How do you do, Scarlett? I’m Emma Anson, or rather what remains of Emma Anson.”

Eleanor embraced the younger woman and led her to Scarlett. “This is Margaret, dear, Ross’s wife. Margaret, meet Scarlett.”

Margaret Butler was a pale, fair-haired young woman with beautiful sapphire-blue eyes that dominated her thin colorless face. When she smiled, a network of deep, premature lines bracketed them. “I’m delighted to know you at last,” she said. She took Scarlett’s hands in hers and kissed her cheek. “I always wanted a sister, and a sister-in-law is practically the same thing. I hope you and Rhett will come to us for supper sometime soon. Ross will be longing to meet you, too.”

“I’d love to, Margaret, and I’m sure Rhett would, too,” said Scarlett. She smiled, hoping she was telling the truth. Who could say whether Rhett would escort her to his brother’s house or anyplace else? But it was going to be mighty hard for him to say no to his own family. Miss Eleanor and now Margaret were on her side. Scarlett returned Margaret’s kiss.

“Scarlett,” said Mrs. Butler, “do come meet Sally Brewton.”

“And Edward Cooper,” added a male voice. “Don’t deprive me of the chance to kiss Mrs. Butler’s hand, Eleanor. I’m already smitten.”

“Wait your turn, Edward,” Mrs. Butler said. “You young people have no manners at all.”

Scarlett hardly looked at Edward Cooper, and his flattery escaped her altogether. She was trying not to stare, but staring nonetheless at Sally Brewton, the monkey-faced driver of the carriage.

Sally Brewton was a tiny woman in her forties. She was shaped like a thin, active young boy, and her face did, in fact, greatly resemble a monkey’s. She wasn’t in the least upset by Scarlett’s rude stare. Sally was accustomed to the reaction; her remarkable ugliness—to which she had adapted long, long ago—and her unconventional behavior often astonished people who were strangers to her. She walked over to Scarlett now, her skirts trailing behind her like a brown river. “My dear Mrs. Butler, you must think us as mad as March hares. The truth is—boring though it may be—that there’s a perfectly rational explanation for our—shall we say?—dramatic arrival. I am the only surviving carriage possessor in town and I find it impossible to keep a coachman. They object to ferrying my dispossessed friends, and I insist on it. So I’ve given up hiring men who are going to quit almost at once. And—if my husband is otherwise occupied—I do the driving myself.” She put her small hand on Scarlett’s arm and looked up into her face. “Now I ask you, doesn’t that make perfectly good sense?”

Scarlett found her voice and said, “Yes.”

“Sally, you mustn’t trap poor Scarlett like that,” said Eleanor Butler. “What else could she say? Tell her the rest.”

Sally shrugged, then grinned. “I suppose your mother-in-law is referring to my bells. Cruel creature. The fact is that I am an appallingly bad driver. So whenever I take the carriage out, I’m required by my humanitarian husband to bedeck it in bells, as advance warning to people to get out of my way.”

“Rather like a leper,” offered Mrs. Anson.

“I shall ignore that,” Sally said with an air of injured dignity. She smiled at Scarlett, a smile of such genuine good will that Scarlett felt warmed by it. “I do hope,” she said, “that you’ll call on me whenever you need the brougham, despite what you’ve seen.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Brewton, you’re very kind.”

“Not at all. The fact is, I adore careening through the streets, scattering scallywags and carpetbaggers to the four winds. But I’m monopolizing you. Let me present Edward Cooper before he expires . . .”

Scarlett responded automatically to the gallantries of Edward Cooper, smiling to create the beguiling dimple at the corner of her mouth and shamming embarrassment at his compliments while inviting more of them with her eyes. “Why, Mr. Cooper,” she said, “how you do run on. I declare you’re liable to turn my head. I’m just a country girl from Clayton County, Georgia, and I don’t know what to make of a sophisticated Charleston gentleman like you.”

“Miss Eleanor, please forgive me,” she heard a new voice say. Scarlett turned and drew in a sharp breath. There was a girl in the doorway, a young girl with shining brown hair that grew in a widow’s peak above her soft brown eyes. “I’m so sorry to be late,” the girl continued. Her voice was soft, a little breathless. She was wearing a brown dress with white linen collar and cuffs and an old-fashioned bonnet covered in brown silk.

She looks for all the world like Melanie when I first knew her, Scarlett thought. Like a soft little brown bird. Could she be a cousin? I never heard the Hamiltons had any kin in Charleston.

“You’re not late at all, Anne,” said Eleanor Butler. “Come have some tea, you looked chilled to the bone.”

Anne smiled gratefully. “The wind is picking up, and the clouds are coming in fast. I believe I beat the rain by only a few steps . . . Good afternoon, Miss Emma, Miss Sally, Margaret, Mr. Cooper.” She stopped, her lips parted, her eyes on Scarlett. “Good afternoon. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Anne Hampton.”

Eleanor Butler hurried to the girl’s side. She was holding a steaming cup. “How barbaric of me,” she exclaimed. “I was so busy with the tea that I forgot that of course you don’t know Scarlett, my daughter-in-law. Here, Anne, drink this at once. You’re white as a ghost . . . Scarlett, Anne is our expert on the Confederate Home. She graduated from the school last year, and now she’s teaching there. Anne Hampton—Scarlett Butler.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Butler.” Anne extended a cold little hand. Scarlett felt it quiver in her own warm one when she shook it.

“Please call me Scarlett,” she said.

“Thank you . . . Scarlett. I’m Anne.”

“Tea, Scarlett?”

“Thank you, Miss Eleanor.” She hurried to take the cup, glad to escape from the confusion she felt when she looked at Anne Hampton. She’s Melly to the life. Just as frail, just as mousy, just as sweet—I can tell that already. She must be an orphan if she’s at that Home place. Melanie was an orphan, too. Oh, Melly, how I miss you.

The sky was darkening outside the windows. Eleanor Butler asked Scarlett to draw the curtains when she finished her tea.

As she drew the curtains on the last window, she heard a rumbling of thunder in the distance and a spattering of rain on the glass.

“Let’s come to order,” said Miss Eleanor. “We’ve got a lot of business to do. Everyone take a seat. Margaret, will you keep passing the tea cakes and sandwiches? I don’t want anyone distracted by an empty stomach. Emma, you’ll continue to pour, won’t you? I’ll ring for more hot water.”

“Let me go get it, Miss Eleanor,” said Anne.

“No, dear, we need you here. Scarlett, just pull that bell rope, please, my dear. Now, ladies and gentleman, the first order of business is very exciting. I’ve received a large check from a lady in Boston. What shall we do with it?”

“Tear it up and send the pieces back to her.”

“Emma! Is your brain asleep? We need all the money we can get. Besides, the donor is Patience Bedford. You remember her. We used to see her and her husband almost every year at Saratoga in the old days.”

“Wasn’t there a General Bedford in the Union Army?”

“There was not. There was a General Nathan Bedford Forrest in our army.”

“The finest cavalryman we had,” said Edward.

“I don’t think Ross would agree with that, Edward.” Margaret Butler put a plate of bread and butter down with a clatter. “After all, he was in the cavalry with General Lee.”

Scarlett yanked the bell rope a second time. Great balls of fire! Did all Southerners have to refight the War every time they met? What difference did it make if the money came from Ulysses Grant himself? Money was money, and you took it anywhere you found it.

“Truce!” Sally Brewton waved a white napkin in the air. “If you would give Anne an opening, she’s trying to say something.”

Anne’s eyes were glowing with emotion. “I’ve got nine little girls that I’m teaching to read, and only one book to teach from. If the ghost of Abe Lincoln came and offered to buy us some books, I’d—I’d kiss him!”

Good for you, cheered Scarlett silently. She looked at the astonishment on the faces of the other women. Edward Cooper’s expression was something quite different. Why, he’s in love with her, she thought. Just see the way he’s looking at her. And she doesn’t notice him at all, she doesn’t even know he’s yearning over her like a moon calf. Maybe I should tell her. He’s really quite attractive if you like the type, sort of slender and dreamy-looking. Not all that different from Ashley, come to think of it.

Sally Brewton was watching Edward, too, Scarlett noticed. Sally’s eyes met hers and they exchanged discreet smiles.

“We’re agreed, then, are we?” said Eleanor. “Emma?”

“We’re agreed. Books are more important than rancor. I’m being over-emotional. It must be dehydration. Is anyone ever going to bring that hot water?”

Scarlett rang again. Maybe the bell was broken; should she go down to the kitchen and tell the servants? She started from the corner, then saw the door opening.

“Did you ring for tea, Mrs. Butler?” Rhett pushed the door wider with his foot. His hands were holding a huge silver tray laden with gleaming tea pot, urn, bowl, sugar bowl, milk pitcher, strainer, and three tea caddies. “India, China, or chamomile?” He was smiling with delight at his surprise.

Rhett! Scarlett couldn’t breathe. How handsome he was. He’d been in the sun somewhere, he was brown as an Indian. Oh, God, how she loved him, her heart was beating so hard that everyone must be able to hear it.

“Rhett! Oh, darling, I’m afraid I’m going to make a spectacle of myself.” Mrs. Butler grabbed a napkin and wiped her eyes. “You said ‘some silver’ in Philadelphia. I had no idea it was the tea service. And intact. It’s a miracle.”

“It’s also very heavy. Miss Emma, will you please push that makeshift china to one side? I heard you mention something about thirst, I believe. I’d be honored if you’d brew your heart’s desire . . . Sally, my beloved, when are you going to agree to let me duel your husband to the death and abduct you?” Rhett placed the tray on the table, leaned across it, and kissed the three women sitting on the settee behind it. Then he looked around.

Look at me, Scarlett begged silently from the shadowy corner. Kiss me.

But he didn’t see her. “Margaret, how lovely you look in that gown. Ross doesn’t deserve you. Hello, Anne, it’s a pleasure to see you. Edward, I can’t say the same for you. I don’t approve of your organizing yourself a harem in my house when I’m out in the rain in the sorriest hansom cab in North America, clutching the family silver to my bosom to protect it from the carpetbaggers.” Rhett smiled at his mother. “Stop that crying, now, Mama dear,” he said, “or I’ll think you don’t like your surprise.”

Eleanor looked up at him, her face shining with love. “Bless you, my son. You make me very happy.”

Scarlett couldn’t stand another minute of it. She ran forward. “Rhett, darling—”

His head turned toward her, and she stopped. His face was rigid, blank, all emotion withheld by an iron control. But his eyes were bright; they faced one another for a breathless moment. Then his lips turned downward at one corner in the sardonic smile she knew so well and feared so much. “It’s a fortunate man,” he said slowly and clearly, “who receives a greater surprise than he gives.” He held his hands out for hers. Scarlett put her trembling fingers into his palms, conscious of the distance his outstretched arms kept between them. His mustache brushed her right cheek, then her left.

He’d like to kill me, she thought, and the danger of it gave her a strange thrill. Rhett put his arm around her shoulders, his hand clamped like a vise around her upper arm.

“I’m sure you ladies—and Edward—will excuse us if we leave you,” he said. There was an appealing mixture of boyishness and roguishness in his voice. “It’s been much too long since I’ve had a chance to talk to my wife. We’ll go upstairs and leave you to solve the problems of the Confederate Home.”

He propelled Scarlett out the door without giving her an opportunity to make her goodbyes.

12

Rhett didn’t speak while he rushed her up the stairs and into his bedroom. He closed the door and stood with his back against it. “What the hell are you doing here, Scarlett?”

She wanted to hold out her arms to him, but the hot rage in his eyes warned her not to. Scarlett made her eyes widen in innocent misunderstanding. Her voice was rushed and charmingly breathless when she spoke.

“Aunt Eulalie wrote and told me what you were saying, Rhett—about how you longed for me to be here with you, but I wouldn’t leave the store. Oh, darling, why didn’t you tell me? I don’t care two pins for the store, not compared to you.” She watched his eyes warily.

“It won’t work, Scarlett.”

“What do you mean?”

“None of it. Not the fervid explanation and not the innocent lack of understanding. You know you could never lie to me and get away with it.”

It was true, and she did know it. She had to be honest.

“I came because I wanted to be with you.” Her quiet statement had a simple dignity.

Rhett looked at her straight back and proudly lifted head, and his voice softened. “My dear Scarlett,” he said, “we might have been friends in time, when the memories had softened to bittersweet nostalgia. Perhaps we might arrive at that yet, if we are both charitable and patient. But nothing more.” He strode impatiently across the room. “What do I have to do to get through to you? I don’t want to hurt you, but you force me. I don’t want you here. Go back to Atlanta, Scarlett, leave me be. I no longer love you. I can speak no more clearly than that.”

The blood had drained from Scarlett’s face. Her green eyes glittered against her ghostly white skin. “I can speak clearly, too, Rhett. I am your wife and you are my husband.”

“An unfortunate circumstance that I offered to correct.” His words were like a whiplash. Scarlett forgot that she had to control herself.

“Divorce you? Never, never, never. And I’ll never give you cause to divorce me. I’m your wife, and like a good dutiful wife should, I’ve come to your side, abandoning all I hold dear.” A smile of triumph lifted the corners of her mouth and she played her trump card. “Your mother is overjoyed that I’m here. What are you going to tell her if you throw me out? Because I’ll tell her the truth, and it’ll break her heart.”

Rhett paced heavily from end to end of the big room. Under his breath he muttered curses, profanity and vulgarity such as Scarlett had never heard. This was the Rhett that was only hearsay to her, the Rhett who had followed the gold rush to California and defended his claim with a knife and heavy boots. This was Rhett the rumrunner, habitue of the lowest taverns in Havana, Rhett the lawless adventurer, friend and companion of renegades like himself. She watched, shocked and fascinated and excited despite the menace in him. Suddenly his animal-like pacing stopped and he turned to face her. His black eyes glittered, but no longer with rage. They held humor, dark and bitter and wary. He was Rhett Butler, Charleston gentleman.

“Check,” he said with a wry twisted smile. “I overlooked the unpredictable mobility of the queen. But not mate, Scarlett.” He held out his opened palms in momentary surrender.

She didn’t understand what he was saying, but the gesture and his tone of voice told her that she’d won . . . something.

“So I’ll stay?”

“You’ll stay until you want to go. I don’t expect it to be very long.”

“But you’re wrong, Rhett! I love it here.”

An old, familiar expression crossed his face. He was amused and skeptical and all-knowing. “How long have you been in Charleston, Scarlett?”

“Since last night.”

“And you’ve learned to love it. Quick work, I congratulate you on your sensitivity. You were driven out of Atlanta—miraculously minus tar and feathers—and you’ve been treated decently by ladies who know no other way to treat people, and so you think you’ve found a refuge.” He laughed at the look on her face. “Oh, yes, I still have associates in Atlanta. I know all about your ostracism there. Not even the scum you used to consort with will have anything to do with you any more.”

“That’s not true!” she cried. “I threw them out.”

Rhett shrugged. “We needn’t discuss that further. What matters is that now you are here, in my mother’s house and under her wing. Because I care greatly for her happiness, I cannot for the moment do anything about it. However, I don’t really have to. You’ll do what’s necessary without any action on my part. You’ll reveal yourself for what you are; then everyone will feel pity for me and compassion for my mother. And I’ll pack you up and ship you back to Atlanta to the genteelly silent cheers of the entire community. You think you can pass yourself off as a lady, don’t you? You couldn’t fool a blind deaf-mute.”

“I am a lady, damn you. You just don’t know what it’s like to be a decent person. I’ll thank you to remember that my mother was a Robillard from Savannah and that the O’Haras descend from the kings of Ireland!”

Rhett’s grin in response was maddeningly tolerant. “Leave it alone, Scarlett. Show me the clothes you brought with you.” He sat in the chair nearest him and stretched out his long legs.

Scarlett stared at him, too frustrated by his abrupt calm to speak without sputtering. Rhett took a cigar from his pocket and rolled it between his fingers. “You don’t object if I smoke in my room, I hope,” he said.

“Of course not.”

“Thank you. Now show me your clothes. They’re certain to be new; you’d never embark on an attempt to win back my favors without an arsenal of petticoats and silk frocks, all in the execrable taste that is your hallmark. I won’t have you making my mother a laughingstock. So show them to me, Scarlett, and I’ll see what can be salvaged.” He took a cutter from his pocket.

Scarlett scowled, but nevertheless she stalked into the dressing room to collect her things. Maybe this was a good thing. Rhett had always supervised her wardrobe. He’d liked to see her in clothes that he had chosen, he’d been proud of how stylish and beautiful she looked. If he wanted to get involved with her appearance again, be proud of her again, she’d be willing to cooperate. She’d try them all on for him. That way he’d see her in her shimmy. Scarlett’s fingers moved quickly to unhook the dress she was wearing and the cage with padding that supported the bustle. She stepped out of the pile of rich fabric, then gathered her new dresses in her arms and walked slowly into the bedroom, her arms bare, her bosom half-revealed, and her legs silk-stockinged.

“Dump them on the bed,” said Rhett, “and put on a wrapper before you freeze. It’s gotten colder with the rain, or haven’t you noticed?” He blew a stream of smoke to his left, turning his head away from her. “Don’t catch cold trying to be alluring, Scarlett. You’re wasting your time.” Scarlett’s face became livid with anger, her eyes like green fire. But Rhett was not looking at her. He was examining the finery on the bed. “Rip off all this lace,” he said about the first gown, “and keep only one of the avalanche of bows down the side. Then it won’t be too bad . . . Give this one to your maid, it’s hopeless . . . This will do if you take off the trim, replace the gold buttons with plain black ones, and shorten the train . . .” It took only a few minutes for him to go through them all.

“You’ll need some sturdy boots, plain black,” he said when he finished with the clothes.

“I bought some this morning,” Scarlett said, with ice in her voice. “When your mother and I went shopping,” she added, emphasizing each word. “I don’t see why you don’t buy her a carriage since you love her so much. She got very tired with all the walking.”

“You don’t understand Charleston. That’s why you’ll be miserable here in no time at all. I could buy her this house, because ours was destroyed by the Yankees and everyone she knows still has a house just as grand. I can even furnish it more comfortably than her friends’ are furnished because every piece in it is something that the Yankees looted or is a duplicate of what she once had, and her friends still have many of their things. But I cannot set her apart from her friends by buying her luxuries that they cannot afford.”

“Sally Brewton has a carriage.”

“Sally Brewton is unlike anyone else. She always has been. Sally is an original. Charleston has respect—even fondness—for eccentricity. But no tolerance for ostentation. And you, my dear Scarlett, have never been able to resist ostentation.”

“I hope you’re enjoying insulting me, Rhett Butler!”

Rhett laughed. “As a matter of fact, I am. Now you can start making one of those dresses decent to wear for this evening. I’m going to go drive the committee home. Sally shouldn’t do it in this storm.”

After he was gone, Scarlett put on Rhett’s dressing gown. It was warmer than hers, and he was right—it had gotten much colder, and she was shivering. She pulled the collar of the robe up around her ears and went to sit in the chair where he had sat. His presence was still in the room for her, and she wrapped herself in it. Her fingers stroked the soft foulard that enveloped her—strange to think of Rhett choosing such a light, almost fragile-feeling wrapper when he was so solid and strong himself. But then, so many things about him mystified her. She didn’t know him at all, never had. Scarlett felt a moment of dreadful hopelessness. She shook it off stood up hurriedly. She had to get dressed before Rhett got back. Gracious heavens, how long had she been sitting in that chair daydreaming? It was already near dark. She rang sharply for Pansy. The bows and lace had to be picked off the pink gown so she could wear it tonight, and the curling tongs should be put to heat at once. She wanted to look especially pretty and feminine for Rhett . . . Scarlett looked at the wide expanse of counterpane on the big bed, and her thoughts made her blush.

The lamplighter had not yet reached the upper part of the city where Emma Anson lived, and Rhett had to drive slowly, hunched forward to peer through the heavy rain at the dark street. Behind him only Mrs. Anson and Sally Brewton remained in the closed carriage. Margaret Butler had been taken home first to the tiny house on Water Street where she and Ross lived; then Rhett drove to Broad Street, where Edward Cooper had escorted Anne Hampton to the door of the Confederate Home under his large umbrella. “I’ll walk the rest of the way,” Edward called up to Rhett from the sidewalk, “no sense taking this dripping umbrella in with the ladies.” He lived on Church Street, only a block away. Rhett touched the wide brim of his hat in salute and drove on.

“Do you think Rhett can hear us?” murmured Emma Anson.

“I can hardly hear you, Emma, and I’m only a foot from you,” Sally answered tartly. “For goodness’ sake, speak up. This downpour is deafening.” She was irritated by the rain. It kept her from driving the brougham herself.

“What do you think of the wife?” Emma said. “She’s not at all what I would have expected. Have you ever seen anything as grotesquely over-decorated as the walking-out costume she was wearing?”

“Oh, clothes are easily remedied, and lots of women have dreadful taste. No, what’s interesting is that she’s got possibilities,” said Sally. “The only question is, will she grow into them? It can be a great handicap, being beautiful and having been a belle. Lots of women never recover from it.”

“It was ridiculous, the way she flirted with Edward.”

“Automatic, I think, not really ridiculous. There are plenty of men who expect just that kind of thing, too. Maybe they need it now more than ever before. They’ve lost everything else that once made them feel like men, all their wealth, their lands, and their power.”

The two women were silent for a while, thinking of things better left unadmitted by a proud people under the heel of a military occupying force.

Sally cleared her throat, breaking the somber mood. “One good thing,” she said in a positive way, “Rhett’s wife is desperately in love with him. Her face lit up like a sunrise when he appeared in that doorway, did you see?”

“No, I didn’t,” said Emma. “I wish to God I had. What I saw was the same look—but it was on Anne’s face.”

13

Scarlett’s eyes kept returning to the door. What was keeping Rhett so long? Eleanor Butler pretended not to notice, but a tiny smile nestled in the corners of her mouth. Her fingers moved a gleaming ivory shuttle rapidly back and forth, tatting an intricate web of loops. It should have been a cozy moment. The drawing room curtains were closed against the storm and the dark, lamps were lit on tables throughout the two beautiful adjoining rooms, and a golden, crackling fire banished chill and damp. But Scarlett’s nerves were too drawn to be comforted by the domestic scene. Where was Rhett? Would he still be angry when he returned?

She tried to keep her mind on what Rhett’s mother was saying, but she couldn’t. She didn’t care about the Confederate Home for Widows and Orphans. Her fingers touched the bodice of her dress, but there were no cascades of lace to fiddle with. Surely he wouldn’t care about her clothes if he really didn’t care about her, would he?

“. . . so the school just sort of grew by itself because there was no place else really for the orphans to go,” Mrs. Butler was saying. “It’s been more successful than we would have dared to hope. Last June, there were six graduated, all of them teachers now themselves. Two of the girls have gone to Walterboro to teach, and one actually had a choice of places, either Yemassee or Camden. Another one—such a sweet girl—wrote to us, I’ll show you the letter . . .”

Oh, where is he? What could be taking him so long? If I have to sit still much longer, I’ll scream.

The bronze clock on the mantel chimed and Scarlett jumped. Two . . . three . . . “I wonder what’s keeping Rhett?” said his mother. Five . . . six. “He knows we have supper at seven, and he always enjoys a toddy first. He’ll be soaked to the skin, too; he’ll have to change his clothes.” Mrs. Butler put her tatting down on the table at her side. “I’ll just go see if the rain’s stopped,” she said.

Scarlett leapt to her feet. “I’ll go.” She walked quickly, released, and pulled back an edge of the heavy silk curtain. Outside a heavy mist was billowing over the sea-wall promenade. It swirled in the street and coiled upward like a live thing. The street lamp was a glowing, undefined brightness in the moving whiteness surrounding it. She drew back from the eerie formlessness and dropped the silk over the sight of it. “It’s all foggy,” she said, “but it’s not raining. Do you think Rhett’s all right?”

Eleanor Butler smiled. “He’s been through worse than a little wet and fog, Scarlett, you know that. Of course he’s all right. You’ll hear him at the door any minute now.”

As if the words had caused it, there came the sound of the great front door opening. Scarlett heard Rhett’s laughter and the deep voice of Manigo, the butler.

“You best hand me them wet things, Mist’ Rhett, boots, too. I got your house shoes right here,” Manigo was saying.

“Thank you, Manigo. I’ll go up and change. Tell Mrs. Butler I’ll be with her in a minute. Is she in the drawing room?”

“Yessir, her and Missus Rhett.”

Scarlett listened for Rhett’s reaction, but she heard only his quick firm tread on the steps. It seemed a century before he came back down. The clock on the mantel had to be wrong. Each minute took an hour to pass.

“You look tired, dear,” exclaimed Eleanor Butler when Rhett entered the drawing room.

Rhett lifted his mother’s hand and kissed it. “Don’t cluck over me, Mama, I’m more hungry than tired. Supper soon?”

Mrs. Butler started to rise. “I’ll tell the kitchen to serve right now.” Rhett gently touched her shoulder to halt her effort.

“I’ll have a drink first, don’t rush.” He walked to the table holding the drinks tray. As he poured whiskey into a glass, he looked at Scarlett for the first time. “Will you join me, Scarlett?” His raised eyebrow taunted her. So did the smell of the whiskey. She turned away, as if insulted. So, Rhett was going to play cat and mouse, was he? Try to force her or trick her into doing something that would make his mother turn against her. Well, he’d have to be mighty smart to catch her out. Her mouth curved and her eyes began to sparkle. She’d have to be mighty smart herself to outwit him. A little pulse of excitement throbbed in her throat. Competition always thrilled her.

“Miss Eleanor, isn’t Rhett shocking?” she laughed. “Was he a wicked little boy, too?” Behind her she sensed Rhett’s abrupt movement. Ha! That had struck home. He’d felt guilty for years about the pain he’d caused his mother when his escapades made his father disown him.

“Supper’s served, Miz Butler,” said Manigo from the doorway.

Rhett offered his mother his arm, and Scarlett felt a stab of jealousy. Then she reminded herself that his devotion to his mother was the very thing that permitted her to stay, and she swallowed her anger. “I’m so hungry I could eat half a cow,” she said, her voice bright, “and Rhett’s just starving, aren’t you, darling?” She had the upper hand now; he had admitted that much. If she lost it, she’d lose the whole game, she’d never get him back.

As it turned out, Scarlett needn’t have worried. Rhett took command of the conversation the moment they were seated. He recounted his search for the tea service in Philadelphia, transforming it into an adventure, painting deft word portraits of the succession of people he talked to, mimicking their accents and idiosyncrasies with such skill that his mother and Scarlett found themselves laughing until their sides ached.

“And after following that long trail to get to him,” Rhett concluded with a theatrical gesture of dismay, “just imagine my horror when the new owner seemed to be too honest to sell the tea service for the twenty times its value I offered. For a minute, I was afraid I’d have to steal it back, but fortunately he was receptive to the suggestion that we amuse ourselves with a friendly game of cards.”

Eleanor Butler tried to look disapproving. “I do hope you didn’t do anything dishonest, Rhett,” she said. But there was laughter beneath the words.

“Mama! You shock me. I only deal from the bottom when I’m playing with professionals. This miserable ex-colonel in Sherman’s army was such an amateur I had to cheat to let him win a few hundred dollars to ease his pain. He was like the reverse side of an Ellinton.”

Mrs. Butler laughed. “Oh, the poor man. And his wife—my heart goes out to her.” Rhett’s mother leaned toward Scarlett. “Some of the skeletons in my side of the family,” Eleanor Butler said in a mock whisper. She laughed again and began to reminisce.

The Ellintons, Scarlett learned, were famous all up and down the East Coast for the family weakness: they would gamble on anything. The first Ellinton to settle in Colonial America was part of the shipload only because he had won a land grant in a wager with the owner as to who could drink the most ale and remain standing. “By the time he won,” Mrs. Butler said, in neat conclusion, “he was so drunk that he thought it made sense to go take a look at his prize. They say he didn’t even know where he was going until he got there, because he won most of the sailors’ rum ration playing dice.”

“What did he do when he sobered up?” Scarlett wanted to know.

“Oh, my dear, he never did. He died only ten days after the ship made landfall. But in the meantime he had wagered some other gambler at dice and won a girl—one of the indentured servants from the ship—and, since later she turned out to be carrying his child, there was a sort of ex post facto wedding at his grave marker, and her son became one of my great-great-grandfathers.”

“He was rather a gamester himself, wasn’t he?” Rhett asked.

“Oh, of course. It truly ran in the family.” And Mrs. Butler continued along the family tree.

Scarlett glanced at Rhett often. How many surprises were there in this man she hardly knew? She’d never seen him so relaxed and happy and totally at home. I never made a home for him, she realized. He never even liked the house. It was mine, done the way I wanted, a present from him, not his at all. Scarlett wanted to break in on Miss Eleanor’s stories, to tell Rhett that she was sorry for the past, that she’d make up for all her mistakes. But she kept silent. He was content, enjoying himself and his mother’s ramblings. She mustn’t break this mood.

The candles in their tall silver holders were reflected in the polish of the mahogany table and in the pupils of Rhett’s gleaming black eyes. They bathed the table and the three of them in a warm, still light, making an island of soft brilliance in the shadows of the long room. The world outside was closed off by the thick folds of curtains at the windows and by the intimacy of the small candlelit island. Eleanor Butler’s voice was gentle, Rhett’s laughter a quiet, encouraging chuckle. Love made an airy yet unbreakable web between mother and son. Scarlett had a sudden consuming yearning to be enclosed in that web.

Then Rhett said, “Tell Scarlett about Cousin Townsend, Mama,” and she was safe in the warmth of the candlelight, included in the happiness that ringed the table. She wished that it could last forever, and she begged Miss Eleanor to tell about Cousin Townsend.

“Townsend’s not really a cousin-cousin, you know, only a third cousin twice removed, but he is the direct descendent of Great-Great-Grandfather Ellinton, only son of an eldest son of an eldest son. So he inherited that original land grant, and the Ellinton gambler’s fever, and the Ellinton luck. They were always lucky, the Ellintons. Except for one thing: there’s another Ellinton family trait, the boys are always cross-eyed. Townsend married an extremely beautiful girl from a fine Philadelphia family—Philadelphia called it the wedding of beauty and the beast. But the girl’s father was a lawyer and a very sensible man about property, and Townsend was fabulously rich. Townsend and his wife settled in Baltimore. Then, of course, the War came. Townsend’s wife went running home to her family the minute Townsend went off to join General Lee’s army. She was a Yankee, after all, and Townsend would more than likely get killed. He couldn’t shoot a barn, much less a barn door, because of his cross eyes. However, he still had the Ellinton luck. He never got anything worse than chilblains although he served all the way through to Appomattox. Meanwhile, his wife’s three brothers and her father were all killed, fighting in the Union Army. So she inherited everything piled up by her careful father and his careful ancestors. Townsend’s living like a king in Philadelphia and doesn’t care a fig that all his property in Savannah was confiscated by Sherman. Did you see him, Rhett? How is he?”

“More cross-eyed than ever, with two cross-eyed sons and a daughter that, thank God, takes after her mother.”

Scarlett hardly heard Rhett’s answer. “Did you say the Ellintons were from Savannah, Miss Eleanor? My mother was from Savannah,” she said eagerly. The crisscross of relations that was so much a part of Southern life had long been a frustrating lack in her own. Everyone she knew had a network of cousins and uncles and aunts that covered generations and hundreds of miles. But she had none. Pauline and Eulalie had no children. Gerald O’Hara’s brothers in Savannah were childless, too. There must be lots of O’Haras still in Ireland, but that did her no good, and all the Robillards except her grandfather were gone from Savannah.

Now here she was, again hearing about somebody else’s family. Rhett had kin in Philadelphia. No doubt he was related to half of Charleston, too. It wasn’t fair. But maybe these Ellinton people were tied to the Robillards somehow. Then she’d be part of the web that included Rhett. Perhaps she could find a connection to the world of the Butlers and Charleston, the world that Rhett had chosen and she was determined to enter.

“I remember Ellen Robillard very well,” said Mrs. Butler. “And her mother. Your grandmother, Scarlett, was probably the most fascinating woman in all of Georgia, and South Carolina, too.”

Scarlett leaned forward, enthralled. She’d heard only bits and pieces of stories about her grandmother. “Was she really scandalous, Miss Eleanor?”

“She was extraordinary. But when I knew her best, she wasn’t scandalous at all. She was too busy having babies. First your Aunt Pauline, then Eulalie, then your mother. As a matter of fact, I was in Savannah when your mother was born. I remember the fireworks. Your grandfather hired some famous Italian to come down from New York and put on a magnificent fireworks display every time your grandmother gave him a baby. You wouldn’t remember, Rhett, and I don’t suppose you’ll thank me for remembering, either, but you were scared witless. I took you outside especially to see them, and you cried so loud that I nearly died of shame. All the other children there were clapping their hands and shrieking with joy. Of course, they were older. You were still in dresses, barely over a year old.”

Scarlett stared at Mrs. Butler, then at Rhett. It wasn’t possible! Rhett couldn’t be older than her mother. Why, her mother was—her mother. She’d always taken it for granted that her mother was old, past the age of strong emotions. How could Rhett be older? How could she love him so desperately if he was that old?

Then Rhett added shock upon shock. He dropped his napkin on the table, stood, stepped to Scarlett’s side and kissed the top of her head, moved on to take his mother’s hand in his and kiss it. “I’m off now, Mama,” he said.

Oh Rhett, no! Scarlett wanted to shout. But she was too stunned to say anything, even to ask where he was going.

“I wish you wouldn’t go out in the rainy pitch dark, Rhett,” his mother protested. “And Scarlett’s here. You’ve barely had a chance to say hello to her.”

“It’s stopped raining, and the full moon’s out,” Rhett said. “I can’t waste the chance to ride the tide upriver, and I’ve just enough time to catch it before it turns. Scarlett understands that you’ve got to check up on your workers if you go away and leave them—she’s a businesswoman. Aren’t you, my pet?” His eyes glittered from the candle flame reflected in them when he looked at her. Then he walked into the hall.

She pushed back from the table, almost upending her chair in her haste. Then, without a word to Mrs. Butler, she ran frantically after him.

He was in the vestibule, buttoning his coat, hat in his hand. “Rhett, Rhett, wait!” Scarlett cried. She ignored the warning in his look when he turned to face her. “Everything was so nice at supper,” she said. “Why do you want to go?”

Rhett stepped past her and pushed the door from the vestibule to the hallway. It closed with a heavy dull click of the latch, shutting off the rest of the house. “Don’t make a scene, Scarlett. They’re wasted on me.”

As if he could see inside her skull, he drawled his final words. “Don’t count on sharing my bed, either, Scarlett.”

He opened the door to the street. Before she could say a word, he was gone. The door swung slowly closed behind him.

Scarlett stamped her foot. It was an inadequate outlet for her anger and disappointment. Why did he have to be so mean? She grimaced—half anger, half unwilling laughter—in grudging acknowledgment of Rhett’s cleverness. He’d known what she was planning easy enough. Well then, she’d have to be cleverer, that’s all. She’d have to give up the idea of having a baby right away, think of something else. Her brow was furrowed when she went back to join Rhett’s mother.

“There now, dear, don’t be upset,” Eleanor Butler said, “he’ll be all right. Rhett knows the river like the back of his hand.” She had been standing near the mantel, unwilling to go into the hall and risk intruding on Rhett’s farewell to his wife. “Let’s go into the library, it’s cozy there, and let the servants clear the table.”

Scarlett settled into a high-back chair, protected from drafts. No, she said, she didn’t want a throw over her knees, she was just fine, thank you. “Let me tuck you in, Miss Eleanor,” she insisted, taking the cashmere shawl from her. “You sit down now, and ease yourself.” She bullied Mrs. Butler into comfort.

“What a dear girl you are, Scarlett, so like your darling mother. I remember how thoughtful she always was, such beautiful manners. All the Robillard girls were well behaved, of course, but Ellen was special . . .”

Scarlett closed her eyes and inhaled the faint whisper of lemon verbena. Everything was going to be all right. Miss Eleanor loved her, she’d make Rhett come home, and they’d all live happily together forever and ever.

Scarlett half-dozed in the deep-cushioned chair, lulled by the soft reminiscences of a gentler time. When the disturbance erupted in the hall beyond the door, she was jerked back to confused consciousness. For a moment she didn’t know where she was or how she had gotten there, and she blinked, bleary-eyed, at the man in the doorway. Rhett? No, it couldn’t be Rhett, not unless he’d shaved off his mustache.

The big man who wasn’t Rhett stepped unevenly across the doorsill. “I came to meet my sister,” he said. The words slurred together.

Margaret Butler ran towards Eleanor. “I tried to stop him,” she cried, “but he was in one of those moods—I couldn’t get him to listen, Miss Eleanor.”

Mrs. Butler stood up. “Hush, Margaret,” she said with quiet urgency. “Ross, I’m waiting for a proper greeting.” Her voice was unusually loud, the words very distinct.

Scarlett’s mind was clear now. So this was Rhett’s brother. And drunk, too, by the look of him. Well, she’d seen drunk men before, they were no special novelty. She stood, smiled at Ross, her dimple flickering. “I declare, Miss Eleanor, how could one lady be so lucky as to have two sons, each one handsomer than the other? Rhett never told me he had such a good-looking brother!”

Ross staggered towards her. His eyes raked her body, then fastened on her tousled curls and rouged face. He leered rather than smiled. “So this is Scarlett,” he said thickly. “I might have known Rhett would end up with a fancy piece like her. Come on, Scarlett, give your new brother a friendly kiss. You know how to please a man, I’m sure.” His big hands ran up her arms like huge spiders and fastened themselves on her bare throat. Then his open mouth was over hers, his sour breath in her nose, his tongue forcing itself between her teeth. Scarlett tried to get her hands up to shove him away, but Ross was too strong, his body too closely pressed against hers.

She could hear Eleanor Butler’s voice, and Margaret’s, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying. All her attention was focused on the need to break free of the repulsive embrace, and on the shame of Ross’ insulting words. He had called her a whore! And he was treating her like one.

All of a sudden Ross thrust her away, tumbled her back into her chair. “I’ll bet you’re not so cold to my dear big brother,” he growled.

Margaret Butler was sobbing against Eleanor’s shoulder.

“Ross!” Mrs. Butler hurled the name like a knife. Ross turned with a clumsy lurch, sending a small table crashing to the floor.

“Ross!” his mother said again. “I have rung for Manigo. He will help you home and give Margaret decent escort. When you sober up, you will write letters of apology to Rhett’s wife and to me. You have disgraced yourself, and Margaret, and me, and you will not be received in this house until I have recovered from the shame you’ve caused me.”

“I’m so sorry, Miss Eleanor,” Margaret wept.

Mrs. Butler put her hands on Margaret’s shoulders. “I am sorry for you, Margaret,” she said. Then she moved Margaret away from her. “Go home now. You will, of course, always be welcome here.”

Manigo’s wise old eyes took in the situation with one look, and he removed Ross, who surprisingly said not a word in protest. Margaret scuttled out behind them. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated again and again, until the sound of her voice was cut off by the closing of the big front door.

“My darling child,” Eleanor said to Scarlett, “there is no excuse I can make. Ross was drunk, he didn’t know what he was saying. But that is no excuse.”

Scarlett was shaking all over. From disgust, from humiliation, from anger. Why had she let it happen, let Rhett’s brother revile her and put his hands and his mouth on her? I should have spit in his face, clawed him blind, hit his nasty, foul mouth with my fists. But I didn’t, I just took it—as if I deserved it, as if it was true. Scarlett had never been so ashamed. Shamed by Ross’ words, shamed by her own weakness. She felt defiled, dirty, and eternally humiliated. Better if Ross had hit her, or cut her with a knife. Her body would recover from a bruise or a wound. But her pride would never be healed from the sickness she felt.

Eleanor leaned over her, tried to put her arms around her, but Scarlett shrank from her touch. “Leave me alone!” she tried to shout, but it came out a moan.

“I won’t,” said Mrs. Butler, “not until you listen to me. You’ve got to understand, Scarlett, you have to hear me. There’s so much you don’t know. Are you listening?” She drew a chair close to Scarlett’s, sat in it, only inches away.

“No! Go away.” Scarlett put her hands over her ears.

“I won’t leave you,” said Eleanor. “And I’ll tell you—again and again, a thousand times if need be—until you hear me . . .” Her voice went on and on, gentle but insistent, while her hand stroked Scarlett’s bent head—comforting, caring, insinuating her kindness and her love through Scarlett’s refusal to hear her. “What Ross did was unpardonable,” she said, “I don’t ask you to forgive him. But I must, Scarlett. He is my son, and I know the pain in him that made him do it. He wasn’t trying to hurt you, my dear. It was Rhett he was attacking through you; he knows, you see, that Rhett is too strong for him, that he’ll never be able to match Rhett in anything. Rhett reaches out and takes what he wants, he makes things happen, he gets things done. And poor Ross is a failure at everything.

“Margaret told me privately this afternoon that when Ross went to work this morning, they told him he was fired. Because of his drinking, you see. He always drank, men always do, but not the way he’s been drinking since Rhett came back to Charleston a year ago. Ross was trying to make the plantation go, he’s been slaving away at it ever since he came back from the War, but something always went wrong, and he never did get a decent rice crop. Everything was about to be sold up for taxes. So when Rhett offered to buy the plantation from him, Ross had to let it go. It would have been Rhett’s anyhow, except that he and his father—but that’s another story.

“Ross got a position as teller at a bank, but I’m afraid he thought that handling money was vulgar. Gentlemen always signed bills in the old days, or simply gave their word, and their factors took care of everything. At any rate, Ross made mistakes at his cage, his accounts never balanced, and one day he made a big mistake, and he lost his job. Worse, the bank said they were going to law to get the money from him that he’d paid out in error. Rhett made it good. It was like a dagger in Ross’ heart. The heavy drinking started then, and now it’s cost him another job. On top of that, some fool—or villain—let it slip that Rhett had arranged the job for him in the first place. He went right home and got so drunk he could hardly walk. Mean drunk.

“I love Rhett best, may God forgive me, I always have. He was my first-born, and I laid my heart in his tiny hands the moment he was put in my arms. I love Ross and Rosemary, but not the way I love Rhett, and I’m afraid they know it. Rosemary thinks it’s because he was gone for so long, then came back like a genie from a bottle and bought me everything in this house, bought her the pretty frocks she’d been longing for. She doesn’t remember what it was like before he went away. She was only a baby, she doesn’t know that he always came first with me. Ross knows, he knew all the time, but he was first with his father, so he didn’t care overmuch. Steven cast Rhett out, made Ross his heir. He loved Ross, he was proud of him. But now Steven is dead, seven years this month. And Rhett is home again, and the joy of it fills my life, and Ross cannot fail to see it.”

Mrs. Butler’s voice was hoarse, ragged from the effort of speaking the heavy secrets of her heart. It broke, and she wept bitterly. “My poor boy, my poor, hurting Ross.”

I should say something, Scarlett thought, to make her feel better. But she couldn’t. She was hurting too much herself.

“Miss Eleanor, don’t cry,” she said ineffectively. “Don’t feel bad. Please, I need to ask you something.”

Mrs. Butler breathed deeply; she wiped her eyes and composed her face. “What is it, my dear?”

“I have to know,” Scarlett said urgently. “You’ve got to tell me. Truly, do I—what he said—do I look like that?” She needed reassurance, had to have the approval of this loving, lemon-scented lady.

“Precious child,” said Eleanor, “it doesn’t matter a tinker’s dam what you look like. Rhett loves you, and therefore I love you, too.”

Mother of God! She’s saying that I look like a whore but it doesn’t matter. Is she crazy? Of course it matters, it matters more than anything else in the world. I want to be a lady, like I was meant to be!

She grabbed Mrs. Butler’s hands in a desperate grip, not knowing that she was causing her agonizing pain. “Oh, Miss Eleanor, help me! Please, I need you to help me.”

“Of course, dear. Tell me what you want.” There was only serenity and affection on Mrs. Butler’s face. She had learned many years before how to hide any pain she felt.

“I need to know what I’m doing wrong, why I don’t look like a lady. I am a lady, Miss Eleanor, I am. You knew my mother, you must know it’s so.”

“Of course you are, Scarlett, and of course I know. Appearances are so deceiving, it’s really not fair. We can take care of everything with practically no effort at all.” Mrs. Butler gently disengaged her throbbing, swollen fingers from Scarlett’s grasp. “You have so much vitality, dear child, all the vigor of the world you grew up in. It’s misleading to people here in the old, tired low-country. But you mustn’t lose it, it’s too valuable. We’ll simply find ways to make you somewhat less visible, more like us. Then you’ll be more comfortable.”

And so will I, Eleanor Butler thought silently. She would defend to her dying breath the woman she believed Rhett loved, but it would be much easier if Scarlett stopped wearing paint on her face and expensive, ill-considered clothes. Eleanor welcomed the opportunity to remake Scarlett in the Charleston mold.

Scarlett gratefully swallowed Mrs. Butler’s diplomatic assessment of her problem. She was too shrewd to believe it completely—she had seen Miss Eleanor manage Eulalie and Pauline. But Rhett’s mother would help her, and that was what counted, at least for now.

14

The Charleston that had molded Eleanor Butler and drawn Rhett back after decades of adventuring was an old city, one of the oldest in America. It was crowded onto a narrow triangular peninsula between two wide tidal rivers that met in a broad harbor connected to the Atlantic. First settled in 1682, it had, from its earliest days, a romantic languor and sensuality foreign to the brisk pace and Puritan self-denial of the New England colonies. Salt breezes stirred palm trees and wisteria vines, and flowers bloomed year-round. The soil was black, rich, free of stones to blunt a man’s plow; the waters teemed with fish, crab, shrimp, terrapin and oysters, the woods with game. It was a rich land, meant to be enjoyed.

Ships from all over the globe anchored in the harbor for cargoes of the rice grown on Charlestonians’ vast plantations along the rivers; they delivered the world’s luxuries for the pleasure and adornment of the small population. It was the wealthiest city in America.

Blessed by reaching its maturity in the Age of Reason, Charleston used its wealth in the pursuit of beauty and knowledge. Responsive to its climate and natural bounties, it used its riches also for the enjoyment of the senses. Each house had its chef and its ballroom, every lady her brocades from France and her pearls from India. There were learned societies and societies for music and dancing, schools of science and schools of fencing. It was civilized and hedonistic in a balance that created a culture of exquisitely refined grace in which incomparable luxury was tempered by a demanding discipline of intellect and education. Charlestonians painted their houses in all the colors of the rainbow and hung them with shaded porches through which sea breezes carried the scent of roses like a caress. Inside every house there was a room with globe, telescope, and walls of books in many languages. In the middle of the day they sat at dinner for six courses, each offering a choice of dishes in quietly gleaming, generations-old silver pieces. Conversation was the sauce of the meal, wit its preferred seasoning.

This was the world which Scarlett O’Hara, one-time belle of a rural county in the raw red frontier earth of north Georgia, now intended to conquer, armed only with energy, stubbornness, and a dreadful need. Her timing was terrible.

For more than a century, Charlestonians had been renowned for their hospitality. It wasn’t unusual to entertain a hundred guests, fully half of whom were unknown to host and hostess except through letters of introduction. During Race Week—the climax of the city’s social season—owners from England, France, Ireland, and Spain often brought their horses months in advance to accustom them to the climate and water. The owners stayed at the homes of their Charleston competitors; their horses were stabled, as guests, next to the horses the Charleston host would be running against them. It was an open-handed, open-hearted city.

Until the War came. Fittingly, the first shots of the Civil War were fired at Fort Sumter, in Charleston harbor. To most of the world Charleston was the symbol of the mysterious and magical, moss-hung, magnolia-scented South. To Charlestonians as well.

And to the North. “Proud and arrogant Charleston” was the refrain in New York and Boston newspapers. Union military officials were determined to destroy the flower-filled, pastel-painted old city. The harbor entrance was blockaded first; later, gun emplacements on nearby islands fired shells into narrow streets and houses in a siege that lasted for almost six hundred days; finally Sherman’s Army came with its torches to burn the plantation houses on the rivers. When the Union troops marched in to occupy their prize, they faced a desolate ruin. Wild grasses grew in the streets and choked the gardens of windowless, shell-scarred, broken-roofed houses. They also faced a decimated population that had become as proud and arrogant as their Northern reputation.

Outsiders were no longer welcome in Charleston.

People repaired their roofs and windows as best they could and locked their doors. Among themselves, they restored the cherished habits of gaiety. They met for dancing in looted drawing rooms where they toasted the South in water from cracked and mended cups. “Starvation parties,” they called their gatherings, and laughed. The days of French champagne in crystal flutes might be gone, but they were still Charlestonians. They had lost their possessions but they had almost two centuries of shared tradition and style. No one could take that from them. The War was over, but they weren’t defeated. They would never be defeated, no matter what the damn Yankees did. Not so long as they stuck together. And kept everyone else out of their closed circle.

The military occupation and the outrages of Reconstruction tested their mettle, but they held fast. One by one the other states of the Confederacy were readmitted to the Union, their state governments restored to the state’s population. But not South Carolina. And especially not Charleston. More than nine years after the end of the War, armed soldiers patrolled the old streets, enforcing curfew. Constantly changing regulations covered everything from the price of paper to the licensing of marriages and funerals. Charleston became more and more derelict outwardly, but ever stronger in its determination to preserve the old ways of life. The Bachelors’ Cotillion was reborn, with a new generation to fill the gaps caused by the carnage of Bull Run, Antietam, and Chancellorsville. After their working hours as clerks or laborers, former plantation owners took the streetcars or walked to the outskirts of the city to rebuild the two-mile oval of the Charleston Race Course and to plant the blood-soaked churned mud of the land around it with grass seed bought with combined widow’s mites.

Little by little, by symbols and by inches, Charlestonians were regaining the essence of their beloved lost world. But there was no room in it for anyone who didn’t belong there.

15

Pansy couldn’t hide her amazement at the orders Scarlett gave her when she was unlacing for bed the first night in the Butler house. “Take the green walking-out costume I wore this morning and give it a good brushing. Then take off every speck of trimming, including the gold buttons, and sew on some plain black buttons instead.”

“Where I going to find any black buttons, Miss Scarlett?”

“Don’t bother me with fool questions like that. Ask Mrs. Butler’s maid—what’s her name? Celie. And wake me up tomorrow at five o’clock.”

“Five o’clock?”

“Are you deaf? You heard me. Now scoot. I want that green outfit ready to put on when I get up.”

Scarlett sank gratefully into the feather mattress and down pillows on the big bed. It had been an over-full, over-emotional day. Meeting Miss Eleanor, then shopping, then that silly Confederate Home meeting, then Rhett appearing from nowhere with the silver tea service . . . Her hand stretched over to the empty space beside her. She wanted him there, but perhaps it was better to wait a few days, until she was really accepted in Charleston. That miserable Ross! She wouldn’t think about him or those horrible things he’d said and done. Miss Eleanor had denied him the house, and she wouldn’t have to see him, she hoped not ever again. She’d think about something else. She’d think about Miss Eleanor, who loved her and who was going to help her get Rhett back, even if she didn’t know that’s what she was doing.

The Market, Miss Eleanor had said, was the place to meet everybody and hear all the news. So to the Market she would go—tomorrow. Scarlett would have been happier if it wasn’t necessary to go so early, at six o’clock. But needs must. I have to say this for Charleston, she thought sleepily, it’s plenty busy, and I like that. She was only halfway through a yawn when she fell asleep.

The Market was the perfect place for Scarlett to begin the life of a Charleston lady. The Market was an outward, visible distillation of Charleston’s essence. From the city’s earliest days it had been the place where Charlestonians bought their food. The lady of the house—or, in rare cases, the man—selected and paid for it, a maid or coachman received it and placed it in a basket hung over the arm. Before the War the food was sold by slaves who had transported it from their masters’ plantations. Many of the vendors were in the places they had been before, only now they were free, and the baskets were carried by servants who were paid for their service; like the vendors, many of them were the same people, carrying the same baskets they had before. What was important to Charleston was that the old ways hadn’t changed.

Tradition was the bedrock of society, the birthright of Charleston’s people, the priceless inheritance that no carpetbagger or soldier could steal. It was made manifest in the Market. Outsiders could shop there; it was public property. But they found it frustrating. Somehow they could never quite catch the eye of the woman who was selling vegetables, the man selling crabs. Black citizens were as proudly Charlestonian as white ones. When the foreigner left, the whole Market rang with laughter. The Market was for Charleston’s people only.

Scarlett hunched her shoulders to lift her collar higher on her neck. A cold finger of wind got inside it despite her efforts, and she shivered violently. Her eyes felt full of cinders, and she was sure her boots must be lined with lead. How many miles could there be in five city blocks? She couldn’t see a thing. The street lamps were only a bright circle of mist within mist in the ghostly gray pre-dawn halflight.

How can Miss Eleanor be so cursed cheery? Chattering away as if it wasn’t freezing cold and black as pitch. There was some light ahead—way ahead. Scarlett stumbled towards it. She wished the miserable wind would die down. What was that? In the wind. She sniffed the air. It was! It was coffee. Maybe she’d live after all. Her steps matched Mrs. Butler’s in an eager, accelerated pace.

The Market was like a bazaar, an oasis of light and warmth, color and life in the formless gray mist. Torches blazed on brick pillars that supported tall wide arches open to the surrounding streets, illuminating the bright aprons and headscarves of smiling black women and highlighting their wares, displayed in baskets of every size and shape on long wooden tables painted green. It was crowded with people, most of them moving from table to table, talking—to other shoppers or to the vendors in a challenging, laughing ritual of haggling obviously enjoyed by all.

“Coffee first, Scarlett?”

“Oh, yes, please.”

Eleanor Butler led the way to a nearby group of women. They held steaming tin mugs in their gloved hands, sipping from them while they talked and laughed with one another, oblivious to the din around them.

“Good morning, Eleanor . . . Eleanor, how are you? . . . Push over, Mildred, let Eleanor get through . . . Oh, Eleanor, did you hear that Kerrison’s has real wool stockings on sale? It won’t be in the paper until tomorrow. Would you like to come with Alice and me? We’re going after dinner today . . . Oh, Eleanor, we were just talking about Lavinia’s daughter. She lost the baby last night. Lavinia’s prostrate with grief. Do you think your cook could make some of her wonderful wine jelly? Nobody does it the way she does. Mary has a bottle of claret, and I’ll supply the sugar . . .”

“Morning, Miz Butler, I saw you coming, your coffee’s all ready.”

“And another cup for my daughter-in-law, please, Sukie. Ladies, I want you to meet Rhett’s wife, Scarlett.”

All chattering stopped and all heads turned to look at Scarlett.

She smiled and inclined her head in a little bow. She looked apprehensively at the group of ladies, imagining that it must be all over town, what Ross said. I shouldn’t have come, I can’t stand it. Her jaw hardened, and an invisible chip settled on her shoulder. She expected the worst, and all her old hostility to Charleston’s aristocratic pretensions returned in a flash.

But she smiled and bowed to each of the ladies as Eleanor introduced her . . . yes, I just love Charleston . . . yes, ma’am, I am Pauline Smith’s niece . . . no, ma’am, I haven’t seen the art gallery yet, I’ve only been here since night before last . . . yes’m I do think the Market’s real exciting . . . Atlanta—more Clayton County actually, my folks had a cotton plantation there . . . oh, yes, ma’am, the weather is a real treat, these warm winter days . . . no, ma’am, I don’t think I met your nephew when he was in Valdosta, that’s quite a ways from Atlanta . . . yes’m, I do enjoy a game of whist . . . Oh, thank you so much, I’ve been positively aching for a taste of coffee . . .

She buried her face in the mug, her job done. Miss Eleanor’s got no more sense than a pea hen, she thought mutinously. How could she just pitch me in to the middle like that? She must think I’ve got a memory like an elephant. So many names, and they all mix up together. They’re all looking at me as if I was an elephant, too, or something else in a zoo. They know what Ross said, I know they do. Miss Eleanor might be fooled by their smiling, but I’m not. Bunch of old cats! Her teeth ground against the rim of the mug.

She wouldn’t show her feelings, not if she went blind to keep from crying. But her cheeks were stained with high color.

When she finished her coffee, Mrs. Butler took her mug and handed it, with her own, to the busy coffee-seller. “I’ll have to ask you for some change, Sukie,” she said. She held out a five dollar bill. With no waste motion, Sukie dipped and swirled the mugs in a big pail of brownish water, set them on the table at her elbow, wiped her hands on her apron, took the bill and deposited it in a cracked leather pouch hanging from her belt, withdrawing a dollar bill without looking. “Here you is, Miz Butler, hope you enjoyed it.”

Scarlett was aghast. Two dollars for a cup of coffee! Why, with two dollars you could buy the best pair of boots on King Street.

“I always enjoy it, Sukie, even though I have to do without food on the table to pay for it. Don’t you ever feel ashamed of yourself for being such a robber?”

Sukie’s white teeth flashed against her brown skin. “No ma’am, I surely don’t!” she said, rumbling with amusement. “I can swear on the Good Book that ain’t nothing disturbing my sleep.”

The other coffee drinkers laughed. Each of them had had a similar exchange with Sukie many times.

Eleanor Butler looked around until she located Celie and her basket. “Come along, dear,” she said to Scarlett, “we have a long list today. We’ll have to get to it before everything’s gone.”

Scarlett followed Mrs. Butler to the end of the Market hall where the rows of tables were crowded with dented galvanized washtubs filled with seafood that emitted a strong acrid odor. Scarlett’s nose wrinkled at the reek, and she looked at the tubs with disdain. She thought she knew fish well enough. Ugly, whiskered, bone-filled catfish were plentiful in the river that ran alongside Tara. They’d had to eat them when there was nothing else. Why anyone would actually buy one of the nasty little things was beyond her, but there were lots of ladies with one glove off poking into the tubs. Oh, bother! Miss Eleanor was going to introduce her to every single one of them. Scarlett readied her smile.

A tiny white-haired lady raised a big silvery beast of a fish from the tub in front of her. “I’d love to meet her, Eleanor. What do you think of this flounder? I was planning on sheepshead, but they’re not in yet, and I can’t wait. I don’t know why the fishing boats can’t be more punctual, and don’t talk to me about no wind for the sails. My bonnet nearly blew right off my head this morning.”

“I really prefer flounder myself, Minnie, it takes to a sauce so much better. Let me present Rhett’s wife, Scarlett . . . This is Mrs. Wentworth, Scarlett.”

“How do, Scarlett. Tell me, does this flounder look good to you?”

It looked disgusting to her, but Scarlett murmured, “I’ve always been partial to flounder myself.” She hoped that all Miss Eleanor’s friends wouldn’t ask her opinion. She didn’t even know what flounder was, for pity sakes, much less if it was any good or not.

In the next hour, Scarlett was introduced to more than twenty ladies, and a dozen varieties of fish. She was receiving a thorough education in seafood. Mrs. Butler bought crabs, going to five different sellers until she had accumulated eight. “I suppose I seem awfully picky to you,” she said when she was satisfied, “but the soup’s just not the same if it’s made with he-crabs. The roe gives it a special flavor, you see. It’s a lot harder to find she-crab this time of year, but it’s worth the effort, I think.”

Scarlett didn’t care a bit what gender the crabs were. She was appalled that they were still alive, scuttling around in the tubs, reaching out their claws, making nervous rustling noises as they climbed on top of one another trying to reach up the sides to get out. And now she could hear them in Celie’s basket, pushing at the paper sack that held them.

The shrimp were worse, even though they were dead. Their eyes were horrible black balls on stalks, and they had long trailing whiskers and feelers and spiky stomachs. She couldn’t believe that she’d ever eaten anything that looked like that, much less enjoyed it.

The oysters didn’t bother her; they just looked like dirty rocks. But when Mrs. Butler picked up a curved knife from a table and opened one, Scarlett felt her stomach heave. It looks like a hawk of spit floating in old dishwater, she thought.

After the seafood the meats had a reassuring familiarity even though the swarms of flies around the blood-soaked newspapers under them made her queasy. She managed to smile at a small black boy who was waving them off with a big heart-shaped fan made of some woven dried straw-like stuff. By the time they reached the rows of limp-necked birds, she was sufficiently herself again to think about trimming a hat with some of the feathers.

“Which feathers, dear?” asked Mrs. Butler. “The pheasant? Of course you may have some.” She bargained briskly with the inkblack fat woman who was selling the birds, finally buying a large handful that she plucked herself for a penny.

“What in blue blazes is Eleanor doing?” said a voice at Scarlett’s elbow. She looked around and saw Sally Brewton’s monkey face.

“Good morning, Mrs. Brewton.”

“Good morning, Scarlett. Why is Eleanor buying the inedible parts of that bird? Or has someone discovered a way to cook feathers? I have several mattresses that I’m not using right now.”

Scarlett explained why she wanted them. She could feel herself getting red in the face. Maybe only “fancy pieces” wore trimmed hats in Charleston.

“What a good idea!” said Sally with genuine enthusiasm. “I have an old riding top hat that could be resurrected with a cockade of ribbon and some feathers trailing down from it. If I can find it, it’s been so long since I used it last. Do you ride, Scarlett?”

“Not for years. Not since . . .” She tried to remember.

“Not since before the War. I know. Me, too. I miss it horribly.”

“What do you miss, Sally?” Mrs. Butler joined them. She held out the feathers to Celie. “Tie a piece of string ’round these, at both ends, and be careful not to crush them.” Then she gasped. “Excuse me,” she said with a laugh, “I’ll miss Brewton’s sausage. Thank goodness I saw you, Sally, it had clean slipped my mind.” She hurried away, with Celie in pursuit.

Sally smiled at Scarlett’s puzzled expression. “Don’t worry, she hasn’t gone mad. The best sausage in the world is for sale on Saturdays only. It sells out early. The man who makes it was a footman of ours when he was a slave. Lucullus is his name. After he was freed, he added Brewton for a last name. Most of the slaves did that—you’ll find all of Charleston’s aristocracy here as far as names go. Of course there’s a good number of Lincolns, too. Come walk with me, Scarlett. I’ve got to get my vegetables. Eleanor will find us.”

Sally stopped before a table of onions. “Where the devil is Lila?—oh, there you are. Scarlett, this tiny young creature, if you can credit it, runs my entire household as if she were Ivan the Terrible. This is Mrs. Butler, Lila, Mister Rhett’s wife.”

The pretty young maid bobbed a curtsey. “We needs lots of onions, Miss Sally,” she said, “for the artichoke pickles I’m putting up.”

“Do you hear that, Scarlett? She thinks I’m senile. I know we need lots of onions,” Sally grabbed one of the brown paper bags from the table and began to drop onions into it. Scarlett watched with dismay. Impulsively, she put her hand over the mouth of the bag.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Brewton, but those onions are no good.”

“No good? How can onions be no good? They’re not rotten or sprouting.”

“These onions were dug up too soon,” Scarlett explained. “They look fine enough, but they won’t have any flavor. I know, because it’s a mistake I made myself. When I had to run our place, I planted onions. Since I didn’t know anything about growing things, I dug up a batch as soon as the tops started to brown, afraid they were dying and would rot. They were pretty as pictures, and I was proud as a peacock, because most of my planting came out mighty sorry. We ate them boiled and stewed and in fricassee to help the taste of the squirrels and raccoons. But they didn’t have any bite to them at all. Later, when I dug up the row to plant something else, I came across one I’d missed. That one was what an onion’s supposed to be. The fact is, they need time to flavor up. I’ll show you what a good onion should be like.” Scarlett sorted with expert eyes, hands, and nose through the baskets on the table. “These are the ones you want,” she said at last. Her chin was belligerent. You can figure me for a country bumpkin if you want to, she was thinking, but I’m not ashamed that I got my hands dirty when I had to. You high-toned Charlestonians think you’re the be-all and end-all, but you’re not.

“Thank you,” said Sally. Her eyes were thoughtful. “I’m grateful. I did you an injustice, Scarlett. I didn’t think anyone as pretty as you could have any sense. What else did you plant? I wouldn’t mind learning about celery.”

Scarlett studied Sally’s face. She saw the honest interest and responded to it. “Celery was too fancy for me. I had a dozen mouths to feed. I know about all there is to know about yams, though, and carrots and white potatoes and turnips. Cotton, too.” She didn’t care if she was bragging or not. She’d bet anything that no lady in Charleston had ever sweated in the sun picking cotton!

“You must have worked yourself to a shadow.” Respect was written clear in Sally Brewton’s eyes.

“We had to eat.” She shrugged off the past. “Thank goodness that’s way behind us.” Then she smiled. Sally Brewton made her feel good. “It did make me mighty particular about root crops, though. Rhett said one time that he’d known plenty of people to send wine back but I was the only one who’d do it with carrots. We were at the fanciest restaurant in New Orleans, and did it ever cause a rumpus!”

Sally laughed explosively. “I think I know that restaurant. Do tell me. Did the waiter rearrange the napkin over his arm and look down his nose in disapproval?”

Scarlett giggled. “He dropped the napkin and it fell onto one of those frying pans they cook dessert in.”

“And caught on fire?” Sally grinned wickedly.

Scarlett nodded.

“Oh, Lord!” Sally hooted. “I’d have given my eye teeth to have been there.”

Eleanor Butler broke in. “What are you two talking about? I could use a good laugh. Brewton only had two pounds of sausage left, and he’d promised them to Minnie Wentworth.”

“Get Scarlett to tell you,” said Sally, still chuckling. “This girl of yours is a wonder, Eleanor, but I’ve got to go.” She put her hand on the basket of onions that Scarlett had designated. “I’ll take this,” she said to the vendor. “Yes, Lena, the whole basket. Just pour them into a croaker sack and give them to Lila. How’s your boy, is he still whooping?” Before she got involved in a discussion of cough remedies she turned to Scarlett and looked up into her face. “I hope you’ll call me ‘Sally’ and come see me, Scarlett. I’m at home the first Wednesday of the month in the afternoon.”

Scarlett didn’t know it, but she had just advanced to the highest level of Charleston’s tight-knit, stratified society. Doors that would have opened a polite crack for Eleanor Butler’s daughter-in-law swung wide for a protégée of Sally Brewton’s.

Eleanor Butler gladly accepted Scarlett’s judgments on the potatoes and carrots she needed to buy. Then she made her purchases of cornmeal, hominy, flour, and rice. Finally, she bought butter, buttermilk, cream, milk, and eggs. Celie’s basket was overflowing. “We’ll have to take everything out and repack it,” Mrs. Butler fretted.

“I’ll carry something,” Scarlett offered. She was impatient to be gone before she had to meet any more of Mrs. Butler’s friends. They had stopped so often, the walk through the vegetable and dairy sections had taken them more than an hour. She didn’t mind meeting the women who were selling the produce—she wanted to mark them down in her mind very clearly, because she was sure she’d be dealing with them in the future. Miss Eleanor was too soft. She was sure she could do better on the prices. It would be fun. As soon as she got the hang of things she’d offer to take over some of the shopping. Not the fishy things, though. They made her sick.

Not, she discovered, when she ate them. Dinner was a revelation. The she-crab soup was a velvety blend of tastes that made her open her eyes wide. She’d never tasted anything so subtly delicious, except in New Orleans. Of course! Now that she remembered it, Rhett had identified many of the dishes he ordered for them as one kind of seafood or another.

Scarlett had a second bowl of soup and relished every drop, then did full justice to the rest of the generous dinner, including dessert, a whipped-cream-topped, crusty nut and fruit confection that Mrs. Butler identified as Huguenot Torte.

That afternoon she had indigestion for the first time in her life. Not from overeating. Eulalie and Pauline upset her. “We’re on our way to see Carreen,” Pauline announced when they arrived, “and we figured Scarlett would want to go with us. Sorry to interrupt. I didn’t know you’d just be finishing dinner.” Her mouth was tight with disapproval of a meal that would last so long. Eulalie released a small sigh of envy.

Carreen! She didn’t want to see Carreen at all. But she couldn’t say that, her aunts would have a fit.

“I’d just love to go, Auntie,” she cried, “but I’m really not feeling very well. I’m just going to put a cool cloth on my forehead and lie down.” She dropped her eyes. “You know how it is.” There! Let them think I’m having female troubles. They’re much too prissy-nice to ask any questions.

She was right. Her aunts made the hastiest possible farewells. Scarlett saw them to the door, careful to walk as if she had cramping in her stomach. Eulalie patted her shoulder sympathetically when she kissed her goodbye. “You have yourself a good long rest, now,” she said. Scarlett nodded meekly. “And come to our house in the morning at nine-thirty. It’s a half-hour walk to Saint Mary’s for Mass.”

Scarlett stared, gape-mouthed with horror. Mass had never crossed her mind.

At that moment a genuine stab of pain made her almost double over.

All afternoon she cowered on the bed with her stays loosed and a hot water bottle on her stomach. The indigestion was uncomfortable and unfamiliar, therefore frightening. But far, far more frightening was her abject fear of God.

Ellen O’Hara had been a devout Catholic, and she had done her best to make religion part of the fabric of life at Tara. There were evening prayers, Litany and rosary, and constant gentle reminders to her daughters about their duties and obligations as Christians. The plantation’s isolation was a sorrow to Ellen because she missed the consolations of the Church. In her quiet way, she tried to provide them to her family. By the time they were twelve years old, Scarlett and her sisters had the imperatives of the catechism firmly implanted by their mother’s patient teaching.

Now Scarlett squirmed with guilt because she had neglected all religious observance for so many years. Her mother must be weeping in heaven. Oh, why did her mother’s sisters have to live in Charleston? Nobody in Atlanta had ever expected her to go to Mass. Mrs. Butler wouldn’t have fussed at her, or at worst, she might have expected her to go to the Episcopal church with her. That wouldn’t be so bad. Scarlett had some vague notion that God didn’t pay attention to anything that happened in a Protestant church. But He would know the minute she stepped over the threshold of Saint Mary’s that she was a fearful sinner who hadn’t been to Confession since . . . since—she couldn’t even remember the last time. She wouldn’t be able to take Communion, and everyone would know that was why. She imagined the invisible guardian angels Ellen had told her about when she was a child. All of them were frowning; Scarlett pulled the covers up over her head.

She didn’t know that her concept of religion was as superstitious and ill-formed as any Stone Age man’s. She only knew that she was frightened and unhappy and angry that she was trapped in a dilemma. What was she going to do?

She remembered her mother’s serene candlelit face telling her family and her servants that God loved the stray lamb most of all, but it wasn’t much comfort. She couldn’t think of any way to get out of going to Mass.

It wasn’t fair! Just when things had started to go so well, too. Mrs. Butler had told her that Sally Brewton gave very exciting whist parties and she was sure to be invited.

16

Scarlett did, of course, go to Mass. To her surprise the ancient ritual and the responses were strangely comforting, like old friends in the new life she was beginning. It was easy to remember her mother when her lips were murmuring the Our Father, and the smooth beads of the rosary were so familiar to her fingers. Ellen must be pleased to see her there on her knees, she was sure, and it made her feel good.

Because it was inescapable, she made a Confession and went to see Carreen, too. The convent and her sister turned out to be two more surprises. Scarlett had always imagined convents as fortresslike places with locked gates where nuns scrubbed stone floors from morning till night. In Charleston the Sisters of Mercy lived in a magnificent brick mansion and taught school in its beautiful ballroom.

Carreen was radiantly happy in her vocation, so changed from the quiet, withdrawn girl Scarlett remembered that she didn’t seem like the same person at all. How could she be angry with a stranger? Especially a stranger who seemed somehow to be older than she, instead of her baby sister. Carreen—Sister Mary Joseph—was so extravagantly glad to see her, too. Scarlett felt warmed by the freely expressed love and admiration. If only Suellen was half as nice, she thought, she wouldn’t feel so shut out at Tara. It was a positive pleasure to visit Carreen and take tea in the lovely formal garden at the convent, even if Carreen did talk so much about the little girls in her arithmetic class that it nearly put Scarlett to sleep.

In what seemed like almost no time at all, Sunday Mass, followed by breakfast at her aunt’s house, and Tuesday afternoon tea with Carreen were welcome quiet moments in Scarlett’s busy schedule.

For she was very busy.

A blizzard of calling cards had descended on Eleanor Butler’s house in the week after Scarlett educated Sally Brewton about onions. Eleanor was grateful to Sally; at least she thought she was. Wise in the ways of Charleston, she was apprehensive for Scarlett. Even in the spartan conditions of post-War life, society was a quicksand of unstated rules of behavior, a Byzantine labyrinth of overelaborate refinements lying in wait to trap the unwary and uninitiated.

She tried to guide Scarlett. “You needn’t call on all these people who left cards, dear,” she said. “It’s enough to leave your own cards with the corner turned down. That acknowledges the call made on you and your willingness to be acquainted and says that you aren’t actually coming in the house to see the person.”

“Is that why so many of the cards were all bent up? I thought they were just old and knocked around. Well, I’m going to go see every single one of them. I’m glad everybody wants to be friends; I do, too.”

Eleanor held her tongue. It was a fact that most of the cards were “old and knocked around.” No one could afford new ones—almost no one. And those who could wouldn’t embarrass those who couldn’t by having new ones made. It was accepted custom now to leave all cards received on a tray in the entrance hall for discreet retrieval by their owners. She decided that, for the moment, she wouldn’t complicate Scarlett’s education with that particular bit of information. The dear child had shown her a box of a hundred fresh white cards that she had brought from Atlanta. They were so new that they were still interleaved with tissue. They should last for a long time. She watched Scarlett set out with high-spirited determination, and she felt the way she had when Rhett, aged three, had called triumphantly to her from the topmost limb of a gigantic oak tree.

Eleanor Butler’s apprehensions were unnecessary. Sally Brewton had been explicit. “The girl is almost totally lacking in education, and she has the taste of a Hottentot. But she has vigor and strength, and she’s a survivor. We need her kind in the South, yes, even in Charleston. Perhaps especially in Charleston. I’m sponsoring her; I expect all my friends to make her feel welcome here.”

Soon Scarlett’s days were a whirlwind of activity. Beginning with an hour or more at the Market, then a big breakfast at the house—usually including Brewton’s sausage—she was out and about by ten o’clock, freshly dressed, with Pansy trotting behind carrying her card case and personal supply of sugar, an expected accompaniment to all guests in rationing times. There was enough time to pay as many as five calls before she returned for dinner. Afternoons were taken up by visits to ladies having their “at home” days or whist parties or excursions with new friends to King Street for shopping or receiving callers with Miss Eleanor.

Scarlett loved the constant activity. Even more, she loved the attention paid her. Most of all, she loved hearing Rhett’s name on everyone’s lips. A few old women were openly critical. They had disapproved of him when he was young, and they would never relent. But most of them forgave his earlier sins. He was older now, chastened. And he was devoted to his mother. Old ladies who had lost their own sons and grandsons in the War could well understand Eleanor Butler’s glowing happiness.

The younger women regarded Scarlett with poorly concealed envy. They delighted in telling all the facts, and all the rumors, about what Rhett was doing when he left the city without explanation. Some said that their husbands knew for sure that Rhett was financing the political movement to throw out the carpetbagger government In the state capital. Others whispered that he was recapturing the Butler family portraits and furnishings at the point of a gun. All of them had stories about his exploits during the War, when his sleek dark ship raced through the Union blockade fleet like a death-dealing shadow. They had a special look on their faces when they talked about him, a mixture of curiosity and romantic imaginings. Rhett was more myth than man. And he was Scarlett’s husband. How could they not envy her?

Scarlett was at her best when she was constantly busy, and these were good days for her. The social rounds were just what she needed after the terrifying loneliness of Atlanta, and she quickly forgot the desperation she had felt. Atlanta must have been wrong, that’s all. She’d done nothing to deserve such cruelty or everybody in Charleston wouldn’t like her so much. And they did, why else would they invite her?

The thought was immensely gratifying. She returned to it often. Whenever she was paying her calls, or receiving calls with Mrs. Butler, or visiting her specially chosen friend, Anne Hampton, at the Confederate Home, or gossiping over coffee at the Market, Scarlett always wished that Rhett could see her. Sometimes she even looked quickly around her, imagining that he was there, so intense was her desire. Oh, if only he’d come home!

He seemed closest to her in the quiet time after supper when she sat with his mother in the study and listened with fascination while Miss Eleanor talked. She was always willing to remember things Rhett had done or said when he was a little boy.

Scarlett enjoyed Miss Eleanor’s other stories, too. Sometimes they were wickedly funny. Eleanor Butler, like most of her Charleston contemporaries, had been educated by governesses and travel. She was well-read but not intellectual, spoke the romance languages adequately, but with a terrible accent, was familiar with London, Paris, Rome, Florence, but only the famous historic attractions and luxury shops. She was true to her era and her class. She had never questioned the authority of her parents or her husband, and she did her duty in all respects, without complaining.

What set her apart from most women of her type was that she had an irrepressible, quiet sense of fun. She enjoyed whatever life brought her and found the human condition fundamentally entertaining, and she was a gifted teller of stories, with a repertoire that ranged from accounts of amusing incidents in her own life to the classic Southern storehouse of the skeletons in the closets of every family in the region.

Scarlett, if she had known the reference, could accurately have called Eleanor her personal Scheherazade. She never realized that Mrs. Butler was trying, indirectly, to stretch her mind and her heart. Eleanor could see the vulnerability and courage that had drawn her beloved son to Scarlett. She could also see that something had gone horribly wrong with the marriage, so wrong that Rhett wanted nothing more to do with it. She knew, without being told, that Scarlett was desperately determined to get him back, and for her own reasons she was even more eager for reconciliation than Scarlett was. She wasn’t certain whether Scarlett could make Rhett happy, but she believed with all her heart that another child would make the marriage a success. Rhett had visited her with Bonnie; she would never forget the joy of it. She had loved the little girl and loved even more seeing her son so happy. She wanted that happiness again for him, and the joy again for herself. She was willing to do anything in her power to accomplish it.

Because she was so occupied, Scarlett had been in Charleston for more than a month before she noticed that she was bored. It happened at Sally Brewton’s, the least boring place in town, when everyone was talking about fashion, a subject that had previously been of consuming interest to Scarlett. At first she was fascinated to hear Sally and her circle of friends mention Paris. Rhett had once brought her a bonnet from Paris, the most beautiful, most exciting gift she’d ever received. Green—to match her eyes, he’d said—with glorious wide silk ribbons to tie under her chin. She made herself listen to what Alicia Savage was saying—though what a skinny old lady like her could know about dressing was hard to figure. Or Sally, either. With her face and flat chest, nothing would make her look good.

“Do you remember Worth’s fittings?” Mrs. Savage said. “I thought I’d collapse standing on the platform so long.”

A half dozen voices spoke at once, sharing complaints about the brutality of Paris dressmakers. Others argued with them, saying that any inconvenience was a small price to pay for the quality that only Paris could supply. Several sighed over memories of gloves and boots and fans and perfume.

Scarlett turned automatically toward whatever voice was speaking, an interested expression on her face. When she heard laughter, she laughed. But she thought about other things—whether there was any of that good pie left from dinner to have for supper . . . her blue dress that could use a fresh collar . . . Rhett . . . She looked at the clock behind Sally’s head. She couldn’t leave for at least eight more minutes. And Sally had seen her looking. She’d have to pay attention.

The eight minutes seemed like eight more hours.

“All anybody talked about, Miss Eleanor, was clothes. I thought I’d go crazy I was so bored!” Scarlett collapsed into the chair opposite Mrs. Butler’s. Clothes had lost their fascination for her when she was reduced to the four “serviceable” drab-colored frocks Rhett’s mother helped her order from the dressmaker. Even the ballgowns that were being made held small interest. There were only two, for the upcoming six-week series of balls almost every night. They were dull, too—dull colors, one blue silk and one claret-colored velvet—and dull design, with hardly any trim. Still, even the dullest ball meant music—and dancing—and Scarlett dearly loved to dance. Rhett would be back from the plantation, too, Miss Eleanor had promised her. If only she didn’t have to wait so long for the Season to start. Three weeks suddenly seemed unendurably boring to contemplate with nothing to do but sit around and talk to women.

Oh, how she wished something exciting would happen!

Scarlett’s wish was granted very soon, but not in the way she wanted. Instead, the excitement was terrifying.

It started as malicious gossip that had people laughing all over town. Mary Elizabeth Pitt, a spinster in her forties, claimed that she had awakened in the middle of the night and seen a man in her room. “Just as plain as anything,” she said, “with a kerchief over his face like Jesse James.”

“If ever I heard wishful thinking,” someone unkindly commented, “that’s it. Mary Elizabeth must be twenty years older than Jesse James.” The newspaper had been printing a series of articles romanticizing the daring exploits of the James brothers and their gang.

But the following day the story took an ugly turn. Alicia Savage was also in her forties, but she had been married twice, and everyone knew that she was a calm-natured, rational woman. She, too, had woken up and seen a man in her bedroom, standing beside her bed, looking at her in the moonlight. He was holding the curtain back to let the light in, and he was staring over a kerchief that hid the lower part of his face. The upper part was shadowed by the bill of his cap.

He was wearing the uniform of a Union soldier.

Mrs. Savage screamed and threw a book from her bedside table at him. He went through the curtains onto the piazza before her husband reached her room.

A Yankee! Suddenly everyone was afraid. Women alone were frightened for themselves; women with husbands were frightened for themselves and even more afraid for their husbands, because if a man injured a Union soldier, he’d go to prison or even be hanged.

The next night and the next, the soldier materialized in a woman’s bedroom. On the third night, the report was the worst of all. It wasn’t moonlight that woke Theodosia Harding, it was the movement of a warm hand on the coverlet over her breasts. Only darkness met her eyes when she opened them. But she could hear strangled breathing, feel a crouching presence. She cried out, then fainted from fear. No one knew what might have happened next. Theodosia had been sent to cousins in Summerville. Everyone said she was in a state of collapse. Near idiocy, added the ghoulish.

A delegation of Charleston men went to Army headquarters with the elderly lawyer Josiah Anson as their spokesman. They were going to begin their own night patrols in the old part of the city. If they surprised the intruder, they’d deal with him themselves.

The commandant agreed to the patrols. But he warned that if any Union soldier was hurt, the responsible man or men would be executed. There’d be no vigilante justice or random attacks on Northern troops under the guise of protecting Charleston’s women.

Scarlett’s fears—long years of them—crashed on her like a tidal wave. She had grown contemptuous of the occupation troops; like everyone else in Charleston she ignored them, acted as if they were not there, and they got out of her way as she walked briskly down the sidewalk on her way to pay a call or go shopping. Now she was afraid of every blue uniform she saw. Any one of them might be the midnight intruder. She could imagine him all too well, a figure springing out from the dark.

Her sleep was broken by hideous dreams—memories, really. Again and again she saw the Yankee straggler who’d come to Tara, smelled the rank smell of him, saw his filthy, hairy hands pawing through the trinkets in her mother’s work box, his red-rimmed eyes hot with violent lust staring at her and his broken-toothed mouth wet and twisted in an anticipatory leer. She’d shot him. Obliterated the mouth and the eyes in an explosion of blood and bits of bone and viscous red-streaked gobbets of his brains.

She’d never been able to forget the echoing boom of the shot and the ghastly red spatterings and her fierce, rending triumph.

Oh, if only she had a pistol to protect herself and Miss Eleanor from the Yankee!

But there was no weapon in the house. She ransacked cupboards and trunks, wardrobes and dresser drawers, even the shelves behind the books in the library. She was defenseless, helpless. For the first time in her life she felt weak, unable to face and overcome any obstacle in her way. It all but crippled her. She begged Eleanor Butler to send a message to Rhett.

Eleanor temporized. Yes, yes, she’d send word. Yes, she’d tell him what Alicia had said about the hulking size of the man and the unearthly glint of moonlight in his inhumanly black eyes. Yes, she’d remind him that she and Scarlett were two women alone in the big house at night, that the servants all went to their own homes after supper except for Manigo, an old man, and Pansy, a small, weak girl.

Yes, she’d make the note urgent, and she’d dispatch it right away—on the very next trip of the boat that brought game from the plantation.

“But when will that be, Miss Eleanor? Rhett has to come now! That magnolia tree is practically a ladder from the ground to the piazza outside our rooms!” Scarlett clutched Mrs. Butler’s arm, shook it for emphasis.

Eleanor patted her hand. “Soon, dear, it’s bound to be soon. We haven’t had any duck for a month, and roast duck is a particular favorite of mine. Rhett knows that. Besides, everything will be all right now. Ross and his friends are going to patrol every night.”

Ross! Scarlett screamed inwardly. What could a drunk like Ross Butler do? Or any of the Charleston men? Most of them were old men or cripples or still boys. If they’d been any use, they wouldn’t have lost the stupid War. Why should anyone trust them to fight the Yankees now?

She battered her need against Eleanor Butler’s impenetrable optimism, and she lost.

For a while it seemed the patrols were effective. There were no reports of intruders, and everyone calmed down. Scarlett had her first “at home” day, which was so well attended that her Aunt Eulalie complained that there wasn’t enough cake to go around. Eleanor Butler tore up the note she had written Rhett. People went to church, went shopping, played whist, took out their evening clothes to air them and make repairs before the Season began.

Scarlett came in from her round of morning calls with glowing cheeks from walking too quickly. “Where’s Mrs. Butler?” she demanded of Manigo. When he replied that she was in the kitchen Scarlett ran to the back of the house.

Eleanor Butler looked up at Scarlett’s rushed entry. “Good news, Scarlett! I had a letter from Rosemary this morning. She’ll be home day after tomorrow.”

“Better wire her to stay,” Scarlett snapped. Her voice was harsh, emotionless. “The Yankee got to Harriet Madison last night. I just heard.” She looked at the table near Mrs. Butler. “Ducks? Those are ducks you’re plucking! The plantation boat came! I can go back to the plantation on it to get Rhett.”

“You can’t go alone in that boat with four men, Scarlett.”

“I can take Pansy, whether she likes it or not. Here, give me a sack and some of those biscuits. I’m hungry. I’ll eat them on the way.”

“But Scarlett—”

“But me no buts, Miss Eleanor. Just hand me the biscuits. I’m going.”

What am I doing? Scarlett thought, near panic. I should never have dashed off this way, Rhett’s going to be furious with me. And I must look awful. It’s bad enough just to show up where I don’t belong; at least I could look pretty. I had it all planned so different.

She had thought about it a thousand times, what it would be like when next she saw Rhett. Sometimes she imagined that he’d come home to the house late; she’d be in her nightdress, the one with the drawstring neck-tied loose and she’d be brushing her hair before bedtime. Rhett had always loved her hair, he said it was a live thing; sometimes in the early days—he’d brush it for her, to see the blue cracklings of electricity.

Often she pictured herself at the tea table, dropping a piece of sugar into a cup with the silver tongs elegantly held in her fingers. She’d be chatting cozily with Sally Brewton, and he’d see how much at home she was, how welcomed by Charleston’s most interesting people. He’d catch up her hand and kiss it, and the tongs would drop, but it wouldn’t matter . . .

Or she was with Miss Eleanor after supper, the two of them in their chairs before the fire, so comfortable together, so close, but with a place waiting for him. Only once had she envisioned going to the plantation, because she didn’t know what the place was like, except that Sherman’s men had burned it. Her daydream began allright—she and Miss Eleanor arrived with hampers of cakes and champagne in a lovely green-painted boat, resting against piles of silk cushions, holding bright flowered parasols. “Picnic,” they called out, and Rhett laughed and ran to them, his arms open. But then it fizzled out, in blankness. Rhett hated picnics, for one thing. He said you might as well live in a cave if you were going to eat sitting on the ground like an animal instead of in a chair at a table like a civilized human being.

Certainly she had never thought of the possibility that she’d show up like this, squashed amid boxes and barrels of God knows what on a scabby boat that smelled to high heaven.

Now that she was away from the city, she was more worried about Rhett’s anger than about the prowling Yankee. Suppose he just tells the boatmen to turn right around and take me back?

The boatmen dipped their oars into the green-brown water only to steer; the tide’s invisible, powerful, slow current carried them. Scarlett looked impatiently at the banks of the wide river. It didn’t seem to her that they were moving at all. Everything was the same: wide stretches of tall brown grasses that swayed slowly—oh, so slowly—in the tidal current, and behind them thick woods draped with motionless gray curtains of Spanish moss, under them the tangled growth of overgrown evergreen shrubs. It was all so silent. Why weren’t there any birds singing, for heaven’s sake? And why was it getting so dark already?

It began to rain.

Long before the oars started a steady pull toward the left bank she was soaked to the skin and shivering, miserable in body and mind. The bump of the bow against a dock jarred her from her huddled desolation. She looked up through the blur of rain on her face and saw a figure in streaming black oilskins, illuminated by a blazing torch. The face was invisible under a deep hood.

“Throw me a line.” Rhett leaned forward, one arm outstretched. “Good trip, boys?”

Scarlett pushed against the crates nearest her to stand. Her legs were too cramped to hold her, and she fell back, toppling the topmost crate with a crash.

“What the hell?” Rhett caught the noosed rope that snaked to him from the boatman and dropped the circle over a mooring post. “Toss up the stern line,” he ordered. “What’s making that racket? Are you men drunk?”

“No sir, Mister Rhett,” the boatmen chorused. It was the first time they had spoken since they had left the dock in Charleston. One of them gestured toward the two women in the stern of the barge.

“My God!” said Rhett.

17

“Do you feel better now?”

Rhett’s voice was carefully controlled. Scarlett nodded dumbly. She was wrapped in a blanket, wearing a coarse work shirt of Rhett’s underneath, and sitting on a stool near an open fire with her bare feet in a tub of hot water.

“How are you doing, Pansy?” Scarlett’s maid, on another stool in another blanket cocoon, grinned and allowed as how she was doing just fine excepting that she was powerful hungry.

Rhett chuckled. “And so am I. When you dry out, we’ll eat.”

Scarlett pulled the blanket more closely around her. He’s being too nice, I’ve seen him like this before, all smiles and warm as sunshine. Then it would turn out that he was really mad enough to spit nails all the time. It’s because Pansy’s here, that’s why he’s putting on this act. When she’s gone, he’ll turn on me. Maybe I can say I need her to stay with me—but for what? I’m already undressed, and I can’t put my clothes on again until they dry, and Lord knows when that will be, with the rain outside and the inside so dank. How can Rhett bear to live in this place? It’s awful!

The room they were in was lit only by the fire. It was a large square, perhaps twenty feet to a side, with a packed-earth floor and stained walls that had lost most of their plaster. It smelled of cheap whiskey and tobacco juice, with an underlay of scorched wood and fabric. The only furniture was an assortment of crude stools and benches, plus a scattering of dented metal cuspidors. The mantelpiece over the wide fireplace and the frames around the doors and windows looked like some kind of mistake. They were made of pine, beautifully carved with a delicate fretwork design and oiled to a glowing golden brown. In one corner there was a rough staircase with splintered wooden treads and a sagging, unsafe railing. Scarlett’s and Pansy’s clothes were draped over the length of it. The white petticoats billowed from time to time when a draft caught them, like ghosts lurking in deep shadows.

“Why didn’t you stay in Charleston, Scarlett?” Supper was over and Pansy had been sent to sleep with the old black woman who cooked for Rhett. Scarlett squared her shoulders.

“Your mother didn’t want to disturb you in your paradise here.” She looked around the room disdainfully. “But I believe you should know what’s going on. There’s a Yankee soldier creeping into bedrooms at night—ladies’ bedrooms—and handling them. One girl went clean out of her mind and had to be sent off.” She tried to read his face, but it was expressionless. He was looking at her, silent, as if he was waiting for something.

“Well? Don’t you care that your mother and I could be murdered in our beds, or something worse?”

Rhett’s mouth turned down in a derisive smile. “Am I hearing correctly? Maidenly timidity from the woman who drove a wagon through the entire Yankee army because it was in her way? Come, now, Scarlett. You’ve been known to tell the truth. Why did you come all this way in the rain? Were you hoping to catch me in the arms of a light o’ love? Did Henry Hamilton recommend that as a way to get me to start paying your bills again?”

“What on earth are you talking about, Rhett Butler? What has Uncle Henry got to do with anything?”

“Such convincing ignorance! I compliment you. But you can’t expect me to believe for an instant that your crafty old lawyer didn’t notify you when I cut off the money I was sending to Atlanta. I’m too fond of Henry Hamilton to credit such negligence.”

“Stopped sending the money? You can’t do that!” Scarlett’s knees turned to jelly. Rhett couldn’t mean it. What would happen to her? The house on Peachtree Street—the tons of coal it took to heat it, the servants to clean and cook and wash and keep the garden and the horses and polish the carriages, the food for all of them—why, it cost a fortune. How could Uncle Henry pay the bills? He’d use her money! No, no that couldn’t be. She’d scrabbled along with no food in her belly, broken shoes on her feet, her back breaking and her hands bleeding while she worked in the fields to keep from starving. She’d given up all her pride, turned her back on everything she’d been taught, done business with low-down people not fit to spit on, schemed and cheated, worked day and night for her money. She wouldn’t let it go, she couldn’t. It was hers. It was the only thing she had.

“You can’t take my money!” she screamed at Rhett. But it came out a cracked whisper.

He laughed. “I haven’t taken any away from you, my pet. I’ve only stopped adding to it. As long as you’re living in the house I provide in Charleston, there’s no reason for me to maintain an empty house in Atlanta. Of course, if you were to return to it, it would no longer be empty. Then I’d feel obliged to begin paying for it again.” Rhett walked over to the fireplace where he could see her face in the light of the flames. His challenging smile disappeared and his forehead creased with concern.

“You really didn’t know, did you? Hold on, Scarlett, I’ll get you a brandy. You look like you’re going to pass out.”

He had to steady her hands with his to hold the glass to her lips. She was trembling uncontrollably. When the glass was empty, he dropped it on the floor and chafed her hands until they warmed and stopped shaking.

“Now tell me, in sober truth, is there really a soldier breaking into bedrooms?”

“Rhett, you didn’t mean it, did you? You aren’t going to stop sending the money to Atlanta?”

“To hell with the money, Scarlett, I asked you a question.”

“To hell with you,” she said, “I asked you one.”

“I should have known you wouldn’t be able to think of anything else once money was mentioned. All right, I’ll send some to Henry. Now will you answer me?”

“You swear?”

“I swear.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes! Yes, dammit, tomorrow. Now, once and for all, what’s this story about a Yankee soldier?”

Scarlett’s sigh of relief seemed to last forever. Then she drew breath into her lungs and told him everything she knew about the intruder.

“You say Alicia Savage saw his uniform?”

“Yes,” Scarlett answered. Then she added spitefully, “He doesn’t care how old they are. Maybe he’s raping your mother right this minute.”

Rhett’s big hands clenched. “I should strangle you, Scarlett. The world would be a better place.”

He questioned her for almost an hour, until she was drained of everything she’d heard.

“Very well,” he said then, “we’ll leave tomorrow as soon as the tide turns.” He walked to a door and threw it open. “Good,” he said, “the sky is clear. It’ll be an easy run.”

Past his silhouette Scarlett could see the night sky. There was a three-quarter moon. She stood wearily. Then she saw the mist from the river that covered the ground outside. The moonlight made it white, and for a confused moment she wondered if it had snowed. A billow of mist enveloped Rhett’s feet and ankles, then dissipated into the room. He closed the door and turned. Without the moonlight, the room seemed very dark until a match flared, illuminating Rhett’s chin and nose from below. He touched it to a lamp wick, and she could see his face. Scarlett ached with longing. He put the glass chimney on the lamp and held it high. “Come with me. There’s a bedroom upstairs where you can sleep.”

It was not nearly as primitive as the room downstairs. The tall four-post bed had a thick mattress and fat pillows and a bright woolen blanket over its crisp linen sheets. Scarlett didn’t look at the other furnishings. She let the blanket fall from her shoulders and climbed the set of steps beside the bed to burrow under the covers.

He stood over her a moment before he left the room. She listened to his footsteps. No, he wasn’t going downstairs, he’d be close by. Scarlett smiled, then slept.

The nightmare began as it had always begun—with the mist. It was years since Scarlett had dreamed it, but her unconscious mind remembered even as it created the dream, and she began to twist and thrash and whimper deep in the back of her throat, dreading what was to come. Then, again, she was running, with her straining heart pounding in her ears, running, stumbling and running, through a thick white fog that twined cold swirling tendrils around her throat and legs and arms. She was cold, as cold as death, and hungry, and terrified. It was the same, it had always been the same, and each time worse than the time before, as if the terror and hunger and cold accumulated, grew stronger.

And yet it was not the same. For in the past, she had been running and reaching for something unnamed and unknowable, and now ahead of her she could glimpse through streaks in the mist Rhett’s broad back, always moving away. And she knew that he was what she was searching for, that when she reached him the dream would lose its power and fade away, never to return. She ran and ran, but he was always far ahead, always with his back turned on her. Then the fog thickened, and he began to disappear, and she cried out to him. “Rhett . . . Rhett . . . Rhett . . . Rhett . . . Rhett . . .”

“Hush, hush now. You’re dreaming, it’s not real.”

“Rhett . . .”

“Yes, I’m here. Hush now. You’re all right.” Strong arms lifted her and held her, and she was warm and safe at last.

Scarlett half-woke with a start. There was no mist. Instead, a lamp on a table cast a glowing light and she could see Rhett’s face bent close above hers. “Oh, Rhett,” she cried. “It was so awful.”

“The old dream?”

“Yes, yes—well, almost. There was something different, I can’t remember . . . But I was cold and hungry and I couldn’t see because of the fog, and I was so frightened, Rhett, it was terrible.”

He held her close and his voice vibrated in his hard chest next to her ear. “Of course you were cold and hungry. That supper wasn’t fit to eat, and you’ve kicked off your blankets. I’ll pull them up, and you’ll sleep just fine.” He laid her down against the pillows.

“Don’t leave me. It’ll come back.”

Rhett spread the blankets up over her. “There’ll be biscuits for breakfast, and hominy, and butter enough to turn them yellow. Think about that—and country ham and fresh eggs—and you’ll sleep like a baby. You’ve always been a good feeder, Scarlett.” His voice was amused. And tired. She closed her heavy eyelids.

“Rhett?” It was a blurred, drowsy sound.

He paused in the doorway, his hand shading the lamplight. “Yes, Scarlett?”

“Thank you for coming to wake me. How did you know?”

“You were yelling loud enough to break the windows.” The last sound she heard was his warm gentle laughter. It was like a lullaby.

True to Rhett’s prediction, Scarlett ate an enormous breakfast before she went to look for him. He’d been up before dawn, the cook told her. He was always up before the sun. She looked at Scarlett with undisguised curiosity.

I should wear her out for her impudence, Scarlett thought, but she was so content she couldn’t summon up any real anger. Rhett had held her, comforted her, even laughed at her. Just as he used to before things went wrong. She’d been so right to come to the plantation. She should have done it before, instead of frittering away her time at a million tea parties.

The sunlight made her narrow her eyes when she stepped outside the house. It was strong, already warm on her head although it was still very early. She shaded her eyes with her hand and looked around her.

A soft moan was her first reaction. The brick terrace under her feet continued to her left for a hundred yards. Broken, blackened and grass-grown, it was a frame for a monumental charred ruin. Jagged remnants of walls and chimneys were all that remained of what had been a magnificent mansion. Tumbled mounds of smoke and firestained bricks within the fragments of walls were heart-stopping mementos of Sherman’s Army.

Scarlett was heartsick. This had been Rhett’s home, Rhett’s life—lost forever before he could come back to reclaim it.

Nothing in her troubled life had ever been as bad as this. She’d never known the degree of pain he must have felt, must still feel a hundred times a day when he saw the ruins of his home. No wonder he was determined to rebuild, to find and regain everything he could of the old possessions.

She could help him! Hadn’t she plowed and planted and harvested Tara’s fields herself? Why, she’d wager Rhett didn’t even know good seed corn from bad. She’d be proud to help, because she knew how much it meant, what a victory it was over the despoilers when the land was reborn with tender new growth. I understand, she thought triumphantly. I can feel what he’s feeling. I can work with him. We can do this together. I don’t mind a dirt floor. Not if it’s with Rhett. Where is he? I’ve got to tell him!

Scarlett turned away from the shell of the house and found herself facing a vista unlike anything she’d ever seen in her life. The brick terrace on which she was standing led onto a grass-covered earth parterre, the highest of a series of grass terraces that unfolded in perfectly contoured sweeping movement down to a pair of sculpted lakes in the shape of gigantic butterfly wings. Between them a wide grassy path led to the river and the boat landing. The extravagant scale was so perfectly proportioned that the great distances appeared less, and the whole was like a carpeted outdoor room. The lush grass hid the scars of war, as though it had never been. It was a scene of sunlit tranquillity, of nature lovingly shaped into harmony with man. In the distance a bird sang an extended melody, as if in celebration. “Oh, how pretty!” she said aloud.

Movement to the left of the lowest terrace caught Scarlett’s eye. It must be Rhett. She began to run. Down the terraces—the undulation increased her speed and she felt a giddy, intoxicating, joyful freedom; she laughed and threw her arms wide, a bird or a butterfly about to soar into the blue, blue skies.

She was breathless when she reached the place where Rhett was standing and watching her. Scarlett panted, her hand on her chest, until her breath returned. Then, “I’ve never had such fun!” she said, still half-gasping. “What a wonderful place this is, Rhett. No wonder you love it. Did you run down that lawn when you were a little boy? Did you feel like you could fly? Oh, my darling, how horrible to see the burning! I’m broken-hearted for you; I’d like to kill every Yankee in the world! Oh, Rhett, I’ve got so much to tell you. I’ve been thinking. It can all come back, darling, just like the grass. I understand, I really, truly do understand what you’re doing.”

Rhett looked at her strangely, cautiously. “What do you ‘understand,’ Scarlett?”

“Why you’re here, instead of in town. Why you must bring the plantation back to life. Tell me what you’ve done, what you’re going to do. It’s so exciting!”

Rhett’s face lit up, and he gestured toward the long rows of plants behind him. “They burned,” he said, “but they didn’t die. It looks as if perhaps they were even strengthened by the burning. The ashes may have given them something they needed. I’ve got to find out. I’ve got so much to learn.”

Scarlett looked at the low stubby remains. She didn’t know those dark green shiny leaves.

“What kind of tree is it? Do you grow peaches here?”

“They’re not trees. Scarlett, they’re shrubs. Camellias. The first ones ever brought to America were planted here at Dunmore Landing. These are offshoots, over three hundred all told.”

“Do you mean they’re flowers?”

“Of course. The most nearly perfect flower in the world. The Chinese worship them.”

“But you can’t eat flowers. What crops are you planting?”

“I can’t think about crops. I’ve got a hundred acres of garden to save.”

“That’s crazy, Rhett. What’s a flower garden good for? You could grow something to sell. I know cotton doesn’t grow ’round here, but there must be some good cash crop. Why, at Tara, we put every foot of land to use. You could plant right up to the walls of the house. Just look how green and thick that grass is. The land must be as rich as anything. All you’d have to do is plow it and drop in the seed, and it would probably sprout faster than you could get out of the way.” She looked eagerly at him, ready to share her hard-earned knowledge.

“You’re a barbarian, Scarlett,” Rhett said heavily. “Go up to the house and tell Pansy to get ready. I’ll meet you at the dock.”

What had she done wrong? One minute he was full of life and excitement, then all of a sudden it was gone and he was cold, a stranger. She’d never understand him if she lived to be a hundred. She strode rapidly up the green terraces, blind now to their beauty, and into the house.

The boat moored to the landing was very different from the scabrous barge that had brought Scarlett and Pansy to the plantation. It was a sleek brown-painted sloop with bright brass fittings and gilt scroll trim. Beyond it in the river was another boat, one that she’d much prefer, Scarlett thought angrily. It was five times the size of the sloop and it had two decks with white and blue gingerbread scrollwork trim and a bright red rear paddlewheel. Gaily colored bunting flags were strung from its smokestacks, and brightly dressed men and women crowded the rails on both decks. It looked festive and fun.

It’s just like Rhett, Scarlett brooded, to go to the city in his dinky little boat instead of hailing the steamer to pick us up. She reached the landing just as Rhett took off his hat and made a sweeping, flamboyant bow to the people on the paddlewheeler.

“Do you know those folks?” she said. Maybe she was wrong, maybe he was signalling.

Rhett turned from the river, replacing his hat. “Indeed I do. Not individually, I hope, but in the whole. That’s the weekly excursion boat from Charleston up the river and back. A highly profitable business for one of our carpetbagger citizens. Yankees buy tickets well in advance for the pleasure of seeing the skeletons of the burned-out plantation houses. I always greet them if it’s convenient; it amuses me to see the confusion it engenders.” Scarlett was too appalled to say a word. How could Rhett make a joke out of a bunch of Yankee buzzards laughing at what they’d done to his home?

She settled herself obediently on a cushioned bench in the small cabin, but as soon as Rhett stepped up on deck she jumped up to examine the intricate arrangement of cupboards, shelves, supplies and equipment, each thing in a place obviously designed for its storage. She was still busily satisfying her curiosity as the sloop moved slowly along the riverbank for a short distance and then tied up again. Rhett called out crisp orders. “Pass those bundles over and tie them down on the bow.” Scarlett poked her head up from the hatch to see what was going on.

Gracious peace, what was all this? Dozens of black men were leaning on picks and shovels and watching as a series of bulky sacks were thrown to a crewman on the sloop. Where on earth could they be? This place looked like the back side of the moon. There was a huge clearing in the woods with a big pit dug in it and gigantic piles of what looked like pale chunks of rock on one side. Chalky dust filled the air and, soon, her nostrils, and she sneezed.

Pansy’s echoing sneeze from the rear deck caught her attention. No fair, she thought. Pansy had a good view of everything. “I’m coming up,” Scarlett shouted.

“Cast off,” Rhett said at the same time.

The sloop moved quickly, caught by the fast river current, sending Scarlett tumbling down from the short ladder-stair into a graceless sprawl in the cabin. “Damn you, Rhett Butler, I could have broken my neck.”

“You didn’t. Stay put. I’ll be down shortly.”

Scarlett heard the creaking of ropes, and the sloop picked up speed. She scrambled to one of the benches and pulled herself up.

Almost immediately Rhett stepped easily down the ladder, his head bent to clear the hatch. He straightened up, and his head grazed the polished wood above it. Scarlett glared at him.

“You did that on purpose,” she grumbled.

“Did what?” He opened one of the small portholes and closed the hatch. “Good,” he said then, “we’ve got a following wind and a strong current. We’ll be in the city in record time.” He dropped onto the bench opposite Scarlett and lounged back, sleek and sinuous as a cat. “I assume you won’t object if I smoke.” His long fingers dipped into the interior pocket of his coat and extracted a cheroot.

“I object a lot. Why am I shut up down here in the dark? I want to go upstairs in the sun.”

“Above,” Rhett corrected automatically. “This is a rather small craft. The crew is black, Pansy is black, you are white and a woman. They get the cockpit, you get the cabin. Pansy can roll her eyes at the two men, laugh at their somewhat indelicate gallantries, and they’ll all three have a pleasant time. Your presence would spoil it.

“So at the same time that the underclass is enjoying the journey, you and I, the privileged elite, will be thoroughly miserable cooped up in each other’s company while you continue to pout and whine.”

“I’m not pouting and whining! And I’ll thank you not to talk to me as if I was a child!” Scarlett pulled in her lower lip. She hated it when Rhett made her feel foolish. “What was that quarry we stopped at?”

“That, my dear, was the salvation of Charleston and my passport back into the bosom of my people. It is a phosphate mine. There are dozens of them scattered along both rivers.” He lit his cigar with prolonged appreciation and the smoke spiraled upward to the porthole. “I see your eyes gleaming, Scarlett. It’s not the same as a gold mine. You can’t make coins or jewelry out of phosphate. But, ground and washed and treated with certain chemicals, it makes the best quick-acting fertilizer in the world. There are customers waiting for as much of it as we can produce.”

“So you’re getting richer than ever.”

“Yes, I am. But, more to the point, this is respectable, Charleston money. I can spend as much of my ill-gotten, speculator profit as I like now without disapproval. Everyone can tell themselves that it comes from phosphates, even though the mine is puny in size.”

“Why don’t you make it bigger?”

“I don’t have to. It serves my purpose just as it is. I have a foreman who doesn’t cheat me much, a couple of dozen laborers who work almost as much as they loaf, and respectability. I can spend my time and money and sweat on what I care about, and right now, that’s restoring the gardens.”

Scarlett was annoyed almost past bearing. Wasn’t that just like Rhett to fall into a tub of butter? And to waste the chance? No matter how rich he was, he could stand to get richer. There was no such ouir and got a decent day’s work out of those men, he could triple the yield. With another couple of dozen laborers, he could double that . . .

“Forgive me for interrupting your empire building, Scarlett, but I have a serious question to ask you. What would it take to convince you that you should leave me in peace and go back to Atlanta?”

Scarlett gaped at him. She was genuinely astonished. He couldn’t possibly mean what he was saying, not after he had held her so tenderly last night. “You’re joking,” she accused.

“No, I am not. I’ve never been more serious in my life, and I want you to take me seriously. It has never been my habit to explain to anyone what I’m doing or what I’m thinking; nor do I have any real confidence that you will understand what I’m going to tell you. But I’m going to try.

“I am working harder than I’ve ever had to work in my life, Scarlett. I burned my bridges in Charleston so thoroughly and so publicly that the stench of the destruction is still in the nostrils of everyone in town. It’s immeasurably stronger than the worst Sherman could do, because I was one of their own, and I defied everything they built their lives on. Winning my way back into Charleston’s good graces is like climbing an ice-covered mountain in the dark. One slip, and I’m dead. So far I’ve been very cautious and very slow, and I’ve made some small headway. I can’t take the risk of your destroying all I’ve done. I want you to leave, and I’m asking your price.”

Scarlett laughed with relief. “Is that all? You can set your mind at rest if that’s what’s worrying you. Why, everybody in Charleston just loves me. I’m rushed off my feet with invitations to this and that, and not a day goes by that somebody doesn’t come up to me in the Market and ask my advice about her shopping.”

Rhett drew on his cigar. Then he watched the bright end of it cool and become ash. “I was afraid I’d be wasting my breath,” he said at last. “I was right. I’ll admit you’ve lasted longer and been more restrained than I expected—oh, yes, I hear some news from town when I’m on the plantation—but you’re like a powder keg lashed to my back on that ice-mountain, Scarlett. You’re dead weight—unlettered, uncivilized, Catholic, and an exile from everything decent in Atlanta. You could blow up in my face any minute. I want you gone. What will it take?”

Scarlett seized on the only accusation she could defend. “I’d be grateful if you’d tell me what’s wrong with being a Catholic, Rhett Butler! We were God-fearing long before you Episcopalians were ever heard of.”

Rhett’s sudden laughter made no sense to her. “Pax, Henry Tudor,” he said, which made no sense either. But his next words struck to the bone with their accuracy. “We won’t waste time debating theology, Scarlett. The fact is—and you know it as well as I do—that, for no defensible reason, Roman Catholics are looked down on in Southern society. In Charleston today you can attend Saint Phillip’s or Saint Michael’s or the Huguenot church or First Scots Presbyterian. Even the other Episcopal and Presbyterian churches are slightly suspect, and any other Protestant denomination is considered rank individualistic display. Roman Catholicism is beyond the pale. It’s not reasonable, and God knows it’s not Christian, but it is a fact.”

Scarlett was silent. She knew he was right. Rhett used her momentary defeat to repeat his original question. “What do you want, Scarlett? You can tell me. I’ve never been shocked at the darker corners of your nature.”

He really means it, she thought with despair. All the tea parties I’ve sat through, and the dreary clothes I had to wear, and tramping through the cold dark every morning to the Market—it was all for nothing. She had come to Charleston to get Rhett back, and she had not won.

“I want you,” Scarlett said with stark honesty.

This time it was Rhett who was silent. She could see only his outline and the pale smoke from his cigar. He was so near; if she moved her foot a few inches it would touch his. She wanted him so much that she felt physical pain. She wanted to double over to ease it, hold it inside her so it couldn’t grow any worse. But she sat tall, waiting for him to speak.

18

Overhead Scarlett could hear a rumble of voices punctuated by Pansy’s high-pitched giggle. It made the silence in the cabin seem even worse.

“A half million in gold,” said Rhett.

“What did you say?” I must have heard wrong. I told him what was in my heart and he hasn’t answered.

“I said I’ll give you half a million dollars in gold if you will go away. Whatever pleasure you’re finding in Charleston can hardly be worth that much to you. I’m offering you a handsome bribe, Scarlett. Your greedy little heart can’t possibly prefer a futile attempt to save our marriage to a fortune bigger than you ever hoped for. As a bonus, if you agree I’ll resume payments for expenses of that monstrosity on Peachtree Street.”

“You promised last night that you’d send the money to Uncle Henry today,” she said automatically. She wished he’d be quiet for a minute. She needed to think. Was it really “a futile attempt”? She refused to believe it.

“Promises are made to be broken,” Rhett said calmly. “What about my offer, Scarlett?”

“I need to think.”

“Think, then, while I finish my cigar. Then I want your answer. Think what it will be like if you have to pour your own money into that horror of a house you love so much on Peachtree Street; you have no conception of the cost. And then think about having a thousand times the money you’ve been hoarding all these years—a king’s ransom, Scarlett, all at one time and all yours. More than even you could ever spend. Plus the house expenses paid by me. I’ll even give you title to the property.” The end of his cigar glowed bright.

Scarlett began to think with desperate concentration. She had to find a way to stay. She couldn’t go away, not for all the money in the world.

Rhett rose to his feet and walked to the porthole. He threw the cigar out and looked through the opening at the riverbank for a moment until he saw a landmark. The sunlight was bright on his face. How much he’s changed since he left Atlanta! thought Scarlett. Then he had been drinking as if he was trying to blot out the world. But now he was Rhett again, with his sun-darkened skin drawn tight over the fine sharp planes of his face and his clear eyes as dark as desire. Under his elegant tailored coat and linen, his muscles were hard, visibly swelling when he moved. He was everything a man should be. She wanted him back, and she was going to get him, no matter what. Scarlett took a deep breath. She was ready when he turned toward her and raised one eyebrow in interrogation. “What’s it to be, Scarlett?”

“You want to make a deal you said, Rhett.” Scarlett was businesslike. “But you’re not bargaining, you’re flinging threats at my head like rocks. Besides, I know you’re just bluffing about cutting off the money you send to Atlanta. You’re almighty concerned about being welcome in Charleston, and folks don’t have a very high opinion of a man who doesn’t take care of his wife. Your mother wouldn’t be able to hold her head up if word got around.

“The second thing—the pile of money—you’re right. I’d be glad to have it. But not if it means going back to Atlanta right now. I might as well show my cards ’cause you already know about it. I did some mighty foolish things, and there’s no taking them back. Right this minute I haven’t got a friend in the whole state of Georgia.

“I’m making friends in Charleston, though. You might not want to believe it, but it’s true. And I’m learning a lot, too. As soon as people in Atlanta have enough time to forget a few things, I figure I can make up for my mistakes.

“So I’ve got a deal to offer you. You stop acting so hateful to me, you act nice and help me have a good time. We go through the Season like a devoted, happy husband and wife. Then, come spring, I’ll go home and start over.”

She held her breath. He had to say yes, he just had to. The Season lasted for almost eight weeks, and they’d be together every day. There wasn’t a man on two feet that she couldn’t have eating out of her hand if he was around her that much. Rhett was different from other men, but not that different. There’d never been a man she couldn’t get.

“With the money, you mean.”

“Well of course with the money. Do you take me for a fool?”

“That’s not exactly my idea of a deal, Scarlett. There’s nothing in it for me. You take the money I’m willing to pay you to leave, but you don’t leave. How do I benefit?”

“I don’t stay forever, and I don’t tell your mother what a skunk you are.” She was almost certain that she saw him smile.

“Do you know the name of the river we’re on, Scarlett?”

What a silly question. And he hadn’t yet agreed to the Season. What was going on?

“It’s the Ashley River.” Rhett pronounced the name with exaggerated distinctness. “It calls to mind that estimable gentleman, Mr. Wilkes, whose affections you once coveted. I was a witness to your capacity for dogged devotion, Scarlett, and your single-minded determination is a terrifying thing to behold. You have recently been so amiable as to mention that you have decided to put me in the elevated place once occupied by Ashley. The prospect fills me with alarm.”

Scarlett interrupted, she had to. He was going to say no, she could tell. “Oh, fiddle-dee-dee, Rhett. I know there’s no point in going after you. You’re not nice enough to put up with it. Besides, you know me too well.”

Rhett laughed, without humor. “If you recognize just how right you are, we might be able to do business,” he said.

Scarlett was careful not to smile. “I’m willing to dicker,” she said. “What did you have in mind?”

This time Rhett’s abrupt laugh was genuine. “I do believe that the real Miss O’Hara has joined us,” he said. “These are my terms: you will confide to my mother that I snore, and therefore we always sleep in separate rooms; after the Saint Cecilia Ball, which concludes the Season, you will express an urgent desire to rush back to Atlanta; and once there, you will immediately appoint a lawyer, Henry Hamilton or any other, to meet with my lawyers to negotiate a settlement and a binding separation agreement. Furthermore, you will never again set foot in Charleston. Nor will you write or otherwise send messages to me or to my mother.”

Scarlett’s mind was racing. She had almost won. Except for the “separate rooms.” Maybe she should ask for more time. No, not ask. She was supposed to be bargaining.

“I might agree to your terms, Rhett, but not your timing. If I pack up the day after all the parties are done, everybody will notice. You’ll be going back to the plantation after the Ball. It would make sense if I started thinking about Atlanta then. Why don’t we say I’ll go the middle of April?”

“I’m willing for you to tarry a while in town after I go to the country. But April first is more appropriate.”

Better than she’d hoped for! The Season plus more than a month. And she hadn’t said anything herself about staying in the city after he went to the plantation. She could follow him out there.

“I don’t want to know which one of us is the April Fool you’re talking about, Rhett Butler, but if you swear you’ll be nice for the whole time before I leave, you’ve got a bargain. If you turn mean, then it’s you that broke it, not me, and I won’t leave.”

“Mrs. Butler, your husband’s devotion will make you the envy of every woman in Charleston.”

He was mocking, but Scarlett didn’t care. She’d won.

Rhett opened the hatch, admitting sharp salt air and sunlight and a surprisingly strong breeze. “Do you get seasick, Scarlett?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been in a boat till yesterday.”

“You’ll find out soon enough. The harbor’s just ahead, and there’s a sizable chop. Get a bucket out of the locker behind you just in case.” He hurried onto the deck. “Let’s get the jib up now and put her on a tack. We’re losing way,” he shouted into the wind.

A minute later the bench had tilted at an alarming angle, and Scarlett discovered that she was sliding helplessly from it. The slow upriver trip in the wide flat barge the day before hadn’t prepared her for the action of a sailing vessel. Coming downriver in the current with a gentle wind half filling the mainsail had been faster, but just as placid as the barge. She scrambled to the short ladder and pulled herself up so that her head was above deck level. The wind took her breath away and lifted the feathered hat from her head. She looked up and saw it fluttering in the air while a sea gull squawked frantically and flapped its wings to soar away from the bird-like object. Scarlett laughed with delight. The boat heeled higher, and water washed over its low side, foaming. It was thrilling! Through the wind Scarlett heard Pansy scream in terror. What a goose that girl was!

Scarlett steadied herself and started up the ladder. The roar of Rhett’s voice stopped her. He spun the wheel, and the sloop’s deck returned to a bobbing level, its sails flapping. At his gesture, one of the crew took the wheel. The other one was holding Pansy steady while she vomited over the stern. In two steps, Rhett was at the top of the ladder, scowling at Scarlett. “You little idiot, you could have gotten your head knocked off by the boom. Get down below where you belong.”

“Oh, Rhett, no! Let me come up where I can see what’s happening. It’s such fun. I want to feel the wind and taste the spray.”

“You don’t feel sick? Or frightened?”

The scornful look she gave him was her answer.

“Oh, Miss Eleanor, it was the most wonderful time I’ve ever had in my life! I don’t know why every man in the world doesn’t become a sailor.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself dear, but it was very wicked of Rhett to expose you to all that sun and wind. You’re red as an Indian.” Mrs. Butler ordered Scarlett to her room with glycerine and rosewater compresses on her face. Then she scolded her tall, laughing son until he hung his head in pretended shame.

“If I put up the Christmas greens I brought you, will you let me have dessert after dinner, or do I have to stand in the corner?” he asked in mock humility.

Eleanor Butler spread her hands in surrender. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, Rhett,” she said, but her effort not to smile was a total failure. She loved her son beyond all reason.

That afternoon, while Scarlett was submitting to a treatment of lotions for her sunburn, Rhett carried one of the holly wreaths he had brought from the plantation to Alicia Savage, as a gift from his mother.

“How kind of Eleanor, and of you, Rhett. Thank you. Would you like to have a pre-seasonal toddy?

Rhett accepted the drink with pleasure, and they talked idly about the unusual weather, the winter thirty years earlier when it had actually snowed, the year it rained for thirty-eight days in a row. They had known each other as children. Their families had houses that shared a garden wall and a mulberry tree with sweet, fingerstaining purple fruit on branches that reached low on both sides of the wall.

“Scarlett’s scared half out of her wits about the Yankee bedroom prowler,” said Rhett after he and Alicia finished reminiscing. “I hope you don’t mind talking about it with an old friend who saw up your skirts when you were five.”

Mrs. Savage laughed heartily. “I’ll talk freely if you’ll manage to forget my youthful antipathy to undergarments. I was the despair of the whole family for at least a year. It’s funny now . . . but this business with the Yankee isn’t funny at all. Somebody’s going to get trigger-happy and shoot a soldier, and then there’ll be the devil to pay.”

“Tell me what he looked like, Alicia. I have a theory about him.”

“I only saw him for an instant, Rhett . . .”

“That should be enough. Tall or short?”

“Tall, yes really very tall. His head was only a foot or so below the top of the curtains, and those windows are seven feet four inches.”

Rhett grinned. “I knew I could count on you. You’re the only person I’ve ever known who could identify the biggest scoop of ice cream at a birthday party from the other side of the room. ‘Eagle eye’ we called you behind your back.”

“And to my face, I seem to remember, along with other unpleasant personal remarks. You were a horrid little boy.”

“You were a loathsome little girl. I would have loved you even if you had worn underclothes.”

“I would have loved you if you hadn’t. I looked up your skirts plenty of times, but I couldn’t see a thing.”

“Be merciful, Alicia. At least call it a kilt.”

They smiled companionably at one another. Then Rhett resumed the questioning. Alicia remembered a great many details once she began to think. The soldier was young—very young indeed—with the ungainly movements of a boy who had not gotten accustomed to the spurt of growth. He was very thin, too. The uniform hung loosely on his frame. His wrists showed clearly below the sleeve binding; the uniform might not have been his at all. His hair was dark—“not raven like yours, Rhett, and by the way the touch of gray is extremely becoming; no, his share must have been brown and looked darker in the shadows.” Yes, well cut and almost certainly undressed. She would have smelled Macassar oil. Bit by bit Alicia pieced together her memories. Then her words faltered.

“You know who it is, don’t you, Alicia?”

“I must be wrong.”

“You must be right. You have a son the right age—about fourteen or fifteen—and you’re sure to know his friends. As soon as I heard about this I thought it had to be a Charleston boy. Do you really believe a Yankee soldier would break into a woman’s bedroom just to look at the shape of her under a coverlet? This isn’t a reign of terror, Alicia, it’s a miserable boy who’s confused about what his body is doing to him. He wants to know what a woman’s body is like without corsets and bustles, wants to know so much that he’s driven to stealing looks at sleeping women. Most likely he’s ashamed of his thoughts when he sees one fully dressed and awake. Poor little devil. I suppose his father was killed in the War, and there’s no man for him to talk to.”

“He has an older brother—”

“Oh? Then maybe I’m wrong. Or you’re thinking of the wrong boy.”

“I’m afraid not. Tommy Cooper is the boy’s name. He’s the tallest of the lot of them, and the cleanest. Plus he all but choked to death when I said hello to him on the street two days after the incident in my bedroom. His father died at Bull Run. Tommy never knew him. His brother’s ten or eleven years older.”

“Do you mean Edward Cooper, the lawyer?”

Alicia nodded.

“It’s no wonder, then. Cooper is on my mother’s Confederate Home committee; I met him at the house. He’s all but a eunuch. Tommy’ll get no help from him.”

“He’s not a eunuch at all, he’s just too much in love with Anne Hampton to see his brother’s needs.”

“As you like, Alicia. But I’m going to have a little conference with Tommy.”

“Rhett, you can’t. You’ll scare the poor boy to death.”

“The ‘poor boy’ is scaring the female population of Charleston to death. Thank God nothing has really happened yet. Next time he might lose control. Or he might get shot. Where does he live, Alicia?”

“Church Street, just around the corner from Broad. It’s the one of the brick houses on the south side of Saint Michael’s Alley. But Rhett, what are you going to say? You can’t just walk in and haul Tommy out by the scruff of the neck.”

“Trust me, Alicia.”

Alicia put her hands on each side of Rhett’s face and kissed him softly on the lips. “It’s good to have you back home again, neighbor. Good luck with Tommy.”

Rhett was sitting on the Coopers’ piazza drinking tea with Tommy’s mother when the boy came home. Mrs. Cooper introduced her son to Rhett, then sent him inside to leave his schoolbooks and wash his hands and face. “Mr. Butler is going to take you to his tailor, Tommy. He has a nephew in Aiken who’s growing as fast as you are and he needs you to try on things so he can pick out a Christmas present that will fit.”

Out of sight of the adults Tommy grimaced horribly. Then he remembered bits and pieces he’d heard about Rhett’s flamboyant youth and he decided he’d be happy to go along and help out Mr. Butler. Maybe he’d even find the nerve to ask Mr. Butler a few questions about things that were bothering him.

Tommy didn’t have to ask. As soon as they were well away from the house, Rhett put an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Tom,” he said, “I have it in mind to teach you a few valuable lessons. The first is how to lie convincingly to a mother. While we’re riding on the streetcar, you and I will talk in some detail about my tailor and his shop and his habits. You’ll practice with my assistance until you’ve got your story straight. Because I don’t have a nephew in Aiken, and we’re not on our way to the tailor. We’re going to ride to the end of the Rutledge Avenue line, then go for a healthy walk to the house where I want you to meet some friends of mine.”

Tommy Cooper agreed without argument. He was accustomed to having his elders tell him what to do, and he liked the way Mr. Butler called him “Tom.” Before the afternoon was over and Tom was delivered back to his mother, the boy was looking at Rhett with such hero-worship in his young eyes that Rhett knew he’d be saddled with Tom Cooper for years to come.

He was also confident that Tom would never forget the friends they’d gone to see. Among Charleston’s many historic “firsts” was the first recorded whorehouse “for gentlemen only.” It had moved its location many times in the nearly two centuries of its existence, but it had never missed a day’s business, despite wars, epidemics, and hurricanes. One of the specialities of the house was the gentle, discreet introduction of young boys to the pleasures of manhood. It was one of Charleston’s cherished traditions. Rhett speculated sometimes about how different his own life might have been if his father had been as diligent about that tradition as he had been about all the other things expected of a Charleston gentleman . . . But the past was done. His lips curved in a rueful smile. He had been able, at least, to stand in for Tommy’s dead father, who would have done the same for the boy. Traditions did have their uses. For one thing, there’d be no more Yankee midnight prowler. Rhett went home to have a self-congratulatory drink before it was time to pick up his sister at the train station.

19

“Suppose the train’s early, Rhett?” Eleanor Butler looked at the clock for the tenth time in two minutes. “I hate to think of Rosemary being at the station with nobody there when it’s getting dark. Her maid’s only half-trained, you know. And half-witted, too, to my way of thinking. I don’t know why Rosemary puts up with her.”

“That train has never in its history been less than forty minutes late, Mama, and even if it were on time, that’s a half hour from now.”

“I asked you most particularly to allow plenty of time to get there. I should have gone myself, like I planned when I didn’t know you’d be home.”

“Try not to fret, Mama.” Rhett explained again what he had already told his mother. “I hired a hackney to pick me up in ten minutes. Then it’s a five-minute ride to the station. I’ll be fifteen minutes early, the train will be an hour late or more, and Rosemary will arrive home on my arm just in time for supper.”

“May I ride with you, Rhett? I’d love a breath of air.” Scarlett pictured the hour enclosed in the small cab of the hackney. She’d ask Rhett all about his sister, he’d like that. He was crazy about Rosemary. And if he talked enough, then maybe Scarlett would know what to expect. She was terrified that Rosemary wouldn’t like her, that she’d be another Ross. Her brother-in-law’s florid letter of apology had done nothing to make her stop loathing him.

“No, my dear, you may not ride with me. I want you to stay just as you are on that couch with the compresses on your eyes. They’re still swollen from sunburn.”

“Do you want me to come, dear?” Mrs. Butler rolled up her tatting to put it away. “It is going to be a long wait, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t mind waiting at all, Mama. I’ve got some plans to work out in my head about spring planting at the plantation.”

Scarlett settled back against the cushions, wishing that Rhett’s sister wasn’t coming home. She had no clear idea of what Rosemary would be like, and she’d rather not find out. She knew, from bits of gossip that she’d heard, that Rosemary’s birth had caused a lot of hidden smiles. She was a “change” baby, born when Eleanor Butler was over forty years old. She was also an old maid, one of the domestic casualties of the War—too young to marry before it began, too plain and too poor to attract the attention of the few men available when it was over. Rhett’s return to Charleston and his fabulous wealth had set tongues wagging. Rosemary would have a substantial dowry now. But she seemed to be always away, visiting a cousin or a friend in another town. Was she looking for a husband there? Weren’t Charleston men good enough for her? Everyone had been waiting for the announcement of an engagement for more than a year, but there was not even a hint of an attachment, much less a betrothal. “Rich pickings for speculation” was the way Emma Anson described the situation.

Scarlett speculated on her own. She’d be delighted to have Rosemary marry, no matter what it cost Rhett. She didn’t care to have her in the house. No matter if Rosemary was as plain as a mud fence, she was still younger than Scarlett and Rhett’s sister to boot. She’d get too much of his attention. She tensed when she heard the outside door open, a few minutes before suppertime. Rosemary had arrived.

Rhett entered the library, and smiled at his mother.

“Your wandering girl is home at last,” he said. “She’s sound in mind and limb and as fierce as a lion from hunger. As soon as she gets her hands washed, she’ll probably come in here and devour your flesh.”

Scarlett looked at the door with apprehension. The young woman who came through it a moment later had a pleasant smile on her face. There was nothing jungle-like about her. But she was as shocking to Scarlett as if she had worn a mane and roared. She looks just like Rhett! No, it’s not that. She’s got the same black eyes and hair and white teeth, but that’s not what’s the same. It’s more the way she is—she just kind of takes over, like he does. I don’t like it, I don’t like it at all.

Her green eyes narrowed and she studied Rosemary. She’s not really as plain as people said, but she doesn’t do anything with herself. Look at how she’s got her hair all skinned back in that big knot on the nape. And she’s not even wearing earbobs, though her ears are right pretty. Kind of sallow. I guess that’s what Rhett’s skin would be like if he wasn’t always in the sun. But a bright-colored frock would take care of that. She picked the worst possible thing in that dull browny-green. Maybe I could help her out some.

“So this is Scarlett.” Rosemary crossed the room in four strides. Oh, my, I’ll have to teach her to walk, Scarlett thought. Men don’t like women who gallop like that. Scarlett stood before Rosemary reached her, smiling a sisterly smile and tipped her face upward for a social kiss.

Instead of touching cheeks in the approved fashion, Rosemary stared frankly at Scarlett’s face. “Rhett said you were feline,” she said. “I see what he means, with those green eyes. I do hope you’ll purr at me and not spit, Scarlett. I’d like for us to be friends.”

Scarlett’s mouth gaped soundlessly. She was too startled to speak.

“Mama, do say supper’s ready,” Rosemary said. She had already turned away. “I told Rhett he was a thoughtless brute not to bring a hamper to the station.”

Scarlett’s eyes found him, and her temper flared. Rhett was lounging against the frame of the door, his mouth twisted in sardonic amusement. Brute! she thought. You put her up to that. “Feline,” am I? I wish I could show you feline. I’d like to scratch that laughter right out of your eyes. She looked quickly at Rosemary. Was she laughing, too? No, she was embracing Eleanor Butler.

“Supper,” said Rhett. “I see Manigo coming to announce it.”

Scarlett pushed her food around on her plate. Her sunburn was painful and Rosemary’s bumptiousness was giving her a headache. For Rhett’s sister was passionately and loudly opinionated and argumentative. The cousins she’d been visiting in Richmond were hopeless dolts, she declared, and she had hated every minute of the time there. She was absolutely certain that not one of them had ever read a book—at least, not one worth reading.

“Oh, dear,” said Eleanor Butler softly. She looked at Rhett with mute entreaty.

“Cousins are always a trial, Rosemary,” he said with a smile. “Let me tell you the latest on Cousin Townsend Ellinton. I saw him in Philadelphia recently, and the meeting left me with blurred vision for a week. I kept trying to look him in the eye and of course I get vertiginous.”

“I’d rather be dizzy than bored to death!” his sister interrupted. “Can you picture having to sit around after supper and listen to Cousin Miranda read aloud from the Waverley novels? That sentimental claptrap!”

“I always rather enjoyed Scott, dear, and so did you, I thought,” Eleanor said soothingly.

Rosemary was not soothed. “Mama, I didn’t know any better, that was years ago.”

Scarlett thought longingly of the quiet after supper hours she had been sharing with Miss Eleanor. Obviously there’d be no more of those with Rosemary in the house. How could Rhett possibly be so fond of her? Now she seemed bound and determined to pick a fight with him.

“If I were a man, you’d let me go,” Rosemary was shouting at Rhett. “I’ve been reading the articles about Rome that Mr. Henry James is writing, and I feel like I’ll perish of ignorance if I don’t get to see it for myself.”

“But you’re not a man, my dear,” Rhett said calmly. “Where on earth did you get copies of The Nation? You could be strung up for reading a liberal rag like that.”

Scarlett’s ears perked up and she broke into the conversation. “Why don’t you let Rosemary go, Rhett? Rome’s not so far. And I’m sure we must know somebody who has kin there. It can’t be any farther than Athens, and the Tarletons have about a million cousins in Athens.”

Rosemary gaped at her. “Who are these Tarletons and what does Athens have to do with Rome?” she said.

Rhett coughed to mask his laughter. Then he cleared his throat. “Athens and Rome are the names of country towns in Georgia, Rosemary,” he drawled. “Would you like to pay them a visit?”

Rosemary put her hands to her head in a dramatic gesture of despair. “I cannot credit what I’m hearing. Who would want to go to Georgia, for pity’s sake? I want to go to Rome, the real Rome, the Eternal City. In Italy!”

Scarlett felt the color rising in her cheeks. I should have known she meant Italy.

But before she could burst out as noisily as Rosemary, the door to the dining room crashed open with a bang that silenced all of them with shock, and Ross stumbled, panting for breath, into the candlelit room.

“Help me,” he gasped, “the Guard is after me. I shot the Yankee who’s been breaking into bedrooms.”

In seconds Rhett was at his brother’s side, holding his arm. “The sloop’s at the dock, and there’s no moon; the two of us can sail her,” he said with calming authority. As he left the room, he turned his head to speak quietly over his shoulder. “Tell them I left as soon as I delivered Rosemary so that I could catch the tide upriver, and you haven’t seen Ross, don’t know anything about anything. I’ll send word.”

Eleanor Butler rose from her chair without haste, as if this were a normal evening and she had finished eating supper. She walked to Scarlett, put an arm around her. Scarlett was shaking. The Yankees were coming. They’d hang Ross for shooting one of them, and they’d hang Rhett for trying to help Ross escape. Why couldn’t he let Ross take care of himself? He had no right to leave his women unprotected and alone when the Yankees were coming.

Eleanor spoke, and there was steel in her voice even though it was as soft and slow as ever. “I’m going to take Rhett’s dishes and silver into the kitchen. The servants must be told what to say and there must be no indication that he was here. Will you and Rosemary please rearrange the table for three settings?”

“What are we going to do, Miss Eleanor? The Yankees are coming.” Scarlett knew she should stay calm; she despised herself for being so frightened. But she couldn’t control her fear. She had come to think that the Yankees were toothless, only laughable and in the way. It was shattering to be reminded that the occupying Army could do anything it wanted, and call it law.

“We’re going to finish our supper,” said Mrs. Butler. Her eyes began to laugh. “Then I think I shall read aloud from Ivanhoe.”

“Don’t you have anything better to do with your time than bully a household of women?” Rosemary glared at the Union captain, her fisted hands on her hips.

“Sit down and be quiet, Rosemary,” said Mrs. Butler. “I apologize for my daughter’s rudeness, Captain.”

The officer was not won over by Eleanor’s conciliatory politeness. “Go ahead and search the house,” he ordered his men.

Scarlett lay supine on the couch with chamomile compresses on her sunburned face and swollen eyes. She was grateful for their protection; she didn’t have to look at the Yankees. What a cool head Miss Eleanor had, to think of arranging a sickroom scene in the library. Still, curiosity was nearly killing her. She couldn’t tell what was going on with only sound to guide her. She could hear footsteps, and doors closing, and then silence. Was the captain gone? Were Miss Eleanor and Rosemary gone, too? She couldn’t stand it. She moved one hand slowly up to her eyes and lifted a corner of the damp cloth that covered them.

Rosemary was sitting in the chair near the desk, calmly reading a book.

“Ssst,” Scarlett whispered.

Rosemary quickly closed the book and covered the title with her hand. “What is it?” she said, also whispering. “Did you hear something?”

“No, I don’t hear a thing. What are they doing? Where’s Miss Eleanor? Did they arrest her?”

“For heaven’s sake, Scarlett, what are you whispering for?” Rosemary’s normal voice sounded terribly loud. “The soldiers are searching the house for weapons; they’re confiscating all the guns in Charleston. Mama’s following them around to make sure they don’t confiscate anything else.”

Was that all? Scarlett relaxed. There were no guns in the house; she knew because she’d looked for one herself. She closed her eyes and drifted near sleep. It had been a long day. She remembered the excitement of the water foaming alongside the swift-moving sloop, and for a moment she envied Rhett sailing under the stars. If only she could have been with him instead of Ross. She wasn’t worried that the Yankees would catch him; she never worried about Rhett. He was invincible.

When Eleanor Butler returned to the library after seeing the Union soldiers out, she tucked her cashmere shawl around Scarlett, who had fallen into a deep sleep. “No need to disturb her,” she said quietly, “she’ll be comfortable here. Let’s go to bed, Rosemary. You’ve had a long trip, and I’m tired, and tomorrow’s bound to be very active.” She smiled to herself when she saw the bookmark placed well along in the pages of Ivanhoe. Rosemary was a fast reader. And not nearly as modern as she liked to think she was.

The Market was abuzz with indignation and ill-conceived plans the next morning. Scarlett listened to the agitated conversations around her with scorn. What did they expect, the Charlestonians? That the Yankees would let people go around shooting them and do nothing? All they were going to do was make things worse if they tried to argue or protest. What difference did it make after all this time that General Lee had talked Grant into allowing Confederate officers to keep their sidearms after the surrender at Appomattox? It was still the end of the South, and what good did a revolver do you if you were too poor to buy bullets for it? As for duelling pistols! Who on earth would care about saving them? They weren’t good for anything except men showing off how brave they were and getting their fool heads blown off.

She kept her mouth shut and concentrated on the shopping. Otherwise it would never get done. Even Miss Eleanor was running around like a chicken with its head cut off, talking to everybody in a barely audible, urgent tone.

“They say the men all want to finish what Ross started,” she told Scarlett when they were walking home. “It’s more than they can bear to have their homes ransacked by the troops. We women are going to have to manage things; the men are too hot under the collar.”

Scarlett felt a chill of terror. She’d thought it was all talk. Surely no one was going to make things worse! “There’s nothing to manage!” she exclaimed. “The only thing to do is lie low till it blows over. Rhett must have gotten Ross away safely or we’d have heard.”

Mrs. Butler looked astonished. “We cannot allow the Union Army to get away with this, Scarlett, surely you see that. They’ve already searched our houses, and they’ve announced that curfew will be enforced, and they’re arresting all the black-market dealers in rationed goods. If we let them keep on the way they’re going, soon we’ll be back where we were in ’sixty-four when they had their boots on our necks, governing every breath of our lives. It simply won’t do.”

Scarlett wondered if the whole world was going mad. What did a bunch of tea-drinking, lace-making Charleston ladies think they could do against an army?

She found out two nights later.

Lucinda Wragg’s wedding had been scheduled for January twenty-third. The invitations were addressed, and waiting to be delivered on January second, but they were never used. “Terrible efficiency” was Rosemary Butler’s tribute to the efforts of Lucinda’s mother, her own mother, and all the other ladies of Charleston. Lucinda’s wedding took place on December nineteenth, at Saint Michael’s Church, at nine o’clock in the evening. The majestic chords of the wedding march sounded through the open doors and windows of the packed and beautifully decorated church precisely at the hour the curfew began. They could be heard clearly in the Guardhouse across the street from Saint Michael’s. Some officer later told his wife in the hearing of their cook that he had never seen the men in his command so nervous, not even before they marched into the Wilderness. The whole city heard the story the following day. Everyone had a good laugh, but no one was surprised.

At nine-thirty the entire population of Old Charleston exited from Saint Michael’s and went on foot along Meeting Street to the reception at the South Carolina Hall. Men and women and children, aged five to ninety-seven years old, strolled laughing in the warm night air, breaking the law with flagrant defiance. There was no way the Union command could claim to be unaware of the occurrence; it took place under their very noses. Nor was there any way they could arrest the miscreants. The Guardhouse had twenty-six jail cells. Even if the offices and corridors had been used, there was not enough room to hold all the people. Saint Michael’s pews had had to be moved to its peaceful graveyard to create enough space for everyone to crowd inside, standing shoulder to shoulder.

During the reception people had to take turns to get out onto the columned porch outside the crowded ballroom for a breath of air and a view of the helpless patrol marching in futile discipline along the empty street.

Rhett had returned to the city that afternoon with the news that Ross was safely in Wilmington. Scarlett confessed to him out on the porch that she’d been afraid to go to the wedding, even with him as escort. “I couldn’t believe that a bunch of tea-party ladies could lick the Yankee Army. I’ve got to say it, Rhett. These Charleston folks have got all the gumption in the world.”

He smiled. “I love the arrogant fools, every one of them. Even poor old Ross. I do hope he never learns that he missed the Yankee by a mile, he’d be very embarrassed.”

“He didn’t even shoot him? I suppose he was drunk.” Her voice was thick with contempt. Then it skidded high with fear. “Then the prowler’s still around!”

Rhett patted her shoulder. “No. Rest assured, my dear, you’ll hear no more of the prowler. My brother and little Lucinda’s hasty wedding have put the fear of God into the Yankees.” He chuckled with rich, private enjoyment.

“What’s so funny?” demanded Scarlett suspiciously. She hated it when people laughed and she didn’t know why.

“Nothing you would understand,” said Rhett. “I was congratulating myself on single-handedly solving a problem and then my bungling brother went me one better: he inadvertently gave the whole city something to enjoy and feel proud about. Look at them, Scarlett.”

The porch was more crowded than ever. Lucinda Wragg, now Lucinda Grimball, was throwing flowers from her bouquet down to the soldiers.

“Humph! I’d sooner throw brickbats myself!”

“I’m sure you would. You’ve always liked the obvious. Lucinda’s way requires imagination.” His amused, lazy drawl had become viciously cutting.

Scarlett tossed her head. “I’m going back inside. I’d a far sight rather be suffocated than insulted.”

Unseen in the shadow of a nearby column, Rosemary cringed at the cruelty she heard in Rhett’s voice and the angry hurt in Scarlett’s. Later that night, after bedtime, she tapped on the door of the library where Rhett was reading, then entered and closed the door behind her.

Her face was blotched red from weeping. “I thought I knew you, Rhett,” she blurted, “but I don’t at all. I heard you talking to Scarlett tonight on the porch of the Hall. How could you be so mean to your own wife? Who are you going to turn on next?”

20

Rhett rose quickly from his chair and started towards his sister with his arms outstretched. But Rosemary held her hands up in front of her, palms outward, and backed away. His face darkened with pain, and he stood very still, his arms at his sides. He wanted—above all things—to shield Rosemary from hurt, and now he was the source of her anguish.

His mind was filled with Rosemary’s short sad story and his part in it. Rhett had never regretted or explained anything he had done in his tempestuous younger years. There was nothing he was ashamed of. Except the effects on his young sister.

Because of his rebellious defiance of family and society, his father had disowned him. Rhett’s name was only an inked-over line in the Butler family Bible when Rosemary’s birth was recorded. She was more than twenty years his junior. He did not even see her until she was thirteen, an awkward girl with long legs, large feet, and budding breasts. Their mother had disobeyed her husband for one of the few times in her life when Rhett began the dangerous life of blockade runner through the Union fleet and into Charleston Harbor. She came by night to the dock where his ship was moored, bringing Rosemary to meet him. The deep vein of loving tenderness in Rhett was inexpressively moved by the confusion and need that he sensed in his young sister, and he welcomed her to his shirt with all the warmth that their father had never been able to give. In turn, Rosemary gave him the trust and loyalty that their father had never inspired. The bond between brother and sister had never been severed, despite the fact that they saw each other no more than a dozen times from first meeting until Rhett came home to Charleston eleven years later.

He had never forgiven himself for accepting their mother’s reassurance that Rosemary was well and happy and sheltered by the money he lavished on them once his father was dead and could no longer intercept and return it. He should have been more alert, more attentive, he accused himself later. Then perhaps his sister would not have grown up distrusting men the way she did. Perhaps she would have loved and married and had children.

As it was, when he returned home he found a twenty-four-year-old woman with the same awkwardness of the thirteen-year-old he had first met. She was uncomfortable with all men except him; she used the distant lives in novels as a substitute for the uncertainty of life in the world; she rejected the conventions of society about how a woman should look and think and behave. Rosemary was a bluestocking, distressingly forthright, and totally lacking in feminine wiles and vanity.

Rhett loved her, and he respected her prickly independence. He couldn’t make up for the years he’d missed, but he could give her the rarest gift of all—his inner self. He was completely honest with Rosemary, talked to her as an equal and, on occasion, even confided the secrets of his shirt to her, as he had never done to any other person. She recognized the immensity of his gift, and she adored him. In the fourteen months that Rhett had been home, the over-tall, ill-at-ease, innocent spinster and the oversophisticated, disillusioned adventurer had become the closest of friends.

Now Rosemary felt betrayed. She’d seen a side of Rhett that she hadn’t known existed, a streak of cruelty in the brother she’d known as unfailingly kind and loving. She was confused and distrustful.

“You haven’t answered my question, Rhett.” Rosemary’s reddened eyes were accusing.

“I’m sorry, Rosemary,” he said cautiously. “I am deeply sorry you happened to hear me. It was something I had to do. I want her to go away and leave all of us alone.”

“But she’s your wife!”

“I left her, Rosemary. She wouldn’t divorce me as I offered, but she knew the marriage was over.”

“Then why is she here?”

Rhett shrugged. “Perhaps we should sit down. It’s a long, tiring story.”

Slowly, methodically, rigidly unemotional, Rhett told his sister about Scarlett’s two earlier marriages, about his proposal and Scarlett’s agreement to marry him for his money. He also told her about Scarlett’s near-obsessive love for Ashley Wilkes throughout all the years he’d known her.

“But if you knew that, why on earth did you marry her?” Rosemary asked.

“Why?” Rhett’s mouth twisted in a smile. “Because she was so full of fire and so recklessly, stubbornly brave. Because she was such a child beneath all her pretenses. Because she was unlike any woman I had ever known. She fascinated me, infuriated me, drove me mad. I loved her as consumingly as she loved him. From the day I first laid eyes on her. It was a kind of disease.” There was a weight of sorrow in his voice.

He bowed his head into his two hands and laughed shakily. His voice was muffled and blurred by his fingers. “What a grotesque practical joke life is. Now Ashley Wilkes is a free man and would marry Scarlett on a moment’s notice, and I want to be rid of her. Naturally that makes her determined to have me. She wants only what she cannot have.”

Rhett raised his head. “I’m afraid,” he said quietly, “afraid that it will all begin again. I know that she’s heartless and completely selfish, that she’s like a child who cries for a toy and then breaks it once she has it. But there are moments when she tilts her head at a certain angle, or she smiles that gleeful smile, or she suddenly looks lost—and I come close to forgetting what I know.”

“My poor Rhett.” Rosemary put her hand on his arm.

He covered it with his own. Then he smiled at her, and he was himself again. “You see before you, my dear, the man who was once the marvel of the Mississippi riverboats. I’ve gambled all my life, and I’ve never lost. I’ll win this hand, too. Scarlett and I have made a deal. I couldn’t risk having her here in this house too long. Either I would fall in love with her again or I would kill her. So I dangled gold in front of her, and her greed for money outbalanced the undying love she professes for me. She will be leaving for good when the Season is over. Until then all I have to do is keep her at a distance, outlast her, and outwit her. I’m almost looking forward to it. She hates to lose, and she lets it show. It’s no fun beating someone who’s a good loser.” His eyes laughed at his sister. Then they sobered. “It would destroy Mama if she knew the truth about my miserable marriage, but she’d be ashamed if she knew that I’d walked out on it, no matter how unhappy it was. A terrible dilemma. This way, Scarlett will leave, I will be the injured but bravely stoic party, and there’ll be no disgrace.”

“And no regrets?”

“Only for having been a fool once—years ago. I’ll have the very powerful solace of not being a fool the second time. It does a lot to erase the humiliation of the first time.”

Rosemary stared, unabashedly curious. “What if Scarlett changed? She might grow up.”

Rhett grinned. “To quote the lady herself—‘when pigs fly.’ ”

21

“Go away.” Scarlett buried her face in a pillow.

“It’s Sunday, Miss Scarlett, you can’t sleep late. Miss Pauline and Miss Eulalie is expecting you.”

Scarlett groaned. It was enough to make a person turn Episcopalian. At least they got to sleep later; the service at Saint Michael’s wasn’t until eleven o’clock. She sighed and got out of bed.

Her aunts wasted no time in beginning to lecture her about what would be expected of her in the upcoming Season. She listened impatiently while Eulalie and Pauline lectured her on the importance of decorum, inconspicuousness, deference to her elders, ladylike behavior. For heaven’s sake! She’d cut her teeth on all those rules. Her mother and Mammy had drummed them into her from the time she could walk. Scarlett set her jaw mutinously and stared at her feet as they walked to Saint Mary’s. She just wouldn’t listen, that’s all.

However, when they were back at the aunts’ house having breakfast Pauline said something that forced her to pay attention.

“You needn’t scowl at me, Scarlett. I’m only telling you for your own good what people are saying. There’s a rumor that you have two brand new ball gowns. It’s a scandal, when everyone else is happy to make do with what they’ve been wearing for years. You’re new in town and you have to be careful of your reputation. Rhett’s, too. People haven’t made up their minds about him yet, you know.”

Scarlett’s heart gave a sickening lurch. Rhett would kill her if she ruined things for him. “What about Rhett? Please tell me, Aunt Pauline.”

Pauline told. With relish. All the old stories—he was expelled from West Point, his own father had disowned him for his wild behavior, he was known to have made money in disreputable ways, as a professional gambler on Mississippi riverboats, in the brawling gold fields of California, and worst of all through consorting with scallywags and carpetbaggers. True, he’d been a brave soldier for the Confederacy, a blockade runner and a gunner in Lee’s Army, and he’d given most of his dirty money to the Confederate cause—

Ha! Scarlett thought. Rhett sure is good at spreading stories.

—but nevertheless, his past was definitely unsavory. It was all well and good that he’d come home to take care of his mother and sister, but he’d taken his own sweet time getting around to it. If his father hadn’t starved himself to death to pay for a big life insurance, his mother and sister would probably have died of neglect.

Scarlett ground her teeth to keep from shouting at Pauline. It wasn’t true about the insurance! Rhett had never, never for a minute, stopped caring about his mother, but his father wouldn’t let her accept anything from him! It was only when Mr. Butler died that Rhett was able to buy Miss Eleanor the house and give her money. And even Mrs. Butler had to put the story around about the insurance to account for her prosperity. Because Rhett’s money was considered dirty. Money was money, couldn’t these stiff-necked Charlestonians see that? What difference did it make where it came from if it kept a roof over their heads and food in their bellies?

Why didn’t Pauline stop preaching at her? What on earth was she talking about now? The stupid fertilizer business. That was another joke. There wasn’t enough fertilizer in the world to account for the money Rhett was throwing away on foolishness like chasing down his mother’s old furniture and silver and pictures of great-grandparents, and paying perfectly healthy men to baby his precious camellias instead of growing good money crops.

“. . . there are a number of Charlestonians doing very well from phosphates, but they don’t make a show of it. You must guard against this tendency to extravagance and ostentation. He’s your husband, it’s your duty to warn him. Eleanor Butler thinks he can do no wrong, she’s always spoiled him, but for her good as well as yours and Rhett’s you’ve got to see to it that the Butlers don’t make themselves conspicuous.”

“I tried to speak to Eleanor,” sniffed Eulalie, “but she didn’t hear a word I said, I’m sure of it.”

Scarlett’s narrowed eyes glinted dangerously. “I’m more grateful than I can tell you,” she said with exaggerated sweetness, “and I’ll pay attention to every word. Now I really have to run. Thank you for the delicious breakfast.” She stood, pecked a kiss on the cheek of each aunt, and hurried to the door. If she didn’t get away this very minute, she’d scream. Still, she’d better talk to Rhett about what the aunts had said.

“You do see, don’t you, Rhett, why I thought I’d better tell you about it? People are criticizing your mother. I know my aunts are tiresome old busybodies but it’s tiresome old busybodies who always seem to cause all the trouble. You remember Mrs. Merriwether and Mrs. Meade and Mrs. Elsing.”

Scarlett had hoped Rhett would thank her. She certainly wasn’t prepared for his laughter. “Bless their interfering old hearts,” he chuckled. “Come with me, Scarlett, you’ll have to tell Mama.”

“Oh, Rhett, I couldn’t. She’ll be so upset.”

“You must. This is serious. Absurd, but the most serious matters always are. Come along. And take that look of daughterly concern off your face. You don’t give a damn what happens to my mother as long as the party invitations keep arriving, and we both know it.”

“That’s not fair! I love your mother.”

Rhett was halfway out the door, but he turned and strode back to face her. He took her shoulders in his hands and jolted her so that her face was turned up. His eyed were cold, examining her expression as if she were on trial. “Don’t lie to me about my mother, Scarlett. I warn you, it’s dangerous.”

He was close to her, touching her. Scarlett’s lips parted, she knew her eyes must be telling him how much she longed for him to kiss her. If he’d only lower his head a little, she’d meet his lips with hers. Her breath was caught in her throat.

Rhett’s hands tightened, she felt them, he was going to pull her to him—A tiny sob of joy vibrated in her trapped breath.

“Damn you!” Rhett growled quietly. He pushed himself away from her. “Come downstairs. Mama’s in the library.”

Eleanor Butler dropped her tatting into her lap and laid her hands on it, left atop right. It was a signal that she was taking Scarlett’s account seriously, giving her full concentration. At the end Scarlett waited nervously for Mrs. Butler’s reaction. “Sit down, both of you,” Eleanor said serenely. “Eulalie is quite wrong. I paid full attention when she spoke to me about spending so much money.” Scarlett’s eyes widened. “And I gave it considerable thought afterwards,” Eleanor continued. “Particularly with regard to giving Rosemary the Grand Tour for her Christmas gift, Rhett. No one in Charleston has been able to do that for many years, practically since the time you would have gone, if you hadn’t been such a handful that your father sent you to military school instead.

“However, I decided that there is no real risk of ostracism. Charlestonians are pragmatic; old civilizations always are. We recognize that wealth is desirable and poverty extremely disagreeable. And if one is poor oneself, it’s helpful to have rich friends. People would consider it unforgivable—not merely deplorable—were I to serve scuppernong wine for champagne.”

Scarlett’s brow was knotted. She was having some trouble understanding. Not that it mattered—the even, peaceful tone of Mrs. Butler’s voice told her that everything was all right. “Perhaps we have been a little too visible,” Eleanor was saying, “but right now no one in Charleston can afford to disapprove of the Butlers because Rosemary might just decide to accept the courtship of a son or brother or cousin of the family, and her marriage settlement could solve any number of awkwardnesses.”

“Mama, you’re a shameless cynic.” Rhett laughed.

Eleanor Butler simply smiled.

“What are you laughing at?” said Rosemary, as she opened the door. Her eyes moved quickly from Rhett to Scarlett and back again. “I could hear you guffawing halfway down the hall, Rhett. Tell me the joke.”

“Mama was being worldly,” he said. He and Rosemary had long since united in a pact to protect their mother from the realities of the world, and they smiled at one another like conspirators. Scarlett felt shut out, and she turned her back on them.

“May I sit with you a while, Miss Eleanor? I want to ask your advice about what to wear to the ball.” See if I care, Rhett Butler, that you cater to your old maid sister like she was Queen of the May. And if you think you can upset me or make me jealous, you’ll just have to think again!

Eleanor Butler watched, puzzled, as Scarlett’s mouth fell half-open in surprise, and her eyes glittered with excitement. Eleanor looked behind her shoulder, wondering what Scarlett saw.

But although Scarlett’s gaze was fixed, she wasn’t looking at anything. She was blinded by the brightness of the thought that had come to her.

Jealous! What a fool I’ve been! Of course that’s it. It explains everything. Why did it take me so long to see it? Rhett practically rubbed my nose in it when he made such a to-do about the name of the river. Ashley. He’s still jealous of Ashley. He’s always been crazy jealous of Ashley, that’s why he wanted me so much. All I have to do is make him jealous again. Not of Ashley—heavens no—if I so much as threw a smile in his direction he’d be looking pitiful at me and begging me to marry him. No, I’ll find somebody else, somebody right here in Charleston. That won’t be hard at all. The Season starts in six days and there’ll be parties and balls and dancing and sitting out to take a bite of cake and a cup of punch. This might be fancy old snobby Charleston, but men don’t change with geography. I’ll have a string of beaux hanging after me before the first party’s half done. I can hardly wait.

After Sunday dinner the whole family went to the Confederate Home carrying baskets of greens from the plantation and two of Miss Eleanor’s whiskey-soaked fruitcakes. Scarlett almost danced along the sidewalk, swinging her basket and singing a Christmas song. Her gaiety was infectious, and soon the four of them were carolling at houses on the way. “Come in,” cried the owners of each house they serenaded. “Come with us,” Mrs. Butler suggested instead, “we’re going to decorate the Home.” There were more than a dozen willing helpers when they reached the lovely shabby old house on Broad Street.

The orphans squealed with anticipation when the cakes were unpacked, but, “Grown-ups only,” Eleanor said firmly. “However . . .” And she took out the sugar cookies she had brought for them. Two of the widows who lived at the Home hurriedly fetched cups of milk and settled the children in chairs around a low table on the piazza. “Now we can hang the greens in peace,” said Mrs. Butler. “Rhett, you’ll do the ladder-climbing please.”

Scarlett seated herself next to Anne Hampton. She liked being extra nice to the shy young girl because Anne was so much like Melanie. It made Scarlett feel that in some way she was making up for all the unkind thoughts she had had about Melly all the years that Melly was so resolutely loyal to her. Also, Anne was so openly admiring that her company was always a pleasure. Her soft voice was almost animated when she complimented Scarlett on her hair. “It must be wonderful to have such dark, rich-looking color,” she said. “It’s like the deepest black silk. Or like a painting I saw once of a beautiful, sleek black panther.” Anne’s face shone with innocent worship, then blushed for her impertinence in making such a personal remark.

Scarlett patted her hand kindly. Anne couldn’t help it if she was like a soft, timid, brown field mouse. Later, when the decorations were done and the tall rooms smelled sweetly resinous from pine branches, Anne excused herself to go usher in the children for carol singing. How Melly would have loved this, thought Scarlett. There was a lump in her throat when she looked at Anne, her arms encircling two nervous little girls while they sang a duet. Melly was so crazy fond of children. For an instant Scarlett felt guilty that she hadn’t sent more Christmas presents to Wade and Ella, but then the duet was over and it was time to join in the singing, and she had to concentrate on remembering all the verses of “The First Noël.”

“What fun that was!” she exclaimed after they left the Home. “I do love Christmastime.”

“I do, too,” said Eleanor. “It’s a good breathing spell before the Season. Though this year won’t be as peaceful as usual. The poor Yankee soldiers will be down on our necks, more than likely. Their colonel can’t just let it slide that we all broke curfew with such a bang.” She giggled like a girl. “What fun that was!”

“Honestly, Mama!” said Rosemary. “How can you call those blue-coated wretches ‘poor’ Yankees?”

“Because they’d much rather be home with their own families for the holidays than here badgering us. I think they’re embarrassed.”

Rhett chuckled. “You and your cronies have something up your lace-edged sleeves, I’ll bet.”

“Only if we’re driven to it.” Mrs. Butler giggled again. “We figure today’s calm was only because their colonel is such a Biblethumper he won’t order any action on the Sabbath. Tomorrow will tell the tale. In the old days they used to harass us by going through our baskets to search for contraband when we left the Market. If they try it again, they’ll be dipping their hands into some interesting things underneath the turnip greens and rice.”

“Innards?” guessed Rosemary.

“Broken eggs?” Scarlett offered.

“Itching powder,” suggested Rhett.

Miss Eleanor giggled for the third time.

“And a few more things, besides,” she said complacently. “We developed a number of interesting tactics back then. This crop of soldiers wasn’t around; it will all be new to them. I’ll bet a lot of these men never even heard of poison sumac. I dislike being so uncharitable at Christmas, but they’ve got to learn that we quit being afraid of them a long time ago.

“I do wish Ross could be here,” she added abruptly, all laughter gone. “When do you suppose it will be safe for your brother to come back home, Rhett?”

“It depends on how quickly you and your friends get the Yankees whipped into shape, Mama. Certainly in time for the Saint Cecilia.”

“That’s all right, then. It doesn’t matter if he misses all the rest as long as he’s home for the Ball.” Scarlett could hear the capital B in Miss Eleanor’s voice.

Scarlett was certain that the hours would drag by until the twenty-sixth and the beginning of the Season. But to her surprise the time passed so quickly that she could hardly keep up. The most entertaining part of it all was the battle with the Yankees. The colonel did, indeed, order retaliation for the curfew humiliation. And on Monday the Market rang with laughter as Charleston’s ladies packed their baskets with the weapons of their choice.

The following day the soldiers were careful to keep their gloves on. Plunging a hand into some loathsome-feeling substance or suddenly being afflicted with fiery itching and swelling were not experiences they were willing to repeat.

“The fools should have known we’d expect them to do just what they did,” Scarlett said to Sally Brewton at a whist party that afternoon. Sally agreed, with a happy reminiscent laugh.

“I had a loose-lidded box of lamp black in my shopping,” she said. “What was yours?”

“Cayenne pepper. I was scared to death I’d start sneezing and give the whole trick away . . . speaking of tricks, I believe that’s mine.” New rationing regulations had been posted the day before, and the ladies of Charleston were now gambling for coffee, not money. With the black market effectively out of business for the time being, this was the highest-stakes card game Scarlett had ever been in. She loved it.

She loved tormenting the Yankees, too. There were still patrols on Charleston’s streets but their noses had been tweaked and would be tweaked again and again until they admitted defeat. With her as one of the tweakers.

“Deal,” she said, “I feel lucky.” Only a few more days and she would be at a ball, dancing with Rhett. He was keeping away from her now, managing things so that they were never alone together, but on the dance floor they would be together—and touching—and alone, no matter how many other couples were on the floor.

Scarlett held the white camellias Rhett had sent her to the cluster of curls at the nape of her neck and twisted her head to see herself in the looking glass. “It looks like a gloh of fat on a bunch of sausages,” she said with disgust. “Pansy, you’ll have to do my hair different. Pile it on top.” She could pin the flowers in between the waves, that wouldn’t be too bad. Oh, why did Rhett have to be so mean, telling her that his precious old plantation flowers were the only jewels she could wear? It was bad enough that her ball gown was so dowdy. But with nothing to dress up the plainness except a bunch of flowers—she might as well wear a flour sack with a hole cut for her head. She’d counted on her pearls and her diamond earbobs.

“You don’t have to brush a hole in my scalp,” she grumbled at Pansy.

“Yes’m.” Pansy continued to brush the long dark mass of hair with vigorous strokes, eradicating the curls that had taken so long to arrange.

Scarlett looked at her reflection with growing satisfaction. Yes, that was much better. Her neck was really too pretty to cover. It was much better to wear her hair up. And her earbobs would show up better. She was going to wear them, no matter what Rhett had told her. She had to be dazzling, she had to win the admiration of every man at the ball, and the hearts of at least a few. That would make Rhett sit up and take notice.

She fastened the diamonds into her earlobes. There! She tilted her head from side to side, pleased with the effect.

“Do you like this, Miss Scarlett?” Pansy gestured toward her handiwork.

“No. Do it fuller above the ears.” Thank goodness Rosemary had turned down her offer to lend Pansy this evening. Though why Rosemary hadn’t jumped at the chance was a mystery; she needed all the help she could get. She’d probably bundle her hair into the same lumpy old-maid bun she always wore. Scarlett smiled. Entering the ballroom with Rhett’s sister would only call attention to how much prettier she was.

“That’s fine, Pansy,” she said, good humor restored. Her hair shone like a raven’s wing. The white flowers would actually be very becoming. “Hand me some hairpins.”

A half hour later, Scarlett was ready. She took one final look in the tall pier glass. The deep blue watered silk of her gown shimmered in the lamp light and made her powdered bare shoulders and bosom look as pale as alabaster. Her diamonds sparkled brilliantly, as did her green eyes. Black velvet ribbon in loops bordered the gown’s train and a wide black velvet bow lined with paler blue silk sat atop the gown’s bustle, emphasizing her tiny waist. Her slippers were made of blue velvet with black laces, and narrow black velvet ribbon was tied around her throat and each wrist. White camellias tied with black velvet bows were pinned to her shoulders and filled a silver-lace bouquet holder. She had never looked lovelier, and she recognized it. Excitement made her cheeks rosy with natural color.

Scarlett’s first ball in Charleston was full of surprises. Almost nothing was the way she expected it to be. First she was told that she’d have to wear her boots, not her dancing slippers. They were going to walk to the Ball. She would have ordered a hackney if she’d known that, she couldn’t believe that Rhett hadn’t done it. It didn’t help that Pansy was supposed to carry her slippers in a Charleston contraption called a “slipper bag” because she didn’t have a slipper bag, and it took Miss Eleanor’s maid fifteen minutes to find a basket to use instead. Why hadn’t anyone told her she needed one of the miserable things? “We didn’t think of it,” Rosemary said. “Everybody has slipper bags.”

Everybody in Charleston maybe, thought Scarlett, but not in Atlanta. People don’t walk to balls there, they ride. Her happy anticipation of her first Charleston ball began to change to uneasy apprehension. What else was going to be different?

Everything, she discovered. Charleston had developed formalities and rituals in the long years of its history that were unknown in the vigorous semi-frontier world of North Georgia. When the fall of the Confederacy cut off the lavish wealth that had allowed the formality to develop, the rituals survived, the only thing that remained of the past, cherished and unchangeable for that reason.

There was a receiving line inside the door of the ballroom at the top of the Wentworth house. Everyone had to line up on the stairs, waiting to enter the room one by one and then shake hands and murmur something to Minnie Wentworth, then to her husband, their son, their son’s wife, their daughter’s husband, their married daughter, their unmarried daughter. While, all the time, the music was playing and earlier arrivals were dancing, and Scarlett’s feet were itching to dance.

In Georgia, she thought impatiently, the people giving the party come forward to meet their guests. They don’t keep them waiting in line like a chain gang. It’s a sight more welcoming than this foolishness.

Just before she followed Mrs. Butler into the room, a dignified manservant offered her a tray. A pile of folded papers was on it, little booklets held together by thin blue twine with a tiny pencil hanging from it. Dance cards? They must be dance cards. Scarlett had heard Mammy talk about balls in Savannah when Ellen O’Hara was a girl, but she’d never quite believed that parties were so peaceful that a girl looked in a book to see who she was supposed to dance with. Why, the Tarleton twins and the Fontaine boys would have split their britches laughing if anyone told them they had to write their names on a tiny piece of paper with a little pencil so dinky that it would break in a real man’s fingers! She wasn’t even sure she wanted to dance with the kind of pantywaist who’d be willing to do that.

Yes, she was! She was sure she’d dance with the devil himself, horns and tail and all, just to be able to dance. It seemed like ten years, not one, since the Masquerade Ball in Atlanta.

“I’m so happy to be here,” said Scarlett to Minnie Wentworth, and her voice throbbed with sincerity. She smiled at all the other Wentworths, each in turn, and then she was through the line. She turned toward the dancing, her feet already moving in time to the music, and she drew in her breath. Oh, it was so beautiful—so strange and yet so familiar, like a dream she only half-remembered. The candlelit room was alive with music, with the colors and rustling of whirling skirts. Along the walls dowagers were sitting in fragile gold-painted chairs just as they always had, whispering behind their fans to one another about the things they had always whispered about: the young people who were dancing too close together, the latest horror story of someone’s daughter’s prolonged childbirth, the newest scandal about their dearest friends. Waiters in full-dress suits moved from group to group of men and women who weren’t dancing with silver trays of filled glasses and frosted silver julep cups. There was a hum of blended voices, punctuated by laughter, high and deep, the age-old beloved noise of fortunate light-hearted people enjoying themselves. It was as if the old world, the beautiful carefree world of her youth, still existed, as if nothing was changed, and there had never been a War.

Her sharp eyes could see the scabby paint on the walls and the spur-gouges in the floor under the layers of wax, but she refused to notice. Better to enter the illusion, to forget the War and the Yankee patrols on the street outside. There was music and there was dancing and Rhett had promised to be nice. Nothing more was needed.

Rhett was more than merely nice; he was charming. And no one on earth could be more charming than Rhett when he wanted to be. Unfortunately he was just as charming to everyone else as he was to her. She alternated wildly between pride that every other woman envied her and raging jealousy that Rhett was paying attention to so many others. He was attentive to her, she couldn’t accuse him of neglect. But he was attentive to his mother, too, and to Rosemary, and to dozens of other women who were dreary old matrons in Scarlett’s opinion.

She told herself that she mustn’t care, and after a while she didn’t. As each dance ended, she was immediately surrounded by men who insisted that her previous partner introduce them so that they could beg her for the dance to follow.

It was not simply that she was new in town, a fresh face in a crowd of people who all knew each other. She was compellingly alluring. Her decision to make Rhett jealous had added a reckless glitter to her fascinating, unusual green eyes, and a heated flush of excitement colored her cheeks like a red flag signalling danger.

Many of the men who vied for her dances were the husbands of friends she’d made, women she had called on, had partnered at the whist table, had gossiped with over coffee at the Market. She didn’t care. Time enough to mend the damage after Rhett was hers again. In the meantime she was being admired and complimented and flirted with, and she was in her element. Nothing had really changed. Men still responded the same way to her fluttering eyelashes and flickering dimple and outrageous flattery. They’ll believe any lie you tell them, long as it makes them feel like heroes, she thought, with a wicked smile of delight that made her partner miss a step. She jerked her toes out from under his foot. “Oh, do say you forgive me!” she begged. “I must have caught my heel in the hem of my dress. What a dreadful mistake to make, especially when I’m lucky enough to be waltzing with a wonderful dancer like you.”

Her eyes were beguiling and the rueful pout that went with her apology made her lips look as if they were ready for a kiss. There were some things that a girl never forgot how to do.

“What a lovely party!” she said happily when they were walking back to the house.

“I’m pleased that you had a nice time,” Eleanor Butler said. “And I’m very, very pleased for you, too, Rosemary. You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

“Hah! I hated it, Mama, you should know that. But I’m so happy that I’m going to Europe that it didn’t bother me to go to the silly Ball.”

Rhett laughed. He was walking behind Scarlett and Rosemary, his mother’s hand in his left arm. His laughter was warm in the cold December night. Scarlett thought of the warmth of his body, imagined that she could sense it at her back. Why wasn’t she on his arm, close to that warmth? She knew why: Mrs. Butler was old, it was appropriate that her son support her. But that didn’t lessen Scarlett’s longing.

“Laugh all you please, brother, dear,” Rosemary said, “but I don’t think it’s funny.” She was walking backwards now, half-trampling the train of her gown. “I didn’t get to say two words to Miss Julia Ashley all night because I had to dance with all those ridiculous men.”

“Who’s Miss Julia Ashley?” Scarlett asked. The name commanded her interest.

“She’s Rosemary’s idol,” said Rhett, “and the only person I’ve ever been afraid of in my adult life. You would have noticed Miss Ashley if you’d seen her, Scarlett. She always wears black, and she looks like she’s been drinking vinegar.”

“Oh, you—!” Rosemary sputtered. She ran to Rhett and hit him on the chest with her fists.

“Pax!” he cried. He put his right arm around her and pulled her close to his side.

Scarlett felt the wind cold off the river. She lifted her chin against it, turned forward and walked the remaining few steps to the house alone.

22

Another Sunday meant another lecture from Eulalie and Pauline, Scarlett was sure of it. She was, in fact, more than a little frightened about her behavior at the Ball. Perhaps she’d been just a little bit too—lively, that was it. But she hadn’t had fun like that in so long, and it wasn’t her fault that she attracted so much more attention than the prissy Charleston ladies, was it? Besides, she was really only doing it for Rhett, so he would stop being so cold and distant to her. No one could blame a wife for trying to hold her marriage together.

She suffered in silence the heavy unexpressed disapproval of her equally silent aunts during the walk to and from Saint Mary’s. Eulalie’s mournful sniffling during Mass set her teeth on edge, but she managed to block it out by daydreaming about the moment when Rhett would abandon his stiff-necked pride and admit that he still loved her. For he did, didn’t he? Whenever he held her in his arms to dance she felt like her knees had turned to water. Surely she couldn’t feel the lightning in the air when they touched unless he felt it too. Could she?

She’d find out soon. He’d have to do more than just rest his gloved hand on her waist for dancing when New Year’s Eve came. He’d have to kiss her at midnight. Only five more days to get through, and then their lips would meet and he’d have to believe how much she truly loved him. Her kiss would tell him more than words ever could . . .

The ancient beauty and mystery of the Mass unfolded before her unseeing eyes while Scarlett imagined her wishes coming true. Pauline’s sharp elbow stabbed her whenever her responses were late.

The silence continued unbroken when they sat down for breakfast. Scarlett felt as if every nerve in her body were exposed to the air, to Pauline’s icy stare, to the sound of Eulalie’s sniffing. She couldn’t stand it any longer, and she burst out in angry attack at them before they could attack her.

“You told me that everybody walked everywhere, and I’ve got broken blisters all over my feet from doing what you said. Last night the street in front of the Wentworths’ ball was chock full of carriages!”

Pauline raised her eyebrows and tightened her lips. “Do you see what I mean, Sister?” she said to Eulalie. “Scarlett is determined to turn her back on everything that Charleston stands for.”

“It’s hard to see what importance the carriages have, Sister, compared with the things we agreed we should talk about to her.”

“As an example,” Pauline insisted. “It’s an excellent example of the attitude behind all the other things.”

Scarlett drained her cup of the pale, weak coffee Pauline had poured and set it down in the saucer with a crash. “I’ll take it as a kindness if you’ll stop talking about me as if I was deaf and dumb. You can preach at me till you’re blue in the face if you want to, but first tell me who all those carriages belonged to!”

The aunts stared at her from wide eyes. “Why, the Yankees, of course,” said Eulalie.

“Carpetbaggers,” added Pauline with precision.

With corrections and amendments to every sentence spoken by the other, the sisters told Scarlett that the coachmen were still loyal to their pre-War owners, although they now worked for the newrich, uptown people. During the Season they manipulated their employers in various clever ways so that they could drive “their white folks” to balls and receptions if the distance was too far or the weather too inclement for them to walk.

“On the night of the Saint Cecilia, they just flat out insist on having the evening off and the carriage for their own use,” Eulalie added.

“They’re all trained coachmen and very high-toned,” Pauline said, “so the carpetbaggers are terrified of offending them.” She was very close to laughter. “They know the coachmen despise them. House servants have always been the most snobbish creatures on earth.”

“Certainly these house servants,” said Eulalie gleefully. “After all, they’re Charlestonians just as much as we are. That’s why they care so much about the Season. The Yankees took whatever they could and tried to destroy everything else, but we still have our Season.”

“And our pride!” Pauline announced.

With their pride and a penny, they could ride the streetcar anyplace it went, Scarlett thought sourly. But she was grateful that they’d gotten sidetracked onto the stories about faithful old family servants that occupied them for the rest of the meal. She was even careful to eat only half her breakfast so that Eulalie would be able to finish it as soon as she was gone. Aunt Pauline ran a mighty stingy household.

She was pleasantly surprised to find Anne Hampton at the Butler house when she got there. It would be nice to bask in Anne’s admiration for a while after the hours of cold disapproval from her aunts.

But Anne and the widow from the Home who was with her were almost totally occupied with the bowls full of camellias that had been sent down from the plantation.

And so was Rhett. “Burnt to the ground,” he was saying, “but stronger than ever once they’re cleared of weeds.”

“Oh, look!” Anne exclaimed. “There’s the Reine des Fleurs.”

“And a Rubra Plena!” The thin elderly widow cupped her pale hands to hold the vibrant red blossom. “I used to keep mine in a crystal vase on the pianoforte.”

Anne’s eyes blinked rapidly. “So did we, Miss Harriet, and the Alba Plena’s on the tea table.”

“My Alba Plena isn’t as healthy as I’d hoped,” Rhett said. “The buds are all kind of stunted.”

The widow and Anne both laughed. “You won’t see any flowers until January, Mr. Butler,” Anne explained. “The Alba’s a late bloomer.”

Rhett’s mouth twisted in a rueful smile. “So am I, it seems, where gardening is concerned.”

My grief! thought Scarlett. Next thing I reckon they’ll start chatting about is whether cow patties are better than horse droppings for fertilizer. What kind of sissyness is that for a man like Rhett to say! She turned her back on them and sat in a chair close to the settee where Eleanor Butler was doing her tatting.

“This piece is almost long enough to trim the neck of your claret gown when it needs freshening,” she said to Scarlett with a smile. “Halfway through the Season it’s always nice to have a change. I’ll be finished with it by then.”

“Oh, Miss Eleanor, you’re always so sweet and thoughtful. I feel my bad mood going right away. Honestly, I marvel at you being such good friends with my Aunt Eulalie. She’s not like you at all. She’s forever sniffling and complaining and squabbling with Aunt Pauline.”

Eleanor dropped her ivory tatting shuttle. “Scarlett, you astonish me. Of course Eulalie’s my friend; I think of her as practically a sister. Don’t you know that she almost married my younger brother?”

Scarlett’s jaw dropped. “I can’t imagine anybody wanting to marry Aunt Eulalie,” she said frankly.

“But, my dear, she was a lovely girl, simply lovely. She came to visit after Pauline married Carey Smith and settled in Charleston. The house they’re in was the Smith town house; their plantation was over on the Wando River. My brother Kemper was smitten at once. Everyone expected them to marry. Then he was thrown from his horse and was killed. Eulalie’s considered herself a widow ever since.”

Aunt Eulalie in love! Scarlett couldn’t believe it.

“I was sure you must know,” said Mrs. Butler. “She’s your family.”

But I don’t have any family, Scarlett thought, not the way Miss Eleanor means. Not close and caring and knowing all about everybody’s heart secrets. All I have is nasty old Suellen, and Carreen with her nun’s veil and her vows to the convent. Suddenly she felt very lonely despite the cheerful faces and conversation around her. I must be hungry, she decided, that’s why I feel like bursting into tears. I should have eaten all my breakfast.

She was doing full justice to dinner when Manigo came in and spoke quietly to Rhett.

“Excuse me,” Rhett said, “it seems we’ve got a Yankee officer at the door.”

“What do you suppose they’re up to now?” Scarlett wondered aloud.

Rhett was laughing when he returned a moment later. “Everything but a white flag of surrender,” he said. “You’ve won, Mama. They’re inviting all the men to come to the Guardhouse and take back the guns they confiscated.”

Rosemary applauded loudly.

Miss Eleanor shushed her. “We can’t take too much credit. They can’t risk all these unprotected houses on Emancipation Day.” She went on to answer Scarlett’s questioning expression. “New Year’s Day isn’t what it used to be, a quiet time to nurse headaches from too much New Year’s Eve. Mr. Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation on a January first, so now it’s the major day of celebration for all the former slaves. They take over the park down at the end of the Battery and shoot off firecrackers and pistols all day and all night while they get drunker and drunker. We lock up, of course, including all the shutters, just the way we do for a hurricane. But it helps to have an armed man in the house, too.”

Scarlett frowned. “There aren’t any guns in the house.”

“There will be,” said Rhett. “Plus two men. They’re coming from the Landing just for the occasion.”

“And when will you be going?” Eleanor asked Rhett.

“On the thirtieth. I have an appointment with Julia Ashley on the thirty-first. We need to plan our united-front strategy.”

Rhett was leaving! Going to his wretched, smelly old plantation! He wouldn’t be here to kiss her on New Year’s Eve. Now Scarlett was sure she was going to cry.

“I’m going to the Landing with you,” said Rosemary. “I haven’t been there for months.”

“You can’t go to the Landing, Rosemary.” Rhett was carefully patient.

“I’m afraid Rhett’s right, dear,” said Mrs. Butler. “He can’t be with you all the time, he’s got too much business to take care of. And you cannot be in the house or any place else with only that child you have for a maid. There’s too much coming and going, too many rough people.”

“I’ll take your Celie, then. Scarlett will let you borrow Pansy to help you dress, won’t you, Scarlett?”

Scarlett smiled. There was no need for tears. “I’ll go with you, Rosemary,” she said sweetly. “Pansy, too.” New Year’s Eve would come to the plantation, too. Without a ballroom full of people, just Rhett and her.

“How generous of you, Scarlett,” Miss Eleanor said. “I know you’ll miss going to the balls next week. You’re luckier than you deserve, Rosemary, to have such a thoughtful sister-in-law.”

“I don’t think either of them should go, Mama, I won’t allow it,” said Rhett.

Rosemary opened her mouth to protest, but her mother’s slightly raised hand stopped her. Mrs. Butler spoke quietly: “You’re being rather inconsiderate, Rhett; Rosemary loves the Landing as much as you do, and she doesn’t have the freedom to come and go the way you can. I believe you should take her, especially since you’re also going to Julia Ashley’s. She’s very fond of your sister.”

Scarlett’s mind was racing. What did she care about missing some dances if she could be alone with Rhett? She’d get rid of Rosemary somehow—maybe this Miss Ashley would invite her to stay at her place. Then there would be only Rhett . . . and Scarlett.

She remembered him in her room when she was at the Landing before. He’d held her, comforted her, spoken with such tenderness . . .

“Just wait till you see Miss Julia’s plantation, Scarlett,” Rosemary said loudly. “It’s what a plantation is supposed to be.” Rhett was riding ahead of them, pushing aside or tearing the vines of honeysuckle that had grown across the trail through the pinewoods. Scarlett followed Rosemary, uninterested for the moment in what Rhett was doing, her mind busy with other things. Thank goodness this old horse is so fat and lazy. I haven’t ridden horseback for so long that anything with spirit would throw me for sure. How I used to love to ride . . . back then . . . when the stables at Tara were full. Pa was so proud of his horses. And of me. Suellen had hands like anvils, she could ruin the mouth of an alligator. And Carreen was afraid, even of her pony. But I used to race with Pa, hell for leather on the roads, almost winning sometimes. “Katie Scarlett,” he’d say, “you’ve got the hands of an angel and the nerve of the devil himself. It’s the O’Hara in you, a horse will always recognize an Irishman and give his best for him.” Darling Pa . . . Tara’s woods smelled sharp, just like these, pine prickling in my nose. And the birds singing and the rustling leaves underfoot and the peace of it all. I wonder how many acres Rhett’s got? I’ll find out from Rosemary. She probably knows right down to the square inch. I hope this Miss Ashley isn’t the dragon Rhett makes her out to be. What was it Rhett said? She looks like she drinks vinegar. He is funny when he’s nasty—as long as it’s not about me.

“Scarlett! Catch up, we’re almost there.” Rosemary’s call came from ahead. Scarlett flicked the neck of her horse with her crop and it walked marginally faster. Rhett and Rosemary were already out of the wood when she reached them. At first all she could see was Rhett, sharp-edged clear in the bright sunlight. How handsome he is, and how well he sits his horse, not a sluggish old thing like mine, but a real horse with plenty of fire to him. Look at the way the horse’s muscles are twitching under his skin, yet he’s still as a statue, just from the grip of Rhett’s knees and his hands on the reins. His hands . . .

Rosemary gestured, catching Scarlett’s eye, directing it to the scene ahead, and Scarlett caught her breath. She had never cared about architecture, never noticed it. Even the magnificent houses that made Charleston’s Battery world-famous were to her just houses. However there was something about the severe beauty of Julia Ashley’s house at Ashley Barony that she recognized as different from anything she’d ever known and grand in a way she couldn’t define. It sat isolated in broad stretches of grass unadorned with garden, distant from the ancient huge live oak trees that were wide-spaced sentinels at the perimeter of the lawn. Square, made of brick with white-framed door and windows, the house was—“special,” Scarlett whispered. No wonder that it alone of all the plantations on the river had been spared the torches of Sherman’s Army. Even the Yankees wouldn’t dare insult the mighty presence before her eyes.

There was a sound of laughter, followed by singing. Scarlett turned her head. The house awed and intimidated her. Far to her left she saw expanses of strong insistent green completely different from the familiar deep rich color of the grass. Dozens of black men and women were working and singing in the strange green. Why, they’re field hands, tending the crop of whatever it is. So many of them, too. Her mind flew to the cotton fields at Tara that had once stretched as far as she could see, just as this strident green flowed without bounds along the river. Oh, yes, Rosemary’s right. This is a real plantation, like a plantation’s meant to be. Nothing was burned, nothing was changed, nothing would ever change. Time itself respected the majesty of Ashley Barony.

“It’s good of you to meet with me, Miss Ashley,” said Rhett. He bowed over the hand Julia Ashley held out to him; the back of his ungloved hand supported it respectfully, and his lips stopped the prescribed inch above it, for no gentleman would commit the impertinence of actually kissing the hand of a maiden lady, no matter how advanced her years.

“It’s useful to us both, Mr. Butler,” Julia said. “You’re miserably ill-groomed as usual, Rosemary, but I’m glad to see you. Introduce your sister-in-law.”

My grief, she really is a dragon, Scarlett thought nervously. I wonder if she expects me to curtsey?

“This is Scarlett, Miss Julia,” Rosemary said, smiling. She didn’t seem at all upset by the older woman’s criticism.

“How do you do, Mrs. Butler.”

Scarlett was sure that Julia Ashley didn’t care to know how she did at all. “How do you do,” she replied in kind. She inclined her head in a slight bow, the degree of inclination an exact replica of Miss Ashley’s frigid politeness. Who did this old woman think she was anyhow?

“There is a tea tray in the drawing room,” Julia said. “You may pour out for Mrs. Butler, Rosemary. Ring if you need more hot water. We’ll do our business in my library, Mr. Butler, and take tea afterwards.”

“Oh, Miss Julia, can’t I listen while you and Rhett talk?” Rosemary begged.

“No, Rosemary, you may not.”

And that’s the end of that, I guess, Scarlett said to herself. Julia Ashley was walking away with Rhett obediently following behind.

“Come on, Scarlett, the drawing room’s through here.” Rosemary opened a tall door and gestured to Scarlett.

The room she entered was a surprise to Scarlett. There was none of the coldness of its owner about it and nothing intimidating. It was very large, bigger than Minnie Wentworth’s ballroom. But the floor was covered with an old Persian rug with a background of faded red, and the draperies at the tall windows were a warm soft rose color. A bright fire crackled in the wide fireplace; sunlight poured through the sparkling window panes onto the brightly polished silver tea service, onto the gold and blue and rose velvet upholstery on broad, comfortable settees and winged chairs. And an enormous yellow tabby cat was sleeping on the hearth.

Scarlett shook her head slightly in wonder. It was difficult to believe that this cheerful, welcoming room had any connection with the stiff-backed woman in the black dress she had met outside its door. She sat next to Rosemary on a settee. “Tell me about Miss Ashley,” she said, avid with curiosity.

“Miss Julia’s wonderful.” Rosemary exclaimed. “She runs Ashley Barony herself; she says she’s never had an overseer that didn’t need overseeing. And she has practically as many rice fields as there were before the War. She could mine phosphate like Rhett, but she won’t have anything to do with it. Plantations are for planting, she says, not for”—Rosemary’s voice dropped to a shocked, pleased whisper—“ ‘raping the land to get what’s underneath.’ She keeps it all the way it was. There’s sugar cane and a press to make her own molasses, and a blacksmith to shoe the mules and make wheels for the carts, and a cooper to make barrels for the rice and molasses, and a carpenter for fixing things, a tanner to make harness. She takes her rice into town for milling and she buys flour and coffee and tea, but everything else comes from the place. She’s got cows and sheep and fowl and pigs and a dairy room and spring house and smoke house and storerooms full of canned vegetables and shelled corn and preserved fruit from the summer crops. She makes her own wine, too. Rhett claims she’s even got a still out in the pine woods she gets her turpentine from.”

“Does she still have slaves?” Scarlett’s words were sharply sarcastic. The days of the great plantations were over and there was no bringing them back.

“Oh, Scarlett, you sound just like Rhett sometimes. I’d like to shake both of you. Miss Julia pays wages just like everybody else. But she makes the plantation earn enough to pay them. I’m going to do the same thing at the Landing if I ever get the chance. I think it’s horrible that Rhett won’t even try.”

Rosemary began to clatter cups and saucers on the tea tray.

“I can’t remember, do you take milk or lemon, Scarlett?”

“What? Oh—milk, please.” Scarlett had no interest in tea. She was reliving the fantasy she’d had before, of Tara brought back to life, with its fields studded with white cotton for as far as the eye could see and its barns full and the house just the way it had been when her mother was alive. Yes, there was some of the long-forgotten scent of lemon oil in this room and brass polish and floor wax. It was faint, but she was sure she could smell it, in spite of the sharp resinous tang of the pine logs in the fire.

Her hand automatically accepted the cup of tea that Rosemary offered and held it, letting it cool while she daydreamed. Why not make Tara what it had been? If that old lady can run this plantation, I can run Tara. Will doesn’t know what Tara is, not the real Tara, the best plantation in Clayton County. “A two-mule farm,” he calls it now. No, by all the saints, Tara’s much much more than that! I could do it, too, I’ll bet! Didn’t Pa say a hundred times that I was a true O’Hara? Then I can do what he did, make Tara into what he made it. Maybe even better. I know how to keep books, how to squeeze out a profit where nobody else sees the possibilities. Why, practically all the places around Tara have gone back to scrub pine. I’ll bet I could buy land for next to nothing!

Her mind leapt from one picture to another—rich fields, fat cattle; her old bedroom with crisp white curtains billowing into the room on a jasmine-scented spring breeze; riding through the woods—cleared of underbrush—miles of chestnut-rail fence outlining her land, stretching farther and farther into the red-earth countryside . . . She had to set the vision aside. Reluctantly she focused her attention on Rosemary’s insistent loud voice.

Rice, rice, rice! Can’t Rosemary Butler ever talk about anything but rice? What can Rhett possibly find to talk about with that old fright Miss Ashley for so long? Scarlett shifted position again on the settee. Rhett’s sister had a habit of leaning toward her listener when she was excited about what she was saying. Rosemary had almost driven her into the corner of the long settee. She turned eagerly toward the door when it opened. Damn Rhett anyhow! What was he laughing about with Julia Ashley? He might think it was amusing to leave her to cool her heels for an age and a half, but she didn’t.

“You always were a rogue, Rhett Butler,” Julia was saying, “but I don’t remember that you included impertinence in your list of sins.”

“Miss Ashley, to the best of my knowledge, impertinence is a tag attached to the behavior of servants toward their masters and young people toward their elders. While I am, in all things, your obedient servant, you surely cannot be suggesting that you are my elder. Contemporary I’ll grant with pleasure, but elder is out of the question.”

Why, he’s flirting with the old creature! I guess he must want something pretty bad if he’s making a fool of himself like this.

Julia Ashley made a sound that could only be described as a dignified snort. “Very well, then,” she said, “I’ll agree, if only to put a halt to this absurdity. Now sit down and stop your foolishness.”

Rhett moved a chair closer to the tea table and bowed ceremoniously when Julia seated herself in it. “Thank you, Miss Julia, for your condescension.”

“Don’t be such an ass, Rhett.”

Scarlett frowned at both of them. Was that all? All that to-do about changing from “Miss Ashley” and “Mr. Butler” to “Rhett” and “Miss Julia”? Rhett was an ass, just like the old woman said. But “Miss Julia” was mighty close to acting like an ass herself. Why, she was practically simpering at Rhett. It was nothing short of disgusting the way he could wrap women around his little finger!

A maid hurried into the room and lifted the tray of tea things from the table in front of the settee. She was followed by a second maid, who quietly moved the tea table to a place in front of Julia Ashley, and a manservant with a larger silver tray holding a different, larger silver service and stands of fresh sandwiches and cakes. Scarlett had to admit it: no matter how disagreeable Julia Ashley might be, the old woman did things with style!

“Rhett tells me you’re to make the Tour, Rosemary,” said Julia.

“Yes, ma’am! I’m so excited I could die.”

“That would be inconvenient, I should imagine. Tell me, have you begun to map your itinerary?”

“Not really, Miss Julia. I’ve only known for a few days that I was going. The only thing I’m certain of is that I want to spend as long as possible in Rome.”

“You must be sure to time it correctly. The summer heat is quite intolerable, even for a Charlestonian. And the Romans all abandon the city for the mountains or the sea. I still correspond with some delightful people whom you would enjoy. I’ll give you letters of introduction, of course. If I might suggest—”

“Oh, please, Miss Julia. There’s so much I want to know.”

Scarlett breathed a small sigh of relief. She didn’t put it past Rhett to tell Miss Ashley about the mistake she’d made, thinking that the only Rome was in Georgia, but he’d let the chance go by. Now he was putting his two cents in, talking a blue streak with the old woman about all the people with strange names. And Rosemary lapping it all up.

The conversation interested Scarlett not at all. But she wasn’t bored. She watched, fascinated, every move that Julia Ashley made as she presided at the tea table. Without any break in the discussion of Roman antiquities—except to ask Scarlett if she took milk or lemon and how many lumps of sugar—Julia filled cups and held each one up, to a level slightly below her right shoulder, for one of the maids to take it from her. She held it up, waited no longer than three seconds, then removed her hand.

She doesn’t even look! Scarlett marvelled. If the maid wasn’t there, or wasn’t quick enough, the whole thing would just fall on the floor. But one of the maids was always there, and the cup was delivered silently to the correct person without a drop spilled.

Where did he come from? Scarlett was startled when the manservant appeared at her side, offering her a napkin with its folds shaken out and the three-tiered stand of sandwiches. She was just about to reach out and take one when the man produced a plate, which he held near her hand for her to take.

Oh, I see, there’s a maid handing him things for him to hand to me! Mighty complicated for a fish-paste sandwich no bigger than a bite’s worth.

But she was impressed by the elegance of it all, even more impressed when the man held an elaborate silver pincer in his whitegloved hand and lifted an assortment of sandwiches onto her plate. The final touch was the small table with a lace-edged cloth on it that the second maid placed beside her knees just when she was wondering how she was going to manage, with a cup and saucer in one hand and a plate in the other.

Despite her hunger and her curiosity about the sandwiches—what kind of fancy food called for such fancy serving?—Scarlett was more interested in the silent efficient routine of the servants as first Rosemary and then Rhett were provided with plate, sandwiches, table. It was almost a disappointment when Miss Ashley was given no special treatment, only a return of the stand to the table in front of her. Fiddle-dee-dee! She’s even unfolding her napkin herself! It was a definite disappointment when she bit into the first sandwich and it was only bread and butter, even though the butter had something else in it—parsley, she thought; no, something stronger, maybe chives. She ate contentedly; all the sandwiches were good. And the cakes on the other stand looked even better.

My grief! They’re still talking about Rome! Scarlett glanced toward the servants. They were standing still as posts, along the wall behind Miss Ashley. Obviously the cakes weren’t going to be passed any time soon. For heaven’s sake, Rosemary had only eaten one half of one sandwich.

“. . . but we’re being inconsiderate,” Julia Ashley said. “Mrs. Butler, what city would you like to visit? Or do you share Rosemary’s conviction that all roads rightly lead to Rome?”

Scarlett put on her best smile. “I’m too enchanted by Charleston to even think about going any place else, Miss Ashley.”

“A graceful response,” said Julia, “although it does rather put a period to the conversation. May I offer you some tea?”

Before Scarlett could accept, Rhett spoke. “I’m afraid we have to go, Miss Julia. I haven’t gotten the woods trails in condition yet for riding in the dark, and the days are so short.”

“You could have avenues, not trails, if you’d put your men to work on the land instead of at that disgraceful phosphate mine.”

“Now, Miss Julia, I thought we’d reached a truce.”

“So we did. And I’ll honor it. Furthermore, I’ll admit that you should take care to be well home before dusk. I’ve been indulging myself with happy memories about Rome, and I haven’t watched the time. Perhaps Rosemary might stay the night with me. I’d see her to the Landing tomorrow morning.”

Oh, yes! thought Scarlett.

“Unfortunately, that won’t do,” Rhett said. “I might have to go out tonight, and I don’t want Scarlett at the house with no one she knows except her Georgia maid.”

“I don’t mind, Rhett,” Scarlett said loudly, “truly I don’t. Do you think I’m some kind of sissy who’s afraid of the dark?”

“You’re quite right, Rhett,” said Julia Ashley. “And you should cultivate some caution, Mrs. Butler. These are uncertain times.”

Julia’s tone was decisive. So was her abrupt movement. She stood and walked toward the door. “I’ll see you out, then. Hector will have your horses brought around.”

23

There were several large groups of angry-looking black men and one small group of black women in the horseshoe-shaped grass area behind the house at the Landing. Rhett helped Scarlett and Rosemary step down from the mounting block near the makeshift stables and held on to their elbows while the stableboy gathered the reins and led the horses away. When the boy was out of earshot, Rhett spoke with hushed urgency. “I’m going to walk you around to the front of the house. Go inside and straight upstairs to one of the bedrooms. Close the door and stay in there until I come for you. I’ll send Pansy up. Keep her with you.”

“What’s going on, Rhett?” Scarlett’s voice had a quaver in it.

“I’ll tell you later, there’s no time now. Just do as I say.” He kept hold of the two women, forcing them to match his purposeful but unhurried pace to the house and around its side. “Mist’ Butler!” shouted one of the men. A half dozen others followed him as he started to walk towards Rhett. This isn’t good, thought Scarlett, calling him Mr. Butler instead of Mr. Rhett. It’s not friendly at all, and there must be close to fifty of them.

“Stay where you are,” Rhett shouted back. “I’ll be back to talk to you as soon as I get the ladies settled.” Rosemary stumbled on a loose stone in the path and Rhett jerked her upright before she could fall. “I don’t care if your leg’s broken,” he muttered, “keep walking.”

“I’m all right,” Rosemary said. She sounds cool as ice, thought Scarlett. She despised herself for feeling so nervous. Thank goodness they were almost at the house now. Only a few more steps and they’d be around it. She was unaware that she was holding her breath until they neared the house front. When she saw the green terraces that stepped down to the butterfly lakes and the river, she let her breath out in a whoosh of release.

Then she drew it in sharply. As they turned the corner onto the brick terrace she saw ten white men sitting on it, leaning back against the house wall. They were all of them thin, lanky, their pale bare ankles showing between their clumsy heavy shoes and the bottoms of their faded overalls. Across their knees they held rifles or shotguns in a loose, accustomed grip. Battered wide-brimmed hats pulled low on their foreheads shadowed their eyes, but Scarlett knew they were looking at Rhett and his women. One of them expelled a stream of brown tobacco juice across the lawn in front of Rhett’s fine riding boots.

“You can thank God you didn’t spatter my sister, Clinch Dawkins,” Rhett said, “or I’d have had to kill you. I’ll talk to you boys in a few minutes, I’ve got other things to do right now.” He spoke easily, casually. But Scarlett could feel the tension in his hand holding her arm. She lifted her chin and walked with firm strong steps to match Rhett’s. No poor white trash was going to face Rhett down, or her either.

She blinked in the sudden darkness when she entered the house. What a stink! Her eyes adjusted rapidly and Scarlett saw the reason for the benches and spittoons in the main room downstairs. More weathered, hungry-looking poor whites were sprawled on the seats, filling every inch of space. They, too, were armed, and their hat brims made their eyes a secret. The floor was spotted with spit and pools of juice ringed the spittoons. Scarlett pulled her arm from Rhett’s hold, gathered up her skirts to the top of her ankles and walked to the staircase. Two steps up, she dropped them again, letting the train of her riding habit drag through the dust. She’d be damned if she’d treat that rabble to a look at a lady’s ankle. She mounted the rickety staircase as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

“What’s happening, Miss Scarlett? Ain’t nobody will tell me nothing!” Pansy started wailing the moment the bedroom door closed behind her.

“Hush up!” Scarlett ordered. “Do you want everybody in South Carolina to hear you?”

“I don’t want to have nothing to do with nobody in South Carolina, Miss Scarlett. I want to go back to Atlanta, to my own folks. I don’t like this place.”

“Nobody cares two pins what you like and don’t like, so you just march yourself over to that corner and sit on that stool and keep quiet. If I hear one peep out of you, I’ll . . . I’ll do something terrible.”

She looked at Rosemary. If Rhett’s sister broke down, too, she didn’t know what she’d do. Rosemary looked very pale, but she seemed composed enough. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at the pattern of the coverlet as if she’d never seen one before.

Scarlett walked to the window that overlooked the back lawn. If she stayed to one side of it, no one below could see her looking out. She lifted the muslin curtain with cautious fingers and peered out. Was Rhett out there? Dear God, he was! She could just make out the top of his hat, a dark circle in the middle of a big crowd of dark heads and gesticulating dark hands. The separate groups of black men had come together in one threatening mass.

They could stomp him to death in half a minute flat, she thought, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Her hand crumpled the thin curtain in anger at her helplessness.

“Better get away from that window, Scarlett,” said Rosemary. “If Rhett starts worrying about you and me, he’ll be distracted from whatever it is he has to do.”

Scarlett whirled to the attack. “Don’t you care what’s happening?”

“I care plenty, but I don’t know what’s happening. And neither do you.”

“I know that Rhett’s about to be swamped by a bunch of raging darkies. Why don’t those trashy tobacco spitters use the guns they’re sitting around with?”

“Then we’d really be in a fix. I know some of the black men, they work at the phosphate mine. They don’t want anything to happen to Rhett or they’d lose their jobs. Besides, plenty of them are Butler people. They belong here. It’s the whites I’m scared of. I expect Rhett is, too.”

“Rhett’s not scared of anything!”

“Of course he is. He’d be a fool if he wasn’t. I’m plenty scared and so are you.”

“I am not!”

“Then you’re a fool.”

Scarlett’s jaw dropped. The whiplash in Rosemary’s voice shocked her more than the insult. Why, she sounds just like Julia Ashley. A half hour with that old she-dragon and Rosemary’s turned into a monster.

She turned hurriedly to the window again. It was beginning to get dark. What was happening?

She couldn’t see a thing. Only dark shapes on the dark ground. Was Rhett one of them? She couldn’t tell. She put her ear against the windowpane and strained to hear. The only sound was a muffled whimpering from Pansy.

If I don’t do something I’ll go mad, she thought, and she began to pace back and forth across the small room. “Why does a big plantation like this have such cramped little bedrooms?” she complained. “You could fit two rooms like this into any one of the rooms at Tara.”

“Do you really want to know? Then sit down. There’s a rocker over by the other window. You can rock instead of walking. I’ll light the lamp and I’ll tell you all about Dunmore Landing if you’d like to hear.”

“I can’t bear to sit still! I’m going down there and find out what’s going on.” Scarlett groped in the darkness for the doorknob.

“If you do, he’ll never forgive you,” said Rosemary.

Scarlett’s hand fell to her side.

The match striking was as loud as a pistol shot. Scarlett felt the nerves jump under her skin. Then she turned, surprised to see that Rosemary looked just the same as always. She was in the same place, too, sitting on the edge of the bed. The kerosene lamp made the random colors of the coverlet look very bright. Scarlett hesitated for a moment. Then she walked to the rocking chair and plopped down into it.

“All right. Tell me about Dunmore Landing.” She began to rock with an angry push of her feet. The chair squeaked as Rosemary talked about the plantation that meant so much to her. Scarlett rocked with vicious pleasure.

The house they were in, Rosemary began, had small bedrooms because it was built as quarters for bachelor guests only. Above the floor they were on was another floor of small rooms for the guests’ manservants. The rooms downstairs where Rhett’s office and the dining room were now had been used as guest rooms also—a place for late-night toddies and card games and sociability. “All the chairs were red leather,” Rosemary said softly. “I used to love to go in there and sniff the leather and whiskey and cigar smoke smell when all the men were out hunting.

“The Landing’s named after the place the Butlers lived before our great-great-grandfather left England for Barbados. Our great-grandfather came to Charleston from there around a hundred and fifty years ago. He built the Landing and put in the gardens. His wife’s name before she married great-grandfather was Sophia Rosemary Ross. That’s where Ross and I get our names from.”

“Where’d Rhett get his name?”

“He’s named after our grandfather.”

“Rhett told me your grandfather was a pirate.”

“He did?” Rosemary laughed. “He would say that. Granddaddy ran the English blockade in the Revolution just like Rhett ran the Yankee blockade in our war. He was bound and determined to get his rice crop out, and he wouldn’t let anything stop him. I imagine he did some pretty sharp trading on the side, but mainly he was a rice planter. Dunmore Landing has always been a rice plantation. That’s why I get so mad at Rhett—”

Scarlett rocked faster. If she starts going on about rice again, I’ll scream.

The loud double report of a shotgun crashed through the night and Scarlett did scream. She jumped up from the chair and ran toward the door. Rosemary leapt up and ran after her. She threw her strong arms around Scarlett’s middle and held her back.

“Let me go, Rhett might be—” Scarlett croaked.

Rosemary was squeezing the breath out of her. Rosemary’s arms tightened. Scarlett struggled to get free. She heard her own strangled breath loud in her ears and—strangely more distinct—the creak creak creak of the rocker, slowing even as her breath was slowing. The lighted room seemed to be turning dark.

Her flailing hands fluttered weakly and her straining throat made a faint rasping noise. Rosemary let her go. “I’m sorry,” Scarlett thought she heard Rosemary say. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was to draw great gulps of air into her lungs. It even made no difference that she’d fallen onto her hands and knees. It was easier to breathe that way.

It was a long time before she could speak. She looked up then, saw Rosemary standing with her back against the door. “You almost killed me,” Scarlett said.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I had to stop you.”

“Why? I was going to Rhett. I’ve got to go to Rhett.” He meant more to her than all the world. Couldn’t this stupid girl understand that? No, she couldn’t, she’d never loved anybody, never had anybody love her.

Scarlett tried to scrabble to her feet. Oh, sweet Mary, Mother of God, I’m so weak. Her hands found the bedpost. Slowly she pulled herself upright. She was as white as a ghost, her green eyes blazed like cold flames.

“I’m going to Rhett,” she said.

Rosemary struck her then. Not with her hands or even her fists. Scarlett could have withstood that.

“He doesn’t want you,” Rosemary said quietly. “He told me so.”

24

Rhett paused in mid-sentence. He looked at Scarlett and said, “What is this? No appetite? And they say that country air is supposed to make people hungry. You astonish me, my dear. I do believe this is the first time I’ve ever seen you peck at your food.”

She looked up from her untouched plate to glare at him. How did he even dare to speak to her when he had been talking about her behind her back? Who else had he talked to besides Rosemary? Did everybody in Charleston know that he had walked out in Atlanta and that she’d made a fool of herself by coming after him?

She looked down and continued to push bits of food from place to place.

“So then what happened?” Rosemary demanded. “I still don’t understand.”

“It was just what Miss Julia and I expected. Her field hands and my phosphate diggers had cooked up a plot. You know that work contracts are signed on New Year’s Day for the year to follow. Miss Julia’s men were going to tell her that I paid my miners almost twice what she paid and that she’d have to jack up their salaries or they’d come to me. My men were going to play the same game, only the other way around. It never entered their heads that Miss Julia and I were on to them.

“The grapevine started humming the minute we rode over to Ashley Barony. All of them knew the game was up. You saw how industrious all the Barony workers were in the rice fields. They didn’t want to risk losing their jobs, and they’re all scared to death of Miss Julia.

“Things weren’t quite that smooth here. Word had gotten out that the Landing blacks were scheming something, and the white sharecroppers across the Summerville road got edgy. They did what poor whites always do, grabbed their guns and got ready for a little shooting. They came to the house and broke in and stole my whiskey, then passed the bottle around to get up a good head of steam. After you were safely out of range I told them I’d take care of my business myself, and I high-tailed it out to the back of the house. The blacks were scared, as well they might be, but I persuaded them that I could calm the whites down and that they should go home.

“When I got back to the house, I told the sharecroppers that I’d settled everything with the workers and they should go on home, too. I probably gave it to them too fast. I was so relieved myself that there hadn’t been any trouble that it made me careless. I’ll be smarter next time. If, God forbid, there is a next time. Anyhow, Clinch Dawkins flew off the handle. He was looking for trouble. He called me a nigger lover and cocked that cannon of a shotgun he’s got and turned it in my direction. I didn’t wait to find out if he was drunk enough to shoot, I just stepped over and knocked it up. The sky got a couple of holes in it.”

“Is that all?” Scarlett half-shouted. “You could have let us know.”

“I was too busy, my pet. Clinch’s pride was wounded, so he pulled a knife. I pulled mine and we had an active ten minutes or so before I cut off his nose.”

Rosemary gasped.

Rhett patted her hand. “Only the end of it. It was too long anyhow. His looks are significantly improved.”

“But Rhett, he’ll come after you.”

Rhett shook his head. “No, I can assure you he won’t. It was a fair fight. And Clinch is one of my oldest companions. We were in the Confederate Army together. He was loader for the cannon I commanded. There’s a bond between us that a small slice of nose can’t damage.”

“I wish he’d killed you,” said Scarlett distinctly. “I’m tired and I’m going to bed.” She pushed her chair back and walked with a dignified tread from the room.

Rhett’s words, deliberately drawled, followed her. “No greater blessing can be granted a man than the devotion of a loving wife.”

Scarlett’s heart grew hot with anger. “I hope Clinch Dawkins is outside this house right this minute,” she muttered, “just waiting for a clean shot.”

For that matter, she wouldn’t exactly cry her eyes out if the second barrel got Rosemary.

Rosemary lifted her wine glass to Rhett in a salute. “All right, now I know why you said supper was a celebration. I, for one, am celebrating this day being over.”

“Is Scarlett sick?” Rhett asked his sister. “I was only half-joking about her appetite. It’s not like her not to eat.”

“She’s upset.”

“I’ve seen her upset more times than you can count, and she’s eaten like a longshoreman every time.”

“This isn’t just her temper, Rhett. While you were chopping noses, Scarlett and I had a wrestling match ourselves.” Rosemary described Scarlett’s panic and her determination to go to him. “I didn’t know how dangerous things might be downstairs, so I held her back. I hope I did right.”

“You did absolutely right. Anything could have happened.”

“I’m afraid I held a little too tight,” Rosemary confessed. “She almost passed out, she couldn’t breathe.”

Rhett threw his head back and laughed. “By God, I wish I’d seen that. Scarlett O’Hara pinned to the mat by a girl. There must be a hundred women in Georgia who would have clapped the skin off their hands applauding you!”

Rosemary considered confessing the rest. She realized that what she’d said to Scarlett had hurt her more than the fight. She decided not to. Rhett was still chuckling; no sense in dimming his good mood.

Scarlett woke before dawn. She lay motionless in the dark room, afraid to move. Breathe like you’re still asleep, she told herself, you wouldn’t wake up in the middle of the night unless there’d been a noise or something. She listened for what seemed like an eternity, but the silence was heavy and unbroken.

When she realized that it was hunger that had wakened her, she almost cried with relief. Of course she was hungry! She’d had nothing to eat since breakfast the day before, except for a few tea sandwiches at Ashley Barony.

The night air was too cold for her to wear the elegant silk dressing gown she’d brought with her. She wrapped herself in the coverlet from the bed. It was heavy wool and still held in it the warmth of her body. It trailed awkwardly around her bare feet as she crept quietly through the dark hallway and down the stairs. Thank goodness, the banked fire in the great fireplace gave out some heat still, and enough light for her to see the door to the dining room and the kitchen beyond. She didn’t care what she might find; even cold rice and stew would be all right. With one hand holding the dark coverlet around her, she groped for the doorknob. Was it to the left or the right? She hadn’t noticed.

“Stop right there, or I’ll blow a hole through your middle!” Rhett’s harsh voice made her jump. The blanket fell away and cold air assaulted her.

“Great balls of fire!” Scarlett turned on him and bent to gather up the folds of wool. “Didn’t I have enough to scare me witless yesterday? Do you have to start up again? You nearly made me jump out of my skin!”

“What are you doing wandering around at this hour, Scarlett? I could have shot you.”

“What are you doing skulking around scaring people?” Scarlett draped the coverlet around her shoulders as if it were an imperial robe of ermine. “I’m going to the kitchen to get some breakfast,” she said with all the dignity she could muster.

Rhett smiled at the absurdly haughty figure she cut. “I’ll make up the fire in the stove,” he said. “I was thinking of some coffee myself.”

“It’s your house. I reckon you can have coffee if you want some.” Scarlett kicked the trailing coverlet behind her as if it were the train on a ball gown. “Well? Aren’t you going to open the door for me?”

Rhett threw some logs into the fireplace. The hot coals touched off a flare of dried leaves on one branch of wood. He quickly sobered the expression on his face before Scarlett could see it. He opened the door to the dining room and stepped back. Scarlett swept past him, but had to stop almost at once. The room was completely dark.

“If you’ll allow me—” Rhett struck a match. He touched it to the lamp above the table, then carefully adjusted the flame.

Scarlett could hear the laughter in his voice but somehow it didn’t make her angry. “I’m so hungry I could eat a horse,” she admitted.

“Not a horse, please,” Rhett laughed. “I’ve only got three, and two of them are no damn good.” He settled the glass chimney on the lamp and smiled down at her. “How about some eggs and a slice of ham?”

“Two slices,” said Scarlett. She followed him into the kitchen and sat on a bench by the table with her feet tucked up under the blanket while he lit a fire in the big iron stove. When the pine kindling was crackling, she stretched her feet out to the warmth.

Rhett brought a half-eaten ham and bowls of butter and eggs from the pantry. “The coffee grinder’s on the table behind you,” he said. “The beans are in that can. If you’ll grind some while I slice the ham, breakfast will be ready that much sooner.”

“Why don’t you grind them while I cook the eggs?”

“Because the stove’s not hot yet, Miss Greedy. There’s a pan of cold corn bread next to the grinder. That should tide you over. I’ll do the cooking.”

Scarlett swivelled around. The pan under the napkin had four squares of corn bread left in it. She dropped her wrap to reach for a piece. While she was chewing she put a handful of coffee beans into the grinder. Then she alternated taking bites of corn bread with turning the handle. When the corn bread was almost gone, she heard the sizzle as Rhett dropped ham slices into a skillet.

“That smells like heaven,” she said happily. She finished grinding the coffee with a spurt of rapid cranks. “Where’s the coffee pot?” She turned, saw Rhett, and began to laugh. He had a dishtowel tucked into the waistband of his trousers and a long fork in one hand. He waved the fork in the direction of a shelf by the door.

“What’s so funny?”

“You. Dodging the fat spatters. Cover the stove hole or you’ll set the whole pan on fire. I should have known you wouldn’t know what to do.”

“Nonsense, madam. I prefer the adventure of the open flame. It takes me back to the delightful days of frying fresh buffalo steaks at a campfire.” But he slid the skillet to one side of the opening in the stove top.

“Did you really eat buffalo? In California?”

“Buffalo and goat and mule—and the meat off the dead body of the person who didn’t make the coffee when I wanted it.”

Scarlett giggled.

She ran across the cold stone floor to get the pot. They ate silently at the kitchen table, both concentrating hungrily on the food. It was warm and friendly in the dark room. An open door on the stove gave an uneven reddish light. The smell of coffee brewing on the stove was dark and sweet. Scarlett wanted the breakfast to last forever. Rosemary must have lied. Rhett couldn’t have told her he didn’t want me.

“Rhett?”

“Hmm?” He was pouring the coffee.

Scarlett wanted to ask him if the comfort and laughter could last, but she was afraid it would ruin everything. “Is there any cream?” she asked instead.

“In the pantry. I’ll get it. Keep your feet warm by the stove.”

He was gone only a few seconds.

While she stirred sugar and cream into her coflee, she stirred up her nerve. “Rhett?”

“Yes?”

Scarlett’s words tumbled out in a burst, quickly so that he couldn’t stop her. “Rhett, can’t we have good times like this forever? This is a good time, you know it is. Why do you have to keep acting as though you hate me?”

Rhett sighed. “Scarlett,” he said wearily, “any animal will attack if it’s cornered. Instinct is stronger than reason, stronger than will. When you came to Charleston, you were backing me into a corner. Crowding me. You’re doing it now. You can’t leave well enough alone. I want to be decent. But you won’t let me.”

“I will, I will let you. I want you to be—”

“You don’t want kindness, Scarlett, you want love. Unquestioning, undemanding, unequivocal love. I gave you that once, when you didn’t want it. I used it all up, Scarlett.” Rhett’s tone was growing colder, edged with harsh impatience. Scarlett shrank away from it, unconsciously touching the bench at her side, trying to find the warmth of the discarded coverlet.

“Let me put it in your terms, Scarlett. I had in my heart a thousand dollars’ worth of love. It was in gold, not greenbacks. And I spent it on you, every penny of it. As far as love is concerned, I’m bankrupt. You’ve wrung me dry.”

“I was wrong, Rhett, and I’m sorry. I’m trying to make up for it.” Scarlett’s mind was racing frantically. I can give him my heart’s thousand dollars’ worth of love, she thought. Two thousand, five, twenty, a thousand thousand. Then he’ll be able to love me because he won’t be bankrupt any more. He’ll have it all back, and more. If he’ll just take it. I have to make him take it . . .

“Scarlett,” Rhett was saying, “there’s no ‘making up’ for the past. Don’t destroy the little that is left. Let me be kind, I’ll feel better for it.”

She seized on his words. “Oh, yes! Yes, Rhett, please. Be kind, the way you were before I ruined the happy time we were having. I won’t crowd you. Let’s just have fun, be friends, until I go back to Atlanta. I’ll be content if we can just laugh together; I had such a good time at breakfast. My, you are a sight in that apron thing.” She giggled. Thank God he couldn’t see her any better than she could see him.

“That’s all you want?” Relief took the edge from Rhett’s voice. Scarlett took a big swallow of coffee while she planned what to say. Then she managed an airy laugh.

“Well, of course, silly. I know when I’m beat. I figured it was worth a try, that’s all. I won’t crowd you any more, but please make the Season good for me. You know how much I love parties.” She laughed again. “And if you really want to be kind, Rhett Butler, you can pour me another cup of coffee. I don’t have a hot-holder, and you do.”

After breakfast Scarlett went upstairs to get dressed. It was still night, but she was much too excited to think about going back to sleep. She’d patched things up pretty well, she thought. His guard was down. He had enjoyed their breakfast, too, she was sure of it.

She put on the brown travelling costume she had worn on the boat to the Landing, then brushed her dark hair back from her temples and tucked combs in to hold it. Then she rubbed just a small amount of eau de cologne across her wrists and throat, just a whiff reminder that she was feminine and soft and desirable.

Walking along the hall and down the stairs she was as quiet as she could be. The longer Rosemary stayed asleep, the better. The east-facing window on the stair landing was distinct in the darkness. It was nearly dawn. Scarlett blew out the flame in the lamp she was carrying. Oh, please let this be a good day, let me do everything right. Let it be like breakfast all day long. And all night after. It’s New Year’s Eve.

The house had the special quality of quiet that wraps the earth just before sunrise. Scarlett stepped carefully to make no noise until she reached the center room below. The fire was burning brightly; Rhett must have put more logs on while she was dressing. She could just make out the dark shape of his shoulders and head framed by the gray semi-light of a window beyond him. He was in his office with the door ajar, his back to her. She tiptoed across the room and tapped gently on the door frame with the tips of her fingers. “May I come in?” she whispered.

“I thought you’d gone back to bed,” said Rhett. He sounded very tired. She remembered that he’d been up all night guarding the house. And her. She wished she could cradle his head against her heart and stroke his tiredness away.

“There wasn’t much point to going to sleep, there’ll be roosters crowing like crazy as soon as the sun’s up.” She put one foot tentatively across the doorsill. “Is it all right if I sit in here? There’s not such a reek in your office.”

“Come in,” Rhett said without looking at her.

Scarlett moved quietly to a chair just inside the office. Over Rhett’s shoulder she could see the window becoming more distinct. I wonder what he’s looking for so hard. Are those Crackers outside again? Or Clinch Dawkins? A cock crowed, and her whole body jerked.

Then the first weak rays of red dawn light touched the scene outside the window. The jagged tumbled brick ruins of Dunmore Landing’s house were dramatically lit, red against the dark sky behind them. Scarlett cried out. It looked as if they were still smoldering. Rhett was watching the death throes of his home.

“Don’t look, Rhett,” she begged, “don’t look. It will only break your heart.”

“I should have been here, I might have stopped them.” Rhett’s voice was slow, distant, as if he didn’t know that he was speaking.

“You couldn’t have. There must have been hundreds of them. They would have shot you and burned everything anyhow!”

“They didn’t shoot Julia Ashley,” said Rhett. But he sounded different now. There was a glimmer of wryness, almost humor, beneath his words. The red light outside was changing, becoming more golden, and the ruins were only blackened bricks and chimneys with the sun-touched sheen of dew on them.

Rhett’s swivel chair swung around. He rubbed his hand over his chin, and Scarlett could almost hear the rasp of the unshaven whiskers. He had shadows under his eyes, visible even in the shadowy room, and his black hair was dishevelled, a cowlick standing up on the crown, an untidy lock falling on his forehead. He stood, yawned, and stretched. “I believe it’s safe to sleep a little now. You and Rosemary stay in the house till I wake up.” He lay down on a wooden bench and fell asleep at once.

Scarlett watched him as he slept.

I mustn’t ever tell him again that I love him. That makes him feel pressured. And when he turns nasty, I feel small and cheap for having said it. No, I’ll never say it again, not until he’s told me first that he loves me.

25

Rhett was busy from the moment he woke after an hour’s heavy sleep, and he told Rosemary and Scarlett bluntly to keep away from the butterfly lakes. He was building a platform there for the speeches and hiring ceremonies the next day. “Working men don’t take kindly to the presence of women.” He smiled at his sister. “And I certainly don’t want Mama asking me why I permitted you to learn such a colorful new vocabulary.”

At Rhett’s request, Rosemary led Scarlett on a tour of the overgrown gardens. The paths had been cleared but not gravelled, and Scarlett’s hem was soon black from fine dust. How different everything was from Tara, even the soil. It seemed unnatural to her that the paths and the dust weren’t red. The vegetation was so thick, too, and many of the plants were unfamiliar. It was too lush for her upland taste.

But Rhett’s sister loved the Butler plantation with a passion that surprised her. Why, she feels about this place just the way I feel about Tara. Maybe I can get along with her after all.

Rosemary did not notice Scarlett’s efforts to find a common ground. She was lost in a lost world: Dunmore Landing before the War. “This was called ‘the hidden garden’ because of the way the tall hedges along the paths kept you from seeing it until all of a sudden you were in it. When I was little I’d hide in here whenever bath time was coming. The servants were wonderful to me—they’d thrash around the hedges shouting back and forth about how they knew they’d never find me. I thought I’d been so clever. And when my Mammy stumbled through the gate, she’d always act surprised to see me . . . I loved her so much.”

“I had a Mammy, too. She—”

Rosemary was already moving on. “Down this way is the reflecting pool. There were black swans and white ones. Rhett says maybe they’ll come back once the reeds are cut out and all that filthy algae cleaned up. See that clump of bushes? It’s really an island, purpose built for the swans to nest on. It was all grass, of course, clipped when it wasn’t nesting season. And there was a miniature Greek temple of white marble. Maybe the pieces are somewhere in the tangle. A lot of people are afraid of swans. They can do terrible injury with their beaks and wings. But ours let me swim with them once the cygnets were out of the nest. Mama used to read me The Ugly Duckling sitting on a bench by the pool. When I learned my letters, I read it to the swans . . .

“This path goes to the rose garden. In May you could smell them for miles on the river before you ever got to the Landing. Inside the house, on rainy days with the windows closed, the sweetness from all the big arrangements of roses made me feel sick as a dog . . .

“Down there by the river was the big oak with the treehouse in it. Rhett built it when he was a boy, then Ross had it. I’d climb up with a book and some jam biscuits and stay for hours and hours. It was much better than the playhouse Papa had the carpenters make for me. That was much too fancy, with rugs on the floors and furniture in my size and tea sets and dolls . . .

“Come this way. The cypress swamp is over there. Maybe there’ll be some alligators to watch. The weather’s been so warm they’re not likely to be in their winter dens.”

“No, thank you,” said Scarlett. “My legs are getting tired. I believe I’ll sit on that big stone for a while.”

The big stone turned out to be the base of a fallen, broken statue of a classically draped maiden. Scarlett could see the stained face in a thicket of brambles. She wasn’t really tired of walking, she was tired of Rosemary. And she certainly had no desire to see any alligators. She sat with the sun warm on her back and thought about what she’d seen. Dunmore Landing was beginning to come to life in her mind. It hadn’t been at all like Tara, she realized. Life here had been lived on a scale and in a style she knew nothing about. No wonder Charleston people had a reputation for thinking they were the be-all and end-all. They had lived like kings.

Despite the warmth of the sun she felt chilled. If Rhett worked day and night for the rest of his life, he’d never make this place what it once was, and that was exactly what he was determined to do. There wasn’t going to be much time in his life for her. And knowing about onions and yams wouldn’t be much help to her in sharing his life, either.

Rosemary returned, disappointed. She hadn’t seen a single ’gator. She talked nonstop while they were walking back to the house, giving their old names to gardens that were now only areas of rank weeds, boring Scarlett with complex descriptions of the varieties of rice once grown in fields that were now gone to marsh grass, reminiscing about her childhood. “I hated it when summer came!” she complained.

“Why?” asked Scarlett. She had always loved summer when there were parties every week and lots of visitors and noisy, shouting racing on back roads between the fields of ripening cotton.

Rosemary’s answer wiped away the apprehensions that were preying on her mind. In the low-country, Scarlett learned, summertime was citytime. There was a fever that rose from the swamps to lay whites low. Malaria. Because of it everyone left their plantations from the middle of May until after the first frost in late October.

So Rhett would have time for her, after all. There was the Season, too, for nearly two more months. He had to be there to escort his mother and sister—and her. She’d be glad to let him fiddle with his flowers for five months a year if she could have the other seven. She’d even learn the names of his camellias.

What was that? Scarlett stared at the tremendous white stone object. It looked like an angel was standing on a big box.

“Oh, that’s our tomb,” said Rosemary. “A century and a half of Butlers, all in neat rows. When I go toes up, that’s where I’ll be put, too. The Yankees shot off big chunks of the angel’s wings, but they had the decency to leave the dead alone. I heard that some places they dug up graves to look for jewelry.”

Child of an Irish immigrant father, Scarlett was overwhelmed by the permanence of the tomb. All those generations, and all the generations to come, forever and ever, amen. “I’m going back to a place with roots that go deep,” Rhett had said. Now she understood what he had meant. She felt sorrow for what he had lost, and envy that she had never had it.

“Come on, Scarlett. You’re standing there as if you were planted. We’re almost back to the house. You can’t be too tired to walk that little bit.”

Scarlett remembered why she had agreed in the first place to go on the walk with Rosemary. “I’m not the least bit tired!” she insisted. “I think we should gather some pine branches and things to decorate the house a little. These are the holidays, after all.”

“Good idea. They’ll cut the stink. There’s plenty of pine, and holly, too, in the wood next to where the stables used to be.”

And mistletoe, Scarlett added silently. She wasn’t taking any chances with the New Year’s Eve midnight ritual.

“Very nice,” said Rhett when he came up to the house after the platform was built and draped with red, white, and blue bunting. “It looks festive, just right for the party.”

“What party?” asked Scarlett.

“I invited the sharecropper families. It makes them feel important, and God willing the men will be too hungover from rotgut whiskey to make trouble tomorrow when the blacks are here. You and Rosemary and Pansy will go upstairs before they come. It’s likely to get rough.”

Scarlett watched the Roman candles arc through the sky from her bedroom window. The fireworks to celebrate the New Year lasted from midnight until nearly one o’clock. She wished with all her heart that she had stayed in the city. Tomorrow she’d be cooped up all day while the blacks celebrated, and by the time they got back to town on Saturday it would probably be too late to wash and dry her hair for the Ball.

And Rhett had never kissed her.

During the days that followed, Scarlett recaptured all the giddy excitement of what she remembered as the best time of her life. She was a belle, with men clustered around her at receptions, with her dance card filled as soon as she entered the ballroom, with all her old games of flirtation producing the same admiration that they had before. It was like being sixteen again, with nothing to think about other than the last party and the compliments she’d been paid, and the next party and how she would wear her hair.

But it was not long before the thrills became flat. She was not sixteen, and she didn’t really want a string of beaux. She wanted Rhett, and she was no closer to winning him back than she had been. He kept up his end of their bargain: he was attentive to her at parties, pleasant to her whenever they were together in the house—with other people. Yet she was sure that he was looking at the calendar, counting the days until he’d be rid of her. She began to feel moments of panic. What if she lost?

The panic always bred anger. She focused it on young Tommy Cooper. The boy was always hanging around Rhett with hero-worship clear on his face. And Rhett responded, too. It enraged her. Tommy had been given a small sailboat for Christmas, and Rhett was teaching him to sail. There was a handsome brass telescope in the card room on the second floor, and Scarlett ran to it whenever she could on the afternoons that Rhett was out with Tommy Cooper. Her jealousy was like probing an aching tooth with her tongue, but she couldn’t resist the compulsion to cause herself pain. It’s not fair! They’re laughing and having fun and skimming the water as free as a bird. Why not take me sailing? I loved it so that time we came back from the Landing, I’d love it even more in that tiny boat the Cooper boy has. Why, it’s alive, it moves so quickly, so lightly, so . . . so happily!

Fortunately, there were few afternoons that she was at home and near the spy glass. Although the evening receptions and balls were the main events of the Season, there were also other things to be done. The dedicated whist players continued to gamble, Miss Eleanor’s Confederate Home committee had meetings about fund raising to buy books for the school and to repair a leak that suddenly appeared in the roof, there were still calls to pay and to receive. Scarlett became hollow-eyed and pale from fatigue.

It would all have been worth it if Rhett was the one feeling jealous and not her. But he seemed to be unaware of the admiration she was provoking. Or worse, uninterested.

She had to make him notice, make him care! She decided to choose one man from her dozens of admirers. Someone handsome . . . rich . . . younger than Rhett. Someone he’d have to feel jealous of.

Heavens, she looked like a ghost! She put on rouge, and heavy perfume, and her most innocent expression for the hunt.

Middleton Courtney was tall and fair, with sleepy-lidded pale eyes and extremely white teeth that he flashed in a wicked-looking smile. He was the epitome of what Scarlett considered a sophisticated man about town. Best of all, he, too, had a phosphate mine and it was twenty times the size of Rhett’s.

When he bowed over her hand in greeting, Scarlett closed her fingers over his. He looked up from his bow and smiled. “Dare I hope that you’ll honor me with the next dance, Mrs. Butler?”

“If you hadn’t asked me, Mr. Courtney, it would have broken my poor heart.”

When the polka ended Scarlett opened her fan in the slow unfurling known as “languishing fall.” She fluttered it near her face to lift the appealing tendrils of hair above her green eyes. “My goodness,” she said breathlessly, “I’m afraid that if I don’t get a little air I’m liable to keel right over into your arms, Mr. Courtney. Will you be so kind?” She took his proffered arm and leaned on it while he escorted her to a bench beneath a window.

“Oh, please, Mr. Courtney, do sit here beside me. I’ll get a terrible crick in my neck if I have to look up at you.”

Courtney seated himself. Rather close. “I’d hate to be the cause of any injury to such a beautiful neck,” he said. His eyes moved slowly down her throat to her white bosom. He was as skillful as Scarlett was at the game they were playing.

She kept her eyes modestly lowered, as if she didn’t know what Courtney was doing. Then she glanced up through her eyelashes and quickly down again.

“I hope my silly weak spell isn’t keeping you from dancing with the lady closest to your heart, Mr. Courtney.”

“But the lady you speak of is the lady closest to my heart right now, Mrs. Butler.”

Scarlett looked him directly in the eyes and smiled enchantingly. “You be careful, Mr. Courtney. You’re liable to turn my head,” she promised.

“I certainly intend to try,” he murmured close to her ear. His breath was warm on her neck.

Very soon the public romance between them was the most talked-about topic of the Season. The number of times they danced together at each ball . . . the time Courtney took Scarlett’s punch cup from her hand and put his lips where hers had been on the . . . overheard snippets of their innuendo-laden raillery . . .

Middleton’s wife, Edith, looked increasingly drawn and pale. And no one could understand Rhett’s imperturbability.

Why didn’t he do something? the little world of Charleston society wondered.

26

The yearly races were second only to the Saint Cecilia Ball as the crowning event of Charleston’s social season. Indeed there were many people—largely bachelors—who considered them the only event. “You can’t gamble on a bunch of waltzes,” they grumbled mutinously.

Before the War, the Season had included a full week of racing, and the Saint Cecilia Society hosted three balls. Then came the years of siege; an artillery shell ignited a path of fire through the city that consumed the building where the balls had always been held; and the long, landscaped oval track, its clubhouse, and its stables were used as a Confederate Army encampment and hospitals for the wounded.

In 1865 the city surrendered. In 1866 an enterprising and ambitious Wall Street banker named August Belmont bought the monumental carved stone entrance pillars of the old Race Course and had them transported north to become the entrance to his Belmont Park racetrack.

The Saint Cecilia Ball found a borrowed home only two years after the end of the War and Charlestonians rejoiced that the Season could begin again. It took longer to regain and restore the fouled and rutted land of the Race Course. Nothing was quite the samethere was one ball, not three; Race Week was Race Day; the entrance pillars could not be recovered, and the Clubhouse had been replaced by half-roofed tiers of wooden benches. But on the bright afternoon in late January 1875, the entire remaining population of old Charleston was en fête for the second year of racing. The streetcars of all four City Railway lines were diverted to the Rutledge Avenue route that ended near the Race Course, the cars were hung with green and white bunting, the Club colors, and the horses pulling them had green and white ribbons braided in their tails and manes.

Rhett presented his three ladies with green and white striped parasols when they were ready to leave the house and inserted a white camellia into his buttonhole. His white smile was brilliant in his tanned face. “The Yankees are taking the bait,” he said. “The esteemed Mr. Belmont himself has sent down two horses, and Guggenheim has one. They don’t know about the brood mares Miles Brewton hid in the swamp. Their get grew into a mettlesome family—a bit shaggy from swamp living and unbeautiful from crossbreeding with strays from the cavalry—but Miles has a wonder of a three-year-old that’s going to make every big-money pocket a lot lighter than it expected to be.”

“You mean there’s betting?” Scarlett asked. Her eyes glittered.

“Why else would anyone race?” Rhett laughed. He tucked folded banknotes into his mother’s reticule, Rosemary’s pocket, and Scarlett’s glove. “Put it all on Sweet Sally and buy yourselves a trinket with your winnings.”

What a good mood he’s in, Scarlett thought. He put the banknote inside my glove. He could have just handed it to me, he didn’t have to touch my hand that way—no, not my hand, my bare wrist. Why, it was practically a caress! He’s noticing me now that he thinks I’m interested in somebody else. Really noticing me, not just paying polite attention. It’s going to work!

She’d been worried that maybe letting Middleton have every third dance was going too far. People had been talking, she knew. Well, let them talk if a little gossip would bring Rhett back to her.

When they entered the grounds of the Race Course, Scarlett gasped. She’d had no idea it was so big! Or that there’d be a band! And so many people. She looked around with delight. Then she caught hold of Rhett’s sleeve. “Rhett . . . Rhett . . . there are Yankee soldiers all over the place. What does it mean? Are they going to stop the races?”

Rhett smiled. “Don’t you think Yankees gamble, too? Or that we should mind relieving them of some of their money? God knows, they didn’t object to taking all of ours. I’m glad to see the gallant colonel and his officers sharing in the simple pleasures of the vanquished. They’ve got a lot more money to lose than our kind do.”

“How can you be so sure they’ll lose it?” Her eyes were narrowed, calculating. “The Yankee horses are thoroughbreds, and Sweet Sally is nothing but a swamp pony.”

Rhett’s mouth twisted. “Pride and loyalty don’t weigh much for you when there’s money involved, do they, Scarlett? Well, go ahead, my pet, lay your bet on Belmont’s filly to win. I gave you the money, you can do what you like with it.” He walked away from her, took his mother’s arm and gestured up at the stand. “I think you’ll have a good view from higher up, Mama. Come along, Rosemary.”

Scarlett started to run after him. “I didn’t mean—” she said, but his wide back was like a wall. She shrugged angrily, then looked from right to left. Where did she go to place a bet, anyhow?

“Can I help you, ma’am?” said a man nearby.

“Why, yes, maybe you can.” He looked like a gentleman, and his accent sounded like Georgia. She smiled gratefully. “I’m not used to such complicated racing. Back home somebody would just yell, ‘I bet you five dollars I can beat you to the crossroads,’ and then everybody would holler back and start riding lickety-split.”

The man took off his hat and held it against his chest with both hands. He sure is looking at me peculiar, Scarlett thought uneasily. Maybe I shouldn’t have spoken.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said earnestly, “I’m not surprised you don’t remember me, but I believe I know you. You’re Mrs. Hamilton, aren’t you? From Atlanta. You nursed me in the hospital there when I was wounded. My name’s Sam Forrest, from Moultrie, Georgia.”

The hospital! Scarlett’s nostrils flared, an involuntary reaction to the memory of the stench of blood and gangrene and filthy, liceridden bodies.

Forrest’s face was a picture of embarrassed discomfort. “I—I beg your pardon, Mrs. Hamilton,” he stammered. “I shouldn’t have made any claim to knowing you. I didn’t mean to offend.”

Scarlett returned the hospital to the corner of her mind reserved for the past and closed the door on it. She put her hand on Sam Forrest’s arm and smiled at him. “Land, Mr. Forrest, you didn’t offend me at all. I was just thrown off by being called Mrs. Hamilton. I married again, you see, and I’ve been Mrs. Butler for years and years. My husband’s a Charlestonian, that’s why I’m here. And I must say hearing your good Georgia talk makes me mighty homesick. What brings you here?”

Horses, Forrest explained. After four years in the cavalry, there was nothing about horses that he didn’t know. When the War was over he’d saved the money he made as a laborer and started buying horses. “Now I’ve got a fine breeding and boarding business. I’ve brought the prize of the stable to race for the prize money. I tell you, Mrs. Hamil—sorry—Mrs. Butler, it was a happy day when the news got to me that the Charleston Race Course was open again. There’s nothing else like it any place in the South.”

Scarlett had to pretend to listen to more horse talk while he accompanied her to the booth set up for taking bets, then escorted her back to the stands. Scarlett said goodbye to him with a feeling of escape.

The stands were very nearly full, but she had no trouble finding her place. The green and white striped parasols were a beacon. Scarlett waved hers at Rhett, then began to climb the risers. Eleanor Butler returned her salute. Rosemary looked away.

Rhett seated Scarlett between Rosemary and his mother. She was barely settled when she felt Eleanor Butler stiffen. Middleton Courtney and his wife, Edith, were taking seats in the same row not far away. The Courtneys nodded and smiled a friendly greeting. The Butlers returned it. Then Middleton began to point out the starting gate and finish line to his wife. At the same time Scarlett said, “You’ll never guess who I met, Miss Eleanor, a soldier that was in Atlanta when I first went to live there!” She could feel Mrs. Butler relax.

An excited stir ran through the crowd. The horses were coming onto the track. Scarlett stared open-mouthed, eyes shining. Nothing had prepared her for the smooth grass oval and the bright checkerboards and stripes and harlequin diamonds of the racing silks. Gaudy and shining and festive, the riders paraded past the grandstand while the band played a rollicking oom-pah tune. Scarlett laughed aloud without knowing it. It was a child’s laughter, free and unconsidered, expressing pure joyful surprise. “Oh, look!” she said. “Oh, look!” She was so enraptured that she was unaware of Rhett’s eyes watching her, instead of the horses.

There was an interval for refreshments after the third race. A tent hung with green and white streamers sheltered long tables of food, and waiters circulated throughout the crowd bearing trays of champagne-filled glasses. Scarlett took one of Emma Anson’s glasses from one of Sally Brewton’s crested trays, pretending that she didn’t recognize Minnie Wentworth’s butler, who was serving. She’d learned Charleston’s ways of dealing with shortages and loss. Everyone shared their treasures and their servants, acting as if they belonged to the host or hostess of the event. “That’s just about the silliest thing I ever heard,” she’d said when Mrs. Butler first explained the charade. Lending and borrowing she could understand. But pretending that Emma Anson’s initials belonged on Minnie Wentworth’s napkins made no sense at all. Still, she went along with the deception, if that was the term for it. It was just one more of the peculiarities of Charleston.

“Scarlett.” She turned quickly to the speaker. It was Rosemary. “They’ll be sounding the bell any minute. Let’s go back before the rush starts.”

People were starting to return to the stands. Scarlett looked at them through the opera glasses she’d borrowed from Miss Eleanor. There were her aunts; thank heaven she hadn’t run into them in the refreshment tent. And Sally Brewton with her husband Miles. He looked almost as excited as she did. Good grief! Miss Julia Ashley was with them. Fancy her betting on the horses.

She moved the glasses from side to side. It was fun to be able to watch people when they didn’t know you were looking. Hah! There was old Josiah Anson dozing off. While Emma was talking to him, too. He’d get an earful if she found out he was asleep! Ugh! Ross! Too bad he had come back, but Miss Eleanor was pleased. Margaret looked nervous, but she always did. Oh, there’s Anne. My grief, she looks like the old woman in the shoe with all those children she’s got with her. They must be the orphans. Does she see me? She’s turning this way. No, she’s not looking high enough.

My stars, she’s positively glowing. Has Edward Cooper proposed at last? Must be; she’s looking up at him as if he could walk on water. She’s practically melting.

Scarlett moved the glasses upward to see if Edward was being as obvious as Anne . . . a pair of shoes, trousers, jacket—

Her heart leapt into her throat. It was Rhett. He must be talking to Edward. Her gaze lingered for a moment. Rhett looked so elegant. She shifted the glasses, and Eleanor Butler came into view. Scarlett froze, not even breathing. It couldn’t be. She scanned the area near Rhett and his mother. Nobody was there yet. Slowly she moved the glasses back to look at Anne again, then again at Rhett, then back to Anne. There was no doubt about it. Scarlett felt sick. Then searingly angry.

That miserable little sneak! She’s been praising me to the skies all this time to my face, and she’s wildly in love with my husband behind my back. I could strangle her to death with my bare hands!

Her hands were sweating, she almost lost hold of the glasses when she swung them back to Rhett. Was he looking at Anne? . . . No, he was laughing with Miss Eleanor . . . they were chatting with the Wentworths . . . greeting the Hugers . . . the Halseys . . . the Savages . . . old Mr. Pinckney . . . Scarlett kept Rhett in view until her eyes blurred.

He hadn’t looked in Anne’s direction even once. She was staring at him like she could eat him with a spoon, and he didn’t even notice it. There’s nothing to fret about. It’s just a silly girl with a crush on a grown-up man.

Why shouldn’t Anne have a crush on him? Why shouldn’t every woman in Charleston? He’s so handsome and so strong and so . . .

She looked at him with yearning naked on her face, the glasses in her lap. Rhett was bent down to adjust Miss Eleanor’s shawl across her shoulders. The sun was low in the sky and a cold fitful wind had begun to blow. He placed his hand under her elbow and they began to climb the steps to their seats, the very picture of a dutiful son with his mother. Scarlett waited eagerly for them to arrive.

The partial roof over the grandstand cast an angled shadow over the seats. Rhett changed places with his mother so that she could be warmed by what sunlight there was, and Scarlett had him beside her at last. She forgot Anne at once.

When the horses came out on the track for the fourth race, the spectators stood up, first two, then several groups of people, then everyone, in a tidal wave of anticipation. Scarlett was almost dancing with excitement.

“Having a good time?” Rhett was smiling.

“Wonderful! Which horse is Miles Brewton’s, Rhett?”

“I suspect Miles rubbed his down with shoe-polish. It’s number five, the very glossy black. The dark horse, you might say. Number six is Guggenheim’s; Belmont managed post position; his pace-setter is number four.”

Scarlett wanted to ask what “pace-setter” and “post position” meant, but there was no time, they were about to start.

Number five’s rider anticipated the starter’s pistol shot, and there were loud groans from the stands. “What happened?” Scarlett asked.

“False start, they’ll have to line up again,” Rhett explained. He tilted his head in gesture. “Look at Sally.”

Scarlett looked. Sally Brewton’s face was more monkey-like than ever, contorted with rage, and she was shaking her fist in the air. Rhett laughed affectionately. “I might just jump the fence and keep going if I were the jockey,” he said. “Sally’s ready to use his skin for a hearth rug.”

“I don’t blame her one bit,” Scarlett declared, “and I don’t think it’s one bit funny either, Rhett Butler.”

He laughed again. “May I dare assume that you put your money on Sweet Sally after all?”

“Of course I did. Sally Brewton’s a dear friend of mine—and besides, if I lost, it was your money, not mine.”

Rhett looked at Scarlett in surprise. She was smiling impishly at him.

“Well done, madam,” he murmured.

The pistol shot sounded, and the race had begun. Scarlett didn’t know that she was shouting, jumping up and down, pounding on Rhett’s arm. She was even deaf to the shouts of the people all around them. When Sweet Sally won by a half-length she let out a yell of victory. “We won! We won! Isn’t it marvelous? We won!”

Rhett rubbed his biceps. “I think I’m crippled for life, but I agree. It’s marvelous, truly a marvel. The swamp rat over the best bloodstock in America.”

Scarlett frowned at him. “Rhett! Do you mean to tell me you’re surprised? After what you said this afternoon? You sounded so confident.”

He smiled. “I despise pessimism. And I wanted everyone to have a good time.”

“But didn’t you bet on Sweet Sally, too? Don’t tell me you bet on the Yankees!”

“I didn’t bet at all.” His jaw was hard with resolve. “When the gardens at the Landing are cleared and planted, I’m going to begin bringing the stables back to life. I’ve already retrieved some of the cups that Butler horses won when our colors were known all over the world. I’ll place my first bet when I have a horse of my own to bet on.” He turned to his mother. “What will you buy with your winnings, Mama?”

“That’s for me to know and you not to find out,” she replied, with a jaunty toss of her head.

Scarlett, Rhett, and Rosemary laughed together.

27

Scarlett received small spiritual benefit from Mass the next day. Her whole focus was on her own spirits, and they were very low. She’d hardly laid eyes on Rhett at the big party given by the Jockey Club after the races.

Walking back after Mass, she tried to make an excuse that would get her out of eating with her aunts, but Pauline wouldn’t hear of it. “We have something very important to discuss with you,” she’d said. Her tone was portentous. Scarlett braced herself for a lecture about dancing too much with Middleton Courtney.

As it turned out, his name wasn’t mentioned at all. Eulalie was mournful and Pauline censorious about something else altogether.

“We’ve learned that you haven’t written to your grandfather Robillard for years, Scarlett.”

“Why should I write to him? He’s nothing but a crabby old man who’s never lifted a finger for me in my whole life.”

Eulalie and Pauline were shocked speechless. Good! thought Scarlett. Her eyes gleamed triumphantly at them above the rim of her cup while she drank her coffee. You don’t have an answer to that, do you? He’s never done anything for me, and he’s never done a thing for you, either. Who gave you the money to keep body and soul together when this house was about to go for taxes? Not your precious father, that’s for sure. It was me. It was me who paid for Uncle Carey to get a decent burial when he died, too, and it’s my money that puts clothes on your backs and food on your table—if Pauline can bear to open the pantry door on the stuff she hoards in there. So you can gape at me like a pair of goggle-eyed frogs, but there’s not one single thing you can say!

But Pauline, echoed by Eulalie, found plenty to say. About respect for one’s elders, loyalty to one’s family, duty and manners and good breeding.

Scarlett set her cup on its saucer with a crash. “Don’t you dare preach over me, Aunt Pauline. I’m sick to death of it! I don’t care a fig for Grandfather Robillard. He was horrid to Mother and he’s been horrid to me, and I hate him. And I don’t care if I burn in Hell for it!”

It felt good to lose her temper. She’d been holding it in too long. There’d been too many tea parties, too many receiving lines, too many calls, and too many callers. Too many times when she’d had to curb her tongue—she who’d always said what she thought and devil take the hindmost. Most of all, too many hours of listening politely to Charlestonians brag about the glories of their fathers and grandfathers and great-grandfathers, on and on, all the way back to the Middle Ages. The very last thing Pauline should have mentioned was respect due to her family.

The aunts cowered before Scarlett’s outburst, and their frightened faces gave her an intoxicating joyful feeling of power. She’d always been contemptuous of weakness, and in the months she’d spent in Charleston she had had no power, she’d been the weak one, and she’d begun to feel contempt for herself. Now she unleashed on her aunts all the disgust she had felt at her own craven desire to please.

“There’s no need to sit there staring at me as if I had horns on my head and a pitchfork in my hand, either! You know I’m right, but you’re just too lily-livered to say it for yourself. Grandfather treats everybody like dirt. I’ll bet you a hundred dollars that he never answers all the mealymouth letters you write him. He likely doesn’t even read them. I know I never once read one all the way through. I didn’t have to, they were all always the same thing—whining for more money!”

Scarlett covered her mouth with her hand. She’d gone too far. She’d broken three of the unwritten, inviolate rules of the Southern code of behavior: she’d said the word “money,” she’d reminded her dependents of the charity she’d given, and she’d kicked a downed foe. Her eyes when she looked at her weeping aunts were stricken with shame.

The mended china and darned linen on the table reproached her. I haven’t even been very generous, she thought. I could have sent them much more and never missed it.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and she began to cry.

A moment passed before Eulalie wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “I heard that Rosemary has a new suitor,” she said in a watery voice. “Have you met him, Scarlett? Is he an interesting person?”

“Is he from a good family?” Pauline added.

Scarlett winced, but only slightly. “Miss Eleanor knows his people,” she said, “and says they’re very nice. Rosemary won’t have anything to do with him. You know how she is.” She looked at her aunts’ worn faces with real affection and respect. They had kept the code. She knew they would keep it until the day they died and never refer to the way she had broken it. No Southerner would ever deliberately shame another.

She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. “His name is Elliott Marshall,” she said, “and he’s the funniest-looking thing you’d ever want to see—skinny as a stick and solemn as an owl!” She forced a lilt into her voice. “He must be mighty brave, though. Rosemary could pick him up and break him in pieces if she got irritated enough.” She leaned forward and widened her eyes.“Did you hear that he’s a Yankee?”

Pauline and Eulalie gasped.

Scarlett nodded rapidly, emphasizing the impact of the revelation. “From Boston,” she said slowly, giving each word full weight. “And I figure you can’t get much more Yankeefied than that. Some big fertilizer outfit opened an office down here, and he’s the manager . . .”

She settled back more comfortably in her chair, ready for a long stay.

When the morning was spent she marvelled at the time and rushed to the hall to get her wrap. “I shouldn’t have stayed so long, I promised Miss Eleanor I’d be home for dinner.” She rolled her eyes upward. “I do hope Mr. Marshall won’t be calling. Yankees don’t have sense enough to know when they’re not welcome.”

Scarlett kissed Pauline and Eulalie goodbye at the front door. “Thank you,” she said simply.

“You come right back and have dinner with us if that Yankee’s there,” Eulalie giggled.

“Yes, you do that,” said Pauline. “And do try if you can to come with us to Savannah for Father’s birthday party. We’re taking the train on the fifteenth, after Mass.”

“Thank you, Aunt Pauline, but I couldn’t possibly manage It. We’ve already accepted invitations for every single day and night of the Season.”

“But my dear, the Season will be over by then. The Saint Cecilia’s on Friday the thirteenth. I think that’s unlucky myself, but nobody else seems to care.”

Pauline’s words were blurred in Scarlett’s ears. How could the Season be so short? She’d thought there was lots of time left to get Rhett back.

“We’ll see,” she said hurriedly, “I’ve got to go now.”

Scarlett was surprised to find Rhett’s mother at home alone. “Julia Ashley invited Rosemary to dinner at her house,” Eleanor told her. “And Rhett took pity on the Cooper boy. He’s out sailing.”

“Today? It’s so cold.”

“It is. Just when I’d begun to think we were going to escape winter altogether this year, too. I felt it yesterday at the races. The wind had a real bite to it. I took a bit of a chill, I believe.” Mrs. Butler suddenly smiled in a conspiratorial manner. “What do you say to a quiet dinner on the card table before the fire in the library? It will offend Manigo’s dignity, but I can bear it if you can. It’ll be so cozy, just the two of us.”

“I’d like that very much, Miss Eleanor, I really would.” Suddenly it was what she wanted above all things. It was so nice when we used to have our quiet suppers that way, she thought. Before the Season. Before Rosemary came home. A voice in her mind added: before Rhett came back from the Landing. It was true, though she hated to admit it. Life was so much easier when she wasn’t constantly listening for his step, watching for his reactions, trying to guess what he was thinking.

The warmth of the fire was so relaxing that Scarlett caught herself yawning. “Excuse me, Miss Eleanor,” she said hastily, “it’s not the company.”

“I feel exactly the same way,” said Mrs. Butler. “Isn’t it pleasant?” She yawned, too, and the contagion caught both of them, until helpless laughter took the place of their yawns. Scarlett had forgotten how much fun Rhett’s mother could be.

“I love you, Miss Eleanor,” she said without thinking.

Eleanor Butler took her hand. “I’m so glad, dear Scarlett. I love you, too.” She sighed softly. “So much so that I’m not going to ask any questions or make any unwelcome comments. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

Scarlett squirmed inwardly. Then she bridled at the implied criticism. “I’m not ‘doing’ anything!” She pulled her hand away.

Eleanor ignored Scarlett’s anger. “How are Eulalie and Pauline?” she asked easily. “I haven’t seen either of them to talk to for ages. The Season wears me out.”

“They’re fine. Bossy as ever. They’re trying to make me go to Savannah with them for Grandfather’s birthday.”

“Good heavens!” Mrs. Butler’s tone was incredulous. “You mean he’s not dead yet?”

Scarlett began to laugh again. “That was the first thing I thought, too, but Aunt Pauline would have skinned me alive if I’d said so. He must be about a hundred.”

Eleanor’s brow creased in thought and she mumbled under her breath as she worked out the arithmetic. “Over ninety for sure,” she said at last. “I know he was in his late thirties when he married your grandmother in 1820. I had an aunt—she’s dead long since—who never got over it. She was mad about him, and he’d been quite attentive to her. But then Solange—your grandmother—decided to notice him and poor Aunt Alice didn’t stand a chance. I was only ten at the time, but that was old enough to know what was going on. Alice tried to kill herself, and everything was in an uproar.”

Scarlett felt wide awake now. “What did she do?”

“Drank a bottle of paregoric. It was touch and go whether she’d live or not.”

“Over Grandfather?”

“He was an incredibly dashing man. So handsome, with that wonderful straight bearing that soldiers have. And a French accent, of course. When he said ‘good morning’ he sounded like a hero from an opera. Dozens of women were in love with him. I heard my father say one time that Pierre Robillard was solely responsible for the roof on the Huguenot church. He’d come up from Savannah once in a while for the services because they’re in French. The church walls would practically bulge with a congregation full of women, and the collection plate was filled to overflowing.” Eleanor smiled reminiscently. “Come to think of it, my Aunt Alice eventually married a professor of French Literature at Harvard. So all the language practicing she must have done came in handy after all.”

Scarlett refused to let Mrs. Butler be sidetracked. “Never mind that, tell me more about Grandfather. And Grandmother. I asked you about her once, but you just brushed it off.”

Eleanor shook her head. “I don’t know how to describe your grandmother. She wasn’t like anybody else in the world.”

“Was she very beautiful?”

“Yes—and no. That’s the problem with talking about her, she was always changing. She was so—so French. They have a saying, the French, that no woman can be truly beautiful who is not also sometimes truly ugly. They’re such a subtle people, and so wise, and so impossible for an Anglo-Saxon to understand.”

Scarlett couldn’t understand what Miss Eleanor was trying to say. “There’s a portrait of her at Tara and she looks beautiful,” she said stubbornly.

“Yes, she would, for her portrait. She could be beautiful or not, as she chose. She chose to be anything she liked. She had a quality of absolute stillness sometimes, and you’d almost forget she was there. Then she’d turn her slanted dark eyes on you, and suddenly you’d find yourself irresistibly drawn to her. Children swarmed to her. Animals, too. Even women felt it. It drove men out of their minds.

“Your grandfather was every inch the military man, accustomed to command. But your grandmother had only to smile, and he became her slave. She was considerably older than he was, and it made no difference. She was a Catholic, and it made no difference; she insisted on a Catholic household and Catholicism for their children, and he agreed to everything, although he was rigidly Protestant. He would have agreed to let them be Druids, if that was her desire. She was all the world to him.

“I remember when she decided that she must be surrounded by pink light because she was getting older. He said that no soldier would live in a room with so much as a pink shade on a lamp. It was too effeminate. She said it would make her happy, lots of pink. It ended up that not only the walls of the rooms inside were painted, but even the house itself. He would do anything to make her happy.” Eleanor sighed. “It was all wonderfully mad and romantic. Poor Pierre. When she died, he died too, in a way. He kept everything in the house exactly the way she had left it. It was hard on your mother and her sisters, I fear.”

In the portrait Solange Robillard was wearing a dress that clung to her body so tightly that it suggested that she was wearing nothing under it. That must be what drove men out of their minds, including her husband, Scarlett thought.

“Often you remind me of her,” Eleanor said, and Scarlett was suddenly interested again.

“How so, Miss Eleanor?”

“Your eyes are shaped the same, that little upward tilt at the corner of them. And you have the same intensity, you fairly vibrate with it. Both of you strike me as in some way more fully alive than most people.”

Scarlett smiled. She felt very satisfied.

Eleanor Butler looked at her fondly. “Now I believe I’ll have my nap,” she said. She thought she’d handled that conversation very well. She’d said nothing untrue, but she’d managed to avoid saying too much. She certainly didn’t want her son’s wife to know that her grandmother had had many lovers and that dozens of duels had been fought over her. No telling what kind of ideas that might put in Scarlett’s head.

Eleanor was profoundly disturbed by the obvious trouble between her son and his wife. It was not something she could ask Rhett about. If he wanted her to know, he would have told her. And Scarlett’s reaction to her hint about the unpleasant situation with the Courtney man made it clear that she didn’t want to confide her feelings either.

Mrs. Butler closed her eyes and tried to rest. When all was said and done, there was nothing she could do except hope for the best. Rhett was a grown man and Scarlett a grown woman. Even though, in her opinion, they were behaving like undisciplined children.

Scarlett was trying to rest, too. She was in the card room, telescope at hand. There had been no sight of Tommy Cooper’s sailboat when she looked. Rhett must have taken him up the river instead of into the harbor.

Maybe she shouldn’t even look for them. When she’d looked through the opera glasses at the races, she’d lost faith in Anne, she was still hurting from it. For the first time in her life she felt old. And very tired. What difference did it make, any of it? Anne Hampton was hopelessly in love with another woman’s husband. Hadn’t she done the same thing when she was Anne’s age? Fallen in love with Ashley and ruined her life with Rhett by clinging to that hopeless love long after she could see—but wouldn’t—that the Ashley she loved was only a dream. Would Anne waste her youth the same way, dreaming of Rhett? What was the use of love if all it did was ruin things?

Scarlett rubbed the back of her hand across her lips. What’s wrong with me? I’m brooding like an old hen. I’ve got to do something—go for a walk—anything—to shake off this awful feeling.

Manigo knocked gently on the door. “You got a caller if you is home, Missus Rhett.”

Scarlett was so happy to see Sally Brewton that she nearly kissed her. “Take this chair, Sally, it’s the closest to the fire. Isn’t it a shock to have winter settle in at last? I told Manigo to bring the tea tray. Honestly, I think seeing Sweet Sally win that race was about the most exciting thing I ever saw in my life.” She was babbling from relief.

Sally amused her with a highly colored account of Miles kissing their horse, and the jockey too. It lasted until Manigo had set the tea tray on the table in front of Scarlett and left.

“Miss Eleanor’s having a rest, or I’d let her know you were here,” said Scarlett. “When she wakes up—”

“I’ll be gone,” Sally interrupted. “I know Eleanor naps in the afternoon, and Rhett is out sailing, and Rosemary is at Julia’s. That’s why I picked this time to come. I want to talk to you alone.”

Scarlett spooned tea leaves into the pot. She was mystified. Sally Brewton, of all people, sounded uneasy, and nothing ever fazed Sally. She poured hot water onto the leaves and put the lid on the pot.

“Scarlett, I’m going to do the unforgivable,” said Sally briskly. “I’m going to meddle in your life. What’s much worse, I’m going to give you some unsolicited advice.

“Go ahead and have an affair with Middleton Courtney if you want to, but for God’s sake be discreet. What you’re doing is in appallingly poor taste.”

Scarlett’s eyes widened in shock. Have an affair? Only loose women did things like that. How dare Sally Brewton insult her this way? She drew herself up to her tallest. “I’ll have you know, Mrs. Brewton, that I’m just as much a lady as you are,” she said stiffly.

“Then act like it. Meet Middleton somewhere in the afternoons and pleasure yourself all you like, but don’t make your husband and his wife and everyone in town watch you two panting at each other in a ballroom like a dog after a bitch in heat.”

Scarlett thought that nothing could be as horrifying as Sally’s words. The next ones proved her wrong.

“I should warn you, though, that he’s not very good in bed. He’s Don Juan in the ballroom but a village idiot once he takes off his dancing pumps and tailcoat.”

Sally reached over to the tray and shook the teapot. “If you let this steep much longer, we’ll be able to tan hides with it. Do you want me to pour?” She peered closely at Scarlett’s face.

“My God,” she said slowly, “you’re as ignorant as a newborn babe, aren’t you? I am sorry, Scarlett, I didn’t realize. Here—let me give you a cup of tea with lots of sugar.”

Scarlett drew back into her chair. She wanted to cry, to cover her ears. She’d admired Sally, been proud to be a friend of hers, and Sally—had turned out to be no better than trash!

“My poor child,” said Sally, “if I had known, I would have been a lot easier on you. As it is, consider this an accelerated education. You’re in Charleston and married to a Charlestonian, Scarlett. You can’t afford to wrap your backwoods innocence around you as a shield. This is an old city with an old civilization. An essential part of being civilized is consideration for the sensibilities of others. You can do anything you like, provided you do it discreetly. The unpardonable sin is to force your peccadilloes down the throats of your friends. You must make it possible for others to pretend they don’t know what you’re doing.”

Scarlett couldn’t believe what she was hearing. This was not at all like pretending that initialed napkins belonged to someone else. This was—disgusting. Although she had married three times while she was in love with someone else, she had never thought of physically betraying any one of her husbands. She could yearn for Ashley, imagine Ashley’s embraces, but she would never have sneaked off to meet him for an hour in bed.

I don’t want to be civilized, she thought with despair. She’d never be able to look at any woman in Charleston again without wondering if she and Rhett were lovers or had ever been lovers.

Why had she come to this place? She didn’t belong here. She didn’t want to belong in the kind of place Sally Brewton was talking about.

“I think you’d better go home,” she said. “I don’t feel very well.”

Sally nodded ruefully. “I do apologize for upsetting you, Scarlett. It may make you feel better to know that there are lots of other innocents in Charleston, my dear; you’re not the only one. Unmarried girls and maiden ladies of all ages are never told about things they’d rather not know. There are many faithful wives, too. I’m lucky enough to be one of them. I’m sure Miles has strayed a time or two, but I’ve never been tempted. Perhaps you’re the same way; I rather hope so, for your sake. I apologize again for my clumsiness, Scarlett.

“I’ll go now. Pull yourself together and drink your tea . . . And behave better with Middleton.”

Sally pulled on her gloves with quick, practiced motions and started for the door.

“Wait!” said Scarlett. “Please wait, Sally. I’ve got to know. Who? Rhett and who?”

Sally’s monkey face crumpled in sympathy. “Nobody we know,” she said gently. “I swear to you. He was only nineteen when he left Charleston, and at that age boys go to a bordello or to a willing poor white girl. Since he returned he’s demonstrated great delicacy in refusing all offers without hurting any feelings.

“Charleston isn’t a sink of iniquity, dear. People don’t feel any social pressure to be constantly rutting. I’m sure that Rhett is faithful to you.

“I’ll see myself out.”

As soon as Sally was gone Scarlett ran upstairs to her bedroom and locked herself in. She threw herself across the bed and wept uncontrollably.

Grotesque visions assaulted her mind of Rhett with one woman . . . another . . . still another, and another and another of the ladies she saw at parties every day.

What a fool she’d been to believe that he would be jealous of her.

When she could no longer bear her thoughts, she rang for Pansy, then washed and powdered her face. She couldn’t sit and smile and talk with Miss Eleanor when she woke up. She had to get away, at least for a while.

“We’re going out,” she told Pansy. “Hand me my pelisse.”

Scarlett walked for miles—quickly and silently, uncaring whether Pansy was keeping up. As she passed Charleston’s tall, beautiful old houses, she didn’t see their crumbling pastel stucco walls as proud evidence of survival, she saw only that they cared not how they looked to passers-by and turned their shoulders to the street to face inward toward their private walled gardens.

Secrets. They keep their secrets, she thought. Except from each other. Everyone pretends about everything.

28

It was nearly dark when Scarlett got back, and the house looked silent and forbidding. No light showed through the curtains, drawn each day at sundown. She opened the door carefully, making no sound. “Tell Manigo that I have a headache and I don’t want any supper,” she said to Pansy while they were still in the vestibule. “Then come undo my laces. I’m going straight to bed.”

Manigo would have to notify the kitchen and the family. She couldn’t face conversation with anyone. She crept quietly up the stairs past the open doors of the warmly lit drawing room. Rosemary’s loud voice was proclaiming Miss Julia Ashley’s opinion about something or other. Scarlett hastened her footsteps.

She extinguished the lamp and curled up tightly under the covers after Pansy undressed her, trying to hide from her own desperate unhappiness. If only she could sleep, forget Sally Brewton, forget everything, escape. Darkness was all around her, mocking her dry sleepless eyes. She couldn’t even cry; all her tears had been spent in the emotional storm after Sally’s hellish revelations.

The latch grated, and light poured into the room as the door swung open. Scarlett turned her head towards it, startled by the sudden brightness.

Rhett was standing in the doorway, a lamp in his raised hand. It cast harsh shadows on the strong planes of his wind-burned face and salt-stiff black hair. He was still wearing the clothes he’d worn sailing; they clung, wet, to his hard chest and muscled arms and legs. His expression was dark with barely controlled emotion, and he loomed huge and dangerous.

Scarlett’s heart leapt with primitive fear, yet her breath quickened from excitement. This was what she had dreamed of—Rhett coming into her bedroom with passion overriding his cool self-control.

He strode to the bed, closing the door with a kick. “You can’t hide from me, Scarlett,” he said. “Get up.” In one motion his arm swept the unlit lamp off the table onto the floor with a splintering crash, and his big hand set the lighted one down with such force that it rocked perilously. He threw back the quilts, grabbed her arms, and dragged her from the bed onto her feet.

Her dark tumbled hair fell across her neck and shoulders and over his hands. The lace that edged the open neck of her nightdress quivered from the pounding of her heart. Hot blood stained her cheeks red and deepened the green color of her eyes, fixed on his. Rhett threw her painfully against the bed’s thick carved post and backed away.

“Damn you for an interfering fool,” he said hoarsely. “I should have killed you the minute you set foot in Charleston.”

Scarlett held on to the bedpost to keep from falling. She felt the surging thrill of danger in her veins. What had happened to put him in such a state?

“Don’t play the frightened maiden with me, Scarlett. I know you better than that. I’m not going to kill you, I’m not even going to beat you, although God knows you deserve it.”

Rhett’s mouth twisted. “How fetching you look, my dear. Bosom heaving and eyes wide with innocence. The pity of it is that you probably are innocent by your warped definition. Never mind the pain you’ve caused a harmless woman by casting your net over her witless husband.”

Scarlett’s lips curved in an uncontrollable smile of victory. He was furious about her conquest of Middleton Courtney! She had done it—made him admit that he was jealous. Now he’d have to admit that he loved her, she’d make him say it—

“I don’t give a damn that you made a spectacle of yourself,” Rhett said instead. “In fact it was rather diverting to watch a middleaged woman convince herself that she was still an irresistible nubile girl. You can’t grow past sixteen, can you, Scarlett? The height of your ambition is to remain eternally the belle of Clayton County.

“Today the joke ceased to be funny,” he shouted. Scarlett recoiled from the sudden noise. He clenched his fists, visibly took command of his fury. “As I left church this morning,” he said quietly, “an old friend, who is also a close cousin, drew me to one side and volunteered to serve as my second when I challenge Middleton Courtney to a duel. He never doubted that that must be my intention. Regardless of the truth of the matter, your good name had to be defended. For the sake of the family.”

Scarlett’s small white teeth bit into her lower lip. “What did you say to him?”

“Exactly what I am about to say to you. ‘A duel will not be necessary. My wife is unaccustomed to society and acted in a way subject to misinterpretation because she didn’t know any better. I’ll instruct her in what is expected of her.’ ”

His arm moved as rapidly as a striking snake, and his hand closed cruelly around her wrist. “Lesson one,” he said. He pulled her to him with a sudden jerk. Scarlett was pinned against his chest with her arm twisted and held high on her back. Rhett’s face was close above her, his eyes boring into hers. “I do not mind if the entire world thinks I’m a cuckold, my dear, devoted little wife, but I will not be forced to fight Middleton Courtney.” Rhett’s breath was warm and salty in her nose and on her lips. “Lesson two,” he said.

“If I kill the jackass, I will have to leave town or be hung by the military, and that would be inconvenient for me. And I certainly have no intention of making myself an easy target for him. He might accidentally shoot straight and wound me, which would be another kind of inconvenience.”

Scarlett struck at him with her free hand, but he trapped it easily in his and twisted it up next to the other. His arms were a cage holding her against him. She could feel the moisture in his shirt seeping through her nightdress to her skin. “Lesson three,” said Rhett. “It would be the irony of the age for me—or even an imbecile like Courtney—to risk death in order to save your dishonest little soul from dishonor. Therefore—lesson four: you will follow my instructions for your behavior at all public appearances until the Season is ended. No head-hanging chagrin, my pet. It’s not your style and it would only add fuel to the fire of gossip. You will hold your curled head high and continue your relentless pursuit of lost youth. But you will distribute your attentions more evenly among the beguiled male population. I will be happy to advise you which gentlemen to favor. In fact I will insist on giving you advice.” His hands released her wrists and closed over her shoulders, thrusting her away.

“Lesson five: you will do exactly what I tell you to do.” Away from the heat of Rhett’s body, the wet silk nightdress felt like ice on Scarlett’s breasts and stomach. She crossed her arms over herself for warmth, but it was useless. Her mind was as icy as her body, and the things he had said rang clearly through it. He didn’t care . . . he had been laughing at her . . . he was concerned only with his “convenience.”

How dare he? How dare he laugh at her in public and revile her to his skin and throw her around in her own room like a sack of meal? A “Charleston gentleman” was as much a lie as a “Charleston lady.” Two-faced, lying, double-dealing—

Scarlett lifted her fists to hit him, but he was still gripping her shoulders, and her balled hands fell ineffectually on his chest.

She twisted and broke free. Rhett raised his palms to ward off her blows, and laughter rumbled low in his brown throat.

Scarlett lifted her hands—only to push her wild hair back from her face. “You can save your breath, Rhett Butler. I’ll need no advice from you because I won’t be here to ignore it. I hate your precious Charleston, and I despise everybody in it, especially you. I’m leaving tomorrow.” She faced him head-on, her hands on her hips, her head high, her chin out. Her body was visibly trembling in the clinging silk.

Rhett looked away. “No, Scarlett,” he said. His tone was leaden. “You will not leave. Flight would only serve to confirm guilt, and I’d still have to kill Courtney. You blackmailed me into allowing you to stay for the Season, Scarlett, and stay you will.

“And you will do what I tell you to do, and you will appear to like it. Or I swear before God that I will break every bone in your body, one after another.”

He walked to the door. With his hand on the latch, he looked back at her and smiled mockingly. “And don’t try to do anything clever, my pet. I will be watching every move you make.”

“I hate you!” Scarlett shouted at the closing door. When she heard a key turning in the lock, she threw the mantel clock, then the fireplace poker, at it.

Too late she thought of the piazza and the other bedrooms. When she ran to their doors they, too, were locked on the outside. She returned to her own room and paced its length and width until she was exhausted.

At last she slumped into a chair and pounded weakly on its armrests until her hands were sore. “I am going to leave,” she announced aloud, “and there’s no way he can stop me.” The tall, thick, locked door silently gave her the lie.

There was no point in fighting Rhett, she’d have to outwit him somehow. There had to be a way, and she’d find it. No need to burden herself with luggage, she could go with only the clothes on her back. That’s what she’d do. She’d go to a tea or a whist party or something and just walk away in the middle, straight to the horsecar and on to the depot. She had plenty of money for a ticket to—where?

As always when Scarlett was heartsore, she thought of Tara. There was peace there, and new strength . . .

. . . and Suellen. If only Tara was hers, all hers. She saw again the daydreams she’d invented when she visited Julia Ashley’s plantation. How could Carreen have thrown away her share the way she had?

Scarlett’s head snapped up like a woods animal scenting water. What good was a share in Tara to the convent in Charleston? They couldn’t sell it, even if there was a buyer, because Will would never agree, nor would she. Maybe they got a third share of any profit from the cotton crop, but how much could that possibly be? At best thirty or forty dollars a year. Why, they would jump at a chance to sell to her.

Rhett wanted her to stay, did he? Fine! She’d stay, but only if he helped her get Carreen’s third of Tara. Then, with two-thirds in her hand, she’d offer to buy out Will and Suellen. If Will refused to sell, she’d throw them out.

A stab of conscience halted her thoughts, but Scarlett pushed it away. What did it matter how much Will loved Tara? She loved it more. And she needed it. It was the only place she cared about, the only place where anyone had ever cared about her. Will would understand; he’d see that Tara was her only hope.

She ran to the bell pull and yanked on it. Pansy came to the door, tried it, turned the key and opened it.

“Tell Mr. Butler I want to see him, here in my room,” Scarlett said. “And bring up a supper tray. I’m hungry after all.”

She changed into a dry nightdress and a warm velvet dressing gown, then brushed her hair smooth and tied it back with a velvet ribbon. Her bleak eyes met themselves in the reflection of the looking glass.

She had lost. She wasn’t going to get Rhett back.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Too much—too fast—her whole world had turned upside down in only a few hours. She was still reeling from the shock of what Sally Brewton told her. She couldn’t stand staying in Charleston after what she’d learned. It would be like trying to build a house on shifting sands.

Scarlett pressed her hands to her forehead as if to contain the maelstrom of confused thoughts. She couldn’t make sense of so many things spinning through her brain at one time. There had to be one thing she could concentrate on. All her life she’d been successful if she put all her attention on one goal.

Tara . . .

Tara it would be. When she finished gaining control of Tara then she would think about all the rest . . .

“Here’s your supper, Miss Scarlett.”

“Put the tray on that table, Pansy, and leave me alone. I’ll ring when I’m done with it.”

“Yes’m. Mr. Rhett he say he’ll be along after he eats.”

“Leave me alone.”

Rhett’s expression was unreadable except for the wariness in his eyes. “You wanted to see me, Scarlett?”

“Yes, I do. Don’t worry, I’m not looking for a fight. I want to offer you a trade.”

His expression did not change. He said nothing.

Scarlett kept her voice cool and businesslike when she continued. “You and I both know that you can force me to stay in Charleston and go to the balls and receptions. And we both know that once you get me to one, there’s not a single thing you can do about what I might say or do. I’m offering to stay and to act however you want me to act, if you’ll help me get something I want that has nothing to do with you or Charleston.”

Rhett sat down, took out a thin cheroot, clipped and lit it. “I’m listening,” he said.

She explained her plan, growing more intense with each word she spoke. She waited eagerly for Rhett’s opinion when she finished.

“I have to admire your nerve, Scarlett,” said Rhett. “I never questioned whether you could hold your own against General Sherman and his army, but trying to outwit the Roman Catholic Church might be biting off more than you can chew.”

He was laughing at her, but it was a friendly laugh, even admiring. As if he, too, were back in the early days when they were friends.

“I’m not trying to outwit anybody, Rhett, just make an honest deal, that’s all.”

Rhett grinned. “You? Make an honest deal? You disappoint me, Scarlett. Are you losing your touch?”

“Honestly! I don’t know why you have to talk so ugly. You know very well I wouldn’t take advantage of the Church.” Scarlett’s prim outrage made Rhett laugh even more.

“I don’t know anything of the kind,” he said. “Tell me the truth, is this why you’ve been trotting off to Mass every Sunday rattling your beads? Have you been planning this all along?”

“No I haven’t. I can’t imagine why it took me so long to think of it.” Scarlett covered her mouth with her hand. How did Rhett do it? He always could surprise her into telling more than she meant to. She lowered her hand and scowled at him. “Well? Are you going to help me or not?”

“I’m willing to help, but I don’t see how I can. What if the Mother Superior turns you down? Will you still stay through the Season?”

“I said I would, didn’t I? Besides, there’s no reason for her to turn me down. I’m going to offer much more than Will can possibly send her. You can use your influence. You know everybody in the world, you can always get things done.”

Rhett smiled. “What touching faith you have in me, Scarlett. I know every rascal and crooked politician and dishonest businessman within a thousand miles, but I have no influence at all with the good people in this world. The best I can do for you is give you a little advice. Don’t try to pull the wool over the lady’s eyes. Tell her the truth if you can, and agree to anything she asks. Don’t bargain.”

“What a ninny you are, Rhett Butler! Nobody pays asking price except a fool. The convent doesn’t really need money anyhow. They’ve got that big house and all the sisters work for no wages and there are gold candlesticks and a big gold cross on the altar in the chapel.”

“ ‘Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels . . .’ ” Rhett murmured with a chuckle.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Just quoting.”

He forced his face into a serious expression, but his dark eyes were gleeful. “I wish you all the luck in the world, Scarlett,” he said. “Consider it my benediction.” He left her room with his composure intact, then he laughed with genuine delight. Scarlett would keep her promise, she always did. With her help, he’d smooth over the scandal; then, in only two weeks the Season would end and Scarlett would be gone. He’d be free of the tension she had brought to the life he was trying to build in Charleston, and he’d be free to get back to the Landing. There was so much that he wanted to do on the plantation. Scarlett’s bullheaded assault on the Mother Superior of Carreen’s convent should be a good entertainment to divert him until his life was his own again.

I’d bet on the Roman Catholic Church, Rhett said to himself. It thinks of time in aeons, not in weeks. But I wouldn’t want to bet much. When Scarlett takes the bit between her teeth she’s a formidable force to reckon with. He laughed quietly for a long time.

As Rhett had expected, Scarlett’s relations with the Mother Superior were far from simple. “She won’t say yes and she won’t say no and she doesn’t even listen when I try to explain the good sense of selling!” Scarlett complained after her first visit to the convent. And her second visit, third, fifth. She was baffled and frustrated. Rhett listened with kind, patient attention while she raged, keeping his laughter inside. He knew that he was the only person she had to talk to.

In addition, Scarlett’s efforts provided him with fresh delights almost daily as she escalated her assault on the Holy Mother Church. She began going to Mass every morning, confident that word of her devotion would get back to the convent. Then she started visiting Carreen so often that she learned the names of all the other nuns and almost half of the students. After a week of gentle, noncommittal responses from the Mother Superior, Scarlett was so desperate that she even began to accompany her aunts when they paid calls on friends of theirs who were also elderly Catholic ladies in straitened circumstances.

“I believe I’m wearing my rosary beads down to half their size, Rhett,” she exclaimed angrily. “How can that awful old woman be so mean?”

“Maybe she thinks this will save your soul,” Rhett suggested.

“Fiddle-dee-dee! My soul is just fine, thank you very much. It’s making me gag at the smell of incense, that’s what it’s doing, all this church stuff. And I look like a hag because I never get enough sleep. I do wish there wasn’t a big party every single night.”

“Nonsense. Those shadows under your eyes make you look spiritual. They must impress the Mother Superior enormously.”

“Oh! Rhett, what a horrid thing to say. I’ll have to go powder right this minute.”

In fact the lack of sleep was beginning to show on Scarlett’s face. And frustration was etching small vertical lines between her eyebrows. Everyone in old Charleston was talking about what they assumed to be some kind of religious fervor. Scarlett was a different person. At receptions and balls she was polite but abstracted. The belle-temptress had retired. She no longer accepted invitations to play whist, and she’d stopped calling on the ladies at whose at-home days she had become a fixture. “I’m all in favor of honoring God,” Sally Brewton said one day. “I even give up something I really love for Lent. But I think Scarlett’s going too far. It’s extravagant.”

Emma Anson disagreed. “It makes me think much better of her than I did before. You know I thought you were foolish to sponsor her the way you did, Sally. She was obviously an ignorant, vain little climber. Now I’m willing to eat my words. There’s something admirable about anyone with serious religious feelings. Even Popish ones.”

Wednesday morning in the second week of Scarlett’s siege was dark and cold and rainy. “I just can’t walk all the way to the convent through this downpour,” she moaned, “I’ll ruin my only pair of boots.” She thought with longing of the Butlers’ former coachman, Ezekiel. He had showed up, like a magical genie from a bottle, on the two rainy nights they were going out. All this Charleston pretense is crazy and disgusting, but I’d be glad to put up with it today if I could just ride in a nice warm dry carriage. But I can’t. And I have to go, so I will.

“Mother Superior left this morning early to go to Georgia for a meeting at the Order’s school there,” said the nun who opened the convent’s door. No one knew exactly how long the meeting would last. Perhaps one day, or several, or maybe a week or more.

I don’t have a week or more, Scarlett shouted inwardly, I can’t even afford to waste a day.

She plodded back to the house through the rain. “Throw away these damned boots,” she ordered Pansy. “And get me out some dry clothes.”

Pansy was even more soaked than she was. With an ostentatious fit of pitiful coughing, she limped off to do Scarlett’s bidding. I should take a strap to that girl, Scarlett said to herself, but she was more heartsick than angry.

The rain stopped in the afternoon. Miss Eleanor and Rosemary decided to go up to King Street shopping. Scarlett didn’t even want to do that. She sat in her room brooding until the walls seemed to be closing in on her, then she went downstairs to the library. Maybe Rhett would be there to provide some sympathy. She couldn’t talk to anyone else about her frustration because she hadn’t told anyone else what she was doing.

“How goes the reformation of the Catholic Church?” he asked, raising one eyebrow.

She burst into an angry account of the Mother Superior’s flight. He made sympathetic noises while he cut and lit a thin cigar. “I’m going out onto the piazza to smoke,” he said when it was glowing to his satisfaction. “Come out and get some air. The rainstorm brought summer back again; it’s very warm now that it’s blown out to sea.”

The sunlight was dazzling after the dim interior of the dining room. Scarlett shaded her eyes, breathing in the damp green smell of the garden and the salt tang of the harbor and the pungent masculinity of cigar smoke. Suddenly she was acutely aware of Rhett’s presence. She was so disturbed that she walked away several paces, and his voice when he spoke seemed to come from a great distance.

“I believe that the school the Sisters have in Georgia is in Savannah. You might go down after the Saint Cecilia for your grandfather’s birthday. Your aunts have been nagging you enough. If it’s an important Church meeting the Bishop will be there; perhaps you’ll have better luck with him.”

Scarlett tried to think about Rhett’s suggestion, but she couldn’t concentrate. Not with him so near. Strange to feel so shy when lately they’d been so comfortable together. He was leaning against one of the columns, placidly enjoying his smoke.

“I’ll see,” she said, and she left in a rush, before she began to cry.

What on earth is wrong with me? she thought as tears streamed from her eyes. I’m turning into a spineless cry-baby, just the kind of creature I despise. So what if it takes a little longer to get what I want? I will have Tara . . . and Rhett, too, if it takes a hundred years.

29

“I have never been so annoyed in all my long years,” said Eleanor Butler. Her hands were shaking when she poured the tea. A crushed thin paper sheet was on the floor near her feet. The telegram had arrived while she and Rosemary were out shopping: Cousin Townsend Ellinton and his wife were coming down from Philadelphia to visit.

“Two days’ notice!” Eleanor exclaimed. “Can you credit it? You’d think they’d never heard of the War.”

“They’ll be staying in a suite at the Charleston Hotel, Mama,” Rhett said soothingly, “and we’ll take them to the Ball. It won’t be too bad.”

“It will be awful,” said Rosemary. “I don’t see any reason we have to put ourselves out to be nice to Yankees.”

“Because they’re our kin,” said her mother severely. “And you will be extremely nice. Besides, your Cousin Townsend isn’t a Yankee at all. He fought with General Lee.”

Rosemary frowned and was silent.

Miss Eleanor began to laugh. “I must stop complaining,” she said. “It’ll be worth it in the long run to see Townsend and Henry Wragg meet each other. Townsend’s cross-eyed, and Henry’s wall-eyed. Do you suppose they’ll be able to manage to shake hands?”

The Ellintons weren’t so bad, Scarlett thought, even though you didn’t know where to look when you talked to Cousin Townsend. His wife Hannah wasn’t as beautiful as Miss Eleanor had predicted, which was agreeable. However, her pearl-sewn ruby brocade ball gown and diamond dog-collar made Scarlett feel miserably frumpy in her tired claret velvet and camellias. Thank Heaven this was the last ball, and the end of the Season.

I would have called anybody a liar if they’d said I could ever get tired of dancing, but I’ve had more than my fill. Oh, if only everything was settled about Tara! She had followed Rhett’s advice, she’d thought about going to Savannah. But the prospect of day after day with her aunts was more than she could bear, and she had decided to wait for the Mother Superior’s return to Charleston. Rosemary was going to visit Miss Julia Ashley, so that thorn would be out of her flesh. And Miss Eleanor was always good company.

Rhett was going to the Landing. She wouldn’t think about that now. If she did, she’d never be able to get through the evening.

“Do tell, Cousin Townsend,” Scarlett said brightly, “all about General Lee. Is he really as handsome as everybody says?”

Ezekiel had polished the carriage and groomed the horses until they looked fit to carry royalty. He stood by the carriage block, holding the door open, ready to assist if needed when Rhett helped his ladies to step up into the carriage.

“I still say that the Ellintons should be riding with us,” Eleanor stewed.

“We’d be squashed to death,” Rosemary grumbled. Rhett told her to be quiet.

“There’s nothing to fret about, Mama,” he said. “They’re directly in front of us in the finest rig Hannah’s money can rent. When we get to Meeting Street we’ll pass them so we can be there first to escort them in. There’s nothing whatsoever to worry about.”

“There’s plenty, and you know it, Rhett. Yes, they’re nice people and Townsend’s kin, but that doesn’t alter the fact that Hannah’s a dyed-in-the-wool Yankee. I’m afraid she’ll be pouted to death.”

“Be what?” asked Scarlett.

Rhett explained. Charlestonians had a particularly vicious and cunning game, developed after the War. They treated outsiders with so much graciousness and consideration that their politeness became a weapon. “Visitors end up feeling as if they’re wearing shoes for the first time in their lives. It’s said that only the strongest ever recover from the experience. I hope we won’t be treated to a display of it tonight. The Chinese never developed a torture to match it, although they’re a very subtle people.”

“Rhett! Please stop,” begged his mother.

Scarlett said nothing. That’s what they’ve been doing to me, she thought grimly. Well, let them. I don’t have to put up with Charleston much longer.

After the turn onto Meeting Street the carriage moved into place at the end of a long line of carriages.One by one they stopped to release passengers, then slowly moved on. It’ll be over before we get there at this rate, Scarlett thought. She looked out the window at people walking, the ladies followed by their maids carrying their slipper bags. I wish we’d walked, too. It would be lovely to be out in the warm air instead of cooped up in this stuffy little space. She was startled by the sharp clanging of a streetcar bell to their left.

How can there be a streetcar running? she wondered. They always stopped at nine o’clock. She heard the bells from St. Michael’s steeple ring two full rounds. It was half past.

“Isn’t it nice to see the streetcar with nobody on it but people dressed for a ball?” said Eleanor Butler. “Did you know, Scarlett, that they always stop running the cars early on the night of the Saint Cecilia so they can scrub them out before they make the special runs to take people to the ball?”

“I didn’t know that, Miss Eleanor. How do people get home?”

“Oh, they run another special at two when the ball’s over.”

“What if somebody wants to ride who isn’t going to the ball?”

“They can’t, of course. Nobody would even think of it. Everybody knows the cars don’t run after nine o’clock.”

Rhett laughed. “Mama, you sound like the duchess in Alice in Wonderland.”

Eleanor Butler began to laugh, too. “I suppose I do,” she sputtered cheerfully, then laughed even harder.

She was still laughing when the carriage moved forward and stopped and the door was pulled open. Scarlett looked out onto a scene that made her catch her breath. This was the way a ball should be! Tall black iron poles held a pair of enormous lanterns brightly lit with a half dozen gas jets. They illuminated the deep portico and towering white columns of a temple-like building set back from the street behind a tall iron fence. A gleaming white canvas walkway led from the scoured white marble carriage block to the portico’s steps. Over walkway and block a white canvas awning had been erected.

“Just think,” she said, marvelling, “you could go from your carriage to the Ball in the pouring rain and not a drop of water would touch you.”

“That’s the idea,” Rhett agreed, “but it’s never been tested. It never rains on the night of the Saint Cecilia. God wouldn’t dare.”

“Rhett!” Eleanor Butler was genuinely shocked. Scarlett smiled at Rhett, pleased that he could make fun of something that he took as seriously as this ball. He’d told her all about it, how many years and years it had been going on—everything in Charleston seemed to have been around for at least a hundred years—how it was completely run by men. Only men could be members of the Society.

“Step down, Scarlett,” said Rhett, “you should feel right at home here. This building is the Hibernian Hall. Inside you’ll see a plaque with the harp of Ireland in best gold paint.”

“Don’t be rude,” scolded his mother.

Scarlett stepped out with her pugnacious chin—so like her Irish father’s—held high.

What were those Yankee soldiers doing? Scarlett’s throat contracted with momentary fear. Were they planning to cause trouble because they’d been beaten by the ladies before? Then she saw the crowds behind them, eager faces bobbing from side to side in an effort to see the figures emerging from the carriages. Why, the Yankees are holding people back to make a path for us! Just like servants, like the torch boys or the footmen. Serves them right. Why don’t they just give up and go away? Nobody pays them any mind anyhow.

She looked over the heads of the soldiers and smiled brilliantly at the staring crowds before she stepped down from the carriage block. If only she could have had a new gown instead of this tired old thing. She’d just have to make the best of it. She took three steps forward, then expertly cast the gown’s train from across her arm to fall behind her. It spread out on the white walkway, untouched by dust, to sweep regally behind her as she promenaded into The Ball of the Season.

She paused in the entrance hall, waiting for the others. Her eyes were drawn upward, following the graceful arc of the staircase to the second floor’s wide landing and the glittering candlelit crystal chandelier suspended over the soaring open space. It was like the biggest, brightest jewel in the world.

“Here are the Ellintons,” said Mrs. Butler. “Come this way, Hannah, we’ll leave our wraps in the ladies’ cloakroom.”

But Hannah Ellinton stopped short in the doorway and backed away involuntarily. Rosemary and Scarlett had to move aside quickly to avoid running into the ruby brocade figure in front of them.

What could be wrong? Scarlett craned her neck to see. The scene had become so familiar to her during the Season that she couldn’t imagine why Hannah was so shocked. Several girls and women were seated on a low bench near the wall. Their skirts were pulled up above their knees, their feet in basins of soapy water. While they gossiped and laughed with one another, their maids washed and dried and powdered their feet, then unrolled their mended stockings up their legs and put their dancing slippers on. It was the regular routine for all the women who walked through the city’s dusty streets to the Season’s balls. What did the Yankee woman expect? That people would dance in their boots? She nudged Mrs. Ellinton. “You’re blocking the door,” she said.

Hannah apologized and moved on inside. Eleanor Butler turned from the mirror where she was rearranging her hairpins. “Good,” she said, “I was afraid for a minute that I’d lost you.” She hadn’t seen Hannah’s reaction. “I want you to meet Sheba. She’ll take care of anything you need tonight.”

Mrs. Ellinton was led unprotestingly to the corner of the room where the fattest woman she had ever seen was sitting in a wide, worn, faded brocade wing chair, her goldenbrown skin only a tone darker than the gold brocade. Sheba pushed herself up from her throne to be presented to Mrs. Butler’s guest.

And to Mrs. Butler’s daughter-in-law. Scarlett hurried over, eager to see the woman she’d heard so much about. Sheba was famous. Everyone knew that she was the best seamstress in all Charleston, trained when she was the Rutledges’ slave by the modiste Mrs. Rutledge imported from Paris to make her daughter’s trousseau. She still sewed for Mrs. Rutledge and her daughter and a few select ladies of her choosing. Sheba could remake rags and flour sacks into creations as elegant as anything in Godey’s Lady’s Book. Baptized Queen of Sheba by her lay-preacher father, she was indeed a queen in her own world. She ruled the ladies’ cloakroom at the Saint Cecilia every year, supervising her two neatly uniformed maids, and any maids accompanying the ladies, in rapid, effective action to meet any and all feminine emergencies. Torn hems, spots and stains, lost buttons, drooping curls, faintness, overeating, bruised insteps, broken hearts—Sheba and her minions dealt with them all. Every ball had a room set aside for ladies’ needs and maids to staff it, but only the Saint Cecilia had Queen of Sheba. She politely refused to work her magic at any ball other than the finest.

She could afford to be particular. Rhett had told Scarlett what most people knew but no one said aloud. Sheba owned the most lavish and profitable whorehouse on notorious “Mulatto Alley,” the stretch of Chalmers Street, only two blocks from the Saint Cecilia, where officers and soldiers of the occupying military forces spent the better part of their pay packets on cheap whiskey, crooked gambling wheels, and women of every age, every shade of skin, and every price.

Scarlett looked at Hannah Ellinton’s bewildered expression. I’ll bet she’s one of those abolitionists who’s never seen a black person close up in her life, she thought. I wonder what she’d do if somebody told her about Sheba’s other business. Rhett said Sheha’s got more than a million dollars in gold in a vault in a bank in England. I doubt the Ellintons can match that.

30

Then Scarlett reached the entrance to the ballroom, it was her turn to stop short, unaware that there were others following her. She was overwhelmed by a beauty that was magical, too lovely to be real.

The huge ballroom was lit brilliantly, yet softly, by candlelight. From four cascades of crystal that seemed to float high above. From paired gilt-and-crystal sconces on the long side walls. From tall giltframed mirrors that reflected the flames again and again in opposing images. From night-black tall windows that acted as mirrors. From tall multi-armed silver candelabra on long tables at each side of the door, holding monumental silver punch bowls that held curving light reflections golden in their rounded sides.

Scarlett laughed with delight and stepped across the sill.

“Are you having a good time?” Rhett asked her much later.

“My, yes! It really is the best ball of the Season.” She meant it, the evening had been everything a ball should be, filled with music and laughter and happiness on all sides. She’d been less than pleased when she was given her dance card, even though it was presented with a bouquet of gardenias framed in silver-lace paper. The Governors of the Society, it seemed, filled in the names on all the ladies’ cards in advance. But then she saw that the regimentation was masterfully orchestrated. She was partnered by men she knew, men she had never met before, old men, young men, long-time Charlestonians, visiting guests, Charlestonians who lived in many other places but always came home for the Saint Cecilia. So that every dance held the tantalizing potential of surprise and the assurance of change. And no embarrassment. Middleton Courtney’s name wasn’t on her card. She had nothing to think about except the pleasure of being in the exquisite room dancing to the beautiful music.

It was the same for everyone. Scarlett giggled when she saw her aunts dancing every dance; even Eulalie’s usually sorrowful face was alight with pleasure. There were no wallflowers here. And no awkwardnesses. The terribly young debutantes in their fresh white gowns were paired with men skillful at both dancing and conversation. She saw Rhett with at least three of them, but never with Anne Hampton. Scarlett wondered briefly how much the wise old Governors knew. She didn’t care. It made her happy. And it made her laugh to see the Ellintons.

Hannah was obviously feeling like the belle of the Ball. She must be dancing with the biggest flatterers in Charleston, Scarlett thought maliciously. No, she decided, Townsend looked like he was having an even better time than his wife. Somebody sure must be sweet talking him. They’d certainly never forget this night. For that matter, neither would she. The sixteenth dance was coming up soon. It was reserved, Josiah Anson told her when they were waltzing, for sweethearts and married couples. At the Saint Cecilia, husbands and wives were always newly in love, he said with mock solemnity. He was President of the Society, so he knew. It was one of the Saint Cecilia’s rules. She would be dancing it with Rhett.

So when he took her in his arms and asked her if she was enjoying herself, she said yes with all her heart.

At one o’clock the orchestra played the last phrase of the “Blue Danube Waltz,” and the Ball was over. “But I don’t want it to be over,” Scarlett said, “not ever.”

“Good,” replied Miles Brewton, one of the Governors, “that’s exactly how we hope everyone will feel. Now everyone goes downstairs for supper. The Society prides itself on its oyster stew almost as much as on its punch. I hope you’ve had a cup of our famous mixture?”

“Indeed I have. I thought the top of my head was going to lift right off.” The Saint Cecilia punch was composed largely of excellent champagne mixed with superlative brandy.

“We old fellows find it helpful for a night of dancing. It goes to our feet, not our heads.”

“Fiddle-dee-dee, Miles! Sally always said that you were the best dancer in Charleston, and I thought she was just bragging. But now I know she was only telling the simple truth.” Scarlett’s dimpling, smiling, extravagant raillery was so automatic that she didn’t even have to think what she was saying. What was taking Rhett so long? Why was he talking to Edward Cooper instead of escorting her to supper? Sally Brewton would never forgive her for tying Miles up this way.

Oh, thank goodness, Rhett was coming.

“I’d never let you claim your enchanting wife if you weren’t so much bigger than I, Rhett.” Miles bowed over Scarlett’s hand. “A great privilege, ma’am.”

“A great pleasure, sir,” she replied, with a curtsey.

“My God,” Rhett drawled, “I might as well go beg Sally to run away with me. She’s turned me down the last fifty times, but my luck might have changed.”

The three of them went, laughing, in search of Sally. She was sitting on a windowsill holding her slippers in her hand. “Who ever said that the proof of the perfect ball is that you dance through the soles of your slippers?” she asked plaintively. “I did and now I’ve got blisters on both feet.”

Miles picked her up. “I’ll carry you down, you troublesome woman, but then you cover your feet like a respectable person and hobble to supper.”

“Brute!” said Sally. Scarlett saw the look they exchanged and her heart cramped with envy.

“What fascinating thing were you talking about with Edward Cooper for so long? I’m starving.” She looked at Rhett, and the pain grew worse. I won’t think about it. I won’t ruin this perfect night.

“He was informing me that, due to my bad influence, Tommy’s grades in school are falling. As a punishment he’s selling the little boat the boy loves so much.”

“That’s cruel!” Scarlett exclaimed.

“The boy will get it back. I bought it. Now let’s get to supper before all the oysters are gone. For once in your life, Scarlett, you’re going to have more food than you can possibly eat. Even ladies gorge themselves. It’s traditional. The Season is over, and it’s almost Lent.”

It was shortly after two when the doors to the Hibernian Hall opened. The young black torch boys were yawning when they took their positions to light the revellers out. As their torches were lit, the dark waiting streetcar on Meeting Street came to life on its tracks. The driver turned up the blue-globed lamp on its roof and the tall-chimneyed lanterns by the doors. The horses stamped their feet and bobbed their heads. A white-aproned man swept the canvas walkway free of the scattering of leaves that had accumulated then slid back the long iron bolt and swung wide the gates. He disappeared into the shadows just as the sound of voices poured from the building. For three blocks along the street carriages waited to move in turn to collect their passengers. “Wake up, they’re coming,” Ezekiel growled to the sleeping boys in the footman livery. They jerked at his prodding finger, then grinned and scrambled down from their resting place at his feet.

People came pouring through the open doors, talking, laughing, pausing on the porch, reluctant to see the end of the evening. As they did every year, they said that this had been the best Saint Cecilia ever, the best orchestra, the best food, the best punch, the best time they had ever had.

The streetcar driver spoke to his horses. “I’ll get you to your stable, boys, don’t you fret.” He pulled the handle near his head and the brightly polished bell beside the blue light clanged its summons.

“Good night, good night,” cried obedient riders to the people on the porch and first one couple, then three, then a laughing avalanche of young people ran along the white canvas path. Their elders smiled and made comments about the tirelessness of youth. They moved at a slower, more dignified pace. In some cases their dignity failed to hide a certain unsteadiness of the legs.

Scarlett plucked Rhett’s sleeve. “Oh, do let’s ride the car, Rhett. The air feels so good and the carriage will be stuffy.”

“There’s a long walk after we get off.”

“I don’t care. I’d love to walk some.”

He took a deep breath of the fresh night air. “I would, too,” he said. “I’ll tell Mama. Go on to the car and save us a place.”

They hadn’t far to ride. The streetcar turned east on Broad Street, only a block away, then moved grandly through the silent city to the end of Broad in front of the Post Office building. It was a merry, noisy continuation of the party. Almost everyone on the crowded car joined in the song started by three laughing men when the car teetered around the corner. “Oh, the Rock Island Line, its a fine line! The Rock Island Line, it is the road to ride . . .”

Musically the performance left much to be desired but the singers neither knew nor cared. Scarlett and Rhett sang as loudly as the rest. When they stepped down from the car she continued to join in every time the chorus was repeated. “Get your ticket at the station for the Rock Island Line.” Rhett and three other volunteers helped the driver unharness the horses, lead them to the opposite end of the car, and rehitch them for the journey back along Broad then up Meeting to the terminal. They returned waves and cries of “good night” as the car moved away, taking the singers with it.

“Do you suppose they know any other song?” Scarlett asked.

Rhett laughed. “They don’t even know that one, and to tell the truth neither do I. It didn’t seem to make much difference.”

Scarlett giggled. Then she put her hand over her mouth. Her giggle had sounded very loud now that “The Rock Island Line” was faint in the distance. She watched the lighted car become smaller, then stop, then start, then disappear as it turned the corner. It was very quiet, and very dark outside the pool of light thrown by the street lamp in front of the Post Office. A breath of wind played with the fringe on her shawl. The air was balmy and soft. “It’s real warm,” she whispered to Rhett.

He murmured a wordless affirmative and took out his pocket watch, held it in the lamplight. “Listen,” he said quietly.

Scarlett listened. Everything was still. She held her breath to listen harder.

“Now!” said Rhett. Saint Michael’s bells chimed once, twice. The notes hung in the warm night for a long time. “Half past,” Rhett said with approval. He replaced the watch in its pocket.

Both of them had taken quite a bit of punch. They were in the condition known as “high flown,” where everything was somewhat magnified in effect. The darkness was blacker, the air warmer, the silence deeper, the memory of the pleasant evening even more enjoyable than the ball itself. Each felt a quietly glowing inner well-being. Scarlett yawned happily and tucked a hand into Rhett’s elbow. Without a word they began to walk into the darkness toward home. Their footsteps were loud on the brick sidewalk, bounced back from the buildings. Scarlett looked uneasily from side to side, and over her shoulder at the looming Post Office. She couldn’t recognize anything. It’s so quiet, she thought, like we were the only people on the face of the earth.

Rhett’s tall form was a part of the darkness, his white shirt front covered by his black evening cape. Scarlett tightened her hold on his arm, above the crook of the elbow. It was firm and strong, the powerful arm of a powerful man. She moved a little closer to his side. She could feel the warmth of his body, sense the bulk and strength of it.

“Wasn’t that a wonderful party?” she said too loudly. Her voice echoed, sounding strange to her ears. “I thought I’d laugh out loud at old look-down-your-nose Hannah. My grief, when she got a taste of how Southerners treat folks, her head was so turned I expected her to start walking backwards to see where she was going.”

Rhett chuckled. “Poor Hannah,” he said, “she may never again in her life feel so delightfully attractive and witty. Townsend’s no fool. He told me he wants to move back to the South. This visit will probably make Hannah agree. There’s a foot of snow on the ground in Philadelphia.” Scarlett laughed softly into the balmy darkness, then smiled with warm contentment. When she and Rhett walked through the light of the next streetlamp, she saw that he was smiling, too. There was no further need to talk. It was enough that they were both feeling good, both smiling, walking together, in no hurry to be any place else.

Their route took them past the docks. The sidewalk abutted a long row of ships chandlers, narrow buildings with tightly shuttered shops on street level and the darkened windows of living quarters above. Many of the windows were open to the almost-summery warmth of the night. A dog barked half-heartedly at the sound of their steps. Rhett commanded it to be quiet, his own voice muted. The dog whimpered once, then was still.

They walked forward, past widely spaced street lamps. Rhett adjusted his long stride automatically to match Scarlett’s shorter one, and the sound of heels on brick became a single clack clack clack clack—testimony of the comfortable unity of the moment.

One street lamp had gone out. In the patch of greater darkness Scarlett noticed for the first time that the sky seemed very near, its spangling of stars brighter than she could remember them ever before. One star looked almost close enough to touch. “Rhett, look at the sky,” she said softly. “The stars look so close.” He stopped walking, put his hand over hers to signal her to stop, too. “It’s because of the sea,” he said, the sound of his voice low and warm. “We’re past the warehouses now, and there’s only water. Listen and you can hear it breathing.” They stood very still.

Scarlett strained to hear. The rhythmic slap slap of the moving water against the invisible pilings of the seawall became audible. Gradually it seemed to get louder, until she was amazed she hadn’t been hearing it all the time. Then another sound merged with the cadence of the tidal river. It was music, a thin high slow procession of notes. The purity of them made her eyes fill with unexpected tears.

“Do you hear it?” she asked fearfully. Was she imagining things?

“Yes. It’s a homesick sailor on the ship anchored out there. The tune is ‘Across the Wide Missouri.’ They make those flute-like whistles themselves. Some of them have a real gift for playing. He must have the watch. See, there’s a lantern in the rigging, that’s where the ship is. The lantern’s supposed to warn any other ship traffic that she’s anchored there, but you always have a man on watch, too, to look for anything approaching. Maybe two in busy lanes like this river. There are always small boats, people who know the river moving at night when no one can see them.”

“Why would they do that?”

“A thousand reasons, all of them either dishonest or noble, depending on who’s telling the story.” Rhett sounded as if he were talking to himself more than to Scarlett.

She looked at him but it was too dark to see his face. She looked back at the ship’s lantern that she had mistaken for a star and listened to the tide and the music of the yearning, anonymous sailor. Saint Michael’s bells rang the three-quarter hour.

Scarlett tasted salt on her lips. “Do you miss the blockade running, Rhett?”

He laughed once. “Let’s just say I’d like to be ten years younger.” He laughed again, lightly mocking, amused at himself. “I play with sailboats under the guise of being kind to confused young men. It gives me the pleasure of being on the water and feeling the wind blowing free. There’s nothing like it for making a man feel like a god.” He moved forward, pulling Scarlett into motion. Their pace was slightly faster, but still in step.

Scarlett tasted the air and thought of the wing-like sails of the small boats that skimmed the harbor, almost flying. “I want to do that,” she said, “I want to go sailing more than anything in the whole world. Oh, Rhett, will you take me? It’s as warm as summer, you don’t absolutely have to go back to the Landing tomorrow. Say you will, please, Rhett.”

He thought for a moment. Very soon she’d be out of his life forever.

“Why not? It’s a shame to waste the weather,” he said.

Scarlett pulled at his arm. “Come on, let’s hurry. It’s late, and I want to get an early start.”

Rhett held back. “I won’t be able to take you sailing if you’ve got a broken neck, Scarlett. Watch your step. We’ve only got a few more blocks to go.”

She fell into step with him again, smiling to herself. It was wonderful to have something to look forward to.

Just before they reached the house Rhett stopped, stopping her. “Wait a second.” His head was lifted up, listening.

Scarlett wondered what he was hearing. Oh, for heaven’s sake, it was just Saint Michael’s clock again. The chimes ended and the deep reverberating single bell tolled three times. Distant but distinct in the warm darkness the voice of the watchman in the steeple called to the sleeping old city.

“Three . . . o’clock . . . and all’s well!”

31

Rhett looked at the costume Scarlett had assembled with such care, and one eyebrow skidded upward while his mouth twitched downward at the corner.

“Well, I didn’t want to get sunburned again,” she said defensively. She was wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat that Mrs. Butler kept near the garden door for protection from the sun when she went out to cut flowers. She had wrapped yards of bright blue tulle around the crown of the hat and tied the ends under her chin in a bow that she thought very becoming. She had her favorite parasol with her, a saucy pale blue flowered silk pagoda-shape with a dark blue tasselled fringe. It kept her dull, proper brown twill walking-out costume from being so boring, she thought.

What made Rhett think he could criticize anybody else, anyhow? He looked like a field hand, she thought, in those beat-up old breeches and that plain shirt without so much as a collar, never mind a proper cravat and coat. Scarlett set her jaw. “You said nine o’clock, Rhett, and that’s what it is. Shall we go?”

Rhett made a sweeping bow, then picked up a battered canvas bag and slung it over his shoulders. “We shall go,” he said. There was something suspicious about his voice. He’s up to something, Scarlett thought, but I’m not about to let him get away with it.

She’d had no idea that the boat was so small. Or that it would be at the bottom of a long ladder that looked so slimy wet. She looked accusingly at Rhett.

“Nearly low tide,” he said. “That’s why we had to get here by nine-thirty. After the tide turns at ten, we would have a hard time getting into the harbor. Of course it will be a help bringing us back up the river to dock. . . . If you’re quite certain that you want to go.”

“Quite, thank you.” Scarlett put her white-gloved hand on one projecting rail of the ladder and started to turn around.

“Wait!” said Rhett. She looked up at him with a stonily determined face. “I’m not willing to let you break your neck to spare me the trouble of taking you out for an hour. That ladder’s very slippery. I’ll go down one rung before you to make sure you don’t lose your footing in those foolish city boots. Stand by while I get ready.” He opened the drawstring of the canvas bag and took out a pair of canvas shoes with rubber soles. Scarlett watched in silent stubbornness. Rhett took his time, removing his hoots, putting on the shoes, placing the boots in the bag, tightening the drawstring, making an intricate-looking knot in it.

He looked at her with a sudden smile that took her breath away. “Stay right there, Scarlett, a wise man knows when he’s beaten. I’ll stow this gear and come back for you.” In a flash he hoisted the bag on his shoulder and was halfway down the ladder before Scarlett understood what he was talking about.

“You skinnied down and up that thing like greased lightning,” she said with honest admiration when Rhett was beside her again.

“Or a monkey,” he corrected. “Come on, my dear, time and tide wait for no man, not even a woman.”

Scarlett was no stranger to ladders, and she had a good head for heights. As a child she had climbed trees to their topmost swaying branches and scampered up into the hayloft of the barn as if its narrow ladder were a broad flight of stairs. But she was grateful for Rhett’s steadying arm around her waist on the algae-coated rungs, and very glad to reach the relative stability of the small boat.

She sat quietly on the board seat in the stern while Rhett efficiently attached the sails to the mast and tested the lines. The white canvas lay in heaps, on the covered bow and inside the open cockpit. “Ready?” he said.

“Oh, yes!”

“Then let’s cast off.” He freed the lines that hugged the tiny sloop to the dock and pushed away from the barnacle-crusted pier support with a paddle. The fast-running ebb tide grabbed the little boat at once and pulled it into the river. “Sit where you are and keep your head down on your knees,” Rhett ordered. He hoisted the jib, cleared halyard and sheet, and the narrow sail filled with wind, luffing gently.

“Now.” Rhett sat on the seat beside Scarlett and hooked his elbow over the tiller between them. With his two hands he began to haul up the mainsail. There was a great noise of creaking and rattling. Scarlett stole a sideways look without lifting her head. Rhett’s eyes were squinting against the sun and he was frowning in concentration. But he looked happy, as happy as she had ever seen him.

The mainsail bellied out with a booming snap and Rhett laughed. “Good girl!” he said. Scarlett knew that he wasn’t talking to her.

“Are you ready to go in?”

“Oh, no, Rhett! Not ever.” Scarlett was in a transport of delight with the wind and the sea, unconscious of the spray spotting her clothes, the water running across her boots, the total ruin of her gloves and Miss Eleanor’s hat, the loss of her parasol. She had no thoughts, only sensation. The sloop was a mere sixteen feet long, its hull sometimes barely inches above the sea. It rode waves and current like an eager young animal, climbing to the crests, then swooping into the troughs with a dashing plunge that left Scarlett’s stomach somewhere high up near her throat and threw a fan of salty droplets into her face and open, exultant mouth. She was part of it—she was the wind and the water and the salt and the sun.

Rhett looked at her rapt expression, smiled at the sodden foolish tulle bow under her chin. “Duck,” he ordered, and put the tiller over for a short tack into the wind. They’d stay out a bit longer. “Would you like to take the tiller?” he offered. “I’ll teach you to sail her.”

Scarlett shook her head. She had no desire to control, she was happy simply to be.

Rhett knew how remarkable it was for Scarlett to turn down an opportunity to rule, understood the depth of her response to the joyous freedom of sail on sea. He had felt the same rapture often in his youth. Even now he had brief moments of it from time to time, moments that sent him back onto the water again and again in search of more.

“Duck,” he said again. And put the little sloop into a long reach. The suddenly increased speed brought water foaming onto the deep-slanted edge of the hull. Scarlett let out a cry of delight. Overhead the cry was repeated by a soaring sea gull, bright white against the high wide cloudless blue sky. Rhett looked up and grinned. The sun was warm on his back, the wind sharp and salty on his face. It was a good day to be alive. He lashed the tiller and moved forward in a stoop to get the canvas bag. The sweaters he pulled out of it were stretched and misshapen with age, stiff with dried brine. They were made of thick wool in a blue so dark that it looked almost black. Rhett crab-walked back to the stern and sat down on the raked outer edge of the cockpit. The cant of the hull dropped with his weight, and the lively little boat hissed through the water on an almost even keel.

“Put this on, Scarlett.” He held one of the sweaters out to her.

“I don’t need it. It’s like summertime today.”

“The air’s warm enough, but not the water. It’s February whether it seems like summer or not. The spray will chill you without your knowing it. Put on the sweater.”

Scarlett made a face, but she took the sweater from him. “You'll have to hold my hat.”

“I’ll hold your hat.” Rhett pulled the second, grimier sweater over his head. Then he helped Scarlett. Her head emerged, and the wind assaulted her dishevelled hair, pulling it free from dislodged combs and hairpins and tossing it in long, dark leaping streamers. She shrieked and grabbed wildly at it.

“Now look what you've done!” she shouted. The wind whipped a thick strand of hair into her open mouth, making her sputter and blow. When she pulled the hair free it tore out of her grasp and flew into snarled witches’ locks with the rest. “Give me my hat quick before I’m bald-headed,” she said. “My grief, I’m a mess.”

She had never in her life looked so beautiful. Her face was alight with joy, rosy from windburn, glowing amid the wild dark cloud of hair. She tied the ridiculous hat firmly on her head, tucked her subdued tangled hair into the back of the sweater. “I don’t suppose you have anything to eat in that bag of yours, do you?” she asked hopefully.

“Only sailors’ rations,” said Rhett, “hardtack and rum.”

“That sounds delicious. I’ve never tasted either one.”

“It’s not much past eleven, Scarlett. We’ll be home for dinner. Restrain yourself.”

“Can’t we stay out all day? I’m having such a good time.”

“Another hour; I have a meeting with my lawyers this afternoon.”

“Bother your lawyers,” said Scarlett, but under her breath. She refused to get angry and spoil her pleasure. She looked at the sunspangled water and the white curls of foam on each side of the bow, then flung out her arms and arched her back in a luxurious cat-like stretch. The sleeves of the sweater were so long that they extended past her hands, flapping in the wind.

“Careful, my pet,” Rhett laughed, “you might blow away.” He freed the tiller, preparing to come about, looking automatically for any other vessels that might be in his proposed path.

“Look, Scarlett,” he said urgently, “quick. Out there to starboard—to your right. I’ll bet you’ve never seen that before.”

Scarlett’s eyes scanned the marshy shore in the near distance. Then—halfway between boat and shore—a gleaming gray shape curved above the water for a moment before disappearing beneath it.

“A shark!” she exclaimed. “No, two—three sharks. They’re coming right at us, Rhett. Do they want to eat us?”

“My dear imbecilic child, those are dolphins, not sharks. They must be heading for the ocean. Hold tight and duck. I’m going to bring her around tight. Maybe we can travel with them. It’s the most charming thing in the world to be in the middle of a school of them. They love to play.”

“Play? Fish? You must think I’m mighty gullible, Rhett.” She bent under the swinging boom.

“They aren’t fish. Just watch. You’ll see.”

There were seven dolphins in the pod. By the time Rhett maneuvered the sloop onto the course the sleek mammals were following, the dolphins were far ahead. Rhett stood and shaded his eyes against the sun. “Damn!” he said. Then, immediately in front of the sloop, a dolphin leapt from the water, bowed its back, and dived with a splash back into the water.

Scarlett pounded on Rhett’s thigh with a sweater-mittened fist. “Did you see that?”

Rhett dropped onto the seat. “I saw it. He came to tell us to get a move on. The others are probably waiting for us. Look!” Two dolphins had broken water ahead. Their graceful leaps made Scarlett clap her hands. She pushed the sweater sleeves up her arms and clapped again, this time successfully. Two yards to her right the first dolphin surfaced, cleared his blow hole with a spurt of spume, then lazily rocked back down into the water.

“Oh, Rhett, I never saw anything so darling. It was smiling at us!”

Rhett was smiling, too. “I always think they’re smiling, and I always smile back. I love dolphins, always have.”

The dolphins treated Rhett and Scarlett to what could only be called a game. They swam alongside, under, across the bow, sometimes singly, sometimes in twos or threes. Diving and surfacing, blowing, rolling, leaping, looking from eyes that seemed human, seemed to be laughing above the engaging smile-like mouth at the clumsy, boat-bound man and woman.

“There!” Rhett pointed when one burst from the surface in a leap, and “There!” Scarlett yelled when another leapt in the opposite direction. “There!” and “There!” and “There!” whenever the dolphins broke water. It was a surprise each time, always in a spot that was different from the places where Scarlett and Rhett were looking.

“They’re dancing,” Scarlett insisted.

“Frolicking,” Rhett suggested.

“Showing off,” they agreed. The show was enchanting.

Because of it Rhett was careless. He didn’t see the dark patch of cloud that was spreading across the horizon behind them. His first warning was when the steady fresh wind suddenly dropped. The taut billowing sails went limp, and the dolphins nosed abruptly down into the water and disappeared. He looked then—too late—over his shoulder and saw the squall racing over the water and the sky.

“Get down into the belly of the boat, Scarlett,” he said quietly, “and hold on. We’re about to have a storm. Don’t be frightened, I’ve sailed through much worse.”

She looked behind and her eyes widened. How could it be so sunny and blue in front of them and so black back there? Without a word she slid down and found a handhold beneath the seat where she and Rhett had been sitting.

He was making rapid adjustments to the rigging. “We’ll have to run before it,” he said, then he grinned. “You’ll get wet, but it will be a hell of a ride.” At that moment the squall hit. Day turned to liquid near-night as the clouds blackened the sky and loosed sheets of rain on them. Scarlett opened her mouth to cry out, and it was immediately filled with water. “We’ll have to run before it,” he said, then he grinned. “You’ll get wet, but it will be a hell of a ride.” At that moment the squall hit. Day turned to liquid near-night as the clouds blackened the sky and loosed sheets of rain on them. Scarlett opened her mouth to cry out, and it was immediately filled with water.

My God, I’m drowning, she thought. She bent over and spat and coughed until her mouth and throat were clear. She tried to lift her head, to see what was happening, to ask Rhett what was that terrible noise. But her giddy battered hat was collapsed onto her face, and she couldn’t see anything. I’ve got to get rid of it or I’ll suffocate. She tore at the tulle bow under her chin with her free hand. Her other hand was desperately gripping the metal handle she had found. The boat was pitching and yawing, creaking as if it was coming apart. She could feel the sloop racing down, down—it must be almost standing on its nose, it’s going to go straight through the water, right to the bottom of the sea. Oh, sweet Mother of God, I don’t want to die!

With a shudder the sloop stopped its plunge. Scarlett pulled the wet tulle roughly over her chin, over her face, and she was free of the smothering folds of wet straw. She could see!

She looked at the water, then up, at water, then up . . . up . . . up. There was a wall of water higher than the tip of the mast, ready to fall and smash the frail wooden shell to bits. Scarlett tried to scream, but her throat was paralyzed by fear. The sloop was shaking and groaning; it rode with a sickening slide up the side of the wall, then hung on the top, shuddering, for an endless terrifying moment.

Scarlett’s eyes were narrowed against the rain pouring down on her head with terrible pounding blows, streaming down over her face. On all sides there were angry, surging, foam-streaked mountainous waves with curling breaking white tops streaming fans of spume into the furious wind and rain. “Rhett,” she tried to shout. Oh God, where was Rhett? She turned her head from side to side, trying to see through the rain. Then, just as the sloop dove furiously down the other side of the wave, she found him.

God damn his soul! He was kneeling, his back and shoulders straight, his head and chin high, and he was laughing into the wind and the rain and the waves. His left hand gripped the tiller with corded strength, and his right hand was outstretched, holding on to the line that was wrapped around his elbow and forearm and wrist, the sheet that led to the fearful pull of the huge wind-filled mainsail. He’s loving this! The fight with the wind, the death danger. He loves it.

I hate him!

Scarlett looked up at the towering threat of the next wave and for a wild, despairing instant she waited for it to topple, to trap, to destroy her. Then she told herself that she had nothing to fear. Rhett could manage anything, even the ocean itself. She lifted her head, as his was lifted, and gave herself over to the wild perilous excitement.

Scarlett did not know about the chaotic power of the wind. As the little sloop rode up the side of the thirty-foot wave, the wind stopped. It was only for a few seconds, a freak of the center of the squall, but the mainsail flattened, and the boat slewed to broadside, carried erratically by water current only in a perilous climb. Scarlett was aware that Rhett was rapidly freeing his arm from the encircling slack line, that he was doing something different with the swinging tiller, but she had no hint that anything was wrong until the crest of the wave was nearly under the keel and Rhett shouted, “Jibe! Jibe,” and threw his body painfully over hers.

She heard a rattling, creaking noise close to her head and sensed the slow then faster then rushing swing of the heavy boom above. Everything happened very fast, yet it seemed to be terribly, unnaturally slow, as though the whole world were stopping. She looked without understanding at Rhett’s face so near to hers, and then it was gone and he was on his knees again doing something, she didn’t know what, except that heavy loops of thick rope were falling on her.

She didn’t see the crosswind ruffle, then suddenly fill, the wet canvas of the mainsail and propel it to the opposite side of the wayless sloop with an ever-mounting force so mightly that there was a crack like the sound of lightning striking and the thick mast broke and was carried into the sea by the momentum and weight of the sail. The hull of the boat bucked, then lifted to starboard and rolled slowly, following the pull of the fouled rigging, until it was upside down. Capsized in the cold storm-torn sea.

She’d never known such cold could exist. Cold rain pelting her, colder waters surrounding her, pulling at her. Her whole body must be frozen. Her teeth were chattering uncontrollably, making such a noise in her head that she couldn’t think, couldn’t understand what was happening, except that she must be paralyzed, because she couldn’t move. And yet she was moving, in sickening swings and surging lifts and terrible, terrible falling, falling.

I’m dying. Oh God, don’t let me die! I want to live.

“Scarlett!” The sound of her name was louder than the clacking of her teeth and it penetrated to her consciousness.

“Scarlett!” She knew that voice, it was Rhett’s voice. And that was Rhett’s arm around her, holding her. But where was he? She couldn’t see anything through the water that kept hitting her face, glazing and stinging her eyes.

She opened her mouth to answer and at once it was filled with water. Scarlett craned her head up as hard as she could and blew the water from her mouth. If only her teeth would be still!

“Rhett,” she tried to say.

“Thank God.” His voice was very close. Behind her. She was beginning to make some kind of sense of things.

“Rhett,” she said again.

“Now listen carefully, my darling, listen harder than you’ve ever listened in your life. We’ve got one chance, and we’re going to take it. The sloop is right here; I’m holding on to the rudder. We’ve got to get under it and use it for protection. That means we’ve got to go under the water and come up under the hull of the boat. Do you understand?”

Everything in her cried out, No! If she went under the water she’d drown. It was pulling her already, dragging at her. If she went under, she’d never come up! Panic seized her. She couldn’t breathe. She wanted to hold on to Rhett, and she wanted to scream and scream and scream—

Stop it. The words were clear. And the voice was her own. You’ve got to live through this, and you’ll never do it if you act like a gibbering idiot.

“Wh-wh-what sh-should I d-d-d-do?” Damn this chattering.

“I’m going to count. At ‘three’ take a deep breath and close your eyes. I’ve got you. I’ll get us there. You’ll be all right. Are you ready?” He didn’t wait for her to answer, but began at once to shout “One . . . two . . .” Scarlett inhaled in jerky spurts. Then she was pulled down, down, and water filled her nose and ears and eyes and consciousness. In seconds, it was over. She gulped air gratefully.

“I’ve been holding your arms, Scarlett, so you wouldn’t grab me and drown us both.” Rhett moved his grip to her waist. The freedom felt wonderful. If only her hands weren’t so cold. She began to rub them together.

“That’s the way,” said Rhett. “Keep your circulation going. But not quite yet. Take hold of this cleat. I must leave you for a few minutes. Don’t panic. It won’t be long. I’m going to duck back up and cut away the fouled lines and the mast before they pull the boat under. I’m going to cut the laces on your boots, too, Scarlett. Don’t kick when you feel something grab your foot. It’ll be me. Those heavy skirts and petticoats will have to go, too. Just hold on tight. I won’t be long.”

It seemed like forever.

Scarlett used the time to assess her surroundings. Things weren’t too bad—if she could ignore the cold. The overturned sloop made a roof over her head, so that the rain was not hitting her. For some reason the water was calmer, too. She couldn’t see it; the inside of the hull was totally dark; but she knew it was so. Although the boat was rising and falling with the surge of the waves in the same dizzying rhythm, the surface of the sheltered water was almost flat, no choppy little waves to break against her face.

She felt Rhett’s touch on her left foot. Good! I’m not really paralyzed. Scarlett took a deep breath for the first time since the storm hit. How strange her feet felt. She’d had no idea how heavy and constricting boots were. Oh! The hand at her waist was strangefeeling. She could sense the sawing motion of the knife. Then suddenly a tremendous weight slid down her legs and her shoulders bobbed up out of the water. She cried out in surprise. The sound of her cry reverberated in the hollow space beneath the wooden hull. It was so loud that she almost lost her handhold from the shock of it.

Then Rhett burst through the water. He was very close to her. “How do you feel?” he asked. It sounded as if he was shouting.

“Shhh,” said Scarlett. “Not so loud.”

“How do you feel?” he asked quietly.

“Frozen nearly to death, if you really want to know.”

“The water’s cold, but not that cold. If we were in the North Atlantic—”

“Rhett Butler, if you tell me one of your blockade-running adventure stories, I’ll—I’ll drown you!”

His laughter filled the air around them and it seemed somehow to make it warmer. But Scarlett was still furious. “How you can laugh at a time like this is beyond me. It’s not funny to be dangling in freezing water in the middle of a terrible storm.”

“When things are at their worst, Scarlett, the only thing to do is find something to laugh about. It keeps you sane . . . and it stops your teeth chattering from fear.”

She was too exasperated to speak. The worst of it was that he was right. The chattering had stopped when she stopped thinking that she was going to die.

“Now I’m going to cut the laces on your corset, Scarlett. You can’t breathe easily in that cage. Just hold still so I don’t cut your skin.” There was an embarrassing intimacy in the movement of his hands under the sweater, tearing open her basque and her shirtwaist. It had been years since he had last put his hands on her body.

“Now, breathe deep,” said Rhett when he pulled the cut corset and camisole away. “Women today never learn how to breathe. Fill your lungs all the way. I’m rigging a support for us with some line I cut. You’ll be able to turn loose that cleat when I’m done and massage your hands and arms. Keep breathing. It’ll warm up your blood.”

Scarlett tried to do what Rhett said, but her arms felt terribly heavy when she lifted them. It was much easier just to let her body rest in the harness-like rope support under her arms and rise and fall, limp, with the rise and fall of the waves. She was feeling very sleepy . . . Why did Rhett have to keep talking so much? Why did he insist on fussing at her about rubbing her arms?

“Scarlett!” The sound was very loud. “Scarlett! You cannot go to sleep. You’ve got to keep moving. Kick your feet. Kick me if you want to, but move your legs.” Rhett began to rub her shoulders vigorously, then her upper arms; his touch was rough.

“Stop it. That hurts.” Her words were weak, like the mewing of a kitten. Scarlett closed her eyes, and the darkness became darker. She didn’t feel so cold any more, only very tired, and sleepy.

With no warning Rhett slapped her face so hard that her head jerked backwards and hit the wooden hull with a crash that echoed in the enclosed space. Scarlett came full awake, shocked and angry.

“How dare you! I’ll pay you back for that when we get out of here, Rhett Butler, just see if I don’t!”

“That’s better,” said Rhett. He continued to rub her arms roughly, though Scarlett was trying to push his hands away. “Keep talking, I’ll do the massage. Give me your hands so I can rub them.”

“I certainly will not! I’ll keep my hands to myself and I’ll thank you to do the same. You’re rubbing my flesh right off my bones.”

“Better my rubbing than crabs eating it,” said Rhett harshly. “Listen to me. If you let yourself give in to the cold, Scarlett, you’ll die. I know you want to sleep but that’s the sleep of death. And, by God, if I have to beat you black and blue, I will not allow you to die. You stay awake, and breathe, and keep moving. Talk; keep talking; I don’t give a damn what you say, just let me hear your cantankerous fishwife tones so I’ll know you’re alive.”

Scarlett was aware of the paralyzing cold again as Rhett rubbed life back into her flesh. “Are we going to get out of this?” she asked without emotion. She tried to move her legs.

“Of course we are.”

“How?”

“The current is carrying us ashore; it’s an incoming tide. It’ll take us back where we came from.”

Scarlett nodded in the darkness. She remembered all the fuss about leaving before the tide turned. Nothing in Rhett’s voice revealed his knowledge that the power of gale-force winds would make all normal tidal activity meaningless. The storm might be carrying them through the mouth of the harbor into the vast reaches of the Atlantic Ocean.

“How long before we get there?” Scarlett’s tone was querulous. Her legs felt like huge tree trunks. And Rhett was rubbing her shoulders raw.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “You’ll need all your courage, Scarlett.”

He sounds as solemn as a sermon! Rhett, who always makes fun of everything. Oh, my God! Scarlett willed her lifeless legs to move and forced terror away with iron determination. “I don’t need courage half as much as something to eat,” she said. “Why the devil didn’t you grab that dirty old bag of yours when we turned over?”

“It’s stowed under the bow. By God, Scarlett, your gluttony may be the saving of us. I’d forgotten all about it. Pray it’s still there.”

The rum spread life-restoring tentacles of warmth through her thighs, her legs, her feet, and Scarlett began to push them back and forth. The pain of returning circulation was intense, but she welcomed it. It meant she was alive, all of her. Why, rum just might be better than brandy, she thought after a second drink. It sure did warm a person up.

Too bad that Rhett insisted on rationing it, but she knew he was right. It would be too awful to run out of the warmth in the bottle before they were safe on land. In the meantime she was even able to join in Rhett’s tribute to their prize. “ ‘Yo, ho, ho, and a bottle of rum!’ ” she sang with him when he finished each verse of the sea chanty.

And afterwards Scarlett thought of “Little brown jug, how I love thee.”

Their voices echoed so loudly inside the hull that it was possible to pretend that they weren’t growing weaker as the cold gripped their bodies. Rhett put his arms around Scarlett and held her close to his body to share its warmth. And they sang all the favorites they could remember, while the sips of rum came closer together with less and less effect.

“How about ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas’?” Rhett suggested.

“We sang that twice already. Sing that song Pa loved so much, Rhett. I remember the two of you staggering down the street together in Atlanta bellowing like stuck pigs.”

“Sure and we sounded like a choir of angels,” Rhett said, mimicking Gerald O’Hara’s brogue. “ ‘When first I saw sweet Peggy, ’twas on a market day . . .’ ” He sang the first verse of “Peg in a Low Back’d Car,” then admitted he didn’t know the rest. “You must know every word of it, Scarlett. Sing it for me.”

She tried, but couldn’t find the strength. “I’ve forgotten,” she said, to cover her weakness. She was so tired. If only she could rest her head against Rhett’s warmth and sleep. His arms felt so wonderful holding her. Her head dropped. It was too heavy to hold up any longer. Rhett shook her.

“Scarlett, do you hear me? Scarlett! I feel a change in the current, I swear it, we’re very near shore. You can’t give up now. Come on, my darling, let me see some more of that gumption of yours. Hold up your head, my pet, it’s almost over.”

“. . . so cold . . .”

“Damn you for a quitter, Scarlett O’Hara! I should have let Sherman get you in Atlanta. You weren’t worth saving.”

The words registered slowly in her fading consciousness, and produced only a feeble stirring of anger. But it was enough. Her eyes opened and her head lifted to meet the dimly sensed challenge.

“Take a deep breath,” Rhett commanded. “We’re going in.” He put his big hand over her nose and mouth and dove under the water with her feebly struggling body held close. They surfaced outside the hull, near a line of tall, cresting combers. “Almost there, my love,” Rhett gasped. He bent one arm around Scarlett’s neck and held her heavy head in his hand while he swam expertly through a breaking wave and used its power to carry them into the shallows.

A thin rain was falling, blown almost horizontal by the gusting wind. Rhett cradled Scarlett’s limp form to his chest and huddled over it, kneeling in the white frothing edge of the water. A comber rose far behind him and raced toward the beach. It began to curl over on itself, then the foam-streaked gray water crashed, surged toward land, and the rolling, roiling forces in it struck Rhett’s back and roared across his sheltering body.

When the wave had passed over and spent itself, he rose unsteadily to his feet and stumbled forward onto the beach, clasping Scarlett to him. His bare feet and legs were cut in a hundred places by the fragments of shell that the breaker had thrown against him, but he was uncaring. He ran clumsily through the deep clinging sand to an opening in the line of immense sand dunes and climbed a short way into a bowl-like area sheltered from the winds. There he gently placed Scarlett’s body on the soft sand.

His voice broke as he called Scarlett’s name over and over again while he tried to bring life into her chilled whiteness by rubbing every part of her with his two hands. Her snarled, glistening black hair was spilled around her head and shoulders and her black eyebrows and lashes were shocking streaks across her colorless wet face. Rhett slapped her cheeks softly and urgently with the backs of his fingers.

When her eyes opened their color looked as strong as emeralds. Rhett shouted in primitive triumph.

Scarlett’s fingers half closed around the shifting solidity of the rain-hardened sand. “Land,” she said. And she began to cry in gasping sobs.

Rhett put one arm under her shoulders and lifted her into the protection of his bent crouching body. With his free hand he touched her hair, her cheeks, mouth, chin. “My darling, my life. I thought I’d lost you. I thought I’d killed you. I thought—Oh, Scarlett, you’re alive. Don’t cry, my dearest, it’s all over. You’re safe. It’s all right. Everything—” He kissed her forehead, her throat, her cheeks. Scarlett’s pale skin warmed with color, and she turned her head to meet his kissed with her own.

And there was no cold, no rain, no weakness—only the burning of Rhett’s lips on her lips, on her body, the heat of his hands. And the power she felt under her fingers when she gripped his shoulders. And the pounding of her heart in her throat against his lips, the strong beat of his shirt beneath her palms when she tangled her fingers in the thick curling hair on his chest.

Yes! I did remember it, it wasn’t a dream. Yes, this is the dark swirling that draws me in and closes out the world and makes me alive, so alive, and free and spinning up to the heart of the sun. “Yes!” she shouted again and again, meeting Rhett’s passion with her own, her demands the same as his. Until in the swirling, spiraling rapture there were no longer words or thoughts, only a union beyond mind, beyond time, beyond the world.

32

He loves me! What a fool I was to doubt what I knew. Scarlett’s swollen lips curved in a lazy surfeited smile, and she slowly opened her eyes.

Rhett was sitting beside her. His arms were wrapped across his knees, his face hidden in the hollow they made.

Scarlett stretched luxuriantly. For the first time she felt the rasping sand against her skin, noticed her surroundings. Why, it’s pouring down rain. We’ll catch our death. We’ll have to find some shelter before we make love again. Her dimples flickered, and she stifled a giggle. Maybe not, we sure didn’t pay any attention to the weather just now.

She reached out her hand and traced Rhett’s spine with her fingernails.

He jerked away as if she’d burned him, turning in a rush to face her, then springing to his feet. She couldn’t read his expression.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he said. “Try to get some more rest if you can. I’m going to look for some place to dry out and build a fire. There are shacks on all these islands.”

“I’ll go with you.” Scarlett struggled to get up. Rhett’s sweater was across her legs, and she was still wearing hers. She felt burdened by their water-laden weight.

“No. You stay here.” He was walking away, up the steep dunes. Scarlett gaped foolishly, not believing her eyes.

“Rhett! You can’t leave me. I won’t let you.”

But he kept climbing. She could see only his broad back with his wet shirt clinging to it.

At the top of the dune he halted. His head turned slowly from side to side. Then his hunched shoulders squared. He turned and slid recklessly down the steep slope.

“There’s a cottage. I know where we are. Get up.” Rhett held his hand out to help Scarlett rise. She clasped it eagerly.

The cottages that some Charlestonians had built on the nearby islands were designed to capture the cooler sea breezes in the hot humid days of the long Southern summer. They were retreats from the city and the city’s formality, little more than unornamented shacks with deep shaded porches and weathered clapboard siding perched on creosoted timbers to raise them above the blistering summer sands. In the cold driving rain the shelter Rhett had found looked derelict and inadequate to stand against the buffeting wind. But he knew these island houses had stood for generations, and had kitchen fireplaces where meals were prepared. Exactly the shelter needed for shipwreck survivors.

He broke open the door to the cottage with a single kick. Scarlett followed him inside. Why was he so silent? He’d hardly said a word to her, not even when he was carrying her in his arms through the thicket of low shrubs at the base of the sand dunes. I want him to talk, Scarlett thought, I want to hear his voice saying how much he loves me. Lord knows he made me wait long enough.

He found a worn patchwork quilt in a cupboard. “Take off those wet things and wrap up in this,” he said. He tossed the quilt onto her lap. “I’ll have a fire started in a minute.”

Scarlett dropped her torn pantalets on top of the soaked sweater and dried herself on the quilt. It was soft, and it felt good. She wrapped it shawl-fashion then sat down again on the hard kitchen chair. The quilt made an envelope for her feet on the floor. She was dry for the first time in hours, but she began to shiver.

Rhett brought dry wood in from a box on the porch outside the kitchen. In a few minutes there was a small fire in the big fireplace. Almost at once it bit into the teepee of logs and a tall orange burst of flame leapt into crackling life. It lit his brooding face.

Scarlett hobbled across the room to warm herself at the fire. “Why don’t you get out of your wet things, too, Rhett? I’ll let you have the quilt to dry off on; it feels wonderful.” She dropped her eyes as if she were embarrassed by her boldness. Her thick lashes fluttered on her cheeks. Rhett did not respond.

“I’ll just get soaked again when I go back out,” he said. “We’re only a couple of miles from Fort Moultrie. I’ll go get help.” Rhett walked into the small pantry adjoining the kitchen.

“Bother Fort Moultrie!” Scarlett wished he’d stop rooting around in the pantry like that. How could she talk to him when he was in another room?

Rhett emerged with a bottle of whiskey in one hand. “The shelves are pretty bare,” he said with a brief smile, “but the necessities are there.” He opened a cupboard and took down two cups. “Clean enough,” he said. “I’ll pour us a drink.” He set cups and bottle down on the table.

“I don’t want a drink. I want—”

He interrupted before she could tell him what she wanted. “I need a drink,” he said. He poured the cup half full, drank it in one long swallow, then shook his head. “No wonder they left it here; it’s real rotgut. Still . . .” He poured again.

Scarlett watched him with a look of amused indulgence. Poor darling, how nervous he is. When she spoke her voice was heavy with loving patience. “You don’t have to be so skittery, Rhett. It’s not like you compromised me or anything. We’re two married people who love each other, that’s all.”

Rhett stared at her over the rim of the cup, then put it carefully down on the table. “Scarlett, what happened out there had nothing to do with love. It was a celebration of survival, that’s all. You see it after every battle in wartime. The men who don’t get killed fall on the first woman they see and prove they’re still alive by using her body. In this case you used mine, too, because you’d narrowly escaped dying. It had nothing to do with love.”

The harshness of his words took Scarlett’s breath away.

But then she remembered his hoarse voice in her ear, the words “my darling,” “my life,” “I love you,” repeated a hundred times. No matter what Rhett might say, he loved her. She knew it in the innermost center of her soul, the place where there were no lies. He’s still afraid that I don’t really love him! That’s why he won’t admit how much he loves me.

She began to move toward him. “You can say anything you like, Rhett, but it won’t change the truth. I love you and you love me and we made love to prove it to each other.”

Rhett drank the whiskey. Then he laughed harshly. “I never thought you were a silly little romantic, Scarlett. You disappoint me. You used to have some sense in your hard little head. A primitive, hasty coupling should never be confused with love. Though God knows it happens often enough to fill churches with wedding ceremonies.”

Scarlett continued to walk. “You can talk till you’re blue, but that won’t change anything.” She put a hand to her face and wiped away the tears that were pouring from her eyes. She was very close to him now. She could smell the salt on his skin, the whiskey on his breath. “You do love me,” she sobbed, “you do, you do.” The quilt fell to the floor when she let go of it to reach out to Rhett. “Take me in your arms and tell me you don’t love me and then I’ll believe it.”

Rhett’s hands abruptly caught her head and he kissed her with bruising possessive strength. Scarlett’s arms closed behind his neck as his hands moved down her throat and her shoulders, and she gave herself up to abandonment.

But Rhett’s fingers suddenly closed around her wrists and he pried her arms apart, away from his neck, away from him, and his mouth was no longer seeking hers, his body was drawing away.

“Why?” she cried. “You want me.”

He cast her away, releasing her wrists, stumbling backwards in the first uncontrolled action she had ever seen him take. “Yes, by Christ! I do want you, and sicken for you. You’re a poison in my blood, Scarlett, a sickness of my soul. I’ve known men with a hunger for opium that was like my hunger for you. I know what happens to an addict. He becomes enslaved, then destroyed. It almost happened to me, but I escaped. I won’t risk it again. I won’t destroy myself for you.” He crashed through the door and out into the storm.

The wind howled through the open door, icy against Scarlett’s bare skin. She grabbed up the quilt from the floor and wrapped it around her. She pushed against the wind to the yawning doorway but could see nothing through the rain. It took all her strength to pull the door closed. She had very little strength left.

Her lips still felt warm from Rhett’s kiss. But the rest of her was shivering. She curled up in front of the fire with the quilt wrapped securely around her. She was tired, so very tired. She’d have a little nap until Rhett came back.

She slid into a sleep so profound that it was more nearly coma.

“Exhaustion,” said the army doctor Rhett brought back from Fort Moultrie, “and exposure. It’s a miracle your wife isn’t dead, Mr. Butler. Let’s hope she doesn’t lose the use of her legs; the circulation’s all but shut down. Wrap her in those blankets and let’s get her back to the fort.” Rhett swaddled Scarlett’s limp body quickly and lifted her in his arms.

“Here, now, give her to the sergeant. You’re not in such good condition yourself.”

Scarlett’s eyes opened. Her clouded mind registered the blue uniforms around her, then her eyes rolled back in her head. The doctor closed the eyelids with fingers practiced in battlefield medicine. “Better hurry,” he said, “she’s slipping away.”

“Drink this, honey.” It was a woman’s voice, soft yet authoritative, a voice she almost recognized. Scarlett opened her lips obediently. “That’s a good girl, take another little sip. No, I don’t want to see no ugly screwed-up face like that. Don’t you know if you make that kind of face it’s liable to stick? Then what’ll you do? A pretty little girl turned ugly. That’s better. Now open up. Wider. You going to drink this good hot milk and medicine if it takes all week. Come on, now, lamb. I’ll stir some more sugar in it.”

No, it wasn’t Mammy’s voice. So close, so nearly the same, but not the same. Weak tears seeped from the corners of Scarlett’s closed eyes. For a minute she’d thought she was home, at Tara, with Mammy tending her. She forced her eyes to open, to focus. The black woman bending over her smiled. Her smile was beautiful. Compassionate. Wise. Loving. Patient. Unyieldingly bossy. Scarlett smiled back.

“There, now, ain’t that just what I told them? What this little girl need, I say, is a hot brick in her bed and a mustard plaster on her chest and old Rebekah rubbing out the chill from her bones, with a milk toddy and a talk with Jesus to finish the cure. I done talk with Jesus while I rub, and He bring you back like I knowed He would. Lord, I tell Him, this ain’t no real work like Lazarus, this here is just a little girl feeling poorly. It won’t hardly take a minute of Your everlasting time to cast Your eye this way and bring her back.

“He done so, and I’m going to thank Him. Soon’s you finish drinking your milk. Come on, honey, there’s two fresh spoons of sugar in it. Drink it down. You don’t want to keep Jesus waiting for Rebekah to say thank You, do you? That don’t set too well in Heaven.”

Scarlett swallowed. Then she gulped. The sweetened milk tasted better than anything she’d tasted in weeks. When it was all gone she rubbed her mouth with the back of her hand to erase the milk mustache. “I’m mighty hungry, Rebekah, could I have something to eat?”

The big black woman nodded. “Just a second,” she said. Then she closed her eyes and put her palms together in prayer. Her lips moved silently and she rocked back and forth, giving thanks in an intimate talk with her Lord.

When she finished, she pulled the coverlet up over Scarlett’s shoulders and tucked it around them. Scarlett was asleep. The medicine in the milk was laudanum.

Scarlett tossed fitfully while she slept. When she thrashed off the coverlet, Rebekah tucked her in again and stroked her forehead until the lines of distress were soothed away. But Rebekah could do nothing about the dreams.

They were disjointed, chaotic, fragments of Scarlett’s memories and fears. There was hunger, the never-ending desperate hunger of the bad days at Tara. And Yankee soldiers, coming closer and closer to Atlanta, looming in the shadows of the piazza outside her window, handling her and whispering that her legs would have to come off, sprawling in a pool of blood on the floor at Tara, the blood spurting, spreading, becoming a torrent of red that rose into a mountainous wave higher and still higher over a screaming small Scarlett. And there was cold, with ice covering trees and shrivelling flowers and forming a shell around her so that she couldn’t move and couldn’t be heard although she was calling “Rhett, Rhett, Rhett come back” inside the icicles that were falling from her lips. Her mother passed through her dream, and Scarlett smelled lemon verbena, but Ellen never spoke. Gerald O’Hara jumped a fence, then another, then fence after fence into infinity, sitting backwards on a shining white stallion that was singing with Gerald in a human voice about Scarlett in a Low Back’d Car. The voices changed, became women’s voices, became hushed. She couldn’t hear what they were saying.

Scarlett licked her dry lips and opened her eyes. Why, it’s Melly. Oh, she looks so worried, poor thing. “Don’t be frightened,” Scarlett said hoarsely. “It’s all right. He’s dead. I shot him.”

“She been having a nightmare,” said Rebekah.

“The bad dreams are all over now, Scarlett. The doctor said you’re going to be well in no time at all.” Anne Hampton’s dark eyes were shining with earnestness.

Eleanor Butler’s face appeared over her shoulder. “We’ve come to take you home, my dear,” she said.

“This is ridiculous,” Scarlett complained. “I can perfectly well walk.” Rebekah clamped a hand on her shoulder and continued to push the wheelchair slowly along the crushed oyster-shell road. “I feel like a fool,” grumbled Scarlett, but she slumped back in the chair. Her head was throbbing with sharp dagger-like pains. The rainstorm had brought back weather suitable for February. The air was crisp, with a bite in the wind that was still blowing. At least Miss Eleanor brought my fur cape, she thought. I must have had a mighty close call if I’m allowed to wear the furs she thought were so showy.

“Where is Rhett? Why isn’t he taking me home?”

“I wouldn’t let him go out again,” said Mrs. Butler firmly. “I sent for our doctor and told Manigo to put Rhett straight to bed. He was blue with cold.”

Anne spoke quietly, bending near Scarlett’s ear. “Miss Eleanor was alarmed when the storm came up so suddenly. We rushed from the Home to the mooring basin and when they said the boat hadn’t come back she got frantic. I doubt that she sat down once all afternoon, she was just pacing back and forth on the piazza looking out into the rain.”

Under a nice roof, thought Scarlett impatiently. It’s all well and good, for Anne to sound so concerned for Miss Eleanor, but she wasn’t the one freezing to death!

“My son told me you worked a miracle tending his wife,” Miss Eleanor said to Rebekah. “I don’t know how we’ll ever thank you.”

“Wasn’t me, Missus, it was the good Lord. I talked to Jesus for her, poor little shivering thing. I said this ain’t Lazarus, Lord . . .”

While Rebekah repeated her story to Mrs. Butler, Anne answered Scarlett’s question about Rhett. He had waited until the doctor said that Scarlett was out of danger, then he’d taken the ferry to Charleston to set his mother’s mind at rest, knowing how worried she must be. “It gave us all a shock when we saw a Yankee soldier coming through the gate,” Anne laughed. “He’d borrowed dry clothes from the sergeant.”

Scarlett refused to leave the ferry in the wheelchair. She insisted that she was perfectly capable of walking to the house and she did walk, stepping out as if nothing had happened.

But she was tired when they arrived, so tired that she accepted Anne’s help to climb the stairs. And after a tray with a hot bean soup and corn muffins, she fell again into a deep sleep.

There were no nightmares this time. She was in the familiar soft luxury of linen sheets and feather mattress, and she knew that Rhett was only a few steps away. She slept for fourteen strength-restoring hours.

She saw the flowers the minute she woke up. Hothouse roses. There was an envelope propped against the vase. Scarlett reached greedily for it.

His bold slashing handwriting was starkly black on the creamcolored paper. Scarlett touched it lovingly before she began to read.

Scarlett wriggled with pleasure.

Scarlett stared at the letter, at first too shocked to hurt. Then too angry.

Finally she held it in her two hands and tore the heavy paper slowly into shreds, talking as she destroyed the thick dark words. “Not this time you don’t, Rhett Butler. You ran away from me that time before, in Atlanta, after you made love to me. And I drooped around, lovesick, waiting for you to come back. Well, now I know a lot more than I did then. I know you can’t get me out of your head, no matter how hard you try. You can’t live without me. No man could make love to a woman the way you made love to me and then never see her again. You’ll come back, just like you came back before. But you won’t find me waiting. You’ll have to come find me. Wherever I am.”

She heard Saint Michael’s tolling the hour . . . six . . . seven . . . eight . . . nine . . . ten. Every other Sunday, she had gone to Mass at ten o’clock. Not today. She had more important things to do.

She slid out of bed and ran to the bell pull. Pansy’d better come quick. I want to be packed and at the station in time for the train to Augusta. I’ll go home, and I’ll make sure Uncle Henry’s got my money, and then I’ll start right in on the work at Tara.

. . . But I haven’t got it yet.

“Morning, Miss Scarlett. It’s mighty fine to see you looking so fit after what happen—”

“Stop that babbling and get out my valises.” Scarlett paused. “I’m going to Savannah. It’s my grandfather’s birthday.”

She’d meet her aunts at the train depot. The train left for Savannah at ten of twelve. And tomorrow she’d find the Mother Superior and make her talk to the Bishop. No point in going home to Atlanta without the deed to Tara in her hand.

“I don’t want that nasty old dress,” she said to Pansy. “Get out the ones I brought when I came here. I’ll wear what I like. I’m over being so eager to please.”

“I wondered what all the fuss was about,” said Rosemary. She eyed Scarlett’s fashionable clothes with curiosity. “Are you going someplace, too? Mama said you probably would sleep all day.”

“Where is Miss Eleanor? I want to tell her goodbye.”

“She’s already left for church. Why don’t you write her a note? Or I can give her a message.”

Scarlett looked at the clock. She hadn’t much time. The hackney was waiting outside. She dashed into the library and grabbed paper and pen. What should she say?

“Your carriage is waiting, Missus Rhett,” said Manigo.

Scarlett scrawled a few sentences, saying that she was going to her grandfather’s birthday and was sorry to miss seeing Eleanor before she left. Rhett will explain everythihg, she added. I love you.

“Miss Scarlett—” called Pansy nervously. Scarlett folded the note and sealed it.

“Please give this to your mother,” she said to Rosemary. “I must hurry. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Scarlett,” said Rhett’s sister. She stood in the doorway to watch Scarlett and her maid and her luggage move off down the street. Rhett hadn’t been so well organized when he departed late the night before. She had begged him not to go because he’d looked so unwell. But he had kissed her goodbye and set off into the darkness on foot. It wasn’t hard to figure out that somehow Scarlett was driving him away.

With slow deliberate movements Rosemary struck a match and burned Scarlett’s note. “Good riddance,” she said aloud.