It was a small band, only two drummers and two men playing pennywhistles and one man playing a sweet, high-pitched cornet. But they were dressed in gray, with gold sashes and bright brass buttons. And in front of them a man with one arm was holding the staff of the Confederate flag in his remaining hand. The Stars and Bars was honorably tattered, and it was being paraded again through Peachtree Street. Throats were too choked with emotion to utter cheers.
Scarlett felt tears on her cheeks, but they were not tears of defeat, they were tears of pride. Sherman’s men had burned Atlanta, the Yankees had pillaged Georgia, but they hadn’t been able to destroy the South. She saw tears like hers on the faces of the women, and the men, in front of her. Everyone had lowered umbrellas to stand bare-headed to honor the flag.
They stood tall and proud, exposed to the cold rain, for a long time. The band was followed by a column of Confederate veterans in the ragged butternut homespun uniforms they’d come home in. They marched to “Dixie” as if they were young men again, and the rain-soaked Southerners watching them found their voices to cheer and whistle and let out the chilling, rousing cry that was the Rebel Yell.
The cheering lasted until the veterans were out of sight. Then umbrellas swung upward and people began to leave. They’d forgot ten Rex, and Twelfth Night. The high point of the parade had come and gone, leaving them wet and chilled but exalted. “Wonderful.” Scarlett heard it from dozens of smiling mouths as people passed her gate.
“There’s more parade to come,” she said to some of them.
“Can’t top ‘Dixie,’ can it?” they replied.
She shook her head. Even she didn’t feel interested in seeing the floats, and she’d worked very hard on hers. Spent a lot of money, too, on crepe paper and tinsel that the rain must have ruined. At least she could sit down to watch now, that was something. She didn’t want to tire herself out when tonight was the Masquerade Ball.
Ten endless minutes dragged by before the first float appeared. Scarlett could see why when it got near. The wagon’s wheels kept getting stuck in the churned red clay mud of the street. She sighed and pulled her shawl more closely around her. Looks like I’m in for a long wait.
It took over an hour for the decorated wagons to make their way past her; her teeth were chattering before it was over. But at least hers was the best. The bright crepe paper flowers around the wagon’s sides were soggy, but still bright. And “Kennedy’s Emporium” in silver gilt tinsel shone clearly through the rain drops caught in it. The big barrels labelled “flour,” “sugar,” “cornmeal,” “molasses,” “coffee,” “salt” were empty, she knew, so no damage was done there. And the tin washtubs and washboards wouldn’t rust. The iron kettles were damaged anyhow; she’d glued paper flowers over the dents. The only dead loss was the wooden-handled tools. Even the lengths of fabric that she’d draped so artistically over a stretch of chicken wire could be salvaged for the penny bargain bin.
If only anybody had waited around to see her float, she was sure they’d have been impressed.
She hunched her shoulders and made a face at the last wagon. It was surrounded by dozens of shouting, capering children. A man in a parti-colored elf costume was throwing candy right and left. Scarlett peered at the name on the sign above his head. “Rich’s.” Willie kept talking about this new store at Five Points. He was worried because prices were lower there and Kennedy’s was losing some customers. Fiddle-dee-dee, Scarlett thought with contempt. Rich’s won’t stay in business long enough to do me any harm. Cutting prices and throwing away merchandise is not any way to be successful in business. I’m mighty glad I saw this. Now I can tell Willie Kershaw not to be such a fool.
She was even gladder to see the Grand Finale float behind Rich’s. It was Rex’s throne. There was a leak in the red-and-white striped canopy above it, and water was pouring steadily on the giltcrowned head and cotton-batting-ermined shoulders of Dr. Meade. He looked thoroughly miserable.
“And I hope you catch double pneumonia and die,” Scarlett said under her breath. Then she ran to the house for a hot bath.
Scarlett was costumed as the Queen of Hearts. She would have preferred to be the Queen of Diamonds, with a glittering paste crown and dog collar and brooches. However, then she wouldn’t have been able to wear her pearls, which the jeweller had told her were “fine enough for the Queen herself.” And besides she had found nice big imitation rubies to sew all around the low neck of her red velvet gown. It was so good to be wearing color!
The train of her dress was bordered with white fox. It would be ruined before the Ball was over, but no matter; it looked elegant draped over her arm to dance. She had a mysterious red satin eye mask that covered her face down to the tip of her nose, and her lips were reddened to match it. She felt very daring, and quite safe. Tonight she could dance to her heart’s content without anyone knowing who she was so they could insult her. What a wonderful idea it was to have a masquerade!
Even with her mask in place Scarlett was nervous about entering the ballroom without an escort, but she needn’t have been. A large group of masked revellers was entering the lobby when she stepped out of her carriage, and she joined them without comment from anyone. Once inside, she looked around her with astonishment. DeGives Opera House had been transformed almost beyond recognition. The handsome theater was now truly a convincing King’s palace.
A dance floor had been built over the lower half of the auditorium, extending the large stage into a mammoth ballroom. At the far end Dr. Meade as Rex was seated on his throne, with uniformed attendants on each side, including a Royal Cup Bearer. In the center of the Dress Circle was the biggest orchestra Scarlett had ever seen, and on the floor were masses of dancers, watchers, wanderers. There was a tangible feeling of heightened gaiety, a recklessness that arose from the anonymity of being masked and disguised. As soon as she entered the room, a man in Chinese robes and a long pigtail put his silken arm around her waist and whirled her onto the dance floor. He might be a perfect stranger. It was dangerous and exciting.
The tune was a waltz, her partner a dizzying dancer. As they spun, Scarlett caught glimpses of masked Hindus, clowns, Harlequins, Pierrettes, nuns, bears, pirates, nymphs, and cardinals, all dancing as madly as she. When the music stopped, she was breathless. “Wonderful,” she gasped, “it’s wonderful. So many people. All Georgia must be here dancing.”
“Not quite,” said her partner. “Some had no invitations.” He gestured upward with his thumb. Scarlett saw that the galleries were full of spectators in ordinary dress. Some were not so ordinary. Mamie Bart was there, wearing all her diamonds, surrounded by other dregs. What a good thing I didn’t take up with that bunch again. They’re too trashy to be invited anywhere. Scarlett had managed to forget the origin of her invitation.
The presence of an audience made the Ball seem even more desirable. She tossed her head and laughed. Her diamond earrings flashed; she could see them reflected in the Mandarin’s eyes through the holes in his mask. Then he was gone. Elbowed aside by a monk with his cowl pulled forward to shadow his masked face. Without a word, he took Scarlett’s hand, then circled her waist with his arm when the orchestra struck up a lively polka.
She danced as she hadn’t danced in years. She was giddy, infected by the thrilling madness of masquerade, intoxicated by the strangeness of it all, by the champagne offered on silver trays held by satin-clad pages, by the delight of being at a party again, by her unquestionable success. She was a success, and she believed she was unknown, invulnerable.
She recognized the Old Guard dowagers. They had on the same costumes they’d worn in the parade. Ashley was masked, but she knew him as soon as she saw him. He wore a mourning band around the sleeve of his black-and-white Harlequin outfit. India must have dragged him here so she’d have an escort, Scarlett thought, how mean of her. Of course she doesn’t care if it’s mean or not, as long as it’s proper, and a man in mourning doesn’t have to give up going out the way a woman does. He can put an armban
d on his best suit and start courting his next love before his wife’s hardly cold in her grave. But anybody could tell poor Ashley hates being here. Look at the way he’s all droopy in his fancy dress. Well, never you mind, dear. There’ll be plenty more houses like the one Joe Colleton’s building now. Come spring you’ll be so busy delivering lumber that you won’t have time to be sad.
As the evening wore on, the masquerade mood became even more pronounced. Some of Scarlett’s admirers asked her name; one even tried to lift her mask. She deflected them with no trouble. I haven’t forgotten how to handle rambunctious boys, she thought, smiling. And boys is what they are, no matter what age they might be. They’re even sneaking over to the corner for a little something stronger than champagne. Next thing you know, they’ll start giving the Rebel Yell.
“What are you smiling at, my Queen of Mystery?” asked the portly Cavalier who was, it seemed, doing his best to step on her feet while they danced.
“Why, at you, of course,” Scarlett replied, smiling. No, she hadn’t forgotten a thing.
When the Cavalier released her hand to the eager Mandarin who was back for the third time, Scarlett begged prettily for a chair and a glass of champagne. The Cavalier had badly bruised one of her toes.
But when her escort led her towards the sitting-out side of the room, she suddenly declared that the orchestra was playing her favorite song, and she couldn’t bear not to dance.
She had seen Aunt Pittypat and Mrs. Elsing in her path. Could they have recognized her?
A mix of anger and fear dimmed the happy excitement she was feeling. She was painfully aware of her injured foot and the whiskey breath of the Mandarin.
I won’t think about it now, not about Mrs. Elsing and not about my sore toe. I won’t let anything spoil my fun. She tried to push the thoughts aside and gave herself over to enjoyment.
But, against her will, her eyes looked often at the sides of the ballroom and the men and women sitting or standing there.
Her eyes brushed a tall, bearded pirate who was leaning against a doorjamb, and he bowed to her. Scarlett’s breath caught in her throat. She turned her head to look again. There was something . . . the air of insolence . . .
The pirate was wearing a white dress shirt and dark evening trousers. Not a costume at all, except for the wide red silk sash tied around his waist, with two pistols tucked into it. And blue bows tied to the ends of his big beard. His mask was a simple black one over his eyes. He wasn’t anyone she knew, was he? So few men wore thick beards these days. Still, the way he was standing. And the way he seemed to be staring at her, right through the mask.
When Scarlett looked at him for the third time, he smiled, his teeth very white against his dark beard and swarthy skin. Scarlett felt faint. It was Rhett.
It couldn’t be . . . she must be imagining things . . . No, she wasn’t; she wouldn’t feel this way if it was anyone else. Wasn’t that just like him? Showing up at a ball that most people couldn’t get invited to . . . Rhett could do anything!
“Excuse me, I must go. No, really, I mean it.” She pushed away from the Mandarin and ran to her husband.
Rhett bowed again. “Edward Teach at your service, ma’am.”
“Who?” Did he think she hadn’t recognized him?
“Edward Teach, commonly known as Blackbeard, the greatest villain that ever plowed the waters of the Atlantic.” Rhett twirled a ribboned lock of the beard.
Scarlett’s heart leapt. He’s having fun, she thought, making those jokes of his that he knows I hardly ever understand. Just the way he used to before . . . before things went bad. I mustn’t put my foot wrong now. I mustn’t. What would I have said, before I loved him so much?
“I’m surprised that you’d come to a ball in Atlanta when there are such big doings in your precious Charleston,” she said.
There. That was just right. Not exactly mean, but not too loving, either.
Rhett’s eyebrows rose in black crescents above his mask, Scarlett held her breath. He’d always done that when he was amused. She was acting just right.
“How do you come to be so informed about Charleston’s social life, Scarlett?”
“I read the paper. Some silly woman keeps going on and on about some horserace.”
Damn that beard. She thought he was smiling, but she couldn’t really see his lips.
“I read the newspaper, too”, said Rhett. “Even in Charleston it’s news when an upstart country town like Atlanta decides to pretend that it’s New Orleans.”
New Orleans. He had taken her there for their honeymoon. Take me there again, she wanted to say, we’ll start over, and everything will be different. But she mustn’t say that. Not yet. Her mind leapt quickly from one memory to another. Narrow cobbled streets, tall shadowy rooms with great mirrors framed in dull gold, strange and marvelous foods . . .
“I’ll admit the refreshments aren’t as fancy,” she said grudgingly.
Rhett chuckled. “A powerful understatement.”
I’m making him laugh. I haven’t heard him laugh for ages . . . too long. He must have seen the men flocking to dance with me.
“How did you know it was me?” she said. “I have a mask on.”
“I only had to look for the most ostentatiously dressed woman, Scarlett. It was bound to be you.”
“Oh, you . . . you skunk.” She forgot that she was trying to amuse him. “You don’t look exactly handsome, Rhett Butler, with that foolish beard. Might as well stick a bearskin over your face.”
“It was the fullest disguise I could think of. There are a number of people in Atlanta that I’m not anxious to have recognize me too easily.”
“Then why did you come? Not just to insult me, I don’t suppose.”
“I promised you I’d make myself visible often enough to keep down gossip, Scarlett. This was a perfect occasion.”
“What good does a masked ball do? Nobody knows who anybody is.”
“At midnight the masks come off. That’s about four minutes from now. We’ll waltz to visibility, then leave.” Rhett took her in his arms, and Scarlett forgot her anger, forgot the peril of unmasking before her enemies, forgot the world. Nothing was important but that he was here and holding her.
Scarlett lay awake most of the night, struggling to understand what had happened. Everything was fine at the Ball . . . When twelve o’clock came, Dr. Meade said that everyone should take off their masks, and Rhett was laughing when he yanked off his beard, too. I’d take an oath he was enjoying himself. He kind of saluted the doctor and bowed to Mrs. Meade and then he whisked me out of there as easy as a greased pig. He didn’t even notice the way people turned their backs on me, at least he didn’t let on if he did. He was grinning from ear to ear.
And in the carriage coming home it was too dark to see his face but his voice sounded fine. I didn’t know what to say, but I hardly even had to think about it. He asked how things were at Tara and if his lawyer was paying my bills on time, and by the time I answered, we were home. That’s when it happened. He was here, right downstairs in the hallway. Then he just said good night, he was tired, and went up to his dressing room.
He wasn’t hateful or cold, he just said good night and went upstairs. What does that mean? Why did he bother to come all this way? Not just to go to a party when it’s party time in Charleston. Not because it was a masquerade—he could go to Mardi Gras if he wanted to. After all, he has lots of friends in New Orleans.
He said “to keep down gossip.” In a pig’s eye. He started it, if anything, snatching off that silly beard the way he did.
Her mind circled back, went over the evening again and again until her head ached. Her sleep, when it came, was brief and restless. Nevertheless, she woke in good time to go down to breakfast in her most becoming dressing gown. She’d have no tray brought to her room today. Rhett always had his breakfast in the dining room.
“Up so early, my dear?” he said. “How thoughtful of you. I won’t have to write a note of farewell.” He
tossed his napkin onto the table. “I’ve packed some things Pork overlooked. I’ll be by for them later, on my way to the train.”
Don’t leave me, Scarlett’s heart begged. She looked away lest he see the pleading in her eyes. “For heaven’s sake finish your coffee, Rhett,” she said. “I’m not going to make a scene.” She went to the sideboard and poured herself some coffee, watching him in the mirror. She must be calm. Maybe then he’d stay.
He was standing, his watch open in his hand. “No time,” he said. “There are some people I have to see while I’m here. I’m going to be very busy until summer, so I’ll drop the word that I’m going to South America on business. No one will gossip about my absence for so long. Most people in Atlanta don’t even know where South America is. You see, my dear, I’m keeping my promise to preserve the purity of your reputation.” Rhett grinned malevolently, closed the watch and tucked it in its pocket. “Goodbye, Scarlett.”
“Why don’t you go on to South America and get lost there forever!”
When the door closed behind him, Scarlett’s hand reached for the decanter of brandy. Why had she carried on like that? That wasn’t how she felt at all. He’d always done that to her, goaded her into saying things she didn’t mean. She should have known better than to fly off the handle that way. But he shouldn’t have taunted me about my reputation. How could he have found out that I’m outcast?
She’d never been so unhappy in her whole life.
9
Later Scarlett was ashamed of herself. Drinking in the morning! Only low-life drunks did such a thing. Things weren’t so bad, really, she told herself. At least she knew now when Rhett would be coming back. It was much too far in the future, but it was definite. Now she wouldn’t waste time wondering if today might be the day . . . or tomorrow . . . or the day after that.
February opened with a surprising warm spell that called forth premature leaves on trees and filled the air with the scent of waking earth. “Open all the windows,” Scarlett told the servants, “and let the mustiness out.” The breeze lifting the loose tendrils of hair at her temples was delicious. Suddenly she was gripped by a terrible longing for Tara. She’d be able to sleep there with the spring-laden wind, bringing the smell of the warming earth into her bedroom.
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