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.
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