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 ent
rance 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 pretend
ing 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.
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