His lips twitched.
“And did he eat it?” Scarlett asked dramatically. “He did not! The old horror managed to get no more than two crumbs on the tip of his fork—after he scraped off that beautiful meringue as if it was mold or something else horrible—and put them in his mouth like he was doing the biggest favor in the world. Then he said he was too tired to open his presents, and he went back to his room. I wanted to wring his scrawny neck!”
Maureen O’Hara rocked back and forth, laughing with delight.
“I don’t see what’s so funny,” Scarlett said. “He was mean and rude.”
She was disappointed in Jamie’s wife. She’d expected sympathy, not amusement.
“But of course you see, Scarlett. It’s the roguishness of it all. Your poor old aunts plotting their hearts out to please him, and himself sitting in his nightshirt like a wee toothless babe, plotting against them. The old villain. I’ve always had a weak spot in my heart for the deviltry of a rascal. I can see him now, sniffing the dinner to come and making his plans.
“And don’t you know he’s got that man of his sneaking in all those wonderful dishes for him to eat his fill behind his closed door? The old rascal. It does make me laugh, the clever wickedness of him.” Maureen’s laughter was so contagious that Scarlett finally joined in. She’d done the right thing, coming to Maureen’s neverlocked kitchen door after the disastrous birthday dinner.
“Let’s have our own piece of cake, then,” said Maureen comfortably. “You’re in practice, Scarlett, cut it for us; it’s under that towel there on the dresser. Cut some extra slices, too, the young ones will be home from school before long. I’ll be brewing some fresh tea.”
Scarlett had just seated herself near the fire with cup and plate when the door flew open with a bang and five young O’Haras invaded the quiet kitchen. She recognized Maureen’s redhaired daughters Mary Kate and Helen. The little boy, she soon learned, was Michael O’Hara; the two younger girls were his sisters Clare and Peg. All of them had dark curly hair that needed combing, darklashed blue eyes, and grubby little hands that Maureen told them to wash at once.
“But we don’t need clean hands,” Michael argued, “we’re going to the cowshed to play with the pigs.”
“Pigs live in the pigpen,” said tiny Peg with a self-important air. “Don’t they, Maureen?”
Scarlett was shocked. In her world, children never called adults by their first name. But Maureen seemed to find it nothing out of the ordinary. “They live in the pigpen if no one lets them out,” she said with a wink. “You weren’t thinking of taking the piglets out of the pen to play with, now, were you?”
Michael and his sisters laughed as if Maureen’s joke was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. Then they ran through the kitchen to the back door that led into a large yard shared by all the houses.
Scarlett’s eyes took in the glowing coals on the hearth, the shiny copper of the tea kettle on the crane, and the pans hanging above the mantel. Funny, she’d thought she would never set foot in a kitchen again once the bad days at Tara were over. But this was different. It was a place to live, a happy place to be, not just the room where food was prepared and dishes washed. She wished she could stay. The static beauty of her grandfather’s drawing room made her shiver inside when she thought of it.
But she belonged in a drawing room, not a kitchen. She was a lady, accustomed to servants and luxury. She drained her cup hurriedly and put it down in its saucer. “You’ve saved my life, Maureen, I thought I’d go crazy if I had to stay with my aunts. But I’ve really got to go back now.”
“What a pity. You haven’t even had your cake. I’m told my cakes are worth eating.”
Helen and Mary Kate edged up to their mother’s chair, empty plates in hand. “Take a piece, then, but not all of it. The little ones will be in soon.”
Scarlett began to pull on her gloves. “I’ve got to go,” she repeated.
“If you must, then you must. I’ll hope you’ll stay longer for the dancing on Saturday, Scarlett? Jamie told me he’s going to teach you the reel. Maybe Colum will be back by then, too.”
“Oh, Maureen! Are you having another party on Saturday?”
“Not to say a party. But there’s always the music and the dancing when the week’s work is done and the men bring home their pay packets. You’ll be here?”
Scarlett shook her head. “I can’t. I’d love to, but I won’t still be in Savannah.” Her aunts expected her to go back to Charleston with them on Saturday morning’s train. She didn’t think she would, she’d never thought so. Surely Rhett would come for her long before then. Maybe he was at her grandfather’s right now. She shouldn’t have left the house.
She jumped to her feet. “I’ve got to run. Thank you, Maureen. I’ll stop by again before I leave.”
Maybe she’d bring Rhett to meet the O’Haras. He’d fit right in, another big dark-haired man with all the big dark-haired O’Haras. But he might slouch against the wall in that infuriating elegant way he had and laugh at all of them. He’d always laughed at her half Irishness, mocked her when she repeated what Pa told her a hundred times. The O’Haras were great and powerful landowners for centuries. Until the Battle of the Boyne.
I don’t know why he found that so funny. Just about everybody we know lost their land to the Yankees, it makes sense that Pa’s folks lost theirs the same way to whoever, the English, I think. I’ll ask Jamie or Maureen about it, if I get a chance. If Rhett doesn’t take me away first.
38
Hamilton’s promised letter was delivered to the Robillard house just as dark was setting in. Scarlett grabbed it like a line thrown to the drowning. She’d been listening to her aunts quarrelling for more than an hour about who was to blame for their father’s reaction to his birthday.
“This is about my Atlanta property,” Scarlett said. “Please excuse me, I’ll take it up to my room.” She didn’t wait for them to agree.
She locked the door to her room. She wanted to savor every word in private.
“What mess have you made this time?” the letter began, without salutation. The old lawyer’s handwriting was so agitated that it was difficult to read. Scarlett made a face and held it closer to the lamp.
What mess have you made this time? On Monday I was visited ly a pompous old fool I generally go out of my way to avoid. He presented me with an astonishing draft drawn on his bank and payable to you. The amount was one half million dollars, and it was paid by Rhett.
Tuesday I was badgered by another old fool, this one a layer, asking me where you were. His client—your husband—wanted to know. I did not tell him you were in Savannah
Scarlett groaned. Who was Uncle Henry calling an old fool when he was such an old fool himself? No wonder Rhett hadn’t come for her. She peered again at Henry’s spidery script.
—because your telegram arrived after he left, and at the time he called on me I didn’t know where you were. I have not told him yet, because I do not know what you’re up to, and I have a pretty good idea that I want no part of it.
This courthouse lawyer had two questions from Rhett. The first was your whereabouts. The second was—do you want a divorce?
Now, Scarlett, I don’t know what you’re holding over Rhett’s head to get that kind of money from him and I don’t want to know. Whatever he might have done to give you grounds to divorce him is none of my business either. I’ve never dirtied my hand with a divorce action, and I’m not going to start now. You would be wasting your time and money, besides. There is no divorce in South Carolina, and that is Rhett’s legal residence now.
If you persist in this tomfoolery, I will give you the name of a lawyer in Atlanta who is almost respectable, even though he has done two divorces that I’ve heard of. But I warn you that you’ll have to give him or someone else all your legal business. I won’t handle anything for you any more. If you’re thinking of divorcing Rhett so you’ll be free to mary Ashley Wilkes, let me say that you’d do well to think aga
in. Ashley is doing much better than anyone expected he would. Miss India and my silly sister keep a comfortable house for him and his boy. If you push yourself into his life, you’ll ruin everything. Leave the poor man alone, Scarlett.
Leave Ashley alone, indeed! I’d like to know how comfortable and prosperous he’d be if I had left him alone. Uncle Henry, of all people, should have better sense than to fuss at me like a prissy old maid and jump to all kinds of nasty conclusions. He knows all about building the houses on the edge of town. Scarlett’s feelings were deeply wounded. Uncle Henry Hamilton was the closest thing she had to a father—or a friend in Atlanta—and his accusations cut deep. She scanned the few remaining lines quickly then scrawled a response for Pansy to take to the telegraph office.
SAVANNAH ADDRESS NO SECRET STOP DIVORCE NOT WANTED STOP MONEY IN GOLD QUESTION MARK
If Uncle Henry hadn’t sounded so much like an old clucking hen, she would have trusted him to have bought gold and put it in her safe box. But anyone who didn’t have sense enough to give Rhett her address might not have sense about other things, too. Scarlett chewed on the knuckle of her left thumb, worried about her money. Maybe she should go to Atlanta and talk to Henry and her bankers and Joe Colleton. Maybe she should buy some more land out there on the edge of town, put up some more houses. Things would never be cheaper than they were now, with the aftereffects of the Panic still depressing business.
No! She had to put first things first. Rhett was trying to find her. She smiled to herself, and the fingers of her right hand smoothed the reddened skin over her thumb knuckle. He doesn’t fool me with that divorce talk. Or by transferring the money as if our deal was being carried out. What counts—the only thing that counts—is that he wants to know where I am. He won’t stay away long once Uncle Henry tells him.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Scarlett,” said Pauline in a cold tone, “of course you’ll be going home tomorrow. We always go back to Charleston on Saturday.”
“That doesn’t mean I have to. I told you, I’ve decided to stay in Savannah for a while.” Scarlett wouldn’t let Pauline bother her, nothing could bother her now that she knew Rhett was looking for her. She’d receive him right here, in this elegant pink and gold room, and she’d make him beg her to come back. After he’d been adequately humbled, she’d agree, and then he’d take her in his arms and kiss her . . .
“Scarlett! Will you have the kindness to answer me when I address a question to you?”
“What is it, Aunt Pauline?”
“What do you propose to do with yourself? Where are you going to stay?”
“Why, here, of course.” It had not entered Scarlett’s head that she might not be welcome to stay as long as she liked at her grandfather’s house. The tradition of hospitality was still fiercely cherished in the South, and it was unheard of for a guest to be asked to leave until he or she decided it was time.
“Père doesn’t like surprises,” Eulalie offered sadly.
“I believe that I can instruct Scarlett in the habits of this household without your help, Sister.”
“Of course you can, Sister, I’m sure I never suggested otherwise.”
“I’ll just go ask Grandfather,” Scarlett said, standing up. “Do you want to come along?”
Twittering, she thought, that’s what they’re doing. Terrified that visiting him without an express invitation might make Grandfather mad. Great balls of fire! What meanness can he do them that he hasn’t already done? She strode along the hallway, followed by her whispering, anxious aunts, and knocked on the old man’s door.
“Entrez, Jerome.”
“It’s not Jerome, Grandfather, it’s me, Scarlett. May I come in?”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Pierre Robillard’s deep strong voice called “Come in.” Scarlett tossed her head and smiled triumphantly at her aunts before she opened the door.
Her boldness flagged a bit when she looked at the stern hawklike face of the old man. But she couldn’t stop now. She advanced halfway across the thick carpet with a confident air. “I just wanted to tell you, Grandfather, that I’m going to stay for a while after Aunt Eulalie and Aunt Pauline leave.”
“Why?”
Scarlett was nonplussed. She wasn’t about to explain her reasons. She didn’t see why she should have to. “Because I want to,” she said.
“Why?” the old man asked again.
Scarlett’s determined green eyes met his suspicious faded blue ones. “I have my reasons,” she said. “Do you object?”
“What if I do?”
This was intolerable. She could not, would not go back to Charleston. It would be equivalent to surrender. She had to stay in Savannah.
“If you don’t want me here, I’ll go to my cousins. The O’Haras have already invited me.”
Pierre Robillard’south jerked, a travesty of a smile. “You don’t mind sleeping in the parlor with the pig, I take it.”
Scarlett’s cheeks reddened. She’d always known her grandfather disapproved of her mother’s marriage. He’d never accepted Gerald O’Hara in his house. She wanted to defend her father, and her cousins, from his prejudice against the Irish. If only she didn’t have this terrible suspicion that the children brought the baby pigs into the house to play with.
“Never mind,” said her grandfather. “Stay if you like. It’s a matter of supreme indifference to me.” He closed his eyes, dismissing her from his sight and his attention.
Scarlett refrained with difficulty from slamming the door when she left the room. What a horrid old man! Still, she had gotten what she wanted. She smiled at her aunts. “Everything’s all right,” she said.
For the remainder of the morning, and all afternoon Scarlett cheerfully went along with her aunts to leave their cards at the houses of all their friends and acquaintances in Savannah. “P.P.C.” they hand-lettered in the lower left corner. “Pour prendre congé—to take leave.” The custom had never been observed in Atlanta, but in the older cities of coastal Georgia and South Carolina, it was a required ritual. Scarlett thought it a great waste of time to inform people you were leaving. Especially when, only a handful of days earlier, her aunts had worn themselves out leaving cards at the same houses to inform the same people that they had arrived. She was sure that most of those people hadn’t bothered to leave cards at the Robillard house. Certainly there had been no callers.
On Saturday she insisted on going to the train depot with them, and she saw to it that Pansy put their valises exactly where they wanted them, in full view so that no one could steal them. She kissed their papery wrinkled cheeks, returned to the busy platform, and waved goodbye while the train chugged out of the station.
“We’ll stop at the bakery on Broughton Street before we go back to the house,” she told the driver of the rented carriage. It was still a long time until dinner.
She sent Pansy to the kitchen to order a pot of coffee and then took off her hat and gloves. How lovely and quiet the house was with the aunts gone. But that was definitely a film of dust on the hall table. She’d have to have a few words with Jerome. The other servants, too, if necessary. She wasn’t going to have things looking shabby when Rhett arrived.
As if he’d read her mind, Jerome appeared behind her. Scarlett jumped. Why on earth couldn’t the man make a decent amount of noise when he walked?
“This message come for you, Miss Scarlett.” He held out a silver tray with a telegram on it.
Rhett! Scarlett grabbed the thin paper with too-eager, clumsy fingers. “Thank you, Jerome. See to my coffee, please.” The butler was too curious by half, in her opinion. She didn’t want him reading over her shoulder.
As soon as he was gone, she ripped open the message. “Damn!” she said. It was from Uncle Henry.
The normally thrifty old lawyer must have been deeply agitated because the telegram was wastefully wordy.
I HAVE NOT AND WILL NOT HAVE ANYTHING WHATSOEVER TO DO WITH INVESTING OR OTHERWISE INVOLVING MYSELF WITH THE MONEY THAT WAS TRANSFERRED B
Y YOUR HUSBAND STOP IT IS IN YOUR ACCOUNT AT YOUR BANK STOP I HAVE EXPRESSED MY REPUGNANCE FOR THE CIRCUMSTANCES SURROUNDING THIS TRANSACTION STOP DO NOT EXPECT ANY HELP FROM ME STOP
Scarlett sank onto a chair when she read it. Her knees were like water, and her heart was racing. The old fool! A half million dollars—that was probably more money than the bank had seen since before the War. What was to stop the officers from just pocketing it and closing the bank? Banks were still closing all over the country, it was in the paper all the time. She’d have to go to Atlanta at once, change the money to gold, add it to her safe box. But that would take days. Even if there was a train today, she wouldn’t get to the bank before Monday. Plenty of time for her money to disappear.
A half million dollars. More money than she’d have if she sold everything she owned twice over. More money than her store and her saloon and her new houses would make in thirty years. She had to protect it, but how? Oh, she could kill Uncle Henry!
When Pansy came upstairs proudly carrying the heavy silver tray with the gleaming coffee service on it, she was met by a pale, wild-eyed Scarlett. “Put that thing down and get your coat on,” said Scarlett. “We’re going out.”
She had herself under control; there was even a little color in her cheeks from the walk when she hurried into the O’Hara store. Cousin or not, she didn’t want Jamie to know too much about her business. So her voice was charmingly girlish when she asked him to recommend a banker. “I’ve been so giddy that I just haven’t paid any attention to my spending money, and now that I’ve decided to stay a while longer, I need to have a few dollars transferred from my bank at home, but I don’t know a soul here in Savannah. I figured you’d be able to put in a good word for me, being a prosperous businessman and all.”
Jamie grinned. “I’ll be proud to escort you to the president of the bank, and I’ll vouch for him because Uncle James has done business with him for fifty years and more. But you’ll do better, Scarlett, to tell him you’re old Robillard’s granddaughter than that you’re O’Hara’s cousin. The word is, he’s a very warm old gentleman. Wasn’t he the smart one who sent his brass to France when Georgia decided to follow South Carolina out of the Union?”
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