At the Independent Presbyterian Church on Chippewa Square he took his place in the fifth pew from the front, the place that had been his ever since the gala dedication of the church nearly sixty years earlier. James Monroe, then president of the United States, had been at the dedication and had asked to be introduced to the man who had been with Napoleon from Austerlitz to Waterloo. Pierre Robillard had been gracious to the older man, even though a President was nothing impressive to a man who had fought alongside an Emperor.
When the service ended, he had a few words with several men who responded to his gesture and hurried to join him on the steps of the church. He asked a few questions, listened to a great many answers. Then he went home, his stern face almost smiling, to nap until dinner was served to him on a tray. The weekly outing to church grew more tiring all the time.
He slept lightly, as the very old do, and woke before Jerome brought his tray. While he waited for it, he thought about Scarlett.
He had no curiosity about her life or her nature. He hadn’t given her a thought for many years, and when she appeared in his room with his daughters he was neither pleased nor displeased to see her. She caught his attention only when Jerome complained to him about her. She was causing disruption in the kitchen with her demands, Jerome said. And she would cause Monsieur Robillard’s death if she continued to insist on adding butter and gravy and sweets to his bills.
She was the answer to the old man’s prayer. He had nothing to look forward to in his life except more months or years of the unchanging routine of sleep and meals and the weekly excursion to church. It did not disturb him that his life was so featureless; he had his beloved wife’s likeness before his eyes and the certainty that, in due time, he would be reunited with her after death. He spent the days and nights dreaming of her when he slept and turning memories of her in his mind when he was awake. It was enough for him. Almost. He did miss having good food to eat, and in recent years it had been tasteless, cold when it wasn’t burnt, and of a deadly monotony. He wanted Scarlett to change that.
Her suspicions of the old man’s motives were unfounded. Pierre Robillard had recognized the bully in her at once. He wanted it to function in his behalf now that he no longer had the strength to get what he wanted for himself. The servants knew that he was too old and tired to dominate them. But Scarlett was young and strong. He didn’t seek her companionship or her love. He wanted her to run his house the way he had once run it himself—which meant in accordance with his standards and subject to his dominance. He needed to find a way to accomplish that, and so he thought about her.
“Tell my granddaughter to come here,” he said when Jerome came in.
“She ain’t home yet,” said the old butler with a smile. He anticipated the old man’s anger with delight. Jerome hated Scarlett.
Scarlett was at the big City Market with the O’Haras. After the confrontation with her grandfather she had dressed, dismissed Pansy, and escaped through the garden to hurry, unaccompanied, the two short blocks to Jamie’s house. “I’ve come to have company going to Mass,” she told Maureen, but her real reason was to be someplace where people were nice to one another.
After Mass the men went in one direction, the women and children in another. “They’ll have a haircut and a gossip in the barber shop at the Pulaski House Hotel,” Maureen told Scarlett. “And most likely a pint or two in the saloon. It’s better than a newspaper for hearing what’s going on. We’ll get our own news at the Market while I buy some oysters for a nice pie.”
Savannah’s City Market had the same purpose and the same excitement as the Market in Charleston. Until she was back in the familiar hubbub of bargaining and buying and friends greeting friends, Scarlett hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it when the Season took precedence for women’s time.
She wished now that she’d taken Pansy with her after all; she could have filled a basket with the exotic fruits that came in through Savannah’s busy seaport if only she’d had her maid to carry it. Mary Kate and Helen were doing that chore for the O’Hara women. Scarlett let them carry some oranges for her. And she insisted on paying for the coffee and caramel rolls they all had at one of the stands.
Still, she refused when Maureen invited her to come home for dinner with them. She hadn’t told her grandfather’s cook that she wouldn’t be at the house. And she wanted to catch up on the sleep she’d missed. It wouldn’t do to look like death warmed over if Rhett came in on the afternoon train.
She kissed Maureen goodbye at the Robillard doorstep, called goodbye to the others. They were almost a block behind, slowed down by the unsteady steps of the little children and Patricia’s burdened by pregnancy pace. Helen ran up with a bulging paper sack. “Don’t forget your oranges, Cousin Scarlett.”
“I’ll take that, Miss Scarlett.” It was Jerome.
“Oh. All right. Here. You shouldn’t be so quiet, Jerome, you gave me a shock. I didn’t hear the door open.”
“I’ve been looking out for you. Mr. Robillard, he wants you.” Jerome looked at the straggle of O’Haras with unconcealed disdain.
Scarlett’s chin stiffened. Something was going to have to be done about the butler’s impertinence. She sailed into her grandfather’s room with an angry complaint on her lips.
Pierre Robillard gave her no time to speak. “You are dishevelled,” he said coldly, “and you have ruptured the schedule of my house. While you were consorting with those Irish peasants, the dinner hour has passed.”
Scarlett leapt hotly to the bait. “I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue when you refer to my cousins.”
The old man’s eyelids half hid the gleam in his eyes. “What do you call a man who’s in trade?” he said quietly.
“If you’re talking about Jamie O’Hara, I call him a successful, hard-working businessman, and I respect him for what he’s accomplished.”
Her grandfather set the hook. “And no doubt you admire his garish wife, too.”
“Indeed I do! She’s a kind and generous woman.”
“I believe that’s the impression her trade tries to make. You are aware, are you not, that she was a barmaid in an Irish saloon.”
Scarlett gasped like a landed fish. It couldn’t be true! Unwelcome pictures filled her mind. Maureen holding up her glass for another whiskey . . . playing the bones and singing lustily all the verses of bawdy songs . . . brushing her tousled bright hair off her red face without trying to pin it back up . . . lifting her skirts to her knees to dance the reel . . .
Common. Maureen was common.
They were all kind of common.
Scarlett felt like crying. She’d been so happy with the O’Haras, she didn’t want to lose them. But . . . here in this house where her mother had grown up, the gulf between Robillard and O’Hara was too broad to ignore. No wonder Grandfather’s ashamed of me. Mother would be heartbroken if she could see me walking on the street with a bunch like I just came home with. A woman in public without so much as a shawl over her pregnant belly, and a million children running all over the place like wild Indians, and not even a maid to carry the shopping. I must have looked as trashy as the rest of them. And Mother tried so hard to teach me to be a lady. She’d be happy she was dead if she knew that her daughter was friends with a woman who worked in a saloon.
Scarlett looked anxiously at the old man. Could he possibly know about the building she owned in Atlanta and rented to a saloonkeeper?
Pierre Robillard’s eyes were closed. He seemed to have slipped into the sudden sleep of old age. Scarlett tiptoed out of the room. When she closed the door behind her, the old soldier smiled, then went to sleep.
Jerome brought her the mail on a silver tray. He was wearing white gloves. Scarlett took the envelopes from the tray, a short nod her only thank you. It wouldn’t do to show her gratification, not if she was going to keep Jerome in his place. The previous evening, after waiting for an eternity in the drawing room for Rhett, who never showed up, she had given the servants a tongue-lashing
they’d never forget. Jerome in particular. It was a godsend that the butler was so nearly impertinent; she needed someone to unload her anger and disappointment on.
Uncle Henry Hamilton was furious that she’d transferred the money to the Savannah bank. Too bad. Scarlett crumpled up his brief letter and dropped it on the floor.
The fat envelope was from Aunt Pauline. Her meandering complaints could wait, and they were sure to be complaints. Scarlett opened the stiff square envelope next.
She didn’t recognize the handwriting on the front.
It was an invitation. The name was unfamiliar, and she had to think hard before she remembered. Of course. Hodgson was the married name of one of those old ladies, the Telfair sisters. The invitation was for a ceremony of dedication for Hodgson Hall, with a reception to follow. “New home of the Georgia historical Society.” It sounded even deadlier than that awful musicale. Scarlett made a face and put the invitation aside. She’d have to find some letter paper and send her regrets. The aunts liked to be bored to death, but not she.
The aunts. Might as well get it over with. She tore open Pauline’s letter.
. . . profoundly ashamed of your outrageous behavior. If we had known that you were coming with us to Savannah without so much as a word of explanation to Eleanor Butler we would have insisted that you leave the train and go back.
What the devil was Aunt Pauline saying? Was it possible that Miss Eleanor didn’t mention the note I left for her? Or that she didn’t get it? No, it wasn’t possible. Aunt Pauline was just making trouble.
Scarlet’s eyes moved quickly over Pauline’s complaints about the folly of Scarlett’s travelling after her ordeal when the boat capsized and about Scarlett’s “unnatural reticence” in not telling her aunts that she’d been in the accident.
Why couldn’t Pauline tell her what she wanted to know? There wasn’t a word about Rhett. She went through page after page of Pauline’s spiky handwriting, looking for his name. God’s nightgown! Her aunt could lecture longer than a hellfire preacher. There. At last.
. . . dear Eleanor is understandably concerned that Rhett felt it necessary to travel all the way to Boston for the meeting about his fertilizer shipments. He should not have gone to the chill of the Northern climate immeolately after the ordeal of his long immersion in cold waterfrllowing the capsing of his boat . . .
Scarlett let the pages fall into her lap. Of course! Oh, thank God. That’s why Rhett hadn’t come after her yet. Why didn’t Uncle Henry tell me Rhett’s telegram came from Boston? Then I wouldn’t have driven myself crazy expecting him to show up on the doorstep any minute. Does Aunt Pauline say when he’s coming back?
Scarlett pawed through the jumble of letter sheets. Where had she stopped? She found her place and read eagerly to the end. But there was no mention of what she wanted to know. Now what am I going to do? Rhett might be gone for weeks. Or he might be on his way back right this very minute.
Scarlett picked up the invitation from Mrs. Hodgson again. At least it would be someplace to go. She’d have a screaming fit if she had to stay in this house day after day.
If only she could run over to Jamie’s every now and then, just for a cup of tea. But no, that was unthinkable.
And yet, she couldn’t not think of the O’Haras. The next morning she went with the sullen cook to the City Market to supervise what she bought and how much she paid for it. With nothing else to occupy her, Scarlett was determined to see her grandfather’s house in order. While she was having coffee, she heard a soft hesitant voice speak her name. It was lovely, shy young Kathleen. “I’m not familiar with all the American fishes,” she said. “Will you help me choose the best prawns?” Scarlett was bewildered until the girl gestured toward the shrimp.
“The angels must have sent you, Scarlett,” Kathleen said when her purchase was made. “I’d be lost for sure without you. Maureen wants only the best. We’re expecting Colum, you see.”
Colum—am I supposed to know him? Maureen or somebody mentioned that name once, too. “Why’s Colum so important?”
Kathleen’s blue eyes widened in amazement that the question could be asked. “Why? Well . . . because Colum’s Colum, that’s all. He’s . . .” She couldn’t find the words she was looking for. “He’s just Colum, that’s all. He brought me here, don’t you know? He’s my brother, like Stephen.”
Stephen. The quiet dark one. Scarlett hadn’t realized he was Kathleen’s brother. Maybe that’s why he’s so quiet. Maybe they’re all shy as mice in that family. “Which one of Uncle James’ brothers is your father?” she asked Kathleen.
“Ah, but my father’s dead, God rest his soul.”
Was the girl simple? “What was his name, Kathleen?”
“Oh, it’s his name you’re wanting to know! Patrick, that was his name, Patrick O’Hara. Patricia’s called after him, being Jamie’s firstborn and Patrick his own father’s name.”
Scarlett’s forehead creased in concentration. So Jamie was Kathleen’s brother, too. So much for thinking the whole family was shy. “Do you have any other brothers?” she asked.
“Oh, yes,” Kathleen said with a happy smile, “brothers, and sisters, too. Fourteen of us all told. Still living, I mean.” And she crossed herself.
Scarlett drew away from the girl. Oh, Lord, more than likely the cook’s been listening, and it’ll get back to grandfather. I can hear him now. Talking about Catholics breeding like rabbits.
But in fact Pierre Robillard made no mention at all of Scarlett’s cousins. He summoned her for a presupper visit, announced that his bills were proving satisfactory, then dismissed her.
She stopped Jerome to check over the supper tray, examined the silver to see that it was gleaming and free of fingerprints. When she put the coffee spoon down it tapped against the soup spoon. I wonder if Maureen would teach me to play the spoons? The thought caught her off guard.
That night she dreamed about her father. She woke in the morning with a smile still on her lips, but her cheeks stiff with the dried streaks of tears.
At the City Market she heard Maureen O’Hara’s distinctive gusty laughter just in time to dart behind one of the thick brick piers and miss being seen. But she could see Maureen, and Patricia, looking as big as a house, and a straggle of children behind them. “Your father’s the only one of us not in a fever for your uncle to arrive,” she heard Maureen say. “He’s enjoying the special treats I fix for supper every night in hopes of Colum.”
I’d like a special treat myself, Scarlett thought rebelliously. I’m getting mighty tired of food soft enough for Grandfather. She turned on the cook. “Get some chicken, too,” she ordered, “and fry up a couple of pieces for my dinner.”
Her bad mood cleared up long before dinner, however. When she got back to the house, there was a note from the Mother Superior. The Bishop was going to consider Scarlett’s request to allow her to buy back Carreen’s dowry.
Tara. I’m going to get Tara! So busy was her mind with planning Tara’s rebirth that she didn’t notice the time passing at all, nor was she conscious of what was on her plate at mealtime.
She could see it so clearly in her mind. The house, gleaming fresh white on top of the hill; the clipped lawn green, so green, and thick with clover; the pasture, shimmering green with its deep satiny grass bending before the breeze, unrolling like a carpet down the hill and into the mysterious shadowy dark green of the pines that bordered the river and hid it from view. Spring with clouds of tender dogwood blossoms and the heady scent of wisteria; then summer, the crisp starched white curtains billowing from the open windows, the thick sweetness of honeysuckle flowing through them into all the rooms, all restored to their dreaming, polished quiet perfection. Yes, summer was the best. The long, lazy Georgia summer when twilight lasted for hours and lightning bugs signalled in the slow thickening darkness. Then the stars, fat and close in the velvet sky, or a moon round and white, as white as the sleeping house it lit on the dark, gently rising hill.
Summer . .
. Scarlett’s eyes widened. That was it! Why hadn’t she realized it before? Of course. Summer—when she loved Tara most—summer was when Rhett couldn’t go to Dunmore Landing because of the fever. It was perfect. They’d spend October to June in Charleston, with the Season to break the monotony of all those stuffy boring tea parties, and the promise of summer at Tara to break the monotony of the Season. She could bear it, she knew she could. As long as there was the long summer at Tara.
Oh, if only the Bishop would hurry!
41
Pierre Robillard escorted Scarlett to the dedication ceremonies at Hodgson Hall. He was an imposing figure in his old-fashioned dress suit, with its satin knee breeches and velvet tailcoat, the tiny red rosette of the Legion of Honor in his buttonhole and a broad diagonal red sash across his chest. Scarlett had never seen anyone look quite so distinguished and aristocratic as her grandfather.
He could be proud of her, too, she thought. Her pearls and diamonds were of the first water, and her gown was magnificent, a shining column of gold brocaded silk trimmed with gold lace and a gold brocaded train that was a full four feet long. She’d never had a chance to wear it, because she’d had to dress so dowdy in Charleston. How lucky, after all, that she’d had all those clothes made before she went to Charleston. Why, there were a half dozen dresses that had hardly been on her back. Even without the trim that Rhett had taunted her into removing, they were much prettier than anything she’d seen on anybody in Savannah. Scarlett was preening as Jerome handed her up into the hired carriage to sit across from her grandfather.
The ride to the south end of town was silent. Pierre Robillard’s white-crowned head nodded, half-sleeping. It jerked upright when Scarlett exclaimed, “Oh, look!” There were crowds of people on the street outside the iron-fenced classical building, there to watch the arrival of Savannah’s elite society. Just like the Saint Cecilia. Scarlett held her head arrogantly high as a liveried attendant helped her from the carriage to the sidewalk. She could hear murmurs of admiration from the crowds. While her grandfather slowly stepped down to join her, she bobbed her head to set her earbobs flashing in the lamplight and cast her train from over her arm to spread out behind her for her entrance up the tall, red-carpeted steps to the Hall’s door.
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