“I’ve been at my cousin Jamie’s house. I’ll order you another tray.”
“You’ve been seeing those people?” The old man quivered with outrage.
Scarlett’s anger swelled to meet his. “Yes, I have, and I intend to see them again. I like them very much.” She stalked out of the room. But she did see to a fresh supper tray for her grandfather before she went up to her room.
“What about your supper, Miss Scarlett?” Pansy asked. “You wants I should fetch you a tray upstairs?”
“No, just come up now and get me out of these clothes. I don’t want any supper.”
Funny, I don’t feel hungry at all, and I only had a cup of tea. All I want now is some sleep. All that crying wore me out. I could hardly get out the words to tell Colum about the Bishop, I was crying so hard. I believe I could sleep for a week, I’ve never felt so washed out in my life.
Her head felt light, her whole body heavy and relaxed. She sank into the soft bed and plunged at once into a deep refreshing sleep.
In all Scarlett’s life, she had faced her crises alone. Sometimes she had refused to admit she needed help, more often there had been nowhere she could turn. It was different now, and her body recognized the difference before her mind did. There were people to help her. Her family had willingly lifted her burden from her shoulders. She wasn’t alone any more. She could allow herself to let go.
Pierre Robillard slept little that night. He was disturbed by Scarlett’s defiance. Just so had her mother defied him, so many years before, and he had lost her forever. His heart had broken then; Ellen was his favorite child, the daughter most like her mother. He didn’t love Scarlett. All the love he had was in the grave with his wife. But he wouldn’t let Scarlett go without a fight. He wanted his last days to be comfortable, and she could see to it. He sat erect in bed, his lamp finally fading when the oil was gone, and he planned his strategy as if he were a general facing superior numbers.
After a fitful hour of rest shortly before dawn, he woke with his decision made. When Jerome brought his breakfast, the old man was signing a letter he had written. He folded and sealed it before he made room across his knees for the tray.
“Deliver this,” he said, handing the letter to his butler. “And wait for a reply.”
Scarlett opened the door a crack and stuck her head through. “You sent for me, Grandfather?”
“Come in, Scarlett.”
She was surprised to see that there was someone in the room. Her grandfather never had guests. The man bowed, and she inclined her head.
“This is my lawyer, Mr. Jones. Ring for Jerome, Scarlett. He’ll show you to the drawing room, Jones. Wait there until I send for you.”
Scarlett had hardly touched the bell pull before Jerome opened the door.
“Pull that chair up closer, Scarlett. I have a great deal to say to you, and I don’t want to strain my voice.”
Scarlett was mystified. The old man had all but said “please.” He sounded kind of feeble, too. Lord, I hope he’s not getting ready to die on me. I don’t want to have to deal with Eulalie and Pauline at his funeral. She moved a chair to a spot near the head of the bed. Pierre Robillard studied her from under lowered eyelids.
“Scarlett,” he said quietly when she was seated, “I am almost ninety-four years old. I am in good health, considering my age, but it is not likely in simple mathematics that I will live much longer. I am asking you, my grandchild, to stay with me for the time I have left.”
Scarlett started to speak, but the old man raised one thin hand to stop her. “I haven’t finished,” he said. “I do not appeal to your sense of family duty, even though I know that you have acted responsibly toward the needs of your aunts for many years.
“I am prepared to make you a fair offer, even a generous one. If you will remain in this house as its chatelaine and see to my comforts and conform with my wishes, you will inherit my entire estate when I die. It is not inconsiderable.”
Scarlett was dumbfounded. He was offering her a fortune! She thought about the obsequiousness of the bank manager, wondered just how much her grandfather was worth.
Pierre Robillard misunderstood Scarlett’s hesitation while her mind worked. He thought she was overcome with gratitude. His information did not include a report from the same bank manager, and he was unaware of her gold in the vaults. Satisfaction glimmered in his faded eyes. “I do not know,” he said, “nor do I wish to know what circumstances have led you to consider dissolving your marriage.” His posture and voice were stronger now that he believed he had the winning position. “But you will abandon any idea of divorce—”
“You’ve been reading my mail!”
“Anything that comes under this roof is rightfully my business.”
Scarlett was so enraged she couldn’t find words to express it. Her grandfather continued to speak. Precisely. Coldly. His words like icy needles.
“I despise rashness and stupidity, and you have been stupidly rash, leaving your husband without thought for your position. If you had had the intelligence to consult a lawyer, as I have done, you would have learned that South Carolina law does not encompass divorce for any reason. It is unique among the United States in this respect. You have fled to Georgia, it is true, but your husband is legally resident in South Carolina. There can be no divorce.”
Scarlett was still concentrating on the indignity of strangers pawing over her private letters. It must have been that sneak Jerome. He put his hands on my things, went through my bureau. And my own blood kin, my grandfather, put him up to it. She stood up and leaned forward, her fists pressed on the bed beside Pierre Robillard’s skeletal hand.
“How dare you send that man into my room?” she shouted at him, and she pounded on the thick layers of quilts.
Her grandfather’s hand darted upward as quickly as a snake’s striking. He caught her two wrists in the bony grip of his long fingers. “You will not raise your voice in this house, young woman. I detest noise. And you will conduct yourself with suitable decorum, as my granddaughter should. I am not one of your shanty Irish relations.”
Scarlett was shocked at his strength, and a little frightened. What had become of the feeble old man she’d almost felt sorry for? His fingers were like iron bands.
She burst out of his grip, then backed away until the chair stopped her. “No wonder my mother left this house and never came back,” she said. She hated her voice for its fearful quaver.
“Stop being melodramatic, girl. It tires me. Your mother left this house because she was headstrong and too young to listen to reason. She’d been disappointed in love and she took the first man who asked her. She lived to regret it, but what was done was done. You’re not a girl, as she was; you’re old enough to use your head. The contract is drawn up. Bring Jones in here; we will sign it and proceed as though your unseemly outburst had never occurred.”
Scarlett turned her back on him. I don’t believe him. I won’t listen to that kind of talk. She lifted the chair and carried it back to its usual place. With great care she set it down so that the feet fit the indentations they had made in the carpet over the years. She no longer felt afraid of him or sorry for him or even angry with him. When she turned to face him again, it was as if she’d never seen him before. He was a stranger. A tyrannical, sneaky, boring old man whom she didn’t know and didn’t care to know.
“There’s not enough money ever been minted to keep me here,” she said, and she was talking to herself more than to him. “Money can’t make living in a tomb bearable.” She looked at Pierre Robillard with blazing green eyes in a deathly pale face. “You belong here—you’re dead already except you won’t admit it. I’ll leave first thing in the morning.” She walked quickly to the door and pulled it open.
“I figured you’d be there listening, Jerome. Go on in.”
43
“Don’t be a cry-baby, Pansy, nothing’s going to happen to you. The train goes straight through to Atlanta, then it stops. Just don’t get off it
before it gets there. I’ve pinned some money in a handkerchief and pinned the handkerchief in your coat pocket. The conductor already has your ticket, and he’s promised to look out for you. Great balls of fire! You’ve been snivelling about how much you wanted to go home, and now you’re going, so stop carrying on like that.”
“But Miss Scarlett, I never been on a train by myself.”
“Fiddle-dee-dee! You’re not by yourself at all. There are plenty of folks on the train. You just look out the window and eat that basket full of food Mrs. O’Hara fixed you and you’ll be home before you know it. I’ve sent a telegram to tell them to come meet you at the depot.”
“But Miss Scarlett, what am I to do without you to do for? I’m a lady’s maid. When are you going to be home?”
“When I get there. It all depends. Now climb up in that car, the train’s ready to leave.”
It all depends on Rhett, Scarlett thought, and Rhett better come pretty soon. I don’t know if I’m going to manage with my cousins or not. She turned and smiled at Jamie’s wife. “I don’t know how I’m ever going to thank you for taking me in, Maureen. I’m thrilled to death at the idea, but it’s caused you so much trouble.” It was her bright, girlish, social voice.
Maureen took Scarlett’s arm and walked her away from the train and Pansy’s forlorn face in the dust-streaked window of the coach. “Everything is grand, Scarlett,” she said. “Daniel is delighted to give you his room because he gets to move to Patricia’s with Brian. He’s been wanting to do it, but he didn’t dare say so. And Kathleen is near floating with joy that she’ll be your lady’s maid. It’s what she wants to train for anyhow, and she worships the ground under your feet. It’s the first time the silly girl’s been happy since she came here. You belong with us, not at the beck and call of that old loo-la. The brass of him, expecting that you’d stay there to housekeep for him. We want you for the love of you.”
Scarlett felt better. It was impossible to resist Maureen’s warmth. Still, she hoped it wouldn’t be long. All those children!
Just like a colt about to shy, Maureen thought. Under the light pressure of her hand she could feel the tension in Scarlett’s arm. What she needs, Maureen decided, is to open her heart and likely have a good old-fashioned bawling. It’s not natural for a woman to never tell nothing about herself, and this one hasn’t mentioned her husband at all. It makes a person wonder . . . But Maureen didn’t waste any time wondering. She’d observed when she was a girl washing glasses in her father’s bar that given enough time everyone came around to airing his troubles sooner or later. She couldn’t imagine that Scarlett would be any different.
The O’Hara houses were three tall brick houses in a row, with windows front and rear and shared interior walls. Inside, the layouts were identical. Each floor had two rooms: kitchen and dining room on the street level, double parlors on the first floor, and two bedrooms on each of the top two floors. A narrow hall with a handsome staircase ran the length of each house, and behind each one was an ample yard and a carriage house.
Scarlett’s bedroom was on the third floor of Jamie’s house. It had two single beds in it—Daniel and Brian had shared it until Brian moved to Patricia’s—and it was very plain, as befitted two young men, with only a wardrobe and a writing table and chair for furniture in addition to the beds. But there were brightly colored patchwork quilts on the beds and a big red and white rag rug on the polished floor. Maureen had hung a mirror over the writing table and covered it with a lace cloth, so Scarlett had a dressing table. Kathleen was surprisingly good with her hair, and she was eager to learn how to please, and she was right at hand. She slept with Mary Kate and Helen in the other third-floor bedroom.
The only little child in Jamie’s house was four-year-old Jacky, and he was usually over at one of the other houses, playing with cousins near his age.
During the day, with the men at work and the older children in school, the row of houses was a world of women. Scarlett expected to hate it. But nothing in Scarlett’s life had prepared her for the O’Hara women.
There were no secrets among them, and no reticences. They said whatever they thought, confided intimacies that made her blush, quarrelled when they disagreed, and hugged one another, weeping, when they made up. They treated all the houses as one, were in and out of the others’ kitchens at any hour for a cup of tea, shared the duties of shopping and baking and tending the animals in the yard and the carriage houses that had been converted into sheds.
Most of all they enjoyed themselves, with laughter and gossip and confidences and harmless intricate conspiracies against their men. They included Scarlett from the moment she arrived, assuming that she was one of them. Within days she felt she was. She went to the City Market with Maureen or Katie every day to search for the best foods at the best prices, and she giggled with young Polly and Kathleen about tricks with curling iron and ribbons, and she looked through swatches of upholstery fabric with house-proud Patricia long after Maureen and Katie threw up their hands at her finickiness. She drank innumerable cups of tea and listened to accounts of triumphs and worries; and, although she shared none of her own secrets, no one pressured her or held back the frank confession of their own. “I never knew that so many interesting things happened to people,” Scarlett told Maureen with genuine surprise.
The evenings had a different pattern. The men worked hard and were tired when they got home. They wanted a good meal and a pipe and a drink. And they always got it. After that the evening evolved by itself. Often the whole family ended up at Matt’s house, because he had five young children asleep upstairs. Maureen and Jamie could leave Jacky and Helen in Mary Kate’s care, and Patricia could bring her sleeping two-year-old and three-year-old without waking them. Before too long the music would begin. Later, when Colum came in, he would be the leader.
The first time Scarlett saw the bodhran, she thought it was an outsize tambourine. The metal-framed circle of stretched leather was more than two feet across, but it was shallow, like a tambourine, and Gerald was holding it in his hand, like a tambourine. Then he sat down, braced it on his knee and tapped on it with a wooden stick that he held in the middle, rocking it to strike one end, then the other, against the skin, and she saw that it was really a drum.
Not much of a drum, she thought. Until Colum picked it up. His left hand spread against the underside of the taut leather as if caressing it, and his right wrist was suddenly as fluid as water. His arm moved from top to bottom to top to center of the drum while his right hand made a curious, careless-looking motion that pounded the stick with a steady, blood-stirring rhythm. The tone and volume differed, but the hypnotic, demanding beat never varied, as fiddle, then whistle, then concertina joined in. Maureen held the bones lifeless in her hand, too caught up in the music to remember them.
Scarlett gave herself over to the drumbeat. It made her laugh, it made her cry, it made her dance as she’d never dreamed she could dance. It was only when Colum laid the bodhran down on the floor beside him and demanded a drink, saying “I’ve drummed myself dry,” that she saw that everyone else was as transported as she was.
She looked at the short, smiling pug-nosed figure with a shiver of awestruck wonder. This man was not like other men.
“Scarlett darling, you understand oysters better than I do,” said Maureen when they entered the City Market. “Will you find us the best of them? I want to make a grand oyster stew for Colum’s tea today.”
“For tea? Oyster stew’s rich enough for a meal.”
“And isn’t that the reason for it? He’s speaking at a meeting tonight, and he’ll need the strength of it.”
“What kind of meeting, Maureen? Will we all go?”
“It’s at the Jasper Greens, the American Irish volunteer soldiering group, so there’ll be no women. We wouldn’t be welcome.”
“What does Colum do?”
“Ah, well, first he reminds them they’re Irish, no matter how long they’ve been Americans, then he brings them to tears w
ith longing and love for the Old Country, then he gets them to empty their pockets for the aid of the poor in Ireland. He’s a mighty speechmaker, says Jamie.”
“I can imagine. There’s something magic about Colum.”
“So you’ll find us some magical oysters, then.”
Scarlett laughed.
“They’ll not have pearls,” she said, mimicking Maureen’s brogue, “but they’ll make a glory of a broth.”
Colum looked down at the steaming, brimming bowl, and his eyebrows rose.
“Maureen, this is a hearty tea you serve.”
“The oysters looked particularly fat today at Market,” she said with a grin.
“Do they not print calendars in the United States of America?”
“Whist, Colum, eat your stew before it’s cold.”
“It’s Lent, Maureen, you know the rules for fasting. One meal a day, and that one we took at midday.”
So her aunts had been right! Scarlett slowly put her spoon down on the table. She looked at Maureen with sympathy. This good meal wasted. She’d have to do a terrible penance and she must feel miserably guilty. Why did Colum have to be a priest?
She was astonished to see Maureen smiling and dipping in her spoon to capture an oyster. “I’m not worried about Hell, Colum,” she said. “I have the O’Hara dispensation. You’re an O’Hara, too, so eat your oysters and enjoy them.”
Scarlett was bewildered. “What’s the O’Hara dispensation?” she asked Maureen.
Colum answered her, but without Maureen’s good humor. “Thirty years or so gone by,” he said, “Ireland was struck with famine. One year and again the next people starved. There was no food, so they ate grass, and then there was not even grass. It was a terrible thing, terrible. So many died, and there was no way to help them. Those that lived through it were granted dispensation from future hungers by priests in some parishes. The O’Haras lived in such a parish. They need not fast, save for forsaking meat.” He was staring down into the thick butter-flecked liquid in his bowl.
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