My soul, Scarlett thought, my family’s really very poor. Why on earth did Kathleen cry her eyes out to come back to this? She forced a smile and sat down in the Windsor chair Kathleen had pushed forward to the hearth.
In the hours that followed Scarlett saw for herself why Kathleen had found the space and relative luxury of life in Savannah an inadequate replacement for life in the small whitewashed thatched cottage in County Meath. The O’Haras in Savannah had created a sort of island of happiness, populated by themselves, reproducing the life they’d known in Ireland. Here was the original.
A steady succession of heads and voices appeared in the open top half of the door, calling out, “God bless all here,” followed by the invitation to “come in and sit by the fire,” and then by the entrance of the owners of the voices. Women, girls, children, boys, men, babies came and went in overlapping ones, twos, threes. The musical Irish voices greeted Scarlett and welcomed her, greeted Kathleen and welcomed her home again, all with a warmth so heartfelt that Scarlett could all but hold it in her hand. It was as different from the formal world of paying and receiving calls as day differs from night. People told her they were related, and how. Men and women told her stories about her father—reminiscences from older ones, events told them by their parents or grandparents repeated by younger ones. She could see Gerald O’Hara’s face in so many of the faces around the hearth, hear his voice in their voices. It’s like Pa was here himself, she thought; I can see how he must have been when he was young, when he was here.
There was the gossip of the village and town to catch Kathleen up on, told and retold as people came and went so that before long Scarlett felt that she knew the blacksmith and the priest and the man who kept the bar and the woman whose hen was laying a double-yolk egg almost every day. When Father Danaher’s bald head appeared in the doorway, it seemed the most natural thing in the world, and when he came in she looked automatically, with everyone else, to see if his cassock had been mended yet where the rough corner on the gate to the churchyard had torn it.
It’s like the County used to be, she thought; everybody knows everybody, and knows everybody’s business. But smaller, closer, more comfortable somehow. What she was hearing and sensing, without recognizing it, was that the tiny world she was seeing was kinder than any she had ever known. She knew only that she was enjoying being in it very much.
This is the best vacation a person could possibly have. I’ll have so much to tell Rhett. Maybe we’ll come back together sometime; he’s always thought nothing of going off to Paris or London at the drop of a hat. Of course we couldn’t live like this, it’s too . . . too . . . peasanty. But it’s so quaint and charming and fun. Tomorrow I’m going to wear my Galway clothes when I come over to see everybody, and no corset at all. Shall I put on the yellow petticoat with the blue skirt, or would the red . . . ?
In the distance a bell tolled, and the young girl in the red skirt who was showing her baby’s first teeth to Kathleen jumped up from her seat on a low three-legged stool. “The Angelus! Who’d have believed I could let my Kevin come home and no dinner on the fire?”
“Take some of the stew, then, Mary Helen, we’ve got too much. Didn’t Thomas greet me when I came home with four fat rabbits he’d snared?” In less than a minute, Mary Helen was on her way with her baby on her hip and a napkin-covered bowl in her arm.
“You’ll help me pull out the table, Colum? The men will be coming to dinner. I don’t know where Bridie’s got to.”
One by one, close on the heels of the one before, the men of the cottage came in from their work in the fields. Scarlett met her father’s brother Daniel, a tall, vigorous, spare angular man of eighty, and his sons. There were four of them, aged twenty to forty-four, plus, she remembered, Matt and Gerald in Savannah. The house must have been like this when Pa was young, him and his big brothers. Colum looked so astonishingly short, even seated at table, in the midst of the big O’Hara men.
The missing Bridie ran through the door just as Kathleen was ladling stew into blue and white bowls. Bridie was wet. Her shirt clung to her arms, and her hair dripped down her back. Scarlett looked through the door, but the sun was shining.
“Did you tumble into a well, then, Bridie?” asked the youngest brother, the one named Timothy. He was glad to deflect attention away from himself. His brothers had been teasing him about his weakness for an unnamed girl they referred to only as “Golden Hair.”
“I was washing myself in the river,” Bridie said. Then she began to eat, ignoring the uproar caused by her statement. Even Colum, who rarely criticized, raised his voice and banged the table.
“Look at me and not the rabbit, Brigid O’Hara. Do you not know the Boyne claims a life for every mile of its length every year?”
The Boyne. “Is that the same Boyne as the Battle of the Boyne, Colum?” Scarlett asked. The whole table fell silent. “Pa must have told me about that a hundred times. He said the O’Haras lost all their lands because of it.” Bowls and spoons resumed their clatter.
“It is, and we did,” Colum said, “but the river continued in its course. It marks the boundary of this land. I’ll show it to you if you want to see, but not if you’re thinking of using it like a washtub. Brigid, you’ve got better sense. What possessed you?”
“Kathleen told me Cousin Scarlett was coming, and Eileen told me a lady’s maid must be washed every day before she touches the lady’s clothes or her hair. So I went to wash.” She looked full at Scarlett for the first time. “It’s my intention to please, so you’ll take me back to America with you.” Her blue eyes were solemn, her soft founded chin thrust out with determination. Scarlett liked the look of her. There’d be no homesick tears from Bridie, she was sure. But, she could only use her until the trip was over. No Southerner ever had a white maid. She looked for the right words to tell the girl.
Colum did it for her. “It was already decided you’d go to Savannah with us, Bridie, so you could have avoided risking your life . . .”
“Hoo-rah!” Bridie shouted. Then she blushed crimson. “I’ll not be so rowdy when I’m in service,” she said earnestly to Scarlett. And, to Colum, “I was only at the ford, Colum, where the water’s barely to the knee. I’m not such a fool as all that.”
“We’ll find out just what manner of fool you are, then,” Colum said. He was smiling again. “Scarlett will have the task of telling you what a lady’s needs might be, but you’ll not be after her for schooling before it’s the hour to depart. There’s two weeks and a day you’ll be sharing quarters on the ship, time enough to learn all you’re able to learn. Bide your time till then, with Kathleen and the house your better and your duty.”
Bridie sighed heavily. “It’s a mountain of burden, being the youngest.”
Everyone hooted her loudly. Except Daniel, who spoke not at all throughout the meal. When it was over, he pushed back his chair and stood. “The ditching’s best done in this dry spell,” he said. “Finish your meal and get back to your labors.” He bowed ceremoniously to Scarlett. “Young Katie Scarlett O’Hara, you honor my house and I bid you welcome. Your father was greatly loved and his absence has been a stone in my breast for all these fifty years and more.”
She was too surprised to say a word. By the time she thought of something, Daniel was out of sight behind the barn, on his way to his fields.
Colum pushed back his chair, then moved it near the hearth. “There’s no way for you to know it, Scarlett darling, but you’ve made your mark on this house. That’s the first time I’ve heard Daniel O’Hara use words on anything that hadn’t to do with the farm. You’d better watch your step or the widows and spinsters of the region will buy a spell to lay on you. Daniel’s a widower, you know, and could use a new wife.”
“Colum! He’s an old man!”
“And isn’t his mother still thriving at a hundred? He’s got plenty of good years left. You’d better remind him you’ve got a husband back home.”
“Maybe I’ll remind my husband that
he’s not the only man in the world. I’ll tell him he’s got a rival in Ireland.” The thought made her smile, Rhett jealous of an Irish farmer. But why not, really? One of these days she might just mention it, not saying that it was her uncle, or that he was old as the hills. Oh, she was going to have a fine time when she had Rhett where she wanted him! An unexpected pang of longing struck her like physical pain. She wouldn’t tease him about Daniel O’Hara or anything else. All she wanted was to be with him, to love him, to have this baby for them both to love.
“Colum’s right about one thing,” said Kathleen. “Daniel’s given you the blessing of the head of the house. When you can’t bear another minute of Molly, you’ll have a place here if you want it.”
Scarlett saw her chance. She’d been consumed with curiosity. “Where do you put everybody?” she asked bluntly.
“There’s the loft, divided in two. The boys have their side, Bridie and me the other. And Uncle Daniel took the bed by the fire when Grandmother didn’t want it. I’ll show you.” Kathleen pulled on the back edge of a wooden settle along the wall beyond the stairs, and it folded open and down to reveal a thick mattress covered by a woolen blanket. “He said that’s why he was taking it, to show her she’d missed a good thing, but I’ve always thought he felt too lonely above the room after Aunt Theresa died.”
“ ‘Above the room’?”
“Through there.” Kathleen gestured toward the door. “We fitted it as a parlor, no sense wasting it. The bed’s still there for you any time you’ve the mind.”
Scarlett couldn’t imagine that she ever would. Seven people in one small house were at least four or five too many in her opinion. Particularly such big people. No wonder Pa was called the runt of the litter, she thought, and no wonder he always carried on like he thought he was ten feet tall.
She and Colum visited her grandmother again before going back to Molly’s, but Old Katie Scarlett was asleep by the fire. “Do you think she’s all right?” Scarlett whispered.
Colum just nodded. He waited until they were outside before he spoke. “I saw the stewpot on the table, and it was almost empty. She’ll have fixed Sean’s dinner and shared it since we were there. She always has a small nap after meals.”
The tall hedgerows that bordered the boreen were sweet with blossoms of hawthorn, and the singing of birds poured down from the branches at the top, two feet above Scarlett’s head. It was wonderful to walk along, in spite of the wet ground. “Is there a boreen to the Boyne, Colum? You said you’d take me.”
“And so I did. In the morning, if it please you. I promised Molly I’d have you home in good time today. She’s having a tea party in your honor.”
A party! For her! What a good idea it was, coming to meet her kinfolks before she settled in Charleston.
51
The food was good, but that’s the only good thing I can find to say, Scarlett thought. She smiled brilliantly and shook hands with each of Molly’s departing guests. God’s nightgown! What limp droopy fingers these women have, and they all talk like they’ve got something stuck in their throat. I’ve never seen such a tacky bunch of people in all my born days.
The competitive overrefinement of provincial, would-be gentry was something Scarlett had never run into. There was an earthy forthrightness to Clayton County landowners and a true aristocracy that scorned pretension in Charleston and in the circle she’d thought of as “Melly’s friends” in Atlanta. The elevated little finger of the hand lifting the teacup and the dainty, mouse-sized bites of scones and sandwiches that characterized Molly and her acquaintances seemed as ridiculous to her as in fact they were. She had eaten the excellent food with excellent appetite and ignored the hinted invitations to deplore the vulgarity of people who dirtied their hands with farm work. “What does Robert do, Molly—wear kid gloves all the time?” she’d asked, delighted to see that lines did show up in Molly’s perfect skin when she frowned.
I reckon she’ll have a few words to say to Colum about bringing me here, but I don’t care. It served her right for talking about me like I wasn’t an O’Hara at all, or her either. And where did she come up with that idea that a plantation is the same thing as—what did she call it?—an English manor. I might have to have a few words with Colum myself. Their faces were a treat, though, when I told them all our servants and field hands were always black. I don’t think they’ve ever heard of dark skin, much less seen any. This is a strange place, all around.
“What a lovely party, Molly,” said Scarlett. “I declare I ate till I could fairly pop. I think I might just take a little rest up in my room for a while.”
“You must, naturally, do whatever you like, Scarlett. I had the boy bring around the trap so we could have a drive, but if you’d prefer to sleep . . .”
“Oh, no, I’d love to go out. Can we go to the river, do you think?” She’d planned to get away from Molly, but it was too good a chance to miss. The truth was she’d rather ride to see the Boyne than walk there. She didn’t trust Colum one bit when he said it wasn’t far.
Rightly so, as it turned out. Wearing yellow gloves to match the yellow spokes of the trap’s tall wheels, Molly drove all the way back to the main road, then through the village. Scarlett looked at the row of dispirited-looking buildings with interest.
The trap rolled through the biggest gates Scarlett had ever seen, tremendous creations of wrought iron topped with gold spear points, each side centered by a gold-surrounded brightly colored plaque of intricate design. “The Earl’s coat of arms,” said Molly lovingly. “We’ll drive to the Big House and see the river from the garden. It’s all right, he’s not there, and Robert got permission from Mr. Alder-son.”
“Who’s that?”
“The Earl’s land agent. He manages the entire manor. Robert knows him.”
Scarlett tried to look impressed. Clearly, she was supposed to be bowled over, though she couldn’t think why. What could be so important about an overseer? They were only hired help.
Her question was answered after a long drive on a perfectly straight, wide, gravelled road through spreading expanses of clipped lawn that reminded her for a moment of the great sweeping terraces of Dunmore Landing. The thought was pushed aside by her first sight of the Big House.
It was immense, not one building, it seemed, but a cluster of crenellated roofs and towers and walls. It was more like a small city than like any house Scarlett had ever seen or even heard of. She understood why Molly was so respectful of the agent. Managing a place like this would take more people and more work than the biggest plantation that had ever been. She craned her neck to look up at the stone walls and marble-framed tracery windows. The mansion Rhett had built for her was the largest and—to Scarlett’s mind—most impressive residence in Atlanta, yet it could be put down in one corner of this place and hardly take up enough room to be noticed. I’d love to see the inside . . .
Molly was horrified that Scarlett would even ask. “We have permission to walk in the garden. I’ll tie the pony to that hitching post, and we’ll go through the gate there.” She pointed to a steeply pointed arched entry. The iron gate was ajar. Scarlett jumped down from the trap.
The archway led through to a gravelled terrace. It was the first time Scarlett had ever seen gravel raked into a pattern. She was almost timid about walking on it. Her footprints would ruin the perfection of the S-curves formed by the raking. She looked apprehensively at the garden beyond the terrace. Yes, the paths were gravel. And raked. Not in curves, thank heaven, but still there wasn’t a footprint to be seen. I wonder how they do that? The man with the rake has to have feet. She took a deep breath and crunched boldly onto the terrace and across it to the marble steps into the garden. The sound of her boots on the gravel was as loud as gunfire to her ears. She was sorry she’d come.
Where was Molly anyway? Scarlett turned around as quietly as she could. Molly was walking carefully, fitting her steps into the prints Scarlett had left. It made her feel much better that her cousin—for all he
r airs—was even more intimidated than she was. She looked up at the house, waiting for Molly to catch up. It seemed much more human from this side. There were French windows from the terrace to the rooms. Closed and curtained, but not too big to walk in and out of, not overwhelming like the doors on the front of the house. It was possible to believe that people might live here, not giants.
“Which way is the river?” Scarlett called to her cousin. She wasn’t going to let an empty house make her whisper.
But she didn’t care to linger, either. She refused Molly’s suggestion that they walk through all the paths and all the gardens. “I just want to see the river. I’m bored sick of gardens; my husband makes too much fuss about them.” She fended off Molly’s transparent curiosity about her marriage while they followed the center path toward the trees that marked the end of the garden.
And then suddenly it was there, through an artfully natural-looking gap between two clumps of trees. Brown and gold, like no water Scarlett had ever seen. The sunlight lay on top of the river like molten gold swirling in slow eddies of water as dark as brandy. “It’s beautiful,” she said aloud, her voice soft. She hadn’t expected beauty.
To hear Pa talk it should be red from all the blood that was spilled, and rushing and wild. But it hardly looks like it’s moving at all. So this is the Boyne. She’d heard about it all her life and now she was close enough to reach down and touch it. Scarlett felt an emotion unknown to her, something she couldn’t name. She searched for some definition, some understanding; it was important, if she could just find it . . .
“That’s the view,” Molly said in her cramped, most refined diction. “All the best houses have a view from their gardens.”
Scarlett wanted to hit her. She’d never find it now, whatever she’d been looking for. She looked where Molly indicated and saw a tower on the other side of the river. It was like the ones she’d seen from the train, made of stone and part crumbled away. Moss stained the base of it and vines clung to its sides. It was much bigger than she’d thought they would be when she saw them at a distance; it looked like it might be as much as thirty feet across and twice that high. She had to agree with Molly that it was a romantic view.
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