Scarlett

by Alexandra Ripley

  But she didn’t want him, that was the problem. She didn’t want anybody except Rhett.

  It’s not fair! she thought, like a child. And, like a child, eventually she cried herself to sleep.

  When she woke, she was in control of herself once more. So what if everyone had hated her party? So what if Colum hadn’t stayed more than ten minutes? She had other friends, and she was going to make lots more. Now that the house was finally done, Charlotte was busy as a spider spinning a web with plans about the future. And in the meantime, the weather was perfect for hunting, and Mrs. Sims had made a tremendously becoming riding habit for her.

  76

  Scarlett rode to Sir John Morland’s hunt in style. She was riding a saddle horse and was accompanied by two grooms leading Half Moon and Comet, one of her new hunters. The skirts of her new habit flowed elegantly over her new sidesaddle, and she was very pleased with herself. She had had to fight Mrs. Sims like a tiger, but she had won. No corsets. Charlotte had been amazed. No one, she said, ever argued with Daisy Sims and won. No one till me, maybe, Scarlett thought. I won the argument with Charlotte, too.

  Bart Morland’s hunt was no place for Scarlett to make her emergence into the world of Irish society, said Charlotte. He himself was beyond reproach and, except for his lack of money, one of the most eligible bachelors around. But he didn’t keep a grand household at all. The footmen at his breakfasts were really stable grooms in livery for a few hours. Charlotte had secured a much more important invitation for Scarlett. It would do exactly what was needed to prepare for her real debut. Scarlett couldn’t possibly go first to Morland Hall instead of Charlotte’s selection.

  “I can and I will,” Scarlett said firmly. “Bart is my friend.” She repeated it until Charlotte gave in. She didn’t tell Charlotte the rest. She needed to go someplace where she felt at least a little bit comfortable. Now that it was getting close, the prospect of “Society” scared her even more than it enticed her. She kept thinking of what Mammy had said about her once: “Just a mule in horse’s harness.” As the Paris-inspired wardrobe from Mrs. Sims came into the house Scarlett thought of the saying more and more often. She could imagine hundreds of lords and ladies and earls and countesses whispering it when she went to her first important party.

  “Bart, I’m glad to see you.”

  “I’m glad to see you, too, Scarlett. Half Moon is looking ready for a good run. Come along over here and have a stirrup cup with my special guest. I’ve been lion-hunting. I’m proud as Lucifer.”

  Scarlett smiled graciously at the young Member of Parliament for County Meath. He was very handsome, she thought, even though usually she didn’t much like men who wore beards, even well-trimmed ones like this Mr. Parnell. She’d heard the name before—oh, yes, at Bart’s breakfast. She remembered now. Colum really detested this Parnell. She’d have to pay attention so she could tell Colum all about him. After the hunt. For now Half Moon was eager to go and so was she.

  “I can’t for the life of me understand how you can be so stubborn, Colum.” Scarlett had passed from enthusiasm to explanation to rage. “You’ve never even bothered to go hear the man speak, for pity’s sake. Well, I heard him, he was fascinating, everybody was hanging on his every word. And he wants exactly what you always talked about—Ireland for the Irish, and no evictions, and even no rent and no landlords. What more can you ask?”

  Colum’s patience cracked. “I can ask that you not be such a trusting fool! Do you not know that your Mr. Parnell is a landlord himself? And a Protestant. And educated at the English Oxford University. He’s looking for votes, not justice. The man’s a politician, and his Home Rule policy, that you’ve swallowed for the sugar coating of his earnest manner and handsome face, is nothing more nor less than a stick for him to shake at the English and a carrot to tempt the poor ignorant Irish donkey.”

  “There’s simply no talking to you! Why, he said right out that he supports the Fenians.”

  Colum grabbed Scarlett’s arm. “Did you say anything?”

  She jerked away from him. “Of course not. You take me for a fool and lecture me like I’m a fool, but I am not a fool. And I know this much. There’s no reason to smuggle in guns and start a war if you can get what you want without it. I lived through a war that a bunch of hotheads started because of some high-faluting principles. All it did was kill most of my friends and ruin everything. For nothing. I’m telling you right now, Colum O’Hara, there’s a way to get Ireland back for the Irish without killing and burning, and that’s what I’m for. No more money for Stephen to buy guns with, do you hear? And no more guns hidden away in my town. I want them out of that church. I don’t care what you do with them, sink them in the bog for all it matters to me. But I want to be rid of them. Right away.”

  “And rid of me as well, are you saying?”

  “If you insist, then—” Scarlett’s eyes filled with tears. “What am I saying? What are you saying? Oh, Colum, don’t let this happen. You’re my best friend, my almost brother. Please, please, please Colum, don’t be so hardheaded. I don’t want to fight.” The tears spilled over.

  Colum took her hand in his and held it very tight. “Ach, Scarlett darling, it’s the Irish temper in the two of us talking, not Colum and Scarlett. The fearful pity of it, the two of us scowling and shouting. Forgive me, aroon.”

  “What does that mean, ‘aroon’?” she asked between sobs.

  “It means ‘darling’ like Scarlett darling in English. In Irish you’re my Scarlett aroon.”

  “That’s pretty.”

  “All the better as a name for you, then.”

  “Colum, you’re charming the birds from the trees again, but I’m not going to let you charm me into forgetting. Promise me you’ll get rid of those guns. I’m not asking you to vote for Charles Parnell, just promise me you won’t start a war.”

  “I promise you, Scarlett aroon.”

  “Thank you. I feel worlds better. Now I’ve got to go. Will you come up to the house for dinner in my fancy morning room though it’s at night?”

  “I cannot, Scarlett aroon. I’m meeting a friend.”

  “Bring him, too. With the cook fixing food for those nine million servants I’ve got all of a sudden, I’m sure there’ll be enough to feed you and your friend.”

  “Not tonight. Another time.”

  Scarlett didn’t press him, she had gotten what she wanted. Before she went home she detoured to the little chapel and made confession to Father Flynn. Losing her temper with Colum was of it, but not the main part. She was there to be absolved of the sin that made her own blood run cold. She had thanked God when John Morland told her that six months earlier Rhett’s wife had lost her baby.

  Not long after Scarlett left, Colum O’Hara entered the confessional. He had lied to her, a heavy sin. After doing his penance he went to the arsenal in the Anglican church to make sure the arms were sufficiently well concealed in the event she decided to investigate.

  Charlotte Montague and Scarlett left for the house party that was Scarlett’s debut after she went to early Mass on Sunday. The party was to last a week. Scarlett didn’t like being away from Cat for so long, but the birthday party was only just over—Mrs. Fitz was still in a tight-lipped fury about the damage all the running children had done to the parquet in the ballroom—and she was certain that Cat wouldn’t miss her. With all the new furnishings to inspect and new servants to investigate, Cat was a very busy little girl.

  Scarlett, Charlotte, and Evans, Charlotte’s maid, rode in Scarlett’s elegant brougham to the train station in Trim. The house party was in County Monaghan, too far to go by road.

  Scarlett was more excited than nervous. Going to John Morland’s first had been a good idea. Charlotte was nervous enough for both of them, although it didn’t show; Scarlett’s future in the fashionable world would be decided by the way she impressed people this week. Charlotte’s future, also. She glanced at Scarlett to reassure herself. Yes, she looked lovely in her green merino travelling
costume. Those eyes of hers were a gift from God, so distinctive and memorable. And her slim uncorseted body was sure to set tongues wagging and the pulses of men racing. She looked precisely like what Charlotte had insinuated to chosen friends: a beautiful, not-too-young American widow with fresh Colonial looks and charm; somewhat gauche, but refreshing as a result; romantically Irish, as only a foreigner could be; substantially, perhaps even phenomenally wealthy, so much so that she could afford to be a free spirit; well bred, with an aristocratic French bloodline, but vigorous and exuberant from her American background; unpredictable but well-mannered, naive yet experienced; all in all an intriguing and amusing addition to the circles of people who knew too much about one another and were avid for someone new to talk about.

  “Perhaps I should tell you again who is likely to be at the party,” Charlotte suggested.

  “Please don’t, Charlotte, I’ll forget again anyhow. Besides, I know the important part. A duke is more important than a marquess, then comes an earl, and after that viscount, baron, and baronet. I may call all the men ‘sir’ just like in the South, so I needn’t worry about that ‘milord’ and ‘your grace’ business, but I must never call the ladies ‘ma’am’ the way we do in America, because that’s reserved for Queen Victoria, and she’s definitely not going to be there. So, unless I’m asked to use the Christian name, I just smile and avoid using anything. A plain old ‘mister’ or ‘miss’ is hardly worth bothering with at all unless they’re ‘honourable.’ I do think that’s funny. Why not ‘respectable’ or something else like that?”

  Charlotte shuddered inside. Scarlett was too confident, too breezy. “You haven’t paid attention, Scarlett. There are some names with no title at all, not even ‘honourable,’ that are equally as important as any non-royal dukes. The Herberts, Burkes, Clarkes, Lefroys, Blennerhassetts—”

  Scarlett giggled. Charlotte stopped. What would be, would be.

  The house was an immense Gothic-style structure with turrets and towers, stained-glass windows as tall as a cathedral’s, corridors that extended for more than a hundred yards. Scarlett’s confidence ebbed when she saw it. “You’re The O’Hara,” she reminded herself and she marched up the stone entrance steps with her chin at an angle that dared anyone to challenge her.

  By the end of dinner that night she was smiling at everyone, even the footman behind her tall-backed chair. The food was excellent, copious, exquisitely presented, but Scarlett barely tasted it. She was feasting on admiration. There were forty-six guests in the house party, and they all wanted to know her.

  “. . . and on New Year’s Day, I have to knock on every single door in the town, go in, go out, go in again and drink a cup of tea. I declare, I don’t know why I don’t turn yellow as a Chinaman drinking half the tea in China the way I do,” she said gaily to the man on her left. He was fascinated by the duties of The O’Hara.

  When the hostess “turned” the table, Scarlett enchanted the retired general on her right with a day-by-day account of the siege of Atlanta. Her Southern accent was not at all what one expected an American to sound like, they reported later to anyone who’d listen, and she’s a damn’d intelligent woman.

  She was also a “damn’d attractive woman.” The excessively big diamond-and-emerald engagement ring she’d received from Rhett sparkled impressively on her bare-but-not-too-bare bosom. Charlotte had ordered it remade into a pendant that hung from a white gold chain so fine that it was nearly invisible.

  After dinner Scarlett played whist with her customary skill. Her partner won enough money to cover her losses at three previous house parties, and Scarlett became a sought-after companion among ladies as well as gentlemen.

  The following morning, and for five mornings after, there was a hunt. Even on a mount from her host’s stables Scarlett was adept and fearless. Her success was assured. The Anglo-Irish gentry as a whole admired nothing quite as much as they did a fine rider.

  Charlotte Montague had to be vigilant, or she’d be caught looking like a cat who’d just finished a bowl of thick cream.

  “Did you enjoy yourself?” she asked Scarlett on the way back to Ballyhara.

  “Every minute, Charlotte! Bless you for getting me invited. Everything was perfect. It’s so thoughtful having those sandwiches in the bedroom. I always get hungry late at night, I guess everybody does.”

  Charlotte laughed until her eyes were streaming with tears. It made Scarlett hurry. “I don’t see what’s so funny about a healthy appetite. With the card game lasting until all hours, it’s a long time after dinner when you go to bed.”

  When Charlotte could speak, she explained. At the more sophisticated houses the ladies’ bedrooms were supplied with a plate of sandwiches that could be used as a signal to admirers. Set on the floor of the corridor outside a lady’s room, the sandwiches were an invitation for a man to come in.

  Scarlett blushed crimson. “My grief, Charlotte, I ate every crumb. What must the maids think?”

  “Not just the maids, Scarlett. Everyone in the house party must be wondering who the fortunate man was. Or men. Naturally no gentleman would claim the title, or he wouldn’t be a gentleman.”

  “I’ll never be able to look anyone in the face again. That’s the most scandalous thing I ever heard. It’s disgusting! And I thought they were all such nice people.”

  “But my dear child, it’s precisely the nice people who devise these discretions. Everyone knows the rules, and no one refers to them. People’s amusements are their own secrets, unless they choose to tell.”

  Scarlett was about to say that where she came from people were honest and decent. Then she remembered Sally Brewton in Charleston. Sally had talked the same way, all about “discretion” and “amusements” as if infidelity and promiscuity were a normal, accepted thing.

  Charlotte Montague smiled complacently. If any one thing had been needed to create a legend for Scarlett O’Hara, the mistake about the sandwiches had accomplished it. Now she’d be known as refreshingly Colonial, but satisfactorily sophisticated.

  Charlotte began to make preliminary schedules in her mind for her retirement. Only a few more months to go, and she’d never again suffer through boredom at a fashionable party of any kind.

  “I shall arrange for delivery of the Irish Times every day,” she said to Scarlett, “and you must study every word in it. Everyone you will meet in Dublin will expect you to be familiar with the news it reports.”

  “Dublin? You didn’t tell me we were going to Dublin.”

  “Didn’t I? I thought surely I had. I do apologize, Scarlett. Dublin is the center of everything, you will love it. It’s a real city, not an overgrown country town like Drogheda or Galway. And the Castle is the most thrilling thing you will ever experience in your entire life.”

  “A Castle? Not a ruin? I didn’t know there was such a thing. Does the Queen live there?”

  “No, thank heaven. The Queen is a fine ruler but an extremely dull woman. No, the Castle in Dublin is ruled by Her Majesty’s representative, the Viceroy. You will be presented to him and to the Vicereine in the Throne Room . . .” Mrs. Montague painted a word picture for Scarlett of pomp and splendor beyond anything she’d ever heard of. It made Charleston’s Saint Cecilia sound like nothing at all. And it made Scarlett want success in Dublin society with all her heart. That would put Rhett Butler in his place. He wouldn’t be important to her at all.

  It was safe to tell her now, Charlotte thought. After this week’s success the invitation will surely come. There’s no longer a chance that I’ll lose the deposit on the suite at the Shelbourne that I booked for the Season when I got Scarlett’s note last year.

  “Where’s my precious Cat?” Scarlett called when she ran into the house. “Momma’s home, sweetheart.” She found Cat, after a half hour’s search, in the stables sitting atop Half Moon. She looked frighteningly small on the big horse. Scarlett muted her voice, so that she wouldn’t spook Half Moon. “Come to Momma, darling, and give me a hug.” Her heart thumpe
d out of rhythm while she watched her child jump down into the straw near the powerful, metal-shod hooves. Cat was out of Scarlett’s sight until her small dark face popped up over the half door to the stall. She was climbing it, not opening it. Scarlett knelt to catch her in an embrace. “Oh, I’m so happy to see you, angel. I missed you a lot. Did you miss me?”

  “Yes.” Cat wriggled out of her arms. Well, at least she missed me, she’s never said that before. Scarlett stood up when the warm surge of love for Cat subsided into the total devotion that was her habitual emotion.

  “I didn’t know you liked horses, Kitty Cat.”

  “I do. I like animals.”

  Scarlett forced herself to sound cheerful. “Would you like to have a pony of your own? The right size for a little girl?” I won’t let myself think of Bonnie, I won’t. I promised that I wouldn’t hobble Cat or wrap her in cottonwool because I lost Bonnie in the accident. I promised Cat when she was fresh born that I’d let her be whoever she turned out to be, that I’d give her all the freedom a free spirit needs to have. I didn’t know it would be so hard, that I’d want to protect her every single minute. But I’ve got to keep my promise. I know it was right. She’ll have a pony if she wants one, and she’ll learn to jump, and I’ll make myself watch if it kills me. I love Cat too much to hem her in.

  Scarlett had no way of knowing that Cat had walked down to Ballyhara town while she was away. Three now, Cat was becoming interested in other children and games. She went looking for some of the playmates who’d been at her birthday party. A group of four or five little boys were playing in the wide street. When she walked oward them, they ran away. Two stopped long enough to scoop up rocks and throw them at her. “Cailleach! Cailleach!” they screamed in terror. They’d learned the word from their mothers, the Gaelic for witch.