Scarlett

by Alexandra Ripley

  Scarlett shook her head.

  Grainne sighed. “Then I cannot ease your heart. Dara has more wisdom. Leave her be.” As if the old woman had called her, Cat came through the door. She was concentrating on the heavy, waterfilled kettle, and she didn’t look at her mother and Grainne. The two of them watched silently while Cat methodically set the kettle on the iron hook over the coals, then raked more coals into a heap below it.

  Scarlett had to turn her head. If she continued to look at her child, she knew she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from grabbing Cat in her arms and holding her tightly in a protective embrace. Cat would hate that. I mustn’t cry, either, Scarlett told herself. It might frighten her. She’d sense how frightened I am.

  “Watch me, Momma,” said Cat. She was carefully pouring steaming water into an old brown china teapot. A sweet smell rose from the steam, and Cat smiled. “I put in all the right leaves, Grainne,” she chortled. She looked proud and happy.

  Scarlett caught hold of the wise woman’s shawl. “Tell me what to do,” she begged.

  “You must do what’s given you to do. God will guard Dara.”

  I don’t understand anything she says, thought Scarlett. But somehow her terror was relieved. She drank Cat’s brew in the companionable silence and warmth of the herb-scented shadowy room, glad that Cat had this place to come to. And the tower. Before she returned to Dublin, Scarlett gave orders for a new, stronger rope ladder.

  88

  Scarlett went to Punchestown for the races this year. She’d been invited to Bishopscourt, the seat of the Earl of Clonmel, who was known as Earlie. To her delight, Sir John Morland was also a guest. To her dismay, the Earl of Fenton was there.

  Scarlett rushed over to Morland as soon as she could. “Bart! How are you? You’re the biggest stay-at-home I’ve ever heard of in my life. I look for you all the time, but you’re never anywhere.”

  Morland was gleaming with happiness and cracking his knuckles loudly. “I’ve been busy, the most splendid kind of busy, Scarlett. I’ve got a winner, I’m sure of it, after all these years.”

  He’d talked like this before. Bart so loved his horses that he was always “sure” each foal was the next Grand National champion. Scarlett felt like hugging him. She’d have loved John Morland even if he had no connection at all to Rhett.

  “. . . named her Diana, fleet of foot and all that sort of thing, you know, plus John for me. Hang it all, I’m practically her father except for the biology part. It came out Dijon when I put it together. Mustard, I thought, that won’t do at all. Too damn French for an Irish horse. But then I thought again. Hot and peppery, so strong it makes your eyes water. That’s not a bad profile. Sort of ‘get out of my way, I’m coming through’ and all that. So Dijon it is. She’s going to make my fortune. Better lay a fiver on her, Scarlett, she’s a sure thing.”

  “I’ll make it ten pounds, Bart.” Scarlett was trying to think of some way to mention Rhett. What John Morland was saying didn’t register at first.

  “. . . be really sunk if I’m wrong. My tenants are doing that rent strike thing the Land League dreamed up. Leaves me without money for oats. I wonder now how I could have thought so highly of Charles Parnell. Never thought the fellow would end up hand in glove with those barbarian Fenians.”

  Scarlett was horrified. She’d never dreamed the Land League would be used against anyone like Bart.

  “I can’t believe it, Bart. What are you going to do?”

  “If she wins here, even places, then I suppose the next big one is Galway and after that Phoenix Park, but maybe I’ll sort of tuck in one or two smaller races in May and June, to keep her mind on what’s expected of her, so to speak.”

  “No, no, Bart, not about Dijon. What are you going to do about the rent strike?”

  Morland’s face lost some of its glow. “I don’t know,” he said. “All I’ve got are my rents. I’ve never evicted, never even thought of it. But now I’m up against it, I might have to. Be a bloody shame.”

  Scarlett was thinking about Ballyhara. At least she was safe from any trouble. She’d forgiven all rents until the harvest was in.

  “I say, Scarlett, I forgot to mention it. I received some good news from our American friend Rhett Butler.”

  Scarlett’s heart leapt. “Is he coming over?”

  “No. I was expecting him. Wrote to him about Dijon, you see. But he wrote back that he couldn’t come. He’s to be a father in June. They took extra care this time, kept the wife in bed for months until there wasn’t any danger of what happened last time. But everything’s splendid now. She’s up and happy as a lark, he says. He is too, of course. Never saw a man in my life cared as much about being a proud father as Rhett.”

  Scarlett caught hold of a chair for support. Whatever unrealistic daydreams and hidden hopes she might have had were over.

  Earlie had reserved a complete section of the white iron grillework stands for his party. Scarlett stood with the others, scanning the course through mother-of-pearl opera glasses. The turf track was brilliant green, the infield of the long oval was a mass of movement and color. People stood on wagons, on the seats and roofs of their carriages, walked around singly and in groups, massed at the interior rail.

  It began to rain and Scarlett was grateful for the second her of grandstand overhead. It made a roof for the privileged seat-holders below.

  “Good show,” Bart Morland chortled. “Dijon is a great little mudder.”

  “Do you fancy anything, Scarlett?” said a smooth voice in her ear. It was Fenton.

  “I haven’t decided yet, Luke.”

  When the riders came onto the track, Scarlett cheered and applauded with the rest. She agreed twenty times with John Morland that even the naked eye could pick out Dijon as the handsomest horse there. All the time she was talking and smiling her mind was methodically making its way through the options, the plusses and the minuses of her life. It would be highly dishonorable to marry Luke. He wanted a child, and she could not give him one. Except Cat, who would be safe and secure. No one would ever question who her real father was. Not quite true, they would wonder but it would make no difference. She would eventually be The O’Hara of Ballyhara, and the Countess of Fenton.

  What kind of honor do I owe Luke? He has none himself, why should I feel he’s entitled to it from me?

  Dijon won. John Morland was in transports. Everyone crowded around him, shouting and pounding on his back.

  Under cover of the happy rowdiness, Scarlett turned to Luke Fenton. “Tell your solicitor to see mine about the contracts,” she said. “I choose late September for the wedding date. After Harvest Home.”

  “Colum, I’m going to marry the Earl of Fenton,” said Scarlett.

  He laughed. “And I’ll take Lilith for a bride. Such merrymaking there’ll be, with the legions of Satan for guests at the wedding feast.”

  “It’s not a joke, Colum.”

  His laughter stopped as if severed by a blade, and he stared at Scarlett’s pale, determined face. “I’ll not allow it,” he shouted. “The man’s a devil and an Anglo.”

  Patches of red blotched Scarlett’s cheeks. “You . . . will . . . not . . . allow?” she said slowly. “You . . . will . . . not . . . allow? Who do you think you are, Colum? God?” She walked to him, eyes blazing, and thrust her face close to his. “Listen to me, Colum O’Hara, and listen good. Not you or anybody else on earth can talk to me like that. I won’t take it!”

  His stare matched hers, and his anger, and they stood in stony confrontation for a timeless moment. Then Colum tilted his head to one side and smiled. “Ah, Scarlett darling, if it isn’t the O’Hara temper in the both of us, putting words we don’t mean in our two mouths. I’m begging your forgiveness, now; let’s talk this thing over.”

  Scarlett stepped back. “Don’t charm me, Colum,” she said sadly, “I don’t believe it. I came to talk to my closest friend, and he’s not here. Maybe he never was.”

  “Not so, Scarlett darling, not so
!”

  Her shoulders hunched in a brief, dejected shrug. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to marry Fenton and move to London in September.”

  “You’re a disgrace to your people, Scarlett O’Hara.” Colum’s voice was like steel.

  “That’s a lie,” said Scarlett wearily. “Say that to Daniel, who’s buried in O’Hara land that was lost for hundreds of years. Or to your precious Fenians, who’ve been using me all this time. Don’t worry, Colum, I’m not going to give you away. Ballyhara will stay just as it is, with the inn for the men on the run, and the bars for you all to talk against the English in. I’ll make you bailiff for me, and Mrs. Fitz will keep the Big House going just the way it is. That’s really what you care about, not me.”

  “No!” The cry burst from Colum’s lips. “Ach, Scarlett, you’re grievous wrong. You’re my pride and my delight, and Katie Colum holds my heart in her tiny hands. ’Tis only that Ireland is my soul and must be first.” He held out his hands to her in supplication. “Say you believe me, for I’m speaking the plain truth of it.”

  Scarlett tried to smile. “I do believe you. And you have to believe me. The wise woman said, ‘You’ll do what’s given you to do.’ That’s what you’re doing with your life, Colum, and it’s what I’m doing with mine.”

  Scarlett’s steps dragged as she walked to the Big House. It was as if the heaviness of her heart had travelled to her feet. The scene with Colum had cut deep. She had gone to him before anyone else, expecting understanding and compassion, hoping against hope that he might tell her some way out of the path she had chosen. He had failed her, and she felt very alone. She dreaded telling Cat that she was going to be married, that they’d have to leave Ballyhara’s woods that Cat so loved and the tower that was her special place.

  Cat’s reaction lifted her heart. “I like cities,” said Cat. “That’s where the zoo is.” I am doing the right thing, thought Scarlett. Now I know it without a doubt. She sent to Dublin for picture books of London and wrote to Mrs. Sims asking for an appointment. She had to order a wedding gown.

  A few days later a messenger from Fenton came with a letter and a package. In the letter he said that he would be in England until the week of the wedding. The announcement would not appear until after the London Season. And Scarlett should have her gown designed to complement the jewels sent by the same messenger as the letter. She still had three months to herself! No one would press her with questions or invitations until the news of the engagement was released.

  Inside the package she found a square shallow box of oxblood leather, finely tooled in gold. The hinged top lifted and Scarlett gasped. The case was lined in padded gray velvet, shaped and compartmented to display a necklace, two bracelets, and a pair of earrings.

  The settings were fashioned of heavy old gold with a dull, almost bronze finish. The jewels were pigeon’s blood rubies, matched stones, each as large as her thumb nail. The earrings were single oval ruby drops from an intricately shaped boss. Bracelets held a dozen stones each, and the necklace was made up of two rows of stones linked by swagged thick chains. For the first time Scarlett understood the difference between jewelry and jewels. No one would ever refer to these rubies as jewelry. They were too exceptional and too valuable. They were, without doubt, jewels. Her fingers were trembling when she clasped the bracelets on her wrists. She couldn’t do the necklace by herself, she had to ring for Peggy Quinn. When she saw herself in the looking glass, Scarlett drew in a long breath. Her skin looked like alabaster with the dark richness of the rubies against it. Her hair was in some way darker and more lustrous. She tried to remember what the tiara looked like. It, too, was set with rubies. She would look like a queen when she was presented to the Queen. Her green eyes narrowed slightly. London was going to be a much more challenging game than Dublin. She might even learn to like London very much.

  Peggy Quinn lost no time telling the news to the other servants and her family in Ballyhara town. The magnificent parure plus the ermine-trimmed robe plus the weeks of morning coffee could only mean one thing. The O’Hara was going to wed the rack-renting villain Earl of Fenton.

  And what will become of us? The question and apprehension spread from hearth to hearth like a brushfire.

  Scarlett and Cat rode together through the wheat fields in April. The child wrinkled her nose at the strong smell of freshly spread manure. The stables and barns never reeked this way; they were mucked out daily. Scarlett laughed at her. “Don’t you ever make faces at manured land, Cat O’Hara. It’s sweet perfume to a farmer, and you’ve got farmers’ blood in your veins. I don’t want you ever to forget it.” She looked over the plowed and planted and enriched acres with pride. This is mine. I brought it back to life. She knew she’d miss this part of her life most of all when they moved to London. But she’d always have the memory and the satisfaction. In her heart, she would forever be The O’Hara. And someday Cat could return, when she was grown and could protect herself. Then she would earn the name “The O’Hara” for herself. “Never, ever forget where you come from,” Scarlett told her child. “Be proud.”

  “You’ll have to swear on a stack of Bibles not to tell a soul,” Scarlett warned Mrs. Sims.

  Dublin’s most exclusive dressmaker gave Scarlett her most freezing stare. “No one has ever had cause to question my discretion, Mrs. O’Hara.”

  “I’m to be married, Mrs. Sims, and I want you to create my gown.” She held out the jewel case in front of her and opened it. “These will be worn with it.”

  Mrs. Sims’ eyes and mouth made O’s. Scarlett felt repaid for all the hours of torture she’d spent in the dressmaker’s dictator fittings. She must have shocked ten years off the woman’s life.

  “There’s a tiara also,” Scarlett said in an off-handed manner, “and I’ll want my train edged in ermine.”

  Mrs. Sims shook her head vigorously. “You cannot do that, Mrs. O’Hara. Tiaras and ermine are only for the grandest ceremonies at Court. Most particularly ermine. In all likelihood, it hasn’t been worn since Her Majesty’s wedding.”

  Scarlett’s eyes glittered. “But I don’t know all that, do I, Mrs. Sims? I’m only an ignorant American who will become a countess overnight. People are going to cluck-cluck and shake their heads no matter what I do. So I’m going to do what I want, the way I want it!” The misery in her heart became cutting imperiousness in her voice.

  Mrs. Sims cringed inwardly. Her agile mind swiftly sorted through Society gossip to identify Scarlett’s future husband. They’ll be a well-matched pair, she thought. Trample all decent tradition and be admired the more for it. What was the world coming to? Still, a woman had to make her way in it, and people would be talking about the wedding for years to come. Her handiwork would be on display as never before. It must be magnificent.

  Mrs. Sims’ habitual haughty certainty returned. “There’s only one gown that will do justice to ermine and these rubies,” she said. “White silk velvet with overlaid lace, Galway would be best. How long do I have? The lace must be made, then sewn onto the velvet around each petal of each flower. It takes time.”

  “Will five months do?”

  Mrs. Sims’ well-kept hands dishevelled her well-groomed hair. “So short . . . Let me think . . . If I get two extra needlewomen . . . if the nuns will do only this . . . It will be the most talked-about wedding in Ireland, in Britain . . . It must be done, no matter what.” She realized she was talking aloud, and her fingers covered her mouth. Too late.

  Scarlett took pity on her. She stood and held out her hand. “I leave the gown in your care, Mrs. Sims. I have every confidence in you. Let me know when you need me to come to Dublin for the first fitting.”

  Mrs. Sims took her hand and squeezed it. “Oh, I’ll come to you, Mrs. O’Hara. And it would please me if you called me Daisy.”

  In County Meath the sunny day made no one happy. Farmers worried about another year like the year before. At Ballyhara they shook their heads and predicted doom. Wasn’t t
he changeling seen coming from the witch’s cottage by Molly Keenan? And another time by Paddy Conroy, though what he was doing going there himself he wouldn’t say outside the confessional. They did say, too, that there’d been owls heard in daylight over to Pike Corner, and Mrs MacGruder’s prize calf had died in the night for no cause at all. Rain, when it came the next day, did nothing to stop the rumors.

  Colum went with Scarlett to the hiring fair in Drogheda in May. The wheat was well begun, the meadow grass very nearly ready for cutting, the rows of potatoes bright green with healthy foliage. Both of them were unusually quiet, each of them preoccupied with private concerns. For Colum the worry came from the increase in militia and constabulary troops all over County Meath. An entire regiment was coming to Navan, said his informants. The Land League’s work was good; he’d be the last to deny the good of reduced rents. But the rent strikes had stirred up the landlords. Now evictions were done without prior warning and the thatch burned before the people could drag their furnishings out of the house. It was said two children had burned to death. Two soldiers were wounded the next day. Three Fenians had been arrested in Mullingar, including Jim Daly. Inciting violence was the charge although he’d been serving drinks in his bar day and night all the week.

  Scarlett remembered the hiring fair for only one thing. Rhett had been with Bart Morland there. She avoided even looking in the direction of the horse sales; when Colum suggested they walk around and enjoy the fair, she all but shouted when she told him no, she wanted to get home. There’d been a distance between them ever since she told Colum she was going to marry Fenton. He didn’t say anything harsh, but he didn’t have to. Anger and accusation were hot in his eyes.

  It was the same with Mrs. Fitz. Who did they think they were anyhow, judging her like that? What did they know about her sorrows and her fears? Wasn’t it enough that they’d have Ballyhara to themselves after she left? That was all they had ever really wanted. No, that wasn’t fair. Colum was her almost-brother, Mrs. Fitz her friend. All the more reason they should be sympathetic. It wasn’t fair. Scarlett began to think she saw disapproval everywhere, even on the faces of Ballyhara’s shopkeepers when she made the special effort to think of things to buy from them in these lean month before the harvest. Don’t be a fool, she told herself, you’re imagining things because you’re not really sure yourself about what you’re going to do. It’s the right thing, it is, for Cat and for me. And it’s nobody else’s business what I do. She was irritable with everyone except Cat, and she saw little of her. One time she even climbed several rungs of the new rope ladder, but then she backed down. I’m a grown woman, I can’t go boohooing to a little child for comfort. She worked in the hayfields day after day, glad to be busy, grateful for the ache in her arms and legs after the labor. Grateful, most of all, for the rich crop. Her fears about another bad harvest gradually went away.