Author's note: I originally wrote this story in 2009, and have now revised and rewritten the two chapters. It's just a little story, a closer look at what I think Ashley may have felt for the two women in his life, Melanie and Scarlett. I don't suppose there will be more to come, so I marked it as complete.
1. Antebellum, 1861
Ashley Wilkes stepped out of the great library and walked calmly across the mighty hall of Twelve Oaks, enjoying the silence that would soon be swept away by the noise and chatter of the long-awaited barbecue. His steps were confident, for he knew every corner of this house like the back of his hand. He would have found his way blindfolded.
Almost every morning he allowed himself to take such a walk. He would watch the servants as they prepared everything for the day and then take his leave to sit in the library for a while, his favourite room in the house. Afterwards, he would head for the wide porch with its huge columns and watch the morning rise over the hills of Georgia, admiring the beauty of the sun in all its glory, spreading its rays across the red earth of the land.
As usual, strolling in the direction of the porch, he passed all the exquisite paintings that adorned the high white walls of the great hall. Occasionally, he would stop and gaze at those he loved best, a smile forming on his lips. There were portraits of his family in the mighty company of famous personalities of times gone by, long dead. There, Napoleon, the great general, on the edge of victory. George Washington, the first president of the United States, gazing back at him with stern eyes. Women, too; a girl, not older than 18, with a sparkling tiara on her dark hair: Victoria, Queen of England. To her left a female of exquisite looks, Eugénie, the Empress of France. She had a tiny waste, dark hair and pale skin, and was probably the fairest monarch to walk the earth these days. There were also copies of famous paintings such as the Mona Lisa or The Creation of Adam by Michelangelo, the iconic image of the hand of God giving life to man.
And yet, hanging a little apart from all these marvellous works, above a small table on which stood a crystal vase with fresh roses, there was a portrait of his mother, and to him it was more dear than any other. There was an air of dignity about her as she gazed down at him with her bright eyes, her thin lips smiling. She was clad in a grey dress of some fine cloth, her hands resting peacefully in her lap. Around her neck a golden necklace adorned with sapphires glittered luminously in startling contrast to the paleness of her face and hair.
The painting was made about a year after Ashley's birth. His mother had been a young woman then, mistress of a huge household, constantly busy and never at ease, yet in this painting she looked calm, peaceful even, a woman pleased with the world and her position in it.
As Ashley looked up at her with tender eyes, he felt no grief or despair – the pain of being motherless, bereft of the love and understanding only a mother could give, had lessened over the years. Now it was but a faint melancholy and a feeling of nostalgia that welled up inside him, and he missed her.
He was a man now, soon to make decisions that would effect his whole life. And in these days, despite the good relationship he had with his father, he wished to talk to her, to hear her advice, to lean his head on her shoulder and just be her son.
Her death had been a hard blow to all of them. After his wife's passing, John Wilkes turned into a different man, gracious but aloof. He would never marry again. India was mistress of the house now, and Ashley, although he knew that she performed her duties to the best of her abilities, never complaining, wished it could be otherwise. True, India was smart and strong-willed, proud and well-bred, the very embodiment of the perfect hostess. But she was also a woman, a young woman deprived of the chance to enjoy herself, to dance and rejoice as the others did, ever bound to obligation. Already the stress and pressure of keeping the great household in order had left lines of exhaustion on her brow.
And as for Honey – she definitely lacked the influence and guidance of a mother. Ever desirous to please and be adored, she behaved foolishly at times in her efforts to attract attention. Ashley, no matter how much he loved her, could not deny that, from time to time, he was ashamed of her.
But who was he to talk? He sensed that he, too, was not quite the man Mrs. Wilkes would have wanted him to be. If she were still among the living, she would probably pat his hand and tell him that he was too dreamy.
He laughed quietly to himself. Yes, she had been unique. And in the years following her death, until now, he had dreamed of a wife who would resemble her, a woman as kind-hearted and gracious as his beloved mother.
He had found her. For today, Melanie would come.
He left the gallery behind and went outside. It was still very early in the morning, although he had been contemplating for quite a while. Dawn was breaking. He leaned against one of the huge white columns and closed his eyes for a moment, thinking of Melanie. She was not the type of woman one would instantly label as a beauty, with her heart-shaped face, silky thick hair and a pair of deep brown eyes shining with the goodness and honesty of a pure and innocent soul. And yet these childlike features were dear to him for they told of her singular and precious loveliness, a beauty that came from inside.
Ashley, who had seen his fair share of the world and possessed a keen eye for the hearts and notions of others, knew that this was a woman of rare value, one in a million. A lady despite her young age, Melanie was the most generous and selfless of women, thinking of everyone except herself. She was so many things, more than she even knew, he mused. Humble but zealous in her loyalty to those she loved, timid but strong. And above all, there was the depth of her benevolence… She was the milk of human kindness.
He could not wait to see her again and kiss her small hand, to take her in his arms in a moment of absolute privacy. He wondered briefly what she would wear, but it didn't matter. To him, she was always pretty. But it was not her body or her face that made her so attractive to him – it was the fact that she was the best person he had ever known in his life. They had known each other for ever, and everyone knew that they would get married, eventually. It was the right decision. They were alike, and they would be happy. He hoped that this happiness that he knew was in his grasp would not be spoiled too soon, that no war would come between them.
He put his hands in his pockets, and for the last time as a true bachelor beheld a sight that almost seemed too beautiful to his mortal eye. Over the hills and far away, the sun crept up and sent over the countryside a shimmer of red and gold. The landscape with its red earth was slowly lightening up, and the cypresses, standing in a neat alley reaching up to he house, began swinging in a soft breeze. It was amazing, a divine image of nature, as beautiful and breathtaking as never before. And in this moment of serenity, Ashley felt comforted. His troubles fell away, his fear of war and turmoil decreased. There was nothing in the world that could harm this place, was there? This was Twelve Oaks, a house that would always be a remnant of the grace and dignity of old times, as mighty and strong as a rock in a sweeping storm. The only place where one could watch the dawn so peacefully. He savoured the feeling of this morning. There was a beauty and a charm to it that he could not quite put his finger on, as if this was the last sunrise he'd be able to watch being the man he had been until today. There was a glamour to it, a calm perfection that sent shivers down his spine, and he could not tear himself away from this mighty scenery.
This was his land – he would inherit all of it after his father's death. And he loved every stone, every tree, every inch of the red hot earth. In his mind, he could see himself living in the house for years and years to come, watching such a sunrise many times with his children and grandchildren. An endless line of calm years, as predictable and comforting as a fairy tale. In this oasis amidst the turmoil of the world he would spend his lifetime reading, thinking, wondering. A thousand times and more he would walk down the great steps and across the solemn hall, step outside and stroll the vast gardens behind the house.
With Melanie by his side, he'd live the dream of his youth, a life of contentment and peace, untroubled by the swiftness of the lives of others beyond this cherished place, in the uproar of the cities. Here he would dwell, with a wife by his side who embodied all the dignity and grace of womanhood. She was grace itself. So delicate. So utterly pure.
So unlike another young woman for whom he felt something. Used to feel something, he corrected himself.
Yes, Scarlett, he thought, smiling as he looked in the direction of Tara, which was far off and yet so close.
Ever since he had returned from the tour, he had been rejoiced in her beauty, her charm, her high spirits – she was refreshingly different, so unlike everyone else in the neighbourhood, he could sense that.
He adored her, yes. Desired her, often. Frequently, when he lay awake in the wee hours of the night, he could not push away the thought of her tentative smile, of the bright green eyes glimmering with adoration and something like worship whenever she looked at him. What man could not feel something for a woman like her, beautiful, vivacious, treating him as if he were some sort of demigod?
He certainly didn't deserve it. He had not told her of his upcoming engagement. But, she must know, mustn't she? Everyone knew he'd marry Melanie one day.
But Scarlett was so young…. too young even to realize that they were too different, too unlike in character and habits of mind to ever be together. He knew she felt something for him – but that was a childish notion. Hell itself would turn to ice before a woman like her would ever be happy with the likes of him. He was water where she was fire. If she were the wind itself, then he would be the calm sea at night, lying passively as the storm swept over it.
It would never work, and he had not encouraged her - or so he preferred to think. Whenever they talked, he was polite and friendly, but never daring or charming and he hardly ever flattered her the way other beaux did. His careful reluctance was like a shield – a shield to protect himself from her charms. But he also sensed that she did not understand him, that she was too young to see beyond his handsome and gentle visage.
She did not love him, and he did not love her… unfortunately. He felt a disturbing rush of desire every time he bowed over her hand, a tender friendship when he talked to her, a flash of seldom humour when she told him an amusing story. Her body was a rapture – but he did not feel the same veneration and respect for her that he harboured in his heart for Melanie.
In his future wife he saw a resemblance of his mother, a person who was truly capable of loving him for what he really was, who was like him. She had been born into the same world, grown up with the same morals and values. Like him she was a dreamer, more of a beholder than an actor, secretly admiring those with a greater love of life. They both watched the days go by with patience, living in their own little cosmos. In the two of them there was nothing of the carefully curbed wildness that burned in Scarlett's heart, nothing of the passion and forwardness of the Tarleton boys, nothing of Cathleen Calvert's energy and lively spirit. He knew that and admitted it to himself without hesitation. Those people were earthy and bold and daring, and the Wilkes and Hamiltons were nothing of the kind. They had always desired to live happily in peace and silence, to read their books and listen to their music and not be disturbed by the foolishness of the world around them. And yes, maybe they had become a little too dreamy, too unworldly.
But at least Melanie would understand. There was no one else for him, no woman could fit him more, and why not marry her? She was a jewel, one in a million, with a heart of gold, and he admired her for her goodness. Yes, she would understand that he could never give himself to her wholly, completely, like the lovers of ancient tragedies, just as he did not expect her to live for him alone.
She would never want all of him. His respect, yes. His love, above all. But never his undivided attention at all times. She'd let him read his books and have his illusions and imaginations. One like Scarlett would want all of him, heart, body and soul, and if he could not give her that, it would leave her crushed and disappointed.
No, Scarlett was not for him. She would definitely look gorgeous at the barbecue, and crackle with life and energy as she always did - but he would resist her charms.
His future with Melanie loomed brightly before him, and nothing would spoil that. Nothing, he repeated silently.
His eyes found back to the scene before him, and his heart rejoiced at what he saw. His beautiful home, effigy of his past, foundation of the present, hope for his future. He made a vow to do this house justice, to be the gentleman he was born to be.
He would welcome Melanie and be a good husband. He'd fulfil her every desire, if only … if only no war would come and wipe clean all that he held dear. If only there would be no war, then nothing on earth could come between him and his intended.
And with that thought, he went back into the house. He passed the painting of his mother, bestowed another tender look on it, and climbed up the grand stairs of the mansion.
Little did he know that the splendour of Twelve Oaks would not last long, that soon its glory and majesty would be gone with the wind, vanished for all time, and along with it the calm perfection of the old days, his peace of mind, his very happiness.
The portrait of his mother would soon be burned to ashes, and her smile would die away.