A/N: This story commences in April of 1874, roughly seven months after Melly's death and Rhett's departure. It will be, first and foremost, a GWTW "murder mystery" although we will not get to the actual murder for a few chapters. Since the initial time-line is very similar to Helen's well-researched "Six Month Later" some of the same historical events in Atlanta will be covered in this story and I apologize in advance for any redundancy (although I place the unveiling of the Memorial for the Confederate Soldiers by the Ladies' Memorial Association in April 1874) Also, I personally have Bonnie's death happen in June and her birthday in July).
All historical events are as accurate as I could make them, including the financial crash of September of 1873, which is bound to have affected our favourite heroine. (I am grateful for anyone more familiar with either the place or the time-line who spots a mistake, either now or as I go along, and lets me know about it.) All historical figures, on the other hand, are used in a way to further my plot and suit my fancy, and have never in real life run into Scarlett or Rhett, or done or said some of the things I attribute to them.
Also, the historical street maps of Atlanta are a real challenge to me, and I finally made two circles, one on Peachtree Street/Harris Street and one on Marietta Street by the Railroad, and that is where the Butler Mansion and Belle Watling's establishment will be for the purpose of this story.
And finally, the characters are owned by the estate of Margaret Mitchell, Alexandra Ripley and Donald McCaig and not by me. I only play with them for my amusement and will give - most of them - back undamaged. ;-)
Whew. Longest A/N ever. And now we start!
The well-dressed woman who stepped off the mule-drawn streetcar onto Peachtree Street with her maid in the early hours of the morning was no longer quite in the first flush of youth, but this was apparent to none of the men whose eyes fell on her almost as soon as she had finished her descent. Her shape in the black walking-dress was still slim and elegant, her pale green eyes as arresting as ever, and her dark locks still a silky untamable mass escaping from the loose knot at the back of her head. The road beneath her mud-spattered shoes was now free of refuse and garbage as per city ordinance, but still as unpaved as before the War and soggy with last night's rain.
The young clerks and apprentices who filled the streets at this hour on their way to their workplaces craned their necks as she passed by, and one of them, the assistant to a milliner on Marietta Street, let out a low wolf-whistle. The object of his interest did not pause in her stride, or even seemed to notice his attention, an omission which, had he only known it, was almost unheard of in the twenty-nine-year old life of Scarlett O'Hara Hamilton Kennedy Butler.
Hers was an arresting figure, even sedately attired in the somber hues of mourning, her face rescued from conventional beauty by the fierce determination in her eyes and the stubborn set of her jaw. She had descended from the street-car in the company of her black maid, who was holding a bag with the morning's purchases and sported a purposeful expression of constant befuddlement. The young black woman was clearly in the later stages of pregnancy and struggled to keep up with her employer's brisk pace.
After taking a few steps Scarlett stopped briefly to hook up her skirts, carefully making her way through the puddles to the other side of the road. The torrential rainfall of the previous evening had pushed back the humidity already threatening the April mornings, and the air was for once fresh and crisp. She took a deep breath, enjoying the relative peace and solitude before the bustle of the city began in earnest. She was comfortably familiar with the sights and the sounds, as her restlessness and her persistent cough now often drove her out of bed before sunrise. It was only a few more steps to her house at the corner of Peachtree and Harris Street, now called house number sixty-two, the house Rhett had built for her according to her specifications but which her eyes had long ceased to take in.
She walked up the large stairs to the front door and only now did her stride falter as she contemplated the day ahead of her. Prissy, her young maid, almost bumped her rapidly expanding midsection into her back. "Ah's sorry, Miss Scarlett," Prissy said in her irritatingly high soprano. Scarlett made an impatient gesture, but her mind was occupied with more weighty matters. She grabbed the mail from the mail-box and was delighted to finally receive the April edition of Godey's Ladies' Book, the monthly fashion magazine, which always arrived late here in the South. Then she opened the large oak door and walked through the large and ornate entry-hall into the parlor.
Her estranged husband had, with his usual impeccable timing, left her just before the Financial Panic of the fall of 1873 threatened both her fortune and her livelihood. To his credit, he had returned only a few weeks later, from wherever his self-proclaimed quest for peace and serenity had lead him - to oversee her finances and ensure that her store did not suffer a cash-flow problem; when banks, in response to the ripple-effect the failure of the Northern Pacific Railway company had caused, started to freeze mortgages and pull back loans.
Scarlett had been frantic before his arrival, despite the fact that her store was unencumbered and she had comfortable financial reserves from the sale of her mills to cover any short-term lull in business. They had gone over her books for several days into the dark hours of the night, Rhett speaking to her with the same polite reserve that she imagined he had for any male business associate. "Anticipate a few years of diminished returns before things return to normal'', he had told her, and the last few months had done nothing to prove him wrong. They were in the middle of what was most likely going to be an extended recession.
It had been odd, this pseudo-intimacy the events had thrown them into so soon after their dramatic separation. Although she could not help her eyes from lightning up at the sight of him, her monetary worries were acute enough to keep her mind firmly on their business. At night, they merely bid each other good-night at the top of the stairs and went down the hall-way in opposite directions to their separate rooms. Strangely, she found both his presence and his attitude comforting rather than insulting – seduction not being in the forefront of even her mind when faced with the fear of financial ruin. Having assured himself that her affairs were in order, he had left again for God knew where – Charleston, Europe, it was hard to say.
She had continued with life with her grim determination firmly in place. With business stalling and real estate values plunging all around her, she threw herself into her work with fervor, suffering yet another set-back when her store manager, Hugh Elsing, suffered several compound fractures after slipping off a boulder during a pleasure hike to the Ponce-de-Leon Springs with his wife and sister. Only the skills of a Boston-trained surgeon Scarlett had unearthed through her former Yankee connections had saved his leg, and even so he was facing months of convalescence.
As firing him on the spot would have been inauspicious for her goal of reintegrating herself with the Old Guard she had refrained from the impulse (but with difficulty), instead continuing to pay him a salary through gritted teeth and hiring an assistant manager, a surprisingly young, surprisingly handsome Savannah native by the name of Thomas Whiting; whom she had chosen mainly because of his admirable head for figures and also, if she was honest with herself, because his slow drawl reminded her of Rhett.
Rhett had returned again for Christmas, much to the delight of seven year old Ella and eleven year old Wade. Scarlett, by that time, had little hope that he would stay long, and thus was not greatly surprised when he left again only a few days after New Year's Eve. He had remained for the "Mardi Gras" celebrations on January 6th after she had argued (with what she hoped was impeccable diffidence) that they should go to quell rumors of their separation. "It's a Carnival", Rhett had answered with a gleam of humor. "No one will know who we are."
"But at midnight everyone takes of their masks," she had retorted. He had laughed, but allowed himself to be persuaded. They had spent an almost enjoyable evening in the Streets of Atlanta, watching the revelers, the bonfires and the fireworks and the parades. "King Rex" and his chariot paraded the streets. The crowd had numbered thousands, and Scarlett at least had the satisfaction that plenty of people she knew had seen them out and about together.
Unfortunately, that was the only satisfaction the event had afforded her, because her husband seemed as impervious to her elegant black dress and her "Queen of Spades" costume as he had to any of the pretty things she had tried to wear for him since he left. Of course, she thought gloomily, being limited to black was not helping, especially as he had always disliked her in that color. He had been courteous and kind, lending her his arm and even lifting her if needed as they walked through the city's tough mud, as courteous and kind as one would be to a sister. Physically, he had looked better by Christmas, his face no longer as blurred by excessive drinking and his body regaining some of its old strength, but his friendly but impersonal attitude was unchanged from October, or even from September when he had told her he felt only kindness and pity for her and nothing more. When she commented on his changed looks, he had said "the sea air" but nothing more, leaving her to wonder if he had gone anywhere else but Charleston and if not, why he had stayed. She was grateful for the camaraderie and the support but was painfully conscious of the absence of something she had always unconsciously relied on, something that she could only define of the absence of Rhett's love.
After he left again she had heard nothing from him for a few months, and had finally written care of his mother that the Ladies' Memorial Association was finally unveiling the new monument for the Glorious Fallen of the Confederacy on the newly-declared Confederate Memorial Day, April 26h, and that his presence was most urgently required.
It had been a cautious letter that she had taken an inordinate amount of time writing, discarding twenty-one versions before finally sending number twenty-two.
"Dear Rhett," it had read, "I would like to invite you to come to Atlanta on April the 26th to be present for the unveiling of the Monument of the Ladies' Memorial Association. Everybody will be there. It'll be at 3 pm at Oakland Cemetary. I am sorry to ask you but it would really help if you came. Scarlett."
He had wired that he would return today, on April 25th, one day before the unveiling. She had had his room prepared, grateful that he had overcome what she felt sure was his revulsion for setting foot at Oakland Cemetery on April 26th or on any other day. To the best of her knowledge, he had never visited their daughter's grave since the funeral.
When he had left her in September, she had been filled with incoherent determination to win back his affections, and had gone to Tara to recuperate for a brief time until the crisis called her back to Atlanta. She had considered, and discarded, the idea of following him to Charleston – she had not been the Belle of Five Counties without understanding that throwing yourself at a man who did not want you was unlikely to yield positive results. Besides, she had not even known for certain where he was, and appearing on his mother's doorstep when he was really in Paris or Rome would have looked suspicious. No, she reasoned, she would go on with life, look more beautiful than ever, and regain her position with the Old Guard, and when he inevitably came back he would see her surrounded by friends, by her children, and then he would not be able to help falling in love with her again!
Reality, and not just in the shape of the market crash, had rubbed some of the glamour off those plans. Her children, after years of alternating neglect and verbal abuse, were disinclined to sit quietly by her feet gazing lovingly up at her as she had envisioned. She tried spending time with them, but her business and Ashley's business took up most of her energy. While her store was in order, Ashley's mill was not, and not for the first time did she wish she could give Rhett those ledgers as well to see if anything could be salvaged. Of course she never could, and her promise to Melly added her concern for Ashley's and Beau's financial survival to her already overflowing cup. She was grateful, as she had never consciously been, for the sense of security Rhett had imparted her, not only during this crisis but throughout her marriage. She would not starve for food again, and neither would her children, and that was singularly comforting.
She also discovered that while her many duties kept her adequately distracted during the day her nights were becoming more and more uncomfortable - sleepless nights filled with regrets that her unquiet brain refused to put off until tomorrow. So many things she wished she could do differently if only she had a chance! If only she had realized she was not in love with Ashley much sooner. If only she had not banned Rhett from her room. If only she had found a way to reach out to him on the morning after Ashley's party. If only she had not lunged at him on top of the stairs when he returned with Bonnie and she had kept the baby. If only someone had let him know she was calling for him when she was ill. If only Bonnie hadn't died. If only Melly was still here to comfort her and give her sage advice. If only Rhett had told her he loved her when he still did. And round and round her thoughts went without ending. In addition, the persistent cough she had developed over Christmas had still not gone away. The brief hours of rest were often filled with nightmares, filled with the same old fears – feeling lost, helpless, and reaching out for a haven which receded into the mist.
Breakfast had already been set in the dining room. She took her breakfast standing, trying to force herself to eat something. It would not help her cause if she became any thinner than she already was. Everything she could think of was in order, and she had told James, Prissy's husband, to pick up Rhett from the train station at 5 pm.
Prissy had married James quite suddenly in late September, probably, Scarlett thought wryly, because she was already pregnant at the time. Dilcey, Prissy's mother, had disapproved of the marriage in the way only a mother could, but the young people were determined, and seemed quite happy and looking forward to the birth of their first child. Scarlett often caught herself envying the looks they exchanged when in each other's company – they were so young and cheerful and in love, and so happy, in a way she and Rhett had never been. She smiled wryly. She, Scarlett O'Hara, envious of Prissy.
She finally sat down at the table, leafing through her magazine with nerveless hands, not looking forward to a long day of trying not to think about Rhett.