If someone had told Rhett Butler that one day he would find himself waiting for his wife to come out of a meeting with the most progressive women in England, he would have suggested they switched to softer drinks. And yet, triggered by spirits though it might have been, that prediction would have proved deadly accurate and still paled in comparison to the eccentricity of the present day.
For it was Scarlett's 40th birthday, and apparently he was meant to celebrate it alone on a sidewalk in London, surrounded by a sea of cigar stumps, while she was busy championing the cause of the Rational Dress Association, along with several old maids of liberal frame of mind and a couple of middle-aged women that had traded bullying their husbands for bullying the world at large.
Like it had been the case with most calamities in his life, this had all started with his wife getting an idea into her head. Well, for accuracy's sake, a series of vaguely-connected, twisted ideas, each in itself worthy of the Preposterous Ponderings Award, he amended to himself, as he stuffed his hands into his pockets and leaned against a gaslight pole—the very picture of husbandly resignation.
He could have—should have—foreseen this course of events, but the first phase of Scarlett's transformation had been so insidious and innocent looking, had developed over the span of so many months, that not even in retrospect could he lay full blame on himself for ignoring the signs.
After all, when their attempts to have a new baby failed, and with Wade having spread his wings some five years ago, it was only inevitable that Scarlett would focus at least part of her attention on Ella. And if others, including Ella herself, were surprised by the dedication with which Scarlett took up her new role as a mother, Rhett was not, because he knew, or told himself that he knew, the cause.
For as her daughter was going through the awkward age to precede her days as marrying material, Scarlett had had another glimpse at how far she was from the cherished model of Ellen and she decided to remedy that by doing exactly what her mother had done when her daughters were Ella's age. She applied herself to the task of turning the girl into a Southern Belle.
Truth be told, it would have been just as easy, if not easier, to teach a blind man the fine art of shooting moving targets, but that was Scarlett for you, always willing to disregard the height of the fence she had to jump. She gave the matter a little consideration, assessing her daughter's bony figure and lusterless ginger hair, and decided she would turn her into the most sought-after girl in town. It never happened, though Ella's stand among the belles of Atlanta did benefit a great deal from her mother's lessons—lessons that in both spirit and method spelled Mammy more than they did Ellen.
The intense scrutiny and constant nitpicking of her now-doting mother had been enough to make the girl almost long for the old lukewarm days of neglect. But it all paid off. Ella secured a match and walked down the aisle, small and quiet on Rhett's arm, shining in the light of true beauty for a moment. A short and singular moment in her entire existence, the general consensus between her acquaintances was. As expected by anyone minus her mother, she dropped the belle veneer with the indolence one would let a loose, useless shoe slip out of their feet some ten seconds after saying her vows, and stepped into the skin of the dull, twitter-brained wife she was born to be. And this was how the first act of the comedy ended, with everyone dabbing their eyes at the prospect of matrimonial happiness, blissfully unaware of the trouble looming ahead.
Because once the shivers of her fourth bridal experience, this time lived through her daughter, faded away, Scarlett's restlessness rose to new heights. Keeping an eye on Tara from a distance and taking care of her enterprises on Atlanta were not keeping her busy enough. And once Ella ceased to be an interesting project, Scarlett turned her never-tiring energy on two new targets, or, better said, renewed her attack on two old targets: the Peachtree mansion and her husband. The house was the first to cave in, figuratively speaking.
Rhett would always remember the day he came home to find his wife in an old housedress, surrounded by cans of paint and all sorts of weird-looking utensils. During the previous two months the house had undergone not one, not two, but three redecorations, each one serving to make him look back with fondness at the old days and wonder why he hadn't appreciated what he had. True, crimson had been tiring to both his eyes and his aesthetic sense, but there were worse alternatives. He knew now, through direct, excruciating experience, that at least three other colors could compete with crimson to make a house look like a bad opium-triggered fantasy: Irish green, magenta and royal blue.
On the bright side, though, his wife's eyesight seemed to have improved with age, or at least that was the conclusion he was inclined to derive from her exclamations after each of the redecorating experiments: "Oh, how could you let me choose this color? I must have been out of my mind; it makes my eyes bleed." But if the first two chromatic accidents (three, counting the initial crimson) were easily remedied, royal blue proved to be a more durable eyesore. The team of workers Scarlett had hired that morning declared that there was no way they could cover deep blue with light yellow—beige, she had muttered under her breath—they needed to remove all the layers of paint before applying a new one, and that meant time. Time Scarlett didn't have. She wanted change and she wanted it now.
"I survived a war and faced a Yankee army all by myself. I lived through poverty and starvation. I ran a plantation and owned three businesses. I—" she paused, briefly out of breath.
"Buried two husbands and have everything in place to kill the third," Rhett offered smoothly.
"I have worked harder than any of those men have in their lives," she carried on, without even bothering to frown at his quip.
"So I refuse to be defeated by some paint." She spit the last word like it burned her tongue. "I am going to do this myself and you are going to help me."
She had a look of frenzied determination he easily recognized and, if 16 years of marriage had taught him anything, it was that this was a no-win situation. He could of course refuse to help her now, but he knew he had no real chance of convincing her to drop her maniacal project and he would have to give in at some point. She would cry, give him the cold shoulder or destroy the house. Either way, he would have no peace and quiet till the damned paint was on the equally damned wall.
He sighed and took off his coat, taking the brush Scarlett had extended towards him with the stern, solemn gesture of a queen investing a knight.
Two hours later, both the queen and her knight were staring tiredly at the parlor wall. Judging by the indefinably muddy, fluctuating tint of the surface and the looks on their faces, they had just made a discovery of groundbreaking importance. Light paint wouldn't cover darker one.
Rhett was the first to break the silence "A splendid impressionist mural!'' he drawled, pointing at their joint masterpiece. "And now, my dear, may I suggest you leave a signature for the posterity to acknowledge your talents?"
She gave him an annoyed look, and he cleared his throat before continuing, in a slightly more serious tone. "Well, two things shine through here—besides the initial color of this wall, I mean. We need to move. And, also, some artistic movements might welcome your originality, but if your dream was to become a house painter…"
The rest of his words were lost on Scarlett, who stood suddenly transfixed by an idea.
"Move?" she turned to him with shining, feverish eyes. "Yes, Rhett, that's a great idea. Oh, let's move! We can sell this house and build a new one. This one is so outdated anyway; I don't think it can be fixed. Or better—let's travel!"
He eyed her with the smallest hint of uncertainty in his features. Something in the unusual picture she presented, with her clothes all stained with paint and her hair coming out of its pins, made him hesitate at an idea that would have otherwise pleased him immensely.
"I don't know, Scarlett. We need to—"
But his words were efficiently stopped by his wife inching closer and standing on tiptoes to put her arms around his neck. "It would be so good, so nice to travel," she whispered against his cheek, extremely close to the corner of his mouth, her breath brushing against his lips at every word. "You could show me all those places you always talk about."
He knew this game. He knew this woman. He had seen her before—this was the Scarlett that was not only determined, but also fully capable of converting curtains into ultimate seduction weapons, the Scarlett that would stop at nothing once she'd made up her mind on what she needed. He'd be damned if he fell for this.
"Scarlett, I—"
It was as if she hadn't even noticed he was talking. She didn't try to smother his words; she simply dismissed them like they were never uttered, as she drew even closer and covered his lips with hers, in one brief, light kiss. And then another, and another…
Yes, he knew this game.
She would part his lips and then withdraw without tasting his mouth, going back to the beginning in the tantalizing semblance of yet another innocent kiss, till he needed her, needed to feel and taste her thoroughly and his arms finally closed on her waist.
It wasn't her simple presence, the warmth of her body slanted against his, what made him unwilling to fight the temptation. It was the strange—and, if he were honest, quite intoxicating—contrast between the pressure of Scarlett's hands, joined at the nape of his neck and pulling him down as she was trying to support her weight, and the soft, deceivingly shy note of her kisses. It was the mixture of things she did on purpose, endearing parts of what she ridiculously thought, even after all these years, seduction was, like automatically batting her eyelashes before making contact with his lips, and the things she was unaware of, but that made something stir inside of him, like the way she would draw away out of breath, but without breaking the kiss, forcing him to either follow her or tighten his grip to keep her in place.
But it still meant nothing. Responding to her kisses was not acceding to her other wishes.
And then Scarlett played the one card that could still secure her the victory. She refused to bask in the rush of triumph his reaction awakened in her. At the feeling of his arms on her waist, she let go of his neck and slid down to her normal height, allowing Rhett to tower over her and take initiative. Which he didn't hesitate in doing, as he brought one of his hands to the back of her head and deepened the teasing kiss she had initiated.
She stood there, suddenly compliant and submissive, receiving his kisses, without returning them; and he doubled his efforts, incensed by the added thrill of the hunt. He was now kissing the reluctant Scarlett of the past, the one that would place her hands on his chest to keep him at a proper distance, even while willingly parting her lips to his intrusion. He was conquering her anew, and she was slowly beginning to respond under the ministration of his hands and lips.
If he lived to be a hundred, it would never cease to amaze him how a woman with the prey drive of a deadly huntress could shiver under his touch and make him feel like the predator. But then the tables turned again, as a more familiar Scarlett—the one he'd had in his bed for the last years—placed her hands on either side of his face, returning his kisses, and for a fleeting second, he had the impression of holding not one, but three different women in his arms, dissolving into one another so fast he could hardly keep track.
And then again, what would stop him from having this woman in every country of Europe? The children had left the nest, what better time for their parents—still in the prime of their lives, by his calculations—to seize the day? Why cling to this place? True, something was not right about his wife's recent disposition, but he could figure it out just as easily in Paris or Rome.
She interrupted the kiss and broke away, slightly breathless. For a moment they stared at each other in silence, but then the amused flicker in Rhett's eyes and the warmth of his hands as they cupped her cheeks, thumbs lightly brushing her lips, seemed to convince Scarlett that this was the moment she had been waiting for. She knew his answer before starting to whisper, in a voice that held not even the semblance of a pleading note, "Please, let's do this, please."
Two weeks later they were on a steamboat to Europe.
And, for a short period, traveling did prove the best cure for whatever it was that had unsettled Scarlett. Looking back at the facts with the knowledge he now had, it made complete sense. The crux of the problem that he had foolishly ignored at the time, the underlying cause that had triggered this yearning for changes of any kind had been his wife's apprehension at the idea of aging. For a woman that had solemnly declared the end of her life at seventeen and constantly since then, thirty-nine was bound to be an age of nightmare and terror. It was no wonder that she had wanted to leave the States.
The South had myriad of strings that simultaneously tied her down and made her feel out of place. She was too young to be buried with the holy relics of the Old South and too old for the New South to acknowledge her as one of their active forces, or at least that was how she felt. Just like Rhett had predicted all those years ago, the new generation, the one of her children, didn't approve of Scarlett more than the previous one had. And their rejection, stemming from a subtle attachment to old ideas and customs, to stereotypes Mrs. Butler would never fit, she naively attributed to the fact that she was getting older.
She was getting older, and everyone would expect her to behave like a matron, to dress in ghastly colors, adorn the walls at social events, talk and laugh sedately. In actual fact, the generic "everyone" was only characterized by a fading, vague interest in both Scarlett and her doings, only that she could never admit anything as appalling as not being the center of attention anymore. She worried about what people expected from her, now that they really didn't expect much, more than she had when they were actively trying to reform her ways. After eluding absurd rules for her entire adult life, after dismissing etiquette on more occasions that Rhett could count (as hard and often as he tried), she was afraid the trap was finally closing in on her.
And at first sight it seemed that she had chosen the right destination for quelling these fears. Europe had no such prejudices. Europe didn't believe in old age, but in eternal beauty. She herself, the darling old continent, was a prime example of that principle. Ancient as time and skillfully disguising her age with all the refinement of a decadent courtesan, Europe held an instant charm for Scarlett, and vice versa.
Like most successful relationships, theirs was based on mutual misunderstanding. Europe would clap at the novelty and peculiar beauty of the lovely American, dismissing her true, much more fascinating nature, just as Scarlett would frown at the dilapidated state of the Roman vestiges—"Yes, I do understand it's thousands of years old, but, if they didn't want to replace it, couldn't they at least repair it a little bit?"—but fully appreciate the smaller, perfected replicas adorning the gardens of Italian parvenus—"And pray, what are you laughing at now? What in God's name is wrong with admiring well-kept ruins?"
It had been the most entertaining spectacle to watch, and Rhett could not help a smile from forming on his lips, looking back at the time they had spent in Rome and then in Paris. Short-lived agreeable times before all cosmetic hell broke loose.
Because, while the Europeans did not embrace the idea of a woman automatically turning into a matron at a set age, they did have their own constricting stands on the matter. An old house you recognized by the cracks in its walls, and an old woman by her wrinkles, so European women strived to conceal any token of their age. Scarlett, who had always had to keep herself from running to a mirror if someone so much as mentioned the word "wrinkle," energetically adhered to this principle, and it wasn't long before she embarked on a regular crusade against the smallest signs of aging, rallying around her all the wisdom women's magazines, folktales and parlor gossip could provide.
She had always abided by a rigorous nightly routine that, along with brushing her hair the mandatory one hundred strokes, included a list of small rituals that Mammy had claimed would keep her skin young forever, but now all this seemed insufficient, and she started experimenting with various recipes that were supposed to have instant and miraculous effects.
At first she had been ashamed of her beautifying campaign and tried to hide it with amusing, if unsatisfactory results. Over the years, Rhett had grown so accustomed to her routine and sleeping habits that it could hardly escape his notice that his wife, ever the late sleeper, would sneak out of bed at the crack of dawn, her morning toilet obviously done when she returned to feign sleep for another half-hour. He, of course, would retaliate by draping a heavy arm over her while pretending to be asleep and laughing inwardly at her clumsy attempts of wriggling free without waking him up. One morning, he even managed to detain her completely, and she had silently seethed the entire day.
But soon the amusement started to wear off. He had been on the verge of friendly advising her to drop the pretense when two of the most unexpected elements—arsenic and flying potatoes, to be precise—changed his appeasing intentions.
In short, he had returned to their hotel one day, after taking a morning stroll, to be greeted at the reception by a parcel that had arrived for Scarlett. It took him only a few seconds to decide the "s" in "Mrs. Rhett Butler" written on the front was a certain slip of the pen and subsequently open the package. And he had every reason to congratulate himself on his decision once he saw the content: two boxes of Complexion Arsenic Wafers. Arsenic as an aid of beauty had been around for a considerable period, though it was only in the last years that cosmetic products based on it had flooded the market, to the benefit of all ladies longing for a wan skin. But it wasn't the prospect of his wife going for a fashionable graveyard pallor what angered him. There was no such thing as "harmless arsenic," and the cases of women having suffered the consequences after gullibly swallowing the miracle cure for "blotch, blemish, coarseness, redness, pimples, and—wonder of wonders—freckles," as one side of the box advertised, had made the headlines in American newspapers.
He entered their room with every intention of giving Scarlett a piece of his mind, but stopped dumbfounded in the doorframe at the sight of…flying potato slices? What in God's name…
What happened was that he had surprised Scarlett with his early return. She had been in the middle of yet another of her experiments, this time enlisting potatoes in the quest for everlasting youth. At the sound of the door, she did the only thing that seemed rapid enough for this desperate situation: she got rid of the compromising slices of potato on her face with one shove of her hand, sending them flying everywhere. Unfortunately, the innocent smile she gave her husband was rendered useless by the evident proofs of her activity lying on the carpet.
It took all his self-control not to roar with laughter and instead sternly disclose his position on the matter of arsenic and related poisons. If that was her wish, she could continue to fire all the silver bullets in the world at wrinkles, including potato projectiles here—he pointed at the floor—without him interfering, but poison would remain off-limits.
She didn't retort in kind, only listened with stormy eyes—her cheeks reddening slightly at the "wrinkles" part—and nodded at his words. But soon after that day her cosmetic program became open and belligerent, culminating one night, a week or so after they had arrived in London.
He looked up at her over his glasses—he had resorted to wearing glasses when reading his newspaper, especially in the evenings, for a couple of years now—and, for one of the few instances in their married life, he couldn't find one thing to say. She had been almost an hour late in coming to bed, but when she did come…what an appearance!
After a few seconds of appraising her in silence, trying to gather his wits, he finally cleared his throat.
"There has never been a man more committed to the cause of contemporary art than myself," he started in a dégagé tone, smirking slightly at the perplexed look he could more divine than actually see his words had put on Scarlett's face."Some express admiration from afar, others buy paintings or make donations. I, on the other hand, started by having the sunrise of Le Havre reproduced on my parlor wall, all with your precious contribution of course," he nodded in deference. "And now I see I married a woman who decided to turn her very face into an impressionist painting. Darling, I can only applaud your artistic courage."
During this outflow of drawling eloquence, the living impressionist work had marched to her side of her bed and now stood propped up against the pillow, arms crossed over her chest, her features covered by a thin layer of some dubious substance, that both in texture and color resembled quite closely the infamous beige paint they had tried to put on their wall in Atlanta months ago.
"I don't see your point," she started petulantly. "This is just a secret ancient recipe for a facial ointment that—"
"Just a secret ancient recipe? Well, that certainly clarifies it, thank you for pointing it out. But, dare I ask, how did you come by this treasured mystery of yore?"
"I can't see what business is of yours," came her curt reply. "I remember you saying I could do whatever I wanted as long as it didn't involve arsenic. And as far as I know, this does not contain any arsenic, so there."
As much as it irked him to admit it, she had a point, so he changed tactics. "It's no business of mine per se, but once you climbed into bed wearing that, er, bewitching mask I think it becomes my business."
"Oh?" she smiled—or rather grimaced—flirtatiously, mistaking the meaning of his words.
"Yes," he continued unperturbed, "I wouldn't want you besmirching my humble bed with that esoteric lotion of yours."
The smiling grimace turned into a frowning one, the difference almost imperceptible under her face mask. "For your information, this is my bed too. And I won't 'besmirch' anything. I'm going to sleep on my back so I won't even touch the pillow."
"Really?" he grinned, reclining on his pillow. "So you are not afraid of soiling anything?"
Scarlett shook her head and he continued. "Then may I ask why you are wearing this?" he pointed at her plain long-sleeved nightgown, as she extinguished the lamp.
"Why, what's wrong with it?" she asked, assuming her sleeping position, stiff on her back, barely daring to move her head in any direction.
"Nothing is wrong with it, it's just that you prefer—or, shall I say, we both prefer—your silk négligées. So the only reason for you to wear this modest, uncharacteristic nightgown is the fact that you were afraid you would soil your garments anyway, so you—"
"Rhett, if you say another word, I shall scream," she cut him off abruptly. "Hush and let me sleep."
They stood for a few minutes in silence, both staring at the ceiling. And then Scarlett shifted closer, without moving her neck, till her shoulder was pressed against his. Touched by a sudden rush of sympathy for his bullheaded, irrational wife he shifted to his side and put an arm over her, only to draw back, scrunching his nose.
"Scarlett, what does this ointment of yours contain exactly?"
"Why?" she retorted suspiciously.
"Just humor me."
"Well," she started reciting the ingredients like a poem, "almond oil, lard, candle wax, and onion juice."
Every word hit his sense of humor with the force of a bullet, and he couldn't decide whether he wanted to add to the hilarity of this situation by making fun of his wife, or her "secret ancient" recipe had been enough and he could simply lie back and laugh till he cried. It was only a moment's hesitation, because even after hearing what he deemed was the best joke in years, he still couldn't resist the simple boyish pleasure riling Scarlett would bring.
"I must say I am relieved to hear that."
"I thought congratulations were in order," he elaborated, sensing her puzzlement, "since you had just driven me to tears for the first time in our rather long acquaintance. I should have suspected you'd be one to cheat. Though I have to admit onion juice—quite a nice touch."
He sat up as he talked, ignoring the small sounds that marked his wife's increasing anger, and placed his pillow between them, adding some of smaller decorative pillows on top of it.
"What are you doing?" she said, turning her head slightly in his direction.
"I am resorting to defensive strategies. I'm building a barricade to get me safely through the night."
"But—"
"No buts. We both know the Onion Lady would try to use me as a pillow during the night, preferably after she snatched my covers too, so I'm not taking any chances."
And that had been the last straw for Scarlett's straining temper.
"Fine," she nearly yelled, getting out of bed. "If it bothers you that damn much, I will clean it off! Are you happy now?"
"Just don't forget the négligée when you come back!" he offered helpfully. She turned towards him, murderously furious, managing a few "You, you—" through clenched teeth, before storming into the dressing room and slamming the door with all her force.
Rhett smiled in triumph, repositioning his pillows.
He had been an idiot, he belatedly realized. He should have done anything in his power to reassure her, not tease her and force her hand like that. This was the first thing for which he blamed himself in the peculiar turn of events that led to the present situation.
The other was buying Scarlett a bicycle.
True story with Scarlett's recipe for her beauty mask, those are the gross ingredients of an actual recipe from the 17th century.
This story was supposed to be a one-shot, but it got out of control so we decided to cut it in two. Second chapter, we get to see Rhett's own midlife crisis.