Author's Note: Here it is, my first Gone With the Wind FanFiction! And I've chosen the most unlikely heroine for my story, too...Miss India Wilkes. I want to say a big "thank you" to my new friend, Tipperose, for all her encouragement and advice. I hope I won't disappoint you!
This fiction in based solely on the movie version of Gone With the Wind. (I've read the book twice, but I've committed the entire movie to memory, so I thought I should stick with the movie version.) I'd appreciate your feedback about how you feel about the story. Thank you and happy reading!
India
India Wilkes was not beautiful, and could never be mistaken as such. In fact, she was so ordinarily unremarkable that she often blended into the background of a room, completely undetected by those around her. India's only hope for being noticed was to shoot off her mouth, which she often did much to the dismay of her family and acquaintances. She had no real friends to speak of, so she was completely free to gossip about whomever she pleased, unafraid of offending anyone who wasn't her own kin. She regarded her own blood with a bit more respect, although spreading rumors about them wasn't beneath her, either.
It was a trait she'd begun to loathe, especially after the incident on Ashley's birthday. She'd sincerely hurt Melanie, the closest thing to a friend she'd ever had; and completely infuriated her brother, the only living immediate relative who remained. It was never India's intention to harm them. Her only target had been that horrid Scarlett. No matter how many beaux or husbands she'd had, Scarlett insisted on pursuing Ashley like a woman possessed, regardless of how many times he pushed her away. India had only wanted to make Melanie see how truly evil that Scarlett was. But Melanie, it seemed, had been oblivious to the end. Now she was gone. Now she was with Charles.
Charles. The mere mention of his name made India's heart ache. How she'd adored Charles! He was boyish and soft-spoken, gentle and kind, and India had loved him immensely. She fondly remembered his large blue eyes, his wide, white smile, and his wavy, golden hair. Her father had made no bones about the fact that she was to marry him, and India had spent most of her adolescence dreaming of the day she would become Mrs. Charles Hamilton. The day of the barbeque had changed everything. She'd lost him forever. Lost to Scarlett O'Hara and then to the war, a life snubbed out so simply.
India had sworn she'd never stop loving Charles and she was true to her word. She mourned him as if she were the widow instead of that Scarlett. She loved him more than Scarlett did, after all. She had resigned herself to never love again and was content to live vicariously through the social lives of others. She was ashamed to admit it, but she felt a sense akin to satisfaction when she heard that Frank Kennedy had died. Suellen would face the same hurt and grief that India had felt…and the same spite for that Scarlett. They would both mourn the suitors Scarlett had killed, and live for the day when Scarlett got what was coming to her.
But when she heard whispers saying that Scarlett had miscarried a baby, India hadn't felt any sense of happiness or accomplishment. And when she learned that Bonnie Butler was dead, India felt sick. Could it be that all her wishes of harm toward Scarlett had manifested in the deaths of Scarlett's children? Soon Melanie, Scarlett's one and only defender, was dead, too, and India had gone from guilt to grieving. India never admitted to feeling guilty, nor did she alter her haughty, condescending appearance in public. But deep down, India resolved to let bygones be bygones. She wanted to move on with her life.
Now that Melanie was gone, India had taken it upon herself to care for Ashley and Beau. Mellie had run that house alone without complaint, for they could not afford to hire Negroes in Atlanta. So India was forced to utilize the few domestic skills she had learned at Twelve Oaks by watching the house workers at their labors. She cooked, cleaned and mended their clothes, and she tended to Beau while Ashley worked at the mill. She adored the little boy because he reminded her so much of a young Ashley before the war. War had altered Ashley, just as it had altered everyone else, but India saw the biggest change in her brother. His gray eyes had gone from dreamy and contemplative to sad and reflective. His face constantly looked pale and sunken in. He seldom smiled, especially now that Mellie was dead.
India spent her weekends with Aunt Pittypat, who often entertained ladies such as Mrs. Merriweather and Mrs. Meade. India tried to enjoy the time spent in sewing circles and book readings, but she could not avoid the scrutinizing looks and pitying comments from the old biddies. Oh, she knew they meant no harm. She knew they tried to protect her from hearing them by sending her to answer the door or bring a pitcher of lemonade, but their hearing deficits were becoming more and more profound, so she always heard every word of their conversations.
"She isn't too old, you know, Pitty."
"And attractive! Why, if she'd try a bit harder to improve her appearance…"
"I'm afraid she won't hear of it, ladies. India insists on helping Ashley to raise Beau. She has been so good since we lost our Melanie…"
She returned to the circle unabashed, pretending she'd never heard the old ladies discussing her as if she were a cow on the auction block. She'd question Mrs. Merriweather for news on Maybelle, and inquire of Mrs. Meade about the good doctor's health and medical practice. She'd boast about Beau a little while and then excuse herself to the veranda. She'd read a little or simply drink in the peace and quiet there until dinner, after which she'd kiss Aunt Pitty and hurry to her bedroom. After undressing and putting on her nightgown, she'd fumble through her dresser until she found a worn photograph, placed lovingly inside her Bible. The only remembrance she had now, except for her own memories. Charles. Her Charles.
She supposed it silly to pine away over a man she'd never kissed. In all honesty she had very few memories of moments alone with Charles. Of course they'd played together as children, when nothing like romance or war mattered to either of them. Charles had been a shy child, and very submissive to India's wishes. Many of their times together involved India, Charles and Melanie, sweet, loving Melanie, playing tea party beneath one of the many shady oak trees at her father's plantation. Charles and Melanie's later visits to Twelve Oaks were marked with carriage rides and barbeques and dances. Charles always asked India to dance, and smiled down kindly as they twirled to the music. When the song ended, he'd offered his arm and led her around proudly. "I shall miss you, Cousin India," he'd say as he boarded the train at Jonesboro, his face flushing with shyness and embarrassment. India remembered crying the whole way home to Twelve Oaks, longing for the time that Charles would return, asking her father for her hand in marriage.
His last visit to Twelve Oaks was as a changed man. He was not the same sweet Charles he'd been before. Oh, he'd said all the right things and smiled as he greeted her. But once he spotted Scarlett O'Hara at the barbeque, it was as if India had never existed. He'd forgotten their understanding and dashed her hopes in one fell swoop. India sighed and pressed the picture to her chest, as she did every night. Then, she placed it back into her Bible (at Psalm 23) and laid down to rest. She was convinced that if Charles could do it over again, he would choose her. He must have known that Scarlett O'Hara never loved him. The old hens could speculate all they wanted; India Wilkes would never love another man. Not the way she loved Charles.