"Between ourselves, Jo, some of the girls I know really do go on at such a rate I'm ashamed of them. They don't mean any harm, I'm sure; but if they knew how we fellows talked about them afterwards, they'd mend their ways, I fancy."
"They do the same; and, as their tongues are the sharpest, you fellows get the worst of it, for you are as silly as they, every bit. If you behaved properly, they would; but knowing you like their nonsense, they keep it up and then you blame them."
"Much you know about it, ma'am," said Laurie, in a superior tone. "We don't like romps and flirts, though we may act as if we did sometimes."
- Good Wives
"And so," Laurie concluded with a flourish. "Thus ends the tall tale of the Affair of the Missing Gloves." He smiled patronizingly down at Jo who'd thrown her head back against her favorite squashy cushion and was now positively howling with laughter.
"Do you mind?" a sharp voice rapped out. Amy, who made a pretty picture sitting in the window-seat with the light falling on her golden curls and white pinafore, looked disapprovingly at her older sister. Waving her blue pencil she added, with some aspersion, "Some of us are trying to do their French compositions."
"Now look what you've done, Josephine!" Laurie teased her, winking at Amy. "You've gone and upset the baby again."
Amy scowled darkly at the pair who were 'frolicking like children' as she privately termed it, on the sofa. Feeling that a dignified silence would avail more than witty repartee - and somehow her clever rejoinders always fell a little flat when she was bantering with Laurie - she bent her head studiously over her books.
"Oh Teddy," Jo sighed, rubbing her aching ribs, when the laughter had subsided. "You'll be the death of me."
Meg entered the parlor at the moment. Judging from her melancholy pout and petulant eyes, the Kings had been particularly difficult that day. Laurie sometimes felt that he'd give anything just so poor Meg wouldn't have to deal with the abrasive brats. "Pray, Mr Laurence," she said, dropping her gloves on Jo's lap. "May one question when you will grow up?"
When Laurie looked up at her, amusement flickering in his eyes, she scowled, her expression almost exactly like Amy's. "Chasing those gadabout coquettes - Miss Randal and Miss Pritchard and Miss Goodness-knows-who! It doesn't become you at all."
"I chase them?" Laurie demanded, opening his eyes wide as though in astonishment.
"Oh yes, indeed," Meg said coolly. "Sallie told me just how abominably you behaved at the Musgraves' ball."
"Old Sallie spins a tall tale," Jo said crisply, feeling it was up to her to defend her pet.
"Don't be pert," Meg said, a trifle coldly. "Sallie is my friend."
"Not to be disparaging, Peggy, but you could do with better friends."
"Why I never!" Meg cried, looking outraged at her sister's nonchalance. "Jo March, I won't have-"
Laurie was chuckling. "I know I'm an abominable creature," he said, in a droll imitation of a child who'd done something bad and was being reprimanded by his mother. "But really, Meg, it isn't my fault at all. Why if you'd just listen to the story..."
The Beaulieus' ballroom was a perfect jewel-box. Outside it was snowing, the cold sleet-mud-rain that passed for snow in Boston, but inside it was warm and snug and almost cozy for all that there were almost fifty couples waltzing on the floor. The dowagers lined the walls, their eyes hawkish above their fans, missing nothing - their husbands discussing stocks at the card tables, the wallflowers lounging petulantly on the settees with empty dance cards, the languid dandies discussing the cares of a man of society over champagnes, the dancing young people.
They were especially keen on the dancers. They watched and waited like spiders, ready to pounce on the slightest hint of impropriety on the part of anygiddy young thing. The boys were just so bold nowadays and the girls so pert, really the world seemed headed for a complete moral collapse...
The matrons bonded together in mutual distrust of their wards.
Mrs Beaulieu nee Robillard rustled about from circle to circle - jesting, bantering, teasing, scolding, chatting, sympathizing, gasping... She was a pink-and-white, bosomly woman, attractive enough, in the sonsy, spreading style - and many of the younger men had fantasized about her portly backside in their boyhood. But that night she was entirely eclipsed by her cousin. Mrs O'Hara and her daughters had come visiting and that night, it was generally agreed, Mrs O'Hara and the eldest of the Miss O'Haras were undoubtedly the belles of the ball. While Mrs Beaulieu had a rather unsightly tendency to bounce about and her voice - which was so pretty while she was playing a Scottish air - grated on one after a time, Mrs O'Hara was all grace and flowing lines and the petal-soft charm that Southern ladies were famous for.
The men concurred together in the general agreement that the girls got prettier every mile you went south of the Mason-Dixon line.
Scarlett O'Hara, though only fourteen, was easily the loveliest creature that night. She was ethereal, a parargon, a divinity and mirabile dictu the most fascinating of the young ladies, it had to be agreed. At least by the gentlemen. The young ladies themselves could find no particular beauty or charm in her - she had a cat's green eyes and coarse Irish features that would look right at place on a peasant's face, on which were juxtaposed the more delicate moldings of a Coast aristocrat's countenance. Needless to say, it made quite a combination - one which was certainly not as arresting as the men (easily deluded poor fools) would say. And her accent. It was just so Southern, so affected and countrified and the poor child didn't know a thing at all...
The sophisticated young gentlewomen of Boston's most fashionable circles drew together in mutual contempt of the Georgian upstart.
Laurie Laurence slunk about the dark nooks of the ballroom, fussing with his fashionable cravat and feeling unwelcome and out-of-place. He hadn't wanted to come, Grandfather had made him, insisting that it was high time he began to maintain some semblance of a social life. An evening of merriment never did anyone harm, the old gentlemen had roared but Laurie couldn't see where the merriment entered, in the Beaulieu ballroom. Sailing at Vevey with the wind in your face and the sun on your back, now that was fun.
Scarlett O'Hara's eyes lingered on the slim, dark seemingly Italian young gentleman. Rather dashing, she noted. Sort of like the Fontanes, only he seems shy and out of sorts like Raif Calvert at a ball. I wonder if he dances like Raif? That would be pleasant - I'm tired of being fussed over by these crazy Yankees. They can't seem to help stepping on my foot at least twice in the course of a dance.
"My dear," she murmured to a young lady - a certain Miss Moffet. "Who is that young man?" Then, to make it seem like she didn't particularly care, "He's quite something, don't you say? Only he seems so dreadfully shy that I don't think he'd be to my taste at all."
"Why that's Theodore Laurence," Miss Moffet smiled. "Half-Italian he is and he's got a terrific talent in the musical way, I heard someone say. Of course he's fabulously rich, old Mr Laurence's only heir. He's at school in the Continent but now that it's summer I believe his old man brought him down. But he's just a little boy, Miss O'Hara, - fifteen or so, I believe."
Little boy, eh? Scarlett's eyes danced as she remembered her first kiss. Stuart might have been only thirteen but... she smiled wickedly.
"I shan't dance with you bold things," she said, her red lips pouting when her entourage clustered about her. "You'll set a country girl's poor little head spinning, with all your gallantries. I know there isn't a word of truth in anything you say, no indeed!" And she tossed her head so that her golden earbobs danced in the shimmering lights. How they protested! Half of them looked like they were on the verge of proposing, but then after being exposed to those atrocious Yankee girls they'd probably be mad about a Southern belle. "I'll eat my ices in peace, thank you very much, for I've such a headache, after all this dancing."
And with that, she retired, a victor's smile playing on her lips, behind the curtains, with her paper-thin slice of cake. The Laurence boy was there, just as she'd expected. Perfect.
"Oh Mr Laurence!" she cried, as if she hadn't known he was there. "Why I- this is so unexpected!"
He looked down at her and she made her eyelashes flutter like butterfly's wings. In the dim, dark little nook, screened by heavy velvet drapes from the rest of the ballroom, her pale eyes were even more prominent. "Miss O'Hara, I presume?" He asked. His voice was soft, silky, almost musical. It reminded her of Ashley's - only younger, shyer. There was still a good deal of the child in the boy's voice.
"Why however did you know 'twas me?" she asked. She sat down on the lover's settee and embedded her three-inch-high heels on the hemline of her gown so that it pulled tight about her figure. She wished she could somehow tug down the bodice too, discreetly. "Me a poor little girl from Clayton County - why I'm flattered that a gentleman like you would take an interest in me!"
Any other man would have declared that there was no missing her, that she was the loveliest young lady he'd ever seen. Any other man who'd danced with her and caught her alone in the ballroom would probably have proposed on the spot. But perhaps Mr Laurence was too young to be proposing to anyone for he just smiled tolerantly and said, the barest hint of cynicism brushing his voice, "You seem to be the belle of the ball, Miss O'Hara. As I'm sure you are aware of."
Excuse me? "Humility is a virtue," Scarlett said demurely. She smiled and she knew that her dimples were most becoming. If he was a man he would be raving about those dimples - probably contemplating writing poetry about them - at that minute.
A virtue which you seem not to exercise. "Your beaus will be expecting you," he said with a formal bow. He made a motion to open the curtain and slip out but she cried out.
"Oh no no!" she said, setting down her plate. "I'm ever so tired of the din and all the lights and I wanted a quiet minute to myself..."
"Then let me not hinder you, Miss O'Hara. I bid you good evening."
"Oh but you wouldn't be a hindrance," Scarlett said sweetly. "You seem such a charming gentleman, Mr Laurence, so gallant. It's really quite refreshing."
His eyebrows - so dark and delicately-shaped that she envied them - arched but he said nothing.
"Won't you sit down?" she asked winningly, laying a slender, gloved hand on the seat next to her. "Come now, I don't bite." Not men at least.
"I wouldn't dream of saying no to a lady," he said. It was a courteous line, appropriate to the circumstances, but Scarlett couldn't shake away the thought that he was laughing at her. Well, the corners of his mouth had crinkled up. Tentatively, he perched down next to her.
"Miss Moffat says you're quite a musical genius," Scarlett continued blithely along, batting her lashes for all she was worth at him. "I think that's quite thrilling! Do you sing or do you play?"
"Play, ma'am."
"Won't you play for us some day? Mrs Beaulieu is open to callers on Wednesdays and Fridays but we've never had you at all."
"My grandfather takes care of my social duties."
"And lets you gad about town? Really, how dreadful. I'll pine for love of you, Mr Laurence, I'm sure. That is if you don't come and play for us someday."
"My grandfather doesn't like me to play."
Grandfather this, grandfather that. How old are you? "No? Whyever so? I'm sure you play divinely, Mr Laurence."
"I have been told so."
"Then why-?"
"Personal reasons, Miss O'Hara."
"Personal? Oh goodness me, I didn't mean to intrude! Why you must pardon me, I'm such a backwoods country girl, Mother says I'm terribly flippant, that I've no social graces at all..."
Ah but who needs social graces when you can flirt such proficiency? "You are related to Mrs Beaulieu?" he asked, to maintain a semblance of courtesy. He didn't particularly care but he felt it was obligatory for him to show some interest in her, after the poor girl was going for so obviously.
Scarlett's eyes brightened like magic. Yes, he'd caught her snare, she could sense it. "She's mother's cousin," she said, with a sweet and charming smile. She knew it was especially charming because Ashley had said so and Ashley didn't toss out compliments, nineteen to the dozen like the Tarletons. "They were the dearest of friends back at Savannah. You haven't ever been down south have you, Mr Laurence? Oh why it's positively lovely. Saratoga's the prettiest place in the world, I do believe, and Boston's quite nothing to it. And Charleston, ah I spent a fortnight down at Aunt Eulalie's place and..."
Hang me if I marry a girl from down south any day. Laurie pondered how to slip away while the girl chattered her head off. "Oh but you aren't listening," Scarlett moaned, finally cluing into the obvious. She made a moue of disappointment and Laurie wondered how much paint had been used to redden her lips. Mrs Beaulieu had dabbed just a tinge of color on her niece's lips - Ellen thought it would be most inappropriate for a young girl to wear more - but Scarlett had preened before the mirror and bitten her lips so that they were the brightest of reds. An older man would have considered them tantalizing but Laurie was simply too young - and to Scarlett's taste, too immature - to care.
She put a delicate hand on his arm, apparently quite unconscious of the fact that she was touching him. "Why, Mr Laurence, I do declare..." And then she stopped short, color patching into her cheeks.
Good Lord, Laurie thought in alarm. Did she see a spider? Is she going to scream? Grandfather'll have my head on a platter if he finds out that I've been cornered with her for such a long time.
She hadn't, apparently. "Oh Mr Laurence," she whispered breathlessly. "Why I can't believe- oh I do declare, I don't know what's become of me..." She dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her handkerchief and it was then that he noticed her hand on his arm. Oh. She waited for him to console her, to assure her that no, he didn't think it forward of her, that he loved her with all his heart... Scarlett shivered in anticipation. And when he did, why she'd lead him a merry dance...
But Laurie had another idea. Time to make an exit. "Miss Katie Scarlett O'Hara," he rumbled, in his best imitation of his grandfather. "Pray what is the meaning of this unseemly, this immodest and inappropriate display?"
She looked up, startled and - he was relieved to notice - disconcerted. "Oh Mr Laurence," she began conciliatingly, but he stopped her.
"Forward! Indecent! Scandalous!" he cried, waving his finger at her. "Take care, Miss. I shan't tell a soul for I'm honor-bound to protect a lady's modesty but-" He let the sentence hang ominously in the air. He was almost tempted to make a slitting gesture at his throat, but he managed to restrain himself. Barely. Shaking his head and glowering at her as though she was a hussy who'd hurt his delicate, gentlemanly sensibilities, he swept out of the nook, leaving Scarlett O'Hara alone, her mouth still wide open.
If Hetty Tarleton had been there she would probably have kissed him.
After the ball, the ladies, clad in their negligees, lounged in Mrs Beaulieu's boudoir, fortified by coffee and a custard-and-nut confectionery of Mammy's devising. "Ma belle nièce," Mrs Beaulieu sang as Scarlett traipsed inside. "Here she comes, your beautiful daughter, Ellen, draped in the pelts of her trophies. So how many impressionable little fools did you hook, darling?" she asked, a conspiratorial twinkle in her eyes. "Twenty? Thirty? Ah, you despicable creature, how much I envy you and your fresh charm and your sweet, pretty pink cheeks. Not a hint of rouge, do you need now, Scarlett, and be grateful for that. When you come to my age..." She sighed, looking melancholy.
Ellen chuckled quietly and patted her own soft, pale cheeks.
"Ah but we haven't all your complexion, Ellen," Mrs Beaulieu said fondly. "Tell us something exciting, something scintillating, Scarlett - we could all use a drop or two of scandal in our pallid lives."
Scarlett, who'd sat down and was stirring her coffee looked down demurely, a smile tucked at the corners of her mouth. "Why, Auntie," she cooed, "there's nothing to tell." Ellen nodded silently in approval - that was how she'd brought her daughters up to be and that was the way all young girls of good breeding ought to be. "Except," Scarlett added, as in an afterthought. "That horrid Laurence boy."
"Mr Laurence's grandson?" Ellen asked, taking a dainty sip of her coffee. "He seemed charming enough."
Scarlett could barely restrain a snort. "Ah yes," she sniffed. "Seemed. I really hope I shall never have to meet him again!"
"I can't believe a girl would be so well, forward," Meg spluttered. "It's only in those terrible stories that Amy's fond of that the girls are so well..."
"Spoony?" Jo suggested while Amy screamed that the stories were not terrible, they were lovely and beautiful and oh-so poetic...
"My dashing good looks stirred her to unprecendented heights of silliness and coquettry," Laurie said calmly. "Naturally."
Jo thumped him on the book. "Poor darling," she said sympathetically. "Cornered by a green-eyed flirt! Well I hope you'll never have to meet that horrid girl again."
Laurie remembered Scarlett O'Hara's vivid green eyes and the contrast her pouting red lips and glossy dark hair had made against her magnolia-white skin. Then he looked down at Jo, at her friendly brown eyes, dancing roguishly, at her hair bundled in a net so as to be out of her face and at the freckles dotting her browned skin. Then he smiled too. "So do I."
The Moffats had thrown a garden-party. It was at their newly-acquired chateau to which they'd invited all friends and acquaintances who'd consented to 'run down to France' or were touring the Continent. The weather was charming, the people were charming, the chateau was charming and Mr and Mrs Moffat were aglow with the happiness of middle-aged bourgeois satisfaction, as Rhett Butler put it acidly. Scarlett giggled and rapped his knuckles with her fan. The Moffats were Yankees, to be sure, but damn if they didn't know how to throw a party.
It was held by many that the prettiest young lady present was Elizabeth Laurence though a fairly large minority held out for Katie Butler. They were both tall and statuesque but where Bess was as slim and fair and lovely as a shepherdess from the Alps, dusky, green-eyed Cat was a piratess out conquistadoring for hearts. Their mothers too were quite something.
"The Laurences," Rhett murmured to Scarlett. "Now put a smile on your face, my pet. It won't be long before Mrs Moffat brings out the confectioneries."
"How you do run on!" Scarlett hissed back at him. Mrs Laurence, Scarlett had to concede, looked as happy and beautiful as a young girl in her white tarlatan and the rosebuds pinned up in her golden curls. I must take down her dressmaker's name. She almost made Scarlett, in mint-green shantung silk and seed pearls woven into the net that held back her hair, feel overdressed.
"The Butlers," Laurie said. "We've had extensive dealings with Captain Butler during the War."
"She's beautiful, isn't she?" Amy whispered to her husband, her eyes drinking in Mrs Butler. "Just like the fairytale princesses I used to draw when I was a girl."
Laurie gave a short laugh. "Oh you'd be surprised if you heard the stories about her."
"So, we meet again," Rhett drawled in his unmistakeably Charlestonian accent. He was a fine man, Laurie was sure, but his accent always grated. It was just so Southern, with that keynote of contempt that Southerners always reserved for Yankees. "Mrs Laurence, your servant." Amy smiled and let him take her hand and brush it with his lips. It was quite courtly of him and Amy found herself entranced, as many women had, by him. But then she looked back at Laurie. Captain Butler was handsome to be sure but Laurie... a smile danced at her lips.
"Mr Laurence, my wife. Scarlett - Theodore Laurence."
"How do you do, Mrs Butler?" Laurie asked, taking up Scarlett's dainty white hand.
Somewhere, in the dim recesses of her mind a memory flickered. And then, as quickly as it had, it faded and died away. Scarlett smiled sweetly at Laurie, the same smile she'd reserved for every man she'd been introduced to since she was fifteen. He was rather good-looking, she decided, and he and his wife made a charming couple. "How do you do, Mr Laurence?" she cooed, her green eyes dancing.
A/N: Haha, I know I've given Scarlett trying-too-hard, desperate-girl vibes but hey she was fourteen then, fresh from the seminary at Fayetteville, and she hadn't had the chance to hone her flirting skills to perfection then.