Belle Watling gazed at the parcel that had been delivered to her brothel. It was all well and good to use fancy names to attempt to hide what it was, but when it came down to it, any woman of good standing would tell you conspiratorially behind a gloved hand about the nature of the lovely bricked structure, two stories, and more lovely then any other establishment of it's kind in all of Georgia.

She gazed at the neatly wrapped brown parcel, her name in a familiar scrawl that caused her heart to clench in her chest. It was from Rhett. And it had come from New Orleans. He had business there of course, but frequently went to check on the state of his ward. A young boy with his dark hair, and her light green eyes. He had inherited his Father's intelligence, thank God, and his Mother's generosity.

The hardest decision she had ever made in her life was to let him go, as soon as he was old enough. She hadn't seen him in years. School work was her only access to his every day life, and whatever stories Rhett relayed to her. She wrote each of those stories in the journal that lay in her bedside table drawer so that she could revisit them when she was alone with her memories, and a stream of what-if's.

She glanced to one of her girls, an Irish lass by the name of Maggie who was nearly off the boat, and one of the bigger draws, given the appeal of her newness. The red of her hair wasn't dyed, like her own, and she had a figure with ample opportunities for compliments from the gentlemen that frequented her establishment. Murmuring lightly. "Maggie, I will be in my quarters if I am needed. Keep your eye on the clock, if I'm not done by five, you are to fetch me. Understood?"

The girl nodded, giving her a broad smile. "Aye, Miss Watling!" Her accent was thick, but she held up five fingers all the same. Belle grinned in response. No wonder the interest in the girl. She was eager, and excited to please. That went a long way in certain professions, and hers was one of the oldest.

Belle gathered her parcel under her arm and lifted the length of her burgundy velvet skirt so she could climb the stairs unhindered. Her heeled boots clicked on the wood, the sound softening as she reached the expensive rugs that Rhett had sent her to furnish the floors, with a note that it was part of his investments. He was frequently sending her expensive presents, but she could tell instinctually that the small package in her hands held something far more valuable then any textile in the world.

Opening her door and moving immediately to her desk, she sat down, taking her letter opener and carefully undoing the string, and unwrapping the brown paper of the parcel. Inside was a lovely wooden box. The majority of it in a beautiful rosewood, the center a lighter inlaid wood, with the silhouette of a boy reading a book. Unbidden tears flooded her eyes, and she opened the box eagerly.

Setting aside the note from her lover and business partner immediately. She would read that after she saw what else the box held. She gave a soft laugh when moving the envelope aside revealed what she had hoped it would. A present from their son. His name was Micah, and he would be eight this year.

The first of the gifts inside the adorned box was a painting. It was small but on a piece of canvas, all ready framed. It was that of a boy, who, truth be told looked very little like her son, but it was clearly a self portrait. She laughed softly as she studied the brushstrokes of the water colors. Tracing above them with her fingertips, but pushing it gently out of her own reach when a tear drop splattered on the absurdly green grass he'd painted around his feet. Laughing softly, she wiped her tears away and moved to the letter inside. The cursive words of her childs' hand shaky, and in places imperceptible. A few of the lines caused her pause as she took her time deciphering them. It hurt her heart a little to not be referred to as Mother or Mama in the letter, but the dangers for him if he knew his Mother was alive, and what her profession was were too much.

She had been explained away as a sister of his Mother, who could not afford to care for him after her tragic and untimely death. Being only four years old at the time he had taken the information as gospel truth, and never questioned any of it. Sadly going off to study at one of the very best schools in all of the South. A private school in New Orleans, that Rhett had handpicked for him. In the handful of times she had seen him since, he had always hugged her tightly, and excitedly talked to his "Auntie" all about the things he was learning. Only once since had he called her "Mama". It had been the second visit after letting him go, and he had hugged her and said "I love you, Mama." She'd told him she'd loved him too, and though it broke her heart, she had taken him gently by the shoulders, as he stood before her on the sofa of the sitting room where the school allowed all of the family visits to take place. " You're the most wonderful nephew any Auntie could ever want." She had managed, kissing him on the forehead, hugging him tight, and fleeing. For his sake.

Belle would not allow her sins to touch their son. Rhett had given him a future, and she would be damned if she would throw it away in a moment of maternal weakness. No. He deserved better then her, and with Rhett's sponsorship, and an education second to none he would receive it, she was certain. He would make a good living for himself, an honorable living. Far better then anything she could have arranged for him on her own. She blinked back her tears and let herself peer at the letter again.

"Deer Auntie Belle -

I am learning things. I like to go swimming, but it's too cold now. Do you like swimming too? Was my Mother good at swimming? I like swimming. We have been painting. I wanted to send you the one of me so you cannot forget me. When you come to visit, please bring the choclates I love. You are nice. I want to visit soon. You should take me to the cirkus. I heard about a woman with a beard. I am reading many books. I hate Latin. I hope you bring choclates. Thank you. Chordially,

Micah

(Your neffew.)

She laughed softly at the spelling errors, and blotches on the letter where the ink had splattered or been pushed down too hard. He had underlined the references to chocolate. Clearly this had been written without the fear of a ruler slapping over his knuckles. His name was written larger then any words in the rest of the letter by at least three times the size and she traced it with her fingertip, smiling softly and putting that aside too. Finding two more things at the bottom of the box. The first, a tintype of Micah, that showed how much he had grown since she had seen him last. His hair was darker, and she was certain he was a head taller then when she had last visited him. She sighed softly, studying him and rising to place it next to the one from the previous year along the mantle of her fireplace. Glancing between the two images before returning to the desk. Pulling out the jewelry box. A blue leather box of medium size, it's Parisian designer's name embossed in gold on the case. She recognized the expensive name, and she opened it slowly.

Her breath caught at the beauty of the bracelet that lay against a bed of blue velvet. Gazing at it before carefully unhooking it and placing it on her wrist. It was a beautiful silver bracelet ornamented every inch or so with an opal, that appeared to have been crafted by the explosion of a distant song. She raised her wrist once she had conquered the hook, toward the oil lamp on her desk. Smiling as she saw the way the light caught the jewels. Allowing herself to be dazzled by it for a few moments, before returning her attention to the only item she hadn't looked at yet. Rhett's letter.

She opened it with the monogrammed letter opener he had given her along with the rest of her desk accessories, upon the opening of her establishment. Having cited that no one could do their job without the proper tools. She smiled as she unfolded the letter, getting lost in the familiar slant of his written words.

" Belle,

I hope this letter finds you well. I have had the pleasure of spending the last week in New Orleans, on business. I had ample opportunity to visit with your nephew, my ward, and I feel you would be pleased with his progress. His grades are coming along, and he occasionally struggles with authority. I can't imagine where he could have inherited such a trait. Surely your sister.

I will be away on business for a bit longer, but you will be my first stop when I return to Georgia. I have included something a jeweler has assured me will earn your favor. When I arrive, you will have to tell me honestly what you think of it.

There are many concerns on the horizon. Talks of war and secession. I am keeping a close eye on things, and how it will effect our business, and we will have much to talk about when I arrive. Please make sure your records are in better order then last time.

Always,

Rhett Butler."

She blushed at the memory of last time he had tried to decipher the system she had developed to code the identity of the customers that visited her establishment, but after some yelling, on both of their parts, and an angry bout of love making, she had finally, sated, admitted that he was right. She was terrible at keeping records, for having a good head about her for business in every other way.

She had developed a system that was much more organized and taught it to several of the girls, so that everything was recorded, and profit margins could be properly tracked. She folded the letter, and set to placing both that, and her childs letter in the lovely box, moving the others she had collected from their safe place in her top desk drawer to the new box. Closing it reverently, and moving to take down an oil painting of two ships crossing in the night. As much as she had always appreciated the beauty of the way the stars and light, and shadow worked together, it had nothing on the art of her child. She replaced it with the much smaller painting, grateful for Rhett having gone to the trouble of framing it and even having a hook placed so all she had to do was hang it on her wall. She smiled at the newer painting, and lost herself in thought.

She jumped a little at the knock on her door breaking her reverie. Maggie's voice interrupted tentatively.

'Tis five, Miss Watlin'! Ye' tol' me tae tell ye!" The accent was so thick, it took her a moment to translet. She heard the girl skip her way down the hallway. Yes, she was a welcome source of sunshine, and she was glad for every ray that found it's way into her life. She moved to reapply some red to her lips, and squared her shoulders, studying herself in the mirror near her door. Pausing for a moment, at her reflection, and finding herself wondering the same question that had plagued her, more and more as the years dragged over her. How had she come to look so old? She had once been such a beauty, but now years of hard living and loving were taking their effect. There were wrinkles showing. Dark patches under her eyes. Even her hair occasionally betrayed her with a white strand that came out of nowhere. She sighed a little, murmuring to her reflection.

"Don't matter. You're the boss now. You don't gotta seduce them. You have girls who do that for you."

A wry smile slowly replacing the frown. Tucking an errant curl behind it's ear, and turning the door knob, and stepping out onto the landing. Gazing down the staircase, surprised to see that there were all ready more men then usual there, and two or three of them attempting to conquer Irish territory, near the bar. She laughed a little to herself and moved down the steps, moving to greet her regulars, and to welcome her new guests. Encouraging them to feel comfortable and at home, and supplying the liquor to ease their worries, and often the little push they needed to finally gather up the gumption to find out what happened upstairs.

She surveyed her establishment after making her rounds, and smiled triumphantly. It would be a profitable evening, and showed every sign of being an entertaining and enjoyable one too. She poured herself a shot, at the bar top, and swallowed it down quickly. Laughing at the burn, and giving a little curtsy as the men sitting at the bar with their ales and whiskeys clapped and cheered in approval. It was a usual night at Belle's.