THE RETURN OF THE HEIR HAS PIERRE SCARED
Pierre Robillard looked scrutinizingly at his mouthiest slave, Jobeth, who the rest of the family knew now as "Mammy" as Mammy Ger'trude had passed nineteen months previous.
"You say they came in this morning? Couldn't go to my father's place, could they Jobeth?" Pierre frowned at chubby Jobeth. I will never call her Mammy. Never.
Jobeth-Mammy gave Pierre Robillard a doubtful smile, poured his breakfast coffee and spun, going into the kitchen. Was she wondering if I was going to say a Catholic grace before brekker? I don't think so. Unlike his wife and daughters, Pierre was a staunch Presbyterian.
More objectionable to Pierre than his late wife's Catholic faith, her previous marriages (two of them!) had been her close relationship with the little black girl who she treated more as a best friend than a servant-girl.
An egotistical French-American, Pierre Robillard had always felt that he should be the first and closest confidante in his wife's life, despite the fact that "Pistol Pete" as the soldiers who had served under him had called him, was somewhat of a cold and stiff man, not welcoming companionship in either men or women.
And then, of course, after Solange had died, Pierre had discovered that Jobeth, now Mammy (I will NEVER call her that) had ursurped his place in beautiful, demure Ellen's heart, never mind of course that he'd not paid much attention to her in her short life.
Pierre knew this morning, he knew in his heart, that the worthless little Phillippe had spent the night. Spent the night under the same roof as precious Ellen. And what a specimen!
Expelled from West Point, school that "Pistol Pete" had not been even able to enter, due to poor mathematics ability. Certainly it was true, Phillippe was clever, a bright lad, but Father favored his grandson for so many other reasons. Favored him over Pierre!
A large part of this, perhaps was because Father had so favored Hilaire, Phillippe's older brother. Hilaire had been an assistant to Dr. Henry Perrine, the United States consul to Mexico during the Second Seminole War uprising.
One morning four years ago, Consul Perrine and his assistant had been slain on Indian Key, a small island in the Florida Keys, by a large party of marauding Indians.
Yes, indeed. Pierre had the questionable good fortune to have joined the military and seen no action, his timid brother had become a Consular aide, and was now a casualty of the Seminole War. And of course Father had taken his grandchild, Phillippe to his bosom.
But now Father was beginning to make out his will, determining who would inherit the importing business that he'd started with Pierre's great-grandfather, trading deer skins to enthusiastic European purchasers.
Pierre had tried to explain to Father that Phillippe was a violent drunkard, who had little interest beyond a game of cards and doing the waltz. West Point was the second college that Phillippe had been asked to vacate, and it didn't bode well for the boy's future—or for the future of the family, if Phillippe took over the family business.
True, Pierre had'nt taken much of an interest in the business himself, preferring to supplement his half-pay as a retired colonel with a generous dividend from the importijng company's coffers.
Pierre was ready to lead now, dammit! In the last year or so he had been putting in some reluctant energy at Father's offices.
But Pierre's father was clearly hypnotized, the boy was the apple of his eye!
And what about this nonsense with Ellen? Ellen was Phillippe's first cousin—it wasn't natural for relatives so close to be keeping company, never mind the boy's instability. Pierre hoped Annabel Watling might have a chastening effect on Ellen, the girl's father, a Presbyterian, like Pierre, was owner of forty acres of rice in the low marshes, and Anna, in fact had several eligible brothers that Ellen might take an interest in…Fiddlesticks!
But Ellen, with the wisdom of a fifteen year old, had no eye for any of the young swains who came to call. Speaking of which, that idiot Gerald O'Hara had dropped by the day before, and had stayed so long on the porch swing telling Ellen and Anna Watling, Ellen's houseguest ridiculous stories of County Meath, that when Pierre had come home from the import office, he'd been forced to invite the screaming little lecher to dinner!
The man must go home, but Pierre had to hold his counsel. Andrew O'Hara was to provide rope for one of the new boats, and damn it, if Pierre could get a good price, it would do a lot to show Father that his oldest surviving son should be next in line as head of the company, not a sniveling grandchild.
Lord, Gerald O'Hara was irritating. And he had almost Yankee manners.
Why should such a sensible businessman like Andrew be related to such a howling little monkey? I don't give a good God Damn whether you own a cotton plantation in the wilderness or not. If I had a dime for…
The door to the dining room opened, and a young black haired boy in his late teens entered, looking a bit rumpled. Pierre noticed. This must be the other young wastrel.
"Good morning, sir. I am Rhett Butler. Thank you for allowing me to be a guest in your house." The boy said this in a rote monotone, hoping, of course to let the wish be a fact.
"Butler? Are you of the Charleston Butlers, young man?" Phillippe demanded.
"Yes, yes sir, my parents have lived there for years."
"Your father is Abelard Butler?"
"Yes,sir."
"Why Abelard is one of my dearest friends. I hold him in the highest esteem."
"Oh, why don't I find that encouraging?" young Butler said, as he dropped in a chair at the breakfast table.